Rorschach's Journal. October 12th, 1985. Dog carcass in alley this morning, tire tread on burst stomach. This city is afraid of me. I have seen its true face. The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown. The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout 'Save us!' And I'll look down, and whisper 'no.' They had a choice, all of them. They could have followed in the footsteps of good men like my father, or President Truman. Decent men, who believed in a day's work for a day's pay. Instead they followed the droppings of lechers and communists and didn't realize that the trail led over a precipice until it was too late. Don't tell me they didn't have a choice. Now the whole world stands on the brink, staring down into bloody hell, all those liberals and intellectuals and smooth-talkers, and all of a sudden nobody can think of anything to say.
This city is dying of rabies. Is the best I can do to wipe random flecks of foam from its lips?
Beneath me, this awful city, it screams like an abattoir full of retarded children. New York. Somebody knows why. Down there... somebody knows. The dusk reeks of fornication and bad consciences. I believe I shall take my exercise.
42nd Street: Women's breasts draped across every billboard, every display, littering the sidewalk. Was offered Swedish love and French love, but not American love. American love; like Coke in green glass bottles, they don't make it anymore.
I leave the human cockroaches to discuss their heroin and child pornography. I have business elsewhere, with a better class of person.
Meeting with Veidt left bad taste in mouth. He is pampered and decadent, betraying even his own shallow, liberal affectations. Possibly homosexual? Must remember to investigate further.
I shall go and tell the indestructible man that someone plans to murder him.
On Friday night, a Comedian died in New York. Someone threw him out of a window and when he hit the sidewalk his head was driven up into his stomach. Nobody cares. Nobody cares but me.
There is good and there is evil, and evil must be punished. Even in the face of Armageddon I shall not compromise on this.
Paid last respects quietly, without fuss. Edward Morgan Blake. Born 1924, forty-five years a Comedian, died 1985, buried in the rain. Is that what happens to us? A life of conflict with no time for friends… so that when it's done, only our enemies leave roses.
Heard joke once: Man goes to doctor. Says he's depressed. Says life seems harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world where what lies ahead is vague and uncertain. Doctor says "Treatment is simple. Great clown Pagliacci is in town tonight. Go and see him. That should pick you up." Man bursts into tears. Says "But Doctor... I am Pagliacci." Good joke. Everybody laugh. Roll on snare drum. Curtains.
Away down alley, heard woman scream, first bubbling note of city's evening chorus. Approached disturbance. Attempted rape/mugging/both. Cleared throat. The man turned and there was something rewarding in his eyes. Sometimes, the night is generous to me.
Waiting for a flash of enlightment in all this blood and thunder.
If reading this now, whether I am alive or dead, you will know truth. Whatever precise nature of this conspiracy, Adrian Veidt responsible. Have done best to make this legible. Believe it paints disturbing picture. Appreciate your recent support and hope world survives long enough for this to reach you, but tanks are in East Berlin, and writing is on wall.
For my own part, regret nothing. Have lived life, free from compromise ... and step into the shadow now without complaint.
