Bay 12 Games Forum

As I said before, there's no need (nor any benefit to) a pedo hunt campaign, and that in fact probably makes the problem worse, especially among rich circles. Just encourage people to receive psychiatric assistance if they feel a compulsion to molest children. That will always be more effective than the most stringent police oversight or whatever.

See, I would be happy with that. Then again, we do run into the problem of 'a government initiative with good intentions gathers up the personal information of easy scapegoats, which could be used for bad things by, say, a failed real-estate tycoon with Narcissistic tendencies'.

In fact, I'm not sure why a demagogue hasn't already used paedophiles as a target.
After all, there's an awful lot of them in government and the media.
... Oh, I may have answered my own question...

Edit: I realize this topic is both not really about American politics and is distressingly close to violating forum guidelines, so I may step out of it.

I posted in Ameripol thread.
What have I done.

Whoa, whoa there.  Yes, there's indications it's partially a mental disorder, but molesting kids is a choice and people who perpetuate this kind of thing should absolutely be held responsible for that.

And the ones who don't molest kids, but are still attracted to them...?

The pen clicking sounded small, but my memory amplifies it into the slamming of a jailhouse door.

She moves me to the basement, a maze of wires and serverbanks. In the bounce of her flashlight motes of dust float peacefully, like plankton under the ocean. She types on a computer and I lean against a control panel, asking if I could smoke. She says no, so the pack in my shirt pocket stays right where it is.

I zone out listening for a distant droplet tapping on a drain somewhere in the depths of the building when she squeezes past me and presses some buttons on the panel. When she retracts, her hand brushes my arm. Her skin is rougher than I expected - I suppose a lifetime working in safety-compromised laboratories will cause that.

I'm lead to the orgone accelerator. Accumulators resemble phoneboxes, this one looks more like a coffin made from stainless steel. She pops it open and waits for me. I hesitate before I climb in. It's a tight fit and there's no padding, but cognito vult, right? ... Or would that be doctrina vult? I hate Latin.

Outside, the soft click of a tape recorder switching on. "Project Seaside Ghost, Patient Niner Romero Zero," she says. "Beginning phase one."

Patient?

Gears inside the accelerators turn, a high-pitched whine. Instantly a headache develops behind my eyes, and my heart slows down. Lights flash, stars and diamonds, shifting through my vision. The interior of the accelerator becomes coated with slick wet sweat, stinking of pine. I think back to my stoner friends, their advice on mushrooms, work through the trip, keep yourself grounded, have a friend.

But then I look at my hand and
watch my skin
shift and squirm
and percolate,
that's
when
I
start
screaming

Consciousness returns, like I'm a diver breaking through to the surface. I gasp, then bury my head facedown in the pillow, prostrate under the sheets. Then I catch the inconsistency and push myself out of bed.
I'm in a bedroom, the sunlight filtered through the thick curtains. I walk over (unsteady on my feet - the dream so intense I forget I'm a child-- taking a child's form) and pull open the curtains. I'm somewhere on the southern bluffs, with the San Veuster boardwalk due northeast. On the bay, sailboats calmly roll on the waves.

I dig my fingers under the window and try to push up, but that's when I notice the dozens of nails hammered into the sill. I tiptoe over to the door and try the handle.
Unlocked.

A. Smash the window, get the fuck out.
B. Head downstairs. Where's this going?

She smiles, watching me sit down on a foldout chair. I'm freezing in this room, missing the spaceheater back at my dormroom. The scientist is prim and proper, even though this is what the professors call the 'asylum for halfwits with tenure'.
Professors oughta work on their nicknames.

"Sign this please," she hands me a clipboard.

"Institute for Orgonic Advancement," I raise an eyebrow. She doesn't seem like a quack to me. "Oh man, that brings me back. Is this Wilhelm Reich?"

"No, we're an offshoot group," she says. "Are you a student of his?"

"Nah, I just like beat authors," I kick back. "Burroughs tried an orgonic accumulator. Said it was an aphrodesiac, like good strong weed."

Instead of laughing, she nods her head. "Orgone accumlators are known to have that effect. We aren't studying that, though," she says.

I lean forward, trying to find humor in her face. I don't find jack. I ask her what it is. She tells me, orgonic accelerators.

...

And you know what? I signed. And I guess I'm telling you this because I just can't figure out why I did it. I know she is somewhere among you, in the choir. A neverending muttering behind my brain, all the souls I stole from their bodies and hoarded in mine. But you have to tell me.
Why did I sign?

A. Maybe, deep down, I really believed in this. A particle unifying life itself, unseen to all but those who knew where to look. Can you imagine?
B. It was an easy five bucks and I needed the money.
C. She was kinda sexy.

I linger in the trunk, foot ready, waiting for the first sign of trouble.

"It's not a kid," says Spiderweb. "Kidkiller, maybe. But not a kid."

"Sure looks like one," Mohawk says.

"Quit being an asshole, Donnie," says Grinner. "We hand her over, we walk out, we don't even need to see it happen."

"How the fuck is that thing any different from her?" says Mohawk. "Something's wrong, guys, I think we're being duped."

The car screeches shut, banging my head against the trunk. I watch as it opens. "Donnie," Spiderweb says. "Did you leave your balls back at the diner? Cos we can go right back and-- the fuck is the trunk--"

I leap out of the trunk and start running down the cliff highway. If I can make it onto a path down to the beach, I'll hide in a cave and sleep, make a plan, then enact it. All I need is another form, I've clung onto this one for far too long and if I don't change I'll be dead.
If I can just make it down this road I'll be okay.
If.

A sharp pain stabs me in the calf. I fall over, meeting hard tarmac. I squirm around and see a dart embedded in my leg, stinging like a wasp. But with each wave of pain my vision dims a little more. Grinner saunters over, playing with a miniature blowgun. I try to crawl, but my hands are like jelly, and my muscles burn, and soon I return to unconsciousness.

And for the first time in a while, I remember something that I know.

It's college, years ago. Chatting up girls, getting drunk, playing videogames, no plan and no intent to make one. What lectures I don't miss, I turn up hungover or stoned. The vaguely academic activity I enjoy are the campus experiments that pay you five bucks for participation. This one's some vague crap, a list of psudeoscientific adjectives smushed together. However, I was bored, so sign me up.

Well... There were other reasons.
A. There was this girl. Not like the other ones, beautiful. Couldn't get close to her, but a little birdie told me she was a researcher on this.
B. A drunken bet made at a frat party. People said the experiment drove people nuts, FOAF stuff, so I made some big claims. The others asked me to back it up. So I did.
C. There was this guy. I did some shit, he reacted badly, we split. He wouldn't answer his phone but I heard he was on the subject list, so maybe I could...
D. Genuine curiosity. Despite the jargon bullshit, there was some intriguing concepts in there. College didn't engage me on the level I wanted, but this... This was something else.

I was listening to Joanna Newsom's Emily, a song that always makes me wistful. I read a comment below and saw when it was written.
2006. I was eight years old.
I am struck by how much my life and the world in general changed since then.

Is it wrong I'd like to see a crossover between Seaside Ghost and Drider? Am I going to hell?

Not necessarily, though I am curious as to what a crossover would look like.