Murukami’s Nightmare (808s & Fantasy Vol. 2)

6 August 2019

(CW: fantasy violence, blood and gore)





Ah HARUKI, you’re back… Let me guess; honey tea, almost boiled—


Not today paisano! I’ve had a VERY strange morning and it got me thinking deeply about the nature of our reality.


Right… So, what can I get you today?


A notepad, a ball point pen and a glass of water; my socks are on fire!


Another breakthrough?


Of sorts. I awoke this morning to the realisation that reality is as consistent today as it was yesterday… That’s deeply disturbing, don’t you think?


*Laughs* I feel you Haruki. Sometimes I think it would be better if I were to slip into a coma and live in my own head for the rest of my life.


That’s the ticket! Dreams, visiting the hotel within! This isn’t a test of knowledge, learning or decoding; the institute has been looking at this linearly but the path forward doesn’t even take place in the 4th dimension. The answer to Telesphore’s writing relates back to the soul theory! Quick, paper!


Sugar granules bounce off of the floor and settle into cracks between the tiles as Dante swipes his hand across the marble counter. A brief silence ensues, interrupted only by the clinking of the 12 stacked mugs wrestling their way out of Dante’s arms. The silence permeates the entire cafe before KERO BONITO’s ‘ONLY ACTING’ explodes from the IBM SURROUND speakers. Instinctively, Murukami begins to smash his foot against the ground to the beat and squint his eyes in pure admiration of the music. 

Before Dante retreats to the kitchen he jolts his head towards Murukami who sits hunched over the counter with complete bliss washed over his face. He notices Dante watching him and raises his thumb sternly and concisely. Dante gives a half smile and lingers as Murukami holds the thumb stagnant. His pores begin to excrete water and his mouth drops as the sky fills with smoke behind Murukami.

Bonito’s voice stagnates as she reaches an impassable lyric. Instead of bypassing it, she repeats it continuously in hope of completing the word. 

Both Dante and Murukami retreat to the window overlooking Melbourne as a foreign rumble disturbs the café’s quaint atmosphere.

The two black figures stand silhouetted against the falling moon beyond the glass. Their attention remains glued to the rapidly descending white rock while the patrons bob their heads to the music in unison. A grey spiral of smoke and fire twists in the sky, hiding the void beyond. 

Dante begins to shake uncontrollably as his penis spews a green bile that leaks from his pants onto his leg, eating at his flesh.

The song comes to an abrupt close and the window collapses as the moons gravitational pull disturbs the molecular composition of the café; warping and distorting the logic of the rooms items. Time expands and compresses like water flowing up and down the shore while light and sound distort separately of each other.

A pane collapses onto Murukami, separating him in two. His legs twitch and his head opens its mouth as if to scream, but blood and miscellaneous viscera ooze from his throat.



Murukami sits in a sole green bog in an ashen wasteland, knees pinned to ground by rusting nails. His arms, detached, caress and cradle his head as an acid wind blows harshly. A consistent whimper falls from his lips as he recites a collection of words scribbled on a piece of paper nailed to his chest, reflecting the red sunlight.





Beyond him, the landscape of derelict streets and towering skyscrapers flows like blood spewing from a wound. Its grand citadels, rolling green hills and ashen wastelands are stitched together in an amalgamated nightmare that explodes outwards. The ground, sky and air all out of order like a sequence of overlapping, non-sensical dreams.

Lines of petrified corpses plunge forward onto their blades as an endless stream of blood pours from their chests forming a shallow veil of bloody water. It barely masks the viscera and fleshy lumps overflowing from storm drains and manholes. Rain pounds on the backs of the fallen samurai. As it slides across down their flesh, it rips and drags the remaining skin towards the gravitational centre of the swords plunged through their torsos. 

A forlorn expression plagues the frozen congregate as they grasp and claw at the surrounding metallic saplings, their mouths ripped open as though they needed to scream but their jaws were nailed together.

The green ooze surrounding Murukami, the streets, the air, the fallen samurai all fold into each other. 

Directions, time and space cease to exist. 

There is only Murukami and the towering beast that lies over him in the infinite void. It speaks through unconceivable means before disappearing for good.

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