Season Three Broadcasts
Black Buddha I
Who knows the pain of death better--he who gasps his final breath, or those of us who must breathe the foul air of his decomposition? Who bears the greater burden--the cold bones of the dead man in his coffin, or the spine of the pallbearer carrying his load? No one knows this burden better than we, dear listener, we who have seen so many pass. I see you sagging, laden. And yet, I have to ask, is it grief that weighs so heavily on your shoulders, or is it that should've, would've, could've fool's game called guilt?
There was a young man with a suitcase of guilt that weighed his immortal life down. He just couldn't see, all it took to get free was to drop it and get out of town.
Black Buddha II
What a piece of work is a man. How noble in reason. How infinite in faculty. In form, in moving, how express and admirable. In action how like an angel. In apprehension how like a god. The beauty of the world the paragon of animals. And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights me...not.
Why try to probe a murderer's mind, what do you hope to see? His motive? His means? His secret dreams? You won't find a clue in mine.
Black magic, voodoo, bombers in the sky. People kill people...and I don't know why.
Blackwing
It's Indian legend time. A Native American fairy story for children of all ages. Legend has it that when the world was young and unfinished, the great spirit father made the mistake of leaving his paints where his children could get them. Raven begged Eagle to paint him as beautiful and grand as the great spirit had made Eagle himself. And so he did, or so he tried. But when Raven looked at his reflection in the water, he didn't like what he saw. Raven became angry, he and Eagle fought, and the great spirit father's paints were spilled over Raven and made him all black: black eyes, black wings, black breast. Raven ran into the river and flapped his wings against the current, but the color was indelible, the water wouldn't wash it away. 'This is your punishment,' said the great father, 'for interfering with my work. Black you are, and black you will stay, you will never come clean.' Not much of a legend at that, is it, children? But I rather like the moral.
My Boyfriend is a Vampire
Love. How it toys with us, makes utter fools of us, flogs, whips, and spanks us. Listen to the voices of the unloved as they surge and retreat in the night. Whispered in empty rooms and lonely beds, the hunger of love unattained, rushing through our fingers, unstoppable, fleeting, gone. And yet, when we touch this love it burns us with its bright flame, it punishes and consumes. And yet we must have it. It rules us: uses, abuses, misuses. And yet, why do we always crawl back for more?
Trophy Girl
They say no two persons are alike. Never is that more true than when it comes to our desires. Some cherish what others abhor. One man's precious cargo, is another man's poison. Some prize what others revile. Prize what you will, prize what you can, but always remember, even he who dies with the most prizes...still dies.
Let No Man Tear Asunder
Do you suppose they celebrate death days on the other side? Will the day we give up the ghost be a cause for celebration in heaven, or are we just another log on the fires of hell? The only extraordinary thing about birth, it seems to me, is that we are no longer dead, which we presume to be an inferior predicament. How fiercely we struggle to avoid death. How the death of our loved ones pains us. How desperately we hold on...hold on for dear life.
Night in Question
Bonsoir, mes amis. C'est moi, the Nightcrawler, and I'll be with you until the sun rises. Keeping you company, soothing your confusion, your bond in Giliad. Tonight's meditation is dedicated to lost friends, lost from each other, lost from themselves. And the simple fact is, the way back for one is the way back for the other. For we must never forget what we are, or whom we came from. This is our life-blood, our nourishment. Without it, we wither and become nothing.
You will come back. You must come back. It is your destiny, and destiny will not be trifled with.
All's well that ends well--although it never really does end for some of us. Anyway, until tomorrow, I remain a friend to all, and as always, when you have a friend in the Nightcrawler, who needs enemies?
Sons of Belial
In courts and palaces he also reigns, and in luxurious cities, where the noise of riot ascends above their loftiest towers, and injury and outrage, and when night darkens the street, then wander forth the Sons of Belial, flown with insolence and wine. Paradise, lost.
Strings
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking about the past. And you're asking yourself, 'How did I get...here?' And when you think about it you realize that really you had no say in the matter at all. Funny, isn't it? You've just been bobbing along on the eddies and currents of life, like flotsam, subject to the whims of everyone and everything, but yourself. Bumping through history.
Fever
They say the ages of man are denial, awareness and acceptance. A young man believes he will live forever. A middle aged man knows he will not. And an old man is ready. What then of those taken out of sequence? How to prepare them for the bitter end? A man who knows he will not die is a young man. He is kept young by the knowledge that death shall have no dominion. There's nothing so hard as watching that die. A dozen in a single night. My children and my people who should have lived forever, living their last. Who would have ever believed that they would die? My people. My children. One short sleep past we wake eternally and death shall be no more. Death, thou shalt die! We will survive.
Dead of Night
A ghost is a hallucination of some famous regret, no more. Ghosts are mistakes that we have made. They come not from beyond the pale, but rise up from our gravest doubts about ourselves. Each ill-considered thing that we have done is a ghost that haunts us. If we let it.
Regret is for the foolish, the weak, the tormented. Kill it before it bleeds you dry.
Human Factor
Cold, Barren, Bleak.... Winter is the kindest season. The heart will not melt in winter. Chilled by the cold, we are spared the grief, the sorrow, the messy emotion of life. Winter is solace for the lonely. It's cool touch soothes the tattered heart.
Where has she gone, slipped away like a child at the fairground lost in the crowd. Does she wonder trough the noise searching for the hand that guides? Does she embrace the heavenly alchemy breathing fresh liberty like the spring flower that brings summer? But summer soon fades into forever, and she is left forsaken to face the chill of winter, alone.
Avenging Angel
I hear something familiar on the wind tonight. A lonely woman's cry for justice, from beyond death. And what justice is sweeter than that exacted by those who have been wronged? What law more perfect than that exercised by an advocate who moves swiftly and with resolve. Only you who've practiced it know what I'm talking about. A man that studieth revenge, keeps his own wounds green.
Jane Doe
Pour the cappuccinos friends, smoke them if you have them. It's poetry time, again. Some thoughts for you to dream on. Tonight's lightness exerted from Killing Mind by that fellow who got rich writing greeting cards for the devil. 'Life's ending evolution, every death is growth. She should please me now, this dead one, with whatever warmth remains, with that rattle in her throat.'
'And with slackling breath should whisper, I love you for what you've done. You've let my spirit out, and I never saw you coming, nor dreamed what you're about.'
Francesca
Here is an interesting dilemma for you, Gentle Listeners. Where does responsibility lie for what we do in our lives? Is payment in full rendered for our sins at the hour of our death? There is talk that this life is but one of many in a cycle of lives without end. Should this be so? Should immortality be our common bond? What is its purpose? What does it mean? Do we return to the mortal coil, unfettered by our sins? Or burdened by them? Perhaps, we are not forgiven as easily as some would believe. Perhaps to be immortal in this way is an eternal judgement. A true life sentence from which we, as sinners, can never be absolved.
Ashes to Ashes
The cruelest evil is not some wretched entity manifested in cloven hooves and bleeding goat's head. But how like a child, its soft cries...the sound of all that should be cherished and protected. The father takes a child into his heart in pure love. Unawares.
The child's innocence and purity knows no bounds. Neither does its cruelty when evil comes upon its soul. Caller/AKA Divia-- Hello, Lucius. It's been a very long time. Shouldn't all good little girls be in bed by this time? Divia-- But I'm not that kind of girl. You know that. Do you know what its like to be betrayed by your own child? To be left alone in the darkness? Hmm. I didn't think so. But you will know soon enough, as your friends die, and the fear of death drives those still alive away from you. Then you'll understand how it feels to be betrayed...and alone.