THE BREAST COLLECTOR

PT 1

We had to hide in the dumpster to escape the breast collector.
Rather the rats than 'IT' A horrible masked entity with a box full of tits instead of a chest. We couldn't tell if the breasts were real. There was no blood flooding the transparent box. NO severance marks. It was too weird to hang around out to find out. The fucker had no arms too, so we don't know how he could've collected the things. Maybe it was It's organs, breathing apparatus that looked like tits. It had a weird demon head where its crotch was supposed to be. Zip marks for eyes and mouth, like a BDSM practitioner. It made this humming sound as it crunched past us. We suspected it was a robot for a while but its lion tail was swishing too naturally. It had a huge heart shaped fixture on its ass. like a cushion?
My lover plans to draw a picture of it. If she can get over the nightmare. Or was it a nightmare when we had met it? I can't tell really. Reality and dreams. it's all the same here in SLUTETR GUTT.

CONCLUSION

After the dumpster incident, we returned to the hole.

A ghost moon was rising so my lover had to blindfold herself. I was already used to the apparitions so i chose to start a fire to keep us warm through the night. The table number 2 was already rotting so i used it as firewood. I left the first table for her to write and draw the breast collector. We had to spread the news of its existence to the other communities in the Gutt. In case they too had the misfortune to come across it, they'll know what to do. Find a dumpster. With rats. To hide. The stench would mask the body heat somehow. That was at least how we escaped.

EDIT: Lover wet herself again, shivering. It was no use telling her it's alright. She was paranoid still. Her drawing of the collector was acute. I guess that made it harder for her to forget the thing. At this juncture I must mention this. I am cursed. I cannot write or draw. Even as i report this, it is she who is reluctantly typing out these words. I did not force her. She knows it is her duty. EDIT: This is me, the lover. I have no choice in this matter. No one else can write or draw for us. My father NULL is a great lover. Morality here is skewed. We are not sick. It is this world we live in that is sick. We make do with whatever lusts we have. Its the only way for us to live. EDIT END:

This is NULL. I write to you through my daughter/love child to warn you of an entity, called the Breast collector. Image of it is found in the maggotzine. I appeal to you to study it well, so you can recognize it a way off. My girl had the opportunity and bravery to channel some information for you all;. listen.

This is the Daughter WHITE THONG. Some minutes ago I received information on the entity called the Breast Collector. It means women no harm. The breasts are fake. It is a symbol or box of icons, meant to root this thing in the heart of the mother of nourishment. It vaguely recalls its moments with Mary, The mother of God. And wants to relive those moments, hence the box of breasts as a heart and lung. Organs of life.
The thing escaped a tyrant soul called the Caviar Girl. She had kept it captive with a binding chain, which broke during the storm of the puppets. Since then, the breast collector has been transversing the GUTT, in search of milk. Its false tits would not offer it condolences or safety. It is in search of the sacred cow. Bells will be of aid to this spirit. If you do see the breast collector, do not hide from it as we have. Instead, ring a bell if you do have milk to offer. Directly from a teat would be best so a woman has to sacrifice. DO not be afraid. The milk, whatever little is offered, will help the Breast collector to move on. It will not steal your precious breast, O women of the GUTT.

It will be grateful.

And so what we fear is not fearful in itself. It is our lesson to learn that all monstrocities in the GUTT can be angels or may just require help, as we do. We should be thankful to the Gods that spirits like the breast collector has the option to move on. We cannot and must endure. But thankfully again, to the Gods of the Gutt, that surrealisme shall endure with us forever.