Green was his raiment, green his monstrous mare.
He rode unarmed, uncorsleted, unshielded,
Except that in his huge right hand he wielded
A frightful battle-axe, with blade as green
As coppery rust;—but the long edge shone keen.
A Happy Solstice and Merry Christmas to you and yours! Join now round as we gather together for drink and merriment, being certain to adjust your awareness to the proper frequencies that you might hear the yearly story of the Axe Game, as recounted by the ever-obliging Chuck Logos.
As International Infictive Month begins winding down we present you with the last of our installment of podcast and a thought: Infictive is not an adjective (despite what it’s etymology may lead you to believe) it is a subspace. It is not limited to the county baring it’s namesake, but is instead an encompassing state of ultra-real. It is nothing which you can posses nor is it a quality which can be attributed to any person or object. Things simply either occupy the space and play with the circuit or else fail to engage it, ’nuff said. Consider occupying such a space more often or be careful not to invoke it. You could easily wind up eaten by the harsh cruel game like so many others. Walk free ’til dead, brothers and sisters. 81! 
