Pobble: a.k.a. Pob, Dr. Steve, Stephen Alder
 
Drug Scientist. (Chemist)

      This fine gentleman is probably in the 25-30 age bracket, and is posessed of an unhealthy pallor, his skin having a washed out look to it as if he's been dry cleaned one too many times. Haircut looks to be home made, low grade clippers job but just a little patchy in places where there are hints of blue in the stubble. His eyes are apparently fitted with some form of contact lens, since they are a pale milky white with no iris or pupil visible. His pallid skin is contrasted by the adornments that mark it. Besides the peircings (1) there are numerous tattoos, the main design being a series of small black marks that ring his head in a strip about an inch wide reminiscent of a crown of thorns laden with black ink. Under his left eye, starting at the peak of the cheekbone are three thin vertical black lines, varying sizes with the middle the longest at about an inch. Finally, an abstract design formed from intersecting black and white squares, about the size of a silver dollar adorns his neck on the right.
 
        Dressed to impress in a four figure suit in a black that purposefully looks a touch faded. Its appears to have been fitted perfectly, but the stylistic crispness is convoluted into a more casual style by virtue of an unbuttoned jacket, and the white crinkled silk shirt worn untucked with its top button open. The cuffs of the shirt protrude at perfect lengths, fastened with flat round headed cuffs consisting of blank white circles. The hands that emerge from the expert tailoring are also thin and on the pale side, accentuated by patches of dried blood (2). Precisely pressed and creased pants with precision turnups and length are finished up by a pair of stylish black shoes that appear both classy and designed for duty with thick soles and what could be steel toe caps.
 
        Cold repelling is perfomed by a full length black crushed velvet overcoat, apparently with an added inner lining. In contrast to the fine attire beneath, the velvet hasn't held up too well in the snow and rain and is starting to become patchy in places while having that drowned rat look to it while wet. It has an oversized hood, and deep out-side pockets.
 
        He speaks with a South London accent, sounding quite common at times no matter the covabluary he wields. He moves wearily, as if each motion is a true feat of willpower and each step a mile.
 
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Pobble has his left eyebrow peirced with a simple silver bar. His left ear is fitted out with a series of 5 evenly spaced intricate silver rings that run down the back, but the lobe itself is unpeirced. His nose is also victim to the scourge, having a small silver stud embedded in the right nostril.

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Pobble's hands have holes. In the center of each palm is a small wound the size of a nickel. They seem moderately fresh, still seeping blood and ooze. Also strange is that his fingernails are silver, a bright metallic silver that is so perfectly applied that it could even be a freakish deformation and really be metal fingernails.
 

So, you want the story of my life? I ain’t spilling all the beans to anyone, and to be honest guvna, it’s not worth the telling anyhow. I was born inSouth London, middle class family. Whupdedoo. I’d call it a standard upbringing if I knew what that meant. I didn’t get beat or molested or anything like that (unless you count the slipper to the arse if I did anything too stupid.), I did alright in school, I had a decent number of friends and we did decent things that kids do. We made our trouble every now and then, but who didn’t?
 
This shit is boring. I don’t feel the need to expand on it, and you don’t really want to know. I finished school, and went to collage. Chemistry. That was my thing. I did alright, got by on the bare minimums to get where I was going next – Imperial Collage,Central London. Prestigious I guess. Better than your average Joe gets to visit.
 
So, I moved out of the parental abode and into my own pad with some mates from University. They were an alright bunch, and while we got drunk every now and then, we were all straight. No drugs.
 
So, I graduated. Got accepted to study synthetics as part of a Masters. Worked out good, few of my housemates left, the others were all busy with their own stuff. I didn't really have that many friends around but it didn’t bother me. Money was the issue at hand.
 
Problems have a way of solving themselves, and my drug free attitude paid off and I found myself caught up with a clinical drug testing agency, trying out cancer treatments for adverse side effects. Extremely well paying, and all I could expect to see on the downside was maybe the shits every now and then. Spot on.
 
Didn’t even get the shits really, was smooth sailing. Blood tests every week, and I was forced to take breaks from the program once in a while. I just continued on as normal with my studies and a vague semblance of a social life. I never really had time to party, always too tired so I just ended up hearing all about them. Seemed that a new figure was rising, a strange drug messiah, turning up to parties with incredible never before seen drugs which he’d give away for free. Interesting I guess. Being the straight laced boy that I was, I didn’t pay the rumors too much heed.
 
Life continued on. I got my Masters, started my Doctorate. Like I had anything better to do, the opportunity was there, to become Dr. Steve, future highly paid employee or University professor stuck around all those hot females day in day out, with awesome vacation time. I wasn’t going to complain.
 
Nothing interesting happened. Nothing, I was either working, or exhausted. I had no time for anything else. Now able to afford to live on my own in a small pad, no one bothered me. It was 3 years that flew by, ending with my graduation with honors – Dr. Alder.
 
Now of course, I’d have to cope with real life. I’d be offered a job of course, continuing my research with a major pharmaceuticals company, but I had a break in between, and went aroundEuropefor a while. Coming back, I was met with a box on my doorstep. I took it inside, finding a monkey within. A suited monkey.
 
 
 
Metaphysical Journal Snapshot. Awakening.
 
“ Just have to pay the piper my man.”, I say to the monkey on the sofa. He’s smoking the last of my cigars but I don’t mind so much. A monkey is better than silence. How true is that.. it’s more true than anything. Monkey has woman trouble. Real woman. He is so in love that his little heart beat shakes his body. Unfortunately, she doesn’t share my monkey sentiment. She sees him as a monkey. Just a monkey. Now I think there’s no such thing as just a monkey. Come on bitch, lighten up to the facts. You’ll never get a better companion than this furry soul. I realize that my words had no bearing on the situation, but then I don’t think he’s even listening to me. Just sitting there staring vacantly as the acrid cigar smoke curls around his narrow limbs. It’s a wonderful image. Wonderful.
 
I’m not sure whether monkeys traditionally take copious quantities of drugs, since this is the first one I have come across truth be told, but he’s quite a demon. These test specimens that they’re paying me to devour can easily be shared between the two of us. Easily. They don’t have to know that I’m spreading the word. Maybe if all the test subjects did this then the final product will be mind-blowing. Not sure whether cancer drugs should be this much of a mindfuck, but hey. It’s a good job if you can get it.
 
We like our job. It’s the best job in the world. Eat cancer drugs. Chow chow chow. Like monkeys eating chopped liver. Or like monkeys eating drugs. I think in many ways he’s more civilized than me. Look at him. How come my suits never look so good? Bastard. I hate him. He is my nemisis. He is the Herod to my Jesus.
 
“ This is your last cigar.” he states glumly, those little eyes almost crying. Not from the sentiment imparted in his words, but from the aforementioned unrequited monkeylove. It does seem to depress him that little bit more however.
“ Not to worry. I can walk out and buy some ciggies.” I reassure him, “S’cool.”.
 
Not as cool as I’d like to imagine, as when I swing my feet off the rest and down to the floor, they root. Instantly the flesh peels from my bones and burrows down into the carpet, seeking out the mites to devour them and feed my gnawing hunger (which is the real reason for this offer). A moment passes, and the sickly tendrils withdraw back into my foot, the gain having been negligible. Monkey didn’t notice the agony apparent on my features. His eyes are so terribly blue when he cries.
 
I head off, without another word. He’s looking sensitive, as if his eardrums may burst and piss blood at the slightest noise, and I don’t want to be cleaning that shit up. The door maybe takes pity on my predicament and swings smoothly and silently, spewing me out into the cold.
 
It’s been snowing. The landscape is like a blank canvas, ready to be a victim. As i stand swaying, I realize that in but moments I shall be plastering these surroundings with my mental feces, creating solipsistic art in a hallucinogenic Jackson Pollock style. The arse of my mind is ready.. but.. there is nothing. Constipation. I walk, hoping that this will release my perceptually metamorphic sphincter. It doesn’t. I feel up to driving, and I do. Get in, strap up, and slowly break away from the snow shackled sidewalk onto the slush that covers the roads. Down the street, empty, blank, as if it’s creation was never completed.
 
There is another traveler out tonight, crossing the road.. crossing.. crossing.. Looking straight at me. The face is somehow familiar, moving straight for me. There is hatred in those eyes. It is an evil face. Lucifer’s henchman has come to bring me news, a message scrawled in blood across my windscreen. “Shit, fuck, twatfuckingshitwankass...” The obscenities fall from my lips like my blood is made of vulgarity and I have just started to chew a razorblade. The ominous snow caked wall of cars on the wrong side of the road draws closer, and the tyres slip on the mush that is the tarmac.. I realize that in but seconds I will die. I will die. I will die.
 
I’m in my living room. The evil faced man is here, and I recognize him in the brief second before his disappearance. I know who he is. It’s the rumored man, the drug messiah. He brought me drugs, my cancer drugs. He brought the test specimens. He’s not real.
 
He’s me.
 
It’s like that movie, with that Brad Pitt guy, but not. I know the difference. He’s not really me, he’s what used to be me, some other time. He’s been taking over.
 
I see it clearly, the monkey.
 
Sent here for me. Giving me a push in the right direction. It all falls into place.
 
 
I leftLondon, not taking up the job. The monkey told me where to go. I took the box, which he said was attached to the man who’d been my while I was work-sleeping. It’s a nice box. Cardboard, but overly sturdy. We stay in it when we feel the need, me and the Monkey. Dave the Monkey. He’s not really called Dave, but that’s my name for him. Calling him The Monkey sounds so impersonal.
 
He’s taken us toBerkeley, inCalifornia. There’s some people there that can help me out. Let me know what the hell everything is all about. Solificati they’re called. Sounds crazy to me too... Who knows?
 
 
They’re teaching me well. I understand it, and I have a purpose. Me and the former me have reconciled ourselves, and I’ve discovered partying, and chemicals. Chemicals and partying. All this time I was so close to this stuff, and never knew what it was all about.
 
 
I’m learning about music, there’s another guy here. Pete, he’s been taking me to The City. Clubs, Raves. We’ve started our own manufacturing plant. The House gave us some supplies and we moved in to a little out of the way place. Enlightenment is hiding, and the formula for it is waiting for us. I’ve learned this – Mistakes in the process are profitable. The simplest chemistry is worth more than I’d imagined. Drugs. Drugs are the future.
 
 
The monkey has been stolen. Dave is gone. One minute he was there, waiting for me by The Box. I told him to wait inside it but he was having none of it. Stupid, stupid monkey. There. There he is.. Pig boy. Come back here
 
 
With a little help from Pete, I tracked him down. Elvis and Pig boy were going to sell him for drugs. Lucky for everyone that Dave had a stash on him and got them wasted. They seem like a decent sort. One’s a DJ. Could be a profitable venture, sticking my lot in with them.
 
 
Business is booming, and I’m getting rich fast. Sure, its dangerous work but hey. Pete is becoming more and more withdrawn. Who cares, Monkey doesn’t like him.
 
Pig boy and Elvis are talking about moving up north. Seems like a plan. Their parties need me. Maybe I need their parties too. I can study the process of my creations.. Hinting at where to go next. Feels good to fund something that makes so many people happy. Y’know?
 
 
Pete and I have split, I have plenty of cash and will just re-lab when we get where we’re going. I have The Box, and the Monkey, and my mates. Sorted.
 
Enlightenment is calling, and selling fast.
 
Torontois a crazy place. When I say crazy, I mean.. like the crazy house. Full of retards. If this is what real world Traditions are like, it makes me wonder why I am with them. My IQ drops with every passing day. Stupidity via Osmosis.
 
The Holiday Inn smells like piss, but I have a feeling it may just beCompton. I’d live on Eva if I diddn’t need the labspace.  I have been working on an as yet unnamed compound. The ideas strike me from nowhere. It is progressing towards something.
Yesterday, an unfortunate incident occurred. Due to mistaken identity,.and Penny’s foolish friend I accidentally consumed way more acid than most people will ever see. Along with the new compound. I shall call it the Divinity Compound.
My agony, combined with a prayer and the substance reacting to form numerologically sound cell structures in my brain has trapped Yahwe, the Lord of All Hosts in my head. It is disconcerting. Stigmata have broken out on my hands and forehead. We talk. I am calmed.
 
Christmas Eve.
Penny at the Mall. I have a present for her. The Divinity Compound.
It goes off well.. but I regret it every second. I miss his presence. I know what Jesus felt now, on the cross, abandoned by God. She won’t give him back.
 
Chase Kettle has taken me in for a while we are more alike than most since I left the Soli fucks.
Penny won’t give back God.
We are linked. Strangely. I feel her pain. It is.. bizarre. Disconcerting. She bleeds at her side. Tragic. I need it. I need it back. Him.
 
We killed James Anderson, that doublecrossing cunt.
 
Chase is dead.
I miss god.Paradigm:
 
I’m pretty wasted right now, and I figure; this doesn’t make sense to many. Makes more sense when I’m like this you know? Easier to pin it all down. I work best when I think I’m something else.
 
The universe is expanding. Physicists tell is this. Fair dinkum. So. Wouldn’t all the matter traveling outwards be non-parallel? How can we stick together when all our matter is traveling in different directions at tremendous speed?
 
I know, its crazy. I spent a week on acid considering that. I figured it out tho, with the help of House Soli and a wodge of discussion and introspection with The Monkey.
 
A few things hold the universe as we know it together. They’re structured, like a body for reality.
 
Matter, that’s the basic thing.
Matter is shaped by theory and formula.
This mix of matter and formula creates a bone structure, Thought.
Thought is a framework to hang Language on.
 
Cool eh. It binds all this together, these things. I realize that it may seem obvious but it’s not obvious in the way you’d think it is. That makes no sense.
 
Mass+Forumula allows Thought which is embodied by Language.
 
It makes more sense on paper, when it’s formulated with numbers and stuff. Or maybe less sense. See, things aren’t always what they seem. Look at the drugs, they make things different. Are they really subjectively different? Or is it just all perceptions?
 
It could be different. Just by changing a few things about in the formula. Or the thought. Or the language.
 
They’re co-dependent.
 
Substance <= + Formula => Thought <= Language
 
So.. Formula shapes the substance
Language shapes the thought
 
Weird, I know.. but it also goes on to show that
 
Substance + Formulae => Reality. Substance and formulae are the groundwork of chemistry, so Reality can be fermented into a drug, that’ll bypass reality. Yeah, this bit is way off.. Somewhere out there, is that perfect formula, mixed with substance it’ll blow minds. Enlightenment in a pill. Or liquid maybe, who knows.. I will, some day.
 
Of course, all of this fits into the Hermetic teachings somehow. As above so below after all. That’s just the Formula in laymans terms right?
Everything is reflected in spheres and layers. They are codependent and coexistent.
Just break the layers and watch the ripples spread. Create circumstance within the current that resonates within that which you wish to effect. Maybe in such a way that it resonates back and affects the same layer.
 
My head hurts.
I miss God. Foci:
 
  Correspondence - Numerology, # matrices, liquid chemicals
   Entropy - Calculus, True names, Enochian arrangement, chemical ink
   Forces - Electricity in Motion/Prepared Circuitry
   Life – Medicines, corrosive chemicals, pills.
   Matter - Mathematics and Geometrical calculations
   Mind (Not Needed ) - Languages (Mainly Enochian), Mind Altering Drugs
   Prime (Not Needed) - Repetition, Distilled Water, Organic Matter
   Spirit - Spirit dolls soaked in chems, ritual circles
   Time - Sand, elixrs, music, records.

Non - Wonder – The Box. A cardboard box that is both comfortable to sleep in, and very very resistant to being broken. Inspires pleasant dreams, Doesn’t do anything useful.

Familiar - The Monkey.
 
        This monkey is wired, all out wasted, surfing the interface between dull reality and some super happy place. Its the small variety of exotic monkey, but the exact variety is somewhat elusive. Black and white fur marks its little face, and remarkably it has blue eyes. Eyes that look like they're trying their best to hold cohesion and not melt. In its tiny little mouth is a fat cigar, and it seems to be holding it there by force of will alone.
 
        For a 1'4" high monkey he's dressed pretty sharp. A tantalizing number that must have been tailor made in a terrifyingly tricky manner. It allows for an awesome range of movement of the little monkey limbs while still looking smart the whole time. The monkey could've been in Reservoir dogs. The perfect black suit, white shirt, black tie. No shades however. It shall be seen that its voice, when it speaks is English. South London to be specific. Common as muck.

FAMILIAR -
Dave, The Monkey
The Monkey familiar was also attached to Pobble's Avatar's previous incarnation, and is quite like him in many respects. Animal testing may be outlawed but when it comes to Pobble's lab creations, Dave is always the first in line begging to be the first victim.
The spirit's body has become addicted to cocaine and the pact between them requires Pobble to make him a batch on a weekly basis, else he will become cranky and irritable then may attack and or leave depending on his mood. The monkey always requires that he be included in any frivolities or activities undertaken by the Chantry, and that he be taken out on demand to be tailored with a new suit. Fresh cigars are also required on a regular basis. Pobble is also to do his best to avoid eating Chicken. Ever. Should he do so, the monkey will perform numerous acts of dubious intent upon his person and may outright leave.
Its needless to say that neither Pobble or the Monkey were in a suitable state of mind when the pact was agreed upon. The Monkey needs 2 quint a week to survive.
ABILITIES:
Communication (1). The monkey can talk, in Enochian or English.
Knowledges (2). The monkey has basic knowledge of the Occult 2, Philosophy 2, Theology 2 and Cosmology 3. Its quite an interesting little critter.
Paradox Nullification (1). The monkey eats paradox, which gets it quite high in a metaphysical sense. However, its a quick and deadly fix that gives it rather awful comedowns and headaches.

 
Manifest Avatar – The Deity.
It may be God inside Pobble’s head. Or his Avatar breaking through. Who knows? All that is sure is that it is inexorably linked to the Divinity Compound, and can be transferred without affecting Pobble’s magickal ability. It talks and converses with its host mentally. It acts and communicates as if it is the Deity, but warped.
At the ST’s discretion, this may include empathic linking between Pobble and the current host. Fat plot hook a hoi hoi.