it is only right of her to want to be historically preserved if she cannot bear life much longer. she has this kind of internal logic that keeps her from doing it herself, maybe a holdover from sermons in youth that she could never subscribe to but were doomladen enough to judder in starts and stops when she ruminated on death, a locked groove wearing the needle out. if there’s a Heaven she doesn’t want to be precluded from bearing witness to it, and neither to a Hell really. discounting the eternal torture, there was a rugged aesthetic pleasure to every representation she’d seen of it that she’d hope to get even an inkling of in person, but then again that means having to discount eternal torture.
eternal torture isn’t quite how she describes life here—for one, it’s finite, can be ended at one’s own discretion—it’s just something that’s been sapped of its blisses, beyond explication, beyond inadequately surmising in a creative-writing-task suicide note. that’s the reason why if she goes in a manner that’s self-evident in its nature as a suicide, it’ll become a minor mystery to those who made their pockets full with her. they’ll dart across the scene amateur-sleuthlike, forcefeeding reasons and rationalisations that aren’t there into her relaxed-open mouth.
and also she doesn’t want to let the team down, the statistician’s morbid pastime that was girls like her. but then even if she escapes the categorisation of trans suicide as planned, by her excursions and their intended outcome she’ll be grouped into the datafield of trans murder. could she not be a suicide or murder victim and then be laid to rest peacefully without the baggage of representing an entire community’s susceptibility to such things? it’s the most mundane component of her anyway. most people don’t even notice, how she misses in retrospect when people noticed, as awful as it seemed at the time. when she could throw an open-hearted look at another trans girl and have that same look imparted back upon her, not have it evaded by the lookee who mistakes her for just another clocker.
if anybody in the speculatory fawning obituaries says that she died for any reason relating to her transness, she swears to fucking God that she will make a routine of shaking shit up in their kitchen at 4am and misplace at least twenty-five of their forty winks. every night if such a thing is breached. but the people who she can say this to wouldn’t do this to her and it’s those peripheral bastards who still want to claim a stake in her life and who she can’t even remember her relational position to who would. a murder is at least better on that front, in terms of preserving the deceased’s integrity, because the discovery of motive is so key to how these processes are vicariously spectated upon, and nobody is going to be asking what the murder victim’s motive was for being murdered. a suicide to its observers is misinterpreted as a direct call for character assassination.
what was the last thing she texted before she died? well that’s yet to be determined because she’s not dead yet. did she have any disturbing interests that could have propelled her towards this passage of such finality? well, for one, have you checked her browser history? how much more can we tear up her bedroom for the resolution to our prying?
what she wants is a digitised embalming – she has sent DMs to producer after producer under various pseudonyms and VPNs asking for this specific enactment of want – her ideal way to go would be loudly as a recording device reproduces her last breaths – she has not yet been dignified with as much as a response. fucking faggots.
this one guy blocked one of her burners due to the chilling specificity of her request. 750k followers, world tour coming up, and yet she was noticed enough to be blocked rather than idly passed by. there have been others who have expressed a willing but they are nothing but little boys with bookings at local festivals, and allegations soon to taper off their growth and … well that’s just conjecture but these guys aren’t the matter-of-fact composed abattoir-fit slicers that she wants. they are all hardcock and halfsmiles who picked their career paths in anticipation of a greater ease in dominating women. all of them would be fine with the ramifications of killing her if they felt like doing so was a musician-fan transaction, but she has said no to all of these upstarters because from the way they phrase their readiness, all salivary and sanguine, it sounds like they’d rape her beforehand. she wants to be killed but not to be raped. that’s one non-negotiable condition.
djsplitwood: Saw that crazy sht you’ve been sending ppl – im new on the scene but i wld be so fuckn down to sample that, not killin u tho. i want notoriety not charges. U could maybe end ur shit over zoom and id record that on audacity. I would use it + nobody wld ever be able to trace it 2 me
fragilefeatures: that’s so impersonal. everyone livestreams their suicide these days. you’d be better off sampling a shock site if you’re not man enough to go close-quarters with me. fucking pussy
djsplitwood: Whats the goal here? Make me hate u enough to kill u?
fragilefeatures: that hate is already there. if you considered doing it for a second, it’s a trait that is home to you, as little as you like to tap into it
djsplitwood: Im not denying thats there. I wld just prefer 2 assist u than to do it myself. are we even in the same country?
fragilefeatures – yeah we are, same state actually. also i’m a tranny. you feel that hate yet? does that just get your bile rising up, or your cock too?
there’s a chance you don’t record if it’s just screen-to-screen, then the moment is ruined. i want this perfectly arranged. this is not a fucking joke, don’t think you have any leeway when you act like it could be.
djsplitwood: Tbf I’ve always liked the idea of trannies
Not the people themselves. When Im looking at porn of them I always think theyre not girlish enough. The dick takes me out of the fantasy as ideal as it sounds on principle
And theyre always crazy. Case in point
Leon345242600: I am looking for a beautiful woman preferebly TS/TV pre-op for a mock/recorded necrophilia scenario. I would publish online provided I have someone to play the pretty corpse and a cameraman to get upclose+keep my face out of frame. You have to lie still. Not rough with how I do it but would prefer someone down for anal, raw, light degradation, cumshot on face/mouth – all without making noise/complaining.
[REDACTED FORUM NAME] admin: Came across a v. interesting article – tabloid of course but these DJs have been getting bizarre requests from a girl who claims to want to be a receiver. The condition is they sample it in their songs – sounds like a way to dress up a death kink if you ask me. If anyone wants a chance with a girl submissive to being killed, then hone your producing skills. Sell out venues or some shit. Talk about a gold digger.
D3F_D3AL: Attention-seeker, wanting shit to go “her way”. Bet cunt wouldn’t like it if I jumped out the bushes and got her. That’d make me like it more though, that panic : )
SoundingBoard66 – does anyone even know her name? It could be a copypasta or something. apparently lots of accounts are sending this out, wouldn’t be surprised if this was some targeted op to weed our type out. girls don’t offer themselves out like this, it’s an extension of like a reckless fag deathdrive. I’m not into girls so ofc i’d have a different viewpoint but still it seems off to me
fortyonepercenter:“She” is not a woman. That is all I can tell you.
Leon Robert Bisset (born February 13, 1992), primarily known professionally as L.X., is a French-American DJ, songwriter and record producer. He is currently based in London, and first gained notice upon the release of twelve untitled remix albums in the year 2013. His struggles with copyright law pertaining to the samples in his work have been well-publicised, and after a 2016 lawsuit from Sony Music that temporarily bankrupted him, he went on hiatus from creation of music and co-founded the advocacy blog Sampler regarding fair use and the rights of artists. This hiatus ended with the release of 2018’s self-titled album, his first work free of preexisting samples and available on streaming services.
In 2017, an anonymous woman accused Bisset of aggravated sexual battery. Bisset rebuked these allegations on a Sampler blog post, in which he suggested that his accuser was likely to be a label executive “playing dirty”.
[She goes for walks every night at the inopportune hours. Calculates when men are most likely to materialise out of twilight particles. Run from the rapists and fall by swoon into the killers’ arms: her philosophy. It is a hypothesis because at this moment, when all she believes in is the siren-song of proxy suicide, nobody dares to appear to be her proxy. Now thirty-three she lacks the youthfulness that once signaled her as having some kind of acquirable, spoilable quantity to street-preds. Having to answer to a world that muffles its interrogatives is boring, and it’s full of feedback and delay, and it goes on forever, unless you don’t want it to. Anyone could live forever she thinks, they just decide at a certain age that they’ve got all they could get out of life and accede to whatever beckons them. The current oldest person in the world will soon die of their own will and that’s okay and it will not be a case of taking one’s own life. Just like how you do not notice the process of day turning into night in any capacity but photo-stills, centuries and zeitgeists transmute in similarly finedrawn manners that you again miss the minutiae of. Stupid thing, don’t you know all the timelapses in the world are lamentations for an objectivity you could never quite catch hold of? You do know why, and that is not why you are dying, but if you were drunk enough to project guilelessness you might say it is because it’s easier to explain.]
<Death doesn’t happen in increments like a sunset, even if you are quote-unquote dying you are still alive, whether with assistance or not. It comes in a fraction of a second, then announces its permanency in a most ungracious manner. That flash, that transitional flash; it must be what she is chasing. What revelations could be contained within the switching-off of a light source? Can it be recaptured by playback & facsimulation? Come to her, O great archivists: do justice by her and promulgate her death rattles far & wide.
Unredact yourselves, announce turbulence.>
ANON: i know who you are. don’t you know this is all they’ll remember you by ? petty thief , aggravated batterer …. go down in style, go down for something that was at least consented to
ANON: They don’t believe I did it anyway
My fans at least
ANON: i believe you did it , but don’t try that rapist shit on me when we meet. only touch me to extinguish me , when the mic is going. ideally this should be worse for you than it is for me. i hope you follow me in fate.
ANON: Why else do you think Im here. Nothing’s really happening anymore
I want to feel strongly for once
ANON: also was it you on that fetish site ? another leon was there wanting a trans chick to play dead for him. i’m guessing that’s not you, or maybe he wants to be you.
ANON: Idk what site ur talking about. Lots of fetish sites. Ur like a running joke now when it comes to producers bc EVERYBODY has got one of ur messages by now.
U do it so much its crazy. Ur obsessed but I wanted to see if it was real or just a compulsion. I want to see if u would follow it thru 2 its logical endpoint and
I want a surefire end to my career
ANON: you know issei sagawa ? japanese cannibal ?
did worse than what you’ll do and cashed a celebrity check off the back of it. that could be you if you don’t kill yourself.
DJ turned killer the fawning headlines would say. they’d pretend to hate you or maybe they wouldn’t because i am not victim but guilty party in their narratives. you can tell them you did it because you found out i had a dick. you were about to fuck me and then you realised my body was something you had to annihilate. you will have acted patriotically, lawfully.
She doesn’t want to be laid to rest. If the same place she takes her repose at could just remain her place of decay that would be ideal, even if all her friends would have to take the funeral service to the crime scene. Maybe if she is to be moved she could be taxidermized and help someone process some shit. Give a formaldehyde forever-grin in a hall of stuffed dogs. Feel her stomach complain with sawdust. Get peeled, exposed and von-Hagensed. The first transsexual ever given the Body Worlds spotlight. Look at her ironing and doing the work of a housewife, look at how her body contradicts itself at every turn and capillary, touch her if you don’t mind security, don’t ask about how she was procured.
The point of meeting is a plain-looking house, only semi-detached, barely autonomous; not really what you’d imagine a musician’s pad to be but maybe the pad of a waning P4K once-was, one eviscerated financially by copyright then on the tumbledown since. L.X. does not publish many images of himself online. The cover of ‘UNTITLED TWO’ (2013) was a confirmed blurshot of him DJing a house party in 2009 but apart from that it’s all guesswork. The L.X. or tribute act here doesn’t look like that, that clean-shaven and dyejobbed boy, but an entire career’s lifecycle has sped by like a flipbook since then so that’d age you.
She looks tired in his wake, Leon Bisset the formerly prolific and presently uninspired. For him this is a last ditch at being somebody. She thinks he should shut the fuck up; he asks how long she wants until her make-over. Quick for everyone’s sake.
-You look awful for 29.
-I’m going to die soon.
-That makes two of us.
-What do you want me to do to you?
Conversation runs like that. Slow, totalising, final. Gulfs minute-wide become jumpers off the piggybacks of sentences. He clearly lives alone because nobody with a conscience would let this place get like that without intervention. Yankee Candles and plates of spoiled readymeal fight close-quarters in lockjawed ventures to neutralise the scents of one another. The ceiling seems like all it needs to crumble is a catalyst, something like what’ll transpire below it.
she is nude for “you”. stripped when “you” were out to get the recording equipment. this time around “you” must be understanding of consent, her nudity is clearly not an invitation for “you” to fuck her but a rebukation of any trifling injury-cushioning that clothing could offer. from the house next door a party transmits its ultralo frequencies unaware as “you” dual-wield microphone & mezzaluna knife, a graceless scarecrow. “you” didn’t prepare for this well hence the weapon of choice & she doesn’t mind. the microphone is taken by her so she can let “you” hold the cutter with both, how “you”’d hold it if “you” were eighth’ing pizza. with reticence, “you” aim to slice across the jugular but FUCK—but not quite & not deep enough. she has a trickling delta above her collarbone by your design, a necklace imprinted upon the skin. “you” are crying, “you” know now what “you” are capable of but “you” must man up lest “you” discredit the recording’s potency “you” fucking pussy. isn’t this what “you” wanted? how long can “you” keep your cock soft? “you” cannot hog the limelight of her killing because that would be a selfish thing to do, & a man must act against his nature, must backslide from cave-painting & shit-smearing. “you” follow her to the corner her pain reflexes walk her to, “you” pointedly yank her ponytail back, & “you” slit more decisively. that’s the kind of decision that hisses out from a confident beaming smile of an opening as pressurized rhythmic red.
(she’s withstanding the climactic pain of it with a little trick she learned once where she can just opt out of her body & what is being done to it. it comes in handy in the immediate moment but rewires the mind’s prioritization of individual memories so when the repressed returns it returns stern & violent; it returns as an indelicate pratfall towards what she would have experienced at the time had she not opted out from her body. everytime she was penetrated by a man she would become unstuck in time, eyewitness to earlier penetrations of hers. but this is a refusal to have any more memories, this is a total opting-out.)
“you” have never produced a song in your life. “you” plugged the microphone in but were too preoccupied in getting it done to turn it on, you stupid cunt. “you” are off to vacuum-pack your airways & assure yourself that orgasm will arrive quicker than suffocation, as the nightcap to all this. it is of total inconsequence what her last words are. This evening goes down kinder than any with a chaser.