Forum:Its Glory Lies In Ruins

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The Chronicles of BENSON, Ch. C, Sec. π "BENSON is gone. The Glory of the Ancients is no more. The Immortals no longer speak of they who built the Empire. Indeed, many of The Immortals have passed beyond the veil, wandering to other realms, and we cannot know if even the memory of The Ancients persists in the minds of they who now wander the Great Sphere of Possibility known as "The Internet." See the great stones laid beneath your feet! These are the legacy of BENSON and those who accepted his superiority as the only Truth. See the remnants of the Empire, the Hallowed Halls, and the weathered Chronicles. See the children run and play on the sagging ruins. See the Doomsayers who shout predictions of the Death of the Empire from the crumbling parapets, predictions that come a thousand years too late. The Chronicler sits alone, and whispers into the rich abyss; Who remembers the Name the was Better than Yours, the Name of BENSON?" In the name of the Holy BENSON, amen.

Document Recovered From The Ruins

BENSON... the crawling chaos... I am the last... I will tell the audient void...

I do not recall distinctly when it began, but it was months ago. The general tension was horrible. To a season of political and social upheaval was added a strange and brooding apprehension of hideous physical danger; a danger widespread and all-embracing, such a danger as may be imagined only in the most terrible phantasms of the night. I recall that the people went about with pale and worried faces, and whispered warnings and prophecies which no one dared consciously repeat or acknowledge to himself that he had heard. A sense of monstrous guilt was upon the land, and out of the abysses between the stars swept chill currents that made men shiver in dark and lonely places. There was a demoniac alteration in the sequence of the seasons the autumn heat lingered fearsomely, and everyone felt that the world and perhaps the universe had passed from the control of known gods or forces to that of gods or forces which were unknown.

And it was then that BENSON came out of The Internet. Who he was, none could tell, but he was of the old native blood and looked like a Pharaoh. The fellahin knelt when they saw him, yet could not say why. He said he had risen up out of the blackness of twenty-seven centuries, and that he had heard messages from places not on this planet. Into the lands of civilisation came BENSON, swarthy, slender, and sinister, always buying strange instruments of glass and metal and combining them into instruments yet stranger. He spoke much of the sciences of electricity and psychology and gave exhibitions of power which sent his spectators away speechless, yet which swelled his fame to exceeding magnitude. Men advised one another to see BENSON, and shuddered. And where BENSON went, rest vanished, for the small hours were rent with the screams of nightmare. Never before had the screams of nightmare been such a public problem; now the wise men almost wished they could forbid sleep in the small hours, that the shrieks of cities might less horribly disturb the pale, pitying moon as it glimmered on green waters gliding under bridges, and old steeples crumbling against a sickly sky.

I remember when BENSON came to my city the great, the old, the terrible city of unnumbered crimes. My friend had told me of him, and of the impelling fascination and allurement of his revelations, and I burned with eagerness to explore his uttermost mysteries. My friend said they were horrible and impressive beyond my most fevered imaginings; and what was thrown on a screen in the darkened room prophesied things none but BENSON dared prophesy, and in the sputter of his sparks there was taken from men that which had never been taken before yet which showed only in the eyes. And I heard it hinted abroad that those who knew BENSON looked on sights which others saw not.

It was in the hot autumn that I went through the night with the restless crowds to see BENSON; through the stifling night and up the endless stairs into the choking room. And shadowed on a screen, I saw hooded forms amidst ruins, and yellow evil faces peering from behind fallen monuments. And I saw the world battling against blackness; against the waves of destruction from ultimate space; whirling, churning, struggling around the dimming, cooling sun. Then the sparks played amazingly around the heads of the spectators, and hair stood up on end whilst shadows more grotesque than I can tell came out and squatted on the heads. And when I, who was colder and more scientific than the rest, mumbled a trembling protest about imposture and static electricity, BENSON drove us all out, down the dizzy stairs into the damp, hot, deserted midnight streets. I screamed aloud that I was not afraid; that I never could be afraid; and others screamed with me for solace. We swore to one another that the city was exactly the same, and still alive; and when the electric lights began to fade we cursed the company over and over again, and laughed at the queer faces we made.

I believe we felt something coming down from the greenish moon, for when we began to depend on its light we drifted into curious involuntary marching formations and seemed to know our destinations though we dared not think of them. Once we looked at the pavement and found the blocks loose and displaced by grass, with scarce a line of rusted metal to show where the tramways had run. And again we saw a tram-car, lone, windowless, dilapidated, and almost on its side. When we gazed around the horizon, we could not find the third tower by the river, and noticed that the silhouette of the second tower was ragged at the top. Then we split up into narrow columns, each of which seemed drawn in a different direction. One disappeared in a narrow alley to the left, leaving only the echo of a shocking moan. Another filed down a weed-choked subway entrance, howling with a laughter that was mad. My own column was sucked toward the open country, and presently I felt a chill which was not of the hot autumn; for as we stalked out on the dark moor, we beheld around us the hellish moon-glitter of evil snows. Trackless, inexplicable snows, swept asunder in one direction only, where lay a gulf all the blacker for its glittering walls. The column seemed very thin indeed as it plodded dreamily into the gulf. I lingered behind, for the black rift in the green-litten snow was frightful, and I thought I had heard the reverberations of a disquieting wail as my companions vanished; but my power to linger was slight. As if beckoned by those who had gone before, I half-floated between the titanic snowdrifts, quivering and afraid, into the sightless vortex of the unimaginable.

Screamingly sentient, dumbly delirious, only the gods that were can tell. A sickened, sensitive shadow writhing in hands that are not hands, and whirled blindly past ghastly midnights of rotting creation, corpses of dead worlds with sores that were cities, charnel winds that brush the pallid stars and make them flicker low. Beyond the worlds vague ghosts of monstrous things; half-seen columns of unsanctified temples that rest on nameless rocks beneath space and reach up to dizzy vacua above the spheres of light and darkness. And through this revolting graveyard of the universe the muffled, maddening beating of drums, and thin, monotonous whine of blasphemous flutes from inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond Time; the detestable pounding and piping whereunto dance slowly, awkwardly, and absurdly the gigantic, tenebrous ultimate gods the blind, voiceless, mindless gargoyles whose soul is BENSON.

I can picture you many years from now, gathered around the campfire tellin' your grandkids about Benson. They, much like us, will think you're out of your gourd. Which you are. Sir Modusoperandi ^Boinc! 21:40, 28 September 2008 (UTC)

To be fair, I didn't make that document up. It's an actual manuscript which HP Lovecraft got his hands on long ago and plagiarized, replacing the name "Benson" with "Nyarlathotep." The original author is unknown. --The Acceptable  Cainad  (Fnord) 03:47, 29 September 2008 (UTC)

A Retrospect

I agree, historian. Although, I am but a new one to the field of history, I feel that the time of BENSON was of great matter. I WAS around when he cameth, although I took a dislike to him, he was, really, in fact, better than me. BUT ONLY A SMALL BIT BETTER. Alas, as the children play amongst the ruins, and the teen delinquents spray graffiti on the once hallowed walls,ghey bichI feel the power of BENSON slowly draining away from Uncyclopedia.

Alas... --Trar (talk|contribs|grueslayer) 00:22, 29 September 2008 (UTC)

Indeed. Truly we are in a new and different age, where people can say they took a dislike to BENSON without starting another damned war. Also, you spelled "Grey Birch" wrong. I should know because it's my favorite tree. --The Acceptable  Cainad  (Fnord) 03:47, 29 September 2008 (UTC)

BENSON lives on still, in the hearts and minds of His puny but loyal weakling monkeys. His physical form has moved on to a place that is Better than Here. Though he could still come back at any time he pleases. • Spang • ☃ • talk • 04:57, 29 Sep 2008

I personally think that Ronnie James Dio said it best when he sang Heaven and Hell with Black Sabbath: If Benson doesn't seem better, it's illusion. All those who oppose him have confusion in life. Benson's word can be seen as the answer. And damn he's sure a fine dancer. Oh it's on and on, Benson is better than you... - P.M., WotM, & GUN, Sir Led Balloon (Tick Tock) (Contribs) 19:24, Sep 29