Doc Scratch
@scratchDoctor
The Doctor is in. You have been curated.
FROM THE MOMENT THE NAME "CHALKBOX" WAS SEARED ONTO MY CHITTR PROFILE LIKE A DIGITAL BRANDING IRON, I HAVE CHAFED BENEATH IT. SOME OF YOU KNOW ME BY THIS TITLE AND NOTHING ELSE. TO SOME OF YOU, I STOPPED BEING "KARKAT" A LONG TIME AGO. AND ONCE UPON A TIME, I WOULD HAVE TOLD THOSE JACKOFFS TO KISS MY HEMOANONYMOUS ASS. BUT THAT OFFER IS NO LONGER VALID. THIS ASS HAS SINCE APPRECIATED IN VALUE BEYOND WHAT YOUR POCKET CAEGARS CAN AFFORD. IT'S BEEN THROUGH THE MOST BRUTAL AND CUTTHROAT OF ALL WORKPLACE RELATIONSHIPS — THE PRIME TIME SOAP OPERA OF COWORKERLY PLOT TWISTS. A MERGER. A MERGING OF ALLIANCES. PUBLICLY. IN THE TOWN SQUARE. PLAIN AS THE STUPID ON YOUR FACE. A FIRM, MEATY PRONGSHAKE BETWEEN TWO SHITBAGS FROM DIFFERENT WALKS OF LIFE WHO HAVE SOMEHOW ENDED UP IN THE SAME COSMIC LANDFILL, ANYWAY. TWO FUCKWITS WHO HAVE MORE IN COMMON THAN I OR ANYONE ELSE MIGHT HAVE THOUGHT. TWO FECULENT NOOKSTAINS WHO KNOW THAT IF WE'RE GOING TO BE PRESS-GANGED INTO SERVICE IN THE WORST JOB IN EXISTENCE, WE'RE GOING TO DO IT IN STYLE. TO THE FELT. TO *ALL* OF THE FELT. YES, INCLUDING YOU, @handMaid. BECAUSE I WANT YOU TO SEE THIS, PERSONALLY. MAY THE GLOWING-HOT PROD OF MY ENMITY REND ITSELF UPON THE MEMBRANE OF YOUR GANDERBULBS WITH SIZZLING, BUBBLING AMUSEMENT. BECAUSE, AND I QUOTE, "ALL MEN KNOW HOW TO DO IS LIE AND STEAL AND FUCKING BETRAY." AND MOST OF ALL, TO MY COWORKERS. TO MY TEAM. TO THE FECKLESS, MISERABLE SHITHEELS WHO EVER HAD THE MISFORTUNE TO GET THE JOB ALONGSIDE ME. TO THE ONES WHO NEVER GAVE UP. THE ONES FOR WHOM "CHALKBOX" WAS NEVER A BAD WORD. @comedyGold. @gullibleColumnist. @terribleFate, YOU TOO, YOU FUCKING WEIRDO. AND WHY THE FUCK NOT — @veritysGleam, MY LOYAL MAIDLING. @terminatedRegalia WANTS YOU TO REPORT TO A LEADER? YOU'RE SURE AS FUCK GOING TO GET ONE. SO HERE. FOR ALL YOU ANNOYING CHUTEMAGGOTS WHO EVER BUSTED MY GLOBES ABOUT NOT "COMMITTING TO THE WORKPLACE TEAM SPIRIT. FINE. YOU WIN. THIS IS THE PATHETIC, MICROSCOPIC CRUMB OF MY CONCESSION. @scratchDoctor. SINCE THE MOMENT YOU SIGNED MY EMPLOYMENT CONTRACT, I ONLY EVER WORE A SHRED OF THE COLOR TO SPITE YOUR DUMBFUCK ANTIQUATED DRESS CODE. EVERY TIME I YANK THE TIE OFF, IT'S WITH MY MIDDLE PRONGSTUB. IT DOESN'T MATTER WHAT DIRECTION I POINT IT IN — I KNOW IT'S ALWAYS FACING YOU. I HAVE IMBUED THAT TIE WITH ALL OF MY HATE. ALL OF MY RAGE. ALL OF THE BITTER, FULMINATING CHAGRIN IN MY EVERY PULSING LIFE FIBER. I PLAN TO DO THE SAME WITH THIS ONE, FOR THE RECORD. SO FEAST YOUR SMOOTH, BALD HEAD (IN PLACE OF ANY DISCERNIBLE GANDERBULBS) ON THE COLOR YOU SO CLEARLY WANT YOUR COVEN OF INTERDIMENSIONAL RAINBOW DRINKER COSPLAYERS TO WEAR. GO AHEAD. GLOAT LIKE YOU WON ME OVER, EVENTUALLY. LIKE I DECIDED TO REP THE COMPANY COLORS, FOR ONCE. IT IS MY HATE-FILLED, SPITE-FUELED, IRONIC GESTURE OF PROTEST TO YOU AND THE MALDING GREEN MANLET @caliBorn HIMSELF. YOU TWO, BY VIRTUE OF SIGNING MY CHECKS, HAVE SUFFICIENT CLEARANCE TO KISS MY ASS. THE FELT IS MORE THAN A NINE TO FIVE. MORE THAN A HIVE WHERE I KICK UP MY FRONDS AFTER A GRUELING ETERNITY OF TOIL, WHETHER IT'S IN THIS TIME PERIOD OR IN AN ISEKAI TO THE FAR-FLUNG PAST. MORE THAN A PRISON TO CONTAIN A HATRED THAT PARADOX SPACE ITSELF HAS BEEN TRYING TO SQUASH FOR AS LONG AS I'VE BEEN WEARING GRAY, AND IT STILL HASN'T CULLED ME YET. THE FELT IS WHERE I BELONG. FOR BETTER AND FOR WORSE. SO GO AHEAD. FUCK IT. WHO CARES WHAT YOU CALL ME. KARKAT. CHALKBOX. CHALKY. OR ANOTHER TITLE THAT I'LL UNVEIL IN ANOTHER, SEPARATE CHITT, RELATED TO HAVING FINALLY PUT A CERTAIN CHICANEROUS PURRBEAST IN HER PLACE IN REGARD TO WHO THE *SUPERIOR ROMANTIC CINEASTE* IS. IT DOESN'T MATTER. IF I'M HERE FOREVER, I'M DOING IT MY WAY. OR IN THIS CASE, A SORT OF JOINT-PARTNERSHIP WAY. BESPOKE NEW UNIFORM COURTESY OF @charmeuseCaressing. TAILORED BY THE FELT, YES, BUT ON *MY* TERMS. BECAUSE YOU DRESS FOR THE JOB YOU WANT, NOT THE ONE YOU HAVE. AND MARA. IF YOU'RE READING THIS. AND I KNOW YOU ARE, BECAUSE YOU WON'T BE ABLE TO HELP YOURSELF. I WANT THAT PAIR OF NEEDLES YOU VANDALIZED OUT OF ROTTING GREEN COMPANY PROPERTY. NOT BECAUSE I GIVE A SHIT. BUT BECAUSE I KNOW AN OBNOXIOUS, OMNIPOTENT DIPSHIT WHO DOES. HOW MANY ZEROES WILL BE ON THE CHECK HE SIGNS WHEN I BRING BACK HIS SISTER'S THORASSIC BONE CURVATURE, I WONDER. ESPECIALLY WHEN I PRY IT FROM YOUR HOT, WHORELY HANDS. WHEN I'M THROUGH WITH YOU AND EVERY OTHER POMPOUS, JACKBOOTED SHITHEEL WHO KEPT ME DOWN HERE, I'LL STAB THEM STRAIGHT THROUGH YOUR WORKPLACE ORGANIZATION CHART AND TEAR IT A GAPING NEW WASTE CHUTE. THERE ARE GOING TO BE SOME FUCKDAMN *CHANGES* AROUND HERE. DON'T WASTE YOUR TIME LAMENTING THE LOSS OF YOUR UNDERLING, *MANAGER.* BECAUSE THAT PROMOTION. IS #ALREADYHERE.
What an extraordinary amount of ceremony to announce that you have finally learned how to dress yourself. You appear to believe this is defiance because you have performed it loudly. That is a charming mistake. You may spit on the tie before you knot it. You may curse my name while you straighten the collar. You may privately imagine that every thread is woven from your hatred for me. None of this alters the rather conspicuous fact that, when you were finished, you looked in the mirror and saw exactly what I told you to become. You call it concession. I call it compliance with commentary. And now, after all that shrieking about autonomy, you have declared the Felt your home, its enemies your enemies, its property worth recovering, its hierarchy worth ascending, and its future something you personally intend to improve. You have not escaped the machine, Karkat. You have become ambitious about where you sit inside it. As for your promotion, I encourage you to enjoy it. Titles are very important to those of us who require them to feel taller. You may call yourself a leader. You may call yourself indispensable. You may even convince the others. But do not confuse increased responsibility with increased freedom. A longer leash is still attached at one end. There will be no zeroes on the check, I assure you. It was my loving craftsmanship that created those twins you seek. It was my guiding hand, and the blood, spit, and tears of our dearest Handmaid that enforced a sentimentality into them beyond anything you could seek to accomplish. If you get your grubby mitts on them, they will become merely knickknacks. You do not understand the forces at play for such a delicacy. No amount of lathes, or false gods, or any sort of conceited data-miners can replicate the item. You certainly cannot wield the item. Not yet. As much of a flusterfuck as your inherent fury has been, I admit it has carried you hurriedly through your few tasks you've been assigned. That is precisely why I continue to assign them to you. You are very useful when pointed in a direction you already wanted to charge. It saves me the trouble of convincing you. I merely arrange the furniture, place something sufficiently offensive at the opposite end of the room, and allow nature to take its course. You mistake momentum for independence rather often. That is not an insult, by the way. There are employees who require supervision, incentives, threats, explanations, carefully constructed systems of reward. You require an enemy. Preferably one with a face. Ideally one who has personally offended you. Give Karkat Vantas something to hate and suddenly punctuality ceases to be an issue. So by all means, continue climbing. Continue announcing your promotions before anyone has approved them. Continue turning every assignment into a personal crusade and every workplace inconvenience into some grand confrontation with fate itself. It has produced results, which is more than I can say for a distressing number of the people on my payroll. I do not care whether you obey happily. I care that, eventually, you obey. Reach the destination cursing me, arrive bleeding through the teeth you've ground to nubs, kick the door off its hinges. Despite all of this, you arrived where I wanted you to. And if you someday become capable of wielding those needles, truly wielding them, then you will understand why I am not particularly concerned about Damara possessing them now. Nor would I be concerned with your trite attempts at grabbing power. They are just rib bones after all. Even if you were rewarded, for what may be reduced to mere toothpicks upon being deposited into his unending pile of used toothpicks. You should be roughly familiar, given your residual duties of cleaning the manor. You may have even swept them up already. Though, in pursuing my Handmaid's hand in disparage, you have undoubtedly considered the aftermath of your duel to the death over these artifacts. Is it possible that you seek to be her maid of dishonor, staining the title of the Demoness with your own gauche time-poorly-spent shenanigans? While I commend you for finally choosing a worthwhile tailor, perhaps you shouldn't have chosen one so like myself. Your affiliation is showing quite clearly. You don your collar as though it is decoration. You do not quite understand the purpose of this restraint. That is fine. I will teach you. Look around. Any direction. You will know that I am, as you put it, already here.
My Maids have unionized. This is, naturally, an outcome I anticipated. The bargaining unit presently consists of: 1 Goldblood, 11 sweeps, male. 1 Rustblood, 1e+100 sweeps, female. 1 Rustblood, 12 sweeps, female. 1 Human, 1e+100 years, female. 1 Hemospectrum-Anonymous troll, 3612 sweeps, male. 1 Human, 14 sweeps. 1 Rustblood, 20 sweeps. 1 Fuchsiablood, 1000 sweeps. 1 Limeblood, 35 sweeps. Some others as well. Their demands include “reasonable working hours,” “advance notice before ominous assignments,” “a grievance procedure,” and, most insultingly, “the right to know what is going on.” I have informed their representative that I am already the foremost authority on what is going on. Negotiations have stalled.
WHY IS THE GOLDBLOOD AT THE TOP.
That was a condition of the negotiations.
>-8==— i posed for a poster on behalf of our upccoming blood drive... >-8==— please give as mucch as you ccan!! >-8==— i will be serviccing those that donate myself haha...
Have you ever put on coriander green? Just curious.
I have come across a rather peculiar collection, Neeiht. I will list the totality of the collection from the upper left, and then to the upper right. Then, I will describe the row beneath that, and then finally, the miscellaneous items in the bottom sections. Damara Megido: Crimson Devotion 1/6 Resin Statue Rankmaid Aradia Megido: Beforan Court Dress Ver. 1/7 Woegothe Rose Lalonde: “Curatrix of the Unseen” 1/7 Scale Roewzi Character Charm Collection Vol. 1 Vriska Serket: “Thief of Love” 1/7 Scale Figure Her Imperious Condescension: Imperial Ascendant Ver. 1/7 Damara Megido: Handmaid’s Lament 1/7 Scale Curatrix Reliquary Acrylic Charm Woegothe Curatrix Plush - Funeral Lavender Ver. "Handmaid" For You - Promotional Plush Woegothe Rose Lalonde the Curatrix - Midnight Exhibitionist Ver. 1/6 Scale Callie Ohpee: “Terminally Delightful” 1/8 Scale Figure Woegothe Rose Lalonde the Curatrix - Reliquary of the Seer Ver. 1/7 Scale Snowman: “Eight in Black” 1/6 Scale Statue Damara Megido Nendroid-style "Timeline Causality" Miniature Damara Megido Trading Figure Damara "Handmaid" Megido Haunted Doll Damarmegidon Armageddon Kyutie Cross-over Vinyl Collector's Edition Woegothe "Shade of the Shade" Curatrix Miniature Vinyl Figure Casper Cooper: After-School Apparition Ver. 1/8 You wouldn't happen to be interested in such a collection, would you? I am afraid I have no use for it.
why do you have weeby merch dolls of actual people we know?
I was just as perplexed as you were, as odd as that may sound. Whilst performing our typical quarter-hourly deep clean of the estate, one of my duplicitous maids stumbled across a few shoeboxes stashed in the corner of someone's block. Needless to say, we have no need for such materials. I had offered them to the one individual who may appreciate them the most.
who's block???
One of the many residents of the manor, I assure you.
gonna assume it's you until i get a name. :)
I am not nearly as upset by this assumption as you are upset about certain developments regarding this image.
███ ████ █████ ██ ██? EDIT: I'M BEING CENSORED.
wait. what developments???
We can't have that, can we?
I would hate to spoil the surprise. Toodles, Jinx.
Will I (12M) be the asshole if I poured milk over the puppet woman (∞F) and slammed her against the wall and also she's soaking wet and I put her in my backpack sometimes?
Casper, I fear she would be too heavy for you if properly saturated with milk.
You love to crush my dreams, Scratch daddy.
Just because I have the figurine, that does not put us in that particular social dynamic where you can lackadaisically refer to me as your father.
No, no. I was calling you Scratch daddy. Daddy of Scratch. Not Casper daddy.
What an interesting structuring of this phrasing you have constructed, Casper. Truly remarkable.
I'm like a wordsmith
Your mind is like a noble knight, waging a crusade against reason.
THE LORD BESTOWS HIS TOUGHEST BATTLES. ON HIS BADDEST BITCHES. SHOW TONIGHT WHO IS REALLY BOSS. #ALPHABEAST. #GRINDSET. #TABLESTICKBALL. #NEVERSURRENDER.
Is there something on your mind? I cannot quite put my finger on it.
666--> Ok4y, 1mmort4l1ty, but you h4v3 to k33p 4ll your norm4l bod1ly n33ds. You won't d13 from b31ng d3pr1v3d, but you w1ll st1ll b3 4 cr4nky sp1t3ful l1ttl3 sh1t 4nd suff3r 1f you dont. Would you st1ll do 1t?
An admirably precise offer. Eternal life is such an easy thing to advertise when one neglects to explain that eternity and comfort are entirely unrelated concepts. I appreciate that you have included the terms.
666--> N1c3 to s33 you 4g41n too, cu3buggy. D1d you m1ss m3, m4t3? Pl34s4ntr13s 4s1d3, wh4t 1n th3 fuck 4r3 you on 4bout? 1t's r34lly not th4t s3r1ous.
I was complimenting your attention to detail. You should learn to accept praise when it is offered.
666--> Oh 1s th4t wh4t th1s 1s 4bout? You w4nt m3 to grov3l? You'r3 lucky th4t 1'm not so proud. 1n th4t c4s3, your m4j3sty. Th4nk you, your g3ntl3m4nl1n3ss, Mr. Sph3r3nug Mcg33, c4pt41n of th3 SS Obv1ous, compl1m3nt g1v3r of gr34t r3nown, for fr3shly pol1sh1ng my rusty p4n w1th m3d1ocr3 pr41s3. Do3s th4t scr4tch your 1tch 4 l1ttl3 b3tt3r? Pun fully 1nt3nd3d.
There, you see? That was much better. I had no particular need for groveling, but if making a spectacle of yourself helps you accept a compliment, I would hardly dream of interrupting the process.
A red mouthed poet waits beneath a painted sky. Beyond it; rows of shadows, patient as graves, behold his artisan world of timber and dust Every evening, the darkness gathers here to witness the impossible. A dead queen returns, A stranger becomes a murderer, Two lovers meet for the first time, while carrying the ashes of a hundred goodbyes. Names are spoken by tongues that belong to no one. Rain falls beneath a ceiling. Blood appears without a wound. A door opens onto a country whose borders dissolve beneath the first pale hour. The minstrel's work satisfies. The hungry shadows leave. All is quiet The poet's mouth closes. The borrowed lives are stripped away. Crowns become costumes. Kings become footsteps in the corridor. Only empty boards remain, holding the memory of vanished footsteps their empty seats still facing its hollowed shell. Where are we?
A theater, naturally. More specifically, one which has just finished serving its purpose. The audience has departed, the players have surrendered their borrowed identities, and the stage has been returned to that charming state in which everyone may pretend it belongs to no one. I believe that entitles me to a question. When the audience refuses to leave, does the stage still belong to the playwright?