THE BLACK EMPERORS GRAND GRIMOIRE:

A Lucid Nightmare

THE BLACK EMPERORS GRAND GRIMOIRE:

A Lucid Nightmare

Frank Genghis

ATHENA PRESS LONDON

THE BLACK EMPERORS GRAND GRIMOIRE:

A Lucid Nightmare

Copyright Frank Genghis 2007

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by photocopying or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without permission in writing from both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

ISBN 10-digit: 1 84401 786 9 ISBN 13-digit: 978 1 84401 786 7

First Published 2007 by ATHENA PRESS Queens House, 2 Holly Road Twickenham TW1 4EG United Kingdom

Printed for Athena Press

Thanks to the following agents of my de/reconstruction: the Black Hag, the Red Witch, Big D, She la Male, Louisiana, Queen Victoria, the illegitimate son of Tutankhamen, SixNon, Dr Shock & Dr Bones, The Sick & Abstract League of Scientist-Witchdoctors, the detestable alien warlord from Planet Nike, a horde of troublesome imps, all the clowns back in the Big Top, Ma and Pa a rare pair of pantaloons, each of my eighty-one personalities, the Anti-Antichrist for saving the day, my foster-dad Satan for teaching me how to punch others in the face with Love (and how to say No); and of course Kayos, my greatest teacher and live-in torturer.

Contents
Prologue: Genghis Part I: Villainy
Fool School The Man who would not Moderate The Ultimate Narcissist Blowing the Trumpet Dollerium Seduction The Lion, the Tiger and the Spilt Milk Love Impotence The Antichrists Christmas Villainy 15 23 25 26 27 33 34 38 43 44 49

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Part II: Madness

Father to Son Lowly Planet Home Entertainment Devils Night Daze of our Lives The Rap on Ice Cubes Switched-on Frank 53 55 58 63 64 70 72

Unfashionable Geographic Scientific Un-American Wrong To my captors Speck of Nothing

74 76 78 79 81

Part III: Redemption

The Coffin The Long Weekend Tailor Change Daydream Message in a Bottle Confessions of a Recidivist House of Cards Diablo Wyrm The Masters Destiny Fate wears an ironic smile Prince of Fools Ansell and Gretel Saturn Returned Vanity Fair Fool Fuel 81 Ways to Die Franks Song A Sensitive New Age Guide 85 89 92 93 95 97 98 99 100 104 107 114 115 121 123 124 126 134 136

Epilogue

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They say that love conquers all. If so, then why do I remain undefeated by it?

Prologue: Genghis
Genghis Khan gazed out beneath grizzled eyebrows, through aquiline slits for eyes, upon the lonely windswept plateaus of the world his world, the known universe he had conquered and wondered: What next? All had fallen before his hard hungry hand: the Chinese, the Indians, the Muslim nations, even the mad, stoned Turks. The very walls of Europe had trembled and threatened to topple at his coming, and no doubt would have, were it not for the internal politicking that had recalled him to the eerie expanses of Mongolia. He turned in his saddle, glanced back at the faces of his captains each fierce, indomitable warrior and watched them wither beneath his stare. The world was his, and yet the emptiness in his heart had only grown with each new conquest. Nothing for it, thought the greatest warrior-chieftain in human history. Nothing more to accomplish. He dismounted from his magnificent steed. He dismissed his captains. He disrobed out of his sweat-encrusted furs. He slipped into the tracksuit and moccasins he had trophied from a ravaged nation And he switched on his brand new, stolen television.

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Part I:

Villainy

Fool School
There was once a fool who was too cool for school. I was that fool. It was the beginning of a new millennium, an age rife with foolery and ready to explode with popcorn. It was the Era of the Babbler, the Day of the Dolt. It was a time when everything stood to be gained. If ever the world needed a true anti-hero, it was right then. And I was just the joker for the job. I came hurtling across the Void the capering crusader from Planet Cryptic faster than a coked-up whippet and more powerful than a desperate motive. I crash-landed in Kansas, still a child at the wheel of my spacecraft. I was discovered on the side of the road by a travelling circus. My ship had landed right on the head of one of its ambling entourage a young orphan girl called Dorothy squashing her into a nasty pink paste. I was found in a ditch, my face buried deep in the mud, by a couple of clowns. A clown couple. Of course they adopted me, took me into the warm folds of their big colourful tent. What hope did I have, fostered by a couple of fools? It is one thing to wake up one day to the realisation that your parents are mortal. It is another to acknowledge that they are both complete idiots. Such knowledge, however, came late to me in life. Perhaps too late. My folks seemed ordinary enough at the time of my upbringing: the gold standard in home entertainment, and difficult to tell apart from their fellow fools. Among their closest fool friends, for instance, were Yin and Yang, the famous Siamese twin comedians. There was Smiley Sambo, a manic-depressive sword-swallower from Upper Volta.
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There was an enigmatic attraction known as The Living Cautionary Tale. This clown had taken more falls than any other bumbler in the biz. He was the most triumphantly tragic trickster that ever took a tumble. Everyone could learn something from his fabulous fuck-ups. No one, I mean no one, wanted to be him. Then there were my childhood playmates, who were mostly baby elephants, except for my best friend the Elephant Man, a grown-up elephant. Actually he was an overweight albino dwarf with a cleft lip and an enormous trunk dangling between his ivories. He was washed up, but still boasted how he was bigger than your average clown. He claimed to have made merry with many a model midget in his day, once even on the high trapeze. My baby-sitters were freaks with extra digits and supernumerary Nintendo thumbs; and my teachers were the Human Encyclopaedia, and the Brain of Plato, preserved over centuries in a murky fishbowl. Then there was Ringmaster. Under the Big Top he was God, or at least the closest thing I received for religious instruction. To me he was simply the Hepcat in the Hat. Upon the huge hairy head of this fat Cheshire cat sat a towering tinsel top hat; and supported in the region of his upper lip was a gigantic ginger caterpillar he referred to as his pet moustache. In order to go in disguise, all Ringmaster had to do was put his prickly pet in a pocket. Whether aggression was in his nature or merely in his job description I cannot say for sure. Ringmaster flogged each and every one of us around the ring without unction driving us all insane with the slap of his big black whip though it seemed he preferred to dog us little ones for some reason, which seemed a strange thing for a cat to do. Perhaps he just felt we needed his special attentions. Whos your daddy? he would often ask, a question that caused me no end of confusion. Whatever the case, Ringmaster forced me into unspeakable circus acts from a very early age. I danced with monkeys. I rode my friend the Elephant Man. I got it on with the Bearded Woman.

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I tortured clowns. In no time at all I learned to be the arse in every ass, the mess that follows every meal, the gag behind the laughing gas, and the smile upon the imbecile. Ringmaster was impressed by my quick learning. He said that in me were the seeds of Great Goofing a most rare and extraordinary combination of stupidity and pride. He believed I might one day earn my stripes among the silliest, possibly even rank among the handful of harlequins whose noses were the biggest and brightest in the history of foolery. He said that Fool School was the place for me, a place where the right kind of fertilizer might be found to feed my seedling genius, promote my pride, and stultify my stupidity. He got so excited that he declared a day of free popcorn for all. My parents were so proud they threw me a cream pie throwing party. Everyone arrived in their Sunday best. Wolfman had shampooed his face. The Bearded Woman had trimmed her long oily whiskers. Dwyer the Vampire had flossed his fangs. The gimps had polished their leather underwear. The midgets had put on their platform shoes. Everyone wore their mad caps. The party was a riot. The elephants shot at us with peanuts and paintballs. Elephant Man got up on the table and tied his trunk in a special knot. A few of the more elderly circus members went pale and flaccid at the spectacle. The midgets scurried beneath the table, tickling our feet with ostrich feathers, and lacing our big floppy shoes together. Yin and Yang told jokes that made our sides split. Smiley Sambo got so wound up he swallowed sword after sword after sword before he finally grew bored and attempted hara-kiri. The Living Cautionary Tale ate so much chocolate cake that all his teeth fell out. The Drunken Lout a carousing clown with a crimson cauliflower nose spiked Platos fishbowl with tequila. His brain spent the rest of the evening dribbling on about how transcendence of

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the body was not all it was cracked up to be. He finally collapsed in a quivering offal-like heap by the plastic Parthenon, and we were glad to hear the last of his ramblings, which were mostly Greek to us anyway. But of course at these events some idiot always has to go too far. When Cyclops got poked in the eye with a blunt stick, things turned a little ugly. Otherwise everyone was happy that day. Ringmaster allowed his pet caterpillar to roam free as a butterfly about the big tent. Even the Human Encyclopaedia forgot himself. Everyone was happy except for me, that is. I did not wish to leave my home, the only home I had ever known. I was raised to wrestle with lions, not lessons. I was born to boogie with the cross-dressing colossus; not sit silently in some room with a bunch of boring tossers. I was groomed to get nasty with my gang of gangling gimps; not to act all nice and pretty with a pack of woolly wimps. My destiny was to dangle from the rafters; not to stare at classroom ceiling plaster. I belonged in stirrups, studs, stilts and stilettos; not in stupid schoolboy threads with mottoes. I belonged right here in the spotlight, thrilling audiences with feats profound and profane not in some school for fools. Our shows were explosive and kinky. Could any fool teacher at Fool School say the same about his dull dissertations? Then there was my girlfriend to consider: The Oldest Woman in the World. I contemplated a future robbed of her trembling caresses and the soft brush of her purple silk wig against my cheek at night. Her heart was already fragile how would her coronaries stand up to the stress of it breaking too? I painfully recalled my first great love, The Wicked Witch of the West. She would often melt in my arms, until one day she simply vanished down a drainpipe and never came back. She had broken my heart that day. The rest of my girlfriends had, of course, broken my balls especially Miss Planet, the worlds fattest woman. But The Oldest Woman in the World was different. Her

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grandmotherly tenderness, her great wisdom and vast knowledge in love matters had left no stone unturned and no crack unexplored between us. I could not afford to have my heart broken once more. I would simply die without her. Or else she would probably be dead by the time I returned. I would also miss the creature comforts of my cage should I be forced to leave. So I decided to run away. Could a true fool do otherwise? I would prove to Ringmaster how I needed no fool schooling! So long, Ringmaster, and thanks for all the fissures! I whispered to myself. And so, while the cream pies filled the sky, I quietly gathered my few worldly possessions into a large red handkerchief, and stole out beneath the tent flaps of my first and only earthling home. Not so fast, my young fruit fly! came a deep bellowing voice. A rough hand caught me by the collar. It belonged to Ringmaster. The cat was out of his baggy pants and his moustache was back where it belonged. Nearby sat a windowless wagon, tethered to a team of stripeless zebras. An evil looking clown in a pink boiler suit held the reigns so tight his knuckles had been painted white. On the side of the carriage were the words: Bonehead Express. Ringmaster hustled me inside, and I heard the snap of a bolt and much crazy laughter from the Hepcat and his cackling coconspirator. I heard the crack of a whip and the coach suddenly shuddered with movement. I was not alone. Within my dark cramped quarters were a small wooden lad with an exceptionally long pointed nose, and a young vacant-eyed boy clutching a bag of what he claimed to be magic beans. Both were sniffling uncontrollably, like the pair of miserable sods they were. After what seemed like days of being shaken around like three blooming jacks-in-the-box, we were finally flung violently from our captivity and into some new lavatory. We had arrived at our dreaded destination: Fool School.

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Of course the teachers there were all Tom Noddys. The lessons were sheer lunacy. The food was foul. The place stank. I hated it. I wanted to go home. There was circus music in my head. It would not stop. I could not sleep. Nonetheless I was determined to be the very best fool in that damnable school, to make my parents prouder than they already were. It would not be easy, for in it were fools almost as great as I. The niftiness of their tricks very nearly matched my own. The competition was stiff and stupid. Every fool thought he ruled. Those fools never listened when another fool spoke. And when a fool talked, he stopped listening to every other fool. I said nothing and listened to no one, even when I wasnt saying anything. I thought: Im no fool like those other fools. They dont fool me. But then I realised if I was to graduate top among those tossers, I would have to let them think I was fooled. To be the greatest fool that ever ruled at that school, I would have to fool myself that I was fooled that would fool them! I thought I had the game sewn up tighter than a corpses arse. When Graduation Day finally came my parents visited from the circus along with every other clown in town. The big top at my school was literally packed to the rafters with all manner of swinging sidekicks. But when they called me up on stage to receive my accolades, dad accidentally set fire to the tailcoats of the drivelling Dean, the Head of Fool School. Soon the certificate he was holding caught fire too. Mum handed me a bucket of what looked like water, but was actually rocket fuel, and told me to put it out. My diploma got well and truly toasted that day, and so too did the Deans arse. He would drivel no more. I was promptly expelled from Fool School and ordered back to the circus.

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I could not have been happier. A week or so later I received a letter from Fool School. It seemed they needed a new dunce to be Dean. They said I was the man with the tools: An unprecedented fool. A fool of such rare and ready foolery. A comedy of errors in my every action, a debacle in my every deed, a calamity in my every caress. They said if fools ever ruled the world and needed a new emperor, I would receive their full foolish support. In fact, it would be their holy duty as harlequins to enthrone me. In the meantime they would convert Fool School into a campaign headquarters. They would even sell their homes and assets if need be, in order to fuel our march to victory. Once they had made me king, those fools would be proud to have put me there. They would receive riches and praise by their very association with me. They would even get to build a grand new University call it Cockhead College. With me at the wheel of their cock and bull deal, those foolish fellows with fellowships would rule a righteous new school! I read the letter with smug satisfaction. I imagined myself king of the world a world possibly even brighter and bolder than my own bellowing big top. But then I thought: In order to get the head job as Rooster Master of Cockhead College, just how much cock would one have to quaff? Obviously I would be offered Rooster Mastership by default. In fact, as Idiot Emperor, I would probably be forced to accept the horrific honorific. I would get sucked into the biggest suckers suit that ever sucked cock on a presidential suite. Sure, I was no stranger to dirty work. My playing fields as a child had been awash with elephant dung. The stuff had even grown on me. But to tend to the turds of ten billion nerds? Such a job would be downright absurd! Only a fool of super heroic proportions would decline such an offer.

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So I naturally ate the letter and shat it out, hours later, along with my reply. I returned to my cage. My girlfriend, The Oldest Woman in the World, soon moved back in. She had grown a beard in my absence, which just tickled me pink. I am still getting over the rash. I quickly settled back into the swing and other equipment. During my time away the midgets had multiplied, the lions had grown fiercer, the colossus stronger, the clowns meaner, and my girlfriend uglier. But some things never change. My parents remained the same old idiots, if not slightly stupider with the onset of dementia. Dad recently lapsed into a state of stupidity so profound that he plain forgot how the wheel worked. Last night mum cooked us popcorn for dinner because she could, left us all wondering what would be for dessert. Ringmaster still whipped me around the ring. Life was still embarrassing. During times of crisis, I remained acutely aware of my own profound idiocy, and often blundered. This morning I head-butted a goat. This afternoon some fool arrived at the tent, announced that the campaign was finally over. I have, it seems, been elected the new Idiot Emperor of the world. Never before has there existed a fool as great as I. I state this fact with reckless certainty and shameless pride. I have been known by many monikers among the milksops of your miserable world: Baron Booby, Lord Loony, Duke of Jabbernowl, the Marquis of Mooncalf, Count Cock-up, the Clown Prince of Pluck, the Juggling Juggernaut, the Simpleton Sire, the Sawney Sovereign, King Credulous, the Clodhopping Kaiser, Earl of Umbrage, the Majestic Moron, and the Royal Rooster. But I shant bore you with my endless honorifics. The facts of my feats are well known on the streets.

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The Man who wouldnt moderate

This morning I got up at four, Drank four cups of coffee, Smoked four big spliffs, Practised forty minutes of kung-fu, And for four long hours Lay quivering on the floor. At eight I wiped myself clean off the slate, Ate eight ostrich eggs off eight separate plates, Smoked eight fags, (And wasted eight good pieces of lead.) Did eight gravity-defying back flips, And woke eight hours later on my head. At four I bought four Pepsis from the store, Did four lines of Coke then lined up four more, Ran a four-minute mile in forty seconds flat, Wrote four hit songs and watched them go platinum, Fucked four porn stars Like theyd never been fucked before, Before we all flopped down on the floor, Good and sore, With four big bags of hot popcorn, And forwarded through the footage Of the feats wed just recorded, Until I passed out cold On the four pink wet rugs That were sprawled across the floor And begging me for more. At eight I woke up late, And angrily smashed my eight best plates, Because I was supposed to be cooking For eight great mates, When all I had

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Was seaweed cake. So I ordered eight pizzas With twice as many anchovies on half, Which we ate, Cracked eight bottles of eight-dollar champagne, Tuned our eight enormous electric guitars To eight keys that could somehow all relate And we each played eighty-minute solos, All at the same time, Until eight neighbours got rather irate, And set their eight drooling dogs upon us, Who hadnt eaten Which is all quite hard to contemplate, Because just one madman With an arced-up axe Is prone alone to devastate But eight mad mates in one small space, With a rowdy lynch mob at the gate, Might very well precipitate Quite a dreadful bloody state, Which is why I poked half my mates Square in both eyes, And quickly set upon the fire grate Eight brand new logs, With strings and bright metal plates, And asked the mob to bring their dogs Inside by my hearth For half a bowl of seaweed cake. And as one we sang Eight times the song Of the man who wouldnt moderate. By then it was four and I need say no more.

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The Ultimate Narcissist

Dear Super Cat King of the Fucking Mountain, I imagine the ultimate narcissistic state might be one as follows: The complete and utter belief that your very life is raw footage for the Universes most popular-ever drama series. Such compelling viewing, in fact, that whole planetary systems are known to sometimes shut down entirely, just to watch YOU on InterGalaktiK TV. I have been informed that the advertising time during your show has recently reached an unprecedented 41 minutes in the hour. Not bad when you consider that most of that time is committed solely to your own promotion! At any rate (for all the ratings, actually!), I would remind you that there is always room for improvement Yes, yes, we all know you are happy to be on the air TWO FOUR SEVEN your very life on display to literally trillions of intelligent life forms. I imagine that might be a bit of a kick for you. In fact, its possible you might start getting such a BIG HEAD on account of all your mega popularity the most famousest cat that ever set paws on the whole Cosmos; the biggest SHEBANG since the BIG ONE that your r-r-r-ratings might suddenly take a plummet! Imagine the HORROR of your employers. Still chilled, Prince Puss-in-fucking-Boots. Kisses and hugs, S.
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Blowing the Trumpet

How is it that a slow blowjob on a glorious winters morning at the nimble hands of a rose-cheeked big-lipped princess can so be easily dismissed for fact and forgotten for good (or even average)? Have I grown so desensitised to stimuli? What sort of complacent, arrogant, hedonistic swine have I become? Do I perhaps now pen this consideration just to immortalise a moment so remarkable for having been so unremarkable? And so I force myself to dwell further on the event How we had tussled about in the sheets and, after I had pinned her down, we had discussed abdominal necrophilia gang rape and laughed and laughed until we had both turned blue in the face. How I had charged at her like a bull at a gate and, narrowly missing her, smashed headlong into the edge of the bed a sharp metallic point already bearing numerous dints from past similar rambunctious episodes. How could I possibly have forgotten this event, so easily dismissed into history? After all, whats the point blowing your trumpet about just another time when you got to blow your trumpet to an audience at an audience? Its finished, it was great, yeah, we really connected, lets do coffee again soon, thanks for coming. If I am dwelling on yesterdays bliss, how may I be blissful now? Perhaps Im just spoiled?

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Dollerium
Gretschen the barmaid was a doll all right. Blonde blue-eyed and buxom, she was destined to serve randy drunken Krauts in some Bavarian beer hall, no doubt about it. And boy did she know how to lean forward just the right amount while she filled your mug. Coaxed just the right amount of froth to the surface of your stein without unnecessary spillage, too. Thats German technical precision for you, I guess. After all, Hans, vee dont wont to be stainink zose spiffy knickerbockers ov yours, not true? she had once said to me. Such a tease was Gretschen. She could injure a man with a simple gesture. The way she tugged on the beer tap, for instance, could just as soon leave you with a limp. Lord! There was no doubt she could make a man feel like a fly on his stool: so many legs you didnt know which ones to cross. And yet oh so willing to be swatted by that firm Frauleins hand any which way, any time if only shed condescend to touch you. But of course we barflies are already anaesthetised to most sensations, excepting the frequent impulse to open ones mouth and spill the crap like a fount of lost golden wisdom, and the occasional urge to pee. How strange that no one had ever invented urinals up against the counter, I thought. Then you mightnt wet your knickerbockers so often while lunging for the several-blocks-removed lavatory and wrestling with industrialstrength German-made zippers and buckles. So there I sat one afternoon pon my souse-stool with an ale in tow and a fist full of crumpled bills destined to be liberated from my tenure. Gretschen was pouring my next refreshment just perfectly across the way, Fritz the Fly was barely supporting himself on one of six legs a little up the bar to my right, and the Chinaman was staring intently into his ashtray to my left. We call the latter by this particular ethnic generic on account of a Chinese bladder
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coupled with a penchant for drinking far in excess of biological requirements. (Indeed, I hear that you can die from drinking too much water.) The way Gretschen was filling my mug at that particular juncture forced me to contemplate the training behind such precision. A superb piece of German engineering misapplied to banal robotic functions, I thought. Such a waste. But then Id much prefer to be served by her kind of machine than by one whose beard could never inspire me to the imaginings of a vagina. Following this line of thinking, I was tempted to start undressing sorry, that is addressing my bounteous Bavarian barmaid as Mercedes. But I refrained from doing so on this occasion caught myself out mid-act, swapping costumes backstage with that cheeky little understudy in my brain, who has a pathological proclivity to provoke for no apparent reason. Some might consider such a thing socio-pathological. I merely recognised it for what it was: the Mischief Me. The urge to breathe levity into otherwise tragic circumstances. Such as most peoples lives. Take Gretschen. Such a sweet Fraulein really; and, by the looks of it, shed been having a rough time of it lately. Im sure the last thing shed be needing right now was a bunch of vaguely suggestive, highly obscure references from some smart-talking barfly. And so my adult conscience prevailed for once. Besides, those flies could get by just fine without my contributions for now, even though the Chinaman looked like his spirits could do with a nice addled diatribe. Hopefully the Fly would discover one within him soon and see fit to entertain the micturating Mongoloid. Thatll be two-fifty, Schatz, spoke Gretschen at that moment, startling me from my self-congratulatory meditations. I had, after all, just spared her the scourges of my cat-o-nine-tails tongue. If only she knew. I wordlessly passed a bill, and glanced at my feet for the sort of inspiration only shoes can provide. They were parked among the nameless slurry that is the product of much cigarette ash, butts, and spilt beer. Aye, such a waste, I thought as she moved away and I sheepishly followed her with my eyes. I could not help but marvel at

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the tight turning-circle of that splendid robotic barmaid; at the faultless aerodynamics of her curves, the sort of upholstery you could sink your teeth into; and the faint purr of an engine which might just as easily whir into overdrive, leave your knuckles white as they gripped the counter. The only blemish of note on that exquisite machine was a slight dent in the hood. I suspect the Fly was to blame for this. Gretschen had been his ride for going on two years now, and we all know how great is the divide between a drunks driving ability and his claims. All talk and very little action. Or when they do act, its like a sledgehammer in the hands of the watch repairman. No siree, such a machine deserves an artist at the wheel, not a pickled artichoke, I thought. But of course the Fly was my friend in so far as we enjoyed talking gallons at each other. And as the wise old Chinaman had once proclaimed into his glass: Theres no such thing as friends, just arseholes who can put up with each others crap! My, oh my, the things you hear at bars. Im surprised there arent more students of life taking courses in barfly science weird little guys scribbling copious notes from the sidelines as you prattle on about the birds and their behinds. I guess I was, all up, a little confused and jealous of my friend the Flys ability to drink-drive a Mercedes. How hed held onto his license for so darned long just didnt add up by my calculations. I suppose the love police just arent on the lookout for bums at the wheels of expensive vehicles. But hed bruised her, I could see that much. Hammered her once too often it seemed to me. No doubt driven his beautiful delicate machine into a kind of emotional dead-end. Kept her running on almost empty while he drowned his sorrows with her own hard-earned juice. Of course I could have been wrong. Fritz the Fly didnt exactly treat Gretschen mean in public. Then again Ive heard that women in abusive situations may get used to the pain and eventually grow to crave it. Keep a wild beast chained up long enough and pretty soon it will stay put, even after youve let it off the leash. At least thats what the Chinaman once told me just before wetting himself. I guess his own chain didnt quite extend to the urinal on that occasion. Poor guy.

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You know, I once had a beetle I blurted out all of a sudden. Too many thoughts had banked up on the crowded highways of my mind. It was not used to sluggish traffic although frequent heavy downpours of amber-coloured rain were known to promote the occasional collision of ideas. Every so often a train of thought would derail, too Yeah, and I had a pet cock-hckk!-roach what for I made a bed outta hckk! aah matchbox. Hadda hckk! use up dem matches first, eh! ejaculated the Chinaman as he lit a cigarette. I remarked to myself that he had been hiccupping rather often of late, wondered whether his Chinese bladder had somehow affected his breathing given him a Chinese diaphragm or something. Or something. Such a handy phrase in the ragged rattle-bag of a public prattler. Sure China, but I bet that roach didnt come with no engine, said I. What! the Chinaman looked confused. Means a Volkswagen, said Fritz. Zat is Volks wiz an F, as in Folks. Wagen ov course means Car. So you got yourself a peoples car. You hckk! mean to tell me that VVVolkswagonzz belong to efferyone? slurred the Chinaman in a way that sounded most unlike Mandarin. Hans hckk! you was sayink somesink about zee cockroaches, I believe? Yeah, like I said, I once had a beetle a Volkswagen bug if you prefer Did she wear a mini? exploded the Chinaman, almost falling off his stool in the aftershock of his own wit. No, but I had her all the same, I said; and we all chuckled at the simple splendid serendipity that was the unanticipated double entendre. Such witticisms were known to frequent bars, sometimes in swarms that buzzed around the mouths of barflies like even smaller barflies. Perhaps the Universe went in on itself forever in such progressively scaled-down versions of itself? To flies, for instance, we were in fact too large to be seen. We were like gods to them. Barfly gods. Which meant that somewhere existed a barfly god whom we ourselves were incapable of beholding. Somewhere was the owner

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of a giant mouth from which we, living bags of hot effusive air, were exhaled. Were we not, collectively, the very opening through which the supreme Supermouth imbibed the sacred amber fluid, regurgitated liquescent thoughts and undigested posits? Right now, however, the Supermouth in the Sky wished to utter an anecdote; and as every functioning Supermind ought to know, Superears ought to begin listening right about then. We flies made a good collective, it seemed. We knew when to shut our cakeholes and open our wax tubes, for it is in fact the half-decent anecdote that makes the world go round well, makes for another round if nothing else. Gretschen wasnt exactly a fly like us. To my mind she put the hot melted butter back in the butterfly. Presently, for no apparent reason, she winked at me and I faltered. Yesss my beetle. My darling little love bug, I began. Hush had prevailed, expectant Superears awaiting stories from an autodidactic Supermouth (who should have known not to use big words if hed listened better). I continued: I was given her samatterofact. Back then I was barely collecting seal pup fur on my twinkle toes. Dont mix your meta hckk! phors! interrupted the Chinaman. Shut your dribbling Mund, China! snapped Fritz. Anyways, I was just a lad with more juice than I knew where to put it, I said. In your car! gushed the Chinaman. China! cautioned Gretschen, who had been eavesdropping without even bothering to pretend. And why not? It was, after all, part of her job description. We were worlds apart, that car and I. She had crossed the seas in her youth, driven places Id never heard of, parked beneath distant skies, and travelled beside many a handsome foreign model all while I was still on my training wheels! When we met she was already old and faded, but still quite reliable to drive. She was like some plump middle-aged hausfrau who is quite happy to just potter around the kitchen in her dressing gown; while all I could dream about was something fast and flashy. So whats the point, Hans? You couldnt appreciate something

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good? That dont hcck! surprise me in the least, said the Chinaman. Oh how quickly the ears became a mouth! The point is we didnt last long. In the end I just drove her straight into a wall and left her there to bleed. There was silence for about one whole second before the Chinaman passed wind with true barfly etiquette. That is: very loudly. Sounds like you could have done with a few more driving lessons, said Fritz the Fly with a faint smirk. Faint as the perfume from the Chinamans dank sweaty arse. No, actually, it was kinda for the best, I said. Hows that, you hckk! moron? Quick, I gotta go pee! Gretschen was meanwhile refilling the Chinamans mug with her much-lauded professional touch, and the effect of it had probably precipitated his sudden urge to pee. She had a smile on her face like you seldom see on serving maids, and I was very glad to behold it. Well, it made me realise what I didnt want and on the other hand it forced me to acknowledge what it was exactly I did want. Something a little closer to my actual tastes. That being? asked Fritz. Something mean had begun to tug on the corners of his once magnificent smirk. Why, a Mercedes, I should think. Id even settle for one second-hand if you should know of any going.

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Seduction
Spring again. All the cats seem to be mating except for me. I was all dressed up with no one to blow. I gazed about town, a lonely man.

Just who do I have to screw around here to get laid? I asked myself. Dear Lord, I prayed, I humbly beseech thee for some mindblowing sex. As if in answer to my prayers, the beautiful young redhead swept down from the skies, a Valkyrie upon a flaming phoenix, bearing gifts of strawberry and opium seedlings. I offered to make her coffee if she would plant them in the garden for me. She said no thanks, so I made her some tea. How do you take it? I asked. Lots of sugar, plenty of warm cream, she said. Something to nibble on? Sure, what do you suggest? Have a look around. She went to the refrigerator, opened it. Youre the crumpet king, she said, perusing its contents. I wish, I replied, eyeballing her hungrily from behind. A moment of tense silence prevailed, not quite pregnant but getting there. What have you been up to? she asked. Bit of work, bit of play, lot of sleep, I replied. Well, that just about covers everything. Except fucking your brains out, I said. A damp lusty fragrance filled the air. I think the most intoxicating thing about a woman is the perfume her cunt throws off. Written anything lately? she asked. A piece on astronomy, I said. It begins something like this: Before the Big Bang there was the Big Suck. I was always a sucker for a writer, she said.
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The Lion, the Tiger and the Spilt Milk

The lion sat with the tiger, drinking tea and chatting politely and hedging around the subject of a certain little pussycat who had come between them. Imagine! There sat reclining two fearsome heavyweights of the wild beneath the soft electric lighting of a tastefully decorated room! How strange was the talk of those civilized savages, now turned to the topic of jungle politics. It was all quite the shame, really, that such magnificent felines should be at loggerheads over a mere pussycat! They had been such very good friends up until that point, too, which made the whole affair more the pity. I suppose that certain little pussycats will always find some way to cause riot in the jungle, even if the jungle is located in a zoo, which was indeed the case. The problem was this: the pussycat was both the lions masseuse and the tigers lover. Well, we all know just how much a lion enjoys having his mane ruffled by a doting subject his pride massaged at the same time when possible! A tiger, on the other paw, will mate for life. He will protect his mate with a savagery not to be taken lightly to the point of obsession some might say. So the situation for those great proud cats was an altogether awkward one: good cultivation had taught them to avoid all conflict with diplomacy and perfect manners; yet their very natures, though similar, were essentially at odds over the matter. Dear tiger, said the lion, you are indeed a formidable fellow. If you were to suddenly find yourself living by the old customs much like our uncivilized ancestors do you suppose you might adopt a Machiavellian approach toward your friends? The tiger sipped his tea elegantly, pondering the question, and replied: Quite possibly if I were feeling defensive in a matter. With a deep growl he made a sound like a playful chuckle, and added: Or if my friends should turn out to be foes. Such was the ambiguous talk of the civilized beast. Is that because you slay all those who disobey you? asked the tiger with further ambiguous tones.
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Perhaps, said the lion. And perhaps you, too, might consider yourself my subject? He laughed as he said this. But the tiger, an educated savage, knew only too well how joviality was often employed to disguise the uncomfortable truth. I am nobodys subject, purred the tiger, except my own. And I rule nothing except what is mine. Only a Machiavellian dictator would claim what is not his. I hope that answers your question, old friend. Having said this, the tiger offered the lion additional tea and refreshments. But the lion said no, hed have to be getting along home to his pride, which required his leadership; and to his lioness, who was heavy with cub and a little ill-tempered of late. Of course, said the tiger. Thank you for your visit. Do come again soon. Best regards to your wife. And so the lion departed back home, which was actually a neighbouring enclosure, though a few middle-sized cats with exotic coats separated the two. The tigers immediate neighbour, a snow leopard, presently peeped his head through the window, having eavesdropped on the conversation just concluded. But he was to be forgiven for his mischief, as curiosity was in his nature. Be careful, said the snow leopard. I should hate to have my peace ruined by the two of you over some puny domestic cat. To this the tiger snarled in no uncertain terms, and the snow leopard retreated with haste. Then the tiger prepared himself a hot-water bottle and retired to bed, resolving to invite the snow leopard around for tea the very next day, and to apologise for his outburst. Late the next morning, after a lazy stretch and a leisurely breakfast, the tiger went looking for a nice quiet spot on the porch to relax beneath the sun. He was still mulling over yesterdays talk with the lion and felt agitated. A catnap would do his spirits the world of good, he thought. After a bit of circling he eventually found the perfect position, made a ball of himself, and quickly dozed off. Mostly he would daydream about vast silent jungles, or wild-boar bacon sandwiches, or his pussycat stretched out defenceless in the tall wild grass; or, best of all, great rivers of foaming cream. Warm cream, naturally.

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But not today. He could only dream of sour milk an entire ocean of the stuff, no less! Suddenly splash! he dreamt himself plonked right in the middle of it; and it is a fortunate thing that tigers are such good swimmers, for he would surely have otherwise drowned. He paddled and paddled for hours it seemed (though only seconds had passed in the real world), with not a hint of land in sight and what a horrid stench he had to endure during that crossing! The sour milk had made an absolute ruin of his fine fur coat, as well. Oh, the indignity of it all! Just as despair began to overwhelm the struggling tiger, he spotted a tiny object way over on the horizon. With renewed determination, he set off toward it. As it drew nearer, his heart began to sink. No, no, it cannot be! he thought with utter dismay. There, in a small boat, sat the lion and his own beloved pussycat! Well, as if that spectacle wasnt enough to set his hairs on end but there they were sipping champagne and having a jolly old time laughing and carrying on. He heard the lions distant words ring out across the rippling white ocean surface: Oh, how my back aches from so much work. The duty of a leader never ends, it seems. Any chance of a massage, dear pussycat? The tiger woke, snarling then let out a huge sigh when he realised it had all just been a dream. But what a strange dream! he thought. What can it possibly mean? So he leapt up and dashed over to the owls place, hoping to benefit from his wisdom. The owl was an expert in dream analysis, you see, having spent much time reading books on the subject, often deep into the night, and sometimes until the very crack of dawn. The tiger found the owl sound asleep in his armchair, a book folded across his wing, and a pair of spectacles drooping off his beak. But the intrusion woke him with a start. Yes, yes, what is it? asked the owl, quickly coming to his senses and repositioning his reading glasses. The tiger explained his dream with much animated tail waving, but omitted telling the part about the lion and the pussycat in the boat.

36

Well, began the owl after great consideration, it sounds to me like a classic case of Spilt Milk Syndrome. How do you mean? asked the tiger. Simple. A cat that dreams of sour milk must be upset about losing or indeed having lost something precious. Any ideas what? Reluctantly the tiger told of his encounter with the lion, and of his pussycats recent dubious massaging activities. Then he explained the censored portion of his dream. Ahh, yes, I see, said the owl with a great sigh. What, what! demanded the tiger. Most definitely a case of Spilt Milk Syndrome, said the owl. Oh please, Mister Owl, do tell me the cure! I simply cannot abide another such horrible dream! pleaded the tiger. Alas, the cure is not an easy one, explained the owl, for it does not just concern you but your pussycat as well. You see, she was born a domestic creature unlike yourself. You have been domesticated. And she no doubt massages the lion simply because she can get away with it. Get away with it? Why, thats absurd! What on earth are you driving at? Put it this way: no uncultivated tiger would ever permit his mate such liberties. Cultivation is your problem, not hers. Were you true to your nature, then youd not now be crying over spilt milk either you, or the lion, would be dead. You should never have dated that pussycat in the first place, I tell you! I also suspect youre being a little paranoid about a simple massage.

*
When they next met a little later that day, the lion was somewhat surprised to behold the fierce look in the tigers eyes. A deep instinct warned him of trouble. But he knew that nothing would come of it. The tiger was such a decent, harmless chap Quite the pussycat, really! he thought to himself chuckling. Good day, dear tiger, said the lion. Tell: what on earth is that sticking out of your mouth? Oh that, yes, replied the tiger, growling in a most uncivilized way. Just feathers that once belonged to an owl.
37

Love
He was beyond the Call of the Siren. Or so he thought. You never listen to me! she harried. What to your forked tongue? he retaliated. You ignore me completely, she drove on like an evil wind. You spend all day long in that stupid den of yours dreaming about another life! Was it not sensible to dream of freedom? he thought. The siren promptly cursed him, swore that the allure of shiny fast cars and dancing girls would get him in the end. Not if I get them first! was his reply. You are so witty and intelligent, she screeched, but oh so arrogant! Of course our hero did not take the bait. He knew that insult was often the last resort for those who could not match a playful ribbing with an artful repartee. Its funny how only arrogant individuals seem to find me arrogant, he said. Several inert objects suddenly gained the faculty of flight, narrowly missing his head. And a big head it was, too, bursting with the sort of ideas that could easily inspire tantrums in much smaller minds. In the thick of the ensuing altercation, he noticed that the siren was smirking. He sometimes wondered whether woman was created to destroy a man. Or at least provide maximal discomfort to his soul. Pain was when your schlong was in a knot and your balls were in a noose. Kwik Flung Duk, the ancient Chinese poet, once said: It is better to be the bird that migrates when it senses the changing seasons, than to fall asleep in ponds grown stagnant. Indeed, it seemed an auspicious time to get the duck out of there.
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So he repaired to his den and locked the door. Eventually the slow rhythmic thumping of the battering ram subsided, and he enjoyed a little peace. In his den he was king of the jungle. The wallpaper carried jungle vines, the shelves contained ivory carvings, and the books were mostly by Rudyard Kipling. There was a copy of the Kama Sutra on his ebony desk, open at position 22:
POSITION 22: A man reveals his soul when he makes love. If he fucks you slowly and tenderly, he is an artist. If he fucks you hard and fast, he is a director. If he fucks you slow, then hard, he is an artistic director. If he fucks you from every angle, he is a cinematographer. If he fucks you with slow hard deep strokes, kisses your neck, and whispers in your ear how he worships you, then he is an actor.

He coughed and quickly turned the page.

POSITION 23: No woman is content just to be just a bit on the side like some appetizer at a banquet. No man wants to be a hors-doeuvre either, especially if he is but one of many. But strangely, when one woman grows large enough to feed an army of starving men, then the politics change. She becomes the lover of all men, nurturing and receptive, a skirt for a price, no questions asked except, perhaps, about the price itself.

He giggled.
POSITION 24: When one settles for nothing less than a truly free woman, one must content oneself with the knowledge that all truly free women will cheat on their man in the end. POSITION 25: True horror is watching the love of your life being screwed by your closest pal.

He slammed the book shut. Was it time to close the door on her too? Should he just bow down before the incontrovertible voice of the Cosmos, which says a thing is finished; or to persist, relent-

39

lessly, in accordance with his own stubborn free will? Could he still make it work between them? He had recently lost his interest in sex. He had become the cat who turned his nose up at tuna. It is a very sad day for a man when the vagina becomes an object of revulsion. There will be no warm milk tonight, the lion king once purred as he gently massaged the pussycats aching neck. Oh how quickly the momentum failed when one desisted from a passion play! How easily discouraged were the actors in loves pantomime! Fools, it seemed, required mutual support for props. Did he in actual fact desire the company of a woman, of a tender-hearted companion, of a soulmate aboard his little twoman skiff? Or was it the paragon of feminine perfection he sought a lioness to add presence to his pride? Was he the cat who had lost its curiosity as well as its appetite? Or was it all just an amorous armour a clever defence against loves determined advances? Perhaps women were terrified of the man who could hold his own? Hell hath no fury like a woman whose man will not commit. A friend of his had once suggested that women were afraid of his dark feminine side. So what if he had a penchant for pendants, jewellery, nail polish, long hair and womens underwear? Did that mean he had embraced his anima, his inner female, his every living Xchromosome? On the surface these were but aesthetic preferences. They were greatly shadowed by other, far more stridently masculine characteristics of his, such as voyeurism, pornography, and a great love of beer and chainsaws. All I need is a full belly, some tobacco in my pipe, and my pussycat curled up on my lap, he had once remarked to his friend as they watched pornography and drank beer together. They were watching The Princess and the Penis, a film by Hans von Johnson. What if your cat has a bladder problem? his friend observed. Leaves a wet patch on you? That can be a good thing too, he replied grinning.

40

What surer web of men abides between a pair of silken thighs? he thought to himself. What better agent of the Devil is she, who offers Paradise immeasurable, to the measured minds of men and angels caught in Hell? Self-love was the ability to turn yourself on. It took practice to love yourself properly. By shacking up with a siren, he had neglected to love himself.
Position 26: Let love rule. Just dont forget to rule your lover.

He had let his little head rule his big head. He had allowed himself to get emotionally attached to an imp. It was a fling that had lasted six years. Loving her had been like trying to catch the moons reflection in a pond with a butterfly net. He recalled the time they had travelled together in a winter wonderland. He had brought her to one of the most romantic spots on earth, he thought a place where nature enjoyed cunnilingus too. The glacier had been like a dirty blue tongue lapping at the lips of a verdant vulva valley. High above, the jagged snow caps were champing at the sky like a row of pearly whites. From the tip of its tongue spilled a river, a stream of saliva, foaming at the mouth, spitting chunks of ice and boulder down a lingual lane between labia. All you think about is sex, she had said, crushing him beneath the well-practiced strokes of her ice-mallet. The battering had continued unabated until that day. The lion was in retreat. He covered his ears. He was beyond the call of the siren. Or so he thought. Her singing broke through the door. It flung aside his hands. It pierced his eardrums like pins. It was the sort of sounds that could make you shit involuntarily.
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What can make a man commit? the siren screeched at him. A wrong answer would spell his certain doom, deliver him for sure upon her dinner plate. Love, he stammered. Thanks for the salt, she wept.

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Impotence
You hate me, she said. No, Im just mirroring your self-loathing, he replied. You dont really love me, she said. Thats because I dont really love myself, he replied. You never plan anything with me, she said. Youre never present enough to make plans, he replied. Youre so selfish, she said. Youre not selfish enough, he replied. Youre impotent, she said. Youre going to die, he replied.

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The Antichrists Christmas

I thought Santa might try to come on down my chimney that night, so I decided to light a fire. It was the middle of summer, but I didnt give a darn. Not even a nationwide fire ban could deter me from stacking the kindling and piling the logs with fiendish glee. Hefty penalties were to be dealt out against arsonists that night, on what was one of the highest December temperatures on record. Even the innocuous barbecue was fair game for the authorities. How would they think to reprimand a lunatic with a flame thrower in the bone-dry woods? I had moved to the coldest part of the country for health reasons earlier that year. Warmth, like good cheer, does my head in, you see. Yet one little open fire I could stand. Tomorrow was, after all, a very special occasion: my birthday. It had been a good lead-up to Christmas. Not only had I failed to return any of my familys calls during the previous six months, but Id also managed to refrain from committing to a small gathering they had planned for the big day. My big day. The invitation had been a plaintive telephone-delivered message. It had boasted a no-expectations, open-door attendance policy; and contained words to the effect of: Well all be here and overjoyed to see you if you should show up. And: Dont bother bringing us presents if you make it however, dont get offended if we give you a little something, et cetera. Quite pathetic, really. It had made me squirm to hear it so I guess, in a sense, theyd succeeded in reaching me. I had, of course, purchased no presents that year for any of the individuals who call themselves my family that year or any other in a goodly long while, actually. No, I lie. If one considers a girlfriend family, then I may be accused of a small slip-up. At her sheepish request, I had grudgingly parted with seven dollars for certain tawdry little items of bric-a-brac she had spotted at a
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garage sale a few days earlier. She had seemed content with the purchases, and I had elicited a promise of zero-subsequentrequests from her under threat of harsh reproof. No more questions were asked, and that had been that. Two weeks beforehand I had promised to attend a lunch with my girlfriends family at Christmas and I secretly relished the betrayal this would represent to my own abandoned kin. But what a fool I had been to acquiesce so readily to give up my big day for those petty little people! However, a well-timed argument that very evening left me free to contemplate yet another solitary AntiChristmas on what was tomorrow my birthday. My big day. Did I mention that already that it was my birthday tomorrow? Well, then! It seemed the evening was shaping up to be something special. The festivities were underway, and I was up for a little fun. To begin with, I made my girlfriend shake hands with me on an agreement to have no more sex for an entire year. Id just spent an hour telling her why she did not love me, and that what I really desired for my Birthday was a big mama to smother me with reassurance and massive bosoms precisely when I required them to be handy. When I was not in need of them, I would be quite happy to ignore her (my mama) completely while I happily played by myself. I prefer to play alone, you see. My girlfriend said that my big mama did not exist; or if she did, then she would not be the sort of woman happy to lie chained to the bed all day, just waiting to be acknowledged and kneaded. It was getting late, and my girlfriend said she had to turn in: shed had a long day, and I was really quite mad for having let her out of the house so long that afternoon no doubt having fun independent of me! She had a considerable drive ahead of her the next morning my birthday, I might add and therefore shed have to be up at a decent hour to reach her family luncheon on time. So I began telling her a story about a man who always nodded off just when his wife had something important to tell him and telling her this kept my girlfriend awake for another hour or so. It was getting really quite late by then, and my girlfriend was becoming rather exhausted and upset. So I went on to explain

45

how I could never respect someone who felt compelled to purchase presents for relatives, and to attend trite little family gatherings in order to mindlessly re-enact defunct and meaningless social rituals. By then the situation was becoming quite plain to my mind: her refusal to stay at home and spend Christmas with just me meant that my girlfriend did not really love me in any true sense of the word. I told her this, whereupon she leaped up from the couch in a huff and stumbled toward the bedroom. At that point I was struck by a moment of clarity. I knew what I had to do. I rushed ahead of her to the bed and snatched up the doona and pillows which did after all belong to me and triumphantly declared how vital it was I prepare for my solitude the next day RIGHT NOW! Alone in the spare room. But I want to snuggle with you tonight, she said. Only if we can sleep in together, have a lazy breakfast, and fuck off this whole Christmas debacle, I replied. Next year, darling, she said. There will be no next year, I responded flatly, and switched on the television. I was quickly swept up by a wonderful British Realism flick about immigrants who had been smuggled into England, forced to live in absolute squalor and anonymity, and blackmailed to work fourteen-hour days for the next five years in order to pay back the smugglers fee. The film was so educational and engrossing that I simply had to turn it up real loud. You should see this! I shouted over the din toward the bedroom. But there came no response. Half way through the program I realised that personal dramas were a whole lot more educational than television could ever be. So I axed the show and threw on one of my favourite CDs, Black Sabbaths Sabbath Bloody Sabbath. I arsed it up real loud and made myself a quiet cup of tea. Then I forced myself to sit down by the fire, though the temptation to extinguish it and disrobe out of my green and black Santa suit was almost overwhelming. I lit a cigarette instead and began to think. Perhaps true love really is unattainable, I thought to myself. I really am quite the philosopher, you see. And quite the philan-

46

thropist when it comes to loving anyone other than people I actually know. I really do wish people to lead happy creative lives in a utopian world honest. By writing about utopia, I am able to reach a large audience without having to meet them in person. I thus help inspire the masses while remaining anonymous. I further reflected on the quandary of true love but quickly reached an impasse in my musings. Such a complex theme had stumped countless fine philosophical minds before me. It was at this point that I wondered whether my girlfriend might have something to say on the matter. But it seemed she had played a little bit too hard that day, for my most strenuous efforts could not rouse her from where she lay shivering on the empty bed huddled in a ball, and gripped by a deep slumber. How inconvenient, I thought. Whats a bit of sleep-loss next to such a burning issue? No doubt about it: shes like that man who always drifts off just when his wife seeks his counsel. In a firm state of denial. Completely incapable of empathy. Absolutely selfabsorbed. Bitch. Ill wake her! However, just as I was preparing a nice tall glass of cool water from the sink in order to entice my girlfriend from her selfish state of unconsciousness, a most peculiar thing happened. The power cut out, casting the entire house into silence and darkness, with the exception of the fire, which crackled away nearby, oblivious to matters electrical. The event jolted me from a most peculiar reverie for I all of a sudden discovered myself standing naked in the kitchen, with a glass of water in one hand and a carving knife in the other. It was precisely then that I heard an odd sound issue from the fireplace no, more like from somewhere above it, I thought. I moved closer to the fire and caught the distinct sounds of something scraping on the iron roof directly above. There ensued a few muffled curses in some language unknown to me, when all of a sudden there appeared from the bottom of the chimney the unmistakable form of a large black boot. I saw flickering tongues of fire reflect off its polished leather surface. There followed a second boot only moments later; and I looked on with curiosity as these two mysterious feet lowered themselves quite casually into the middle of the raging inferno. Whoever owned those fireproof feet dropped to his knees, and

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was engulfed instantly by angry welling flames; then a torso appeared, likewise clad in black leather. It, too, was soon enveloped in a ball of fire. The intruder presently struggled about as though wedged stuck though not, to my mind, out of any particular concern for the fire itself. It almost looked as if the flames were part of the impostors costume that his leather vestment was in fact meant to be on fire. Finally, something tore and gave way, releasing the captive from his narrow brick prison. The movement, violent and sudden, sent waves of hungry glowing embers spilling onto the floor before the hearth, as well as a thick black cloud of ghoulish smoke into the living room beyond. My view of the fireplace and its occupant was momentarily obscured as tears filled my eyes and ash settled in my lungs. When my vision cleared, I saw a huge black shadow silhouetted before the now-dying fire. Who are you? I asked, coughing. I slowly repositioned the kitchen knife behind my back, concealing it from view. Who do you think? he replied in a very deep, scary voice. An anagram of Santa? I ventured with surprising self-control and dexterity of wit. Not quite, he said, and I saw a long, leathered arm reach down toward his boot; heard the unmistakable sound of a blade coming unsheathed. Then what in Gods name are you? I asked, as my blood began to boil in a way that was both familiar and disturbingly pleasant. God? Why, I am the Anti-antichrist! he bellowed, and lunged toward me with a blood-curdling war cry.

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Villainy
He woke at dawn from a disturbing dream about a dwarf in a three-piece suit with different-coloured eyes. It had been riding his back like some demonic jockey, tearing at his hair and cursing him in some strange evil tongue. Even a dwarf had managed to bring him down. He woke to the harrowing caws of crows in the distance. They may well have been intoning his very own requiem: a song of lamentation for his feelings of powerlessness and despair. At the closure of their moribund melody he breathed a deep sigh of relief, only to have his fleeting peace shattered by Natures detested alarm clock: next doors rooster. He often fantasised about separating its head from its body he, the axe-touting clock repairman. He longed for release of some kind perhaps even death though he knew that, too, was beyond his power to orchestrate. Even suicide was beyond the cowards reach. But he often made sure to overdose on cake and coffee just in case the end actually came and thered be no more. His woman dozed beside him; like him, trying to avoid the morning, most mornings; the pain of waking remembrances; and the echo of nightmares quickly forgotten. She, the subject of his villainy for so many years, stole a few moments respite from herself and the memory of his deeds. When she woke, she would love him, though he hated himself. Tragic. Had his whole life, his orgy of the senses, culminated in this one dizzying moment of self-realisation? In the sudden, simple appreciation of things mostly taken for granted? The light shimmering off the wings of a soaring bird? The fanatical dog that chewed his socks almost religiously? The tireless advances of a devoted loving woman, mostly rejected?
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Had this basic recognition finally broken through the walls of his impenetrable ice-palace? A wave of nausea washed over him. Was it not precisely at times like these, when all those things most dear to the heart, hitherto disregarded entirely, were known to suddenly disappear? A villain must, after all, pay his dues.

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Part II:

Madness

Father to Son
Dear Son, There are a million things to regret in life, though we both know regrets are pointless. My having regretted your birth, for one and telling you so, another. Now, as I slip away from this world with so many wrongs left unresolved, it behoves me to confess one more regrettable little secret. I was never your true father. Neither did you spring from my loins, nor did you receive the sort of guidance to be expected of a caregiver. But of course you are already well aware of my shortcomings. You see, my boy, you are in fact the enemy. I merely stood in as a decoy for your biological and spiritual daddy a deception sent to misguide you, as it were. Did a pretty fine job of it, too, you have to admit. All that terrorising and bullying sure left its mark, didnt it? Sent razor shards of mistrust into the depths of your soul, eh? My hypocrisy and despotism were intentional all along, you see, though you simply took me for an angry ignorant fool, without a modicum of moral fibre or self-control. Do you see now how I played you while I played myself? Ha ha ha. Since you left home that one stormy day, I hear you have spent a good portion of your strength and manhood seeking a worthy father figure someone with character and conviction enough to be your equal, if not your better. But in the process you ended up decrying most good men, I understand, on account of their flaws. Of course no one could measure up to your impossible standards. Even the best of them are flawed in some way.

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It was all a delusion, dear lad. I sent you screaming after your own tail quite amusing to watch, I might add as you smashed in so many a good mans teeth all the while despising the fact you had not been born a good mans son. And yet oh the horror, the irony! I was in fact the perfect patriarch all along! Had I not been appointed to the task of your mis-education, but rather to the perfection of your character, then a fine specimen youd have made, Ive little doubt. Id have brought the world to your feet! It was often hard to pervert your innocence, bludgeon your curiosity, misdirect your subtle intelligence, and demean your poetic aspirations, but well, protocols a bitch, aint it? You may ask why I did it. Suffice it to say that you could have been a messiah but thanks to me you are now just another angry fucked-up paranoid schizophrenic misfit. And the pay-off was outstanding. See you back in Hell, son. S.

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Lowly Planet
Congratulations on purchasing the Official Guide to Hell! You will need it. Welcome to Earth: a Paradise for numb sensualists. Pristine, artificially constructed, and thoroughly disinfected, this quaint little pleasure-pain planet is located deep in the bowels of Hell, and offers the sadomasochist rare insights into the diabolical designs of our Master. If you are to survive Hell on Earth, you must be able to juggle pleasure and pain to accept that the final tally must be perfectly balanced. You will, for instance, feel pain when the things that brought you pleasure are taken away and they will be taken away. Accept your losses quickly and gracefully. It is good to detach yourself from the pleasures you crave; but it is better to acknowledge that their presence or absence is not the real cause of your attachment to them but you, yourself, your very own attitude. Denying yourself pleasure will not necessarily help unless, of course, you secretly derive pleasure from pain. (See: Rigid Ascetic Practices and Self-Mortification.) Try not to become too comfortable with discomfort, or you may eventually crave it in the presence of enjoyment. Some folk just dont want to have fun. If you are going to be in Hell, do it well. Enjoy your earthly experiences, for your trials are your teachers and there will be plenty of trials to look forward to! Experience them fully just dont blame the administration when it demands its dues and you are not prepared to cough up. After chasing the most delicious eye candy all over the place, you may eventually discover that the really simple stuff in Hell is not only cheaper to come by, but far less draining on your reserves. Such cheap attractions may include: a peaceful picnic on the
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prairies; a stroll along a deserted beach; tea by a tranquil alpine lake; or a few quiet days in a rustic mountain cabin containing a few creature essentials such as a CD player, a good thick book, and a nice warm bed. But dont be afraid to leave behind your comfort zone, however simple! Go take a splash in the freezing lake. Scale a nearby peak. Drink in the solitude that surrounds you, and observe how terrified it all makes you feel. The pain will pass, and you might even feel a little bit lighter for it. That hot cup of tea might even taste a little better afterwards. Life is travel, travel life. Is each day really such a new adventure for us? A new series of pleasures and pains which force us to acknowledge a little bit more about ourselves, our aversions and partialities, those things which ever steer us along a predictable path? The more we stay put in one insular little world within the perimeters of our own private realities the more Hells bells will toll and Hells walls will close in upon us. The simple act of movement will keep Masters slimy tentacles from seizing you by the ankles, and dragging you down into the rotten bog of complacency and a slow suffocating death. Light travel is the key, you see that is to say, travel with maximum minimal style. Lightly equipped, you may even enter the lower planes of Hell on Earth and survive. It is here that reality reveals itself at its full violent intensity. You will require great courage and sanity to face these zones head-on. At the very least we recommend a short stopover. To move nimbly, lightly, and stylishly through Hell requires a certain toughness of character. Such mettle lies happily buried beneath the surface, for it needs not to prove itself. It looks great in fur coats and platform shoes. Most of your adversaries will suspect that you must have something stashed up your satin sleeves and therefore your secret weapon is your confidence though it may often be confused for audacity. Just remember to be careful at all times in Hell! It is vital to learn how to avoid persecution from those you

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will doubtlessly outshine. To do so bravely, lightly and stylishly is to walk with firm grace and so moving you might well receive immunity from the many envious and dangerous lackeys you will encounter. Grace will gain you exclusive backstage passes to most of Earths exotic venues, for only those slightly more intrepid, selfconfident, and adventurous of spirit will frequent such crooks. These are Hells earnest escape artists not that any of them ever succeed. I hope you meet some of these colourful cats during your stay. Good luck on your travels and remember to tip others less fortunate than yourself!

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Home Entertainment
Gone are the days when home entertainment involved a book, a gramophone, a poetry recital, a slow waltz around the room, a gentle tap on the ivories and soft conversation or a nice long study of the wallpaper. Fun used to involve a wireless. Nowadays the world is completely wired. Everybody wants to party, and yet, sadly, everybody seems to dance alone. One such solo dancer kept saying that we should have our own Reality TV show and I said we already did. Today, for instance, I spent yet another lonely day in Paradise. Sometimes I feel like I have been alive for a million years. Perhaps I am trapped within a rerun of my own show? But then what kind of audience would tune in to Horror Reality TV? I guess the curse of being a hermit and a philosopher is that it doesnt get you invited to many parties. Whats the point? What possible pleasure can be had from spending time with folk who are never present in the moment? Why bother trying to illumine minds that prefer the dark? And whats the use of having great insights into reality when no one takes any notice of them anyway? Or worse, you cant even remember them yourself? When I do go to parties, I am sometimes stricken by the most horrible and debilitating schism of the soul. I will fall into a kind of narcissistic fugue, whereby everybody I meet appears to be a figment of my own personality. Perhaps I need professional help, but then which of us would play doctor? As a shrink I would advise myself to go in disguise. Unfortunately I would have to shave off my moustache to do so. Besides, home is the place where I generally prefer to wig out not in some noisy monkey cage where the apes persecute men in safari suits, often on the mere promise of bananas. A monkey on your back is one thing, an angry gorilla is another.
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I wish folk would act drunk while they were sober. It is Saturday night, and I am sitting alone, yet again. The swingers are at it next door, and my neighbour, the orang-utan, has invited me over to meet his new friend, a cute little chimp girl from the dark wet jungles of Porneo. But I am too busy contemplating the wallpaper, the meaning of its patterns, and the motives behind its motifs. Gazing at the wallpaper is like lucid dreaming while you are awake. It is much better than television, which is, after all, the greatest tool of the Dark Lord. The Dark Lords articulate art of manipulation is to get everyone hooked on cheap electrical goods, and then to appear one day on TV with his beastly finger poised over the big off switch. Worship me, or no more home entertainment, will be his simple demand. When I gaze long and hard enough at the wallpaper I know all will be revealed. It moreover costs nothing to operate and it runs commercial-free. I like to think of myself as a fan of realist cinema. I will often eat popcorn while I watch the sunset. Sometimes the setting sun will light on my wallpaper, and the shadows will dance across the walls. And sometimes the wallpaper will even transform into a great moving mural, graphically depicting the history of the world. Through my lessons in wallpaper history, I have learnt that man was created without knowledge or memory; that he is destined to spend his entire life forging identity, purpose and meaning; and that some of his attempts would prove quite novel and extraordinary. This would please his Creator, who found it all rather entertaining. I imagine the Creator has consumed galaxies of popcorn over eternity, and wept oceans at our antics. Like the persecution of the Negro throughout history. The wallpaper says this is because white man is essentially jealous of the black man. It says that Blancho should just get over it and accept his handicaps. Sadly, it seems, I will never be Michael Jackson. And just to compound my humiliation, the Good Lord hath

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kindly delivered unto me one further fatherly kidney blow. He has invested in my nature all the necessary skills of philosophical government, but placed me in a position of complete obscurity and social ineffectualness. How many princes have been born paupers? The wallpaper reveals to me a million such poor sods, most of whom have, over time, drilled holes in the very walls from the sheer penetrating intensity of their noble, questing gaze. Once upon a time there was a king who ruled over a vast kingdom of air. He lived in an ivory tower, where he spent most of his days playing military games on his computer. His conquests were fabled, even in his own hour. The young king had extended the borders of his sovereignty to the four corners of his room, never once moving from his seat. His only friend, the jester, cheered his many victories. His queen, a comely brunette with glittering eyes, had grown a little concerned about the electricity bill. Eventually the couple was turned out onto the street without a dime. The wallpaper states that, through my very observation of historys repetition, I am dooming myself to repeat it. I suddenly feel like a retired senator with too much money and no one to buy. At some point, when one has either consciously forsaken all, or has been circumstantially forsaken by all, then something or other must step in to fill the void. The Dark Lord makes regular appearances at such times. In exchange for my soul, Diablo once offered me the latest German hardcore 12 singles, a big bag of cocaine, and a horny blonde gymnast to whittle away my long lonely hours. I told him I would settle for nothing less than my own private symphony orchestra, several Colombian cartels, and a bedroom full of Bavarian ballerinas. But of course there simply is no bargaining with the Devil. I cannot, you see, for I am God. Yet sometimes even God chooses to remain mysterious unto himself, which is why he invented philosophers. Having chosen to incarnate in this particular vehicle, to explore life through this embodiment, to experience the world

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through this heart and mind, I often ask myself: Just what was my mission again? Was it to take a quick course in self-destruction and regeneration? To bear succulent fruit from a dying tree? To make reconnaissance of a doomed institution? To set the tripwires and booby traps around it? Or perhaps to plant nuclear devices in the planetary fault lines? No, I imagine it is simply to experience a unique state of being. After all, One is merely comprised of an infinite array of decimals. I am therefore nothing special, though I remain sacred at least in my geometry. I have often expected to be one day reborn, having experienced some earth-shaking revelation. But then I look back upon a life glittering with illustrious moments, none of which have brought about any particular rebirth. If life were one interminable labour pain, then enlightenment would be an occasional hit from the nitrous mask. If life had any meaning or purpose, then suffering might seem a worthwhile cause. But to languish in life without the dream of salvation is to give birth to elephants. I am nevertheless determined to dispel the myth that happy men do not inquire too deeply into things. I have tried my mental hand at just about every fantasy imaginable, some of which have been simply fantastic. But I have grown weary of virtual reality. Perhaps it is time for the next dimension? So I dare the fabric of the Universe to tear. I challenge the wallpaper to peel away. It does not. I, however, remain glued to it. A broad crooked grin slowly forms amid its swirling floral patterns. The wallpaper is mocking me! It begins mouthing evil omens from the dark corners of its toothy traceries. It tells me that I am its prisoner, that I will never escape its clutches; that the fabric of my day is comprised of little more than bits of information and thought cobbled together from yesterday; that my whole life is but the dream of another, that of a monster;

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and that my entire world is an attempt at reconciling that monsters twisted, tormented conscience. Of course the wallpaper is referring to my own dear Shadow my worse half. He mostly likes to dance across the walls late at night, and may occasionally rise to fearsome stature by the light of certain candles. Mirror, mirror, on the wall, whos the vainest of them all? is something he is very fond of saying. The wallpaper smiles wryly and says that I am trapped within an imaginary construct. I guess all constructions begin as constructs, even wallpaper. Then there are demonic constructions to consider, like some babies I have met. Just how, then, might I imagine a way out of a world that is not real? In fighting for my right to dream, have I in fact been fighting the dream? Perhaps the dream ceases to unfold about you when you start to swim against the current? And so I open myself up completely to the divine moment: to the perfect confluence of past, present and future; to the jubilant juncture of infinite possibilities; to the immaculate abandon of Zen and from this paradoxical position of self-determining surrender from the very heart of dynamic stasis I humbly request the universe to bring on the dancing girls. The wallpaper smirks sardonically. It says that I must first burst my flimsy bubble of reality in order to locate them. I am crippled beneath the weight of my own free will. What on Earth should I do next? Wait or masturbate? Because if the dancing girls wont come, then I at least will.

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Devils Night
So this is your devils night, his friend remarked a cheeky smooth Mauritian playboy devil in an angel suit. And perhaps it was at that. The pair had been standing on a curb outside the club he ran each week. A ritual enacted, he thought, to confront the shadier elements of his world, all in one go. The rest of his week spent in isolation, sobriety, and avoidance of the Reefer-man, whose company was brief and blithesome, yet notoriously biohazardous. Indeed, his regular devils night roasting necessitated the heavy downtime in between. He reflected on the horrors of the evening just concluded. It seemed just about every arsehole in town had been waiting there for an opportunity to fart in his general direction that night. But hed still shaken their hands, knowing full well where those grubby digits had probably been. He had even forced a smile to his lips, though self-consciousness had warned him he must look like an antagonised monkey. Upon such greetings he would read the expressions of falseness in their own faces, and start wondering about things like comparable muscle bulk and the nearness of large sticks. Ah yes, the jungle would press in so close on those devils nights. Such rotten luck his club had become one of the Dark Lords favourite hangouts. Had he, at some point beyond recollection, signed Diablos diabolical contract? No, he thought. One must simply dance with the Devil if one has the booty to shake. Thats just the risk you take.

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Daze of our Lives

There was once a cat called Chief Little Man in Big Jacket. He was so famously underground in his own mind within the warm folds of his own private inner chic that not a single soul had ever heard of him. We party best alone, you and I, he would often repeat to himself. He was so cool that no one dared speak to him, much less invite him to parties. But he reassured himself that the party was always where he was at. So he opened a nightclub, where he spent most evenings ignoring his patrons completely. The club was a hit in spite of his reluctance to socialise with anyone. Some were fooled by his detachment, confusing it for an air of mystique. You are just about the most uncontrived man Ive ever met, an admiring woman once complimented. If only she knew how Chief Little Man in Big Jacket had contrived to appear so! But there were some that saw through his aloofness. Its a small world, he once remarked to an acquaintance, congratulating himself on being right in the thick of things without actually participating. Particularly if youre a megalomaniac, his acquaintance had laughed. The truth was this: Chief Little Man in Big Jackets confidence was only thinly masked. It was wrapped up in a flimsy veil of false security, and decorated with frilly delusions of grandeur. In his heart of hearts he acknowledged to himself: I am no great personality. Who are you to judge? his ego retorted. Nobody, really. Ive lost most everything, confessed Chief Little Man in Big Jacket. Even my interest.
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At least youve still got your good looks, his ego comforted. He painfully recalled an almost forgotten lifetime of broken dreams, and reflected on the lonely path he had chosen: self-imposed exile; a road made ugly by a concatenation of burnt bridges. Far over on the horizon smouldered the city he had left in ruins. But the simple country life had not allayed his city-spun complexities and ambitions. He had become the giant slothful pussycat not the wild predatory panther he had once hoped to set free. He couldnt even pick up in his own club, you see, being far too lonely to attract a mate. He began to wonder if life was merely a test to see how much anaesthetic a man could do without. I feel like the Jester of the Gods, he thought. What if my entire life returned to the same starting point each new day, like in some trashy American sitcom? If so, then am I destined to remain poor, isolated, celibate, lethargic, frustrated and fucked up? Now wouldnt that be funny! Quite, his ego replied. It was quite funny, for instance, how the phone only rang when he didnt want it to. He needed help, support, love perhaps a maid? One night he dreamt himself pleasured by two glamorous women in a most graphic and lubricious scenario. When he woke, he went straight to the newspaper and posted an advertisement:
WANTED: LOVER. MUST BE OVER 25, GODDESS, SANE.

His old lover had gone quite mad, you see. He missed her still, recalled the bitter wounds he had sustained when the coconuts began dropping from the sky. Surely there are few things harder to endure in life than watching a loved one take a fall. But it was during such times of heartbreak that he at least felt something other than numb. And he had begun to wonder if love were merely a retrospective phenomenon.
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Upon their separation he had written a poem: Pain: an anchor point as I sail the seas of numbness. Sorrow: the sails on my vessel of solitude. Longing: the stars by which I navigate a meaningless voyage. How will I ever fall in love again if there simply is no me to fall in love with? Chief Little Man in Big Jacket asked himself his very empty, lonely self. His ego retaliated: No me! I have done and thought so many great things in my life. Sadly, most of them have simply gone unnoticed or unappreciated. Was this cocksure individuality of his nothing but a farce? An obstacle to true growth, to the refinement of intuition, to a future orgasmic confluence with the universal stream? You fool, said his ego. There simply is NO GRAND PLAN, no universal codex, no heavenly writ, no supreme executive intelligence. Then am I are we all on our own: single agents of a decentralised collective? Does the success of a given life reside in nothing but a desperate, selfish grab for power? In the face of such horror I must nevertheless honour my own sense of morality, for if I do not obey my own inner president, then I shall become just another servant of chaos, at the mercy of an inner cabinet of babbling idiots, he said. True enough: government is hell, replied his ego. Try running an autarchy! his very own inner president replied. Mr President, do you have any advice for todays youth? his ego ribbed. Yes indeed. If youre going to smoke grass, steer clear of the hydro stuff. Go organic. Of recent years marijuana had helped Chief Little Man in Big Jacket to temporarily forget his solitary confinement. It enabled him to form fleeting, yet meaningful relationships with things such as wallpaper patterns. Lately he had taken to watching the passing traffic. He had
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grown bored of staring at the wall, you see. So many cars rolled by: some old and cranky; some purring softly like jungle cats; some reverberating like distant war drums; some ambling slowly down the way, oblivious to destination; others charging with hellbent purpose towards certain futures. Funny, he thought, how not one of them stops to say hello. He realised, with sudden chilling clarity, that he had begun to order his house, his very life, in expectation of an abrupt departure from them. To demonstrate for posterity how he had lived: an edifice of sorts. To testify to the world that poverty and style in fact made cosy bedfellows. That economy and frugality together birthed modesty. One must, after all, practise what one preaches, and with all humility. Thus having juggled naught with nothing for over a decade, Chief Little Man in Big Jacket had finally been awarded a distinction in Home Economics. It had been the only subject in high school at which he had not excelled. And so he had devoted his entire adult life to its mastery, for such was the pedant in him. But the stress of self-edification had taken its toll. He had begun to pause for cigarette breaks during meals. And of late his dreams had begun to capitulate before a single recurring nightmare: He would find himself cornered by an angry faceless mob and beaten to a faceless pulp. One morning he was woken from the nightmare by the dulcet tones of a chainsaw. Strange, thought Chief Little Man in Big Jacket. Up until now they hadnt invented an alarm I couldnt sleep through. He stumbled outside to discover his mortal enemy, loitering in his front yard, hacking down a great old gum tree. It could just as easily been the mast of his flagship toppled to the ground. His enemy, a wretched dishonourable pirate, looked happy. Chief Little Man in Big Jacket made a point to stay home all that day, mulling over the connection between his enemy and the dream. Is it an omen of warning, or merely a symbol of my fears? he asked himself. Is it an area of psychic weakness to transcend, or an external arena to avoid altogether?

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Neither, his ego replied. It is a mere botheration. A disruption of your hard-earned rest. And a challenge to your greatness. And yet, replied Chief Little Man in Big Jacket, are not most of us too afraid to confront the trolls that lurk beneath our bridges? And is not such fear the greatest of all isolators? He decided he would much rather confront his nemeses alone, than to seek out lonely hideouts from the embodiments of his fears. He realised that he secretly wished to meet his maker a nice fellow he had been told. And so he began to challenge all without bridle. But of course this was all just part of an experiment to test whether the outside world was merely a manifestation of his inner reality. Sooner or later he knew he would go too far push buttons that would start a riot. And the mob just loved martyrs. He also realised that the practice of belligerence was not, in itself, a peaceful path, but a path to peace. Make peace, not pieces, he thought. He acknowledged that anger must go somewhere. And was it not better to be angry without fear to contest large demons than to take anger out upon those less powerful: upon guaranteed victims? So he decided to take a trip abroad. Climb a mountain and work off some steam. Symbolically, if nothing more, the mountain issued a perfect challenge to his psyche: Climb me and conquer the world. Pit your will against mine, that of a giant. Or perhaps such activities merely appealed to the megalomaniac in Chief Little Man in Big Jacket: the need to prove himself as big, if not bigger, than all the worlds props. When he arrived upon a distant shore, the customs officer said: You look familiar. Havent I seen you somewhere before? Perhaps in your most-wanted files, he replied. What is the intention of your visit? To find the philosophers stone. A few days later he reached the mountain summit. From the top of Maslows Pyramid he looked down and

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beheld nothing but the endless expanses of Maslows Wasteland. The sun was setting. He turned, prepared his descent in the dark, suppressing a terrible panic, when a voice suddenly cried from nowhere: Hey, mate, youre on private property! The speaker was a wizened old goat herder with big red glowing eyes. Chief Little Man in Big Jacket had found his philosopher stoned!

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The Rap on Ice Cubes

The cubicle in which I found myself was artlessly decorated and carpet-stained, but otherwise adequate. Situated by a turquoise lake in what was arguably one of the best alpine zones on Earth, I could stomach the simple rusticity of a cabin whose insulation made the igloo seem like a sauna. I was even permitted the luxury of smoking reefers in it without threat of extradition, mon, which took the sting out of the stingy dig, dig? It was only the beginning of winter in this frozen Wonderland, yet snow had already settled on the Earth like a thin white cotton sheet on a lumpy bed of rock. A bed for giants, that is, whose ancient antediluvian bulks had petrified in a death-like sleep over aeons. I wondered what they dreamt about, particularly when mountaineering midgets such as I were wont to meander up their midriffs like bull ants adapted to blizzards. To those reposing rock-titans, was an earthquake merely a shudder in their slumber? The lone hiker in the hills just an ant in their pants? Dressed for the longest night in thick jackets of sediment, rock and root; and in caps of ice, I imagined the dreams of mountains to be slow and peaceful. Things such as wind and wildfire, rain and rock, eagle and earthquakes would no doubt feature in the monumental meditations of those immobile monoliths. Thunder and lightning might, for instance, signal a shift in the dream sequence; while a hot sun on its brow might entice the playful giant to explore its surrounding countryside, perhaps through the eyes of wild goats, sheep and small birds. On such occasions, it was even conceivable that those majesties of mist and moraine might turn a sleepy eye to the agonising ascents of ant-like midget men. An entirely strange breed of creature were those midgets. Lifetimes of impossibly short duration, it was little wonder they
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had so much difficulty in actually becoming part of the dream of granite giants: the extended apparatus of a rock gods reverie; its eyes and eyes; its creeping somnambulating digits of dirt taking pulses of the land like a corpse with a medical degree. No, those midget men were an altogether different kind of sleepwalker. They liked to dream on their own, call their dreams their own; and then wondered why they so often seemed like nightmares. So just what did they dream of? They dreamt of cubes. Or at least in cubes. Like the one in which I now sat scrutinising the stains on the ceiling beneath the heavy stares and icicle-rimmed eyebrows of those brooding boulders. Feeling about as big as a toenail. Wondering how I might contemplate like mountains, communicate with them and not just clamber over them like some clumsy crustacean trapped in an exoskeleton of ignorant, self-indulgent fancy. I was the would-be butterfly at very best a moth that struggled up among those sublime spires as if some goal sat at the top, some transformation, some key to the back door of an underground nightclub in the darkest, seediest part of town. My mind, that is to say. Such a struggle was true testament to rock n roll. Reaching the rocky summit, I would roll a cigarette, and then carefully assemble my apparatus. In no time I would be drinking fresh Italian coffee on the dirty skull of a toupee-less titan. Or at least standing on the shoulders of giants as some famous Italian once said whilst slurping the macchiato from his moustache. How odd that Nature should spawn such absurd behaviour in any life form! Cube-dreaming, coffee-sipping, pip-squeak separatists who scaled mountains in order to locate some symbol to their own very much-buried inner worlds. Then again: as above, so below, as some other famous Italian no, that one was Greek once stated sagaciously. It follows that an earnest digger might even attain the wildest heights without having to bust his arse climbing anything. Meanwhile I sat shivering in my cubicle and dreaming of massive ice cubes piled loosely into the shapes of reposing rock gods. Feeling very much like a square. Perhaps even a cone.

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Switched-on Frank
I woke one morning to discover I had just been born. My parents were a team of scientist-witchdoctors who inhabited an underground laboratory. They had assembled me from a selection of cryogenically frozen organs, mirrors, furs, chicken wire, old computer parts and magic paper, as well as a ton of rusty nuts and bolts. When I woke, they asked me to sing for them. I began to cry, and several test tubes shattered. So they performed some very sophisticated neurosurgery on my artificial neocortex; and then they breathed some gentle lifegiving high-voltage electricity into my cast-iron lungs. They asked me to sing again. I watched them standing around, nervously fingering the pockets of their black lab coats and I began to cry once more. This time nothing broke. My parents looked at each other with disappointment and stroked their long Rasputinian beards all at the same time. One tugged anxiously on a metallic bone that poked through his nasal septum. A few brief words were exchanged in scientific witchdoctor jargon, and they departed. The laboratory equipment whirred to silence, the glaring neon lights flickered out, and I was left alone in the dark to contemplate my existence. I discovered I could not move. Or sleep. When the lights came back on I was in no good mood. My parents returned, this time wearing overalls over their labcoats. They put me in a box and it was once more dark. But thankfully the sounds did not go away. I decided I liked sounds. One of my parents said: He will sing yet. Another replied: If he doesnt then well make sure he cries for ever!
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There followed much movement, bumps, and loud cursing in a rare Haitian dialect. When I came out of the box I found myself relocated to a new laboratory. This one had the semblance of a charming French villa, and was located in a rustic alpine setting. One of my parents, the one with gold teeth and beads in his hair, flicked a switch on the back of my neck, and I discovered I could perambulate about the cabin. I instinctively moved to the door, but found it locked. I ambled to the windows, none of which would open. A quick elbow to the pane informed me that each was made of some material harder than Perspex. Just relax, Frank, one of my parents said. Everything youll ever need is right here, another added. A third, whose tattooed face comforted me, said: Look, Frank, we have provided you with a state-of-the-art AV unit, broadband net, satlinks to every TV and radio station round the globe, live cam feeds to just about anything you can imagine; as well as the most comprehensive, regularly updated literary, cinematic, musical and gaming library ever found anywhere! He pointed to a large digital screen, which sat above an artificial fireplace like a magic window upon the known universe. And get this, Frank, said a fourth, whose blue glass eye glinted reassuringly, weve seen to it that you need never again trouble yourself with the pursuit of banalities. Forget about ever having to shop, cook, or eat. You dont have a stomach! Or skin for that matter! the one with the metal nose-bone ejaculated. But best of all, weve eliminated the prince of distractions from the equation, said my parent with the giant holes in his earlobes. He was gesturing sheepishly to the space between my legs: a smooth rubbery continuum that stretched between my navel and lower back. All we ask of you, dear boy, is that you sing for us! What do you say, Frank? After long thought I launched into a pitch-perfect rendition of one of Verdis most heart-wrenching arias.

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Unfashionable Geographic
High above the earth, from a distant lonely summit, I peek down through the clouds and what should I see? I see a vast pigmented areola spread across the bosom of the world, a dark pointed nipple projecting right up out of its centre. A glistening body of water laps upon its fleshy shore, no doubt spilled from Mothers many subterranean sweat glands, and collected at the base of her massive sagging breast. I can smell the salt even from here. Perhaps Mother is merely reclining in her oceanic bath? Yes, thats it! Old and wrinkled as the countless hills and valleys, she is a washed-up whore taking a long soak after a great night of iniquity. She always was dirty, was Mother Earth. She must be weary: unable to raise her brittle bag of bones from its bed of earth. Time has flattened her ravished her over aeons. I see she is trembling still: no doubt copulating in spite of her great need for rest. Mother Earth rejects no one, you see: she lies down even with dogs. But her great love is Father Sky: He owns all the heavens and has many wives, though few are as beautiful as Mother. I cannot quite see Mothers face. It is lost over the horizon, obscured by double-chinned rows of mountains and a beard of trees. Perhaps the infant creatures I see crawling over her bosom and bloating themselves on her milk will one day shave her face with great steely razors, just as they demand of their female kind. Every man-child secretly desires a mother for his mate, you see. This man-child has already removed most of the hair from Mothers limbs and torso. And scarcely a follicle remains upon her areolae. I remember what happened when this child first crawled from Mothers belly: her nipples began to chafe and swell when it could not devour enough of her precious nectar. Cracks and
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blemishes began to appear on a bosom once soft and bountiful. Breasts began to deflate under the suckling exertions of this insatiable creature. Then it teethed oh how it bit! But of course Mother did not complain. When Mothers nipples withered, the ill-tempered man-child erected a dummy in its place, and called it a city. It used Mothers own bones for buildings. Made teats into skyscrapers. When it ate up all the bone, it began to feast on her marrow; then her heart. Tomorrow I fear it may consume her soul. How big it might grow I tremble to think. It must be stopped! But I think it is too late. I peek down through the clouds and behold the pestilence upon Mothers bosom. I smell a foulness wafting upward from her desecrated areolae a region once pigmented with ferns and dark flowers in the blessed hour of pregnancy; now stained by the excrement of an untrained and unruly man-child, and sullied by its refuse. Yet something about this odour is disturbing not merely the consequence of incontinence. It carries the very stench of malignancy! Mother has cancer! Is her brat-child aware of this fact? Can it not taste the difference in the milk on which it suckles? Or is it not fussy? What happens when a child draws death instead of life from the breast of its mother? Does it get cancer, too? Such are chilling thoughts; but perhaps death is the only way to stop this child from killing Mother outright. She might yet recover, but I dread to think what damage this full-grown brat might inflict. Would it turn its hunger toward Father if Mother were eaten up entirely? By the looks of things, I fear this child already has the cancer, and will merely continue to grow like one. Cancers are the most ravenous kind of tissues. The bigger they grow, the hungrier they become, and the more life they devour. Imagine: a giant insatiable cancer creature! What a monster! But I think Im safe up here at least I hope so.

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Scientific Un-American
There was once a giant egg called Urth. The Sun was its incubator, and the creatures that inhabited its warm shell were a species of semi-intelligent microbes. They had been enjoying a free ride on Urth for a great long while and what a joyride it had been! The Universe was in a rapid state of expansion, dragging the galaxy, the sun, and Urth along with it. Urth was just about the fastest, most stylish and luxurious starcruiser that had ever stopped to pick up hitchhiking microbes. It was also the most freely ranging egg that had ever been laid. One day, Urths most prominent scientists discovered that the egg was about to hatch. A great panic spread throughout the entire colony of microbes. What do you think the egg might hatch into? What if that something is not so partial to parasites? they asked the scientists. No one knew the answer to this question. But they had long suspected that such a thing might one day happen. It was no coincidence that Urths richest microbial sub-colony had, for many years now, been pumping great expense into space research. It was as if they somehow knew that their travel visa was about to expire. Something told them that this sort of thing had happened before. But no one remembered exactly what that had been about. All of their historical data had simply disappeared a thousand or so generations beforehand, as though the proverbial slate had been wiped clean, along with the peccable conscience. The scientists observed the ludicrous overcrowding on Urth; and noted the periodic acts of genocide that had cast ugly clouds over an otherwise illustrious history. They wondered about the seemingly abject and abominable nature of their species social patterns.
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Perhaps such practices are biologically ingrained imperatives to maximise the inevitable survival of a few? they thought. One of them proposed a radical new theory: that the very presence and activities of such great numbers of microbes had caused the shell to fracture prematurely. He asserted that, given fewer numbers, each of them might easily have lived like microbe kings on Urth for a long, long time. He concluded that it was perfectly reasonable for microbes to dream of spreading out, to infest as many eggshells as possible. The question is, he asked, will we get off in time?

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Wrong
I am not a monster. My mother is not an evil witch. My lover is not the whore of Babylon. My father is not the Devil himself. My best friend is not the reincarnation of Hitler. And my closest pals are not demons from the dark side of the moon. Humans are not lab rats. My brain does not house thought receiver-transmitter implants, installed by invisible alien puppet-master-scientists. These implants do not resemble tiny insects, which scurry about on the under-surface of my skull. Nor do my alien puppet-masters, who resemble giant insects, experiment on me in my sleep. The world around me is not some elaborate computer-generated image through which I move on a treadmill. Its political and economic structure is not one based on pyramid control, as implemented by the alien overlords. All those within the world are not mere pixilated ghosts. I am not completely alone in this illusion, nor does this illusion exist for me alone. I do not really own a spaceship, whose keys I have temporarily misplaced. I am not a freelance cosmonaut on the run from an evil interstellar corporation, which secretly runs the world. I am not some kind of biological camera/spy sent to document the Apocalypse. Nor am I a chief player in bringing it about. I am not the Shadow of Christ come to shield others from the light. Or the fattened lamb, whose flesh and blood is the food for the Queen of the Vampires and her Ladies in Lurking. But what if Im wrong?
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To my captors,
I am the dictator of my own bubble. The bubble of my mind rests inside the bubble of my world or perhaps its the other way around. Maybe both are about to pop. I wonder if it will make a difference which pops first. My crazy Russian neighbour believes that all true intellectuals naturally lean toward the left. Indeed I do have a mild lateral curvature of the spine. The quacks call it scoliosis. Only it curves to the right. Am I, then, according to my neighbour, some kind of fascist? Typical fucking communist! I have long known myself caged: a living freak show, always on display; perhaps the last of a species almost extinct; at least the only one of my kind ever caught. I am the rat in the lab with mice in my kitchen. You want me to exterminate the mice to despise them as the pre-conceived vermin theyre supposed to be. You want me to hunt them and poison them for nibbling at my food. Should I perhaps hunt and poison you for the amount you eat? Does it amuse you to place a sentient being on a treadmill and to chemically alter his perception of the treadmill? To feed him drugs that enervate, demotivate, sedate? Keep a dangerous individual doped to the eyeballs with the junk of false idealism and hell cause little trouble. But give him back his wits and hell raise all hell. Are you perhaps afraid what havoc a chemical-free creature such as I might wreck upon your fragile, comfortable realities? Perhaps you I see peering through the bars are just the many facets of my own isolated being: the numerous hats worn by a many-headed personality. Are those who call themselves my friends and lovers merely an entire staff of zookeepers? Does that make the strangers who visit my home the paying public?
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I am the captive cosmonaut. And yet I captivate you, alien visitor hideous, masked member of the public! How ironic! You need to capture in order to be captivated. Is your alien world really so dull, so numb, so sick and abstract? You dont care if I die. I dont care if I die. Yet you are curious about suicide particularly the kind that takes a lifetime. Perhaps this is the afterlife after all, and Ive dreamt up my perdition. Heaven. Hell. I cant tell the difference any more. I just cant seem to shampoo the disinfectant from my fur.

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Speck of Nothing
At the end of the day There is only darkness. Beyond all matter There is only void. Where time ceases Eternity begins. When the music stops The static starts. So what speck of something am I To keep nothing at bay?

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Part III: Redemption

The Coffin
My Dear Burnt-out Idiot Son, You love the darkness, dont you? You like to spend the days completely alone in your room, the thick velvet curtains drawn, sealed up in your very own custom-made coffin. Its lovely purple upholstery cushions your isolation just nicely, doesnt it? You get to play your own chosen requiems on that flash stereo of yours for as long as you want, as loud as you like, and in whatever order you desire. You dont have to consider others, to be sensitive to their whims, moods, or preferences. You dont have to play their poxy songs. You dont have to listen to them or their concerns. You get to do exactly what you want, when you want. Play your favourite music for all eternity should you desire. Fuck the rest of them and their lack of taste. Youve got taste. And you secretly want to share it, dont you? You want to tell the world just how good your taste is. Fame is that perhaps what you want? To be a famous hermit? Isnt that what is called an oxymoron or at least something to do with a moron? Huddled in that cushy little cabin of eternal night in your luxury coffin with all its twee trimmings and one-way doors youve got the perspective, havent you? And your cameras are everywhere, ever-rolling, all-seeing. You see it all without having to go anywhere all those miserable pathetic lives squandered in the vain pursuit of petty dreams: their illusions woven tightly around them, like webs of deceit spun from the shadows by evil fat controllers.

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Yes, vain is the word vanity is the real issue, isnt it? The illusion of Self. The misplaced sense of purpose in the world. The false sense of security provided by invisible custodians. Who are they, anyway, these so-called custodians of society? Ive never met them. No one greeted me with a warm handshake and a comprehensive guidebook as I entered the world screaming at the horror of it all. You have to learn an entire arbitrary set of rules, when no one bearing witness to your birth actually knows what these rules are. Except perhaps your mother, if only for an instant. You have to find it all out for yourself, dont you? Unless you just want to walk the easy path and buy the bogus story they spin to you about just how it is. Your parents were those custodians, perhaps? For if nobody knows the rules and its all just one long nightmarish Chinese whisper of lies weve been fed then your parents are about as much the custodians as the invisible fat controllers. Unless the controllers actually know the real story presumably dictating it and just wish to remain invisible. Indeed, youve run so very far and long to flee your invisible persecutors and the mass lies they have spread to the public about what to eat, what to wear, what to want, what to think. Youve even found a good bunker in recent years. Youre getting more cunning. Youve a nose for the underground where its dark and quiet and you get to do and think what you want. And yet they still could be lurking anywhere, couldnt they? The controllers could be masquerading in any one of those strays the house-mates bring home. They might even be your house-mates. Or your girlfriend. Or your mother. Imagine if those closest to you were participating witting or otherwise in some diabolical plot to somehow manipulate you. Now that wouldnt surprise you, would it? One man against the world, with nobody to trust?

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What if you truly were alone in your coffin-world and not just romantically isolated, with the option of going to parties whenever you wanted? Not that parties interest you any more: youre far too hardcore to go out these days. Besides, theres much more chance of running into a controller at a random social gathering, isnt there? Upon your arrival, they might very well stir from some kind of mechanical stasis, like evil wind-up toys. Their sole function to whisper propaganda and lies in your ear just when you are finally relaxing and having some fun. Though it is possible theyve just come along to have a good time. Most party people are desperately lonely sorts. They simply love the group-huddle, for it reassures them of some sort of purpose and place in the world. Though of course the emptiness soon returns when they are once more by themselves. And there are always those times when nobody calls you, or you are too uninspired to call them. But thats not isolation, thats loneliness, isnt it? Isolation is a choice it is action versus reaction. You get to play the requiem of the times as you hear it not as others want you to hear it: The pop song to the video clip to a history which someone else directed. So there you are. Youve burrowed deep beneath the surface of the planet a conscientious post-modern refugee in order to escape the mass hysteria when it finally hits the fan. When everyone starts talking in tongues at the same time, only they cant pretend to understand each any more, because theyll be far too busy screaming at the horror of it all. But youll still have your wits about you, wont you, as youve learned to keep silent or at least to cut back on the bullshit that once passed by your treatment-plant-lips? The horror was there all along, but of course only you could see it. You see it and play Death Metal as loud as you can in your headphones or at full volume on the stereo if the housemates are out, and the neighbours are away.

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But you are not entirely dark. Every black teardrop of Yang needs its tiny white splash of Yin. If you werent a little bit light sometimes, then youd stop getting invited to parties altogether or else youd only go to the kind of party where Death Metal is played all night long, and no one is dancing. You like the choice of scenes, but you prefer the darkness. You spend most of your time in it. You like to skip around for at least one day in the month, and then to lie perfectly still during the rest of it. With one long, slowburning cigarette resting between saffron-stained fingers. Watching that thin vertical pillar of smoke spiralling upwards is exercise enough for one day. You have conserved energy. You are training for the end of the month. You think youre a man of moderation. A glass of wine every couple of weeks, or the very odd number to toke on if youre in a curious mood and you actually want to get to know these strange people who are trying to group-huddle with you for some reason. Because only one toke on a number for a reformed pot addict is like a little bit of paradise that you never do find again once youve become a serious paradise-seeker. The herb is just the mirage of an oasis that seems to get closer, but actually gets farther away, the deeper you stroll into the desert. But the one toke doesnt hurt, does it, if you know this fact? A man of moderation can sustain himself in the desert for as long as he wants, knowing that oases are just mirages. But what if there really is a paradise? A true oasis where the camels humps are full of buttermilk? Would the rainbows be black? You will sustain yourself for an eternity if you choose, but the problem is this: you will stay you for eternity, which is a long time to have to feed somebody. S.

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The Long Weekend

It was the beginning of a long weekend, and it promised to be very drawn out indeed. He had chosen a life of quiet meditation, but found that he spent most of his days contemplating all the things he was not doing. Gotta get out of my routine, try something completely different, he repeated to himself, over and over, as he robotically went about his regular activities. While most folks were busy toiling away at work, he had been working on his tan. He believed that if, through an exemplary practice of laziness, we make for a fabulous cautionary tale, then our lives have been brilliantly worthwhile. Remaining unemployed had been a full-time job. It gave him time to think. He thought, for instance, that guilt was a pointless emotion. And so he refused to feel guilt about regular video marathons and the occasional week-long orgy of the senses. But the thing that mostly distinguishes the hermit from the playboy is cash. Toys cost. Sometimes he would wake up feeling like the Six Million Dollar Man but have to settle for the six dollar suit. So, at the end of most days, he was broke and by himself, and the hours just seemed to drag on forever. Malaise was the rancid mayonnaise that soaked his youthful salad days. He thought: Each new moment might be filled with wonder if one only had the memory of a goldfish! Most of the time he liked his fishbowl. But today he dreamt of friends. He experienced the strange sudden urge to go visiting. But then he realised he did not know where any of the people he knew actually lived. He wondered if they had someplace to go when they were not visiting him. He checked his mailbox several times.
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Boredom was the realisation that something new was actually something old with a face-lift. It struck him that most folk didnt possess too much initiative. He realised that if you wanted some action, you had to make the call yourself. So he called his only friend in the world, invited him to come visit. But when his friend finally did arrive, he suddenly wished to be left alone. How are you? his friend inquired. Not as anal as I used to be, he said, scratching his arse. Whats been going on? A lot of intrusive, bothersome questions, he thought. Well, there was this spider sat for weeks on end in my office, hardly moving. One morning I discovered it in the kitchen sink, directly beneath the steady drip of a leaky tap. Perhaps it was taking a shower after all those long months of meditation? he said. He recalled that those had been good, solid times. But right now he was reliving the final scene from Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Never let your guard down, he thought. He might be one of them. He had foolishly allowed his one and only friend into the most private inner sanctum of his confidence and trust. Was it too late? He sometimes wondered whether he would one day receive the Call, be informed by some dark mysterious voice that his whole life had been a prank, and that the props were about to be torn away. Just how was one supposed to rest without props? At least in cinemas he was at peace. In those ten minutes of quiet before the previews, before the faceless masses had joined him in a hubbub of restless anticipation, he would find momentary respite. When the artificial night fell, minutes before the spurious day exploded upon the screen, he would sink into himself, by himself, into a blissful uninterrupted reverie, and the world outside could go to hell. He wished his only friend would go to hell. He felt like Frodo without a fellowship, in a world long since overrun by orcs.

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You know what I like about you? he wanted to say. Absolutely nothing. He would have to let this one go, no doubt about it. Letting go of someone was easy. Letting go of himself was the hard part. He even got drunk in moderation. Just how does one motivate oneself to be motivated? he asked. Just do it, was the reply. He contemplated a future society owned and operated exclusively by Nike. An entire infrastructure based on careful product placement. Everyone doing it at the same tame. Whats up? asked the detestable alien warlord from Planet Nike. A thousand possible responses flashed across his razor-sharp mind. He stared blankly into the vacuous eyes of his interrogator. Ive got nothing to say, was his reply. You think too much, the creature observed. I think it is impossible to vomit with grace, he thought. Actually, I feel too much, he said. Or else you dont think enough. Did he wish the world to be an ugly hollow place, just so he could relate to it? His life was structureless, functionless, purposeless, meaningless and loveless. But thankfully it was not artless. In the beginning God created chaos. He then created artists to make the mess look better. Surprise me! he challenged. He thought about his universe, whose spinning galaxies had almost come to a standstill. Fuck you, the monster replied, and left. A few days later, to his great surprise, he received a mysterious parcel in the mail. Tearing it open gleefully, he discovered a bloodied foot within, punctured by a gaping bullet hole. He scratched his head, looked down, and noticed that he was indeed missing a foot of his own. His latest best-seller was a collection of suicide notes he had written over the years. It was sadly the last thing he ever wrote.

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Tailor Change
It is time to end this pain inside, To remove the barb lodged in my mind. Time to lance the boil upon my soul, To drain the abscess And suture the hole. It is time new life stirred in my lungs. Time to loosen the noose From which Ive hung. Time to find new balms To daub on my rash, For the old ones corroded, Left me blistered and cracked. Time to close the cabinet of medicines I have opened in desperate times In answer to my malaise, Seeking salves to self-wrought crimes. Time to put away the bitter pills I have swallowed for so long And to look for kindly compounds By which I may grow strong. Time to clear away impurities And to undress insecurities. Time to empty out old baggage And find luggage I can manage. Time to purge the heart of poison, And to fill it up with wisdom. Time to drop the yoke of anguish Beneath whose weight Ive so long languished. Time to burn away the tattered clothes And find a suit of crimson robes, For my bodys true garment Has grown old like the road Down which Ive long trodden, Long forgotten to home.
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Daydream
The sun was setting when Kurt got up, showered, and slipped into his purple silk dressing gown. He drew back the thick red velvet curtains, introducing a sombre grey light into his already dark cottage. He then prepared himself a breakfast of champions: coffee, fried eggs, tomatoes and spinach on rye. After he had eaten, he lit a cigarette, stirred his coffee, and sank into his favourite armchair, where he pondered what he ought to wear that coming day or rather night. Black, I should think, he decided with little deliberation. The real issue is, of course, one concerning fabric: leather or vinyl? Kurt felt somewhat sassy that evening, having just woken from a rather erotic dream. In it, a beauteous young maid had they met before? had remarked, while caressing him, You, my dear Kurt, are simply Heaven with a stick! But the most erotic part of his daydream for, indeed, Kurt slept only by day had come afterwards. When his favourite science-fiction hero in all the worlds, Kilgore Trout, had suddenly burst in upon the scene, startling the impassioned couple. Within seconds, Kurts frisky mistress had vanished from both his bed and his consciousness, for such was his great excitement over the unlikely visitation. Kilgore approached with slow deliberate steps, bearing Kurts purple silk dressing gown, which he proffered, with perfect gentlemanly decorum, to the awestruck dreamer. Kilgore then escorted him to the kitchen, where he gently drew back a chair, and politely gestured for Kurt to sit down. Kurt looked on as his esteemed guest wordlessly prepared coffee, fried eggs, tomatoes and spinach on rye. A breakfast of champions for a most worthy protagonist,
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announced Kilgore Trout, with the kind of glint in his eyes found only among the most formidable science-fiction heroes. The sun was setting. When Kurt had eaten, Kilgore escorted him to his favourite armchair, and promptly returned with his slippers, journal, and a pen. Not his favourite pen, but Kilgore Trout was to be forgiven for this: science-fiction heroes were sometimes known to overlook minor details, since an authors head was often far too engaged in the pursuit of grander visions. Kurt thanked him nevertheless, drew upon his cigarette, and asked his honoured guest what he ought to write about. Kilgore suggested he describe the occurrences of the last little while; and to conclude with the reason for his visit, which was to wake Kurt from his daydream.

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Message in a Bottle
Dear Little Fish, So you took the bait. How felt the tug of my hook? Was it not pleasurable? Where do you suppose I have lured you? Right out of the sea, perhaps, where you once swam so blithely, so carefree, believing your little watery world to be so vast? Indeed, what if your entire world was merely a droplet within a much vaster ocean? Know this: I have lured you from the Deeps and placed you in a fishbowl! Do you not see my worm dangling before your bowl? Do you also see that beady little eye pressing greedily up against the glass? Yes, the one goggling with fright? Your own eye? Afraid of yourself, little fish? Of what, may I ask? Of glimpsing yourself for the first time, perhaps? Of beholding something bigger than you ever thought possible? You always did perceive things with the one eye, didnt you, little fish even though you may have occasionally used them both? They never did work well together, did they? Indeed, their worlds were poles apart set on either side of a gill no less! Very well then: As you have seen yourself for the very first time, I will grant you a brief glimpse of the ocean in its entirety. What do you see? A world teeming with strange sea monsters? Watch how they glide across the ocean bed, or lie hungrily in wait for little fishes such as yourself to come along.

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What else do you see? Perhaps the reflection of your own little world, now distorted by the glass, appearing twice as vast? Does it not strike you as somehow familiar? Could it be, perhaps, that you have been fished from one bowl and placed in another? Could it be that you have lived your entire life within such an enclosure? Ah, how convenient that little fishes like you have such poor memories. Why, without my timely intervention, you might never have even noticed the difference! Do you perhaps now wonder how vast the world might be beyond your prison? You feel a lot smaller now, dont you, little fish? Feeling a tad vulnerable, tadpole? At least now you have seen what true manner of monster lurks out there. Why, only yesterday you felt so confident of your friends and enemies in that comfortable little bowl of yours, didnt you? Thought you had them all sized up. Thought you could outrun everything and everyone who got in your way, or upset your reality. Even me! I wonder if, by releasing you into the vast ocean of reality, you might now be forced to grow a little? Or will you just keep on pretending to be a big fish in a small pond for ever? Just beware me, little fish, for I am the largest sea monster of them all. S.

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Confessions of a Recidivist
I have been a bad man. I have sinned the worst sins. I have lain with dogs and drunk of mud. I have shunned the light and danced with the Devil. I have sullied my temple and rewritten the eternal laws into gibberish. I have renounced my teachers and mocked their wisdom. I have corrupted innocents and punished lovers. I have sodomised and despised. I have lied and connived. I have diabolised and patronised. If ever I was an angel, then I have fallen so far. And yet I have spurned others for falling. Such hypocrisy was never so rampant in an individual. I have deserved my just desserts: exile, obscurity, poverty, and slow death. I have been granted the power to make good as well as knowledge of this power and yet still I have chosen to deny and abuse my god-sent agency. Is there a worse crime?

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House of Cards
I have chosen my illusion: A dark horizon of confusion A house of cards That tumbled hard, Scattering diamonds In profusion. All about me lie the trumps Of splintered spades And shattered clubs; Of kings unmade And queens dismayed; Of jokers lame on ruins dump. Of all, one Ace I should have saved, When alls left is one crooked stave. It props me long a hobbling path Of cobbles, made from broken hearts, Which I myself did sadly pave.

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Diablo
When Diablo arrived one chill evening, fresh from the pits of Hell, he came naturally adorned in all his most splendid theatrical livery: bedizened with horns, fangs and boils; and shrouded in fire, smoke and static. The young man who greeted him at the door, one of his many bastard sons, was not so much shocked or appalled by the visitation as relieved and perhaps a little surprised that his invitation had been accepted by the old man in the first place. The young man, spawn of pillaging loins, had learned to presume nothing in life. In his own mind he was nobody just a lone weary pilgrim picking slowly across a corpse-strewn battlefield; a butterfly aimlessly fluttering by a host of ravenous flesh-feeding insects; an empty shell flung out upon the baking desert sands. Nor did he wish to be anyone. He had long since fled the front lines of a war where salvation was the prize of victory, and damnation the losers lot. He had cast aside the banners of all would-be heroes and virtue-touting redeemers. He had forsaken his shining King Arthur, and abandoned Guinevere, too. He no longer cared whether neighbours slew each other over endless shifting territories or swelling vanities; whether infants starved through the gluttony of the rich; or whether lust, greed and power poisoned the hearts of the righteous. It seemed so many ugly black lies clouded his past. The air was thick with their stench. But even more stomach turning was the breath of old daddy Diablo himself. For aeons, now, the very exhalations of the Dark Lord had borne with them the most fetid, cruel and deceptive lies of all. Someone had to shut the fucker up. All the young man wanted was some clean air and quiet.
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Wyrm
There was once a weedy little weirdo called Wyrm. For some strange reason either through genetics or sheer fluke he looked as though he ran a daily marathon when in actual fact his laziness was legendary. He took great delight when objects either broke or wore out, for then there was one less piece of junk in the world to contemplate. He kept a special ash-trash reserved for joints, as he knew the value of roaches when times were lean. He had mastered the art of saying Fuck off! and Have a nice day! with the same words. And he considered a prank call to be something new and unexpected. Wyrm had spent half his life trying to record his passage in time, and the other half trying to remember it. He had been cursed with an insatiable curiosity about almost everything, you see, but possessed only limited faculties of learning and memory. And so he had consequently wasted most of his adult life trying to recapture his feelings as a child. Life was very often anticlimactic, he thought just the time one spent between body bags. And it would certainly have been easier to grasp if one only had some idea as to its objective. He felt as if he had somehow missed the gist. But at least Wyrm was the sort of cat that went down swinging. He had, for instance, made a solid attempt at sampling most of the fruits of Eden during his stay to the point where he had begun to wonder what might come next. Show me something I havent seen before! he challenged Creation. Careful, lisped a nearby snake. Just what is a man supposed to do without distractions? he said with exasperation.
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Bugger all, the snake replied. What can possibly follow when a man has grown bored of an ideal situation? he mused. Why, theyll kick you out of Paradise, of course! said the snake. Wrong. It is precisely now that Im ready to return to Paradise, proclaimed Wyrm. And so he set out. Naturally he decided to take the scenic route to Heaven. He met a giggling Daoist along the way. Life is amazing! giggled the Daoist. No, life is a maze, replied Wyrm, and smashed him one in the nose. Strangely, the Daoist kept giggling, which annoyed Wyrm. It made him feel like a gun with an itchy trigger. It seemed that somewhere along the line he had taken a wrong turn and wound up in Hell. He knew he had somehow failed to read the signs along the way how so few prophets were funky, and how most gurus were just wise Indian guys. But most strange and disturbing of all was the fact that just about everyone he met loved refrigerators. Hell, Wyrm decided, was a tourist resort for weekend hippies and New Age junkies. Even the good guys are deluded, he thought. When they were not catering to the whims and appetites of middle-aged couples in Buddhist robes and togas, the staff at the resort would retire to their rat-infested bungalows and watch horror movies. Dear God, please get me outta here! prayed Wyrm. The huge furry face of the Cat in the Hat suddenly materialised before him. It filled his cheap hotel room with an enormous maniacal grin and forced him cowering into a narrow corner between the cheap bar fridge and the plastic armchair. Son, Hell is simply tailored to your own idea of Hell, purred God. So how do I escape my own idea of Hell, pa? pleaded Wyrm. Whatever you do, said God, dont do like Jack and the Beanstalk.

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Wyrm suddenly felt very desperate and claustrophobic in his flea-ridden suite. He wanted to reach out and touch somebody but then he also wanted to reach out and break something beautiful too. Am I secretly addicted to belligerence? he asked himself. Certainly the furniture was too cheap and nasty to warrant his special attentions. So he punched himself in the face a once beautiful face he recalled dimly and broke his nose. As Wyrm sat nursing his wounds and feeling very sorry for himself, the phone suddenly rang. How are you? said the voice of a woman. Crap thanks. Who are you? he asked. Im your date. All set? For what? The voice cut out. Had it been a prank call? Wyrm wondered, growing very excited at the prospect, and momentarily forgetting his misery. There shortly came a rap on the door. Wyrm opened it with a blood-soaked hand. Im Helen, said the pussycat in the tight leather bodysuit. Horniest devil alive. Ever wonder where the expression fuckin Hel comes from? I hope I can remember how to do it, Wyrm said, casting his mind back to the last time he had looked for treasure and found booty. Dont worry, said Helen, They say its like riding a bike. Chicks seem to love the bad boys, thought Wyrm. Obviously this one has a predilection for pure evil. I must warn you back home Im bigger than John Holmes, said Wyrm. It was, of course, a tall tail. Its all good, said Helen. Unless its all completely crap, said Wyrm, taking the leather seat of his bike in hand and giving it a good squeeze. Driven and dogged, Helen knew passing contentment. But of course her hunger soon returned. Come along now Wyrm, she said. Were off to my favourite club: Wet Whiskers.

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What sort of name is that? asked Wyrm. Why, its the only spot for swinging cats! she replied. When they arrived at Wet Whiskers, a large hairy man at the doorway demanded they strip before entering. You know, it takes balls for a man to appear naked in public, said Wyrm. I want you to meet a friend of mine, said Helen, grabbing him by the tail and guiding him within. The joint was literally crawling with snakes. To the largest of them all Helen led him. It was a veritable prince amongst pythons, a sire amongst serpents, who greeted Wyrm before the dancing flames of an enormous open fire. Wyrm meet S, said Helen, and disappeared into the crowd. Wyrm realised he would have a hard time finding her again among the great conglomeration of anonymous body parts that surrounded him. Social butterflies were often tricky to pin down. My look what the cat dragged in! Yum, yum, said S. Why, if I were a chick I would most definitely suck your cock, my tasty little Wyrm. If you were a chick Id still fuck you in the arse, said Wyrm. I see that incarceration has forced you out of the closet, smirked S. Perhaps, said Wyrm. But I should rather be in the belly of the Beast than to have the Beast in my belly. S smiled and turned toward the fire. I see a great many things in the flames, he said. Particularly the faces of those who have displeased me. Tell me, Wyrm, why are you here? I want to go home, Wyrm said. But then he thought about the giant balls-up he had made of his life back in Eden. As if reading his thoughts, S said: Then perhaps you ought to try suicide? At least then Paradise might recover by your absence. This time Ill get it right, assured Wyrm. Oh yes? And how might you accomplish that? sniggered S. Why, I think I shall relieve you of your post, he said and hurled the startled serpent into the flames of Hell.

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The Masters Destiny

In a supreme act of will, the young man defied his so-called destiny, his damning conscience, an entire bestiary of slavering inner demons, and the ineluctable sucking black hole that had replaced his solar plexus in the wake of disease. He stood an immovable object on the brink of Lifes entropy well, into which all things must tumble before the irresistible forces of change and decay. All except him. He had become a Master, and the Universe could hurl whatever it might at him. Now, flourishing the pen, he deliberated on a future he might write himself. Perfect health? Why not? But how would it feel to walk so light for all eternity if he chose among the torpid living dead? The world seemed to have filled with clones almost overnight. Golden idols were more in vogue than ever. Chariots went faster, and wines could now be purchased cheap from the distant corners of the planet. Numbness prevailed. Did he desire blissful union with the woman of his dreams? She was out there somewhere all he had to do was ask. Happy children and loyal dogs? A picture-perfect country estate to place within a gilded frame? Of course he knew that all such dreams must eventually run their course. The homestead would crumble with time, the children would be lured to the altars of false prophets, the dogs would turn bitter beneath a lifelong barrage of fleas, and his beloved would grow old and die. Perhaps he might enjoy a little fame and fortune? No. Only the worst kinds of fools pursued such things. Rock stars always got more than they bargained for depravity and overindulgence always got them in the end. Perhaps he might retire to a secret garden somewhere high up in the mountains by a foaming spring? Now youre talking, he remarked to himself. But then the crowds would inevitably
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follow: first the pioneers and farmers, then the excavators and loggers, and eventually the spiritualists seeking enlightenment by osmosis. So just what did he want, now that he had achieved his lifes goal, his alchemical transmutation of a leaden soul into a golden spirit? What was there left to achieve? Though his every wish stood to be granted, he himself stood at an impasse. Sorrow still filled him. Happiness, he knew, was but a by-product of small conquests of the self. Victories over ones impulses, aversions, and attachments. He knew that happiness in itself was not the goal, the philosophers stone had sought and found. Of late, the only thing that gave him any real pleasure in a bodily sense at least was a searing hot shower. He would adjust the tap, very slowly and deliberately, until the temperature reached scalding at which point ripples of bliss would course through his body. Pleasure and pain had begun to dance a dangerous duo in the adamantine body of the Master, with it the realisation that he was slipping into a sensual Hell. He recalled once reading the words: When every avenue of intellectual inquiry is exhausted, the mind naturally gravitates to that which is hellish. The man whod written that a German philosopher now dead a century had purportedly gone mad in the end. No doubt he chose madness, the Master thought. Was this his path too the fate he would choose? Apart from shower time, the Master was otherwise quite impartial to earthly delights. His journey into the Void had wounded him deeply, scoured his senses, and flayed his sensibilities. Melancholy was a constant companion on his daily trudge, and his interest in mundane folk had waned to a point where he now almost resented the common biological imperative to congregate. Even with his so-called friends. Natural beauty still offered some sanctum from the encroaching desert of humanity, with its picks and shovels, pens and protocols, and great shining instruments of mediocrity. But even natures treasury was beginning to fade beneath a gaze that grew more and more distant. His wife had remarked to him that he sometimes stared at the

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wall for hours on end. He loved her almost to the point of obsession though he could not, despite his most strenuous efforts, bring himself to be excited by her activities. Of course, having identified the obsessive quality in his nature, he had naturally subverted it. Such was the Masters will. It was supreme. Now he was quite detached from most things that the world offered up to intrigue. Including his wife. From a great distance, looking down from his regal, aloof perch upon the desperate thrashing ocean of humanity, it was easy for the Master to detach himself from their struggle. Confronting them on a personal level was, however, quite devastating to him, for each droplet of humanity was a universe in itself a microcosm of complex systems that each warranted exploration and empathy. Thus hovering for a time between those two equally vast scales of perception, the Master had very nearly genuinely gone mad. Probably it was the promise of the miraculous in each being and of the failure of that promise which had most threatened the Masters sanity. Such is the nature of gold. It is both incredibly malleable and superconductive. It is tough, yet moulds easily. It is dense, yet readily permits currents of electricity and of Zeitgeist through it. The Master had transmuted himself into gold. There was no more perfect element. He thought: My will, though it is supreme, has no more purpose. Horror suddenly overwhelmed him: Into what filthy grubbing hands am I to fall?

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Fate wears an ironic smile

I once met a youth on the road. He was walking down the path toward me, I toward him, and our paths seemed destined to cross. At such times, when destinies meet, I become conscious of Fates compelling presence. I am able to recognise Him by the gentle, whispering voice, which comes from somewhere both outside and inside my head. On this occasion, like so many others, He said: You were meant to collide. Fate had a habit of stating the obvious. As the youth neared me, it was like walking toward an enormous mirror. Not only did the environment the tall trees, swaying grasses, the slow winding path appear reflected, but so too did the youth. What I saw were the perfect counterparts of tall trees, swaying grasses, slow winding path, and myself only a much younger me approaching him. When we met, I asked my youthful mirror image: Who are you? He answered: You are who? I laughed at his strange reply, and he joined me in my laughter. No sooner had I stopped laughing, than he too stopped. I extended my hand to him in friendship, and he aped my gesture. We stood shaking hands with the usual cautious civility. I began withdrawing my hand, and he immediately withdrew his. I was suddenly struck dumb for words, and the youth fell silent, as though awaiting my next question. Where you bound? I probed. Following a voice, he responded, and I was grateful that the parrot in him had finally flown off. What voice? I asked. You know which one. Aah could you mean? And it dawned on me that he was referring to the commands of Fate, which cannot, will not, be ignored.
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Precisely, he said, confirming my suspicions. Seen him round? I queried. Sure, see him round all the time. Often standing right in front of me. Hey, hang on! Do you mean? Why yes, my friend, youre Him. Hmm Tell me, what news of the world? I asked, for my path had long since led me beyond the frontiers of populated kingdoms. Pretty much the same yet different, he replied cryptically. What of the king, the queen, the country? The revolution? War? Strife? Famine? Suffering? What news of my sweetheart? Does she pine for me still? Tyrannical, lonely, enslaved. Quashed. Unresolved. Continuing. Unnecessary. Still going on. Married to a banker last month. And no Im terribly sorry. Ahh. Very interesting. But I feared as much. Different yet the same. I sat down by the path, and the youth joined me beneath a shady tree. I offered him an apple, which he accepted, handing me an orange in return. Keep it, I said, observing how weary he looked, and how empty his bag seemed. All right, he said, and he handed back my apple with a sad look in his eyes. No, but you must accept this! I demanded, returning the apple. Sure, he said, passing me the orange once more. I grew angry and exclaimed: Do you know nothing of receiving what is given? He replied: Do you? And his obstinacy made me even angrier. I took his orange, threw it against the tree trunk with all my might, and watched it explode. The youth looked at me, looked at the bits of orange pulp on the ground, looked at the apple in his hand and hurled it at the tree as well! I stared at the pieces of shattered apple, the pulp of the destroyed orange and felt the urge to strike him for his stupidity. The youth saw my rage building and leapt to his feet with an ugly expression on his face.

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I screamed: Are you such a fool to make what is already bad into something worse! He retorted menacingly: Whos the fool, then, eh! Right! I screamed. Fate just told me to teach you a lesson! So He did! bellowed the youth, adopting a fighting stance. We rumbled, the youth and I. For every blow I delivered, one came back just as hard. I was determined to teach this upstart a lesson; and yet he seemed just as determined not to be bested. Finally my anger cooled and my pride evaporated. I stood panting by the tree, and noticed a million ants pouring over the fruit salad we had created. The youth noticed them, too, and dropped his fists. Amid laboured pants, I burst into laughter. My outburst was infectious, it seemed: for soon the two of us were rolling round on the grass and laughing so hard that our sides hurt. All this nonsense over an ants picnic! I shrieked, tears blinding my eyes. Nothings ever wasted! said the youth, which started us off on a new round of riotous whooping and hollering. When the mingled pains of laughter and bruising finally got the better of us, we sprawled out on the earth, exhausted. I volunteered: Sorry about the orange. Temper got the better of me. He responded: So am I. Fate always makes you do stuff you regret. Sure wish you could do something about it, I said. Me too Maybe you can. How? I guess you have to ask yourself that. I sat in silence and pondered his words as the horizon began spitting weird colours into the sky. The air grew colder and the world darker. Weariness soon overcame me; I gathered myself up into the folds of my cloak and made a ball of my body. Then I slept. I woke to the sound of chattering teeth. It was the youth, who lay a few paces away, shivering uncontrollably. I noticed that his cloak was worn down to the threads. My own was thick and sturdy, and I was seized by the urge to wrap him up in it, when

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the voice of Fate began whispering to me out of the folds of nights mysterious mantle. He said: Forget this fool who travels so light and unprepared for the elements. Look after yourself instead. Indeed! Not only was this young brawler ill-equipped for the rigours of travel, but he was obviously too proud to beg of my help. Id have gladly shared my resources had he but asked! Oh, well. Best obey the commands of Fate. As I slowly rose to my feet, I gazed down at the youth and saw him watching me intently. I ignored him, turned on my heels, and was just about to shoot off down the path, when I was suddenly seized by the hand of Regret. I looked back at the youth, and read Regrets pitiable expression written across his brow. Well? I challenged. Not even a good bye? he pleaded with an injured voice. Look at you I began, then stopped. Im afraid Ive no choice in the matter, friend. Besides, Im used to managing alone. Indecision made my bold words sound hollow. Oh well, then. Best follow your Fate if he bids you forth, mustered the youth with a brave face. Only Only what? Only Im not really sure I ought to leave you there alone in the cold. My words rang out into the night and summoned Pain from the icy depths of nothingness. It stabbed me in the heart with a withered old devils finger. I suddenly relived dreadful, insufferable pangs of anguish from a time when Id lost a dear companion to Fates cruel ministrations. Aye, better to travel alone. The youth said nothing he just sat there. Was I not his Fate and was not Fate so often cruel? Or was it I who was cruel? How long had it been since Id made a decision other than where to hole up for the evening, which fork in the path to follow, or where to sink my fishing line? No, decision was not the word. Such matters were not choices, so much as whims in my mind. Was I not free as a bird, unconcerned by the kind of deliberations which dogged the lives

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of most, such as how to behave, what to strive for, how to make do and be happy in the face of so many conflicting interests? Was I not a roving spirit, drifting in perfect accord with that higher directing principle known as Fate? And was He not benevolent to those who surrendered themselves to Him completely? Or was He merely playing tricks on me now? Testing the strength of my faith in His unknowable plans? A conundrum. Fate had whispered to me that I should move on. Yet some part of me commanded otherwise. Was it that thing that fools call Free Will? The power to choose ones own destiny? Hang on a minute: that was a paradox. What would Fate have to say about this, about those who challenged him? No answer. The decision to which I came was, in the end, only a kind of quasi decision; and viewing it as such made me feel a whole lot better. It was what some might have called a compromise, others a cop out, but which I embraced as a means to placate two conflicting parties in my being. I resolved to venture forth with the youth as far as the next big cross-roads, at which point I would leave him to the dictates of a different Fate. In the meantime I would meditate on the nature of the conflict that had sprouted in my mind like a noxious weed yank it out by the roots and then go about my merry way. Lets be off, I said. This is no good place to rest. Why not? inquired the shivering youth. Well, ahh, because of the wolves in these parts. Best find a safer bivouac, I said. Having lied like the little boy who cried wolf it was not surprising that Fate should see to it that wolves be summoned into the drama, as though fabricated from the very stuff of falsehood. No sooner had the youth and I begun tramping down the path across a dark lonely terrain than the distant howls of wolves broke through the silence, announcing a new companion upon our trek: Fear. Fear settled in with our strides from a distance close at our heels. He was invisible, of course, but we both recognised Him by

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the familiar sound of His footfalls, which grew ever more hasty as He closed in from behind. You see, unlike His brother Fate, Fear did not so much lead one as pursue one. Yet like His brother, He was capable of grave introductions to the unknown. I found Fear to be by far the less agreeable of the two siblings harder to accept than His mostly benevolent brother. Fear was much more the oppressive taskmaster. He gave one less opportunity to choose? Well now, there was a revelation! Fear compelled, while Fate impelled. The difference was both subtle and profound. I thought: Compulsion affords no choice, whereas impulsion provides the illusion of choice or is it an illusion? Meanwhile the howls of the wolves grew louder around us. I saw that Fear had caught up with the youth, who had broken into a nervous canter. I felt the icy breath of Fear on the back of my neck; sensed it turning my sweat to cold steam; and realised that He had caught up with me, too. I felt hopeless. Fate, or Fear, or both, must be in cahoots with their older brother, Death, I thought. How unlikely and unanticipated to meet Him so soon! It seemed that with Fear pushing me, and with Fate pulling me, there was no escaping the grim appointment. Or was there? The youth had certainly contributed little to a solution. I thought: This lad demonstrates no real talent for originality or initiative all he does is react just another puppet of circumstance! Id be much better off without him provided Fate, Fear and Death let me off the hook! It was then that something began niggling inside my head, like an itch within the very centre of my brain that no amount of mental scratching could satisfy. The more I tried to ignore it with mind over matter thoughts, the itchier it became. And then a most peculiar thought occurred to me. Its effect was like a sweet soothing balm on an inflamed mind. The thought was this: You are a hypocrite, blinded by your own foolishness and pride! It is you who lacks the talent for originality and decisive action! So satisfying was that thought that I stopped dead in my tracks.

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Fear, our invisible pursuer, had nowhere to go but onward up the path by Himself. The youth ground to a halt beside me, a look of relief playing over his face. And the howls of the wolves evaporated into the night. We were alone again, and I could imagine Fate wearing an ironic smile. I searched the youths face once more, and caught a hint of what I imagined to be Fates own expression on it. Could it be possible? Why of course Im your Fate, you dunderhead! said the youth. Did you really think that you were just mine? As it so happened, the two of us had pulled up just short of a fork in the path. There I stood at a crossroad in the dead of night, not quite sure what to make of things. Did I now have a choice at all whether to abandon the youth my very own perplexing Fate? Look, I said, Im a bit confused about what to make of you. I thought you were just an invisible force, or a directing principle in our lives. I had no idea youd be just a kind of weird mirror to my actions and thoughts. Ahh. You mean like a reflection of your mind? asked the youth. Well, yes. And that being the case, what can it possibly mean that Im having a conversation with the reflections of my own mind? Am I going mad? Perhaps. Solitude does strange things to ones head, he said. Thanks for the reassurance. Well, anyway, seeing as you are not leading me, I am now forced to make my own way. Any ideas whats up on the left? Or on the right? I cant say for sure never been this way before. Can I make a suggestion? asked the youth: the first bit of initiative that had come from him, it seemed. Whats that? Wait until morning and then read the signs; you might find your decision easier to make with a fresh perspective.

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Prince of Fools
How long since I walked Without the drag of chains And the chafe of heavy shackles? Without the impediment Of iron-cast irony That is haste? Without the blindfold Of ignorance I have for so long ignored? Stumbling through life Like a blind, manacled fool On a fools errand: A great prince of fools In my own comedy of errors.

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Ansell and Gretel

I once met a woman in a dark, dark wood, in a dark, dark cottage, sitting on a dark, dark floor in a dark, dark mood. Her name was Tinkering Bella. She was the mother of a golden-locked cherub called Pinkel; and she had recently been cuckolded by the cherubs father, the silent woodsman Stern. He had run off with a mischievous little imp perhaps even a nymph at that, for it is no simple matter to tell apart the many types of sprite that trafficked thereabouts. Such creatures will invite no good to any decent familys table when given half a chance. And this is exactly what that imp had done. Upon their separation, Stern had relocated his woodshed and power tools, but had dutifully accepted the custody of his son Pinkel for exactly half of every week. And why not? Tinkering Bella was a wild woman: a screeching banshee who made hysteria seem like a mild case of the jitters. She was also a gypsy of the finest plume for gypsies are in fact much like birds and banshees not to mention a princess from a great flourishing kingdom somewhere over the horizon. She lived in self-imposed exile in her cottage, as a result of having rejected the staid noble way of life; though shed managed to clean out a fair chunk of the kingdoms coffers on her departure, and was therefore no struggling refugee. I guess it takes an exotic kind of woman to bring a divine little poppet such as Pinkel into the world, where there is so much riffraff to contend with; and we ought to forgive her reluctance to clean up after Pinkels puddles for half of every week. No one had yet invented a nappy which could contain the dam-busting bladder of that otherworldly infant cherub boy; and it is therefore hardly surprising that so many fountains all over the place pay tribute to a cherubs monumental urge to pee. Tinkering Bella thought it dreadfully unfair to be lumped with such big responsibilities for one so young, especially when so much else in life excited her fancy and arrested her imagination.
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Yet while she largely preferred to tinker about by herself, she often pined for the return of her darling wee boy whenever he was away with her husband No, they had never actually married though at times, particularly toward the end, it had felt like marriage to Tinkering Bella. When the rot of complacency, of mutual disregard and disrespect, began to eat through the dining room carpet beneath their feet one suppertime, she had known it time for a spring clean. The wicked pixie had just been a hiccup in her plan for freedom, and Tinkering Bellas pride had taken a bit of a slapping as a result of Sterns clean getaway. But he would pay for the inconvenience somehow. Not that Tinkering Bella was a conniving and vindictive variety of wild woman howling banshee gypsy princess. She was just used to having her own way. She had made an art form out of browbeating and a profession out of heart breaking. She was also the reason why some men spend whole lifetimes constructing vast monuments in reverence to Venus, Goddess of Love. I was personally too old to go gathering bricks and mortar in reverence to anything. My heart was a weathered, salty old organ in the middle of a time-sunken chest. As the sailor, I had long been buffeted about by loves unpredictable swells; and had lost to the ocean bed almost everything an ordinary man might consider dear. And yet, no sooner had I met her in those dark woods than I once more tasted loves bittersweet ambrosia on the tip of my tongue, felt its poisonous elixir seep into the watery depths of my blood. It located my hearts rusty trusty treasure trove and threatened to spill its guarded contents out upon the ocean floor not just the coveted riches I had salvaged from so many joyous experiences, but the many well-preserved wounds too. It took Tinkering Bella only one evening to rekindle my enthusiasm for building shrines. The circumstances that brought me to her cottage in the deep, dark woods are incidental much in the way that every tragic performance ends, jerks a few tears, brings us to a standing ovation, and then dissipates into inane foyer-chatter only moments later.

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One fairy tale drifted into another from day to day in that dark, dark little neck of the woods; and I had known a few fair Gretels over my long years of living in the thick of it. I occupied a little shack held aloft by the strongest branches of the tallest tree in that whole wood. I had the very best view in town. I also knew exactly where to locate gingerbread houses in the middle of the dark lonely woods where indeed such magical places are best kept hidden. I had a nose for gingerbread houses, you see, and was in possession of an inexhaustible supply of transparent breadcrumbs. My name is Ansell, and the transparent breadcrumb was more or less my trademark in that dark wooded world. To the reposing grandma-wolf, the evil stepmother, and the cannibal crone, I was practically immune. They couldnt catch me, corrupt me, or cook me. But Gretels were my weakness. They were the reason why fairy floss and toffee apples tasted so sweet, really. These innocent-seeming maids were often to be found gorging themselves on saccharine delights deep in the woods; and were generally happy to share a candied eave or a liquorice roof-pipe with a hungry stranger. Discovering the gingerbread houses they occupied and consumed was, on the whole, a piece of cake. Black Forest cake, naturally. Finding my way home again was the hard part, though in theory it should have been simple. I only had to leave behind me a trail of almost-invisible markers to do so; and to spy these markers later again in the dark was quite elementary. The difficulty lay in the act of vacating a nice warm snug delectable gingerbread house and an accommodating occupant in favour of the cold lonely road. Such destinations were, after all, the very reason why I had invented transparent breadcrumbs in the first place. Their great usefulness lay in the slippery getaway in the avoidance of a sticky end when the gingerbread house occupant turned out to be a nasty piece of work, or in disguise. When Gretel was in fact the famished hag, for instance. Discovering the true identity behind Gretels otherwise fair facade was one thing that excited me enormously. Without the breadcrumb, ones seed was fair game for the night birds. And

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everyone knew how easy it was to get lost in the woods without a clearly marked exit; how the wicked witch in every woman longed to throw a man in a cage and fatten him up with tender loving and delectable sweetmeats. And so I found myself one night in view of a little cottage made entirely of candy. Of course I came well prepared, for prophylaxis is practically my middle name. The forest surrounding that dark, dark cottage fell silent, and I could feel its many hollow eyes focussed on the stage, where an old fool stood knockkneed and nervous before a prop that was a dark, dark door to a possibly pitch-black unknown. I watched him place a trembling hand up against it and push ever so lightly A flickering brazier by the door seized the opportunity to cast a few hungry tongues into the room beyond. They shot like glowing serpents across an ebony floor and found a form to wrap around. That form was the closest thing I have ever seen to a true statuesque likeness of Venus. She was petrified lusciousness. Yet, ironically, it was I who turned stony with horror at the sight of such beauty and it is no easy feat to dumbfound a fairy-tale hero as experienced and wily as I, let me tell you! It had taken a real live statue of Venus on an ebony floor in the middle of a dark, dark wood to do so and there she was, practically perspiring grapes! Naked. Perfect. Musing. Quite possibly the muse of all muses: especially to the likes of me, a wanton romantic, forever charging from one ridiculous fairy-tale scenario to the next on a fools quest for gold that thing which some call inspiration. Leaping from frying pans into fires. Off on some enormous figure-eight loop into an eternity that was crazy and unpredictable a comedy of errors that would never end, it seemed as though I, the once brilliant bespangled harlequin, were now just some faded archetype drifting aimlessly through a surrealists twisted darkling dreamscape. Could I, Ansell, possibly die? I could certainly still be wounded. How was I to have known that Tinkering Bellas invitation to play that night would first necessitate a long prostration before the altar of Venus? Was Ansell really old enough to know about such

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things? Did play no longer just mean play in these modern times? Or was I merely feigning innocence in an attempt to somehow mask my true intentions: dark, licentious fantasies that involved smooth cold hard statues of naked goddesses; hermaphrodite midgets in school uniforms and stilettos; and an enormous fresh apple strudel cooling in the middle of an otherwise empty room? Why had Ansell deliberately misunderstood Tinkering Bellas request to come over and play? What was his own game? (And why had I begun to refer to myself in the third person with such clinical detachment?) Having nudged open the door and revealed myself, I had no choice but to venture within. My heart pounded and my teeth chattered. I shoved sweaty hands into the pockets of my leather knickerbockers and toyed with a few transparent breadcrumbs. Wheres the cherub? I asked coyly. With that fucking prick, Stern, said Venus with hot cherry lips that barely moved. Its his turn to mop up after the little angel bless him! I took a step forward. I would lay my body and soul before Venus sanctifying altar; I would throw myself with complete humility and obeisance at her feet; I would bow down in total submission before her every whim, however perverse. I would begin work on a monument to Venus right then and there! And an enormous towering erection it would be, with her name or rather, names emblazoned across its rigid red scaffold in large purple neon letters:

VENUS GRETEL TINKERING BELLA

Were they not the one woman? Were not all women the one woman for that matter one glorious archetypal flower witnessed in various stages of blossom and decay?

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Are you alone? I asked with a shaking voice. Not any more, sailor, said Tinkering Bella Gretel Venus. I watched the statue move a perfect arm ever so slightly: a motion of inimitable grace and serenity. Though barely a flinch, the gesture carried a resounding, incontrovertible command: Come to me. I had been summoned. I was powerless to resist. I drew toward her like a helpless puppet before its master my luminous luscious puppet-mistress in the dark starless sky. Would she be cruel or kind to her little marionette man? Did she plan to have me in her oven like so many witches before her? Was this the end for Ansell? (I guess Ansell had been created for such ends; only my golden goose had never yet been successfully cooked.) Following one slow involuntary movement, I suddenly found myself placed on hands and knees before heavens altar. Beads of sweat broke over my brow, and the smell of anticipation filled that dark, dark room with a lusty, intoxicating fragrance. My head came to rest on a smooth marble thigh. I was the sacrificial lamb, and Venus thigh was my chopping block. Fear suddenly gripped my heart: a desperate groping bony hand that fumbled for the latch to a dark, dark bloody chamber. I felt it force its way into my most guarded sanctum; discover my most coveted treasure trove; and tear the lid from its rusted buried chest. An eternity of nursery crimes broke free of my dictator hold in that horrid moment; just as great gallons of tears burst from my eyes, gushed down my cheeks and fell like impossible saltwater rain upon the ample naked thighs of my petrified goddess. And then, as though by some miracle, I felt that rocky chopping-block-of-death thigh melt into soft moist warm skin; felt the caressing benediction of gentle pulsing life-filled hands upon my head; heard the soft crooning words of living moving lungs heralded from above; tasted the sweet golden spray of cherubmother nectar on my tongue as Venus came alive and released me from my fairy tale perdition. Fuck me, she purred, without the rubber, sailor.

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Satan returned
When Uranus was reduced to impotence, his son Chronos, or Saturn, liberated the Titans and became chief of the new dynasty. He married his sister Rhea, who gave him three daughters and three sons, among them Zeus, or Jupiter. Fearing he would be supplanted by one of his children, Chronos swallowed each of them as it was born. But Zeus survived. from the Larousse Encyclopaedia of Mythology. Saturn returned on Saturday night, reclining on his great axis, sporting his favourite asteroid belt for the occasion, namely, his birthday. He had lurked for twenty-nine years in the shadows, just to add another candle to his cake. And thus adorned, he returned like a movie star from a forgotten era in cinema, when heroes had been real men, and the world a sombre black-and-white montage that moved irregularly to the clacking of distant sound reels. He returned from his twenty-nine year circumlocution, his voyage of isolation around the fringes, around the warm inner circle of the gods who had banished him for his tyranny, to an inspection of his stately countenance in the mirror. He discovered a large blob of dried, crusted froth perched inelegantly on the end of his prominent beak. The leering legacy of a latte artlessly drunk. He swept the stain away with a disdainful flick of the finger. Inspected his face once more. Faultless. Turned to view his profile. Regal. But the memory of the blemish remained. When Saturn returned on the nose, he turned on the nose. He squeezed it and prodded it; stretched it and hammered it. Earlier that afternoon hed sat there sipping coffee at some swank caf, looking down over the busy street scene as an emperor might peer down his nose at the scurrying ants that are his subjects. He had revelled in the smug sense of paternalism that embraced him like a fearful subject of old, or a cowering shade of the past.
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No doubt he had looked the emperor part whilst sitting there as indeed he had once been, before the others had ganged up on him. Exiled him their sire! from the warmth of the inner circle! He had mellowed over those long aeons of exile, no doubt about it. His temper had abated some; his coolness had warmed up a little; and his tolerance had even grown somewhat. But his vanity persisted with a vengeance. To think: he had sat there, on his birthday no less, wearing froth on his nose! Forget the fine apparel, the groomed hair, the trimmed beard and the twinkle in his eyes! One bloody blob of dried milk had undone it all exposed him as the great crowing rooster he truly was! And so, naturally, he smashed the mirror into a thousand deadly shards and went looking to pick on his son, Jupiter. The latter could not be bested, however, for he was now King of the Gods. But at least Jupiter, a kindly ruler, might help a grumpy old sire pick up the pieces of his shattered pride.

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Vanity Fair
Fools, fools everywhere! To them the worlds a Vanity Fair. Like peacocks dressed in regal frocks Strut fools with coiffured hair. Fools, fools everywhere! They spoil the world with neer a care For carelessness is practised best When bounty is fools fare. Fools, fools everywhere! Where war breaks out youll find them there For conflict knows its true heroes When fools lay down their dare. Fools, fools everywhere! To golden calves they give their prayer. With cattle prods from gilded gods Fools herd us god knows where. Imagine! A legion of such trussed-up fools With hateful hearts and golden tools Belie your trust with wayward rules That they may use your backs as stools. Yet who am I to call their lie? When fools ride asses, And I ride mules?

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Fool Fuel
A fool is a fool because he fools himself. A fool can also be fooled by another fool, or by a whole bunch of fools. It takes a fool to know a fool. But both will address each other by different names, thus fooling one another. Language is the supreme tool of the fool. It allows fools to tell stories that sound meaningful and cool, because words seem to define all lifes rules. Life is in fact an unruly mule. It would rather drop dead than have its ass ridden by fools. Fools think that life is a party and that it is someone elses job to clean up their stools. Fools like noisy places where they dont have to listen to other fools. Fools cannot bear to be left alone with their own foolish thoughts. Fools speak without thinking first, as a rule. By speaking, a fool will not have to drool. Fools believe that what they talk about is actually cool. Every fool thinks he is somebody. The biggest fools think they are the centres of the universe. A wise guy knows he is nobody. But even wise guys are fools, because to know a fool is to identity with a fool. Every fool wants to be loved, but most fools are far too selfabsorbed to love anyone other than themselves. One fools folly is another fools comedy. Fools never mind their own business. They are constantly plotting, gossiping and interfering. No fool really wants his fellow fool to be happy: fools very easily get jealous of another fools success. Fools are never happy with what theyve got. They always
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want more, or what some other fool has. The fool is the lunatic in the full moon. A fool is a kind of aloof. A loof fool has created a fabulous standoffish mechanism to persuade others fools that he is actually cool. But in reality he is just another sad and lonely fool. Not all fools are uncool. A fool locked in a freezer is quite cool. There is a fool in every following. Put a bunch of fools together and they will elect a leader. That leader will think he rules. But at the end of the day that leader is still just another damned fool. A fool who leads other fools is doubly foolish, because he actually believes there is a way to go other than the way of all fools. Delusion plus power makes for especially dangerous foolery. There is no one actually steering the Ship of Fools. The former captain, a wise guy, chose to jump overboard which was quite foolish considering he could have taken the life raft. The day will come when man is no longer top of the food chain. Sooner or later some smart creature will open up a fool chain, where fools will stand in aisles, in chains. Those fools will have become a kind of food. Other smart creatures will purchase those chained-up fools, cook them and eat them, and thereby swallow a bit of foolish pride. Those smart creatures will then shit out the undigested foolish bits, and use that stool as fuel. Fool fuel will rule, because when all that fuel from fools in stools has finally fumed, there will be no more foolery to fry. I can think of no better product for the environment.

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81 Ways to Die
You may ask whether Zen involves being mindful of ones own schizophrenia. Put it this way: most schizophrenics think they are either Jesus or the Devil. I know I am both at least in the sense that Ming the Merciless is Steppenwolf and Max von Sydow is the Missing Link. For a while there I kept seeing the Green Man in the foliage and Yoda in the pagoda. Of course the big burning question for me at the time was whether Han Solo was in actual fact a Jedi knight. May the Farce be with you, Han just like it was when the Nazis raided the lost ark, I thought. Sometimes everything felt so right it was just plain wrong. No one knew why this was the case. In order to cure me I first underwent psychosurgery the sort of operation routinely performed on psychopaths. When this did not work they subjected me to a radical new line of therapy: I was instructed to design business cards for each of my eighty-one personalities. Eighty-one is of course a very sacred number to Buddhists. It is the product of nine times nine nine being a very special little digit on its own right according to sacred geometry. Just multiply anything by nine and then add the resulting numbers together. They will add up to nine, I assure you. Magic. What the shrinks could not know was that in actuality I suffered from a very rare condition known as Pyrophrenia or inflammation of the soul. I was also pathologically independent. For many years I danced in the wings, dodging the big hooked cane that wished to fetch me out on stage. I lived alone in a house of broken dreams. It was full of dusty hopes and decaying memories. Little by little my home was enveloped in long sticky silken strands, and eventually overrun by a wall of angry advanc126

ing blackberries. Inside, bits of twisted metal and wood spread slowly across the walls. I was so poor, that when a beggar once gave me a few coins, I felt rich. I had absolutely nothing, and therefore I had nothing to lose. Poverty made me half the man I am today. I felt like a dreamer who had ceased to be part of the dream a soul in limbo, belonging nowhere. At one point it occurred to me that I had been experiencing a mid-life crisis ever since I could remember. At thirty-three I felt washed up like that other famous fool who once staked himself to a cross just to prove a point. Jesus had done much for Magdalenes confidence largely to the detriment of his own. He made Mary realise that she was far worthier than just a two-bit whore, whereafter she had begun attracting a much richer clientele. If I had learned anything in this lifetime, it was how to take a good beating. My aim was not to feel better, just to feel. Life was a really dark and abstract place for me back then even in the sunshine. In fact, were it not for my high degree of culture and sophistication, I may as well have been living in a grass hut. I lived most of my days as though they were to be my last. I practised solitary confinement in order to achieve an attitude of surrender to the endless moment. But eventually I found myself caught up in an endless tape loop. I would stumble out of bed, groggily piss over the edge of the balcony onto my sacrificial tree. Eventually it died. I would make coffee and more coffee. I would arc up the jukebox and play with my pet sore until it wept. I would chain-smoke for one solid hour, scribble a few crazy ideas, make lists, and plan my escape. I would then wander off on pointless missions, chat with a few loons, and finally be deterred by the great electric fence that encompassed my Village of the Damned. During those long hermit years I was either out to lunch or having breakfast in bed. I smoked so much grass that my hair turned green, and I began to mow my beard.

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I guess ones success with psychedelic substances boils down to whether one has the stomach for new and mind-boggling experiences. Sure, I had fun. But the real question remained: How does one actually escape the prison of the Self? Must one dissolve the very bars of reality? Liquefy the mind? Incinerate the soul? Vaporise the body? Can a mans ideals and aspirations ever conquer his rebellious flesh, his hearts yearning, his Souls incontestable demands? Perhaps it is not so much a case of thinking too much that leaves one in a state of perplexity, but thinking too deeply about the wrong things? The closer one approaches absolute truth, the more one is enveloped in lies it seems. What if, in actual fact, life was merely trying to rouse itself from an endlessly recurring lucid nightmare? Had I wound myself up just to see what would happen when I exploded? After all, Man is the director of his own horror. Life is just a big interactive movie, no matter what the critics tell you. Body acts, Mind directs, Heart composes the score, and Soul edits the final cut. Meanwhile God just kicks back and enjoys the show. As director-cum-method actor I had been researching the character of a loser for so long that I should have received an Oscar. Starve a man of love and see what happens. Give a man a gun and too much time to think and he will eventually shoot himself in the head. Or worse, give a man a gun and nothing to think about and hell probably shoot someone else. Two of my closest buddies, a couple of shrinks, once took me out for dinner to get me out of my head. I sat there nervously in my leathers and furs, surrounded by hip urban professional types, feeling very much like the barbarian in the Asian boutique. They bought me wine, olives and swordfish. They told me I was a cross between Plato and Brad Pitt. I said I felt more like Goofy meets Frankenstein. I told them about the time when Frankenstein asked Medusa out on a date and received a withering look in reply. They laughed and patted me on the back. I asked them why

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they were being so nice to me and they replied they were merely testing out my social skills. What are pals for? My ego, having been thoroughly annihilated, contemplated the grim road to salvation. A course in affirmation, I should think, it mused. OK, here goes: I am the greatest. No one cuts the moves like me. Abase yourselves before me, your new Emperor! After several such weeks of rigorous bombastic self-aggrandisement my ego finally returned to a healthy state of self-respect. Of course it is the natural evolution of the Ego to strive to be as big as the Superego. Be as big as you wanna be, baby! my expanding ego would encourage. But it aint easy being everything, my Superego replied. I wanted to be everything, but was far too finite for the endless moment. A man can tie himself in all kinds of knots in the pursuit of spiritual power, but it remains completely beyond his control as to whether he is graced by the Big Love at the end of the day. I suspect that man secretly hates himself for not feeling more love. I also suspect that mans primary departure from grace was simply born of the desire to be the judge of himself to learn on his own, in his own time and manner. Certainly the more I was told to submit the meaner I got. Job could keep his stinking job I had my own bridges to burn. Never fuck with a telepathic psychopath! I warned. One day, for instance, I felt so fearless that I invited my mortal enemy, a certain Mr Hyde, over for dinner. A notorious pot fiend, Mr Hyde promptly devoured my entire stash, confessed how he had once killed two stoned birds, and dribbled on for hours about his favourite hobbies: shredding and waste management. After dinner I said a little prayer: Dear Lord, Thank you for the constant train of idiots who cross my path, whose arrogance, insensitivity, pride, vanity, and self-righteousness force me to examine all of the above sleeping vices in myself. And let us of course not forget to thank thee, Dear Satan, for the unrelenting volleys of shit I am forced to wipe from my face on a daily basis hurled by

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your artless minions, who are in their legions without whose foul acts of derision my stomach would never have become cast-iron. Mr. Hyde thanked me for supper, trashed my house, and left. I guess that being a Lord of Chaos does not come with a nice neat job description. Sometimes I wondered whether the universe was created just to annoy me. I would often gaze about at the vain scrabbling lives of men, incredulously noting their passions and hopes, their trials and disappointments, and think to myself: Is the final outcome of all your earthly ordeals to reach the point I have attained a state of spiritual impasse and worldly exhaustion? My soul flared with rage at the state of the world. But then it struck me: All a man needs to be happy is something to worry about. Perhaps the world would finally learn from its history when I, its microcosm, learnt to alter my own stubborn ways? Get with the program! the System demanded. But its my job to crash it, I replied. Grow or die! my Superego admonished from above. Mohammed waited and waited and waited. After aeons of waiting, it seemed, a sudden violent continental shift brought the once distant mountain to his very feet. Finally! thought Mohammed. Now I can get on with my life. And so my pyrophrenic soul dreamt up a brand new directorial challenge for me: When the Hosts of Heaven finally subjugated their ancient enemy, the Beast, they asked themselves with puzzlement: What kind of prisons gonna hold this thing? One particularly savvy angel piped up: Why not give it its own movie to star in, make it play the role of the good guy on the run from the legions of darkness, let it experience what it feels like to be in our shoes? The angles, an innocent and gullible lot, concurred with Lucifers good idea. There is no greater story in the world than having the Devil on your arse. It makes for ultimate narrative tension, particularly if you get to write about it.

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When confronted by the Champion of Darkness, the Hero of Light knew he had finally met his own Shadow and so forth. To be warned of the Devils immanent arrival is not necessarily a bad thing. Though terrifying in portent, it is nonetheless an incredibly joyous omen, for to be hounded by an angry nemesis is to be notified that you have most definitely not yet sold out unless, of course, you have merely disobeyed your scaly superior and he has come to set you straight. Well, we all know about the Antichrist, but just how many people have contemplated the Anti-Buddha? My ensuing struggle with the great orange Beast boiled down to a single question: Did I posses the desire or the capability to step outside of myself? Try as I might, my inner Buddhist could not conquer his own dogged vanity. He even looked good when he meditated. A good narcissist spends at least eight hours daily in front of the mirror. An intellectual narcissist cant stop writing about himself. I couldnt stop quoting myself. In my own mind I was the anonymous celebrity, the philosopher-king cast into exile by his very own revolting administrative staff. It is not particularly functional to acknowledge you are in fact nobody, especially when you face the horror that, at the bottom of it all, you might very well be just another fucking idiot. It takes a humble man to look himself in the mirror and admit that, yeah, he is kind of funny looking. Of course there are certain mirrors that will always manage to make you look ugly, no matter what. They will somehow find a way to magnify and distort your every blemish, to produce a princely homunculus of disfigurement before your gooseberry eyes. With an uglifying jolt they will bring you back down to earth and provide you with a true statement about your festering vanity. Of course Snow Whites evil stepmother owned the other kind of magic mirror. I needed a scapegoat from myself Where was my fool to cheer me up when I needed him most? The phone rang. You are not alone in your solitude, my fool consoled over the intercom.

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My latest upgraded model of fool was equipped with advanced internal self-monitoring and auto-regenerative functions. This meant a Fool could now consciously rush in where angels feared to tread, and to quickly repair himself when the shit inevitably clogged up his internal fans. You are probably the greatest writer of the times, which is indeed a very sad state of affairs, he placated. I suggested he keep his inner idiot on a leash. My fool plaintively confessed how, after many long years contemplating the universe, he had come no closer to grasping its truths. He had asked all the big questions but received little answer. I suggested he inquire a little more deeply into such matters. Yes, thats it! I need to meditate to close my eyes a bit more, he said. Or open them a bit more, I suggested. I just couldnt keep up with my own foolish thoughts, it seemed. But then, after a bit of a joke and a laugh, I realised that I had in fact been entertaining myself all along that there was in fact no one on the other end of the line! Without doubt love begins in the belly, as a big shuddering rumble. Here I am! shouted God with great excitement. But of course no one took any notice of him. It struck me that vanity, in itself, had not been the thing to overcome but the very twisted and maligned images of the eighty-one simulacra I had conjured in the mirrors of my heart and mind. Obsession with ones own might and majesty is seldom at the true heart of vanity, but a morbid fascination with our numerous blemishes and inadequacies. I had secretly despised each and every one of the upstarts in my soul, most of all the dreaded inner Anti-Buddha. I am the alpha male and the omega man, he would often gloat. He was quite a funny little guy, I had to admit and so I finally decided to embrace him. I love you deeply, I told my shadow. Though to me you are still just an abstraction.

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Thereafter I was often seen amusing myself for hours on end, alone in the sun, cracking gags, and laughing at myself uproariously. No topic was too black. What exquisite torture it is to feel fully alive! I can now almost appreciate the preference for comfortable numbness. Met my future wife the other day. After several cups of tea she already wanted a divorce.

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Franks Song
I am the sane madman And the homeless emperor. I am the naked thespian And the tongue-tied storyteller. I am the sociable alien And the sophisticated heathen. I am the punk Rastafarian And the desperate comedian. I am the flower child in leather And the beggar aristocrat. I am the peacock without feathers And the beaten puppy brat. I am the poet scientist And the irrational scholar. I am the orderly anarchist And the peace-loving warrior. I am the muddied lotus And the deluded seer. I am the numb sensualist And the gluttonous abstainer. I am the philanthropic narcissist And the misanthropic philosopher. I am the tampering anthropologist And the stargazing astrologer. I am the mute cunning linguist And the perfect selfish lover. I am the cunt-licking misogynist And the bedroom suite composer. I am the vampiric purist And the sober drunk. I am the busybody Buddhist And the lunatic monk.

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I am the universal separatist And the captive cosmonaut. I am the silent revolutionist And the spiritual robot. I am the perverse moralist And the reserved lecher. I am the corrupted idealist And the smooth-skinned leper. I am the well-behaved recidivist And the gentle tyrant. I am the sensitive terrorist And the proud mendicant. I am the deaf counsellor, The lying soothe-sayer, The blind archer, The terminal doctor, The smoking yoga master, The impotent porn star, The homophobic arse-fucker, The celibate womaniser, The self-effacing prancer, The clumsy tap dancer, The spotted panther, The idle traveller, And the loafing gatherer. I am the hairs in your champagne And the diamonds in your shit. Im the madman whos quite sane, For Im the King of Fools and Gits.

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A Sensitive New Age Guide

I am the master of my own matrix. Though the world about me may seem beyond my control, how I respond to it is my own choice. I hereby choose choice! I will not be the victim of my own mind. I refuse to leave my mark in this life as just another marginalised, confused victim of circumstance. I will not be like the rest of the world: I will learn from my history! I have learned from my mistakes and therefore forgive my past follies. When I feel nostalgic, I place myself in the shoes of my former self and discover I have been fantasising about the person I have become today. Wherever I am, I feel at home. Nothing can disrupt my peace or diminish my power unless I permit it. By respecting others, I respect myself. Whenever I start talking, I stop listening. I will listen to those who greet me: they are the whisperings of my own mind turned outward. I will drop my preconceptions about those I meet, whom I think to know. Let them be strangers to me, most of all those I love dearest. There are two kinds of people in the world: those who think there are two kinds of people in the world; and those who know there are all kinds. Nobody is really anybody. Identity is comprised partly from how others perceive you, but mostly from how you perceive yourself. Most perceptions of reality are incomplete, particularly where words are involved. Spirit requires no words to justify its existence.
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My spirit is radiant. My heart is pure. I am the warrior who conquers the world with love. My greatest joy comes from bringing happiness to others. I will strive to have more holy moments with my fellows. I will permit others to shower me with affection. I am the artist, life is my muse, the world is my teacher, and love is my inspiration. The rare and precious beauty of the world is something seen mostly in the periphery of our vision. Alas, our eyes are poorly designed to behold life in its full splendour. Why can I not know the whole world as I gaze upon a scene? Life is as deep as your insight permits. Every picture contains a million things. Just look around. Must I always behold reality through the eyes of context? I will see things as they are, not as I wish to see them. Each and every day is a spiritual day, no matter how banal it might seem. As I change, the world changes around me. All I have to do in life is watch and feel. Am I afraid to revel in the moment because I fear it will end? Miracles take place about us all the time. We are simply too busy to notice most of them. I am only ever as busy as I want to be. When one is preoccupied with the acquisition of a thing or the attainment of a goal, the moment is lost. As you stroll across the blue grassy knoll, heed the little bird that sings to you small commentaries on things. You know you are living when you are plunged in a deep sense of strangeness: walking a razors edge between nostalgia and expectation, knowing and bewilderment, hope and fear, boldness and shyness. Do not be afraid of your judgments. Just have the courage to examine their accuracy. It is one thing to be fearful. It is another to admit that you are afraid. I have acknowledged my fears. Now I will conquer them. Life is in fact a lot more interesting and exciting if all the players are fearless.

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Many of us move through life with thorns lodged in our paws. Man generally learns from hardship. All nature is spawned from the seeds of conflict, even yours. For many, a sense of personal power comes from acknowledging the less fortunate conditions of others. When will mankind stop passing the pain down the food chain? Evil likes to party. But there is nothing quite like a good celebration. If one is to be a villain, then one should strive to be a good one. It is better to be genuinely mean than pretentiously kind. The universe wants nothing more than for you to be thoroughly possessed of your own true nature. Truly powerful people want other people to be powerful too. I will encourage those who are ready to learn, not punish them for their ignorance. A good shepherd does not punish his sheep, even the naughty black ones. If you allow people to fully be themselves, then they will quickly show you their true colours. I have no real enemies other than the phantoms of my own mind. In a state of anger, frustration, intolerance, or condemnation, I am reminded of the absence of love, and my efforts to rediscover it are redoubled. If I am bitter, mistrustful, aggressive or intolerant, then I have forgotten who I truly am. For a villain to escape self-recrimination and guilt, he must have no recollection of his deeds. Only the very best villains are blessed with amnesia. Others may forget your lies, but you will not. Through careful study of my actions and my speech, I am able to identify my weaknesses and limitations. By acknowledging the limitations of my thinking I allow my mind to expand. My intelligence is boundless. Criticism narrows the mind.

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Instead of focussing on the faults of others, I will first address my own shortcomings. I will mind my own business. Great minds do not think alike. They are too busy going where no one else has gone before. I hereby exercise my divine right to do whatever the heck I want, with whomever wants to do it with me. I do everything for a reason, whether I know it at the time or not. I have nothing to prove. My existence is proof enough. My will is supreme. I will observe my impulses in progress and resist the urge to act upon them. I will remember to breathe. I will take it slow, then let it go. I will master my adrenaline. I will move gracefully between each new moment. I will embrace the grace. I will seize each new moment of inexplicable beauty. I will sit still and drink in deeply the ambiance, for it is like a cup of sweet wine after a long march. Like a gift from the heavens, I will need a clear recollection of such moments when the march leads me through deserts where there is no water, much less wine. At the end of the day it is all about feeling the Big Love. The circumstances that arise en route are incidental, like roads and fences demarcating ones passage though foreign lands. Each day I make sure I experience at least one perfect moment. Look for the pearls in life, someone once said. Sure enough, I looked up into the night sky, where one such lunar beauty hovered, almost within reach.

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Epilogue: A Day in the Afterlife of Genghis Khan

At dawn Genghis meditates on a hilltop or in an abandoned temple. In the early morning he gathers with his generals and shows them the Dao. At midmorning he spars with his captains. At noon he feasts with the common man, tells the children a story, and meets with one newborn. In the early afternoon he returns to his private Zen garden, where he makes art, composes songs, writes poetry, and dreams about his former life. In the late afternoon he takes walks and horseback rides with his best friend through the forests and the mountains. At dusk he visits his lover. For an hour they stare silently into one anothers eyes, exchanging wordless vows of love. In the evening they dine and speak softly on matters of home and state. At night they tune their instruments together and make beautiful music. At midnight they fall asleep in each others arms. Late at night Genghis rises quietly and slips away beneath the moon. He sparks a joint, spreads his wings, and soars high above the sleeping land. In the wee small hours Genghis swings by the hottest little club in town, commandeers the decks, and devastates the dance floor. At the approach of dawn he seeks out a lonely hilltop or an abandoned temple, folds his wings, and meditates on the day just concluded.

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GENGHIS KHAN was once asked at an interview: Why did you conquer the world? Just what drove you to it? I think, at the time, I was merely testing out my boundaries, was his reply.