Abnormal Legends

Index

The Things Stephen Colbert Tells Me To Do

Womyn Nation

Steven Spielberg meets Dajjal Fear

My Pinup Girl

My Magic Butt

A Simple Guide To Becoming the Anticrist

The People We Don’t See

The Mountain Head

The Book of Faces

The Game Players

The Boiler Room

The Things Stephen Colbert Tells me to Do

My name is MacKenzie Chadsworth. I am a madman.

But being a madman it’s not my fault. Stephen Colbert is who drove me mad. He is responsible. He has
told me what to do for years. He tells me now what to do. You see? Perhaps MacKenzie Chadsworth is
not really my name. Maybe my really name is really George McKenzie, and I am a 52 year old man, not
really a 13 year old high school cheerleader.

I’m not sure.

Both personalities live inside me so flawlessly that the only thing that I am for certain is that Stephen
Colbert tell me what to do. He tells both George and MacKenzie, and whoever I might be at the time, I
can only agree with Stephen.

It began when I was MacKenzie.

I woke up and found myself in George’s home. I was being haunted by myself. I think George kidnapped
me to rape me. So I was alone, in HIS room… with all those pictures of naked girls. All the sex toys. It was
disgusting. I was afraid. I was very afraid.
Anyhow.. I was tripping, badly, but I was watching The Colbert Report on the t.v. And somehow, watching
Stephen brought me back to myself, and I felt better. And Stephen turned to me, and he said:
MacKenzie… MacKenzie… You must go home, to your parent’s home. MacKenzie, you are not safe.

Wow.

Then he continued his ordinary show, talking about prescription medications… But I knew he was
watching me. So I turned to the t.v. said:

“Hi Stephen. Are you watching me?”

And he replied:

“Don’t think I’m not paying attention. I welcome you to our show, I am so glad you came tonight! It’s
going to be a very special show, MacKenzie.”

And I knew.. I knew he was watching me. He was talking to me.

With wrapped attention, I followed his every gesture and word, and I realized that his objective during
the show was to give me a special message, only for me. I was his chosen. I was somehow special.

Oh, he was talking about Donald Trump, as he always does, but really what he was doing was telling me..
Explaining to me… how it my duty, my sacred duty to KILL Trump. Somehow, I WAS the most important
person in the planet. Me, little MacKenzie Chadsworth, a simple and timid little girl who went to
Portland High, in Oregon, was the chosen champion of the great wizard Stephen Colbert to do away with
the most evil man on the planet.

I was destined to execute the President of the United States, and save America from destruction. all
because Stephen Colbert was making it clear how, and when. He was telling me that Trump would be
coming to Portland, to speak with the Lumberjacks Union of Oregon, a rising organization with strong
ties to the extreme right-wing Hammerskins, a neo-nazi group. And the reason I was the chosen one was
simple: my “other self”, George, actually worked as a Lumberjack and was an honorable member of the
Lumberjacks Union. Although I would not have access to Trump, George would.

I looked at myself in the mirror, and I had to smile. I was very pretty. I was naked, of course. I always
woke up naked in George’s house. He probably had his way with me and then gave me drugs to make me
forget what happened, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care that I was his sexual toy, because I knew.. I knew
with great certainty my objective in life. I was sent by God to slay the antichrist. And Trump was that
antichrist.

I went to sleep that night, and somehow, George took over my mind, and I receded into his subconscious
memory, but I knew that when the time came, I would be ready. Why or how George and I shared bodies
was not important. The only important thing was that when the time came, I would come out of George
and slay the monster who now ruled over us with an iron fist.

The day of the convention, George took up his place among the “honored” guests, sitting behind the
president who was flanked by a couple of secret service gorillas. But George was such a “trusted”
person, that he had not been thoroughly checked during the security checks prior to the event. I had
counted on this.

Actually, Stephen Colbert had planned every aspect of my glorious attack against the destroyer of
worlds.

“The pen is truly mightier than the sword…” He had said in the show prior to the event, and although
stupid George knew nothing of this, I MacKenzie understood perfectly the subtext. The weapon of justice
would be a pen.

And so “George” went through the president’s security checks with a simple ballpoint pen in his plaid
shirt pocket. But I, MacKenzie, knew what the pen was really for… For days, I had practised with similar
pens on raw pork ribs, making sure that I could pierce the skin of the animal with the pen with a quick,
brutal jab. It was hard, but not impossible.
I would aim for his carotid artery, the one that sticks out in our necks. He would bleed to death within
minutes, and very unlikely he would be saved, even by the best efforts of his gorillas. I would die, of
course. Probably shot on the spot, or maybe by lethal injection later on. But if I, MacKenzie Chadsworth,
managed to kill Donald Trump, I would forever be remembered as the saviour of the United States, not
as an assassin, but a hero.

And George would disappear forever. We would no longer have to share bodies. I hated George.

It was on. President Trump shook my/George’s hand. Then I sat, about ten feet away from him, I could
see his backside. In fact, I could see the back of his neck. That morning, George had “taken his leave” of
his body, and I was totally in control. Stephen Colbert had organized the entire event perfectly.

I wondered briefly if I was an MK-Ultra tool of the far left. But then I remembered that Trump was a
monster, and my duty became clear. If I was an MK-Ultra tool, it did not matter much. I would do this
thing and go down in history, even if not as a hero, maybe just a lunatic, but down in history all the
same.

“Wicked Hillary is still out there, folks, doing her wicked things, but history has put her in the back-seat,
and now WE, the American people are in charge. And let me tell you, there will be lots of trees to cut.
There will be so many trees to cut, you will have lots of work, you will work so hard, and there will be so
much lumber that you won’t believe it.” The president’s speech was a rambling thing, but hypnotic, like a
kind of rap-song without music.

This was my chance…

“Here, folks, let me show you… See right behind me? That’s George. He’s a lumberjack, just like you. He
cuts trees, folks… George… Come on up here…”

Oops. I hadn’t expected this. This was not going according to plan. Stephen Colbert had not warned me
about this.
“Come on, George, don’t be timid.” the President pointed at me.

And suddenly, with that word, “timid”, something inexplicable happened to me. George and I somehow
“came together” for a brief instant, and I came to realize the totality of my existence as MacKenzie as
something of a flaw in the matrix. Sure, I WAS a little 13 year old girl, but I was also… in the body of a big,
fat lumberjack. I would NEVER really be MacKenzie, because I lived inside George’s body… and although I
WAS MacKenzie, I was also George, and I had to accept that little, insufferable problem.

“George, are you okay? Get up on here! Your President calls you!” Trump demanded.

I, MacKenzie/George obeyed. I went up to Trump and shook his hand.

“George, tell these nice folks what it is that you like to do! Do you like to cut trees? Do you think we
should cut more trees?” He demanded.

“Eh… Eh… No.. I don’t like to cut trees… I like to watch Stephen Colbert.” MacKenzie/George said in a
little girls’ voice.

And the shit hit the fan. But I made it out alive, and so did Trump, and somehow, I did become a kind of
celebrity. Although many of my friends, and none of my family would ever talk to me again.

Stephen Colbert invited me to his show, and I became a celebrated transgender rights warrior,
environmentalist...

WOMYN NATION

The end began with a cute little girl from Sweden. The year was 2020 and cute little Elizabeta Strohl was
a typical European preteen girl, worried principally about her school grades, boys and the newest anime
or K-Pop band. Liza would not harm a fly and her expectations for the future were the same as most girls
her age: study hard and go to college to learn some kind of profession that would help the world.

Liza’s dreams ended when a group of four really ignorant muslim teens found her walking alone back to
her house through an abandoned park after going to visit her grandmother, who lived on the other side
of the park. The immigrant boys raped and murdered her.

The outrage of Liza’s untimely death shot out like wildfire throughout Europe, and when the
investigation regarding her death pointed to “the four beasts” as they became known, the immigrant
boys were quickly arrested, convicted and imprisoned. Muslim gropus were too ashamed of the boy’s
actions to fight back against what was clearly a vindictive trial and poorly staged media circus.

But the indictment of “the four beasts” in Sweden gave a strong push to the ultra-right all over Europe,
who were mostly ordinary Europeans absolutely fed up with taxing and ridiculous mass immigration
from muslim nations. In a strange coincidence, the women’s rights movement allied with the extreme
right in order to fight “the islamic treatment of women” and one figure in Germany, particularly, Helge
Schittnozer, an extreme right feminist rose quickly to become the most important and visual woman in
politics in the entire planet within a decade after the horrible murder of Liza Strohl. By 2030, Helge was
Germany’s Chancellor. By 2036, she was the President of the now extremely powerful European Union.

Helge not only managed to eliminate Islam completely from Europe thorugh a complicated set of laws
that made life for muslims impossible, but eventually, began to build the feminist society of the future,
where women, and not men, made most of the important decicions in politics. Men mostly approved of
her efforts, since this combination of liberalism and right-wing politics actually worked to better the lives
of women all over the continent. Similar movements followed suit in America, Japan and Australia. And
women all over the world began to look once again at the West for spiritual inspiration, a bit like when
the Catholic Church conquered most of Africa, Latin America and Asia.

By 2050, thanks principally to the “European Amazons” as the female leaders of Europe were called,
females in high positions, presidents, prime ministers, were the norm, and the role of the male became
quite different from what it had been before. Men were now simple manual workers. Almost second-
class citizens.
In the year 2062, an important scientific discovery, was made of all people by a man, a brilliant genecisit
by the name Dr. Amadeus John Pennyworth. Pennyworth discovered a gene in all men which made it
absolutely clear that men were far more violent than women due to their masculine makeup. This
discovery would change the face of the world.

By then, there were only a handful of males in important government positions, and a UN referendum
was made to eliminate men from all manner of violent activities, like soldiering and policing. The females
tried to get the armies of the world to rid themselves of their males in order to insure the peace. Men
tried to fight back, but they no longer had any clout politically, so it was an easy thing for the females to
demolish the counter insurgency of male-superiority. By 2070, there were no longer any active male
soldiers.

It was after this, in January of 2072 when “The She Bitch” of Nigeria rose to power all over Africa. Her
name was Naomi Wimphrey Totoga, and in order to understand her, one would have to understand
Africa in 2072. The mostly peaceful female revolution in Europe had a devastating effect in male-
dominated Africa, where men were far more macho and “manly”. The dark continent saw horrible
massacres, interminable guerrilla wars and genocides and an absolute ecocide in order to bring the
feminist European Model to the “primitive” tribes of old. But the females won the war, and their
principal leader was the “She Bitch of Nigeria”, who, with a ruthless campaign against all things male,
was able to cut the balls of the African Male Resistance, not only unifying the continent, but ensuring the
role of second-class citizens to all African men. African women had had enough of their bruttish
husbands, and they enslaved them outright. The She-Bitch made African males a little less than pets for
African women, and Africa, thanks to this, blossomed into a 1rst World Nation.

It was the She Bitch that called for a universal Womyn Nation. Africa had become the leader in all things
feminist after thousands of years of abuse and waste by men, and now, the whole world looked to Africa
to lead them into the future, and to the She Bitch to unify all womyn (who had taken the -men- out of
the word, by replacing the “e” with a “y”, and turning women into womyn.)

Getting her inspiration from bee and ant colonies, the She Bitch decided to “prevent” the birth of so
many males, just like a Queen Bee would do, and thus, within her generation and the next, Africa went
from a 1.2 to 1 ratio of men to women to 1 to 20. This too proved to be extremely successful as a social-
planning structure, and Africa advanced beyond all the other nations in culture, peace and economic
development. For the first time in her history, Africa was looked upon as the source of enlightenment
and wisdom for the rest for the world, and all it had to do to get there was to eliminate most of her men.
The rest of the nations followed suit, and in hospitals in every corner of the planet, little boys were
“discarded” in utero, causing that the male population decreased by 50% the first year after the
inauguration of Worldwide Nation of Womyns. Women had won the planet from men and by 2190, only
1 out of 100 babies were men. The feminist eugenic program was a great sucess and it insured a
peaceful, greener, gentler world. Men became sexual slaves of women, and all their human rights were
removed, including education, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Men were literally considered
“subhuman” beasts of burden. But the world became a paradise. A very feminist paradise but a paradise
non-the-less. There was no war. No crime. No poverty.

Disaster struck in the year 2214 , and a particularly virulent form of prostate virus eliminated most of the
males left in the world, reducing the ratio between men and women worldwide to 1 out of 1,000. Men
became an endangered species, and the governments (female, of course) of the world took great
measures to protect the few males left from extinction. Sadly, although the cure was found, it was found
by a male, so none of the women scientists took it seriously in time to save humanity from total
extinction.

By 2221, rats and cockroaches had inherited the earth. It is worth noting that neither species was too
worried either about feminism or chauvinism. All they cared about was having lots of sex and even more
babies. Something humanity should have paid more attention to.

Steven Spielberg meets Dajjal Fear

Steven’s home…. The view was from Los Angeles International Airport all the way to Malibu. On the left,
it was flanked by beautiful trees. On the right, it was flanked by Will Rogers State Park.

When Spielberg purchased the Spanish/Mediterranean style property for $6.5 million, he went back to
square one, pretty much stripping and re-doing the whole place from top to bottom. During the
renovation process, he actually managed to double the space taking it from 10,000 to 20,000 square
feet. Now the house boasts 5 bedrooms and 6 bathrooms, a Hobbit-inspired room, a vineyard
overlooking the beautiful Pacific Ocean, and of course a beautiful pool and terrace. The home spreads
across 3.5 acres.

I could have teleported directly into his bedroom, but I chose to fly around like a stalker. I knew Steven
didn’t much care for stalkers and the perverse pleasure of stalking him made me smile. I also knew that
besides a couple of employees who were elsewhere in the mansion, Steven was blissfully alone. One of
my abilities is to “tune in” to whoever I wish, and see with their eyes. Feel with their skin. Taste with
their tongue. Hear with their ears.
I was on a mission. I found him in the bath, trimming his beard.

The master bath is a study in architectural geometry, illuminated by indirect lamps and a skylight. The
arcs of the bathtub and fireplace niches play against the sweeping curve of the sink, which is topped,
quite dramatically, by a curved aquarium filled with fourteen thousand gallons of water. Another
Spielberg-inspired feature of the master bath is the floor: Every plank is curved to match the curve of the
aquarium, which gives the space a slightly warped look and feel. It's sort of a bent room. The perfect
place for a first contact.

He was still wearing his dinosaur pajamas. He was looking at himself in the huge mirror next to the sink
and trying to make his morning beard civilized. As I approached him noiselessly, floating gently above the
tiles, he could not help but spot me in his mirror, and as soon as he did, he did a 180 degree jump-turn
to look, and I gave him my most disarming smile.

His scream was long and pathetic, and I had to use one of my paralyzation beams from one of my many
eyestalks to stop him cold. He froze, literally, in mid-scream. His right hand held his beard-trimmer as if
he was going to throw it at me, but it too was frozen in time, harmlessly.

“My apologies, Mr. Spielbreg, I did not mean to startle you.” I said, apologetic. “If you promise me that
you will not scream, or try to throw things at me, I will be glad to release you. Blink your eyes once if you
agree.”

Steven blinked once. He was sweating, even though it was quite cool in the bathroom.

I sent another ray from another of my eyestalks to dispel the paralysis I had caused him. As soon as he
could move, Steven grabbed on to his sink so as not to collapse on the linoleum.

“A Dungeons and Dragons Beholder? Am I dreaming? It feels very real.” He said, mostly to himself.

“My name is Dajjal Fear, and as I said, I am a big fan. You are certainly not dreaming, and my reason for
this unannounced visit is just to thank you for decades of extremely useful service. I wanted to come and
meet you personally so I can offer you any reward you might wish for all you have done for me.” I had
prepared a speech, but I found myself forgetting the exact words. Steven intimidated me.

“This dream is far too real. I wonder if it’s a hallucination.” He was trying not to look at me, instead
focusing his eyes on his own hands.

“Mr. Spielberg, I can guarantee you that I am perfectly real.” I said, annoyed.

Humans usually reacted with either fear or rage when they saw me. Trying to deny my existence was
something relatively new.

Steven finally raised his eyes to look at me, and at once; I saw the great film-director awake in him. He
was scrutinizing me, as if trying to see how real I was. It was delicious. All his fear, all his denial was gone.
It had been replaced with a profound curiosity.
“If you are an illusion of some sort, you are the best special effect I have ever seen in my life. No signs of
animatronics, hologram, nothing. Your eyestalks look perfectly real, your main eye is totally realistic. Your
huge mouth is perfect, but you are still just a beholder from the game Dungeons and Dragons, so I have
to assume you are a hallucination, unless I am still asleep.” He said, still studying me.

“Oh, you are awake, and you are not hallucinating, Mr. Spielberg.” I repeated, sweetly.

“Your accent is more or less central U.S.A. ¿Wisconsin? That would be Gary Gyrax’s state. It makes sense,
you being a beholder, and all…” Steven shook his head, curiously, still thinking himself in the middle of a
particularly vivid dream.

“I come from another planet, sir. But I assure you I am as real as you are, and that you are certainly not
dreaming.”

Spielberg sat on the toilet and contemplated me for several minutes in silence. I felt kind of naked. But as
I have said before, I was here on a mission.

“Okay. Let's just say you are real, a creature from another world, a different realm, and that somehow
Beholders are real, not just science fiction. Why are you here? You said something about being my fan?”
Spielberg was quieting his mind with breathing exercises. I know the technique.

“Your biggest fan, sir. Your most adoring, thankful fan. You see, I am one of a race of beings from the
faraway planet of Nagaloka who feed on human emotion, and nobody else in the entertainment
business has caused more traumatic and extreme emotion than yourself, sir. You are single handedly
responsible for the creation of more fear and terror in the planet than anybody, including Stephen King,
who is only a close second…” I said, beaming.

“You feed on human emotion?” Steven asked, now calmer, after his breathing exercises.

“We dajjals feed on a certain kind of emotion, hence my name… Dajjal Fear. I feed specifically on fear,
and fear, sir, is your absolute most delicious product. Human Fear is a kind of nectar for myself, and even
though your movies play thousands of light-years away, the essence of that fear has served me as
sustenance, and I owe you a great debt.” I explained.

“So if I scare people with a movie you feed on them?” Steven was curious now.

“Not on -them- on their emotions. We dajjals can only feed on a specific emotion, for instance, in my
case fear, but other dajjals feed on other emotions, like lust, despair, hate, even love…”

“Fascinating…” Steven was no longer afraid of me.

“Human emotions cause a certain stir in the time-space continuum. You guys think that you have a good
or bad thought and that’s the end of it, but in reality, all thought expands through reality, creating whole
worlds. So when people are afraid of something, like a big white shark, for instance, that fear expands
into whole realms where that white shark is not only real, but instead of being just one shark, it’s a
whole world filled with giant white sharks. This is where the concept of -hell- comes from. It is not
infinite, but it does last hundreds of millions of years…” Everything I said was true, and common
knowledge among my race.

“Are you saying that our thoughts create worlds elsewhere in the universe?” Steven asked, amazed.

“Exactly.”

“How strange. I always thought it was true, but now, you are here, magically confirming it.” Steven got a
faraway look, probably remembering something from his childhood.

“That is why many races of spiritual beings consider humanity dangerous. Most of human thoughts are
based on fear, anger or lust. Your thoughts are toxic to many beings. But to me, they are absolutely
delicious.” I explained.

“Dajjal… It’s arabic for -adversary- right?” Steven nodded his head.

“Something like that…” I smiled.

“When you say I feed you, am I feeding the darker aspects of mankind?” Steven shook his head again.

“Not only the dark ones. You also feed my brothers, Love, Compassion and Hope. You are a kind of mixed
bag among my people.” I said.

Steven sighed.

“Anyhow… I came all this way to thank you.”

Steven’s hollywood-mogul eyes suddenly flared.

“You mentioned something about a gift?” He asked, greedily.

“Oh yeah. As a child, you always wanted to meet an ExtraTerrestrial. Well. Here I am!”

My Pinup Girl

She was a redhead. Probably fourteen or fifteen years old. And of course, she was the most beautiful of
all, the perfect angel, the one-and-only. She owned my heart from the very first moment I saw her. I was
only fourteen myself at the time and I had traded the magazine with the local baddie, Roy Ulster, who
sold cigarettes, beers and even weed to high school kids in the back of the Walmart Parking lot. The
magazine was one of those magazines that have limited release and that are probably made, went to my
house, entered the bathroom, locked the door and pulled my pants down. Before I could even finish
doing that, I ejaculated so strong and powerful that I almost fainted.
I hid the magazine under the bathroom mat and unlocked the door… My grandma was there, waiting
outside.

“Hell and tarnation, boy, what were you doing in there?” She asked, accusingly.

“Got sick grandma. Must have been that Chinese food yesterday.”

“Poor boy. Go on, you don’t have to do the dishes. Get some rest.”

“Thanks, Grandma…”

Later that day, when she was sleeping, I went back to the bathroom and picked up the magazine.
Outside the house, there was an old woodshed that grandma used to keep mostly keepsakes from her
younger years. There was a loose two-by-six in the shed which I had appropriated when my mother left
me with grandma. Inside that two-by-six, I kept all my treasures, and the magazine which had the
unceremonious title of “Lolita Schoolgirls 1980” went in there. The redhead, who did a full spread on
page 12 had been given the name “Shelly” by the producers of the magazine, and “Shelly” became my
three times a week date during all my teenage and high-school years.

After graduation, six years later, I was able to apply to College in Florida. My treasure box, which
included 2 silver coins, a set of dragon-dice and of course my Lolita Schoolgirls magazine came with me,
and oddly enough, I lost interest in Shelly and focused instead on fantasies of some of my more comely
classmates. The magazine was more of a reminder of the first time I ejaculated consciously, and I held on
to it out of a kind of morbid interest than actual sexual gratification.

I met Bertha in College. We were both after a degree in economics. Bertha pulled out, and I stayed, but
by then, four more years had passed, and we were sharing an apartment. She got pregnant, and I was
the dad. And we scared and young and stupid. But I had a little money which my grandma left me when
she died, and a huge old house back in Alabama. So I wasn’t SO worried and loved Bertha.
But no matter how much I loved Bertha, I was never able to get rid of my magazine. I didn’t even look at
it. I just wouldn’t part with it. It took a place of honor in my attic, right next to my wife’s wedding dress
and some of my bowling trophies.

Life was good for me. Four kids. Eight grandkids. A great career and a wonderful wife. I owned my own
house and owed nothing to nobody. I planted many fruit trees and built a picket fence. I even bought a
pickup truck.

I died peacefully, watching television. Heart attack. Nothing terrible, just not watching my diet and
enjoying cheeseburgers to the last. I was 86, and Bertha was there in the room with me. She sighed,
cried and put a blanket on my face until the ambulance arrived. There was no fuss. No drama. I was a
little worried that upon my death, my Lolita Schoolgirls magazine would be found in the attic. It was
embarrassing, and I wasn’t so sure why I kept it.

I was quite surprised to see that it was Shelly who came for me when I died. She looked exactly as in the
pictures BEFORE she took all her clothes off. She was wearing a red and blue plaid school uniforms with
white stockings and black shoes. She was absolutely gorgeous.

“Hello, Peter. I am Ivanka Vartoska. You just died.” She said with a very sweet Ukranian accent.

“I am dead?” I asked.

“Yes, look. Behind you.” She smiled.

I looked back and indeed, I was dead, sitting next to my wife, with a cloth on my head and my wife crying
on my bosom.

“Oh.”

“You had a heart attack.” Ivanka said.

“I thought your name was Shelly.” I babbled stupidly, very confused to see my own cadaver sitting there.

“That’s the name that they put on the magazine. My real name is Ivanka.” She smiled again. “I thought
you would like to know that.”

“Oh. I am actually not surprised to see you here, Ivanka.”

She cocked her head to the side, puzzled.

“I always loved you. I feel deeply in love with you the first time I saw you. Oh, I married my wife and I
loved her too, but it was you that I loved first.” I said.

And somehow, I knew she was dead, just like me. And that in all her life, she had never really known real
love. Because you see, we had been made for each other since we were born, but never really knew it
until we both had died.

MY MAGIC BUTT

Hi guys. If you don’t know me, you should. I’m famous. I’m also beautiful. And I have a magic butt.
There’s a lot of good looking girls out there, but there is only one with a magic butt, and that’s me:
Jennifer D. Lucious. The girl with the magic butt.

I am a natural blue eyed blonde, 23 years old and my measurements are thirty two, twenty six, thirty
two. So, I’m perfect. And did I mention my magic butt?
The magic began on my 15th birthday. I didn’t know it then, but somehow, my butt became a kind of
“mind-control” butt. All I had to do was to shake it near any male and I could ask them to do anything I
wanted.

The magic effect worked, of course, on my daddy for the first time. And it was quite accidental and
innocent. I came in from my morning jog, the day after my 15th birthday, and there was my dad, drinking
his morning coffee on the kitchen table. I shook my butt, well, my whole body, really, trying to shake off
the jog, and asked my dad, innocently:

“Dad I just turned 15, can you buy me a car?”

Daddy got this weird, lost look on his face, his eyes looking off into the distance, and without even
flinching said:

“Sure honey.”

I must admit I was surprised by his answer. Now, perhaps he had been thinking about buying me a car in
secret, but oddly enough, three days before, I had asked him the same question and his answer was
“no”. Now, he looked like a lost little puppy, trying to find his way home… And I couldn’t but help that he
was looking at my butt. Yuuuk.

Dad was good to his word, and within a week, we were car-shopping at our local used car salesman. He
was a greasy latino with a handlebar moustache and plaid suit. Just the kind of fellow you wouldn’t trust
to buy a used car. But as soon as I got to the car dealership, I observed that same vacant look on the car
salesman’s eyes as he looked at my butt. I was wearing some tight jeans and a pink blouse, and since
many men do tend to look at my butt, I didn’t make much of it, but then I found the car I wanted. It was
a 1985 blue Ford Mustang convertible. And I blurted out: “Daddy, I want that one!”

Dad looked at the salesman, sweating, and asked: “How much?”

“”Not for sale. That’s my car, sir. Sorry.” the ugly little man said.
Unconsciously, I shook my butt furiously, crying repeatedly “I want it, I want it, I want it!”

It worked.

“Well, I guess I could give it up if the young missus really wants it. $5,000. And it’s hers.”

I was still not very clear on the magic powers of my ass. But shortly after buying my mustang, I was
involved in an incident that made it plainly clear that my butt was magical.

I was driving my new car down the highway at double the speed limit when a motorcycle policeman
stopped me. He told me he was going to give me a ticket and tow my car away, going as far as wanting to
arrest me because I was driving without a license. I was terrified, but the moment he asked me to step
out of the car and open my trunk, suddenly his entire demeanor changed as he bent down to look at my
ass while I was busy opening the trunk of the car.

Suddenly, he dropped all his “bad hombre” act and began to act like a little kitten. He told me he was
wrong in trying to stop me and that I should get a license, sure, but that it was okay and I would only get
a warning this time.

The relationship between the cop acting as an asshole and then as a pussycat after looking at my butt
was too obvious to not be noticed by me. So I decided to try out my “magic powers” on other men to
see if it actually worked or I was just tripping.

I went to the local Starbucks and asked for a double mocha cappuccino mint jamboree. It cost $35 but
when the guy at the cash register asked for the money, I just did a little innocent twirl, shaking my ass
furiously in front of the smelly hipster and my ass did it’s magic trick, because the fellow got that “lost”
look on his eyes and asked me if he could please buy me my coffee. And I just nodded in agreement.

I wanted to push my powers to the limit, so I went to the bank, sat in front of one of the loan managers
and asked for a credit card. At first, the obese, sweaty man began to laugh, but as soon as i got up and
shook my ass in front of him pretending that I dropped my “pen” on the floor, he changed his tune and
gave me a platinum visa card.

I had found God’s gift to me. My ass. Over the next few years, I became a famous teen movie star, a
millionaire, traveled all over the world and even became an important political figure for women’s rights.
By the time I turned 18, I was one of the most important women in the world, rival only to Oprah
Wimphrey and Hilary Clinton. And even though all the cameras of the world were constantly pointed at
me, nobody ever mentioned my ass. It was as if my butt was a secret power that only I knew how to
operate. But I knew how to operate my butt. It always worked the same. Men could not resist it’s power.

With all the money in the world, fame and power, I became secretly obsessed with my derriere. I wanted
to know how it worked. Oh, I could make it work, but many other girls have pretty butts, but none that I
know of could hypnotize men with them the way I did. So I hired a very important research scientists to
analyze my ass.

His name was Dr. Protus Goodfellow McCormick, and besides being a neuro-surgeon, he was an
astrophysicist, amazonian ayahuasca shaman, nuclear biologist and film director. In short, he was the
smartest human being on the planet, and the moment he saw my ass shaking next to him, he became
obsessed like I was to find out WHY my butt was pure magic.

He used a quantum computer to measure my ass to a molecular level. He did a variety of chemical tests
on both my farts, my shit, and my pee. He communed with the spirits of the amazon Gods to ask them
about my ass. But he found nothing. My ass was “perfectly normal”. Whatever magical properties came
out of it were beyond his understanding.

So I became a born again Christian, because I began to think that the powers of my ass were something
of the devil, but all the men in the congregation, and especially the deacon himself, became totally
enamoured and bedazzled by my ass, and they decided to make me (and more specifically my ass) their
New God, replacing the bible with my photo album. Disgusted, I decided to leave civilization behind and
go hide in the mountains of Tibet.

But there, the abominable snowman of the Himalayas found me and was instantly bewitched by my ass,
wanting to serve me fresh Buddhist Monks from the local monastery to eat.
Desperate, I commited suicide but when Death came for me, he too became stupid because of my ass,
and decided not to take me to the afterlife. At my wits’ end, I went to a nunnery, and surrendered
everything to God. But the nuns in the cloister also went mad because of my ass, becoming feminist
lesbian atheists and proclaming me their new leader.

Twenty years have passed. Thankfully, my ass began to sag. Behind me are all the ass-slaves, all the
mystical gluteus worship and of course my fame and fortune. I married a plumber first and a cop next,
and now live in a mobile home in Alabama with four kids and a blissfully useless ass. I will never know
why my ass became possessed of such supernatural powers, but it does not matter, I have found
happiness in the form of blessed celulitis.

Thanks to fried chicken, doughnuts and cheeseburgers, I am now a perfectly normal poor white trash
mamma and never again will I have to worry about abusing the power of my magic butt.

A simple guide to becoming the antichrist

You can call me Lucifer, I am a spiritual leader of sorts, and I want to share with you the right easy way
guide to become the antichrist. You see, the book of Revelations in the Bible contains everything you
need to know to be either the antichrist or the false prophet, and in fact, the technology exists today to
make all apocalyptic prophecies come true. Take for instance Revelation 9:10, the part where it quotes:
“They also had thoraxes like breastplates of iron, and the sound of their wings was like the roar of many
horses and chariots rushing into battle. They had tails with stingers like scorpions, which had the power
to injure people for five months. They were ruled by a king, the angel of the Abyss. His name in Hebrew
is Abaddon, and in Greek it is Apollyon.…”

Let’s say you are a third-world banana republic leader… You have a small army, but large enough to cover
the prophecy, in the hundreds of thousands… Well, it’s not a big deal to put on a “mechanical poisoned
tail” on your soldier’s uniforms with a venom that hurts folks only for five months instaed of killing them
outright. Then you name yourself Abaddon, and presto! Instant antichrist. Folks worldwide, especially
those who read the bible will be terrified of you, and your scorpion tailed soldiers and loudly proclaimed
that the antichrist (you) has arrived to rule the world.

Your scorpion tailed soldiers might not convince the intellectuals, but the sad fact is that most folks are
pretty stupid on our planet, and easily convinced of the most absurd things, such as thinking that
mariguana is a drug.

But besides your scorpion tailed soldiers, the most important thing to becoming the antichrist is to
persecute christians. This simple act has gained the title of antichrist to such famous personalities in
history as Ghengis Khan, Saladdin and Stalin. Don’t be left out, do your best to convince the world that
christianity is a putrid meme causing untold suffering, prepare your “end of time” army and you will
certainly make it to the ranks of famous antichrists.

Next, you need a credible life-story. Maybe your mom was a satanic witch, or our dad a high level
illuminati demon. Maybe you are an orphan who was brought into an orphanage known for human
sacrifice. You’ll need an ancient religion or some mysterious cult. Perhaps you worship Cthulhu, or the
Great Spaghetti Monster. Use of psychotropic drugs is certainly recommended, as are all kinds of black
magic rituals. They will add to your mystique. Just think about Hitler and his relationship to the pagan
Thule Society. Christians will not believe you are the antichrist if you grew up lutheran or prespiterian.

Any credible antichrist will have some magic powers, so brush up on your hypnotic trance, telekinesis
and voodoo. Hidden and forbidden books help as well. Look up all the stuff the Bible, and the Talmud,
and the Koran have written about the antichrist and make a checklist. You don’t have to accomplish all
the stuff the antichrist does in all three books, because Christians, Muslims and Jews will actually never
agree entirely on what that stuff might be, but the more requirements you meet, the more likely that the
judeo-christians will actually agree that you are the antichrist, and that’s a good thing.

Now, the tricky part has to do with destroying the world. In the Bible, the angels of God destroy ⅓ of the
plants and animals… Well, mankind has gone and destroyed well over half already, but basically what
you have to do is convince folks that there is no more animals, and plants, and freshwater. Just join a big
corporation, like Coca Cola or Nestle and it’s a done deal.

Now, being the antichrist has certain perks, for sure, but it also has some serious drawbacks. For one,
you lose in the end. That’s gotta be in the contract. The antichrist falls to the bottomless pit. Of course,
it’s all just for show, but it helps when your life ends in a terrible and disgusting manner. Your reputation
as an antichrist depends on it. And don’t worry, it’s heaven all the way to hell. Your nastiest, most selfish
dreams will come true before you actually have to kick the bucket, so yes, the perks are quite worth your
while.

Lots of promising antichrists lose out because they are burdened with human emotions. Don’t fall into
that old trick. If you are going to be remembered in history as a total monster, a true antichrist, it does
not help you if you have a soft-spot for dogs, or if you are a romantic for Polish princesses. You should
not attach yourself to anyone or anything, being empty inside, like a deep hole on the earth. Anyhow,
attachments only bring pain and suffering, and even if you decide NOT to be the next great beast of
apocalypse, it is spiritually helpful to you not to attach yourself to things of this world.

Okay, so now know the requirements to become “the Great Beast” of the apocalypse, and I want to tell
you that ANYONE can become the beast. I have been searching all over for the right person, and as
history can show you, I have come pretty close since the dawn of chistianity… But somehow, none of my
candidates have worked out the whole thing and managed to bring an end to the world… Know why?

Because to be a real antichrist, you must first abandon ALL good, and nobody, not even Ghengis Khan
and Hitler were all bad. The worst psychopaths in the planet all contain a tiny ray of light in their beings.
True evil has just not shown up, or I have not been able to transform any human into a real, soulless
monster. Why? Ask God.

Meanwhile, I will continue to plague you with “little” antichrists like Vladimir Putin and Donald Trump.
They are certainly NOT all evil, but they are evil enough to make it worth my while. And if you are really
interested in the job, just ask me. I am everywhere always, and I’ll be more than happy to show you how
to lose your soul.

THE MOUNTAIN HEAD

Nobody knew how old it was, but most believed it was as old as the world itself, having always been
there. Certainly, the face looked different from most of the people’s faces, having long beard and a small
nose. The eyes were wild-looking, like the eyes of young men when they are in love, or people who eat
the crazy-mushrooms. The head had a lot of teeth, and his mouth was opened in a weird, angry way. And
yet, since time immemorial, the people of the village under the head worshipped the head as their only
and true God.

Legends say that if you went into the head’s mouth, you would go mad. And sure enough, although it
was taboo, every generation a couple of foolish young ones would climb the mountain to go into the
great head’s mouth, and as sure as the sun rises in the morning, after spending one night inside the
head’s mouth, they would return, utterly broken, their minds reduced to the mind of an infant, not
knowing even their own names.

Some generations, going into the head became a kind of ritual challenge for the youth of the village, who
would risk their lives in order to prove their manhood. During these times, the village could lose
hundreds of young men to the head, some taking their own lives after returning from the head’s mouth,
some just going mad.

Little Bear was the kind of young warrior who would be willing to risk his life to prove his manhood to
the village, but most especially to Wild Willow, his beloved, with whom he had grown up since little
children. When the time came for him and for his companions to take the challenge of going up the
mountain and inside the mouth of the great head, Little Bear thought nothing of it. He had already gone
hunting deer, boar and wild ox with the warriors of the village, so he knew how to use spears and bow
and arrow. He even had learned how to skin an animal carcass and set a broken bone with leather strips
and tree branches.

Little Bear went up the mountain one cold morning after a strong snow. The snow was packed and fresh,
and it made crunching noise under his moccasins. He was one of a group of twelve young men, going up
on a suicide mission to prove their worth and bravery to their fellows who remained behind to tend the
fields, hunt and take care of the women.

His best friend, Black Crow, also went up that morning. But Black Crow, whose skin was black, like a
crow’s, was not really wanting to test the head, whom he believed to be an old and angry God.

“We are going to our deaths, Little Bear. We could leave this place, go to a different village.” Black Crow
complained.

“Death is only the beginning of a great journey where only our spirits might travel. I am not afraid of
death, Black Crow, but I am afraid of being dishonored by cowardice.” Little Bear frowned, not approving
of Black Crow’s complaint.

“I have yet to see a dead person or animal come back to life, Little Bear, but even if you are right, what if
we go mad instead of simply dying?” Black Crow cried.

“Go back, then!” Little Bear snapped, now angry.

“And have people call me a coward? No… I would rather just leave the village. In fact, you could do that
too…”

“Then do so. Leave. Be exiled by your cowardice, and never come back to us, be more dead than the
dead.” Little Bear growled.

“Ha, I would not give you the pleasure, Little Bear, besides, I can’t let you go up there alone. Surely you
will become deranged and need my help to return to the village.” Black Crow laughed.

“You make me angry, Black Crow. Be silent.”

The journey to the head took another four hours of hard climbing in slippery snow-covered rocks. There
was a clear path, but it was perilous, slippery and the rocks were razor-sharp. The path had been made
in the prehistory of the village, and the old ones spoke of a time before time, when magic ruled the
world.

Finally, the two friends arrived at the bottom of the head. The open mouth was as big as a house, and
the darkness beyond the huge cavernous hole was intimidating. There was a large, rock tongue behind
the sharp rock teeth around the mouth which went down into a dark cave. It was so dark in there that
nothing could be seen, but it was evidently very deep.

The young warriors all gathered outside the rocky bottom teeth, each one as big as one of them. There,
they began to take in the real danger of going inside the ancient rock head’s mouth.

“It is the gateway to hell.” said one.

“This darkness is unnatural.” said another.

“We should make some torches…” said a third.

“I’ll be happy to wait for you all right here…” said Black Crow, smiling.

But it was Little Bear that took the lead. Without a word, he went inside the dark cave, going down the
slippery rock-tongue into the bowels of the mountain. A couple of other brave boys decided to follow
him down, not wanting to be left behind. Black Crow looked at his friend disappear into the darkness and
just shook his head, sadly.

The cave went down about one hundred feet and then suddenly, took a sharp turn downwards, making
the descent incredibly dangerous. It was so dark that Little Bear could hear, but not see, the warriors
following behind him.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of going down in the darkness, Little Bear reached a place
where he could no longer go down. He took a moment, now that he could use both his hands for
something other than going down, and he took out a flint and lit a small torch which he had made before
coming on the trip.

There was a large iron door at the end of a long rock passageway. And the door was closed. Little Bear
saw that the other warriors had arrived to where he was now. He greeted them, and then went to the
door, and they followed him.

Little Bear opened the iron door.

Immediately, Little Bear saw that he was in a large oval room covered with colorful images, inside
rectangular frames, which somehow, moved by themselves. The images were of a world before his
world, a magical place full of wonders he could not describe with the words he knew. There were tiny,
light-skinned people on these moving pictures living magical lives, flying inside great iron birds, moving
inside great chariots without horses, and doing all manner of magical wonders. The other warriors were
amazed and horrified at some of the things they saw… Worst of all was how there were no animals or
trees in this old world, only strange, mountain-like homes, filled with harried people who looked
miserable and busy, even though they had all the wonders of the universe at their feet.

They spoke a language that Little Bear could not understand, but suddenly Little Bear heard his language
being spoken. He turned to one of the many framed rectangles with moving images and saw an old
woman, with dark skin like his people.

The old woman was standing behind a ruined world, where all the great mountain-sized homes were
burning and broken. And there, behind some of those terrible burning buildings, was “the” head, the
very place where they were now, but in a time when there were no trees, or wild boars, bears and great
eagles. The “mountain” was actually just one of these gigantic mountain-homes, which seemed to be
burning, like all the other mountain-homes. Hundreds of people were running out of the mountain-
home upon which stood the great head.

“The end of our world has arrived, and this video might be our world's last will and testament. Behind
me is the Steven Spielberg Studio building, the largest studio ever built, and as you can see, it is now in
flames, like the rest of Los Angeles. We will try to seal the video vault for the benefit of future
generations. We have top of the line solar panels in the eyes of that Steven Spielberg head, and they are
connected to a living library of all that was once but shall never be again. With a little luck, this message
shall be repeated for all eternity, or at least for thousands of years after our city dies. Although our
society is at its end, this video vault has all the knowledge necessary to rebuild our civilization. But now
a word of warning: Know that our demise was caused by our own greed and ambition. The Great War
started because of trade deficits and greedy people wanting to control more and more of the world at
the cost of making all of us die in their war. Now, the damage caused by our bombs and biological
weapons is too great, and our civilization is utterly doomed. But mankind will survive, and with a little
luck, we shall rebuild all that we have lost.”

Little Bear and the other warriors stayed a long time inside the “video vault”. They learned of a world
with great wonders, destroyed by those very wonders because of the greed and stupidity of a people
who had power like Gods, but the wisdom of corpse-worms. The constantly repeating images and
wonders on the “hall of moving pictures” as the great chamber was called broke the warriors minds. The
secrets of the universe were laid bare for the young warriors, but learning these secrets drove the young
men to question the very nature of their existence, and of the existence of mankind in general, for
although mankind had reached to the heavens to bring down the secrets of the Gods, they had misused
such knowledge to destroy themselves.

True to his word, Black Crow waited outside for Little Bear and the other warriors who had gone inside
the head’s mouth. When Little Bear and the other warriors finally emerged, many days later, the looks in
their eyes told Black Crow that all of them had gone mad. There was a profound sadness in their eyes,
like the look of people who had seen things which would better not be seen by mortal eyes.

Indeed, after going to the bowels of the head, Little Bear and the rest of the warriors who went in after
him would never be the same, and the sadness in their hearts would never leave them again.

THE BOOK OF FACES

What if living or dying depends on making a friend on FB? Right around the year 2020, a terrible
pandemic struck mankind, threatening to bring down human civilization, and those with the cure were
few and far-between, and they all had one thing in common: a facebook friendship.

The facebook account belonged to one Jigolanthas D. Gnome, a certain metro-sexual, drug-addled
madman who would tell the most outrageous tales to satisfy his own morbid perversity. Champion of
creepypastas, the dark web and all manner of dangerous and forbidden material online, Jigolanthas D.
Gnome had decided, all upon himself, to take over the world, and he had devised a clever plan, making
himself the sole proprietor to a cure to a virus that he himself had planned decades ago.
You could say he was the devil.

But he wasn’t. He was just a guy, doing really wicked things in a very clever, clever manner. And so, his
rise to popularity and fame was sickly skyrocketed by his admission and confession as to be both the
cause and the cure to the current threat of extinction of mankind. And the only way to get the cure was
to befriend him on facebook.

Of course, the first to come to him were the most astute, ruthless and rich, all trying to convince
Jigolanthas to give them the antidote. But Jigolanthas couldn’t care less about wealth, he actually
despised wealth, and laughed at those who tried to buy the cure from him. No, the madman’s sin was
“pride” and his patron Lucifer, better known to the cruel man as Venus, Goddess of Love.

Now, love is a strange thing, and Venus is a peculiar deity. In league with Krishna and various other love-
Gods of lesser import, like Cupid, Venus is first and foremost a planet, with peculiar and very loving
venusians who exist in a state of semi-divine immortality for aeons at a time. Confused with “devils” and
“demons” by the uncouth humans who live on … who lived on Planet Earth.

But extinction was nigh and humanity needed a champion, and Jigolanthas, pervert, demon-worshiping
villian that he was, could not really fit the bill, yes? So a second champion of equal import and power
had to rise.

Enter Agua, the Lizardman, and his “pase” apocalypse of the year 2012. Time, after all, belonged to the
reptilian on account of previous arrangements with deities both fair and foul.

“Jigolanthas, you fool…” said Stego, Agua’s best friend and the avatar of “Evil” in the world post-
apocalypse of the Lizardman’s rule. “What have you done?”

The gnome and the Dragon sat on the moon, looking at Planet Earth, which from their point of view
looked perfectly peaceful, although, the gnome and Dragon both knew better.

“I did what any self-serving, perverted gnome would do when given enough power to do it, I took over
the world.” Jigolanthas smiled his pervy little annoying smile of inner victory.
“They are dying, Jiji. You are killing them.” Stego remarked, serious.

“Their own fault. They forgot how to pray, they forgot how to make good on their promises to their
Gods.” Jiji smirked.

“And so you, dark godling, demand payment?”

“The opportunity arose. I took it. Why miss the chance?” the Elder Gnome was not repentant.

“Because it is profoundly evil. Perhaps the most evil thing you have ever done, and I did not know you to
be an evil being. Perverted, yes, perhaps, not evil though…”

“Define evil, Dragon.”

“Harmful to others and to oneself.” Stego replied with no hesitation.

The gnome puffed on his weed pipe and meditated on the answer. He could not refute Stego’s
indictment. The genocide of mankind WAS kind of evil. But, in the gnome’s view, absolutely necessary.
Time had twisted in a knot, and all realities had collapsed, and it was definitely mankind’s fault. Oh, a
pesky lizardman ahd a few things to do with it, yes, but in fact, the intellectual perpetrators of their own
demise had been the humans themselves, and the gnome had only taken advantage of their self-
destructive condition to make himself their absolute God and Saviour.

“Facebook will survive. Google will survive.” Jigolanthas explained to the Dragon.

“Perhaps. This story is not over. Not by a long shot.” the Dragon seemed almost amused by the evil little
gnome’s utter bravado. The little fart actually believed himself capable of predicting the future. The
dragon knew better. Nobody really ever knows the future. Too many variables.
“We need not be adversaries in this, Stego. I respect you profoundly. You and I share a great deal…”
Jigolanthas smiled, peevishly.

“Actually, the very fact that we converse sets us in the immediacy of a duality of good and evil, a
necessary plot element of all good writing. Our story is being told to give a lesson in storytelling, we are
the necessary elements of a synopsis.”

“Blather and bullywog. There is nothing in your words but emptiness, Dragon. You are too much a
Buddhist slave to have more interesting dialogue than that which leads, inescapably to the Bodhisaativc
Vow and the Diamond Sutra.” The gnome, being a champion of sexual debauchery, could not in good
faith think of Agua’s best friend, the notoriously Lawful Good blue dragon as anything but a Buddhist.

“The journey is perfect, Jigolanthas. We are here, watching Earth from the Moon because we have
something to say about it, and each one of us will say what we need to say from our highest possible
self, our deepest inspiration. Rake in that energy, and allow the Muses to play with our souls as they do
all other artists.”

“Facebook… “ The gnome went back on point.

“Will survive, and so will civilization, but the banks and churches and all the merchants won’t. It will be a
slaughter. And you know this.” Stego reminded the gnome.

“Agenda 21. It starts next year, I was told. 1/3rd of mankind. Gone. In a flash. A question of horus.” The
gnome went down to his deepest memories of the future.

“And you cause it because you remember it?” Stego asked.

“What is memory? What is mind? Who am I that have such things? Who are you? How do we know with
great certainty that we are not just the words of a clever writer, making a point?”
“The mark of the beast, and Israel. It’s all in the Bible, foolish gnome.”

“Of course! That’s the script I followed to create my pandemic.” JIgolantahs smashed his fist on his open
palm, triumphantly.

“Did you write the script or did the script write you, gnome?” Stego remarked, serious.

“A four dimension question that can only be answered in the fifth dimension.” Jigolanthas puffed his pipe
profoundly.

“Living in the 5th dimension can be rough.” Stego sang.

“Here is how I think this is going to go down. Global shutdown leads to a few well placed nuked on 21
getting rid of “most” of the useless eaters. The ones who come out after that will be so terrified that
they will voluntarily ask me to save them, and then TAZ becomes PAZ. Meaning…”

“The temporary autonomous zones will become permanent autonomous zones.” Stego mused.

“In theory, although I am not convinced that the temporary is better off when it’s permanent, just ask
rocks and stones. Big statues have a way to perdure that is not really nice… Just ask the Sphinx!”
Jigolanthas made some smoke rings.

“So, the 5th Mankind is overtaken by the 6th. Men of clay will leave their place to whom? Men of water?
Men of smoke?” Stego enjoyed these longing time-explorations with Jigolanthas, even when genocide
was afoot.

“I miss the men of wood. Monkeys all of them, but generous and kind.” Jigolantahs had well traveled the
other ages of mankind, the first, second, third, four and fifth. He was a fan of man.
“Extinction is such a nasty word.” Stego said, sad.

“It is, my friend, it is. But remember, nothing is lost, nothing is gained. That’s the gate-gate part of it in
your secret-not-so-secret mantra.” Jigolantahs smiled kindly.

“No, who are you -really- Jigolanthas?” the Dragon sighed.

“Who are YOU?” Jigolanthas smiled kindly again.

THE GAME PLAYERS

A powerful wizard manages to break out of his own dimension and come face to face with his creators:
holographic game players who are basically bored, useless beings. The wizard breaks them. At least that
was the plotline. In fact, it was an act of Revelations.

Jigolanthas the Gnome was amused. He knew what was coming, and, having decided to become the
“antagonist” of the story, it was inevitable that it would be He, the perverted, naked, orgiastic gnome
wizard that would be the wizard that would “break through” into Robin’s world.

“You see, it’s a conversation, Robin. All dialogue, all reality, is about a WORD.” Jigolanthas said, from the
bottom of Robin’s own heart.

“You are not the first to break the 4th wall, Jiji. King Grumps did it before you. I have the stories
somewhere, He entered into my consciousness when I was in my 20s, at the Beverly Center.” - Robin
replied, trying to make sense of the story.
“Dungeons and Dragons is of the devil, Robin, you have been playing with fire.” Jiji smiled, evilly.

“You are the worst of me. Aren’t you?” Robin sighed.

“Your ID? Yeah, something like that. The imp of the perverse that lives inside every man. That’s me to
you, Robin.” Jiji explained.

And suddenly, Robin was transported. To the Beverly Center Mall, in Los Angeles, back in 1989 or
thereabouts. In the “real world” Lucifer, Robin’s cat.. Actually Rasasthali’s and Syamakunda’s cat meows
incessantly, forcing Rasasthali to allow her entry into the bathroom.

“Focus, Robin. Beverly Center, remember? Try to go there so you can visualize me better…”

Robin did as he was told.

Robin realized that he needed to read a description of the gnome from one of the two tomes that best
described him: or better yet, from the first: “The Adventures of Agua, the Lizardman.”

Robin went to fetch the book, causing his own words to become the script of his existence.

The Beverly Center in 89. A place full of young girls in short skirts. That peculiar race of beings: Valley
Girls. Robin sat at one of the booths available in the upper floor, next to the theatre and the food court
and began watching Valley Girls, absently looking for someone or something. Jigolantahs appeared in
front of the poor deluded, insane dungeons and dragons player, and began to masturbate above Robin’s
head. Of course, the gnome was ridiculously naked.

Robin noted with curiosity that he had turned into his own 8 year old self.

“You are QUITE the monster, Jigolanthas.” Little Robin said.

“Do copy my description of me from the first time I appear in your book.” Jigolanthas had a particularly
gleeful shine in his eyes.

Robin, back in the “real” world, looked for the first description of Jigolanthas in his book. And there it
was, on page 11: “The Nymphs surrounded a very tiny little man with a large white beard, a pointed hat,
bigger than himself, and a giant pipe from which emanated the best smell in the material universe, a
combination of ganga, sweet tobacco and some unknown spices.”

Jigolanthas “came” on top of Robin’s face back in the dream realm. The young boy looked perfectly
violated by the act.

Back in the real world, Robin was NOT perplexed by the strange and ominous threat of the imp of the
perverse inside his own heart. Jigolanthas was truly a terrible being.

“Or am I?” The gnome smiled, wiping the cum from the boy’s face.

“You are trying to break through… Me.” Robin, the big one in his room, said.

“Exactly.” Jigolanthas exclaimed.

“Clever.” Both Robins, the big one and the little one said.

“Key word: white beard.” Jigolantahs explained.

Suddenly, a slightly different voice, more gruff and compassionate sounded at the back of the Mall and
King Grumps, with his notorious ram’s head helmet, plaid skirt and gigantic battle axe came over to sit
next to the young boy and the evil, naked imp.

“Fortunately, when you are truly mad, you can hear not one, but MANY voiced in your head, Robin.”
The Robin boy and the Robin man both smiled.

“King Grumps!!!” said the boy in the mall.

“Jigolanthas’ arch-enemy. Yes. It was I who exiled the gnome to Denver Colorado, back in the second
book of the series.” King Grumps smiled.

“Go ahead and read his first description in the first book.” Jigolanthas said, dangerously.

But the little boy had gained a powerful ally in the dwarf and decided to do other than what the
perverted gnome asked of him. After all, this was a conversation between Robin’s many selves, and in
such conversations everything is valid, so long as it is honest and proper to the “key” character, who is,
after all, the writer.

“Allow me to speak with the voice of my future self, Jigolanthas.” Said the 8 year old, who suddenly had
a pair of scissors in his hand. The gnome, wisely, turned himself into a cactus.

“Speak.” the cactus said.

“The Maha Prajna Paramita Hridaya Sutra states that in Emptiness there is no form, no feelings, no
perceptions, no impulses…. The Bhagavad Gita states that desire is the cause of suffering… Or does it?
Ulli Lommel used to say it. That’s good enough for me.”

“So you would censor me as your future self, allowing for the genocidal dwarf to become me instead?
We are like two sides of your ID, Robin, we are inevitable.” Jigolanthas, returned to his gnome form, and
was now wearing a hurt expression on his white-bearded face.”

“I am not a pervert.” Said King Grumps.

“You are a racist, a killer.” Jigolantahs explained.

“So are you…” Noted King Grumps.

“No. I am a chaotic liberal democrat. YOU are the nazi republican. Don’t lie to yourself.” Jigolanthas
reasoned.

“You are both incomplete fragments of an already fragmented mind.” 8 year old Robin sustained.

And in the safety of his room, the writer smiled.

“You have all broken through.” He said. But the wizard is not Jigolanthas. The wizard is me.

“Now what?” Jigolanthas asked, confused.

“Now, I have to break through myself. Remember, I am but a hologram.”

“What does breaking through mean?” Asked both Jigolanthas and King Grumps.

“I am not sure. But I am certain of one thing: I am as unreal as are both of you, and yet, all three of us
are also real somehow. Our collective immortality depends a bit on who reads us all, and that’s a very
aztec concept, -fame- but the profound well-being of my own self depends on both of you guys being
honest to yourselves as yourselves. Jigolanthas, if you were NOT a monster, then the monster would be
King Grumps and if you, King Grumps were not a monster, well, then the perverted gnome would have
to be. And the fact is that both of you are, in your special way, monstrous, and also, paradoxically,
innocent of your monstrosity because it is I who have created you and not the other way around.”
“Are you sure of that?” Asked King Grumps.

“What if we are spirits apart from you, only pretending to be created by you?” Jigolanthas had -that-
look again.

“We humans are receptacles of many spirits, guys. Wrath, lust, envy, pride… They all have their moment
of fame inside our bodies from time to time. Being able to recognize them is key to being other than
them as a human. Surely, Jiji, you represent my lust, right? And you KING Grumps, my pride? And yet
here you are, in all your glory, talking with my own 8 year old self to finish a collection of short stories
about a world that exists only inside my mind. Not a bad deal. Whatever crimes, be it genocide or rape,
that you are guilty of, it is only -I- who is really guilty of them, and as they are only stories inside my
head…”

“Stories in your head that are real events in our world, Robin.” Jigolanthas said.

“There is another issue. Dungeons and Dragons. You will never be the original voice of King Agua, or
Minoreyna, or even Destiny, the dragon. Those characters were voiced by your nieces and nephew. So
they break through the fourth AND fifth wall flawlessly. Try and break THAT spell.” Jigolanthas was not -
mad- at Robin, he just felt a little frustrated that so much work towards free love would be wasted in …
bad literature.

“That is WHY, King Agua is Emperor of the Multi Universe and not you, Jigolanthas, my dear perverted
self.” Robin smiled in final triumph.

THE BOILER ROOM

I have been working phone rooms since highschool. My first job after leaving home was to sell office
supplies from the phone. I was just 18 years old, overweight, with less-than-average grades and basically
a useless bum in waiting. Command Corporation saved me from the streets, and with my small salary
and sales bonus, I was able to rent a room in a cheap whore-motel after my mom kicked me out of my
home for finding weed under my bed. Mom was a fanatical tele-evangelist, which means she listened to
every word that Jimmy Swaggart ever said, and believed it. Well, Swaggart was very much anti-drug, pro-
Nancy Reagan, so when mom found my weed hidden under the bed, I was out, and I was scared.
I found the job at Command Corporation easy and I was able to take care of myself for the first time in
my life, but it was a dehumanizing job. We actually used the yellow pages of different states to cold-call
various businesses starting early in the morning. We were eighty strong, separated by cheap plywood
cubicles just large enough for a desk, a phone and our swivel chairs. The chairs were nice. It was the
early 80s, so folks could smoke, and boy, did they ever smoke. There was always a great tobacco cloud
over our heads, and most folks had an ashtray next to their phones.

Ten “Pit Bosses” watched over us like hawks. We had to cold-call from the phone books and we had a
two page sales script right in front of our faces, nailed to our cubicle. If a Pit Boss heard us deviating from
the script in a call, we would be immediately taken off the phone… We had to get credit-card numbers
from the business owners, and it was a delicate thing because it was almost illegal, so the Pit Bosses
were ruthless with us.

The whole business was a scam, of course, selling office-supplies to fools all over the country for prices
four and five-times their real cost by offering them a “special promotion” of an “incredible free vacation”
- in fact, a ridiculously expensive time-share in a shady Mexican town in Baja California. Our company
made millions. And we were well paid.

Eventually, the FBI closed down the shop. But I was lucky, the day the FBI came to the office to arrest
everybody, I was sick at home with Moctezuma’s Revenge. Thanks Moctezuma!

Still, I found myself out of a job, and I took a newspaper. There were dozens of telemarketing jobs, so I
found my next boiler room within a few days. Thirty years later, I was well over 300 lbs, utterly unable to
get married or have a family, addicted to porn, cough and cold medicines, and still working boiler rooms.
Over the years of working at the phone booth, I had been able to buy a little volkswagen beetle, and a
single-wide trailer, which I owned, although I had to pay the rent for the lot in the trailer park. I was
happy enough.

Boiler Room trailer trash. My life has its ups and downs, but I know my place. And I knew that boiler
rooms took care of me. I was a good phone salesman, and I had by now, over the thirty years of working
phones, sold everything from vitamins to real-estate. I also worked in customer-service, and even,
briefly, emergency-response. I hated that. Talk about pressure on the job… I don’t like to have to worry
about saving people’s lives. I didn't last long in THAT job. I had been Pit Boss more than once, but I
actually preferred sales. There was more money in sales.

My last job was with a winery. We sold fancy wines to restaurants. And I was actually making a lot of
money… But then, tragedy struck and the winery went out of business because of unpaid debts to the
mob. I was given my pink-slip on Friday the 13th. The owner of the winery was kind enough to give me a
severance, so I was not too worried. It would be nothing to find another phone-sales job.

There it was… My next job, on the morning newspaper. The ad read: “Telemarketing. For Sales Pros only.
Downtown area. Six hours a day, Easy $1,800 a week. Call Ms. Lucy 555-0666. Avernus Corp.”. I dialed
the number and used my best sales voice.

“Hi, my name is Oliver Termont, I am calling about the phone sales job.” I said.

“Do you have any telephone sales experience, Mr. Termont?” Replied the sultry female voice on the
other side.

“I can sell ice-to eskimos, if that’s what you mean. I have been working phone rooms for over thirty
years…” I replied, using just a little of the southern drawl that I grew up with, which always seemed to
make females trust me.

“Can you come in tomorrow at 9 a.m.?” the sexy voice whispered.

The next morning, I was driving my little bug down my city’s financial district. Gigantic skyscrapers,
mostly banks and giant corporations tried to reach heaven, leaving us ordinary mortals to feel like ants
about to be crushed by our betters. But I found the address that I was looking for. It was another
skyscraper, not the tallest of the lot, but certainly impressive made from black-granite bricks with a
gothic style, which seemed out of place for my very modern city. I was curious that in all the years living
here I had never seen this strange and curiously old building.

I parked in the underground parking lot, which was badly lit and kinda spooky. I walked to the elevator,
and what a surprise to find an elevator monkey working it. He was an old black guy dressed in a red
uniform, and the elevator looked ancient, with one of those rattling cage-like doors which the elevator
monkey opened for me.
“Huh… 9th floor please..” I said.

Wordlessly, the old man pushed a button and the elevator rose to the 9th floor. When we arrived, I gave
him a few coins I found in my pocket. He took them, giving me a weird look. I thought this old guy might
have not smiled in at least a decade.

The 9th Floor was one gigantic Boiler Room with hundreds of cubicles manned by the most interesting
dregs of humanity. There were all kinds of lost souls: transvestites, MILFs, old burned out hippies, jocks…
It was such a varied group of people, for one moment I thought I was in some kind of government
experiment. But then the absolutely most gorgeous brunette in the material universe approached me.
She was dressed all in red, in a tightly fitted business suit which did nothing at all to hide her perfect
curves.

“Are you here for the job interview?” She said. It was the same voice I had heard on the phone…

“Yes, I am looking for Ms. Lucy… I am…” I actually stammered. Dealing with folks behind a phone was
one thing. Dealing with a perfect 10 in a red business suit was something else entirely.

“I am Ms. Lucy, and I know who you are. Come with me to my office, please.”

I followed her… And we went into her office…

Her office was huge. Almost as big as the entire boiler room, and I wondered how it all fit in the building.
It was also decorated a little garish, with a huge fire-place, red-upholstery, drapes and carpeting and
some of the most dreadful and realistic erotic art I had ever seen depicting all manner of abominable
sadomasochistic acts. Was this chick for real?

“As you can see, we here at Avernus Corp are very busy. We are in the business of buying souls, and
business is doing great.” She said, after motioning me to sit in one of her luxurious red chairs, facing her
behind a huge oak desk next to a gigantic window from which we could see the entire city.
“Excuse me.. Did you say -buying souls-?” I asked. I had heard right. I am sure I did.

“We have an incall-center. You will be answering calls directly from our clients, and yes, our clients are
people who want to sell their soul to the devil. We put ads in most major newspapers, so you won’t have
a lack of calls. They will be calling you and you just need to close on the deal. We used to have agents go
personally to visit our clients, but business has been so good that we can’t afford to do that anymore,
and we found it’s just easier to have sales over the phone.” She spoke with a certain authority that made
me think of my 6th grade math teacher, Mrs. Stubb.

“You are the devil?” I asked.

“One of them, yes. But don’t worry, we have a perfectly legitimate business, approved even by the guys
upstairs.” She looked up at the sky, pointing to the clouds behind her.

Was it a joke? Was I being played? Was I on Candid Camera or something? Who was this exquisite
sample of female sexuality? I decided to play along, just to play along.

“So, what are we selling in exchange for these -souls-?” I asked.

“Well, folks want all kinds of things. Money is popular, but people will sell their souls for far more subtle
things like love or revenge. Your job is to ensure that our services are guaranteed and that the exchange
is worthwhile to the client. Whatever they want, we give it to them. I have been watching you for
decades, and I know you will perform perfectly in your job. We have a very easy quota, and you should
have no problem meeting it.”

“You have been watching me for decades?” I asked, now really curious.

“Well, we ARE Hell’s very own, so we must be very careful with the staff we hire, and you are certainly no
angel. You have not done any serious sinning, true, but your utter lack of care for yourself or anyone else
is of great interest to our corporation. Not everybody can be a good phone-solicitor for Hell. We need
people who are able to put away their natural emotions and be convincing to our clients. I am very
confident that you will do fine in this position.”

I started work the next day.

How long ago was that? Hard to say… I hardly ever go home anymore, and I am really happy working for
Avernus Corporation. They have this amazing rec room with the best coffee and unlimited doughnuts.
Besides, I love helping people. Most of the folks who call in to 1-800-666-DEVIL are at the end of their
rope, and they are willing to give up their souls because they have nowhere else to turn to. And all I have
to do is to make sure they understand the terms of the deal.

I have given away fortunes, found lost loves, saved the lives of countless innocents, guaranteed people
long life, wealth, beauty, fame and fortune, all in exchange for something they hardly miss anyhow. I love
my job.