1. The Astral Speed Setter

 

The office was dull. It had no character. That was what made it look totally false. It was too clean to be a real office. It seemed as if it was there for decoration: a simple wooden table had been placed in the corner next to the boarded up window. That was it. No computer, no telephone, not even a filing cabinet. There was a single plastic chair. It had no cushion, or any sign that a living thing had ever sat upon it. It was merely there because offices had chairs. The strange thing about this office was that it was meant to be the Earth headquarters for the Trans-Dimensional Mutant Police.

 

The office had some mysterious atmosphere surrounding it. Some called it Demon-Tec. Other realms within Earth's dimensional zone called it different things. It was part of the C.O.G. department: a secretive organization that maintained all power - despite the appearance of many forms of anti-state anarchy – and assumed total control of the dimensional realities created by other universes. This organization was the vital one that made these realities fit together, no matter what catastrophes occurred.

 

The C.O.G. remained linked by various organizations around the world--thanks to the apparently abandoned MKULTRA operation(s). They even knew certain banal pop-puppet-poppet-stars, had purchased automobiles for friends. They knew before the fans. They had access to everything. Yes, apparently, being everywhere was handy and that was why C.O.G. rule was better than any other government, or department.

 

That was only one minor example of the C.O.G. power; the office on Earth, in our current dimension (known as BS99669X), was symbolic in putting on a public front to dimensional hooligans and universal wasters of time. These dimension time-bending ways were confusing new generations of humans and this repetition of history should not be tolerated for too long. An agent was needed to do the necessary bureaucratic checks within the office. It was a dull job, not for a faint-heart or a trigger happy kill-crazy evo-muto. Trogger was the first agent to be put on the case.

 

Trogger was a strange case. Originally from Peetanio, a rim-muto city in the Seven Hells, recently twinned with Dalston, and in a dimension known as XR709M(part of the Giggle Factor Bullshit Overload). It sounds more technical than what it really stands for, but these codenames are as necessary as arterial road names. As you know, with astral-pzioniks, not everything can be just simply reduced to the matter of empirical geography. We really are one, in all our worlds and realm-spaces the human form manifests. 

 

I should add, being a vapour-wraith, the heads, or Joint Chiefs, of the C.O.G. were demons known as Goodmann and Goodnow. They were not happy bunnies. They had been resurrected too many times to care and they wanted to make sure order was maintained by those dimensional shirkers who didn't seem to give time to the fact that Time itself had its own destiny.

 

Trogger, like me, wasn't too interested in the varied philosophical questions this posed. Trogger just wanted to get out of Peetanio. It wasn't the best place and Trogger had been condemned to death more than once. Being Trogger, he was half-caveman, half-zombie: Trogger was pretty much invincible. Better than his cousin, Gili from The Road of Glory. It qualified him for this kind of work. They probably should have given Trogger another punishment.

 

Trogger had a C.O.G. blood-gun. Of course, he was also getting it out a lot and shooting his load everywhere. Blood, being liquid, can be made to travel back to you, into the gun, as you might expect. You never run out of ammo with a blood-gun, so you're always ready to go. This futuristic implant was the bane of the agency. And Trogger's hot temper meant he had wiped out a couple of sub-worlds in various minor dimensions. It was only notable in dimension TX89HK, which was situated near Romford. A real shame that one, it was usually avoided.

 

The dialogue has not happened as Trogger doesn't really speak English. Trogger rarely speaks. Trogger just grunts, occasionally howling. He does have some telepathic abilities which was how Goodmann and Goodnow always passed orders to him. They also gave him headaches, only Norkgrub was able to take these away with visits to apothecary colony known as Det 2962-560. Professor Norkgrub told me those demons were responsible for controlling Trogger. Who knows? It was all speculation. And Norkgrub was a well- known agency gossip. It was very easy to criticize from the cosy confines of the C.O.G. Research and Development department. It looked like another notorious sinecure, of course.

 

Trogger wanted to see Norkgrub again. He had to get out of this office and get a feel of the world, he needed to locate the errant Professor. It didn't take him long to get another case in his mind. Trogger grunted, he needed back-up. He needed to get his driver back from the Bermuda Triangle. Trogger suddenly looked up, his zombie reactions keen to sense life. Jack Slack entered the office. He was covered in blood and sweat. He looked like he was mutating: his skin and bone were merging, bubbling, decomposing. Jack Slack was a man made of liquid blood and bone; his facial features faded... 

 

Trogger noticed purple alien ejaculate was coming out of his nose, causing tiny pustules emerging from his skin to suddenly burst everywhere, leaving splashes of purple pus everywhere. Trogger pressed the crystal key button for the cleaners. They would turn up later; they always had to clean up. Trogger laughed at Jack. Jack stared at Trogger, lost for words. Jack was getting pus-jacked. The first mutated step towards a twisted form of immortality.

 

"What's happening to me?" Jack Slack mumbled.

 

Trogger laughed again. He grunted. Then, after a brief pause, he belched:

 

"UGGGH!"

 

That was very loud; Jack felt his life-essence throb as Trogger’s vast belch passed through him.

 

"I just walked through the door, I was meant to have an appointment here with Professor Norkgrub. I'm freelance, I don't know what's going on", cried Jack. He had a mouthful of blood mixing with the purple pus.

 

Jack Slack continued to cry, spraying vile fluids everywhere, as more giant pustules deposited purple pus everywhere. Trogger licked the pus, smiling. He didn't think it was too bad. Jack figured he had been poisoned, duped and trapped by the enigmatic Professor Norkgrub; but he had many vices which may have explained current state. Trogger examined Jack Slack. He wasn't used to seeing humans – well, just Homo sapiens, of course.

 

2. Tempos Dos Lesbos

 

Jack thought of his past life, as he dissolved into more gigantic pustules. He looked around, his eyes boiling away. And he thought of his ex-wife, Freya. Freya was a strange elfin lady, with long black hair and pale skin. Sometimes, if you looked at her hard enough, she looked dead. Jack always wondered if she was attracted to his own empathy with death. Jack already had that mutated gift.

 

Jack and Freya's strange prodigal child, Elisedee, also had strange gifts. Jack caught glimpses of her future: he saw her on Zion Base23132 and realized she would help many realms of alien and human biological entities. They did not think her weird name had made her a genius, though. Weird names don't always do that, do they? Elisedee was in a bright child development programme on a boarding school in Nepal. She was protected by scientists and frequently out-witted them, despite only being a ten year-old girl.

 

Jack then realized he had treated Freya badly. He had wanted to make amends. He was sure Elisedee would land on her feet. He didn' t even need to talk to her; she would use her mind to communicate with him. He was grateful for this and she had already known it was Freya's idea to insulate her with a strange scientific sect. It was what Freya liked. She had always wanted to be a child prodigy. She had spent lots of time listening to Prodigal recordings.

 

Freya did not tell Jack she was involved in other things than the pedestrian librarian business. Jack met her when he was still waiting for his license to arrive in the post. Anyone could apply to be C.O.G. investigator; it was easy. Freya had been an librarian, specializing in the occult. Times were always tough for esoteric individuals inclined towards the occult.

 

Jack had been a total Junglist; he had always preferred Jung and had developed his own natty ideas while on sabbatical in the Congo (Like his ancestor, Kane, the rivers of Congo always haunted him…He always needed to ride more grooves…). Freya found Jack very full-on and a bit odd, and hoped he would slip on a matt one day…

 

Freya also had a tattoo above her pubis with the initials B.D.B. Jack had no idea what this meant or who it was referring too…It made him insecure and he would do wild things for no apparent reason. Freya had said she wanted him to be a “mad bastard”…Jack liked fish with his chips. Jack never really understood Freya...Apparently, she liked murky merkins…Freya was also happy with her hardened core-soul...She always liked a gooey pie with her fish and chips…

 

On their first date she had spiked Jack's drink with a strange substance called G.H.B., which, to my surprise, isn't classed as a new genetically modified health food. Jack wanted it re-classified and legalized right away. It made him feel great...

 

It sounds like G.B.H, and Jack foolishly researched the wrong path; Jack had researched the classic TV series G.B.H. for a long time - even becoming a minor academic for an online university based in Bogota - only to find out what the link was...He had a partial bone for Mister Lindsay...Sadly Jack was wrong again; academic disciplines had never been his strong point[his forte should have been girly trope heavyChick-Lit, or now fashionable Clit-Lit...].Of course, Jack had never passed an exam in his life, so he had no GCSEs or any other qualifications.

 

Jack bought all his qualifications on the cheap a long time ago - from an online university based in Bogota - when the colonies were new and the world was still young. He was a hopeless P.I., of course. The kind of investigator that stands out in brightly coloured felt hats and skin tight trouser-suits. He then decided to watch a lot of episodes of the hit series, Monkey. He always laughed how the Japanese had adapted Journey to the West. It was never going to help him in the short-term, but Jack had been caught off-guard and was able to sing along to the theme tune.

 

Freya noticed Jack’s prominent erection during the theme to Monkey. She decided to take Jack to random places, before ending up at a strange public house in Ye-Olde-Kilburne. It was a Good Ship, apparently. It was there that Freya had introduced him to her ex-girlfriend, Titi Titbull (step-daughter of Jack’s old teacher, Miss Combtitt…What are chances of that happening eh?...)…

 

…Titi was a strange conceptual artist-child, who did not know how to do anything artistic, so she would keep killing herself and devise different ways to bring herself back to life. She was more into the penetrative aspects of art. The conversation died; it was awkward. They all decided to keep drinking in silence: it’s the British way after all…Titi secretly wanted Jack to get her pregnant in continuous eighteen month cycles, so she could then use this biological struggle as real-life based material for her new stand-up routine...[tour coming soon; watch the spaces...]...That would really make the middle-classes smugly chuckle away...Have a load of kids then moan about them in front of a paying audience...Genius scam-art, Titi thought to herself, imagining all the stages of her dire act...She would eventually hypnotize the world, of course; she could always say the middle child was utterly feral; how the smug guffaws would rain over her while Titi feigned a state of mildly amusing exasperation...

 

Jack had a file on Titi. They both liked Caravan, Egg, Steve Hillage, Weezer, Pavement, Mudhoney, and 30 Seconds to Mars[to feel youthful, one should add...]…Jack had been masturbating over her negatives some years before he had met Freya. Titi occasionally adapted other works for corruption exercises under the tutelage of Papus. She had been banned from the internet after her first internet postings told people of the suicide-resurrection trick; and her sacrificial offerings to Belial had caused some muted confusion...

 

…These exploits had got blocked before it went totally viral and people all over the world started to resurrect themselves out of sheer boredom…A person films themself spilling milk over themselves in random places or smearing other foodstuffs upon their nubile geek-bodies; this was conveniently covered up for the C.O.G.; resurrection tricks are not always in the same category as these flash-in-the-pan fads…

 

Jack, with dried ejaculate still on his hands, a cactus in the microwave, decided to look at Titi’s photographs in more detail. Titi Titbull [a.k.a Elaine Pettifer] looked like a woman with a serious narcotic problem. Her physical presence was that of a twelve year old with the face of a forty year old chain-smoker. She chain-smoked Death cigarettes, as if her body had become an artistic temple to death. As a result she had shrivelled breasts and donned the clothes of a stereotypical “beatnik”...The beat always went on for her, though..

 

It didn't look good for Titi, thought Jack. She looked just like death – after death had died, of course. Her matted bleached hair and her dedication to pop-faddism and death trickery made her dangerous to all society. Jack always wanted to give her a special dedication. She didn't do real pop-culture; this made her dangerous to the C.O.G. system check…Can you control those who always go solo?...Capitalism needs to keep failing but the social constraints and population controls need to remain…

 

…Titi had sold herself too many times to realize what she was doing was pretty crazy. She hadn't hacked her mum – apart from over those wrong trainers a year ago - but she had cursed most of her family with zombosis….The word ‘Zombie’ comes from ‘Zumbi’, a word that derives from the Congo…[I found that out off the side of a ceral box...] Apparently, Zombosis still remains undefined: possibly a strange state of decomposing psychosis that affects the victim as they watch endless reality TV...It was close to total psychosis; however, Jack personally preferred total hypnosis. He also missed Flora Fidget…It cannot be as dramatic as turning into a gigantic penis and testicles…

 

...What happened to those infected with zombosis was this: they would lock themselves in their homes and do nothing apart from watching various images in their minds, constantly repeating them again and again, until they decomposed. It was known in some dimensions as the Self-Inflicted Image Coma [S.I.I.C.]. This was a common curse and a bit amateurish of Titi. All these casual mind tricks have time delays so you can't always tell how long they will last…

 

Jack made the mistake of mis-understanding genetic science: Jack was already mutating and had been blissfully unaware of it for years. He had always felt strange; not many people enjoy snacking on fresh tumours. But all these quirks had been made worse by failed cases. He hated being a failure. Jack had got stronger and smarter; he garnered more influence among dodgy police officers and wannabe politicians. It wasn't his fault he had got quite good at the dark arts of doing people over.

 

**

 

Trogger used a past-scape to get into Jack's past; he had to get into Jack’s mental[ist] closet. Jack remembered seeing Trogger at these strange events Freya took him to. She had got pregnant deliberately as part of a ritual with Titi to create a super-biological entity. Jack was needed as the donor. It was all free of charge, of course...The seeds...The spices...The spores...The problem was he had been mutating for a very long time...His gigantic zombie sperm needed to be house trained. I hate that too, and they slime everything up - don't they?…

 

This freaked Freya out. She was unable to cope with Jack decomposing on her. It didn't seem fair. Titi thought she had miscalculated the ritual and it had exacted revenge upon Jack Slack. Titi went into hiding, determined to find a form of stasis to protect her future self. Freya was distraught and decided to lose herself in a hedonistic world; one where Jack would never find her. Jack didn't care anymore; he just wanted to help out Elisedee. He just wanted to be remembered… 

 

3. Slack's Private File:The Classified Hiatus…

 

…Jack Slack was a puny man, although normally he was of average weight, he had recently thinned to such a worrying state; he was looking like Jack Pumpkin-Head. His thin arms and legs looked as if they would snap in the wind; his penis had fattened and was slowly shrinking inside his body, and he had not brushed his teeth for a few years either, so he had greenish Johnny Rotten-style teeth as a result. Jack hated brushing his teeth. Oddly for Jack, bi-curious partners enjoyed this characteristic quirk…Pennis style...

 

It was safe to say he was probably skipping his meals, too. Trogger was sent a pzi-path file on Jack. Sudden bursts of knowledge filled Trogger's clouded brain. Jack Slack had worked with a journalist who had had an industrial accident with toxic waste. He didn't know if Gamussi Rubello still lived. Trogger tried to relive Jack Slack's experiences. This was how he viewed it:

 

In 2001, Jack Slack had been cut off, despite being given a generous severance package(which Jack had spent most of this money on various things, the usual stream of substantial substances, processed foods, including some mushrooms, plant food, bath salts and whatever else he was able to get his hands on…). He was burnt out and his days of investigative journalism for local papers were probably behind him. He should have stuck to charity stories or selling advert space.

 

By 2005, ambition’s cold grasp had firmly groped Jack Slack. He had never been ambitious, but he was starting to become more self-interested. He wanted to be someone, as in Somebody Important. Slack was never satisfied and used more of his severance package to further his clandestine ventures under the guise of private law protectionism. He was no trust fund baby. Jack dreamed of being that powerful man. One day he thought he would be able to pull in enough favours. This also marked Slack as a marked man. Slack realized everyone got a V.I.P. these days…

 

By September 2009, Slack was nothing more than a hired thug, hacker, assassin and blackmailer. A bit of a Jack-Of-All-Trades, one might say...He had become a fixer for local villains, paying off police, blackmailing them and duping them. He gained some credibility in certain influential business circles, largely connected to vast corporations.

 

Jack Slack offered a confidential service and mastered the arts of blackmail and industrial espionage from his mentor, Quire Cockmoore, a legendary investigator who vanished into the void of the Obsidian Phoenix's Pool of Time...It's lucky he had the Sword of Adonai with him....Slack didn't hear anything more from his precious Cockmoore.  

 

Slack's journalist comrade, Gamussi Rubello, had more of a social conscious, although Jack Slack claimed to have developed one after Rubello's apparent demise. Time really whizzed by. Slack was putrefying, and stasis beckoned…

 

…By January 2241, Slack had completed a C.O.G stasis programme on a colony called Tedd 92-26. By sheer chance, he had been offered freelance work by Professor Norkgrub. It was fortunate his stasis ended and he had decided to meet his astral appointment commitments.

 

Trogger sensed all this, using his slight telepathic ability. In his mind, he tried to speak to the dead Rubello. Rubello nodded at Trogger; Rubello was a balding little man with a moustache like Paul Von Hindenburg's. Rubello's tired nod confirmed to Trogger that Jack's experiences were verified and not totally imagined.

 

During this time Jack Slack had fainted, a gooey mess of blood-bone and purple puss. Trogger scooped up Jack Slack and placed him on the table. It was rumoured amongst the old ones that Trogger thought some dirty thoughts about penetrating Jack Slack's mutating form, then Trogger realized he was here on Earth to help these new life forms. Muto-sex-evo-majik-pzionix needed to be resisted for this time. He was C.O.G., after all.

 

Jack slowly opened his blood filled eyes, as Trogger pointed to his C.O.G. Tattoo on his chest. He was an Old One after all. Trogger only wore a dirty loincloth that had been worn for so long it had attached itself to his skin; hair and a strange mucus mould secured it there. Trogger didn't mind. He sometimes let his gigantic genitals hang out every few thousand years or so.

 

The shock of seeing Trogger's gigantic genitals might have killed Jack. He was so fragile and tried to sleep on the hard table. It was a bit awkward. And the offices opposite must have seen a strange sight of a zombie Homo erectus leaning over a decomposing man. The pus was not the main problem; the man was rapidly decomposing.

 

Trogger needed to assist this queer mutation. Jack's hair was turning to maggots. He might be Trogger's next C.O.G. partner. Jack Slack was mutating so rapidly, dying in front of Trogger, but gaining more life-force, his eyes sparking blood red fire. This must be the freelance private eye and occasional co-worker known and codenamed as “Gumzom”. Jack Slack had no idea his transformation was a vital one for the C.O.G. They were damned to work with him in this form and not as Jack Slack. He had not always been a hill-dweller, playing little games, forgetting worlds or people…He was sick of going insane… Gumzom's other codename was ‘Lighter’. Their driver and pilot, the aged Tommy Tellman was ‘Gate Keeper’. Trogger's was ‘Mr Motivator’. Professor Norkgrub, their attorney, philo-pathologist and pseudo-science guru, always used the codename ‘Codename Jonas’. It was a bit cheeky, I have to admit that. He definitely wasn't a brother anymore.

 

The transformation was badly timed, unfortunately for those involved, as those foul Blood-Harpies attacked the office. Demonic laughter was heard, filtering all around them. It wasn't the blood-harpies fault; maybe some unknown demonic force was testing Trogger and Jack Slack.

 

It was probably their bosses. Blood-Harpies loved blood. They weren't exactly harpies, just giant mutated bacteria that was able to fly at wraith like speeds. Their feeler fangs were able to drain most things, though.

 

Another door opened from the floor; the zoophyte- known as Professor Norkgrub -entered the fray.

 

"Thank you, boys!" Professor Norkgrub shouted. "You two need some back up, I believe. I don't mind a bit of support service schmoozing, but let him freak out and muto-up, so we can survive the time-test. You know me, people, I'm easy. These blood-harpies are a bit stressy though, they should watch the cortisol. You know it's bad!"

 

Norkgrub wouldn't shut up. It was his major problem. For a plant-based entity, he tended to go on and on...It was what academics were famed for...Apparently, the wild-eyed[cloud free] zoophyte went on to become a cult academic…

 

4. The Reptilian Republican Agent

 

…It was bloody. Norkgrub had his shiny seed-shooter ready; Trogger fired his blood-gun at the Blood Harpies as they tried to absorb the genetic manna from his evo-devo-muto-blood. They exploded, as it was too much for the daft Blood Harpies to absorb. Norkgrub's seeds turned the Blood Harpies into crystalline statue-beasts. Slack writhed around in pain. He wanted to help... His mind was melting...Trogger passed Slack his spare blood-gun, but Slack was unable to hold it…He was evaporating...Slack had always liked cold fresh air...

 

Log 5

 

You have to give us back up - we need more manna here, I need powerful celestial manna; I think I might be evaporating again...Steamy goop not applicable, I hasten to add...

 

Log 234

 

I have lost my logs; I cannot remember what I am doing...Where did I go? Was I in 1928 again? The future of metaphysic pulp ran a record shop, didn't you know?... I saw it all, in my mind, the birth of the seer, the birth of… Wait a minute, that was just a film I saw on some delightfully magical mushrooms…I saw the trailer…It was not very good; wish it had a bit more campy fantasy stuff to it. Give me the zoetrope any day of the week, these films will never catch on!

 

Log  1

 

{…Censored for pzionik reasons…}

 

5. Kommandoh Khemikkal Tankr

 

Titi Titbull was scared...She had not heard from Freya Slack for some time. Freya was her muse...Titi stroked the inside of her naked thigh with a feather-duster. She knew her neighbour was watching. She wanted to entice Callum Cheevers into her apartment and suck out his alter-egos...She always needed a good hard one, she thought. But she knew one of Callum’s alter-egos. One of them was known as the perverted space-seer, Regor Nocab. He was always relaxing on Venus. That got her narked.

 

…Titi just wanted this energy; her new agent, Von RapArd had promised her a live PA at the Forum, too. In the end she settled for any pub with a jukebox. She needed this gig. Her new concept album, Silent Fart Frequency was banned before it had been released; she always preferred poppers to bangers, but had started to respect both. She had learned to love the big bangers. She was starting to bang them all out a lot harder...She wondered what had happened to her mentor HardBang, but decided to forget about it...Titi, being a professional person, was intensely selfish... 

 

Titi said, “Rappy, oh Von RapArd, please tell me what I should do?”

 

Von RapArd laughed. The albino vampire had resurrected himself as an extremely secretive agent; a smooth slick super- schmoozer. He knew all the suck-up tricks.  

 

“And?”

 

“I can get you the linear narrative gig if you want. It always ends nicely. You know the one where you dilute Dune and call it Star Wars. Imagine all the toys you could flog? You need some more fuzzy freaks in there though, everyone loves pointless critters,” said the pale vampire.

 

Titi smiled, visibly exicted by Von RapArd's scheming...Von RapArd was clueless; he was from a bygone era. Titi regretted that she had resurrected him. She should have stayed close to the August Ham Man. But his watermelon-fungus head was too annoying; Titi did not need any more poisonous relationships.

 

“Vonny? Rappy?” Titi trilled.

 

Von RapArd’s forked tongue slipped out of his mouth; the tongue of a skilled barber-surgeon.

 

“You can make me famous?”

 

Von RapArd looked even more pale than usual, if that was possible. He remembered the Hell worlds…

 

“Everyone can get their fifteen minutes…There's so many tubes you can go to for instant access...It’s all relative these days,” stammered Von RapArd.

 

“That’s just the way it goes, I suppose,” murmured Titi.

 

Von RapArd looked worried; she had that look in her eyes...She wanted to break out and do something radical. Pop-art popping.

 

Titi smiled; she had a vague idea of some of these weirding forms; she wondered who she might be re-incarnated as…

 

6. The Paranoid Paradox Storms Infused With Quiet Cybo-Jazztronica

 

…It was a bit of a paranoid theory. How many paradoxes do we get in a lifetime? A possible answer might be a few massive ones and lots of tiny ones? Maybe…Most of these paradoxes are to do with our frustratingly poor capitalist-democratic modes of existence. Truly awful, of course. But I don't want money scrapped, just revamped to credit notes. We can let it slide until after 2015…

 

In the next realm everyone was in debt, and you had to pay back your debt very quickly. Stating this generalization, I should add that the hourly rate of pay in the realm of TrigyalonX40 was equivalent to one million pounds sterling. Everything was inflated. A bag of nuts might set you back fifty thousand pounds sterling. It might seem incredible in our current day and age, but not completely unbelievable to our fragile human minds...

 

When the debt-laden individual died, they had to work part of their afterlife providing vital electromagnet particles for power sources; and spare parts for those who requested them. Ghosting was commonplace. Everyone had come out of their shells. It seemed a good idea, until the Greed-Gods got a bit greedy again. This time it was the elected leaders corrupting the system even further.

 

It was the same old tired clichés…

 

 Part 1605....

 

Zip looked up and noticed she had fallen asleep next to Les Barloy. The queer psychic was naked, and he had a morning erection. Morning glory would follow with a semantic lava flow…Semen always ended up his mouth…Was he getting lingual? Les thought he was good with his mouth… And he seemed to be unknowingly chanting something in his sleep, almost invoking some foul demonic aura…He had also passed wind…

 

There was no smell. It was not even a fruity one. Zip was disappointed; one of her kicks was to have someone fart in her face. She got into all that when she was studying in Berlin...

 

Zip went to the bathroom. What had she done? Zip felt the dried semen around her pubis, and her jaw ached. A chill feeling made her look at herself in the mirror. Her mouth also had dried semen around it. Not again. She needed some spiritual assistance. She realized Les was trying to put her first; he was trying to take her away from this warped world...

 

560…

 

Zip did not want to work her afterlife here...Les was right; some worlds were better than others...Her ritual was a minor one to Och; it was not well-known and she had the smell of mastic oil stuck up her nostrils…Where did the vapour rub go?... 

 

7. Mr TuPu Rainbows taps the Spectral Soul

 

From the Journal of Gamussi Rubello a.k.a Mr TuPu Rainbows [1989-2451].

 

After suffering from numerous viral afflictions, via J-Altern-8[08 stasis], I decided to use myself as an astral pain-vessel [which has many risks according to the Vindaw sect]. This is quite apt as, despite all peaceful[ish] protestations, the world remains intent upon forcing humans to kill each other….

 

I try not to be swayed by the "topical" and the "politically trendy"; these groups are usually very naive [even pseudo-Utopian in their own way, minus any solutions - though I'm sure they're too cool to admit it -- though my neo-pagan-activist friend, Mr Cheevers, is about to publish his trendy Cohen-esque political tract on Globalized power called 'We Are All Impotent'] in relation to the nature of power.

 

…These pseudo-hippified trendies also miss the crucial point that we - and some generations before this awful time - have slowly lost trust in the cumbersome process of capitalist-democracy [when you feel the need for a humanist world government, how pathetic does the U.N. look? It's a shame they haven't been properly supported. But when people say "humanist world government" it usually gets construed as a totalitarian regime – or some foul dystopian system. And we don't even try to unite, do we? If money cannot unite us, then surely all we have left is each other - or we're eternally screwed, right? Some of my former associates, who regularly invoke Tetragrammaton [in a 1960s dilettante self-indulgent way] have commented upon this and revel in this prophecy...]. Our only choices under capitalist-democracy: total nihilism or elect your dictator!

 

Unfortunately for us serfs, most capitalist-democrat politicians rarely follow truthful humanist values, as they complain about a cumbersome, out-dated, system they are unable to bypass; but are constantly frightened to think outside the confines of a capitalist-democracy - which they feel will bog them down in dreaded "reformism" [also, look at the neutralization of British politics today - most London Boroughs struggle to get over 30% of their population out to vote. I think Haringey got 31% in the recent by-election-thingy, which is the 1% "wow"-factor. There was another by-election somewhere dull with only 29% turnout. Oldham reached  a 40% turnout, despite the large postal vote...All self-serving career politicians want this trend to continue, of course...The Status Quo Defence from the usual talking shop terrors...]...

...Poor Georgey is in debt- due to delayed wage top-up payments for his cack job; he can't feed his family despite voting Tory...Debt is his miserable future existence - but he said to the Indy he'll still vote Tory!...You couldn't make it up; the Brits love to say the Yanks are thick for voting Trump in but God, we're just as deluded...A hand up into a shit job is apparently better than a hand out to better your future self, of course...How many spongers are in the UK now, Tory Boy? Be careful not to mention the tax-exile bank accounts...Sadly evidence based politics died in 2018... 

 

… I was still not swayed by my ever-lasting internalized dialogue with myself as an ethnically diverse panda called Mr TuPu Rainbows; I tried to vomit again, but I'm sure I was vomiting nothing. This went on for hours, of course. Time, predictably, haunts us all... Forever…

 

…By this point I was very parched, but I was intrigued by my attempts to become a vessel for all pain [it was futile, of course; I was born to be useless]. Even throughout my slight ailment, I had pressed upon my personal quest of divination, I felt lost in a world that I had once known; but at the same time I constantly felt alien.

 

To be honest, I was wondering if it was all in my mind - I had lost my taste for food and wondered when my benefactors would help me [I am no Araks, of course. Invoke Kate-B-Uriel: cue more bitching bewitching breweries, of course; don't forget to praise Mithras...]. Luckily, I always avoided television, social media tedium and other pzi-demoniac-deflective media. I had to - I was a nomad and I knew my benefactors would be annoyed to discover me sleeping in their cybo-bath again [dildo washer included]. The crude occultist known as Rubadub Fyzix had failed me yet again!

 

ALL TOGETHER: [CHANT] “O PRINCE LUCIFER, I AM, FOR THE TIME, CONTENTED WITH THEE. I NOW LEAVE THEE IN PEACE, AND PERMIT THEE TO RETIRE WHERESOEVER IT MAY SEEM GOOD TO THEE, SO IT BE WITHOUT NOISE AND WITHOUT LEAVING ANY EVIL SMELL BEHIND THEE!”

 

LUCIFER, LET ONE R.I.P. AGAIN! LIGHTER!

 

                                    REG SATANAS!

                                    AVE, SATANAS!

                                    HAIL, SATAN!

 

…Sleep in itself remained a human weakness, and I avoided this vice for long periods of time [depending on what time it was]; but sleeping in a bath always reminded me of embryonic stasis. I always succumbed to that deceptive titanium of sleep...

 

…LIGHTER! O PRINCE OF…

 

...This form of slumber also brought back to me fond memories of my early youth - when I was a keen water-sportsman [also see: 'The Early Astral Pursuits of R.K. Galvez 4B.C-28A.D' -- soon to be transcribed from the broken slate edition]. Ah, soft sacred slumber…

 

…Despite this whimsy, I was also being pragmatic; I decided the bath would be the safest and most hygienic place to lubricate myself with my own mutated urine [which was the cleanest liquid in the entire abode, being an old council house of a dubious reputation...]….It was golden, it was truly golden…I AM THE SNAIL MAN! 

 

....I felt slightly refreshed after this psychotic episode, but I had struggled to control my hunger and scurried around the vile abode and found nothing edible. Luckily, due to my persistence, I was able to gather some moulding soft fruits which had been discarded outside for recycling purposes. At least it was healthy eating, as I despised processed foods. These fruits were mainly oranges and bananas and I forced myself to consume their putrid, tangy, flesh…

 

LIGHT IT --

 

…I felt like I had been suddenly re-animated - an organic fruit zombie - as my stomach somersaulted; the soiled fruits rapidly fermenting in my gastric acids. It was as if the moulding fruits had constructed a lysergic mould-bomb inside of my malnourished stomach and were testing its power. This was like shooting ozone all over again. I felt strange - as if some new world[s] had opened up before my very eyes. This was surely something spiritual…

 

Despite perspiring heavily - causing small puddles to form around me - I managed to disinfect my portable electronic computing device [which I am now composing my record on, even though it is my benefactors' device; they have kindly leased it to me. It is often covered in strange sticky secretions; and pieces of tissue for some strange reason...I cleaned it thoroughly with sugar soap and boiled urine]….

 

…After this minor procedure, I immediately took off for Hampstead Heath. I never usually reached my destination, due to being dragged off-course by unexpected random events…I always expected these random unexpected events, of course. I remembered, this time, not to trust my eyes. I put everything to the back of my small mind - even my recurring dreams of being sectioned - and set off, on foot, to my leafy idyll.

 

This strange idyll, in pseudo-ruralized London, forced me to realize that I had a cold - an awful one at that. I then remembered all the perished - those unlucky sacrifices; the entire world's pain stabbed me like a crystal sword through the cerebral cortex. I now know that being powerless is like being constantly trapped in a hypostatic state…

 

…It is strange really but the majority of people are locked in their own tax/wage slave [or purchased existences]. I was locked in this strange alienation; I was sure I had become invisible at this point, which suited me fine, as people quickly walked away without noticing me. I had not become invisible on this realm since my encounter with Mr Napier…

 

…I was very cold in my ragged attire - which had always looked rather shabby - was in urgent need of repair. However, I had started to construct a crude blanket from the peel of the soft fruits I had consumed earlier [which I had kept as a possible power source if I found any need for it, maybe in the future]. It was a good idea as peel decomposes and, despite its strange aroma, it can be very warming….

 

O LIGHT! O LIGHT!

 

And, if you focus your mind on the by-products, you might be able to transcend all reality. Ecstatic Acid Regulator required. Flies plagued me and I knew I had been put under some primitive curse; it was also very hot. But that didn't matter to me - I had been cursed many times. I stumbled afar and found an ancient tree. It wasn't hollow inside - it was strong; its wet bark was warm. It was glowing.

 

As the sun set, I knew I would be transported somewhere. Where? Who knows or cares; I needed some quality time off Earth and that was all that mattered. But I needed to send some form of transportation back to attempt to help people on this hell-realm. I realized that maybe Noah's ark was really about a huge spacecraft [possibly alien] that rescued everyone who didn't want to kill each other and take refuge from some horrendous all-consuming conflict, erased from history [as history is always deceptive]. The innocent ark...

 

I felt a chill wind pass through me, and it ripped across the entire vista. It was a glowing wind: I heard it snap branches, and move litter, and clumps of earth; it was there - something from another realm. It might have been coming for me, as it was being piloted erratically, but it vanished before I could see it clearly. I cursed my luck, and stared at the ancient tree, making sure it was free from fungus.

 

LIGHT! DARK! SHOW ME THE FIRE!

 

…This gave me an idea of what to do and where to go [it might take immense time and inevitably cause me great pain] and I was filled with a hope which I had not felt for a long time. I was pleased that I didn't hug this tree; however, as the communal enforcement operative pulled me away quite sternly. He had over-exerted himself; tears were forming in his dull deadened eyes. Obviously, my invisibility had worn off. All I could do, in this case, was to kindly ask him if he was going to ask me to flow his tears... 

 

Chapter 75 Disciple Schmooze Orgy [Not another D-Scape-Mind-Mapping Dimension Networker Control Freak...Do I have to fuck someone who claims to be famous again?...]

 

The Realist’s View:

 

Looking at the extract, it made me think how it had missed its designated target audience. They definitely had no well-connected agent. As a researcher, and someone who regularly sells themselves as a business schmoozer, I knew how to read these things; common people are just unable to get it. The audience always needs to be comfortably middle-class[also known by the posh knobs as Miranda-Fleabag syndrome]...They have no confidence as they don't know ANYONE! Elitism has to be necessary, of course. It has become a form of quality control int he echo chamber...The whole piece creaked badly; obviously, it was the product of a delusional mind...

 

This hopeless idiot was too deranged to get it on and I concluded it was the work of a drug-addled trashy pulp hack...Not every original, of course...They will never schmooze enough contacts to get anywhere, I thought. They need to get used to doing whatever it takes. WHATEVER IT TAKES! They should play safe and make sure it flows in a nice linear narrative; please include an echo-chamber audience with a good dose of visually appealing, mostly privileged, vain-glorious people...Don't forget, there has to be some kind of neatly conveyed edge-of-your-seat ending. You know HBO or Netflix might kill for that kind of dross…

 

...They are really going to have to soley network for at least five years [five years! full-time schmoozing knows no bounds! FIVE FUCKING YEARS! Never thought I would need so many…]...Fuck all the people who are influencers...Oh yes, this sad individual might as well give up if they have not made it by the time they hit twenty-three...If you reach thirty with no respectable agent, you might as well give Digitas a call...Most people have to show potential in the entertainment whore- market by the time they reach twenty...The pornographic muse, Lakky Hardbang, was no exception either… Resurrected pornographic life-death was all the rage...The futuristic system chancing was going pan-dimensional...

 

...Don't worry: if you do not make one of them Future Star/One to Watch lists, you might as well swallow all your meds now...You’re usually washed up by the time you’re thirty anyway, as the pre-destined stereotypes tell you. What's the point of anything by then anyway? They can't live a celebrity lifestyle for free can they? How many times can you keep bankrupting yourself? Or even pretend to be dismayed by that so-called unknown sex film footage going viral. I wish I had a pair of those space boots Ripley wears in ‘Aliens’…I started thinking of the hacks I might know...Who could have sent me this esoteric drivel?

 

…Only a few spring to mind, like Galvez and his weird lot....They would print off their crude stream of consciousness toils on toilet paper, if you allowed them the scope to do so, of course. These toilet paper terrors are always slightly mad. Looking for TP for holes to bung. Thankfully commercial, conservative society bans these outdated eccentrics…Confine them to the underground, that sounds good to civilized society…

 

However, it did make me think (futuristically); I wondered if anything can be garnered from these useless ramblings? Probably not, but I decided to keep investigating; I needed to go back to 1975 but I’m tempted to fast-forward to 2345. It’s really good there, I will definitely go back. There must be a lot of exo-planets to have a good time on…

 

8. "The whole thing makes me sick!" [V. van Gogh.]

 

…Salutations [Censored for their own protection]; Thanks for your message; it's definitely one of the most friendly messages I've received from anyone on this [social networking] site, and I was pleased to receive such a delightful message...I can sense that your aura is one of light...I myself am in the U.K., I don't know if you mean you've actually moved [over] here to London, U.K.?... I don't know how long you're going to be here for[it's a rip off over here, isn't it?...]...But I am not in the USA, if there's any confusion there...I was a bit confused by that, but I get confused a lot and very easily...And yes, I'm pretty bad at pool....

….Of course, I am friendly but I would feel I'm somewhat taking advantage of your trust by the fact that I do not feel very sociable all the time...It's a meds thing, as I'm hoping you might understand...So, in short, I can have some pretty bad mood swings.....As you know, I try to harness my ego and use many forms of medications to do this, so I can refrain from being a permanently moody person on here, even more so when trying to be friendly to people...

…However, I hope you're not this forward to everyone you meet online...I would warn that the online world can be full of strange, dangerous, people and you should be cautious in distributing your information...Feel free to chat some more to me over [censored social network: needs to pay me for plug] so we can get to know each other a lot better and, hopefully, if you are in London we can meet sometime -- you must be familiar with London's Southbank? [Confusion aside, I hope you know what I'm talking about?...]......It's up to you if you want to send me pictures of yourself - that right is up to you and I respect your image rights -- though please do not feel forced to do so...I'm interested in people and their free spiritual essence; if you decide to send them and it pleases you to do so; but I am not really drawn by visuals -- I am of a different kith...], as I've lost the password for my [censored] account and I just use it as a username now; I usually forget to check emails for a long time anyway, as it's easier just to have these networking things...

…I am not exactly an oil painting, after an unsuccessful suicide attempt in 2005 after thinking I was possessed after taking way too much mescaline with modified magic mushrooms [Blue Meanies in the morning…Blue Meanies at night…] and for "breakfast", sampling some kind of Datura compound, a so-called acquaintance introduced me to, with a wash down of some San Francisco Sun... I recommend moderation...

…By the way, if you're interested in[the] arts - primal rage, wordism, esoteric shenanigans and the full gamut of psychotherapies – then, maybe, we can also meet on WEbook, or BookRix...I don't know if I've already mentioned that I'm not on [censored social network] much...I tend to contribute works to these kind of sites, mainly as I don't get ignored too much or weird too many people out...It's free, slightly non-competitive, not packed with adverts and trend-stuff [though it's creeping in] and you can exchange ideas and chat about all sorts of things.....I look forward to finding out more about you and if you ever want to know what I'm like, I'll sum up it up for you: I've lived, for the most part, in the UK all my life; my parents live separate lives but still get on swimmingly well: my dad is a bisexual ex-curator who spends most of his time in Spain; and my mum is a lesbian florist, who lives in Norfolk, England...

…My sibling and step-siblings are annoying, all are trendies in London, as I still see them now and again, they move around a fair bit... And they travel abroad a lot too, and I have occasionally gone with them [past and present, when I feel up to it and they're paying, of course]; but I decided to drop out of formal mainstream school before secondary level and was home-schooled by my uncle [who is now a woman, and my aunt...at the time he was still undergoing the surgery...]... It was almost, in a weird way, like a commune existence...It gets even more boring, unfortunately....... I only say that, as I went to join various dubious groups - some even linked to some radical Quakerism - based around the UK...

…I got really interested in Thelemic studies [consult www.shemesh.oto-uk.org , I completely recommend it] and hermetic law... I am still very much interested, but not as so eagerly as before...I've seen some strange things, although I still adhere to some of the solstice rituals, in a quasi-pagan corrupted fashion, akin to the teachings of Papus and I deeply respect Vesak; but I do not do as many now, since I'm feeling the side-effects of my highly polluted brain and body -- caused by various excesses -- in the search for enlightenment and transcendental soul expansion that I am now trying to atone for......

…I still have profound moments of transcendental meditative experiences, or a peaceful trance and some are very awesome, chilled out euphoria, just like any decent flashback...But I don't travel much as my meds really take it out of me, so I'm paying the price for these exploits, as now I'm on welfare [I've been on it for a while now, almost five years…] and it'll be a long time before any employer wants to contact me, particularly with my psychological history.......So I am stuck on welfare and cannot get free...It's depressing but the U.K. remains a bit backward like that...Half the time, I'm not really here, I'm in another world, stuck in my mind....I prefer it there sometimes; in my reveries, my altered states...Obviously, I thought I'd be completely honest with you, as you were with me, so it's only fair as I don't want to give the impression that I'm some kind of rich kid either....I'm sorry for going on for so long; time doesn't really register the same way with me...But thanks for your friendship and I hope to hear a lot more from you...

Best wishes, ******,

 

[…Censored…]

 

P.S. That was the last time I heard from {censored} ever again…

 

9. Astro-Gastro-Jump Bump. (Via Turnpike Lane)

 

“I grant this food will be somewhat dear, and therefore very proper for landlords, who, as they have already devoured most of the parents, seem to have the best title to children.” Mr J Swift…

 

…Les came around on the crowded bus; his disturbing dream had ended...He thought to himself: who was that letter to again?... It did not matter; he was no flat white...His brow was sweaty....He looked at his garments; he was covered in a strange, sticky, mucus…Ectoplasm or old gravy…Les sampled the fine delight and found that it tasted quite nice…

 

…Les took his stilettos off...It was a bad time to be wearing them; his mascara was running; he was getting a bit corny again...He couldn't do his make-up on public transport could he?...However, he did not like getting corns, but realized it was part of a well-heeled life... He preferred getting the odd corn over a sore rectum any day of the week… His mind transported into another void....A scorched planet; he was re-living through someone else. What anus had he vanished up this time, he queried...

 

…Parsons looked at the scorched earth...The planet was not worth saving he thought. It was shame he had to return to London Bridge; no-one would never find this realm again. He felt smug at having been the only human too discover this realm.

 

It was not like any other realm. It had been populated by tiny people made up of detritus. they really were shit people. Tiny people of some weird alien excrement. Parsons wanted to study them more closely.

 

The tiny detritus people were not very intelligent and had killed each other after capturing Parsons. He survived by eating them and storing their bodies to absorb the dew. He had no idea where his partner, Agent Hubbard, had vanished to. He had been absorbed in a excrement storm shortly after Parsons made his escape to this realm.

 

Parsons sniggered. He felt like a god here. He was able to use the remaining muck folk for his own devices. They had no realm to hide in now. He decided they needed to start building a primitive tyme-craft so they were able to leave the realm. Parsons had calculated a C.O.G. bus would break open this portal again in the next seventeen years. It was more than enough time to build an army and attack earth.

 

Parsons secretly hated Earth. He had been searching for other worlds for a long time. He wished he had brought his android sex toy along for the ride. The muck people did not respond to human intercourse too well. Parsons had many perversions so the muck people were amazed by his depravity. Parsons thought they would like the dirty stuff but they were, like pigs, surprisingly clean. How can an entity made of dirt take a clean shower? It was mind over matter. Parsons was pleased he was unchallenged here…

 

**

 

…Goodmann looked out of the window. He never had liked this earth-realm. His charred flesh and burning eyes had made him stand out. He had decided to not bother using his Rorschach disguise. It was redundant. He stuck to dressing like a demon. He did have a midget in tight silver trousers trying to work it a l a pop tart star…His demon name was Dameon. It was something strictly electro-cool for the masses…New old was all the rage, as the Propellerheads had predicted…

 

Goodnow, however, had prided himself on being tuned in….To what that was the main question…He liked being on the frequented wavelengths of the subversive; he did not care which one. His long flowing golden locks had made him the envy of C.O.G. He was a good guy really; he had to leave that memo though. If he wanted to save the world, he had to go A.W.O.L. with Goodmann.

 

"I don't know if I can trust you", said Goodnow to Goodmann.

 

Goodmann laughed.

 

"You will," replied Goodmann.

 

"What's the point in having these offices here? You don't even care about this world, do you?" Goodnow asked.

 

Goodmann sniggered.

 

"Soon my dandy agent friend, you will have the chance to save all worlds. You want that?"

 

"I do. I want the ultimate happiness. I will make the bargain if it means my own eternal suffering," said Goodnow.

 

Goodmann laughed. His plan was coming into effect. They were both going to break away from the C.O.G. The final stage to the Babalon project was forming, just as Hubbard predicted. Goodmann regretted not freezing Hubbard before his premature trip to the other side.

 

"I don't like these mouldy dust worlds," Goodnow groaned. "Too much heat."

 

Goodmann laughed. Heat would be the last thing Goodnow would need to worry about. He hated these closet fantasy junkies.

 

…Jack looked up and saw that this world was burning; it had it. It was definitely on the way out. The sun had scorched the sky, making the sky look like a lava flow. Someone was playing with some old radio frequencies causing the static to merge with the wind. The wind was now static interference. It was horrifying to those not schooled in the vast art of occult science. Love is the law for eternity; Jack never realized this.

 

What larks! Jack was a farm boy here on 67XTY….He had lots of time to examine his queer penis nodule and play strange sex games with the flora and fauna. It was not a clear cut time. It always had been strange for Jack; he also found that he didn't like being in his body. It was a weird feeling. He wanted to be a man, but he felt uncomfortable in the human form. He never discovered why he felt this way. Maybe he was born this way...Who knows......

 

...You know what? I am sure this wraith-world was near Balham and recently twinned with the Crystal Ops room at Cheviot Close.

 

Professor Childchrist would be pleased with him, thought Jack, in some whimsical eternal reverie.

 

Jack had got out of the C.O.G. call centre, abandoning dull research calls, for more frontline work. He always wanted to find the mutants. He was not pleased about the ten Galactic Bonds an hour. Though one Galactic Bond equated to twelve thousand infinite hours worked; I don't think it was able to be converted into human coinage. He wondered if he was better on ten cents an hour at the [censored]… 

 

…Therefore, Jack was a bit strapped for cash on our earth. He tried his hand as a door-to-door salesman; he would sell anything, sometimes he was a bit forceful but he wanted to live his dream of a fully licensed and well-funded private investigator. The settlements here had started turning to bubbling mould and there seemed to be no law and order. Jack had jumped at the chance to save this world, though it looked like it was beyond saving. It was beyond saving. Jack did not realize how pointless sit all was; he heard a small demonic laugh emanating in the back of his mind...It was Goodmann, his supervisor. His own agency had sacrificed him.

 

Jack felt his skin bubbling, slowly turning to liquid flesh. Jack had experienced this before; he was not scared; he looked himself in the boiling time capsule – Jack had a good feeling that he would be well preserved there. It was more like a broom cupboard. He was sick of going back in the closet but sometimes you have to take the fantasy junkies way out...And just keep coming out!

 

As Jack bubbled away, his skin slowly evaporating, he noticed that he might be mutating. He needed something to take it his mind off this occurrence. He knew he had been here before and placed an old copy of pulp stories under the time capsule's toilet facility. They turned out to be there with a pair of Hawkwind tickets from 1974.

 

"Norky, you shouldn't have done that," smiled Jack.

 

He cried; he knew he would live again… It was a beautiful moment of clarity…This was the extract that Jack Slack read before melting in to liquid flesh...    

 

...Out Of Darkness Cometh Light…

by Tommy Tellman....

 

Chapter 1: Anti-prologue/ Neat American Resolution Crisis.

 

There were some people called the Moorsooniz. They were not very nice. They lived on a planet called 12XCEDM&M. It was a fantasy junk planet in deep darkspace, near [censored], forty-thousand light years away. It was easy to travel: just think, project, that’s it… Apparently, it was full of dead dreams, the undead chill, and lost realms of woe. It was a wraith planet that existed near Frinton-on-sea. I'm sure you could get there via Liverpool Street….

 

…I am sure you can get there without moving. As it was documented by the COG scanners, it was all quiet one day when I saw my friend attempt to save this playfully foul world. He was testing a new food stuff which was synthesized from alien maggot excrement.

 

These alien maggots were once humans. They had mutated. I supposed they were mutated alien maggots. What made them alien was they had been blasted into space by a panicked government agent called Titi Titbull.

 

It was a codename, of course. Her real name was [censored]… Her cover was blown a long time ago. She might have been called Elaine. She moonlighted as the global pop-porn sensation, LaDy BuBa HoTek. She was a bit strange; controversial re-invention followed her many lives; it was so brave when millions of innocents perished each day: not many could go onstage, and live to the world, to millions every night via webcam, and pretend to be a whore… She was born in 1867, briefly killed in 1967, but successfully resurrected in 1968; she had never worked alongside any other adepts. According the crisis reports, she was some kind of lifeforce that was able to manipulate the standard resurrection trick.

 

Titi felt it best to decide these things. She had been in many films where she angrily masturbated. Rubbing it out was the technical term, but she found these hipster terms a bit fishy. The only true rubbing out she done was during the news. And when she was told to kill by the C.O.G. ...

 

...Why had Titi been scared of the mutant excrement? It was good, vital and very nutritious, that's why. It was the colony preserve. It was better than hallucinogenic organic spices or some expensive coffee bean excreted by a mongoose-cat (Civets are not toys… Some mutants had civet sarnies…)… It was the best shit ever…

 

Titi was addicted; she called the clean-up team…

 

10. Going Through PassThru Town…

…Mr Callum Cheevers visits Olde Poshe Lundun via Saturn. Meets a girl on the Hampstead-Ethiopian diet; she doesn’t like kinky stuff. Cheevers eagerly masturbates over pictures of K[censored] Knightley [poor rich lonely party girl, just dancing in the corner on her own; we're all standing in the corner, searching for our...]...Then he travels throughout zonal time dimensions….

 

…Zip awoke from her slumber; her loose silk robe slipping down her body to expose her pale flesh, her well-formed buxom bosom, a reincarnation of an Amazonian Ingrid Pitt. She admired her body, thought briefly about touching down there, but refrained and searched for some more Nembutals…

 

…I seemed to have forgotten about this site for a long time! I never make friends for long, you can probably tell [being an extremely queer, enigmatic, guy…]. I was still trying to figure out what that feathered-fiend was about the other time, whenever time that was…My mind is being pickled inside my skull…Pzionik astral energy burning the blood brain barrier…

 

Thankfully, I vanished down a [lot of] bottle[s] for some time - it was the only way to see in yet another gloomy year on Earth. I can't wait till we get off here - I always wanted to build a space-ship like those kids in that film [I've forgotten the name of, but there's dancing aliens in it, too]. In my mind, life was gravy - I was in the bottle with one of those boats [how do they get in there?]; but luckily for me the sea was spiced with a mystic opiate whiskey.

 

Yep, I been at it all right; it was the best thing to do - even though I'm losing my sense of the world. I'm thinking of using a mate's genetically modified liver as my own, too. I hope he's not winding me up about it. And I'm not very good with time no-more, as I fall asleep and vomit/excrete/urinate [usually, in that order] myself wherever I go or don't go [uh-oh, not again...hang on...]. Aw, forget it...

 

...It was real bad on the tube the other day - luckily, I had a carrier bag! They make pretty good pants - I reckon they might catch on, as an eco-thingummy. Sadly, some law-bod got to me before I was able to parade down the platform. I don't remember anything -- it's the classic defence. In fact, it's my real defence. I honestly don't remember anything [thank you weak brain!].

 

I went back to some grubby pub, hidden in the depths of central London, planted underground. It's weirdly located, and looks closed down [loads of pubs are closing down, all the time, so who can tell? They, those dull political posh people, all want us to have awful frothy coffees...]. It seems to have some strange market in it and it only sells useless-looking relics and runes, and all that Gothic stuff. It's funny in there though, even though I'm real smelly and scruffy I feel safe in this grubby pub. It's so good to have a safe haven, a semi-roof, even though it was always cold here and the rats scampered about freely - it still made it feel cosy.

 

I didn't realize there were so many mutants and aliens living among us, too. I've really got to get with the whole-conspiracy-freak-out-thingy [it worked for the kid wizard stuff didn't it, and that idea is well old!] They seem to be going places, these mutated-alien-folks, though the pub's meant to be closed down, it's great people[aliens/muties, freaks, whoever] are bucking this awful system we keep following. They want to break on through to somewhere else in their own way -- I bet they're time-bankers. They all seemed happy and the market seemed to get busier by the minute. 

 

I agree with that new World President of Earth, that we want something that works for everyone [slightly Utopian, of course, but it has to be worth a try? I suppose mere wishful thinking!] It's great he had said what we're all really thinking, particularly about governments. But then again, I wasn't really too sharp over the whole thing. And I fell asleep.

 

I woke up on the bar, in this grubby pub. It seems okay - the bar was rotting and various bugs were crawling over me, some had trapped themselves in my unknowing secretions. The mutants/aliens/folks had vanished - though I'm sure they were there [you have to - you got to believe me! I hadn't touched anything for five whole minutes - I was almost D.T. body-popping! U.T.I. crunch-style 2008..].... I tried to check the reality of the place; the grubby pub is still here. I lick the walls and the floor, just to be sure. I look around shouting out after those weird folks. But there's no answer.

 

The place emptied out quick; the runes and other rubbish were still there, though. I wondered where they had all gone. I saw that random bloke with feathers on his face again - staring at me from a cubby-hole behind the bar. I signed to him to get me more booze, but he ducked away. The little punk was playing a game with me. I laughed but I was a bit angry even he ignored me. I must be a real pain...

 

...But, soemhwat fortunately, I bumped into a really old mate - who's even worse than me and he supports Brentford [I'm not joking!]. He's really tough to understand, as all his gums are all moulding and bloodied looking [he looks like some zombie dressed in a parka, baggies and fake trainers]; but the guy's some experiment that has been unleashed upon the world and some pharmaceutical company must be picking up his hefty tab. He's invincible and always happy, despite sleeping on the floor of his transsexual father's bathroom for over a decade...I do not know how he does it - oh that's it, he's called Buggo Ravu. Apparently, his codename remains the August Ham Man.

 

He was convinced that was what his name sounded like. Buggo attempted to speak again, his breathe from the black lagoon [mine isn't much better though!] He mumbles something - what I reckon is hello, but as he talks, he swallows a huge mouthful of bile and phlegm mixed together. It looks like a ping pong ball, but it's yellowish-greeney-blackish with foamy bits of white around the side. That must be mad to barf up.

 

Buggo spends the next ten minutes trying to heave it back up, then gives up and takes out a huge bottle of gin. He looks around [maybe, he can see the mutant/alien/folks, too - I don't bother to ask] - he says the gin's from some alien land, but it sounded lost amongst yet more spittle. At times I reckon the guy's speaking some language out of some sci-fi show to me just to get on my nerves - to bug me. He's a real headache.

 

I wrestled with him over the gin [which smelt like a well-known domestic cleaning product] but, by pure chance, I found out that some of runes from the market were made out of some type of foodstuff. I was hungry as well. Buggo laughed at me as I gobbled the runes and relics, quaffing them down with the speed in which I normally devour spicy chicken.

 

It was only while doing this that I realized my mistake - and I was unable to get rid of Buggo. He was trying to talk to me again, but he spat all over me, with his acidic alien spittle. I felt my skin burn, but luckily he may well have popped an annoying blackhead near my nose. I breathed a sigh of relief, warm pus dripped off my nose, as Buggo drifted away...

 

As I attempted to escape, he's trying to mime footie to me - as if I give a damn about Brentford!My word, such crazy craziness! But he's trying to find out some fixtures - I don't know I tell him to go to find an internet café, or go and surf the public tranny network for some discarded newspapers. One time I picked up the F.T [I'm sure it gave me herpes, but that's another story...].

 

…I mentioned this to Buggo to give him a small glimmer of hope. Freebie's are a way of life for Buggo, he loves it. He's found a free Elfie Hopkins blow-up doll. It looks so real, but it had been heavily soiled by the previous owner.

 

I really wanted to get free of Buggo now - my discovery of the edible runes and relics and other pieces of bric-a-brac, where making him salivate. There was so much spit; he drooled so much it was like a tidal wave. I lost trace of Buggo and ended up getting washed down a drain - a massive drain - close to the bar.

 

I don't know how the hell I got to the sewer, but I assumed it was one of those touristy hidden-London things. The saliva was really gooey though and I seemed to be getting trapped in it. I shouted out for Buggo; but he must've been washed away as well. I was more gutted about the gin. Nevertheless I needed to find a way out; the sewer seemed to be some sort of maze; it went on and on.

 

I felt dizzy and sick [something I had not felt for a long time, being immune to that sort of thing… The last time I felt vomit in my gullet I had just penetrated (censored)…]… I didn't know what to do; the darkness started to move, it was moving really quick. The walls were even moving and the sludge-covered floor slithered. I saw giant rats: they seemed to be made of excrement rustling around, biting pieces of detritus with sharp teeth and claws. It was only then that I realized that I was out of my depth.

 

This is where I felt really down in the sewer [non-Strangler-fied]. I regretted eating those edible runes and other mysterious relics. I should've found out what they were. Maybe they really were made out of something inedible. They needed labels, but I wouldn't been able to see them anyway, my vision was close to total blurry now.  However, I felt something pull me up. It was a lasso of some kind made entirely from feathers. I thought it must be angel dust - it must be something from above.

 

It wasn't. It was my odd feathered-faced friend. He smiled at me, shaking his head in disgust at me, as I wiped the last crumbs of runes from around my mouth. Luckily for me, he had made a rope of feathers. It was really tough, I've still got the scars off it. But he smiled and showed me a way out of this grubby pub. As we stood, breathing the beautifully polluted London air, we felt pleased to escape the excremental rats and other hazards. I was a bit annoyed about the gin, but the feathered-faced fellow gave me a key, he pointed to a nozzle and there was cork in it. I opened it and there was an elixir of some kind in it.

 

I was about to down it when he shook his head and pushed me towards some other place. It was a museum. He wanted me to follow him. I thought I was still seeing things - but what the hell! I followed him, and it turns out I'm still following him! He's trying to help me find the gateway this key activates on Earth. I said it was a bit of a 1980s idea to him, but he shrugged and gave me a silver letter.

 

Now I've got to read a silver letter! It's real tough, though... is this feather-faced guy a queer man-witch of some kind? I'm hoping some Goth [who isn't a poser] will know. But I need a book called the Legoomutton [something like it], I'm not sure. This isn't really my sort of thing, as the online info is really limited [except the Crowley libri, of course. But it's of no help to this sage! I can’t even use Sage; it’s all too advanced for me!]. I don't know why he helped me. But I plod on, hopefully figuring the right place and time and the right gateway. And I still got to figure how to open the silver letter as my feathered-face friend has suddenly vanished. He's probably back in that grubby pub...I'll check again!    

 

Callum Cheevers,

 

Part-time Pop-Pornographer and a regular Alien Abductee.

Islington, London, 2022.

 

11. Anti-End Terminal Earth: The End of the Expected Obligatory Encore of Death.

 

“On the contrary, it would resist such isolation and compartmentalisation. It would be a meeting point; an intersection linking diverse routes to the past. It would thrive upon the interconnectedness of the historical process and it would transform understanding.”

K. Wrightson, The enclosure of English social history

 

The space-ship just crashed. The planet was completely dead. The soil was made up of fried carrots and small pieces of metamorphic rock freshly delivered from Iceland…Les Barloy, Professor Norkgrub and the Demon Tec crew got off the destroyed vessel. It was a shame. That vessel had lived briefly; it had been kept alive on shellfish....

 

The crew were: Zip Gregano, communications officer; Tommy Tellman, pilot; Trogger, Tipp Unkorf, Ovno Wendle and Gumzom (a.k.a. Jack Slack), all were considered tactical support; Professor Norkgrub and Les Barloy were the guests of honour…They were also present within a diplomatic capacity…

 

They were all in stasis. Trogger and Gumzom did not dream as they were technically dead. They were flukes of the pzionik art to become immortal; no matter how painful it was for them to remain immortal.

 

Here was the astral dream log:

 

LES BARLOY: I wish I was still in Skegness. I hate space-dimensional projection. It’s so draining. Then there was that nice world where everyone was so happy. There must have been something in the air. At least I don’t have to worry anymore about getting caught by the police. I can pursue my sexuality with my rooty alien friends. It’s a good time to be in this mutant police thingummy but I’m not a mutant yet. They are very inclusive, I have to say. I suppose they need some humans to help me evolve.

 

ZIP GREGANO: Why do I keep get these weird thoughts? I am not dead, but I keep dreaming about some Undead Caveman; how did we get intimate? What was his name again?...I keep meeting him in my dreams; it reminds me of some awful story I read some time ago. Maybe not...Try not to dream; I must clear my mind...

 

TIPP UNKORF: Last time I go native in some other dimension. Humans! They give me too much stress. And stress is bad, so humans are bad. I bet Norky gets censored, he can’t help it; he’ll let some secret slip! Good old Norky, I love these dream reading things, but I don't think Ovno does...

 

OVNO WENDLE: Last time I bother with Dianetics. That's it, that's all I got to say. I hate dreaming anyway...

 

PROFESSOR NORKGRUB: Wow, I always wanted to do one of these trendy P.O.V. sections, but in some shitty 80s inspired dream sequence. Where's my fucking montage? But it's where I get to really say what I really think. They bloody better not censor me again or I’ll –[report censored by C.O.G. Agent Hubbard…]

 

TOMMY TELLMAN: I have decided to jack in the life-coaching-guru lark and finish off the pulp stuff. I like it soft and pulpy. I was stumped for ideas, I cursed the great Trout, then I found this old article that I started to read. I could not recall if I was there or not. Here it is below:

 

Chapter 88. Choose Consciously about Consciousness

 

The forest was dense. It was not unusual for these exo-planets to look like earth. The forest was also made of maggot tress. The trees were the decomposers here and would feed off the chunky red earth.

 

This was not another Cydonia experiment. Olympus Mons was now a new age housing estate run by Professor Norkgrub. It contained over 8 million people. Good things happened there. This exo-planet was to syphon some of the over-spill to this new exo-planet. It was called Lo45ZX. It was also nicknamed as Maggot Earth.

 

The Maggot forests were benign as they just nourished themselves off the soil. The minerals here were amazing. There was also a natural atmosphere of lysergic acid. It helped make things easier.

 

The tyme-craft landed and Tipp and Ovno got off. They were in charge of the first colony. They did not like colony life but they needed to help these repressed[censored]

 

The report ended here; the source was unidentified. 

 

Chapter 35. How Mutations Mutate and The New Humans(Nu Homo Pzi-Logiko-Magika)

 

OCCULTJACULATION [Intro/Outro]: This intends to be a total defence of all that occult studies should stand for. It has no place in Ke$ha’s music, though I am hoping she gets thrown into the mix with Miley. I would pay a few dimes to see that! She needs a new ritual to take into account her natural pop-porn viability; she needs a symbolic enema in that respect and she needs a good mix up. I am quite insulted, of course, being a serious student of the occult.

 

I am a firm believer in the freedom of occult study and practices, particularly in an increasingly totalitarian world. However, I heard this truly awful thing and felt I should just post it. I don't know how it occurred; I can only hope it never does. And that true students of the occult will follow the path wisely and learn.

 

Professor Norkgrub

Coke Lane, London.

December 2018.

 

Chapter One

 

Howard Howarde was a poser. Being an affluent, somewhat fake, posh kid (with fungal feet), he had always been completely self-obsessed...Howard also loved his dull pseudo-bohemian ways; he tried to look like Jesus of Nazareth...He had a hard on for everything...Athlete's foot was very bohemian, according to Howard. He decided not bathe for two years; he believed in biological beating and bio-self-cleansing...

 

...Howard would go on to make bogey sculptures to enter into the Turner Prize and, sometimes, would create strange objects out of his own excrement...He commissioned artisans for this pleasure; he did not personally touch his own excrement, heaven forbid...Shit was for the poor to deal with...Howard would also, for vast sums of money, make his "art" out of other peoples’ excrement, even occasionally animal excrement...That was for the trophy poopers...

 

...Howard, being a complete wanker, liked the Turner Prize as he felt it was the ultimate award for total bullshit. He did not think 25,000 kopecs was a lot of money, though. He was a true artist; he was beyond commercialism; beyond fiscal policy. He thought he was beyond selling out, but his price was extremely low; he would do anything for his shit art.

 

In some fashionable circles, via Artrocker!, he was called the Bogeyman. He did not mind causing friction. Any kind of friction was good news for Howard…

 

This got Howard attention – much needed attention as he was a total attention seeker. He had started to masturbate on the Putney Bridge, hoping he would get caught. He never got caught, so keep an eye out for him.

 

Howard claimed it was a social experiment, as well as a minor occult ritual to Maluk. He hoped the Thames might need his wealthy seed. It was no surprise that Howard was also a sperm donor and would hope he was able to allow many homosexuals to be parents.

 

Howard was the sort of person to expose his penis in various public places after a couple of drinks, as you can guess of his exhibitionist behaviour. It was nothing new or trendy. Don’t encourage him, it was not cool. Howard would often complain of getting “icy willy”. He only complained when he was unable to get enough money for his beloved crystal.

 

Oddly enough, Howard’s constant quest for this need to be noticed got him into strange esoteric circles. He wanted to be his own reality star. He had a webcam channel and many people thought he was a rent boy and not an artist. Some people were unable to tell the difference…

 

As Howard constantly needed to be noticed, it started to get him into trouble. He would dream about getting into fights with men in pubs then performing homosexual acts upon them after the fight. To Howard this was mere foreplay, even if it did get him into A&E a couple of times. He was gutted the Evening Standard did not pap him; that would constitute a respectable papping.

 

He figured he would be getting some more publicity. He had tried making pornographic films, too. Being a rich kid he already had connections. He did not need to work hard: his straw coloured blond hair and his smooth face made him look even more like a poor ruddy faced posh boy. The world was his oyster; he needed no card to get his zoneage connected. His manor may have been ill – a colossal mess of deadened infrastructure - but he had always lived without a Plan B.

 

To be honest, if he did have a Plan B, it would need a good old remix. Howard had a dream, hastily recorded on the back of his cigarette packet (Dunhills, of course; Camels were too trendy, anyway…) and then he went to live his dream. Anything was possible. And he could always call up Uncle Wilbur for more cash, as those who can usually do...  

 

Evadef smiled his re-animated foetal smile; he had been listening to the Para-Dimensional Hit Parade and even though it didn't matter, he had a pocket that was able to reproduce anything in this realm, whenever he asked for it. Amazing a pocketful of pretty green, guv’nor. He had slipped through to the earth realm of 2010. He had been listening to Alan Parsons Project and Wham all day. He also had lots of his crystalline medicine which he had been inhaling to keep himself well stimulated within the harsh conditions that exist within this foul earthen realm.

 

There was nothing wrong with a bit of huffing and puffing I suppose. It was not good for you, but it could be worse. It could be something unhygienic. You might be drinking so much alcohol you cannot remember what happened. In response to the claims by Tommy Tellman, I have forgotten much, although I try not to drink, but that can be scary for many folk; however, I should add that I am used to forgetting all kinds of things, which should make me an expert in a weird way.

 

What was that? I do not know, I can't remember. See how the defence works?

 

Howard was now able to harness some pzionik power he had not known he was able to grasp. He was going to pretend he was Jesus and use Evadef's dirty pocket for his own peccadilloes. What a dirty boy!

 

Evadef shifted slowly into 2013. Nobody noticed the change; no expects to meet a re-animated foetus. He had briefly gone back to 1991 and Howard was still out of touch. He was never one for the times. He preferred to store it all up for later… 

 

[COSMIC QUACK FOLLIES]

 

It reached that part of the day when you think: am I going to be a beetle-bear? I could hardly believe it either at the time. Me and my wraith-friend (deceased since 1997), had been known as Bug and Dog and we had been using it as part of production thingummy. My alter-ego was a fake academic called Gammy Rubb who was always good for a touch; I kept dreaming about being a poofy camp fellow called Les Barloy. It made me all gooey down below…My dreams were not usually this soggy…

 

…That's before we got hired by C.O.G. after doing the subversive fandango with US2. I told my acquaintances to shut up and something, I can't remember what now. I hope I wasn't too wey-hey for them. You know how I get on meds. Anyway, it happened; things always happened.

 

It was not that an odd, actually; Professor Norkgrub was on the buttons yet again. We were big everywhere else apart from on Earth. Fucking typical! Exo-planet trans-dimensional pzionik burn-out; Norky decided to take us back to the Ally Pally in 1967. We did not mind. I think we did it again…WE DEFINITELY DID IT AGAIN[cue: Caps Lock error: artistic capitalization crisis...]

 

…I had to go inter-planetary; I had been up in the air for too long. I returned to the flat in Kilburn; my previous abode had been in an interesting exo-planet about the same size of Venus but with almost no water at all...

 

This made me think about the future: the future was a bit problematic. The future does not exist but the idea you can take any kind of future for granted flies in the face of the chaos theory we all surrender too. We have to find and fund our own beat… Destiny only rides again if there might be some entity around to notice. Some poor organism that can recognize the ectoplasm smoke up we all seem to be stuck in…

 

…I did not mind that being a snail man. I seldom see any snail people around these days. Maybe it has to be one of those extinction gut feelings; I tried to ignore and covered my shredded wheat in bananas. The bananas had been laced with some powerful… [message ends here: last thing in mind-log]

 

[Mindlog resumed: 23/23/45]…I think I might be last of my kind. Oh well. It does not matter; I suppose it never really mattered…

 

Krugler suddenly came around from the E.T.B.E stasis module. He had a strange vision. Maybe it was nothing. He looked around the capsule and noticed he was still floating in space, somewhere in the Milky Way at a guess; Krugler had fallen out with the navi-watch monitoring system. It was too chatty and Krugler wanted to meditate.

 

Obviously his current reality had not panned out too well for him; he wondered what had happened to the strange people he had met. He should have followed the Life Coach Guru's rules.

 

Krugler had the feeling he was being dissolved; he looked at his skin: it was total mush, he was dissolving. he was a liquefied goop. He somehow remained trapped in the human form, but it was not solid. He wondered if the space capsule was helping him to stay human…

 

Krugler had no idea. He tried all comms; nothing worked. He needed to use evasive measures…

 

Krugler had no idea what the evasive measures were. He was not trained for this kind of space travel. He was more of stationary kind of guy; he missed his desk and his little consoles with little games on them. He did not mind that kind of space life. Good honest colonizing as he used to call it in his youth.

 

"Hello…Hello?...Heeeellllloooooo!" Krugler cried into the comms.

 

No response. He was alone again.

 

Krugler was close to crying; he realized he was also unable to pleasure himself. In frustration, Krugler managed to activate the toggles that controlled all the stims that were left in his capsule; at least he really would go out on a total high. That was a good thing according to Krugler…

 

Krugler did not get that far; he must have activated the exo-planetary time-slide. This was used a lot by astral experimenters like Professor Norkgrub and his kith. It was salvation for Krugler; but Krugler got off the time-slide too early. He was a bit too hasty; maybe he thought he would go lightspeed. He also had a thing for lightspeed champion sounds. He did not mind that kind of gig.

 

That was the bizarre thing; nothing happened for a hundred years. in that time Krugler spent time solidifying; then sublimated into gas, before solidifying yet again. The chemical cycle continued for an unknown amount of time; the capsule- i-e-chrono-tik was unable to register any time; time was out of the equation, but Krugler tried not to cry too much.

 

The one sole function he had control over -sadly, crying - was starting to hurt him now. His crystalline tears had formed into semen coloured sacks around his eyes and it was tough to knock them away; particularly when the capsule's power-save facility shut off the mystical anti-grav unit.

 

The C.O.G. stims had little effect on his uncontrollable desire for re-humanization. It was all too late for Krugler anyway.

 

He crash landed his capsule near some kind of mountain on Xiombarga13ZX. A strange exo-planet that was in fact a giant potato, covered by an aggressive mould called Cuthbert.    

 

Chapter 33. Mystery School Initiation (with Internalized Dialogues)

 

Note:

 

AS DOCUMENTED BY GAMUSSI RUBELLO, Investigative Dimensional Correspondent.

 

TIME: SOME TIME IN EXISTENCE AS I HAVE NO TIME DEVICES TO MEASURE TIME.

 

I rarely visited public houses so I do not know why I decided to go to this one.  I was interested in little of what happened in this world - it was all quite hopeless. The arts bored me, and the sciences infuriated me. Religion was zombified and was rabidly copulating with the ghoulish politics of the time. I was depressed by my nihilism, but felt it was unavoidable in a capitalist-democracy. But my state-supported trust fund gave me limited freedoms, which I remained grateful to accept freely. I feared it was worth the risk to attempt doing something other than wait for my repeat prescription. After all, my "life" experience placement at the Post Office was merely a publicity stunt to show that I publicly defied class-definitions and any stereotyped class stratification. I knew I was hated but I did not mind being alone or - what populists might call - a loser, or a “Loner”. Most of the people I accidentally associated with had tendencies to group together and protect their own interests. I wanted to be individual, but able to join them whenever I felt like it. So I waited for my friends.

 

Bizarrely, I was waiting a long time. But "Life is Sheep" so said a famous seer I have now forgotten but can never forget the tune of. There was a din of popularized tunes from an antique jukebox, which everyone ignored. It was just like any other pub: completely bland and deliberately trying to masquerade as part of the community. It was awful. The perspiration and excrement constantly dripped off the walls, which were already congealed with solidified excrement, dried mucus, and other fluids from previous clients.

 

I clearly remember avoiding all the seats. Some Old Ones looked annoyed. They were stuck in their ways. Many still smoked despite tiny signs saying to avoid this public behaviour. These signs were deliberately ignored by the majority of clients, who had re-entered the Earth. Thankfully for them, the air outside remained foul - heavily polluted as always. By the bar, which was falling apart slowly, I saw a dishevelled fellow in a chrome bobble hat. I instantly recognized this being, despite meeting him just now.

 

He looked up, glaring at me, as he drank his pint of frothy drip tray remnants. His features lacked any ethnicity. It made him stick out. He enjoyed not being noticed though. He had travelled far and had a nomadic nature instilled within him that I secretly yearned for myself. But this did not stop him enjoying a drink. And the drip trays were free. He nodded at me. I noticed a collection of papers in front of him. His cardboard office ledger had ‘Z.F. Galvez' scrawled on it in a faded felt-tip. I was baffled at first, but approached him. We didn't need to speak, it was as if we had already spoken before. He grunted. I silently passed wind. No-one knew our covert communication was in place. Pzionik forces were set in motion,  other forces were at work, as I thumbed through his grimoires, absorbing various pieces of mental information. They might be useful - or useless. Who knows? I did not know it before - but I knew it all now. I felt confident of this now, especially after this brief telepathic dialogue. It was as if our souls had somehow aligned - it might have been our pre-destined thinking. It had united us. 

 

I had not known he was an abductee. R.K. Galvez had been probed for so long, he remained permanently traumatized. He had devoted his entire existence to trans-dimensional pursuits. I explained, mentally, to Mr Galvez that I was pleased to meet him. He did not return the greeting immediately. But he showed me a vision. It appeared out of nothing and fluctuated around the public house.

 

It showed a planet, covered in spiked mountains and volcanoes. There was no ocean and the sky was blood red. The entire terrain was of hardened crystallized powdery rock. Galvez nodded towards the images. It was as if we had received mental pictures from some type of satellite. I ignored his references at first. He finished his foul-smelling beverage. I ordered another sherry from the ghost-like bar staff that moved between the levels. However, I did not have a chance to pay for this rare treat. Galvez reached out and grabbed me, as he got pulled into the vision by some unknown, easily unexplainable, force...

 

Chapter 40 Soul/Body/Love [In Motion]: YAW WAY

 

Enter ELAINE PETTIFER [A female Marlowe.] According to our records, she currently resides at a secure facility at an unnamed location....

 

Being a dumb dick can be easy. Smart people do it naturally. Dumb people don't see it as dumb, as they're too dumb to see it. Now I look around my place and you know what I see? Zero. That's right. I'm no blind person, but I've been blinded: blinded by the total dross that has been caused by humanity.

 

I want to put down the most depressing, the most negative, thing about us "humans". We're a disease, which is my favourite cliché as it remains true - who truly knows the horrors of genes? I cannot wiat for the mutation to evolve us.

 

Though, I am not really that qualified to say much on it to be honest, my proudest achievement being a Near-Pass [N-grade] at A-Level. But the earth will win, I hope. At present, however, I don't know how to be a very good agent yet, so I'll be a dick. It's the best way to find anything out.

 

I'm staring at my neighbour. A right freak. Listens to "music" all the time and thinks it has to be the cool “druggy hipster”. Think it's "all cool" when they’re dead? I don't get it. Maybe I'm getting old, but I'm a late twentieth century freak. I want this world to end soon. I want the planet to be fine, but maybe humanity can get wiped out real quick. I was trying to re-animate the dinosaur samples I had in the microwave, I don't think it'll work. That neighbour really annoys me -- full of liberal tosh about whatever and walking around naked at all hours. I can't stand it. So I stare at my neighbour. What a boring fuck-head!

 

So: I knock on the door. It opens. He looks like a fried rat.

 

His pupils were dilated; his dry mouth looked like an old mummified fanny.

 

"Yep?"

 

I think: CRAZY ALERT. I say: "Hello Johnson!"

 

"HUH?"

 

"Johnson, you little shit, have you been fucking your dog again?"

 

The fag-freak neighbour laughs -- laughs right in my face, covering my face with droplets of warm saliva….Can you believe it? Can you feel it? I taste his saliva, the weird metallic flavour; saliva is addictive. He's a weird entity, as he hugs me and gives me a fifty and sends me on my way, patting my bum.

 

As I go, I inhale on the smell of various substances emerging from out of his poxy dwelling. I wish I was his friend, I don't know why I hate everything. But I hate it - it must be my way. At least I got a fifty out of him…  

 

A fat bitch like me can say this. He wouldn't expect me to be a paid up spy. I am doing a good number on him; I'll be sucking his limp sweaty cock by the end of week. He thinks I'm some fucked up nosy crack whore neighbour; I've seen how small his dick is, now I know, I know! He's too busy trying to be the Man.

 

I realize I have forgotten his name. Damn it, I hate forgetting. In my line, it cannot be good. But I slowly realised that I'm going to have to detox and lay off the side orders. I go back and get dressed, trying to figure my next move…. 

 

As I dropped my worthless money, I noticed we were in the ionosphere of a planet. On closer inspection we were burning up. I felt a very intense heat, but Galvez was completely charred. He smiled as he blistered and bubbled, as we entered into a rocky outcrop, creating a large crater. Galvez was a globule of smouldering flesh by this point, and he seemed very well, getting up as if nothing had happened to him. Galvez smirked, and peeled off his charred flesh, revealing underneath this charred exo-skin his unblemished flesh before we even made the transition. He had saved me.

 

I was left stunned for some moments. And I was unsure how he done this, but he showed me an unmarked aerosol. It must be magic. I thought it was deodorant, but it was spray-on flesh. It also had enhanced reinforced carbon-carbon for occasional planetary lapses. It turned out to be very handy. Galvez looked around and pointed towards a red sky, and a multi-coloured mountain. We scrambled over the rubble. I was annoyed that my winklepickers were getting scuffed on the infernal rubble. But Galvez did not care - he was determined to make the punctuated juncture.

 

The multi-coloured mountain was not multi-coloured. It was covered in various lichens that attracted light and different types of rays from the mutated suns above. They were portable power sources according to Galvez's mind-log. Galvez pressed a control panel within the rock. An entrance appeared. We entered. It was not dark though. It was dimly lit, and had a pleasant sulphuric smell welcome us. It made it more natural.

 

The floor was covered in reptilian-like scales. A predictable problem, I mused to myself. Galvez was not impressed. They were very sharp, and one scale cut off the end of my boot, narrowly missing my toes. I was not going to complain anymore; I had already angered myself over scuffing my boots - I had given up now. I was pleased I still had my toes. But the floor didn't slither - it suddenly bubbled. The crust was thin. This planet's crust was exactly like a skin.           

 

I felt it needed to be treated carefully. All the mountains across this planet’s surface were connected colonies. Each mountain and outcrop was a city - maybe even a primate colony; countries condensed into giant mountains. It was amazing inside the mountains. It was a great feat of structural design. And, of course, a home for everyone.

 

I envisaged it might be some sort of commune planet of some utopian kind. This reminded me of one of my state-supported and hard-working immigrant friends - called Ravan, who I rarely see now - had marvelled about this happening on Earth. I thought it unrealistic, but quite liked the idea even though I accepted all realities.

 

Unfortunately, according to Galvez, this planet was no commune. It was very volatile to live on the ground level. You didn't last long according to Galvez. Galvez, though sounding unsure, telepathically explained that the rulers - loosely translated as Desc-M's for decision-makers - controlled the planet. They grasped power firmly and they controlled all. I was not pleased to hear it was again another harsh place like our own awful, but much-loved realm.

 

I shook my head in disbelief, but as I did so the floor bubbled and burst, sending a shower of jagged scales flying towards me. A strange crystalline magma burst from under the jagged scales, and tried to pull us under. Galvez quickly pulled me out of the way, as I stumbled next to him. The jagged scales had embedded themselves into the mountain wall and the crystalline magma continued to bubble, groping wildly at us.

 

At this point, Galvez and myself were almost accidentally conjoined, but my movement was hindered by my broken boot. Our bodies had lost their skeletons; we were becoming goopy and amoebic. But we saw we had retained our individual human features despite being like some oozing ectoplasm. Galvez activated another control panel with his remaining finger. We were faced by huge drones. They were constructed exactly like Galvez's chrome bobble hat and seemed to be scanning us. Galvez grunted at them and stared at them. He inserted a piece of stone into one drone with his tongue. The bobble hat drone processed this stone then opened up. They were crafts of some kind. Galvez motioned me to follow him. I was baffled as I did not have a stone. I did not know its significance…

 

Galvez carefully explained his pzionik motivations to my feeble human brain: the stones were souls he had captured and kept in stones for eternity. Some were his relatives he had once cherished. Some were random people he may have liked or disliked. Now they were no more on earth realms. He had kept them stored - pzionik soul-freeze is the term he used. One we can all wish for. We had to share the drone, and we slithered into it. As the contraption fitted us with artificial skeletons, we were suspended in its cabin.

 

Galvez fingered a control expertly and a wire attached itself to his squashed navel. I was hoping it was his navel anyway! In our congealed forms, it was hard to tell. It looked painful, but Galvez did not seem to mind. He glared angrily as he mastered control of the drone. We were now one and able to command the drone to ascend to the higher echelons of the settlement. Galvez explained the planet was once called Treqloozo. On Earth it can be found just off Turnham Green Tube Station and again near Luton. Some have also found it in Caen, Hamburg and Lagos. But this is purely speculative, Galvez hastened to add, as I lost the last of his mind-drops.

 

We ascended in silence, as the drone finally accessed one of the main mountain levels. These beings were not use to leaving the mountain. They had balconies to appreciate the sun, but they constantly had to look down at the slums below them. The harsh, scaled, bubbling floor. It was always volatile. I was shocked that nothing had been organized by the so-called higher beings. The state of apparent loco parentis here was obviously not one of benevolence. Galvez scoffed at my semi-political musings. He was disgusted by such utopianism. I explained I was only trying to be human. That disgusted Galvez even more, but he might have been amused by such low behaviour.

 

For the first time, in a very long time, Galvez may well have enjoyed these bluntly human musings. I will never know.

 

Chapter 67 Cloaking Room Devices and The Head War (Jazzed Up)

 

…Well, as I scribble this I am probably going mad. STOP CALLING ME ELAINE! I thought I should put my "story " down, but it does not seem to be really a simple story. Not in the direct sense of having a real structure and all that. I am not bothered now, I have been awake for the best part of a month and am struggling to recollect and think properly. This might help: slurpslurpslurrrrrrrrrp!

 

In this short time, I have consumed doughnuts, smokes, coffee and various alcoholic beverages, with some common medications. It did help a little. I won't go into details as I don't want to get sectioned again once you finish reading this; but I thought I might as well put it all in...Apparently nothing like a good old fashioned well controlled experiment with psychotic episodes…I am going crazy. I am pretty much use to being alone all the time; but when I decided, a long time ago, in my shitty bedsit in North West London, that I should have got something out of my shitty existence down somewhere...

 

..I know you probably realize that I hate myself, but that's completely normal and nothing new. My blood is turning into green jelly… More jelly?...Hallucinating again…I thought I better put why I do this: I've never been good at scientific research but maybe I think I can try to help someone else like this. But I can't understand why I don't sleep. I really hate sleep. I am awake all the time - usually blacking out in public places. It's quite worrying, but I'm uses to it these days.

 

So after blacking out while putting this entry in, I am now on another DAY...MONTH...YEAR-page.

 

What have I been doing? I have never done anything. Ever. I have tried. I have been on schemes, been on programmes, got fees paid. But I am just a naturally out of it all. It remains the only explanation. WHY WON’T CAPITALISM WORK FOR ME? I WANT TO BE PART OF IT BUT WHY WON’T IT LET ME IN! LOOK HOW QUALIFIED I AM! I HAVE A FUCKING PHD IN DOG GROOMING YOU BLOODY ELITIST SCUM! …

 

…I am not blaming society -- though it hasn't helped, it tried to, maybe -- but I was already fucked up. I couldn't really ever hold down a job, and for some reason I was hated everywhere I went...

 

…I suppose thinking constitutes a crime now, but I honestly couldn't help it…

 

…I grew up in small village in the middle of nowhere, but not too far from the coast and not too far from London. But it was here I was pretty dead inside. It was a bit much. I had nothing to do, I would chat shit to myself all night, then when I got older and got a black and white TV set I would chat to that; there was never anything good to watch anyway. How can you watch it when you have no power?

 

…I would chat so much bullshit I believed it. I even chatted to myself in public, which is fine as long as no- one sees you. As I'm putting this down, Goin' Mad Blues is playing on repeat, but I don't mind the clichéd bit like that; I just can't understand why I remain so messed up. I wasn't made that way, no-one is. It's just a bit tough for me to explain, in fact, it's boring me, but I do not feel tired by it. I wish I could sleep. Thinking of the shitty village I grew up in makes me tired.

 

OK, the village had one pub, one shop, one petrol station and that was it. It was really dull. We used to do all sorts to kill time and wish we had been somewhere, anywhere else. We took existences for granted, considering people dying, getting cancer or killing themselves outside of the genetic codes. And just being unlucky, which was dominant within apparently well-planned casino-esque liberal societies.

 

I had no problems with the short straw - the short straw had a problem with me. So I am here still awake. I now crush diazepam up and mix it with tequila; but it only results in me blacking out when I need to stay awake. I know I haven't got long left. Show me a sign, please? Any sign…Yes, that sounds delightful…

 

DAY...MONTH...YEAR

 

…I had to stop this shit to take a shit and do some shit. Shit can be shit…It was hurting my eyes and my brain was throbbing as if it wanted to sprout wings and fly away. Up and away, again anywhere but here would do. I went to the corner shop to get some bread and soup, but forgot the milk. Then went back and forth, I needed to remember but couldn't for shit the shop keeper even didn't bother to give me change in the end. I was a bit annoyed as I feel my benefit is well earned. I am hiding from various key government statistics. But the point being was I just couldn't remember and spent the best part of the night going in and out of a corner shop buying one item. I am starting to think it was symbolic, but I stop this thought as it gets a bit too complex for me.

 

The school I went to was shit - it got closed down. I was pleased even though I had left by then. But then I realized that it hadn't been so bad. It was fine, a bit slow. But rural schools are just strange. Everyone knows everyone and everyone's parents went to school with everyone else and there's no-one new to the area and it's all a bit odd and in-bred. Even more so when the folks start swinging.

 

It got worse when refugees from Mars started coming here with tokens, but then again, people were really bad to them, refusing them work rights, any kind of assistance. Purely a survival of the fittest C.B.A.  Villages are bad. But, then again, everything can be bad.

 

That was when I met the August Ham Man and his friend, a real life super-hero who saved shit from being, well, shit. Yeah, he was called the Midnight Pharmacy Lemonade Drinker. He had other names too, but I can't remember them all. His day job was some kind of artist, but he didn't really seem to do anything.

 

We got together in a weird way. I've never been friends with anyone important before. It was more than a soft weed factor thing, or ‘ting-thang-fing’ as some cultured person at my newsagent calls it. It sounds “cool”. But I was scared. Scared real shitless because these two blokes must be pretty crazy.

 

I was tempted to see if anyone had escaped from asylum world, which is just like ‘Logan's Run’ there. And everyone's crazy. Keeps the social bill down, but that was another dimension…I was thinking of just going with the flow with my usual gay abandon. Not that I've ever been that gay to abandon anything…      

 

**

The higher catacomb-like colonies were pristine and covered in a mysterious wax…Chains had been fixed to the wall. There was gravity but the heat was excessive. The chrome bobble hat drone propelled through the waxy catacombs. Chains rattled and the ground continued to bubble. We heard many rumblings.

 

Our drone stopped, its power fading as it shuttered to a standstill. Galvez had frozen within the drone. We were still in our jellied forms, but Galvez motioned me to leave him and he would need to power up the drone. It was feeding off his life energy and he needed to rest. I asked why it had not decided to feed off my energy but Galvez smirked, weakly shutting off his pzionik link with me. I was shocked I managed to release my slobbery form from that of Galvez. He seemed to be developing a thin layer of green frost that was glowing. The chrome bobble hat drone made strange clicking sounds. The drone's rear entrance opened and I managed to slither away, into the waxy catacombs.  

 

The first thing I noticed was the abrasive wind. It was rancid, and made me feel ill.  I then realized I was on the waxy walls.  I needed to avoid the hot floors. The wax was cold and it must be some form of an alien compound which was able to withstand the heat. I heard the chains rattling. It wasn't the drone but a huge insectoid-humanoid, clinging to the walls and swinging on the chains. It saw me and grunted. I could not translate at the time as Galvez had all the facilities to translate. I was baffled. I did not know how to defend myself. But it was too late.

 

The insectoid-humanoid had used an extra mandible-mouth to pick me up. It started to jump from wall to wall, occasionally stopping to sniff a giant lichen power source. It chained itself to the wall while it tended to the lichen. I was still trapped in my gooey form in its extra mouth. It was still looking at me as it excreted through its eyes. It seemed to have an exo-skeleton full of eyes that were shielded. It then clambered towards a hatch in the wall. It used a feeler which appeared from somewhere and activated a lock mechanism. The hatch opened and the creature moved inside the chamber. It was a putrid smell and I avoided the floor; faeces bubbled on the floor, and I wondered if I would be consumed….         

 

Chapter 89 Cycle Full: C.O.G. Overload Epilogues.

 

…Here we go, thinking the thought that's racing through my mind. I purge it like a piece of excrement. It's the only thing that comes to mind. Another useless thought, as more bodies started to come through. The front line was everywhere, but there was enough shelter. No-one knew where the poor mutants had come from. It was that they had not developed superpowers, but were very useless.

 

They had melded with people who had the merest contact with them. i am composing this fairly pointless document from the inside of an experimental robotic exoskeleton. How I come to possess it is by sheer luck. I was sharing it with real people once, but they had suddenly expired. Now I just with solicited their ghosts and the smelling corpses of their former selves. I cannot find a way of disposing of them without the mutants clinging to me and melding with me.

 

Funny how I never saw myself as someone interested in sociology but I am now trying to be more sociological and study this unnatural lapse in our progress. Or our idea of it anyway. Let's face it, it was on the cards; but I think back of all I've lost. The shops, the wasted nights. And all the world’s wealth, sold them to aliens.

 

At least humanity did not find out about it just yet, but I think I should give the knighthood back. Maybe…

 

[ADJUST MY DREAMS FOR ME, RHONDA…]

 

1. The Veils of Time

 

Elaine Pettifer wanted to be taken seriously. She hated working as an ignored researcher for the C.O.G., and she wanted to take a risk. Elaine was almost 26 years-old, and her career had just not happened. Nothing had gone the way she had planned.

 

Despite being supported by her affluent parents, who were too busy jet-setting around the world to really listen to her, she had pursued the discipline of research work. She had the right qualifications, the right look and networked ferociously. She had even given politicians fellatio. For many ordinary people, Elaine should have been grateful to have a job, but that was not good enough for Elaine. If she had not made it by 30, she might as well stop existing in this realm.

 

Elaine had felt she had been deceived by the C.O.G. and had not been given the rewards she deserved. She scoffed at her paltry salary, a mere £[censored]. She still depended on her parents to pay her private rent for her tiny room in a flat near Camden Road.

 

On a regular week day, she got off the tube at Tufnell Park and felt ill. She did not see the point of her C.O.G. job. She wanted to do something more exciting. She hated Tufnell Park. She had started to hate Camden, too, with its slightly superficial trend-obsessed faddist nature.

 

She liked the Camden of old, when things seemed to go on for longer and it seemed to cost less. All that had changed was the price of everything; things had got worse and for that everything mysteriously became more expensive. It was such a weird logic. She wanted more things to happen and she wished the destruction of this Earth with every day of her dull existence. Zen-like revenge on a society she felt was so poor, it was not worth saving for the future.

 

Every time she got off the tube at Tufnell Park she wanted the world to end. As a result of her constant misery, she lived for her work and had not had a relationship of any kind for five long years. She had only had penetrative sex with another living being twice. She also attempted mutual masturbation over a webcam twice, with dubious results. She had ruined two computers in the process.

 

In Elaine's case, very little was said to her apart from "Work Talk". After work, the quickly consumed obligatory work drink, she would go home alone and indulge in various experimentation while masturbating. She was performing astral pzi-sex magick rituals, corrupting them as she went along. She was a total amateur, of course.

 

Papus had a good idea and had seen her coming. The vibrator Elaine used the most looked like a snake, and had an upside down black crucifix etched into the snake vibrator's phallic head.

 

Elaine loved this particular vibrator, although she had many to choose from. This snake vibrator was given to her by Papus. Papus made this vibrator out the milky blood of Tyme-Pyres and decided for their soul-feelers to live trapped within the snake-like form, in eternal pleasure, to give eternal pleasure to the owner of this sex toy. Pettifer didn't know Tyme-Pyres blood still lived and flowed through it; her human pure blood actively fed it. She didn't know what ritual she was part of. She had to understand Pleasure and the Original Sin(s) were essential for these esoteric arts. 

 

Elaine did not usually abase herself so quickly. She had become addicted to sex magikal rituals, thanks to her meaningful psycho-conjuration-conjunction with Papus within her head. Astral euphoria had been achieved by Elaine Pettifer. However, her deal with Papus was a bad one; he had not even released anything for a century. It was all up in the air and hidden within the aether. It was something Elaine had not planned, but she felt something was changing about the world.

 

People were undergoing a vital transformation and not even realizing it. It was timeless, under those enigmatic Veils of Time. The Earth realm as we know it was starting to enter the Seven Hells of Universal Existence. It was not quite EndTime, more of a Reset and start again. Only the C.O.G. knew this.

 

Elaine smiled, reaching for the vibrator again. A fired burned deep within her sore loins; it was a Friday night after all...The Dianetics did not work for her…

 

2. The Usual Soft Weed Giggle Factor

 

...Papus smiled at Elaine. Her long brown hair complete with matted and slightly faded peroxide streaks. She looked like a prostitute, and she started to like this vamp look. Her Neo-Gothic make-up and sparkly eyeliner look had made her seem eccentric; maybe daubing the blood of a sacrificial goat over her saggy bosoms was going too far.

 

…Elaine had been doing her research on Papus and she wanted to be different. She wanted to be the Corruptor. She knew she would have to sacrifice herself. But she had second thoughts about Papus. Was it the real Papus or some other form? Her research was extensive but slightly over-stretched. Elaine couldn't even find a reliable entry about him on Wikipedia. She was a bit annoyed with his immortal games and tricks.

 

Papus did not even bother speaking to her as he exposed his flaccid penis to her. Elaine was not amused. She had tickets for popular events, various shows and esoteric shindigs across the country. She wanted to start dating Papus.

 

"You have to make me flesh again, Elaine," whispered Papus, chewing her ear. His bald head had been powdered white and his eyes were blood-shot. He was looking very alert. His eyes started to blaze, little mushroom clouds appearing in them. Papus wanted to put on the ancient rune music. Papus had some chessboard designed sailing pumps on and hitched up his cassock and started dancing, a strange jerking dancehall like jig. He was not doing his chances any favours.

 

"I don't know how to yet, Pappy baby," Elaine slurred.

 

The strange concoction of Norkweedroot and Mushroom Cacti had a pleasant effect on her. She was thankful for the Psilopzi Tribe for those fine gifts. She might be able to get astral for real this time and not just trip out and wake up in a bin next to a kebab house in Camden...I cannot name it for legal reasons but it is just a bit further down from the World’s End…  

 

Elaine needed some home comforts; she was very big on the homely remedies scene. The walls of her small apartment in Camden were covered in nicotine and lysergic acid and an odd looking white crystalline dust. It looked very pretty. Papus must have been having a little soiree when I was working, Elaine thought. Where had the time gone?

 

…Papus smirked; he did not have the time to think about Time. These epistemological matters were very puerile to a great immortal seer like Papus. Papus smiled a thin, knowing, smile -- full of transcendental universal knowledge, of course. He handed Elaine, his current muse, a sacred text that had been carefully covered in a latex nuclear-proof cover. Elaine looked at it. It was printed on a crude form of poorly tanned leather. She had not heard of it before, reading the inscription on the cover. It read:

 

'Sephef Nesek Magi Quqtvs Qol vel Coruscatio, Sub Figura CMXXXIV'

 

"I've never seen it before," said Elaine.

 

Papus laughed, taking a fine clay pipe and lighting his strong alien shag. Elaine's nostrils breathed in the fumes; she wanted to vomit but, at the same time, she felt excited. A tingling occurred between her moistened loins. She suddenly started menstruation, quite unnaturally, blood and semen seeping between her thighs. Elaine coughed, her mouth parched. Elaine needed a drink.

 

“You need to keep lubricated, Elaine,” said Papus. He was looking very smug, as you can imagine.

 

Elaine licked the blood and semen, smiling at Papus. It had something else in it, maybe some kind of every day domestic cleaning product that I cannot mention for legal reasons… Just easy on the household ammonia, thought Elaine.

 

"Get excited, Elaine." Papus crooned, his voice echoed around the recesses of her mind. "We will go everywhere; we'll be together forever, Elaine. And we will help the Seven Hells transform this dull Earth realm. We will make sure all humans start again; there will be some evolutionary mutations."

 

"How do I serve thee, thine, thou, ye, oh wise Papus?" Elaine droned.

 

"You have been watching too many horror films, dearie. It's not going to be like that. I need you to make sure the Beast State emerges, so you'll need some agents to help you. I will make sure there are no rogue idiots at the C.O.G.," snarled Papus.

 

"Do you want me to unleash the Phultor?" Elaine helpfully suggested. She had removed all her clothes and covered herself in the blood of an old goat, once known as Mindy the old Goat. She had killed old Mindy with an ivory knife some time before and had chopped her up and frozen her remains for this sort of magickal occasion. There's nothing wrong with recycling of this kind, I suppose. Sacrifices are sacrifices and it beats drawing attention to yourself and cutting up another bloody horse.

 

"Yes, Phultor," repeated Elaine for extra dramatic effect. In her mind it was as if she was auditioning for a Dario Argento film. She would have done some girl-on-girl scenes with Asia any day of the week, just for the record.

 

"What? Oh that! No, not yet. Maybe another time, Elaine," Papus mused.

 

He noticed that Elaine was naked. Even though she was still twenty-five years old, she could have easily passed for forty-five years old. She had been so stressed, Papus was able to feed off her cortisol. It had all taken a huge toll on her. He wondered if she was ever going to properly cross over to him. Papus liked being devious. Though he was never thought of as a rude boy, he was always trying it on. He had not told Elaine that she would unknowingly swap vessels with Papus…Papus had been inside many women in the past, as well as many men. He got about with no trouble at all. Astral sex was getting infectious…  

 

"What do I need?" Elaine asked Papus, who was pouring her more of the strange concoction.

 

"You need an ape, a stick insect, a bear and a beetle. All will be clear soon, my muse," ordered Papus. "Also, Elaine, if you get time, read the 'Coruscatio: The Magic Cactus Voice'. It will help you summon a colleague of mine."

 

With that Papus flickered like a hologram, then with a death straight out of a copycat video game trying to replicate a scene from an old film […Yes, studies suggest most computer games are made by virgins, young men and women starved of sex…]…

…Papus vanished in a strange electrical shimmer. It was not too much of a mystery to a layman scientist though. It was something to do with the electromagnetic particles transferring…

 

…On a passenger flight to Glasgow in December 2012, the pilot spotted something that looked blue and yellow…It was not a glider…The censor was unable to censor the politically correct monitor…It was a close shave…

 

10.32: Elaine resumed masturbating while watching Wallace and Gromit from the beginning…

 

3. A Fearful Foetor

 

…On the mini pzi-cam devices, Agent Parsons watched Elaine Pettifer talking to herself and masturbating with a glowing white snake vibrator. He was aroused, and scratched at his moist sweaty groin. He was getting hot in this small office next to Turnham Green tube station. Maybe this was Elaine's trick, to lure him over there. He could have satisfied her sexual urges. He thought it might turn into an Occultist Stakeout and he did not want that. History repeating can be bad enough. But Agent Parsons was fat, balding and depressed with being left with dull work by his Senior Agent, Hubbard.

 

He looked at Elaine again, looking at the expressions on her little scientifically posh punch face. He could smell her good breeding. Maybe he could pretend to be a delivery driver or repair man. It had crossed his mind more than once in the two years of Elaine's surveillance. Under covert C.O.G. orders, he had monitoring her in every step of her dull life. Pzi-cams were everywhere and occasionally picked up the odd thought, even though the technology wasn't well-developed enough to read all of her mind.

 

Agent Parsons was unsure of this mission, but he received these orders from his fellow agent, Hubbard, who was extremely experienced. They had been through too much together and Parsons trusted Hubbard. He secretly wondered what Hubbard done when he took his prayer time. He had never seen any of Hubbard's ceremonies. Hubbard was praying to his Alien God, Phuloannes, at the time Elaine resumed her masturbation rituals. Hubbard never called him Jack, thought Parsons. He thought of his past, which was just a blur, but sometimes slowed to a reverie of fragmented realities. Here he was again, an eternally fat middle-aged man, slowly falling apart to come back again as another fat balding middle-aged man. At least every death was different he thought.

 

Jack Parsons had been selected as an official Stasis Agent with the C.O.G. since 1947. He had known Sheriff R. Galvez , the Area 51 Crew and all the crazies at the U.R.S.O.M.A.D. research facility in Kilburn and its secret testing centre situated in Ladbroke Grove. It was rumoured to have been abandoned in 1965, but Parsons had been back there for an underground event in 2000; the year of his removal from stasis.

 

After studying under Professor Norkgrub, he had joined the Order Templi Orienti. He was a fond believer in Love-Laws and had thirteen children with six women in various realms, cities and countries. Most of his children mutated, only Duncan Ohio decided to remain as a human. Parsons had also unknowingly fathered many mutants on the terra-formed colony of Dett 62-92 via Paddington. He had been stuck in London for too long. He did not like the 21st Century, for some strange reason.

 

Why had Hubbard released him from stasis? He was meant to be needed in Earth-realm 4567AD. Maybe he was needed for another Special Assignment? He did not know why the plan had been activated much earlier. He wanted his stasis money back. 

 

Jack Parsons opened a bag of Scampi Fries. It was his only vice. Many adepts have continued to study that by remaining celibate for numerous rituals, one can increase their chances of success. Rituals are unpredictable, of course. The sex-magikal energy was all too precious to waste on mere follies…

 

Parsons sometimes included masturbation within this framework, too. Manna was vital. But Elaine's ritual was considered new and somewhat strange, as it had been corrupted so blatantly by external pzionik-demoniac forces. A complete corruption of all that was known was not known on Earth for some time. That was why Hubbard was being a bit queer with me, thought Parsons.

 

At that point, Hubbard entered. Hubbard was a small man with large glasses and long ginger hair. His skin was decomposing; he looked ill, as if he had once had cosmetic surgery by some unqualified surgeon...Yes, he also had herpes and a U.T.I...

 

...Parsons had read up on how Hubbard was interested in all sorts of things, and had recently created a small cult that influenced very wealthy people all around the world. This was taking up more of Hubbard's time, as they paid Hubbard to "bring them down to earth". He never needed to bring out any bodies…

 

"What's going on here, Hubbard?" Parsons said.

 

Hubbard ignored Parsons and stared at the bag of Scampi Fries that Parsons was holding.

 

"Scampi Fries?" Hubbard queried.

 

"Yes, I love them," said Parsons. “My only vice!”

 

Parsons's mouth was moving slowly; small pieces of Scampi Fries encrusted around his lips and some remnants had turned to mush in between his decaying teeth.

 

Hubbard belched, looking somewhat uneasy. Hubbard was thinking about licking the crumbs off Parsons' lips. It might freak Parsons out, thought Hubbard.

 

"I've just realized something, Jack. I have to go," said Hubbard, patting the balding Parsons on the arm.

 

Hubbard vanished, kindly leaving a resinous trail…As Parsons finished his bag of Scampi Fries, he realized Hubbard had just called him Jack. He had never done that. Parsons started to cry, his tears streaming into the empty packet of Scampi Fries…

 

4. The Tombs of Time-Bombed Folly

 

Star-Base 32: Realm 24XZ400T:

 

The colony Star-Base had almost been destroyed. The world here was in turmoil, too. The metallic monstrosity of the Star-Base, the planet looked very peaceful. It was full of multi-coloured lakes and strange rainbow skies. The rainbows had been in everyone's mind on this realm, before the evo-muto-virus was unleashed. It was undergoing mutation farm re-population. From spy satellites and drones, the C.O.G was already spying on the progress of the mutation here.

 

The problem was the human population had become dust magnets, and mutated into violent forms of all consuming humanoid dustmite. This was not the ideal transformation. The C.O.G. preferred apathy and silent slow changes to daft violent lifeforms tearing up everything. This was the work of some rogue agents. Total hypnosis could well be the only viable option…

 

…As they looked at the masses of dust people, they saw two C.O.G. Agents, known as "Cleaners", trying to control the population. They were part of the C.O.G.'s privatized Mutant Police. The first C.O.G. Agent was a strange looking plant-life form, with a seed gun. He was a zoophyte called Professor Norkgrub. He was able to produce thousands of seeds at once, embedding themselves into the dust people and rapidly turning them into crystallized fossils.

 

The second C.O.G. Agent was more brutal. He was dead, but had been resurrected to contain this hoard. He was a caveman, a Homo erectus to be exact. He had a blood- gun which connected into his skin through a metallic cord-like vein that caused his magnetic acid blood to whip through the dust people, dissolving them, before returning back to his gun. He would never run out of ammo. Though, the silent giant would never say - telepathically or otherwise - that he hated fighting Blood-Harpies. He couldn’t see the point in killing them.

 

Trogger and Norkgrub were repelling mutated dust beings, as they had been ordered to do so by the C.O.G., Pettifer's own employers. They had all been in a secret chemical brotherhood; they had been twinned at the apex for some time. You might find that it was turning into a watershed moment. They had once trusted dust and they didn't speak much. They had a decomposing head in a jute bag next to them. This head was important. It was the head of the C.O.G. Freelance Agent who would help out Elaine Pettifer mutate the Earth-realm. She needed his blood for Papus, too. This C.O.G. Freelance Agent was codenamed Gumzom. He was previously known as the human Jack Slack.

 

Elaine was light here, like a spiritual sprite. She was able to fly and project herself anywhere. Trogger, being a zombie Homo erectus, looked at her lithe wraith form; he was aiming his blood-gun at her, when Professor Norkgrub put his seed-shooter in the way. "Here me in your mind, Troggs, I know her so don't blast her!" Trogger grunted and used some of his growth magic to grow into a giant - well over two-thousand metres at a quick guess - and crush more of these on-rushing mutated dust-creatures with his giant feet. Trogger saved them all, destroying the base even more. The creatures were thinking about not attacking Trogger. They were evolving…His shit was good for them, too….The Mutant Police were using their cosmic influence...  

 

5. Mix and Match 101

 

Elaine Pettifer committed suicide at 00.31 on 1/1/2011.

 

Elaine had performed an esoteric resurrection ritual while listening to Timeless music. It was a Timeless moment, a golden one, of course. Those golden years etched upon her astral state of mind. She thought she just might be an angel of some kind…She was also known by the Old Ones as the witch Shi T…During her conception, she found a memo. It was from Agent Goodnow, her future employer. It said:

 

Dear Shi T,

 

Here’s some wise words for cosy comfort…

 

“Of course, any one can say, “I believe,” simply to gain access. It will be up to the discerning magician to determine actual sincerity. Because Lesser Magic is everyday magic, a finely tuned sense of discrimination is essential for all accomplishment. In addition, one of the most important “commandments” of Satanism is: Satanism demands study – not worship!”  A.LV. 1972

 

Toodle-pip!

 

Agent Goodnow, Star1ChaserX 2356AD

 

…As she climbed out of her own womb, as a fully formed adult, she realized she looked like the girl out of Lifeforce. Her roots were still a problem which was unfortunate. She praised Papus, then Horusvictus, the corrupted sun god's idiot bastard son. She casually wiped globules of jellified cells trapped in her hair, and took a white laboratory coat to cover her naked body, which was still daubed in the blood of an old goat…

 

She then set about dissolving her old body with crystalline carbide dust, capturing its putrid juices into a small metallic ampoule that was able to contain vast amounts of liquid...Elaine heard ancient musk-music, the smell of mastic oil filled her bloodied nostrils. She could hear pounding drums, the Burial, the African Descent…

 

…The Gods of Babylon looked at her, another mix; another mystical number in her sore head. Rancid bacon also became quite a powerful smell, almost over-whelming her; it made her feel slightly nauseous, as bile formed at the back of her mouth. Elaine was dizzy, slightly euphoric but somehow encompassed in a transcendental feeling of superiority…She did not know why she had these feelings; she blamed herself in Camden, what had she got up to? Everything was still a blank…

 

...Later, that day, she was employed again at the C.O.G. research facility. She was destined to stay there. The U.R.S.O.M.A.D. had closed down. There was more uncertainty than before, but she always had an idea it would keep coming back. An agency called Goodmann and Goodnow had started taking a lot of C.O.G. contracts. Maybe they were privatizing from the inside out... Something was happening....

 

That was when Hubbard appeared...

 

6. Acid Reflux Motherhood, including Back to Those Bulbous Roots…

 

…Elaine was at trendy “pub-bar” in Camden. This “pub-bar” did not like to make the pizza, as it had no kitchen. Kitchens were definitely not cool in this part of Camden. You had to phone the number yourself on your mobile phone from the table. It was that trendy, they just didn’t give a shit. And it was a bit of post-work drinky-pooing that was always going to be a bit boring. Her colleagues - Howard Overton Wendle and Hal Harrison - were peeling the labels off their trendy continental beer bottles. Each 330ml bottle had cost them five pounds. They had ate all of their over-priced bar snacks, too. They were joking about something they saw online, a curious scientific piece about performing repetitive behaviours with different results was a form of insanity. Elaine had not been following the conversation.

 

"What do you think, Elaine?" Hal asked her.

 

Elaine stared at Hal. His big Jewish nose, his greasy skin, his twinkly little eyes; was he giving her the come on?

 

"Great, it's all good," murmured Elaine.

 

Howard and Hal laughed. She slowly realized they were laughing at her.

 

Elaine closed her eyes, draining the last drops of her wine (At six pounds something for a large glass), dreaming of Papus' divine ejaculate in her mouth, like manna from heaven. She had a sparkling thought: She remembered what she needed her associate researchers for. Apart from going through lots of statistics about how the Earth might end, they had ignored their dull duties one day and started playing online games. It was not uncommon, it occurred in many work places all over the world.

 

However, the game Elaine got Hal and Howard to play was a silly amateur occultist game. It was a basic sigil system game from the 7 Hells, where you voluntarily became a basilisk soul pawn. She had played this many times and had protected her manna. Howard and Hal thought this was just a silly game for kids. They didn't realize that they were actually starting their induction as Agents for Papus. They were to help her with the imminent evo-muto virus.

 

Elaine laughed with them, exposing her loins to them; she let them see her wild pubis. She visually examined them both. Howard had long fair hair, which he tied in a ponytail, to cover his acne scarred face. He was obviously a bored rich kid, despite wearing the standard issue AC/DC T-shirt. He seemed to like the obscurity of hiding in the C.O.G. offices. Elaine looked at Hal again. He was somewhat pudgy like a giant Jewish baby. He smiled knowingly without knowing why he actually smiled. He was gormless.

 

Hal was also a bit of a waster. He had started doing various things to change his work behaviours and had been sleeping on the job a lot more. The pointless risk management of those cosily employed in non-jobs. What would his uncle Amos think? Elaine thought.

 

No-one was interested in Elaine's phone sex secrets and webcam high jinx. She needed to break her five year drought and get physical. Papus was helping her do this. He was controlling her libido with mystic pzi-vibrators and Elaine had the sudden urge to completely control Hal and Howard…

 

Elaine remembered after the office Christmas party, as they were clearing up the paper plates and plastic wine cups, when the game had drained the life out of Howard and Hal and they started to obsess about it; how fun it was to toy with them. Muck around with their feelings, their fragile immature minds! They had both looked thin, almost deceased.

 

Hal approached Elaine with mischief in mind. Elaine remembered that Hal had halitosis of someone who had been nil by mouth for a couple of days.

 

"Elaine, what's up with that game? What's it all about?" Hal whispered, looking scared.

 

"I don't know; it's just a little game. I think they call it Mandrake - after Mandrake the Magician. It's a game for brats, Hal."

 

"I've been having strange dreams, as in really strange dreams."

 

Elaine smiled, and using pzionik mysticism, she planted within Hal's mind the image of her sucking his small circumcised penis, slowly fingering his prostate. She licked a slither of excrement off her fingernail by accident. Hal gasped for breath, shuddering as if he had been hit by an orgasmic bullet. Without Hal seeing, Elaine spat the slither of excrement out onto her finger and probed his rectum with the aforementioned soiled finger…Hal had never experienced this much pleasure before; he did not know what was wrong with him…

 

"I've got to go Elaine," murmured Hal, pulling up his trousers, staggering away as if he had been shot by some kind of invisible weapon. He was sweating; he had no idea what was happening...

 

"Don't fight it, live it, Hal! I'm warning you! Just cum everywhere and follow me!" Elaine shouted after Hal. He probably did not hear her; he was already going into death stasis shock [Cue: D.S.S., as some scientists refer to it…]… Hal’s blood brain barrier has started boiling; he was feeling like he was in some other strange time zone...Or he had turned into a walking percolator…

 

…Elaine decided to use her telepathic teleportation spell and whizz them both back to the C.O.G. Offices in Tufnell Park. Howard did not realize he was no longer in the trendy bar. He seemed to be slowly decomposing. Elaine had seen this before; he would make the perfect sacrifice. He was like a thin monkey, she thought. He was really cute!

 

Howard approached Elaine, looking relaxed. He always wondered what Elaine was like out of work and had often fantasized, whilst masturbating, about conducting some type of clandestine office romance with her. He found Elaine extremely frumpy, but he found frumpy women easier to copulate with and eventually leave when the romance was getting domestic.

 

Howard thought himself a bit of a player in the Lothario vein. He was also desperate for any kind of sexual intercourse, as he had not been laid in over a year. It was slowly killing him and mutual masturbation was not doing it for him. He thought he might be bisexual. He still looked like death; he had been playing the game for over twenty-three hours.

 

"What's wrong with Hal?" Howard asked, trying to snug up to Elaine.

 

Elaine froze; she did not like unprofessional contact space what impeded that sacred 15cm barrier of good taste, unless she initiated it.

 

"Don't worry Howard, Hal will be back," said Elaine.

 

"Probably had a bit too much – you know how these geeks can’t take too much. I just want to play that damn game again, something real addictive about it," mused Howard.

 

"Good, I'm pleased you like it. I know the developer, so I'll let him know."

 

The janitor suddenly entered the office. He looked surprised to see them. It was the first time Elaine had ever noticed his existence. He was a very tall and a very fat man. He had no teeth, his name sounded like Tipp. They usually never spoke to him.

 

"Merry Christmas," said Elaine.

 

"Murree Chruss'mass," replied Tipp, doffing his cap.

 

Elaine thought he must be Eastern European. This Tipp character looked like a giant beetle-bear. He just needed some teeth. It gave her an idea. She would use the janitor for her plans, instead of Hal. She cursed Hal and hoped the dreams would torture him endlessly. Soon he would be trapped in a constant state of unrelenting unreality.

 

The Phultor would cherish him, Elaine thought, licking her lips. But the Phultor would wreck Hal first, and this particularly sinister thought aroused her more than usual.

 

Tipp smiled; Howard nodded at Tipp, looking a bit confused. Elaine felt that the threesome in her night chamber just might just happen tonight; it was the start of something special....

 

7. One Door Opens, Another Door Left Slightly Ajar. (Locked-in Side-Lock Lounging.)

 

…Elaine was behaving very differently to her usual timid self. It was if another Life-Form had penetrated her mind and started to control her. She had not taken her anti-psychotic tablets for quite a while. She had forgotten what “quite a while” actually was equivalent to in days and months. Time always tricked her, so she had decided not to trust Time.

 

Jolly old Elaine had some obscure pieces of knowledge about Chronology, particularly in relation to Chromium and Time; but, in a labyrinthine way, she had done a lot of other things just to take the edge off things - so she claimed to herself. It was another gurn-out, of course.

 

Elaine didn't scare Hal or Howard by letting them know she had already killed herself in 1995. They went to a subterranean club, a strange place full of bright fluorescent colours and darkness. People in U.V. paint were in some kind of hypnotic trance ritual horse dances. They moved to an inaudible beat; to the left and to the right, in total unison. They all laughed, feeling oddly euphoric after a dull week number crunching old data for the C.O.G. and dealing with unknown agents across the realm-spheres and exo-planets.

 

Howard and Hal thought Elaine had a bit too much of whatever she was doing. They purchased more continental beer in little bottles. It was a bit sweaty as they entered the chill out lounge, but it was very ambient. Everyone was moving to different sounds, sounds in their head. It was not too much of a constant complex rhythmic aural ejaculation. They were all getting into D-States…

 

It was a bit intimate; they moved into another room, and all people in there were merging along to the Majikal Rivmik Riddim-revival rhythms; and the factory of rhymes and tunes being mixed in with the sweat. It was quite enlightening. Euphoria was in the air, ectoplasm covered the walls. It was truly ecstatic…The 303 code was locked in; the code of the 808 codices would be the dominant force throughout the 21st century. Only a truly dedicated disciple of the Great Crowley would know what it all meant…

 

Elaine said this to Hal and Howard:

 

"Are you up as in up yet?"

 

Hal and Howard nodded, laughing. They had been doing a lot of that; she noticed they were holding hands a lot. Elaine imagined the two of them performing various homosexual acts, as she filmed them wearing a crude dominatrix costume made of black bin liners, latex lingerie and safety pins; she would have masturbated right there and then if she was not so freaked out by this sudden environmental warfare…She started to move faster, forcing her labia onto the edge of the bar…No-one seemed to mind, they had probably seen it all before…

 

…Elaine needed to purge herself some hours later. As she went to the toilet, she saw a black man. She was originally from Norwich, so had an odd feeling when she moved to London and saw so many ethnicities mixing together…All types polluting and mutating in one giant living space – a massive mass of soul-kinetics; in truth, it turned her on a little bit. This astral kinetic dub was something she usually saved up for on Astral Circus…She had never given an ethnic person any sexual favours before.

 

The black man was called August-Ham Man(C.O.G. codename: Boggo 'Bug' Ravoo). He was a resting poet and hung around with a disturbed white working-class man of twenty, called The Midnight Pharmacy Lemonade Drinker (C.O.G. codename Regor Nocab a.k.a. Callum Cheevers). He was not a poet; in fact he was just a talentless waster and a timeless sponger of various things, including illicit psychotropic substances. They had both met at a commune in Milton Keynes and frequented various pubs in Kilburn and beyond…

 

Elaine had fallen in love with August-Ham Man for a whole ten minutes. Pills and powders were consumed to enhance the psychoactive environment; a smoke stick was ignited, filling the air with sacrificial herbs. The ritual had started…They went to the toilets, breathing in the natural lysergic gases already present within the atmosphere (as well as other cleaning products, including household ammonia…). Elaine took August-Ham Man's tuberous penis in her hand and lowered her mouth over its moist mushroom-shaped pleasure-dome…

 

There was a cosmic explosion somewhere, and an exo-planet was destroyed through spontaneous orgasmic combustion... This astral lark can be hardcore, thought Elaine…She enjoyed living in darkness...

 

...The vision still enthralls her to this day. Papus had somehow managed to manifest himself in the mighty ejaculate of August-Ham Man. The congealed semen in Elaine's mouth formed a small manifestation of Papus. She masturbated harder to keep seeing Papus. He nodded at her, smiling. August-Ham Man sat back, smiling, feeling very pleased with himself.

 

"The August-Ham Man's work is never done!" August-Ham Man said, mainly to himself. He took his mobile phone out and used the holographic camera built into the mobile phone to film Elaine masturbating on the toilet floor of the club. This would be something he could definitely re-live. And his friend, Regor Nocab, would probably put it out there, too…

 

A crowd had gathered around Elaine, as many more people filmed this corrupted ceremony. The August-Ham Man couldn't believe it when Papus was dancing in her mouth, as she swallowed him, squirting her magnificent vaginal juices over the crowd and August-Ham Man; these secretions caused the crowd to mutate into little earwig humanoids. They screamed in dismay…

 

…The August-Ham Man was immune to this mutation. His arms just turned into snakes again. Very dull, I know. However, Regor Nocab posted the video for the world to see and that was how Hal and Howard saw it. They contributed multiple views, of course…

 

Strangely, they had to lock in to it right there; it was some of the funniest footage as they knew Elaine. Both Hal and Howard had been fantasizing about some kind of sexual congress with Elaine; and they suspected it was their chance to participate with her…

 

…They were pleased she was not frightened of semen and sex magick rituals. However, Howard had been wondering if he had to sodomize Hal to get it on with Elaine. He was not really attracted to Hal. Hal was a bit of a freak. And he was slightly overweight. But Howard was quite desperate; he would plunge his penis into anything really.

 

Time got really strange in the 21st century…

 

8. A Plate of Dubious Pzi-Rubber Trickery at Doc Dee's Cookery Class.

 

Trogger howled. It was a howl to freeze humanity. The dust-beasts knew what was happening. Here was some useless backstory to assist the novice within these arts. Not everyone knows the immediate relevant history of various random sites. Randomness was all well and good, as long as you had an idea of all the random components that made up the random possibilities. That was the trick, the history lost all meaning; everyone was insane anyway. The Mutant Police had adapted well. Trogger got this particular image within his mind; he knew it was an order.

 

The portal of Time-Bombed Follies opened to every dimensional slipstream known to universal biological entities, causing them to run into millennium slipstream. 2000 AD again, it would just have to be. The entry point was a museum dedicated to Doctor Dee. Apparently the location in Baker Street was another secret address of Dee's when he joined the Scottish Brotherhood in a later life cycle. Dee learnt rejuvenation early; another cheap resurrection trick. Papus and Dee had met there for a brief period of time. It was a celestial orgy of various kinds. Some Old Ones even "Made It", in various popularized forms, of course. Dee's residence was now a pornographic restaurant – the first of its kind.

 

This fad bar was designed by Callum Cheevers and his partner, Les Barloy. Les had a great sense of the future. Some even called him a seer. He even had been offered his own drag spot at the Black Cap but, due to contractual issues with The Squatshot Club, it had hindered him accepting it. Les thought he may have been a medium in a previous lifetime. Callum got into pornography thanks to an old school-teacher and his transgendered aunt, formerly his uncle, who home schooled him as a child, before going to Amsterdam and embarking upon a massive career as a European porn producer.

 

Callum merged his love of food and pornography in one swift move. However, the authorities did not like this type of permissiveness on total display, so Callum had the idea to disguise his pornographic food bar into a Doctor Dee museum and book shop. It was the perfect cover; no-one knew it existed – apart from those in the know, of course….

 

9. The Midnight Pharmacy Lemonade Drinker and August-Ham Man Attempt To Get On.

 

Regor Nocab and Bug Ravoo sat near the bar, ordering an acidic form of alien absinthe. It was a bad move after all those rare mushrooms and lovely specimens of rare cacti. Regor had been going on about finding Mandy. Bug Ravoo nodded knowingly; of course, I had no idea who Mandy was, there were so many people. He was thinking about taking the edge off his indigestion. A strange vegetarian feast had engulfed them; those mushrooms were definitely much better than ones from the local supermarket.

 

Regor was pleased he purchased them from Alibeck the Egyptian, the landlord here, and not his usual grocer. They had all had a strange time, going to various events, borrowing banjos, bongos, and bikes. They had lost their horns and whistles some time ago…They were not allowed to go to the commune in Milton Keynes, as they had been banned for over-indulgence. They needed to return another ukulele, too. It was all go for them. They had too much time, of course.

 

They were also intoxicated on various pollutants and probably needed to temporarily detoxify. Water was not an option. That was the problem, getting time to figure out some time. That’s when Elaine walked in. They had already seen Elaine about. Regor had to turn on the charm. He didn't go on and on about Venus. Elaine looked at Regor. She recognized him.

 

“Oh my, it’s Callum Cheevers,” she said.

 

“I don’t use that name no more, peaches,” Regor said, sipping his cosmic lemonade. His lemonade was infused with lysergic bubbles and crushed up Parma Violets, his favourite sweets.

 

Elaine nodded. She needed another soul sacrifice; she licked her lips and vaguely remembered that Callum was making pop-pornography these days. She could not stop collecting souls; she should not have made any more death-pacts with Belial. But hey-ho, there you go, when you get on a ritual roll it is hard to stop. Roll On was her motto these days…What can the amateur occultist say to the determined zeal of a total whore?

 

Elaine did not like being called a whore, but she acknowledged she was generally whorish most of the time these days. By the time Regor had taken another sip of his queer lemonade, Elaine had unzipped his tight catamite trousers and placed her mouth upon his sweaty penis. She teased his tiny member with her rough tongue before Regor’s phallus became properly aroused.

 

Bug Ravoo smiled. He had no problem with random acts of pleasurable intercourse. “I should probably film this,” he said, smiling.

 

“You’re next,” Elaine said, in between slurps.

 

“I told you this place was good, Regor,” said Bug.

 

Bug was pretty naïve. He had never properly experienced cosmic mutation. He was about to transform into August-Ham Man…

 

Elaine did not quite know what to expect. She felt she had known them all her life. She then realized she had met Bug before. He started turning into some kind of mushroom-pumpkin man, with a watermelon head.

 

“Wow man, I got snakes for arms again,” Bug informed Regor. “I’m mutating right? I am, aren’t I? This can’t be happening again, can it?”

 

Elaine realized she would be unable to make the soul sacrifice; they were living elsewhere. Papus laughed, mockingly, in the back of her mind. She was now destined to abase herself in various realms to satisfy the perverse imagination of a truly masterful occultist.

 

Regor Nocab zipped his fly back up. Elaine was stunned; he had saved her from Papus’ fellatio-doom. Elaine cried bloody tears of joy.

 

“Sorry, it’s one of those nights where I just won’t ejaculate,” said Regor.

 

“Oh, I see,” Elaine mumbled, wiping her bloody tears away.

 

“Don’t cry. You’re good. Technically speaking,” Regor said, rubbing her shoulders.

 

“Don’t start with me, Regor!” Elaine said, in a strop.

 

Regor smirked and said,

 

“You know who you remind me of? You remind me of Zoe. We all call her Zip. She’s a right laugh. You should meet her sometime.”

 

“Maybe another time,” replied Elaine.

 

With that Elaine faded from the realm-space. She needed to seek fresh soul-sacrifices…She needed to take their time. She was turning into a fully-fledged Tyme-Pyre. She sent Regor and Bug another i-telegram-e-mail from 1973.

 

It read:

 

Hi guys!

 

Hope you’re still having a great time. I know you probably want to kick on, being occult superheroes and all. I’m in 1973 now. If you get time, fade in and visit me. I’m really getting around!

 

I’m staying with a groupie who’s obsessed with Matching Mole. She’s actually pretty progressive about music. Maybe we can all go on a date? Maybe we can catch a Woody Allen flick?

 

I hope to see you soon. If I don’t, I’m sure I’ll see you both on Venus. Bring the furs if you want!

Thank you, boys!

 

Love,

 

Elaine.

 

Regor looked at Bug. Bug looked at Regor. They looked confused. Why was a Smeg refrigerator flying?

 

Thankfully, the above telegram was made from some kind of biodegradable carrion that decomposed as soon as they read the message. They prepared themselves for some strange times. They decided to order some more dimensional delicacies and other rarities and kick on to Camelot…

 

P.S. [for our Industry “friends” who need that instant resolution and backstory fix]

Cue: dust people get into Earth realm and then we see them over-run the human population, infecting them causing them to mutate. Easy does it. They win, they wipe us all out. Just like that…

 

 

Pro-Epil-Log…

 

Professor Norkgrub smiled and handed me some strange crystalline device. It was shaped like a pentacle and seemed to be alive. It was possibly an extra-terrestrial biological entity that no-one had discovered yet. I do not know why he had decided to entrust this curio to me.

 

This wily old zoophyte had some queer mission. Why would he be giving me this strange crystal key? As it was alive, it used its tiny crystalline suckers to attach itself to my hand. It was a marvelous achievement of biological design.

 

“Just don’t let it suck you for too long,” said Norkgrub, lighting his little clay pipe.

 

I nodded.

 

“Thanks,” I mumbled and staggered out of the abhorrent public house.

 

It would be some time before I would again locate that Christchild and Vonderpump apothecary; but I always had thoughts of Professor Norkgrub in his little cubbyhole there. Good memories, happy times. There were always good times at that hell hole. The Old Ones always kept it chugging along…

 

As I walked home, to my mother’s flat on the Kilburn High Road, I noticed that I was slowly fading. I was becoming a ghost. Not again. I was not this easily inebriated; electromagnetic particles were nothing new to me…I had been drinking Bristol Cream all night and I only had a couple of Norkgrub’s Alfredo Funghi giant mushrooms. They were very big and looked a bit mouldy; I did not even know that the Christchild and Vonderpump served food, but the pub grub was delicious - spot on, as my uncle Andreas used to say…

 

After walking some way, I noticed that I was becoming invisible. I could not even see my hands, even though it was very dark…Amazing! How can this sudden invisibility be possible? I naturally sought a rational scientific explanation but my mind was blank…What foul play was this?... I looked at the crystalline beast upon me, and noticed how it casually attached itself to my genitals and was sending messages into my hippocampus. My brain was in a strange moment of crystalline pleasure and confusion. My hypothalamus would never know what hit it; as soon as my invisibility kicked in…I do not know if my medulla was on board at the time…

 

[TIME SPECIALLY DEDICATED TO YOU!]

 

Lady Goodpayne looked at the time-slide. It had ripped a hole through some old Constable painting. The small disposable mansion had been in situ since 1924. It was not a popular fast food chain. It was a Ramsey's. It was a good piece of kit. That's why Lady Goodpayne still lived there.

 

Her cleaner, Sybila, stayed around with her trusty pot crystalline pot plant. After the ritual to Phul, they realized they had been conned again. Lady Goodpayne smiled at Sybila.

 

"Don't talk to me about this night ever again," mumbled Lady Goodpayne. Her ninety year old body creaked, as she unstrapped her mega-dildo.

 

"Oh, I won't your ladyship! Rest assured madame, I will respect your time, my dearie!"

 

Lady Goodpayne smiled. She knew Sybila was a bit younger, in her forties maybe. She looked older and had had no surgery. Lady Goodpayne felt her stomach twinge. It was a normal pain and it was easily cured with the ampoules of Dexedrine and amphetamine sulphate. She would use the termaline later…It needed the special format for such experimentations. Her morphine patch needed changing.

 

"Brought my plant with me, ma’am," said Sybil.

 

Lady Goodpayne smiled as Sybil cut its fine leaves and prepared a tea. She looked at the plant again and it appeared to have winked at her.

 

Lady Goodpayne wished they made electric bathrobes, but she had to settle for a woolly kimono from the Himalayas. She was unable to taste them, though.

 

"Don't let the goat urinate on it. We need this zombie goat for the next stage," Sybil mentioned casually.

 

That was the cue for the time-slide to make random noises; it rumbled some more before finally growing silent. It was a bit glittery and the effect only slightly better than early CGI. It was not the desired effect. That was the way the tea was making them see things. The time-slide had started to leak green ectoplasm all over the rug. It was as hot as lava and made short work of the floor. Hopefully the rug will not start mutating again.

 

"Don't make me call the cleaners again, Sybila!" moaned Lady Goodpayne.

 

Sybila smiled, handing her cup of tea. Tiffin was still important and was not reserved for the normal kind of Carry On, of course.

 

After finishing tea, much time had flown by. Over seventy-two hours had elapsed in twenty hyper-minutes. The time-slide had filled the room with ectoplasm. The sofa and chaise-longue were only things that wouldn't burn.

 

 

"They must be charmed," laughed Sybila.

 

Lady Goodpayne was not amused. Sybila looked around for the goat.

"Kasper! Oh, Kasper!"

 

Sybila started to cry. At least her plant was safe, but they lost the zombie-goat.

 

"I may have to ring the estate agents, Mr Goodnow and Mr Goodmann. They seem to be very shady operators but I think they like it that way," Lady Goodpayne remarked.

 

Sybila smiled.

 

"I hope you don't mind ma’am, but I've summoned your first aborted foetus from 1989 and your future descendant from 2567AD."

 

"Oh, how quaint," said Lady Goodpayne, licking the teacup. That was some mighty fine tea, she thought.

 

"They'll appear soon."

 

Sybila put the pot plant and tea set aside. She seemed to be talking to the plant, whispering to it in hushed tones.

"…I knew this would happen, Professor," said Sybil to the plant. It was forming into a little plant-man with a shrub like leaf-fro.

 

Lady Goopayne was unsure if she had heard things right but her eyes were feeling heavy. 

 

"I think she's asleep now," the little plant man said.

 

"We better tell the C.O.G. She can't call Goodnow and Goodmann. They were betraying us all along. Look at the pzi-flow. It can't be crossed with all this pzi-jizz. We need something funky, Norky."

 

"I agree Sybila. It's good to work with you again. Just like the old days with Quagga and Von RapArd."

 

Sybila laughed, zipping up a Buck Rogers-style spacesuit. She still had Wilma Deering’s body; her face looked more like Doc Hauer's, though. She had a rough old life in Stepney. It was a shame she got discovered late as a psychic; she had a great TV presence…

 

Norky moved the chaise-longue to connect with the Sofa-bed. It was forming a primitive sort of tyme-craft. Smokey window-walls developed around the sofa-bed-chaise-longue craft. It was a commercial move, but Norky was not afraid of commercial suicide. He had always been into the labels, though he stuck to White Label more than anything else. Norky sipped some of his own tea and glowed a green fluorescent colour. Sybila laughed surreptitiously fingering her clammy vagina.

 

Norky said, "Don't worry, Sybila, we’re going inter-dimensional!"

 

“I’m coming, Norky!” Sybila screamed.

 

It was quite apparent that our heroine’s juices were flowing…

 

   SHI HIT MY HEROINE!

 

Chapter Forty One

 

The hairs on the back of Tommy Tellman's neck stood up. He was re-living a time fright freak out. It was not too retro. It was something he had learned to get used to. He was a life coach guru after all.

 

Tommy Tellman was also a pulp novelist. He refused to adhere to the the standardized one-hundred and seventy-five page tradition; Tellman feared attention spans were just not what they were. He opts for fifty to seventy pages. He feels a hundred might be pushing it in this day and age. Of course, Tellman has millions of one page stories. There's too many to document. They all blather on about his alter ego, The Midnight Pharmacy Lemonade Drinker and his companion, August-Ham Man.

 

And, according to Tellman, all the best ideas were short stories. 'War and Peace' remains, technically, a collected body of interlocking fragments -- episodes, not proper chapters if you will. Tellman was getting technical with me, but my eyes had already glazed over…I took more meds to get rid of this Tellman dream…

 

However, 'The Shawshank Redemption' as a film adaptation lasts a couple of hours, which has to be seen as quite remarkable considering to this day some people cannot believe it came from a Stephen King short story. It has to be admitted that this realm world has many bizarre oddities that are out of sync with trans-dimensional life.

 

Either way, Tellman was not getting any cash. As the world turned to dust, he needed a quick buck. His pension was close to non-existent. He had a shopping list, too. He should have stuck to the life-coach guru lark. It was easier to peddle his self-help pamphlets and blogs to the easily lead.

 

That was how Tellman made his name as a life-coach guru. Maybe I should take up life-coaching? I do fear this idea that life can be coached with positive energy as opposed to supernatural forces. All the pages Tellman contributed actually came from a rare grimoire not often used by occult adepts. He had always been a fan of Higgins out of Magnum P.I., too. But that is another strand of thought that only the students of the occult might be interested in hearing.

 

Chapter Two

 

Tellman was already dead. That was more convenient. The dust-world had consumed him. It was 2045. That was not the future as it felt like 1910. He was still looking for a decent greasy spoon café. He had to go all the way to Blackhorse Road to find one. That was a shock for many futurologists including myself.

 

The mutated dust particles had spread everywhere. The particles clung to buildings and tress, changing the colour of everything into a strange brownish hue. It looked like excrement. The world had turned to excrement. This was only one strand of it. Tellman, in his dust tomb did not mind the mites. They cleaned his bones and kept his vitals fresh for re-animation.

 

That was how Les got the telegram. Les was relaxing around Kilburn. He was in The Good Ship. He had vowed that he would never go to the Squatshot Club again, or the vile public house, The Christchild and Vonderpump. He always seemed to lose himself, and a whole lot of time would fly by. It was not a family environment. He would not participate in their ritualized consumption. Well, not always.

 

That was why Les decided living in 2007 was pretty tough. He felt a crisis coming on. He knew that was the Great Fear. He had seen the dreams of thousands of currencies turning to dust. He sensed the end. He might be psychic. This excited Les.

 

He was so excited he noticed he had a mystical erection. Les usually refrained from masturbation but he noted as he was fondling his penis, that his elderly neighbor was staring at him. He had forgotten to pull the curtains.

 

Les did not mind staying with Callum Cheevers’ abode; it was ideally situated near the hustle of Holloway Road. But he always decided to shift back to The Good Ship. He was always there in spirit, like so many of the crazy characters that frequented its historical bar.

 

Les secretly missed the Astoria, too. But that was another stream of fragmented events. Les in his rush to complete his astral rituals realized he did not want to invite his neighbor over for another full on session of mystical mutual masturbation. She had taken his copy of Hawkwind’s ‘Chronicle of The Black Sword’; she had also bought herself to orgasm with violent consequences, whilst clutching the pristine album. Les did not like beauty being sullied in such a sordid way; he was annoyed that fine album had been disrespected in such an obscene way.

 

This relationship was getting odd for Les; it was getting worryingly close to full intercourse, Les pondered. She must be at least in her fifties, though still very sexually attractive. Les did not know if he liked women or men. He liked women that reminded him of his mum. This elderly neighbour was called Ms Combtitt. Les thought her familiar for some strange reason, as if he had known her all his life.

 

Les ignored his medication on a regular basis. He finished his tipple in The Good Ship and used the secret doorway to slip into another plane of existence. It was so much easier than using the other exits. He had always been a no exit kind of guy, but he felt he needed to get away.

 

Les saw the dust worlds in his dreams. He woke up in the flat in Islington. It was dark and he looked in the corner, seeing a spark, some form of electric portal. His alarm clock beeped from somewhere. Dust had covered the entire flat. He noticed that some form of strange mulch had grown on the walls, windows and doors. It must have been a result of his dream, thought Les.

 

“Hi Les“, said August-Ham Man.

 

“Oh, you again,” Les mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

 

Les had tried to stop drinking cough syrup for today. He had mixed it with too many other fast foods. His cold remained.

 

The August-Ham Man looked around, surveying the area.

 

“You better come to the basement”, said August-Ham Man, somewhat mysteriously.

 

“Why?” Les groaned finding a takeaway snack that had expired in 2000. It might be useful, thought Les.

 

“The flat has a secret boiler room. You know Norky plans these things. Got a crystal machine he wants you take a look at. You need to go to 2045,” August Ham Man replied. He had thought about it for a while but realized that August Ham Man was inhaling his special snuff.

 

“I suppose I can have a quick look, but I need some sleep. I think I might got to The Good Ship later”

 

“I love this snuff, Les! It’s really exotic – I get it cheap, like a mate’s rate. They should sell at all coffee houses, if you know what I mean. A bit of the 1850s style, why not?  There’s nothing wrong storing the opium with the teabags, is there? You should try a nip, Les, it’ll perk you up.”  

    

“I’m fine thanks,” said Les. He did not trust the queer delicacies of August Ham Man. He had sampled his mushroom mash before and cacti soup and had been violently ill. Despite retaining and sharpening a lot of his pzionik potential, Les had to be cautious.

 

“What’s the mission?” Les said after changing into a tight leather cat-suit. The August Ham Man had seen naked many times and was not “into him” as he put it to les one time. But Les did not care. He wanted to go into Emma Peel mode.

 

“Hey Les, looking like Cat-Woman again,” said August Ham Man.

 

Les felt angry as he realized that August Ham Man was trying to hurt his feelings. Les re-applied his make up and put on a beret instead of his usual turban.

 

The August-Ham Man laughed and licked the walls, howling like a giant mushroom wolf in between licks of the mouldy walls.

 

Les shook his head and said, “This better be a good trip!”

 

Chapter Three Point Three

 

When Les got down to the basement with the somewhat inebriated August-Ham Man, he saw that Professor Norkgrub was down there putting the finishing touches to what looked like the Crystal Dome out of the TV show Crystal Maze. It was a strange dome, changing through various multi-coloured crystalline lights.

 

“It’s the Crystal Dome; well done, you’ve copied it well,” said Les.

 

Norky laughed. So did the August-Ham Man, who looked worse for fear.

 

“It’s not the dome, you fool! That’s different. This looks like it but it’s a portal.”

 

The August-Ham Man started feasting on some of Norky’s nuts. The seeds were having a good effect on him, as his mushroom skin started to look refreshed again; The August-Ham Man was unable to control his lysergic flatulence though.

 

“We need you to get her, Les. We need you to find Zip. She’s being kept as the sexual plaything of a witch called Shi. Shi’s getting at Zip because she wanted to get into a time-stream and kick up some shit. Tell me about it. She don’t want soda out of this time-stream, she wants chaos and kicking up shit.”

 

Les thought this was a bit melodramatic. He was dreaming of chips and beans. And he had been thinking of spam fritters recently. Why was he obsessed with spam fritters. Maybe there was a sign that Icke would be able to decipher. The great Icke solved all these conundrums. There was no countdown for this one, though.  

 

“Les? Hey, Les, you with me?” Norky asked.

 

“Of course I am Norky,” Les replied.

 

“You best get in then and I’ll power it up. We’ll try and get some help to you, but you’ll be on your own for a bit. I would come along but me and AHM have to take this thing apart,” explained Norky.

 

Les nodded. He had been alone many times before. As long as Papus and Regor Nocab left him alone then no time wasting would occur.

 

“So it’s not real crystal then?” Les asked Norky.

 

“It’s synth-crystal. It’s new on the market, designed for easy access and easy to take away. You don’t want us cooking on the streets, do you Les?”

 

The little zoophyte adjusted his tiny glasses and smiled a wry zoophyte smile.

 

“You best stop thinking of spam fritters and hope you can help Zip. I need to replenish a lot of manna. I shouldn’t have gone back to 76. Whew! What a year man!”

 

Les had an idea that August Ham Man and Norky were having a bit of a time sliding session. They had befriends adult film stars and just bigged up the Paul Raymond crew. Norky told him that he had no spearmint for rhinos.

 

Les said, “I better go then. Do I look the part?”

 

Les minced around, strutting like a supermodel and performed some poses in his tight-fitting leather cat-suit. It may have been fake leather as it looked slightly worn at the crotch. Norky did not mention the strange stains that covered the entire suit.

 

“I bid you farewell, I hope to hear from you soon,” said Les, as he entered the crystal dome.

 

“In dust we trust, brother!” Norky shouted.

 

The August Ham Man had passed out, so did not say a thing. Les smiled, wiping seeds from around his mushroom lips. Les smiled; he liked them really. Les was never really a friends’ type of person. He never had friends, only acquaintances.

 

As soon as Les entered the Crystal Dome portal, a strange lysergic gas filled the inside and made it fizzle and crackle. Les had an idea he would be transported very quickly and tried to remember his rune teachings. Les had forgotten everything; his mind had gone blank.

 

That was the last thing Les Barloy remembered. As you do, when it just might be the last thing you will ever remember.

 

[THE TIMELESS DREGS OF ASTRAL EXILE]

 

File 650

 

I didn't always wake up as Regor Nocab. Before my trip to Starbase 24(Starbase 23 remains a mystery for me, which I will use cybernetic forms to communicate with you at some other time in the future...) A long time ago, I was once called Callum Cheevers. I was from Kilburn. I had to be good, almost respectable. In that very middle-class way that most people absolutely loathe; but it really becomes essential to master, or you don't get anywhere in Britain if you're not middle-class. You got to play the game to remain in it.

 

Everyone gets put out when those middle-class networking clubs get cut out. Look at the little whores doing online posts begging for something, selling themselves, looking for work. Crying for the intern generation or selling out those who expect to be "established" by the time they are Twenty-two. I could not do that.

 

Not that I resented turning into Regor Nocab. I had to be a spiritualist scientist of some kind. I had to find out how to beat this death-trip. I don't want to die. I want to live forever. Who doesn't? Maybe not in this body; one would inevitably consider a disposable clone body with my mind transplanted into it. Sounds like a great idea to me. Disposable bodies could really catch on…

 

I need to beat time-space somehow; a career in pop-pornography and visiting scholar in pan-galactic art forms, I had to do something before the stasis thing gotinvented. The whole liberalized system of poverty cycles ended up eating itself. Just hope for the lottery of the system to sort you out. Some scientific occultists decided against this, thank goodness for the charity Occult4Kids. However, I was able to mix my worlds.

 

During my time on the commune, I read dull classical texts and esoteric works, which I found much more interesting than the enforced plethora of Shakespeare, Dickens and Rowling. I also listened to All the Right Things; I knew a bit of my folk, blues, reggae and soul, as well as the psychedelic, the rave classics and more obscure experimental music….I can't remember any of it, but it somehow enhanced my astral abilities….

 

I did grow up on a commune after all. I liked old films…There was always some strange sounds and even stranger aromas around there when I was younger. However, I hasten to add that I was well-schooled in narco-arts, pzioniks and astral sex-magicks. I had a good teacher called Professor Norkgrub. I got the impression I always seemed to know him.

 

Thankfully, within our current dimension-realm-space, I was well-cared for by my hippy commune parents. They were affluent but had problems with their vast generosity. They all lived with their close friends, who they swapped partners with. In between a bit of organic farming. It was very cosy, and somewhat outside of the law.

 

When I was a child I slept with my parents' friends' children, and my first sexual experience happened when I was only fourteen when a lonely Eastern European baby-sitter(and illegal immigrant) performed a bizarre fellatio ceremony upon me. I was hooked ever since, but I became interested in weird sex with more mature people.

 

We all lived together and this baby-sitter - I can't think of her name, for some reason - but she had already had sexual encounters with my parents and their network of hippy dependents. Some of them were no longer "friends" and it all got a bit funny. I was pleased to be a bi-sexual wonderkid…

 

I assumed it was a logical progression; I had always wanted to return to Atlantis. A time when things were innocent and free. Call it a Utopia, but Utopia does not exist. Blissful states can play strange tricks with your mind. As the commune slowly disbanded, a strange agency my parents summoned dealt with all the narcotics purchases and managed to keep the authorities in check with various bribes and threats of blackmail.

 

It was an ideal existence, one which was destined never to last forever. Everything changed for me when I had my first Angelic time dust experience. It was the first time I have ever done a sundance in my mind; I was more used to moondance, indeed even the occasional raindance. And there was always a rainbow embedded in my mind. Paradise was in there after all…Deep Paradise Valleys… 

 

..I pzi-phoned a strange acquaintance called Howard Wendle. I him met at Poet's Corner, during a relaxed evening of experimental spoken fart poetry (a quiet evening of lyrically linguistic masturbation, mutually speaking). We had been sizing each other up for a while after the event had ended, sipping our lysergic smoothies. After going to some club, full of sweat, love and blissful mind-controllers, Howard had grown to like me. He squeezed my thigh, his hands slowly lingering upon my buttocks and I wondered if he usually picked up well-groomed dandies; it was my cue to casually put to Mr Wendle if he knew anything about this new Occult4Kids organization.

 

According to Howard it was being monitored closely by the government and was considered extremely subversive. Howard had influence with the organizers, Mr Goodmann and Mr Goodnow, despite being a slightly moronic and somewhat over-weight drunkard. The other organizers who held influence over this new organization were: the enigmatic Professor Norkgrub, the vampiric Wiccan Historian Vera Swaldey; and Les Barloy, a performance artist and part-time seer.

 

As far as know, Les Barloy was the psychic force, the realm-seer with the True Will. He had a unique talent for this, it would make Crowley proud. The other two beings were merely academic agents designed to get funding. Les travelled everywhere with his guru, Tnuk Nam, an ancient human from Mongolia. He managed to preserve himself with his weird energy consumption. He was also great for after-dinner magic tricks. 

 

I wondered if these academic credentials existed, but was keen to test my own astral experiences with their teachings. That was before I dreamed about the basilisk machines. They infected my dreams. I didn't think about other lives, more than imagining other worlds. That was how the cybo-basilisks found me.

 

File 180

 

The problem being was I had regenerated within a C.O.G. laboratory. I was no time-traveller and found the term a bit egotistical. Time was only a state of mind, and I hated the very concept of Time. I was determined to be the eternal time-waster. I had wasted enough time on the commune, but it did not matter...

 

My childhood seemed to last for an eternity and that was a blissful time, I suppose. Those cybo-basilisks had been trying to communicate with me for some time; they probably were all in my mind again, just like last time…I had taken various things to dull the pain….The cybo-basilisks ended up being recycled and reformed into environmentally friendly wheelie-bins. The wheelie-bins were chipped and worked for the government. That was a shame. I could have saved them.

 

Then Professor Norkgrub came back to see me. He had been contracted on a freelance basis by Occult4kids to act as a consultant and wanted me to be his assistant.

 

"Callum," Norkgrub said to me, pouring me his strange mushroom-cacti tea.

 

I sipped the tea, and started to feel the light bubble-brain feeling of lost time evaporating around me. I never had the time in the first place, so what was the point in rushing, I thought.

 

"Sorry, Professor, I seem to be in a daydream," I slurred.

 

Norkgrub smiled at me, lighting his small sativa pipe. He inhaled deeply then, in a squeaky voice, said:

 

"Callum, why don't you become my assistant for this Occult4kidz gimmick? It sounds a bit odd, but they believe all children should be familiar with these historic arts. I think they’re trying to be too objective, you know these fuddy-duddy lefty types?"

 

"I'm not sure if I'm best qualified to help you, Professor," I replied, trying to be as honest as possible.

 

"Poppycock and Cockpoppy brother! You know I hate academics, it doesn't matter about the bits of paper; it's the application that counts. You have the vitals, the experience. And you were taught by a progressive occultist after all!" laughed Norkgrub.

 

"Let me consider it then," I said, thinking I had bought myself some time to let Norkgrub down gently.

 

Norkgrub smiled, stroking his green crystalline goatee. I forgot to mention that Professor Norkgrub was some kind of plant-like being. I think zoophyte was one way to describe Norkgrub. I had no idea how old he was and he seemed to gain information from other times without even thinking about it. His small root-legs and his hunched greenish brown body had been home to billions of seeds. He was always making people do what he wanted. He liked to spread his seeds.  

 

I was impressed by Norkgrub's diverse Curriculum Vitae, although most of it turned out to be impossible to verify; Norkgrub had also told me of his encounter with Howard Wendle.

 

"That drunk oaf?" Norkgrub scoffed, lighting his crystalline pipe with a pristine Lucifer he had been given by some Austrian busboy in 1915. For our kind, Lucifer always referred to light.

 

"What do you know about Howard, Professor?" I enquired, finishing my odd beverage. My tongue had turned into a sponge of some kind. The sounds had started to form into strange patterns, clearly visible. Little red eyes were forming in my tongue. I wasn't sure that was the desired effect of this beverage.

 

"Call me Norky, bro! Well, let me tell you: Howard Wendle is a fantastic fanatic! Be warned star-brother, he's not quite right. His chemical usage has depleted his memory, he’ll be totally unreadable. Don’t trust a thing he says; he can’t even text you back for fuck’s sake! He took the wrong steps years ago. He doesn't like a juicy red apple, can you believe it? It's no use trying to adjust him. He wants to mutate before his time, he's just born to go and he wants to live his future states in the past. Now as it was then, you know? You have to respect things and slip and slide. You know? Go with the flow? He doesn't dodge, he wants to take on everything."

 

"Is he close to the Occult4Kidz organization then?"

 

"I have no idea, Callum. I do believe Howard has had sexual union of some kind with both academic members. I can't remember if he tried it on with me. Howard's just a scenester, a hipster groupie kind of guy. You know what these people are like. They've always been like it! They'll hump anything. They're Black Mass phonies. They probably still think Denis Wheatley's scary! At least his brother Ben is funny! It's strange that they awarded me that contract -- you know what these dull linear narrative purists are like? Maybe they want some really crazy stuff to happen, who knows?" Norkgrub pondered.

 

He talked way too much, it was an obvious character flaw, he did not when to shut up. He knew it. We all knew it. He was an intellectual after all, and a completely unreliable Bullshit Decoder Expert. Maybe he was still in an alpha trance. He refused to use any post-modern vernacular. The O.M.G. scale didn't even register within his weird zoophyte mind. He had never been poked.

 

"Who knows what's going on! Maybe it's a cosmic trap!" Norkgrub shouted, chuckling to himself. I think he was losing it, but he seemed to enjoy these psychotic outbursts.

 

“Look at Roger Waters – he made a career out of having breakdowns; not just his own but he nicked all of Syd’s too. But for a posh kid, he had a tough childhood, you should read up about it, kid,” said Norkgrub.

 

I nodded in muted agreement, grimacing slightly at the task ahead. I’ll need to read up on my Edward Kelley again. I think I was starting to feel it. Norkgrub was itching for some kind of strange cosmic love insanity; or maybe another one of his legendary, ecstatic, cosmic party’s. Either way, it didn't sound like fun. Sounded like a lot of planning and networking and back-stabbing honest people.

 

People were dying in this realm. We need to get out-there and saves these worlds and relocate planet Earth to a younger galaxy. The Agents known as Phil and Kirst were not available; they had to go to Tring. Bloody poshos! I thought Howard was leading me on a bit too much. He had sent me dirty pictures. He was not a shy person; he like pornographic films based on members of the Official British Royal family. I'm just pleased we didn't get up to anything we might end up regretting later…

 

File 801

 

…I don't know how else to explain how this world ended. My brain had been washed, due to a lack of dreaming. My condition had been recognized as central pontine myelinolysis. But after giving up my dependence upon ethanol and processed urea, I appeared to be fine…

 

I switched to Professor Norkgrub's lysergic therapy sessions with Doctor Phun-Kei, Doctor Skewy and Doctor Cockmoore. According to his file, he had been born a recycled robot. The best of ancient technology the Professor relied upon for his dimensional japes. He was assisted by his guru, the Bishop Kunfy of Troklixxo, another strange being from the past. Troklixxo did not last long. It abolished itself when it found out it didn't exist. Bishop Kunfy was a queer entity: a strange hooded cowl covered him, the smell of death and a hint of mastic oil and stale cereal bars. It was not pleasant. But if you looked close enough, Bishop Kunfy's ghostface appeared, tinged in UV Paint.

 

Bishop Kunfy took me to his office-spacer, orbiting Mars. I rested in the medic-deck there, casually experimenting with whatever took my fancy. I cannot remember how I got there; the chemical makeup of the artificial atmosphere was unusual. Then the whole planet just vanished once everyone stopped punching in their crystal keys. Norkgrub ended up spraying the demonic corpses in crystalline sap, which made them so euphoric they evaporated into aether.

 

I needed to post the footage online, but my recording devices had malfunctioned. Unfortunately for me, back in 2001, I would never have been believed. I decided to skip to 2017, I might even stop off a bit further but the mind might be willing but the body might just disintegrate. Although, I must say, it was easier than in other earth zones than trying to live one year at a time.

 

It's so dull doing things that way. I cannot handle the excitement, the sense of not knowing what's going to happen. Shame I can't remember lottery ticket numbers to make a fortune; unfortunately for me, my mind always got wiped transmigrating between different forms over the years. How did I get to Mars?

 

"Don't worry", said Norkgrub, "You'll be fine, you just need to re-live a few more lives, then it all comes flooding back."     

 

"You mean there's more of me in other realms?" I asked.

 

"I don't know! We have got Bishop Kunfy here to help us with it. Dos Spiritus Dee Sun is getting huge. We're talking intergalactic; it has to be telepathy maaaaaaaan!"

Impressum

Texte: Robert K. Galvez
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 20.09.2012

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