1....2.......3......

The Ahistorical Preface by Regor Nocab

The materials of this foul tome are nothing unusual in the corrupted occultist cannon. They are not considered serious, as they are so badly corrupted and have been criticized by all major authorities. I will refer the matter to Frater Shiva. Even Mr Cornelius will not touch it. I do not blame him. I suppose it cannot be called a "story" in any shape or form.Sorry to disappoint your cosy Westernized resolution fantasies. There will never be a neat end for those who like tidy resolutions. There never was any end, you pathetically dumb human virus! I always have disliked history, particularly when the human scribes are so determined to clean it and box it up into convenient compartments. It should not be so tidy. We should probably condense all history into small words: Life of shit for the masses springs to mind. I have to admit it was so much easier explaining all this on Venus!

You should have got the formula to go there by now! Bloody humans – you’re all so lazy! I was human once and the thought of it still makes me feel nauseous!To conclude the "historical" aspect of this somewhat confused study -- which has been composed by those entities that feel they know something worth knowing -- about the secret practices of various secret societies. Personally I hate the term historical as history never gets everything in, does it? There was always some huge gaps; life before life and ever-lasting life death. It was the full cycle. Remember the V…These forces claim to never die, but to constantly live again.Not all of them are like Curwen or Kane, of course. Doctor Kraftlurrve was misguided by some unknown forces, so we can never be sure with his accounts. However, the brilliant Doctor Cockmoore was another kettle of fish, as was Doctor Dick. In my own time, resurrection was as normal as going through puberty. Love remains the eternal law, after all. The magickal focus of realm-play and the ridiculous amount of theories about time and space have distorted how the realm-world has operated.

These words are just a simplified account relayed to me by original tracers and alpha wave operatives of the Seventh Sign. All sigils are important. I should warn you to fear the vegetable people and do not trust any demonic dust-mites. The author(s) have expressed their gratitude at being allowed to publish these esoteric texts without the fear of being committed to mental asylums.

 Just remember that the Age of Fire started in 1966!

 Regor Nocab

New Old Amsterdam StarPortal, 2918...Trooluz 9.

 

 PART IV: Sapiens dominabitur astris

 

 Chapter 51: Realm-Shaft-Shutes […drip, drip, drip]...

The near future just started to evaporate in the mind of Les Barloy. Les was a strange kind of fellow. He had weird dreams, although he did not dream often. He hated sleeping and spent all night cleaning his bedsit with sugar-soap…

…I will not go on and on to you with the full history of how dull life was for Les. He lived in Kilburn. He has a photo-wall and various online profiles somewhere. Bore yourself in your own time if you choose to. I do not know who wants to know about Les going to school, getting molested by homosexual bullies and how Les got caught by his step-mother masturbating. All Les managed to say was, “Look, no hands!”

 “Oh Les, not again,” replied his step-mother.

Her name remains confidential as she does not want to be revealed to the world in this manner. She wants to remain respectable, like all decent hypocrites.

 …In addition to Les’ masturbatory experimentation, she also assisted Les to probe himself further and on a more regular basis (like most tabloid fanatics); it was a real education for Les. He had no idea that his step-mother had so many toys and tricks! Of course, Les found it fun at first, but it soon became slightly tiresome and Les re-invented himself as a drag queen called Poxie Loote. I had the impression Les always heard voices. Not one of those stereotypical "crazy" voices, but a familiar voice deep within his mind that said:

"Hello, Les, I am Johnny Quagga. I'm you in another world."

 Not this voice again, thought Les. He dreamed of his suicidal mother giving birth to little dust mite creatures. She was in a state of euphoria after popping out thousands of these gooey critters. Les wondered if she had ever dabbled with any strange portents…

 After a few weeks surrounded by his dust-mite kin, Les realized he needed to take something a bit more substantial than a visit to his local night time apothecary to see his other self. He experimented with some kind of new “herbal” Lemonade that can only be imbibed at midnight. It was usually when a midnight juggernaut turned into a midnight moth; I still wonder about the plight of this rare creature…Thankfully, the lemonade was uncut, of course. Totally pure and highly acidic; and those doors of perception provided him with good samples…

As you might know, Les decided to forgo his usual mixture of natural herbs. He decided to use this tincture that his associates described as “Lemonade”. He had heard his Life- Coach Guru, Tommy Tellman, tell him about this pastime. They went back to the 23^rd August 1987 and saw Gaye Bykers on Acid; Les had a dream he saw Hawkwind too, but he was far too gone by then.

 After slipping back, Les had tried watching lots of pointless TV, ferociously masturbating over images of pop stars and movie stars; this killed a tiny part of him with every androgynous face he ejaculated over; he felt that he had blurred his mind with fattening foods and various medications. (At this point, Les told me to switch to class A…I do not quite get what he meant by that…). Either way, Les needed to feel stimulated again…

 However, Les never really got into vocal visualization; Les needed to find out if he was cursed. When you start hearing things, you think that you need many forms of evidence that you cannot possibly provide. Witchcraft played a big part in Les Barloy’s early years. His step-mother was a bewitching Wiccan, of course. A total slave of Phul; she really got about a fair bit. Les did not know what his factorization was. He was always going to be Factor X in the cosmic sense; his first sex toy was called Electrika Carmena.…Les had felt a connection with certain universal events; it was something in the aether. Les had a vague idea that he might be psychic. That was when he started talking to plants. He did not know how to verify his pzionik experiences properly. Visions appeared and suddenly vanished; and all these scientific tests get rigged, of course.

 …It was not like some kind of unreal reality TV show where you can test your telepathic abilities; this remained within the realm of light entertainment. Babestation was not recommended viewing… The Illuminati would not be amused by this folly… You would need to wait a long time to find out if the prediction came true, as in a valid truth…Though, Les was truly an awful psychic…

 As one of his friends had said to him many rainy moon(dances) ago: "It's tele-path-y maaaan!" Time must have been stretched. It was that stretchy-time again, I suppose? Les wished he had taken that correspondence course in churning out pulp thrillers, like his friend, Tommy Tellman. Oddly enough, it was Tellman who put him off.

“Writing’s mainly for academics, Les. Look at all the new authors nominated for awards, all the old ones too for that matter. All dull fuddy duddy academic bores. Except Mantell, of course, who remains ahead of the times and gets me a bit hot under the collar, actually!”

 “Who?” Les said. Tellman tutted; shaking his head in a sagely manner, he lit another cheroot. Les was not too sharp with words.

 Les remembered Tellman’s best bit of advice as he slowly faded back to 1959… Tellman said,

 “You want to live, write it down when you’re about to drop dead or go crazy. Don’t worry about the sales, or all these marketing tools they call awards. Look at all the dull geeks they stuff in these award things, who really buys them?”

 Les was trying to think. Johnny Quagga started thinking for him. Who really buys them then, Johnny? Les thought.

 …Exactly, just all those other dull geeks; greasy-pole climbers. It was an industry-cartel and they think if they give the same so-called “diverse” elitist faces the awards people will buy the “product”.

 Tellman nodded in agreement, just as he finally faded.

“What they have not told people was that they have already got some film waiting for them to stuff down the throats of people who really want something a bit more adventurous,” said Tellman.

Les nodded at this rant, not really understanding it. It was almost last orders in the Christchild and Vonderpump…2457AD was getting closer… Les felt all giddy again and hitched up his skirts…

 Callum Cheevers joined them again… “It’s…Erm, you know that E.S.P. thingummy, Les.”

 …Les was stunned into silence. Was Cheevers’ reading his mind? Tellman had faded for good; he left his homemade lysergic marmalade in Ladbroke Grove… Cheevers burped and said:

“The ultimate effect of shielding men from the effects of folly is to fill the world with fools.”

For Les that remark was the only intelligent thing he had heard Callum Cheevers attempt to communicate during the 10 hour ritual-rave. Les was sure his friend had plagiarized the comment, it somewhat reminded him of Herbert Spencer…

 …Les wished he had gone to Amsterdam with the young pop-pornographer beforehand; he couldn’t keep up. He would try to keep it up, though. He had always had a soft spot for Callum Cheevers…That dastardly Cheevers – oh, what a good time he must be having in Amsterdam!

 And, it has been known in esoteric circles, that Les preferred that kind of crazy; Callum and Les looked awkwardly at each other; they had just remembered penetrating each other in a crystalline frenzy last week. Their matching space suits were covered in fossilized semen. Les smiled; he knew he had tasted Callum before…

 

 

Unct Red

 AS IF THE WORLD HATES ME...

 …Les regained consciousness; he was blinking rather painfully…They were still travelling in some kind of time- shift surge. Les got a headache…Les did not want to go back on his other medication(s) again (for your information it was not Termaline, though it might have been Hexophenophrine hydrosulphate…)…His physician, Dr. P.M.W. Burrocock, referred him to Professor Norkgrub. All good things came through this queer Burrocock fellow, even if he’s getting on, he seems to live forever. Likes a good cut, too. Apparently, Burrocock had grown-up in Mexico and knew all the best sources. His esoteric practices have been known for years…Luckily, Les had managed to get his deep fixes sorted and adjust himself to the ways of more esoteric practices…

 …I did not really know what was going, of course. I was not really there, as I had been sublimated and was currently in a vapour-like state. It was not too bad, and there was nothing more liberating than gassing on for eternity! I am very sorry dear reader, I had to get that one in there to lighten the tone and for other commercial purposes; just for the record, I should add that I was advised by my Mongolian Spiritual Guru, Tnuk Nam, and he said to me that I must copy Terry Pratchett or I will not have a career. He said pulp fantasy and esoteric texts had pretty much died out.

 …I had to gain a truthful direction. There was only one way…Maybe another way was hidden. You had to face evil to truly conquer it…The good will out; it will be shown to be in you…

 …I had no idea about that industry thing; I am not really the networking cock-sucking/arse-licking type to be honest with you...Why oh why can I not sell myself well! I always give it away and I always end up getting funny with my target audience…I cannot help it; I have started evaporation therapy….

 …I am not sure about the advice of Tnuk Nam...His guru credentials are a bit shaky. He showed me some homemade snuff films, made in 1969, and the footage of his failed artsy sex magick rituals…Apparently he has not found the right fit…

 …I should not have married his sister online, but one mistake always leads to another… Les was always a cheerful character in a depressing way; that makes you acknowledge that all history as sequence of melancholic cycles of pain.

 Why had he been chosen by the realm-slayers? I do not know but Les had never had a proper job, apart from his drag act. Tnuk Nam knew all kinds of people, including pop whores who would do anything for a bit of airtime.

 MAKE ME NO LONGER MYSELF

 …Tnuk Nam looked well-coiffed for a bone fide New Age Guru: with long pink braids, leather chaps, and tinted glasses circa 1985; he even occasionally wore sarongs and diamond flip-flops and constantly tanned his pale skin the colour of baked beans. His skin was so tanned it was able to change colour depending on his moods…

…When Tnuk Nam got the look, his glasses varied their tint. It worked well with his skin changing colour, too. Les had a good idea they were getting it on when Tnuk Nam took interest in him; Les liked a man with tinted spectacles; it secretly aroused him. His loincloth became tight at the crotch and he would occasionally leak some strange glowing goo onto Tnuk Nam… Les knew it was getting dangerous…

...Tnuk Nam smiled, slowly licking at the goo. Tnuk Nam had a powerful enchantment; he seemed to revel in his sexual power over men and women. And he knew that it had got very tough for younger drag queens trying to break on through, as you can only imagine. It has to be said that the world can be an extremely competitive place. Like a giant version of Celebrity Squares, where everyone can be the celebrity…That was not too important, I suppose. But Les had been thinking about his destiny; he had totally forgotten about going to see Professor Norkgrub. He had also forgotten about that timeless vagabond, Johnny Quagga; another queer voice he would ignore. He needed some extreme intervention.

It was supposed to be 1961 that was attempted to be remodeled in 2007. Les got seduced by the industry side of things; the glitter and sparkles. Les even purchased a top-notch synthesizer off some guy called Gerald...

…LaDy BuBa HoTeK was a friend and fellow performer of Les Barloy’s, who worked with him at the Squatshot Club. She wanted to be in the “groove” and hit the Big Time [RUSHRUSHRUSH!]…

…She was always rushing (even without any energy). And she was always coming; she liked that a lot, she told me so during a bad gig… She did not care what dimension she hit either; she just wanted to hit it all the time. Personally, I hated all those hipster inflections…

LaDy BuBa HoTeK admitted someone who looked like Madonna (obviously an impersonator) had watched her masturbate via web-cam. Her new album was called ‘Wet Entrance, Bloody Exit’… It flopped on Earth but done well on Trooluz 9, though no-one knew it had survived the Venusian holocaust…LaDy BuBa HoTeK then continued to process their orders and it became a long-term arrangement. Everyone expected a live cam…Most seditious groups valued this practice…

…She had used all her equipment in the pleasure-seeking process. The other plan was to film a Greek Tragedy in an antiquated female correctional facility, where all the actresses simultaneously gave birth to insect-mutant babies. The Chinese would make their little spandex suits, as all mutants must wear spandex. Life always needs to be protected, no matter what it looked like. Then the world would end, in a bloody fashion, of course...

 PART ONE: THIS MIGHT BE THE PLOT…

 Apparently, LaDy BuBa HoTek did not know if it was the real Madonna. It was just someone calling themselves ‘Madonna’... It was all part of her act, as all performers needed to perform tricks. The other Pop acts would not fully go ‘Pop-Porn’…She needed a fake tranny sidekick to DJ for her, to warm up the crowd and “get the feel”….

 Les did not like spending too much time with LaDy BuBa HoTeK. She wanted him to be her tranny sidekick. Les had a good idea that she was a full-time prostitute – a real high-class professional always searching for a new greasy pole to climb -- and she was a non-stop networking force of nature. She loved to be connected; she would do anything for that golden ticket. Unfortunately she was no salted verruca. She was a smart cookie: She had a tax free ISA and a spaceship in her garage.

"Listen to me, Poxie," said Lady BuBa HoTeK.

 "Maybe one day," Les replied, smiling a cheeky smile.

 "I will get you into the ways of networking. You need to get with it. No joke. The world just passes everyone by. It's the last time I work with Von RapArd. That Futurist waster has gone back to his cleaning job," she sneered.

 "I didn't know that. It's tough being artsy though, isn't it? I don't like networking; I don't really like artsy people. I just like the group sex afterwards,” Les confessed.

 “I knew it! You crafty queer queen, Poxie!” cooed LaDy BuBa HoTeK.

 “Anyway, LaDy BuBa HoTek what's your real name?" asked Les.

 "I thought I told you? I'm Jinny Jinkins, aren’t I? I hate my real name, sounds like one of those fake names you tell people who you don't want to know your real name; it does a bit, don’t it?"

 Les smiled a fake smile to match that of the lady formerly known as Jinny.

Les said, "Maybe. I'm quite open-minded. I don't mind if you kept your real name a secret, Jinny. Jinny does sound strange to be honest with you; but a name’s just a name at the end of the day! I just didn't want you always calling me Poxie. I was being a bit funny. I prefer the quiet life of the electric saver. And I need to see another specialist. He's called Professor Norkgrub. He's going to sort me out good and proper this time."

 "Poxie, you really are a luvvie at times, do you know that?"

 "No, I don't like being called a luvvie. I'm not a total mince, am I?"

 "I'm sure Callum will have something to say about that! You know why he changed his name to Regor Nocab? I think he's an occult-anarcho-conceptualist pop-pornographer now. I don't get it. Does that sound trendy, though? He'll work with all the best; he'll get a case of the funts again and have to jack off his beats! He always preferred to up his beats a bit. He'll do it all live, you know! His sky has no net! I bet he's gone back into Voodoo porn electronica again -- I just knew it might make a bit of money!"

 Les shrugged. Regor struggled to sell five million units worldwide. He also had sold them to Dust Mite People, so the sales did not technically count as “Human Sales”. He had only given his art away for free, as the humans would not pay for it. He did not quite understand things these days. He hated networking. He did not know any real humans, anyway. And he had studied everything about ‘Killer of Sheep’…Maybe he was not on Earth anymore?…

"I honestly don't know, Jinny. I just wish I was able to control Time a bit more."

"Don't we all? Listen to me, I'm offering you a real shot here, Poxie. A one shot deal! Don't you want everything? I'm being serious; come to my new agency with me?"

 "I think I'll pass on that, Jinny. Please call me Les. I keep thinking I’m melting into other people. Look, I’ve said before that I will do my own bookings from now on. I can't be bothered with all the fuss; it's so much easier just to stick to one place."

"Suit yourself, Poxie; stay small-time and trampy, but I'm going inter-galactic in a totally trans-dimensional kind of way! I'll be so universal by the end of the year. Your priorities are pretty fucked up - you need to see the reality of the real world! Everyone will have instant access to me, don't you crave it? Do you know what that means? I'm getting with Goodnow and Goodmann. You must have heard of them? They're legends in their own right. Don't you know? They're based with the C.O.G.! You must know them, Les?"

Les was stumped; she had called him Les, though he did not remember telling her his real name. Maybe his magickal astral cover had been blown…He was feeling like an extra-terrestrial biological entity all over again. All Les said was:

"I've never heard of them, but I wish you all the best, Jinny. At the end of the day, remember me wishing you happiness."

"I don't get you, I really don’t; happiness is dead, it died in 1979; it's an over-rated ideal. We can take the world over together, can't we?"

"I don't really care about this world to be honest with you. It's only another world after all. We’ve got 800 or so more exo-planets to re-populate. Think of all those worlds within worlds," Les replied. His eyes twinkled; crystal spiders crawled out of his tears…  

Les walked away from the stunned LaDy BuBa HoTeK. He had given her the mission cojones. She vanished into thin air, as Les glanced back to give her his best prissy glare; the classic glare of a well-trained mincing poof – just possibly his best glare ever. Better than that staring gopher he saw online…Les had never been viral. The times have a funny way of changing…

…Les shrugged again and realized he should have worn a real coat. His cheesecloth poncho was way too thin for the chilly London weather. What a summer! It might snow tomorrow. He looked around him, feeling like he had forgotten something. Les suddenly remembered he needed to see Professor Norkgrub…

 PART TWO: THIS CANNOT BE A PLOT…Les walked to Norkgrub's office on Kilburn High Road. It did not appear to exist. Les heard another voice behind him. What a strange voice - it sounded like a familiar voice – the shrill inflections mixed with how his old History Teacher, Mr Skewy, had spoken. Strange how he always had a pipe with him; but the cosmic voice broiled his fragile blood brain barrier and said:

 "Hello Les Barloy, I'm Johnny Quagga! I need you to follow me and help me find Professor Norkgrub. There's a secret door in The Good Ship. Go there and vanish in the Good Ship. It's a pub, Les. You really don't get out much, do you? "

 Les nodded and went to The Good Ship. He was sure it would be better there than at that infernal time-shifting public house known to astral types as the Christchild and Vonderpump…Les took ample time to evacuate his bowels there, too. He released a lot of pressure and sang a twee space shanty...It was quite original and Les played with his black flute…The acoustics in that toilet were truly amazing…

 …Les concluded his rather eventful toilet excursion; Les felt refreshed, almost reborn. It’s amazing how much a good bowel movement can feel like giving birth…He took some more of his alternative medication [It was not Actozine, but it all depends on the sponsors…] and hoped to find Professor Norkgrub for another deep fix…

…After twenty minutes of weird looks and clumsily knocking into strange people; Les did not mind being groped in the fray. Finally, after much frisky business in the mosh, Les located a small door near the bar that went underground...No-one was looking at Les; they realized he was destined for another trip once the entertainment had started. Les smiled. He had to open this queer little door...

 

Ba-ba-baaaaabel!

Chapter 29: Norky's Seedy Nuts…

...After emerging from the river of demon-blood, Les crawled through the door. The world outside had gone, a pus- ridden mass of foul detritus. This mutant ectoplasm was everywhere. There was nothing there at first, until a dim light glowed into full force. It was quite bright; Les had to cover his eyes. Les’ mobile phone vibrated loudly. He looked at it. It was Callum Cheevers. He didn't know what to think, but he decided to let the call go to his voicemail. Callum might ask something sexual again.

Les was not a prude but he did have a thing for Callum. Callum liked men and women -- occasionally animals and vast array of tuberous root vegetables. In fact, Callum just loved penetration and wasn't bothered if he was being penetrated, or the actual penetrator of various orifices. He even enjoyed aural penetration. He was always going on about more kinds of multi-sensory pornography. Les knew Callum, before he had become a full-time pop-pornographer; Les knew Callum had joined a mysterious occultist order of some kind. Les thought Callum was being an amateur...

 No-one else had this knowledge, but Les was about to get a shock...In the middle of the little room was a crystalline plant. The plant looked like a little person. It was an amazing piece of design. It cannot have been manufactured by the adepts of Hirst and Co.

 The crystal covered plant suddenly spoke in Les' mind:

 "Yes, I'm Professor Norkgrub -- what you do want, Les?"

  "I'm Les," said Les. He had not realized he had just heard his name. He blinked, sweat stinging his eyes.

 "I know you're Les! The demon, Occmorok, gave you my number. You slack off for a few days?" Norkgrub snapped.

 "I got delayed," Les murmured.

 Norkgrub smiled; a strange plant-person smile.

"Yep, that's what all the junkies say! I'll get some tunes filtered through, maybe some lysergic air freshener. You know us zoophytes love all that. And Les, I know you're definitely not psychic. Sorry to kill that one for you. No Mandrake and Lothar time for you, Mr Mincey-Pants. You're turning into a Tyme-Pyre, but a good one. One that doesn't eat up every piece of universal existence! You can time-trip when you feel like; it isn’t dark matter riffing. It's a rare gift. You can help us out, you know that? You know we're just trying to have a good time at the end. Life's so short, so why not make the good times last as long as possible right?"

 Les nodded and said, "That makes sense."

 "I'm pleased we sorted that wavelength issue out. Look tune in some more, kid. You like nuts, don't you? I can tell. Look at it like this: I'm trapped in this crystal prison and I'm not going anywhere fast. I need your help, Les, and you need mine. Don't mean you can't have a few seeds to take on your trip, eh? They look like nuts, and they come out near my nuts, but you can take them. Call it a gift. They'll help you."

 "How can they? I don't get it, Professor," murmured Les.

 "No, Les, nor do I. Call me Norky, Time-brother. You know Bayrolles? You really look like that guy. You will get it all, I’m sure of that, and you'll have a great time. You got to get the fork. It’s totally cosmic. You got to make things fair and right again. We can't have all these awful realms messing up on Earth. This is getting to be hyper-karma in astral action, Les!"

 "You are talking about countries?" Les asked.

 "Nope. I’m talking about other worlds, Les. You keep slipping into them. Find that Quagga ghost-brother. He's a right joker that one. Don’t let him make you a tea though, you might survive it. He’s from our chemical brethren. And then get a team together, some freelancers like me. Destroy the shit worlds, save the good ones. Make sure Earth has some fun. It should be a paradise but it's a right dump, isn’t it? If we don't sort it all out, those at the U.R.S.O.M.A.D. will have to clean it all up. And no wants ex-C.O.G. agents back from the dead to sort it all out?”

 "That's the second time I've heard about this C.O.G. Who are they?"

 "Dang tooting demon-tecs, Les! Continuity of Government, that’s what Les. You’re one of us, don’t you remember that? You always have been. Some of them can be scarier than spooks -- I'll tell you that for free, Les. They're the real power-pushers in our universe. They're a government mechanism that keeps everything bad for the masses and hope time just ticks on over. They're a real problem. I was commissioned to do some Research and Development work for them in the past. It was all boring crystallomancy, as you can tell. I guess they didn't like my theories, so I got to see out this crystal curse. It's only for a century, I can cut that deal. Anyway, who wants to live forever?"

 "Unless you just keep re-living, right?"

 "Now you're catching on, Les! We'll grow again! We all do it! Eternity infinitum, brother; after all, it’s just time!"

 That was when the Blood-Harpies burst in through the ceiling, filling the queer chamber with a blinding light. Tiny chicken-footed humans with leathery little wings filled the chamber. They screeched their death-screech, blood spraying throughout the air. What foul being made these vicious beings? Les momentarily thought. They were obviously not known to the local pest control division...

 Norkgrub laughed, shaking his head.

 "Not these dudes again! We tricked them good after seeing Bowie in Philly. You got to remember these things, Les? In '76, after that Funkadelic gig too? Nice one, brother!"

 The vicious Blood-Harpies started snapping their tiny bloody mouth-suckers at Les. Les felt faint, as he fondled Norky's giant nut-like seeds. He felt an energy field flow around him as the Blood-Harpies screeched; they were unable to break through it.

 "Nice orgone accumulation, Les; always a good party trick. Do some Time resurrection shit, quick. I can stay here and slide wherever you like; they're too dumb to follow us!"

The False Epilogue:

…Les looked up through blurred eyes; the Blood-Harpies were dissolving as they attempted to break the mystic field that protected him and Norky. Curse-cure their chicken-footed ways, thought Les. He had always been into a bit of Chickenfoot, though. Voodoo was a casual corruption any primitive might be able to fathom…

…Norky was about to tell him about his exploits in Chickamauga but Les was too weak; his face was covered in a soupy semen-sweat and he was feeling very euphoric. It was as if the sun was forming within his mind and he needed to release the pressure... 

Chapter 3: Quagga Q.T.: A Multitude of Pressurized releases…Les looked up. He had a friend called Goo[P], but could not remember much about those days. He had come to expect a dying world. He was not on Earth; he was inside some crystalline complex. He looked outside: the weird purple hills and strange red-brown sky with no sun. It was raining frosty feathers again. Quagga smiled. He was on a small dais, sitting in some kind of anti-grav egg-shaped box-chair; it was powered by a large beating ceramic heart.

 Johnny Quagga was playing a synth-harp of some unclassified alien design. It had winged tubes that piped out distorted sounds. And this device seemed to be made of flesh. He looked like Adonis spliced with Bernard Manning. You know who I mean? Anyway, he looked a bit intoxicated...

 Quagga flickered, as if he was an apparition.

"I hate being an astral spectre," said Johnny Quagga.

 "I didn't know if you felt real," mumbled Les. He wiped his brow and realized he was now dressed like an Arabian Princess from 1458…

 Suddenly, Les asked:

 "Where's Norky?"

 Quagga smiled and then shrugged.

 "The Prof's a total time waster. He probably got into Time-Sliding with that Turk Veontugg guy. You know the guy? He's Turkish, isn't he?"

 "I don't know. I just know that we got attacked by Blood-Harpies."

 "Not the same old Agency tricks again? It's all trapped in the past Earth-realm now. You can get back through Camden Town, of course. Best to stick the resurrection games, Les. We've all got time for those! You know who you got to find now, Les?"

 "No idea."

Johnny Quagga smirked, flickering some more. He set aside the strange synth-harp on a small platform that instantly flipped out from the queer chair.

 "Les, you got to get with the times. They're moving and a-grooving; there’s always going to have movers and shakers. You can move your shadow, can't you?"

 "I'm not ready for any complex rituals just yet. By the power of Ra, Johnny, I haven’t heard all the undiluted formation prototype charge things yet. I haven't even read up on the rituals of Transcendental Magick, let alone Composite Rituals. I need time, Johnny!"

 Johnny smirked again, as Les wiped tears from his eyes. Johnny loved to watch homosexuals cry; it had never failed to arouse him.

 "I know, Les, I know. You should get a white label and stick with good looking. You don't have the time, though. You'll probably get killed here. You're just a sacrifice sometimes, so you'll get used to the pain. It's nothing in the grand scheme of things. Find that Regor Nocab. He's a subversive here."

 "Where you going?"

 "Don't worry, Les, I'll be back to rescue you! I need to find some kind of astral recharge point, I don’t know. I need some chemical assistance, like a little pick me up, I don’t know about you but I need it real quick. You know how time-shifting shits you out? Well, you will. I’m you remember, aren’t I? I got some weird astral lag hurting my backside, too. You got anything fancy on you? I may need to get loaded before I end up on the cannibal holocaust mission!"

"Please don't say cannibals, I can't take any cannibals. They raped me and ate me last time I was here. I’m sure that was me, wasn’t it? Or was it you? I don't think I've ever met them. I hope they don't like too much flesh this time."

 "You have been reading too much pulp stuff; all that Howard bloke and those other weird folks. Don't go to the Christchild and Vonderpump so much; it'll suck you in you'll never want to leave there. I think they got a good set list there, too. Look it up and squash a beet, Les" 

 "O.K., Johnny. Thanks for your riddle-scat-chat. I’m assuming that’s where I'll find this Turk fellow and Regor Nocab?"

 "Maybe, who knows?"

Quagga smiled, a crooked reptilian smile, as he suddenly started to fade.

 "Don't go Johnny; tell me something useful. I’m sure I’ve got some aspirin? Don't I need some spells?"

 "Don't go nuts, use them. Use the seeds, Les Barloy!"

 That was the last thing that was spoken to Les. Johnny Quagga vanished. And the dais had also gone -- somehow it mysteriously evaporated -- as if it had been part of another world. In the place of the dais was a huge skull doorway.

 Les felt scared; he had been warned about taking those steps, years ago, on that unknown path. He still got his left-handed and right-handed paths mixed up. He was not that experienced and regretted leaving Shemesh Lodge so early. He always wanted to be experienced....He wished he had least taken that nice looking synth-harp. It was all lost to him.

 The aeons eased by in this earthen realm as Les stumbled through the tunnels that had veered behind the skull doorway. He was trying to remember where he had put his seeds. He felt the world around him ending. Maybe it was a lot of worlds ending.

 Then he saw another little door, much like the little door in the Good Ship. Thank goodness for that. Back to a world he might remember; back to Norky; back to his roots. Maybe he could battle the Blood-Harpies.

 …Les found no weapons but removed his fine Arabian slippers to squash them like flies. He found the dress a tad uncomfortable. And Les had donned a lot of dresses before, so he needed to modify this one to his slight frame. He had ripped off the trailing hem and turned into a snazzy micro-skirt of some kind. He had endless repeats of The Saint running through his brain. He forgot to take his meds again too.  

 Oh well, thought Les, as he pushed through yet another little door…

 Chapter 21: More from The Everlasting Year of The Bracket[…]…Anti-Probe Matter Type 0…

 "So, Mister Barloy, you get a kick out of this?"

 Les Barloy looked up; his face flecked with tiny scars, his mascara running down his small, soft elfin face. He looked like a girl called Florence. He never had any assistance from a machine [the Electrika Carmena might count, though…]… He had never been a nightingale, either; he was alone here…

 …Barloy had grown accustomed to these demons terrorizing him from beyond this foul pzionik ectoplasm; he might just be starting to enjoy it all. Les Barloy feared this. There was nothing worse than demon porn. Les noticed that his anus had already been heavily probed: blood and alien pus dribbled down his legs; the smell of mutated lubricant was strong in the air…It was no secret that Les Barloy loved to be restrained but this was not bondage-lite; he took his probing seriously…Les needed goats blood to finish his own rituals…He needed a sanitary towel, too…

 THE SURGE OF SUFFERING IN THE SOUL CORRUPTS THE SOUL.

 …The mocking laughter continued deep in his mind; the voice tormented him no more. Les felt that the astro-metal bonds had vanished and he was no longer tied to the smouldering plinth. He must be in some other world again; he had dreamed this for a while, it was like some unexplainable recurring dream. Just as well it turned out to take him somewhere. Sometimes Les just wanted a bit of cold fresh air, not all this uncontrolled astral masturbation. He had never been one for networking. The sky was blood red and the sun was blocked out by a giant moon. A moth bigger than Mothra hovered past him, flapping in a confused moth-like way; Les thought he should try to make some kind of connection. The planet was just like hell.

 Les loved it. It was cold, but very quiet. There wasn't much else around. Les was not alone for long, he always found friend, no matter what world he ended up on. The August Ham Man came up with his friend, The Midnight Pharmacy Lemonade Drinker. Les had an idea that this was himself from some other dimensional time space. It all got a bit predictable. Les had always appreciated one love-ism and had known love will always be the law. He was an amateur occultist really and he got lucky with his astral shenanigans.

 Oh what fun he must have had! He was alive on some weird world that he was unable to comprehend. 

 Days of the Empirical Dark Sun [The Unofficial Appendix in B.S.E.]:

 …The appendix was destroyed by C.O.G. agents in 1991 in a crude attempt to censor it. Operation Shut Up and Sleep-Dance Trancers remains active…psychologically speaking, they remained hardcore junglists, raving about all sorts…What would Jung say today, though?

…Those psychotropic ravages of the mind need not be delivered on demand…It would take me much more time to find out…Only fragments of the real article remain [in a hidden location, of course...]...Part of the appendix was extracted from a pickled brain, re-using excerpts from 'The Unbelievable Chronicles of The August Ham Man' by Tommy Tellman (First published in the now defunct esoteric magazine, ‘Dark Masques’, September 1939)... I do not know where this cult started, or how I should start researching it…Maybe I got the wrong end of the stick, but they all give me stick...

 Z.F. Galvez [1750-1820],  Brixton, London, 2010.

 AUGUST HAM MAN SEES THE DEAD WORLD

 by Tommy Tellman.

[Editor’s note: About 90% of the manuscript was destroyed but there remained a few pages, before Tommy Tellman went on holiday with the great Anton Szander LaVey…]

 …I looked up and saw the crystal city melt away. I didn't want to be a mushroom man with a watermelon head. I don't get it. Why did I turn to fungus again? I refuse to be a bogeyman! I reckon it must have been that defective foot powder. I hate getting athlete’s foot so much but when you’re on the town as much as me, something’s got to give! Yep, I needed to get a grip and keep living it up after all those kid-spores in that other dimensional. It was quite near Jupiter (via Arnos Grove, as you do on the Friday rush hour drivetime…).

 …You do not know how tough it is for a failed person -- such as myself -- to start moulding all over again. I keep living for all these cycles…Buggo they call me, Herbie, Ratty…All these daft beings I have lived through… I even tried my hand at every kind of silly occupation: from doing work as a bit-part actor; cleaning multi-millionaire politicians' offices; pleasing super-rich people with sexual favours; being a disc jockey[my hairdo is still the Eldon-esque ‘disc jockey’]; a depressed stand-up comedian (…You should have seen it when I hanged myself on stage, that really brought the house down…Soho does that to you, though…); and, of course, a sailor (Steady on soldier!...).

 I cannot recollect why I transformed into this August-Ham Man fellow…I think it seems to be a poor superhero name… No branding can be attached to it; the marketing department and associated advertisers immediately committed suicide by crucifying themselves on crosses made from wooden spoons from fast food outlets…The lifeblood of advertising hordes…The only point of worth and power of this curious being was having hallucinogenic blood…And the old head swells up to the size of a watermelon…Both ends, of course…

 …I looked out at this foul hell-realm. The shopping malls had turned to blancmange; excremental blancmange… The insect-dog-fiends seemed to be upon us; the battle had ended a century ago; it was futile to keep fighting for the sake of it.

 These odious cretins seemed to be like some kind of on-going plague. Just like the ten million deluded people that keep voting Tory. Hypocrites...Thankfully, it does not get worse like that earth-realm. 2457AD was the year of Eternal Hope; humans were allowed to be adopted by giant aliens called the [censored]…

…I needed to do something to help Les and Norky. Another world was going to end again; the C.O.G. was stopping this idyll before it seeped through to all realms. I noticed the insect dogs were decomposing as they took small bites out of my fungoid flesh…My only assistant was my benefactor the Midnight Pharmacy Lemonade Drinker who was dressed like some kind of Victorian gentleman. His creaky tight catamite breeches made him stand still like a statue…

…It was a weird time for doing fancy-dress in space, but this guy was as cool as a cucumber person. We all like cucumber people. He had just been to a Whirligig which led us rain dancing; we needed to find another slip-portal called XoX and avoid any more Tyme-Pyres...In the moonlight they don chromium sheaths…I turned to that laconic Midnight Pharmacy Lemonade Drinker…I did not have any new information for him…He had a good idea what was going on; he was pleased he had lysergic bubbles in the lemonade…As you know, it has always been fashionable to dance under the moon… 

"Any ideas?" I asked him.

 He smiled, shaking his head whilst lighting a gold-seal cigarillo. He looked a little bit queer, pouting to puff out smoke rings. I decided not to be funny about it. Thank goodness it was not the fifties, I thought. And I liked the cut of his jib, too…He always had a secret smile. There was some chemistry there, but I do not want to be making a fool of myself. These moments can be slightly [semi]sonic. It made me feel warm inside. We passed the time comparing our bushes, although stomach felt like a suitcase full of razorblades. At least we laughed it all off!

 “Let’s just see where we get too,” replied the Midnight Pharmacy Lemonade Drinker.

I was starting to secrete poisonous fluids again. Only Norky was immune to this fluid. The Midnight Pharmacy Lemonade Drinker's real name was Johnny. He had also been called Les. When my poison touched him he turned back into this strange tramp-like character called Johnny Quagga.

The insect-dogs fizzled away into piles of bubbling detritus. It was turning into an insect-dog holocaust. Johnny Quagga had returned; I would have to wait years for the Victorian costume to appear again…Now he was a grubby, crusty, hippy…  

 THE AUGUST HAM MAN TRAVELS WITH THE QUAGGA GURU TEC:

 The Midnight Pharmacy Lemonade Drinker did not re-appear for another one hundred and fifty years. It was always a century-long problem with these cyclical folk…The sun never shined, the weather was [censored]… That always gets to be the problem with time: who knows what these realms hold for any of us entities? We are all entities at the end of the day.The world-realm had not died instantly; it was more interested in creating a tough, hostile, environment for all of the current life-forms in situ, through a series of freak mutations…Insects spliced with decomposing komodo dragons; komodo dragons copulating with tapirs. Anarchy was in the air. The planet was a mutated custard doughnut…They were intoxicated upon that invincible euphoria a dying planet can radiate. Only the dry wit of the Quagga-Guru baffled them.

 "They won't do a thing, this poison's lovely!" he belched.

 "I think you're trying to use my poison, aren't you?”

He looked at me with a stern expression. His erudite word-play was falling flat…Many of these mutants were hooked on my poison. Maybe I was in denial; I was not use to being known as a source. I tried some of my poison and dreamed I was a pop star called LaDy Buba HoTek. Her real name was Jinny… I do not know why I ended up in this body…She must have ingested something funny, too…  

 

PZI-CODA

Section 32) Obbliogato Abatel  Chapter 14: Abort-Loci and those Long Lost Origen Technicians

 …Les opened the little door for the second time that day. He realized he was on some kind of space vessel. The space craft seemed to be made out of reinforced carbon carpets. The voyage before had been fantastic, if the spandex was a little chafing. An old man was tied up next to Norky. They were both tied by a glowing rope that seemed to be alive. The glowing rope led to a strange Serpent in a tiny suit. The Serpent smiled and turned into a Goat-Snake Man, with snake-tentacle arms. Not back to the House of Arms again, thought Les. He thought he had got through the 1980s. He found the animated sequence a lot easier to follow… Les was stunned, he felt dizzy(my head is spinning...), but managed to swallow a foul sick burp. This weird nausea produced euphoria throughout his body…His sudden erection threw him off balance; he could feel it flowing through him, like some kind of mystic manna from another dimension…He had to pay close attention…

 [Footnote 2] SPLURGE LURGIES: A draft of an Occult4Kidz anecdotal picture book, aimed at twelve-plus edu-literature market in pseudo-hippy communes. The pictures were banned for being poor works of art. And they were also explicit. Pornographers were frightened of these strange muto-demonic copulations…

 …Les tried to battle against the pzionik soul-force, but he got another soul-shock. He did not want to complete the Occult4Kidz work programme. Hubbard was horrified; he had not given Les his permission to become aroused in this way.

 Hubbard knew he would never be able to truly control this queer seer. His mind was playing all kinds of sex magick games… Astral Tantric Viagra was not needed for this occasion…Les had pushed his loincloth towards Hubbard; Hubbard was enjoying the attention. He put down his semen-soaked copy of Dianetics…

Les smirked.

 “You like me really, don’t you?”

 Hubbard panicked and stammered for a moment before composing himself. Hubbard said:

 “Ring any bells, Les? I am not Mal Mulligan you fool! It's an Old One, been done before in loads of different worlds, you know the deal, don’t you, Les? There's only a population of one-hundred people due to the really harsh population laws here. They make the Tories look like hippies out here. It’s a tough one but at least the crime rate stays close to zero and you really can feed the world here. Of course no one has been born for over a hundred years, they only mutually masturbate. And they have all gone a bit crazy trying to live forever; I suppose that’s another drawback. Cyborg-cannibals, eh? Who needs them!"

With that Quagga was gone again. Quagga had possessed Hubbard for that brief moment. Hubbard collapsed like a used husk…He growled as pzionik anger pulsed through his mutated form…Hubbard should have known not to get aroused around Les Barloy…

 …Curse that unhelpful entity, thought Les. But he then felt something he had not felt for aeons. Norky's nuts: The nutty seeds of madness! Les needed a break, he was always had time for a good trip…  

 Les popped a couple…Who knows, Les thought, these seeds might make me a bit more regular…

 [1] I LIKE SPLURGING

 …Luckily for Les, he had never been under pressure before. He checked his make-up and it was looking a bit neo-punkish. ‘A Young Rapunxel’ he was not… Maybe Agent Banks had seen the artwork for ‘The Party’s Over’…Les was always into Talk Talk… He had to do a lot of it while offering his Cherubim Rub as part of his drag act to the regulars…Cthulhu always wanted more, of course…

…And Les did not mind the trashed 1980s manga-whore look, and he secretly enjoyed feeling a bit dirty… His eyes suddenly transformed into minute rectums; small tears of excrement stuck to the corners, and small phallic tentacles would slide out of these tiny rectal passages and lick at these faecal deposits, secreting a white slime as they feasted.

 Les decided to get his breath back and put on his slippers. What else can you do? Maybe a nice cup of tea would assist him. He needed to find out if the Northern Line was working again now. There were no Blood-Harpies on this world...The Goat-Snake Man saw Les and smiled warmly, his eyes full of foul excrement.

   "Ah Mr Barloy, we have been expecting you!"

"You have?" Les murmured. He was getting bored of being surprised by these clichés.

 "Oh yes, Les. Norky's been telling me about you. You might know me as Agent Hubbard. You know me, don't you?"

 "I don't think so!" Les protested, looking truly baffled. Not another blackout after another one night stand, Les thought.

"You must have read my tracts, my magnum opuses on your Earth-Realm?"

 Les pretended to think hard by striking a pose and doing some 1980’s Porn Star pouts; his face was covered in a film of mascara, excrement and ejaculate. Les knew Hubbard would like this tip…

 Les was wrong; this ritual just might kill him…Agent Hubbard liked breaking science; he usually enjoyed breaking the girl and he always had this effect upon his intended victims. Hubbard also had a thing for slamming them in vinyl - it was much cheaper than crypto-genic cryogenics; but Les Barloy was different…

 Les stopped pouting and said,

 "No, I don’t think so. You can't expect me to buy them if you don't give them away for free first, can you? I am broke after all."

 Hubbard hissed. He was a queer agent, if that's what Les claimed to be. Les was crying a lot of excrement. 

“Don’t be a meanie Les, you know me? We played tantric footsie at Cuffley Camp, remember? My big toe went up your arse! I got poo on my toe for you, Barloy! I’m the one who showed you the way, aren’t I?”

"I don't know if you work for the C.O.G., or whoever, but I just want to speak to my friends! Les protested.

 "These wasters of time? Really! Bloody amateurs! I just need to find out where they keep the severed head."

 "Head?"

"The head of Jezu Evadef. In your world they call him Jack Slack. Some kinds in the outer-realm-worlds call him Gumzom. Those pesky exo-planets! A dead soul for hire – we all need to do a bit soul-searching now and again, don’t we? I need him quickly, Les. Will you aid me?"

 "I've never heard of such a soul. I don’t think I can help," Les said, fixing his make-up.

 "These two have, though. Haven't you guys?"

 Hubbard emitted a strange reptilian chuckle, as Norky and the old man groaned.

 ...At that particular juncture in time, Quagga gently penetrated Les' mind. Les enjoyed this casual psychic penetration. It was only slightly painful, but Les had prepared for these things by remembering pointless pop-cultural gossip to lubricate his developing mind for these types of psychic attacks.

 "Slay the serpent bloke, Les. You got to kill that snake thing. It isn’t Hubbard no more; Hubbard’s just succumbed to this demoniacal form. Don't worry, it's not all crazy. You'll be fine. It's just a future mutation. In this realm Goat-snakes are as common as cow-crows. Oh, almost forgot to tell you to watch out for the police state tricks here. If you don't have your I.D. card you'll get killed straight away. They call it Population Control Termination, or a P.C.T., that’s what we call them really!”

 Les nodded. He needed to think on his feet; had cried a huge puddle of excrement. He did not know he was turning into a vegetable-human sexual organ. It was not a vital transformation; he needed to be stronger, he needed a killer millimetre...His mouth was now a mutated Venusian vagina (the five labia trick was old…Mary cried on the wind, as she heard Les Barloy turn on his cosmic tomfoolery…); Les’ tongue had transformed into a tuberous purple-headed penis-snake, dripping lysergic semen.

Hubbard screamed; Les had no idea what was going on. He could only feel it as he was unable to truly see.

 “What are you really?” Hubbard murmured.

The puddle of excrement Les had emitted from his rectal eyes had started to bubble; it was turning into a huge slug, a wriggling, slimy, slug. It seemed to be energized by the lysergic semen.

“I hate sex magickal rituals!” Hubbard screamed, just as the faecal slug slithered towards Hubbard…Hubbard never had known what it was like for excrement to go up his rectum; but he had an idea he was to live just long enough to experience that sensation…

 Chapter 50: Quaggatron PharmBoy!

Les was sitting in The Christchild and Vonderpump...Inner-primate life was timeless, as you know…Les had been drooling and thinking about having unprotected anal sex with Johnny Quagga…Les had also tried to summon Hubbard’s pzionik soul-aura from the deadened dark-ether...

…Unfortunately for Les, Hubbard was also fearful of Les’ libido. His resurrection tricks had scared him off and re-animation was no longer possible. Poor old Hubbard had to keep his anus intact for future rituals; he did not want to annoy anyone else higher up…

…The infernal Christchild and Vonderpump was not in Kilburn anymore; it had always been a kind of travelling social club, which also served as a free range herbalist apothecary for the astral community. It was no longer sub-contracted to the Cheviot Close branch. It had such an inclusive ethos many primitive dances had been arranged there…

 …The tables were made of recycled wood-crystals; but it had retained the usual friendly atmosphere of the local inn. Much of the atmosphere was inspired by lysergic energy…They were also inspired by history…The Old Ones did not move too much. It was an open environment. Casual occultism was encouraged by the owners and many people never left this kind of public house… A soul-exchange was always on the cards…

 One of the regulars was a washed up test pilot from Frinton-on-sea called Tommy Tellman. You may have heard about him in unpublished esoteric pamphlets…Tommy Tellman had long white hair and an immaculate dress sense. In his briefcase, he had files of his previous trade: a failed pulp writer.

 He maintained that his failed superhero characters were ready for Hollywood gloss and soft drink and popcorn commercial success; the soundtrack was whatever was in the charts… But his agent and Astral SpAd, Von RapArd informed Tellman that no-one really understood any of these ramblings.

 However, Tellman said to anyone who would listen that he used to be a Life-Coach Guru - apparently a teacher of Life Coaches. I wondered if he had heard of Johnny Quagga. Tellman had suddenly lost his memory; I suspected he was holding out on me. Les smiled. I sipped my lemonade there was nothing else to sip that did not have lysergic properties...

"Is this someone you meet for sexual gratification?" Tommy Tellman asked Les.

 Les blushed; why did he think of sodomizing Tommy Tellman? Les liked wrinkled genitals, particularly late at night on Hampstead Heath…

 "Oh no, Tommy, I don't think of Johnny Quagga like that. I haven't up till now anyway," said Les.

 Les gave Tommy the eye. He was still blushing. Tommy ignored his subtle advances. Maybe Tommy was unaware of this come on, thought Les. That was pretty cosmopolitan. And extremely innocent of Tommy; Les was probably already dreaming of getting it on with old Tommy Tellman. Les was a bit of a perve in that sense of the word.

 Not a totally nasty conservative perve; but a more of a mixed-up crazy nasty perve who would have anal relations with pretty much any one…I was amazed by this cosmic catamite! Tommy raised his eyebrows and said:

 "I've got the worse writing block ever. My output seems to be two words every century or so. I do not think this block thing really exists, but I got the mind-virus now. It’s definitely viral. I know that it is all sophisticated marketing invention; helps to make those respectably published layabouts feel like pros. It doesn’t exist, it has to be a folly, I say!  

Les laughed and said:

“It does exist when you simply forget to write, though Mr Tellman. The chore of everyday life keeps making some odd interruptions, eh?”

 Tellman lit another eternal cheroot.

 “I had to do this Life-Coach Guru gig. Not one fool teaches Life-Coaching to these lily-livered Life-Coaching hippy softies, do they? They’re all good people at heart. I saw the niche; I can be a total fool but I was lucky to snap that timely niche up very early,” replied Tellman through a silver cloud of smoke.”

Les quietly snored; shaking his head with fatigue. He was finally coming down, after coming on so strong. Tellman assumed Les was agreeing with him; Tellman did not realize that Les was in some kind of hypnogogic reverie.

 Les was thinking about how he ended up in bed with his transsexual babysitter. It was an intoxicated mistake, but Les did not mind it at all…

 Tellman continued, lighting yet another cheroot,

 “I’m comfy but not wealthy. Oh no. Only in an age of non-jobs was I able to achieve my dream of obtaining the greatest non-job of all. All I said was that I had been doing the Life-Coaching lark for a couple of decades under another name. And that was 20 years ago. It's a total lie; the fools brought it, but I’ve never done a whole day of it. I don’t think I would be able to hack it. The easy way at the moment is to just join every new piece of networking technology and you’re away. I’ve frozen myself ten times. Ridiculous really, isn’t it? But just read lots of Deepak Chopra, too, and Bob’s your uncle! You’ll be the best Life-Coach Guru out there without being some flash Yank! They can stuff their primitive firearms and muffin recipes. You’re better off with homeopathy.”

 Les was hoping Tellman would tell him about the mission to save all these exo-planets and various time-realms. Maybe even the earth-realm he had known. Les was a bit disappointed he had not even seen any beat-people yet. It was not satisfying fix for a hardened fantasy junkie like Les…

 Tellman had gone through a few cheroots by now. He sipped his beverage and winced. Les smiled, visibly tired. He hoped Tellman would shut up, but old Tellman then smiled at Les, patting his shoulder, stroking the side of his sweaty face. Les felt a bit hot; he thought about removing his clothing. Tellman lit another cheroot and smiled again and said,

 “Those kids make me smile with their silk stockings and ghettoized mentalities -- us Brits just can’t compete; they’re so much bigger in more ways than one. I’ve known a few Big Mamas in my time, but phew-ee! I wished I’d kept in contact with my old lady. Just a shame that I ended up getting stranded in an experimental tyme-craft in the Bermuda Triangle; these little things always get in the way of real life. The mission was never that important; we’re all dead and alive anyway. Sometimes we don’t even know it! I don't think I ever left my tyme-craft! I'm in a time-flux, aren’t I?" 

 Les did not know what to say. I hated it when Tommy ranted; I ended up getting absorbed into the wallpaper. Les sipped at his gimlet. Tommy Tellman decided to add some Dinosaur teething powder and sweetener to his pint of bitter. Les thought it strange to add yet more chemicals to his already foul tincture. Old Tellman just winked at him.

…Les thought he was getting picked up, but he had forgotten to wash down below; some days he didn't feel like it. He called it going continental. He liked smegma; his old band had been called SmegmaSonix. Oh yes, Les had always liked That Track……

Tommy Tellman started to cry. Les had mis-read the signals; Tellman did not want to pick him up.

 "I miss my family, and the way the world used to be. I wish it could all go back to 1947. I don't like 2014. It's not right. There's not much to look forward too, is there?"

 Les thought Tommy was being a bit melodramatic for someone who's meant to be involved in dealing with these problems. Wasn’t he immortal anyway?

 "Les, may I tell you something?" Tommy mumbled. He had placed his hand on Les’s thin leg.

 "Yes, of course, Tommy, please do!" Les had become erect; he did not know why. He had never been picked up by an older man before.

"Thank you, Les. You are easy to talk to for some kind of old-fashioned mincer. I thought you might hate me."

  "Strange, why would you think I would hate you, Tommy?"

 Les then realized that Tommy had called him a mincer. He decided to let it go. 

 Tommy then spoke slowly:

"Les, listen, I have an important relic in my briefcase from Frinton-on-sea. I want you to look at it and examine it all if that's all right?"

"Sure, I'll do that."

 Tommy handed Les his briefcase. It was something straight out of Doctor Doolittle. It was a strange case. Les thought it felt heavy. As Les opened it, the foul smell of decayed flesh came back to haunt him once again. He looked at the decapitated head. The eyes slowly opened, full of maggots; the mouth struggling to contort some kind of expression; the foul abomination fixed a wry smile at Les. Les thought he was going to be sick.

 Then everything went black for Les.

 Tommy had an idea Les would faint. Les was squeamish. He was just a camptown lady! Tommy finished his bitter and ordered another swift half. Von RapArd was behind the bar; he always knew what Tellman liked. It was a weird bond. He had an idea Von RapArd would end up cleaning up here. His bald head was showing and his awful toupees were falling off still. Les came around, feeling groggy; Les did not like these oddball agents; Von RapArd had a lot of hidden agendas that Les had predicted in 1999...Von RapArd drifted closer to them; the smell of musty vampirism wafted around Les, making him retch. The smell of detritus always followed this renegade barber-surgeon and part-time scientist-journalist. Oh, and sometime bar tender, of course. I don’t know how he fitted it all in. Von RapArd casually glanced at Les, pretending not to notice his pre-pubescent physique.

"I take it he doesn't like his head at breakfast," quipped Von RapArd.

 Tommy shook his head, sniggering like a school-kid.

 "I need a gig Von RapArd! You know I have to carry this curse since my days in Bermuda."

 "You'll never get the non-job back, Tommy. The magazine folded in 1947. Didn't you know that? No-one buys literature no more, especially not of the esoteric kind. It's a hard sell. I used to know Vincent? Remember that nut?"

Tommy Tellman cried again. His tears were made of pure quicksilver. I do not think Life-Coach Gurus are supposed to cry but Tellman could not hold it in. He needed another drink…

Von RapArd decided to leave Tellman to cry it out. He never charged Tellman. The guy had died millions of times for him, just for guiding him to lost dimensional world-realms; that was one debt that would never be repaid.

 That was what made Les look at the gigantic Mirror-TV screen. He felt a need to take the odd head with him. Tommy Tellman was too busy crying to notice Les walking into the TV with this mysterious severed head. Poor Les ended up walking through to the other side. That has to be what I call truly interactive…

 Chapter 66 Khemo-Trunk…Norky had saved them all on Orientis47xx0. All that remained was a husk of a planet that had been stripped of most of its natural resources by corpo-beasts. He wished Zip, his office assistant, was there. She would have a counter-counter-strategy to replenish this planet. Tyme-Pyres were everywhere. Sucking the life out of all realms without even thinking about the worlds they might alter for eternity.

 However, the handy thing with Orientis exo-realm-space was that it was on the Northern line. Zip was lost to him forever; she had been his only astral link back to 1973. It was not an ideal year, but he wanted to catch Gong again. He loved Pot-Head Pixies. Poor Norky must have crystallized the first time he saw them, so he felt he should catch them again.

 And, of course, everything had been frozen in time so there was never any rush. Humans do not always get time, pondered Norky. And Norky did not want to fly there in a Uranian teapot this time, though. He would have too many drones after him. It was a different life-ride thankfully; Norky was getting into U.V. paint again and there were not many zoophytes getting into U.V. paint.

 He looked at Tnuk Nam. He had been consumed by vile dust-aliens. They controlled the vile planet stripping corpo-beasts. These corpo-beasts went from planet to planet, realm to realm, causing havoc in their wake. Norky was sure the realms just needed some good shit to tide them over…

 Tnuk Nam blubbed something in a Yiddish-Venusian patois; it was not easy to translate. The strange death of the voodoo phony had a weird effect on Norky. He actually liked the money-grabbing chancer; he found him funny. He had trained maharishis in a previous existence after all.

 Tnuk Nam had taught Tommy Tellman everything about Life Coaching and now Tellman was a Life-Coach Guru. He had even encouraged Tellman’s failed side career as a pulp writer of strange esoteric writings; he had known all along that he was never officially told. Tellman was a total failure in his eyes. That was the whole point. And he was destined to be that eternal magnificent failure... 

 The present/the past/the future/the great whatever...Les woke up in his bedsit. He felt relieved. He had dreamed it all. He picked up his notations on the Scottish Brotherhood and threw them down the waste disposal to be ethically recycled. He decided to leave his strange pursuits alone..Les could not even remember how he got interested in them. He smiled, tears of excrement dribbled into his mouth…

 Sub-Section 8) The Swift Silence[r]

 "A thousand small useless details - the charming prodigality of the pharmacist -..." [Some minor observation from the isolated agent called Proust...]

 Chapter 4: The Foo-Fu Juice Bars around Zeta Reticula

 The tyme-craft crashed on a new juice bar owned by Papus. Why buy a giant asteroid in Zeta Reticula? Or was it Reticula…The home of Dracula…It was populated by strange cybernetic maggot people… They were massive and harmless but had powers to make humans use them as sexual tools. Their excrement was addictive. Papus was only farming them to take back to Earth as a strange delicacy.

 This procedure needed to be exact, though it was not totally scientific. The infinity lark had finally vanished; nobody worried about such small follies like death anymore. Papus smirked. He needed some help here. This was something the C.O.G. might be able to take advantage of. The new cross-astral link to the other eight hundred or so earth-like exo-planets had not been in vain; Papus was hoping his asteroid would land on H0403079.

The last few digits were Papus’ pzi-phone number - his private mental-line. Papus called it a P-Line. This set up seemed a bit too convenient. Why had he swapped human decadent corruption for unknown alien juices? Unless he was addicted too, thought Les Barloy. Les was still in Islington, listening to Vangelis and watching all of David Lean’s films. He could not be bothered to use his body to time-slide...

Papus knew all this but had lost sight of his muse, Elaine Pettifer. He had turned Elaine into a witch named Shi T. She was not too good at being a witch – always mucking up her rituals - but she was hopelessly useless in most of her roles. Elaine was brought up on sinecures. Just another poor little rich girl stuck in a cruel, class-obsessed, world. She would remain in stasis for this, thought Papus as his mind fondled her innermost fantasies.

He got a mind-link. It was an old link. He needed to find the only plant on his asteroid. It was some norkweedroot which was technically an intelligent form of fossilized bacteria, and not strictly speaking a plant. Papus located the norkweedroot and consumed some on a slow juice day. It made a change from maggot excrement, no matter how refined it was.

The tyme-craft was beyond repair, he noticed the crew had died. There were two skeletons. Papus - in a moment of euphoric norkweedroot ecstasy - bit into his thumb and extracted two drops of blood; one drop for each of the charred skeletons. Papus mumbled a strange incantation, which sounded like a corruption of a similar Etruscan ritual

“Boom-biddy-byby-boombiddybybyby! Aw-law-dee-woo-woo-law-dee-aw-lawdee!”

Papus intoned this strange mantra for a few hours, staying in some kind of norkweedroot induced trance…

 The skeletons fizzed, as Papus chewed his norkweedroot. He noticed he had half left, but the root was starting to grow in his hands. The blood from his thumb had also dripped on his norkweedroot. Oh dear. He looked at the remainder of his norkweedroot and saw it was fizzling with energy; it started to change into various multi-coloured hues, it remained as greenish brown. A small little plant man was in Papus’ palm.

 Papus looked around; the other skeletons were still fizzing with life-force; their flesh slowly spreading over the skeletons.

 Papus said to the plant man, “You again?”

 For some reason, Papus had the idea as if he knew this strange entity. The plant man laughed and performed a little dance and waved at Papus. He sounded like a squeaky cartoon fly, trying to speak. Papus also made the vaguely academic comparison with Wheelie out of the original Transformers movie, a personal occult favourite for those in the know….

 “Hi Pappy, it’s me Norky,” squeaked the little plant man.

 “Norky? Oh yes, you! My old Professor at the U.R.SO.M.A.D.!” Papus shouted somewhat too gaily.

 Papus hated coming back to life in the 1970s. He ended up at an under-funded polytechnic where Professor Norkgrub had been his dissertation supervisor. He did not get a first, mainly because Norkgrub wanted him to experiment a lot more. It was a blurry time and Papus accidentally killed himself drinking too much cherry-brandy which had been laced with arsenic. Papus was not popular in that realm and had forgotten who he was trying to poison -- there was always some politician or pseudo-radical that needed a good dosing to the otherside; but he had unintentionally poisoned himself in his haste to have a few scoops...

 Papus laughed off all his silly past deaths. The great corruptor always returned a lot greater, a lot more eager to corrupt the soulful fabric of realm-space. He was much happier here with his juice bar, though business had been a bit slow for the first century. Papus just hoped the world was a lot more chaotic, it was so much easier to survive when even the scientists did not know what was going on…

 Nothing was true or false; everything was a weird kind of fact, even those old wives tales. Papus had a slight headache from the norkweedroot. The little plant was squeaking a lot about some mission but Papus was not officially C.O.G. He just used them… 

 Chapter 12 Trek-Star-Speeding in PhulSpace (Hello my House of Arms)

 I am the Phultor, the lost one. I do not remember being made human. I was born in Middlesex, and again in Poiislit-XT. It remains a strange star-town near Balham, but can also be found on Charon, if you play your cards right....I remember that bloody awful tarot book, it was one of Papus’ I’m sure of it. It’s rubbish, hopelessly out-of-date...

 That fool never does anything right. And now I’ve possessed his muse, Elaine Pettifer. She was never his true muse; Papus only loved himself, that dark monk of doom. He was still playing Atmosphere when everyone else had moved to Warcraft. Bloody corrupt geek; I always wanted to be a lady, but Elaine’s bits aren’t in a good way.

 She doesn’t need too much work, though, but I feel like I need to get myself out there and see what kind of kit she has. Can she pick up some desperate stranger in a bar? It’s a London thing, but it’s a crucial occult test. No-one will want to complete the ritual with her to bring me back to life. I need to manifest…

 I decided to shave her hair off and pierce her skin with various pieces of chicken wire. I do not feel it and nor does she. It remains a valid form of body art using chicken wire to insert through the skin. To my surprise, it seems to energize me.

 At least she’ll stand out in the crowd. I look in her wardrobe, what a disaster. Just work clothes. She really can be a dull bitch. I find her trusty sex toy, though; it looks like a real antique. I will definitely use that later in a public place.

 I hope a randy Policeman might catch me publicly masturbating, and then I can possess someone with a tiny bit of power and not some dull bitch who works in some secret office. It was not even supposed to exist, but she has got her occupation on her Facebook profile. Silly, silly, silly! Might have to pull that quickly…

 …Anyway, I have total control of her these days. I do not think she has any memories left. She doesn’t even remember her adopted sister Zoe ‘Zip’ Gregano. Oh dear, it might be fun to make them meet one day. Maybe Zip’s still a lesbo, it would be fun to have her in my passionate grasp, performing all kinds of sex magicks. Oh what larks, to use that fool Professor Norkgrub’s parlance.

What? I did not hear that Elaine? Are you trying to talk to me? Oh no, do not dictate to me. That was not how it ever worked...You did not know what you messed with. No more resurrection trickery for you young lady! You are going to be a witch! I need some gothic attire and some glitter…

That was when it was inevitable to just find some black bin bags and rip some holes in for Elaine to wear. Disposable clothes carry less evidence, too.

I leave the house for the Good Ship; then on towards the Christchild and Vonderpump once the Good Ship turfs us out… 

 Chapter 29 Set Palaver Speed!

 Pocock Lodge, Buckinghamshire, 1874.

 …Old Lady Goodepayne smiled. She was annoyed at being chucked out the Good Ship for being a loutish ruffian…She remembered her future life, huddled in a small room in a retirement home in Frinton-on-sea. She remembered she had done many things, commanded dust mite armies and worked with undercover C.O.G. agents…She was expecting Disraeli for a fish and chip supper…He loved a good battered sausage in him…

…She was no longer able to remember the missions. But at 110 years old she can do a lot of good. She was very resilient, one of the best C.O.G. agents ever. She still had a stash of tramadol patches and she was partial to the odd pipe of Tommy Tellman’s pressed herbs with diamorphine. His snuff was not too bad either and she did not mine some fine shag at her ripe old age. She did not mind the occasional puff with her sherry, of course.

 That was when Lady Goodepayne remembered something about her future. In 1999, she had inexplicably got pregnant. She had also been pregnant in 1991. However, she dismissed her relations with her astral wraith lover, Tommy Tellman. It was still to go online in her old pzionik mind.

Her only recent sexual relations were with her nephew, Callum Cheevers, and her lesbian lover, Sybila Leeka. Sybila was also her maid, but she was also a psychic so Van RapArd, her Tyme-Pyre agent, had booked her on the monolithic ‘Book of the Dead’ tour. Cthulhu got the ‘South Park’ gig, and went global, but decided to go back to the void of the Seven Hells. It was much more economically viable there than on this weird earth-realm.

…Even those Old Ones could not get any bang for their buck these days. The UK was still a battered war economy in decline that just spat out the old and young; and squeezed all of those who bit their lips and just kept on paying. It was an odd antiquated museum country, constantly selling the past, which had to be recycled in the future…

 …Many seers knew riots only happened under Tory governments. That slimy bastard Disraeli was back in again, thought Lady Goodepayne. She knew something was fishy. Just like in 2010: those 10 million idiots had all been fooled, according to Papus. I have always been a swinging Labour-Tory man, of course…Papus must have been in Millbank that day……She had no idea what had happened to the child, as it had vanished into menstrual ectoplasm, even though she felt the child’s aura. She was told not to have any more children. She did not think eight children was a lot. And she was, technically, aristocratic, though more of noblesse-de-robe stock, so inbreeding was still a huge problem.

Lady Goodepayne decided that she would have to summon Professor Norkgrub. She was in 2015, he was in 1979. But he needed to go to a Maggot farm on an asteroid near Saturn. Lady Goodepayne huffed; she had an idea Norky would take a while to get there. She needed that child’s spirit to help her own astral transfer out of this world. She was sick of it all.

 She found an old piece of norkweedroot in her wheelchair bag and nibbled some. A thousand colours exploded in her mind; she saw who the unborn child was. Feebuz Apulow He was coming to save her. His face appeared, a zombie child with bright yellow eyes and strawberry-coloured hair. He smiled at Lady Goodepayne. He wanted a bit more mother-love methinks… 

During Lady Goodepayne’s somewhat unconventional communique, the Manchester Victoria Yard Crew had just deployed their nukes against the West London Literary Posho Gang. They had their defunct super-ASBOs tattooed to their fake Global Hypercolour tans. Luckily, they ignored these bureaucratic arts, as you know…It was turning into a bit of a blood-bath…

That has to be the last time I go to a poetry slam…

 …Lady Goodepayne smiled. She knew how empty and incompetent the Prime Minister was. They all were, except Blair who made that deal with Papus, and another deal to leave earth with all his money and properties… The red Tory slime was still thriving...

That was when Lady Goodepayne took out the spectre-star pistol…If she could only remember how to fire it… Oh well, she thought, another baffling cosmic trigger for her to ponder over her.

Issue 560, part VII

 Chapter 62: World Time Trancers-Crumble and a few other Queer Cosmic Desserts…

 The Phultor was a Policeman again. He had got bored with the cosmic strut years ago. He had made this poor Policeman cry, he did not even ask his brain what he had been called before Phultor entered him from behind…The Policeman needed to be saved but Phultor knew he would attract more C.O.G. freelancers to clear up his mess; he was leaving a trail of discarded comatose corpses in his path…

 Elaine was discarded once the Policeman approached her using her crystal phallus within the public vicinity. You should know what happens when you breach the by-laws at Walthamstow – they are very strict. I just got out after ten years for mucus evacuation…

 But [always a big butt…] this demonic Policeman had no idea about the state of Elaine’s mind. Everything was state of mind, after all. She was taken to hospital after the Policeman was possessed. The Policeman’s soul was no more, a mere plaything at the whim of Phultor. He laughed an old evil laugh; the laugh of four thousand years. He was smart. He hoped Elaine would remember to become a witch, once she got out of her comatose state.

...Elaine had merged into some of his genetic being after the soul transference had simultaneously occurred with a massively pleasurable orgasm. She re-lived multiple orgasms for a century, or so she thought… The medics thought she might be having another seizure, so they pumped her full of valium. It turned out Elaine had learnt a lot from the Phultor…

Phultor was free to inflict his crazy law on innocents and feast off new life-force energy. Norky had always wanted him to dub his kinetics up a bit more; but you know Phultor. Only thinks of one thing...By sheer chance, Phultor was befriended in the public toilet by Les Barloy. Les was not a kid – though he still looked young; he must have just turned eighteen. Phultor sensed a presence in the cubicle and, after sheathing the Sword of Adonai, Phultor kicked open the flimsy door.

“I don’t normally do this sort of thing”, said Les, pulling up his tight jeans, hurriedly wiping gelatinous globs of semen off his hands with a dainty pink handkerchief…  

 Chapter 1. The Totally Queer Cosmic Dessert…Afters always included…

…Phultor had noticed that Les had no underwear on and his anus looked very clean, just as he pulled up his tight-fitting jeans. He was a true commando...Les was in perfect condition for the kind of sick rituals Phultor experimented in. I wonder if he has tattooes on his feet? That would be a mass turn on...The Phultor was tempted, and his saliva dribbled down his mouth, as he laughed his queer demonic cackle...

“I’m sorry officer,” said Les.

...There was an awkward, slightly erotic silence. Les’ erection visibly protruded from within his tight jeans; Phultor could see through the denim that Les Barloy’s testes had formed into a peachy little testes-vagina. Phultor had an idea of what rituals might be required for this Lord of Light.

 “I’m sure you can let it go. I just had that urge to rub one out. It’s what the posh people say, isn’t it?” Les asked, looking hopeful.

Phultor sneered. I bet he gave that line to all public servants, thought Phultor.

 “You don’t talk much. You remind me of a zombie detective I used to know. What was his name?” Les pondered, trying out his new “thinking” pose.

 That was when Phultor made a run for it; feared seeped through his demonic form. He did not want to be made one with that foul creature. Gumzom always gave him the shivers, despite his disembodied state. The head of Gumzom was very powerful. Surely Gumzom was not on the case; maybe Norky or Trogger, or Ovno or Tipp. But not Gumzom. That thing was gross.

In his hurry to escape, Phultor bumped into Jack Slack. He was going to a kebab house in Wood Green. It was a cosy arrangement. They didn’t mind. Phultor recognized Jack Slack. It was Gumzom in human form, before he died. Phultor would now be able to possess Gumzom and stop the rot! He laughed at his luck, though he had known in the noughties. It was full of a lot of false luck…

Chapter 33 The Next Chapter does not exist...

 Tommy smiled. He had lived in Frinton for a long time. Ever since he had been missing in action in 1947; the government would never guess to look here. He had an idea that Feebuz Apulow, his unborn child, conceived out of wedlock with Lady Goodepayne, had found a way to reverse his abortion. It was a great technique. And wraith abortions were rare.

 Tommy had a feeling – some vague memory in a previous life - that he had made a pact with the undead free-lancers Gumzom and Trogger. He still feared Gumzom, that rotting dead-head he had dug up in his pantry was still scaring him.

Life-Coaches should not get mixed up with this dimensional funk, Tellman thought to himself.

 In his small chalet-ship, he made himself a cup of mescal-coffee. The coffee beans had been excreted by millions of cacti mites before being liberally doused in a secret and well-trusted herbal formula. This type of coffee was extremely rare, and considered a delicacy in some realms. It cost too much, and Tellman only had an emergency supply.

 He had seen his aborted son at the supermarket. He had not felt this way since 1991. It was not all Good Times for him…

 Tnuk Nam appeared through a veil of smoke.

 “I know you’re not here for a cup of tea, Mr Nam,” said Tellman.

 Tellman put down his copy of ‘The Nam’. It was a great source of inspiration for him. It was just as good as any Holy Book...

 Tnuk Nam nodded. In the air, strands of R.T.C. flowed for eternity.

 “Is Les still alive somewhere?” Tellman asked.

 “I think he likes this realm life,” quipped Tnuk Nam.

 Tellman nodded, his cheroot burning.

“Better get on and kill me in this realm then, eh?” Tellman sighed.

Tnuk Nam laughed. He started his ritual; his arms turned into snakes. His purple skin glowed as he started his incantations… Tellman flickered; he felt the centuries slide away…It felt good… He needed a little R&R…Tellman despised Tnuk Nam’s falsehood. Tnuk Nam was part of the Witchcraft-NOT-Satanism school of hypocrites…He had destroyed many realm-worlds without even realizing it…Tellman felt angered; flickering as Tnuk Nam corrupted his rites. He would never understand Magic as a push/pull situation. But Feebuz Apulow appeared from the pzionik void, caked in demon blood, wiping his tiny fang-suckers on a soiled doily. His small face was caked in blood; he was a mutated foetus but he would always be human…

 …The pzionik voice of Feebuz Apulow sayeth:

 “N’kgnath ki’q Az-Athoth r’jyarh

 wh’fagh zhasa phr-tga nyena phrag-

 n’glu”

 Tnuk Nam stopped his mumbled rites and looked up.

 “Oh no, it’s you again!” Tnuk Nam wailed. His skin was no longer purple but a pallid grey… 

Tellman looked at the immortal aborted child; they seemed to be able to communicate without speaking. Feebuz hurled himself at the fraudulent guru…Tnuk Nam screamed as he started evaporating…Feebuz was sucking him up. Tellman smiled, and calmly puffed on his cheroot; he always had a good idea that Tnuk Nam was full of hot air at the end of the day…

 Chapter 620 Old Occultism Blues For Mamma-Poppa [inc. BroSis Stasis Culture]

 Walthamstow market; the crowd moving like conjoined kangaroo people; everyone seemed so energized despite the excrement and lard-ons raining down. Lucky it was just lard-ons today...It was a little bit odd, I guess but the hidden Powers-That-Be were trying too hard. The weather was never what you expected it to be. The C.O.G had landed nearby. The cyborg-maggot-people had just destroyed a few exo-planets. These were made of a metamorphic marrow , so maybe they were never true planets in the first place. The destruction was not televised…Les wiped his mascara away; the ritual had failed, there would never be another pzionik soul-sacrifice. They were destined to re-live everything for eternity…

 Les did not bother signing-on for E.S.P.E.S.A…They needed to go back to Trooluz 9; the sword of Adonai appeared in his hand: a gigantic crystal phallus sword forged in the Seven Hells…Les refrained from strapping it on; he needed to swing it about. He did not realize how large it could get. A strange kind of sweet, sticky, mucus secreted from the blade. Les was becoming aroused again. His loincloth had gone all tight. He did not bother adjusting his turban.

 The sword of Adonai burned a strange neon fire. Les was not sure if he could handle it; he needed both hands to control it. He was used to operating things with both of his hands, but this took some practice…Professor Norkgrub smiled at Les, wiping his seed-shooter with a silk doily.

 “Those cyber-maggot-people are coming to get us,” said Professor Norkgrub, stroking his green crystal goatee.

 “You don’t seem worried!” Les cried.

 Norkgrub smiled his thin zoophyte smile.

 “We’ll come on strong, Les, we’ll keep coming on! We’re Mutant Police, Les, and we’ll clean it up!” Professor Norkgrub cried.

 Les thought the Professor was getting a bit macho in his old rooty age; but Les did like swinging his big sword about. He had always wanted to flash it around Kilburn...

 “I thought you had a tyme-craft?” Les asked.

 Norkgrub nodded. He looked up, and Les followed his gaze. A cigar-shaped vessel appeared in the sky through some kind of pzionik portal. The cigar-shaped craft seemed to be constructed from old shopping trollies and a heavily damage Hawker Typhoon.

 Les saw Tommy Tellman in the pilot’s seat, smoking a cheroot.

 “I see Tommy’s here,” said Les.

 “Of course, we got to have a fly guy, Les!” Norky boasted.

 “We’re going to find another world, aren’t we?” Les asked Norky.

 Norky nodded, his tiny crystal beard glimmered in the soft light. The massive cyber-maggot beings were upon them in an instant; they must have smelled the C.O.G. credentials.

 “At least you don’t have cack in your eyes this time Les,” said the zoophyte.

 “To be honest, I am prairie-dogging right now, Norky! If I scream I will follow through!” Les screamed in terror.  

 Norky laughed and fired his seed-shooter. The lysergic seeds seared the maggot onslaught. Les whirled his huge sword around aimlessly, hacking at some of the cyborg maggot attacks. The cyber-maggot’s foul juices splashed over him, but he continued to swing at them…There were too many of them; centuries must have passed fighting these foul beasts. The cyborg-maggot-people used to be peaceful, but they were sick of time; sick of being harmless…Being nice gets you nowhere after all, does it?

That was when the planet rocked. Les looked at Norky, maggot detritus covering his crystallized leafy face.

 “What was that?” Les queried.

 “I don’t know,” said Norky.

 There was another cataclysmic rumble.

 “No way, Les, I honestly thought it was Walthamstow; it’s just another marrow planet!” Norky cried.

 Les did not understand.

 “We got to slide, my friend!” Norky shouted, as he put his little seed-shooter away and floated up towards the queer tyme-craft.

 Les looked as the planet’s surface started to split; the market façade instantly crumbled. A gigantic re-animated Homo erectus and a gigantic naked woman - possibly the most attractive woman he had ever seen – burst through the marrow planet’s surface. They wreaked havoc in an instant also, they were destroying everything.

“These marrow planets are a bit dud,” said Les.

 Norky whistled to Les, just as Les realized he had floated up on board the tyme-craft. Tellman winked at him, while Norky looked at some cloudy crystals on the console. Norky said,

 

“We got to sort these colonies out, Les. We can’t have all these vegetable worlds getting in there. Just too silly. The universe seems to be mutating and going fruit cocktail on us!”

 “Who are those creatures?” Les asked Norky.

 Norky smirked as Tellman activated the craft; the marrow- planet slowly vanished from their view just as the giant caveman and the giant woman destroyed the cyborg-maggot-people and the marrow planet in a destructive frenzy.

 “They’re us, just cleaning up. They’re Mutant Police, Les!” Norky shouted.

 Les smiled, wiping his sword on his frayed loincloth.

 “I guess we better find some more worlds, right?”

 Professor Norkgrub and Tommy Tellman laughed loudly, as Les Barloy nervously laughed with them. He was not about to say that New Worlds always tripped him out…

Impressum

Texte: Robert K. Galvez
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 21.04.2013

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