One [Part Two-ish]

The spirit-detectives entered the ghost-chi-room on Kronioa-sol; its shell-like aural vibrations had made those sacred fleshy walls cry crystallized blood; this curious crystal-blood cascaded down like something you might see in a second-rate horror film; C.G.I. not included -- hey, go easy with that battery acid people!...Hang about, what was going through their minds?...What was the colour of their underwear? Was it lace, or a retro Pucci print...[...That secretly really turns me on...]...I think some otherworldly Seer pondered that...Look at their bloody eyes...The Seer's eyes fluttered rapidly back in Willesden Green - a pure Pzi-PhyxU-Trance; it was only [enter: date/time] here, we wanted to know where these beings had emanated from...Red eyes, red cunts, red smegma; the trans-dimensional temporal flow of the...

...Detectives [soul-r-transmigration complete] Vanno and Zinny: Earth; the fissures of space-time warped as these two Tyme-Pyre Detectives broke on through to another side of the continuous vacuum: the [classified; access denied...Oooh a nice social media account for free – what do I give away for all this freedom to connect?...[Soul accepted]...ACCESS GRANTED...FIRST FIVE FILMS FREE...BINGEWANKBABY!]....

 

...Meanwhile, in another dimension via Bromley, Professor Norkgrub saw everything: he smiled as he stroked his crystalline console...A lovely bit of kit that...No time like the present for a bit of console-stroking, he thought...And the zoophyte smile had become a source of affection for me...I do not know why; plants, people, vegetables...Even those quaint non-binary protein people...They all do it for me...Whoopsie, there it goes...The Astral-Star-Craft lurched throughout the various trans-dimensional slip streams...We'd shot right off!...Oh dear! What a mess!

 

...On board: the crew was depleted...They had only just made it back from one kind of reality in which Saturn was the most densely populated planet...It was another kind of Hell...The icy rings were polluted with plastic boxes which housed battery people...Tough gig that...

 

...I do like all kinds of things these days, even lucky days in Hell, I cannot explain why but I have embraced never-ending life-death cycles...And why learn from history when you can be a hamster on a wheel?...

 

...In Tufnell Park, Elaine Pettifer watched Les Barloy slip into another person; it was the kind of casual soul-penetration that had become socially acceptable again...Ever since Les Barloy and Johnny Quagga had become one entity, they were always dipping themselves inside these random beings...Filthily spaced spicy dust monkies crystallizing everyone...They had quit their cleaning job at the U.R.S.O.M.A.D...It was one of those comfortable academic sinecures that you would be mad to refuse...Elaine refused nothing these days...She was thinking how she might be able to get Les play with her infected vagina...She knew he had previously liked fish with his chips, but she had an idea that she would need another large battered sausage to get his attention...What a dirty filly!

 

...Les was in another land; he used to be a lemon-head but would develop a fear of mould; he referred to this as his  "mould-mode"...He was choosy about his lemons these days...Lemon used to be slang for Lesbian...Les was called a lemon once by a butch boy who lived close by to him when he was in New Old Amsterdam on Trooluz Five; being called a lemon by this hunky homophobic Adonis instantly resulted in Les getting a throbbing erection...Middle-Class people refer to this as a form of "pant engorgement" (source: F. Tallis; Penguin; 1999)...It can be tough resisting to nibble on a big bit of throbbing gristle though...Butch boy had his tiny gristle licked clean by Les Barloy and insisted upon them keeping their clandestine liaison a secret; suddenly this macho fella from around the block wasn't so tough no more...As my backstreet shrink used to say: "Whatever floats your boat, kiddo! One for a tenner; three for twenty..."...Oh what larks! 

 

...Oh dreary deary dear - all those petit bourgeoisie wankies...It was a good thing that Les was not always here [first body-transfer in 3456A.D. ]...He read a lot of comics when he was a kid...He had a biography of Hannah Berry's Ecuadorian mother in his pocket [...or maybe he was just pleased to see me...]...Les suddenly remembered that he had savagely buggered Lord Liverpool at least four times; the Liberal Tory fascist – maybe the worst Prime Minister after the useless interims of Brown, Cameron and May-- had passed out on every occasion; he was a real posh fanny, but at least he got his just desserts...Les found it tiring being a catamite in the Nineteenth Century; you at least got a bit of dental work after the Interstellar Muon Crisis of the Forty-First Century...Apparently, Triton was nice this time of year... It made Les nostalgic for extremely hot icy rain...His Trooluzian nostalgia machine bubbled within his loins when he remembered screaming for Take That...He sure took it good in Berlin...

 

...That was when Elaine realized that her more attractive twin sister must be hiding out on some dull moon base, probably near to another useless dimension...She liked randomly mooning: she guessed Europa but it might even be Triton...Elaine had unknowingly walked past her twin sister at Tufnell Park Station... Elaine wondered if psychics like Les had to guess a lot of the time; Elaine thought Les liked filling in the blanks...Les seemed to guess all the time, he never had the attention span to finish a crossword puzzle; he just randomly lucked out on his numerous predictions and flawed rituals...

 

"Did you find that re-animated detective's head again?" Les asked Elaine.

 

...Elaine was surprised that Les spoke to her - she assumed the Giggle Factor was at work here, although she did not confer with The Physics of Tao... Like with everything, it was completely out of the blue, as she had been spying on him for some time; coyly admiring his androgynous appearance, particularly in a trademark skin-tight silver cat suit...He always donned flamboyant clothing for his astral transitions...Les secretly wanted everything to be like Barbarella...Just as he imagined himself as a woman [...It was at this moment that the being known as Erozian Zinny was reading the mind of the seer from a planet now known as Venicova...A place of Venusian coves...Which might be the rough translation, but who really cares about all that dull technical bullshit, right?...]...And everyone knew how Les liked to be well lubricated before travelling through these old portals...He never went through dry!...Even the more well-probed, somewhat saggier, old portals got a good--...

 

"I found it all a bit loose, if I have to be honest with you, Missy," said Les.

 

Les sighed a sigh of timeless desolation...He also had a secret crush on his past self: the enigmatic timeless catamite known as The Midnight Pharmacy Lemonade Drinker...Les loved being a grand cosmic masturbator; maybe the projected chaos corrupted science was re-aligned after all...

 

...When he turned around, Elaine was standing completely naked in front of him...She had invaded his personal six inches...She was also covered with throbbing purple pustules...It must be a demonic pus, thought Les...

 

"Don't you like me, Les?" cooed Elaine. Her teeth had turned to cockroaches...They flowed from out of her pus-filled maw...

 

"Maybe another time, darling; I'm not really in the mood," said Les. He stifled a yawn. He had seen this kind of dimensional pzi-trancing before...

 

"Oh Les, you do know you have to fuck me hard to enter the dimensional nexus? I'm a key, Les. Papus told me so," rasped Elaine, as more pus-covered cockroaches flowed from her mouth.

 

...Les had seen all the Ghostbusters, so he didn't need a Hollywood breakdown...What a smug little geek!...Les smiled to himself; thankfully he had masturbated throughout The Blue Whale Challenge...As a result, he had a penis over a metre long which he had to fold out and back in; he used the bulbous whitened pock-marks of unprotected sex to hide his over-sized member...That was more than the killer millimetre he had initially anticipated when he first started the challenge...He was unsure about what he should do with it; surely a career in P.O.D. pornography beckoned? This beast might just alter the twilight world of reality stardom forever... 

 

...In another cosmically challenged stroke of slop-luck for Les Barloy, a time-fissure suddenly opened and a gigantic reptilian claw reached out from within it and grabbed Elaine Pettifer...She was unsure about what she should do, but the scaly claws obviously probed her well enough and started to pull her through the dimensional time-fissure...Elaine started to bite the claw, but the wound unleashed bizarre tiny blood-penises...Each blood-penis frantically probed her...Elaine gushed bloodied pus, as the foul purple pus started to drain from her body...The rip in time closed with a flurry of pus-covered cockroaches as Elaine disappeared from this weird realm-space....

 

...Les sighed another lengthy sigh; he gently brushed Elaine's cockroach-pus detritus off him...It looked like he was going back to the Colonies after all...He needed to write a confusing prologue to his new Bierce-inspired tome...He had to get these unknown enemy agents off his scent...His instincts told him that the C.O.G. were closing the net around him again...He was sick of scoring for them in all these odd dimensions nowadays...Les secretly wanted to be a mushroom farmer...

 

...These paranoid thoughts were immediately dispelled from Les Barloy's addled mind when the Tyme-Slyde leading to 1969 mysteriously appeared before him; he knew the C.O.G. were behind this too...Les was always up for a good trip and he had always wondered what it was like to live in extreme poverty, in London, during the Sixties...His communal boho-boner made his mind up for him, as he entered the experimental C.O.G. Tyme-Slyde...

 

 

The Alternate Prologue...[For George J. O' Sullivan]...

Introduction or The Alternate Prologue: Not another pretentious author’s note...At least be grateful that this will not be yet another gushing dedication to the author's literary agent (the cursed agent being the actual pre-paid lit-pusher; many indie authors are too modest to gush about themselves too much; they're usually too busy trying to cover the real-life bills we all need to actually live...)...Oh, how embarrassing for the fine scribes that gush so luvverly, thought Howard Wendle...Speaking of annoying luvvies...

 

…This polemical tract for U.R.S.O.M.A.D. research has been directed to all the people who think theatre still continues to be relevant; the crave for "real experiences" remains a smoke screen for reinforcing exclusivitywhilst simultaneously paying lip-service to creative inclusion...As many already know, theatre remains a dry-as-dust mausoleum to the middle-class bourgeois form of this pointlessly elitist type of social cleansing; the agenda cannot be hidden too much nowadays...In fact, they gave up hiding it...

 

...Theatre still revels in remaining out-of-touch and, essentially, continues to be a stylized playground for those who are bored and way too well-off to know what to do with their easily earned money...Yes, that includes the trust-fund baby hipsters out there, too[...Not to mention the prudish offspring of billionaires, who hate the legacy of permissiveness from the Sixties...]...Thus begins the artsy con: Do something consistently topical; occasionally focus on the young and minorities, don't forget that the buzzwords stick to things like “disadvantaged groups”, "political correctness", "highlighting" and the standardized B.A.M.E. tropes or "Universal Themes"; continually play "Devil's Advocate", but only give the poshos you personally know the actual salaried jobs – keep some tokens on hand (and in hope of a fully paid up future role) as mere volunteers to prove that it looks like you really care and are inclusive; get as much funding as you can; if you succeed, simply keep the cycle going for as long as possible for the sake of funding...A perfectly formed, very legal, regular con...

 

...But, paradoxically, only those who have the funds behind them get access to the funding Golden Goose: the cycle plods on, the pedestrian class-based capitalistic art must continue; something that this hypocritical little country has consistently forced upon its largely downtrodden public; and for all the Shakespeare Industry propaganda, there are so few truly ground-breaking creative risks for a country whose population rapidly edges over the sixty million mark...The Yanks really do love our sanitized period bollocks...

 

...It might even be considered embarrassing when they keep going on how much the arts raises (mainly for the vested interests, of course, and their corporate tax-breaks to make them look socially benevolent...); but when they keep repeating the usual protectionist mantra that there will always be room for everyone, just imagine how much more money they could generate with a less token-tick box approach to this quaint theatrical process...Even Sheila Atim – the statuesque actor/singer of Ugandan heritage – speaking in an online arts puff-piece plug-segment (sourced on a certain ad-backed website about a play detailing the L.A. Underworld written by a former EastEnders cast member from North London who moved to L.A...Yes, I agree with you: integrity died a long time ago in these arts...) was dismayed by this approach; those pesky insinuations of tick-box tokenism superseding talent, though you could argue Atim remains right to be dismayed, particularly when those in power to commission are robbing themselves of future talent without realising it...The fear of the backlash remains a scary one for these middle-class elitists...

 

...I do not say all this for a point of merit, qualification, or selfish careerism (Notabitofit: I always thought theatre was ghastly; I am firmly in the Clive James camp and prefer the Crystal Bucket anytime; I still get the same rush when the curtain goes down - if an usher doesn't wake me up first - which might explain why a lot of these dull theatres are struggling and suddenly folding...It must be why they need the aforementioned funding con...)...

 

...Alas, I was driven to compose this somewhat polemical diatribe after a close friend of mine became very suicidal trying to cater to the impossible subjective demands for a smug bunch of dull posh people who held influence at an exclusive (although actively marketed for funding purposes as "inclusive", of course) London theatre...He was never going to make the cut; that was the stereotypical cut of this particular theatre's publicly perceived image, no matter how many workshops, courses, or networking schmooze-fests my poor friend attended; there was always another important anus to lick clean and to longingly kiss...I always told him to stick with the prose in the long-term – both Joyce and Camus had the right idea, despite their love of theatre; the theatrical enterprise was always ridiculously elitist, even when I was growing up...

 

...Apparently, theatre was once considered immediately relevant and cutting edge; but it always lacked that in my mind: theatre was always destined to be a keep out club, despite the bluster of inclusivity, the majority of these middle-class bores who produce all this contemporary hippo-tripe are entirely over-rated; it only had a past that was once deemed “cutting edge” - despite censorship still being in place till 1968 in good old Britain; it may have been because not everyone had a television set (although radio, cinema and the evolution of early TV effectively killed of the golden age of pulp magazines by the early- mid-1950s); and it always remained a barrier indicative of social class...It was about as relevant as a chocolate teapot in the real world but, sadly, my friend was driven to such desperately depressed despair that they have simply vanished, in a haze of psychedelic fog, never to complete their final play (which isn't really what I'm into in all honesty...Thankfully for me, there were no hormonal teenage werewolves or vampires in it either...Of course, there probably remains a longer pop-cultural legacy with those other fantasy Hippopotami...)...

 

...Indeed, I proudly confirm that I have never formally submitted a play - nor would I ever want to in this fickle day and age - but the process does not appear too hard to actually complete these days; the usual emailing and formatting concerns have replaced the fearful postage fretting...And I have received the silent treatment before so that I am no stranger to (most people who care about these trifles do have a bizarre capacity for rejection that remains quite amazing) - but having been made to snore through a few of these plays, the sudden realization at how over-rated and over-priced they all are, it makes me conclude that this whole industry remains blatantly based within the instant internet age; upon seeing some current celebrity of the moment using their fame from a particular film or TV series, to appear in the usual re-packaged stodge...The clue being they call theatre seasons a “cycle”... Think of an old film; it will get adapted into a play with another star-studded cast...Hippo-fodder always springs to mind but they view the masses as hypnotized chickens; they only think they see people coming these days; not a bad tax-backed con though...Surely I am not alone in thinking that this elitist art-form needs seriously radical diversification?... It technically becomes just like an extension of the middle-class modern art machine, if not a poorer branch of it as it does not make half the money of modern art. I only state this if we were to be objective high-grade frothing capitalists about all this...The bourgeois playwright usually only wants to be a devil's advocate; yet another re-hash of the known, but without the preachy feel...Though they could think outside the box, but they fear that will risk them losing the funding...

 

…Art and money remains another creative argument; Manny Farber remains a great reference of that particular debate, as Farber, in my mind, eloquently discusses such “Showbusiness” matters with a gravitas many post-everything trendies fail to understand; but it leaves me with wondering about the future of why people waste so much time over it all...Might as well give it all away these days, particularly if you have no film/book tie-in or film/West End celebrity-fest tie-in…What’s the point, eh?…And if I would compose some play it would be available for free and could be easily read aloud, like Chaucer, our one true bard…This whole chapter cements my hatred of the trust-fund generation, those dull, very sheltered, middle-class people who feel to get on in life they should have their own house in Mile End and another one in the South of France...God, all these pesky snobbish poshos  – and their wannabe bourgeois bum-licking acolytes -- don't they just make you want to hurl all over them?...Hopefully, they'll politely revolt and all re-locate to Saturn...Rebellion expunged...

 

...The alien screwed up the old academic monograph and changed sex again; boredom can be irksome, thought Erozian Zinny...It was getting windy again; Erozian loved to feel the breeze on their alien thighs...

 

...There was no point reading this disgruntled opinion piece, despite the amusing fact that he had been following Howard Wendle for sometime...The alien knew everything about Howard Wendle and his mutated sperm; they were able to manipulate time to recall every event: from Howard's first wet-dream to the first time he defecated in his pants on public transport while he was completely off his face on British champagne and crack cocaine...Oh what larks, thought Erozian Zinny...

 

Curiously Brainwashing [Volume Four: Paradise Street Club]

 ...Callum Cheevers entered the abandoned building...It was surprising to see abandoned properties in Tufnell Park. London was constantly in the grip of some moribund process of gentrification. Everything was ridiculous over-priced and completely soul-destroying...The real people were about somewhere; did you want to know what the weather was like too?...It was always miserable, even when the sun shined, and it had been tough to find a good plumber or a good cleaner willing to work for less than the minimum wage if you included food allowances into the pay package...I didn't mind the old Luncheon Vouchers, they even used to be accepted at the old BBC canteen [maybe they still are; it remains a mystery...Of course, for legal reasons, I am talking about the Barabbas Bonk Camp and not the other BBC - just in case those middle-class pencil-dicks get a bit touchy over there; in their ivory towers...]...To what end this process upon London might have had was left unknown; further research was required but it will be reviewed in the future...Currently, the effects appeared to be purely destructive, but nobody could really tell who it might benefit in the long-term, even if the system was designed to make sure the rich kept getting richer[umm, so the system's rigged, right?...]....Why go to a food bank when you can get a loan[shark]?...Well, the super-rich cronies are too rich to really care, aren't they?...

 

...[Insert some Backstory for Yank audience here] Callum Cheevers had grown up in London...His mother made him wear M&S briefs...He ate Ricicles, not Rice Krispies! After a period of time passed, he grew up and liked S&M [if I recall, "Parsnips" was his first safeword...]...He was a strange fellow: a young man with white hair. He had changed his hair colour to white as he wanted to be different.... He also had a repressed homosexual crush on his semi-retired Life-Coach-Guru, Tommy Tellman...Tellman had a long, flowing, mane of white hair...When Cheevers was a child he used to call Tellman 'Merlin'...Of course, Tellman wasn't really Merlin, but he was a constant spiritual projection...Tellman's actual body would never leave the Bermuda Triangle after crashing his Nayair Stealth prototype there back in 1947...

 

...Tommy Tellman – Cheevers' current Life-Coach Guru - was completely unaware of this repressed crush, of course, but had recommended Cheevers for an administrative position at the C.O.G. (Continuity of Government)...Cheevers had never thought about his career much...Being an amateur pop-pornographer was quite time consuming, but he had realized he needed a stable, regular, form of income that didn't involve regularly contracting herpes...Pop-pornography was a somewhat esoteric career niche; just like being a ceramicist...He also had to stop fucking strangers in his spare time, he was worried about his addictively risky sexual behaviours; he already gained a bit of reputation on Grindr...Cheevers had also been abducted by aliens - or time-travellers posing as aliens - more times than he cared to remember; those pesky reptilian dimensional beings from wherever, always giving him a good probing...He always wondered why he wanted to fuck a Critter or a Boglin when he was younger...Why would a kid do that?...Oh God, not again, he found a clue: it was a pzi-letter from Les Barloy...In Callum's addled mind, he heard and read [Les always spoke in these queer dandyish tones]: Indeed, greetings and salutations [enternamehere];...

 

...Many thanks for this sudden electrified friendship; it is very kind of you to send me this somewhat sudden, special, request, but I am slightly curious as to why you have disturbed an esoteric dandy like me?...

 

...The cynic in me concurs, having been on [unnamed site] for almost a decade, that I am sensing, almost with Jedi-like precision, that you are angling for a review of a book(s)?...I have not checked over your profile yet, so I do not know if you have any books that grace it, or if you are another bookless profile friend-collector...No offence meant there if either, of course...

 

...Alas, I will get around to perusing any tomes that you recommend to me, or any that you have published upon any known forum, including here; but I should warn you that I am quite averse to the tweeny-teen tropes of the werewolf/vampire variety...I have read so many of them in the past couple of years and, currently, with regards to this Hot Topic-boosting genre, enough is enough for me...

 

...I even had to laugh as someone on here, perhaps unknowingly, named their werewolf novel after an actual place in Milton Keynes [it's one of the few that remains a cracking read to be fair...]; though I am never short of an opinion, which the worth of could be viewed highly subjectively, my educated guess remains that many of these authors merely want some free editing pointers...Private comments are appreciated, though I did hundreds of reviews on another, now folded,book site and left many public comments there, which were rated by the author on this other site, and you were lucky to get a couple of genuine comments back...However, there used to be an unwritten favour-bank on B***R**[...Can you guess what site it is yet?...] but that largely got abandoned some time ago...

 

...It is amazing really (probably unbelievably so to many teeny-tweenies) as this site used to be firmly for the adults, a predominantly erotica-based site; it has changed ever so dramatically in just a couple of years but, sadly, it has now succumbed to the same predictably banal commercial pressures alongside all the rest of the other bland lot of book sites...I guess it cannot be too bad to struggle on this long for an aggregator company like what this site really is...

 

...Of course, I genuinely wish you well, and I wholeheartedly encourage you in all of your literary pursuits, if at all applicable; and I hope this Yuletide has been one of merriment for you, and I wish you every happiness for the New Year...

 

...Peace to you for Love is Law,

 

Les Barloy

 

...The letter was utterly hopeless to an occult-inspired pop-pornographer [though Callum imagined that Les was using a Smith-Corona typewriter whilst sitting on a dildo that had been privately developed to ejaculate jelly-eggs into his sore rectal passage; the thrill of impregnation was well-documented, even on Vice...]...Callum slowly realized that he was not able to use this for any ritual; his semen had already formed constellations over it...

 

...However, he did get another sudden erection...He didn't think it too odd; it was still the Age of Aquarius, which only lasts two thousand years or so; Callum occasionally treated his penis like a trans-dimensional water-dowser...He liked all long dark tunnels and big black holes...He wanted to find out what made that queer Seer tick; Les was also kinky with ghost people...Callum secretly wanted to see Les Barloy in drag again...Would Barloy show him his space-ship?....Les called it something else...Callum wondered if he had a big one or a little one - he didn't mind a good riding; he could not remember too clearly when they had both hit the rocks...An attic full of toys and a broom-cupboard of blankets...Les told him he liked women, too, and he preferred the feel of feminine clothing...No wonder they ended up at that filthy U.R.S.O.M.A.D. warehouse after Astoria closed down for good...

 

 

Brainwashy (C[o]nt)

[....18:18: repetition equals insanity....]...Tommy Tellman received this pzi-letter after his pulp fiction burnout; at this point, he had stopped drinking a bottle of whiskey a day along with his prescribed and self-medicated medications; he still smoked like a trooper, though, which was more surprising for someone who was nearly one-hundred and two years old...

...Tellman did not know what to make of Callum Cheevers; he was always so touchy-feely, Tommy was baffled as to why this was...Tommy had always thought Callum Cheevers a bit queer...

 

 ...Within his addled mind, Tellman read:

 

...All well and good, Mr Tellman, but I always maintain that writers' block remains an industry creation... 

 

...Us folk, from that quaint little island across the pond, have a good old chuckle at all this on Greek Street and jokingly call it "Blighter's Rock" - it is merely where the writing that is being produced is not considered, or viewed, as commercially viable in any shape or form; in some cases the writer themselves places no worth on it either ...You are actually delving into old pulp psychology...I do not know whether this is intentional or unintentional, but you should peruse the old pulp writers, even the post-Second World War "fast" writers; Robert Silverberg was turning out half a million words a month[actual semi-informative note: this was two-hundred and fifty thousand words of fiction, plus two-hundred and fifty thousand words of non-fiction: the great Silverberg was interested in anthropology and the study of ancient civilisations and penned many educational books for adults and children...]...I think that is unheard of even by today's politically correct standards...And, at the end of the day, we are not all the same; there will always be some particular issue that makes for awkward comparison, like Anthony Burgess had an inoperable brain tumour but still completed 'Earthly Powers'; though I have noticed that a state of mind analogy usually parallels with the head-space chatter...

 

 ...And, though you have your own reasons for abandoning your erotica novel, despite the psychological comfort blanket of other new writers you have met online, through articles, or on other planes of existence, writers' block remains a complete invention - usually to assist other jobbing writers, minor dry-as-dust academics and bored friends of the publisher, et al...Every writer you have met? Really?...I am astounded; where else do you hang out?...

 

 ...I think something must be mentioned about that unseeing, all grasping, pressure of commercialism: it is the subjective value of critical merit, usually from formal critical opinion or awards, that elevates a 'Ulysses' from a 'Finnegan's Wake'...If you follow my drift there, of course...The second-hand book sector are not saying that about the "runaway success" that was the hilariously dire 'Fifty Shades of Grey'...In fact they are starting to destroy [hopefully, recycle] the surplus copies and it has no future high-end sell-on value; a huge long-term own-goal for the publishers (maybe it was Bloomsbury, they are deluded these days...), despite the big-money film deals...

 

 ...What value someone places upon the written word is literally that subjective; as an extreme example, if you have laboured for four decades over a tome which you decided will never see the light of day - like Ralph Ellison-- then it is probably never meant to be published in a form that will satisfy the author...Not to mention the fact Ellison didn't mind a tipple, or ten...

 

...Put simply, for all your good intentions on your blog, if you want to write you will - regardless of this or that: I should cite the ever-brilliant Katherine Dunn (she did not write anything for twenty years then suddenly published 'Geek Love' in 1989) and the great Octavia E. Butler (I think the obstacles she overcome to publish were truly remarkable)...Harper Lee's [ed.note: refer to 'Go Set A Watch Man' ] a great example too...[...P.S...Maybe not so much for J.K. Rowling - who had not been the first to pioneer the seminal idea of a young wizard - but was the first to open that door of readership to millions who, for some unknown reason, only decided to read a book about a young wizard when mass marketing hype dictated that they should do so in the fear of missing out...] 

 

 …And it is interesting that I have received a reply from you now as I was thinking if I had offended you by my bristly, dandyish, parlance; and that maybe I had got [censored] into some trouble for him recommending your page(and aforementioned erotica novel) to me; I was feeling guilty about that, as [censored] has to be one of the nicest, most thoroughly decent, people on this entire global B***R** labyrinth that I have ever met...

 

 ...I probably should add that I have never stopped writing; it is indeed very natural [to me], but I know much of what I produce is somewhat unpublishable and sheer commercial suicide - henceforth my snug within esoterica - however, I think this is not merely a "younger" author cop-out...Notabitofit: I feel that younger authors can be more dynamic and, in many ways, more adaptable to creative flourishes that would be impossible to consider later on in life[the same old cut up shit you do; all this randomised stuff, it's the same old same old all mashed up...Your mind must be a mess...Why bother?...18.18: repetition equals insanity...Now write again in your excrement and submit in time for Turner Prize...18.18: repetition equals insanity...]...God bless Angela Carter, Mervyn Peake, and David Lindsay who are great examples of this as is, in some ways, John Franklin Bardin (a.k.a. Gregory Tree)....H.P. Lovecraft and Ambrose Bierce never even got around to tackling a full-length novel; the latter thinking they were effectively a "padded" short story and that these new gimmicky "novels" would never catch on with the then rather limited reading populace...Oh, Time certainly amuses....18.18pm: repetition equals insanity...

 

...But encouraging people to write, is literally like going back in time and becoming Henry Miller encouraging Anais Nin to keep writing (and not to worry about what the dull banker husband thinks)...I think that myself encouraging you to literally write anything, is [in my humble opinion] probably better than merely accepting and psychologically justifying a "commonality" of the phantom problem of not having the time or the right mind-set at any given time to actually write something you feel worthy of...Of course, always read widely, but do not forget to indulge in an escapism, or expression, unmatched by any other medium....

 

...I sincerely hope your creativity does have a life of its own and comes back to you in the not-to-distant future; I also wish you every success within whatever endeavours you wish to pursue, Mr Tellman; I myself thank you also for the similar sentiment, though I am a bit long in the tooth for luck these days...

 

…Alas, many thanks for your in-depth reply; I humbly wish you and your family seasonal Yuletide tidings and a happy new year...[...6.18 p.m. or 18:18: repetition equals insanity...How wacky is that?...]...

 

...Peacefully Yours,

 

 Callum Cheevers

 

[...18.18: repetition equals insanity....]

 

...Good old Tommy Tellman realized that Callum Cheevers and Les Barloy had a lot in common; it made him smile to himself, but they sounded so alike...Maybe they were conjoined in different times; it made Tellman think of an orga-nexus he had once witnessed...In the parlance of a Gunther, of course...Tellman had hardly recalled any of the old ways; the Old One's rituals had become corrupted and were poorly translated...He realized he had to get out of Frinton-on-sea and jump back into his own Hawker Typhoon Tyme-Craft...Tyme-Pyres even had to walk to the beat after all...

 

 

SpaceTracer Ltd

...Callum Cheevers looked out of the window [...18.18: repetition equals insanity...]; he had his eye on the weird plant-creature he had found at break time…The class was strange; the kids all seemed to be faceless then exchange the  exact same face when he tried to talk to them. He didn't like this demonic cult school...Maybe Cheevers just had vision problems…He did insist on having a psycedelic breakfast...From the corner of his eye, Cheevers noticed that his winged brain had just flown past him again...He felt an immediate seizural boner coming on...

 

"Maybe I've just got a couple of problems," said Cheevers.

 

He said this to himself as he had no friends among the faceless masses...He kept coming on...

 

...There must be a lot of face-lifting going on thought Cheevers. Of course, you are right: Cheevers was a total loner. All the statistics pointed toward Callum Cheevers killing himself one day…Who aspires to be just another statistic in this capitalist-democracy which remains proud of its perpetual inequality?…Gradualism failed years ago, it can't get any slower - he was a shaman coming on strong; it will not go on much longer…Check out the CLASS website  you ninny!....Don't trsut government figures, they always rig them...At least that is one thing you can depend on here in this earthen-realm - not to mention the usual hypocrisy of “civilization”…

 

...His mother had just recently survived a suicide attempt and Callum was moved to another school called The Cheviot Institute…It was near a research facility called the U.R.S.O.M.A.D. (Universally Recovered Studies On Multiversal Apex Dimensions. Apparently, the acronym was prone to changing...)…It seemed to be attached to the school, The Cheviot Institute, and was operated by the curiously secretive Pzionik Committee…He did not miss being a dick...Old Bogunn would be forever within him...It was the name of the demon-cock he borrowed; he shouldn't have chopped off his own cock and swapped it for ancient demon-cock but boys will be boys...

 

...Callum recalled a hypersleep space dream: Once upon a time, there was a girl. This girl was a battered woman called Vonda. She preferred to be called Von. She was a sex worker; big in the game, she had been doing this for decades, since she was a teenager; she was now [censored for legal reasons]...She had been used by the C.O.G. to offer her body to various entities....She was used to getting around the Old Ones. She always told people to call her Von. She got fucked. A lot. It was a bad fucking time for her. And it sucked. She sucked. A lot of sucking for Von. And licking. Blah, Blah, yuddayuddadoodah. It was not tops bloopie. Time flies. She started her periods young; she had hormonal urges too young. She was getting fucked by strange men, normally aliens, who just stuck to her. A lot of really strange men, occult-hippy types, all kinds of weirdo-freaks. Sometimes older women, those who had played the telepathic time-frame, who knew the ways of the Old Ones...The men were all different though. Von did not discriminate. They all had different kinds of cocks...They have different ways, different smells. She was like an animal, a hormonal savage from some other time...primitive gloop covered her...Her vaginal discharge glowed in the dark... She got primitive with [censored]...

 

...Two old corporate lawyers for the C.O.G. were the only members of the Pzionik Committee...Cheevers knew they were trying to monitor him and filter his learnt experiences through a secretive splinter company called G.O.C., a company he had heard little about, apart from vague flashbacks from his previous existences…

 

He just wanted a normal school life. He didn't even have one friend. There was even a South Park episode that satirized him...Maybe he just imagined it...Who really knows?...I am not his doctor, yet...I will get to that later...

 

...He had to wait till he got back home to find a friend...His online friends did not count as he had never met any of them...And his admission that his main aspiration to be a Private Investigator or a Pop-Pornographer had driven a wedge between his communications with them all…

 

…It was boring really...Electro-magnetic particles plagued him...His toaster was possessed - again! - and most of his electrical house-hold appliances were classified as pzi-zen-pzionik. This meant they were as classed as E.T.B.E’s and viewed by the Pzionik Committee as muto-cyber-demonic…

 

Cheevers approached his ZxToaster...There was a deep depression within it, like a vaginal-navel...His soul was currently entering a mutated private investigator...It was not really a toaster; it was a projection of his demonic cock talking him...It had taken a form that would not freak Callum out; the last host went into cardiac arrest and terminated the Tyme-Soul transference...

 

"Speak" said Cheevers, touching its soft, spongy, phallus-lever and adjusting the temperature knob which was very sticky...Cheevers did not mind; he had good memories of long, sticky, knobs...

 

"Speak to me, please," begged Cheevers.

 

"Sure buddy, I'll keep going till the cows come home," the ZxToaster replied. "Call me ToddiX, I'm not too demonic you know. I think I was once a person - why it must've been only a couple of years ago. But I took the wrong steps and--"

 

"OK, that’s fine. I don't need your life story Todd. I've never had to call a toaster Todd before. It's a bit bizarre," Cheevers grumbled.

 

"Not really. A sweet purple nut that reminds you of pudenda might sound a tad bizarre. Or a penis made of cheese - actually, that sounds like a really cool idea,” purred ToddiX, sounding somewhat aroused. This toaster was a filthy chatterbox.

 

“How do you mean?” Callum Cheevers asked.

 

ToddiX replied, “Nothing can be called odd, or bizarre these days. O.K., I've got a thing for purple nuts and smeggy cheese. What’s odd is that I was hoping I'd get a radio or something really Hi-Tech built into me - you know, like off some retro Sci-Fi show? I’ve convinced myself that I'm not just a demon-tech toaster but also an eternal sidekick to all superheroes. Like you buddy. All about multi-tasking, networking, schmoozing and shafting, and doing lots of selfishly careerist things without really thinking about it. Soon you'll get cookers with detachable toasters; burning flesh-pots, stick them online, they feed off data - these cookers will fuck you in a blind fury when you feel horny!"

 

ToddiX the Zxtoaster was a great piece of kit[a fucking demon penis, whatever will they think of next...I remember watching the classic Bad Biology...A noughties one-off...]...The next moment, Toddix was smoking a dark purple pipe...It was all a bit much for the worried demonic appliance. The foul stench of the smoke filled Cheevers' nostrils; Cheevers smiled. His fifteen years felt like a lifetime more than the demonic toasters other experiences.

 

Cheevers knew the poor toaster might have blown a fuse.

 

"Silly ZxToaster, I'm not going to get rid of you. I like being here in the Mufugodrealm."

 

ToddiX agreed. But he did not know where Mufugodrealm was…ToddiX wanted to get to North Wembley…

 

“I guess it might be better than the real earth. I'd have to put up with the real Kilburn otherwise. I don't think I could handle that,” said ToddiX.

 

...He had strange memories of Kilburn; weird and wild nights in the great Good Ship...He was a queer type, one might say. He had no problems; it was just that the world was not the weird fantastical one he had now made his home....He did not blame his mum's suicide attempt. These curious oddities occur from time to time...Callum Cheevers was the first human/demonic toaster hybrid; he really liked being inside ToddiX and wanted to stay there…

 

…Tasteful and well-toasted...“I just think I was abducted way too much; I loved the gutter more than the stars but those naughty E.T.B.E.'s were a bit pervy," bawled Cheevers...Maybe one of them was my future self from Trooluz..."You know, I don't want to be a Trance Terror forever,” lamented Cheevers...

 

Pzi-PhyxU-Trance

 ...It was a strange inter-planetary show, not much had happened for a long time...It was all power tripping, the usual stream of consciousness stuff...And you're a Yank so you want a load of dull backstory don't you? Flesh it out? What are they on about! I don't know what kind of pants his grandfather had on...Of course, the eternally great, somewhat criminally under-rated, Iain M. Banks had got there already (lovers of the lit: thank goodness Hollywood finds him un-filmable and will never ruin Banks' great masterpieces -- enjoy them while they are still available...)...This world was always getting a virtual brainwash; quick dry and rinse, see what happens to a society full of forgetful plebeians...Oh do leave poor Owen Jones alone; there are not many posh Northern Grammar School Kids left these days...

 

...The dead were talking loudly these days; they were jamming to their own curse; the curse of life which was so hard; the petty worries that immortality brings...The life-death recognition laws were a nuisance too, there was always a morass of bureaucratic red-tape to navigate as usual...It could be all so simple...They were now truly free spirits and found out they were not actually dead...They had not really died; they had transcended to live to new worlds, new earth-like planets, just hope the dying star holds out a couple billion more years or so...But different spiritworlds conflicted as their minds melded; the cosmic mantras [mix two parts car battery acid; one part red phosphorous; wait a moment, silly me - that's for something completely different!...]; the weird manna shifted and the vital metamorphosis was mutated lifeforms, unknown to the life-realm before: the dead are living, the living are dead...The flow of my subconscious thinks exactly the same as my relation, Z.F. Galvez [1750-1820]; we are one; we think like Edward Kelley…We said that when we were all buried together, but that might probably be another vignette for another time...

 

...My queer relations: I am unsure if this Z.F. Galvez[1750-1820] was a great uncle or a distant cousin as some of our relatives were very duplicitous over how truly related they were; and if they had merely bought into the family name...Trust-funders, eh? They haven't changed, as long as the guarantors were mug enough, they would buy up everywhere cheap...The first thrill of land addiction; to own a piece of earth that you can call yours...It was a strange chance, that Z.F. Galvez was accused of being an occultist apologist in 1815. He was seen with Henry Hunt; he was also seen with Feargus O’Connor...It was not all about knifing and forking for him, it was also a lot of spooning...He liked all kinds and all ways; he wanted the real threat to come from those within the other worlds…

 

…What was this queer masterplan? It was not specified but this introduction releases the fragments of Jezu Evadef and the August-Ham Man...

 

...Elaine Pettifer was not bothered by this experimentation [...dirty little floosie, she loved a good old probing didn't she?...]...She had been well-trained by the C.O.G.; they passed themselves off as a government function, but they were operating outside of it. Elaine was a part-time Witch too, an eager disciple of the occult...The deception was intricately precise. They all had higher interests, as you might have guessed. One of them was to get Fenton to report back from Trigyalon, or Trooluz at the least. He was done with Earth these days. Elaine had been sent in to sort him out. She didn’t like to talk to him. Small talk cannot count as meaningful dialogue which should be recorded. So Elaine stared at Jezu Evadef and August Ham Man...

 

...Elaine had not told he was the pzionik spy. But she made out that she was a scientist. She knew that these misfits knew very little as well. They didn’t even know about the millisecond pulsar discovered in ‘82...Or about what was going on Ultima Thule, or the FRBs from a billion or so lightyears away...Once [censored] had gone down to the laboratory, she knew he would be convinced that she was a psychic, and that she knew he was a closet fantasy junkie...She was watching him on the mini-cams. It’s lucky he didn’t know about the toy-cams...Why stick root vegetables there, she thought...She was quietly innocent...

 

...Elaine had made sure her colleagues - Agent Goodnow and Agent Goodmann, who were inside the hidden laboratory - were informed that Z.F. Galvez was on his way. They all knew about super-space/super-time principles. They had written papers on Timelessness versus Time. They were the real experts, but Elaine had no real idea. She suddenly hated all known experts...

 

...Elaine laughed as she didn’t have a clue about it all. She had enough bluster, she was able to blag anything. Everything she ha thought of was cobbled together on the back of a pack of Camels...She just let them know...She didn’t know they were infatuated with her…She thought they had dreamed of a witch and sometimes a woman called Zoe Zip…But she knew he would travel time and think that he might dream about being a "Time Traveller"....That was the original concept anyway...Trigyalon was an unpopular detergent used in the 1950s…This was the first part to the theory to fit the conspiracy...And the psycho-chemical science behind controlling all humans...

 

...Elaine filled out her report - she was in no rush. She was always trying to get onto a more exciting mission. And Goodmann and Goodnow had started to freak her out. Regardless, Elaine was a careerist and determined to get around. She wanted to join those legendary Agents, Parsons and Hubbard, on the Babalon Working...Hubbard was such a skilled brainwasher he had accidentally developed his own religion [sect]. He thought it harmless fun, but many lavished it with money and considered it seriously as a life-style choice...When Elaine was teenager she had pictures on her wall of Papus, Hubbard, and Jerry Cornelius...That was far more progressive and she felt she was up to the challenge. She contacted the Babalon Project...

 

...Elaine then checked on Jezu Evadef and August-Ham Man. They were in a containment field; both were soundly asleep. She looked at the mission file. She started feeling sick, as she started to read the mission file...

 

 

Thank God for the Orgone Accumulator!

...Trogger smiled...Another world destroyed. It was a dull world, anyway...

 

...The rocky surface smouldered in radioactive dust. It had been cut with cocaine. Those clouds kept raining natural cocaine[ don't worry, it was only about 9mg in strength; enough for your average home-made cola...It just took the edge off only a little really...]...It was a real snowfall of happy dust...That was the best thing about climatic vagaries...

 

...Thankfully, for Trogger, he was more of a lysergic kind of guy...Trogger decided to drink some of his lizard venom juice...It was milky in colour, with a salty aftertaste, and slipped down his throat with ease; that as the way he liked it after all: warm and salty...He had been saving it once this world was saved. By saved, Trogger actually meant destroyed...

 

...This world had it coming...Trogger decided to sit and relax in the peaceful quiet of the radioactive atmosphere. Trogger was wondering when to pull the core out; he needed a lot of heat for another time fissure to appear. It’s all energy at the end of the day...

 

A small door appeared. Professor Norkgrub the academic zoophyte entered the fray.

 

“Jesus, Trogger, you really wreck the universe for kicks!” Professor Norkgrub lamented, somewhat loudly.

 

Trogger grunted. He managed to understand this strange creature. He knew lots of strange creatures but this little zoophyte was a guide to Trogger’s wild ways. Norky took out a vidi-mind-file.

 

“Yep, just as I thought – another dull rim planet," said the academic zoophyte.

 

Trogger grunted in reply; Professor Norkgrub chuckled as he activated the trans-dimensional mind-file 

 

"They all get dull laws, all world's are exactly the same" lamented Norkgrub. "There’s no good shit going on here, Trogger. I don’t blame you for putting this planet out of it’s misery. Bloody humans can’t manage shit - can they?!”

 

[*ACTIVATED MENTAL SEQUENCE* RECOVERED 1979 INTERVIEW WITH DAVID 'KID' JENSEN RESTORED...] 

 

...Doctor Horatio Veckle phoned me back home...He got really excited about something, blabbered all kinds of long scientific words. I've forgotten most of Veckle's call...

...According to the odd Doc, he had just met a real vampire. This vamp was a complete fuck up freak, and Veckle said he had been some government secret weapon back in the day. All I know is that this just might be my break. I have been looking at this and selling advert space in The Nutcough Hills Herald isn't my idea of ambition. I have definitely had too many setbacks....

...So I arranged to meet Veckle for lunch. It wasn't a bad day, just raining as usual, and I needed to make sure I wasn't being followed. I'm not paranoid, but everything I do makes me a bit paranoid. I refuse to wear makeup and panties after a couple of odd assassination attempts on my freelance local drugs cases. I don't mind looking like a hag. I pack my various mobile phones, my first aid kit and full prescriptions; personal use narcotics: a crate of Jim Beam, four kilos of weed, a brick of methamphetamine, and just a couple kilos of coke and heroin. It's useful on the streets - and for my personal survival...I finish my breakfast cocktail and head out...

 ...I am meeting Veckle at the Burger Shack around the corner from Nutcough Hills's old cinema. I hate Nutcough Hills . The more I have to endure this place, the more I want to go. maybe I'm afraid to send my CV out more. Either way, this lead might be it for me. I get to the Burger Shack early...Doctor Veckle keeps me waiting ten minutes. I'm not counting though, I finish my twentieth Marlboro and order a lunchtime cocktail. It's O.K. here...

...Veckle has arrived and sits on a tiny neon stool...I smile at the fat burger guy, who's still looking at me funny...Maybe he's checking my ass out...Veckle looks at me too, sipping his orange juice. I forgot it's a Burger Shack, so I order a slushy and tip in half the Jim Beam. The fat burger guy serving us has gone back to the bog to bash one out. This gives me time to crush a Mandrax, out of my personal First Aid kit, into the foul shit they call a slushy - just to give it some taste...

...Veckle smiles at me, once I've downed half my slushy cocktail. I feel good. And I've smeared my lip gloss, but don't care. I just hope that gloss wasn't trying to poison me...

...I look at Veckle. He's a fat dude, maybe forty plus, maybe younger; has this gingery CNN-hair and chunky Jessica Fletcher spectacles. Fat people always look older for some reason, but that turns me on. I imagine humping him in various sexual positions; I think he might be exhausted after sixty-nining... I think about what his crinkly cock looks like, whether he's circuumcised or not, and smile back at him...

...Veckle gives me a weird look, and passes me a file, badly covered by a Burger Shack napkin...

 

“What's this?” I ask.

 

Veckle grinned.“It's my research. I want you to take it. I think I'm getting squeezed.”

 

“Squeezed?”

 

“Yes, Paige, they're fucking trying to get me! They want the crazy vamp back. They want the fucking weapon back!”

 

“Quit bullshitting me, Horatio! Tell me what's going on?”

 

Veckle starts to sweat - this is full-on fat guy sweat. “I never said to you my name was Horatio, did I?”

 

I roll my eyes. Not this again. Nobody likes a paranoid doctor...A paranoid android's bad enough...

 

“No, it's on your office door - so what? I done my research on you, you know me? No secrets, lover. And I think you're the real deal. You're a crazy inventor and I'm a washed-up hack! Fuck all that backstory stereotype shit - I think your heart's in the right place - believe me Horatio, mine is too!”

 

“Spare me the cliches, kiddo”, slurred Horatio.

 

“What? There's not many local heroes left. But to take in weird test subjects like this is pretty cool. I was thinking of making a documentary. It might get things, more what's the word?”

 

“I don't know Paige. I'm getting jittery. I'm moving out of Nutcough. I thought this little village would be safe. I'm wrong. I was thinking of going to Skegness, but I'm not so sure now.”

 

“Shit, Skeggy? Really?”

 

“It's got a great scene going on there, and I like the fresh air. I want you to meet Iron Ass, too.”

 

“Iron Ass?” I laugh.

 

Veckle shrugged. “I'm sorry that I didn't trust you at first, Paige, but I think I know what kind of mind you have and I think you can help keep us on record. Just in case we go missing, if you get what I'm saying.”

 

“Iron Ass? You fucking serious, Doc? Why he called Iron Ass? That's some weird name for a mutated vampire?”

 

Horatio smirks, shrugging. “You'll see when you meet him.”

 

...At that moment, Detective Bryan Simms entered. He used to live round here, and keeps poking his nose in. He was supposed to be some kinda of tough cop and, unsurprisingly, Simms looked wasted again. I know he used to have a meth lab and opium plantation just outside Nutcough Hills. He stares at us, with his piercing blue and red eyes. He's not in one of his moods...

 

...Horatio looks scared, suddenly unable to speak - just a series of nods and winks to me; he takes his foul-looking orange squash away with him. I don't know how he can drink that shit. That OJ's not important though it might be later, as I feel piercing eyes on me. What was in that OJ? I'm sure I get the feeling that Simms is checking me out again...He had to be still pretty young, he must be only forty-five or something close to forty. But he definitely works out, or sport fucks a lot...

...Simms pretends he's deciding what to order and I scoff at him, stuffing another Marlboro into my mouth and getting away...

 

...At that, Trogger grunted again as he carefully wiped his blood-gun - just as Professor Norkgrub closed the mysterious vidi-mind-file...

 

Slipstream Saviour

 TRANZ-READOUT SCHEMATIC: 448PSYCHE...{BRAINDEATH RECORDED 23:59 17/12/2626}

 

...Once upon a time, there was a girl...Deathly cutie-cute-cabbies... This girl was a battered woman called Vonda. She preferred Von. She was a sex worker; big in the game, she had been doing this for decades, since she was a teenager; she was now[censored for legal reasons]...She had been used by the C.O.G. to offer her body to various entities....She was used to getting around the Old Ones. She always told people to call her Von. She got fucked. A lot. It was a bad fucking time for her. And it sucked. She sucked. A lot of sucking for Von. And licking. Blah, Blah, yuddayuddadoodah. It was not tops bloopie. Time flies. She started her periods young; she had hormones too young...She was getting fucked by strange men, normally aliens just stuck to her. A lot of really strange men, occult types, all kinds of weirdo freaks. Sometimes older women, those who had played the telepathic timeframe, who knew the ways of the Old Ones. The men were all different though. Von did not discriminate. They all had different kinds of cocks. They have different ways, different smells. She was like an animal, a mutated hormone savage from some other time. She got primitive...Ugh-Ergh..Ghastly...Oh so beastly!...

 

...She needed a lot of tests. Whenever she urinated it burned a lot. She thought of Janey...Was Ann[e] Summers related to Gabriel?...These odd fuckers wanted to piss on her and inside her. Sometimes she got her to fuck other women with large strap-on dildos and get it on with their elderly husbands. They were all in the Dali School of erotic fetishism...Seriously, they were a depraved bunch; unfortunately for Von, some preferred to get rough. Really fucking rough; Von got hurt badly. Stitches and lots of TCP were needed, not to mention the emergency PCP...There was not much recovery time...Sometimes she recognized them; they were her ex- sugar daddies, they always paid for everything despite it being a cashless process. She became property. She was part of the account...She had lost herself....

 

...Even though Von Howzen had everything she was really unhappy about her Party Girl status. She had faster internet  these days and saw the world, or the world produced by the narrow online world, and had an idea that Paris Hilton had much better rates. Kim and Tulisa were not far behind, though rumour had it Pammie set the benchmark. Von started to think. But Von was still only a kid at the time, and had not got into K-Pop yet. That happened when she was twelve...

 

...It was a weird time, she was listening to a lot of retro stuff. She got a ginger afro. She got fluorescent hair extensions. She got tattoos. She drank alcohol and took many well-known easily available illegal substances. She was getting experienced and very loaded all the time, until she got a weird chill-feeling: that thought when you remember that you're not enjoying things because you are stuck in the nostalgic fog of lushness...She wanted to know more about her past and her future...She wanted the future to go into fast-forward...She did not have a remote control to do that, which she was amazed had no been invented yet by some tech company...Well, they know every other aspect of your life - why not those parts too?...

 

...Von wanted to be cool and get out of her "jam". She never went to school, and was sick of pleasing bored old men, no matter how rich they might be. Do you know that she remembered her name? She was Vonda, and she said this everytime she got doubly penetrated and had to suck or whip, or be whipped, then get bloodied. It was all good fun now, Von had convinced herself she was strong. She developed skills as kick-boxing, she got good with guns, kitanas, and pressure point one-touch punches. This happened while she worked on an army porno. She had to fuck a donkey; she killed it. She started trying to method act...

 

...Von's ex-daddies and uncles became scared of her; many had heart attacks and got impaled by dildos, or died from exhaustion. She fucked them to death. She was learning new techniques. She changed her surname - really trying to reinvent herself in her teenage years - from Howton to Howzen. She liked the name Vonda and was pleased it wasn't Vera. She was a fucking survivor! She liked cosplay! She was a princess porno superstar vigilante! Von Howzen was born. She was also born with more problems. She didn't let me know just yet. She smiled; I don't know why. I suppose it's cute, but she followed me into the Gents; it went quiet...

 

 

...Scenester Escoterica... [Ed.Note: Please refer to Danny L. Jorgensen's "The Esoteric Scene" (1992)...]

...It was no surprise to me to find the usual duo at the Burger Shack. I've been following Paige Chance ever since she went freelance. I know she's selling advert space again - her cover, not mine - but she always does this! And I know she knows most of the criminals and cops in the whole of Nutcough Hills. My insurance is this: I got footage of Dr Horatio Veckle with crack whores and rent boys, getting his rocks off. Horatio must've been living like a monk for so long, but he's a right goer when he gets going...

...Then again, so am I! I just didn't tell him I was filming, though he should've known I'd pull something like that! So much for being a smart quack. I already know what Horatio and Paige are chatting about. Seeing them together has made me think my original theory's spot on. Horatio and Paige are protecting the vampire, pathetically known as Iron Ass. I know Iron Ass because I'm meant to take him away from Horatio before those C.O.G. government freaks get him....

...This is my plan: I'm going to blackmail Horatio, then fuck up Paige. She's pretty hardcore, but I know what she's into these days. I've got a new buttplug just for her, and a better vibrator-chair. I'll make sure I'll break her. Iron Ass can then get probed to death by my clients. He was always going to be one expensive weapon, too. All that goth comic book shit chat about how tough and cool Vampires are, it doesn't stand up when you see Iron Ass. The public image was so packaged up with teenie-bopper coolness, it doesn't even come close to the truth.

...It was all BULLSHIT! Let me tell you: Vamps are ugly and smelly. Iron Ass had to be the last one knocking about - after the U.R.S.O.M.A.D. was shut down-- but he's an overweight mess, who stresses at everything. He's some campy dick, who's really old, never cleans his fangs and has lost his penis due to the fact he's fucking falling apart and turning into some kind of vampiric bone-monster!...

...Oh yeah, I almost forgot to mention that Iron Ass can't shit. Yeah, that's the funny thing. He can't take a dump as it's too dangerous. To us and for him, too! It makes me laugh just thinking about it! He must be in pain all the time.You probably don't know vampire's smell real bad, but if you whiff one, that's why....

...Think about it: They're not all cleancut, hairsprayed, airbrushed and photoshopped. None of that shit's right - I don't know why the government let it feed their coverup. No, Listen, I'll tell you! Why you might ask? Why not? I got my own interests. And I'm not bothered by no shitty old morals. Well, Iron Ass, as he was nicknamed by the government dicks, they go to test Iron Ass's vampire shit one time. It gets weird, they don't know what's going on. It releases a gas turning them into crazy zombie psychos or whatever. Fucking everyone flips. Now, that's the weird bit, as Iron Ass's small bit of turd turns out to be some kind of monster and goes crazy, eating up folks and some of the other vampire test subjects. This tiny bit of turd is now massive. Many government bods probably took a lot of shit just to contain it...

...I can't stop laughing how the Vampire is more scared of their own shit more than sunlight - which is really overdone by the cover-up myth shit. Sunlight slowly burns their skin, cleans it at times, I don't know where they got the whole spontaneous combustion thing. But look, it got sorted out that time and I'm the one laying this on you hoping you might help me. This freak, Iron Ass, is the container of his monster vamp shit. It can't get out of his arse if it's trapped in there, right? The Government obviously done it on the cheap as they used some iron flap and bolted it to his arse. The vamp shit beast - as I call it - tried to escaped but gave up. I'm here to unleash it, as I've got some different interests now. The main one is probably changing the future of the world order - though I've got others, I just haven't thought them all through yet. Money seems to really motivate me....

...O.K., you can tell, I'm no real cop. I don't know what happened to the real Bryan Simms, but I'm him now. Fuck, I can do what I want here in Nutcough Hills. It can be blissful. I control most of the shit here, in this piece of shit they should've called Poor Hell. I'm here, and I'm not saying who I am. But after checking Paige out for a while, taking in all her curves, I decide not to follow Paige. Paige leaves the Burger Shack, shaking her sexy butt with her Marlboro plugged in her gob...

...I vaguely remember a bondage session we were having, both of us fucked up to the eyeballs on all kinds of crazy shit, we were really getting out of it, and Paige's kicking my cock and balls while wearing her purple leather boots....I start to relive it all in Burger Shack, mixing up the past and present, while gazing at Paige. I'm sure she brings out the feathers and candlewax. She tickles my cock, arse and nipples then she drops the hot wax on me, before paddling my arse...I come in my already stained pants in the Burger Shack...I don't think anyone will notice though it looks like I've pissed myself...

...Paige can really handle a sore cock well, too. Handy to know that. She got a lot of my fantasies out of my system during that one time - I reckon she was just out of it on whatever and needed to go a bit buckwild. She's still using that skill on the web, as I've checked her sites recently....I've seen her testing out some huge dildos - there's even one similar to the one she plunged up my sore butt during that session...

...I gave her a good fisting later on, she was gushing for it, but I got the feeling that must've been her idea too. She likes to plant the idea in your head and make you think you had the idea, though she was pulling the strings all along...

...And I'm all for deep pen, but we always end up running out of lube - we go throgh loads of it. I'm struggling to remember it, but eager to be reminded. Seeing Paige makes me think about it a lot more. You know how busy us law enforcers can get? You know it's not all about getting your shares in order, it's the whole lifestyle thing. But I just came here to perve over Paige and confirm my theory. I know everything else and I've got my own investigation to run. Iron Ass will be mine....

Leo Martello's My Hero!...[...Or: Sword-Sheath Tomfoolery...]...

 ...I asked her if she called to tell me her story... 

 

"What yo' wanna hear, hun?" she murmured as she chuffed on her crystalline pipe.

 

...She stared at me, a really intense stare - I'll never forget it. Those supernatural penetrating eyes. She told me about herself, but it was really broken up and confused. She laughed when she couldn't remember something and just shrugged. but through all that confusion and jumbled up bits and all, she told it like it was some childish story. It wasn't illustrated by Korky Paul, though likely to be more inspired by Betty Rocksteady (Ye gods! What an amazing artist-author!); but I felt it should've been...

...I didn't like the emotional out-pouring, as Von Howzen seemed to be reaching out to me and at the same time pushing me away. Maybe she was testing if I really cared about her, or if I was some washed out hack for shitty local paper just looking for a cheap sensational story for the hour. But I knew this before I met her: she had successfully killed her all pimps and had assumed control and delegated control of humane brothels all over the world...

...Von told me that she was now hunting a demonic prostitute killer. He was evading her, and was trying to pick off more amateurish sex workers. I tried to get to know as many sex workers as possible in this period of time to connect with Von. The guy fucking up all the pros was called Moby Dickie. He was a sick fucker. His cock was a huge white beast, hence Moby Dickie. Though most of the time he could hardly get up as it was so fat and flabby. He must have lots of surgery on it to. But he would sometimes beat the girls with his fat cock...

...I'm telling you people, this guy would penetrate every orifice with something, usually food. He would get vegetables, bits of meat. He raped prostitutes in food and licked it off them, biting into them, before punching and probing to such an extent he leaves a battered bloody pulp of a woman behind. She was under to work, barely lucky to be alive but at what cost? He never paid. He just took. He had even done it to a few rent boys too. They had paid an ex-bouncer, called Konkie , to try and find this guy as well. I heard, and this isn't a fact, that Konkie got hurt by him, though Konkie did escape Moby Dickie’s torture. Moby likes big guys, too...

...Von Howzen heard about it all from Peggy May, a dizzy High end perma-tanned lass, who is well known for her insatiable crack habit - around four hundred a day; suppose that’s just an a few hours’ work, but she had a heart of gold and she would even give you the odd hug. She was a lovely chick and was in a real trap. According to Peggy May, she had heard Monkie rescuing another whore called Monika. She was pulped but Monkie had disturbed Moby Dickie when he was about to unleash his cunt bite sport fuck session...

...He was a really sick fuckup, and Monkie had punched out some of Moby Dickie's teeth, but Moby Dickie had a knife and threw it at Monkie's neck, just missing his carotid artery. Monkie somehow managed to drag Monika away and get out of there. He passed out in the cab with Monika and was arrested with her, caked in his own blood. He is about to be released on bail, even though he still needs minor medical attention. Monkki knows he remains lucky to be alive. And a he’s paying off a massive cab bill for pissing blood everywhere....

...I watched Von smile and hug Peggy May, like any lesbian lovers would, and then on the sly, also left her five twenties for her time. Just five notes, what a cheek. Von knew it wouldn't last long for Peggy May...

...I asked Von if her sources were as good as mine. She passed me some fine Maroc to smoke, then handed me a jiffy bag full of tiny envelope wraps; apparently, inside each wrap was pure heroin - some of this vile narcotic was possibly cut with Fentanyl. Deadman territory. We all hear of the nightdoings... I could tell she was going global. I was hoping to add to this powder. And she was doing this all out of the goodness of heart. She wanted to make the whole thing, if people are forced to go into this hellish industry, then at least she could protect then. Von didn't want to relive her past, she wanted a better future. The fucking cool thing was she wasn't some moonlighting bouncer; she had Moby Dickie scared. He didn’t like it when they hit back. She had already beat the shit out of him at a pub in Harrow. It was too easy. He was with a Miley Cyrus lookalike; under the bar, his podgy finger and thumb penetrated her small, shaven, cunt. His soiled middle finger was sliding towards her nubile anus, ponderously probing deeper...The Miley Cyrus lookalike did not seem too bothered - probably thought it was a usual punter...She was hoping for unrefined highs and the real deal...The Miley Cyrus lookalike reminded Von of someone...

...Von appeared, staked Moby Dickie out, then as he was about to get her, Von tried to scare him again, and lost it for a bit and battered him with a crowbar. It was slick. Von hardly broke a sweat. But Moby Dick was getting annoyed. Moby Dickie was in hospital and off the streets. He hadn't killed a prossie for three weeks now. He needed to eat so to speak. To him this was part of his survival. Von Howzen, during this time off the street, was still checking up on the other prossies and checking on Moby Dickie, while he was in hospital...

...Von really wanted to get into this mean motherfucker's head but he was so fucking freaky he was fucking loads of people up and the cops had cooled off on trying to attach him to his sordid crimes. He was just a random event and told people to take care. It remains lucky a thing for Moby Dickie that he was not driving a cab, but Von had narrowed his location down; he was trying to hide in a small village called Nutcough Hills... 

The Galactic Giggle-Glitchers

 ...This was seen as a bad day upon post-apocalyptic Trelficloco. It was a dour world – it was just five minutes on the District Line; think it was only a few billion light years away - purple skies and burning acid rain all day; all that stood on the swampy terrain was a mere bio-dome connected to an asteroid called ThulaNova. It was seen on Earth quite clearly in the mirrored sky and the realm-space was realigned to make travel to and from Earth. You can get there and back from Wood Green…Just depends on the time...

 

Tommy Tellman was an old hand at this kind of astral lark... He was a Life-Coach Guru and had decided to live in Frinton-on-sea...He was known locally as“Merlin Man”...He grew mushrooms and made orgone accumulators...He knew about the locals calling him Merlin...He did not watch Merlin or read T. H. White’s classic take; though he watched an illegal anime re-edit of Sword in the Stone which was effectively a porno...Demonic cock-swords indeed; he preferred an episode of Mighty Magi-Swords, though you didn't need to go back to the Twenties for all that jazz.....He was not a scholar specializing in the complexities of the Arthurian Legend...But, like most people, he dabbled with the occult... He was, in fact, a secret agent for a dimensional force called C.O.G. He was an eternal advisor for the Mutant Police Division...

 

Frinton had survived the apocalypse on Trelficloco. The only problems were that the weather in Trelficloco’s bio-dome disrupted much of Earth’s weather. This was not easily predicted, much like missing craft and other weather phenomena on Earth....

 

Tommy looked out of his window from his sparse chalet and realized that Treqloco might just crash into Earth’s realm space one day. Who could be causing this disruption on Treqloco. Tellman shifted himself there, the classical wraith man, he was able to do this as he had died while testing experimental aircraft in 1947. He would always be Bermudian now.

 

The pzi-communicator bleeped...

 

“Hello,” said Tommy Tellman.

 

“It’s Professor Norkgrub, Tommy. We need you again,” said Professor Norkgrub, somewhat over-enthusiastically.

 

“I’m retired, aren’t I?”

 

“It’s different now, Tommy. We’re on Earth, we’re all merging - can't you feel time flying? There’s never much time, is there, Tommy? Meet me at the Christchild and Vonderpump.”

 

Tommy sighed. “I'm not sure, Norky,” he mumbled. “Maybe I can have another sabbatical?” He hated that pan-dimensional tavern, which was a favoured haunt of Professor Norkgrub’s and the Demon-Tec division of the Mutant Police.

 

“Fine. I was going to go out for tea at some point, I guess. Shall we say in a few minutes?”

 

Norkgrub laughed.

“Give me an hour, I’m still orbiting Saturn. See you there, time-brother!”

 

With that Professor Norkgrub, abruptly cut the pzi-connection.

 

This was Tommy’s only real phone. His Earth bound landline was never used as nobody called him on it; he had no real friends and his Life-Coach Guru business was on a strict need-to-know basis. He had a Bot from the C.O.G. to manage his mobile phone and on, not that he paid much attention to Life Coaching now. He was ahead of the game and was pretty much retired. The C.O.G. pension he had mysterious provided for all his financial needs, which were few. He led a sparse life in Frinton. Thankfully, his prescriptive chemicals were all state subsidized. He had not been called a time brother in a long time. It was one of Norky’s favourite sayings, and Tommy realized he had missed the quirky little zoophyte….

 

And it was not everyday you befriended a zoophyte…Sink into the singular void...

 

“You pizza cake”, said Bug ‘August Ham Man’ Ravola.

 

“What’s a Pizza-Cake?” I replied.

 

“A piece of cake, geddit?” August Ham Man quipped. He laughed but it was not too loud.

 

Bad jokes had not helped the weird atmosphere. The flat had been partially destroyed by a soul-projector from Thule; the incantation had failed miserably. The flawed ritual was about to claim its first soul sacrifice. The black bible looked dead; its fleshy pages had withered, as it turned to putrid detritus. Professor Doggo Dogon was chewing up one of the decomposing pages; he looked ill as he consumed it. Bug was talking to the talkative wall, it was chattier than usual today; the wall that had a mouth and always had good old natter with you.

 

...Johnny Quagga did not know why he was not living again....Had Tellman mind-cloaked him again?... Maybe something had gone wrong. He wanted to feel flesh but knew he was still a dimensional wraith. The two C.O.G agents had vanished in a puff of smoke. Doctor Vera Swaladee looked scared, rocking back and forth. She was naked, and covered in faecal matter of unknown origin; it glowed in the dark...

 

...Professor Doggo was now naked; he had removed his tattered robes to show us that his penis had turned into a snail-satsuma. It was small and delicate: the testes were covered with a snail-shell peel...The foreskin had evolved strange snail feelers. Professor Doggo Dogon was still chewing upon the fleshy pages of the sacred text. With his last gulp he spontaneously combusted. His vaporized guts covered the talkative wall and Bug...

 

“Wow, this really was pretty mind-blowing,” quipped Bug.

 

...Johnny saw him take a piece of fleshy page and throw it into his mouth without a care in the world. He swallowed it in one go. Amazing. No side effects at all. Johnny realized that it must have been Doctor Kewsy’s mis-reading, of course. He was not the wisest of seers and they would now need another one to complete the cosmic connectives...

 

...Norky handed the lazr-lyso popper-gun to Les Barloy. The sprawling star-craft was destroying the planet that looked like a pineapple: pieces of archaic star-craft were embedding into the soft surface of PeetanioXKX. It was too much for the mould people. They were perishing in the heat. They had not even evolved yet…

 

“It was so juicy, I really liked it here,” said Norky. “We've got to keep it crunchy!”

 

Norky went to speak again but was slowly lost in a euphoric reverie; maybe it reminded him of other worlds. He had seen so many…

 

Les was crying, rubbing his eyes.

 

“I wished I could have saved all those ghost-children,” sniffed Les, smearing his mascara.

 

...His turban was grubby and his loincloth was tattered. He had lost his robe and one of his silk slippers. He had the physical appearance of a pubescent male with slightly hairy armpits. Les Barloy had just four chest hairs; he did not have many pubic hairs either, and continually shaved them...But that did not aid the situation of impending planetary doom…

 

...Norky was still donning his crystalline white laboratory jacket and had noticed that Les was checking his appearance in the milky blood of the mould people. He was so vain, thought Norky, but he was the chosen seer…

 

 

Significant Shiggism...

...Johnny never stereotyped anybody when he lived a so-called biological life, with only one body, but now he had a totally open-minded way of life. So what if this person had a wealthy family, got everything they wanted; it’s what they do that counts. Johnny had read the files, but forgotten everything during his dimensional stasis. She did not look very posh, thought Johnny. Johnny noticed that she had a bag made from jute. It was a sign of high fashion these days. Johnny had not kept up to date and looked like a Victorian catamite dressed in frilly shirt and dirty breeches befitting of an urban dandy...

 

...Johnny smirked. He knew he would get mistaken for the ripper again, but he was just a Tyme-Pyre, a ripped up waster of time. He needed to find new ways to waste eternity away. It was a lot better than being born...On another world somewhere, far, far away, Johnny felt he had been reborn in another dimension hidden in some weird world...

 

...That was good, right? It meant he might experience life again. He decided to change into his ninja costume, but found that he had lost his baggage carriage....

 

The old lady smiled at Johnny. He was frozen. It must be a trap, thought Johnny.

 

The old lady approached him. She stared at him gently and said,

 

“I thought it was you, you said you might do something strange, kind sir.”

 

Johnny smirked.

 

“I think you have me confused for someone else, madame,” replied Johnny, doing his best courtier impression.

 

The old lady smiled at Johnny, and shook her head.

 

“Oh really, you do know how to get me going, don’t you?” she asked Johnny.

 

Johnny did not know how to reply.

 

The old lady continued: “I am sure you’re the son I aborted in 1974. He was called Ferdinand Tellarbmanyol...Or was it Wracked Ferd?...I’m sure it was something like that. How could I forget a name like that?...By the way, I’m Lady Goodepayne, Johnny.”

 

Johnny was sure she had just said his name, but he did not ask how she knew it...

 

“You’ve got my boy trapped in your soul matrix, Johnny,” cooed Lady Goodpayne, all twinkly eyed and looking all her one-hundred and ten years.

 

Johnny had to think of something, he had not being doing this astral body swap lark for long. He thought it was cheaper than actually purchasing any kind of dubious experience. This power remains within every human being and the limbic prowl was one of Johnny’s favourite pastimes.

 

“Come and have a cup of tea with me, Johnny. I don’t want to talk too much in this world, we might be both getting set up.”

 

“Of course, let’s get score some,” Johnny said.

 

...Johnny tried not to go, but he could not help it: he looked at the old lady again for way too long; she looked suddenly younger as she hunched further into her large shawl. It seemed as if the shawl was her actual body...

 

 ...Johnny had no idea why he followed her, but he had to. It was part of something that might be called a mission. Johnny did not know what drove him to follow her here, to this strange planet, but Johnny stuck to his task and silently followed the old lady down the silver steps of the astrolotower; he knew she was posh, but he did not like putting people in boxes...

 

 ...Her silver hair glistened in the deadening rays of the black sun....This planet suited her....Johnny started having impure thoughts…How could he get it on with an elderly lady?...The thought was so arousing, Johnny thought he might not be able to control himself...He had a thing for older people too...

 

...Johnny suddenly remmebered Tommy Tellman: he was a strange fellow with long white hair; he always donned a leather bomber jacket and finely pressed action slacks, finished off with some ridiculously well-polished Chelsea boots. You'd see your face in them! He must have spent hours rubbing them. To my mind he was a dandy of some sort, but he told me things I have thought mere fantasy. Tellman reminded me of that optimistic generation of Sixties kids, who over-achieved and were given the chance to better themselves and do whatever. They were completely opportunist chancers, but true humanists. Not Etonian messers. He told me of another side to this realm and how Earth evolved into timeless realms...

 

...What was scary was Tellman's belief that we never truly died, no matter what we died of or how we died. I was curious, and from this time realm, I knew death to be a vile old-fashioned concept. The great sleep and hibernation regenerative phase here is a rite of passage - it's up there with puberty...

 

...I pressed my brain-player, to record this discourse, to listen back over it all at a later date. This mint tea was having a strange effect on me. I tried to put it to the back of my mind; this is what Tellman told me: "My friend, you must listen to me when I say that time is draining away. It's endless but you know must have some kind of end? It's not a real end, but you know how tricky time gets!"

 

I nodded, even though I had no idea what Mr Tellman was talking about; and I thought infinity was infinity.

 

Tellman lit another strange cheroot. He paused, somewhat melodramatically, and continued his rant:

 

"Look, Quagga, I was travelling within the confines of a strange craft called Vazgelis. It was called a strato-neuro-craft. You connected it within your brain and to your sexual organs, and its mannalinx feeds off your pzionik soul; and continually arouses you with some form of life purifying life-support system."

 

I decided not to question Tellman too much; I nodded and tried to look intelligent as I sipped my mint tea. This particular brand was having a relaxing effect on me: shapes were forming in front of my eyes and Tellman turned into a huge Walrus-face with the hind legs of Tony the Tiger. This was a bit better than my usual mint tea, I must say! I decided Tellman's talk would provide a good form of escapism for me.

 

...Tellman continued ranting: "You see, I was travelling with the psychic investigator, Les Barloy; his assistant, Miss Evie Goodhead-Ballsack, and his mystical friend, Professor Norkgrub. These were strange people, but they're my friends. They saved me from oblivion."

 

"Oblivion? Isn't that a club or a ride?"

 

"It's everything, Johnny."

 

"I suppose it might be!"

 

"What else do you know, Mister Quagga?"

 

I got the idea that Tellman was questioning me.

 

"I don't know -- what should I know?" I stammered.

 

"Brilliant. You're a C.O.G agent? You've worked with that clown Hubbard? Or Downes and Parsons? Maybe Goodnow and Goodmann? Spill to me? I'm not active no more!"

 

"Active? What do you mean?"

 

"You're good. Of course, I'm active but only in other ways!"

 

"Mr Tellman, you're my life-coach but I haven't a clue what you're talking about!"

 

"I suppose I sound queer, eh?"

 

I shrugged. Tellman scoffed at me. It was as if he was able to see straight through me!...I looked at my hands; they were turning to gas...Was I evaporating again?

 

"Tell me then?" Tellman growled. His penis had turned into an orange vegetable flower. “Tell me a Midnight Pharmacy Lemonade Drinker and August Ham Man story, please?”

 

Tellman laughed a hearty laugh...

 

...P.S. Futurefade: It wasn't like any other day for me. I had woken up at 3 a.m. and decided I was an insomniac...I needed to go out and get some dirty air. Air that people had breathed and vehicles had polluted…I slept through years; I don’t know if I missed too much…

 

…My home was way too quiet; those cheap perfume fumes were making me woozy...(Actually, it wasn't my home, I'll get to that later - there was a delicate art to squatting in London...As always it was a theatrically delicate condition...)... I knew of a charming afterhours club in good olde Vauxhall...Beware of those token luvvies, they are harmless really but there was something joyous about the old unknown nether regions of London...It always made me feel high and good about myself…I would meet men and women there who would take me back to their abode's to perform consensual sexual activities upon me; it was like a free gym membership - of course, I didn't mind men, women, or vegetables! Although I drew the fine line at donkeys and dead pigs...[...Maybe that would be a good title for a certain former P.M,'s multi-million deal soon-to-be-published memoirs...]...

 

...So I decided to put on some transparent clothes, and take the solitary night ride to quiet little Vauxhall...

The LaVey Love-Law Clause

  ...I know this is against the rules, but I did check out Paige Chance before getting her to help me. I found Iron Ass in a military hospital in Seoul in 1988, and I've been looking for freelance mavericks like me. We've been on the run ever since I sneaked him out. He's been such a huge part of my life. I suppose I have a bit of a crush on him, even if he's a bit ugly, but he's so smart for a vampire. He's seen and remembered so many important events and has some very good scientific ideas, although he admits he cannot remember his human years. He offered me a dossier of his own research, which I've slightly embellished and absorbed into my own work like a good academic. It's good he needs me. But I need him. He might be able to help me win back government support and I will get the recognition I deserve...

 

...Why did I trust Paige again? That's it, it was the fact she was a school reporter, before she became a part-time prostitute and party organiser. She done a story on me when I won a science prize for Nutcough Hill's local innovation award. It usually goes to some really geeky kid who's developed a website and is now a multimillionaire. But for once it went to my vermin killer traps. The key was that I had a small piece of Iron Ass's shit on a titanium wire which shoots out to eat the vermin...

 

...The Vampire monster shit would pull it back into the trap making it look like the specified vermin had gone into the trap, when in fact I had let Iron Ass's vampire shit out on a wire. I never told the organisers, or sponsors this. And never explained about all those frontline workers who handled the devices and went crazy off the gas the shit emits. Though there was amusing web footage. And I was paid - mainly in stock...

 

...They sold modestly and I have made a comfortable sum. It's all gone back into my research and protecting Iron Ass and it's drained me. I'm fat, forty-four years old, and I've got a small dick. My work has absorbed my life. I've decided that I'll try to put something away to go on one of those mail order orgy cruises in the States, you know the ones where you can ship the whores in, like some kind of sea brothel. I don't know if I'll go AC/DC again like I did with that sleaze, Simms, but I need something different...

 

...My second tracking of Paige Chance was discovering her online site. Many people think people in pornography, these people are thick. It's a common stereotype, but it is wrong. Most are quite disturbed, that's true, but that doesn't make them stupid. I am not admitting to supporting pornography, I'm not fussed, although I'd rather have a world with porn than without. But it was through porn I was reconnected with Paige Chance. She was a Porn News Reporter with her own sex blog, where she also tested out sex toys and reviewed dodgy flicks for the industry and blogged regularly about them.

 

...I always tuned in when she started posting videos and pictures...I immediately pulled my pants down and reached for the butter. I slapped it on my sore dick and had a creamy wank. I shot my load over her webpage and I got that gut instinct that I might be able to trust her...Cum-Screen Bliss...This information might also harm her mainstream journalistic ambitions...Selling advertising space for a local rag, as a day job, must have some severe limitations. You can't be your own boss for one. But I religiously tuned into more of Paige Chance's videos. I got hooked you might say...

 

...In one blog video, Paige plays with a toy called "The Purple Warrior". It's a huge dildo with a massive purple head. The design looked like it had been inspired by a sci-fi/fantasy anime or hentai...It can also be strapped on, if you're interested to know....I have already got a similar model, which I loaned a private patient...These experimental dildos are huge though. Surely a test is not necessary? But science and entertainment can mix occasionally, I suppose...

 

...Paige was dressed in a man's shirt and wearing no bra and panties. Next to her is her laptop and you can see a sparse room, a bed, and a drawn khaki curtain. She sits on a plastic patio chair and adjusts her webcam picture, zooming in on her moist pussy. She stretches her labia, droplets of pussy juice are illuminated on the laminate flooring, as she starts to violently hit her pussy with the Purple Warrior dildo. Then after sucking the Purple Warrior for a while, she stuffs it into her soggy cunt. She squirts everywhere, making a nice sloppy splash, and she keeps plunging away, like a real pro, pulling the Purple Warrior out to lick it occasionally. She does that weird porno thing of playing with one breast and pinching and pulling her nipple and squashing her breast. Also, she constantly keeps moving her hair out of her face. She puts the Purple Warrior to her nipple too, letting her pussy juices seep on her sore nipple and drip down her soft breast. All through this video I was still wanking. Both my hands are getting sore and my foreskin's bleeding again. I pour more baby oil on my tiny cock and wince as it stings...But it feels so good...

 

...Iron Ass gets in. He stinks, he's almost bald and doesn't have any slick sexy Vamp mojo no more. And he hates it that he doesn't think of himself as beautiful - Vampires are really vain, though the reflection thing remains an issue, most of the image continues to be bullshit. I think Iron Ass used to be a pretty boy. But most of his kind smell bad, and look bad. Iron Ass looks at me. He's high again.

 

"I want out Horatio", Iron Ass moans.

 

"What?" I'm shocked. He's had a better offer, I bet Simms called round. I check the windows. Outside I see Simms sunbathing, a blunt clamped in his mouth, watching pornos off his iphone and waving at me with his other hand. I notice it's covered in cum. I start to get a bit nervy.

 

"You hear?"

 

"But we've been so tight?" I'm almost crying. Iron Ass glares at me, looking even uglier when he scowls.

 

"You're using me. You know how good Vampires are at giving head. And I feel like a shit bank for all your weird inventions. I'm not sucking your cock no more', Horatio"

 

"It's fine. I'm not queer anyway."

 

"Oh yes, you are Horatio."

 

"Iron Ass, let's not go there again. Have you been talking to Simms?"

 

"Who?"

 

I look outside again and Simms has vanished. I knew those pills had side effects, I should've laid off them. Mojis are my limit and they're hit and miss now.

 

"Who the fuck is Simms, Horatio? You been making deals again?"

 

"He's sometype of cop, but he's crooked."

 

"I'll straighten him out."

 

"I'm sure you will, but he's dangerous. He knows stuff. I don't know how, he makes me nervous. He's seen me naked, he's a fucking sleaze."

 

"You've got a crush on him as well? you still wanted to have that threesome with Paige? She's a tasty morsel, even if she's a bit of a slut. I don't want to catch anything off her."

 

"Paige is fine. We've got to move you - but stay with me. Please, let's talk it over!"

 

"We are, aren't we? Horatio, your problem is that you trust people too much."

 

"Don't play cool with me, vampire."

 

Iron Ass smiles and strips off, revealing his bony ugly flesh. He stinks bad; he fills a basin with perfume and liberally splashes it over his decomposing flesh.

 

"I'm not gay, though."

 

"It's fine, Horatio. You want me to suck your cock one last time?"

 

"Sure, you're doing the sucking so that can't make me gay. Let me check for hidden cameras first!"

 

"You're getting really fucking paranoid, Horatio! It's really fucking annoying. This Simms has really got you spooked. I'm taking my shit and hitting the road if you're losing it."

 

"Iron Ass stay with me, please. I need you! We can move somewhere else, I can rebuild the safehouse! I'm sorry you've got no penis now, I'll adapt a Purple Warrior for you!"

 

"You nerdy cunt - you had to bring that up, didn't you?"

 

"Everyone knows. You're a local legend here."

 

"You're hungry for my shit, you can have some anytime."

 

"I hope that was a joke - it'd kill me if you unleash the lot on me!"

 

Iron Ass stares at me. Can I still trust him? He wouldn't hurt me, I know he wouldn't. I undo my trousers and thrust my sore dick to his fucked-up mouth. Flies are swarming around us and I turn on the fly zapper lights. You know the ones they have in chip shops? All of these were from old chip shops that had closed down. I stare at the bright lights of them, watching flies fry. Iron Ass is staring at me.

 

"Well, you want a nibble?", I ask, all shy like a right nerd.

 

"Look over there", murmurs Iron Ass.

 

I turn around and see the fucker from Burger Shack, strolling down the corridor. How the fuck did he get in? I don't know, it must be Simms helping him out. But the Burger Shack jerk is taking photographs of everything with some slimline spy camera.

 

"Fucker!"

 

"I'll sort him", hisses Iron Ass.

 

"No Iron Ass, people will come looking. He's been sent here." I try to restrain him and retch at his smell. Iron Ass igores it, he's used to it and people puking over him.

 

"What you going to do then, Horatio?"

 

"I don't know, I'm trying to figure that out."

 

"Let me control him. I'll send some shit to him."

 

"I can't handle another rejection, Iron Ass!"

 

"Let me handle that - he'll be fine, trust me."

 

Iron Ass smirks at me, as he removed a small piece of demonic shit from his stinky butt. He whispered to it and it scuttled off into the darkness, slithering towards the Burger Shack guy. I got that weird feeling inside when Iron Ass suggested it. Maybe the shit inside could be taking control of him again... 

 

...I just hope Iron Ass can control his demon shit this time...

Impressum

Texte: R.K. Galvez
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 25.04.2019

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