PARAPHILIA IV

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2 CONTENTS Cover art by John Coulthart Edited and Designed Artwork by Arnaud Loumeau p2, 43, 81, 155, 191, 249 By Paraphilia Editorial p4 ―A Hopscotch Ballad‖ Text & Photos by Jim Lopez Editors p5 ―Eleven Letters‖ p9 Díre McCain ―Menacing Daze‖ by Michael Roth, Images by D M Mitchell Chris Brandrick p12 ―Green Eyed Monster‖ by Claire Godden- Rowland, Photos by Malcolm Alcala p34 Kate MacDonald – Musical Editor ―The Good Cock‖ by Salena Godden, Photos by Jim Lopez – Columnist & Pistolero Thomas Evans p40 ―Market Street Greyhound Station‖ by Gene Gregorits p45 Contact Paraphilia Artwork by Dolorosa p70, 205 [email protected] ―Cult Of Exhultation‖ by A D Hitchin p71 Three Anamorphic Images by Jim Lopez p72, 120, Website 131 ―Fragments Of Humanity‖ by Christopher www.paraphiliamagazine.com Nosnibor, Photos by Max Reeves p73 www.myspace.com/paraphiliamagazine ―The Broken Novel‖ Text & Artwork by Ian Miller p77 Many thanks to; Johnny Coolart, Max ―Weight‖ by Rich Follett p79 ―The Serpent and the Starlight‖ by Nick Tosches Infeld, Pablo Vision, Jim Lopez, p83 Michael K, Nick Tosches, Sue Fox, ―Kastellorizon‖ by Charles Christian, Artwork by Robert Agasucci p86 Darius James, Tom Garretson, Stewart ―Necro-Dead Animal‖ by Ele-Beth Little, Drawing Home, Chris Morris, E. Elias Merhige, by Alfred Muro p96 and everyone who‘s extended ―The Persistence Of Memory‖ by David Conway, Photo by Max Reeves p98 kindness and encouragement. ―Gumbo‖ by Darius James, Artwork by Destiny McKeever p121 Submissions ―Genetically Modified Metzger Manifesto‖ by Stewart Home p132 This a free magazine distributed in the ―The Sleepbringer‖ by Patrick Wright p133 interests of giving culture back to the ―Death Wish Chameleon‖ by Cricket Corleone, people instead of the industry. We Photos by Richard A Meade p136 ―The Man With Two Hearts‖ by Rick Grimes p152 cannot pay for contributions to this ―The Good Schizoid‖ by Michelle Facchini, Photo publication. However, please see our by Little Shiva p153 website for details of our other ―Sweetie-Pie Begonia Babyhead‖ by Hank Kirton, Photo by Sid Graves p157 publishing ventures. ―Lend Me Yr Teeth‖ by Craig Woods, Artwork by Jad Fair p164 Any opinions or beliefs (religious, ―Carving Angels‖ by Claudia Bellocq, Photos by Guttersaint p192 political or moral) expressed anywhere ―When You Open This…‖ Artwork by Angela in this publication are not necessarily Suzzanne p197 those of the editors. We take no ―Crunch Time At Project Forever‖ by Ron Garmon p198 responsibility for anything we have ―Whimpers‖ by David Gionfriddo p206 published in the interest of the ―Sounds Abound‖ by Kate MacDonald (with Mary freedom of speech and expression. Leary, Craig Woods, Chris Morris and tENTATIVELY, a cONVENIENCE) p223 Contributors‘ contact information p258

3 EDITORIAL

When analyzing and evaluating, the to endure is to succumb – to tighten the vast majority of human beings rely safety belt and cling to the handgrips. almost entirely upon the perceptible, often leading to reductive, and at times, Of course, the instant this happens, erroneous judgments. Whether it can pragmatism takes over, often be attributed to social and obliterating the intrinsic “idealism” that environmental influences, innatism, or a every human being possesses at birth. combination of the two is debatable, but What’s most absurd is that the rigid, unconscious self-induced confinement mechanical nature of “normal” society is the inevitable byproduct. in fact conflicts with Homo sapiens’ true inherent nature, which has been Others possess the ability to see beyond willingly suppressed via life-sustaining the superficial, enabling them to make ossification. Acclimation – while thorough, accurate assessments, which necessary for survival – equals afford both free will and extrication compliance, which often serves as an from the seemingly preordained. Their obstacle to self-realization. eyes are truly open, thus rendering the universe panoptic, and the possibilities Now the question is: What would limitless. Unfortunately, these people happen if human beings were granted are faced with the arduous task of trying consummate freedom? Liberated – not to harmonize in a contrasting, dissonant from the indispensable laws, but from world that revolves at a breakneck the prescribed restrictions, regulations, speed as the floor drops away. They and everyday stresses that have forced are, in essence, trapped on an them to adapt in order to subsist in a uncontrollable Gravitron that continues society that often breeds discontent? to spin, regardless of how many riders are thrown off. Ironically, the only way

4 COLUMN

THE LAST DREGS OF POVERTY:

A HOPSCOTCH BALLAD

Text and Images By Jim Lopez

The night started with a friend who in me, or maybe she didn‘t give a shit, wrung out his paint brush to be a as she broke a bag of ice loose on the regional manager for a Cable-TV Service cooler making a kissing sound. Provider, in New York. Now he can‘t get off the sofa except to hit, shit and The cold echo of a bar-well didn‘t say fumble his BlackBerry. I had to fly all much of anything except, ―There‘s a the way from Los Angeles to Queens to hollow sweetness in loneliness.‖ Her smash an empty bottle of whisky, hair was weaved in a braid, and her labeled, ―Paddy,‖ over his head, as he down-cast gaze darkened her eyelids. tried to mash my face in a pile of coke, Her small, firm breasts begged for which I rolled out of and got into a cab, mother‘s milk. She pressed her lips alone; but not before he tossed $160 at revealing the depth of her thoughts and me, and shouted, ―Have a good time. the tightness of her heart. Rusted, Casino will be waiting to tickle your antique tears dripped through her veins, balls when you get home.‖ His dog, watering seeds of…seeds of… Casino, was staring at me, panting, with a horny look in his eyes and I had the Awe Fuck! I can‘t even smoke a scratch marks on my arm to prove that cigarette in this place! the little devil was in the mood. New York: a city populated with The Holiday Cocktail Lounge was cultivated loogie-hockers; where a trio closed so I walked into Banjo Jim‘s. The sings, ―If you need us, call us, or maybe band had packed up and gone home. I we‘ll just come over and spit in your was one of five left in the place: Doc face.‖ Boggs, Freddie King, Lightning Hopkins, myself and a tired barmaid, The barmaid‘s rusted tears stained an wearing a red dress under her jeans and indefinite seed of another vanished love T-shirt. Her smile was hidden by a that took too long. I asked for another slight, faint scent of hope. We didn‘t drink as my arms burned from holding recognize each other as anything more the fresh wonder of what it meant to be than a drink and a money transaction. treated as I believed I wanted to be, only Maybe I saw more in her than she saw I had no idea what that felt like.

5 She informed me that the she would be municipal chorus singing, ―You make closing at 3:00 a.m., but she was closed me feel like a disease I never asked for.‖ long before that. At least that‘s what I But who the fuck ever directly asked for told myself, since I wasn‘t clever enough a disease? to offer her what she wanted. New York is inhabited with a bunch of Need is easy to figure out and slow-walking kids trying to rule the accomplish. Want takes a delicate world, and they think that they do. charm that has no want of its own. Whereas, Los Angeles is populated with exhaust-hungry werewolves, practicing How is it possible to listen to Doc Boggs yoga, believing they‘re a star. New without having my own bottle of Yorkers are too unimpressed with the whisky in front of me, a knife in pocket stars because they‘re too preoccupied and a lit cigarette hanging from my with the dimming lights of culture. But mouth? it‘s still the York of New and there is so much damn concrete that one can‘t help but be breath taken, especially when the pollution will rip your lungs out whether you like it or not.

So what difference does it make whether I smoke in an empty space with a lovely barmaid fifteen feet away and a jukebox, which is the only thing alive in this place?

This might be Banjo Jim‘s but it sure as hell isn‘t Jim‘s Banjo. But it is the nicest surprise I‘ve had in a long time, so I‘ll just hold my cigarette and have another drink.

I swallowed like a graduate maudlin who auctioned off his degree on E-Bay and made my way to an ―Irish Pub.‖

The Spartans should have done the world a favor and cast us all down as blemished children.

You could hold a cigarette in your New York makes me want to wear a mouth in New York, but you better not Dodger‘s cap and make love to a cripple light it, or you‘ll be arrested by the

6 because she would be more honest than my boots, mouthing close into my ear, the rest of us. ―I‘ll be you‘re Rock-N-Roll dream and cream your jeans into the gutter of my A corner church with wrought-iron bars hopscotch court, you goddamn square.‖ was closed, as was the bar next door named ―Company,‖ so a drunk has no I choked, wondering if this would take alternative but to piss in the shadows of five years or five seconds and then the sanctuary. answered my own question, ―I‘m playing with myself.‖ She looked There‘s a ―Thirsty Scholar‖ popping up confused, which I took as a compliment. in every New England metropolis, She asked me if I‘d ever write about her. because an Irish drunk sold the name and moved to Chico, California. He was ―I already have,‖ I answered. smart enough to bet a wide-point spread and cash in for a South American barmaid who gave him everything that he had been looking for in the basement while the music resounded bad taste.

I found an ―Irish Pub‖ a couple-a-few blocks away and sat at the end of the bar, listening to a punk song that screamed the romance is dead so give it to me anyway.

A girl sat next to me, looking like the girl I feigned my virginity to. She wore skin-tight, plaid shorts and a baby t- shirt that hugged her tits and tummy. Not ordering a drink, she merely sat like a memory that could never go far until her mobile phone lit up and hustled her adorable Irish-Italian ass away. Her effigy pounded the ponder of how it was that the Irish and Italians could have fucked each other so intensely that they spawned drunken children of loneliness who experience too much shame to whore themselves to the Kings She reached down between my legs, and Queens in us all? pondering, ―Hmmm,‖ which flattered me, but I ignored her because I wasn‘t The goblins perched high above the city dumb enough to give her what she as a darling girl slid over, smiling into needed, which merely meant that I was

7 an idiot, because I could have gone to I missed the late train and Casino was bed with this hot, young woman who anxiously waiting to tickle my balls. As probably wouldn‘t mind squatting I traveled through the midtown tunnel against the wrought iron bars of the with the window down, all I wanted Church and pissing on its black, steel was my cabbie, who looked like Ernest rods. But I couldn‘t bring myself to be Borgnine in the movie Escape From New swirled and twirled by a pup. Just as I York, to look over his shoulder at me, thought she was done pounding her with a broken enthusiastic smile, and own ponders she said, ―I‘m looking for excitedly announce, ―Hey! I got Snake a healthier slob,‖ which I had heard Plisken in my cab.‖ before from the gods, only they never closed out my tab, fearing the shadow of “A Hopscotch Ballad” by Jim Lopez the cross that loomed over the coliseum first appeared in www.corpse.org in in my grey beard. 2008.

8 ELEVEN LETTERS

1. 3.

Dear PM, Dear PM,

You are K; his story takes place in the The order is that his desires are fulfilled bed of K. before he knows of them, not that he desires and then desire becomes reality. K does not move because he is sleeping, dreaming. In our awake state, we can make decisions that affect reality. For and of The Building, K, however, only dreams but never Luther Blissett realizes those dreams. His paranoia is a direct result. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Luther_ Blissett_(nom_de_plume) K is a dreamer. The Building is his state of dream.

For and of The Building, 2. Stewart Home Dear PM, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stewart_ K is not conscious that he is dreaming, Home and therefore, cannot actively make decisions in his dreams.

You are K; everything you desire is 4. already yours. Dear PM, For and of The Building, K writes that, there are no tables beside Furst Jaglen the bed, or shelves, or stands to hold, say, a glass, an ashtray, a telephone. http://www.compsoc.man.ac.uk/~cow /klf/building/1999_07_23/www.xdolla The Building is his dream state. By rx.com/e1/jag_index.html dreaming he negates the real world around him.

9 The Building is the body of K. little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life. For and of The Building, K does not have a watch; it is assumed Díre McCain that it is K who governs the flow of time; submission to the rules of a http://www.diremccain.com mechanical device would be incompatible with regal majesty.

For and of The Building, 5. Monty Cantsin Dear PM, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monty_ His dreaming is contained in himself, Cantsin which is also The Building.

Nothing happens in The Building unless K has some part in it, active or passive. 7.

Thus, K is the K of his dream, in that he Dear PM, is the focal point and omniscient being. At zero longitude, on June 23rd 2000, for For and of The Building, K, dream becomes reality.

Dave Kelso-Mitchell The Building is a clock. K shows how time has become the gauge for reality. http://stewarthomesociety.org/blog/? p=670 K emphasizes that not only does dream not conform to time, but dream creates a new clock for itself.

6. For and of The Building,

Dear PM, Karen Eliot

By dreaming, K stops time. Just like in http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karen_E myth and poetry time ceases to have liot consequence to K; his desires have already been met. K suggests that time is only useful in measuring the waiting period to realize desire. Faulkner writes 8. in The Sound and the Fury that, time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by Dear PM,

10 K captures the essence of paranoia when Jerry Cornelius he shows how K‘s imagination produces it. K further reveals that imagination has http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jerry_Co another dimension of effect. It also rnelius enhances, and perhaps is the essence of, dream. K‘s imagination both makes him paranoid and creates an elaborate building around him. His imagination 10. creates everything K hears; you want absolute proof that what you hear Dear PM, comes from within you, not from outside? K proposes that every person is K, a sovereign who exists entirely in our The ultimate proof that K‘s imagination heads. in his dream state creates his K Space of For and of The Building, noises comes when K writes that, “you have had walls and floors soundproofed, and Robin Banks have sheathed this hall with draperies ...You need not bother covering your ears with http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Banksy your hands: you will go on hearing them all the same.”

K‘s Building is contained in his head, in 11. his dream state. Dear PM, For and of The Building, The Building is our own special reality. Kingboy D We are K because we do its perceiving. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_KL For and of The Building, F_films Justin Kase

http://www.thedjlist.com/djs/JUSTIN 9. _KASE/ Dear PM,

K is a rat who must build the labyrinth from which he proposes to escape.

For and of The Building,

11 MENACING DAZE

By Michael Roth

Images © Chris Brandrick

Public bathrooms are for fucking, The fucking Firkin, he thought, running shitting and fighting, in that order. his hand over his cropped scalp. Should David Michael K. knew the score very be able to pull a bird there. That‘s if well, being an experienced cruiser and nothing‘s changed. He shoved his hands street fighter. Walking past the Firkin into the pockets of his sta-pres and Pub, he could hear the din of voices and counted the coins with his fingers. Lee Perry music pouring out the front Should be enough for a pint or two, he door. thought. Let‘s give this a go.

12 He stepped in and headed to the bar. her pubic mound. David Michael There was a raucous roar from a dark nodded silent approval, no wonder she corner. He turned towards the loud tasted so good. He hated fucking Nazis shouting and saw a table of skinheads and refused to participate in giving slamming their fists onto the table and them pleasure. Here was a group of laughing. Against the bar, waiting for a people who wanted to control who he pint, he spotted an attractive woman could or could not fuck. Besides, most with cropped black hair. She turned and were rampant coprophiliacs, a practice he recognized her from his youth - they too messy for every day shagging. He used to meet up at punk gigs years ago. dove into her shaved pussy, tongue While he had never fucked her, he swiping across her hard clit. She always wished he had. From the look in shrieked in pleasure, banging her hands her eyes, he knew that he had been against the metal walls. After a couple recognized as well. minutes of receiving oral, she pushed David back onto the toilet and straddled ―David?‖ she said, ―That you?‖ his hips. She lowered herself onto his throbbing member, sliding in easily ―Glory, yeah, been awhile.‖ from the wetness of her hole. She gyrated vigorously, grunting and They exchanged a few more growling, pushing his body back into pleasantries, then he excused himself. the damp plumbing.

―Going so soon?‖ He felt a twisting in his bowels. He held back the shit poking out of his asshole. ―Just to the loo. Want to come along?‖ The million year old DNA codes were unraveling in his brain and within ―Of course!‖ seconds his genetic wealth was exploding into her cunt while at the The bathroom floor was covered with same time he released his anus, sending piss and had that familiar odor of shit the shit into the toilet with a splash and and anti-septic cleaner. They headed a loud fart. She fell forward, muscles straight to the single stall, closing and tensing then relaxing as waves of latching the door. She lost no time in multiple orgasms went through her taking down his trousers and falling to body. her knees, swallowing his hardening member with a single gulp. Her ―That‘s what I needed.‖ She said, technique was expert and she worked standing up and stepping back into her him like a vacuum cleaner. He wanted panties. David gestured with his to get at her pussy. He sat onto the cold, eyebrows, giving a surprised look. ―Oh, stained toilet, lifted her short skirt and I love the feel of hot spunk in my pulled off her cottons. She leaned back underwear.‖ she said with a wink against the metal door, legs spread. She before leaving the stall. ―Stop by our had a hammer and sickle tattooed across table, my friends will definitely want to

13 meet you.‖ She called as she left the through with his elbow. But now he room. would have to rethink this tactic. The skinhead ducked to the left, not taken in K. cleaned up, congratulating himself on by the feint and punished David‘s ribs the bit of luck and looking forward to with a couple of hard upper cuts. some more prolonged shagging later Quickly followed by a leg sweep. David that night. Hopefully, a group session Michael, already stunned and with Glory and her friends. He heard breathless, hit the floor hard, head the door open and the click of boots on bouncing against the wet tile. As an the tile. experienced fighter, David knew how to take a fall, but this attack caught him off ―Back so soon. Hope you brought a guard. Instinctively, he threw out his friend.‖ David Michael K. said stepping legs for an ankle sweep but there was out of the stall. nothing but air. Arms up David was waiting for the inevitable kick in the ribs ―What the fuck you looking at?‖ the as he snaked his way along the floor on large skin said with a sneer. ―Fucking his back. Instead came a stomp to the pansy.‖ stomach by a size twelve Doc Martin followed by a stomp to his face, which On his right arm was a tattoo of a deer fortunately glanced off his arm. jumping across a swastika. On his other Otherwise, his face would have been arm, ‗White Pride‘ was tattooed in a driven to the other side of his head. gothic style. The skin was looking for a fight. David Michael had seen yobs like The door to the bathroom opened. this before. Guys who think they‘re tough because of their size without ―What the fuck!‖ came a man‘s voice. realizing that at least half of fighting is a mental game. I‘ll dispatch with this one ―I‘ll do you next if you don‘t fuck off!‖ quickly, he thought, and then it will be the skinhead retorted. on to a brilliant all-night fuck session. This distraction was all he needed. He Stepping forward, arms raised slightly thrust both his legs, heels first, into the in a surrender position, David hoped to skinhead‘s groin. The skinhead was get in a quick head butt. The skin pushed two feet into the air, howling, clenched his fists, ready to strike. So, it clutching his swelling balls. David was not going to be that easy, he Michael got up, one arm holding his thought. He feinted with his right and ribs, and drove a knee into the shot out a quick left hook. A classic opponent‘s face. He could feel the nose move and if executed properly could collapse and twist, splattering blood bust a jaw or at least stun the opponent across his pants. The skinhead, so a further beating could be meted out. obviously an experienced hooligan and David Michael loved this move because one tough customer to boot, pushed if he missed with his fist he could follow David back against the washroom stall

14 with his shoulder. David knew he had energy around him, as he was in tune to end this soon before the Nazi‘s with his surroundings. Things slowed friends showed up to stomp him into a down and he could navigate the chaotic pulp. He extended his thumb and drove flow of the streets. People were out of it into the skinhead‘s eye. He could feel touch with their realities. They were this digit burrowing into soft flesh and alienated by capitalism, not to mention warm liquid. The skinhead collapsed to other forms of simian governing the piss-covered floor of the washroom structures. And they had lost the desire stall. to transcend these illusionary surroundings and explore deep K. grabbed a wad of paper towels and surrealities. walked past the stunned observer. Next time none of this fancy stuff, he thought K.‘s attention was drawn to the Tesco. sneaking out the back door, I‘ll just ram Overhead, he noticed two pink saucers, my fist into his throat. I‘ll have to let just floating in the sky. They shimmered that shag session go for now. I don‘t in the sun and had an almost want to be around when the other translucent but metallic quality. No one skinheads find their friend. Of course, else seemed to be aware of their he enjoyed the fight game and rarely presence. turned down the opportunity for some ultra violence. But there were other ―Fuck me.‖ He said. ―Not again.‖ matters at hand.

David Michael stepped out into the alley. Thinking of the fight brought back fond memories of his time with the Dumb Fucks, a firm dedicated to street fighting and poststructuralist theory. He formed the Dumb Fucks after reading Anti Oedipus by Deleuze and Guattari. His enthusiasm for the book, and his ultimate disappointment with the follow-up Thousand Plateaus, led him to take the work directly to the people with violence. Punch ups with anyone, academics and soccer fans alike, K. decided to contemplate the return of followed. But those times had passed. the pink saucers over a fry up and a He turned the corner out of the alley pint. The first time he saw them was and walked up the street with during some intense experimentation confidence. with mushrooms. He was using them as he worked with the Enochian calls as Cracking his knuckles, he felt good after well as some higher circuit work he the fight and fuck. He could feel the picked up from Robert Anton Wilson‘s

15 Prometheus Rising. In his downtime, he experiment if you will. It‘s centered was reading Simulacra and Simulation b y around the transmission of memes, the Baudrillard, Book of Pleasure by Spare use of morphic resonance and morphic and Eden, Eden, Eden by Guyotat. He fields for their transmission and the discovered that by pushing his mind utilization of waking dream-states or with magickal practice and drugs, he altered states of consciousness to tap was able to contact alien entities. At the into these transmissions. I can‘t go into time, these entities did say that they details right now. It‘s all here in this would return … folder.‖

―Mr. K.‖ K. picked the blood sausage from his teeth with his tongue as he eyed the A distinguished gentleman, probably in folder. He became interested in magick his mid-50‘s and dressed in a designer at a young age. He loved the idea of blue suit, looked at K. while holding the psychic attacks and peppered his back of the chair. workbooks with sigils that would charge when viewed or read. Later, he ―Can I have a seat?‖ realized that most politicos and academics were essentially K. looked at him stone faced. It wasn‘t conservative, close-minded ideologues, the first time that he‘d been cruised by a no matter how radical their beliefs may geezer. He nodded to the chair and be. He could take them out of their resumed stuffing the eggs and ham into element by incorporating magickal his mouth. See what this geezer has to theory in his discussions of Marx or offer, he thought, taking a sip of his pint Deleuze. Not one for just talk, he took of bitter to wash down the grease. action and dove into full ―Mr. K., yes I know who you are? We‘ve experimentation of Austin Spare‘s sigils, been watching you, and think you the Enochian calls and the Abremelin would be a suitable candidate for a job working. He wanted to be well versed opening we have with the Company. It‘s in all elements of combat, and these certainly a promotion from what you magickal weapons came in handy when have now.‖ he couldn‘t use his size twelve boots.

―Look mate,‖ K. gestured with his fork, ―Okay.‖ This has State asset all over it, ―Number one, I‘m not a rent boy. he thought. Number two, who the fuck a r e y o u ? ‖ ―Any questions?‖ ―Sorry for not introducing myself, but I‘m sure we may have met before. I‘m ―Will I be paid for this?‖ the Doctor. And, I‘m afraid that you misunderstand me.‖ The Doctor placed ―Of course, nothing comes free after a manila folder onto the table. ―We are all.‖ The Doctor said with a chuckle, conducting an ongoing work, an although there was no laughter in his

16 eyes. ―Don‘t worry, just come by my Hammer hierarchy. K. was a member in office. We‘ll discuss things further. All his youth, before forming the Dumb the information is right there in the Fucks, when he believed groups like this folder.‖ The Doctor stood up, ready to could lead the way for a revolutionary leave. transformation of society. But their priority was the weekly paper sales they ―And what if I‘m not interested?‖ K. forced their members to do. Selling the said, staring at the Doctor, arms crossed. party rag was considered a revolutionary act, and at each party ―You will be.‖ He turned to leave. ―Just meeting there would be a detailed read the file.‖ account of the week‘s sales with each comrade describing who they sold to, And he left the restaurant. who they almost sold to, who they would have liked to have sold to, and who they did not sell to. The women fulfilled their roles by serving coffee and taking notes. The meeting would draw to a close with an accounting of the money taken in from the paper sales and a red star pin presented to the person who sold the most. The comrades would then withdraw to a local pub where they would argue the finer points of Trotsky, the Left Opposition and the Fourth International, while the female members stayed behind and took care of the children.

K. refused to participate in the paper David Michael K. stood outside a closed sales and this made him a pariah among curry take-out. Glancing up the street he the party functionaries. He remembered noticed a pudgy man in hip clothes an incident well. walking up the sidewalk towards him. A person K. recognized. ―Where were you yesterday? There was a paper sale on Commercial?‖ Draper ―That bastard!‖ K. hissed. It was Don accused him in a loud voice, drawing Draper, an ex-comrade from Trotsky‘s the attention of other members in the Hammer. Draper had not clocked him room. yet and he took the opportunity to slide into the doorway. Draper was an elitist, ―Getting my new boots…‖ he said. a sexist, and an asshole. These qualities Draper let out a whistle. have taken him far up Trotsky‘s

17 ―Nice.‖ He said sarcastically. ―How own people. So Don, how much did you much did they cost you?‖ pay for that coffee?‖

―Forty quid.‖ Don shrugged his shoulders. ―It‘s just coffee.‖ ―That much for boots? A bit extravagant, don‘t you think?‖ he K. left the meeting and never returned. commented, gesturing with his cup of Now here was the fat fuck walking designer coffee. ―You can spend forty towards him, a cup of Sawbucks in dollars on boots, but you can‘t spare a hand. He stepped out to face him. couple of dollars for the dues box or Draper‘s face lightened with recognition bother to show up to the weekly sale. as he saw K. These are important activities. You will have to re-examine your life and ―David,‖ he said smugly, lip curling determine your priorities.‖ into a sneer. ―Dropped out of the struggle, I see.‖ A wave of disgust swept through K. as he resisted the urge to ram his fist into K. answered by thrusting his size twelve Draper‘s face. He was still young and Doc Martin boot hard into Draper‘s intimidated by those in authority. groin. The fat cunt lurched forward, face red, fingers crushing the paper cup, ―I hear what you‘re saying,‖ he said, soaking his hand with hot coffee. A deliberately, fixing a hard stare. ―By the gurgled croak came from his throat as way, that Sawbucks coffee you have the air left his lungs. Grabbing his hair, there. Isn‘t that a bourgeois luxury?‖ K. slammed his knee into his face. He felt the nose collapse. As Don fell to the He raised his eyebrows slightly, not ground, K. took the opportunity to put understanding the accusation. the boots hard into the comrade‘s ribs, each kick landing with a satisfying thud. ―Well, by buying a coffee from Standing back, he observed the Sawbucks aren‘t you supporting a twitching body of the ideologue, multinational company listed on the panting heavily, gurgling from the stock exchange and well known for its blood in his mouth and throat. aggressive capitalist tendencies. A company that routinely exploits its ―Scum like you create power structures workers, that pushes any local that mirror those of the dominant independent ventures out of a culture. You wield control in the name community to dominate of the oppressed against the oppressed. unquestionably. Not to mention the Remember, the Bourgeoisie produces its issue of perpetuating the squalor of the own grave-diggers.‖ Third World by forcing them to produce cash crops like coffee for the privileged As if his body and mind were operating Western world instead of food for their in automatic, he raised his leg up to near

18 vertical as he executed a perfect ax kick caused a visceral reaction. If he had not down onto the back of the aging hack‘s carried out such intense experiments neck, snapping it instantly. Satisfied, he with psychedelics and occult ritual nudged the lump of flesh on the practice in his youth, he might have sidewalk with his foot. However, what thought he was going crazy. Instead, he was the body of Don Draper now knew that he has entered a shamanic appeared to be the body of a large space as this feeling felt similar to DMT monkey with sunglasses. Looking experiences from years ago. At that closer, he recoiled as he saw the lump time, the entities he encountered under was actually Bingo from the Banana the influence informed him that they Splits. It was not a person in costume. would come back to visit him The character bleeding out before him periodically at unspecified times. He was real. had no idea that they would manifest in this way. He navigated the streets by David Michael K. shoved his hands into pure instinct, eyes closed, until he fell his sta-pres and quickly walked up the through the door of his flat. street. He did not look back. He was afraid that thing would still be there if ―I just killed one of the Banana Splits‖ he did. he spat, lying on the couch.

―You what?!‖ Cassie said, laughing. ―Which one?‖

―Bingo.‖

―Good, he probably deserved it.‖

―I thought it was Don Draper.‖

―Either way. He had it coming.‖ Cassie laughed even harder. She hated Draper from the old activist days. He resented her membership in S.C.U.M., because he knew that he had no chance to molest her on party retreats. She joined it to take the piss out of other so-called activists, especially men, even though David Michael K. felt disoriented. First, the organization‘s gender prejudice the pink flying saucers, then the Doctor, grated against her class consciousness. and now the gorilla. This was unusual She tossed K. a warm Boddingtons. for him. His practice had given him nerves of steel, but everything that had ―Guess what happened? That old cunt transpired over the last few days had fired me!‖ Cassie spat. ―Said it was

19 ‗cause I stole some money. That slapper ―No! I just had to get physical with one has money up the asshole. She gave me of the blokes who wanted to take a bit the toss ‗cause I wouldn‘t wipe her dry, more than my money.‖ wrinkled cunt. That‘s abuse, that is. Pure exploitation.‖ ―Fuck me.‖ K. said. He never dealt with gangs when it came to drugs. Too ―Yeah.‖ K. said, distracted. He put the dangerous. Hippies were easier because Scotland vs. England Six Nations match they were all money and business, on the TV and melted back into the without the violence. That way, he couch, Cassie‘s voice fading into the could bring the violence if necessary. background. K. cracked his fingers, gearing for the ―You got to see this!‖ she shouted, inevitable punch up. He nodded to giving K. a kick as she pointed out the Cassie, who was now holding a window. collapsible baton. She grinned. He knew she was ready for some violence. Outside, the street was filled with a mob of clowns. More precisely, they were There was a knock at the door. K. skinheads with clown makeup. Years turned to Cassie. ―Let‘s do this.‖ He ago, a number of gangs came together in said, the excitement of an impending their enthusiasm for the film The fight rising in every muscle. Cassie Warriors. Factions took up the looks of hurled open the door and swung her their fictional movie counterparts. baton hard, anticipating a Clown‘s head. Outside were the Turnbull Furies - an The pleasant thud was the answer she alliance between the Baseball Furies and was looking for. the Turnbull ACs. Everyone else just called them the Clowns. He knew that ―Take that, childfucker!‖ the Clowns were controlling the drug trade throughout the North. He did not As their eyes came into focus, K. and realize that they had made their way Cassie noticed that instead of a gang of this far south. Clowns standing in their doorway, there was an attractive blond woman in a ―Did you buy anything from these dark dress suit and her partner, a burly freaks?‖ K. said to Cassie, surveying the man who was now crumpled on the hall street below. floor, blood pumping from his face.

Cassie shrugged. ―Yeah, some hash. I ―Don‘t you people look first before you needed some quick as I was doing some hit somebody over the head.‖ The workings with Crowley and I wanted woman said with a sneer. the right vibe.‖ She muttered. ―Fuck me.‖ Cassie said, bewildered. ―They don‘t look too happy. Did you ―Who the fuck are you, then?‖ stiff them?‖

20 ―Yeah, what‘s a posh bird like you hanging around this part of town.‖ K. laughed, eyeing the fit bird, imaging a round of sexual athletics with her, Cassie and himself.

―I‘m Ms. Davenport. I‘m an associate of the Doctor.‖ She said. ―He didn‘t want any distractions for you, so he arranged to pay off your drug debt. The clowns want to assert a sense of authority and control. But, don‘t worry, it‘s just theatre.‖

―Oh, we weren‘t worried at all.‖ K. said. ―How did you know about Cassie‘s situation?‖ The ringing phone jerked K. awake. He ―We know things, Mr. K. It‘s our job. rolled over in his bed, letting it ring. No And before you feel the need to indulge, one worth talking to would ever call in think twice about who you associate the morning. The phone continued to with.‖ She said with a sideways glance ring. Fuck me, he thought and, to Cassie. stretching across to the table, yanked the phone out of the wall. That takes care of ―We‘ll be seeing you, Mr. K.‖ Ms. that, he muttered, curling back into his Davenport kicked the man, who was sheets. stumbling to stand. He held a now blood-soaked handkerchief over his Suddenly, the phone began to ring face. ―Walk it off.‖ She said again. K. sat up and stared at the phone. dismissively. The two disappeared I pulled it out of the wall, or was I down the hallway and into the staircase. dreaming, he thought, inspecting the cord. He looked at the damaged outlet ―That was fucking odd.‖ on the wall and back to the cord dangling in his hand. Slowly, he picked ―Well, they‘re gone.‖ Cassie said, up the phone and held the receiver to looking back out the window. ―But his ear, not saying a word. they‘ve left a calling card.‖ ―Mr. K.‖ said the male voice at the other On the sidewalk was a very large set of end. ―We have been expecting you. Do balloons twisted to resemble a hand you plan on gracing us with your with two fingers raised. presence?‖

―Yeah, up yours, too.‖

21 ―Who the fuck is this?‖ He said, trying ―All right. Now fuck off so I can get my to comprehend how he could be talking beauty sleep.‖ into a disconnected phone. ―It‘s time to wake up, David Michael ―It‘s the Doctor, Mr. K. I‘m calling about K.…‖ the experiment. I thought we could have a face-to-face before we get things K. smashed the phone onto the floor, underway.‖ pieces skidded into various corners of the room. He sat back and admired his ―Fuck me, do you know what time it mural on the opposite wall. A Mark is?‖ Bradford inspired work, it was an abstract collage incorporating various ―It‘s 11o‘clock in the morning, Mr. K.‖ gig flyers and radical newspapers covered with brushed paint. ―It‘s earlier than I thought.‖ He flopped Underneath were the words ―I didn‘t go back on the bed. ―So how can I talk to to work today, I don‘t think I‘ll go you with my phone disconnected?‖ tomorrow.‖

―Our technology goes beyond this K. pulled the sheets over his head and simple hardwiring. New developments fell back into a slumber. in cloud computing and such but that‘s really peripheral to matters at hand …‖

―Sounds like the another step to a complete surveillance society.‖ K. interrupted.

―That‘s not for me to say, one way or another but...‖

―…Fucking 1984 and all that …‖

― … I want to remind you that the experiment will proceed on time whether…‖

―I‘m still getting paid for this inconvenience, right?‖ K. stared out the window of the Marine ―Well, if by inconvenience, you mean Pub, a quiet place where he could go, your job, then of course but …‖ have a pint and think. The more he thought about the Doctor, the more believed that he was being groomed as a

22 State asset. The psycho-dynamics and down and saw her shoeless foot. Her the magickal nature of the work were toes massaged his groin through his interesting, but there was something a pants. bit dodgy about the whole thing. As if there was something more to it all. ―Let‘s not complicate things.‖ She said, Something he was not being told. smiling. ―I‘m staying close by, in the Boleskine Hotel.‖ Also, the strange visions he had been having lately had him unnerved. He David Michael K. surveyed the posh had read somewhere that being held in suite. The woman closed and locked the captivity can sometimes induce door. Turning around, she had a fiery hallucinations. That‘s what he felt like. look in her eye. There was something definitely claustrophobic about the city now, he ―No one to bother us here for a while.‖ thought. Also, he could not shake an the woman said, walking over to the intense feeling of déjà vu … bed. David Michael, reading her mind, began to take off his sta-pres, exposing ―Mind if I join you?‖ David Michael‘s his red underwear. His passion for red train of thought was interrupted by a underwear was an old habit from when well-dressed woman, probably late he was younger, and fell into a life- forties, long black hair. He gestured stylist mode of political expression. with a nod to the chair opposite him. After years of street fighting and She sat down still looking at him. ―I‘ve hardcore politics, he realized the been in this country for a couple of days fetishising of material symbols placed but I haven‘t had any excitement yet.‖ one into a dogmatic box. While this can be used tactically to bring dominant ―Oh, really?‖ culture symbols into disrepute, he now expressed his beliefs through action, ―My husband is over here for business. which he was going to do now by It‘s just meetings and more meetings, getting a good blowjob. The posh bird not that it matters. He just cares about understood what he wanted as he the Company.‖ leaned back slightly. Pulling down the Y-fronts, she took his hardening cock David Michael looked the woman over. into her mouth. Swirling her tongue Attractive and stylish, she resembled an around the head before plunging the upper class version of Leila Waddell in whole member down her throat. She an odd sort of way. He was not started to hum, the trembling of her lips normally attracted to posh birds but he sending shivers through David was intrigued. Michael‘s body. Starting from his cock up to the base of his neck. From her ―That‘s too bad, a woman like you left exceptional technique, he felt his all alone. What‘s your name?‖ He felt chakras opening one by one. He wanted something between his legs. He looked

23 it to last longer so he grabbed her by the The posh bird walked over to the hair and pulled her head up. window and stood there naked. She opened the window and leaned out, her ―What‘s the matter?‖ she inquired. breasts resting against the sill.

He didn‘t answer but grabbed his belt ―I liked to be watched.‖ She said, and strapped it around his neck. Then ―Unfortunately, my husband doesn‘t he tied the opposite end around the share this passion. While he can talk big headboard of the bed. David Michael with the cronies at the Company, he‘s could feel his face become flushed from actually sexually self-conscious and the pressure around his neck. She awkward. That‘s why I always like a bit removed her clothes, frigging herself as of trade when I can get it.‖ he got ready. When he had finished his adjustments, she began to work again David Michael nodded approval with a on his swollen member. David Michael wry grin and settled in behind her, got a nice surprise as she stuck one kneeling on the floor, his face between finger, then two, up to the second her cheeks. He poked his tongue into knuckle into his arse. No need for her hole then down to her clit in one lubrication as that was provided by the long fluid motion. She moved her hips sweat. David Michael lied back to enjoy in response, all the time watching the the sound of Psychic TV‘s ‗Infinite Beat‘ people on the street below. looping through his brain. It was the perfect tune to be blown to while David Michael stood up and guided his working astral and neural pathways. still hard member into her, thrusting With the strains of this tune going deep as she gave a shout. He continued through his head, it did not take long to pump vigorously, slapping her for the million year old DNA codes to backside and peering over her shoulders unravel and before long he was out on to see how many people had gathered the mud flats. He came back to reality below. Most people did not notice the with the woman stroking his cock, his couple above. Some, who did, genetic wealth spraying over his pretended they were not there. Others stomach. stopped to watch the action, leaning against the storefront windows across ―You didn‘t take it in your mouth!?‖ the street, drinking coffee and talking David Michael said, untying the belt about the latest Six Nations match. from his neck. She met his thrusts with enthusiasm. ―Why?‖ Her tight cunt told him that her husband did not take care of her in the ―So, I can taste myself when I kiss you.‖ sex department. A job he didn‘t mind David Michael ignored this obvious doing. He looked over to the night table breach of sexual etiquette, as it was time and noticed a novel, Prelude to an to continue with the sexual athletics. Orgasm by Michael Roth. He had never

24 read Roth before, avoiding popular ―Someone‘s taking shots at us, literature meant for pseudo-intellectual obviously trying to kill one or both of snobs. us.‖ She said.

―Time for a change.‖ She pushed him What a waste, David Michael thought as back onto the bed, and pinned his arms he looked at his limp cock and the down before mounting him. She rode dribble of cum seeping from the tip. him hard.

For a second time, he left his body and traversed the familiar mud flats a million years away. In this altered state, he noticed that the room was actually a representation of late nineteenth century London and that various personal effects were situated geographically where the victims of Jack the Ripper would have been. The woman began to chant the Enochian call for the tenth aether and David Michael could sense the air around him begin to ripple. Soon the room disappeared altogether and the two of them were in a dark alley. Undeterred by the cold, damp pavement, the woman continued to fuck him hard and he responded in kind. K. opened the door to his flat. The first He could feel the genetic material thing he saw was Cassie‘s face, eyes welling up in his cock when suddenly staring hard. he was brought back to present time by a loud crash. The window had ―This a mate of yours.‖ She growled. K. shattered, spraying shards of glass onto looked past her to see a tall, well- the floor and across their naked bodies. dressed man lounging on the sofa. He Something else whistled past his head grunted a no. and into the wall with a thud. ―Who the fuck are you then?‖ he said, ―Take cover, we‘re being shot at!‖ the walking past Cassie. posh bird shouted, rolling to the side, K. jumping with her. Two more shots ―I‘m Magus.‖ he said. ―Sorry to be a ricocheted around the room before bother, but I believe we know someone becoming imbedded in the wall. in common.‖

―What the hell‘s going on?‖ ―Who?‖

25 ―The Doctor.‖ Magus continued. ―I …well the list goes on. The scope is believe you were, and no doubt still are, broad and the applications are many. To whether you know it or not, part of the put it crudely, these are magickal experiment. Once you‘re in, you stay in. weapons to attack on an astral plane, or There‘s a saying around the Building - shamanic space or magickal realm or you don‘t leave it, it leaves you. Unless whatever you want to call it. Of course, you know where the exits are. we know that there is no true separation Metaphorically, of course.‖ between magickal and consensual reality. It‘s just a matter of perspective.‖ ―What are you talking about?‖ ―So what‘s this got to do with me?‖ K. ―He‘s been rambling like this since he said. got here.‖ Cassie said. ―Told him to fuck off but he insisted he knew you. I ―See, in this experiment, you are the threatened to punch him in the throat if Heirophant.‖ Magus said, handing him he kept it up.‖ the corresponding card from the Thoth deck. ―They needed an enforcer. You She sat in the kitchen chair, throwing know how things can get chaotic quite her feet up on the table. ―This all about quickly sometimes in a ritual space, that job? Easy money, you said.‖ Cassie astrally or physically. Your role was to sat back with her copy of Medical keep things in line.‖ Apartheid. ―Let me guess, you‘re the Magus.‖ ―Yeah.‖ K. drawled, not taking his eyes off the other man in the room. Magus nodded affirmative with a slight bow. ―I‘ve recently escaped from the Building and the good Doctor. And I‘ve come to ―I had the feeling that I was being get you out as well.‖ recruited to be a State asset.‖ K. said.

Now K. became interested. He joined ―The only thing wrong with that is the Magus, sitting in a chair across from Building and the experiment are beyond him. Magus held out his hand as the State.‖ Magus said. introduction to K., who ignored the gesture. Magus sat back on the couch ―I might also add that somebody tried and continued. to kill me today.‖

―You‘ve read the documentation, right? ―That‘s not unusual.‖ Cassie scoffed. You‘ve talked with the Doctor, right? ―Shagging some bird, I bet!‖ Well this experiment was actually to test some magickal weapons. See how they ―Maybe I was!‖ would work in population control and compliance, civilian defense, black ops ―Jealous husband, that‘s it. Case closed.‖

26 ―Well, that certainly fits the pattern of ―No, no. I don‘t imbibe any beverage. the experiment, but not usually this Or food for that matter. Or…‖ soon in the process.‖ Magus observed, flipping through the Tarot cards. K. regarded him quizzically.

―You saying the blokes from the ―I‘m sorry, Mr. K.‖ Magus said, ―You Building were trying to kill me?‖ didn‘t think I was real, did you? I don‘t really exist.‖ ―Perhaps, but maybe I misunderstood your roll in the whole scheme.‖ He K. leaned back in his chair. He knew it tossed the Death card on the table, was going to be a long night. followed by the Ten of Swords. K. grabbed the deck, pulled the Tower card While Magus spoke, K.‘s mind and held it in Magus‘s face. wandered. This bloke says I was a patsy, he thought, but I‘m not anybody‘s bitch. ―If they want to fuck with me, this is And K. had made people pay for lesser what they will get. Why don‘t we just offences. Like at the corner market, head over to the Building and give the when a geezer jumped the queue. He good Doctor what he has coming to tripped the bloke, ramming his face into him. Then we burn the whole place the countertop. Blood splattered across down.‖ K. said. He always advocated the checkout as he smashed the man‘s direct action over sitting around talking. face repeatedly onto the metal surface.

―I must urge discretion. As you may ―So, what now?‖ K. asked. already know, the Building is a golem. It‘s watching our every move. So we ―Well, a sustained magickal attack don‘t have long.‖ would be a logical start.‖ Magus responded. ―Well, how long is this going to take?‖ ―Bollocks!‖ K. sneered. ―I say we go in. Magus shrugged. K. got up and grabbed Create some mayhem. Leave. Make a a couple of Boddingtons from the fridge. spectacle of violence, which is He offered one to Magus. Magus something they will understand. So, you declined with a slight wave of his hand. do things your way. I will do things my way.‖ ―You don‘t drink?‖ K. preferred his violence to be personal, ―Of course not.‖ to be face-to-face. There were easier ways to send a message, such as ―You a church society teetotaler type, detonating a bomb or arson. But, as a are you? ‗Cause if you are, I don‘t want street fighter, those were distasteful, anything to do with you.‖ cowardly and impersonal. He liked the sensation and the look in the other‘s

27 eyes as he put his boots in. It was about violent mayhem and the laughs.

To this end, K. decided to organize a flash riot. He liked the potential of flash mobs but felt it had degenerated into hipster elitism and bourgeois spectacle. So he turned these flash mobs into flash riots. A group of street fighters would assemble at a particular place and at a set time they would attack anyone and anything around, then disperse. Under cover of this mayhem, he would break into the Building and sort out the Doctor.

―Well …‖ Magus said, unconvinced but The usually quiet street was buzzing resigned. ―First, we need to distract the with activity. Gentrification had infused Building.‖ a bourgeois banality of coffeeshops and condos into the area, an atmosphere K. He stood, took off his clothes and piled found disturbing. The usual posh them onto the table. Then, he stood on punters were milling around the shops. his tiptoes, his arms twisted behind his In addition, he clocked about fifty back and neck stretched upwards. His fighters, a mix of bootboys, soccer breathing became slow and deep. K. sat hooligans, anarchists and sociopaths. A back, sipping his Boddingtons, taking in decent turnout, he thought. Three the ritual. Suddenly, Magus fell to the private security guards from a nearby floor, body twisted in spasms, laughing building were hassling a few of the maniacally. skins hanging out, asserting their empty authority. They will get theirs soon ―It‘s done.‖ Magus said, breathing enough, he knew. The experienced heavily. ―The Building will not bother streetfighters were biding their time. you. You have fifteen minutes to do your business before it will notice you.‖ For the occasion, K. managed to gather all the former Dumb Fucks he could ―Sounds great. Now, I‘ve got a couple of find on short notice. Jimmy the Scar, calls to make.‖ Fuzz, Bam Bam, Mouse, Alex the Blade, Knuckles. Some of the hardest street ______fighters in the city. They stood there in their steel-toed Doc Martins, Ben Sherman and sta-pres, each one focused on aggro.

28 ―Where‘s Spider?‖ erupted from the shop as patrons ran for cover. A businessman was slumped ―He‘s teaching philosophy at the city backwards in a chair, knocked college. The cunt seemed to have unconscious by the can, bleeding forgotten that postmodernism is all profusely from shards of glass that about street violence.‖ Jimmy growled, ripped through his skin. ―So I had to remind him.‖ K. glanced at ―Fucking anarchists!‖ Jimmy‘s bloody knuckles and knew the matter had been dealt with suitably. ―No discipline.‖ K. said, turning to Alex the Blade. ―If the cops don‘t get them ―Fun and games.‖ K. said, ―But let‘s get first, stick a shiv in them.‖ this going.‖ The Blade was already on the case, ―What‘s all this, then?‖ Bam Bam asked. crossing the street towards the anarchists as the street exploded in ―We go after this cunt called the mayhem. The white noise of assault and Doctor.‖ K. said calmly. ―I‘ve set up a violence filled the air – windows being flash riot for extra mayhem. We put the broken, trash cans thrown at cars, police boots to any cunt that looks like a State sirens, screams and cries from passersby asset.‖ set upon by the flash mob.

―We got company.‖ Jimmy said, with a The Dumb Fucks crossed the street nod of his head. They glanced over and towards the Building, forcing any cars saw a couple of police cars arriving. One to come to a screeching halt in the cop stepped out of the car to survey the process. A well-dressed man in a area. Mercedes leaned on his horn, face twisted in anger at the group of skins in ―The filth.‖ Knuckles spat. K. expected front of him. Before any of the Fucks as much. Guess it looked a bit obvious could react, three skins dragged the man that a group of skins were hanging from his car and threw him to the around such a posh area. pavement hard. Two put the boots to the writhing body while the third ―Some cunt got nervous.‖ He growled. jumped up onto the hood and kicked in ―Two minutes, boys. Hold firm.‖ the windshield.

There was a smash and a crash of The crew remained focused. They shattered glass hitting the concrete. The pushed through a group of old biddies Dumb Fucks looked over to see four fleeing the gang violence, their anarchists dressed in black with keffiyeh abandoned shopping bags strewn across wrapped around their faces standing in the sidewalk behind them. Two yuppies front of a coffee shop. The window had backed into Fuzz as they were retreating been shattered by a garbage can that from another group of street fighters. had been tossed through it. Shouts Fuzz grabbed the hair of the first one

29 and threw the yuppie‘s head down into He began to punch the guard‘s face like his rising knee. The body went instantly a piston. Alex grabbed the computer off limp. His friend turned and whimpered the desk and threw it across the room, a bewildered plea which Fuzz answered where it shattered on the tile floor. with a hard right cross. Blood spat from the falling yuppie‘s broken jaw. ―One minute then take off.‖ K. shouted to the others. K. noticed the guards that were hassling the skins earlier were now lying face He saw another two guards exit from down on the pavement surrounded by the elevator. There was a gleam of the angry gang bent on releasing their mayhem in eyes of the Fucks as they rage. He remembered fondly of times readied themselves for more ulta past as the filthy cunts were curbed. violence.

―This is it.‖ K. said, ―Mouse, stay out K. turned and headed down the hall and here. Fuck up any cunts who try to get into the stairwell. in. But two minutes only, then fuck off. Cassie and Knuckles, head around back. Bam, Fuzz, Jimmy, you‘re with me.‖ K. glanced across the street to see Alex digging a shiv repeatedly into an oblivious anarchist‘s ribs. The man collapsed onto one knee, holding his side, not fully realizing yet where all the blood was coming from. ―Looks like Alex is having fun without us. That‘ll teach those middle class tossers a thing or two about real working class violence.‖

The crew headed towards the black steel door. K. checked it and with a hard push, swung it open into the lobby. The crew bolted through the opening into the Building. Bam Bam placed his size K. proceeded quickly yet cautiously twelve boots into the stomach of a along the white halls. To his surprise he security guard, sending him flopping to was largely ignored as the employees the ground, smashing his head on the were more interested in the mayhem tile floor. He proceeded to put his boots erupting outside to care about his hard into the prone body. Fuzz grabbed presence. That sigil Magus fired has the security guard behind the desk by worked so far, K. said to himself. Now, the lapels and dragged him across the where is that fucker. desk before throwing him to the floor.

30 He opened a door to an office. There but stared blankly at the street fighter. were three secretaries against the K. clenched his fists and moved towards window watching the mayhem below. the desk with menace.

―Oh my, did you see what‘s going on The Doctor let out a sigh and shook his outside?‖ A slim blonde woman said head. ―Well, Mr. K., we had plans for turning to him. ―Can you believe it?‖ you. But now, you‘ve really messed things up.‖ ―What‘s this country coming to?‖ He said, eyeing the row of fit birds, who all ―You see, the Building is hologramatic, were looking at him now. ―But don‘t metaphorically speaking.‖ He worry, nothing‘s going to happen to you continued. ―Our activities run on nice ladies. Not with the likes of me multiple levels. Certain aspects are around.‖ hinted at from one viewpoint, but from another perspective a whole new He shot them a wink and a nod, and dimension is realized. You did not could sense from their wry smiles that understand the full scope of the they were up for a bit more. He would enterprise, and of course, you could not, love a round of sexual athletics, but he so you jumped to conclusions, got some had other matters at hand. bad advice. Now, this disruption, among others you‘ve presented us. ―I‘ve been looking for you.‖ Magus said, You‘re turning out to be more trouble placing his hand onto K.‘s shoulder. that you‘re worth.‖ ―This way.‖ ―Sorry, squire, but I had a problem with K. and Magus moved quickly through a that whole ‗kill the hooligan‘ thing you series of interconnecting hallways in were planning.‖ K. said with a sneer. silence, before coming to a plain white door. ―Oh, that, well, you see, that was my wife you were fucking in that hotel Magus nodded and K. kicked in the room. That‘s right. It was a sex magic door. He could see the Doctor sitting operation. Of course, neither of you behind an office desk across the room knew about it as that would have from him. He entered the room slowly, skewed the energy. Unfortunately, this Magus behind him. time you didn‘t die. My man got tired of waiting for you to climax a second time ―Looks like you‘ve created a bit of a and jumped the gun a bit. You were sensation outside.‖ The Doctor said, meant to die at the moment of orgasm, reclining in his chair. ―And for what, I when the magickal energy would be at might add?‖ its peak. Of course, the old woman would forget all that had happened ―What‘s all this about, then?‖ he said thanks to some intense deliberately. The Doctor did not answer

31 metaprogramming we‘ve been working K. and Magus stepped out of the on. Then onto the next punter.‖ emergency exit into the alley.

―But, Mr. K.‖ the Doctor continued, his ―Maybe next time, mate.‖ He said to tone menacing. ―You‘re fucking seems Magus. ―Fun and games, eh?‖ to have put a wrench into that cycle. Now all she can think of is sex with ―I‘ll be seeing you.‖ Magus said with a despicable creatures such as yourself. So laugh. He turned and walked up the much so, that I‘ve had to lock her up. alley. K. turned and ran up the alley in For her own safety.‖ the opposite direction. Coppers were everywhere now. He kept his head K. stood, tense muscles relaxing slightly down and walked with a purpose. at the thought that he fucked the old bird into the nut house. Cassie clocked him as he turned the corner and bounced over to him. ―David Michael K., you‘re a cunt.‖ The Doctor said coldly. ―This is brilliant.‖ She shouted over the sirens from the next street over. ―Just K. swung his fist across the desk at the got word that my sisters in S.C.U.M. Doctor. There was nothing but air. launched their own riot. They‘ve been stabbing men up and down the Metro. ―He‘s gone.‖ Magus said, ―For now.‖ They didn‘t want anything to do with this riot as it was organized by men. Rage filled K. as every muscle exploded. While I can‘t stand their chauvinism, I Teeth clenched, he hit the desk admire their initiative.‖ repeatedly with his fist, imagining it was a copper‘s head. ―Let‘s go. There‘s still some unfinished business.‖ K. said, refocusing.

―I‘ve been looking forward to this.‖ Cassie nodded, face glowing at the thought of more aggro. K. looked up in the sky and noticed the pink saucers were back, hovering high above. He smiled, cracking his knuckles. He knew that everything would work out just right. Just one last bit of business, then back to the flat with his mates to enjoy a pint and recap the day‘s mayhem.

Cassie pressed her finger to David‘s lips. David stepped back, out of sight as she opened the door into a posh reading

32 hall. He surveyed the hallway. There ideals of another class whose aims are were lots of dark wood and portraits in contrary to their own. You are highly oil hanging on the walls. Smell of stale recognized in the literary world. We rot hung in the air. seek nothing less than the destruction of this occult establishment and to ―Are my guests here?‖ Barbara Radford extinguish the stench of literature once Salisbury, bestselling author of royal and for all.‖ romances said, straightening her trademark pink dress. The 95 year-old ―My word, what is the meaning of all woman was waiting the arrival of some this!‖ turning to the young woman for members of the lesser nobility for tea. an explanation. With any luck, one of the young Dukes would be convinced to strip and flog his The woman‘s answer was in the carving member for her, all research for an knife she had unsheathed and thrust upcoming book, of course. She never into the wrinkled white face. Salisbury lacked volunteers to molest her thin, shuttered a last shallow breath as the wrinkled body. People knew she was knife penetrated her eye socket and well connected with the royal family buried itself into her brain. A thin arc of and would bow to her whims on the off blood pumped from the wound over the chance she would put in a word for maid‘s uniform. Having recovered from them with the Queen. the momentary shock of murdering her former master, the maid proceeded to ―There has been a slight change of stab the withered corpse repeatedly, plans, mum.‖ Cassie said, entering the memories of years of humiliation and room. abuse finally being released. She had planned to sell the corpse to the ―Oh, the young Duke couldn‘t make it?‖ Man/Corpse Love Society for further Salisbury stated, day dreaming about humiliation. She remembered the the 18 year-old‘s hard body before contact sputtering over the phone ―Ah, becoming annoyed, swinging her thin we‘ve never had a posh bird like that arm toward her servant‘s face. ―What before!‖ Now, it was all but useless. am I to do now!?‖ David Michael grabbed Salisbury‘s ―Die.‖ Cassie growled. books and piled them on the floor. In an instant, they were ablaze. Cassie tossed On queue, David Michael entered the the bloody knife into the fire. room, cracking his knuckles, staring down the old tart. ―Show me another rich cunt, and I‘ll stick her too.‖ she muttered. ―Your books have poisoned the minds of working class women with bourgeois David wanted to fuck her right there in fairy tales, convincing them to turn the growing pool of blood and meat. against their own class to aspire to the

33 GREEN EYED MONSTER

By Claire Godden-Rowland

Photos © Malcolm Alcala

He checked his watch again and some Spanish waiter, some Raul or Julio squinted along the dusty Spanish road, or whatever, she‘d probably had him on the heat shimmering above its concrete the go for ages, which was probably surface, cicadas filling his head with why she had suggested a weekend in their irritating chirping. Where the hell Majorca so soon into their relationship. was she? He should have gone with her, Against the azure blue of the Spanish should have endured a day of trudging sky a coach began to trundle out of the around cathedrals or castles or whatever midday heat toward him. He physically old shit she‘d insisted on going to relaxed and sighed with relief, he knew traipse around. It was all a ruse; he was it was okay, he had known she would sure of it, she was probably meeting be back; she was a good girl really.

34 The coach pulled up with a sigh of history. It was hot though, baking hot. I brakes and she appeared at the top of made a friend on the coach –‗ the narrow stairs, beaming and sweating from her excursion. He lifted ‗You did?‘ he tried to keep the panic her down gleefully and held her, a which bubbled to life within him out of moment too long, a little too tightly. his voice.

She looked slightly confused and ‗Yeh, yeh, such a nice guy, we buddied removed herself from his embrace. ‗I up for picture taking else I would have was only gone for the day Babes, you had no photos of those fabulous places.‘ okay?‘ She was still talking but his ears were ringing, a cold sensation throbbing in She could be such a cold bitch. ‗What? I the pit of his stomach, the bitter stab of can‘t miss you?‘ He asked amiably, jealousy. So this was his adversary, the kissing her cheek. latest man planning to take her from him, there was always someone lurking at the periphery of his vision, just awaiting their chance. Fuck sake, why did she have to be so flirtatious, all the time, with anyone? God knows, he‘d seen her with his mates, laughing at their jokes and touching their arms as she threw her head back, shaking her golden hair provocatively. All part of her act, everything she did was, every move, the way she walked, all part of this package intended to entice and lure. He bet this guy wasn‘t even into that old history shit, just got on the coach when he saw her get on, sidling up to her with this whole camera photo buddy bollocks. He knew his game alright, pretending to listen when she spoke about all these crumbling old buildings no one gives a toss about. Bastard, he worked his way in and now he would probably be lurking somewhere planning his next move, how to accidentally on purpose be where she She relented to his charm. ‗Well,‘ she was, talking about old shit again. How shrugged, ‗I‘m flattered. I missed you could he compete with that? He hated too, I wished you‘d come, God it was so old shit and she was so fucking pretty great. This place is so full of beautiful that it was ridiculous, women shouldn‘t

35 be that pretty, it made them a liability getting rid of the evidence. He couldn‘t and made all the men around go bear it, how could she do this to him? squiffy. Cuckold him like this; make him look such a fool? ‗You want to go back to the room?‘ He heard himself ask her. ‗I can show you ‗You‘re not going anywhere!‘ just how much I missed you today?‘ She blanched as if physically struck. Her eyes sparkled and she grinned, ‗What? Why?‘ She gazed at him in leaning against him suggestively. disbelief. ‗Really?‘

‗Oh yes, really.‘

‗Let‘s do it.‘ She took his hand and, waving over her shoulder at her new friend, she led him to their room, past the sparkling turquoise pool. He followed her, watching the sun dance on her golden hair, her shoulders a honey brown blushed with pink from walking around in the sun today. He glanced behind him at the friend she had waved goodbye to, so casually, as if they weren‘t already lovers, laughing behind his back.

She closed the door to their room, the cool shocking after the searing heat of the afternoon, her flip flops slapping against the cold floors. She blew out air as she smiled at him contentedly. She reached up and kissed him, releasing a small groan of pleasure as she did so. She was so fucking sexual all the time, He quickly softened his tone, everything about her reeked of sex, she determined to get her pants off and find was such a whore he couldn‘t stand it. out if she was wet, if she‘d been with the ‗Let me take a quick shower and you other guy, any other guy, he had to can go ahead and show me just how know. ‗I want you now, I can‘t wait.‘ much you missed me.‘ She turned to leave and he felt cold shivers run all ‗But I‘m sweaty and stinky.‘ over his flesh. She was washing the other guy off her, cleaning herself out, ‗Don‘t care.‘

36 ‗But –‗ Finally her shorts were in his hands, her knickers still twisted inside them and ‗Now baby!‘ her bare legs exposed and red from the rough dragging of material. Before she He grabbed her before he could stop could complain about her treatment or himself and threw her back on the bed. cover her nakedness he thrust his hand She was too shocked to struggle and he inside her. She squealed with pain and was on top of her, pulling eagerly at her started repeating ‗gentle‘ over and over. shorts, a look of utter determination in She was dry. He couldn‘t believe it. his eyes. How was that possible? She hadn‘t as yet been with another? He imagined her ‗Hey,‘ she complained pulling at her planning it right now, a rendezvous pants defensively, but he couldn‘t stop, tonight, laughing at him as some he dragged at her clothes and they stranger pressed her against a wall and began to heave over her flesh, turning it thrust inside her. white, digging into her skin. ‗Slow down.‘ He couldn‘t, he couldn‘t stop, He realised his fingers were still inside couldn‘t help himself. her as images of her fucked every which way from Sunday assaulted his brain. Then he realised he had a huge erection, so fierce and hard. He pushed her back and thrust inside her, covering her mouth as she screamed in anguish, each thrust like knives stabbing inside her. But then the pain began to pass and she was moving with him, seeing this as just overly urgent, him too keen, a lesson to be learned was all this was. She moaned gently in his ear with pleasure, now wet and welcoming. Her acquiescing infuriated him and he thrust harder, determined to make her sorry, so fucking sorry, but she just moaned louder and dug her fingers into his shoulders. Despite himself he began to feel the stirrings, the taking over of himself and they came together, violent and urgent, and moaning with pleasure. He lay on top of her, panting and hating himself, hating her, hating the other guy, all the other guys. Then he rolled off and lay back, staring up at the

37 whirring fan above him, the cool on his He couldn‘t let her. Fuck, why did she sweat soaked skin making it prickle. have to be such a whore? Why was she making him feel this way? He couldn‘t She leant on one elbow and sighed with let her leave, disrespect herself, something like gratification, her cheeks laughing at him, at how he loved her flushed. She dragged a hand through and wanted her only for himself. her damp hair. ‗Wow, you did miss me that was …‘ she giggled girlishly and he ‗What‘s wrong?‘ she was asking. ‗What felt fury bubble within him, she was is it? Talk to me?‘ laughing at him, she thought him a ludicrous lover. ‗I‘m not sure I shall be He glared at her, she was playing him, walking right for a week!‘ she knew what was wrong, she was the one who had been fucking the coach He couldn‘t be close to her any longer guy all day, and the Spanish guy, the and stood up, frustration pumping reason they were even here, why she‘d through every muscle in his body wanted to come to this stupid country. making them burn. Bitch, bitch, bitch, he She looked so innocent, so full of screamed in his mind. She was so concern for him, her eyes watery and wanton, she was a slut, and she was her brow furrowed. She was good, he‘d jezebel, Delilah. She was Eve, filled with give her that, but he saw what she was, original sin, making him bad, making she was filthy, she could not be trusted. him wrong. He didn‘t know it but he She was edging across the room away was mumbling, repeating the word from him, her eyes wide in fear. ‗You‘re ‗wrong‘ over and over. scaring me,‘ she said.

She sat up in bed feeling a trickle of He sniggered and in one huge step was alarm run down her spine. across the room and seizing her arms as if she were just a weightless doll. He He continued to pace, repeating in a thrust her onto the bed and she hushed whisper that she was wrong, screamed in genuine alarm now, she this was wrong. She would leave this was afraid of him, there was fear in her room and run to him, the guy from the eyes. He would show her, he would coach who pretended to like the old shit, give her the fucking of her life. She the castles and cathedrals. Wrong, would never want anyone else after this; wrong, wrong. He couldn‘t let her leave. no other guy would do after he showed She wouldn‘t come back. her what he was capable of, how he could give it to her. Not walk for a She was sliding off the bed, her eyes week; she‘d never walk again once he wide, and the whisper of panic turning was finished with her. He was blind into a screech inside her. She could see with fury and determination to prove he was wrong and she would leave him, his virility and power to her. She‘d he just knew it. spend the rest of their lives begging him to do her again, like he did all those

38 years ago in Spain when he showed her help himself, he clutched his fingers what a real man could do. She‘d never around his cock and began to massage look at some other guy, not even one up and down, moaning involuntarily who liked that history bollocks, no one with pleasure. He became hard quickly else would ever do after this. He loved as he looked down at her, frozen her with all of him self, more beneath him, his face the last thing she passionately than he had ever thought had seen in this life, the thought of their possible and after this she would never passionate lovemaking still hot in his leave, never leave. head. Then he slipped his erection into her mouth. It felt so good, still so warm He looked down and that was when he and welcoming. He thrust into her realised: he had crushed her. That was throat, groaning with pleasure, his cock curious, he thought as he looked down battering her mouth mercilessly, his at her staring blood stained eyes, her buttocks tensing and thrusting eagerly. death mask, he hadn‘t really meant to He came quickly and it bubbled from do that. He touched her cheek and her mouth, dribbling down her rocked her head, mouth gaping, it motionless chin. He sighed and dropped to the other side. Now she shuddered with euphoria. This was so really would never leave him. She perfect; she would never leave him now. looked so beautiful, god she was perfect, He lay down next to her; she was a good she looked like an angel. He couldn‘t girl really, he‘d always known it.

39 THE GOOD COCK

By Salena Godden

Photos © Thomas Evans

It was a good cock, there is no disputing what it would feel like inside her, what it. It made her giddy just to look at it, it would be like to have such a good throbbing, twitching and pulsating there cock. It was thick and long, it was hard in his hand. It made all women sigh, and it was all her, for the then, and for grunt and moan, of course, it made all the now. Just the sight of it made her other women crazy, but she wasn‘t ridiculous, she thought in songs: have thinking about all other women, for you ever seen such a thing in your life, then and there, it was hers, it was a such a spectacular cock in all of your good cock and it was all for her. She life? Hypnotic and red faced it was, the was thinking about the good cock and cock had fury and hunger, a personality the width of it, the thought of it, the of its own, it was arrogant and primal. view was spectacular. She wanted to see He held it back tightly. Then he lowered

40 the front passenger seat and positioned at the dog walker. She chuckled and this himself on top of her. He was strong made her jiggle. He said, please don‟t do and quite heavy and she was pinned that, don‟t move or you will make me come. under his weight now. So the good cock She stifled her giggling and stopped let her have a taste and gave her a feel of laughing and again she was very still. some of the tip of it, just the very tip of Her legs open and jammed up against the good cock. He gave her a quick lazy the dashboard and her skirt up around kiss, all tongue and spit as he worked her throat. The gear stick digging into the cock in. Then he gave her a few her side. good and sudden strokes followed by a few good hard thrusts. She opened herself and moved with him and he said don‟t do that or you‟ll make me come. So she stopped bucking and grinding and tried to be good for the good cock. She played dead and let the cock have its own wicked way. It was sharp and delicious, with each throb and stab the cock grew harder, more swollen. She was aware that she was making strange noises in her throat, normally she was quite quiet, but for now and for the good cock she was a whimpering girl, a virgin, he seemed to like it like that. Don‟t move he gasped or I will come he said, don‟t move or I will come. So she had to stay perfectly still as he entered her again and again, teasing short spurts followed by slow full length of good cock, there in the front seat of the car, in the carpark, outside the train station.

Suddenly he ducked his head down and he stopped moving momentarily because he could see a man walking his This time though, when he was doing it dog. He looked at the man walking his to her, she plain lost her composure, she dog whilst he began to continue slowly sighed then cried out in pleasure and fucking her. As though by doing it very pulled him into her. He didn‘t look into slowly it would look less rude to the her face, he looked at his good cock man and his dog. He looked at the man going in and out and then over at the walking his dog and pushed himself dog walker. He looked down and back inside her hard, looking past her watched himself go in and out and then shoulder and through his rear window over at the dog walker, in and out, the

41 dog walker and then in and out. She shirt back down. He drew breath whilst threw her arms around his neck and he did up his flies, then walked around clenched and lifted herself onto him and got back into the driving seat. They from below. She couldn‘t help it, she smiled at each other. They giggled about thrust herself back onto him. He was the man walking his dog, as he started sweating as he looked at his cock and the engine and patted her knee. The car then he said oh oh oh. She bucked had a sweet smell, sex, cheese, sweat, beneath him fiercely three or four or so vanilla, beer and wheat. They opened times and she dug her nails through his the steamy windows and the air was denim jacket and bit into his collar, his cool. He drove to the other side of the neck and hair. Very suddenly, he car park, to the train station entrance clambered off her and out of the car and dropped her off for the 3pm train. door clasping the end of his cock. He They kissed, pecked each other goodbye had the foreskin pinched between his and made noises to call each other fingers and when he let go of the end, sometime and soon. It was sunny on the creamy sperm shot all over the front car platform, golden light soaked the stoney tyre. She lay there watching him but she train tracks, she smoked a cigarette could only see him from the waist up. alone. Out of her view he had one hand to steady himself on the roof of the car and the other on his good cock, his face grimaced slightly and his eyes were closed. She watched him and out of sight, out of frame, his come spurted against the carpark tarmac and the front tyre.

She closed her legs and sat up, she found her knickers on the floor of the car and pulled them back on over her boots. She was relieved he didn‘t come inside her. She‘d never seen such a good cock, inexplicable timing, coughing up against a car tyre like that too. She had been wondering where his sperm would go. She was expecting to get it rubbed into her belly and breasts, splashed into her face, it was much tidier this way. This way there would be no marks on her clothes or his car seat, no residue on her skin to reappear in the bath later. She straightened her skirt, pushed her right tit back in her bra and pulled her t-

42 43 MARKET STREET GREYHOUND STATION

By Gene Gregorits

Market Street Greyhound Station, 10 attracting attention, of feeling eyes, of PM. pretending to not know, not notice. The Waiting. Watching. Wanting. steady routine of walking away while Coins drop into machines, calls are sending out energy like thoughts, connected, candy bars drop. thoughts like coded transmissions, Loudspeaker screams high volume mud transmissions like pure energy, each like an aural response to the grease on second ahead being one in which the the floor. impossible might happen. The energy is People arrive late and curse. caught in the paws of angels, who toss a Young women laugh. hint to their respective owners, who do Drivers with coffee and sweet rolls not realize they have angels, that there sweep quickly and confidently through is one moving across the scum-spackled the people, along the rows of orange tiles, and the hint gets lost. bucket seats. The steady routine of hitting the night In these seats are people who are tired, air alone, exiting somewhere, a bus people with stomach cramps, anxiety, station or bar or restaurant…extricating fatigue. myself from the sounds, until a safe Most of them waiting, and they are distance is reached, turning around in wanting also, and they remain silent. my old boots, through which I can feel Glances from strange women the massage of icy cobblestone, to exaggerate my malnourishment, the nothing but the lights of idling cabs, the ache in my legs. lights of street lamps, my steady routine Mother‘s advice: vitamin b12. of good looks and gruesome need and Mother‘s advice: act civilized. prefabricated spite, my addiction to defeat, my fear reinforced by the Fuhrer I rise to my feet, the steady routine of of fiction, the dead man, the dancing

44 fucking dead man who meets my dead My new friends are Michelle and dreams head on, forcing a further Stephanie. Both are beautiful, but begging of the question, demon blood in Michelle is a brunette and I like my angel blood, an infection which brunettes. Back at my place, Fink and forbids my felonious fetish. Simon soak up the female attention. The Walking towards the river, gales of girls pull books and films off the wind coming off the cold Susquehanna, shelves, and ask me about them. I idling red car at the red light, the snow answer with as few words as possible, coming down thick and heavy. afraid of launching into a speech or a Muffled sounds, a loud honk. I turn and rant. stare, the idling red car honking its horn Their questions make me feel old, their at the red light, the snow coming down eyes turn me impish. good. When the strangers are gone, I go to sleep. Contradict the inexorable routine with a surge of disbelief, which turns to Dearest John, excitement, my monumental and melodramatic mockery of the moment The tone of your scathing drunken phone mocked itself by genuine hope, a real call to me was undeserved. I‟ve been telling spark in the night, a spark in the blood, you for so, so long to not call me when the old transmission new again, and I you‟re drunk. Your voice itself would evoke am in the backseat of the red car, a rankling in any decent person, especially a disorienting burst of perfume and person who has been responsible for trying to raise children on their own. If you are leopard print and heat, of two teenage really selling drugs and alcohol to fifth girls, and the car is moving. graders in the 7-11 parking lot, I can „t I ask, ―why?‖ fathom why you would feel a need to boast of One of them says, ―You looked it to your own mother. I loathe and detest interesting.‖ anyone who participates willingly in

45 endangering kids. That goes for anyone who be one thing if I were rich or even sells drugs or alcohol to you too, since one is comfortable, and I let you suffer. But I'm illegal and the other you are too young to not. I often go without, and believe me, I legally buy yourself. I know you were don‟t think my parents, siblings or my probably joking, but I don‟t really know. children should be helping me out. It was You are headed for prison, one way or my choice to settle for this job, I should be another. As for you being demonically out trying to make something better happen possessed…well, I don‟t know that any for myself. I should have gotten more mother would be willing to take a thing like education to enable me to do a job that that with a grain of seriousness. But like I would entail higher learning skills. It‟s not told you, I do remember your outbursts, I all about the degree, as you seem to think, remember you telling me about a black car, but about learning something new that I and when you have the fever. These fits you couldn't know about otherwise. I‟m too lazy had, they did frighten me, and no, I cannot at this point in my life. But I do wish that I agree with you that you that they came from had done that, when I had more energy. the devil. I do believe in the devil, I think that there is such a thing as real evil. You I know I sound too hateful, or malicious as are not that. It gave me the creeps to hear you put it, but you purposely annoy me. If about this, I wish you‟d just move on. you were really joking about the selling of Especially when I try so hard to help you. I drugs to minors, there was only one reason don‟t appreciate your undermining my for it. To evoke outrage in me. Again, from constant efforts to support you. I have the time you were a child, always seeking encouraged you, and your writing, you just negative attention. And I guess I always don‟t appreciate my efforts. I doubt you gave it. Shame on me, really. I should ignore remember half the things I have done for any and all remarks of that nature. I think you. YOU are the one who consistently you better check the dictionary for the undermines and sabotages yourself. My definition of malicious. I‟m definitely not anger stems from your unwillingness or that. Got no time to be that. I never begrudgement of having to be responsible for understood people who are. yourself WHILE you are writing. It would And no one knows better than me that you

46 “don‟t want to win.” Which is a shame, shivering cold taciturn cursed with the because you sure started out as a winner. same old wonder and sensing, as You still are, I think, under a bunch of always, the expansion of my own mostly self-inflicted crap. emotional limits.

Pooh-pooh, I know when you are rich you My small apartment has only one room, are going to buy your mother a nice old not counting the kitchen and bath. Large house. I will finally have my fireplace with side windows draped with old blankets, built-ins on either side, and a large kitchen. windows that rattle with the slightest The kitchen may have a small fireplace too. wind, windows that see into the next With several rockers and a nice overstuffed building. The walls are adorned with chair around it. movie posters pilfered from an old video store job, and fold-out pin-ups of I love you son. Jackie Moore, porno chanteuse, 1980s Mother punk goddess, queen of the underground, sex kitten of the hate There is no responding to such a letter. generation. It goes in the trash. And so I am John Closets are stuffed with my archives, Pitman, waking naked and two months folders of scrawl and type, books, clean from my last warehouse job, the records, videotapes. You enter my year of your lord nineteen hundred and kingdom, you take a few hours, look ninety six at 10 in the morning, around, you‘ll know as much about me Harrisburg, to the sound of cats crying, as I do. You might know more. shrieking power saws car horns rattling Fish out clean underwear from the body garbage can lids and the sound of white length army issue tube sack that never trash not getting along with each other gets unpacked from the Laundromat from the television. Bloated and yellow, where a child once found my dropped itchy throat, I drink a glass of milk and quarter in a place only small hands fill a bowl on the floor with Friskies could reach, and I smiled at him taking

47 my quarter from small hands, and that The white sock is now red, with a thought hits me while bending over my bulging wad of membrane lining from tube sack shriveled dick goosebumps inside my skull. During my two months aching for more sleep, the first leg of unemployment, I‘ve become a user of through, then the second, feeling bile methamphetamine. This in turn made rising in my concave chest, sliding on me, by default, a user of pornography. black underwear and a white t-shirt. The mess out in paper and in bowl, I‘m Put on water for tea, wait for it standing ready for tea. I sip carefully, the milky there, watching the black metal slowly warmth and sweetness is turn red metal. I recall last night‘s overwhelming, feels so good I can Chinese, when I feel the weight of it in disappear into it. By the third sip, I my chest, appearing to have never know I‘m on the mend. reached digestion. In the bathroom a I am snorting warm water up there to finger jabbing my throat I get rid of it, clear out the wreckage when I see that choke by choke, chunk by chunk, until someone is standing on my balcony, by tears stream down my cheeks, and try the fire escape. I slink back into the blowing my nose into the wrinkled other room and peer around the corner, paper wrapping of a toilet paper roll, just as the hammering begins. long since used. Nothing. Can‘t breathe, ―WHO IS IT?‖ so I try again, this time loud enough to Silence. knock out the other sounds. Explosion, Fuck it, I‘m not wanted by anyone, no OUT, like an orgasm. I feel wetness and warrants that I know of, and I march it seems as if I‘ve given facial birth to through the kitchen in my underwear, my own brain. A blast of air makes its feeling the weight of my gut and the grit way through my nostrils, wakes me up. under my feet, greasy tile needing I can breathe for the first time since cleaned, I swing the door open. yesterday. Pure oxygen induces a The man is in his sixties, bearded and temporary sense of good health. fat, eyes like a bored German shepherd. Euphoria. ―Martin Bradshaw, attorney for Laura

48 Keller. I need you to sign this.‖ avoiding contact with the poor, with the ―Laura‖, I say, and ask him why he heartbroken, the unwashed and came up the back way. unloved, his thick expensive overcoat ―I tried the front three times already, bundled around him to keep his old, yesterday and this morning.‖ lazy flesh clean of the other world, away I‘d heard the knocks, figured it was a from all that garbage, away from the bill collector, since my last broken bone winter violence. cost over a grand to fix and I hadn‘t I don‘t read the divorce papers, but I paid a dime. inform Martin Bradshaw that I don‘t ―Shouldn‘t I have gotten a phone call have any money. about this?‖ ―I can see that,‖ staring into space. ―You don‘t answer your phone.‖ You motherfucker. ―I work.‖ I sign three times with an ink column ―Get an answering machine.‖ from a disused Bic, casing gone, where ―Laura knows where I live, why didn‘t he‘s marked red x‘s with his own she-‖ hundred dollar pen. ―That‘s between you and Miss Keller. ―Did she pay you extra to be a fuckin Would you sign the papers, please?‖ asshole?‖ Martin Bradshaw stares straight ahead, ―No, that‘s free of charge.‖ trying not to look at anything, not me, ―Thanks,‖ I smile, and spit in his face, not my filthy kitchen, not my kicking the rotten door shut hitting the undershorts, not the stacks of play switch in one integrated swish of pornography on the table behind me. movement, flooding the entire backlot ―Hold on a second, I‘ll get a pen.‖ with the Exploited: ―Dead Cities‖. The ―I have a pen‖ he says, extending it w i t h room and I shudder together as he kicks black leather gloves but I‘m already at the door from outside, saying gone from the doorway. I return with something about me being low life my boombox and plug it in. fucking shit. Martin Bradshaw stares straight ahead,

49 I see Martin Bradshaw throw something wrapped in a pair of men‘s undies on a to the ground, and then he descends out Pennsylvania highway. My brother of view. brought the brain damaged tabby to me, Once dressed, I step out on to the and I kept him. balcony and look at the empty space I think of myself as a kitten, as Simon, where the lawyer‘s car had been. The my brain exploding with fear as tractor wood was once painted gray, now it is trailers roar by in the scum-nowhere of the color of rot. The wood creaks under Central Pennsylvania, my nose pressed my step, spots of worn through into the shit stains left by some cat- carpeting still linger, green clumps like hating Republican Football King. mold spores. A tattered, dirt-crusted I love Fink most, but I feel so like Simon. wire screen hangs and the clouds above We are three emotional parasites, me speak of snowfall. I sit smoking on a feeding off one another, living on the folding lawn chair, plaid design on outermost fringe of reality, fearing plastic strips. A cat hops into my lap everything. and another one, not mine, dives from Fearing other parasites…because we can the other building‘s balcony and onto barely take care of ourselves. There are my balcony. Fink gets big eyes but I rats in the yard below. I‘m not worried hold him back, then down the about rats, but werewolves are a major splintered, shot-to-shit wooden steps concern. Fink leaves my lap after a few goes the stray, rushing into a dark seconds hesitation, and I bend down, corner of my garbage strewn backyard. unfold the ball of paper the lawyer left Fink‘s retarded brother Simon watches for me. It reads, ―Decree In Divorce. from inside the filter-top litterbox. Poor Laura Keller, plaintiff, vs. John Pitman, Simon. Every time I look at him, I think defendant.‖ The name of the judge, ―poor Simon.‖ Simon is a young tabby dates and numbers, I return it to a ball with brain damage, who follows me and toss it into the yard below saying around until I scream and feel bad. aloud, it‘s almost Christmas…and wave Simon was found by my brother to the neighbor, next door, hauling out

50 his trash to the dumpster. He shuffles sleep, are roaring with infection. I press along, emitting bursts of visible breath. the hard packed handful of snow into He‘s a young lawyer, his wife drinks too the holes. The snow turns pink and much, I hear them argue. Their melts away, lowering the volume of the apartment is tastefully furnished, and wailing nerves by about 40%. I hop back they own sportscars. That I live next to inside and empty the dregs of my last them makes it obvious, we do not have bottle of peroxide across my festering the same landlord. piggies. The angry explosion of white On Forster Street, there is no traffic, foam fascinates and satisfies me: ―take deserted streets blue and gray, nuclear that, fuckers‖ I mutter, bent over with winter solstice, but for the plumes of my foot on the toilet rim. I keep my smoke rising from the east, the body strong with infections, partly out newspaper plant, where my father of the life-affirming delight I take in my works, so I must assume the world still self-administered medical justice, and exists below my balcony, away from my partly because I believe my blood, my bare feet and divorce certificate. spirit, my resolve, to be stronger than My toe-pits are screaming again, I any disease. So far, I have been able to realize. Off comes the right boot, then sweat out all attacks, inner and outer, by the sock. I stand on one foot and grip a sheer bolstering my strong Hungarian the wooden door frame of the back blood, and of my inherent contrarion porch with my left hand, bending down rage. I‘m running this goddamn show, to scoop a handful of snow off the and sickness is not only intolerable, but wooden railing with my right. I hop to be punished. back to the lawn chair, drop into it, and After five minutes trying to remember, I bring my right foot up across my left punch seven digits, wait for a ring, an knee. The big toe and pinky toes are answer, a voice, Laura‘s voice. I get a fine, while the three between, the nails confused Latino, screaming. of these toes having been yanked out For the rest of the day, I sat drinking during panic attacks, nights when I can‘t beer and watching Forster Street, the

51 plumes of smoke rising from the east, BULLWORKER SIXTY SIX BROKEN myself rising only to empty the ashtray, TEETH. piss, open a fresh beer, piss, flip the tape, piss and then buy speed from the I cut the small gatherings of boldface doorman at Stallions, a gay bar one type out one by one, and the longer block away sniff speed bought from the passages I tear up, paste all the chunks doorman, off a full color centerfold with with trembling fingers onto 8 ½ by 11 a hollow ballpoint pen casing Xeroxed photos of Jackie Moore, of low- type all night in my underwear, slugs of quality hardcore, pages ripped from a malt liquor, bolts of light bursting the movie star pinup magazine found at the brain cloud, type lines of poetry, using Delphi Diner, a few of myself. Energy words pilfered from both the Old stabs my extremities, and I stretch, lift a Testament and the Random House thirty pound weight, curl up a collage ―Word Menu‖, sexually verbose sheet and stomp it into cigarette ash and descriptions with much attention paid cat litter on the kitchen floor, unfold it, to hands and eyes…manic, self- and flatten it out, decide it‘s ready for consciously at first, and then the the Xerox machine. The collage sheet thoughts come natural-manic and turn goes into the oven, which I have never into prayers, chants, ending in used, along with 30 other similar sheets, percussive phrases that for me sum and another ten handwritten or typed everything up like grinning little land pages of freestyle belligerence. mines: Collectively, these sheets will be known as ―Purgatoid #5‖. These sheets will be HAMMERHEAD SEXBOY JOYSTICK Xeroxed and sent to my long-distance CHOPLICKER CRANKBABY lovers in lieu of correspondence because TEMPORAL FRACTURE FEVER I have nothing to say these days. DREAMING BUTTERCUP PURIFIED The sun is up, it goes down. I do 28 new LOVE MULCH SWAMP SPASMS collages, and finish one short story. KNASHING EYEBALLS JUNKIE For the rest of the morning, I let my eyes

52 glaze over to ―Blowjob Bunnies 13‖ and thumbtacks, glitter, bits of paper, pen pass out with my dick in my right hand. caps, cigarette ash, dust, sand, rubbish. I tap the box out in the trash can, which is I wake in the early afternoon to a phone filled with broken glass. I put the letters call, my landlord. back in the box, without reading any. I ―Johnny, don‘t make me do it. You stop hit eject on the VCR, afraid to touch the doing what it is that you‘re doing and thing. let my other tenants sleep.‖ Throw ―Blowjob Bunnies‖ into the ―I fell asleep with the TV on, I‘ll be more broken glass. careful.‖ Throw cigarette butts over ―Blowjob ―I mean it this time. You‘re pissing me Bunnies‖. off.‖ Throw taunts at my reflection, pushing The call worries me. I feed the cats, do a it, pushing me to push it further. A red line. I dig out a box of letters, going back stream jets back into my stomach, from five years, when I began answering the black wound in my forearm. I use lonelyhearts ads in small press the shard lower, on my legs. I run it up magazines. Postmarks and lipstick, dirty and down, until the stuff has congealed panties, glitter, Hello Kitty stickers. my toes together. Emerge from my Photos of cats and dogs, photobooth shower stall and douse myself in raw photos of teenagers with mohawks, girls alcohol, a ―fuck you‖ baptism, shrieking in spikes and leopard print, girls in cascades over my naked, mutilated heavy makeup. Ticket stubs from torso which results in a pink runoff I concerts and films, and little metal don't bother to soak up before pulling charms, handwritten poems, piles of on a t-shirt and then my boots. lives, post office memories, Greyhound I stand with my arms outstretched, my memories. I take the letters out of the legs wide, wounds on fire, toes cardboard box, in handfulls, and spill thumping…and feel the million them out across my bed. In the box invisible strands, the great web, the remains fallout: paperclips, cat hair, sticky mass of regret pulling me taut,

53 me waiting to be made a meal, me purpose…with only 30 seconds free of waiting to be tapped and trained. I tense this Satanic bondage, this life bondage, I my chest and arms, raise my fists up, as re-direct the fire, shoot it back, burn a if doing isometric exercise, which maybe bloody hole in the moment. Burn down it is, and bring my arms around the jungle. Collapse the bridge. Blow all forward, straining against the web, until connections and all obstructions to my elbows click, my fists against my smithereens. eyes. I do the same with my legs, Stand free, stand clear. dropping onto both knees, bring my Free of buildings and sewers, arrogant knees in my chest, tight as a ball, systems. fighting the tension, and hold myself Free of TV junk and rat race suicide, tight until I hear a snap, then two, three, arrogant redundancies. four, snaps like suspension cables Free of threats and ultimatums, arrogant giving way, like the Golden Gate Bridge fascism. going for a swim, why not…pop pop Free of prim, free of proper, arrogant pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop pop spirits. pop pop pop…I wait for the snapping of Spirits but no souls. strands to slow and then it ceases, I am Just the human grid, only the human temporarily capable of independent grid. maneuvering. In a ball, I summon the The grid which says that everything is energy, the acid, the bile, the fine. accumulated napalm of years past and Graft so much mortality upon the years to come, summon it against the arrogant architecture that it sighs in invisible tendrils which held me, which defeat. are already finding their way back, back Blame the motherfucking grid, blow it to spread me open and wide, these all to hell and get out of my way. tendrils which need to be burned, this The moment is mine. kudzu of wasted moments, the swamp My freedom. erupting out no plan and no

54 I rise and release my arms, let the rest of recoil, frightened by my own. The the fire pour from my chest and from dream all around me. My thoughts my eyes, and I laugh and laugh and churn my brain into a spent lump of laugh. It is as if a condensing of this evil clay. electricity, this tension, this ache, were it Am I too handsome? Am I too ugly? Do to be forced out and trapped in a stone, I put off a foul aura? I am not a sloppy would leave me virtually weightless. eater, a mouth breather, a nose picker, Pressed into a 5 ounce pebble, dropped an ass scratcher, or a sadist. It is possible within a hundred feet of Three Mile however, that my years have generated Island, the death stacks that never sleep. a sort of organic curse, an alchemic Pressed into a 5 ounce pebble, which black magic may cling to the space would contain it not for very long. And around me. And once within that space, then: they see me, my world, the energy Goodbye Harrisburg. speaks volumes, a damning electromagnetic confession. And the I find myself on an 1 A.M. crawl to the women I have known I have not known, Duke, the opening jangles of ―American or simply known all too well, and too Girl‖ play loud in my head, musical stubborn to accept inevitability. The momentum filling in for my own, worst woman has never been worse crashing the tidal wave of frozen than no woman. sidewalk. My every forward and kindest gesture Onward, soldier! observed as a prelude to rape, and As on all other streets, I am no ordinary meanwhile, every second isolated unto downtrodden downtown sidewalk itself, every second filed away until the walker. I am the son of Steppenwolf, I next second clicks, becoming real with am a scum cultured-Quixote, cutting a the next footfall, my steps upon garbage swath through time and memory, seeing and grease, my silent passing, among the dream everywhere. Every skirt, the angels, like the passing of a clock‘s every pair of soft eyes that can only hand, the hands of my clock. The

55 seconds pile and swell, engorging the yet this is the first genuine life I‘ve felt present second, but never to burst in several days. I decide then and there except when snorting speed, at which to drop by the Nesbitt, the men‘s only point my cumulative existence is castle, just across the street. It‘s no enriched, all moments pouring into the longer only a matter of hanging around future. I slash through the air, the empty long enough, walking these streets, space once again full of kudzu. Like a sweating the time and the ups and the small stream, forever broadening, only downs, focusing on the chance. There to empty into an oceanic greatness, or are no chances. There are no pockets of death, or both. If I am alone, then I am magic. alone with God. That my passing would I need money. be unmarked and unknown to all but It is me, I ask? Is it the karmic debt, the me is far from acceptable. At the Duke financial debt, that some smiling of Sandwich, I stop and wait for Albert. motherfucker says I owe? Hell of a void Being 19, I need Albert, a black bum to fill, I know with a rush of certainty who stands over 7 feet, to buy booze. after three days slopping around in After ten minutes, there‘s no sign of romantic heat flashes, mental muck him, so I dig my hands deep into my filtered through a dozen records played leather jacket and move on, counting until the best parts numbed me, poems out the last of my money as my teeth re-typed a hundred times until they all chatter. collapsed together in a wearied, I have less than $200 left, and $350 rent deconstructed heap. I owe nothing to coming up, light bill, cat food, anyone, only the dream. My landlord is cigarettes, only a week to sleep and eat, a necrophiliac pimp, and doctors are to let my wounds heal, and find work ghouls who live in mansions. The phone again. company, the electric company, lawyers It stings fierce to keep moving, moving and cops, the parasites in my intestinal as I often do without a destination, raw tract. No way away, no way out. And meat rubbing rawer against my jeans, never, ever, a way in.

56 I walk to the end of town, having want to know about. I do my best to forgotten where I was headed, I walk ignore them, and wait for my past the newspaper plant and consider resurrection to come in the form of a dropping by to visit my father, but turn cheeseburger. My endurance isn't far back around when, along with reality, from the breaking point. I am so burned my hunger catches up with me. out I can't even form words. I shake hands with Albert, who says Three black punks enter the sandwich ―This cold ain‘t fit to fuckin live in,‖ shop, and the skull drifts off, mumbling hand him a ten and enter the Duke on at a smiling Dominican behind the Second and Locust, reaching for a wad counter, both pretending they know of small bills in my sticky front pocket. what the other is saying. He starts The owner is young and suspicious of reading the menu to himself while us both, so I inch away from the coolers, yanking on his dick and Shades gives but not before whispering ―St. Ides‖, me a twice over. I scowl back, feeling his and lean over the counter, as the owner gaze. Degenerate eyes on blood smeared takes a step back. No telling what I‘ll do. black denim. I give him an arrogant leer, ―How are I must look pretty bad, because right out ya?‖ He says nothing, now looking over of the blue he says in this sleepy whine, my shoulder. ―Hey kid, you need a job or whaaat? We A middle aged man, this unnervingly need a guy NOW, at the Nesbitt. spastic, hawknosed psycho with Motherfucker pulled a gawd damn mirrored sunglasses, carrying a Houdini." The regular guy at a hotel not tarnished trumpet and his mouth agape far from here has been a no-show. At like a mongoloid walks in with a feral, least, that‘s what I am able to gather. skullfaced street urchin presumably in Before I could answer, the guy turns his his thirties, and wearing coveralls. All back to me and lights into that trumpet four eyes are fried and bulging. The way as if overcome with the instructions of a they‘re looking at each other I assume higher power even he could not they've just done something I don‘t describe, knocking into one of the ghetto

57 boys behind him. This black hulk pops I unwrap my burger, and vanish it in Shades in the nose, knocking off his five seconds, barely chewing. glasses just as the counterman is I light a cigarette, holding the bags vaulting the counter with a Louisville upright between my boots, then reach slugger. down for the handles when Shades ―No trouble here! You don‘t make stumbles out of the tobacco shop a few trouble for me!‖ doors down, the Skull in tow. He raises the bat, high in the air, and I I watch them approach, blowing smoke look at the baseball bat, my eyes travel and pinching the bags tighter between past it, to the ceiling which is covered my boots. with dead insects, smashed flat by ―So you want the job?‖ flyswatters. I crane my neck back to the Duke, not Shades gets up grinning, snatching the taking my eyes off Shades and say, ―you Skull by the shoulder who was still better not go back there for a while.‖ trying to read the menu all the way to ―Eddie‖, he says, extending a filthy the exit door. My burger comes up, and hand. I slip two rumpled ones over the Shake. counter. Like my jeans, they are Hand out towards Skull, pointing him smeared with red copper but I'm out the out, Shades says: ―Third Street Pete‖ door before the guy can refuse them. Pete, heretofore silent: ―MotherFUCK! Outside, out of view, Albert hands me Call me that again, do it.‖ three paper sacks stuffed into plastic Filthy hand. ones. I set them down, examine the Shake. contents. Eight bottles. Eddie shoves Pete into a parking meter, Eight bottles I say. I give you one, not Pete curses up a blue streak, screams two. solid obscenity at a young business Albert laughs, and reaches into his own woman carrying a briefcase, she runs bag, but I tell him fuck it, we shake like hell, while the loud sonic crossing hands, he‘s gone. signals for the downtown blind bounce

58 through the snowdrifts and off queer?‖ buildings, WHOOP, WHOOP, WHOOP, ―Fuck off. No.‖ electronic bursts pass each other ―Hey man, I don‘t care whatchoo do. midway from opposing corners at the But I know you ain‘t working. You Walnut and Second intersection, and always carryin books, you a college boy echo against each other, creating a or sum‘m?‖ crashing cacophony. ―Hell no.‖ ―Sonofabitch‖, Eddie says as if he‘d ―That right. Huh. Stop by in a few never heard the noise before, ―you ever hours, we‘ll get you set up.‖ see a blind person crossing the street I said fine. down here?‖ By now, it had gotten dark. ―No.‖ ―Fuckin assholes.‖ Nesbitt-bound, I had made it only to the ―The blind?‖ Duke, mere blocks away, when the ―What blind?‖ Nesbitt forces, the mausoleum whispers ―Oh yeah.‖ of the place picked up on and read the Pete is shuffling in place, and speaks up: signals I shot out, the intent spilling ―Eddie, c‘mon man, it‘s fuckin COLD, from my pores, and greeted me there. man, FUCK!‖ Eddie may as well have sent me an ―Yeh alright. So you want this fuckin invitation by US mail. job? I seen you around, man.‖ I stared up at it, before entering the He winked, I said ―where is it?‖ vestibule of my building. ―The Nesbitt. You live just across the The place was huge, and soon to be street, dontcha?‖ mine. I could feel its pulse. ―How the fuck you know where I live?‖ The heart, beating a dull beat for the ―Hey man, what I just tell you? I seen men who knew nothing more. you at noon, I seen you at five, I seen I thought of my last job, loading trucks, you over at fuckin Stallions, man! You until bossman found my diary in the toilets and fired me same day.

59 I was so far off course, trudging along in booze to my head. I turn back inside as war torn boots, through this, here, two shadows race out the screen door where I would not find her. and down the stairs. I select track six, Unclean, unclear, but focused all the ―Sister Ray‖, turn it up, and blow the same. ashes and cat hairs and bits of glass off Focused on that which was not. Fate can my copy of ―Blowjob Bunnies‖. It does be a beautiful thing. after all, have Sindee Slater‘s best scene, Downtown low life, it finds me, it offers my personal favorite. I make a personal me work. exception for Sindee, who is thin and Money finds me, my future, too. blonde. I like chunky brunettes. Like Returning from the Duke and the creepy Jackie. But Sindee has something which encounter, I pass State Street, the mini- I can‘t quite put my finger on. I return it boulevard, and a car begins following to the box behind my clothes rack in the me home. I doubled back past the Duke hall closet. to the newsstand and bought four cans I estimate that I have an hour so I pull of Red Bull, holding open my sack of my xerox galleys from the oven and malt liqour and the old Korean man admire their crinkled gluestick dropped the cans inside. The driver, not funkiness. I place them gently into a only following me, but following the black imitation leather briefcase, which pulse of the homosexual kingdom, the is stocked with magic markers, an ink pulse which, if traced back in a trail of tube, stamps, stapler, envelopes, cough syrup haze or by the pervert vibe, ballpoints, white-out, scissors: the the compass of some sick fuck‘s cocaine Purgatoid porto-publish kit. erection, led to either Stallions or the It‘s back out then, to the Kwik Mart on front steps of the Nesbitt. Third where, among the rolling hot dog wheels and glass donut cases I pay ten I shotgun the four Red Bulls, crack a St. cents a sheet to xerox my handiwork. Ides, and stand on the balcony while the From my black leather jacket I produce liquid speed rushes to my cock and the a polaroid snapshot of an erection, my

60 own, and drop it face down on the while copying the other pages. Within smeary glass bed. The flourescent light 15 minutes, it is done. I take the almost and stale heat put me in a dancing dry cover sheet, and the assembled 40 mood, and when the counterman‘s back single sided pages, staple them three is turned, I launch into a five second times along the left side, and toss them boogie. He catches me in the act, and I into a pre-addressed manilla envelope. I go stiff as a board, my jaw tightening. pay the counterman four dollars and ten I hit the enlarge button, jacking up the cents, and run out the door with my size to 200%, then hit the start button, envelope. I get as far as Second and and the grainy blowup comes out too Forster before running back to Kwik dark. The brightness feature is a Mart where I find a pretty middle aged godsend. Attempt two works out fine, woman handing my briefcase and a the cock pointing northeast, leaving just handfull of xerox galleys to the enough white space for me to ink-roll counterman. the mag‘s name. I slap down the When I leave the Kwik Mart a second briefcase on the three inches of counter time, snow has started falling. The space in front of the slurpee machine traffic lights of Forster Street burn green and find the ink bottle. Shake it, close yellow red for no traffic. From the the briefcase, and roll the shiny black- parking lot there, you can see the state gumball applicator across the cover capitol building, it‘s multi-million dollar sheet, letting my hands shake, throwing rotunda‘s restoration taking place an extra jitter into them for good underneath sky-high scaffolds, high measure: ―PURGATOID FIVE‖ and above the blowjob boulevard. then: ―PITMAN‖. The Nesbitt lobby is huge and full of I turn the sheet upside down to blot the sounds when I pass through the tiny wet ink on the imitation leather, smear it enclosed vestibule which smells of slightly, enough for it to be almost urine. To my right there is a large metal illegible. The paper sags and curls with door, and beside it a wooden podium the soggy inscription. I let it there to dry topped with a open bible. Further along

61 the right side is a stone arch entryway, back into the building. Old fashioned through it a long corridor. The walls are iron torch holders fitted with electric sandstone, with patterns and bulbs light the hall. There is a porcelain engravings. The floor is exquisitely laid waterfountain like a mounted commode out in stone blocks, an elaborate mosaic just around the corner on the left, and a in the center. Twenty five feet above series of doors. Another, smaller, that center is an eight-limbed chandelier. The other side of the hall chandelier, all eight bulbs burning. It‘s consists of wooden bars, through which nicer than I‘d heard. There are rumors multicolored lights shine. The bars stops about the Nesbitt. The Nesbitt is said to for five feet then begin again. I walk be a hellhole. through the opening and see a dozen or On the left side of the lobby is a large so vending machines lined around the mural of flowers and butterflies, an edges of this large room. Stationed at immediate eyesore. Three wooden the middle is a change machine. It is a chairs line the garden scene, one of them junk food arcade occupied by a sleeping man with a At the far end, the hall meets another, magazine in his lap. Where the mural cutting across diagonally forming a T. I stops, so does the wall, and there is a turn left and walk towards a steel gate large curved desk. The ceiling is similar to the one in the lobby. And this lowered above the desk, and the open gate is also installed beside a sheet of space between is sealed by thick plexiglass. The hand-markered sign plexiglass. Where the desk stops is a taped to the window reads in large wide gate, consisting of 25 or 30 letters ―only one towel per resident. All horizontal iron bars. towels must be returned on the way A cash register rings, and it, like the out.‖ Another sign reads snores of the sleeping man, echo ―ABSOLUTELY NO SMOKING‖. throughout the lobby. I walk to the right Opposite the gate and window, is a corner, through the doorway which thick door. I turn back and through a leads to a long hall that stretches further gated window see a snow covered

62 courtyard, and across the courtyard, the young man sitting behind the desk, through another gated window, lights textbooks everywhere, and Eddie still from the front lobby. chewing, hands gesturing his next The place is a haunted castle, littered swallow, ―Ahhhm! Arthur, this is Eddie. with urban anachronisms. An ornate New guy on night shift. Eddie, this is cellblock, a spectral hub for almost- Arthur. You‘ll be taking over from him hobos. The stone floors are so old, they at 12 when he gets off.‖ Eddie‘s hand give at best a feeling of foot fungus, or remains hooked into the small of my at worst a feeling of ghosts, of a burial back, pushing me forward down a ground, of one‘s presence being an narrow back aisle. Once inside, he closes outright intrusion. the door behind us, locks it. Desk, file From the arcade comes the man called cabinet, bookshelf. Aside from the nude Eddie, dressed in jeans and black centerfolds, it looks like any other office. workboots, a green flannel shirt rolled at Atop his deck is a black case, the kind the sleeves, and he is tearing open a which would be used to carry an Snickers bar when he nods at me instrument. His trumpet, I assume. making a throat sound mmmmmmmm Eddie licks his fingers and throws the to get my attention as he bites the Snickers wrapper into a metal wastecan. Snickers in half and swings a hand He says sit down, and he is behind his behind my back, trying to speak desk, looking at papers. through the sticky peanuts, me trying to ―Oh, I‘m Eddie. I‘m the manager here.‖ breathe through smell of same, rushing He extends his right hand, and I shake me towards the desk, and hollers it, wiping his saliva on my jeans, low ―RING IT‖ spitting wet chunks against where he can‘t see. the metal gate. ―John.‖ An electric shriek breaks my eyes, ―John what?‖ EHHHHHNNNNNNNT! followed by a ―Pitman.‖ bolt crash and then a slam and then ―Okay John, here. He passes me an we‘re inside. Eddie stands and looks at application. ―Fill that out. For the

63 books.‖ ―There‘s nothing to it. I mean, you don‘t I fill it out with fake numbers, fake jobs, have plans, right? Tell me you don‘t since I have no good references, and have plans.‖ couldn‘t remember the information even Eddie is leaning forward, his eyes so big if I had. I leave much of it blank. While I you‘d think there was someone write, Eddie lights a cigarette, and stares stretching them open for him with at me. invisible hands. ―What do you do?‖ ―I can do it.‖ I hand him the application. ―THERE we go! See? We‘ll do fine. ―Do? Well, I‘m unemployed.‖ Now, what time is it?‖ Eddie pulls a cell ―What‘s with the books?‖ phone from his pants pocket and flips it ―Books?‖ I hold my hands up. ―What open. ―It‘s 11. That‘s one hour we got to books?‖ give you the tour, and buddyboy, it ―You‘re all the time carryin books with won‘t even take that long.‖ you.‖ Eddie‘s voice is low, garbled. He‘s ―Oh, well, I read a lot.‖ loaded on something, that much is ―You a writer, ain‘t ya?‖ absolutely certain. I can‘t decide if I like ―Yeah.‖ him, but he sure as hell doesn‘t seem ―This is a good job for you then. What like any boss I‘ve ever had. That itself is we‘ll do tonight is-you can work tonight reason enough to like him, I decide. can‘t you?‖ Eddie pulls open his desk drawer and ―Well shit, I don‘t know …‖ brings up a black comb, which he rakes ―Look, this is what I said, we got no one across his scalp, his greasy, mostly gray for tonight. You start tonight and I‘ll hair, laying it straight back. He consider it a favor. We‘ll start off real smoothes it down even flatter with both nice like that, I‘ll owe you, Johnny. Or is hands, squeezes his eyes shut tight, John?‖ opens them again, wider than before, ―Johnny‘s fine.‖ and grins big: ―let‘s go.‖ The tour starts in the dormitory: 78

64 rooms. Four floors. Four bathrooms, got three minutes out here for smoking. each with a shower room. We pass a That‘s it. Another reason to stand right naked man in one of the hallways and here is that little overhang. Some of Eddie snarls at him ―what the FUCK did these guys think it‘s funny to piss out I tell you?‖ And then he looks at me, their windows. Keep covered, you‘re mutters ―asshole‖. safe. And if you see that happen, I want Every dormitory has four halls, three of to know about it. You‘ll figure out how them with rooms on both sides, and one to tell which room is which.‖ with rooms only one side…the opposite ―Jesus.‖ side of that hall is lined with windows We stomp out our cigarettes and Eddie which look out upon the Susquehanna screams RING IT! EHHHNT! River and its bridges, always lit up at Click, slam. Back down the hall, past night. Eddie‘s office, at the end: We walk and walk and walk and walk, ―Here‘s the kitchen.‖ through corridors, up and down Table with six chairs. Fridge. Sink. Jars corridors, though stairways, up and of coffee, jars of powdered creamer. Jars down stairways. Back to ground floor of other things. Flies buzzing and straight into the open air courtyard. everywhere. A dead potted pine tree, a busted up ―You drink all the coffee you want. picnic table, a can for cigarette butts. You‘ll need it. You don‘t do anything ―Let‘s have a smoke.‖ else, right?‖ We both light up, and I gaze skyward, ―N-n-no. No!‖ at all the windows. ―Bullshit. Last guy worked during the ―Anyone ever jump?‖ day, wasn‘t for speed, he wouldn‘t last. ―No. This is where you smoke, but you It‘s best you don‘t moonlight.‖ stand right by the door, you watch the ―Daylight, you mean.‖ lobby when you‘re out here. If you leave Eddie laughs. ―There‘s more.‖ the gate unlocked, we will get robbed, EHHHHNT! Click, slam. Laundry so double check it every time. And you room: ―laundry guys arrive at 6 AM,

65 you unlock the doors for them. You‘ll every resident. There‘s two keys on the get the key.‖ empty ones, one for you and one for Gym: ―closed during your shift, but you whoever takes it. And there‘s a pocket get the key anyway. You‘ll need all the by each hook. When you ring up a rent keys. You‘re the only one here between payment, you do two receipts: one for 12 and 8.‖ the resident, one for the pocket. Every Vending machines: ―you‘ll get receipt is dated, that‘s how we know complaints about shit with these. You who paid what and for how long. When write down the amount they say they you get more than two hundred cash in lost, they get it back the next day. the drawer, you make a drop of one There‘s a sign in there, so you get a fifty. Goes in the safe.‖ loudmouth, tell‘em to read it.‖ ―The safe‖ is a dented file cabinet Back to the lobby: underneath the side of the desk facing ―ARTHUR!‖ the vestibule. He gives me the key. EHHHHNT! Click, slam. ―There‘s a gun in there, and it‘s loaded. ―You can take off early.‖ You use the gun if you need it but you Arthur packs up and leaves. won‘t need it so don‘t go anywhere near Parking lot: ―the guys have cars buy it.‖ parking tokens. Token machine at the He looks at me hard: ―repeat that back.‖ entrance on Front Street. You seen it. ―Don‘t go anywhere near the gun.‖ Tokens are in the cash register, and ―Right.‖ Eddie opens the register again, they‘re sold in packs of 5, five dollars a lifts up the cash tray. ―Big bills go here. pack. There‘s a book you write down And this envelope has the plugs. Arthur the token sales in. That‘s the only will give you a list each night of the bookkeeping you got to do.‖ ones that are two weeks late. Two weeks Rent: ―By the night, $12. $60 by the late means a plug. You just take one of week and $240 by the month. Most guys these and put it in the guy‘s door lock. If pay a few weeks in advance. That board he comes down all screamin and over there on the wall has a hook for bitchin, you remind him he had three

66 warnings already. They get three with a photo, if it looks official enough. warnings before we lock them out. If he They fill out a form, those forms are hollers then, you call me. I live on right here on the desk. When you get Walnut and Third and I can be here in low, just take one to the xerox machine ten minutes. You just say that, tell him and make more. When someone checks to wait for me, and call the cops if he out, there‘s a checkout folder. You write threatens you.‖ the number in there and you put a Eddie goes to office, comes back with a yellow flag over that hook on the board. heavy ring of keys. The yellow flag means the room needs ―Each one of these is labeled with a cleaned. Those flags are in this basket number. That blue binder tells you right here. And that folder you give to which one is which. Don‘t worry about the cleaners. They come in twice a week, the front door, that stays open all night. early, before your shift ends.‖ You‘ll get guys comin it at all hours. ―Got it.‖ You NEVER ring in anyone you don‘t ―If you get a complaint, just tell Wendy, recognize. Every guy is supposed to she works most mornings. She‘ll pass it show you their key before they go on. If there‘s any fucking fighting, you upstairs. This buzzer here rings the call the cops.‖ dorm door but it rings the office gate ―Sure.‖ too. If two guys come in, you make sure ―Alright, it‘s almost 12. I‘ll show you they both go up. One of‘em could be how to run the register and you‘ll be standin here at the gate, burst in here set.‖ and kill you and take everything when He does, and then I am. you buzz up the other guy. This is an ―Good luck, kid. You‘ll do fine. You got easy job, but you gotta keep your eyes TV, the radio, and drink all the coffee open.‖ you need.‖ ―Got it.‖ 1 AM. I ring up a week‘s rent. Two ―New residents: they need I.D. Driver‘s receipts. One for the board, one for the license, passport, whatever. Somethin poor bastard.

67 1:44 AM. ―I‘d like a room.‖ Eddie said ―yeah.‖ nothing about assigning rooms to new She doesn‘t ask me my name. I pencil in residents, so I pick one randomly. I take my hours on my time card and leave. his cash, he takes the key and I ring him At 8:15 I am home and the phone is in. Make coffee. ringing. 2:30 AM. Cheers. Jerry Springer. ―Johnny?‖ Saturday Night Live. Bits of films. Make ―Yeah.‖ coffee. ―It‘s Michelle, do you remember me?‖ 5 AM. Meetings, greetings, you‘re new, ―Yeah.‖ yeah I am, small talk. Make coffee. ―I‘m fucked up. Can you come get me?‖ Clay. Frank. George. David. Freddy. ―I don‘t have a car.‖ Ernie. Bill. Third Street Pete. ―Can‘t you borrow one?‖ Make coffee. ―I don‘t know how to drive.‖ Sunrise comes and I sell some parking ―I‘m at a friends! Close!‖ tokens. ―I still don‘t have a car.‖ And Eddie was right: I need the coffee. There is silence on the line. I put the 8:15 AM. BANG. CLICK. SLAM. I let receiver down and feed the cats because her in because she‘s pretty. the cats are screaming. A spoonful of ―Late again.‖ Sighs. ―Sorry.‖ tuna for each, and all the crunchy She‘s a hard 35 or a good 42, black hair, horsemeat they can eat: the Pitman acne scars, cheap perfume. Puffy cheeks, kitchen serving policy. about 25 pounds overweight. She‘s Three lines of speed on the table, I snort wearing a purple sweater covered in cat one and one half. Grab a cold one from hair, jeans. the fridge. Back on my mattress, I take a ―Wendy?‖ slug and pick up the phone and hear ―What?‖ shouting. ―I‘m just sayin, you‘re Wendy right?‖ ―Hello? Hello? HELLO!‖ She throws her purse to the ground and ―Johnny! I‘m on Verbeke Street! I need heads back to the kitchen, saying you to pick me up.‖

68 ―I can‘t, I just worked all night, I‘m ―Lucky.‖ tired.‖ I sit down next to her and try to kiss her. ―Can I come over?‖ She backs off. ―Come over.‖ ―Johnny, we‘re friends.‖ -click- ―Good friends.‖ I look for my briefcase, shout FUCK and A struggle ensues, and I remove my then it‘s back to the Nesbitt. shirt, and she rakes with her nails at the unhealed incisions upon my chest, Michelle is already at my door when I which open wider and run openly. return. The frail vixen, 17 years old, half Her tongue sinks deep into my mouth, Mexican, half Italian, and she says ―oh‖ my hands at her tight black jeans, her when I open the front door without a hands on my wrists, her tongue sinking key. At the top of the stairs, Fink and deeper. Simon stand, eyes wide. She catches me in the mouth hard with a ―Have a seat.‖ fist. ―I‘m fucked up.‖ I get up and douse myself with raw ―You said. Here, drink this.‖ I take the alcohol, take a piss. St. Ides off the latched arm of the TV When I come back, she‘s asleep. stand beside the bed and hand it to her. I put a Jackie Moore record on the She chugs three, four, five slugs, and stereo, light a cigarette, sit down at the waves her tiny hands, ―god, god, god…I typewriter, and bang it out. When I am need to calm down.‖ finished, I slip it into the envelope ―Coke?‖ containing ―Puragtoid Five‖, stamp it Big nod, and I laugh. heavily, and drop it down the mouth of ―I got a new job.‖ the mailbox on the corner. Head in hands, she does not speak. ―At the Nesbitt. I get to read and watch TV all night.‖

69 70 CULT OF EXHULTATION

By A D Hitchin

Photo © Jim Lopez

Terminal Documents The Cult of Exultation: Initiation Video [Initial Notes] memories terminal documents an unlocked woman; her skin deep, Camera focuses on mysterious woman grey-blue - of light - as monsoon clouds, crackling almost her eyes inducing vertigo, glace lips African dissolving all sense of distance in the syncopation, a saurian empty room, marks the waters, its eyes swollen Faberge eggs, drifting mutilated translucent, her curious iridescence octopus tendrils, dragging leaden filtered in fresco canopies - a kimono- genetic images through sediment and style dressing gown cloaks her meridian drifts… sunlight, encrusted hydra clusters presenting a cathartic, agitated vision, archivists exhibit indirect continuous half-melted snow guru staining hotel self-castration linen, Egyptian cotton, glittering a portrait of rituals untouched conviction, silver chain aesthetic communication gems snaking her index - a compass of messianic prototypes gilded ancient pines transfiguring a wet and god programs forest dusk - these sheathed ferns of collective history, crystal shells of mechanical bio-units presents, she straddles feedback devices stiff faces of cohesion - the thick, mottled, leviathan head of my logic engines unconscious - these scarlet curtains; imaginary handcuffs, pulled from scraps, random influences of text, Kali cuts horizons of infernal her subterranean cavern cult of script, exultation dedicated to bearers of light, intertwined with mans invisible war the shepherds all blinded, cataracts sciences, she smokes reproduced access milky-white. codes and lights decembral muddy waters.

71 Spanish Fly Nail crux black spike heels scatter snow, the skirt around her waist opening With extra cool fingers she strokes her summer petals - licentious labial lips. soft twines, initiating cargo cult Jelly-bean fingers slither comparing hysterias of devotion; the concentrated stories; passed relics half-warm and juice of one thousand sweaty cinnamon damp - her panties … vaginas of radiance and hope. Her interesting scars are stigmata‘s. For our my veins gather blood as she eats saviours must be wounded and all must Spanish fly; eyelids fluttering charcoal carry us… black.

72 FRAGMENTS OF HUMANITY I - III

By Christopher Nosnibor

Photos © Max Reeves

Media theorists appear to have credited Critiques in the early-to-mid twentieth the masses with too much intelligence, century suggested that the media too great a sense of autonomy. People destroys the individual‘s capacity to act will do as they‘re told. People will autonomously – sometimes being succumb to the power of suggestion. As ascribed an influence reminiscent of the he cast his eye down the queue – a scene telescreens of 1984. Later empirical more reminiscent of the 1921 depression studies, however, suggest a more in the US than 21st century Britain – he complex interaction between the media felt something tug within him. And idea and society, with individuals actively that had crossed his mind more than interpreting and evaluating the media once before entered his cognition. and the information it provides. The Something had to change. Culture consequences and ramifications of the shock? A new kind of assassin... mass media relate not merely to the way newsworthy events are perceived (and which are reported at all), but also to a

73 multitude of cultural influences which eaten, kill or be killed, there‘s no room operate through the mass media. Thus for the weak. Evolution: the survival of Lang and Lang claim that ―the mass the fittest. IT‘S WAR EVERYWHERE. media force attention to certain issues. Yes, they felt compelled to line up They build up public images of political because everyone else was, but they figures. They are constantly presenting didn‘t join those queues in sympathy. objects suggesting what individuals in No, they wanted to be in there before the mass should think about, know the next man, so if – when – the money about, have feelings about.‖And yes, the ran out, they would already be heading media had shown images – millions of home, bags stuffed with currency. images – of people queuing outside the Currency = survival. But what value branches, the country over. Clearly, that currency? Currency is merely an these scenes served to suggest what IOU: the whole system is built upon an individuals in the mass should think eternal chain of promises to pay the about, know about, have feelings about bearer. There is no real money in and showed them, in no uncertain circulation. The entire mechanism of terms, what they must do. This was no supply and provision, the exchange of act of collectivism, of unity, however. goods and service for payment is purely No, it was mass panic, and a dramatic theoretical. Perhaps, then, monetary foreshadowing of the suture – of all out currency served as the greatest war – dog eat dog, every man for conspiracy of all time, the tool of himself, hunt or be hunted, eat or be oppression ever devised.

74 First there was a collapse of Another train-wreck... no minor-fender- civilisation... bender, it‘s a head-on collision, an instantaneous write-off shot in slow-mo, The sun sinks on another day. inching toward the inevitable crunch Everything sinks: dreams always end... with an inexorable and agonising they don‘t rise up just descend. But I unstoppability. It‘s a mess, it‘s carnage remember... do you remember? out there. Heartbreak‘s no mere metaphor, there‘s pumping blood Not everyone gets out of here alive... spurting out from every orifice, the taking a comfortable vantage, surveys pavement slick with blackened red gore the scene. He‘s an outtake, not an and a stream of spraying, splaying outcast, and this is a self-imposed exile. entrails. Nerves like nylon, nerves like I live like this „cause I like it, and I‟ve done steel… This isn‘t TV. The wreckage of too much to pretend. real lives litters the street.

Day in, day out, day in, day out... the The macrosocial‘s screwed, it‘s a rapid incessant, agonising sound, the and inexorable decline and everyone screaming is everywhere. There‘s no gets a taste of the rust, the brake fluid switching it off, no turning it down. spraying in all directions like oil when the drill hits the well – black gold! But First there was a collapse of no-one‘s getting rich now and no-one‘s civilisation... celebrating here, there‘s a bitterness on the back of every tongue and dark This may simply be another meltdown, clouds are gathering as one micro- another media furore, another feeding apocalypse after another begins to frenzy on a global scale, but as the unravel. And one by one they begin to banks collapsed and the waters rose, it crumble, their social facades falling to should have been obvious that this was dust, more ruins amongst the ruins. The something more – something much pressure of simply existing is all too more. The culmination of centuries of much: they – we – aren‘t made to screwing up and existing under the withstand the pace, the pace we‘ve misguided perception of invincibility. created. This is the breaking point. The party had to end at some point... Moving too fast now. The vibrations and there‘s always a human cost. increasing, the bodies begin to hum Laughing while Rome burns... but zoom from the inside, a psychic and physical in. Closer... closer. Those ants are spasm. It maybe comparatively quick, people. They‘re real, they have but it‘s far from painless. It isn‘t a emotions, connections. The screams matter of blame: everything and aren‘t as silent when you get that much everyone is falling apart, a rush of closer. Come closer... come closer... emotion and it‘s impossible to contain, an explosion that rips the flesh, You‘re in the frame. separating bone and cartilage instantaneously. Shattered,

75 dismembered hollowed-out shells line other waste and the detritus of the streets, are lying in the ruined existence. buildings, their lives strewn in pieces about them like so many pieces of First there was a collapse of shrapnel, like so many discarded pieces civilisation... of litter on the breeze, like so much The party is over.

76 THE BROKEN NOVEL (Excerpt)

Text and Image By Ian Miller

1:30 Tuesday 002- the Dwarve would have to rough it on his own until the bridge was reopened. It was raining again. Five o‘clock in the morning and raining again. Winkie wondered whether the dog suit Storm driven, rat black rodent water, the dwarf was wearing was waterproof. rushing in off the sea with a wild colliding hiss, tearing at old mortar and He pulled at a lump of congealed amber slates, looking for a way in to Winkie‘s sap which had stuck to one of his wing room. It was five o‘clock in the morning feathers whilst perched in the cedar tree and getting personal. overlooking Mr Brown‘s front lawn. The Dwarf had said Mr Brown was real Everything bad that had ever happened dangerous and Winkie had laughed sick to Winkie had happened at five o‘clock to choking at the absurdity of the in the morning, and that was a fact. This Dwarf‘s statement. When it came to rodent rain was the prelude to dangerous the Dwarf was A1 rat arsed something bad, absolutely no question crazy and but for the patronage and of it. He could already hear it fidgeting protection of Mr James, the powers that at the cracked glass in the sash window. be, would have locked him up years ago. That said, The Dwarf had always Sleep was his only aegis but now he was been a good friend to Winkie and that awake and waiting. It was personal. The counted for a lot in his book. distressed image of Squallthought running up his garden path, trailing The rain was getting in. It spread in a coloured wires and hugging what dark swollen stain across the ceiling looked like a car battery the previous then crept down the wall behind his evening suddenly sprung to mind. Yes bed. it was personal now, in more ways than one but for now he had to just keep still Winkie groaned and looked at the clock. and hope for the best. It was five fifteen.

It had been raining and gusting for five ―Holy Shit!‖ days and the flooding was extensive. The Pig Iron Bridge was closed and he Ever so slowly, his eyes fixed warily on could not reach the stake out at Mr the moving stain, he reached behind Brown‘s house. He‘d phoned Mr James him with his right hand to the nearby to apologise and they had agreed that coffee table, and deftly sorted through

77 the heaped and festering tinfoil of a long bulge kept expanding, pushing the bed abandoned take-away. Gobbets of before it. The bed collided with the congealed food and cardboard slipped heavy old chair and pushed it back from the table as his soiled hand re- towards the wall trapping the crouching emerged gripping a large grease stained Winkie behind it. Push as he might, the economy sized orange aerosol of pressure was irresistible. No question Blightright oven cleaner about it, the game was up, he was one flat seriously fucked up dead crow but It was a rogue brand long ago banned then it happened. The bulge burst with from sale but Winkie was lucky. He had a ferile screech, gagging stench and six cases of the fearsome stuff under his clamour of what Winkie could only bed. describe later as the myriad beat of hooves. When you aimed and pressed the nozzle a thin jet of piss yellow liquid shot out in a twelve foot arch, searing most everything it touched upon. With practise Winkie had learnt to control the emissions from the cans and could range his squirts from six to fifteen feet. He estimated he was about eight feet from the wall.

Winkie waited. The head of the iron bedstead started to flicker with a pale ghostly light. He remembered something the Dwarf had told him about a thing called St Elmo‘s Fire and the picture he‘d shown him in a book of an old sailing ships storm tossed, with its masts all a flicker and glowing with white fire but this was a second floor bed sit .

The stain rippled and vibrated violently, the light crackled, hissed, then ballooned out into the room pushing the bedstead before it. Winkie jumped back instinctively, over the back of the old padded chair near the window but not before pressing the nozzle of the can hard down and bathing the bulge in caustic fluid. Nothing happened. The

78 WEIGHT

By Rich Follett i. to a back alley minutes-like-hours later, most of all a grimy quarter was pressed into my i remember being held down; hand with a slumbering admonition – riding my bike be a good boy and don‘t tell. and then i did not tell; on top of me could not have told – (never above me – not for a moment) suffocating, excruciating weight – i only told my mother i had found a quarter ghoulish, contorted masks many in succession; ‗a real quarter?‘ (many more, once the word got out…) ‗i‘m not sure, mother... i knew them, i am sure knew each of them it has no face.‘ sometimes i knew their names sometimes their faces but i did not know ii. not then not now many missing faces and (never knew – not for a moment) two decades later their reasons for feeding on pain i learned to disappear pain for themselves pain for others although i could no longer feel the weight, as a wide-eyed nine-year old in the canned goods aisle of the local in quiet moments IGA i pondered whether or not a musky presence fumbled from behind Bernouli‘s principle as i was carried applied to the human form through flapping, filmy, filthy thermal fringe dreaming all the while

79 of tall buildings (just once) and release i took a deep breath i did not understand and, hovering in the limbo between (never understood – not for a moment) helplessness and invisibility, how i could invite the faceless ones when others like them had caused so watched myself say much pain no how i could keep inviting them again and again watched as here the monosyllabic archangel of my now nascent redemption so long after escaped my blown lips the weight had gone only to be snuffed out by the weight of a grimy hand as a child i could not resist; try as i might no longer a child, i could no longer disappear i could not desist – i stayed, then disappearing had become so easy raping myself anew in my silence i did not see i did not cry (never saw – not for a moment) (never cried – not for a moment) that i had a choice… Bernouli was a charlatan they followed me, the faceless ones, and iv. i followed them – i disappeared nightly; one stifled summer sunday i flipped that faceless quarter; they never did that badge of crippling cowardice, now a talisman of misbegotten Providence – iii. flipped once once (tails!) and began a crime spree in the twilight between decades shoplifting only what i did not need;

80 sneaking it all back later not then distracting turgid, thick-waisted not now security guards (never believed – not for a moment) with anonymous. androgynous that the faceless ones whispered solicitations were inside me to stay in my fantasies now that they no longer appear they ran me down now that i no longer disappear they punished me now that i i did not consider (never considered – not for a moment) my own archangel the possibility of a life without fear have ascended… this ended as unexpectedly as it had begun i, on the winged, leaden morning reborn, when first i considered the possibility of an identity ponder Bernouli without fear and struggle v. with now weight middle-aged stout happily married i am a teacher – respected, revered living abundant dreams (nightmares‘ progeny) having long since forgiven my silent former self – as it turns out i did not believe

81 82 THE SERPENT AND THE STARLIGHT

By Nick Tosches

The ghostly night-ridden silhouettes of been forgotten with the passing of the big red oak and the black oak and hours. the white oak and the silver maple In that tale, a girl sunning trembled as the waning paschal moon herself naked by the pond one summer rose in its eastward sigh. afternoon had drifted off to sleep, and Eos, Eostre, Easter. while she slept, a water snake, one of Estrum, estrus, estrogen. the little live-born ones, wandering Helen felt something, but newborn from his brood, had entered she did not know what she felt and her her. face showed nothing. Now, at the window with The murmur of the warm her tea, she mused that this childhood tea in her belly brought back to her the tale must have entered her in her sleep, forgotten strange dream that had just as the snake had entered the girl in wakened her. the tale. She tried to remember how the In this dream she was not tale ended, but she could not. She tried dead but lay waking in a meadow to remember how the dream ended, but beneath the clouds. she could not. In the gourd of her belly, Nor, looking into the something slithered. night, could she remember the names of She remembered now, at the nine heavens: only the first, the low- the window with her tea, the tale that lying heaven of the moon, and the had scared her so in her youth, a tale eighth, the heaven of fixed stars, the that had been forgotten with the passing seed bed and resting place of souls; and of years, as the dream of last night had not what lay between and beyond.

83 But there, before her, in star, destined and allotted from the the glitterings, the soul-sparklings, of soul-brew of the universe by He who that eighth heaven, were forgotten tales was the maker of the gods and all not of youth alone but of the youth of things. And mounting each soul on its the race, stirrings, slitherings, exquisite star, as on a chariot, He revealed and and awful, in the girlish gut of ancient, instilled in all of them the nature of the ageless dreams. universe and the laws of their destiny. Big Bear, Little Bear. She- And anyone, upon his incarnation, who bear and her baby boy, come to hunt lived virtuously for his appointed time, her, come to kill her dead. mastering his passions and his fears, Her eyes drifted through would return home to his native star the seven stars of the Big Dipper, the and dwell in bliss. And anyone who seven stars of the Little Dipper: blue- failed would be changed into a woman white diamonds in the black of the sky. at his second birth. And if that soul still Stella Maris, the North Star, the Star of did not refrain from wrong, its mortal the Sea, dazzled brightest among them. shell would be reduced to that of some Her daddy long ago had guided her animal suitable to its particular kind of wide eyes unto that star. Her daddy wrongdoing. long ago had taught her with a And maybe Plato was not whispered rhyme to cast her wish upon such a fool. Maybe Plato was right. that star. Maybe this was why there were more Where was his? Was it women than men, and more lower right there before her, alone and creatures than men and women brilliant and shining upon her, or lost together. All those cold and vacant and unseen, one hydrogen ember amid stars, all those wandering homeless the myriad of some distant unknown souls. Some stars did seem to glow cluster aswirl in the black of infinity? more warmly than others, regardless of As many souls as there their distance, regardless of their size. were stars. So Plato said. Each soul to a

84 Her hand lingered fear and of calm alike, organ of the between her breasts, distractedly, soul‘s divination and dreams, the source gently, barely touching the crossed folds of the power of prophecy, which came of her robe, as if fondling the imaginary only when reason was vanquished, in dangling pearls of a necklace that was sleep or the madness of disease. not there, lost not in thought but in the And where was hers, her colors of thought. own native star, in which her soul was And what was the color of nurtured and to which it would return? fear, and what was the color of sadness? And what was the wickedness that had What was the color of hate, what was brought her back with a womb inside the color of love? The soul had three her to suffer anew? parts but many colors. Yes. Three For a moment it was as if parts. Everybody remembered Gaul, the stillness of the stars entered her. but Helen remembered the soul. The Then the heavy creaking of her husband soul was divided into three parts. In the ascending the stairs drained the night cask of the skull lay reason. Between sky of its spell. midriff and neck, the emotions. In the ______belly, the desires, the hungers, the wants. Excerpt from Scratch, a work in The sky beyond the stars progress. Copyright © 2009 by Nick was black: the sum of all colors, the Tosches, Inc. absence of all colors in a world without light. Her hand curved softly downward, across her belly, to the flank of her right side: the liver, the seat of

85 KASTELLORIZON

By Charles Christian

Images © Robert Agasucci

I awake with a jolt – there must have and every day Aimee – my sister – and I been a sandfly crawling across my face – would make our way along the and for a moment I am disoriented. Is foreshore and up into the New Town, this the same beach of my childhood perched on a headland overlooking the dreams – and childhood nightmares? I beach, to attend our school. look around. Next to me lies a dark- skinned woman, she is asleep and in her If the tide was out, on our way back arms she is cradling a heavy calibre home we‘d cut across the beach and machine-gun. Overhead an enormous spend many an hour playing on the sun, an enormous alien sun the colour of sands or else exploring newly exposed yellow ochre, blazes down through a rock pools. Our favourite destination cloudless cerulean blue sky. No, this is was an outcrop of rocks that, depending an entirely different nightmare. upon the ebb and flow of the tides, would sometimes be just a few boulders This is how it begins... peeking above the surface of the beach yet at other times – particularly after a When I was a kid, this was when I was stormy spring tide – be revealed as a still back on Earth, I used to live by the maze of gullies, crevasses and pools. ocean. Our house was in the Old Town, by the crumbling fisherman‘s wharf,

86 For us, with the unlimited imaginations cover as Aimee would come chasing of the young, this was no ordinary after me with the stick. collection of rocks but a fantasy kingdom – our own private realm – to On other days our adventures would be mapped, explored and then fortified take us to a desert island, in the midst of with sandcastles and barricades of the Indian Ocean, where we‘d search for driftwood to keep out the encroaching Captain Flint‘s buried pirate treasure. sea. And oh, what treasures we‘d find! Looking back, I fear our parents must Sometimes we would picture ourselves have despaired at the endless collections as Knights of King Arthur‘s Round of bits of rusty old iron, sea shells, Table on a quest to recover the Holy pieces of wood and oddly shaped stones Grail. I can still see Aimee now, we‘d bring home. No matter how many swinging a makeshift sword – usually a times it happened, Aimee was always piece of driftwood – around in the air disappointed by these stones. Looking before bringing it down on the head of back I realise she must have thought some imaginary enemy. ―Take that foul they were gems, the way they looked so beast,‖ she‘d yell, as the fearsome shiny and richly coloured lying in the dragon – or crab as it actually was – water, only for each and every one of would scuttle away to safety at the them to dry out and reveal itself to be bottom of a rock pool. Poor Aimee, she just another mundane pebble. had a slight lisp and sometimes I couldn‘t resist teasing her about it. And then came the fateful day she ―What‘s foul beef, an overcooked joint uncovered that bloody thing... of meat?‖ I‘d ask – and then run for

87 I was a year older than my sister and, closely at something. There was a one day a week, had started taking blinding orange flash, followed by the additional lessons in computing crack of an explosion and when the immediately after school. It was only smoke had cleared, the figure had for an hour and, if it was a fine day and vanished. the tide was out, on my way back home I would often catch up with my sister Of course I ran as fast as my young legs still playing on ‗our‘ island. could carry me, scrabbling down the steep cliff path and racing across the This particular day I had just begun the beach but by the time I arrived, the descent from the New Town towards emergency services were already there the beach. The tide was out and in the and it was far too late for me to see or distance I could make out a tiny figure – do anything. The area was cordoned off my sister – moving across the outcrop of with police crime scene tape and my rocks. As I looked on, the figure halted sister was lying dead, beneath an ice and stooped over, as if to peer more blue PVC tarpaulin.

At the subsequent coroner‘s inquest we I never played on those rocks again. learned that she‘d discovered a still live How could I, what with the memories of hand grenade, left over from one of that my sister and those blast-seared and century‘s earlier wars. The suggestion cracked stones providing an ever- was she‘d found it at the bottom of a present reminder of how and where she recently exposed rock pool but had been had died too young or innocent to realise that even a rust-encrusted relic of a bygone Then there were my confused emotions. conflict could still pose a mortal danger The obvious grief she had died. Regret, to anyone touching it. that I had not been with her that day.

88 Perhaps if I had, I might have prevented enthusiasm (my grief counsellor said I the accident. And then there was a was in denial and sublimating my true heady dose of guilt, tinged with my emotions, although at the time I didn‘t worm-like sense of relief that I had been understand what he meant) as I knew I absent that day and so had avoided had to get out of that place with its sharing Aimee‘s fate. constant reminders of earlier, happier days. They say we must all make sacrifices to the gods of computing and I certainly And so I moved on from small town paid my dues that day. My tangled school to big city university and feelings aside, Aimee‘s death was to be eventually into the world of science and my rite of passage, ending forever research. It was a career path that childhood days and setting me on would ultimately take me to the stars. course for adulthood. I threw myself Literally. into my studies with a desperate

High overhead the dirty orange glow of ahead of quota for abstracting minerals Aldebaran fills out the sky but, despite from the planet‘s ever shifting sands the star‘s enormous size, it grows cold and we‘re taking this camping trip by on our planet – Kastellorizon – as the way of a little R&R. Back at base I know evenings draw in. Lakshmi, she‘s my my team can get on without me for a partner, cuddles up close to me in the few days – besides, it will be weeks sleeping bag while we wait for our before the next freighter, bound for the supper to grill over a camp fire. It‘s Sol home system, arrives. been a hard week (the weeks are always hard out here – the atmosphere may be The irony of my situation is not lost on breathable but the air is thin) but we‘re me. Having grown up by the seashore

89 and spent my early years trying to imagination, they taste a bit like escape from there, half a lifetime later I chicken. find myself 60 light years from Earth on a planet, about the size of Mars, that is As we eat, Lakshmi and I talk about little more than a few lumps of red rock what we‘d do if we ever made a really amid an ocean of sand. It is on one of big find. ―Sharna (that‘s Sharna those rocky outcrops we are now Marriott – Lakshmi‘s best friend on the camped – the tidal forces tugging at this base) says you can now buy apartments planet making it unsafe to tarry for too on Titan with 24/7 views of Saturn‘s long on the sand dunes that cover the rings. They even have their own private remainder of the surface. orbiter pod moorings. Go on, think about it,‖ she adds, giving me one her Supper is ready. We‘ve been grilling special this-is-my-appealing-face-how- sandworms, one of the few higher life can-you-possibly-resist-me looks, ―it‘ll forms to be found on this planet. You be great.‖ She knows I‘m not convinced fish for them like eels – only these swim about living in an enclosed habitat but in the sand – split open their hardened we both agree we can never go back skins and then cook the flesh. With home – space-time dilation means enough seasoning, and a little everyone we have ever known or loved back on Earth is already long dead.

What are we searching for? Like the head out on a flyer (one of the ground rest of the crew on the mining rig (and, effect hovercraft we use to get about the if the gossip coming over the Net is planet‘s surface) and rake around the anything to go by, just about everyone dusty purlieus of this barren waste else working out here in deep space) searching for anything that could make when we have some spare time, we our fortunes back on Earth. The biggest

90 diamond in the galaxy would do nicely I‘m sceptical about the rumours the but we‘d settle for just a couple of planet is inhabited. And with good interesting fossil remains – or even that reason. Since mankind first took to the holiest of holy grails: a genuine alien stars, no other intelligent life forms have artefact – which could be sold for top ever been encountered. dollar to the right collectors. The next morning Lakshmi is first out of ―Lao Chang,‖ says Lakshmi, ―said he the sleeping bag and wants to start saw a plume of smoke two days ago in exploring as soon as possible – she was the dawn light. And nobody‘s ever born in the Himalayas not far from come up with a plausible explanation of Kathmandu and doesn‘t feel the effects why some our stores keep going of the planet‘s thin air as much as me. missing.‖ ―Come on,‖ she says, as she pours the I say nothing. Lakshmi smiles and dregs of the breakfast coffee into the kisses me on the forehead, she knows recycler, ―I‘m feeling lucky today.‖

I can understand why. The tides have ―Never been there,‖ replies Lakshmi, ebbed during the past week, causing the ―it‘s in the Greek Dodecanese isn‘t it?‖ dunes to recede and expose more of this outcrop than either of us has ever seen ―Yup, got distinctive outcrops of red before. From the crest of a hill we gaze rock that look from a distance like they down on a canyon that probably last could be the ruins of a fortress. There saw the light of day a million years ago. again,‖ I add, ―it was also the first ―It‘s on days like this,‖ I remark, ―you exhibition that reported seeing can see why the first expedition campfires and so started the rumour christened this planet Kastellorizon.‖

91 this place was inhabited by an three caves down there. And bring the indigenous people.‖ flashlight.‖

―The so-called ‗Orizontals‘. You better We scramble down the canyon but there believe it, they are out there and one is nothing in the first cave, except a cold day we‘ll find them,‖ says Lakshmi with musty smell. The second is no better. a no nonsense tone in her voice. And, at first, there appears to be nothing in the final cave. But then, just as we are But, after such a promising start to the turning to leave, the flashlight beam day with all that new territory to reflects off something lying amid the explore, by noon my spirits – and debris on the floor. strength, we must have walked miles – are starting to flag. Lakshmi however is We brush away the soft sand to reveal a still full of energy. ―Your ancestors highly polished, metallic egg-shaped were all sherpas,‖ I tell her. cylinder about 15 inches in length. As Lakshmi bends down to pick it up, I She laughs. ―Come on,‖ she says, suddenly have a flashback to what had pointing towards the deepest part of the happened to my sister all those years newly exposed canyon wall, ―I can see ago. ―Careful,‖ I say, ―it may be a bomb‖.

Lakshmi gives me one of those you-old- care how smart the aliens were who fusspot looks and pulls a spectrometer made this thing, but nobody makes from one of the pouches on her toolbelt. bombs out of gold. It‘s a far too rare As she studies the readings, her face and precious metal.‖ She‘s right, we‘ve lights up with a smile. ―This thing is been prospecting on this planet for two almost 100 percent pure gold. I don‘t

92 years and never found a single a trace of coolness of the cave‘s interior, I can see gold. by the glow over the red light that her face is bathed in sweat. And with that she reaches down and pulls the golden egg out of the ground. Suddenly the red light blinks out. There is another click as the panel closes. And It must be the sudden movement that then nothing. Just silence. starts it, some kind of motion sensor perhaps, for almost immediately we We both give a sigh of relief. ―I don‘t hear a faint whirring sound emanating know what that was all about,‖ says from the egg. There is a click as a small Lakshmi, ―but I think it was a dud.‖ panel we‘d not noticed before slides open on the shell of the egg. ―Maybe it has a flat battery?‖ I reply. We both laugh, with nervous relief. Inside a green diode breaks into life and flashes once, twice and then three times. We have about six weeks – if we are to We hold our breath as, after a pause, the get off this planet on the next freighter amber diode next to it starts to flash – back to the Sol system – to plan our once, twice, three times. Next, after a retirement after discovering the egg. space of what may be 30 seconds – but it Contacts are made. Negotiations feels a lot longer to me – a red diode commenced and a substantial price begins to flash. Once, twice, three times. agreed. We will never have to work Then a fourth flash. And finally a fifth again. But then the egg‘s original flash, only this time the light stays on. I owners come calling. look across to Lakshmi. Despite the

93 It turns out the device is not a dud This is not the way a first encounter is afterall but part of a carefully prepared meant to take place, with alien warships early warning system to alert its owners jumping out of hyperspace to attack and of the arrival of another space-faring destroy mankind‘s colonies and trading race – mankind – with designs on taking posts across the stars. We and the rest over the known galaxy. From the blogs of the team now spend our spare time posted over the Net, it emerges our egg huddling around the terminals in the is not the only alien artefact to have ops room listening to the news bulletins been discovered in recent times. Details coming in over subspace from CNN and are sparse but it seems all of them act Sky as, one by one, stations and vessels the same way: a few apparently are picked off. But, and here‘s the funny harmless flashing lights and then part, those crews who do manage to nothing. And, because we are all trying make a successful run back to the home to clandestinely unload them on the system all report their alien pursuers black market, nobody spots the similar call off the chase at the Oort Clouds. patterns in their behaviour. The message is clear, mankind can do whatever it likes, as long as it stays Far from being the forgotten relics of an within the boundaries of its own solar extinct civilisation, they are marker system. And so Earth‘s first galactic buoys belonging to someone – or enterprise starts to crumble away. something – who does not want anybody trespassing on its turf. This is how it ends...

Back on Kastellorizon, the alien ships parked in orbit, with their first sweep take out our drilling and processing through the system. However about a rigs, as well as a couple of hapless dozen of us, including me and Lakshmi, freighters that had the misfortune to be

94 escape on flyers and head out across the They say you never hear the bullet that endless sands. has your name on but they are wrong. We hear it all too clearly, the sound of We split up to improve our chances of rocket engines heading our way. I take avoiding detection and so it is that Lakshmi in my arms and kiss her for Lakshmi and I find ourselves sheltering what I hope will not be the last time – on a small ledge in the lea of that same I‘m beyond caring what it does to our canyon where six weeks previously heat signature. we‘d first found that bloody egg. This time there is no relaxing around a There is the whistle of incoming campfire or the smell of grilling ordnance and the stomach-churning sandworm – we are letting our bodies clatter of a missile embedding itself in grow as cool as we dare to minimise our the canyon wall just a few yards away heat signatures. from us. It is so close we can feel the heat from its motors. I look at Lakshmi. We hear the sonic booms of the attack Lakshmi looks at me – we both see a ships re-entering the planet‘s green diode light up on the missile‘s atmosphere. We see their vapour trails flank. It flashes once, it flashes twice. heading north, then there are vibrations, followed by the sound of explosions. ―Want to risk this being another dud?‖ I ask. Lakshmi shakes her head. The ―Marriott‘s team?‖ I suggest. When green diode flashes for a third time. we‘d split up, the last we‘d seen of him, along with his wife Sharna and the rest ―Listen,‖ I say, ―we‘ve got about 30 of his people, was their flyer heading seconds. If we jump now we can reach north. There is no sound of any the cave where we stashed the flyer. returning fire, just silence. Lakshmi‘s That should shelter us from the blast, face is grey with concern – I know how then maybe they‘ll think we‘re dead and close she is with Sharna. Nervously she go away.‖ fidgets with the laser sights on the machine gun we‘ve brought with us ―Then what?‖ she asks, as an amber although both of know it‘s unlikely to light flashes for the first time. save us in a fire-fight. ―As long as you don‘t mind a diet of Minutes later there is another rumble in sandworm, we can survive. Maybe the distance. Has Lao Chang bought it we‘ll even find the Orizontals?‖ now? Whatever the aliens are using to detect us is working as they are picking The amber diode flashes again. us off one by one. I hear Lakshmi draw Lakshmi grabs my hand and we jump. a deep breath and click off the safety on the gun.

95 NECRO-DEAD ANIMAL

By Ele-Beth Little

Drawing © Alfred Muro

He was still in love, despairingly in love Like the room, the textures, the light, the Locked himself away, talked in poetry. floor‘s imprint on my knees We got drunk together once. Were all an extension of someone else‘s I knew he had a strong sexual impulse limbs Perhaps that‘s the appeal of men, the Were smothering strength of their want Their compulsion; So I leant out of the window a little, You get to be the target. tried to get some bland reality back Our talking ran away with us, and our Looked at the concrete paths and the glasses soon emptied kids playing in the park We drew nearer, told stories and secrets The solid frames of swings, the echoes And nearer in the summer light. That was when he came up to me, Knelt on the wood floor, our bodies stumbling a little from the drink, and leaning eagerly gravely said Like bending roots ―Are you going to let me, or will I have to force you?‖ Nearer I scanned through excuses, tried to And then, I noticed that one particular recall how far the door was look But it was all coming to me like a A look that was fixed like a hook in to memory me, Already formed. And made me silent. The drink had disarranged me My ankles ached from kneeling all that Brought my dormant selves to the time and surface – the ones that pressure me for I got up. Eager to break the trance. these grand life-imprinting moments, You know when you try to look like you and have a plan I turned impulsively To convince the other you‘re not out of Palms opened out, and said your depth, that life isn‘t scaring you? ―Force me.‖ Well, I walked to the window I‘m not sure the words all came out, Pretending I was curious for the view because as soon as the sentence touched But I was feeling on edge, like the air the air around me wasn‘t mine to breathe He was upon me

96 Like the elements ripping in to me. I owned a moment and it was real. I My mind seemed anchored inside layers wanted to sing it to myself. of wirlwind flesh and dismantling And now I could walk away I fell in to it, as if the air or his arms held And reflect and devour and suck it dry. me He was still lay foetal, and sensing I was And I felt heavy biting on my neck. soon about to leave, he murmured His judgement was obscured by drink, ―I… love her.‖ so I crawled next to him ―Forget what we‘ve just done. And, as a friend His blows were slow and misdirected, Let me comfort you.‖ his eyes lolled I knew I‘d never see him again, and also But he struck me to the floor that he‘d continue to make mistakes of a And here, he grabbed, clawed, rolled, similar vein wrestled me Whilst he was in love. Purposeful yet disorientated For a moment, feelings of pity I felt like I‘d prodded a dying animal threatened to distract from my with a stick submission. And I thought, ‗I never want to be And then he abruptly stopped, like a there.‘ station turned quickly to static He rolled away from me, like roadkill ______poked with a twig. I heard the stir of sobbing before he stifled it I went to comfort him, but He aggressively threw my touch away, ―I don‘t want you. I can‘t look at you.‖ He quietly, and shamefully, added ―whore.‖

Similar to how a child might venture their first whispered swear word at one of their parents. But none of it wounded me. I slumped for a while with a pipe, Reflecting Knowing I wasn‘t any more a whore then he was. I decided to utter it ―I‘m no whore,‖ I said, assured, I wanted him to know his insult was as flaccid as he was. I didn‘t care anyway, I had the moment – I owned the moment

97 THE PERSISTENCE OF MEMORY

By David Conway

Photo © Max Reeves

On the day of the final initiation fused sand resembled a submerged ceremony I left the Institute of Human glacier impervious to the sun‘s nuclear Ecology and climbed the luminous coral fury. Shimmering in the brilliant atoll that overlooked the crystal canyon. sunlight, this geological curiosity The remaining inmates had already evoked the apocalyptic imagery of Saint deserted the complex and convened on John the Divine—and I saw as it were a the vitrified bed of a Triassic ocean that sea of glass mingled with fire. Though I had evaporated aeons earlier. Enclosed had no conscious recollection of ever by the monolithic promontories of having read Revelations, I could quote towering coral, the crystalline lagoon of chapter and verse with uncanny

98 accuracy. Impulsively I scanned the Assimilation had created a dangerous, napalm skies for the seven angels undetectable imbalance that poised bearing the last seven plagues. humanity on the razor‘s edge of inevitable disaster. With hindsight only It occurred to me that my familiarity a miracle or a cataclysm could have with the scriptures might have nothing restored anything approaching natural to do with memory in the conventional equilibrium. I could imagine Dr. sense, but derived instead from an Marlowe, enthralled by her ecstatic entirely different source. Once such an visions like Saint Teresa of Avila, idea would have disturbed me. Now I anticipating the crisis with a mixture of simply accepted it. Since becoming apprehension and expectation. Perhaps involved with Dr. Elizabeth Marlowe she‘d actually prayed for it. and her unorthodox philosophy I had learned to reassess my preconceptions And in the end it came. about the nature of madness, memory— and, ultimately, reality itself. The wave of mass extinction events that swept the globe took the world As I scaled an immense stalagmite of completely by surprise. For decades coral, the fossil record of countless environmentalists had warned us about marine extinctions, I felt light-headed the terrible dangers posed by and vaguely euphoric. A fugue of humanity‘s ruthless exploitation of the incipient delirium persisted beneath the planet‘s natural resources. However, as superficial membrane of my conscious plant and animal species died in mind. Suspicions of divinity offered the numbers unprecedented since the end of prospect of imminent liberation from the Pleistocene era, the ecological the drab shadow world of corrupt hypothesis scarcely explained the scale materialism that had reduced humanity or the nature of the phenomenon. Many to psychotic robots stumbling through of the world‘s governments had already the wreckage of its failed social enacted policies endorsed by the most experiments. Beneath a deceptively pessimistic ecological doomsayers. placid veneer— as tranquil as the surface They had promoted the Precautionary of a frozen lake— the Utopian dreams of Principle that demanded pre-emptive the past had soured. For decades a action without conclusive proof to creeping malaise had steadily corroborate their predictions, because contaminated the world, its insidious by the time they could substantiate their progress unsuspected. Unchecked. claims it would already be too late. But Perhaps some realised its pernicious the Damascene conversion of polluters influence. But if they did, they and plunderers to the cause of remained silent. In retrospect I find it conservation failed to arrest or alleviate hard to believe that Dr. Marlowe had the process. not diagnosed the condition long before its catastrophic eruption. Unknown to As the extinctions accelerated and entire its architects the ideology of Positive ecosystems disappeared, some sought

99 explanations in James Lovelock‘s Gaia attacked the neurological functions hypothesis. Lovelock‘s contention that responsible for the faculty of memory. the world was a self-regulating holistic However this diagnosis proved system implied that it would unfounded when the condition periodically purge itself of problematic continued to spread globally despite the species whose very existence threatened strict quarantines imposed on entire the planet‘s survival. But Lovelock had communities. Whatever its true cause, correctly identified humanity as the the condition‘s precise pathology defied most destructive organism whose analysis. rampant proliferation he called Disseminated Primatemaia, a plague of Within less than eighteen months the people. If the Gaia hypothesis truly entire world‘s economy had effectively applied to the current crisis then surely collapsed. Governments fell, replaced it followed that the human race would by short-lived military regimes that succumb to the cull first. Astronomers struggled vainly to impose order as and geophysicists suggested another their infected populations simply scenario. According to some the solar drifted away from their own lives. Cut system had entered an interstellar loose from the prosaic certainties of energy cloud, which was energizing and space and time, the foundations of destabilizing the sun and all the planets‘ consensus reality, which depend almost atmospheres. This theory suggested exclusively on our sense of individual that levels of cosmic radiation, and collective memory, millions unprecedented during human history, reverted to a state of infantile accounted for the exponential trend of regression— the existential void that phylogenic death. Compelling as it predates the formation of identity. might have sounded, no concrete Industry and agriculture ground to a evidence in support of this bleak halt. The spectres of Famine and prognosis seemed forthcoming. Pestilence loomed over every continent. Of all the Four Horsemen only War In the end the precise nature of the failed to materialise. Mankind now unfolding catastrophe remained a lacked the faculty to engage in the mystery. organised slaughter that had once defined the species. And then came the Wandering Sickness. Those who remained unaffected— an The worldwide epidemic of amnesia estimated five per cent of the population began with apparently isolated clusters, less than two years after the first cases manifestations of group dementia many had been identified— watched in horror clinicians initially compared to the cases as immense groups, often numbered in of Saint Vitus dance that once swept the tens of thousands, assembled like medieval Europe. At first it was great migrating herds and shambled assumed the condition derived from an aimlessly across the hostile wastelands unknown virus, a pathogen that that re-shaped the surface of the planet.

100 This strange phenomenon seemed to reactionary Establishment of Europe express an archetypal death impulse and the USA during the 1960s and 70s. stored in the group unconscious, a Tall and slim with long black hair, prehistoric memory of earlier flawless bone structure and piercing extinctions that once claimed homo blue eyes, she wore khaki combat sapiens‘ long-vanished ancestors. Had trousers, boots, a black T-shirt and a some insidious stimulus flipped a battered leather jacket. In her mid- previously dormant genetic switch, a thirties the psychiatrist exuded an aura conditioned reflex mechanism primed of cavalier glamour that suggested for self-destruction? At the time I celebrated revolutionaries like Leila considered it as good an explanation as Khaled or Gudrun Ensslin, a charismatic any. In fact, as the Wandering Sickness pin-up girl for violent insurrection. I claimed more victims with every day found it difficult to reconcile her rather that passed, explanations began to provocative appearance with the appear superfluous. The solutions exacting disciplines of her chosen science proposed sounded more and profession. In fact, she looked rather more desperate and unfeasible— out of place in her own office, impractical strategies would become our surrounded by book shelves laden with collective epitaph. I had personally psychiatric and medical texts, flanked resigned myself to the inevitable when I by dull grey filing cabinets, various first met Dr. Elizabeth Marlowe. reports and files piled high on her desk. ______Only one thing about her office ―Welcome to the Institute of Human suggested the true scope and nature of Ecology. It‘s a rather modest facility, the unconventional philosophy Dr. but I believe you‘ll find our work here Marlowe had embraced, the apocalyptic interesting. It‘s a pleasure to have you ideology she believed held the key to aboard, Dr. Rausch,‖ said Elizabeth humanity‘s continued survival. On the Marlowe. Although the apparent wall behind her desk hung a sincerity of her greeting seemed genuine reproduction of Salvador Dali‘s The enough, the curious inflexion of her Persistence of Memory. The symbolic voice implied she was enjoying a private resonance of melting timepieces once joke— possibly at my expense. As a considered a surrealistic conceit had potential world saviour Dr. Elizabeth assumed a bleak significance the Marlowe cut a curious figure. I had Catalonian madman could never have entered her office expecting to anticipated. The Wandering Sickness encounter a typical, white-coated eradicated the boundaries of space and academic— perhaps a stern school time, abstracting the concept from the ma‘am or frumpish chief librarian type. grasp of human consciousness itself. I Instead the impression Dr. Marlowe wondered briefly what Dali would have made recalled the urban guerrilla chic of made of that and finally decided he the left wing activists whose radical would probably have approved. Or agitation ultimately failed to subvert the even taken credit for it.

101 ―Do you like Dali, Dr. Rausch?‖ ―Oh, don‘t get me wrong. I‘ve never Elizabeth Marlowe asked, noticing my been happier. I use the expression reaction to the print. ―It‘s tempting to ‗leper colony‘ only in reference to the reflect that what were once considered strict quarantine imposed upon us here. exotic flights of fancy have now It‘s simply an observation—not a assumed the almost literal quality of judgment.‖ representational art.‖ ―Well, in that case I must concede your ―Personally I‘m more of a Max Ernst point,‖ I replied. ―However, you man myself,‖ I replied. ―Dali always understand the necessity of that— the struck me as something of a commercial quarantine I mean. After all, the sell-out. But under the circumstances I pathologies you deal with here are have to admit this particular painting permitted to survive for the purpose of does seem rather, well…prescient.‖ research only. The bloodstained pages ―My thoughts precisely,‖ Dr. Marlowe of history testify to their deadly concurred. ―But I suspect you haven‘t potential, which was eradicated in the travelled all the way to our little leper world at large almost a century ago colony to indulge in a spell of art now.‖ appreciation.‖ ―You mean like the samples of smallpox ―Leper colony? Is that how you see preserved in laboratories after the virus your work here, Dr. Marlowe?‖ I asked, itself was effectively obliterated?‖ Dr. intrigued. Marlowe suggested with a wry smile.

―It‘s something of a private joke—a little ―Smallpox may have killed more people tasteless perhaps,‖ Dr. Marlowe throughout the course of human history admitted candidly. ―But when one than every war and pestilence considers the purpose the Institute of combined,‖ I said seriously. ―But Human Ecology has traditionally frankly I believe the diseases you study served— not to mention our splendid here have always posed a greater threat isolation here among the stranded coral to the survival of our species than the atolls, a landscape an Ernst enthusiast variola virus ever could.‖ like you must surely appreciate— i t ‘ s difficult not to make the comparison.‖ ―And now the Committee believes they might just save us,‖ Dr. Marlowe ―It‘s always been my understanding, Dr. replied, her smile widening with Marlowe, that you actively sought this obvious satisfaction. assignment and have turned down several opportunities to move on to a ―Yes.‖ more…mainstream post that might have ______advanced your career.‖ The Institute of Human Ecology occupied a series of low-rise buildings

102 that resembled a modern apartment Participants in liberal societies based on complex designed in the style of le free market economies, they defined Corbusier. Its pristine white exterior their identities through the consumption glowed in the pitiless sun that enflamed of goods and services and the passive the ominous spires of bleached coral aspirations of affordable luxury. Mass looming overhead: a minimalist solar produced goods symbolised the limits temple bathed in sacred light. As we of their ambitions, the subtly imposed walked through the cool, air- parameters of imagination and desire. conditioned corridors I could never The messianic visions of religious have suspected that the almost tangible leaders and ideological tyrants held no aura of enthusiasm Dr. Marlowe exuded appeal for the well-adjusted children of betrayed secret passions more this new Golden Age. Science and abstract—more potentially technology had finally created a catastrophic— than the provocative genuine Utopia. conclusions contained in the report she‘d submitted to the Committee. I‘d However, as we stood on the brink of read her thesis with more than a little paradise, the architects of this scepticism, convinced already that the millenarian doctrine made a secret world situation had become hopeless. decision. Inspired by those who elected And as we passed the locked doors to preserve samples of the smallpox where the subjects of her controversial virus when the disease was effectively research remained safely confined, I wiped out in the twentieth century, they considered the word I‘d studiously concocted a plan to create a facility they avoided using when we met. called ‗a laboratory of the psychopathic imagination‘. Although the new Madness. techniques had delivered mankind from the dreadful grip of madness and the Generations had passed since the blight destructive pathologies that once of mental illness had been eradicated. threatened the very existence of our Through a combination of positive species, our secular saviours eugenics, psychotropic drugs and a appreciated the need for vigilance. series of revolutionary techniques, They had engineered a perfectly science had finally achieved the elusive ordered, perfectly predictable world. grail psychiatry once promised but But they retained the foresight to ultimately failed to deliver. We had appreciate the labyrinthine perversities purged the taint of insanity. And in the of the unconscious mind. In the past process we had ushered in an age of madness had not only proliferated like a peace and contentment. War had been malignant bacillus. It had periodically abolished. Untroubled by unquiet mutated, adapting to new environments dreams and the catastrophic delusions and social conditions to infect millions. of undisciplined psychopathology, Who could say with complete human beings settled down to confidence that such an outbreak might productive lives of tranquil serenity. not recur at some point in the future?

103 And so they established the Institute of metaphysical discipline, rather like Human Ecology, an isolated facility philosophy, I suppose,‖ Dr. Marlowe where a community of the mentally ill elaborated. ―When the first cases of continued to survive for the purposes of Wandering Sickness were identified study and research. No attempt was there were no more than a few dozen made to cure them. Instead they were psychiatrists left in the world. And we simply observed, subjected to various only worked in a purely academic experiments designed to explore the capacity as advisors to the Bureau of unfathomable abyss of their fractured Progressive Assimilation or psyches. Should some unexpected administrators at this facility.‖ outbreak occur anywhere at any time, these human lab rats would provide the ―I‘m not sure I know what means to tackle the problem. Eugenics you‘re…getting at.‖ For some reason I enabled us to produce such aberrant was experiencing extreme difficulty subjects to order. In effect we cultured concentrating. The words seemed to madness at the Institute of Human exist in some abstract conceptual Ecology, studying the phenomenon in dimension inaccessible to conscious anticipation of future disasters when a recall, leaden ideas sinking in molasses. new vaccine might be necessary to ―Do you remember what the dinosaurs inoculate the sane population. Dr. were, Dr. Rausch?‖ Marlowe was only half right when she referred to the facility as a ‗leper ―Dinosaurs?‖ colony‘. A strict quarantine was vital, of course. But nobody had ever ―Monstrous reptiles that dominated the contemplated re-introducing Hansen‘s earth for millions of years until they disease to the world. At least I had died out abruptly at the end of the always assumed that to be the case. Cretaceous era,‖ Dr. Marlowe replied, ______gazing into my face intensely. ―Their demise is— or should I say was?— a ―I suppose you and your colleagues at popular metaphor for extinction and the Academy for Progressive social irrelevance. That‘s what I mean Assimilation have always considered when I say that psychiatrists like me the likes of me dinosaurs, haven‘t you?‖ were considered dinosaurs. Don‘t you said Dr. Marlowe staring wistfully into think it‘s ironic that our neglected the middle distance. insights might provide the human race with its only viable means of survival? ―I beg your pardon,‖ I replied, Or don‘t you remember what irony distracted. means either?‖

―Well, since the techniques the ―What…what the hell are you talking Progressives pioneered have been about?‖ adopted globally, psychiatry has been rendered obsolete— an esoteric,

104 ―Yes, I can see that your condition is Progressive Assimilation— had that far advanced,‖ Dr. Marlowe simultaneously horrified and intrigued pronounced coldly. ―I wonder if you its directors. Their reaction of sheer can even remember how long you‘ve desperation brutally exposed the flaws been here, Dr. Rausch.‖ in their philosophy: the Utopian delusion that humanity could be ―How long?‖ improved beyond its animal origins. Or inoculated against its basic instinctive ―I noticed it the first time we met,‖ Dr. drives. As Dr. Marlowe‘s staunchest Marlowe continued. ―The slight lapses critic I had been despatched to the of memory and concentration— Institute of Human Ecology to cast a struggling occasionally to find the right critical eye over her research— to assess word—hardly traits I‘d expect in a its validity and the feasibility of its senior member of the Bureau of practical application. But then I found Progressive Assimilation. You‘ve been myself just another of her charges, a here for ten days by the way. By the human guinea pig upon whom she end of the third you began losing your could test her questionable theories. way between your quarters and my office, wandering aimlessly through the And that became my salvation. facility. I‘ve been reading your reports, ______too. Do you realise you‘ve written the first preliminary draft five times? And ―Dr. Rausch. Can I call you Friedrich? I‘ve lost count of how often you‘ve After all, clinging to obsolete titles attempted and abandoned the same seems rather absurd under the conversation in the last two days.‖ circumstances, don‘t you think?‖ Dr. Marlowe‘s voice expressed the sincere ―I…I think—‖ concern of a committed healer. ―Feel free to call me Elizabeth. The prospect ―No, Dr. Rausch,‖ the psychiatrist of imminent extinction creates a new contradicted emphatically. ―You don‘t.‖ kind of enforced intimacy— the withering comfort of a dying species. ―What?‖ We‘d be foolish to reject it, no matter how brief the palliative.‖ ―You‘ve succumbed to the Wandering ―Friedrich is fine, Elizabeth,‖ I replied. Sickness.‖ ______―I want to ask you a personal question— well, not so much a personal With hindsight I now realise how question. It‘s more like professional correct Dr. Marlowe was in her curiosity.‖ diagnosis. But at the time I could hardly acknowledge that. Her findings— a ―Go ahead—‖ classified report submitted to the Central Committee of the Bureau of

105 ―You call yourself Doctor. But in reality bewildering array of sensory stimuli— what are you actually a doctor of?‖ the electrical impulses transmitted via the nerve endings, which we experience ―I don‘t remember.‖ as either pleasure or pain— while the brain itself remains incapable of ―Of course you don‘t. Let‘s see what we registering either directly. Otherwise, can do about that, shall we—?‖ you‘d be screaming in agony now.‖

Sitting upright in a contraption that My scalp had been sliced into four resembled a dentist‘s chair, I looked sections, peeled back and held in place down at the sturdy leather restraints with metal retractors. The triangular fastened across my chest and around fronds of pale, taut skin resembled the my wrists and ankles. Metal clamps petals of a monstrous orchid, splayed to encased my head, holding it firmly in reveal the surface of my brain. Dr. place. Anticipating the imminent Marlowe had removed the dome of my procedure Dr. Marlowe had shed her cranium as if slicing off the top of a customary combat gear. She wore a boiled egg. And I hadn‘t felt a thing. A pristine surgical gown, goggles and a local anaesthetic proved sufficient to mask. Similarly attired, two of her render this radical procedure painless. assistants arranged a series of stainless steel instruments on a linen-covered ―How are you feeling, Friedrich?‖ Dr. gurney while another adjusted the dials Marlowe asked, peering down at the on a battery of machines that monitored glistening tissue of the naked cerebral my vital signs. A series of peaks and cortex: a colossal mollusc vulnerable troughs on one computer screen without the protection of its bony indicated the steady rhythm of my carapace. ―No discomfort, I trust—‖ heartbeat, blood pressure and respiration. Another recorded EEG ―I feel…fine,‖ I responded truthfully. activity. The apparatus clearly demonstrated how strangely calm I felt, ―Tell me, Friedrich. Do you remember apparently untroubled by the prospect our brief discussion about Salvador Dali of whatever lay in store. Even when Dr. when we first met?‖ Dr. Marlowe Marlowe made the first incision across hovered over my exposed brain, my shaved scalp, my heart rate scarcely holding a device in her right hand that increased. resembled a soldering iron connected to a small electrical generator. ―The brain is such a fascinating organ, don‘t you think, Friedrich?‖ said Dr. ―No.‖ Marlowe. ―Even today we scarcely comprehend its true complexity beyond ―How about now?‖ much more than the most basic, mechanistic functions. Consider its I felt nothing physical as Dr. Marlowe sophistication as it interprets a inserted the device into my skull. I

106 noticed a slight smell, like burning. All itself,‖ Dr. Marlowe confirmed. ―But at once the scene in Dr. Marlowe‘s office what really concerns us here is the the morning I‘d arrived at the Institute phenomenon of memory itself.‖ of Human Ecology materialised before my mind‘s eye. I remembered the print Dr. Marlowe had elected to perform the hanging on the wall behind her desk: a procedure in a facility she called the reproduction of Dali‘s The Persistence of Orientation Suite. Subliminal images Memory. I noticed subtle changes in the designed to elicit subconscious wave patterns on the screens responses illuminated the enormous monitoring my vital signs. A video screens that lined the walls of the pronounced spike appeared on the EEG octagonal room. A technician located in read out, followed by a steady plateau a recessed booth operated them. He of heightened electro-chemical activity. performed a function that combined the ―Yes,‖ I said, experiencing a feeling of role of a television producer with the mild euphoria. ―Yes, I do remember, dubious machinations of the wily snake Elizabeth. But how?‖ oil peddler who hid behind a curtain and masqueraded as the great and all- ―Simple electrical stimulation of the powerful Oz. The parallels seemed temporal lobe,‖ Dr. Marlowe replied. compelling. But the Institute of Human ―I‘ve adapted the techniques pioneered Ecology remained Dr. Marlowe‘s by the neurosurgeon Wilder Penfield, exclusive fiefdom. Neither the staff nor who developed the famous Montreal inmates questioned her authority. procedure, a revolutionary method of treating epileptics by destroying the Of course, at this point the distinction nerve cells responsible for their seizures. between the psychiatrist‘s colleagues During the course of his research and patients had ceased to exist. They Penfield discovered that temporal lobe had become her disciples, adherents to a stimulation often produced very vivid zealous doomsday cult, eagerly memories in his patients. Perhaps a anticipating the long-prophesied further demonstration might be in Rapture. Dr. Marlowe had transcended order—‖ the role of clinician and adopted the spiritual mantle of an evangelist. How Dr. Marlowe moved the probe a fraction had she achieved this mass-conversion? of an inch. Almost instantaneously the The answer was simple. Without slight smell of burning I‘d detected official sanction Dr. Marlowe had earlier dissipated. An overwhelming already applied the experimental fragrance replaced it. ―Flowers,‖ I techniques she described in her report to murmured automatically. both the staff and inmates— and she had even submitted to them herself. ―Olfactory hallucinations are a common side effect associated with the aura ―The instinct for survival is a curious phase of temporal lobe epilepsy and and scarcely understood phenomenon.‖ direct stimulation of the brain tissue Dr. Marlowe examined the complex

107 topography of my brain like a instead of the usual one. At the height cartographer studying an abstract of the program he subjected his patients landscape. ―It motivates the simplest to as many as three hundred and sixty single celled organisms and infuses the individual shocks within a thirty-day consciousness of more highly-evolved period. In addition to the ECT Cameron life forms. But on the most fundamental administered various drugs, including level it is based on a single, universal chlorpromazine, sodium amytal, faculty. Memory. barbiturates, Thorazine, Largactil and insulin. For obvious reasons the CIA ―Earlier I mentioned Wilder Penfield‘s became interested in the practical discoveries regarding the nature of applications of Cameron‘s research. It memory. His research soon attracted formed the backbone of their notorious the interest of a rather more ambiguous MKUltra program at which point character, the psychiatrist Ewen Cameron introduced hallucinogens like Cameron. The head of the World LSD and PCP into the mix. As the Psychiatric Association, Cameron was a program progressed it also involved rather controversial figure. In 1945 he extreme forms of sensory deprivation in was one of three Allied psychiatrists a room Cameron called the Isolation granted access to Rudolf Hess in order Chamber where some patients were to assess whether or not Hitler‘s former detained for up to thirty-five days at a deputy was mentally fit to stand trial. time. But he had become disillusioned with the Freudian approach to analysis and ―The purpose of all this was the literal therapy. During the 1950s he conducted eradication of the patient‘s personality a series of experiments on mental and all the ‗bad pathology‘ Cameron patients at McGill University‘s Allan identified as the cause of his illness. It Memorial Institute in Montreal. He was a systematic regime that caused the believed that the key to affecting a subject to regress to an infantile state. In lasting cure was a form of radical the many papers Cameron published in intervention designed to break down the 1950s and 60s he described the ‗the old pathological habits‟ as he called the extreme forms of disorientation his thought and behaviour patterns of patients suffered. Many became unable schizophrenics and psychotics. His to walk unassisted. They sometimes theory involved regressing the patients became doubly incontinent and were to a point before these symptoms unable to perform such basic tasks as presented. dressing or even feeding themselves. Cameron called this first stage of the ―The method he chose involved massive process de-patterning. doses of ECT, convinced that the impact on both short term and long term ―The next phase of the procedure was memory created a blank slate, as it were. known as psychic driving. It represented He used a device called the Page-Allen, Cameron‘s attempt to implant new which imparted six consecutive shocks pathological traits to replace the ones he

108 had erased. In effect he was attempting Progressive Assimilation adopted to rewire the patients‘ brains and Cameron‘s basic philosophy and literally create new personalities. The principles. However, their techniques method he chose was so crude it might were not inflicted upon a group of have been laughable had not the results unfortunate individuals consigned to of the de-patterning process proved so the Isolation Chamber in the basement disastrous. While maintaining his of the Allan Memorial Institute. Until patients in a drug-induced sleep for recently far more subtle and insidious weeks he would play them tapes for forms of de-patterning and psychic twenty hours at a time with banal driving were being applied twenty-four messages such as I am a good person and a day on a global basis. And the entire people like and respect me—that kind of population of the world became dross. Apparently this approach was unwitting test subjects in a planetary inspired by an advertisement he‘d seen laboratory whose existence nobody for a device called the Dormaphone, suspected. Satellite and fibre optic cable which was marketed as a foolproof networks replaced Cameron‘s Page- method to learn a foreign language in Allen shock device. As they extended one‘s sleep. All Cameron succeeded in beyond our bodies our individual creating were people so severely pathologies merged with the circuitry of damaged that they remained incapable mass manipulation that enveloped the of being re-assimilated into society. world like an electronic web. Many suffered severe physical and Technology located our brains outside mental disabilities for the rest of their our skulls. The television screen and lives. universally prescribed mood enhancers were the delivery systems. Combined ―Cameron‘s questionable methods with the opiates of celebrity, advertising might have proved ultimately and mind-numbing entertainment they worthless, but his basic premise was not dulled the senses and reorganised the totally without merit. He maintained mind even more effectively than that the foundation of personality was Cameron‘s cocktails of hypnotic drugs based upon what he called ‗the space- and hallucinogens. time image‘, which depends entirely on continuous sensory input and the ―This was shock therapy administered persistence of memory. By eradicating to an entire species on a global scale. In both through the use of isolation and the constant now of the Retail Age we induced amnesia Cameron effectively were conditioned to remember nothing dismantled the space-time image, but the latest advertising slogans and creating the blank canvas upon which the seductive adoration of wealth and he believed he could impose the luxury. Anaesthetised by designer blueprint of a new personality. drugs, medicated food and drinking water, we remained oblivious to the ―In search of its elusive, neurasthenic traumatic dislocation we constantly Utopia the founders of the Bureau of experienced on a fundamental,

109 metabolic level. The damage far them. I admit an element of infantilism surpassed the abuse Cameron inflicted was crucial. But if people became more on his patients. It represented a childlike, then at least they were systematic and sustained attack on the innocent of the death impulse that phenomenon of consciousness itself. threatened civilisation since its Bombarded with sensory overload our inception. We served progress, memories and attention spans Elizabeth.‖ contracted like goldfish bewildered by the world beyond the bowl they inhabit. ―Of all delusions, Friedrich, the concept In the drive to impose an ordered of progress is the most dangerous. It is system of predictable conformity, the a fantasy that has enslaved billions in advocates of Progressive Assimilation pursuit of unattainable goals. The airbrushed history beyond recognition, ideology you promoted was simply its eroding collective and individual final manifestation,‖ Dr. Marlowe memory. In other words I‘m describing observed, peering into the chasm of my a process of total regression, the skull as if searching for the neurological ultimate de-patterning technique. It traces of my despicable heresy. regressed an entire species to a state of docile infantilism.‖ ―And so you dismiss even the notion of progress as a form of regression?‖ ―But don‘t you understand, Elizabeth?‖ I protested calmly, oblivious to the ―Regression mimics the essential quivering mass of my exposed cerebral mechanism of amnesia. And amnesia cortex glistening beneath the harsh, represents the governing principle of fluorescent lights. ―We adopted those torture. It forces the subjects to literally methods for a reason. Human beings forget themselves. An expertly regressed are violent animals driven by irrational torture victim becomes totally impulses— insatiable appetites for death dependent on the torturer. The and destruction. We succeeded in interrogator‘s real goal is not to extract channelling those dangerous forces to information but to induce what the CIA more productive ends. Our system of once called ‗an episode of suspended Unified Self-Interest rendered all of the animation‘, comparable to Cameron‘s old social, ideological, ethnic and deliberate eradication of his patients‘ religious conflicts meaningless. What space-time image. The techniques you you describe as shock therapy necessarily call ‗passive coercion‘ achieved this on a entailed integrated systems of passive global scale. You forced entire coercion. Subliminal media and populations to forget themselves and corrective medication liberated the rely on you like helpless children. You population from the nightmares of the addicted them to the bland panacea of past, the atrocities perpetrated in the blameless pleasure: the fragile crust of name of a delusional dream of freedom. sensation that congealed like scab tissue Our methods stimulated transient above the existential void. And in the desires and simultaneously satisfied

110 process you created a worldwide ―Schopenhauer,‖ I said without a epidemic of amnesia.‖ moment‘s hesitation. ―It‘s from Arthur Schopenhauer‘s On the Suffering of the ―You blame us for the Wandering World. God, it seems so clear to me Sickness?‖ now.‖

―Can you seriously doubt that now?‖ ―Anything else—?‖ Dr. Marlowe prompted, adjusting the probe slightly. ―But how?‖ I demanded, strangely calm despite Dr. Marlowe‘s dire implications. ―If the immediate and direct purpose of our ―We cured humanity of its life is not suffering then our existence is the imperfections, freed it from misery. We most ill-adapted to its purpose in the made people happy.‖ world,‖ I responded immediately, quoting the opening paragraph of ―You eradicated pain and medicated Schopenhauer‘s essay verbatim. pleasure. Is that it, Friedrich?‖ ―And do you believe that, Friedrich?‖ ―Yes.‖ ―I…I don‘t know.‖ ―And you believe that gave people purpose?‖ ―In that case, Friedrich, I believe we are ready to begin.‖ ―Of course.‖ ______

―In that case consider the following, ―Welcome to Amnesia Arcade!‖ Dr. Friedrich,‖ Dr. Marlowe responded. ―A Marlowe announced cheerily as we quick test of the assertion that enjoyment entered an enormous ward that outweighs pain in this world…would be to resembled the interior of an aircraft compare the feelings of an animal engaged in hangar. Three hundred naked human eating another with those of the animal beings occupied the cavernous space, being eaten. Do you recognise that their pale skin radiant in the subdued statement? As a graduate of Gottingen ultraviolet light. Strands of high tensile University I‘d be surprised if you didn‘t. surgical steel attached to their bodies It was written by one of the faculty‘s suspended them above the floor, while most illustrious alumni.‖ batteries of computers calibrated their individual vital signs. They resembled a ―No.‖ I said truthfully. ―I don‘t colony of levitating bodhisattvas poised recognise it.‖ on the threshold of nirvana as they contemplated the infinite mysteries of ―And now?‖ Dr. Marlowe enquired, existence. These were the remainders of using the electrical probe to stimulate a the Wandering Sickness victims referred precise area of my naked cerebral to the Institute of Human Ecology— less cortex.

111 than half the original batch consignment rendered humanity helpless, unable to rendered for experimental purposes. adapt.‖

―The living dead,‖ I commented, ―The mass-extinctions were simply the scrutinizing the luminous effigies last link in the chain— or the straw that hanging from the ceiling: the ripening broke the camel‘s back,‖ said Dr. fruit of a post-apocalyptic Eden. ―Can Marlowe. ―Subtle technologies you cure them too?‖ sentimentalised nature. Without the conflict of ideology, you encouraged ―I cured you, didn‘t I?‖ Dr. Marlowe people to anthropomorphise the smiled cryptically. disinterested elements of the environment. In effect they came to ―Yes. That‘s true,‖ I admitted, touching view the planet as a benevolent the scars on my shaved head. Beneath kindergarten, an animistic paradise the scalp I could feel the ceramic sutures governed by benign intelligences that fused the dislocated plates of my concerned exclusively with humanity‘s skull. It felt like the surface of a bas- well being. The mass-extinctions and relief globe: the tactile atlas of a virtual collapse of various ecosystems mysterious new world expressed in shattered that illusion. The docile herd Braille. lacked the capacity to conceptualise their new circumstances. They retreated ―It sounds like you still have doubts, into the self-imposed exile of group Friedrich.‖ amnesia, like the victims of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder— an extreme ―No. Not doubts,‖ I replied truthfully. episode of separation anxiety. The ―Questions.‖ mechanism reproduced the final stages of Cameron‘s de-patterning technique ―You read my proposal to the Bureau of on an unprecedented scale. Regression. Progressive Assimilation, didn‘t you?‖ It is now total and— without active intervention—irrevocable.‖ ―Yes, you asserted that the systematic memory wipe produced generations so ―But all those billions,‖ I said, passive and docile they remained visualising the vast sea of traumatised poised on the brink of the ultimate humanity locked in their lethal dreams disaster,‖ I replied. ―The destruction of and dwindling inevitably towards collective memory rendered us death. ―The scale of such an operation. incapable of dealing with a post- It‘s utterly impractical.‖ evolutionary crisis, such as the mass ―Of course.‖ extinctions, because we had become children cut adrift from the space-time ―You mean they‘re doomed?‖ image of the species. The elements of volatile pathology remained necessary ―The evolutionary struggle is essentially to mankind‘s survival. Our techniques a form of warfare more ruthless even

112 than the doomsday scenarios once ECT, drugs and sensory deprivation— envisioned by Cold War strategists. represented fundamental aspects of an Casualties are inevitable. Considering archetypal survival mechanism. your former complicity, Friedrich, you According to Dr. Marlowe Cameron might find it more comfortable to was a product of what she called ‗the consider them collateral damage.‖ lobotomy culture‘ prevalent during the 1940s and 50s: the misguided belief that Collateral damage? No matter what Dr emotional and psychiatric dysfunctions Marlowe said, it was scarcely could be rooted out with a knife or comforting. I made a conscious effort to erased by 200 volts of electricity applied push that thought— and all it implied— to the pre-frontal cortex. He failed to to the back of my mind. Instead I appreciate that his patients‘ alleged considered what Dr. Marlowe had told psychoses frequently represented a me about her plans to save the natural reaction to the stresses and beleaguered remnants of the human pressures of their environment. What race. And madness held the key to its he interpreted as schizophrenia might salvation. have been the last sane refuge of a mind overwhelmed by suffering and the When the epidemic of Wandering overbearing demands of social Sickness first began to sweep the globe conformity. Dr. Marlowe realised that the patients in her care— schizophrenics, psychotics ―Psychosis is not really an illness at all,‖ and paranoiacs— remained completely Dr. Marlowe said as we completed the immune. At first she assumed their operations I called ‗the Marlowe isolation at the Institute of Human protocol‘ on the lethargic dreamers of Ecology— the strict quarantine she Amnesia Arcade. enforced— protected them from what many initially considered a contagious ―If not an illness, then what is it?‖ virus. However, her research soon confirmed that the very nature of their ―It‘s an opportunity,‖ Dr. Marlowe illnesses— conditions that damned them asserted confidently. ―A misunderstood in the eyes of a passive, artificial gift.‖ society— rendered them invulnerable to the plague of amnesia afflicting the ―But the misery it causes,‖ I protested supposedly sane. Madness and half-heartedly, still not quite ready to memory Dr. Marlowe realised were embrace Dr. Marlowe‘s radical more intimately— more inextricably— philosophy completely. ―You think linked than anyone had previously psychotics are somehow…blessed?‖ imagined. ―It‘s hardly a new idea. The shamans What Ewen Cameron had once called and mystics whose frequently terrifying ‗bad pathology‘—the flawed space-time visions provided tribal societies with a image he‘d attempted to obliterate with sense of identity and cohesion, would

113 certainly be demonised as tolerates no system other than itself. schizophrenics by the psychiatric The Bureau of Positive Assimilation orthodoxy of the twentieth and twenty- devised a philosophy of Unified Self first centuries,‖ Dr. Marlowe replied. Interest, based on unfettered free- ―The literal Greek meaning of the word market capitalism and rampant psychosis implied a sickness of the soul, consumerism. Before the integrated an affliction with metaphysical systems of passive coercion—subliminal connotations. In his book The Sickness media, the universal prescription of Unto Death, Kierkegaard described mood modifiers, the medication of food despair— a spiritual interpretation of and drinking water— were in place, the existential angst—as mankind‘s greatest secret elites relied on heavy handed tragedy and greatest opportunity. He police-state tactics to impose their will. claimed our capacity to experience In short I‘m describing a protection despair and correctly identify its nature racket organised by authoritarian would enable us to overcome it and oligarchies. The governments they achieve a higher state of consciousness controlled promised to protect us from that is literally divine.‖ the imagined terrors they invoked— apocalyptic wars, economic meltdown ―What does not kill us makes us and environmental disasters— while stronger, in other words,‖ I suggested. employing terrorist techniques ―But isn‘t dwelling on the darker side of themselves. In return for the illusion of our natures inherently dangerous in safety we surrendered our liberties and itself? Aren‘t the libidinal forces became complicit in their schemes— associated with the ecstatic experiences collaborators and inmates in a global of the mystically-inspired masses concentration camp without tears. intimately linked with destructive, Under the guise of liberation they primitive instincts and the death denied us the freedom to explore the impulse itself?‖ potential of our personal pathologies. And we abandoned even our own ―Just because we cannot see the abyss, memories. Lacking any coherent does not mean it‘s not there,‖ said Dr. experience of the past or present, how Marlowe. ―Failure to acknowledge its could we even hope to have a viable existence guarantees that the darkness future?‖ will inevitably engulf us.‖ ―We must rediscover madness to ―You seriously believe that social recover our lost memories?‖ equilibrium based on a liberal ideology of scientific progress is actually ―Properly guided a genuine psychotic impossible— that it could never work— experience might best be described as a don‘t you?‖ journey into aeonic time, a necessary rite of passage similar to the visionary ―The progress you describe is not a experiences of tribal shamans and liberal idea but a totalitarian dogma. It fakirs,‖ said Dr. Marlowe seriously.

114 ―It‘s a rarely acknowledged fact that assumed the role its original architects Socratic philosophy had its roots in intended— although in a way those shamanism. Plato identified aeonic time remote bureaucrats could never have with the dimension of pure mind, a envisaged. It had truly become a higher realm inhabited by the gods. In laboratory of the psychopathic fact he described humanity‘s limited imagination. Located on the edge of the perceptions of space and time as simply stranded coral atolls— the fossilised „the moving image of eternity‟. And if one landscape itself a powerful metaphor for considers discoveries made in the field the spectre of epochal extinction— the of cognitive science Plato‘s intuitive modernist complex transcended its diagnosis of the phenomenon sounds founders‘ mandate. It housed the uncannily prescient.‖ temple of a post-apocalyptic cult that expressed the millenarian yearning ―Prescient?‖ suppressed in the majority of the population and dismissed as ‗bad ―The human brain processes about 14 pathology‘ in those who either could million bits of information per second,‖ not— or would not— relinquish their Dr. Marlowe elaborated. ―However, we symbolic waking dreams. have conscious access to only 18 bits per second. That means, in effect, that we Through a variety of surgical are aware of little more than a millionth procedures and therapies, many of of the information we actually which involved the use of powerful assimilate. The damage inflicted by the psychotropic substances such as systems of Progressive Assimilation ayahuasca, dimethyltriptamine, occurred on this deep, subconscious psilocybin and LSD, Dr. Marlowe level. In order to heighten our systematically guided her patients on perception and achieve the next state of the mind-altering voyage she described awareness necessary to survive in our as a journey into aeonic time. Those new environment we must broaden the who completed the return trip emerged bandwidth of consciousness itself.‖ from their previously delusional conditions in a state she referred to as ―And the journey into aeonic time will hyper-sanity. According to Dr. Marlowe achieve that?‖ their transfigured minds represented the springboard that would propel human ―I‘m thinking more in terms of the consciousness towards the next stage of return trip, Friedrich.‖ evolution. The hyper-sane would return ______from exile as the agents of salvation. Their new and purposeful pathologies In the final weeks before we abandoned would revitalise the atrophied dreams it the Institute of Human Ecology was of the apathetic sleepwalkers roaming transformed from what Dr. Marlowe the planet‘s surface and transform the once described ironically as a ‗leper bewildered remnants of traumatised colony‘. In a sense it had finally humanity.

115 As her project approached fruition Dr. charged with a quantifiable field of Marlowe envisioned a global static energy. Arms outstretched I felt renaissance that would surpass the its power surging through my fingertips creation of mankind‘s first organised and limbs. Exploring the intricate societies. She reiterated the prime network of my central nervous system, example of prehistoric cultures where it stimulated the higher evolutionary the collective experience— the group functions that lay dormant in the neo- memory— of the tribe relied on the cortex and parietal lobes. mediation of the shaman whose Neurotransmitters flooded the synaptic symbolic visions ultimately shaped canyons of my brain. Light flooded my those fledgling nations. In psychiatric skull and percolated the length of my terms those ancient medicine men might spine, rousing the fiery kundalini have been dismissed as ‗schizoid‘ or serpent from millennial hibernation. ‗psychotic‘. And yet civilization could The pineal third eye— the ajna chakra of never have evolved without them. The tantric mysticism—opened and turned human race would have remained its coruscating gaze on previously ‗amnesiac apes‘ without the mystical hidden realities. insights of the seers who interpreted the darkness of the primal forests and the The veils of maya dissolved. The terrifying power of the elements in restoration of the space-time image conceptual terms layered with sacred liberated me from the insufferable depth and meaning. The enlightened weight of the dimension Plato described alumni of the Institute of the Human as the moving image of eternity. What I Ecology would recapitulate that once called the ‗real world‘ was an function and assume the mantles of illusion. It was as artificial as any spiritual leadership, guiding the Hollywood movie: the seductive memory-wiped survivors of mindless propaganda of social conformity based humanity through the wilderness of on the slavish adoration of vulgarity, despair to an elusive Promised Land. luxury and greed. The dream factories had pacified their audiences with As I reached the summit of an immense glamorised images of sex and violence outcrop of coral, the fossilised designed to provide a harmless outlet exoskeletons of countless dead marine for the death impulse they crustaceans dazzling in the brilliant simultaneously stimulated. The sunshine, I scanned the vast panorama technology had reduced billions to of the vivid, painted desert that caricatures of the shadows on the screen surrounded me. The enflamed sky that beguiled them. But now the resembled the lysergic canvas of an machineries of mass-manipulation immense Expressionist masterpiece, the corroded irreparably. Their baleful threshold of infinity crazed with power dissipated like the bleak coruscating rainbows and whirling recollection of a totalitarian nightmare spiral galaxies. The air itself felt banished to oblivion. somehow tangible, the atmosphere

116 Dr. Marlowe had once described the I looked down from my precarious systems of passive coercion devised by vantage point, the vertiginous cliff of the Bureau of Progressive Assimilation razor sharp coral gleaming like a rock as psychotic technologies. Initially I had face of calcified knives. Not for the first resisted that analysis. After all, did not time I contemplated jumping and the word psychotic describe the social visualised my body reduced to bloody pariahs referred to her care and ribbons. As the sun continued to blaze stringent quarantine at the Institute of in the strange, rarefied sky the fossilised Human Ecology? The procedures she corpses of the prehistoric crustaceans had pioneered— the Marlowe assumed an ethereal glow that protocols— ably demonstrated the suggested the toxic half-lives of fallacy of my old prejudices. The radioactive isotopes— strontium, doctrine I had once embraced remained caesium and iodine— that had founded on reductive principles. They contaminated the entire planet since the debased consciousness to a basic, advent of nuclear Armageddon over a mechanistic level comparable to an century earlier when the world‘s secret automaton— almost a dictionary elites obsessively rehearsed the suicidal definition of what it means to be truly strategies of doomsday. The digits on psychotic. Our methods had created the atomic clocks remained frozen at biological robots whose core zero now. The delicate balance of programming we systematically terror— the cynical equilibrium of a corrupted until they finally ceased to global protection racket— devised and function. maintained by systems analysts at the RAND Corporation had become an By contrast the untapped potential of obscure and irrelevant detail of ancient the inmates Dr. Marlowe cultivated at history. the Institute of Human Ecology aspired towards the zenith of the psychedelic Lovelock‘s Gaia hypothesis barely experience: the expansion of human hinted at the reality. Our consciousness consciousness on a cosmic level. The remained the essential manifestation of hyper-sane who completed the journey inestimable forces established within the into aeonic time had achieved that earth and primed to express themselves elusive dream. Now I, too, stood poised celestially. All the obsolete moralities— on the brink of beckoning infinity, the the flawed cults of humanism and death transcendental synthesis of elevated worship— represented distorted perception exploring the supernal interpretations of an elemental dimensions of eternity. Like the others I intelligence, a means for the galaxies to prepared to write the history of ultimately know themselves. Our tomorrow, a millenarian shaman beings were forged and would die in the projected into a new conceptual hearts of countless suns. Transcending landscape from which the elements of the limits of physical existence, our time and space had been utterly souls would persist in starlight and abstracted. survive the disintegration of the remote

117 island universes that spawned them. Though she assumed the role of an Our exquisite emptiness incorporated a apocalyptic prophet, Dr. Marlowe was perfect microcosm of astral pathology— no ranting tyrant, a paranoid dogmatist neural analogues of expanding space- with a rampant god complex. She time— as the four dimensions spiralled perceived her vocation as that of an towards the final impasse of cosmic evangelist, heralding the emergence of entropy. The life and death of reality not one but many messiahs. The existed in the smallest and greatest of renegade psychiatrist was the midwife things: the sub-atomic particles of who delivered a fabulous new species of quantum mechanics and the sublime illuminated beings into the barren grandeur of the celestial spheres. And wasteland of a destitute world. Already even that was not the end. The end was many of them had travelled far beyond simply another beginning. I did not the Institute of Human Ecology, imagine this. I knew it. I felt it. And I pursuing their ordained mission with embraced it. unshakeable zeal. Their Pentecostal consciousness would transform the As above— so below: I witnessed and directionless migrations of those embodied the completion of the Great infected with the Wandering Sickness, Work. From the summit of the coral igniting the sparks of latent divinity atoll I watched as Dr. Marlowe guided obscured beneath opaque membranes of her final disciples through the symbolic forgetfulness. rituals of initiation. They had carved enormous, complex mandalas into the The fire dances continued long into the glassy surface of the fused sand that night. Laboratory animals were gleamed like a frozen lake between the slaughtered on sacrificial altars, the looming spires of fossilised bodies consumed on raging pyres. Dr. invertebrates. These intricate designs Marlowe officiated solemnly like the expressed the atavistic dreams of a high priestess of an archaic religion. resurgent consciousness: kaleidoscopic Blood glistened on her bare breasts, her illustrations of a visionary rapture that body daubed with occult ideograms. surpassed language and the written Her congregation abandoned word. themselves to an ecstasy of transcendence. Fires blazed around the periphery of the crystal canyon, illuminating the stark, I felt our minds merge, the boundaries irrational drama. A numinous of space and time our individual bodies atmosphere of pagan mystery weighted encapsulated dissolving. The complex the air, recalling the barbaric pageantry pathologies of our individual nervous of torchlight parades that had once systems fused: pure energy unhindered invoked the catastrophic forces of global by the familiar prison of the flesh. destruction. But the resemblance, I Jewels encrusted the luminous coral realised, was superficial. causeways, transforming the fossilised atolls into an incandescent cathedral

118 complex. And the beings that cavorted of the infinite solar winds gathering among the immense bonfires, anointed beneath my incandescent feathers as in the blood of ritually slaughtered they diffracted the spectrum of eternity. monkeys, dogs and rabbits, underwent The transfigured disciples of Dr. the penultimate phase of Marlowe‘s millenarian cult ascended transformation. Their gilded skins majestically from the fused glass floor of exuded auras of sacred light, the the opalescent lagoon. The cabalistic rainbow halos of earthbound archons. designs carved into its surface glowed Here reborn were the Nephilim of old— vividly, the consecrated launching pads the fallen angels credited with of an evolutionary odyssey. imparting science, culture and the arts to the first humans after the banishment Alone beneath the dreaming spires of from Eden. radiant coral, Dr. Marlowe stared up into the night. She observed the I observed this metamorphosis with nameless constellations whose stellar eyes that stared deep into the heart of progress new zodiacs would one day infinity, as those same miraculous forces chart and interpret. My expanding transported me to the realms of higher mind touched the psychiatrist‘s consciousness. I could see the entire thoughts and experienced something of surface of the globe and the mindless the vague melancholy she felt. It was masses wandering through its limitless not true sadness, but a sense of deserts like the somnambulistic philosophical resignation. Dr. Marlowe denizens of a Delvaux painting. realised her work was done. The last of her acolytes hovered among the The abandoned cities, bereft of function, dizzying peaks of the bright coral atoll, assumed the surreal aspect of geological a squadron of rogue angels resplendent anomalies. Monumental causeways of in the coronation armour of the concrete and steel crumbled and imminent Aeon. decayed. Glass obelisks glowed like abstract beacons signalling to the stars. The psychiatrist understood her mission What part would these had devolved to the brilliant creatures incomprehensible structures play in the she had imagined into being. The new mythologies that would shortly prospect of a solitary death among the evolve? I imagined them assuming the deserted wards and corridors of the grim significance of a cautionary fable, Institute of Human Ecology did not the symbolic relics of a suicidal folly trouble Dr. Marlowe. She accepted the that culminated in disaster— the ruins of inevitable. And I accepted it too legendary Babels. without sadness or regret. Instead I embraced my beckoning destiny as I Immense wings enfolded my took the next quantum leap into an outstretched arms, their luminous unimaginable future. plumage gleaming with prismatic crystals. I could feel the timeless vectors

119 120 GUMBO

By Darius James

Images © Destiny McKeever

“Belief in magick is older than writing. Dr. John/ The Magician – I. So nobody knows how it started.” On the connecting flight out of – Zora Neale Hurston, Mules & Men Baltimore, a middle-aged blonde maneuvers her girdled aggregation of buoyant spheres into the seat beside my World Egg/ Fool – 0 . own. Her cone of cylindrically spunned Clairol colors is stiff with hairspray. It Inside the domestic-departure terminal has the look and texture of ossified of Newark International, a cabbage- cotton-candy. She extends her pudgy kneed black woman, outfitted in rubber hand and tells me her name is ‗Peaches‘. raincoat and surgical mask, points in my Back in the early ‗fifties, her hellcat direction with a muffled shriek: days, Peaches used to ride with a Coney Island bike gang. Mermaid Avenue was “See?!! They done turned the damned hopping back then she says with ruff things loose!! Look at him!! He a body and burly women dressed like men. wit‟ no head! His voice boomin‟ out a hole She also used to strip (“But I was a lady! in his neck! He just walkin‟ an‟ talkin‟ an‟ I only made „em believe they was seein' spookin‟ peeples!! I done tol‟ y‟all! I done somethin‟ when they wasn‟t seein‟ tol‟ y‟all but y‟all wouldn‟t listen! They be nothin‟!”). Now, she tends bar, clucking up to no good in the Gremlin!!” like a mother hen over hopeless drunks. Like me, it‘s her first visit to New More ghosts float through her field of Orleans. vision. More babble. ―My daughter is getting married,‖ she “They keep his head in a jar. He be havin‟ explains. ―The wedding party is gonna „lec „twisity retached to his brain, sendin‟ be at the King Rex ball. And those out radio waves what be messin‟ up tickets ain‘t easy to come by, you ever‟body‟s thinkin‟!” know.‖ Two security guards creep up behind Later, after she has sucked the contents her. One fondles the head of his out of three sampler bottles of Jack nightstick. The other massages the Daniel‘s, Peaches tells me her mother stiffening bulge in the v of his trousers. was born with a caul over her face. She was partially blind. Shadows came and

121 told her things. My grandmother was also psychic I replied. She smoked geechie gauge, spoke to otherworldly shades and could predict the day her friends and neighbors were going to die. She passed her talent on to me.

When I was three, my cousin Pamela and I were grappling on a patch of grass behind her home. The clouds darkened. And I looked up at the sky. There was a thunderclap followed by a flash of luminous white. Escaping an angry torrent of rain, my cousin and I ran into the house. I announced:

“Grandma just went to Heaven...”

That night, in his Harlem bed-sit, my uncle watched my grandmother's ghost descend from the ceiling and evaporate Ayizan/ The Empress – III. through the floor. Her hands were clasped in prayer. In New Orleans, an auburn-haired pixie with a Star of David nestled in the cleft Marie LaVeau/ The High Priestess – II. of her ample cleavage greets me at the arrival gate. As the high priestess of a Outside of the plane‘s window, temple named in honor of the Hindu thousands of feet below, the world is goddess Kali, the Black One, I‘m curious scaled down to toy town dimensions. about the Star of David. There is a great expanse of swamp with miles and miles of growth and decay. ―In southern Louisiana,‖ she begins, It‘s overgrown with vines, leaves and fondling the jewel, ―they got some wild grass – all a fecund green spotted pretty weird ideas about what they like with pools of Bayou brown. Tramp to call Hebe yellow sand-niggers. This steamers, shrimp boats and oil rigs are stops them dead in their tracks.‖ anchored in calm waters dark with mud. It‘s a landscaped tabletop for With a peal of demonic laughter, she model trains. It‘s a soundstage for adds – a Godzilla. ―It‘s pretty hilarious, actually. They slobber and hiss like B-movie vampires trapped by the sun with their pants down. It‘s hu-lare-ree-us!‖

122 The pixie‘s name is Sallie Glassman. Not Anywhere At All, she was balanced She‘s a transplanted New Englander on her head with her legs perfectly erect living in the south. I‘ve known her and poised motionless in the air. since high school in the early seventies. Though quite capable of such feats, This is the first time we‘ve seen each given the vagaries of time and my other in eleven years. We embrace with brain's drug-ravaged cells, I cannot an intensity particular to old claim she performed either of these two friendships. Of all my so-called peers in acts with any degree of certainty. I am, high school, she was the only one with however, certain of this – enough consideration for my person to honor me with a formal invitation – I was drawn to the immensity of her engraved and on card stock – to an orgy. breasts. It was love at first sight.

“Come One! Come All! To Ye Olde Gala Some weeks later, as she rode her Roman Orgy!” bicycle along Wall Street in downtown New Haven, I stopped her in front of (Toga optional. Grapes provided. Caesar Naples Pizza, introduced myself and Chevez be damned!!) said I caught her act on the Ramp.

On the appointed night, however, while ―My mother told me about you,‖ she providing my father with a sketchy said. ―You were in her acting class at outline of my plans, I collapsed and Basset Street Elementary School.‖ Her pitched down a flight of stairs. This was smile was wry, ironic and melancholic. the culmination of a week devoted to bingeing on barbiturates, potent I remembered the acting class. It was Mexican pot and assorted tranquilizers. one of a plethora of programs for The loss of my virginity would have to agitated Negroes Lydon launched wait another three years. during the mid-sixties‘ post-riot era. That had been five years before. I first glimpsed Sallie in the squash of noxious hippies lounging in the corridor Then I remembered her mother. outside the high school cafeteria. This congregate of wooly-haired misfits “YOUR MOTHER IS THAT HONKIE called the area ‗The Ramp‘ – so named BITCH!!?!!” because the corridor led to an incline leading to the swimming pool adjacent She was impressed. I have never to the high school‘s gymnasium. The air understood why. there always stank of patchouli body- oils and chlorine. Loco/ The Emperor – I V .

While reciting a routine from the Sallie lives in the Garden District. It‘s a Firesign Theater recording, How Can residential area containing some of the You Be Two Places At Once When You‟re oldest neighborhoods in New Orleans.

123 Her street is well tended with The painting is based on Aleister impeccably manicured lawns and Crowley‘s ordeal in the Tenth Aethy, shrubs. There are bright clusters of with Chronzon, the demon of the abyss: Azaleas; live oaks and stunted palms. The houses are a hodgepodge of ornate “...that mighty devil Choronzon, crieth Gothic designs with dripping cornices aloud, Zazas, Zazas, Nastanada Zazas. I and shingled domes in confectionery am the Master of Form and from me all colors. Her own home occupies two forms proceed.” floors on one half of a whitewashed duplex. Her screened-in porch is strung The painting, Sallie explains, is a result with Mardi-Gra beads and overgrown of her work with Enochian magick. with Spanish moss. The garage in back Enochian is a very subtle and complex has been converted into a ritual space system of ceremonial magick. It‘s also a for invocations, music and dance. language enabling one to communicate with either Angels or Demons. The In the entrance to the front room of her Enochian magickal system involves home, a large brass-framed canvas thirty ―Aethyrs‖ or astral atmospheres. hangs above the gas-lit fireplace. On an Like a Mandala, the Aethyrs are end table squats the many-armed arranged concentrically and surround goddess Kali. The statue is draped with the four quadrants: Earth, Air, Fire and an assortment of multi-colored beads. Water. Utilizing a combination of yoga, Silver doubloons spill from her lap. crystal scrying and ritual chant, one can contact hierarchical beings governing Master of the Head/ The Hierophant – and guarding each of the thirty Aethyrs. V. Once contact with the being has been established, the practitioner of Enochian The painting‘s title is “Cry of the Tenth is then transported into the Aethyr, Aethyr”. It‘s a swell of anthropomorphic encountering elementals associated with creatures swirling around a dark- that particular atmosphere. Through cloaked figure. The figure stands inside the encounter, the elemental is an invocational triangle. The triangle is reintegrated into the magician‘s psyche. bordered by the phrase ANA PHA Failure to do so means madness. XETON - ANA PHAN ETON - PRI MEU MATON. A fish with a sinuous body Marassa/ The Lovers – V I . and a squid-like tail belches a woman from its mouth, its fingers tangled in Snapping open my third can of Dixie prayer. Brew, Sallie introduces two members of her temple in the kitchen, Weirdsli and A demon hovers. Another runs on Katt. Weirdsli is a young dude with clawed feet. A Catman breathes a cloud dark tousled hair visiting from Atlanta. of smoke. By the way his eyes bulge in their sockets, I can tell he‘s trying to wrestle me to the mat with a secret Jedi

124 Mindtrick. Spook me with the possible. Do whatever you think will Whiteman Evil Eye. give it power. You wait till the 23rd hour of the 23rd day. 23 is the number In contrast, Katt is all teeth, blonde hair for Joy/ Life/Party/Bread. It comes and thrusting chest Her heaving swells from Burroughs. You think of this of mammalian warmth have a sway far desire and bring yourself to a state of more mesmerizing than Weirdsli's box- sexual frenzy. You cum. You take this eyed ‗Theta Gaze‘. Pour her pulchritude cum or ―ov‖ and put it on the sigil. into a cowhide bikini and she‘s the Then you cut yourself and bleed on the perfect poster girl for an American sigil. The first time I did it I masturbated Dairy Association billboard campaign: so hard I tore the skin on my penis. “Just say Moo!” „Wow!‟ I thought „Blood and Cum at the same time! This has got to work!‟‖ How this Texas-born MBA grad wound up running naked through the swamps ―And it did. It was really strange...It‘s a of Louisiana spattered in mud and very powerful form of magick. It‘s what Spanish moss with the characters in the Austin Osman Spare used to do. He Kali Temple I never learned. I did find endowed these things with life. That‘s out, though, she once television the whole point. You endow your programmer in Saudi Arabia. Her desire with life so it manifests itself on position was terminated, however, after whatever level you want it to.‖ a broadcast of E.B. White‘s Charlotte‟s Web. The cockles of the Islamic heart, Katt said she once watched a bear apparently, weren‘t warmed by the masturbate at the Zoo. occurrence of friendships between spiders and pigs. Dance/ The Chariot – VII.

Weirdsli was introduced to Kali through Katt left a big purple hickey on the Temple of ov Psychick Youth; a side Weirdsli‘s soul. It wasn‘t until she project of Genesis P-Orridge. ―I thought vanished – VROOM! – VROOM! – in Throbbing Gristle was the greatest band her red convertible sports car, trailed by until a friend of mine turned me on to billows of dust, he knew what hit him. Psychic TV. He gave me some pamphlets. T.O.P.Y. draws on Austin Possession/ Strength – VIII. Osman Spare, Crowley and William Burroughs. One of the first Later, Weirdsli confides he‘s building a requirements is making a sigil. A sigil room inside his mind. It‘s going to be can be anything; but, basically, it‘s cavernous and sumptuously furnished. something that works on a subconscious He is going to bring girls there. And level.‖ seduce them. Astrally.

―You write down whatever you desire and make the sigil as elaborate as

125 I ask one Negro how long he‘s been a Flambeaux-Sambo.

―Every year for the last thirty-five years!‖ he grinned. He had three teeth missing.

―Yeah? How did it start? What‘s it all mean?‖

“Hell if I know!”

The Market/ The Wheel of Fortune – X.

Katt parks her car by the wooden stalls of an open-air market in the French Quarter. We get out, dressed in costume and promenade through the maze of cobblestone streets. The air is redolent with the pungency of Couche’/ The Hermit – IX. Mississippi succulents steamed and spiced. Overhead, powdered and A Dayglo-Lime-sheeted Klansman on elegantly plumed drag queens sit and horseback leads a gang of torch-bearing fan themselves on balconies of lacy Negroes on St. Charles Avenue. grillwork. Leather boys lead lovers on dog-leashes. We eat Oyster Po‘ Boys ―What‘s that?‖ and sample crawdads. Then the evening‘s sultry charm is upended by a “Flambeaux!” throng of marching Christians.

I‘m in the south and it rhymes with Secret Societies/ Justice – XI. Sambo. I think they‘re talking about the Negroes. But no. Flambeaux are the A manic young guy with his hair coifed torches used to light Mardi-Gras' night- in J.F.K.‘s gleaming presidential ‗do time parades. Their numbers once wags his finger with the bold assertion: exceeded eight hundred but less than ―Even though y'all is dressed the way one hundred are in use today, all built you are, and y‘all lead sinful, sinful lives no later than 1880. The crowd tosses of debauchery, I just want y‘all to know their coins into the street. And the Jesus Loves You!® anyway.‖ Negroes scramble for the scattered loot, their torches lit and in the air. Our party includes a diaphanous belly dancer; two cross-dressers; a bejeweled dragon in a glittering turquoise-colored

126 robe; and an aluminum-haired waif in an electrified bodysuit. We tell the man to move on and mind his business. But no. Not him. He‘s a Blues Brother. On a mission from God.

He says to one of the cross-dressers: ―God Bless you!‖

―I didn‘t sneeze.‖

Now, the born-again doesn‘t realize I‘m there. I‘m obscured by the shadow of an overhanging limb, slouched against a wall. And I‘m draped in black ceremonial robes. I step forward. He sees my face. It‘s covered by a lumpy shell of paper mache. The paper mache‘ is slicked over with a layer of Raspberry Jell-O Gelatin. It‘s still damp. It starts to drip. My face is falling off in soggy Les Morts/ Death – XIII. red clumps. The born-again is spooked. Sweat slides down his face. He blinks In the kitchen, I speak with Charles his stupid pink pinball eyes. Blink. Blink. Battles. Chez Chuck is an ex-Marine born and raised in St. Louis, Missouri. ―Jesus Loves You.‖ He made his first Gumbo in Biloxi, Mississippi. It was under the “Jesus can suck my dick! His daddy, too!” supervision of Chef Louis Daniels at the White Pillars restaurant. ―The basis of I‘m about to tell him I‘m a Falasha, a all gumbos,‖ he explains, ―is the Roux Black Jew, (sure to strike fear in the heart (pronounced „roo‟). It‘s a thickener used of any redneck), when I‘m snatched off in sauces, soups and gravies. The Roux the street and hustled into a nearby is what gives the Gumbo its color, restaurant. texture and taste. Everything else is just special added extras. As the saying goes, Zombi/ The Hanged Man – XII. the darker the Roux the darker the gumbo. The blacker the Roux the better In Princess Monaco, we order a round of the taste.‖ ‗Hurricanes‘. They're served in chilled elongated glasses without the silly ―Back in the old days, old time black paper parasols. I request a bowl of people would spend three to four hours Gumbo. making the Roux itself. They would keep the fire low and constantly stir it

127 with a wooden spoon. But the more Courir Le Mardi Gras/ The Devil – XV. you cook it down, the less tightening power it has. So a blonde Roux is added * Large Red Onions * Oregano * to the black Roux for thickness. We‘re Thyme * Bay Leaves going back to how the Cajuns and the old black slaves used to do it. To the * Green Bell Peppers * Cracked Black black Roux itself.‖ Pepper * Chicken Stock Ti Bon Ange/ Temperance – XIV. * Dried Sassafras Gumbo File *Or Okra ―To make the Roux, pour three cups of plain salad oil into a black iron skillet heating over a fire. You can use a ―Chop onions and bell peppers into peanut oil which gives the Roux the small pieces and sauté‘ until slightly light taste of pecans. Heat the oil to the transparent. Add chicken stock. The point of smoking. Add 2 1/2 cups of chicken stock should be reduced by half. flour. Whisk the flour as you pour it Combine together. Stir in eight into the oil to prevent the Roux from tablespoons of Oregano, twelve Bay scorching. The Roux will get extremely leaves and five tablespoons of Thyme. hot, like tar, so be careful. Don‘t wear Add five quarts of cold water.‖ long-sleeved shirts or loose clothing while preparing the Roux. If the Roux ―When the Gumbo comes to a boil, turn gets scorched in the slightest, throw it down the flame to a simmer. Add two out and start the process over.‖ tablespoons of blonde Roux at a time. Wait five to ten minutes. Test thickness. ―Remember, the more you cook the And add another two tablespoons of Roux, the less consistency it has. If your Roux if you don‘t have the thickness dark Roux doesn‘t have the consistency you want. Do this until you have the of peanut butter, make a blonde Roux desired consistency. out of butter and flour.‖ ―Cut a five to seven pound ‗gator tail ―Take the Roux off the fire and pour it into half-inch thick filet strips. Cut the into a stainless steel bowl. It will filet strips into 1/2 inch by 1/2 inch continue to cook and darkened for the chucks. Put the ‗gator chunks into a hot, next thirty to forty-five minutes. hot pan with no grease. Add cracked Continue whisking the Roux until all black pepper. ‗Gator tails brown up the lumps are gone and it has the real fast so cook it quick and put it into consistency of pancake batter. It will your gumbo.‖ turn in color from caramel to chocolate brown. It will look like mud from the ―Lastly, add either Okra or dried Mississippi river. This is why Gumbo Sassafras Gumbo File‘. Never combine is called Mississippi Stew.‖ both in the same pot.‖

128 Deluge/ The Tower – XVI. quadriplegics in motorized wheelchairs masquerading as grubs, frankfurters Mardi Gra‘s parade season begins the and sideshow frog-boys; all in VFW second Friday before ―Fat Tuesday‖. I caps with American flag stickpins. hit Thursday. And by Sunday I was Honestly, I don‘t really know what I spent. Limp. Flaccid. No amount of was expecting. expert tongue ‗n lip work could even coax it to life. Maybe it was the Jaegermeister‘s reputed narcotic-like effects. Or the So I blew off the Bacchus parade. This association of the krewe‘s acronym with was spectacle (according to my Mardi images of disabled war veterans. It Gras guide) of twenty-floats featuring a might have been the gay midget I flatbed full of gorillas (including the encountered earlier in the French Kong Family of Skull Island) pelting the Quarter. He had propositioned me by public with pounds and pounds of inhaling a balloon full of helium then cheap plastic. Hardy‘s description left squeaked – ―Hey, ever make it with a me wondering if the gorillas were a midget?‖ reference to the cork-faced Zulu Krewe, their prized golden coconuts and New I don‘t know what I expected...calliope Orleans‘ octoroon aristocracy. music and circus dwarves rolling out of pygmy cars by the No, I couldn‘t get it up for that. Besides, hundreds...ANYTHING but this. I had a wretched hangover. The night before, I was at the M.O.M.‘s Ball – the So, when I saw the garish swarm of krewe of Misfits, Orphans and Midgets revelers lined outside the Disabled Vet‘s (M.O.M. doesn‘t have a float in the Hall, I could've sworn I heard two cross- parades but are renowned for their eyed water-head albinos plucking parties on Mardi Gras and Halloween). ―Dueling Banjos‖. Then it hit me: You The combination of my temper‘s short ain‘t in New York no more. You in fuse; the countless cans of Dixie Brew; Gomer Pyle City now, boy! the two shots of Jaegermeister, an unholy fermentation of mythic I got real paranoid real fast. reputation, and the underside of the Southern psyche revealed in masque I don‘t know the south. I was raised in proved too volatile a mix for my New England on horror stories, the ones unstable constitution. And a tad too they tell to give black children grotesque for my delicate New England nightmares – how southern whites have sensibilities. horns and tails; eat babies and got wangs as big as baseball bats. Those When the taxi turned into the parking stories… lot of the Disabled Veteran‘s Hall in Arabi, St. Bernard Parish, I was Now, I ain‘t squealing like a pig for expecting droves of fun-loving nobody. And my friends don‘t help.

129 They console me with words like – ―You Eastside. Up there, we keep our white said you wanted to see this shit!‖ folks in line. They know they place. You can‘t run into Vazac‘s like the night Yeah. Right. Beyond lynching distance. a carload of skinheads rolled up and Inside, it smells like cheap beer, cheap laughed – ―Hey, it‘s a blond nigger an‘ perfume and even cheaper piss. It‘s his white-trash girlfriend!‖ about the size of a small high school auditorium. There are collapsible card And you told the stupid muthafuckas to tables along all four sides of the dance step out the car. hall. It‘s difficult to see and it‘s even more difficult to move. ―Wait a minute...‖

What costumes I can discern in the You ran into the bar. cluster of silhouettes are bunny-tailed trailer tramps; men in mirrored suits; ―Yo! We got a Howard Beach outside!‖ women with exaggerated plastic tits; men covered in exaggerated plastic tits Everybody poured out. Huge crowd and a guy with a bowl of plastic huddled on the sidewalk in front of the spaghetti on his head contrived to look bar – Blacks, Whites, Puerto Ricans, like Rastafarian dreadlocks. men, women, young and old – with you in front, grinning: ―Now what were you The bandstand is the size of a postage saying about a blonde nigger and his stamp. And my dumb ass don‘t know white-trash girlfriend?‖ the band jamming on it is the legendary R&B outfit, The Radiators. I‘m The skinheads bounced around like the standing in the middle of this surreal devil dumped hot coals down the front sock-hop and this fool walks by. He‘s of their Sta-Press jeans. dressed in the grays of a confederate colonel. And the colonel is parading ―Fair fight! Fair fight! One on One! this other fool around on a dog leash. The fool collared to the dog leash is One on One!‖ wearing a rubber mask. The mask has the features of a gorilla. It‘s the color of And the crowd retorts: ―This ain‘t about tar. honor, man! This about you getting‘ yo‘ ass kicked!‖ I flip the fuck out. No. Not here. I go into my arrogant I ain‘t ready, right? New York nigger bag with this crowd, I‘m barbecue, you dig, with tequila I see red. I‘m about to scream on these sauce flambé! two stupid muthafuckas, whip out my straight razor and cut somebody when it ―Feets,‖ I say, ―don‟t fail me now... ‖ hits me again: You ain‘t on the Lower

130 131 GENETICALLY MODIFIED METZGER MANIFESTO

By Stewart Home

The damaged nature of industrial societies leads to auto-destructive art. The sound of amplified jet engines cruising a mile above the earth. The bombers circle and circle and circle around acid on nylon. Machine produced and factory assembled art works by Gustav Metzger. Combustion, compression, concrete, corrosion. Convulsion, subversion, defection.

Random activity and the tangential slogan no more beautiful ruins! Smash the picturesque, smash capitalism, smash realism and smash abstraction. Suited beings in Regent Street are monsters of self-regulation. Everything, everything, everything else is an echo of Russian futurism Combustion, compression, concrete, corrosion. Convulsion, subversion, defection.

The greatest art of the sixties was dumped nightly on the streets of Soho. The greatest art of today is the spam filling your email inbox. Far better than those poetry sites where people cut and paste words and phrases, Is junk email which uses exactly the same technique to avoid spam filters. Combustion, compression, concrete, corrosion. Convulsion, subversion, defection.

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Scientist must collaborate with artists, engineers, grifters and con-merchants. People’s power will accelerate the disintegration of the institution of art. A total unity of idea, site, form, colour, method and timing of the work. Words in freedom machine produced and factory assembled. Combustion, compression, concrete, corrosion. Convulsion, subversion, defection.

Auto-destructive art is an attack upon capitalism and the drive to annihilation. Glass, heat, human energy, electricity, feedback, explosives. Duchamp said art works die and end up in the graveyard of museums. Metzger proposed they should have a life varying from a few moments to 20 years. Combustion, compression, concrete, corrosion. Convulsion, subversion, defection.

132 THE SLEEPBRINGER

By Patrick Wright

In this undying state, which few can the bed and carpet, imagine, is now warmth and moisture, ghost of I try to convey my hell at hearing a bird yesterday, wake as it animates my flesh. somewhere at the serrated edge of time. Through my sighs and anxious turning, The ceiling breathes, like a horror lips are lonely, while pins and needles movie, offer the night‘s sole sensual touch. and childhood fears scuttle out from the wardrobe, 2:15, and between two worlds, each like a troupe of clowns or hags. intolerable as the next, I imagine myself discarnate. In this mortuary of paused pronouncement, I drift outside, I pray for amnesia, where tick-tocking and explore nocturnal microcosms of hands plant life amplify the eddying of the synaptic and arachnids, through eyes now charge. weightless and impervious to confines of space- At 12:32, in a sterile room, home time. appliances I might go anywhere, anytime. hum to themselves; steady vibrations which betray warm cleavage of puerile I‘m omnipotent at the edge, blackness. as thoughts begin to cascade, accelerate.

My pulse is disastrously conscious, and Thoughts themselves roll in dreary as the paracetamol dissolves in the pit of circles, my stomach, the urge to sleep merges as language unfolds and words absurd. with blunt desire for oblivion. Like a serpent bites its own tail, reason consumes itself. Hooded windows whisper soliloquies, and dead sunlight, formerly painted on Yet the fates I create are not in the least

133 startling; they‘re abstract paintings by the aftermath of moon and the which soothe afterlife of owl, with mosaics of infinite nature, which might linger long enough which address lingering sadness with for one more chance to sleep. mute sense of possibility. Like every drought prays for a deluge, At 4:38 images infiltrate paralysis, a saviour; an ocean, a place to each pregnant second, with lungs drown; incestuously breathing their dead a knife, a chance to cut. offspring. And odiously dawn arrives like a It‘s poisonous too, like mould and distant relative – mildew, one estranged from the family. which I‘m powerless to, which Interiors bathed in pale blue, accumulate which I shut out with ever-reddening on windowsills and curtains. anguish.

Desperately I cower in a foetal position, Dawn rays violate the day to birth. with the room murmuring anything but It‘s treachery: the night failing to nothing; replenish me a nothing I crave, which asks to curl up with dreams and respite. like a flower at the touch of frost. I wish to be guillotined, steam-rollered with waves of absence, which sweep This place is one without intimacy, over stale conflicts since it‘s only I and this sundering half- and stale eyes, which burn in the light. morning‘s premature flush. All mirrors absorb me (if they see me at all), The sun‘s blushing hemispheres rise my asylum eyes too frightened to see unashamedly, roused by birdcalls. themselves. Noises soon proliferate, the world waking to its ready routine. I glance at the clock again. It‘s 4:54. The creaking door, slightly ajar, A sunrise apathetic to belated spills in beams of incubating light; numbness, though I remain, for now, and with each disturbance my pillow insulated from a lacerating outside, wants to smother.

134 There‘s an irritable intensity to to reach, everything – on some far arm of the galaxy, so much so I‘m murderous in my intent a cosmos devoid of gravity, to asphyxiate whoever wants to wake its barrenness too mocking to call a me, as if exhaustion bypassed morality, friend; made a monster of me. And rained-soaked chairs outside a My body a carcass which asks to revel in crematorium, its condition, at a timid toddler‘s height, in which offers a preview of what it‘s like death was not understood, to die and not want to come back, though sensed in between garden with sudden resentment for all beauty, shrubs or forgotten faces and how it jump-starts such hearts to life. – and the spinning of a vertiginous fairground wheel. What‘s more beautiful now are hypnagogic states – Each are twisted together in braids of the hallucinations – nonsense, or in meaning too insoluble to interpret. which anticipate the toy-like world of ______dreams and somnolence I find myself thrust.

Another fragment of unconsciousness arrives, with memories lining up like a gallery of failed frescoes, with repression flowing back as a tide without threshold.

The miracle of sleep lulls me, and for all onlookers stooping over my body, paints false eyes over closed lids – like post-mortem photography.

Strange stills escort me on the way to nonbeing: stars, imperfect as people, too recondite

135 DEATH WISH CHAMELEON IV

By Cricket Corleone

Photos © Richard A. Meade

From under the darkness of her pillow she hears someone say, ―You‘re awake.‖ Dustin pulls the pillow off her face and looks toward the foot of the bed. She sees Greta sitting on the floor facing her. Scattered around the floor, like a circle enclosing Greta into it, are photographs she has taken. On those photos are notes written in black ink. Dustin sits up and stares at Greta for a moment, ―What the... how... why are you in my apartment?‖

Greta laughs a little to herself, ―I figured you wouldn‘t remember much. You were drunk, you could barely walk, so I took you home.‖

Dustin tries to recap the night before in her head as she stretches her arms and cracks her back. ―That still doesn't The sun from a nearby widow blazes in explain why you are still here,‖ she over Dustin's face as she lies sleeping. A continues. moment passes before she flutters her eyes back into waking life. Dustin Greta stands up and goes to a nearby covers her face from the intrusion of end table, she grabs a mug from the light burning against her face. It is a table and brings it over to Dustin. comforting burn, but Dustin, being massively hungover from the night ―What is this?‖ Dustin says skeptically. before, takes its coverage as a deliberate annoyance brought on by the universe ―It‘s just coffee... well, a little something or some powerful force greater than extra in it to ease the hangover.‖ herself. ―Fuck,‖ she says as she pulls one of her pillows up over her face and smothers herself.

136 Dustin smells the coffee and then turns alone.‖ Greta watches Dustin‘s face for her head to gag a little. ―Crude oil. This any sign of revelation. isn‘t going to cut it, sorry.‖ ―Man, I must have been trashed. That Greta walks back to the end table and doesn‘t even make any fucking sense.‖ grabs a glass of bloody Mary that she Dustin sits up and starts to get out of cooked up earlier in Dustin‘s kitchen. ―I bed. thought you might complain, so I made you this as a backup.‖ The two of them drop the conversation for the time being. Dustin takes the glass of bloody Mary and exchanges it with the coffee. Dustin Dustin starts to walk toward the starts to drink the bloody Mary down in bathroom near her room. She stops gulps. Greta sits on the end of the bed before the scattered photos, ―What‘s all and watches her. Part of the watching this shit?‖ consists of comedy, and concern. Once the glass is emptied, Dustin lets out a Greta goes to gather the photos off of big sigh and wipes around her mouth the floor, ―Sorry, just one of my with one of her arms. She then lies back projects.‖ on the bed and closes her eyes resting them. ―So... you never told me why you Dustin steps over them and goes to the are still here?‖ bathroom. She closes the door behind her as the two continue conversation Greta takes the glass from Dustin‘s hand with each other from each side. and puts it onto the floor next to the bed. ―I was too drunk to go home on my ―How was the Bloody Mary?‖ Greta own, and you insisted I stayed.‖ Greta asks. holds back the rest of what happened waiting for the right moment where it ―It was alright, it could have had a little wouldn‘t seem uncomfortable. more tabasco sauce in it, I like them to jolt me with the flames of hell.‖ Dustin ―That doesn‘t sound like me?‖ Dustin says with sarcasm. says. ―Oh, sorry about that... I wasn‘t sure ―And then you said...‖ Greta stops mid how much to put in it… too much?‖ sentence and flattens out the blankets Greta says feeling badly. around her over the bed. ―Uh, just a tad.‖ Dustin responds. ―Said what?‖ Dustin says with curiosity. There is a moment of silence. Dustin sits ―You said that you didn‘t want me to on the toilet as she finished going to the leave because then you would die bathroom, a wave of guilt floods over her as she struggles to thank Greta for

137 the morning drinks which she knows ―So, did we fuck or something? Cause was only meant to be a kind gesture. my ass hurts.‖ Dustin says as she sits on the couch. She lights a half smoked ―The uh... I liked...‖ She stops herself cigarette that is sitting in an ashtray on unable to form her words correctly. A her coffee table. moment passes and Greta can hear the sound of the toilet flushing. Dustin soon Greta looks uneasy, ―What? No?‖ opens the door and moves past Greta to a dresser. She opens the drawers Dustin laughs a little to herself, ―You looking for something fresh to change should see your face. It‘s just a question, into. ―The bloody mary that is... it Greta.‖ wasn‘t half bad.‖ Greta loosens up a little and sits on the Greta realizes this as Dustin‘s attempt to couch next to Dustin. ―Well... you did thank her. ―You‘re welcome,‖ Greta fall on your ass a lot last night so...‖ says. The two of them laugh. Dustin looks over at Greta a moment, ―Yeah, whatever. So... how long are you ―That might be the problem right planning on staying? Cause... I have shit there?‖ Greta says through her laughter. to do today.‖ Dustin strips out of the clothing she has passed out in and ―Yeah, that might be it.‖ Dustin agrees. changes into an outfit almost similar to ―So, what‘s up with all the pictures?‖ the one she was just in. she says as she points to the photos that in Greta‘s arms that had been scooped Greta laughs a little to herself. up from off her bedroom floor earlier.

―What are you laughing at?‖ Dustin ―They‘re... postcards. Well, not real says in a guarded way. ones. Just ones that I made. I take certain photos and then write messages ―No, it‘s nothing. It‘s just... your on them. Then I...‖ Greta stops herself outfit...‖ not knowing how badly she will be bashed if she finishes her sentence. Dustin looks down at her outfit, ―What, is there a stain? Oh... yeah. Whatever, I ―What?‖ Dustin says as she arches one just like to keep things simple. That‘s of her eyebrows. all.‖ ―I, like to take photos and then write Greta shrugs it off. messages on them and then... just sort of... leave them randomly in peoples Dustin and Greta move through the mailboxes.‖ apartment to the living room.

138 Dustin smiles a little, ―Weird.‖ She sighs. ―But interesting.‖

Dustin, still looking through the photos, stops on one of a single cellist playing on a sparsely lite stage. ―I know this place. This is that really amazing looking concert hall down on... whatever that street is... the one with like, five coffee shops on one block?‖ Greta scoots closer, ―Yeah... that‘s funny, I never noticed it had so many coffee shops until you mentioned it.‖ Greta says as she looks up in wonder.

―So, when did you start doing this? The postcard thing?‖ Dustin says as she examines the photo further reading the message out loud, ―Don‘t be afraid to explore that other life inside your mind through moments of beautiful music...‖ Dustin scoots away from her a little, Dustin looks at Greta like what she had ―Are you some kind of psycho stalker or just read was ridiculously moving. something?‖ ―That‘s your message?‖ she says playfully. Greta laughs, ―No. It‘s just something I do to... I don‘t know, make life a little Greta takes the photos from Dustin, more interesting for myself, and for ―Yeah... Why not? I thought it was a someone one else.‖ good thing to remind someone of.‖ Greta laughs a little. Dustin takes the photos from Greta and flips through them as she reads each ―You should have put something like... message. ―You didn‘t sign your name ‗Hey, remember your soul? The one you on any of these?‖ traded in those years back in exchange for a minivan? Well, it hasn‘t forgotten... Greta looks on as Dustin reads them, and it knows where you live... and SO ―That‘s part of the point. I like to keep it DO I.‘‖ Dustin laughs cynically. a mystery. So when people check their mailboxes and they find these photos Greta can‘t help but laugh as well. ―I and they read the messages, it might... I don‘t want to scare people. But, I think don‘t know, add a little something that might be deeper and more heartfelt different to their days?‖ than you want to believe.‖ Greta says with a knowing look about her eyes.

139 Dustin stands up making her way to the starving.‖ She says as she awaits the kitchen. ―Why not scare people? You same response from Dustin. want to make an impact on their day, right? I mean, what better way to get Dustin looks up at the ceiling and says, someone‘s attention than through fear? ―Me too.‖ Everyone likes a good scare from time to time anyway, why do you think so Greta and Dustin start to get ready to go many people go see horror movies?‖ out somewhere to breakfast. Dustin takes a bottle of tequila out of a cupboard and removes the cap. She ―Where should we go to eat?‖ Greta finds a shot glass as well and pours it to asks. the top. ―Anywhere... somewhere where they Greta watches as Dustin gulps down the serve more bloody marys... with LESS shot and fights back the urge to make a tabasco sauce!‖ face of disgust. ―Do you really need that? It‘s like, ten in the morning?‖ Dustin and Greta grab their things and make their way out of Dustin's Dustin caps the tequila, ―Yup. I do. apartment. Besides, I don‘t play by those rules... the whole, don‘t drink till afternoon ―I had the strangest dream last night,‖ bullshit. Who the fuck came up with Greta says as Dustin and she sit at an that one anyway? Obviously someone outside table of a restaurant. The two of who wanted to punish drinkers with them enjoying their sunny morning bad hangovers. By making them wait till hang over breakfasts afternoon like some sort of sadist. I for ―I was at this huge house that was one, won‘t tolerate that kind of supposed to be haunted... the most deliberately rude, controlling and haunted house in the world. Anyway, I obnoxious behavior. They can piss off was with this woman... she looked a lot for all I care.‖ Dustin says as she takes a like that actress... Diane West? So, she big hit off her cigarette. She turns on the was this ghost hunter and I was there facet to the kitchen sink and puts the just to be an assistant to her. These cigarette out under the stream of water. homeless people were squatting in the house and they all surrounded me at Greta sits on the couch thinking to one point. It was making me herself. She is impressed with Dustin‘s uncomfortable ‗cause they kind of lack of concern for what others think, looked like homeless zombies.‖ but part of her is filled with a motherly concern that she dare not admit feeling Dustin almost chokes on her food from to the likes of Dustin who would just laughing. end up throwing it back in her face as an act of rebellion anyway. Instead, Greta ―No, listen!‖ Greta says trying to calm turns her head up toward Dustin, ―I‘m Dustin‘s laughter.

140 Dustin stops laughing and continues to looked up at the open window on the listen as she eats her food. second floor and you were there looking down at me. And you said, ‗She‘s gone ―So anyway, the homeless people now. She‘s free.‘ And I started to sob eventually disappeared somewhere in into my hands in the street. Then I woke the house. I‘m not sure where they went up.‖ Greta pulls herself out of the actually. Then at one point there was memory of the dream and sits with this loud symphonic music that just Dustin in a moment of silence. came through the walls out of nowhere. It was so loud we had to cover our ears Dustin, still chewing her food, says, ―I to keep them from bursting. Then it used to study dreams you know.‖ went away. But periodically, out of nowhere, it would just... come back. Greta perks up in interest, ―What do Diane West told me it was music that you think my dream meant?‖ had been left behind by an angry composer who died there. I was walking Dustin takes a sip of water and then sets around all scared until I realized that it down as she tries to clear the food the only way to gain the respect and from her mouth to speak, ―It means... friendship of these ghosts that haunted you‘re crazy.‖ Dustin starts to laugh. the place, was to dazzle them with some kind of music. There were these deer Greta drops her shoulders down and heads mounted on the wall in the living shakes her head in embarrassment. ―I room, and they all turned their necks to can‘t believe I fell for that one.‖ look at me. So, instead of getting scared, I just started to sing this... Latin song... Dustin continues to laugh. something Carmen Miranda might have sung. There were no real words but I ―Seriously though, it was weird,‖ Greta remember one of the parts I sang was says as she starts to eat her breakfast something like, ‗Un intimacy?‘ But I again and stares at her plate. Suddenly don‘t speak Latin and I don‘t even think Greta looks pale as she looks up at that means anything in any language. Dustin. ―Shit! I forgot my wallet! I left it Still, it seemed to impress these deer on your kitchen counter last night after heads and they started to sing backup. you went picking through it to find Then this mannequin in the room comes pictures of old boyfriends... or whatever to life, and it‘s this woman. She and I you were trying to do!‖ start to dance and sing the song together and we were having a lot of fun. Then, Dustin smiles, ―I d o n ‘t have a clue.‖ as she danced, she went to a window and threw herself out off the second Greta looks for an answer to this floor. I ran down to see if she was problem on Dustin‘s face. ―Well, what alright, and she was gone. But I was still are we going to do? I don‘t have any singing, as I started to cry. I just kept money to pay for this, do you?‖ saying, ‗Un intimacy...‘ over and over. I

141 Dustin drops her face and looks Greta watches Dustin‘s face for a concerned and serious, ―Shit... we‘re moment as she scans the people that screwed.‖ She leans in to Greta and pass. Then Greta joins in with her whispers, ―Get ready to run.‖ people watching in hopes of catching what it is that interests Dustin so much Greta looks shocked, ―What?!‖ in this activity. People pass by on their lunch breaks or on their way to a Dustin sits back and starts to laugh, meeting or some other location. Then ―I‘m kidding! Jesus woman! I got it... I Greta sees a man half a block up got it... relax.‖ walking in their direction. It takes her a moment and then she buries her head in Greta scoffs and rolls her eyes, ―Is her arms, ―Oh, GOD.‖ everything a joke to you?‖ Dustin looks at Greta, ―What? Is it the Dustin wipes her face as she finishes up smoke again?‖ her plate of food, ―Yes.‖ She pulls some money out of her pocket and places it on Greta buries even more trying not to be the table. ―Hurry up and finish, I want noticed. ―No. Just, don‘t say anything. to get out of here.‖ I‘m not here.‖

Greta eats a little faster. Dustin looks puzzled. She looks off in the direction of the man as he crosses Later that afternoon, Dustin and Greta the street toward them. ―Who is he? are sitting outside Dustin‘s favourite Some ex boyfriend? A cop? Did you do book shop. The wide and tall brick wall something illegal?‖ Dustin says with an behind their backs as people pass by air of excitement. them on the sidewalk. Dustin is smoking again as Greta periodically ―No, just... don‘t get his attention. I tries to blow the smoke away from her don‘t want him to see me here.‖ face. Greta seems genuinely uncomfortable ―You smoke way too much, lady.‖ so Dustin goes along with it until the man has passed by and is out of plain Dustin pays no attention to Greta‘s sight. ―H e ‘s gone,‖ Dustin says remark. reassuringly.

―Why are we sitting here again?‖Greta Greta lifts her head a little to make sure. questions. The man is nowhere to be seen. Greta lets out a breath of relief. ―Thank you,‖ ―I like to watch the people who walk she says as she rubs her eyes. by.‖ Dustin says.

142 Dustin is tempted to probe Greta about actually enjoy my company. He actually the man but hesitates as she can see it is listened to what I had to say as if he was a painful topic. truly interested in me as a person. And then... we got this room at a hotel... and Greta grabs the cigarette from Dustin's then... we made love... and... I remember hand and takes a drag. She coughs the after, it told me I was beautiful. I smoke out. ―God, that is terrible!‖ actually believed he thought I was beautiful in that moment. My heart Dustin takes the cigarette back, ―Is it just... flooded up. So I told him he was really that bad?‖ the beautiful one. He got so shy,‖ Greta says with a smile. ―It was so cute.‖ Her Greta covers her mouth in disgust, smile drops in a moment and she looks ―Yes!‖ She looks at Dustin and realizes to the ground. ―Then, after awhile, he that she didn‘t mean the cigarette. ―Oh, started to push away from me. I didn‘t him... that‘s what you meant. Yes, it IS know what I had done wrong. I showed that bad.‖ Greta wipes some wetness up at his house one day because I had from her eyes stemming as a reaction to been calling him and he wouldn‘t the cigarette. ―Can we go now?‖ Greta answer or return my calls. I was pissed! stands up. I mean, I just needed to know what was going on.‖ Dustin shrugs and agrees. Dustin stops Greta, ―How did you know As the two of them walk downtown where he lived?‖ aimlessly, Greta starts to confess about the man she saw. ―He‘s a guy I had an Greta looks at Dustin with a guilty look, affair with. I mean, I don‘t usually do ―I followed him home from work one things like that, but I didn‘t know he day. I wasn‘t stalking him. I just was married. I didn‘t think about it. It happened to see him as I was walking just hadn‘t occurred to me is all. I downtown taking photos. So, instead of should have noticed the first time I met walking up to him, I just decided to him. He had no ring on, but I did notice watch him. Then, I started to follow a tan line around where a ring might him. I knew it was wrong and I felt like have been. But I was too stupid to put a total weirdo... but I didn‘t know what two and two together. I just asked him if else to do? And I was curious. I thought, he was married, and he said he just maybe I would see him meet up with went through a divorce. I didn‘t some other woman or something and question any more than that. So, we then things would make sense and I started to meet up, and one thing led to could move on? When I saw him go into another. I thought it was strange that he his house, I just knew it was his. I was only wanted to meet me in the middle tempted to knock on the door and talk of the day and that he never took me to him. But I knew it would have back to his place. But I was so into him. seemed odd that I was there. So I didn‘t. He was so nice and he seemed to I just walked away.‖

143 Dustin listens intently, ―But you went wonder what he wants and how he‘s back.‖ going to fuck me over too. It ruined me.‖ Greta sighs and stops in her tracks. She leans against the outside wall of a tall Dustin grabs Greta‘s arm to stop her building, ―Yes, I went back. And when from walking. he answered, I saw her... his wife... and his kids... he has a son and a daughter. I ―What?!‖ Greta says in frustration, ―I saw the ring on his finger. And I will told you the story, now let‘s just drop it! never forget the look in his eyes. Total It doesn‘t matter anyway.‖ and utter shock and surprise. Like I had just stabbed him in the chest or something. His wife looked at me like she wondered if I was selling something or something...‖

Dustin leans against the wall next to Greta.

Greta covers her face a little with her hands as she lives through this memory inside herself.

―What did you do?‖ Dustin says calmly.

―Nothing. I mean, I just said, ‗Sorry, I must have the wrong address.‘ And then I turned... and walked away. He just closed the door behind me like I was no one.‖

Dustin starts to get angry, ―That‘s it? I Dustin gets enraged, ―It doesn‘t matter? would have punched the fucker! What a Are you fucking kidding me? That dick!‖ asshole lies to you, uses you, and then treats you like a stranger to your face? Greta starts to walk again and Dustin That isn‘t nothing that is bull shit! And follows up behind her. ―I don‘t want to he shouldn‘t get away with it!‖ Dustin hurt him, alright? I just wished I never starts to turn in circles and pace in her met him is all. Now, all I have is this rage. constant nagging reminder of him. Whenever I pass a place that we used to Greta notices that Dustin seems to be meet up. Whenever I see that hotel. going somewhere in her head that isn‘t Whenever some guy smiles at me, I

144 such a good place to go. Like she is Greta smiles a little, ― That‘s a funny being surrounded by some horrible comparison? Crosses? I mean, if they are memory not to unsimilar to Greta‘s on crosses, wouldn‘t that mean they are own. suffering already?‖

―What?! He gets to just fuck around on Dustin stops to think about her his wife and use woman like disposable statement, but refuses to analyze her it fuck dolls and then go home and live in her anger. ―Whatever, my point is... out his happy little existence while these you should get him back!‖ woman suffer in silence? It‘s ―NOTHING‖ that they have been Greta shakes her head in disagreement reduced to little more than WHORES as she walks away from Dustin. ―No. without any thoughts or feelings or their No... we are not even going there.‖ own? I mean, what happens to him? Greta stops for a moment and cocks her Huh? When does he get his?!‖ head to one side, ―You know what I just realized?‖ Greta stops Dustin, ―Hey, it‘s alright. Calm down.‖ Dustin is lighting another cigarette, ―That he should be castrated?‖ Dustin pulls away and regroups. Greta turns to Dustin, ―No... I just now Greta speaks as calmly as possible to realized, you have NEVER even told me keep from enraging Dustin again, ―I‘ ll your name?‖ get over it... eventually. It just got to me when I saw him is all. I mean, I loved The two of them stop in thought for a the guy. I still do. I just wish none of it moment, then they start to laugh. ever happened. But I don‘t want to hurt him just because he hurt me.‖ ―Oh shit... I didn‘t even realize,‖ Dustin says as she jokingly extents one hand to Dustin looks Greta in the eyes, ―YOU Greta. ―Hi, I‘m Dustin. I‘ ll be your SHOULD WANT TO HURT HIM. I am ‗femi-nazi‘ for the day!‖ so sick of this way that woman are pushed down. That if we act out in They continue to laugh. some way that might show our true feelings after getting fucked over by ―Dustin... that‘s a cool name. Is it your some asshole... that somehow WE are real name?‖ Greta asks. the psychos. FUCK THAT. I say, if someone fucks you over, fuck them over ―Shit, I don‘t even know anymore.‖ TEN TIMES worse. Get your revenge. Dustin says as she takes Greta by the They might tell you that it doesn‘t make arm and pulls her off in to some anything better, but believe me sister, IT unknown direction. DOES. You‘ll FEEL better once you cut them down off their fucking crosses.‖

145 ―Where are we going?‖ Greta asks that asshole? Say... of the hotel room... through laughter that is slowly dying. or... his house?‖ Dustin says slyly.

―You‘ll see. It‘s time you learned to Greta is completely oblivious as she express yourself on a deeper level than continues to win her pretend game of just pictures of flowers and anonymous baseball. ―Yeah... but what does that post cards.‖ have to do with anything?‖ she says as Dustin pulls out a photo of the man‘s The two of them head down the street in house. the direction of a sports equipment shop a few blocks up the way. ―EVERTHING.‖ Dustin says with a glare in her eye. After leaving the sports shop, Dustin and Greta start to walk down the late Greta turns to Dustin and tries to afternoon city sidewalk. The sidewalk understand what she is saying. She then seems almost empty as this is the time realizes that Dustin is looking at the between after lunch breaks for people at photo of the man‘s house and seems to work, and the evening traffic that will have some sort of evil plan building in spring up in just a few hours. her head.

Greta smiles in a daze, ―Wow, I just now ―What are you...‖ Greta tries to grab the realized we have wasted an entire day photo from Dustin who holds it away doing absolutely nothing.‖ from her.

Dustin is carrying a large bag of goodies ―I actually, know this house,‖Dustin she bought at the sports store. ―It won‘t says gleefully. be a total waste,‖ she says with a determined look in her eyes. Greta struggles to get the photo back from Dustin but her first attempts fail. Greta grabs the bag from Dustin and ―Hey! Give me that!‖ pulls out a large metal bat that she has purchased. ―What, are we going to play Dustin scans over the photo one more a game of baseball?‖ Greta hands the time and then casually hands it back to bag back to Dustin and then pretends to Greta. be hitting a home run with an invisible ball before her. She takes a swing and Greta tucks the photo back in her bag as then pretends to see it going miles and the two continue walking. miles away from them. Further down the road, there is nothing Dustin grabs Greta‘s bag from off her but silence between Dustin and Greta. shoulders and starts to pick through it. Greta, having decided awhile back, is ―You‘re weird enough... did you ever trying not to provoke any conversation take any pictures while you were with as to what is going on in Dustin‘s head

146 and why she wanted to look at the to work and Dustin continues forward photo of the man‘s house so much. She with determination. also didn‘t want to know why they had stopped at that sports shop and why the Dustin and Greta stand before the home only item Dustin seemed to be of Greta‘s past lover. A large white, two interested in was this long hard metal story home, with roses lined up along a bat that Greta is now holding in her picket fence. It was a home one could hands. have personally singled out from some fantasy issue of Home & Garden. ―So... what do you want to do now? We could... I don‘t know... catch a movie or Dustin looks at Greta and lets out a sigh, something?‖ Greta says to cut through ―Ready?‖ the tension. Greta, stumbles on her words, ―Ready... ready for... what?‖ she says nervously.

Dustin grabs Greta‘s hand and leans in to her, ―REVENGE.‖

Greta pulls back a little and smiles nervously, ―You‘re crazy. I don‘t want to do this. I don‘t know what it is you‘re thinking about doing, but I don‘t want to be a part of it.‖ Greta starts to walk away.

Dustin exhales, ―Fine. Suit yourself.‖ She heads up the steps to the front porch of the home.

Greta turns back to face Dustin and realizes, she is going in there with or without her. In a panic, Greta runs to join Dustin on the porch. ―What are you doing? You‘re just going to walk in Dustin does not answer. there and... what? Beat him up?‖ Greta says in confusion. As the two walk further, Greta feels a panic. They are getting closer and closer Dustin laughs a little. ―Don‘t be stupid. to the block that Greta‘s past lover lives I didn‘t come here to beat anyone up. I on. She tries to pull them back with am going to see if anyone is home, if suggestions on places to go in the not, we have the place to ourselves, and opposite direction. But none of it seems then the real fun starts,‖ she says with

147 excitement in her eyes as she knocks on places that still have his touch, a sports the front door. magazine next to the sofa.

Greta paces nervously not knowing Dustin picks up the magazine. ―You what to do but not taking the time to fucked a guy who reads Sports run away, though every fiber in her Illustrated?‖ she says with a hint of being is screaming that she should get disgust. the hell out of there, part of her also wants to stay and see what Dustin is Greta can‘t help but laugh a little. going to do next. "Funny. Can we go now?‖

There is no answer at the door. Dustin Dustin puts the magazine back down peaks inside the windows of the house. and keeps looking around the house. The house is empty. No one in sight, not ―So, what did you see in this guy even a cat or a dog lurking about. So, anyway?‖ Dustin takes the opportunity to pick the lock. Greta comes across a photo of her past lover and picks it up. She stares deeply Greta sees this and her heart races even into his eyes to a point where it almost more. ―We can‘t do this. We shouldn‘t seems to be staring back at her. ―I don‘t be doing this,‖ she says to Dustin, but know... I feel, connected to him? Like... I Dustin ignores her. have these horrible panic attacks when I am sleeping. I wake up, my heart The door pops open. beating fast... and this feeling like my room is somehow... floating off into ―Ladies first,‖ Dustin says to Greta space... and that I am completely allowing her first passage through the alone...‖ Greta takes a moment as she is doorway and into the home. lost in the picture with him. ―…he made me... not feel alone.‖ Greta is frozen in place, so Dustin grabs her arm and yanks her inside the house Dustin listens to every word Greta is closing the door behind them. saying. She can feel the pain of Greta‘s heartbreak. Greta‘s body is so full of this Walking around the house, there are pain that it is amazing she doesn‘t photos of the man with his family. Little implode all together from it. ―I think I league photos of his son. Plaques and know what you mean...‖ Dustin says as awards laid out like some sort of forced she tries to block out the empathy like it display of a normalcy mask. The house is some kind of sick rapist having its was obviously decorated by the wife. way with her insides. ―But he‘s a fucker. Fancy mirrors, fake flowers, antique I mean, look where he left you? Used up vase here and there. Not a spot on the and tossed aside like garbage. I think it white carpet. Although, there are a few is bullshit that he should be able to get away with it.‖

148 She hands Greta the bat.

Greta looks confused. ―What am I supposed to do with that?‖

Dustin smiles, ―You can start with that photo of him... pretend it‘s his face... and just... bash the fucker in.‖

Greta won‘t take the bat. ―No. That won‘t solve anything.‖

Dustin takes the bat in hand and walks around looking at the mirrors on the white walls. ―No... but it‘ll make you feel so much better.‖

Greta starts to walk toward the front door, ―I d o n ‘t want to do this.‖

Dustin takes a long hard look at her Dustin‘s face is turning red as she reflection in one of the mirrors. She isn‘t smashes every family portrait in sight. sure if it is herself she sees, or all the She smashes in the television. Kicks the things that ever hurt her. Or is it a couch over. It wouldn‘t matter much if monster, waiting to break free? With the Greta tried to stop her, this was a force grasp of the metal bat tightening in her bigger than the both of them. There was grip, the rage is released in a breath that no turning back now. Tears start to well follows the words, ―I do.‖ She smashes up in Dustin‘s eyes as Greta can hear the mirror to pieces. words coming out in broken sentences. Greta isn‘t sure at first what Dustin is Greta jumps and turns around to see saying, but finally makes out the words, what is happening. ―I hate you.‖ After the words are said a few more times, Dustin collapses is She stands back, wide eyed and exhaustion. shocked. Like watching a wild animal tare through its prey, Dustin is Greta stands back with tears in her eyes smashing everything in sight. This look as well. And now the empathy is in her eyes says that the demon has turned, though to Greta, this is only a come out. That this has nothing to do natural part of who she is. That ability with Greta‘s past lover, but the principal to connect, even if she herself often feels of the idea that people cause pain, and lost out in space, alone. Greta can clearly see Dustin‘s pain, just as Dustin had felt Greta‘s earlier.

149 She snaps back to reality as she looks Greta tries to catch up with Dustin‘s over the destroyed room. ―We have to way of thinking, ―How do you know?!‖ get out of here!‖ Dustin and Greta are crossing the street, Greta helps Dustin up. stopping cars in their tracks like they don‘t even exist. The road, the street, the Dustin wipes her face down. ―WAIT. entire city is made up of two people in One more thing. Give me your panties.‖ this moment, just them.

Greta looks at Dustin like she is nuts. ―He won‘t take them to the cops ―Excuse me?‖ because he will know they are yours and won‘t have a way of explaining it... Dustin forcefully removes Greta‘s and he will be all freaked out and try panties from under her dress. Greta tries and find some excuse to let it all go. He to resist but Dustin is stronger than her. won‘t want anyone to know who you With the panties in hand, Dustin tosses are or why you did it.‖ them next to a smashed photo of his family. Greta gets angry, ―But I DIDN‘T DO IT! YOU DID!‖ Greta starts to walk away ―Are you crazy?! He‘s going to know it from Dustin like she has just murdered was me!‖ someone and does not want to be seen with the killer. Dustin looks Greta in the eyes, ―Exactly.‖ Dustin turns to face Greta, ―You didn‘t have to go. But you did. Part of you Dustin and Greta make a quick getaway wanted something to happen. Part of out the front door, not even stopping to you was curious. And part of you really close things up behind them. enjoyed watching his little world be torn to pieces. Just like he tore yours to A block away from the scene of the pieces. You may be floating off in space, crime, Greta is grilling Dustin. ―Fuck! but today, I was your co-pilot. So now Do you realize how stupid that was?!‖ you don‘t have to be alone. And you don‘t need him to be strong for you Dustin is calm, ―What? Wrecking that anymore because I have just proved to fucked up lie of a home?‖ you that he is not untouchable... and you are not helpless.‖ Greta scoffs in amazement over Dustin's oblivious behavior. ―That was fucking Greta stops, the words hit her like a ton stupid! But leaving evidence that I was of bricks falling over her body. Part of there? That was fucking moronic! He her knows that what Dustin is saying, is could take them to the cops?!‖ dead on. She turns back around and walks toward Dustin. ―Maybe you are Dustin laughs, ―He won‘t.‖ right. But I love him, and when you love

150 someone you don‘t do things like that. them are the same person, struggling to You just don‘t. You tried to make me break free from the sides of themselves prove that I did not care for someone that feel the most connected. Greta tries that I am totally in love with. Now, not to ignore the idea that she could want only do I feel alone, but I hate myself for revenge against the man she is so shitting all over his world. I feel more painfully in love with, and Dustin alone now than I did before. And I don‘t loathes the thought that she might need some crazy head case trying to actually be lost out in space alone and in convince me that I am not free. I saw the pain herself. way you smashed his shit to hell... you are NOT my co-pilot. You are the ―What‘s a girl to do?‖ Dustin says to fucking meteor that‘s gonna crash into herself as she pulls out a cigarette and my room and take me down with it. lights it. But part of her can‘t ignore the YOU ARE NOT FREEDOM. YOU ARE fact that she feels bad for upsetting her RUIN.‖ Greta turns away and keeps on new friend. She ponders the thought walking. that if the two of them are that fucked up and heading in different directions in Dustin stands there letting Greta‘s harsh life, who was saving who? And why did words sink in. In a way, she too knows Dustin, the girl with the death wish, that what was said, was also true. Here even feel that urge to save anyone in the she is, on a mission to get killed, and she first place when she doesn‘t even want does what she sees as a freeing, to save herself? liberating act of rebellion, but when it is all said and done, how free does she She starts to feel that need for self really feel? No amount of mirror mutilation kicking in, like an old smashing is going to take away her friend... or enemy. Now, flashes of the reflection. Then, Dustin smiles with one things that lead her to want to die in the thought to her advantage, Dustin yells first place are flooding her mind with out to Greta who is already a block chaos, like an uncontrollable riot in the away, ―And what? You are better than streets... But all of it is happening inside me for doing nothing? I would rather be of herself. And the buzz given by the the meteor and go out with a bang then cigarette she is smoking won‘t make it be the one floating off in space alone go away. So she blocks the pain out with and in pain and doing nothing about it! a fury, ―Tonight, I am going to get laid. I And you‘re right, I‘m not free! Yet.‖ am going to get drunk and pick up on Dustin keeps that last word to herself the creepiest fucker in the bar, and and speaks it under her breath. She FORCE him to end this pathetic excuse turns the other direction and walks off. for a life I call me. And that is all there is to it.‖ She bucks up like a cold hearted It feels like the last time Greta and bitch with blood in her eyes. The Dustin will ever speak to one another. mission continues. And Greta is too far Though they walk different paths in away now to stop it. opposite directions, in a way, the two of

151 152 THE GOOD SCHIZOID

By Michelle Facchini

Photo © littleshiva.com

She wandered on her own through the that conjured up all manner of psychic bright busy city streets. One half of her cinema within her. The movie shorts teased the other, 'I dare you to think of were an endless parade of victims being the most heinous thing anyone could tortured and screaming in pain, do.‘ decapitated corpses, grey dead children, mutilated and molested, surreal ‗Stop!‘ she answered out loud in snapshots of rituals involving dead despair, begging the bloodthirsty gory babies, and sexual perversion. ‗Who is it deviant scenes in her head to go away that is doing this to them?‘ Her face and leave her alone. contorted with terror, ‗If I‘m thinking of it, it must be me.‘ She couldn‘t help but plumb the depths of human evil, a destructive compulsion

153 She made up complex rules, as long as draped it over him carefully, wanting to she kept battling these rogue taunts, keep him warm, she knew about there could still be a doubt that she accidents. He seemed deeply concussed really did commit these atrocities. fading in and out of consciousness, Silence was an admission of guilt. gashes in his forehead and legs flowing rivulets of blood. Someone picked up She did very well to hold it together on his bike off the road, while another the outside, to hide what was really phoned for emergency assistance and going on inside her. Once any contact she squatted next to him offering words with another human being occurred, her of comfort until an ambulance and disguise activated, she would smile on police arrived. cue, talk on cue, she was practised at detecting another‘s pitch and tone and After stabilising the injured man, the pause in conversation that allowed her paramedics handed back her now to make the right faces and the right heavily blood-stained overcoat. They noises as though she was really there. returned to their flashing van and she This gave her a chance of constantly quietly watched them roll away, defending herself against herself, if that imagining the van crushing in on itself, made any sense. imploding, with bright red blood and purple and brown viscera of the In this moment though, no one was paramedic splattering down the side of talking with her. She wanted to cry, ‗I the passenger door. She cringed and can't even run away.‘ She panicked squeezed her eyes shut. unable to dull the hysteria that gnawed at her constantly, even in her sleep. ‗I‘m The police had arrived and were already disgusting, I can‘t live with this taking statements from the distressed anymore.‘ Unaware that her hands had driver of the vehicle and any passers-by reached her temples, she let out a huge that might be called upon as witnesses. scream that sent people flying to get out She was asked to describe what she saw of her way. of the accident. ‗He landed right beside me, the way he flew through air, it was These demons of hers were interrupted, horrific...‘ as she watched a young guy, a bike courier, being struck side on by a Her thoughts and her journey resumed vehicle travelling much too fast. The another depravity. She imagined what cyclist was flung from his bike and someone would say to her, if they saw hurtled head first into the dark bitumen what she dredged up. ‗You sick fuck!‘ directly beside her. Her eyes widened they would yell. ‗This never used to and her mouth already opened in mid- happen. I just want peace.‘ scream, turned to shock. She made plans to overdose on Racing toward him, she absent- something, anything so that she could mindedly threw off her new coat and slip into a nice deep sleep and never

154 wake up, ‗and if I could just split myself old man being tended too. ―Hey, isn‘t in two...‘ that old Frank, the guy that had the bad car accident a couple of years ago?‖ On this last thought, she turned the ―Yeah,‖ the other one replied, ―I heard sharp-edged corner of an old low brown the woman died a few days brick building, a pub, and came upon an later...terrible business, nobody was old man lying prostrate against a urine really able to work out what happened, soaked patch of ground close to the he got charged just the same.‖ entrance. She sighed, and went on her way. 'Who On her approach, she noticed people the fuck do I think I am, some kind of walking past, holding their noses good fucking samaritan? Her tortuous ignoring him. She was about to do the internal monologues froze as she same but something about him caught became aware of an old woman lost and her attention for much longer than flustered, rushing up to her. ―Are you expected. He didn‘t look right, didn‘t ok?‖ she quizzed the old woman look like an old bloke that had too much compassionately. to drink and was sleeping it off. ―I‘m looking for my husband, I was told Her eyes narrowed, no, he looked all he was sick and lying in a pub wrong. Stopping to observe him, she somewhere around here, do you know noticed his eyes were half-open but they where this pub is?‖ had the character of fading fish eyes, his mouth was frothing with hardly any ―Yes,‖ she wanted to be helpful. breath disturbing it. He looked stiff rather than having that relaxed floppy She gave the old woman directions and position that most have when they‘ve cautioned her that he had already been had too much. taken to the local hospital. The old woman thanked her and went on her She backtracked to a nearby phone box way. tossing her bloodied coat into a trash can along the way. After calling an With no one to engage her in ambulance and giving them directions, conversation she resumed some fresh she had trouble describing the victim, internal hell upon herself while all she could say was that ‗he just randomly heading towards the local doesn‘t look right.‘ police station. The guy being pulled out of the police van seemed vaguely Watching them from a distance, they familiar, she crinkled her forehead, came anyway, soon finding they needed ‗where have I seen him before?‘ too a second ambulance with some more distracted by her own thoughts to hear sophisticated looking equipment. She him cry out, ―I heard this god-awful noticed a couple of guys exiting the pub scream and looked to see where it was expressing alarm at recognising the sick coming from.‖

155 156 SWEETIE-PIE BEGONIA BABYHEAD

By Hank Kirton

Photo © Sid Graves

This story was inspired by true events.

She was playing in her sandbox... Christmas morning, 1967. Born a month premature, her mother, sixteen-year-old Wait. Hang on. First things first: Miriam Prunella Slotnick, was sitting on the toilet in her parent‘s house at 115 Sweetie-Pie Slotnick had been a Grunyon Avenue in Alabaster, Ohio beautiful baby. She entered the world when a sudden burst of fluid poured easily, unexpectedly, arriving on from her and scary contractions seized

157 her abdomen and fifteen minutes later, Sweetie-pie developed normally in all Sweetie-Pie slid outside after a single aspects except one: her head (and the maternal push and landed in the toilet little gray brain within). Born with the with a bloody splash. rarest form of microcephaly, her head Just like that. simply did not change or grow or mature. Her pudgy little babyface Sweetie-Pie Slotnick had entered the remained blue-eyed and hairless, world head first, anxious to begin. She toothless and cute for her entire life. didn‘t cry. She let out a strange, high- pitched mewl and gasped and squirmed Now then, where were we? and struggled in the cold, crimson water. She was playing in her sandbox. It was deep in July - searing and sticky and Miriam – for just a second – considered Sweetie-Pie wore pink hotpants and a flushing the toilet. red tubetop that barely contained her large breasts. Her hotpants bulged Instead, she rescued her drowning lumpy over the diaper beneath. Sweetie- daughter and wrapped her in a Pie had just turned eighteen and had the bathtowel. She gazed dry-eyed at the voluptuous body of a 1940‘s burlesque tiny pink newborn and said, ―Hi there, stripper (and the head of a shaved short-stuff,‖ in a squeaky, cartoon voice. squirrel monkey). And then it was time to introduce her to the new grandparents. Pushing up piles of sand with her hands, stabbing little holes with her They were not pleased to meet her. fingers, Sweetie-Pie emitted gurgling, sputtering noises through her tiny Miriam named her child Sweetie-Pie toothless babymouth. Begonia Slotnick. Three months later, Miriam ran away from home, eventually ―Fuck, man. There she is...‖ settling in the Haight Ashbury district of San Francisco where she joined the Rod, Emmett and Scoop, three Process Church of the Final Judgment, neighborhood boys, peeked at Sweetie- married a thirty-five-year-old Pie from behind the fence that bordered streetmime named Paul Kindersley, the Slotnick‘s vibrant, immaculate lawn. acquired a heroin habit, and a year later gave birth to a son she named Luscious ―Holeee! Wouldja lookit that ass!‖ said Barberpole Slotnick Kindersley IV. Emmett.

Her parents, Edgar and Edie Slotnick, ―Yeah! Phoo! An‘ get a load a‘ them raised Sweetie-pie Begonia as if she jugs!‖ said Scoop, feeling-up the empty were their very own daughter. air in front of him with a lusty squeezing motion. ―Like Candy That is to say, badly. Samples!‖

158 ―Yeah, but...‖ said Rod. across the lawn, her calloused knees greenstained from the grass. ―Yeah but nothing,‖ said Scoop. ―She‘s fine.‖ Once they were inside the three boys turned and sat on the ground, backs ―Yeah, but...‖ resting against the fence.

―Ah, shuddup, Roddy,‖ said Emmett. ―What ya wanna do now?‖ said Rod. ―Why you gotta crunch the fun outta ―Go swimmin‘?‖ everything? Shit.‖ ―Nah,‖ said Scoop. ―It‘s too hot.‖ Rod went silent. ―That don‘t even make sense!‖ said Rod. ―Hey Scoop?‖ Emmett said. ―What about we go over to Leeman‘s Pond and race flameboats?‖ ―Yeah?‖ ―Eehhh...‖ said Scoop. ―Would you ball her?‖ Emmett wanted to know. They heard the screendoor flap open again and they turned and peered Scoop‘s young, freckled face turned through the fenceslats. thoughtful. He wiped away a bead of sweat from his temple and then stroked Mr. and Mrs. Slotnick walked arm-in- his chin, weighing and surveying the arm to the tan Buick parked in the reality of intercourse with Sweetie-Pie driveway, got inside. They both wore Begonia Babyhead. ―Yeah,‖ he said hats. finally. ―I believe I would.‖ ―Are they leaving?‖ said Rod. Emmett nodded his concurrence. ―Me too. I do believe.‖ ―Where‘s Babyhead?‖

The screendoor flapped open and Mrs. ―Shit, I think they‘re leaving her Slotnick bustled outside. Scoop, Emmett behind,‖ said Emmett. and Rod ducked behind the fence. The boys became lost in sudden Watching through the slats, they saw thought. Mrs. Slotnick grab Sweetie-Pie‘s hand and pull her out of the sandbox. She They turned and regained their attached a short leash to the decorative previous postures – sitting on the choker around Sweetie-Pie‘s neck and ground, backs against the fence. then guided her toward the house like a lost baby burro. Sweetie-Pie hadn‘t ―I can‘t believe they‘d leave her alone learned to walk yet and she crawled like that,‖ said Emmett.

159 ―I know, right? Some parents...‖ said ―Yeah...‖ Emmett agreed. Scoop. Rod was still shaking his head. He ―They‘re probably not gonna be gone swallowed dry spit and said, ―No. long. Probably just went to the corner Come on, guys... ‖ store or something...‖ said Rod, already growing nervous about where the ―Shut up, Roddy, you big pussy.‖ Scoop conversation was leading them. stood up. ―Come on. Let‘s just take a quick look.‖ ―No way, man,‖ said Emmett. ―They were wearing hats.‖ Emmett stood up.

―I can‘t believe they left her alone like Rod was still shaking his head as he that,‖ said Scoop. stood and followed his friends through the gate and across the lush, perfect ―Some parents. They neglect their kids. lawn to the backdoor. He prayed it was Didja hear what happened to their first locked. daughter?‖ said Emmett. Scoop pushed open the door. ―No. What?‖ said Rod. The boys entered the house, the kitchen. ―Ran away from home. Died from a drug overdose a few years later.‖ The house was clean and smelled of dried spice. ―No shit?‖ said Scoop. There was a rustling sound coming from ―I‘m tellin‘ you. They are really shitty the next room; material scraping against parents.‖ material. The boys looked at each other, and then Scoop led them toward the The boys were silent for awhile. sound.

Then Scoop said, ―Maybe we should Sweetie-Pie was taking a restless nap, check on her. Make sure she‘s alright.‖ sucking her thumb. She was covered by a soft pink blanket and caged within a ―You think?‖ said Emmett. huge playpen. Decapitated dolls littered the fuzzy padded floor of the pen. Rod shook his head. ―No way. Are you nuts? We can‘t go in there. That‘s The boys approached with silent breaking and entering.‖ caution, staring at the strange babygiant with wide-eyed awe. This was the first ―Not if we have good intentions...‖ said time any of them had observed Sweetie- Scoop. Pie up-close. She was even more

160 extraordinary now that all the details of Sweetie-Pie had rolled over on her back. her physical anomaly were revealed. She looked at Scoop with big, curious eyes. A Sesame Street mobile hung above the pen, the smiling cartoon faces of Scoop kneeled beside her. ―Look at muppets turning gently in the air; Big these tits,‖ he murmured, more to Bird, Ernie and Bert, Oscar the Grouch, himself than his friends. He reached out Grover. Sweetie-Pie kicked her legs, and gently palmed Sweetie-Pie‘s left struggling inside her babydreams, and breast. She gurgled and kicked her feet. the blanket pulled away. Emmett and Rod watched. She was topless and the boy‘s eyes became riveted to her large breasts. Scoop moved his hand to her other breast and gave it a soft squeeze. Scoop tried to exhale tension. ―How do they feel?‖ Emmett wanted to know. Rod whispered, ―Okay, she‘s okay. Let‘s go.‖ Scoop nodded. ―Nice. Come feel for yourself.‖ ―Sh,‖ said Scoop. ―Yeah...‖ Emmett climbed into the Sweetie-Pie‘s eyes fluttered open. She playpen. popped her thumb out of her mouth. The thumb was pink and wrinkled and Sweetie-Pie revealed her pink gums in a clean – the rest of her hand was gray wide, benign smile and warbled: with grime. ―Deeeee-la-da-dooo...‖causing clear, watery drool to gather on her bottom ―Nice going, Roddy. You woke her up,‖ lip. said Scoop. Emmett placed his hand on Sweetie- ―Come on. Let‘s go, guys...‖ said Rod. Pie‘s breast.

―Hey, Emmett?‖ said Scoop. ―Dare me ―Whoa,‖ he said. ―Soft...‖ to feel her up?‖ ―Nice, huh?‖ said Scoop. Emmett nodded, still staring at Sweetie- Pie. ―Yeah,‖ he said softly. ―I dare you.‖ Rod backed away from the playpen and nervously stationed himself by the Scoop placed his hands on the wall of window to watch for the Slotnick‘s the playpen, didn‘t move for a full inevitable arrival. minute, and then climbed over the side. He heard Emmett say, ―Hey, Scoop. Y‘wanna take a look at her pussy?‖ And

161 panic spiked inside him. He cast a quick Scoop mounted Sweetie-Pie and after a glance back at the playpen, then bit of fumbling and off-target thrusts, returned to his vigil at the window, slipped inside her. staring at the empty driveway, anxiously waiting for the tan Buick‘s Sweetie-Pie‘s eyes popped wide and she return. began to cry.

Meanwhile, Scoop was unfastening Scoop‘s breathing became ragged and Sweetie-Pie‘s diaper. labored and he grunted with each thrust. Emmett watched. ―If there‘s shit in here, I‘m gonna puke,‖ he said. Sweetie-Pie‘s cries grew louder. Between each high-pitched wail, her Both Scoop and Emmett were relieved breath hitched in her throat, like hiccups to find the diaper clean and dry. Scoop in reverse; ―Huh-uck, huh-uck, huh-uck,‖ pulled it down off her legs and tossed it and then the tearful keening resumed. aside. The boys stared between her naked legs. Sweetie-Pie squirmed and ―Shut-up!‖ Scoop yelled at her. ―Be trilled. quiet!‖ But the loud sound of his voice only startled her and intensified her ―Wowee...‖ Emmett said. The shock of cries. ―Shit,‖ he said. ―Emmett, go get finally seeing something he‘d only some tape or something.‖ imagined up-close and RIGHT THERE left him speechless. ―What? Tape? What for?‖

Scoop raked his fingers across Sweetie- ―Just find some tape! Now!‖ Pie‘s thick, black pubic hair. Emmett jumped up and vaulted over ―Her pussy‘s hot,‖ he whispered. the side of the playpen. ―Feel...‖ While Emmett rummaged through the Emmett cupped his hand over her kitchen drawers, Scoop continued to vagina. ―Wow. It is!‖ thrust, Sweetie-Pie continued to cry, and Rod kept his terrified eyes fastened on He turned back to his friend, grinning, the empty driveway. to find that Scoop had pulled down his pants and was stroking his erect dick. Emmett returned to the playpen with a roll of masking tape. Emmett almost said, ―What the hell are you doing?‖ but didn‘t. ―Good,‖ Scoop said. ―Wrap it around her mouth.‖

162 Emmett did what he was told, circling Emmett began to frantically tear at the her head with the shrieking roll of tape tape, ripping it away from Sweetie-Pie‘s until her cries became muffled. He tore face. off the roll and tossed it aside. The custard poured from her mouth. It Scoop ejaculated. smelled like sour milk.

He pushed himself off Sweetie-Pie. She ―Fuck. She‘s dead,‖ said Scoop. ―Let‘s continued to cry under the masking get the hell out of here.‖ tape, light-green snot bubbling from her little upturned nose. Scoop and Emmett scrambled out of the playpen just as the tan Buick pulled into ―Me next,‖ Emmett said. the driveway.

―Go for it, man,‖ Scoop said, panting Rod said, ―The Slotnicks are back!‖ and trying to catch his breath. The three boys started running toward ―I wanna do her doggie-style. Help me the backdoor, then Rod turned, raced roll her over.‖ back to the living room and grabbed the roll of masking tape. Once they‘d turned Sweetie-Pie over on her stomach, Emmett yanked down his They were across the backyard and over pants and began to fuck her from the fence before the Slotnicks even behind, hands on her large, pallid ass. reached the front door.

Neither Scoop nor Emmett noticed The boys walked down to Leeman‘s when Sweet-Pie stopped crying. Pond and Rod threw the tape into the Stopped moving. water. They did not speak and avoided each other‘s eyes. Emmett ejaculated. Sweetie-Pie Begonia‘s death was He rolled off Sweetie-Pie and zipped up. deemed accidental; she choked on her That‘s when Scoop said, ―Shit, I think vomit. It happens. she stopped breathing.‖ Scoop, Emmett, and Rod never spoke Emmett leaned over her, looked at her about that day, never mentioned face. A yellow, custard-like substance Sweetie-Pie again. Their lives went on oozed from her nose. pretty much as expected.

―Oh shit!‖ said Emmett. ―She spit-up!‖ But Rod never forgave his friends for destroying something beautiful. ―Get the tape off!‖ Scoop said.

163 LEND ME YR TEETH

By Craig Woods

Images © Jad Fair

My work seems to confirm the girl may canine senses navigating the urban have mistaken me for alive - Keeping desert - keen eyes attentive to my pace past shabby storefronts under fumbling in pockets and sideward telephone lines draped with old trainers glances - The wayfarer impulse brought hanging - Soledad‘s nose held high me to this vigilant gaze - something

164 other than coincidence has no home or shooting stars in her midnight eyes. Dog family - Dave waved a languid hand from the bar. We walked over flanking his Under acid haloes we walked through barstool. Dave signalled to Floyd the the withered blanket of evening to the barman who dispensed three shots of Transmitter Club - (How is it she keeps bourbon with the speed and grace of a her breath and composure under the gunslinger in an old Western. Floyd was harshest of scrutiny?) - It‘s a basement a small-time hoodlum whose chequered venue worn sandstone steps descending history could be read like Braille in his from the cool pavement - blood red pockmarked face. A scar in the shape of glow and the cacophony of live music the number 7 snaked across his throat emanating from the partially open door and down the left side of his neck - an - Pair of identical doormen each the old knife-wound from a forgotten poker width of a bus inspected our papers fight marking our psychic flashpoint. from under looming simian brows - Some young would-be gangster had hybrid DNA abounds in this ruined gotten rowdy after losing every penny neighbourhood - Remembered a boy along with his house and car. Dumb kid from the flats who could climb and had mistook Floyd‘s inert uncaring face whirl lemur-like in the summer trees - a for a bluff and thrown every worldly characteristic that applies at the final possession on the table. Soon as he took block he gave to make out the ghostly that blade to Floyd‘s neck he tossed his nothing - giggles and screeches through own life away too. the seasonal heat and the sadness of ―Was no big palaver,‖ Floyd had once time caught in beads of back sweat - No told me over endless 3am shots, his time - no effort beyond the schoolyard sunken eyes still as stagnant rainwater, fences - neglect of teacher voices - that‘s ―Was a mercy-killin‘ really. They threw what we‘re at - the landscape and his the wrong piece away when that kid fate bled forgotten - Choking in the was born.‖ night I‘ve overcompensated for my lack of a tail - wounds etched portentous in All the strays and rogues of the city‘s Soledad‘s canine kiss - twilight shadows find their way to the Transmitter one way or another. While The most glorious of noise enveloped us runaway children have been victimised in its shrill embrace as we entered - to fear that the entire metropolis now discordant guitars and booming drums wears pantomime clothes, this humble clashing and weaving around a furious venue declares an authentic and female voice. Human silhouettes danced insubordinate boundary in the urban frenziedly in the dim red light, bodies night. thrashing before the low stage and swaying in the shadowy booths. Dave doffed his beret and smiled in that way that‘s more of a smirk. Soledad prowled the sticky club floor - hackles on end - a gleam of excitement

165 ―Figured you‘d be good for tonight. Not ―No kidding - and she‘s none too missed a performance yet eh?‖ pleased about it as it happens. Turned up at Benny‘s day before yesterday all a I turned from the bar raising the glass to mess and throwing things around and my lips and looked back to the stage generally makin‘ a scene - always could where a familiar band were in full make a scene that one - Tearin‘ down assault mode. Domestic Dispute are a the clocks from the walls she was - the force to be reckoned with - Bringing calendars too. Grabbin‘ fuckin‘ watches every venue to its knees this four-girl right off of folks‘ wrists. Benny was one-man group‘s live show includes more than a wee bit pissed - his face all repetitive sloganeering screaming red and puffed like some carnivorous walkabouts in the audience and the freak tomato - but what the fuck do you most brutal rhythm section in the west - say to a dead girl eh?‖ Discordant twin guitars thrash and slash against a backdrop of somnambulistic ―Not much I suppose…‖ thudding basslines and a storm of tribal drumming. At their fore is a diminutive Images erupted behind my eyes… young woman by the name of shards of dream and memory Ampersand Youth - (A pseudonym of fluctuating in a tempest of lost course - her real name is Karen Elliot) - sensations… distant jet engines in a sky All the rage of the fractured universe of teenage summer evenings… With a drives the slight skeleton beneath that tongue like columns of the old distillery pale skin - a black hole intensity that bent and folded into me… I have been erupts from her blonde-bobbed head in her soiled mirror. Death too is in the an invective supernova - slick young scrapbook… laughing mouths across lips pulled back from ravenous teeth the bridge, the heavy black trances and spitting fury - portents… All time crashing with futility against a slender wrist Transfixed, Soledad gulped back the fractured… cold coffee on the whisky, slamming the glass down on keyboard… smell of fresh water and the bar - I watched her traverse the floor nimble ghost fingers on the instrument‘s weaving sleekly through the crowd - grease-smeared neck… Magpie‘s smile wild gaze fixed upon Ampersand Youth invited the survivors once more to as though in a trance. Apparently walk… liberated by the woman‘s departure, Dog Dave croaked in his coarse ―Damn. Magpie back in town… Things alcoholic whisper - are gonna change‖

―You hear about Magpie? A real shit- ―No shit amigo. Time to cash it all in.‖ storm brewing‖ Reeling from this revelation I took a hard gulp of whisky and turned back to ―Magpie? She‘s been dead the best part the stage. Mid-song, Ampersand of ten years‖ descended spider-like to stomp her

166 terror in the heart of the audience - A sixty rifles that I had across traintracks - belligerent anti-anthem you‘ve never Primed and hackles raised, Soledad fell ever heard and yet you know every to a crouch in reverential mimicry upon word and for sure you can shriek along the grubby hardwood floor - In her - Words know we were the horizon for veins a copper voice taken for granted the first time like it‘s the gathering of the of my moods - Ampersand tossed the tribe in another‘s memory - microphone aside with exquisite disdain and raised her livid countenance to that // we‘ve got nothin to sell / we‘ve got of the hybrid visitor - idling engine thieves and whores / unconditional bristling with weapons - Her knees laws for hybrid humanity // repeat // spent long to the broken geometry of we‘ve got nothin to think / we‘ve got inevitable revolution - (Other future nothin to drink // repeat // we‘ve got etched in the dunes of Ampersand‘s thieves and whores / we‘ve got thieves raised shoulder blades - phantom miles and whores // repeat // we‘ve got of psychotic majesty a map of bone my nothing to see / we‘ve got priests and face yearns to caress) - Like guard dogs bores / unconditional love of early primed for attack the two women chistianity / we‘ve got nothin to breathe lunged each clutching the other‘s tresses / we‘ve got malls and stores / - Silence caught the crowd dead in their unconditional law of material generosity quivering flesh - animal electricity / we‘ve got nothin to bring / we‘ve got swelling like migraine above the two nothin to sing // repeat // we‘ve got sublime figures crouched and locked thieves and whores / we‘ve got priests there - Nostalgia regaling me with a and bores / we‘ve got malls and stores sound of gunfire in the distance of // repeat // this is not an empty threat Mexico and southern shadows - a / our doors are always open / we distinct talent for standby all over the accept all of your faults / we love the building - challenge / over all our measured hours / a guiding hand not to be shrugged // Lacerating the silence, Ampersand repeat // this is not an empty threat / pressed the torrid planes of her face to our doors are always open / we define those of Soledad and the two women all of your flaws / we maintain the became locked in a fierce bestial kiss - standard / hour by hour / a striking tension discharged from the flaking clock / a hammer fall / a benign walls and moldy ceiling at their primal containment // repeat // get on yr moans - Attack of lust on their own knees / before the clock / down on the initiative had vibrations of war fading in floor / praise the law // repeat / repeat from forgotten mind - a shuffling and a // nudging and an acknowledgement of aroused flesh in the congregation while By the song‘s close Ampersand was their hot tongues darted - blackjack crawling on hands and knees through night come for a mental orgasm - Desire the crowd - crawling and growling dog- burned a hole through an unseen like - a solitary figure lurching fifty or curtain with their pack dog howl and a

167 final cymbal crash - Through impossible smeared upon the bare flesh - Am I the smoke the stage lamps devoured the girl eyeing me curiously for believing to dogs like lightning after the sky of sirens peer at the darkened windows-? and warplanes - night surrendered its will to a storm of applause - Dog Dave punctuated the impression with a clink of glass in greeting to the At the bar Ampersand disengaged tall figure of Domestic Dispute‘s herself from Soledad‘s draped arm to drummer - a gangly and gaunt greet me hand extended - (other future effeminate slice of a man by the name of etched in an ampersand tattoo across Panda Pi - (a pseudonym of course - his the keen blade of her wrist) - Sharp alert real name is Monty Cantsin) - Panda expression by looking at the machines of gulped back half a bottle of beer in one her years - swig and addressed us with a madman‘s grin and preposterous stage ―I had me a dream the other night Grey bow - and you were in it - all screwy like with another face - But it was all fear and ―Evenin‘ folks. Welcome to another trouble out on the empty street - I got merry gatherin‘ o‘ the Losers‘ Club. We me a switchblade stashed up my skirt do hope tonight‘s entertainment has and you‘re my wing-man see - You a suitably buttered yer muffin. Please little slow and clumsy with that leave your ideas at the door‖ blackjack in your jacket pocket but hell Panda‘s hand was cold and smooth but you got the attitude to break skulls with firm in its grip. Standing before his it - Found me in the fucked up laugh like broken names didn‘t give a underpass with the broken bottles and shit about one howl of misery to crime - discarded shopping trolleys - couldn‘t he witnessed and directed this childish see my face at all until you read it in the empathy I could not quite shake - graffiti with a broken watch - Can you impossible shrewd intelligence beyond see me now guv?‖ hermetically sealed impression - Intimate air and a signal for Ampersand Her words conveyed a simple work to to continue - its completion and her face broke when the picture was made - She guided my ―Got so‘s we were sneakin‘ through the gaze towards the air‘s recordings and subways and underpasses - pressin‘ our crouched a moment before upon the bodies to the wall like - No cars on the transmitter - the land and my ungainly roads see - No cars anywheres in fact - frame squeezed forgotten - Through An occasional jet plane soarin‘ overhead smell of stale urine in the underpass the but invisibly so‘s the engines tear up the broken bottles reflected a sad identity - air around us but we can‘t quite gripped by fear that it is useless to keep pinpoint its origin - old scare and flush the whole body of the enemy - Torn tactic very World War Two but we‘re strap hanging from a pale shoulder that hip to it see - No fuckin‘ engine loud wasn‘t hers - grazes weeping - grime enough we‘re gonna run out into the

168 courtyards of some high rise and have weepin‘ grey sky - We get in there and our damn bones crusted in the the lobby is all deserted like but for this executioner daylight - No way - Not girl at the desk - Bitch goes off all bitin‘ - hysterical at the sight of us in our torn clothes and hell I pull out the damn ―So anyways I got these broken watches switchblade and hold the edge less than burnin‘ a big hole of time in my pocket an inch from her eyeball - don‘t do the and I gotta ditch ‗em - Pawnshop along trick and she‘s hittin‘ an emergency the way owned by an old contact - kind switch and every clock in the place that deals everythin‘ - old battered chimes like its midnight - You don‘t guitars hung in the windows next to TV wanna but you step forward with that sets and handguns and crossbows - We blackjack swingin‘ and smash her in the keeps close to the mossy walls of the old fuckin‘ face she drops like a sack of shit viaduct and come out on to the street - - eyes peerin‘ all over for an ambush - ―So that bad actor from the TV he Place is all shuttered up - No life within appears all pantomime villain before us or without - There‘s a TV set in the and spews some ham to keep us from window that flickers to life and plays movin‘ forward - We got our weapons this old soap opera before our achin‘ out but somehow we can‘t touch him eyes - Some bad actor who looks real there like he‘s fadin‘ in and out from an familiar stops mid-sentence in this scene old transmission replayed just for us - of hackneyed drivel - turns and points You get all irate like and are pullin‘ me out of the frame directly at us like - spits by the shoulder sayin‘ - ‗Right enough - some kinda warnin‘ and we‘re caught Didn‘t that fucker die in the previous there in our cold skins - Rank stink like episode? - Pretty sure they ditched that rotten seafood sails outta the busted character at the end of that whole speaker and it‘s pretty clear the Time is pregnancy test storyline‘ - or some shit - almost on us - Time comes blastin‘ through the doors like a stale hurricane and we get our ―Runnin‘ out to the red light district we carcasses away quick and into some find a fire burnin‘ in an old overgrown other line of communication y‘see - car park and these kids huddled round all vigilant - Kids call themselves ―Signal we ride comes out on to the top Muskrats and tell us we gotta get to the floor - women there workin‘ in white tower and take out the fuckin‘ signal coats hustle and bustle around rooms before Time crawls outta the TV to turn filled with electrical equipment and the whole city into an ocean floor - what looks like hospital beds - I grab Seems like we crawl through a concrete myself a white coat and put on a voice pipe that runs below the financial like my best prim Sunday school teacher district and we climb out into the court number - (them drama classes pay for of a steel tower - Swear Grey, that themselves y‘know) - and I‘m out tower is so damn tall we can‘t see the tip cluckin‘ and flappin‘ among those lab of it spearin‘ a fuckin‘ hole in the chickens tellin‘ ‗em there‘s an

169 emergency and they all gotta get the Gets so you grit your teeth clench your fuck outta Dodge - All predictable like eyes tight and raise the blackjack above they start screechin‘ and bawlin‘ and her prone little body - that little slammin‘ into each other - knockin‘ each mockery of me there - You bring up other over in the stampede to get outta your fist thinkin‘ of endin‘ her misery there - all skiddin‘ and shittin‘ like and I‘m screamin‘ at you not to kill themselves like spooked cattle but with me - but you don‘t fuckin‘ hear Grey - less grace - In the confusion you make You slam that blackjack into the kid‘s your way through the floor - skulkin‘ all skull and I scream watchin‘ my own dog-like so Soledad would be proud of brains burst outta that cracked little ya - skulkin‘ and lookin‘ for a way to shell like rancid jelly - You don‘t hear it sabotage those machines and their insect Grey - You don‘t see me at all - Can you buzz and clickety-clackety-click-click-clack see me now guv-?‖ - ―So the place is empty now but for you Ampersand raised a swift glass to her and me see - or so‘s I think until I look lips framing the question before another to one of them hospital beds - there‘s a sound could escape - Liquid silence fuckin‘ kid lyin‘ there - arms and legs popped, startled before those lips as amputated and all manner of tubes and though she were broken - first time I‘d wires and other shit stickin‘ outta every ever seen her sad - a flickering star that wound and orifice - all hooked up to glimmered ephemerally in the cloud of some hideous machine I think is metal her grey eyes before sputtering out as at first but I look closer and see the shell the glass met the bar once more - Sliding - Whole fuckin‘ thing is cold and crusted she went down her way of speaking - like the shell of a crab - shockin‘ stale Her pose to me used to not even point fish smell oozin‘ outta the joints where her hand struck the wood - the between panels - Stink and fear and weather-beaten white shoulder - hand anger tearin‘ up my eyes I pull at the kid under left leg flat along her knee - a on the bed tryin‘ to wake her or move geometry of fury against time - a real her or anythin‘ - Her face spins round to shit-storm brewing… me and I see it‘s my face there - sad pained little eyes filled with tears starin‘ A long time passed the farthest corner - back into their own - Insect buzz in my Ampersand spent the rest of the night head like someone‘s goin‘ at my skull hurtling unpredictably her casket of with an electric razor and I burst out rage eager to burst - Not the boldest star screamin‘ and wailin‘ - You come could even withstand that silver gaze spinnin‘ back around to where I‘m at when she got the freak on - She sank blackjack swingin‘ - But there ain‘t no those electric teeth into the night and flicker of recognition across your eyes shook it eager for fun - attacked Grey - I stand there all frozen in pain strangers with broken barking in a fit of and screamin‘ and you don‘t see or hear laughter - Tempest so ugly like that me like - Instead your eyes fall on the made too beautiful to turn away from - kid and it breaks your fuckin‘ heart - map of a murdered future in her chest it

170 skewers the heart with grief to look of its own accord - You ask me that upon it - whole Triple M business knocked the pin outta place -‖ Panda Pi tuning into the frequency of my transmissions slipped a long bony Triple M - The Minkowski Museum arm around my shoulders and spoke Massacre… close to my ear - ―She‘s a diamond that one - bright and brilliant - But no About thirteen years earlier - when mistake - she‘s like a fuckin‘ grenade - Ampersand was but a frail child - a Got a whole stack of rage liable to blow primary school daytrip to the

171 Minkowski Museum ended in the Sharp contours of her face by this crosshairs of a gun-toting and certifiably timeless intervention - The machine insane ex-employee. Sixteen children would be where all children aimed at were killed that day - all of them the brain stem - Police shook her from Ampersand‘s classmates - as well as her walking in the life-giving light - unjust form teacher. There were fifteen more as a soft hand on her shoulder - The wounded, Ampersand among them - horizon psychotic wanted a weapon - she caught a bullet in the right arm. looking for some glimmer of interest in While the gunman continued firing into the hand to her chest - Her blue dress the panicked crowd, Ampersand didn‘t told them in any case - Dead already cry out - didn‘t move. Instead, by virtue honest in the sunlight a dusty stripe of of a survivalist impulse beyond her an inebriated teenager - Silver gaze tender years, she lay huddled close to building its milestones behind the other the fresh corpse of her best friend - lay face… perfectly still and played dead until the executioner brought the slaughter to an With an effete nudge Panda alerted me end with a bullet through his own skull. to a new band taking the stage - (vague A grim scene of carnage had greeted the idea floating a fire at any moment) - a armed police and paramedics when quartet of skinny lads in Britpop they finally arrived - bodies of slain uniform - tight woollen sweaters - faded children strewn among toppled jeans - plimsolls - short hair combed sculptures and priceless artefacts their forward - The front man a blandly display cases smashed open and handsome fellow with a non- spattered with blood - invaluable threatening countenance strapped a paintings riddled with bullet holes the semi-acoustic guitar to his torso and canvasses folding down like shrouds uttered a brief few words of self- upon the tiny carcasses - Even in light of deprecating greeting - Muted chuckles all this horror nothing could have leaked into the air as though from the equipped them for the sight of soundtrack of a tired and dated TV Ampersand standing tall and rigid game show - glum aura of drabness and above the killer‘s lifeless form - cradling mediocrity - They kick in with a 2/4 his smoking pistol in her tiny hands and beat and the steady melody and chord pointing it at the madman‘s inert face - progression familiar from a billion What revulsion and uncomprehending pseudo-indie anthems of the previous fear must have gripped the hearts of two decades - superficial poetics and those ill-prepared adults to gaze on this rhyming couplets - fractured Angel - barely more than an infant - blood spewing from the ―Fuck a duck!‖ - Panda rolled his eyes wounded arm to stain her immaculate and slapped an exasperated hand blue school dress - tiny digits fumbling against one proud cheek - ―Think these desperately to assert command over that tosspots have ever heard Teenage instrument of death - Fanclub?‖

172 ―The fact that any of us are familiar with // it‘s always truths that make it seem Teenage Fanclub is a tragedy in itself - out of sync to you / it‘s always truths these guys are just cashing in on the that make it feel like abuse // repeat // calamity‖ it‘s what you threw back to me I throw back at you / and always what you ―Fuckin‘ exploitation it is‖ - Panda knew that never gave me a chance // knocked back the rest of his beer in an repeat // words like dawn and daylight apparent attempt to anaesthetise himself and time / I want to give them meaning from the exhibition of banality / I want to let you see what I could unfolding before us - (What terror in his draw down / or maybe scratch into the mouth began to make connections) - ground under your feet // repeat / repeat // I cast my gaze to Soledad who leaned slovenly against the bar - one hand ―Yeah - you‘re a pure groupie for these clutching a glass the other twirling cunts - When they get signed you‘ll be gently a lock of raven hair - a gesture so all about the merchandise - Bedroom uncharacteristically demure it lent the walls covered in posters - lipstick marks night an unreal edge - onyx gaze locked all over the shop - You‘ll be pure inflexibly upon Ampersand who sat batterin‘ kids out the way to get yer cross-legged and tense upon her picture discs signed -‖ barstool veins standing out in her arms - unknown peril simmering in the hoary With the abruptness and agility of a pools of her eyes - feral cat Ampersand leapt from her stool - arms outstretched hands open - Following my line of vision Panda cast a reaching like talons to grab at myself volley of banter towards his silent and Panda - I recoiled as the razor edges bandmate - ―Hey Amp - you fuckin‘ of her fingernails sank into the flesh of love these guys you do - Weren‘t you my forearm but her grip was fierce and sayin‘ earlier you couldn‘t wait to catch inescapable - I heard Panda yelp out these fellas live? - eh? - Sure you were above the din a high-pitched alarm tellin‘ me you considered sharin‘ a bill signal that stood out as the only real with these fuckers the most excitin‘ sound in that torrent of sonic cliché - thing in yer wee life since that last lesbo Soledad placed her glass on the bar her experiment with yer sister - You said solemnity reclaiming its rightful place that right-?‖ upon her bronze features - Ampersand stood quivering before us eyes clenched Ampersand said nothing her unblinking and teeth gritted as though in the gaze locked firmly on the band - an preliminary stages of a seizure - unreadable grimace burgeoning slowly unheard thunder crashed beneath her upon her young face - Somewhat peroxide fringe - against my will I found the dreary lyrics to the song laying claim to my consciousness -

173 ―Amp!‖ - my words seemed muted to renewed vigour - ―Those gotta be the my ears - some strange frequency worst fuckin‘ lyrics I ever heard! - At circumventing my own transmissions – least the first lot rhymed in the right ―What is it? - what the fuck is up-?‖ places!‖ ―Listen!” - she spat the word like searing vomit - ―Listen - listen - listen - listen - Ampersand relinquished her grip and Listen - Listen! - Listen! - LISTEN!!” stepped back eyes red and open - (vagabond eyes like signposts along Alien frequency assaulted my neurons - highways) - Transmitter at any distance high-pitched whine to slip through a peppered the head and thorax - its fire fissure in the atmosphere - bypassing searing blood flowers in the audience - the ear - charging directly into the fell as her frenzied laugh shivered panes nervous system - temples throb and of glass on the roof - I looked wildly ache a sour taste in my mouth - Her about me - gulped effects of the blast to bone embedded in my flesh Ampersand the stage - Reek of dead marine flesh passed me the transmission - a latent seeping from shell-encrusted speakers - malignancy fermenting beneath the skin time curling in cold tendrils towards our of night - Her grip grew tighter drawing waiting nervous systems - blood - the sinister frequency intensified until I felt as though my cortex would At the song‘s close the bland frontman be torn asunder - The machine of her addressed the crowd - affable psyche danced upon the air and aimed expression diverting crustacean words at sensations housing the unseen - on other frequency - ―Thank you - thank atmosphere peeled open like a paper you - susceptible scenesters and sonic envelope - sound and vision exploding slaves - thank you one and all for with new dimensions a new soundtrack making a goodly band of gold-bricking emanating from the stage - bland singer ass-licking corporate-cocksucking mouthing other sounds as though he pseudo-indie poseur fuckpigs feel right were a badly dubbed actor in a third at home - Buy our new EP - Mind your rate TV show - Words laid bare oozing watch - Obey your calendar - You know like nerve gas from the PA system - it makes sense peeps - Would a wholesome genial packet-soup // what say we measure this hour / personality like myself tell a lie? - Why and obey our calendar // repeat // the you can trust me folks - No mutation on day you‘re toiling over / is your rightful me - No hybrid cells on this trooper -‖ border // repeat // be glad to serve in a time zone / rigidly that‘s our special Under cover of this lamentable spiel offer // repeat // your time is a linear Ampersand scuttled to a darkened nation / purity your regimentation // corner of the venue retrieving a heavy repeat // fire extinguisher from the floor - face a scarlet mask of rage and straining ―Jeebus titty-fuckin‘ christ!‖ - tuned to musculature - staggered forward the frequency Panda‘s eyes lit up with a through absentminded spectators

174 cradling the metal cylinder like it were a dropping to distort silent mouths into dead infant - Immersed in his own impossible Os - oratory the band‘s insipid leader paid no heed to the approaching figure - It was several seconds before the contemptible propaganda continuing to screaming began - Wasting neither time spew forth into the air like so much nor momentum Ampersand tossed the rancid excrement - fire extinguisher on to the stage floor and climbed up to kneel beside the ―Live clean Work hard folks - A decent stricken singer - his eyes wide with fella like myself do just about anything inconceivable suffering - fingers asked of me for the benign buck - Hell clamped tight around the shattered knee I‘d fellate a homeless junkie amputee on - shards of bone protruding from the camera if I thought it'd increase my torn denim at terrible angles – chances of sharing a red carpet with Ampersand raised the extinguisher once Bono and Chris Martin and the rest of more - wordless cry brought the base the toothless hypocrite stadium rock down upon the man‘s skull - Screams of elite currently shitting all over the horror and disgust as the crunch of bone legacies of every grassroots musical and spatter of brain tissue was movement - Po-faced preaching and amplified throughout the club - shallow insincerity is where it‘s at people - Plenty of room on the Dropping their instruments the three bandwagon so jump on up - Jump - remaining musicians descended from Jump - Careful now you need a the stage frantic and undignified - faces committed reactionary mindset and a the pale green of nausea - piss and shit working timepiece to ride -‖ dripping from their crotches and ankles - pungent toilet smell usurping the A feral scream erupted from marine stench now receding - In a blur Ampersand‘s throat tearing the illusory of speed Soledad stepped forward arms ambience of the night with its acute raised - two gleaming revolvers swept edge - Rage summoning untold reserves gracefully from their holsters as though of strength she raised the fire they were natural extensions of her extinguisher and slammed the base into nimble hands - ―Usted se va a ninguna the singer‘s kneecap - repellent sound of parte, malditos!‖ - Panda smashed his the impact like wet sticks breaking empty beer bottle against the bar and under the force of a mallet - The raised its jagged edge to the third man‘s wounded man collapsed instantly exposed throat - three dead men caught emitting an agonised scream - a sound there in their time-condemned bones - so high-pitched that only Soledad with Grabbing Dog Dave roughly by the her canine DNA could detect its shoulders I screamed into his stunned magnitude and winced accordingly - face - ―Get them to evacuate this place! - Skin of night stripped before them the Now! - We have to get these people out somnambulant crowd fell from their of here!‖ - lethargy - eyes widened in shock - jaws

175 Like a seasoned brawler in that same more than a pulp) - Ampersand old Western, Floyd leapt across the bar - muttered under her breath - feverish one greasy fist smashed the Perspex mantra scraping its way through a covering of a fire alarm on the opposite scorched furious throat wall - Shrill bell shook the building like bomb blasts - I staggered towards the // I am Ampersand Youth / Sonic stage eardrums bursting. Continuing to Sculptress and Time Traveller / I am slam the base of the fire extinguisher not either / I am not or // repeat // I into the singer‘s head - (now nothing am not neither / I am not nor / I am

176 only AND / AND / AND / AND / ―We‘ll call Sheila - she‘ll know what to AND // repeat // I am male AND do. She‘ll never fucking forgive me for female / I am all the intermediary this but it‘s about all we can do‖ genders AND none of them / I am animal AND vegetable AND mineral // Auntie Sheila‘s fury - the torrent I had repeat // I am young AND old / I am expected to endure and which both living AND dead / I am everything terrified and humbled me more than AND anything AND nothing / I am any violent encounter with enemy only AND // repeat // AND / AND / Agents - almost set the telephone AND / AND / AND / AND / AND / receiver ablaze with its caustic AND // repeat // repeat // repeat // onslaught - repeat // repeat // repeat // repeat // repeat // ―To say you lot are takin‘ liberties here, sunshine, doesn‘t begin to describe the Finally exhausted she let the gore- shit you‘ve just landed me in as well as smeared cylinder collapse with a clatter your fuckwit selves! - for chrissakes! - to the stage floor - silently she spread That fuckin‘ Amp is a wild one - too her hands dripping red before her eyes fuckin‘ faulty to be let out her cage you and stared at something beyond their get me? She pulls anymore shit like this flimsy dimensions - (As she slumbers that crazy bitch is gonna bring the Time her hands attack on their own initiative) right down on all of us!‖ - I swallowed - At any distance away I saw the two hard, knowing that any word I offered waiting thoughts - need her eyes from in Ampersand‘s defence at this point me and down to the peculiarities of one would be tantamount to spitting in gaze - Impression that her face was Sheila‘s face and would leave us utterly somehow not able to go down to that isolated - cast to the winds of time like favoured - playing useless to try keep yesterday‘s newspaper. The urgency of the whole blood of my voice - the situation mercifully truncated Sheila‘s invective - ―Alright listen kiddo Within ten minutes the last of the frantic - those hostages you got? Can‘t let ‗em and horror-stricken crowd had been live now - send ‗em off quietly - Quietly! ejected on to the street. Dog Dave - that means that trigger-happy Mexi- swung an exasperated baseball bat - mutt keeps her damn guns in her damn ―This is a fuckin‘ bad fix Grey - you holsters! - Okay - Bundle ‗em all up guys gotta get the hell outta here and quickly - wrapped up tight like in take that fuckin‘ body with you. Not to whatever you can find. Tell Dave to mention the three fuckin‘ stooges here‖ - hang around there and clean up the he gestured towards the trio of mess. You and Panda wait for me - I‘ll musicians immobile with fear before be coming round with the van in less Soledad‘s deadly aim - ―We gotta do than ten minutes - I‘m leavin‘ now. something and do it sharpish‖ Meantime get the mutt to take Ampersand the fuck outta there and lay low - somewhere - Anywhere! - Fuck

177 knows that dog has more than a few wrapped corpses on the riverbank - holes where she stashes her damn Sheila‘s eyes glimmered all azure in the bones. We‘ll deal with Ampersand as fetid moonlight weighing a large rock in soon as the meat is delivered, get me? - her palm - ―We dump these suckers out Alright - Get busy - And don‟t fuck up!‖ towards the river‘s mouth - Schoolkids get their little nature studies just a Blackout warned us about all the couple miles up the way - don‘t want wicked rules - I stutter step my way some poor nipper fishin‘ one of these across no records - They know your ugly fuckers out with their minnows, questions of the past so I can lay my eh?‖ anchor twitching out the waves when my face grips bad vice cops - Supposed Heavy moss-covered rocks and to blind myself so I‘ll never have to race boulders passed through our hands, - we start shrinking people will dance to scraping the skin raw as we filled the your own from here - Cops come round makeshift canvas body-bags. Panda‘s you need to wear half a ton of marble to silhouette - all gangly limbs and effete eat me alive - Forget how to swim to posture - cut a comical figure against the your many gods - Death trembling ancient horizon - gasping and sighing seems you sleep like a lamb - but when with each fumble and drop - saving countless lives they knew what your body needs - the shattered gate to ―Fuckin‘ hell Sheila - these here hands‖ - a timeless now… he displayed his slender fingers and Three identical blows from the butt of smooth palms as though inspecting the Soledad‘s revolver to the back of the nails for dirt - ―These hands is made for neck - the three stooges crumpled in on drummin‘ - that‘s all - Drummin‘ and themselves dead eyes turning upwards lovin‘. I ain‘t no fuckin‘ boulder to the cold fruitless impasse their clocks shoulder. And dumpin‘ bodies isn‘t had bought them. Time screamed its much my forte either. Isn‘t this more wounds at our velvet horizon. Muscles Dog Dave‘s line? How the fuck‘d he straining - temples throbbing - the dull land the cushy number in all this, eh? I 3am ache of fugitive transmissions. should be the one scrubbin‘ back at the Unseen stars shifted broken aeons in the club - proper good scrubber me‖ sublime geometry of Ampersand‘s ―Oh I know that Panda‖ - Sheila swept a gently heaving thorax - a cool slate sky stray raven lock from her ageless face - wrapping around her departure… ―But with the shit you clowns have put me through tonight I figured I could use In Auntie Sheila‘s battered black van we a good laugh by way of compensation. crossed static tinges up to the estuary - Watchin‘ you flounder uselessly like a Whistling dead tune loomed up before young lass with those rocks is keepin‘ me in all its wasteground - empty my inner smile beamin‘ - Cheers for warehouses crumble in most that.‖ impressionable and vivid age - Out by that concrete backdrop we laid the

178 Unexpected laughter trickled mercifully trainee nurse - long time ago you from our tense throats, the claws of understand - I never did make the grade night easing their grip on our exhausted - I worked alongside a lady who was so nerves… obsessed with her biological clock tick- tick-ticking that she saw time runnin‘ With graceless urgency the four bodies out everywhere she looked. Every were cast one by one into the river. evening she‘d arrive on the job with a Time‘s Agents floated at the bitter look about her like she‘d just been precipice of the primordial amnion that dished out a prison sentence. As long as had birthed them. Seemed a half day time kept movin‘, she continued to passed before shards of time and space. mourn the loss of another day and I was frantic of poison plaster dust another and another… She sure had a watching those dead shapes drift bee in her bonnet…‖ agonisingly slowly out and down. Staring out at the still moonlit water and Sheila paused to strike a match against a a billion pasts reflected - Poppy‘s face dry rock and lit the pipe suspended emerging all distorted and ill-defined in between her thin lips. The temporary the hostile murk - not a voice in the glow gave the impression of a wind made to break down. My disembodied face floating ethereally in despondent reflection waiting - always the night‗s tenebrous curtain - a benign waiting for time to seep its rancid beacon posted at time‘s boundary, its tendril between my bones… Waiting… incessant light guiding our infinite Always the waiting… selves across myriad time tracks to coalesce upon our carbon husks perched ―Kiddo, did I ever tell you about Nurse on that frozen riverbank. Kinney?‖ ―Now Nurse Kinney was only in her Sheila‘s intonation was calm, her late 30s when I knew her but as far as expression adroit as though she had she was concerned, 30 was hopelssly been reading my thoughts. She had ancient. You see, Nurse Kinney really pulled a pipe from a jacket pocket and wanted to be a mother like nothin‘ else was earnestly stuffing it with tobacco in the world. And I mean wanted it bad from a plastic pouch. Panda who was like she ached all over at her lack of kids sitting in a cross-legged position on the and was known to throw up on the edge of the bank now leaned back street with jealousy in front of passin‘ slightly, regarding Sheila with an mothers and their children. Quite a expectant gaze - scene she‘d make. As I understand it, Kinney had been a maternity nurse ―Story-time, Auntie? And no cocoa to go before I came along. It soon became around? I don‘t know about that shit.‖ pretty clear to me why she‘d had to be reassigned to the main wards - Can you A wry smirk flickered briefly upon the imagine? - ―Congratulations Mrs X, it‘s woman‘s lips - ―Back when I was a a booooeeeuuurrgghh!!‖ - No good at

179 all, right? On top of that, certain folks company before she‘d start lecturin‘ you high up reckoned there was a danger in about ‗seizin‘ the fuckin‘ moment‘ and lettin‘ her near kids at all in case she how it were crucial not to waste time on attempted to snatch ‗em from under pointless things ‗cause life was too their mother‘s schnozzle. Yeah, Nurse fuckin‘ short and time was always out to Kinney had issues alright. get you. That‘s when the accident happened that brought Rosie Redman in ―Things got ten times worse when her to Kinney‘s life… fella up and left. See, Kinney and her man had been tryin‘ desperately for kids ―Rosie was a socialite in her mid 20s - for like a couple of years or more with the daughter of a big shot media mogul. no fruit whatsoever. Then one day he She was the kind of gal who would turn jumps ship - runs off with his 19 year up regularly at film premieres and old secretary. Turns out the geezer had awards ceremonies on the had the ol‘ snip several years before and interchangeable arm of some pop singer decided not to mention it. A complete or TV star or footballer and have her bastard of a man obviously - but to his mug plastered over the tabloids and credit he stayed with Kinney and put up glossy mags who love nothin‘ more than with her neurosis far longer than most a pretty faced non-celebrity celebrity. folks could manage. After that, she hit One night after a high profile art rock bottom. The hospital recommended exhibition and a subsequent cocaine- she take some time off to sort her life fuelled all-night bash, Ms Redman and out but Kinney couldn‘t stand the idea her then beau - a much-loved TV chef - of lettin‘ more days go by and her doin‘ found themselves in somethin‘ of a nothin‘ but watchin‘ ‗em pass. So back nasty car accident. He escaped virtually to work she came and that‘s when the unscathed but she was pretty banged up fun really started… and was lucky not to end up paralysed from the waist down. Anyways, she was ―She would turn up with tears in her to spend her convalescence in the eyes and deep grooves in her face like isolation ward and the honchos at the time was hackin‘ at her with a machete. hospital decided it would be a good Every day seemed to age her about a thing for Nurse Kinney to be interned year and everyone noticed and there. Guess they figured that a little everyone commented on it. ‗The Grey rubbin‘ shoulders with celebrity would Lady‘ they called her. Every second make her feel a little better about herself spent manless and childless was like a - and besides Rosie had no kids of death in itself and by fuck did she let course so there was nothin‘ for Kinney everyone know about it… to get upset about. Well, so they thought… ―‘Another few short years and I‘ll be dried up‘ she‘d say over and over again ―By the end of the first few days of like a fuckin‘ mantra. It was impossible lookin‘ after Rosie, already the cracks to spend more than five minutes in her were startin‘ to show in Kinney‘s

180 psyche. Y‘see, Kinney was possessed by measures. When the rest of the ward a need to shake people outta their staff were off duty she would torture lethargy - make ‗em appreciate life to her patient physically - stickin‘ pins in the max while they had the time to do her flesh and clippin‘ her nails in the so. But Rosie seemed completely most sadistic manner - ignorant of this idea. Sure she was ‗famous‘, affluent, popular, beautiful… ―‗You see what time does?‘ - she‘d hiss her standard of life was - on the face of into Rosie‘s face - ‗You see how painful it - pretty enviable. But the girl was also life gets when you don‘t take proper completely and utterly vapid. She had responsibility for the time you‘ve got?‘ no conception of the world beyond her ―However no matter how much pain own microcosm of magazine she inflicted, the message never seemed photoshoots and Notting Hill parties. to get through. In fact, Rosie started to Her sphere of conversation didn‘t much get a kinda thrill from the pain - a weird reach beyond the latest Gucci line or the reaction to the adrenaline in her post- plot of some tawdry TV soap or photo traumatic state. Seemed she would features in Heat magazine - y‘know, the erupt in an ecstatic burst of inane babble kind outlining who had been snapped for a prolonged post-torture period. The kissing who‘s spouse and in what state more agony Nurse Kinney inflicted of makeup-less mess. This drove Nurse upon her patient, the more Kinney insane - ‗How can anyone be so excruciatingly inane she became - the vacuous?‘ she‘d wonder aloud - ‗For the ultimate of ironies. Before long, Kinney love of god - the woman has just had assimilated far more information survived a very near deadly accident! - than she ever needed to know about Has she no appreciation for the miracle banal celebrities and that season‘s hot of life? - No understanding of the designer clothing lines. The nurse was shadow of time that stalks her every spiralling downward and fast. move?!‘ - It was the start of an infamous ―The night Kinney and Rosie and deeply weird relationship. disappeared the news channels were hot with the story. For the first time in Ms ―Nurse Kinney seemed to regard it as Redman‘s public life, she was actually her mission to force this inane girl into part of a story with teeth. Kinney had accepting the responsibility to use her forced the girl out of bed and whisked time wisely. Illicitly, she started to her off into the night in the first of what impose a punishment regime for her was to be many stolen cars. For the next patient in relation to her daily level of few months the authorities searched far obtuseness. They were small things at and wide for the two women. A first - removin‘ pillows from her bed - thousand superficial celebrities that kinda thing. Started to get a bit appeared on TV to pray for Rosie‘s safe more serious with forcin‘ her to eat her return and the girl‘s father offered a meals without the aid of cutlery. When significant reward for anyone who this seemed to have no significant effect, could locate his daughter alive. I seem Kinney moved to more extreme to recall some boy band released a

181 single dedicated to the dumb bitch. international postage marks - France - Yeah it was quite the circus alright. For Italy - Germany - Ireland - Canada… a few months the country heard about Each one started the same way - with an not much else - coverage of war and intro to camera by Kinney herself international atrocities were pushed to explainin‘ her rationale - that she the sidelines. wished to impose a sense of value and responsibility in her victim. There then ―But eventually - as is the way - the would follow grisly footage of the nurse story ran out of steam and Rosie and her hackin‘ off some piece of Rosie‘s body; kidnapper began to recede towards the first a finger here a toe there… then part tabloids‘ inners. Until the videos started of an ear, a sliver of nose flesh. Each to appear… tape ended the same way with Rosie explodin‘ in an ecstatic fit, speakin‘ in a ―They were delivered to the Met in high speed ramble about plain brown envelopes with a variety of inconsequential trifles. It really was

182 quite the freak show to behold. Before ―Kinney was never heard from again. long, Kinney was hackin‘ off limbs and Rosie neither. Despite all the best drillin‘ out teeth and rammin‗ all combined efforts of the CIA - FBI - MI5 manner of objects up the girl‘s cunt. But and the rest - they drew a complete still the same result - no sense of blank. Like the nurse and her patient perspective just an explosion of had just slipped out of time banality. Throughout, the police and completely…‖ law enforcement agencies across the world scrutinised the tapes and the We left the despondent river on the low envelopes in the hope of trackin‘ the rumble of a dreaming machine. The women‘s progress across the globe. But issue was clear enough on slipstreams. somehow Kinney was always one step Unrecognisable as foreigners were the ahead - driven on by a pathological shadows of melancholy pylons need to see her mission through to the stumbling us a diversion… bitter and gory end. Dawn found four fugitives packed and ―The final tape appeared about a year primed in the Jensen‘s cold belly a after the disappearance. In it, Kinney vague idea floating our navigator‘s told the police forces of the world that compass - Soledad‘s firm hands upon she had found the perfect destiny for the wheel - black gaze unwavering on Rosie - (now nothin‘ more than a the road ahead. Anxieties set adrift on limbless inanity-spouting blob) - She the engine‘s feline purr - the journey claimed to have made contact with a arduous and longer than us from the radical travellin‘ sideshow in the deep opposite direction - astringent haloes of south of the United States whose leader dying streetlights - bitter brackish river quite fancied makin‘ Rosie part of his smell to blown-out buildings and penny performance troupe. Kinney figured arcades - Dead billboards whistling pale that by makin‘ the girl‘s inanity a source corporate slogans replaced to restore of spectacle, she could somehow use the order under the solemn sky - tenements awful irony to shock Rosie outta her howling silent loneliness in the wake of terminal complacency…‖ Catherine Frick MP‘s much publicised ‗housing revolution‘ - The pipe extinguished, Sheila blew one final cloud of smoke out upon the Riding shotgun, Panda chuckled to estuary - its amorphous mass swirling himself flicking through the yellowed above the still waters where the corpses pages of a tattered trashy teen horror had finally sunk without trace. paperback he‘d unearthed in the glove Fluctuating narratives of hazily compartment - (Whisper of Death by remembered dreams could be mapped Christopher Pike). I sat in the rear next there in the wisps and curls - lost voices to Ampersand, my eyes fixed upon the clashing with discordant sleep… back of her blonde-bobbed head as she addressed the passing morning with that steely incessant stare.

183 Subconsciously or so it seemed, her left I insisted on it - Ampersand would be hand had crawled up her right sleeve, walking by water with a sympathetic pushing the material upwards to reveal sun overhead - the scar of a gunshot wound - Triple M‘s totemic tattoo - the girl‘s portal out of ―A walk on the beach sounds time etched there upon the raised flesh. wonderful‖ - lost words of sleep trickled Absently her fingertips rubbed at the from her mouth, the hand still rubbing warped area and I noticed flecks of skin skin still flaking - I stared out the peel and flake around the edges. Music window as the city shrank behind us - on an old mix-tape sputtered from the the wind worse now than any of us car‘s ailing speakers - could remember bringing out armfuls of silence as heavy as buried foreigners - // listen while I tell you friend / there‘s Snow descended light and willowy at no-one else around / my hobby is first, intensifying rapidly into a hail - making leaky boats / and watching Soledad fought to keep the car straight people drown / they stumble to the her hand careful beyond time at our end shore sometimes and fall upon the - It had whipped into a blizzard and we ground / my hobby is making leaky were being blasted for the back exits - boats / and watching people drown / Winds of time howled their despair look out over there my friend / the attacking the Jensen‘s dark exterior – ships are going down / my hobby is making leaky boats / and watching ―We should slow the fuck down‖ - a people drown // waver of trepidation haunted Panda‘s voice his brow contorting into a knot of Violent inertia nurtured the streets quite anxiety - empty - our progress risked it to know one another on an intimate highway - Soledad made no attempt to conceal her Pylons and smokestacks following up irritation - ―Que estoy haciendo the beach - overgrown lawns and ruined cuarenta y cinco!‖ - hotel was a barrier where core conceptions risk losing everything - ―Then do thirty-fuckin‘-f i v e ! ‖ Outside town deserted station where Soledad got five bucks of fuel in the Reluctantly she eased her foot on the dark windy loopholes behind one accelerator exhaling long and petulantly barricade - same road we had taken to through her nostrils - Time passed Magpie‘s Grave for the abortion - tightly knuckles white with terror - encoded muscles with the mind and Dead particles cast out in headed north on it - The roof shivered phosphorescent idea of what was this experience to bitter coffee from an happening - psychic miles irrespective old rusty flask - Nobody across of choosing to follow seized buildings - traintracks to unseen destination had The storm was intensifying in direct known at the front - small earth miles proportion to our distance from the city and a station to the fore in the morning - - white blanket likewise doomed the

184 landscape from the opposite direction - emitted the ear-piercing howl of a Before long Soledad had the accelerator tormented she-wolf - clumps of dry floored once more and we were barely white flakes from her raven hair - she creeping forward - Outside the held aloft the appalling truth before our windshield was a wall of livid white incredulous gaze - flecks - Raising my hand to the rear window on my side I traced the malign ―Piel! - Piel!!‖ patterns the blizzard was busily sketching upon the glass - The snow A blizzard of skin engulfed us where was completely dry it seemed no the Jensen lay idle and stranded - moisture collected there - dry specks of morbid flecks of Time snapped colour in death rigid as Time‘s curse - a musky a whimper - To my left Ampersand odour which the car broke - engine convulsed eyes clenched teeth gritted - exploding at this picture - fingers scraping compulsively at the scar tissue upon her wounded arm - The Soledad slammed on the brakes causing Time was upon her - five thousand Panda to hurtle forward his delicate effects of the blast across a sour sky - knuckles cracking on the dashboard - reflection clashing with organised ―Fuckin‘ hell ya crazy mutt! - What‘s the confusion - adroit silver gaze shifted beef-?‖ where the empty warehouses crumbled like petals against the tungsten colours ―Mirar‖ - Soledad killed the wipers of a lonely star - Skin was afire at a letting the dead dry snow coat the glance before it was too late - windshield - ―Eso no es nieve.‖ Soledad lunged from the driver‘s seat She steeled herself managing a stiff and grabbed at Ampersand‘s arms curving terror pushed open the driver‘s pinning them to her sides - ―Ayúdame!‖ door and stepped out into the squall - I pulled on the wounded arm slamming it behind her - Our eyes stretching it across my lap - cold dead locked in alarm upon her firm skin nightmares raged beneath statuesque figure before it was Ampersand‘s flickering eyelids a voice consumed in seconds by a white in the wind made to break down - oblivion - (my limbo waiting eagerly for Panda disentangled himself from his an end to all this) - hearts thundering seatbelt and leaned over to apprehend panicked percussion in the Jensen‘s her left arm the unconscious fingers dark chamber - Bitter wind and the scrabbling still at thin nauseous air - unmistakeable marine stench of the other future weeping in these hands and Time coming down as the door was the stark fact of her birth as a wild wrenched back open - fetid particles wolf‘s cub - Soledad brought her head invading our throats - Soledad‘s canine down to the flaking wound and pressed instinct billowing around her thighs - so her hot lips to the warped flesh - chaotic many years each like the last - Crashing hair in surreal patterns against the bone backwards in the driving seat she - Slow sensuous cycles she worked her

185 canine tongue around the ridges - white cupped the engines of lust in a quaking teeth dropped everything just following palm - molten mutation in the cold steel until her head swung hopelessly in love shell - At the edge of the estuary we - (The saliva sears daylight like a could see Ampersand‘s face sailing in burning bridge) - She pushed her soft on hazily remembered dreams - moving bark also crawling hot and sank her flesh to air until it‘s beyond sex - My teeth into the throbbing scar tissue - legs beside other face turned and Ampersand‘s body jolted a sigh weeping on clit - head back cock escaping her lips as Soledad‘s tongue erupted shooting the eyes bloodshot - so lapped the blood oozing - red lascivious long in lips petting - Soledad forced the member entering her like the ocean lonely star until Ampersand‘s memory shoulder - Other future claimed the swung against our tongues leaving an Jensen‘s interior - bullets scattered Time electric taste in the veins - Our skies into haven of new organs and hybrid washed upon the shore of her wrist - permutations - shot our bodies out and lost nights written in the dark ink of a into each other - merging in skins and tattoo - Her neck was moving along and bones we fucked a new storm into throbbing up - Time recoiled as she existence - found her voice - ―Can you see me now guv-?‖ In her arms months took to following fingers - blood rose the way Caressing the deathless dream window Ampersand‘s muscles developed blindly without a torn sky - We were Tattered remnants of diseased air fucking when I slipped loose one howl of lonely star on her side - something Vibrating turnstile of blossoming light ran my body around the farthest wounds corner - look as the hand began to run cursing my chin up under left leg flat (―You should meet this friend of mine,‖ along her knees - Panda‘s touch running Magpie said from memory and tore up veins on the stomach sliding home open her grave across phantom with the dust - Soledad parted her aeons…) mouth open my tongue slung over Ampersand‘s lips - Light fell across Crow bills solder stellar tattoos in the silver gaze that you could fall into - scars of sunrise… illuminate erogenous Other future low down in Panda‘s orbs in molten breath… project film throat made me come - his lips images of transitory awe… the willowy whimpering forward covered Soledad‘s wrist flexing with the flick of a cigarette hands into that burning bridge between lighter… us - veneer of the universe peeling away at the thrust of his cock in my ass - In the centre of the road the truth will particles colliding to new galaxies one day create human music - we could swimming there in my saliva it dull our judgement of the streets - Each glistened on the pale breast - Soledad high tide has one of the enemy‘s many

186 institutions submerged - rivers of blasts buried / in my mother‘s grave // repeat was a voice in the wind storming logic // repeat // lend me yr teeth / and I‘ll of the material universe - the building of bite the night / lend me yr teeth / and these barricades is flesh - Those arms I I‘ll bite us out // repeat // repeat // once knew hold me like stone carvings - repeat // repeat // repeat // repeat // Forgotten childhood morning sends you repeat // repeat // repeat // repeat walking side by side with a different ///////// consciousness - armoury on the horizon shares psychotic majesty with (Girl of maybes… Where in city did they Ampersand‘s mantra - light but firm her see our song? … hungover dawn voice in the subsiding wind… capitulates… resignedly… She smooths her palms across her breasts riding the // I am Ampersand Youth / Sonic outlines… That your poker face? … Sculptress and Time Traveller / I don‘t scarred forearm shooting to a map of itch for no tickin‘ tock / no way / not revolutionary Spain… an infant bitin‘ // repeat // repeat // nothin‘ reflection… sagging elderly mask boasts sacred / nothin‘ safe / I will not be the same wound… dirt path covered in

187 leaves sad forgotten path in the Ampersand… weapon is oiled now… surreptitious daylight mirror cracked chained to the mission of broken stars… and caked with mud… laughter to other future blossoms and bursts on the break the atmosphere… love collapsed pages of a hidden scrapbook… girls and in the shallow ravine…) boys in superhero costumes reclaim our The car was silent obscene and touching faded silhouettes and dried saliva… one - morning reclaimed - calm beyond child to climb into the black hole… dusty glass - skin blizzard beaten back where we lose contact… our door stands by hybrid transmissions - Bitter sweat ajar… I map the young shadow to smell and the musk odour of our sex - Ampersand‘s shoulder… canines bared spent organs and fluids oozing out to the moon… stars belch and vomit… toward the far-off blue places still our story out before us on the copper- smiling - Could see our breaths break streaked page… Ampersand‘s voice the silence of the landscape - storms over the plains of an shimmering red pillars and thick string undiscovered country… that psycho- of saliva descending from some distance biologic archipelago… vexed muscles of - The earth itself lies exhausted here - the galaxy as rain on our faces… blood Long and white the road twists back at of time dried and crusted around our the post-coital huddle towards the wheels… spearhead to the cool bright edges of the planet… horizon…

Scars open like flowers to drink the light ―A walk on the beach sounds of other memories… summoning the wonderful…‖ Muskrats… flames amid the detritus of deserted car parks… war-cry waiting in Immobile air around the train station the breeze… hazy dream vapour across platform - static litter - cigarette smoke - dimly lit bars… got those keys leaking querulous starlings upon the slate out of orifices to pull open the doors rooftops of morning. Three youths at the you dreamt… the species out snoring… far end fed chips to a silver-haired dog - red awnings part for the hybrid chuckles and banter sailing into our ears shadow… commanded your weapon with the distant steel rumble and building its milestones of mutation… electric hum. We four waited there in Poppy‘s absence in the flesh… cold skins wide open yet impervious. dispersal… void… The morning wept Standing tiptoe, Ampersand embraced itself out… late for school… blue blazer first Soledad and then myself with fluttering petulantly in rainfall by the sisterly ardour. Her warm breath dirty urban river… knives in the bloomed into a flame against my ear - assembly hall… those children dreamt ―Thank you much guv - Thanks for our dreams before us… peafowl cries in seein‘ me - You know weepin‘ that goes the night the percussive ecstasy of unheard.‖ summer craneflies… red dot marks the supernova… it didn‘t happen see… Lost voices rolled in with the train - erased… reversed… old gunshot of Clickety-clackety-click-click-clack - love

188 bursting over iron tracks. The stray dog dash across the platform towards the barked cheerfully as the three youths front of the train where the driver and boarded, its playful yells clamouring two other rail workers were huddled to like gunfire in the frigid air. Exhaling a inspect the inevitable carnage - final cloud of cigarette smoke, Panda flicked the butt onto the red tiles and A single door slid open with a slapped Ampersand jovially on the pneumatic hiss as we passed - shoulder - ―Alright sugar-tits - time to Ampersand emerged cradling the dog rock the roll.‖ alive and unscathed in a resolute embrace. The animal lapped at her face The train lurched forward, Panda and with an adoring tongue and an excitable Ampersand waving from behind the whimper. Her silver eyes humble and dusty window - mouths flexing silent factual, Ampersand spoke in an goodbye - Looking into the soiled glass unaffected tone - ―He sees me.‖ where our faces reflected, it seemed Soledad and I were superimposed upon The other passengers - completely the images of these departing Angels - a unmindful of the open door - continued perpetual symbiosis written there in a to wail, their attentions fixed on the secret language of glass and steel - front of the train where the three men words of love we can pay by the sour searched for a crushed dog that wasn‘t sky - there. Panda grinned impishly from behind a filthy pane, making obscene The parked Jensen seemed to work the gestures towards the oblivious throng. misty station to its completion while I saw it in a phantom time zone of The truth blossomed before us in the misplaced memories - subvocal murmur slipstream - a spatial and temporal somewhere between the machines. loophole had carried the dog into Soledad shattered the skin of morning Ampersand‘s arms - Reclaiming her with an abrupt howl - her muscles tight wound from the storm she had tuned eyes wide in dismay. I spun around to her receiver to other transmissions - see the dog leap from the platform and dream aeons dissolved through the into the path of the oncoming train - too walls of the city - commanding positions far and too late across hostile yards - she risked back to flesh - The passengers Screech of gears and a storm of sparks driver and rail workers locked in dead as the driver fought to bring the steel future saw nothing heard nothing - leviathan to a halt - Too far and too late - Ampersand‘s silver gaze the trajectory a cacophony of steel and fire and the of flawless doorway - doomed animal vanished beneath the machine‘s merciless bulk - Screams of ―He sees me…‖ fright and horror from within the bustling carriages, panicked silhouettes Remote sunlit streets towards a seamy clamouring at the soiled windows. café. We went there. Lukewarm bitter Breathlessly I pursued Soledad‘s futile coffee by a net curtained window and

189 Soledad studied the map. Twitches of a coalesce into other roads… ―Hello that woodlouse trapped on the dusty archipelago?…‖ abandoned windowsill its cold shell tick-tick-ticking schoolhouses and nobody armed a pre-recorded rhythm on the splintered around us… ―Este cielo está roto‖ …girl wood. Stubbed out our cigarettes on the culminating in sandstone just reached bill. They refused our soiled notes and her ankles… remote throat to ask while we held on to the change. Lost voices. we slept… Times unguarded and a Ghost of no words. No way. Not bitin‘. flimsy hinge to a deserted trailer park… Soledad fired the engine and we were find our barricades and sandbagged on the road again… The two of us at the windows given way to a small patch of shattered gate… ―No convertir en ese trees… other future twisting cold and camino.‖ Lend me yr teeth… Fingers sickly a frail whisper in the hungover pointed would have been a joke… eyes dawn… ―Hope of change tomorrow? So always stopping the blackjack… dull my eyes broke grey with the darkness… dust that cushions contact with its Grinning and crying kept it hidden.‖ ghost… Police cursed and sweated past No way. Not bitin‘. remote storefronts vanishing as the army of wrinkles invaded childhood morning… I had withdrawn my hands from the opposite direction… Time had packed its bags and left town against the orange sky… Shadows maintain… Brought an abrupt destruction and vicious teen whispers when the bridge burns a freckle for every wind… hazily remembered time I went with Magpie to the arcades. A distant sound of jet engines and the warm days are gone… She laces the rooftops and fire escapes with lush animal silhouettes… We fucked up the sun to take it apart… chanced upon him after fifteen dusty windows spat blood… Crows slept in to fuck it down piece by piece… Listen!… Heart a bomb tapping sternly… bodies to the wall… Poppy waits with stilettos in the midnights of her notebook… Trousers of starcrossed teenagers separated with a smile filling streets “Oh goodness!” said Susan, “Here lawns and buildings with a strange and comes that masked hunk and his sister. wonderful basis… Sad face reflected I heard he’s hung like a b*** n****r, broken geometry of inevitable and my hair is just a total mess!” revolution over the pylons… sky to

190 191 CARVING ANGELS

By Claudia Bellocq

Photos © Guttersaint

1. Carving Angels ~ skeletal head of your previous cat. that explains it then. i had this dream last night and in it, you were sitting (elegant as always) beside i sat with you for a while, wholly the river. you always seem to appear engaged in simply being in your next to water in my dreams. you had presence. you looked beautiful. You‘ve this ‗pet‘, a kind of familiar that you‘d always been beautiful but you struggle constructed from the bones and so much to stay in this world and this dismembered decaying parts of other world crucifies you and betrays you ancient pets. it had become this kind of almost constantly. you stand, brush pink winged, cream bellied flying duck. down your petticoats and skirts, gently i asked you why it had such a strangely push away a loose strand of your fire- calm face. you told me it was the red hair that has fallen across your

192 emerald green eyes, and you smile a permanently across her arms, thighs coquettish smile. you will weep in a and her belly. i saw them once and they moment, perhaps even howl for your made me cry. i didn‘t let her see me pain. it sits ever-present behind your crying. she would have fled in an beauty. instant had she seen me. i talk with you about the poison darts elizabeth and i will speak in tongues. that lie scattered all around our sacred we weave silver threads of luminous circle. we scratched the shape (the beauty, each of us holding tight to one sacred circle) crudely into the end in the ongoing offering of prayer. surrounding earth and then sat, content ritual saves us. art saves us. that we were, for a moment or two at least, relatively safe here. we turn our we carve angels into your eyes whilst attention to the darts, tiny little darts keeping our heads above the with barbed shafts that embed floodwaters. themselves in the flash of a second into our hearts and make us bleed, bleed, 2. Carving the Dark Hearted Angel ~ bleed our souls into a dark and foreign place we call home. few can understand when elizabeth decides she is ready to that place though many will understand leave, i turn and she is gone, without the isolation we encounter there. discussion or consent or agreement. there was no ending, she just leaves. she when i leave i have to cross a ravine on really pisses me off how she does that a backwards ladder that i cannot fathom because in all the time I‘ve known her, i for the life of me. someone laughs a still never see it coming; her departure. cruel laugh and so i grab that ladder and fucking climb it in raging defiance she‘s flighty like that. of their ignorance. when i am safely transported to the other side, i have to she is so beautiful though that you return to a house i locked up and left would forgive her anything. she cannot long ago. it stinks of damp decay. sin. she cannot ever be judged because someone has been in a cleaned some of she just is who she is and we love her it up and i have no interest in who that for that so how can we judge her. she may be. i can‘t remember what i came hates that we love her for that because it here for and i leave. i slam the door shut pains her to be in this body in this life. and shout ―good fucking riddance this knowing makes her want to spit baby‖ and go searching for a book, until and fucking curse us all. i know because i remember it's a book i have to write i see right through her skin. it is before it can be read. transparent to me because it is my skin. if she hadn‘t been the first to leave, i‘d elizabeth sees my scars and carries her have gone just as quickly but i‘m a own which look much the same as mine. sucker for her beauty and she just is, she wears many of hers tattooed therefore she always gets to leave first.

193 damn her! i want to be a courageous as make it to be ninety seven, like my she is. i want to just be. instead, i am far grandmother. i wonder how the fuck i‘ll more earthbound in my sensibilities. do it. the next moment i am strong and clear again and ninety seven seems like elizabeth weeps crystal tears upon something effortless that only life could porcelain cheekbones. elizabeth buys cheat of meeting. ivory carvings and old tin cans from black finger-nailed vendors at car boot elizabeth dances with me in a circle of sales on the fringes of suburbia. she chaos and her screams pierce my spirit. hunts and hunts and hunts for tiny when i am snake she is before me all treasures that she hopes will offer her feline and sleek, though very some temporary peace. i on the other dangerous. when i am goddess of fire, hand, hunt and hunt and hunt for some she is beside me all goddess of the temporary peace that will bring me bleeding soul of love. treasures. we‘ve always been a bit star- crossed like that. once, elizabeth wrote we will speak shortly about those me a poem that i treasured so much i poison arrows, her and me, and we will placed in in a delicate gilt frame. her hold each other tightly. i will inhale her familiar spidery writing, doubtless patchouli musk smell and i will be sure written in real blue~black ink, spewed not to perfume myself lest it confuse words of such immense magnitude that her. i knew she had seen me, borne witness to my soul somehow. no-one had ever 3. The Game ~ done that before. shards of glass lay around our feet. once, we made a ceremony elizabeth whichever way we turn we cannot and me. i was dressed in a black shroud avoid or escape them and so we are and she stood beside me. i read my condemned to walk across them to words out loud next to a wizened old return. i start the walk as i am braver hawthorn tree and then stood before than her though the cutting of lass upon elizabeth and the gods, totally naked. skin is more familiar to her. she watches she then clothed me in a white me, staring, curious and somewhat shimmering fabric and promised to envious. make me a pair of her wings from that material. she never made them. i still i decide that this may as well be worth it wonder whether they would have made and so i make it a ritual of unfathomable me fly. depth. with each step, i utter a word, just one word, though a very carefully sometimes, when i‘m really out there, orchestrated one at that. with my first on my island, the one we all know, the step, i speak (in a level and monotone place we call home, i think of her, and i voice) the word LOVE, and she (as i had think of those who orbit my heart and i hoped and imagined) responds. drop to my knees, wondering how i‘ll

194 she steps onto the glass and speaks. her and i retch in the feeling of it. it is too voice contains the delicate tipped angle much, but i have a job to do here. i say of her head and the fragility of her FAKE and she finds her fire now. she features. it also contains all of the says HOLD ME and she has broken the agonies of her heart. she says MURDER, rules in uttering two words instead of and i momentarily recoil, still concealing one. any trace of a reaction from her gaze, lest she decides to stop playing. i turn and realise we have crossed the shards of glass, feet bloody and raw but my foot hurts already. this is going to be nowhere near as bad as i imagined and a painful experience. i turn and look her more to the point, she is there beside in the eye. i flash my indigo blue at her me. she smiles, recognising what i have emerald green and reply YEARNING achieved. and she drops to her knees. i want to help her up but it‘s not in the rules. i i hold her but she twists uncomfortably must witness...and wait... from me and grabs a tattered rag to wipe her bleeding feet. slowly, she begins to rise. she looks at me as if she hates, loathes and despises no matter... me for that last round. she sighs deeply. she coughs, and then shouts really really ...we made it across. fucking loud, the word MURDERER. jesus she‘s good. i‘m not sure i can do 4. The Shadow ~ this. she is an Amazonian Queen of immense stature. i am momentarily a fly the morning after the game, when we about to meet its death. but then i have both slept, elizabeth returns to me. remember the game and i dig deep into she is wearing a string of blue-black my heart and find the word that wants bruises around her neck. i stare this to be spoken. the word is JEALOUS. time. i am stunned. i wonder where she went. she begins to cry, though it is only a tear that escapes her eye. it takes with it no elizabeth never wears her hair down, trace of mess, as mine would in their she hates it like that. instead, she fixes it mascara‘d garishness. she lets the tear with a million tiny clips, each carefully fall and replies in rapid breathy placed to hold or contain and restrain stuttering near-silence, BITCH. some curl or stray hair. had she let her hair fall, i would perhaps not have then it is my turn to cry in the hollow noticed her bruises, but even the emptiness of that word uttered from her thought of her escape is not enough to lips. i keep moving, i reply quickly now. permit her to release herself from her SAVIOUR. and she approaches. she is own binds. she wears her hear up and close now, i can smell her violet scented sports her bruises. ashamed. awkward. breath. she goes DISAPPOINTMENT no sense of doing it for show, that was

195 never an issue. i feel her pain. her however, cannot manage it and yes, it‘s bruises are trying to tell me something true that it would destroy me were i to but i cannot decipher their message take her hand and walk with her to meet because in doing so, i know that i will this lover who bruises her neck that have to visit that place. the place of her way. desolation. it‘s taken me years to re- build myself. to take myself out of my i stand in front of her, wanting to hold own desolation, and although i know her, but she would never allow that. if i loneliness, and fear, and isolation still, i held her, she would crumble to dust. never want to re-visit the desolation she needs me to just accept her, witness borne of such permissiveness. the her, understand her, but never hold her permissiveness of allowing another or tell her she is beautiful. person to hurt you like that. to perhaps even destroy you. elizabeth is beautiful. she needs to understand that. then one day she may at present, elizabeth manages that let me hold her and smile, touch her hair destruction because she is still in it. i and her scars. love her.

196 197 CRUNCH TIME AT PROJECT FOREVER

By Ron Garmon

“Do you know what a soldier is, public knew about- the great young man? He's the chap who computerized graveyard of one makes it possible for civilized folk billion Americans kept at a facility to despise war.” high in the Great Smokies of North Carolina. A digitized copy of every - Allan Massie last man, woman and child born or ever to have lived wrought from As pre-revolutionary heirloom warehoused DNA was not only technology went, the Omega Point possible, but, by 2079, a Retrieval System was a streamlined Constitutional right and its marvel. Three pocket nuclear maintenance the obligation of the reactors powered ―Aelph‖, a vast federal government. America‘s and labyrinthe series of data ancient promise of a better life had processing centers and cryogenic dwindled to a single bold guarantee, bio-preservation facilities accounting backed by the full faith and credit of in themselves for under half the total a government that, by the current power needs at Project Forever, now fiscal quarter, had been out of under scrutiny by budget-cutters existence for over two decades. from what was then left of the government. Aelph was at least A worse budgetary affront was the conceivable in bureaucratic terms as project‘s sole ownership of the last a gigantic (and gigantically complex) operational Tucker Time refrigeration device and an equally Displacement Device in the imposing mass nano-storage Constitutional States of America. A warehouse. This was the part the bullet-shaped chromium container

198 about the size of a coffin, the TTDDs could divine a use for it in 2112‘s made immense drafts on the power midterms. Worst, the team at Project grid amid a fast-deteriorating Forever was reduced by forced domestic situation complete with attrition to a quarter of its size and food riots, warlords battling for the Aleph capacity was to be cut by 70% international maribooj trade, and in order to save the rest. Memphis having just fallen to a terrorist organization known only as It was decided after a brief staff the Pineal Liberation Front. If Project meeting that there was no point in Forever was going to use scarce keeping so many samples after all. mega-kilowatts for whimsical DNA The vast majority consisted of those collecting, well, there were questions who‘d perished in the First and of basic fairness involved. Worst of Second Hemispheric Wars, so, being all was the C-Boundary- a dazzling long since dead, could exercise little cubed enclosure within which political pressure. Understood in Retrieval actually took place. The that light, it little strained the thing cost tens of thousands in corn- conscience to electronically roundfile backed Elvis Presley paper every all simcopies of everyone who died time it was switched on and no one in, say, the anthrax outbreaks of 2093 left after the Purges was really sure or were executed as subversives at how it worked. any time up to the last election, since none of them could be said to have So it came to pass that two of the ever really lived. Even so massaged, reactors were requisitioned for the the numbers didn‘t look good and Tyson underground protein works the three remaining staff was left just outside New Old New Orleans. defending pet obsessions far into the The TTDD was packed up and mountain night. hovercrafted to Richmond while the Rufus T. Clinton administration

199 The argument had descended from the screen. He murmured, ―Intro, mere profiling metrics and into please,‖ and a too-loud female voice particular vectors, which was always cooed ―Vector: William Crandall a little dangerous. ―Retrieval‖ used ―Pood‖ Blankenship, born Beckley, up enormous resources, to be sure, West Virginia, 2/7/71, died though none of them cared for that, Luckenbach State Penal Camp, what with the entire Project under 9/18/02. Social Utility rating- 0. erasure. Vector behavior could get a Political class U. Historical footnote- little unpredictable. The things did One of the ―McDowell 17‖, Mr. sport all the strength of a meatspace Blankenship was issued a lifetime specimen, if only a fifth of the mass. Undesirable classification (USUP Hassline (Boolean Demography) was #27109) on 4/22/99 for his part in an droning at the ceiling while eager employee expropriation that claimed Korb (Malthusian Studies) worked the lives of six security personnel. the fast-forward dial. Breck Bowman Scale rank- 1.2- Curiosity.‖ (Theoretical Posthumanism) blew ropy and rancorous smoke rings, his ―That‘s just what I was pointing zeroed-out attention struck by a out!‖ snorted Hassline in emeritus single porcine face in the torrent disgust, ―What possible going by on the wall before them. methodological justification can be had for the likes of Blankenship? ―Hold it,‖ he choked, gagging on an How does he rate a 1.2 Bowman, unsmooth strain of Puce anyway? He was simply one more Motherfucker, ―Who the scrag was bent prole caught in a celebrated that?‖ haul. He wasn‘t important enough to execute with the thirteen others Korb dialed back and a vaguely and,‖ the doctor gasped, exhaling a familiar visage , all close-set eyes cloud of Puce Mofo in triumph, and proganthous jaw, gaped from

200 ―didn‘t even rate his own Wikipedia back to life, assuming we ever do?‖ page!‖ Blankenship, who‘s last distinct There was no arguing that, but memory was losing his footing neither was there still a Wikipedia. during a race riot staged by guards, Korb giggled and pushed the red felt strength and rage return to his toggle button on the panel before limbs. The vector lunged crookedly him. ―This should be good,‖ he said, at the project director and Korb pulling his aquamarine goggles gently mumbled ―Stop,‖ feeling down his forehead against the glare. benevolent he‘d given the poor bastard a last revenant‘s thrill of The two-dimensional image vengeance. He allowed himself a suddenly bugled and became more small godlike smile as Blankenship rounded, as a human male outline stood flash-frozen in place. formed in a slow-burning burst of intense light. He was naked, ―Didn‘t we save enough translucent, and trembling- a purely Undesirables, fringe Politicals, conjectural Blankenship shocked at dispossessed Alphas?‖ bitched the banal miracle of his own rebirth Hassline, who really could become and not able to do much more than quite narrowminded under the lift the arms he couldn‘t see. The influence of the genetically modified retrieved Undesirable squinted in super-ganja. Breck wrote a mental the light and bent his head toward memo to quit bringing the scraggy- the voices. ass shit to staff meetings and promptly misfiled it. ―What ―Good evening, Mr. Blankenship,‖ separates him any lumpen squatting Hassline began pleasantly. ―Can you on dirty concrete in Atlanta or tell what‘s left of Project Forever Richmond this minute?‖ he what you‘d do if we brought you demanded.

201 Breck felt disinclined to stretch a ―Stop,‖ Korb bleated, momentarily point. His specialty was, after all, panicked by a seeming failure in the post-Palin era spree killers, not search parameters. Yes, the filter Politicals as such. There was program confirmed NO YANKEES, something about the last U.S. but something had made this file bob president‘s immediate aftermath that to the surface. Hassline bridled at the makes for an almost lyrical ferocity interruption, but Breck was certain in vectors. Still, Blankenship was he knew that name. The vector was impressive in his oldtimey intriguingly retro; doubtless picked murderousness and Breck bade him up in a sweep of state institutions a subvocal goodbye as Korb pushed long before there had even been a the red button and the brute Project Forever. A vulpine, clearly soundlessly faded and became addled face stared back at them- nothing. from a grainy 1940s honest-to- Eastman photograph! Breck‘s pulse Korb set the scanner‘s filter on quickened and even the director sat Bowman 1.5 and let the rest of the forward, harangue forgotten. files from this batch file into the ―Resume,‖ giggled Breck. incinerator as the toking began in earnest. The trio was deep in ―Social Utility rating- unassigned,‖ executive session when a gong the buttery voice continued, sounded and every light on Korb‘s ―Political class- not applicable. console began to flash. The feminine Historical footnote- Combat veteran voice returned- ―Attention!‖ it of Second World War. Honorable oozed, ―Vector: Howard Barton discharge. On the morning of Unruh, born 1/20/1921 9/6/49, Mr. Unruh shot sixteen Haddonfield, New Jersey in the people in thirteen minutes in and former U.S.A. Died 4/20/2013, around his residence in Camden, Trenton State Psychiatric Hospital.‖ New Jersey, killing thirteen. Stated

202 upon arrest quote I‘d have killed a Unruh whirled and stopped, neck thousand if I had bullets enough end trembling as he fixed his eyes quote. Bowman Scale- 2.1- minor toward the first new voice heard historical figure. Cross-reference- see outside his head since the mid-1980s. contemporary New Jersey spree He knew the white coats, every one, killer Ernest Ingenito, also on file. and the evil, unGodly monsters they Shall I bring Mr. Ingenito up?‖ she dragged in off the streets, already chimed. filled with dope and infection and pus but he hadn‘t opened his mouth Breck hesitated, seeing Hassline‘s once no sir but who was this nice frown. ―No,‖ he blurted, ―Queue for man with the face like Bing Crosby? deletion.‖ He was rewarded with a Was it… nod from the director. A brief red flicker on the console noted ―Hi, then!‖ began the director, big Ingenito‘s passing and Korb set professional grin broadened by his about the happy chore of Retrieving successful attempt at period argot. the vector. ―Welcome to the first stage of your Retrieval, Mr. Unruh. The Unruh quasi-materialized just had Constitution mandates we at Project Blankenship and two dozen others Forever ask what you‘d do if given that night. Unlike the rest, Unruh life and youth again?‖ This question, seemed to barely acknowledge what however unscientific, was always a had happened. He walked in a left- thrill for Hassline and Breck leaned handed circle, shoulders and neck forward, not believing his incredible twitching as if on wires. good fortune of scoring the first-ever spree killer. This one was entirety ―Mr. Unruh?‖ Hassline began too plume-bedecked rara an avis to pleasantly. be handed over to the Army butchers in Intel or the Psycho

203 World Theme Park in Knoxville. No; the pathetic, soiled lunatic was no inside that that flat and oscillating more and a man of Purpose was skull were papers, awards, about to be reborn; a sinew of war, advancement, a houseboat in the lacking only meat. Easy meat, Breck Keys. thought.

Unruh‘s voice was dry and cracked ―Congratulations, Mr. Unruh,‖ and his words came out in Hassline beamed. You may now accelerating gasps- ―I-aye always move to the next step.‖ Korb set the knew You was behind me, Sir, and- countdown to Initiate and relit the an-an would reward you-your…‖ at burnt-out doob, humming cheerfully this point, Unruh snapped off, as he pondered what one-third, or humming three bars of ―Too-Ra-Loo- even ten percent, of this killing Ra-loo-Ra‖ and checking his rising machine was worth. laugh, ―Soldier. I-aye would get uh job and-an would buy wunna them For the first time since that morning nineteen-millimeter short-frame in Camden, Unruh trembled in Glock 21SFs like they kill them Ay- beautiful fear of God. He felt his rabs with over on TV, with the laser bones, then muscle, then flesh sight and-an the Picatinny Rail.‖ He return- hard and strong. He‘d fought paused, hands ceasing to tremble as the good fight, kept the faith and they jacked in imaginary rounds. now his heart sang that he had not ―And-an, I‘d re-retaliate, Sir.‖ yet finished the course.

Unruh‘s grin was easy and unforced. ―Bang,‖ he whimpered ecstatically. Even in quarter-life, it was plain that ―Bang-bang.‖

204 205 WHIMPERS

By David Gionfriddo

MITCHELL: NOW, LIVE FROM NEW YORK, A PLACE WHERE EVEN SQUARES CAN HAVE A BALL, IT‘S NIGHT OWL WITH YOUR HOST, MIKE DEL RIOS.

MIKE: HELLO, EVERYONE. IT‘S TERRIFIC TO BE HERE. WHAT A GREAT LOOKING CROWD. DID YOU HEAR ABOUT THESE REPORTS FLOATING AROUND ON THE INTERNET THAT ASTRONOMERS HAVE DISCOVERED A NEARBY OBJECT THAT IS SO DENSE THAT IT SUCKS EVERYTHING IN ITS VICINITY INTO A GREAT BLACK VOID?

THEY ACTUALLY HAD THEIR TELESCOPES TRAINED ON CONGRESS AT THE TIME.

[LAUGHTER]

BUT SERIOUSLY, SCIENTISTS ARE SAYING THAT THERE‘S A ONE—IN— 50,000 CHANCE THAT ALL LIFE ON EARTH MAY END IN 2027. [PAUSE FOR AUDIENCE REACTION] THAT‘S UNLESS THEY PULL THE PLUG ON THE MICKEY ROURKE COMEBACK. NO, NO, WE LOVE MICKEY. WE WOULDN‘T WANT HIM TO BE OUR NEIGHBORHOOD SCOUTMASTER, BUT WE LOVE MICKEY. HE LOOKS LIKE A WARRIORS RUMMAGE SALE, BUT WE LOVE HIM.

BUT SPEAKING OF BLACK HOLES, TONIGHT ON THE PROGRAM WE HAVE THE MOUTH THAT ROARED, COMEDIAN TRIPP RAYMER, TALKING ABOUT HIS NEW MOVIE ―WHAT‘S THE DIFF,‖ WITH JULIANNE HOUGH, OPENING THIS WEEKEND IN A THEATER NEAR YOU. ALSO, WE‘VE GOT WACKY WEATHER VIDEOS FROM THE WEATHER CHANNEL‘S GAYLE PEARCE. AND WE‘LL BE PLAYING ―THAT DON‘T HURT!‖ WITH OUR VERY ASTUTE STUDIO AUDIENCE.

RIGHT NOW, LET‘S MEET AND GREET THE SEABISCUIT OF SAXOPHONE, THE CLASS OF THE BRASS, MR. PEPPER LANGHORNE AND THE BAND.

PEPPER: NO, IT‘S A WOODWIND, MIKE.

MIKE: WHAT IS? I‘M NOT FOLLOWING YA, YOU CRAZY!

PEPPER: THE SAX. IT AIN‘T BRASS, IT‘S A WOODWIND.

206 MIKE: DUDE, YOU TRY FINDING SOMETHING TO RHYME WITH WOODWIND. WHO DO YOU THINK WE HAVE WRITING FOR US? LEONARD COHEN? HOW‘D YOU LIKE YOUR NEXT GIG TO BE ONE OF THOSE BLACK HOLES?

PEPPER: SOUNDS LIKE A JAM, MY MAN!

―…The phenomenon of the collapsar first presented itself in the form of gamma-ray bursts of a type consistent with the core collapse of a Wolf-Rayet star (G Krasner, 1996), although neutron star merger cannot be conclusively eliminated as a cause.‖ Annals of British Astrophysics Congress, Sussex, England (Second Edition, Fall 2011).

FADE IN

EXT. SKYLINE OF URBAN METROPOLIS – DAY

From an aerial perspective, we close in and soar down a major thoroughfare.

ANNOUNCER (V/O)

Take everything you think you know.

We move faster and closer to the ground.

ANNOUNCER (V/O)

Add everything you think they‘re not telling you.

Almost unbearably fast now.

ANNOUNCER (V/O)

And you still won‘t be ready for…

POV crashes into police roadblock. Pandemonium resolved into title card

ANNOUNCER (V/O)

LEMBECK: A HOLE IN TIME!

EXT: URBAN SIDEWALK – DAY

Freelance soldier of fortune NAILS LEMBECK and his lieutenants ANDY and SHOTGUN strut martially down the sidewalk

207 ANNOUNCER (V/O)

They chilled global warming in The Hothouse. They sewed up California in Nobody’s Fault. And now, Nails Lembeck and the Trouble Boys face their toughest challenge yet.

INT. NATIONAL SCIENCE FOUNDATION BOARDROOM

Curvaceous Dr. Etta Langtry leads a discussion before a roomful of concerned onlookers.

LEMBECK

So, Dr. L, how long before Earth goes down the tubes in this hole thing?

DR. LANGTRY

Not nearly long enough. Even for you, Mr. Lembeck.

ANNOUNCER (V/O)

With Brad Maxson as Lembeck, and so much action and romance, even the solar system can‘t hold it all!

INT. NASA PROTEUS SPACECRAFT

SHOTGUN

Locked and loaded, Cap.

LEMBECK

Then let‘s put the stopper in this here bottle.

Rockets are fired and the Cassandra Device hurtles toward the event horizon as the crew watches, breathless.

ANNOUNCER (V/O)

And Wood magazine‘s 17th Sexiest Woman on Earth, Roxanna Kessel, as Etta Langtry, the stunner who put the ―sigh‖ in ―science.‖

208 INT. NSF OFFICE

Lembeck holds a swooning Etta in an iron embrace.

ETTA

It‘s been so long, Nate, so long…

LEMBECK

That‘s what they tell me.

ANNOUNCER (V/O)

On Christmas Day, it‘s a ―Hole‖ new ballgame. Brad Maxson in LEMBECK: A HOLE IN TIME. It‘ll suck you i n .

…BONN, GERMANY (AP)- May 16, 2013: The International Congress on Global Issues Research today unanimously approved a position statement regarding the possible threat posed by the celestial object identified as HJ459X3. While there appears to be substantial consensus among the international community regarding the likely nature of the phenomenon, the precise speed and path, as well as the type and magnitude of tidal, orbital, climate, or other impacts, still require study. A special Investigatory Subcommittee formed of scientists from Malaysia, Cameroon, The Hague, the United States and Great Britain will convene at the Max-Planck-Institute of Nuclear Physics in Heidelberg, and prepare findings for presentation in the New Year. At this time, impacts on shipping, air travel and weather are expected to be minor in the short term. Various national space agencies are being consulted, purely on a precautionary basis. Director Klaus Rahn said he has ―excellent hopes‖ for next year‘s session….[10:34 GMT]…

Barrett: …parents and local health officials expressed concern that the 2015 school year could be adversely impacted by an outbreak in nearby Iberville Parish of what the Center For Disease Control has now dubbed ―Nutria Fever.‖ Five cases have been reported, characterized by scaly lesions, painful redness and swelling and dry mouth. The rodents, myocastor coypus to you zoologists, a relative of the common rat, were first imported to the area in the 1930s to bolster the fur trade, and have since become an environmental nuisance. There are nearly 25 million – that‘s right, million – in the state today. In an interview with LiveSix, state epidemiologist Dr. Sara Mittleman advises residents to avoid the creatures and the areas they inhabit, and if one does come in contact with a nutria, or another individual showing signs of Nutria Fever, wash quickly with soap and water and gargle with salt water. Kind of scary, isn‘t it Rachel, and in our own backyard?

209 Rachel: Yeesh. Big rats. That‘s what they look like to me. Big rats. Keep them away. I wouldn‘t wear that stuff if Drew Brees gave it to me. On a much lighter note, a group of Coushatta residents are preparing for something a little scarier than the nutria virus. They are getting ready for the end of the world. With this week‘s LiveSix Tall Tale, here is reporter Perdita Las Cruces in Red River County.

Perdita: Thank you, Rachel, I‘m here just outside of Coushatta where local Commissioner Vance DeGiorgio and several dozen locals have turned this former agricultural storage shed into what they call the [reading from notes] ―World Survival Resource Center.‖ Vance, can you let our viewers in on what you‘re planning to survive?

Vance: Well, Perdita, it‘s not a specific threat per se, you understand, but any one of a series of growing dangers that could erupt at any time into a global catastrophe. Of course, there are the biochemical stockpiles now in the hands of the separatist rebels in the Ukraine. We‘re overdue for a lethal pandemic, according to all the major scientists.

Perdita: Nutria fever maybe?

Vance: Could be, could be. There is the rising sea level encroaching on the Gulf Coast. You know we‘re losing fifty square miles of coastline every year. We‘re also keeping an eye on the ever-present threat of meteor strikes, and of course, the possibility of another major economic collapse like the cold-fusion futures crisis of 2013 or another regional famine like the Monsanto wheat recall of last autumn. We have 1500 doses of antibiotic, pure water stills, enough canned goods to wait out a low-grade nuclear explosion, 300 copies of the King James Bible and (holds up Ruger pistol) enough guns and ammo to protect it all..

Perdita: Guns, God and groceries.

Vance: Absolutely.

Perdita: A lot of viewers are going to ask ―why now?‖ Is there any particular urgency to organizing your group now, today?

Vance: Well, I have to say, this sort of thing…I don‘t even have a name for it…

Perdita: Apocalyptology?

Vance: Sure. Whatever. It‘s, you know, an inexact science. A number of us who meet on the UFO and Fortean websites were of the opinion that we really dodged a bullet in 2012, and that we‘re all kinda whistling past the graveyard, so maybe a more organized response was in order.

Perdita: You folks don‘t seem overly concerned about Black Betty, the galactic black hole we‘re reading so much about these days.

210 Vance: Well, what you interpret as a ―lack of concern‖ stems mostly from the fact that most of the scholarship is in German; once Jim Radke‘s cousin Ottmar arrives from Baltimore, we‘ll have that licked. In the meantime, we are taking no chances. Our headquarters is equipped with a system of grab handles and pulleys to counteract zero gravity, and The Running Man in Mansfield has provided us with fifty pairs of these…

Perdita: Ooh, that‘s heavy…

Vance: These are running shoes with special lead inserts, y‘know, to keep our feet on the ground.

Perdita: And couldn‘t we all use a little of that in these uncertain times? The Coushatta group abhors the term ―survivalists,‖ preferring instead the more optimistic ―thrivealists,‖ and whatever fate has in store, you can bet it‘s not going to take Vance and his followers by surprise. For LiveSix, this is Perdita Las Cruces in Red River County.

Rachel: I‘ll have to see if I can get one of those lead shoes, for when Haskell stays out all night…

Barrett: Oh, you are wicked…

EIGHT SENATORS SIGN LETTER BRANDING BLACK HOLE REPORTS ―HOAX‖

PRESIDENT RITTENHOUSE:…So, it is with a tremendous sense of hope and optimism that I assume this office, not with a sense of fear about the future but with a sense of excitement. I can‘t wait to see what occurs when we turn loose the energy and imagination and skills and get-up-and-go of the American people on problems like gamma radiation and Aggressive Wildlife Syndrome. I have never bet against the American people and I never will.

Now, I think that Mel and John want us to take a few questions from you reporters. I‘m new at this, so don‘t throw off those kid gloves just yet. LaDonna, from People.

QUESTION: Thank you, Madame President. Oooh, I‘m not sure. Do you prefer Ms. or Madame?

PRESIDENT RITTENHOUSE: Anything. I draw the line at Hon, though.

QUESTION: Last Tuesday, NASA issued a fairly dire set of scenarios concerning Black Betty, the nomadic black hole that seems to be moving toward our solar system. The Dow seemed to take it to heart, dropping some 187 points to close at 6200. Do you feel that enough is being done at the moment, or are you wary of taking too alarmist a position?

211 PRESIDENT RITTENHOUSE: First of all, I want to thank you for a really great question. Wasn‘t that a really great question? It deserves a really great answer, and that‘s exactly what I intend to give it. My administration is all about answers. Great ones.

America is a great country, full of the kind of great, resilient citizens that make great countries great. Our history has been filled with challenges, whether it was cutting the cord with Great Britain, navigating the issue of slavery, coping with the tragedy of 9/11 and the threat of international terrorism, or, most recently, the Gulf Coast red algae outbreak. But it takes more than a stamp tax or a few gallons of boiled water to slow down this great nation. Whatever the hurdle, we will rise above it. Americans are full of grit and ingenuity, and we always find a way to triumph.

I want to assure everyone that my administration has spared no effort to get up to speed on this issue. I have appointed General Welling as the Hole Czar, and trust me, there is not a more capable man for the job, as he demonstrated on the battlefields of Sinaloa during the Cocaine Standoff. And I want to announce today that FEMA is recalling three of its top administrators from the Eris-3 Sinkhole in the Florida Panhandle to convene a blue-ribbon panel of experts on the Black Betty situation.

At the risk of angering my Democratic colleagues, I would point out that the tripling of life expectancy caused by the invention of the nanobot, while praiseworthy, put a terrific strain on entitlement programs like MEDICARE and EVERSEX and forced President Jacoby to severely slash budgets for federal and state disaster preparedness. Today, the average state has 18% less to cope with natural disasters, immunization, and health problems like Lazy Head, which is popping up in primary school classrooms nationwide. The survival of our planet, however, is not a partisan issue, and we have to move forward with haste and resolve, to remedy the errors of the past.

As Czar Welling put it so eloquently last week at Duquesne University, one stray gravity source is no excuse to recklessly expand the role of government. Let us remember that black holes, gravity waves, dark energy, while extremely scary, are still theoretical and have never been observed, like Bigfoot or Paul Bunyan or evolution. Let‘s not let the federal bureaucracy become its own ―black hole‖ to swallow up our freedom.

Uh, Cassidy from Rolling Stone?

QUESTION: Do you have any updates on the veterinarians‘ examination of Mr. Nibbles?

HIGHER THAN NORMAL TIDES BLAMED FOR INDONESIAN FLOODS, CROP

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

212 REBUS EXTENDS “THIN IS IN” SUMMER SALES EVENT THROUGH THANKSGIVING

KISSIMMEE, FL, August 18, 2017 (ETHERTEXT) – Rebus International, Inc. (WORLDMART: RINT), the worldwide fashion retailer where ―styles make smiles®,‖ asks value-conscious consumers ―Hey, buddy, why the long face?‖ In honor of our galactic neighbor, Rebus is extending ―Black Hole Sale Days‖ through the Christmas shopping season.

Now that the first stirrings of ―the spaghetti effect‖ have cost-conscious moms sliding into their collegiate skinny-jeans and peppy kids riding growth spurts to the starting high- school five, let Rebus be your one-stop shop for thrifty and nifty fashions for the whole f a m i l y !

―Our spring fiscal quarter saw a 22% jump in same-store sales over the same quarter in 2016,‖ said Chief Financial Officer Baz Carrington. ―With families spending more on staples, as well as bunker excavation and construction, the climate has never been better for discount retailers. And our robust supply chain and lean inventory control practices make us uniquely capable of passing along savings from falling Asian labor costs.‖

―And no American,‖ he continued, ―wants to look blah on the biggest day the world has ever seen!‖

Shortly after Labor Day, Rebus will launch its ―STREEEEEETCH Your Dollar‖ advertising campaign with a series of 60-second holovision messages featuring IBA Monterrey Matadors point guard Elbaz Rahman and national ―Rebus Girl,‖ the serpentine Snowflake Simmons. The campaign is the brainchild of New York ad shop Tutwiller Cleaves, the creators of the groundbreaking ―Fuck The Planet‖ campaign for the American Aerosol Council.

We hope it‘s the start of a long, loooong association!

ABOUT REBUS INTERNATIONAL: Rebus International, Inc. is a holding company headquartered in Kissimmee, Florida, with regional sales offices in Los Angeles, Toronto, Frankfurt, Jakarta and Sydney. Rebus operates more than 200 outlets worldwide, marketing affordable, high-style leisure apparel through the Rebus™, Rebus Juniors™, One O‘ The Lads®, Top Style®, and Fair Dinkum!™ retail chains. Its stock trades on the WORLDMART, Mumbai and Frankfurt exchanges.

For more information contact:

Sinbad Lochner, Tutwiller Cleaves Partners Worldwide (212) xxx-xxxx

EU PARLIAMENT APPROVES €160 MILLION TO COMMENCE CONSTRUCTION

213 TO: [email protected] FR: ―Vulture Bux‖ ([email protected]) RE: SECRETS TO STRESS INVESTING Date: Jan. 8, 2019, 1412:22 GMT -5

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214 Happy Scavenging,

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This message was sent to you by Babko Media because of your registration to receive similar mailings. If this was sent to you in error, or if you do not wish to receive further mailings, send an e-mail to [email protected].

IBA AGREES TO RAISE BASKET TO 12‘6‖STARTING 2020…NEW RULES WILL www.onefam.com/sweetevamarie/notes.htm

The Way The World Ends Tuesday, February 23, 2020, 1:46 a.m. | Edit | | Delete |

Did any of us ever really live? Or was it just like water through a sieve? Up there behind the sky A great blind eye Doesn’t see and doesn’t even cry But gobbles up the happy and the mean Don’t let me die in 2019.

Love is dust There’s no one with your feelings to entrust My being spins With the thought of frozen sins My sister glances back at me and grins Remembering the evil things she’s done Don’t let me die in 2021.

The taste of candy wine Soft heat and silent promises combine Unlock the chain And rise beyond the panic and the pain We’ll never have to see this place again We’ll be higher than the trees If we should die in 2023

215 All gone now But vices that the season will allow Unconscious hell My body is a lost and empty shell No memories, no stories left to tell To any ear that might be left alive All gone in 2025.

Comment

By GrantFletcher, February 23, 2020, 3:19 a.m.:

Don’t be sad. This may not happen. At anny rate, you are an amazing writer! xx

By Avenging Annie, February 25, 2020, 8:02 a.m.:

I love yr poems. And I totally feel you. So little time. Going to Tim’s tonite?

By Tim LeFebvre, February 26, 2020, 7:14 p.m.:

You are beautiful. I want to use some of this for a video project on the Hole. K?

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CHINESE ―SPACE ARK‖ EXPLODES SHORTLY AFTER TAKEOFF; ATMOSPHER www.endvisions.net/newsflash/BlackBettyconnex/htm

REAL ARMAGEDDON: WHO STANDS TO GAIN?

May 8, 2023

Never before in our time has man confronted such a genuine, urgent threat to his continued existence. The Black Hole known as HJ459X3, first observed by the observatory at La Palma in the Canary Islands

216 in 2010, is now bearing down on the Earth, and

could pull the planet into its event horizon within the next five years. Chance encounter? Astrophysicists, as late as 1997, posited the odds of such an event at tens of millions to one. The time has come to ask our leaders who is to blame? Who is responsible?

Unseen Hands of Science

During the post-war era, edge science has occupied a shadowy realm between technology and necromancy, often manipulated by the whims and geopolitical aspirations of the world‘s elites. Whether it was the freemason-led cultivation of the atomic bomb, the suppression of cold fusion by covert government operatives, or many other developments, the roots often lie in the hands of New World Order conspirators!

Could Black Holes be one of the weapons cultivated by the elites?

The Ultimate Doomsday Machine

A small but irrepressible coterie of scientists insist that the cataclysmic explosion that rocked Russia‘s Tunguska River during the spring of 1908 was the collision of the earth with a small black hole, resulting in a 30 megaton blast felt over 2,000 square kilometers. It is proven historical fact that this event coincided with electromagnetic experiments involving the Shoreham, Long Island-based Wardenclyffe Tower, designed by Nikola Tesla, a known member of secret scientific societies, and architect Stanford White – personal favorite of Illuminatus James Gordon Bennett, Jr.

217 In recent years, the European Organization for Nuclear Research (CERN) has constructed the Hadron supercollider, known to have the potential for producing potentially lethal black holes. In his book, Angels and Demons, author Dan Brown posits a connection between CERN and Illuminati scientists conspiring to unleash deadly antimatter on Vatican City. Fiction? Or ―faction‖?

Who Reaps the Rewards?

If a Black Hole hits, all civilization perishes, does it not? Don’t you believe it!

Returning to Tesla, little mainstream publicity has been given to the man, his genius, or his more radical experiments, including the use of magnetic fields to modify space and time. For decades, researchers have whispered about his time travel experiments, taken up by the United States Army at decommissioned facilities at Camp Hero in Montauk, New York during 1967-68.

These experiments allegedly created a so-called ―time tunnel‖ and enabled volunteers to access hyperspace and, thus, navigate the cosmos. The rumored director of these experiments – none other than Nikola Tesla, acting incommunicado after faking his own death!

If these ideas are new to you consider that the original developer of the World Wide Web, principal medium for dissemination of today‘s edge research, was none other than CERN!

Are the leaders of the New World Order looking to make a last-minute escape through space-time, while the old world falls?

Don’t wait! Now is the time to Demand Answers! Join the March For Truth at the Offices of the National Science Foundation, Arlington, Virginia, June 17, 2023, Rain or Shine!

PATRIOTS, DO YOUR DUTY!

218 Speakers (subject to change) will include Dr. Benno Duveen, Coalition For Transparency; Karen Obverse, Secretary, WorldGovWatch; Sincero Tao Juventi, Animal Grievance; Lad Fortinbras, Project AntiDoom

©2023 Ragnarok Press, Inc.

ACTORS EVE AND MURIELLE LUX SELF-IMMOLATE IN KNESSET PROTEST..

…Hey hey, it‘s Lady Coldfire®, backstage at Reckoning ‘25, the Concert to End All, rockin‘ Deseret, Free State, like there‘s no tomorrow! We‘re coming to you in Dimension Totalvision© on the Sense Network™, so jack in, lock on, and hang with us while we try to access some quality vibrations and scan this unique meeting of the minds! We‘re chillin‘ with the mainmen from the two bands sponsoring this monster event – 200,000, and more fans streaming in every minute – Lars Sigurdsson from Codex Gigas and Metatron from The Quorum. Guys, what was the inspiration for Reckoning? What brought this kind of a – can I say rock ―odd couple‖ – together for one show?

M: If I may, I think I‘d like to take a stab at that one.

LC: Don‘t say ―stab‖ too loud around, you know…

M: Good one! We saw this as a chance, maybe the last chance, to bring Christian and Daemonic rock fans together to commemorate the real End of Days. We are, like, pretty sure that nothing could be a clearer sign of The Rapture, where the Bible says the righteous are going to be sucked right up to Heaven. I see that you‘re about 18 inches taller than when we partied at the VMAs, and I love your Ankhers™ – are those snakeskin?

LC: Eelskin, but thanks for noticing!

M: Lookin‘ good, Lady C. Long and lean and on the scene. We‘re all wearing these great kicks with weighted soles – like my Jarvis C-Mentz™ - - but soon we‘re going to kick them off and fly up to Heaven for that really wild afterparty in the sky. For our people, this was just kind of a kickoff event and a way to show our appreciation. Want to thank the makers of Neutrino energy drink for helping us get it all together. It‘s the juice!

LC: Hellz yeah!... Lars, if we can tear you away from that grog, let‘s get you in here to hear what the other side thinks.

219 LS: Sorry, Miss Lady C, I was just taking enjoyment of all the really wild burning and looting that goes on. [Commotion off camera] Nice! Our group of fans may be smaller, but they know how to party much harder and more dangerous! We have been letting everyone know through our website that all these things – the waterspouts and the volcanoes and the surprise solar eclipses of the sun and the animal attacks – was all leading up to the great celebration of Chaos, the crashing down of the societies and the power structure and the unleashment of the true anarchy energy that we all welcome. So we have encouraged everyone to storm the gates and take whatever they wish or burn it if that pleases them. Do what thou wilt, maaaan! This is to be the start of the death of laws and the reign of will and instinct! Check it out! To you we dedicate tonight‘s performance of ―Destroy The Herd‖!

LC: Oooh, can we get a shot of that? That looks like one of the speaker towers falling down under the weight of, like, two dozen kids and, like, a cow or some kind of animal hanging. How did that get up there? Can you ask your fans not to take our equip…Hey, back off, guys…Just have to add that playing with fire could kill you, and the views expressed are those of the individuals and do not reflect the views of Sense™ or Klaxon Media, LDC. Things are getting kinda superwild and rowday here as Xenu Boys wrap up and Codex Gigas gets ready to…[transmission interrupted by technical difficulties]

…RIOT POLICE SHOOT GUNMAN BREAKING INTO UNDERGROUND BASE AT

May 4, 2026

Mr. Ronald Peale 1900 8th Street Akron, OH 44301

Dear Mr. Peale:

In light of recent events, and pursuant to Municipal Ordinance 383.4(d)(2), as authorized pursuant to the federal Catastrophic Event Resettlement Act, as amended, 14 U.S.C. §§ 1201-1245 (2021) (―CERA‖), you, and any other person resident at the above address, are required to vacate your current residence.

CERA empowers any state, territory, protectorate, or duly-constituted municipal government, as defined therein, to enact rules and regulations mandating the evacuation of dwellings deemed to be uninhabitable, and the relocation of persons to safe locations designated by applicable authorities. ―Uninhabitable,‖ for this purpose, shall mean structurally unsound, insufficiently accessible to emergency services, located at an altitude or configured in such a manner as to present an unreasonable risk of collapse or destruction, or presenting such other factors as emergency personnel, in the exercise of reasonable discretion under CERA, shall deem to warrant evacuation.

220 Acting pursuant to CERA, the Akron Emergency Resettlement Authority (―AERA‖) has determined that the property described as Skyview Towers, 1900 8th Street in the city of Akron i s ―uninhabitable‖ within the meaning of CERA, § 1204.2(c) and, in accordance with the requirements of federal law, requires that all residents vacate the aforementioned premises no later than May 18, 2026. If you wish to protest this finding, you may do so at AERA‘s offices, 28 Dunkirk St., Akron, Monday-Friday, during normal business hours.

You should report, no later than May 21, 2026 to the Lancet Resettlement Compound, located at SinDeCo Quarry, R.R. 8, Bath, OH. See the attached Form 986 for a summary of the types of portable goods, foodstuffs and equipment that may be taken with you and applicable penalties for noncompliance. No bullion or currency, live animals, firearms, ammunition, or flammable or explosive materials of any kind, will be permitted.

We thank you for your patience and cooperation during this most unsettled time. With your help, we hope to make this move an easy and safe one for you and your whole family. Please feel free to contact my office with any questions or concerns.

Michael A. Freeman

/s/ Michael A. Freeman Deputy Administrator Akron Emergency Resettlement Auth. cc: Roger Duffy, Chief of Police Maeve Dahlquist, CERA-OH

Enclosure: Form 986 List of Permitted Items

MARANATHA UNIV HOLDS THREE-DAY PRAYER VIGIL, URGES REPEN

Montana State Police, Evidence NO. GRI-27-7814.5 Cartaret/Knack. File No. 27-3786

Transcript of holodisc recording recovered at Cartaret Farm, Carbon County, October 7, 2027. Transcribed by Trooper J. Bland, #819, 10/12/27

Timecode 00:00 [Individual identified as decedent LEMUEL KNACK, 54, appears in close up against red curtain background. He is missing an eye, and his cheeks show numerous scars.]

Hello. My name is [blows single note on pitch pipe]. Allow me to explain. Here at The Staircase, we have all adopted as our identifiers musical tones, because in the next stage

221 our ―life‖ will be an ethereal life without bodies, or tongues, or words. Together, our individual tones, which will reasonate in sheer mind energy, will create the many-voiced symphony of the race.

We made this recording to explain, to whomever might find it, our beliefs and the circumstances of our leave-taking at this glorious, historical moment.

So much of what we have done involves the overcoming of physical, physical and temporal existence. My fellow-travellers and I have spent many months fasting, meditating in silence, depriving ourselves of…all manner of stimulation – optical, tactile olfactory, sexual – in order to break the hold of the physical world, physical sensation. Some of the more devoted initiates have even begun the arduous task of paring down the physical body. [Reaches down to play two-note melody on off-camera chimes] has separated from both legs and arms, and others have also experienced various degrees of ascendancy, toward a state of Puremind.

Imperfect as our current state may be, it will be necessary for us to climb the Stairs. We can no longer wait for further exploration. Much as we had hoped to ascend in common perfection, we always knew that time would not wait for our studies to conclude. The Magister, who lives outside of time, appears at a moment and in a form, of its own choosing. It‘s a case of ―ready, ready or not.‖ Once the door closes, nothing else will open, ever again.

Some of us worried about recognizing the Magister‘s form. Would it be a physical craft, an apparition, a being? But now, there can be no mistake. How could it have come in any other form? It is the great portal, the devourer of things tangible and intangible. No one knows what lies beyond, because, of course, no one can know. How can an entity at our stage glimpse the next before Readiness?

Those of you who may see this recording…we hope to see you at the other end, at the next stairstep.

[At this point, the camera pulls back and we see that KNACK is legless. He picks up what appears to be a machete or cleaver or long knife of some sort and, with great effort, chops down on his forearm, severing muscle, sinew, and finally, bone. The camera pans back and we see what appears to be 30-40 bodies, some in various states of dismemberment, wrapped in identical crimson sheets. Three dead animals, possibly dogs, are in there, too. Two of the bodies ID‘ed by kin as decedents LORELAI GRAF, 14, and JUDSON BARRACLOUGH, 37. All are still, appear to be dead.]

[KNACK‘s voice continues off camera] Everything must go. We must go. We prevail. [Recording ends] Timecode 16:18

222 SOUNDS ABOUND

Kate MacDonald

Class warfare! Sex talk! Random I think that this issue gives a musings! Oh, it must be the particularly fascinating series of Paraphilia music section. glimpses at the interior universes of a series of passionate, musical OK, I was just going to leave it at people. that, but, typically, I can‘t. Properly, this doesn‘t even look like a real Whether their visions (To follow up music section. Everything seems to on an above point, can you have come at you through a variety of musical visions? Oh, forget it.) distorted lenses (Can you even have coincide or collide head on with aural lenses? In MY world you can), your own, there is surely something giving you a jumble of thoughts, to appreciate in seeing (Hearing?) a feelings, facts and fancies about what hint of the multiplicity of reactions music does to the individual mind. that music brings.

It‘s like seeing the reactions to a Personally, I‘m listening to a record Rorschach test: the source material whose existence I‘d forgotten since may not change, but the reactions to about 1993. It‘s what I remembered it multiply and bifurcate endlessly, and I‘m struck equally by two each reaction giving a glimpse into a thoughts: complete, unique universe. 1) It hasn‘t aged gracefully in any Our reactions to music, our thoughts sense; and… on music, are, like everything else, 2) There is still something about it completely personal. They are a that appeals to me. reflection of our accumulated personal experience and the Of course, what I‘m hearing comes distinctive twists of our perverse from my own personal universe, my little personalities. background, my experiences with this record. While that might be true of many things, our reaction to music is To you, what I‘m listening to would peculiarly passionate such that it likely sound quite cheesy, because seems reasonable to assume that it is there‘s no way that you‘d ever be more closely bonded to our sense of able to hear what I‘m hearing. self, the core of our personality than, say, our taste in food. I could try to explain it, but, really, there‘s so much more to get to...

223 doesn‘t expect money or stardom to be in the mix. There is a purity here which appeals to me. However, I would not make myself write about this group if I didn‘t like the way it sounds. Because to write a review about anything, you have to listen to it (well, a real review – I have pretty much decided to eschew publications who post sound bite reviews, i.e., ―Like Madonna if Beyonce were stepping really hard on her foot in an old warehouse at 3 a.m.‖ OUT OF THE BOX This is not because I have a lot of By Mary Leary integrity – to be quite frank, since I am living perilously close to the Bogs Visionary Orchestra street, I would like to make some Mean Old World (Modfare Records) money. No, it is because publications who use sound bites eschew me, If you like Jad Fair or Daniel sensing I am not a sound bite kinda Johnston it is pretty safe to assume writer, or because they only seek the you will like Bogs Visionary opinions of people under 28. I am Orchestra. If you‘re into the Shaggs, living perilously close to the street it‘s even more likely. There are only because I am a poet, and not one maybe 135 people in the world who who went the academic route or was like Jad Fair, Daniel Johnston, or the adaptable, conceited, or sober Shaggs (and don‘t just say they do enough to jump on the Slam wagon because they heard it was hip - that when it came through town. I am a would account for maybe 25), and I very good poet, but very good heard that 14 of the 135 died this poetry is about as interesting to most year. I am writing this review people as is BVO. because there is no worse, more futile loneliness than that of making Not that you asked, but I thought I art with no place to go. And while would explain my situation. It‘s not BVO is known for jubilant around- like I just sit around doing nothing NYC performances, it has a right to and staring out the window, have its stories told to a wider although one of my poet friends audience. To me this is partly recently said that was exactly what because the group, despite A. Bogs‘s he needed time to do. And Ted visionary messages, doesn‘t seem to Berrigan, of the New York, post-beat be preaching to anyone, and if it is, it ―school,‖ said poets shouldn‘t have

224 to do anything other than write proved untenably dry, I became poetry – it‘s too distracting. I peculiarly attached to a track resonate deeply with that sentiment entitled, ―May I Take A Bath?‖ I but haven‘t been able to move to liked it so much that occasionally, Ireland, where I hear they adore when a new friend would seem poets, because I have not had a lot of unusually open-minded, I would success at steadily earning the cash reveal this to them, much as a gay that would buy suitcases and tickets person 60 years ago might reveal for the cats and myself. Besides, if their inclinations, or a foot fetishist this thing about Ireland and poets is finally begs a woman to buy some true, and for decades poets have nylons. been relocating there with their cats and then drinking dark ale and ―Isn‘t it great? Isn‘t it funny?‖ I breeding with other poets, well, you would say, watching my friend‘s can just imagine all the poets and face for the hoped-for delighted cats there now. reaction. Or I would say nothing, hoping that Sparrow‘s Other than perhaps Malaysia, where Zen/existentialist brilliance would it seems normal, there is no country speak for itself. ―I mean, don‘t you that is particularly supportive of like the Fugs?‖ I might say, knowing visionary orchestras. BVO has still the battle was already lost. mustered the energy to make another CD about the world that is Hardly anyone I‘ve ever met has so disinterested in its musings. enjoyed ―May I Take A Bath?‖ as That‘s good, because drinking Xanax much as I, but then, I also get a cocktails and hiding in bed for 20 charge from these releases called hours at a time is only fun once in Incredibly Strange Music awhile, and should be a punishment (http://www.researchpubs.com/cds for something really bad, not a /ism1prod.php), Volume One of lifestyle. which includes Buddy Merrill‘s take on ―Flight Of the Bumble Bee,‖ here Even before A. Bogs and his musical called ―Busy Bee‖ and played at such buddies coughed up this new a screeching-tire velocity, Buddy recording they reminded me of my must have been on crystal, 24/7, for old poet comrade, Sparrow, who weeks. does things like running for the U.S. presidency by standing on first one I would try and push the fact that foot, then the other, in Tompkins two of BVO‘s central members have Square Park dark, thick beards, and appear to be (http://sparrowforprez.com). About Jewish, or at least ―ethnic,‖ hoping to 15 years ago he made a recording lure Iron and Wine fans, but those that hovered further under the radar people might then get angry when than even BVO. Although most of it they realize that, other than the

225 beards, BVO isn‘t anywhere near as fighting in the war/Who‘s dying in dull as Iron and Wine. A lot of the war/Who‘s protesting the Bogs‘s music is really lively. It even war/Jesus, Jesus.../Who‘s the sounds like the members are having peddler on the street/Who‘s the fun. stranger that you meet/Who‘s the liar who‘s the cheat.‖ By the time ―I Believe,‖ which starts Mean Old you get a chill you have been lulled World, echoes Beatles harmonies and irretrievably forward. seems to be about longing for justice and other nice things, and this ―Unemployed‖ is a sprightly little having something to do with circa-1900s composition expanding believing in a god, which reminds on the possibilities in the situation. me of Daniel Johnston. Along with Its ragged/bouncy lilt recalls some nearly everything else here, it shines of the earnestly strange approaches with a knowing innocence – BVO is to folk, especially by the Residents, able to chuckle ruefully at its own on a sublime Ralph Records idealism. On tracks like ―Can‘t Stop compilation, Potatoes (no link here, as Wearin‘ A Gun‖ the group flirts with I recommend hunting down the out- uneasily resolved conflicts. of-print LP version). ―No Escape‖ (―from doom‖) which veers into How these people are different than Band territory, is lovely. So I‘m Jad Fair and Daniel Johnston: There‘s hardly surprised when the next a darker, prettier room in the BVO track, ―Homeless On The Street‖ – is house, because of the harmonium as quietly compelling as some of and cello on some songs, and John Lennon‘s post-Beatles songs. generally richer tonal inclinations. Most songs are framed in seminal I think I could get a friend to listen to country-western, dance hall, and this CD. Of course, most of the folk structures. More than many people who are drawn to me think contemporary groups who do so I‘m pretty different. ―Different than with less true ingenuity or humor, what?‖ I sometimes wonder. What I BVO at its best recalls at least hope they want is that sense that moments by the sublime Canadian something genuine and possibly duo whose masterpiece, Fraser & unexpected might happen, then be Debolt With Ian Guenther, reemerged followed by a nice Sunday dinner, from out-of-print obscurity two after which we watch a film that years ago makes us reconsider something we (http://fraserdebolt.com/audio.html) . previously took for granted, like that scene in Me and You and Everyone We ―Forlorn‖ sounds like it could have Know where anal sex is presented as been on the Ballad of Cable Hogue a child‘s dream of endless merging. soundtrack. ―Jesus‖ wistfully and Which reminds me of one of the rather eerily whispers: ―Who‘s tracks on this recording – ―Forlorn

226 II‖ has the kind of heels-in-the-air my mantelpiece. It‘s a beautiful item, joy the local folk festival lost a few about nine inches tall. It stands on a years ago, when all the old timers flat pedestal bearing TMGE‘s skull- got too old or dead to make it and and-crossbones logo (obviously started to be replaced by people too inspired by that of the Nipponese cool to be so uncool they‘re cool. band‘s idols, England‘s Pirates). That‘s something I don‘t even want Grinning and skeletal, it clutches a to explain, but if any of this sounds meticulously detailed replica of good to you, you probably Abe‘s Telecaster. Allen Larman, the understand, and might even like buyer at the old Rhino Records store Mean Old World, which is a bit more on Westwood Boulevard who shared vintage New World dance-hall than my mania for the band, imported a its slightly more emo/contemporary few and sold them for 75 bucks a predecessor, Maladroits Union, which pop. I also like very much. The only thing keeping me from all-out raving is the I dusted off the Abe figure in scratchy vocals partially impelling homage to the musician, who died my comparisons with Johnston and on July 22 at the age of only 43 from Fair – an acquired taste, for those a rare form of cancer. I don‘t mourn willing to listen beyond surfaces. just the passing of one of the finest There‘s also some room for sonic rock guitarists I ever witnessed on a maturation, perhaps to include a stage. His demise also marks the end greater merging or expansion from of my abiding and no doubt strange basic structures. BVO have not made obsession with his onetime group, a great record, but they have made a one of Japan‘s biggest rock bands very good one, which doesn‘t sound and a little-known cult love object in exactly like any other at the moment. the U.S. Despite their dissolution six years ago, I‘d longed for a reunion (http://www.myspace.com/bogsvis and another chance to see them ionaryorchestra) again. No chance of that now. ______I have Eric Levin‘s great Atlanta store Criminal Records to thank for AN OBSESSION: my introduction to TMGE. On my THEE MICHELLE GUN first visit there in 1999, my eye was ELEPHANT & ME caught by the striking cover of an album called ―Gear Blues.‖ Criminal By Chris Morris was selling the record in two different versions; each bore a photo Last week I moved my cherished of the four impassive band members Japanese action figure of Thee clad yakuza style in black shirts and Michelle Gun Elephant‘s guitarist suits, and on one (in tribute to the Futoshi Abe to a place of honor on Pirates‘ vocalist Johnny Kidd) they

227 all wore eye patches. The record was ―Casanova Snake,‖ ―Chicken on a listening post, and after a quick Zombies,‖ and ―Radio Tandem Beat spin of two bone-crushing tracks, I Specter.‖ I also picked up a couple of was sold. I walked out with copies of their video compilations, and I was both editions. amazed to find that in Japan TMGE commanded enormous audiences. I immediately fell in love. TMGE The footage showed them playing in was a louder turbocharged version cavernous halls in front of literally of rock/pub/punk acts like the thousands of fans who bounced Pirates, the Who, Dr. Feelgood, and dementedly in unison to the music. the Jam. (Their name, I would learn, was derived from a mishearing of I became evangelical about TMGE. I ―Machine Gun Etiquette,‖ a Damned handed out copies of ―Gear Blues‖ album title.) The music was pure (supplied by the group‘s power. It mattered little that all their management) to my colleagues at lyrics were in Japanese, with just the Billboard, and the album became the title hooks screeched in battered surprise winner of the magazine‘s English by singer Yusuke Chiba. 1999 year-end critics‘ poll. I (English translations of the lyrics convinced Andrew Male at Mojo made little sense. Sample: ―Tarred that TMGE was worth a story, and, and make it hard/Tank with the help of Billboard‘s wrecked/Then burst out/‗Love is a Japanese-born ad salesman Aki kinda hater‘/Yeah! Smokin‘ Billy!‖) Kaneko, I conducted one of the The band was simply white-hot in band‘s few interviews with a non- every category, and the hottest thing Japanese publication. Alive Records about it was Abe‘s ripping, picked up ―Gear Blues‖ for domestic rhythmically and harmonically acute consumption, and then asked me to playing, infused with the fire and write the liner notes for a 2001 dexterity of precursors like the TMGE compilation called, fittingly, Pirates‘ Mick Green (with whom ―Collection.‖ TMGE cut an EP) and the Who‘s Pete Townshend. I will always remember the ecstatic 1999 TMGE show I saw at the now One of the ―Gear Blues‖ discs I long-defunct East Hollywood dump bought was a promo copy bearing a the Garage. (It was one of only 16 phone number for TMGE‘s dates they played in the U.S. during American management firm. In time, their 10-year career.) At the time, my I raided the company for anything I then-wife and I had a Japanese could get my hands on. The band exchange student living in our spare had been recording since the early room. When I invited the kid to see ‗90s, and I collected their other the group at a club, her eyes became albums, which bore such mysterious saucers – she couldn‘t believe a band idiomatic titles as ―Cult Grass Stars,‖ that normally played immense

228 arenas back home was going to be U.S. or subject to insane overpricing performing in some dinky little L.A. on the import market. club. The night of the show, the place was full of other My friend Rick Brown, a local sound Elephantophiles, many of them man who came to share my fixation Japanese students like my boarder. It with TMGE, handed me a copy of was a searing gig, and the whole ―Burning Motors‖ at a gig this band shredded, but it was Abe who weekend, along with some earlier impressed all night with his live videos and a copy of the band‘s endlessly imaginative and rare 1993 debut, the live album consistently puissant rhythm/lead ―Maximum! Maximum! Maximum!‖ work. After the show I went up to We‘d been commiserating back and him, introduced myself, and bowed forth on Facebook for a few days. low in a salute. The music that Futoshi Abe made with Thee Michelle Gun Elephant Unfortunately, a little label like Alive was so vital, original, lyrical, and couldn‘t purchase much traction for visceral that it seemed impossible to this astounding band in America. both of us that there would be no David Fricke, the last honest man at more of it. Right now I‘m waiting for Rolling Stone, wrote glowingly Amazon to deliver a copy of about them, but it wasn‘t enough. I Toshiaki Toyoda‘s 2001 wild-youth didn‘t care if Thee Michelle Gun film ―Blue Spring,‖ which makes Elephant couldn‘t sing in English, extensive use of TMGE‘s music. I but almost all of the rest of America need a last taste. did. I guess it must be this way for I‘m sure the lack of success in everyone who loves music: America didn‘t really matter much Somewhere along the way, all of us to the guys in TMGE. They were end up getting touched with a fine huge in their home country – so madness, an affection for a band that huge, in fact, that they decided to transcends cultural and language call it quits at their peak in 2003, barriers, one that surpasseth all after one last enormous farewell reason. I was mad for TMGE, and show memorialized on the DVD sad to see them go. Now, Abe‘s ―Burning Motors Go Last Heaven.‖ death is simply devastating; as (LOVE those titles.) Find a copy of it, someone said when Elvis died, it and copies of the band‘s albums, if feels like there aren‘t going to be any you can – a Web search indicates more hamburgers, ever. that virtually everything by the group is either out of print in the Sayonara, Abe-san. ______

229 Low Classical Usic buying power - the slaves, the indentured servants, the poorest of the wage slaves (the minimum wage recipients), the welfare recipients, the Sometimes it comes to the unsuccessful or non-greedy criminals, attention of someone or another that I the ones the company store “owns”, etc. play keyboards, guitar, percussion or The “Upper Class” being the richest - other such things too commonly those with the maximum of property, associated with “music”. Sometimes I‟m income, & buying power - the “owners” asked something like “What kind of of the slaves & the indentured servants, music do you play?” This is where it the ones who set the minimum wage (& starts to get tricky. I‟ve tried such pay less when they can get away with responses as “I don‟t play m u s i c , I play it), the successful greedy criminals, the booed usic” - which leads to a brief owners of the company store franchise, explanation of the unpopularity of using the “owners” of the land & housing that sounds organized without “musical” the “Low Class” can barely afford to intent. I‟ve also tried responding with “I rent. The “Middle Class”: those in play Aleatoric “Fortean” Novelty Mytho- between. A thoroughly superficial class Gossip Usical Service Industry So- analysis. Called Whatevers”. Given that most Now, what is “Classical Music”? askers seem to be expecting a simple To partially quote a dictionary at hand it answer, this last response seems to might be music that “conforms to certain arouse the hope that I won‟t explain any established standards of form, further. Long eccentric answers strain complexity, musical literacy, etc.” the attention span & make many people Commonly, “Classical Music” seems to nervous. refer to a sortof “high-brow” music, I thought “booed usic” was a music that appeals to supposedly pretty obvious take-off from “mood sophisticated tastes, music mainly liked music” but it seems that I was wrong. by the staid upper classes. In a music Now I‟ve hit on “Low Classical Usic” as history class I was taught that there‟s a the easy answer to the question. Its period in “Classical Music” between buzz-word potential is stellar. Everyone Baroque & Romantic called “Classical”. I‟ve tried it on so far has immediately I dunno. grasped that “Low Classical Usic” = I‟ve always had my own criteria in “Low” Class Classical (M)Usic. Now, to searching out & evaluating anything that try to define it & put it in, at least, a interests me. These criteria, in relation superficial historical context. to products of sentient beings, are First, let‟s just define classes in roughly that the creations be terms of economic power. The “Low representative of an unusual idea Class” being the poor people - the ones manifested in a distinctive way. Often I with the minimum of property, income, &

230 find complex & difficult realizations more “Classical Music” as satisfying to my tastes because the skill representative of the “Upper Class” required for them is unusual in itself. seems to serve a fairly straight-forward The ability to play “Classical function of upholding certain “values” or, Music” is supposed to represent a as the dictionary read, “established pinnacle in playing skill achievement. standards of form”. “Classical Music”‟s This is part of the snobbery of “Upper reputation as the most refined & difficult Class” ideals. In order to “prove” that & “superior” music implies the “Upper Class” deserves its metaphorically that the societal privileged position, “Classical Music” “established standards of form” that it‟s can be used as an example of “Upper an outgrowth of are of parallel Class” “superiority”. Ironically though, “superiority”. In other words, the status “Classical Music” history is rife with quo that sustains the “Upper Class” in instances of its composers being power is implied to be the status quo ridiculed for composing music that that makes possible “superior” culture surpasses previous playing skill such as “Classical Music”. Such an demands. The classic scenario of implication serves to “justify” the innovation being spurned & gradually upholding of the status quo. co-opted can be found with the In order for this lie to work contempt that Tchiakovsky‟s first Piano however, what‟s mainly presented as Concerto opening chord sequences “Classical Music” must be presented as were met with. Now, of course, a relic of a “Golden Age” safely beyond Tchiakovsky is held up as a revered the lifespan of anyone living &, as such, romantic “Classical” composer. definable by conveniently kiss-ass The story goes that when Charles historians. These “historians” are like Ives hired a respected violinist to play the “expert witnesses” whose diplomas one of his sonatas the violinist left in a make them useful for lawyers needing rage saying something to the effect that “credibility” for whichever trial position it was unplayable. This brings us to the they stand to make the most money off era of “Classical Music” that doesn‟t of. This “Golden Age” is one in which seem to‟ve settled into any comfortable strife is neatly historicized & everyone is name yet - despite its arguable put in their proper place - to all of the existence since 1885 (or whenever). classes their “god-given” niche. The Some would call it Contemporary “natural” “divine” rights of the Ruling Classical or Modern (which, of course, Class & the laws of “natural” selection brings up Post-Modern) or Experimental that keep the poor in poverty. Classical or Avant Garde Classical or, When things get closer to the perhaps, Difficult Listening. I don‟t find present, historification can‟t render any of these terms satisfactory. everything a safe story yet. History is a story but the present tense is reality (in

231 one sense at least). As such, the the exciting-new, exciting-new & up the present tense of the “avant garde” of price. “Classical Music” (of any era) can create So who is it that creates this a “crisis” for the image of the “Golden Difficult Listening when the “Upper Age” simply by being a product of Class” pay-off isn‟t forthcoming? Why current concerns. “Classical Radio” the “Low Classical Usicians” of course. rarely plays (& I do mean rarely) any Strictly speaking, I might say that the music that represents a challenge to “Class” I‟m most interested in promoting whatever “established standards of the idea of in this instance is the “No-No form” are most correlative to the Class”. That is, the “Class” of people historification of the status quo. In other who most slip thru the cracks between words, any music that disrupts the any class definition. I once briefly status quo by significantly calling any taught a class in guerrilla actions called established form in question. As such, the “No-No Class” & explained that no “Classical Radio” serves more as a matter how the students performed in reminder of who‟s still in power than it the class they‟d all get “D”s (the lowest does to play complex music. passing grade) - but that‟s a different “Twentieth Century Classical story. However, given that this “Low Music” has been somewhat Classical Usic” terminology originated characterized by rejection of tradition. partially in my attempts to make an Percussion instruments were taken from easily comprehensible joke for a their usual simple-minded role & used in change, I‟ll stick with this “Low Class” as many ways as the composers could biz. think of. “Tone color” in general came to The “Low Classical Usician” can include a much larger variety. be defined as someone who develops Electronics, noise. Variety, variety. some aspects of “Classical Music” Variety is not the spice of life from a theory & praxis so seriously in certain Ruling Class perspective when that directions that they threaten to skew the variety threatens the status quo. Hence, true class status quo perpetuation only the semblance of variety can be function & are, thusly, not acceptable to “allowed”. The composers who become the diplomaed “Upper Class” (or, would- absorbed into the pantheon of the be “Upper Class”) arbiters of “Classical “Classical Music” gods are those who Music” as “Classical Musicians” at all. If question the viability of class divisions these upstart “Low Classical Usicians” the least. should happen to make it into “Classical This is just as “true” with pop Music” history anyway, there‟s always music. Too much real variety is a threat the chance that the “experts” will be able to assembly-line low-cost production. to completely misrepresent them & their It‟s much more profitable to simply relation to established power. repackage the same-old, same-old as

232 The main stranglehold that the “uncontrolled variables”, they made “Upper Class” has on music production situations possible where orchestra is economic. When only certain members could not only squeeze instruments are presented as “real” themselves in without having to be instruments, there‟s the problem of practiced musicians but could also acquiring them. When the “acceptable” exploit their classically undesirable sound-producing “instrumentation” is quirks as a main producer of distinction. expanded to included “anything”, money The Portsmouth Sinfonia is no longer as necessary. But who has specialized in only playing popular the time to think about these things or to classics (made popular, as Michael produce? The moneyed are only going Nyman points out in his book to throw their spare change to their idea experimental music - Cage and beyond, of the “good” musician in order for them by “sources outside the concert hall - to reach the economic security where the William Tell Overture from the Lone the maximum time can be spent Ranger series, the 1812 from Family producing “Classical Music”. In the Favorites”). These were played without meantime, the “Low Class” is often too requiring that its performers necessarily busy struggling to pay the “Upper know “how” to play them. This, for me, Class”-imposed rent to have much time is an epitome of the “Low Classical for anything else. Usician”‟s attitude - a sortof reclaiming The orchestra is one of the of music as general property. With ultimate symbols of Ruling Class music once again perceived as a “superiority”. Who else can afford to get metaphor for other aspects of social so many musicians together to play “the relations, this “reclaiming” could be same thing” at once. Various examples called parallel to the Diggers‟ (brutally of what I want to call “Low Classical supressed) use of the Commons for Usic” come to mind as remarkable “common” (read “Low Class”) purposes accomplishments in the area of large after the English Civil War. scale “musical” projects not entirely The Portsmouth Sinfonia even based in Ruling Class privilege & the managed to coordinate 82 members + usual economic relations. an excess of 350 choir members for The Scratch Orchestra & The their May 28th, 1974 performance at the Portsmouth Sinfonia, for example, both Royal Albert Hall (go figure?!)! strike me as prime examples of how to Interestingly, in their repertoire was the organize an orchestra without requiring above-mentioned Tchiakovsky Piano total adherence to status quo class Concerto. In the liner notes to the structure. By accepting what Howard recording of this event, the following Skempton, composer/performer & co- anecdote is related: founder of the Scratch Orchestra, is “Tchiakovsky‟s notion of his reputed to have referred to as inability to grasp & manipulate musical

233 form was not helped by Rubenstein‟s This latter subject of “good taste” hostile reaction to the Piano Concerto opens up a big enough can of worms for No. 1 when Tchiakovsky played it Stefan Szczelkun, one time member of through to him on Christmas Eve 1874. the Scratch Orchestra, to have written It was hoped that the virtuoso would an entire book about it entitled The point out any technical impracticalitites. Conspiracy of Good Taste. This book is To his mind, though, the piece was basically an analysis of how Working unplayable, clumsy, worthless and Class Culture is subtly repressed - commonplace, it was beyond correction especially focusing on figures and only two or three pages had any supposedly representing the working value. The rest had to be destroyed or class with a sanitized version of its completely remodelled. However, culture that smothers & hides the Tchiakovsky refused to change a single workers‟ true vitality by imposing note. “I have never felt so proud of internalized middle-class values taken anything I’ve written”, he said later.” for granted as “superior”. The Portsmouth Sinfonia A 21 page section of this book is repossessed “long-haired” music for the on the English folk song collector Cecil “long-hairs” of its day - minus the all- Sharp (born in 1859). It‟s interesting to important dress-code. Looking at the note that of the 7 folk song collectors P.S. photos, very few are to be seen profiled by Szczelkun to give historical wearing tuxedos or “formal dress”. background before discussing Sharp, Some members of the Sinfonia even one of them was a judge, one was a have their shirt-tails out. It might not high-bailiff, & another was a son of a seem like much to some readers of this lawyer. Characteristic of all of these article, but most non-conformist “song collectors” was their consistent dressers will be familiar with the censoring & rewriting of the basic experience of being denied admittance material to produce something to restaurants for “lack of proper attire”, “acceptable” for printing. An oral culture being kicked out of school for “failure to that used non-literate language & that follow the dress code”, or of not gett i n g included references to politics & sex or losing a job for not being toned down became “tastefully” translated into a or “professional” “enough” or for not literate language that censored & wearing a uniform. The “Upper Class” subdued controversial subject matter. wants all its employees (even the Some examples of this provided relatively privileged symphony in The Conspiracy.. are as follows: musicians) to show what their “proper” “Phillips seems to have been place in the hierarchy is by dressing in advised that his first edition was not the approved servant attire. All in the tasteful enough and he was careful to name of “good taste” of course. Whose see to it that his second edition good taste? Certainly not mine.

234 contained „no vile Conceit, no Low Pun, oral & literary culture - but it or double Entendre‟.” seems important to point out “Ritson[„s..] own selections were that neither is an exact chosen not to “tinge the cheek of translation of the other & that delicacy, or offend the purity of the both have intrinsic chasest ear.” [..] He would characteristics of value. To [additionally] [..] „make sense of again quote The nonsense‟.” Conspiracy..: “Before Scott died, he admitted “Between 1888 and 1915 the that perhaps he was wrong to „improve word „folk‟ was used in the titles of at the poetry‟ at the expense of their least 27 song collections. The vast „simplicity‟. In fact the mother of Hogg, majority of these would be accompanied one of his main lower class by piano arrangements, “which, while collaborators, told him to his face: providing the necessary prop for a “ye hae spoilt them awthegither. drawing-room performance and They were made for singin‟ an‟ no for theoretically helping to coordinate the readin‟; but ye hae broken the charm undisciplined singing of a hall full of noo, an‟ they‟ll bever be sung mair. An‟ school children, at the same time the worst thing of a‟, they‟re nouther imposed the rhythmic strictness and richt spell‟d nor richt setten down” tonal strait-jacket of the pianoforte upon (Harker, 1985, p.70).” a music which appears to have cared “The lyrics were a poor not at all for the discipline of the transcription of oral language and metronome and owed nothing to the clashed with literary standards. The chromatic scale employed by art critics had no understanding of the musicians and composers” (Pegg, 1976, structure of dialect which was just p.18).” considered a poor version of „proper‟ Given that the advent of speech and clearly needed to be publishing enabled a breakthrough in translated into „correct‟ English. Baring- the massive dissemination of the Gould found that they were “Usually “history of the victor”, it‟s no wonder that rubbish” or that “some of the most the orientation of the ruling class would exquisite melodies were coupled to be towards an oral/aural culture as close either foul or silly words”.” to the literary one as possible. The Here we have Oral more the ruling class thought & spoke in versus Literary (spoken literary terms, the more adept they could words transcribed as written be at manipulating the published & most words) & Aural versus widely distributed & taught version of Literary (heard sounds reality. I liken the refining of music thru transcribed as notated ones). the filter of traditional notation to the I‟m certainly in favor of both

235 refining of food to the point of overkill in for workers, giving the illusion of which most of the nutrition is removed. unsupervised participation without In my own experience, I recall threatening middle-class hegemony.” listening to one friend‟s traditionally Szczelkun‟s own experience with the “upper class” notated music & oppression of the tradition of working commenting that “all I heard was a class song was exemplified by when his bunch of 16th notes.” This rather harsh singing “was met with a harsh “Pity you comment of mine was meant to say that can‟t sing”, a judgement which must the limitations of the notation used & the have been based on the success of the rigidity of the performance were such Sol-fa scale and the general message that the rhythmic results were bland & that the working class people who didn‟t the timbral language was practically pick up these conventions quickly, or nonexistent because the notation was who intuitively resisted them, „couldn‟t too crude (or overly “refined”) to include sing‟.” I‟ve talked with at least a few i t ! friends who had similar experiences that Szczelkun quotes Dave Harker‟s discouraged them from exploring their Fakesong: The manufacture of British own musicality by frightening them with folksong 1700 to the present day as a fear of ridicule. quoting Sharp as saying “Our traditional Elsewhere, he notes that: songs are a great instrument for “The „high moral tone‟ which was sweetening and purifying our national applied to censor the content of songs life and for elevating and refining became part and parcel of the Victorian popular taste”. Szczelkun then goes on manufacture of childhood. The to develop the idea that: vulnerability of the young was confused “Working class culture was to be with a myth of innocence. The stultified, backdated, modified, cleaned reasonable protection of children from up and sold back to us as the genuine abuse was confused with a protection article -- the mythologizing of from supposedly crude language and authenticity that goes to the irrational vulgar realities: in other words from core of bourgeois culture. This was to working class culture. The child was to be done by infecting one of the great be inculcated from the start with „good hopes of working people, education.” taste‟. So as young people were Szczelkun then quotes from Chris released from the bondage of child Waters‟ British Socialists and the labour they were embraced by a new Politics of Popular Culture: 1884-1914 in style of oppression.” order to demonstrate how the teaching Szczelkun‟s observation about of a limited tonal system could be used these changes is that “Fundamentally, for indoctrination: “The Tonic Sol-fa dominant culture is a repression of the system of music notation was originally „lower senses‟, for example, reference to intended as a means of moral training bodily functions--which the upper

236 classes, being more akin to gods than directly in order to survive. As animals, really did not want to admit to.” Szczelkun puts it: It‟s very interesting to me that “no “The working class folk song vile Conceit” should be contained in the culture had been colonized through the transcriptions of the folk songs activity of the collectors and publishers. considering that, to me, the pretense of It had been cleaned up and was then representing a culture while fused with bourgeois idioms and simultaneously radically changing it is in presented back to the people as itself a “vile Conceit”. Even more national culture in opposition to the interesting to me is the eradication of „vulgarized‟ urban popular culture.” the “Low Pun”, the “double Entendre”, & As for sexual content, here‟s my “nonsense”. Such humorous shortened version of Szczelkun‟s quote ambiguities are powerful underminers of from the introduction to Jerry fixed roles & are, as such, a threat to Silverman‟s The Dirty Song Book: rigid class hierarchies. I wonder how “Where were the dirty songs my terminology would‟ve been reacted when Cecil Sharp, Carl Sandburg, and to.. I like to imagine that “Low Classical John Lomax came around? [..] ...Did Usic” would‟ve fit into all 3 of those the cowboy, sailor, or chain gang rejected categories. convict suddenly become shy when As for “not offend[ing] the purity confronted with the strange fellow with of the chasest ear”, I think any sound at the notebook [..]? [..] all can fuck with the virginity of a “truly” “[..] we can only infer a tacit chaste ear. Sensing anything is to have conspiracy of silence as the reason for the “purity” of that sense “sullied” by their almost complete non-existence in experience (to use a similar vocabulary). print...when Alec Guiness led his hardy At any rate, to take material from one band over the River Kwai they only culture & then highly modify it to make it whistled the tune of the so-called acceptable to another while still „Colonel Bogey‟s March‟. Do you pretending that it represents the 1st suppose that the British soldiers didn‟t culture can be more than simply bad have some choice lyrics to fit that scholarship. The hidden agenda of this stirring march? Your‟re damned right process was (& is) to ultimately they did! Turn to page 92 for a poetical eradicate working class culture by analysis of the anatomy of Hitler, pretending to present it in its “true Goering, Himmler and Goebbels and goodness” - attempting to “shame” the then see if you could ever be satisfied original culture‟s “rowdier” elements into just whistling the tune again.” conformity w/ values held by “higher” In David Ocker‟s liner notes to classes that could ignore “facts of life”, Frank Zappa‟s “Francesco Zappa” such as economic despair, that the parody record of the “Golden Age” of “lower” class had to deal with more “Classical Music” we find the following

237 description of a “Classical Musician”‟s What‟s funny to me is that I find life: Schickele‟s following description of the ..“Francesco found honest imaginary instrument the “Hardart” (a employment sawing away [at his „cello] thinly veiled reference to Difficult Music while noblemen ate dinner. It wasn‟t perhaps?) to be much more interesting such a bad job if you remembered every than most of the 18th century music fifteen minutes to remind the nobleman promoted by “Classical Radio”: what a perfectly wonderful human being “One of the strangest instruments he was, stressing the intense personal of the 18th century, the Hardart has a privilege you felt by coming to his range of over two almost chromatic digestive assistance. He might even octaves, with each successive tone remember to pay you.” Ho Hum. I possessing a different quality or timbre. much prefer Spike Jones‟ Dinner The sound-producing devices include M u s i c ...for people who aren‟t very plucked strings, bottles which are blown hungry! to music butlers cranking out and struck, and a cooking timer. “Classics” with humorless robotic Windows in the center section, which precision. can be opened after inserting the Spike Jones & the City Slickers, necessary coins in the slots, contain the The Portsmouth Sinfonia, & the Scratch different mallets required to play the Orchestra all had a place in their percussion devices, as well as repertoires for “Classical Music” - as sandwiches and pieces of pie which are Spike said, they could use them to show particularly welcome during long their “musical depreciation”. In Mr. concerts.” Sounds like an honorary Michael Bond‟s extremely straight-faced “Low Classical Usical Instrument” to me. address to the opening of the Sinfonia‟s In a coincidental overlap of Royal Albert Hall concert, his referring to terminology, The Neoist Headquarters the pieces to be played as having “been of New York City announced in August known & loved by each one of us” is of 1986ev “the beginning of the GREAT greeted by much laughter. If Bond‟s CONFUSION, the Immortal address had been preceding a straight Revolutionary Hard Art Époque initiated “Classical Music” concert, not a word by Monty Cantsin and the people of the would‟ve been “out of place” - but would Lower East Side.” there‟ve been any laughter? I wonder Back to the “uncontrolled whether a generalization can accurately variables”: In my essay accompanying be made about what the audience was my record entitled Usic Minus the laughing about? Did many of the people Square Root of Minus One I wrote in just put the Sinfonia in the same reference to my 1975ev d composition category as humorist Peter Schickele‟s entitled P.D.Q.Bach? dadadadadadadadadadadadadadadada dadadadadadadadadadadada-

238 dadadadadadada that it “is both the coming from a more “outsider” angle. complete title & the complete score” & People were united simply by their that: interest in the project & the fun that they “The idea behind this score was got out of it & didn‟t require the pay t h a t that it be extremely simple to realize. All motivates most classical & pop the performer “has” to do is somehow “professionals”. Everything that was sound the title out loud & if they fuck up, played could be taught with fairly simple well, it isn‟t such a disaster. I made explanations & by demonstration. The recordings w/ friends who wd‟ve never amount of improvisation involved thought of themselves as “performers” allowed the players to maintain enough otherwise & produced some fine individual personality to keep the “inanity”. A part of the idea was to rehearsals fun enough to make them a create a context so narrow that any sort of social event game (at least for quirks w/in it, including “performer” me) & to ensure that more rehearsals mistakes wd become “exciting” novelties than common in classical circles could in contrast.” be had. And the results could be As another comment on what wonderfully convoluted! Even so, the might be called a shuffling of rigid class project was exhausting &, as usual, the role-playing, I quote from my “Social lack of money didn‟t help. Nonetheless, Philosophy” section from the More the “Official” “Big Band” managed to Information than most people are likely lurch along for a year & a half!” - “Low to want to read booklet that Class Usicians” & members of the No- accompanies the Official Wafer Face No Class All! (even if they deny it).. Record: “So-called “improvisation” is The production of “Low Classical often perceived as pointing in this Usic” could be said to be motivated by direction insofar as whatever skills any the desire to produce creations of a player brings to the moment are often parallel or greater indensity (pun stressed as being at least as important if intended) to that of “Classical Music” not more so than the skills originating while depreciating the oppressive class from a directing person or group.” structure that “Classical Music” is the Quoting once again from the Usic tool of. The Scratch Orchestra may‟ve - √-1 essay, in reference to the above- had the most clear-cut “easily mentioned “Official” Project: recognized as such” political orientation. “The people willing to work with In the Scratch Music book edited by this project ranged from people who had Cornelius Cardew (another of the never played an instrument before to Orchestra‟s founders) the following people with master‟s degrees in music introductory paragraph from Cardew is from academies - with rock & “pop” found: musicians “in between” & people like “The Scratch was saved from Neil Feather & John Berndt & myself liquidation by two communist members.

239 At the August 23/24 discussions of the “membership”, focused on goals by their [Catherine Williams] Discontent individual enthusiasm at each point, on documents John Tilbury exposed the projects which suggest the participation contradictions within the orchestra, and of a defined group but for which no proposed the setting up of a Scratch su[i]table contexts exists here, the value Ideological Group. I and several others of which for me would be the sharing of were glad to join this group, whose individual resources outside the already tasks were not only to investigate known & oriented forms of the music possibilities for political music-making group, the theater group, the two-person but also to study revolutionary theory: col[l]ab[o]ration, ktp....” (from his Marx, Lenin, Mao Tsetung. Another aim “Proposal for Volunteer‟s-Collective”). was to build up an organisational One of the many “ideological” structure in the Scratch that would make obstacles to the production & it a genuinely democratic orchestra & acceptance of “Low Classical Usic” is release it from the domination of my the emphasis on Production “Values” & subtly autocratic, supposedly anti- “High Fidelity”. While I certainly have authoritarian leadership.” Note the nothing against either, I do have absence of anarchist theory. Ho hum. something against these “values” getting The Scratch Orchestra, despite in the way of production done under its communist rather than anarchist circumstances in which such “values” leanings, as an important theoretical are impractical. Note the similarity precursor to both the “Low Classical between the concepts of “good taste” & Usic” of the “Official” Project & another “high fidelity”. In a letter written in project I‟ve been involved in: the defense of my tape company, Volunteers Collective. Note the Widemouth Tapes, published in the “V” similarities between Cardew‟s “Scratch issue of OP magazine in March/April of Music was halfway between composing 1984ev I wrote: and improvising” & my explanation of “Regarding the recording quality, the “Official” Project‟s playing structure: comparison w/ folkways, postal “the distinction between “composition” & interaction networking, and the Bullshit “improvisation” is of a usefullness Detector again seems relevant. Should limited to relativity issues” or between poor people without access to hi-fi Cardew‟s “A Scratch Orchestra is a equipment be discouraged from large number of enthusiasts pooling recording and disseminating? It seems their resources (not primarily material to me that some things need to be resources) and assembling for action distributed independent of fidelity criteria (music-making, performance, and that there is information instrinsic to edification)” & John [Berndt] Kennedy‟s lo-fi. Indeed the lo-fi enhances the “I propose that I be included in a group conceptual obstacle course of the phone of people, a loose ensemble of changing recordings - which have carefully

240 avoided artiness and musicality in order minded - if you‟d rather encourage flies to make them more difficult to accept for to make movies rather than pin them people who assume that sound is only down or go after them with the swat worth listening to if it has pseudo- team, then this rare selection of professional gloss.” recordings may be for you..” A case in point being that of In addition to my own poverty, the Norman Yeh. Norman‟s a remarkable obstinateness of Norman‟s eccentrically violinist & pianist who, at times, creates “unapproachable” personality made it a world of garbage around himself. I difficult for there to be any other released a tape by him recorded (by recording than his own primitive one. If him) under extremely crude there had been a “clean” recording of circumstances - using some semi- him made, however, it wouldn‟t have broken “home-entertainment” console echoed so well the filth of the tape recorder (or some such). In the environment that he so fertilely created notes that accompany Norman‟s tape I in. “Low Classical Usic” has room for w r o t e : gardening in the manure of “lo-f i ” “Hunting the wild Norman Yeh (ultimately, I prefer “sci-f i ” ) . can be quite a challenge. First there‟s Nam June Paik, who is said to‟ve the labyrinth of accumulations from begun as a traditional composer in auctions. The neighborhoods full of Japan before moving into the video/tv cars; the trucks full of tires; the burning work that he‟s most renowned for, is vans; the sneaky plates; the ceiling high quoted on page 152 of the 1973 edition stacks of moldy books; the tvs & stereos of Douglas Davis‟ book Art and the & boxes & appliances & furniture to be Future as saying: stepped over & on.. You name it & “From Giotto to Ingres there is a Norman may just have it somewhere steady search for more perfection in between you & him.. - & then there are high fidelity. Then Monet made it low the plates of fried eggs & half-eaten fish fidelity. TV has been searching for high stuck between the newspapers - & the fidelity, too. The whole electronics fierce those-who-are-only-alluded-to- industry has had but one purpose to obliquelies : well-nigh present tense in serve: reproduction of the original more ways than once-upon-a-time-&- signal. They never question that signal. time-again.. For the obstinate who [..] The nature of the source is not their make it past these obstacles there‟s the problem. Electronics has thus been final test of the inimitable Yeh spewing used for military purposes, for of invisible ink. The octupus with censorship, for eavesdropping. I want artificial arms. &, of course, if you like to make electronics more humanistic, this sort of thing, the complexity of more conscious of the problem of someone who refuses to even accept source material--which isn‟t a difficult my saying that he refuses to be simple- problem at all. For example, many

241 millions of engineers knew that you You could only be a participant of a could distort TV signals with a magnet; syphon-music performance if you millions knew it, but no one did it. They couldn‟t play any instruments, or, if you were trained never to question the happened to know how to play piano, for source material, like soldiers at West example, then you had to play trumpet Point. Mr. Abe [Paik‟s engineer or violin. But at each occasion you had collaborator] says, everything in TV is to change instrument to make sure that now set for high fidelity, but there is you wont get familiar with any of them. nothing to do. Therefore, now is the [..] We became infamous & and got time in TV for low fidelity. Hi-fi is dead banned from many clubs. But, in music with Stockhausen & Cage, eventually [..] the rumours made us dead in marriage with Dr. Kinsey, and known in the music circuits and we got dead in TV with us.” invited to do our own shows. This kind “Low Fidelity” need not only refer of success reversed the original idea to the “quality” of the recording process. and turned it into an accepted form of It can also refer to the “quality” of sound entertainment, and, of course, these produced in general. A trained consequences meant the end of the instrumentalist playing a “highly crafted” syphon-music era.” model of the instrument they‟re trained Another lo-fi angle might be to play might be said to be playing “Hi- represented by Jack Behrens‟ Fi”. Untrained (or even “Utopianism (for “found” piano)” on the trained/experienced) players without MUSICWORKS #64 recording. access to “well-crafted” instruments (or Accepting the “found” qualities of rejecting them) might choose to anything often means observing what exaggerate these ordinarily “negative” the found thing is & then exploring its characteristics in order to produce unique characteristics rather than trying something different from “Hi-Fi” - often to “tune” those characteristics into being as a “Low Classical” political positioning. in keeping with a common standard. In Istvan Kantor (a) Monty Cantsin According to Behrens‟ MW article, the AMEN!‟s essay “Sounds Like Neoism?!” piano that he used “provided the he recounts the following anecdote: microtonal possibilities of composing for “I was also involved with what might be described as a “found unpopular forms like anti-music, object” -- each piano key had to be spontaneous improvisation, noise. One considered as an individual sound early example of this is the syphon- source, not necessarily related in any music concept, a neo-dada experience rational manner to the other eighty-four.” originated in the late 60s, early 70s in By accepting what would ordinarily have Budapest. The basic idea was to been called the “out-of-tune” aspects of provoke the audience through the the piano, he was able to compose for a unskilled use of musical instruments.

242 tuning that might not‟ve been produced preciation of many a popular classic “rational”ly otherwise. (thanks to the marvelous playing of John Now, of course, comes the Henry Nyenhuis). Actually, the BPC is punch-line. After having circled an mainly “Low Classical Usic” because I implied definition of this all-important “originated” it & everybody “knows” what concept of “Low Classical Usic” it‟s time a “Low Class” type I am. If I were for me to try to cram 2 recent audio admitted into the “Upper Class” products from me into its ambiguous pantheon of the “Classical Music” gods I context. I‟m reminded of the Japanese might start spreading dis-eases. Ho man growing watermelons in cubes. hum. The first piece in question is entitled A Another recent bit of cubical Year & a Day @ the Funny Farm Bogus watermelon “Low Classical Usic” might Piano Concerto - in 2 Rapid Bowel be my acoustic guitar piece “Past Life Movements: 1. Left Wing Movement, 2. Regression”. This piece of fluff (can any Chicken Wing Movement. d composed guitar usic be otherwise?) is the only in 1995ev, this “Bogus Concerto” is “interesting” guitar solo I‟ve managed to partially explained by this excerpt from play in my 27 years as a guitarist. As my 1996ev revised notes: such, I just have to plug it. It‟s a “Past “After hearing one of these Life Regression” because I was once a recordings of the BPC, my step-brother “folk musician” as a teenager & playing said something about the relationship guitar for me often feels like a between the “piano” part & the regression to that past life. I created it “orchestration” making “no sense” to whilst teaching a friend of mine to play him. In an attempt to explain my guitar. While teaching her to play I intention I developed the analogy that discovered that I‟m actually very the 1st movement is like a tightrope “knowledgable” on the subject. walker‟s marathon thru a variety of Whatever skill I may exhibit in this piece weather conditions. Regardless of might seem to approach the academic whether there‟s a thunder-storm or (probably not), but I assure you, it‟s pure intense sunlight, the keyboardist‟s “Low Classical Usic” - a grab-bag of challenge is to maintain a focused Jack-Off-Of-All-Trades use of whatever course.” my exploratory experience brought me Now, What the fuck does that & not the product of carefully have to do with “Low Classical Usic”? Is manipulated ideological Academy this essay going to conclude with a call training. for strength & perseverance on the part As usual, this essay is hardly of the “Low Class” in order to survive the presented as being “perfect”. I can “Upper Class” long enough to bury it? imagine a detailed analysis of my own Hardly. But the Bogus Piano Concerto text revealing problems with it that its does occasionally show our (M)Usical d current form inadequately explores.

243 One obvious problem is that it deals - MIT Press, Massachusetts almost exclusively with the culture of Institute of Technology, Cambridge, England, the United States, & English MA, 02142, usa Canada (aka “Great” Britain, the NUS@, & Caca-Nada) - with a smattering of Davis, Douglas - Art and the Future Russia & Hungary - & is, as such, - Praeger Publishers, Inc., 111 extremely narrow focus. But, then Fourth Avenue, New York, NY, 10003, again, I‟m not trying to establish a us a comprehensive history or a steadfast hierarchy, I‟m “simply” trying to open a Farley, John - notes for Hallelujah - can of worms that we can go fishing for The Portsmouth Sinfonia at the Royal punchlines with. Albert Hall - Transatlantic Records, 86 Marleybone High Street, London, Sources: W1M 4AY, england

AMEN!, Istvan Kantor (a) Monty Harker, Dave - Fakesong: The Cantsin - “Sounds Like Neoism?!” manufacture of British folksong 1700 to the present day Behrens, Jack - “I am not Greg - Open University Press, uk Curnoe. Part 2” - MUSICWORKS Magazine #64, Nyman, Michael - experimental music 179 Richmond St. W., Toronto, - Cage and beyond Ontario, M5V 1V3, canada - Schirmer Books (A division of Berndt, John - “Proposal for Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc.) Volunteer‟s-Collective” as published - 866 Third Avenue, New York, with NY, 10022, usa November 21 „87EV to April 16 „89EV Ocker, David - notes for Francesco (as edited by tENTATIVELY, a Zappa cONVENIENCE) & - Barking Pumpkin Records, November 21 „87EV to April 16 usa „89EV (as edited by John Berndt) - Widémouth Tapes, Box 382, Pegg, Bob - Folk: A Portrait of Baltimore, MD, 21203, usa or English Traditional Music, Musicians 3809 Melwood Ave., and Customs Pittsburgh, PA, 15213, usa - Wildwood, uk

Cardew, Cornelius - Scratch Music Schickele, Peter - notes for

244 Music of P.D.Q. Bach - Peter - Wafer Face Records West, Schikele Town Hall Concert - April Box 4007, Berkeley, CA, 94704, usa 1965 tENTATIVELY, a cONVENIENCE - Silverman, Jerry - The Dirty Song notes re the A Year & A Day at the Book Funny Farm - Stein & Day, New York, NY, Bogus Piano Concerto in 2 us a Rapid Bowel Movements: 1: Left Wing Movement, 2: Szczelkun, Stefan - The Conspiracy Chicken Wing Movement of Good Taste - Widémouth Tapes, Box 382, - Working Press, 85 St Agnes Baltimore, MD, 21203, usa or Place, Kennington, LONDON SE11 3809 Melwood Ave., 4BB, england Pittsburgh, PA, 15213, usa tENTATIVELY, a cONVENIENCE - Waters, Chris - British Socialists and “complaining letter” the Politics of Popular Culture: 1884- - OP Magazine - “V” issue, 1914 March-April, 1984, usa - Manchester University Press, uk tENTATIVELY, a cONVENIENCE - notes for Norman Yeh - Widémouth Tapes, Box 382, Baltimore, MD, 21203, usa or - tENTATIVELY, a 3809 Melwood Ave., cONVENIENCE Pittsburgh, PA, 15213, usa the NUnited eStates of tENTATIVELY, a cONVENIENCE NUmerical Whirled Order - “More Information than most people are likely to want to read” from The “Official” Wafer Face ______Record - Wafer Face Records West, Box 4007, Berkeley, CA, 94704, usa tENTATIVELY, a cONVENIENCE - Usic - √-1 = A Plethora of No-Longer Neglected Audio/Conceptual Obstacle Courses

245 could have sprung from the mind of no one else. In the interests of preserving the essence of the person, I‘ve tried to keep my edits to a minimum on this piece, even preserving the ―no capitalisation allowed‖ punctuation that, strangely, is something I‘ve always done as well.

KFM: So to get started... the ruby throat material and the album of solo recordings you released seem very different than what you've done before with daisy chainsaw and queen adreena... what was it that made you decide to go in this musical direction? RAILING AGAINST KJG: all the indicators are there in the INERTIA: An Interview detail in daisy chainsaw and queen with KatieJane Garside adreena, most of my life has been by accident, making lalleshwari and ruby By Kate MacDonald throat was a conscious decision, life finally insisted that i make the work i I first heard KatieJane Garside years ago want to rather than it being the result of with Daisy Chainsaw. Something about a head on collision but it is there in the her presence impressed me, even as one cracks in the other material and i needed who liked to think I understood a lot a wider sky to fly in, its very narrow in a about music, as defying explanation and sonic assault literally for a singer at the same time, unquestionably compelling. KFM: So do you think the change in sound is more an aesthetic one, rather Throughout her musical incarnations in than a fundamental shift? the years since, I would say that it is that enigmatic quality that forms a thread KJG: it is a fundamental shift, i‘ll through which her sonically disparate elaborate. i struggle fundamentally with musical projects can be connected. Her the concept of 'free will', this has taken originality is obvious and it is absolutely me to very dark places in terms of genuine, a sort of raw energy that can be another‘s autonomy impressing upon seen but never pinned down and my lack of autonomy but in the darkest defined. places the essential essence and kick for life makes itself known, eventually i am Her latest musical project, Ruby Throat, able to carve out very small corners of a is more restrained, more intimate, but very questionable autonomy, this is my

246 work, an ongoing process and the thing i struggle with most, there are many different ways of describing the same thing but this is how it makes itself know today. and then again all my music is an escape in process, i struggle against the imposed structure, the friction gives me power and elevation (extended answer to previous question)

KFM: So do you think artistic expression serves as a sort of marker of autonomy? a separate moment from the rest of life?

KJG: it‘s a lifeline, if the line breaks i longer exist. i wish it wasn‘t so, it‘s very KJG: studio work is mostly agonising, tiring and i have no discipline. i‘m trying to breast feed a dead baby. when working on it. i work alone it‘s more like painting, the imposed structure is mainly debilitating KFM: In terms of the struggle with an in recording, painting by numbers. imposed (external) structure, what are alone i can paint free hand and throw it some of the points that you would say if it doesn't measure up. this is all a have marked your greatest successes measure of my weakness. the last qa with that? album (djin) was recorded live, we kept the tapes rolling and the edit points KJG: that‘s a wily question, i‘ll do my become the imposed structure, edits no best not to slip out of it. i have the overdubs, first takes, the honour of an audience and a stage, the unselfconscious moment. a load of ritual and altered state of this place...this noise, means nothing under a broad sky. is music, the imposed structure serves as scaffolding i can climb, a jumping off i like to skulk in the shadows of others, point. i‘m a kind of parasite, i take respite from the overhead lighting, it gives me a day KFM: Speaking of stages (awkward off from the struggle for autonomy but segue)... live performance seems to have having said that i don‘t roll over and been a very important part of your take it, i get quite bitey...someone else to musical history. do you prefer blame.... performing live to work in the studio? are the experiences different for you? or KFM: Do you find that you‘re still able different aspects of the same basic to get your vision across, even when thing? you work with others? or does it get transformed into something else

247 through the different personalities KFM: Different sorts of intimate involved? relationships.

KJG: i don‘t have a ‗vision‘, i‘ m more a KJG: some are good lovers and some eat receptacle, guess that‘s why i get angry you up, it‘s a choice. most awful when and resentful when i work with others, i they are good lovers and beat you up. get filled up with all their junk as well still a choice though. a choice in a vice as my own and autonomy trails on a KFM: A constant evaluation of good very precarious thread somewhere way versus bad. down below me threatening to pull me under and finally submerge, feel like KJG: sometimes good comes of bad, i i‘ve got a t.v tied to my ankle, suppose i wouldn‘t choose to use good fingernails scraping horribly down the and bad words, it‘s never black and blackboard into nothing i‘ve spent a white, sometimes i wish it was. there are long time doing that....terrible learned thresholds, though. behaviour. KFM: Possibly we‘re conditioned to think that something is either positive or negative, rather than seeing that one is often intertwined with the other?

KJG: enormous boredom through endless repetition, if something doesn‘t change and mutate its basically dead, that‘s what i rail against.. i can enjoy all kinds of good and bad, it has to stimulate. and yes conditioning is a dead science

KFM: Are there any creative avenues that you're particularly curious to explore in the future?

KFM: Do you think you would end up KJG: babies perhaps, to be a vessel with more or less satisfied if you were feet firmly planted, to have it not be exclusively working alone? or would it about me matter? KFM: I think that‘s a perfect final note. KJG: i need both but i take care who i enjoy the rest of your evening. it has work with now, i take care who i have been a real pleasure. sex with, same thing. ______

248 MUSIC REVIEWS Albini-produced Surfer Rosa and not feel the lack of a certain vitality in their By Craig Woods [CW] and Mary subsequent output? The indisputable Leary [ML] Albini Edge has not only worked lo-fi wonders for lesser-known bands, but has been consciously pursued by more mainstream acts such as Nirvana and PJ Harvey in order to reinvigorate the creative energies behind troublesome sophomore albums and hugely- anticipated follow-ups.

However, there‘s a flipside to this coin. While artists with whom Albini has worked since their inception tend to pursue steady if not stellar careers, there‘s a trend for those who go seeking his services as a means to redefine their established sound to thereafter come to a sticky end. I‘m not suggesting there is some kind of Albini Curse at work, nor that the man is going out of his way to PRE :: Hope Freaks sabotage his clients, far from it. If anything, Albini skilfully extracts such raw power and passion in the Skin Graft Records recordings he makes that the bands themselves seem to implode with http://www.skingraftrecords.com exhaustion from the experience, their creative apex pushed beyond its limit. Of all independent record producers There‘s no shortage of examples; Slint alive today, there is arguably none who struggled to maintain a steady footing enjoys a more privileged position than after their Electrical Audio encounter; that of Steve ―don‘t-call-me-a-producer‖ no sooner had the Albini-engineered Albini. As the top choice for all bands Griller by No Wave stalwarts Ut been willing to pay through the nose to have released before the band their album sound as though it were unceremoniously dissolved; Godspeed recorded through a single busted omni- You! Black Emperor likewise directional mic in a rickety barn, Albini disappeared on an ―indefinite hiatus‖ has carved something of a reputation as following Albini‘s mind-blowing work the ideal man to install the punk/indie on their seminal Yanqui U.X.O. ( … I cred into any band‘s sonic arsenal. And may stop short of implying that in fact it‘s easy to understand why - working with Albini on In Utero who can seriously listen to the Pixies‘ contributed to Kurt Cobain‘s suicide.

249 And yes, I‘m aware that PJ Harvey sure, that‘s precisely the kind of fraught adeptly climbed the ladder to predicament from which Mr A superstardom following her stint with habitually moulds the most beautiful the man. So this hypothesis isn‘t perfect, kind of chaos, but I‘d be saddened to sue me!) bid adieu to such a gifted young band so early in their career. It was with a giddy mixture of excitement and worry then that I The new album‘s cover art does much to greeted the news that Uncle Steve create the impression that there are would be presiding over this second indeed some changes afoot. In contrast album by London noise-punks PRE. On to the comparative sheen which the surface, such a collaboration seems adorned their debut, Hope Freaks is logical - the band‘s penchant for high modestly presented with a retro energy performance, frenetic angular Polaroid motif. A step back from their riffage and a blatant disregard for previous Technicolor excesses then, but standard song structure classify them as not quite the descent into nihilism I marginal heirs and heiress to the sonic might have feared. This impression is and aesthetic territory mapped by mercifully rewarded by the recordings Albini and his assorted sidemen, from on offer here, which in fact present a Big Black to Shellac. However, Mr band at something of a creative peak Albini the ―producer‖ tends to be a very and evidently in no mood to yield any different beast from Steve the musician of their power just yet. So much for and a few of his recording projects have expectations. occasionally found him burying a band‘s strongest assets in a mix rawer A bouncy cowbell-peppered rhythm - a than sushi (- Who hasn‘t at least once reliable indicator of a band not taking turned off Rid of Me in frustration at the themselves too seriously - launches the frequent inaudibility of Polly‘s proceedings through a playful New distinctive voice?). Wave instrumental dirge before segueing into the first of several Thus I found myself wondering: ―Does standout tracks. ‗Haircut Tacos‘ a band like PRE really need Albini?‖ The adequately summarises the tone of this band‘s debut Epic Fits represents a record; equal parts light-hearted beautifully controlled balance between mischief and antagonistic chaos, rich anarchic punk abandon and a colourful snatches of harmony and melody sailing pseudo-pop sensibility. In Albini‘s effortlessly in and out of discordant riffs hands, I feared, the glossier aspects of and messy rhythms. their sound might fall to be crushed beneath the weight of a belligerent lo-fi Those familiar with the band‘s debut juggernaut. Moreover, I couldn‘t help will pick up immediately on some but wonder if all was perhaps not quite subtle but crucial evolution at work. well in the PRE camp, if maybe While vocalist Akiko Matsuura has dissolution loomed on the horizon. For become somewhat renowned for her

250 Devil Doll screech, her applications here requires. In direct contrast to the are strikingly more refined and excessive Albini-izing incurred by some selective. Jettisoning the one-voice-fits- bands during their residence at all approach, her lungs become Electrical Audio, Hope Freaks displays a something of an instrument in their own band and their ―producer‖ in complete right on this record, switching synthesis of vision. Adopting an “If-it- effortlessly from sugar-pop harmonising ain‟t-broke…” stance, Albini seems to to melancholy crooning to a strident have approached this record as a fan of banshee wail. So frequent are these PRE‘s debut and endeavoured to shifts in mood - three or four occurring preserve the most notable assets of that within a two-minute song - that the record whilst also pushing out the boat listener can become quite breathless in to encompass the band‘s broadening trying to keep up, but no less stimulated musical palette. There are few for that. producers who would so painstakingly juggle the extremes between groove and Matsuura‘s bandmates are no faceless grind on offer here, and fewer still who backing act either, each attacking their could deliver the goods with such a instruments with a renewed vigour and cohesive finish. After almost thirty years boasting a far more confident sense of in the business, Albini‘s passions show purpose than that displayed back in no sign of waning and his willingness to 2007. John Webb‘s distinctive guitar extract the best from a band has here style mirrors the vocals with an borne unexpectedly refined fruit. audacity of range from the Andy Gill- esque chopping on ‗Why Be Wives‘ to While PRE may not be the most original an unabashedly showy duel between band on the planet, and the Albini Edge atonality and infectious pop groove on something of an acquired taste, it‘s ‗Cold‘. Meanwhile, the bass-heavy nonetheless reassuringly refreshing to rhythm section pulls off an admirable witness band and ―producer‖ alike job of anchoring these idiosyncrasies to pursue their particular furrow with such a foundation which is consistent and unpretentious fervour. That the end adaptable, employing force and result comes away sounding rawer and moderation in all the right places whilst more immediate than all the efforts of not being shy of a few stylistic flourishes most contemporary noise-rock - just check out the snare/cowbell dilettantes combined more than justifies onslaught on ‗Teenage Lakes‘ or the its need to be heard. [CW] relentless bass grind on closing track ‗Sleep Weak‘. ______

The real clincher here though is in Albini‘s production which respects the complexity of these sounds, granting each eccentricity of timbre and speed the correct amount of sonic space it

251 rumblings, I have surveyed the burgeoning tremors of revolution in clubs and venues for the better part of two years. Now, at last, it seems the bland reign of soundalike packet-soup pseudo-indie whiners which has retarded the Glasgow music scene for so long has come upon shaky ground with the rise of a new breed of impudent noise merchants and mischief makers who have begun to break ravenously from their shackles. At the fore of this movement are DIVORCE: a four- woman, one-man punk-noise combo whose debut 10‖ EP (freshly released on the fledgling Optimo Music label) bears Divorce :: Divorce so little resemblance to anything to emerge from Glasgow‘s long staid Optimo Music music scene that it could easily be mistaken for a declaration of war from http://www.optimo.co.uk/music an alien planet.

Those with any real appreciation of Armed with little more than a history will know that revolutions tend deliciously skewed sense of rhythm, an to spring from the most unexpected and audacious embrace of atonality, and an overlooked of corners. Within a almost maddening minimalism, relatively short space of time, almost DIVORCE have seemingly done the every facet of a society can be impossible: assembled a recipe from revolutionised behind the spearhead of scant and meagre ingredients to one fraction of a population who have produce an end product which is head- for too long remained oppressed and bustingly epic. The four tracks on this silent, eagerly pouncing upon their record, while each displaying their own chance to seize control of their own individual tics, essentially coalesce to destiny. History provides many such form an abbreviated portrait of a examples of this pattern from the French collective who are more militia than to the Spanish Revolution and beyond, band. Combining the anarchic persona and you may pick your own. of No Wave provocateurs with a fine line in so-detuned-it-hurts Albini-esque Crucially, this trend applies not only to guitar grooves, these four abrasive socio-political currents, but also to those anthems are further augmented by a of popular culture. And, as a vital aesthetic freshness which places Glaswegian with eye and ear habitually DIVORCE in the same league as tuned to this city‘s underground contemporaries in LA‘s Smell scene and

252 elsewhere. feeling thankful for the abuse.

The militia metaphor is not merely DIVORCE is a band of extremes, from whimsy on my part. This is music which the nihilistic to the naïve, and their not only demands the listener‘s full particular aesthetic is fuelled as much attention but is delivered with a by a gleeful sense of childish mischief as seductive violence and urgency that it is by a commitment to artistic makes its meaning, however obscure, integrity. There is more than a smidgen utterly imperative. Like the voice of a of irony in every facet of their work and revolutionary propagandist, Sinead persona, something which is acutely on Youth‘s unapologetic yells cut through display in the record‘s design and the storm of dissonance to deliver with packaging. Pressed on blood red vinyl committed repetition phrases and and embossed with a sticker bearing the slogans which are often cryptic but faces of the five members within the always sincere. Opener ‗Early points of a pentagram, there‘s no Christianity‘ makes the issue clear: “This mistaking their love of the crass and an is not an empty threat!” Sinead yells and, apparent fondness for old school thrash context aside, it is a statement whose metal. The sleeve art by guitarist Vickie truth is borne out in the following McDonald provides a too-close-for- tracks. By the time we get to the first comfort view of a less-than-pristine set track on side B: ‗Juice of Youth‘, which of human gnashers, suitably lyrically couples childhood obedience summarising both the raw and self- with intimations of being sent “six feet deprecating sides to the band. under!”, the gloves are not only off but have been used to wipe up the blood of Twiddling the knobs on this record is the old Glasgow scene and all its self- Chris White of cerebral Glasgow racket- satisfied complacency before being left makers Plaaydoh and this has had some to burn in the smouldering remains . impact on the band‘s sound which is not wholly positive. While White‘s Closing track ‗Scissorfight‘, in which recordings are certainly adequate, it‘s Youth chants a single phrase ad difficult not to come away with the nauseam against a backdrop of feeling that something has been lost in repetitious machinelike droning, is not the translation of DIVORCE from stage only the perfect coup de grace, but is to studio. As the band‘s own press also the band‘s most forthright release on the Optimo website testifies: statement of their all-out rejection of accessible trends in the Glasgow music “Divorce are best experienced live, in a scene and beyond. It‘s an exhausting small sweaty room, with all the ear-splitting and yet strangely satisfying finale. In volume & uninhibited audience under twenty minutes this modest disc confrontation that goes with it.” grabs you helplessly by the jugular, slaps you awake, thrusts you facedown Never a truer word written. Having in your own vomit and leaves you seen DIVORCE live several times, I am

253 all too familiar with the frenetic energy ―What the fuck was that?‖ a voice I and passion their performances invoke, barely recognised as my own stumbled and it‘s a pity that that energy is from my stunned lips. somewhat lacking in these recordings. While the sonic palette of the EP is ―Band soundchecking downstairs,‖ spare, it somehow just never feels quite replied the barman returning from the raw enough, as though the power of basement venue, the door falling closed DIVORCE is something which cannot be at his back to mute the storm of noise meaningfully delivered in anything beyond. other than a purely live medium. Struggling to assign some identity to the This shortcoming aside however, the abrasive sound my ear had snatched, I four tracks on this disc present a band of could conjure only esoteric visions astonishing will and purpose with more involving a swarm of ravenous metallic than enough skill and passion to back insects attacking a rabble of runaway up their convictions. Should Glasgow‘s mental patients in the streets of a war- new underground glory prove as torn city. ephemeral as the Spanish Revolution, we can only hope it is also as Suitably piqued, I approached the door comparatively profound. With this and pushed it open, hoping to glean a explosive record lighting the route greater sense of the men or beasts ahead, the future looks reassuringly responsible for the outlandish racket. In messy, violent and bright as a Molotov less than ten seconds it seemed the inferno. [CW] cacophony had dissipated as swiftly as it had materialised, leaving me ______speechless and paralysed but also aroused as one might be in the aftermath of a traffic collision or a random act of public violence.

The barman‘s wide eyed expression reflected a shared astonishment. ―Sound pretty good, eh?‖ he murmured ineffectually.

―But… what the fuck was that?!‖ Ultimate Thrush :: Thus was my initial encounter with the Ultimate Thrush band called Ultimate Thrush. Some eight months and many gig attendances Winning Sperm Party later, their jarring effect has diminished little. Relying on a minimalist brutality http://winningspermparty.com of choppy guitars, crazed jazz-tinged

254 rhythms and demonic vocals, this in and out of B-movie silliness and tinnitus-inducing trio have developed a shards of pop culture. While the firm reputation as one of Glasgow‘s deranged-gremlin-style vocals might most original and exciting ascendant prevent you from tuning into each and acts. It was with some eager anticipation every one of these references off the bat, then that I awaited this, their self-titled the chaotic spirit in which they are debut release on the recording arm of conjured is nonetheless unique and as DIY gig-organisers Winning Sperm infectious as the clap. And yes, I mean Party. Happily I can report that the that in a good way. finished article does not disappoint. Given that the entire tracklist, from the Bereft of the cultish smocks worn ramshackle mayhem of ‗Murder in onstage and the physical extremities Mordor‘ to the mutant-blues frenzy of which make their live shows visually ‗Dog Cat Panther‘, clocks in at under interesting, the ten tracks on this fourteen minutes, it‘s testament to the breathtakingly brief record find power of this record that it nonetheless Ultimate Thrush stripped down to their leaves the listener with enough elation core faculties. With the bulk of the songs to fuel an entire evening‘s jovialities and stretching barely over a minute apiece, proves more compellingly addictive the band have pulled out all the stops to than cocaine. In essence, this is the craft a concise collection of mini- perfect record with which to gatecrash a assaults, each as swift and as deadly as a party - storm in announced, pull the stab wound to the listener‘s cortex. Lilly Allen CD from the player, replace Their transition from live performance it with this monster and watch the eyes to the rigours of studio recording has, and mouths widen in shock. inevitably, ensured that the tracks have incurred a few tweaks and changes but Fourteen minutes later, brace yourself none which notably hinder the Ultimate for the chorus of: ―What the fuck was Thrush power or purpose. If anything, that?!‖ and get ready to hit the repeat the band have given the lie to the image button. of noise-rock bands as reckless, instead attacking each song with a fresh set of It‘s an obnoxious little beast this one. ears and imbuing them with a clean, But not one to be tired of swiftly. Please cold production quality which has enjoy responsibly. [CW] honed their seductive savagery to a rapier edge. ______

The songs themselves are playfully subversive, mingling militant aggression with tongue-in cheek levity. In the world of Ultimate Thrush, nothing is quite as it appears as themes of murder and abortion weave jarringly

255 Madame Pamita‘s increasingly far afield (from her Los Angeles perch), field-style recordings are aesthetically sparse and scratchy, unless your response to Robert Crumb‘s Cheap Suit Serenaders was along the lines of, ―This is a little too smooth and pretty.‖ In that case, she may be just your cup of brew.

I could easily have nut-shelled this CD by saying that fans of the Serenaders and most Old Hat recordings might like it, but that wouldn‘t have seemed worthy of the tremendous effort and socio-artistic obsessiveness attending Madame Pamita‘s creation of her own Madame Pamita - Madame funhouse mirror world. So I am going to Parmita’s Wax Works say a few things more. (Old Time Is a Good Time) Madame Pamita is very unusual and http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tj4 absolutely loving in her treatment of KskOcj24 moldy chestnuts, including minstrel show classic, ―He‘s In The Jailhouse http://www.madamepamita.com Now,‖ Charlie Poole‘s ―Moving Day,‖ Dick Justice‘s ―Cocaine,‖ and even Blind This is for those millions of listeners Willie McTell‘s barely moldy (courtesy who‘ve been longing for a new of the White Stripes‘s recent cover), ―My recording that hisses along with the Southern Can Is Mine.‖ Her own sounds of ukulele, autoharp, musical compositions nestle easily with the saw, kazoo, and ―Imperial Banjeaurine‖ ―real‖ ones, and have titles like, ―Three but who got cranky when the last few Wishes,‖ ―Mother Was a Sporting Girl,‖ they uncovered weren‘t captured on a and ―Love is Good.‖ state-of-the-art, 1898 wax cylinder recording machine. Or for those gals While La Pamita says ―My Southern who carefully apply pancake make-up Can‖ was cowritten with McTell via before stepping into a dress so old it‘s Ouija board, I‘m disinclined to press the running out of places for patches. It‘s point, and, more to the point, have spent absolutely for anyone who was less time studying the genre than has originally captivated by The Squirrel she; I may be missing a detail or three. Nut Zippers but then walked away To my mind, it is somewhat lacking in shaking their head, sneering, ―What etiquette to press my nose too hard dilettantes!‖ behind the illusionist curtain comprising a good deal of her charm. The entire

256 oeuvre is illusionist, aided at times by A rather quick aural perusal of Little Power Patrick Weise, Peter Dilg, and, recently, Records‘s web page gave me the feeling that in London, Tom Rodwell and Art Terry. they feel several mid-‗80s -– mid-‗90s Indeed, this madam seems to be steadily sounds haven‘t been completely mined. Along with a general sense of integrity, creeping into a Next (Old) Big Thing good sense, and downright goodness (the spot, at least among the minds of those label has stated its wish to donate all first who are utterly perplexed at being born year profits to charity), it has signed enough after 1930, or who simply crave exciting and interesting talent to give some messages (some of which are intensely weight to its synth-pop/industrial and post- populist) from other times and milieu punk leanings.

If you‘re nearly ready to seek out a The tracks on the Neon Mussolini EP may be musical emporium but holding back welcomed by listeners hungry for vintage due to the need to pay your rent or Smiths with several dashes of New Order, some other pesky triviality, I think the Cure and Joy Division thrown in. In fact, ―Emotional for the Last Time‖ sounds as Madame Pamita wants you to know good or better to me than most anything the that the words ―Pay as you go,‖ or ―Pay Smiths did after their first two albums. as you can,‖ appeared somewhere However, people who have immersed (perhaps the Ouija board in her site‘s themselves further in this genre have called ―Laboratory‖), which is a very heady NM‘s sound a second-rate imitation of pop place; I may have imagined it. What I‘m electronica masters that fails to be salvaged dead sure of is that receiving her CD is by anything particularly original or unique. phenomenally exciting: there will be carefully handcrafted treats and Whatever Neon, a/k/a Simon Elliott, may bonuses, perhaps including your be sampling or by which he is influenced, I fortune - if not for a lifetime, at least for enjoy the evocative, rather dreamy ―Oh no that moment. (for Kenneth)‖. Neon Mussolini‘s cover graphics and a video montage accompanying ―Emotional‖ draw possible The website is as creatively driven as lines to bondage and other proclivities the CD, and offers static and moving which seem to have caused misery (or the pictures related to Madame Pamita‘s hiding of which has caused misery). In any many talents and activities, including case, Little Power Records seems worth ―Treatises on Euphonious watching, with or without Neon, a/k/a Prognostication,‖ a solarium and Simon Elliott. I like the fact the label has boudoir. [ML] given a shot to a 37-year-old artist who has ______purportedly been a psychiatric nurse to murderers and sexual offenders -- and who Neon Mussolini :: 4-song EP may still be finding his way to his best Little Power Records sounds. A full-length CD is in the offing. [ML] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CCwqL fj-CQs&feature=related ______

www.myspace.com/theneonmussolini

257 CONTRIBUTORS’ LINKS

JOHN COULTHART GENE GREGORITS http://www.johncoulthart.com [email protected] http://www.facebook.com/gregorits ARNAUD LOUMEAU http://www.myspace.com/gritzprime http://pandamour.over-blog.com http://www.myspace.com/arjulo DOLOROSA www.myspace.com/dolorosadelacruz JIM LOPEZ http://www.hopkinsmedicine.org/psychia A D HITCHIN try/moods/ www.myspace.com/antonyhitchin http://www.rhetoricalens.info/index.cfm?f useaction=category.display&category_id=9 CHRISTOPHER NOSNIBOR http://christophernosnibor. co. uk MICHAEL K http://dirty.uuuq.com MAX REEVES http://www.s-kollective.com MICHAEL ROTH http://www.myspace.com/maxreeves www.opsonicindex.org IAN MILLER CHRIS BRANDRICK http://www.ian-miller.org c/o Paraphilia Magazine RICH FOLLETT CLAIRE GODDEN-ROWLAND http://www.counterexamplepoetics.com/2 http://www.facebook.com/people/Claire- 009/05/rich-follett-featured-artist.html Godden-Rowland/657867184 http://www.myspace.com/richfoll

MALCOLM ALCALA NICK TOSCHES http://www.myspace.com/mal_inger http://www.amazon.com/Hand-Dante- Novel-Nick- SALENA GODDEN Tosches/dp/0316735647/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UT http://www.myspace.com/wearesaltpeter F8&s=books&qid=1250681747&sr=1-2 http://www.myspace.com/bookclubboutiq ue CHARLES CHRISTIAN http://wordsandvision.blogharbor.com/bl THOMAS EVANS og/StuffYouDontNeedtoKnow/_archives/ http://www.thomasevansphotography.co 2008/12/23/4033406.html m http://www.facebook.com/home.php?ref= http://www.myspace.com/photosbytomm home#/profile.php?id=716242089&ref=na y me

258 ROBERT AGASUCCI SID GRAVES www.myspace.com/staffordstone http://www.cemeteryprints.com www.staffordstone.com CRAIG WOODS ELE-BETH LITTLE http://www.myspace.com/lightningpaw_ http://www.myspace.com/wintermuse de_cleyre

DAVID CONWAY JAD FAIR c/o Paraphilia Magazine http://www.jadfair.org http://www.myspace.com/jadfair DARIUS JAMES http://www.myspace.com/drsnakeskin CLAUDIA BELLOCQ c/o Paraphilia Magazine DESTINY MCKEEVER http://www.myspace.com/tragicvirtues TOM GARRETSON http://www.paintlab.ne http://www.guttersaint.org

STEWART HOME ANGELA SUZZANNE http://www.stewarthomesociety.org c/o Paraphilia Magazine

PATRICK WRIGHT RON GARMON http://www.myspace.com/patrick_wright http://larecord.com

RICHARD A MEADE DAVID GIONFRIDDO http://www.visualdata.net http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id =1461005971#/profile.php?id=719854511 CRICKET CORLEONE http://www.myspace.com/dcdaveg http://www.myspace.com/bluevanities http://www.myspace.com/beautyispainpu KATE MACDONALD blications http://www.morelikespace.blogspot.com http://www.myspace.com/morelikespace RICK GRIMES http://rickgrimesfansite.net MARY LEARY http://www.facebook.com/people/Rick- http://www.myspace.com/acertainblue Grimes/1148455193#/profile.php?id=10000 http://www.breadandlightning.net 0040662738&ref=ts CHRIS MORRIS MICHELLE FACCHINI Watusi Rodeo: http://www.myspace.com/fvckini http://www.scionav.com/radio/channel12

LITTLE SHIVA tENTATIVELY, a cONVENIENCE http://www.littleshiva.com [email protected]

HANK KIRTON http://www.myspace.com/hankkirton

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