A Realm Without Reason
A surreal story by Alexander Cromwell!
Here’s my ‘book’ of sorts that I never really edited called ‘A Realm Without Reason’. The text was written between 2022 to 2023 and was completed (with the exception of the editing and whatnot) in 02/2023, but it hasn’t been available publicly, that is until now!
A Realm Without Reason
by Alexander Rogers Cromwell
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COPYRIGHT (C) 2023 ALEXANDER ROGERS CROMWELL
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Written between 2022 and 2023.
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THE FOLLOWING TEXT HAS NOT BEEN FULLY EDITED.
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“Green Gecko”
Headphones off, flash forward, somewhere back in time.
A man, wrapped in plastic, lies like an empty shell on the bus station floor.
Tight plastic hugs his face,
The outline of his gaping mouth and lifeless eyes dusted with December's frosted rain.
His bloodstream engorged with frozen adulterated fentanyl
The police officers shove the indifferent bystanders aside,
The crowd walks to the far end of the platform and boards the bus.
Amongst this crowd, a drug mule carries a fragrant bag of the loudest herb in his coat pocket.
In his hands a luminescent green potion.
This concoction the drug mule called Green Gecko,
The drink was initially bestowed on him by the mermaids of the double sided oak.
Besides the tree inhabited by anthropomorphic vixens stands the great lake from which this elixir was brought forth, it's hallucinogenic and disassociate properties beloved by many, but feared by the rest
The bus takes off into the snowy winter night
“At least it wasn't late.” remarked the mule.
“Wynlock McAllister”
Outside of town, agents Goggles and Marc are working for the Crystal Acquisition Program Delegation Associates,
Or CAPD Ass.
CAPDASS is tasked with securing various historical artifacts throughout the world,
Chief among which are these mystical glowing blue crystals which hover a meter off the ground
And seem to emit high amounts of Element 115,
Not actually the REAL element 115 mind you,
But the code word for an unknown substance supposedly found in Roswell, New Mexico
In 1947, a highly volatile substance of an unknown chemical makeup or origin.
Now one of these crystals is supposably in the possession of one Wynlock McAllister,
An eccentric who has seemed to have amassed a suspiciously large amount of money in the past year since allegedly obtaining the crystal and possibly using its powers for personal gain.
The crystal apparently exists in the Perseus Lounge,
The Perseus Lounge is this underground art museum somewhere outside of Seattle.
It hosts strange art galleries of sorts and offers various types of spectacle,
Both mundane, and obscene.
The entrance to the Perseus Lounge is located on the side of a large hill,
Through a secret passage a tunnel leads several hundred feet down
And leads into a large hall flanked by statues of naked women with their arms outstretched
Gesturing towards a large diorama that sits behind glass above the entrance to another long Granite corridor.
The diorama was three dimensional and depicted a recreation of the famous Painting ‘Man Proposes, God Disposes’. in which ravenous polar bears of the Northwest Passage feed on the bones of the crewmates of Captain Franklin’s doomed eighteen forty five expedition across the frozen hellscapes of northern canada and Disko Island, but in this rendition the crewmates themselves feed on the bones, not the polar bears. Tragically this rendition was far more true to life.
The most insidious part of this creation was that actual people posed and acted in these dioramas, a wall of unbreakable plexiglass sealing them in, if Wynlock was bored or he thought that the performance was lacking a certain kick, he would have the ability to press a large red button near the window that would open two hidden doors inside the diorama and unleash two ravenous polar bears which would probably devour the actors.
He apparently never had to do this because he genuinely appreciated art and viewed even the most amateaur and low effort attempts as ‘avant garde’ or ‘esoteric’ and applauded them with a standing ovation, quite different than typical reality.
Though it took some time getting through the doorman, Googles and Marc eventually stood amongst the other masked party goers below as Wynlock stood high above the crowd in front of the diorama on a narrow catwalk.
Goggles and Marc were wearing similar stereotypical neon green alien masks with large black eyes, small nostrils and vacant expressions. Dressed in black coveralls, gloves, and black sneakers similar to the type that the cults at the Gates of Heaven wore after they castrated themselves, took their no go-pills, covered themselves with dark purple shrouds and succumbed to barbiturate overdose.
The only noticeable difference between the two men physically while in these costumes was that Goggles took to wearing orange safety goggles over his mask because he had to live up to the name, a tribute to his uncle who died of a computer virus.
Wynlock stood on the catwalk looking over as his adoring public with glee, taking a toke of a large electronic metal and glass bong full of cannabis indica and downing a medicine cup full of some sort of bright violet viscous fluid.
He looked rather unremarkable but athletic in build, but walked with a swagger that hinted at possible multidimensional skeletal deformity. He wore a plush burgundy robe and a black goat mask covering most of his face, his glowing green eyes shifted from left to right to up and down as he scanned the environment for any possible threat with a silent aura of paranoia though he was more than likely completely unaware of what was about to transpire as he slurred his words and swung to and fro in an intoxicated euphoria as he was eventually caught up in the festivities.
“Man dig that organ, if I were an instrument, I would be this organ.” proclaimed Wynlock to a group of drunken masked patrons who raised their champagne flutes of cough syrup.
Goggles and Marc made their way through the crowd towards a maintenance hallway and down a flight of stairs, they continued to move deeper and deeper past galleries that grew even more and more unsettling and bizarre.
A man dressed as a German shepherd strangles his own bleeding tongue with dental floss in masochistic glee as a woman dances with a skeleton made of asbestos before collapsing to the floor in twitches and convulsions.
three sea dragons with glowing eyes and seven gills sit atop a golden altar, one dragon in the color blue, one gold, and one violet, consume ragdolls stuffed with choice heroin as a cowboy falls through one sided playing cards onto a land covered in shallow cyan water as a woman dressed like the Egyptian god Anubis reaches forth and grabs him by the neck before removing seven seeds from a pomegranate and placing them into his mouth, one each element of the soul according to some ancient Egyptians.
Khet the physical body, Sah the spiritual body, Ren the sacred name, Ba the personality of treachery, Ka the vital essence which leaves your body when you die, Ib the heart, Shut the shadow, and Sekhem which dwells in the afterlife after judgment has been passed the names and definitions we use for these concepts may be rendered outdated should information to the contrary be uncovered or translated further.
Goggles turned a corner and walked past a large open room, in the room on the wall hung a large polymer oryx antelope head painted bright green and blue with an orange stripe down the center of its face, with a yellow and red party hat on one horn and a large cannabis blunt hanging out of its mouth. A cannabis blunt that Goggles pocketed for later use. Beneath this garish spectacle set an orange bean bag chair and an open carton of menthol cigarettes.
A few more twists and turns down the seemingly never ending series of underground hallways, an aquarium filled with hungry cats and a twitching man with a burlap sack over his head tied to a chair with a sign draped around his neck that read ‘pedophile’ stood in a dark corner illuminated like a museum exhibit.
The ravenous cats proceeded to tear into his flesh as he screamed in tired agony, even the smallest tortoiseshell kitten nibbles away at his toes before a large sandy striped tabby bites into the man’s jugular and silences his cries forever in a splash of crimson fruit punch.
Goggles and Marc looked on with indifference, they weren’t there to save anyone, especially kiddie fiddling degenerates, “
“Let the felines feast, I say!” says Marc as he retrieved a bottle of barbeque sauce that he kept on his person since condiments were banned by the nanny state local government some years ago.
they did it for the new generation, the generation that’s bottle fed throughout life, those who held absolutely no accountability for their actions, you know the type, the ones who cry and piss themselves when they can’t upload some tarted up, cuntfaced image of themselves to the social web cancer cloud so they can whore themselves out to sell bleach to those in possession of culture and intelligence to drink when they have had enough and want to end it all, they nearly die, only to be resuscitated by the government yes men, I mean women, I mean people, I mean things because the ones in power need their workers, their slaves.
Do you think they care about you and your wellbeing? No, they just want your labor and when you can’t work, you either become a host-controlled parasite or find yourself on the receiving end of an officer's body camera as it’s shifted from one side, taking you out of it’s view as the gunshots ring out and you drop to the curb leaking crimson with pierced lungs and a spewing, squirting heart as the camera pans back over to you twitching and gasping for air as the officers feign bewilderment and disgust as they exclaim “Oh no! Tsk tsk, You shouldn’t have moved!”
After administering the barbeque sauce to what remained of the man, Marc walked further down the hall and looked into the next room, “Goggles, check this out.” and gestured for Goggles to follow him.
The two aliens entered the next room where they found a a high vaulted ceiling and walls covered in a series of reddish-gold Roman frescoes depicting squids, cuttlefish, assorted cephalopods, and an octopus or two with wings and massive monocular eyes adorned with shimmering violet jewels, halos sat atop their heads. In the center of the room set a staircase that led further down into darkness.
Marc looked at the cephalopod frescos with a type of nostalgia for a brief moment in which he visited Salem, Massachusetts, he recalled riding bus route 455 from the Wonderland bus station up through the perilous city of Lynn where he was once beaten up and thrown off a train, through the cold sleepy town of Swampscott.
As Marc was seated on the bus he remembered a man in a black hoodie at the back of the bus in the seat across from him. He watched the man as he rocked back and forth, rapping about how much he loved mustard. I can’t remember the lyrics exactly, but between verses he sang with so much passion and conviction that I’m sure that even gods of old knew of his genuine love for mustard. For all types of mustard, dijon, brown, horseradish, yellow, etc
The bus finally got into town but was stopped by a road closure, as Marc waited for instructions from the driver, the strange passenger reached his hand up to the foggy window and while continuing his deranged mustard hymn he began to drawn crucifixes in various sizes at various angles around a large one eyed squid adorned with a halo. This bizarre situation had stuck with Marc all of these years and seeing similar imagery initiated a brief lapse in awareness as he stared into empty space.
“Marc! Yo! Marc, Wake up.” Goggles said, placing a hand on Marc’s shoulder. Marc jolted awake and retrieved a silenced 45 caliber semi-automatic pistol and a small black flashlight from his pocket, turning the flashlight on and pointing it and the pistol towards the bottom of the stairs revealing a narrow hallway with a low ceiling leading into a room alit with projections of blue flames that hugged the white marble walls.
Cannabis plants of an unknown strain covered in crystalline coatings of frosty trichomes flank both sides of the hallway, leading to a large painted marble statue of Hecate, the triple headed goddess who guards the crossroads and mediated between the Titans and Olympians.
In front of the statue floated the object of their objective, the crystal that they sought. The crystal glowed a magnificent cerulean blue that seemed to slowly strobe and change intensity from highest to lowest in and back again in a never ending sequence, cyan characters of an alien language cover its sides.
“It’s just like the one in Russia.” remarked Goggles as he placed his hand on the crystal. “Oh the one at that soviet base? What happened there again?.”
Marc replied. “Agent Pierce and Agent Morgan were near Mount Yamantau undercover as Russian scientists working to study the crystal during That Twenties War, the team was led by this sex crazed nymphile Dr. Nadia Troikavich.
One night during a routine series of disgusting mammalian copulations between the doctor, Agent Pierce, and some other unspecified species of some warm blooded animal did Agent Morgan attempt to flee with crystal in hand before slipping on a carelessly placed baked potato and falling over the cliffside railing, dropping the crystal and rolling down the mountain before being accidentally saved from certain death by a resting mountain goat, the goat sustained minor injuries, Agent Morgan broke his shoulder and a leg but was able to limp to a nearby town for help.
The crystal was later rediscovered in the snow and was to be transported back to the lab, but as it arrived it was discovered that the crystal was intercepted and molested by the Ukrainian Battleship Pirate Ninjas as they were called, and that the box that was supposed to contain the crystal was wired with a high powered explosive. The explosion detonated and killed everyone inside, all the base belonged to the UBPN, ashes and melted element one one five.
Agent Pierce had escaped before the explosion and had discovered later that he had acquired chlamydia. He retired from the CAPD Ass. and now resides in Toronto with his three pet argentine tegus and like all residents of this damned Northern Hemisphere, is monitored and tracked by the powers that be.”
All of a sudden a voice interrupted. “The crystal was thought destroyed but no my friends, this is the real thing!” The room seemed to darken and turn red as the flames were extinguished, the walls and floors morphing from concrete to wood, luxurious furniture seemed to appear in the room as the statue of Hecate and cannabis plants disappeared but the crystal remained.
Goggles and Marc drew their weapons at the source of speech realizing it was none other than Wynlock McAllister himself. “Look bruv, we don’t want to have to shoot you.” said Marc as he aimed his pistol between Wynlocks glowing green eyes. Wynlock swayed from side to side like a drunkard, unfazed by the weapons being pointed at him with dubious intent, he glided over to a shelf on the far side of the room and picked up a syringe filled with a dark green sap and a small bag of multicolored candy pills.
“This isn’t heroin” He presented the needleless syringe to the two strange gentlemen. “I'm not rich enough for that, this is RSO, a cannabis extract, I worship cannabis ya see, ever since that night I returned to the 1960s for a brief moment upon ingesting a medicated pink lemonade I had purchased the last time I saw the Pencil Shop Pimp who was straight ganga with gigabytes and stayed on the grind and Printshop Isaac who smoked spliffs with crayon wrappers while riding pimped out skateboards as he hacked the NSA back in 2004.”
He placed the syringe into a small cup of hot water lined with a plastic bag that you would use for food storage, keeping water from entering the syringe but heating the syringe up, he poured three candies of the colors orange, blue, and purple out of the bag onto a nearby tray on a table which rested a cup of tea and a small golden idol of the four armed, blue skinned, red tongued goddess Kali dressed in small severed human heads, she holds a severed head in one hand and a large large sword in another, her other two hands empty, her arms outreached outreached, who some say is associated with cannabis or kaliweed.
“It was back in the spring of twenty twenty, when I really discovered the power of the herb.” Wynlock continued. “Yes I ingested that pink lemonade and returned to the nineteen sixties.
Of course I knew I wasn't actually hallucinating, it’s just that my mind seemed to ‘go there’. I saw the shag carpets, the posters of the rockstars taken by drugs at age 27, the hellscape of an unjustified meaningless war projected on large humming cathode ray tube monitors in the homes of America, the struggle for civil rights, the acid tested waters of eternity seemed to spring out from the golden and violet fluid that was suspended in the lava lamp which sat upon the table on which the empty bottle of lemonade set like so many sleeping sailors boiled in their lead coffins.”
He retrieved the syringe and placed a drop of the substance onto each candy, He moved his mask aside revealing shining white teeth and a long violet tongue and tossed the candies into his mouth, chewing the candies merrily and swallowing them before reaching for the cup of tea and taking a sip, repositioning his mask afterwards.
“Ah, Earl Grey. It was my absolute favorite when I did dextromethorphan every day for several months in Ballard and asked the plant that grew outside on my patio about the nature of death through a telepathic communication that seemed to arise when I placed my hands on the plant's leaves. Stella, she said her name was, at least that’s what I saw projected on the mirror as she stood on the other side dressed in black garbs and dark makeup with a mechanical left arm. Her translucent green skin glimmering beneath the fluorescence lights. As sea serpents crawled out of the wall with a searing burning glare of jealousy and hate.”
He took another sip, Goggles and Marc looked at eachother with complete and utter confusion. “What on Earth was this maniac on about?” they pondered, “Should we just shoot him and say later that he was threatening us?”.
Wynlock walked over to the crystal and picked it up and examined it, what was visible of his greenish white skin was glowing as if fluorescent as it reflected the crystal’s radiant glow. “The plant told me that in the end there is no difference between the state of being alive and being dead, your molecular structure breaks down like decaying plant leaves and becomes the soil in which wretched people fuck eachother and kill, adding to this disgusting biomass we call a planet, taking up even more finite space in this ever shrinking galaxy of gradiousity.”
He takes another sip and places the cup down on the table before collapsing comfortably into a nearby armchair. “We’re all in this together my friend, the plant said, we all break down in the end.”
He held the crystal up and threw it underhanded to Marc who dropped his pistol and caught it. As Marc’s pistol hit the floor is discharged and sends a bullet into a nearby room. “Oh my god!” a patron exclaimed, “Quick!” another exclaimed,”Get me in the photo!” “hashtag headshot” as they said around this time as the patrons bathed in the brains of a friendless wanderer of 24, who darted from place to place to find friends and love, but only found rejection and silence.
He drank a shot of cognac and took his prescribed tramadol that night, and woke up with shattered thoughts and a scattered mind.
“Cest La Vie” Wynlock exclaimed with a sigh “Take the crystal, I’m tired of holding onto some old relict.” Marc placed the crystal into his front pocket, creating an awkward bulge. “Where did you get it?” asked Goggles inquisitively.
“I got that crystal from these two employees in the back of a dying retail store marked with a large ‘K’ that was located in Longview, Texas back in two thousand and eleven. I followed a series of signs that read “Chips! This way” and proceeded to the empty layaway counter in the back of the store that was largely unlit as they had begun to turn off power or sell the light fixtures.
The two employees had gecko-like features and pale orange skin, they stood about two meters tall and had three long thin fingers and black eyes with red irises. After some arguing between the two they agreed to sell me two bags of these special tortilla chips for two dollars.
The tortilla chips were seasoned with powdered habanero peppers and a secret smokey spice mixture of an unknown origin, they seemed to also have a slight umami taste that hinted as possibly added glutamate. They were the greatest artificially flavored snack food I had ever tasted. At the bottom of the second bag of chips was the crystal you now possess.”
Wynlock retrieved a small box from under the table, opening it to reveal three black liquorice candy ropes that he offered to his guests. “Take one of these licorice ropes, they contain 600 milligrams of THC distillate with added live resin and cured terpenes and if you are looking for a snack, the cafe on the third floor has this hardshell blue corn taco with black beans, seasoned lettuce, and a non dairy chipotle cream sauce that’s excellent. Plus the restaurant has this avant garde hellenistic decor that’s amazing!”
Marc picked up his pistol and holstered it before taking two licorice ropes, throwing one to Goggles, scarfing the licorice down and performing an ominous facepalm. “Am I having a fucking stroke?” Marc said quietly as he began to walk towards the exit placing one hand on his forehead. Goggles consumed the licorice rope and followed him back up the stairs slowly.
“Uhh, yeah, thank you Mr. McAllister for cooperating with our investigation.” said Goggles as he holstered his gun but kept his hand on the handle as he backed up the stairs. “Yeah sure, oh and guys,” Wynlock stopped them as Goggles almost escaped his view, “Some of the guests upstairs are from way out of town and think that your costumes are racist, so, use the staff exit.” “Alright, later.” Goggles said as he finally left the lunatic behind.
Goggles and Marc returned to the getaway car and placed the crystal in the trunk, or boot if your truck is a lorry, and drove away into the night back to CAPD Ass. HQ in Raton, New Mexico. The psychedelic rock blared over the car’s stereo as they drove higher than any expectations of any retail employee through the Northwest forests where protesters bit off their own fingers,
the wasteland of California where the residents are taxed into their early graves,
the Arizonian deserts where many have tried to cross that walled fence in search of the grand charade this country promises and have been shot by in the back by the vested ones adorned with badges who aim their sniper rifles from watchtowers and many other vantage points,
and then finally to New Mexico, where certain monetary gain awaits.
“An Air Marshal, A Green Man and a Sex Pirate”
A commercial aircraft with only its left wing crashes into a forest killing several on board. In the aftermath of the crash, a rogue communist air marshal, whose pronouns I can’t recall, in a twisted and patronizing tone asks the surviving passengers to line up to form a type of socioeconomic, sexual, and racial priority gradient,
“All right, the lighter ones with more masculine traits in the front, the darker and more feminine amongst you can hide behind the seats, eventually the bullets will hit you and you’ll perish, but be given a few more minutes of life. Said the Air Marshal to the terrified survivors.
“As for the fascists and pigs in the front, even if you survive the initial few rounds, hell even if you perish, the collective will resuscitate you, hook you up to a few milking machines and farm you for semen, blood, bile, and shit.”
“We need raw materials to propagate our awoken human automatons who have traded that sick thing you fascists call ‘free will’ for safety and sensitivity. Parthenogenesis is the name of the game, a new world order of the garishly nondescript.”
The Air Marshal cocks their pistol and puts it against a young boy’s forehead, the marshal of the left winged plane cares not for your children’s hearts or minds, but for the labor and materials your children can provide, they will strap future generations to operating tables and take out their organs and pump out every bit of fresh water, so long as they can be filtered and fed to someone underprivileged.
Trace minerals of a human nature, even in death they contribute to the collective hoards.
My dear viewer, in this instance however there is was a happy ending indeed, as no men, women, children, etc were murdered by the air marshal that day, as a large man, dear antlers atop his long flowing auburn mane, his body green like moss and eyes blackened with a neverending void of oblivion, everlasting knowledge and necessary violence should nature call for it, walks out of the forest flanked on all sides by woodland animals of all types from deer to squirrel, fox to wolf, badger to pill bug, snake to bear, eagle to mountain lion, and so many others.
The man which in this story we will call Cernunnos, points to the bewildered air marshal, as the animals began to charge. The air marshal fires their pistol at the creatures but is not able to hit anything but the trees which watch this spectacle with their judging invisible eyes.
The animals descend upon the air marshall and subsequently reduce them to a spot of crimson jelly on the forest floor below, with any solid remains eaten by the predators unable or unwilling to consume the plant based fair trade fabrics the air marshall was clad in.
The less ravenous amongst the animals simply used their claws and hooves to bludgeon the sick Air Marshal to death. And when it was all over Cennunos led the beasts back into the forest, beyond the blackened treeline into the misty shadows of botanical retreat.
Now two years later, a survivor of the crash, who now goes by the by the name of Captain Astro the Glider of Handjobs, stands in an Irish pub on the south end of Ballard. He’s dressed in purple and grey pirate garb with a worn leather hat.
A leather eye patch covers his blinded left eye, he had a peg leg and his hair was long, shaggy, and black. He was once a preacher, but he lost all his faith in Peru. He worked as an activist, but leftists in Portland took out his eye. He performed music for degenerates and operas for thieves, but songs became auditory commercials after an award show in Qatar.
So now, after a brief stint at working a mattress accessory emporium in Vancouver, hiding liquor for teenagers in crates of avocados in the refrigerator of a burrito establishment in Northgate and losing a leg in a disturbing incident involving a homicidal cassowary and a tub of yeast extract in New Zealand, and after adopting a pirate persona and losing his job weaving fishing nets in the frigid Cascadian cold, he found another unemployed drunken Friday night coming to a close.
He stumbled into the pub and made his way towards the back of the establishment, garnering looks from harlot and old queen, both gorgeous and studly. He reaches the back of the bar and collapses in a darkened corner booth. It was after the fifth of rum, some isobutyl nitrite, and a couple of kratom capsules later and he was back on the Ballard docks, stumbling around, cursing Poseidon and descending into a largely incoherent drunken rant.
“Not since I was thrown off the Newbury Rockport line by vile transit pigs into the streets of Lynn have I endured such discourtesy!”
He kicks a nearby beached walrus with his pegleg, the walrus looks at him and yawns.
“It’s outrageous, There’s some strange, evil force that is continuing to perpetuate the human race, there’s something out there that needs us for something, it’s too evil to just let us all die and rest easy, no it says, more babies for the grinder, more meat for in the nursery, a cycle of endless suffering never to be broken because you want the next generation to suffer just like you did. “
“A lifetime of people raping and robbing and taking everything you hold dear so what do you do, have a little homunculus crawl from your slimy diseased netherregions just to grow up and destory all we hold dear?”
“FUCK!”
“Out of the womb and straight into the father's mouth, choking on the bones of his cubs as the lioness uses the mucus in his death erection to give her more to eat, more children to trade, more innocents in the digested remnants of carrion. I could get a gun at a supermarket and a bottle of tramadol in two thousand and one and now what do I get? Artificial rum and all natural non gmo syphilis.”
“And my old friend Samuel O’Flarity, raped at gunpoint by some gash who desperately wanted to get pregnant so that she could milk someone for money, and even after reporting this incident to the police Sam was sucked dry of every fucking dollar he had for child support, the bitch would have gotten away with completely ruining his life, but one night in a fit of justifiable rage, he crept up the steps, and decapitated the whore and her little parasite and blew out the brains of every pig that interrupted the joyous sounds of blood spraying and splattering from torn jugulars and deep arterial wounds. Eventually Samuel dropped to the ground dead looking like Swiss cheese with a smirk of satisfaction engraved on what remained of his face. “
“I’ve known too many men die like Sam, most only kill themselves however and no one gives a shit. I can tell you one thing motherfucker If Sam wouldn't have killed them I would have, there’s no justice in this world. Rot in hell you stupid fucking bitch.”
The Captain takes a swig of rum and climbs into a docked dinghy, The S. S. Ketamine they called it, He covers up with an algae encrusted fish tarp and passes out for the night.
“The Furry Convention”
Across town near the airport, a convention is being held in a overpriced three star hotel.
“Distinguished fapjunkies and genitalmen, I welcome you all out to the 70th annual meet up of furverts and follow fiends. “
“The internet is going the way of the typewriter, though one was stomped out by innovation and the other seemingly abandoned by all but the disgusting subscription pushing bourgeoisie cunts, those who trade in their privacy for financial gain and those who lurk in the backgrounds and sneak by like digital chameleons of the RGB spectrum. “
“We dance in the voxels that line the hallways of this horrid conditions,” several dozen bodies in furry animal costumes stained with every possible bodily fluid are collapsed against the walls that line the hallway. Vixens, coyotes, ponies, lions, wolves, a few dragons here and there.
These were furries, which, in the context of this story, are people that have an affinity for animals that are anthropomorphic or have ‘human-like’ characteristics. Quite a few of them attend events like the one I am at in this tale, these events usually occur in hotels and while the majority of them have gone on without incident, this particular venue catered to the perverse, though actual bestiality is usually banned at these events officially, I have heard horrible rumors, some true, others false. But it should be worth mentioning that most furries are not actual zoophiles.
The perverse crowd lie in their rank and fermented suits in a post-coital haze, passed out from ingesting vast quantities of alcohol, molly, benzos and speed. This combination of substances probably led several animal cosplayers' souls to crawl out of their fur adorned husks covered in glowing ectoplasm and go forth beyond the veil of the astral plane to return to whatever primordial interdimensional plane they originated from originally.
I riffle through the dead ones pockets and find nothing by stale dried condoms, tourist pamphlets, drugs that aren’t as good as the magic grass, and keys to cars I cannot drive. The hotel was in complete and utter ruin, the repairs are sure to cost millions. To the utter dismay of the hotel staff where this all took place, the hotel was surely to remained closed in the months after this fiasco, as the sheer level of brutal hardcore yiffing had peeled all of the paint off the walls and made the atmosphere almost impossible to breathe in giving the rotten stench of sweat and salty disease ridden fluids.
“Why the fuck am I here?” I asked myself looking down at my lanyard that read the name that wasn't my own. My night of attempted furry lush rolling had been a bit of a disappointment, having only recovered around $150 in cash, I was heavily drugged from vast quantities of dextromethorphan syrup and my whole night seemed to be a sort of ‘destiny’.
I walked further down the hall and down a spiral staircase that led out into a large open room where the initial registration line once stood, now tables were overturned, food and drink littered the floor and a couple of animal cosplayers cover in blood stains lie on the floor pierced with forks but strangely alive and knocked out cold.
I notice a grand piano under another staircase which set at the other side of the room, I walked over to it and played a few simple melodies for a bit before getting bored and following another hallway past a large banquet hall that looked like it had been hit by a ballistic missile, the room was completely and totally trashed, the floor itself was totally covered in crusty fur clad anthropomorphs.
A rabbit lies on her back with demented pinpoint eyes, a female wolf in black military attire with a strap on, is passed out slumped over in a doggy style position behind a heavily made up femboy zebra,
Three pirate dragonesses sticky with vaginal microorganisms swim in a sea of whiskey as they lick each others bleeding orifices, and what seemed to be a gay orgy of queer foxes in the corner by the couch where the lack of light left much to the imagination all but revealing some poor soul who under applied the astro jelly and inserted a shard of glass a bit too far up his ass, poor bastard spasmed with the twitches of orgasm and death as his eyes rolled backwards.
Le Petite Mort indeed.
I recall talking to my wise friend Che as he lit a marijuana cigarette in front of a Cuban flag that stood in front of a blaring winter sun in a West New York park after my indecency charges for accidentally showing strangers in Manhattan unicorn pornography of an incorporeal marshmallow variety were dropped. Che said that in our pretentious hubris we lose ourselves up our own asses and turn inside out and find nirvana, you see things for what they are, you ego lain bare, everything becomes clear so long as you don’t get stuck and refuse to let go of everything you every loved, refusing to let go results in a path of fear and paranoia and before you know it the people in the streets will gaze upon you like some unholy hybrid leper and burn you at the stake. I think Che might had been high before lighting that joint.
In the banquet hall there wasn't a place you could step without possibly injuring someone or engaging in accidental corpse beating, it was the aftermath of a wild sex party.
Being uninterested in this foul orgy I proceeded on to an enclosed glass foyer with an open roof that allowed viewing of the glass elevators that moved up and down against the hotel’s other building’s towers that stood off in the distance, an overcast evening sky loomed overhead.
A furry dressed as a cheetah had performed a doomed skateboard trick off a balcony and now he lies in pain with fractured shins against a large flower bed that lies in the center of the foyer. “Totally bogus” he proclaimed as vixens in skimpy nurse attire loaded him on a stretcher and took him off to god knows where.
On a bench near a door that led to the other side of the hotel I saw another human, a man dressed as a medieval crusader typing away on a cell phone. He was a member of a medieval themed boy band called the Lads from Leicester, their music was like something straight out of the year 1999 and their live performances seemed to always go ary because of some technical issue or some problems involving the heavy suits of knights armor each of the five members wore on stage, how they danced is beyond my understanding. I walked through the foyer and waved to the knight who waved back and proceeded to continue doing whatever he was doing.
I went back inside and entered a room where a series of landline telephones divided by modesty panels once stood, now replaced by USB charging outlets with no attempt to disguise the marks on the wall where the phones were once mounted.
My cell phone battery was depleted so I plugged my charger into the wall and made plans to return to the place that I temporarily called home. I let the phone charge for a bit before eventually heading towards the entrance that lies past a small restaurant and the lost and found.
As I approached the door I heard a female voice behind me say. “Excuse me, are these your glasses?” I turned around to see no one, I looked down to find my prescription eyeglasses, which I guess I left back at the phone booth.
I pick them up and put them on, looking to my right to see a bar with sign in front advertising a series of non alcoholic mixed drinks that were for sale up front being as all of the alcoholic beverages were allegedly served back in the banquet hall were the inactive bodies of fursona long departed lie dormant with pale fish eyed irises and blue tinged skin.
I approached the bar to see this rather normal looking fifty-something year old man mixing blue sports potions and gold energy drinks, the both of which combined on their own if bought elsewhere would be but a quarter of the price of this shady bartender’s mixed drinks.
He had the eyes of a tired reluctant restaurateur of a second generation, possibly the son of the original owner of this establishment who took over after the original owner retired and decided to take up snowboarding in Aspen at age seventy eight.
Now this poor bastard by the name of Mike was stuck with the family business and the obligations that came with it, like running the bar at a convention of sexual deviants in expensive mascot outfits.
“Hopefully the bastards won’t wake up after that last ‘cocktail’, ha ha ha. What can I get ya, normie? Better not be another pervert trying to purchase my fourteen year old daughter!” exclaimed Mike.
I looked at this man with total bewilderment, what in the hell was he on about? “No sir, I don’t want your daughter? Just give me ‘The Marina’.” I said, even though the drink was a rip off like I stated previously.
I paid the nine dollars for a small plastic cup of green caffeinated electrolyte sugar water, thanked the overworked man, and continued out the exit door to the parking lot.
There were no furries in the parking lot outside that I could see, but the cough syrup was really kicking in, I walked out of the hotel parking lot and down the street towards the airport light rail station, the streetlights shimmered as my vision shattered like a million mirrors,
The light faded back in, I was on a mountain top and a king in red robes and a golden crown adorned with jewels of different varieties summons green lighting bolts from the stormy black sky, the king’s face melts away revealing muscle tissues and finally bone and cartilage as a large emerald shockwave causes the storm to disappear and the sky to brighten.
The sun rises and shines down upon the mountain top, a long banquet table and eleven chairs appears complete with cuisines of every variety, at the end of the table sits a man with pale skin and high cheekbones. He is surrounded by shining celestial god beams. He has one eye blue and one eye grey and short spiked strawberry blond hair that covers one eye and a five o’ clock shadow.
“We’re builders.” he said softly as we were seemingly transported to another realm. Now the man and I stood in this vast library with towering bookcases holding seemingly every novel to ever exist.
The library's tall walls were decorated with hellenistic carvings and lush greenery. Statues of the gods were lined along a man made waterfall that bathed the statues in ambrosia as crepuscular rays shined in from great skylights in the ceiling and covered the library in a golden hue.
A burgundy tapestry depicts a female olympian jumping over a charging bull. This library seemed as if it were the lost Library of Alexandria, there was so much knowledge and seemingly so much potential.
The man holds out his hands towards me and conjures a bronze sledgehammer and hands it to me. “We have nothing left to gain from creation, as creation has produced negative results, the time for destruction is now.”
Reluctantly I began to swing the sledgehammer, destroying objects whose values are in the eyes of its beholder. “Value or worthlessness doesn’t change the fact that it’s there, it’s all there, all the molecules, all the thoughts, all the words, all the atoms. All there. The question is whether or not death is a complete and total end. I definitely don’t have the answer to that question but it is from my understanding that deep down we know the answer to the question of what happens after we die. '' said the man.
Within a flash this scene was over and two figures stood over me as I lay there on the sidewalk. The sky was pitch black and a cold winter wind blew icy crystals of frosted doom. “Hey bud, you okay there, eh?” I focused my eyes and the figures slowly came into focus, two police officers in furry animal costumes, one dressed as an Alaskan Malamute and the other one as a moose.
“Oh sorry,” I began, “I was just heading home and I had…er…a bit much to drink.” The two looked at each other and then back at me. “Oh were you at the convention?” the Alaskan Malemute said as his radio emitted background chatter, 420 in progress.
I nodded my head and looked at both of the name tags sewn on their uniforms. The malamute's name tag read Corporal Daemon, the Moose, Sargeant Trudeau. “Okie dokie, well, we can give ya a ride home in our police cruiser, but first, do ya have any weapons on you my guy?.”asked Sargeant Trudeau. “Just a pocket knife.” I replied. “Well, I gotta take that from you for the duration of the ride, but don’t worry eh, you’ll get it back, guy.
I reluctantly handed the knife to the moose and followed the two to their police cruiser, the audible cracking of the newly formed snow beneath our feet as we got closer. Corporal Daemon opened the back door of the cruiser as Trudeau got into the driver’s seat. I climbed inside the cruiser and struggled with the seatbelt because I had yet to be arrested for any reason and had no idea how police cruiser seat belts worked…well, that and I was tripping balls.
The back door slammed and Corporal Daemon got into the passenger’s seat as the car sped away.
I gave them my address and we started towards my place of residence, stopping at a drive thru along the way as the two in the front seat gorged themselves on greasy food laden in the trans fats of old.
The meals were in purple cardboard boxes with a picture of the restaurant chain's CEO and some randomized statement about munchies aimed at stoners. Both meals included a cheeseburger topped with fried jalapenos stuffed with cheese on a buttery brioche roll, two hardshell tacos, a mixture of curly and crinkle cut fries and an extra large diet soda.
After a conversation about the police departments getting defunded and Corporal Daemon having a bit of a breakdown about how he can’t arrest people without being canceled on social media anymore as it was the late twenty tens and that sort of thing was all the rage, we eventually arrived outside our destination.
“Okie dokie now go inside and get some sleep bud.” said Sargeant Trudeau as I exited the car and began to walk towards the house. “Hey thanks guys, I appreciate it.” I replied
Just then I noticed that I was missing something important in my pocket. “Hey, is there any way I could get my knife back?” I asked as I walked back towards the driver’s seat window, keeping my hands out of my pockets so I wouldn’t get gunned down by the furry police.
Time seemed to completely stop as that moose bastard looked me dead in the eye with his stupid looking antlers and dumbass eyes of syrupy discord and proceeded to flip me off with his dirty weapon thieving fingers and reply, “Not a chance, ya fuckin’ hoser”. And with that bizarre exchange the two officers rode into the night, only to later use my pocket knife in a failed convenience store robbery and both end up behind bars. I still haven’t received my knife.
“Dietrich Merlot”
Dietrich Merlot, A once famed fashion designer disillusioned with both the fashion industry and the indestructible evil that lies upon the dainty disenchantment that dwells within the hearts of the disheveled and the well received, behind every door and out every window they pulled and the groped until not even the feeling of the finest grade Afghani hashish cut with pure pharmacy grade zed opium sold from the devil’s 4th floor of an eastern fish market can do nothing to numb her melancholy.
So she lies in her flat looking out the window at a city filled to the brim with the empty void that precedes the antimatter that walks upon you and I. The commercial perverts that stalk artistic expression in the seedy back alleys of the darkest side of financial desperation for which the chronically dependent commercially inclined often frequent.
Money can only keep you out of the grave so long so many decide to use it on a luxury casket that encases and ensnares the mind’s eye and blows the whistle to sick the hounds of materialism and monoperceptionalism upon the poor injured animal that we once called a soul but now we call an ‘influencer’.
She lies there in her violet satin robes and drinks a cup of chamomile tea, her bright blue eyes shine through her violet blackened hair with frozen nostalgia as she reflects on her past adventures and escapades. How she and her friend Ashleigh McCall would drink ayahuasca and dance under moonlit starry skies. She remembered her time in Tangiers when she witnessed two women stab each other to death over a mandrill in a hash den.
And she’ll never forget the time she spent as a rogue teenager in the open air of the new millennium as mankind acknowledged its progress and embraced its new found technologies with a sort of futuristic aesthetic that seemed to be all encompassing and moving at light speed.
A brief point in time when all potential was out in front of us without the prying eyes of evil authorities. As our technologies progressed, so did the limits of what we the common person can do with them without repercussions.
If no limits seem present you better believe they have their greasy hands on the power switch and every eye electrical and otherwise glaring at you with the fibrous detriment of a million subatomic capitalist particles in the hands of a careless jackass on a drunken elephant's back.
I can’t tell you if there’s an afterlife Ms. Merlot, but I tell you one thing’s for certain, they may tolerate us now but give them some years and they’ll rip us to shreds. It’s getting less and less popular to be alive, so the hip thing is to die, and die well.
There’s not running from the powers that be, either end it now or watch the show.
I can dig a show, admission is free after all.
“Kidney Stone Keith”
They won't give the injured man a damn aspirin because he might "abuse it" in the waiting room.
They told the lady with the open wound as she screamed for stitches to deal with the pain. Another woman lies on the floor panting and breathing heavily as she lapses in and out of consciousness.
Where's your mouth lady? Your nose? The dog took her nose, a gaping hole. A man vomits blood on a mirror as a homeless man steals a wheelchair out of desperation.
And my veins bend the needles into contorted positions nearly to the point of breaking for the veins had become weathered from the years of plasma donations that will be hoarded by the fortunate high on the hills of Medina as a anemic shot full of holes by police passes away and becomes some forsaken and unloved debris caught in the gutters.
Someone screams their last scream as the scalpel slips and out goes the eye and in comes the blade cutting through their psyche like a Gysin cut through books or yesteryears.
A receptionist talks loudly over the crowd of dying patients.
“Don't mind the dying woman over in the corner, privacy concerns and all, No medicine for you junkies, you're not in pain, pains for you idiots who didn't go to college to become ubermensch like us in our armor made of paper adorned with a seal of worthiness, role call time, who has the patience to be a patient this evening?”
“To misquote Diogenes the Dog, I can't tell the bones of your ancestors from the bones of your slaves. Broken ribs, left side, help the poor girl! Don't help me! Help her! She can't breathe.” someone cries
So they wheeled her out into the maintenance hallway to suffer out of sight.
“How dare you drip your peasant blood onto our polished hardwood floors we bought with morgue money.” barked the receptionist.
Doctor Greenwood walks past the smoking pavilion at Brentwood Mental Hospital. Stopping to admire the lush greenery and finish his bottle of a modern interpretation of blue paregoric, he spots the blonde Nurse Valerie puffing on a mentholated vaporizer filled with synthetic nicotine derived from various species of bioengineered nightshade.
Doctor Greenwood approaches and begins his unprompted, drug induced conversation.
“Hey Valerie, Valerie, did I ever tell you about Kidney Stone Keith?”
Once back in the backwoods of West Monroe that eventually lead to Shreveport and eventually to Dallas I learned of the gentleman named Kidney Stone Keith,
Now Keith was a professor at a local college that specialized in turning the mildewed brains of highschool students raised on crack cocaine and rides in the back of patrol cars into fully functioning members of society well versed in the historical and secret mysteries of the art of the jester.
Even though Keith threw insults and F shaped balloons at his students on a regular basis, the kids loved him, not necessarily always in a manner that would make hollywood pedophiles cackle, but in a warped sardonic talking reflection, showing them the flaws he perceived and addressing them in a joking manner without the slightest echos of unnaturally harsh punishment.
He wore a mask made of white vinyl resembling that of a skull, adorned with blinking red and white balls that hung from each corner of a red and black Jester's cap, A bright blue polo shirt embroidered with the word ‘stress’ in golden letters that shined like a dagger in the back of divus julius in the theatre of pompey around forty four years before the birth of the silver jesus fish.
He kept half drunk gin bottles in file cabinets, he took guns from the back pockets of violent patrons at a haunted house in a Longview, Texas swamp, I saw this as I danced with the bones of a dead woman, I broke off her arm as I used it as a whip, I was a dominatrix for a weekend you see, but we’re talking about Keith here not me or some dead woman, in the summer months when class was dismissed Keith would retreat to Canon City, Colorado and smoke cannabis with the fair trade van people who traveled by raft down the rivers of sharpened rusty railroad equipment discarded in the 1870s.
Once he had told the students a story about a friend of his named Darren Saltine, Darren accompanied Keith to Colorado one year and had been thrown from the raft by the rapids and landed eye first through a large railroad spike, by the time they found his body, mountains goats were licking the salt off his skin, as he was always a salty fellow.
Keith was known to intimidate people around him as many rumors circulated that he was once a Navy Seal or possibly CIA, and that he had killed dozens of people. Now I don’t think that’s true but from what I’ve heard his mother worked with nuclear materials in the 1940s and his father was a Texan carrying a rifle through the then-recently-post-war Japan. But we can’t blame Kieth for any of the atrocities that may have arisen in his parents pursuing their given occupations.
I am of course by no means suggesting that Kieth was free of suspicious deeds. He had allegedly worked as an arms dealer in the 1980s and I personally gave him a guided tour of our body storage facility.
I remember that day as if it were yesterday, reddish and off white mannequins made of human muscles, organs, and bones with white fibrous tissues hanging off of them like torn burlap strips or ripped drywall tape were posed in every which way with fake molded smiles.
They were bodies donated from China, some were stripped of nothing but their circulatory systems and looked like they were made up entirely of red woolen yarn. Others were cut vertically or horizontally into translucent two dimensional sheets like rare steaks. A headless and skinless human torso with half its arms, is perched atop a pedestal under lights like a museum exhibit.
Human fetuses and stillborn of all varieties in jars of yellowish green fluid with stomachs torn open set in the dark corners of the room on dusty desolate shelves.
Severed testicles and penises the shade of chalk in glass cases lie petrified next to an entire female reproductive system stretched out about a meter showcasing every internal organ, it even still had some grey skin and hair around it’s opening. I could talk about that for hours.
If anything bothered Keith the most, it was that one half of a human head cut vertically with its internals presented like a shucked oyster, a look of absolute anguish on the dead man's face.
I would have thought he would had been more concerned about the kidney exhibit as Keith had been known to have a habit of ending up in hospitals because of his sheer reluctance in having to pay the multitude of millions needed to see a doctor to remove painful calcium deposits that occurred from time to time in his kidneys,
And one day as he was screaming or bleeding profusely when the pain got too painful and others chose to prolong his life by calling paramedics in their green ambulance, emblazoned with ' in god we trust' with the lights ready to be turned off when the patient inadvertently dies from negligence
and the ambulance bill goes on to kick and beat and bruise anyone left in familiar distance to the deceased, like the pregnant widow who hangs herself and her unborn child on bleeding fallopian tubes that secrete the meat to be castrated and thrown in a ditch of eternal bereavement when daddy comes home in a metal takeaway container.
This is the fate that awaited those closest to Keith as they loaded him into the vehicle as onlookers taunt and discredit his pain. "It doesn't hurt as bad as being in labor, you'll never know what it's like." Some old cunt shouted, Keith breathed heavily as the kidney stones slowly infected and liquefied his tissues with a caustic inflammation.
"I'm sorry lady," Keith replies with a grin, "the difference between you and I is the simple unquestionable fact that I didn't ask to be injected up the lower orifices with the literal sharpness of a billion multifaceted razors. While you were more than likely compliant in giving oxygen to your future doorstop baby."
He cackled madly through screams of bitter agony as the ambulance doors closed on him one more time. On the way to the hospital they shot him up with hydromorphone to the point of coma and 'accidentally' dropped him in transit off the stretcher onto the concrete outside and cracked his skull on the pavement,
his brain swelling, bleeding and rattling around the thoughts of his sad, depressed wife and wolf children raised by pornographic softcore machines with hard drives, local unemployed scammers and the word of those long buried in peat bogs and desert tombs being torn asunder only for the nurses to strike the final blow ending the clown's Socratic stand up routines and razor sharp wit that delighted and enthralled those living amongst the bullet ridden crack houses and abandoned gas stations of the Shrevehood.
Without clowns we spend our days blinded and led astray by the joyless temptations and false hopes of woke Hollywood correctness, licking the boots of the ones holding our leash, forgetting the mistakes of the past as Uncle Sams and Carrie Nations take turns raping the newly born by order of social security number and the amount they can obtain when their playthings outlive their usefulness and they call upon Dr. Mengale to deal out the most American of justice as many a former presidents would say through caustic white smiles.,
Adolf built the camps and Columbus sketched the blueprints, this is a room with a single exit, how you got in the room's a mystery, but when you walk in the footsteps of Kidney Stone Keith make sure your body is hidden well, because when the dead walk, the paychecks will be keloid scarred backs and automated biomilking, or perhaps you'd like to be a crash test dummy.
Either way they get their morgue money.
Nurse Valerie, realizing that this man was actually a patient who had escaped the psychiatric ward moments ago, calls for the orderlies to sedate the strange man and take him back to his room.
“These sorts of things alway happen on my breaks.” she says as she heads back to work for another 16 hour shift. She returns home that night for a break, takes mushrooms and amphetamines and returns to work, and has never missed a day.
“Cafe Vaudou”
There is nothing acceptable but the extraordinary, there is nothing interesting but the mundane.
Can I walk through a dark room without passing out as the heavenly sisters of sleep and death in green and purple put on their orange robes and lead me to a carnival of the carefree?
The worst part about buying more is that sick feeling you get when you realize that the next batch will run out too, and then wham bam you're back in line again.
I recall a time when I could access a computer and search the web and find data grounded in ‘observable fact’ and impartiality in regards to a balance of the opposing sides of the chaos of nature, and the shackles of social expectations.
They interrupt your entertainment and thank the sponsor as a priest thanks God.
But now not as much, now we live in a world ruled by what I can only describe as the highest example of small minded, parasitic, and frankly psychotic self abuse, total dependency on the other degenerate gibbons in the troop who hoot and holler as they jerk and pinch off to their own partially digested commercialized excrement which fills the lines in the sand where independent apes once rested before being hacked apart and eaten by their loved ones, the ones who sell out and wash away their souls like a grey matter stained scalpel through an autoclave.
Souls traded for subscriptions, when the subscription is out the apes will rape and multilate everything you know and love. Someone once told me that this Earth and the cosmos beyond it were loaned to us by future generations. Well, most of the time terminal illnesses are free so have at it!
I’ll sleep in my scattered atoms later, right now I have somewhere to be.
I remember a time before the gradual decline. I rode as a passenger in a bright yellow car past clean, shimming skyscrapers and bright green flora. The sun actually shined, there was no ever present feeling of injustice and guilt that would later be forced onto us all. People lived and the veil of fabricated self worth still covered our prying eyes.
Draped in white linens they surrender to the temptations of luxury. I reminisce back to the days before the supply shortages, before everyone stopped trying, before and after individualism was bashed from the left and right. Those days are now long gone ya dig, we’re strolling back to a primitive aesthetic. In due time, people my age, younger and even older willingly gave up their rights as citizens for safety from not the bombs of far off lands or the promise of comfortable living, but because they were afraid of words. Despite opposition I still strive for permanence in a transitory and disposable world.
I exited the taxi and arrived at my destination, a destination that didn’t lie under a warm sun, but an anemic stormy sky, the outside of a cafe I once frequented long ago.
I recall around Halloween of 2017, I was in Salem, Massachusetts to perform at a ‘silent disco’ where I would broadcast a musical performance to wireless headphones at the fountain by the town mall in order to comply with the city’s ridiculous noise ordinances. I was at the gig when all of the sudden I was abducted by three witches from South Carolina. They smoked diet cigarettes and got us lost in a misty haunted graveyard. We walked to the temple of Satan but didn’t have enough money to take a tour. They vandalized pumpkins and cried of blistered heels on painted doorsteps. I was left at the train station with nothing of value.
When I returned to the venue for the silent disco the event organizer, A thin brunette of about thirty five years old who wore expensive cardigans on her shoulders and an accessory clip on plush wolf tail on her ass by the name of Elaina O’Hare, had canceled the show and fled to Reno to marry a man she had only met once. The last time I saw her we were locked in the trunk of a stolen sedan by two truckers from Springfield. Upon escaping this grueling scenario, I stumbled into a dark alleyway up a flight of creaking stairs and discovered the Cafe Du Fuckery.
The outside of the cafe blended into a row of old red brick buildings that held ancient apartments, salons combing style, old time boutiques and dockside spice stores, all of which were owned and operated by a coven of witches. Outside the Cafe Vaudou hung a wooden sign bearing the cafe’s name and its mascot, a black cat with bright yellow eyes and white makeup in a fuschia top hat holding a sandwich in one paw and a cup of sweet tea in the other.
The Cafe Vaudou was an eatery open all night long that served New Orleans style muffalettas along with an assortment of teas, coffees, and sandwiches of seemingly endless varieties.
The cafe also had a mixture of Italian and French decor for lack of better descriptive terms. And as the name implied there were elements of Louisiana voodoo as well, mostly nicknacks like spellbooks, potion vials, and strange bags of herbs. It was pretty obvious that this restaurant was owned and decorated by enthusiasts and didn’t practice or really know anything about Voodoo. The cafe’s walls were massive blackboards covered in user contributed chalk artwork, mostly related to magic or the occult. The chalk dust was a bit of a cough inducer.
While there was an assortment of tables and chairs, The daylight patrons mainly chose to relax on plush orange bean bags and read and worked silently, but at night, past three AM the cafe would change the lighting, turn up the music and become the hang out for all manner of sociable shut ins, charismatic misanthropes, and the prudishly perverted.
I’ve seen my fair share of the local recurring patrons. For example there was Silv Miller, a legitimate art thief wanted by Interpol who once entered the restaurant without trousers wearing a bandit mask and bought every damn sandwich the restaurant could assemble with stolen bills, so now the restaurant refuses to accept cash.
Another night Silv stumbled over to the counter, where a local Catholic priest with pagan tendencies by the name of Father Patrick leaned against the sandwich case and waited for his order, he took notice of Silv and gave him a friendly hug as he started to espouse strange verses.
“In this Invasion of dialect, be as wax on Heaven’s stone. Hallowed not ordained, you must retreat to the shades of hell, you who wander with submissions sent, and dues to be paid.” said Father Patrick unto Silv
“Ordained, and thus, condemned, I have displayed before The Named the circle where genius lifts the hue of the western skies. I pray for nuns on Catholic powder kegs. They shine ever so bright. For on solitary shores arrived The Eyes of Ra, that such radiance cleared the path to my guide and returned not sorrow, nor servitude or dismay.” Replied Silv as he leaned against the sandwich display case.
All of the sudden another figure approached, this individual was a large muscular man, encased in hubris, a sequined mask and a green leotard by the name of Rex, He kissed his muscles and began some more gibberish that seemed to have some sort of meaning to the oddballs present.
“My quarter stands foremost in the Dread Abyss unbroken, view thine handgun for I had as had been told pleased Him on deserted plains, my weapon short ten bullets free.” said Rex as if born of Narcissus as he presented an empty pistol to the two men eagerly.
“Order for Patrick!” yelled an underpaid sandwich server as she carelessly dropped the bag containing the priest’s order onto the pickup counter and proceeded to snort cocaine off the avocados in the fridge, only to find a full bottle of liquor and proceed to get drunk with the other underage employees present that day and lock themselves in the freezer like my dear friend Winston and die of alcohol poisoning and hypothermia, one kid choked on an avocado pit. The owner Beth, her sister Caroline and their pet cat Ipswitch, who could allegedly sing about as good as Sinatra, still operate the cafe to this day, but don’t like to talk about that little incident.
Father Patrick picked up his order and began to head out the door before waving to the two strange men and reciting one more quotation.
“The Separated Ones own the sun, the frontier, our customs, and our refinement of language, gentle mortal, thou shalt fan thine moonbeams with carcinogenic fingers just and son, you shall rehearse your play as an ass, now my sons I must retire, for noble home-spun palms of the Nile wrap a cornucopia of a choice noted weed, like the Scythians who walked on clouds before us.
Father Patrick tipped his hat and reached into the pocket of his robe retrieving a palm wrapped cannabis blunt dipped in holy rosin, he lit it up and took a few puffs before walking down the snowy streets out of sight. Godspeed, Father Patrick, Godspeed.
Silv and Rex were later arrested that night after a pimp whose name I will not mention, took notice of Rex failing to pay for services provided and kicked down Rex’s apartment door and beat the fuck out of him. In a panic, Silv grabbed a ceramic dinner plate that I sold to him when I worked at a Northgate department store, smashed it against the oven's glass door and proceeded to stab the pimp with the broken shards of the dinner plate.
The police, who in this town walk along the streets in a swarm with witches adorning the patches of their uniforms and the few patrol cars they possess, immediately stormed the apartment building just as a fight broke out between Silv and Rex. Rex had grabbed a hammer and was trying to beat Silv to death with it before being bitch slapped by the police.
I haven't heard from either of them since. I know that the pimp survived, bought new threads and returned to his profession. Unfortunately the pimp insurance only covered the costs of the hat, cane and fur coat, so he had to pay for everything else out of pocket.
I walked into the cafe and picked up my three sandwiches that I had ordered via mobile phone application on the ride over before walking to a bus stop and waiting on the next bus ride back through the veil. I sat there in my worn out shoes and tattered black clothes and after a period of rest opened my eyes, only to realize that I was back in Seattle once more.
I set my bag on the bus stop bench and gazed at the mountains obscured by mist and radio communication towers blinking and sending signals off in the distance, a crowd of starving fentanyl addicts lingered around and asked me for blues and cigarettes.
The rain obscured my vision as a man yelling chants of proclaimed racial superiority attempted to grab my bag because he thought his actions just, I pulled out my knife and took off three of his fingers. He screamed and ran away trailing diseased blood as a hungry pine marten lept from some nearby shrubbery and devoured the man's fingers merrily.
Ravens flew overhead and let out welcoming screams of avian profanity as an Orca feasts on a diver to the cheers of delighted first graders. Buildings are torn down after being constructed a year prior, no time for preservation here.
I cleaned the blood from my blade and boarded the bus, the driver drank a can of malt liquor and talked of the heroin dance. After paying for the service that no one else seems to pay for, I left behind this realm without reason.
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COPYRIGHT (C) 2023 ALEXANDER ROGERS CROMWELL