The Emerald Vagina

“In retrospect I may have been a little harsh in my criticism of Sartre. He had never been exposed to Freges Bedeutung as I had, and I had never been exposed to nineteenth century scholastic thought as he had. To draw from scholasticism an anti-essentialist line of thought is a triumph I had no means of appreciating. Apologies.”

So Wayne apologised after all. I mean after a year or so. I had no idea what he was talking about, last time we had a text message exchange it was to tell each other to fuck off. He was as good as dead for me. And he was drunk. This lost child of the race of the Freak and the Insane…

He used to be the drummer of this band I play in: Cock Riot, you may have heard of it, you may have not. He came on board after the previous drummer, who was tall like a giant and stoned like a pro, one day all of a sudden he freaked out, and started yelling at me, and seemed very much on my case, and I figured all he wanted was to just showcase his big fat cock to me, and he talked a lot, spat venom and all, and as big as his cock was he just had no balls to bust my ass. So WE busted his ass, and he was out out out, of the band I mean. He figured he was too much of a threat with all that flood of nonsense, and jabber about how humongous his attributes were.

God! There just wasn’t enough room left for all that extra ego, because the egos of the rest of us were already pretty much clogging the system, and it was a little bit like trying to squeeze your suitcase into one of those Ryanair’s luggage-size check stands. In the end, with a bit of cheating you could maybe make it, but in general it was pretty much a hopeless case!

So Wayne came on board. He used to be a fan of the band, and his dream was to be part of it. And, after the most appalling and disjointed jam together, you know, just to test him out, we said ok. We used to call him home from rehearsal rooms, and it used to be after we had waited for him for an hour or so, and we had discussed among ourselves that his delay was starting to reach Greek levels. So I usually called him, and then his voice would rise like from a very dark place, being in his bed and unduly awakened by me. And a good ten minutes of disquisition on the phone about continental vs English philosophy would ensue, and I would feel like I was talking to a jelly fish, with all his words flowing like slime reaching for the Abyss, and very much affected. He was drunk. He was useless.

But, as much as we wanted him out and started to look for a substitute, he loved the band so much that he managed to convince us to keep him anyway. He made very good philosophical points about it, I mean, the purest English tradition of Logic was channelling through him like he was B. Russell or something, and we were so very inept at logic, that we couldn’t just say no. We should have written a fucking academic essay to disprove him! because he just wouldn’t take it the simple, un-erudite way.

Wayne went from sanity to insanity like he was constantly walking through one of those revolving hotel doors. But the hotel didn’t come cheaply, and he could only afford a few cans of beer a day. He lived in this council estate, and I used to go and visit him every now and then. The furniture was very minimalist. It looked like an art installation by Tracy Emin. A TV set, an armchair two meters away, a dead whales cemetery of squeezed empty beer cans on one side of the armchair, and a flickering ocean of empty plastic skins and apple pies still wrapped up in their bags on the other. The rest of the house covered in a thick layer of dust, like it was infested by those little Australian spiders that swarm and spin like crazy covering everything they touch with a blanket of silken cloth.

So I went to visit him every now and then, and he would be either very drunk, and then I would just leave the man to his philosophical diddle and goo, me being there completely irrelevant, or he would be just tipsy or maybe only on the verge of getting drunk, but still manageable, and so then sometimes we would go out for a walk in the park, buy a few beers in the off-license nearby, and sit on a bench.

So we were sitting on this bench one day, and he said:

“You know? I channel, Roger.”

“What you mean?”

“I mean, I am in direct communication with some supreme beings, whom I reckon are from Zeta Reticuli, being Sirius mentioned all the time.” – he paused, raised his finger to the tip of his chin as if in doubt: “Or was it R136-A1?”

“And what do they tell you, Wayne?” – I took a GOOD FAT LONG look at him.

“That being in this band is the best thing that ever happened in my life.”

I took another GOOD FAT LONG look at him.

“Pretty lame life.” – I tittered. I mean, we were such a hopeless band.

He took a very long sip. I opened another can.

“So you reckon they’ll visit you some day?”

“O they have! They’re all around us.” – very matter-of-fact like.

“Mmm…” – I said looking around with circumspection. “Can you show me one?”

“Sure! You see that guy lying on the green? The guy with a red shirt, and there’s that girl showing off her ass really good next to him.” – he pointed. “Do you see them?”

“Sure.”

“Well there you go. He’s one of them.”

“How do you know?” – I was being hypnotised by the ass.

“I am being informed right now by a supreme being that he is one of them.”

“What’s his name?” – I asked while my hard-on was swelling. “I mean, what’s the name of this supreme being who is allegedly informing you now?”

“Zarpotax, from Theta Centaury, planet Xauntar, the second from the star.”

“So how is it going on Xauntar?” – I asked – “Is it theta-centaury-y like, I mean, sunny and all?” – oooo how charming I was! or so I thought.

“There are no seasons in Xauntar, it is a never-ending splosh of ammonia all over the place. Like a water planet or so, and they live in an insulated capsule immersed in the liquid to avoid the scorching deathly rays from the sun.”

“Geez, how could life ever evolve there at all!?”

“It didn’t. Zarpotax had an emergency crash landing one day on that planet. He’s been trapped with his family in this emergency capsule for over a month now.”

“Is HE telling you all this right now?”

“Yes.”

“But WHY!? What’s the point!? He’s trapped in a bloody insulated capsule in the middle of an ocean of ammonia on an alien planet in order to avoid being roasted by scorching and deadly stellar rays, and maybe his emergency food is running out, and he finds the time to amuse himself WITH YOU!??”

“There’s nothing else to do, Roger. Life is pretty boring in the capsule.”

“So, no hope of getting out of THERE!?” – I felt for Zarpotax.

“O yes, presently a ship has been sent in his and his family’s rescue. It will be there in a week or so.”

“FINE!” – god, that was tense.

I took another sip. Wayne stood up.

“You going somewhere?” – I asked.

“No. Just saying goodbye to Zarpotax.” – he raised his arm and brought his fist next to his heart, then bent a little ahead, and then sat back down.

“He’s not happy, Roger.”

“Who’s not happy, Wayne?”

“Zarpotax.”

“How come?” – I felt exhausted.

“Guess?” – he paused and looked at me. I did not want to guess. “Well, his wife.”

“What an ALIEN concept that is!” – I giggled.

“You know, Roger, I’m worried for him. Divorce is painful. I know my shit.”

“Sure you do, Wayne! Tell me, remind me how it is that your wife wanted to divorce you!” – o what a charming story that was!

“Well, I brought these two Mongolian transvestites I had just gathered from the strip club downstairs, and I brought them in her bedroom where she was already sleeping. I was so sharp on coke that I could perceive the thoughts of the bus driver down the road. I had the most amazing hard-on I ever had in my life. All fired up, like a gasoline tank. So I woke Marge up. Very gently. And I whispered in her ear that I wanted to fuck her together with two Mongolian transvestites, very gently like. And that’s all!”

“And so what happened?”

“She went berserk. She started throwing stuff at me, ANYTHING that she could grab. Then she was going for the TV set, and so I thought it was getting a bit more violent than I wanted, and so I decided to go downstairs, and started shagging the two transvestites on the kitchen floor.”

He paused, stood up, crossed his arms, sat back down.

“What was THAT?” – I asked.

“I just refused conversation with Zarpotax’s wife. She wanted to tell me a thing or two about her husband.”

“Why did you refuse her?”

“She reminds me too much of Marge. The way she always used to complain about silly things. Like me going with whores, for example, and so on.”

“Well, she had a point there!”

“I did not go to the strip club because I wanted to get laid, that was out of my control, I tell you that place was full of nymphomaniacs. They grabbed and grabbed like they hadn’t seen dick since the beginning of Time! I just went there because they had this little old dispenser, very old fashion, and you inserted a coin, it reminded me of when I was a child, you get which dispensers I’m talking about, right? and then you would crank the handle and get these plastic balls out of it, that you would open, and inside there were these miniature genitals statuettes.”

“Is that REALLY the reason why!?”

“I could never find the Emerald Vagina, Roger.” – the coolest fucking voice on earth. “I had the whole bloody collection, but the Emerald Vagina was as slippery as a possessed eel. It felt hopeless. I tell you, up to this day I still have to see an Emerald Vagina in real life.” – he looked so sad.

So he fell silent for a while. Then, all of a sudden:

“Excuse me Roger one moment, I have something to do. I just received a new communication.”

Wayne got up very excited, he looked like a boxer warming up, straightening his back and swooshing fists in the air. I didn’t make much of it, apart that maybe he was just going for a bit of stretching or so, until I saw him walking towards this guy with the red shirt. The ass had gone in the meantime. And then Wayne burst into this insane gibberish and tossed it all over this chap:

“YOU TRAITOR! Lord Zinax condemns you to DIE! You broke the Pact of Stability! I SHALL HAVE YOU STRANGLED WITH MY OWN BARE HANDS! YOU FOOOOL!!”

Wayne was pointing his finger at the guy like he had the power to incinerate him. The lad stood up like he had springs under his feet, and looked around like an animal checking the surroundings before battle, and all the people on the green were just staring at Wayne, still trying to figure out what the heck was going on. Then Wayne literally plunged full body onto the guy, and a bit of a scuffle ensued. A few people came closer and tried to separate them, but Wayne was hot, like he was a Nazi soldier executing orders unquestioningly and with a rather vicious transport. And then the police arrived on bikes. They batoned Wayne pretty good, I mean I saw him spit blood, and he looked like completely insane. His eyes were FIRE!

He had finally lost it.

Zarpotax was having a good laugh in his capsule, rolling all over the place. It was getting hysterical. A month worth of isolation does tricks on you. And so in the frenzy he inadvertently pushed the auto-destruction button, and then there was like a bulge on the surface of the vast ammonia ocean, and Xauntar was once again a dead planet.

As for me, I went home that evening coming from the police station. Wayne was going to be locked away in a mental institution for quite a while, or so I figured, and I really had to email the guys about what had just happened to him. And so we all agreed that it was about time that we started looking for a new drummer.

[To be continued…]

(c) 2012 Crugi Smear

smearcrugi@gmail.com

Foo

So the police busted into my place one day, and they started shouting at me like they were deranged or something. A parade of charging bulls in front of me, and I simply got up from the chair, took a sip of my tea, and said, very regal-like in my voice:

“Gentlemen! What can I do for you?”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP AND HANDS ON THE WALL AND SPREAD YOUR FUCKING LEGS NOOOW!!” – the guy didn’t look very argumentative.

And so I did.

Prison is not the worst case scenario, I mean, you can find lots of interesting types in it, and a lot of the conversations tend to focus on pussy, and me being a big fan of that, well, it just felt like it could have been much worse. If they really wanted to punish me, then a residency in a catholic community would have been like REAL hell, with all that kneeling and standing, and no talk or action about anything sex-related, or whatever there is out there that is even remotely worth appreciation and longing. I think it was very clever of me to tell them I was a catholic after all, me being agnostic really.

And nobody would touch me in the prison because they thought I was such a hot character having done what I had done. It felt like I was being respected, and very soon I would start helping some of those fellows in this small project they came up with. It was about altering psychological reports, and evaluation reports and the like. Very easy piece of cake. I mean, screwing up computer systems was my specialty, and so it didn’t take much for me to come up with a very elegant piece of code, and then scribble it on a piece of paper and hand it over to my accomplices for them to type it into the machines.

“So what you got here Roger? I cannot read this…” – asked an inmate of mine. He was trying to get accustomed to my atrocious handwriting. It really looked like it had been written by a drunk scribe in some ancient demotic script: the cursive type; and so I always had to give the guys a bit of a brush-up in my style before they could use it. But still, I made a point to use only Python, being straightforward and all, and that, I’m sure, was making things a lot easier for them, even if they were unaware of it.

“So show me!” – I said, and it read:

“import imma_gonna_get_permit

def imma_such_an_adorable_type(events, score, comments):

character = get_char(foo)

metrics = [character]

if character not in metrics:

metrics.append(character)”

And so on.

I had strictly no access to computers. They considered them a sort of weapon in my hands. But I didn’t really care. I had enough of all that gibberish with the Anonymous bunch, and their war of sabotage against the already self-sabotaging elites, that everybody thinks are so clever, when they’re in fact just a bunch of hopelessly blind suicidal egotists doomed by Nature to become soil in exchange for the land they’ve raped. I mean, they were pressing me really hard like I was such a fundamental link in that disjointed chain of command, and all I ever thought was that they were just a bunch of freaks, with doubtful computer skills, and I saw them with their beer bellies and shit scattered all over their tabletops showcasing their dicks on IRC channels, and what not, and all they wanted were lulz, and stuff like that. Still, I agreed with most of the stuff they were doing, and so I thought: Why not? Let’s accelerate putrefaction.

And so, all of a sudden, a lot of my fellow prison inmates started getting so much less pressure on them, all showing up now on their reports as cooperative types, and helpful, pro-active, and whatever other crap they themselves came up with (That went in the comments argument, and so it was pretty much left to them to fill in). The guards were not beating so much as before, and you could tell that that took a bit of fun away from them. Daily temporary leaves surged, and so everybody felt just a tad bit less miserable than average. The head of the prison even thought that he had cracked the right method for the administering of justice within the penitentiary system, but he wasn’t sure what that was, and so he started investigating. He needed to know in order to justify his achievements in front of a probable commission that would enquire about his success. And then maybe senatorship, or who knows?

“Mr Prandelli, you are being charged with what this court considers a serious crime. Your activities have vastly damaged the industry, and I want to warn you that we shall push your case as a matter of priority…” – and so on and so forth. This guy had this funny wig on his head, and he kept his sheets of papers maniacally aligned to the edge of the table. He knew exactly when to sit or to stand up in front of Their Lordships the Judges, he knew when to surge or to crawl in front of Their Majesties. It was a catholic mass where Justice for All ruled the world, and not the Lord, nor compassion. So the wig was very dignified and a pretty eloquent orator too, but a tad bit stiff for my liking. Not that my personal inclinations mattered in anyway, because he was on my case, and he was seeing that any possible scrap of evidence pointed towards my personal ruin, very certain bankruptcy, and possibly a sentence for life.

The thing I did was to create this very clever piece of software that automatically produced literary works, and you could fine-tune it via its GUI so that if you wanted to write in, let’s say, the style of Hemingway, but also maybe with a bit of a Gogol twist, then you only had to select the appropriate styles from the scroll-down menu, scribble down a few notes about the subject matter, and then the 1’s and 0’s would start mingling together, and would start dancing their mechanical mazurka in the CPU, and then they would spit out this masterpiece, and it would be utterly indistinguishable from an original. Sometimes it would turn out to be much better than an original! I think the hardest ones to crack were Bukowski, and Vonnegut, very chaotic and stream-of-thought like, very challenging to teach an AI how to be insane, but then eventually I pulled that too, and then I realized that that was the last thing that was left for me to do, being there no other more challenging authors than that around left to include. And so I just copied and pasted the code on GitHub, and then this thing took a life of its own.

“@cockriot76 good code you got there mate! l33t stuff!” – said spinderspliff73.

“@spinderspliff73 thank you buddy.” – replied cockriot76, that was I.

Of course the publishing industry, you figured that out yourself, went totally berserk, and copyright started becoming such a hot topic once more, and you saw CEO’s of very famous publishing houses come on TV and spit out my name as if I was Osama bin Laden or some random Bradley Manning. Very disturbed people, I used to think to myself when I happened to watch their tasteless, agonizing faces. For they had a good point for not feeling too well. What eventually happened was that, thanks to my software, A LOT of people started creating all these new literary works, and it was ALL OVER THE PLACE! Blogs sprang everywhere, like they resuscitated from this apparent death they had been going through, and people were crazy about coming out with all these new stories, and, you know, sometimes it was all just about making a buck or two with a bit of ads revenue on their sites. So there was a worldwide explosion of creativity, and this whole commotion had been equated to what the Pre-Cambrian Explosion had been for Life a few hundred million years ago. And the stuff that circulated was so damn good and the sheer quantity was so overwhelming that the industry eventually figured out that, unless they did something pretty snappy, they were all good for the coffin.

“Your Honour, if I may…”

“Go on…” – said His Honour.

“I never understood the industry’s attitude. I mean, for the first time we have so much clever, and beautifully crafted art, and enriching, and some of it being very deep and human-like in its essence, and you people are just trying to shut it all down by covering it with petty copyright issues. It seems to me that your real objective, mind you, you may not even be aware of it, maybe it is really just the system that makes you act this way, almost mechanically so to speak, so your real objective, I was saying, so it seems to me, is to deprive people of art and culture, and enrichment, and entertainment, the good type I mean.” – I took a pause, breath! a sip of water. Then on:

“Because it also seems to me that you people are here only to defend your own kind of art and culture, and so on, you know, the kind you get from all these over-paid and overly-paid-attention-to so-called creative types that consider art as if it was a product, and they think they’re such big shots at keeping their audiences so very dumb, and with a leaning for getting overweight. So that culture of yours, I conclude, is a bit silly to me, and lame, like not thinking too much, not questioning enough, just enjoy and have fun, and be CRAZY! in the very stupid brainless way, I mean.”

“Objection Your Honour! The defendant is disrespecting this court, and I shall like to consult with you for a moment on how to tackle this issue in a definitive manner!” – the wig wiggled frantically and fell onto the public prosecutor’s desk fumbling the papers. Some were pushed over the table’s edge. The man looked outraged.

“Go on then…” – said His Honour, a bit like sliding on his side asleep really.

They thought I was disrespecting them a lot, it came up a dozen times a session. But I was just saying what I thought was true! And I know that Truth doesn’t pay very well, at least most of the times, I may even buy it doesn’t exist after all, but still, I figured that in a tribunal they were looking for some form of it, even a mutilated or phocomelic variant of truth, but still, some outline of it. I mean, they made me swear on the Bible, and it meant nothing to me, and it didn’t matter, because I’d have told them the Truth, my truth, anyway. And so I did.

But the judge went pretty harsh on me. I had like 127 injunctions for disrespecting the bloody court, and that helped a bit in the final count, I guess. It was a pretty grim day the day judgement was passed. It felt like the whole world was screaming at me like crazy, some for joy, some for contempt, against me, against Justice for All, and camera flashes, and strobe-lights, and what not. When I was brought back to my cell the guard even gave me a good beating as a sign of welcome back. I mean, I was spitting blood all over the place! And you know why? It turned out that the head of prison had found out about the little project that me and my mates were running, and so he prepared for me this warmest of red carpets. There was no senatorship coming his way any longer, and he needed a bit of venting out his disappointment.

And life went on.

So we were sitting on this bench one day in the prison court, and it was like a bit empty and all. There was nothing to do, and the classes on Russian Romanticism wouldn’t start until September, and so me and my mates started this new pet project. And it was about…

(c) 2012 Crugi Smear

smearcrugi@gmail.com

Angels

When I woke up I felt really good.

I mean, as if the previous night had never existed.

What happened was that I’d got locked up by accident in one of these humongous industrial freezers, like a whole room filled with butchered bodies hanging all over the place, and busy hooks, and empty hooks just resting there. There were 23 unused ones. I know, because I had the time to count them before I froze stiff completely. But it doesn’t really matter what happened. The main thing was that now, I mean right now, it felt like everything that ever bothered me up to that point in my life was just gone. Like dust in the breeze. Not even dust. Just empty space, filled with the Present. I was clean. And it felt sooo good…

But then I became troubled for a moment. The first smear on my newborn soul, I guess. This whole thing did not feel normal. I mean, it happened to me before to wake up from devastating drunks and feel like a baby born again, and it felt like the Virgin Mary had begotten me. But then that passed, and the memories and the past emotions re-emerged as if inevitably. But now what I had was just sketchy memories from my previous life, and no regrets, nor anger or joy for it.

So that’s how it feels like… I thought while contemplating the idea of being dead. Matter-of-fact like.

“Good morning Roger.” – said the voice of an Angel. “Would you mind following me?”

I turned my head toward the voice, and I saw this most remarkable of things: Beauty and Grace fused together to form a blissful being, whose contemplation human eyes know not on earth. I felt so very special just because I was standing there, by her. She was the round perfection of the Pearl, her limbs were whispering Harmony, her legs were screaming, constantly: SUBLIME! – literally – and her ass yelled at me, abruptly: “GRAB ME!” like an imperative. And I was for that most joyful moment the luckiest guy in that dimension, or so I thought.

I followed her screaming limbs like a dog chasing a piece of bloody meat from the master’s hand. I was a puppet, but I knew it was for my own good, and there was nothing else I could do! I was drooling expectation, and fire was all over me, inside of me too! – literally – And we turned many corners, and strode down very long corridors; it seemed like it would go on and on forever and ever, and it didn’t matter, as long as I had that screaming ass in front of me:

“GRAB ME!”

And eventually she made me sit on this couch, and I was worried for a moment that it might catch fire. Then she took this sphere out and gave it to me. “It’s going to make you feel better.” – she said, her tone very neutral. I took it, breathed on it, rubbed it a bit to polish it, and then slipped it into my pocket. Then I forgot about it.

Everything seemed promising.

But then, as soon as I tried to slide my frolicking hand under her divine garment, I started to hear a hum: a low drone that seemed to come from a distance so far out that I figured it must have been crouching in a remote black hole of cosmic proportions, or something in that category. The sphere started vibrating, and so I realised that the hum and the sphere were one and the same thing. And so, to my surprise, all of a sudden, the fire was gone, and my desire for the blissful lady had vanished, and in its stead a moderate sense of euphoria and an unmediated will to obedience took its place. I was again at peace with the world. No passion was convulsing my mind any more.

And it felt puzzling.

“You see?” – she said. “It’s already saved your life.”

“What you mean?” – I asked mechanically.

“One more move, I’d have killed you.” – her tone was neutral again. No hard feelings.

“I see…” – I said, a bit confused.

So I started wondering whether, after all, this place where I had landed was Hell. But no hard feelings either, not really.

Over time I learnt a bit more about the practices of those exotic places. After the Introduction, where they gave to each of us that tiny curious sphere, and confirmed that we were dead, the Angels would scatter us all over this new environment like Parmesan cheese. I shall digress shortly about what this place looked like, for the moment I will emphasise that many more of us would arrive from time to time, but also, many of us would disappear every now and then. No one understood the logic in the demographics of the place. After all we were all humans, and pretty dead already. It was beyond our scope. Some said there was some sort of Judgement going on at our backs, and the people who disappeared maybe deserved some other place. I asked many Angels, but the usual response would be a gentle smile spruced with silence.

It took a while before I started going to this local place. It was called the Calypso, and it was a dome full of fellow departed souls who went there just for one thing, and for one thing only: to screw the HELL out of anything that crawled or walked, or breathed or choked!

Heaven like.

There was this gigantic sphere in the middle of the room. And it was pounding, and POUNDING! constantly, sharp as a laser. And the room was massive, astounding! A triumph of architecture like I had never seen in my previous existence on little earth. Not the Ziggurats of the Babylonians, nor the contemporary skyscrapers would do justice to the magnificence of this place. The arches went on and on ad infinitum, it seemed. You could not make the end of the ceiling, so very tall it was! And everybody was in there, and it seemed like, after all, I was not really the smartest guy around, like I often liked to think of myself. Everybody had already figured out things before me. And what they had figured out was that that was the coolest place to be hanging around. And it seemed like the whole damn race of the dead had stormed in there. Imagine, this place should have been called the Black Hole instead.

Just to give you another taste of the place, I could tell you that I had the best shags of my life under those awesome arches. I had slim and fat, of any colour and built, of any nationality and religion, pervs and non-pervs, housewives and pole dancers, nuns and electrical engineers, and so on. And words did not matter: all the philosophy in the world was useless. All my proud studies became like a thin and ephemeral haze, that very soon evaporated and made room for something more deep and fundamental.

And this sphere was just constantly pounding, and POUNDING! and everybody just felt like FUCK MORE! It was a categorical imperative. There was no choosing. Kant was right, there exists such a thing. And so we fucked, and got fucked back. And you were straight, and you were gay; or maybe you liked animals, or objects. In this place there were no prejudices. Everybody and everything was on the rompy amusement floor!

And so life went on.

There were various domes. One could choose where to go, according to one’s predispositions, I guess. Maybe the Angels would then administer Judgement according to the individual’s choices. That much I figured. Most of the domes offered me little solace, or they did so just for a short period of time. I remember hanging around the Philosophy Hall at the very beginning. I had to figure out what the heck was going on! So I stayed there for a while, and it felt like years.

There was a sphere in the middle of the dome; it would commence communication with my personal sphere as soon as I had approached; and it would make me feel like I was welcome back Home, to little earth: I usually felt very argumentative, and it was a lot like smoking pot. And the Angels were good there. There were no threats, nor fear; only sacred Contemplation: of Truths and Virtues, be they cardinal or theological, and some very deep new ones, whose existence I had never even suspected before. We questioned and dissected the Mysteries that were still left for mortals on earth to unravel, but which they never will. I read all the greatest authors that I had already read previously in my life, but never really understood; and we had the most remarkable conversations about them. I also learnt a thing or two about God. And that upset me a little, but only at the very beginning. For I soon learnt that it was rightly so. And I learnt a thing about Ayn Rand too. I was objectively shocked when I was told that she’d been an emissary from what the Angels called Planet Litterdiddle. About where that was… Again, a smile spruced with silence. And so I kept searching, nurturing my soul, until I became an expert on Post-Humanist Cognitive Deconstructionism (PH-CD), me being on a bit of a hermeneutic patch. And then the library became used-up, I mean, there were no more books left to trench this ungraspable, growing longing that took possession of me.

It started like a craving for something impalpable, as if I had been thirsty; but I could not figure out exactly what this feeling was all about. And so I tried to quench it with the Physical, and grounded so to say: I gave Adam’s ale a try. I plunged into the crystal-clear waters in the Fountain of Doo; and it felt a bit better. Then I gave a shot to the sumptuous meals at Goo’s Diner; and it felt even better. By the way, it was a very neat place, in particular the fillets were absolutely superb! Trust me on that, ok?

And then one day, while I was sitting on a bench outside of the dome, satiated and content enough, but not fully yet, enjoying the sunshine, and all the beauty surrounding me, along came this girl I never noticed before. She was reading a book by Heidegger, Being and Time. It seemed most appropriate. After all, that was all we were left with. She smiled at me, and it meant so much more than politeness. She took me by the hand, and she brought me to the hippie love dome, the Calypso that is, and everything was so new and exciting for me. I was instantly reminded that the last time I had sex had been like two years earlier. My body was telling me that! I can’t really explain better than this, I’m afraid. You see, when I died I was pretty much a bit of an involuntary chaste, with too much philosophy, and too little solace on my side. But now! My penis started swelling like crazy, while a bunch of bodies fell from on top of what was then and there revealed to me as a gigantic sphere. They were fucking on top of the sphere! The bloody thing must have been three meters high! That is how intense the carnage was. And this sphere was very similar to the one in the Philosophy Hall, but it had different ‘functions’, so to say. And then the huge sphere connected with its little sister in my pocket, and they both started pounding into me! I could hear a low drone slowly emerging from the soles of my feet, and growing more and more, until it was screaming like crazy in my head:

“FUCK HER!”

And so I did.

And so did everybody else with me.

Since my very first encounter with that creaturesque kind of love, I was, like all my fellow departed souls from that exotic place, trapped in that dome. It was very hard to leave and go back to any other one of those halls after such a liberating experience. And there were like hundreds of those structures all around; many very entertaining too. And yet, they became instantly diminished, almost of no importance any longer. Now the Calypso was Home. To think the opposite, to think that you could do without, was simply hopeless escapism, and delusion, lots of it. I mean, you knew, and everybody else knew that, after every little break you might have taken, that was the ultimate place where you would eventually go back to: as if you were a child, and you were constantly longing for your parents, and warmth, constantly, more and more. And we all knew that eventually, any one of us, sooner or later, would end up staying there for good; or at least for a very long part of their stay in that realm. I mentioned earlier that people disappeared every now and then from this Nether, and so they did indeed disappeared also from our orgies at the Calypso, and it was always the wildest and the best who went first.

But who cared?

“FUCK MORE!” – screamed the sphere.

So then one morning I left the love dome, the dear Calypso, just for a little while, only to rest my bones. And so I ventured into a small adjacent wood. I took shade from a tree and collapsed asleep. I got up, it was night. I must have slept more than twelve hours. I had not realized before how tired I’d been from all the crazy frantic activity going on in that place. And take into consideration this: I was now myself recognised as one of the best lovers on the amusement floor – that much I had progressed! – and everybody now wanted a bit of me. Sadly, I was getting mostly perverts at this stage, and it was becoming a bit scary too. But there was nothing I could do while they were slowly, inevitably sucking me dry. Everyone’s duty was to sacrifice oneself.

I saw an opening in the green that I had never noticed before. I entered it. There was a small dome. I could see the Angels fly around inside the hall. They were beautifully aloof, and frightening to watch. I stepped closer and closer; extremely cautious. My heart was pounding, and yet it felt like the only reasonable thing to do. I approached a little bit more, and a little bit more… My heart pounding wildly, I was now crawling along the bushes, until I raised my head to sneak a peek, and then be gone, when I saw what I saw, and it made sense: I saw the HORROR!

Emma was our beautiful Queen, our love-crazed queen of the floor back at the dome. She was debauched like no other I had ever seen before, not in brothels of the world, nor on online porn. She was the most advanced of us. And, curiously, I was right behind her in people’s polls! How peculiar… I thought. Emma was just hanging there, mid-air, suspended at a bloody butcher’s hook. She was being slowing stripped of her body by the Angels who went about their business in apparent delight.

Swoosh! A strip of flesh.

A flap of wings, and swoosh!

A muscle snatched.

And Emma, the loving creature with a tormented body, innards exposed and all the gore in the world, well, she seemed delighted too. So I relaxed a bit and, suddenly, I felt that the sphere that was present in the middle of that bloody hall started pounding into me, and POUNDING! And I felt that the blood looked really good, and yummy. So I started craving for that blood, and I pushed the door open: I entered to reclaim what was mine. I was suddenly awash in light. The Angels spotted me in the blink of an eye. They were not angry, not a tad bit at all. They were delighted to see me. They welcomed me, and sang Songs of Cheer! I now stood beneath Emma’s body. A mysterious force was pulling me, making me go towards her, until I was standing beneath her, and the gore was now flooding into me, filling my mouth, my nostrils pouring forth her vital fluid. I could taste Emma’s soul. But I cannot really explain what this means either. And it felt really warm and good.

One Angel took me by the hand, and so I climbed on top of this ladder that soon became stained in the blood dripping from the corners of my mouth. And while I was waiting for the hook to arrive and be hooked, well then I gaped at the Angels and pondered how lofty and beautiful they were, and how humble and insignificant I was, and I looked forward to this very time spent in their company, and why hadn’t I come here before, and so on.

The hook arrived. I grabbed it and pierced my own flesh. It felt like my duty, and it felt good. The rope lifted me up, and there was no pain. The Angels started swirling around me, and getting closer and closer. I was being hypnotised by the majesty of their approach, and Emma looked gorgeous, like she was Plato’s Beauty and Venus and the Goddess of Fertility all fused together, and growing! And I remembered the last time I fucked her: it was just like the night before. But the Angels were going to be better. We both knew it. It was going to be Unconditional Love. And then the first Angel flew by me, and with a dagger she cut my stomach open. And her eyes were blue blue blue, like the sky and the ocean fused together.

And it felt sooo good!

(c) 2012 Crugi Smear

smearcrugi@gmail.com