IRAWnow
Excerpts
Gethsemane and a mobile phone
Oscar’s trembling hand reached into his dressing gown pocket and pulled out a pillbox. Opening the box, he looked at the lone purple pill and thought, “That’s it, the last Dogmatil.” Pinching the pill, he plucked it from the small plastic container and popped it into his mouth. Oscar swallowed. He sighed, and entering the bathroom of his Fulham flat, glimpsed his reflection in the cabinet mirror.
“Is that me? Is that what I look like?”
He had aged. His face sagged, was gaunt, and a badgered beard did not obscure his wretchedness. His eyes, just slightly less than blood claret, were swallowed by the dark pits of their sockets and blankly stared back, sullen. Sticking out his tongue, it was black. Attached to a rotten tooth was an abscess. The left side of his jaw was swollen. His nose had grown, reddened, and become slightly more gnarled.
“What’s that little critter crawling up the outside of me right nostril?”
He grimaced as he felt a small oblong bubble of skin with his right index finger.
“It’s an erstwhile thread vein; it’s metamorphosed and become a caterpillar. That’s what it is. The fucker’s gonna change again soon, sprout wings, take flight, and leave me with only my left nostril to breathe through.”
Wens, small sebaceous cysts, and unerupted pimples festered in the pores of his face.
“They’re weevil grubs. That’s it; that’s it. My body is incubating insects. That explains the dull buzzing in the middle of my head. A wasps’ nest is rousing there.”
Unknown to him, he was suffering from tinnitus caused by high blood pressure. Checking his body and confirming his fear, he noticed a new spider vein on his right shoulder.
“Another arachnid to add to my addiction.”
He poked and rubbed it as if to erase the blemish, then pulled his finger away, quickly. He had heard stories of spider veins spontaneously erupting, spurting blood; people had died this way—haemorrhaging through the skin. He shuddered. As he further examined his body, Oscar was confounded to find bruises, grazes, and curious contusions smattered in the most unlikely of places. How could he possibly contort his leg, bringing it to impact with something robust enough to cause injury just there?
He fingered below the crease of the knee at the back of his left leg; there was a large mauve patch, a bruise some days old. A fresher graze scraped the top of his right foot, and a sac of congealed blood looked angry on the back of his left hand. When and how did they occur? He had no recollection, though each injury must have hurt.
The soles of his feet, and between his toes, were gritted brown and dirty. His longish hair was greasy and matted. Tobacco stained the tips of the index and big finger on both hands, with a black dot showing the centre of each thumb pad. Even his right palm displayed a hint of ochre. He sniffed at his armpits. He stinks. And of urine. To bathe was pointless. He had to sanitise the squalid, filthy mess that was his temporary home. With a groan, basing his throat, Oscar pushed the bathroom door. Shuffling to the lounge, “Oh no,” moaned from his mind. His head dropped in despair as a shallow breath escaped his mouth.Vodka bottles, beer cans, scraps of pizza, bones with dried clinging chicken meat, ashtrays overrun with filter burnt butts, and half-smoked joints, cups like Petri dishes, various sized glasses, some smashed, others smudged with fingerprints, plates encrusted with desiccated remnants of unknown food, are strewn, abstractly, upon the floor, tables and chairs. There isn’t a single flat surface that doesn’t support the dire debris of a three-week bender.
The air is stale, fetid, smoke layered and minute particles of dead shed skin and dust hang heavy–slowly descending to rest on all objects. Oscar could see worse.
Body fluids, in various stages of dehydration and of all types, are splattered, Pollock-like, on the carpet and up walls but most prolifically on and around his favourite chair. He had violently vomited, defecated unintentionally, sneezed, blown his nose, pissed (evinced by the smell), sobbed, gobbed and wanked. There, too, was blood, red-brown, dried to crazed patterned flakes, in splashed drop shapes, and smeared on the dining table. The curtains had not parted for many days. And barely audible, Joy Division’s Love Will Tear Us Apart, is looping on the iPod.
A bluebottle fly taunted Oscar. It seemed deliberate. The fly darts close to his ear, buzzing loudly and mockingly veering off as Oscar reacts by slapping himself. In the brief seconds of numbness, on the very edges of vision, he felt and saw a hideous tournament of shadows flickering in a cave.
This is the heart of Oscar’s darkness. His Gethsemane, an agony of imminent doom, an excruciating fate. In the half-light, he tentatively inches towards his chair and slumping in, his head rocks downward; both hands cover his face, and he weeps.
“A nuclear bomb has exploded in my soul. I’m terrorising myself; I’m a suicide bomber.”
He is forlorn. Abject. Twitches shake his body. Confused, frightened, dazed, unsure and unable to make sense of anything, Oscar is barely human. He has become a pallid shadow that breathes. He is soul-compacted, life shrunk, and his emotional turmoil is so much more painful than any physical discomfort he had ever felt. He is alone. So alone. Clunk. He flinches. His mobile phone has fallen from the ceiling light above and landed on the table below.
“What a cow’s cunt.”
When he was going to get pissed, Oscar had learned it is sage policy to hide phones. That way, at the height of his absolute madness, he couldn’t contact anyone, be abusive, say things he didn’t mean or mumble down the phone, talking in tongues.
“In vino veritas? Nonsense. In vino bolloxus.”
A foreboding swept over him. He was having a nervous breakdown. He tried to stand but couldn’t; he barely tipped himself out of the chair and, as a contorted, anguished skeleton, reached and picked up the small plastic object that would be a harbinger of his dark machinations and tell of innumerable problems he now faced. Pressing the power button, the phone beeped to life. He had many missed calls, seven from the Kakistamat Pakhan. As he turned the mobile off, the doorbell rang. Oscar froze with fear.
“Oh shit, those fucking skrunts, what a fucking nightmare.”
In emotional overload, Oscar lost consciousness. How could it be like this again? Not again.
She You Turned
It is 1985, midway during a decade that would become known as a portmanteau word for all that became wrong with english society – Kakistamat poisoned. The Neo Con’s branded human assets. Squeezing, greed from us. The stye of their corporations, the sore in every eye, snorted eveywhere, as the grunting, ego clawed, the cocained brain. Fuck the feckless working class. Outsource manufacturing to far distant shores, with no work the unions are weak. There is no shame, it is sham, the imperative profit, the extraction, most to shareholders, it is the law, now more powerfully enforced. Sell national assests, North Sea Oil to the Sceptic Tanks, let the eagle beak, have their profit. Denationalise critical supply and structure, allow control by foriegn corporations, bleed the public purse, into the private pocket. The Kakistamat have the greatest thirst, which is never sated. A blight and our curse.
The must-have accoutrement was a Filofax, people were angry about the Poll Tax, most wanted a Rolex and the miners had been struck fucked in a civil war. People were dying from AIDS and heavy-handed warnings moralised. Section Twenty-Eight came into force. War had been manufactured, it seemed, to prop up two failing regimes. One leader got lucky, the other miscalculated and got a Rattenbach report.
Lives were based on the fleeting satisfaction of owning something new. The internet hadn’t been invented. Hillsborough was yet to happen, Savile fucked dead people and sick kids, the Halls of Westminster harboured a paedophile ring, everyone knew Cryil Smith was cunt. Left-leaning academics were purged, professionals didn’t have to study ethics, minor council officials had to sign non-disclosure agreements, and gentlemen bankers retired as a new ethos took hold. Greed is a good thing, because ultimately it is all about me. It’s a psychopath’s story. So why not have more of what I want? It is the yuppy brand.
Fuck you all. Even old mates if they’re of no use. I have gotta be a success, not riding a bus, when I am thirty. I gonna make money, loads of money so I can peacock about, I have wonga clout. With a girl all coked up, I am going get down, and dirty, as she gets her pussy out. It is called freedom of choice. Give me a gun. You’re a loser. It is all nonsense news, shitting on my own shoes, got the Kakistamat blues.
Greed made people shallower, insecure, motivated to consume and acquire, thereby more easily fooled. Greed taught people to leave the last mark on everything, and that’s why she had to have their soul.
Take Michelle’s husband Michael Dove, for example. Ostensibly as a twenty-something, he should have been a man content with his life. He had a fine education, was attractive physically, some might say handsome, a good conversationalist able to speak with some authority, on many issues. He was comfortably well off, not judgmental, a liberal by inclination. He detested cruelty, and injustice, of any form. He had been raised, not with great monetary privilege, but in the greater privilege of a loving environment. And yet he felt unfulfilled.
He had courted several women, each quite different in character and physical appearance – it was clear he did not have a type of woman – it is just he felt he hadn’t, as yet, met the woman. Michael had experimented with many of the pleasures that life could offer. Each had lessening power; he was becoming inured to enticement. Though an exuberant, affable and social being, Michael knew that something wasn’t quite right. In social situations where he may be accompanied by a woman of some attractiveness, enjoying the occasion and engaging in the banter and small talk that was D’riguer. Michael felt alone.
He explored spirituality. He read much on this subject, text from all the world’s religions, books written by gurus and holy men – protogods to be. He also broached psychology; self-help books and any literature that might fill this unknown void he held within. These helped. He had moved from loneliness to solitude and became adept at prayer and meditation. He was becoming more centred, and as he did so, certain contentment entered his life. The material world that had once driven his reasonably successful career became of less importance.
He wrote poetry, formed relationships not based on what the other could offer in terms of prestige or status, economic benefit, but in terms of true and meaningful friendship. It was a Thursday evening, late in May 1983, that altered his life forever. He did not recognise the significance of what he was about to do.
Michael laid the book he had just finished reading on the table next to his bed. A book that had touched him, it was entitled “Reaching Out”. Its author was Henri J. M. Nouwen, a Catholic monk.
Satisfied, Michael thought time for fun. My mind has been stimulated, soul enriched, and now my human urges deserve to be acknowledged. He chuckled as he took out The Dictator magazine. He had recently subscribed because its focus was kinky sex. The publication also had a Personal Ads section. This was Michael’s introduction to the world of BDSM. He had always felt the mark of a true woman was one who could express their sexuality with confidence. He was attracted to women who could take control of a sexual situation – and thus lessen the burden of his performance. Michael was recognising he wished to serve a woman. He had always delighted in giving pleasure, but now this yearn was becoming more, and urgent.
“Yes”, Michael thought, “that’s where I will start my journey this evening.”
As he was reading the ads, he came across one in particular that ensnared his vision. Ma’am. As he read the profile, he became convinced that this was his type of woman. Sensual, not sadistic, forthright and a powerful personality. She said she was a woman of a certain age. And Ma’am knew exactly what Ma’am wanted.
Orgasm control and oral servitude.
Her photos showed Ma’am had an imperious air – expectant. She is dressed in a two-piece matching oxford blue suit. A double string of pearls rested on her white bowed blouse, and her hair was blow-dried and a lustrous mousy blonde. All photos were taken from below. In one she has her arms akimbo, black leather handbag hooked on her right wrist, looking down with contempt. Another has her pointing at the camera. The third and forth showed her in lingerie, revealing a most magnificent feminine form.
Michael had always pandered to his sexual whim. If horny, fuck if possible. If not, wank. Perhaps it was time he exercised self-control by giving that control to someone else. Yes, he thought, that would be novel and perhaps create a frisson of its own. And he knew he possessed an almost indefatigable tongue. The person Ma’am sought was not a wimp – well, no one would have the temerity to call Michael a wimp. Ma’am wanted a man. Well, that is what I am, he thought. “Yes, a man who delights in giving pleasure to his woman.”
He wrote to Ma’am, taking great care to word his advance appropriately. Not snivelling, he thought, but respectful. He specified what he was looking for, as instructed in her advertisement. He felt he had met all the criteria required. And he waited and watched. Ma’am responded. His heart leapt.
It seemed each moment had slipped imperceptibly from one to another since they had made their initial contact. Sure, life had gone on – he’d worked, played and had lived as he always had done – comfortably. But he had been laying plans, anticipating, projecting what their initial meeting was to be like. And today was the day.
Tournament of Shadows
Dave Grimley knocked on Mr Mannion’s office door. Mr Mannion said, “Do come in, Dave. What can I do for you?”
Dave answered, “Chief, that man from London, Tony Sturges, is back. He’s got two big chaps and an older gentleman with ’em. He’s asking to see you. Want me to get the boys down?”
“No—it’s OK. I will deal with them. Just keep an eye out. Tell them I’ll see them in five minutes, then bring them here,” said Mr Mannion.
Mr Mannion busied himself. Documents were replaced, computers turned off, and his blue silk tie straightened. He reached under his desk and pressed a button. At that moment, he heard footsteps and a knock on the door.
“Do come in,” said Mr Mannion.
Dave entered first. “It’s Mr Sturges and his associates to see you.”
Mr Mannion rose and smiled. Peering directly into Tony Sturges’ eyes, he offered his hand. “Ah, Tony, an unexpected delight to see you again—and so soon.”
Tony Sturges shook hands quickly. “I said I would be back, and my associates want this deal expedited. Let me introduce you.” The two large men parted, and the older gentleman stepped forward. “Mr Mannion, Mr Matzorsky.”
Mr Mannion’s smile tightened. It was the father, Igor Matzorsky, not the son, Alexi. Keeping his composure, Mr Mannion extended his right hand. “How do you do.”
Igor Matzorsky ignored the gesture completely. He spoke with a cold, Anglicised Russian accent. “I am a very busy man, Mr Mannion. Normally, I wouldn’t trouble myself. But I had other engagements in the locale, and I thought a private, candid chat would move things forward. It saves us both from future friction.”
“By all means,” Mr Mannion replied, dropping his hand smoothly. “Dave, please make the other gentlemen comfortable in the bar. Mr Matzorsky, do take a seat.” He gestured to a large, red leather single Chesterfield, similar to his own.
Dave, Mr Sturges, and the heavy-set, military-trained guards left the room, closing the door behind them.
Mr Matzorsky sat, leaning back slightly. “I want you to listen carefully.”
“Mr Matzorsky,” Mr Mannion said, taking his own seat, “I am an English gentleman. I know the heart of genuine hospitality is the art of listening. Be assured you have my undivided attention.”
“Good. Because I am a Russian oligarch, and I expect my wishes to be fulfilled. I want you to sell this club to me.”
Igor’s abrupt manner didn’t faze Mr Mannion. “Mr Matzorsky, you have misapprehended the situation entirely. Kyber Lions is not for sale.”
“I am prepared to offer you far over the market value,” Igor stated flatly.
“Please understand, Mr Matzorsky. Not everything in England can be bought.”
Igor let out a dry, cynical chuckle. “Ah, you think not? I know better. Politicians, royalty, gangsters, bankers, religious leaders—I have them in my pocket all over the world. We in power, the Kakistamat, understand each other. We established the legal, religious, and political frameworks specifically to conserve our status, keep our land, and grow our wealth . And we are never satisfied.”
Mr Mannion maintained a polite, chilly silence.
Igor continued, gesturing vaguely toward the window. “Those of us who fear losing that status cause wars. We don’t fight them, of course. Others die beneath whatever banner serves our ego best. Think coup d’etat, violent revolution, the clue is in the word revolution. One Kakistamat over powers another. Even here in the West, where you pretend your wealth creates freedom and choice. Your people can think whatever they will, as long as it doesn’t disturb the social order. Meanwhile, the money flows straight to the top, laundered clean by British shadow banks, near and afar.”
Mr Mannion leaned forward, resting his hands on the desk. “An interesting lecture, Mr Matzorsky. But I have already assessed the situation. The stench of risk far overpowers the perfume of profit.”
Igor’s expression didn’t change, but his voice dropped an octave. “Oh, is that the case? By the way, how is little Lizzy? Six, isn’t she? And still wetting the bed. It must be worrying, changing her nappies. But you may not be doing so for much longer. Another nasty smell gone, eh?” A thin smile cut across Igor’s lips.
A freezing rage pierced Mr Mannion’s chest. That’s evil—I will have you for that, he thought.
But outwardly, his face turned to stone. “So that’s your opening gambit? Try to belittle and threaten. Most unbusinesslike. You’re not an oligarch, Matzorsky. You’re a kleptocrat. A peculator. A gangster, scum, Kakistamat. And it is completely obvious you have absolutely no idea with whom you are talking.”
Igor’s smile vanished.
“For your ignorance, I will pardon you exactly once,” Mr Mannion snarled, his voice dropping into a low, vicious register. “That deals with your pathetic attempt to impose your status. As far as your vile threat is concerned, there are several words in English to describe a creature like you. But my sentiments are best expressed by one that is universally understood. No doubt you’re familiar with it: CUNT.”
Igor froze. He stared at Mannion, visibly shocked. He had spent decades being fawned over out of fear or favour; no one had spoken to him like this in thirty years.
“You fucking grolly sputum,” Mr Mannion continued, driving the blade in. “You Russian Kakistamat aren’t the first to try to buy this pleasant land. The Arabs tried after the OPEC price hike. Before them, the Americans, using their heiresses to save the English aristocracy from bankruptcy. Now the Chinese are trying, exploiting the sweat of their own people. And you Russians… expropriating your own land and ordinary citizens with such vile contempt that your greed kills millions, just so you can buy your way into civilized society.”
Mr Mannion stood up, pacing slightly behind his desk. “It’s a strange world. Two supposed communist states metamorphosing into feudal capitalism, holding financial hegemony. Shanghai hosting a debutante ball would be laughable if it weren’t so frightening. Marx shudders in his grave and Jesus weeps. But you are still totalitarians at heart, and therein lies your demise. Men will have their freedom.”
Igor recovered his composure, his eyes narrowing as he looked up from the Chesterfield. “You English are all so arrogant. You talk of freedom because you live on a protected island. Let me tell you about us Russians. When the Mongol hordes charged west and killed 50 million, many by plague, our ancestors fled north into a cold, dark forest where no horseman could follow. Isolated, we lived, bred, and died in a bitter battle for mere existence. It lasted nearly three hundred years. Our Long Silence.”
Igor leaned forward, tapping his finger on the armrest. “This formed our brutality, the struggle meant fierce competition to survive, between small family groups, a where psychopaths thrive. We missed the Renaissance. We missed the Enlightenment. We did not evolve politically. We are a feudal people. Your notion of freedom is entirely alien to our nature. When we had a revolution, one Kakistamat simply overthrew another. It failed, so we started again. Perhaps we are just going through what your Robber Barons did in mediaeval times. But look around you. The West is virtually alone and under threat. Africa, the Arabs, India, China—they are all feudal capitalists now. They are like us. They expect autocratic government, whether it is the Czars, Stalin, or today. Our winters made us, Mr Mannion. We are inured to pain.”
Igor stood up slowly, matching Mannion’s height. “Let the Great Game continue. Our national symbol is the Bear for a reason. A Bear lives a solitary life. It is a dangerous, adaptable, formidable apex predator. And let me tell you, a Bear can kill a Lion. A single swipe of the Bear’s paw will shatter the Lion’s flimsy skull.”
Mr Mannion didn’t flinch. He met the oligarch’s gaze calmly. “I accept that in single combat, the Bear might be victorious. A single Lion will be defeated. But not Three Lions. Lions have more than their pride, Mr Matzorsky.”
“Pride comes before a fall,” Igor whispered.
“No. After a victory,” Mr Mannion declared. He slammed his fist onto the heavy desk, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet office. “You will not own this club. This is the last time we will ever meet.”
Igor Matzorsky raised his eyebrows, dipping his head slightly. He lifted his right nostril in a twitch of cold contempt, fixing Mr Mannion with a final, unblinking stare.
“I know,” Igor said.
Dirty Business
Up in Coal Creek
“I have a rather amusing tale,” said Oscar, “I was on the road to Nepenthes, Big Sur, on Kyber Lion business when Mikhail Liesin smoked past me riding his custom purple sage ’67 Mustang.” Francis smiled, slapped his thighs, and said, “He is a roadrunner.” “As you can guess, I had to flag him. I slipped out of I Pace auto and accelerated, honking continuously. He slowed, and we turned into the Ventana. We hugged generously and agreed to lunch on the patio.” “I am already smiling. Was he wearing a rose of cimarron?” “Yes! Even though he wasn’t flamboyantly dressed, he had been working with the CIA. He had his red neck, bread head on, suited, tie, a cimmaron rose pinned to his lapel and Churchill brogues.”
“I must just tell you before you start the tale. I was there when he first became acquainted with the CIA. Made me laugh. One of the operatives said to Mikhail, you’ve just had our Kool Aid. Mikhail replied, you’ve just passed my acid test! I sniggered, the operative didn’t get the reposte.”
“He is a scream, sharp as you like. Well, the story he told me begins with a phone conversation between the buyer and seller of a pair of Porsche 911s. The seller is a City New Yorker, and the buyer is a Salt Lake Mormon. Mikhail spoke perfectly, mimicking both accents and acting out the story:
The Mormon (Buyer): “Look, you said you inspected these cars yourself and they were clean.”
The New Yorker (Seller): “They were.”
The Mormon: “Well, you didn’t look hard enough.”
The New Yorker: “What’s that mean?”
The Mormon: “It means I just tore into the door panels. I found a hundred grand in cash stashed in the red one, and another hundred and fifty in the blue.”
The New Yorker: “Sweet Jesus! Alright, look—you’re only telling me this because you want to split it, right? How about fifty-fifty?”
The Mormon: “Absolutely not. I’m turning it over to the feds. This is obviously dirty money.”
The New Yorker: “Come on, you gotta be kidding me. You think Murdoch knew that green was in there? No way. Nobody knows, otherwise those dollars never would’ve made it out of the state. This is a victimless crime, man. Nobody loses.”
The Mormon: “That’s wrong. And frankly, it makes me wonder if you were involved in whatever this is.”
The New Yorker: “Are you serious? Think about it. I bought those Porsches at an auction. Look at the titles—I had ’em for two months, and you’ve had ’em for two months. If I knew where that cash was stashed, you think you’d be looking at it right now? If anyone knew, it was Murdoch. He owned them for five years before he dropped dead without a will.”
The Mormon: “Maybe so, but I’m still calling the cops. Let them figure it out.”They will get to the bottom of this.”
It turns out that the seller was correct regarding the sale of the cars. Mr Murdoch did die suddenly, without will. And the buyer was accurate, too. The authorities most certainly got to the bottom of it.
It just so happened. Mr Murdoch was better known as a professional Domme Maxwell, a man going through a sex change, who used to ply her services to a select group of Republican senators. Domme Maxwell was a Kremlin Kakistamat, the KK, honey trap.
It is suspected, but not confirmed, that he began successfully plying her trade for the KK in 2014, which fits in with her purchase of the 911s. S/he was a part of a concerted attack on Western democracy. The KK deployed several new weapons. They invaded Ukraine, were attacking USA diplomatic corps with acoustic microwaves, the so-called Havana syndrome first occurred in Frankfurt, Mercer’s Cambridge Analytica was used as a weapon of psychological warfare, dividing and creating hostility. They were focusing on extreme groups from either side, even providing financing. Prodding and guiding them. Hence, Trump and Brexit. The trigger pullers were Bannon, Crow, Cummings, Surkov, Banks, and Farage. When Trump lost, Cummings had to go. The Democrats couldn’t abide negotiating a trade deal with the UK if Cummings was still the stain and stink on Johnson’s flint. The damage was done. The KK had achieved their goal. They undermined Western democracy using a new weapon. One they still wield.”
“Yes and don’t forget the poisonings in the UK. The KK were pushing grey war envelopes, through every letter box. The West’s response little and late.” Said Francis.
“Serious as it may be, the Liesin story has a priceless ending”, continued Oscar, “ironically, or perhaps appropriately, Mr Murdoch, attired as Domme Maxwell, was found dead, slumped on a blow-up sex doll of Donald Trump. Mr Murdoch’s cock was buried, stiff, in a sheath of plastic that formed President Trump’s back passage. Yes, rigour mortis had set in, and yes, Mr Murdoch had ejaculated. Ain’t so kinky as some folk. I mean, what would you do?”
Francis sniggered and said, “Is that a cryptic question? If I were Mr Murdoch, I’d be glad I had the paddle to get me so far up Coal Creek, and have such a dignified death.”
They both laughed.
“That is a hilarious Clinton of a road runner’s story.” Said Francis.
“It’s AnonQ, beep beep.” Stated Oscar.
NEWS FLASH
A recently sequenced human genome, extracted from a human tooth reliably dated to 42,000 BCE and uncovered in Kents Cavern, Torquay, UK, matches a specimen extracted from bones discovered in Varna, Bulgaria. The bones are known to be 7,000 years old. Named OSGA 1 and 2, from the acronym Original Specimen, Guaranteed Accurate.
An English Shaman
“Well, I met an interesting man in a pub in Bath. I lived there for a while; we were rasping about all sorts. Politics, religion, spirituality. He was a right nice geezer, actually a true gentleman. The subject of Astronomy came up. I’ve always had an interest, not astrology. I thought that a load of old bollocks, mind you, I do exhibit Piscean traits.” Oscar laughed. “Yes, very much so.” Dan thought as he nodded. “Anyway, we got onto Mayan Astronomy and dramatic change at the Winter Solstice 2012. He told me he’d participated in an Ayahuasca ritual in the Amazon conducted by a Peruvian, Mashco Piro shaman.”
Dan thought, “The Mascho Piro! There is only one person who could achieve that. “Let our planes be their Angels, not their Valkyries.” “Preserve, for they are, as we once were. They enjoy the intelligence of harmony.” Oscar continued, “I said to him, “You’re having a giraffe. I have always fancied doing that.”
He told me he was adept; and had made his infusion based on Magic Mushrooms. I said, “Magic Mushrooms! I fucking love Magic Mushrooms. Took 40 of them once had a great time.”
He said I should join him. He was going to Dartmoor, hike to a special spot he knew, perform a ritual, and spend the night. He told me Mars was nearly at its closest approach for 60,000 years and it was a Full Moon that night. “I said come on let’s go! – I’m up for it. How much money do yer want?” He said, “No, I don’t want payment. There’s something about you, don’t know what it is. But this seems right.” I said, “Look, I hope I haven’t given you the wrong impression – I am not gay.” He laughed and said, “I don’t think anyone would make that mistake. I’m not gay either, just it will be my pleasure to share the experience with you.”
I said, “Oh well, what are we waiting for?” I had no qualms. I felt comfortable in his company. We hit it off.” Dan nodded, whilst thinking, “Well, who would have thought it? He met Francis Melville, another sublime coincidence.” Oscar continued, “I went back to his place, a lovely drum – a rambling old Manor House, slightly run down. I could tell by his accent he had been a public school kiddy. He said his family is nouveau poor. I laughed. He still had some lovely bits and pieces about though.
He rustled up some food and a flask of tea, got out a rucksack and filled it. He took me to a lab, of sorts. There were a couple of large workbenches full of burners, glass tubes, bottles of different sizes, powders, potions and chemicals all over the place, and the walls were festooned with drying plants of untold varieties. He told me he was a spagyrist. I said I couldn’t give a fuck about his kinks. He laughed just like you, Dan.”
Dan laughed more. Oscar continued, “I said, what’s a spagyrist? he told me it’s the alchemical manipulation of herbs and plants.”
Dan nodded and said, “Yes, I know.” “Oh,” Oscar said, “Well anyway, he went to a cupboard and took out a test tube filled with a sticky-looking ruddy brown liquid. I asked him what it was. He said it was a tinctured, powerful potion of a thousand magic mushrooms in human measure. He said, “We’re set, let’s go.” So off we went.” “Ah Francis, “In human measure”, the words of the wise ones.” Dan thought.
Oscar continued, “We parked in a car park, yomped past a reservoir, wheezed up a Tor and scrambled down a steep, fern-laden valley, to a river.
Looking upriver and on the horizon, I saw another Tor. The valley looks voluptuous. Strewn here there and everywhere were various-sized roundish boulders. These defined the southerly extent of the last ice age, being crumbled Tor Crittle, and made the river sound sparkling.
We negotiated the boulders travelling downstream until we came to an ancient Miniature Oak forest. Here underfoot was moss, soft and stable. We found a glade, lay down a blanket, gathered wood and lit a fire. It was dusk.
Dan thought, “Well, well, well Francis invited him to Wistman’s Wood, the other Nemeton.” The Spagyrist said, “You up for this?” I said, “Yeah!” “Good.” He replied.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a glass jar of crystals. He said they were Frankincense. He undid the lid and placed the jar on the ground in front of him, at the fire’s edge.
He then took the flask and test tube from the rucksack. The flask steamed as he opened it. He added the contents of the test tube, closed the flask and shook well, very well.
He filled two intricately carved lead crystal goblets, emptying the flask. He handed a goblet to me.
The Spagyrist said, “The best way to imbibe is to bring the chalice to your nose and breath slowly in, saying ‘Love’ in your mind. Then sip in the potion until you have half a mouthful, swill it around and, thinking ‘Love’, gulp. Repeat this ritual until the chalice is empty. I’ll chant until I am unable. You do as you please to make yourself comfortable.”
I said, “Roll the rock on.”
He tipped the jar of Frankincense and spread the crystals into the glowing cinders at the fire’s edge.
We drank exactly as suggested.
The Spagyrist chanted,
“As you project, so you are. As you feel, so you be. As above you, so below you. You are small because it is big and you are big because it is small. You are at the centre of your universe, I am at the centre of my universe, we are at the centre of our universe and, we all, humanity, are the measure of God’s universe. So, we imbue with Love.”
By the time I had finished my chalice, the potion worked. I remember the light fading. The Spagyrist’s chanting falling away. The forest breathed. I was very conscious of my mind. My body hunched, I curled to a fetal position. It felt as if I were being swaddled. As if in the womb. Ego dissolving. I began fleeing from and fighting with myself. Struggling, trying to rebalance the confusion, I sought harmony. Then I surrendered. I let go. And I was gone. Lost in the intensity of nowhereness.
I remember seeing tiny points of light fleetingly explode, and billowing purple clouds, resolving, becoming a scrolling motif of human skulls – stylised death masks. I wandered into a viscosity of myriad dreams, some told of fears, others of hope. For how long these lasted? I don’t know. I recall being in a cave just watching flames flicker on a wall, emotionally numb. I feel nothing and am barely alive. Then an Earth spirit being comforted, the flames began dancing, and ushered me to follow. I came to.
I could have never, ever imagined such clarity of consciousness. Obscurity had fled from me. I held for an instant the very ancient wisdom that centres the all-at-one. The glorious reality, the appreciative awe, the feeling you have always known by soul yet rarely felt. Then I shuddered.
It was deep night, the ambient light had settled as dusted snow, and all glowed static, softly silent, though the river cadenced passed, and still, the forest breathed. It was stark, bare, acute, intimate and obvious that this meant now is eternal. I was aware more of myself and Otherness. Counter-intuitive. Me and everything that is not me. Being an observer – and observed.
For I looked skyward and there was she, sumptuous, the Full Moon, her grey pearl eminence, plump. A quarter high in the sky and gloriously next to her was Mars. Of equal grandeur, fully armoured, the sparking spikes of his star reached far around him.
The Moon’s light was duller though she was bigger, his light, more intense. He was not timidly twinkling. He was blazing fiery, bold, proud, magnificent, and dignified.
This was Majestic Heavens.
I looked upstream and saw the river as a scintillating ribbon of tiny diamonds bursting into light that seemed to fluster uphill. And still there, staunch, in the distance, the other Tor. I felt refreshed and invigorated. I smelt the frankincense and warmed my arse on the fire.
The Spagyrist was now fully sentient, too. With a gentle smile of acknowledgement, we checked in with each other, hugged, and separately went exploring.
The forest, still breathing, ushered me to leap. I caught a branch and swung. It felt primordial, natural, instinctual. I wondered further into the forest. I sensed a large boulder beckon me and, peering, saw a face emerge from the stone. The face looked quizzical, unsure. I said “no need to be concerned, I am a human being”. My reciprocal interest somehow allowed this stone’s spirit to exist in the physical realm. The spirit said, I am LOGA.”
Dan spluttered, he stood bolt upright, and in shock, he knocked the wine glass which smashed on the floor.
The panopticon of God and gold
I am often asked who the Kakistamat are. They are The Dark Triad – malignant narcissists, sociopathic or psychopathic persons. The Kakisatmat is also term for organisations dominated by such individuals, they are our undoing as a species.
They lack a Nexus Poeticus, the area in the brain associated with higher levels of consciousness and are incapable of empathy. Love has no import. Power is their ultimate aim. And life is a game, a contest of egos, a struggle they won. The most violent are victorious, a will, they assert. Even others of their kith are nothing but objects to him or her. Therefore, we have been ruled by them—the cruellest of all. In a tribe, they would not survive. And were banished or killed.
When we communed in towns, leading an egalitarian life, the Kakistamat moved in. They came in many guises of either sex. In any field, they are found. Be it sport, religion, politics, business, and in all human endeavours, morals, and ethics are flippancies, unnecessary for what they want next. Their civilisations created cultures across the globe that taught the veneration of an ego. A single point of authority violence enforced, and a tight hierarchy beneath, a supposed holy order. See how language sullies the mind as if such social form is of divine construction. Rather than a convenient con, of the Kakistamat kind.
From these minds with a vile taste came Pharaohs, God-Kings, Emperors, Caesars, Popes, Kalifs, Sanhedrin, theocrats and hierophants, rulers of all forms of dogma, sat the Kakistamat. Commanding minds with warped history, schooling minds with psychotic myth. Heroes kill with gleeful dispatch and people are enslaved, and we should laud that? These tyrannical delusions give rise to craving, that which you can’t have, and mystery is a fondness for that least understood. Yet readily taught, to be read with certainty, and followed by law. Wounding the soul written in granite, crushing the spirit with its weight. Fear of free thought, sin is of body and mind. Heaven is their apple, and hell is their stick. The specicide of mankind.
All this is beneath the threat of certain untimely death if rules are not obeyed and homage, tribute, or taxes are unpaid. Thus, we are enslaved and spiritually deformed. Many suffer from this brutal tyranny. Life is valued on economic viability. No matter how the profit is gained. Even institutions that seem benevolent, many are rotten to the core, membered by the Kakistamat, poisoned, and filled with disgrace.
Politicians, royalty, gangsters, bankers, religious leaders—are in each other’s pockets and from all over the world. They know who each other are, depending on their particular kink, fetish, obsession, thrill, or business concerns. The Kakistamat in power have established the legalities of the social frameworks, both religious and political, wanting to conserve status, keep land, grow wealth and power.
The Kakistamat are never satisfied. Those Kakistamat not so well established, or those in fear of loss of power and established status, cause wars. But do not fight; others die beneath any banner that serves the craven Kakistamat ego best. This is the fundamental dynamic in all worldly affairs.
Take now for instance, the established Kakistamat: they are everywhere. The West have some, where wealth creates tolerances, giving the people a voice, pretending choice and freedom to think what you will, as long as your will doesn’t disturb the social order. And the wealth flows in to them from the land ruled and afar.
They have hung myriad laws as mirrors in the corridors of power. Medieval institutions fit their means with smoke and screens. The structure overpowers the purpose, breeding the greed of feeding exploitative pleasures and defiling the innocent with slime seeding. Shitting on our faces. Laws protect property, fuck the desparate poor. Corruption is how the process works rubbing hands, threats are enacted. And by all means, hypernormalise to quicken the future is already here rushing headlong to the cliff best get wings before our throat is wrung and from the edge, we are flung plunging into the abyss. Blissless. The accelerationists are crowing that the end is inevitably nigh prophesy so. AI will destroy us, evolutionary so. Or the ravaged Earth, so traumatised, rages against greed. As she sneezes, the economy freezes, burning up the dollars, burning down the trees. There will be no savings then. There will be no need.
Why isn’t it of greater public debate that many of our problems could be tackled if were to identify Dark Triad personalities? It should be treated as a pandemic, they require treatment, and help to feel the bond between you and me. Not all Dark Triad personalities are Kakistamat, and not all Kakistamat are Dark Triad. Yet, identification could stop remorseless paedophiles, serial killers, and tyrants, in their tracks. Suitors and associates would be wary. Brain scans of psychopaths show a lack of activity in the Nexus Poeticus, the area of the brain related to the higher levels of consciousness. Such activity is pronounced in adepts of meditation.
Identified through DNA, it is a hereditary disease. The warrior gene is as seen. Violent, thrill-seekers, often obsessed with certain vile proclivities. Above all the Kakistamat are ego-driven to win, at any cost to anyone. If from a social elite, the law is written for them. If from a lower class, murderers, gangsters, and bullies. Abusers all. Their member networks are linked with nefarious activities. By and large, they know who each other are. Most certainly, on the meeting. And if reputations are unknown instantly they match.
After any revolution where power transfers from the old Kakistamat to the new Kakistamat, the military employs gangsters who are rewarded to police the populous. As long as they turn a blind eye to what they see, and do what they are told.
Scum wields power. Human history has been driven by them. And our time is now spent in their panopticon of God and gold. Our body is bought, and our spirit is sold. We are taught to be a link in a chain with which we are bound. Tethered. We don’t know; we are deformed and soon dead, we will be found. Our life is a slave to a wage and is mortgaged.
Our homes are one payday from gone. We are spiritually retarded, and in stasis. We are kept this way. We are told how to behave, what to say, what to wear, and where to be, from day to day, and year to year. Even our truths are received, for generations over thousands of years, we have been deceived. They fatten the beast that is greed, manufacturing unnecessary needs, short-term profit polluting minds, which gravels the Earth. This is as it has nearly ever been. It is the birth of sin.
And just before the question, what will we do when telecoms are gone and pylons are down? We are powerless. Panic! Fills our ears, in our stomachs, we feel fear; the end is drawing near. No more choices, sight blind. The enemy is here. But we don’t know who or what. No bang or flash in the sky, nor the creeping death of disease. No warning. Just one day all became as is. No power. Telecoms are gone and pylons are down. This is the torture of impending dread, that stabs the tender spirit. Evil is given to us all.
Did it have to come to this, Baby Boomers? And was it prescient, the name I mean? Baby Boomers, can’t we feel the real-time pressure? We’ve been bloated up, bloated up. Nearly already dead. Pumped full of bollocks. Coke-poisoned egos to blame. Those snakes in suits, those prostitutes, whores who spat, the venom of the Kakistamat. Transmuting the spirit to a primitive base, a regressing to disintegration, the depletion of grace, dissolving integrity with an inane grin, spreading deceitful lips thin. It could have been hash, not cash, as an attitude. It could have been, relax the rush. Say no to something new. But now the shit, is on the queue. As the fan whirrs, my generation confers, thinking it through. Some of us say, is it ironic? The end of my days will be the end of all days too. The lone skum stamps X across our time and space. But it is not the X generation. Who is a disgrace? It is the Kakistamat poisoning, lying to our faces.
Brothers and sisters, Baby Boomers. Go Boom, Boom as the Kakistamat rain bombs upon our heads. Or as the Kakistamat chokes the Earth. She seethes, and we are gone. What will it all mean if we are all always dead? Baby boomers, we’ve poo-pooed in plastic potties. Living plastic lives. Now we crap bits of plastic because we’ve been Kakistamat-led, and fed Kakistamat lies. Act, it is getting late. Our time is on the plate. Serve with a worthy purpose. The faith? Our children. Who doesn’t want hope? They demand our action. We must make provisions. Their need? Not to be an algorithm, ground to silicone dust. Sizzled by our angry Sun. Tiptoeing in a shadow long lost, gone.
Kakistamatic Business Advice
Catch them with artificial light and herd them into town. Break nature’s rhythms, diminishing vital frequency, dulling sensitivity, allowing extraction of greater work for a longer time, and increasing profitability. Have the church bells rung around 4 am and again at 8 pm, defining when they should rouse and change who sleeps in bed. Set the clocks slow, but allow time for sleep, and food enough for their performance on the face or floor. Let them take a spouse, and pay a wage, so they seem unlike slaves, but limit their spending to the company store. Keep their life and expectations simple, and insist on worship on the day of rest. It is prudent to deal with malcontent brutally, lest you be feared less, and the problem grows. Be tolerant as long as utter deference is shown. It is sage to ensure the yeomanry’s coffers are regularly filled, his Lordship commands your respect, his fondnesses are best tickled, and an annual donation to the bishopry is wisely kept. These are your insurance policies. This is how your cloth is woven or coal is dug; wealth and power are best made. And we know that is what you crave.
