by Luke Kondor
Moomamu thought about it. He thought about the noise. The smell. He walked to the opening, squinting as he looked through it, and saw a giant mess of organisms in front of him. The opening led to an outside with three suns in the sky, and hundreds of domes of different sizes dotted across the horizon.
“Hmmm,” Moomamu said, as he scratched his beard. Moomamu counted hundreds of arms, fewer legs, a fair load of eyeballs attached to eyestalks, and there were too many penises to count. There were a hundred or so Babosians performing one of their ritualistic mass orgies that went on for days. Moomamu scratched his beard some more. He knew exactly where they were and he felt his human stomach churn. He had the feeling that he’d jumped out of a big metal cooking pot and into a different, bigger pot. But this second pot was full of penises.
Bexley Darlington-Whit
Bexley put the straw to his lips and sipped from the cup. The thick green liquid flowed upwards through the see-through plastic straw and into his mouth. He chewed some of the sweet gristle. It was a Green Dream. A blend of apples, avocado, celery, lemon and romaine lettuce. It was packed with vitamin A, vitamin C, vitamin B1 and vitamin B2, folic acid, manganese and chromium. He’d bought it from the juicing bar around the corner from the house. A guy named Sergio served him. A silky-smooth caramel-skinned man from Spain.
His hands were still sore, wrapped in white bandages. He hadn’t looked beneath the bandages yet. He didn’t need to. He wasn’t interested in how his hands looked. They were either healing or they weren’t. And he wasn’t an expert on the medicinal practices. Aunt Audrey was, however. If it wasn’t healing, or if it started to go septic, then she would help him.
It wasn’t his job to heal, it was his job to save the universe.
He tightened his tweed jacket and walked onto Compton Street and past The Admiral Duncan pub. The pub itself was well-kept and full of daytime drinkers. If you didn’t know, you wouldn’t have guessed that only a couple of decades earlier, the place had been a scene of terror and confusion. Bexley was a child when he’d witnessed it. The bang was so loud he sometimes thought he could still hear it today. An explosion of smoke, debris and broken glass followed.
David Copeland was arrested for the bombing along with two others. Whilst in court he stated that he was a Nazi. He’d bombed the pub in London’s ‘Gay’ capital because of his own beliefs on life and death. He deemed that the people who went into that place deserved to die.
Bexley remembered the crying and the blood. He also remembered the people from the shops, the cafés, the pubs, and even the tourists, people who were gay, straight, black, Asian, all coming together to help the injured. They brought blankets and water and provided whatever aid they could.
Bexley wiped his eyes and walked onwards. The Family House was around the corner, tucked away like it didn’t want to be seen. Like it wasn’t even part of this universe. It was simply observing. Offering a helping hand where needed.
When Bexley went inside he found his father sitting in the library surrounded by piles of books covered in leather and thick enough to beat a man to death with. The tomes towered up with crusty pages sticking out and titles like The Age Before Man, Stories Of Thoth, and The Works Of Copernicus. An old telescope made of brass — the Family insignia engraved into the side of it — rested on the far wall, looking back on itself, towards Grant who was sitting in his reading chair. More leather on it than the books and studded with silver.
Bexley smelled lingering pipe smoke lining the walls, climbing upwards, staining the books and the walls and his father.
“Bexley,” Grant said, looking up from his stained, yellowed pages. “Your hands still giving you grief?”
“Yes sir,” he said. “But they’ll heal. I’ve no doubt about that.”
Grant looked at Bexley’s wrapped up hands.
“Yes, very good. Now, why don’t you take a seat for a second? I’d very much like to catch up on a few things.”
Bexley walked to the other side of the room and sat on another of the Winchester chairs. A variety of stuffed animals were next to his head, perched on the bookshelf. He looked at a weasel with fake eyes. It looked like it was trying to breathe.
“Rosie out still?” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Gym?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, good,” he said, leaning closer to Bexley. “And you? Have you been training?”
“The usual routines mixed in with some cardio work.”
His father nodded.
“Okay. You know, I hear that the gym is a fine lekking point. A good place to meet women and the like.”
“I’ve heard the same,” Bexley said, looking to his hands.
“And? Nothing suitable for my son?”
“No …” Bexley shook his head.
His father’s pot belly seemed more distended than ever. He’d been getting fatter every year. He’d never tell him that. However, he might tell Rosie to tell him.
A moment or so passed before Grant sat back in his chair and threw the book to his feet. Bexley saw it was called The Tribes Of Elsewhere.
“You know that the Family will need to continue on after I die or … even after you die. It may seem like forever away now, but let me tell you it soon comes around.”
“Where is Miss Birkin?” Bexley said. The words were a shock to Grant. He scoffed.
“Where do you think?” he said. “She’s back where she belongs.”
“We sent her?”
“You damn well bet we did son. A person like that will cause problems for you, the Family, and even the universe. She’s no good for a son of mine.”
“I know,” Bexley said. “I know, but …” Bexley sighed. “Did she survive?”
“Owwwh,” his father said, like he’d caught a dog shitting in his garden. “You know that she didn’t. Why would you ask me that?”
“It’s … there must be a better way to send people.” Bexley could still see his father’s smoke in the corner of the ceiling, slowly dissipating.
His father took a deep breath and shook his head, his energy fading quicker than the smoke.
“You know there isn’t,” he said. “We’ve been doing it this way for as long as we have for a reason.”
Bexley remained quiet. Other than the sound of Aunt Audrey banging pots and pans around in the kitchen there was nothing.
“Did I ever tell you about the Hibinoki tribe?” Grant said.
“I’m not sure.”
“An ancient tribe living out in Peru. Nothing major, only a small group. They lived near the Markawasi Stone Forest,” he said reaching over to his pipe.
“I’ve heard of the forest. Of Dr Centeno’s findings: the inter-dimensional doorway. I didn’t think it was real.”
“Oh yes. Very real. We used to deal with Dr Centeno before he passed away. Communicated only through letters, I’m afraid, but they’re probably somewhere in the house. You could read them if you can find them. He used to go on and on about this girl.”
“Girl?”
“There was some girl out there camping with her friends. They had a tour guide of some sort who foolishly took them to see the door. Some way or another one of the girls took a single step inside. Half in one dimension, and half in the other. Apparently the poor lass experienced some sort of seizure, and by the time her friends had pulled her out the poor thing couldn’t move a muscle in her body. She was paralysed, and she couldn’t stop talking about the people she’d seen on the other side.”
“Why did she become paralysed?” Bexley asked, thumbing a loose thread in his bandages.
“Being in another dimension isn’t immediately harmful to the individual, but being half in and out is going to fuck you up. The slight changes in gravity, pressure, frequency between the dimensions are going to cause some damage.”
His father loaded a mound of loose tobacco into his pipe, lit it, and sucked on the end of it before breathing out a fine plume of smoke towards the ceiling.
/> “Were the people on the other side the tribe?” he said.
“Who knows. Maybe. Personally I don’t think so. I think the tribe were already in our dimension at that point, settling down, making their mark and rooting their nest of a camp.” He sucked on the pipe again and blew out another lungful of smoke. “I believe the Hibinoki tribe had long since hunted those grounds before Dr Centeno stumbled across them, studied them and died, at that very camp. The poor soul practically killed himself with that tribe.”
His father lit the tobacco one more time and blew out another lungful. The whole library room was full of the stuff and Bexley’s nostrils twinged at the carcinogens floating around him. He thought about getting an Immunity Boost Juice from Sergio when he got the chance.
“So,” his father said. “The Hibinoki tribe … where to begin.”
Moomamu The Thinker
Moomamu poked his head through the opening and saw it all more clearly. The writhing of the Babosians. He’d watched them from afar for millions of years, and had always admired them. A sort of odd curiosity.
He’d watched them when they were a simple-minded child race, curious of what their stone planet had to offer them. They built from the foundations around them, turning the hard slate-like rock into wheels and bricks, and from the purple vines that lined the caves they developed pulley systems and built houses for families. They even built their own churches — sex churches. Their sexual appetite was abnormally high. They were pansexual and it was mostly recreational. This always interested Moomamu from his old Thinking point in the skies, but when you were this close, and you heard the squelching and the groans, it lost its novelty.
“Get back,” Moomamu said, as he pushed Richard away from the opening. “They’ll see you.”
“Who will see me?” Richard demanded as he barged Moomamu out of the way and stuck his head through the opening. “Where are …?”
Seeing an eyestalk looking in their direction they jumped back into the dome, hiding in the shadows.
“Listen, human. We’re on Planet Obonda. Home to the incredibly sexualised Babosi. We are currently nowhere near Earth.”
“Nowhere near?”
“Not unless you consider three billion light years to be close,” Moomamu snorted. “And not only that but they’re having a bit of a party at the minute.”
“Party? That’s good, right?” Richard said. “Like a welcome party.” He straightened his jacket.
“It’s not the kind of party I would like to go to,” Moomamu said.
“Okay … fair enough, good sir. You have still helped me. Good old Richard Okotolu is getting some fresh ideas. He’ll figure it all out, don’t you worry.” Richard started tapping his chin and whispering under his breath — mathematical calculations, formulae, that sort of thing.
Moomamu sighed and realised he was actually further away from his home than when he’d started. Obonda was in the wrong direction. He remembered Gary and wondered what he was doing now. Which then led him to remember his flatmate Marta and her arousing breath. He heard something outside the dome belch and any arousing thoughts quickly vanished.
“What did you say on the train?” Richard asked as he looked to Moomamu.
“When?”
“Just before everything went dark good sir. Just before it all changed and we found ourselves relocated. What did you say, good sir?” Richard bristled with excitement. “Tell me. Or I’ll have to get you to tell me…”
“Shut up,” Moomamu said. “Stop threatening things. Just …” He thought about what a real human might say. “Just … shut the fuck up for a second.”
“Dear lord,” Richard said, his mouth agape with shock. “I do believe that is the vilest thing I’ve heard all day.”
Squelch.
“I said, I’d rather be on Obonda than with you on the snake-thing.”
“Oh, I see.” Richard’s mouth snapped shut. He looked hurt. Not physically hurt. But mentally hurt. “Seems a bit harsh.”
“Well, you were trying to open my brain,” Moomamu said, as he touched his swollen eye socket.
“Fair play, good sir. Fair play.” Richard nodded. “But there you go. You made it happen. You said you wanted to be here and now here we are. It seems obvious to me. Just think about home.”
“I’ve tried.” Moomamu hadn’t stopped thinking about home. Ever since he’d woken up in this human body.
“Well, it seems to me that you’re not trying hard enough.” Richard looked through the opening again and then back to Moomamu. “I’ve been trapped in a box for so long, good sir, I can’t not go home now. I want to go find myself a nice jellied eel bar and have myself a refreshing glass of apple cider. So let me ask you nicely, good sir, will you take me home please?”
Moomamu took a deep breath. The fruity smell had become sickening. It was everywhere. And inside the dome everything felt so warm to his human body, which was now leaking salty water from its human pores.
“I can’t,” Moomamu said.
Standing this close to him, he could see the same liquid dotting Richard’s skin. He also saw how weathered Richard’s skin was. He saw the tired lines under his eyes and around his mouth. He could see the dark moles on his cheeks.
“I just can’t.”
“Listen, good sir, now you’re testing me.” Richard’s voice grew louder. “I think it only fair you take us home now.”
“Will you please be quiet?”
“No, good sir, I won’t be quiet. I think you’re being selfish here. You wanted to come to this sex planet and now here we are for you to enjoy your wicked perversions. When will Richard get to see his own goddamn planet again?” His voice was now loud enough to echo around the dome. “Listen, you bearded son of a jessie. Take me home … now!”
Moomamu wasn’t looking at Richard anymore. He was looking at the blinking eyeball, the size of Richard’s head, that was looking at them both. It was hovering about, attached to a fleshy pink stretch of eyestalk. A second eyeball joined the first. The pupils were so big they looked like they could swallow them.
Richard hadn’t noticed the eyes. He was looking at something by Moomamu’s feet. When Moomamu followed Richard’s gaze he saw a hand with fingers almost as big as his whole human body wrap themselves around his feet. Suddenly he was yanked through the opening, and pulled towards the hundreds of Babosians, currently engaged in the most horrific display of sex that Moomamu had seen in his life — which was also the lifespan of the universe. He felt that the Big Bang was a title wrongly given to the birth of the universe, and would have been more apt to what was going on in front of his eyes at that very moment.
The Hibinoki Tribe Part 1
A Letter From The Archives
Dr Raul Centeno
Dear Mr Whit,
I hope this letter finds you well. The last time we spoke was almost three years ago. You were telling me about your recent experiments with your butler. What was his name? Mister Okotolu? I would love to hear how they are coming along. Have you discovered a non-lethal travelling method? If anyone can do it, it’s you. And how is the little boy Grant doing? You mentioned he was in his studies. I would love to come visit you in person some day. With you being all the way over in London, England, I do think that may take a long time. But if you are ever in Peru, please get in touch.
The reason I’m writing to you today is because I couldn’t not. You see, I’ve awoken in a cold sweat, possessed by the need to contact you, to write this letter to you. My whole body was shivering to the core, and it’s only in putting pen to paper that I find alleviation from the fever.
I’ve made a new discovery — a curiosity that has eclipsed the one of the paralysed girl who entered the door. I’ve found what I believe to be a whole tribe of people who have come from another dimension. Real life inter-dimensional travellers. A whole community of them.
I don’t think it had anything to do with the door, nor do I think they know that they’re in a different dimension.
The chief of the tribe is an older man named Maruko. He’s a sour old fool with holes in his ears so large I think I could crawl through them myself. He also keeps a lip plate — a little block of wood that pushes out his bottom lip. Which means every time the man speaks his bottom lip flaps up and down and I have to stop myself from laughing at the old fool. The majority of the tribe also have these lip plates. It’s a fashion statement and possibly a mating call of sorts. Maruko has a wife called Konori, a single male child called Marukin — soon to be chieftain of his own tribe — who even has his own wife and child.
I first came across two of their scouts as I was making some headway into an unmarked part of the Amazon. I always find it amusing at first to see the surprise on an uncontacted tribesmen’s face. The shock of seeing a man in strange clothes, with pale skin, almost talking in their language. No wonder they raised their bows at first. They were scared. Which is fine. So was I.
I made peace with the little red-faced scouts with offerings of nuts and raisins and a piece of chocolate I had with me. They were cautious but took me back to the camp — a sorry little state of affairs. Some mud huts with bits of twigs and whatnot, all circling the central fire.
There must have been around twenty in all — four families or so. All looking at me like I’d shot their kids at Christmas. (As a side note, of course, they don’t know what Christmas is.) Like most tribes, they worshipped the land and the spirits that occupied the land, or some other horseshit.
But it was Marukin who stopped me first. The chief’s son. He greeted me by grabbing my groin. Seriously. The man grabbed a big handful and rooted around like he’d lost something. I couldn’t tell you what he was doing, but with the two scouts still aiming their bows at me I couldn’t object. After a few minutes of fondling me, the chief’s son nodded as if to say “Okay, you’re fine” and took me into his father’s tent.