She wagged her tail.
The palm tree to her left became a woman—a goddess. Flowing Lao hair, Mexican skin, Dionysus limbs. The beach was no longer tree-lined, it was adorned with goddesses. Slutskia had her heirum.
She wagged her tail and ordered another round.
* * *
The Reverend—Jesus the Justice—accepted the ocean, its vastness, possibility. Its oath. After taking a moment to soak it in, he snapped his fingers and was standing on the sea. he walked for a bit
He walked the world over. Walked on water. Walked to the Supreme Court.
Already dressed the part, a gavel popped into his hand. He assumed his throne on the ocean. A panel of one. The world was non-existent, continents had yet to drift, no creatures crawled, no man, no apples. The Reverend was confounded. Had his God sent him to purgatory? He prayed, spoke to his God. He read the Bible, quoted passages. he screamed!
‘Lord, why have you forsaken me?’
Left without anyone to judge, he banged his gavel.
* * *
Aeronymous the sumo floated below the clouds. Meditation or not, he was far too dense to fool gravity and fell towards earth like a bloated meteorite. Approaching a stormy sea, braided hair pulled up, he said
FUCK IT SON
pulled knees to chest and unleashed the biggest cannonball since the Civil War. Striking the ocean’s bottom plates shifted, fault lines rethought themselves. Aeronymous bounced off the earth’s core, aborting a calm sea. birthing a tidal wave.
He surfaced with the swell, afroed, and tan as a Ken doll. Neil Young played from the heavens.
Surfing the grandest wave ever made, life’s pressures were left below with his previous girth.
The wave gained momentum and strength, as did Aeronymous. No longer confined to The Cult, he guzzled Corona, did shots of Patrón, and slammed every same he desired.
* * *
Dulce the Lady-Boy strolled along a cloud-laden Patpong road, the night’s conclusions endless. Fuck the ocean, she preferred the dirt.
Not satisfied with the ex-pat options she plunged to the sea. Escaping the Atlantic, Indian, Arctic, Pacific—she ended up in the Gulf of Gack. Drowning in it, she backstroked to shore.
Once ashore, armies approached. cavalries, regiments, platoons, divisions, brigades, navy seals, rangers, sharpshooters, snipers, battalions. Che Guevara. The 3rdReich.
She was on Omaha beach.
Ready to satisfy all comers.
Two by two, into the Ark.
The white sand was consumable, and she did.
line by line
soldier by soldier.
* * *
Lousifer the red samurai rode his white horse below the clouds
Glancing down, he witnessed the largest congregation of soldiers ever assembled. Though no fighting took place? They appeared to be in a line of sorts. two by two
He galloped towards the front, passing Alexander’s army, Achilles, Hector, Napoleon, Heinrich, Santa Anna, Davey Crocket, Grant, Ike, Sitting Bull, Stallone.
he eventually arrived at the commotion’s derivation
Dismounting, he presented his samurai sword and took on the world’s army, slaying the most bloodthirsty soldiers. two at a time. Pinochet, Saddam, Nuan Chea, Sixtus IV, Ferdinand and Isabella, Rumsfield…
in the wake of blood and bodies, he beheaded and dismembered Dulce
Galloping away guilt enveloped him. Goddamn it. He returned to the recently beheaded.
‘I’m sorry baby.’
‘Me too.’
Slave skipped the clouds and headed to his home on CONSPIRE island
He’d undergone a sex-change operation. Gone to Argentina for tits, Thailand for a cunt. Grown flowing blonde locks and become a Reiki healer. Alone, he disrobed. Roamed Conspire Island.
Where art thou Cracula
Pained and alone, confusion set in. Had he not done everything possible to become my bitch. Mi puta.
did he regret getting CRACULA tattooed above his ass? did the galaxy not know his true desire?
Night fell. He looked skyward. Big Dipper, Little Dipper, Orion, North Star, Sirius, Canopus, Vega, Pollux. Spica.
Slave stared so long he saw me in the stars, spread his legs and masturbated
* * *
Wings spread, I flew through the clouds. Sorry Johnny, I don’t feel like projecting my soul just yet.
i flew with the wind, against the wind, had a beer in a clear cloud, shut dope in a thunder cloud, downed a bottle of tequila in a funnel cloud and pissed in the ocean.
i checked into a guesthouse in the billows and stayed for what seemed an eternity, not a care in the world. no clue how long i was there, being timeless and all
Bored, I spread my wings and pterodactyled below the fog, gliding over the blue-eyed sea. Hank was wrong, it is beautiful.
i cruised the ocean in perpetuity, the wind’s only sail
Tired of fresh air, I pierced the surface. wings replaced by a fin. teeth sharpened, gills formed. I had to keep moving.
Passing the mantle, I was at the core. The center of the world.
Cracula again. my fangs awoke, eyes darkened. resolve emboldened.
I found myself in a heptagon, a screening room of sorts. I sat in the middle below a projector, next to a telescope. The projector played in concert, snapping the screens to life.
a million-times-tentacled Fireman was expanding, slashing the world…a serpent-tailed Slutskia devoured her heirum and ordered another round…The Reverend inexplicably banged a gavel in thin air…Dulce lay beheaded, limbless, and Adam-appled…a samurai Lousifer galloped on the beach in remorseful triumph…Aeronymous surfed the big wave next to Crazy Horse…Slave played with his new vagina. through the telescope i spotted an icy Tambourine.
I was handed a control panel. What was I to do with this? I put it down, drank my wine, and crushed up an eightball.
Fourteen
Coming to, I am not alone. It appears a jury of sorts has been summoned. Descending my steps I enter the courtroom, the honorable Fireman presiding.
‘Listen brother, we’re all here to voice a joint concern we have.’
Is that right?
‘Cracula?’
Yes Tambourine.
‘You’re lacking love and thpirituality in your life. Since we broke up years ago I’ve taken a thpiritual path, and it’s lead me to love and understanding. So much love. Just look at my path, have I ever failed to get together with one of my boyfriend’s friends after a break up? I never have, that’s what thpirituality is all about. You need to keep the love close.’
At this point Tambourine reduces herself to some godawful pose and lets rip a deafening noise, a chant of sorts, from her belly.
‘Ahmmmmm…my thpiritual advisor taught me this…ahmmmmmmm….’
The Reverend speaks over the chant.
‘Cracula, you’ve really let yourself go to shit. Writing my Notes from West Africa: An Altruist’s Journey, I had no idea how far you’d fallen. Last night I prayed for you. Now, I don’t know the answer, but you’ve got try another path. The Lord’s path works for me.’
‘Ahmmmmmmm……..’
‘Yo Cracula!’
Yes Flow.
‘You want a joint?’
‘Not now Flow.’ ‘No!’ ‘Come on Flow.’
‘Ahmmmmmmm………’
I pour myself a whiskey.
‘Ahmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.’
‘Cracula, what’s up bro?’
Noddy?
‘Listen maaaaan, I’m only here because….because…’
Noddy nods off, burning a hole in my couch.
‘Listen Cracula, we all love you.’
Thanks Aeronymous.
‘You need to give The Cult a try, it’s done wonders for me.’
I can see.
‘Ahmmmmmmmm……..’
The self-appointed foreman continues.
‘We’ve found a place, a Cult Camp, in Rinsurvainsya.’
&
nbsp; Oh have you?
‘The Reverend and I have secured you a scholarship, so there will be no cost. Listen brother, when you come back you can be just like me. Don’t worry about Slutskia, I’ll keep an eye on her while you’re gone.
‘Ahmmmmmmmmmmm…’
The verdict rendered, Cult Camp it is.
Fifteen
I’m to depart for Rinsurvainsya—Cult Camp—in a week. But not before I keep to my prior plan of hitting London.
I pack for JFK and leave Slutskia a note.
Dearest Slutskia,
I’m off to London for a week of boozing, cavorting and overindulging. Upon my return, I shall be serving a sentence at a Cult Camp in Rinsurvainsya. There’s vodka in the freezer.
Love,
Cracula
I call Delancey. Head to JFK.
‘What carrier sir?’
‘Amoeban Airlines.’
Entering Terminal C, I spot Borninne.
‘Ohhhhmygod, what are you doing here?’
Catching a bus.
‘Ohhhhmygod, where are you going?’
London.
‘Ohhhhmygod, me too. Are you flying Amoeban?’
I am.
‘Ohhhhmygod, do you want me to bump you to first class?’
No, I prefer a tight fit. ‘Yeah, that would be lovely.’
Borninne has all the charming aspects of a trust fund same— speaks French, flies first class, multiple homes, chooses her friends, has a wine collection. She also has the inevitable aspects—idle time to assign people terrible or horrible, drive her boyfriend mad.
Latching onto Borninne’s noble status, I pass the peasants waiting on line and head to the Amoeban Elite counter.
‘Yes, I’d like to use miles to bump up my friend.’
‘Certainly, may I see your passport sir?’
Handing over my passport I approach one of those moments that only occur when the rich and poor cross paths.
‘OK sir, you’re all set. I just need a credit card for the $400 fee.’
As class differences go, international flight is up there with The Victorian Age. Nevertheless, handing over the Commerce debit for $400 will slice 25% off my net worth.
‘Here you go.’
What choice had I? Sit in economy? Grimace at the $400, forcing Borninne to pay it and relegate myself to son status? Lo que sea. I need a drink.
Waiting for X-rays and metal detection, Borninne informs me who is currently awful or terrible. The list is long.
Removing my belt, necklace, bracelet, shoes, keys, mobile, and loose change, I prepare to be molested.
‘Sir can you step over here?’
Sure.
‘Raise your arms. Sir, where are you headed?’
London.
‘What is your purpose in London?’
None.
‘Where are you staying in London?’
Not sure.
‘How long are you staying in London?’
We’ll see.
‘With whom are you staying in London?’
Some dirty bird named Lurid.
I pound Hoegaarden at the bar and listen to Borninne. She speaks of plans, schedules.
‘…then we’re going off the coast of X, then we’re taking a charter to Y, then we’re meeting up with Z...’
First class means boarding first and drinking first—reckon I got a $400 open bar. ‘Your finest bottle of red please.’ They look at me though I’m afflicted.
We speak in Spanish, Borninne making fun of my Mexican accent. She teaches me grammar, manners. I watch in-flight Hollywood. Pass out to some nostalgic masturbation, Hardened State.
Sixteen
I never cease being awed when some foreign land allows me entrance.
The Brits must have paranoia-sniffing dogs, last time here I was strip-searched exiting the Chunnel. So it is with great shock that I enter the royal gates unscathed.
Borninne and I flee Heathrow and go our separate ways. She mounts her waiting Rolls, I queue up for a cab.
‘Gackney please.’
Closing in on Gackney I send Lurid a text.
You up?
Quick response.
Still
Pulling up in front of her duplex, I spot Lurid passed out on the stoop. Forty in hand.
Lurid. Lurid, wake up. Yo…Lurid. I light a red and take a swig of her beer. Signs of life.
‘Cracula! Baby, how arrre you?’
Hugs all around. We head for the local pub and proceed to chug vodka, do lines, smoke indoors.
Lurid’s father was the guitar player in the best punk band of all time, Lurid is in a band, Lurid’s boyfriend is in a band, Lurid’s flatmates are in bands, Lurid’s neighbors are all in bands, the boys Lurid cheats on her boyfriend with are in bands, Lurid’s cousins are in bands, Lurid’s heroes are in bands, Lurid’s enemies are in bands, Lurid speaks of nothing but the latest band.
Despite this singularity, she can be loads of fun. During a session years back, she insisted on slicing me open and lapping up my blood. I still have the scars. Lurid can also be a drag.
In a blurred existence the following week is top ten. I summon all powers of detachment to avoid the reality of my upcoming sentence.
We go to gigs. We discuss gigs. We score gear. We rate gear. We drink, smoke, score, van, gig. Detach.
Leaving Lurid on her stoop, I head for Heathrow, JFK, The Island. Rinsurvainsya. Cult Camp.
Seventeen
I can’t recall much of the drive to Rinsurvainsya. Just The Reverend speaking of divine intervention, free will, sin—some other nonsense. I remember praying for him to get some ass, at least a blowjob.
Reaching Cult Camp, dumped really, I find myself quarantined.
To be quarantined in a nut house is a goddamn achievement. I’m to be probed, prodded, investigated, drained of blood, urine—but not before induced sleep.
After a Cult nurse slams Cult narcotics in my veins, I’m led to a holding cell. An older Cult member enters, assuming ownership of my bags, clothes, me.
Post strip-search and molestation he starts on my backpack. The bastard removes the Amoeban first class bottles of Jack, Grey Goose, Patrón.
‘You won’t be needing these.’
Is red wine ok?
He, Cult member, moves on to my clothing. Confiscating the Singha beer t-shirt as evidence, same with the naked lady trailer trash tee.
‘Might you please explain kind sir, why the problem with a scantily clad silhouette?
He, Cult member, adopts a stance so paternalistic oxygen excuses itself. I explain that in fact I’m the trash, the shirt making fun of me. A satire. He mumbles something about me being lost, seizes my wallet, crackberry, passport, iPod. Content with his molestation, he evacuates the cell.
As the cell door locks, The Cult narcotics begin taking effect. I wonder if my entire sentence is to be carried out under such sedation? That would be lovely. As I’m drifting off to a land of giant smurfs, flying dolphins, and Iggy Pop, the cell door flies open.
Forcibly escorted in is the most colossal bastard I’ve ever seen— 6’8”, 300 pounds, 320 maybe. I’m informed Colossus scored a .71 on the breathalyzer, a record. Offering congratulations I fear for my life. Am I to meet my doom at the enormous paws of some drunk? In Cult Camp! Fuck I need a drink.
Fortunately, after his molestation he collapses onto—and off of—his bed. Que día!
estaba soñando
I was in a castle, seeking escape. I climbed corridors, twisting stairwells, roamed grand halls, indulged libraries, drank vino. Pulled on door after door—all sealed. i was alone I screamed to the gypsies below for help, rescue. They looked up and smiled. scoffed. The sun would set soon, the dark powers unleashed.
Retreating to my room, I locked the door and prayed. grasped the bars on my window and watched the sun set over the mountains. fuck My candle went out. freezing, sweating. Waiting for the voices.
the shrieking whispers commence
At
first they rolled in from the distance, inaudible had I not been in a trance. Hypnotized. my blood thickens, richens. The room exhaled spiders, flies, serpents. The roaring whisper gained steam through the mountains. Wolves. Gypsies.
Back against a stone wall, the whisper entered my quarters, impregnating the shadows with demons, vamps. My jugular pulsateed, pounded, on the verge of implosion. The shadows brandished knives, fangs, and whispered my name.
Harker…Harker
Eighteen
‘Cracula, wake up. You’re to see the psychiatrist now.’
I’m led to the shrink’s office by a young Cultesse. Her hips seem to widen as we walk. She munches a candy bar, chugs Coca-Cola, and wonders aloud when she’ll have time for a smoke break.
‘Wait here sir.’
OK.
‘Cracula, the doctor will see you now.’
OK.
‘Cracula, I’m Dr. Cult.’
I see.
‘I’m going to ask you a few questions. I just want to get an idea of where you’re at.’
Serving a sentence in Rinsurvainsya Doc.
‘Do you ever have homicidal thoughts?’
Sure, I live in The Island.
‘Do you ever have suicidal thoughts?’
Only when feeling down.
‘Cracula, do you have a grasp on what’s real and what isn’t?’
Only when dreaming.
‘Do you hear voices? Hallucinate?’
Whenever possible.
‘Do you have a healthy relationship with the opposite sex?’
Define sex.
‘Do you have a healthy infrastructure of friends, people you can rely on?’
Can you repeat the question? Define the word friend? Give the Latin derivation?
Returning from her smoke break, the Cultesse leads me back to my holding cell, fresh candy bar in hand. I stare at the sleeping behemoth as the door locks behind me. I’ve no books, no music, no sindemand. No escape.
The Cult nurse enters my cell, slams me with Cult narcotics. Tells me happy Valentine’s Day.
I mimic the giant’s breath until I pass out.
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