Rebecca. The Saint Bernard.
“It’s probably all jumbled in your head,” I went on, furious that our plan was falling apart, that I needed his trust now but had no way to earn it. “We’ve been disintoxicating and dehypnotizing you, but you almost certainly can’t tell where the Illuminati left off and we rescued you and started reversing the treatment. You’re due to explode into psychosis within twenty-four hours and we’re using the only techniques that can defuse that process.”
“Why am I hearing everything twice?” Saul asked, balancing between wary skepticism and a sense that Malik was not playing games any more but urgently trying to help him.
“The stuff they gave you was an MDA derivative—very high on mescaline and methedrine both. It has an echo effect for seventy-two hours minimum. You’re hearing what I’m going to say before I say it and then again when I do say it. That’ll pass in a few minutes, but it’ll be back, every half hour or so, for the next day yet. The end of the chain is psychosis, unless we can stop it.” “Unless we can stop it.”
“It’s easing up now,” Saul said carefully, “Less of an echo that time. I still don’t know whether to trust you. Why were you trying to turn me into Barney Muldoon?”
“Because the psychic explosion is on Saul Goodman’s time-track, not on Barney Muldoon’s.”
Ten big rhinoceroses, eleven big rhinoceroses …
“You Wascal Wabbit,” Simon whispers through the Judas Window. Immediately the door opens and a grinning young man with the Frisco-style Jesus Christ hair-and-beard says, “Welcome to the Joshua Norton Cabal.” Joe sees to his relief that it was a normal but untypically clean hippie hangout, and there are none of the sinister accoutrements of the Lake Shore Drive coven. At the same time, he hears the strange man in the bed asking, “Why were you trying to turn me into Barney Muldoon?” My God, now it’s happening when I’m awake as well as when I’m asleep. Simu-multi-taneously, he hears the alarm and cries, “The Illuminati must be attacking!”
“Attacking this building?” Saul asks confusedly.
“Building? You’re on a submarine, man. The Lief Erich-son, on its way to Atlantis!”
Twenty big rhinoceroses, twenty-one big rhinoceroses …
“Number Seventeen,” read Professor Curve, “‘Law and anarchists will give the American people a speedy Cadillac.’”
All the Helen Hokinson types are out today. Another one just hit me for the Mothers March Against Dandruff. I gave her a nickel.
1923 was a very interesting year for the occult, by the way. Not only did Hitler join the Illuminati and attempt the Munich putsch, but, glancing through the books of Charles Fort, I found quite a few suggestive events. On March 17th—which not only fits our 17-23 correlation but is also the anniversary of the defeat of the Kronstadt rebellion, the day the Lord Nelson statue was bombed in Dublin in 1966 and, of course, good Saint Patrick’s holy day—a naked man was seen mysteriously running about the estate of Lord Caernarvon in England. He appeared several times in the following days, but was never caught. Meanwhile, Lord Caernarvon himself died in Egypt—some said he was a victim of the curse of Tut-Ankh-Amen, whose tomb he had burglarized. (An archaeologist is a ghoul with credentials.) Fort also records two cases that May of a synchronistic phenomenon he has traced through the centuries: a volcanic eruption coinciding with the discovery of a new star. In September, there was a Mumiai scare in India—Mumiais are invisible demons that grab people in broad daylight. Throughout the year, there were reports of exploding coal in England; some tried to explain this by saying the embittered miners (it was a time of labor troubles) were putting dynamite in the coal, but the police couldn’t prove this. The coal went on exploding. In the summer, French pilots began having strange mishaps, whenever they flew over Germany, and it was suggested that the Germans were testing an invisible ray machine. Considering the last three phenomena together—invisible demons in India, exploding coal in England, invisible rays over Germany—I guess somebody was testing something….
You can call me Doc Iggy. My full name, at present, is Dr. Ignotum P. Ignotius. The P. stands for Per. If you’re a Latinist, you’ll realize that translates as “the unknown explained by the still more unknown.” I think it’s a quite appropriate name for my function tonight, since Simon brought you here to be illuminized. My slave name, before I was turned on myself, is totally immaterial. As far as I’m concerned, your slave name is equally pointless, and I’ll call you by the password of the Norton Cabal, which Simon used at the door. Until tomorrow morning, when the drug starts wearing off, you are U. Wascal Wabbit. That’s U., the initial, not why-oh-you, by the way.
We accept Bugs Bunny as an exemplar of Mummu here, too, but otherwise we have little in common with the SSS. That’s the Satanist, Surrealists and Sadists—the crew who began your illuminization in Chicago. All we share with them actually is use of the Tristero anarchist postal system, to evade the government’s postal inspectors, and a financial agreement whereby we accept their DMM script—Divine Marquis Memorial script—and they accept our hempscript and the flaxscript of the Legion of Dynamic Discord. Anything to avoid Federal Reserve notes, you know.
It’ll be a while yet before the acid starts working, so I’ll just chat like this, about things that are more or less trivial—or quadrivial, or maybe pentivial—until I can see that you’re ready for more serious matters. Simon’s in the chapel, with a woman named Stella who you’ll really dig, getting things ready for the ceremony.
You might wonder why we’re called the Norton Cabal. The name was chosen by my predecessor, Malaclypse the Younger, before he left us to join the more esoteric group known as ELF—the Erisian Liberation Front. They’re the Occidental branch of the Hung Mung Tong Cong and all their efforts go into a long-range anti-Illuminati project known only as Operation Mindfuck. But that’s another, very complicated, story. One of Malaclypse’s last writings, before he went into the Silence, was a short paragraph saying, “Everybody understands Mickey Mouse. Few understand Hermann Hesse. Hardly anyone understands Albert Einstein. And nobody understands Emperor Norton.” I guess Malaclypse was already into the Mindfuck mystique when he wrote that.
(Who was Emperor Norton? Joe asks, wondering if the drug is beginning to work already or Dr. Ignotius just has a tendency to speak more slowly than most people.)
Joshua Norton, Emperor of the United States and Protector of Mexico. San Francisco is proud of him. He lived in the last century and got to be emperor by proclaiming himself as such. For some mysterious reason, the newspapers decided to humor him and printed his proclamations. When he started issuing his own money, the local banks went along with the joke and accepted it on par with U.S. currency. When the Vigilantes got into a lynching mood one night and decided to go down to Chinatown and kill some Chinese, Emperor Norton stopped them just by standing in the street with his eyes closed reciting the Lord’s Prayer. Are you beginning to understand Emperor Norton a little, Mr. Wabbit?
(A little, Joe said, a little …)
Well, chew on this for a while, friend: there were two very sane and rational anarchists who lived about the same time as Emperor Norton across the country in Massachusetts: William Green and Lysander Spooner. They also realized the value of having competing currencies instead of one uniform State currency, and they tried logical arguments, empirical demonstrations and legal suits to get this idea accepted. They accomplished nothing. The government broke its own laws to find ways to suppress Green’s Mutual Bank and Spooner’s People’s Bank. That’s because they were obviously sane, and their currency did pose a real threat to the monopoly of the Illuminati. But Emperor Norton was so crazy that people humored him and his currency was allowed to circulate. Think about it. You might begin to understand why Bugs Bunny is our symbol and why our currency has the ridiculous name hempscript. Hagbard Celine and his Discordians, even more absurdly, call their money flaxscript. That commemorates the Zen Master who was asked, “What is the Buddha?” and replied, “Five pounds of fla
x.” Do you begin to see the full dimensions of our struggle with the Illuminati?
At least, for now, you can probably grasp this much: their fundamental fallacy is the Aneristic Delusion. They really believe in law ‘n’ order. As a matter of fact, since everybody in this crazy, millennia-old battle has his own theory about what the Illuminati are really aiming at, I might as well tell you mine. I think they’re all scientists and they want to set up a scientific world government. The Jacobins were probably following precise Illuminati instructions when they sacked the churches in Paris and proclaimed the dawn of the Age of Reason. You know the story about the old man who was in the crowd when Louis XVI went to the guillotine and who shouted as the king’s head fell, “Jacques De Molay, thou art avenged”? All the symbols that De Molay introduced into Masonry are scientific implements—the T-square, the architect’s triangle, even that pyramid that has caused so much bizarre speculation. If you count the eye as part of the design, the pyramid has 73 divisions, you know, not 72. What’s 73 mean? Simple: multiply it by five, in accordance with Weishaupt’s funfwissenschaft, the science of fives, and you get 365, the days of the year. The damn thing is some kind of astronomical computer, like Stonehenge. The Egyptian pyramids are facing to the East, where the sun rises. The great pyramid of the Mayans has exactly 365 divisions, and is also facing to the East. What they’re doing is worshipping the “order” they have found in Nature, never realizing that they projected the order there with their own instruments.
That’s why they hate ordinary mankind—because we’re so disorderly. They’ve been trying for six or seven thousand years to reestablish Atlantis-style high civilization-law ‘n’ order—the Body Politic, as they like to call it. A giant robot is what their Body Politic really amounts to, you know. A place for everything and everything in its place. A place for everybody and everybody in his place. Look at the Pentagon—look at the whole army, for Goddess’s sake! That’s what they want the planet to be like Efficient, mechanical, orderly—very orderly—and inhuman. That’s the essence of the Aneristic Delusion: to imagine you have found Order and then to start manipulating the quirky, eccentric chaotic things that really exist into some kind of platoons or phalanxes that correspond to your concept of the Order they’re supposed to manifest. Of course, the quirkiest, most chaotic things that exist are other people—and that’s why they’re so obsessed with trying to control us.
Why are you staring like that? Am I changing colors or growing bigger or something? Good: the acid is starting to work. Now we can really get to the nitty-gritty. First of all, most of what I’ve been telling you is bullshit. The Illuminati have no millennia-old history; neither do the JAMs. They invented their great heritage and tradition— Jacques De Molay and Charlemagne and all of it—out of whole cloth in 1776, picking up all sorts of out-of-context history to make it seem plausible. We’ve done the same. You might wonder why we copy them, and even deceive our own recruits about this. Well, part of illumination—and we’ve got to be illuminized ourselves to fight them—is in learning to doubt everything. That’s why Hagbard has that painting in his stateroom saying “Think for yourself, schmuck,” and why Hassan i Sabbah said “Nothing is true.” You’ve got to learn to doubt us, too, and everything we tell you. There are no honest men on this voyage. In fact, maybe this part is the only lie I’ve told you all evening, and the Illuminati history before 1776 really is true and not an invention. Or maybe we’re just a front for the Illuminati … to recruit you indirectly….
Feeling paranoid? Good: illumination is on the other side of absolute terror. And the only terror that is truly absolute is the horror of realizing that you can’t believe anything you’ve ever been told. You have to realize fully that you are “a stranger and afraid in a world you never made,” like Houseman says.
Twenty-two big rhinoceroses, twenty-three big rhinoceroses …
The Illuminati basically were structure-freaks. Hence, their hangup on symbols of geometric law and architectural permanence, especially the pyramid and the pentagon. (God’s Lightning, like all authoritarian Judeo-Christian heresies, had its own share of this typically Occidental straight-line mystique, which was why even the Jews among them, like Zev Hirsch, accepted the symbol first suggested by Atlanta Hope: that most Euclidean of all religious emblems: the Cross.) The Discordians made their own sardonic commentary on the legal and scientific basis of law ‘n’ order by using a 17-step pyramid—17 being a number with virtually no interesting geometric, arithmetic or mystic properties, outside of Java, where it was the basis of a particularly wierd musical scale—and topping it with the Apple of Discord, symbol of the un-rational, un-geometrical, and thoroughly disorderly spontaneity of the vegetable world of creative evolution. The Erisian Liberation Front (ELF) had no symbol, and when asked for one by new recruits, replied loftily that their symbol could not be pictured, since it was a circle whose circumference was everywhere and its center nowhere. They were the most far-out group of all, and only the most advanced Discordians could begin to understand their gibberish.
The JAMs, however, had a symbol that anyone could understand, and, just as Harry Pierpont showed it to John Dillinger midway through a nutmeg high in Michigan City prison, Dr. Ignotius showed it to Joe midway through his first acid trip.
“This,” he said dramatically, “is the Sacred Chao.”
“That’s a symbol of technocracy,” Joe said, giggling.
“Well,” Dr. Ignotius smiled, “at least you’re original. Nine out of ten new members mistake it for the Chinese yin-yang or the astrological symbol of Cancer. It’s similar to both of them—and also to the symbols of the Northern Pacific Railroad and the Sex Information and Education Council of the United States, all of which is eventually going to lead to some interesting documents being produced at John Birch headquarters, I’m sure, proving that sex educators run the railroads or that astrologers control the sex educators or something of that sort. No, this is different. It is the Sacred Chao, symbol of Mummu, God of Chaos.
“On the right, O nobly born, you will see the image of your ‘female’ and intuitive nature, called yin by the Chinese. The yin contains an apple which is the golden apple of Ens, the forbidden apple of Eve, and the apple which used to disappear from the stage of the Flatbush Burlesque House in Brooklyn when Linda Larue did the split on top of it at the climax of her striptease. It represents the erotic, libidinal, anarchistic, and subjective values worshiped by Hagbard Celine and our friends in the Legion of Dynamic Discord.
“Now, O nobly born, as you prepare for Total Awakening, turn your eyes to the left, yang side of the Sacred Chao. This is the image of your ‘male,’ rationalistic ego. It contains the pentagon of the Illuminati, the Satanists, and the U.S. Army. It represents the anal, authoritarian, structural, law ’n’ order values which the Illuminati have imposed, through their puppet governments, on most of the peoples of the world.
“This is what you must understand, O newborn Buddha: neither side is complete, or true, or real. Each is an abstraction, a fallacy. Nature is a seamless web in which both sides are in perpetual war (which is another name for perpetual peace). The equation always balances. Increase one side, and the other side increases by itself. Every homosexual is a latent heterosexual, every authoritarian cop is the shell over an anarchistic libido. There is no Vernichtung, no Final Solution, no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and you are not Saul Goodman, when you’re lost out here.”
Listen: the chaos you experience under LSD is not an illusion. The orderly world you imagine you experience, under the artificial and poisonous diet which the Illuminati have forced on all civilized nations, is the real illusion. I am not saying what you are hearing. The only good fnord is a dead fnord. Never whistle while you’re pissing. An obscure but highly significant contribution to sociology and epistemology occurs in Malignowski’s study “Retroactive Reality,” printed in Wieczny Kwiat Wtadza, the journal of the Polish Orthopsychiatric Psociety, for Autumn 1959.
“All aff
irmations are true in some sense, false in some sense, meaningless in some sense, true and false in some sense, true and meaningless in some sense, false and meaningless in some sense, and true and false and meaningless in some sense. Do you follow me?”
(In some sense, Joe mutters …)
The author, Dr. Malignowski, was assisted by three graduate students named Korzybski-1, Korzybski-2, and Korzybski-3 (Siamese triplets born to a mathematician and, hence, indexed rather than named). Malignowski and his students interviewed 1,700 married couples, questioning husband and wife separately in each case, and asked 100 key questions about their first meeting, first sexual experience, marriage ceremony, honeymoon, economic standing during the first year of marriage, and similar subjects which should have left permanent impressions on the memory. Not one couple in the 1,700 gave exactly the same answers to 100 questions, and the highest single score was made by a couple who gave the same answers to 43 of the questions.
“This study demonstrated graphically what many psychologists have long suspected: the life-history which most of us carry around in our skulls is more our own creation (at least seven percent more) than it is an accurate recording of realities. As Malignowski concludes, ‘Reality is retroactive, retrospective and illusory.’
“Under these circumstances, things not personally experienced but recounted by others are even more likely to be distorted, and after a tale passes through five tellers it is virtually one hundred percent pure myth: another example of the Law of Fives.
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