“Damn, blast and thunder!” I said, looking at Manolete turning his veronica and Concepcion lying there with her poor throat cut. “Now that absolutely does tear it.”
I decided not to toddle over to the Starry Wisdom Church this time around. There is a limit, after all.
Instead, I went out into Tequila y Mota Street and approached the church but kept my distance, trying to figure where BUGGER kept the Time Machine.
While I was reflecting on that, I heard the first pistol shot.
Then a volley.
The next thing I knew the whole population of Fernando Poo—Cubans descended from the prisoners shipped there when it was a penal colony in the 19th century, Spaniards from colonial days, blacks, wogs, and whatnot—were on Tequila y Mota street using up all the munitions they owned. It was the countercoup, of course—the Captain Puta crowd who unseated Tequila y Mota and prevented the nuclear war—but I didn’t know that at the time, so I dashed into the nearest doorway and tried to duck the flying bullets, which were coming, mind you, as thick as the darling buds in May. It was hairy. And one Spanish bloke— gay as a tree full of parrots from his trot and his carriage, goes by waving an old cutlass out of a book and shouting, “Better to die on our feet than to live on our knees!”—headed straightway into a group of Regular Army who had finally turned out to try to stop this business. He waded right into them, cutting heads like a pirate, until they shot him as full of holes as Auntie’s drawers. That’s your Spaniards: even the queers have balls.
Well, this wasn’t my show, so I backed up, opened the door and stepped into the building. I just had a moment to recognize which building I had picked, when Saint Toad gave me his bilious eye and said, “You again!”
The trip was less interesting this time (I had seen it before, after all) and I had time to think a bit and realize that old frog-face wasn’t using a Time Machine or any mechanical device at all. Then I was in front of a pyramid—they missed that stop last time—and I waited to arrive back in the Hotel Durrutti. To my surprise, when there was a final jerk in the dimensions or whatever they were, I found myself someplace else.
00005, in fact, was in an enormous marbled room deliberately designed to impress the bejesus out of any and all visitors. Pillars reached up to cyclopean heights, supporting a ceiling too high and murky to be visible, and every wall, of which there seemed to be five, was the same impenetrable ivory-grained marble. The eyes instinctively sought the gigantic throne, in the shape of an apple with a seat carved out of it, and made of a flawless gold which gleamed the more brightly in the dim lighting; and the old man who sat on the throne, his white beard reaching almost to the lap of his much whiter robe, commanded attention when he spoke: “If I may be trite,” he said in a resonant voice, “you are welcome, my son.”
This still wasn’t High Church, but it was a definite improvement over the digs where Saint Toad and his loathsome objets d’art festered. Still, 00005’s British common sense was disturbed. “I say,” he ventured, “you’re not some sort of mystic, are you? I must tell you that I don’t intend to convert to anything heathen.”
“Conversion, as you understand it,” the aged figure told him placidly, “consists of pounding one’s own words into a man’s ears until they start coming out of his mouth. Nothing is of less interest to me. You need have no fear on that ground.”
“I see.” 00005 pondered. “This wouldn’t be Shangri-La or some such place, would it?”
“This is Dallas, Texas, my son.” The old man’s eyes bore a slight twinkle although his demeanor otherwise remained grave. “We are below the sewers of Dealy Plaza, and I am the Dealy Lama.”
00005 shook his head. “I don’t mind having my leg pulled,” he began.
“I am the Dealy Lama,” the old man repeated, “and this is the headquarters of the Erisian Liberation Front.”
“A joke’s a joke,” Chips said, “but how did you manage that frog-faced creature back in the Starry Wisdom Church?”
“Tsathoggua? He is not managed by us. We saved you from him, in fact. Twice.”
“Tsathoggua?” Chips repeated. “I thought the swine’s name was Saint Toad.”
“To be sure, that is one of his names. When he first appeared, in Hyperborea, he was known as Tsathoggua, and that is how he is recorded in the Pnakotic Manuscripts, the Necronomicon and other classics. The Atlantean high priests, Klarkash Ton and Lhuv Kerapht, wrote the best descriptions of him, but their works have not survived, except in our own archives.”
“You do put on a good front,” 00005 said sincerely. “I suppose, fairly soon, you’ll get around to telling me that I have been brought here due to some karma or other?” He was actually wishing there were some place to sit down. No doubt, it added to the Lama’s dignity to sit while Chips had to stand, but it had been a hard night already and his feet hurt.
“Yes, I have many revelations for you,” the old man said.
“I was afraid of that. Isn’t there some place where I can bring my arse to anchor, as my uncle Sid would say, before I listen to your wisdom? I’m sure it’s going to be a long time in the telling.”
The old man ignored this. “This is the turning point in history,” he said. “All the forces of Evil, dispersed and often in conflict before, have been brought together under one sign, the eye in the pyramid. All the forces of Good have been gathered, also, under the sign of the apple.”
“I see,” 00005 nodded. “And you want to enlist me on the side of Good?”
“Not at all,” the old man cried, bouncing up and down in his seat with laughter. “I want to invite you to stay here with us while the damned fools fight it out aboveground.”
00005 frowned. “That isn’t a sporting attitude,” he said disapprovingly; but then he grinned. “Oh, I almost fell for it, didn’t I? You are pulling my leg!”
“I am telling you the truth,” the old man said vehemently. “How do you suppose I have lived to this advanced age? By running off to join in every idiotic barroom brawl, world war, or Armageddon that comes along? Let me remind you of the street where we picked you up; it is entirely typical of the proceedings during the Kali Yuga. Those imbeciles are using live ammunition, son. Do you want me to tell you the secret of longevity, lad—my secret? I have lived so outrageously long because,” he spoke with deliberate emphasis, “I don’t give a fuck for Good and Evil.”
“I should be ashamed to say so, if I were you,” Chips replied coolly. “If the whole world felt like you, we’d all be a sorry kettle of fish.”
“Very well,” the old man started to raise an arm. “I’ll send you back to Saint Toad.”
“Wait!” Chips stirred uneasily. “Couldn’t you send me to confront Evil in one of its, ah, more human forms?”
“Aha,” the old man sneered. “You want the lesser Evil, is it? Those false choices are passing away, even as we speak. If you want to confront Evil, you will have to confront it on its own terms, not in the form that suits your own mediocre concepts of a Last Judgment. Stay here with me, lad. Evil is much more nasty than you imagine.”
“Never,” Chips said firmly. “‘Ours not to reason why, Ours but to do or die!’ Any Englishman would tell you the same.”
“No doubt,” the old man snickered. “Your countrymen are as fat-headed as these Texans above us. Glorifying that idiotic Light Brigade the way these bumpkins brag about their defeat at the Alamo! As if stepping in front of a steamroller were the most admirable thing a man could do with his time. Let me tell you a story, son.”
“You may if you wish,” 00005 said stiffly. “But no cynical parable will change my sense of Right and Duty.”
“Actually, you’re glad of the interlude; you’re not all that eager to face the powers of Tsathoggua again. Let that pass.” The old man shifted to a more comfortable position and, still oblivious of Chips’ tired shifting from leg to leg, began:
This is the story of Our Lady of Discord, Eris, daughter of Chaos, mother of Fortuna. You have read some of it in Bullfi
nch, no doubt, but his is the exoteric version. I am about to give you the Inside Story.
Is the thought of a unicorn a real thought? In a sense, that is the basic question of philosophy—
I thought you were going to tell me a story, not launch into some dreary German metaphysics. I had enough of that at the University.
Quite so. The thought of a unicorn is a real thought, then, to be brief. So is the thought of the Redeemer on the Cross, the Cow who Jumped Over the Moon, the lost continent of Mu, the Gross National Product, the Square Root of Minus One, and anything else capable of mobilizing emotional energy. And so, in a sense, Eris and the other Olympians were, and are, real. At the same time, in another sense, there is only one True God and your redeemer in His only begotten son; and the lloigor, like Tsathoggua, are real enough to reach out and draw you into their world, which is on the other side of Nightmare. But I promised to keep the philosophy to a minimum.
You recall the story of the Golden Apple, in the exoteric and expurgated version at least? The true version is the same, up to a point. Zeus, a terrible old bore by the way, did throw a bash on Olympus, and he did slight Our Lady by not inviting Her. She did make an apple, but it was Acapulco Gold, not metallic gold. She wrote Korhhisti, on it, to the prettiest one, and rolled it into the banquet hall. Everybody—not just the goddesses; that’s a male chauvinist myth—started fighting over who had the right to smoke it. Paris was never called in to pass judgment; that’s all some poet’s fancy. The Trojan War was just another imperialistic rumble and had no connection with these events at ail.
What really happened was that everybody was squabbling over the apple and working up a sweat and pushing one another around and pretty soon their vibrations—Gods have very high vibration, exactly at the speed of light, in fact—heated up the apple enough to unleash some heavy fumes. In a word, the Olympians all got stoned.
And they saw a Vision, or a series of Visions.
In the first Vision, they saw Yahweh, a neighboring god with a world of his own which overlapped theirs in some places. He was clearing the set to change its valence and start a new show. His method struck them as rather barbarous- He was, in fact, drowning everybody—except one family that he allowed to escape in an Ark.
“This is Chaos,” said Hermes. “That Yahweh is a mean mother’, even for a god.”
And they looked at the Vision more closely, and because they could see into the future and were all (like every intelligent entity) rabid Laurel and Hardy fans and because they were zonked on the weed, they saw that Yahweh bore the face of Oliver Hardy. All around him, below the mountain on which he lived (his world was flat), the waters rose and rose. They saw drowning men, drowning women, innocent babes sinking beneath the waves. They were ready to vomit. And then Another came and stood beside Yahweh, looking at the panorama of horrors below, and he was Yahweh’s Adversary, and, stoned as they were, he looked like Stanley Laurel to them. And then Yahweh spoke, in the eternal words of Oliver Hardy: “Now look what you made me do,” he said.
And that was the first Vision.
They looked again, and they saw Lee Harvey Os-wald perched in the window of the Texas School Book Depository; and he, again, wore the face of Stanley Laurel. And, because this world had been created by a great god named Earl Warren, Oswald fired the only shots that day, and John Fitzgerald Kennedy was, as the Salvation Army charmingly expresses it, “promoted to glory.”
“This is Confusion,” said Athena with her owl-eyes flashing, for she was more familiar with the world created by the god Mark Lane.
Then they saw a hallway, and Oswald-Laurel was led out between two policemen. Suddenly Jack Ruby, with the face of Oliver Hardy, stepped forward and fired a pistol right into that frail little body. And then Ruby spoke the eternal words, to the corpse at his feet: “Now look what you made me do,” he said.
And that was the second Vision.
Next, they saw a city of 550,000 men, women and children, and in an instant the city vanished; shadows remained where the men were gone, a firestorm raged, burning pimps and infants and an old statue of a happy Buddha and mice and dogs and old men and lovers; and a mushroom cloud arose above it all. This was in a world created by the cruelest of all gods, Realpolitik.
“This is Discord,” said Apollo, disturbed, laying down his lute.
Harry Truman, a servant of Realpolitik, wearing the face of Oliver Hardy, looked upon his work and saw that it was good. But beside him, Albert Einstein, a servant of that most elusive and gnomic of gods, Truth, burst into tears, the familiar tears of Stanley Laurel facing the consequences of his own karma. For a brief instant, Truman was troubled, but then he remembered the eternal words: “Now look what you made me do,” he said.
And that was the third Vision.
Now they saw trains, many trains, all of them running on time, and the trains criss-crossed Europe and ran 24 hours a day, and they all came to a few destinations that were alike. There, the human cargo was stamped, catalogued, processed, executed with gas, tabulated, recorded, stamped again, cremated and disposed.
“This is Bureaucracy,” said Dionysus, and he smashed his wine jug in anger; beside him, his lynx glared balefully.
And then they saw the man who had ordered this, Adolf Hitler, wearing still the mask of Oliver Hardy, and he turned to a certain rich man, Baron Rothschild, wearing the mask of Stanley Laurel, and they knew this was the world created by the god Hegel and the angel Thesis was meeting the demon Antithesis. Then Hitler spoke the eternal words: “Now look what you made me do,” he said.
And that was the fourth Vision.
They did then look further and, lo, high as they were they saw the founding of a great republic and proclamations hailing new gods named Due Process and Equal Rights for All. And they saw many in high places in the republic form a separate cult and worship Mammon and Power. And the Republic became an Empire, and soon Due Process and Equal Rights for All were not worshipped, and even Mammon and Power were given only lip-service, for the true god of all was now the impotent What Can I Do and his dull brother What We Did Yesterday and his ugly and vicious sister Get Them Before They Get Us.
“This is Aftermath,” said Hera, and her bosom shook with tears for the fate of the children of that nation.
And they saw many bombings, many riots, many rooftop snipers, many Molotov cocktails. And they saw the capital city in ruins, and the leader, wearing the face of Stanley Laurel, taken prisoner amid the rubble of his palace. And they saw the chief of the revolutionaries look about at the rubble and the streets full of corpses, and they heard him sigh, and then he addressed the leader, and he spoke the eternal words: “Now look what you made me do,” he said.
And that was the fifth Vision.
And now the Olympians were coming down and they looked at each other in uncertainty and dismay. Zeus himself spoke first.
“Man,” he said, “that was Heavy Grass.”
“Far fuckin out,” Hermes agreed solemnly.
“Tree fuckin mendous,” added Dionysus, petting his lynx.
“We were really fuckin into it,” Hera summed up, for all.
And they turned their eyes again on the Golden Apple and read the word Our Lady Eris had written upon it, that most multiordinal of all words, Korhhisti. And they knew that each god and goddess, and each man and woman, was in the privacy of the heart, the prettiest one, the fairest; the most innocent, the Best. And they repented themselves of not having invited Our Lady Eris to their party, and they summoned her forth and asked her, “Why did you never tell us before that all categories are false and all Good and Evil a delusion of limited perspective?”
And Eris said, “As men and women are actors on a stage of our devising, so are we actors on the stage devised by the Five Fates. You had to believe in Good and Evil and pass judgments on your creatures, the men and women below. It was a curse the Fates put upon you! But now you have come to the Great Doubt and you are free.”
The Olympians thereupon lost inter
est in the god-game and soon were forgotten by humanity. For She had shown them a great Light, and a great Light destroys shadows; and we are all, gods and mortals, nothing else but gliding shadows. Do you believe that?
“No,” said Fission Chips.
“Very well,” the Dealy Lama said somberly. “Begone, back to the world of maya!”
And Fission Chips whirled head over heels into a vortex of bleatings and squealings, as time and space were given another sharp tug and, nearly a month later, head over heels, the Midget is up and tottering across Route 91 as the rented Ford Brontosaurus shrieks to a stop and Saul and Barney are out the doors (every cop instinct telling them that a man who runs from an accident is hiding something) but John Dillinger, driving toward Vegas from the north, continues to hum “Good-bye forever, old sweethearts and gals, God…bless…you …” and the same tug in space-time grips Adam Weishaupt two centuries earlier, causing him to abandon his planned soft sell and blurt out to an astonished Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, “Spielen Sie Strip Schnipp-Schnapp?” and Chips, hearing Weishaupt’s words, is back in the graveyard at Ingolstadt as four dark figures move away in dusk.
The illuminatus! trilogy Page 53