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So J booked himself into the Hotel La Spaz, getting one of the cheaper ‘Beat Generation’ suites. It was cramped, had peeling light brown wallpaper and a squeaky bed with army blankets and a thin pillow. He sat and stared at the shoddy reception on the fifties style TV. Three years had been a long time. There was much to catch up on. He caught snippets of shows that he had never heard of, like ‘CSI: Bendigo’ and ‘Survivor: Port Fairy.’ He changed channels and the news flickered on in black and white. Things on earth were not going so great. Riots had almost destroyed Bris Vegas, the fourth in a series of mindless violence. Lynchings of whites were common around then. His hometown Melbourne was shaken with threats of a Mars colony sending refugee mutants in dodgy pods there for political asylum. J took a long swig from the bottle of Blue Moscow that he had spiked with potent hash oil. Around him lay a number of Sapporo cans. The Russians had returned to communist rule after years of reckless capitalist indulgence. Revolution. Four hundred thousand dead. There was a brief item on Psychoville. Germy’s leering, stupid face was caught on camera briefly. Long shot: Germy had a second skin leather body suit and Gestapo boots on. He looks happy. His years of wanting to justify his worthless existence by gaining a position of power had come to a head. In his hand, Germy held a fragment of what appeared to be his tour itinerary. Christine Chubbuck’s voiceover announced that President Urine was to be a guest speaker at the IAPET (Intergalactic Association of Pointless Economic Theories) convention on Minious in two days. J switched off the TV and pondered what meaning Germy held still had for him. Nihilism. Nothingness. He knew it was a worthless obsession. Both had travelled so far apart in their respective fates as to be meaningless to the other. It was as good as it got. But still, what about the paranormal connection J had experienced on numerous occasions? It was a rhetorical question and it bothered the shit out of him. Some weird shit had gone down in the past and here he was chill’in like Bob Dylan, and maxin’ like Michael Jackson, a VIP with all the action, when deep within the nicotine-coated recesses of J’s chest his heart knew that the death of Germy by his hand would be the only thing that would provide meaning in his life and give him salvation.
He even briefly wondered how the rest of The Jizzbuckets were doing and if they were okay.
“Christ,” thought J. “I haven’t thought this lucidly for a long time. I need some drugs now!”
Later, J checked out of the Hotel La Spaz with the aid of a coat hanger and wended his way down the Boulevard of Broken Matchstick Models to the local post office. A bell rang as he entered. As J approached the counter, a man stood up from behind it. He was in his early fifties, with a baldpate and spectacles.
“Hello. Reginald Halliday at your service, sir.”
He spoke in clipped English tones in a very quiet voice, which made it difficult to hear. J leaned forward and as he did so, noticed an arm sticking out from beneath the counter on Halliday’s side. Halliday had the grace to be embarrassed when he saw J’s line of eyesight.
“Oh I do apologise sir. I was only just committing a bit of corpse violation when you walked in. Fucking whores, they do ask for it don’t they? Would you fancy a bit sir?”
J concurred and wondered where he had seen the pommy bastard before. It wouldn’t come to him even after he had it with the corpse. It had previously been an attractive young woman in her twenties. The only aberration in her beauty was that her face was blue. She did have a nice silk stocking scarf though. J thanked Halliday and asked to send a fax to President Urine.
“A what sir? A fax? What is that?”
“A fucking fac-sim-ile. Don’t shit me.”
“I am sorry, sir, but after all this is only 1953.”
“I want to send a message.”
“We only have telegram services available.”
“Oh,” said J. “I must be suffering from dimensional neuritis and inflammation of the lower lumbar region to produce such a strange occurrence.”
“Quite all right, sir. I will send a telegram for you if you like.”
“Sure.”
The telegram read thus:
PRES. URINE. STOP. I AM COMING TO KILL YOU. STOP. I WILL SUCCEED AT ALL COSTS. STOP. FUCK YOU VERY MUCH. STOP. YOURS... WAHOOTI EVANS. STOP.
J found himself back on the street and decided to chase up a connection for Mono17, which he heard was available in limited quantities from a local dealer called Nathanial Lohmez, who was known to service the Rumba Rhubarb club.
Inflict Kafe Gavani On The World
  
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