This Is Another Silly Chapter Heading. I Mean, The Whole Thing Is Just Silly And Disgusting. I Said To Beryl The Other Day, I Said Beryl, I Might Just Be The Crazy Old Lady Who Goes Around Bolding The Chapter Headings For Novels But I Know What Rubbish Is And This Is Just Rubbish. I Should Report This Kind Of Thing To The Authorities. Makes Me Sick, It Does. Who Is This Edgar Ferret Anyway? Beryl Agrees That It’s Filth. I Told Her About That Bit Where The Man Says The ‘C’ Word Over And Over And She Was Almost Sick Into Her Purse. Poor Beryl. She’s Had Her Share Of Problems What With Having Her Varicoses Out Recently. The Anaesthetic Made Her So Woozy That She Really Was Sick Into Her Purse. Poor Thing. She Hardly Tells Anyone, But She Told Me That During The War She Was A Prisoner Of War And She Was Kept As A Slave By The Japs, Who Made Her Do Sex Acts. She Was Raped Over And Over Again. Now That’s A Story Of Real Suffering, Not That This Edgar Would Know What Real Suffering Is. He Just Makes Jokes About Rape And Thinks The Whole Thing Is Bloody Funny. I Bet He Hasn’t Been Raped. Anyway, One Of The Officers Did A You-Know-What On Her One Day And She Was Sick All Over Her Kimono, Poor Thing. She Never Told Me Why She Was In Nan King In The First Place. She Said She Got Her Varicoses From Sitting Jap Style. Oh, And Her Poor Roger With His Arms And Legs And Cataracts. Practically A Vegetable, Poor Bugger. She Has To Feed Him Soup And Cut His Toenails And Change His Adult Nappies. She Says That Roger Can’t Please Her Physically Anymore And That’s Why She Often Sits On The Washing Machine During Spin Cycle. I Said, Beryl, You Should Remove The Cover, It’s Much Better That Way. She Has This Problem With Soap Scum And I Keep On Telling Her, Vinegar, Beryl, Vinegar. It’s One Of The Best All-Round Cleaners But She Won’t Listen, Poor Thing. But She Throws The Most Lovely Tupperware Parties. I Got This Lovely Item That I Still Use For Leftover Potato Salad. Lovely. Beryl Told Me That There Is A Tupperware Party Held Every 1.5 Minutes In The World. Anyway, Her Billy Was At A Tupperware Party One Night. Oh, Don’t Get Me Started On That Boy. Such A Troubled Lad. He Was A Forceps Delivery, Of Course. Never Could Keep Still. He Was In The Army For A Little While But He Got Kicked Out For Eating Too Much Peach Crumble After Lights Out. He Has Tattoos Of Devils And He Rides A Motorbike. Dangerous Things, They Are. And He Smokes Cigarettes, Dirty Bugger. I Don’t Know What He Does For A Living, Even. He Probably Sells Pornography To School Children Or Something Like That. Anyway, He Had His Comeuppance One Night, Silly Boy. He Was At An Orgy Party One Night When He Fell On Some Alcohol And Hurt His Liver. So He Had To Go To Hospital And Have A Transplant. So They Put A New Liver In Him And You Won’t Believe This, It Was The Liver From A Pig. I Told Beryl That I Thought That It Was Fitting, But She Was Upset At The Time. During His Months In Hospital He Had A Strange Jelly- Like Substance Appear On His Fingers And Face. Strange, It Was. The Doctors Couldn’t Explain It. It Was So Strange. Well Billy Was Crazy By Then And He Said That He Was Carrying The Ghost Of The Dead Pig Within In Him And The Ectoplasm From The Pig’s Ghost Was Appearing On His Body. Well That’s Just Crazy. But That’s Why They Call Him “Ectoplasmic Billy” Now. Hang On, Isn’t That One Of The Characters In This Stupid Book? Is This Chapter Heading Some Sort Of Meta-Joke Or Something? Am I Supposed To Be A Character In The Book Now? Oh This Is Just Bloody Ridiculous. I Said To Beryl The Other Day, I’m Sick Of Having My Identity Compromised For The Sake Of Art And That’s Why I Committed Suicide Two Weeks Ago Using A Tupperware Container.
Pierre, propped up by an intravenous supply of Mono17 (in diluted form), had metamorphosed from the rainbow serpent into a butterfly of immense proportions. He had spent his last few weeks as the butterfly travelling back in time and scaring the shit out of Aboriginals in The Dreamtime - thus ensuring he was immortalised.
J launched himself onto Pierre’s back and yeehaa’ed “Hi Ho Pierre Away!”
Pierre snorted some moth dust and flew into the air, his intravenous drip clanging away merrily on his left wing.
They circled the solar system in a bizarre series of ellipses that left onlookers unaware that they had been looking at anything special. They crashed to ground in a deserted lot just outside Saturn’s top Mitzbar where a lot of drunken men with beards were singing ‘Song Of The Volga Boatmen’ - which sounded a lot like the Wizard of Oz’s ‘Oh Wee Ope Opa O Wop.’
Pierre left J at the Mitzbar and gave him a teary farewell before flying into the stars to die a beautiful death.
J downed a few brews and headed down to the Boulevard of Big Breasted Boys, where the large demonstration (consisting of seven people) marched outside town hall. They were protesting the banning of a film called ‘Sunbeam Does Saturn,’ in which graphic depictions of bread heating had shocked a planet. J strolled up to one of the protesters holding a placard that said: “Give Toast A Chance.”
“Hi, I’m Tom Milkytoast,” said J.
“Hello Tom. My name is Rochelle Rainhard,” said the protester as she turned her soft-focus head in slow motion, blonde hair sitting on the breeze. Her eyes glimmered.
“My god!” exclaimed J, “you’re... you’re... marginally half decent!”
“Why thank you! You wanna blow job?”
J explained he had no time and wished only to know how to infiltrate the Bowel Tactics Commission (even though he was, in fact, already associated with them). She was just the person to talk to, she said. Rochelle was the Madame at a Cybermail? brothel just down the road. She hired women to sit in front of computers all day and talk dirty in cyberspace. Her “top bitch,” as she liked to call her, was Granita Machiavelli. Granita’s list of clients was long, but Rochelle took pride in her list, which had to be kept in a database all of its own. One of the top agents in Bowel Tactics was their best customer.
He went under the alias “Stanley.”
Cybermail? dialogue:
12.26 AM: Stanley - I heard you are interested in talking to me.
12.27 AM: J - Yes, I was informed you are one of the top agents in the BTC.
12.29 AM: Stanley – Uh, some people say that, others disagree, others disagree.
12.30 AM: J - Why did you repeat yourself?
12.32 AM: Stanley - For effect of course. What is your need?
12.31 AM: J - Well I’m looking to join the BTC.
12.36 AM: Stanley - Are you a toaster?
12.41 AM: J - Well you could say that.
1.33 AM: J – Are you still there????
1.47 AM: Stanley – Yes, sorry. My mother was just on the phone asking me to feed her cat for the weekend. Anyway, I think I might be able to help you. A special project is in the forming and I need some talent. If you want details meet me at The Hipatitis Bar in the Tongan Quarter at 7.30pm.
J cautiously entered The Hipatitis Bar with full knowledge of its reputation for being a haven for all assortment of crooked character. It was regarded as the most vile evil gin-gin joint in the city. Its patrons ranged from schizophrenics, escaped convicts, fugitives, freaks and disgruntled pig inspectors. On the left as J entered, three musicians played behind a reinforced glass screen to avoid being hit by missiles thrown in their direction. J asked the nearest patron what the name of the band was.
He soon found out the band was named The Rectum Warriors.
“They sound exactly like us. The dumb, young and full of cum pricks,” J thought to himself as he headed off in the direction of the bar.
“One bourbon, one scotch and one beer,” J demanded.
The barkeep pulled out a double-barrelled shotgun and levelled it at J’s chest.
“This is not a blues club... PUNK!”
He pulled the trigger. J smashed backwards through the crowd, coming to land in a pool of broken bottles, urine, and spittle. J raised his head and looked about him. He wasn’t dead. His Mono17 intake had increased his vitality to the point where his body was like rubber to foreign objects... especially shotgun shells. He looked across the bar at the barkeep who had suffered somewhat from the bullets rebounding off J. The body was still standing, swaying, the neck gushing forth a torrent of red, red, blood. The head hung suspended from a light fitting in the shape of a cervix.
A voice came from behind J as he brushed shards of glass and paperclips from his clothing.
“Tom Milkytoast?” asked the voice.
J (as Tom) looked around. My God! It was the guy with the see-through pot belly who was a hermaphrodite and had an enormous dick with an eye from the Sister Cirrhosis Bar!
“Hey, you’re the guy with the see-through pot belly who is a hermaphrodite and has an enormous dick with an eye from the Sister Cirrhosis Bar!”
“Yes,” said Stanley, his trousers moving menacingly, “I’ve been watching you for a long time J... er Tom. I’ve been standing behind you in every dark corner. I had myself put into a Saturnian de-tox centre just to be close to you.”
“But you tried to... do something... to me that day in that darn bar.”
“I was under contract from the Bolivian Goat Army to assassinate you for crimes unnatural and not nice at all.
J thought back to his days as a Bottom Feeder in the BGA.
Inflict Kafe Gavani On The World
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