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J was sitting on the porch outside the barracks of the Bolivian Goat Army (which was oddly enough based in Northern Queensland) on an old rocking chair with a brew in hand. He was performing guard duty. All the goats in the battalion were tucked away and in nod-nod land. It was only dusk and the sky was casting a beautiful pink-purple hue across the rainforest. It was pleasantly humid, which brought to life a chorus of stereophonic crickets. He was playing an old Freudian Slit record on a portable player, its lilting tones carrying themselves into the forest evening. He was wearing his inconspicuous short sleeve orange coveralls tucked into his boots and polishing his pump action shotgun. Beside him on the porch sat his traditional dark green rubbish bag full of human eyes. Now and then he patted it affectionately. Lost murkily in his thoughts, he was struggling with the concept of his sexuality and the fact that he might be a sociopath. Regardless of the niggling of his other voices, he was at peace for the first time in a long time and the fried chicken he had eaten before was sitting nicely. The cold sweat of his beer bottle in his hand slowly became his only connection to solid reality. As he drifted off in semi-meditation, his mind travelled on a black plane of occasional fantasy. The graphics of blueprints that proved goats to be the best all-terrain warrior popped up along his dark mental journey. Then the images of a white tiled shower room filled heavily with steam and spraying water filled his senses. J was naked, sweating under a hot stream of water, showering with other goats. He felt a deep and primal arousal.
A twisted, broken rendition of ‘Rainbow Connection’ flared up and provided the soundtrack for bestial debauchery.
The needle jumped. A flashlight beam whizzed past his face and then shined into it. Blinded by the pure white of the beam, J was disoriented and blinked into full consciousness.
“God?”
He held his shotgun firmly, tracing the source of the light. A dark commando in black helmet and bullet proof armour peered from the giant fern he had been hiding behind. With super-quick reflexes, J aimed his shotgun and pulled the trigger. There was only the sound of an impotent click. The gun was unloaded. A shower of orange sparks and smoke contrasted with the harmlessness of the fern as the cop shot J.
J felt the blast of the bullets through his shoulder and was knocked violently onto his back, along with the chair. He later remembered, in slow motion detail, watching bits of shoulder meat and blood leap from his body as a tiny electronic mosquito sent out by the cops to detect human body heat in the depths of the forest flew past his eyes with a knowing look in its optic sensory bulb.
An army of policemen stormed into the barracks and started shooting the place to fuck. Every goat in the army perished. Unit Commander Perry P Perrywinkle was found in his ornate VIP quarters (decorated with antique pictures and furniture) and summarily executed by hanging, his plush red footrest kicked from under him.
“This is really, really bad,” were his last words.
Though left for dead, J managed to crawl from the porch, barely retaining his consciousness, and into the damp thicket, leaving a messy trail of blood. Luckily he found a trap door hidey-hole concealed in the floor of the forest, leading to a network of tunnels constructed by the BGA for the purpose of escape. He dragged his limp body through the bugs, worm, dirt and fecal matter whilst using his arms as a form of locomotion.
He felt the joy and glory of the BGA melt away - crumble horribly - as he was winding his way through the filth. What was left of his shoulder was spurting blood and festering away in the heat.
His horrid journey through the hidden tunnel network took him all of two weeks. He knew not where he would surface or, indeed, if he would ever surface at all. He kept his unpleasant wound as painless as possible by smearing wet soil on it every few hundred metres. He survived by eating the bugs that infested the rotting wooden supports that he came across now and then. The constant darkness of the underground made him feel like an unborn child searching for the uteral opening with no C-Section in sight.
One day (or night), he came to a fork in the tunnel. Between his options, he found a typed note half buried in the dirt, ripped from the page it was originally featured on. It said, badly written and misspelt:
“My god, save yourself. Save yourself. Maik amends with you soul. Prey to Christ. And don’t chooz the left-hand tunnel... Jesuss Crist, ***don’t do It***************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************I LOST ALL OF THIS ******”
J tossed the note aside and chose the left-hand tunnel.
He entered a subterranean abode and saw a television with nothing but static on its screen and lying before it, his arms propping up his head, was a six or seven year-old boy. His legs, which had braces on them, were kicking playfully. In one of the worn brown corduroy chairs sat a pudgy middle-aged man with thick glasses with even thicker black frames. One of his hands had been replaced with a hook and his penis was out of his pants, sheathed in ribbed black latex. In the other brown chair was an equally pudgy middle-aged woman in a cheap floral dress, worn apron, and frizzy perm. She had no pupils. The eyes were a gleaming red. There was a back-to-front swastika carved into her forehead. In minimal synchronicity, they all faced J and grinned warmly. It was only then that he noticed that the child had a thick, glutinous transparent plasma smeared down the left side of his face and the man had opened safety pins hanging from his left cheek, trailing tiny lines of blood. The woman was knitting a scarf out of grotesquely long worms.
“Don’t get too good reception down ‘ere do we?” asked the man rhetorically.
“We fiddle with ourselves down ‘ere,” said the woman, “we like the simpleton things in life.”
J looked totally aghast.
“Daddy likes to wash my willy,” said the boy with a gap-toothed giggle.
“I’d like to hit you,” said the man to J in a soft voice and still smiling.
“Oh Harold!” squealed the woman with delight and slapped him on the shoulder.
The man stared for a long time at J, chuckling deeply and dribbling. His dick was slowly expanding in the latex. The woman smiled and spread her legs lewdly, exposing the stockings rolled up to her knees and a massive forest of pubic hair crawling with spiders.
“This is my willy,” said the boy, turning onto his back and quickly pulling his shorts up and down.
In the darkness of the far corner, J made out the shape of a small cage and inside it the shape of a dirty thing/man. The cage rattled and the noise of: “Help me! Please help me! I wrote the note! They torture me! I want out!” came from it.
J quickly regained his assaulted senses and sprinted across the room to the continuation of the tunnel opposite.
“Don’t forget to come back for some pudding,” J heard the man yell behind him as he scuttled manically down into the tunnel. J sighed a heave of relief as he escaped from the most together nuclear family he had ever seen.
It was two days later and he was still crawling wearily down the left-hand tunnel. Often he wished that he had chosen the right-hand tunnel (which actually would have led him to instant freedom). For water, he had to suck the moisture from the mud, which was not very nice.
In varying degrees, he was feeling the puddles of moisture under his arms become deeper and deeper. He tried to drink the liquid, but it was salty and all too familiar in taste. He could not place it, though. Eventually he was dog paddling through the wet, his feet and hands only occasionally touching the mush of the tunnel floor. Soon enough, he was struggling to keep his head above the thick fluid. After hours of swimming, J saw the rectangular tunnel open into a dome-shaped cavern. The concaved walls were laid with ageing white tiles. From the apex of the dome hung a singular, bare white bulb. The newly found light lead him to the discovery that he was swimming in blood. Now there was no murky floor to touch his feet on. Below him was only the shadowy depths of the blood. Three naked virgins, porcelain white and with their hair in buns, swam around. They were about fifteen. They swanned around lazily in the cavern. They rolled without effort into breastroke from freestyle, touching the white tiles after the odd length. They ignored J, staring half awake into space. J simply stared with a happy awe, treading blood. Occasionally a virgin would project a mini-fountain of blood from her mouth as she floated along on her back.
Finally one of the girls acknowledged J’s presence and, without looking at him, said: “I like your style, Timbo. I like your freestyle. I like your doggy style. Every day seems like the relaxing belly of a starfish. Only you can touch my sadness.”
Her voice was melancholic and lilting, perfumed with the hint of an English accent.
From the centre of the sphere pool sprang a gigantic phallic black beast, sporting an array of lobster-ish claws of varying length, snapping them violently. It was armoured with a dirty black shell and its head was like that of a hideous insect, loaded with cold black eyes with no pupils. To the surface of the pool rose a number of porcelain white arms and legs, crowned with ravaged flesh. The virgins continued to swim around the beast without looking at it and without a care. In one of its shorter claws it held a bottle of Guinness. It had a cigar clenched in its sharp, thin jaw. It cast its eyes in J’s direction and growled a horrific growl. J urinated freely in the blood. A claw from the lower torso of the beast shot through the blood and clasped J by the testicles. He was thrown into the air and towards the beast’s open mouth, which held a writhing lizard-like tongue. After spitting blood into the beast’s eyes, J managed to land his foot on what looked like the thing’s rippled forehead and levered himself over the beast to the awaiting rectangular tunnel entrance on the other side of the cavern. The beast was so enraged by J’s escape that it exploded into a thousand black pieces of bone and flesh.
Soon the tunnel became dry again, but tapered out and became wider and wider, taller and taller. J was finally on his feet and able to walk upright as the tunnel became a hallway, though retaining its main ingredient of dirt. He was still regretting not choosing the right-hand tunnel. Finally he came to a worn white door with a gleaming gold knob. He opened the door and walked into a public toilet that was pastel blue and looked strangely familiar. The centrepiece was a toilet bowl still gurgling with the aftermath of a flush. To J’s left was a man wearing a dark double-breasted pinstriped suit with a carnation in one lapel. He looked into the mirror above it and slicked back his thinning hair. His shoes were black and shiny.
“Well this is a bit of an anticlimax,” said J.
The man turned to him with a slight smile playing with the corners of his mouth. “Hello sir. My name is Reginald Halliday,” he said in a distinctive British accent. “You are now in a public toilet. Your shoulder has healed thanks to the wonders of nature and a little bit of Clag.”
“Both of these things are fairly obvious,” said J.
“I think by now your goals should be in total focus. I think you are ready to learn some more. Much more. My hook-nose master has more in store.”
“What?” asked J, his brows furrowed with confusion and agitation.
A large hook on a chain came jerkily from the ceiling and latched onto the collar of J’s dirty, wet orange coveralls.
It lifted him through a jagged hole in the ceiling of the public toilet and set him gently down onto the blue carpet of a waiting room in an airport in Bris Vegas. He found a one-way ticket to Melbourne in his pocket.
“I think you should calm down now,” said Halliday telepathically.
Inflict Kafe Gavani On The World
  
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