Months later, Pablo was weaving a rug. Dance Forty was galloping happily through the dunes teaching herself to eat insects. A round portion of the sand flipped open and a round man with sharp teeth emerged from the hole. He was wearing an aluminium foil Stetson and a beige safari suit. As he chewed on an old barbecue rib, he introduced himself as Carson O’Genic. In his affable manner he explained that he had once worked at the amusement park as the man who handed out cyanide pills to the visitors that wanted to become part of the attraction. He had been living underground since the third civil war, living off dehydrated dust and such things. He was waiting for the day that the park could be restored.
Pablo took Carson into the Hair Saloon and treated him to a whisky. Pablo told him something he rarely told others. He had once been the Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse: Free Trade. Famine and Death had considered him so insignificant that they made fun of him all the time. He became so annoyed at this treatment that he decided to descend to earth and join the mortals. What was particularly upsetting about the experience was that his horse was burned up upon re-entry. This, he explained to Carson, was the reason why Dance Forty was so important to him. Pablo started to sing a teary ode to Dance until Carson slapped him in the face. Pablo dropped his guitar and slapped Carson in return. Eventually they laughed. Pablo issued Carson with a pink plastic pony with a dramatically quivering mane. This was lifted from the toddler’s section of the amusement park. Carson was fine with this as he had been eating cockroaches for most of his life and he was quite brain damaged. After a fine dinner of porcupine husks and strawberry lard, Pablo suddenly announced that they were to go on a quest. Pablo explained that he was searching for something that would bring him a sign.
Pablo and Carson stocked up on supplies, donned their aluminium Stetsons and rode into the desert. The Stetsons became remarkably handy for frying eggs and boiling water. Pablo noticed that he had a niggling pimple on his left thigh. The sky had opened up in a white blaze. The remains of pigeons cooked up nicely with a side of cactus as it featured the dick butter from the man who used to sell tickets to the park. Vultures with red-lensed goggles circled above. Pablo and Carson came across a half-buried burnt skeleton. It had the body of a human and the head of a bison. A calling card was lodged between two ribs, which stuck out of the sand like black Norwegian pencils. It was the rectangular record of the presence of Mad Abdul Ab Hazarad! Pablo had known the name and the reputation. As he knelt by the corpse he explained to Carson that the creature had probably been an inadequate sex slave for Abdul. He was sure to find another. And possibly another. Abdul, Pablo explained, had a thing for stalking the galaxy and acquiring spindly rape victims. The two shook their heads in pity as they ritualistically urinated on the skeleton. Pablo said that Abdul was a motherfucker. Carson dropped his pants and sat on one of the ribs. Pablo played with Carson’s hair as they continued on their journey. The mad expanse of the dunes met them. They were peppered with twisted black plants. By this time Carson had grown quite mad because of the sun, his Stetson, and the many, many weeks of riding they had done. One of the eyeballs of Carson’s horse popped out and out of the eyeball popped a pink cuckoo on a spring that harked the chime of 3pm. Pablo looked at his watch. It was 4pm!
They came to the Red Doorway, though it had no door or accompanying building to speak of. It burst into flames as they rode through it. It hailed briefly. The two caught the icy balls in their mouths. The hailstones burst in their mouths with a complication of texture. There eight monks sat cross-legged in a circle facing each other. They wore black robes with pointed hoods and they chanted: “Mono-chicka, mono-chicka, ti-ka, mono-chicka, ti-ka, mono.” Their consonants dripped with drying spittle. The space they encircled was a crater in the dune with the texture and look of red earth. Pablo dismounted with apprehension, then got off his horse. They walked slowly towards the monks, whose faces could not be seen. The monks ignored everything and continued to chant. Pablo held back Carson with his hand and walked to the edge of the red chasm. Vultures dipped and swooped. One of the monks held out his hand in Pablo’s direction. Pablo bit the fingertip of the forefinger and yanked. The flesh slid off the skeleton with ease and tasted a bit like barbecue. Pablo could see something buried at the bottom of the small crater. It was the corner of something metal and white. Carson instinctively dropped to his knees and clasped his hands in prayer. Pablo staggered into the hole, the chant of the monks growing louder. He yanked the object from its grave and held it aloft. It was the sign he was seeking. It said: “Tourists Welcome!” The monks ended their chant, got to their feet and walked away in different directions. They all left stool samples behind them that were a variety of colours and shapes. Carson collected them all in zip-lock bags and nudged Pablo with his foot.
The two rode back to the park in triumph. Pablo immediately put the sign up and tourists began to flock to the new ghost attraction. Everyone wanted to see the place where pretty much nothing worked! With great joy, Carson handed out cyanide pills to the customers. Many of them dropped like flies in multiple heaps. Mass suicide had never felt so good. The park began to develop a pleasing death camp atmosphere. Pablo sat upon piles of the dead and counted money, his rancid cigar clenched between his teeth. In a dream one night, he was taught the basics of creating the ultimate drug. It involved faeces and the tissues of dead tourists. He set up a lab in a flat in the dankest of cities, far away. He gave more responsibility to Carson in the running of the park.
Pablo’s obsession with creating the drug (and blaming 9/11 on the Jews) was growing out of proportion and he visited the park less and less. His face grew into funhouse distortions in the beakers and test tubes of his lab. He casually tap-danced when he discovered he could create a mind-bending drug from the simple ingredients. He found the monk stools had a property that would cause psychosis and occasional psychosomatic reactions. His interest in the park (though it was doing well) disappeared completely when he began dealing to the plebs in his neighbourhood. Pablo hung out at a bar with crystalline features. Banners made of skin hung from the ceiling, undulating with new technology. His drug became popular. A girl approached him once at the bar. She was able to pop her eyeball from her face. It stretched on its stalk across to Pablo and rubbed gently on his retina. He knew what she wanted. Eventually Pablo contracted out the production of the drug to other entities. He destroyed his lab and tossed its remains in a dumpster. The Crystalline Bar, the features of which were becoming worn and dirtied up with burns and cigarette pollution, became Pablo’s second home. He sat in the corner and drank, sometimes dealing and sometimes chatting with the barflies. The freaks that came to this place were becoming more and more strange and distorted in appearance. Pablo didn’t realise it was the DNA of his drug that was causing such metamorphosis in the folks. Nor was he conscious of the birth defects. He grew to love the endless parade of freaks hooked on his meta-psychedelic creation. He felt fortunate enough to meet a young man whose band was in its primal stages. He forgot the bloke’s name but was impressed by his empty vessel qualities and misanthropic love. Pablo wanted to know the man better, considering the market that the music industry could present itself as. Pablo gave him his address written on the biggest tab of his drug ever created. He hoped his new friend would be psychotic for years to come.
Several months later, Pablo sat alone in his flat, facing the window. He put out a cigarette in the unfinished beer next to him. He was massively hung-over and didn’t know what to do. He felt empty and unappeased by his wealth. There was a sort of mourning that twisted into a cone inside him. Perhaps he should return to the desert. Perhaps it was his only source of happiness. His aluminium Stetson was crumpled into a ball in the sink. He wondered why the couple across the courtyard had a fruit bowl accommodating so many bananas that they overflowed onto the table. He missed his horse. He had sold her to a subterranean robot torture dungeon downtown. Her parts were used in the making of the machinery used in a glue factory. Now he cried oil tears for her like equine stigmata. Streaks ran from his eyes like mascara as he buried his head in his hands. In mid-yowl there was a knock at the door. Stooping, Pablo got up and answered it. It was Carson. He looked ragged, his safari suit smattered with tandoori and vomit stains. They were most likely the result of tantrum-throwing children in the necro-park restaurant. His eyes were ringed with sleepless black.
He breathed heavily and said: “Hi Pablo.”
“Hi Carson,” said Pablo, suddenly a little cheered, “hey, did you clean out the grease trap in the kitchen in the blue tent like I asked?”
“You neglected me,” said Carson and lunged sadistically at Pablo’s neck with his razor teeth bared.
He tore out Pablo’s jugular.
“Sorry,” gurgled Pablo as he scrambled around on his hand and knees on the floor. Blood was coursing out of him like the human waterfall.
“Hail Satan!” shouted Carson and wept.
Carson buried Pablo in the middle of the courtyard in the inkiness of the night. He returned to the desert where he too would one day find his grave. The necro-park once again fell into disarray and abandonment.
Inflict Kafe Gavani On The World
  
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