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J wandered in the forests of West Khlster for months, armed only with a loincloth and a single bowl. He grew his beard long and wild and his once pale skin adopted a greenish hue. His arms, legs and torso were covered in long scratch marks, evidence of his forays into the wilds.
He became known to the peoples of the places he passed through as Illio Ores Yese. He was reputed to have the gift of prophecy, a second sight that enabled him to stare long into the future and discern what lay ahead. Though this was not true, J took advantage of the rumour as he found he was fed wherever he went by superstitious villagers. Illio Ores Yese was a good guise to adopt whenever he needed a root as well, as there were plenty of curvaceous farm maids in the area who were more than willing to fall victim to a mysterious wandering holy man.
J would occasionally visit his old school chum Chris, who had adopted the mantle of Dorothy, Vicious Robber King of the Wilds. Chris lived with his evil, smelly cohorts in sepulchral cave-like dwellings made out of faeces and straw. Chris would sit in his chair all day, asking the same bizarre question: “You are a fucking idiot. What did you expect to do with it? You are a fucking idiot. What did you expect to do with it?”
With that, J would respond, “I thought you had finished, I thought you had finished.”
They would slap their thighs and chuckle in unison at the pointlessness of their repetitive banter.
Chris’ cohorts were even more idiosyncratic. They worshipped Chris as a king and spent most of their days attempting autoerotic asphyxiation with nooses made of toe lint. Other times they would sit silently and stare into space as they chewed on their rabbit stew. Nevertheless, J felt at home with this little tribe.
Back in the old days, Chris was a strapping young lad, admired by all in the showers after a sweaty football game. His parents were rich and lived in a solitary mansion on the side of a hill, overlooking a giant sewerage farm, which they liked. The explanation for his reversion to primal state could only be explained through the series of dances undertaken by a dark Shaman he had met on holiday in Portland. The labia minora of a turkey had absolutely nothing, yet strangely everything, to do with this.
Chris and J would sit and swap long drawn out anecdotes of time spent in local government chambers as flies on the wall whilst slurping wild cherry tea from porcelain conical flasks. They would guffaw loudly and slap each other four times on the cheeks. Chris’ followers would gather around both J and Chris as they strummed toe lint-stringed guitars and sang harmonies that sounded strangely out of tune. From this collaboration sprang forth the oft-misinterpreted EP entitled ‘Dorothy, Toto and Ores Yese - Together at Fast.’ This title reflected the religious asceticism that was a controlling force in J’s life during that period. Or maybe it was all pretentious crap. J was not sure.
J informed Chris of his ultimate goal: to annihilate the conservative fascist element of society - namely that cunt Germy Urine. J spent days filling Chris’ head with all sorts of stories of appalling conversations on Cybermail? with Germy, regarding what he described as the seditious elements, which included firing plastic pellet guns and throwing beer bottles at him. Eventually Chris was forced to tears. His only comment was: “It makes me chew on my bedspread.”
For Chris and his smelly crew the good days were over.
From that day onwards, Chris and company resolved to have a daily nap at 3pm. At 2.30pm, Chris directed J to the Sacred Prophet of the Dung Marsh for enlightenment. The name of the prophet was Trumbo (or Nerrrrrrt after a few drinks) and he lived in the middle of a milky plasma ball in the centre of a swamp. J had to swim through the murky steaming marsh, feeling the warmth of its pus. He climbed onto the tiny mossy island and stepped through the ball of plasma, covering himself in whitish yolk. It was a mystical experience.
“Use the fucking door next time!” yelped Trumbo, who was sewn into his calfskin chair. He was black with filth and his gigantic fat dreadlocks had become tentacles and suckled the inner surface of the orb of plasma. The dreadies housed a teeming colony of insects that spent the day travelling to his scalp for food supplies and dandruff to build miniature houses.
“I met a man once at the Hetero & Straight Mardi Gras...” said Trumbo, “on the float adorned with men in suits and ties sitting at desks. He gave me this.”
He held up a small black pouch with a drawstring.
“He said only to give this to someone by the name of Illio, J... or Leo Sayer. He told me that the grass is always greener when you’re faking the pull on a bong. He said he never inhaled.”
Trumbo handed J the pouch and inside was a pendant with a framed photo of Germy and a small plastic bag. Inscribed on the back was:
To My Broader Horizon,
My love for you will never be globally eclectic
But never far from spoken.
J pondered the meaning of this. A clue to the whereabouts of Germy perhaps? “Broader horizon?” “Globally eclectic?” Maybe it was a code from Minious. They loved codes in Minious. Stupid bastards. Could J go to Minious? He wasn’t averse to risking his own life, but going to Minious would be plain suicide. Those theocratical bastards would buttfuck minors with a power drill if they had the power point, or the power drill itself.
J opened the plastic bag and found inside a single black grain of the hyper addictive drug Jock. Trumbo explained to J that Jock was by-product of narcotic genetic engineering, a mutant form of heroin. He explained that Jock was a drug of terror, illumination and hilarity.
“If you are pure of spirit, the Jock will tell you what you need to do. If you are impure… unfortunately it’s going to feed you a pile of shit,” explained Trumbo.
Trumbo handed J a teaspoon and a Zippo lighter and J cooked up the drug. After the shot, which he performed using a very sharp piece of bamboo as a hypo, an army of fire ants arranged themselves into Mayan hieroglyphics, which J was skilled in deciphering. The first one was “Imagine them in their underwear,” which he thought was irrelevant.
A toucan in a tree squawked in Morse code: “Forget that. You will purge your nemesis where the equine touches the burgundy clouds.”
“That toucan is an instrument of the demons,” wrote a tiny lizard in the dirt with its tail, “Instead you should follow the trail of breadcrumbs to your birthplace, and there will be a confrontation.”
“Search for the by-product of butchered tourists to warp the real estate of the flesh,” sang a choir of naked schoolboys.
“Bullshit,” said a message in a bottle, “I propose you do a handstand and sing ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ with a jelly mould on each foot.”
“I think my nostril,” said a passer-by who then immediately blew his head off with a Colt .45.
J was left perplexed about the significance of the messages. Were they true or were they bullshit? He looked about him as the body of Trumbo sank into the ground with the smoothness of an elevator.
A voice spoke from behind him: “The mountains are clear with pick up lines whilst the lowlands are swept with discarded comefuckme boots from the Uncanny X-Men days. Yow baby! I can’t believe that while I was ramming my iron hard rod into Porno Boy, his legs pressed up and back by my shoulders, his fanny raised high by my weight, his head thrown back over the side of the bed, mouthing endearments, swear words, cooking recipes, sitcom themes, all the while right, the bitch is thinking of fuckin’ Jon English! And he’s singing that bloody ‘six ribbons’ song. What could I do? I kept driving of course, but man, was I plotting revenge.”
J swung round in slow-mo and somewhat over-dramatically. Facing him was a naked priest with a twelve-inch; three pronged steel dildo dangling out of his rectum. On his right shoulder sat a parrot whose only words were: “Hi, how are you today? Look, I was reading this article in the paper today about genetic issues. I was wondering if, in your opinion, parents should have the right to choose the gender of their child. Squawk.”
The priest stood there, giving J a lurid look and then continued with his monologue: “Retribution, that’s all I could think of. I beat him down and parted his legs and I pulled out my sanctified all-purpose apple-corer. I shoved it up his anal cunt. His screams reminded me of hockey, baptism, floral dresses and West End musicals. I remember thinking, ‘Oh bitch, I know you grumble, I know you cry, but I know you love it.’ Well, anyway, after I finished with that I began to fist-fuck the laddie. Oh! The experience. I came in my pants on the spot. Talk about a mess. Well anyway I won’t reveal what happened next, as I do not want to offend your morals by explaining the finer detail. Let’s just say Porno Boy is converted.”
The priest looked up to see the sky.
“It’s a lovely day today,” he jingled.
J’s head exploded and immediately re-formed. He shook it from side to side, hearing a gurgle of flesh meeting juice inside. He laughed and laughed after that. He was entering the first stage of Jock addiction, which typically involved a cataclysmic nervous breakdown. Life for J had been so mundane up until his thirteenth birthday when that clown with the bad breath and dirty costume came to entertain him at his small party. His parents had left for Rye in the middle of it, leaving him alone in his high chair and bib with the nasty clown, who had by now raided the liquor cabinet. He was trying to do crappy tricks (like that one with the can of Raid and the match) while stumbling around and taking swigs from a bottle of Jack Daniels and rubbing his crotch lewdly.
“Ershneed,” said the clown, bringing his make-up-smeared face and stinking alcohol breath close to J’s. It was a prophecy of reality disintegration.
J began to wander and cry.
Inflict Kafe Gavani On The World
  
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