As J sauntered down the main street of Mercury’s largest city A-Ville, he dropped into a seedy freak bar called Necrosis Factor-Alpha and scored Mono13. Despite his rehabilitation, J’s mind was as deluded as ever. J’s mind had now reached the point where he believed that he was a rock at the bottom of a quarry on the small island of Pitcairn. This was somewhat surprising to him as he was well aware that there were no quarries on Pitcairn. He wasn’t even sure if they had rocks. Then he decided that, like a rock, he would just sit still until what had appeared to be an empty pastry wrapper metamorphosed into a taxation accountant. J considered that he might be in a hallucinogenic state. However, it was not until the man tapped him three times on the top of his head that he realised that a palpable mass was before him.
In a strange series of dances, the man in the suit and bowler hat hopped on one leg, twirling three fingers in the air and exhibited some dance moves from the ‘Thriller’ video. He stood up, did two star-jumps and a pirouette.
“Eat the real people,” he said over and over. He then slowly dribbled down the front of his jacket, massaged his inner thighs and breasts, farted and walked away. J didn’t know what was going on, but he felt a throbbing erection in his pants that was straining to get out.
“This is ridiculous!” screamed a passer-by for no perceptible reason. The passer-by was launched on by the Lavender Menace, a travelling troupe of uptight, angry, fat-arsed, Utah lesbo feminists who misconstrued his remark as both sexist and homophobic. The passer-by was torn limb from limb in a ghastly re-creation of a scene from the classic Cres Waven horror film ‘A Farewell to Limbs.’ One old petrol-sniffing junky picked up the passer-by’s fallen wallet that lay near his arm and then headed off in the direction of his favourite charity.
After all that had occurred to him in the past, J was not the least bit surprised at what had just transpired. Then, as suddenly as he left, the taxation accountant returned. Again he did two star-jumps and a pirouette, however, this time he added a Honky Tonk Kick, followed by a quick interpretation of the Four Star Boogie, then in a relaxed manner (with slightly sexual undertones) he walked over to J and in a high raspy voice exclaimed: “I am the New Satan who will chicken-fuck the Pope, persecute the elderly and effluent hermaphrodites of Id with no other reason other than to destroy this pitiful reality. I am also known as The Bizarre Taxation Account, but most just call me Taxy. I am at your service O anal-retentive one. I will help you in your quest and if you wish, assist you in organising a novated lease on a motor vehicle. It is an exceptional way of reducing your tax burden.”
And so the two, equipped with donkeys, turbans, and nose protectors trudged through the arid deserts of Elwood after climbing out of their astropod (launched from just south of St Kilda), which had impacted with the sandy earth in such a way that huge waves of sand and metal particles alive with electricity flew from the landing point and into the atmosphere.
Taxy would not stop babbling inanities and it was not until J... ooh... gave him a shot of heroin... ooh yeah... that, y’know, like the guy kinda... mellowed out, man.
Instead of babbling, now Taxy vomited. He vomited for quite a while. In fact, it was rather copious, black and sticky. As he lay in the sand, J waded over to him and held him in his arms. Taxy stunk to Southern Heaven.
“You don’t know much about me,” said Taxy, “so I must tell you certain things.” He seemed dazed and sun-stroked.
“I’m the guy who pisses everywhere but the urinals in a pub. I’m the guy who leaves unidentifiable stains on seats on public transport that you can’t tell are wet or dry. I’m the guy that programs sport on every channel on TV on the weekend. I’m the guy who puts the blurry bits in Japanese porn. I’m the guy who makes the CD skip at your favourite part. I’m the guy who makes you laugh in the middle of a bong pull. I’m the guy your girlfriend checks out in the street at the very moment she’s getting bored with you. I’m the guy who wrote those feel-good Nescafé ads.”
J was about to punch him and overdose him with heroin when the accountant said: “I can play the drums too.”
They smiled at each other. A flower grew out of Taxy’s chest. They hugged.
“But not very well,” he added.
“Ink pink you stink,” said J as he got up and walked away, tripping on an aluminium foil Stetson and falling face first into the memory of a much maligned eighties movie.
Taxy resumed vomiting.
Taxy’s vomiting did not stop for two days and two nights. During one of his hyper-religious phases, J sat on the topmost point of a great pyramid and contemplated the wretched accountant as he lay prone before a Sphinx.
“Oh Lord, what am I to do?” he beseeched the Lord, who was just passing by with the ladies of the court of King Caractacus.
“Piss orf,” cried the Lord unto him, “I’m going to the land of Canaan to get me a fuckin’ root mate.”
J fell back into his point-driven reverie. Taxy stirred, turned over, vomited into the air and was rescued by his camel (as he lay choking) with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. The camel reached into its medical bag, pulled out a huge hypodermic needle and plunged it into Taxy’s femoral artery. The accountant slowly awakened from his vomit soaked haze and turned out to be none other than someone who looked remarkably similar to Dustin Hoffman. J immediately rushed down from the height of the great pyramid (pulling up his pants as he went) and sank his fingers into Taxy’s throat. Taxy tried to scream but the dried vomit in his throat and the fingers around it would only allow him to cough little fur balls onto J’s sleeve.
“I am already conscious enough of my resemblance to Warren Beatty!” screamed J, “and this looking like the fucking set of Ishtar does not help at all you know. Do you wanna do a version of ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’? Do ‘ya Dustin? Do ‘ya? Come on. I will ease your mind... like a bridge over troubled water.”
J’s soaring tenor rang out over the desert, causing peasants to drop their farm tools, crocodiles to rise from the Nile, asps to move their booty’s and dead Pharaohs to smile deep in their sarcophagi. J dropped Taxy’s inert, but still retching, body to the ground feeling refreshed and invigorated. He turned and began to consider what his original quest had been and then realised he had discarded the one who could help him the most on his quest: The Bizarre Taxation Accountant. However, Taxy would live to see another day, for his soul was like that of an impenetrable pistachio.
Now that was over, J resolved he would check out the new freak bar ideally situated at the base of the pyramid. The bar was called The Wet Pussy and stocked the usual brand of freaks and third-rate game show hosts. Upon entering he began a casual conversation with a man who turned out to be Larry Emdur. After Larry mentioned that he was about to host his own Saturday night variety show, J kicked the shit out of him and stapled a desktop calendar to his neck (crowd cheers at this point). After that, he sat down to again have a sip of his drink and began pondering the great questions in life: Why is Germy the biggest prat on the earth? Should I join Keef for a stint in a Trak Asylum? And why are minor sports stars so fond of hair replacement?
Why? Because a motherfuckingly bad cunt-eating shit face arsehole called God had fucking gone and screwed the fuck out of J’s fucking crap life like a true cunt. It was at that fucking time that J realised he should fucking become an atheist cunt, then pay a fucking visit to that bastard cunt God and assassinate him on film and then sell it to the fucking Zapruders. So fucking far, all the cunty shit-eating clues had fucking pointed illogically to one fucking conclusion: Germy and fucking God are the same motherfucking cunts.
“Cunt, cunt, cunt,” intoned J to himself and considered buying a fucking ticket to Eastern Heaven. Eastern Heaven was good this time of year and it was most fucking likely that God was hanging out there for the fucking summer. But first he had to fucking negotiate a way out of this cunt of a freak bar.
J continued in a monotone voice “cunt, cunt, cunt,” and then began to ponder how many times this paragraph had the word ‘cunt’ in it and decided cunt that the cunt should start cunt writing cunt cunt sporadically through the cunt paragraph. Cunt.
Inflict Kafe Gavani On The World
  
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