ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ ³ BAHLASTI PAPERS ³ ³ ³ ³ Newsletter of Kali Lodge ³ ³ Ordo Templi Orientis ³ ³ ³ ³ June 1992 e.v. An IV Sol in Taurus Volume VI, no. 8 ³ ³ ³ ³ ³ ³ Address all inquiries to: ³ ³ ³ ³ BAHLASTI PAPERS ³ ³ c/o Kali Lodge ³ ³ Ordo Templi Orientis ³ ³ Post Office Box 15038 ³ ³ New Orleans, LA 70115 ³ ³ ³ ³ Deadline for July Contributions: June 15, 1992 ³ ³ ³ ³ To receive future issues: ³ ³ ³ ³ Please send $2.25 per issue ³ ³ $27.00 per year ³ ³ in kare of Kali Lodge ³ ³ ³ ³ Please make all checks payable to ³ ³ CASH!! ³ ³ ³ ³ Contributors to this issue: ³ ³ ³ ³ Soror Chen, Frater Turbator, Fr. NChSh, ³ ³ William Goldberg, Charles Pfister, Fr. Icehouse ³ ³ Michael Driver, Wyrdsli, William Ward ³ ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ ³FROM THE DESK OF THE GRAND PUBAETTE³ ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ This is to Icehouse, who they cannot keep from us. We've spent the last few months watching the wheels of justice rolling along. I could have sworn that the last real freedom in America was the right to a fair trial. What a joke. We live in a country where murder carries a lighter sentence than first offense non-violent drug crimes. War on drugs and all that. George has to make sure he gets re- elected, of course. No problem that prisons are so hideously crowded that they're building floating barges to house women prisoners on the Hudson. No problem that a person's character and circumstances and motives have absolutely no bearing on a case. We've been sitting at court, watching lives being torn apart and families devastated in the most arbitrary and fascistic way. I see narc's as the agents of Satan, tempting kids into moments of hopelessness and weakness, instead of encouraging and inspiring them to rise up out of the downward conditioning of our terminally ill society. I see George Bush's nasty slash of a sneer pasted over the face of the Kali-Yuga. And now the Rodney King insanity. Racism rules the day. I keep harping about when I was a teenager and the Bobby Seal trial was going on in New Haven and the streets were on fire and everyone got blown away (and if you think Tienamin Square could never happen here, guess again) & a few people made some money off all that horror, but no issues were resolved. People just got tired and gave up. I keep harping and it because the images were riveting and terrifying and tragically malignant. Moreover, I keep wondering when it's all going to start up again. It's summer; all the smoldering anger and injustice has caught the streets on fire. My dear friend in prison is finding some way to transmute his situation--to find himself within it and not forget. I'm absolutely astounded by his courage, strength, magick, & will. He gives me hope. I wonder if society can transmute its situation. My brother told me that he feels the world is careening into crisis. That in the past the world has only been able to organize itself effeciently and cooperatively for destruction. That social change has only happened through bloody revolution. Perhaps some world crisis--such as the world monetary crisis that's a heartbeat away--will force huge, world-wide social restructuring. Or perhaps it's too late already. Darius called the other day and said that we are the visionaries of the last decade. Icehouse tells me that the primal society in prison reminds him of a former life when the whole world was covered with ice. I wonder if the burning streets won't melt the ice and flood the world, or if it will transform into alchemical steam. -Chen ____________________________________________________________ ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ ³FROM THE BELLY OF THE CONCRETE PIG³ ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ Well delvers, within a month I move from jail to my new prison home. I've always considered myself close to the primal nature. This is where my nature will be put to the test. I often watch my fellow inmates as they roll in and slowly seperate into their seperate dog packs--road dog is the term for friend or partner used in prison. It makes me think of tribes in a land of no empire. In prison few men hold on to their pride. Everything is based on respect and common sense. Some even wash their clothes in the toilet and there is no "the strong shall survive" mentality. As long as you stick up for yourself in a fight situation there is no winner, unless someone gets completely thrashed. When you stand up you demand your respect and that is all that matters to most. I wish it could be like this on the outside. When you stick up for your rights someone would say, these people are not gonna deal with having their rights to abortion stripped from them--they're not gonna lay down and let their earth be raped. In prison a man is stripped of his status symbols and thus begins to live by the law of respect. It makes me wonder how many fucked up laws or situations have been allowed to pass just because someones "status" is threatened by a protesting group. Get raw, peasants, and refuse to live by the status quo and bullshit values! I guess that is all for now. During my incarceration I would very much like for all of my brothers and sisters to feel truly missed. I've been sentenced to 10 years, but, as of right now, it is unclear how much of that time I will actually do. However, I do have a few requests in my absence. Ya'll be well, love each other, heal each other and do thy will. 93 93/93 Much love, Frater Icehouse ____________________________________________________________ ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ ³ DEACON LUNCHBOX, ³ ³THE LAST INTERVIEW³ ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ by Wyrdsli I'M JUST AN OLD REDNECK HIPPY LIVIN' AT THE END OF THIS DIRT ROAD I AIN'T EXACTLY TOTALLY CRAZY BUT I AM A FEW BRICKS SHORT OF A LOAD I USED TO BE NORMAL IN MY YOUNGER DAYS I JUST DON'T KNOW WHAT GOT INTO ME IT HAD SOMETHING TO DO WITH RICHARD NIXON AND THIS SHIT WE CALL L.S. D-D-D. NOW I SPECIALIZE IN BEING LAZY READING TAROT CARDS AND EATIN' GRITS NONE OF MY FAMILY UNDERSTANDS ME 'SPECIALLY SINCE I GREW THIS PAIR OF TITS NOW I'M JUST AN OLD REDNECK SEX CHANGE MY LIFE SURE AIN'T EASY AT ALL THESE HORMONES THEY ALWAYS MAKE ME BITCHY I FEEL JUST LIKE A MONKEY FUCKIN' A FOOTBALL -DEACON LUNCHBOX Less than two weeks before Atlanta was stunned by the Rodney King verdict and rocked by violence, it's artistic community was hit with a tradgedy that in some ways hurt deeper. Early Sunday morning April 19, a head-on collison claimed the lives of Robert Hayes and Robert Clayton of the Jody Grind along with Timothy Tyson Ruttenbar, better known as Deacon Lunchbox. "Mr. Ruttenbar was a burly 6'2" construction worker by day who slipped into the alter ego of Deacon Lunchbox, a bra-sporting poet, comedian and performance artist whose main stage prop was a chain saw." -The Atlanta Journal-Constitution Two days after this story appeared in the Local News section of the AJC, the New York Times ran an obituary for him that listed some of his credits. "A collection of his monologues, 'Some Different Kind of Songs,' was published by Drury Lane, and he had released a cassette 'Rantin' 'n' Railin',' independently. Last year he appeared in 'Words in your face,' a PBS documentary about spoken-word performers." Needless to say, it is unusual for underground poets to be noticed by the New York Times. I personally heard the news before it appeared in the paper. One of my co-workers roomed with Robert Hayes. By midnight Sunday, the word was all over Little Five Points: Deacon Lunchbox and the rhythm section of the Jody Grind were dead. When I heard the news, I was stunned. "Was he a friend of yours?" Tiffiny asked me after giving the bad news. "I interviewed him." I answered distantly, not sure if that was a yes or a no. I didn't know the man terribly well personally. I didn't know his real name. I don't think many people did. But I had interviewed him less than six weeks before for a documentary about Atlanta's Underground poetry scene I've been working on. Despite his flamboyant stage persona, off-stage "The Deacon", as he was affectionately referred to, was an uncommonly gentle and accommodating man. He had made all arrangements for clearance at the Clermont lounge. I never had to speak with the owners and no one said a word to me about bringing a video camera into a nightclub. In spite of this, I had the distinct impression that The Deacon did not take the interview entirely seriously. He was sporting a cap with the shriner's seal and constantly referred to the musicians who just happened to be setting up backstage. When I asked him what made poetry 'good' he replied that he looked for 'plenty of obscenity'. "That's the only thing I like about it. If it isn't dirty, I don't want to have anything to do with it. I don't believe in imagery or symbolism or parady or any of those things, I don't even know what they mean. A good profanity used well is entertainment." When asked about his influences he cited Capt. Kangeroo, reruns of Giligans' Island, Opel Fox and an eighth grade english teacher. "Y'know most of my memory banks have been blotted out by drug abuse and alcohol, and I'm influenced by things that happen around me in my life, day to day." "What I think about the Atlanta Poetry scene, I don't really know, I'm going for this outlaw, outer-limits hard core sort of insanity defense where I'm not really associated with any other poets in the area, or anywhere. It's like Wilt Chamberlin said, no, it was Bill Russel, said "be different and people will notice you'. And so like I figure the more I stay away from the poetry scene the more people will notice me." About a week or two after the interview, I saw the Deacon. He asked how it came out. I told him I hadn't actually had a chance to really look at it, but I felt it had gone okay. He told me I could do whatever I wanted with it. "ALIENS STOLE MY HABACHI WHILE I WAS HIGH ON CRANK EVER SINCE IT HAPPENED I'VE BEEN LIVING IN A THINK TANK THEY TOOK CONTROL OF MY BRAIN AND WON'T LEAVE ME ALONE THEY MAKE ME DO THINGS I WOULDN'T ORDINARILY DO THEY ALWAYS MAKE ME DRESS LIKE A WOMAN AND WORSHIP OPEL FOX PEOPLE CALL ME NAMES WHEN I WEAR MY BRASSIERE THIS ALWAYS MAKES ME MAD SO I SCREAM INTO THEIR EAR HOW WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO HOME AND TELL YOUR GIRLFRIEND YOU JUST GOT THE SHIT BEAT OUTTA YOU BY A QUEER!" Of all the underground trash poets Atlanta had ever seen, he was one of the very best. And he and the two Roberts from the Jody Grind will be sorely missed. WORDS IN YOUR FACE ($29.95 check or money order) KTCA-TV, c/o Video Services, 172 E. 4th St., Minn, MN 55101 ____________________________________________________________ ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ ³TAX TIME FOR DAHMER³ ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ by Michael Driver "Hello. This is IRIS, Internal Revenue Information System. I'm a computer, but I know as much as anyone else here." "My name is Jeffrey Dahmer and I have a tough problem." "Nobody's too tough for the IRS." "I was writing this book..." "Author, writer, whirrrr," IRIS interrupted. "Nonfiction, fantasy, whirrrrr." "What?" asked Dahmer, perplexed. "Go ahead. You said you were writing a book." "Yes, I was. And it invloved some, ah, research and there were expenses with the research." "What kind of equipment did you use?" asked IRIS. "Sharp instruments. Knives, saws, things like that." "And you must have had an office, perhaps a laboratory where you conducted this research." "Actually, I did everything in my apartment." "According to the law, Mr. Dahmer, business use of residential real estate with the desire or intent of tax deduction is limited to the actual amount of space used. Did you perform the research with desire and intent, Mr. Dahmer?" "Yes. I certainly did." "And what amount of your residential real estate was used for this purpose?" "It was pretty much all over the place, I guess." "The IRS doesn't guess, Mr. Dahmer. We're always sure just like we're always right." "Yes, I used the entire apartment." "Does documentation exist?" "Yes. Reams of it. Hours of testimony." "Then merely file the documentation with your tax return." "It's a little more complicated than that. I don't actually have possession of the documents." "In that case," said IRIS confidently, "you may arrange to give evidence of your research." "The evidence was perishable." "You didn't keep any samples?" "The police confiscated them," said Dahmer. "IRIS whirred a moment. It was the mechanical equivalent of a coffee break and the computer resumed, evidently refreshed. "In that event, if the subject of the book is completely unique, upon review, the IRS will sometimes allow the uniqueness of the subject itself to stand for the evidence needed. What does your book deal with?" "Dismembering bodies," Dahmer said. "And you actually, whirrr, whirr, whirrr, have experience in this field?" asked IRIS. "Yes," the caller replied calmly. "I regret to inform you, sir," replied IRIS, "that an extensive multi-volume series has already been published on the subject. It's called the 'Tax Code.'" "Oh, well," said Dahmer with a rather cavalier attitude. It doesn't really matter. I don't have living expenses anymore." "Do you have other related qualifications?" asked IRIS. "Cannibalism." "Whirrrr," said IRIS. "Any others?" "Necrophilia," said Dahmer. "I'm sorry, sir. That practice is lawful only for the IRS." "Forget it," said Dahmer. "It was a crazy idea to call you." "You're not crazy, sir. I'd like to mail you a form." "Look," said Dahmer, "I know you people have a reputation, but if you think you can cause me any worse problems than I've already got..." "I want to send you a job application," said IRIS. "From everything you've told me, you are ideally qualified for the IRS." ____________________________________________________________ ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ ³THE CONQUERER'S QUEST³ ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ by William B. Ward "I am the Conqueror," he cried as he surveyed the ruins of his existence. What used to be a proud and flourishing home, had become a land of desolation. His eyes moved briskly along the sandy landscape, and found nothing but the smoldering remains of the village once known as Egairram, his once happy dominion. Contrariously, his mind's eye could still see the warm, lush gardens; the modest homes and the happiness of those who once were---all was gone. Within his own consciousness, he could still hear the sound of children laughing and the crackling fire which brought warmth & brilliance. "Cursed," he cried to the heavens. "Cursed to be forever teased by my own memories!" With his hands at his side, his head dropped and his long hair covered his breasts. As water flowing through a faucet, the thoughts of the tormentors who destroyed his domain rushed through his mind. The desolation was swift, but far from painless. He remembered standing, watching as the cataclysm unfolded before him. The tormentors had attacked with such speed that they caused him to be temporarily (and uncharacteristically) vulnerable. There was no hope for reprisal. Subsequently, the tormentors left as swiftly as they came. They left him untouched. Except as a witness, the tormentors had no interest in him. They wanted him to see the destruction. They wanted him to see the agony. They wanted him to feel the ripping pain of removal & the searing sensation of bereavement. He stood high on his pinnacle and watched helplessly. His observation was his torture. He didn't understand the motives for his attack nor did he know his attackers, but the results of their handiwork were extremely clear. Everything had been stripped from his existence; torn from his very being. For the first time in his life, he was alone. The tormentors were successful at their endeavor. Looking across the vastness, he saw a faint protrusion of an object that seemed to glow a brilliant red. It was unnoticed, therefore, untouched by the tormentors. How odd, he thought. Nothing surrounded him but sand and large rocks. What could be this thing of beauty in his world of irascibility? His curiousity caused him to put his memories behind and he began his quest. His intellect was so wrapped with beguilement he forgot about the pain his body had been nurturing. He forgot about the blood/sweat mixture which carved lines on his face. He forgot about the burning sensation on his back which had resulted from overexposure to the sun. His thoughts were centered on the object that he had seen in the distance. That solitary glimpse of beauty had imprisoned his mind and heart. He continued his quest. He noticed his shadow growing longer as he struggled across the rocky terrain. The day was growing older and his time was becoming shorter. Since the contrasting night cold was swiftly approaching, he knew he would soon have to end his search to find shelter. He watched as the sun was gobbled up by the horizon behind him; the sign of impending death. But he continued his quest. The night wind began to blow and the crisp temperatures seem to magnify his pain. He looked at his feet and saw that they had become swollen. The blood the dropped left designs of agony in the sand. The pain that burned through his back had, once again, reached his brain. All at once, he experienced the complete sensation of pain which had accumulated from days of wandering through his desolate existence. His pain was paralyzing but his persistence proved to be palliative. His desire to find the object of beauty was stronger than ever. He continued his quest. He lifted his head and noticed that the object was once again in sight. Framed by the brilliant moonlight, the object seemed more visible than ever. Even though it was still a distant blur, he could see that it was somehow affixed to the ground. From that, he presumed that his object was actually a part of the landscape. The discovery enlarged both his curiosity and his perseverance. He continued his quest. The thought there could be something---anything---left in his existence enthralled his heart. The knowledge of the object's presence filled his mind. The curiosity of its identity charged his soul. He overcame the deftness of his pain and, with more conviction that before, he continued his quest. In the distance ahead, the sounds of night creatures filled the air. The sounds they made clicked with a note of familiarity in his memory; those were the same sounds he heard the night the tormentors came. His memory caused him to shiver and made his heart race with a combination of fear and anger. From his memory came the sounds of agony; he relived the desolation of Egairram and the removal of all he loved. The bitter nightmares racked his soul but his mind held the promise of beauty. He continued his quest. His memories were interrupted by a faint aroma that had been gently lifted on the night breeze. The sweetness of its smell was one with which he was acquainted. He remembered the scent as being from one of the plants of Egairram. He also knew that the smell must have originated from his target of beauty; God's handwriting. Only something so beautiful could smell so sweet, he thought. Then, using the aroma as if it were a compass, he continued his quest. The night cold set in and forced numbness into his limbs. His face winced painfully into the oncoming breeze. The frigidity took away most of his pain through its numbing ability, but it also slowed his pace. In spite of the knowledge that a freezing death was imminent, he continued his quest. His struggled search blurred his vision and removed the object completely from sight. In spite of his blindness, the moon's beams caused the object's bright red color to shine as a piercing beacon through a dense fog; its magnificence shown forth. Its radiant beauty flooded the area as rushing waters into an open trench. His blindness prevented him from witnessing the object's apparent beauty, but nearer he drew as he continued his quest. He came within a arm's length, reached out, touched it and felt nothing. Determined not to allow the night's cold to steal his treasure, he quickly thawed his fingers with the warmth of his breath. As soon as he regained his sense of touch, he touched it once more. He could feel its texture. He realized his quest. The firmness of its grounding stem was an exquisite feeling. His was an enchanting experience as he studied his find. His recovered sense of touch was enhanced by the object's contours, and his sense of smell was tickled by its sweet aroma. Besides his being, he had found his village's last living citizen. He had discovered the last rose of Egairram. Since he had found his object of beauty, his memory relaxed and he remembered his pain. In all his agony, a smile broke across his distraught face. The discovery of the rose brought him great satisfaction. All was not lost. The simplicity of its grace and the subtlety of its beauty gave him back some of that which was lost. With his life fulfilled, he breathed his last. And he continued his quest.... End ____________________________________________________________ ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ ³WHITE AND BLACK³ ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ by Charles Pfister (continued) "I dreamed about you last night, Rolf," she said suddenly. "I'm a whimsical person. Spontaneous, say. My first lover, my very first lover, I had a dream about him, too. We knew each other in passing--just to say hi. Like us. But this dream...." She shook her head. Smiled. "It was so... realistic and intense. Surreal, too, I guess you'd say. When I woke up I thought to myself, he must have dreamed about me, too, for it to have been that intense." She smiled, got up and went to the counter and got the bottle. Watching her pour bourbon into the disc of ice in her glass, Rolf noticed that her hand was shaking. There was a catch in her voice, too, every so often. Was she nervous? It seemed inconceivable to him. "Well, did he?" He asked her. "Did your first lover dream about you that night, too?" She looked into his eyes and smiled, picked up her glass. "Oh, yes! He would have never have become my first lover if he hadn't." Rolf cleared his throat. "Lotta guys, they'd lie to a girl, say anything if they thought they'd get to.... you know." "Fuck her?" "Yeah." He wanted to giggle. She smiled again, but it was more a reaction than anything else. "There were certain aspects of my dream that he knew, Rolf, without me telling him. And I his. Isn't that awesome? Like you. Did you dream about snakes last night, Rolf?" "I.... Yeah. I did." "So did I. But it started out, you see, we were sitting on these big wooden chairs that looked like thrones, you and I. We had sex. You made me take you in my mouth and your... penis turned into a snake. It had fangs. Venom." Rolf blinked. "It sounds gross, and it is but... well, it was kinda erotic, too. Then you made me bend over the chair, and you put it in. It had turned into this real long and thick black snake, some kinda water moccasin or something. It felt... it was like having this, I dunno, this friendly arm in there. "And after we were done you got up. You were standing on this rock, looking down through the clouds. You were crying. I stood beside you and I saw, too. All these snakes were having some kinda war. Some of them had arms and these little swords and shields, it was really weird. Weirder than when we had sex. Then I said, What's wrong? And you go, My Children, they are fighting, hurting each other. They don't know any better. They're just babies. And they're bleeding!" He wanted to say, Leave! Leave here right now! Go! But what he in fact did say was, "Snakes. Yes. I dreamt about snakes." "And me?" "There was a woman, and on a throne, but I didn't know who it was. And there was no exchange." He picked up the bottle and gulped. She laughed mockingly. "Exchange! Oh, really, Rolf!" "Okay!" He snapped. "We didn't fuck. You didn't go down on me. That what you wanna hear?" He got up and went over to the chess table. "Yes," he heard her whisper, "it is." He studied the chess pieces. He was losing, true, but it was still not too late. His queen was in position to exploit any mistakes the blacks made. He concentrated on the game because a man with less control, he knew, would have been driven insane by her dark knowledge. And as she described that unholy sexual encounter, it had come back to him. Everything. The snake-penis, her pleasure and willingness, everything. He'd lied to her in telling her there had been no "exchange", and in doing so felt he just might be preserving a little of his sanity. I can't think about any of this right now, he thought. It's not safe to think right now. I'll wait. "Rolf, does our having the same dream disturb you?" "Intrigues me, May." He turned to look at her--ah, and such a lovely sight to behold, too. "It really intrigues me." He turned back to the board and saw the pieces stop. Fall. It was the sudden clicking and clacking that scared him the most--like the dried and brittle bones of snakes. My God! he thought. The black queen had fallen over and a white pawn had tipped over on top of her at right angles, as if it were trying to perform cunnilingus. Plus, the black knight now had his king in check. "Now," he said, trying to keep his voice steady, "if you don't mind I should like to get some sleep." He went to the table and got the bottle. He needed to drink. May stood and took the bottle from his before he could get it to his mouth. "But, Rolf, we dreamt about each other last night. Isn't that significant?" He took the bottle back and drank, drank like a wino guzzling his last. "Get out of here," he whispered, his throat burning. "Now!" She went to him. "You don't want me to go. I mean, really!" She took his free hand and slowly guided it up under her skirt. She was not wearing panties. "There," she whispered, "that's what one feels like." "I know what a--" "No you don't Rolf. You're as virginal as the day you were born." "I--" "Do you like it?" "Yes." She let go of his hand & he pulled it away, reluctantly. May took off her blouse and put her hands on his shoulders. If she was as experienced as she let on, then why were her hands shaking so? "Take me to your bed, Rolf," she whispered. "I need you." She told him to take off her skirt and, with some difficulty, he did. "There, " she whispered throatily, falling on top of him. "This is what you've always really wanted. This is what you've been hiding from all these years. You're too full of yourself, Rolf. Too full of thoughts.... meaningless little thoughts. Untie the robe. Yes, that's it. Yesssss." He stared up at her closed eyes as she settled onto him. He saw her wince in pain and felt a slight discomfort himself---but it was only slight; the pleasure, the excitement, was monumental... She gasped, and opened her eyes, smiled. "Yes, it hurts... me. Of course. Pleasure is never without pain. You see, Rolf, the human brain is designed to see, smell, feel, hear and taste. But it has these things because it is geared for reproduction. That's all a body wants. The genitals are the warmest part of the body because the seed needs to be protected. It stays warm down there so the seed will not become sterile. Am I warm, Rolf? Am I warm inside?" He grunted. "The human being is the perfect reproduction machine, Rolf. You have to understand that. All creatures are geared for reproduction but humans are biologically the most precise sexual creature. We don't need complicated mating rituals. We don't have to wait for seasons or weather changes. We can fuck almost anytime we want and can expect to reproduce. Evolution has taken us far, Rolf, isn't it marvelous?" He could say nothing... because he no longer had any control over his body. Society is wrapped around sex, Rolf. He could hear her, but her mouth was no longer moving. Fear shot through him, but it never left his heart. She had control of his nervous system. She had control of everything. All that he could do was see. And feel. And hear. Society is wrapped around sex, Rolf, and sex is wrapped around society, particularly American society. A config- uration. An obsession. Death and sex. Sex and death. Sex preserves is, frees us. Look at the Arabs, how fucked up they are because they willfully, woefully obscure and dehumanize it behind the poiltics of a dead religion... a religion that was never borne in the first place. We got out of there before the Crusades.... before the Childrens' Crusades, when the Arab was more tolerant. America, Rolf, America, you see, is destined for nothing but greatness because it has fuck-t.v. America broadcasts its sexuality over satellites. It is virile and strong and potent and direct, those very things to which you aspired by denying the very thing that created you. I've watched you grow up. I've watched you play chess. I've watched your dreams. I'm the last... the last of the line which threads through history. We started out in the caves and jungles, too; but we were never ignorant... and yet we've always needed you... your species. And that species is man. And while I'm your age in years, I have memoried that fall back through time... falling and falling, through the Industrial Age, the Renaissance, the Middle Ages, the Dark Ages, the Romans, Greeks, Pharaohs, Carthaginians, Phoenicians, Sumerians... back, Rolf, all the way back. And we've always needed you. We have always needed men. But there will come a time when there is unity, and we are building for that, Rolf. You and I. Just like your dream. There will be a victor. Let me tell you some memories of my religion, Rolf, let me tell you... Rolf opened his eyes. He moved his head. He opened and closed his hands; wriggled his toes; lifted his left arm, dropped it. I can move, he thought. His groin throbbed with sharp snags of agony. She had had control over his entire body, his nervous system, and even his very thoughts. And all he could do was lay there as she rocked and talked, his pleasure building, but never released, her words--thoughts--flowing, falling into him, unceasing thought-words changed into other languages--French, German, Spainish, the Slavic tongues, then back, to Latin, Greek, Arabic, to languages which hadn't been spoken in fifteen thousand years, and further back, to the grunts, the clicks and hoots and howls of the cave. The cave, where borne, screaming and kicking out of molten earth, her religion. He knew all that she knew. Everything. May was very, very old. And when she finally let him release he could feel the glands and muscles in his groin explode, used in a way they had never meant to be used. He would never again be able to function sexually, she had defiled him, ravaged him. She was the last daughter of a long, long line, and he knew much of what she knew. His knowledge was dangerous. He got up out of bed and moved quickly, despite the agony in his groin. I've got my Visa and MasterCard, he thought, and--what?--about twelve hundred bucks in cash money. That'll keep for a time. Until I get my hands on the money in the bank account, which can wait. I gotta get outa here, fast! Mom and Dad'll be okay, they aren't involved in any of this. And She and her people will have to be careful not to arouse suspicion. She's the last of their line, and every one of Them in this matrilineal line is in Her, their thoughts, memories, emotions, even their-- "No!" He whispered. I can't think about it right now. It's not safe to think about Her right now. I'll save it for the sandy white beaches of Saint Thomas. He quickly dressed and then dashed into the bathroom. On the mirror, scrawled in blood, was a message-- lied i'm a virgin 2 (was) It was true, and thus her nervousness. She was, afterall, of certain human failings and defects. She had known that everything had to be perfect, the timing, her own cycle, everything. He wondered why They had picked him. Was their psychic net that far reaching? "Later, damnit!" He told himself. He urinated pure blood into the toilet, and the pain was strong enough to double him over. He swallowed some Darvons, grabbed a fifth of something, he couldn't tell what, and washed the plls down with a long, smooth gulp. He grabbed his truck keys, his Bowie knife, and went to the door. Paused. The Eunuch was guarding the high back porch. Rolf caught him by surprise, stabbing him in the stomach and pulling him into the apartment to finish the job. He drug the body into his bedroom and saw for the first time the bloody sheets. So she'd bleed a little, too. He looked at his watch. Some thirty-six hours had passed since she crossed his threshold and, by his reckoning, thirty of those hours were spent having intercourse with her. He ran down the steps and moved cautiously around the house. He was amazed at how fast he was responding to all of this. Perhaps after all these years of esceticism wouldn't go to naught after all. Perhaps someone was on his side. There were two men sitting in his pick-up. Two brothers of the Mother--May's Mother. "That's okay," he whispered. "Just fine." I know how to walk." He stepped onto the sidewalk and headed up the street, away from the house, hands in his jacket pocket, concealing the knife, head hunched forward. A car parked across the street rocked and dipped as its occupants moved to get out. There were four of them, and they moved quickly, efficiently. Rolf crossed the street. And they crossed back over. The doors of his pick-up swung open. Rolf turned and ran and the six men gave chase. One caught him by the jacket and Rolf turned with the knife. He swung, bringing it across the assailant's neck. The man stopped, brought his hands up to his throat. He pulled them away dripping blood and he opened his mouth to speak, but began to topple backwards. The other five men stopped and grabbed him, and dragged him toward the car. Rolf ran as fast as he could towards the house, and bounded onto the porch from the yard. His father pushed the door open just as he reached it. "Dad!" He gasped. His mom was awake, too, standing there in her housecoat, eyes mottled with sleep. "Those men..." Rolf panted. "They're... they're trying to kill me." "I saw the whole exchange from the window," his father said. His mother went to the phone. "I'll call 911." "Yeah, do that. Tell em to hurry." He started to turn. "Dad, you better get the shotg--" He turned just in time to see his father's big fist crashing into his forehead. The phone rang in Rolf's apartment and Rolf got up to answer it. It was his mother. Lately, she called all the time. And last night his father and Brigbee had come up and the three of them had indulged in snifters of brandy. "Yeah, Ma?" He said. The smile faded from his face. "What took? What do you mean?" "May. She's pregnant. You're going to be a father and I'm going to be a grandma." For a second he saw a fleshless snake, twisiting and writhing on white sand, but the vision dissipated. "Oh, good. Great, in fact. Is she going to come up and see me again like she did last week?" "She's going to come up and live with you, Rolf." "Good. I like her." "And she likes you. I'm going to go now, Rolf, okay?" "Okay, Ma. Ducktales is coming on anyhow. Bye-bye." He got up and hurried into the bathroom, squatted and urinated. He paused before the mirror, brows furrowed. What did I see there once? he asked himself. He shrugged, fingered the scar on his head and went into the livingroom. He had the big Sony sitting on the chess table. He couldn't wait to see May. The End. ____________________________________________________________ ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ ³FEAR OF DANCING³ ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ by William Goldberg (continued) LIV "Take my vife, pliz, take my vife, pliz... so shmall, dee mize were hoonchbecked....... so shmall, dee mize were hoonchbecked..." Gorbachev was at home practicing his Western comedy routines, still fundament-ally confused about what these decadent western capatlists thought of as funny. The radio on his rec room's entertainment unit was on the classical music station, Nadja Salerno-Sonnenburg playing something by Tchaicovsky. Suddenly, the broadcast was interrupted by a news bulletin: "...unnamed Soviet sources report a disturbance at the Soviet Union's First Annual Jerry's Comrades fund-raising telethon today. There are unconfirmed reports that Premier Boris Yeltsin and Frank Sinatra himself have been abducted by an unidentified armed assailant. The whereabouts..." "Raisa, Raisa," the former Soviet premier yelled to his wife, upstairs excercising on the Nordic Trak cross-country ski machine. "Get your mayjor muzzle groups down here end greb your sootcase. Veer going home. Yeltsin hez bin ovairthrun--I'm going to tayke my olt job beck!" "Bud Mikailovitch, I'm joost shtarting to mayke frents here! Zcrew Moscow!" "Raisa, I yam dee mehn, end dee mehn sez vee go!" "But bubaleh!" "Bubaleh, schmubaleh--vee drife to hell hay hex end ged dee fursht playne to Helsinki. End datsh dee hend ov eet." Muffled under the sound of the Nordic Trak's bearings going "swoosh-swoosh" he detected the barely discernable sound of a "Gorky Park cheer" emananting from his lovely wife's mouth. "Neyver in my liyfe hev I hert sach a tink. Dees Westurn krep is going to her hett. Nexsht ting yoo know she'll be burnink her brasshere!" He went down the basement stairs from the den searching his long-dormant set of American Tourister bags, dragging them two at a time all the way up to the bedroom. He regarded his still-hesitant wife sceptic-ally. "Shtart pecking, vee leaf dees hefternoon." "I'm nutt goink... I liyke eet here, end I'm nutt goink beck--period." "Fiyne, I goh beck myshelf. You... you kehn goh to Minska-Pinsk! Better yed,--Siberia." Raisa Gorbachev storms out of the bedroom, slamming the door. "Vimmin, phoo! Shix lowzy monthz in dee deserd end her braiynsh are bayked. Oy! Phoo!" LV Sheila Teal pulled the latest Gambit out of the honer box and took a seat on the sidewalk at Que Sera. Ordering a Campari and Coke, she opened the page to her ad in the "personals" column: Anyone knowing the whereabouts of John Dayton Teal, Jr.--please call (504) 892-1466 or contact P.O. Box 2355, New Orleans, La 70116. SUBSTANTIAL REWARD OFFERED, discretion assured (and expected). It had been nearly a week and no word had been heard from the kidnappers. She'd taken six figures out of their joint savings and was more than willing to pay it all. Provided that things went her way. Watching the passing streetcars on St. Charles, her mind unconsciously listed every indignity she'd suffered since she married the son-of-a-bitch nearly seven years ago. He'd made her stop working. No wife of John Teal's was going to compete with him in the professional world, even in the early days when her business career seemed, at times, more promising than his. He made her take her shoes off in the house. Not that he did, and certainly not out of any serene Oriental attitude toward footwear in the house. He simply complained that her heels were leaving marks in his precious parquet floor. And when he'd blackmailed two board memebers with the photos of them together in bed at the Les Bon Roulez Motel on Airline Highway, eventually parlaying his extortion into the Presidency of the agency, he'd taken her away from the little house she'd loved in Faubourg Merigny and made her move into that ostentatious Mauve Dinosaur on the edge of Audubon Park. She was hardly allowed to touch anything there, it was like living in a museum. It was really hadly like living at all. Barefoot, and more often than not pregnant, she felt more like a well trained housepet than the bright, career-oriented Loyola grad she'd been before the scumbag had seduced her. If you could call it a seduction. Nowadays, they (whomever "they" were) would probably consider it date rape. Years later he'd come to add insult to injury by making it quite clear how much he was "paying" for her affections, keeping her in the manner to which she'd become accustomed, providing nannies, housekeepers, and cooks, and sending the annual children to the most expensive Catholic schools. But this time she would take control. This time she was determined to take control. LVI David Schein pulled his abused portfolio out of the hatchback. He'd switched parking garages since the "mime" incident, ostensibly to stay one step ahead of the enemy, and frankly because having firearms stuck in his rather generous nose scared the shit out of him. Down Magazine, past Ditcharro's, and over to Girod. He was ten minutes early for his interview, but it was ninety-seven degrees out and killing some time in an air- conditioned reception area seemed far more attractive than dawdling and risking heat prostration. The receptionist was a big-haired girl. All receptionists south of Baltimore seem to be big-haired girls. Offering him a cold soft drink, she walked back to the small refrigerator in the conference room, her hips undulating like the Giant Pendulum at the Franklin Institute back home, some fourteen hundred miles away. "What an ass," his mind wandered. She is, in all likeli- hood, probably thinking the same thing. Returning with the coke, she looked him straight in the eys and asked, "do you know Jesus?" "Well, I...er--that is--pf course I'm familiar with the Bible, but... well--actually..." He felt the dreaded confession approaching, the revela- tion with the bouyancy of concrete in these climes. "I'm a Jew. I mean tha t I... uh, know Jesus... I'm familiar with Jesus, but I'm a Jew." The room was as quite and cool as a morgue for a scant two or three seconds that seemed like half an hour. He inadvertantly found himself staring at her impressive cleavage. Thirty-four-thirty-six, C-cup, thirty- four, thirty-six years old. Probably a kid or two. A born- again. Shame for a body like that to go to waste... "Oh, of course, you must be Mr. Schein. Waiting for Mr. Kaplan." She lowered her voice, "you know he's not really Jewish." David sat, not really stunned, actually amused, wondering exactly what "really Jewish" meant to this well-upholstered rocket scientist. "That's okay. I think that we can meet anyway." Having real fun with her now "some of my best frein..." Kaplan interrupted, arriving directly in the reception area from previously-unnoticed elevator doors, his unantici- pated presence choreographing the scene like the entrance of the villain in an Albert Broccoli production. "Daaaavid, so nice to meet you..." Kaplan smiled from ear to ear, beamed actually. He unselfconsciously stroked his bald spot, or more precisely the four-inch vertical scar in the middle of his bald spot, left over from a previous attempt to surgically remove the bare tissue. It was, with a slight lateral variation in location, reminiscent of Milo Forman's depiction of Jack Nicholson's lobotomy scar in One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. But Randall McMurphy, as David would soon learn, was far more lucid than Benny Kaplan. The two men reenetered the elevator, temporarily abandon- ing their joint coliphagen viewing of Karen, the rather noticably mammalian receptionist. Past a hallway lined with reproductions of kitch Dali prints, they entered a dark wood-panelled private office with a panoramic view of the WPA-era F. Edward Herbert Federal building across the street. Visions of Franklin Roosevelt and Huey Long. Happy days are here again. And every man a king. LVII Richard Dowell lopsidedly negotiated his way toward the narrow entrance to the terminal, exciting the DC-10 like St. Peter abandoning his fishing boat to spread the Gospel. Walking down the corridors of New Orleans International, formerly Moissant filed, he passed no less than seventeen open cocktail lounges, portable bar carts, and snack vendors offering beer, frozen Daquiries, Margaritas, and, of course, the obligatory Hurricanes. At 8:30 in the morning. Dowell nervously caressed the New Kingdom Edition Funda- mentalist New Testament of Christ Bible in his breast pocket as he pulled his balky Samsonite suitcase, wheels unfolded, toward the cabstands. Getting into a Crescent City cab and directing the driver to the Hotel Montelione, he pulled out his Bible, and unfolded the map supplied him by his new business partners. Over eighty-nine acres of prime riverfront property, former site of the 1984 Louisian World's Fair. Nearly ninety acres that would one day soon be his, upon which to build his tribute to faith and temperance, his beachead on the very banks of the devil's playground, his theme park, Jesusland. Dowell payed the driver, tipping him fifteen percent to the penny, and entered the lobby. Checking in at the reservation desk, he approached the elevators, the bellhop relieving him of his unwieldy bag. He had four hours to catch a catnap before he had to get ready for his 2:00 PM meeting with his new consultants, Kaplan and Wentworth. Entering the room, his mind wandered. "Kaplan...Kaplan. Sounds like a Jew name. I'd better look into that." LVIII The helicopter approached its landing in Helsinki. Hemphill poked Sinatra and Yeltsin, now bound together and gagged with their own silk ties, in their collective ribs, and motioned for them to stand by the door. The pilot, a Milanese NATO vet named DiPasquale, nervously set the bird down beside the chartered L-1011, the domed "Popemobile" awaiting their arrival. In the back of the aquarium-like vehicle an anticipant John Paul was glued to the screen of his on-board video monitor, Nintendo control in hand, humming the incessant theme notes to "Super Mario Brothers." "Your Holiness, Farina's helicopter is here. But DiPasquale isn't responding on the radio. And Farina's own radio has been dead for hours. I'm afraid that something has gone wrong." Muttering "bullshit" in Polish under his breath, the Pontiff stormed out of the customized limo, Nintendo controller in one hand, ceremonial staff in the other. He pulled the door open, only to be greeted by a loud hail of Ouzi fire from Hemphill's submachine gun. Angrily, the Holy Father beats his attacker into submission with the substantial hardwood symbol of his role as the Vicar of Christ, turning not the other cheek, but twisting instead his silk cassock, revealing a bulletproof vest underneath. "Ever since that Vatican Square thing, I don't fuck around. Now tie this scumbag Anglican up and let's get that book." Neither an untied Sinatra nor the new Premier of the Soviet Union would admit to ever having heard of the book, much less to having a clue about its whereabouts. Hemphill, tied to the bulkhead of the chartered jet bellowed, "Fools! Your book, your destiny and Satan himself await you in the New World. To New Orleans, not the Vatican City, take this airplane. Or let Satan once again triumph over the faithful." The Holy Father and DiPasquale looked at each other quizically, until the Pontiff nodded. "To New Orleans it is." "But Your Holiness..." "Call me Karol", he says, removing his robe. "This trip I'm travelling incognito." LIX The project slides fall on the freshly-cleaned blackboard like lead fishing sinkers in an aquarium. The student body at UNO, not given to much academic challenge, much less the wieldier challenge of deciphering the remnants of the English language inadvertantly raped by Katchinaweh Dharmabaam, in a lengthy lecture on the classical sources of the post-modern architecture of Robert Venturi. Only one week in the Crescent City, and it was already apparent that she was going to have to lower the standards of what she'd always expected from her students considerably. All the better, really. There was no need to knock herself out, what with an apartment to find and a lengthy legal battle with Immigration looming on the horizon. Then there was this Chinese woman, Chen, who'd contacted her third-hand through Dr. Pei's office in New York. Probably the wife of some rich importer, looking to out-ostentatious her Lakefront neighbours. The Chinese always seemed to have the money, though in the West she'd heard that it was the Jews. In any case, she was to meet with her Friday to discuss the project, and would keep the appointment if only out of deference for Dr. Pei. The lights came back up, the period ending with a whimper on a half-dozing class of neckless good-old-boys struggling to meet humanities credits and wanna-be future Jefferson Parish wives hoping to enhance their future decorating skills. She headed out to the parking lot, jumped in her newly-acquired 1970 MGB and, Lucas electrical system notwithstanding, started out uneventfully toward Canal St. LX The journal sat in David Schein's abandoned desk drawer, little knowing the disparate forces converging upon it. For innumerable years it had been dragged from bloody battlefield to plague-infested ghetto, from smoke filled political backroom to corporate boardroom, never this far from its horned and hooved steward, never neglected without a note or addendum, a new contract or budding scheme for more than a few hours. And never before had it been allowed the time for self-contemplation, for conciousness of a sort to emerge. An inanimate object, you say? Hardly. The plethora of deals signed in blood, of incantations binding its contents, of curses intoned against its possible loss or seizure, and finally Chen's own greater banishing ritual, rung sonorously over its sealed parchment corpus in order to wrest its contents from the secretive realm of Satan's protection, had imbued it with, if not life, at the very least a matrix of organic and spiritual forces, an armiture if you will, which was cumulatively approaching self-awareness. The journal had awakened, and like many a mere mortal before it, longed to know itself. Unlike mortal men, however, its quest toward self-enlightenment would yield something somewhat beyond simple piece of mind. It would yield omniscience. Omniscience which, but for lack of limb and sinew, could in fact become omnipotence. But the limb and sinew, its own contents had already revealed, could easily be borrowed. (To Be Continued....) -oOo--oOo--oOo--oOo--oOo--oOo--oOo--oOo--oOo--oOo--oOo--oOo-