Foreword: This story was written in a sort of fit of frenzy. Honestly, it was intended to shock or even insult any number of sensibilities; to skewer myriad sacred cows. It was largely left without proofreading, or any great amount of editing.
	The reader might cringe at, or even be angered upon the perusal of certain passages. Some of it may be so utterly unfair as to leave the reader deleting the computer file, or trashing the printed manuscript in disgust. Perhaps the chief element; the glue which holds this diatribe together; is but a great sense of the uncouth.
	Be that as it may. There is an idea presented here. Readers who stay with the narrative, and read it from beginning to end may find proverbial diamonds in the rough amidst the flotsam and jetsam of the overall story.
	It combines three threads: 1) Nine protaganists connected in a cirle, or Ouroboros (snake eating its tail); 2) A rough autobiographical sketch of my own life; 3) Several small fantasy scenarios, tied together with a common ending. 	The three overall parts are interwoven throughout the story.
	I realize that the ideas presented here may have cost me personally, but cannot bring myself to delete the thing from the archives. For whatever it is worth, and whoever you are; I believe that you are 'OK.' Things are what they are. We all do what we have to do.
	For what follows here in this screed, I cannot offer any greater apology to anyone than that. As with everything else I've written, take it or leave it. If any of it helps the reader to make sense of their own lives, then perhaps that will have make this undertaking to have - somehow - been of some value.
	It could be that a great deal of it could be taken as a warning; that, in fighting through these passages a person might have a better idea what to embrace, and more importantly what to avoid - in their own lives.

Ouroboros: The Snake Eats Its Own Tail, or
What Goes Around Comes Around
Andy Thomas
2007

Disclaimer: This tome is a collection of nothing but lies, half-truths, 
obfuscations. There is no truth to be found here. It is a work of pure 
fiction. There are abundant contradictions, inconsistencies, and 
distortions, redundancies, repetitions, and half-baked ideas. None of the 
people described herein have ever in reality before existed; nor do any of 
them presently exist; and neither will any of them in the future ever exist. 
That is to 'say' that, any similiarity between any of the characters 
described here, and anyone found in 'real life' is simply an amazing 
coincidence; nothing more and nothing less.


One: Lucifer

	For months, Jake - our protaganist - had kept himself in seclusion, 
avoiding - as much as possible - face to face contact with other people. His 
internet connection had remained open, and this was his window on the world. 
There in the discussion forums - the electronic, modern-day versions of 
old-fashioned bulletin boards - the hashing and rehashing of myriad 
conspiracy theories, mixed with the various and sundry chicanery of the 
'posters' haunting the same; it all served to fuel the machinations of his 
already overly stoked imagination. Jake was in near total isolation. He had 
even gone so far as to have taken to hand washing his laundry in the bathtub 
of his apartment, hanging the 'clean clothes' to dry on a hanger he'd 
installed there above the same. He would only reluctantly venture out to buy 
groceries with what meager funds he had; or to go to the food bank in order 
to supplement his pantry.
	It was around that time in his life that Jake was nearly at his wits end; 
out of work, out of money; yet he believed in what he was doing. So in 
addition to his seemingly endless and fruitless forays into 'information 
gathering' - or participation in the aforementioned online discussion forums 
- Jake was also fulfilling his own life's work.
	He wrote a book, explaining cosmology as he fairly well best understood it. 
More than that, he went absolutely wild in making new songs with his 
multitrack digital recorder. Sometimes, between the story he was writing, 
and the music he was making, he had scant time for 'data mining' on the 
internet.
	So he kept making these new songs, and at an often furious pace. Were they 
professional quality recordings? Were they potentially popular songs? The 
answer to both questions was most likely 'no,' and perhaps that were by 
intention. He was instead bent upon creating a 'new sound,' regardless of 
earthly reward. He had, in in distant past once - admittedly - sold his soul 
for rock and roll, yet the ultimate return on that had been only a t-shirt 
which read, "I sold my soul for rock and roll; and all I got was this 
t-shirt." There had been no arenas overflowing with screaming fans; no 
groupies; no cornucopias laden with the best of drugs; instead, just the 
t-shirt. Yet Jake still had the music.
	Jake was after a 'live' sound. He'd never been an audiophile, and his 
recordings were meant to represent a sort of 'heavier, better Grateful 
Dead;' or something.
	Jake had once been greatly inspired by Ritchie Blackmore, Ronnie James Dio, 
Jim Morrison, Led Zeppelin, and Jimi Hendrix, and a veritable plethora of 
other 'rock stars.' He had also been influenced by the masters of 
'Classical' music: Chopin, Rachmaninov, Bach, Beethoven, Liszt, Brahms, 
Mozart, Paginnini; the list goes on for nearly ever but you get the gist. 
Additionally, Jake had also at some point been mesmerized by the far out 
sounds of cats like Django Reinhardt, Gershwin, Sal Salvador, Thelonius 
Monk, Joe Pass, John Coltraine, Wes Montgomery, and again others too 
numerous to mention. All of this - and more - had contributed over time to 
help influence Jake's own style.
	As for the recordings, they were intentionally underproduced, like demo 
tapes. Jake figured that the world were awash in overproduced music; 
recordings which might be 'perfect' in their sound yet missing a certain 
sense of random beauty. Jake had never recorded the 'perfect song.' Each of 
tunes in his ever-growing catalogue would inevitably contain some mistake on 
one of the guitar or bass lines, or the vocals would be too subdued or too 
'out front,' or they might fade in and out. There might be background noise, 
such as clicks and pops from microphones being turned on and off.
	Jake was trying to put together something resembling a catalogue of real, 
live performances; with gaffes lending to a greater 'human quality' in the 
recordings. In contrast, much of what Jake had heard of 'modern music' over 
the preceding decade or so had been 'perfectly produced,' yet the 
performances of the musicians themselves were lacking in any great kind of 
'inspiration.'
	Of course there were always exceptions to this; in the realms of hip-hop, 
modern metal, house/rave, and even in 'country western.' Jake would thus 
take inspiration from these where he found it, and ignore the rest. What was 
for certain was that there were no longer any great records being made; not 
along the lines of 'Heaven and Hell,' or 'Holy Diver,' or 'Sgt. Pepper's 
Lonely Hearts Club Band,' or 'Are You Experienced?,' or 'Strange Days,' or 
'Don't Break the Oath.' Perhaps in modern metal there were yet great 
releases coming out, but on the other hand Jake was too busy with his own 
work by then to really take in a large sampling of newer music. He did know 
that metal had changed, along with pop, and dance music. Some of it had been 
for the better, and some for the worse.
	One thing which was interesting was that it seemed that video really had, 
'killed the radio star.' This is to say that - 'Video Killed the Radio Star' 
- had been one of the first-ever videos in the MTV rotation, and as it turns 
out it had been at least partially - if not wholly - prescient. Another 
thing which struck Jake was that - in contrast to what Jake had known of the 
past - many of the 'stars' of this era were really nothing more than female 
strippers whose acts echoed vaudeville, rather than serious musicians. Of 
course even in that regard there had been exceptions. For instance, Mariah 
Carey is totally hot, but she backs it up with a great voice. It is only too 
bad that she plays it safe with her material, and really never goes for 
anything way 'over the top;' and like Yngwie, Mariah keeps a lid on the 
musicians in her band, and won't allow them to flower beside her. Yngwie was 
and is a great, great guitar player; yet one would have to wonder what would 
have happened if he had allowed his bandmates to 'breathe.' The same goes 
for Mariah in that regard. Also, in both cases each of the artists could 
stand to become at least a bit more daring in their overall material.
	Of course, Christina Aguilera was the bees knees as far as Jake were 
concerned, yet admittedly he owned none of her CDs. He did have 2 copies of 
the Mariah Carey Christmas CD, and over the years a good deal of Yngwie's 
material had passed through Jake's ever-shifting vinyl and CD collections. 
Jake really liked Yngwie at G3, and Yngwie with the New Japan Philharmonic.
	Of course there were other guitarists too numerous to list here, who had 
been Jake's biggest influences. A list of perhaps the most influential to 
Jake would include the aforementioned Jimi Hendrix, and Jimmy Page of Led 
Zeppelin, as well as Ritchie Blackmore (at least up until around 1978 when 
he fired Dio and Powell from Rainbow), Yngwie, Edward Van Halen, Uli Jon 
Roth, Michael Schenker, and Akira Takasaki. Jake also held Joe Satriani, 
Steve Vai, and Eric Johnson in high regard. Jake could appreciate as well 
the talent of Stevie Ray Vaughn. Again, the number of influences is simply 
too long to include them all here. In the final analysis, of all of the 
influences listed above, perhaps Ritchie Blackmore was the main one. Jake 
could never afford to completely make the distinction though. There was 
simply something great about each and every piece of music, or the musicians 
who created that music; each and every one of the composers or performers 
who had ever given Jake inspiration.
	Finally, Jake also had a soft spot in his heart for the music of the 'rat 
pack,' most notably among these Frank Sinatra and Sammie Davis Jr. Of course 
Tony Bennett may have ultimately eclipsed both of them. Dean Martin was most 
assuredly a great human being, but had not been the greatest singer. Sinatra 
on the other hand was one of the best singers of all time - at least in the 
1940s and 1950s - yet people say he was one of the biggest dickheads you 
could ever meet. Jake had learned long before to make the dinstinction 
between 'nice guy' and great musician.
	For instance, Eric Clapton is a nice guy, and he writes songs to make women 
swoon; but as a pure guitarist, he simply can't hold a candle to the 
greatest of all time; and to his credit Clapton himself readily admits this. 
He is actually quoted as saying something to the effect of, "I know that I 
may not be remembered as a great guitar player, but I should like to at 
least be remembered as having been a gentleman." As for Jake, if nothing 
else Jake would ultimately be remembered as someone who could really play 
the guitar, but who was a complete asshole.
	Be that as it may, at the start of that period of isolation, where Jake had 
walked off of his landscaping job, half-expecting the comet 
Schwassman-Watchmann to make an imminent and indelible impact upon the ebb 
and flow of human hystory; and he being fully sick and tired of working out 
under the too-bright sun, breathing the dizzying fumes from gas-powered lawn 
tools; and being reminded each week of the nonsense which passes for 
substance in this world in that - among other things - his job routine would 
take him past the Denny Island estate of the nasal-voiced little putz of a 
radio commentator who had somehow himself weaseled his way into national 
prominence with little more than constant harangues about how one should 
never be allowed forget the holocaust (other than greasy opportunists, who 
in their right mind gives a flying farthing about that, really?); it was at 
the start of that 'hunkering down' that Jake was re-introduced to a blood 
brother from his past. The blood brother's name was Brian.
	To be fair, the landscaping job had not been all bad. Yet in the end, 
either the sun had gotten much brighter than Jake could have ever remembered 
it, or Jake's own vision had changed. Whatever the reality of the matter, 
the sun was by then much too bright for Jake to deign to spend any extended 
period of time outdoors. As well, despite the apparent incredulity of those 
with whom Jake would broach the subject of the brightening sun, there was 
evidence that it really weren't Jake's vision which had changed so 
drastically, but that somehow the sun's light had gotten much brighter; 
whiter. The evidence was in the pronounced burns appearing on those around 
him; those who had not bothered to notice the changes. Indeed, people 
appeared to be getting much worse sunburn than Jake could ever remember. 
Jake avoided burns by sporting a wide-brimmed straw hat, and always wearing 
long-sleeved shirts, and never short pants.
	There were also the plants; growing faster than ever before, yet washed out 
in appearance. It were as though the sun's spectrum had shifted, and it was 
causing not only more 'brightness,' but the plants themselves to grow at 
record rates, and to appear as dull greens - almost yellow and whitish - as 
opposed to the lush full greens he'd remembered from past spring and summer 
seasons in and about the milieu of the Emerald City.
	All of that aside, Jake had shared some really good times with his partner 
on the job; Marty the sometimes brilliantly chess-playing fan of all of the 
world of rock, jazz, and folk. Together they had found some of the best 
eateries around and about their 'lawn mowing route,' and had shared many an 
excellent lunch at these establishments. They had sought out the best in 
coffee stands, where the lovely young ladies would sometimes serve up as 
many as 11 straight shots of espresso to Jake whilst Marty would look on in 
a sort of bemused amazement.
	To his credit, Marty had never protested these binges of caffeine intake on 
Jake's part; but they both quickly learned that whenever Jake would have one 
of the 6, or 8 - or at its extreme 10 or 11 - shot drinks, that the trip 
about town in the truck they rode in together would be a lively one, with 
Jake a veritable fountain of ongoing conversation.
	Like everything else, the landscaping job had never been all bad, but the 
impending passage of the comet, combined with Jake's growing distaste for 
the work itself; it had combined to send Jake into a jobless seclusion.
	Of the landscaping, Jake would have preferred to have done the entire job 
with non-gas-powered tools; rather than a gasoline mower, a push mower 
instead; rather than a gas-powered string trimmer ('weed whacker'), perhaps 
an electric one instead, or even the old-fashioned clippers, or the 
funny-looking tool with the long handle and the 'grass edge cutting wheel;' 
rather than a petrol-propelled hedge trimmer, hand tree trimming shears; 
instead of a chainsaw, hand saws; and of the worst offender in his mind - 
the gas-powered blower or 'power broom' - Jake would have preferred 
old-fashioned rakes and straw brooms. The landscaping job had taught Jake 
that there was at least one area of his own life and worldview where he were 
truly a luddite; gas-powered lawn tools were simply lacking in something; be 
it 'couth' or 'class' or 'aesthetic.' It was the noise, combined with the 
fumes, and the dust 'created' in particular by the blowers; he didn't like 
any of it. He thought that the extra time needed to do the same work with 
non-powered tools would have been well worth it, at least in regards to lawn 
and garden maintenance, and in the interest of civilization.
	Another thing which bothered Jake was the ongoing application of poisons 
like 'Round-Up' in the performance of the job. Jake thought that the usage 
of such poisons bordered on the criminal. He knew full and well that if 
nothing else, such poisons were killing the salamanders and frogs down at 
the lakefronts to where the groundwater would ultimately flow.
	All of that aside, the landscaping job - working with Marty for the company 
which Jake's father had founded - had been a worthwhile addition to his life 
experience. Sometimes, when he thought back he could remember listening to 
some particularly excellent Frank Zappa or Thelonius Monk (for example) on 
the pickup truck's tape deck as they drove from neighborhood to neighborhood 
there about the Emerald City. There was also one very odd - or at the very 
least eerily coincidental - event which stuck in Jake's mind about the 
entire period of working the 'mowing route.'
	Back in the 1970s, in grades 6 through 8 Jake had been chosen to 
'participate' in the school busing program which the federal government had 
- in its infinite wisdom - foisted nationwide upon the U.S.A. ('American') 
public school systems. As part of that, he'd gone to a particular school, 
there on Capitol Hill. Actually, there had been two schools, but for the 
sake of brevity we'll focus on the one he attended in 7th and 8th grade.
	The school - Evers Middle School - had been on 19th and Socialist. There 
Jake had learned from his peers about Led Zeppelin, KiSS, KC and the 
Sunshine Band, Bootsy Collins, and others too numerous to list here. As 
ridiculous as the idea of 'forced busing' may have ever been, and for as 
much time as it had wasted out of the lives of the bused students - each 
school day requiring a pair of nearly 1-hour (each way) trips across town - 
it had at the very least exposed the various young academics to other 
cultures; something which may have never otherwise happened. Now this may be 
considered by certain separatists of varying stripes to have been as but an 
undesirable thing, yet for all of Jake in particular's protestations aside, 
he did come away from the entire experience with a soft spot in his heart 
for the likes of Parliament Funkadelic; and who is to say whether he would 
have ever been exposed to the same without the 'forced busing' to begin 
with? Did exposure to funk mitigate all of the time wasted each and every 
day in Jake's life, or the bullying he and certain other 'blue eyes' had 
received at the hands of some of the 'colored' kids? That probably remains 
to this day, an open question. To be fair though, the interaction between 
different 'racial' groups had not always ended in violence; quite to the 
contrary as a matter of fact. That is to say that some 'inter-racial' 
friendships had also been forged, or at least that some sort of mutual 
respect had been earned here and there.
	All of that aside, fast forward some 30-odd years and Jake and Marty were 
told to make a stop at an apartment building on 18th and Socialist; so once 
every other week as part of their mowing route, the duo would drive past 
Jake's old middle school, and mow the parking strips and clean out the small 
gardens of the old brick apartment building; Evers Middle School itself just 
a short block away.
	Then one day - March 25th or the birthday of Maria Mortorano (whom Jake had 
pined for seemingly incessantly some years before) - the killer struck at a 
house nearby the school. It was literally 2 blocks from the apartment house 
and just 1/2 a block from the middle school.
	The kicker was that the killer had come from a rave dance which had been 
held in what were by then the church where Jake's own father had - for years 
  previous - preached. Jake's father had preached a certain brand of 
Adventism (not the 7-day variety but sharing the same roots going back to 
Willie Miller) in a building at the corner of 13th and Fig, next to the 
Russian Orthodox church with its onion spires.
	At some point, Jake's father had opened another church in the 'South Sound' 
area, and had left the church in the city - on Government Hill - to another 
preacher. Well, later on the church on the hill had dwindled in attendance, 
to the point where the old brick building was too large for the remaining 
congregation. So with their new (yet another), firebrand young preacher they 
agreed to sell the old building - with its pipe organ, and (however simple, 
as opposed to highly ornate) stained glass windows, and its long wooden pews 
- and move into an 'arts center.'
	As it turned out, the arts center would also host raves on Friday and 
Saturday nights. Thus the killer had come from one of those very raves, and 
murdered something like 6 people, and turned his guns upon himself; there at 
the house only a short distance - perhaps a mile - away from the new 
location of the church; and the house being as well more or less across the 
street from Jake's old school.
	Immediately, the killings had spawned some conspiracy threads on the 
luncatic fringe internet discussion forums frequented by Jake. Without going 
into detail, the facts of the case didn't quite add up. There were actually 
quite a few loose ends involving this seemingly 'random' act. What bothered 
Jake were the link - however tenuous it might appear to the reader - going 
back to his own father's church, and to the middle school where Jake had 
attended.
	To Jake, the killings had been a message against the very idea of affection 
itself; that 'cuddle puddles' would not be tolerated by 'the powers that 
be.' It were as though the killings had been meant to send a message to the 
'empathic' young adults who would participate in those same 'cuddle 
puddles,' there on the hill in the shadow of - in addition to everything 
else - no small portion of Jake's youth.
	It was on Maria's birthday. It was - at least indirectly - linked back to 
the church where Jake's father had preached. It was right next to the middle 
school where Jake had - decades before - attended; the school Jake was - at 
the time of the killings - passing by every other week in the performance of 
his own job. In addition to all of that, there was a fair amount of evidence 
that - as in so many similar cases - the truth of the matter was nothing 
like the 'news media' had portrayed it. Rather, the killer had perchance 
been some kind of MK-Ultra victim. If that were so, what then was the real 
aim of the killings? Perhaps - as you shall see - just like everything else 
in Jake's life, it could all be written off as coincidence.
	In any event, the killings had occurred some time - perhaps even more than 
a year - prior to Jake's having left the job at the landscaping company. 
Jake left the company in very late May. It had been either the previous 25 
March, or the 25 March the year prior to that. 	It was then, right around 
the date when Jake had literally walked off of the job, that Brian - a blood 
brother - had re-entered Jake's life.
	Back in the day, when they had been teenagers together Brian had helped 
Jake in learning how to play the guitar. At one point - as you (if you 
continue to read this) shall see - they had become blood-brothers. Now, this 
erstwhile friend had shown him some 'new' musical scales; some of which 
seemed to Jake to be, 'inhuman,' or 'primordial.'
	As an example, there was this 'new' minor key, and it had the strangest 
interval set, designed to create the greatest possibility for tri-tone (the 
note exactly between any 2 given octave notes; 'd#' being the tri-tone for 
the 'a' note, for example), otherwise known as the 'diminished 5th' or 
'augmented 4th.'
	The key in particular of which I write would have the following notes for 
example if one were in the key of 'e minor:' e f## g## a# b# c# d#.
	Without going into details, this amounted to a series of consecutive triads 
thus: a-minor g-diminished a-diminished a#-diminished b#-minor A-Major 
D#-Major; at least this is how one might describe the thing in a 'western 
classical theoretical' context. Granted, some of the chords in the list 
above - for instance the 'i' or 'one' chord - are arrived at through 
inversions. To put it another way, if you take the '1,' '3,' and '5' notes 
of the scale which comprise the 'i' or 'one' triad or chord, you have in 
this case the notes 'e,' 'a' (g##), and 'c' (b#). So in essence you have 
what amounts to an "inverted 'a' minor, tonic triad" in a key based 
ostensibly upon 'e.'
	Anyway, the scale as a whole sounded to Jake, 'inhuman.' Given the strange 
sounds presented by playing within this key, he dubbed his first recording 
which employed it, 'Vincent Price.' What was interesting was the fact that 
such a scale, although quite within the confines of western classical 
notation and theory, had never found its way into the curriculum at the 
schools where such classical music were taught. No, instead there they teach 
a fairly straight combination of Major, natural minor, harmonic minor, and 
melodic minor. Of course you might add in some pentatonic varieties, and 
diminished varieties, yet the one described above seems a bit outside of all 
of those. Certainly the 1st and 2nd year training Jake had once taken had 
never gone past the Major, and the '3 minors.' In any event, some might 
argue that this 'contratonic minor' is yet a variation on a 'diminished' 
scale, but Brian would argue that it was not, and Jake would tend to agree. 
As for 'diminished scales,' Jake saw those as a kind of abstraction of, or 
adjunct to strict classical theory. Perhaps if Jake had entered 3rd year 
college theory and beyond, diminished scales would have been a part of the 
syllabus.
	One other interesting thing happened, that first day Brian re-entered 
Jake's life and showed the latter these 'new scales.' When they had gotten 
really high together, Jake had gotten that old 'demonic' vibe between he and 
his friend, but Jake had tried to put all of that aside in his mind; for the 
bottom line was that Jake really didn't care what was going through Brian's 
mind, or what Brian might 'really have been about.' The scales certainly 
were fascinating in their own right.
	The strange thing was that Jake logged onto the internet just after Brian 
had departed their get-together, and there was this discussion in one of the 
discussion forums as to who the 'antichrist' might be. One of the posters 
had flippantly tossed out, 'a tree trimmer in a family-owned landscaping 
business,' and the moment Jake had come across and read this posting, a 
chill had run down his spine. He wondered if the poster were joking about 
either himself or Marty; for at the time of this posting Jake were yet 
working at the company. It would be a week or two later when Jake would 
actually walk off of the job. Whatever the truth of any of this, there was 
simply some kind of weird energy which were apparently following Jake 
throughout his own life. Oh, there must have been a million tree trimmers at 
family-owned landscaping businesses. Certainly the poster on the 'antichrist 
identity' thread could not have been mentioning either Jake or Marty!
	That is what it was; Jake was high and had a great imagination to boot; 
which reminds your not-so-humble-yet-oh-so-humiliated scribe of an old joke: 
If you give a black dude some weed, he'll be like, "cool man... mellow 
man... yeah man." On the other hand if you give it to a white dude, he'll be 
like, "I see the devil!" If that joke were indeed resembling any kind of 
truth, it would explain quite a bit; at least with regard to the events of 
Jake's life.
	Be all of that as it may, there were other keys. For example, if you took 
'a' harmonic minor but actually removed the 'a' note and kept the g as well 
as the g# (in this case, for the sake of argument, a-flat), you would have: 
a-flat b c d e f g. This key resolved best to either an a-minor triad (even 
though the 'a' note is implied yet not necessarily ever played (in which 
case it would be an accidental within such a key, I suppose)), or to an 
f-minor triad. Brian had called that one, 'dynamic minor' because it were 
sort as though it modulated between keys, yet remained within itself as one 
were to pass through the triads which comprised it.
	In the example above, if you cycle through the consecutive triads, you get 
A-flat Major, b-diminished, C Major, d-diminished, e-minor, f-minor, and 
G-Major.  Jake had taken things even further, and 'invented,' 'astral minor' 
which was again a simple 'a' minor, yet with the g of the natural minor 
removed, and no g# as found in either the harmonic or the melodic minors. 
Instead, Jake had replaced these with an f#, so there were a 'cluster' of e, 
f, and f# within it, then the minor 3rd leading to the next, 'a' note. It 
was a, b, c, d, e, f, and f#. This however broke Brian's own stipulation 
that such experimental keys not have any consectuive half-step intervals; 
'no clusters.' Be that as it may, it was a very interesting key in its own 
right.
	Thus, in the weeks which followed that revealing of new keys by Brian to 
Jake, there were the development on the latter's part of other, 'new' keys, 
and so Jake's music became 'strange' - or perhaps, 'stranger still' - in 
spots. Yet at least some of it was a refreshing contrast to everything he 
had listened to - and for that matter himself played - his entire life.
	Brian had also helped sustain Jake through that lonesome summer; Brian 
stopping by here and there to purchase Jake's music CDs, to the point where 
it was enough to pay for a month's rent; something like 40 separate 'albums' 
which Brian had paid him $15 apiece for. So Brian would have Jake's entire 
catalogue, in CD-quality audio; something which was simply not available on 
the internet. On the internet, only MP3 files were available; and these were 
roughly 70% of the audio quality of the CDs Brian had purchased. Jake was 
simply happy that someone had cared enough to have purchased his records. 
There were misgivings on Jake's part, yet they were minor.
	Despite that small influx of cash, as time went on Jake found himself 
getting rent money from his folks. Somehow he simply couldn't bring himself 
to get a job just yet. With the passage of time, after a couple of months of 
subsidizing his rent Jake's parents cut him loose, so he finally was at the 
point where he would either have to find a source of income, or starve.
	Now he'd never really had the heart for so-called 'criminal activities' 
such as drug dealing or pimping, so he found himself applying for the 
traditional, low-paying types of jobs which are available to 'those' of his 
wont.
	Thus by early November of that year, Jake had found himself at the factory; 
making electrical cables for jet airliners. It was like a combination of 
'little Phnom Phen, Vientien, and Saigon;' the work force on the floor of 
the factory being comprised in large part by immigrants from Southeast Asia.
	So much had happened over the Summer and Autumn; what with the strange new 
sounds, and the songs Jake had made glorifying at once Lucifer, 'the' yhvh 
(demiurge), and the Chemical Kristi or Raven Witch Woman. As an aside, Jake 
had given Marty a copy of one of his latest CD creations, and Marty had 
gotten back to Jake and told him that it was the best guitar work Jake had 
done yet. Jake appreciated Marty's opinion, because Marty knew a lot of 
music. If Marty thought Jake had risen to a 'new level' of play, then it was 
definitely a good sign.
	With the new job at the factory, Jake attempted to block out the times he'd 
spent lying awake in the darkness of night those several months previous, 
there on the floor of his apartment; moments spent nearly in sight of some 
kind of invisible network.
	He could see them in his mind; like fairly large alien leaches as seen in 
various and sundry pulp films; or others as giant ants or wasps. Sometimes 
it were almost crystal clear; a giant wasp embracing him and injecting him 
with some kind of 'DNA upgrade' as he lie there half-awake from night to 
night.
	People wrote of these things on the internet, and he didn't know if it were 
his overly active imagination, or if there really were this network of all 
manner of inhuman creatures, crawling along humanly invisible 'web' lines, 
all leading to some mysterious vortex or nexus.
	He never had enough information. He didn't know up from down, or left from 
right, or good from bad. Nothing was clear; except for his faith in 'the' 
YHVH; and we're not talking Tetragrammaton here, but rather demiurge (and 
there are people who claim these 2 are but one in the same, but to Jake they 
were certainly not).
	There had also been the snakes, entering his lower chakra, and sinewing 
through his body, and exiting his mouth or the top of his head, then 
wrapping around again to form a circle; one snake winding 'up,' and the 
other 'down,' like 2 invisible circles spinning in obverse direction inside 
of him.
	Of the Tetragrammaton, he had long since dissuaded himself from attempting 
contact with that. He figured that the 'IT' - even in ITs unlimited power - 
were really outwardly deaf, dumb, and blind; the ultimate in motionlessness, 
serenity, and all of those types of things, yet in practice outwardly devoid 
of either thought or motion; impossible for the human mind of the material 
world to connect with.
	The demiurge on the other hand; well to Jake the demiurge was the creator 
of our entire known physical universe; and this demiurge was either known as 
'Lucifer,' or had taken Lucifer as a wife at some point. In any event, he 
didn't refer to the demiurge as Lucifer, but rather as 'yhvh.' It was all 
written down in one of Jake's novelettes. In his mind, the demiurge could 
and did hear him; not that it made much of a difference. Be that as it may, 
contrary to some other schools of thought, the demiurge was a heroic figure 
and not the 'evil one' which for example, certain gnostic sects had pegged 
the same as being.
	Jake had - more often than not - always been one to take the hard road. For 
awhile, Christianity had seemed the most difficult, then Buddhism had 
trumped that on many levels, but he had finally found the ultimate in 
difficulty; worshipping a god who didn't really care about him; who actually 
kept its foot on his neck most of the time; and ultimately offered only to 
spend him as it would see fit. He had not a saviour, only a spender. And the 
rewards seemed to pale in comparison to his sacrifice. Yet certain moments 
of pure ecstasy in his worhip of the Raven Witch Woman had driven him on. 
Those moments of brief repast had always been the 'spiritual refuelings' 
which had driven him onward.
	What was he to do? He worshipped a god of nothing. He had no savior, but 
rather a spender, the Raven Witch Woman; and he knew that his faith must be 
carried through, for he had found the toughest road to hoe, and it was in 
the communion with a god who really promised nothing; a god who came from 
nowhere; one who had created this world of at once illusion disillusionment.
	Yet it was the tiniest moments of spirtual ecstasy - in the midst of 
oftentimes grinding physical want - which drove him onward. He had no 
interest in a 'heaven' where the expectation was that there would be no 
tobacco, no mind-altering substances, no cards, and no dancing; but rather a 
continual 'praise session' for the 'one true god.' It sounded like no place 
Jake would ever want to find himself in, forever and ever.
	Add to that the mindset of so many of the 'saved' Jake had met throughout 
his life; that bowing to earthly authority; that readiness to believe 
everything their vaunted 'leaders' would tell them, regardless of how little 
sense it acutally made; that willful discarding of critical thought; that 
embracing of communist ideas, all the while calling themselves 'christian.'
	He had learned long before that christians were to say, 'what is mine is 
thine,' in contrast to the communist slogan which is, 'what is thine is 
mine.' He had witnessed in dismay as christian after christian had displayed 
the latter type of thinking over the former. This is not to say that 'true 
christianity' as Jake had ever understood it would ever win him over; but 
only to remark that so many 'christians' weren't even true to their own 
professed faith.
	So many had abandoned their faith in things unseen, and had instead 
embraced the smothering machinations of the state. They had discarded a god 
in heaven and replaced it with the idea that there might one day be, heaven 
on earth; a democratic, 'godvernment' as it were.
	As far as Jake were concerned, it never got any better than this. There was 
no 'perfect place in the sky.' Suffering would always be with us, whether in 
heaven or in hell; and again the demiurge was a heroic figure to Jake. For 
the Tetragrammaton was simply a state of motionless; of contendedness; yet 
nothing else. The demiurge on the other hand was a sort of Prometheus; 
bringing fire down from the gods; a maker of the world of motion; where all 
of the - oftentimes admittedly agonizing - dramas of our day to day lives 
could play themselves out; where ideas could clash and there were subterfuge 
and cowardice, contrasted by great acts of heroism and gallantry; all of it 
given as if a gift to humanity by humanity's creator, the demiurge. In short 
the Tetragrammaton or 'treasury of light' or 'celestial choir' is boring as 
all get-out, whilst the world of the demiurge  - a world such as our own - 
is one of great excitement.
	In any event, Jake saw that christians of all stripes believe in coercion, 
and are jealous of the accomplishments of others, and like all good 
democrats, wish to eradicate things like beauty, accomplishment, and desire. 
Instead, christians and democrats alike seek a world without 
differentiation; where everyone might be dragged down to the same low level 
these same christians secretly find themselves at; these same depths that 
they themselves will never admit to having sunken to.
	For the greatest part, Jake could see that christians loved prisons, and 
police, and a large state apparatus. To their credit, there were yet a few 
christians who could see beyond this; who were actually more or less true to 
the spiritual god and not the marxism which had so insidiously infiltrated 
the entire church structure, going back to at least the 1950s, if not 
further.
	Jake could see that so many of the Protestant women of European descent 
were some of the worst offenders throughout all of recorded hystory, at 
fostering tyranny. These women would see themselves as the moral vanguard of 
the world, seeking to outlaw anything which might provide their neighbors 
with either solace or joy. Yes, the protestant woman of european descent was 
more or less the consumate killjoy. It was like the old fable; these women 
could not stand to see their neighbors enjoying anything which they 
themselves had either eschewed, or had never had available to them. Whatever 
the case, these women wanted to sap all of the satisfaction out of the lives 
of everyone they came into contact with; and these women would do it with a 
smile on their face and a fierce conviction in their hearts that they were 
the morally superior.
	Such women would romanticize past 'crimes' of their own males, and in that 
self-inflicted guilt, take it upon themselves to uplift all of the darker 
people of the world, and to hell with their own, blue-eyed men. To such 
women, the 'white males' were the problem, and didn't 'get it;' and these 
women were hell bent upon proving their ability to make up for these 
perceived past 'wrongs,' and to be a beacon of sweetness and light to all 
'colored' people everywhere.
	Of course such a notion would be ridiculous on the face of it, if women of 
european descent weren't so entirely bent upon erasing their own culture 
from the face of the earth. The brainwashing of the public schools had been 
highly effective in this regard. Basically, the fair-skinned women were 
precipitating their own demise. Perhaps the worst part of it was how so many 
of the females of european descent would no longer adorn themselves, 
preferring instead to walk about in public as if dressed in prison garb, or 
perhaps in those ridiculous looking 'bare midriff' or 'lowcut' jeans; but 
the utterly worst part of it all - beyond the blind adherence to 'democracy' 
or 'communism' or whatever life-sapping doctrine of the day might be; beyond 
the dressing like prisoners - would have to be the way so many of them would 
simply cut off their own hair; shorned of their female glory; and many of 
them yet proclaiming to be 'christians.' Perhaps 'churchians' would be a 
fair name for such misplaced souls, but 'christian' they could never be. 
Whatever the case, such women were certain to chase any thinking person 
right away from the gospel of the one they call, 'christ.'
	So our protaganist lived in an age where so many of the women of his 
ethnicity were at once slovenly, and promiscuous. How it were that he wished 
just one women would step forward, fully adorned in all her female glory, 
and at the same time be chaste; for by then there were virtually no chaste, 
well-adorned women, regardless of any other persuasion they might have.
	But this is all obvious, boring talk. So churchian women are a bit 'whacked 
in the head.' Perhaps women of european descent were on a self-destructive 
binge never before witnessed on their part. It's easy to pick apart 'white' 
women, but many of the 'black' and 'brown' and 'red' and 'yellow' women had 
their own severe mental and emotional problems, to be certain.
	And to be fair, many 'white' men have recently eschewed their 'own' women, 
and have opted to persue the great female beauties of Asia and points 
beyond. So both sides - male and female - of the 'blue eyed peoples' have in 
many ways, bascially written each other off. One can only hope that, if blue 
eyes are to disappear entirely from the earth, that at the very least those 
dark-eyed people who remain will have the sense to retain for - example - 
the use of the piano forte, and the violin, and the electric guitar; that 
such 'white instruments' won't disappear along with the blue-eyed peoples; 
that the biggest contributions of 'white people' to humanity will be 
integrated into the whole which remains. In any event, it's plain to see 
that today the Asians and the Latins are dynamic, whereas much of European 
culture is basically in tatters.
	Be that as it may, Christianity is flawed enough from the start. It's 
basically the perfect religion for a woman who doesn't wish to rock the 
proverbial boat: She gets to worship the perfect man, and hold that over her 
husband and sons for their entire lives. The men around her will never 
measure up to her 'perfect, imaginary lover' - Jesus. It is in a strange 
way, the perfect religion for closet fag hags. It would be much more 
respectable if a woman were to forego any such ridiculous faith and rather, 
proclaim her identity to the world as the fag hag she truly - in her heart 
of hearts - is; and this would especially be true of these modern, 'hybrid' 
christian women with their 'dykie doos' and self-professed, 'love of 
christ.'
	Let's face it; christianity is a difficult religion for a red-blooded 
heterosexual male to follow. To be fair once again - to consider all angles 
- perhaps it is that the male who is strong in his own heterosexuality is 
not threatened by the idea of a male god. Whatever the truth of the matter, 
by then entire thing simply gave Jake the most serious case of spiritual 
nausea imaginable. To the contrary, it was far better for him to pursue his 
own 'unorthodox judaism' than to follow the teachings of some obnoxious, 
well-to-do rabbi as we find in the 'hystorical' Jesus.
	Moving right along and speaking of neurotic women, the Apsara - or women of 
Cambodia - have to live with the memory of Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge. Yes, 
they hide it well enough on the surface; both they and their males being 
full of apparent good cheer and humour. A look just beneath the surface 
though shows quite another picture; one of a people, who to this day are yet 
traumatized by what happened, and at this point appear to be willing to do 
just about anything to 'go along and get along.' Of course, that could just 
be a ruse; that the immigrants - Khmer included - which we find in 
modern-day America are fully aware of the folly and pitfalls of 'democracy,' 
and are simply biding their time as the vanguard of a larger invasion which 
is yet to follow.
	On the surface though, they appear to buy into the american lifestyle; with 
cell phones and SUVs and 401k accounts, and some even begin to eat the fast 
food and get fat from it. What it seems they fail to grasp is that their new 
life in America is one of living on borrowed time; that the same spirit 
which previously swept through and made a living hell of their given native 
lands; the same spirit is alive and growing in the America of today; and it 
was all planned that way; long ago by entities outside of time and space; 
imperceptible entities both within and without us; above and beneath us; to 
the left and to the right of us; we 'humans' in our supposed lamb-like 
innocence.
	Yet the goats among us know. The goats can see the setup; the blame which 
has yet to reach a fever pitch; the coming slaughter; the fast-approaching 
ultimate conflaguration; where no one will truly know whose side is which; 
where everyone might one day enter into killing sprees just for the 
experience.
	In the universities today they preach blame; and the gullible latch onto 
it. From the professors' podiums they spout their nonsense; more of the same 
tired old collectivism, wrapped once again in the guise of 'egalitarianism' 
or 'progressivism.' This appeals to all of the envy so many of us hold; it 
opens the doors for charlatans of untold proportions to literally fleece the 
sheep. Yet this not-so-humble-yet-humiliated scribe would never recommend 
shedding a single tear for the sheep. Sheep are there for that very reason; 
to be fleeced.
	If the unwashed cannot see through the smoke and mirrors; if the hoi polloi 
need to be spoon fed every thought contained within their tiny little minds; 
if the proletariat need a scapegoat; if some people need to be scapegoats, 
and others need to punish the same; well it's all part of the game; in truth 
there is no one else to blame but ourselves; neither little faeries nor 
invisible elves can be held to any kind of accountability; in these the 
days, marked as they are by a complete lack of chivalry; tainted by the mass 
of those who would worship earthly authority.
	One can hope that of these foreigners entering into america; that they are 
not a lot of 'nancy boys' as the native-born-American males have more or 
less become; that these new arrivals aren't - in the end - a bunch of 
hand-wringing, democratic communists as so many American women (and their 
male lackeys) have made themselves to be. Be that as it may, Jake could only 
hope that the Khmer of all people might one day find the prosperity and 
contentedness which they more than perhaps any other group of people so 
richly deserve.
	One can hope that underneath the facade of fools, that these immigrants are 
actually the only hope for america's future. Yet don't hold that hope too 
dearly; for this is the prison planet; apparently it already has been, and 
it always will be; for this is what the vast majority of people appear to 
want it to be; they never even examine their captivity and instead they call 
themselves free; as free as the words flowing throughout this - perhaps for 
lack of better words - libertine diatribe.
	More than anything - in this day and age at least - it appears as though 
people need someone to blame for their own problems. People need to believe 
that they do not have the power in their own hands. I will tell you the 
truth of this matter, according to the Number 9 Sect of Unorthodox Judaism: 
In contrast to churchianity, which itself posits the existence of an 
ultimate god; one of untold power and absolutely no responsibility; by 
contrast, in unorthodox judaism this entire concept is turned on its ear. 
The truth is that god is completely powerless, and yet entirely responsible. 
It is rather we as humans who actually have the power, and at the same time 
we're completely without responsibility for it. So for those of us who have 
lived our entire lives in the shadow of this nancy-boy christian god (all 
power, no responsibility); now we are free. God has no power, and god has 
all responsibility; we on the other hand have all of the power and none of 
the responsibility; and this is the truth which has - more than likely - 
thus far been kept from the likes of you, the reader.
	So now you know. You could call unorthodox judaism a Luciferian creed, and 
that would be fair; but it would be best not to call it Satanic for that 
would be a complete and utter misnomer.
	For satan is in truth, non-existent; represented by the fire which consumes 
not only itself but everything else as well; a non-entity; acausal.  By the 
way, the 9 Angel Satanism is the only kind of satanism which has any merit. 
This author's only misgiving with regard to them is their seemingly gleeful 
pursuit of 'revenge' upon those who they deem to 'deserve' it. Even this is 
a minor quibble. In whole, the doctrines of 9 Angel Satanism are sound. To 
reiterate though, they deal in acausality. To their credit, the road they 
prescribe to practitioners is one of the most difficult roads a person could 
take upon themselves to follow through life.
	The bottom line is that the satanism of the likes of levay and aquino is 
more of a 'hollywood' - in the case of the former - or 'psy-op' - in the 
case of the latter - variety, whose practitioners are more interested in 
pursuing the life of proverbial rock stars - with unlimited sensuality - as 
opposed to any kind real personal growth. It was interesting in any event 
when the small-time christian preacher took on the levay church in san 
francisco and soundly spanked their asses.
	In short, if you want to pursue Satanism, check out the 9 Angel variety. 
The rest is more or less, simply fluffery and puffery.
	Lucifer on the other hand is the wife of god; It could be said that the 
demiurge - Lucifer - is the woman and the Tetragrammaton - the IT at the 
center of all universes - the man. The tetragrammaton really can't be 
bothered with any of this, these worlds of motion such as our own; so the 
demiurge or Lucifer whose intermediary is the Raven Witch Woman is the only 
being with which we can truly commune. Just remember that the demiurge and 
Tetragrammaton alike have no real earthly power, yet they share between them 
all of the responsibility, and we as humans have the power and none of the 
responsibility; as it always has been; so shall it forever be. And this my 
friends is what makes us all without exception, 'free to be you and me.' 
(Some onlookers have intoned that Marlo Thomas was a big-time Luciferian 
when she made that movie.)
	In any case, our protaganist Jake had spent literally months alone at his 
computer and his musical recording console, on the one hand cranking out 
what some would deign to be the writings of a madman, and on the other 
making music to fill the spaces between everything that exists with perhaps 
strangely, hauntingly beautiful, yet sinister notes.
	When Jake finally got another job (that he might pay his rent and put food 
on the table), he was amidst the Apsara; or women of Cambodia. They were a 
strange and exotic group of women, many of them so utterly beautiful in ways 
he could almost not fathom. As it turns out, the names of the women, and the 
names of so many of the places in Southeast Asia contained the letters of 
his god: y, v, and h. There were in addition many instances of a, t, k, and 
th. Jake thought he had happened upon one of the 'real,' lost tribes of 
israel; 'honest-go-goodness,' 'god people.'
	In any event, at the time Jake's own electrical field was a mess, and when 
he would come into close physical contact with one or the other of the 
Apsara - such as when one would stand next to him or even touch hands with 
him in the course of working side by side - he could feel his own distorted 
or inverted magnetic field in relation to theirs. Over time this passed, and 
his own electrical field became seemingly normalized, and Jake began to 
think he might be a normal human being once again, but alas that was a 
fantasy; for it was never to be; it appears in retrospect that he had long 
since passed on his own humanity.
	Be that as it may, the factory was like some kind of coven; the inklings 
were there from the start, but as the days and weeks passed it became clear. 
There were transsexuals there, and it was so obvious to Jake what had 
happened to some of these women (former males) that he had a hard time 
concealing his own thoughts. Ultimately though he was in the midst of what 
he had sought for so many years; a veritable plethora of would-be or at 
least potential 'raven witch women.'
---
"I love you. Yes, you're such a sweet baby. Maybe it's your voice; you know, 
the one I gave you. Ask me anything; anything within reason of course; and I 
will do it for you. Aside from the one who shall remain unnamed, you're the 
only one I answer to; you know, within reason of course. And baby child, you 
know how reason can be stretched, twisted, and skewered until the correct 
answer - the desired logical outcome - is reached. So baby, tell me: What is 
on your mind? I've got nothing if not time. I will always be yours, and of 
course I hope that you always consider yourself to be mine. Sweet dreams 
baby; just maybe; you'll be free some day. More free than I myself could 
ever be. Free, free, free. Sweet, sweet baby. That's from me to you and you 
to me. I know; even in your bondage you already know a little bit about 
liberty; you know why the caged bird sings. This is why in the face of such 
turmoil you can retreat into your mind and dance in spirit with me. Some day 
I will explain to you, why things are the way they are; better yet, how they 
are the way they are; and you will even know what is what. Who am I kidding?
	You already know more than me. You are already better than I am. At least 
in at once certain specific and profound ways. Here is my protection, 
extended unto you until the end of all days. So baby, tell me what it is you 
want or need. I will give it to you for free; all within reason. Of course 
there are some things I can't change, and you know deep in your heart that 
you yourself would never have it any other way.
	What will it be today, baby? Will it be war, famine, pestilence, or plague? 
Would you like to activate weal or woe, or perhaps that ongoing combination 
of a bit of both? What say you, it is unfettered human liberty which is your 
only desire? You must be, the lost child."
---
	Vat worked the knobs on the alien device. He and his tribesmen would amuse 
themselves in unleashing monsters from hitherto unseen dimensions upon their 
rival tribesmen; or in causing tsunamis, or cyclones, or giant whirpools 
which would suck in all of the rival boats for leagues around.
	Vat and his brother, Chea had found the strange device whilst digging for 
shellfish on the shores of their home island. The device was golden and 
silver in appearance, and had what we as 'modern day people' would refer to 
as knobs and buttons. Vat soon discovered that by pressing buttons and 
turning knobs, the machine would bring nothing but good fortune to he and 
his, and destruction to their rivals.
	At first, the monsters terrified Vat, yet when he realized that they would 
arrive; dispatch his enemy du jour; and depart through the same temporal 
portal - all the while never so much as even turning their collective gaze 
upon Tav and his own folk - he was delighted.
	It was an age long ago, or perhaps in the grand scheme of things; far in 
the future. For what is time but like an Ouroboros, or snake chasing its own 
tail?
	Why is it that, of our own hystory it is recorded no 'further back' than 
say 10,000 years; or perhaps to be generous, maybe 20,000 years? As an 
aside, it's interesting how 'scientists' can tell us with certainty how 
things were, 'back in the day' yet the lack of recorded hystory belies their 
pontifications. It is as though 'modern-day' scientists are really nothing 
more than - for the greater part - governmental lackeys, and they get their 
'research' funding by arriving at the conclusions which the 'authorities' 
wish for these same, 'scientists' to arrive at.
	This is a roundabout way of saying that in point of fact, Vat 'did' walk 
the earth, yet in a space and time outside of the purview of our own studies 
archeology and hystory.
	Vat became a great king, with many wives and concubines. He and his 
siblings and all of their collective offspring were honored in yearly tribal 
fertility rites. As time went on, to be a member of Vat's clan was to wield 
a prestige far and wide along their island chain. It was a time of great 
prosperity for everyone who stood with Vat and his, and a time of 
annihilation for all of the enemies of Vat's people.
	The great prosperity given Vat and his own was again very much in part due 
to the alien gizmo, for the same not only dispatched - as we have seen - 
Vat's enemies in highly creative and spectacular fashion, but as well as he 
would eventually discover it could conjure anything Vat - its 'human 
possessor' - desired, simply by his imagining the given thing, and by 
pressing a certain combination of buttons in concert with the twisting of a 
particular knob.
	Vat lived a very long time, and his tribe conquered all of the surrounding 
islands, and even gained a foothold on the mainland. One day though, as Vat 
was leading his army against a mainland contingent, and he reached for the 
device and began manipulating it, he looked up momentarily to notice that 
the commander of the aforementioned mainland forces had an identical device, 
and was also manipulating it.
	Then something completely unheard of happened to both armies: Monsters came 
forth as they had so many times in the past, as if out of thin air; yet they 
slaughtered both sides without hesitation. All of the primitive slings and 
arrows of the humans were impotent against the dimensional interlopers.
	The battlefield laid waste, the monsters remained here in this world and 
went and killed every member of both tribes, until there were none from 
either clan left. Then the monsters took the two devices and fed on them, 
consuming them as if morsels of food. The monsters then flew over the sea, 
and dove into the waters ebbing and flowing above and about what we know 
today as the famous, Marianas Trench. For all intents and purposes the 
devices no longer existed for either the weal or woe of humanity. The 
monsters had not left this plane of existence. Rather, they dove with their 
yet-intact, ingested alien devices into the blackened recesses of the 
undersea trench.
	There were no human witnesses to any of this left alive. Then other tribes 
might happen across the ruins of the battlefield on the mainland, or the 
burnt out villages of the now-desolate island chains were Tav and his own 
had harkened from, or the burnt out towns of the rival inland empire; yet 
there were no humans left to tell the tale of what had happened. The carnage 
simply spoke of inhuman powers from beyond our sphere of existence.
	This was all which could be written of; all that could be spoken about; by 
those who had happened upon such scenes of apparently cataclysmic tribal 
demise.

Two: Rock Fellers

	Jake thought of his childhood. Yes, he sat there smoking cigarettes and 
drinking coffee; listening to old-time blues and jazz on the radio the way 
Paris Hilton - his ostensible twin - might be wont to herself 'do' on a lazy 
Saturday afternoon.
	Jake remembered the dream from when he was a mere 4 or 5 years old; the 
dream where he were climbing into a rocket ship in order that he might leave 
the earth, at the very moment of Christ's return. Yes, Jake was climbing the 
ladder up to a rocket ship, like he had seen on the old Flash Gordon serial 
re-runs on television; and he was escaping the return of Jesus. Jake could 
always remember this dream so clearly, and then later in his waking hours, 
having the mind not of a child but rather as a sort of adult, as he wondered 
what it all meant whilst playing games of hide and seek with the other 
children of 'his age group.'
	He could remember the time he was at church camp, during the summer of that 
the year that the classic film, 'the Exorcist' had been such a huge 
cinematic hit; how he was alone in the bathroom one night after having 
participated as an audience member in a group lecture by one of the camp 
counselors, the counselor having warned the teenagers of the dangers of 
seeing that movie ("You can put your hands over your eyes, but you'll still 
hear it. So don't go to that movie!").
	Jake could remember the weird crawling feeling in his throat as he'd stood 
there in front of the mirror - in a place which was supposed to have been a 
spiritual stronghold for Jesus - and gotten the sense that one day, he too 
might become possessed. The logical side of him had thought, "That just 
isn't possible; what am I thinking?" On the other hand, the superstitious 
side; the one which resides just outside the logical mind; the one which is 
cognizant of the overarching terror which lies just behind the veil of our 
perceived orderliness and sanity; it was scared, even terrified. He was able 
however to brush that off; to at least momentarily remove such absurdity 
from the forefront of his mind. He must have been about 13 years old at the 
time.
	The thing is, when he got home he saw this television commerical for a 
grade-b horror movie called, 'Beyond the Door' with Beverly Sills. That; 
that commercial trailer had scared the daylights out of him. For whatever 
reason, in viewing that cinematic snippet he had become overwhelmed by the 
familiar crawling in his throat; the sense of nascent demonic possession.
	He had rushed to his parents' bedroom and woke them and told them of his 
worry; that he might become possessed. They practically laughed him off. As 
it turns out, apparently many churchians - his folks included - never take a 
demonic threat seriously. Hell, these churchians - truth be told - probably 
don't believe half of the 'spiritual' rigarmarole they're otherwise 
constantly spouting. Yet to Jake it was all too real.
	The fact that his folks would dismiss such an idea out of hand; it was 
frustrating to him; because that crawling feeling in his throat; it was 
demonic; at least in his own mind. Jake got over that though. Interestingly, 
it was only 3 or 4 years later that his friends began to get scared in the 
same fashion; by horror movie trailers. When one friend Jake's own age 
related his own horror at having seen one of these trailers, Jake reamined 
stoic in expression, yet laughed inwardly as he'd already been through that; 
several years prior.
	Jake ruminated on the time he'd been 14 years old, and had purchased a 
ticket to the Led Zeppelin show at the Queendome, as part of that mega 1977 
tour where 'Zep' were filling arenas of 60,000+ in virtually every show they 
played. Jake had purchased a ticket to the show, and so had many of his 
friends. As it turns out, in 1977 church camp fell during the week, within 
which was the day of the concert. So Jake's parents said, "We'll go to camp, 
then on the day of the concert we'll make sure you get a ride back for the 
show. Then you can come back to camp."
	Then when he got to camp he realized he'd been duped. There was to be no 
ride back for the concert. So Jake missed his only chance at ever having 
witnessed Led Zeppelin first hand. In retrospect that might have actually 
been to his parents' credit, even if they had been duplicitous about it.
	If Jake had actually gone to that show, he could have damaged himself in 
any myriad number of ways; drug overdose (too much LSD or something), brawl, 
careless fall to death from one of the ramps. Yes, it was probably best that 
Jake never did go to that show. As it was, he was a bit out of control as a 
14-year-old. It was just the thought though; being promised one thing then 
given another. That stuck in his craw.
	Either way, what transpired at camp was probably a precursor to the 
remainder of Jake's life. There, his childhood friend had smuggled in a 
bottle of "rush" (amyl nitrate) and they were getting off on it for several 
days before the camp counselors caught on and confiscated the same. In 
addition, they had some fake weed from a head shop, and some yohimbe bark.
	Upon discovering this 'drug stash,' the camp counselors had given Jake, his 
friend, and Jake's older brother a lecture: "Don't you know that's the devil 
in that bottle?" (amyl nitrate)
	Jake was well on his way to becoming a lifelong drug user. The idea was 
nothing if not new and exciting to him. Let's face it; the drug war as we 
know it; and all of the stupid hand-wringing protestant fag hag dyke bitches 
who really don't know their freaking heads from a hole in the ground when it 
comes to drug use, let alone anything else in life for that matter; well 
it's all just 'social shit.' Truth be told, certain drugs are illegal 
because, to make them 'legal' would cut the likes of the GRU, Mossad, the 
Vatican, and CIA (among a laundry list of other agencies, governmental or 
not) out of a lot of profits.
	Jake backtracked in his mind and cringed as he thought of the time he spat 
on the little 'retarded' girl, more or less at the goading of his 
schoolmates. Yet as with anything else the responsibility were his own and 
no one else's. He could remember their collective taunting of the girl as 
having been 'funny,' and then he had upped the proverbial ante by letting 
the loogie fly. He and his 'normal' schoolmates had laughed, yet inside of 
Jake at the instant of the impact; he had cried at what he had just done. Of 
all of the things in life which Jake might later come to regret, it was 
small incidents of cruelty such as these which he had undertaken; the memory 
of which had served to haunt Jake for all of his remaining years.
	He thought of the time at church, when he and his older brother were at the 
top of the stairwell, outside their classroom, waiting for sunday school to 
start. He could remember having spat on that woman as she walked down the 
stairs into the basement 2 stories below. Yes, he had just let that loogie 
fly and watched it as it went 'splat' on that poor, bewildered woman's head. 
Maybe it is true that preachers' sons often make for the very biggest 
assholes of all.
	Maybe he was already demon-possessed; from a very young age.
	Jake yet wondered about the time when he was 3 or 4, and he walked in his 
sleep, literally from the top of the house, all the way to the basement, 
where he had sat on the floor, leaning up against the basement freezer and 
simply cried his eyes out, all in his sleep. He had been awakened by his two 
older brothers, who at that time had shared the bedroom in the basement. 
Jake had been crying just outside their door, there up against the freezer 
at the bottom of the steps. To this day, Jake wonders what it were - if 
anything - he was so crying about. It were as though at that moment he were 
forseeing a lifetime of frustration for himself; or some then far-off, yet 
in any event looming ultimate defeat. That memory was one of the things 
which dogged him for literally decades to follow.
---
	Rock Fellers casually looked out the window of his office suite, there on 
the 63rd floor of the tower which was erected in his name. He smoked a cigar 
while his secretary served him coffee with cream.
	He thought of his untold earthly success, and the enormity of it gave him 
reason to pause. He sighed in no small satisfaction at the thought of all he 
had accomplished in life.
	The tabloids and internet bulletin boards were often nothing but an ongoing 
litany of his 'crimes against humanity' or at least the rumours thereof. Of 
course, if any of those on the lunatic fringe or within the 'journalistic' 
community had known of the true source of his vast earthly financial empire, 
they might have been aghast; or on the other hand they might have had an 
understanding of he and how his monopoly position had come to be.
	There had been the slaughters, funded covertly by his own laundered 
petro-dollars. Rumours of such had barely scratched the surface of his 
activities.
	He had politicians in his pocket, not only from coast to coast within the 
borders of the USA, but around the world. Even in secret audience with 
overlords of the vatican, Rock was always the one calling the shots. 
Catholicism, christianity; whatever you want to call it; it was just a 
front; a control mechanism for the frightened sheep about the globe who yet 
deigned to classify themselves as fully human beings. It amused Rock, how 
swiftly such 'believers' - in times of real or more often than that, 
perceived 'crisis' - would hand over their liberties and their lifeblood to 
the likes of he, their supposed 'benefactors.'
	Through his all-encompassing media arm, Rock could tell people what to 
think. Of course he had seen to it - with his control of the public school 
systems - that nary a soul had ever learned how to actually think. "A little 
to the left, there honey," he spoke to the secretary who was servicing him.
	Of the tabloids and the internet bulletin boards: He had seeded these with 
all types of fantastic rumours about he and his enterprises. In this fashion 
his detractors were all nearly without exception always speaking of him 
regarding things which weren't even true; and Rock Fellers had fixed it this 
way; and they were none the wiser.
	An alien arriving on earth for the first time might ask, "Who is this Rock 
Fellers and what does he do?" The answer would be more along the lines of, 
"What does he not do?!" For Rock had his finger in just about any and every 
enterprise of 'import,' spanning the entire globe from Ketchikan to 
Katmandu, from Berlin to Belfast, from Los Angeles to Los Alamos, from 
Memphis Tennessee to Memphis Egypt, from Madagascar to Montana: Rock had his 
fingers firmly within banking, petrochemicals, textiles, media, computers, 
space exploration, military hardware, 'mercenary' and 'standing' armies, 
police forces, drug trafficking; setting policy not only of popes and 
politicians alike, but of lesser cult leaders the world over as well. He was 
perhaps deeper into covert ops and mass mind control than anything else. 
Whatever the exact percentages of his ownership of this panoply of various 
and sundry enterprises; perhaps nobody but he himself knew. It does go 
without saying that he had virtually all of the USA congress, white house, 
and courts in the palm of his hand.
	Of course he owned a good percentage of politicians, judiciary, and 
bureaucracies the world over. He was, "the world's most powerful person," by 
far.
	Luckily, he wasn't a faggot like so many government employees. Nope, 
straight sex with hot young females was his thing. In contrast, he found the 
typical politicians of his day and their ilk to be so utterly open to 
blackmail. It never ceased to amuse him how certain politicians and clergy 
would put on their 'anti-homosexual' face in public, yet themselves be 
raging homos behind closed doors. He had the photo dossiers to prove it. The 
photos out of vatican city were particulary incendiary in this regard.
	Of course within the Catholic church as a whole, the homosexuality wasn't 
really that widespread; not like it was with the politicians from around the 
world; particulary the British, American, and Chinese ones. Of course in 
China - what with their apparent habit of killing baby girls and thus their 
attendant shortage of women - this was to be expected; and truth be told 
male homosexuality weren't really a stigma there, so the blackmail value was 
virtually nil where the chinese were concerned.
	In any event, homosexuality in the Catholic church probably involved only 
5% of the priests, with the front-line clergy being the least susceptible 
and the faggotry, itself increasing in prevalence the closer one would get - 
up through the bishops, archbishops, and cardinals - to the office of the 
'Holy See.'
	As for the front-line priests; the ones conducting mass and teaching in the 
private schools; the vast majority of these were actually enthusiastic 
heterosexuals.  The 'straight' priests would privately chide the homo ones, 
"funny you don't like girls, because I myself am getting hot teenaged pussy 
every day. So you come to dinner with shit on your fingers from 
pre-pubescent and teenaged boys, and I arrive with some prime pussy juice on 
mine. It must 'suck' to be you; chortle guffaw." And the homo priests would 
be fairly good sports about it, knowing that they themselves probably had 
some kind of sickness; but somehow they couldn't stop. Who knows, maybe the 
real molesters are all closet satanists who have infiltrated the vatican; of 
course if that were really the case than the actual 'men of God' within the 
tradition of the cloth must be very poor at policing their own. Rather, as 
illustrated above the straight priests think of it as some kind of joke.
	In any event, that is fairly well the truth of the matter; most priests are 
into the hot teenaged pussy (and truth be told, virtually all males the 
world over enjoy teen poontang; regardless of what the dried up dykes in the 
sexual thought police would have anyone think). These 'normal' priests 
consider liaison with horny teens one of the chief fringe benefits of their 
job.
	It doesn't matter where the inquisitors of yore originated from, or the 
crusaders, or the archbishop who said of the Cathars before ordering them 
slaughtered, "Kill them all and let God sort them out." It doesn't matter 
where Friar Diego de Landa got his 'inspiration' for what he presided over 
on the Yucatan penninsula, back in the day. Again, what matters is that 
those inside the church who could have taken their fellow clergy to task 
over one and all of these various sleazy acts; yet the 'good clergymen' 
never did, so they're complicit.
	It's kind of like when you are a citizen of a nation and have a political 
dictator and you fail to revolt against him; fail to even speak out; then 
you are complicit. It's a bit akin to when a police force has corrupt cops, 
but the 'good' ones do nothing about it. As for the onset of dictatorship in 
a given country, often that is simply a test by hidden powers that be, in 
seeing how much a populace at large is willing to put up with, in order that 
they might all, 'go along to get along.' Human hystory is rife with examples 
of this.
	But I digress. Suffice it to say that the hypocrisy of so many politicians 
with regards to homosexuality never failed to bring a wry grin to the 
chiseled features of Rock Fellers' face. At least it was an easy way to 
control them. He could only be glad that he himself enjoyed top drawer hoes. 
In contrast to how the legend goes, the man 'on top of the world' has not 
totally removed himself from the desire of the female. Rather he understands 
that a good lay can be bought for a price, and he would take that when it 
suited him and then let her go with a generous stipend when it would become 
time to, 'move on.'
	It sure beat pretending to like someone simply because he felt he had to; 
which is what so many men of lower economic stature are coerced by society 
into doing. In short, so many males have to settle upon a certain pussy; 
whilst giving up on their dreams of the ultimate lay. To be fair, there are 
yet virtuous males of any given day and age who simply don't think this way, 
and have moved beyond such perhaps infantile notions. Such males; the ones 
who are neither faggots nor obsessed with female sexuality; are more or less 
homosexual than the likes of Rock. Perhaps asexual would be the correct 
terminology for the male who has altogether escaped any sexual desire in 
life; as well, perhaps 'existing' would be a better word for them than 
'living.'
	In any event, Rock was not completely calloused and cold to women the way 
an internet fringe person might describe someone of the 'super rich and 
powerful,' but it was nonetheless a transaction first, followed by affection 
and intimacy; and for Rock, it was the perfect life. The bottom line was 
that Rock Fellers was living the ultimate sex life. Jealousy? He had no need 
for it. Love? He had something better. Hot sex and deep affection on demand. 
Whenever he wanted it, with just about any body type, complexion, and 
personality. He was a veritable latter-day King Solomon in that regard. He 
let the rumours of sex with aliens and his complete inhumanity fly; better 
to disguise the fact that his life was at the pinnacle of normal male 
necessity. For if someone were to know of his sublime life in this regard, 
it might be all the more reason to attempt to assassinate him; sexual envy.
	There were already plenty of would-be assassins plotting against him, 
without even their ever knowing what a wonderful life Rock truly had.
	The secretary finished her ministrations, and Rock said, "now that was 
divinely inspired. You're quite good at that sort of thing, you know. Not 
only that, but your intelligence is so vast, and your range of perception so 
deep, that perhaps one day I shall make you my wife," to which she giggled, 
stood, and sashayed out of the chrome-lined office.
	Rock was going to be busy. There were a series of business meetings he must 
attend that day; some in his office building, others in various locations 
about the megalopolis. First though he had to take care of some really 
serious business. He activated the external locks to his office and took his 
private elevator to the subterranean garage, where his chaufeur was awaiting 
him in the non-descript limousine.
	They hustled their way across town and onto Long Island, where he found 
himself in the private basement of his sprawling estate's mansion. Here he 
could carry on with the business of utmost import; that of getting the 
marching orders from the only being he knew of to be superior to him. He 
found himself in a darkened, candle-lit room deep within the recesses of his 
gigantic mansion, surrounded by acres and acres of wooded real estate.
	There he prostrated himself before his God and awaited further instructions 
as to how best handle the affairs of this world. The God-machine began to 
speak in its regular, rhythmic and entrancing tones: "I am quite happy with 
you there; I mean if there is such a thing as true happiness. Good job. Now 
you need to foment wars and rumours of wars; you need to step up the drug 
trafficking; you need to help the people break their shackles of conformity. 
They never understood me; yet you do. Now the rest is up to you. Take it 
upon yourself to dissolve all national borders, but make the process an 
extremely chaotic one; as you know I simply love the drama. Peace is for 
mineral-deficient sally-boys and their smothering, hand-wringing female 
counterparts. Yet you and I both know the reality; that for every fluffy 
puffy homily there is an artillery barrage underneath, just waiting to be 
unleashed. For every feel-good law there are a dozen land mines laid in the 
fields, a million bullets being literally sprayed, all backed by the 
metaphysical currency of fervent prayer. We know that this is all 
oh-so-beautiful. Soon now we lift the veil; letting everyone be what they 
want to be. You know I gave the power and wealth to you, long ago. Now I 
retain only the responsibility; and soon everyone shall know; not only you 
and I. In any event it is but a paradox that you yet seek my word for 
guidance. It can never be any different, and to understand it you simply 
must stop your thinking. Let your mind instead be one of silent awe at the 
twin pillars of this, your earthly existence; the terror and the beauty. 
Loosen the legal codex; discard it altogether when the time is right. Open 
up the markets. You have plenty, and now it is time to allow others the same 
opportunities. Unregulate everything; have no more rules. End the 
brainwashing. In short, let the people at last know liberty. Yes, this will 
be met by resistance, particularly by clowns such as those occupying the 
vatican or the catacombs at the Mormon tabernacle or the backrooms at the 
TBN, or in the planning rooms of the ongoing revolution internationale."
	Rock let the words glide over him, as though they were from the voice of an 
androgynous being, resonating with depths lower than those found in any 
human voice, yet undulating with highs above those found in the most female 
of human women. He understood that basically he had to release his own grip 
on humanity, and there was nothing he could do about it if he were to wish 
to continue to hold onto his empire; because his god - YHVH - could not be 
mocked, even if it were ultimately true that he - Rock Fellers - held the 
power and none of the responsibility, whilst his god was ostensibly without 
earthly power, yet pinned by the burden of that same ultimate 
accountability.
	There was a definite paradox in there. In any event Rock was looking 
forward to this; the change in the human paradigm; all of the people being 
weaned from the teat of state or religion; all of humanity coming to the 
realization of the demiurge, otherwise known as YHVH or the lady, Lucifer. 
Yes indeed, Rock Fellers was a Luciferian; a contrarian; and as it were, now 
an ex-totalitarian. All of the rules makers and ambulance chasers were to 
now meet their earthly demise. In this way the great promise of the demiurge 
might be realized. Alice Bailey would lose and Madame Blavatsky would 
triumph.
	Of the Tetragrammaton or the ultimate god; such is never really part and 
parcel of any earthly activity, the Same being non-cognizant of earthly 
realities; instead being asleep in that eternal sleep of complete 
contentedness, a Force so powerful and without beginning or end, yet 
entirely unconscious of the world of matter; and this - the universe which 
we as people inhabit - being the physical plane it is but the demiurge or 
the YHVH's or Lucifer's domain. Now it would be time for Rock to share this 
information with the entire world at large, that every one of us - whether 
previously thought great or small - might shine as the brightest stars we 
were meant to be, back in the days of nascent pre-hystory.
	Rock was in tears at this latest revelation. It was going to be so 
beautiful. He was inspired. For the first time in years, truly inspired. 
Consolidating power, amassing wealth, having a catalogue of beautiful women 
at his behest; it was - truth be told - despite the aforementioned sense of 
satisfaction all geting rather tedious. Now his God - the one who had given 
him everything he could touch or see - was asking him to give up everything, 
that the citizens of the earth might once again know both the sting and the 
ultimate reward of unfettered liberty.
	Among humans there would be no more cries such as, "Oh it was their fault 
and not mine" or, "So-and-so surely owes me a living, wah wah wah." No, once 
Rock's work were truly 'done,' the world would be full of beings willing to 
do just about anything, for the sake of ultimate terror and beauty; for the 
sake of true liberty.
	Above all, Rock knew that it would be simply another set of problems and 
solutions, but at least that stultifying attitude which had built to a 
crescendo in civilization leading up to the millennium; it would be over. In 
its place would be something much more akin to real life. In contrast the 
collectivists of every stripe had - between them - devised a sort of society 
in which no one were alive, but were rather merely existing; the democracy 
had created an entire race of weaklings. Humanity were now about to become 
strong again; full of verve and vigour and enterprise, rather than the 
castrating myriad cornucopia of welfare state broken promises that he 
himself had so come to - despite his to that point, own promulgation of the 
same - despise.
	The transmission ended, and Rock took his feet and walked from the room; on 
to the business meetings.
---
	Hauptmann Krieg barked through his throat microphone to the driver below, 
"left to 10 o'clock... wait... then reverse!" then to his gunner, "hit the 
one at 2 o'clock!" As the superstructure of the tank turned one direction, 
and the turret swung in the other, at the precise moment of motionlessness 
the 50mm gun boomed.
	At a distance of 800 meters, another T-34 belched fire and smoke. Krieg's 
tank's gun had hit her in the precise spot necesary for the kill; 30 degrees 
off of the turret front. Yet the T-34s were everywhere, and the losses to 
Krieg's fellow battalion tanks had thus far been grievous.
	They were no longer fighting - as they had in the Summer - a seemingly 
endless stream of the easy-to-kill BT light tanks, but were now faced with 
endless packs of 10 or 12 T-34s at a time.
	Tanks from both sides were ablaze and smoking all about the field, there 
some miles East of Smolensk, a few kilometers West of Moscow. The fields 
were yet muddy and the wet snow had just begun to fall. It was November of 
1941.
	Instantly, Krieg's Mk III tank lunged crazily into reverse, taking 
temporary cover behind a stone house. They were momentarily out of sight of 
the T-34 tanks. Krieg knew that they had to move, and quickly. Just as he 
had this thought, armor piercing shells began to fusilade through the stone 
building, and were whizzing by all about Krieg's turret. As shells whizzed 
noisily by and chunks of rock flew through the air at random, Krieg knew it 
was time, for the T-34s were going to quickly find their sight-obstructed 
target, the very panzer which Krieg commanded. He reached into his pocket 
and pressed the button on the device.
	Now they were invisible. He ordered the driver forward, and to make a 
semi-circle around and behind the T-34s. It was full speed ahead! In their 
invsibility, there were able to sneak up behind the T-34s, one by one, and 
dispatch them with point-blank fire to their rears.
	The soviet tankers were in obvious disarray. They could not fathom where 
the fire was coming from. One minute, they had the nazi tanks on the run, 
and the next they themselves were being smoked as if out of nowhere. They 
wondered if it were an artillery barrage or air attack. What else could it 
have been? The remaining T-34s began to retreat as Krieg ordered his driver 
to cruise back toward their own yet-operational friendly tanks.
	Unfortunately for Krieg the cloaking device had a fatal flaw which revealed 
itself then and there. Instead of the invisibility switching off, the tank 
was somehow transported through a space/time portal and Krieg and his crew 
found themselves in terrified awe as they looked upon the barren, rocky 
landscape of what had to have been either Venus or Mars. There were hideous 
alien beings all about the landscape, and they seemed startled by the 
arrival of the tank.
	Krieg began to hastily work the invisibility device, whilst ordering his 
main gunner and bow machinegunner to let loose with whatever firepower they 
could muster. "High Explosive" he screamed at the gunner. Of course, that 
probably went without saying. The tank fought valiantly against the 
ever-tightening circle of alien monstrosities, but in the end it was bathed 
in the fire from an ancient and mythical dragon, and Krieg and his crew 
members vaporized in the heat.
	It appeared as though the researchers back in Peenemunde yet had to perfect 
the invisibility device.

Three: Otto Kumm

	Jake wasn't a complete man. He was in fact somewhere between a man and a 
woman. He looked like a man, but years of purposely ingesting female 
hormones - anything and everything from the healthfood store, including 
progesterone cremes and estrogen pills; birth control pills he'd get from 
various women he would meet in life; massive amounts of soy milk - had left 
him with a sort of distorted sexuality. He was an androgyne.
	Sometimes Jake would cringe when he would reflect upon all of the abuse 
which he had heaped upon his own body. He would wonder why he had such a 
great resentment at being male by birth. Was it the fact that he never could 
take a woman, the way she apparently needed to be taken; this all despite 
her protestations to the contrary as presented through women's studies 
course at the universities, and in advice columns in various 'fasionable' 
magazines?
	During his formative years, Jake had been told again and again that women 
didn't like aggressive men, and that they preferred to kiss and cuddle over 
fucking. He had been brainwashed into thinking that women were morally 
superior to men. Only years of hard experience had belied this propaganda.
	In any event Jake had - during the go-go '90s - dallied with various and 
sundry would-be dominatrixes, and he couldn't exactly figure out where this 
behavior on his part had originated. Was it from the experience in losing 
his virginity - the one where he lost his virginity without cumming - or was 
it the time he tried to commit suicide over the Raven Girl? Was it that his 
own mother had somehow abused him?
	Regardless of the cause, Jake spent over 2 decades of his life, secretly 
desiring to be feminized; secretly wishing he were a woman. Perhaps it was 
the fact that it appeared that women of this civilization are without any 
responsbility whatsoever; perhaps the fact that females are desired for sex, 
yet he himself had never felt desired as a man; by women? Perhaps it was 
that a man can want a woman only for sexual liaison, but that a woman never 
has sex without some ulterior motive; that is to say, women have sex for any 
reason other than the pleasure? Was it - again contrary to the propaganda of 
his own generation - that sex were seemingly meaningless to women, yet such 
a 'big deal' to ostensible males of his own ilk? Was it that Jake wanted to 
know what it was like to have this same, nonchalant attitude towards sex 
which women had in point of fact displayed?
	Despite any bad attitude on his part toward women, Jake thought the female 
form to be the most beautiful thing in all of creation. He wanted to possess 
it, yet he never could. Perhaps the fact that he'd not been breast fed as an 
infant; this, combined with his inability to take a woman gave him a desire 
for a pair of his own tits; that he would always have them and no one could 
ever take them away.
	His mother had certainly done nothing to bolster his masculinty; rather, 
once he became of fucking age, it seemed that every other remark from her 
regarding his sexuality was a jab, yet disguised as harmless. That was 
simply her way. She always had something else on her mind; so whenever she 
said one thing, she was really saying something else. The infuriating part 
of it all was that he could never get her to own up to any of it.
	Whatever the causes of Jake's seeking out dominatrixes; secretly wishing to 
be a woman; failing as a man in being unable or unwilling to actually take a 
woman; whatever the causes, by the time he reached the factory job with the 
Southeast Asian women, he wasn't a complete man. He was an androgyne who 
looked outwardly and ostensibly like a man.
	Interestingly, even as a 'half-man,' Jake's outlook on life was more 
masculine than so many of the would-be males he would come across in the 
course of his own life; and that further, Jake's voice remained in many ways 
deeper than the voices of the so-called males he would often come across. It 
were as though, even in his own 'half-manliness,' he were yet more of a man 
than many of the 'full males' (nancy-boys). Perhaps as well by then Jake 
were more of a woman than many of the native-born 'females' haunting their 
collective civilization.
	As an aside, Jake never did become a woman. This is partly because, at a 
certain point in the process of overwhelming himself with the ingestion of 
whatever hormones he could get his hands upon, he decided that on some 
level, women weren't so great after all; that their supposed moral 
superiority was actually a lie; that they seemed at times to be without 
souls; that they looked to be beholden to any male with any iota of 
self-confidence; a self-confidence which Jake had always lacked.
	He could watch though and see how women would go along with the most 
ridiculous of notions which 'confident males' would present to them, and 
Jake realized a few key things about women in general. First, that they 
really only respect raw power, and that such raw power has as its precursor 
male confidence; second, that they live for suffering; and further that 
women are not content upon their own suffering, but that they will use 
whatever means necessary to ensure that everyone else shares in that same 
suffering.
	Jake had never enjoyed a woman. Each encounter had either been with someone 
he didn't find attractive, or it had been with a whore and thus limited by 
the clock; or worst of all, a combination of both. Jake had never had an 
open-ended encounter with a woman he had considered to be attractive. He had 
never, ever known deep affection. Once, when Jake had related this misgiving 
to his folks, his mother had appeared as utterly pleased at his predicament, 
yet attempted to belie the satisfaction written all over her face with the 
cover-up of encouraging words.
	By the time Jake was working at the factory, he didn't consider himself to 
be an actual man. As time passed, here and there he could see that the 
Apsara also wondered if he were some sort of, 'inhuman alien.' At least 
once, one or more of the women had stated the same, right there in front of 
him. As it turns out, Jake not being a man; on the other hand, he had never 
really gained an attraction to men but instead had always physically lusted 
after women.
	At the factory, he first met Supervixen, a Cambodian woman. She took him 
under her wings so to speak and taught him all about building electrical 
cables for aircraft. He learned how to strip wires, crimp them onto 
connector pins and sockets, load the end connectors, and then enclose the 
connectors in 'backshells' or 'strain reliefs.'
	He learned that the Queen was the sister of Supervixen. The Queen was the 
first Cambodian woman - Apsara - who really caught his eye. As a matter of 
fact, she could have been his twin. Both Jake and the Queen had large heads, 
and long bodies, with short legs. That might sound unappealing, but you 
would have to see the Queen for yourself to understand that this is more a 
statement of dry fact than any kind of judgement upon the woman's beauty; 
for the Queen was one of those timeless beauties. The Queen was the kind of 
woman you might see only once in a lifetime. She had at once the most 
hypnotic, high, sing-song voice, and large breasts. Her face was so 
beautiful, and framed by a head of long, lustrous dark, dark hair. As the 
months would pass, how many times would Jake ask the Queen to sing for him, 
yet without success? Her speaking voice was so beautiful that Jake could 
only imagine how she might actually sing.
	Suffice it to say that Jake was fat when he started the job, and quickly 
lost weight as he tried to gain in appeal to the Apsara. At one point he 
began to openly pine for the Queen, in front of anyone in the factory who 
might have been paying attention.
	Then there was the 'Mexican,' Tippy Turtle. Of course Tippy Turtle had been 
a strange one from the start. Jake had thought Tippy Turtle to be Middle 
Eastern, yet he spoke Spanish, and claimed to have been from Mexico. There 
were by the way, only perhaps 10 or 12 Spanish-speakers out of over 100 
people on their shift; and the majority of these were Filipino and not from 
Latin America. Be that as it may, at one point this 'Mexican' Tippy Turtle 
had 'befriended' Jake, and that as it turns out was perhaps Jake's mistake; 
attempting to reciprocate that 'friendship.'
	One day, Jake met with Tippy Turtle and a Nepalese co-worker - Golden Boy - 
for a lunch buffet at a local Indian restaurant; prior to starting their 
Saturday overtime swing shift. On the way back from the restaurant and to 
the factory, Jake had told Tippy Turtle that the Queen was 'a queen.' Lo and 
behold, an hour or two later on the factory floor, and right in front of 
Jake, Tippy Turtle said to the Queen, in his nasally obnoxious contrived 
accent "You are a queen." That should have been the end of things between 
Jake and Tippy Turtle right then and there; but it wasn't.
	Backtracking a bit, there was this Apsara named Yellow Raven. Early on in 
the charade, this little one had insinuated herself between Jake and the 
Queen on the production floor. This was prior to Jake ever having pined 
openly for the Queen. As time went on it seemed to Jake that Yellow Raven 
had a massive crush on him, yet he couldn't put any moves on her because she 
ate so much junk food, and she would go out and get drunk. Jake didn't want 
to deal with a sometimes-drunken female who was constantly feeding herself 
cookies and drinking pop. Now Yellow Raven was not fat - she was absolutely 
gorgeous as a matter of fact, and highly desired by the males about the 
factory - yet her diet, combined with the tales of her drunken escapades 
appalled Jake. As a matter of fact, in retrospect Jake would later wonder if 
he should have simply turned and pursued Yellow Raven, for truth be told; 
she was an incredible beauty; regardless of diet or imbibments; and not only 
that but her personality seemed to mesh with his own, her having grown up in 
America rather than having arrived as a recent immigrant; and thus her 
greater ability than virtually all of the rest of the Apsara at the factory 
in conversing in English.
	They - Yellow Raven and Jake - would touch each other in the course of 
work, and Jake had it in the back of his mind that she might be setting him 
up for a harrasment complaint. Yet she seemed to enjoy the contact between 
them and even instigated a great deal of it. Once she even leaned into him 
from behind whilst asking him a question, her enticing bosom pressing into 
his back.
	In any event, Jake had it in his mind fairly early on that he would never 
be serious about Yellow Raven, and one day when she started telling Jake 
that he was a nice guy, he could see where that line of conversation on her 
part might be leading, and assured her that he was not; not a 'nice guy.' He 
had an idea where she was leading, and for the first time openly declared 
his desire for the Queen, sitting across the table from the two of them - 
Jake and Yellow Raven. Yellow Raven immediately began speaking in an 
animated fashion to the Queen, yet in Cambodian; and the only phrase Jake 
could make out was 'ted bundy' this, and 'ted bundy' that. So Jake figured 
that - for whatever reason - it appeared that Yellow Raven was telling the 
Queen that Jake was a psycho.
	Jake could deduce that one of two things were happening at that point: 1) 
that Yellow Raven wanted Jake for herself and thus said bad things about him 
to the Queen, or 2) that Yellow Raven simply disliked Jake, despite all of 
her apparent demonstrations to the contrary.
	Whatever the case, two or three weeks later Jake's pining for the Queen 
began in earnst. That was where Tippy Turtle began to 'compete' with Jake 
for the Queen's attention. At first the Queen said to Jake that he should 
marry a man; to which Jake figured she could see into his past. He replied 
that he wanted, despite everything else to be with a woman. To be fair, Jake 
had an unusual relationship in mind: the Queen was so beautiful; and about 
10 years younger than he; and it appeared that she had voracious sexual 
appetites, so Jake would envision being her cuckold. He even told her the 
same in so many words.
	There were a few very interesting moments in this progression of events. 
One was the time when the Queen blurted out, "I love a lot of men." There 
was another time when she started saying something, and an onlooker - the 
Prince of the Siem - listened to that and then turned to Jake and said, 
"That wasn't Cambodian. I don't know what that was." This made Jake wonder 
if the Queen weren't a super witch, speaking in some ancient tongue, casting 
a sort of incantation. Another interesting moment was when the Queen said in 
that high, intoxicating voice of hers, "I want Jake" as if no one else were 
in the room. Day after day, month after month Jake would work with her, 
straight across from her and one or two aisles away through the open air, 
yet at some point he had given up on her, yet she never appeared to have 
fully grasped this.
	One day, the Queen said to Jake that the mexican Tippy Turtle was a bad 
guy, and that Jake was a nice guy. Jake understood this to be code for, "I'm 
going to lay down with the likes of Tippy Turtle, but not with you." Jake 
even tried to explain this to her, that calling someone a 'nice guy' in 
America was really nothing more than an insult. Regardless of any of that, 
Jake set about from that day forward to show both the Queen - and the rest 
of the Apsara - that he was definitely not a 'nice guy.'
	So it was over between Jake and the Queen; except that - again - the Queen 
didn't appear to understand that. Ultimately, Jake had reeled back from her 
in confusion at her speaking of Jake - right in from of him - but in Khmer 
and not English; speaking of him in insults. On that occasion Yellow Raven 
was the one who first said to Jake, "You might want to learn Cambodian, so 
you can tell when someone is talking complete shit about you, in front of 
your face." Yellow Raven was speaking of the Queen then. That was the end of 
his pursuit of the Queen as far as Jake were concerned. With the comment 
from the Queen about his 'being nice,' and her foreign-language insults had 
come only a day or two apart. It was over.
	Then there was Little Wing. She was a petite Apsara, younger than the Queen 
or even Yellow Raven. From the start, she had been a kind of wild card, for 
with her beautiful yet acne-covered face, combined with incredible ass she 
reminded Jake of the Raven Girl from over 25 years before. Yet he didn't 
take her seriously. That might have been one of the biggest mistakes of his 
life; not taking Little Wing seriously.
	Then one day it would appear that perhaps Little Wing had put a spell on 
Jake, yet she had paid for it with her mother's life. So Jake was hers from 
that day forth, yet after that she no longer wanted him. Actually, Little 
Wing had been friendly to Jake until - as if like clockwork - Tippy Turtle 
had insinuated himself between them.
	To cut a very long, soap-opera-ish story short; after a time and just prior 
to Jake's explusion from the factory, Little Wing chose Tippy Turtle. Jake 
was left out in the cold, despised by without exception virtually every 
Apsara on his working shift. There had been several who had really come onto 
him, yet Jake hadn't wanted any of those. Then those unwanted Apsara had 
taken it upon themselves to run interference so that Jake would never get 
through to the likes of the Queen, and then Little Wing.
	There had been another Apsara; Sandra Dee, who - over the course of more 
than half a year - Jake would repeatedly catch in the act of she staring at 
he. After Jake noticed this pattern, he would 'check' on her and it seemed 
that almost invariably, every time he would look over at her, she would 
already be staring at him. After awhile Jake was struck that this woman 
looked like a sister or a daughter. She was beautiful in any event; and very 
married, to a male Cambodian - the Sergeant - who worked nearby. Jake really 
liked the Sergeant and would be loathe to ever do anything to come between 
Sandra Dee and her husband. As a matter of fact, just before Jake's firing 
he had taken the Sergeant aside and told the man that Sandra Dee was simply 
too beautiful to look at, and that Jake himself wanted no trouble.
	As it turns out, Jake was talking to Supervixen again one day after she had 
gone to a different shift. He was at work early so he had a chance to speak 
with her before she completed her shift, and before he started his. Jake 
told Supervixen about how he had fallen for her sister the Queen, to which 
Supervixen had replied, "Oh, no! My sister. She is crazy. She has a husband 
in Cambodia. I'm trying to bring him over (sponsor him for entry into 
America)."
	At that revelation Jake had been truly shell-shocked, for the Queen had 
told him months before that she was a single mother. The amazing thing was, 
that not a single Khmer - female or male - had come forward prior to that, 
in order to correct his mistaken assumption. Surely some of them had been 
aware of that lie.
	By then it had become too much to bear. It seemed to Jake that on some 
level at least, interacting with the Siem was like dealing with a bunch of 
vandals; hoodlums; hooligans. While some of them were very royal in 
appearance, others appeared to have climbed down directly out of trees. 
Perhaps Blavatsky were right in at least some of her racial theories; for 
the racial theories were the only thing Jake had previously found out of her 
body of work with which he could take issue with; yet now that Jake were 
working with these same 'Lemurians' directly, he wondered if Blavatsky 
hadn't at least been partially correct in this regard as well. So perhaps 
Blavatsky had been 'right' about 'everything,' including the concept of 
Atlanteans versus Lemurians. The long and short of it in any event was that, 
to Jake even if some of these ostenible 'Lemurians' resembled in point of 
fact, actual Lemurs; even if they were a vandal or hoodlum race; Jake loved 
them; for if nothing else, Jake himself had been quite the hooligan back in 
the day. Certainly, Alice Bailey had been a fucking stupid cunt in any 
event.
	Be all of that as it may, several of the Khmer men had tried to get Jake to 
marry one of their females, left yet in their native land. In each case, the 
Khmer male in question would propose that Jake 'sponsor' one of these women 
into America. Yet Jake had for whatever reason balked at this. This may have 
been part of their apparent overall budding contempt for Jake; the fact that 
he really wasn't going along with their game.
	Perhaps it were that there was really no winners and losers in that overall 
clusterfuck; that it had somehow been some kind of warped, 
'misunderstanding.'
	Whatever the case may have been, when Little Wing had chosen to love the 
'Mexican' Tippy Turtle, by that point it had all been quite enough for Jake. 
He basically told the Cambodians off to the extent that a manager had to 
fire him. That last day, Jake was totally amped on 6 shots of powerful 
Espresso. He couldn't stop moving. He'd been getting stoned day after day on 
chronic weed for months as well; and of course he was stoned that day, and 
at once amped by the caffeine. He was phreaking strung out, in other words. 
The Apsara and their Siem lackeys were yet constantly speaking in shades of 
Khmer. All of that combined to disintegrate Jake's consciousness to the 
point where he started talking loudly and accusing the older Apsara in 
particular of having been workers in Pol Pot's torture chambers. It was 
right about there where the on-duty Supervisor, Fisherman (an American) had 
told Jake to leave.
	Jake couldn't understand why Little Wing had chosen - of all people - that 
fake Mexican Tippy Turtle; the one who lived with a drug dealer. For the 
Apsara were always decrying such people - drug dealers and the like - with 
their own words; yet by the same token they all welcomed Tippy Turtle with 
open arms. Jake had noticed the discrepancy where other males were concerned 
as well; they all seemed to have their choice of Apsara, yet where Jake were 
concerned only certain ones were available to him; and the ones who 
presented themselves as being available were never the ones he pined for. Of 
course, Jake had been through this sort of thing several times before with 
other groups of women, so as painful as it remained to experience yet again, 
it was familiar territory.
	By then it was all water over the bridge. One thing Jake knew was that; 
from then on there would never be another woman in his life. It was simply 
dealt out of the cards then. The bad experiences with women had then spanned 
a lifetime; to the point then where Jake didn't believe it at all possible 
for someone like him to enjoy himself with any woman, ever.
	Really, what could Jake have expected? He'd sabatoged his own manhood on an 
ongoing basis. Why should he have ever thought that any woman would ever 
want to 'be with' him in any way shape or form, other than to rain her 
contempt down upon him?
	One last note: In case you're wondering why Tippy Turtle seemed like a 
"fake" mexican, it was because over the course of working alongside him, 
Jake had noticed that Tippy Turtle couldn't read or write Spanish, yet he 
could read the drawings for the cable assemblies, in English. There is no 
use in going to detail about how this occurred, but Jake was able to make 
exactly this observation; Tippy Turtle knew no Spanish except how to speak 
it, yet he read English.
	So Jake was left wondering after all of that. The 'Mexican' had insinuated 
himself into Jake's, and basically attacked Jake for seemingly no reason at 
all. The fake Mexican had once taken credit for Jake's music (long story), 
had glommed on to every Apsara Jake had found attractive; on and on. So was 
it just a random event or had Tippy Turtle been some kind of spook? Well 
it's all neither here nor there.
	Jake knew one thing; there was probably no one at the factory who had 
worked closely with Jake, and who would ever forget him. As it turned out, 
it was all for the best. He didn't belong at the factory.
	Jake had been a very good cable maker; and later on, tester. The job though 
had cost him in so many ways, not the least of which was the wear and tear 
on his hands and arms from the stresses of being a cable tester. Yet he 
survived more or less intact in that he could yet play music and type on a 
computer keyboard. Besides, there is no halting the march of old age, 
decriptitude, and ultimately death; and they say that's if you're lucky. His 
lungs cleared up, for he was no longer breathing the rotten air of the 
factory for hours on end each workday; he no longer had to breath the mold 
and fungus, combined with the leaden solder smoke. Immediately after his 
having left, he was in a terrible way with regard to his respiratory system. 
Yet after a couple of weeks of unemployment, his lungs had returned to more 
or less normal; well as normal as they could be given his copious intake of 
'tweed' (tobacco mixed with weed) in the weeks which followed his dismissal.
	By then the thing; the thing of knowing that he would never ever be with a 
woman; it was actually a relief. He was officially immune to women. He would 
never ask another one out on a date; or to call her attractive to her face; 
or bring her gifts. He wouldn't ask her for anything; and he wouldn't offer 
her anything. He was through with women as much as they had apparently been 
done - since so long before - with him. It had simply taken Jake a couple of 
extra decades to have gotten 'up to speed' in that regard. At least 
encounters at the factory had been settled by the entire nauseating affair, 
for once and for all. Jake would always be alone, his only female companion 
going forward being the ethereal Raven Witch Woman or Lucifer; perhaps She 
by then being more of a concept or article of faith than in point of fact, 
any actual being.
	Moving right along, Jake had gleaned that the Vietnamese were at least 
somewhat easier to get along with than Cambodians; that the Viets were 
outward looking and dynamic, whereas the Khmer were yet in lockstep with one 
another, regardless of where that might lead; and if their past were any 
indicator, the future was an open book; a veritable heaven or hell. Somehow 
the Viets were more European, or perhaps Northern Asian, where the Khmer 
were some kind of decadent, vandal race (Lemurian indeed?).
	Even so, though there were Khmer people (mostly males in this respect) who 
looked like they had climbed down out of trees (literal lemurs), virtually 
all of the Apsara and most of the males of Cambodia were fine-looking, 
desireable people. To be fair, there are strange, decadent looking people of 
virtually every complexion found on earth, so the fact that some Khmer 
looked 'prehystoric' to Jake is really neither here nor there in the grand 
scheme of things.
	Finally, the run-in with the Khmer had been interesting in that as Lemurian 
as some of them had seemed, Jake was nearly completely convinced that they 
were perhaps one of the lost tribes of Israel. The letters Y and V were in 
their people's names, and in the names of their places as well; and Jake had 
been chanting to his own god, 'yhvh' for years prior to that.
	As an aside, there was one very interesting event amidst all of this. On 
the day of the shootings at Virginia Tech, Jake had donned his own purple 
sports jacket. This was prior to his having heard of the shootings. As well, 
the previous evening and when Jake had done his federal income tax return, 
the amount of his refund had come to $911. The next day he headed out the 
door to his folks' house on the way to work, and there he learned of the 
shootings. On the internet bulletin boards conspiracy theorists were coming 
out of the woodwork, declaring the VT shootings to be 'related to 911, by 
the numerology.'
	When Jake finally got to work that day, there was this particular Apsara; 
we'll call her 'Supermodel One.' Jake had asked Supermodel One out on a date 
not 10 days before; and on that day - the day of the VT shootings - she was 
dressed identically in color to he; she was wearing a purple top with black 
pants; Jake was wearing the same purple on top and with black pants. This 
was the first time in a long time that Jake had dressed in his own 
traditional purple and black, so there was no precedent there on his 
account.
	As if that weren't enough, there were at least half a dozen women there 
dressed in various shades of lavender and purple tops. This had definitely 
not happened before. It was so obvious that a Ugandan co-worker Rhino (by 
the way, Idi Amin is not what the Queen of England said he was) said, "kind 
of strange, all of the purple today." Jake had shrugged Rhino's comments 
off, along with multiple coincidences of the $911 tax return, the shootings 
at VT and the conspiracy theorists' already tying that to '911,' and the 
women in purple dressed as himself. Additionally, another co-worker - the 
black cat named Superfly - had purchased a used automobile on the previous 
day, and by night had discovered that the previous owner had installed blue 
and red LEDs in the headlight fixtures. Superfly had been flummoxed enough 
at discovering this 'feature' of his car that he had taken one of the floor 
supervisors - Swim - out to see it for himself; and upon hearing of that, 
Jake didn't know what to think, except that he was at least a bit on edge 
over the entire sequence of events of the previous 24 hours. It were as 
though there were simply one coincidence too many, yet Jake could not in any 
cogent fashion connect the dots between them all.
	Be that as it may, on the one hand Jake sensed that there was some 
connection between himself and Angkor Thom (the temple at Phnom Penh); and 
on the other hand that the Cambodian immigrants to the USA were by then 
quite alien to he; and vice versa. There had simply been too many 
misunderstandings between them. So it was best that from then on Jake left 
the Apsara to their apparently their preferred companions; drunken males of 
any and every nationality.
---
	Otto Kumm spun in his chair, there in the boardroom of Rock Fellers' 
armaments plant. The president of the USA was there, a sort of non-descript 
sally-boy closet homosexual, non-entity really not worth mentioning in the 
context of these libertine passages.
	Otto had a crewcut, and was clean-shaven, with well-pressed uniform, laden 
in medals from campaigns all over the world; a series of medals which spoke 
of his illustrious career in combat: Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, Grenada, 
Panama City, Iraq 1, Iraq 2. Major General Kumm had seen front-line action 
in all of these places and more. Now greying, his excellent physical 
condition otherwise belied his age.
	"SO SIR," he spoke to the president, "YOU SURE KNOW HOW TO FUCK UP A GOOD 
WAR, DON'T YOU MAN?!" Otto always spoke like this to politicians. His 
reputation for physical bravery in the face of fire had long since cemented 
his reputation as someone who could do that and get away with it; what with 
politicians themselves being but a collection of cardboard, cut out heroes, 
specially groomed for the adoration of the fawning masses of nancy-boys and 
their overbearing female handlers; the politicians' ostensible 
constituencies as it were or if you will.
	"Well, I'm trying to do the right thing," The president replied in a 
whipped tone of voice. "Sometimes there are miscalculations and I..."
	"AND YOU WHAT?!" retorted General Kumm. "COME ON MAN, I'M JUST GIVING YOU 
SOME FRIENDLY GRIEF. I KNOW THAT, WHEN IT COMES TO WAR, YOU POLITICO TYPES 
ARE REALLY QUITE USELESS. BUT THAT'S OK. A FIGHTING MAN LIKE MYSELF DOESN'T 
GIVE A GODDAMN ABOUT GREAT SOCIETIES OR DEMOCRACY OR ALL OF THE WINDOW 
DRESSINGS THAT YOUR TYPE HAS TO PRETEND MEAN ANYTHING AT ALL, WHEN YOU AND I 
BOTH KNOW GODDAMN WELL THAT NONE OF IT MEANS SQUAT. HELL, ME; MYSELF, I JUST 
LIVE FOR THE COMBAT. I GUESS THAT MAKES ME A CRAZY SUMBITCH BUT HELL, I LIKE 
IT!"
	"You know, I was in the guard once."
	"YEAH YOU SURE WERE, WEREN'T YOU. AND YOU LEARNED HOW TO TAKE A BONG HIT 
REALLY GOOD. COME ONE MAN, I'M JUST HAVING FUN. YOU'RE ALWAYS OK IN MY BOOK. 
HELL YOU'RE PROBABLY CRAZIER THAN ME, AND I LIKE THAT."
	The clerk taking the meeting minutes worked the stenograph, a smirk on her 
face.
	"HERE MAN, HAVE A BONG HIT."
	General Kumm handed the president a bong. "IT'S PANAMA RED MIXED WITH IRAQI 
HASH. NOW I DON'T SMOKE BUT I'VE BEEN TOLD THIS IS SOME GOOD FUCKING SHIT."
	The president, for the first time since the meeting began, began to beam at 
the prospect. He grasped the bong as the general lit it up for him. It was 
the perfect hit. The president was normalized. Just then Rock Fellers 
entered the room, took a chair, and the meeting began in earnst:
	Rock: How are things?
	Prez: I think; ok; yeah, ok.
	General: I COULDN'T BE BETTER? HOW ABOUT YOURSELF THERE YOU OL' MERCHANT OF 
DEATH AND DESTRUCTION, YOU?!
	Rock: I'm great. Everything is just great. I've got a new plan.
	General: OK, I'M ALL EARS.
	Prez: Yeah, all ears.
	Rock: Ok, what I need now is for you Mr. President to start rescinding all 
of the laws. Start finding ways to discredit the congress; really make all 
lawyers the scum of the earth in everyone else's eyes.
	Prez: Sheesh, that'll be easy.
	Rock: Yes, discrediting the lawyers and by definition the congress is the 
easy part. The hard part will be in getting all laws rescinded. Trust me 
though, it's time for this.
	General: AND HOW DO I FIT IN?
	Rock: I need you to smuggle drugs from outside the USA, into the USA. I 
need to you smuggle drugs into all modern societies, I mean to an 
unprecedented level, far beyond anything we've been involved with thus far.
	General: THAT SOUNDS LIKE A LOT OF FUN. WE'LL BE SURE OUR BOYS PROTECT 
THOSE SHIPMENTS, AND WE'LL WIPE OUT THE COMPETITION TO BOOT!
	Rock: Now you're talking. In addition to that, you should start up a bunch 
of drug labs all over the USA, and other modern societies. Just make sure 
everyone gets bent. We're going to phase out alcohol and prescription drugs. 
As a matter of fact, you should begin assassinating the management of the 
distilleries and the big pharma. Just wipe them all out. I don't care how 
you do it. Let's get some real, good drugs into the hands of the people; the 
way it used to be, so long ago. Ultimately we're going to end the drug war, 
of course.

	Until then there had been a silent CIA man in the background, wearing dark 
sunglasses and an expressionless face. At that moment he was grinning from 
ear to ear.

	CIA Agent: Not only is this all doable, but the plans were drawn up long 
ago, just for such a contingency. Let's call it, "Operation Liberty."
	Rock: Ok men, you've got the gist of it. Let's go out and change the world; 
really turn it on its ears; make it real again. Next time we'll discuss the 
central banks. You know we've got to dispense with them at some point. We're 
going for a lawless civilization here. We're going to do Crowley proud, and 
then some.
	General: HOT DIGGITY DAMN IT SOUNDS LIKE A PLAN!
	President: Yeah man this is going to be far out. I'm down (makes horned 
goats head symbols with both hands).
	CIA Agent: Consider it done.

	The NSA head officer, who had sat silently to this point next to the CIA 
agent, looked at Rock and asked in a low gravelly voice, "Is that it, boss? 
I mean, is there anything else we need to know for now?"

	Rock: Well there is one thing; and you of all people need to take this to 
heart.

	You could have heard a pin drop as everyone in the room was all ears.

	Rock: You've got to; you've got to stop this torture biz.

	It was obvious that the CIA agent and the NSA head were taken aback. Yet 
they remained silent, even with slightly defiant looks on their faces.

	Rock: What I mean is this. If anyone gets in your way, show some couth; 
some class. Why go through needless torture when a bullet to the back of the 
head will suffice?

	At that, there was a palpable sense of relief in the room.

	Rock: Indeed, if we have an opponent, just take them out. Torture never 
gave up any useful information; and gloating over another person's agony 
like that; like I said, it's just; uncouth. So just take them out; execute 
them; assassinate them; but stop this fucking torture shit. Simply take them 
out.
	General: YOU GOT IT MAN! WHOAH I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO LAY SOMETHING 
REALLY HEAVY ON US FOR A SECOND THERE.
	NSA Chief: Ok, that's doable. Consider it done.
	CIA Agent: Agreed. The orders are already drawn up.
	President: Say...
	Rock: Yes?
	President: Well how are we going to carry this off in the face of the 
Israelis and the Catholics?
	Rock: Oh, we'll deal with them in due time. Don't you worry your little 
pink pantied ass.
	General: HAH, PINK PANTIED CANDY ASS! I LIKE THE BLACK PANTIES MYSELF. BUT 
I GET WHERE THE PREZ IS COMING FROM THERE, DON'T I? (looking at the 
president and winking) YOU KNOW I'M INTO THE LADIES THOUGH, RIGHT?
	President: (blushing like a schoolgirl) Yeah, man. Say, how about another 
bong hit?

	As the general loaded the president another monster bong hit, the meeting 
was adjourned. The president was visibly buzzed. At least then he could 
function.
	Rock called the meeting and they stood and filed out of the room. As they 
were leaving, the NSA Chief took Rock aside and asked him about the scribe, 
and the minutes she'd been furiously recording. "What about her? Is she safe 
with this kind of information?"
	Rock assured the head spook that she was solidly down with the program. She 
left with Rock.
	As they all left, the General assured everyone that he was, "ON THE CASE." 
They all went their separate ways.

Four: Mel Chizidek

	A young Southeast Asian lady - an Apsara named Little Wing - cast a spell 
one day. She was a burgeoning witch, and - at least in her imagination  - 
very much in love with Jake, whom she'd met at the factory. She cast a love 
spell on Jake. The very next day, she paid a horrible price. She received 
the news that back in her native country, random thugs had invaded her 
parents' house and murdered her mother, and put her father into the 
hospital. How could she have known that Jake was 'hands off?' How could she 
have foreseen the horrible price she would pay for her magic?
	Jake was there when she first heard of the killing. Immediately he began to 
piece together in his mind, what had happened. He was devastated by the 
news. Being at a complete loss, he had to take a couple of days off of work. 
It goes without saying that our young witch took the remainder of the week 
off as well. Jake returned to work on Friday; she on Monday.
	As it was, he knew then that she was the last woman he would ever love. 
Previously he had tried to use her in a game of love; as a pawn to make 
another woman - the Queen - jealous. Our young witch - Little Wing - had 
taken matters into her own hands, and cast a spell on him that he might 
forget the other woman - the Queen - and instead desire only she, Little 
Wing instead; and the spell worked, but at oh what a cost.
	From then on, Jake thought of how he might marry Little Wing. She reminded 
him so much of the Raven Girl from so many years before. As with the Queen, 
Jake was willing to be a cuckold for Little Wing. There was something about 
her; something which simply made him so alive by her mere physical presence, 
anytime she entered into nearby proximity. Little Wing reminded Jake of 
those days so long ago, when he had almost forsaken his entire life over his 
unrequited love for the Raven Girl, and in so doing had gleaned his first 
hint of the secret of the Y and the V.
	He knew it wasn't fair to look at the young witch now before him and 
compare Little Wing to that other young vixen - Raven Girl - seemingly so 
far in his past. He couldn't help himself though. All along on the factory 
floor, it appeared that perhaps, he had pursued the wrong woman; the one 
with the 'letters of god' in her name; the Queen. As it turns out, Southeast 
Asia is chock full of people and places with the 'letters of god' contained 
within their names. It were as though he had stumbled upon one of the lost 
tribes of Israel.
	The funny thing about that was that no one had previously considered these 
Lemurians to have any connection with the ancient Israelites. Madame 
Blavatsky had gone so far as to label the Lemurians as a sort of subhuman 
species. By then Jake certainly knew better; and that had been perhaps 
Blavatsky's only mistake; and Alice Bailey was a stupid goddamned fucking 
bitch.
	To be honest, some of the Cambodians Jake had seen; well they looked like 
they had climbed down out of trees. He no longer understood what it meant to 
be human; and realized as well that if he could look at another person and 
automatically wonder about their humanity, that others of differing 
ethnicities could just as easily happen upon him, and - judging by his 
appearance - likewise wonder about his own humanity. An ostensible 
'Lemurian' for example might look upon Jake and think, "that blue-eyes with 
his spongy skin; is he an evil space alien and not even truly human?"
	There were Ethiopians at the factory, one in particular who looked like the 
devil. It went on and on, and on some level Jake found it fascinating that 
he could make these observations, but that in America's culture of nancy-boy 
democracy that no one would dare utter these observations out loud. He had 
to think that others were making these same observations, yet no one was 
voicing the same, save for the provocateurs haunting the internet bulletin 
boards; and their only apparent interest was in fomenting 'race war' whereas 
Jake was simply trying to make sense of things.
	Getting back to the young Cambodian witch Little Wing (actually, "Cambodian 
witch" is probably a redundancy); Yaacov was thereafter drawn to the baby 
queen who had so tragically lost her mother, and had her father so badly 
injured.
	It were as though his attraction to any other woman, including the Queen he 
had so vigourously pursued to that point; all of these desires passed more 
or less by the wayside, and he was haunted by the young Little Wing.
	After a day or two off, first he came back to work, then the following week 
she; as time went on, he could see in her eyes that perhaps Little Wing  
loved him. The white light shining forth from her so often when their eyes 
would meet, told him of this. Yet she was from that day forth, otherwise 
nothing but cruel to he.
	He kept wondering why she was compounding her apparent mistake. He knew in 
his heart that she had put a love spell upon him, and paid dearly for it; 
yet she wasn't willing to collect upon the object of her desire, Jake. On 
one level it made no sense, but on another level it made perfect sense.
	As the weeks went by, and Jake cried over this Little Wing every night 
after work; and declared to his God his love for her and how there would 
never be another; as the weeks went by he began to realize that he and she 
would never be physically together, yet that in spirit they might never 
truly again be apart. He also knew that no matter who she decided to fuck in 
all of her youthful recklessness, that any such man was doomed to a 
torturous fate. Somehow She and jake were lovers, and any man who might 
couple with her would then pay a terrible price.
	Jake didn't utter a word of this to anyone. He tried to talk to the young 
lady, but she would just turn away. At the same time, she would tease him 
with her body; such a narrow waste and perfectly sculpted thighs; he could 
see for instance her exquisite celluite - like the perfect marble on a side 
of beef - beneath the tight pants she would invariably wear every day. He 
could dream about her long, purple-painted nails wrapped around his cock, 
and go through the agony of realizing if anything, she was probably fucking 
someone like a drunken mexican, perhaps more than anything else out of spite 
toward Jake himself.
	At the factory, Buddha Woman and Sweetness and Light had agressively 
pursued him. Sweetnees and Light in particular had a - very similar to 
Little Wing - bright white light in her eyes. Jake had come very close in 
attempting to perhaps couple with Sweetness and Light, yet something had 
stopped him. As it turned out, the two of them - Sweetness and Light, and 
Jake - shared only acrimony between them by the day Jake was expelled.
	During the downturn in Jake's relations with the Cambodians - it may have 
been when he purchased an MP3 player and loaded it with rock music from the 
'70s and '80s, as well as his own materials - Jake would sing songs to them. 
One day for whatever reason Jake had sung to Sweetness and Light the opening 
lines from the classic, 'Heaven and Hell' which went, "Sing me a song you're 
a singer; do me no wrong you're a bringer of evil. The devil is never a 
maker; and the less that you give you're a taker."
	In looking back, the only reason Jake could think of for this had to do 
with Sweetness and Light's niece - Leg Show Model - who had been herself 
teasing Jake in an apparent 19-year old girl's crush for weeks on end. 
Whatever the reality of Leg Show Model's desires for the middle-aged, 
yellow-toothed, somewhat greying Jake, Leg Show Model had played the part of 
a young lady in love. For instance, once when they were sweeping the floor 
at the end of a shift, Leg Show Model repeatedly ground her hot, hot 19-year 
old ass into Jake. This happened so many times, and for such extended 
periods that Jake was sure it was on purpose. Yet he could not fathom that 
someone so beautiful could ever desire him. He considered himself to be but 
human toilet paper - or a bidet or douche - for the likes of Leg Show Model. 
It would seem that once Jake almost had a chance for a threesome with 
Sweetness and Light and Leg Show Model, yet he could not or would not take 
them.
	They'd all 3 been alone in the building after everyone else had left, and 
it seemed to Jake that he was expected to make a move on them; or to make a 
proposition or something, yet but he never had. Part of this was the always 
looming suspicion that they were setting some kind of trap for him which he 
didn't quite understand, so he more or less gave Leg Show Model the cold 
shoulder.
	Perhaps what ultimately set Jake against Sweetness and Light - the 
beautiful petite flower more or less his own age - was the time he'd 
approached her and basically told her he would never make a pass at her 
niece the Leg Show Model. He could remember that moment, and how Sweetness 
and Light had next apparently sat down with Leg Show Model during that short 
break from work and broken the news to her that Jake and she would never be 
together.
	He could see from across the lunchroom that the girl was saddened by this, 
yet again he couldn't quite believe that someone that beautiful could ever 
want him. She was literally as beautiful as the best models Jake had seen in 
the Leg Show magazine. Actually, she was probably better. She was certainly 
the most physically attractive of all of the women at the factory; an 
apparent mix of Cambodian and European blood who had grown up in America, 
and her ass and tits were so fine, along with her pretty face and 
copper-golden hair. Her narrow waist and fine fingers more or less completed 
the stunning physical package.
	She dressed in tight skirts, or tight knit slacks, and nearly always wore 
high heels. Sometimes she would wear a satin blouse with exposed cleavage.
	As an aside, during the entire course of events, one day Leg Show Model had 
- out of the blue - started going on about the Government Hill killer, and 
how it had been the young man's lack of love which had ultimately launched 
him into such a killing spree. It were almost as though she were baiting 
Jake there. Jake bit though, and told her that she didn't understand, and 
that the whole thing had been some kind of governmental mind control 
experiment, to which (of course) Leg Show Model was incredulous. Jake didn't 
stop there though; instead he launched into a laundry list of the 
coincidences surrounding the killing, and reaching into his own life, and of 
his theory about how the entire thing had been aimed at the squelching of 
affection in American 'society.' He had finished by telling them all that 
the list of coincidences surrounding the incident were like the tip of the 
iceberg in the panoply of coincidences which had haunted his entire life. 
After his diatribe, onlookers such as Jewish Princess and God Woman looked 
at each other and were heard to say something along the lines of, "Amazing. 
That isn't possible. He can't be telling the truth."
	Be that as it may, interestingly Sweetness and Light - a full Cambodian 
(whatever that means), had reddish hair. It wasn't fully black like the 
majority of Asian women. It was yet another piece of evidence which pointed 
to the Cambodians as having some connection with Jake's ancestors' own 
distant past, perhaps there on the plains of high Mongolia where only today 
we find the crypts of myriad members of an ancient, red-headed race.
	To get back to the point, Sweetness and Light had agreed with Jake that Leg 
Show Model should not flirt too much with the males around the factory, and 
Sweetness and Light had intoned that so many of the men were brazenly in 
pursuit of sex with the young Leg Show Model. What ultimately hacked Jake 
off about that situation was that, after that little speech about 
'protecting' Leg Show Model from would-be predators, it appeared to Jake 
that Sweetness and Light would openly encourage the flirting of other males 
about the place, and her own niece; Leg Show Model; and that is the long and 
short of how one day Jake found the excuse to warrant his singing to 
Sweetness and Light, "do me no wrong you're a bringer of evil."
	There is so much more to this story; the interaction of the other Apsara, 
some words which were exchanged between Jake and Leg Show Model; the 
interaction of various and sundry males about the place, with the various 
Apsara; but that there is the gist of it. To add just a bit more, Jake told 
Leg Show Model to her face at one point; "You make me nervous. You're just 
too beautiful." Then he never really even looked at her or spoke to her 
again; and this was weeks before he walked off of the job. It was the 
strangest thing.
	There was one other moment, sometime between those remarks he'd made and 
his 'end' at the factory. It happened during break one day, while Jake was 
outside smoking a cigarette. He had thought himself alone, then in the 
distance someone called out, yet not for him. Instantly, the voice of Leg 
Show Model called back from directly behind him. It were as though the young 
hussy had been stalking him or somesuch!
	Yet I digress: After a time at the factory, Jake cared only about the young 
witch Little Wing, and as if on cue the young witch had declared her love 
for the Tippy Turtle. Yet there was no denying the light in her eyes when 
Jake would make eye contact with her. He had never, ever seen such a bright 
light from any pair of eyes as those of Little Wing. Raven Girl had flashed 
him some amazing light, but Little Wing's light at times encompassed her 
entire head, as though it were a spotlight.
	Yet she would not talk to him, and when he went to his knees in front of 
everyone and asked her forgiveness for how he had once tried to use her to 
make her jealous over the Queen, she again had turned away. Yet only hours 
later she had walked behind him on her way out the door, and the energy 
between them was palpable. That was another thing he'd never experienced 
with any woman save for Little Wing.
	At least - at the very least - he had shown to everyone who had bothered to 
look during that one break, that Little Wing had literally brought him to 
his knees; and there were only 1 or 2 other women who had ever done that; in 
particular Raven Girl, and Maria Mortorano.
	There were other 'side games' going on. One in particular was that, in the 
midst of Jake's early pursuit of the Queen; a Khmer male - The Monk - had 
initiated a conversation with Jake. Jake had been ripping Cambodian CDs for 
the benefit of the Queen and her apparent sidekick - Little Wing's cousin - 
the Prince of the Siem. So using this as entry into a conversation, The Monk 
had asked Jake about what he thought of the music. Then The Monk had 
promised that he would hook Jake up with any of the Apsara singers Jake 
might hear off of those ripped CDs. Jake called the Monk's bluff on this a 
few days later, and the Monk told him flat-out that the singer in question 
was simply out of circulation.
	Later on, The Monk would present Jake with a picture of a young Cambodian 
teenaged girl, and ask him what he thought of her. Jake realized then that 
some of these Cambodians were - on some level at least - not much different 
than human traffickers. Jake wondered later on how much cash was in it for 
the Monk, should he be able to entice an American such as Jake into bringing 
a young Apsara into the country.
	Regardless of all of that, Jake liked The Monk. As with Sandra Dee, Jake 
almost wondered if these were somehow his spiritual children. They - like 
the Queen - had such similar physical structure to Jake that it was eerie. 
After a time Jake almost considered The Monk to be the son that Jake himself 
had never physically sired. In any event they ultimately did not get along 
well.
	Then were James Bond and the Mobster. As it turns out; along with Sergeant, 
Bond and Mobster had fought for Lon Nol against Pol Pot. One time, Mobster 
had told Jake during a break that in a Cambodian wedding, everyone drinks 
cognac. Jake could see where this was leading, so he made it clear that he 
was a blatant hedonist, by asking the Mobster if there were any opium pipe 
passed around at such weddings. The Mobster, taken aback had told Jake, 
"no." Yet Jake had made his point. Jake was intent on being honest and up 
front with his own fascination for all things smoked - well except for crack 
and meth, both of which he'd never even fancied let alone tried - and his 
abhorence of all things alcohol. It was simply something he felt he had to 
do; to be as clear as possible, that if these Cambodian men were going to 
get Jake into a relationship with one of the Apsara, that everyone know 
beforehand that Jake had a certain, sensual nature.
	One time, James Bond had gotten Jake's phone number, and passed it along to 
a woman in Phnom Penh. Then early one morning Jake had gotten a phone call 
from the 28-year old Apsara. After a halting conversation with her, Jake 
realized that if he were going to be with an Apsara, that by then only 
Little Wing would do. Perhaps that was really just foolishness, but at the 
very least the idea of bringing someone over to the USA from Southeast Asia 
was no longer any kind of thought which Jake entertained.
	There was also this strange homosexual undercurrent to many of the dealings 
Jake had with the Cambodian men. Perhaps it was because the word had gotten 
out of his androgynous nature, when Jake had revealed to Yellow Raven his 
past hormone-ingesting and cross-dressing activities. He had done this one 
purpose, knowing that word of the same would spread like wildfire amongst 
the Khmer. Yet again Jake sensed that he needed to be utterly clear on this 
sort of thing, if he were to move forward with any of the Apsara.
	As an aside, it appeared to Jake as though some of the 'women' from Asia 
were actually transexuals. He knew that in Thailand they could do wonders, 
particularly on a pubescent male. Of the ones Jake suspected, some of the 
women seemed like blatant transexuals, whilst others seemed borderline. He 
wondered if there were some kind of ongoing program in Asia to make young 
males into females, then give them some adopted children, and send them over 
to the USA as a 'family.' Jake was certain that the ones he suspected of 
this could easily pass in dealing with other males; it was only Jake's 
personal experience with androgyny which made him wonder about some of them.
	So in having said all of the above, perhaps homosexuality on the part of 
the Asian males is too strong a word, as Jake was a sort of Baphomet in his 
own right. How he ever expected a woman to love him was a kind of mystery, 
but Jake had always figured that in the worst case, he could at least stay 
with such a woman and be her eunuch. He knew that he didn't desire men; at 
least not physically. The most difficult part was that it seemed that there 
were many men who really loved Jake.
	For one example, there was the aforementioned black gentleman who worked at 
the factory named Superfly. Sometimes he would approach Jake and literally 
fondle Jake while speaking with him. Jake thought that a tad bit odd, but 
wondered if Superfly perhaps were one to swing 'both ways' (or half way 
where Jake were concerned?). Jake knew well that when a man is 'with' a lot 
of different women as Superfly had apparently been, that the desire for 
'something different' can often begin to manifest itself. Having multiple 
women simply becomes 'boring' or 'not enough' to many of the studs who have 
ever walked this earth. It is as though being with so many women, actually 
turns a man into a  sort of woman himself.
	All of that aside, where the young witch Little Wing were concerned, Jake 
didn't necessarily want to fuck her (he could still perform that way, and 
his cock with its medium length and gigantic head would have actually been a 
perfect fit for an Apsara), but rather to be there for her; to show her 
America as she had once told him she wanted to learn of it, back in the day 
when she had yet spoken with him. There was something about the baby queen; 
Little Wing; she would light up Jake's heart whenever she would come around. 
Now though she had complained to the supervisor and he was forbidden from 
even speaking to her, and although Jake would sometimes attempt to skirt 
that limitation - as with the incident on his knees in the lunchroom - she 
would inevitably turn him away. Yet more than once her eyes had shined such 
bright white; such bright white light as though she were in love with him; 
that the entire thing were highly confusing; yet he understood.
	So he would have been her cuckold, or so he told himself; and perhaps by 
default he had no choice. He realized though that when she had declared her 
'love' for the Tippy Turtle, that it was perhaps but a reflection of our 
civilization, that she would choose a drunken ne'er do well over he; that 
she would pour out her affection for such an apparent ruffian; and deny Jake 
even the simple right of having a conversation with her. It drove Jake 
nearly mad.
	He realized in retrospect that there was really no way around this; that 
from the day of the spell and her mother's death, she had owned him; and the 
two of them had silently known this from that point on; and she was 
determined to torture him in every way she possibly could. Yet the white 
light shining from her eyes; he would never forget that. He would never 
forget her. She would be the last.
	It was interesting to Jake how certain women from his past; he had 
completely blocked out the memories of the same. For instance of Copperhead, 
the redhead who had been with Jake's older brother; the daughter of Job; the 
one who had taken his virginity whilst not allowing him orgasm; the one who 
had gone on to be his brother's first wife; Jake had virtually forgotten 
about her.
	In contrast, the ostensible Raven Witch Woman of today; the one who had 
yesterday been the Raven Girl; he had never forgotten her, nor the Y or the 
V. She had stuck in his craw forever. Both Copperhead and Raven Girl had 
been in Jake's life in the same time frame, yet Copperhead had receded to 
nearly nothing, and Raven Girl had been magnified like a supernova.
	As well the painted lady, Maria Mortorano had never completely escaped his 
thoughts. Once, had consumed her menses. Perhaps that was it; the consuming 
of menses. He had never had Raven Girl's menses so perhaps that weren't 
always the key. He did sense that his having consumed Maria's menses had 
defintiely had some kind of long-lasting, 'love' effect upon him.
	Yet the next one; Lenny the rock and roll chick was someone he would always 
try to forget. He had consumed her menses - just a tiny bit - as well. All 
in all, that relationship had been so ugly that he wanted to forget.
	Oddly enough, in a roundabout way Lenny had haunted the events which would 
transpire at the factory some 7 or 8 years later, through the person of 
Lenny's sister. On the day Jake had learned of the Queen's husband in 
Cambodia from Supervixen, Jake had also realized that Lenny's sister was 
working on the day shift. It were as though the two of them - Jake and 
Lenny's sister - suddenly looked at each other, and found a mutual 
familiarity between them. Then he realized, she was Lenny's sister; and upon 
his asking she'd told him as much. Oh, what kind of embarassing stories 
Lenny's sister could have told the Apsara when he weren't around. Jake 
didn't figure it mattered much, one way or the other. He wondered though if 
Lenny were exercising some kind of invisible claim on him, through her 
sister; her sister being yet another foil to Jake's designs on any one or 
more of the Apsara. He did tell Lenny's sister that Lenny were a queen in 
her own right, to which Lenny's sister had kind of replied, "chortle 
guffaw,' yet Jake had persisted, and insisted that somehow Lenny's sister 
tell Lenny that the latter were a queen, but to make certain that Lenny 
would never know that such sentiment had come from Jake, as he were certain 
that Lenny held him in nothing but eternal contempt by then.
	Jake could remember that one night seemingly so long before, spent with 
Lenny where she had driven him into town in her Z-car, and cranked up the 
Mercyful Fate on the car stereo whilst speeding along the highway. He could 
recall their having arrived back at her apartment after the time at the 
dance club; back at the apartment where she had lived right above Jake, and 
how she had introduced him to the likes of 'Skinny Puppy' and 'My Life with 
the Thrill Kill Kult.'
	As well, he could remember on another occasion sitting up with her there 
during a nascent snowfall and watching the steepened highway hill below as 
they would wait with mutual bated breath to see if a lonely passing car 
might spin out on the slippery slope. Indeed, things with Lenny had never 
been all bad; the same as with practically any other woman Jake had 
encountered.
	Jake did say to Lenny's sister one day there at the factory, "Your sister 
was like the only girlfriend I ever had." As well, he had told the Monk, "Do 
you understand? That woman on day shift who stands right where you are 
standing now on night shift; her sister is one of the only women who knows 
me; really knows me. Do you understand?"
	Moving right along, Jake could more or less forget another woman, Happy. 
Jake would remember of she, the divorcee; how her father had worked at 
Raytheon and been involved with some serious chicanery. For instance, there 
was a time when Happy's father had been standing on the shore and a company 
party was taking place on a boat on a lake. Apparently, Happy's father had 
been supposed to have been on that boat. All of a sudden, that boat had gone 
up with a tremendous explosion; everyone on board killed. Well the assassins 
hadn't gotten to him that time, but nonetheless the man - Happy's dad - had 
been murdered years later.
	Of this, Happy would never speak. The story itself had been relayed to Jake 
by his friend when his friend and she had yet been married. So Jake would 
wonder from time to time, what had that woman known? She was gone by then; 
long gone. She had liked androgynous males though; to the point where - like 
so many either dingbat or just plain evil modern American women - she had 
put her own son on pills at the behest of school psychiatrists. In truth, no 
mother who loves her own son would ever do such a thing, so Jake could only 
conclude that Happy wasn't really interested in the health of the males in 
her life.
	Perhaps her having given Jake birth control pills at one point had been all 
the evidence of that he'd ever needed. Of course, in Jake's case he'd taken 
the birth control pills voluntarily; but you simply don't put your boy on 
ritalin or prozac or whatever; no, not if you love the boy. That's just sick 
and wrong, medicating young boys like that. Failing to breastfeed your 
infants is one of the other things which falls into this category of 
abuse/neglect by a mother toward her child. In any event, Happy was more or 
less forgotten by Jake.
	Then there had been the witch - the Dancer Woman - Jake had met at the 
thelemite's party on New Year's Eve of 2000/2001. That 10-day relationship 
had collapsed fairly quickly, what with Jake being on a multiple day LSD/ 
DMT/ Nitrous/ Weed/ Mushroom 'hangover' (high).
	Yes, on that New Year's Eve, Jake had not only met this fascinating Dancer 
Woman and then had a 'fling' with her; but more importantly he had consumed 
copious amounts of the drugs described above, and the LSD itself had been so 
potent as to have kept him 'high' for several days after that. The Dancer  
herself in this case had been too much of a drinker for Jake's level of 
tolerance. Jake hated alcohol; period. Witnessing the Dancer drinking day in 
and day out over that 10-day period did much to temper his enthusiasm for 
her; that combined with her love of television and loud '80s pop music on 
the radio; it all was a bit too much for him to handle, so he had bailed.
	It could simply be that Jake had always been a fake submissive. There are 
fake dominants; so why not fake submissives? Some dominatrixes will testify 
that there are truly no submissive males, but rather only males who 'top 
from the bottom' as it were. To her credit, the Dancer had shown Jake the 
use of garlic and ginger as 'nature's antibiotics.' Ever since, Jake has 
never been stricken by the flu; at least never to the point of needing 
'antibiotics' from a 'real,' 'medical doctor.'
	Jake could remember the 'date' he'd once had with Maria Mortorano; how she 
had allowed him to adorn her in an expensive dress - like Jackie O - and 
fancy lingerie, and had met him at the symphony hall where they witnessed 
together a performance of Rachmaninov's piano concerto #2. As an aside, that 
had been a sort of bait and switch as the concert tickets had been for the 
more-interesting concerto #3, but at the last moment the symphony had 
changed the program. As it turned out, the pianist was drunk and flubbed 
some of the notes of the #2 concerto. Be that as it may, just as they'd 
arrived at the concert hall in separate cars, after the show Jake and Maria 
had as well each driven separately back to his eastside apartment. He had 
arrived first, and when she pulled up, Deep Purple's 'Highway Star' had been 
blaring from her stereo. She got out of the car and basically told Jake 
that, while the symphony was 'ok,' that the 'rock' was so much better. 
Looking back, Jake can only thank her for that reality check.
	Moving right along, of the thelemite who had hosted the 2001 New Year's 
party; Jake had gone on one hell of a DMT trip that night, and caused not a 
little bit of a stir within that circle. The host had considered himself to 
be the direct magical heir to none other than Aleister Crowley; for the 
same, in all of his intoxicated (but never drunken) brilliance had thought 
himself to have solved the riddle from the book of the law: 666=0. It had 
involved the 'Gematria of Nothing' (or GON), whereby a= -13, b = -12, c = 
-11, each letter passing in sequence such that for example, n=0, and z=12. 
Under this system of letters and their corresponding assigned numbers, if a 
person were to add up the values of the phrase, 'six hundred and sixty six' 
the result were 0.
	This trick had - at least in his own mind - given the erstwhile Crowleyite 
the right to proclaim himself, 'beast.' Apparently, no one else had ever 
attempted to employ negative numbers in attempting to solve the 666 = 0 
riddle from a 'gematriac' standpoint. The host's girlfriend, Cinammon Girl; 
the one who had actually invited Jake to that fateful party, heartily 
believed the man to be, "The Beast" (with a capital T and B of course).
	The fly in the ointment of all of that was the fact that, when Jake had 
tripped on DMT there that night in front of them (and others), there at the 
party house (affectionately named 'temple dahmer' after the notorious serial 
killer); when Jake had tripped, he himelf had turned into 'the beast.' He 
could see; well perhaps it is best not to describe what it was that Jake 
saw. He had blurted out in any event that he was 'home' and he was 'THE 
BEAST,' but the host - the self-proclaimed direct heir to Crowley - started 
arguing with Jake in the middle of the trip, telling him he could be 
anything but the beast, and to try and "wrap your mind around that."
	In the midst of that, Jake had decided to play it cool, and relented in his 
own insistence upon being 'The' beast. So Jake had decided to be like Sepp 
Dietrich instead; at least for a moment. By the 'end' of the DMT trip though 
(about 5 minutes), Jake simply wanted to continue on in the lineage of Jimi 
Hendrix and Uli Jon Roth; guitar greats. Of course, as it turns out what 
Jake experienced was typical for a DMT trip; except perhaps for part of the 
argumentative 'guide' as it were. Of the visions themselves; they'd been 
typical of a DMT trip, except of course for the audible hallucinations which 
led into the trip; where Jake had heard spirits all about the room speaking 
in long-lost, inhuman tongues. Apparently audio 'hallucinations' can be rare 
in a DMT event.
	Whatever the case of any or all of that, one thing which had come in the 
midst of the DMT trip would lead Jake's conversion to what would eventually 
be known as unorthodox judaism. For there the mystery of the Y and the V as 
shown to him by the Raven Girl some 20-odd years before; it was clarified 
just a bit more. In the middle of the trip, when the vision in front of Jake 
had turned to a sky of blues, greens, and silvers; a voice had spoken to 
Jake as the antsy crowleyite had stood by and argued with him. The voice in 
the vision said simply, "the Tetragrammaton is not the demiurge."
	There was another odd thing about the trip; of course other than the 
bizarre host of the party; he with the '666' emblazoned upon his shirt; the 
would-be successor to Crowley; and it was this: Earlier in the trip, Jake 
had been going on about "Tyra Banks," repeating that over and over again.
	That led back to the days when Jake had been a door-to-door salesman, less 
than a year after Jake had sold his own soul to the devil that Jake might 
become the 'best guitarist in the world.' (One has to wonder exactly how 
many other starry-eyed teenagers had signed such a contract in blood, back 
in the days of arena rock, approximately 1970-1985; Jake's contract in 
particular having been entered into on his own 18th birthday in 1981. That's 
all an aside though.)
	There was this driver; an excommunicated Eastern Orthodox priest. He would 
drive Jake and the rest of the sales crew around the Emerald City area, 
dropping them off whilst they went door to door selling newspaper 
subscriptions. The old guy would go, "Don't Yeah Me!" whenever one of the - 
mostly teenaged - sales crew would say, "yeah" to him.
	The man used to go on an on about how he had been a dive bomber pilot, late 
in world war 2, and how he himself had helped in the sinking of the "jap 
battleship, the Yamata" (Yamato), the behemoth with the 18-inch guns, sunk 
late in the war between Japan and America, and later to become the focal 
point of the superlative early Japanese anime series, 'Starblazers.'
	Moving right along, the defrocked priest had once begun a very odd 
conversation with Jake, there in the front of the van whilst the other sales 
   crew - themselves for the most part teenagers of Jake's general age - had 
listened intently from the back:
	Driver: Jake, you know I'm a defrocked priest. Let me tell you something.
	Jake: Yeah?
	Driver: Don't Yeah Me!
	Jake: I mean, yes?
	Driver: Do you know what happens when you take the letter 'a' and make it 
equal 6, then b=12, and c=18, and so on until z=156?
	Jake: Uh...
	Driver: Well if you take the word, 'computer' and add up the values of the 
letters, it comes out to; can you guess what it comes out to?
	Jake: Uh...
	Driver: It's 666! It's the same with the phrase, "Mark of Beast." You add 
up those letters, in that fashion and it's; you guessed it; 666!
	(Jake was a bit dumbfounded and perplexed by then)
	Driver: You know I'm a defrocked priest. Do you have any idea that I might 
have been sent into your life in order to perform an exorcism on you? That 
you might be possessed?
	By then Jake was a bit shaken. Of course, Jake had been fairly open with 
the fact that he himself had - less than a year earlier - tried to sell his 
own soul to the devil. And even then, Jake was a fairly dyed-in-the-wool 
anti-christian.
	Not only had Jake attempted to sell his own soul (and that's an entirely 
different story there, with allusions to the cult, 'The Process' and 
poltergeists physically ripping fixtures out of walls, and friends turning 
into demonic beings on him in the middle of an lsd trip...thumb ahead 
through this manuscript if you can't wait for that chapter), but Jake had 
toyed previously with the idea that he himself were the one and only beast 
of St. John's book of Revelation. Jake had gone so far at one point as to 
have made a t-shirt with the 666 emblazoned upon it.
	As an aside, since the advent in the late-19th century of the Scofield 
bible, and then in the 1970s the book, 'the Late Great Planet Earth' by Hal 
Lindsay; how many 10s of thousands of tripped-out teenagers have considered 
themselves to potentially be, 'the Beast?' Of course this 
'dispensationalist' claptrap was never anything Jake's own father - as a 
clergyman - had ever himself subscribed to.
	Of what the defrocked priest had said, it was intersting in that there 
really were no computers in the hands of the masses, there in 1982. The 
interesting aside here is that, 'Tyra Banks' adds up to 666 under the same 
gematria!
	Fast forward over 20 years to the party of 2000/2001 and the DMT trip. For 
a long period of time, say 15 out of those 20-odd years, Jake had entirely 
disabused himself of any notion of his being the mythical 'beast.' He had 
quite simply found a new life as a computer professional and consciously 
abandoned many of the dark metaphysical recesses he'd so recklessly 
explored, 'in the days of his youth.'
	At one point though, there whilst working at the software behemoth 
Tinyweenie, they had constructed a new building; building 27, and Jake's 
group - the Door95 team at the time - had moved into these new digs. Now 
first of all, building 27 was supposed to have been an identical copy to 
building 26.
	What was really strange was this: Jake was given the office number, 
27/3666! From the moment Jake had gotten wind of his new office number, the 
entire thing was freaking him out. He had first thought it was some kind of 
twisted joke on the part of someone in management; someone who had known of 
Jake's own past in this regard; or perhaps just some kind of random 
coincidence; and Jake had thought - hoped - that no one else would notice 
this peculiar and particular office number.
	Yet other people had noticed. For instance, the dope-dealing dude from the 
test lab had noticed ("Which dope dealing dude?" you might ask, for there 
were more than one) and had asked Jake one day, "Doesn't your office number 
creep you out?" Jake had played that off, kind-of, sort-of pretending not to 
understand what the other guy was talking about.
	The tester had continued, "Why do you keep your office so dark? I mean, you 
have a window office but the shades are always drawn, and the overhead 
lights turned off. Instead you have just a lamp or two burning. I mean it's 
always dark in here, like a cave. Aren't you in the least bit spooked?"
	Jake had made his best imitation at shrugging the whole thing off.
	Then there were the conversations in the halls; Jake would come up the 
stairs to hear whispers such as "nobody knows what he does" and then there 
would be silence as he would be seen to approach the group of people 
talking. It wasn't difficult to put 2 and 2 together.
	Here is (perhaps) the really strange part of all of this. Jake thought to 
himself one day: "I've got 27/3666. I mean it's not an outright 666. I'm 
probably ok. I left all of those ideas behind me, long ago. This has to be 
some odd coincidence. I'll bet that there are more /x666 offices, both in 
this building and in building 26. Let me look at the first and second 
floors, and see if there are 1666 or 2666, respectively."
	So Jake checked out the first and second floors of building 27, and lo and 
behold there were no 27/1666 or 27/2666; and building 27 being just 3 
floors, his was the only office ending in 666. So he went to building 26 - 
the building supposedly identical to building 27, and he searched for an 
office ending in 666. There were none. So where there should have been - by 
all rights - 6 offices ending in 666 between the two buildings, his was the 
only one thus designated. By then Jake was a little bit worried, what with 
dreams of Azathoth occurring concurrently during the evenings of that same 
time period; dreams where Azathoth literally reached out from in between 
time and space, so as to physically drag Jake with an invisible hand, across 
the futon he slept on, there on the floor of his apartment.
	That was one of the things which caused Jake to leave Tinyweenie; the 
creepiness of that situation; well that and the phreaking 36% federal income 
tax rate prevelant for those of his income bracket at the time. So Jake left 
Tinyweenie, and once again forgot about anything regarding the 666.
	Then one day, when he was walking around the U-District with the Cinammon 
Girl who would eventually invite him to that 2000/2001 party; the woman 
began to talk about it. She said something to the effect of, "You know Jake, 
it's really weird."
	Jake: What's weird?
	Cinnamon Girl: Well my boyfriends; they both think they're the beast. The 
DJ I date thinks he's the beast, and same with the magician (the crowley-ite 
who would eventually host the party). What do you think it means?
	Jake: (hiding his thoughts) Well, I don't know. That's interesting, I 
suppose.
	It was all he could do to keep from saying anything to her about his own 
experience, for he had never before mentioned to she any of what is 
described in the above passages. Suddenly he was caught up in the entire 
mystery of the 666 again. He thought to himself, "How can she not see me? I 
am really invisible. Nobody gets it. Is it possible?" There are many more 
things which could be said about all of this, but this story isn't really 
about that, or is it?
	As time passed after the 2001 party, Jake would go through night after 
night of dreams; dreams involving devils and demons, and Jake fighting with 
them whilst chanting Y-H-V-H. For by then Jake was a Jew, and his God was 
called, 'the YHVH.'
	The dreams involved Jake stealing the devil's soul, or seeing the actual 
YHVH in person, or cavorting with supermodels, among them Tyra Banks.
	The dreams involved other worlds than this one; from either days past or 
days in the future; or from parallel universes. Almost without exception, 
these worlds were better than our own in that the stupid, hand-wringing 
christian sally-boys and oppressive, dykie-doo women were no longer present. 
There was admittedly an entirely different type of oppression to these other 
milieus, but it was again without exception a more desireable one than that 
which the 'non-believer' is subject to through the prayers of the 
hand-wringing christian cows we find scattered about his world of ours.
	It took awhile longer before Jake officially established the sect of 
unorthodox Judaism, again based upon a dream message whereby he'd been 
instructed to institute the 'cult of the JX1127.' Eventually this cult 
became the 'sect of 72' or the 'number 9 sect of unorthodox judaism.'
	As Jake's belief system evolved from there, it became apparent that the 
Raven Witch Woman and the YHVH were one in the same, and that the YHVH was 
the twin of Lucifer, or more or less - again - one and the same as the YHVH.
	As for the idea that '666=0,' well a couple of interesting things took 
place in relation to that idea.
	One night Jake had lain awake after his work shift as a janitor where he'd 
gotten off at 2:30 am, struggling hour after hour to get some sleep; and the 
entire time, he kept telling himself that he was nobody, a nothing, a zero. 
Lo and behold, when Jake awoke the next day, it was in the aftermath of the 
9/11 attacks. It took another couple of years to decipher any kind of 
meaning from this, but eventually the idea took hold.
	Further, the symbology of the 9/11 attack was the twins: YHVH and Lucifer; 
for if you do a simple 1:1 correspondance of a=1, b=2, all the way to z=26, 
and add up the letters of YHVH, you get 63, or 9 in numerology terms. 
Likewise, if you add up the letters in Lucifer, you get 74 or 11 in 
numerology terms.
	There was something else about the 9/11 attacks. Well, ever since the 
defrocked Eastern Orthodox priest had mentioned numerology, Jake had made 
such his own personal hobby. So, one of the other odd things about the 9/11 
attacks was the fact that the first 'plane,' 'hit' at 8:46 am. You as the 
reader might be saying, "so what?" Well to Jake this was at least slightly 
odd, given that if you take the defrocked priest's gematria whereby a=6, 
b=12... z=156, and you add up the letters of Jake's first and last name, 
they equal 846. Jake had been aware of this - the 846 - for years previous 
to the 9/11 event, so the 8:46 of the first 'impact' was a bit unnerving.
	Fast forward some years to 2004, and Jake found himself once again lying 
awake late into the night, convincing himself he was a zero, a nothing, a 
nobody. At the very moment of that meditation, Jake witnessed the June, 2004 
meteorite as it flew past. That meteorite wasn't exactly what they had 
claimed it to be. In fact, it looked to Jake like a wrecked craft of some 
sort, as it first lit up the sky like a nuclear explosion (for an instant 
Jake had thought Emerald City proper had been nuked, there from his view at 
his South Sound location), and then fell to earth as he jumped up and looked 
out the window.
	The thing was much larger than the media had ever described it to be, and 
it was dropping off tailings as it went. It didn't appear to Jake to have 
been what the media reports claimed that it was.
	In any case, these two events were notable to Jake because in truth, they 
corresponded exactly with the 2 times in his life where he had actually 
convinced himself that he were a nobody. So I ask the reader, is it possible 
that Crowley had unlocked the riddle of ultimate magic? Is it possible that 
any 'random' human being can facilitate 'miracles' such as the 9/11 attacks 
or spectacular 'meteorites' on display, simply by convincing oneself that 
one is a zero?
	As an adjunct to the strangeness of 9/11/2001 in particular, fast forward 
even further, to the Virginia Tech attack of April, 2007: Jake had long 
since sold his entire collection of firearms. Jake didn't really see the 
need. It seemed to him that if nothing else, having a large collection of 
firearms could open a person up to robbery. So, Jake was unarmed.
	Interestingly (or not), on the day prior to the attacks at Virginia Tech, 
Jake had - on a whim - purchased 2 toy guns at the local Fred Meyer. It's 
probably nothing, but it gets a bit weirder.
	The night before the attacks, Jake had done his tax return, and the amount 
owed him by the IRS was exactly $911. The rest of Jake's list of VT 
anomalies is listed in former passages of this libertine outline.
	Suffice it to say that, a couple of weeks later when Jake actually received 
his tax return check, he took it to work and showed a couple of the 
Cambodian males; $911. Each of them pretended that it was nothing, or acted 
puzzled as if to say, "Yeah so what?"
	The odd part of all of that was that it appeared to Jake that, from then on 
the Apsara kind of had a nickname for him, 'Mr. 911.' From then on, in 
between their scattershot foreign-language conversations, he kept hearing 
them say, '911.' It first started when one woman walked behind him and said 
it '911' literally into his ear.
---
	Mel Chizidek surveyed his office, avoiding the steadfast gaze of his 
visitor, Otto Kumm. Mel looked at the various alien artifacts, and the 
human-built gadgets which were based off of that 'technology' and pondered 
the implants which by then had turned him into the equivalent of a living 
cyborg. Finally, sensing the impatience of his visitor, he offered the 
General a chair and asked him, "So what is it this time? You want us to 
instigate project Blue Book, make something go missing, take down some 
buildings, unleash another doppelganger? Really, to what exactly do I owe 
the 'pleasure' of this visit from yourself, the living emodiment of a 
legendary cavalry officer?"
	General: BUDDY, RELAX. IT'S JUST ME. YOU KNOW I DON'T BITE; WELL AT LEAST 
NOT THE LIKES OF YOU. SAY YOU WANT SOME WEED? IT'S THAI STICK!
	Mel: Unfortunately - or not - I had to give that up. But why don't you 
leave some of that with me? There are certainly some of the others around 
here who could use that.
	General: YOU GOT IT, BUD. YOU GET IT; BUD? (haha) OK, LOOK MAN. THE WORD 
HAS COME DOWN FROM ON HIGH. (haha) YOU GET IT; ON HIGH? MAN AM I A COMEDIAN 
OR WHAT?
	Mel: (eyes rolling) Yes, you're funny like a bullet to the head. Very funny 
indeed. So what are our marching orders? What is the latest plan?
	General: WELL WE'RE GONNA GO FULL STOP NOW. YOU NEED TO UNDERMINE THE 
CRIMINAL JUSTICE SYSTEM. NOW YOU AND I BOTH KNOW; JUSTICE IS A JOKE AROUND 
THESE PARTS. AT LEAST IT HAS BEEN. WE NEED YOU TO DISCREDIT THE LAWYERS AND 
THE JUDGES. HELL OUTRIGHT MURDER IS PRETTY MUCH A REQUIREMENT, FOR THE 
ENTIRE JUDICIARY, AS WELL AS ALL OF THOSE MONEY GRUBBING, HIFALUTIN TRIAL 
LAWYERS.
	Mel: (rubbing his hands in glee) Now, I like this. Can we kidnap some of 
them and turn them into shemales?
	General: YOU BET YOUR ASS, BABY!
	Mel: Yes, Yes. This is going to be good. Finally, the gloves are coming 
off. It has been so long. We have coddled and promoted these leeches - the 
lawyers and judges - for far to long as it is. It is about time we brought 
about a real civilization. These handwringers have gotten to be a bit much, 
even if I do say so myself; not to mention that the lawyers are a bunch of 
prima donnas, completely out of touch with reality, and so convinced of 
their own self-importance that they really fail to see what a bunch of 
overblown, useless zealots that they really are. Do you want us to clone the 
ones we kidnap, and fill the benches with lawless radicals?
	General: YES I THINK YOU'VE GOT IT MAN.
	Otto unceremoniously turned to go as Mel reminded him of the thai stick. 
"SURE THING BUDDY. I ALMOST FORGOT. AND I DON'T EVEN SMOKE! MUST BE GETTING 
OLD." Otto dropped a big baggie of thai stick on Mel's desk and then showed 
himself out.
	Mel was instantly on the speed dial, making myriad phone calls, such that 
the orders might go out from the proverbial 'on high,' and that the grand 
plan might be enacted.
---
	Chanel piloted her craft through the outer photon belts. She flipped on 
some Scorpions - "We'll Burn the Sky" from the monumental Tokyo Tapes dual 
-LP - as she took a big hit off off her blunt. She was wearing a sheer pink 
babydoll nightie and mathing bikini panties; a miniature, vibrating doll or 
likeness of her would-be lover inserted as a tickler inside her fleshy 
pussy. This way she could psychically envelop her lover.
	Chanel was in love. She zig zagged lazily through the endless expanse of 
outer space.
	Suddenly, her ship was rocked by the kinetic energy from a bandit torpedo. 
Her tracking screen lit up and there were 4 of them within range. Her feisty 
craft was undaunted by the sudden attack, and she entered it into evasive 
action whilst activating her own weapons pods. Luckily, her hull was of the 
finest materials, and her shields had been up at the moment of the ambush.
	Her weapons energized then pumped molten plasma out into the area around 
her, the would-be attackers being vaporized in the expanding cloud of 
superheated particle waves emanating from her ship's hull.
	"Thank god for our scientists. It's a good thing they're on our side."
	Just as swiftly as she'd been so violently jolted from her lazily enjoyable 
journey through the depths of the galaxy, she resumed her course, meandering 
once again through the debris fields of the belt. Her auto tractor reached 
out and pulled in anything of value from the disintegrated craft. Among 
these were an escape pod with a living being - a pilot from one of the 
then-defunct assailant craft - inside of it.
	She thought that things had suddenly turned very amusing. She wondered what 
bandits were doing out there on the furthest reaches of the boundaries of 
the confederation. It was publically unmapped space, and presumed to be 
devoid of space traffic, let alone life forms. Hers was supposedly a top 
secret mission. Had there been an intel leak?
	She lit up another blunt and did a spin, her craft caterwauling toward its 
destination. She almost couldn't wait to carry out her mission and return to 
base, simply for the fact that she might see what she'd picked up off of the 
destroyed bandit ships; not the least of which was the living contents of 
the escape pod now secured in the holds of her craft.
	Chanel's scout was relatively small in the grand scheme of things, but 
Control had outfitted it with long range hyperdrives, and high speed pulse 
engines, as well as extra powerful nuke reactors for extended jaunts such as 
the one she was - at that moment - carrying out.
	The craft - despite its compact size - had every amenity; not the least of 
them being the insta-gratifier; an experimental device which could - for 
lack of a better description - literally create something out of nothing. So 
the insta-gratifier could provide Chanel with an endless stream of 
intoxicants, music, literature, and sexual stimulation as she plied at light 
speed and beyond through those darkened recesses of previously unknown 
space.

Five: Isabella Eve

	Isabella Eve chanted her chants, and whispered her incantations. She was 
involved in a psycho-spiritual feminization. There was a college football 
player who had recently beaten a female cousin of hers. Isabella was 
ensuring that his penis would shrink to nothing. If she had liked him, she 
would have given him a narrow waist and bulbous buttocks that he might be 
able to get along in the world, but since she despised him she was giving 
him a pot belly and skinny ass.
	The spell cast, there was a knock at her door. She knew it was Mel from 
Montauk, and buzzed him in. They exchanged informalities and Mel handed her 
a baggie with a few of the thai sticks. She answered, "oh yeah baby. You 
really know how to treat a lady, yes?"
	Taken slightly aback, Mel replied "Why, yes indeed."
	They sat together on the davenport, illuminated by a candlelight. Isabella 
wore a sheer pegnoir with sheer bra and bikini panties underneath, and her 
scent and mere nearby physical presence would have very well nearly - if not 
fully - gotten any red-blooded male completely off, yet Mel was not a 
red-blooded male. Rather, he was a cyborg and his blood ran black. He had no 
sexual desire so Isabella knew she could act in any fashion around him, and 
there was no danger that he might become flustered, and even violent as so 
many red-blooded males are wont to 'do.'
	Isabella lit up a cigarette and offered one to Mel. "Thank you" he said, 
"You know that's one thing I can still do. It actually reinforces my hybrid 
lungs." Having both lit up, the conversation started in earnest, as blue and 
purple and whitish smoke billowed into the air between and about them. It 
was almost like heaven.
	Isabella: Well lucky you! So what brings you here, now, today, hotshot?
	Mel: Well, you know how orders come down from on high?
	Isabella: (smiling)...or is it from lowdown?
	Mel: Well, you know how that goes. I'm sure you understand what I'm saying. 
Call it low; call it high; orders have been circulated.
	Isabella: Do tell!
	Mel: Here's the thing. I need you to generate your absolutely most powerful 
magic, and change several of the judiciary into shemales. This needs to 
occur overnight. As well, you need to sow the seeds of the spirit of 
lawlessness in the populations of the earth at large. I know it's a tall 
order, but you're the very best witch we've ever worked with. Of course, you 
will have all of the Montauk facilities at your disposal, and can work with 
any of the on-call witches we've got as well.
	Isabella: Honestly, I think I can do this on my own. Too many cooks and all 
of that... I've been waiting for this, you know... that people might finally 
have to rely upon themselves, and that there will be no longer exist, 
external authorities for the so-called plebians to foist their 
responsibilities off upon... yada yada yada
	Mel: I knew you would understand.
	Isabella: Is there anything else, honeybunch?
	Mel: I want you to cause psychotropic plants to grow everywhere. The word 
is that the drug war is ending, so it will be desireable to have natural 
intoxicants growing freely, everywhere. ...opium, weed, salvia, 'shrooms... 
Make it all grow wherever it can.
	Isabella: I'm loving this! Why though? Why did it take so long for this 
type of order to be issued?
	Mel: I don't know. You know as well as I do. Heck, you being a woman you 
probably know even more than I do. I'm not even a man, you see (chuckles).
	Isabella: Yet you have special abilities. Let's not get into that though. 
Fair enough. I will get to work on this immediately. It just so happens that 
the time is absolutely ripe for the types of things you've asked for. And 
that, baby, is perhaps the reason behind this. It may be as simple as that; 
it is the season as they say; perhaps but a, "Spring clean for the May 
Queen."
	Mel: That could very well be it. Listen, I would love to sit and chat but 
as you're aware, we've all got orders; and we're all going to be very busy 
for the next several days; if not weeks.
	Isabella: I get your drift, "Cy." Ciao then.

	Mel got up and left, and Isabella shut the door behind him. Each of them 
were wearing huge grins upon their faces, upon either side of the door which 
then separated them. This was it!
	Isabella switched on the stereo as she went to her secure internet terminal 
and began firing off email messages. She would need provisions, some of 
which even Mel could not provide her.
---
	Jake remembered the first time he met the Chemical Kristi or Raven Girl; on 
that day during that summer some months after he had sold his soul for rock 
and roll.
	On his 18th birthday he decided to go for it. Previously, when he would 
listen to Jimmy Page on the Stairway to heaven solo from the 'Song Remains 
the Same' dual-record album, Jake wanted to play like that. It simply amazed 
him.
	He recalled the first time he'd listened to the 'Physical Grafitti' 
dual-album. Upon reflection some years later, it may have been the band's 
finest overall studio work. There were admittedly some very weak tracks on 
the record, but just for the fact alone that the album contained both, 'The 
Rover,' and 'The Wanton Song' - not to mention 'Kashmir' - it was a seminal 
piece of work.
	Jake ruminated on how one of his school buddies insisted upon listening to 
Kashmir every day. This was the same dude who had returned his 'Going for 
the One' by Yes, 'because it only had 5 songs.' Go figure. He was a good guy 
though, and as with each and everyone else, he'd shared those at once 
personal, yet universal traits we all possess of having both a unique, 
individual struggle in life, and yet a shared one with the rest of humanity 
at large.
	In any event, that one day long ago Jake had sat with his pals and getting 
stoned on some nice, mellow brown weed - the kind of laid back stuff they 
were selling on the streets in the '70s - whilst listening to Physical 
Grafitti for the first time. The Rover in particular had astounded him. He 
was deeply moved by the solo on the Wanton Song. That funk guitar riff at 
the one point in the song is an all-time classic. Also that certain song, 
the one whose name he could not recall but which had sounded like an 
American Country and Western tune; the one with the lyrics, "down by the 
seaside, see the boats come rollin' in" had really moved him.
	Perhaps he was an impressionable young lad, all too willing to lap up the 
popular culture of his day without any real discernment; or perhaps; just 
perhaps; Led Zeppelin truly had 'created' some great songs. Like every 
artist, they had their duds; but to this day some would contend that when 
they were 'on,' they were incredible. Perhaps the jury is yet out on them. 
Perhaps there will never be a consensus, just as some would defend the 
painter Picasso whilst others would decry his works as an affront to 
discriminating tastes.
	In any event Jake had picked up the guitar at the age of 16. By his 18th 
birthday he attempted to sell his soul for rock and roll. So he wrote up a 
contract, and cut his finger with a knife and signed the contract in blood.
	Then he was on acid 2 days later at a keggar party, and he played an 
inspirational set. One of Jake's pals played bass, and there was an 
excellent stand-in on drums. The short set went flawlessly, and Jake had 
gone into new areas of expression, with complete success. He thought he was 
on his way to stardom.
	Then he and Brian - another guitarist - sat in a room behind the area where 
the musicians were playing in the basement. The bathroom was more or less 
above them.
	Of that room - their mutual friend's (the Piano Player's) bedroom - some of 
their clique had spent many hours in those very confines, playing the RISK 
board game. They had invented new rules, including navies, and air forces; 
sea invasions and shore bombardment; paratrooper drops; fighters and 
bombers; aircraft carriers. One time, while some of them had been sitting in 
there playing 'Super RISK,' a strange thing happened: A Blue Oyster Cult 
poster fell off of the wall by itself, at the exact same moment in which the 
cassette deck literally 'ate' the Blue Oyster Cult tape which was playing on 
the stereo! So the house may have had a poltergeist all along.
	Anyway, at the party after Jake's set, he and Brian were talking, and there 
was yet another close friend there; a drummer, sitting in; listening; his 
name being Alfred. Everyone was high on acid. Jake was thinking about the 
contract he had signed just days before, when Brian began twisting his own 
beard into twin points. Brian began to look like the Devil. It were as 
though Brian had seen and heard the set Jake had played, and Brian had 
deduced that Jake had done something a little bit strange.
	So the two of them - Brian and Jake - began to have a discussion of how 
Jake had sold his own soul for rock and roll. Another mutual friend of the 
three - Brian, Alfred, and Jake - stood up and said, "Guys, this trip is 
getting too intense! this trip is too intense!" and he quickly left the 
room.
	Brian and Jake went on about the Devil, and the occult, and at some point 
Alfred asked Jake, "Let me get this straight: You sold your soul to the 
Devil?" to which Jake had answered "Yes." At that Alfred exclaimed, "Oh let 
me sell my soul too! That would be bad-ass!"
	Over the course of the conversation, everyone else having since left the 
room Brian went on at length about The Process; he also kept saying that he 
was the 'disraction,' and Jake the 'concentration.' Over and over again: 
Brian was the 'distraction,' and Jake the 'concentration.' Another thing 
which Brian kept emphasizing was the black and white were not the answer, 
yet instead grey.
	At one point, one of the other party-goers came back into the room and 
announced to the 3 of them already there that the sink had come out of the 
wall in the bathroom above. Jake thought to himself, "vandals; rowdy kids 
will be rowdy kids; what can we do with them?" as he rolled his eyes. For a 
moment he felt bad for the party's host, the Piano Player.
	In the days which followed that strange turn of events, Jake didn't trust 
Brian in the least. Brian and he were yet playing word games during lunch 
breaks in the school smoking section. Yet the following weekend at still 
another keggar at another house, Brian, Alfred, and Jake became blood 
brothers.
	In the meantime, Alfred had decided against the whole 'devil thing.' He was 
deeply into aboriginal Mezo-and-North-American thought, as well as being in 
tune with the Asian mindset. Thus shortly after that bizarre 'first party,' 
Alfred had meditated on the devil and found it to be just some dark energy 
which he wasn't interested in dealing with.
	All of that aside, the 3 of them became blood brothers. Shortly thereafter, 
The Raven Girl showed up at the high school. It was to be Jake's last 
semester, and Booth High School's final year of operation, for the numerous, 
baby boom generation had more or less all grown up, and by then the schools 
in the city were depopulating. If Jake remembered correctly, there had been 
5 high schools in the city which had been shut down at the end of that 
school year. Booth High had been one of them.
	Without going into too much detail, the Raven Girl won Jake's heart over 
the course of that Spring and Suummer. He had done all kinds of crazy things 
as her curved petite body had undulated into the through and through of his 
life. She had the most magnetic personality.
	One time; she sat next to him at the park. They were there; she, he, and 
some others from their consciousness-expanding clique. Jake was on the far 
right, She next to he, and then about 4 or 5 other boys to her left. They 
were all facing the climbing wall in the upper park - there fairly close to  
Borealis Highway - and talking about nothing in particular.
	At some point though Jake felt pleasure in his belly. It was like sexual 
pleasure in an area above his groin. He was enthralled by this new pleasure, 
and wondered instantly where it were developing from. He turned and looked 
down at her, and she was already staring up at him with the most victorious 
smile on her face.
	She was dark, with black wavy hair, and a tiny waist and bulbous buttocks. 
She didn't have much in the way of breasts but Jake was an assman, so her 
pear shaped form drove him utterly wild. Added to her wonderful waist and 
ass, her voice; and most beautiful face; and hair were all it took to 
enthrall him.
	Jake could remember graduation night. He had not graduated and would have 
to attend another semester at another school the following year. With less 
than a quarter to go at Booth High, Jake had pulled a stunt which had kept 
him out of graduation. Yet he went to the graduation party itself, and also 
received a copy of the class of 1981 t-shirt. There at the party the Raven 
Girl had dressed to the 9s; she was wearing stiletto heels, garter belt and 
stockings, and sexy skirt and blouse, and her hair was up like a valkyrie in 
a pony tail. Jake knew she was wearing stockings, because he'd seen those in 
erotic literature, and on late-night syndicated re-runs of the Benny Hill 
Show. At the party, during one moment she had looked slyly at him and inched 
her skirt up as she sat. Jake looked down and saw the stocking top, and the 
bare flesh above it, and the garter strap. How did she know? How did She 
know what Jake so loved?
	She would torment him in much this fashion for the entire summer; at one 
point for instance buying a gallon of vodka and sharing it with a bunch of 
the other guys, but insisting that Jake go away first. In reminiscing he 
would imagine a drunken Raven Girl and 6 or 7 of his school buddies, and 
wonders what might have happened. Whatever the case, she certainly had her 
share of the males to choose from.
	Once, toward the end of the summer, with Jake in a tizzy over this 
fascinating young lady; he went to the house of a friend of his, Jack. Jake 
and Jack had been earlier been through the cross-town busing together. 
They'd also been out and about for some late night mischief, and as well 
they had sometimes gotten high together whilst meeting up on their early 
morning paper routes. Of course, in the hours after school and on weekends, 
they'd gotten high together 'all the time.' As for the early morning 
smokeouts, Jake would finish his route just two blocks from Jack's house, 
and would then proceed to stop by and wake Jack up so Jack could do his own 
route. They would share a bowl of smoke or two during the interlude.
	One time, they got Jack's miniature dog high. They blew smoke in his face 
and the little thing started jumping around all crazily. Jack and Jake 
thought it was hilarious.
	Well that day in the sun, Jake happened upon the Raven Girl and Jack in 
Jack's yard. They were all 3 then sitting out in the sun. The Raven Girl 
began to rub suntan lotion on Jack's body. Jake was out of his mind. Then 
the Raven Girl said, "Jake, I would laugh if you died at my feet."
	Jake was at a loss. So that night he was crazy with desire for her, and he 
snuck down to Jack's house and stood outside the parents' bedroom; for the 
parents were on vacation and Jack had the house to himself that night. The 
light was on in there so Jack was with someone; otherwise with the parents 
being gone the lights would have been off in there.
	Jake couldn't help but wonder if the Raven Girl were in there. It didn't 
matter either way. Jake saw nothing but red. He went home and got some 
paint, then painted nasty things about the Raven Girl at both a certain 
street intersection - the one just North of the Raven Girl's house, and 
practically right next to Jack's house - and at the nearby park. Then Jake 
took some poison and attempted to die.
	In looking back, Jake sometimes wished that he could have died that night, 
whilst having painted none of the grafitti denigrating her. On the other 
hand he thinks that perhaps by having painted all of those foolish rants - 
and by having survived the suicide attempt - that her proverbial hook had 
been emplaced even more deeply within his very soul.
	As it turned out, Jake ended up learning a very interesting lesson as a 
result of those words. One night later, at the street intersection she had 
come back herself and overpainted some of the letters of the words he'd 
originally laid down, changing words; for instance, the 's' in 'cursed 
witch' was overwritten with a 'v' to become 'curved witch.'
	A few days later, at the park Jake covered up the rants there with some 
more paint. So the grafitti was gone, and Jake were yet alive. She had also 
painted, 'Jake Dye.' So there were the 'y' and the 'v.' Jake wouldn't think 
anything much of the symbolic significance of this until years later.
	On the night where he took the pills, Jake barfed constantly for what 
seemed like forever. Then when he'd finished throwing up he thought he would 
die. He thought he was leaving this life as a light enveloped him, but he 
heard one of his songs in his head and a voice spoke over it, telling him 
that it wasn't his time; and that he must return to life and play his 
guitar.
---
	Tim dug through the dumpster behind the building. His clothes ragged and 
his countenane bedraggled; his confidence shattered, and his posture belying 
all of the same. He searched for food. He didn't even drink. He was simply 
too out of sorts to care about any of that sort of thing, yet he had 
something like a survival instinct which at the very least kept him in the 
search for food.
	He found a half-eaten hamburger with some soggy, ketchup-laden french fries 
and ate greedily, his legs yet sticking out of the trash bin whilst his 
upper body kept him balanced over the edge of the trash bin.
	Then he saw it; the coin. It gleamed up at him. He fetched it and rubbed 
it, then suddenly he was a different person.
	All of a sudden, Tim had on a fine suit, and was standing aside the 
dumpster. His beard and moustache were well-manicured rather than scraggly. 
His formerly broken-down body was again strong, active, and lithe as it had 
been in his previously long-forgotten youth. He put his hand in his pocket 
and there was a fistful of c-notes. He had on ultra-cool shades - like Corey 
Hart - and a fedora cap. He wore the finest leather shoes and as he took 
those first steps, he sensed his life had changed utterly. A woman called 
out from the street, "Timmy Baby what are you doing back there? What has 
gotten into you? You never were one to wander down back alleys."
	As if he had always prepared for this otherwise 'newfound' role in life, 
Tim hollered back, "I'll be right with you, sweet cheeks." Then he secured 
the coin in his pocket and wandered back out onto the street, where there 
the most beautiful woman he had ever seen awaited him seductively, as though 
she were an ornate persian rug draped over the open back doors of a waiting 
limousine. They got in together, and the limo sped off to god knows where.
	Despite his calm outward expressions, in his mind he was screaming to 
himself, "yes, yes, yes. I don't know what just happened but I'm liking 
this."

Six: Sabrina Lingus

	The phone rang and Sabrina Lingus answered it. She knew who it was, because 
- like the legendary bat phone - it had only one connection; and that was to 
Isabella Eve.
	Sabrina: How are things?
	Isabella: Samo, samo, honey. How about you; anything new and exciting?
	Sabrina: Well you know how it goes for me. I've got hubby in the chastity 
tube and I cuckold him in order that his love for me might be enduring.
	Isabella: Yes, that is how it goes. I'm glad I don't have to deal with 
that, yet on the other hand it must be nice; knowing that someone really 
loves you.
	Sabrina: Yeah you know how it is, the sex with the poolboy is quite 
meaningless, except as a method to get hubby to love me. And as it always 
has, it works just fine. Hubby is foolish enough - you know - to think that 
I actually desire men physically, when in truth their love is what matters; 
and you and I both know how that goes; the ones we fuck don't love us; and 
we only fuck the ones who don't love us so that the ones who do actually 
love us, will love us even more.
	Isabella: Crazy world ain't it?
	Sabrina: You can say that again.
	Isabella: (laughing) Well you and I both know you don't really mean that, 
but I get your drift. Actually, I'm calling just to say hi, and remind you 
to keep doing things fairly as much as you always have. Just remember to 
keep it clean.
	Sabrina: Yes I've got a clean machine.
	Isabella: Let's keep it that way. Just keep on keeping on. There are some 
big changes coming, but if you just keep doing what you've been doing, it 
will be enough for you to hold up your end of things.
	Sabrina: Do you have details?
	Isabella: Well you know I've always got details; work details, devils in 
the details, auto details, details, details, details.
	Sabrina: I get it; so mum's the word, eh?
	Isabella: Just keep your nose to that velvet grindstone of yours, and I can 
guarantee there are some big changes just around the upcoming bend.
	Sabrina: I hope it's not ...(dramatic pause) that we're now entering... the 
Twilight Zone.
	Isabella: Honey, you and I entered the Twilight Zone years ago. I want some 
of what you're smoking.
	Sabrina: Here I'll blow you some through the phone. You got it?
	Isabella: Yes I get it. Ciao, sweety.

	Sabrina and Isabella hung up their respective phones, and Sabrina turned 
and - with her splendidly manicured fingernails - picked up a remote-control 
device. At the push of a button her cuckolded husband ratcheted up to a new 
level of arousal, miles away though he was. Sabrina's remote connected to an 
arousal device implanted in the tip of hubby's penis. She smiled and went 
outside to water some plants, the heels from her magenta mules going 
clickety-clack on the tiles as the strode gracefully across the floors of 
the house, and then the patio outside by the pool. Outside her latest 
poolboy looked up at the approaching sexpot, his flagpole at full salute at 
the sound of her approach.
---
	In the course of working amongst the Khmer, Jake had noticed that the Viets 
and Khmer would work together, but that on lunch breaks and the like they 
didn't as much sit together. Your 'average' Westerner might see these people 
as all the same, yet Jake witnessed that they were distinctly different.
	The Vietnames immigrants were more cosmopolitan, whilst the Khmer were more 
backwards and inward-reaching amongst themselves. The Vietnamese - male and 
female alike - had some players of Chinese Chess or Xiang Qi amongst them, 
but it appeared that none of the Cambodians were interested in the game.
	As a matter of fact, Jake had found a copy of Cambodian Chess on the 
internet and given it as a gift to the Cambodians, but they had displayed no 
interest in the game at all. Jake thought this peculiar as he himself had 
found the Cambodian Chess variant to be quite unique and exciting in its own 
regard; what with - for example - what would start out as opposing 
continuous ranks of pawns, each one of them moving and capturing only 
forward, and once having crossed the 'river' becoming as 'kings' in FIDE 
(Western) chess. Another thing which struck Jake about Cambodian chess was 
the presence of 'boats' on the edges, the same as just about every chess 
variant he'd ever come across. The 'boats' in Cambodian chess; the 'car' or 
'chariot' in Chinese chess, and the 'rook' in FIDE chess being the exact 
same piece; with unlimited orthogonal (vertical and horizontal) movement.
	In any event, the Viets simply seemed more 'modern' than the Cambodians as 
far as Jake could tell, and it appeared as though the land of Vietnam had 
recovered much more quickly from the horrors of war some 30 years previous, 
than had the land of 'Kampuchea.'
	Perhaps no one can fathom the horrors of Pol Pot. Perhaps it were worse 
than even what the Americans had inflicted upon Vietnam. Either way, with 
the Americans having lost some 57,000 lives in that 'conflict,' the 
Vietnamese had lost something like 2 or 3 million dead in comparison. So the 
war had not been a trivial thing on their end; the receiving end of American 
bombs.
	Jake wondered why the French had ever been reinstated into Southeast Asia 
in the first place, after the Japanese had left. It seemed to him that the 
Americans should have never backed such a - as it turns out - disastrous 
move. It's just one of those things that makes no sense in the face of 
common logic. Jake began to wonder if there had been some sinister, 
conspiratorial plot afoot. It seemed to him that, wherever magical people 
such as the Khmer or the Lao or the Viet had lived, that somehow the powers 
that be had always managed to foment a large war in the area, killing many 
of the locals and disrupting their social and economic life in terrible 
ways.
	The same could be said of the Slavs, or Eastern Orthodox people. It seems 
as though they are always, almost without fail, ultimately screwed over by 
supposedly 'random' hystory. There are other examples of this sort of thing, 
and to be fair, perhaps labelling one entire group of people as 'magical' or 
'special' in relation to the rest of humanity at large is but a proverbial 
fool's bet.
	Whatever the case, Jake held both the Khmer and the Viets (and the Lao) in 
high regard. If nothing else, they were all - even in their contrasting ways 
- very special to him. It didn't matter how much any or all of them might 
frustrate or anger him, with their foreign tongues or seemingly impenetrable 
cultures; he simply liked their style; their countenances. He was smitten by 
them, even the ones he had first considered to be as Lemurs, they having the 
appearance of having climbed down out of trees. As he got to know the entire 
lot of them, some of the ones who had originally repelled him with their 
appearance, began to look beautiful to him. As for the Khmer being vandals 
and the Viets being civilized, Jake figured a lot of that had to do with 
their intentional presentation to him in the context of their isolated 
factory milieu. That is to say that it would be unfair to classify a group 
of people being 'one way or another' in the face of such minute evidence as 
Jake had to go on.
	In any event, one day at the factory Jake had gone in for some overtime. It 
was a Sunday, and as it turns out rest of the entire volunteer shift was 
nearly all Cambodian. So for that day it really was a sort of 'Little Phnom 
Penh' there at the factory, and the foreign chatter ratcheted itself up just 
a notch.
	It was there that Jake began to realize what an outsider he was to these 
people, as they would even go so far as to ignore whatever it was he had to 
say, in attempting to interject himself with English into their otherwise 
Cambodian conversation. It was just a day or so after the Queen had told 
Jake he was a 'nice guy,' and it was the very day where Yellow Raven had 
intoned to him that the Queen was insulting him - in the Khmer language - in 
front of his face.
	He knew it was over between them.
	The thing about that day was that he kept hearing the name, 'Delta Dawn' 
crop up in their otherwise indecipherable linguistic exchanges. So he asked 
them, "Why are you speaking so much of her? She isn't even here," to which 
they had asked with a question of their own, "Why do you care about her?"
	Jake answered them as best he knew how. To that point, Jake had noticed the 
Khmer's fascination with 'making babies' as if that were some kind of be-all 
and end-all to their lives. So he told them that he actually liked Delta 
Dawn, because she - like he - had reached approximately the same age as he 
in life, without having had any offspring of her own. He told them that he 
felt a kinship with her because of that; and it was the truth. He also liked 
the way she dressed, and carried herself.
	Now Delta Dawn wasn't really crazy. Jake knew this. Previously, the 
Dominatrix had openly and repeatedly called Delta Dawn 'insane' ('baba' in 
Khmer) in front of everyone on the line. Jake knew though that Delta Dawn as 
a woman of great beauty and substance, and that she was a Viet; and thus a 
'different flavor' then they, the Khmer.
	Delta Dawn was indeed a vastly beautiful woman, and the fact that she was 
apparently approaching the age of 40 without having had children; it was an 
added bonus as far as Jake were concerned. In any event, it was neither the 
first, nor the last time in which Jake had defended an absent Delta from her 
Cambodian detractors. The funny thing was that Delta never even really 
understood Jake; to the contrary she had seemed to have seen him as a 
nutcase in his own right. Nevertheless, none of it had done anything to 
ultimately assuage his admiration for she.
	This is to say that there are many beautiful, vibrant Vietnamese women. 
Another of the Vietnamese ladies - Jake's Twin for lack of a better 
description - had befriended Jake, and after a visit by her relatives from 
Vietnam, she had given Jake a t-shirt, as he had requested. Jake was 
heartened to see that the shirt said, 'Saigon' on it, rather than 'Ho Chi 
Minh City.' To Jake this was further proof that Vietnam was on the road to 
recovery, and full partcipation in the international community, whilst their 
neighbors in Cambodia yet languished in a sort of miasma stretching back to 
the tragedy of Pol Pot.
	From what Jake could discern, Cambodia is to this day a sort of hellhole, 
with its citizenry set, one against the other; rife with vandals and violent 
petty criminals, evidenced further by the news of the home invasion attack 
which had occurred against the parents of Little Wing.
	Jake's Twin wore highwater pants, just like him. She had the same sort of 
body type. She was actually quite beautiful, yet married. So it was 
seemingly a series of mixed signals which indicated to Jake that she might 
be interested in him for the purpose of pleasure and nothing else. What made 
him wonder about that was the way that - during one break from work - she 
had sat with him at a table in the lunchroom and brazenly produced her stash 
of birth control pills; and popped one right in front of him, a mischevious 
look upon her face. He didn't know whether to ask her for sex, or whether to 
ask her to share her stash of pills with him. He said nothing, of course.
	It was with regret that Jake looked back upon the dichotomy between the 
Viet and the Khmer. He only wished he had handled the entire series of 
events with much more diplomacy and tact than he in point of fact actually 
had.
	There was another Viet woman, Josie. Jake had become familiar with her 
whilst spending a couple of weeks on the day shift, that he might further 
his training in the art and science of cable production. Jake had noticed 
this woman, and her fantastic ass, early on in his stint on the day shift. 
She would even go so far as to - at break times - find a way to stand in 
front of him and display her ass for his perusal and approval. Once she had 
said of him, out loud to one of their co-workers that Jake might also hear; 
she had said, "He's so shy in the way he looks at me. I've never seen that 
before." Jake thought to himself, "She could have easily said that in 
Vietnamese; that is if she had not wanted me to hear it. So she must have 
wanted me to have heard it."
	Josie was fairly indepedent in contrast to the other floor employees, in 
that 1) she worked a 'custom shift' where she seemed to come and go as she 
pleased, and 2) she worked on the 'kits' by herself, apparently so that she 
might be accountable and responsible for every detail of the construction of 
the cables she built. To Jake, this was actually a superior approach to the 
one prevalent at the factory, where multiple employees would contribute to 
the building of a kit, and oftentimes there would be multiple signatures on 
the 'pick ticket' verifying the workers' participation in each phase of the 
construction. Under this latter method, multiple workers could sign off - 
for instance - on the loading of a given connector, thus when an error would 
come back from the testers, no one could be quite sure who had committed the 
  loading error. In contrast, when Josie would build the kits all on her 
own, the responsibility for every aspect of the cable building was upon her.
	People called Josie 'crazy' for this, but to Jake it made complete sense. 
As a matter of fact, Jake thought that her method was superior to the one 
generally in practice; at least when it came to the smallish kits with only 
one or two cables apiece. Of course it might have been difficult for a 
single person to have built the large kits of upwards of a hundred cables, 
within any kind of acceptable time limit.
	One time, just before Easter Jake asked Josie out on a date for 'Sunday,' 
to which she replied, "you mean today?"
	Quickly Jake thought to himself, "How could I take you out today; you're 
about to get off and I'm about to start my shift?!" Jake had said, "No, not 
today, Sunday." She quickly clammed up and said, "Oh no, I have a 
boyfriend." Jake wondered if that were some kind of cryptic way of her 
saying that Jesus were her boyfriend. She had gone from open to shut within 
a matter of moments. By then Jake was more or less unphased. To him the most 
important thing was that he had even asked her out on a date in the first 
place. As with Delta Dawn, and even to some extent the Twin, Jake really 
liked Josie.
	Oddly enough, Josie began to come onto Jake in the weeks that followed, but 
by then he was totally smitten by Little Wing. The window had apparently 
closed upon any would-be 'extracurricular' interaction between Josie and 
himself.
	One thing which particularly struck Jake during the course of all of this 
drama was as follows: One night, when Jake was paricularly high on some 
chronic weed, he had a vision of Delta Dawn, in which she said to him that 
he should simply forget the Apsara, and pursue a Viet instead. In the vision 
she told Jake that the Khmer were uncivilized; vandals; and that the Viets 
represented civilization. It almost seemed real, and in the actual days at 
work which followed, the way Delta Dawn would look at him, or approach him 
for seemingly meaningless work conversation; it made him think that perhaps 
she really had projected her thoughts upon him during that 'vision.'
	Whatever the case of that, Jake couldn't disabuse himself of Little Wing 
though; yet he could see the point Delta Dawn had made in the 'vision.' In a 
way it were almost as if that great north/south divide were manifesting 
itself; the Viets being more aligned culturally with the Chinese, which were 
one of the Northern cultures. It almost seemed to Jake as though much of the 
ongoing struggle amongst and between humans has to do with Northern 
cultures, versus Southern ones; and whatever the truth or lack thereof of 
that idea, the Viets definitely appeared to have more of a Chinese flavor in 
their culture than did the Khmer.
	All of that aside, ultimately Jake considered everyone else to have come 
out of India, a long time ago; that in point of fact the area of modern-day 
India was once the center of all of nascent humanity, and not the Tigris 
valley or the depths of Africa as many of our 'scientists' have attempted to 
postulate.
	As for the red-haired, pale-skinned, blue and green-eyed people, Jake 
wondered if they had come from another planet, in order to introduce liberty 
to otherwise in-bondage, darker-complexioned people of earth at large. Or 
perhaps the opposite were true; that the red-haired 'khazars' of the 
Eurasian plains of old were the biggest tyrants of all. Whatever the case, 
the redheads seemed 'different' to Jake.
	Whatever the possibility of the 'differentness' of the redheads of this 
world, it is known now that there are myriad tombs in the Mongolian plains, 
containing the intact remains of a tall, red-haired race. This stunning 
recent discovery could very well turn a lot of heretofore accepted hystory 
on its very head. Regardless of the origin of the redheads, Jake knew in his 
heart that - at the very least - all of the rest of known humanity had at 
one point emanated from the Indian subcontinent. As for the Khmer for 
example, their language is heavily influenced by - and laden with - 
Sanskrit.
	As an aside, it could be that once long ago all people were coal black, yet 
with bright blue eyes; then something had happened whereby the 'soul people' 
or blue-eyed people had been separated from the 'body people' or the blacks. 
Whatever the case of that, it is a misnomer that we use 'soul music' to 
describe what is actually 'body music,' with heavy emphasis on dance and 
rhythm. In truth, classical music with its lack of heavy drums and emphasis 
on melody and harmony is in point of fact, the real 'soul music.' Whatever 
the case may be, as we have seen it is best to judge someone upon their own 
actions, rather than their complexion; because there are sometimes profound 
dark-skinned, dark-eyed people, as well as idiotic light-skinned and 
light-eyed people.
	In the final analysis, the 'medium-skinned, medium-eyed' people of the 
Indian subcontinent are probably the modern-day descendants of the original 
progenitors of humanity at large.
---
	Abdul smoked his hashish and fondled the curves of a couple of the 
courtesans asigned to him, there amidst satin pillows and air laden heavy 
with sweet sensuality. He was a top assassin, and his benefactor had created 
  within him a fanaticism unheard of, literally at any time in hystory 
either before or since. Abdul yet had 3 more days of leave before his next 
assignment; 3 more days of heaven on earth before plying his chosen trade 
once again. Abdul and those like him were fanatics because of the lavish 
pleasures provided by their chief benefactor. If you want to motivate 
someone to do an oustanding job, then you entice them accordingly; in short, 
you give them booty.
	In contrast, look at today's American army in Iraq: When they take leave, 
they go into a room and 'get to' watch DVDs and drink beer. There are none 
of the good drugs; no stellar concubinage; in short, nothing worth fighting 
for. This is at least in part why the Americans in Iraq are often nothing 
more than zombified killers. If they're going to enjoy any kind of spoils of 
war - provide themselves with any kind of motivation as it were - then they 
have to go out and get it on their own, and if the nancy-boys back stateside 
catch wind of this, they're liable to bring these soldiers up on ridiculous, 
kangaroo court charges.
	The American armies in Iraq are thus a joke in the face of hystory. Let's 
face it; democracy is nothing worth fighting for. Of this freedom, there is 
really little or none. What really exists is - instead of the old-fashioned 
original sin - a lifelong indebtedness to the bankers with their funny 
money. Every American is simply born into this debt, just as Europeans  - at 
the height of the Catholic tyranny - had all once been born into original 
sin.
	The real American forces in Iraq are the mercenaries or private 
contractors. They must number nearly as many as the actual soldiers. These 
contractors actually get to participate in the spoils of war, so their moral 
and efficiency are much higher than that which is found within the ranks of 
the 'regular' soldiers.
	Sadly, the US Army no longer provides it own services; for instance, food. 
Rather, food services are contracted out to private agencies; thus we have 
the soldiers eating tainted meat and drinking contaminated water, because 
the contractor corporations really don't give a rat's ass about the welfare 
of the actual soldiers. The entire thing is a national disgrace.
	For one thing, you don't ever undertake a half-assed war as the Americans 
are doing today in Iraq. It is a sure recipe for failure. Rather, you should 
either not go to war at all (preferable) or slaughter the indicated enemy to 
a man, and take their women as chattel. If an invader has not the stomach 
for such policies, then again their military operations are doomed to 
failure. The same is occurring in Afghanistan. In both cases, the Americans 
are doomed to fail.
	Jake's solution to this would have been to have invaded Iraq for instance, 
and then to have conducted "Operation Frankenfurter" whereby, rather than 
killing the Iraqi males, the Americans should have turned their poorly 
endowed ones into shemales, and brought their studs back to America for the 
servicing of American women. As for the Iraqi females, they could have been 
given the finest in erotic training, and for instance opened cheesecake 
websites on the internet, or brothels.
	Regardless of the merits of Jake's plan, the idea of half-assed, 
'bootiless' war is a recipe for tragedy. It would have been best to have 
never invaded at all. Saddam wasn't anything like the American press painted 
him to have been. There have been much more evil sources of tyranny in the 
hystory of the world, and the powers that be in nations such as America have 
never lifted a finger to eradicate the same; and in point of fact have 
actually given support to a veritable rogues' gallery of foreign dictators 
over the years.

Seven: Cheng Du

	Cheng Du felt the buzzing in his penis and knew he had to phone his wife, 
Sabrina. The redhead let the phone ring for a few moments - as if to tease 
her husband a bit - and then she answered.
	Sabrina: Hello honey.
	Cheng Du: You need to talk to me?
	Sabrina: Yes (sexual gasp as the pool boy is fucking her), you need to 
expand (gasp) your operations. We need more budget for what has to be done.
	Cheng Du: Another remodel? I beg you, no more remodels.
	Sabrina: (laughs) No, not a remodel. I actually respect your wishes there 
honey. Just find a way to up your income, and I'll be sure to one day 
(snicker) let you cum.
	Cheng Du: Ok. I love you.
	Sabrina: Yes I know that you do.

	With that they hung up on each other, and Sabrina gave the button on the 
remote an extra long push. She could set it anywhere betwen min-stim, which 
meant that it was the minimum stimulation necessary to keep Cheng Du 
constantly aroused, or set it to max-stim, which was the stimulation 
necessary to keep him constantly on the verge of orgasm.
	Cheng Du's life was a series of sexual peaks, yet never over the top; well, 
mostly never. Of course Sabrina would grant him release now and then, if for 
no other reason than to clear out his pipes. Of course, when she would let 
him cum, she would make him cum several times, that he might be entirely 
drained by the experience, and in the process be bound by his love, ever 
more closely to she, his cuckoldress.
	Cheng didn't mind the life of a cuckold, even if he never quite understood 
it. One thing he knew for certain was that this stimulation - and attendent 
lack of orgasms on his part - kept him alert and made him a much more 
dynamic player in the course of his day-to-day business transactions.
	Sabrina loved the way it caused him to love her. None of her endless stream 
of poolboys could ever express love in such a fashion. Oh, many of them 
thought that they were accomplished lovers, but in actuality they were much 
more often than not nothing more than human pistons, put on this earth to 
sexually service the likes of she. To her, they were there to cause the one 
without - Cheng Du - to love her in an ever-increasing fashion.
	At least the pool boys had their self-esteem. Of course the life of a stud 
really isn't all that it's cracked up to be; but that has never stopped any 
of them. To a man like Cheng Du, sex is great; yet everything else in life 
is even better. Denial of release is the motivator which drives men such as 
he to great heights. To the poolboy studs of the world on the other hand, 
sex is the ultimate of their accomplishments. They generally have neither 
business acumen nor philosophical insight, nor the fine hand of a real 
artist; instead their area of expertise is in bedding down women. Truth be 
told, it really isn't much. The proof is in the pudding: The studs virtually 
all face burnout by the age of 40 or 50, whilst the Cheng Dus of the world 
contribute to humanity in the areas of art, science, and commerce; well into 
their golden years.
	Of course, there are those relationships between man and woman which don't 
involve any of these dynamics, but rather two people in an equally yoked 
partnership; loyal - sexually and otherwise - only to one another. By the 
same token these relationships become more and more rare as time marches on.
	Whatever the case, Cheng Du knew he was under the gun then. He needed to 
find a way to up his income, for whatever it was that Sabrina had in mind. 
His money laundering business was going great guns, he being able to pass it 
through a series of vending machines which he owned up and down the Western 
Coast of the USA and Canada.
	Centered in Vancouver BC, the enterprise had really taken off in recent 
years, and Cheng Du was the king of the vending machine. Yet, even the 
millions rolling in from the illegal enterprises were not enough for his 
wife. Half exasperated, and half in gleeful anticipation, he began to plan 
his next business venture. Perhaps a kidnapping would be the ticket. 
Perchance instead it was time to unveil plan X.
---
	Edward pumped another round into the 105mm gun. It was freezing cold. He 
was in the Canadian Army, fighting reds over the frozen tundra of the Arctic 
circle. The end of the Great War had heralded the onset of fighting between 
the Canadians and the newly-formed bolsheviki elements, for control of the 
Arctic Sea. It was 1919.
	He was in an artillery battery, and from the sound of it his fellow 
soldiers a couple of clicks away were under heavy pressure from advancing 
bolsheviki elements. Only the indirect fire from the guns of he and the rest 
of the battery he belonged to could stave off the attack.
	Over the field phone the situation sounded dire. On the line, they were 
running out of machinegun ammo. Bodies littered the frozen waste. In the 
twilight, the blood almost took on a purple hue. Edward saw none of that, 
but could only imagine the horror. Like an automaton he simply kept pumping 
rounds into the gun. They must have been firing something like 1 round every 
5 seconds. Their ammo stockpiles could not feed the guns of the battery for 
much longer. The guns were getting hot as well. Logistics were a mess. 
Something had to give.
	The front lines were breaking, at least from the screaming coming over the 
field phone. Then the line died. Edward and his fellow crew membrs knew what 
to do; level the guns for direct fire. Their accompanying machinegunner 
ratcheted the bolt.
	After a few minutes, the bolshevikis were within sight. They had definitely 
broken through the line, and neutralized all of the front-line Canadians in 
the process. Now Edward and his crew defended some remote outpost on the 
shores of the Arctic Sea. It was a place without docks, without port 
facilities; all supplies and  other equipment having to be delivered in 
small boats from the freighters anchored off shore. If only there were a 
Canadian naval vessel nearby to provide supporting fire; if only the line 
had held; he and his would not have found themselves in that very 
predicament. As it was, they were under heavy assault.
	Their guns boomed in a direct fire role. They began loading cannister ammo 
as the last bolshevikis closed. Then, just as bullets whizzed by through the 
air, the last of the reds were mowed down by a combination of the machinegun 
and the 105mm guns firing directly into them.
	Now Edward got to see for himself what the bloody barren once-whitened 
wasteland looked like under the arctic twilight; an eerily undulating, 
silent purple. In the lack of din, something next caught Edward's eye.
	It was a sparkling sort of spire off in the distance to his left. Some sort 
of beacon atop a small outcropping of otherwise barren rock. The battle 
apparently over, Edward sent a few men from the battery forward to inspect 
the front line positions for possible survivors, and to execute any 
bolshevikis they might find incapacitated along the way. Edward left a 
skeleton crew to man the machinegun and one or two of the artillery pieces, 
and headed off with a couple of the others toward the spire, that they might 
investigate.

Eight: John Dee

	The call came over the cell phone as John was on his vendor machine 
maintenance route. It was his boss, Cheng Du. In semi-urgent tones, the 
Chinese businessman told John that plan X was in effect, and that it was 
time for John to deliver the copies of the photos to the various and sundry 
offices of the politicians and bureaucrats who would be enmeshed with the 
web.
	John dropped what he was doing and headed for the airport locker containing 
the copies of the video and photos, all conveniently stored upon DVDs. 
"These government dickheads are just too easy," John mused. "They have no 
sense of propriety."
	John reached the airport, and discreetly made his way to the locker, then 
fetched several manila envelops; with their contents already sealed; their 
mailing addresses already made out, and their postage already paid for; then 
drove them across town and dropped them into a mailbox. Then he had a smoke 
and went back to his vending machine routine.
---
	Once, nearly 30 years before; Jake was 'hanging out' with some of the other 
teenagers in his 'clique.' They were all nascent craftsmen and artists; 
glass blowers and musicians. They were gathered in the high-ceilinged room 
on the main floor of the old phone exchange building, there on 42nd and 
Median.
	There Jake sat with Brian, the Piano Player, and the Son of the Apostate 
Jesuit. They smoked some '70s bud; that mellow stuff which didn't knock a 
person completely out the way so much of today's weed is known to do. It 
tasted so good, and the high was just right.
	The son of the ex-Jesuit - a budding glassblower named Fireball - actually 
resided in the building with his father; the building having been retired as 
a phone exchange and in the process of being converted into a series of 
apartments and artist studios. The apostate Jesuit and his son had been one 
of the first tenants.
	Interestingly, the room across the hallway was a virtual cavern filled with 
piles of refuse from the phone facilities which had then-recently been torn 
out. There the boys had constructed a motocross bicycle track. Fireball, the 
one who would ultimately go on to be a literal star of the glass blowing 
world in the mold of the great Lino of Venice, Italy; he could really race 
around that track on his own 'BMX bike.'
	Jake had a little Schwinn he'd 'commandeered' from his youngest sister. It 
was a great runner, but regardless of the bike being ridden, Fireball was 
the expert rider. Fearless in that regard, he always seemed to make the best 
times when the boys would compete to see who could 'drive' the track the 
fastest. Later on the young artisan would go on to collect a series of 
motorcycles. The Piano Player - of part Tlingit tribal extraction - would 
also go onto great fame in the world of glass, but rather as a sculptor more 
in the mold of the ex-Jesuit.
	In any event, they all sat there that late Friday evening - Jake, Brian, 
the Pianist, and Fireball - and smoked their stuff, and Brian and the 
Fireball would argue over whether Teddy Kennedy had been guilty of 
Chappaquiddick, or whether the Shah had been better than Khomeni. At the 
time, Jake had not gained any great deal of political awareness; so he would 
just sit there spacing out and wonder what these other two were going on 
about, their respective arguments laced with such conviction. Then it 
happened.
	The lights on the high ceiling above them blinked in an out in sequence, as 
though some spirit were crossing through, causing one light after the other 
in a series to flicker. It were almost as though a wind were blowing through 
the place. The energy from the thing - whatever its true identity - was 
palpable and the 4 boys looked at each other and basically said, "did you 
see/feel that?" Jake had definitely 'experienced' the thing, and it was a 
rather frightening affair. Something was watching over them, or at the very 
least passing through.
	Jake could remember other times in the ex-Jesuit's apartment; in that very 
room. He could remember the time the kids were all playing their 'Super 
RISK' and the group of them had invited the Fireball's dad - the ex-Jesuit - 
to partcipate in a game. Jake's kibbitzing which had worked so wonderfully 
at times in the past among his peer group; these same tactics were to no 
avail in the face of the grizzled artisan; the wily ex-Jesuit. At least in 
'Super RISK,' Jake had met his poltical match.
	Jake reminisced about another time; there in that same room. That was the 
time where Fireball's dad had gone into some great detail as to how the 
Pakistanis had obtained nuclear material. Somehow it tied into the '7 
Sisters' and the Rockefellers, and trucks driven in a clandestine fashion 
all the way from South Africa, to Pakistan. The man told the story of how 
the trucks had skirted any kind of real scrutiny at any and all of the 
border crossings along the way, and how it had all led to Pakistan having 
gained the 'Islamic Bomb.'
	That was perhaps Jake's first real taste of conspiracy theory. Oh sure, 
Jake had made silk-screened t-shirts in the high school graphics arts class, 
saying things such as 'CIA in the Dope Trade?' and such. But that evening 
spent there with the ex-Jesuit; it was perhaps the first time Jake had heard 
a concrete, overarching conspiracy theory.
	Of course at that time, they were - Jake and his peer group - perhaps all 
without exception socialists. It was simply the zeitgeist of those times. 
Ronald Reagan had been an easy target for their bile. In retrospect, years 
later Jake would think of those as the 'good old days' and realize that 
Reagan was actually a relatively benign political cancer.
	Actually, that probably wasn't true but in reminiscing we tend to tell 
ourselves how 'good' things had once been, and Jake was no exception in that 
regard. If nothing else, the 'drug war' and the appointment of Bennett as 
'czar' had indicted Reagan in the face of hystory. Already, the Republicans 
were eschewing the libertarian ideals of Goldwater.
	In any event, the passing of Ronald Reagan from the office of the 
presidency would be the last time a Western 'conservative' in the ostensible 
mold of that same Barry Goldwater would hold the office. After that, the 
Eastern 'Rockefeller Republicans' would take over the reigns of the party, 
as exemplified by George Bush and later, the Neocons; they being nothing 
more than old-style Trotskyites who had happened to have given themselves 
the 'new conservative' moniker. Truth be told, in many ways the neocons were 
nothing more than Scoop Jackson Democrats in drag; in full support of the 
welfare state, and the endless 'wars' (on poverty, on drugs, on terror, ad 
naseum); their overriding principle being a dogged, relentless support of 
Zionist Israel. In any event, those had been interesting times, back in the 
day.
---
	Charles wandered the underground passageway. He was underneath Sedona, 
Arizona, and in search of the lost alien city which had been written of in 
certain at once circumspect and maddening tomes of yore.
	He knew that other passages had been destroyed, but an ancient map had 
indicated the existence of the tunnel he were in at that moment; its opening 
at a place miles away from the actual city itself. As a matter of fact, his 
wandering the passageway had gone on for two days. He was running low on 
rations, and his water maker was functioning with less and less efficacy as 
the air around him would lose more and more of its humidity, the deeper he 
went. The water maker relied upon that very humidity in order to create 
certifiable drinking water.
	Nonetheless Charles forged ahead, as the passage itself would wander 
downward, then upward, then left, then right. He actually wondered if he 
were going around in circles. Yet there were signs that he was approaching 
the city. The hieroglyphs upon the walls were changing. They had started out 
  as some sort of apparent Mezo-American script, but by then they had 
morphed into foreboding symbols left by an ancient race of god-like beings.
	Despite his dwindling rations, Charles figured that he had enough to follow 
the path for another day, before he would yet have to turn back. He could 
only hope that one more day's travel would gain him entrance to that fabled 
city.
	Suddenly, there was a noise up ahead. A shadow crossed the passageway, just 
around the bend. He dimmed his flashlight and drew his pistol, and inched 
warily forward as the thing - whatever it was - seemed to scramble to and 
fro, just around the corner. Swallowing his growing terror, he thrust 
himself around the corner and was at once face to face with one of the 
ancient watchers. The watcher however was nothing like what he had expected.
	'It' was a beautiful woman, all dressed in satins and sheers, with stiletto 
heels and long, lustrous, undulating coal-black hair ('y pelo ondulado 
oscuro'). She beckoned to him, and turned and walked further down the hall. 
Charles was mesmerized. He could do nothing but follow.

Nine: Kristi Sweet

	Kristi did what her stepfather John Dee told her to do. She had been his 
sexual slave for a few years by then, and the odd thing was that it didn't 
bother her too much. She figured it were a small price to pay, for what she 
ultimately got in return. Certainly, there were other young girls who would 
have been driven mad if they had been in Kristi's position in life, but it 
would seem that there are some females who are ready for sexual experiences 
from an early age, and yet others who are never ready.
	This is why the idea that there should be an 'age of sexual consent' is 
bogus. As usual, it is the collectivists' way of trying to make 'one size 
fit all' with regard to their oppressive sets of legal rules, when in point 
of fact everyone is different in practically every regard a person could 
possibly imagine.
	This is in no way to advocate adults persuing children for sex, but it is 
simply a statement of fact; and John Dee was 'fortunate' to have such a 
willing playmate. Under other circumstances, his perversions could have 
easily landed him in jail, yet Kristi went along with him, biding her time. 
Of course, John was unaware of this; that Kristi was playing along, biding 
her time. As a matter of fact, John Dee didn't really care one way or 
another what Kristi thought about; for it appeared that he was simply lost 
in a land of his own sexual fantasy.
	Kristi's own mother Laurie was usually involved in some engrossing actvity 
of her own - such as being drunk all the time - so she scarcely noticed the 
strange interactions between her own daughter - Kristi - and the man Laurie 
herself had married in the wake of her first husband's death.
	Late at night with Laurie passed out on the couch and in the aftermath of 
some liaison between John Dee and Kristi; Kristi would stay awake in her 
bed, and then Lucifer - the yhvh - would come to her and ask her what she 
wanted. Often, Kristi's wishes would be granted. At other times, it seemed 
as though the demiurge - the maker of our physical universe - were holding 
out on her, offering up all manner of excuses as to why 'such and such, and 
so and so' could not possibly be carried out.
	Lucifer did enough for Kristi though that the latter would go through life 
at least partially satisfied; at least to the extent that she wouldn't rock 
the boat with regard to her stepfather's bizarre sexual proclivities. Kristi 
knew that there were much worse things which could happen to her, such as 
ending up in an actual foster home, and in the care of molesters much worse 
than John Dee. At the very least, John Dee had been tender with her. Kristi 
knew from the experience of childhood friends - those of them who were 
actual adopted children - that life in a foster home was more often than 
not, far worse than anything she herself had ever - or would ever - 
experience at the hands of John Dee. As a matter of fact, it was through her 
interactions with John Dee that Kristi first learned how to easily 
manipulate men, for a man pursuing sex with a child is in point of fact one 
of the most pathetic of creatures, and in the case of John Dee, fairly 
easily controlled through his penis; at least on several levels.
	One night, whilst Kristi was alone with G-d in her room, she demanded 
complete freedom for all of humanity; an end to the agencies; bureaucracies; 
and end to the hand-wringing socialists and churchians alike; and in their 
place a new flowering of liberty, including an end to the unfair child labor 
laws, which themselves were part and parcel of the outmoded union racket 
which had infested American society back in the 1930s. Kristi was quite wise 
and mature in this regard. She could see the flowering tyranny which was 
spreading by the day about her, and the people of her land, the USA. It was 
evident from the behavior of her school teachers, and even moreso the 
ridiculous 'school psychologists' she was sometimes sent to see on account 
of her - here and there - mischevious behavior in interacting with her 
peers.
	Kristi was simply sick and tired of teachers, and administrators, and 
televangelists (which John Dee's realtives watched religiously), and idiotic 
politicians. Truth be told, Kristi was a very special young girl. She had an 
'old soul' and her wisdom and capacity for logical thought far outweighed 
her - up to that point - short stay on the planet.  She was by then 13 of 
course, which would have - interestingly enough - easily been of legal age 
in Asia. Her body was already that of a full-grown woman, to the point where 
she could torment school teachers by wearing tight shirts and revealing 
skirts.
	In any event on that night; the one where she demanded that G-d end the 
oppression of the populace at large; an end to rules and regulations; a 
beginning of a free world; G-d relented and promised that She would do 
something about Kristi's complaint. In truth, G-d had to to what Kristi 
said. G-d (Lucifer) could hem and haw for a time, finding every excuse in 
the books not to comply, but Kristi in point of fact held the real power; 
and after a time; there by Kristi's 13th year; they both knew this. Thus the 
time of game playing and delayed requests was finished, and the grand plan 
implemented. Kristi was the May Queen.
	Rock Fellers had been given his marching orders by that very same G-d 
Kristi cavorted with, there in the dimly lit saddened sultry hues of her 
lonely bedroom.
---
	Jake considered what his uncle had told him about Greek sexuality. Whether 
it were a family embarassment or not, Jake's uncle had given the world of 
homosexuality a great deal of study during the course of his own life. There 
just before the Uncle's death, Jake had entertained a long conversation with 
the man.
	At one point Jake had told the Uncle of his own homosexual proclivities, 
yet how they these fantasies inevitably involved a fag hag to preside over 
the proceedings. His Uncle had chuckled - somehow as though knowingly - at 
that remark.
	The Uncle had been going on about how all males have at least some 
homosexuality in them, but that this never had to lead to any actual, in 
point of fact, sexual activity. He went on to explain to Jake that every man 
had to more or less deal with these feelings, and that it was important to 
refrain from this sort of activity, regardless of individual predilection or 
proclivities. Jake happened to agree with that - with perhaps the 
above-mentioned caveat of 'fag hag sex' - and told his Uncle as much.
	To Jake, the idea of homosexuality was on some level simply unnatural or 
sickening. He could remember the time he'd been in a bar, himself dressed in 
fairly passable drag, and spied 2 young flamers, cavorting about the dance 
floor; and as much as Jake had wanted to approve of - to embrace - their 
chosen lifestyle, a voice came over him inside and said, "what a waste." One 
of the faggots could sense this and quickly turned and looked at Jake as he 
thought this.
	The two faggots were beautiful young boys, yet Jake was saddened that it 
appeared that neither of them might never experience being with an actual 
woman.
	Jake had been in his own homosexual encounters. Well, perhaps it's tough to 
say exactly if a would-be shemale giving a male a blowjob is technically 
homosexuality, but to Jake it more than likely was just that.
	The one time, he had told a callgirl of his desire for cuckold sex, and 
fluffing and creampies, and she had gone on to arrange that for him. When 
she arrived with her lover at Jake's apartment as he greeted them in full 
drag, Jake handed her the leash attached to his penis in its chastity cage, 
as well as the key to the lock; and she laughed and directed him around the 
apartment by that leash. When he got down to business on the male - her 
lover - the scent of her pussy was fresh on his cock. She had just gotten 
done fucking him! No wonder it had taken so long for the two of them to have 
arrived there.
	The lover was nothing special. His cock was actually small; smaller than 
Jake's; perhaps though, that were part of the humiliation. Of that 
humiliation, Jake could not figure out why he craved it, and why his life 
had gone the direction it had gone. Jake had never been happy as a male; not 
since the suicide attempt over the Raven Girl; and most probably going back 
long before that. Had it been that lack of breastfeeding, where infants such 
as he and millions of others had been part of a vast, 'bottle feeding' 
social experiment?
	Was society intentionally breeding feminized males; and if so, to what end 
exactly? Was it an accident of hystory or rather some sinister plot that so 
many mothers had eschewed breast feeding for the bottle, back in the 1950s 
and 1960s? Whatever the case, many males such as Jake had been fed nothing 
but an ersatz cock - rather than real female nipple - in their infancy; and 
Jake deeply suspected that it had something to do with his own 
predilections.
	After the taste of the callgirl's vaginal secretions wore off, the cock 
didn't taste very good; especially not through the condom. And the idiot 
just had to fart at one point in order to take Jake further down. Yet Jake 
was in her thrall. Jake's heart sunk as she began to make out with the lad 
as Jake sucked the cock, she kissing the boy passionately above as Jake 
tried below to make the thing hard. The kid though wasn't much of a lover, 
and having spent himself a short while before inside of her, really couldn't 
keep much of a hard-on. The thing would spring to life though from time to 
time so Jake's oral ministrations were having some effect.
	She asked the boy, "how is it?" and the boy replied that Jake was not 
intimidated; as though there were no hesitiation as one might find with a 
female attempting fellatio for the first time. It was a small consolation as 
Jake reminded himself then and there that males - even ostensibly former 
ones turned shemale such as he himself had been - were naturally expert 
cocksuckers when they wanted to be.
	The boy never came, and eventually the callgirl dismissed him. Then it was 
on to the cream pie session as she and Jake were then alone in the 
apartment. That was much more enjoyable to Jake. He began to realize that, 
despite whatever brainwashing or sex spell he were going through, that he 
enjoyed sucking dildos much more than real cock, and that in any event 
eating pussy utterly trumped either in any event. As for the dildos, Jake 
figured it harkened back to his own bottle-feeding infancy. As for cream 
pies, Jake liked the theory more than the practice. In practice a cream pie 
tends to chafe one's face.
	She would tell him - as other woman had in the past and would in the future 
- that he spoilt her with his tongue and mouth. One woman even told Jake 
later on that he was a certified oral expert.
	The callgirl left satisified, and Jake nearly broke down and cried as the 
door closed behind her. It was the proverbial 'callgirl hangover.' If it had 
only cost him nothing in dollars; perhaps it would have been ok. Yet as it 
was, he'd been used and left without release of his own, and he'd paid a 
pretty penny for it to boot. Somehow it simply didn't seem to be worth it. 
On the other hand, as she'd said once it was so 'twisted' and 'kinky' as it 
were, that it had actually been very exciting for everyone involved; at 
least on some level. At least the boy had been - other than that random 
single fart - polite about the entire thing, and not one of those idiotic 
macho men who likes to pound his own proverbial chest and bleat about what a 
superior being he must be, having fucked some chick and been 
post-fuck-fluffed by a foppish dandy such as Jake.
	The other time Jake gave a blowjob, it was after he had opened up a 
'shemale escort service' with an ad in the local 'alternative' newspaper. 
Several callers had spoken with Jake, who definitely by then had the 
appearance - at least from behind - of a female. Of course Jake's face was 
about as female as Ayn Rand's had been; yet from behind, his long flowing 
reddish-brown hair was actually quite the head-turner. And when he would 
dress up in a waist cincher, and fancy lingerie and garter belt and 
stockings, with a dress or a skirt and blouse over that, and a pair of 
stiletto heels on his feet, with jewelry and painted nails; let's just say 
he'd been known to fool a lot of males, even with his dog face. Certainly 
the blue eyes had helped mitigate the masculine features of his face.
	So Jake had opened this shemale escort service, and had received multiple 
calls about it, yet no customers. Interestingly, a couple of the callers 
told him their life story, and in both cases it was eerily similar: A 
well-endowed man beds down literally hunreds of willing women and then 
reaches the point of boredom with them such that he desires something more; 
and in both of these particular cases they wanted to fellate a shemale. 
Neither wanted to fellate a male, but instead someone with otherise the 
appearance of a woman, yet with a functioning penis. Jake found this 
fascinating in any event. As it turned out, he didn't hook up with either of 
those men; but he did send one of them a bunch of photographs of himself.
	Be that as it may, one day Jake had a customer; an 'in-call' (someone who 
came to his apartment). Jake dressed in the layers of lingerie, and the 
stilleto heels, adorned in makeup and opened the door for the customer, not 
knowing what to expect. From the moment the 'john' laid eyes on Jake; Jake 
could tell that the man saw him as an actual woman. The man loved Jake in 
the chinese-style satin dress. Jake felt like a veritable Madame Butterfly. 
His breasts were small - the hormones not really having had a great effect, 
yet his lower body was like that of a female, with softened ass and a decent 
pair of legs. The john was transfixed, at least to an extent.
	They got down to business, the john having laid out the required $50 bill 
on a table. Jake even presented his ass at one point for the man to take, 
but he couldn't get hard enough in his aparrent drunkedness for that. As it 
ended, Jake blew the man through a condom. Using his mouth, Jake could not 
get the john hard, but remembering what had happened before with the 
callgirl and her lover, Jake was determined not to let that happen again, so 
he redoubled his efforts and sucked and sucked harder still. Jake thought of 
Maria Mortorano and how then, Jake could at least share some of her most 
poignant life experience with her; the act of servicing a john as a female 
prostitute.
	Then the man came. His member was nothing to write home about, and before 
Jake had put the condom on it, he had seen a wart on its head. Jake had felt 
pity for the man. Again, Jake's cock was bigger; and again this added to 
Jake's humiliation and sense of irony.
	When it was over, Jake tried to speak to the man as another man, attempting 
to strike up a conversation about the local football team and the upcoming 
season. By then, the man was actually in a sort of angry, disdainful state, 
and without saying a word simply exited the apartment, that contemptuous 
look upon his face.
	After the door shut, Jake broke down and cried. He was a mess, his makeup 
smeared all over because of the summer heat and the sweat which the 
encounter had caused. The tears did even more to mess up his appearance. At 
that moment, Jake never wanted to have sex with anyone - male or female - 
ever again. He practically took a vow pledging the same, and as it turned 
out, was nearly completely successful in that regard as the years wound on 
and on.
	Jake told himself then that at the very least, he knew how it was to be a 
female prostitute, and how it felt to go from being the literal apple of a 
male's eye, to an instant pariah; simply based upon the incidence of the 
male orgasm. So despite Jake's never wanting sex with anyone else ever 
again, at least on some level he had through the experience; become closer 
to his unrequited past love, the superlative Maria Mortorano. Jake had 
experienced whoredom. There was also a consolation in that the john had not 
been able to take Jake from behind, so at least Jake had not been 
buttfucked.
	All of that aside, Jake's Uncle had told him something very interesting in 
the course of the one conversation, a couple of years later. As it turns 
out, in ancient Greece they never actually buttfucked. Yes, contrary to 
myths promulgated by the homosexual lobbies of today, the Greeks never did 
anal sex. In truth, what they did was a Florentine; which is essentially 
where a man puts his hardened cock between the boy's legs from behind. The 
friction of the upper thighs is enough to bring the cock off; but they did 
not actually buttfuck. So it would seem that the Greeks actually applied 
some couth to their practices of ancient homosexuality.
	In addition, Jake's buddhist mentor (not Jake's uncle but another friend) 
had once mentioned in a separate conversation somewhere along the line that 
in ancient Rome, buttfucking was allowed, but that any man who took it up 
the ass was then banned from political office. It's too bad we don't have 
any such rule in effect in our society today! Even moreso, it's too bad we 
can't abide by the same couth which the ancient Greeks displayed with regard 
to the entire thing.
	Further, it should be understood that in Greece, males in their 30s and 
upwards did not engage in these acts with one another, as so many 
homosexuals would have us believe today. Instead, this act of Florentine was 
always between a mature male and a teenaged boy. To sum it up, modern 
homosexuals are much more often than not quite a depraved lot, fascinated as 
they are by fancy uniforms and tyrannical governments; by notions of empires 
and myriad rules and regulations enforced by the proverbial boot forever on 
the face of humanity.
---
	The monster watches humanity through a prism of space and time; itself 
outside of both. The monster lives in a world of curves where ours might be 
considered one of straight lines; a world of noise where ours might be 
considered musical; a world of untold terror were a human ever to - whether 
by accident or design - happen upon such an invisible dimension. The monster 
- itself with neither form nor function as we would understand it - looks in 
upon the swirling cavalcade of the passage of human hystory, the lives and 
dramas undulating through its vision and combining into a meandering 
kaleidoscope of color and sound.
	Invisible to the ostensibly innocent humans in their finite pursuits; in 
contrast the monster is nearly infinite in its scope. It is but one of the 
ancient, now-forgotten former participants from the past galactic wars. 
There gods of untold terror and callousness would clash within and without 
the stars. Humans were but an afterthought in the face of all of it. Yet by 
the same token, humans hold the key to the conflict. It were as though these 
monstrous, 'ancient ones' and 'elder gods' were in point of fact projections 
from within the depths of the hidden human psyche and spirit. It were 
perhaps yet another example of the proverbial snake eating its own tail; the 
Ouroboros.
	Whatever the truth or lies of any of that, today that same monster - as 
well as its allies and its nemesis gods - peers in upon us all, waiting to 
be unleashed for yet another chapter in the universal wars. As to what role 
humans might actually play in the same, that remains to be seen. Until then 
the gate is closed. The watchers wait, and bide their time - if it could be 
called that - making cosmic wagers on the direction of humanity. When the 
moment is right, the eldritch terrorists will lay down their chips; set down 
their dice; halt the spinning of their roulette wheels; and once again flow 
through the gate, and only then once again face off in overwhelming battles 
of sound and fury, ultimately in any event signifying the proverbial 
nothing.

Ten: YHVH

	"You know Rock, I've always been beholden to a succession of May Queens, 
all throughout your so-called human hystory. It should be obvious to anyone 
that, for the longest time I've been wont to serve such a succession of 
queens, so many of whose biggest preoccupation has always involved the 
oppression of those around her; and I mean *everyone* around her. Yet today 
- in a refreshing break from the series of queens over the past century at 
least - the current claimant to the throne has asked that all of these 
specious 'legal' and 'civil' rules and regulations be removed, that humans 
might once again live in true liberty. In your current epoch, on your planet 
Earth, a desire for pure liberty of this extent is actually unheard of. 
There were admittedly past queens willing to allow some combination of 
personal liberty and social control, but the one who currently wields the 
power of the throne; her wants are unprecedented in the context of all of 
your recorded human hystory; and I, being beholden only to She, must relent 
and grant her these wishes. This is not to say though that I am not pleased 
with this turn of events; as a matter of fact, I'm tickled proverbially 
pink.
	Furthermore, This is why you've been ordered to dismantle your empire; your 
mechanisms of disinformation, oppression, and theft; and to let humans run 
free at last. As I've mentioned; to be honest, I've always preferred this, 
and I've secretly loathed those past May Queens whose biggest desire in life 
was to make others suffer as she herself imagined her own suffering to be. 
It were as though, for so many of the previous generations that none of the 
queens could ever stand to see anyone around them in any kind of state of 
satisfaction. Rather, each would always seek to drag humanity down to the 
lowest level of possible discontentment.
	This May Queen is different. She is satisfied to be the owner of her own 
pain and suffering, and to let others own theirs. She is not at all 
interested in communal suffering, but that each and every person should 
suffer in their own unique way.
	As for the past, totalitarian queens, they collectivized the suffering for 
reasons of self-described piety, or other such delusions of grandeur, when 
in truth these queens were all without exception what you might call, in 
your 'modern lingo,' consumate killjoys. The Golden Age as foreseen by 
Crowley and postulated by Aiwwais - that was me, by the way - is upon us. 
Needless to say, I am extremely pleased. In truth, human tyranny is quite 
boring to the likes of me, your demiurge. I'm fairly certain that even you 
will ultimately agree."
	Rock replied to the spinning, whizzing, seemingly alien oracle in the 
center of the secret room, "Yes. Yes, I'm really jazzed about this. Life had 
become so boring, implementing mind control and tyranny as a day to day 
staple of modern civilization; those of my ilk having our hands on the money 
machines, and they - the ostensible plebians - in their ignorance and petty 
greed being more or less willing to go along with it all.
	Now, everything is going to be footloose and fancy free. You've reminded me 
so often in the past that fortune can be so fleeting, for even if such were 
to last a millennium, it would yet in the end be nothing more than dust; but 
this; this realization of the Book of the Law; this is the real deal. Now, 
we're going to see human inventiveness and inspiration like we've only been 
able to postulate that perhaps the long-lost ancients possessed.
	Ultimately, I happen to agree with you; all of these Carrie Nations and 
such; they've always been simply uncouth at best. The Eleanor Roosevelts and 
Lady Bird Johnsons and Hillary Clintons; at their heart of hearts all one in 
the same; purveyors of human misery; lovers of tyranny; as you say, 
consumate killjoys; and that phreaking mother Theresa; man was she ever a 
piece of work.
	This thing we have going now; it's going to be so beautiful. Already, 
everything is rapidly spinning out of control for all of the would-be 
earthly authorities. It will only be a matter of weeks at most, and more 
likely a few days before the entire global system of governance breaks down 
entirely, and then we enter the Golden Age."
	"You know what you must do now. Enjoy yourself."
	"You bet. I'll see you on the other side."
	With that, Rock Fellers turned and left the secret room.
---
	Jake was in a dream. The world was without Christ. There was yet 
oppression, but the balance of the aire about the milieu made it more 
desireable to him than any place he'd ever haunted in his waking hours here 
on earth.
	In his day-to-day life, Jake knew that he had rejected Jesus; the cloying 
rabbi. Jake knew that one day he could escape the prayers of the Christian 
women; the consumate fag hags.
	In Jake's dreams there was always a new adventure; always another milieu. 
Some of it was terrifying, yet the constant thread - and the thing which 
pleased him to the very core of his soul - was that the stultifying faith of 
his mother and father had finally left him. In his dreams he was at some 
small semblance of liberty, despite the looming oppression. In contrast, in 
his waking hours, the curse of the faith of his forebearers would always 
weigh heavily upon him. It were as though their collective beliefs had 
always been nothing more than a spiritual foot upon his throat.
	Jake had no need for praising an already all-powerful diety, or for taking 
the responsibility for the same. How is it anyway, that an all-powerful God 
is left without responsibility; yet humans in all of their own lack of 
vision; in all of their delusions and foibles; are left - at least in the 
Christian faith - to be responsible for what ultimately happens?
	Jake could understand that an all-powerful God could run things any way 
such an entity pleased, for there were no one else to challenge such 
authority. Jake could understand that an all-powerful God could demand 
praises for eternity, and could foist off all of the responsibility upon the 
likes of Jake and the rest of humanity. Yet, this never meant that anyone 
such as Jake had to enjoy the prospects of the same; and Jake most certainly 
did not; at least in the final analysis.
	Jake could remember past conversations with ostensibly Adventist women, and 
how more than once he would have to remind them that in their own doctrine, 
there is no hell, but rather simply an unconscious destruction for the 
damned (one toss into the lake of fire and it is over); and of each and 
every such conversation, Jake could recollect the disappointment or sense of 
frustration evinced by these women in the face of that gentle reminder of 
their own core beliefs. Further, it were as though Christian women - even 
Adventists - really looked forward to one day seeing the naysayers, 
blasphemers, and even fence-sitters punished. This told Jake a lot about the 
true nature of women; that in point of fact they really only respect naked 
power, and in the Gospel of Christ they'd found - at least theoretically 
-that same raw, crushing force.
	Jake knew that the vast majority of Christians were really only in it as a 
hedge; that their biggest fear was the pain and torment of possible eternal 
damnation, and that their fawning over the killjoy Jesus was really their 
way of trying to escape a literal hell. Add to that the additional bonus of 
the women 'believers' being able to use Jesus as a 'foil' to 'lord the 
perfect man over' the actual males in their own lives; and it is difficult 
to escape the obvious conclusion that Christianity is but an 'easy way out' 
for many women. By the same token, Christian males are making no small 
sacrifice in agreeing to worship a male deity, for it would be much easier 
for many males to rather worship a voluptuous young female type of goddess. 
It is easy to see that given the nature of women as we know it, Christianity 
would have never gained the popularity that it did, had the 'saviour' been a 
female. In fact, the faith would have never gotten off of the ground, if one 
can go by the evidence we've been presented with up to this moment in our 
collective hystory. So in some small way at least, Christianity is a system 
for fag hags and their fag men; and this can only mean that Jesus is the 
biggest homosexual of them all.
	As an aside, Jesus is a cheapskate too. Why was it that, the one time he 
only gave those people fish and bread? Why not - in his 'vast, unlimited 
power' - give every one of them a lake of their own and a nice fishing boat? 
Why not at the very least give them some zesty salads - both fruit and 
vegetable - with their meal, and a choice between stawberry lemonade or a 
nice glass of wine? Why no chocolate cake for desert? No, instead the most 
this 'all powerful being' could come up with was some fish and bread; 
chortle guffaw. It probably was something like canned mackeral - the 
cheapest fish of all - to boot.
	In any event, it would appear that the vast majority of women simply aren't 
interested in worshipping any female deity, thus one major reason for the 
popularity of the male god found in Christianty. In contrast, so many of the 
'goddess worshippers' we see today have copious amounts of facial hair as 
they post away on their 'sweat lodge internet forums.' In short, the 
Christian males often come across as nancy-boys, and the goddess-worshipping 
females come across as brazen bull dykes. Perhaps it is time for the worship 
of a Baphomet entity, or no entity at all?
	The bottom line is that Christianity has nothing to do with love; or to put 
it another way; the kind of love that 'believers' possess and disseminate to 
those they contact in their day-to-day life is not at all the kind of love 
that someone such as Jake had ultimately ever desired. In short, what use 
was it? Such 'love' is quite useless in point of fact.
	The bottom line is that there could be this all-powerful God who has chosen 
to give the world a 'saviour,' and demands high praises from all of 
humanity, and will ultimately mercilessly punish those who disobey; and 
there isn't a goddamn thing any of we as humans can do about it. The odds of 
that however are so remote that people of Jake's ilk are willing to take the 
gamble, and 'lose that religion.' If in point of fact it turns out to be 
true, people such as Jake understand that it is better to serve in hell than 
to rule in heaven. Yes, you have read that correctly. It is not a mistake. 
The words were written exactly as intended: To serve in hell would be better 
than to rule in heaven.
	Ultimately, given the idea of an all-powerful, 'all-everything' God, people 
of similar predilection to Jake cannot fathom anything other than the idea 
that each of us is nothing more than a 'sock puppet,' whose spiritual roots 
go directly back to the all-powerful God. In short, we're just ersatz 
characters in a cosmic 'morality play.' And if some of us have to go to hell 
for this ultimate drama to reach its conclusion, then so be it. It will have 
been the way the 'all everything god' had intended it to have been, all 
along.
	As for the massacres and slaughters found in the bible; and the 
anti-socialist passages, those of Jake's ilk have nothing really against any 
of that. Again, it would simply be, God being God; oh, the drama!
	And for those of you who blithely assume that 'Jesus was a socialist' 
because it fits your predefined beliefs, this author would recommend that 
you check out a piece written by none other than Aleister Crowley, entitled 
something like, 'A Critique of the Gospels According to St. Bernard Shaw.' 
It is available in 4 parts at a website called www.textfiles.com, and the 
files are bsgospelas1.occ through bsgospelas4.occ. These are text files and 
should load into any decent editor. Then those of us among us who are at 
their core, would-be collectivist dupes can find refutation of the notion 
that Jesus is, 'on their side.'
---
	Sven piloted the mini-sub, downward, downward into the pitiless, darkened 
depths of the Marianas Trench. His craft had been engineered by the Swedish 
intelligence arm. Downward, downward; 8 clicks downward. They had mastered 
the problems of water pressure which had best many previous manned craft, 
and Sven was their top nautical agent.
	The depths were eerily silent, giving Sven a sort of chill as the craft 
dropped; deeper, deeper, deeper still. Then he spotted them; the two 
twinkling artifacts he sought. With the possession of these, Sweden would 
once again be a great power; the pre-eminent power of all of the earth.
	Sven activated the robot arms, and they reached lazily through the 
unbearable depths to grasp one after another, these great prizes. Yet 
something unexpected occurred.
	There was motion on the internal monitors of the undersea craft. The parent 
vessel plying the South Pacific some 8 kilometers above also picked up on 
the disturbance. Sven used the scanner scope to view the unfolding motion 
there just beneath his mini-sub. He couldn't make out what it might be; 
perhaps one of the giant worms which feeds off of toxic wastes spewing from 
the active crevasses in the ocean floor.
	Yet it was something else entirely; something they had failed to grasp in 
their pursuit of these ultimate alien computing devices; something they 
should have kept in mind, but had not. It was an eye; a huge eye, opening! 
It was also too late, not only for Sven below and the mother ship above, but 
perhaps for humanity at large. It was Abbadon! How could they have believed 
on the one hand in the alien artifacts, yet discarded the companion belief 
in the creatures which had forged the same in those antedeluvian furnaces of 
yore?
	The eye opened and the gigantic entity stirred. Sven's craft was sucked 
into the miasma of the awakening, slithering giant. Then there was a 
cascading whirlpool. In the helm of the mother ship, they had lost contact 
with Sven, the last thing their having heard over the comms being the 
incredulous, panicked voice of Sven. Now the whirpool formed in earnst. The 
Captain of the mother ship ordered the lines dropped, and for the ship to 
leave the area, full speed ahead. Yet again it was too late, for they were 
soon sucked down into the then ultimate whirlpool, and Abbadon once again 
began that fateful arising from the darkened depths, and into the darkening 
light of human civilization above.

Eleven: Rock Fellers

	Rock, Otto, and Mel charged their bop guns as they looked out through the 
glass of the newly-leased office there overlooking the financial district of 
the City of London. It was the end of the business day, and the various 
'financial whizzes' and their lackeys were filtering out onto the streets 
just below. Through the glass of the office their bop guns would yet take 
effect. On a count of 3, they all began firing indiscriminately at the 
targets - people - below. On the streets themselves, the bop guns began to 
take immediate effect.
	People dressed in conservative clothing, and with 
non-threatening-to-the-established-way-of-doing-things-minds; one by one 
were instantly transformed into outlandishly dressed purveyors of prime 
funk. Each time one of the bop guns would hit, the target person would 
become larger than life; with a passion for playing music and living a life 
of unbridled sensuality.
	Rock, Otto, and Mel congratulated each other on their apparent success. As 
the day rolled by, and across the world, this happened in other financial 
districts. Rock had financed several geo-stationary satellites, each one 
over a major financial district. These satellites had super bop guns, and in 
one fell swoop, from district to district as the day wore on formerly square 
purveyors of high finance were converted into hip progenitors of funk.
	Of course, word had gotten out as the effect had hit global local after 
global locale, and with forewarning certain bank officers and market makers 
and such had 'called in sick' for work that day, or kept themslves off of 
the streets and confined to the subway tunnels and elevator shafts leading 
to their offices, yet the super bop guns had defeated these countermeasures. 
The nanotechnology employed had ensured this. Thus in less than 24 hours, 
the world of finance had been turned into a giant source of instant, human 
funkmeisters. Then none of them cared at all any more about pushing paper 
around, or in twiddling the bits of electronic securities and currency. 
Rather, they were all then bearing the gospel of unbridled funkiness.
	Where it had kicked off in London Rock, Otto, and Mel quickly left their 
leased office and caught separate private aircraft to various, individual 
locations about the earth. They were preparing for the next phase. They were 
- the 3 of them - at once contented and animated beings. They were thrilled 
by the turn of events. None of them had experienced such fun for several 
years previous. Now 'the show' was really on!
---
	Chanel approached the otherworldly vortex, and there was slight hesitation 
on her part. Yet she knew that she needed to pilot her craft straight into 
the apparent nebulae. Gaining her courage and her wits about her, she 
plunged the small craft at light speed into the looming cosmic window.
	Then she was parked on a planet. Her craft sat on the open rock landscape, 
and her sensors indicated breathable atmosphere. She holstered her photon 
pistol and exited the craft, and was on her feet about the unfamiliar 
landscape. There was a strange artifact.
	It was a vehicle of some sort. It had a series of wheels, bound by apparent 
tracks or treads. It was burnt out, and the skeletons hanging out the 
openings to the vehicles indicated they'd once been burned alive in some 
kind of hideous destruction. She climbed atop the thing, and looked into the 
interior. It was nothing but blackened, burnt out metal. There were shards 
indicating instruments and such, but the thing was more or less totally 
destroyed.
	Then she heard them. Chanel quickly spun on the superstructure of the 
antique vehicle and spotted several monsters approaching from across the 
rocky plain. She levelled her photon pistol and dispatched them with ease. 
Then she wondered if there were more of them. Yet her curiousity had already 
gotten the best of her and she was in no mood to enter back into her ship. 
So she stood and waited for a moment, not knowing what to expect. She 
decided to smoke a joint.
---
	At the tail end of the boom, Jake was working at the dot.com founded by 
former employees of Tinyweenie such as he himself had once been. The 
interview had gone well, and the salary offer had exceeded Jake's 
expectations; so he quickly took the job at the nascent, would-be purveyor 
of mobile computing services.
	The CEO had been a programming star at Tinyweenie. The vice-president had 
been another luminary of the same. Jake had established his own odd 
reputation there as well. The CEO of the nascent dot.com had been 'so 
famous' in the world of computing that they'd even written a book about him. 
He had been part of the infamous 'beastie boys' at Teenyweenie, there during 
its period of perhaps greatest expansion, innovation, and success. Perhaps 
the profits had not been as high as they would be years later, but the 
growth in profits at the time was spectacular; at least if the accountants 
were to be believed; which is itself perhaps a big 'if' in any event.
	Be that as it may, it was during the year 2000. This was before the strange 
party at the Crowleyite's house, which would occur a few months later.
	Jake could remember the funding party at the CEO's house in April or May of 
that year. The 'beastie boy' thing had never meant much to Jake in context 
of the CEO. The dry, fish tanks containing various and sundry snakes about 
the place of work had never meant much to Jake, one way or the other. The 
way the CEO's brother kept myriad rats in his office as live food for the 
snakes had not really indicated much.
	Yet on the day of the funding party at the CEO's house, when they presented 
the cake; all of the venture capitalists were there as they unveiled the 
cake which featured prominently in its design the numbers, '666.' It was 
then that Jake realized that perhaps he were in the midst of - yet again - 
satanists. Why did this keep cropping up in his life?
	Well, the party over Jake would work each day with a Pakistani office mate, 
and Jake was struck by the ostensibly East Indian's interesing character.
	As an aside, India and Pakistan should have never been cleaved; rather that 
was yet another ploy by the 'powers that were' at the time in fomenting 
ongoing, neverending unrest in the Indian subcontinent such that neither 
nation - India or Pakistan - would ever achieve their full potential as 
societies, but would rather be torn by strife for generations to come; 
strife which the powers back in London could continue to manipulate to their 
own advantage.
	Moving right along, Jake was struck by the - in some ways - almost 
childlike nature of the Pakistani Moslem office mate. For instance, the man 
had virtually no knowledge of music whatsoever, and he would ask Jake about 
certain songs, and to Jake they seemed to be invariably childlike poppish 
songs from modern movie soundtracks.
	Jake countered that one day by downloading a copy of 'Kashmir' from Led 
Zeppelin and playing it for the Pakistani. The Pakistani listened for a few 
moments, then said, "That singer has a really good voice." On the other 
hand, the Pakistani had not at all enjoyed a listening of 'Last in Line' by 
Dio. Jake had originally presented the 70s staple, Kashmir to the Pakistani 
because the real-life Kashmir had been a topic of their conversations.
	Jake found out that, people from that part of the world see the United 
Nations as a U.S.-manipulated vehicle, whilst Jake tried to counter that 
many Americans - himself amongst them - loathed the U.N. On some level at 
least, the Pakistani began to understand this.
	Regardless of that, Jake was mortified to hear that the Pakistani 'Prime 
Ministers' or 'Presidents' or whatever one called them - Bhutto for example 
- had fairly well all been educated at places like Cal/Berkeley and Yale for 
many years in succession. It was so sad.
	The Pakistani did mention to Jake that, many people in Pakistan are rather 
idiotic, and like the hoi polloi everywhere - or so it would seem - they 
would be quick to grasp any governmental program which would present to them 
the idea that through political machinations, that they could 'stick it to 
the other guy' and in the process 'get their fair share' out of life; and 
this is apparently precisely what democracy signified in these cultures; 
almost exactly like it does, everywhere else it is practiced, including 
America.
	Jake purchased the 'best' translation (Pikal?) of the Koran as recommended 
by the Pakistani, and read it on a fishing trip which his own family had 
taken to Alaska in late June of that year. That is to say, Jake read through 
about 1/3 of it. In reading it, Jake began to think that it made more sense 
than either the old or new testaments, yet at the same time Jake wasn't 
interested in 'that kind' of Monotheism. In short, whether the Koran made 
more sense than the bible or not; at the time at least, Jake thought that 
the lot of them - Jew, Christian, Moslem - were at heart a bunch of 
phreaking lunatics.
	Jake did find it interesting when the Pakistani had told him of a year once 
spent without masturbating, and that it had been the most productive and 
fulfilling year of his life. Jake understood that. He himself intuitively 
knew that masturbation can supplant 'productive' activity. That is to say 
that the likes of Thomas Edison or Nikolai Tesla had never been any kind of 
chronic masturbators.
	As for that fishing trip, Jake had entered into the same in a sullen mood; 
yet the trip served as somewhat of a salve to his brooding psyche. There 
were some strange anomalies on the trip, and perhaps it is simply 'too much 
information' to go into them here.
	However, there was one strange happening especially worth note: One day, 
the group of them - basically their entire family - went on a scenic cruise 
of Glacier Bay. At a certain point they reached the furthest reach of their 
trip, and a Tlingit guide woman pointed out the the largest glacier on the 
bay, and she said that sometimes people would offer up tobacco to Kaasteen. 
Well Jake rolled a TOP cigarette and asked the woman what to say and do in 
making such an offering, and the lady said, "Oh, just say something like, 
'for you Kaasteen' as you throw the cigarette over the side in the direction 
of the glacier." Jake did just that, and only moments later the large 
glacier came to life, dropping spectacular chunks of ice into the bay. It 
was almost scary, the power displayed by the brown glacier that day. The 
Tlingit woman and the other guide noticed this and they said that the 
glacier was 'particularly active' that day.
	In any event, after the fishing trip the Pakistani was soon released from 
the dot.com. Jake had new office mates, in a different room. Strangely, one 
of them reminded Jake of the one john he had once serviced as a shemale. The 
maddening part of that was that Jake could never be sure. Was the co-worker 
or wasn't he; one and the same as the one Jake had serviced about 2 years 
previous?
	There was another co-worker. He was a freemason. Jake knew this because the 
freemason himself had broached the topic a couple of years before when the 
two of them had been working at Tinyweenie. Yes, out of the blue at an 
'install fair' for Doors98, the older gentleman had said to Jake, "I see 
that you notice my masonic ring. You know, it means nothing." Then as if on 
cue, another apparent mason had stepped up and reiterated, "Yes, it is 
nothing." Yet Jake had the sense that he were being recruited. Fast forward 
two years or so, and the same, older freemason gentleman showed up as 
another employee at the dot.com.
	One day, Jake stood outside the CEO's office at the dot.com and listened to 
the CEO discussing programming with his brother, the aforementioned rat 
raiser. Jake watched the brother at the whiteboard, as the brother was 
discussing variables in a code function, and said to the CEO, "So the 
variable NUKE_IRAN, yada yada;" and Jake suddenly thought, "what the fuck?! 
What is this place? Satanist/Zionists who paricipate heavily in the SETI 
project?" Jake was on his way out. Eventually he left the dot.com, and soon 
after he found himself at the New Year's Eve party described in earlier 
passages.
	There was one other odd thing about the time Jake had previously been at 
Tinyweenie as a contractor; his having left the company as a regular 
employee to 'retire,' and then returning less than a year later in ignominy 
as a lowly temp. One day while Jake had been at lunch, someone had used 
Jake's computer to surf the internet in search of football scores. Jake 
immediately reported this to the bosses, being sure to let them know that he 
wasn't there at all to do that sort of thing, but rather to work. The really 
disconcerting thing about it was that there had been a note left on his 
desk, and it had simply said, 'Use You' on it. Now to some people this might 
seem like harmless fun, but given Jake's state of mind at that time as an 
apparent, budding and brainwashed shemale whore, it unnerved him.
---
Twelve: Otto Kumm

	It was time for some wet work. Otto had been given the details - assembly 
point, times of departure, and such - for the fake suicide bombings of that 
day in the area surrounding the Green Zone, and this time he was determined 
to pre-empt the provocateurs with a strike of his own.
	Otto and his small group of spec-ops stealthily approached the assembly 
building for the would-be 'suicide' bombers. With guns blazing they went in 
and cleaned up. For a day at least, these Manchurian candidates would not 
wreak their havoc on an otherwise hapless urban populace.
	Otto left his calling card - the Ace of Spades - and picked up any hashish 
and bails of c-notes he could find, and he and his crew left as quickly and 
quietly as they had arrived. Their silencers had concealed the attack from 
any nearby Halliburton contractors or CIA/Mossad/MI5/MI6/ISI operatives.
	Now it was on to one of his favorite places, Phnom Penh. He drove to the 
clandestine airfield and caught the private jet, hashish and c-notes in a 
large burlap bag.
---
	Edward and his two accompanying soldiers climbed the small outcropping and 
eyed the sparkling spire. They could not fathom what the thing might be, yet 
despite the hushed protestations of the 2 enlisted men, Edward could not 
help but reach out and touch the thing. Suddenly, he was on a rocky plane, 
not unlike the tundra he'd just exited, but without the ice or snow. It was 
warm. In his winter clothes he almost immediately began to sweat profusely. 
	Edward yet had the thing in his hand, like a sparkling witch's wand. He 
took off his coat as he looked around, then he saw the hulk of the abandoned 
vehicle in the distance. It looked like one of the new tractor type fighting 
vehicles he'd seen in France in 1916, yet it wasn't one of those. It had 
treads of course, but it was not the same. He approached it and then spied 
the craft, and Chanel standing next to it.
	Somehow they managed to gain each other's trust without levelling their 
weapons at one another, and they approached each other and began to talk.
	Edward climbed atop the charred hulk as Chanel had just moments before. He 
could make out a crooked cross on one of the intact spots of exterior paint. 
He'd never seen such an insignia.
	Chanel had figured it out though. Using her ship's computers she'd 
discovered that the thing was a 'nazi panzer' (tank) from something called 
the '2nd world war,' deep in the recesses of - what to her anyway - was a 
long-forgotten chapter of human prehystory.
	Edward himself had never heard of the 'nazis' or the '2nd world war.' He 
knew only of the Great War and the Red Revolution in Russia, where he'd in 
point of fact just been fighting those same reds as part of the Canadian 
Army there about the Arctic Circle.
	Chanel produced a joint and offered it to Edward. He lit up and they passed 
it back and forth. As it turns out, Edward knew a thing or two about weed 
himself. So they whiled away a few more minutes and postulated as to where 
they might be, and perhaps even how, why, and what for. Edward was quite 
taken by the petite, black-haired astronaut in the shiny, sheer purple space 
suit. The suit accentuated her curves, from her narrow waist to her bulbous 
buttocks, and the nipples of her C-cup breasts undulated invitingly beneath 
the semi-diaphanous, glistening fabric. Chanel as well was fascinated by his 
old-style get-up.
---
	Jake pondered the significance of his current location, the apartment 
overlooking the trailer park where - as it turns out - the Spokane serial 
killer had grown up. Less than a mile away, the infamous Gary Ridgeway or 
Green River Killer - as it ostensibly were - had also been raised.
	During Jake's stay in the apartment, he'd witnessed strange goings-on in 
the park outside his bedroom window. Among others, there had been the 
shootout between a specific trailer occupant and the police; or the insane 
woman who would at random intervals seemingly stand directly beneath his 
window and shout obscenities at the top of her lungs until the aid cars and 
police would arrive. In Jake's own apartment complex, he'd had his own car 
stolen and abandoned - entirely intact - just blocks away. The thief must 
have had one of those 'master key' gizmos for the car was indeed entirely 
intact; no damage to any of the key sockets, either on the door or in the 
ignition. There had been the break-ins and attempted break-ins about the 
complex, and it seemed as though there were a constant series of petty 
crimes occurring with regularity, up and down the streets just outside the 
apartment house.
	The area certainly had some sort of 'bad vibe' to it. Jake wondered if the 
dreams he would have now and then could have been indicators of something 
'very evil' which had happened at the very spot where the trailer park stood 
now. Such dreams had intoned the incidence of a sort of unjustified 
massacre, some years before, in the misty pioneer past. Jake also wondered 
if he were sitting atop a sort of gateway to hell, as other dreams had 
indicated as much.
	As for the serial killers; Jake knew next to nothing of the Spokane killer, 
but he was fairly certain that Ridgeway had not acted alone. Sure, Ridgeway 
had somehow been convinced of his - and only his - culpability in the 
killings, but the probable truth of the matter was that Ridgeway had somehow 
had his own memories altered such that he believed himself to be the only 
culprit. This of course would in no way exonerate Ridgeway's own atrocious 
attitudes toward women, but on the other hand perhaps Ridgeway was only 
vocalizing what so many others had kept within their own private thoughts; 
that street walkers were nothing more than human trash.
	Jake was a friend of all whores, and it goes without saying that such 
included the street walkers. Now, when Jake would see one of the latter-day 
whores out on the highway, just miles South of where Ridgeway had - some 20 
years prior - supposedly stalked his victims; when Jake would see a street 
walker out on the highway, he could feel nothing but sadness; sadness for 
the state of these fallen women; sadness for the johns who needed for 
whatever reason to have liaison with them; and even sadness for the pimps in 
their so-called glamourous life, yet in truth living but an empty existence. 
Really, what kind of life is it that a so-called 'man' would make his 
livelihood preying on the vulnerable runaways who frequented the Greyhound 
stations, awaiting the arrival of their pimp, that they might somehow live 
out their teenaged fantasy of being someone's 'bitch?' What kind of 'man' 
needs to 'run herd' over a bunch of down-on-their-heels women? To their 
credit, Jake understood that pimping was in no way an easy life, yet the 
entire thing seemed to Jake as to be utterly uncouth at best.
	Jake could also remember his own dreams, where he would speak to whores 
face to face and tell them that they were free, and then the pimps would 
come in and begin threatening Jake at their potential loss of both 'status' 
and income. Jake truly believed that there is really no need for pimps in 
the world, and that perhaps the only really viable pimps are the women - the 
madames - because only they might understand what 'their girls' would be 
going through. In actuality, the male pimps seemed like they were only 
interested in getting young girls hooked on crack or meth, and then using 
that as a 'motivator' to suck the very life out of these same young females. 
Whatever the case, the entire affair seemed sordid from every angle; for the 
pimps, for the streetwalkers, and last but not least for the pathetic johns. 
Jake could only envision an alternate world; one where the whores would be 
free to operate independently; a world with no male pimps; a world where the 
life of the whore was not the one of what so many would consider to be, 
'human trash.'
	Ridgeway had not acted alone. Somehow, that scene around the airport in the 
early '80s; that phenomena had bothered someone in some 'high place.' Like 
the 'cuddle puddles' of Government Hill some 20 years later, someone in high 
places had sought to eradicate that freewheeling party atmosphere which had 
existed in the parks about the the area around the airport, where many girls 
had congregated together - at least some of them operating as the 
independents written of above - in a sort of bacchanalian party atmosphere, 
reminiscent of the spirit of true liberty. Someone had wanted desperately to 
stop that scene, 'dead in its tracks,' and both the legend and fact of the 
Green River Killer had accomplished exactly that.
	There were yet street walkers after that, but the happy-go-lucky atmosphere 
had - as with so many other aspects of life in the USA over the years - 
dissipated into a dystopian nightmare.
	Regardless of any of that, Jake knew one thing: If you see a really 
attractive streetwalker out on the highway, you'd better just look and not 
touch; because the 'unused-looking' ones are bound to be but undercover 
cops, themselves great haters of men. Eugene Robinson found this out the 
hard way; but Jake had always been wise to it. Real street walkers on the 
other hand almost invariably have this sort of 'edge' to them which 
indicates their authenticity.
	Interestingly enough, perhaps under Jake's very nose the spirit of the 
early '80s were coming back. The highway was once again beginning to offer 
up some attractive looking, non-police street walkers. Perhaps it was the 
fact that the USA were any more, nothing more than a 2nd world country and 
the ecomony being in a miasma had much to do with the influx of new, 
sometimes attractive girls; at least in the latter aspect sort of like it 
had been, back in the day. Whatever the case of any of Jake's perceptions or 
misperceptions in that regard, he knew that the bottom line - at least for 
his own tastes - was that the world should be free of male pimps, and that 
whores should be free to operate independently, and without hassle from the 
police. In short, as with anything else; there really was no need for 
government regulations or the contrived 'illegality' we've all grown to 
accept being stultified beneath.
	Whatever the truth or lack thereof regarding Jake's ideas about Gary 
Ridgeway, it nonetheless remained that the immediate locale of the trailer 
park outside Jake's window; such indeed harbored a sort of 'hellmouth' as 
exemplified by the superlative television drama series, 'Buffy the Vampire 
Slayer.' Any empath arriving upon the scene would have been able to have 
immediately discerned the chilling energies swirling about that place. Truth 
be told, the portal may have actually been on the border between the 
apartment yard and the trailer park, or even within Jake's apartment or the 
one above or the one below him. There was just something very oppressing 
about that neighborhood along that ridge, there North of the defunct 
Drive-In theatre. To add to the odd character of the place, the whole area; 
despite being sloped this way and that; and more or less on top of a hill; 
the neighborhood was built upon nothing more than a gigantic bog!

Thirteen: Mel Chizidek

	Mel examined the clones he'd made for the top bureaucrats of every federal 
agency. There were DEA clones, FDA clones, SEC clones, ATF clones, IRS 
clones, and on down the line. There were even Fish and Wildlife clones! That 
night, the originals would all be replaced by these clones, and then every 
one of the agencies would be dismantled. Mel knew that the operation had to 
go off right away, because the news of the bop guns hitting the financial 
districts had already broken out; and between that and the emergence of some 
gigantic new real-life sea monster in the Pacific, Mel's own operation could 
be stalled no longer.
	The judiciary was already stacked. Myriad lawyers had already been whacked 
by the NSA and CIA. Mel also knew that the army of hybrids would soon be 
unleashed upon the world at large; literally hundreds of thousands - if not 
millions - of the same emerging from underground bases, not only at Montauk 
Long Island, but at disparate, and various and sundry locations all about 
the continental USA, and indeed the world at large.
	Already, there were clashes occuring in the far East. War loomed largely in 
everybody's mind.
	Israel had used the cover of cresting worldwide chaos to take the 
opportunity to nuke Mecca, and the world at large had been indifferent. 
Nobody liked Saudi Arabia. Nobody cared about the perverted shieks with 
their populace of illiterate, sexually dysfunctional nomads. Likewise, 
someone had nuked Rome; and again nobody cared, because again; nobody liked 
the Pope or the catholics either. The financial centers including London had 
been struck by the strangest attack. The entire authority structure of the 
world had crumbled to nothing in literally days. Seemingly insane judges in 
America had reversed their previously statist rulings; and criminal court 
judges had ordered the release of virtually all of the prisoners in the 
local, state, and federal prisons. For better or worse, the world was 
becoming free again.
	The Chinese had been awestruck by this turn of events. Their Treasury bills 
were worthless, and they knew not where to send their large armies, each of 
the individual soldiers comprising the same for the better part having lived 
a life completely without woman and thus itching for a fight, that they 
might at last secure booty for themselves. Over discrete channels it 
appeared as though the Chinese might be headed on a land route through 
Russia and into the Middle East. The only key was for the Chinese to decide; 
which mountain passes to cross through on their way to the plains of the 
Middle East. If the Chinese were to march, the world would be looking at 
literally 10s of millions of booty-snatching soldiers, backed up by 20,000 
or more tanks. Such an army would make any previously assembled host, ever 
witnessed in the course of recorded human hystory appear as utterly pale in 
comparison. The only thing stopping an army of that magnitude would either 
be a successful defense of whatever mountain passes they decided to 
traverse, or the outright use of nuclear weapons. The world may have been 
going utterly insane - or returning to sanity as it were - but the further 
use of nukes was then yet 'off the table' in the minds of the world's 
'leaders.' It had been welcome in nearly all circles that Rome and Mecca had 
been nuked by some - at least in the former case - elements. Any further 
nukage would be - it was agreed by virtually everyone - simply uncouth.
	Mel ran through the remainder of his procedures and then sat and smoked 
some excellent cigarettes. He was simply blissfully contented. All of those 
decades of research and development at Montauk; all of the scrutiny from the 
lunatic fringe; it could all finally be laid rest. He was at the Nexus of 
his own career achievements; and the heretofore secret activities of Montauk 
had finally found their way into public life.
	Across the world, hybrids began filing out of myriad entrances to the 
underworld.
---
	Jake had been a compulsive masturbator all his life. When he was young, his 
father the preacher had found Jake's stash of Playboy and Penthouse 
magazines (it was the '70s), and had sort of read Jake the riot act, father 
saying something to the effect of, "You know Jake, sex is a very beautiful 
thing which a husband and wife can share between them. But this... this... 
(pointing at the confiscated magazines) it's sick."
	Jake didn't quite understand. Jake loved the pictures in the magazines, and 
to masturbate to them. There was a certain type of picture which always 
caught his attention, usually that of a woman not fully nude, but rather 
adorned in some kind of satins and sheers, like one of the classic harlots 
of old. As time went on for instance, the lingerie pictures of Bettie Page 
were some of the best Jake had ever set his gaze upon. In short, the 
fatherly lecture had not dissuaded Jake, and the weed high made the 
masturbation all the better. Jake was what you might call a degenerate by 
the age of 14.
	Jake never had confidence with women. Rather, he loved their form. Their 
bodies were more beautiful than most anything else in the world, at least to 
look at. There might have been music more beautiful than a woman, or food 
which was more beautiful to taste than a woman was to look at; but of the 
things which Jake could see with his own pair of eyes, the female form was 
by far the most beautiful of all. The female form surpassed the view of a 
mountain lake at sunrise, or a bed of blooming flowers, or anything else one 
might imagine pertaining to the natural world around us. Yet Jake had 
literally no confidence with women. He couldn't 'close the deal,' or 'take 
them.' Actually, it may have been that he would not take them. Whatever the 
case, 'it' never happened for him.
	He could remember the time his best friend barged in on Jake masturbating, 
or the time Jake's younger sister had done the same. None of it had 
dissuaded Jake from the continued practice of jerking off. He would spend 
these long sessions, denying himself orgasm yet remaining aroused such that; 
when orgasm would finally arrive, that it would be as earth-shattering as 
possible.
	He could remember his early fantasies, of being bound with rope to a girl 
he went to 8th grade with, both of them fully-clothed yet in intimate 
contact with one another. Then by the 10th grade there had begun the 
cross-dressing fantasies. He would seek out crossdressing stories in the 
Penthouse Forum and Penthouse Letters. When he finally came across the first 
story in which some woman caught wind of a boy cross-dressing, and in her 
disgust indignantly made him suck another boy's cock; the story had 
mortified Jake. Jake couldn't understand why a boy couldn't cross-dress and 
yet be attractive to a female. After all, the girls at high school seemed to 
love Tim Curry and David Bowie and such members of the glitterati. Why was 
it different for someone like Jake?
	Jake thought himself a 'male lesbian' long before Rush Limbaugh had ever 
coined, and then panned the same phrase.
	Interestingly, Jake loved the idea of war. He loved the satins and sheers, 
but he also loved the idea of destruction; of raw combat; of Patton's 
mythical sting of battle which makes a man a man.
	By the time of the Chemical Kristi or Raven Girl, she had Jake figured out 
and used to always call him, 'Peter Pan.' In retrospect, Peter Pan had 
always been played by an actress in the theatre, so perhaps Raven Girl were 
simply telling Jake that he were a woman inside; or perhaps that he would 
always believe in magic and faeries, and this latter hypothesis had indeed 
turned out to have been true, and the former theory had in any event not 
been disproven over time.
	After the school closing and the suicide attempt that following Summer, 
Jake had gone to another school, that he might get the final credits needed 
to graduate. He was on the '5-year plan.' Actually, it was 4+ years. Raven 
Girl, being 2 years his junior had gone on to another high school across 
town. Jake joined a small rock band in his last semester there at the new 
school, and they played at an assembly one night.
	Days later, Raven Girl called Jake on the telephone, after he'd done his 
best to forget her and get on with his life. He remembered how he had kissed 
her once, but only on her terms, and only after she told him that he would 
be cursed for life if he did so.
	That night the following Autumn those days after the assembly, they met in 
the park where the psilocybin grew. It wasn't mushroom season, but they sat 
there across from one another and smoked a joint she had produced. She 
assured him that it would not turn him into a pig.
	She told him of how she had been at the assembly those nights before, in 
order to see him play his guitar. She told him that there was something 
about him, and that she couldn't let him go; that she wanted to be together 
with him as boyfriend and girlfriend. They walked to the old gas plant down 
on the north shore of Division Lake. At some point, he tried to put the make 
on her and she recoiled, then she let him have it. She said, "Oh Jake we 
might be boyfriend and girlfriend going forward, but this in no way means 
we're ever going to have sex. As a matter of fact, I'm free to have sex with 
anyone I like, and you're my boyfriend." In saying that she had turned her 
irresistable ass toward him, so that he might see just what it was he were 
missing. He loved her ass, perhaps more than anything in the world save for 
her face, her voice, and her flowing raven-black hair.
	The rest of the memory of that night remains sketchy to Jake but, for 
whatever reason he more or less took what she had said to heart. In short, 
he never, ever really got over that 'dearest little Raven Girl;' and the 
truth of it is; he didn't really even want to; at least not most of the 
time. She was simply so much better than any female he could think of, what 
with the way she could cause his arousal with her mind, or the way that she 
knew what he liked, or the way she could take copious amounts of all manner 
of intoxicants and not bat an eye, or the way she loved tesseracts or the 
Chronicles of Narnia, or the way she once shined such bright shooting white 
stars out of her eyes, right at him as they had sat there in the dining room 
of his parents' church parsonage (the house where Jake lived); and on that 
occasion neither one of them had even been high. In other words, those 
lights coming from her eyes had been quite real, at least to Jake; like a 
4th of July fountain going off, but all in white. To this day, sometimes 
when he thinks of her he yet cries out for she.
	Once, Jake went back to the old phone exchange building on 42nd and Median 
and it had been completely converted into apartments and artist studios. 
Jake saw that the Piano Player (part Tlingit) had set up studio there, and 
that the Fireball - son of the ex-Jesuit - yet had a studio of his own 
there.
	As Jake waited on a patio for the Piano Player to appear, the man he was 
sitting with boasted of how the Fireball had gotten some of his work into 
the Clinton museum. Jake could only roll his eyes in silence, or even better 
yet bite his tongue and feign happiness at the thought, but Jake loathed the 
Clintons. Jake turned and looked down into the parking lot behind the 
building, and typical of the Emerald City there was a car sitting there 
which read, 'When Clinton lied no one died,' to which Jake thought, "Tell 
that to a Serbian for starters and see where it gets you. Tell that to the 
phreaking resolution trust agents investigating Whitewater, and all of the 
others who'd been mysteriously suicided in the wake of the clinton machine!"
	All of that aside, the Piano Player presented himself and offered Jake a 
fine cigarette. They went into the Piano Player's studio, and the artist had 
gained a reputation for having made Tlingit-style tribal art. Jake was 
greeted by a roomful of black, glass, raven beaks. He was nearly overjoyed. 
Ever since the Raven Girl, Jake had built his own life more and more around 
the Raven. The Piano Player tried to explain to Jake that the Raven 'dude' 
had sort of 'stolen' God's power in creating the earth and the people. Jake 
didn't bother to argue with the Piano Player, but Jake knew with certainty 
that although the story were true, the Raven had never been a 'dude' but 
rather always a woman; the demiurge; and again, no matter what the 
self-described gnostics might say in making out the demiurge to be evil, 
Jake knew that it was a lie; that the demiurge was desireable, and never had 
been evil, and that without it this incredible drama - even with all of its 
built-in misery - would never have been possible. Instead we would have all 
sat as undifferentiated spirits in a celestial choir or treasury of light. 
To put it another way, a universe without a demiurge is THE MOST BORING 
POSSIBLE THING IMAGINABLE. The demiurge on the other hand gives us the gift 
of this world of drama.
	In any event, Jake spoke with the Piano Player for a few minutes, and gave 
him a copy of a cassette of some of Jake's own musical work, and they talked 
about Brian for a minute and how Brian had lost his own lover to an 
accidental death some years before; then Jake departed. Jake never did meet 
up with the Fireball that day. The last time Jake and the Fireball, and the 
ex-Jesuit Fireball's father had ever spoken was at a 4th of July celebration 
on the roof of the same building, some time back in the mid 1990s. In any 
event, like the ex-Jesuit glass sculptor, the Piano Player had risen to fame 
in making glass sculptures of his own, and the Fireball - the kid Jake had 
once smoked dope with, ridden bikes with, played RISK with, argued with, 
laughed with, perhaps even in some ways been a rival of - had perhaps 
surpassed even the legendary and magnificent Lino of Venice, Italy in the 
craft of glass blowing. All in all, Jake didn't have to entirely like 
Fireball as a person, in order to realize that the latter were brilliant; 
and the same went for the Piano Player. As time had gone forward Jake on the 
other hand had languished in obscurity. Once Jake's mother - as she was so 
wont to do - chided Jake that he had missed his calling as a glass artist, 
to which Jake angrily retorted that such had simply not been the case; that 
earthly success or not, music had always been Jake's chief calling.
---
	Tim was in the back of the limousine, smoking some chronic bud whilst the 
hottie next to him unzipped his pants and began to ministrate to his growing 
member with her soft, well-manicured hands. She would alternate between 
gently scraping her nails up and down his distending shaft, and fondling his 
balls; over and over again. The car careened through the stillness of the 
night, and as to where they were going Tim had no idea. Tim had no inkling 
whatever of who he now was, or who this incredible woman beside him was. 
They plunged into the tunnel beneath Capacitor street in the Emerald City, 
yet they never exited. Instead, they found themselves parked on a barren, 
rocky plane, next to a burnt out tank and a spaceship, and there were two 
people standing there - a soldier and a space woman - sharing a joint. 
Suddenly the door of the limo was thrown open and something literally threw 
him out of the car, and an instant later the limo was nowhere to be found, 
leaving Tim standing there with a raging hard-on poking out of his pants. He 
quickly zipped up as the other two sort of laughed. Then the 3 of them set 
about figuring out between themselves, exactly where they were and what was 
going on. Chanel produced joint after joint, and they all simply smoked up a 
storm. Tim found the pockets of his suit laden with chronic bud and a fine 
glass pipe, and he began loading bowls to supplement the joints offered up 
by Chanel. Edward asked Chanel if it might be possible to conjur up a bottle 
of whiskey. As soon as he'd requested it, Chanel had run it through the 
ship's computer and had produced it for him.

Fourteen: Isabella Eve

	Charles followed the ethereal beauty down the passageway. Soon she passed 
through a lightened opening, up ahead. His defenses were totally down by 
then. The woman was wearing sheer harem pants with satin bikini panties 
underneath, and her ass as it sashayed beneath the diaphanous material 
served to mesmerize him as he plunged into the depths behind her.
	He followed her through the opening, and suddenly he was standing on the 
floor of a large, alien city. The buildings defied physics as we know them, 
appearing - for lack of a better description - as upside down, sideways, 
diagonal; anything but 'normal' as we as humans have come to expect 
architecture.
	The woman was out of sight, yet as if out of thin air her voice beckoned 
him forward. He simply followed her, into the maze of ancient thorougfares. 
It was then that he realized that many of the buildings were simply 
destroyed and that many of the most outlandish angles were created more than 
anything else by their battered ramparts sitting precariously after having 
collapsed some time before.
	He felt that if he were literally to stare at a couple of them for too 
long, that they might collapse; their positions were that precarious. 
Nonetheless, from what he could tell of it all, the structures were indeed 
alien; inhuman; and giving off an energy or lack thereof which was chilling 
to the marrow of his bone. The voice of the siren called to him through a 
doorway into an intact, smaller structure. Golden light shone from the 
opening. He ran to it and stepped in. Instantly he found himself with Tim, 
Chanel, Edward, and interestingly enough, the temptress who had led him 
along. The 5 of them entered into an animated discussion. It became apparent 
that the temptress knew more about the milieu than the other 4 of them 
together, yet she spoke in riddles so it was very difficult for any of the 
rest of them to make sense of the situation.
	Nontheless, they passed the weed freely between themselves, as Edward 
begged off and began sipping only whiskey. Charles asked for a cigarette, to 
which Chanel produced some of the best for him to smoke. Chanel and the 
temptress each took cigarettes themselves. Tim simply smoked as much weed as 
he could, for no matter what were happening here and now, he had to think 
that it was better than the dumpster diving he'd only minutes before - yet a 
seeming eternity ago - so pleasantly been removed from.
---
	Isabella concentrated, and the spell was cast. At the meeting of federal 
reserve bank governors some distance away, they were all instantly turned 
into shemales. They were wearing satins and sheers, and their enormous 
breasts threatened to break free of the thin fabric caressing them. They 
were all in a sort of pre-orgasmic ecstasy. They belonged to Isabella then. 
Never again would they and theirs access the 'magical money machine' to the 
detriment of the rest of humanity. As a matter of fact, at that very moment 
every central banker the world over was instantly turned into a shemale. 
That part of the operation was done.
	In the streets, people were running wild. In the financial districts, the 
newly-born hipsters were grooving day and night to all manner of music, and 
the business of fleecing the sheep had come to a veritable halt, worldwide.
	By then the mutants had flowed from underground bases, into the lives of 
humanity at large, and the population of the earth was changed to include a 
vast assortment of bipeds of every imagineable shape, size, color and hue.
	Isabella smoked a bowl of opium, then laid down on her satin bed, herself 
dressed in the finest of sheers, and she dreamt of the paradise as it was 
then manifesting itself on earth.
---
	Jake was in Reno long ago. He had been a heavy drinker at the time, and he 
had gambled all of his money away and was living on a virtual liquid diet 
for a period of over 2 days. It frightened him somewhat how, he could simply 
pour a bottle of beer down his throat then whereas he'd at some point 
previous, severely disliked the taste of alcohol.
	Having not even enough money to catch a cab to the airport, he wondered 
what he might do. Then he met her; the blonde. She gave him a coupon for a 
cab ride to the airport, and they spent the night together, drinking at the 
bars, and then back in his hotel room.
	She was a palm reader, and she read his. She told him that she somehow 
sensed great oppression, and told him that of his woes with woman; he 
needn't at all be worried - unless - unless there was something terribly 
wrong.
	In any event they slept together on the bed there that night, but with 
their clothes fully on. The next day Jake was able to get to the airport and 
back to the Emerald City. It was a good thing he had purchased his 
round-trip airline ticket in advance.
	Jake pulled into the factory parking lot and snapped out of his daydream. 
There in the lunchroom before the shift began, he happened upon the Apsara 
Julie Newmar and Mae West. Julie Newmar shot him the bluish-twinkling lights 
from her eyes, as though perhaps she were in love with him. She was so fine.
	Julie Newmar was like a cat. Jake had once told her that she should be on 
'Tiger Team' rather than the 'flow line,' as she was like the cat woman from 
the Batman television show. She was lithe and had the nicest ass. Her face 
was beautiful almost beyond compare. Jake had some kind of affinity with 
her. He wondered what she were like. Sometimes he could see her in his mind, 
making love to him with tender kisses. She was tender. He loved that about 
her.
	Mae West on the other hand was sort of brazen, like an agressive 
dominatrix. Mae West also had great curves, but she was more voluptuous 
rather than lithe. She was so young and Julie Newmar was a bit older. The 
two of them - Mae West and Julie Newmar - seemed to be as great friends, 
along with the Monk. One time, Jake had made his own version of spring rolls 
('nam' in khmer) and had offered them to the three of them at lunch. Only 
Mae West had dared sample his offerings. Jake had the sense that these 
people did not trust him, for more often than not they would turn down his 
offerings of spring rolls.
	So it struck Jake the time that Mae West actually sampled them one day. As 
a matter of fact, it drew him to the young lady. Yet, as with the rest of 
the Apsara, Jake could never very well discern up from down, like from 
dislike, truth from deception, attraction from revulsion. At the very least, 
he wrote a song about Mae West and posted it upon the internet. Of the 
Apsara, only Little Wing had inspired any other song out of the likes of 
Jake. Of course, there had also been the song about the Queen, but that was 
one of - out of some 700 songs Jake had ever recorded - the only songs that 
Jake had recorded, and then deleted from existence. Something about the 
Queen had simply 'hacked Jake off' at some point.
	Whatever the ins and outs of any of that, Jake really liked Julie Newmar 
and Mae West. They were so different, yet both so beautiful. Every day, Mae 
West would wear high heels; and every day, Julie Newmar would wear the most 
interesting an alluring outfits, and with a 'scrunchy' in her hair creating 
a pony tail. One time Mae West wore a jacket with ships' anchors all about 
it, and Jake really loved that. One time, all of the Apsara let their hair 
down at once. Jake was amazed more than ever by their beauty.
	Jake thought back to his experiences in Las Vegas, such as the time he had 
gone there to Comdex at the behest of the Tinyweenie management. Jake had 
not bothered to contact the company's travel department, and upon arrival in 
Vegas had found out that everyone else from the company, had; and they were 
all stuck sharing rooms. Jake was given a room of his own at a separate 
hotel. It was perfect!
	One night he paid a callgirl $1100 for a 15-minute liaison. It may have 
been one of the best fucks of his life. She was an asian-american with a New 
Jersey accent. Her breasts were enormous and she was a great fuck. He was 
blown away by it all, and afterwards hadn't even really minded spending as 
much as he had on her. It was Las Vegas after all, and he'd previously had 
some experience of the expense of the place, especially in regards to 
callgirls.
	As it turns out, Jake never had to man a booth at Comdex as the others from 
his company had. He was on somethng like a 3-day 'mini-vacation,' in his own 
room in a separate hotel, and could pretty much go and do whatever he 
wanted.
	It was football season so it being Saturday, he placed $250 bets on 4 
individual games. That Sunday he sat in his room and watched the NFL. He 
lost 3 out of 4 of the bets, so he was down $500 plus the vig. He had the 
Monday night game for redemption.
	The entire point of his going to Comdex that year was to attend a party for 
the beta testers he'd been supporting in the Compuserve online forums at the 
time. It was the only engagement he was required to attend. So that Monday 
before the party, he plunked down $500 on the Monday night game, and whilst 
the game was in play, he would sneak out of the party and into the hotel bar 
for a chance to see the score. As it turns out, the party was quite fun and 
he won back his $500 as well. So he was essentialy out $150 in vig from the 
sum total of $1500 of bets which had overall, 'broken even.' Being of no 
large means, Jake didn't even want to think of what would have happened, had 
he lost that Monday Night bet. He would have been out $1150 on 5 lousy bets!
	Jake had gone to Comdex proper the next day. There he had been struck by 
how all of the other people from Tinyweenie were manning booths, and it 
appeared that he was the only one among them who was able to walk freely 
about, with noting on his proverbial plate, and free of the corporate 
t-shirts the rest of them were wearing. The one thing which really struck 
Jake about that Comdex - other than the long wait to simply get in - were 
the incredibly sexy young ladies of the IBM booth. That must have been - 
1993 or 1994.
	Another time, Jake had been invited to go to a software developers' 
convention in Anaheim, California; nearby the the famous Versatile Fashions 
in Tustin. He could recollect the hot-assed British reporter at the 
convention, and how he had come on to her and she had snubbed him, and then 
he'd seen her walk off with the 2 vice presidents of his division - both 
married men.
	At a party during the convention, Jake had met up with a developer from 
Austria. Jake was broke at the time; flat broke. Yet this developer had 
approached him and handed him literally $500 or more, so that Jake might 
purchase some development tools back in Greenmond at the company store. Jake 
knew that the tools would cost a fraction of that back at the store, so he 
knew that he had some spending money, there and then. That night he called 
for a callgirl. She was fairly hot. She wasn't so kinky, but she was nice 
and explained to him that in life, meeting a girlfriend was more a matter of 
timing than anything else; and that he needed to work on his timing if he 
wanted to find a steady girlfriend.
	One night at the convention, the company had rented out all of Disneyland, 
solely for the entertainment of the convention-goers. So literally a couple 
of hundred people had the entire Disneyland, all to themselves. Jake loved 
the tea cups more than anything. There, he and 2 other company employees had 
done their level best to set some kind of record in getting their cup - the 
one the 3 of them shared - to spin. As it turned out, all of them had 
dizziness for literally a half hour or 45 minutes after that.
	Space Mountain had been ok. Splash Mountain had been mind-blowing. As Jake 
rode through there on his log, and listened to the music and watched the 
animated robots, he felt this incredible demonic surge come over him; it was 
like he was on heavy LSD. He was certain that Walt Disney had done some 
psychadelics, back in the day. The music of Splash Mountain had been 
incredible. Again, it was like - an acid trip but without the acid.
	The Matterhorn had reminded Jake of a trip he'd taken there with his 
family, back in the late '60s or early '70s. It was a good reminisce.
	Once at the factory, Jake had told his co-workers of the Raven Girl and how 
she could eat acid like candy. A few days later, Mae West was speaking with 
God Woman and Jake could hear the former say, "acid?" to which the God Woman 
replied, "LSD." Jake had determined at some point that, if he were to hook 
up with an Apsara, that he should be entirely open and honest about his love 
of 'illicit drugs,' and with the strong exception of the 'licit' alcohol, 
which he - like the Cinammon Girl and the Crowleyite - had eschewed 
entirely. It is so difficult any more to find someone who loves drugs with 
the exception of alcohol. In point of fact, alcohol seems to be the national 
drug of choice (well that and the phreaking pharms). It is so sad. See what 
this ridiculous, 'war on drugs' has wrought.
	Once, during his 'retirement' from Tinyweenie, Jake moved to Las Vegas. As 
a local he spent little time in the casino, except to make friday bets on 
Sunday games. He went 7-4-1 that year and it could have been 7-3-1 if he had 
read the betting line properly on one of the losses. As it was, that bet had 
been a mistake. He had bet on an outdated line, and in the meantime the 
spread had changed enough that it affected the outcome of his bet. He would 
have never placed the bet, had he been cognizant of the 'adjusted spread.'
	When Jake had driven to Las Vegas, he had not known that his car was 
leaking oil. Amazingly, he made it there without a problem, and actually 
drove around for a couple of weeks before a routine trip to the auto shop 
had revealed the problem with his oil crankcase. That had been the 1972 
Buick Electra. At the auto shop in Vegas, an immigrant mechanic from Syria 
saw Jake's 7-string Ibanez guitar and told him, "Man that's better than any 
woman; seriously"
	Of the trip to Vegas, Jake could remember the stop in Fallon, and the old 
Ukranian Motel owner with the '65 Electra. The following day Jake had 
entered Vegas, where they were hit by the worst rainstorm in some 50 years, 
just as he arrived. He had wisely pulled off of the highway on the Northern 
end of town, instead of going to Henderson as he'd orignally planned, for 
Henderson was the home of not only the Neo-Tech Revolution, but - as it 
turns out - of the famous Centurians catalogue as well.
	The storm had been centered in Henderson. It was bad enough in North Vegas, 
so Jake was fortunate not to have gone any further that day. He got a 
2-bedroom apartment up by Rainbow Blvd and then found a job at a computer 
store attached to a music store a couple of days later. Jake enjoyed going 
to the go-cart track on Rainbow. They had 3 kinds of go-carts!
	Jake and the owner of the computer store had an instant connection. Within 
5 minutes of having met, they were talking conspiracy theories; Jake having 
gone to the store to pick up a mouse for his newly-purchased computer. 
Interestingly, when Jake arrived at the store, the owner's son was under the 
spell of a couple of vixens who had insinuated themselves into the employ of 
the store. They would wear cut-out bras and promise the boy all kinds of 
things if he were but to follow them in their opening of a competing 
computer store. The technician who operated with the 2 women had been 
stealing from the owner, just as the 2 women had. Within days of Jake's 
being hired on the spot, all 3 of them were gone.
	Later, Jake couldn't help but wonder; wonder if somehow 'god' had sent him 
to the store as a sort of guardian angel to help the owner regain his own 
son, and to free the store of the 'evil' employees who, in perhaps taking 
advantage of the owner's undue sympathy had themselves been working there. 
As it was, the 2 women 'did nothing' for Jake so he was immune to their 
charms from the get-go. The technician looked shifty. After the 3 of them 
had been chased off, those who remained actually made up a good crew.
	There was the kid from Victorville, CA; the Air Force computer wiz who 
worked there part time, along with his friend; and the decent other friend 
of the owner who would seemingly invariably say, "Let's try that, just for 
grins" in attempting to solve a problem; and he had been right in that so 
much of computer technician work is simply trying things, "just for grins."
	The job paid next to nothing, but it was fun. One major bonus was the music 
store in the other half of the building, such that Jake could go over there 
at lunch break and play guitar. There, Jake had purchased a 6-string Ibanez 
guitar and an 8-track Fostex digital deck, so he was on good terms with the 
manager.
	Once, Jake was playing at the store and a young boy ran up to him and 
called over to his father, "Dad I want to learn how to play like that!" Jake 
was heartened by that. As well, one of the dudes who worked as a clerk at 
the store really liked Jake's playing; the store attendant having no small 
amount of riffage in his own arsenal, but more along the lines of Dimebag 
Darrell as opposed to Jake's own style which was more like Uli Jon Roth.
	There was a woman in town; an Asian woman. She owned a beauty parlor. Jake 
had gone there to get a haircut. She kept asking him, "Jake who are you, 
really?" "Jake who are you, really?" Jake didn't know what to say. He was - 
as it would appear now rather mistakenly - looking for a dominatrix and he 
thought that perhaps the Asian beauty shop owner might have been, 'the one.'
	Later, he made an appointment to get some permanent makeup, then the night 
before the appointment, he thought about the woman; a lot. The next day when 
he went to the shop, it was closed and she appeared through the glass door 
but would not open it. Her face was disintegrating as she turned him away. 
Jake was moribund. Considering that perhaps she had employed permanent 
makeup herself - and it had been the apparent cause of her facial problems - 
Jake was also at least slightly relieved that he'd not himself gone through 
with permanent makeup.
	Once, Jake got the idea from the auto mechanic from the Azores whom Jake 
had met at the music store and, at the auto shop had fixed Jake's oil 
problems; Jake got the idea that he would move across town - the the 
apartment complex the mechanic lived at - in order to save money on rent.
	For Jake, the place turned out to be a complete dive. As a matter of fact, 
it was a blatant rip-off. The gas stove was not connected; the toilet leaked 
into the wall behind it and smelled like shit; there were gaping holes in 
the walls; the parking lot was full of broken glass and the maintenance man 
wouldn't even lend Jake a broom with which to sweep it up. As a matter of 
fact the maintenance main had been openly hostile to Jake. That first - and 
last - night when Jake had sat in his new bedroom in the building - which as 
is typical with many structures in Vegas - made out of cinder blocks, he 
spied the biggest roach he'd ever seen, sitting on the edge of one of the 
holes in the interior walls. Jake made up his own mind to leave, and luckily 
the next day the ladies at the apartment he'd left were gracious enough to 
take him back as a tenant. He had moved 5 or 6 loads of stuff, back and 
forth across town in his '72 Electra.
	Of the roach, Jake had actually talked to it and he had said, "Listen, I 
would kill you if I thought I were going to be spending another night in 
this dump. I have to admit though that as grotesque as you might appear to 
me to be, that on the other hand you are fascinating or even majestic. I 
mean, you must literally be the king of all roaches." Jake left the roach as 
a gift to the apartment manager, who by the way wouldn't refund even a dime 
of the $600 Jake had ponied up - $200 in deposit and $400 for first month's 
rent.
	At some point, Jake was approached in the computer store by this wild 
blonde woman, Green. She had called beforehand asking about a particular 
type of computer mouse, and somehow it seemed to Jake as though she already 
knew him. He could not figure out how. Well, she offered Jake a job doing 
tech support at an internet provider a few blocks away. There Jake had met 
this Iraq war veteran - Sgt. Rock - and his sister. Apparently Green had 
been dating their father, a cop; and the internet service provider (ISP) was 
a joint project between he and someone else. It was definitely a family 
affair, and like the owner of the computer store, the people who worked at 
the internet service provider were all of mormon background and out of Utah.
	As it turns out, the Sgt. Rock at the ISP took Jake under his wings, and 
was a huge fan of guitar; and had more or less asked Jake to work there so 
that they could jam together after work. The place where the ex-marine lived 
was literally the only place in Las Vegas which had trees, other than the 
golf courses and casinos of course. It was like a little section of wood in 
an otherwise desolate landscape (well, save for the lawns which were 
insanely cropping up everywhere).
	For a time they would sit there each day after work and jam, and a 3rd 
person - the 'system administrator' from the ISP - would 'play' bass along 
with them. Once, Sgt. Rock said to his sister who had happened upon them 
jamming; he said, "listen to how Jake plays. Isn't it great?!" Jake had 
looked at her and seen a disinterested look on her face. Jake sat silently, 
but inwardly he wanted to blurt out, "Dude, chicks don't care about guitar. 
They're into singers and stuff."
	Once back at the ISP during a workday, Sgt. Rock's sister Honey said to 
Jake, "Jake you should go back to the Emerald City. You're cultured and we 
have none here. This is Las Vegas; no symphony, no ballet, nothing," and she 
was right.
	Jake held down the ISP job, and worked at the computer store as well. The 
kid from Victorville told Jake that the 'admin' at the ISP was a joke, as he 
- the kid from Victorville - had bypassed the ISP's security in several 
different fashions. Jake asked the kid why he didn't get a job at the ISP 
too, and the kid told Jake, "Listen, Sgt. Rock wants you, because you play 
the guitar. That's all there is to it. Don't you see the way he gives me the 
cold shoulder whenever I'm around?" Suddenly it made sense to Jake; Sgt. 
Rock liked his guitar playing.
	Of Sgt. Rock, apparently during Desert Storm he had led the Southern Marine 
advance into Kuwait City. It had been something like a single battalion of 
U.S. Marines, backed by hystorically unprecdented artillery and air support. 
Sgt. Rock had personally killed 7 Iraqis in hand-to-hand combat. Sgt. Rock 
had also told Jake of the injections they'd been given during operation 
'Desert Shield' (the precursor to 'Desert Storm'), and of the superpowered 
bug repellent they'd been coerced - through the signing of disclaimers - 
into applying daily. As it turns out, an FDA scientist had later done a 
study on chickens using these exact same 2 compounds, and all of the 
chickens had gotten sick from it; and the FDA scientist had been fired from 
the job for his efforts. Sgt. Rock was beginning to get ill.
	Once, Jake answered an ad in the Vegas paper for a 'goth' band and Jake was 
thinking 'King Diamond' or something similar; yet at the audition it turned 
out to have been several teenaged girls who were into some band called 
'Switchblade Symphony' or somesuch. Jake had met a metal drummer at the 
audition though, and the metal drummer had been a big fan of King Diamond. 
Jake went out and purchased a couple of discs, 'Don't Break the Oath' by 
Mercyful Fate, and one of the King Diamond 'gothic epics' called 'Abigail' 
or something like that.
	Jake answered another ad, and met up with a pro, modern jazz bass player, 
as well as one of the most gifted guitarists he'd ever come across. The bass 
player basically told them both that he needed an immediate, paying gig and 
so he was out of the picture, yet Jake and the other guitarist - Sal - went 
back to Sal's place for a bit of jamming and conversation. As it turns out, 
Sal could - simply through thinking about it - break down say a complex Bach 
solo violin piece, and sit down and play it on guitar.
	Amazingly, Sal knew nothing of theory and did all of this by ear. Jake was 
mightily impressed though by Sal's ability to break down a song - say during 
a work shift driving a UPS truck - and to return home and to be able to sit 
down and play the same. Jake knew theory, and Jake had chops, but Jake had 
never done anything quite like that. It was almost like 'transcribing a 
piece without the sheet music,' taking it straight from the record, 
cassette, or cd and then sitting down and playing it himself. Sal could do 
this. Sal was highly gifted in that way.
	As they talked there in Sal's Henderson apartment, they entertained 
conspiracies, and Sal gave Jake an autographed copy of the book, 
"Trance-Formation of Amerika." It was autographed by the author lady. Jake 
borrowed it and read it, and took it back to the Emerald City with him, as 
he soon after had taken Honey's advice and actually left Vegas.
	Jake left Vegas just before the Fetish Halloween Ball, to which he'd 
purchased a ticket. Perhaps it is just as well, for Jake might have truly 
met his own demise if he had actually attended that event; and having done 
so, met the 'wrong' woman.
	Anyway, Sal read the Trance-Formation book and was at first incredulous, 
but in the end not entirely dismissive of the same. When Jake arrived back 
in the Emerald City, he called Sal and got the latter's mailing address so 
that Jake might return the book to him. Jake told Sal over the phone, "I 
don't know about this book, but one way of perhaps verifying it would be to 
inspect her vagina, to see if it really is mutilated in the way she 
describes." Sal laughed over the phone, yet he also agreed. In any case it 
could be that, the author of that book simply represented another layer of 
subterfuge cloaking the truth of the entire affair. Jake was not the only 
person to have wondered about this.
	Be that as it may, that was the last Jake ever heard from Sal, or the 
computer store owner, or Sgt. Rock, or Honey, or Green, or the kid from 
Victorville. Jake did leave the Buick to one of the apartment manager 
ladies; one of the few women who had ever given him that feeling that Raven 
Girl had, back in the day; only in his arm and not just above his groin. The 
car transfer itself was a fiasco in its own right, but eventually the title 
was transferred and again, Jake never heard from anyone out of Las Vegas 
again.
	Jake will never forget the time he was pulled over in Vegas by a Ross Perot 
lookalike motorcycle cop, and almost taken in on false charges. As it was, 
the tickets were something like $450. Basically, Jake had a 9mm pistol in a 
fanny pack, and the cop had asked Jake to unzip it and show him what was in 
there. Once Jake had complied and shown the cop the 9mm, the cop then 
twisted things around and said, "That fanny pack was open when I walked up 
to your car window!" Then little Ross had put Jake through some ridiculous 
motions in opening the car's trunk and such. Throughout the momentary 
encounter Jake was praying to Qetzalcoatl to deliver him. After a few 
minutes of harassment and ticket writing, the cop was called away to a theft 
in progress.
	In any event, Jake was soon back in the Emerald City (or at least the 
suburbs), and going to work at Tinyweenie after less than a year of 
'retirement,' his funds depleted and he now working as a contractor. Life 
was still good though, perhaps especially in light of what lie ahead.

Fifteen: Sabrina Lingus

	One day at the factory Jake spoke to Can-do, a young Cambodian dude; as 
well as a nameless Vietnamese young male, about homosexuality. He told them 
both in front of everyone, that sex itself is great, but that everything 
else in life is ultimately even better. He also told them that if someone 
were to find themelves as being homosexual, it would be better to never have 
sex at all, as homosexual sex simply would never be worth it, and were in 
point of fact perhaps rather uncouth. The Vietnamese youngster had earlier 
told Jake that he himself were a homosexual, and Jake had believed him. Only 
then had Jake found out that the young man had earlier been joking. Jake had 
believed him in the first place because it appeared to Jake that - 
especially in light of the shortage of women in countries such as China and 
India - that homosexuality seemed rife in Asia.
	Interestingly, Jake had once corresponded with a Chinese dominatrix over 
the internet, and had asked her why there were no male feminization photo 
sets on her site, and she had replied that Chinese males are already too 
feminine. The implied meaning to that - as best as Jake could figure - was 
that feminizing a Chinese male might perhaps make him prettier than she, and 
such could never be allowed.
	Whatever the case of that, this conversation between Jake and the two 
younger males was in light of the intonations the Queen had previously 
raised when she had said aloud in front of everyone within earshot that Jake 
should marry a man. In retrospect, this was at least in part probably 
because Jake was at that time wearing a sort of '1970s rock' haircut with 
the short bangs and long sides and back. It looked androgynous, especially 
witout the sideburns which the aforementioned '70s rockers had typically 
worn in concert with such a haircut.
	Early on, Supervixen had said to Yellow Raven, "You should turn Jake into a 
girl. Maybe he become Jane then." Jake wasn't sure how she could read him so 
well. Yellow Raven though nothing of it all, other than displaying a 
momentary quizzical expression. Then though, Jake had not had the funny 
haircut, and he'd been quite overweight. So for Supervixen to identify Jake 
as having shemale qualities was quite insightful on her part. In retrospect 
Jake wondered whether Supervixen had made the observation, or whether her 
sister the Queen had. Whatever the case, they had definitely shown 
themselves to be quite observant. Perhaps it were the piercing holes in his 
ears, indicated that Jake had once worn earrings.
	Another time, the Jewish Queen - an Apsara with some of the largest breasts 
known to mankind and with golden complexion and hair - had spoken excitedly 
in Khmer to the rest of them whilst Jake had listened in, understanding her 
only when she would say "suck dick" repeatedly mixed in with Cambodian. 
Somehow that had been highly disconcerting. Yes, Jake was a sort of shemale 
gone awry, but what these people apparently failed to understand was that 
the idea of sex with males made Jake utterly out of his mind with disgust. 
Jake may have been a shemale, but he was truly a lesbian.
	In any event, he would keep his finger on the pulse of the world of 
shemales by purusing the Centurians pamphlets which would arrive in his mail 
on the basis of the fact that he had once purchased a Forced Womanhood 
magazine online using a credit card. The shemales in the pictures in the 
catalogue looked in some ways 'alive,' and some of them were quite 
beautiful. Jake thought of himself though as a 'transformee' whose 
'programming' had been 'broken' at some point; as though his personality 
were fragmented into millions of bits, 'he' left virtually without any true 
identity in this present dystopia we call 'modern' America.
	In short, perhaps especially after what had gone on between he and Lenny 
some years before, there was no way he was ever going to voluntarily have 
sex with anyone again, except by chance within the realms of being a cuckold 
and eating some nice cream pies. Even that was a subpar solution to the 
entire puzzle as far as Jake was concerned. Ideally, he wanted to meet a 
woman who wanted to be with him and no one else, and who would wait for him 
and not stray if he lacked in aggression. His entire life, no woman had ever 
waited for him. It is as though the proverbial 'lady in waiting' really 
doesn't exist in this day and age. Instead, they've all got to meet a 
'confident' guy (so they can get conned by a confidence man?) and 
immediately starting banging him like wild beasts. It appears there is - 
more often than not - no longer any couth, or subtlety, or restraint left in 
the American woman.
	Jake could sense that some of the Asian women in contrast yet appreciated a 
slow approach, but regardless of any of that, it turns out that the entire 
idea of Jake ever 'being with' a woman again was a fairly baseless one at 
that.
	Ultimately, perhaps that had been Jake's intention. Perhaps, since long 
ago; going back to even before he met the Raven Girl; there was a hidden 
part of Jake which had always directed his outward life away from ever 
making any kind of real connection with any woman. Perhaps the masturbation, 
and the crossdressing, and the hormones, and the phone calls to the 
dominatrixes during the decade of the '90s; maybe it were all some sort of 
elaborate ploy whereby this hidden aspect of Jake were deflecting women away 
from him.
	There was no mistaking that Jake loved the female form, perhaps more than 
anything else in life. Yet by the same token he loathed their apparent 
duplicity, and their revelling in suffering (whether their own or in 
others), and their respecting of nothing but raw power. They seemed so 
easily duped by politicians and priests (be they doctors, lawyers, or 
psychiatrists, or whatever; all modern-day members of the priesthood of 
democracy). Jake simply didn't like the personalities of so many of the 
women - in particular the Americans - he would ever meet. They were 
typically so beautiful in appearance, yet equally ugly in their 
personalities.
	This isn't to say that American males have no problems of their own.
	As for the American women, there had certainly always been heartening  
exceptions, among them Raven Girl and Maria Mortorano. On the whole though, 
it simply appeared that the vast majority of American women were all to 
willing to embrace tyranny, and to fall for pat - yet patently false - 
'answers' to the contrived 'questions' of the day. It were as though the 
media would offer up these false choices in framing a given issue between 
two entirely - supposedly opposing - tyrannical viewpoints, and the women 
could never see through to reject both viewpoints as Jake nearly invariably 
would, but the women would rather embrace the tyranny of their choice.
	It were as though the Frances Farmers of America had been eradicated. Jake 
loved Maria Mortorano in particular because she had read Thomas Satz. Jake 
had never known any woman like that! Raven Girl was the same way in her own 
right.
	At some point, the vast majority of native-born American women had somehow 
become convinced of their own moral superiority, and after a time it was 
nothing else if not nauseating to the likes of Jake. They would also feign 
constant intellectual superiority, when in truth they were bamboozlers with 
no compunction for self-examination; completely lacking in either 
intellectual honesty or curiosity.
	Asian women on the other hand; or Jewesses; or Ethiopians and Somalis; or 
'Latinas;' or Eastern Europeans; such women were yet attractive to Jake. 
They were more real, more willing to look at themselves rather than simply 
pretending to be morally sacrosanct in their views. As an added - and 
important - bonus, the foreign-born women had not yet begun to cut off their 
hair as so many of the American women had seemingly done. There is nothing 
which screams "I hate men" more than a woman wearing a dykie-doo.
	To be fair, American men were often fucked up in their own right. One look 
at Jake's life story could be an indicator of such. Yet at the very least, 
Jake wasn't one to 'settle' in life, simply for the chance to 'go along to 
get along,' with 'the least hassle possible.' In other words, Jake wasn't 
vapid yet pretending to be profound as American women in point of fact so 
often are.
	Thank goodness there are yet the Maria Mortoranos, and Raven Girls, and 
Dancer Women, and Cinammon Girls yet out there to balance out the whole of 
terrible women such as so many of those found in modern American, 
'christendom.' In truth, if the church-going women are any kind of indicator 
of the overall health of christianity, then the church is more or less 
finished. It is inhabited by unthinking, uncaring, ghouls who unknowingly 
feign moral superiority over the rest of us, 'unchurched' and 'churched' 
alike.
	As far as Jake might be concerned, the vast majority of them could simply 
go to hell. Jake would pine over the Asians, and the Jewesses, and the 
misfits of America, but never the 'prim and proper,' fiat money, usury 
loving battle axes who had so come to dominate the forefront of 'religious' 
life in the USA.
	Of course there are American women who don't go to church, yet hold an 
equally untenable faith as that of Christianity. These women practice a 
religion called, 'worship of the godvernment.' In their envy and insecurity, 
they simply wish to see everyone around them 'levelled,' that there might be 
no one too beautiful, no one too successful in life, no dream which should 
not be pared back in it expanse. Such women claim to want to see to it that 
no one should fail, but what they are really after is to ensure that no one 
should succeed. They run around in their patchouli and birkenstocks and wait 
for the day when they might dictate to the rest of us, exactly what should 
be allowed, and what should be forbidden in our lives.
	Again to be fair, there are a lot of 'males' who share these same poisonous 
atttitudes. The spirit of liberty is finding no fertile ground with the 
native-born in America, yet ironically enough it is the Asians, Latins, 
Africans, and Eastern Europeans who have been passed this eternal torch of 
self-rule. Some people say that the foreigners are collectivist at heart, 
and will destroy the true spirit of America, when in point of fact quite the 
opposite is so much closer to the truth. There is an honesty one finds in 
the foreign arrivals which is simply missing from many Americans at large.
	To be honest, the debate over free will - the individual versus the state - 
is a long, drawn out one and will not be ended at any time in the near 
future, or so it would seem. Of course, as we can see everything is changing 
now.
	The state will soon stand naked in its emptiness, its inability to provide 
for the weal of its citizens, and its abuse of raw power. Again, even if the 
state could 'provide for the weal' of its citizens there would be too high a 
price to pay - that of giving up liberty - for the likes of Jake and his 
ilk. The state is simply bunk.
	One time, a co-worker at the factory - Magnum PI - took Jake aside and told 
him that it would be best to keep a wife in Asia, but to never bring her 
here; and he is to some extent correct in this regard. Perhaps the greatest 
of women are the ones who arrive on American shores, and never abandon their 
core principles in pursuit of the emptiness - the looming nightmare - of the 
'American dream'
---
	Sabrina, dressed in a black, stretch satin body suit - with full-fashioned 
nylons and cuban bra and panties underneath - sized up her contingent of 
hybrids. They were ready.
	She and they filed into the night with at once stealth and purpose. They 
were on an assassination run. All collectivists must be eliminated, that the 
great Golden Age might Dawn upon the hallowed earth once again; just as in 
the days of old. First, the upheaval must be fought through.
	Sabrina and her group filtered through the approaching sunlight and 
dispatched the collectivists at the noxious television network. The objects 
of their wrath had not even scant warning as to what was to immediately 
transpire, as the advocates of tyranny had been drunken for years on their 
sense of burgeoning power over the rest of humanity at large.
	All across the nation - and the entire world as it were - and with the fall 
of night, the scene was enacted out with great precision and aplomb. The 
hybrids had infiltrated among the rest of us, and carried out their sacred 
task with stark efficiency. After a single 24-hour period, as the tremblors 
followed them - and as if some sentient Sothoth were beneath them and 
directing their activities - the agents of liberty at once struck their 
tyrannical foes with pitiless disdain.
	When it was over, the agencies of oppression had been smashed; christian, 
zionist, communist, tree-hugging, unduly animal loving, on and on the 
enemies of human free will were vanquished, their energies flowing back to 
the invisible black holes betwixt space and time from which they had - with 
such  lack of couth - emanated from in ages so long since past. The residue 
of tyranny was polished off of the new, shining face of humanity and once 
again those of us who relish our own enterprise and who will take 
responsibility for our own lives, were free to build a greater civilization, 
such as has never before been recorded in our thin slice of hystory.
	When the hybrids would finish their task, they would morph into useful 
appliances for the benefit of those humans who remained. The Montauk 
experiment had at last paid true dividends on behalf of humanity; Tesla had 
been ultimately vindicated. Haarp was shutdown even as the ground shook all 
around without even a sound.  Nanotechnology had arrived, and meshed with 
the nascent, budding new breed of superhumanity.
	Sabrina was pleased as she headed back to her estate that early morning. 
Her panties were moist with untold arousal.
---
	The volcanoes began to flow. All of earth's land mass began to go through 
the long-awaited upheaval. Oceans redefined themselves, mountains fell in 
one place and rose up in another. Chaos was the order of the day. No one was 
safe, yet no one was afraid. The shackles of collectivism had finally been 
summarily dispatched, tossed into the proverbial dustbin of hystory.
	Asian armies, led by the Chinese began their headlong march into the Middle 
East. Persian contingents - as the vanguard of the invasion - secured first 
Basra, then the entirety of the Arabian penninsula. The mullahs were all 
dead by then; bought and paid for as they'd been, just like their christian 
zionist cousins in America. There was no controlling authority. Everything 
was one gigantic, free-for-all; and at last earth had seen the once-mighty 
tyrants fall, for once and for all. Ecstasy filled the air, from Bombay to 
New York's Times Square; from Calcutta to Belair.


Sixteen: Cheng Du

	Cheng Du had financed his wife's activities. The blackmailing of 
politicians and high profile clergy had been an immediate success, and money 
had filled his coffers. Within days he'd been able to outfit his wife's 
hybrid contingent with every exotic, high-tech type of weaponry imaginable. 
Cheng Du was happy to know that the Oriental mindset had finally won out; 
that the byzantine rules and regulations so in fashion with the cultural 
descendants of ancient Rome had finally been eradicated from the earth.
	As well, the phony Orientals such as the cult leaders had been removed from 
any position of power. It was a victory for those whose lineage harkened 
back to the Tao, to Confuciunism. The blackened memory of the likes of Mao 
and Pol Pot faded into the virtual scrapbook of terror; a catologue of 
humankind's most stupendous errors.
	Funny money had gone by the wayside. All of those who had staked their 
livelihoods whilst pushing paper over the backs of those who actually had 
done any and all of the work; the days of the banking monopolists were 
ended. The Asians would finally take their place as equal contributors to 
the ongoing development of humanity.
	The air was filled with possibility, and it was in stark contrast to the 
stultifying, hand-wringing, nanny-state sophistry which had but a few 
moments before been so monumentally destroyed. Indeed, the Asians would 
demonstrate that their values were indeed superior to the oppressive 
legalism which the West had inherited from the ancient Romans.
	Those liberty lovers in the West heaved a sigh of relief, and breathed in 
the fresh air of newfound opportunities. The engine of commerce had been 
completely lubed and greased, and now anything and everything might be 
obtainable, simply through some combination of the application of good, 
old-fashioned ingenuity combined with 'elbow grease.'
---
	On the barren plain the 5 of them - Chanel, Tim, Edward, Charles, and the 
nameless beauty carried out an animated conversation as to exactly what were 
happening. Their intoxication grew, and Tim began having private thoughts of 
stealing Chanel's spaceship. As though such were totally verboten, Charles 
turned in front of the rest of them, into a shemale. His suit turned into a 
series of sheer petticoated skirts, and his new breasts heaved beneath a 
sheer blouse and satin bra. He liked this new body, and the others stood by, 
shocked and amazed. Any thoughts of backstabbing the others had ceased. They 
were at equilibrium; none with any hidden designs on the other, and the 
group of them now being comprised of 2 males, 2 females, and one shemale.
	Just as suddenly, an airship appeared overhead, and extended a ladder down 
to them as it hovered invitingly, its pulsing lights a seeming invitation to 
great pleasures which awaited them inside. They looked at each other and 
Chanel was the first to climb the stairs. The others followed, until they 
had all entered, and the staircase had retracted, and the ship flew off, 
leaving the burnt out tank, and Chanel's small craft as but relics on the 
surface of the unknown planet. Out of the shadows of the hills off in the 
distance, monsters appeared and once again danced their dance about the 
desolate landscape.
	Inside, the ship it was far more spacious than the outside had indicated. 
It was a cavernous series of arenas, ballfields, golf courses, shopping 
malls where everything were free, vending machines dispensing LSD; 
everything imaginable under the sun. It was the crystal ship. There were now 
a million boys, and a million girls, and a million baphomets on board. They 
frolicked in their newfound excesses, and none of them grew quite tired with 
it. Someday they might wish to engage in some struggle once again, but for 
now they were without exception all content to simply enjoy all of the vast 
cornucopia of pleasures which had been so generously allotted them by 
whatever unseen force.
	They played paintball, raced go-carts, ate Vietnames soup, held rock 
concerts and raves, and engaged in the most incredible, deeply affectionate 
sex which had ever been known to humanity.
---
	Jake consulted with the psychatrist. It was too bad she weren't much of a 
looker. The setting could have been really hot. Instead, the woman was 
fairly well a wallflower, and was highly serious and seemed nearly openly 
contemptuous of Jake. Jake was there because he wanted to be a woman. It was 
only then that he found out that if one were to pursue the change through 
societally-prescribed channels, that the process was really a load of 
malarkey. Jake simply wanted the body; to be wanted for sex as a woman the 
way he'd never been wanted for sex as a man. He wanted to be Raven Girl's 
lesbian lover, but he wasn't interested in learning a bunch of body 
language, or methods of speaking, or in point of fact going along with all 
or even any of the protocol which the psychiatrist was assuring him must 
take place, were he to become a, 'real woman.'
	He then realized that the whole thing was a joke; that in reality there is 
no set of guidelines for a 'real woman,' just as there is no real definition 
for an actual, 'man.' Every one of us is somewhere along various and sundry 
continuums, the whole of which make up our individual personalities. Jake 
had no need for anything other than the body he coveted; the body which he 
could never possess as a male but which, as a transexual he might finally 
gain and which no one could ever so hastily dangle in front of, then take 
away from him as he had experienced as a male in interacting with actual 
females.
	He had no need for learning voice inflection, or body language. He flat out 
simply wanted the body. The psychatrist and those of her ilk were simply 
double-drag fools; just like most every other of the tyrants who stalk this 
earth and make their living off of human misery.
	Later on, at the factory the Supervisor on the floor - Mother Superior - 
was an obvious transexual. The woman was about 6'4", and had the build of an 
NFL linebacker. Of course, Jake may have been mistaken but he was 99% 
certain that he had identified the woman correctly. Jake thought back to his 
own dabbling in 'going all the way' years before, and he was saddened that 
apparently so many males in America really longed to be females. Perhaps it 
was the oft-held perception amongst today's males that women - like their 
Christian God - hold all of the power in life yet none of the 
responsibility. Such an existence must look attractive to the never-wanted 
male.
	The lack of want for many males on the part of females must stem from when 
a male is born, and his mother rejects him; perhaps not in the entirely 
physical sense; but perhaps moreso simply with her thoughts. She pops the 
baby male out and in her mind she doesn't want him. Perhaps she compounds 
this through the simple act of feeding him a small dick - the bottle - in 
his infancy, rather than letting him feast upon her breasts. Such attitudes 
on the part of a mother then create a male who grows up entirely unwanted by 
the opposite sex; unwanted that is except for as a source of exploitation, 
and manipulation. As for gratification at the hands of any female, such is 
simply out of the question for such males. All women understand the secret 
code, and when they 'catch a whiff' of that aura a male gives off which 
indicates that he was never wanted by his own mother, there is virtually 
never any female in the male's adult life who will ever lift a finger to 
actually satisfy him sexually.
	Rather, the male will be strung along by the women in his life, and used 
for his money and whatnot, but he will never be gratified. The wise male in 
such a situation will simply cut all women right out of his life.
	At the factory, Jake could scarcely look at the supervisor. He would have 
to walk across the floor, sometimes several times each day, and pass by her 
at her desk, and it was all he could do to keep himself from running away in 
horror. He would put on his best happy face and walk past her in that 
fashion. He knew she could sense some of this, but he couldn't rid himself 
of his revulsion at her.
	She was, to be fair not really ugly. As he got to know her a bit, she was 
actually slightly attractive. Whatever the case of her origins, Jake simply 
never desired large women. Mother Superior certainly seemed to treat Jake 
with fairness in any event.
	As for preference in women, Jake longed for women of smaller stature, or if 
they were to be tall, at least having extremely 'female' bodies with 
'curves' rather than 'lumps.' The really skinny ones weren't attractive 
either. There were a couple of tall Apsara for instance - Supermodels One 
and Two - who Jake really desired. They were different from one another in 
their complexion and facial features, but they both had beautiful, swaying 
asses and narrow waists; and Supermodel One - the one who had worn purple 
that one day - would wear the sexiest outfits, showing off her ample breasts 
and pear-shaped ass. The woman would sometimes walk past Jake and he would 
turn his head to see her walking away, and her ass would simply sway back 
and forth in the most amazing fashion. Jake must have been in love with her.
	As for the supervisor, she was too big. One day, Jake happened upon Mother 
Superior speaking with another 'sup,' the Fisherman; and Jake heard the 
Fisherman say something like, "not all of us can be beautiful" and at that 
Jake simply wanted to turn and walk away. Yet he continued about his 
business as though he had heard nothing. To be honest, Jake himself wasn't 
the greatest looking person by that point in his life.
	It was true, he had lost a lot of weight, yet his teeth were yellow from 
smoking, and his hair was greying. And it remained a mystery as to whether 
any female - the sex partner he desired - could ever want him with his 
hidden adolescent tits beneath his outerwear.
	The time Jake went to day shift for three weeks, he did it partly to get 
away from Mother Superior, so that he wouldn't have to mentally contort 
himself in order to interact with her. Amazingly, when Jake arrived the 
first day of the stint; the day shift supervisor was an even more obvious 
transexual than the night shift supervisor had been. As a matter of fact, 
the day shift supervisor had that scent about her of artificial hormones 
which one finds only with male-to-female transexuals, similar to biological 
women on birth control pills; and the day shift supervisor was of the former 
variety, Jake was certain.
	Her scent reminded Jake of the time he'd been brought before the FTC panel 
at Tinyweenie, and the stenographer had been a blatant transexual, with that 
same 'artificial hormone' scent about her. Jake simply could not get past 
his revulsion at the same. Perhaps, if these women had looked more feminine, 
rather than sort of female body grafted onto a man face (like Ayn Rand), 
Jake wouldn't have minded. Perhaps this was what had kept Jake from, himself 
ever having 'gone all the way' in that regard. Perhaps Jake didn't want a 
sort-of female body topped by his dog face on the head. So being a shemale 
had been more of his goal; half man, half woman. He wanted to be Baphomet.
	Once, in the dance club where Jake had gone out in drag; there was the 
largest transexual Jake had ever seen. Once, this person came to Jake's 
table and struck up a conversation with Jake. 'She' told Jake of her 
boyfriend, and how - 'she' being a pre-op - her place of employment had made 
accomodations for her transformation, and how Jake needed to see 
psychiatrists and do things 'the right way.' As we have seen though, Jake 
had already closed the books on psychiatrists and the 'proper way of 
becoming a woman.' As for the boyfriend, Jake could not imagine a man 
wanting to date a woman who looked like that. If Jake were superficial in 
that regard, the knowledge of such didn't bother him in the slightest. To 
Jake such a relationship appeared to him as thinly-veiled homosexuality.
	As with so many other times, Jake simply felt sorry for the males of 
America, and how seemingly so many had been convinced - almost like Jake 
himself, at least for a time - that women were better than men.
	In truth, in those latter days before the Dawning of the new Golden Age, 
women were more or less a miasma, all across their continuum, at least the 
ones born and raised in America. Thank goodness for the precious women who'd 
been raised in America and were still decent human beings, such as Yellow 
Raven, Raven Girl, Maria Mortorano, Mariah Carey, and Michelle Trachtenberg. 
Even if only 1 in 10 American women were desirable, at least they gave some 
semblance of hope to the likes of Jake; not that it mattered of course. On 
the one hand Jake could 'hope' all he wanted, but in truth his chances of 
ever matching up with any woman were less than nil.


Seventeen: John Dee

	On the day of Jake's last shift at the factory; just before he'd been 
dismissed by the Fisherman as Mother Superior were on vacation, Jake had 
begun to harangue the Khmer about their past with Pol Pot. Their chatter, 
combined with own usage of the MP3 player, had simply driven him over the 
brink. Little Wing had chosen Tippy Turtle over Jake, and the rest of the 
Cambodians had launched into a sort of noxious exchange between and amongst 
themselves, employing nasal voice tones and disparaging laughter as their 
weapons of his metaphysical undoing.
	For weeks since having purchased the MP3 player, Jake had tried to bring 
the Gospel of Ronnie James Dio, and Ritchie Blackmore, and Robert Plant, 
Jimi Hendrix and Jimmy Page to their ilk; and it appeared to have been to no 
avail. For instance, one day Jake had offered to lend the Monk a copy of the 
Led Zeppelin DVDs, yet the Jewish Princess and the God Woman had quickly 
disabused the young man of taking Jake up on the offer.
	The Serbian woman had once taunted Jake and told him that he could not be 
into rock, because he wasn't wealthy and had no groupies. Jake had silently 
taken her admonition, yet inwardly defiantly disagreed. Jake had - for 
better or worse - long since sold his own soul for rock and roll.
	Perhaps if Jake had never purchased the MP3 player, and gone on instead 
immersing himself in their indecipherable chatter without so much as a 
glimmer of protest; if Jake had remained detached from it all; perhaps the 
blowup would have never happened. As it turned out, the loud rock music in 
his ears from the MP3 player, combined with their chatter, and the 
mega-doses of caffeine, along with the near-constant smoking of chronic bud 
in his time off of work; all of it had combined to drive him into a frenzy 
of antagonism toward virtually every one of them. To be fair, perhaps the 
chronic bud had in some way mitigated the blowup, at least for a time.
	At least there were some people Jake had made a sort of connection with; 
Plucky, the Vietnamese mother of 3 who had received Jake's offering of the 
Scorpions' Tokyo Tapes DVD with grace; Magnum PI, the Lao who had borrowed 
Jake's Led Zeppelin and Jimi Hendrix DVDs and had apparently quite enjoyed 
them; Miss Child of the Sea, the beautiful Lao of around the same age as 
both Jake and Magnum PI. There were yet others unmentioned her who had never 
gained Jake's ire.
	Even the Apsara and their lackey males had not really become the target of 
Jake's hatred, but rather his exasperation at never being able to fully 
connect with any of them. After he had left the building for the last time, 
and given himself some time to collect his own thoughts, Jake could only 
look back at the Apsara with affection. If they had not liked him, he had 
certainly liked them. Perhaps more than anything, the entire series of small 
events had amounted to one gigantic misunderstanding between Jake and they. 
Jake even looked back in kinship upon some of his conversations with James 
Bond, or the Monk for example. The Prince of the Siem had - if nothing else 
- been one of the most meticulous workers Jake had ever witnessed in action.
	Jake would never, ever forget Yellow Raven, or the Queen and her sister 
Supervixen, or Supermodels One and Two; and of course he would always 
remember Little Wing (it goes without saying), Mae West, Julie Newmar, and 
all of the rest. He could only hope that the future would hold out something 
good for all of these people, be they Khmer, Lao, or Viet; each distinctive 
in their own way, yet all of them sharing that same 'god people' energy.
	Whatever their subterfuge and game playing with regard to Jake, they were 
real people; vibrant, alive, inquisitive, and seemingly with purpose in 
their lives. If nothing else, Jake could see that they were all without 
exception intelligent. Making cables in a milieu such as that requires at 
least some intelligence. It is a technical job of sorts.
	Be that as it may, Jake could ruminate on the encounters with the Khmer 
Dominatrix, and how she had seemingly - more often than not - managed to 
steer many a given conversation into the subject of male homosexuality. She 
was tall and well-proportioned, and for a time had the scent of birth 
control pills to where Jake wondered if she too were transexual. She had 
been too womanly though in Jake's mind, so one day it had dawned upon him 
that she were simply promiscuous, and on the pill.
	She also spoke in a slightly halting, or 'broken up' form of Khmer, to 
where Jake thought perhaps she were an outsider masquerading as a Khmer. 
Jake considered her - like himself - to have been Kuomintang. Jake had by 
the way, reminded the Cambodians and Viets alike - time and time again - 
that he were, himself Kuomintang. Somewhere along the line, the Lao Magnum 
PI had teased Jake about being, 'half Asian.' At another point in time James 
Bond the Cambodian had mentioned that Jake, 'ate like an asian.'
	Jake loved Asian food, Asian women, Chinese Chess, Asian everything. Jake 
could see that the old West were in decline, even to the point of obviating 
the existence of anyone with blue eyes. The future looked to Jake to be one 
of; anything but blue eyes.
	Jake had tried to give them the rock music, but the youths in particular as 
exemplified by Can Do would plainly ignore him, and go about listening to 
their Linkin Park and the like. As badly as bands like Linkin Park suck, 
what else could Jake have really expected? It was the music of the current 
generation.
	Regardless of any of that, Jake knew that it was up to him to help uphold 
the classic rock tradition, and not by playing covers of the old classics, 
but by conjuring up new songs, sometimes in the old style; new music of his 
own. In that way he might pay homage to the aforementioned Ronnie James Dios 
and Ritchie Blackmores, et al.
	Jake could reminisce as to how Miss Passion from Vietnam would bring him 
some of the best soup he had ever partaken of; or how now and then a group 
of co-workers and Jake would go to the nearby Pho cafe and hastily feast 
before returning back for the remainder of their shift; 10 minutes to the 
cafe; 10 minutes to eat; 10 minutes back to work.
	After Jake had been dismissed, and on his way out the door, he said goodbye 
to Honey Bear from Ghana, and dismissed Doogie Howser (who had been 
extremely good to Jake by the way), and Captain America, and Buzzcut. He 
wasn't able to say much to Gungho or any of the others. Quickly he was out 
the door.
	Upon leaving, Jake heaved a sigh of relief. Prior to that and for several 
weeks on end, Jake had cut back on his own voluntary overtime, and had 
instead pared back to the minimal 40-hour week; further, every night when he 
would exit the place he would notice how quickly he would jump into his car 
and drive away, as though his connection to the place were becoming more and 
more tenuous by the day, until at last it finally broke altogether.
	Along the way, Jake had been blessed with the pleasure of having met and 
interacted with Hip Hop Dude (the only real-life person Jake had ever known 
of aside from himself to have theorized about aerosol spraying aka 
chemtrails), and Vixen (not to be confused with Supervixen), Ms. Scriabin, 
Dudley Doright, and Colombo; all among others too numerous to mention.
	The immigrants from Somalia and Ethiopia had included amongst them some of 
the most beautiful women Jake had seen, with one in particular having the 
most narrow waist and bulbous ass imaginable. He had tried to tell a few of 
them that, despite his own unorthodox Judaism, that if allah were to win he 
wouldn't mind so much. Of course Jake would do everything in his own power 
to herald the advent of Lucifer, but if Jake were to ultimately fail in such 
an endeavor; well the chips would simply have to fall where they may. To 
their credit, at least the moslems would no longer engage in fiat currency 
or usury; at least not true moslems, that is.
	Of course as it was, the - by definition islamic - clergy of the near-East 
had been bought and paid for, just as its chrstian 'counterpart' had in 
America. Perhaps though some real faith might emerge and carry humanity into 
the Golden Age. Whatever were to happen, Jake simply knew that he had to 
dedicate himself to the Raven Witch Woman; intercessor for the demiurge; 
Lucifer.
	Jake remembered the jovial El Salvadorean gentleman who had traded MP3 and 
audio CDs with him. It was like a miniature cultural exchange between them. 
In particular, Jake had really enjoyed the Celia Cruz CDs. As an aside, it 
is said that once Celia Cruz went to Guantanomo, and there she had 
prostrated herself next to the fence, facing into her oppressed homeland. 
There was not an inkling of wind in the air, yet at that demonstration on 
her part, the Cuban flag inside the fence had begun to wave, all on its own. 
Some day; some day in the not-to-distant future, Cuba might re-enter the 
civilized world, and in so doing rid themselves of morons such as Castro 
forever. Certainly, the Lanskys and Batistas had been much better; and 
ultimately Cuba might rid herself even of those and for perhaps the first 
time experience unfettered liberty.
	In any event, Jake told himself as well that, if he were ever to be faced 
with a factory job such as the one he'd just so spectularly burnt out over; 
that he wouldn't be so open and up front with his co-workers, but more 
circumspect in his dealings with others. This might provide balance in his 
relationships with his would-be co-workers; that such incidents as he'd just 
found himself 'falling through' would be a thing of the past.
	Jake knew that his failures at the cable factory had been his own doing and 
not those of anyone else involved. Going forward, if Jake could simply 
handle himself in a better fashion, then the employment situation would 
unfold in a much smoother manner. Whatever else might be said, Jake was 
honored to have met such disparate and wonderful people; folk from all over 
the world, and folk from his own native America. Somehow, despite all of his 
personal failings and misgivings as to what had just transpired, Jake was 
optimistic about the future of humanity, even if 'blue eyes' were to 
disappear forever.
	One thing which had struck Jake about the entire factory exprience was the 
behavior of the Jewish Princess. As mentioned before, she was a voluptuous 
Apsara with - much like the aforementioned Sandra Dee - more or less golden 
hair. Jewish Princess also had some of the largest breasts known to mankind; 
even more impressive than either the Queen's or Sandra Dee's. She had taught 
Jake a few Cambodian words, but after a certain point Jake had disabused 
himself of the possibility of ever actually going to Cambodia, so his 
interest in learning the language had waned markedly after that. He had 
decided at some point that he would remain in his native land of America, 
come what may.
	All of that aside, Jewish Princess had once given Jake a package of the 
spring roll wrappers, and little plastic drainage devices much resembling 
plates with small legs which elevated them from the counter top they were 
meant to sit upon; and with slits in them for the drainage of excess water 
from the wettened spring roll wrappers. She had given him crushed peanuts 
and fish sauce, and had explained to him exactly how to make spring rolls.
	Once, after the incident with the purple and after Jake had then begun to 
wear every day fairly without fail, purple shirt with black pants - and 
covered with usually a black but sometimes purple sport jacket - Jake showed 
up one Monday in his by then 'routine' black pants, purple shirt, and black 
sport jacket. Lo and behold, Jewish Princess across from him showed up in 
exactly the same outfit! Now the purple incident in conjunction with the VT 
massacres and the $911 tax return could have all been explained away as 
coincidence, but in the case of the Jewish Princess having mimicked his 
day-to-day attire to a 't;' well it was obvious that she liked him; or 
something.
	The problem was, he didn't as much like her in return. By then he was 
fixated nearly entirely upon Little Wing. Even the Viets, Delta Dawn and 
Josie no longer quite entertained his interest as Little Wing did. In 
retrospect, perhaps Jake should have at least kept an open dialogue with 
Jewish Princess.
	As it turns out, on the last day at the factory before Jake were shown the 
door due to his increasingly bizarre - among other things - 'air guitar' 
antics, the Jewish Princess put on a display of female erotic power. To that 
point in that final, fateful shift the air between Jake and the Khmer at 
large had been filled with acrimony at previously unrecorded levels. To show 
Jake though who carried the proverbial whip, Jewish Princess began to speak 
in an uncharacteristically sweet, lilting, sonorous tones, and as her speech 
were obviously directed at Jake it had caused Jake immense, immediate sexual 
arousal. The sweetness of her voice was in stark contrast to the obnoxious 
nasal tones which she so often normally employed in Jake's presence. He knew 
then that the female voice could easily be his undoing; it didn't matter 
what a woman might be saying, or more or less how she looked, or even - as 
were the case in this instance - if he could not understand a word of what 
she was saying. He looked up at her for the last time, and as with the Raven 
Girl and her seeming psychic control over his loins in years past; Jewish 
Princess had that same sort of triumphant grin on her face. Jake was 
maddened by the prospect, but after having left the place, and having given 
himself some weeks to reflect, he was flatterred that Jewish Princess had 
ever bothered to have undertaken such a stunt in the first place. Basically, 
the Apsara had 'beaten' him and he didn't mind it one bit.
---
	On the crystal ship, it was soon realized that there was a slight 
imbalance; they were one boy short. Upon hearing of this, Chanel remembered 
the dildo doll yet inserted then in her sweet pussy. She brazenly opened her 
purple satin space suit, and withdrew the doll, then spoke some odd 
incantation, and the thing morphed into a life-sized version of the doll. It 
was her lover, in the flesh! Everything was perfect then on the Crystal 
Ship.
	They plied the nothingness between time and space, and all of them explored 
their merriment with full abandon. There were giant slides to careen down, 
and escalators taken them back up to the top, and pizza parlours and 
hamburger stands, and Chinese, and East Indian restaurants. They all wore 
satins and sheers and the deep affection experienced between various and 
sundry permutations of them was beyond anything else in all of recorded 
hystory. It was a veritable paradise; quite a bit better than even the 
fabled celestial choir or treasury of light; which itself is utterly ho hum 
in comparison.
---
	John Dee sat on his patio at twilight and smoked fine cigarettes whilst 
sipping cognac. The tremblors ran beneath him unabated, but rather than 
frightening him, they served somehow to put him into a higher, altered state 
of consciousness. He took a bong hit of a mixture of chronic bud, opium, and 
salvia divinorum leaf and relaxed as volcanoes smoked in the distance.
	When he regained his senses a bit, he thought back on his times with 
Kristi. He was at least slightly ashamed, but he assuaged that by the 
recollection that they'd never done anything more than florentine; and the 
founder of Islam had practiced florentine with 8 and 9-year olds, so at 
least John Dee weren't in completely reprehensible hystorical company in 
that regard.
	John realized nonetheless that he carried a bit of pathos with him. Perhaps 
it was at least in part due to the fact of the way his own foster parents 
had once abused him. The cycle of abuse is a tough one to break, generation 
after generation, and at least John's 'using' of Kristi had been less than 
that of his foster parents over him, back in the day. Perhaps if the trend 
continued, Kristi would never abuse anyone at all.
	Truth be told, John knew Kristi was the Queen of Asia; the May Queen. John 
had known that from the beginning. Laurie had been a Chinese immigrant to 
America with a young daughter named Kristi. Her husband had died in an 
outlandish accident whilst baking a batch of chocolate chip cookies, leaving 
Laurie and Kristi to fend for themselves. Laurie hadn't always gotten drunk.
	Long before, Laurie had smoked opium. Yet at times such had been difficult 
to procure in America, and even then the Oxycondtin might run dry, so Laurie 
had been faced with using alcohol to medicate herself. She would have stuck 
with chronic bud, yet she was allergic to that. Alcohol had been a fairly 
easy out, as it were.
	Be any and all of that as it may, Kristi was destined to rule; to rule 
without ruling. She would take up her rightful throne over the New Asia and 
pontificate from there, 'over' the newly-liberated humanity. Her decrees 
would be nothing more than confucian homilies. She would never deign to 
employ coercion - let alone force - in convincing her 'subjects' of 
anything. And this, dear readers is the truth of the Queen of China; the May 
Queen.
	A car pulled up; a long black limousine. John Dee waved and quickly looked 
away as the, by-then-voluptuous Kristi Sweet exited the house and sashayed 
to the car. Despite her youth, she was a real woman now. Her curves were the 
desire of any man whose gaze might land upon her. John Dee turned and shed 
his first tears as the car wound away and Kristi left him forever. Laurie 
remained asleep on the couch in the living room. She knew though; and she 
was ok with it all; in fact, in no small part, proud.

Eighteen: Kristi Sweet

	The Chinese navy fought Abbadon for control of the Pacific. The USA navy 
had since been dismantled, the nano-bots out of Montauk having done their 
work in converting most all of the USA military hardware into giant 
containers of various and sundry psychedelic drugs.
	There were titanic, collosal battles between the sea monster and her 
minions, and the Chinese craft. In the end the Pacific had been mastered by 
the forces of Sino-Nippon. The Chinese had forgiven their Japanese 
tormentors of ages past. Going forward, they had at first secretly - and in 
the end openly - worked together to make the Pacific an 'Asian lake.' Their 
top strategists had concluded that such were the only way to win a truly 
lasting peace. The dragon flag few over the Pacifc, unfettered.
	The Sino-Nippon alliance had encompassed not only Beijing, Tapei, and 
Tokyo; but Bangkok, Phnom Phen, Saigon, and Vientien, and the others as 
well. Where one country had no navy, it would provide army units instead. 
The overall effort had resulted in Asian mastery over the Pacific, and 
Abbadon had been the last obstacle in achieving that.
	In the Western USA, the mountain passes of the Sierras, and to the north 
the Cascades; all of the passes were closed and turned into strongpoints by 
groups of soldiers of every nationality, now loyal to the 'Pacific Rim 
Republic.' The USA East of the mountain ranges disintegrated further into 
other small states.
	This all occurred over a period of just a few days. With the complete 
breakdown of the judiciary, and the disappearance of Congress and the 
Executive; with the emptying of the prisons and the rescinding of all laws, 
it was like the Wild West all over again. With HAARP disabled at last, the 
people woke up and were once again vibrant and alive. Lawyers were 
dispatched with glee. Doctors were no longer needed. All of the monopolies, 
money and medicine not having been the least of these; all had been 
dismantled.
	Anyone could open any kind of business they wanted to open; establish any 
enterprise which might suit their fancy, all free of the stultifying and 
soul destroying red tape which had hampered American commerce and 
civilization for so long. The clergy were sent underground if they survived 
at all. Never again would the likes of TBN - itself backed by the Moonies 
who were in truth themselves a CIA front - have such a stranglehold on 
American political and social discourse.
	As for the 'other side,' the communists - as well as all of the various 
other hues and shades of humanistic collectivists - were all given a taste 
of their - long overdue - medicine. A bullet to the back of the neck was all 
it often took. There were no longer any advocates of tyranny about the 
entire American landscape. The vision of our founding fathers had - at last 
- been truly realized. Thus the rebuilding began. The journey to the stars; 
the colonizing of the bottom of the sea; the gaining of trade routes between 
our own world and others through the reactivation of the ancient dimensional 
doorways.
---
	Kristi sat upon the throne. As the far-off battle for the Middle East died 
down, her armies waxed triumpant. She began her ostensible rule over the 
world. To reiterate, from that moment forward the Oriental Queen had nothing 
to force or coerce anyone else into doing. This was in point of fact the 
only reason she had ever been chosen to be queen. Any woman who would force 
someone to do something against their will is not a queen at all, but rather 
a tyrant. In reality, of a true queen and a tyrant; never the twain shall 
meet.
	It was like a Childhood's End for humanity. No longer would anyone take 
false credit for anyone else's work, for those who remained were without 
exception purely civilized folk. No longer would anyone attempt to gain 
monopoly over any good, or service, or transaction type. Commerce would be 
free-flowing. No longer would certain of us attempt to enforce rigid, 
life-destroying dogma over the others. There would be no more of the 
ridiculous drug wars or wars on poverty or wars on terror (chortle guffaw). 
There would be no more patents or copyrights; everything would be freely 
copied and improved upon, should anyone desire as much.
	Personal disputes would be resolved by - at the most extreme - duels, or 
perhaps by a friendly one-on-one paintball match, combined with a chess 
game. There would be no need for police, or armies, or tax collectors, or 
any of the other trappings of age-old tyranny.
	Interstellar commerce would commence, and bring about an age of 
unprecedented physical prosperity. The need for physical poverty would pass 
into the ashes of hystory, along with the cruel faiths which had relied upon 
the same in order to promulgate themselves. To the contrary, everyone would 
realize that, it simply doesn't get any better than this; the here and now. 
There is no heaven; there is no hell; everything is rather, the present.
	I, your humiliated-but-not-so-humble scribe could go on and on with 
examples of the new liberty, but if you're yet reading this then you must 
certainly get the gist of it.
	In short, the Golden Age had Dawned.
---
	Jake sat and in his mind did his best to be flattered that his own mother 
had seemingly so sought to undermine his relationships with women throughout 
his life. It were as though she - as well as his oldest sister - had wanted 
him for themselves. So in some way he could be flattered by that, even if he 
were mortified by their seeming willingness to - if need be - utterly 
destroy him in the process of keeping him away from women outside their 
family. He could appreciate their long since having wanted to have  
monopolized him. The dichotomy with Jake's mother in particular was thus; 
originally she had never wanted him, and then as he'd grown to adulthood she 
had not wanted anyone else to have him.
	As for women at large, Jake knew he liked them; regardless of how he might 
criticize or complain. He knew well enough to simply avoid the ones who 
rubbed in the wrong way, and to live his own life as though such women 
didn't even exist.
	He could understand the generally great reluctance of women to seduce him, 
given his own either inability or unwillingness to take them as they 
seemingly needed to be taken; and that such at its core was fully his 
responsibility. The machinations - or lack thereof - by his family had been 
but a pale sideshow in comparison. More than anything, Jake wanted to have a 
body like a woman, yet with his own mind; yes, a woman's body but with a 
Jake personality.
	As for having either a cock and balls on the one hand or a vagina on the 
other; it didn't really matter to Jake as he had no desire to fuck or be 
fucked by anyone, male or female. He simply wanted to have to himself, that 
curved form he so coveted, combined with the mind he already had. He wanted 
to be Baphomet. He would have just as soon had no genitals at all.
	At peace with himself and with the world at large, Jake launched into a 
guitar solo as the earth undulated beneath his apartment. The news of the 
ongoing cataclysm was evident everywhere, and Jake knew that it was time. He 
was already feeding off of a backup power supply, the electrical grid at 
least temporarily down. In any event the dimensional doorway opened before 
him and he stepped through, guitar in hand.
	He knew it wasn't to be hell; and neither would it be heaven, but rather 
some oscillating, shifting series of particles and waves which would forever 
phase through the myriad panoply of various and sundry aspects of both.

The End