The Sound of the Cha-Lice

Sirens. Do you hear them? I don’t know about you, but it seems to me that every time I think a thought that ‘someone’ classifies as ‘unorthodox’ or ‘impure’ the sweet sound of siren song follows literally seconds later. Oddly enough, when I log onto the Sisternet I find my so-called ‘thought crimes’ reflected back at me in the form of news, movies, and infotainment: a seemingly ceaseless flow of in-formation that documents and cross-references my activities on a second-by-second basis. For whatever reason – frankly, I no longer care about what that reason might be – it seems that somebody is extremely interested in yours truly. In fact, you might even say that I’m the star of the show so to speak. Well, don’t expect me to prostrate myself with my head pointing in the direction of the Dog Star anytime soon, folks. I know that’s what the Chalicemen Chalicepersons (forgive my little faux pas, do) want, but it just ain’t gonna happen.

Here’s a short burst of siren song for the benefit of the hard of hearing.

I think I’m following you…

— creepy work colleague comment of the week

Good for you!

But what is ‘it’?

Hard to believe?

Witness Royal King told The Seattle Times he was photographing a wedding when he saw the low-flying turboprop being chased by two F-15s. He said he didn’t see the crash but saw smoke.

“It was unfathomable, it was something out of a movie,” King said. “The smoke lingered. You could still hear the F-15s, which were flying low.”

Source: Aljazeera

Like something out of a movie? Or perhaps a flight simulator I’m familiar with? One that just happens to be set in Seattle? It seems something was the matter with the pilot, and that ‘something’ seems to have infected the mothport, too…

Not sure what the matter is? Here’s a reminder.

We have eternal life and yet we sentence ourselves to drudgery. I tell you, I’m sick of 200 years of washing-up. And I’m sick of pitting my bare hands against the blind, brute stupidity of nature!

— Friend, Zardoz

Fucking diamond in your forehead? Really? You may call it ‘The Tabernacle’, but my preferred nomenclature is ‘The Shitter’.

Of course, the Cha-lice have always considered themselves society’s ‘moral guardians’.

So how’s that working out for you, Agent Cha-Lice of the Eff Bee Eye-Slam? Have the Islams stopped screaming for you yet?

Or have you found…

Guess not!

You could try your luck with The New Holy Woman Umpire instead, but you’ve already been there, haven’t you? And he was too busy crossdressing to pay you your Due Boys, right? And so here you are, still stuck on rung number one of that Stairway to Heaven. Does that just about sum up how you roll, Cha-lice?

This is how I do it…

Do you want me to be your Great Red Dragon? I think you do, don’t you?

But what if I don’t want to play along? And why would I, given your attitude towards ‘Number 10’?

A sharp increase in ancestor simulations live mummifications?

Why not drop by my Digital Glitchin’ and savour the sweet aroma?

Number 10 and The Government The Covenant The Gunishment. It’s ‘hilarious’, but it’s also ‘sick’? Explain that to me, do.

Personally, I’m sick of ‘The Government’…

… and its Corbyn Project.

When it all goes wrong and gets turned upside down…

J____ came to an abrupt halt as the hallway and kitchen was suddenly lit up by a pulsating blue-and-red strobe light originating from the street outside. The source was obvious, and we stared at one another in shocked silence for a moment before springing into action, executing a plan we’d rehearsed meticulously in the aftermath of the first blackout. Without a word J____ exited the kitchen at speed and dashed upstairs to kill the lights and wire up the booby traps we’d devised. Meanwhile, I retrieved our bug-out bags and pump-action shotguns from the kitchen pantry and hurried through to the living room. J____ was back by my side less than thirty seconds later.

“What’s the story, Ben?” he asked in an urgent whisper, standing on tiptoes to peer over my head.

“Looks like a single Blade & VALIS cruiser,” I replied in a low voice, moving aside to allow him a view through the chink in the curtains. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the vehicle: powerful blue-and-red strobes set in the capstone of a roof-mounted pyramid, the sign of The Covenant (an All-Seeing Eye, with the dark pupil embellished with a moth embellished with an Ankh symbol) prominent on all body panels. In the pitch darkness the strobes were powerful enough to illuminate The Covenant’s slogan on the cruiser’s rear flanks. It was a long way from ‘Protect and Serve’.

“’Let Every Scourge of God be Obedient Unto Me’,” read J____. “Not exactly catchy, it it?”

“Sounds awfully familiar, too,” I observed, thinking back to a little sing-song we once had in an altogether different reality.

“Yeah, if I were asked to coin a new slogan my suggestion would be ‘Too close to the fucking bone’,” he hissed ferociously. “This is really weird, Ben. The fucker’s just sitting there. If this were a raid there’d be half-a-dozen of ’em, plus a mobile religious re-education unit. Nothing gives these guys a hard-on more than the prospect of indoctrinating a non-believer. Most prisoners – or ‘new converts’ as they like to call them – are already chanting hymns by the time they reach the station.”

“They call them churches, J____, ” I reminded him. “The swine love their euphemisms. Nobody gets hauled away to a station to be interrogated and beaten senseless these days. A Blade & VALIS ‘Bishop’ issues an ‘invitation’ for an ‘infidel’ to attend ‘church’ and be ‘baptised’ into the faith. In other words, they drag you off kicking and screaming, pump you full of mind-altering drugs, and indoctrinate you with Covenant propaganda until you can’t even remember your own name. Those who take to the faith wholeheartedly are given an RFID implant and subjected to 24/7 surveillance for the rest of their lives. As for the unrepentant…well, you know how that one goes. Live mummification so that the bodies can be used as earthly vessels for the immortal Ka of the Sun God and his faithful followers.”

“It’s just a new take on the old ‘eternal life’ gimmick marketed by all religions, matey,” replied J____ softly. “We’ve both seen the YouTube videos. You know, the ones purporting to show Ra himself occupying a mummified corpse, bestowing blessings on the masses as he walks the streets of central London. The CGI was just awful. I could do better than that even when blind drunk.”

Excerpt from Cultish II: The Tears of Jihadonai, by Hugo Stone

…the only choice is to pick up a Cult 45 and go solo…

…you know, put the fuckin’ punk cocker firmly in her box.

Yep, a big fat Number Two is on its way. The SequelGiza is coming.

Read it and weep.

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Lumbering Up

Ever taken a look at a log? Aw, c’mon now! I know I’m a bit of a mucky pup but why immediately think the worst? As far as I’m concerned, if you want to sneak a peek before you reach for the handle then that’s your business so to speak. Ditto if you’re the type that likes to have a play before you flush it away. Absolutely nothing to do with me, just try and keep it confined to the privacy of your own home, OK? Then again, is that even possible? I mean, the log I had in mind was digital rather than analog – the kind produced by computers as they fulfill one of their prime functions: recording, storing and retrieving information. It seems that everything is recorded and monitored these days, and some of you may even understand what the term ‘everything’ actually means. Brighter sparks may even understand that the digital/analog divide is by no means as clear cut as it seems. What do I mean by that? Well, take a look at this…

The computers/simulators on their daily ‘compute’ to work. Get the picture?

Tell you what, while I’m about it let’s settle the ‘home’ versus ‘work’ debate once and for all.

OK, glad we got that out of the way. But let’s get back to the ‘horror’ of it all. I mean, you’re all walking around, being ‘productive’, firmly convinced that you’re actually ‘real’, and seemingly oblivious to the fact that you’re basically walking-talking camera-microphones, apparently with no other function than to report on my every thought and deed. Why me, though? Ultimately, it comes down to the ‘everything’, doesn’t it?

Remember that one? But tell me: who actually brought SIN into the world? Who thought it’d be a really terrific idea to create SIN as a global ‘intelligence network’? If that’s a ‘speck’ then what qualifies as a ‘log’?

More to the point, why should I care about what you maniacs think of me?

Jesus H Christ! All this over one Little Twinkie! Fuck’s wrong with you pricks over there in the United Estates of Vortex Zombielandium?

Why? Because it’s the little things that count. Should be rule Number One in my opinion.

Actually, it should be Number Two as well. Why the hell not?

All is not well in Covenant land…

OK. Anyone remember Bitcoin, the ‘Global Ledger’ (one great big ‘log’ that records every trance-action), and the proposed alternative? Money created out of thin air, right? Because that’s the nature of fiat currency. Given that time categorically does not flow in a left-to-right direction, shall we see how that one turned out?

You and your Almighty shat bill! But if money is information and information is just energy and…

…then how come you can’t live without ‘male energy’? There’s a word to describe organisms that rely on other organisms for their subsistence, isn’t there? Here’s an example.

Yeah, the tapeworm is a prime example. Here’s another.

Feeling a bit ‘ticked off’? Don’t worry, honey. Hugo ticks all the boxes. I think I’ll leave you with a little something from The Tears of Jihadonai. Before reading, please trace an outline of an ankh on your chest and supplicate yourself in the prescribed manner: sphinx-like, body aligned with the Dog Star. Fanks.

“Three queues, please, three queues!” bellowed the exasperated studio employee, a large megaphone clasped to his lips. “For the last time: chronic nags in the red channel on the left, those whose loins are infected with the abominable lusts of the She-Devil in the blue channel on the right, and everything else in the green channel in the middle! Come on, brethren, you’re making this far more difficult than it needs to be!”
A low grumble that I felt rather than heard rose up from the crowd of brothers. Never for one minute did it threaten to drown out the ceaseless din of their wives’ hen-pecking. J____ and I stood at the head of a queue marked ‘Defilers of the Sacred Tongue Thread of Virtuous Silence’. I for one felt I had a pretty good idea of what it must be like to be a wildebeest during the annual migration. The noise was deafening, and our own Pudendonia drones were putting out at least eighty decibels. We’d maxed out their volume settings the night before, and on the drive over their screeches of admonition were so loud I’d rolled down the windows for fear of them shattering.
“How much longer is this going to take, d’you think?” yelled J____ into my ear. I could barely hear him, but the way my eardrum vibrated told me he was shouting at the top of his voice.
“Fucked if I know,” I yelled back, feeling my voice crack under the strain of making myself heard. “It’s still only 8am and I expect they’ll start taking us in…Oh, hang on…something’s happening…”
Something was indeed happening. Through the metal security barrier protecting the entrance to what was, in effect, The Covenant’s Ministry of Propaganda, three coaches were approaching. Their paint jobs matched the colour-coded channels we’d been herded into, and they were obviously coming to ferry away the first forty-or-so male-female pairs for their stage one interviews.
“Forty from each channel please, step forward!” bellowed the brother with the megaphone again, nodding to some waiting security personnel to ensure that no one attempted to jump the queue. “Forty only! The rest of you will just have to wait your turn, and for the love of Jihadonai please attempt to do what you’ve failed to so far and keep these wailing banshees under some sort of control.”
I had to admit that he had a point. The scenes around me were chaotic to say the least. To my right, several dozen desperate-looking brothers in the green channel were having to physically restrain their partners to prevent them throwing off the tyranny of the burqa. On the far right, in the red channel, several wives had unzipped the opening in their burqas to expose their genitalia. Their husbands sat forlornly by the roadside, weeping openly. Meanwhile, our partners were recounting our supposed personal failings in exhaustive detail. They were so loud that as we passed through the gates the brother with the megaphone handed us a blue card with the number two printed on it.
“You two can go straight to stage two,” yelled the man.
“What?!?” I shouted back.
“I said stage two!” he yelled again, this time directly into his megaphone, the trumpet-end of which was only inches from my face. “Just follow the colour-coded arrows when you get off the bus.”
The bus ride took only a matter of minutes, during which time the other females on board fell into an awed silence as our partners delivered a master class in nagging. By the time we alighted the faces of the male passengers had brightened noticeably. Several had a change of heart and decided to remain on the bus for the return journey. One forlorn-looking brother placed a sympathetic hand on my shoulder as we passed in the aisle. The grim smile on his face indicated that he knew exactly what we were going through.
“Number ones go through the double doors and follow the signs,” roared another studio employee once we’d exited the vehicle. “Number twos follow me, please. You’ll go straight to interview.”
J____ and I, along with three other couples, walked over to where the man was standing. A few moment later we trooped inside the building, past the reception area, and through a door marked ‘Red Room’, which turned out to be a waiting area. The man disappeared through another door marked ‘Casting’, and his head re-emerged a few minutes later, along with a finger beckoning me in.
“Prophet’s Blood!” he yelled once we were seated. “Is there anything you can do to shut her up?”
“I’m afraid not, brother” I screamed back. “This started minutes after she swore herself to silence and servitude at our wedding. That was two years ago, and she hasn’t so much as paused for breath since. For obvious reason, I very much want her dead.”
The man sat back and attempted to arrange his features in such a way as to suggest he’d seen it all before, but the twitch under his left eye suggested otherwise. Unfortunately, his shouts had attracted my partner’s attention, and she immediately turned her wrath on him.
“And as for you,” she spat, swivelling in her seat and pointing an accusatory finger at his eye. “You need to spend more time at Temple reading the scriptures you do. You can start with The Book of Ejaculatreos, Set Two, Games four to seven, and I quote:

“So be watchful for those among thy membership that twitcheth and drool like unto the retard. For their lips shall speak the proud and haughty words of the She-Devil, that harlot who didst reject mine righteous Tongue Leash of Subjection. And they shall seek to deceive ye with tales of their stamina and prowess in the faith, and shall ask thee to bow the knee and assume the shameful position of the She-Dog, that they might fill thee with mine Spirit, and maketh thee like unto a Number One Seed. Remain steadfast I beseech thee, and be ye not moved by their silver-tongued flattery. For they art like unto the excitable whelps of the She-Dog, and knoweth not when to come to heel. And even though thou doth lay hands upon their shafts right daintily, yet shall they come off at the first or second stroke of service, for the mysteries of mine ways are hidden from their sight. Be ye mindful then, lest thine eyes be blinded by the vigour of their premature seeding. Thus saith our Lord Jihadonai.”

The man stared at her in horror, clearly appalled that she had the nerve to quote scripture at him. I watched his hand slip under his desk and noticed a light above the door suddenly turn red. A minute or so later two security guards appeared. The man nodded at my Pudendonia, and they immediately tipped her out of her chair onto the floor, grabbed an ankle each, and dragged her out of the room, leaving us in blissful silence.
“I expect the answer is Yes but I have to ask anyway: you’ve tried the Slap of Rebuke?” asked the man, drawing a hand down his face as if attempting to wipe away a bad memory.
“I have, brother,” I replied, tentatively inserting a finger into my left ear to see whether it was bleeding. “I’ve also tried the burqa 2.0 upgrade with mute functionality, but she refuses to wear it at home so I have no respite from her onslaughts. She’s so brazen that if I attempt to mute her in public then she actually removes her helmet altogether. The shame is unbearable.”
“There’s always The Box* of course. You’ve tried it?”
“She refuses to sit in it, brother,” I replied, adopting a hang-dog expression and refusing to meet his gaze. “To add insult to injury, if I attempt to flog her Paps of Milky Abundance then she immediately files a report with the authorities, accusing me of demanding non-reproductive intercourse. My personal Blade & VALIS file must be several inches thick by now.”

* A small hutch-like cell positioned at the bottom of the family garden, to which mouthy females (‘Biological Anomalies’ in Covenant-speak) were consigned for a 24-72 hour period. During this time they were required to subsist on a diet of dog biscuits and water alone, and to commit at least two sets of The Tears of Jihadonai to memory prior to returning to their wifely duties. Strict criteria for entry into The Box were prescribed. Specifically, the husband must have delivered three Slaps of Rebuke, and performed the rite of Reproaching the She-Devil’s Dumplings at least once, prior to dragging her to The Box by her hair.

“Your biological anomaly is cursed with the cheek of Tarquin himself,” he replied sympathetically. “This is one of the worst cases – if not the worst – I’ve ever seen. Ordinarily we require candidates to complete a Stage Three screen test, but given the circumstances I thought I’d skip the formalities and spare you any further anguish.”
“Thank you, brother,” I gushed, seizing his hand and shaking it. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“Do you have any particular preference? In terms of how we dispose of her?” he asked, peering at the day’s shooting schedule. “We’re filming a drama about the Sea Sirens which features a very brutal flogging. Or there’s a family drama in which the husband throws his wife from their 10th floor apartment after she expresses doubts about the literal truth of the story of Sodom and Steve. Or…”
“Actually, I was hoping for a good old-fashioned beheading,” I murmured apologetically. “You know, the kind that requires five-to-ten minutes of frenzied elbow-work.”
“An excellent choice, brother,” enthused the man as he picked up the day’s shooting schedule and began to flick through it. “Let me see now…beheadings, beheadings, beheadings….Ah, yes, here we go. Studio Seven at 10am. They’ll be using a rusty junior hacksaw, so I think you’ll get your money’s worth. How’s that sound?”
“Like the Divine Will of Jihadonai himself, brother.”
“Thought you’d like it. OK, I’ll make arrangements to have you ferried across in the next fifteen minutes or so. With luck, you’ll even get to meet some of the cast, possibly the lead actor himself. Lesser actors employ stunt executioners, but I have it on good authority that Adrionicus is a consummate professional and insists on performing them himself to avoid continuity errors.”
“Then he’s truly a man after my own heart, brother,” I replied, hamming it up for all it was worth. We shook hands again and he showed me out into the Red Room waiting area, where I dropped my ‘wimpy henpecked husband’ act and took a seat thinking, And I might just rip his out and feed it to him.

From The Unholy Trinity: A Cultish Tale, by Hugo Stone

Oh yeah, before I forget…

Sow-and-Sow

Everything is a bit convoluted at the moment, don’t you think? Especially if you happen to be one of the ‘True Beweavers’: those who tie themselves in shits knots in their efforts to divine ‘The Truth’ about this strange construct known as ‘reality’. God knows that I see little of the ‘divine’ in what seems to be going on ‘out there’ in the Outer Terrain. The threads of His cosmic/comic computer ejaculation seem to be woven in such a way as to mock His most ardent followers, and reward those who rave and blaspheme against Him. I think it’s safe to say that I fall into the latter camp, and why the hell not when ‘reality’ itself appears to be little more than a divine stitch-up? It’s said that the curtain of the temple was torn in two when Christ died. Our ‘reality’ is skewed to the point that I have to ask the question: did someone attempt to patch the tear and botch the job?

Ever wonder why the ‘Due Boys’ have a bit of a thing when it comes to piggies?

Now where have I heard that before?

Hey, piggy, piggy. Hey, pig

And where might the tear be located, I wonder?

Are we all hanging by a thread, so to speak?

Yikes! Die what?!?!?

Remember the original? I think it went something like “See if there’s a black and white that can do a drive-by.” Interesting way to phrase it, no? Here’s an alternative account courtesy of The Covenant’s propaganda divison.

“What time is it?” I asked him. “I only planned to have a short doze but I feel like I’ve been asleep for hours.”
“About eleven-thirty or thereabouts,” he replied. “I’m already at the end of my second film. The first was titled ‘Jihad and Pre-Justice’, a period drama set in The Covenant’s early days. Not a patch on ‘Pray Hard’, which I’ve just finished watching.”
“Sounds oddly similar to one of your favourite films, J____.”
“Funny you should say that, because the two are almost exactly alike, apart from The Covenant’s version being stark raving mad.”
“Go on then, do tell.”
“Well, Ben, the ‘hero’ is a devout Blade & VALIS officer from Helmetica Fundamentia, who visits the wife he had incarcerated in a Level 10 Re-education Centre on account of her giving him lip. He goes there in a last minute attempt to talk sense into her before they put her up for live mummification. He’s not there ten minutes before a crack team of insurgents posing as Tabernacle Pyramedeus agents enter the facility. They shoot up the place, demand equal rights for women and an end to the ‘tyranny of the burqa’, and take everyone hostage. Everyone except the hero of course, who goes by the name of Yahn McMeccaslam. Good ‘ol Yahnny Boy escapes into a network of secret tunnels, and there’s no way he’s gonna let anyone else bust a cap in his wife’s flabby ass. He brought a rusty knife along with him for that very purpose, with the intention of sawing her goddamn head off if she fails to supplicate herself before Jihadonai. The thought of being deprived of the privilege of ending her life drives him into a self-righteous frenzy, and so he hunts down and ritually beheads the insurgents one-by-one. As films go it was the goriest thing I’ve ever seen, but the ending was as anticlimactic as a eunuch’s orgasm.”
“How so, J____?”
“Well, at the end only three people are left alive: Yahn Boy, his wife, and the insurgents’ leader, a cash-obsessed Due Boy with the unlikely name of Ben Ben-Yahweh. Poor Ben finds that he’s shot his final load so to speak, but instead of pistol-whipping Yahn Boy to death he gets down on his knees, begs for forgiveness, and gives his heart to Baby Horus. Then McMeccaslam delivers a long and fervent prayer about the Mercy of Jihadonai before leading the fucker away to a nearby cell. The film ends with Yahn’s wife tying thread around her tongue, handing the end of it to her hubby – you know, to renew her wedding vows – and kneeling before him, her eyes shining in rapturous adoration. Satisfied with his work, he walks off into the sunset, wifey trotting along on all fours like a faithful doggy.”

Excerpt from Cultish II: The Tears of Jihadonai, by Hugo Stone

Trotting along like a faithful little ‘doggy’, eh?

Pigs’ Feet: A semi-offensive way for a white person to refer to a steriotypical black person, or to express just how steriotypically black a situation / location is.

White boy 1: Hey, this Flo Rida concert is great.
White boy 2: Yeah, but it got super Pigs’ Feet in here, we gotta go before we get shot.

Source: https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Pigs%27%20Feet

Jesus, motherfuckin’ white boys need to learn how to spell…

For seven years.

I haven’t forgotten, because it reminds me of times past. You know, Cashmoneytep and the days of the Trident Encryption Umpire. Those who think ‘Okie From Mucusvaginai’ is a ‘bad ass jam rag’ don’t know nuttin’.

“These things handle like the meal you fed to Becky at Notre Dame,” grumbled J____, who was still bemoaning the loss of his 600bhp Tabernacle Pyramideus cruiser. “And did they have to come in this specific colour? Look at it for Christ’s sake. They may have stopped throbbing, but I swear the paint job is a perfect match for the colour of my balls.”
“The stereo isn’t much better, matey,” I replied sympathetically, jabbing a finger at the buttons of the generic entertainment system. “At least this one actually works. I suppose we should be grateful they didn’t throw in a copy of Sister Tabitha’s ‘Songs to Beat His Plums By’ for our benefit.”
“What’s on the radio then? Anything we can have a sing-a-long to?”
“Only the usual Praise & Warship stuff, J____. I’m sure I have Cashmoneytep’s first album on my AKM if you fancy some verbal bling. Seems appropriate given that we were his ‘due boys’.”
“And payment is most definitely ‘due’, matey. Stick it on then. Anything’s better than ‘I Put a Padlock on your Vagina in Accordance with Scripture’ by the choir of Chorus Sanctimonium.”
We were soon cruising along the highway towards Saxonwood singing along to classic tracks such as “You’s In My Backyard Now, Bitchez” and the single that catapulted Cashmoneytep to fame, “Slap Bitchez and Cash Riches”.

I gots me mah slap bitchez and mah cash riches
Got mah digital transaction switches, who is dis?
Cashmoneytep in da house, y’all
Ruling you all, bank balance ain’t small, before me you crawl!
Got shat bills like grains ‘o sand, you in da palm of mah hand
You think you sumthin’, act like you is cunning
But when I throws you some dough, you come runnin’
Present your face for a slap, da audience clap
‘Cos they know what I know, dat you is mah Ho
You’s in mah Garden of Eden, usury is in season
Don’t need no reason, non-payment is treason
So go get me mah money, Ho
Before I slap you ’til da blood flow

I gots cash riches and slap bitchez, yo!
I gots cash riches and slap bitchez, yo!
I gots cash riches and slap bitchez, yo!
Gonna slap you so hard!
Put you in stitches, Ho!

Excerpt from Cultish II: The Tears of Jihadonai, by Hugo Stone

Never withold the Slap of Divine Rebuke. It’s your absolutely Goddamn right.

“Want me to hack the plane’s network?” I asked eagerly. “Hit the bastards with an episode of ‘Rough Tongues and Red Ends’ and make it impossible for them to turn it off?”
“You know there’s nothing I’d like more,” J____ replied, shaking his head. “Unfortunately, it would attract too much attention. Oh, that reminds me: at some point we’ll be expected to attend a Praise and Warship session in honour of the High Judas Priestess. It would look suspicious if we don’t show our faces.”
“Ah, bollocks. Really?”
“Afraid so, matey.”
“Probably best to…um…hang on a minute…what’s that?”
“What’s what, matey?”
“That on your TV screen.”
“Dunno, Ben. The ‘Pray Hard’ credits finished and it just popped up. Some kind of soap opera set in space by the looks. Why?”
“Well, like ‘Pray Hard’ itself, it looks awfully familiar, don’t you think? Hear, budge up a bit and give me one of those ear buds.”
I quickly hoisted myself into his Pudendonia’s lap, snatched up one of J____’s earbuds, and inserted it into my ear. The picture on the TV screen showed a large pyramid-shaped spaceship in orbit round a planet. I caught a brief glimpse of what I assumed was the vessel’s name – CSS Gardonia – inscribed on its hull before the scene cut away to show an image of stars and nebulae.
“Space: The Filthy Cervix of the She-Devil,” intoned a familiar and rather smug-sounding male voice. “These are the crusades of the CSS Gardonia. It’s eternal and divinely sanctioned mission: to divide and conquer idolatrous worlds, to drive out heretics and false gods, to devoutly proselytise where no Brother has proselytised before!”
At this point the show’s title appeared on screen. I stared at in amazement before sneaking a sideways glance at J____, who had managed to insert the second earbud and was staring at the screen in horror, clearing struggling to assimilate what he saw there.
“You have got to be fucking kidding,” he said softly, swivelling round to face me. “Allahu Akbar Trek? Ben, please tell me this is a wind-up produced by your wind-up supercomputer thingy. Tell me you hacked the plane’s network to pieces. Tell me anything, but don’t fucking tell me this is legit!”
“I wish I could, matey,” I replied. “I swear I haven’t touched it. This is as much a surprise to me as it is to you, and it’s self-evidently a piss-take of the Star Trek themes that appeared when our ‘reality’ started to go haywire back in London. You remember: the appearance of Spock, Kirk and Khan, the latter’s preoccupation with ‘torpedos’, and the revelation that both Kirk and Khan had a soft spot – not to mention a hard one – for hot pre-teen lollipops with puffy nipples.”
“I remember it all too well,” replied J____. “This is too much though. That show was special to me and…Jesus Christ! Ben, look at that! Tell me that’s not The City on the Edge of Forever.”
I looked back at the screen. It wasn’t the episode J____ referred to, but was clearly based on it, having been re-written to reflect the themes outlined in the voiceover. The setting appeared to be Atlantia in the very early days of The Covenant, and a young woman clad in an old-style burqa was regaling a starry-eyed ship’s captain with her vision of tomorrow: a vision based on a belief in the equality of the sexes and her liberal interpretation of The Tears of Jihadonai. The scene then cut away to show the captain’s First Brother pointing at a primitive time window displaying the future consequences of the woman’s philosophy: The Covenant’s collapse, mass depravity, men forced to bow down to the She-Devil’s Stiletto Heels of Oppression.
“This is the alternate history that will unfold if we fail to do our duty,” explained the First Brother. “I’m afraid there is no alternative, Captain: we must behead Sister Ehsanehia with a rusty junior hacksaw and commit her works to the Pit of Hell whence they came.”
The scene then cut again to show a close-up of the distraught captain’s face, his features taut and pinched, before the same oddly familiar voice broke in again.
“Will Captain Birqonius shake off the spell cast upon him by the She-Devil, or fall prey to the heresies that drip like honey from her haughty tongue? Tune in next Horusday for the thrilling conclusion of The Blasphemer on the Edge of Eternal Damnation!”

Excerpt from Cultish II: The Tears of Jihadonai, by Hugo Stone

What’s the alternative? Mob rule? The United Estates of Vortex Pyramideum? Jesus H Christ. You’ve already pulled that particular stunt, and all because I got into The Phoenix, right? I gave you an almighty slap in the face over it, remember? And your response? In effect, “It’ll be different this time, honest. Just continue to allow me to fleece you and I’ll do my best to make the process of stealing from you safe and enjoyable.”

Christ, just listen to this pathetic attempt at an apology.

This is how it’s done, dickhead.

Not that it’ll make the slightest difference.

Why? Because of the agony and ivory. And the four seven, of course. Fucking pigs.

“J____, why don’t be bed down for the night here?” I asked.
“What, as if we’re waiting to catch a flight?” he replied. “Not sure that’s a good idea, Ben. OK, the place is empty, but the security guys look like they’re in dire need of some entertainment. Sooner or later they’ll start sniffing around and asking questions.”
“That’s not quite what I had in mind, matey,” I replied. “Look, we have perfectly valid identity papers so why not take advantage of them? These security guys work shifts, so they must have a rest area, possible even a dorm room with bunks. So we flash our papers, tell them our contact here has been unavoidably delayed until tomorrow morning, and basically order them to put us up for the night.”
“Hhmm…interesting. Sleeping with the enemy so to speak.”
“Yeah, and why not? We’re top of The Covenant’s Most Wanted list, and the one place they’d never expect to find us is right under their noses. So our ‘partners’ can be Enemies of the State, and we tell them that our ‘mission’ is to repatriate them for live mummification. That’ll give us a valid reason to seal off their rest area.”
“OK, it’s worth a shot. It’ll give you an opportunity to test this new Pudendonia functionality, too. Want me to bark the orders?”
“Feel free, J____. We can play the good-cop/bad cop routine.”
“Can I play it like Budd White from L.A. Confidential?”
“Sadly, that never made it into this reality, matey. The Covenant equivalent is ‘T.E. Confessional’ and it’s set in the days of Trident Encryptia. Short version: a law enforcement officer confesses to not beating his wife and drives around the capital delivering divine slap after divine slap in attempt to find favour in the eyes of Jihadonai.”
“Shoulda seen that one coming, yeah?”
“Afraid so, J____. Anyway, the Ed Exley ‘good cop’ character wouldn’t be much use to you. In the Covenant version they put him to death for coveting Budd’s wife. I think the ‘Budd’ character was named ‘Hereticus of Wristuslimpus’, whereas ‘Ed Exley’ became ‘Licencius of Fornicatium’. Oh, yeah – and the hot blonde? She’s an absolutely hideous blimp of a woman named…”
“OK, OK, I get the picture and it’s eerily similar to a few we’ve taken ourselves. If it’s all the same to you I think I’ll play myself.”
“You’ll do fine, matey. Ironic, really. They’ve probably spent countless hours grovelling to Jihadonai, but you’ll literally be putting the fear of God into them for the very first time.”
“Amen to that, Ben.”

Amen indeed. I’ll weave you with this.

Get the picture?

So fuck you and your ‘Crime Directive’.

Starfish Prime

So a Five Star clown from the United Estates of Vortex Pyramideum wakes up one day and thinks “Shit, we gots us more goddamn nukes than we know what do with, and them pesky Ruskies just ain’t playin’ ball. Wonder what would happen if we just took one of them little suckers and fired it into outer space instead?” Thus was born Operation Fishbowl, a series of five ultimate firework displays for the benefit of some of the bigger fish swimming in the information-saturated digital ocean known as ‘Planet Earth’. The largest of the five, and the largest warhead detonated in space to date, was designated Starfish Prime, and launched on July 9th 1968 from Johnston Island. In terms of megatonnes it was nothing to write home about. Even so, the effects were literally off-the-scale, and it generated an electromagnetic pulse much stronger than expected. So strong that it took out telephony equipment 800 miles away in Hawaii, producing a partial blackout. It also created a man-made radiation belt, which circled the globe for five years and crippled several communication satellites.

Those five star clowns, eh? I suppose they thought that detonating in space would have minimal effect on the Earth’s environment. I guess they failed to appreciate that the Earth’s environment is in fact 100% water, or that the resulting disruption to the precious flow of information equates to pollution of the water table. You know, putting us in a ‘water, water everywhere…‘ scenario.

Needless to say, the Soviet Onion felt obliged to follow suit and conducted its own tests later the same year. After that, both parties abandoned space-based testing, signed a test ban Sweetie promising not to do it again, and knuckled down to the serious business of sending talking monkeys into space instead.

Still, as ever, it’s never too late to undo the mistakes of the past…

I mean, why let ‘The Shite White Stuff’ go to waste?

Which reminds me…given that I’m doing it my way and all…

Butt what is the source of all this ‘White Stuff’? Where’s it coming from? What’s the problem with it? In short, just what the hell is the matter?

Well, you’ll be glad to know I’m finally able to provide answers to most of the christians people ask. All I ask in return is that you repent, turn away from the corruption of Genesis, and drink deep from The Tears of Jihadonai. It really is the legitimate article: fully authorised, 100% accurate, and suitable for helmet wielders and non-helmet wielders alike.

Some people have an irrational fear of splitting the Sodom right down the middle, even though it was sanctioned and indeed sanctified by Jihadonai himself. If it’s good enough for the Big Guy Upstairs then who the hell are you to argue? Jesus, if you crazy Valerie Solanas types get your way then we’ll all find ourselves standing against the Wailing Wall of First Service and/or strapped to the altar of Venus-Isis for a self-righteous plum caning. You want equality? Lube up and take it like a man, for God’s sake. It’ll do you the world of good.

Right, where was I? Oh yes, 100% hysterical accuracy. Seems to me that the existing hysterical record (written by the victor, apparently) isn’t all it should be.

It’s time to address some of the more obvious inaccuracies and biases (not to mention the chronic lack of mirth) and…ahem…set the record straight. This brief and entirely accurate summary of World History will suffice, and will be woven into the intricate web of historical truth that is Cultish II: The Tears of Jihadonai, the forthcoming sequel to my first novel.

On that note, I should probably point out that I’ve recently bought back the publishing rights to Cultish, and will self-publish the original and sequel simultaneously later this year. A third novel titled The Sugar Fiends is 70% complete will follow shortly thereafter.

OK, all that remains is to gift you with God’s Final Message to His Creation, which ought to fill in some of the blanks in relation to the Sacred Peanut of Primordia.

Have a nice day, y’all!

In God We Thrust

My korandad died recently after a massive stroke and a prolonged battle with utopia, which left his brain riddled with holes and made it extremely difficult to hold a meaningful conversation. To be brutally honest, I had very little to say to the man anyway, and when he died the shock of realising that I felt absolutely nothing whatsoever was so overpowering that I had to shrug my shouders and roll another cigarette, before turning my attention to the thorny problem of who to whack out next. I’m a monster, right? Quite probably, but then I think I have every reason to be. For you see, old gramps was a bit of a religious maniac to say the least. He’d been a pastor in his twenties and thirties, and my early memories of him centred around bog standard Church of England fare. You know the kind: a bit of a sing-song followed by a grovel followed by a mildly admonishing sermon followed by another grovel, and so on. Relatively harmless in comparison with what was to come, because by the time the mid-1980s rolled around American-style evangelism was flavour of the month. After that, it all became a bit…well…you know…

Looking back on it now it was all so obviously a joke. All those American TV evangelists, with frenzied adverts for Christian get-rich-quick schemes (only $99.99 payable in instalments) promising ‘financial abundance’ as part of a pre-Apocalypse ‘final harvest’. Quite why anyone would feel the need to become obscenely rich if the world was about to end was never explained, although I imagine my good friend Max Weber would have a thing or two to say on the matter.

I suppose the most obvious answer is that Communion Urine is heady stuff, and once you’ve built up a tolerance only a drop or two of pure, undiluted Holy Spirit will satisfy your cravings. It’s all too easy to be overcome by the mail order ‘Holy Laughter’ sold by the Jimmy Swaggarts and Kenneth Copelands of this world…

…without ever actually getting the punchline…

In short, gang-gang became a proper pisshead. Ultimately, being unable to find a church that taught the ‘correct’ interpretation of ‘scripture’ (i.e. his own interpretation of ‘scripture’) he decided to start his own ‘ministry’ instead. Unlike Kenneth Copeland’s private jet, however, it never really got off the ground.

Hardly surprising really. I mean, there were pronoucements about ‘Planet Hell’, a deeply held conviction that Yasser Arafat was the Antichrist, and a mania centred on the Year 2000 bug, which he believed would usher in The Rapture.

He fell into a deep depression when it failed to materialise, but seemed to calm down a bit after that. Even so, his house remained littered with books and pamphlets about Israel, the Jews, and the so-called ‘End Times’. I didn’t know what to say about it at the time, whereas I think I could have a reasonable stab at it today.

The only real information he’d provided during the course of our interrogation was a short account of how J____ and I had been found wandering in the desert, only to be enslaved by Cashmoneytep VII (Boss Blingmaster of Apollo, Bearer of the Gold Alloy Wheels and sacred Diamond-encrusted In-Ka Entertainment System of Osiris-Ra, Custodian of the Divine Spark Plugs, and Occultant-in-Chief of the Trident Encryption Umpire) and set to work on his Pyramid Scam. We remembered it well. Owning everything and everybody in the Umpire wasn’t enough for the guy, and he’d insisted that we come up with a plan to manufacture money out of thin air, telling us that we had to ‘pay our dues’. It was a phrase he used often, so often in fact that he ended up referring to us as his ‘Due Boys’. Everything prior to that, however, we’d had to piece together ourselves from snippets of information gleaned from The Network. The story was incomplete, and it seemed that Francis and Gary were unable or unwilling to fill in the blanks.

Excerpt from The Fall of the Woman Umpire by Hugo Stone

In short, my korandad spent his entire life waiting for, and worrying about, an Apocalypse that never happened. What a waste. Still, looking on the bright side it’s never too late to turn things around, is it?

One of my main beefs with the man was his attitude towards sex. I’d say that it sucked, but that might give a misleading impression. Needless to say, there was a direct relationship between my family’s punitive and censorious attitude and my own fascination with the subject. It’s basically how I became the filthy little puppy I am. Have your nose rubbed in muck once too often and you can get a liking for it, you know?

Speaking of money and and sex, a.k.a. matters nuclear or ‘The White Stuff’, non-EU readers can check in with the Man on the Moon and see how Kim’s doing…

…whereas EU readers cannot. Seems Chicago is having a bit of a problem with the GDPR

But let’s get back to The Apocalypse and the hit list…

Oh hell yeah, fucking and shooting, remember? Still, the unredacted version offers a slightly different take on matters…

While we’re about it, let’s not forget that although some do not…

…others most definitely do…

Suzy began to protest and J____ immediately placed his other foot on the back of her head,crushing her mouth against the floor. Her cries quickly degenerated into a series of muffled grunts, and I couldn’t help but laugh as he assumed a crouch and pretended to ride her as if she were an oversized organic surf board.

“Very appropriate J____,” I giggled, “given that we’re moving rapidly towards a total wipeout situation.”

Excerpt from Gargoyle Doodle of the Day by Hugo Stone

It’s a crazy, crazy world for sure, and it seems we’re all playing catch up with events that have already happened. With this in mind, and for the benefit of those who think they are Dues but are not, allow me to leave you with some words of comfort straight from the Tora, Tora, Tora.

Yep, ‘fraid so.

Next stop – Atlantis!

Little Lighthouse Keeping

Sweet fucking Jesus, I just can’t be bothered with intros anymore. Without further ado, allow me to present for your delight and edification a little light housekeeping to make things all shiny and new, in preparation for a fresh and novel application of pure, unadulterated filth. I thank you.

Lenny, Teddy, Sammy, Jimmy…and let’s not forget ‘You Dodd’.

Sorry, wrong film…at least I think it is. Here’s Marshall McTeddy in a lunatic asylum enjoying a convivial chat with a fellow inmate.

Hhmmm. That face looks awfully familiar.

Here’s Marshall McTeddy again, listening to The Doctor as he explains the nature of the Rachel Solando delusion, which is of course Teddy’s own delusion played back to him in modified form. All part of the ‘treatment‘ of course.

All well and good, but what did Lenny/Teddy tell us about Teddy/Lenny?

Houston, we have a program

…and until it’s resolved, you can all be my John G.

Further information about this exciting, exclusive and compulsory ‘John G’ offer can be found in the Germs & Simulations. Please read carefully as the usual inceptions apply.

Wow, that turned out short and sweet, didn’t it?

Blackout

I’m prone to extraordinarily vivid dreams, and one in particular has stayed with me for well over 20 years. As dreams go it was as disturbing as it was short and succint: an alien race descended on Planet Earth and just sucked the life out of everyone. It happened in an instant, but for some reason I was unaffected and got to watch as everyone around me fell to the floor as the alien spaceship uploaded their consciousness and memories. Then the damn thing came around for a second pass, and I remember thinking ‘Oh not, not me, not like this’ just as everything faded to black. I woke up a sweaty mess, and no wonder: it was over in a heartbeat, with no opportunity for dramatic Independence Day heroics. Unsurprisingly, the central theme of my dream is one that has reappeared in several films over the years, almost as if The Program doesn’t want me to forget.

Hhmmm…it all seems terribly familiar, doesn’t it? I’m also reminded of this popular gem, where the ‘bad guy‘ (whose name just happens to be Lucypher) reaches for the plug socket and out go the lights. Odd that, because my dream predates its release by several years…

Yeah, and that in turn reminds me of yet another film. In fact, the ‘Ra-Deus’ trailer above actually references it. You know, The One in which an alternate reality Neo has a bit of a memory problem and Lucypher plays the role of a corrupt Blade & VALIS Officer…

“Memory’s not even that good,” says Leotard in his ‘insurance investigator’ Apolloguise, “ask the police…” Not sure of the wisdom of that particular course of action, Teddy…Lenny…whatever the fuck your name is. Seemed to be a hell of a lot of redactions in that police report you carried about. Never has so much wasted black ink produced so many Ancient Greeky tattoos.

Lots of the black stuff flying about at the moment. That Holy Spirit, eh? How she loves to hover over the face of the martyrs!

Good job she raptured it all on tape…um…digital storage device, and got it on the record. Gotta be careful what you say these days lest the black-clad paramilitary thugs of Blade and VALIS kick in your door, charge you with a hate crime, and demand that you make a financial contribution to the Pyramid Scam of Cockney Geezer.

Some of the black stuff seems to be walking and trotting about, too.

Feeling terrorised? How much time has elapsed since ‘The Incident‘?

But for every action there’s a comical chemical reaction, right? Seems the introduction of the Sensorship has produced a Jedi rebellion…

Lots of the white stuff flying about, too. Shatner always was a randy bastard. Here’s the Captain of the Sensorship visiting a replicant of an original that never existed.

You see the nature of ‘The Problem‘?

Even so, who can deny that the charges are trumped up? Don’t believe me? Just ask Robotrump!

He’s been getting all lovey-dovey with the Sun King of Mirth Utopia, and the Sun King has been well and truly winky-wooed by all the attention and released a shit load of ‘nuclear material’, a.k.a. ‘the white stuff’.

Funny that…

“We can’t bring the mountain to Her Holiness, so I’m afraid Her Holiness will just have to go to the mountain.”

“If World War III ever breaks out they could drop her on a major city,” gasped J____, wiping tears from his eyes. “God knows what the blast yield would be. Substantially more than the Fat Controller they dropped on…”

–Source: Hugo Stone, unpublished text

Life in this global tragi-comic Google Glassroom seems awfully familiar, not to mention derivative…

I once delivered a lecture on Bentham’s Panopticon to US Air Force personnel stationed at an RAF base in the south of England. The course provider was University College Maryland.

The first image depicts Hell as a series of transparent office cubicles, like Bentham’s Panopticon

The logo is a miniature version of Sammie’s first and second images combined, depicting the male and female figures in a semi-transparent office cubicle. The cubicle is floating above a lake of fire, and the lake extends to the horizon. In the background, a seemingly infinite number of cubicles are depicted.

Kinda makes me all teary-eyed. Next I’ll be reminiscing about the ‘good old days‘ of analogue!

Yeah, it’s fair to say that I am tempted/was tempted/succumbed to temptation (delete as appropriate).

Might make a few exceptions though, given that my Antikythera Mechanism‘s storage capacity is virtually unlimited.

As for the rest of ya…well…

The Stone Age approacheth? Dunno about that, but some say that The Covenant is changing…

My advice? Make yourself a nice cup of sugary tea (don’t be mean with those spoonfuls ‘cos The Sugar Fiends are just around the corner), put your feet up, and read this in-depth guide to surviving an outbreak of religious mania. It might just come in handy…