Category: Planetary Status Reports

For too many days now, the HELGEN-KLAN has been scouring the river bottoms for what’s left of the salmprey … half salmon, half lamprey … something the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation came up with …

Seegen-Nol, the knife-wielder, kept his own nig-swamp out back behind the dumpster. He’d brew muesel-wax and sell his own tyg-sore scabs to the pimp off of Blinkton Street. There were those demon cubs that roamed about, seeking after the fallen-by’s and the other side-alley scum crew. He’d been Helgen-Klan since he was 10 years old, before that he was sold to the pedo-merchants for use by the sky-lords and the sky-hawk-shaman.

The MORG FIEND UNION of splaguus were living it LARGE 10,000 feet up … in super-mega structures of steel and will and whore-guzzle … These were the SKY FIENDS selling juice marker to the scuzzle realm below … the lower tiers … the sewer folk.

At the appointed time each day, he would climb to the top of Dixon Tower, and speak directly to the sky-lords above, in their cloud realms, living a kite-fancy life:

YERGEN, I was your butter scamp during the heaving times,
You kept my flesh hidden in the score zone,
You kept my screams blocked by the lancet guards,
You kept my skeezel-juice in a JAR labeled COARSE ...

I saw you ...

HO-TREASE, you beat me with whips of iron and glass,
so many chunks of flesh tore off and left by the sink,
and you told me "don't tell anyone", and so I didn't.
I kept your HO-SECRET, 
as I cleaned the cum and blood from the bathroom floor.

I brought you spice wine ...

And the VOOR-DOMERS?
That tribe of sea minge?
They would tie me up and kick me,
they would spend all day beating and kicking me.
They enjoyed filling a pillow case with bars of soap,
and taking that bag of soap,
and pounding me in the nads ...

I remember your breath ...

I spend my days making swords and knives,
I carve out my words of revenge on every dead thing.

I keep the warm truth of this hellscape,
and for the cost of my rotten flesh ...

I'll wait for you, you fuckers ...

I'll wait for you in Hell.

Seegen-Nol spoke those words, to the sky, to the clans above …

They were the golden people, and their world was clean and their air was crisp and pure and innocent still …

The eagles and hawks had long since gone, but the robot birds guarded these regions …

And Seegen-Nol knew his challenge was great.

But his was the song of revenge.

There’s was the reaping of consequences, growing from a garden of dismal rule.

“I SEE YOU SKY PEOPLE” …

(I see you)

You can’t get twisty-egg disease unless your boovula is inflamed and there is darstiss residue collecting around the ring of your dorf-crooz.

I remember when Cary Grant made love to some blonde bimbo on a train, but he was hunted by angry Germans armed with bats and drag queen scamp oils … he got some kind of worm from eating that doberman-cake at the fishnet rally for OLD GREY BEARDED FREAKS and other hippies living in Sector-455-ZEBRA …

There are swamp turtles in South America, the live off of water buffalo scat and Amazon greebe-shit from dying anacondas … These turtles are infested with tiny singe-ant maggots, that feed on their brains and muscles … so the turtles move excruciatingly slow, and are covered in fungus and moss and other tiny worlds … People who have eaten these turtles also become infected, and the maggots eat away at all their happy memories, leaving them slow and sad and covered in moss …

SKY-VIRGINS do battle in vacuum ship dreadnoughts, 20 miles above the surface of the Earth. Sometimes you can see the flashes from their plasmatic rail guns, sometimes a laser blast or an explosion … The ships up there have poor circulation and are a home to many different kinds of mold … mold that enters these SKY-LESBIANS boovulas and cause stringus-infections and super-yeast-12000 … If you are sick from this type of infection, you can douse yourself in gasoline and monk-jelly and grab a road flare and jump out the airlock, falling through near space, towards the land below …

You get “flea-gulls” from hanging out at the ANCHOR BAR off of Grinken AVE in San Francisco, CA. They get into your junk, and your junk stops feeling right … So you take your gold to Melba’s off of 3rd and sell two pints of faerie dust jizz to take your lightning wand to the BIG EASY … You can buy a gamma ray laser to get rid of those fuckers … they’re tearing the insides out of you.

After 8 PM, when the guile folk tremble before MORTE, the guest is allowed to feed on lice pudding and the chef is allowed to bite the dark oyster …

When jousting near Mumbai, and your elephant craps a big one? – you can BUY a KITE-WRESTLER, or one of those kids that grabs a welding torch and tears apart ships along the shore, like sand termites … they have the tumor juice … they know.

Here is a short list of additional concerns:

1. fire ants
2. coodies
3. killer bees
4. great white sharks
5. albino alligators
6. roaches, giant ones
7. rats of enormous size
8. vampires
9. robots
10. herpes 9000 – don’t want
11. vaccines for make believe problems
12. nuclear holocaust
13. bacteriological warfare
14. chemical warfare
15. computers
16. hookers
17. pimps
18. ex-wives
19. ex-wives that become hookers
20. LOVE

LOVE is the KILLER …

LOVE IS GONNA WASTE YOU …

LOVE IS GONNA TEAR YOU APART.

(the ultimate parasitic illness)

(love)

The FRACTOR survives …

I went back to the JFK assassination and got JOHNNY CARSON to sell paperclips to Muslim hoarders. They took a smell and went north …

I shunned the Moon goddess and knew her carnal despair as our bodies were entwined in zero G and our hearts were filled with muskrat juice. We danced among the caverns of ZORN as tulip soldiers fired their laser cannons at the KRIEGEN FOLK. And once we tore a hole in space time and reversed all the sacred crimes our pimp daddy FOSTER MCGIVENS returned from the wars with rescue trophies and dead hooker wives.

When Cleopatra ruled Egypt and the other Macedonian Kingdoms fell, I took a turn as Caesar, and leapt from rooftop to rooftop like a Mexican roof dog hunting some small tasty morsel to quench my lust. Tilly Gippers stole the time-watch and needed a lift to 1873 to steal gold from his long lost love – but I told him “we’ve fractured time too much, we live, but our hearts turn black and cold” … he didn’t care … he had all the cocaine.

I was a Norse King, when Ragnar raided the English poolies and left the monks dead at old Red Rock. Carsten, the feston-herder, etched my name on the walls of Cornish masters, as the harlot women of sector-98 went wild and left their disco love by the exchequer, no longer delinquent in her payments to the outsiders. William the Conquerer sold tickets on e-Bay, and the time rift spread to quadrant-ALPHA, and too many fractors ran loose in the city.

The FRACTOR is a jaded soul that rides the wave of improbable life. The fractor is conserved by space-time to enabled the wild pizza ride between possible NOWs, and the yesterday NOW that the fractor can get to. Like an expanding oasis in a torn up desert, the causality field is the warm cuddly place that protects the FRACTOR – but nothing can protect the fractor from the sadness of loss, and of lives never existing, and other queer effects of broken time.

Someone taught Hitler to dive off of Old Creek’s Mountain and to lead the lesbian beastress women against the voluptuous armies of Madam Soviet, during the great commie war of 1956 … so many fission bombs were dropped on NYC and LA and Tokyo and London … the mutants ruled the lands and the comic chants filled the air with stale regret.

The fractors stole THE RUBIES of MARS in 1985, after President Ray-gun delivered his great speech denouncing the space-nazis of region-712. They took them rubies to the belirium-mines on Saturn, and harvested gimble flesh from the super beings that feed on our own nightmares. Nasty and unlikely friends lived on angel grease there.

Bone day is getting closer …

The dogs sense it …

They know that the great wheel is damaged, and that all stuff will be replenished and repeated. The dogs will gather the bones into a great pile, and make things ready for the reboot of history lost.

The fractors sense it too …

(and we prepare)

AT END TIME, when the the loop is closed between creation and destruction, T-RAY ARTISTS form coalitions of accident whereby they hold hands across time and institute the permanent FRACTOR – universe without end, without beginning, time looping in on itself, ouroboros …

I would stand there, at Time’s End, and sing the songs of lost worlds – of lands destroyed, of existence wiped away. We survive the great reaping only to carry the wounds of trillions, and to have knowledge of that which never happened.

And our hearts grow heavy.

And we sleep.