Chapter 16 - Pandora's box opened and Jesus Christ

Chapter 16 - Pandora's box opened and Jesus Christ
Having inadvertantly unleashed the demon spawn gyratory nemesis of mankind from the underworld supervision of his ageing father, Jesse Presley, our fear and guilt required focus. We must kill Abel before he could unleash his gyrations of multiplex orgasmosis on the women of the world. Elvis had been banned from the waist down for his tv appearance on the Ed Sullivan show. The government feared the sexual repercussions his moves would inflict on a sexually repressed 1950s American female public could undermine civilisation. Jesse, whose gyratory powers were a full twenty times that of Elvis was far more of a national threat. Government agents had buried him alive to protect the nation. But Jesse had used his hips to burrow deep in to the planet, crossing the ocean to raise a subterranian army to instate himself as the rightful king following his brothers death, on the john. Linking up with teddy boy miners he had nearly taken Britain. His endless underworld rock and roll came close to linking up with the Peace Convoy to usher in a new age of sensual joy. The new Puritanism of Thatchers government had defeated Jesse who opted to rule the underworld. Fuck overworlders, let them enjoy their endless work and search for material goods, pension schemes, insurance cover. Let them enjoy their monotone myopic world view. Jesse and the guys n galls could rock along in endless party. Married to Jane, the twin of science fiction religious gnostic visionary Philip K Dick they raised three sons. Ely the eldest was in the mould of jesse, a natural heir to the throne. His. Gyratory powers were spent in communication with VALIS. Elmer was born plum stupid and spent his time smoking weed with the hedonistic elements of jesses underworld legion. Abel, though, had all the power of the devil himself. Gyratory powers beyond even the might of jesse. He could kill a harem with a swivel hip manoeuvre, he could keep them at climax indefinitely, like the pied piper, he could cause an earthquake of ecstasy as all women hit levels undreamt of while the menfolk could do nothing but stand by. Elvis had been loved above but the burgers and uppers, downers and goddamn traitors saw him a dead king at 42, on the john. Jesse had failed. Abel was spitting nails at the world. More a demon force of hatred for humanity and the Devils hips to deliver a tsunami of simultaneous multiple orgasm that could be cranked from low stimulation right on up to ecstatic death. Such was Abels power. Power tied to a madness born of two generations of subjugation and a belief he was the rightful king. Ely could have his tunnel network, Abel wanted the world.
Lysergics like acid and AL-LAD have 100% tolerance next day. To get full wack you need at least four days, ideally a week to reach the same transcendent heights. We'd been to the Pitt on Exmoor on Tuesday night so we set our sites on Sunday, the earliest we could be certain of raising Abel through shamanic methodology. Where that hell spawn spent those five nights we knew not. All we were certain of was the Holy Thorn at Chalice Hill or the Tor were where he would head. The anti Elvis, king of rock and roll would take the same path as Jesus. Though shamans we be, my God did we pray that week. Christ must listen. After all we'd smashed up over two hundred top range cars during Sunday services over the last year. Our spiritual kinship to him was unquestioned. Jesus packed in his job to drink wine with the homeless just as Lipton drank special brew with the homeless. Who was to say he hadn't stuck around the area, his last official sighting was on the trip he came on with Joseph of aramathea. There's a fuck of a lot of hippies and general spiritual types get drawn to live in GLASTONBURY. Tons of alternative therapy practitioners, crystal shops, the centre of british Druidism. We had a fair old guess that kick ass Jew with the death defying powers would still be around.
The Holy Thorn is of a species not found in Britain, only the Middle East. Joseph had, as the story goes, stabbed his staff in to the ground on Chalice Hill where it took root. Over the years it has had many attacks from the dark forces. From cromwellian new puritans to modern day grey resinheads. Somehow it always survived. Until a couple of years back when the agents of darkness came with chainsaws and wrecked the much loved tree. People still make pilgrimages from all over the world to see its remains that are bedecked in bright decorations that blow in the wind. Several cuttings are known to exist so the lifeline continues. One in GLASTONBURY abbey, another in the Chalice Well. Three others at secret locations.
It was a bright sunlit spring morning that Sunday we set out. The first hot day of the year. Murder puts one in mind of darkness, night time, rain. Yet we were off to kill in broad daylight. Armed with bolas, lassos, speed cuffs, zip ties, axes, knives, swords, Kevlar vests, AL-LAD and a bucket load of hope. We would need luck. We hoped for intervention from Christ, Ely, jesse, anything to give us the edge. We had Elys lowdown on how he could wup him as a boy but boy he was no more. Still, we walked tall. With a fair wind behind us, our shamanic powers and the weight of mankinds survival spurring us on we would kill Abel or die trying. It was our duty. There were no other ends possible to this one.
The drive went swiftly picking up a cockney hitch hiker, David Sedgley on the way. I'd picked him up before and he was a wide boy but worth the entry fee so long as you kept an eye on your wallet. Dropping him off at Worthy Farm he had some gripe over some confiscated stamps he had been selling at GLASTONBURY and was off to have it out with michael eavis.
Swinging through the town we parked up by the sports centre. 300ug AL -LAD should be sufficient to summon up Abel if he was around. After our four blotter trip on Exmoor neither of us wanted to push it a millimetre too far. With heavy rucksacks we crossed over the road and marched up Chalice Hill. The odd crusty mystic was there, practicing whatever spiritual habits they heald dear. The sacrament had not yet taken full effect so we touched the trunk and branches in reverence, muttering shamanic incantations, warning the tree and hill why we were there. Asking their blessing to kill a demon adolescent before all hell broke loose.
We could smell faintly the same burning metal we had at The Pitt but it was carried on the wind. He was close but we'd have to sniff him out. Walking the crest of Chalice Hill we finally were able to look down on the travel,re site at the old Moorlands factory and fields behind. The wind seemed to push us towards the town. A light chanting brought no response so we returned to the Holy Thorn, descended the hill and headed for the Tor.
By now the AL -LAD was working full strength and the spring sun warmed us in approval at our righteous task. As we climbed the hill to the tor we passed all types of spiritual searchers, from christians, Druids to pagans. With each pace the smell of iron smelting grew stronger. Taking in thee views around we discussed tactics. 'He's clearly sat inside the tor waiting for us, but tourists everywhere.' Were we able to kill in broad daylight? ' just time it, we get close, hang around till as few people are there then we charge in, one from either side.'
We could see the women experiencing sensations. Confused boyfriends and husbands glanced suspiciously at wives and partners as they let out involuntary sighs, gasps and moans. 'Oh, my god, yes!' One fit ausy backpacker shouted. Her boyfriend assumed she was in the throes of a religious experience, still, it was hard not to look over, such was her clear joy.
Creeping round, pretending to photograph the view I readied the zip ties for his ankles and positioned myself just to the left of the entrance from the climbing path. Lipton wrapped a length of piano wire round his gloved fingers, ready to garrotte the perverted demon soil sucker. Positioned at the other end. A back pack twat was in there too playing didgeridoo. Collateral damage, I mouthed to Lipton. To be fair one had to wonder how he tolerated the burning metal stench that even tourists stood yards away heald handkerchiefs to mouths to stifle.
After fifteen minutes, the orgasmic girl had to be led down hill. Her legs unable to support her. A quiet moment. Just us, didgeridoo and Abel.
'Now!' We lept in simultaneously. I got a zip tie round his ankles before even catching his eyes as Lipton slipped the garrotte round his throat. His eyes burnt like hot coals in anger as his gyrations through me on to the didgeridoo hippy. 'Fuck off out of here if you value your life!' I yelled and dropping his aboriginal pipe he fled down that hill like mo farah. Lipton wrestled as Abels fingers got under the wire. His gyrations grew stronger causing him to levitate. Lipton squeezed tighter and his burning coal eyes looked about to spring from his skull. His face, normally so white was purple. Gyrating backwards in a move from the bop jesse practiced, dropping a shoulder to touch the floor he dislodged some of liptons pressure. Blood returned to his feet and his ankles snapped the zip tie. Tourists were fleeing the hill as metal sparks sprayed from either entrance. Hip wacking us off we fell and like a sparking orange bullet of molten metal he shot out across the sky. We'd lost him.
Bruised and burnt. We sat opposite each other, heads bowed in defeat again. Tears fell from Lipton, 'so close, I could feel him going.' It was no ones fault. We were on a steep learning curve. To cheer him up I plucked out two special brew cans from my rucksack. 'Think what we've learned. Compare that to the Pitt. We're getting there Lipton. No one could hope to do this first time.'
He nodded. Still disconsolate.
'Alright lads' , the didgeridoo hippy had returned. A Palestinian bloke I now saw, long hair, matted beard but the gentlest smile I have ever seen. 'I was up here, playing my didge when that fucking demon came in, I'm not a fighting man myself, all peace with me and I think my tunes kinda soothed the bastard. His eyes glowed less, any road.'
'What's your name, brother, I'm Skree and yer man with the garrotte, he's Lipton.'
'Jesus Christ, they call me.'
I looked above his head and his halo glowed white and gold. He'd had it turned off earlier so as he got no hassle from tourists. 'Oh, it's a fucking nightmare. Christians! Fucking arseholes, just don't let on to them you've seen me, right. Two thousand years they've been waiting, too lazy to do owt for themselves, waiting for me to show up again to sort it all out for them. That's a lot of pressure on one guy, I can tell you.'
'Me and Lipton are big fans. We go smashing up their cars on Sunday mornings. We're well in to all your shit, you know, poverty, forgiveness, not lending money. We can't do the wine trick or walk on water but we've taken shed loads of psychedelic drugs.'
A warm kinship grew between us as he plucked a bottle of Beaujolais from behind liptons ear, then, without stopping a bottle of Chablis from behind mine.
'Brilliant, you're gonna have to teach us. I can relate to having the saving of mankind hoiked on to your shoulders, jesse, you know him?' , 'Know of him, Elvis underground brother isn't he, never met like.' 'Aye, well we went in search of his empire to join up but he talked us into killing his son.'
Jesus frowned, a bit close to the bone. 'No, it's nowt like you and your old man. This kiddy, the demon lad you were playing didge to, he's as evil as they come. Given chance he's going to kill and take all the females for his own nefarious ends. No more breeding. End of man.'
'Jesus fucking Christ, I should have helped you rather than pegged it. See, I'm none violence mostly. Bankers and loan sharks I don't mind twitting but other cunts, I don't know, I just seem to forgive them, can't help myself.'
'That's no worries mate. You're one of our heroes. This has made our day.' I took a long draft of the fine wine the lamb of god had cracked open. 'Well get another chance. It's not something you can easily do without learning his moves and that. Nearly had the fucker, mind.'
'Fucking right you did lads, he shot past me scared as fuck, I can tell you'
'So, how long you been round this way. '
'Years now, mate. Easy to blend in dressed in rags and beard here. Every cunts a mystic fucker so no one bothers me really.'
We sat and got pissed with Jesus as he kept the wine coming, till well in to the night. We tried to get the transcending death trick out of him but he was t having it. Nor the free wine one. 'You cunts can shoplift from asda, you don't need these tricks. It can get you in to a right heep of shite if you're not careful. One time...' ' Yeah, Jesus, we all know that one. Still, only had you out for 72 hours. That's fucking impressive.'
Jesus just nodded modestly. 'Look lads, next time you try to do Abel, give us a shout. I m not promising owt, as I say I'm none violent, but who knows, I could destract him. Ive got some party tricks never got mentioned in that fat boring book about me. That just covers some of my greatest hits. Ive learned shed loads more since.'
'How do we get in touch? I don't imagine you're one to give out your mobile number.'
'Easy, on your knees, close your eyes, cross your hands. Same as its always been.'
'We thought you and your dad had stopped answering?'
'Well we have, I'm not sorting shit out for rich cunts but you lads. I'll pick up straight away.'
'Thanks Jesus, you are a fucking gent.'
'Aye, top bloke!' Lipton concurred. He was looking worse for the wine, 'always knew you'd be sound, didn't I say Skree, sound cunt that Jesus.'
And there, walking down off the tor, trip fading and very drunk, we put arms round our shoulders in a line. The son of God in the middle. Having the burdon of mankind on a mans shoulders is something you seldom get to share with someone who knows the score.
'You'd best sleep in your van, lads. Crawling with filth round here. Got pulled for not wearing shoes once, tight cunts. And remember, when your ready, give us a shout.'
And with that the Palestinian jewish hippy. One of the all time most powerful Shamans, slipped off in to the night. Heading towards Moorlands traveller site. A quick blast of the halo, and gone.
'Fuck me, what a day, nearly killed Abel and met Jesus.'
'They don't come much better than that.'
Crawling into our sleeping bags a calmness overcame us and the most peaceful of sleeps took us under.


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