Peter - Chapter sixteen - Bury Ditches Hill Fort P

Peter - Chapter sixteen - Bury Ditches Hill Fort Party - Part 1

Insider knowledge is priceless. Once packed away the three men and dogs began the walk down the hill. It felt a little sad to be leaving a hill they had grown so fond of. They'd be back. One day.

Peter: "I'd been dying to show you that place. My favourite hill fort in the country. Theres some in Dorset come close but out here feels so far from civilisation. I know in truth you're never far from human society in England, but still, Shropshire is the least inhabited county, I think. People are sparse here. In the whole time we've been there we've had zero hassle."

Lipton: "I could have lived up there. You can feel the lives, the loves,the deaths, the battles; the whole area is riddled with ghosts. It's got that very rare quality. You get it sometimes in woodland clearings, caves on sea fronts, as though the land is protecting you. Do you get that? Where the love of the Earth mother shapes herself into a pattern so well formed, only your comfort and safety could possibly have led to its being."

Jesus: "Have you not read Darwin? You're a superstitious twat, Lipton! Pagans, the pair of you, fucking Pagans!"

Peter: "Lipton, mate. Don't listen to the cunt. He's not seen the things we have. I felt it too! That place where we made camp was placed by time and space and geological shifting. Weather sculpted, wind sown grasses. He just gets jealous that you have the love of a female deity. One that's displayed her love in what you describe. His old man prefers not to intervene. A most absent of gods."

Jesus: "If Gaias such a loving bitch, how come she put your sanctuary right up here? I'm fucking knackered and were only half way down! What's say we have a beer break. Half hour sit down, can of brew each, smoke a roll up, reenergise for the home run, eh?"

Peter and Lipton looked at each other, nodded, dropped their rucksacks to sit on. Christ could take drink and drugs, seemingly unscathed, they'd both seen him take serious beatings when he'd been shooting his mouth off in stranger pubs, physical pain seemed to barely concern him, but, he was one lazy cunt. His problems back in the day all started with this. He'd told his step dad he'd had it with joinery. Packed in working all together. Instead he started out by finding a crowd. Markets were always a good spot. Then he'd do his act. These days we'd call him an inprompto stand up comedian. Yet his patter tended toward the philosophical. A travelling story teller, comedian and spiritually opinionated loud mouth. Passing the hat round after his talk supplied plenty for him to get by. Soon, other bone idle men, fellow dossers, types that preferred talk and wine to work, caught on. Some were sick of fishing every day. Seeing Jesus talk, now his act had grown beyond just comedy to philosophy and politics. They abandoned their boats and nets to join Jesus in street drinking. Soon his gang numbered a dozen regulars and numerous hangers on. The disciples from here on never did a days work. All homeless now, they took up street drinking and jovial philosophical banter. They rejected the rat race. Hated priesthood, hatex bankers. There was more to life than money. In fact Jesus came out with a belter. After some conservative office worker saw Jesus drunken mob, sat in rags, sharing wine and chatting to prostitutes he shouted out at the young messiah, "Get a job, you lazy wino! Haircut wouldn't go amiss too, you soap dodger!"

Christ: "It is easier for a camel to climb through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to enter heaven!"

Jewish humour back then was less advanced but this belter had the whole bunch in pissing themselves with laughter. Passers by were laughing too, pointing at the self righteous pen pusher. He was indeed a rich fat fuck. With this banter, Jesus poverty cult really took off. But it wasn't just his sharp wit that attracted the homeless. Being the son of God, (he kept this quiet as in those days claiming to be a prophet was a crucifiable offence) he could perform miraculous trickery. All his followers were guaranteed free wine. 

On the hill fort,  Reminded of this, Peter, once they were sat at rest, asked his bearded friend.

Peter: "Come on then JC. Crack out the special brew!"

As a lark broke out in song to their left, all eyes were drawn away from the track that led downhill, past the forestry plantation to see the bird chirping away. When they looked back, on the floor in the centre of the triangle of rucksacks on which they sat, were two four packs of Carlsberg Special Brew. You could say what you liked about JC but he was never shy when it came to sharing out the bevy. An idle cunt, maybe! But when you were with the lamb of god, you always had a drink.

Once back to the vans their plan had formulated. Their traveller nature saw the party as a commercial opportunity to raise mission funds. A drive in to Bishops Castle found Peter rebounding with old school buddies he used to cross the seas with back in the day. Smuggling reminiscences opened them to the premium product available in the area. Lipton and Peter ate a sample each. Soon the empathic flow softened repressed borders. Peter and Lipton charged down Bishops Castle high street, these were not mere e's, these were pure MDMA glory. Stamped with a superman S these purple pills inspired their shamans opportunity.  A thousand top draw MDMA pills used up the bulk of the shamans cash, saving enough to visit alcohol wholesalers in Craven Arms. Ten 24 slabs of special brew cleaned the two out but this investiture would return itself tenfold.

At the car spares shop, Lipton bought spray cans. The following hours they spent on a graffiti campaign. All rail bridges, all road signs bore their message. 'Buy only Lilac Shamans', accept nothing less! '. By nine o'clock Craven Arms car park was crammed with ravers in hatch backs, waiting for the location. Keeping schtum on precise location but confirming the kids were close, they sold 500 lilac shamans to the young party people. Promising to give the party site exact position if they called their number in two hours time. The lines of hatchbacks were booming out. The number of outsiders would no doubt alert the local police that something was afoot, but none were able to give them any clue as they also had none. Lilac Shamans began to kick in as the hoard readied themselves for the coming night, the buzz of anticipation blended with the stench of weed. 

Peter saw Jesus chatting up a group of scantily clad girls, over from Walsall. Calling him over they sought out Lipton. Years of selling pills at festivals and parties had made him a swift operator. His dark hood hiding his face, ensuring transactions were swift. Few could give a description should any drug squad try blend. The secrecy and sudden invasion of these events ensured any police presence would be local bobbies. If the party became troublesome to neighbours, assembling a team able to close it down usually took twenty four hours. By then the majority would be gone. On occasion, if all aligned in pagan majesty, a situation continue. Fresh recruits joining the masses. Three, four days were possible. Longer parties were rare, the stuff of legends. 

The huddle of eager punters over by the recycling bins caught Peters attention. Together with Christ he jogged over. The dark hood the hot point. The nucleus of energy. Peter jostled through.

Peter: "Grinder? Are you near done?" Never use a mates real number if he's engaged in such business. Lipton reluctant at first, this was one of his elements.

Peter: "Save some for the late arrivals. Who knows what's to come? I'm easy half sold out. Bishops Castle crew insisted we save some for the Welsh lads. They'll be coming over later. Besides" looking round at the label clothing, hatchbacks, haircuts, "I'd rather see our mates from across the border get the top draw tackle. Any here will be happy with lesser mud.

This gathering was looking on top, by now. Best not test the local law. Returning to their vans, the shamans, dogs and son of God, regrouped. Embraced on their good fortune, then they drove back to complete their shamanic three prong mission, the final hill fort. 

Earlier that day they'd visited the site of the party. The entrance gate was sealed off by a group of official looking workmen. Hi viz jackets and hard hats disguised the true objective of these men. On asking why the hill fort was closed the foreman mentioned an unfortunate accident had seen a teenage girl fall and break a a ankle. Until all fences, barriers and other structures had been certified they couldn't allow anyone in. Peter nodded in respect. Keeping out tourists for the day permitted the various crews to set up their marquees, stages, sound systems and other equipment. 

Peter: "Enzo? We're with Splat."

With the word they were admitted past the moody workmen and their blockade. National Trust logos gave the hi viz vests an authentic air. To the untrained eye these workmen were indistinguishable from the real. 

This hill fort was not as clear and unchanged as their last. A car park would help the ravers. Signs describing speculation on what these forts were for. The sound of workers preparing for   the night echoed all around as peter, Lipton, JC and the dogs went on a wander. This had the look of something great. A night that would be remembered by any attending, As yet no sign of police having caught any sniff of a rumour. Those in the know were all trusted. The punters would be given no early warning. The message would go out to all

Checking  out Bury Ditches Hill Fort the inadvertent shamans, the three dogs and the holy lamb of god found a side track leading to a clearing. Here they made a base camp. Parking both vans six feet apart. Lipton had a folded tarpaulin they used to throw over both vans creating a tented zone between the two where the messiah and the dogs would sleep. An hour gathering firewood, a number of breeze blocks left by a half built structure that stood on the winding lane that formed the vehicular approach from the west, a couple of planks made them two benches. Once their base was established, Jesus, peter and Lipton went wandering the hill. Three separate crews had chosen positions. Splat took the rear of the hill forts natural amphitheatre. English Border Front, a hooligan firm turned rave party organisers set up a second level some hundred metres down, a level plateaux to challenge the dominant arrogance of Splat. A curling forest track took the three to the smallest crew. An urban ice crew, drum and base, crack smoke lanced out plumes of exhalation from a transit side door.

Rupert hadn't seen OldPasture in two years. Thinking back it was his las passionate attempt to revive the reclusive geniuses career. The five black microdots he'd spiked Oldpastures with should have matured, much like a fine wine. In many ways the Tubuerous Bellend was a precursor to this synthetic music he now heard all the time. Similar ambience driven by a beat providing that sexual passion he'd heard in the northern lower orders music of the late fifties and early sixties. This Rave culture had seen his classless vision, lower level folk mixing with the best! Why, one time on ecstasy Rupert had talked all night to a Grimsby lad. A disused warehouse one of his old companies had rented, years back, in fact. In many ways they weren't so different. Ruperts mansion had so many building problems. The lad too had plumbing issues. Difficult translating from the grunted dialect yet there was a bridge. An empathic connection somehow opening the social barriers between the two. Granted, the lad must clarify the issue with his landlord, yet Rupert often found communication problematic with his staff. This ecstasy found his higher birth need not be the burden he'd always assumed. And so too for the lower born. For the drugs duration they'd been like dorm chums. 

The following morning, after he'd sobered up, he drove home. The Grimsby lad stood hitching, looking awfully chilly. Rupert waved as he sailed past. Such an odd choice of travel method. The maths was simple. No overheads for venue. Basic security that doubled as dealers of the ecstasy, ensuring monopoly on product. Clearly this branch of his empire required delegation. Ginger, dorm buddy, now had invested in elecution lessons. He spoke like a native Essex boy. G man, he preferred in mixed company. This couldn't last forever. Yet, for nearly three years now, Rupert and G Man were making a tidy sum. His serious businesses required some counter weight. This was fun. 

These border events weren't of any threat to the Home Counties rave empire yet a curiosity in how others worked the game drew Ginger and Rupert. They'd got word on this secret bash from Hetty Bowles Clarrington. Her boys were insistent this was a whopper. The estate in Hererfordshire where they lived had an exquisite new gardener working there. From the States. Her new garden designs were popular with the forward looking. Rupert had dropped by to assess this green fingered Picasso. Hetty overheard the boys who swore her to secrecy. But telling an old duffer like Rupert couldn't be a risk. There was no one on earth less likely to rave than old Rupes. 

Further, lady Harrington, despite reports from his men confirming her death, still roamed about. How the fools had got her younger sister, God only knew. Indeed, after her siblings loss, she'd focused on these MDMA parties. Often the class barrier was blurred. Rupert felt sure Hetty could sneak along, without her boys knowing .Harrington couldn't fail but soften on such a surprise meeting with her school chum Hetty. Rupert would show his pleasure in reaquaintance. Under the drugs empathic effect she'd be happy to follow his explanation. These wooded hill sides hid many a quiet corner. Who knows? Before terminating her contract he may consummate their childhood sweetheart connection. 

Ginger Fortesque Helliwell called him over , : "What up? Rupe? This motherfuckers gonna be banging!"

Indeed, agreed Rupert. Tonight would be splendid.....er..banging. Shortly they'd be driving the long track to Oldpastrures place. Would they share the bond they once had? Rupert felt passionately about the new ambient house. Tuberous Bellends, remixed to modern taste, could rise again. As soundtrack for the launch of the Ark, perhaps. Who could say. If the Tuberous Bellends remix sold well OldPasture may even be able to afford a seat. Dare he mention the project? Best not.

Elmer, Esau and Elijah were lost. Jesses map of the underworld had helped up to the Gloucester area. Old now, Jesse seldom went anywhere. No way he'd make this journey. Yet curiosity had asked a favour of his boy. Gospel music and its power to raise the spirit of the Lord within the congregation had been of pivotal epiphany to his twin. Jesse felt it too. That sound had been the lords touch that took black man blues away from misery and self pity. The unity channelled through their hips had powered the gyrations that placed Elvis on the thrown above. The King, jesse had been told. Cast down Jesse never saw the light of the sun. Yet he channeled that power. His subterranean empire saw him underworld King.

Yet word of a new music reached him. For years, now it had grown from an elitist few to a national phenomena. Perhaps this offered what he'd led his people toward. He seldom left his bed now. Elmer returned to him, reborn. His kindest son had been born plum stupid. Those boys who'd searched him out. Risked lives in their mission. Skree and Lipton. He'd burdened them a mighty task yet they came through. The evil he'd unleashed had been destroyed. Poor Abel. How he'd loved him despite his evil nature. But he'd had to go. They'd returned Elmer with brains beyond imagining. Through the Lord Jesus Christ. His Archangel licenses were given in thanks. His authority a bit of a political cock up, truth be known, still, those boys had done gone snuffed out that freak of nature.

So he'd sent Elmer. "Go check on them boys for me. Shake their hands. And tell Jesus Christ I thank him too."

Elmer: "The senile old fella better not be wrong." Elders motives were ignited by his fathers muttering, but that's not why he'd come on this mission. Esau got him in to house music years back. Elijah took to pills like a duck to water. Underworld soon arrived conforming the link. Basement Jaxx. The mass transcendent mass dancing to jesses driving beats was their childhood. Yet, in some weird twist, over their heads, land based events, identical in spirit, became an epidemic. Soon the three were slipping off to raves each weekend. Their secret kept from the underworld kin. This one was supposed to be a big one. But stuck in some tunnels near Gloucester they felt down. Elmer remembered something that drunken Jesus bloke that gave him intelligence had promised. It seemed unlikely a hippy of such dissolution could offer hope. But desperate times call for desperate measures. Kneeling down, clasping his hands and closing his eyes, Elmer prayed.

Elmer: "Jesus Christ. Only son of the one true God, please hear me now. I can't claim to have prayed or that until now, when I find myself truly lost. I expect no personal special treatment nor name on the guest list but maybe you recall that time we met on a Clee Hill. I need some help, amen."

Silence. A damp smell of drainage followed as Elmers mates skinned up joints in defeat. This moment of emptiness and failure, hung around like fog, soaking their soiled party clothing.

Jesus: "No cunt prays until they're in complete fear. At that point of total loss where all reason, pride, where self itself breaks down, that's when they all pray. Believe me, you aren't alone. No lies, I've had three of the four horseman of the new atheism. Sadly, what could I tell them? Magic, I reassured them, like prayers to imaginary beings, simply doesn't work within the paradigm you have chosen. Elmer, mate! Fucking good to hear you voice! What can I do for you?"

Elmer smiled back at his subterranean rave brothers, "We're in!"

Andy Brock had been out wandering the hills round Clun. These fields and lanes, these hills and streams, each copse of trees, every badger sett, rabbit warren, each blade of grass that bent to a new breeze perked his mind. Circling Bury Ditches lower hidden pockets, he'd witnessed the incomers, the regulars. These parties brought a sparkle to the rural underground. Well acquainted with the party kids from fifty miles any direction. The Bishops Castle crew he'd known since they were kids. Throughout their youth Andy and Ben had been the outcasts. Rejects that kids folks told them to avoid. Arbors too. Their Druidic heritage cast a shadow. Fair play, he'd bullied these posh kids with secure homes. Who stood above to draw the moral line? A life spent scoffed at in handed down clothing. He'd felt dirty all his life. There'd been the early school years when he bothered competing. And he'd get top marks, some times. But a couple withdrawn for the shabby, soiled paper he wrote on. Living as his kin did clean paper was impossible. Soon it was clear. He'd be knocked off top spot whether he tried or not. So he stuck with Ben. The Arbors. His own. The kids could call them gypo, pikey, did, it mattered not. In groups they'd steer clear. But he'd battered many a lad. Never personal. Just redressing some issue. Rebalancing. 

Teenage brought change. Brock and crew found their quiet, hidden aspect garnered a mystique. Access to drugs through family meant they dealt what the rest were growing into. The choice was simple. Travel to Ludlow or Shrewsbury to get lower quality. Or forget the childhood bullying and work together. Only the odd lad dared take upon the link. Franco came first. An outsider himself. Poor farm stock. They shared mates in Welsh hill lads. Lawless boys of mechanical bent. In the sticks a car, a bike, however knackered opened up a wider world. Soon his bottle and shared love of motorcycles had Franco trusted. They sourced, he distributed.

This party looked way bigger than any previous. Their private Druidic work was near completion. They had stuff to sell too. Andy rang Ben. Soon they'd amassed a small posse to check out this Bury Ditches party. They knew the hill like their hand. Should be a laugh.

A pack of seven hatchbacks ripped their engines alive. Sound systems boomed their righteous pride. Grins beamed back at the humble rural police presence as they tore North up the A49. Stray and over keen cars trebled their number as the decoy charge led the police into hot pursuit. Four minutes later the call came as the vastly greater number, familiar with this trick, poured out southwards, then left toward Bury Ditches. The decoy posse in exuberance took their followers up a darkened track that served as a. cattle bridge over the main road. Here, they vehicles were found abandoned. Their occupants having run over the embankment to waiting cars below.

Looking out from Bury Ditches Hill Fort, Peter, Lipton and JC saw a stream of headlights that formed a snake stretching its twisting route around the land. Once the number of groupings on the hill were given the nod, texts hit the mobile phones of the scattered numbers, location confirmed, exodus began. The main route of the Clun turn off from Craven Arms took the brunt of the traffic. Most had travelled down from the West Midlands, many from Kidderminster, Worcester, Hererfordshire, Leominster, Ludlow, from the other side of the hill a steady flow of larger vehicles had already been approaching from the Welsh side. Travellers mainly and others connected to the key organisers. The three main crews had pitched their rival systems and marquee coverings, other minor set ups operated also. By the time the main body of ravers arrived the hill had a diverse spectrum of settings and musical varieties to keep a flow and competitive energy into each. Various stands selling beers, water, baccy, food added to the free walking drug dealers. By midnight estimates varied but somewhere between one and two thousand seemed a fair guess. Around the stages lighting pulsed out though further negotiation was aided little. A series of paraffin lights connected the three main areas, showing the pathways, but the deeper smaller groupings were  hidden in darkness. Odd flashes helped as did the odd torch light, but the music became the means of gaining any baring of where people were.

Leaving their hidden hill side pocket with the dogs guarding the cabs, the three walked up to see how the party was developing. The carpark was filled to a point where any hope of exit had long been abandoned in the layers of blocked in drivers. Some remained within, using their metal boxes as covered areas to roll joints or engage in other activities. Lipton marvelled at how many such events he'd been to where the party seemed to be always in their car. As to why bother driving past the end of their driveways to act out the familiar remained beyond his thinking. Beyond the gated carpark entrance, either road side verge supported an endless chevron chain of other parked cars. 

Looking to where the parking zone drifted from hard standing into grass and hillock, a vast bonfire of logs had been amassed by the recent arrivals. Something about the illegality of such events combined with MDMA resulted in great spontaneous communal efforts. The stock looked able to feed the blaze for some time. This beacon, positioned at the highest point, would shine through the night sky, calling any stragglers or missed turns to where the action lay. Thirty to fifty stood around enjoying the warmth.

Jesus had already found some old mates neither Lipton nor Peter recognised nor liked the look of. Besides, both had work to do. Scarves hid their lower faces, black hoods left only their eyes visible as they worked the crowd. Muttering their wares as they swept the crowd. Serving the interested quickly, engaging in no idle chat, before moving over to other clusters. Police were a concern but in these anarchic settings it was wise to be away before any scaly clocked them as targets. Never letting their wedge build too large before offloading it in safe hideaways.

The Splat crew deserved their reputation. This event would be nothing without their scale of vision. Scaffolding framework created a steel cage, accessible only from the rear that led to an enclosed zone where sound engineers, DJs, other assembly crew and others from sparkling girls to grizzled security. Four vans boxed in this private centre of operations. The scaf cage that held the turn tables, other equipment and the speaker system in a tight unit nestled in the crook or tip of the teardrop shaped marque, side areas provided total cover from the elements. The peaks dropped to side sheets of tarpaulin, creating walls around the core area but rigged open at the rear for free passage. Cloaked in shadow, features lit up in fragments of tiny lights, his work conducted using side lit glasses. The animal beats of the first on the decks tended to stamp down their presence, subtlety would come later. Before him a tight mass of dancing shadows, race and gender neither relevant nor visible. After the hours waiting many needed to let off some steam. Density lessened to the outer areas where Peter caught up with Lipton. They'd nearly done their days work already. Soon their time would be free to play.

Splitting off to check out the lower tent, both slipped into the night. Whoever has taken time to prepare the split bamboo paraffin burners had done an act of creative altruism. Two paths curled downhill, pincers from the Splat tent, lit up ensuring safe passage. The EBF had been a rather under impressive hooligan element of Shrewsbury Town supporters, their prime reason for being was some long forgotten border wars with Wales in centuries prior to football existing. Of all the peculiar cultural phenomena triggered by MDMA, perhaps least predictable by many outsiders was its effect on terrace hooliganism. Where boys once battled over territorial birth honour, now the main faces would be brushing shoulders in clubs, warehouses or outdoor parties. MDMA saw them finding something far superior. Instead of punching each other they'd embrace. Dance together. This connection from the terrace standpoint made total sense. The loss of self, the Buddhist loss of separation and entry into the collective consciousness finds its highest moment when thirty thousand minds are focused on a single point. All aspects of the collective consciousness is focused, free of self awareness, on the moment. Raves, as they were becoming known, saw thousands of people on ecstasy. For most the only time they could lose themselves in dance, free of any care of self consciousness. Though heightened by a love, an empathy for all regardless of class, colour or gender, the sexual tension that always provided both a tension of possibility yet, in equal measure, unwanted sexual advances, jealousy breaking in to violence, fuelled by alcohol. MDMA presented freedom to dance, free of that shite. Whatever the reason, the English Border Front, now just initials as was rave fashion EBF, had their single ex circus big top one hundred and fifty odd feet lower down the hill fort, positioned in level area that fortuitously avoided the wind and any musical overlap. The Splat area had been all label clothing, haircuts, chains, watches, girls all accompanied. On ecstasy but straight people. As peter bounced into the tent the tender contrast of Trance hit him. Rushing on his first lilac shaman, he'd been cautious promising to let rip once they need not sustain tight reign on things. Getting robbed was easy. This lifted him in to a new place. The brutal strobes and sweeping lances that cut open your space up top had held his pill under control. Down here, this intimacy of low level lighting, dry ice, shadowy enough to let the most repressed dancer free, yet light enough to see smiles and faces. Baggy shirts, loose clothing, the odd freak and traveller, punks too, girls dressed loosely, not strapped in to glitter harnesses and caked in make up. Girls were here because they'd come out for a dance. Peter let the music lift him. He'd  forty odd pills left to sell but tucking them tight into a slot he'd cut months back in his waistband, well wrapped up they'd be safe. He'd kept a dozen percy, he'd no doubt meet some old mate so took his second and felt the Liberty from caring how he appeared. This loss of self was key to channeling the music through the body anyway, fluidity swept aside clumsy and brittle premeditated moves. How long he spent within the field of bodies became lost as smiling strangers became close friends. Thirst took over steering him toward a line of crystals in line on a flat surface that solidified into bottles of mineral water on a make do bar. A girl behind smiled and took coins as she handed water over to him. Her eyes sparkled in warmth. In those moments when ecstasy works it's spell most accurately, all falls into sequence like you're tumbling along a charmed journey of rightness. The water girl glanced to her side, pointing to the next point on his journey, his eyes followed to a table where Lipton held court, three sparkling girls of transcendent beauty listened enthralled by his words.  The telepathy they shared, so strong that even here, amongst two thousand people, he felt they'd know exactly where the other would be. How this had all began. Driving without destination, till a lay by drew him over, then finding him about to take his life. A man, in so many ways, his better. He'd known Lipton disappear off into the wilderness for weeks alone. Feeding on what he found or caught. Yet his life had got so bad he'd chosen not to be. What pain could drive someone of such inner strength to kill himself. Some magnetic force had pulled him to Lipton. In that moment he could not hold back tears. In shock and not a little embarrassed, Lipton found his story of an Archangel who failed to face him in a fight, cut short by an uninhibited Peter grabbing him up like a long lost brother.

Lipton: " Err, this is the friend I mentioned. He appears to have undergone an epiphany revealing he has always secretly been in love with me! Whilst this is flattering, I shall have to rebuff your homosexual advances. I am respectful of your human needs however I am a man of heterosexual yearnings. I wish you well with your life of cock and buttock!"

Lipton can't have done a second yet, Peter realised. But the girls were in fits. Liptons machismo and stories of fighting suited a certain type of drinking friend, they rarely brought out female interest. Two of the girls hugged Peter, "Liptons stories had us convinced he relished wrestling with sweaty musclemen. We like a man unashamed of his brotherly affection. It's refreshing. It suggests security in sexual predilection. Peter, sit between us." Here Peter found himself sat. Lipton was revelling in the teasing. The remaining girl leant close as he put a protective arm round her shoulder. "Lipton is a real knight. You two couldn't spot his noble creed. Rare as fucking unicorns, these are." She snuggled into Lipton. She wasn't wrong either, thought Peter. Those cosy ecstasy moments are priceless. Drinking his half litre of water in a single draught.

Peter asked: "Where have you travelled from? No! Let me guess. Not Telford, Wolves, or deeper down the heart of England? No, I'm guessing, either Kidderminster or Worcester!"              Lipton: "Christ! peter, you've not asked their names and you're after addresses, already!"

Peter: "Okay! What are you called? Once I've the names, the towns and cities will descend into my mind like Derren Brown."

Rachel: "I'm Rachel and these two are called Kylie and Shania. Picked them up hitching through brum to save them from their manager, well I say manager, ....."

Catherine:  " Shut the fuck up Rachel! I'm Catherine, like the wheel, but I prefer Cathy."

Sue: "Sue'll do."

Peter: " just let it settle a moment. Cheltenham Spa!"

Cathy, Rachel and Sue: "Lipton? How the fuck does he do that?"

Lipton: " He's a shaman. Knows all sorts of shite. His pinpoint accuracy in placing your accents may be impressive. But my friend, who I love and respect, has destroyed the entrancement my heroic tales of chivalry with his shameful poor patter. For this I apologise on his behalf. In fact I guarantee, on my sword, he is talking shite. Drugs have this affect on the man. He's the same in beer, also. Many a gallon have downed, pestered by his descent in to word porridge from a single pint. Yet, we can salvage this sorry moment by getting up and dancing."

Lipton had a point. A tune entered with a piano tickle, before steaming forth like a rhino in charge.

Elmer hadn't inhaled fresh air in a long while. Unmistakeable in its poetry of scents, the first whiff enlivened the subsoil genius, turning to his stoner buddies who, by now lagged way behind. They sure loved a reefer but it sapped the motivation. Esau had forgotten what they were doing in this narrow tunnel till Elijah reminded him. Elmer: "We are close now, can you hear that bass?" The pounding rhythm had grown from subtlety akin to hearing ones own heart beat to pulsating subsonic that was more a felt vibration through the deep rock core that supported the hill fort. Elmer: "I always had faith. Jesus promised to answer my prayers, though, I'd never tested him out. His old man goes mental if you test him. Right grumpy fucker, by all accounts. Jesses always been big on God, despite mankind, supposedly gods chosen species, imprisoning  him in the underworld. Never stopped Jesse singing gospel each Sunday. Still loved God. Jesus too. He'll be proud to know he answered my prayer."

Esau: "I heard the stories, about Elvis, how his gift had to be hidden fro the waist down on TV. Also how Jesses gyratory power were twenty times greater than the King. Rumour said Abel had the power, twenty times Jesses! How come you never got the gift?"

Elmer: "Jesse told me I coulda had it, but I was born plum stupid. Too dumb to gyrate in a synchronised, rhythmic manner. My gyrations barely caused a tingle downstairs, in the lady folk, some I caught blushing so I knew there was a seed, but my plum dumb stupidity rendered mine a meagre clitoral stimuli. Even in the most wanton hussy."

Walking further along the tunnel a circle of brighter dark, pin pricked with shining dots, confirmed the tunnels end was close.

Elijah: " Still! Didn't all that change at Clee Hill. When those shamans killed Abel? Didn't Jesus Christ remake your brain super smart. A genius, you are now. Have you never tried gyrations since then.?"

Elmer: "Why, to tell the truth, I've been mainly focused on theoretical physics, how the human mind works, you know, how all that grey mush delivers the conscious mind. I am an intellectual, a man of mind, not of the body. Not given dancing much thought,"

Shortly, the subterranean trio reached the opening. Nervously they shook hands, stepping forth from the underworld they knew as home, on to the land.

Isolation wasn't the word! Oldpastrures had run  away from humanity like the young fox Cubs went to ground. Often the blighters escapes, robbing, thieving the hunts pleasure in witnessing the young beast being torn apart, depriving the children of the blooding they so enjoyed. Even finding the estates gateway took some digging and hacking away by Chivers. Overgrown since his last visit. Then endless tracks, a maze deigned to hinder any curious fans. After the vast success of The Tuberous Bellends, Oldpastures released similar works to shrinking demand. Bunsens wheeze was well meant. Syd Barrett of Pink Floyd had gone quite mad from LSD. His cult status and hermit existence gave a steady return on old product. Peter Green too created an obsessive cult fan base following an LSD disaster in Germany. If only Oldpastures could be steered in a similar career trajectory. He was already thought awkward. Rare interviews given only to old Etonian or ex Harrow boys. Even then he barely spoke. Oldpastures was a  Stubborn old fool. Refused the acid. Bunsens wheeze was a spin on the old dorm room trick of spiking the fag. How they'd laughed seeing the young buggery slave, hallucinating in Pythonesque mannerisms. Oldpastures would see the funny side, once all was in motion. 

Bunsen hadn't seen his old chum since they'd discussed Tuberous Bellends part 2, over a year ago. The blighter was awfully quiet, these days, his mother informed Rupert on arrival. Couldn't get a single word from the musical genius. Nevertheless, if Bunsen was to boost Oldpastures career, he'd really little option. Five black microdots ground up in the caviar soon got the old fool in motion. Yet the motions grew rather difficult. Oldpastures removed all clothing and began  what became known as his 'beastly manoeuvres'. Bunsen left him chasing around the grounds naked, mother in mean pursuit. Not overly despondent. Some modernist performance video work could conceivably be of saleable value to obsessive fans. The seed had been planted, at least. Bunsen was always known as the discoverer of genius,  who discovered, nurtured, tweeked a tad if necessary. Many artists were clueless in business. Ideal partners.

Rupert Bunsen was beaming with excitement. He'd even had some of G Mans DJs lay down a mix or two of possible angles on The Tuberous Bellends drum an bass options. Hopefully Oldpastures wasn't still acting the fruitcake. Still, his aim was quite simple. Reaquaintance forging boyhood trust and alliance, off to Bury Ditches rave, show Oldpastrures some pastures new, even if he couldn't be arsed himself, a signature authorising use of the Tuberous Bellends would suffice, get some youngster, someone with their nose in the trough, pay a pittance, earn a fortune. Money for the ark, Oldpastures on his feet again, all rickety boo!

As Chivers brought the roller to a gravelly halt, Mrs Oldpastures looked morose. She described her sons sudden turn for the worse following Bunsens last visit. Leading him to the stables Bunsen barely recognised his naked chum. Unkempt hair, nails, beard. Occasional gruntings not unlike farmyard animals. Unchained she explained he could prove hostile.

Still, Bunsens smile saw opportunity where others saw, well, where others saw some creature. Hastily he took charge. Bunsen: "What the lad needs is a little fresh air. A change of surroundings will do him the world of good. Chivers is familiar with handling dangerous animals. But , Mrs OldPastures, do you have a horse box available?"

Pleased to be free of her genius son, Mrs Oldpastures waved them off. The roller towing the horse box in which her childhood genius was now chained. "He'll be safe as houses. Have him back to you before you know it. Toodle Pip!"

Andy Brock and Bill Gable had been with Jimmy Arbor and Ben Black when they'd arrived. All four were bang at the ethylphenidate since leaving the girls, the Three Witches of Clun as they were known locally. Their sisters hoped to join them later, once they'd divided the brains, carefully removed the pineal glands to purify later, finally boiled and cleaned the twins skulls, Ben and Andy had brought them. The boys promised, by tomorrow, after the Bury Ditches party, they'd have the last two. Before they'd even made it to the Splat tent they'd had bother. Birmingham lads always assumed urban childhoods deserved respect. Some thirty had been eyeing Wolverhampton boys who sought to avoid a stomping by challenging four local lads in hope the Brummys would form alliance. The dozen Wolves lads started it. Calling Andy a bumpkin, a casual insult made in confidence of three to one odds. Years of such insults had taught Andy how to handle things. Making a show of asking his Clun mates not to intervene, he turned to the gang. He knew the small dark lad had said it but it saved time to isolate the biggest ring leader. The hard man. Stepping toward his opponent, Andy asked, "Bumpkin did you say? Mate? Well your in Bumpkin land now."

Never engage in talk that precedes many altercations. Attack before they can think.

He'd brought a present jims old man gave him when he turned thirteen. A family heirloom they nicknamed Juds Reply. A piece of iron half inch in thickness, with four finger holes drilled linking to form a single hand hold. The front edge covered the knuckles. Rounded over the years by finger wear, soft to the touch. The name had a story. 1700 or thereabouts, the villagers battered Jud in a drunken brawl. Ten 'bold' men took out Jud. A month in recovery found him forging this knuckle duster. Once again in full fitness he took his new tool to town. All ten men heard, or felt, Juds reply. Broken jaws, broken skulls, one brain damaged, another died within a year. Jud no doubt knew it would be his final reply, so made each act thorough. Less than a month later, a mob of thirty stopped his way home one evening. Armed with scythes, pitch forks, mattock, and other farmyard tools. He looked aloft, took off his clothes asking they gave them to his family. Then said to the crowd, "30 of you. All armed.  I'm 1 naked man. Tell your children of this day. How bold you were. Tell your boys to tell their boys. Come on, now, kill me!"

The legend says he killed six that day before going under."So where are y......" Andy struck the top boy mid sentence. Two of his higher faces jumped to his defence. Ben equalised the numbers, till the Wolves dozen fell before the Clun four.

Standing back to back. A practiced formation. The Birmimgham lads praised them. Beers were shared, joints passed, few were here for bother. Most were on pills by now and empathy flowed.

The Clun lads knew not to drop pills until all was certain. Too many beatings over the years has left an ingrained animal habit. They were virtually always on guard. Or alone, with kin.

Pairing off aware any of predatory bent were looking for a four unit. Andy exhilarated  from battle ran with Bill straight into the throng of dancing people. Turning his top inside out, changing colour, plucked a cap from a wide eyed raver, together they danced like nutters. Ethylphenidate gave them energy to go mental. To sober eyes, they looked more brutal in their moves, less softened by the sounds, more empowered. The ecstasy mob shared a hive glow, A single mass of which they were part, a single mind of which they weren't. 

Jimmy and Ben sought the lower tent. Dancing in a similar separation. Both drank from beer cans where others drank water. Most could not sense nor care to see these aliens. 

Lipton and Peter felt them instantly. Both smelt druidry. Both smelt danger. Leaving Lipton to the girls, peter saw conversion as preferential option. Dancing close by the Clun lads he kept a subtle eye for common ground. Plucking a can of special brew from his rear pocket, fully aware for many this would mark him a knobhead. But both Clun boys clutched super strength, so this earned a tight nod. Taking a leap of presumed prejudice Peter moved closer to speak. Both were muddy as was Peter. "Seen them hatchbacks parked on the damp ground, past them stacks? Towny fucks, Eh? They'll be wheel spinning deeper grooves than this cunts playing." Peter nodded to the DJ who wore a thick chain stating £1000. What knob would advertise for mugging. He saw the boys nodding in agreement if not inclusion. Jimmy: "Wearing a chain like that makes me wonder who'll be cleaning out the hatch backs. Fucking money in some of they?" The lad was right. Free parties often had an element of this. The travellers had the strength, organisation, equipment and connections to set the things up, but few had cash. The ravers who drove over had money but lacked nous and there was an inevitable friction. Still, Peter had made his money tonight the honest way. He'd no more break these kiddies cars than burgle houses. But he needed acceptance so played along. Soon, the obvious question. "What're you on, Lads?" 

"Ethyl, beer, a few sniffs of Ching but that's all mate. You, mind. Your eyes are fucking saucers!"

Peter dug deep in his pocket, determined his gifts would be taken. 

Peter: "Open wide, boys. Trust me this once and you'll never trust me again?" Grinning in as psychotic a manner as he could summon up. "Pure MDMA, smooth as fuck. I've seen the other shite on site. They're Brum lot offloading their shite on who they believe are naive yokels. We've  spun the upper arch. There's a quarter here smiling, half with a grin, the remains are gurning away on shite. The top quarter is our work. Lilac shamans. I'm all out bar Percy. So take these while you can."

Peter placed one in each side mouth and gave then each a spare. "£20", The lads smiles shivered. "Or beer me one, I'm out," Peter cast aside his empty, walking purposefully to the side where an empty table beckoned. The three slumped down together. The questioning was inevitable now but he'd got a pill down them both, staving off any serious war. 

Ben: " So who the fucks the shamans on our hills?" The question was wary but not hostile, yet, utterly undermining. 

Peter: "How long have you fucks been watching us? Fucking no peace anywhere, these days. We landed about three weeks, maybe a month back. The three hill forts walk. I've walked them all before but never in one stretch. I lived in Aston, some years back. Skree, they used to call me. Peter is preferred these days. There's three Skrees I've met and no other in England. Names too memorable for business."

Jimmy: " We watched your smack exorcism. We miss nowt?"

Surprising though this was it was clear they had no clue the two shamans had come about them.

Peter: "Ever been into the gear? Not a positive life choice, I'll tell you. Burned the fucker out mind. If you saw you must have caught the stench as we burned out the cunts!"

Ben: "Evil Demon, that fucker! Health trip, then?"

Peter: "Some might see it so. More an exorcism, to my mind. So what's your vocation? You don't look ravers. Not these type, any road?"

Ben: "Just lads of the land. Sons of the soil."

Jimmy: "Where's your mate got to, anyway?"

For the first moment Peter felt a quivering in their trust in them. Where the fuck was Lipton anyway?

Still hitting on them lasses, I guessed. I scanned about but couldn't find him. But over in the corner, eyes focused on the groups every word, Jesus sat! Would they know him? Would he blow Peters cover? What reason had he to show a curiosity beyond anything seen in the mans eyes before. As Peter hid any facial movements of to the presence of the Lords only son, he saw marquee flaps open as Lipton entered, he clocked peter,  Druids at both sides. His frown creased deeper. A gash over his left eyes revealed he'd either fallen of misjudged an over hand right.

Lipton steamed over to Peter. "Leave you here chatting and find your negotiating with the cunts who just tried lay me down. "

Lipton : "Is your mate called Andy?"

My new Druidic mates nodded. "Well next time he offers me a square go, warn me he's using tools and I'll respond accordingly. Square go? The shiteing cunt. You'll find his remains out with his fuck buddy."

Peter: " Shit lads! I'm sorry, but if he drew a blade on Lipton he's likely got it down his throat."

Both looked a little embarrassed. Jimmy:  " can I apologise for Andy, he's got a shoulder chip to carry."

In hopped two smiling faces. Bill, carried a smiling but bloodied Andy Brock. "What a cunt this one , eh?"Both were marvelling at Liptons fighting prowess. "Fair play, you cunt. I was steamed up over an earlier altercation."

Lipton: "Call me out on a square go and draw a tool again, mate, and you're never standing up again!" Lipton was sincere. What sort of an areshole calls you out square, lowers your guard, then moves in with metal? 

Peter: "I'm sorry, lads, but I'm with Lipton. Even if he wasn't my brother, if he was one of yours, I'd still say Andy is out of order." Sadness spread. Clearly these lads were sound, if a bit weird. But how could they allow this to go. Ben steps forth. "I'm with you boys." Soon Jimmy stepped over too. Just Bill remained. " I'd best do this then." Reluctantly and taking no pleasure in the act he stands Andy Brock before all present and smashed his face, eight punches of full power. Next, Jimmy, "What're these new cunts to think of us now?" Picking up a hefty glass ash tray he cracks it over Andys bleeding forehead. Nearly unconscious now, wobbling sideways, Ben orders him to alert. "Stand now, or never again call me a Clun Brother." Then with full force he knees Andy in the balls. Only Peter stood. 

The Clun lads gathered close. : " Peter! We are so sorry but Andy lies unconscious. Tomorrow, or a day of your choosing. Andy will accept his justice. It's with particular shame as they pills you cracked are belters."

Peter nodded, happy not to have to hurt their boy. "I'm not putting forth mitigation but Andy has had a life few endure. Join in drink and let us tell you of our kind. He is beaten and proud to hope to make freinds with he who championed him" Reluctantly Peter acquiesced though he'd not had a shag in months and the girls he'd seen earlier he'd made ground with. More macho Druid tales weren't his primary need, right now. Peters two initiates were now coming up. He saw an exit route.

Peter: ". Lipton is most in need of explanation. Our mate, the scruffy looking gent,  palasteinian  looking chap. What say, Andy and Bill, clear all with Lipton and errr....JZ, we call him. Me and Jimmy, here, Ben I'll bet too, are steaming on these pills." Grabbing my new Druidic mates, I said. "Fucks sake! Let's lose these dossers and see some of that female flesh moving."

Both swiftly grasped my shamanic wisdom and concurred. "We will meet later, having chosen differing paths of druidic explanation!" With this bullshit we were free. Out into the dancing masses. 

 

Jesses representatives, motivated by personal youth curiosity at the overland party culture that mirrored so closely Jesse Presleys underground Rock and Roll empire. Further than this they were on a mission ordered by Jesse from his deathbed. After premature burial, enacted by CIA operatives, Jesse burrowed away, under the ocean. Elvis was born a twin. Elvis became the king of rock and roll. Government agents were privy to the knowledge of the power of Elvis gyratory powers. On TV he was banned from the waist down in fear of the effects of his highly sexual moves on American women. The gyratory power, if witnessed by American women could cause the simultaneous unified power of several million orgasms. CIA predictions included, tsunami, earthquake,volcano, should every female 'go off' at once. 

Jesse gyratory power has been scientifically confirmed at least twenty times the power of Elvis. Many experts agree this conservative estimate could be less than half the truth. Jesse was whisked away at birth, buried alive. All four CIA operatives it took to control the power of the new born jesse died prematurely. All confirmed their part in the act on their death beds. This truth was hidden from the King himself. In adulthood Elvis sent team after team, searching for his twins bones with the aim of burying them at Graceland. The bones of Jesse were never found.

Scientists studying the facts agree on a single possible conclusion. Gyrations of such demonic force could easily be used to burrow, through soil, at high speeds. Skree and Liptons first mission was inspired by this heartbreaking but true tale. Unable to show himself overland, Jesse burrowed across America, beneath the Atlantic Ocean floor, finding sanctuary in the many underground mine works, military tunnels and secret labyrinths that run beneath these islands. An underground network as sophisticated as ours above. Over time his followers grew. Philip K Dick, science fiction author and visionary was also born a twin. Secrecy shrouds her burial but most experts now think after five weeks, her visionary powers exceeding those of her twin, saw Mary also cruelly buried alive. But Jesse found her and soon love blossomed. Together they amassed a legion of subterranean followers. Jesse developed an inverse rock and roll. A music so charged listeners entered trance States. The gyratory moves of Jesse humble Elvis moves. A hip flick could cause a conga wave of clitoral stimuli across the world. Survivors of the underworld rock and roll nights describe the orgasmosis as a condition that found harmonic resonance with all females in collective climax. The collective group consciousness was a mere echo of Jesses achievements. During the 1970 s, working deep below ground, Yorkshire miners made through. Soon breakthroughs were made that saw miners jiving, bopping and jitterbugging,might alongside Jesse. I terror of jesses empire taking over Britain. The senseless closure of mines,offering vast payouts to those who'd stick above land, most politically aware people saw no logic in the attack on the Enemy Within.

Jesse lost though his rock and roll empire continued in endless party, below our very feet.

After years of study and underground exploration, myself and Lipton met up with Jesses empire. Though heterosexual we both found the gyratory moves elevated us both into a transcendent condition. 

Jesse accepted he could never free the over world from oppression, delivering his vision of endless celebration and pagan joy. His three sons were his heirs.  His eldest Ely developed the deep booming and sub sonics that characterise underworld Rock and Roll. The Devils music, yet collapsing ever inward to a black demonic hole. His work overcame ambition to be heir. Elmer, second born yet sadly, plum stupid. A popular lad but a dumbass. So jesses youngest, Abel looked the heir apparent. In a cruel twist Abels gyratory powers were beyond any earlier conception. He could shake it like a wave, bleed it under the table, form tornados, or with a hip flick shoot a bolt over two miles, killing women at will in orgasmic eruptions. The power saw his evil grow. With clitoral and orgasmic powers of all weathers from storm , to lightening strike, earthquake to glory bombing. Jesse saw he must be stopped before his powers grew further. Calling us to his world, Jesse. In deep sadness, commissioned me and Lipton to destroy the beast.

Our mission, through the assistance of Jesus Christ, succeeded.

At any time, only six archangels have legal permits. In a peculiarity of theological politics our unique situation arose. Any God only exists in as much as he is believed in. Two archangels are allocated to the sky God of most actuality, two to the sea god, two to hades. Allah got the two of sky realm, Poseidon got two, yet hades, the God of the underworld was, by now, mere myth. Jesse found himself the underworld deity of most actuality due to the belief of his flock. As reward for our murdering Abel, his demonic heir, Jesse made Skree and Lipton archangels. This pissed off no end of gods hence we keep our secret quiet.

At Abels death, Elmer turned up. Christ, feeling in good spirits whipped away his plum stupidity, making the boy a genius. None involved realised that his rudimentary gyratory talents were a direct consequence of his being a dumbass. Now, we fear, he may be engrossed in intellectual activities yet be inadvertently the holder of the Presley Gyratory power.  

Walking on land Elmer felt a stirring in his loins. Esau saw his freind flick a hip, Elijah too. In shame both ejaculated involuntarily. Oh fuck, they thought. Ahead was music, dance, hedonism, drugs , women. Esau considered other possibilities. Could Elmer be a gay Presley. Gyrations of phallic stimulus. Images of a Mexican wave of erections. A hail of jism. Or, did Elmer bat for both sides? They'd witnessed Jesse in his prime, raise a thousand womenfolk, gently stoking them up and up, till a coral music of moaning, played like a virtuoso orchestral conductor. Bringing in oboe groans, trumpet paintings ushering in the violin shrieks of sudden orgasm, trumpet panting, holding off in flutelike whimpers, before raising the orgasmic diversity to a fanfare. A thousand woman orchestra of orgasmic vocalisations, expertly brought about through the hip gyrations, flicks, thrusts and shimmy. The satisfaction that followed such orchestral works brought peace to the underworld. 

Yet, in its darkest manifestation they'd endured Abels cruel growth. Barely pubescent he'd pick off a teacher who'd given him low marks, a swift move could see her dead of pure orgasm. As he matured they'd known him play private ladies, tickling them into public moans, then lifting their pleasure upward, till, laid open and wanton, they'd explode in need. It was ugly. The girls football team fiasco had sealed his fate. Admittedly, what teenage boy might not fantasise, but a whole bus, going off in one orgasmic spasm. 

Abel had been born wrong. Elmer, surely should he gain the power, surely he'd use it for good. As Jesse had.

Rupert : "close yet, Chivers!" Couldn't be long now, Rupert rubbed together his palms. "Ginger? Will you be on one this evening? I'm asking for a large portion! Anybody got any Vera's?"

Chivers passed his skins over his shoulder to Bunsen. Couldn't roll for buggery, the fool! "Let G Man do the work. Let's face it, beyond a certain class the ability to engage with reality is lost. Your last was like an albino slug, with leprocy!"

Rupert: "Compliments accepted, my good fellow! Indeed, class ensures each knows what to do. The worlds gone crazy!  I've an Etonian buddy, now makes furniture! Can you believe it! Linleys the name. Imagine! Win the lottery, then burn the lot! G Man? Do you have any homeys I could bring into roll them? Test out the dodgier new stuff too?"

Ginger: "I'll put word out, streetwise! What paperwork you talking, bro?"

Rupert : "I can't wait to drop the tablets. Have we are own?

G Man :"No, bro. Whim fi go searching, bwoy!"

Ginger :" look, Rupert. Oughtn't we check Oldpastures ok in the back. It's chilly ou!"

Rupert :" indeed! Check it out. Wheeler dealing, scoring product!"

As the hill side road rose upward, Bunsen marvelled at the  cars of kids, all thrilled to be here, now. He'd not thought of the Ark all day. Oldpastures looked odd but surely this gimmick of his would work. Waving back to the horse box, Rupert shouted encouragement, :" goods!"

Chivers :" Sir, given the volume of poorly parked cars, I'm doubting we'll get a pitch. Money won't help, I'm afraid. Shall I take you as close as possible, unhook your freind, then let you three enjoy yourselves. I'll drive somewhere safe and await your call. It's that or risk the roller, sir!"

Bunsen: " felt a buzz of excitement, no butler. Me then space then reality. Nothing in between. Naked. Much like Oldpastrures, I imagine. Excellent! And Lady Harrington. Mustn't forget to kill her too!

In the carpark as Chivers drove away, all felt sorted! G Man wore a leather, heavy gold chain, gold teeth and sports gear. Rupert Bunsen fitted in anywhere. That was the the joy of a Saville Row suit. Oldpastures appeared catatonic, sniffing idly at damp patches on the floor. What reassured Rupert was the neck brace and chain. He'd had Chivers handcuff it to his wrist. Even if GMan got lost, Rupes and Oldpature would be inseparable. And he planed to take these lilacs shamans, so he'd need to feel unloosable. The beauty of wealth. The wonder of the ark, was security. Mankind had led to him. To his vision. The party could go mental. The planet may die,meet he'd got a ticket off world. Rupert and the hundred richest, hundred greatest, a refined distillation of all before, the seeds of life, new worlds lay ahead. This mayhem could burn. 

Andy Brock was coming under the effects of the pill Lipton forced on him. Having beaten Brock, and inside Lipton knew, it was close, Andy had taken him in. Respecting him more than his kin. All Peters Druid talk had t prepared him for this. To be fare, he had warmed to him. He was an animal, like Lipton. You can trust other animals, not humans. In many respects, of the diverse crews from far afield, the Clun Drulords were as close to his likening as any. Peter had done well to get two piled up, given Jesus determination to figure out their plans. And, to be honest, he want a dancer. Outdoors, beer, fire, hunting, that was Liptons thing. Andy was ok. These Druids were too. Peter was still off going apeshit with two of them. This Bury Ditches party was going to get fucking mental.

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