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Wednesday, 30 March 2016
Peter - Chapter Twenty
Peter - Chapter Twenty
No verbal description can communicate something that is entirely new, free from metaphor. 'God is love.' 'God is the light'. Reduced to such phraseology we are left only with words that find their meaning after another has shared the vision. 'I too see the light'. After a week spent listening to the only man known to have survived death. A man crucified for the anger of religious political fervour. The bible writes that God gave his only son for the love of man. Also true is that men and women, in display of their loyalty to God, offered up an innocent man for public torture and ritual execution. When Joseph of aramathea asked the Romans for his corpse, to take and place in his own tomb, having witnessed his dignity in death some of his Roman captors were converted and handed over his broken flesh. Two nights Christ spent among the dead. Walking the afterlife waiting for his father to send him back to shame those who had betrayed him. In white light he bathed patiently as other confused spirits explored what remained of them now their flesh was broken and they explored a new dimension.
Over two thousand years later his memories remained clear. Christ now stood, reassuring Peter, embracing his friend, instilling in him a faith that his being there was evidence that Peter too would return. Both knew, despite their optimistic words, that he may not. Lipton risked less but to lose his friend in this joint venture would leave his life empty. The two shaman held each other close as tears ran down their cheeks.
Lipton: "Go safe, my friend. Find her and get home to us. It seems much longer but when you found me in that patch of woodland, four weeks ago, noose around my neck, I was ready to go. But think of this last month? What we have achieved, who we have met. None of that would have been had you not saved me. Skree, Peter, my brother. It's always been just you and me. Death or glory. I love you. Don't leave me here on my own."
Peter: "It is not my day. See the breeze rippling through those leaves? The pair of buzzards there, circling overhead? That is life. It wants me here still. She's not done with me yet. When we bang up, as soon as we break open the veil, stand astride the portal. Keep one foot in life and one in death. Hold the opening for me. But if this construct starts to shimmer into nothing, or closes down, know that I'm done. Save yourself then. No heroics, eh? We both needn't die. The umbilical cord of ectoplasm linking us, naval to naval, cut it first sign the portal is crumbling. It's only death. Well all be going there one day. I'll be waiting for you. Besides, this last week, in my mind I've been running through some people I'll maybe meeting soon. I lost my mother young. It wasn't much later the reaper returned. Some demon cut through my generation like a scythe through wheat. Widd waits there, Animal, Martin, Turps, Richard, John; I've more mates over there than I have down here. I've not prayed since I was seven years old but Jesus has had me down on my knees every night, talking to them, asking them to help me do this. I heard no reply but, who knows? Do you remember last year when we were working with the 5-bromo-DMT? How we hit up four pipes a piece and were shot like cannon balls into Poseidons domain? I remember every second of our time there, the abundance of life on the sea bed, the beauty still can make me cry if I think of it too long, till I became entranced, forgot I was a land based mammal, I was close to drowning, felt myself going under. I woke with you pumping salt water from my lungs. You saved me that day, you dragged me back, I forgot myself, transfixed in wonder. So, death or glory, eh Lipton? Death of fucking glory! Let's do this fucking thing. For the Coven. For the planet. For the honour of saying we are Albions only shamans to have been beyond death!"
Lipton: "You owe me sixty quid for those lilac pills, don't forget. So I'm pulling you back here whether you like it or not, you tight cunt!"
Charlotte, Dianne and Stella had been sat around the circular table where the glass vials of human DMT sat alongside a small domed glass dish, a flask of sterile water, two 1ml barrel syringes, alcohol swabs and two tourniquets. They held hands linking the three as they repeated some lengthy incantation. In duration it lasted a full three minutes yet they'd repeated it in cycles, now for going close to an hour, building in volume. All three witches eyes firmly closed though trickles of sweat ran down all of their foreheads. Reaching conclusion they remained as a circle, hands held, eyes closed for a minute whilst their adrenalin lowered and they got their breath back.
Charlotte: "We've tried for you peter, that's as strong a hex as we know to sedate the spirits, stop them realising what we're up to for as long as possible. I can't guaruntee more than four or five minutes, but you may be lucky. Listen closely because once I blend the distillates of pineal DMT, some, at least will feel it. I'll blend it as swiftly as I can. Lipton? Your hit will be just short of a tenth of Peters. Let Dianne bang you up. She'll be going for the jugular, the big neck vein is nearest to the brain. Even your dose will take you out of this reality but if it's too strong just slump over the line. We'll be here for you to see you don't swallow your vomit or anything like that. And, as Peter says, if the portal fades, there's no heroics, right?"
Lipton: "Burst in to fucking heaven!"
Charlotte: "Peter, that's precisely what will happen. Your dose is massive. Stella will inject into your jugular simultaneously to Dianne on Lipton. The hit will be so strong you will be like a cannonball bursting through, no waiting room like when you pipe DMT. No one has done what you are about to do. Just try remember life here, who you are, what your objective is. I've written it down both your arms and hands. As you well know, the power of this psychedelic leap is unheralded. If Lipton yanks the umbilical then get back quick. Again, no heroics. It's taken a lot of hard work and twenty deaths to get here but we don't want another. We won't find a shaman as experienced as yourself without great difficulty."
Peter: "And I thought you liked me."
Charlotte: "I do." She blushed so fractionally, only Peter caught it but this more than anything gave him steel resolution. He would do this. He would see Charlotte again.
Charlotte: "By all accounts Boudicca is as hard a bitch as ever walked the Earth. I don't know how you're best to play it. Jesus reckons most there have forgotten their physical lives so don't get talking. How do you normally bring spirits back?"
Peter: "Closest I can describe it is I charge in before they've noticed you and bind with them, like inhaling or swallowing but not a physical binding. Drive my essence in like diving in to a lake then grip the bastards. Resist their struggling as though your crushing them in. When I'm back, get her out quick. Do you know shamanic extraction methodology?"
The Witches shook their heads. Jesus looked at the three girls.
Jesus: "One of you is going to have to carry her. If I can slap some sense in to Lipton he knows extraction better than me but I'll assist him in drawing her out of Peter. She'll try to stick inside him with all she's got but we have to get her out of him before she gets any tendrils of possession locked in. Whoever carries her shouldn't resist anything."
Charlotte :"Dianne has accepted to carry her. The large tank has eighteen octopuses. We're going to extract as much soul juice from them while you're over there, Peter. Me and Stella can hold out their selves for twenty minutes at least. Submerge Dianne in their tank. She will be deep in trance so Boudicca should be struggling like mad by then. The soul vacuum of each octopus should be too great a pull. In past demonology they can't hold their breath and find transmigration into the new flesh a relief. Stella, we're going to have to use a little stimulant ourselves. If any Boudicca is left in Peter we're going to have some serious gender issues in our shaman."
Peter: "A bit of Boudicca in me sounds quite exciting."
Charlotte: "Believe me, you'll have had your fill by then. There is little in the plan for contingency. If you or Dianne end up under possession I'm sure we can get her out. Peter, thank you for this. I can't express our gratitude. If you can't return I promise we will have a funeral party to make Bury Ditches look like afternoon tea. I might just come over there and get you back myself." She kissed Peters lips.
All readied themselves waiting for Peter to give the nod. Lipton and Peter sat back in reclining chairs, taking deep breaths. Stella alcoswabbed their jugular veins. Looking at Lipton, Peter nodded, "Death or glory. Let's fucking go!"
Charlotte took steady care in tipping each tiny amount of pineal gland distillate powder into the glass shallow dish before mixing it into a blend. Drawing up sterile water through the syringes accurately before spraying the powder. A little vitamin c added to ensure the human DMT breakdown. Then over a light flame she heated the mixture, stirring with a fine glass rod till the fluid was a consistent ruby colour. A fragment of filter dropped in settled to the bottom which she gently pressed down onto with the oval of the hyperdermic needle point. The larger axis of the needles eliptical tip cross the fibres of filter through which she drew up the fluid. Lipton syringe looked frighteningly low to Peter. Both sat back as the girls brought up the shamans jugulars, pierced, withdrew a plume of crimson ensuring they'd hit home, then simultaneously the Witches depressed the plungers, injecting the sacramental fluid into the shamans bloodstream.
Within seconds Peter felt himself boosted like a shell from a tank. Blasting clear through into another place altogether. A kaleidoscopic mandala twisted and folded, offering entry points that warped into shape, reached focus for a moment before warping out to a different proposition. By the third crystallisation Peter saw his chance and dived through. Racing at speed till its walled oft end raced toward him. Flexing up he saw similar doorways warping into focus and without choice nor thought he entered a parallel tube. Again a blockage zoomed up so Peter stepped through a side opening to a third light speed tube. Bursting through from tube to tube, Peter made progress till a last tunnel had no blockage, just an open end that spat him through to the dimension he sought. The blinding white light that excluded outer reality as completely as pitch darkness does in a mine. He found he had no gravitational baring, no up nor down, no spatial aspect of any kind. The purity of the light stripped him of form as his molecular structure underwent an explosion, the birth of a universe. Or an explosive dispersal of self to far corners of a ready existant one. Experienced enough in shamanic dimension leaping he knew to allow where he now was, time to reveal its nature. Or the inverse, fresh sensory testing to enable him to 'see' in new necessary ways. Three dimensional life animated by time is all most humans ever know but shamanic journeys had revealed some of the twenty seven dimensions Jesus had explained were accessible in the dimension he entered after his crucifixion. This did not mean conception nor sensory equipment would open them to Peter yet he was calm, safe in knowing they were around him. We can close our eyes yet still know we are in a cathedral. So it was for Peter. Loss of self had become familiar and the sensation of the particles of his being dispersed in an explosion outward always ran the risk of such severe ego loss his former life could make no sense. It had no relevance to where he now found himself. The version of self resonant to one bore no similarities to, nor often even an awareness of the others peculiarities of being. Yet particles now ranging across this dimension began to inform, to send data, a rudimentary self remained where sensations could combine to form meaning. The most primal and lost of presences felt close. "Mother?" Overwhelming warmth and love secured a point of baring. Not since he was a child had Peter seen his mother. She called his attention, impressed their reacquaintance was secure and knowledge of this certainty of his future allowed a focusing the job in hand. Such confusion felt as womb like as anything else he knew of to refer or compare it to. The awareness of being, yet knowing hisself hidden from something much greater, something that was inaccessible. Noises and sensations he felt through the muffled barrier. He remembered pop tunes he had known that must have played as his pregnant mother baked or sewed. Out of the whiteness light points and pattern could now be made out and from one of these coalescing light cathedral mists, Richard called, Peters best friend now eight years dead. Just as his mother had, again dismissing Peters impulsive sentimentality to urge him on. With a broad unveiling sweep, his lost friend provided direction. Pointing Peters attention toward a specific region. Albion, the mythological collective land of the souls of her children, steeped in essences, a construct of innumerable imaginations. Framed and contextualised by a myriad romantic notions. Searching this fog of fragmented dreams a hand reached out and gently took his. Someone, benevolent, anonymous, led him past innumerable distractions till he saw her. Queen Boudicca amongst her people. Peters mother kissed his forehead, this returned him into the knowledge of who he had been in life, sadness for what complex beauty he had discovered himself within accompanied his self recognition. This also calmed his fear and directed him. A secondary explosion of DMT washed through the the blood brain barrier and plunged him deeper into time where her memory, her scent, the love of the thousands with who she had fought, saw his particles undergo inversion becoming precise replicas of vacuum, an antiPeter re amassing and hitting light speed he speared toward Boudicca, entering her as Peter coalesced into the same space she occupied. He felt her. He was her. He wore her, and he felt her their, an angered replicant armour. Peter and Boudicca flickered in the shock of harmonic duality, a shared astral vehicular body. This strangeness lingered for a fractured moment before self contemplation was ripped away by a sudden tug of pain hit from the umbilical at his naval. Liptons strength was immense reflecting the need to make haste. The portal had begun to disband, their exit must be immediate. Peter ignored everything to follow the umbilical cord and fortune found Boudicca unresistant as they shot through the whiteness toward a green memory. The portal now left a solitary entry option through which Peter dived, warping access doorways now flickering and few were taken in blind selection as blockages increased. Speeding down a final corridor terror flooded him as ahead its passage now curved away. A portal warping below took a desperate violent kick to enter as the corridor he'd dropped from plucked itself free to return to its spiritual owner. Clear green light ahead came as a relief. The opening back that Lipton stood braced, sweat pouring from his brow, wedging it open as it resisted violently. Together the AntiPeter Boudicca duality was reborn into the harsh reality that re clustered, white light dying out. The organic digital fractals of DMT dispersing revealing the Covens cavern. Scared and in pain peter felt the woman he loved, his mother? No, not mother, forces tore her from him, ripping her away. A loss like love or death of a parent crippled him in emotional pain. Vomiting hands steered his head from drowning.
Lipton had shaken off the fractal mandala patterning that had helped him wedge the portal. A single thread was plucked away so he tugged the umbilical viciously, flipping the body of Peter still shouting insanities and clawing at his skin. Christ held him down with Charlottes help as his thrashing and ranting distracted Lipton. Still charged on the DMT Lipton sat heavily on his friends stomach to hold him steady then clasped his temples in both palms. Smashing his forehead on to Peters he ripped with all he could summon, screaming incantations, violently tearing Boudicca free as psychic negotiations passed between them. Dianne lay spread eagled, her scalp touching Peters, deeply sedated, mumbling but barely aware. Liptons aggression stripped what spirit Peter had returned with and forcibly rammed it deep into the naked recumbent witch.
The hard work done all took a breather. Peter was placed in the recovery position where he continued to vomit and rant. Lipton, also exhausted curled into a position, in deep pain, tears steaming from his eyes and white drool trickling from his lips. The shamans were fucked. Recovery wouldn't be as quick as the soul extraction. Yet the witches now had to leave them to suffer as, assisted by Christ they carried Dianne carefully to the octopus tank. The creatures semi soul vacuous alighted like a predator sensing blood as they brought the naked and sedated witch to their tank. Some began climbing out before realising they needn't bother sa their need was coming. Diane's nose and mouth were sealed off with a plastic mask with clear polythene tube, before Christ and Charlotte dropped her into the tank. Immediately her body was lost to sight as the octopuses covered every part of her, hungrily refilling themselves with as much Boudican soul sludge as they could. Their mass punctuated only by the tube that led to the surface so Dianne could breath.
Moving over to the wounded shamans Stella had the sensitivity to have prepared two syringes of diazepam knowing neither would be likely to stomach anything. Peter still shivering violently had begun to enter seizures. Finding a vein the witch kindly slipped the hypodermic in, withdrew a plume of blood before plunging home the sedative. Instantly his convulsions reduced to periodic quiverings. Moving over to Lipton she did the same for Lipton who Christ laid out in the recovery position. Here the shaman drifted into an induced sleep. Returning to Peter, now also unconscious she brought over a bowl of clean water. Charlotte, though exhausted herself took the flannel cloth from her Druid sister and cleaned away the vomit and sweat from Peters still shivering form. Jesus brought both men blankets to cover their sedated bodies. Together with Charlotte they covered the boys. Letting them recover unconscious. They would remain in this state for some time.
Christ moved over to the octopus tank. Stood with Charlotte they studied the activity within in a silent mesmerised curiosity. After twenty minutes, in slow succession, the creatures pulled sea from Dianne, finding quiet places to digest their fresh occupation.
Stella prepared a bed for Dianne then two more. Once Dianne was free of tentacles the girls and Jesus gathered her unconscious body from the tank. Tenderly laying her and towelling her down before covering her with sheets and duvet. Finally Stella took up her bed positioned at the opposite end from the bed she offered the son of God. Despite the highest references given by the slappers she didn't want any resurrection, nor, indeed, any erection, jus sling in behind her while she slept. After a little negotiation he too took an intravenous hit of diazepam and slipped under the covers.
Charlotte alone on her own checked around the studio. Wiping up vomit. Cleaning down surfaces. It would take a few years for these demonic flesh spirit hybrids to develop into a collection from which the goddess Boudicca would emerge. That story would have to wait. She thought of this shaman who had risked all to let this happen. She had grown very fond of him. Mixing with the drulads she'd never found one she liked enough to consider anything other than a brother. The straight folk were as unlikely suitors as the sheep on the hills. Maybe he could be something. She liked his bold plans for Rupert Bunsen and the super rich. She would watch him. In all likely how he'd turn out to be a knobhead like all the rest, but who knew? Maybe, just maybe. Finally she studied the sleeping figures. Peter still shivered so she slipped in under his bedding to warm him, spooning close behind him, holding him close, she too fell into sleep.
Psychic damage incurred by such shamanics can lead to months, years, lifetimes spent in disturbed units of mental hospitals. What condition anyone involved would wake up in none knew. There was no precedent, nothing from which to refer.
Rupert Bunsen sat in the living room of the largest residence on Bunsen Island. After the humiliating police treatment following his arrest in Shropshire he had made straight for London. Barely had he relaxed behind his office desk before he heard reports of two deaths at Bury Ditches Hill Fort party. He was beyond British naval waters in under two hours, his super yacht headed for the Caribbean. Given the circumstances under which he had purchased the marque and sound system, the police case against his organising the event were quite weak. What was of greater concern was the dead boy's parents campaign to find someone responsible for their sons deaths. Each year Glastonbury averages two deaths. With that number of people partying in one place sleeping in camping conditions reminiscent of disaster zones, the organisers accept a few casualties are the unfortunate consequence of making such vast sums of money. Michael Eavis has never been brought to account. Yet the press conference that all four parents gave caught the public imagination. If criminals were organising illegal events with no proper security or medical professionals on hand, they were making a lot of quick, untaxed earnings, surely they must have a duty of care? You could twist it and turn it how you want but whoever organised that party had murdered their children. Compensation figures were mentioned and dismissed as insulting. You can't put a price on a life, not less than seven figures all four parents agreed. Even to mention money insulted them yet practicalities of funeral costs etc were sadly acknowledged as the least that could be done. Police had not named the main organiser but rumour had it he was loaded. Through solidarity in this reasoning they had found something to hold on to. Their grief found an outlet in standing together against drug parties. It could have easily and just as mistakenly have been a united campaign to level all Hill Forts so confused, deep and without focus was their pain. It suited the police who helped to play down the fact that only the sleeping drug zopiclone and a trace of cannabis was found in the blood of the boys. Neither boy had, to their parents knowledge, used any drugs before. Outstanding throughout their schooling and both creatively blessed, the careers looked glorious for their exceptional boys. Both had been mediocre students in truth. Both had been smoking weed for over four years. Speed and ecstasy, for the last two. Gombo and Reeny, Simon Gompton and Paul Green had been mates since middle school. Not long after meeting their grades slowly fell as, together they found other activities, outside of school to focus on. An abandoned 125cc Yamaha found out on the waste ground where the new Wimpey estate was planned to be built soon became a project that changed their lives. They spent a summer restoring the wreck, borrowing tools and advice from a local mechanic. Resurrecting the heap had been liberating. Breathing life into a rusted write off. The magic that was possible if determination and collaboration refused to give in.
The lads grew bigger. The bikes grew bigger and both left school before taking their exams to work in garages. Wolverhampton had a small anarcho punk scene and both developed rudimentary guitar skills. Their tearful parents described the loss of the talented musicians, their lyrical genius raised in their memories the angry chants to poetry. The world had also lost two soon to be ground breaking engineers. These lives lost as collateral damage as the organisers and their drug pushing associates grew rich. Simon Gomptons mother broke into tears, her husband held her close. "These scum are no more than murderers! How many more lives like our boys will it take before these raves are taken seriously! As lads we all enjoy a time I youth when we stretch the boundaries. And I'm no different! I hold my hands up. As young Teds we'd get a little rough when we'd go to Brum, but never did we take drugs! Beer was enough! But the evil of this ecstasy the kids are being pushed into taking is a whole new dimension. Beer and cigs never hurt anyone."
At this point the police chief intervened to bring the televised spectacle to a controlled close. "We would like to appeal to anybody who may have heard anything, however small it may seem to come forward. There is a suggestion that drugs may have played only one part in these deaths, though autopsy reports show both were on drugs. At this stage the specifics of the drugs taken are of no relevance to the investigation. There was something vital missing from both victims of drug use. It seems that in their drug fuelled psychosis, the two lads decapitated each other before hiding the heads. Our officers have arrested and charged the organiser. The bodies were not found for forty eight hours after his release. He is instructed to make contact with me or his local police station to help with enquiries though he is not a suspect, I repeat not a suspect. So he need have no concerns regarding coming forward. His whereabouts are however currently unknown so any information from the public is welcome and can be made anonymously on our special grassline 021275008900. There is a reward for information should this lead to a conviction. Further, 'Parents against Drugs', a group formed from parents whose children have been affected by drugs, are also offering cash incentives to any who has information on the drug pushers involved. Again anonymity is assured for grasses whose brave snitching can often lead to them being battered or incrementally manipulated by their operatives until they have support from neither side. Treated by their handlers as weak and disloyal, a reflection on the feelings of those who they grass up. Operating two faces, lying and smiling to those whose trust they broke whilst hoping to please a copper whose only aim is to use their duplicitous nature, can be a hard carry. Indeed, suicide is a sad but common end for these invaluable and unrespected two faced heroes. Police work, as you know is 75% informants, 20% luck and a lot of hard work. In our war against drugs the police will stop at nothing to bring both suppliers taking advantage of prohibition and also on users who's intent to enjoy themselves in ways that society on the whole finds weird, provides the market. As Mr Gompton said, ciggies and booze are harmless pleasures that all can share. These are enough for the linear mind. Other stuff maybe statistically safe but they are weird. Their menacing properties attract the crusty, the stretch head and the expando brain. You tube footage of Bury Ditches Hill Fort party shows thousands dancing together in a shared empathic joy. Don't allow seeing such joy fool you into the hidden dark side. We are studying such footage and will be prosecuting those we identify for possession with intent to enjoy. Last year over twelve people died from ecstasy alone, over two hundred on other drugs, none died on lysergamides or, indeed tryptamines. Many, however, had transcendent, numinous, mystical and first hand religious experiences. Experiences we aim to stamp out! Achieving this by classifying these substances alongside crack and heroin. Two drugs that ruin lives. Indeed supply of LSD invariably incurs sentences much greater than supply of heroin and crack. No one wants their children experiencing these head states. By denial of the existence of any spiritual dimension to life, such experiences fall into the category of serious mental illnesses. Through this two pronged approach, by draconian sentencing for their supply and the subjugation of the mystical experience through psychiatric professionals we are able to keep this danger contained."
D I Briggs had drifted off target. He had hit the main points though. Try get Rupert Bunsen to hand himself in expecting no trouble. Blame the murders on drug use. Tempt the grass types with money. Allow the parents to try elevate any compensation claims should they be able to hold Bunsen accountable. Briggs hadn't liked the man. A life spent keeping his type safe. Never being thanked more than a bus conductor. Meeting the man had affected Briggs. Class had never upset him. He knew his station. Police are on the whole, upper working class. Turning against their own kind to accept pay levels that ought to find them stepping over the kids they grew up around. The thatcher years had pitched police against miner. But class can no more be hidden than colour of skin. They never found middle class acceptance. They married other coppers. Socialised with other coppers. Some were of more noble creed. Vocationally drawn to right wrongs. Others were drawn to adventure, tearing down motorways to arrive first at some grisly accident. Briggs had a little of each. He hoped to make a better world, yet Indeed, school bullying had begun his journey, to be in the toughest gang. To be the bully, never again the bulied. But Bunsen reminded him of all the times he'd pulled over a drunk ex public school boy, thinking his posh car may be driven by a criminal or a black, only to have to apologise to one of his betters, knowing their reach in the craft lay beyond his. Freemasonry meant he had to let certain people go. When he first was asked his pride in being accepted into the secret social club that ran society thrilled him. Over the years it became clear the inclusion of police ensured the higher craft were beyond the law. Necessary members but unloved. Yew Tree had undermined the old ways. Saville died before the unassailable began to be prosecuted. Beyond this, the unspoken hierarchy. Plebs. To their betters they would always be plebs. The way he'd been spoken down to despite having been, theoretically in the position of power. The socially aspirant lower middle class are in transition. Escaping their parents shameful habits of poor taste and ignorance. Hiding their vowels. A hunger to know the names, the labels, the correct styles that marked inclusion, yet never quite sure. Prone to the embarrassing fau pas. Unable to escape submission to the superior. The journey never completed, their shameful origins denied, their aspirations never quite reached. Despite himself he had found himself calling Bunsen 'sir'. Providing a glass of water when asked. He hated the man he had become. Subservient. Rupert Bunsen merely crystallised this self disgust. More crime takes place in poor areas, poor on poor, black on black. This was barely recorded. Reporting such crimes received no response. The police role is to deliver a sense of security to those above property owning level. Those without property have nothing to protect. Only themselves, and once damaged they can't be returned. To preserve the status quo. Changing culture may have seen better educated blacks now come under the umbrella. He'd rejected his parents, his culture, his mates, to keep these arrogant and secure strangers safe. And they thought him pathetic for doing so. He would catch Bunsen. A final act. He no longer cared for justice for the boy's parents. He hardly cared about himself. Putting away this snob would return him. The person he had hoped to become. Why should two ordinary lads, lads like he'd grown up with, just get killed, why could their deaths go unresolved, just because the organiser of an illegal party incurred fewer overheads in providing no security? After the hill top battle, after the failure of his team, after a stage managed piece of theatre for the media, Briggs felt every value he had clung to had been debased. He had failed as a man. Yet he retained a final chance. Ignore his superiors. Stand tall and bring down Bunsen. Swearing this personal oath Briggs lost all fear, stress, worry. If he failed, he would die in trying.
Rupert would have to give Eavis a call. It had been years since he'd seen the ill chosen facial haired rustic bumpkin. They'd orbited the same social circuit at one time. Longleat had been a never ending party for a time in the late sixties. Arrabella Churchill, Peter Gabriel, even Mike Oldpastures before their collaboration in marketing the Tuberous Bellend. He could almost smell the incense, the eastern oils the girls used as repulsive perfume, no doubt in defence against the free love ethos the boys had read about over in Berkley, Woodstock, and tried induct their females in. Emerging from fifties prudery their parents had adopted in a Victorian revival that omitted the teenager, their older sisters married mid twenties as virgins. Emerging also from girls only schools, their social class had been seperated throughout schooling, playing as prepubescent children only reblending in their late teens. The gender understanding was negligible in direct reverse balance to the yearning sexual desperation. They wore their hair long, eastern clothing, kaftans, beads and flowers. Frigid straights, collaborators with the man, many were the insults and psychological belittling of girls unprepared for the Free Love. Cripes! Lord Bath had a hundred odd wifelets! Bunsen chuckled at the fond memories of their sexual manipulation. Eavis was just the fellow. Two or three deaths at Glastonbury each year barely got a mention. One had to marvel at the elegance of the deception. A celebration of motor travel, three days of land destruction, stealing the Travellers idea, cloaked in the moral certitude of the day; CND, greenpeace, sold at exclusive ticket prices ensuring only the comfortably off could attend. A fence inspired by the Berlin Wall. And the rich punters get shanty town treatment. Literally allocated puddles feet deep, to camp in. Surprised there weren't more deaths. Clearly Eavis shared Bunsens moral outlook. I bet he'd like an Ark ticket, the old crook! Thought Rupert. Near certainty. Two calls and he had the farmers mobile number. Answer phone. Milking the cows, no doubt. Walking to the vast window frontage he looked down on the harbour, the lines of yachts, the camouflage that hid his greatest work. Humanity's greatest work.
His mobile buzzed alive. Eavis returning his call, no doubt, eager to catch up, offer his old friend the stars.
Bunsen: "Michael, my old chum! Bunsen here! Long time no speak though I've marvelled from afar at the masterful and elegant deception you've developed over the years. You urinate from such a height upon their heads whilst your meteorological rain reports see their eyes blessed with your rural Avalonion baptism!"
Briggs: "Rupert Bunsen? This is DI Briggs from South Shropshire Police. I have a number of questions for you following our last interview. Two bodies were discovered during the clear up operation following Bury Ditches Hill Fort party that you have been charged with organising. Are you able to report to a Police station of mutual convenience in the next twenty four hours? Attending voluntarily would be in your legal interests however I have sufficient information to authorise your arrest should you choose to be uncooperative."
Bunsen thought quickly. Telephone connection for much longer would clarify he wasn't in London, yet his whereabouts would be deducted swiftly even by a simple irritant like Briggs. Best show no concern. If the British government itself were to try bring him back it would take at least a month. Fuck! Should have checked the phones screen, Eavis advice would have been handy to have. Still, if he couldn't trick a monkey like Briggs he really had lost his touch.
Bunsen: "Ah! The little rural uniform fellow. The line is crackle some. Your rustic connection no doubt. Railway guard weren't you? Sorry! Got it! Bobby, right?"
Briggs: "The line is quite clear. Though I see there is no triangulation suggesting you aren't in London, as I hoped. Will you be able to report to a British Police Station within twenty four hours?"
Bunsen: "I'm unlikely to be in England for several weeks, can I help you in any other way? I assumed the court dates over your mistaken and slanderous charges over the countryside party you failed to bring under control, should you fail to be dismissed for gross incompetence by connections of mine for whom you are an obscure, misguided underling, would be the next time my legal team would have any contact with you. Perhaps I can help? 'What Tractor' may be more helpful."
Briggs: "There maybe further charges, Mr Bunsen. If the courts find you legally responsible for the party, there are two possibilities. A judge may dictate you had a duty of care for your guests. By not providing either security nor medical services it may be you are tried in connection with the two deaths. However, more likely is the families bringing a private case against you. Do you wish to say anything at this stage?"
Bunsen: "Mr Biggs! It appears that you have called not simply to interview me over some terribly sad deaths that happened within a mile of where I was amongst five thousand others. Indeed I would like to express my deepest sympathies with the families and their unfortunate dependence on an incompetent village Bobby to investigate these awful losses. Rather than doing his job he chooses to pester me, star struck by my fame and wealth.
As for you, Briggs. Expect to hear very soon from your superiors over your wild allegations. I will not be taking any legal steps against you as yet as I feel certain my connections within your organisation will be reallocating you to a position more suited to your skills. The public bemoan the demise of beet bobbies. Clearly budget cuts may not stretch to pairs, like In the old days, but many inner city areas could benefit by your solitary patrol. Brixton, Tottenham, Hackney, Leeds has Chapeltown, Gipton, Manchesters Hume, Moss Side, most of our major cities have such opportunities. Perhaps Northern Ireland where there remains animosity despite the peace process. I could see you posted to keep an eye on IRA funerals, maybe, your bravery could find the more progressive few seeing beyond the uniform, then again, they may just see an unforgivable insult. Or you could choose to never think of me again and look for the killers, like a good little copper, eh?"
Bored of this silly oink, Rupert hung up. Clueless idiot! Had he no idea what Bunsen could do? Yet something had changed in the coppers manner. Their interactions following his arrest had complied to the familiar servile respect those of Ruperts birth expected. Steering clear of names, always using sir, providing telephones, water, generally fulfilling their service roll to keep their betters happy. This interaction contained impudence, insolence, threat almost. The smoothly removing of misunderstandings when the upper echelons found accidental entwinement with the criminal classes could usually relied upon. Many a rich society girl had played amongst the bad boys but if ever the doors burst in, even if they'd been manipulated into buying the cocaine heaped on the table, the police could always be relied upon to pluck the poor thing free, perhaps sneaking a little personal to help the criminal out. Few will argue to the judge they had three ounces, not just the one. But they'd get the bad guys. Briggs sounded on a mission. As though he'd abandoned his duty to the rich and stable, in pursuit of technicalities. As though he sought not to preserve the status quo, but to ignore the big picture. The kind of chap who'd refuse logic, press the charges on the society girl due to technical ownership of the cocaine. Briggs wasn't police, he was a madman! This private case of the boys families. Worth his concern?
Flipping open the Mac book Rupert googled the case. Several websites sprung up. Opening the official families one was horrific. The you tube press conference had two million views. Forum threads had thousands making financial commitments. This site had legal advice as no direct reference to Bunsen was made though the allusions were clear.
Other sites, set up by angry outsiders were less restrained. Some were calling for Rupert Bunsen to be charged with man slaughter. Public enquiries. Politicians, largely from the wreck less Corbinite left openly called for Bunsen to explain how an illegal event, all but proven to be the work of his organisation, leaked copies of the crude documents he'd signed with Anthone under G Mans advice revealed this was an event using Bunsen owned Marque and sound system. Politicians were clear, no one is saying Bunsen fed these youths drugs and be headed them unaided, far from it. Yet his event, organised without respect for law, had led to these deaths.
There were anarchist sites that weren't worth reading. Yet curious Rupert peeped. Photoshop graphics showed Bunsen grinning out, a severed head in each hand. One final creation had Bunsen animated in endless repetition, kicking human heads like rugby balls from a hill top.
This had gone viral. A hideous misrepresentation of the truth. Then he saw it. The footage began shaky but clarified. Only up on you tube eight hours yet a million and a half views saw G Man moving first, his gold chain swaying, till he slips out of picture to reveal clearly Rupert Bunsen, Savile row suited, leading in a naked cave creature covered in shit, by a neck manacle and chain, Rupert grinning at his broken reduction of a man. It looked evil.
Slamming closed the laptop Rupert had seen enough to know this would stick. Blamed. And why? Flipping open the laptop Bunsen searched to see if the sales figures G Man predicted from the DJ sets could soothe this wound. The official full Tuberous Bellend drum and bass remix had sold quickly at first, then plummeted. From then sales grew like a tree. Some branches now had vastly outgrown the trunk. Tuberous Bellend was undoubtedly peaking in popularity yet the crude remixes had swiftly been superseded with far greater works. The Tuberous Bellend decapitation overdub was selling far faster. Darker blends of video works that synchronous visuals articulated strange directions, journeys of sounds plucked, sampled and looped that soundtracked imagery of the chained man led by Ruperts grin. The highest definition footage had been taken by someone laid on the floor as the trio entered. G Man s comic entry saw him towering above, gold chain swaying before he steps aside, here first the crabbed scuttle of the cave man, unaware of the camera his fear shows like a wild animal, matted dreads swing as he tries to grasp his situation, fingernails fill the screen as realisation hits him that someone is filming. Curled claws four inches in length cross the screen then scuttling away the caked dried excrement stuck fast to his skinny form horrifying the viewer before the lens pans up. The neck brace rattles as Olpastures tries to run free, chain snaps taught preventing escape. Finally the upward sweep follows the chain over expensive fabric, a tie, a beard then Rupert grins demonically down. His cruelty becomes theatrical as he rears in the terrified creature. A chance three minute film carrying more power than any directorial planning could achieve. This in raw you tube form had been clipped and energised. Numerous versions explored in hi def slo mo, the yanked chain, the grotesque finger nails, the eyes in terror, the cloth slipping unchecked from the mans over sized genitals revealing malformed potato like bellend, root veg still speckled with soil, tuberous helmet.
Desperate now Bunsen checked sales. The work had been stolen and improved. His own theft returned to him a hundred fold. Tuberous Bellend two heads of grime was a fast selling complication of several top names, one head took a smooth edged journey as artists span their take across its restructured beats, two head took a deeper journey, Grimes harder edge that took the rural event into the urban jungle of myth. Further garage versions took a two step stripped back acoustic angle. Deep trance Tuberous Bellend lose your head, parts one and two. Speed Garage Bellend headless mix reignited a largely forgotten genre.
Further in were new hybrids, Anarcho Punk Tuberous Bellend severed heads of bankers. Darker industrial versions sounded like a horror factory of Tuberous Bellend heavy steel works, grunted vocals listing the instrument like Oldpastures listed on his original masterwork. Folk singers had written ballads of the chained man. Oldpastures had undergone complete deification. His back catalogue was selling to new generations. The volume of spin off work was immense.
The story simple. A parable that caught the public mood. A callous ogre of greed beyond human imagination had driven an angelic vulnerable artist to a broken animal, the monster had entered a place of shared joy and displayed his captor with evil glee. Yet the artists music had destroyed the evil ones hold and freed the chained man as a wave of beauty spread. As if in anger at the triumph of good over bad, a hideous discovery was made. Two boys had been beheaded. Only one suspect could be so cruel. The architect of this horror was now free. But his images were global icons.
The truth no longer mattered. Bunsen boiled, pacing his deck, thinking of some way out. His mobile brought him round. Checking this time. Eavis! Thank god!
Rupert: "Oh Michael! Have you seen? An hour ago I was content. Calling you to offer you a chance of a lifetime, and ask a little advice. Then I checked out the Internet!"
Eavis: "Remain calm! These people mean nothing. Picture your land. A green Eden. Then imagine a fifty foot high steel fence all the way around. Are you following? A walled garden. A city where only the civilised are admitted. You own a police force, private security to ensure no low life enters. Relax. Are you feeling me, Rupert?"
Rupert: "Michael, thank you. My imagination took hold. It's been a while since those hippy days, eh? But I've admired your work. Observing the lower orders, selecting their gems, plucking them free of context. The elegant move of taking in Stonehenge refugees. This legitimised a festival. So what if it's not exactly solstice. Nor at the nations temple. These are banned. But for a reasonable fee join us. The acts grew bigger, the CND bollocks grew less. The travellers were turned away once their purpose was served. Their religious festival, now stripped of the mystical, restrictive price cut out the riff raff. Higher prices. Higher fences. No traveller would live in such squalor but a week in a tent in a puddle could be sold to guardian readers. I loved to see you on the news as rain fell, how the Glastonbury spirit was enhanced by hardship. Then they all drove home. Genius! You truly made the middle class liberals buy mud and feel they'd got their money's worth."
Michael: "Rupert, it's refreshing to speak to a man like yourself. I've taken others culture, stripped its dignity and made millions. A few bob to Africa, a fiver to Greenpeace. A rainbow hat, a smile. No one seems to notice the destruction, pollution, waste it uses up."
Rupert: "Indeed! Nor the annual deaths. I was most curious on how you spin that one?"
Michael: "How can I be expected to ensure every single person behaves responsibly? Some idiots will always drink my cider and drown in the vast puddles. With such basic toilets the odd disabled type is going to fall in. And drugs! Police bust as many as they can so mostly Glastonbury is used as a place to offload all the shite. In a city or town you can't get away selling bad shit for long without being found out. So, dealers from all cities who buy a duff batch of poison pills, shit coke, any crap batch of drugs all gets saved up and brought to the biggest market for drugs with the least knowledgeable or discerning customers. Selling to strangers the dealers can get their money back. Some travel from Germany, France , Spain with shit batches. Mostly they're just weak or twisted. Fake ecstasy that makes you go mental. But the odd poisonous batch gets in. Glastonbury is world famous as the clearing ground for crap drugs. If you ever come, here's my advice. Bring your own. Or travellers. They're banned but some always get in. They're the sole source of decent gear. Without them were fucked. So, when the clear ups underway I clear off till the bodies have been discovered. Then blame others. It's the size of Bath. I tell people, look at the logistics. If a city the size of Bath all took the combined mass of dodgy otherwise unsaleable drugs, what do you expect? I don't give a toss, Rupert. If I'm prepared to sell you a bed in a puddle of mud, and you are daft enough to pay, do you think I care what happens? Of course someone will die! Give Bear Grills enough shit pills and lay him in a puddle and there's one likely result."
Rupert: "Did you hear about my misfortune? Great party, bought the recordings then some upstart copper pins the whole deal on me. I could cope with that but they found two bodies. Nothing to do with me but the internet has woven it together. How do I clean that mess up?"
Eavis: "Ride it out. Show no concern as that denotes responsibility, I'm close to a hundred festival deaths, myself. But I have a fortune. Or disappear!"
Rupert: "No ones let slip my project, have they?"
Eavis: "What project? Disappear to Columbia to study powders for a year, that sort of thing. Amazonian timber exploitation. Something quiet, eh?"
Rupert: "Fuck them all! I'm bringing it forward. I was hoping to bleed off a little more, see a little more of the environmental change, two years I'd said. But now? Four weeks and we fly!"
Eavis: "What's your game, Bunsen! I'd caught a sniff. I haven't heard details but I'm in certain circles. We've creamed off the money. Most of it is owned by only a hundred people. We've achieved that but what now? We can gate off communities, islands like yours I guess, but soon they're going to click."
Rupert: "Exactly! What I am going to offer you, should you choose to hear, is non refusable. Once I tell you either you join us or I have duty to the others involved. Some would say a Devils deal but I prefer to see ourselves as stepping up to godliness. Do you want to hear? I understand if not."
Eavis thought things over. He was old. His daughter now ran Glastonbury mainly. All the greenpeace rubbish had failed. The planet was done. Or entering a period of change. He'd scammed the lot and told them it was for their good. Scum. Ruperts elite were his type.
Eavis: "Ok! I'm in. Our elite few, we've taken the lot. Harvested the Earth. What's your idea, Bunsen? You sneaky chap, you!"
Rupert: "We have successfully gathered most of the earths wealth between our small elite number. This is the culmination of the western project. Which in itself concludes evolution. History led to our small number. You must know of my space tourism? Well, this served to test out technologies. Beneath Bunsen Island I have gathered the planets greatest scientific minds unhindered by emotion or ethics. CERN sapped a few but together, through investors like you might choose to be, we have created the pinnacle of human technology. Some see divine planning, others the natural order. Whatever, having used up the Earths resources we have a depleted husk. It served its function. The vehicle now completed is beyond anything previously dreamed up or made. The technicalities will go over your head. But we are leaving this used up old planet behind. We are the seeds of humanities next step. The planets elite. We are leaving to populate a new, Virgin Eden. As the distillation or refinement of life on Earth, we are the chosen. The party is over now, the game is done. The winners now step onward. Michael? Are you coming?"
Eavis: "The concept is brilliant! Of course I would love to, yet my daughter, the farm. In two years, perhaps I could have, but now?"
Rupert felt the refusal disheartening. He took no pleasure in what he must do. A second chance he'd never before offered but he wasn't certain Chivers was in position yet
Rupert: "Are you certain? This isn't something to allow sentiment or emotion affect. This is humanity's greatest leap! Michael, please join us?"
Chivers had arrived three hours earlier in chance of such a refusal. Bracing himself he spoke in latin to ready himself. Shuffling through the lines of Friesians, stood, submissive, being electronically milked. Just as Eavis had milked his clients. Michael felt someone near but saw no one around. Just his beloved cattle.
Eavis: "You see, I am honoured to be offered even, and of course I shan't say a dicky bird. But I like this farm. It's my life." Chivers was now close enough for Eavis to smell. Michael realised now, he just hadn't guessed Rupert could have a man here prior to their chat. This kind of forethought was their difference. "There is nothing I can say, nor offer, is there?"
This was more a statement of acceptance than a question. "Quickly, I ask that, please."
Rupert: "Of course, Michael. I am disappointed and sorry. And thank you for the advice over the dead bodies. Goodbye, my friend,"
Two bullets in swift succession to the brain saw the farmer crumble. Chivers looked at the odd tacheless beard as the Crimson puddle spread. He'd never liked the cunt. The facial hair marked him as a pretentious twat.
Sent from my iPad
No verbal description can communicate something that is entirely new, free from metaphor. 'God is love.' 'God is the light'. Reduced to such phraseology we are left only with words that find their meaning after another has shared the vision. 'I too see the light'. After a week spent listening to the only man known to have survived death. A man crucified for the anger of religious political fervour. The bible writes that God gave his only son for the love of man. Also true is that men and women, in display of their loyalty to God, offered up an innocent man for public torture and ritual execution. When Joseph of aramathea asked the Romans for his corpse, to take and place in his own tomb, having witnessed his dignity in death some of his Roman captors were converted and handed over his broken flesh. Two nights Christ spent among the dead. Walking the afterlife waiting for his father to send him back to shame those who had betrayed him. In white light he bathed patiently as other confused spirits explored what remained of them now their flesh was broken and they explored a new dimension.
Over two thousand years later his memories remained clear. Christ now stood, reassuring Peter, embracing his friend, instilling in him a faith that his being there was evidence that Peter too would return. Both knew, despite their optimistic words, that he may not. Lipton risked less but to lose his friend in this joint venture would leave his life empty. The two shaman held each other close as tears ran down their cheeks.
Lipton: "Go safe, my friend. Find her and get home to us. It seems much longer but when you found me in that patch of woodland, four weeks ago, noose around my neck, I was ready to go. But think of this last month? What we have achieved, who we have met. None of that would have been had you not saved me. Skree, Peter, my brother. It's always been just you and me. Death or glory. I love you. Don't leave me here on my own."
Peter: "It is not my day. See the breeze rippling through those leaves? The pair of buzzards there, circling overhead? That is life. It wants me here still. She's not done with me yet. When we bang up, as soon as we break open the veil, stand astride the portal. Keep one foot in life and one in death. Hold the opening for me. But if this construct starts to shimmer into nothing, or closes down, know that I'm done. Save yourself then. No heroics, eh? We both needn't die. The umbilical cord of ectoplasm linking us, naval to naval, cut it first sign the portal is crumbling. It's only death. Well all be going there one day. I'll be waiting for you. Besides, this last week, in my mind I've been running through some people I'll maybe meeting soon. I lost my mother young. It wasn't much later the reaper returned. Some demon cut through my generation like a scythe through wheat. Widd waits there, Animal, Martin, Turps, Richard, John; I've more mates over there than I have down here. I've not prayed since I was seven years old but Jesus has had me down on my knees every night, talking to them, asking them to help me do this. I heard no reply but, who knows? Do you remember last year when we were working with the 5-bromo-DMT? How we hit up four pipes a piece and were shot like cannon balls into Poseidons domain? I remember every second of our time there, the abundance of life on the sea bed, the beauty still can make me cry if I think of it too long, till I became entranced, forgot I was a land based mammal, I was close to drowning, felt myself going under. I woke with you pumping salt water from my lungs. You saved me that day, you dragged me back, I forgot myself, transfixed in wonder. So, death or glory, eh Lipton? Death of fucking glory! Let's do this fucking thing. For the Coven. For the planet. For the honour of saying we are Albions only shamans to have been beyond death!"
Lipton: "You owe me sixty quid for those lilac pills, don't forget. So I'm pulling you back here whether you like it or not, you tight cunt!"
Charlotte, Dianne and Stella had been sat around the circular table where the glass vials of human DMT sat alongside a small domed glass dish, a flask of sterile water, two 1ml barrel syringes, alcohol swabs and two tourniquets. They held hands linking the three as they repeated some lengthy incantation. In duration it lasted a full three minutes yet they'd repeated it in cycles, now for going close to an hour, building in volume. All three witches eyes firmly closed though trickles of sweat ran down all of their foreheads. Reaching conclusion they remained as a circle, hands held, eyes closed for a minute whilst their adrenalin lowered and they got their breath back.
Charlotte: "We've tried for you peter, that's as strong a hex as we know to sedate the spirits, stop them realising what we're up to for as long as possible. I can't guaruntee more than four or five minutes, but you may be lucky. Listen closely because once I blend the distillates of pineal DMT, some, at least will feel it. I'll blend it as swiftly as I can. Lipton? Your hit will be just short of a tenth of Peters. Let Dianne bang you up. She'll be going for the jugular, the big neck vein is nearest to the brain. Even your dose will take you out of this reality but if it's too strong just slump over the line. We'll be here for you to see you don't swallow your vomit or anything like that. And, as Peter says, if the portal fades, there's no heroics, right?"
Lipton: "Burst in to fucking heaven!"
Charlotte: "Peter, that's precisely what will happen. Your dose is massive. Stella will inject into your jugular simultaneously to Dianne on Lipton. The hit will be so strong you will be like a cannonball bursting through, no waiting room like when you pipe DMT. No one has done what you are about to do. Just try remember life here, who you are, what your objective is. I've written it down both your arms and hands. As you well know, the power of this psychedelic leap is unheralded. If Lipton yanks the umbilical then get back quick. Again, no heroics. It's taken a lot of hard work and twenty deaths to get here but we don't want another. We won't find a shaman as experienced as yourself without great difficulty."
Peter: "And I thought you liked me."
Charlotte: "I do." She blushed so fractionally, only Peter caught it but this more than anything gave him steel resolution. He would do this. He would see Charlotte again.
Charlotte: "By all accounts Boudicca is as hard a bitch as ever walked the Earth. I don't know how you're best to play it. Jesus reckons most there have forgotten their physical lives so don't get talking. How do you normally bring spirits back?"
Peter: "Closest I can describe it is I charge in before they've noticed you and bind with them, like inhaling or swallowing but not a physical binding. Drive my essence in like diving in to a lake then grip the bastards. Resist their struggling as though your crushing them in. When I'm back, get her out quick. Do you know shamanic extraction methodology?"
The Witches shook their heads. Jesus looked at the three girls.
Jesus: "One of you is going to have to carry her. If I can slap some sense in to Lipton he knows extraction better than me but I'll assist him in drawing her out of Peter. She'll try to stick inside him with all she's got but we have to get her out of him before she gets any tendrils of possession locked in. Whoever carries her shouldn't resist anything."
Charlotte :"Dianne has accepted to carry her. The large tank has eighteen octopuses. We're going to extract as much soul juice from them while you're over there, Peter. Me and Stella can hold out their selves for twenty minutes at least. Submerge Dianne in their tank. She will be deep in trance so Boudicca should be struggling like mad by then. The soul vacuum of each octopus should be too great a pull. In past demonology they can't hold their breath and find transmigration into the new flesh a relief. Stella, we're going to have to use a little stimulant ourselves. If any Boudicca is left in Peter we're going to have some serious gender issues in our shaman."
Peter: "A bit of Boudicca in me sounds quite exciting."
Charlotte: "Believe me, you'll have had your fill by then. There is little in the plan for contingency. If you or Dianne end up under possession I'm sure we can get her out. Peter, thank you for this. I can't express our gratitude. If you can't return I promise we will have a funeral party to make Bury Ditches look like afternoon tea. I might just come over there and get you back myself." She kissed Peters lips.
All readied themselves waiting for Peter to give the nod. Lipton and Peter sat back in reclining chairs, taking deep breaths. Stella alcoswabbed their jugular veins. Looking at Lipton, Peter nodded, "Death or glory. Let's fucking go!"
Charlotte took steady care in tipping each tiny amount of pineal gland distillate powder into the glass shallow dish before mixing it into a blend. Drawing up sterile water through the syringes accurately before spraying the powder. A little vitamin c added to ensure the human DMT breakdown. Then over a light flame she heated the mixture, stirring with a fine glass rod till the fluid was a consistent ruby colour. A fragment of filter dropped in settled to the bottom which she gently pressed down onto with the oval of the hyperdermic needle point. The larger axis of the needles eliptical tip cross the fibres of filter through which she drew up the fluid. Lipton syringe looked frighteningly low to Peter. Both sat back as the girls brought up the shamans jugulars, pierced, withdrew a plume of crimson ensuring they'd hit home, then simultaneously the Witches depressed the plungers, injecting the sacramental fluid into the shamans bloodstream.
Within seconds Peter felt himself boosted like a shell from a tank. Blasting clear through into another place altogether. A kaleidoscopic mandala twisted and folded, offering entry points that warped into shape, reached focus for a moment before warping out to a different proposition. By the third crystallisation Peter saw his chance and dived through. Racing at speed till its walled oft end raced toward him. Flexing up he saw similar doorways warping into focus and without choice nor thought he entered a parallel tube. Again a blockage zoomed up so Peter stepped through a side opening to a third light speed tube. Bursting through from tube to tube, Peter made progress till a last tunnel had no blockage, just an open end that spat him through to the dimension he sought. The blinding white light that excluded outer reality as completely as pitch darkness does in a mine. He found he had no gravitational baring, no up nor down, no spatial aspect of any kind. The purity of the light stripped him of form as his molecular structure underwent an explosion, the birth of a universe. Or an explosive dispersal of self to far corners of a ready existant one. Experienced enough in shamanic dimension leaping he knew to allow where he now was, time to reveal its nature. Or the inverse, fresh sensory testing to enable him to 'see' in new necessary ways. Three dimensional life animated by time is all most humans ever know but shamanic journeys had revealed some of the twenty seven dimensions Jesus had explained were accessible in the dimension he entered after his crucifixion. This did not mean conception nor sensory equipment would open them to Peter yet he was calm, safe in knowing they were around him. We can close our eyes yet still know we are in a cathedral. So it was for Peter. Loss of self had become familiar and the sensation of the particles of his being dispersed in an explosion outward always ran the risk of such severe ego loss his former life could make no sense. It had no relevance to where he now found himself. The version of self resonant to one bore no similarities to, nor often even an awareness of the others peculiarities of being. Yet particles now ranging across this dimension began to inform, to send data, a rudimentary self remained where sensations could combine to form meaning. The most primal and lost of presences felt close. "Mother?" Overwhelming warmth and love secured a point of baring. Not since he was a child had Peter seen his mother. She called his attention, impressed their reacquaintance was secure and knowledge of this certainty of his future allowed a focusing the job in hand. Such confusion felt as womb like as anything else he knew of to refer or compare it to. The awareness of being, yet knowing hisself hidden from something much greater, something that was inaccessible. Noises and sensations he felt through the muffled barrier. He remembered pop tunes he had known that must have played as his pregnant mother baked or sewed. Out of the whiteness light points and pattern could now be made out and from one of these coalescing light cathedral mists, Richard called, Peters best friend now eight years dead. Just as his mother had, again dismissing Peters impulsive sentimentality to urge him on. With a broad unveiling sweep, his lost friend provided direction. Pointing Peters attention toward a specific region. Albion, the mythological collective land of the souls of her children, steeped in essences, a construct of innumerable imaginations. Framed and contextualised by a myriad romantic notions. Searching this fog of fragmented dreams a hand reached out and gently took his. Someone, benevolent, anonymous, led him past innumerable distractions till he saw her. Queen Boudicca amongst her people. Peters mother kissed his forehead, this returned him into the knowledge of who he had been in life, sadness for what complex beauty he had discovered himself within accompanied his self recognition. This also calmed his fear and directed him. A secondary explosion of DMT washed through the the blood brain barrier and plunged him deeper into time where her memory, her scent, the love of the thousands with who she had fought, saw his particles undergo inversion becoming precise replicas of vacuum, an antiPeter re amassing and hitting light speed he speared toward Boudicca, entering her as Peter coalesced into the same space she occupied. He felt her. He was her. He wore her, and he felt her their, an angered replicant armour. Peter and Boudicca flickered in the shock of harmonic duality, a shared astral vehicular body. This strangeness lingered for a fractured moment before self contemplation was ripped away by a sudden tug of pain hit from the umbilical at his naval. Liptons strength was immense reflecting the need to make haste. The portal had begun to disband, their exit must be immediate. Peter ignored everything to follow the umbilical cord and fortune found Boudicca unresistant as they shot through the whiteness toward a green memory. The portal now left a solitary entry option through which Peter dived, warping access doorways now flickering and few were taken in blind selection as blockages increased. Speeding down a final corridor terror flooded him as ahead its passage now curved away. A portal warping below took a desperate violent kick to enter as the corridor he'd dropped from plucked itself free to return to its spiritual owner. Clear green light ahead came as a relief. The opening back that Lipton stood braced, sweat pouring from his brow, wedging it open as it resisted violently. Together the AntiPeter Boudicca duality was reborn into the harsh reality that re clustered, white light dying out. The organic digital fractals of DMT dispersing revealing the Covens cavern. Scared and in pain peter felt the woman he loved, his mother? No, not mother, forces tore her from him, ripping her away. A loss like love or death of a parent crippled him in emotional pain. Vomiting hands steered his head from drowning.
Lipton had shaken off the fractal mandala patterning that had helped him wedge the portal. A single thread was plucked away so he tugged the umbilical viciously, flipping the body of Peter still shouting insanities and clawing at his skin. Christ held him down with Charlottes help as his thrashing and ranting distracted Lipton. Still charged on the DMT Lipton sat heavily on his friends stomach to hold him steady then clasped his temples in both palms. Smashing his forehead on to Peters he ripped with all he could summon, screaming incantations, violently tearing Boudicca free as psychic negotiations passed between them. Dianne lay spread eagled, her scalp touching Peters, deeply sedated, mumbling but barely aware. Liptons aggression stripped what spirit Peter had returned with and forcibly rammed it deep into the naked recumbent witch.
The hard work done all took a breather. Peter was placed in the recovery position where he continued to vomit and rant. Lipton, also exhausted curled into a position, in deep pain, tears steaming from his eyes and white drool trickling from his lips. The shamans were fucked. Recovery wouldn't be as quick as the soul extraction. Yet the witches now had to leave them to suffer as, assisted by Christ they carried Dianne carefully to the octopus tank. The creatures semi soul vacuous alighted like a predator sensing blood as they brought the naked and sedated witch to their tank. Some began climbing out before realising they needn't bother sa their need was coming. Diane's nose and mouth were sealed off with a plastic mask with clear polythene tube, before Christ and Charlotte dropped her into the tank. Immediately her body was lost to sight as the octopuses covered every part of her, hungrily refilling themselves with as much Boudican soul sludge as they could. Their mass punctuated only by the tube that led to the surface so Dianne could breath.
Moving over to the wounded shamans Stella had the sensitivity to have prepared two syringes of diazepam knowing neither would be likely to stomach anything. Peter still shivering violently had begun to enter seizures. Finding a vein the witch kindly slipped the hypodermic in, withdrew a plume of blood before plunging home the sedative. Instantly his convulsions reduced to periodic quiverings. Moving over to Lipton she did the same for Lipton who Christ laid out in the recovery position. Here the shaman drifted into an induced sleep. Returning to Peter, now also unconscious she brought over a bowl of clean water. Charlotte, though exhausted herself took the flannel cloth from her Druid sister and cleaned away the vomit and sweat from Peters still shivering form. Jesus brought both men blankets to cover their sedated bodies. Together with Charlotte they covered the boys. Letting them recover unconscious. They would remain in this state for some time.
Christ moved over to the octopus tank. Stood with Charlotte they studied the activity within in a silent mesmerised curiosity. After twenty minutes, in slow succession, the creatures pulled sea from Dianne, finding quiet places to digest their fresh occupation.
Stella prepared a bed for Dianne then two more. Once Dianne was free of tentacles the girls and Jesus gathered her unconscious body from the tank. Tenderly laying her and towelling her down before covering her with sheets and duvet. Finally Stella took up her bed positioned at the opposite end from the bed she offered the son of God. Despite the highest references given by the slappers she didn't want any resurrection, nor, indeed, any erection, jus sling in behind her while she slept. After a little negotiation he too took an intravenous hit of diazepam and slipped under the covers.
Charlotte alone on her own checked around the studio. Wiping up vomit. Cleaning down surfaces. It would take a few years for these demonic flesh spirit hybrids to develop into a collection from which the goddess Boudicca would emerge. That story would have to wait. She thought of this shaman who had risked all to let this happen. She had grown very fond of him. Mixing with the drulads she'd never found one she liked enough to consider anything other than a brother. The straight folk were as unlikely suitors as the sheep on the hills. Maybe he could be something. She liked his bold plans for Rupert Bunsen and the super rich. She would watch him. In all likely how he'd turn out to be a knobhead like all the rest, but who knew? Maybe, just maybe. Finally she studied the sleeping figures. Peter still shivered so she slipped in under his bedding to warm him, spooning close behind him, holding him close, she too fell into sleep.
Psychic damage incurred by such shamanics can lead to months, years, lifetimes spent in disturbed units of mental hospitals. What condition anyone involved would wake up in none knew. There was no precedent, nothing from which to refer.
Rupert Bunsen sat in the living room of the largest residence on Bunsen Island. After the humiliating police treatment following his arrest in Shropshire he had made straight for London. Barely had he relaxed behind his office desk before he heard reports of two deaths at Bury Ditches Hill Fort party. He was beyond British naval waters in under two hours, his super yacht headed for the Caribbean. Given the circumstances under which he had purchased the marque and sound system, the police case against his organising the event were quite weak. What was of greater concern was the dead boy's parents campaign to find someone responsible for their sons deaths. Each year Glastonbury averages two deaths. With that number of people partying in one place sleeping in camping conditions reminiscent of disaster zones, the organisers accept a few casualties are the unfortunate consequence of making such vast sums of money. Michael Eavis has never been brought to account. Yet the press conference that all four parents gave caught the public imagination. If criminals were organising illegal events with no proper security or medical professionals on hand, they were making a lot of quick, untaxed earnings, surely they must have a duty of care? You could twist it and turn it how you want but whoever organised that party had murdered their children. Compensation figures were mentioned and dismissed as insulting. You can't put a price on a life, not less than seven figures all four parents agreed. Even to mention money insulted them yet practicalities of funeral costs etc were sadly acknowledged as the least that could be done. Police had not named the main organiser but rumour had it he was loaded. Through solidarity in this reasoning they had found something to hold on to. Their grief found an outlet in standing together against drug parties. It could have easily and just as mistakenly have been a united campaign to level all Hill Forts so confused, deep and without focus was their pain. It suited the police who helped to play down the fact that only the sleeping drug zopiclone and a trace of cannabis was found in the blood of the boys. Neither boy had, to their parents knowledge, used any drugs before. Outstanding throughout their schooling and both creatively blessed, the careers looked glorious for their exceptional boys. Both had been mediocre students in truth. Both had been smoking weed for over four years. Speed and ecstasy, for the last two. Gombo and Reeny, Simon Gompton and Paul Green had been mates since middle school. Not long after meeting their grades slowly fell as, together they found other activities, outside of school to focus on. An abandoned 125cc Yamaha found out on the waste ground where the new Wimpey estate was planned to be built soon became a project that changed their lives. They spent a summer restoring the wreck, borrowing tools and advice from a local mechanic. Resurrecting the heap had been liberating. Breathing life into a rusted write off. The magic that was possible if determination and collaboration refused to give in.
The lads grew bigger. The bikes grew bigger and both left school before taking their exams to work in garages. Wolverhampton had a small anarcho punk scene and both developed rudimentary guitar skills. Their tearful parents described the loss of the talented musicians, their lyrical genius raised in their memories the angry chants to poetry. The world had also lost two soon to be ground breaking engineers. These lives lost as collateral damage as the organisers and their drug pushing associates grew rich. Simon Gomptons mother broke into tears, her husband held her close. "These scum are no more than murderers! How many more lives like our boys will it take before these raves are taken seriously! As lads we all enjoy a time I youth when we stretch the boundaries. And I'm no different! I hold my hands up. As young Teds we'd get a little rough when we'd go to Brum, but never did we take drugs! Beer was enough! But the evil of this ecstasy the kids are being pushed into taking is a whole new dimension. Beer and cigs never hurt anyone."
At this point the police chief intervened to bring the televised spectacle to a controlled close. "We would like to appeal to anybody who may have heard anything, however small it may seem to come forward. There is a suggestion that drugs may have played only one part in these deaths, though autopsy reports show both were on drugs. At this stage the specifics of the drugs taken are of no relevance to the investigation. There was something vital missing from both victims of drug use. It seems that in their drug fuelled psychosis, the two lads decapitated each other before hiding the heads. Our officers have arrested and charged the organiser. The bodies were not found for forty eight hours after his release. He is instructed to make contact with me or his local police station to help with enquiries though he is not a suspect, I repeat not a suspect. So he need have no concerns regarding coming forward. His whereabouts are however currently unknown so any information from the public is welcome and can be made anonymously on our special grassline 021275008900. There is a reward for information should this lead to a conviction. Further, 'Parents against Drugs', a group formed from parents whose children have been affected by drugs, are also offering cash incentives to any who has information on the drug pushers involved. Again anonymity is assured for grasses whose brave snitching can often lead to them being battered or incrementally manipulated by their operatives until they have support from neither side. Treated by their handlers as weak and disloyal, a reflection on the feelings of those who they grass up. Operating two faces, lying and smiling to those whose trust they broke whilst hoping to please a copper whose only aim is to use their duplicitous nature, can be a hard carry. Indeed, suicide is a sad but common end for these invaluable and unrespected two faced heroes. Police work, as you know is 75% informants, 20% luck and a lot of hard work. In our war against drugs the police will stop at nothing to bring both suppliers taking advantage of prohibition and also on users who's intent to enjoy themselves in ways that society on the whole finds weird, provides the market. As Mr Gompton said, ciggies and booze are harmless pleasures that all can share. These are enough for the linear mind. Other stuff maybe statistically safe but they are weird. Their menacing properties attract the crusty, the stretch head and the expando brain. You tube footage of Bury Ditches Hill Fort party shows thousands dancing together in a shared empathic joy. Don't allow seeing such joy fool you into the hidden dark side. We are studying such footage and will be prosecuting those we identify for possession with intent to enjoy. Last year over twelve people died from ecstasy alone, over two hundred on other drugs, none died on lysergamides or, indeed tryptamines. Many, however, had transcendent, numinous, mystical and first hand religious experiences. Experiences we aim to stamp out! Achieving this by classifying these substances alongside crack and heroin. Two drugs that ruin lives. Indeed supply of LSD invariably incurs sentences much greater than supply of heroin and crack. No one wants their children experiencing these head states. By denial of the existence of any spiritual dimension to life, such experiences fall into the category of serious mental illnesses. Through this two pronged approach, by draconian sentencing for their supply and the subjugation of the mystical experience through psychiatric professionals we are able to keep this danger contained."
D I Briggs had drifted off target. He had hit the main points though. Try get Rupert Bunsen to hand himself in expecting no trouble. Blame the murders on drug use. Tempt the grass types with money. Allow the parents to try elevate any compensation claims should they be able to hold Bunsen accountable. Briggs hadn't liked the man. A life spent keeping his type safe. Never being thanked more than a bus conductor. Meeting the man had affected Briggs. Class had never upset him. He knew his station. Police are on the whole, upper working class. Turning against their own kind to accept pay levels that ought to find them stepping over the kids they grew up around. The thatcher years had pitched police against miner. But class can no more be hidden than colour of skin. They never found middle class acceptance. They married other coppers. Socialised with other coppers. Some were of more noble creed. Vocationally drawn to right wrongs. Others were drawn to adventure, tearing down motorways to arrive first at some grisly accident. Briggs had a little of each. He hoped to make a better world, yet Indeed, school bullying had begun his journey, to be in the toughest gang. To be the bully, never again the bulied. But Bunsen reminded him of all the times he'd pulled over a drunk ex public school boy, thinking his posh car may be driven by a criminal or a black, only to have to apologise to one of his betters, knowing their reach in the craft lay beyond his. Freemasonry meant he had to let certain people go. When he first was asked his pride in being accepted into the secret social club that ran society thrilled him. Over the years it became clear the inclusion of police ensured the higher craft were beyond the law. Necessary members but unloved. Yew Tree had undermined the old ways. Saville died before the unassailable began to be prosecuted. Beyond this, the unspoken hierarchy. Plebs. To their betters they would always be plebs. The way he'd been spoken down to despite having been, theoretically in the position of power. The socially aspirant lower middle class are in transition. Escaping their parents shameful habits of poor taste and ignorance. Hiding their vowels. A hunger to know the names, the labels, the correct styles that marked inclusion, yet never quite sure. Prone to the embarrassing fau pas. Unable to escape submission to the superior. The journey never completed, their shameful origins denied, their aspirations never quite reached. Despite himself he had found himself calling Bunsen 'sir'. Providing a glass of water when asked. He hated the man he had become. Subservient. Rupert Bunsen merely crystallised this self disgust. More crime takes place in poor areas, poor on poor, black on black. This was barely recorded. Reporting such crimes received no response. The police role is to deliver a sense of security to those above property owning level. Those without property have nothing to protect. Only themselves, and once damaged they can't be returned. To preserve the status quo. Changing culture may have seen better educated blacks now come under the umbrella. He'd rejected his parents, his culture, his mates, to keep these arrogant and secure strangers safe. And they thought him pathetic for doing so. He would catch Bunsen. A final act. He no longer cared for justice for the boy's parents. He hardly cared about himself. Putting away this snob would return him. The person he had hoped to become. Why should two ordinary lads, lads like he'd grown up with, just get killed, why could their deaths go unresolved, just because the organiser of an illegal party incurred fewer overheads in providing no security? After the hill top battle, after the failure of his team, after a stage managed piece of theatre for the media, Briggs felt every value he had clung to had been debased. He had failed as a man. Yet he retained a final chance. Ignore his superiors. Stand tall and bring down Bunsen. Swearing this personal oath Briggs lost all fear, stress, worry. If he failed, he would die in trying.
Rupert would have to give Eavis a call. It had been years since he'd seen the ill chosen facial haired rustic bumpkin. They'd orbited the same social circuit at one time. Longleat had been a never ending party for a time in the late sixties. Arrabella Churchill, Peter Gabriel, even Mike Oldpastures before their collaboration in marketing the Tuberous Bellend. He could almost smell the incense, the eastern oils the girls used as repulsive perfume, no doubt in defence against the free love ethos the boys had read about over in Berkley, Woodstock, and tried induct their females in. Emerging from fifties prudery their parents had adopted in a Victorian revival that omitted the teenager, their older sisters married mid twenties as virgins. Emerging also from girls only schools, their social class had been seperated throughout schooling, playing as prepubescent children only reblending in their late teens. The gender understanding was negligible in direct reverse balance to the yearning sexual desperation. They wore their hair long, eastern clothing, kaftans, beads and flowers. Frigid straights, collaborators with the man, many were the insults and psychological belittling of girls unprepared for the Free Love. Cripes! Lord Bath had a hundred odd wifelets! Bunsen chuckled at the fond memories of their sexual manipulation. Eavis was just the fellow. Two or three deaths at Glastonbury each year barely got a mention. One had to marvel at the elegance of the deception. A celebration of motor travel, three days of land destruction, stealing the Travellers idea, cloaked in the moral certitude of the day; CND, greenpeace, sold at exclusive ticket prices ensuring only the comfortably off could attend. A fence inspired by the Berlin Wall. And the rich punters get shanty town treatment. Literally allocated puddles feet deep, to camp in. Surprised there weren't more deaths. Clearly Eavis shared Bunsens moral outlook. I bet he'd like an Ark ticket, the old crook! Thought Rupert. Near certainty. Two calls and he had the farmers mobile number. Answer phone. Milking the cows, no doubt. Walking to the vast window frontage he looked down on the harbour, the lines of yachts, the camouflage that hid his greatest work. Humanity's greatest work.
His mobile buzzed alive. Eavis returning his call, no doubt, eager to catch up, offer his old friend the stars.
Bunsen: "Michael, my old chum! Bunsen here! Long time no speak though I've marvelled from afar at the masterful and elegant deception you've developed over the years. You urinate from such a height upon their heads whilst your meteorological rain reports see their eyes blessed with your rural Avalonion baptism!"
Briggs: "Rupert Bunsen? This is DI Briggs from South Shropshire Police. I have a number of questions for you following our last interview. Two bodies were discovered during the clear up operation following Bury Ditches Hill Fort party that you have been charged with organising. Are you able to report to a Police station of mutual convenience in the next twenty four hours? Attending voluntarily would be in your legal interests however I have sufficient information to authorise your arrest should you choose to be uncooperative."
Bunsen thought quickly. Telephone connection for much longer would clarify he wasn't in London, yet his whereabouts would be deducted swiftly even by a simple irritant like Briggs. Best show no concern. If the British government itself were to try bring him back it would take at least a month. Fuck! Should have checked the phones screen, Eavis advice would have been handy to have. Still, if he couldn't trick a monkey like Briggs he really had lost his touch.
Bunsen: "Ah! The little rural uniform fellow. The line is crackle some. Your rustic connection no doubt. Railway guard weren't you? Sorry! Got it! Bobby, right?"
Briggs: "The line is quite clear. Though I see there is no triangulation suggesting you aren't in London, as I hoped. Will you be able to report to a British Police Station within twenty four hours?"
Bunsen: "I'm unlikely to be in England for several weeks, can I help you in any other way? I assumed the court dates over your mistaken and slanderous charges over the countryside party you failed to bring under control, should you fail to be dismissed for gross incompetence by connections of mine for whom you are an obscure, misguided underling, would be the next time my legal team would have any contact with you. Perhaps I can help? 'What Tractor' may be more helpful."
Briggs: "There maybe further charges, Mr Bunsen. If the courts find you legally responsible for the party, there are two possibilities. A judge may dictate you had a duty of care for your guests. By not providing either security nor medical services it may be you are tried in connection with the two deaths. However, more likely is the families bringing a private case against you. Do you wish to say anything at this stage?"
Bunsen: "Mr Biggs! It appears that you have called not simply to interview me over some terribly sad deaths that happened within a mile of where I was amongst five thousand others. Indeed I would like to express my deepest sympathies with the families and their unfortunate dependence on an incompetent village Bobby to investigate these awful losses. Rather than doing his job he chooses to pester me, star struck by my fame and wealth.
As for you, Briggs. Expect to hear very soon from your superiors over your wild allegations. I will not be taking any legal steps against you as yet as I feel certain my connections within your organisation will be reallocating you to a position more suited to your skills. The public bemoan the demise of beet bobbies. Clearly budget cuts may not stretch to pairs, like In the old days, but many inner city areas could benefit by your solitary patrol. Brixton, Tottenham, Hackney, Leeds has Chapeltown, Gipton, Manchesters Hume, Moss Side, most of our major cities have such opportunities. Perhaps Northern Ireland where there remains animosity despite the peace process. I could see you posted to keep an eye on IRA funerals, maybe, your bravery could find the more progressive few seeing beyond the uniform, then again, they may just see an unforgivable insult. Or you could choose to never think of me again and look for the killers, like a good little copper, eh?"
Bored of this silly oink, Rupert hung up. Clueless idiot! Had he no idea what Bunsen could do? Yet something had changed in the coppers manner. Their interactions following his arrest had complied to the familiar servile respect those of Ruperts birth expected. Steering clear of names, always using sir, providing telephones, water, generally fulfilling their service roll to keep their betters happy. This interaction contained impudence, insolence, threat almost. The smoothly removing of misunderstandings when the upper echelons found accidental entwinement with the criminal classes could usually relied upon. Many a rich society girl had played amongst the bad boys but if ever the doors burst in, even if they'd been manipulated into buying the cocaine heaped on the table, the police could always be relied upon to pluck the poor thing free, perhaps sneaking a little personal to help the criminal out. Few will argue to the judge they had three ounces, not just the one. But they'd get the bad guys. Briggs sounded on a mission. As though he'd abandoned his duty to the rich and stable, in pursuit of technicalities. As though he sought not to preserve the status quo, but to ignore the big picture. The kind of chap who'd refuse logic, press the charges on the society girl due to technical ownership of the cocaine. Briggs wasn't police, he was a madman! This private case of the boys families. Worth his concern?
Flipping open the Mac book Rupert googled the case. Several websites sprung up. Opening the official families one was horrific. The you tube press conference had two million views. Forum threads had thousands making financial commitments. This site had legal advice as no direct reference to Bunsen was made though the allusions were clear.
Other sites, set up by angry outsiders were less restrained. Some were calling for Rupert Bunsen to be charged with man slaughter. Public enquiries. Politicians, largely from the wreck less Corbinite left openly called for Bunsen to explain how an illegal event, all but proven to be the work of his organisation, leaked copies of the crude documents he'd signed with Anthone under G Mans advice revealed this was an event using Bunsen owned Marque and sound system. Politicians were clear, no one is saying Bunsen fed these youths drugs and be headed them unaided, far from it. Yet his event, organised without respect for law, had led to these deaths.
There were anarchist sites that weren't worth reading. Yet curious Rupert peeped. Photoshop graphics showed Bunsen grinning out, a severed head in each hand. One final creation had Bunsen animated in endless repetition, kicking human heads like rugby balls from a hill top.
This had gone viral. A hideous misrepresentation of the truth. Then he saw it. The footage began shaky but clarified. Only up on you tube eight hours yet a million and a half views saw G Man moving first, his gold chain swaying, till he slips out of picture to reveal clearly Rupert Bunsen, Savile row suited, leading in a naked cave creature covered in shit, by a neck manacle and chain, Rupert grinning at his broken reduction of a man. It looked evil.
Slamming closed the laptop Rupert had seen enough to know this would stick. Blamed. And why? Flipping open the laptop Bunsen searched to see if the sales figures G Man predicted from the DJ sets could soothe this wound. The official full Tuberous Bellend drum and bass remix had sold quickly at first, then plummeted. From then sales grew like a tree. Some branches now had vastly outgrown the trunk. Tuberous Bellend was undoubtedly peaking in popularity yet the crude remixes had swiftly been superseded with far greater works. The Tuberous Bellend decapitation overdub was selling far faster. Darker blends of video works that synchronous visuals articulated strange directions, journeys of sounds plucked, sampled and looped that soundtracked imagery of the chained man led by Ruperts grin. The highest definition footage had been taken by someone laid on the floor as the trio entered. G Man s comic entry saw him towering above, gold chain swaying before he steps aside, here first the crabbed scuttle of the cave man, unaware of the camera his fear shows like a wild animal, matted dreads swing as he tries to grasp his situation, fingernails fill the screen as realisation hits him that someone is filming. Curled claws four inches in length cross the screen then scuttling away the caked dried excrement stuck fast to his skinny form horrifying the viewer before the lens pans up. The neck brace rattles as Olpastures tries to run free, chain snaps taught preventing escape. Finally the upward sweep follows the chain over expensive fabric, a tie, a beard then Rupert grins demonically down. His cruelty becomes theatrical as he rears in the terrified creature. A chance three minute film carrying more power than any directorial planning could achieve. This in raw you tube form had been clipped and energised. Numerous versions explored in hi def slo mo, the yanked chain, the grotesque finger nails, the eyes in terror, the cloth slipping unchecked from the mans over sized genitals revealing malformed potato like bellend, root veg still speckled with soil, tuberous helmet.
Desperate now Bunsen checked sales. The work had been stolen and improved. His own theft returned to him a hundred fold. Tuberous Bellend two heads of grime was a fast selling complication of several top names, one head took a smooth edged journey as artists span their take across its restructured beats, two head took a deeper journey, Grimes harder edge that took the rural event into the urban jungle of myth. Further garage versions took a two step stripped back acoustic angle. Deep trance Tuberous Bellend lose your head, parts one and two. Speed Garage Bellend headless mix reignited a largely forgotten genre.
Further in were new hybrids, Anarcho Punk Tuberous Bellend severed heads of bankers. Darker industrial versions sounded like a horror factory of Tuberous Bellend heavy steel works, grunted vocals listing the instrument like Oldpastures listed on his original masterwork. Folk singers had written ballads of the chained man. Oldpastures had undergone complete deification. His back catalogue was selling to new generations. The volume of spin off work was immense.
The story simple. A parable that caught the public mood. A callous ogre of greed beyond human imagination had driven an angelic vulnerable artist to a broken animal, the monster had entered a place of shared joy and displayed his captor with evil glee. Yet the artists music had destroyed the evil ones hold and freed the chained man as a wave of beauty spread. As if in anger at the triumph of good over bad, a hideous discovery was made. Two boys had been beheaded. Only one suspect could be so cruel. The architect of this horror was now free. But his images were global icons.
The truth no longer mattered. Bunsen boiled, pacing his deck, thinking of some way out. His mobile brought him round. Checking this time. Eavis! Thank god!
Rupert: "Oh Michael! Have you seen? An hour ago I was content. Calling you to offer you a chance of a lifetime, and ask a little advice. Then I checked out the Internet!"
Eavis: "Remain calm! These people mean nothing. Picture your land. A green Eden. Then imagine a fifty foot high steel fence all the way around. Are you following? A walled garden. A city where only the civilised are admitted. You own a police force, private security to ensure no low life enters. Relax. Are you feeling me, Rupert?"
Rupert: "Michael, thank you. My imagination took hold. It's been a while since those hippy days, eh? But I've admired your work. Observing the lower orders, selecting their gems, plucking them free of context. The elegant move of taking in Stonehenge refugees. This legitimised a festival. So what if it's not exactly solstice. Nor at the nations temple. These are banned. But for a reasonable fee join us. The acts grew bigger, the CND bollocks grew less. The travellers were turned away once their purpose was served. Their religious festival, now stripped of the mystical, restrictive price cut out the riff raff. Higher prices. Higher fences. No traveller would live in such squalor but a week in a tent in a puddle could be sold to guardian readers. I loved to see you on the news as rain fell, how the Glastonbury spirit was enhanced by hardship. Then they all drove home. Genius! You truly made the middle class liberals buy mud and feel they'd got their money's worth."
Michael: "Rupert, it's refreshing to speak to a man like yourself. I've taken others culture, stripped its dignity and made millions. A few bob to Africa, a fiver to Greenpeace. A rainbow hat, a smile. No one seems to notice the destruction, pollution, waste it uses up."
Rupert: "Indeed! Nor the annual deaths. I was most curious on how you spin that one?"
Michael: "How can I be expected to ensure every single person behaves responsibly? Some idiots will always drink my cider and drown in the vast puddles. With such basic toilets the odd disabled type is going to fall in. And drugs! Police bust as many as they can so mostly Glastonbury is used as a place to offload all the shite. In a city or town you can't get away selling bad shit for long without being found out. So, dealers from all cities who buy a duff batch of poison pills, shit coke, any crap batch of drugs all gets saved up and brought to the biggest market for drugs with the least knowledgeable or discerning customers. Selling to strangers the dealers can get their money back. Some travel from Germany, France , Spain with shit batches. Mostly they're just weak or twisted. Fake ecstasy that makes you go mental. But the odd poisonous batch gets in. Glastonbury is world famous as the clearing ground for crap drugs. If you ever come, here's my advice. Bring your own. Or travellers. They're banned but some always get in. They're the sole source of decent gear. Without them were fucked. So, when the clear ups underway I clear off till the bodies have been discovered. Then blame others. It's the size of Bath. I tell people, look at the logistics. If a city the size of Bath all took the combined mass of dodgy otherwise unsaleable drugs, what do you expect? I don't give a toss, Rupert. If I'm prepared to sell you a bed in a puddle of mud, and you are daft enough to pay, do you think I care what happens? Of course someone will die! Give Bear Grills enough shit pills and lay him in a puddle and there's one likely result."
Rupert: "Did you hear about my misfortune? Great party, bought the recordings then some upstart copper pins the whole deal on me. I could cope with that but they found two bodies. Nothing to do with me but the internet has woven it together. How do I clean that mess up?"
Eavis: "Ride it out. Show no concern as that denotes responsibility, I'm close to a hundred festival deaths, myself. But I have a fortune. Or disappear!"
Rupert: "No ones let slip my project, have they?"
Eavis: "What project? Disappear to Columbia to study powders for a year, that sort of thing. Amazonian timber exploitation. Something quiet, eh?"
Rupert: "Fuck them all! I'm bringing it forward. I was hoping to bleed off a little more, see a little more of the environmental change, two years I'd said. But now? Four weeks and we fly!"
Eavis: "What's your game, Bunsen! I'd caught a sniff. I haven't heard details but I'm in certain circles. We've creamed off the money. Most of it is owned by only a hundred people. We've achieved that but what now? We can gate off communities, islands like yours I guess, but soon they're going to click."
Rupert: "Exactly! What I am going to offer you, should you choose to hear, is non refusable. Once I tell you either you join us or I have duty to the others involved. Some would say a Devils deal but I prefer to see ourselves as stepping up to godliness. Do you want to hear? I understand if not."
Eavis thought things over. He was old. His daughter now ran Glastonbury mainly. All the greenpeace rubbish had failed. The planet was done. Or entering a period of change. He'd scammed the lot and told them it was for their good. Scum. Ruperts elite were his type.
Eavis: "Ok! I'm in. Our elite few, we've taken the lot. Harvested the Earth. What's your idea, Bunsen? You sneaky chap, you!"
Rupert: "We have successfully gathered most of the earths wealth between our small elite number. This is the culmination of the western project. Which in itself concludes evolution. History led to our small number. You must know of my space tourism? Well, this served to test out technologies. Beneath Bunsen Island I have gathered the planets greatest scientific minds unhindered by emotion or ethics. CERN sapped a few but together, through investors like you might choose to be, we have created the pinnacle of human technology. Some see divine planning, others the natural order. Whatever, having used up the Earths resources we have a depleted husk. It served its function. The vehicle now completed is beyond anything previously dreamed up or made. The technicalities will go over your head. But we are leaving this used up old planet behind. We are the seeds of humanities next step. The planets elite. We are leaving to populate a new, Virgin Eden. As the distillation or refinement of life on Earth, we are the chosen. The party is over now, the game is done. The winners now step onward. Michael? Are you coming?"
Eavis: "The concept is brilliant! Of course I would love to, yet my daughter, the farm. In two years, perhaps I could have, but now?"
Rupert felt the refusal disheartening. He took no pleasure in what he must do. A second chance he'd never before offered but he wasn't certain Chivers was in position yet
Rupert: "Are you certain? This isn't something to allow sentiment or emotion affect. This is humanity's greatest leap! Michael, please join us?"
Chivers had arrived three hours earlier in chance of such a refusal. Bracing himself he spoke in latin to ready himself. Shuffling through the lines of Friesians, stood, submissive, being electronically milked. Just as Eavis had milked his clients. Michael felt someone near but saw no one around. Just his beloved cattle.
Eavis: "You see, I am honoured to be offered even, and of course I shan't say a dicky bird. But I like this farm. It's my life." Chivers was now close enough for Eavis to smell. Michael realised now, he just hadn't guessed Rupert could have a man here prior to their chat. This kind of forethought was their difference. "There is nothing I can say, nor offer, is there?"
This was more a statement of acceptance than a question. "Quickly, I ask that, please."
Rupert: "Of course, Michael. I am disappointed and sorry. And thank you for the advice over the dead bodies. Goodbye, my friend,"
Two bullets in swift succession to the brain saw the farmer crumble. Chivers looked at the odd tacheless beard as the Crimson puddle spread. He'd never liked the cunt. The facial hair marked him as a pretentious twat.
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Friday, 25 March 2016
Peter - Chapter Nineteen
Peter - Chapter Nineteen
The hay bales hadn't been moved overnight. The circle, however, had an intense feel yesterday lacked. All attending the conferences second day were committed to conclusion of the issues raised by the magnetic forces that had brought them together.
Jesus Christ no longer looked the distracted crusty of yesterday. A piercing intensity had entered his eyes, his Slappers were long gone. Hitch hiking for them was no slog of hours rain soaked junction hovering. Once thumb fell parallel to the ground rarely a minute elapsed before some vehicle whisked their majestic forms to any destination they chose.
Cathy had talked Sue into accompanying her return to Cheltenham, perhaps wisely as her personal changes in dress weren't married to the ready expertise with violence the Slappers she so admired had developed through extreme hardship. Once safely on the national express Sue forgot the slappers and wept for Esau.
The youngest of the sons of Jesse was also quietly feeling her loss. His mind wrestled with the labyrinth network that he could use to find his way to her. Walking together with Elijah felt good despite missing Sue. Entering the tunnel that had brought them out at Bury Ditches Hill Dort felt comforting and safe as the earth reclaimed her own into her bosom. Subterranean life meant exposure overland always felt vulnerable. The brothers walked in proud unity. They were returning to their father with hearts filled with hope. Jesses empire now had an heir, hope, a future of great possibility.
Lipton - Peter - Jesus Christ - Mike Oldpastures - Harry - Charlotte - Dianne - Stella - Andy - Ben - Jimmy - Bill. The dozen sat to discuss the two main issues.
Christ: "I called this conference for a few reasons. I've been in touch with the other Druid communities. They fear that your plan, the original Druid project, to establish five isolated clusters of Druid communities, is endangered. Each group was to keep alive the craft in separate and unconnected locations. Then, once the Roman invasion was over the aim was to return the flame to the people. Yet it has taken two millenia and the devastation of the environment before the poison the Romans brought had worked its way through. They fear that the abuse of the Clun group has caused you to grow disfunctional. They still believe you need only wait a few more generations and your project will reach conclusion. They feel you may bring on unnecessary trouble. Prevent the plan reaching its ends. The twenty deaths may be far from police detection but all Albions various Mystics have a pretty good idea whose doing it. They implored me to report their misgivings as you are sworn to not interact. These things I say are no reflection of my personal beliefs, yet I hereby fulfill my promise in reporting to you. I will say, however, that not only Lipton and Peter, me, but others are aware of the twenty deaths. This has been your choice. Furthermore, much as I respect the Druidic project and the discipline it has taken, I see it as an archaic anomaly. Too much has changed to ever hope a return to pre Roman consciousness might be possible. And if it happened, it would occur despite, rather than down to your scheme."
Andy: "So you report this without holding any belief in the other Druidic people's hopes?"
Jesus: "I respect them enough to report their message."
Andy: "Let's take a step backwards. Are we in alignment regarding the failure of the promethean project of western civilisation? Do the other Druids, and those here today, believe the line mankind has taken culturally in these isles alongside their allies in Europe and USA, has failed. Science has offered a route out of superstition yet destroyed the environment in doing so. Are we agreed the over population of humanity has caused vast extinction of other species. Are we in agreement that the cyclic system of life and death, the nature of all life forms on the planet, furthers the overall planetary health. Do we agree that man is an animal? Subject to animal laws?"
Most nodded, Jesus concurred with the basics of the idea.
Andy: "That the linear journey man began through his belief in his unique gift of consciousness, sometimes called the soul, the journey away from animals and environment, stepping out alone using our reason, rational and science, that this linear journey be it to salvation or understanding, the seperation and walking off alone, was a mistake?"
Jesus: "We agree! Does anyone here believe we can make a blind bit of difference to the path the human animal will take?"
Peter: "We heard your lack of belief in the possibility of steering human culture. I submit an alternative angle. We are animals subject to animal laws. However, each animal has evolved distinct specialities. Peregrine falcons can hit speeds over 150mph whilst in stoop to kill their pray. The cheetah runs at great speed to bring down an antelope. Human speciality is self reflective consciousness. Free will, as Christ argues, is in the purest sense, an illusion. Yet humans have reached their current evolutionary details 196,000 years ago. Since then there have been numerous different cultural systems. The path of the western mind is but one. A chance out of an infinite spectrum. It's twists and turns have pivoted on the decisions, ideas and stand out acts of individuals. Free will is an illusion, if we consider the casting of dice. Countless bounces and knocks, air pressure and turbulence, something so complex and beyond human conception that predicting how the dice will fall can never be more than a guess. However, if these countless effectual influences have a compliance to natural laws of physics, given sufficient data and a computational measurement system of vast complexity, the cast of dice could be predicted accurately. The dice land to the determination of many factors, yet if all were known, the dice fall would be inevitable. The supposed conclusion to the free will debate that has been a philosophical game of tennis since Ancient Greece, comes, in most current writing, from neuroscience. The theory is far older, yet now proof exists that up to ten seconds prior to a decision, neuro chemical processes are preceding it hidden from our awareness, deep below even subconscious. The conscious self only becomes aware of its decision half way down the line. Yet, a person you know well enough, faced with a dilemma, may appear, to a stranger to be ruminating, running over the pros and cons. But if you know someone sufficiently well you can know well before they do what their decision will be. We are animals that act, generally speaking, to their own nature. Some drivers never pick up hitch hikers. Their fear for personal safety, lack of empathy, class prejudice, any reason reflective of their nature may dictate their never doing so. Others always pick up hitch hikers, again a blend of character, nurture and experience, contribute to it being in their nature to pick up a stranger. Yet it certainly appears, from within that we always have choice. I agree. Still, it makes no difference. Does it matter why someone kills another? Does it matter if it was in their nature or a considered act? If they entered a psychotic delusion whereby the brave killing of the devil before them will save countless others? To me it's like a dog. If a dog is dangerous and attacks children, it must be put down. Regardless of how horrific its upbringing. Regardless of the misfortune of its breeding. Mitigating factors affect choice but they always will. Those dangerous to society need locking away, not to punish them, simply for our safety. Equally so, the college student born with a predisposition to work hard no more chose their character than a murderer. Human failings blight our careers where character weaknesses and laziness blight others. For sure, it takes hard work to become a world champion boxer. But it was pure luck they were born with that discipline and drive, alongside the physique and motor skills. They no more chose these traits than they chose their sexuality, gender, skin colour or parents. The same line of reasoning praises the hardworking and successful as causes sexist or racist outlooks. The sooner we accept this the better it will be for all. But I doubt this myth will crumble any time soon. Our leaders, academics, athletes, rich, successful in all areas won't accept that their good fortune was chance. Their entire delusional self esteem depends on the sustenance of this lie. The conservative government has attacked the weak, poor, disabled, mentally ill by blaming their predicament on their choices. Of all factors choice plays the smallest roll in a persons achievements in life. Fate of birth over rides in all but very rare cases. So infrequent are the deviations from this rule that their stories make books, films, if they were anything other than extremely rare exceptions to the rule their would be no story. Yet the myth continues. So, I say consciousness is a red herring.
But enough great people live to their beliefs unhindered by their society and these do steer the mass mind. Besides all this, if we accept we have no more control than a slug then we do nothing and downhill is the inevitable conclusion. I agree a slug has no greater chance of figuring out the meaning of life but I don't think we are without power."
Jesus: "Take a look at my career? It nearly got me killed, again, yesterday for its inverse effect to my belief. Basically, I'd have caused less harm by continuing with the joinery business. The human act, the life's work, a writer, artist has no control over how their work is interpreted and used. Aren't I living proof of my point?"
Lipton: "No! You are an example of one life. Try Hitler, Stalin, there ideas were carried out to the letter without question. I, for one, would have preferred a world free of them."
Jesus: "Names. Someone else would have filled their role had it not been them. Further, and this point should draw us together again. Has mankind's peace been a good thing for the biodiversity of the planet? Is the growth of human peace a good thing as population continues to expand reducing the biodiversity in its path for farming crops to sustain our growing number?"
Charlotte: "You all come from the perspective that considered action with a long overview has ever been, our view is far less considered. A man shoots your dog, in anger you go out and shoot his! It may well be the worst course of action. But it is all you have! Your animal response. Trust it. Deep down we all know what we want. Do it!"
Peter: "Some people are best taking your advice. But a paedophile? Wouldn't someone born with horrific urges be best advised to resist these unasked for impulses?"
Peter: "Look! We are accepting defeat if we are to slither down some philosophical loophole. Let the Clun Coven explain first if these deaths and my speculation yesterday was correct and second, if true, what is it that makes such barbarism worthwhile. The Druidic project is none of our business. Whether it works or not. Jesus, you need to report back to the other Druids to put their minds at rest. As I understood the old Druid legend, they never expected all five colonies to survive. If the Clun choose to split away, it's their decision. The other four have it covered"
Charlotte: "Peter. You offered your help in exchange for your scheme to stop Rupert Bunsen? Am I correct? Well, for a start, we talked in private and we will join you in this mission. As to our other work, I will take Lipton, Christ and Peter to the aquarium tanks. Let them decide over its value. No one else need have knowledge of that. Can we start here?"
Lipton looked over to Peter. Both nodded.
Lipton: "So, to list our obstacles. We need the Coven to raise Jig. We need a vessel we can take first to the sargasso and then to the Caribbean. We need some system of smashing through that glass box, and lastly we need the exact date and time Bunsen plans to evacuate."
Mike Oldpastures: "In...........transit....horsebox.....................I overheard Bunsen speaking..........to............Clarridge.................July 4th............passengers must be............at......the.........island the night before...................they board.........5pm.........hope...to.......leave.......to take off............by 7.30pm."
Peter: "That is brilliant, Mike! Charlotte, can you arrange the eels?"
Charlotte: "That is no problem. Jig hungers deeply. Harry, your risk is great though I think once we are within a hundred miles of Bunsen Island, your scent will be forgotten as the stench of greed will distract them from you. Are you up for this?"
Harry: "Never more so! Their crime must be crushed. The earths resources may never be returned but as a species it is our duty to punish our own. Let us hope Earth forgives the rest of us."
Lipton: "Any idea of the vessel we could use?"
Christ: "I know of a little bay on the North Somerset coast where many super yachts belonging to the wealthy are stored. A small group could steal one, meet the rest of our crew up the coast. This glass, though, any ideas on this?"
Peter: "I have an idea. The witches might not like it. If we can capture a number of the larger congers. Strap explosives to their heads they might explode on impact, sacrificing themselves yet bursting through for the others."
Stella: "It's an idea, but not one I like. Perhaps if the Coven could convene in private, we may have another, better possibility."
The atmosphere had grown heated though it appeared all were in rough alignment. Jesus stood up to speak.
Christ: "Okay! This sounds an adventure of noble intent. Lipton and Peter, Archangels? Yes? If I could arrange a meeting with Poseidons Archmermaids, I bet you half an ounce of top quality hash they could help. Such a meeting would, of course, only be possible if you reveal your wings for a time. As you know, the multitude of pissed off gods will come to seek you out the second you light up. But these archangels of the oceans. That's your best bet."
The conference dissipated into numerous one to ones as possibilities sprung into minds.
Jesus: "We still remain in the dark over the Covens score of human pineal gland collection."
Charlotte: "Very well. There is plenty to work on. Could I ask that the messiah and shamans remain to discuss the other issue alone with the Coven. All others can go. This Bunsen project is the shamans scheme. They shall delegate and communicate with the rest later. But we must put their minds to rest over our other work."
Stella, Charlotte and Dianne sat opposite the son of God and his shamanic associates.
Peter: "There are acts all three of us have carried out that would incur life sentences in this country. Yet never have we killed without other options. We are, hence, open minded. Please, show us to your work."
The circuitous route through lane and track could only be taken by four wheel drive vehicles. In generous spirits, Andy handed Lipton his Land Rover keys.
Andy: "Only you at the wheel, not the haloed fella. I've heard tails of his driving!"
Peter sat beside the shamanic driver as the son of God slumped onto the rear seat, sticking skins together before the engine was even sparked. Diane's Land Rover looked much newer as the girls sped off, Lipton struggling to keep up.
Lipton: "Witch drivers! Should be restricted to broom sticks and deadly nightshade!"
They must have been moving for half an hour since leaving the barn when they left the curving hilltop lane to follow a rugged track that curved around the hill they descended. Leading to a parking area of hard standing covered in grey, dusty gravel. To the inner face the hill formed a natural rock face, near vertical into which was set two large steel doors that covered an opening two lorries could enter side by side. The security looked an impregnable system of engineering. Locks and braces that all slid smoothly. Once opened Charlotte pushed the tall steel door effortlessly aside, guided by ball bearings in greased channels. The cool darkness would have pleased Elmer and the boys, a series of twenty switches flicked lines of fluorescent tubing into life revealing an impressive space. A two hundred foot deep, one hundred wide cuboid workshop cave set into the hill side. Further switches clicked and illuminated walls lined with aquariums. Workstations ran in two lengthy white Formica topped benches. Many structures of glass wear clearly in mid synthesis of some type. Other stations neatly lined with stainless tools that reminded Peter of dentistry equipment, Lipton of autopsy laboratories. The farthest area was occupied by a singular glass tank, thirty odd feet in height, fifty wide and twenty in depth. Whoever worked here took meticulous care. Nothing looked out of place and hygiene levels kept the space free of bacteria or dust. The Witches knew their craft, pride animated their normally poker faced inscrutability.
Charlotte: "Please take a look around but I implore you don't touch anything."
Within two paces Peter felt them. Lipton stopped in his tracks as the voices and emotional shimmering entered their minds. Memories, aspirations, fears, the subconscious rumination of twenty lost souls. Jesus looked less perturbed but closed his eyes as though working the disparate essences to form some mental framework or contextual arrangement.
Charlotte: "Sorry about the mini soul storm. You can minimise it, develop a personal tolerance, shield the darker voices out but it's inescapable. I take some solace in discovering most were knobheads. Some deeply dark impulses were thwarted".
Peter: "How can you work with this?"
Stella produced metallic skull caps not unlike the Jewish yarmulke. The relief was profound though reduction in volume couldn't hide the knowledge of their pain.
Stella: "These help keep the voices at bay. Their suffering is nearly over."
The central work station held twenty glass spheres spaced in a line, twenty centimetres apart. Stepping closer Peter saw each was sealed and contained perhaps 300mg of brown powdered distillate of human Dimethyltryptamine synthesised from the pineal glands the witches had removed from the brain of each of the dead. The psychic disturbance the spherical vials caused the shamans steered them away once realisation of their contents was deduced.
A variety of creatures occupied the aquaria that lined the walls. Crustacea and molluscs seemed most prevalent with numerous species of octopuses in fascinating movement. Further tanks contained varieties of sea urchins, anemones, sponges all in collusion forming an aquatic psychedelic colour diversity. Three of the longest tanks housed eighteen subtle variations of the same Blue Ringed Octopus. Numerous squid moved with an alien elegance. Conger eels, moray eels. Largest and centrepiece tank contained what appeared a complete ecosystem. Shoals of three sizes of fish explored areas as vast leopard skin rays swept by. Dogfish and smaller sharks, perhaps most spectacular two sharks that must have weighed twenty stone.
Lipton: "Impressive aquarium. Must have taken years to build this up."
Charlotte: "Generations. Look, here are the early ones you were asking about, Jigs fingers I call them. Conger eel demon hybrid. One of the first successful creatures, singular yet Jig can whip them all to a single mind, hers. She defies category. They'd have undoubtedly called her a goddess two thousand years ago. Maybe she is. We have a number of such super natural deities now. These early hybrids confirmed the potential. Meat demonology. Flesh demonics. As far as I am aware, the Clun Coven are unique practitioners of the craft. In Jigs lifetime the coven had virtually nil shamanic knowledge. They'd open a slit twixt dimensions and literally grab any demon they could. And just hope they'd somehow fuck."
Peter: "I hope I didn't sound arrogant the other day but the sacramental dimension passage you are considering is highly dangerous, as I tried to explain. I am guessing you understand the dimension such endogenous DMT taken from the dead will create a passage to. The technicalities involved wouldn't be possible by anyone other than a shaman of many decades experience. It isn't as though 20 pineal glands collected DMT makes a wider opening, it is 20 lives and the complex journeys. Imagine grasping twenty reeds together. Passage would take a tricky intuitive series of inter tunnel bursting. Such a passage must be created the instant of the shamans readiness as as soon as it has coalesced, all spirits alert to their loss will be disorientated for a minute, two at most before they pull home their unique channel. The construct wouldn't hold for long. A skilled shaman might burst through but the afterlife has not a single shared dimension. They would require deep instruction from Jesus, the only guy I know who has been. They'd need freinds there. They'd need to make straight for their goal without hesitance, I'm taking it you want a spirit brought back. What if they don't wish to come? Should the shaman preempt any negotiation, sedate the target and get home before there is no bridge left across which to return. I've burst through to dimensions where there is nothing familiar. No up, down, time, light, utter nothingness for a while until new dimensions grew conceivable, during this vulnerable period some vicious predator spirit beings began to attack. Three months I spent sectioned under the mental health act following my lucky escape. I've been thinking. If you are doing this yourselves you stand no chance. I might. Refine the distillate of human DMT. Lipton and I prepare. Smoking would be too wasteful. Ayuashka length journeys out of the question. We'd need to burst through before reality caught a sniff of what we are up to. You'd blend the twenty part sacrament. Intravenous is the only possible way to burst through with such power. Lipton takes a tenth dose to stand astride the membrane, he is attached back here by JC, I inject the greater portion and burst across retaining an umbilical line, some ectoplasmic safety cord round Lipton and my waist. Bursting through I need any information available. Any Witchcraft you have to give me more time would be great help. I'm liable to be there seven or eight minutes before I can kidnap the required soul, then the dive home as the passage dissolves, hoping there's enough to get home. Jesus has done his best to describe what I face but nothing there will be close to anything from this reality. I am aware that this could be the curiosity that finally finishes me, but, fucking hell! What shaman hasn't imagined plunging over there, even for a moment. Twenty deaths must be worth someone familiar. Who is it you need brought back?"
Charlotte: "Queen Boudicca!"
Peter: "............................................Fuck me! Why?"
Charlotte: "The Roman invasion began the promethean journey of the western mind. I also believe something far deeper. The story of human thought can be described as a list of men; Socrates, Homer, Plato, Hypocrates, Hegel, Christ, Aquinas, St Augustine, Copernicus, Galileo, Newton, Descartes, Marx, Darwin, Freud, Hulme, Jung, Einstein, Hawkings, it is a list of men writing for other men. It can't be overstated the journey has been of male thought. Not a single female of consequence is listed. Language from all over Europe speaks in the male singular. The story of man. Mans struggle with nature. The time has come for feminisation. The qualities that have caused the current condition are entirely male. I don't claim a golden age of feminism under native druidry was flipped by Roman invasion, but our turn is now. You have messed it up.
King Prasutagys ruled Britain as an ally of Rome. In his will he left his empire jointly to his daughters and the Roman emperor. His will, however, was ignored and his kingdom was annexed. His wife queen Boudicca and her daughters were flogged and raped. In ad60 the Roman governer was campaigning in Anglsey. Boudicca led the Iceni, the Trinovantes and others in revolt. First they destroyed Colchester. Upon hearing of the revolt, Suetonius hurried down to London, then a 20 year old settlement. The rebels next target.
In terror the Romans evacuated and fled. Boudicca led 100000 to fight legioix Hispana and burned and destroyed London. Archeologists have found twenty skulls, opened as we do. Druids in those days did ritual things with the heads of enemies. She went on and took St Albans. Some 70-80000 Romans and Britains were killed in her destroying the three cities.
Suetonius regrouped in the West Midlands. Nero was on the point of withdrawing from Britain yet Suetonius, with fewer soldiers took on Boudiccas army at the Battle of Wattling Street where they defeated the British, now complacent and drunk. She could have driven the Romans out but failed. She died, some say of illness, others that she took her own life. Yet she could have changed the last two thousand years.
We want her back to fulfill her early promise. Not as a person, as a deity, much like Jig, a goddess. We have created close to a dozen pagan deities now. This will provide the completion of our new religion, the new pagan gods. Working gods. Interventionist gods.
Look, see our octopus collection? Our aim is to create a new flesh demon hybrid species that operate under the single Boudicaan mind. Octoboudicus. These molluscs have no skeleton, two eyes, four pairs of legs. They are bilaterally symmetrical. They have a beak yet their mouths lie where their legs join. They like Seabeds, coral reefs. All species are venomous, alongside camouflage skills and ink projection. Their defence systems are varied. The species we are looking into changing is the Blue Ringed Octopus. Deadly poisonous to man.
They are one of the most intelligent creatures on earth. They negotiate mazes, use tools, utilise both short and long term memory. They have a highly complex nervous system only part of which is localised in the brain. Two thirds of an octopuses neurons are in the nerve cords of their arms. The complex motor skills of octopuses are not organised in their brain using an internal somatotopic map of its body, instead using a nonsomatotopic system unique to these large brained invertebrates. The demonology needed to bind this new creature of supernatural is our speciality. Your shamanic skills combined with our meat demonics can deliver our most powerful higher being. The goddess Octoboudicus!"
Lipton had been admiring the aquarium. There could be few to compare in the country. A truly beautiful and tranquil atmosphere. These girls were dedicated animal keepers if nothing else. The curious aquatic life forms had an aesthetic of a quite perverse beauty. The thought crossed his mind that all the damage on land must be mirrored by parallel destruction of so many unseen wonders.
Peter was blown away. Their Bunsen Ark project that had seemed yesterday such a masterpiece, now looked unadventurous. Reconciling the twenty young lives snuffed out took some thought. But given what was at stake, perhaps the shamans had been inhibited. Less committed to the fight for life on Earth.
The other morning as the conference assembled, all had felt their coming together had been a pivotal moment, historic even. It would be stretching things to suggest they represented the chosen and secret parliament of Albion. There were many missing, Peter thought of the Cornwall Druids, Gloid certainly, to call their group truly representative. But it was a start. The current conservative government whose cabinet were mostly from Britain's most elite public school. Further still, it went beyond party politics as the opposition under Ed Milliband offered nothing different. These bodies didn't represent the people of this country. Not even the nations collective interest. So distanced had the members of parliament elected by dubious systems, so far from the lives of common people, few bothered voting. The Earth in crisis. Resources running low. Hidden wars of barbarism the equal of any before. And still all major parties advanced further economic growth. Higher living standards for each new generation. The creation of more unneeded material goods from fewer mineral resources. An impossible promise a child could see through. All at their small conference had felt this could be the birth of something. A unified belief in sustainable cyclic life. The return to acceptance of humanity's dependence on the environment.
Both thought of Elmer who would now be reaching home. Comforting Jesse on his deathbed. The subterranean empire was now secure with a new king. The uprising Jesse dreamed of in his younger days. The uprising Skree and Lipton had battled to join. The dream could return. Aligned with the Clun Druids and Witches Coven, Jesus Christ, shamans, archangels, slappers, the unified Mystics of Albion. Sciences failure alongside the suppression of the spiritual had created blockage. Peters mystical epiphany could be a foretaste of the volcanic eruption of the repressed mysticism, an earthquake of pagan life forces. Already the climate changes had seen each storm, each hurricane, named like pagan gods. Katrina, Frank, Dianna, Gertrude. Forces beyond mans control.
There was something Peter had also felt growing, a jig saw of dispersed pieces had begun to float in to place in his subconscious. Charlotte had come across so composed. Reserved but fearless. He'd noticed the sparkle in her eyes, the subtle softening of her poker face into a subtle but cheeky grin as Shaz had given her talk to the student birds. Charlotte had a classical beauty that would never be broken, only altered, by age. She had dignity. Respect from the roughian drulads who treated her with respect. Stella was younger. Less worldly. Dianne was the oldest of the three Clun witches yet it was clear Charlotte called the shots. He'd taken on board her feminist lecture and felt gender shame that had nailed a truth he'd never explored thoroughly. Male dominance required address. By everyone. Yet she had listened closely to his statement of shamanic superiority and not seen an arrogance many might have but the factual truth he'd felt duty bound to explain. His bravery in offering to take the journey on, knowing he risked his life and sanity, would he have offered if somewhere deep inside him needed to prove himself to her. They'd not spoken alone, yet, only in company. He sensed she felt the magnetic pull. He hoped so, anyway.
Peter: "I'm in! Lipton? Will you be my second. No touching the void shite either!"
Lipton: "All for one. Death or glory!"
Jesus: "You'll need to spend a few boring nights drinking with me, you know. It's a very, very long time since I found myself there. But it's not something you forget. Kind of reassuring, in a way. Since my resurrection, that famous one, I've died more than once. You call me immortal. But you're wrong. In comparison it may seem that way but nothing lasts forever. Energy, but no arrangement of matter. These last few centuries I've felt it more. It's great to see change, cultural developements, technologies unimaginable. But behind this up beat wreckhead, I do have days when I yearn to rest. You know, for good."
Peter: "This sounds a right laugh, you maudlin about endless life whilst describing what to expect in the world of the dead! How many nights drinking?"
Returning Andys Land Rover the three sat buzzing with excitement and new plans. All began to see the shamanic journey into the spirit world of the dead might have to be undertaken first. Once Boudicca was kidnapped from the afterlife the Coven could begin their Octoboudicus creation. Peter arranged for a week of drinking with Christ, discussing the topography of the dimension Peter was to enter. He would begin tonight. How the coven planned to use their pagan gods was as yet unknown to them though the excitement of such a shamanic undertaking filled them with a fire of purpose. Rupert Bunsen and the Ark could wait a week or two. Peter knew he may not return to see this one play out. He'd need Lipton to keep firm as his link back to reality. Christs memory better not be clouded with drug abuse. The witches might have to sedate the souls whose channels they'd be swiping away. If they had such abilities.
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The hay bales hadn't been moved overnight. The circle, however, had an intense feel yesterday lacked. All attending the conferences second day were committed to conclusion of the issues raised by the magnetic forces that had brought them together.
Jesus Christ no longer looked the distracted crusty of yesterday. A piercing intensity had entered his eyes, his Slappers were long gone. Hitch hiking for them was no slog of hours rain soaked junction hovering. Once thumb fell parallel to the ground rarely a minute elapsed before some vehicle whisked their majestic forms to any destination they chose.
Cathy had talked Sue into accompanying her return to Cheltenham, perhaps wisely as her personal changes in dress weren't married to the ready expertise with violence the Slappers she so admired had developed through extreme hardship. Once safely on the national express Sue forgot the slappers and wept for Esau.
The youngest of the sons of Jesse was also quietly feeling her loss. His mind wrestled with the labyrinth network that he could use to find his way to her. Walking together with Elijah felt good despite missing Sue. Entering the tunnel that had brought them out at Bury Ditches Hill Dort felt comforting and safe as the earth reclaimed her own into her bosom. Subterranean life meant exposure overland always felt vulnerable. The brothers walked in proud unity. They were returning to their father with hearts filled with hope. Jesses empire now had an heir, hope, a future of great possibility.
Lipton - Peter - Jesus Christ - Mike Oldpastures - Harry - Charlotte - Dianne - Stella - Andy - Ben - Jimmy - Bill. The dozen sat to discuss the two main issues.
Christ: "I called this conference for a few reasons. I've been in touch with the other Druid communities. They fear that your plan, the original Druid project, to establish five isolated clusters of Druid communities, is endangered. Each group was to keep alive the craft in separate and unconnected locations. Then, once the Roman invasion was over the aim was to return the flame to the people. Yet it has taken two millenia and the devastation of the environment before the poison the Romans brought had worked its way through. They fear that the abuse of the Clun group has caused you to grow disfunctional. They still believe you need only wait a few more generations and your project will reach conclusion. They feel you may bring on unnecessary trouble. Prevent the plan reaching its ends. The twenty deaths may be far from police detection but all Albions various Mystics have a pretty good idea whose doing it. They implored me to report their misgivings as you are sworn to not interact. These things I say are no reflection of my personal beliefs, yet I hereby fulfill my promise in reporting to you. I will say, however, that not only Lipton and Peter, me, but others are aware of the twenty deaths. This has been your choice. Furthermore, much as I respect the Druidic project and the discipline it has taken, I see it as an archaic anomaly. Too much has changed to ever hope a return to pre Roman consciousness might be possible. And if it happened, it would occur despite, rather than down to your scheme."
Andy: "So you report this without holding any belief in the other Druidic people's hopes?"
Jesus: "I respect them enough to report their message."
Andy: "Let's take a step backwards. Are we in alignment regarding the failure of the promethean project of western civilisation? Do the other Druids, and those here today, believe the line mankind has taken culturally in these isles alongside their allies in Europe and USA, has failed. Science has offered a route out of superstition yet destroyed the environment in doing so. Are we agreed the over population of humanity has caused vast extinction of other species. Are we in agreement that the cyclic system of life and death, the nature of all life forms on the planet, furthers the overall planetary health. Do we agree that man is an animal? Subject to animal laws?"
Most nodded, Jesus concurred with the basics of the idea.
Andy: "That the linear journey man began through his belief in his unique gift of consciousness, sometimes called the soul, the journey away from animals and environment, stepping out alone using our reason, rational and science, that this linear journey be it to salvation or understanding, the seperation and walking off alone, was a mistake?"
Jesus: "We agree! Does anyone here believe we can make a blind bit of difference to the path the human animal will take?"
Peter: "We heard your lack of belief in the possibility of steering human culture. I submit an alternative angle. We are animals subject to animal laws. However, each animal has evolved distinct specialities. Peregrine falcons can hit speeds over 150mph whilst in stoop to kill their pray. The cheetah runs at great speed to bring down an antelope. Human speciality is self reflective consciousness. Free will, as Christ argues, is in the purest sense, an illusion. Yet humans have reached their current evolutionary details 196,000 years ago. Since then there have been numerous different cultural systems. The path of the western mind is but one. A chance out of an infinite spectrum. It's twists and turns have pivoted on the decisions, ideas and stand out acts of individuals. Free will is an illusion, if we consider the casting of dice. Countless bounces and knocks, air pressure and turbulence, something so complex and beyond human conception that predicting how the dice will fall can never be more than a guess. However, if these countless effectual influences have a compliance to natural laws of physics, given sufficient data and a computational measurement system of vast complexity, the cast of dice could be predicted accurately. The dice land to the determination of many factors, yet if all were known, the dice fall would be inevitable. The supposed conclusion to the free will debate that has been a philosophical game of tennis since Ancient Greece, comes, in most current writing, from neuroscience. The theory is far older, yet now proof exists that up to ten seconds prior to a decision, neuro chemical processes are preceding it hidden from our awareness, deep below even subconscious. The conscious self only becomes aware of its decision half way down the line. Yet, a person you know well enough, faced with a dilemma, may appear, to a stranger to be ruminating, running over the pros and cons. But if you know someone sufficiently well you can know well before they do what their decision will be. We are animals that act, generally speaking, to their own nature. Some drivers never pick up hitch hikers. Their fear for personal safety, lack of empathy, class prejudice, any reason reflective of their nature may dictate their never doing so. Others always pick up hitch hikers, again a blend of character, nurture and experience, contribute to it being in their nature to pick up a stranger. Yet it certainly appears, from within that we always have choice. I agree. Still, it makes no difference. Does it matter why someone kills another? Does it matter if it was in their nature or a considered act? If they entered a psychotic delusion whereby the brave killing of the devil before them will save countless others? To me it's like a dog. If a dog is dangerous and attacks children, it must be put down. Regardless of how horrific its upbringing. Regardless of the misfortune of its breeding. Mitigating factors affect choice but they always will. Those dangerous to society need locking away, not to punish them, simply for our safety. Equally so, the college student born with a predisposition to work hard no more chose their character than a murderer. Human failings blight our careers where character weaknesses and laziness blight others. For sure, it takes hard work to become a world champion boxer. But it was pure luck they were born with that discipline and drive, alongside the physique and motor skills. They no more chose these traits than they chose their sexuality, gender, skin colour or parents. The same line of reasoning praises the hardworking and successful as causes sexist or racist outlooks. The sooner we accept this the better it will be for all. But I doubt this myth will crumble any time soon. Our leaders, academics, athletes, rich, successful in all areas won't accept that their good fortune was chance. Their entire delusional self esteem depends on the sustenance of this lie. The conservative government has attacked the weak, poor, disabled, mentally ill by blaming their predicament on their choices. Of all factors choice plays the smallest roll in a persons achievements in life. Fate of birth over rides in all but very rare cases. So infrequent are the deviations from this rule that their stories make books, films, if they were anything other than extremely rare exceptions to the rule their would be no story. Yet the myth continues. So, I say consciousness is a red herring.
But enough great people live to their beliefs unhindered by their society and these do steer the mass mind. Besides all this, if we accept we have no more control than a slug then we do nothing and downhill is the inevitable conclusion. I agree a slug has no greater chance of figuring out the meaning of life but I don't think we are without power."
Jesus: "Take a look at my career? It nearly got me killed, again, yesterday for its inverse effect to my belief. Basically, I'd have caused less harm by continuing with the joinery business. The human act, the life's work, a writer, artist has no control over how their work is interpreted and used. Aren't I living proof of my point?"
Lipton: "No! You are an example of one life. Try Hitler, Stalin, there ideas were carried out to the letter without question. I, for one, would have preferred a world free of them."
Jesus: "Names. Someone else would have filled their role had it not been them. Further, and this point should draw us together again. Has mankind's peace been a good thing for the biodiversity of the planet? Is the growth of human peace a good thing as population continues to expand reducing the biodiversity in its path for farming crops to sustain our growing number?"
Charlotte: "You all come from the perspective that considered action with a long overview has ever been, our view is far less considered. A man shoots your dog, in anger you go out and shoot his! It may well be the worst course of action. But it is all you have! Your animal response. Trust it. Deep down we all know what we want. Do it!"
Peter: "Some people are best taking your advice. But a paedophile? Wouldn't someone born with horrific urges be best advised to resist these unasked for impulses?"
Peter: "Look! We are accepting defeat if we are to slither down some philosophical loophole. Let the Clun Coven explain first if these deaths and my speculation yesterday was correct and second, if true, what is it that makes such barbarism worthwhile. The Druidic project is none of our business. Whether it works or not. Jesus, you need to report back to the other Druids to put their minds at rest. As I understood the old Druid legend, they never expected all five colonies to survive. If the Clun choose to split away, it's their decision. The other four have it covered"
Charlotte: "Peter. You offered your help in exchange for your scheme to stop Rupert Bunsen? Am I correct? Well, for a start, we talked in private and we will join you in this mission. As to our other work, I will take Lipton, Christ and Peter to the aquarium tanks. Let them decide over its value. No one else need have knowledge of that. Can we start here?"
Lipton looked over to Peter. Both nodded.
Lipton: "So, to list our obstacles. We need the Coven to raise Jig. We need a vessel we can take first to the sargasso and then to the Caribbean. We need some system of smashing through that glass box, and lastly we need the exact date and time Bunsen plans to evacuate."
Mike Oldpastures: "In...........transit....horsebox.....................I overheard Bunsen speaking..........to............Clarridge.................July 4th............passengers must be............at......the.........island the night before...................they board.........5pm.........hope...to.......leave.......to take off............by 7.30pm."
Peter: "That is brilliant, Mike! Charlotte, can you arrange the eels?"
Charlotte: "That is no problem. Jig hungers deeply. Harry, your risk is great though I think once we are within a hundred miles of Bunsen Island, your scent will be forgotten as the stench of greed will distract them from you. Are you up for this?"
Harry: "Never more so! Their crime must be crushed. The earths resources may never be returned but as a species it is our duty to punish our own. Let us hope Earth forgives the rest of us."
Lipton: "Any idea of the vessel we could use?"
Christ: "I know of a little bay on the North Somerset coast where many super yachts belonging to the wealthy are stored. A small group could steal one, meet the rest of our crew up the coast. This glass, though, any ideas on this?"
Peter: "I have an idea. The witches might not like it. If we can capture a number of the larger congers. Strap explosives to their heads they might explode on impact, sacrificing themselves yet bursting through for the others."
Stella: "It's an idea, but not one I like. Perhaps if the Coven could convene in private, we may have another, better possibility."
The atmosphere had grown heated though it appeared all were in rough alignment. Jesus stood up to speak.
Christ: "Okay! This sounds an adventure of noble intent. Lipton and Peter, Archangels? Yes? If I could arrange a meeting with Poseidons Archmermaids, I bet you half an ounce of top quality hash they could help. Such a meeting would, of course, only be possible if you reveal your wings for a time. As you know, the multitude of pissed off gods will come to seek you out the second you light up. But these archangels of the oceans. That's your best bet."
The conference dissipated into numerous one to ones as possibilities sprung into minds.
Jesus: "We still remain in the dark over the Covens score of human pineal gland collection."
Charlotte: "Very well. There is plenty to work on. Could I ask that the messiah and shamans remain to discuss the other issue alone with the Coven. All others can go. This Bunsen project is the shamans scheme. They shall delegate and communicate with the rest later. But we must put their minds to rest over our other work."
Stella, Charlotte and Dianne sat opposite the son of God and his shamanic associates.
Peter: "There are acts all three of us have carried out that would incur life sentences in this country. Yet never have we killed without other options. We are, hence, open minded. Please, show us to your work."
The circuitous route through lane and track could only be taken by four wheel drive vehicles. In generous spirits, Andy handed Lipton his Land Rover keys.
Andy: "Only you at the wheel, not the haloed fella. I've heard tails of his driving!"
Peter sat beside the shamanic driver as the son of God slumped onto the rear seat, sticking skins together before the engine was even sparked. Diane's Land Rover looked much newer as the girls sped off, Lipton struggling to keep up.
Lipton: "Witch drivers! Should be restricted to broom sticks and deadly nightshade!"
They must have been moving for half an hour since leaving the barn when they left the curving hilltop lane to follow a rugged track that curved around the hill they descended. Leading to a parking area of hard standing covered in grey, dusty gravel. To the inner face the hill formed a natural rock face, near vertical into which was set two large steel doors that covered an opening two lorries could enter side by side. The security looked an impregnable system of engineering. Locks and braces that all slid smoothly. Once opened Charlotte pushed the tall steel door effortlessly aside, guided by ball bearings in greased channels. The cool darkness would have pleased Elmer and the boys, a series of twenty switches flicked lines of fluorescent tubing into life revealing an impressive space. A two hundred foot deep, one hundred wide cuboid workshop cave set into the hill side. Further switches clicked and illuminated walls lined with aquariums. Workstations ran in two lengthy white Formica topped benches. Many structures of glass wear clearly in mid synthesis of some type. Other stations neatly lined with stainless tools that reminded Peter of dentistry equipment, Lipton of autopsy laboratories. The farthest area was occupied by a singular glass tank, thirty odd feet in height, fifty wide and twenty in depth. Whoever worked here took meticulous care. Nothing looked out of place and hygiene levels kept the space free of bacteria or dust. The Witches knew their craft, pride animated their normally poker faced inscrutability.
Charlotte: "Please take a look around but I implore you don't touch anything."
Within two paces Peter felt them. Lipton stopped in his tracks as the voices and emotional shimmering entered their minds. Memories, aspirations, fears, the subconscious rumination of twenty lost souls. Jesus looked less perturbed but closed his eyes as though working the disparate essences to form some mental framework or contextual arrangement.
Charlotte: "Sorry about the mini soul storm. You can minimise it, develop a personal tolerance, shield the darker voices out but it's inescapable. I take some solace in discovering most were knobheads. Some deeply dark impulses were thwarted".
Peter: "How can you work with this?"
Stella produced metallic skull caps not unlike the Jewish yarmulke. The relief was profound though reduction in volume couldn't hide the knowledge of their pain.
Stella: "These help keep the voices at bay. Their suffering is nearly over."
The central work station held twenty glass spheres spaced in a line, twenty centimetres apart. Stepping closer Peter saw each was sealed and contained perhaps 300mg of brown powdered distillate of human Dimethyltryptamine synthesised from the pineal glands the witches had removed from the brain of each of the dead. The psychic disturbance the spherical vials caused the shamans steered them away once realisation of their contents was deduced.
A variety of creatures occupied the aquaria that lined the walls. Crustacea and molluscs seemed most prevalent with numerous species of octopuses in fascinating movement. Further tanks contained varieties of sea urchins, anemones, sponges all in collusion forming an aquatic psychedelic colour diversity. Three of the longest tanks housed eighteen subtle variations of the same Blue Ringed Octopus. Numerous squid moved with an alien elegance. Conger eels, moray eels. Largest and centrepiece tank contained what appeared a complete ecosystem. Shoals of three sizes of fish explored areas as vast leopard skin rays swept by. Dogfish and smaller sharks, perhaps most spectacular two sharks that must have weighed twenty stone.
Lipton: "Impressive aquarium. Must have taken years to build this up."
Charlotte: "Generations. Look, here are the early ones you were asking about, Jigs fingers I call them. Conger eel demon hybrid. One of the first successful creatures, singular yet Jig can whip them all to a single mind, hers. She defies category. They'd have undoubtedly called her a goddess two thousand years ago. Maybe she is. We have a number of such super natural deities now. These early hybrids confirmed the potential. Meat demonology. Flesh demonics. As far as I am aware, the Clun Coven are unique practitioners of the craft. In Jigs lifetime the coven had virtually nil shamanic knowledge. They'd open a slit twixt dimensions and literally grab any demon they could. And just hope they'd somehow fuck."
Peter: "I hope I didn't sound arrogant the other day but the sacramental dimension passage you are considering is highly dangerous, as I tried to explain. I am guessing you understand the dimension such endogenous DMT taken from the dead will create a passage to. The technicalities involved wouldn't be possible by anyone other than a shaman of many decades experience. It isn't as though 20 pineal glands collected DMT makes a wider opening, it is 20 lives and the complex journeys. Imagine grasping twenty reeds together. Passage would take a tricky intuitive series of inter tunnel bursting. Such a passage must be created the instant of the shamans readiness as as soon as it has coalesced, all spirits alert to their loss will be disorientated for a minute, two at most before they pull home their unique channel. The construct wouldn't hold for long. A skilled shaman might burst through but the afterlife has not a single shared dimension. They would require deep instruction from Jesus, the only guy I know who has been. They'd need freinds there. They'd need to make straight for their goal without hesitance, I'm taking it you want a spirit brought back. What if they don't wish to come? Should the shaman preempt any negotiation, sedate the target and get home before there is no bridge left across which to return. I've burst through to dimensions where there is nothing familiar. No up, down, time, light, utter nothingness for a while until new dimensions grew conceivable, during this vulnerable period some vicious predator spirit beings began to attack. Three months I spent sectioned under the mental health act following my lucky escape. I've been thinking. If you are doing this yourselves you stand no chance. I might. Refine the distillate of human DMT. Lipton and I prepare. Smoking would be too wasteful. Ayuashka length journeys out of the question. We'd need to burst through before reality caught a sniff of what we are up to. You'd blend the twenty part sacrament. Intravenous is the only possible way to burst through with such power. Lipton takes a tenth dose to stand astride the membrane, he is attached back here by JC, I inject the greater portion and burst across retaining an umbilical line, some ectoplasmic safety cord round Lipton and my waist. Bursting through I need any information available. Any Witchcraft you have to give me more time would be great help. I'm liable to be there seven or eight minutes before I can kidnap the required soul, then the dive home as the passage dissolves, hoping there's enough to get home. Jesus has done his best to describe what I face but nothing there will be close to anything from this reality. I am aware that this could be the curiosity that finally finishes me, but, fucking hell! What shaman hasn't imagined plunging over there, even for a moment. Twenty deaths must be worth someone familiar. Who is it you need brought back?"
Charlotte: "Queen Boudicca!"
Peter: "............................................Fuck me! Why?"
Charlotte: "The Roman invasion began the promethean journey of the western mind. I also believe something far deeper. The story of human thought can be described as a list of men; Socrates, Homer, Plato, Hypocrates, Hegel, Christ, Aquinas, St Augustine, Copernicus, Galileo, Newton, Descartes, Marx, Darwin, Freud, Hulme, Jung, Einstein, Hawkings, it is a list of men writing for other men. It can't be overstated the journey has been of male thought. Not a single female of consequence is listed. Language from all over Europe speaks in the male singular. The story of man. Mans struggle with nature. The time has come for feminisation. The qualities that have caused the current condition are entirely male. I don't claim a golden age of feminism under native druidry was flipped by Roman invasion, but our turn is now. You have messed it up.
King Prasutagys ruled Britain as an ally of Rome. In his will he left his empire jointly to his daughters and the Roman emperor. His will, however, was ignored and his kingdom was annexed. His wife queen Boudicca and her daughters were flogged and raped. In ad60 the Roman governer was campaigning in Anglsey. Boudicca led the Iceni, the Trinovantes and others in revolt. First they destroyed Colchester. Upon hearing of the revolt, Suetonius hurried down to London, then a 20 year old settlement. The rebels next target.
In terror the Romans evacuated and fled. Boudicca led 100000 to fight legioix Hispana and burned and destroyed London. Archeologists have found twenty skulls, opened as we do. Druids in those days did ritual things with the heads of enemies. She went on and took St Albans. Some 70-80000 Romans and Britains were killed in her destroying the three cities.
Suetonius regrouped in the West Midlands. Nero was on the point of withdrawing from Britain yet Suetonius, with fewer soldiers took on Boudiccas army at the Battle of Wattling Street where they defeated the British, now complacent and drunk. She could have driven the Romans out but failed. She died, some say of illness, others that she took her own life. Yet she could have changed the last two thousand years.
We want her back to fulfill her early promise. Not as a person, as a deity, much like Jig, a goddess. We have created close to a dozen pagan deities now. This will provide the completion of our new religion, the new pagan gods. Working gods. Interventionist gods.
Look, see our octopus collection? Our aim is to create a new flesh demon hybrid species that operate under the single Boudicaan mind. Octoboudicus. These molluscs have no skeleton, two eyes, four pairs of legs. They are bilaterally symmetrical. They have a beak yet their mouths lie where their legs join. They like Seabeds, coral reefs. All species are venomous, alongside camouflage skills and ink projection. Their defence systems are varied. The species we are looking into changing is the Blue Ringed Octopus. Deadly poisonous to man.
They are one of the most intelligent creatures on earth. They negotiate mazes, use tools, utilise both short and long term memory. They have a highly complex nervous system only part of which is localised in the brain. Two thirds of an octopuses neurons are in the nerve cords of their arms. The complex motor skills of octopuses are not organised in their brain using an internal somatotopic map of its body, instead using a nonsomatotopic system unique to these large brained invertebrates. The demonology needed to bind this new creature of supernatural is our speciality. Your shamanic skills combined with our meat demonics can deliver our most powerful higher being. The goddess Octoboudicus!"
Lipton had been admiring the aquarium. There could be few to compare in the country. A truly beautiful and tranquil atmosphere. These girls were dedicated animal keepers if nothing else. The curious aquatic life forms had an aesthetic of a quite perverse beauty. The thought crossed his mind that all the damage on land must be mirrored by parallel destruction of so many unseen wonders.
Peter was blown away. Their Bunsen Ark project that had seemed yesterday such a masterpiece, now looked unadventurous. Reconciling the twenty young lives snuffed out took some thought. But given what was at stake, perhaps the shamans had been inhibited. Less committed to the fight for life on Earth.
The other morning as the conference assembled, all had felt their coming together had been a pivotal moment, historic even. It would be stretching things to suggest they represented the chosen and secret parliament of Albion. There were many missing, Peter thought of the Cornwall Druids, Gloid certainly, to call their group truly representative. But it was a start. The current conservative government whose cabinet were mostly from Britain's most elite public school. Further still, it went beyond party politics as the opposition under Ed Milliband offered nothing different. These bodies didn't represent the people of this country. Not even the nations collective interest. So distanced had the members of parliament elected by dubious systems, so far from the lives of common people, few bothered voting. The Earth in crisis. Resources running low. Hidden wars of barbarism the equal of any before. And still all major parties advanced further economic growth. Higher living standards for each new generation. The creation of more unneeded material goods from fewer mineral resources. An impossible promise a child could see through. All at their small conference had felt this could be the birth of something. A unified belief in sustainable cyclic life. The return to acceptance of humanity's dependence on the environment.
Both thought of Elmer who would now be reaching home. Comforting Jesse on his deathbed. The subterranean empire was now secure with a new king. The uprising Jesse dreamed of in his younger days. The uprising Skree and Lipton had battled to join. The dream could return. Aligned with the Clun Druids and Witches Coven, Jesus Christ, shamans, archangels, slappers, the unified Mystics of Albion. Sciences failure alongside the suppression of the spiritual had created blockage. Peters mystical epiphany could be a foretaste of the volcanic eruption of the repressed mysticism, an earthquake of pagan life forces. Already the climate changes had seen each storm, each hurricane, named like pagan gods. Katrina, Frank, Dianna, Gertrude. Forces beyond mans control.
There was something Peter had also felt growing, a jig saw of dispersed pieces had begun to float in to place in his subconscious. Charlotte had come across so composed. Reserved but fearless. He'd noticed the sparkle in her eyes, the subtle softening of her poker face into a subtle but cheeky grin as Shaz had given her talk to the student birds. Charlotte had a classical beauty that would never be broken, only altered, by age. She had dignity. Respect from the roughian drulads who treated her with respect. Stella was younger. Less worldly. Dianne was the oldest of the three Clun witches yet it was clear Charlotte called the shots. He'd taken on board her feminist lecture and felt gender shame that had nailed a truth he'd never explored thoroughly. Male dominance required address. By everyone. Yet she had listened closely to his statement of shamanic superiority and not seen an arrogance many might have but the factual truth he'd felt duty bound to explain. His bravery in offering to take the journey on, knowing he risked his life and sanity, would he have offered if somewhere deep inside him needed to prove himself to her. They'd not spoken alone, yet, only in company. He sensed she felt the magnetic pull. He hoped so, anyway.
Peter: "I'm in! Lipton? Will you be my second. No touching the void shite either!"
Lipton: "All for one. Death or glory!"
Jesus: "You'll need to spend a few boring nights drinking with me, you know. It's a very, very long time since I found myself there. But it's not something you forget. Kind of reassuring, in a way. Since my resurrection, that famous one, I've died more than once. You call me immortal. But you're wrong. In comparison it may seem that way but nothing lasts forever. Energy, but no arrangement of matter. These last few centuries I've felt it more. It's great to see change, cultural developements, technologies unimaginable. But behind this up beat wreckhead, I do have days when I yearn to rest. You know, for good."
Peter: "This sounds a right laugh, you maudlin about endless life whilst describing what to expect in the world of the dead! How many nights drinking?"
Returning Andys Land Rover the three sat buzzing with excitement and new plans. All began to see the shamanic journey into the spirit world of the dead might have to be undertaken first. Once Boudicca was kidnapped from the afterlife the Coven could begin their Octoboudicus creation. Peter arranged for a week of drinking with Christ, discussing the topography of the dimension Peter was to enter. He would begin tonight. How the coven planned to use their pagan gods was as yet unknown to them though the excitement of such a shamanic undertaking filled them with a fire of purpose. Rupert Bunsen and the Ark could wait a week or two. Peter knew he may not return to see this one play out. He'd need Lipton to keep firm as his link back to reality. Christs memory better not be clouded with drug abuse. The witches might have to sedate the souls whose channels they'd be swiping away. If they had such abilities.
Sent from my iPad
Peter - Chapter Eighteen
Peter - Chapter Eighteen
Andy stood amongst the ruins of Clun Castle smoking a joint with Ben watching Bill and Jimmy ambling towards them. Since the party all four had been keeping a low profile. Their part in clearing the equipment for the various sound systems had been completed successfully. An act of great personal risk for the common good. Out of character for the Clun Druids, many would argue. Rumour had it the police had assembled a secondary group of men following their reversal earlier in the evening. The unified hooligans, an alliance of party people from a fifty mile radius, threw aside personal grievances to join forces, had stood at stale mate, holding off the armed professionals. Through tactical ingenuity the advanced hooliganism of the Clun Druid shaman alliance, peter and Lipton with a brave stepping up to the mark from Elmer, new underworld king, a handful boldly took the fight to the enemy. In unarmed couplets they'd stormed the police lines, grabbing out weaknesses in their frontline, dragging them into their mass. A noble victory of unarmed unity over the armed professional offensive. No report had reached the press of the violent mass of riot police that had attacked an unarmed group of partiers with shields, batons, riot helmets and body armour, failing to close down the event, permitting the party to wind itself down. This historic hooligan victory would, in time grow to be a legend in the secret history of Albion. A victory of a david unified force against the Goliath of the police. Though mainstream history would hide the polices shame. Predictably the Shropshire Star ran a piece on the successful raid led by D I Briggs that confiscated all the organisers equipment and made an arrest on the criminal mastermind believed to be behind a series of illegal events. A story so distant from reality yet indisputable by the outlaw victors. The criminal mastermind was not named due to his many media connections. This appeared to suit everyone. The party, in truth, concluded unperturbed by police intervention with all major sound systems vacating without loss of equipment. The police, however, far from journalists eyes, were able to claim victory, reassuring local public that such illegal events would not be tolerated.
A further report focussed on two bodies later found on the hill. Little detail had so far emerged though this was reported as most likely the result of illegal drug use. Police advised young people to attend only authorised events. Their battle against the menace of drug use would continue. These sad deaths of two young men was used as a message to any foolish youths considering dabbling with drugs.
As the four drulads discussed these reports Andy made it clear that any mention of the collection of the twenty pineal glands, indeed any reference to the Clun Covens side projects beyond their recognised Druidic mission should be avoided during this conference. If these visitors had anything to say, let them present all their cards prior to any response. All agreed these new friends were far from mainstream establishment. In many respects equally persecuted. Yet specifics need not be opened alongside any possible divergent moral standpoints.
The Druids had mixed feelings regarding their new circle of acquaintances. Lipton and Peter were sound. They had never got above their station. They'd clearly led tough lives. Whilst shamanism had seen them steam in to other dimensions, risking their sanity to drag demonic tumours that had latched on to the membrane wall twixt the dark side and the shared realm, leeching off spiritual fluids in greedy perversion whilst shitting back repugnant paedophilic ectoplasm that infected unwitting men till a plague of meat puppets stalked our world. Working without thanks, ripping demons of utter repugnance, other slovenly shamans had ushered in through sloppy work, tearing of the veil was growing towards epidemic levels since shamanism became fashionable. Each urban traveller seeking personal self discovery as ayuashka tourism blossomed in Peru . Led by under qualified shamans, charging money for week long holidays where new agers with utter self interest discovered buried spiritual ailments useing sacraments to self focus. All amateurish shamanics leaving slashes and tears open for the flood of foul entities to enter this dimension. Skree/Peter and Lipton led tireless lives cleaning out this filth, this selfless work had seen both pestered incessantly by mental health workers. Government service agents were forever on their tale, confounded by the tunnelling, climbing and ritualistic shamanics yet clueless to the nature of their work. Driven into addiction many times to nullify the stream of putrid spittle and demonic slurry their pissed off foes slipped in to their minds at any off guard chance. These shaman cunts carried it all without moaning. The drulads had endured brutal ostracism since they were kids from the grey dullards of mainstream society. They could relate to the persecution by the authorities. They understood each other.
The more the Clun lads learned about Elmer, Esau and Elijah, this subterranean sect appeared sound dudes, if a bit weird. Hearing their history, the American governments attempted murder of Jesse, his bravery in burrowing under the Atlantic using pelvic gyrations alone, the building of the underworld empire. The seventies alliance that formed with a small group of the older miners, ex teddy boys, all Elvis fans. Thatchers term 'The Enemy Within' now made sense. Literally the enemy within the ground, an army of rebellion had begun to form. The ruthless manner the government had turned on its own people now made sense. This earned Druidic respect. The story that took Skree and Lipton from urban exploration, through the heart of the Underworld and onto the exorcism of the demon child Abel had become a talking point amongst the Clun Druids. And these fuckers weren't done yet. Even the lasses that had joined up seemed ok. They were cool with all of them. It was just that Jesus Christ lad that came over wrong. He tanned the beer and drugs with the best of them. Stood his round better than most. But those four slappers hovered like a shield around the cunt. You just couldn't get past them to suss him out. Christianity had killed their people. Ben refused to even look at the bloke. Jimmy and Bill were suspicious. Peter had tried explain the man called Christ and the religion created in his name, had little in common, and to be fair he was the first Christian they'd known to mix with anyone they would. Still. This conference seemed driven largely by him. Repeatedly Jesus had insisted things needed discussing. Andy had spoken to all the girls as well as the lads of Clun he now stood with. His policy simple. Let him in. But watch the cunt. Don't let him start chatting away, all easy, like he does, don't go letting your guard down. He'd not dismissed having to kill the cunt yet. His resurrection skills were genuine, the shamans had confirmed this, but Andy had ideas. He knew of several agricultural systems that would leave nowt more than sausage meat. Sprayed evenly over five acres by dung spreader, he'd like to see that resurrection. The Druids were unified in distrust of this odd cunt.
Hay bales arranged in a circle provided seating for the assembly in an isolated barn four miles outside Clun. Elmer, Esau and Elijah Presley represented the underworld. Peter and Lipton covered shamanic and archangelic issues. Andy Brock, Ben Black, Jimmy Arbor and Bill Aston represented the Clun Druids. Charlotte Black, Dianne Brock and Stella Arbor, the current Clun Coven of Druidic Witchcraft. Harry, posh squatter hippy bird, represented herself, she sat beside Mike Oldpastures, multi instrumentalist and owner of Tuberous Bellend. Jesus Christ the son of God spoke as the messiah offering both his fathers opinion and his own, in an official capacity he also represented the Holy Ghost though this mysterious third aspect of the holy trinity, being both mute and invisible, the ghosts capacity for communication had no apparent substance other than an inner voice heard in personal and private exclusion. Hence the ghosts input was disregarded as none cross verifiable. Slapistrys four representatives were all barely covered. Together they shared cigarettes and chewed gum. Rachel, Sue and Cathy chose to occupy three bales set aside, taking no part in the conference though through muttering and sharp looks they clearly shared a low opinion of the slappers craft. The atmosphere of hostility had been brewing a while now so Jesus, being chief advocate for the slappers stood to speak.
Jesus: "Group harmony is essential if we are to work together. Shaz, as a slapper queen and tribal elder, from a long and noble line of slappers, perhaps you could speak on behalf of your craft so as to clear the air ?" Shaz stood, her athletic spine curved pushing her firm breasts forth.
Shaz: "Student birds? As a qualified slapper from a long family line steeped in our craft, I feel our cultural differences need be of no problem. Our tribes share mutual distrust that I feel is born largely out of cultural ignorance, The stuck up student bird chooses education, glasses and loose clothing, believing over sexualised presentation can distract male attention from the female intellect. As slappers we respect your life choices. If fate found us born to wealthy parents and humble breasts like yourselves, we too may have grown to be up tight students. Bitching enviously at slappers firm gifts. The slapper blooms for a few short years. Like butterflies we display our beauty in full knowledge that soon, we too shall no longer stand with butts of steel, breasts that stand alone, not dependent on underwired support, demanding attention, like you we will one day hide in baggy woollens. Our revelry in our time, our embrace of natures beauty and refusal to hide away. Our flagrant submission to our desire to fuck without shame. Our philosophy is one of animal somatic embrasure of nature. Flowers in bloom are not to be hidden but to be viewed by all, life's uplifting wonders we share for the betterment of our world. I apologise on all our behalf if the eyes of your men savour our form. I will not apologise for revelry in their gaze yet, just as not every junkie is a thief, so too not every slapper is a slag. To walk out in mid winter frost, ignoring the cold in less than you girls wear to swim. It isn't easy to give and not to count the cost. I select these words in respect to your tradition. In my native slapper tongue my answer would have been a tad more succinct, 'just because my tits stand superior to yours and jealousy fills your heart. Bitch on, fuck you fridge, as you envy my butt. And if you think you're hard enough, if you want to give it a go, then come on bitch! I'd kick fuck out of you. And don't kid yourself, your boyfriend is well below my league. But know this, as he spurts within you, eyes closed in ecstasy, it is me in his minds eye. click my fingers and he'd come begging on it.' I live life like you dream of doing but wouldn't dare, nor could you. However, I very much doubt we will have much to offer this conference. The slapper is of the body, not the mind. But during dull parts, you're all welcome to get a load of these babies!" She smiled giving her breasts the last say, thrust forth, a shake animating their glory. Indeed they quivered in an expression of the sheer joy of life. Not a soul, male or female failed to feel a stirring despite moral or political surface. "Enjoy your books!"
Shaz turned, thrust out her butt as she walked to her hay bail seat, breasts in tight rhythmic animation , every eye in the room transfixed by their firm allure. No one could deny, Shaz was hot as fuck.
The men sat silent. The coven smiled in pagan approval. Student birds could be haughty cows. All were stunned by the glory of the slapper queen. Rachel nodded acceptance as Sue and Cathy conceded the slapper ideology. She was right. They'd acted like stuck up student birds. Sue quietly reflected on her own body. She was fit too, beneath her loose coverings. Something she'd hidden to find social acceptance at university. She took a silent vow to hide no more. Indeed, she reflected, there is a slapper in all of us. Shaz speech ended the bitchery that had threatened group cohesion. Cathy blushed, bowing her face and quietly wondered if Shaz swung both ways.
Jesus: "Are their any further enquiries on the pros and cons of the Slappers craft?"
Looking round all appeared satisfied with the brief speech Shaz had given. "Are their any other smouldering animosities? Suspicions? Fractious under currents because it's best we clear away any distrust or rivalry before we begin!"
As leading male of the Clun Druids Andy Brock felt it his duty to speak up on behalf of his people.
Andy: "Christ! I have to be honest with you. Lipton and Peter clearly accept you and I trust these boys implicitly. But I'm still not happy. Part of me sees you're easy going, generous with your drugs, generous with your wine and that. Not even jealous over your slappers. Still. I can't shake the sense that somewhere, somehow, you're a cunt! I'm talking freely now. Convince me! I'm a Druid. Clun Druids are not like Cornish hippies. We are the twisted fuckers. The darkest of all. These, my people, we are descended from Titus Brock, Jack Black. Legendary figures that fought a guerrilla war of resistance for decades. Roman Christianity mercilessly killed my people. Not cleanly or with respect. No! Hideous displays of sadistic torture. Your name rings in a Druids ear like Hitler does to a Jew. Christianity having driven out our culture implanted the ideology that continues today. Each animal risks being thoughtlessly driven to extinction, the climate changes, polar ice caps melting. Christianity made man believe the earth in all its complex wonder of plant and animal, was something that was theirs to use. No name in history carries the destruction of all we hold most sacred like Jesus Christ! Now, I'm no messiah. I'm a simple mortal. So use simple words to explain this. The earth was quite content. Then Christianity came. Now it's looking broken, raped. Explain to me?"
This wasn't Andy with a personal gripe. Herein lay suspicions in everyone there. The Druids had been restrained, considering. With the history painted in broad strokes by Andys simple words before them all. The Druids looked ready to hear his reply. They would listen. But the atmosphere was thick. If Christ didn't have a very good excuse the Druids would be duty bound to destroy the man. The genocide carried out in his name had left but a few score, these now had the cunt. Here. On trial. All Clun Druids had discussed this, the resurrection problem too. The sausage mincing method. Dilution into a thin soup with thousands of gallons of water before spraying the meat molecule suspension so thin it would cover Wales through to the Midlands. Or release the thin meat smoothy way out at sea for fish feed. Let's see Christ reanimate from that dispersal of meat particles. That resurrection would be worthy of a new religion.
This conference had been called by Christ. Peter had grown to see Jesus as a mate. All that animosity he had once held for Christianity, that shit no longer crossed his mind. Neither he nor Lipton had seen this coming. But it made perfect sense. Had Christ worked on them? Took them under his spell? Used them both as a vehicle, a Trojan horse. Gaining access to places that without their good name he'd stand no chance of acceptance. There was that edge to him too. Undeniable. Selling Iantos van. A cunts trick by any measure. Four twenty year old girls under his bed clothes like some paedophile. Who knew their real age anyway? 2016 years old makes most sex acts seem perverted. Admittedly, it met current legality but it still could be seen as odd, despite the slappers clear collusion in the five some, further, the noises heard coming form the group moist evenings sounded victimless. And the drugs and booze? He'd be bang at the escapist shite, alcohol, smack, coke, ketamine but Peter had never once seen him do a trip. Lipton was reluctant sometimes on the deeper shamanic depths and Peter generally got the job of vast ayuashka journeys, the really powerful tryptamines. But Lipton always gave his best. By many they knew, this was the measure. The sign of a man unable to live with his true self. If someone won't do LSD they are hiding from something. And for all his talents, how many people had they seen healed? Elmer, true, but not a right lot of others.
Lipton was running similar thoughts. Considering his resurrection skills, he never really risked his life, how often, during a mass brawl, had he jumped in for them? He could think of a dozen occasions where they'd rescued Jesus pissed up in some local boozer, mouthing off or moralising to some stranger. Peter too, they'd both saved him a kicking more times than they had counted. Yet when had Jesus ever steamed in for them? Between the two shamans It was a given. Lipton and Peter, if either one saw the other taking a battering. Out numbered by however many, there was no question of it. No question entered either mans mind. Straight away they'd steam in. Lipton got cornered by twenty odd Cardiff soul crew whilst busking or begging one Saturday last summer. Peter stood little hope of making any difference yet without a thought for his personal safety he'd charged in. Once he got Lipton on his feet they took on all twenty. They maybe caught a few each, bloodied the odd nose, split the odd lip, before going under. Waking up in Cardiff A and E. Peter left collar bone, three ribs and left fore arm broken. Lipton both arms and a few ribs. The point was they'd jumped in regardless. They would die if need be. Christ, mind, who recovered however serious the injury, in no time at all, not once could Lipton think of when the cunt dived in. He'd grown fond of Andy. All the Clun lads, to be fair. He'd need some answer to this. If these accusations held, he'd have to agree.
The Coven girls relished this sight. Jesus looked well shifty now. Generations of Christian rapists had persecuted these families. Further than any of this, further than the Roman Christian genocide of Druids, the planet. Shaman and Druid alike shared understanding of the singular earth mother. The complex interdependence of all life was a harmonic balance. Christianity allotted man transcendent souls. Christs dad made man separate from other creatures. This unique Anthropocentrism of the Christian outlook had come close to destroying the planet. The Druid plan may hold out. Before the gathered people stood the man who was the main suspect for a crime beyond any other. "Come on, Christ? We are all ears. You are fortunate to get a hearing at all. Come on Jesus?, explain this! Because this is your only chance. That cross will seem a dream bed of goose down quilt compared to what we've planned. Each time the particles of meat reform I'll be there, or my son, or his, to remince you backdown to sausage meat! Eternal! Just like your old man when he sends his least favourites down to hell! "
Christ looked around the room. He saw not a single favourable face among them. He'd been here before. On trial. Judged by people who knew very little. This was the lot of gods cast down son. Elmer knew a tad more than the rest , the shamans never asked Christ too much. They'd always taken folk as they saw them. Fuck reputations it was how they'd been to them in person. However, these Druids had a right to an answer. Mate or not. Stood before this inquisition Christ knew one thing. All he had was the truth.
Jesus: "Stood in your shoes I would ask the same questions. Elmer asked me about it the other night. Hear me out and if you blame me for all that has been carried out in my name, I understand what you must do. My father developed from a far higher power, a God he can't even see. Dad is a beetle to a human in comparison to the uber God. As a lad I knew as little as he. In time i learned he's just a run of the mill, common or garden deity. My dads truth is one of many. Think of him as a child without guidance. There was no fore runner from which to refer to. On a personal level, if we'd met as equals in a pub, I'd not have shared a beer with the man. He is my dad, but I've never got on with him. A pompous deity. Our morals differ. We aren't on the same wavelength at all. He created, well, the earth came about before him. Life emerged slowly in many forms. By focusing his attention down on to the space before him, something emerged. His attention created it but he had no control over its design. That kind of power is way above his. Natural law has no moral aspect. The most suited to an environment survives. Birth, life, death. Earth self levels. She balances herself. Lion kills gazelle. Spider kills fly. An animal over populates and infection, disease or a new predator emerges to level things out. All life is food for another. Evolution saw some predators hunt using speed. Man emerged with his speciality, consciousness. Planning. Scheming. Man assumed superiority yet was always an animal operating to animal laws. Man acts instinctively then spins a story to rationalise his behaviour. Watching this all evolve before him like bacteria in a Petri dish, he arrogantly assumed it ibis creation, but what he set in motion grew to laws beyond his simple understanding. Seeing mans awareness of self God felt smug. An animal with self reflection, a creature able to fuck him off. God gave man a test. The unique quality of free will. Or so it seemed to his simple mind. God needed to be loved. He's Jealous, childishly so. His children ignored him. He wanted to be adored. Man, of course, has no free will. He is an animal that acts to neurochemical processes within his brain which he has no awareness of. There is no self. He may feel there is a little pilot steering his body but this illusion falls apart when we ask who is in the pilots head steering him. Man does as the brain processes dictate. Decisions form by biological reactions. They enter his mind appearing as his thoughts. But he is animal. His consciousness follows, writing a story to live by, to tell others. Man no more chooses his movement and actions than a slug. God wants his love yet refuses to show himself. Man must choose to believe in something that isn't there. He must lie to himself, believe in a thing he knows to be untrue. This test God set, to believe in a god characterised by absence. He acts like a child. Over time his children couldn't pretend anymore, so they drifted away. To exist anything must be believed in. When man thought the earth was flat, it was. America exists because we believe so. Consciousness creates reality. God was fading. I hated the twat. His pompous games. His needy self indulgence. All of us up there with him grew to hate his childish pomp. A cheeky angel called Satan began suggesting alternatives. An angel offering choice to man. Reason. Maybe God isn't right? For this crime father cast him out. I became critical. Trying to get him to see sense. Argued endlessly but who's father listens to his son? You will have read how God so loved humans he gave his one and only son to die for man. No one asked him to sacrifice me. No one asked me either. My purpose for dad was simple. He wanted their love back. So I find myself on earth. His plan was to watch them execute me, in a public spectacle, feel guilty and forever pay thanks for gods gift. What a cunt! I'd not sacrifice my pet guinea pig never mind my kids.
I thought, fuck you! For thirty years I refused to play along, kept my head down. I am, after all, a man. Joinery took my interest. But I'm looking round at the people, growing annoyed. I'm on earth and after a while I see I might change mankind's outlook. Use the chance my old man gave me by sacrificing me. Please bare me out. I take responsibility for everything I said. All my words, they are mine for you to judge. Separate me and my actions and words from my father and his scheme. I gave up work. Took to street drinking. I became a speaker. Political philosophy mainly. Society had grown hierarchical. Vast division of wealth. Inequalities everywhere. So I spoke out. Simple stuff. All men are equal. Materialism is folly. After a time some began to catch on. My Poverty cult took off. Operate as other animals. Use what was sufficient. Use enough, no more. Share with strangers. Welcome the weak. Help the poor. Give away your unwanted possessions. Let homeless sleepers in your house. Do unto others as you would have done to yourself. Don't judge others. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, I looked at the priesthood who took authority over access to the divine. I said the mystical is for all. Anyone can talk to the God of their preference. I lived in rags. Lived with homeless. Prostitutes. Drop outs. Share what you have. Money lenders got me most mad. Praying on skint folk. Wonga. Loan sharks. I attacked their Money lending tables. Someone should have attacked the banks the other year. Stopped the economic crash. Rich people can't hope to get to heaven. Greed is not good. Love others as yourself. My followers soon grew. The priesthood saw me as a rival. It cost cash to pray with them whilst my flock got free wine. Soon the fuckers Grassed me up to the Roman occupation. I accept responsibility for advancing these ideals.
Further than this. I have magical abilities. Elmer asked me the other night why I used these sparingly. Earth, life, evolution works through cyclic change whereby a species improves through generations of birth and death. Today I see treatments enabling the rich to linger for a few more years. Or eradication of disease the earth creates to regulate human population. We are now so over populated the extinction of half the planets species have become extinct in the last fifty years as a consequence. Forest stripped to create green desserts to feed more humans. I cure a mans blindness. I make a lame man walk. But fucking about with the cycles of life is wrong. A cure for cancer would see further species outed. We are animals. Subject to animal laws. Nothing any animal does can alter anything. Politically I hoped my vision could hitch a ride on my fathers plans.
Through using me as a sacrifice my father tricked man into believing that of all the animals, man was gods chosen one. My death was my fathers illustration that man could transcend death. All other creatures died, being without soul. Man, however, was a spirit essence that travelled for a time in a flesh body. This was his promise. Love me, have faith despite all evidence, if you sustain this faith, then you will enter heaven. The result ended pagan beliefs of interdependence between all life. Man now need not respect the earth. The unit of currency shifted from lives to souls. Life became less valued, a period to be endured. Animals became beasts without feeling, to be used by man. The planet ours to use as we chose. My father used me to sever man from all else. Yes, my name is short hand for this shift, but this seperation opposed all I had said. Resurrection found me angry, disillusioned. I made a couple of appearances to fulfill my old mans scheme then I left the Middle East with Joseph of aramatheia. Sailed to Britain. I have lived here ever since. Mostly with travellers.
For a time gnostic Christians followed my way. Respecting the mystical visions of the lowly. My anti materialist stance they continued also. Parallel to this an Orthodox Church formed. They dismissed my message. Or twisted it to serve their own agenda. Now they authorised mystical States. Just like the Jewish priesthood I'd stood up against. Enlisting descendants of Peter, my denier, who never experienced the divine, through this the Catholic Church validated their unique line to God. Mystical experiences that were not authorised by them were regarded as apostate. Usually these people were killed. The Orthodox Christian Church used my name to become wealthy and powerful. My life's work was written down by many scribes. Four versions were selected to enforce the churches authority. The accurate gospels got destroyed. The Vatican grew immensely wealthy. I agree with everything you despise that was caused by the church. I despise it in a way you couldn't understand. My name, my work, my life, my death, all used to support all I lived and died to stop. I saw some Druids at Stonehenge 86. That's what they said they were. They formed in 1930. But they're not your kind. For you to blame the orthodox Christian church would be like me thinking those cunts at Stonehenge represented you lot. Same thing.
I read recently of a man in America. His daughter was raped and murdered by a neighbour. The police arrested him, set him up, framed him. He was jailed for flirty years for raping and murdering his own daughter. DNA evidence ultimately saw him vindicated. But I knew how he must have felt. To have been held responsible for a crime against which your entire life and beliefs opposed. I hid myself in shame as centuries passed by as an evolution of human distortion and perversion took my name and pulled its meaning till a reversal of what I was became known as Christianity. Over time I came to realise that in my arrogance I had carried guilt for many things, things that would have found another name to use had it not been mine. The Roman Empire could no longer contain governance of its expansion. Through conversion to the new faith, they used Christianity, a system of subjugation requiring no army or police force to enforce was implanted. The western mindset continues within the same structure today still. Once embedded in the cultural consciousness not even the abandonment of the divine could alter things. The God whose unique attribute was his absence had seen the concept of a spiritual dimension wither to a romantic notion, nostalgia or a half caught scent, a memory but a memory denied. The mystical, spiritual experiences had all but been attributed to the signs of mental illness. Science rendered any human sense of the other material fault. Brain malfunction. My mission, to tell humanity that the mystical experience was open to all, from priest to atheist, as universal and as profoundly human as falling in love, was extinct in Europe, Scandinavia and the USA.
I had great hopes for science. It seemed possible that a doorway for the western mind to step out from the muddled superstition and deceptive morality that my life and death had been the starting point of. Yet mans unconscious delusion of being superior to other animals survived the atheism that followed Copernicus, Darwin, neuroscience. The planets climate continues to change yet man can still believe he has the brains to cure the damage. They really believe they are super beings, they hide death believing they are not subject to animal laws.
Your pagan knowledge of bio interdependence is finally finding rediscovery in Lovelock and Gaia. The illusionary nature of free will is finding acceptance. My name is cursed. Whatever you choose to do will make no difference to anything. If you need a sacrificial display to satisfy your egos, then take my flesh for your sadistic joy. You will not be the first to have done so. The alterations to western existential ideas would have occurred with or without me. But if you understand the truth, you will accept we are on the same side. Few are. You could use my help.
Silence followed as Jesus bowed his head as though searching for a last phrase to leave on but his emotions had weakened his voice. Tears ran down his cheeks briefly that he wiped away, sniffed back and spat on the dusty barn floor before him.
With this Christ left the circle to let the others talk. He sat outside watching clouds shift and tumble. Looking to his side Elmer had followed him. He said nothing but offered Christ a Marlboro. Christ had smoked nothing but roll ups for years. He took the snout and smoked with the young underworld ted prince in silence. Jesus felt a hand pat his shoulder. Then an arm held him in manly support. Elmer looked at him.
Elmer: "You want to know a thing, there, Lord. Jesse used to take us boys to church each Sunday, to this small timber chapel underground he'd set up, as boys. See, he brought over gospel music. He soaked it up right next to Elvis in the womb. During pregnancy from their splitting of cells, both twins developed to a gospel soundtrack. I've seen them dull English church services. Boring as a mule. But when that gospel music gets in flow, the negro spirituals, the ladies lose themselves singing for Jesus. They get so high on that music, gospel music and love of Jesus. Elvis loved gospel too. You know I saw these missionaries, out in Africa. They'd gone out there, left all they knew behind, to save starving children. The TV presenter asked what gave them strength. They said Jesus Christ. The love of Jesus. See, the talk you just gave is but one strand of the rope of truth. There's as much good, maybe a whole lot more than there is bad comes under your name. Elvis had a shadow of it too. Some used their idea of who he was for good, some for bad. He had no say in it all. One time a bellhop accused him of being strung out on heroin. Elvis was only ever strung out on music. Yessir! Elvis grew crazy over it all. Took to pills. Doctors fed him uppers, downers, side which wayers. Poor guy knew no one he could trust. Died on the john. I never met my uncle. But if you look at my feet, you can not deny, I wear blue suede shoes. And, say what they want about my uncle, I always will. Jesus? Don't ever step on those shoes!"
Andy stood up in front of his close circle of Druid relations and repeated Jesus words. ""Now, gods plan for me. He needed to show his love by giving me over to be killed. My followers must be revealed as weak humans that grassed me up. I had to die, in pain, in a public display.""Jesus words rang round Andys head. Looking at the circle he asked,
Andy: "The guy speaks with sincerity, either he's spun himself some deep self delusion, or, perhaps he's not so different to us. Anybody wish to say anything while the messiah smokes his cigarette?" A brooding silence settled on the group. Ben shook his head, chuckling. Bill looked aloft with a piteous grin. Charlotte broke the moment with humour.
Charlotte: "Bit of a Fucking Hippy!" Cheryl returned the discussion to more serious matters.
Cheryl: "Speaking as a slapper, like. He's hung like a donkey, goes like the clappers and plucks free drugs from mid air!"
Ben: "I was gagging to try out that agricultural meat mincer. Anyone else?"
Jimmy: "What was the point of borrowing the thing if we're not minceing him?"
Ben: "We could at least do a cow, maybe? Pig, Anyone?"
Peter: "Come on! You can't kill the lamb of god just to use agricultural machinery. He's fucking sound. I can see someone put a lot of thought into how best to fuck up an immortal, mind. We may need something like that someday!"
Lipton: "It'd make a hell of a mess.....iah!"
The silence that followed Liptons......joke allowed all to hear a skylark out in the field and two buzzards calling to each other, high above the barn where the conference was underway.
Bill: "Peter! You humourless shamanic twat stick! We're joking! I say Aye!"
Dianne: "Aye!"
Stella: "Aye!"
Lipton: "Shall I call him in then?"
Andy: "Hang on. Let all speak."
Harry: "You don't get to choose your dad. Mine was a cunt!"
Mike: "Ok...however, he is a bit of a............................................................Bellend!"
Stacy: "Cheryl's point over rides that. He can get boring at times but by shoving his head between my legs I found this personality defect could be used to a good end. This technique for nullifying the tedium of his sermons may only be have use to other females, student birds excepted perhaps, within the group."
Elijah: "Pa holds a whole lotta faith in the Lord."
Esau: "Amen!"
Peter: "We need to address his limitations regarding standing together when things kick off!"
Andy: "Entirely! I offer my services in training the cunt up a bit."
Lipton: "There's no doubt he can take a kicking it's the other part he needs to work on. I'll join Andy in training up the swedge shy crusty."
Elmer: "I'm 100% for the lamb of god. Indeed, I shout salvation that he is among us!"
Peter: "Sue, Rach, Cathy? Any opinion."
Rachel: "If we can learn to respect the way of the slapper, you Druids ought to see Christ afresh too. Further, Cheryl's technical advice shows exemplary silver lining thinking. Not, for myself, Mike, I'm thinking of Cathy and Sue, of course."
Mike: "It.......would.......form a loop......if............Kylie and Shaz........have......a.......last.....if....I.....if......we..... Could.......Shaz..........could........stand up........to.........."
Rachel: "Mike! Stop staring at those...............actually.............could you, Shaz? They look so full of sunshine."
Shaz: "Looks like he's in. Returning to Cheryl's point, not only is he hung as she describes but I found, where other men rise and fall, Jesus resurrections are eternal."
Kylie: "Shall we go tell him?
Andy dutifully walked outside to talk with the man who's character he had questioned. Elmer stood by him and opened his box, flashing the subterranean ash to the Druid, Andy drew a Marlboro. Elmer sparked him up with his zippo.
Andy: "I hope me putting you through all that isn't going to be an issue. Nothing I said was meant personally but as the group elder here I'm duty bound to be thorough. History hasn't been kind on either my people nor yourself, so what's say we leave history as just that? Past! What say we go out on the beer one night. Just us two. They all say I'm paranoid about strangers. They're not wrong. I had a square go with Lipton the first night we met and were best mates now."
Christ: "Square go! You drew a knuckle duster on him! No hard feelings. One time these cunts nailed me to a cross. You know what I said? 'Forgive them for they know not what they do.' I said that but I was trying to sound hard. Cunts! It's a fucker, Andy. I hear all the chatter. What a druggy cunt I am. All that jealousy about the slappers. But you haven't a clue, mate. Every fucker knows me better than i do. It's the cross I carry. One thing I will say. I've spent too long hiding. There's a few cunts now that I really can't stand. I accept I have an appetite for drugs. I see the blossom of life in the buttocks of a slapper. But the planet is in trouble. The crew gathered here could cause some havok. I know Lipton and peter say I'm no good in a swedge. But I have other skills. I'm well up for learning from you and Lipton. Give me a chance and I will not let you down. The execution of apostates or heretics, the burning of witches, it's very similar. What the crowd wants is the victim to give up their God. Deny their faith. I won't say I'm brave but to deny my father, even at the worst moments, never entered my mind. I asked the cunt why he wouldn't intervene, shut down my flame instead of giving the public a lengthy display of my suffering. He said no. They had to see my suffer or his plan wouldn't work. Put me on probation if you like, like the student birds did the slappers, and I will prove my worth. Now. I have my own questions. Conference?"
Peter: "I am Skree. Shaman. Archangel of the Underworld. I set out having heard of a suicide epidemic in an area where I once lived. I had to get out of Stroud. A town I was living outside in my van. A shaman, either keeps moving or he finds that sub essences, demon stains left over from the many perverted cunts he has kicked back to their filthy dimension of origin find him. Each time I've got a settled home, after a while some fucker finds me. They hang about in the shadows, waiting until you are off guard, relaxed in company, sleeping etc then slip their fetid tendrils into your head. They're an inexplicably deep pain. The voices, dreams so ugly your mind starts to grow poisoned. Mental health workers then pester you. They mean well but they just see a man ranting or beating his head. To stay, I start to drink. To quieten the fuckers. This time heroin worked for a while in subduing the cunts. But that soon takes its toll. After it got too much I thought I'd best take off, give these demonic stains the slip. Most of my shamanic work has been conducted in partnership with Lipton. Driving aimlessly my subconscious steered me. It wasn't something I was aware of doing, nevertheless, I tracked him down. He was having his own problems. These are his own to talk of, I'll just say I found him in a bad way. So I took him to this valley. I'd battered a few demonic cunts before who'd slipped over and instigated suicide epidemics in rural communities. This seemed another such putrid fuck, up to the same old games. So we mapped the spots where the teenagers were found. Marked each point on the map. The spread formed a channel through which a line of three hill forts ran. By climbing the hill forts in sequence we soaked up sufficient power to do away with the fuckers we imagined must be in Clun. Hill Forts, as some of you know, are not exactly what many will tell you. They are many things. For our purposes they are like volcanos. Points where earth energies can escape. Our ancestors built protective dikes so when they were siphoning off the earths power substances their work could continue unhindered by others envious of the shamanic knowledge, clueless in how to use these valuable Earth emissions, yet, in curiosity and hope of power, thieves, after the shamanic earth juice. We had personal exorcisms and spiritual cleansing so to do also. The opiates we use to nullify the parasitic demons incur addiction. Our first task was to use the earth energies in shamanic self cleansing. Ridding ourselves of opiate dependence. Our pilgrimage was successful. Both Lipton and I have drawn out some considerable reserves during the three hill fort extraction mission that now we have in storage to Channel at our chosen time. Our very beings are resonant with the containment of such volatile effluvia. Our beings are rippling with stored energy. Jesus turned up whilst we were in union with the earth on the second hill fort. He told us of the party that was the following night at the third hill fort, Bury Ditches. Clearly our instincts were spot on. Our psychic nose had followed the scent. Through our craft we found benevolent essences had positioned us, fully charged, at the spears tip. This small event we were able to force into a beast of untamed velocity. Through channeling in a portion of the stocks we held that were at boiling point anyway and needed offloading, garnered by our good fortune on sourcing out a decent quantity of majestic pills, we drew out raw life forces creating a point in time of great potency. This proved so magnetic all of you here were pulled in. We hadn't figured on drawing in Mr Olpastures or his .....er.....manager. Nor did we expect to attract our good freinds from the Underworld. What we set in motion began to take on a life of its own beyond our containment. Lipton and me were both scared shitless and thrilled beyond measure as to how this blend of so varied and unrelated powers might erupt. Jesses gyratory forces that channel the carnal life drive of animal sex, a life force that is so deep within the earths drive to be, it defies linguistic expression. Following the hereditary lineage, taking this force down a perverse and deviant path , jesses son Abel grew demonically evil as such power corrupted the poor lad. Lipton and I murdered the demon Abel had become. A job we carried out for his father, who knew what had to be done, but understandably couldn't kill his own son. The gyratory force looked to be lost as the Underworld king lies close to death. No heir who bore the gift. His empire under the threat of termination. I am sorry boys but I need to clarify things. Christ had helped out during the shamanic execution and healed Elmer, Abels brother and son of Jesse. Born plum stupid Elmer could never be entrusted with leadership of the subterranean empire. His plum stupidity rendered any gyrations graceless, lacking fluidity and power, way out of time to the beat of the subterranean rock and roll music. A guttural sound. An animal beat. A rhythm beyond music we know above the earths crust. These sons of Jesse know it well but Lipton and myself have only enjoyed a three day trance moving to its wonder. This occurred during our first meeting with jesses empire, deep underground in a secret location. Yet Jesus made Elmer brighter than a button. Christ cures, believe me. He walked away a genius. Became an intellectual. The spirit forces in a volatile storm saw Elmer blessed or liberated, his soul cleared open, a blockage busted away, clearing passage and the gyrations became his very own. This happened thanks to the chance opening between DJ sets. Mikron dropped the bomb. His set completed he waited for DJ andy Webber to take over. Yet by chance, and at a loss, a suited upper class man handed over a CD. Anthone asked Mikron to play it to fill the gap. None could have imagined the power of the music that hit at that hyper tuned moment. Tuberous Bellends remix blasted out at the spirit storms most volatile point. It's composer took on the form of a satyr, freed from his chains, leading a pagan orgy of naked dance that liberated him from the mind dungeon an evil man had locked him in. Elmer found himself animated by the music. Dancing as he never had before. The gyrations of Jesse and Elvis were not lost. Each pelvic shimmer, each hip flick causing hypergasms in all surrounding females. The clitoral stimuli spat out in an untamed centrifuge of megagasm affecting all. Lipton and myself knew that only we could hope to tame this. Acting swiftly as Elmer was unaware of the orgasmosis his gyrations were conjuring up. Two thousand females were at a zenith of orgasm. This looked like blowing a hole clean through space and time. This could have meant anything. A new God born. A dimensional portal bursting a passage to anywhere. An army of demons charging through. Earthquake. Fuck knows. It could have been anything. So as the shamans largely responsible for lighting this fire we delegated Christ to bring Elmer within reasonable gyratory limits, turn the orgasmosis down a touch as we took to the skies as archangels. From above we were able to weave a protective veil ensuring damage limitation. Now, please understand, though we are long time shamans, our archangel experience is very low. Following the exorcism of the demon Abel, Jess, in honour made us archangels as reward. The politics of the heavens are very complicated and you need not trouble yourselves with their finer details. Simply as I can explain it. There are only six licences at any one time. There's shed loads of lesser angels but these days they're down to six sustainable archangels. Two are allocated to the dominant God of the over world, two to the God of the sea, and finally two are allotted to the God of the underworld. All gods are existentially dependent on belief. As more people believe in a gods existence their actualisation increases. Currently few really believe in Christs dad. Islam is growing hence Allah has the two overland licenses. Poseidon has two for the sea. Hades is considered a myth these days. He's hardly there at all. Patchy at best, like a gas in places. So, by what many see as a technicality, Jesse Presley is currently the God of the underworld. So that's how we became archangels. This has got so many gods pissed off you would not believe it. A pair of drug addled shamans being archangels whilst Woten, Abrxsus, Odin, Olympus and loads of other jealous cunts have none. So each time we switch on we reveal ourselves. Thousands of slumbering deities stir awake in an angry mood and come to destroy or steal our wings. So we've not had time to practice. I've only been up five or six times. So our skills aren't great. Yet we contained the storm. We felt mostly ecstatic joy. The energies that swirled in tumult below were a tangled confusion but, on the whole, positive. But something happened while we were up there. Something pretty fucking ugly. Now, I'm pointing no fingers but I've heard the drug deaths reported were far from it. Two decapitated bodies were left on the hill. Someone murdered two lads that night. I'm not a judge. Maybe they deserved it. But me and Lipton did some research, rang a few shamans that explore dimensions we don't. There'd been eighteen teenage suicides in the area. Some of whose graves have been defiled. The police don't know this. We have other sources. Only thing taken from the graves were heads. Two from the fort makes twenty. Now, we may be crap archangels but we are fucking good shamans. We've been exploring other dimensions now for thirty odd years. Neither of us asked to be shamans. We were chosen and it's not something I'd advise anyone to seek out. Using psilocybin, LSD, modern lysergamides most recently, traditional Amazonian shamans use ayuashka. We do too. Dimethyltryptamine is the most potent psychedelic known to man. It's taken us to many places, some where we are now regular guests. Piping DMT we often burst over to ask advice from spirit beings on many problems that we are looking into. DMT is found in hundreds of plants. We use 5-meo- DMT from the skin of certain toads to access amphibious dimensions. We use 5 bromo DMT from sea sponges for various aquatic and ocean dimensions. Our craft is complex, dangerous and accurate sacrament selection is imperative for our shamanic practice. When we were younger, all our work was positive and tight. Recent years has seen an upsurge in interest in shamanism. Mostly new agers are not looking to help others or the universe, just purely for self discovery. A lot of our time is wasted on repairing damage caused by crap shamans. Sealing dimensional passages, tears and holes left behind after some idiot broke through and ran off shitting themselves. The volume of repugnant demons, filthy perverted entities, pustulant fetid fuckers who've snuck through these openings you would not believe. Driving these dirty cunts out takes its toll. Many get through then sink tendrils deep in to people on the whole. Like fucking limpits some are. And their hosts rarely accept that some parasitic lamprey is sucking away, greedily feeding off them as they grow weakened, dissolute, sick carriers. Ripping out the filth can leave you scarred. Like I say, neither of us can linger anther long before some demonic tentacle slithers in your ear. Your dreamscape descends into a horrific psychic land where each house, each room contains some filthy demon. Remaining free of heroin and alcohol grows harder as subjugating these deep psychic assaults takes strength. Both of us have found ourselves drinking till the voices shut up. It's no game. The human body produces its own natural psychedelic. DMT can be detected in trace amounts all over but it is most concentrated in the pineal gland. The only brain organ not twinned. It sits deep down between the hemispheres. In reptiles and other animals it sits much higher. Theirs retain a basic retina and cornea and are light sensitive. This is what numerous cultures call the third eye. Descartes believed, quite rightly, that this was the point where the spiritual and material connected. The channel linking the spiritual dimension to the physical. At birth the pineal releases DMT as the spirit enters the body. At death again, the release of DMT occurs. Near death experiences see DMT release. A white corridor of light opens up. Those who recover rarely question the afterlife now knowing the truth.
So, just say this is all conjecture. I'm now speculating about no one in particular. If sufficient human DMT was collected a shamanic act could be achieved. The pineal DMT channel is peculiar to each individual. We are organic. Passage through the tunnel is only possible through your own. The spirit form has a dimensional complexity that can only make it through a tunnel or passage it is equipped to do so. I've heard of rare cases where this has found an over eager and stupid young shaman stuck like some amateur pot holler, trapped there, and no one is ever going to come and get them out. Yet if someone gathered twenty pineal glands. If their shamanic know how was very advanced. They might find some way to blend the DMT. Create a bigger opening. This wouldn't be a larger hole, it would be a momentarily lashed together group of tubes. A composite labyrinthine coagulate of tunnels. They may find an entry permits admittance for a while till this passage becomes unnegotiable, here he might burrow through to another, travel down that awhile, then again blocked, bust into another, using a piece of this, a piece of that, it might be possible to make such an access system. But this opening would be sustainable for a brief window. Everything must be readied, then this construct must be grasped into being before the spirits notice, once their confusion steadies and each realises what's missing, by simple attention they'll pull what you've borrowed back as easily as we refocus our eyesight. You'd be fortunate to sustain such a portal for one, maybe two minutes. Any such portal wouldn't be easy to use. It would require extremely refined witchcraft to create anything useable. Even the very finest construct possible would be beyond the talents of most competent shamans. With optimistic outlook you might just create a portal that a skilled, flexible, psychic contortionist of a shaman with many years practice, might just be able to get through. Maybe. Maybe they could even find their way back. It is possible. As a shaman of thirty years practice I can say with confidence that I know where this would take you. We will all be going there one day. Perhaps not you, Jesus. I don't understand how things work with you. However, It's fortunate you are here, in fact. You are the only person that I know of who has been there. First, though. Say this conjecture, this flight of fancy I'm exploring were true, why? Why would someone want to travel to the afterlife? What possible good could come of this? If someone was that determined that killing twenty young people could be justified, it must be of extreme value for greater good, or the work of some fiendish architect, completely uncaring about human lives. Twenty lives. That's a lot of journeys, loves, experiences, cancelled out for a singular act. As this is merely speculation, a fantasy of what some fictitious individual might try, I'd be offending no one by saying that, with deepest respect for Lipton, I am the only person here that stands a chance of negotiating passage, gaining even a rudimentary sense of bearings, grasping whatever was sought, then getting back out. Lipton might make it, but the rest of you I guarantee would fail. The speed you'd have to work at would have to be as free of self conscious planning as a fish through water. I'm not boasting. It's something only a seriously experienced shaman familiar with many, many dimensions could even dream of pulling off. Secondly, if I ever was asked to attempt such an advanced dimensional passage I would like to get back. Therefore, the guy you didn't trust, Jesus Christ, he alone would have to be consulted. He might refuse to help these fictitious witches whose craft is attempting an act of advanced shamanism. They wouldn't stand a snowflakes chance in hell without us. Yet, from a professional standpoint I'm curious as hell. Just supposing this was more than mere conjecture, I might consider changing their hopeless fantasy into a real possibility if these fictional scheming witches were open to a deal. The time I'd have to spend with Christ in study, listening to a verbal description of a place where nothing compares to what we know. Here we have three dimensions and a fourth that permits animation. From what little Christs said there are some twenty seven dimensions, none of which happen to be amongst our four. Let that thought settle a while, because it surely can't be an image in your mind. Maths is as close as you'll get to any metaphorical system of discussion.
Maybe there are factors I'm not privy to.
Let's put aside this conjecture for a while. Risking my soul for something would have to be of such importance, I'd quite possibly never agree. Yet the architect has already had such commitment they've accepted the deaths of twenty. This stumbling issue is currently the size of Everest. Let's leave all that aside. Not speak of it again if you wish. Forget it. Probably some serial killer anyway.
Yet, should this venture prove to be worthy of my commitment, I'd want something myself. What I would accept as payment would be something only the Clun Coven have access to. It would, if successful, kill the hundred richest humans on Earth. Now, who among you doesn't want that?"
The levity released the tension Peter had created. All laughed out loud in solidarity.
Andy: "Kill the Rich!"
Ben: "Squat the lot!"
Jesus: "It would be easier for a camel to climb through the eye of a needle than for a rich fat cunt to enter the gates of heaven!"
Lipton: "An old one but a good one, JC! We may have our differences but it's clear we all hate the rich."
Peter: "Do you want to hear this? I've been working on the idea with Lipton since we gathered together. Harry helped with some intelligence and Mike inspired me. That night on Bury Ditches Hill Fort I saw something that really upset me. Forgive me Mike for reminding you but I cried inside when I first saw you. I recognised Rupert Bunsen from TV. I bet most of you that don't know him personally have seen his bearded grin. His many businesses have made him one of the worlds richest men. Yet, he wanted more. Far more. Even if dragging a broken man by a chain, a man he once called a friend. You all must now know Mikes story. You won't know so much about Bunsen, though. Anthone pulled off an elegant scam on the bastard. As the police moved in to close down the party, he sold all remaining equipment, sound system, PA, lighting rigs, marque, over to Rupert Bunsen. The police arrested him and charged him for organising the entire event. He was released and left for London. The following day the police discovered two headless bodies. They are hunting him down as we speak. He is the current prime suspect. This has triggered him to move his plans forward. I'd thought we had two years but now we must carry this out within four weeks if we are to succeed. I'll hand over to Harry in a moment. She can explain the history.
Harry: "As a girl I played with a young boy whilst my parents visited Highgrove. Mine were an aristocratic family. We owned Harrington Hall. Rupert Bunsens family were rich but less wealthy. Ruperts father was successful in business. New money we would pompously refer to their type. After he left public school he too was very successful. Bunsen saw what he perceived as the lower orders at play. His generation saw the possibilities in rock and roll, football, festivals, race culture etc. Soon he was making vast sums. First in music. His label got off the ground through the success of Mikes album The Tuberous Bellend. A further project the Pis Sextals saw him look to other projects. From here Bunsen moved into many lines. From banking, communications, transport, airlines and other ventures. He bought an uninhabited island in the Caribbean. Here he built luxury dwellings. His rail travel blossomed alongside air travel. A decade or so back he began space tourism. His early space craft shot above the atmosphere, passengers enjoyed a breif look at space and a view of the Earth from space. These trips cost a hundred thousand pounds. Only the very rich could afford them. These flights tested out space travel technologies and funded research. Bunsen was amongst a small group of international super rich people that shaped global economics. In fifty years most of the planets wealth was in the pockets of a few hundred. As time passed the ecological damage their exploitative businesses became apparent. Business leaders began to meet with world leaders to ostensibly agree to limiting carbon emissions. The bulk would leave early. The rest, familiar with the nature of man, hung around for late drinks. In any game someone will cheat, so these formed a higher grouping unified by the immoral pursuit of dominance. Investing many millions in scientists working to disprove truths. Climate change has begun to affect the Earths balance. In the last fifty years half of the planets species have become extinct. Human population growth had hit crisis point. We are entering a period of immense changes. The ice caps have stabilised global temperature. Soon they will be gone and the extinction of most life is likely. In the next hundred years 99% of the earths population will die. Maybe all. No one knows. Most scientific speculation predicts a deathly period that could last several millennia. After this most agree a new era, as different to ours as ours was to the dinosaurs. Bunsens elite decided to speed things up. Using resources to secure vast wealth for the very few. They came to think of themselves as the conclusion to Earths evolution. All life, all history distilled to create this hundred super humans. The earth they saw was the fruiting body. They had used it up. The history of life had been a singular journey to the hundred. Natures and gods chosen elite.
Beneath Bunsen island is a vast scientific community. James Bonds enemies offer a shadow of the depth of this evil. Think CERN but secret, private. Gathering the finest scientific minds Rupert began the Noah project. Limitless funding for the exploration of their work free of any international moral intervention. Developing space and time travel technologies. Particle construction of anything, reduseable to a digital formula. A leap way beyond the human genome project. Soon they could reassemble an individual to precise accuracy from data. Physical transport need not burst light speed if a man could be assembled in molecular perfection. Only the code need be sent. He has created a spacecraft. His elite set have screwed the planet for all she had. Rupert Bunsen began inviting the very richest people on Earth to pay vast sums to become secret passengers. He has operatives in all major governments and more shadowy agencies that rule the planet. These people have taken all the money from the Earth through exploitation, murder, ruthless extraction of all valuable mineral resources. As the Earth expires, they see themselves as the cream. The fruiting body shooting out her finest seeds into space. They have discovered life sustaining planets. They are leaving the depleted husk behind. Once beyond atmospheric restrictions the receiver craft, an unmanned vehicle, having located the new Virgin Eden, lands. From here the hundred will be recreated from fresh particles. They aim to take humanities next step. Having used the earth up, the finest will leave the rest behind, to start the new world. I heard about the Noah project and vanity, hubris, greed, whatever saw me asking for a place. I could not compete with the oil sheiks, the Russian oligarchs. The projects secrecy was crucial as there remained a few powerful people with morals. So after he refused me he tried to have me killed. His operatives mistook me for my sister who died in my place. I ran. Became a squatter. He still hunts me down.
I thought I'd not see the toad again, forgot to worry, till I was at the party. He'd a finger in vast illegal parties though his were focused in the Home Counties . Mike had developed mental health problems. Bunsen saw a chance to screw more money out of Oldpastures through drum and bass Tuberous Bellends remixes. He saw Syd Barrett become a legendary casualty of LSD. He decided to see if he could create a similar cult figure from Mike Oldpastures. Spiking him with a massive dose of LSD he nearly destroyed Mike. He is looking much better with Rachel. I was about to leave you all after the party but I spoke with Mike. He asked me to attend this conference. Something about bait."
Peter: "That fantasy thing earlier. Can I talk to the Coven regarding that later, privately. This is what I want. The Ark, Bunsens spacecraft is stored in a vast undersea glass unit. Four weeks from now he plans to leave the planet. The earths greediest, richest, most selfish, most ruthless hundred bastards will be boarding. The Planet Earths most evil gathered together in one place. The scum of the earth, in a space craft, in a glass box beneath the sea. We can not miss this opportunity. This glass tank must be extremely strong. Somehow we must burst in.
Charlotte, I ask you. Work together with us. We need a vessel to travel up the coast, to the sargasso, then to Bunsen Island. Summon up Jig. Harry will stand on the deck of our yacht. The conger eel demonic serpents shall join up into a vast shoal. Harry, Lady Harringtons aristocratic blood will arowse the serpents, yearning for the blood of the rich. The sea will boil as we travel to the sargasso. As a single shoal, the thrashing rage shall follow our craft. A mile or more of sea, boiling with hungry vicious demonic eels. I need your help. Could these creatures of super nature burst holes into the glass? Or must we devise a system to let them in. Either way, looking at you all I feel the unity of our mission, together we can cut off the head of the beast. Imagine. Open your minds. See the feeding frenzy as the nucleus of mankinds raping of the planet for personal gain, meeting the Earths answer. I once saw film of a cow fall into a shoal of pyrannahs. The water boiled as they stripped the beast of all flesh in minutes. That would be a shadow of this. Those creatures of Jig. Your meat demonology unleashed on the greatest foes. A righteous slaughter. A gift from all of us to the Earth. An act so pure, so good. Stop Bunsens mission. Thank you for listening. I humbly await your response!"
Peter nodded to each Witch, embraced the Clun Druids, shook hands with the Presley boys, hugged Christ. Walking to the girls he kissed each on the cheek, Rachel, Sue and Cathy. To each slapper he gave each firm arse a slap of appreciation of the glorious buttocks. This being the polite and respectful slapper salutation. Finally he walked to Lipton and they embraced. Both hoped this Clun bunch were up for this. He'd gambled all in laying his plans and knowledge open. Only together could this be achieved.
Peter: "There's a lot to think on. Shall we resume tomorrow?"
All agreed. Stood stretching stiff limbs. Pooling into couples and groups. Chatting over the issues brought up today. The conference had seen the shamanic cards on the table. Tomorrow the Clun Coven hopefully would be as open.
Tonight was to be the last night the whole collective were together for some time. Many goodbyes were in need of saying. The sons of Jesse were leaving for the tunnels at dawn to follow their voyage home. The student birds had to return to submit essays. The Slappers sought new parties and nightclubs, a last night sharing Jesus powers of resurrection saw their make up application grow frenzied seeking firsts. Twos ups were also bagged.
Esau sat talking earnestly to Sue. They had become close over the days. Esau felt proud Elmer had so smoothly assimilated gyratory proficiency. This was no small thing. The three boys would return home with an heir. Their empires future had hovered in every subterranean mind. Now Jesse could hand on the responsibility, pass the crown, gyrations safe in Elmers hips and pelvis. Sue feared her new love may step away, enter some cavern and disappear into the belly of the Earth. She had her own epiphany to assimilate. Shaz had vocalised the meaning of the sensations Elmer had triggered. Peter spoke of how he had not chosen to be a shaman. Something far greater had chosen him. So it was for Sue. Already her spectacles had been abandoned along with the loose clothing she wore as a uniform declaring her tribal allegiance to student birds. Esau couldn't avoid noticing that her shirt, previously a smooth tight duality of restraint now formed a loose veil that shadowed exuberant animation. Bullet points crowned quivering firm and joyous life. This alone ensured his commitment to return to meet his princess. The emergent slapper saw his eyes sparkle and knew he'd be back.
Returning to the quarry the site was soon reassembled for a final evening. Once the fire was in blaze Lipton got his speakers placed to play music. Beers were cracked and an atmosphere that blended the joy of new friendships with the sadness of separation. All would meet again. This was without question. Least represented were the locals. Andy stayed for a few hours with Ben though it was clear the Coven and other boys had a lot to discuss prior to tomorrow's second half of the conference. All accepted why.
Peter and Lipton sought out those that were leaving. The son of God was saying his own farewells one by one to his four Slappers, leaving the ladies in waiting to chat.
Peter: "Shaz! We'll be sad to see you lot leave. You've brought a sparkle to these last days. The drulads are sound but can get dour. But these days have been lit up by you girls. I concede, in the past I had disrespected the craft of the Slapper. But I was ignorant. Shaz, you really opened my eyes. Your speech impressed us all. I'd no idea how high ranking a Slapper you were till then. I mean, clearly your physical presence speaks volumes, no one could refute how fit you are, but queen Slapper! Few can claim that!"
Shaz: "No shit, lad! You better believe it. Any parties like that you're having, let us know. Sounds like Cheryl's nearly done, would you mind unclipping this for me? He don't like to waste any time". The respectful firm buttock slap that both gave their respective slappers , the courteous gesture in slapper culture, was heartfelt and honest. Their firm quivering buttock response confirmed mutual respect. Both shamans agreed this had been, for both, a deeply religious experience.
Both shamans were relieved as they moved on to say goodbyes to the student birds who were heading back to Cheltenham. Cathy explained that Rachel and Mike were off together somewhere, deciding what to do. Oldpastures was keen on the Noah project, should the Coven agree and it seemed unlikely Rachel would leave him now.
Sue also might be changing course. Social Policy no longer held her passion. She awaited to hear if Shaz and the Slappers would take her along.
Peter: "Well, you're always welcome to join us on site, wherever we are. It's been brilliant!"
Swapping mobile numbers they saw Sue who looked very different.
Lipton: "Hey Sue! Just be careful with those girls. They're years ahead of you. They walk into situations clad in hardly anything yet their strength is far greater than most. I couldn't walk as they do, where they do. They grew up in situations different to you. They are fit as fuck but also hard as fucking nails. Their life choice is no game. Perhaps keep things steady with Esau. Just keep in touch. Weekends with the lasses till you get your bearings. I don't want to sound an old cunt but..,."
Sue: "You do, mate! But I get your concern. Keep in touch. And I'll always be with Esau. I'm no slag, ok?"
Both shamans went over to Elmer who poked a stick in the fires embers, lost in thought.
Peter: "All ok, Elmer?"
Elmer: "Very much so. I have big plans. First I must spend every moment I have left listening to Jesse. Learn all he can tell me. But this empire. Believe in me, boys! We will meet again soon. If you require any help, my people will always be there for you. Your act writes in stone our unity. I would like to stay to hear the Cluns response to the conference. I must get home, though. I worry each day away from jesse is u replaceable. Esau looks besotted with that young chick. I see her changing. Can the boy live with such things? I must take him under my wing. Elijah has seen much, these last days. I'm hoping he can be my right hand man. I hope the over world don't call him away. So much to do. This empire of mine has fallen into the blues. Yet I feel it in my bones. We shall rise. I now own the plastic communication device, through this we shall remain in touch. You two are brothers, always know that."
The three embraced. Their friendships were secure. They left Elmer to his thoughts and sought out Harry.
Lipton: "Well, it's one hell of a duty my associate has placed upon you, should our madcap scheme come into fruition! Are you prepared for that? I'm sure we could find other ways."
Harry: "No! I must see this through. I want to see this through. Finding other means will take you time. Just don't push me overboard!"
All laughed. Yet there remained the serious possibility of her life being in danger.
Peter: "They might not agree. I need to ask you. Should Mike come along? I know he's still fragile. And I can't see Rachel leaving his side. She's a nice girl. You may know this better than anyone. We are steeped in this shit. I'd never invite anyone in, never."
Harry: "You're showing your prejudices. What she overcame to see beyond the broken figure took balls few people of any background have. She has strengths you couldn't imagine. Besides, she's angry. Burning with it after what Bunsen did to Mike. She might be more important to this missions success than anyone. She will choose what is right for her. Mike may need this most of all people. If he chooses to go, please don't deny him. He has survived something many couldn't hope to. He has inner strengths. My advice would be let each decide for themselves."
Peter: "Apologies. I accept you are correct. Clearly you're in, I take it?"
Harry: "Fucking right, I am! I want to see that bastard mutilated! My sister is never far from me."
Drunken farewells surrounded the fire till all slept In various places. An end to a brief spontaneous gathering. Tomorrow would be a smaller bunch. All swore to meet again before long.
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Andy stood amongst the ruins of Clun Castle smoking a joint with Ben watching Bill and Jimmy ambling towards them. Since the party all four had been keeping a low profile. Their part in clearing the equipment for the various sound systems had been completed successfully. An act of great personal risk for the common good. Out of character for the Clun Druids, many would argue. Rumour had it the police had assembled a secondary group of men following their reversal earlier in the evening. The unified hooligans, an alliance of party people from a fifty mile radius, threw aside personal grievances to join forces, had stood at stale mate, holding off the armed professionals. Through tactical ingenuity the advanced hooliganism of the Clun Druid shaman alliance, peter and Lipton with a brave stepping up to the mark from Elmer, new underworld king, a handful boldly took the fight to the enemy. In unarmed couplets they'd stormed the police lines, grabbing out weaknesses in their frontline, dragging them into their mass. A noble victory of unarmed unity over the armed professional offensive. No report had reached the press of the violent mass of riot police that had attacked an unarmed group of partiers with shields, batons, riot helmets and body armour, failing to close down the event, permitting the party to wind itself down. This historic hooligan victory would, in time grow to be a legend in the secret history of Albion. A victory of a david unified force against the Goliath of the police. Though mainstream history would hide the polices shame. Predictably the Shropshire Star ran a piece on the successful raid led by D I Briggs that confiscated all the organisers equipment and made an arrest on the criminal mastermind believed to be behind a series of illegal events. A story so distant from reality yet indisputable by the outlaw victors. The criminal mastermind was not named due to his many media connections. This appeared to suit everyone. The party, in truth, concluded unperturbed by police intervention with all major sound systems vacating without loss of equipment. The police, however, far from journalists eyes, were able to claim victory, reassuring local public that such illegal events would not be tolerated.
A further report focussed on two bodies later found on the hill. Little detail had so far emerged though this was reported as most likely the result of illegal drug use. Police advised young people to attend only authorised events. Their battle against the menace of drug use would continue. These sad deaths of two young men was used as a message to any foolish youths considering dabbling with drugs.
As the four drulads discussed these reports Andy made it clear that any mention of the collection of the twenty pineal glands, indeed any reference to the Clun Covens side projects beyond their recognised Druidic mission should be avoided during this conference. If these visitors had anything to say, let them present all their cards prior to any response. All agreed these new friends were far from mainstream establishment. In many respects equally persecuted. Yet specifics need not be opened alongside any possible divergent moral standpoints.
The Druids had mixed feelings regarding their new circle of acquaintances. Lipton and Peter were sound. They had never got above their station. They'd clearly led tough lives. Whilst shamanism had seen them steam in to other dimensions, risking their sanity to drag demonic tumours that had latched on to the membrane wall twixt the dark side and the shared realm, leeching off spiritual fluids in greedy perversion whilst shitting back repugnant paedophilic ectoplasm that infected unwitting men till a plague of meat puppets stalked our world. Working without thanks, ripping demons of utter repugnance, other slovenly shamans had ushered in through sloppy work, tearing of the veil was growing towards epidemic levels since shamanism became fashionable. Each urban traveller seeking personal self discovery as ayuashka tourism blossomed in Peru . Led by under qualified shamans, charging money for week long holidays where new agers with utter self interest discovered buried spiritual ailments useing sacraments to self focus. All amateurish shamanics leaving slashes and tears open for the flood of foul entities to enter this dimension. Skree/Peter and Lipton led tireless lives cleaning out this filth, this selfless work had seen both pestered incessantly by mental health workers. Government service agents were forever on their tale, confounded by the tunnelling, climbing and ritualistic shamanics yet clueless to the nature of their work. Driven into addiction many times to nullify the stream of putrid spittle and demonic slurry their pissed off foes slipped in to their minds at any off guard chance. These shaman cunts carried it all without moaning. The drulads had endured brutal ostracism since they were kids from the grey dullards of mainstream society. They could relate to the persecution by the authorities. They understood each other.
The more the Clun lads learned about Elmer, Esau and Elijah, this subterranean sect appeared sound dudes, if a bit weird. Hearing their history, the American governments attempted murder of Jesse, his bravery in burrowing under the Atlantic using pelvic gyrations alone, the building of the underworld empire. The seventies alliance that formed with a small group of the older miners, ex teddy boys, all Elvis fans. Thatchers term 'The Enemy Within' now made sense. Literally the enemy within the ground, an army of rebellion had begun to form. The ruthless manner the government had turned on its own people now made sense. This earned Druidic respect. The story that took Skree and Lipton from urban exploration, through the heart of the Underworld and onto the exorcism of the demon child Abel had become a talking point amongst the Clun Druids. And these fuckers weren't done yet. Even the lasses that had joined up seemed ok. They were cool with all of them. It was just that Jesus Christ lad that came over wrong. He tanned the beer and drugs with the best of them. Stood his round better than most. But those four slappers hovered like a shield around the cunt. You just couldn't get past them to suss him out. Christianity had killed their people. Ben refused to even look at the bloke. Jimmy and Bill were suspicious. Peter had tried explain the man called Christ and the religion created in his name, had little in common, and to be fair he was the first Christian they'd known to mix with anyone they would. Still. This conference seemed driven largely by him. Repeatedly Jesus had insisted things needed discussing. Andy had spoken to all the girls as well as the lads of Clun he now stood with. His policy simple. Let him in. But watch the cunt. Don't let him start chatting away, all easy, like he does, don't go letting your guard down. He'd not dismissed having to kill the cunt yet. His resurrection skills were genuine, the shamans had confirmed this, but Andy had ideas. He knew of several agricultural systems that would leave nowt more than sausage meat. Sprayed evenly over five acres by dung spreader, he'd like to see that resurrection. The Druids were unified in distrust of this odd cunt.
Hay bales arranged in a circle provided seating for the assembly in an isolated barn four miles outside Clun. Elmer, Esau and Elijah Presley represented the underworld. Peter and Lipton covered shamanic and archangelic issues. Andy Brock, Ben Black, Jimmy Arbor and Bill Aston represented the Clun Druids. Charlotte Black, Dianne Brock and Stella Arbor, the current Clun Coven of Druidic Witchcraft. Harry, posh squatter hippy bird, represented herself, she sat beside Mike Oldpastures, multi instrumentalist and owner of Tuberous Bellend. Jesus Christ the son of God spoke as the messiah offering both his fathers opinion and his own, in an official capacity he also represented the Holy Ghost though this mysterious third aspect of the holy trinity, being both mute and invisible, the ghosts capacity for communication had no apparent substance other than an inner voice heard in personal and private exclusion. Hence the ghosts input was disregarded as none cross verifiable. Slapistrys four representatives were all barely covered. Together they shared cigarettes and chewed gum. Rachel, Sue and Cathy chose to occupy three bales set aside, taking no part in the conference though through muttering and sharp looks they clearly shared a low opinion of the slappers craft. The atmosphere of hostility had been brewing a while now so Jesus, being chief advocate for the slappers stood to speak.
Jesus: "Group harmony is essential if we are to work together. Shaz, as a slapper queen and tribal elder, from a long and noble line of slappers, perhaps you could speak on behalf of your craft so as to clear the air ?" Shaz stood, her athletic spine curved pushing her firm breasts forth.
Shaz: "Student birds? As a qualified slapper from a long family line steeped in our craft, I feel our cultural differences need be of no problem. Our tribes share mutual distrust that I feel is born largely out of cultural ignorance, The stuck up student bird chooses education, glasses and loose clothing, believing over sexualised presentation can distract male attention from the female intellect. As slappers we respect your life choices. If fate found us born to wealthy parents and humble breasts like yourselves, we too may have grown to be up tight students. Bitching enviously at slappers firm gifts. The slapper blooms for a few short years. Like butterflies we display our beauty in full knowledge that soon, we too shall no longer stand with butts of steel, breasts that stand alone, not dependent on underwired support, demanding attention, like you we will one day hide in baggy woollens. Our revelry in our time, our embrace of natures beauty and refusal to hide away. Our flagrant submission to our desire to fuck without shame. Our philosophy is one of animal somatic embrasure of nature. Flowers in bloom are not to be hidden but to be viewed by all, life's uplifting wonders we share for the betterment of our world. I apologise on all our behalf if the eyes of your men savour our form. I will not apologise for revelry in their gaze yet, just as not every junkie is a thief, so too not every slapper is a slag. To walk out in mid winter frost, ignoring the cold in less than you girls wear to swim. It isn't easy to give and not to count the cost. I select these words in respect to your tradition. In my native slapper tongue my answer would have been a tad more succinct, 'just because my tits stand superior to yours and jealousy fills your heart. Bitch on, fuck you fridge, as you envy my butt. And if you think you're hard enough, if you want to give it a go, then come on bitch! I'd kick fuck out of you. And don't kid yourself, your boyfriend is well below my league. But know this, as he spurts within you, eyes closed in ecstasy, it is me in his minds eye. click my fingers and he'd come begging on it.' I live life like you dream of doing but wouldn't dare, nor could you. However, I very much doubt we will have much to offer this conference. The slapper is of the body, not the mind. But during dull parts, you're all welcome to get a load of these babies!" She smiled giving her breasts the last say, thrust forth, a shake animating their glory. Indeed they quivered in an expression of the sheer joy of life. Not a soul, male or female failed to feel a stirring despite moral or political surface. "Enjoy your books!"
Shaz turned, thrust out her butt as she walked to her hay bail seat, breasts in tight rhythmic animation , every eye in the room transfixed by their firm allure. No one could deny, Shaz was hot as fuck.
The men sat silent. The coven smiled in pagan approval. Student birds could be haughty cows. All were stunned by the glory of the slapper queen. Rachel nodded acceptance as Sue and Cathy conceded the slapper ideology. She was right. They'd acted like stuck up student birds. Sue quietly reflected on her own body. She was fit too, beneath her loose coverings. Something she'd hidden to find social acceptance at university. She took a silent vow to hide no more. Indeed, she reflected, there is a slapper in all of us. Shaz speech ended the bitchery that had threatened group cohesion. Cathy blushed, bowing her face and quietly wondered if Shaz swung both ways.
Jesus: "Are their any further enquiries on the pros and cons of the Slappers craft?"
Looking round all appeared satisfied with the brief speech Shaz had given. "Are their any other smouldering animosities? Suspicions? Fractious under currents because it's best we clear away any distrust or rivalry before we begin!"
As leading male of the Clun Druids Andy Brock felt it his duty to speak up on behalf of his people.
Andy: "Christ! I have to be honest with you. Lipton and Peter clearly accept you and I trust these boys implicitly. But I'm still not happy. Part of me sees you're easy going, generous with your drugs, generous with your wine and that. Not even jealous over your slappers. Still. I can't shake the sense that somewhere, somehow, you're a cunt! I'm talking freely now. Convince me! I'm a Druid. Clun Druids are not like Cornish hippies. We are the twisted fuckers. The darkest of all. These, my people, we are descended from Titus Brock, Jack Black. Legendary figures that fought a guerrilla war of resistance for decades. Roman Christianity mercilessly killed my people. Not cleanly or with respect. No! Hideous displays of sadistic torture. Your name rings in a Druids ear like Hitler does to a Jew. Christianity having driven out our culture implanted the ideology that continues today. Each animal risks being thoughtlessly driven to extinction, the climate changes, polar ice caps melting. Christianity made man believe the earth in all its complex wonder of plant and animal, was something that was theirs to use. No name in history carries the destruction of all we hold most sacred like Jesus Christ! Now, I'm no messiah. I'm a simple mortal. So use simple words to explain this. The earth was quite content. Then Christianity came. Now it's looking broken, raped. Explain to me?"
This wasn't Andy with a personal gripe. Herein lay suspicions in everyone there. The Druids had been restrained, considering. With the history painted in broad strokes by Andys simple words before them all. The Druids looked ready to hear his reply. They would listen. But the atmosphere was thick. If Christ didn't have a very good excuse the Druids would be duty bound to destroy the man. The genocide carried out in his name had left but a few score, these now had the cunt. Here. On trial. All Clun Druids had discussed this, the resurrection problem too. The sausage mincing method. Dilution into a thin soup with thousands of gallons of water before spraying the meat molecule suspension so thin it would cover Wales through to the Midlands. Or release the thin meat smoothy way out at sea for fish feed. Let's see Christ reanimate from that dispersal of meat particles. That resurrection would be worthy of a new religion.
This conference had been called by Christ. Peter had grown to see Jesus as a mate. All that animosity he had once held for Christianity, that shit no longer crossed his mind. Neither he nor Lipton had seen this coming. But it made perfect sense. Had Christ worked on them? Took them under his spell? Used them both as a vehicle, a Trojan horse. Gaining access to places that without their good name he'd stand no chance of acceptance. There was that edge to him too. Undeniable. Selling Iantos van. A cunts trick by any measure. Four twenty year old girls under his bed clothes like some paedophile. Who knew their real age anyway? 2016 years old makes most sex acts seem perverted. Admittedly, it met current legality but it still could be seen as odd, despite the slappers clear collusion in the five some, further, the noises heard coming form the group moist evenings sounded victimless. And the drugs and booze? He'd be bang at the escapist shite, alcohol, smack, coke, ketamine but Peter had never once seen him do a trip. Lipton was reluctant sometimes on the deeper shamanic depths and Peter generally got the job of vast ayuashka journeys, the really powerful tryptamines. But Lipton always gave his best. By many they knew, this was the measure. The sign of a man unable to live with his true self. If someone won't do LSD they are hiding from something. And for all his talents, how many people had they seen healed? Elmer, true, but not a right lot of others.
Lipton was running similar thoughts. Considering his resurrection skills, he never really risked his life, how often, during a mass brawl, had he jumped in for them? He could think of a dozen occasions where they'd rescued Jesus pissed up in some local boozer, mouthing off or moralising to some stranger. Peter too, they'd both saved him a kicking more times than they had counted. Yet when had Jesus ever steamed in for them? Between the two shamans It was a given. Lipton and Peter, if either one saw the other taking a battering. Out numbered by however many, there was no question of it. No question entered either mans mind. Straight away they'd steam in. Lipton got cornered by twenty odd Cardiff soul crew whilst busking or begging one Saturday last summer. Peter stood little hope of making any difference yet without a thought for his personal safety he'd charged in. Once he got Lipton on his feet they took on all twenty. They maybe caught a few each, bloodied the odd nose, split the odd lip, before going under. Waking up in Cardiff A and E. Peter left collar bone, three ribs and left fore arm broken. Lipton both arms and a few ribs. The point was they'd jumped in regardless. They would die if need be. Christ, mind, who recovered however serious the injury, in no time at all, not once could Lipton think of when the cunt dived in. He'd grown fond of Andy. All the Clun lads, to be fair. He'd need some answer to this. If these accusations held, he'd have to agree.
The Coven girls relished this sight. Jesus looked well shifty now. Generations of Christian rapists had persecuted these families. Further than any of this, further than the Roman Christian genocide of Druids, the planet. Shaman and Druid alike shared understanding of the singular earth mother. The complex interdependence of all life was a harmonic balance. Christianity allotted man transcendent souls. Christs dad made man separate from other creatures. This unique Anthropocentrism of the Christian outlook had come close to destroying the planet. The Druid plan may hold out. Before the gathered people stood the man who was the main suspect for a crime beyond any other. "Come on, Christ? We are all ears. You are fortunate to get a hearing at all. Come on Jesus?, explain this! Because this is your only chance. That cross will seem a dream bed of goose down quilt compared to what we've planned. Each time the particles of meat reform I'll be there, or my son, or his, to remince you backdown to sausage meat! Eternal! Just like your old man when he sends his least favourites down to hell! "
Christ looked around the room. He saw not a single favourable face among them. He'd been here before. On trial. Judged by people who knew very little. This was the lot of gods cast down son. Elmer knew a tad more than the rest , the shamans never asked Christ too much. They'd always taken folk as they saw them. Fuck reputations it was how they'd been to them in person. However, these Druids had a right to an answer. Mate or not. Stood before this inquisition Christ knew one thing. All he had was the truth.
Jesus: "Stood in your shoes I would ask the same questions. Elmer asked me about it the other night. Hear me out and if you blame me for all that has been carried out in my name, I understand what you must do. My father developed from a far higher power, a God he can't even see. Dad is a beetle to a human in comparison to the uber God. As a lad I knew as little as he. In time i learned he's just a run of the mill, common or garden deity. My dads truth is one of many. Think of him as a child without guidance. There was no fore runner from which to refer to. On a personal level, if we'd met as equals in a pub, I'd not have shared a beer with the man. He is my dad, but I've never got on with him. A pompous deity. Our morals differ. We aren't on the same wavelength at all. He created, well, the earth came about before him. Life emerged slowly in many forms. By focusing his attention down on to the space before him, something emerged. His attention created it but he had no control over its design. That kind of power is way above his. Natural law has no moral aspect. The most suited to an environment survives. Birth, life, death. Earth self levels. She balances herself. Lion kills gazelle. Spider kills fly. An animal over populates and infection, disease or a new predator emerges to level things out. All life is food for another. Evolution saw some predators hunt using speed. Man emerged with his speciality, consciousness. Planning. Scheming. Man assumed superiority yet was always an animal operating to animal laws. Man acts instinctively then spins a story to rationalise his behaviour. Watching this all evolve before him like bacteria in a Petri dish, he arrogantly assumed it ibis creation, but what he set in motion grew to laws beyond his simple understanding. Seeing mans awareness of self God felt smug. An animal with self reflection, a creature able to fuck him off. God gave man a test. The unique quality of free will. Or so it seemed to his simple mind. God needed to be loved. He's Jealous, childishly so. His children ignored him. He wanted to be adored. Man, of course, has no free will. He is an animal that acts to neurochemical processes within his brain which he has no awareness of. There is no self. He may feel there is a little pilot steering his body but this illusion falls apart when we ask who is in the pilots head steering him. Man does as the brain processes dictate. Decisions form by biological reactions. They enter his mind appearing as his thoughts. But he is animal. His consciousness follows, writing a story to live by, to tell others. Man no more chooses his movement and actions than a slug. God wants his love yet refuses to show himself. Man must choose to believe in something that isn't there. He must lie to himself, believe in a thing he knows to be untrue. This test God set, to believe in a god characterised by absence. He acts like a child. Over time his children couldn't pretend anymore, so they drifted away. To exist anything must be believed in. When man thought the earth was flat, it was. America exists because we believe so. Consciousness creates reality. God was fading. I hated the twat. His pompous games. His needy self indulgence. All of us up there with him grew to hate his childish pomp. A cheeky angel called Satan began suggesting alternatives. An angel offering choice to man. Reason. Maybe God isn't right? For this crime father cast him out. I became critical. Trying to get him to see sense. Argued endlessly but who's father listens to his son? You will have read how God so loved humans he gave his one and only son to die for man. No one asked him to sacrifice me. No one asked me either. My purpose for dad was simple. He wanted their love back. So I find myself on earth. His plan was to watch them execute me, in a public spectacle, feel guilty and forever pay thanks for gods gift. What a cunt! I'd not sacrifice my pet guinea pig never mind my kids.
I thought, fuck you! For thirty years I refused to play along, kept my head down. I am, after all, a man. Joinery took my interest. But I'm looking round at the people, growing annoyed. I'm on earth and after a while I see I might change mankind's outlook. Use the chance my old man gave me by sacrificing me. Please bare me out. I take responsibility for everything I said. All my words, they are mine for you to judge. Separate me and my actions and words from my father and his scheme. I gave up work. Took to street drinking. I became a speaker. Political philosophy mainly. Society had grown hierarchical. Vast division of wealth. Inequalities everywhere. So I spoke out. Simple stuff. All men are equal. Materialism is folly. After a time some began to catch on. My Poverty cult took off. Operate as other animals. Use what was sufficient. Use enough, no more. Share with strangers. Welcome the weak. Help the poor. Give away your unwanted possessions. Let homeless sleepers in your house. Do unto others as you would have done to yourself. Don't judge others. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, I looked at the priesthood who took authority over access to the divine. I said the mystical is for all. Anyone can talk to the God of their preference. I lived in rags. Lived with homeless. Prostitutes. Drop outs. Share what you have. Money lenders got me most mad. Praying on skint folk. Wonga. Loan sharks. I attacked their Money lending tables. Someone should have attacked the banks the other year. Stopped the economic crash. Rich people can't hope to get to heaven. Greed is not good. Love others as yourself. My followers soon grew. The priesthood saw me as a rival. It cost cash to pray with them whilst my flock got free wine. Soon the fuckers Grassed me up to the Roman occupation. I accept responsibility for advancing these ideals.
Further than this. I have magical abilities. Elmer asked me the other night why I used these sparingly. Earth, life, evolution works through cyclic change whereby a species improves through generations of birth and death. Today I see treatments enabling the rich to linger for a few more years. Or eradication of disease the earth creates to regulate human population. We are now so over populated the extinction of half the planets species have become extinct in the last fifty years as a consequence. Forest stripped to create green desserts to feed more humans. I cure a mans blindness. I make a lame man walk. But fucking about with the cycles of life is wrong. A cure for cancer would see further species outed. We are animals. Subject to animal laws. Nothing any animal does can alter anything. Politically I hoped my vision could hitch a ride on my fathers plans.
Through using me as a sacrifice my father tricked man into believing that of all the animals, man was gods chosen one. My death was my fathers illustration that man could transcend death. All other creatures died, being without soul. Man, however, was a spirit essence that travelled for a time in a flesh body. This was his promise. Love me, have faith despite all evidence, if you sustain this faith, then you will enter heaven. The result ended pagan beliefs of interdependence between all life. Man now need not respect the earth. The unit of currency shifted from lives to souls. Life became less valued, a period to be endured. Animals became beasts without feeling, to be used by man. The planet ours to use as we chose. My father used me to sever man from all else. Yes, my name is short hand for this shift, but this seperation opposed all I had said. Resurrection found me angry, disillusioned. I made a couple of appearances to fulfill my old mans scheme then I left the Middle East with Joseph of aramatheia. Sailed to Britain. I have lived here ever since. Mostly with travellers.
For a time gnostic Christians followed my way. Respecting the mystical visions of the lowly. My anti materialist stance they continued also. Parallel to this an Orthodox Church formed. They dismissed my message. Or twisted it to serve their own agenda. Now they authorised mystical States. Just like the Jewish priesthood I'd stood up against. Enlisting descendants of Peter, my denier, who never experienced the divine, through this the Catholic Church validated their unique line to God. Mystical experiences that were not authorised by them were regarded as apostate. Usually these people were killed. The Orthodox Christian Church used my name to become wealthy and powerful. My life's work was written down by many scribes. Four versions were selected to enforce the churches authority. The accurate gospels got destroyed. The Vatican grew immensely wealthy. I agree with everything you despise that was caused by the church. I despise it in a way you couldn't understand. My name, my work, my life, my death, all used to support all I lived and died to stop. I saw some Druids at Stonehenge 86. That's what they said they were. They formed in 1930. But they're not your kind. For you to blame the orthodox Christian church would be like me thinking those cunts at Stonehenge represented you lot. Same thing.
I read recently of a man in America. His daughter was raped and murdered by a neighbour. The police arrested him, set him up, framed him. He was jailed for flirty years for raping and murdering his own daughter. DNA evidence ultimately saw him vindicated. But I knew how he must have felt. To have been held responsible for a crime against which your entire life and beliefs opposed. I hid myself in shame as centuries passed by as an evolution of human distortion and perversion took my name and pulled its meaning till a reversal of what I was became known as Christianity. Over time I came to realise that in my arrogance I had carried guilt for many things, things that would have found another name to use had it not been mine. The Roman Empire could no longer contain governance of its expansion. Through conversion to the new faith, they used Christianity, a system of subjugation requiring no army or police force to enforce was implanted. The western mindset continues within the same structure today still. Once embedded in the cultural consciousness not even the abandonment of the divine could alter things. The God whose unique attribute was his absence had seen the concept of a spiritual dimension wither to a romantic notion, nostalgia or a half caught scent, a memory but a memory denied. The mystical, spiritual experiences had all but been attributed to the signs of mental illness. Science rendered any human sense of the other material fault. Brain malfunction. My mission, to tell humanity that the mystical experience was open to all, from priest to atheist, as universal and as profoundly human as falling in love, was extinct in Europe, Scandinavia and the USA.
I had great hopes for science. It seemed possible that a doorway for the western mind to step out from the muddled superstition and deceptive morality that my life and death had been the starting point of. Yet mans unconscious delusion of being superior to other animals survived the atheism that followed Copernicus, Darwin, neuroscience. The planets climate continues to change yet man can still believe he has the brains to cure the damage. They really believe they are super beings, they hide death believing they are not subject to animal laws.
Your pagan knowledge of bio interdependence is finally finding rediscovery in Lovelock and Gaia. The illusionary nature of free will is finding acceptance. My name is cursed. Whatever you choose to do will make no difference to anything. If you need a sacrificial display to satisfy your egos, then take my flesh for your sadistic joy. You will not be the first to have done so. The alterations to western existential ideas would have occurred with or without me. But if you understand the truth, you will accept we are on the same side. Few are. You could use my help.
Silence followed as Jesus bowed his head as though searching for a last phrase to leave on but his emotions had weakened his voice. Tears ran down his cheeks briefly that he wiped away, sniffed back and spat on the dusty barn floor before him.
With this Christ left the circle to let the others talk. He sat outside watching clouds shift and tumble. Looking to his side Elmer had followed him. He said nothing but offered Christ a Marlboro. Christ had smoked nothing but roll ups for years. He took the snout and smoked with the young underworld ted prince in silence. Jesus felt a hand pat his shoulder. Then an arm held him in manly support. Elmer looked at him.
Elmer: "You want to know a thing, there, Lord. Jesse used to take us boys to church each Sunday, to this small timber chapel underground he'd set up, as boys. See, he brought over gospel music. He soaked it up right next to Elvis in the womb. During pregnancy from their splitting of cells, both twins developed to a gospel soundtrack. I've seen them dull English church services. Boring as a mule. But when that gospel music gets in flow, the negro spirituals, the ladies lose themselves singing for Jesus. They get so high on that music, gospel music and love of Jesus. Elvis loved gospel too. You know I saw these missionaries, out in Africa. They'd gone out there, left all they knew behind, to save starving children. The TV presenter asked what gave them strength. They said Jesus Christ. The love of Jesus. See, the talk you just gave is but one strand of the rope of truth. There's as much good, maybe a whole lot more than there is bad comes under your name. Elvis had a shadow of it too. Some used their idea of who he was for good, some for bad. He had no say in it all. One time a bellhop accused him of being strung out on heroin. Elvis was only ever strung out on music. Yessir! Elvis grew crazy over it all. Took to pills. Doctors fed him uppers, downers, side which wayers. Poor guy knew no one he could trust. Died on the john. I never met my uncle. But if you look at my feet, you can not deny, I wear blue suede shoes. And, say what they want about my uncle, I always will. Jesus? Don't ever step on those shoes!"
Andy stood up in front of his close circle of Druid relations and repeated Jesus words. ""Now, gods plan for me. He needed to show his love by giving me over to be killed. My followers must be revealed as weak humans that grassed me up. I had to die, in pain, in a public display.""Jesus words rang round Andys head. Looking at the circle he asked,
Andy: "The guy speaks with sincerity, either he's spun himself some deep self delusion, or, perhaps he's not so different to us. Anybody wish to say anything while the messiah smokes his cigarette?" A brooding silence settled on the group. Ben shook his head, chuckling. Bill looked aloft with a piteous grin. Charlotte broke the moment with humour.
Charlotte: "Bit of a Fucking Hippy!" Cheryl returned the discussion to more serious matters.
Cheryl: "Speaking as a slapper, like. He's hung like a donkey, goes like the clappers and plucks free drugs from mid air!"
Ben: "I was gagging to try out that agricultural meat mincer. Anyone else?"
Jimmy: "What was the point of borrowing the thing if we're not minceing him?"
Ben: "We could at least do a cow, maybe? Pig, Anyone?"
Peter: "Come on! You can't kill the lamb of god just to use agricultural machinery. He's fucking sound. I can see someone put a lot of thought into how best to fuck up an immortal, mind. We may need something like that someday!"
Lipton: "It'd make a hell of a mess.....iah!"
The silence that followed Liptons......joke allowed all to hear a skylark out in the field and two buzzards calling to each other, high above the barn where the conference was underway.
Bill: "Peter! You humourless shamanic twat stick! We're joking! I say Aye!"
Dianne: "Aye!"
Stella: "Aye!"
Lipton: "Shall I call him in then?"
Andy: "Hang on. Let all speak."
Harry: "You don't get to choose your dad. Mine was a cunt!"
Mike: "Ok...however, he is a bit of a............................................................Bellend!"
Stacy: "Cheryl's point over rides that. He can get boring at times but by shoving his head between my legs I found this personality defect could be used to a good end. This technique for nullifying the tedium of his sermons may only be have use to other females, student birds excepted perhaps, within the group."
Elijah: "Pa holds a whole lotta faith in the Lord."
Esau: "Amen!"
Peter: "We need to address his limitations regarding standing together when things kick off!"
Andy: "Entirely! I offer my services in training the cunt up a bit."
Lipton: "There's no doubt he can take a kicking it's the other part he needs to work on. I'll join Andy in training up the swedge shy crusty."
Elmer: "I'm 100% for the lamb of god. Indeed, I shout salvation that he is among us!"
Peter: "Sue, Rach, Cathy? Any opinion."
Rachel: "If we can learn to respect the way of the slapper, you Druids ought to see Christ afresh too. Further, Cheryl's technical advice shows exemplary silver lining thinking. Not, for myself, Mike, I'm thinking of Cathy and Sue, of course."
Mike: "It.......would.......form a loop......if............Kylie and Shaz........have......a.......last.....if....I.....if......we..... Could.......Shaz..........could........stand up........to.........."
Rachel: "Mike! Stop staring at those...............actually.............could you, Shaz? They look so full of sunshine."
Shaz: "Looks like he's in. Returning to Cheryl's point, not only is he hung as she describes but I found, where other men rise and fall, Jesus resurrections are eternal."
Kylie: "Shall we go tell him?
Andy dutifully walked outside to talk with the man who's character he had questioned. Elmer stood by him and opened his box, flashing the subterranean ash to the Druid, Andy drew a Marlboro. Elmer sparked him up with his zippo.
Andy: "I hope me putting you through all that isn't going to be an issue. Nothing I said was meant personally but as the group elder here I'm duty bound to be thorough. History hasn't been kind on either my people nor yourself, so what's say we leave history as just that? Past! What say we go out on the beer one night. Just us two. They all say I'm paranoid about strangers. They're not wrong. I had a square go with Lipton the first night we met and were best mates now."
Christ: "Square go! You drew a knuckle duster on him! No hard feelings. One time these cunts nailed me to a cross. You know what I said? 'Forgive them for they know not what they do.' I said that but I was trying to sound hard. Cunts! It's a fucker, Andy. I hear all the chatter. What a druggy cunt I am. All that jealousy about the slappers. But you haven't a clue, mate. Every fucker knows me better than i do. It's the cross I carry. One thing I will say. I've spent too long hiding. There's a few cunts now that I really can't stand. I accept I have an appetite for drugs. I see the blossom of life in the buttocks of a slapper. But the planet is in trouble. The crew gathered here could cause some havok. I know Lipton and peter say I'm no good in a swedge. But I have other skills. I'm well up for learning from you and Lipton. Give me a chance and I will not let you down. The execution of apostates or heretics, the burning of witches, it's very similar. What the crowd wants is the victim to give up their God. Deny their faith. I won't say I'm brave but to deny my father, even at the worst moments, never entered my mind. I asked the cunt why he wouldn't intervene, shut down my flame instead of giving the public a lengthy display of my suffering. He said no. They had to see my suffer or his plan wouldn't work. Put me on probation if you like, like the student birds did the slappers, and I will prove my worth. Now. I have my own questions. Conference?"
Peter: "I am Skree. Shaman. Archangel of the Underworld. I set out having heard of a suicide epidemic in an area where I once lived. I had to get out of Stroud. A town I was living outside in my van. A shaman, either keeps moving or he finds that sub essences, demon stains left over from the many perverted cunts he has kicked back to their filthy dimension of origin find him. Each time I've got a settled home, after a while some fucker finds me. They hang about in the shadows, waiting until you are off guard, relaxed in company, sleeping etc then slip their fetid tendrils into your head. They're an inexplicably deep pain. The voices, dreams so ugly your mind starts to grow poisoned. Mental health workers then pester you. They mean well but they just see a man ranting or beating his head. To stay, I start to drink. To quieten the fuckers. This time heroin worked for a while in subduing the cunts. But that soon takes its toll. After it got too much I thought I'd best take off, give these demonic stains the slip. Most of my shamanic work has been conducted in partnership with Lipton. Driving aimlessly my subconscious steered me. It wasn't something I was aware of doing, nevertheless, I tracked him down. He was having his own problems. These are his own to talk of, I'll just say I found him in a bad way. So I took him to this valley. I'd battered a few demonic cunts before who'd slipped over and instigated suicide epidemics in rural communities. This seemed another such putrid fuck, up to the same old games. So we mapped the spots where the teenagers were found. Marked each point on the map. The spread formed a channel through which a line of three hill forts ran. By climbing the hill forts in sequence we soaked up sufficient power to do away with the fuckers we imagined must be in Clun. Hill Forts, as some of you know, are not exactly what many will tell you. They are many things. For our purposes they are like volcanos. Points where earth energies can escape. Our ancestors built protective dikes so when they were siphoning off the earths power substances their work could continue unhindered by others envious of the shamanic knowledge, clueless in how to use these valuable Earth emissions, yet, in curiosity and hope of power, thieves, after the shamanic earth juice. We had personal exorcisms and spiritual cleansing so to do also. The opiates we use to nullify the parasitic demons incur addiction. Our first task was to use the earth energies in shamanic self cleansing. Ridding ourselves of opiate dependence. Our pilgrimage was successful. Both Lipton and I have drawn out some considerable reserves during the three hill fort extraction mission that now we have in storage to Channel at our chosen time. Our very beings are resonant with the containment of such volatile effluvia. Our beings are rippling with stored energy. Jesus turned up whilst we were in union with the earth on the second hill fort. He told us of the party that was the following night at the third hill fort, Bury Ditches. Clearly our instincts were spot on. Our psychic nose had followed the scent. Through our craft we found benevolent essences had positioned us, fully charged, at the spears tip. This small event we were able to force into a beast of untamed velocity. Through channeling in a portion of the stocks we held that were at boiling point anyway and needed offloading, garnered by our good fortune on sourcing out a decent quantity of majestic pills, we drew out raw life forces creating a point in time of great potency. This proved so magnetic all of you here were pulled in. We hadn't figured on drawing in Mr Olpastures or his .....er.....manager. Nor did we expect to attract our good freinds from the Underworld. What we set in motion began to take on a life of its own beyond our containment. Lipton and me were both scared shitless and thrilled beyond measure as to how this blend of so varied and unrelated powers might erupt. Jesses gyratory forces that channel the carnal life drive of animal sex, a life force that is so deep within the earths drive to be, it defies linguistic expression. Following the hereditary lineage, taking this force down a perverse and deviant path , jesses son Abel grew demonically evil as such power corrupted the poor lad. Lipton and I murdered the demon Abel had become. A job we carried out for his father, who knew what had to be done, but understandably couldn't kill his own son. The gyratory force looked to be lost as the Underworld king lies close to death. No heir who bore the gift. His empire under the threat of termination. I am sorry boys but I need to clarify things. Christ had helped out during the shamanic execution and healed Elmer, Abels brother and son of Jesse. Born plum stupid Elmer could never be entrusted with leadership of the subterranean empire. His plum stupidity rendered any gyrations graceless, lacking fluidity and power, way out of time to the beat of the subterranean rock and roll music. A guttural sound. An animal beat. A rhythm beyond music we know above the earths crust. These sons of Jesse know it well but Lipton and myself have only enjoyed a three day trance moving to its wonder. This occurred during our first meeting with jesses empire, deep underground in a secret location. Yet Jesus made Elmer brighter than a button. Christ cures, believe me. He walked away a genius. Became an intellectual. The spirit forces in a volatile storm saw Elmer blessed or liberated, his soul cleared open, a blockage busted away, clearing passage and the gyrations became his very own. This happened thanks to the chance opening between DJ sets. Mikron dropped the bomb. His set completed he waited for DJ andy Webber to take over. Yet by chance, and at a loss, a suited upper class man handed over a CD. Anthone asked Mikron to play it to fill the gap. None could have imagined the power of the music that hit at that hyper tuned moment. Tuberous Bellends remix blasted out at the spirit storms most volatile point. It's composer took on the form of a satyr, freed from his chains, leading a pagan orgy of naked dance that liberated him from the mind dungeon an evil man had locked him in. Elmer found himself animated by the music. Dancing as he never had before. The gyrations of Jesse and Elvis were not lost. Each pelvic shimmer, each hip flick causing hypergasms in all surrounding females. The clitoral stimuli spat out in an untamed centrifuge of megagasm affecting all. Lipton and myself knew that only we could hope to tame this. Acting swiftly as Elmer was unaware of the orgasmosis his gyrations were conjuring up. Two thousand females were at a zenith of orgasm. This looked like blowing a hole clean through space and time. This could have meant anything. A new God born. A dimensional portal bursting a passage to anywhere. An army of demons charging through. Earthquake. Fuck knows. It could have been anything. So as the shamans largely responsible for lighting this fire we delegated Christ to bring Elmer within reasonable gyratory limits, turn the orgasmosis down a touch as we took to the skies as archangels. From above we were able to weave a protective veil ensuring damage limitation. Now, please understand, though we are long time shamans, our archangel experience is very low. Following the exorcism of the demon Abel, Jess, in honour made us archangels as reward. The politics of the heavens are very complicated and you need not trouble yourselves with their finer details. Simply as I can explain it. There are only six licences at any one time. There's shed loads of lesser angels but these days they're down to six sustainable archangels. Two are allocated to the dominant God of the over world, two to the God of the sea, and finally two are allotted to the God of the underworld. All gods are existentially dependent on belief. As more people believe in a gods existence their actualisation increases. Currently few really believe in Christs dad. Islam is growing hence Allah has the two overland licenses. Poseidon has two for the sea. Hades is considered a myth these days. He's hardly there at all. Patchy at best, like a gas in places. So, by what many see as a technicality, Jesse Presley is currently the God of the underworld. So that's how we became archangels. This has got so many gods pissed off you would not believe it. A pair of drug addled shamans being archangels whilst Woten, Abrxsus, Odin, Olympus and loads of other jealous cunts have none. So each time we switch on we reveal ourselves. Thousands of slumbering deities stir awake in an angry mood and come to destroy or steal our wings. So we've not had time to practice. I've only been up five or six times. So our skills aren't great. Yet we contained the storm. We felt mostly ecstatic joy. The energies that swirled in tumult below were a tangled confusion but, on the whole, positive. But something happened while we were up there. Something pretty fucking ugly. Now, I'm pointing no fingers but I've heard the drug deaths reported were far from it. Two decapitated bodies were left on the hill. Someone murdered two lads that night. I'm not a judge. Maybe they deserved it. But me and Lipton did some research, rang a few shamans that explore dimensions we don't. There'd been eighteen teenage suicides in the area. Some of whose graves have been defiled. The police don't know this. We have other sources. Only thing taken from the graves were heads. Two from the fort makes twenty. Now, we may be crap archangels but we are fucking good shamans. We've been exploring other dimensions now for thirty odd years. Neither of us asked to be shamans. We were chosen and it's not something I'd advise anyone to seek out. Using psilocybin, LSD, modern lysergamides most recently, traditional Amazonian shamans use ayuashka. We do too. Dimethyltryptamine is the most potent psychedelic known to man. It's taken us to many places, some where we are now regular guests. Piping DMT we often burst over to ask advice from spirit beings on many problems that we are looking into. DMT is found in hundreds of plants. We use 5-meo- DMT from the skin of certain toads to access amphibious dimensions. We use 5 bromo DMT from sea sponges for various aquatic and ocean dimensions. Our craft is complex, dangerous and accurate sacrament selection is imperative for our shamanic practice. When we were younger, all our work was positive and tight. Recent years has seen an upsurge in interest in shamanism. Mostly new agers are not looking to help others or the universe, just purely for self discovery. A lot of our time is wasted on repairing damage caused by crap shamans. Sealing dimensional passages, tears and holes left behind after some idiot broke through and ran off shitting themselves. The volume of repugnant demons, filthy perverted entities, pustulant fetid fuckers who've snuck through these openings you would not believe. Driving these dirty cunts out takes its toll. Many get through then sink tendrils deep in to people on the whole. Like fucking limpits some are. And their hosts rarely accept that some parasitic lamprey is sucking away, greedily feeding off them as they grow weakened, dissolute, sick carriers. Ripping out the filth can leave you scarred. Like I say, neither of us can linger anther long before some demonic tentacle slithers in your ear. Your dreamscape descends into a horrific psychic land where each house, each room contains some filthy demon. Remaining free of heroin and alcohol grows harder as subjugating these deep psychic assaults takes strength. Both of us have found ourselves drinking till the voices shut up. It's no game. The human body produces its own natural psychedelic. DMT can be detected in trace amounts all over but it is most concentrated in the pineal gland. The only brain organ not twinned. It sits deep down between the hemispheres. In reptiles and other animals it sits much higher. Theirs retain a basic retina and cornea and are light sensitive. This is what numerous cultures call the third eye. Descartes believed, quite rightly, that this was the point where the spiritual and material connected. The channel linking the spiritual dimension to the physical. At birth the pineal releases DMT as the spirit enters the body. At death again, the release of DMT occurs. Near death experiences see DMT release. A white corridor of light opens up. Those who recover rarely question the afterlife now knowing the truth.
So, just say this is all conjecture. I'm now speculating about no one in particular. If sufficient human DMT was collected a shamanic act could be achieved. The pineal DMT channel is peculiar to each individual. We are organic. Passage through the tunnel is only possible through your own. The spirit form has a dimensional complexity that can only make it through a tunnel or passage it is equipped to do so. I've heard of rare cases where this has found an over eager and stupid young shaman stuck like some amateur pot holler, trapped there, and no one is ever going to come and get them out. Yet if someone gathered twenty pineal glands. If their shamanic know how was very advanced. They might find some way to blend the DMT. Create a bigger opening. This wouldn't be a larger hole, it would be a momentarily lashed together group of tubes. A composite labyrinthine coagulate of tunnels. They may find an entry permits admittance for a while till this passage becomes unnegotiable, here he might burrow through to another, travel down that awhile, then again blocked, bust into another, using a piece of this, a piece of that, it might be possible to make such an access system. But this opening would be sustainable for a brief window. Everything must be readied, then this construct must be grasped into being before the spirits notice, once their confusion steadies and each realises what's missing, by simple attention they'll pull what you've borrowed back as easily as we refocus our eyesight. You'd be fortunate to sustain such a portal for one, maybe two minutes. Any such portal wouldn't be easy to use. It would require extremely refined witchcraft to create anything useable. Even the very finest construct possible would be beyond the talents of most competent shamans. With optimistic outlook you might just create a portal that a skilled, flexible, psychic contortionist of a shaman with many years practice, might just be able to get through. Maybe. Maybe they could even find their way back. It is possible. As a shaman of thirty years practice I can say with confidence that I know where this would take you. We will all be going there one day. Perhaps not you, Jesus. I don't understand how things work with you. However, It's fortunate you are here, in fact. You are the only person that I know of who has been there. First, though. Say this conjecture, this flight of fancy I'm exploring were true, why? Why would someone want to travel to the afterlife? What possible good could come of this? If someone was that determined that killing twenty young people could be justified, it must be of extreme value for greater good, or the work of some fiendish architect, completely uncaring about human lives. Twenty lives. That's a lot of journeys, loves, experiences, cancelled out for a singular act. As this is merely speculation, a fantasy of what some fictitious individual might try, I'd be offending no one by saying that, with deepest respect for Lipton, I am the only person here that stands a chance of negotiating passage, gaining even a rudimentary sense of bearings, grasping whatever was sought, then getting back out. Lipton might make it, but the rest of you I guarantee would fail. The speed you'd have to work at would have to be as free of self conscious planning as a fish through water. I'm not boasting. It's something only a seriously experienced shaman familiar with many, many dimensions could even dream of pulling off. Secondly, if I ever was asked to attempt such an advanced dimensional passage I would like to get back. Therefore, the guy you didn't trust, Jesus Christ, he alone would have to be consulted. He might refuse to help these fictitious witches whose craft is attempting an act of advanced shamanism. They wouldn't stand a snowflakes chance in hell without us. Yet, from a professional standpoint I'm curious as hell. Just supposing this was more than mere conjecture, I might consider changing their hopeless fantasy into a real possibility if these fictional scheming witches were open to a deal. The time I'd have to spend with Christ in study, listening to a verbal description of a place where nothing compares to what we know. Here we have three dimensions and a fourth that permits animation. From what little Christs said there are some twenty seven dimensions, none of which happen to be amongst our four. Let that thought settle a while, because it surely can't be an image in your mind. Maths is as close as you'll get to any metaphorical system of discussion.
Maybe there are factors I'm not privy to.
Let's put aside this conjecture for a while. Risking my soul for something would have to be of such importance, I'd quite possibly never agree. Yet the architect has already had such commitment they've accepted the deaths of twenty. This stumbling issue is currently the size of Everest. Let's leave all that aside. Not speak of it again if you wish. Forget it. Probably some serial killer anyway.
Yet, should this venture prove to be worthy of my commitment, I'd want something myself. What I would accept as payment would be something only the Clun Coven have access to. It would, if successful, kill the hundred richest humans on Earth. Now, who among you doesn't want that?"
The levity released the tension Peter had created. All laughed out loud in solidarity.
Andy: "Kill the Rich!"
Ben: "Squat the lot!"
Jesus: "It would be easier for a camel to climb through the eye of a needle than for a rich fat cunt to enter the gates of heaven!"
Lipton: "An old one but a good one, JC! We may have our differences but it's clear we all hate the rich."
Peter: "Do you want to hear this? I've been working on the idea with Lipton since we gathered together. Harry helped with some intelligence and Mike inspired me. That night on Bury Ditches Hill Fort I saw something that really upset me. Forgive me Mike for reminding you but I cried inside when I first saw you. I recognised Rupert Bunsen from TV. I bet most of you that don't know him personally have seen his bearded grin. His many businesses have made him one of the worlds richest men. Yet, he wanted more. Far more. Even if dragging a broken man by a chain, a man he once called a friend. You all must now know Mikes story. You won't know so much about Bunsen, though. Anthone pulled off an elegant scam on the bastard. As the police moved in to close down the party, he sold all remaining equipment, sound system, PA, lighting rigs, marque, over to Rupert Bunsen. The police arrested him and charged him for organising the entire event. He was released and left for London. The following day the police discovered two headless bodies. They are hunting him down as we speak. He is the current prime suspect. This has triggered him to move his plans forward. I'd thought we had two years but now we must carry this out within four weeks if we are to succeed. I'll hand over to Harry in a moment. She can explain the history.
Harry: "As a girl I played with a young boy whilst my parents visited Highgrove. Mine were an aristocratic family. We owned Harrington Hall. Rupert Bunsens family were rich but less wealthy. Ruperts father was successful in business. New money we would pompously refer to their type. After he left public school he too was very successful. Bunsen saw what he perceived as the lower orders at play. His generation saw the possibilities in rock and roll, football, festivals, race culture etc. Soon he was making vast sums. First in music. His label got off the ground through the success of Mikes album The Tuberous Bellend. A further project the Pis Sextals saw him look to other projects. From here Bunsen moved into many lines. From banking, communications, transport, airlines and other ventures. He bought an uninhabited island in the Caribbean. Here he built luxury dwellings. His rail travel blossomed alongside air travel. A decade or so back he began space tourism. His early space craft shot above the atmosphere, passengers enjoyed a breif look at space and a view of the Earth from space. These trips cost a hundred thousand pounds. Only the very rich could afford them. These flights tested out space travel technologies and funded research. Bunsen was amongst a small group of international super rich people that shaped global economics. In fifty years most of the planets wealth was in the pockets of a few hundred. As time passed the ecological damage their exploitative businesses became apparent. Business leaders began to meet with world leaders to ostensibly agree to limiting carbon emissions. The bulk would leave early. The rest, familiar with the nature of man, hung around for late drinks. In any game someone will cheat, so these formed a higher grouping unified by the immoral pursuit of dominance. Investing many millions in scientists working to disprove truths. Climate change has begun to affect the Earths balance. In the last fifty years half of the planets species have become extinct. Human population growth had hit crisis point. We are entering a period of immense changes. The ice caps have stabilised global temperature. Soon they will be gone and the extinction of most life is likely. In the next hundred years 99% of the earths population will die. Maybe all. No one knows. Most scientific speculation predicts a deathly period that could last several millennia. After this most agree a new era, as different to ours as ours was to the dinosaurs. Bunsens elite decided to speed things up. Using resources to secure vast wealth for the very few. They came to think of themselves as the conclusion to Earths evolution. All life, all history distilled to create this hundred super humans. The earth they saw was the fruiting body. They had used it up. The history of life had been a singular journey to the hundred. Natures and gods chosen elite.
Beneath Bunsen island is a vast scientific community. James Bonds enemies offer a shadow of the depth of this evil. Think CERN but secret, private. Gathering the finest scientific minds Rupert began the Noah project. Limitless funding for the exploration of their work free of any international moral intervention. Developing space and time travel technologies. Particle construction of anything, reduseable to a digital formula. A leap way beyond the human genome project. Soon they could reassemble an individual to precise accuracy from data. Physical transport need not burst light speed if a man could be assembled in molecular perfection. Only the code need be sent. He has created a spacecraft. His elite set have screwed the planet for all she had. Rupert Bunsen began inviting the very richest people on Earth to pay vast sums to become secret passengers. He has operatives in all major governments and more shadowy agencies that rule the planet. These people have taken all the money from the Earth through exploitation, murder, ruthless extraction of all valuable mineral resources. As the Earth expires, they see themselves as the cream. The fruiting body shooting out her finest seeds into space. They have discovered life sustaining planets. They are leaving the depleted husk behind. Once beyond atmospheric restrictions the receiver craft, an unmanned vehicle, having located the new Virgin Eden, lands. From here the hundred will be recreated from fresh particles. They aim to take humanities next step. Having used the earth up, the finest will leave the rest behind, to start the new world. I heard about the Noah project and vanity, hubris, greed, whatever saw me asking for a place. I could not compete with the oil sheiks, the Russian oligarchs. The projects secrecy was crucial as there remained a few powerful people with morals. So after he refused me he tried to have me killed. His operatives mistook me for my sister who died in my place. I ran. Became a squatter. He still hunts me down.
I thought I'd not see the toad again, forgot to worry, till I was at the party. He'd a finger in vast illegal parties though his were focused in the Home Counties . Mike had developed mental health problems. Bunsen saw a chance to screw more money out of Oldpastures through drum and bass Tuberous Bellends remixes. He saw Syd Barrett become a legendary casualty of LSD. He decided to see if he could create a similar cult figure from Mike Oldpastures. Spiking him with a massive dose of LSD he nearly destroyed Mike. He is looking much better with Rachel. I was about to leave you all after the party but I spoke with Mike. He asked me to attend this conference. Something about bait."
Peter: "That fantasy thing earlier. Can I talk to the Coven regarding that later, privately. This is what I want. The Ark, Bunsens spacecraft is stored in a vast undersea glass unit. Four weeks from now he plans to leave the planet. The earths greediest, richest, most selfish, most ruthless hundred bastards will be boarding. The Planet Earths most evil gathered together in one place. The scum of the earth, in a space craft, in a glass box beneath the sea. We can not miss this opportunity. This glass tank must be extremely strong. Somehow we must burst in.
Charlotte, I ask you. Work together with us. We need a vessel to travel up the coast, to the sargasso, then to Bunsen Island. Summon up Jig. Harry will stand on the deck of our yacht. The conger eel demonic serpents shall join up into a vast shoal. Harry, Lady Harringtons aristocratic blood will arowse the serpents, yearning for the blood of the rich. The sea will boil as we travel to the sargasso. As a single shoal, the thrashing rage shall follow our craft. A mile or more of sea, boiling with hungry vicious demonic eels. I need your help. Could these creatures of super nature burst holes into the glass? Or must we devise a system to let them in. Either way, looking at you all I feel the unity of our mission, together we can cut off the head of the beast. Imagine. Open your minds. See the feeding frenzy as the nucleus of mankinds raping of the planet for personal gain, meeting the Earths answer. I once saw film of a cow fall into a shoal of pyrannahs. The water boiled as they stripped the beast of all flesh in minutes. That would be a shadow of this. Those creatures of Jig. Your meat demonology unleashed on the greatest foes. A righteous slaughter. A gift from all of us to the Earth. An act so pure, so good. Stop Bunsens mission. Thank you for listening. I humbly await your response!"
Peter nodded to each Witch, embraced the Clun Druids, shook hands with the Presley boys, hugged Christ. Walking to the girls he kissed each on the cheek, Rachel, Sue and Cathy. To each slapper he gave each firm arse a slap of appreciation of the glorious buttocks. This being the polite and respectful slapper salutation. Finally he walked to Lipton and they embraced. Both hoped this Clun bunch were up for this. He'd gambled all in laying his plans and knowledge open. Only together could this be achieved.
Peter: "There's a lot to think on. Shall we resume tomorrow?"
All agreed. Stood stretching stiff limbs. Pooling into couples and groups. Chatting over the issues brought up today. The conference had seen the shamanic cards on the table. Tomorrow the Clun Coven hopefully would be as open.
Tonight was to be the last night the whole collective were together for some time. Many goodbyes were in need of saying. The sons of Jesse were leaving for the tunnels at dawn to follow their voyage home. The student birds had to return to submit essays. The Slappers sought new parties and nightclubs, a last night sharing Jesus powers of resurrection saw their make up application grow frenzied seeking firsts. Twos ups were also bagged.
Esau sat talking earnestly to Sue. They had become close over the days. Esau felt proud Elmer had so smoothly assimilated gyratory proficiency. This was no small thing. The three boys would return home with an heir. Their empires future had hovered in every subterranean mind. Now Jesse could hand on the responsibility, pass the crown, gyrations safe in Elmers hips and pelvis. Sue feared her new love may step away, enter some cavern and disappear into the belly of the Earth. She had her own epiphany to assimilate. Shaz had vocalised the meaning of the sensations Elmer had triggered. Peter spoke of how he had not chosen to be a shaman. Something far greater had chosen him. So it was for Sue. Already her spectacles had been abandoned along with the loose clothing she wore as a uniform declaring her tribal allegiance to student birds. Esau couldn't avoid noticing that her shirt, previously a smooth tight duality of restraint now formed a loose veil that shadowed exuberant animation. Bullet points crowned quivering firm and joyous life. This alone ensured his commitment to return to meet his princess. The emergent slapper saw his eyes sparkle and knew he'd be back.
Returning to the quarry the site was soon reassembled for a final evening. Once the fire was in blaze Lipton got his speakers placed to play music. Beers were cracked and an atmosphere that blended the joy of new friendships with the sadness of separation. All would meet again. This was without question. Least represented were the locals. Andy stayed for a few hours with Ben though it was clear the Coven and other boys had a lot to discuss prior to tomorrow's second half of the conference. All accepted why.
Peter and Lipton sought out those that were leaving. The son of God was saying his own farewells one by one to his four Slappers, leaving the ladies in waiting to chat.
Peter: "Shaz! We'll be sad to see you lot leave. You've brought a sparkle to these last days. The drulads are sound but can get dour. But these days have been lit up by you girls. I concede, in the past I had disrespected the craft of the Slapper. But I was ignorant. Shaz, you really opened my eyes. Your speech impressed us all. I'd no idea how high ranking a Slapper you were till then. I mean, clearly your physical presence speaks volumes, no one could refute how fit you are, but queen Slapper! Few can claim that!"
Shaz: "No shit, lad! You better believe it. Any parties like that you're having, let us know. Sounds like Cheryl's nearly done, would you mind unclipping this for me? He don't like to waste any time". The respectful firm buttock slap that both gave their respective slappers , the courteous gesture in slapper culture, was heartfelt and honest. Their firm quivering buttock response confirmed mutual respect. Both shamans agreed this had been, for both, a deeply religious experience.
Both shamans were relieved as they moved on to say goodbyes to the student birds who were heading back to Cheltenham. Cathy explained that Rachel and Mike were off together somewhere, deciding what to do. Oldpastures was keen on the Noah project, should the Coven agree and it seemed unlikely Rachel would leave him now.
Sue also might be changing course. Social Policy no longer held her passion. She awaited to hear if Shaz and the Slappers would take her along.
Peter: "Well, you're always welcome to join us on site, wherever we are. It's been brilliant!"
Swapping mobile numbers they saw Sue who looked very different.
Lipton: "Hey Sue! Just be careful with those girls. They're years ahead of you. They walk into situations clad in hardly anything yet their strength is far greater than most. I couldn't walk as they do, where they do. They grew up in situations different to you. They are fit as fuck but also hard as fucking nails. Their life choice is no game. Perhaps keep things steady with Esau. Just keep in touch. Weekends with the lasses till you get your bearings. I don't want to sound an old cunt but..,."
Sue: "You do, mate! But I get your concern. Keep in touch. And I'll always be with Esau. I'm no slag, ok?"
Both shamans went over to Elmer who poked a stick in the fires embers, lost in thought.
Peter: "All ok, Elmer?"
Elmer: "Very much so. I have big plans. First I must spend every moment I have left listening to Jesse. Learn all he can tell me. But this empire. Believe in me, boys! We will meet again soon. If you require any help, my people will always be there for you. Your act writes in stone our unity. I would like to stay to hear the Cluns response to the conference. I must get home, though. I worry each day away from jesse is u replaceable. Esau looks besotted with that young chick. I see her changing. Can the boy live with such things? I must take him under my wing. Elijah has seen much, these last days. I'm hoping he can be my right hand man. I hope the over world don't call him away. So much to do. This empire of mine has fallen into the blues. Yet I feel it in my bones. We shall rise. I now own the plastic communication device, through this we shall remain in touch. You two are brothers, always know that."
The three embraced. Their friendships were secure. They left Elmer to his thoughts and sought out Harry.
Lipton: "Well, it's one hell of a duty my associate has placed upon you, should our madcap scheme come into fruition! Are you prepared for that? I'm sure we could find other ways."
Harry: "No! I must see this through. I want to see this through. Finding other means will take you time. Just don't push me overboard!"
All laughed. Yet there remained the serious possibility of her life being in danger.
Peter: "They might not agree. I need to ask you. Should Mike come along? I know he's still fragile. And I can't see Rachel leaving his side. She's a nice girl. You may know this better than anyone. We are steeped in this shit. I'd never invite anyone in, never."
Harry: "You're showing your prejudices. What she overcame to see beyond the broken figure took balls few people of any background have. She has strengths you couldn't imagine. Besides, she's angry. Burning with it after what Bunsen did to Mike. She might be more important to this missions success than anyone. She will choose what is right for her. Mike may need this most of all people. If he chooses to go, please don't deny him. He has survived something many couldn't hope to. He has inner strengths. My advice would be let each decide for themselves."
Peter: "Apologies. I accept you are correct. Clearly you're in, I take it?"
Harry: "Fucking right, I am! I want to see that bastard mutilated! My sister is never far from me."
Drunken farewells surrounded the fire till all slept In various places. An end to a brief spontaneous gathering. Tomorrow would be a smaller bunch. All swore to meet again before long.
Sent from my iPad
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