Warning: Overdose will FUCK you up!

I feel like crap. I just ate a box of Pringles. They put something in it that makes you never want to stop popping them into your mouth, but once you’re full and the chips are over, you feel polluted; vile and filthy like you can feel all your arteries just got clogged with cholesterol. The same thing happens with Kentucky Fried Chicken. It feels good while you’re eating it; finger licking good. But once it’s in your intestines, it produces quite a fucked-up feeling that their slogan cannot quite capture. This fucked-up post-consumption feeling is one that is best epitomized by that great social lubricant, alcohol.

Many is the time when I have woken up next to a buxom, naked wench in a totally foreign bed. My first feelings are ones of thankfulness that I survived the debauchery of the night before. Then I find an arm around my waist which I find is paralyzed. I just cannot move it; only my other two arms can move. My other two arms! Holy shit! I have only two arms.

Sweet Bacteria of Liberia! That means… With a sinking feeling, realization dawns.

It is with rising trepidation that I turn a sidelong glance at the owner of the other arm. On a lucky day, it’s some really hot firecracker who merits a two page spread in Penthouse. On most days its women whom only total inebriation, the resulting lack of inhibition and a hall of mirrors would make attractive. On particularly unlucky days it’s the office slut or a vindictive ex who’s been hung up on me ever since we broke up.

I look at her again.Damn! She’s naked. Did we do it? Double damn! I start to imagine the baby. My eyes, her nose. It’d better inherit her hair; mine looks like Medusa’s. If it’s as fat as her, it will never hear the end of it. Fuckity fuck! This is gonna be one ugly baby!

What in “Bob”’s name was I thinking? Was I thinking? I was probably too shitfaced to. Had I been drinking? The beginnings of a headache present themselves. I take that as a yes. A second glance at the girl confirms it. No way I’d have hit that if I were sober. Not even in a last man –last woman on earth scenario.

Women get to have a morning after pill. All I get is a headache which, if it were an earthquake, would put Krakatoa to shame. That and an uneasy feeling that I might have contracted crabs, gonorrhea, syphilis or a million other STDs. Well, women get the headache and STD worries too, but atleast they get the pill. I, on the other hand, get the unparalleled pleasure of attempting a slip-away without waking the sleeping behemoth next to me.

I get the horrible feeling I always get when it comes time for the split-without-wake maneuver. I am reminded of the last time I attempted this,(unsuccessfully, I might add) and the promises to self that accompanied the nasty talking to I received from the recipient of my carnal attentions the night before. I promised myself then, like I had a hundred times before : Never again. Then I pray to “Bob” for deliverance and vow to renounce desire, contribute generously to religious conversion campaigns and try not to seal as many clubs. “Bob” does not listen. “Bob” helps those who help themselves; that’s the way He rolls.

How the fuck did I get so hammered? Damned if I can remember what I was drinking last night. That’s usually a sign I’d been drinking tequila, a Spanish drink which means (I don’t remember doing that..) in the original Spanish. Tequila. To-kill-ya. One Tequila Two Tequila Three Tequila Floor. I went on till Five Tequila six Tequila seven Tequilas More. Then Nine Tequila ten Tequila eleven Tequila Door. Accompanied by a whore so fat that when she steps on a weighing machine, my mobile number shows. Well, not an actual for-money whore, but the kind which considers sex payment enough. The kinda wench not unlike the neighbourhood bicycle, in that…



Damn it, man. Focus! Don’t go off on a tangential sexist rant in the middle of a code red emergency. I gotta get outta here pronto without waking Ms. Beached Whale. She’s clutching me with all the protectiveness of a mother lion. Even a gentle tug will wake the beastie. I’m reminded of that Roald Dahl story Poison, where a guy’s got a krait on his stomach, under the sheets and he can’t even change his breathing pattern for fear the critter will strike.
I look to the A-team for inspiration. There’s one episode in which one bloke steps on a mine and moving his foot will trigger off an explosion and blast him to smithereens. Sarge gets him outta the fix by replacing the weight of his foot with a similarly weighted stone in a deft, nerve-wracking maneuver. I decide this is gonna be my modus operandi. All I need is a pillow and “Bob”’s your uncle.

Wouldn’t ya know it? She’s sleeping on the only pillow in the room. By now I’m seriously freaking out. I can feel a panic attack coming on. Don’t wanna face her. Can’t face her. Can’t hear her saying Call me.

“ Honey, love you. Mmm…” She’s speaking in an undertone. I am so fucked. The gig is up. “ …that’s it”, she continues, “ mm…right there. You hit the spot…”

What the fuck? What’s she talking about? Then it hits me. She’s sleep talking. And dirty sleep talk at that. Must be having a dream. About what…Sweet Guinea Pig of Winnipeg! She musta been dreaming bout last night. As I hear her continue to whisper trash talk, my last reserves of self-respect slip away. “Bob”, kill me already.

I can’t take it anymore. In one fluid motion, I jerk her hand away, grab my pants and head for the door. She’s awake. “ Hey…” she calls. I’m at the door. Sweet freedom awaits. I love the smell of freedom in the morning. Home is just a cab ride away. Shit, fuck, shit. My wallet’s not in my pocket. Must be on the dresser. I pause, but only for a second. Its not worth it.

Pulling up my pants, I run bare-chested and bare-footed through the corridor. I rush into the street, steal some coins from a blind street-side busker and call a friend. “ Hey, this is me.What the fuck, dude? You were supposed to watch my back.” I launch into a tirade of expletive that could teach a rapper a few things.

He starts laughing like it’s the Three Stooges and the Monty Pythons doing a double act. “ I tried, man. I really did.But I kinda gave up when you punched me in the nuts for trying to take you home.”

I gave him directions and he picked me up. I got home and spent the day feeling like a righteous turd.Never again, I vowed. 

But I digress. Like I was saying, eating a full box of Pringles makes you feel like crap.

A few dollars more

If I had a dollar for every day I’ve wasted reading books and watching movies , I’d have a lotta fuckin dollars. If I had a dollar for every day I spent studying, I’d have a negative amount of dollars (don’t ask me how this is possible). If I had a dollar right now, it would increase my total net worth to one dollar and thirty cents. If Bill Gates had a dollar right now, his total net worth would be one dollar and thirty cents, give or take a gazillion. If I had a dollar for every time I wished I was Bill Gates, Bill Gates would wish he were me. If I had a dollar for every time I was broke, I’d be able to finance the fuckin’ war on terror. If I had a dollar, I would convert that dollar into some cheap-ass inflated currency like the Indonesian rupiah so I could feel rich in that currency. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve placed my kidney on sale, I’d have a fistful of dollars; just enough to pay the ferryman.

If I had a dollar, I would take that dollar to a casino and play the low-stakes tables. I would double and quadruple that dollar a dozen times till I made it to the high stakes tables, where I would double and quadruple again. I wouldn’t stop till I had a billion dollars to keep my lonely dollar company. Then I would buy me clothes and a diamond ring and a mockingbird who can sing and vodka to keep the cold away. I would buy me a house and some dvds and a couple nights with an expensive hooker and a real bed. I would buy the finest wines and the finest veal and gain entry to the finest clubs. I’d have so many concubines it would put Solomon’s harem to shame. I wouldn’t stop buying until the bottomless pit that is my soul is full again. Leather jackets, fast cars and plasma screen TVs will define my lifestyle. Until one day, discovering that all the material possessions in the world haven’t given me happiness, I will renounce everything I own, convert to Buddhism and take to the hills in search of mystical nirvana.

Enlightenment awaits. But I need that dollar first.



 

tao be or not tao be

The tao that can be spoke of is not the true tao
Nor is monkey described monkey nor cow spoke of cow
And if Fate it is you speak of, or destiny or God
Then curb yer tongue ye scoundrel, you prevaricating sod
For all that you give tongue to must of course perforce be false
For truth is but what’s silent and heard but by the walls
And zen that you give voice to, nirvana you utter
Is baseless vile baloney that belongs in the gutter
For everything is maya and nothingness is all
Suffering is predestined; Humpty Dumpty bound to fall
Humpty Dumpty re – incarnated as a tree
And in a million years, Dumpty’s soul may become free
From the cycle of rebirth, from the suffering of this earth
Denial of desire will give birth to earthly mirth
But mirth is not the answer, ultimately one should try
To fade to black, to shunya, to merge with sea and sky
If nirvana is your goal, nothingness will satisfy
So stock up on some cyanide and die mothafucka die…

Deep Cover

Jonah Wittgenstein woke at dawn. For five whole minutes, he just lay in bed contemplating the day that lay ahead of him. His sleep had been fitful; he had tossed and turned every so often. When his pillow got too warm he’d turned it over, repeating the cycle innumerable times through the humid night. The faces of men he’d killed kept making unwelcome obtrusive appearances whenever Jonah tried counting sheep. Trepidation about how the next day would play out was giving him the jitters. He’d worked it out to the last detail, but in his line of work, anything might go wrong. Finally at 4 am, sleep had overcome him. His alarm woke him promptly at 9, piercing the stillness with jaunty exuberant notes that were always irritating, always effective. Jonah woke. And stared at the ceiling.

He reached for a cigarette and lit it with the aluminum lighter he’d been gifted back in his days as a journalist covering the war. Christ, that was nine years ago, Jonah thought bitterly. Had it really been that long?

They’d picked him up seven years ago. He had been home six months and already his wanderlust and desire for action were driving him mad. After all the excitement of the war: the thrill of snapping photographs with bombs exploding behind him and typing away on his keyboard while bullets zipped past the windows, after all that, civilian life was a drag, to say the least. There had been a woman, but that fizzled out soon enough. She was looking for a man she could plant; Jonah couldn’t grow a root to save his life. He’d quit his job at the paper and taken an indefinite sabbatical while he tried to figure out his life. He hit the gym every chance he’d get. He attacked the library with an equal ferocity. On weekends, he met old friends from the glory days and swapped war stories and philosophy over Chianti and barbecued chicken. His life was in limbo, and the restless itch had begun. So when the agency had shown up with a highly romanticized job offer that sounded like it was straight out of Ian Fleming, Jonah leaped at it. He was going to be a spook, a spy for God and country. The bureau was none too surprised; it was like they knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would join. And they did. They’d studied his profile; with his patriotic streak and escalated sense of morality, he didn’t stand a chance against their time-tested textbook spiel.

Jonah stubbed out his cigarette and went into the toilet for a shower. He had made a mantra of his baths. He had a unique ritual he followed every time, but as he told his girlfriend once when asked to describe it, he could tell you but then he’d have to kill you. In countless nameless motels and shabby inns all over the country, he had practiced this little tradition. Through all the various aliases and the confusing adopted personalities, this was his only constant. At the Circus, they’d taught him to dispose of all individuality, to become chimeric, chameleon-like, able to adapt, evolve. Jonah had clung to this however. By God, they would not rob him of this last bastion of individuality. He turned on the tap and stepped in, thinking of his first few months at the Circus.

Notions of romance and James Bond were cruelly crushed in a few short weeks. This stuff was more George Smiley and Le Carre. Two months in, he knew that this was not what he signed up for. He hardly ever got to wear a suit, utter those witty one-liners and drink martinis, shaked not stirred. As for the glorious promises of seductive sirens who slept with knives under their beds… Well, the closest he got to a sexy lady was when he had to assassinate a South American union leader at a whore house. Training was hard, friends were few, the pay was good no doubt, but Jonah had neither time nor a social circle to indulge himself. Still, his high sense of righteous indignation and patriotism kept him going. Within weeks, he was doing wet work; taking out potential troublemakers and heads of state in third world countries so his government could set up puppet democracies. Jonah never asked questions. He was a good soldier. Ours not to question why, ours but to do or die. Later on, he came to take a certain pride in his work. He had to admit, as his bosses readily did, that he was excellent at his job. A born natural!
Then, four years ago, this mission had come along. This time it was an internal operation; he wouldn’t even have to leave the country. The job was simple, infiltrate the mafia, gain the trust of the top leadership and pull the rug out from under them, netting all the honchos in one fell swoop. For years, the Circus had been sending in agents to infiltrate Mafia, with little success. Foreign governments had tried too; the Surete, Mossad and MI5 had sent in agents. Most just vanished into the woodwork and were probably being used as fertilizer for marijuana plants in Cuba. Deep cover took time, a real long time, sometimes decades. Ascension in the hierarchy came slow; the psychologists declared that most of the mob had definite trust issues. Some agents had just plain disappeared, their handlers tried to contact them, to little avail. Bender had broken contact in ’74, Oldham in ’80. He’d even heard talk around the office of a bloke called Andrew who disappeared in the late 60’s. He’d seemed poised to become one of the initiated and then he just vanished completely. The Circus surmised that either he’d been whacked or fearing for his safety, had embezzled some drug money and made off to some sunny island in the Pacific. Sometimes even the handlers disappeared, always in mysterious circumstances. The job was risky as hell and mortality rates were the highest in any industry. No-one was untouchable; the ghosts of Elliot Ness and his merry gang had long been exorcised.

Jonah had to fake the death of two cops just to prove he was bad-ass enough to get in. With astonishing speed, he had climbed the steep ladders of sin. In two years, he roamed the general vicinity of the corridors of power. One year ago, he was in actual sight of the doors that led to the sanctum sanctori of organized crime. And just three months back, after he successfully brokered a brilliant drug deal, he had been handed the keys to the altar of sin; the inner circle welcomed him with open arms. He got to meet the boss himself, the notoriously inaccessible Michael Toddlerface Machine Gun Pavarotti. Stories circulated about Michael that would chill your spine, legends surrounded him like bees around honey. No one knew these stories, but everybody told Jonah that they positively existed. It was hinted that anybody who ever got wind of these tales was taken to the woods and given the treatment; so those who were ever in the know were pushing up daisies. Jonah once wondered aloud if all this could be just an effective ploy to advertise a bloodthirsty facade. Was Pavarotti fronting like a hood when he was really a cuddly Teddy bear type? The cold, terrified looks he received from his comrades on broaching the subject informed him that this was hardly a wise observation to make, and continued remarks in this vein would lead to slumber with sea creatures. Jonah did not much relish that prospect. As the shower baptized him with probably his last bath ever, he had an eerie vision of his body sinking to the depths of a black bottomless sea. He wasn’t sure if there were fish around, but the ravenous sounds around him indicated some living, hungry presence.



Jonah wasn’t quite sure how he had managed it, but he’d managed to get the bosses of all the crime families to agree to a meeting. In fact, the other crime bosses had been almost excited about the prospect and spoke about its merits at length. Not since the disastrous ’51 meet had an event of this magnitude occurred. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that at the last similar shindig, atleast 30% of attendees had died in an all out-gunfight. Later, the person who had first drawn his weapon was questioned as to his motive. He claimed, of course that he had seen a spider, and arachnophobic as he was, he wanted to strike down that little critter with great vengeance and furious anger, for which express purpose he had reached for his Uzi. In the aftermath of the shootout his boss, nursing two broken limbs and a blind eye, turned that blind eye to his protestations of innocence and ordered the man entered as a contestant for one of those TV reality shows which involve a lot of spiders and all manner of other creepy crawly things. Never let it be said that the Mafia has no sense of humor.

Finally, today, thirty years after the famous Spider meet, a historic gathering of the paterfamilias had been arranged. The consiglieres had been scouting the location for weeks, security details included the most patriotic and secretive enforcers. Today, in one gigantic operation, the entire leadership of organized crime would be picked up, handcuffed and sent to the country’s premier secret island penitentiary for Class A criminals. Pavarotti would finally get the comeuppance he so richly deserved, but funnily enough Jonah was not looking forward to that moment when he’d have to look Pavarotti in the eye and confess that he was the mole.
Pavarotti was a slippery fish, and a hard creature to judge. Jonah had expected a coldblooded killer, an unscrupulous demon who had no morals and no compunctions. But Pavarotti and most of the mafia , for that matter, had really surprised him. For people who run a vast drug empire that wrecked millions of lives, they were surprisingly normal, perhaps even decent, people. Jonah tried their darnedest not to like them, and when he did start admiring their easy camaraderie, he attributed it to Stockholm syndrome. I’ve been here too long. These people are my friends, he thought. Of late though, everybody had been really tense. You couldn’t tell it to look at them, but Jonah had a knack for observation. He could tell everybody was rattled, nervous and untrusting to the point of paranoia. So the sooner the meeting went down, the faster he could heave a sigh of relief.

But the time to breathe was not yet here. Jonah felt that tingling anticipation at the back of his spine that he always felt before a big operation. It had been the same during the war and while he’d be scared shitless, he also felt a heightened sense of awareness that made him feel truly alive. He got out of the shower and toweled himself vigorously, put on his game face and left for the sprawling Texas ranch where the meeting was being held.

Noon on a Wednesday was no time for a gangster party, Jonah felt. These meetings of vice should take place under cover of darkness to give them a kind of poetic resonance. But the mafia dons had been insistent. Daylight inspired more trust in their paranoid minds, so they had pushed for noon. It would make for easy capture, Johnson figured, so he’d encouraged the idea. Pavarotti had agreed, most vociferously. Did he not realize that if cops swooped down on the ranch, they’d be sitting ducks? He probably did not figure on moles or double-crosses. The mafia had a knack for disappearing people that made double crossers think twice.

Jonah got off at the corner, entered the telephone booth and slid in a nickel. The phone rang twice before a female voice came over the line, “Wilson DryCleaners, How may I help you?” “This is Swallowtail, Operation Dirty Laundry, It is on today. Repeat we are on. Acknowledge.” “ Roger that Swallowtail. It ends today.” He hung up.

The dons were just filtering in when he arrived, their lieutenants in tow. Luciano Fats, the Spaghetti Machete ,Arabiatta Anatoly and three more of the greatest crime lords of our time all gathered in one place. This was historic. There were enough guns around to start a war in a small African country. But no guns in the conference room, that had been agreed upon. There were also more Armani suits than on Oscar night and suitcases full of so much money that could have bought and sold governments and tempted the Buddha. The dons took their seats at the large oval mahagony table, their trusty consiglieres behind them. The meeting started warily, the various factions testy and nervous and not even all the Dom Perignon and caviar could mellow their anxieties. The Feds would be here any moment now, Jonah thought and waited for the telltale gunshots that would herald their arrival. It would be a bitter battle and the casualties heavy. Acceptable losses, thought Johan, hoping that the capture of the crimelords would vindicate the loss of life. He was hardly Machiavellian, but he saw the necessity for violence and accepted it. Atleast we’ve got the element of surprise, he thought grimly .His mission was to deliver Pavarotti, alive if possible, dead if necessary. He didn’t relish the prospect of killing the man he had come to see as a father, but he had no choice. They should be here by now, why was there no gunfire?

Pavarotti was speaking, “ …the distribution lines to Colombia…cut out the middle man…forget the European cartels…monopoly…Virgin Mary…olive oil… Escobar…” Strung up as he was, Jonah only heard snatches of the monologue..The doors burst open and the Feds burst in through the door. Where were the guards? They must used silencers to take them out, he realized. Even so, he’d have heard something.Unless…yes, that was it. Soundproof conference room. How could he not have thought of that?

The men had all scattered when the Feds burst in. They seemed resigned, tired… He looked at Pavarotti. There was an uncanny expression on his face. Defeat, dejection…no, that was not it. It was the look he’d seen on players’ faces after a game hard fought and won: weary jubilation. That was odd… He took Pavarotti down in a flying tackle and pinned him to the ground. Lt. Peterson got to them and said, “ Jonah, let Andrew go. He’s one of ours.” Pavarotti looked at Jonah in shock,” You too? And your name is Jonah? Haha, this is rich.” Jonah was stunned, Toddlerface Machine Gun Pavarotti, the most wanted man in America was a Fed named Andrew. “Deep cover”, Peterson explained. “ Very deep. We thought he was dead. He only contacted us a week ago when he thought he’d accomplished his mission. We also got. We got Oldham and Bender too. They’re consiglieres of Luciano Fats.”

The doors opened again and a bunch of armed men burst in. The man who seemed to be in charge was a large man with European features. “ Let him go”, he said to the men holding Luciano .What in the name of Graptha’s hammer was going on, Jonah thought. Luciano must have foreseen this. Double crosses and triple crosses. He’d probably been tipped off by one of the Feds. Mirrors within mirrors;lies within lies.

“ We’re Interpol”, their chief said.” You’re all under arrest.” Interpol, who the hell had tipped them off? They were unshackling Luciano and slapping him on the back. No, that couldn’t be right…Unless… No friggin way, thought Jonah. Luciano Fats, head of the Cuba conglomerate and nemesis of the FBI was an undercover Interpol spy. He came over to talk to Jonah and Andrew. “Deep cover”, he said.

“ Phew,” said Jonah and heaved a sigh of relief. “I thought we were goners.”The Feds and the Interpol were arguing over jurisdiction. “Excuse me”, said the Spaghetti Machete.” I’m one of the good guys too. The name’s Pierrot. I’m French Surete. Now uncuff me so we can clear up this mess.”

“Gregory Raskolnikov,” Arabiatta Anatoly piped up, looking sheepishly embarrassed but also faintly bemused.” KGB. A fine catch we have here today. Are those two the only true gangsters in this damn place?”

“ Sorry to disappoint, old chum.Arafat. Levi Arafat. Mossad.” Said the man who they called the Silent Assassin.” You can confirm with the embassy. Now take these damn handcuffs off.”

They all sat looking at Avacado” Tortilla Boy” Domingo, who was staring at them incomprehensibly. Jonah was close to tears. This was supposed to be his crowning achievement ; how did it became such a fiasco. But Domingo was the greatest and most powerful of the crime lords; he could be the key to bringing down the entire drug empire. Perhaps Jonah’s time hadn’t been wasted after all. Domingo’s face was unreadable, his demeanor calm. You can’t believe it, can you, Jonah thought. And then he saw a twinkle in Domingo’s eyes. He was reaching for his back pocket. Had he managed to smuggle a gun past security? Jonah whipped out his own gun just as Domingo brought his hand out of his pocket. In his hand was a card.

James Hedburg, FBI, it read.

Ode to a Parisian Pervert

In the nineteenth century was born a baby in Paris
To look at him, no one could see he’d end up quite extraordinary
For Donatien Alphonse Francois looked ordinary, quite bourgeois
Turned out he’d perversion’s king, iniquity’s anointed czar
Antiquity would note that he availed of every chance he’d get
To press upon each soul he met a fine fucking they’d fain forget
He wedded, bedded, buggered them, both whores and winsome little belles
Even his spouse’s sister sweet could ill resist his twisted spells
With ravishing rigmarole he’d rend their silken camisole
And inflict upon them with his pole, penetration in every hole
His perverted proclivities were not confined to one species
The man was perfectly at ease fornicating with wildebeests
Chihuahuas, goats and France’s sheep fell prey to his sick predations
He spared not even apple pies, nor holes in trees nor virgin hens
The lecherous old libertine for lubricant used brilliantine
And gerbils, sheep and giggling geese all partook in his deeds obscene



This old perverted billy goat was too, a writer of some note
In hedonistic France of olde, the man made quite a splash at court
His various manuscripts he infused with vile debauchery
Virgins defiled, pricks deified, desire pleased, pornography
Some say he was a transvestite; wore skirts and applied mascara
But all agree to a large degree that he wrote great erotica
He offed a few young prostitutes, engaged in quite some buggery
When things in France became too hot, off he shot to Italy
Rather than sin in climes foreign, he came back home, got sent to jail
And escaped in a few short months when judges promptly denied bail
Got caught again and in prison, he began his magnum opus
The perfect guide to perversion, the bible of unholy lust
One Hundred Twenty Sodom days, the vilest in all time and space
To serve as guide to blushing bride, buggers worldwide and sinners base
Accused of stark insanity, the man was jailed in the Bastille
But even there, he shirked despair and strove to screw his guard sentry
Twelve long years spent behind bars passed by ‘fore he again was free
Grossly obese, balding and old but still quite keen on buggery
Fornication was Francois’s forte, the years saw his yearnings increase
Not even at the funny farm did his unnatural cravings cease
He died penniless, broke as fuck, no minstrels mourned him through the land
But let it not be said of him that he did not die dick in hand…


They burned his books, his notes, his works; his ideas in thick smoke arose
In vain did priests in black habits attempt to exorcise his ghosts
For future times would revere him and marvel  at his legacy
And see a man before his time whose only crime was prophesy
The purveyor supreme of porn, role model of Hefner and Flynt
Possessed of such mad ideas that most of them are banned from print
A visionary monstrosity, the vilest man who e’er got laid
The greatest lover ever lived; he changed the way the game was played
Perversion’s greatest practitioner; the saint of all who ever got hard
A semen demon, sex T-Rex: the immortal Marquis de Sade…

The monk and the riddle

Of late, I’ve been possessed of a seemingly inexplicable feeling of malaise, a general air of dissatisfaction with Earth and its inhabitants. Those who know me will be aware that my disposition is hardly the most cheerful, and my moods oscillate between the blackest despair to the sunniest affability. But recent times have left me feeling a routine dejectedness that not even occasional trips to the moon and the odd line of cocaine could dispose of. At this point in the communiqué, most of you are thinking I have gone over the bend and started concocting tall tales, influenced no doubt by sleepless nights, flashing lights and all the coke I been doing. Hey see, I wasn’t fabricating. Coke was done. Q.E.D.

My detecting skills, long unused and eagerly awaiting redeployment, were itching to discover the reason for my recent listlessness. It couldn’t be my enormous wealth, could it? I had overheard the butler talking about recent studies showing that money might sometimes detract from your happiness Butlers didn’t know from shit. They are but penguins who’ve figured out how to talk human. My billions and I were in a complex love-hate relationship. I couldn’t spend my money fast enough. Oddly,the more I spent the more wealth I accumulated. One of those weird fluctuations in the temporal flux, but it sure wasn’t worrying me.

Could it be the fact that I was getting laid far too often? Stuck-up priests would call my fornication a blight on my immortal soul, hygienists and doctors would call it reckless self-endangerment due to the increased risks of contracting STDs. But they’d be wrong on both counts.For one, I have it on the highest authority that there is no soul. Too, the superlative healing power I was born with voids the possibility of coming down with the clap. No, my romantic life was just dandy. Lacking in emotional maturity and enduring ties, I agree. But that was just the way I liked it. It is never a good idea for us immortals to forge ethereal bonds with short-lived mortals. My delicate sensibilities always suffer from the inevitable partings. But there hadn’t been one for a long time now; my romantic entanglements were hardly the root cause of my dispiritedness.

What then? My excellence at sport, my popularity and high esteem in all social circles, my numerous records in feats of physical activity, the 3 Nobels , 2 Oscars, 4 Bookers, being the founder of two major religions, my unparalleled ascension to….But ah, I realize that even an abridged version of my accomplishments must be painfully embarrassing for you to even peruse, you who have achieved so little in life, you insignificant pimple on the butt of humanity. It matters not. Your mediocrity is your fault of course, but do not envy me; I have time on my side. Besides, you’re probably happier. The naïve, the foolish and those with blind faith in the most baseless claims are often more contented than the wisest of us; such are the inconsistencies in the skewed algorithm that govern the human race.

Perhaps I’m unhappy because I can’t pinpoint the reason for my unhappiness. A friend of mine suggests this revolutionary thought. Which came first,he asks? The unhappiness or my quest to attribute it to something? I launch into a spiel on circular reasoning, chickens, eggs and infinite regression and send him on his merry way.

No, these aren’t the reasons for my discontent. By now, I’ve exhausted most of the possibilities and am at the end of my wits. So I do what everybody does in this situation. I climb Olympus , seeking the oracle they call theTechnomage. He/she/it/they/them will provide the answer. No one talks of seeing the Technomage; his/her/its identity, size, shape, colour, texture and reputed trace of a mild Cockney accent are all issues of major debate and conjecture.

I brave the cold, battle the wolves, and nearly starve to death before I reach the top, having climbed the treacherous slopes by nightfall, by the light of an L-shaped candle I held between my teeth. In retrospect, I wished I had taken the bus. But what matter? I am here, the Mage is here, the answer to the riddle looms!




Why?, I ask the Technomage.

Oh, you’re curious about the Technomage. You’d like to know his/her/its shapecoloursizetexture. I could tell you, but then I’d have to disappoint you.    
Nothing is as interesting as it sounds. N-O-T-H-I-N-G. Romance lies in ignorance; knowledge is ugly, truth a letdown. 

Why? I ask, assuming the Technomage knows of what I speak. Apparently not. I spell it out. I am sad, I would like to know why.

The entity considers, then answers profoundly, “ Because.”

What in the name of Graptha’s hammer? That’s no answer. That’s not even a full sentence. In fact, you cannot start a sentence with because because because is a conjunction. The Technnomage obviously does not give a flying fuck about grammatical syntax. And he (i use the masculine singular out of convenience)refuses to be drawn out into a discussion on the subject; the ultimate verdict on the matter has been pronounced. I would have to draw my own meaning from it.

I climb down the mountain. The valley looks resplendent in the golden sunshine that bathes it. They say the view from the bus on the way down is quite something. Why didn’t I take the bus? I am dejected and morose.

The next day I make my way back to Olympus' lofty peak.driven by voices in my head. They do not tell me why I am here. Impulse, instinct, foolishness.

The Technomage tells me this is all highly irregular and demands double the usual fee.

I assure him that where he's going, he's not going to need the money.Then, I destroy the Technomage. Blow him to smithereens.

The Technomage won't be answering any questions anymore. 
It will ask one more though.

I hear him utter his last words from the great beyond, “ Why?” in what is unmistakably a Cockney accent.

“Because” I murmur. I set off detonation charges all over and blow up Olympus. As the ancient mountain goes up in a fireball behind my back, I light up a cigarette.After weeks, I feel my lips give way to the faintest ghost of a smile.

This day in history ( a Valentine's Day Special Delivery)

Wasted wenches whisked away the whisky as the men played whist
Wicked witches wailed and moaned as lissome lesbians licked and kissed
Silken nymphs and succubi were practicing seduction’s art
While Cupid was at target practice shooting at innocent hearts
The Willow wind it vanished as the serpent swayed to sweet deaf notes
Wool-shorn sheep sheltered in barns while sheep-shaggers fucked winter goats
Grecian gods played hide and seek with sylphs and sylvan maidens fair
Who hid in trees, ate strawberries and fret too much about their hair
Bareheaded brown skinned Nubians gave Nefertiti orgasms
While Solomon screwed Sheba to the symphony of beating drums
Wile E. Coyote caught the roadrunner but set her free
While altar boys were deeply touched by the Archbishop of Canterbury
Illuminati secret priests held orgies with their sacred nuns
While Jerry troops at Berlin Wall buggered themselves with their guns
Mary and the Holy Spirit went at it with divine lust
Out popped Christ from Virgin Mary: man conceived from angel dust
Beowulf and Grendel’s sexy mother sealed a pact in loin fire
While Bilbo Baggins fantasized about dear Frodo in the Shire
Indians in the Kama Sutra coupled in sixty four ways
Which led to overpopulation and a severe lack of space.
Sorority queens drove their dates to make-out sessions at drive-ins
While Sleeping Beauty rose again, awakened by her charming prince
The Joker and Miss Harley Quinn plotted one more nefarious scheme
While sweet compliant cheerleaders serviced the entire football team
A bastard pearl born out of wedlock left poor Hester ostracized
Miss Mary Magdalene, the whore was last temptation of the Christ
Between the Ben and Leaning Tower they had the time and inclination
Rosey Palm and her daughters five are expert hands at masturbation
Failure to communicate cost Shakespeare’s lovers both their lives
Their idle curiosity prompted Bluebeard to kill his wives
Clyde and Bonnie got their guns and went out on a robbing spree
While Clark Kent popped the question, saying “ Lois, will you marry me?”
Three score and twelve Heavenly virgins had their Muslim cherries popped
While sixteen Saudi sex offenders got their naughty peckers chopped
The Romans played decadent games, debauched and drank till sun came up
While modern day sex maniacs woke up to watch Two Girls One Cup
Granger kissed the Potter boy, he might have got to second base
Eve and Adam sure did it, or else there’d be no human race
So comb your hair and learn your lines and buy your girls expensive wines
Drink up you rabid scurvy dogs and let’s get laid this Valentine’s.