Dragon Fire in the Hole

[ Free Me From This Bond: Chapter 9 ]

18 April 2012

To the Dragon Drama Queens at the Hole in the Wall Saloon:

I want to rectify yesterday’s fiasco and my expulsion from your fine establishment, on some drunkard fool’s claim that I stated I want to bomb this place. When in fact, this is what I declared: “I want to buy this place.” (For two reasons: to keep The Spirit alive long after the first owners retire or bick the kucket, and to have Larkin back here where he belongs, playing pool and acting the fool, and just in general, sharing his sweet self with many souls hungry for affection. He was permanently 86′d by the present owners. Once I collect my first millions off the royalties of this beatific opus, I certainly intend to purchase Hole in the Wall, lock, stock and barrel.)

Reminds me of a similar faux pas during Barrack Obama’s presidential run in 2007, where I was chatting with a very sweet, elderly dingbat over the coffee bar at Cafe Mediterraneum on Telegraph Avenue, Berkeley. (FYI: the same locale where Alan Ginsberg worked on his now-celebrated opus, “Howl”…something I didn’t discover till after years and years of hanging out there, composing my own gay poems and prose.)

Dingbat expressed a grave concern of what could become of our economy, should we wind up with yet one more Republican skank in the Oval Office. So I replied:

“Don’t you worry, dear, everything will work out just fine, once we put Obama in the White House.”

She dropped her swizzle stick and splashed the coffee-bean elixir. “Heavens! No, please, I am antiviolent, and could never suggest a bomb in the White House.”

“You misunderstood,” I chuckled. “I said ‘Obama,’ not ‘a bomb’.”

So it later occurred to me that the phonic similarity of those two words, sure must keep his body guards on their toes (and needlessly trigger happy…so maybe I’ll just reconsider my next invite to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue).

Now, I am about to reveal to you, Beloved Reader, a most astounding and profound conclusion which jigsaw pieces only came together for me, less than one month ago. The Gay Pagan Motorcycle Community (GPMC) orchestrated this silly little scenario, as they have many others…out of sheer compassion and joy, to bring Larkin and I together as lovers.

And to grant me my “Damon Runyon Adventure w/a Gay Spin”…which bromantic odyssey is now into its seventh year!

Note: this revelation being so new, I probably don’t have the most apt title for who these intelligent, mischievous, loving and spirited dragons are. But I am soon to learn, so it seems.

Once I became aware of this brilliant, outstanding real-world play, concocted by the GPMC, I quickly printed out the first two chapters of “Free Me From This Bond” (’cause that’s all I had at the time), and ran to The Hole to thank barkeep Gary with much profusion and gratitude. That was around two weeks ago. It boggles the mind (well at least mine, because there’s a dumb-blonde pool boy lurking just below the surface), to wonder how in the Master Dragon’s Blue/Green Dimension, they could concoct and maintain This Living Fairytale! With so many fables within fables (or “parables” as I like to call them), you become bewitched by such ethereal beauty swirling around you like a swarm of ladybugs or fireflies.

Please realize the tremendous impact this so-called Motorcycle Club (w/Larkin the Supreme Conductor) will soon have on the entire planet. Every single tale I tell (in this quite novel noble novel), was all mastered by these Hole-in-the-Wall Tarragons and Warlocks, then played before me (and around me) with such vigor, I couldn’t help but become passionately inspired…and write about what just happened (with very little revision). And what else can they do, and will do? Surely, they won’t stop once my Princely Draco and I become betrothed…surely, that is only the beginning. Think about it.

Apparantly, these GPMC luv-dolls work diligently and vigorously, to make all my worthy dreams become truth. Such as my wish for Northern California to secede to become the world’s very first LGBT nation. I want to name this new country Athenia, and make San Francisco its capitol; only we’ll rename it “Zekeopolis”. Another dream I own, is for gayfolken to take over the world, and bring peace on earth, goodwill to all queerkind…and then everyone else, once our liberation has been claimed.

Anywayz, back to a few moments before the surprise 86:

I’m admiring a brightly handsome young fellow who just stepped inside, and sat at the only unclaimed bar stool…which, quite coincidentally (and indeed happily, as well) is right beside yours truly. I buy him his second drink, and in a while more, I discover he is a gifted playwright within the Homophile Nation. In fact, here’s a site where you may keep informed of this brilliant dragon’s latest achievements:

http://www.dragsical.com

Wow, Jason, your play “Batman is Dead: The Dragsical” looks like one hell of a hilarious tromp through Dragtopia! I wish you continued success that is more than well-deserved: you are a righteous blessing to our long-suffering though highly compassionate family.

Minutes later, I step outside to chat with Dutch (while he smokes his Pall Mall), a Navajo Gay Wise Man with a bodaciously sweet sense of humor. He finishes his ciggie and steps towards The Hole’s entrance (hmm, accidental pun, or perhaps a Freudian slip). But there are two quite robust males (and good-looking to boot) blocking our way.

“Uh-oh Dutch; they’re not gonna let me in.”

“Oh yes they are, they’re just standing around,” he replies.

The very moment I take a tentative step in their direction, they obstruct. (Man, I am so ready to fondle their hefty baskets, but they don’t seem particularly receptive…though perhaps they’ll drop their jeans and let me goose their fine arses with a finger or two, if I ask politely. I wimp out at the last moment. *sigh* ) So I return to the sidewalk right beside the short, concrete wall that defines an outdoor mini-patio for smokers. Dutch declares, “I don’t want any part of this” and strides through the entrance.

Though just before he does, I accuse: “Ya big chicken. Buk-buk-buk-buk bugawk! Buk-buk-buk-buk-buk bugawk!” Barkeep Larry runs out and almost pushes me to the ground, and tells me in heated spirit: “Leave, Zeke. Leave NOW or I’ll call the cops.” Again, he presses his hands against me almost to shove, but not quite. I won’t budge: “This is public space. I don’t have to go anywhere.” (After all, once someone threatens to call the pizzakeepers on you, it’s best to wait till they arrive, that your side be heard. If you amble away before then, you look guilty.)

As Dutch disappears behind the pleather curtain and the darling bouncers resume their station, someone from behind me calls out: “Zeke!” I turn around to see, lo and behold, two drop-alive gorgeous Men in Blue flashing pearly smiles and looking oh-so-CLASSY in their neatly pressed uniforms (I’m a sucker for that kind of stuff). I was so taken by their countenance, I said not a word and gazed upon them in rapturous delight.

“Zeke,” says the blonde hottie: “Zeke! Which one of us do you think is cuter?”

Well, I nearly drop my jaw to the sidewalk (and this time, not for cowboy schlong). How sweet. How very, very darlin’. I finally recover my mandible, and speak: “You are both such charming and lovely peace officers, please don’t put me on the spot like this. I’m afraid if I choose the wrong cop, I’ll be cited by the other.”

Then I tell them I have no idea why I’ve just been 86′d, that I overheard someone say I’m gonna bomb this saloon. (Without any hindsight at the moment, I assume someone badmouthed me once the shift changed bartenders–as Gary Clayton is certainly my ally–and my good friend Russell departed.) Well, that is most certainly not true, because I worship at the altar of the Dragon of the Hole in the Wall. I <3 this place. The endearing policemen see that I am honest; and I'm sure they'll discover that I've been slandered. We bid our adieus, and I stroll down Folsom Street on my way home, displaying my bold Jesus Dragon jacket all along my merry route upon return to The Castro.

Note: to those two adorable policemen, I say: “My hat’s off to you, and perhaps other types of apparel, if that would delight you (or both, which would make a most saliva-dripping sandwich of the yummiest proportions). Otherwise, let’s become BFF’s and schmooze over donuts and java: I’m nothing, if not the King of Bromance. You just showed me how loved I truly am, by not just a vast segment of the queer community, but the SFPD as well! Therefore I presume you know all about my Randolph (a former SF cop in training), whose life was spared thanks to my devoted loyalty. There is certainly a gold star waiting for me somewhere in the hallways of the Department of Justice. There was only one thing about you two handsome dragons, that left me sorely disappointed: what, no frisking? That’s not much fun, so please, for future reference: I’d simply go ejaculatingly ECSTATIC if both of you Fine Bluecoats laid hands all over this shuddering body! But I’ll settle for hugs, for I’m sure they are glowingly wonderful too, considering the honorable source.”

I did cruise a studly homeless dude on the way home, and got laid inside a large cardboard box that once housed a Frigidaire. It wasn’t totally pleasant because my bad knee acted up, along with my neck vertebrae and RSI-damaged fingers. The bad thing about getting old, is you never really know where the aches in your joints are coming from: arthritis or the teena you slammed three days ago.

Then, a little further along I drop into a hetero booze lounge called “The 500 Club” not just to spread good cheer and humor to all who accept me, but to also share the Good News: Jesus is gay, and is sitting right here beside you, chatting you up. I don’t remember all the varied witticisms I orated before they banished me to the outer realms, but I do remember this one:

Two fetching men are standing with their drinks in hand, imbibing and most obviously enjoying each other’s company, w/o any sign of a ‘gina clinging to their arms. So I nonchalantly rise up from my barstool, and walk right by them, and in passing, remark: “You two boys should be boinking the daylights out of each other by now, you’re both so cute!” By the time they knew what hit ‘em, I had already returned to my spot, and ordered another Kiwifruit-Pineapple Kiss.

So here is what I understand is going down regarding this latest gay fairytale: you amazing Hole-in-the-Wall Pagans are orchestrating a romantic scenario where I get to play the hero, and win Larkin’s Dragony Heart. Some of you will play the enemy, others of course, my BFF’s. So please, allow me to take a moment out, and state right here:

HOLE IN THE WALL ROCKS!!! WHAT CHARMING AND SWEET DRAGONS!!! YOU ARE A TREMENDOUS GIFT TO OUR LGBT FAMILY, AND I AM SIMPLY STUNNED WITH YOUR AWESOMENESS!!!

The LGBT community created me, groomed me for leadership w/o my even knowing. For part of the training is to figure these things out for yourself, as the years pass, and the pieces come together. So I’m not that sure yet if I’m an actual human, or a faggy simulacrum that transcends all time and hardons. I now conjecture that I might have hatched from an egg; a dragon’s egg of course.

But I’m always short on money, living only on a disability stipend. I would like to rectify this, by reciting my tales for a fee, at various LGBT venues. Particularly at The Hole (surprise!), and at the living rooms of these outstandingly benevolent bartenders and patrons; I can’t imagine yet what sweet friendships shall result (not to mention what sweet BJ’s). But it will allow me some decent fun money, that I can afford to hang out at the Hole regularly, and even buy drinks for the good souls that inhabit The Dragon’s Lair.

Also: I terribly, desperately, BADLY need an industrial cleaning and repair of my humble single room that I’ve occupied since 1983. So I’m hoping that our wonderful family of Dragon Disciples will surprise me by performing this Sisyphean task (at least, it would be for moi) while I’m away for the afternoon, on whatever day you sweethearts choose. (Time for an “Extreme Makeover – SRO Edition“, eh?)

This next idea may be a bit over the top, but here is my dream: replace the wall facing Market Street with plexiglass, that tourists may gaze up and admire my Little Hobbit Hole, from whence I conjured up Myriad Darling Tales, and broadcast them around the globe via cyberspace. Of course, I’ll need curtains to grant me privacy at times, or some other sort of window cover that looks best. You could even install an animatronic version of myself, for times when I’m not present. (Just give him a bigger kok, *please*, ’cause I wanna have lotsa fun with my first sex-toy robot.)

Oh, almost forgot: I yearn for a new set of pearly whites, because they are neither, and have been neither for many a year I can’t believe.

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I’M A DRAG QUEEN’S DRAGON
by Ezekiel J. Krahlin (“Jehovah’s Very Queer Witness”)

I’m a Drag Queen’s Dragon of Ill Repute,
My scales are dirty and my tail is clipped.
I’m a foul-breathed lizard, you can’t refute,
I feed on gizzards and root beer root
…and anything else on ship.
Including pirates. Aaargh!

I’m a Drag Queen’s Dragon of Dark Design,
Striking terror in the hearts of ‘phobes,
Burning their churches if I have a mind
With my fiery breath and those farts behind
…and my big old, fat old, testicular globes.
Including pirates. Aaargh!

I’m a Drag Queen’s Dragon of Tit for Tat,
I’ll chew your bones into bits of gruel,
And exchange ice cream for some body fat,
That I get by boiling down ‘phobes in a vat
…so don’t mark me as a fool.
Including pirates. Aaargh!

I’m a Drag Queen’s Dragon of Dungeon Fame,
Polyhedral dice on a bed of lice,
Is how I like to play this game.
Though without some pot, it’s rather lame
…yes I’ll beat you twice, maybe even thrice.
Including pirates. Aaargh!

I’m a Drag Queen’s Dragon with a big fat butt,
And a pair of gonads you’ve never seen,
‘Cause it’s hidden by a protruding spleen
And my ginormous gut
…I am really a sight obscene.

Including pirates. Aaargh!

I’d Sooner Buy Hitler A Pony

Sometimes I get a little mischievous with Youtube comments. Just look for my handle “pewterbot9″ at the bottom of a post, to find a particular declaration by yours truly…33 all told. (If my handle appears above a comment, it indicates someone responding back to me.) Please note this is an image of the comment page, so you can’t jump-search my handle or click on any links…you can only scroll either up or down.

Though to simplify your perusal, I’ve marked each of my posts with a red arrow “<,” so they’re hard to miss.

To view the actual video, or to add your own comment, click here, or anywhere on the comment page below.

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Best Way To Hack A Cell Phone…

…is to have a good Samaritan nearby use the Heimlich maneuver on your desperate person. Better yet: don’t swallow it in the first place, so you’ll never *need* to hack it up! Take my nanowife, please!

No, seriously folks, I just purchased my first cell phone. For two dollars and fifty cents…such a deal! I selected the sexiest from the lot of ‘em, at a thrift store on Duboce and Church: “Out of the Closet”. Now, all I needed was a phone charger and I’d be in business…which charger BTW, cost far more than the phone itself.

Now, I could finally learn what all this bruhaha is about re. “texting”. Downloaded the user guide, and…Wow, what a ridiculous waste of time, but at least I get the drift: treat your fingers like little slaves, working them to the bone till they’re all wasted from RSI and you’ll need to wear digit splints on your texting hand for the rest of your life…and you’re not even 30 yet! Or maybe even texting while crossing a busy intersection and–in your absorbed T9Word rendering–inadvertantly step on (and squash into its next life) a hapless black cat that had just veered off the sidewalk to avoid scampering under a ladder. Moving on…

Why did I buy a used cell phone? Why didn’t I just go the regular subscription route? Only because–as one who is dead set on never acquiring this new-age albatross to tether me down to a chattering network of inane blathering for a highway robbery sum–I also saw the good in acquiring a diminutive handset, just for the sake of 911…which number by law, every cell phone is required to access, *including* those that are not subscribed.

Mine is the Verizon LG VX4600, which debuted waaay back in 2003. It’s in excellent condition, battery just fine. But now that I own a cell phone, I want to *play* with it, outside and beyond the subscription realm. Or IOW, I want to learn how to *hack* the precious little silver hand robber.

So I’ve just begun the adventure, and would like to share the following cell hacking sites for others who may enjoy:

Cell Phone Hacks ? How to hack your cell phone (Samsung, LG, etc)

How to Unlock Your Cell Phone for Free

Mobile Phone Resource & Community

Of course, I am limited from performing any hacks that require my own subscription, but *meh* I can handle that. Just think of all the money I’ll save! (‘Scuse me now while I figure out how to “sext” w/o a camera; maybe I can arrange smileys in some compromising position.)

–
Zeke Krahlin
Free as in dandelion necklaces

How I Acquired The Cloak Of Invisibility, And The First Thing I Did With It

Actually, I’m not really sure how I acquired the damn Cloak, but it must have been a reward for one of my Odyssey adventures, which the gods have deemed to erase from my memory until a future time. I believe it was woven from Ariadne’s thread tossed aside in a forgotten ball, once Theseus made his escape from the Labyrinth.

But who wove it, and who gave it the power to make one invisible? And who presented it to me, and for what accomplishment? Alas, these truths remain hidden to me for a while longer…thus I must proceed with my tale without the benefit of any history. (Perhaps it was my spill in the River Lethe, battling some sort of beast or another, that washed away these memories.)

The Cloak itself is velvet black, with a honey shimmer to it…as if a lock of the Golden Fleece. were woven into its threads. It BELONGS to me…it KNOWS it belongs to me…as whenever I fling it about myself, it always falls upon my body in the most artful manner. It complements, it embraces, it cherishes me with dear caresses, and never clings! Yet it slides off with not a moment of pause–once I release my grasp–and falls graciously to the floor with a pleasant “whoosh”. Neither static-y nor clingy, no dirt or dust ever gathers upon it…for which I conclude the unknown existence of some Polyester-blend goddess (perhaps the offspring of that rotten cyclops Polyphemus, who once chased after some lovely trifle of a mortal named Esther. Perhaps the Cloak’s power of invisibility came from the blinding of this cyclops by Odysseus).

So I stand on the banks of the River Lethe, contemplating all the delicious adventures that will be mine, as the invisible voyeur of others’ adventures…when along comes fickle Eros. As I am presently concealed beneath the Cloak, he would pass right by me without knowing I’m even there…except for my stepping in his way, for which he is unexpectedly knocked over. After gathering his arrows, Eros stands up, stares at my new gift of the Cloak of Invisibility…and after a few moments says, “Dude: I have a great idea where you could use that Cloak.” (And where could that be?) I think.

“The Bedrooms of the Gods of course,” brags Eros, “why, you could write the steamiest novels the world has ever seen, by merely recounting what you witness! You’d be an overnight sensation, a romance novelist par excellence, and a multi-millionaire to boot!” (I would also know what tickles Apollo’s fancy) I muse, as one mortal who is very hot for a particular deity or two.

“Oh, yes, why, the benefits to your personal life would be enormous,” admits Eros. “You would have ANY God you want by the balls, and caress them whenEVER you please! I must apologize for tempting you
with mere lucre, Ezekiel…as I know you value the immaterial over the material, as should any seeker of truth. Now, just think what all that money could do for the poor, the lame, and the downtrodden!” (Then let’s go! You need not convince me further…I’m hot to trot.)

We arrive at the Bedroom Palace (teleportation? flight? memory still hazy, try again later) somewhere on the eastern slope of lofty Mount Olympus…which contains secluded chamber after chamber, to satisfy even the most finicky demands of privacy for which any goddess or god could wish. Solid, thick oak doors trimmed in eggshell white and 24 caret gold-plated brass fixtures, are so sturdy not even Hephaestus‘s mighty hammer could batter them down.

“Let me show you the bedroom where Apollo and Zeus do the nasty”, Eros leads me down a long, long hallway until we reach a room whose door he pushes ajar. I hesitate.

“Go right in, no one’s home. I’m right behind you” whispers Eros, nudging me through the entrance. We stand amid silken tapestry and drapes of purest white, purple, and gray that grace tall windows and a ginormous bed against the far end of the room. Rose-scented candles in sconces and on small tables lend a soft, gentle light to the entire room. Eros guides me into a closet large enough to fit a banquet table and all its guests. “You can hide here, in their wardrobe,” speaks Eros. “That, plus your Cloak to shield you, will make you completely secure from their finding you.”

I am about to ask some pertinent questions–such as how long do they partake in their love making (knowing that a single minute to a god is a century to a human, and that I could easily starve to death, or grow old and die in this closet, long before they’re even done with foreplay…thus you can understand my concern)–when Eros suddenly jumps back, says “I hear them coming”…then quick as a flash disappears.

I am left standing amid all the masculine trappings of war gods: the musky scent of leather and rough cloth soaked in godly sweat nearly puts me into a heavenly swoon! But I stand determined to witness what no mortal eyes have ever witnessed before: Zeus boinking the daylights out of Apollo! (Or is Zeus a bottom? Or are they more egalitarian in bed, than elsewhere? Do they like to french kiss? How much foreplay? Or are they rough and ready from the get-go? These juicy details, and much more, I am soon to find out!)

I hear voices and the door creak open, then shut. The Cloak of Invisibility is fully flung over my frame as I stand, shaking, knees wobbling in anticipation of my daring plunder into the most personal aspect of the lives of gods! A deep voice booms: “I don’t remember leaving the door open, do you? Is anyone here?” I stand, frozen, barely breathing. “Check the closet.” Arms push around the voluminous robes sliding on their hangers, but fortunately pass right by the spot on which I stand. I cannot see who it is. (Apollo or Zeus?) Not that I can’t see through my Cloak (of course I can), but the clothes shielding me that cover the Cloak block my view! Drat! I need to move a little forward…well, let’s wait till they calm down and get to bed.

“Uh, hey stud…lock that door will ya. I think we should, uh, mess around for a time. Don’t you?” I hear them disrobe: the gentle “shush” of togas falling, and the rattle of buckles. Again, one (I can’t see who) approaches the closet and plunks a heavy sword against the wall…it slides and crashes right onto my foot! Ouch! I better hold my breathe! Ouch! Damn friggin’ sword…must weigh as much as a horse…my foot is throbbing, god, this ain’t so much fun any more! Egads! Ouch, ouch ouch!

I can’t help myself; a moan wells up from my throat.

“Wait! Did you hear that?”

“What? Who could hear anything after that sword crash? Deafening! No, I didn’t hear a thing.”

“Well, I heard something, and it came from that closet!”

“And just what do you think you heard, little missy? Sure it’s not your bat ears ringing?”

(Little missy? One’s a fem? I can’t believe this! Wait’ll I get my book published! Uh-oh, he’s coming back to the closet!)

“Huh, maybe it was just an echo.” Arms swoosh through the clothing once more, and I stand frozen in fear. “Wait, what’s this?”

“What’s what? Lemme see what you’re talking about.”

I still can’t see either one of the gods, though their very breaths warm the cloak under which I tremble.

“Okay, whoever you are, come out of there now…we see you!”

(They do? I don’t believe them, they’re calling my bluff. After all, no one’s grabbing at me.)

“We can see your feet, fool! Look!”

(I look down and lo and behold! The Cloak of Invisibility hangs its hem just inches above my toes. I am not completely covered! I sigh, and drop the Cloak, and all pretense…and step out from behind the
wardrobe, to see…not gods, but goddesses! A pair of uber-dykes! What the hell is this all about?)

“Who are you?” demands the busty platinum-blonde, now hastily robed in a bedsheet.

(Ezekiel, madame…Ezekiel Joseph Krahlin.)

“Madame? You call the great goddess of the sacred hunt, Artemis, ‘madame’? Just where do you come from, little Ezekiel?” speaks the other, a voluptuous nymph of seaweed hair and piercing yellow-green eyes.

(Ummm…San Francisco, planet earth…that is, in my waking life. At present, I presume I’m in one of my vision dreams.)

“One of your vision dreams? Ha!” mocks Artemis, “Tell us who put you up to this or I’ll flay your skin and feed it to the Harpies!”

I’m not about to reveal my source…not when I’d have the wrath of yet another god upon my soul. So I just stand there, trembling, but lips firmly shut.

“Eros, eh? I should have known! That little imp is always messing up Mt. Olympus whenever he gets the chance!”

Too bad, they can read my mind. (He told me this is the bedroom of Zeus and Apollo.) I plead.

“That’s your excuse, mangy mortal?” hollers Artemis. “You were going to spy on gods? This amounts to hubris of the highest order. I hope you realize the consequences of your heinous act!”

(Ummm…being chained to a boulder and having an eagle pluck out my liver for all eternity?) I venture an educated guess.

Taken aback, Artemis first glances at the nymph, then at me, than again at her partner…and they both burst out in laughter. “Come here, Ezekiel”, Artemis gently takes my arm, and leads me to a chair where she urges me to sit.

“No harm shall come to you, mischievous mortal. It is Eros who should take the blame. I have a plan for vengeance, but it will take me some minutes to work it out. Please enjoy Sylvia’s company in the meantime…I’ll be back shortly.” And with a wide grin on her beatific face, Artemis departs.

Sylvia and I have a heartfelt conversation about the homeless lesser gods in Olympus, and what can possibly be done about it, if anything.

Finally, after the passage of a little time, Artemis returns. “Boy have I got a treat for you, Ezekiel!” And she tugs my arm in a wish to escort me to parts yet unknown.

Artemis, Sylvia, and I (carried in Sylvia’s strong arms, due to my injured foot) proceed down enormous corridors, to yet another heavy wooden door, through which we enter. There, tied by his four limbs to the posts of a water bed, kneels Eros on all fours, his nether end most prominent. Sylvia sets me on the floor, where I stand, staring in disbelief: I do drool. “He’s all yours for the next twenty minutes, Ezekiel. I’m sure you’ll know what to do!” says Artemis, and they depart.

I do indeed…for twenty of the most beautiful minutes of my life, in sheer Tantric bliss! And this experience has shown me why, when spelled backwards, Eros means “sore”! So this ends the story of my winning the Cloak of Invisibility, how I first used it, and how I lost it in the heat of the moment before I ever got to use it more than once.

ADDENDUM: Were those succulent twenty minutes, the minutes of a god, or of a mortal? I leave you to ponder, and eat your heart out.

A Groveling Knave Beyond The Grave

The Exalted Land Of Andor

July is the best time of year to visit the Lilliputian nation of Andor, for they celebrate their Independence Day (July 1) all month long. The Andorians, descendants of the Basque people, were separated due to a disagreement over whether or not to allow AIDS carriers into their territory. The Basques (located in the Pyrenees Mountains between France and Spain) aggravated this dilemma by attempting to push all suspected homosexuals and/or lesbians into the Bay of Biscay.

The entire Andorian populace, totalling just and/or only 144,000 males and/or females, rose to the occasion in defense of brotherly and/or sisterly love, and beat off and/or creamed the attacking majority of breeders and/or homophobes. Radio Free Andor claims that the potential and/or conceivable casualties and/or victims of both sides withdrew before any blood and/or other vital fluids could be lost;

thus and/or therefore (and/or hence) making their sudden secession and/or revolution the first peaceful one in Iberian and/or world history. Non-Andorian and/or non-Basque tourists who served as unbiased and/or non-partisan witnesses, claim that the Andorians and/or “Gay Basque Houses” won because of a clever and/or Trojan-like strategy to stockpile surplus artillery and/or munitions in their bulging basquettes and/or chests.

The Andorian cottage and/or village industry is renowned for its beautiful basquettes and/or chests (traditionally worked with one of the artisan’s left and/or right hands in his and/or her lap and/or that of the apprentice). Some historians and/or ZekeKrahlinologists claim that this tradition and/or practice originated from the Lap-landers, who kept falling into Andorian basquettes and/or chests on their migration and/or march north, where they could settle and/or eke a living…without being persecuted for their love of reindeer and/or packed snow and/or sperm oil. (Another reason and/or explanation why they were travelling north in the first Place and/or originally, was because, at one time and/or another, the European continent and/or land mass tilted and/or sloped from south to north and/or southeast to northwest and/or south-southeast to north-northwest, while the Lap-landers were mounting their sleighs and/or reindeer.)

Since the origin of the Basques remains shrouded and/or hidden in prehistory and/or before they knew how to write, likewise and/or also must the roots and/or seed of Andor remain buried in a misty and/or questionable gap in the annals and/or bowels of antiquity. A curious note and/or point of fact in the Andorian Royal and/or Court Archives, is that Andor never claimed to be ruled and/or governed by a Queen…though one would tend to raise an eyebrow and/or two when considering and/or viewing the Royal Wardrobe: a wide and/or copious variety of expensive furs and/or stoles (said rationale and/or excuse being: “For the cold, mountainous air of winter, and/or going to the opera.”).

The territory and/or span of Andor is a mere and/or meager sixty-nine square meters of virgin and/or undefiled parquet floors (hence the many signs and/or notices: “Slippery and/or slick when wet”)…equal and/or equivalent to 2,716.53 square feet and/or roughly one-half of a square mile. All Andor-ogenous zones and/or territorial boundaries are demarcated by straight lines and/or lines of straights (from which the national pastime and/or recreation, “Slap-and/or-Pinch-the-Butt-of-a-Border-Guard-and/or-Sentry,” arose).

Fortunately and/or thank God Andor’s population and/or citizenry (alias and/or A.K.A. “Andor-oids”) numbers and/or is about 144,000…and housing for each one and/or every Andorian was easily accommodated and/or provided by the erection of one grand and/or luxurious condominium complex and/or hotel…with 53 restaurants and/or cafes, 192 bars and/or lounges, 18,422 vibrating Greek statues and/or sculptures and/or busts,

271 dog-grooming emporiums, 422 barber shops and/or hair-styling salons, 6,001 paraphernalia and/or sex-toy shops, 310 different flavors of Perrier, and 1 live white unicorn and/or little silver pony with a horn (free to roam the premises and/or grounds, often seen and/or merrily splashing and/or cavorting in the numerous marble fountains and/or spas overflowing with Aqua Vita and/or divine semen)…

to mention only a few and/or several of the many wonders and/or miracles that daily and/or every twenty-four hours bless this great and/or incredible city-state of Andor. This leaves the rest of the land open and/or available for disco dancing and/or hopscotch (for which reason and/or purpose the floor tiles are laid with alternating and/or staggered shades of hot pink and/or fuchsia and Jet-set black and/or ebony).

Andor’s national flag was inspired and/or stolen from the flag of America and/or the U.S.A. and/or U.S. of A., in that it, too and/or also, has thirteen and/or 7-plus-6 alternating red and white stripes and/or bars, with a large, dark and/or navy blue patch in the upper right (and/or left, depending onwhich way you view it) corner. Only instead of 50 stars and/or pentagrams, Andor’s flag proudly and/or snobbishly displays 50 white and/or Pink Princess phones…the exact number and/or amount of telephones required for each Andorian residence, per their Declaration and/or Manifesto of Independence and/or Liberty and/or Freedom and/or Fun.

But and/or however, on one side of the bottommost and/or lowest stripe, are these inspiring and/or rousing words:

DIAL NOW AND/OR LATER GUYS ARE WAITING

On the other side are the equivalent and/or similar words for dykes:

DIAL NOW AND/OR LATER GALS ARE WAITING

We hope, on your way and/or trip from one great and/or famous European and/or world capitol to another, that you do find and/or discover the time and/or inclination to visit and/or reside in the first new nation and/or state to be born of the New and/or Aquarian Age: Andor and/or NUGREECE. Visa and/or Mastercard are welcome; as are the currencies of Spain, France, and/or Monopoly. Andor’s own currency depicts and/or shows a circle of unicorns dancing around the motto and/or slogan: “E. Pluribus UnICORNum,” and a portrait of the first horse to land on the moon: “Captain Randy Seabiscuit and/or Soupcracker.”

Statuettes and/or miniature dolls of Captain Randy seabiscuit and/or Soupcracker are available in any of Andor’s 78 souvenir and/or gift shops…with and/or without accessories and/or appurtenances such as: golden bridle and/or harness, four-legged equestrian and/or horsy spacesuit, bail of hay and/or bag of oats, groats, and/or love notes, space capsule “Mr. Ed I”, and his sidekick “Little Pony and/or Buddy” with and/or without plastic raincoat and/or moonglasses. Engraved and/or etched with neon pink and/or lime green and/or metallic and/or bright silver, Andorian and/or NuGreek currency is not only a delight and/or pleasure to spend, but makes great decorations and/or ornamentation for wedding cakes and/or honeymoon-suite wallpaper and/or bow ties.

—–the end and/or finis and/or th-th-that’s all folks!

The Future Belongs To MOI

You hold in your hand a small, flat packet: a belated birthday gift you received in the mail just moments ago. Your friend said it was a small painting by that f*ggot artist so popular these days. You hope not. You’re sick of seeing his insipid face on the cover of Time (the last three issues, for God’s sake!)…and, all in the short span of one week, on TV pap like “Okra Winfree,” “I Love Lucifer,” “Glove Connection,”"Married With Mutants,” “FBI: The Unsold Stories,” and “Masturbate Theater“. Enough is enough, already! “Actually, the pervert’s a f*ckin’ genius,” you admit to yourself. “Anyone who owns a piece of his art becomes an instant celebrity–and rich!” (Not by selling the painting, but by charging admission to view it.)

Musing over the packet’s contents, you sit at your desk and turn it in your hands with delicious anticipation. Pondering, you get swept up in a whirlwind of reveries…and land somewhere in the future, on a barren strip of land that goes nowhere in every direction. When you look down, grass grows under your feet, and all about. When you look around, people pop up like mushrooms. You find yourself part of a small crowd of fourteen, and know who you are, and know this is the month of Horus in the year 2335.

You rub your eyes and say to the woman beside you: “What a strange daydream I just had. Can you imagine: men with no hair on their heads?”

The stately dame smiles at you and replies, “There are stranger things in sky and ground than bald-headed men…though not by much,” she adds, scratching her own shiny pate in bemusement. Jewel-encrusted tattoos on her skull make her look twenty years younger.

A late arrival appears, looks around, and brushes lint from his toga top. “My deity, the traffic was awful!”

“Am I late?” his voice booms in the peaceful ambiance.

The dame narrows her eyes and snaps at him: “My astute young fellow. Obviously you are on time, or we wouldn’t all be standing here like turkeybots in a Formularium. ” She withdraws a Cylinder of Deimos from her sleeve and, with it, taps him on the shoulder. “Besides, I can hardly bear…”

A sharp, electric “crack” breaks the conversation, then all is silent for a few, expectant moments. A powerful resonance grows from the ground to your ears, as the image of a building takes form, hovering only inches from the ground. Its looming presence dwarfs the small crowd. It appears massive and ornate, like a nineteenth-century museum, and slowly turns (as if you are walking around it, only you stand still). Once the main gate faces the visitors, it halts. Grand marble steps lead to the gate, and are bordered by two Doric columns. Around each pillar writhes a silver android python. They flicker their sinewy, orange tongues within a hair’s breadth of the tour guide who stands atop the steps.

“Ahem! Do not feed the snakes,” he reprimands a child caught feeding bionic mice to a python. Embarrassed, the offending lad quickly backs away from the leviathan reptile that recoils in dismay.

“Let the tour begin,” the guide continues. He waves his hand with a flourish toward the stone lettering above the gate: IN MY MUSEUM THERE ARE MANY MANSIONS.

“Many mansions indeed,” remarks the guide. “As a matter of fact, we have yet to discover an end to the number of rooms. Some Krahlinologists hypothesize the number of rooms to be infinite; that this Great Talent discovered a way to continue His existence into other dimensions, where He is happily painting canvas after canvas to this very day.” He pauses. “But, like deity, this is just a romantic notion.”

“Each room is dedicated to a single painting,” continues the tour guide. “And as we discover new rooms, we discover new paintings. While The Artist has been dead now for over two hundred ninety years, we are still charmed by the presentation of His latest work, just as if He were alive today.”

“But when will He be undead?” interrupts a visitor (obviously a devotee by the anxious tone in her voice…by those subtle, but distinct, random scarifications of the body that must always remain exposed to the air and the light of truth…and by the twelve, Siamese-cloned androgynous consorts who perpetually tend to the cleanliness of her suppurating wounds).

The guide expounds, with a melancholy timbre to his words: “Nobody has ever viewed His Postmortem Contract, for it is piezosecured in the NuVatican’s Sacred Vault. So no one knows, not even the NuPope. ” He sighs. “Remember the vision of three NuSpanish children some seventy years ago, who claimed that the Holy NuVirgin revealed the year of The Great Artist’s Resurrection to be twenty-two seventy-two?”

“Yeah,” replies the questioner in discouragement (as several consorts wash her wounds in silent empathy), “I was only a hatchling then. It never happened.”

“That’s right,” the tour guide recalls. “And the resulting global riots almost toppled the world back over the edge to the Premetamorphic Era–the era which defined all of humanoid history prior to 2013–the era Our Great Artist strove so long and hard to pull us out of: to lead the world into our own, enlightened era.”

“The POSTmetamorphic Era,” comments the boy with the bionic mice. He is petting one.

“Er, yes,” replies the nervous guide as the two pythons eagerly lash their tongues at the boy, who stands less than two meters away. The decorative snakes are now completely unraveled from their marble pillars. They sprawl across the landing, heads hovered over the topmost step.

“But please, put your mouse away!” cautions our tour director as simulated beads of sweat roll down his high forehead.

The lad retreats down the stairway, and the pythons withdraw to resume their coiled embrace of the columns . But they glare at the scruffy-haired youngster: for protruding from each of his numerous pockets is a semi-automated rodent’s nose and whiskers.

The tourist guide straightens his musclelet in relief, and continues: “This incredible museum is just part of Our Great Artist’s wonderful legacy that has done so much good for the world–and continues to do more, as we evolve along with His art each time a new discovery occurs. Knowing the brilliant and clever man He was, we do not expect to uncover the last room, the last painting, anytime in the near future.”

An impatient teenager speaks up: “Okay, okay, cut the education scat. We all know this stuff from hatchery school. On with the tour!” Her four arms (one pair longer than the other, identifying her as a future biostronaut) are stubbornly folded across her chest.

The affronted guide widens his eyes: “Very well. But there’s no need to be rude.”

“Why not?” retorts the teenager, “You’re just a hologram.”

“True,” quips the guide, “but an interactive one.”

Our museum escort turns to face the gate, which rapidly vanishes into the ceiling like a reverse waterfall. The museum descends into the ground–marble steps, columns, and all–until its floor is submerged half a meter beneath the grass. It moves forward and swallows everyone up. Now, we all stand in the main lobby. The walls are built from large, mortared blocks of stone, in the fashion of medieval castles. The interior is dark and cool, lit by a single torch set in a sconce.

“The museum itself,” continues the guide, “was also created by The Great Artist. But He had to wait almost fifteen years before His dream castle would be converted from blueprint to edifice…which is how long it took NuTechnology to catch up to his dreams. This NuTechnology of Hologramacoustic Engineering, by the way, is another invention of The Great Artist.

“Can you imagine?” whispers an elderly gentleman beside you, “People living in buildings that don’t move? And they were solid, too!”

“Let us now enter the first vault.” the guide turns his back to us, as the museum moves forward and rotates, pulling us into a small, tiny chamber with just a small, tiny painting on one wall. The diminutive masterpiece seems to illuminate the entire cell in its own unassuming, but saintly, way. Several visitors gasp and swoon. The painting, entitled “Don’t Tread On MOI,” seems to speak:

I sing, I dance. I celebrate. Deity’s promise to man is fulfilled in me. Who am I to deserve such honors? I do not know. Deity says: “No man earns it. It is simply given. A gift.” I do not know. But I do know one thing: I am truly blessed! Isn’t that my message? That we are all truly blessed? I am here to wake everyone up! I am truly blessed to have the gift to show everyone else that they are also truly blessed! Blessed among the blessed, I am! You can never catch up to me! I won the golden apple! Here! Take a bite and see how wonderful it tastes! Sing with me! Dance with me! And don’t forget to give me a little credit where credit is due! Was I really such a bad guy after all? Didn’t I teach woman and man to think for themselves?

“For such a simple design, it sure is a talkative little piece,” you joke to yourself, as joy leaps in your heart like frolicking ponies. “He should have named it Yakety-Yak,” you think, and start chuckling, for you suddenly realize you are conversing and laughing along with the picture: you are joking with the snake! There is laughter all around you.

The tour guide wipes tears of joy from his eyes and composes himself. “Yes,” he remarks, “it is always a pleasure to renew this experience, as common as it is these days. And to have it, all we need do is take a moment to look at any of The Great Artist’s works, to which we have fingertip access anywhere in the world…for NuCivilization has long since manufactured billions of quality reproductions for anyone to own, for free! This is the Great Legacy of The Great Artist: through His paintings we gain the capacity of true joy: that is, oneness with the Deityhead.”

“Why, that’s like the snakes outside the museum!” exclaims an enthusiastic tourist. “And those stripes are like the ones I saw from an old holo-pic called ‘Noah’s Ark and the Slave Booty.’”

“Correct in both cases,” the guide affirms. “The colors in those stripes were once referred to as a ‘rainbow,’ after a once-common meteorological phenomenon that occurred worldwide, until The Great Artist copyrighted it and took it with Him to his piezo-mausoleum. With His death, the rainbow colors died also, until, by this time, few people even know what they are. The Artist wanted to mark the great loss to the world of His own existence, by taking with Him what He (and apparently many others, at that time) considered to be the most aesthetic symbol of the soul of art.”

The tour guide then took this visitor aside and sternly whispered, “The holo-pic you mentioned is censored. Don’t EVER bring it up again. Ever.”

The guide smiled and turned back to the crowd: “The Great Artist painted ‘MOI’ before He was self-realized. The incredible message to be carried through His Hand had begun, though The Artist Himself did not know. He decided to copyright this painting, for He knew it was clever enough for another artist to steal. When His nation’s government returned the ‘proof of deposit’ certificate for ‘MOI,’ the number assigned to it was 187-666.

The Great Author chuckled over the number, for the last three digits, in PaleoChristian mythology, signify the devil, often represented as a snake (the classic example being the serpent in the Garden of Eden). The Author thought, ‘There is no way to predict what number they’ll assign to any work. And this is the only design I have done that incorporates a snake. The odds against 666 must be astronomical to the Nth degree!’ Little did The Great Artist realize at that time, the profound machinations the cosmos had begun working, through Him, and through this painting.

“The Artist created several versions of ‘MOI.’ This version He duplicated by hand, many times over, and peddled them on the streets. It is made of a combination of cloth, vinyl, and paint; pieces made separate, then appliqued in layers. Through ‘MOI,’ He invented the 3-D patch, a truly remarkable innovation for His time…but something so common today, we don’t even think about it, like hydroponic cows.”

“He also painted several ‘flat’ versions suitable for picture-reproduction in the form of two-dimensional patches, stickers and buttons. The back of this particular 3-D patch is coated with a special glue that allows you to stick the patch on the back of your coat, or to any other reasonably flat surface. It could be re-attached over a hundred times before requiring fresh glue! The glue would not leave any residue on the surface receiving the patch…and some adhesive still remains on the patch to this very day!”

“What’s so amazing about that?” challenges the teenager with four arms (now waving them about like a windmill). “We have glue now, that’ll attach your own head right back onto your neck, and instantly restore all severed nerve, blood vessel, muscle, cartilage, and tendon connections.”

The guard narrows his eyes at her and says, “Shall we try it on you?”

“I never saw this picture before,” you intervene. “I thought you said all His known works were copied en masse throughout the world. Is this a newly discovered piece?”

“No it isn’t,” says the guide. “It is actually His First Known Piece. Known to the people of His time, that is. Because of His Copyright On The Rainbow, this is the only known piece hidden from the world. This Museum is the only place you can view it. Apparently, this is your first visit to The Museum.”

“Of course,” you emphasize, “I know what is in The Great Artist’s heart–it only takes one picture to tell you that. So I could never dream of repainting it myself to have at home, and show my friends.”

“Nor could I,” agrees the guide.

“Nor could I,” chirps a chorus of voices from the crowd. “Nor could I.”

“Let’s move on,” the guide commands, and vault number one is suddenly plunged into darkness.

When you can see again, you are once more sitting at your desk, still turning the birthday package in your hand.

And…it is still unopen.