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Richard Bruns
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NC, USA
Nov 1999
time: 06:23
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Great story; I thought that the introduction in the first post was truly excellent. Laz, is it an HP Lovecraft parody on purpose? Does the Mythos count as a part of the fantasy you loathe?
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Lazarus and the Gimp
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Whale-raping abomination
Aug 2000
time: 05:23
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Part 8
A starkly-lit glass-fronted cell. Bookcases on the wall containing works by Proust, Baudelaire, Joyce and Basho. On another wall, a watercolour sea-scape in the style of Turner, freshly-painted. Strapped upright on some sort of ninja restraining table- the weapons-grade uber-psycho that is Ernst Stefu Blofeld, resplendant in prison overalls (but in a shade of cornflower blue that was simply "to die for") and a seriously heavy-duty "nutter muzzle"- a leather and steel mask covering his face from the eyes downwards.
Rah broke the ice first. "So. Ernst Stefu Blofeld. We meet again."
"Your capacity for starting the bleeding obvious remains truly staggering, Bulldog. Are you going to follow up that blinding insight by informing me that we appear to be in a cell together?"
Rah moved behind the muzzled nutter. "Well let's see how observant you can be now, smartarse. Go on- dazzle me."
Blofeld's eyes narrowed. Then he sniffed the air long and hard, like a Bloodhound. "You sometimes wear Old Spice aftershave, but not today. You are wearing a linen suit and Egyptian cotton shirt from Saville Row, and you have slept in these clothes for at least two days. Your shoes are hand-made Italian brogues, and you have just farted."
"OK. I'm impressed" said Bulldog. "What's with the muzzle? Been chasing cats again?"
Blofeld reached up and removed his mask. "I'm trying to stop biting my nails". He reached down and started unbuckling himself from the table. "I picked up this table from IKEA- it's from their "Pervö" range. It's much more comfortable than it looks. Would you like me to explain what's going on?"
"I can hardly wait. You know, it seems like I'm constantly having things partially explained to me lately."
"Really?" asked Blofeld.
"Yes. It's almost as if I'm trapped in some sort of story in which the author is attempting to cram too much plot into too little story, and is attempting to glue together some semblance of structure through, frankly, rather unbelievable dialogue."
"Fascinating."said Blofeld. "Well, let me continue that". He sat down in a surprisingly comfy chair and adopted a "Thoughtful narrator" pose. "It's all about action and reaction, Bulldog. When there is too much conservatism, or liberalism in the world there will be an inevitable backlash. What the Wombatters are attempting to do is increase the "see-saw" effect- they are sucking all the gayness and liberalism out of Apolytonia and concentrating it here. Then they plan to trigger the backlash against all the straight conservatism in the world outside and ride the tidal wave of gayliberalism back into power."
"So where do I come into it?"
Blofeld smiled a tight and coldly smug little grin. "In order to trigger the backlash, the Wombatters will be using the Gayliberal Codices to summon the ultimate incarnation of the Gay Grooviness. A creature of immense power, impeccable taste, and really tasty dance moves too. They will attempt to summon the Starchild. You are the sacrifice intended to appease it."
"This all sounds a bit frou-frou for a super-villain of your tastes, Blofeld. What exactly are you doing here?"
"Well spotted, Bulldog. Naturally, I intended to warp their plans so that my ARSE organisation can profit from the ensuing chaos. The Wombatters believe the thwarted my mission, but in fact it's already done". He paused to pour himself a neat little cup of espresso. "I've re-written the codices. Rather than the Starchild, the Wombatters will be summoning something rather unexpected."
He stood and paced over to the glass front of the cell, looking out. "For every action there is a backlash, Bulldog. For every paragon of joy and whimsy, there is a summation of dour finger-pointing. Remember that, because it's that you'll be hacked to bits for....."
**********************************
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Lazarus and the Gimp
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Whale-raping abomination
Aug 2000
time: 05:23
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Part 9
They came for him at noon the next day. He had spent the intervening time playing mournful music on his harmonica, until Blofeld had threatened to shove it up his arse. Now a host of elite Wombatters escorted him out of his cell and through the impeccably decorated ante-chambers (furnished with hideously uncomfortable yet murderously chic Phillipe Starck creations) into the colossal Great Temple of Ygnz-R'nasgf, The Wombat Transcendant. There, in front of the immense sculptures depicting scenes from "Spartacus" involving waaaaaaay too much in the way of scantily-kilted oiled musclemen, he was tied to the great black altar.
Slowly, the masses of the Transcendental Order of the Immortal Wombat filed into the great temple, chanting softly like the wind and waves on some strange and distant shore. In their cowled robes they stood in the haze of incense and chanted; a song half as old as time itself.
That song had been chanted before. Long before the Earth had cooled, it had rung through the galaxies as the old ones hung and froze in the pale glow of a distant supernova. How they had sung! Their gutteral crowing had swelled into a massed polyphony of a million great throats, and their song had crossed the heavens bringing a deep chill of a strange and terrible knowledge. At the most infinitesimal level, the skies still rang to the dying echoes of that first great song- felt only in the bones of those staring nemesis in the cold, cold eye.
Now the song rang out again. The Wombat cultists had no idea what it would bring but they knew it's power. As the song swelled and grew, a new counter-melody was introduced as the opening stanza of the Gayliberal Codices were chanted. It's shaping force was added to the great song, in the hoope that raw and elemental power could be shaped into an incarnation of true splendour- the Universal Starchild.
What the Wombatters could never have guessed is that Ernst Stefu Blofeld had done his infernal work well. A crucial middle eight was inverted, bringing a jarring and warped counter-melody into the great song.
The summoning power of the great song was undiminished. However some things should never be summoned. Deep in the heart of the Gayliberal Codices something monstrous lurked, and it's physical form was to be found imprisoned in a huge crystal deep in the rock below the Offe-Topyc. As the great song swelled, the crystal shattered like glass and something out of the universal nightmare ripped through the Earth's crust. The floor of the Great Temple swayed and buckled, while cultists were pitched screaming into freshly-opened seething pits of lava.
An immense clawed hand punched up through the floor. A second followed. Tentacles shot out of the opening pit, mauling and violating the cultists. Two huge and muscular shoulders bunched and strained, overshadowed by the vast and tattered black wings. Finally the great scarred and horned head lifted out of the pit and howled at the crumbling ceilings above.
"Oh ****!" commented a cultist. "It's Mr. Fun!"
******************************************
Final episode to appear on Halloween.
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Lazarus and the Gimp
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Whale-raping abomination
Aug 2000
time: 05:23
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One day early......
Part 10
It had been ten years earlier that Rah's brother, codenamed "Ming" ("Bob" to his friends) had brought back that strange amulet. Whilst he'd fought the Black Dragon Tong, he had swiped the twisted piece of black glass from their secret altar. The Tong had claimed that the amulet contained the concentrated essence of chaos, but to Ming it had simply been a makeshift (and typically late) birthday present for his brother. At the time Rah had been pissed off that it hadn't been the set of golf clubs he'd asked for, but he'd worn it anyway. Sometimes he'd played with it at night, wondering what would happen if he broke it open and released the smokey vapours just visible inside.
Now, as the colossal cthonic monster loomed over him, his hand found the amulet once more. There was a brief battle of conscience, depicted by the comic little angel and devil sat on opposing shoulders. However within seconds the little devil had the angel firmly by the balls and was beating it's head repeatedly against the wall. Bulldog attempted to come up with a suitably pithy and enigmatic set of last words, but was forced to settle for "Oh sod it. Come and have some then, you slag!". Then snapped open the amulet.
The faint wisp of smokey vapours sank down to the floor and disappeared between the crack in the stone. The dreadful chanting started to falter, and the distracted Mr Fun glanced around. Then a distant vibration started from far underground.
Mr Fun had come from the far deep, but some things are hidden far deeper. Some things are just too terrible to see the light of day, but they can still be brought forth. The vibration became a drumming, and the drumming became an avalanche of noise as the sound of millions upon millions of running footsteps surged upwards. Then the voices began...
"Hä Hä, we äre cömiiiiing to get yöu siiiiiiiilly peöple! We cömiiiiiiiiiiing!!!"
.....and the floor shattered and exploded upwards as the invaders swarmed out.
A blur of motion flashed by. It was Blofeld and he was running like a cat pursued by a rabid Rottweiler sporting a strap-on. "You bastard, Bulldog!" he yelled.
"What did I do?" asked Rah.
"The Finns! The Finns are coming!"
Then Rah's vision was cut off by the millions of rally drivers, lantern-jawed central defenders with stupid hair, and Linux geeks in crap shirts that were pouring through the great chasm. They swarmed all over Mr Fun who roared and flailed impotently before getting severely trampled underfoot and disappearing from sight. The Wombatters ran like hell in the face of a marauding horde of Laplanders wielding large axes. Rah was torn from the altar and found himself face-to-face with the manically grinning spiritual godking and messiah of the Finnish people.....
"is gööd, yes? is öffe-töpyc öttök höme? ok?"
......then, in accordance with yet another rule of bad fiction knocked out by the overworked for the benefit of the undermanding, the walls closed in and Rah blacked out. Like a girl.
************************************
The sky above was clear and bright. In fact, it was the sort of view not normally associated with the area around the Offe-Topyc. Rah pondered this view, then ran his post-regaining consciousness personal audit.
PHYSICAL
1- Absence of any immediate life-threatening situations (attack by bears, etc...)?- Check.
2- All relevant limbs and organs still in place?- Check.
3- Am I sharing a bed with anything particularly embarrassing that I may have to sneak away from to avoid having to make conversation with?- Nope.
MENTAL
1- Major neurological functions in place?- Check.
2- Absence of strange alien brain-leeches controlling my every thought?- Check.
3- Sensation of brief mortality and impending doom?- Check.
4- Mild and inexplicable fetish concerning cowboys in lederhosen?- Check.
Then he sat upright. The Offe-Topyc was still there, but it somehow looked less elementally weird than before. Agent Devilmunchkin was sat nearby, eating a pie.
"Ah. Welcome back, Rip Van Winkle"
Bulldog Rah stared around him in panic. "The Finns! What have I done!?"
"Yes, that was a bit weird. That ottok character popped out about half an hour ago. As far as I can make out, he was saying that they've decided to put their inevitable global domination and universal empire of evil on hold temporarily, because they've discovered the Offe-Topyc and none of them want to leave it. They've spent the rest of the day having some massive argument that would be meaningless to anyone without a Finnish translator and a gynaecology textbook."
Rah thought hard for a suitably heroic course of action. Then he gave up. "Fancy a pint?" he asked.
"Thought you'd never ask."
************************************
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Markos Gianonandonandonandonandon- abandoned his secret plans of Offe-Topyc domination and instead attempted to corner the world market in novelty steins. He married a Cypriot model and built a huge message (visible from outer space) that read "The Elgin Marbles are a load of old crap anyway".
Dr Strangelove- invented a revolutionary new cure for insomnia involving the ingestion of vast quantities of industrial wastes from the petrochimical industries and moved to Florida to spend more time with his money.
Old Scrotum- is believed to be just hanging around.
The 14th Earl of DinoDoc's gout became so severe that his foot swelled to mountainous proportions and caused climatic changes in Apolytonian weather. He now arranges skiing holidays on his own instep.
Buffy Siddiqui- entered himself for the Turner Prize and won. He will soon be launching a new range of wallpapers featuring his own bodily emissions.
Agent Devilmunchkin- made a rudimentary time machine and was last seen heading off to a grassy knoll in Dallas bearing a rocket-launcher and a determined expression.
Boris the Gatekeeper- made a huge collection of life-sized effigies of street beggars out of wax, putty and coat-hangers and placed one on every street corner in western Europe. He is now attempting to bring them to life in order to create an army to fight the middle classes.
Mr Fun- went back into the Stygian depths and took up pottery. He later published his memoirs in a limited edition bound in genuine byakhee-skin.
Ernst Stefu Blofeld- became too evil to be a criminal mastermind, and was forced to become a bus driver instead.
"Bulldog" Rah- is currently caught in a nasty sand-trap on the 17th at Gleneagles.
"The Gimp"- is knackered and storied out, and is going to take another extended break. Happy Halloween, my bunnies.
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28-10-2002 23:23
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