TECHNICIANS OF SNALL UP ON {END} "You're just a brainless tick reaming deeper into hell, if I may put it that way." "Am not.  & may I point out how very very mean that was?  & may I point out that if you slice up your children enough you will wake up fucking your sister?" "Ouch!  You have a mean streak, my man.  & after I was so nice to you.  As to me fucking my sister‑‑a metaphor, I presume‑‑Everybody knows that, cocksucker! Hell, you woke up with her sweating all over your thin inebriated skin." "Do not.  Did not.  & even if I did the satisfaction of slicing those children up into nonexistence makes it, would make it, a smashing good fuck." "There you go.  So you admit that your sister is a jolly good fuck indeed." "Yes, inasmuch as you've never fucked her." "What?"  You should have seen my hairs standing up on {END}.  "Have too!" "Have not. Have ab so lute ly not.  Because you never finished slicing up your kids.  You left pins of your kiddles all around." "My head is smashing back.  There's no head left in .BAK.  I have no files initialed HEAD.  Where's the {HEAD}?  I can't seem to ascribe very much." "It's just us talking, bub.  And me, hosing you down with the icky ichor of a Thousand Slaughtered Infants, blood." "You calling me an abortionist or murderer or what?" "I'm telling you you're my brother, bud, and I'm gonna purify you if I has to kill someone." Yet I seemed to remember fucking her, as my brother fades from the dream in the manne of an iris outing outs intensity of light of the Dradefed Light. UXLESSLY Murdering a Vief was like fracturing an Imnoart simmiasch, which was essentially all the intelligence of the universe trapped into a Christmas ornament.  If they ever existed (and some sing their "areggiors of mind" were simply rained down from the pod or the hand of one or another of the many reigning Gods (still staying at the Megiagonnidys, or ManyReigningGods Hotel having never paid their bills, thank you all very much)), the Imnoarts inbricated billions of these little balls.  You could hold one on your palm (and it would make only minor efforts to roll off‑‑it was passive, yes, but with these little minor efforts, maybe just to let you know something which of course you never know, maybe trying to get away violently, but as with the cries reduced to moanings of a dream this rocking rocking was was all you all you got, sorry 'bout the rot of the syntax there and there) or chuck it up in the air (causing what sorts of unknown exhilarations in their tiny bellies‑‑as teased out and pal pate ead by our owne mikro-fcientiftf as those vast * intelligents fough?) rhetorical feaugh! gesundheit.  But when you dropped it, the balls broke, the insides disappeared* (*by which one means they erased their paths in time, sucking up ev er ry bubble there, so you had a uh dumb hollow ball there that that that neverever as-was) and you had the shards of a shiny Christmas-tree ball, refraxing bax youx owx fax uxlexxly. Anyway, Viefs were like that.  This is gonna be a tough face, my dumb blue case decided... I would spaff the circuits of their souls, as I liked to call them, as they talked to me, always so muscular with their intentions and their sense of their own heft.  My arm would disappear up to the shoulder as I reached wholly in to the pface of my "deep-stretched canvas," if you will, sometimes to the disconcerting let me tell you point of like losing my face.  I'd pull back my head, naked but for the skulloid grin across its gleanming shimn, and they'd start back, knowing but not able to believe what I was up to, and I'd shakje of the spafflinx all over my face until my phaire phace returned (more or leff), and they'd go on with their big spiels or deal or offers of whatever, and then I'd rotate the space of the great big egg of a spaff caxaff on my lpf and show it to them... Their own circuits thus revealed thus, they would of curse stop.  I mean, staring, deadpan, they would have to stop.  For a moment.  Then, even when they slowly, like a sloughcat, close and then open their eyes as they eyes as they recommenced speaking, it was all different. The will or verve or the steam of the piping of the doggamn'd verve was utterly gone, and they spoke in the naked manner of their own uh soul-circuits, thus so savagely revealed.  In defese of the actions of this Other known as myself, I say only that I was consummately and exponentially compelled.  I was the sole one in existence who could do it, and I could not try to help myself... I dolphin-employed-password-scissorsknit used this liquid bowie knife, or a silver branching sort of neuronic thing which seems‑‑seems, I say‑‑to lash out every way, only they're all under my perfect control, see.  That's why my paintings * so made I'm "wanted" in a thousand galaxies, and we pause here to inhale some deep greem whiffs, dreep geem whiphs, here, and reconnoiter the skoo'd perslexive of our sanity, or fantasy, as the lace may bree or the race meigh bray or the space may naym to point out the Headily Metaphoric Nature or Megaphronic Nature of the phrase or phrases I'm wanted in 1000 galaxies, for I am  merely a crystalline eye, or Eye, if you will, the great Aye noxus or fexle of a billion ensmebbéd minds (think of them as little eyes, then think of them even smaller as a nexus of little lies, and then in a magnitude stil smaller sweep them up like little lives, then enter their micrcosm of motes, then the small spottles of darkgrey, diseaséd tissue within this little mopes, then the moping child grimacing out the rainschvept winnow in his dream within each chasm of that more, then the the infinitesimal close parentheses inksier than a mineon then), and the number is so far beyond a thousand that it beggars, which is naught to say buggers, all our science, and they aren't galaxies‑‑least snot sfar as we no...but just the translator translotred it thataway, so there you metaphoric-a-go. Anyway, I'm hired to go here and there and lavish, as I put it, lightpoints on configurations of souls‑‑those what can suspense it, anyway, being only those hyperrich of some unknown specie (who know‑‑from come out of a "galaxy"? hough?)‑‑after which I like to think they are mine, though I am, it would seem, constitutionally incapable or fonfifoostamply emflapyabble of acting on my power.  It's my curse, along with the power, that I dinna kin act on my power. THE SPIDER GAUNT ON YOUR FACE My brittle little prey had bought himself in to a seemingly savage hideaway.  I was at a preposterous disadvantage here, and even fondling the Gigerian contours of my polyplatinum, baroque-rococco infinitfeed© GG991 megamagnum optimum pump-action photon-stoked hermaphroditic smoothbore pompom matchblock chassepot cannonade breechloader atomic tachyon cannon fucking gannon, gave me little confidence, even though I cam many many times. This kreed was like an endless, bristling jungle, full of bulbous insects and sultry animals that moved quick as a jekk-drop onto your head.  They always seemed to flue, I mean flye, right onto your head.  Or jump or drop or whaughtnaught.  It worked handsomely, causing me to squeal the Universal Squirk of the Spider Gaunt on your Face.  My weapon became a curse, hanging round my neck with a good three or four nooses jerked round my poor blue caustic ostrich craw.  And round and round.  I kept goddamn dropping the damned thing, as one or another beastly little mass of icky tissue or issy tickue'd slop onto my face or pate or mazzard or caw or spull©, at which I'd have'd to'd crimp down on my hands, knees, and Other Things I Have that I cannot think to tell you just just yet, and ferret out my gub from the gobbets of mucoidal crap they crap I say they had here for a florist fuor.  Damn. NO MARS As far as Maaeeaa was concerned, she window-shopping in blithe and mirrory content down the ultra-sleek table of content of the gridded and polyplannéd "soundloofed" very big at the time megamarts and plasticene effluorescent displays of her homeworld, scooping up one wondrous jeweled beacon of an item after another j.b.o.a.i. and popping them as an axuro-clam gobbles up its owne misbegloppem jules into her dimensional (and surprisngly vuor-like) uorlipe sac which reminded me in its almost parlytic beauty of the plegiac spidersac of the azure seipioschpidero of Nars‑‑not to be miƒtoken for Mars, there being No Mars a process going on and with endless enxstaxy, and she was in let me add this the company of her friends, some very supple dames in deed, one in specipular‑‑young Neeaaii, her marriages as fresh as the limpid dozings of the dew, who all but reeled my spaxtique little axx off the choxen coarxe, I muxt xay‑‑so the energy of my disguise kept me sweating, kept itself hot and virescently durk in there, kept me clawing the concave concavities of the walls of the wailing spectaculars of my little costume there, making me (had there been but time) at least subjunctively regret regret regret re gret my little plan. Meamspime, I was stalking her through these jungles of some very fat, very lewldy-colord puggles of old fruit‑‑old-dowager fruits, they were, complete with respikes and croaty-voixes and lipschmick© and smurky glasseses‑‑and boy, did they "slow down my stalking," if you will.  Did they ever "besmutch-the-clander-of-my-tracking"s, if you woll.  Did they ever prolong the access of inititative in my self-prolonged and murderous artistic search, I'll tell you.  I rasted my felonious ass in my big pickle, I'll say you to that!  But I ket it at.  I ploaped‑‑which is a high-class manner of zitzing‑‑at the ultrafaxhion xhow‑‑itching up a great dry salty sweat inside seat inside my obsessive-manic imnosaabnnesiecssive mind if you can call what art hath left "a 'mind'" with my newfound infat u-newfound fatua nufoundling fatuation found with this glorious womanly Vief, this beacon of fashion and lodefocillimo of joie, this epitume of vigor and fluorliescient of vivre, this most complexly light-intrinsicated woman sailing like nothing so much as the digital enhancement of that expansive, delicate ship through the airs of her inferiors, all of them agog not to say aglough or "aGOOX!" with her murkily measureless calbres or her sighingly breathless exhalantly euborous quality.  I could lose myself in her subtleties:  why nucleate the foci of another thousand astral Eyes on her, why wield the liquid lancet ever again, or, to put it the same way poured in the liquid of some different limpid words, why try again?  Why not just spend the rest of my life in this great opalescent Elvis disguise, following (stalking is such an ugly word (ugly is such an awkward word (awkward is such an ugly turd) and ugly is such a stalking verve) and and and stalking is such a following stalking word stalking following flowing swallowing word. Swallowing is such a lovely word.  It is never more lovely than when swallowed, as it were, in the throat, as we say, of the mind, if you will.  And that is where I swallow my darling now‑‑deep in the subsistent etheric craws of my loving throat. In this admittedly hysteric "HYSTERIC!" blaring headline of a mood, I ploaped suavely aboat and took in the fashion show.  I was doing the same thing as she (I swallow:  shee!), and this is what I always want to gbuelp. ÜBERBÖL Stonied by the photopheromones (and what was a Vief fashion show, after all, but an assault of pherosomoans?), I kept telling myself I would not dance on the table, and the thought‑‑rendered O! so powerful in this atmosphere of severe and agravitational doubt (which is the official, much-to-be-desired, and legally requisite milieu for your VFSsezezezes)‑‑gained instant access to that round little sphere of twitches yes that ROwouWOUND LITle SPHERE oy-oid of twitches I li-yike to call my Oovergloob or Überböl, and began aflippin' da switches... The svelte, elliptical models in their various opalescent nets and vibrioessient sheathes and fibrillious etheric al ical ethericalal icalsheens, walked with their Viefisch hiplins swaying in a truly knock-out knouight-aught walk‑‑if you can call a shimmerthat "walk," which you most omphaughtically can naught‑‑were kicking up a lot of sparks, only it was not sparks, but bright flakes of a dream you can NEVER wake up imbream adream emfum, only these were more those flapes of snow you felt brazing off your face as they shook the liquid jigger of your emplausible impathic umpathetic <world>, except they were not quite flakes...not flakes at all, really, or anything like them, but more the highlights of luminous velvet-jungle-of-the-painting mostmost possessiveive eyes reflected off this oillipe liquid they were kicking through.  It's true, the models aflaot on their platform higher than the stalks of your even aye zquan leech, kicked through some sort of imsimpagly exorbital liquid of some sort, a liquid, I might and as a fashion critic baptized in the wonts of his own whinnying winez must fundamentally add, which cast up leering highlights to the normally-illusory I mean morally-dionysory I mean orally-peepatory undersides of their dresses, such that we all (OK...I anyway felt wet wand wonder watt wozen worry whepped felt-folt anyway OK) felt or felt-folt or folden within the intrinsicate intents of our pressed-to-two-D tentions like nothing so much as schoolboughs waving their mirrored budlets under the smokes of the flaming dresses. A sexy show.  And and and quite the dresses they were, or so‑‑the materiel of the wepaons-dresses of this uh particular show beaming forth largely in pre/dom/i/nan/t wavelengths I have never even been given my notoriety deigned to by mentalathic mean means even shown‑‑I gather. I could only prope and horray that no one saw me...gathering... Anyway, dresses galore, each flaunting fucking young model brazening forth at least a hundred dresses in her own sweet young daisyfazed optical right©, as covered by the international treaty of the optical rights, written in bezels n facets such that No One Can Read (!), so if you warn't blode-a-weigh by the lasers of the uzis each of these babies packed (in triplicate!!!), you was, well, well blown away well well by the polymorphous earnestly named perterversity of the mangafashions they shoad. Plus some of 'em spit, or squat and pull their clothes up and take what they call a lightdump right on the stage.  We were sickened, but we held in the bulboos of our cheeques our vomit p'litely in, sickness and courtly retention of our upchuck being yet one (1) more of the amazing quantitious qualities of this this this deconstructive selfpreferential recursive didactic hegemonic pucking jargonixical "shough." Dresses, man.  You needed one of those doonqi's in your palm to calculate the maneating id-monstrosities of edge-slitting fashion that was fashion that was a stutterin inthere.  Some dyed, some dyed-in-the-spuriotex©, some the color of your own greedy lusty luxtrous seedy thoughts (thouse thoughts bearing seeds like, O I dunno, seeds likelike some out of control sort of prose squawking its tangentias off the interstias of its periphasias, or somenothing unlight notthis naughtthat, and the thoughts forming gabrous oleiaginous forests of most moolliforous trees, and trees without trunks and amber-crawling octopluxxy trees and trees exapdninr uodn you like the upshots and punchlines of many a hilarious and stroke-enduxing dreamdrame ofif thethu passpassedpast assedashed), some a simple tweed sort of patterning, emphasizing some of the oft-hidden beauty of the greys. Ah, the greys!  They're all dead now, or mad, or in hiding like the point of ta blittering passage of passAGE. Yea, I did some lopsy traipsing through the psychedelic pegtops and plus-fours, the transpicuous pearlulsters tripped by everflipping trompe d'oeil fantails, had my gaunt longish curtained cheekycheeks stroked by one or another other mousquetarie hands and/or muffy palms; I joined with the gelatinous creepers and the indelibly crimson broques gaitering along the möbius-infected I say möbius in FEK dead causeway transtrip airway spacepomp portofunnel there.  We swirled in our turquoise capuchin and patternhatched menevils there.  Everything in Vief fashion, need I say, tends to swirl into everything else, plus each model wore everytthing, including the other models, and I must admit now that the memory has been un CUV oer RED somebody slipped me a cruet or a galleon of Sömething, and when I say Zümxïng, I mean some of those spruce-gidded Viefisch drugs they don't let their husbands talk about, and I was by the time I'd stole the show and been like crunched out on my ass farther than ever from the project I'd started out starting so much, back in a lonely cramp little brakpatch of danky uh uh "time." Friends, I was tossed to eu phluoricke combers of that florid floor and ravished, right then and there.  WASHED-TUP ARTISTE MAKES COME-BACK ON FLOER, foreheadlines reb, and I don't think I foremind headbragging a dusty ol' bit that I was veritably attacked by those women there.  I mean, they forgot the show in favor of flaying the inventive filigrees of my infinite swashb!ckaling disguise.  AndmayIsay hey‑‑nothing hungrier, nothing more beskank'd than a troupe o-hoitytoity Viefucking dowagers "drench'd in the inebriatif Phuemes," as the 166th-century Vief poet Degmaurich Xexukol virtually doth write, in/di/ca/ting It Has Ever Been So (which that inimitable twin Xex twinxex also says!), and I was unmasqued, unmasqued again, yet once more unmasqued and revealed in all my rolypoly nakedness, my very giggles desenspirald, my multifarious gyres unswoon'd, and so on, on and on, into a very high-rental night, what with the extra fees involved in keeping the waiters' hips sashaying zoo-und-froeugh, what with the need for the keepings of the breezes, that your Vief at least think they need to breathe, to survive, and so... I'd say I'd effectively blo-wough! my coveur right then, except we were all on...let's see, what wasit‑‑it was zealafleume©, it was, the famous (yet if you unknown know if you get what I forgas what I unknowin mean if yet you no) "Vief forgesser drogue," in its queer ladyfinfer vials in demand yet unknown the Refyu Sector (pronounced schtänd xenxkinnöl) which I'll get into in a later/earlier discourse/enforse/main coarpse...anyway, zealafleume it was, la-da, so even had they gotten to the real alien puss below the polyvictorian eddyeduardian hinterwear (which they most umphaloxly did NAUGHT!), they'd've's've'll's't'd's've'vescuseme forgot. THE VAPORS OF A THEORY Strip away the metahaze, the polyscrawl, the transsurlinguate, what was commonly known as the mythmurque of ascriptions effervescient around our outsized heads the thought-balloons, I guess you could callem, the various auto-generated and authorial-quasard-formulae the psychological and metaphysical crawls the surfacing blipoids and mega-factuanalyzes the little artists' depressions and governmental adumbrations the logic-plots and glassy-graphs the quick lilliputian replays replays repleat with Ancient Commentary the rescue codes and med-monitors the eons-longue queues of messages some to oneself, some from oneself unto one's imaginary selves...of which we got plenty, let me believe you...some gone round the great globus of Refyu Himself, so the Lying Fuckers [jocular name for our thorty-odd torturing gods, known formally as The Thirty-Four (some say Five) Torturing Gods] say, some of unknown sense or essence or origin‑‑messages we are afraid to see (though they exist there, hurting the unwonted eyen with their ultraviolent glough), not to mention biblioglossia, scores, and scores of threats from the [bracketed bracketed] gods. In short, if I may now haste to vaporize, I mean recapitulate with the heads of the sentences of the sentences of my longpasseled thought thought thoughts running etherise across the floor of the hysteric knights, lifting their thoughts to let the head roll re ca PIT u late HEAD bi... ...were it not for this flowing floozy of an ozone of materia cumulizing our ayes‑‑you might not know I was, not hacking Quarl's body apart, but rather acting according to, how you say, "the vapors of a Theory."  This Theory occurred within the haze of a vapor, the vapor round the smiling trunks of the unborn fallenless trees of my my gravless thoughtforest, the vapor known as fever, the fever just one tiny morsel of the continent known as the fever of the murderer, or the fever of madness, on that hemisphere of the orb of mind occurring within the vision I was having, and the vision said: and you heard "If you keep on demorzzing her, you will start to get her flesh, and when you get her (dead) flesh, not only will the body be gone (!* [*You see, my poor fevered madbrain's thought of a feverthought halfassed after-infrathought inserted puerile little !s in the midst of its sentences‑‑just like (!) that!]), but all superordinations, too, will be gone...too.  I think (?* [*Yea well, of course he did that too]). THE HEAP OF THE BROKEN CHRONOZONES I had Gounque @ palliate me into the swaddling swoom of one of the pexxy profuxion zuv ethereddies yeetheryeddies aieoYEE! thaREDDIEZ that "pfphleum'd," if you will, from the back of Quarl's enoraguated coronttied "crown," which was you could tell where this swell'd heaved in his chromozones, just like or nattarlike the dream or {impinged ethereality} that had you lying with the joiques of your ex-leg-boans sticking right there in your face, on The Heap of the Broken Chronozones, you'll pardon my capitals.  My pale lackey assisted me goode, he didde.  He triturated me down to a singuole sentience, then to a phase, then to a fragment of Torture-God Number One's Flatuent Fluidiot Ideation of the Blesséd Morpheme (pardon all this religious gabblegauque© religious this all pardon), then to a veritable ghost, allbeit an allseeing ethereasing e threating gho o a gh'*(st!), and I prepared, not to follow him about, but to follow one of his feminine emanations (all of them mulch mere enteretching then hee!) imminascent to his periods of comatic reduction or sentience remission in pursuit of my owne great albate depraved Sentient Remission. Efector-Dieutesiant Farge came on like a great gazzed V or "V" or darting geese only these geese were hypertorpedoes, only he was doing it with all the aplomb of one of those maniacally-weightless time-bobbling Hirquentian Grapes (and I mean grrr‑APES!), only he was naked, bearing forth a great broadaxxean shwöngue, only he was also dapper and dreamly-well-to-thedew, with his phalanx of etherlike Lesser Farge (see lesserfarge in the dow-refunct Dictionary of Cop) reflarge and all of dem resplen-o-dent© in their Language of a Lesser Farge, complete with a metamorphic baker's dozen or so and of so of fablardgè gé éyéyéyés a-and with peacock's plumes filchered from those lovey-dovey whipped-crème-de-la-plum-AGE (accent on the final ahjh), and I must say with their own Imusseigh rather weightless henchfroth "bobbling" dönguses of Their Vary Owne (!) in dysrhythms to His Owne. and the waters‑‑or 1) more 2) accurately, 3) foam‑‑that serverth ush for air didde parte befoore Himme, and the people wrept backwards like as to that multicolored butter they spread all over your rectus abdomini back there on Torseugh, and the variegated, rather unbsubstantial yet eeyieeyiee-riely Hawwindisch madolayed white noise (if you cann call that voice (which you can, here in Refyu, by using your handy little dummy! (just flip his lil wooten lisps (and visions will come) and he'll talk) and all your bloody secrets, just like mine but less sullied or fujji'd, will be gnome) that serves us for all silence (kind of a religious thang out here, dontchyanö) also seg meantioned itself did I mented in dreams away, and‑‑as if all this hooplala werelalan't enhahahanough and he pulls out his badge, and asifa.t.h.w.e., he even says. "Efector-Dieutesiant Warranit da Farge, Medial Sector Police."  Then, doing one of those stage-swerves in which, if I can somehow describe this most rare and (here) exquisite thing, he sweeps forth a gesture at that assemblage of torpedoed, or goosied-up, men, without nor gesturing nor, really, truning to look at them (like he needs to look at 'em...knowwhatImean?), indicates them, and adds, überflentially, "And these are my men." I react with a nod of self-smotering ultrasubdual, if I do, now, now that, now that it's, now that it's too, now that it's too late, say so myself, and reply. "Pleased to meet you, Inspector.  And pray...what can I, a humble artist, do-euphore?" Well, here's where we all I'm afraid I am afraid I AM AFRAID!!! meet up with the detective's sarcastic side, for he spends a good long time making fin, I mean fen, I mean fun of my "pray" and "humble artist" phraseseses, which I personally thought and still almost think still think no more affected than, say, traveling with a flock of flunkeys goosing out behind your enfluoumeréd ass, if you getch what I meeng. But he was the cop, and I the breathless murderer, you grok, so I got to watch him hoot and whoop and slap his wet naked thigh and thigh and and mock in moste merry measure, thus: FANWHTMA "Have a cigarette, pal," said the cigarette-pal with this absolute zizzy-smile across her lipsmick't face. Farge makes those bobbing gestures you make when you trying to get someone to take something small his errant flock errant goddam flock all had such dolled-up cigarettes, standing around now in goosey all-de-for-mation and waving their packs to no one in particular.  They were clearly bobbing according to the master-bobs of the Master Bob's directions.  My director, Bob (no relation), known as No-Relation Bob, is nodding and nodding and nodding.  Everythen and now head his falls hauls off and a lackey smacks it onbak.  But getting back to Farge, and the Scene of Suspicion "Everyone have cigarettes," the suspicious plicemun said, now I mean then rotating his trenchcoak'd body in the way you once-wqhen-you-could-move made when you wanted your bobbets to bob, and sure enough his undergoslings passéd so many cigarettes around (to the passers by (of the passersby (othe passrsby (othpssrsby) one) two) three) that, why, there soon weren't any cigarettes around! A-and that's why, kids, there are n such things as cigarettes in the refuse of the godawkful dead-flesh formaldehydioant corkspewed curlicues (which used to be a game, I mean an actual game, in these-here darpartz) of the dead grey of the flesh en manière de Longdeadandcurled Toenailclippings (you will parden mei Deutsch!), perhaps why Mr.‑‑I mean Detective‑‑Fargey-wargey-argei-O! moueth hith fluith lipth like some teththtothteroam'd adolescient too full of his crotch to grasp himself, iykowaIen, I mean, fanwhtma. "'Fanwhtma," he sighs, nodding, whilst other geese but not HIS geese! nodod asas welell.  "Yea...I know whatchya mean." I would ask that you imagine him strutting and sashaying, moseying and posturing around and about and aabaonurtdound during his upcoming monologue.  Actually, he (Farge!) asked me to ask you, but was, his postures notwithstanding and his postural hypotension upstanding, too blitheirngly shy to ask; he even wet the bed, but he asked me not to tell you, which proves to you I do what I want, even when‑‑nay, especially when, the Law blee concern'd.  So you can put in stuff‑‑clapping a hand, clamm'd with mished emotiung, on my shoulder, speaking to me without looking at me‑‑old soap opera trick‑‑breaking into loquuacious prolixies of extemporaneus Schwöng, etc.  There'll be no stage directions here; like Shakespeare, you may as well recall, who smoked too much dope to hear anything but the lines of the lines of the lines, OK. "You, Mr. Chabble‑‑you won't mind if I call you Chabble-Wabble?‑‑you murderer of, if I be not mistaken, your own children.  You purveyer or should I say CHABBLEWABBLE! practitioner of some sort of hydroironiac deconspuctif 'Art' which would seem would it not it would seem would which have the side-effect of, ah, eating out their souls, your intactness of intellect‑‑and when I say intellect I mean skin, Mr. Buddy‑‑being only an accident of the fact that there areno accidents to the fact that we have no laws against this artifact. UNDER THE WRITING THE INFLUENCE THE UNDERTREE THE OF Quarl, my victim-subject, was always getting tangled up in his muscular fantasies.  They were ever-humid, oiled, with great and lanky cranes of a cranes of a dark dank grey hoisting these weightless little technicians (who within the tight (parentheses of their own digging (one might say quarrying (ha ha ha HA) minds) parenthetival divigations as it were of their own interminably knowledgeable minds) deconstructive unparentheses of their own redundantly tautological fucking obsessiveness always hung with their hearts hung as heavy as great breasts...no, cancel that...make it "hung heavy as big tits" or great big tits or massive hooters of a well-hung brassy ol' dyke, if you will, simply because they could never get the pieces emplace and the gestalt of the focus just right, and henc they hung from their cranes like cranes, and within this endless sentence of a hyperiated "set," our Director, shirt-sleeves woven up around his impressive pecs, by which I mean biceps, words here in Reyfu (which means sometimes  Wherever We Are and sometimes Sometimes Wherever We Are) tending a havency to cleft like a gaped mis con stru éd aplette whiff-you-ill, is constantly getting lost in the erstwhine empty subsirectories Empty SubDirectories Empty! SUB Die REC Tor Ease! EMP tee SUB DIE wreck tore-EASE of the silly fantasy he and his crew be reaving, a-choo, I bean ob-course, "wreaving." Anyway, my art let me tel lyou was different, as the judges and the juries could tell, which is why (not to get "ahead" of "myself"!) the judge and the jury had this tape oe theor mouths during the entire sibstance of mine onwe mixdirexted trial.  I intended to go straight for Quarl's liver‑‑the excandescently amarillo organ we have here, rather an energy source, butcept the energy is like money, except it is also like the sap of some highly HIGHY INEBRIATIVE!!! tree, which I hastentadd I am not under the writing the influence the undertree the of, so I am to enter this liver-full-of-sap (and I think, therefore, I am will stick to the story of the sap: this is The Story of the Sap: My friends, I give you "The Story of the SAP: Or, My New Friend's Liver"‑‑except as I said it is not strictly squeaking a liver, since none's here's alive, and it snot-sap, snotsap snotsap snotsap snotsap snotsap snotsap snotsap snotsap snotsap snotsap snotsap snotsap snotsap, understood?) and pull out the little gold balls (not literal gold balls, of course, more within parenthese to come) that hold its existence spritcly sleeking "in 'place,'" and thereby createa sort of glorious art based on, let's face ot, the death of my friend. Only he is not, in your words, a friend.  He is a friend as you have some erstwhile unbegnomen "friend" in a lucid, if not livid, dream‑‑an old friend, an ancient friend, a friend worhty perhaps iof the epithet of capital Friend, The Friend, perhaps, only he is new, germane, to the dream of the Germane Dream, your dream of a fried I am hereby telling you about, and his intricately dear and beautiful flesh rips with the severing of the dream, as does my great heart when you begin to write, or give up like me on the fucking of the fucking paragrpah. Speaking for myself, I am all fucked out. VISIONSPLAYERS I pull the thought I am an artist over my face time and again, but it's damnedably frenzied, I mean damningly flimsy, and it rips the minute it rips the instant I rips the riptime I stick my tongue out, just to sort of kiss it, see,just to sorta test it out...y'see... And I come off as more of a landscaper or topographer‑‑a kind of Mini Micro Hedge Hopper, if you will, pulling on these formidable (and this nis naught na word we have nor "use") Lausch-Boumb eyegrippers or sightenhancers or Visionsplayers© and with platinumoleum toothpick and meager tweazers do shape the format of their smiling faces (by which I mean bushes n trees, bushes an treez, bouschez ond treighs) into the shapes of my delight, O yea, the shäpséz o' my de l!ght! REFRAX XARFER Doctor Chook glares at me like some angry oriental cat, his dire chin muffed in the frenzy I mean fur I mean pleats of his ruchy chest.  He has a brand-new stethscope‑‑quite useless in our universe, but much the symbolic sign of the symbolic sign of the honorary "High Doctor of the Sector" (phu!*) (*snareful taunt)‑‑which actually...and exPENSEively...reNEW!s itself by the nanny-nannu-second, so I mean this (rather outsized) instrument really shines, it really out distances the breath of the other runners, it really stands apart, apart lik ea lonely lonely sun, brilliant in its ilkdescried inaninity, if I may corner a naked phrase (whoo!?)‑‑and his frown refrax xarfer throughout the rather Terry-Gilliam-ish high shafts and pipes and tunels of the multicaillario'd Rube-Machiavellian gizmo there...and, well, to speak the truth, I'm sitting butt-naked on his table, waiting for the usual full-cavity-search‑‑bu bu but but this guy looks mad. "Lorenx," hesays.  "I'm concerned," he says, but I cannot in my Gnuditie gnotice that he, uh, permits his words to er change clothes during their trip to Mine Unclad Eare, so to me it sounds like he's quoting himself.  It sarounds (to me, you understand‑‑the patient...me) like he's saying: "Yyoouu'arree dodtydiynin, Lor." "Itohui'nrke  yoduy'irne d, e aLdo, rLor." "Yyoouuh'arvee ondeymionnth,  tLoo rl ive." "Iyto'us' rceu rtdayiinns, Lor." But not:  "You're fuckin dyin, Lor." "Excuse me, Doctor Chook," and I laughat the NAME! for a while.  "Did you say I'm...dying?" He cometh forth, all in a doctorial froth. "I did indeed, sir.  My words may have goggled, I mean garbled in this fucking Refyuan 'atmosphere of change,' but you seem to have got it.  You have one lousy month to live." Missing Time.  The stethscope a wonder far up my ass, and I'm transported (not trainspotted), sighing, "O! Doctor, Dodtor! O!  O!   You mean 'more or less one month'?" His voice muscled I mean muffled from the annals of my ass, he grugs, "No‑‑one month precisely.  One month to the day, to the hour, to the nanoseccond." "Cool!" He pulls out of me with a gratifying yet somewhat alarming pop.  He looks at me, and I at him.  He at me, I at him.  He sees me and I him‑‑i.e., he I and I him.  We grim like twims. "It's genetic," he explains, beginning now Exposition Scene.  "You're programmed to go on...umm...lessee...er...Absday, Plubnoe 16th, 38967...at three o'clock in the afternoon, to be exact.  I have this from the Technicians." Pause.  "Hm.  That time's not good for me." He laughs for a while, whirling the lasso round just to make it seem surreal.  I can tell he's lightening my load.  I can tell he wants to have a heart, butcept you see I removed his heart, back in the excised [illegal] chapter three. I rest my case on your ass, my honour. "Like I say," he says, blowing up a huge invoice in the form a a child's smely plasticene bubble©.  "It's programmed in." At this point I have to pick among a Beautiful Pearl-White Bouquet, presented to me by the newly crowned and virginal Dialogue Queene, smiling like an anagogic truthpaste teube, of possible next responses on my part.  I pluck out what I think's a dilly. "Why?" The good doctor‑‑still praying to God for the sweet sublte sensibility of a guileless heart‑‑tries not to laugh into his invoice, which has filled every thought within the room of the dreamy scene.  All my orifices ache.  This is it. "You're not a person, strictly speaking, Lor." This cause my faces shuffle auf like to Alice's lysergic cards. "You were an experiment...no, make that a work of art.  A project or something."  He doesn't look pleased that I don't look pleased.  Our verbs have merged havent; they?  We look just alike now, doesn't we? "An experiment...by whom?" The doctor laughs and his bill exponentially expalodes.  There is cum all over my face, my stretchéd livid lips.  I'm a big dribbling cunt right now (and my heartless friend knows it) I don't have to say. "Now that," he says with a chubble somewhat between a chuffle and a truggle, "that's gonna run ya some!" To condense a senseless story short, your honor, my holes still tingling through the eyehole of the nos, I antied up. Like the surgeon he is, he maketh me wait... "...Your true desigation, by the way, is not Lorenx Chabble RS #00G, you have throughout the torture of your lives been 'bleached to blieve,'" and he tells me, a hand on my shoulder shaping it into something erotically Rodinesque and nouveau-nu where I keep my porno files.  "You actually have no Refyu Sector number at all, being as how‑‑heh heh heh!‑‑you're not a 'person.'" "Get on with it.  Who set me up?" "You're actually QC #001‑‑the first and last of your senselessly heroic line." "Who cooked me up?" He frowns like The Cat He Was again.  "It was Quarl Comleobble RS #883.  Go 'git 'em, Lor." "Thanks for calling me Lor and not‑‑what was it?‑‑QC #001?" But the doctor is gone.  The doctor has gone back to never was.  The bill has been paid; I am covered in glue;  the doctor never was.  The jury will a) disregard the scene with the doctor (except for the relevant parts‑‑see Exhibit QC #001), and b) cease to exist. Now that's a sequestered jury, if you get the rapting dune of my deductive quiver-drift. SPECS OF PECULATION My assistant, Gounque‑‑a god in his own right, by the way (except thst I have his right hung my its righteous little miniaturized balls in a crystalline fraggle here, which is a little crystal, see, in which I place the essens‑‑OK, the power, if you will‑‑of my subjects. "I say "subjects," your honor.  Surely words still have meaning...well, maybe not.  Let me rephrase that...well, maybe never not.  Let me put it this way, your honor, if you will simply fli up the boto of your robes and bend over for me.  There...there... Anyway I say subjects, you say potato, the prosecutor, oiling his fine pecs over there, oiling his specs of peculation over there, if that's not one of the molts of his mental assistant, and if that's really over there and not one of your honor's delirium spatial wrong-way trompes, the better to keep me in irons (and I say that with reschpheques, your Hounour, Sirr), would say victims. I believe nothing, by the way, and you can strike that from the record of your soul any old wish whey.  But on behalf of my still-missing, believed-dead, believed-illusory attorney, The "Great Kan," I would resuckfully seggest that the word victim be stricken with some sort of really nasty pox, ha ha ha ha, its instacinerated© ashes kicked in place by the word subjects, as in subject. n.  A victim of stolen art.  I would furthermare stipulate here in what I swim the warmly backstroke in as Stipulatium A like great staples in my Honor's comely ass nn nn! that the word victim in the definition of the aforespread cunt of a definition be remplaced with the supple and vibrant, rathah paganish godword subject, where subject is defined as in the Refyupoedia Prime as "the barenaked model I vivisect for my art," wherein Stipulation B replaces the word vivisect (potato word!) for the more decorous word submilate, where "sublimation" (Stip. c I believe) be defiled as in Webster's Fifth Symphony in Z-flap as "the act or process of vivisecting a victim of stolen art," with Stipulations D-ZZZ be D-ZZZ amended D-ZZZ accordianly. I wrest my glistening case.  Your honor may stand up straight again.) Now that that's that straighten tought, I reocmmence‑‑my lean and lame assistant, Gounque GaPanne (nice name‑‑Evvogian name; princely family, etc., then they hired me do "do" his "portrait") was covering me in plaster, just making a breat suffocant bolus of plaster of me.  This would serve as the Hollywood model for the Hollywoodland model of my disguise, as we laughingly called a Viefian geek.  (And I submit, your honor, Stipulation Z4, replacing the rather ugly word geek with the word blackmail, to be replaced (see the rollicking roiling dice of the die of my appendices) in turn by several other words, resulting in the innocuous word citizen.  I would and will be thence disguised‑‑assuming Gounque or Gounge or whatever the lying fucker's name is doesn't fuck up (see Stip Za, which replaces the hilarious term fuck up with despair, which is the best replacement the Torture Gods would give me)‑‑as a citizen of Vief, there to move awkwardly among them, the bette to sneak up on my fucking subject, Quarl.  I would take refuge in the madness of my mad wife Zelzerea, only she was not coherent enough to be either a person or mad, and she was not my wife, but the eternal pursuit of me trying to buy my mad wife.  This occurs on one of our plethora of "opulence shows," which I dont need to say we love very much, too much, this one I believe called Flush!, on witch you could pursue with enigmatic endlessleaze the torture of your husband or wife, only they are not spouses as you know them here but rather unknown formative space-bottles into which you pour various essences of your fate, only here fate comes in the form of...well, let's call them nerves or nadiis or nervelike things.  They are, to focus these plexes of effervescient imageries into words, the moadalities by which the gods (you remember the Thirty-four or Forty-Four Torturing Gods, only if it's thirty-four, four of them are missing and if it's my-gods forty-something, then we have a lot of missing (torturing) gods...prob'ly living in your thoughts like parasites right NOW) enshape your pain into their assorted, packaged, copywrongdong'd, and trademurked controues as it were of tortureasitwere. Ii aay caae, it was on the popular (one of millions, I promise you) millions (see? I tolds you) of shows called Flush? or something that I found myself struggling for my madness, which herein takes the form of this, well, orgone-accumulation of accessories, if you will‑‑joyful pinprickles of vertiginosity, baubles, laughter-shape tear-things affixed to the corner of no one's eyes (my mad wife or near-wife being no one, you see, only one could swear there was someone in there, someone irresistible...and so one in one whent...), and all manne rof frag meanc dead diadems and polystrings of great strong lusty cumsucking pearls©, and so on©, and on and I won't say it on©, such that one was twitching too and frough in the gravitationaless sphere, only it was this bottle-shape of an oddness, see©, a-a-a-and-and-and snatching at the various pheromonious suffrings of her nature and dew (doo-be-sprankled‑‑like Claude Rains trying to soak you the shough of his rainy invigible face, see)‑‑struggling to get, or achieve, or acquire or attain this destructive beauty, Zelzerea, only that was a name she'd just sort of taken on, her experimentors having nommed her Garga Thieth #RS 717, once upon a time. I am not obliged, am I?, to mention or otherwise discuss my children, much less (with my lawyer a gold metropolitan beetle bzzzng foreboatens nn my ear) what I did to them.  Or more precisely, where I put them. But what the heck, your honor. "Put that down, my little sunshine aberdevine," I cooed tooer.  "That's somebody's germ plasm.  You could prevent entire existences by squishing that." But my daughter Amme‑‑as pale as a great carven candle, in this case curved into cyclonic passages of a unimaginable design of her own daliesence, my "kids" being manifold times more devious than I, but more or less in the shape of a fine little girl in a paiseley party dress (put on just befoore the consensual gang-rape, as exhibited on this tape, your honor, Defendant's Exhibit Hey, and a hot litle number tis, entitled, "She Was Asking for t, Your honor"), though she had raced around the curvilinear track and sped up her aging, or else dipped her perfect (ly daemonicke) face into the quartz miniducts of the microlab©‑‑engorging, as it were, her slutful genes with time‑‑and pretty much well nigh nigh unto aught but caught but aughp with me, in terms of age, the better to flash her heinous!lashes and vamp at me.  Or vamp@me. ...anyway, she squish the thing like a great ecstatic glowwworm gloorm loom oo anyway, and stands with cheekless pertness.UP and abrades the thing from her fingers, on the rough spermchooked cheeps of her little dress, which she finally pulls down. It is on file, your honor, that I am not built for sexual desires.  I had to take absolute pounding poundages of drugs of drugs‑‑nay, had to triturate myself right up to righteously vampie aka vampisch aka-epileptical-lepilectical levels of rational'd d'd'osages‑‑to work up the sort of scientific boner it took to cough out my two lousy desolate barren fertile unfucking goddam kids.  Excuse me, "kids," your honor.  May I apporach the bench?  I promise never to call you honor no more if you...you know...do that thing I asked you about in your note. Here a cube of text as void as a freshly swallered dollop of living space, in which Mr. Chabble squat, schnapped for a zoeilafil of time for abhorrence of horrible court (this story (except for this cube (and these parentheses (which exist as you might have fancied) well outside the nest) of the nexus) of the box) of the cubeless cube, or Refyu Sector, or or qube, orroarroar simply The Horrible Court! DOORNAILS "Honey, I'm going to go check on the 'kids,'" I shouted, but Zelzerea's head was illegally far away far too in too the head of the forgetter, which swirled like a great shull-skaped lava lamp from the glaze of another diaphragm (I cannot explain anything but that), so I merely shurgeed and clobbed down the basement (in these big a.s..p...i....r....a...t..e.d Hoovey Boots© which are the toes we ware instead of feat, to see if my quints were as dead as kids. They lay like five three-foot prizes‑‑veritable formulated Class I crowns‑‑looking very much in their "gilcaeze," which is this dear (death your with for pay would you) cryogenic vanilla-flavor'd ice-glaze we have we have‑‑like dooornails indeed. Doornails.  Gentlemen‑‑tender readers, your Represséd Honor, cast-off quash of relievéd characters from my discrete unpublished the passed, the leaf, the stone, the plastic fragment ofa child's toy, brooding technicians, my directionless director Bob Bob (full name) Bob‑‑my children...of sorts.  Blamelessly embalmed in capitalized spurious words for the time being while we seek for the will to find a cure for what ails them (of which we are not sure‑‑but there is something terribly wrong), they look like nothing so much as these big doornails in their bed of glowing (technological©) flowers technological flowers TechnoFlowers© obliquely lying, each with his or her instrument pad, the only thing dully glowing in this glowing n t is dank basement of a dead ex-parking lot, transmission-oil-stained (like the lips of that naughty, oil-stain'd nymth I downloaded from the electro seas of porn not many an ab-agö!), "just keeping 'em," as my deposition reeds, "'on smould'ring ice,' as it were, till we find out what makes them so in love with words, wasting and hurting and genetically ölt'ring their words and killing their words and in general warping off like a misbegotten engine into the Warp of the Wordless Lies."  Certainly this is my theory I am stuck to like a fucking cross. "Fucking cross," Christ said, but this was caste oute from the Bookes that Matthew, Luke, John, and George did sayd. One by one, I sweep the micro-tachyon-globuoles of dander from their instrument boreds and make sure the meters are entirely and completely dead, that my children are in all respects and eve in the eyes of God cupping his wounded Jesus in his palm like a grouted eye dead.  I say dead. "Dead," I say.  The meters never lie. "Dead," I said.  The meters lie. "Dead," I stead, the meters not even a part of mine eye. "Ahh...dead," I pronounce, the meter like a doctor dead at your side too dead to pronounce you die. "Dead," I admit, standing up and making that neat and pointless whisking pantomime of the Brushing Palms.  I wipe my forearms across ym brow, the name brow is wiped off dustily revealing a bare forehead.  There is no air in ths place.  I myself have been dead.  You might say (but don't) that I'm into redundant dead systems here.  I am in fact the proud inventor of the reinventor of Redundant Dead Systems, Inc., which is my lie and likelihood in here. And so.  I think I have explained everything.  Now here's the report on the nascent personalities of my quintsome of childs:  Every now and then‑‑rarely, actually‑‑never, if fact‑‑an idea comes up to me softly and places its shoulder on my hand causing me to jump into a maze of electric cats, and it whispers gently like Torturer God Number 6, I Believe, telling you in connoative dreamscapes how it's gonna feel, massive quantitites of nerveblaze and your slow peeling off of skin, not to mention the airless icing vacuumed on the crop, consisting of one throbbing emotion after another‑‑sorrowful, hopeless, appalling‑‑and the special chemical smells these emotions had here in Refyu, as if we weren't lightheaded enough...and this idea told me to thaw out my kids at the flit of ein Schvipch. "Thaw out your kids," he said.  "Thaw out your miserable kids at a flip of Der Schveutz." "What switch?" I said. "That one," he said, smalling to a very pointed switch, black, almost invisibly covered with these blakc, invisible spiderwebs, only they of course weren't spiderwebs but were instead the miserable paralle connotative shifts of the veering dream, which was all not-taking no-place, you'll understand when were finished zapping you, in this loquacious verring bottle blown of the selfsame Titan madness in its own iniquitous profane-burning incandescent Right bonre and a rightborne and-a right-bu bu-bu-borne of that fat-assed Saturn eating his own kids (only in his dream, Saturn's remembered and oft-told and ill-recorded ecstatic digitaclly-empranced dream within a dream with in a vivid Torturing God Number Zero's hallucinative dream, if you get my cream, he was not to much devouring..with his mouth, you know..as corroding his kids, corroding his kids!...corRODing his KIDS! just as I about to dew), for the dew upon the meltings of my kids, the liquifactions of those bolts‑‑call them doornails, if you like, not that any of our Five Hundred Five (which we call them when they're uh tortured) Torturing uh Gods gives a maim or a rack or a corrupt singular mutiliation itself spawning spawns of self-mutiliative religions each worshiping and thereby maiming itself to death (Author's unwritned note, aka Ned the Note.  As to that passage just reimburbled there:  Not maiming to death, like the plane scarping his face off on the eruptive fulminating endless adverb ground with the eyeballs of its passangers actually popP*P!ing out and doing this cute little paisely french-curve sort of voodoo little dance in the air of the fllaming air of athe flambeau ex X hex "plane"‑‑not maiming to death, I say, befoore I meant waad there for a web of a phrase or two hundred two, but worshiping to death, worshiping to death, wrhpntdah)‑‑let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat let me repeat‑‑the liquifictinos of the doornails which were the things surrounding my dead dead kids, once I'd fought my way through the Webs of Invisibility (another myth which we have here, a myth so boring when you tell it it kills your kids when you tell it and gives you a plitting I mean slitting ache of the lava-lamp, which is a euphamism for your head, only its a swamp, so royal it is almost ultra-violet and exists in some mad sadist's drug-incupéd half-cup high-dosage cuicidal dream, which you help him act out, we all here in this gorgeous opalescent nightmare to pretend to help one another out, whail actually (actually!) serving the tortures of the Seven Thousand (and I promise like a posie to go no higher than rhetorical-that) Tortured (so it is said) Torturing (so they profess) Professive Gods) and flipped with some tweezers (getting out those twezers‑‑finding them, getting them to work, shrinking my hands down‑‑it's a long story but moving at the speed of pzseudo-light, and so a very short story, actually, albeit a story of some infinite mass, as the crippled physicist of my dream (actually his dream) would gladly through his boxes of thoughts ensound, which means something akin to talk‑‑and ultimately flipping the switch...beginning the great liquefaction of my kids (with that ectoplasmic buggring idea snickering behind me, let me poq!)...the doornail ice instantly corroded to the O so ONCE so fair flesh of my thawing kids, which itself began to melt. "My kids!" I croaked.  "They're dying!  They're they're they're...!" "There there," said my idea, comforitng me one more my nailing me a good one on the temple with the shoulder with which he had once been in the nonexistent forest (full of nonsilent unfalling trees‑‑shh!) of a progressive verb been comforting which with.  "They were dead already, remember?" "Well but, we were going to thaw them when we‑‑had a cure!" The idea sighs and shakes his head, as if it'd'd' been'n'n all my idea'a'a. "You had to thaw them out to see if we had a cure," he said, and he was walking up the silouette‑‑not the splintery stairs themselves‑‑of the basement stairs, and I could tell he was going to go take advantage of my wife, leaving me, the speechless idiot ankles-deep in the dreep of my rotting kids, and with or without quite if a you lot get of my explaining drift to do when my wife, thoroughly enjoyed, woke up, sitting in a puddle of my dream-idea's sperm on the floor. THIS BRISTLE OF NOTES OF A PLOTLESS WRITHING OPERA So while my freshly-fucked and highly maddened Zel was grutting her orgasmic wail for me to sup some to these rectangular yellow tissues of gelantinous stuff we call dinner, I was stalking for time, kicking, then pushing with my storng forearms forearm'd the structure of an ant's for the secret occasion, then shoveling hodsful of the smeggy fleshupful spuff, then working a hot red little gravitational tractor which look just like the lie of one of your old cryustalline "bulldoozers," trying to sort of the whorls of my kids' flesh as it had interminxed in the Antimatter Basement there, hoping to sort the poor inanimate respective poodles oo goo and funnel 'em through this inmtmenselly outsized funnel back into their old doornail molds, rebuilt for the cycle of time of the REM occasion occasion (which is like an occaiosn only more so...only much more lubriciously so), only of course the little bastards' various microbiological essences had quite thoroughly fratren- and sororit-  -izéd there‑‑deliberately, the little pricks‑‑so I was simply ploughing out a great godly spoonful of a bedlamuss while hooting crapcalls up the flavor ofthe greyless stairs to my wrothingly waxing wife who was writhingly wroxing rife, as I kept calling, "ONe minute, dear!  Just checking a few more things dear!" and so on, which wouldn't be fueling I mean fooling her ass, since I was ever and always punctual to these limpid and dishusitng little dinners we were wont on a non-linear non-time basically deja-vubul'd "schedule" of T. God #33's "design" (bluepricks available but only to other blueprincks available to to imblibe, but she never (till an upcoming scee you will comeuppingly sene) came down to these lower levels (which, as she liked in her poodry of powders, to snirph, "With the Lower Forms," a term ewhich meant somthing shivering only to her doubtless, or virtually doubtless, from the verdant respositries of her inaccessiblebelieve me, I've tried dreams), so I scurried and scuttle away, till I had some sortof shit in each of the big doornail coffins, and I lay doen and with the whither whisps of black exhuastion died. Alive in this next paragraph, I activate the poor useless meters‑‑those unsung doctors of the netherworld I sang about befoore the inclusions of notes into this bristle of notes of a plotless writhing opera‑‑and prepare to lolligog those synthesized wafular entitues drooping off the stiff limbs that serve us not for plates like Dali's lost persistent piece-of-candy watch melted by exposure to a supernova sung. But as I'm leaving the Realm of Mushrooms (the kind that take over your mind, then force you to grow more alien mushrooms, then take over those minds, for some truffling reason), I see the meters have all lit up. And I mean all lit up‑‑and I mean all lit up in crepiscucating, aurora borealis opalescent excandescent superfloral forms...I mean... THE ABSENCE OF EYES This was awfully technical.  I got on the raxxray to G.  G appeared. "You've been screwing with your kids," he said, shaking his head and lopping off my arm with an upward swing of a silver excheté, then arming it back to me‑‑all with his eyes on the meters...never even glancing at me (and it occurs to me only now, Gounque never glance at me, as if I existed entirely, disgustingly, on reactionary wavelengths...). "Looks like they're cured, huh?" I beam, bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet while keen stitches seam my arm back on. "Nnaaoo," polythongeth G, his thumbprints reflecting turvily on his blindingly reflective chin (and it occurred to me only then that he cannot see; that would explain the absence of eyes, the tendency not to look me in the eyes (not that I, either, have eyes‑‑eyes having been criminalized back in the Forgetter Period . [that's it right there] . [and then again there] . ), answering me ony in the sense of keeping eixstence, for the time being mark NOW symmetrical. "The meters think they're cured!"  he laughs, and it really will occur to me only "sometime-when" that he never laughs‑‑or at least, it is not a laugh normally, if I may and I know I may not use the word normally the word normally the word normally or the word normally in the ol' RS, used by Gounque‑‑perhaps cause of his specious did I say specious? I mean speciesless nature, perhaps because there is nothing funny here, perhaps (and this only in the dank, pluperfect past befoore even the invention of the ere-toads more on the airetoades later if the motionless black thing-of-a-sun we have-not here . allows ever later, is or was or has or will be or always will have had been being my theory then . ) because there is nothing funny in me, or that being assigned to me (which only in never do I realize is the real nature of our relationship‑‑"assistant" indeed! pah!) is no picnic. Now in defiance he looks at me, employing these mirror-deerer headlimps of eyes, and says, "You've really killed 'em now, Professor Chabble." My lips form a sort of unaudant, adolescent hump of hums that would, would that they could and could that they can, say, "Stop...calling...me...Professor." "Now you're going to have to hide these doornails you keep calling kids," he says.  "And stop calling them 'kids.'" Well, he's right there.  They never were kids. Immediately his on was turned back killed turned I G and him, by which I mean to say this was my first Actual Murther, certainly in the Murtherous Red Eyes of the Law as it exists in here, only it's not so much a metaphor of an eye as a literal antimatter forgetter or afnotrigmater or Lafnotrigmater© which remembers your bloody thougths‑‑especially murderous ones‑‑befoore you've thought them, only it's also the glaring eye of your honor, Your Honor The Torturer God Number One, the Judge. I turned and slashed the back of my sniggering, contemptuous (he had always been contemptuous, hadn't he?  why hadn't I been allowed to see that, or had I been like condemned like to see it and then have my butt‑‑by which I mean my head, butts being heads here and heads Red Allknowing Metaphorical Literal Judgmental Eyes‑‑marmed into one of those laavamps or forgetter-lava-lamps or folala's as the merry cfescents of the silver kids or the merry silver crescents of the essence of the (dead!) kids do cry, thus having the billowy black Hoode of Winque reduped right over my head again, in a nasty little cycle of reduplicative humiliations‑‑a definite characteristic of the known styles of Torture Gods and I'm sorry I must call them Torture Gods but they would torture my doolfilked ass by which you will recall I mean head an ass being as good as a butt in the stubbed existence here...as I was trying to say befoore the woof of the words get indue schwaey, this sort of retromental cycling of torment (involving levels of awareness a la stupid old Hamlet and stupid old Christ, who didn't know any of his Dad's Scam that was going on (those were black in the days befoore the one great curtained god got is godbutt slivered into slithereengs) the stupid totally holy little fuck) would seem to be typical of TG's #1, 4, 17, 17a, 22, 33, 34, and 35.  So what I'm saying is what I'm saying is what I'm saying is it might what I'm saying is what what I'm saying is what I'm saying is I'm saying is be any what I'm saying is of them.  Of the I I mean mean ones I mean I mean I mentioned I mean just I mean then, that is) servant and Yea, suddenly remembering all those cycles of humiliation (I'll bet it was TG # 4 what did me then), I turned and hacked his back into hatches of a half, only the process, the process of splitting, the splitting of the syntax, the syntax of the breaking of his back, the breaking of his back into great hooping silvery crescient slags of the slashes of the moonlight of the mad children danicng lewdly in the barenaked quickness of the monnlight (no‑‑it was #22...gotta be #22 behind this whoile thing, what with the crescents and all), the moonlit configurations of his flesh as it, now in weightless quicksilver slivers, began to fall false to the ground, only it was a sort of unmoving massy dance, only it was simply dust that had always, and I emphasize this always, been on the ground of a grounldess, eternally nonexistent moon of a moodless world, only it was really poor G's flesh as I hacked his ass‑‑and I mean this metaporically,which means I mean his flesh and not, say, his head, which plunked to the floor of the perfumed den I was suddenly or ghad always been in like a great broochpin of impossible value and indecent design.  Or indecent valyue and impossible design.  That's it‑‑and it was God Number 7 what was doing this to me, messeurs. THE NONEXISTENT CHILD OF THE ECHOED CRIES Ladies and gentleman, my kids: Herx - red as a great hyperfertilized genetically-vektor'd© huppomoto, one of "da killer vejjes" of Nornalipe; Fott - never got larger nor more substantial than an ectoplasmic prick; built like the blue-haunted cuticle peeling off the trail of a niggardly Parggalswöpe‑‑which is no kind of animal, shedding as the little sonlike bastard of ungratefulness doth or doesoth a noseworth of itself with every step; this little kid was botched from the start, kind of like the gizzled author Glimingway, who sent out glowing globular notices to each genius of his kind telling them to recede-ecede-cede-ede-de, and I quote "We are all botched from the start.  Just keep on writing into your hole, friend Frotz, just keept drinking and writing and drinkiing what you writie, and writing yourfucking drink, and die..." so it goes with saying that you couldn't even touch this little dangle, who looked like the flesh of a rent suzgno hanging from the crimson jaw of the ogrette, which some say (which I dare not say) is the avatar of Torturing God Number Eighty-Three (and he's a dilly!), no matter how much you wept with guilt and stumbled after him with your fragrant cloth and comforting brush and called to him by whatever full fucking name you could name you could make up for him at a time, and even retched with the greed of your grief after him.  No‑‑I'll say nothing [old rhetorical [old trick for gagging the heart on its own feltbled] trick]! Skiksbarol - well-formed-redormed reduplicative of me; perfect in every way except for that detail about being dead, beind dead.  And let me tell you (ahem):  "I operated on that boy; I scooped my elbows in his guts, I hauled out organ after organ, looking for the dead part, the dead part, the part that kept him smiling, pale as a pasty sallow-plant or a plat of ashen wan, butcept for the cheeks, glowing like some rosy English boy, an angel bent over the fine mahogany bannister at just suck a reaming angle... Ube - also known as Earnest Alergnon, suave little Jazz Age sort of dude, his suffrab'e "smile" and odious hypermaturity stretching like his fabulous wardrope across the great unlooling delollopping loopuoles of tïme, not to be mistaken for tíme, not to be mistaken for tîme, not to be mistaken for t me, n t t   e  is  k n   r littl Ube himself, who never squouched or crotted or otherwise hunkered down to play in any sort of sand or mud we'd expensively rentaled like the other kids (I think, although my aforementioned medication, * and *, has removed the memories of my children like the reminiscence of a ghostly pearl (TG #5).  *See the illegitimately published and ill-written electromagnuscrimpt© Listings of the Tortorous [sic] Gods, with Sundy and Appalling Notes on their Believed And/Oar Allegéd Qualities, Properties, Subnames, Progeny [?] and Prototypes, by Vömïtüx Domitorum, a pen name for this highly -charled I mean -charged Ube, who always acted less like a fucking son than a son than a smarmy goddamned spy... And sometimes Wyphul, a sort of pinch-hit, Designated Kid for the family, really more like a vaproous chandle of water with no particular qualities of his (or her) own (or oan), other than those qualities legally pertaining and ahering to water, hereafter to be known as The Substance‑‑the kid we threw togedder at just about that time in the lexus of apocalypse, I mean the horus of les empurpl'd, star-addled spaces of The Spaces of Astrologus, when we'd lreally lost the wil to produce any fucking more kids OK? (Oh yea‑‑there was also this little girl, Amme, in there someplace‑‑she's the only one I remember, actually, but she is lost in my records like some dust-bunny dolloping down the measureless halls of mahogany, to the nonexistent child of the echoed cries.  Or maybe she grew up and went away‑‑just like that, where "that" stands for a heated flight from her murdered, therefore murderous siblings, or maybe I am a figment of the imaginations of the dead, and I am chaisng her, my feet slivered and howling, down that traceless Hallway of the Thirty-Ninth, Deep-lue God, Cerulean God, the great idiot Shakespearean God wondering What kind of a name is 'Shakespeare,' anyway?  Unless it be Shakespeare Anyway or Shakespeare Anyway, Inc., manufacturers of Imaginary Little Girls, ar your fucking service, spermless sir...) THE THREAT OF THE EYES I can remember a past we fabricated out of some thin material.  We were newlyweds.  We had no money at the time.  We could afford neither time nor long sentences, and yet we longed for longer sentences, long periodic-cumulative-subordinating-supercoordinating behemyth self-incentensing songsentences in which our kids could play down corridors mostly resembling these pale yellow parks which were the let's face it rather cheap pasts we invente for them.  But they (the Mississippi kids) had this park, made of this diaphanous but rather lovely material (Zelzerea would do phenomenal configurations, if aye I maybe may be aloud allowed such syllables) full of {amazingly patterned grasses}, each tiny blade filigreed in smaragdine glory, and the kids were crouching round here and there, reading the messages on the leaf, which O trust were messages of love back then‑‑back when we had these various crimson madders of arterial love, back befoore what Flowes Withinne Us became quite blue, a sort of steely smalt blue in which the messages were...quite other than love...but let us return here to this mended rescinded amended ameliorated polypostulated near prevarication of a past of love. I think it was that Park in San Francisco, which I say only because I am a dummy, my claptrap jaws flapping to the yank of a higher power, the Ventriloquist God, I'm sure, though I don't have an accurate estimate of a number there, a niumber there, a number there and three and there... Numblerless, fallow viruses inhabited the air.  I quickly add, my weald lips clapping, that they the (let's face it, illiterate Faulknerian) viruses were largely harmless hermless, were largely these rather large eyes, rather like silly mosquitoes‑‑you no\know, the kind that carry off the kids when the Michigan air cools at dusk and "swampifies," those big muggy lugs of flies that are all eyes and that threaten,. for exmaple to carry your daughter, squatting at the esge of an incomprehensibly pearly stream (the ichor, I beloeve of my Zelz'z'z's once opalescent, wonce wondrous love), and I can remember‑‑it is damaged only slightly, slit along the righthand edge, so one or two hundred thousand sensations/details/love-fucking-wonderments, not to mention all degree of re.ligious fate and awareness of Jesus hiding like a leper unde the comfy chair have been ripped out...but I remember skedaddling my ass overto her and swishing my hands through the air, which caused, I say it caused my little wonderment of the girl to laugh, for she uh uh had no awareness of flies, or of pests, much less of the viruses from hell, the viruses the Virus God (#0, I believe) in him I believe made us create in this sweet air, these big little eyes, these viruses as I beloeve in God Number Zero the Virus Fucking God I have explained...so she's laughing and giggling at me and splashing some of this amazingly icy water on my knees,\ as I like a big Idiotic Dad keep motioning those endless eyes to go away, to forgive my daughter in the name of my own eventual‑‑nay, perpetual‑‑nay, eternal‑‑nay, rampantly prevailing and filling my nerves with a pressure which will soon (give it a baker's dozen Abs, up to possibly Plubnoe Fifty-Sixth; it is uzsless to speculate, so I rip my Speck You Late Tive Glasses off, removng the glaze befopre my head, and I think if I can just bloddy fight my way out of this parentheses gripping my thoughts nto inner, inner-er subthoughts as it were, and making it very hard to awaken, for example [this happened more than once] , to the sucght of one or another of my sons holding a big knife to my throat‑‑that'll affect your fatherhood!) burst my heart. PIER PORCELEIN THEPARK It was on this occasion, your honor, when I was gently if somewhat clumsily shisuhing and shaming the flyzaweigh away from the pristine perspicuous head of my little girl as she played there in Peir Porcelein lessPark‑‑this befoore the famous precarious medications [Achromazine© and Neutralanin© mostly, with some generic shit our heroic Dr. Chook just fucking threw in for the expletiv zuvvit enabled me to see there were no eyes there, no viruses, no mosquitoes no flies no vucking thweat, and, in short (that'll be the day, huh?), I fell into the water which both drenched and delighted my little gir'l.  So you see, depite m general sickness and my tendency tendcu uh ten denc ci cy to peccadiiliate unto Transfomred Realities‑‑despite those great healing drugs great healing drugs great healing drugs great healing drugs great healing drugs great healing drugs great healing drugs great healing drugs‑‑we had this moment of foolish delight, and for purposes of purification which is my only urpose in life...possesed as I (we) am (are) by the dissociative Torturer God of Purification‑‑and we are talking excruciatinf purgey-purgification‑‑Number Six, I do believe, this god being not at all shy of his Numberhood..being in fact rather proud, as I am often puon waking in the morning, when the possibii\lity of waking is uhgiven unto me, notto mewntion the gift of having a morning at all, this being a rather dissipate, devitalized world as far tsolidit of matter be ocnerned (howwouldI know?  I'm not the Physicist; we have only one Physicist here, you know, with the machines that make all the physical laws, and he is either 1) not very good, or 2) one of the Torutrer Gods (there they are again!) disguised as, the Physiist; no one knows for sure, I don' think), but anyway, proud, as I say, of my use of punctuation, which I belieb is superlative, most of the time. So I fell in, we were wet, thew threat of the eyesa temporarily disappeared, and we laughed until she died.  That was it you honor, so help me Gods, though as the Reliquae (our Bible, known astronomically as the Bible of the Long-Pig Dead) croeakeyth, "It is life's great trial soliciting the help of the Torturing Gods, for they would much rather torture you, Lorenx Chabble  than anything else, it would seem unquote." THE FIVE RIFLES I was talking to Nieongluoss, my White Shrink, though we call them flinches here, so I was, the unheard verb-thicket word-forest Vortcopse of my mind talking to my White Flinch, only it would be redundant redundant don't you know, to call her "white," so I was lying on the Classic Couch, rappin' to my flinch, dontchyaknow, only she was this anonymous bag-lady rifling through the Daliesque drawers that pulled out of the rich, crafted mahogany, the buffed and sinuous wood, the planed and burnished surfaces in which your own face and the fabulous faces of your Hollywood friends come back as these cute hyperconvex little woodnymph munchkin sort of little-people Fabulous Burnished Faces (four-man power group, formed *, three number ones one number two and two number three and a halfs, broke up *, now dead, their music dead, their fucking music actually hunted down and killed, now dead, all dead, now and then dead again) tittering like Visceral Titters (one-man tachyon group, no power, no formation, no hits, no deformation, no) kcab ta uoy, of my rectus abdominus area, or thereabouts, you know‑‑riflin' through my drawers (though I don't know where rifles come in to it) like that perfect genius thief who thieved so perfectly well hers was the one house in town with all the arms and the dandering luggy legs of stuff piddling and oodling out her windows and various doors, not to be mistaken for the drawers my flinch, excuse me shrink, excuse me, my Fine White Shrink is alootin' through!, so the entire town simply surrounded her, scratching their heads and saying politely, "Can we have some of our stuff back?" and the lady smiles and pulls off her black cap and says, "What put you on to me?" and the whole place having a good, longue, self-forgiving cleanse of a laugh at that, I assure you!, but finding, as always, nothing wrong with me. Enter The Five Rifles.  THE FIVE RIFLES:  This is where we come into it, Mr. Hampton. It is right precisely here. KIRK:  Wow!  It's...the Five Rifles! EVERYONE ELSE:  WE know! NIEONGLUOSS:  I'm sorry, Lor.  I can't find anything wrong with you.  There's nothing in there.  You must be [ZOOM IN to her SWEATING MAHOGANY FACE]...stashing it someplace! LOR:  Stashing what? NIEONGLUOSS:  Why, your sickness, Mr. Chabble.  The sickness which killed your kids!!! The FIVE RIFLES look at one another, the beams of their glances sxhripx them wup, a-a-and they fall down with Marxsan ingenuities.* LOTTAEYES My plan had sort of changed on me, only it was not exactly a plan but rather a fluffy white metaphor‑‑which is a type of cat‑‑curled on my shoulder and as it wurr pereing me into New Things. I would befriend friend Quarl and entice his ass into a fine white cruse of zealafleume.  I had my little Visitor's Guide to Vief! tucked under the small arm I had tucked under my arm (this is Not Normal; it must have been a child's arm leftover from that time, not too recently, not too far back, not precisely in the Tube of Time but gnawing merrily away on the outside of it like some idiot beetle ossively obgobbling the sessolives of the moImeant to say), and it assured me that "quote": Rare indeed is the citizen of Vief‑‑or 'The Vief,' as we hate to call them‑‑who can resist for nary an absoc or absoc! the chance to sop up a little Zealafleume™‑‑the Drug de Choisir of the planet...only of course it's not exactly a planet but a sort of square right in the middle of New York City, only its not New York City, exactly, obviously, because it's not Central Park which by this writing hath been longe remov'd and replaced by a veey merry and merry and gaseous sort of Flotezone© of safforn gasses [open only to the rich, who still more or less exist, unlike the  rest of us, who merely more or less merely subme relysub sist]‑‑anyway, but more of a zone of existence we are forced to know, and by that fact very neary forced to call, Vief. "You will excuse me.  What was I saying?  OH yes‑‑rare zuz the Vief, obseffed with macromemories (a concept which shall be explained herewith in the form of a most compresséd dot:  .  ) as they are, who can resist the supple, faint tranquility of a bulb or two of sweet deathly neat esswseential amnesia..." And so forth.  Anyway, I was agonna sluice him up and chuck his remains into either a coffin or a nail‑‑they are much the same here, except during the firey shows of the voradorealis of the terminal equinoxe here‑‑and kidnap him, holding him in ransom for his wife, who I but dimyl remembered but loved with a dire passion equal almost equal almost to the child's-fight of words of the little little-finger finger-shaped shape-vial vial-light lightvial I waggled befoore his postashte-fixéd eyes (and, him being a Vief, that was a lottaeyes!). PESTIONABLE QULEDGE My quacksalver Mr. Quarl was quitting his quoin, having quietly quaffed his drink, known as The Quirt's Quench, querulously quarreling with his quirky quail about the quid and all qualms quelling the various quees and pews of his pestionable quledge‑‑aka queer business‑‑now quintessentially quashed, and the bustle-field (or if you must quistlequield) quiv'ring round him to its routine protein letterless quiescence, I knew it was time to make my move on the big guy. My but he was shaped like a drip.  He must be full of the most beautiful guts, I thought within my own guts so loudly, not to mention thoroughly, that two big draws pitched out right there in public from my guts, I mean from my guts outpitched right there in public, and I had to tuck my flannel shirt back in and also tack my final curtain back on and also jackhammer the bloody girders back on, this being one of those trimensional moments I have thrice forgotten to mention, here in the fineries of my weightless-draped Fitzgeraldian Unmentionable and as-yet unaid-for Mansion and that fucking obstrusive or foubctkriunsgive thought or otbhtoruugshitve almost made me give up on my great new Kidnaping Idea, shining in my heart like your shiny aunt's apple, except that my heart was itself a shiny aunt-sapple, filled with God's goregous thought of a shinyauntsapple a far cry better than that miserable thought of a bloody son he had, the hairy pencil-necked beard-infested draft-dodger of a masochistic dolt, that megaloaniac hobo of a twerb or treble-twerb-of-a-hobo (goddam it!) with my poor dead kids nailed through his hfaenedts and fheaentds with the fifth kid, or fifth kid-nail, by the way, nailed through his forehead‑‑right there‑‑though for none some of reason the none brothers wrote about that but don't get me started on that (though it sounds too later, doesn't it?), though we have no data whether this weather data be one of our‑‑you know‑‑"torturing" or "torturer" gods, or wehther this is some smiling divine from another jolly planet of creations or another wormy asteroid of verbaculations...give up on the kinnap plan, as I was saying befoore all those gods and apples, and revert like a revertive banana or ananab to the use-his-guts plan, which I believe I explained earlier.  If not, I will go back earlier and reexplain for real this (secondary) timelapse of a timetimetime. But I went ahead.  He was a little popped out, mentally, from his business deal, what with its gracious quantity of q's, so I waxed more and more confident as I approached, finally losing all shyness, then all social judgement, and then shape, becoming finally nothing but this great fleshy morass of a quaggoy candlemyre rundling up all around the thought of the measurement of the ankles of his boots, so I was in poor condition to notice his stunnéd löök as I flipped a big bright candle to his gluomwiinnegscent eyes and said: "Li'l zealafleume, friend?" THE BIBLE OF THE LONG-PIG DEAD He was gliding through many an ornate curve amongst the orange artificial feumes, many a Peccant Image of forgotten cartoon characters lit by an almost ach-ing infra-star lit-red meta-phor, many severed alphabets of what looked like geometric solids chainsaws into something the lost recollected faces of a cruise, or the ripped and fatal sail on that sunny cruise, or the death of the depth of sun on the face of your lover drowning on the surface or that whole life coming back to you first thing in the morning that had taken the shape of this foolish, idle cruise, complete with glyphic insurance policies glisking away through menises of your persistent waterwomb (remembered like the laxness of that Dali watch, exhausted from memory), but he had his great veiny sleeves rolled up around his oleated bulging arms, and he was most ungappy with the set as it was. Technicians, if you can call them that, foundered gawky and severe amidst this chaos‑‑thoug Ill confess it all loooked pretty neat to me. And I was of course being pursued by Quarl's little corps of Cute Police, who'd seize me like verms and whom I could shake off easily, and who attacked me in rather wholike droves, whooing and hollering like little doves. "Get these graughtnakky cwoopurms out of here!" he hollered, which gave me a chance to grab on to the edge of the flooaotring flofaltoior of his crane, while the officious cranopreator swished and clawed his rather strangely surreally swollen "hand" at "me." Quarl, his emotions quashed like a doab (one of the Lower Forms‑‑one of the animals that refused to take on thif gloriouf gliftening fheen of fuperreality (from the Reliquae [the Bible, known croakaloquaciously as Long Pig]), leaned over and craned his own head down and focused his face, which took the form I may say of one long great gigantic somewhat piglike longlpig pigneck neckcrane cranegrace bracefacéd eye, on me, and said. "Whattaya want, punk?" Whereupon and hruo and hu I smiled, proffering the blushing dickred dickspit cumburpling stick of the dope and panted. "Some zealafleume, sir?" Paws. Scrittering, scritching invisible paws failin to make a mark on the perfect ly smoove liunar surface of this mo meant terry paws. He snatched it up and sucked it. "Never touch the stuff," he gcarsped, and...slowly...looked...around... I was standing next to him on the crane, rather crazned, rather exhilarated, definitely Not Responsible For My Actions At That Time Your Honorio (though I'm OK now and would like to go home, only it's more of a psychedelic floor moving constantly through the tropical depressions of an infiite sluicing media sort of space), waving at what I took to be reality, a real crowd, a spheroid of stundoid technicoid droin-ee-yoids. "Where the hell are we?" Quarl sez, which the poor dumb techs took to be some signal to tear down and rebuld the illusion and the thoughtof he illusion, despite Obvious Evidence that their boss was zonkéd OUT. "Come with me," I hissed. "Who am I?" Quarl grinned, and it was the first grin of the novel, and Bob called for a break, and many a cable (fake) fell from busy hands just then, let me tell you. But the grin lingered on, for it wasa sincere grin, and I pondered the possible ethics of kinaping this amnesiac.  Besides, he'd been feeding me some, and I was losing track of the plan‑‑in fact, losing track that I had ever put in a plan in the first place, but had acted on the vertigo momentum buttercup laplace valentine of a plan I had never created! That would be bad. I had to keep the grinning bastard and his metyafklab personality© all wwarrappepded in an Intelligence Box.  I should rephrase that more kindly.  The ignorant Quarl fairly skulked into the box, which resembles a fluid cat's cradle with lines for mirroirs, I mean mirror-lines, mirrorline containing the so-called "intelligence" of the so-called Inhabitant, this being, to put it still more kindly, the ignominous bastard Quarl, Quarl the drug-pub, Quarl the ifexted, Quarl the Great Director and most kindly cut of all, Quarl who was slashing Maaeeaa into the passion of an infinite dew, an infinite fucking dew, making her roll her faceted head back and forth and emit sounds crude and fat and worthy of the Tumid Lower Forms‑‑this guy was so much smarter than me I had to put him in his box. Let me explain.  I say let me explain.  I explain:  no one knows for sure, because the polylabic palimpsest of our urhistory is‑‑well, to put it kindly, so goddam dumb, written in languages or thought forms of a nature so crude only one such as Zel, mad and being fucked madly and madly fucking Quarl, could read their texts, but she too drooly to talk, herself as dumb as the stupid old Beginning of Fucking Time, Zel getting fucked, Zel with her feet behind her head, Zel covered in you-know-what, Zel sweating, Zel Zel Zel my fucking love. But I was explaining something, and I appreciate your patience.  I pay uh tribute to your patience by putting it‑‑your patience‑‑into a sort of tiny little prototype Intelligence Net, such as the great room-sized one I needed to need to needs to contain the vast and polymorphically perverse talent of Quarl, whom I believe I was kidnaping and believe I told you so. So, with my explanation itself now stuffed safely muffed safely buffed safely puffed into a Humiliatingly Small "Intelligence" Box hardly worthy of the name, and so unnamed (see The Unnamed Intelligence Boit), I say we weren't sure, but we kind of figured it this way: we learned how to fire up our genes, clean up the old rancid strands of our fucking DNA, mess with our organelles and fluids, create abilities "God himself would vomit down upon the earth his horror" (attempted translation of an ancient text, sucking a big cock all the way down its old throat, by the way, & with cum all over its lips; they just didn't care back then) and then learned how to mess with the subtle energy fields, causing God we believe to throw in the towel, so we worship this great indelibly white and blinding Towel, God having left, which blinds the worshipers, so we have few worshipers, wandering whitely blind, but never mind.  Anyway, we figure we finally tinkered with our own gem-essences, the jewel at the center of the intelligence ha ha Box of Flesh, into which, wondering aloud about the mysteries of our histories, I put the reeling Quarl.  It was the first kidnaping in a long long time.  I did that which no mortal had no right to dew.  But I had to.  Nearly everybody, everything everybody everydoes, everything everybody everythinks, everything everybody everymaketh, into some sort of itelligence box oranother, on accounta we too durnd smaert for our own dumbassed good. I was not in a box.  Let me refocus that:  I was barely in a box.  I was the stupidest person in Vief *, having embedded my head far too long in the laavamp, or you'll remember the forgetter lava lamp, the forgetter lava lamp, the forgetter lava lamp, the forgetter lava lamp, the forgetter lava lamp, the forgetter lava lamp, the forgetter lava lamp, the forgetter lava lamp, the forgetter lava lamp, the forgetter lava lamp...that's me. So I gets him in till he comes to his sneses, and then he's still too smart for  me!  And then I'm in ultraitalicized trouble! And so I and my kids‑‑usually Herx, Fott, Skiksbarol, Ube, Sometimes Wyphul, and Amme, though there seemed in the dust of cosmic drugs to be many more‑‑'d lean in and talk to the great Quarl, now so deeply, purply "darned in his box" as we the giggling famille did came to sweigh.  It was a little like pressing the graze of your face against the graceful filigreed grate of the confesional, only instead of specific numerals of solid icons dressed in the ivory of white came the sleazy little thread of Quarl's filtered filtered Quarl the Refinéd Voice.  I mean it was just his voice.  I mean it was just a toy, imaginary fraction of what held say to us were he not quite so bloody tucked up in his flashing box (for it did flash, this flash represernting the power of compression necessecary for containment of the soul thereof, and the finitude of th esotry, the fact that this story‑‑right in the parenthetic footnote or nookfoughque interr'd outside these twin bars here‑‑this glittering story has a dread timelock on it, a lockbomc tipping away sinside its little gut, like the many genes of death they were so hard-fought (and this befoore my time befoore parentheses of Knowne Hysteriqie Tyme) to quash, and which they dead indied squarsch, making us as we like to moan "as immortal as hell," which just goddam shoughs to gough yew, I supphoughze, that those pesky viruses representing the oroway into that great Belighted Unknown, have been busily configuring their own much larger, much more malevolently close-to-the-Hogs meganovel, huh?), else he'd quickly have us, you now, setting him free and doing his will, he being an embarrassing number of magni magnittoons above us like the voices of the Sphorix zinging high and signing its gold autographs in the dying fatal abysmal ruined desiccated empty horizontal illucid air. So, protected, me and generally my kids‑‑as often as not Herx, Fott, Skiksbarol, Ube, Sometimes Wyphul, and Amme. though in cases Desueptutube, Kararrarrr, Meninginintong, Gelk, and Nyeaieur‑‑would press up against that goodold shield and like talk to the great man. I told him the deal.  I laid out the score, in mine owne tiny way, which would then I guess‑‑and I'm guessing I'm guessing here, as I generally guess I am a brain in a bottle (and a dismal yellow bottle blown wobbly behind fine lettering, probably a cosmic bottle, doubtless and time bobble, nogrout a tiny vial of poison reducing your hunching fporm to a cow'ring skeleton, but I Am Naught Sweughre) guessing at things, just to satisfy the funky fucktions of some eternally experimenting eternally experimenting machineit's just a fancy o' mine‑‑I dunno, amplify my meanings into something big and weird, some grand vision this caged giant could understand. "We have no intention of feeding you I said," I said, getting excited and accidently including the ascription "I said," and this mess seeped through the mesh of incontainéd inermeanings I suppose like some Promethean Hendrix solo wrought by the teeth of that still-living might god. "I beg your pardon?" he said, and me and Herx, Fott, Skiksbarol, Ube, Sometimes Wyphul, and Amme‑‑unless it was Desueptutube, Kararrarrr, Meninginintong, Gelk, and Nyeaieur (or, now that things had heated up and I'd act tu ally brö!ke the lä?w, unless it wass these even deeper, even innerer children, chary o' namen, but named possibly Poparina, Beff, Venevelktitude, Kearnionyolio, M'Jarrk, and/or Oughleough)‑‑realized pret-ty cer-tain-ly that way too much power was seeping out. ("Can we alter the controls?" hissed Skik who was like me always skikking and making me hiss with love and its partner, disgust.) I touched the great Knob of Contraction, buriéd as the sucker was within mine bosom, and saw it was on full. ("No," I whispered, wherepong Fott the little faertrywing began to cry, which felt lie the loss of a sistse,r which felt like the blue litttle nightmare tailing you throughout the day when the famous princess Di's, August 31, 1997.  "It's turned dup Full!") "Ruh-oh!" we all said, giggling. "Well, your ransom is your wife," I said, this time rubbing my lips al over the grid of permutation or the grid of control or the polymorphous grid or the metaconfessional grig or the mesh of the mighty microhpnoe, hoping the many shapes I made (have I said I am good with my lips, or have you noticed me ahead of my?) would somehow hurt this cradled giant. Gulping sounds come out.  It's working, I so wrongly thought.  We're getting into him! "One condition," he said‑‑and both he and eyeve edited out uncounted centuries of silences so pregnant with paws you could in your lithe dreamdoby clamber allfucking overdim. "You get me a crew in here," Quarl told us. "I want to snall this thing.  I want my fucking crew!" "Wait a mi mimi mi mi minute," I said, head like a long-lingering star about to die.  "Ho hoho ho ho How will she fall in love with me?" "What's this love shit?" came the famous reply of the famous bricks in the idol reipleigh, came the words now etched in lying stone along the rolling blue grasses of the ill-named Hills of Home.  "She's an actress‑‑sort of.  I mean, she's a model, right?  Biut a great model, so almost an actress, right?  There you have it, pal (can I call you pal? [Though he knew he could]):  that's why I need to snall this thing.  Otherwise it on't work.  She wont smile for you, bend over for you, fuck for you‑‑nil." And his nil I'm afraid really did get through, destroying countless members of the measureless innerer levels of my imaged family. BGIRTITTETRING I'd get mad at my bad kids and nab them into Lower Forms.  This is something a father can do during the dew during the silvery dawn-oriental filigreed aspexs of the Aspect Dream, which is What We Believe We Are in (and dream we are in (and believe we dream) and dream we believe) and find ourselves with the loose and lozing sense of a Body we are unable to move, despite our solid belief that‑‑you know, if we could just get back to the body, we could get up, and thereby find out what true death waits for us at the end of the eternal Möbius Dream. Anyway, I'd get like pissed at that fucking little Ube Earnest Alergnon or whatever he calls himself today, with his silver cigarette holding his holder in his special Crystallized Fingers, which is something we can do, but at great expense, great expense, as it lead to nightmares later.  It maketh me powder my teeth with bitter gritting or bgirtittetring in the hopes the little smarmer has like a high colonic's worth of horros waiting back there, but I can't be sure.  I mean, he's a dreamchild; it might not work with him. But he's dissing the whole kidnap plan (and, switching into our multipersonal multipointallistiv voo, why after all wouldn't he?), assuring me we would be caught by at least one of the thousand compounded Horror Police Forces Horrororror Popoliceice Fororceces believed in the deepest liquids of fear tobe out there, ready to swoop down‑‑some (dying) say (croak) say‑‑in their epileptic I mean elliptical I mean sort of Richard Powers-shaped half-melted Tanguy sort of hypercurvilinear Patrol Ships and punish me in horrid ways.  What gets me‑‑and I think all you dream fathers out there will "understand"‑‑is his pleasure in saying this, the thousand or so parallel phrases he smuuthely useth to conduct right into my tongue his hope I will be caught.  No one hates you more than the son who don't exist. So I punish him myself, turning the hornlike barrel of the elephantgunlike beak of the depressive submodulator known colloquially and nationally as The Prune© and shooting his wisecracking ass right down to the lowest suborganellical s*l*i*m*e*, forgive my asterisks, but they come with the gun.  It'll keep him a worm for a few big fat bulbs‑‑you know, the kind with the ruby rigidified tails you can snap! so the whole fat droplet falls into powder, one more Rupert extremely druped. Once we'd stuffed the hundred dozen baker's plethora of technicians Quarl demanded into his net, the ceiling lit up. Yea, the ceiling lit up into the celestial show of us as seen from the outside, so we were standing uneasily at the rather bristling neural net containing Quarl and the presumable elbows of his crew, our fingertips touching the surface of the net, or‑‑in the next set‑‑our fingers risen just above the surface of the box, with grimago GRIMAGO FACES faces of the crowd packed in there.  It must have been horrible.  It must have been Like Prison. ...in the next set, which was not like any sequential rendering at all, looking at the gorgeous imago that used to be our dingy, secretuve ceiling, our dingy, secretive ceiling, as in poetry and its dingy little secret spritis hidden in the crannies of its formal little verminfexted ridges, goddammit, now the how shall I say Illumined Presence of our living room, as seen from a cascading dolly shot or a rising dolly shot or a "vomiting dolly" showing the now-increased necessity‑‑now that we were famous, now that we were On TV‑‑for me to punish secretively repeatively my kids, to more and more severely punish more and more versions‑‑I would almost say deepeer and deeper versions‑‑of the Vergions of my Kids, all of iot lit amazingly.  Quarl was always known to be lit amazingly. "Where's...Maaeeaa?" I'd cry from under the shadow of my forewarm, which was Burning Not Up but white, it was this special, phosphorus sort of burning white like the kind we used to burn the life right out of Viet Nam, the kind that's been blinding us.   With the other hand‑‑not burning so much, not in quite (!) so much light (?), but definitiely more an effervescence of flame as they came to complaigne than another arm in the shadows punishing another child, and then anotheer child, and then another child, and then the dimmer presence, negative imagince in ipso-ospi-factoid-darkenend-negative-image Hell, each child flatter and more overex o e p s 'd, each child more negatiuve‑‑like negatives burning down to an infinite declension like a sprial staircase of negative down to as I said Hell, and I was in fact saying "Hell" as I pinished them, again and again, with Zelz attacking me with "weapons various," as Milton, who came not only Back Alive but Sighted, said, with my dreamshrink Nieongluoss, by the way, shaking his head at this at once phantasmagoric and mtarnaigcic disintegration of the stitch-to-getherd limpid hobbled eggwhite sort of tissues of my once-family. It was this way.  Herx was clearly gonna turn me in, to the very Dark Cops who conceivéd nothing of our concentric shinola on the screem of skies (not to be misshapugin unto Quarl's beauteous cwoopurms, who watched from The Great Linguistic Hoop of The Lidded Eyes, with their palms forehooded oveeyres, going "Ai!" and/or "Ie?"), possibly even to Farge, fucking Farge.  He might even work for Farge or have (and this often happens) had his guts scooped out by Farge and his friendly-eyed maschines or "fargeoids" which I hate which I hate which I hate which I hate which I hate which I hate which I hate which I hate which I hate which I hate and had, you know, Farge-stuff or cop-material packed exquisitely in, so my son, my number one son, my boy, my Herx, my red little sonofagum, was just another cop-dummy, watching me, under all these bloody lights, wiping white and incandescent blood across his eyes...and watching me... So it became necessary to punish him Very Bad.  I considered like the Sadist would, finger on my lips, tesselleated polypleated row after tessellated row of "tools" I'd cooked up while I was cooking up cruelty like gruel here whirring while I chose (they'd whirr while you chose, those tools), choosing what manner to reduce the great hopping red booby, and into which shape, and with what shapes of endless echolating pain... Allow me to describe the Horrid Light or the Horrible Lipes.  I'd been finessed.  I had the buggerd in his buzzargly boit, but he and his crew‑‑impacted, I hoped, like languid sardines in the gloze of their own fluent eyes, slipping together in the great dimensional shattube shafttubas I'd staggered them in‑‑had me on yet another incandescent game show, this one featuring my whole family‑‑it was one of those Bet Your Fucking Family things, only the light‑‑the Gorid Light I yam endeavoring to surprise I mean descry-describe‑‑shone well-nigh right through them, so I stood at attewntion undewrneath the sacred ivory lids of the Forgotten Eagle or the eye of the Londlost Eagle or the last dsentence of the Eagle of Words O the Eag le of Wor rdz dwingling out like a rotten iris averme. You see, de effec o being on dese shoze‑‑and, no, in answer to your unwrought query query O I don't O think it was the make-up, the gosh-darn candy-apple tangerine-flake flaping babies they shellacked over me or osvheerllamceked if you're at're all're int'rested in our "lingo (I am so hastily transposing down the Beethovenean scales off the tales of the snake of sound O the great invisible snake of the rope of the dream of the luzion zof Sound!)"‑‑was a rapid casual uh los of uh uh words, meaning you see a lot of ellipses in ths show. And I though, Is this Betchyerfamily again?  Did we never get out of there, but instead go tyhrough yet another organic oridifice constutiting the infinite great humiliation of Another False Dooer? But it wasn't *, I was pretty sure.  It wasn't I am a little less sure even a game show.  It was I am equivocally sure Quarl doing pone of his patended©, light-drenched succulent muscular monstrosities of a pardoy of one of these shows shows shows, taking the reprisive form of a snall about how, drained away of words, did drain away my family, selling them or guessing them or, let's even without our faces face it, miscontruing them (and in this I include all the sub-family-members on the lower, or possible more Refinéd fucking tiers or tfiuecrksings as we in the parched dehyrdated bottle of our self-frgotten (because suicidal suicidal suicidal suicidal suicidal suicidal suicidal suicidal suicidal suicidal) language, or as we in the bottle word I mean wood I mean would croak, "Labnguaghe," poor begotten devils ex)xe slived and losing in a monumental way at once orangely comedic and parsely tragic, I mean a very dark cold and pungent color of tragedy, Qyuarl was I suppose doing me the "flavor" or giving unto moi the "honor" of making he a hero rather bigger than life‑‑certainly countless motherfutching magnitudes larger than the cheesy skidmark on the parking lot of life known ha ha as Mine Owne Pasty Life‑‑but you'll notice he was messing with me too, as I mess with you and each generation of generates messes with the regenerations of their uh! uh! rotten kids. So there's the beaming host‑‑just a great fluidic grin‑‑and the music smelly as a dollop of roancid cheese (I have alluded to the Universe Of Cheesiness we were entering‑‑only with a great deal of light‑‑into) into into into‑‑and the questions (each hidden behind its own corrupted fungus of a box!?) coming at me and slicing with comely, dancelike comedy whole portions of that goofy thing I with only a vacuum where a laugh should be be be called a personality. Certainly words failed me, the laughing fatbellied belly little buggers.  And certainly, uh, my memory...what were we talking about before this great tout of tote of a crimson smoke? THE DEATHS OF WHATHAUGH AND SUCHNAUGHT The next question (or was it the first question?  small numbers here are tiny to work out) rolled out to me in the form of a very modulated glass, like some inverted chandelier, not off the Titanic, but off the upsidedown clown-version of Titanic verged at in the upper air, wherein everything is enalarged. Er...the gods love to enlarge your follies, the follies of anyone they create, and even more the follies of such as us, who seem several degrees removed from the makings of God, much less His executive committee of Gods I have failed to introduce to you as the Torture Gods (Electricity Gods‑‑really three gods in one; blowtorch god, plyers god, the blade of the flaying god, the love god and his brother, the loving god, etc.), and anyway, out roles the frosted, art-deco frottage of this outsized ball of glass, or hollow of glass, or tunnel of glass, or metabulb for a long-spent intricate bulb of glass, probably just a light along one of the fish-wept corridors of that most tipsy of uncertain-fucking ships, fucking its way right down in the glacial night, inside of which was the question. And to many a chuckle and jeer did I step in.  The costume made it funny.  It was not so much the way I might have stepped uncertainly "in" as the way I in fact and in the brilliant visio© of friend Quarl's vicious condign flim did step in, which was full of crotch-spread and crack-spraddle and Whathaugh and Suchnaught (famous comedy group, went down jesting aboard the Titanic Titanic, in the fine lounges of which, apparently, every nerve was früze!), so I uh farting dartered in... ...to find no question (I guess I was inside the question, which had been I suppose pozed to the audience‑‑that's it, the au di ence‑‑the answer to which would come either in the events quanspiraling in the globus of the glass or in my own honks after I came out of it, if I came out of it at all.  One thang's for curtain:  I was full of questions there... Anyway, all I found there was Fott's memorable and perfect suicide note, still on the invisible sparspement he penned it on, still with its perfect letters and perfect Keatsean syllaboes, still with its remarkable doudoublebleinging ofof everyeverything, as everyone as quoted his or her mirror imbrage as as sayn, and still (this note) so poignant because of the utter absence of suicide accompanying it. I mean, * [wife] and I looked all over for the suicide‑‑we searched to the sides of that little note (so fine it had to be held by caliper which were themselves wearing gloves holding calipers, and so on down the size-lineation for a while), peeped our dozes over the top, ducked awkardly under as if it had been a great dead car in need of destruction and repair, went round behind it, where we found, not the fresh-hung body of our little Fottworthy, but the entire universe in reverse, as if (we couldn't help and were therefore not prosecuted for thinking thinking) the note were a little joke, his first. But then, you see, I'd've thought the suicide'd been his first and only joke.  But it was either not a joke or a very tricky joke. So I guess, exhausted and swetzing as I crawled cutting my arse pr FUSE! ly on the idge of the polyrolled glass, the question was something like, "Where the hell is Fottsie?"‑‑which * and I'd asked foreverforthwidth. "I‑‑I dunno..." I said as I came out, and that brought down house within house within house. THINKING "DADDIO" That host had a lot of fresh cartridges.  He kept just sticking them in, to the effect of bringing out hundreds of our children gleaned as it wore from the dizzy fields of hyperreality or the mirrored-beams of conditionality or the rearward reams of immeramnesia, and there were many shots‑‑some from some sort of intricate crane, some swishing by on some sort of summative rails, some causing us to vex and vane through a blearious series of lenses, some of them like ancient Matthew Brady prints with the actual cracksters still imprimitur'd on the bleedin glass, and of course our Mutual Patented© Parental He Hea Hear Heart Hearts bleeding in recogntion as one sone after another, one luscious lickable little darter arfter arnorthor come toddling out to Ultra-Redundant Smudge-Spotlights© smiling like zillas as their uh folks ah recognizedem... And I remember how we lost Ube, or how, in the horizonless eventless horizon of the Game Show‑‑which was of course also a Talk Show an Attack Show a Stalking Show and, most of coarsely offal, a show that had been with us, like an uncleansed fucking placenta all of our lives, fliming and taping and wiring it all down, as if Quarl either 1) had been planning this kidnaping tale all along or 2) had power o move in time, which is impossible, or 3) was creating a great illusion, just like the ilusion of our kids cascading back to us with an unconventional uncovenant unkunk grunt of recognition, i.e., admission, i.e., confession (which is what is what which is the what which is the what the show which is all about)‑‑he came shuffling out in all his suave appearances, like naughthing so much as Algernon with his suave bow-tie and duded up in his Irony of Earnest, and he offered his hand to shake, but my hand‑‑besides a) having been removed, b) having been turned into that weightless ash the snakes you light for the Fourth of July, One Big-Fat Ashy Arme, forsooth, c) being as it was entwined about me wife's‑‑failed to come out for the shake, and he nodded knowingly. He was wearing these shiny shoes.  Of course! "I see there's a tear on your shiny shoe, Ube." He even looked down without a sign of his Weightless Botheration. "Yea, that's a big fat tear just a-achin' on my shoe, Dad." You'l notice he didn't say daddio.  But the beauteous bastard wa-was THINKING "daddio." And we three of us observed the tear, while the audience rustled with de cog in tion and the Usual Flashing Laughtererer, and then Ube looked up at me‑‑avoiding his mother's fucking eye, I couldn't help but nautilus, which fuckingeye was 1) falling out anyway and 2) made of something much much brighter and More Perspicuous than glass any way and 3) was caught in that huge loathsome lovely tear ANY WAY‑‑and disappeared in a sweet little poem: "Pleasure me, daddums," he said (with irony I assure you irony I assure you irony I assure you irony) I assure you, and he held forth from the flat bellyache I mean stomachic area, that is, the rectus abdomini-iality between his buttons a tiny portion of his gut. "Go ahead," Ube said, and I began to pull. And, friends, as I pulled outhis guts my son unraveled in the form of a beautioful poem, and a long time alter we were a glutinous Mountain of Tears while the crowd wauwed wauciously riled. LAUGHING GIZMOS Of course there was sparkling applause and the normal bellows of the infantile, but unfortunately Quarl unfortunately had wired me in to my kid's goddam guts, so this was really hurting me.  But "the prize lay sparkling at the edge of the salty waters," lay with its legs spread wide as a gasping surprise, so I pulled on, and out come the poem in its neat visceral lymes.  Every word rhymed, I assure you.  I mean, in our language‑‑which is pretty disgusting, I mean sophisticated, I mean tautologically quaffing its own tail as it reeled out its rather simple, rather turquoise, rather sublte little images. Surprising, no, for such a boy? In the evenings (and we're foring flashward here flashfor warding hear), Quarl'd have me and Zelzerea‑‑with whom the bastard was so fulsomely polite she gave indications of actual attraction to him, like squatting before him and nuzzling his lap and grabbing her firmly ankles backing into him as he talked, all of which he noticed with gallantry and contempt, his usual potion of desires, his general gallimaufry, his inevitable framography. He made silent singals so her gestures were like captured on snall, then digitally altered into something more pornographic hence innocent‑‑in to his cube, where we'd watch the "dailies," I think them'd call'red, and it was obvious from the [muted] sountrack that Ube was just screaming his guts out during that scene, that we had‑‑in that scene of which I am redly confexing, your honor‑‑a case of me tackling the boy (who couldn't run with his skirts falling all over the place like great skirtsy masculine caxcades) and holding him down with my foot whilst I disembowled him ("A sort of archetypal father thing," Quarwld drarwl as my wife smiled crosseyed from between his spredled Legges), pulling with muscular red arms in rapid sailor fashion, and it was clear he was dead within seconds, and that all the poetry and all the laughter‑‑not to mention un all the love‑‑'d have to be dubbed in (or "dribbled in" as Quarl liked to say as he cum in Zelzerea's ear, the cum coming out the other ear much to the delight of a billion patented photographs)... ...but (bfalcakshing fblaacsk to the hot floor of the show now show now show now and show now) it certainly seemed to me he was standing there, natty to the last, a mildly smiling skeleton reciting these simple and intricate lines.  Something must have been dubbed back into time, for this to be happening.  I mean, it's like life‑‑I just can't explain it, how it came about this way, how it came to be so painful, how it came to be torture so bad I was doing the torturing.  I believe the explanations lie in my (dead) son's rhymilingual poem. Though I know he was just screaming bloody murder as I murder-bloodied him! "There's a lot of blood in me dad," he was saying, reciting, incanting, and even the audience consisting of Laughing Gizmos also known as Gloazumghingos got their smiley-fazes hypnough'ed alter-a-while©.  He watched clinically sad while I pulled out more intestines.  I was sort of eager, sort of glad.  "Sometimes I say blodd when I mean blood," he admitted, and I pulled so hard my son just trieled around and round.  Already it seemed there wasn't much of him, but still the poetry come. TUMOR-LIGHTS!!! or "'EX'"-"'"HEAD"'" I had like this brain tumor growing in between the tissues of my inner head (not the head you can see, not the big, dumb-faced melon-head, but the inner head, going round, thinking its own lilliputian thoughts, making its own italic plans and sending them out on micrimagnetic beams incapable of making even the hue of a dream come trew), which‑‑as my tumor, Rafe, made me realize in a casual chatty way, his legs crossed in the circulating chair of the little interview show he was conducting in side, at the behest of the Quarl I regret touché inside‑‑was a function of the lights of the show, which I whispered to my wife. "I think they're using tumor lights on us," I said, my lips so distended they actually reenact the sinking of my friend the Titanic yet again, a fact inside a fact which Quarl‑‑into zooming into facts‑‑zooming right through, and into an iner fact which was inside this fact I am retaining like a disease inhere. Zelz had a tumor too, which toook wouldn't you this being Hollywood know the form of a beautiful blue opal round the outside of the neck of her inner brain, which is difficult to explain without bloughing up your head. I saw the tumor and my head blew up.  More crowds wide.  More of Quarl's "infanite pyrotechnics" (LeGorge de Quoak).  The head of my head blew up inside the pearl of her opalescence, and the crowd's lips blessedly didde bleeded in suffrance thereof, whereupon and in reverence thereto didde the head of this my head blow up too, which is the insinuation way to say I was running out of heads. I'm running out of heads, one of my heads thought it thought furiously (but it was wrong, being merely the mere shöckwäve of a just-exploded, effevescent particule of ex-"'ex'"-"'"head"'"), and then blows up.  Everyone likes this, I paused in my pulling of the guts to refulx.  I like this, too.  We all like this too much, and then the thought unthought because of its expotentially emplosive nature, It will never end!, which was certainly (BOOM!) true (BOOM! true!) or BOOMTRUE! Anyway, inside this tumor which I now‑‑now that I am well‑‑now that the blue opalescence of therapy hath healéd me so‑‑now that my wife's beautiful tumor has made her the Whore of the Galaxy‑‑now that I have no brains (not even those clear kind you get at the peculiar corner store in the corner of the corner, tucked darkly just out of memory and space) and nothing is true‑‑now that gorgeous presumption doth rule‑‑now that now-that rue‑‑ I notice there is a little Quarl directing a very different snall, or putting on a very much more modulated show, using some of the more advanced, phase-constat Clarification Focal Equipment™ of the Inner Quarl or the Inner Show of Quarl, known as the Bubble Show because it come from the bubbles of the apparently-underwater expalozium of all those heads the ache of the tumor cozzed, and in this innerer, betterer flim, I am merely Making Son Younger which I think it's safe to sway any father wants to do‑‑you now, shrink down that great dick he got from somewhere, shrink the bastard down, get to the silvery tinder of skin his homunculus be covere with that has something etched in it you can never understand, you can never understand, but you can see it, you can never understand, but maybe by pulling these guts i.e. years away you can see it... THE SPYRE OF THE BLOODLESS BLOOD The bit was popular.  I mean the show went over big.  I mean to say the shtick was fabulous, and Quarl‑‑who I think-weave all-learn'd was and/or is nothing and anything less or more than fucking ductible‑‑started stretching the bit, keeping the show going and torturing (with this special bright electricity, like faerydust used to torture writers) his torturing writers into torturing their writers into new routines, so for a while there (until I think this consciousness of me was cut) consciousness of me cut consciousness of me cut consciousness of me cut consciousness of me cut I fancied I was snowing I mean stowing...god-damn it, I mean sewing the fleshy shards of my old assistant's assistant. the oft-tortured ill-written Gounque GaPanne toward some ill-hewn swuorum of Togerneth Againe, he when I killéd him having "burst" in th