ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿
³                      BAHLASTI PAPERS                     ³
³                                                          ³
³                 Newsletter of Kali Lodge                 ³
³                   Ordo Templi Orientis                   ³
³                                                          ³
³ June 1992 e.v.  An IV   Sol in Taurus   Volume VI, no. 8 ³
³                                                          ³
³                                                          ³
³                 Address all inquiries to:                ³
³                                                          ³
³                      BAHLASTI PAPERS                     ³
³                      c/o Kali Lodge                      ³
³                   Ordo Templi Orientis                   ³
³                   Post Office Box 15038                  ³
³                   New Orleans, LA 70115                  ³
³                                                          ³
³      Deadline for July Contributions: June 15, 1992      ³
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³                          CASH!!                          ³
³                                                          ³
³                Contributors to this issue:               ³
³                                                          ³
³          Soror Chen, Frater Turbator, Fr. NChSh,         ³
³      William Goldberg, Charles Pfister, Fr. Icehouse     ³
³           Michael Driver, Wyrdsli, William Ward          ³
ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ

            ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿
            ³FROM THE DESK OF THE GRAND PUBAETTE³
            ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ

   This is to Icehouse, who they cannot keep from us.

   We've spent the last  few  months  watching the wheels of 
justice rolling along.   I  could  have  sworn that the last 
real freedom in America was the right to a fair trial.  What 
a joke.  We live in a country where murder carries a lighter 
sentence than first offense non-violent drug crimes.  War on 
drugs and  all  that.   George  has to make sure he gets re-
elected, of course. No problem that prisons are so hideously
crowded that they're building floating barges to house women 
prisoners  on  the  Hudson.   No  problem  that  a  person's 
character and circumstances and motives  have  absolutely no 
bearing on a case.   We've  been  sitting at court, watching 
lives being  torn  apart and families devastated in the most 
arbitrary and  fascistic  way.   I  see narc's as the agents 
of  Satan,  tempting  kids  into moments of hopelessness and 
weakness,  instead of encouraging and inspiring them to rise 
up out of the downward  conditioning  of  our terminally ill 
society.   I see George Bush's nasty slash of a sneer pasted 
over the face of the Kali-Yuga.

   And now the  Rodney King insanity.  Racism rules the day.  
I keep harping about when  I  was  a  teenager and the Bobby 
Seal trial was going on in New Haven and the streets were on 
fire and everyone got blown away  (and if you think Tienamin 
Square could never happen here,  guess again) & a few people 
made some money  off  all  that  horror,  but no issues were 
resolved. People just got tired and gave up.  I keep harping 
and it because the images were  riveting  and terrifying and 
tragically malignant.  Moreover,  I keep wondering when it's 
all going to start up again. It's summer; all the smoldering 
anger and injustice has caught the streets on fire.

   My dear friend in prison is finding some way to transmute 
his  situation--to  find  himself  within it and not forget.  
I'm absolutely astounded by his courage,  strength,  magick, 
& will.  He gives me hope. I wonder if society can transmute 
its situation.

   My brother told  me  that he feels the world is careening 
into  crisis.  That  in  the  past  the  world has only been 
able to  organize  itself effeciently and cooperatively  for 
destruction.   That  social change has only happened through 
bloody revolution.  Perhaps  some  world crisis--such as the 
world monetary  crisis  that's  a heartbeat away--will force 
huge, world-wide social restructuring.  Or  perhaps it's too 
late already.

   Darius called  the  other  day  and  said that we are the 
visionaries of the last decade.

   Icehouse  tells  me  that  the  primal  society in prison 
reminds  him  of  a  former  life when the whole  world  was 
covered with ice.

   I wonder if the burning  streets  won't  melt the ice and 
flood  the  world,  or  if it will transform into alchemical 
steam.

                                                       -Chen
____________________________________________________________

            ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿
            ³FROM THE BELLY OF THE CONCRETE PIG³
            ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ

   Well delvers,  within a month I move from  jail to my new 
prison home.  I've  always  considered  myself  close to the 
primal nature.  This  is where my nature will  be put to the 
test.  I  often  watch my fellow inmates as they roll in and 
slowly seperate  into  their seperate dog packs--road dog is 
the term for friend or partner used in prison.   It makes me 
think of tribes in a land of no  empire.   In prison few men 
hold on to their pride.   Everything is based on respect and 
common sense.   Some  even  wash their clothes in the toilet 
and there is no  "the strong  shall survive"  mentality.  As 
long as you stick up for yourself in a fight situation there 
is no winner, unless someone gets completely thrashed.  When 
you stand up you demand  your  respect  and that is all that 
matters to most.

   I wish it could be like this  on  the  outside.  When you 
stick up for your rights someone would say, these people are 
not gonna deal with having their rights to abortion stripped 
from them--they're not gonna lay down and let their earth be 
raped.  In  prison  a  man is stripped of his status symbols 
and thus begins to live by the law of respect.   It makes me 
wonder  how  many  fucked  up  laws  or situations have been 
allowed to pass just because someones "status" is threatened 
by a protesting group.   Get  raw,  peasants,  and refuse to 
live by the status quo and bullshit values!

   I guess that is all for  now.  During  my incarceration I 
would very much like for all of  my  brothers and sisters to 
feel truly missed.  I've been sentenced to 10 years, but, as 
of right now,  it  is  unclear  how much of that time I will 
actually  do.   However,  I  do  have  a  few requests in my 
absence.  Ya'll  be  well,  love each other, heal each other 
and do thy will.  93 93/93
                                                  Much love,

                                             Frater Icehouse
____________________________________________________________

                    ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿
                    ³ DEACON LUNCHBOX, ³
                    ³THE LAST INTERVIEW³
                    ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ

                         by Wyrdsli



   I'M JUST AN OLD REDNECK HIPPY
   LIVIN' AT THE END OF THIS DIRT ROAD
   I AIN'T EXACTLY TOTALLY CRAZY
   BUT I AM A FEW BRICKS SHORT OF A LOAD
   I USED TO BE NORMAL IN MY YOUNGER DAYS
   I JUST DON'T KNOW WHAT GOT INTO ME
   IT HAD SOMETHING TO DO WITH RICHARD NIXON
   AND THIS SHIT WE CALL L.S. D-D-D.
   NOW I SPECIALIZE IN BEING LAZY
   READING TAROT CARDS AND EATIN' GRITS
   NONE OF MY FAMILY UNDERSTANDS ME
   'SPECIALLY SINCE I GREW THIS PAIR OF TITS
   NOW I'M JUST AN OLD REDNECK SEX CHANGE
   MY LIFE SURE AIN'T EASY AT ALL
   THESE HORMONES THEY ALWAYS MAKE ME BITCHY
   I FEEL JUST LIKE A MONKEY FUCKIN' A FOOTBALL
                  -DEACON LUNCHBOX

   Less than two  weeks  before  Atlanta  was stunned by the    
Rodney King verdict and rocked  by  violence,  it's artistic   
community  was  hit  with  a tradgedy that in some ways hurt    
deeper.

   Early Sunday morning April 19, a head-on collison claimed 
the lives of Robert Hayes  and  Robert  Clayton  of the Jody 
Grind along with Timothy  Tyson  Ruttenbar,  better known as 
Deacon Lunchbox.

   "Mr. Ruttenbar  was  a  burly 6'2" construction worker by 
day who slipped into the  alter  ego  of  Deacon Lunchbox, a 
bra-sporting  poet,  comedian  and  performance artist whose 
main stage prop was a chain saw."
                           -The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

   Two days after this  story  appeared  in  the  Local News 
section of the AJC,  the  New York Times ran an obituary for 
him that listed some of  his  credits.  "A collection of his 
monologues, 'Some Different Kind of Songs,' was published by 
Drury Lane,  and  he  had  released  a cassette 'Rantin' 'n' 
Railin',' independently.  Last year he appeared in 'Words in 
your face,' a PBS documentary about spoken-word performers."  
Needless to say,  it  is unusual for underground poets to be 
noticed by the New York Times.

   I personally  heard  the  news  before it appeared in the 
paper.   One  of my co-workers roomed with Robert Hayes.  By 
midnight Sunday,  the  word was all over Little Five Points: 
Deacon Lunchbox and  the  rhythm  section  of the Jody Grind 
were dead.  When I heard the news, I was stunned.
   "Was he a friend of yours?" Tiffiny asked me after giving 
the bad news.

   "I interviewed him."  I  answered distantly,  not sure if 
that was a yes or a no.  I didn't know the man terribly well 
personally.  I didn't  know  his  real  name.  I don't think 
many people did.  But  I  had  interviewed him less than six 
weeks before for a documentary  about  Atlanta's Underground 
poetry scene I've been working on.

   Despite his  flamboyant  stage  persona,  off-stage  "The 
Deacon",  as  he  was  affectionately  referred  to,  was an 
uncommonly gentle and  accommodating  man.  He  had made all 
arrangements for clearance at the Clermont  lounge.  I never 
had to speak with  the  owners  and no one said a word to me 
about bringing a video camera into a nightclub.

   In spite of this,  I had the distinct impression that The 
Deacon did not take the  interview  entirely  seriously.  He 
was sporting a cap with the shriner's  seal  and  constantly 
referred  to  the  musicians who just happened to be setting 
up backstage.  When  I  asked him what made poetry 'good' he 
replied that he looked for 'plenty of obscenity'.

   "That's  the  only  thing  I  like about it.  If it isn't 
dirty, I don't want to have anything to do with it.  I don't 
believe  in  imagery  or symbolism or parady or any of those 
things,  I don't even know what they mean.  A good profanity 
used well is entertainment."

   When asked about his influences  he cited Capt. Kangeroo, 
reruns of Giligans' Island,  Opel  Fox  and  an eighth grade 
english teacher.   "Y'know most of my memory banks have been 
blotted out by drug abuse and alcohol, and I'm influenced by 
things that happen around me in my life, day to day."

   "What I think about the  Atlanta  Poetry  scene,  I don't 
really know, I'm going for  this  outlaw,  outer-limits hard 
core  sort  of  insanity   defense   where  I'm  not  really 
associated with  any  other  poets in the area, or anywhere.  
It's like Wilt Chamberlin said, no, it was Bill Russel, said 
"be different and people will notice  you'.  And  so  like I 
figure the more I  stay  away from the poetry scene the more 
people will notice me."

   About a week  or  two  after  the  interview,  I  saw the 
Deacon.  He asked  how  it  came  out.  I  told him I hadn't 
actually had a chance to really look  at  it,  but I felt it 
had gone okay.  He told me I could do whatever I wanted with 
it.

   "ALIENS STOLE MY HABACHI
   WHILE I WAS HIGH ON CRANK
   EVER SINCE IT HAPPENED
   I'VE BEEN LIVING IN A THINK TANK
   THEY TOOK CONTROL OF MY BRAIN
   AND WON'T LEAVE ME ALONE
   THEY MAKE ME DO THINGS
   I WOULDN'T ORDINARILY DO
   THEY ALWAYS MAKE ME DRESS LIKE A WOMAN
   AND WORSHIP OPEL FOX
   PEOPLE CALL ME NAMES 
   WHEN I WEAR MY BRASSIERE
   THIS ALWAYS MAKES ME MAD
   SO I SCREAM INTO THEIR EAR
   HOW WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO HOME
   AND TELL YOUR GIRLFRIEND
   YOU JUST GOT THE SHIT BEAT OUTTA YOU BY A QUEER!"

   Of all the underground trash poets Atlanta had ever seen, 
he was one of the very best.  And he  and  the  two  Roberts 
from the Jody Grind will be sorely missed.

WORDS IN YOUR FACE  ($29.95 check or money order)
KTCA-TV, c/o Video Services, 172 E. 4th St., Minn, MN 55101
____________________________________________________________

                    ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿
                    ³TAX TIME FOR DAHMER³
                    ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ

                      by Michael Driver


   "Hello. This is IRIS, Internal Revenue Information System.   
I'm a computer,  but I know as much as anyone else here."

   "My name is  Jeffrey  Dahmer and I have a tough problem."

   "Nobody's too tough for the IRS."

   "I was writing this book..."

   "Author, writer, whirrrr," IRIS interrupted. "Nonfiction, 
fantasy, whirrrrr."

   "What?" asked Dahmer, perplexed.

   "Go ahead.  You said you were writing a book."

   "Yes, I was. And it invloved some, ah, research and there 
were expenses with the research."

   "What kind of equipment did you use?" asked IRIS.

   "Sharp instruments.  Knives, saws, things like that."

   "And you must have had  an  office,  perhaps a laboratory 
where you conducted this research."

   "Actually, I did everything in my apartment."

   "According  to  the  law,  Mr.  Dahmer,  business  use of 
residential real  estate  with  the  desire or intent of tax 
deduction  is  limited  to  the actual amount of space used.  
Did you perform the research  with  desire  and  intent, Mr. 
Dahmer?"

   "Yes.  I certainly did."

   "And what amount of your residential real estate was used 
for this purpose?"

   "It was pretty much all over the place, I guess."

   "The IRS doesn't guess,  Mr.  Dahmer.   We're always sure 
just like we're always right."

   "Yes, I used the entire apartment."

   "Does documentation exist?"

   "Yes.  Reams of it.  Hours of testimony."

   "Then  merely  file  the  documentation  with  your  tax 
return."

   "It's  a  little  more  complicated  than that.  I  don't 
actually have possession of the documents."

   "In that case,"  said IRIS confidently,  "you may arrange 
to give evidence of your research."

   "The evidence was perishable."

   "You didn't keep any samples?"

   "The police confiscated them," said Dahmer.

   "IRIS whirred a moment.  It was the mechanical equivalent 
of a  coffee  break  and  the  computer  resumed,  evidently 
refreshed.  "In that event,  if  the  subject of the book is 
completely unique, upon review, the IRS will sometimes allow 
the uniqueness of  the  subject  itself  to  stand  for  the 
evidence needed.  What does your book deal with?"
   "Dismembering bodies," Dahmer said.

   "And you actually, whirrr, whirr, whirrr, have experience
in this field?" asked IRIS.

   "Yes," the caller replied calmly.

   "I regret to inform you,  sir,"  replied  IRIS,  "that an 
extensive multi-volume series has  already been published on 
the subject.  It's called the 'Tax Code.'"

   "Oh, well,"  said Dahmer with a rather cavalier attitude.  
It doesn't really  matter.  I  don't  have  living  expenses 
anymore."

   "Do you have other related qualifications?" asked IRIS.

   "Cannibalism."

   "Whirrrr," said IRIS.  "Any others?"

   "Necrophilia," said Dahmer.

   "I'm sorry,  sir.   That  practice is lawful only for the 
IRS."

   "Forget it,"  said  Dahmer.  "It was a crazy idea to call 
you."

   "You're not crazy,  sir.  I'd  like  to mail you a form."

   "Look,"   said   Dahmer,   "I  know  you  people  have  a 
reputation,  but  if  you  think  you can cause me any worse 
problems than I've already got..."

   "I want to send you a job application," said IRIS.  "From 
everything you've told me, you are ideally qualified for the 
IRS."
____________________________________________________________

                   ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿
                   ³THE CONQUERER'S QUEST³
                   ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ

                     by William B. Ward


   "I am the Conqueror,"  he  cried as he surveyed the ruins 
of his existence.   What  used to be a proud and flourishing 
home,  had  become a land  of  desolation.  His  eyes  moved 
briskly along the sandy landscape, and found nothing but the 
smoldering  remains  of  the village once known as Egairram, 
his once happy dominion.

   Contrariously,  his  mind's eye could still see the warm, 
lush gardens;  the modest  homes  and the happiness of those 
who once were---all was gone.  Within his own consciousness, 
he could still  hear  the sound of children laughing and the 
crackling fire which brought warmth & brilliance.  "Cursed," 
he cried to the heavens.  "Cursed to be forever teased by my 
own memories!"  With his hands at his side, his head dropped 
and his long hair covered his breasts.

   As water flowing through a faucet,  the  thoughts  of the 
tormentors who destroyed his domain rushed through his mind.  
The  desolation  was  swift,  but  far  from  painless.   He 
remembered standing,  watching  as  the  cataclysm  unfolded 
before him. The tormentors had attacked with such speed that 
they caused him to be temporarily (and uncharacteristically) 
vulnerable.  There was no hope for  reprisal.  Subsequently, 
the tormentors left as swiftly as they came.

   They  left  him  untouched.   Except  as  a witness,  the 
tormentors had no interest  in him.   They wanted him to see 
the destruction.   They  wanted him to see the agony.   They 
wanted him to feel the ripping pain of removal & the searing 
sensation of bereavement.  He stood high on his pinnacle and 
watched helplessly.  His observation was his torture.

   He didn't understand the  motives  for his attack nor did 
he know  his  attackers,  but the results of their handiwork 
were extremely clear.  Everything had been stripped from his 
existence;  torn from his very being.  For the first time in 
his life,  he was alone.   The tormentors were successful at 
their endeavor.

   Looking across the vastness, he saw a faint protrusion of 
an  object  that  seemed  to  glow  a brilliant red.  It was 
unnoticed, therefore, untouched by the tormentors.  How odd, 
he thought.  Nothing  surrounded  him  but  sand  and  large 
rocks.  What  could  be this thing of beauty in his world of 
irascibility?  His curiousity caused him to put his memories 
behind and he began his quest.

   His intellect was  so  wrapped with beguilement he forgot
about the pain his body had been nurturing.  He forgot about 
the blood/sweat mixture which carved lines on his face.   He 
forgot about the  burning  sensation  on  his back which had 
resulted from overexposure to  the  sun.   His thoughts were 
centered on the  object  that he had seen in  the  distance.  
That solitary  glimpse of beauty had imprisoned his mind and 
heart.  He continued his quest.

   He noticed  his  shadow  growing  longer  as he struggled 
across the rocky terrain.  The day was growing older and his 
time was becoming shorter.  Since the contrasting night cold 
was swiftly approaching,  he  knew he would soon have to end 
his search to find shelter.   He  watched  as  the  sun  was 
gobbled up by the horizon behind him;  the sign of impending 
death.  But he continued his quest.

   The night wind began to blow  and  the crisp temperatures 
seem to magnify his pain.   He  looked  at  his feet and saw 
that they  had  become  swollen.  The blood the dropped left 
designs of agony in the sand.   The pain that burned through 
his back had,  once again,  reached his brain.  All at once, 
he  experienced  the  complete  sensation  of pain which had 
accumulated from  days  of  wandering  through  his desolate 
existence.   His  pain  was  paralyzing  but his persistence 
proved to be palliative.   His  desire to find the object of 
beauty was stronger than ever.  He continued his quest.

   He lifted  his  head and noticed that the object was once 
again in sight.   Framed  by  the  brilliant moonlight,  the 
object seemed  more  visible  than ever.  Even though it was 
still  a  distant  blur,  he could  see  that it was somehow 
affixed to the ground.  From  that,  he  presumed  that  his 
object was actually a part of the landscape.   The discovery 
enlarged  both  his  curiosity  and  his  perseverance.   He 
continued his quest.

   The thought there could be something---anything---left in 
his existence  enthralled  his  heart.  The knowledge of the 
object's presence filled his  mind.  The  curiosity  of  its 
identity charged his soul.  He  overcame the deftness of his 
pain and, with more conviction that before, he continued his 
quest.

   In the distance ahead,  the  sounds  of  night  creatures 
filled the air.  The sounds they made clicked with a note of 
familiarity in his memory;  those  were  the  same sounds he 
heard the night the tormentors came.  His  memory caused him 
to shiver and made his heart race with a combination of fear 
and anger.  From  his  memory  came  the sounds of agony; he 
relived the desolation of Egairram and the removal of all he 
loved.   The  bitter nightmares racked his soul but his mind 
held the promise of beauty.  He continued his quest.

   His memories  were  interrupted by a faint aroma that had 
been gently lifted on the night  breeze.   The  sweetness of 
its  smell  was  one  with  which  he  was  acquainted.   He 
remembered the  scent  as  being  from  one of the plants of 
Egairram.   He also knew that the smell must have originated 
from his target of beauty; God's handwriting. Only something 
so beautiful could smell so sweet, he thought.  Then,  using 
the aroma as if it were a compass, he continued his quest.

   The night cold set in and forced numbness into his limbs.  
His face winced painfully  into  the  oncoming  breeze.  The 
frigidity  took  away  most  of his pain through its numbing 
ability,  but it also slowed  his  pace.  In  spite  of  the 
knowledge that a freezing death was  imminent,  he continued 
his quest.

   His struggled search blurred  his  vision and removed the 
object completely from sight. In spite of his blindness, the 
moon's beams  caused  the object's bright red color to shine 
as a piercing beacon through a  dense fog;  its magnificence 
shown forth.  Its radiant beauty flooded the area as rushing 
waters into an open trench. His blindness prevented him from 
witnessing the object's apparent beauty,  but nearer he drew 
as he continued his quest.

   He came within a arm's length,  reached  out,  touched it 
and felt nothing.  Determined  not to allow the night's cold 
to steal his treasure,  he  quickly  thawed his fingers with 
the warmth of his breath.   As soon as he regained his sense 
of  touch,  he  touched  it  once  more.   He could feel its 
texture.  He realized his quest.

   The firmness  of  its  grounding  stem  was  an exquisite 
feeling.  His was an enchanting experience as he studied his 
find.   His  recovered  sense  of  touch was enhanced by the 
object's contours, and his sense of smell was tickled by its 
sweet aroma.  Besides his being,  he had found his village's 
last living citizen.   He  had  discovered  the last rose of 
Egairram.

   Since he  had  found  his  object  of  beauty, his memory 
relaxed and he  remembered  his  pain.  In  all his agony, a 
smile broke across  his  distraught  face.  The discovery of 
the rose brought him great satisfaction.   All was not lost.  
The simplicity of its  grace  and the subtlety of its beauty 
gave him back some of that which was lost.

   With his life  fulfilled,  he  breathed his last.  And he 
continued his quest....

                             End
____________________________________________________________

                      ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿
                      ³WHITE AND BLACK³
                      ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ

                     by Charles Pfister


                         (continued)


   "I  dreamed  about  you  last  night,   Rolf,"  she  said 
suddenly.  "I'm  a whimsical person.  Spontaneous,  say.  My 
first lover,  my  very first lover, I had a dream about him, 
too.  We  knew  each other in passing--just to say hi.  Like 
us.  But this dream...."  She  shook her head.  Smiled.  "It 
was so... realistic  and  intense.  Surreal,  too,  I  guess 
you'd say.  When I woke up I thought to myself, he must have 
dreamed about  me,  too,  for it to have been that intense."  
She smiled,  got up and went  to  the  counter  and  got the 
bottle.

   Watching her pour bourbon into the  disc  of ice  in  her 
glass,  Rolf noticed that her hand was shaking.  There was a 
catch in her voice,  too,  every so often.  Was she nervous?  
It seemed inconceivable to him.

   "Well,  did  he?"  He  asked  her.  "Did your first lover 
dream about you that night, too?"

   She looked into his eyes and smiled, picked up her glass.  
"Oh, yes!  He would have never have become my first lover if 
he hadn't."
   Rolf cleared  his  throat.  "Lotta guys,  they'd lie to a 
girl,  say  anything  if  they thought they'd get to.... you 
know."

   "Fuck her?"

   "Yeah."  He wanted to giggle.

   She  smiled  again,  but  it  was  more  a  reaction than 
anything else.  "There were certain aspects of my dream that 
he knew,  Rolf, without me telling him.  And  I  his.  Isn't 
that awesome?  Like  you.  Did  you  dream about snakes last 
night, Rolf?"

   "I.... Yeah.  I did."

   "So did I.  But it started out,  you see, we were sitting 
on these big wooden chairs that looked like thrones, you and 
I.  We had sex.  You  made  me  take  you  in  my  mouth and 
your... penis turned into a snake.  It had fangs.  Venom."

   Rolf blinked.

   "It sounds gross,  and it is but... well,  it  was  kinda 
erotic,  too.  Then you made me bend over the chair, and you 
put it in.  It  had  turned  into  this  real long and thick 
black snake,  some  kinda  water  moccasin or something.  It 
felt... it was like having this, I dunno,  this friendly arm 
in there.

   "And after we were done you got up.  You were standing on 
this  rock,  looking  down  through  the  clouds.  You  were 
crying.  I  stood  beside  you  and  I  saw, too.  All these 
snakes were having  some  kinda  war.  Some of them had arms 
and these little swords and shields,  it  was  really weird.  
Weirder than when we had sex.  Then  I  said,  What's wrong?  
And you go,  My  Children,  they are fighting,  hurting each 
other.  They  don't  know any better.  They're just  babies.  
And they're bleeding!"

   He wanted to say, Leave!  Leave here right now!  Go!  But 
what he in fact did say was,  "Snakes.  Yes.  I dreamt about 
snakes."

   "And me?"

   "There was a woman,  and  on a throne,  but I didn't know 
who it was.  And there was no exchange."   He  picked up the 
bottle and gulped.
 
   She laughed mockingly.  "Exchange!  Oh, really, Rolf!"

   "Okay!" He snapped.  "We didn't fuck.  You didn't go down 
on me.  That what you wanna hear?"   He got up and went over 
to the chess table.  "Yes,"  he  heard her whisper, "it is."  
He studied the chess pieces.   He  was losing,  true, but it 
was  still  not  too  late.  His  queen  was  in position to 
exploit any mistakes the  blacks  made.  He  concentrated on 
the game  because  a  man  with less control, he knew, would 
have been driven insane  by  her dark knowledge.  And as she 
described that unholy sexual  encounter, it had come back to 
him.   Everything.    The  snake-penis,   her  pleasure  and 
willingness,  everything.  He'd  lied  to her in telling her 
there had been no  "exchange",  and in doing so felt he just 
might be preserving a little of his  sanity.  I  can't think 
about any of this right now,  he  thought.  It's not safe to 
think right now.  I'll wait.

   "Rolf, does our having the same dream disturb you?"

   "Intrigues me, May."  He  turned  to look at her--ah, and 
such a lovely sight  to  behold,  too.  "It really intrigues 
me."   He  turned back to the board and saw the pieces stop.  
Fall. It was  the  sudden  clicking and clacking that scared 
him the most--like the  dried  and  brittle bones of snakes.  
My God! he thought.  The black queen  had  fallen over and a 
white pawn had tipped over on top of her at right angles, as 
if it were trying to perform  cunnilingus.  Plus,  the black 
knight now had his king in check.

   "Now," he said,  trying to keep his voice steady, "if you 
don't mind I should like to get some sleep."  He went to the 
table and got the bottle.  He needed to drink.

   May stood and took  the  bottle  from his before he could 
get it to his mouth.  "But, Rolf, we dreamt about each other 
last night.  Isn't that significant?"

   He took the  bottle  back  and  drank,  drank like a wino 
guzzling  his  last.  "Get  out  of here," he whispered, his 
throat burning.  "Now!"

   She went to him.  "You  don't  want  me  to  go.  I mean, 
really!"  She  took  his  free hand and slowly guided  it up 
under her skirt.  She was not wearing panties.  "There," she 
whispered, "that's what one feels like."

   "I know what a--"

   "No you don't Rolf.  You're  as  virginal  as the day you 
were born."

   "I--"

   "Do you like it?"

   "Yes."

   She let go of his hand & he pulled it away,  reluctantly.  
May took off her blouse  and put her hands on his shoulders.  
If she was as  experienced  as she let on, then why were her 
hands shaking so?

   "Take me to your  bed,  Rolf,"  she  whispered.  "I  need 
you."

   She  told  him  to  take  off  her  skirt and,  with some 
difficulty, he did.

   "There, " she whispered throatily, falling on top of him.  
"This is what  you've  always  really  wanted.  This is what 
you've been hiding from all these years.  You're too full of 
yourself, Rolf.  Too full of thoughts.... meaningless little 
thoughts.  Untie the robe.  Yes, that's it.  Yesssss."

   He stared up at her closed eyes  as she settled onto him.  
He saw her  wince  in  pain  and  felt  a  slight discomfort 
himself---but  it  was  only  slight;   the  pleasure,   the 
excitement,  was  monumental...  She  gasped, and opened her 
eyes, smiled.

   "Yes,  it  hurts... me.  Of  course.  Pleasure  is  never 
without pain.  You see, Rolf, the human brain is designed to 
see, smell, feel,  hear and taste.  But  it has these things 
because it is  geared  for  reproduction.  That's all a body 
wants.  The  genitals  are  the  warmest  part  of  the body       
because the seed needs to be protected.  It  stays warm down 
there so the seed will not become sterile.  Am I warm, Rolf?  
Am I warm inside?"

   He grunted.

   "The human being is  the  perfect  reproduction  machine, 
Rolf.  You  have  to  understand  that.  All  creatures  are 
geared for reproduction but humans are biologically the most 
precise sexual creature.  We  don't  need complicated mating 
rituals.  We  don't  have  to  wait  for  seasons or weather 
changes.  We can  fuck almost anytime we want and can expect 
to reproduce.  Evolution  has  taken  us far, Rolf, isn't it 
marvelous?"

   He could say nothing... because  he  no  longer  had  any 
control over his body.

   Society is wrapped around sex, Rolf.

   He could hear her,  but  her  mouth was no longer moving.  
Fear  shot  through  him,  but it never left his heart.  She 
had control  of  his  nervous system.   She  had  control of 
everything. All that he could do was see. And feel. And hear.

   Society is wrapped  around  sex, Rolf, and sex is wrapped 
around  society,  particularly American  society.  A config-
uration.  An obsession.  Death and sex.  Sex and death.  Sex 
preserves is, frees us.  Look  at  the  Arabs, how fucked up 
they  are  because  they  willfully,  woefully  obscure  and 
dehumanize  it  behind  the poiltics of a dead religion... a 
religion that was never borne in the first place. We got out 
of  there  before  the  Crusades....  before  the Childrens' 
Crusades,  when the Arab was more tolerant.  America,  Rolf, 
America,  you  see,  is  destined  for nothing but greatness 
because it has fuck-t.v.  America  broadcasts  its sexuality 
over satellites.  It is virile  and  strong  and  potent and 
direct,  those  very  things to which you aspired by denying 
the very thing that created you.  I've  watched you grow up.  
I've watched you play chess.  I've watched your dreams.  I'm 
the last... the  last  of  the  line  which  threads through 
history.   We started out in the caves and jungles, too; but 
we were never ignorant... and yet we've always needed you... 
your species.  And that species is man.  And  while I'm your 
age in years, I have memoried that fall back through time... 
falling  and  falling,   through  the  Industrial  Age,  the 
Renaissance,  the  Middle  Ages,  the Dark Ages, the Romans, 
Greeks, Pharaohs,  Carthaginians,  Phoenicians, Sumerians... 
back, Rolf,  all the way back.  And we've always needed you.  
We have always  needed men.  But there will come a time when 
there is unity, and we are building for that, Rolf.  You and 
I. Just like your dream. There will be a victor. Let me tell 
you some memories of my religion,  Rolf,  let me tell you...


   Rolf opened his eyes.

   He  moved  his  head.   He  opened  and closed his hands; 
wriggled his toes; lifted his left  arm,  dropped it.  I can 
move, he thought.   His  groin  throbbed with sharp snags of 
agony. She had had control over his entire body, his nervous 
system, and even his very thoughts.  And all he could do was 
lay there as she rocked and talked,  his  pleasure building, 
but never  released,  her words--thoughts--flowing,  falling 
into  him,   unceasing   thought-words  changed  into  other 
languages--French,  German,  Spainish,  the  Slavic tongues, 
then back,  to Latin,  Greek,  Arabic,  to  languages  which 
hadn't been spoken  in fifteen thousand years,  and  further 
back, to the grunts,  the  clicks and hoots and howls of the 
cave.  The cave,  where borne,  screaming and kicking out of 
molten earth, her religion.

   He  knew  all  that she knew.  Everything.  May was very, 
very old.   And  when  she  finally let him release he could 
feel the glands and muscles in his groin explode,  used in a 
way they had never meant to be used.  He  would  never again 
be able to function sexually,  she had defiled him,  ravaged 
him.  She was the last daughter of a long, long line, and he 
knew much of what she knew.  His knowledge was dangerous.

   He got up out of bed and moved quickly, despite the agony 
in his groin.  I've  got my Visa and MasterCard, he thought, 
and--what?--about  twelve  hundred  bucks  in   cash  money.  
That'll keep for a time.  Until  I get my hands on the money 
in the bank account, which can wait.  I gotta get outa here, 
fast!   Mom and Dad'll be okay,  they aren't involved in any 
of this.  And She and her people will have to be careful not 
to  arouse  suspicion.  She's  the  last of their line,  and 
every one of Them in this matrilineal line is in Her,  their 
thoughts, memories, emotions, even their--

   "No!" He whispered.  I  can't  think  about it right now.  
It's not safe to think about  Her  right  now.  I'll save it 
for the sandy white beaches of Saint Thomas.

   He quickly dressed and then dashed into the bathroom.  On 
the mirror, scrawled in blood, was a message--

                    lied  i'm a virgin 2
                            (was)

   It was true, and thus her nervousness. She was, afterall, 
of certain human failings and  defects.  She had  known that 
everything had to be  perfect,  the  timing,  her own cycle, 
everything.  He wondered why They had picked him.  Was their 
psychic net that far reaching?

   "Later, damnit!" He told himself.

   He urinated  pure blood into the toilet, and the pain was 
strong  enough  to  double  him  over.   He  swallowed  some 
Darvons,  grabbed  a  fifth  of  something, he couldn't tell 
what, and washed the plls down with a long, smooth gulp.  He 
grabbed his  truck  keys,  his Bowie knife,  and went to the 
door.  Paused.

   The Eunuch was guarding the high back porch.  Rolf caught 
him by surprise, stabbing him in the stomach and pulling him 
into the apartment to finish the job.  He drug the body into 
his bedroom and  saw  for  the first time the bloody sheets.  
So she'd bleed a little, too.  He looked at his watch.  Some 
thirty-six hours had passed since  she crossed his threshold 
and,  by  his  reckoning,  thirty  of those hours were spent 
having intercourse with her.

   He ran down the steps  and  moved  cautiously  around the 
house.  He  was  amazed at how fast he was responding to all 
of  this.  Perhaps  after  all  these  years  of  esceticism 
wouldn't go to naught after all.  Perhaps someone was on his 
side.

   There were two men sitting in his pick-up.   Two brothers 
of the Mother--May's Mother.

   "That's okay," he whispered.  "Just fine."  I know how to 
walk."  He  stepped  onto  the  sidewalk and  headed  up the 
street,  away  from  the house,  hands in his jacket pocket, 
concealing the knife,  head  hunched  forward.  A car parked 
across  the  street rocked and dipped as its occupants moved 
to get out. There were four of them, and they moved quickly, 
efficiently.

   Rolf  crossed  the  street.  And  they crossed back over.  
The doors of his pick-up swung  open.  Rolf  turned  and ran 
and the six men gave chase.  One  caught  him  by the jacket 
and Rolf turned  with  the  knife.   He  swung,  bringing it 
across the  assailant's  neck.  The man stopped, brought his 
hands up to his throat.  He  pulled them away dripping blood 
and  he  opened  his mouth to speak,  but  began  to  topple 
backwards.   The other five men stopped and grabbed him, and 
dragged him toward the car.

   Rolf ran  as  fast  as  he  could towards the house,  and 
bounded onto the porch from the yard.  His father pushed the 
door open just as he reached it.

   "Dad!" He gasped.  His mom was awake, too, standing there 
in her housecoat, eyes mottled  with  sleep.  "Those men..." 
Rolf panted.  "They're... they're trying to kill me."

   "I saw the whole exchange  from  the  window," his father 
said.

   His mother went to the phone.  "I'll call 911."

   "Yeah, do that.  Tell em to hurry."  He  started to turn.  
"Dad, you better get the shotg--"  He turned just in time to 
see his father's big fist crashing into his forehead.


   The phone rang in Rolf's apartment  and  Rolf  got  up to 
answer it.  It was his mother.   Lately,  she called all the 
time.  And last night his father and Brigbee had come up and 
the three of them had indulged in snifters of brandy.

   "Yeah, Ma?" He said.

   The smile faded from his  face.  "What took?  What do you 
mean?"

   "May.  She's pregnant.  You're  going  to be a father and 
I'm going to be a grandma."

   For a second he  saw  a  fleshless  snake,  twisiting and 
writhing on white sand,  but  the  vision  dissipated.  "Oh, 
good.  Great,  in  fact.  Is she going to come up and see me 
again like she did last week?"

   "She's going  to  come  up  and  live  with  you,  Rolf."

   "Good.  I like her."

   "And  she  likes  you.  I'm going to go now, Rolf, okay?"

   "Okay, Ma.  Ducktales is coming on anyhow.  Bye-bye."  He 
got up and hurried into the bathroom, squatted and urinated.  
He paused before the mirror, brows furrowed.  What did I see 
there once?  he asked himself.   He  shrugged,  fingered the 
scar on his head and went into the livingroom.

   He had the big Sony sitting on the chess table.

   He couldn't wait to see May.

                          The End.
____________________________________________________________

                      ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿
                      ³FEAR OF DANCING³
                      ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ

                     by William Goldberg


                         (continued)


                             LIV

   "Take my vife, pliz, take my vife, pliz... so shmall, dee 
mize  were  hoonchbecked....... so  shmall,  dee  mize  were 
hoonchbecked..."

   Gorbachev  was  at  home  practicing  his  Western comedy 
routines,  still  fundament-ally  confused  about what these 
decadent western capatlists thought of as  funny.  The radio 
on his rec  room's  entertainment  unit was on the classical 
music station, Nadja Salerno-Sonnenburg playing something by 
Tchaicovsky.  Suddenly,  the  broadcast was interrupted by a 
news bulletin:

   "...unnamed  Soviet  sources  report a disturbance at the 
Soviet Union's  First  Annual  Jerry's Comrades fund-raising 
telethon today.   There are unconfirmed reports that Premier 
Boris Yeltsin and  Frank  Sinatra himself have been abducted 
by an unidentified armed assailant.  The whereabouts..."

   "Raisa, Raisa,"  the  former Soviet premier yelled to his 
wife,  upstairs excercising on the Nordic Trak cross-country 
ski machine.

   "Get your  mayjor  muzzle  groups down here end greb your 
sootcase.  Veer going home.  Yeltsin hez bin ovairthrun--I'm 
going to tayke my olt job beck!"

   "Bud Mikailovitch,  I'm  joost  shtarting to mayke frents 
here!  Zcrew Moscow!"

   "Raisa, I yam dee mehn, end dee mehn sez vee go!"

   "But bubaleh!"

   "Bubaleh, schmubaleh--vee  drife  to hell hay hex end ged 
dee fursht playne to Helsinki.   End datsh dee hend ov eet."

   Muffled under the sound of  the  Nordic  Trak's  bearings 
going "swoosh-swoosh"  he  detected  the  barely discernable 
sound of  a  "Gorky Park cheer"  emananting  from his lovely 
wife's mouth.

   "Neyver in my liyfe hev I hert sach a tink.  Dees Westurn 
krep is going to her hett.   Nexsht  ting yoo know she'll be 
burnink her brasshere!"

   He went down the basement  stairs  from the den searching 
his long-dormant set  of  American  Tourister bags, dragging 
them two  at  a  time  all  the  way  up to the bedroom.  He 
regarded his still-hesitant wife sceptic-ally.

   "Shtart pecking, vee leaf dees hefternoon."

   "I'm nutt goink... I liyke eet  here,  end I'm nutt goink 
beck--period."

   "Fiyne, I goh  beck  myshelf.   You... you  kehn  goh  to 
Minska-Pinsk!  Better yed,--Siberia."

   Raisa Gorbachev  storms out of the bedroom,  slamming the 
door.

   "Vimmin, phoo!  Shix lowzy monthz in  dee  deserd end her 
braiynsh are bayked.  Oy!  Phoo!"



                             LV


   Sheila Teal pulled the latest Gambit out of the honer box 
and took a seat on the  sidewalk  at  Que  Sera.  Ordering a 
Campari and Coke,  she  opened  the  page  to  her ad in the 
"personals" column:

     Anyone  knowing  the whereabouts of John Dayton Teal, 
  Jr.--please call  (504) 892-1466  or  contact  P.O.  Box 
  2355, New Orleans, La 70116. SUBSTANTIAL REWARD OFFERED,
  discretion assured (and expected).

   It had been nearly a week and no word had been heard from 
the kidnappers.   She'd taken six figures out of their joint 
savings and was  more  than willing to pay it all.  Provided 
that things went her way.

   Watching the passing  streetcars on St. Charles, her mind 
unconsciously listed  every  indignity  she'd suffered since 
she married the son-of-a-bitch nearly seven years ago.

   He'd made  her  stop working.  No wife of John Teal's was 
going to compete with him in the professional world, even in 
the early days when her  business  career  seemed, at times, 
more promising than his.

   He made her take her shoes off in the house.  Not that he 
did, and certainly not out of any  serene  Oriental attitude 
toward footwear in the house.  He simply complained that her 
heels were leaving marks in his precious parquet floor.

   And when  he'd  blackmailed  two  board memebers with the 
photos of them together in bed at  the  Les Bon Roulez Motel 
on Airline Highway,  eventually parlaying his extortion into 
the Presidency of the agency,  he'd  taken her away from the 
little house she'd loved in  Faubourg  Merigny  and made her 
move into that ostentatious Mauve Dinosaur  on  the  edge of 
Audubon Park.   She  was  hardly  allowed  to touch anything 
there, it was like living in a museum.

   It was really hadly like living at  all.   Barefoot,  and 
more often than  not  pregnant,  she  felt  more like a well 
trained housepet  than  the  bright,  career-oriented Loyola 
grad she'd been before the  scumbag had seduced her.  If you 
could call it a seduction.  Nowadays,  they (whomever "they"  
were) would probably consider it date rape. 

   Years later he'd come to add insult  to  injury by making 
it quite clear how much he was "paying"  for her affections, 
keeping her in the manner  to which she'd become accustomed, 
providing nannies,  housekeepers, and cooks, and sending the 
annual children to the most expensive Catholic schools.  But 
this  time  she  would  take  control.   This  time  she was 
determined to take control.


                             LVI


   David Schein pulled  his  abused  portfolio  out  of  the 
hatchback.   He'd  switched parking garages since the "mime" 
incident,  ostensibly  to  stay one step ahead of the enemy, 
and frankly because having  firearms  stuck  in  his  rather 
generous nose scared the shit out of him.

   Down Magazine,  past Ditcharro's,  and over to Girod.  He 
was  ten  minutes  early  for  his  interview,  but  it  was 
ninety-seven degrees out and killing some time  in  an  air-
conditioned reception area seemed far  more  attractive than 
dawdling and risking heat prostration.

   The receptionist was a big-haired girl. All receptionists 
south of Baltimore seem to be big-haired girls. Offering him
a cold soft drink, she walked back to the small refrigerator 
in the conference room,  her  hips undulating like the Giant 
Pendulum at the  Franklin Institute back home, some fourteen 
hundred miles away.

  "What an ass,"  his mind wandered.  She is, in all likeli-
hood, probably thinking the same thing.   Returning with the 
coke, she looked him straight in the eys and asked,  "do you 
know Jesus?"

   "Well, I...er--that is--pf course I'm  familiar  with the 
Bible, but... well--actually..."

   He felt the  dreaded  confession approaching, the revela-
tion with the bouyancy of concrete in these climes.

   "I'm  a  Jew.  I  mean  tha t I... uh,  know Jesus... I'm 
familiar with Jesus, but I'm a Jew."

   The  room  was  as   quite  and  cool  as  a  morgue  for 
a  scant  two  or  three seconds  that  seemed  like half an 
hour.   He  inadvertantly   found  himself  staring  at  her  
impressive cleavage.  Thirty-four-thirty-six, C-cup, thirty-
four, thirty-six years old.  Probably a kid or two.  A born-
again. Shame for a body like that to go to waste...

   "Oh,  of course, you must be Mr. Schein.  Waiting for Mr. 
Kaplan."

   She lowered her voice, "you know he's not really Jewish."

   David sat, not really stunned, actually amused, wondering 
exactly what "really Jewish"  meant to this well-upholstered 
rocket scientist.

   "That's okay.  I think that we can meet anyway."
   Having real fun with her now

   "some of my best frein..."

   Kaplan  interrupted,  arriving  directly in the reception 
area from previously-unnoticed elevator doors, his unantici-
pated presence choreographing the scene like the entrance of 
the villain in an Albert Broccoli production.

   "Daaaavid, so nice to meet you..." Kaplan smiled from ear 
to ear,  beamed  actually.  He unselfconsciously stroked his 
bald spot,  or more precisely the four-inch vertical scar in 
the  middle  of  his  bald  spot,  left over from a previous 
attempt to surgically remove the bare tissue. It was, with a 
slight lateral variation  in  location,  reminiscent of Milo 
Forman's depiction of  Jack Nicholson's lobotomy scar in One 
Flew Over The  Cuckoo's  Nest.   But  Randall  McMurphy,  as 
David  would  soon  learn,  was  far  more  lucid than Benny 
Kaplan.

   The two men reenetered the elevator, temporarily abandon-
ing their joint coliphagen  viewing  of  Karen,  the  rather 
noticably mammalian receptionist.  Past a hallway lined with 
reproductions  of  kitch  Dali  prints,  they entered a dark 
wood-panelled  private  office with a panoramic  view of the 
WPA-era  F.  Edward  Herbert  Federal  building  across  the 
street.  Visions of Franklin Roosevelt and Huey Long.  Happy 
days are here again.  And every man a king.




                            LVII


   Richard  Dowell  lopsidedly  negotiated  his  way  toward 
the  narrow  entrance  to  the  terminal, exciting the DC-10 
like  St.  Peter  abandoning  his fishing boat to spread the 
Gospel.

   Walking down the  corridors of New Orleans International, 
formerly Moissant filed,  he  passed  no less than seventeen 
open  cocktail  lounges,   portable  bar  carts,  and  snack 
vendors  offering  beer,  frozen Daquiries, Margaritas, and, 
of  course,  the  obligatory  Hurricanes.  At  8:30  in  the 
morning.

   Dowell nervously caressed the New  Kingdom Edition Funda-
mentalist New Testament of Christ Bible in his breast pocket 
as he pulled his balky Samsonite suitcase,  wheels unfolded, 
toward the cabstands.   Getting into a Crescent City cab and 
directing the driver to the Hotel Montelione,  he pulled out 
his  Bible,  and  unfolded  the  map supplied him by his new 
business partners.

   Over  eighty-nine  acres  of  prime  riverfront property, 
former site  of  the  1984  Louisian  World's  Fair.  Nearly 
ninety acres that would one day soon be  his,  upon which to 
build his tribute to faith and  temperance,  his beachead on 
the very banks of  the  devil's  playground, his theme park, 
Jesusland.

   Dowell payed  the driver,  tipping him fifteen percent to 
the penny,  and  entered  the  lobby.  Checking  in  at  the 
reservation desk,  he  approached the elevators, the bellhop 
relieving  him  of  his unwieldy  bag.  He  had  four  hours 
to  catch  a  catnap  before  he  had to  get  ready for his 
2:00 PM  meeting  with  his  new  consultants,   Kaplan  and 
Wentworth.

   Entering the room, his mind wandered.

   "Kaplan...Kaplan.  Sounds  like  a  Jew name.  I'd better 
look into that."


                            LVIII


   The  helicopter  approached   its  landing  in  Helsinki.  
Hemphill poked  Sinatra  and Yeltsin, now bound together and 
gagged with their own silk  ties,  in their collective ribs, 
and  motioned  for them to stand by the  door.  The pilot, a 
Milanese  NATO vet named DiPasquale,  nervously set the bird 
down beside the  chartered  L-1011,  the  domed "Popemobile" 
awaiting their arrival.

   In the back of  the  aquarium-like  vehicle an anticipant 
John  Paul  was  glued to the screen of his  on-board  video 
monitor,  Nintendo control in hand,  humming  the  incessant 
theme notes to "Super Mario Brothers."

   "Your  Holiness,   Farina's  helicopter  is  here.    But 
DiPasquale isn't responding on the radio.  And  Farina's own 
radio has been dead  for  hours.  I'm  afraid that something 
has gone wrong."

   Muttering "bullshit"  in  Polish  under  his  breath, the 
Pontiff  stormed  out  of  the  customized  limo,   Nintendo 
controller  in  one  hand,  ceremonial  staff  in the other.
He pulled the door  open,  only to be greeted by a loud hail 
of Ouzi fire from Hemphill's  submachine  gun.  Angrily, the 
Holy  Father  beats  his  attacker  into submission with the 
substantial hardwood symbol  of  his  role  as  the Vicar of 
Christ,  turning  not  the other cheek, but twisting instead 
his silk cassock, revealing a bulletproof vest underneath.

   "Ever since  that  Vatican  Square  thing,  I  don't fuck 
around.  Now tie this scumbag Anglican up and let's get that 
book."

   Neither an untied Sinatra nor  the  new  Premier  of  the 
Soviet Union  would  admit to ever having heard of the book, 
much less to having a clue about its whereabouts.  Hemphill, 
tied to the bulkhead of the chartered jet bellowed,

   "Fools!   Your book, your destiny and Satan himself await 
you in the New World.  To New Orleans, not the Vatican City, 
take this airplane.  Or  let  Satan  once again triumph over 
the faithful."

   The Holy Father  and  DiPasquale  looked  at  each  other 
quizically, until the Pontiff nodded.

   "To New Orleans it is."

   "But Your Holiness..."

   "Call me Karol", he says, removing his robe.

   "This trip I'm travelling incognito."


                             LIX


   The project slides fall on the freshly-cleaned blackboard 
like lead fishing sinkers in an aquarium.  The  student body 
at UNO, not given to much academic challenge,  much less the 
wieldier  challenge  of  deciphering  the  remnants  of  the 
English  language   inadvertantly   raped   by   Katchinaweh 
Dharmabaam, in a lengthy lecture on the classical sources of 
the post-modern architecture of Robert Venturi.

   Only one week in the  Crescent  City,  and it was already 
apparent  that  she was going to have to lower the standards 
of   what   she'd   always   expected   from   her  students 
considerably.  All the better, really.  There was no need to 
knock herself out,  what  with  an  apartment  to find and a 
lengthy  legal   battle  with  Immigration  looming  on  the 
horizon.

   Then there was this Chinese woman,  Chen, who'd contacted 
her  third-hand  through  Dr.  Pei's  office  in  New  York.  
Probably  the  wife  of  some  rich  importer,   looking  to 
out-ostentatious  her  Lakefront  neighbours.   The  Chinese 
always  seemed  to  have the money, though in the West she'd 
heard that  it  was the  Jews.  In  any  case,  she  was  to 
meet with her Friday to discuss the project,  and would keep 
the appointment if only out of deference for Dr. Pei.

   The lights came back up, the period ending with a whimper 
on a half-dozing  class of neckless good-old-boys struggling 
to meet humanities  credits  and  wanna-be  future Jefferson 
Parish  wives  hoping  to  enhance  their  future decorating 
skills.  She  headed  out  to  the  parking  lot,  jumped in 
her  newly-acquired  1970 MGB and,  Lucas  electrical system 
notwithstanding, started out uneventfully toward Canal St.



                             LX


   The  journal  sat  in   David  Schein's   abandoned  desk 
drawer,   little knowing  the  disparate  forces  converging 
upon it.  For  innumerable  years  it  had been dragged from 
bloody  battlefield  to  plague-infested  ghetto, from smoke 
filled political  backroom  to  corporate  boardroom,  never 
this far from its horned and hooved steward, never neglected 
without  a  note  or  addendum,  a  new  contract or budding 
scheme for more than a  few  hours.  And  never  before  had 
it  been  allowed  the  time  for  self-contemplation,   for 
conciousness of a sort to emerge.

   An inanimate object,  you say?  Hardly.  The  plethora of 
deals signed in blood, of incantations binding its contents, 
of curses intoned against its possible loss or seizure,  and 
finally Chen's own greater banishing ritual, rung sonorously 
over  its  sealed  parchment  corpus  in  order to wrest its 
contents from the secretive realm of Satan's protection, had 
imbued it with,  if not life,  at the very least a matrix of 
organic and spiritual forces, an armiture if you will, which 
was cumulatively approaching self-awareness.

   The journal  had  awakened,  and  like many a mere mortal 
before  it,  longed  to  know  itself.  Unlike  mortal  men, 
however,  its  quest  toward  self-enlightenment would yield 
something somewhat beyond simple  piece  of  mind.  It would 
yield omniscience.  Omniscience which,  but for lack of limb 
and sinew, could in fact  become  omnipotence.  But the limb 
and sinew,  its  own  contents  had  already revealed, could 
easily be borrowed.


                    (To Be Continued....)



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