Part 20 (1/2)

Sherri Brandi continued the chant in her mind, maintaining the rhythm of her mouth movements ... fifty-three big rhinoceroses, fifty-four big rhinoceroses, fifty-five fifty-three big rhinoceroses, fifty-four big rhinoceroses, fifty-five-Carmel's nails dug into her shoulders suddenly and the salty gush splashed hot on her tongue. Thank the Lord, she thought, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d finally made it. Her jaw was tired and she had a crick in her neck and her knees hurt, but at least the son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h would be in a good mood now and wouldn't beat her up for having so little to report about Charley and his bugs.

She stood up, stretching her leg and neck muscles to remove the cramps, and looked down to see if any of Carmel's come had dribbled on her dress. Most men wanted her naked during a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b, but not creepy Carmel; he insisted she wear her best gown, always. He liked soiling her, she realized: but, h.e.l.l, he wasn't as bad as some pimps and we've all got to get our kicks some way.

Carmel sprawled back in the easy chair, his eyes still closed. Sherri fetched the towel she had been warming over the radiator and completed the transaction, drying him and gently kissing his ugly wand before tucking it back inside his fly and zippering him up. He does does look like a G.o.ddam frog, she thought bitterly, or a nasty-tempered chipmunk. look like a G.o.ddam frog, she thought bitterly, or a nasty-tempered chipmunk.

”Terrif,” he said finally. ”The Johns really get their money's worth from you, kid. Now tell me about Charley and his bugs.”

Sherri, still feeling cramped, pulled over a footstool and perched on its edge. ”Well,” she said, ”you know I gotta be careful. If he knows I'm pumping him, he might drop me and take up with some other girl.... ”

”So you were too d.a.m.ned cautious and you didn't get anything out of him?” Carmel interrupted accusingly.

”Oh, he's over the loop,” she answered, still vague. ”I mean, really crazy now. That must be ... uh, important ... if you have to deal with him....” She came back into focus. ”How I know is, he thinks he's going to other planets in his dreams. Some planet called Atlantis. Do you know which one that is?”

Carmel frowned. This was getting stickier: first, find a commie: then, find how to get the info out of Charley despite the FBI and CIA and all the other government people; and now, how to deal with a maniac.... He looked up and saw that she was out of focus again, staring into s.p.a.ce. Dopey broad Dopey broad, he thought, and then watched as she slid slowly off the stool onto a neat sleeping position on the floor.

”What the h.e.l.l?” he said out loud.

When he kneeled next to her and listened for her heart, his own face paled. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, he thought standing up, now I got to get rid of a f.u.c.king corpus delectus. The d.a.m.ned b.i.t.c.h went and died get rid of a f.u.c.king corpus delectus. The d.a.m.ned b.i.t.c.h went and died.

”I can see the fnords!” Barney Muldoon cried, looking up from the Miami Herald Miami Herald with a happy grin. with a happy grin.

Joe Malik smiled contentedly. It had been a hectic day-especially since Hagbard had been tied up with the battle of Atlantis and the initiation of George Dorn-but now, at last, he had the feeling their side was winning. Two minds set on a death trip by the Illuminati had been successfully saved. Now if everything worked out right between George and Robert Putney Drake ...

The intercom buzzed and Joe answered, calling across the room without rising, ”Malik.”

”How's Muldoon?” Hagbard's voice asked.

”Coming all the way. He sees the fnords in a Miami paper.”

”Excellent,” Hagbard said distractedly. ”Mavis reports that Saul is all the way through, too, and just saw the fnords in the New York Times New York Times. Bring Muldoon up to my room. We've located that other problem-the sickness vibrations that f.u.c.kUP has been scanning since March, It's somewhere around Las Vegas and it's at a critical stage. We think there's been one death already.”

”But we've got to get to Ingolstadt before Walpurgis night....” Joe said thoughtfully.

”Revise and rewrite,” Hagbard said. ”Some ”Some of us will go to Ingolstadt. Some of us will have to go to Las Vegas. It's the old Illuminati one-two punch-two attacks from different directions. Get your a.s.ses in gear, boys. They're immanentizing the Eschaton.” of us will go to Ingolstadt. Some of us will have to go to Las Vegas. It's the old Illuminati one-two punch-two attacks from different directions. Get your a.s.ses in gear, boys. They're immanentizing the Eschaton.”

WEISHAUPT. Fnords? Prffft!

Another interruption. This time it was the Mothers March Against Muzak. Since that seems the most worthwhile cause I've been approached for all day, I gave the lady $1. I think that if Muzak can be stamped out, a lot of our other ailments will disappear too, since they're probably stress symptoms, caused by noise pollution.Anyway, it's getting late and I might as well conclude this. One month before our KCUF experiment-that is, on September 23, 1970-Timothy Leary pa.s.sed five federal agents at O'Hare Airport here in Chicago. He had vowed to shoot rather than go back to jail, and there was a gun in his pocket. None of them recognized him ... And, oh, yes, there was a policeman named Timothy O'Leary in the hospital room where Dutch Schultz died on October 23, 1935.I've been saving the best for last. Aldous Huxley, the first major literary figure illuminated by Leary, died the same day as John F. Kennedy. The last essay he wrote revolved around Shakespeare's phrase, ”Time must have a stop”-which he had previously used for the t.i.tle of a novel about life after death. ”Life is an illusion,” he wrote, ”but an illusion which we must take seriously.”Two years later, Laura, Huxley's widow, met the medium, Keith Milton Rinehart. As she tells the story in her book, This Timeless Moment This Timeless Moment, when she asked if Rinehart could contact Aldous, he replied that Aldous wanted to transmit ”cla.s.sical evidence of survival,” a message, that is, which could not be explained ”merely” as telepathy, as something Rinehart picked out of her her mind. It had to be something that could only come from Aldous's mind. mind. It had to be something that could only come from Aldous's mind.Later that evening, Rinehart produced it: instructions to go to a room in her house, a room he hadn't seen and find a particular book, which neither he nor she was familiar with. She was to look on a certain page and a certain line. The book was one Aldous had read but she had never even glanced at; it was an anthology of literary criticism. The line indicated-I have memorized it-was: ”Aldous Huxley does not surprise us in this admirable communication in which paradox and erudition in the poetic sense and the sense of humor are interlaced in such an efficacious form.” Need I add that the page was 17 and the line was, of course, line 23?(I suppose you've read Seutonius and know that the late J. Caesar was rendered exactly 23 stab wounds by Brutus and Co.)Brace yourself, Joe. Worse attacks on your Reason are coming along. Soon, you'll see the fnords.Hail Eris, p.s. Your question about the vibes and telepathy is easily answered. The energy is always moving in us, through us, and out of us. That's why the vibes have to be right before you can read someone without static. Every emotion is a motion.

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To Arlen and Yvonne

There is no G.o.d but man.Man has the right to live by his own law-to live in the way that he wills to do: to work as he will: to play as he will: to rest as he will: to die when and how he will.Man has the right to eat what he will: to drink what he will: to dwell where he will: to move as he will on the face of the earth.Man has the right to think what he will: to speak what he will: to write what he will: to draw, paint, carve, etch, mold, build as he will: to dress as he will.Man has the right to love as he will.Man has the right to kill those who thwart these rights.-The Equinox: A Journal of Scientific Illuminism, 1922 (edited by Aleister Crowley)

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Believe not one word that is written in The Honest Book of Truth The Honest Book of Truth by Lord Omar nor any that be in by Lord Omar nor any that be in Principia Discordia Principia Discordia by Malaclypse the Younger; for all that is there contained are the most pernicious and deceptive truths. by Malaclypse the Younger; for all that is there contained are the most pernicious and deceptive truths.-”Epistle to the Episkopi,” The Dishonest The Dishonest Book of Lies, by Mordecai Malignatus, K.N.S.

THE SIXTH TRIP, OR TIPARETH.

(THE MAN WHO MURDERED G.o.d).

To choose order over disorder, or disorder over order, is to accept a trip composed of both the creative and the destructive. But to choose the creative over the destructive is an all-creative trip composed of both order and disorder.-”The Curse of Grayface and the Introduction of Negativism,” Principia Discordia Principia Discordia, by Malaclypse the Younger, K.S.C.

April 25 began, for John Dillinger, with a quick skimming of the New York Times; New York Times; he noticed more fnords than usual. ”The fit's about to hit the shan,” he thought grimly, turning on the eight o'clock news-only to catch the story about the Drake Mansion, another bad sign. In Las Vegas, in rooms where the light never changed, none of the gamblers noticed that it was now morning; but Carmel, returning from the desert, where he had buried Sherri Brandi, drove out of his way to look over Dr. Charles Mocenigo's home, hoping to see or hear something helpful; he heard only a revolver shot, and quickly sped away. Looking back, he saw flames leaping toward the sky. And, over the mid-Atlantic, R. Buckminster Fuller glanced at his three watches, noting that it was two in the morning on the plane, midnight at his destination (Nairobi) and 6 a.m. back home in Carbondale, Illinois. (In Nairobi itself, Nkrumah Fubar, maker of voodoo dolls that caused headaches to the President of the United States, prepared for bed, looking forward to Mr. Fuller's lecture at the university next morning. Mr. Fubar, in his sophisticated-primitive way, like Simon Moon in his primitive-sophisticated way, saw no conflict between magic and mathematics.) he noticed more fnords than usual. ”The fit's about to hit the shan,” he thought grimly, turning on the eight o'clock news-only to catch the story about the Drake Mansion, another bad sign. In Las Vegas, in rooms where the light never changed, none of the gamblers noticed that it was now morning; but Carmel, returning from the desert, where he had buried Sherri Brandi, drove out of his way to look over Dr. Charles Mocenigo's home, hoping to see or hear something helpful; he heard only a revolver shot, and quickly sped away. Looking back, he saw flames leaping toward the sky. And, over the mid-Atlantic, R. Buckminster Fuller glanced at his three watches, noting that it was two in the morning on the plane, midnight at his destination (Nairobi) and 6 a.m. back home in Carbondale, Illinois. (In Nairobi itself, Nkrumah Fubar, maker of voodoo dolls that caused headaches to the President of the United States, prepared for bed, looking forward to Mr. Fuller's lecture at the university next morning. Mr. Fubar, in his sophisticated-primitive way, like Simon Moon in his primitive-sophisticated way, saw no conflict between magic and mathematics.) In Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., the clocks were striking five when Ben Volpe's stolen Volkswagen pulled up in front of the home of Senator Edward c.o.ke Bacon, the nation's most distinguished liberal and leading hope of all those young people who hadn't yet joined Morituri groups. ”In quick and out quick,” Ben Volpe said tersely to his companions, ”a cowboy.” cowboy.” Senator Bacon turned in his bed (Albert ”the Teacher” Stern fires directly at the Dutchman) and mumbled, ”Newark.” Beside him, his wife half woke and heard a noise in the garden Senator Bacon turned in his bed (Albert ”the Teacher” Stern fires directly at the Dutchman) and mumbled, ”Newark.” Beside him, his wife half woke and heard a noise in the garden (Mama mama mama (Mama mama mama, the Dutchman mumbles): ”Mama,” she hears her son's voice saying, as she sinks back toward a dream. The rain of bullets jolts her awake into a sea of blood and in one flash she sees her husband dying beside her, her son twenty years ago weeping for a dead turtle, the face of Mendy Weiss, and Ben Volpe and two others backing out of the room.

But, in 1936, when Robert Putney Drake returned from Europe to accept a vice presidency in his father's bank in Boston, the police already knew that Albert the Teacher really hadn't shot the Dutchman. There were even a few, such as Elliot Ness, who knew the orders had come from Mr. Lucky Luciano and Mr. Alphonse ”Scarface” Capone (residing in Atlanta Penitentiary) and had been transmitted through Federico Maldonado. n.o.body, outside the Syndicate itself, however, could name Jimmy the Shrew, Charley the Bug and Mendy Weiss as the actual killers-n.o.body except Robert Putney Drake.

On April 1, 1936, Federico Maldonado's phone rang and, when he answered it, a cultivated Boston voice said conversationally, ”Mother is the best bet. Don't let Satan draw you too fast.” This was followed by an immediate click as the caller hung up.

Maldonado thought about it all day and finally mentioned it to a very close friend that evening. ”Some nut calls me up today and gives me part of what the Dutchman told the cops before he died. Funny thing about it-he gives one of the parts that would really sink us all, if anybody in the police or the Feds could understand it.”

”That's the way some nuts are,” p.r.o.nounced the other Mafioso don, an elegant elderly gentleman resembling one of Frederick II's falcons. ”They're tuned in like gypsies. Telepathy, you know? But they get it all scrambled because they're nuts.”

”Yeah, I guess that's it,” Maldonado agreed. He had a crazy uncle who would sometimes blurt out a Brotherhood secret that he couldn't possibly know, in the middle of ramblings about priests making it with altar boys and Mussolini hiding on the fire escape and nonsense like that. ”They tune in-like the Eye, eh?” And he laughed.

But the next morning, the phone rang again, and the same voice said with elaborate New England intonation, ”Those dirty rats have tuned in. French Canadian bean soup.” Maldonado broke into a cold sweat; it was that moment, in fact, when he decided his son, the priest, would say a ma.s.s for the Dutchman every Sunday.

He thought about it all day. Boston-the accent was Boston. They had witches up there once. French Canadian bean soup. Christ, Harvard is just outside Boston and Hoover is recruiting Feds from the Harvard Law School. Were there lawyers who were witches, too? Cowboy the son of a b.i.t.c.h, I told them, and they found him in the men's c.r.a.pper. That d.a.m.ned Dutchman. A bullet in his gut and he lives long enough to blab everything about the Segreto Segreto. The G.o.ddam tedeschi tedeschi ... ...

Robert Putney Drake dined on lobster Newburg that evening with a young lady from one of the lesser-known branches of the House of Morgan. Afterward, he took her to see Tobacco Road Tobacco Road and, in the cab back to his hotel, they talked seriously about the sufferings of the poor and the power of Henry Hull's performance as Jeeter. Then he took her up to his room and f.u.c.ked her from h.e.l.l to breakfast. At ten in the morning, after she had left, he came out of the shower, stark naked, thirty-three years old, rich, handsome, feeling like a healthy and happy predatory mammal. He looked down at his p.e.n.i.s, thought of snakes in mescaline visions back in Zurich and donned a bathrobe which cost enough to feed one of the starving families in the nearby slums for about six months. He lit a fat Cuban cigar and sat down by the phone, a male mammal, predatory, happy. He began to dial, listening to the clicks, the dot and the dot and the dot-dot, remembering the perfume his mother had worn leaning over his crib one night thirty-two years ago, the smell of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and the time he experimentally tried h.o.m.os.e.xuality in Boston Common with the pale f.a.ggot kneeling before him in the toilet stall and the smell of urine and Lysol disinfectant, the scrawl on the door saying eleanor roosevelt sucks and his instant fantasy that it wasn't a f.a.ggot genuflecting in church before his hot hard p.r.i.c.k but the President's wife ... ”Yes?” said the taut, angry voice of Banana Nose Maldonado. and, in the cab back to his hotel, they talked seriously about the sufferings of the poor and the power of Henry Hull's performance as Jeeter. Then he took her up to his room and f.u.c.ked her from h.e.l.l to breakfast. At ten in the morning, after she had left, he came out of the shower, stark naked, thirty-three years old, rich, handsome, feeling like a healthy and happy predatory mammal. He looked down at his p.e.n.i.s, thought of snakes in mescaline visions back in Zurich and donned a bathrobe which cost enough to feed one of the starving families in the nearby slums for about six months. He lit a fat Cuban cigar and sat down by the phone, a male mammal, predatory, happy. He began to dial, listening to the clicks, the dot and the dot and the dot-dot, remembering the perfume his mother had worn leaning over his crib one night thirty-two years ago, the smell of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and the time he experimentally tried h.o.m.os.e.xuality in Boston Common with the pale f.a.ggot kneeling before him in the toilet stall and the smell of urine and Lysol disinfectant, the scrawl on the door saying eleanor roosevelt sucks and his instant fantasy that it wasn't a f.a.ggot genuflecting in church before his hot hard p.r.i.c.k but the President's wife ... ”Yes?” said the taut, angry voice of Banana Nose Maldonado.

”When I reached the can, the boy came at me,” Drake drawled, his mild erection becoming warm and rubbery. ”What happened to the other sixteen?” He hung up quickly. (”The a.n.a.lysis is brilliant,” Professor Tochus at Harvard had said of his paper on the last words of Dutch Schultz. ”I particularly like the way you've combined both Freud and Adler in finding s.e.xuality and power drives expressed in the same image at certain places. That is quite original.” Drake laughed and said: ”The Marquis de Sade antic.i.p.ated me by a century and a half, I fear. Power-and possession-are s.e.xual, to some males.”) s.e.xual, to some males.”) Drake's brilliance had also been noted by Jung's circle in Zurich. Once-when Drake was off taking mescaline with Paul Klee and friends on what they called their Journey to the East-Drake had been a topic of long and puzzled conversation in Jung's study. ”We haven't seen his like since Joyce was here” one woman psychiatrist commented. ”He is brilliant, yes,” Jung said sadly, ”but evil. So evil that I despair of comprehending him. I even wonder what old Freud would think. This man doesn't want to murder his father and possess his mother; he wants to murder G.o.d and possess the cosmos.” psychiatrist commented. ”He is brilliant, yes,” Jung said sadly, ”but evil. So evil that I despair of comprehending him. I even wonder what old Freud would think. This man doesn't want to murder his father and possess his mother; he wants to murder G.o.d and possess the cosmos.”

Maldonado got two phone calls the third morning. The first was from Louis Lepke, and was crudely vehement: ”What's up, Banana Nose?” The insult of using the forbidden nickname in personal conversation was deliberate and almost unforgivable, but Maldonado forgave it.

”You spotted my boys following you, eh?” he asked genially.

”I spotted your soldiers,” soldiers,” Lepke emphasized the word, ”and that means you wanted me to spot them. What's up? You know if I get hit, you get hit.” Lepke emphasized the word, ”and that means you wanted me to spot them. What's up? You know if I get hit, you get hit.”

”You won't get hit, caro mio,” caro mio,” Don Federico replied, still cordial. ”I had a crazy idea about something I thought might be coming from inside and you're the only one who would know enough to do it, I thought. I was wrong. I can tell by your voice. And if I was right, you wouldn't have called me. A million apologies. n.o.body will be following you anymore. Except maybe Tom Dewey's investigators, eh?” he laughed. Don Federico replied, still cordial. ”I had a crazy idea about something I thought might be coming from inside and you're the only one who would know enough to do it, I thought. I was wrong. I can tell by your voice. And if I was right, you wouldn't have called me. A million apologies. n.o.body will be following you anymore. Except maybe Tom Dewey's investigators, eh?” he laughed.

”Okay,” Lepke said slowly, ”Call them off, and I'll forget it. But don't try to scare me again. I do crazy things when I'm scared.”

”Never again,” Maldonado promised.

He sat frowning at the phone, after Lepke hung up. Now I owe him Now I owe him, he thought. I'll have to arrange to b.u.mp off somebody who's annoying him, to show the proper and most courteous apology I'll have to arrange to b.u.mp off somebody who's annoying him, to show the proper and most courteous apology.

But, Virgin Mother, if it isn't the Butcher, who is it? A real witch?

The phone rang again. Crossing himself and calling on the Virgin silently, Maldonado lifted the receiver.

”Let him harness himself to you and then bother you,” Robert Putney Drake quoted pleasantly, ”fun is fun.” He did not hang up.