Hola, obnoxious adherents of the idiot god! Last time we left you musing upon the fortunes of Great Wing, your eagle persona and the identity you had taken on due to the odious presence of cranky Chiron in your unspeakable sign. You had formed a cult and were about to ascend to the highest peak of a mighty mountain range where you would dwell for all eternity in a nest of clouds, attended by an endless succession of adoring adherents that would provide both financial and erotic satisfaction.
Odds bodkins! What could be better? But will it all go according to plan or will it be 'beak over backside' yet again in the pratfall from grace that is the farce of your misbegotten and misdirected life. Let us have no speculation on the matter! Let us consult the vile and bitter prognostications for fateful February and so discover.
Hear me and tremble, nasty pecking things with pin feathers for brains! I am Asperitus, the baffling bard and loony laggard, apropos of which I must say that I am late with the forecast, though through no fault of my own. It is entirely due to the two-headed beast of creeping ennui and screaming boredom that delayed me on the way from my bed to this chamber of servitude and horror. Enough of that! I shall recount the events already taken place, the kind of hind cast with which we are doubtless becoming all too familiar. There was a nasty Full Moon in lackwit Leo where one of your followers made a display of arrogant pride that was almost akin to a tantrum and was therefore entirely unacceptable in your presence. On impulse (for that's the kind of airhead you are), you had the creature taken to your most private chambers where the wretched thing was stripped of all monies, forced to provide sexual favours for you and was then thrown from the mountaintop to perish on the rocks below. You then lied to the worried relatives by claiming the missing person had actually ascended body and soul into the great eyrie in the sky, rising on a cloud of light born of your own brilliant being. As people with more money than sense never seem to be in short supply, these simpletons not only swallowed your story, lock, stock and rain barrel but also asked if you could arrange the same for them. In no time at all, you established a nice little earner that built the cult finances up whilst keeping the numbers down to a manageable level.
Well, little loonies! That brings us to the present, so let me continue with this dread saga of foul deeds (an avian pun) that sees you feathering your nest (a further avian pun) as you go where only eagles dare. And, by all that's foul and unholy, hell is unleashed in Heaven as we pick up the tale, making an infernal fury beyond description or belief. Jolly Jupiter rages through the nether regions of vamping Venus and the Loony Nodes in an obscene cosmic ménage a trois whilst grim Saturn rattles the bones of narcotic Neptune and mischievous Mercury readies himself for a ride in perverse reverse. These are the days of the flying follower as funds rise and hapless acolytes fall. A worried accountant arrives, querying you (ye gods! the temerity!) as to where all the dosh is coming from but he too receives a dose of airborne brilliance that is closely followed by a smart demonstration of how quickly gravity and drag overcome lift and thrust. That's aeronautics for you!
By the time of the New Moon in your unspeakable sign, you're feeling you are somehow a creature apart, a special being, risen above this naughty world and its nasty troubles, not answerable to earthly authority or judicial body. You are Great Wing! Beyond the paltry, dunghill morality of those human creatures that grub in the dust for their living! You even begin to think that those you hurl from the high place actually do find enlightenment. Though their bodies shatter on the rocks below, their souls do indeed rise to that great eyrie in the sky where they contemplate the image of you in wonderment for all eternity. Despite the fact that most of us would rather extract our wisdom teeth with fencing wire via the anus rather than endure such a prospect, the conceit seems to please you. As vamping Venus flaunts herself in the penumbra of dark Pluto, underworld god, you interview further acolytes with regard to their sexual prowess and fiscal state. As the great Sol Invicti slithers into wretched Pisces, you set up a counting house, employing clerks and making them wear bird costumes as they tally up your rising tide of funds.
But, my darling tragedies, as grim Saturn and narcotic Neptune make the preliminary moves for yet another ghastly mating dance, you begin wondering about the road you're on. Vamping Venus clatters obscenely into Aries and the business of life erupts into activity about you, but somehow you're distracted and disinterested. One aspect of you flies aloft, Great Wing, wind-rider, high one and arrogant sod! And yet, another aspect of your being feels hopelessly grounded, trapped in the clutches of the business of your avian cult.
But what's this? By my sainted aunt, it's more dread lunacy unfolding in the Heavens. Marauding Mars crashes into your nasty little sign and two of the deadly sins overcome you, wrath and lust. You flex your mighty wings in readiness for hurling another hapless acolyte to the rocks below, after the requisite erotic and pecuniary exchanges. But a note of worry remains! And, as mischievous Mercury batters his way into your eccentric sign by means of the back door, that note of worry expands to become a symphony of concern. Great gods alive and dead, what are you doing? After all, little airhead types, you are a creature of love and compassion, accepting the wide and mad diversity of all humanity in your water-bearing embrace. How is it that you throw people from the heights after fondling their private bits and fleecing them of funds?
Ye gods and little fishes! You're stunned (stunned, I say) by this epiphany of the paradox within you, and the consequent contradictory tug of war that follows in its wake. You've become a split personality! One half of you is a mad emperor, with the power of life and death in your keeping, filled with despite for lowly humankind, disposing, on a whim, of worthless human lives. And yet the other is the happy water-bearing child from la-la land, desirous only of living a gorgeous life in the company of beautiful friends that should not be thrown from the heights after being robbed and despoiled!
By my little brown bottle, what's happening to you, my tiny ning-nongs! Are you in fact mad? Are there in fact two of you (perish the thought)? Or is this in fact just another load of unutterable drivel, written to hold back the tide of creeping ennui in a benighted universe ruled by insane gods? Should you wish to know the answer to this and indeed any other questions of import, do click here next time and read the written word. In the meantime, ave!