Hola and hooray, tiny nitwits of the nipper! Last time, you were stranded on a desert isle and absolutely crackers, or one heretic short of a burning, as I used to joke with Tomas de Torquemada at the Spanish Inquisition (between sprightly snippets of talk on the relative mercies of the Iron Maiden and the Judas Cradle).
But enough pleasant reminiscences! You, little crab type things, had been abandoned by your staff and friends alike in a dastardly act of marooning. In your solitude, you had gone potty, conceiving (as it were) an eccentric devotional interest in an odd cluster of stones and speaking a feral tongue of your own device (another form of torture) whilst living like a wild thing. You had also become greatly concerned as to the state of the great steaming pile of dosh you had secreted away back on the mainland during your days as a nasty business person and master mesmerist. You were rightly worried that greedy relatives and associates would seek to get their grubby little paws in amongst it, rendering it somewhat less than it was upon the occasion of your departure. Thus, we are up to date with the past.
Now, let us come to grips with the grim and gruesome doings of the future. It is jaundiced July, my tiny wretches! And these are the vile and bitter prognostications that pertain thereto. The month begins with a New Moon in your neurotic sign, a grim stygian darkness that clashes with the arrogant fire of marauding Mars, god of belligerence and psychotic violence. Thus do you pray (jolly Jupiter grappling with Uranus, the idiot god) to the stones you have deified in your demented state. You seek foul vengeance on those who have wronged you and pray to the stones to bring it forth from the bowels of Hell! Eek! You make ghastly little dolls from palm leaves and stick them with bamboo needles, as Mars performs obscene acts upon the Lunar North Node and the great Sol Invicti. As mischievous Mercury and vamping Venus wrestle with narcotic Neptune, you chant bizarre and outré snatches of your guttural tongue, laying in spells of protection on your stash of filthy lucre.
Little do you realize, tiny crab type things, the power of the stones you have invoked. For, at that moment, comes an unspeakable screeching and grinding from the Heavens.
'What does this presage?' you cry. Well, I'll tell you! It's grim Saturn, calling your attention to his ghastly passage (eek) into lackwit Leo and your solar second house. That's what it is! And thus does a bowel-clenching, gut-wrenching supernatural event occur to brighten up your hitherto miserable existence. Mammon, god of money, appears, manifested from the very stones you have chosen to worship. You stand transfixed between terror and wonder till a Full Moon comes in lugubrious Capricorn and the god decides to speak.
In fact, this takes about five days but then the gods are never in a hurry to do anything unless it involves punishing the recalcitrant or visiting a spiteful reversal of fortune on the lower life forms out of sheer boredom. You tremble, avert your eyes, bow, scrape and abase yourself, as is proper on the occasion of such an encounter, but all the time you're pondering upon the reason for this divine visitation. Hmm! The great Sol Invicti enters lackwit Leo, conjoining in ghastly fashion with grim Saturn! Mischievous Mercury turns retrograde to boot in that same atrocious sign. The god himself hums and hahs, as though he doesn't quite know what to say or how to say it. Uncertainty is far more common in the average run of deity than one may think, despite all assertions to the contrary.
'Well,' he mutters, using those dreary sepulchral tones the minor gods feel compelled to use in the mistaken belief they are impressive. No further vocal action follows but he gestures vaguely toward the stones you've been praying to and they are transformed to demurely dressed handmaidens, just as vamping Venus moves to anal Virgo.
'Well,' he mutters again, 'I expect we'd better get on with it. If you're going to worship mammon, that's me by the way, you'd better have a lot more money to do it with.'
Shriek and double shriek, my tiny nerveless things! The god of money is going to make you rich! Sound and fury, signifying incipient deafness at least, unleashes itself in the Heavens. It's marauding Mars entering cloddish Taurus and rutting with grim Saturn in the nastiest way.
'Oh,' Mammon continues over the infernal racket, 'by the way, we must organize a fitting revenge on those so-called friends who stranded you here.' He gestures once again and the demurely dressed handmaidens begin to dance in an eccentric manner, as vamping Venus clashes with Uranus, the idiot god.
'Nothing less than castration will do,' intones Mammon. 'I think we'll invent a home circumcision kit. It'll make you a fortune and provide the mechanism of a particularly sweet vengeance I have in mind, after we get you off the island.'
Well, my nitwits of the nipper! It seems we have learned something here today. The power of prayer! The gods answered your bizarre supplications in no uncertain fashion. The only question is now that of the old adage, 'be careful what you ask for'. Does that apply in this case? Click here next month and see.