Great farting donkeys, it's you, my heartless spider people! Welcome, O unsettling atrocities from the arachnid kingdom!
Last time we left, you had become a café owner in Casablanca, selling Herring Zombies (a Nordic cocktail to render paralytic the unwary drinker) to the world and hobnobbing with poets, artists, musicians and assorted low types. You must remember this! Should memory have failed you, kindly refer to last month's forecast and try to keep up in future.
Attend to me, ghastly rulers of unspeakable body parts! It is I, Asperitus! The haruspex of harangue! And these are the vile and bitter prognostications for awful August, as determined by the eight knots in my handkerchief. Gloomy Saturn grinds his aging bones against the ghastly joints of imbecilic Uranus, the god of idiots, and you are lord of all you survey behind the bar of Café Hell in Casablanca. As the great Sol Invicti cavorts indecently under the leering gaze of crapulous Jupiter, lord of fortune, the subtle smug look that indicates your unshakable belief in your right to total control plays about the lambent cheekbones in your otherwise impassive face. Marauding Mars inserts the nastily erect bit of his personality into the nether regions of cranky Chiron and you have arrayed about the room the various associates that serve as sex toys when the mood takes you.
But what's this? Ye gods and little fishes, it's a Full Moon in lunatic Aquarius, coming just as marauding Mars penetrates the hidden unseemly entrances in jolly Jupiter, concealed beneath expansive rolls of flesh. Thus you invite a bevy of willing associates to your private chambers. There, you mount the magic carpet (obtained at the bazaar in Algiers) and take all and sundry on the ride of their lives! You hover, in orgiastic levitation, in the stratosphere above this ancient mystic city. Clearly, Casablanca is now a suitable repository for the base desires that drive your unspeakable nature and ungodly yearnings. Slowly, inexorably, the pattern of life, so familiar from past incarnations, begins to emerge once more. There are strange visitations, late night doings with doors locked and dread secrets, confined to the cellar. Ghastly planets in lackwit Leo meet with thresh and flail the assault of nasty planets in idiot Aquarius and the polished professional vendor of the Herring Zombie is a smiling business success by day and a dread demon by night. Mischievous Mercury and vamping Venus grope cranky Chiron by turns and you order gags, body bags and implements of torture that are delivered to the stygian dark of the cellar. The screams of the unfortunate victims chained below become almost audible so that you soon install a new sound system and baffling that would reduce to silence the pandemonium that issues from the twenty-ninth level of Hell itself.
Safe for the moment in your seamless guise, you move easily from the daytime world of café, artists and Herring Zombies to the nocturnal underworld of screaming, bladder-freezing terror and the black despair of the helpless victim. As ghastly planets in lackwit Leo meet with thresh and flail the attack of nasty planets in idiot Aquarius, you operate the psychic elevator that transports you between the worlds. It's upstairs then downstairs, upstairs then downstairs, with an occasional 'time out' to sink a Herring Zombie, write a ransom note, order a new body bag or study the latest edition of the Arachnid Catalogue of Embezzlement, Betrayal, Poisons and Instruments of Torture. Vamping Venus simpers lustfully under the leer of jolly Jupiter and you invest considerable funds in a number of sets of art deco pilliwinks (thumbscrews) that double as manicurist's kits and a Georgian Rack that curls the victim's hair whilst lengthening their limbs and also dispenses brandy to the torturer. The great Sol Invicti grinds a ghastly passage (eek) into anal Virgo, bringing a New Moon in that same vexatious sign. You dream of founding yet another ghastly cult, this time in Casablanca, as you seek to resume relations with the Prince of Darkness, the Lord of Hell, the Demon King!
As marauding Mars farts and fornicates fantastically on the Loony South Node whilst indecently assaulting dark Pluto, lord of the underworld, you set about renewing an old acquaintance that can never be forgot. After all, is this not the legend of the mystic city? Of all the Herring Zombie joints in all the world, the devil may walk into this one and play merry hell once more upon the dark seas of your spirit! Click here next time and see if the Prince of Darkness will play it again, Sam, and put your heart back on the rack! Morituri te salutant, my tiny rulers of the anus! See you in Hell!
|
|
