Ye gods and little fishes, my anal intensives! It seems as if every month it has been the same damned thing for as long as I can recall. This is actually only as far back as my last nap if truth be told but I have a secretary to keep me up to date.
The Full Moon comes. Your fur grows, as do your fangs. You rage and froth, tear out the throat of a poor unsuspecting sod that you hunt down by moonlight ('ill met by' I think is the phrase), then stitch and bandage the wounds, nurse the poor wee creature back to health until the cycle comes round again. This has been going on since the burning of the caravan of the new Luddites, the wild days at your mountain retreat and the madness of werewolf dreaming (another foray that ended in disaster). From there, you set forth to find the rare flower, the mariphasa lupino lumino that would heal you (and all those you had bitten) of lycanthropy. You then added a bondage rite to suitably curb the bloodthirsty tendencies and this is now a feature of your monthly cycle that you have come to enjoy.
On a flight to the Himalayas, you were kidnapped by a radical order of monks called the Herbicidal Hooligans with whom you now dwell in an encampment outside Hull. You have been admitted to the inner sanctum of their group, begun an affair with one high up in the order and now struggle to conceal the particular condition of bestial lunacy that afflicts you. I think that brings us up to date with the story so far but I do wish that you, my termagants of hygiene, could make some effort to live a more normal and useful life in keeping with the humble pragmatism of your sign! It would save us both considerable anxiety and irritation of a less than sublime kind.
Meantime, we must carry on as usual, with vile and bitter prognosticating and what have you, to keep up the appearance of the norm. The game's afoot, my ghastly surface-wiping lunatics. This is devilish December! You're in the chamber of the mighty one that is high in the order of hooligans. She/he recounts the story I myself have told (indisputable proof of mightiness) as marauding Mars cavorts inanely with jolly Jupiter and a New Moon comes in silly Sagittarius. The mighty one sees all, knows all, my vexatious creatures! The story of your life and your struggles with lycanthropy is known to the mighty one. As the mischievous messenger moves forward, you engage in a discussion on the nature and causes of lycanthropy with one so versed in the magic of herbs and the natural world that the experience equals, if not exceeds, the ecstasy of your recent sexual congress. And yet you, humble as you are, make a magical contribution by recounting the folklore of the mariphasa lupino lumino, the flower that heals the dread condition, an essential piece of the puzzle not known to the mighty one.
She/he appears excited at the news but before you can enquire as to why, by my sainted aunt, there's clatter in the cosmos. Great gods and hairy demons! All hell breaks loose as ghastly planets fart in nasty aspect, befouling the cosmic winds. Cranky Chiron returns to Aquarius, sign of the idiot god, as marauding Mars resumes his characteristic forward thrust, terrifying the elderly and reducing religious persons to a sermonizing frenzy. Your intimate discussion is suddenly subsumed by a sea of passion that rises to a storm between you. There and then you embark on a course of personal instruction in the art of herbal magic that no sensitive person (like myself) would dignify with description. Suffice it to say you are relieved (hmm) of normal duty in the fields to play in the fields of hedonistic ecstasy, as Jolly Jupiter rubs his corpulence against the wrinkles of aging Saturn. Vamping Venus also enters the loony corridors of Aquarius and you are made personal assistant to the mighty one (a preferred placement), experiencing the quiet frenzies of Chiron as part of an ordered daily routine.
But, great Caesar's ghost, there's yet another explosion of insanity in the gutters of Heaven. It's a Full Moon in loony Gemini! Gadzooks! It's time for your furry adventures! You must fly. But what's this? The mighty one forbids the escape that will conceal the lycanthropic transformation. Instead, she/he binds you with cords, winding the mighty personage (her/himself) and you, tiny addlepates, into a knot of the 'Gordian' variety. Promising! And, by my little brown bottle, the darkest mystery of all is revealed. As you grow fur, so does the mighty one! Eek! As you grow fangs, so does the mighty one! Ugh! As you howl in frenzy at the leprous moon, so does the mighty one! Aargh! You're two of a kind, tiny noxious ninnies! The romance between you is sealed in the unspeakable grappling of hairy, feral bodies till the great Sol Invicti wanders into the tragic sign of the Goat, visiting yet another ghastly solstice on an over-burdened world.
Ghastly planets too tedious to name fart in nasty aspect too odious to recount! Lugubrious Saturn is involved. Psychotic Mars puts his hairy oar in. Vamping Venus performs an unspeakable act of perverse reversal. Suffice it to say that, as a New Moon comes on New Year's Eve in grim Capricorn, you have heard the tale of the mighty one's tragic encounter in the caves of Lupercal and the two of you have decided to set out on a quest. You will leave behind the sect of monks and go to the Himalayas in search of the legendary flower of healing that will save you, the mighty one and all the world from the dread disease of lycanthropy. How charming, delightful and uplifting to be involved in yet another world-saving mission!
Just to hear of it reminds me of the time every bone in my body was broken after I predicted the outcome of the battle of Salamis to King Xerxes I of Persia. Time enough for pleasant reminiscences later when I am prone with my brown bottle and silver tube. Should you wish to know more about this mission with your newly acquired soulmate, do click here next month. Ave, Virgins!
|
|
