The Illuminatus! Trilogy Part 20

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.

[image]

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)

[image]

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.

"Listen," Don Federico said, "who is this?"

"Dutch died three times," Drake said in a sepulchral tone. "When Mendy Weiss shot him, when Vince Coil's ghost shot him and when that dumb junkie, the Teacher, shot him. But Dillinger never even died once."

"Mister, you got a deal," Maldonado said. "I'm sold. I'll meet you anywhere I'll meet you anywhere. In broad daylight broad daylight. In Central Park. Any place Any place you'll feel safe." you'll feel safe."

"No, you will not meet me just now," Drake said coolly. "You are going to discuss this with Mr. Lepke and Mr. Capone, first. You will also discuss it with-" he read, off a card in his hand, fifteen names. "Then, after you have all had time to consider it, you will be hearing from me." Drake farted, as he always did in the nervous moments when an important deal was being arranged, and hung up quickly.

Now, he said to himself, insurance insurance.

A photostat of his second a.n.a.lysis of the last words of Dutch Schultz-the private one, not the public version which he had turned in to the Department of Psychology at Harvard-was on the hotel desk before him. He folded it smartly and pinned on top of it a note saying, "There are five copies in the vaults of five different banks." He then inserted it in an envelope, addressed it to Luciano and strolled out to drop it down the hotel mail chute.

Returning to his room he dialed Louis Lepke, born Louis Buchalter, of the organization later to be named Murder Inc. by the sensational press. When Lepke answered, Drake recited solemnly, still quoting the Dutchman, "I get a month. They did it. Come on, Illuminati."

"Who the h.e.l.l is this?" Lepke's voice cried as Drake gently cradled the phone. A few moments later, he completed checking out of the hotel and flew home on the noon flight, to spend five grueling twenty-hour days reorganizing and streamlining his father's bank. On the fifth night he relaxed and took a young lady of the Lodge family to dance to Ted Weems's orchestra and listen to their new young vocalist, Perry Como. Afterwards, he f.u.c.ked her thirteen to the dozen and seven ways to a Sunday. The next morning, he took out a small book, in which he had systematically listed all the richest families in America, and placed her first name and a check after Lodge Lodge, as he had done with Morgan Morgan the week before. A Rockefeller would be next. the week before. A Rockefeller would be next.

He was on the noon flight to New York and spent the day negotiating with Morgan Trust officials. That night he saw a breadline on Fortieth Street and became profoundly agitated. Back in his hotel, he made one of his rare, almost furtive diary entries: Revolution could occur at any time. If Huey Long hadn't been shot last year, we might have it already. If Capone had let the Dutchman hit Dewey, the Justice Department would be strong enough now, due to the reaction, to ensure that the State would be secure. If Roosevelt can't maneuver us into the war when it starts, all will be lost. And the war may be three or four years away yet. If we could bring Dillinger back, the reaction might strengthen Hoover and Justice, but John seems to be with the other side. My plan may be the last chance, and the Illuminati haven't contacted me yet, although they must have tuned in. Oh, Weishaupt, what a sp.a.w.n of muddleheads are trying to carry on your work.

He tore the page out nervously, farted and crumbled it in the ashtray, where he burned it slowly. Then, still agitated, he dialed Mr. Charles Luciano on the phone and said softly, "I am a pretty good pretzler, Winifred. Department of Justice. I even got it from the department."

"Don't hang up," Luciano said softly. "We've been waiting to hear from you. Are you still there?"

"Yes," Drake said carefully, with tight lips and a tighter sphincter.

"Okay," Mr. Lucky said. "You know about the Illuminati. You know what the Dutchman was trying to say to the police. You even seem to know about the Liberteri Liberteri and Johnnie Dillinger. How much do you want?" and Johnnie Dillinger. How much do you want?"

"Everything," Drake replied. "And you are all going to offer it to me. But not yet. Not tonight." And he hung up.

(The wheel of time, as the Mayans knew, spins three ways; and just as the earth revolves on its own axis, simultaneously orbits about the sun and at the "same" time trails after the sun as that star traverses the galaxy's edge, the wheel of time, which is a wheel of ifs ifs, is come round again, as Drake's phone clicks off, to Gruad the Grayface calculating the path of a comet and telling his followers: "See? Even the heavenly bodies are subject to law, and even the lloigor, so must not men and women also be subject to law?" And in a smaller cycle, Semper Cuni Linctus, centurion stationed in a G.o.dforsaken outpost of the Empire, listens in boredom as a subaltern tells him excitedly: "That guy we crucified last Friday-people all over town are swearing they've seen him walking around. One guy even claims to have put a hand through his side!" Semper Cuni Linctus smiles cynically. "Tell that to the gladiators," he says. And Albert Stern turns on the gas, takes one last fix, and full of morphine and euphoria, dies slowly, confident that he will always be remembered as the man who shot Dutch Schultz, not knowing that Abe Reles will reveal the truth five years later.) Camp-town racetrack five miles long ... ...

During Joe's second trip on the Leif Erikson Leif Erikson, they went all the way to Africa, and Hagbard had an important conference with five gorillas. At least, he said afterwards that it was important; Joe couldn't judge, since the conversation was in Swahili. "They speak some English," Hagbard explained back on the sub, "but I prefer Swahili, since they're more eloquent in it and can express more nuances."

"Are you the first man to teach an ape to speak," Joe asked, "in addition to your other accomplishments?"

"Oh, not at all," Hagbard said modestly. "It's an old Discordian secret. The first person to communicate with a gorilla was an Erisian missionary named Malaclypse the Elder, who was born in Athens and got exiled for opposing the imposition of male supremacy when the Athenians created patriarchy and locked up their women. He then wandered all over the ancient world, learning all sorts of secrets and leaving behind a priceless collection of mind-blowing legends-he's the Phoenix Madman mentioned in the Confucian scriptures, and he pa.s.sed himself off as Krishna to recite that gorgeous Bible of revolutionary ethics, the Bhagavad Gita, to Arjuna in India, among other feats. I believe you met him in Chicago while he was pretending to be the Christian Devil."

"But how have you Discordians concealed the fact that gorillas talk?"

"We're rather close-mouthed, you might say, and when we do speak it's usually to put somebody on or blow their minds-"

"I've noticed that," Joe said.

"And the gorillas themselves are too shrewd to talk to anybody but another anarchist. They're all anarchists themselves, you know, and they have a very healthy wariness about people in general and government people in particular. As one of them told me once, 'If it got out that we can talk, the conservatives would exterminate most of us and make the rest pay rent rent to live on our own land; and the liberals would try to train us to be engine-lathe operators. Who the f.u.c.k wants to operate an engine lathe?' They prefer their own pastoral and Eristic ways, and I, for one, would never interfere with them. We do communicate, though, just as we communicate with the dolphins. Both species are intelligent enough to realize that it's in their interest, as part of earth's biosphere, to help the handful of human anarchists to try to stop, or at least slow down, the bloodletting and slaughter of our Aneristic rulers and Aneristic mobs." to live on our own land; and the liberals would try to train us to be engine-lathe operators. Who the f.u.c.k wants to operate an engine lathe?' They prefer their own pastoral and Eristic ways, and I, for one, would never interfere with them. We do communicate, though, just as we communicate with the dolphins. Both species are intelligent enough to realize that it's in their interest, as part of earth's biosphere, to help the handful of human anarchists to try to stop, or at least slow down, the bloodletting and slaughter of our Aneristic rulers and Aneristic mobs."

"Sometimes I still get confused about your theological terms-or are they psychological? The Aneristic forces, especially the Illuminati, are structure freaks: they want to impose their concept of order on everybody else. But I still get confused about the differences between the Erisian, the Eristic and the Discordian. Not to mention the JAMs."

"The Eristic is the opposite of the Aneristic," Hagbard explained patiently, "and, therefore, identical with it. Remember the Hodge-Podge. Writers like De Sade, Max Stirner and Nietzsche are Eristic; so are the gorillas. They represent total supremacy of the individual, total negation of the group. It isn't necessarily the war-of-all-against-all, as Aneristic philosophers imagine, but it can, under stress, degenerate into that. More often, it's quite pacifistic, like our hairy friends in the trees back there. The Erisian position is modified; it recognizes that Aneristic forces are part of the world drama, too, and can never be totally abolished. We merely stress the Eristic as a balance, because human society has been tilted grotesquely toward the Aneristic side all through the Piscean age. We Discordians are the activists in the Erisian movement; we do things. The pure Erisians work in more mysterious ways, in accordance with the Taoist principle of wu-wei wu-wei-doing nothing effectively. The JAMs are left-wingers, who might have become Aneristic except for special circ.u.mstances that led them in a libertarian direction. But they've f.u.c.ked it all up with typical left-wing hatred trips. They haven't mastered the Gita: Gita: the art of fighting with a loving heart." the art of fighting with a loving heart."

"Strange," Joe said. "Dr. Iggy, in the San Francisco JAM cabal, explained it to me differently."

"What would you expect?" Hagbard replied. "No two who know know, know the same in their knowing. By the way, why haven't you told me that you're sure those gorillas back there were just men I dressed up in gorilla suits?"

"I'm becoming more gullible," Joe said.

"Too bad," Hagbard told him sadly. "They really were were men in gorilla suits. I was testing how easily you could be bamboozled, and you flunked." men in gorilla suits. I was testing how easily you could be bamboozled, and you flunked."

"Now, wait a minute. They smelled like gorillas. That was no fake. You're putting me on now" now"

"That's right," Hagbard agreed. "I wanted to see if you'd trust your own senses or the word of a Natural-Born Leader and Guru like me. You trusted your own senses, and you pa.s.s. My put-ons are not just jokes, friend. The hardest thing for a man with dominance genes and piratical heredity like me is to avoid becoming a G.o.ddam authority figure. I need all the feedback and information I can get-from men, women, children, gorillas, dolphins, computers, any conscious ent.i.ty-but n.o.body contradicts an Authority, you know. Communication is possible only between equals: Communication is possible only between equals: that's the first theorem of social cybernetics-and the whole basis of anarchism-and I have to keep knocking down people's dependence on me or I'll become a f.u.c.king Big Daddy and won't get accurate communication anymore. If the pig-headed Illuminati and their Aneristic imitators in all the governments, corporations, universities and armies of the world understood that simple principle, they'd occasionally find out what's actually going on and stop s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up every project they start. I am Freeman Hagbard Celine and I am not anybody's b.l.o.o.d.y leader. As soon as you fully understand that I'm your equal, and that my s.h.i.+t stinks just like yours, and that I need a lay every few days or I get grouchy and make dumb decisions, and that there is One more trustworthy than all the Buddhas and sages but you have to find him for yourself, then you'll begin to understand what the Legion of Dynamic Discord is all about." that's the first theorem of social cybernetics-and the whole basis of anarchism-and I have to keep knocking down people's dependence on me or I'll become a f.u.c.king Big Daddy and won't get accurate communication anymore. If the pig-headed Illuminati and their Aneristic imitators in all the governments, corporations, universities and armies of the world understood that simple principle, they'd occasionally find out what's actually going on and stop s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up every project they start. I am Freeman Hagbard Celine and I am not anybody's b.l.o.o.d.y leader. As soon as you fully understand that I'm your equal, and that my s.h.i.+t stinks just like yours, and that I need a lay every few days or I get grouchy and make dumb decisions, and that there is One more trustworthy than all the Buddhas and sages but you have to find him for yourself, then you'll begin to understand what the Legion of Dynamic Discord is all about."

"One more trustworthy than all the Buddhas and sages ...?" Joe repeated, finding himself most confused when he had been closest to total comprehension a second earlier.

"To receive light you must be receptive," Hagbard said curtly. "Work that one out for yourself. Meanwhile, take this back to New York and chew on it a bit." And he presented Joe with a book ent.i.tled Never Whistle While You're p.i.s.sing: A Guide to Self-Liberation Never Whistle While You're p.i.s.sing: A Guide to Self-Liberation, by Hagbard Celine, H.M., S.H.

Joe read the book carefully in the following weeks-while Pat Walsh, in Confrontation's Confrontation's research department, checked out every a.s.sertion about the Illuminati that Joe had picked up from Hagbard, Simon, Dillinger and Dr. Ignotius-but, although some of the book was brilliant, much was obscure, and he found no clue to the One more trustworthy than all Buddhas. Then, one night high on Alamout Black has.h.i.+sh, he started working on it with expanded and intensified consciousness. Malaclypse the Elder? No, he was wise, and somewhat benevolent in a fey sort of style, but certainly not trustworthy. Simon? For all his youth and nuttiness, he had moments of incredible perception, but he was almost certainly less enlightened than Hagbard. Dillinger? Dr. Ignotius? The mysterious Malaclypse the Younger, who had disappeared, leaving behind only the inscrutable research department, checked out every a.s.sertion about the Illuminati that Joe had picked up from Hagbard, Simon, Dillinger and Dr. Ignotius-but, although some of the book was brilliant, much was obscure, and he found no clue to the One more trustworthy than all Buddhas. Then, one night high on Alamout Black has.h.i.+sh, he started working on it with expanded and intensified consciousness. Malaclypse the Elder? No, he was wise, and somewhat benevolent in a fey sort of style, but certainly not trustworthy. Simon? For all his youth and nuttiness, he had moments of incredible perception, but he was almost certainly less enlightened than Hagbard. Dillinger? Dr. Ignotius? The mysterious Malaclypse the Younger, who had disappeared, leaving behind only the inscrutable Principia Discordia? Principia Discordia?

Christ, Joe thought, what a male chauvinist I am! Why didn't I think of Stella? The old joke came back to him ... "Did you see G.o.d?" "Yes, and she's black." Of course Of course. Hadn't Stella presided over his initiation, in Dr. Iggy's chapel? Hadn't Hagbard said she would preside over George Dorn's initiation, when George was ready? Of course Of course.

Joe always remembered that moment of ecstasy and certainty: it taught him a lot about the use and misuse of drugs and why the Muminati went wrong. For the unconscious, which always tries to turn every good lay into a mother figure, had contaminated the insight which his supraconscious had almost given him. It was many months later, just before the Fernando Poo crisis, that he finally discovered beyond all doubt the One who was more trustworthy than all Buddhas and all sages.

Do-da, do-da, do-da-do-da-DAY....

(And Semper Cuni Linctus, the very night that he reamed his subaltern for taking native superst.i.tions seriously, pa.s.sed an olive garden and saw the Seventeen ... and with them was the Eighteenth, the one they had crucified the Friday before. Magna Mater Magna Mater, he swore, creeping closer, am I losing my mind? am I losing my mind? The Eighteenth, whats.h.i.+sname, the preacher, had set up a wheel and was distributing cards to them. Now, he turned the wheel and called out the number at which it stopped. The centurion watched, in growing amazement, as the process was repeated several times, and the cards were marked each time the wheel stopped. Finally, the big one, Simon, shouted "Bingo!" The scion of the n.o.ble Linctus family turned and fled ... Behind him, the luminous figure said, "Do this in commemoration of me." The Eighteenth, whats.h.i.+sname, the preacher, had set up a wheel and was distributing cards to them. Now, he turned the wheel and called out the number at which it stopped. The centurion watched, in growing amazement, as the process was repeated several times, and the cards were marked each time the wheel stopped. Finally, the big one, Simon, shouted "Bingo!" The scion of the n.o.ble Linctus family turned and fled ... Behind him, the luminous figure said, "Do this in commemoration of me."

"I thought we were supposed to do the bread and wine bit in commemoration of you?" Simon objected.

"Do both," the ghostly one said. "The bread and wine is too symbolic and arcane for some folks. This one is what will bring in the mob. You see, fellows, if you want to bring the Movement to the people, you have to start from where the people are at. You, Luke, don't write that down. This is part of the secret secret teachings.") teachings.") Slurp, slurp ... Camp-town ladies sing this song Camp-town ladies sing this song ... ...

(But how do you account for a man like Drake? one of Carl Jung's guests asked at the Sunday afternoon one of Carl Jung's guests asked at the Sunday afternoon Kaffeeklatsch Kaffeeklatsch where the strange young American had inspired so much speculation. Jung sucked on his pipe thoughtfully-wondering, actually, how he could ever cure his a.s.sociates of treating him like a guru-and answered finally, "A fine mind strikes on an idea like the arrow hitting bull's-eye. The Americans have not yet produced such a mind, because they are too a.s.sertive, too outgoing. They land on an idea, even an important idea, like one of their fullbacks making a tackle. Hence, they always crumple or cripple it. Drake has such a mind. He has learned everything about power-more than Adler knows, for all his obsession on the subject-but he has not learned the important thing. That is, of course, how to where the strange young American had inspired so much speculation. Jung sucked on his pipe thoughtfully-wondering, actually, how he could ever cure his a.s.sociates of treating him like a guru-and answered finally, "A fine mind strikes on an idea like the arrow hitting bull's-eye. The Americans have not yet produced such a mind, because they are too a.s.sertive, too outgoing. They land on an idea, even an important idea, like one of their fullbacks making a tackle. Hence, they always crumple or cripple it. Drake has such a mind. He has learned everything about power-more than Adler knows, for all his obsession on the subject-but he has not learned the important thing. That is, of course, how to avoid avoid power. What he needs, and will probably never achieve, is religious humility. Impossible in his country, where even the introverts are extroverted most of the time.") power. What he needs, and will probably never achieve, is religious humility. Impossible in his country, where even the introverts are extroverted most of the time.") It was a famous novelist, who was later to win the n.o.bel Prize, who actually gave Drake his first lead on what the Mafia always called il Segreto il Segreto. They had been talking about Joyce and his unfortunate daughter, and the novelist mentioned Joyce's attempts to convince himself that she wasn't really schizophrenic. "He told Jung, 'After all, I do the same sorts of things with language myself.' Do you know what Jung, that old Chinese sage disguised as a psychiatrist, answered? 'You are diving, but she is sinking.' Incisive, of course; and yet, all of us who write anything that goes below the surface of naturalism can understand Joyce's skepticism. We never know for sure whether we're diving or just sinking."

That reminded Drake of his thesis, and he went and got the last words of Mr. Arthur Flegenheimer, a.k.a. Dutch Schultz, from his bureau. He handed the sheets to the novelist and asked, "Would you say the author of this was diving or sinking?"

The novelist read slowly, with increasing absorption, and finally looked up to regard Drake with extremely curious eyes. "Is it a translation from the French?" he asked.

"No," Drake said. "The author was an American."

"So it's not poor Artaud. I thought it might be. He's been around the bend, as the English say, since he went to Mexico. I understand he's currently working on some quite remarkable astrological charts involving Chancellor Hitler." The novelist lapsed into silence, and then asked, "What do you regard as the most interesting line in this?"

"'A boy has never wept nor dashed a thousand kim,'" Drake quoted, since that was the line that bothered him most.

"Oh, that boy imagery is all personal, just repressed h.o.m.os.e.xuality, quite ordinary," the novelist said impatiently. "'I was in the can and the boy came at me.' I think the author hurt the boy in some way. All the references are tinged with more than normal h.o.m.os.e.xual guilt."

My G.o.d, Drake thought, Vince Coll. He was young enough to seem like a boy to Schultz - The Dutchman thought Coil's ghost was shooting at him in that John in Newark Vince Coll. He was young enough to seem like a boy to Schultz - The Dutchman thought Coil's ghost was shooting at him in that John in Newark.