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| Happily a free man, I contact Vladamir Tronsky to see how things are going. I'm surprised by the progress and for the fact that he's continued with the project, even though I've been quieter than a kidnapped mute for the past few months.
Vlad brings me up to speed with the following details:
- The money promised by our crazy benefactor has come through after a couple of misfires: she initially put $4,000 in the account, as opposed to the $4,000,000 promised. She was contacted by Vlad, and then sent a cheque for another $4,000. After a second approach he received a small bag of diamonds with a hand-written note (apparently written as if "scribed by a thumbless child ") stating that the rocks were worth $2,750,300. This still left us over a million dollars short, and thus my entrepid Russian friend went to see our lady in person to discuss the shortfall in promised monies. After an hour of discussion - during which the lady apparently sniffed at magazines and gargled gin - she pointed to an unfastidious and mephitic hound and said "Sell him - he no longer pleases me and I think he frightens Loudina Lo Sfavorevole", she then clicked her fingers, whereupon a hatch opened in the ceiling and a shrewdness of apes feel screaming to the ground. The angered primates then proceeded to drag our benefactor from her chair into a darkened room. She was not heard from again, so Vlad took the dog and left. He soon found that the dog was a rare breed - a Spanish Waterdog - and on the open market would be worth $1,241,700, which bought us up to the $4,000,000 necessary.
- In my absence, he set up and ran auditions for our cast of 'Starlight Express'. After placing an add in the trade paper 'The Stage' he received over four hundred resumes from aspiring actors and actresses. Having reduced the list of possibilities to around a hundred people (discarded performers included one who "cut off the head of my parents, but was released after a successful insanity plea" and another who "eats nothing but cashew nuts") auditions were run in a rehearsal room at the Battersea Arts Centre. Along with an assistant, Iosif Dzhugashvili, they spent three days seeing a range of talents. Apparently Iosif fancied himself as a Simon Cowell type character and took great glee in shooting down people's hopes and aspirations. Insults and debasements included references to his dead mother, disabled orphans, incontinent canines, an abandoned holiday park in the Caucasus and an episode of the Austrailian soap opera 'Neighbours' involving two old men halucinating after unwittingly consuming magic mushrooms. The long and short being that a cast has been put together. Discussions were had as whether to tell the performers the ratiocination for hiring them, but this was decided against. In Vlad's experience, actors can keep secrets about as well as a chocolate teapot retains tea.
- Having received such a large sum of money, and expecting to receive even more, Vlad has set up a number of laundering companies to hide our proscribed foray into drug dealing. Being a man of some experience in this field, Vlad informs me that companies such as estate agents, insurance companies and textiles manufactorers are extremely passé, and can arouse a police force's suspicion within days of being formed. Thus he has come up with some businesses that are slightly more creative in nature. There are two main fronts. The first is an insect breeding company that will supply various pet stores, zoos and scientific research centres - the company is called 'Your Local Lo-Cost Locusts Ltd'. We expect to franchise the company across North American and Europe within five years, and hope that one day it will be a legitimate company. The other is an even more specialised outfit supplying 'aural stimulants' to the blind community. Products will include episodes of 'Friends' with occasional bursts of bobsleigh commentary, 'The Sound Of Music' with any utterance of the word 'family' replaced by frot-happy beer dunces on Spring Break screaming 'Fuck yeah!', a programme entitled 'Shapes Described By Drunks' where hopeless alcoholics attempt to describes such objects as a starfish and the Kanizsa Triangle and, what we hope to be our biggest seller, a quasi-religious programme in which Morgan Freeman reads the explicit confessions of paedophiles intermixed with passages from the New Testament.
Delaware Doondonson has been in touch and informs me that he has married. The lucky lady is called Ludmilla and is apparently one of a pair of conjoined twins. How this came about is still reasonably unclear, but seems to have involved Delaware angering a group of local fishermen near the city of Keetmanshoop in Namibia, reducing their village to cinders and ending up (surprise, surprise) with a four day chase, whereupon my friend found himself face-to-face with Ludmilla. There then occured some complicated continuance of the chase, mixed mating rituals at dusk and 'the launching of a cat into the stratosphere'. It does not, however, seem that this bonding was carried out under duress and it sounds as if Delaware is truly in love. Still, my mind boggles at how the marriage was consumated.
I must go - an ossuary needs filling...
So long crotch sniffers.
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| A palpable stench of fear drifts across the cell as the crazed hippy looks me up and down. He's been shouting for nearly an hour at the officials outside before he notices me. He is obsessed with talking to a someone called Daniel - perhaps his lawyer. Over the hour I hear more permutations of the name that I ever thought possible. These include: Dan, Danny, Danno, Dan-Dan, Nadanadan, Ny, Niel, Danono, Banana Dan, Danny-o, Dan Tey, D-Dog, Dada, Dan The Man, Dan The Man Who Can and Dan The Man Who Can With A Flan Made Of Jam From A Clam Wrapped In Ham But Tasting Like Lamb.
I've been in this cell for nearly three months. Whilst lying in my hotel room in February I was awoken late one night by a strange noise in the next room. Not quite a scream, a grunt nor a whistle it continued through the early hours until, at around 5am, I decided to investigate.
I began by politely knocking on the door in the manner of a French butler trying to awaken his master after a hard night on the brandy, ending with a four hour romp with the embassador's daughter. However, my Gallic buffeting was to no avail. My second attempt at arousing the participants of the room involved a series of staccato rapping, not disimilar to those one often hears woodpeckers performing against tree trunks; when this produced no results I actually started hitting the door with my head - again zilch. My final attempt was an act comparable to that of starved gorilla who, on its last legs, discovered a locked room full of ripe bananas - frenzied, saliva-laden and loud.
After twenty minutes of exhaustive door-abuse, it finally crept open. An old man, dressed in a catsuit with angel wings looked out at me. "Been knockin', aintcha" he said in a Northern English drawl. I affirmed that I had indeed, at which point he looked down the hallway suspiciously, then beckoned me in; half hoping for a vault of bananas I intrepidly entered the hotel room.
A scene of debaucery and excess presented itself to me. The old man was far from the only occupant of the room - around eight others, also in the strange costume stood around a wax effigy of someone I didn't know. The minute the old man closed the door, the group started communicating in a series of clicks and whistles and slowly started swaying. Looking at the codger for assistance, he smiled, nodded and pointed to the corner of the room. I hastily moved there, not wanting to disturb, nor participate, in whatever preternaturalness was about to occur.
I looked on in horror as the swaying developed into a strange contredanse with the group passing each other, occasionally locking arms, occasionally spitting at the wax effigy. Then, seemingly from nowhere, a series of long, sharp knives were produced and handed out. I was given one by the old man, who stuck his tongue out at me and said "Here comes t'good stuff". I examined the knife - along the blade was the following inscription: "
Nostalgia is a seductive liar". What this referred to, or in fact meant, was lost to me.
Before I could ponder any further, each member of the group pulled out a lighter and began warming their knives. Then with a hideous cry they started attacking the effigy, stabbing, screaming, destroying. I was beckoned forward and, to my surprise, panged and pierced the candle-man. As soon as it had started it stopped. I was signalled to return to the corner, which I did. The party then began to strip their clothes off, and before long were going at it like rabbits on the hotel-room floor. They stroked, they sprayed, they swapped.
I was just starting to enjoy myself when my concentration was interrupted by a loud crashing and around six policemen storming the room. They unplugged various participants and handcuffed them. I too was shackled and led downstairs to an awaiting police van.
After being thrown in a holding cell, I was finally taken to an interview room where a moustached detective explained that I had been charged with participation in wax-effigy abuse with gangbangatious appurtenance. I tried to explain that I was simply an onlooker to which the policeman replied, "Oh, so you're a pervert too". I conceded this was true, but I had no direct participation in the aforementioned crime.
The long and short being I got thrown in jail for three months. The hippy finally calmed down, and Daniel appeared - a midget dressed in a suit, but a lawyer all the same. He was feeling kind, having twenty minutes earlier being felated by a lingerie model and thus got both myself and the hippy (whom I found out was called Gregory 'The Greg' MacGregson) released on bail.
Delaware Doondonson has been in continual touch during my stay in prison. He has been sending me various parcels of entertainments to keep me occupied. This has included a 'grow your own mushrooms' mushroom log (didn't work - the cell was to dry), a jar full of 'exotic candies' (this turned out to be the eyeballs of Canadian geese, soaked in brandy) and a loaf of bread with a saw in the middle (which would of been useful had not my cell been located 60 feet underground). Delaware himself is currently in Southern Russia researching a book on Stalin's childhood. He is trying to prove a thesis that the autocrat's bloodlust was centred on the escape, and subsequent death, of the family pig, Oinktiv. It's total crap, but he's getting a 4,000,000 ruble grant from the University of Volgograd, so I can't really complain - it keeps him in beer I suppose.
I must go, the raptors are hatching a plan.
So long crotch sniffers.
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| Having been holed up in a hotel room, waiting for the days to pass and the money to enter my bank account, I have been watching a lot of television. After watching many hours of sport, pornography and cooking programmes, I came across a channel entitled 'TV Go Home' (full listings at www.tvgohome.com). I have viewed many interesting, disturbing and unlikely shows. Here are a few that stick in my mind:
Show Me; Show Me With Your Mouth; Show Me How You Suck a Guy's Cock, You Fucking Whore Piece of Shit - Show Me! - Uncomfortable viewing as Harvey Keitel reprises his role from Bad Lieutenant in a menacing new game show based tenuously on Blind Date.
Buzz Buzz Meadowmouth Vonnegut Assignment - A mesmerising outdoor gameshow in which a contestant tethered to the ground attempts to lick icing sugar from the hind legs of a bee glued to the base of a trowel before a man in a neighbouring field can finish whispering the final fifteen paragraphs of Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five into the ear of slumbering foal.
Elegance vs. The Abyss - Poets Richard Purdy Wilbur and Seamus Heaney compete to stop suicidal drunks hurling themselves from a tall building by leaning out the window and reciting life-affirming verse through a bullhorn.
America's Angriest Failures - (Episode 6). Randy Dwightson of Spartanburg, SC explains how everything on TV is created and produced by a cabal of guffawing nepotists hell-bent on filling the airwaves with simple-minded rubbish, while lying in front of the TV smoking cannabis in a grimy towelling robe.
Tasteful Lighting, Monstrous Schemes - A fascinating series of real time discussions in which a sinister committee of powerful businessmen sit around a table and concoct breathtakingly heartless plans in a set lit by leading Hollywood art directors and filmed by some of world's most accomplished cameramen. Episode 3: The Terrible Fate Of Chad Grotowski - The group choose an electrician from the Yellow Pages at random and slowly devise a complex and appalling plot to have him kicked to death by his own three children.
Do You Think I Give A Fuck? No, Really - Look Me In The Eye And Ask Yourself If You Think I Genuinely Give A Fuck. You Can Take That Pointless Trinket And Your Spluttering Shit Cake Arse For All I Care. Now Get Out Of My Field Of Vision You Gasping Little Pisscrane, Because Everything About You Makes Me Want To Puke Blood - An explicitly confrontation version of The Antiques Roadshow.
Fungoose Or War - An edge of the seat gameshow in which two ageing bachelors are flown over an African warzone and commanded to draw a cartoon goose on the back of shovel with a lump of coal. The creator of the most amusing sketch is slowly fellated by a lingerie model with a mouthful of honey, while the loser parachutes into the raging battle below armed with only a trashcan lid, a clockwork pistol and a webcam glued to his forehead.
Dude! You Mean That Actually Happened!? - Tragic events from history re-enacted by actors wearing contemporary street fashion in a desperate bid to make today's apathetic youth actually relate in some dim, flickering sense to the plight of the blameless human souls caught up in the horrors of the past. Episode 1 - The Persecution of the Jews - featuring clothes from Von Dutch, Paul Smith, Versace, GAP, Bench, Louis Vuitton and Hugo Boss.
Ray Romano's Screwdriver Skirmish Academy: Tips on hand-to-hand combat techniques from the popular sitcom star. Episode 8 - Piercing The Neck: The neck is the most vulnerable area of any assailant, and the use of a strong plunging action is the deciding factor in many, if not all, screwdriver fights.
Also a couple of films I found worth of note:
Honey, I Browndicked an Acrobat: A shocking and bizarre comedy starring Rick Moranis as an eccentric suburban inventor who, having plugged his brain into a 'mind magnifier' of his own creation wakes to find himself inexplicably sodomising a circus perfomer in an antique bath.
Gigilo Christ: Controversial adult drama starring Ron Jeremy as Jesus Christ. When the son of God is bitten in the glans by a talking snake sent by Satan, he develops an insatiable lust for sex in all its forms. Contains masturbation, holy intercourse, messianic analingus, group sex, Samaritan entry, pharisee stroking, and a slow-motion close up of a colossal eruption of glutinous celestial cum showering across the gurning face of a writhing disciple simultaneously frigging himself in the arse with a grotesque nobbled dildo carved from the wood of Christ's manger.
Delaware Doondonson has been in touch. Funnily enough he too has been watching a lot of TV due to another bout of food poisoning during the Albatross Tossing Competition in the Falklands. He has come up with an idea for a screenplay as yet to be decided. Here's the synopsis: 'Comedy / romance / thriller / musical starring A Hollywood Celebrity. When the main protagonist is prevented from achieving their aim by a set of unusal or unfortunate circumstances, all seems lost until, through a combination of luck and hard work said protagonist eventually overcomes adversity'.
I must go - Lay Out A Dog With One Punch is about to start.
So long crotch sniffers.
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| Sitting in a fancy restaurant, I am
becoming progressively more paranoid as waiter after waiter comes and refolds
my date's napkin. She's nipped off to the washroom, and this seems to constitute an invitation for every lackey in this swanky cook-shack to rimple,
shirr and circumvolve her food-caked napery. The thing that is making me so
unsettled is that none of the staff are acknowledging my presence - it's as if
as I've become invisible, or the poor souls are blind. Their meticulousness is
awe inspiring, and their disregard for the large chunks of tuna,
semi-masticated asparagus and snot that saturate the napkin is both repugnant
and fascinating.
I sip on my (very good) wine and look around the restaurant. The place is
packed to the rafters. The clientele is an eclectic mix of business pricks, the
modishly frowzied and a table full of women so old that I am worried that one
might keel over and die at any moment. The aforementioned waiting staff are a
bunch of snobbish miscreants, dressed in black shirts, black trousers and,
inexplicably, a single black glove on their left hand. Whether this is a
hygiene thing, a style thing or simply a misplaced tribute to Michael
Jackson and/or OJ Simpson is unclear - all that I know is that it gives them a sinister
air that neither accords a sense of hospitality nor professionalism. I can only
imagine what would happen if I was to mispronounce one of the many French menu
items; probably a swift neck break, my final image in life - a melanoid mitt
covering my face, a crack, then darkness.
This whole situation is somewhat alien to me - usually preferring a much more
direct approach when it comes to the female of the species. However, the lady I
am currently out with is special, and demands a different approach. By special, I actually mean she is horribly
rich, having inhereted an obscene amount of money from her husband whom she
married at the age of 24, he was 86. Her erstwhile spouse was a man called Lord Daryll Reginicus Uncto Malanaman; he had made his money selling stupid people to even more stupid people under the guise that the first stupid person would bring knowledge and wisdom to the latter stupid person. His reasons for doing this were that by limiting the stupid people's knowledge ('the intelligence cap' was how he described it), it would mean that there were less people out there with enough brains to make the money that he reasoned was rightfully his. At the time of his death he had sold 3,286,902 stupid people at a price of $15,000 a unit. His business had offices all over the world: London, New York, Cairo, Vancouver, Islamabad and in the Swiss town of Cunter to name but a few. As well as the stupid person vending service, Lord Daryll also had a business manufacturing plastic Jesuses with a string on the back that, when pulled, recited passages from the Bible. This product was also a massive success, and as well as the original he went on to produce the Compassionate Jesus Action Doll, the Vengeful Jesus Action Doll and the controversial Three Wise Men Barbershop Quartet which sang various hymns; the fourth member of the group was a plastic camel whose hump you could fill with water. The camel led to the deaths of thirty four children who were electrocuted as they tried to fill the hump mid song. Eventually the product was withdrawn. Having lived a lifestyle where everything is quite literally served on a silver platter, my date is now imbued with some of the worst manners, of both the table and social varieties, that I have ever bared witness to. On entering the restaurant she spat in the face of the maître d' for absolutely no reason at all; she eats with her mouth open, dropping half of what she is suppose to ingest down her front, she points and shouts about people well within earshot and she also farts some of the most noxious gases I have ever had the misfortune of smelling. Thankfully she is toilet trained, although before leaving she informed me that there was a period in the late 90s where she would simply let rip whilst clothed, then burn the soiled garments and get into something new.
My reason for arranging this little rendez-vous is not romantically based but is instead rooted in the need for getting financial assistance for the 'Starlight Express'/drug smuggling operation. Having read that she put up the money for a similar operation in 2002 (a production of Yertzie Phimuim's 'Collected Thoughts Of A Bandit Queen' coupled with the setting up of sweatshops in Eastern Europe) I targetted her as prime candidate. She seems quite interested in what I've described to her and I suspect that her toilet break is actually an excuse to ring her accountant whom, I am reliably informed, is also her lover.
At this moment, another waiter comes over and starts to fold her napkin for the millionth time and I notice, amongst the food and human-hole products that there is something written in the corner. I grab the napkin away from the waiter who drifts off, seemingly on auto-pilot, and see that my date has simply written 'The answer is yes. $4,000,000 in your account tomorrow. Must dash, ovaries playing up'. I'm not sure why she didn't just tell me, but as I've already stated her manners are somewhat misplaced and perhaps she thinks this is how things are done. I get up and leave, noticing on the way that as I suspected one of the old ladies has indeed died and is now, worringly, being taken to the kitchen by a group of the sinister waiting staff.
Delaware Doondonson has sent a card from the Falkland Islands. He is through to the semi-finals of the Albatross Tossing Competition and is to face Geraint Facista for a place in the final. He seems reasonably confident that he will win, although he also mentions that he has been eating an excess of cockles and pubic lice - I just hope he doesn't get food poisoning again. He has been known to get into a murderous rage if he loses something twice in a row, as in Shikoku during the annual Carp Wrestling Championships. He lost two bouts to (the excellent) Toyman Golp-golp and instead of accepting defeat graciously, shot the poor man in the face, commenting "He ain't pretty no more".
I must go - sentencing is about to commence.
So long crotch sniffers.
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| Relief is the name of the day. Vladamir Tronsky has finally got in touch with me after a significant period of silence. After our meeting in Upper Bolphingsnake (see November 17 entry) I was worried that the poor chap might be dead. Turns out he did come close to a meeting with the Grim Reaper, but was thankfully spared when a gypsy boy found him bleeding in a stream a couple of miles away from the pub where he was so brutally beaten. The l'il fella had run back to the family caravan and alerted his uncle who had carried Vladamir back, whereupon they cared for him, bringing him back from the brink. He had been given peculiar brews made from mixtures of herbs, leaves and flowers, and fed bowls of food that 'smelled like manure and slithered, as if alive'. Whatever it was, it seemed to have helped because, at least on the phone, he sounded as strong as a bull.
We made tentative plans to meet in the next couple of weeks. Knowing that the project was a 'go', I went to work, making up for lost time. I contacted my man in the Columbia - a man going by the name of Ernest Vulva. He had been a featherweight boxing champ in his younger days, an achievement many say was down to the fact that he was born horribly ugly: overtly large eyes, an elongated head and ears the size of cashew nuts. To survive at school, he had taken up boxing and was soon the proverbial 'Daddy' of every educational establishment he ever attended; and these were numerous down to his predilection for scrapping.
We talked details. The production of 'Starlight Express' would require three large trucks to haul the set, sound and lighting equipment from town to town. By reducing the lighting from a one hundred and fifty piece set up to a hundred, we could free up enough space to fit around eighty-five kilos of premium grade narcotics. This would mean a diminished luminary spectacle in the show, but - on the bright side - would make me a large sum of money. Ernest, being a man of action, had been making contacts in various cities around the globe - making deals and acquiring rights.
Rights were essential to the smuggling business. Many people think that to smuggle large quantities of anything - drugs, people, perfume, cigarettes, booze - all one has to do is charter a ship or lorry and hey presto! You're in business. Things are not so simple. As well as finding a buyer at the end of the smuggle route, it is also of paramount importance to make sure that you are not stepping on anyone's feet. There is a well documented case in the British town of Totnes where a man by the name of Hercules 'Grand Spazmo' Potentatata attempted to bring in fifty refugees from Kosovo. Everything went swimmingly until the town's crimelord Suzie Yy, found out about this activity and went, for want of a better word, apeshit. Not only did she have the Kosovans burnt in the town's market square, she made Hercules into a gruesome Guy Fawkes atop the fire, impaling him on a scaffolding bar - anus through mouth. Needless to say, no-one tried anything else until Miss Yy had given them the nod.
With such horror stories in mind, Ernest had secured smuggling and distrubition rights in all major towns in Southern England, most of the North as well as Chicago, Miama, Birmingham (Alabama), Toronto, Waterloo and Ottawa. He had been in contact with Gerard 'Le Gerard' Boraquonois in Paris and also Helmut 'Das Helmut' Schnenmannstischenfreudenflaschenlinkenzite who controlled Berlin, Bonn, Hannover and Liepzig. Thus this set our itenary. We would have an extensive tour of England (we were still working on Wales and Scotland), then have a brief North American tour, before returning to Europe to finish. We would receive three shipments - one at the start of each leg of the tour. With Vladamir back on the case, the details of when, how and who could start to be worked out. He had a knack for finding the best people, the best places and the best times; I am not sure if this is due to a genius mind, or huge bribes. To be honest, it's not really important. He gets the job done.
Delaware Doondonson has been worringly quiet over the last few weeks. After finishing his stint in Eritrea, he apparently moved in with a family who live in the Denakil desert in Ethiopia. What he is doing here, and why he has done this I have no idea. However, it won't be for long. Checking my diary I noted that there is the annual Albatross Tossing Competition in the Falkland Island at the end of January, and last year Delaware narrowly lost the title to a local after acquiring food poisoning in the penultimate round. To this day, he claims it was sabotage, and not a dodgy whelk. I suspect we will never know.
I must go - there are sexy people to mow down...
So long crotch sniffers.
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