The Trigyalon Complex - R.K. Galvez (e book free reading .TXT) 📗

on Earth. I said it was a bit of a 1980s idea to him, but he shrugged and gave me a silver letter.

 

Now I've got to read a silver letter! It's real tough, though... is this feather-faced guy a queer man-witch of some kind? I'm hoping some Goth [who isn't a poser] will know. But I need a book called the Legoomutton [something like it], I'm not sure. This isn't really my sort of thing, as the online info is really limited [except the Crowley libri, of course. But it's of no help to this sage! I can’t even use Sage; it’s all too advanced for me!]. I don't know why he helped me. But I plod on, hopefully figuring the right place and time and the right gateway. And I still got to figure how to open the silver letter as my feathered-face friend has suddenly vanished. He's probably back in that grubby pub...I'll check again!    

 

Callum Cheevers,

 

Part-time Pop-Pornographer and a regular Alien Abductee.

Islington, London, 2022.

 

11. Anti-End Terminal Earth: The End of the Expected Obligatory Encore of Death.

 

“On the contrary, it would resist such isolation and compartmentalisation. It would be a meeting point; an intersection linking diverse routes to the past. It would thrive upon the interconnectedness of the historical process and it would transform understanding.”

K. Wrightson, The enclosure of English social history

 

The space-ship just crashed. The planet was completely dead. The soil was made up of fried carrots and small pieces of metamorphic rock freshly delivered from Iceland…Les Barloy, Professor Norkgrub and the Demon Tec crew got off the destroyed vessel. It was a shame. That vessel had lived briefly; it had been kept alive on shellfish....

 

The crew were: Zip Gregano, communications officer; Tommy Tellman, pilot; Trogger, Tipp Unkorf, Ovno Wendle and Gumzom (a.k.a. Jack Slack), all were considered tactical support; Professor Norkgrub and Les Barloy were the guests of honour…They were also present within a diplomatic capacity…

 

They were all in stasis. Trogger and Gumzom did not dream as they were technically dead. They were flukes of the pzionik art to become immortal; no matter how painful it was for them to remain immortal.

 

Here was the astral dream log:

 

LES BARLOY: I wish I was still in Skegness. I hate space-dimensional projection. It’s so draining. Then there was that nice world where everyone was so happy. There must have been something in the air. At least I don’t have to worry anymore about getting caught by the police. I can pursue my sexuality with my rooty alien friends. It’s a good time to be in this mutant police thingummy but I’m not a mutant yet. They are very inclusive, I have to say. I suppose they need some humans to help me evolve.

 

ZIP GREGANO: Why do I keep get these weird thoughts? I am not dead, but I keep dreaming about some Undead Caveman; how did we get intimate? What was his name again?...I keep meeting him in my dreams; it reminds me of some awful story I read some time ago. Maybe not...Try not to dream; I must clear my mind...

 

TIPP UNKORF: Last time I go native in some other dimension. Humans! They give me too much stress. And stress is bad, so humans are bad. I bet Norky gets censored, he can’t help it; he’ll let some secret slip! Good old Norky, I love these dream reading things, but I don't think Ovno does...

 

OVNO WENDLE: Last time I bother with Dianetics. That's it, that's all I got to say. I hate dreaming anyway...

 

PROFESSOR NORKGRUB: Wow, I always wanted to do one of these trendy P.O.V. sections, but in some shitty 80s inspired dream sequence. Where's my fucking montage? But it's where I get to really say what I really think. They bloody better not censor me again or I’ll –[report censored by C.O.G. Agent Hubbard…]

 

TOMMY TELLMAN: I have decided to jack in the life-coaching-guru lark and finish off the pulp stuff. I like it soft and pulpy. I was stumped for ideas, I cursed the great Trout, then I found this old article that I started to read. I could not recall if I was there or not. Here it is below:

 

Chapter 88. Choose Consciously about Consciousness

 

The forest was dense. It was not unusual for these exo-planets to look like earth. The forest was also made of maggot tress. The trees were the decomposers here and would feed off the chunky red earth.

 

This was not another Cydonia experiment. Olympus Mons was now a new age housing estate run by Professor Norkgrub. It contained over 8 million people. Good things happened there. This exo-planet was to syphon some of the over-spill to this new exo-planet. It was called Lo45ZX. It was also nicknamed as Maggot Earth.

 

The Maggot forests were benign as they just nourished themselves off the soil. The minerals here were amazing. There was also a natural atmosphere of lysergic acid. It helped make things easier.

 

The tyme-craft landed and Tipp and Ovno got off. They were in charge of the first colony. They did not like colony life but they needed to help these repressed[censored]

 

The report ended here; the source was unidentified. 

 

Chapter 35. How Mutations Mutate and The New Humans(Nu Homo Pzi-Logiko-Magika)

 

OCCULTJACULATION [Intro/Outro]: This intends to be a total defence of all that occult studies should stand for. It has no place in Ke$ha’s music, though I am hoping she gets thrown into the mix with Miley. I would pay a few dimes to see that! She needs a new ritual to take into account her natural pop-porn viability; she needs a symbolic enema in that respect and she needs a good mix up. I am quite insulted, of course, being a serious student of the occult.

 

I am a firm believer in the freedom of occult study and practices, particularly in an increasingly totalitarian world. However, I heard this truly awful thing and felt I should just post it. I don't know how it occurred; I can only hope it never does. And that true students of the occult will follow the path wisely and learn.

 

Professor Norkgrub

Coke Lane, London.

December 2018.

 

Chapter One

 

Howard Howarde was a poser. Being an affluent, somewhat fake, posh kid (with fungal feet), he had always been completely self-obsessed...Howard also loved his dull pseudo-bohemian ways; he tried to look like Jesus of Nazareth...He had a hard on for everything...Athlete's foot was very bohemian, according to Howard. He decided not bathe for two years; he believed in biological beating and bio-self-cleansing...

 

...Howard would go on to make bogey sculptures to enter into the Turner Prize and, sometimes, would create strange objects out of his own excrement...He commissioned artisans for this pleasure; he did not personally touch his own excrement, heaven forbid...Shit was for the poor to deal with...Howard would also, for vast sums of money, make his "art" out of other peoples’ excrement, even occasionally animal excrement...That was for the trophy poopers...

 

...Howard, being a complete wanker, liked the Turner Prize as he felt it was the ultimate award for total bullshit. He did not think 25,000 kopecs was a lot of money, though. He was a true artist; he was beyond commercialism; beyond fiscal policy. He thought he was beyond selling out, but his price was extremely low; he would do anything for his shit art.

 

In some fashionable circles, via Artrocker!, he was called the Bogeyman. He did not mind causing friction. Any kind of friction was good news for Howard…

 

This got Howard attention – much needed attention as he was a total attention seeker. He had started to masturbate on the Putney Bridge, hoping he would get caught. He never got caught, so keep an eye out for him.

 

Howard claimed it was a social experiment, as well as a minor occult ritual to Maluk. He hoped the Thames might need his wealthy seed. It was no surprise that Howard was also a sperm donor and would hope he was able to allow many homosexuals to be parents.

 

Howard was the sort of person to expose his penis in various public places after a couple of drinks, as you can guess of his exhibitionist behaviour. It was nothing new or trendy. Don’t encourage him, it was not cool. Howard would often complain of getting “icy willy”. He only complained when he was unable to get enough money for his beloved crystal.

 

Oddly enough, Howard’s constant quest for this need to be noticed got him into strange esoteric circles. He wanted to be his own reality star. He had a webcam channel and many people thought he was a rent boy and not an artist. Some people were unable to tell the difference…

 

As Howard constantly needed to be noticed, it started to get him into trouble. He would dream about getting into fights with men in pubs then performing homosexual acts upon them after the fight. To Howard this was mere foreplay, even if it did get him into A&E a couple of times. He was gutted the Evening Standard did not pap him; that would constitute a respectable papping.

 

He figured he would be getting some more publicity. He had tried making pornographic films, too. Being a rich kid he already had connections. He did not need to work hard: his straw coloured blond hair and his smooth face made him look even more like a poor ruddy faced posh boy. The world was his oyster; he needed no card to get his zoneage connected. His manor may have been ill – a colossal mess of deadened infrastructure - but he had always lived without a Plan B.

 

To be honest, if he did have a Plan B, it would need a good old remix. Howard had a dream, hastily recorded on the back of his cigarette packet (Dunhills, of course; Camels were too trendy, anyway…) and then he went to live his dream. Anything was possible. And he could always call up Uncle Wilbur for more cash, as those who can usually do...  

 

Evadef smiled his re-animated foetal smile; he had been listening to the Para-Dimensional Hit Parade and even though it didn't matter, he had a pocket that was able to reproduce anything in this realm, whenever he asked for it. Amazing a pocketful of pretty green, guv’nor. He had slipped through to the earth realm of 2010. He had been listening to Alan Parsons Project and Wham all day. He also had lots of his crystalline medicine which he had been inhaling to keep himself well stimulated within the harsh conditions that exist within this foul earthen realm.

 

There was nothing wrong with a bit of huffing and puffing I suppose. It was not good for you, but it could be worse. It could be something unhygienic. You might be drinking so much alcohol you cannot remember what happened. In response to the claims by Tommy Tellman, I have forgotten much, although I try not to drink, but that can be scary for many folk; however, I should add that I am used to forgetting all kinds of things, which should make me an expert in a weird way.

 

What was that? I do not know, I can't remember. See how the defence works?

 

Howard was now able to harness some pzionik power he had not known he was able to grasp. He was going to pretend he was Jesus and use Evadef's dirty pocket for his own peccadilloes. What a dirty boy!

 

Evadef shifted slowly into 2013. Nobody noticed the change; no expects to meet a re-animated foetus. He had briefly gone back to 1991 and Howard was still out of touch. He was never one for the times. He preferred to store it all up for later… 

 

[COSMIC QUACK FOLLIES]

 

It reached that part of the day when you think: am I going to be a beetle-bear? I could hardly believe it either at the time. Me and my wraith-friend (deceased since 1997), had been known as Bug and Dog and we had been using it as part of production thingummy. My alter-ego was a fake academic called Gammy Rubb who was always good for a touch; I kept