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Tuesday, December 3, 2013

SOMEONE SHOT THE POSTMAN!! BIRTH OF THE EVIL SCREED; INCINERATION DAY REMEMBERED; JUSTIFIABLE HOMICIDE LAW CODIFIED; RITUALS TOO DARK TO BE SPOKEN OF...






                     WOODSHEDDING WITH A DEAD WEASEL WHO SMILES
at me every time  I play a loud E minor chord...
            Please excuse my typin, as I can hardly see - and excuse
me a sec as I hear a shriek from Artie across the Main Lane ...
and a slap!
         Now we have about an hour of daylight
and twilight sky... an extended twilight. Sometimes the
indigo colours are nothing short of startling... if you
were a religious person, you'd fall to your knees
and greet your maker in a loud baritone.
        I hit my knees years ago, before nearly
anybody knew about it.
        Best to hit bottom while you still
remember how to crawl.   

         Over many a quaint and curious volume
of forgotten lore, I've contemplated many
things.
         
        Now it's Dementieva yelling.... And it's
a high-pitched howl, reminiscent of the wolves -
but about two octaves higher. It's a head-splitting
shriek of outrage that's even pissing the
ravens off!
       The raven in the tree off to my right
is giving me a look, as if to say, "Can't
you do something about this?"
        Now he flies to a branch right by my
head and he looks me in the eye. And
do you know what that raven says?

The raven says: "STOP THAT RAVIN'!"  
          My God, what a wail!
           What's it about, do you think?
          In my experience  a howl like that -
it's usually ass, gas or money.
            Or it could be territory...
      
           Yeah, I got my territory.... Weasels have their territory.... in the flats down by the River 
just a few steps north of here,  down the hill,
by the ravine.
            Strange magical Demon Tribe of the Dark Caves
to the East, they surely do have their territory;
The Demons Who Don't Die have their territory
so completely.... so absolute is their tenure,
that they don't even get  any visitors!
            The Mad Poet of Rat River - he doesn't
get any visitors, either, but he has HIS
territory. And I don't know why I'm laughing 
about him getting no visitors. I haven't even 
had any mail in the past two years... 
let alone any visitors!
            Someone shot the postman.


            I know it wasn't me, though I could have
had a black out and forgotten a few days, so I had
to check and make sure. I have never shot a man by accident... tho I have killed a few rodents that
way...
           In the Cities far to the south, people gossip
about killings, and talk about such things with impunity.
We simply cannot allow such careless talk in
Wait-A-Bit. We are too well armed and we
have to be.

                       Someone shot the postman. I know it wasn't
me, because I dug the slug out of his skull
myself.
        

             It must be admitted, we all like a grandstand show. We like to see our public figures do a little "pain dance" as the Demons of the Bear Cave Tribe
call it.
             The Americans do it, too. Look
what they do to their presidents when they are no
longer popular, when it becomes obvious that
this new leader is no longer "new", and there is no
longer any chance he will "save our souls".
             In other words, once we get to know him,
the tearing down process begins, and it's not
pretty.
           When we appoint or elect our new leader or king,
the people, tribe or whoever we are - we start off with
a SENSE OF POSSIBILITIES... a sense of infinite
possibilities, if the leader's rap is really good.
                        But we are inevitably disappointed.

                        And then, as a few years go by, we put him through a slow and painful public lynching, 
evisceration and dismemberment.
                       It used to be called, "Hanging, Drawn,
and Quartering", when we really did such things
in public.
                       Now we just do such killing in the
media, so the physical pain is not bad at all.
The emotional-psychological pain can be
exquisite, however. And we the people,
we the audience, expect it to be painful.
                      The unwritten law is: "If you
haven't put enough cash aside to see you
through retirement, well you weren't much
of a leader to begin with."

                Anyway, it happened to me. The Court
decided I used too much force in self defence
and so I got a two year sentence.  I knew
if the jury had ever seen the man I shot when
he was hopped up on a near fatal dose of PCP,
and he was throwing his shirikins around
with incredible accuracy... if the judge or jury 
had seen my friend after he had "CHANGED" 
into the 230 pounds of psychotic menace that he
could become
THE JURY WOULD HAVE SHIT ITSELF!
and try to run to escape the courtroom! 
But of course there would be no chance 
whatsoever of
escape.
           Because I went through this trial and because I
had to listen to the judgements of people who
weren't there, but who insisted on spreading the opinions of
what they thought had happened anyway....because
of this, I support Mayor Ford,  as he undergoes his own
personal media crucifixion.
          Whatever the public opinion is, no one has the details right, I can guarantee you that.
           He is being judged in a court of ignorance
where no rules of evidence apply.
         I know how these lynchings have their
own momentum, and the power that fuels these mob
events is not the power of fact, but the
power of hot gas...               

                   "We, the people" have been
doing public executions for years, centuries,
millenia... and we're quite good at them
by now. +  
                   + Check out how we treated
the "divine king". Look at Fraser's, "The Golden Bough"
or Jesse Weston's "From Ritual to Romance"
to see how we treated  'divine kings' throughout
the centuries.
             In the early matriarchal days, the divine
king was killed and eucharistically eaten, after being
lopped into pieces  while nailed to a tree...or stretched 
naked on a stone altar... certain important parts were sent downriver in a wicker basket... into the weeds
where they found Moses... 
            I'll let you research it yourself.
            Trust me, it's fun stuff. 

             It must be fun stuff, since we've
been  amusing ourselves with it for at least
100 thousand years!
            Yes, the old days
of the mystery religions! When real tinctures
were prepared... and we drank these potions
before the 'mind-party'/mystery celebration
 began: the celebration of the "mystery at the core of our being: THE KING IS DEAD; LONG LIVE THE KING!"
          The mystery has always been how
to live beyond death.

          The early Christians had an answer for this.
           So do the demon-callers, those practitioners
of mirror magic.
            Both occupations taste the eternal, but the
kind of immortality you experience differs hugely
depending on your path.
             I talked to a native North-American medicine
man recently, and there are certain ceremonies
no one wants to disrespect.

  
            This Eucharist-like eating of the body parts
of the Divine King is far more ancient
than Christianity.... This is just a fact.
            We've been doing it, with very little variation
for tens of thousands of years. Eating of the god that
gives life. Certain sacred plants are involved.
             The feeling of the ancient community is
when the king loses his strength 
( probably originally his phallic power) the
land goes waste, the furrows of the field are no longer
fertilized, God is no longer inseminating the fertile soil of
spring with warm salty rain.
              Originally the king was dispatched
once a year - nailed to a cross, chopped up and
eaten like the flesh of a god... his genitals
sent downriver, or not.
              The beauty of the vision of the "primitives"
(and maybe the only beauty,
and we are just a heartbeat away from collapsing 
into this vision once again) was... they saw the unity of all
things, certainly the unity of the tribe as a whole, and
sometimes acted accordingly - for the good of the
entire tribe.

             Actually, that sadistic horror tale I wrote this week
is closer to the actual events of prehistory than anyone
is going to admit...
             Don't attempt to read all of Fraser, unless
you get a government grant or some such thing,
because it will take five years of your life.

            WE ARE STUDYING THE HUMAN PSYCHE,
CHILDREN, THE JOURNEY WITHIN ! SPACE IS NOT
 THE FINAL FRONTIER; the MIND IS THE FINAL
FRONTIER!

                  
             That poor postman!                  

            





  


                                    2

             I don't know why people think, if they
scream at me, that I can hear them better...
          Even if I can hear them, I'm going to pretend
I CAN'T HEAR them. You scream at someone,
that's disrespect...And I don't respond well
to that kind of implied sneer from anyone.

              Now, Artie, he's a different case. You
scream at Artie, his knees start to shake, quake
even... and he does exactly what you tell
him. Now this is a good trait for a bartender to
have, but it's not the sort of trait a woman
finds attractive in a man...(so I'm told)
 unless she's a real Mean Bitch Sadist 
( a MBS).... 
              Now, you can say what you
like about the MBS...but without the
kind, generous women who play "the Bitch"
most of the pink, squirming mass of male
humanity would be on its own...alone,
and begging for forgiveness.

           Now, quite different from the
woman who acts the Bitch, because men
 need it, there is a whole clan of KLW 's
 ... a Killer Lesbian Witch(s).
There's a whole Tribe of them, too, they're living
in the burning marshes to the south... You can bet
they have their own territory, too. No one
wants to piss a KLW off, because they
fight in packs... and they strip their
victims naked... and on the men they use their
small curved knives to do him special...
          
          Now before anyone starts calling the RCMP
and howling about some Mad Trapper Poet
"carvin' slugs out of a postman's head...."
please realize... this is me, Frank, writing
this nearly continuous new Evil Screed; and I
should point out a few things to ya.
          I am still the Mayor here in Wait-A-BIT,
though my term of office ought to have
been finished five or six weeks ago...
          Matilda is our Mayor Emeritus (Why does
that sound funny?). She seems to
be refusing to take office... so that leaves
me... Frank of the Beekeepers Hat as   Hank
described me in his reports when he was
cast off onto the shores here, with no idea what
he was getting into.
         He still saw himself as a reporter and he
was writing all the time at first. Lately, he's thrown
aside his pen and he's been digging and digging
what appears to be a tunnel eight feet in diameter
towards the east.
          It's hard to spot it, because Hank has always had
a wild look in his eye from the very first moment
the plane dropped him off here. And he discovered
that his place of employment had been turned into
a fine white powder. And his employer had walked off
into the bush naked and in a tumescent state, and had
never been seen again.
               It gets real quiet some days here in Wait-A-Bit.
The only sound you might hear in a whole hour
might be the single caw of a crow.
               It takes a certain kind of nerve to live
up here in isolation and silence... and it seems
obvious to me that, whatever nerve Hank had,
he's quickly losing it.
              I'm aware that this constant digging
is not a normal thing... but really, what's a fella
to do? A man has to have a hobby, especially up
here... If you are not busy communing with the
Great Eye in the Sky, perhaps you might
choose to visit the Demon who dies not
in one of the many bear caves of the hill people.
            But that tribe live almost constantly with
strong magic, rituals which require a very
strong Psyche indeed... in that they engage in
a voluntary transmigration through many
lives with the almost constant use of the Vision
Plants found in the pine woods at the base of their
mountain.
              The Cave Bear Tribe commune with
spirits, demons and other immortal entities -
so much so that there mortality means little
to them,,, because with their ability to
travel psychically, they can temporarily
inhabit other bodies.
             This is not a place for Hank to visit
in his current wide-eyed condition. I haven't
asked him why he's digging towards the East,
because I'm not sure I'm going to like
the answer he's going to give me.
             Lately, his eyes have gotten bigger
and the gleam in them is more intense. He's been
walking around outside with an amazed expression
constantly on his face.
             Of course, he's had that amazed expression
for over a month now. He's still getting used to the
idea that a float plane has dropped him off  on the
shores of the Mackenzie with no supplies and no means
of support!... ... ...the Mackenzie, a river that sweeps by
all by itself for thousands of miles, unconscious of
human existence, oblivious to human dreams.
             And... NO PLANE WILL BE RETURNING
FOR ONE QUARTER OF A  YEAR!         
             At first he asked Artie if he could sleep
on the earth floor of Artie's Bar and Grill for a couple
of nights...Hank was figuring he could get the plane
to pick him up in a few days...We had to tell him
the ugly truth... 
           That's when the amazed expression became
a permanent feature of Hank's face; and a
 perpetual look of surprise became a feature
of his personality. 

            The colony of huge weasels just down the
shore didn't improve Hank's assessment of the situation.

            "I'M FUCKED," he shouted and started
banging his head against the wall. "I'M REALLY
FUCKED!"
            "YES!........ YOU REALLY ARE! " Three of us
call  in unison.

            He went outside and started banging his
head against a 200 gallon empty propane tank.
It sounded like someone was hitting a large drum
with a cotton mallet.

           "And just think," Artie says, "We've been here
for years. And we can't get out either!"
            A look of horror slowly crosses Hank's face... he walks off into the bush.He screams: "For this
I left my job at the New York Times!"


         As Mayor, I'm also chief of police,
and chief orgasmic officer, as my badge says.
So IT IS MY JOB TO DIG SLUGS OUT OF SKULLS,
especially official skulls like the skull of the
postman.
         So I held an autopsy, a coroner's hearing
and a finding all at once... The slug that killed
the postman did NOT  come from my gun.
So that's been decided.  And I'm keeping
the slug for comparison purposes later....
           I had to check, in case I'd been getting forgetful
something that I'd done in the past 2 or 3 days.
Nope, my memory was just fine. 
          Someone else has shot the postman.
        
          The law is a bit different up here. We have
eleven (11) different kinds of justifiable
homicide up here in the Territories. 
         No,if someone accidentally spills your  beer, that
is not  grounds...for justifiable homicide.
         Now, if someone DELIBERATELY spills
a freshly poured drink.... well, the jury's still
out on that one. A decision is pending... and
must be prepared for next year' Council Meeting.
         
          Two states of mind are important...
The state of mind of the shooter... and the state of
mind of the shootee, the one who provokes
the incident.
          There is also the ISSUE of what kind
of witness is reliable in the case of a spillage
homicide incident... as I say, there are some
ticklish legal points to consider - and I sure
as fuck don't feel up to considering
all the intricacies right now.

JUSTIFIABLE HOMICIDE CODE OF WAIT-A-BIT

     444(a).       If anybody shouts, shrieks or
otherwise screams at another person, showing no
respect... ( the high volume of the voice alone
is primae facie proof that the lack of respect exists);
  444(b)         And  if said voice continues
said shrieking for longer than ten minutes -
this is sufficient cause for homicide to be justifiable
at law.
  444(c) No further consideration
need be given by mayor, judge or jury. Execution
of this sentence is to be done in a humane and
expeditious fashion.              (Act goes to sub. f.)


             In other words you're allowed to shoot
the offending party.  But only in Wait-A-Bit, folks,
don't try this stuff at home.
            The law is not being sexist here. Male or female,
you're allowed to shoot him.  
           
              NOTE:  Dementieva
has already been shrieking for well over the requisite ten minutes... Artie has every right to put
her down... And Artie's not as bad a shot
as you'd think, just looking at him
             Hank can't shoot for shit, and Hank, I
don't care if you're reading this as I write it,
 standing behind my shoulder in the dark.
            You can write but you can't shoot... Facts are
facts...You can't shoot,and I'm starting to wonder if you can
write!

 ( That got him stomping off across the dark bunker)

  
                         














































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