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K2K2 - NOW MINT-FLAVORED!!!
January 2002
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Robalini
The
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Klearinghouse
Part IV
by
*Please note: The McHajj series you are about to read came to me directly via a series of disturbing dreams, dreams which continue to haunt me at present. These dreams, more like interminable nightmares, have resulted from life long exposure to advertising in the relentlessly predatory, capitalistic society that I'm haphazardly posited in. In order to deal with the severe psychological trauma such exposure has caused me, I have translated what my unconscious mind has directly conveyed to me into the story below. It is the only way I know how to cope with the constant trespassing into my psyche by the corporate powers which loom about in a most menacing and merciless fashion. Thank you for understanding my dilemma. BTW: I am currently starting a twelve step support group for those who may believe that they are victims of a similar kind of corporate psychological terrorism. I will provide more information in the near future...if there is one. Thank you!
The centerpiece for the Newlywed's space station living room was a crystal pyramid, It rested, three feet high with its eye in the sky, in the center of a shallow ceramic bowl. Upon the hour, the Pope would come out, pour a champagne bucket filled with Serpent Piss fermented with goat smegma over the sculpture while humming, 'Fiddler on the Roof.' Once the bowl brimmed with the jaundiced Holy water, he would open some spigots screwed into the sides and fill up enough wine glasses for the guests who were convened at the table, waiting.
David Rockefeller drained his glass in one gulp and ignored the New Year toast all the guests imbibed. Some shadowed members of the P2 lodge in Italy sampled the brew but noticed nothing of its piquant character, so jaded with spirit initiations they were. Ronald McDonald politely sipped the reptilian vintage. Barbara declined, good mother that she was becoming. She pulled her chiffon maternity blouse emblazoned with the ABC logo away and her greasepainted groom played with her protruded navel as if it were some kind of Cold War red alert button.
It, when it arrived, in the dying sextet of seconds of 1999, would be the first zero gravity savior birthed in an orbital Bethlehem. Rockefeller, designated Wise Man Number One, switched on the ultra sound monitor so all the guests could scrutinize the young and upcoming embryo. Its pulse seemed to quicken every time they passed over the Dead Sea, even though they were far beyond the jurisdiction of the earth's electromagnetic field. Soon all the conspirants were doing the devil's tap on the table top in synch with the heart beat. The Pope kept on humming and kept on pouring his vile brew in hopes of upping the ante of the celebration.
As the crew got tipsy on the rounds of the potent cocktail, an argument ensued.
Where would the placenta be air dropped? On the Sphinx? On top of the Ka'ba? Borobudur? Stonehenge? How about skewering it on the obelisk in Washington, D.C.? It became a kind of board game challenge. It was getting time for some Robert's Rules of Order as no consensus was arrived at by this rogue congress. The only thing unaminous amongst them was that the yolk would not, under any circumstance, be freeze dried.
McPope ignored the fracas and scryed a tissue scrap through an ultra high powered microscope. He managed to filch the bit of fetal host through the Anchor woman's carnal portal, posing as resident gynecologist, without damaging the integrity of the savior. Zooming in on a maze of double helix protein chains, he marveled how they began to spin themselves into a kind of genetic grail. The Holy Roman Umpire scanned the inebriated guests and unnoticed, took a hypodermic needle out of his vestibule pocket and flooded the DNA with more of the consecrated wine his unquaffable cadre were gulping down so lasciviously. He switched the screen over to the microscope's point of view and the guests hushed, sobered up a bit and marveled at the display.
The Pope stepped up onto a little stage in front of the big screen T.V.which showed the DNA as it mutated at warp speed into a trinitarian helix pattern-a veritable genomic blue print of the Tri-Lateral commission. The members of the P-2 lodge were the first to take notice. Then the Pope clicked on his remote control, the numinous eye in the apex of the pyramid in the fountain opened up. The Masonic Cyclops looked around as if peering out of some forgotten b-movie. A viperous mannikin emerged from the punch and slithered up the pyramid and began pissing once again. Underneath the sculpture was the phrase: The Chosen Pupil, emblazoned in dark green neon.; Maybe the Pope's new grandson would be the true herald of the Novus Ordo Seclorum, the new telescope so to speak.
"The Apex is not a good place for a placenta...we don't want to obscure its view now do we?" The Pope asked. Rockefeller burst out laughing, fell off his chair and doubled up on the floor. "What about my Tri-Lateral Commission! I'll dissolve the order if this gets through. Where's Jeremy Rifkin when we need him? You didn't send him to a FEMA camp did you?"
The clown was too mesmerized by his wife's navel to take notice of the commotion. Barbara, feeling the first tremors of labor, stood up and excused herself. A door slid open allowing her to pass through to the maternity ward. It squeaked just like the ones on Star Trek. No one even noticed the cue. One of the P2 henchmen stepped out of his own shadow and approached the Pope as if preparing to be consecrated by the mobster.
"And when it's time to crucify again...this time on an Ankh....not a cross...right?" He challenged the Papal authority.
"We can work that in the script...as long as its self replicating." The Pope's eyes turned reptilian even though he hadn't even a sip of the ambrosia. He jabbed his Crozier into the floor for emphasis and his Canonicals began to take on the appearance of medieval armor. Soon the other icons emerged out of their space station quarters. The Pillsbury Doughboy hopped up on to the Pope's shoulder, puffed up and giggled. Some of the Marlboro Men who snuck on board flanked the Pope. One lassoed a P2 and dragged him up to the proscenium. One of the Camel brothers grabbed Rockefeller by the collar and forced him to kneel before the Pope. Soon some nurses wheeled out Barbara and under the camera lights she prepared for the birth. Ronald did some cartwheels and plucked a switch on, thus activating a global satellite which jammed all communications on earth. The Tidy Bowl man would emcee and announce the action. Cameras on.
The delivery was painless, nearly effortless. And the shining new born was put into the Pope's arms and not Ronald's...the clown didn't seem to mind..didn't really care about continuity, he was just along for the ride anyways. The Pope's eyes flared. And in the Ka'ba far below in Mecca the Imam put the final filigrees onto the ball of plutonium and invited the Party of Ali inside for one last look. One took a gavel and drove the warhead home as he pronounced the guilty verdict. And in China Mao did a jig with Stalin and Pol Pot. In Berlin, the Turks were cha-cha ing with the Neo-Nazi's. In Bosnia all looked up into the sky as the Marian radiation showered down upon them. And the gates of the prisons and asylums of the world were swung open. In Israel only love bombs exploded after the perennial peace treaties were signed.
The earth looked so pretty from the space station, all lit up like a Christmas Tree in Rockefeller Plaza. Rockefeller was still kneeling. He started kissing the Pope's feet. And the savior...the savior didn't even protest its expulsion from Barbara's paradisal uterus. There was no announcement from this barkless, hairless dog. Ronald comforted his wife who took no interest in her apocryphal spawn. She merely groped for a microphone, looked for a camera, thankful to be purged of all that weight.
The Pope took the child over to the Baptismal fount and immersed the creature for what seemed like a minute and at the Stroke of the milleniual Midnight pulled him out of the Serpent piss. He sat the infant on top of the Pyramid. The eye turned upward to catch a glimpse of this new Commander in Chief of the Federal Reserve. Cigars for all and everyone sang Auld Lang Zion.
But how would the savior be returned to the Earth? Would there be any reason to since the planet was becoming so conflagrated at the moment? The Pope laughed sardonically as he watched the Vatican evaporate in the wave of thermo-nuclear detonation billowing out of Mecca. But who could trust a t.v. screen? Maybe it wasn't real. In his dream, he hardly noticed that the space station broke free of the gravitational field and was quickly deviating from the planet. The magazine subscription was about to be canceled. The newborn nursed at the Pope's breast for he was its Mother Church....He was the portable Rome and now they were headed for Mars. The Face on Mars to be exact.
When they arrived, the cadre disbanded and set out to stake a claim. Where would the Mount Calvary be on this ochre stained planet? Where would the Via Dolorosa be?
The Pope surveyed the land in a Martian buggy and climbed up to the summit of the face . With Sleight of Hand he was able to filch the placenta and with newborn in one hand and placenta in the other he said a prayer in Martianese-it sounded Latin enough he supposed. He dropped the Placenta into the nostril of the face and a volcano began to erupt. He dune buggied away and watched as the volcano spewed and out came a lava of glowing green slime. It seemed to follow some ancient waterways hidden beneath the martian dust and filled these canals.
Soon a metropolis was born: the new and improved Vaticanopolis. The Pope held the newborn up to the sky and tore its space suit away-to toughen it up-he made a make shift cradle-manger for the creature and scanned the skies for a star...but aghast...he looked up....and on swift wings descended the icons, all of them released from the Pandora's box of a now flaming Madison Avenue back on earth. The very creatures who gave him a new lease on life, the very creatures he betrayed...the creatures who ensured his preservation-all of them-a legion of fallen angels , who once they hit the surface of the Planet, would vie for power. The Pope merely held up his Anhk, the always trusty apotropaic and they had to return to the remains of the earth.
to be continued
