CONJURELLA MESSIAH: NECRONOMICON MONKS, cont 
And within, the Dulles Stigmata lurks, like the scars of Dr. E's needles 
in my neck. In the Hebrew bible, the serpent who tempts Eve is NChSh, 
and the Messiah yet to come, is MShYCh. In Hebrew, every letter is a 
number also, hence, the Qabbaliastic science of Gematria, the study of 
the letters and the numbers. Hebrew is called, by its proponents, a 
mathematically correct language: words with the same numeration, are 
words with the same meaning, in spite of any apparent differences, which 
must be resolved by meditation. 
The Dulles Stigmata lurks. NChSh is Nun (50), Cheth (8), Shin (300), 
358. MShYCh is Mem (40), Shin (300), Yod (10), Cheth (8), 358. Brennan, 
transliterated into Hebrew, is Beth (2), Resh (200), He (5), Nun (50), 
Nun (50), Aleph (1), Nun (50), 358. 

The Dulles Stigmata lurks. American A wants me to believe in magic, and 
I do. And in timeless time, beyond Dallas, beyond Toronto, beyond the 
60s, or the 70s, or the 90s, the words form: I am the Last Witness. I 
speak great things and blasphemies. I am the first to shoot, and the 
last to testify. I wash clean the blood. They must have given me clues 
as to how they made it; somehow, somehow, I know, AIDS was begun in 
Dachau...the torture was only incidental, a means to an end. Somehow, it 
was necessary to break down the resistance of human flesh through 
torture, so that such a condition, flesh without natural defenses, flesh 
without immunity, could be duplicated in a laboratory. And Dr. E was an 
Osteopath; was Osteopathy only a cover, or was it a component in the 
creation of the virus that the World Health Organization would later 
spread, in vaccines, throughout Africa? Later, in the 1980s, the World 
Health Organization would write about me in their Geneva-based journal, 
WORLD HEALTH, in their October 1983 (page 30) and January-February 1986 
(page 9) issues. 

The Dulles Stigmata lurks, and soon, I will be attempting to duplicate 
the exact style of roaring twenties occultist, Aleister Crowley, in a 
variety of occult journals, both great and small. 

The Dulles Stigmata lurks, but for now, in the Absinthe Cafe, there is 
no memory of the blood of John Kennedy, only the memory of American A's 
kisses, and I want to call her, to tell her again that I love her. 
Somehow, I find my way through the labyrinth that is Winters College, to 
a wall with two (or is it three) secluded pay phones. I call American A 
in Michigan, and breathe the most oft-repeated phrase of my youth. 

"I love you." 

She is sad. She wanted to bolt from Michigan and follow me to Toronto.. 

"Don't be surprised if I show up there, after you," she says before I 
leave for Cosmicon II. She asks me to swear that I will love her always, 
and that I will always be true to her. And I do swear. It is only half a 
lie. I can love her always, but I cannot be true. 

I return to the Absinthe, and this is mystery. 

Jim Warren says he has called for a prostitute to be sent to his room. 
"To a man like me, time is money," Warren says, "I don't have time for 
the kind of courtship that you do." 

All of the guests, including myself, were provided with complimentary 
rooms at Winters College, and to anyone who remembers Cosmicon II from 
the guests of honor's perspective, any prostitute who could find the 
damned rooms on her own, would have to be considered a possible CIA 
agent from the gitgo. Warren leaves, and returns shortly. He remarks to 
me are suddenly inexplicable, out of rational context. 

"Well," Jim Warren says, "I want to keep using your stories, but she 
says I can't. She says I have to get rid of you." 

This is the way home: It would be a matter of split-second timing. I 
would take the train from Toronto to Sarnia, where Asian A would meet 
me. I would stay overnight with her, then, in the morning, she would 
take me across the Blue Water Bridge to Port Huron, to the bus station, 
where I would take the bus down M-21 as far as Emmett, to the cemetary 
at Bricker Road. There, American A would meet me, and drive me the rest 
of the way home. 

In the morning, at Asian A's, I hear CROCODILE ROCK on the radio, a song 
they played so frequently on the radio while American A and I would be 
parked in front of my parents' house, making out. I am sad, and full of 
longing: will I lose American A? Will I let her love, her promises and 
whispers, slip away, for the sake of holding Asian A? 

I go down on Asian A in the morning; I hardly have time to pull my 
tongue out of her vagina before she speeds me to the Port Huron bus 
station. We just make it, and I get on the bus to Emmett just before it 
leaves. There is no time to wash my face, rinse my mouth, no time for 
anything at all. 

The bus lets me off at the cemetary at Bricker Road and M-21, where both 
my parents will someday be buried. American A arrives, a few minutes 
late. She leaps from the car, and embraces me, beaming. I resist her, 
only so slightly. 

"Don't you WANT to kiss me?" she exclaims. 

Then her tongue is raping my mouth, and her blonde hair is in my face, 
which I have just pulled from Asian A's pussy. 

There was so little time. 

This is the way of conjecture: To those who believe, anything proven by 
the Qabballah is true absolutely. There is simply no question. 

Hypothetical Jim Warren enters the room at the end of the labyrinth, the 
prostitute on his arm. With mock impulsiveness, she embraces him, 
giggling, and her ringed finger finds his neck. It is only a pin-prick 
at first that he feels there, a jagged fingernail, perhaps, a harmless 
scar of love. But suddenly, there is the weakness; he wants to pull 
away, wants to question, wants to wonder at this, but he cannot. 

There is so little time. 

The girl counts the seconds as hypothetical Jim Warren, all but overcome 
now, succumbs to the tiny hypo concealed in her ring. A decade later, he 
will be a virtual invalid, as the deadly MK-ULTA poison accomplishes the 
long-term job for which it was intended. 

At last, hypothetical Jim Warren slumps to the floor. It does not 
matter; he will not remember. Dr. E enters with two henchmen, nods to 
the prostitute matter-of-factly, and says: 

"So this is the great Jim Warren." 

But as hypothetical Jim Warren falls, I rise up, the Dulles Stigmata 
gnawing at my soul, as the ring poison has on his. I am the cold, dark 
one. I am the Last Witness. I wash clean the blood.