The Abyss of Radical Stupidity by R.K. Galvez (interesting books to read for teens TXT) 📕

The spirit-detectives entered the ghost-chi-room on Kronioa-sol; its shell-like aural vibrations had made those sacred fleshy walls cry crystallized blood; this curious crystal-blood cascaded down like something you might see in a second-rate horror film; C.G.I. not included -- hey, go easy with that battery acid people!...Hang about, what was going through their minds?...What was the colour of their underwear? Was it lace, or a retro Pucci print...[...That secretly really turns me on...]...I think some otherworldly Seer pondered that...Look at their bloody eyes...The Seer's eyes fluttered rapidly back in Willesden Green - a pure Pzi-PhyxU-Trance; it was only [enter: date/time] here, we wanted to know where these beings had emanated from...Red eyes, red cunts, red smegma; the trans-dimensional temporal flow of the...

...Detectives [soul-r-transmigration complete] Vanno and Zinny: Earth; the fissures of space-time warped as these two Tyme-Pyre Detectives broke on through to another side of the continuous vacuum: the [classified; access denied...Oooh a nice social media account for free – what do I give away for all this freedom to connect?...[Soul accepted]...ACCESS GRANTED...FIRST FIVE FILMS FREE...BINGEWANKBABY!]....

...Meanwhile, in another dimension via Bromley, Professor Norkgrub saw everything: he smiled as he stroked his crystalline console...A lovely bit of kit that...No time like the present for a bit of console-stroking, he thought...And the zoophyte smile had become a source of affection for me...I do not know why; plants, people, vegetables...Even those quaint non-binary protein people...They all do it for me...Whoopsie, there it goes...The Astral-Star-Craft lurched throughout the various trans-dimensional slip streams...We'd shot right off!...Oh dear! What a mess!

...On board: the crew was depleted...They had only just made it back from one kind of reality in which Saturn was the most densely populated planet...It was another kind of Hell...The icy rings were polluted with plastic boxes which housed battery people...Tough gig that...

...I do like all kinds of things these days, even lucky days in Hell, I cannot explain why but I have embraced never-ending life-death cycles...And why learn from history when you can be a hamster on a wheel?...

...In Tufnell Park, Elaine Pettifer watched Les Barloy slip into another person; it was the kind of casual soul-penetration that had become socially acceptable again...Ever since Les Barloy and Johnny Quagga had become one entity, they were always dipping themselves inside these random beings...Filthily spaced spicy dust monkies crystallizing everyone...They had quit their cleaning job at the U.R.S.O.M.A.D...It was one of those comfortable academic sinecures that you would be mad to refuse...Elaine refused nothing these days...She was thinking how she might be able to get Les play with her infected vagina...She knew he had previously liked fish with his chips, but she had an idea that she would need another large battered sausage to get his attention...What a dirty filly!

...Les was in another land; he used to be a lemon-head but would develop a fear of mould; he referred to this as his  "mould-mode"...He was choosy about his lemons these days...Lemon used to be slang for Lesbian...Les was called a lemon once by a butch boy who lived close by to him when he was in New Old Amsterdam on Trooluz Five; being called a lemon by this hunky homophobic Adonis instantly resulted in Les getting a throbbing erection...Middle-Class people refer to this as a form of "pant engorgement" (source: F. Tallis; Penguin; 1999)...It can be tough resisting to nibble on a big bit of throbbing gristle though...Butch boy had his tiny gristle licked clean by Les Barloy and insisted upon them keeping their clandestine liaison a secret; suddenly this macho fella from around the block wasn't so tough no more...As my backstreet shrink used to say: "Whatever floats your boat, kiddo! One for a tenner; three for twenty..."...Oh what larks! 

...Oh dreary deary dear - all those petit bourgeoisie wankies...It was a good thing that Les was not always here [first body-transfer in 3456A.D. ]...He read a lot of comics when he was a kid...He had a biography of Hannah Berry's Ecuadorian mother in his pocket [...or maybe he was just pleased to see me...]...Les suddenly remembered that he had savagely buggered Lord Liverpool at least four times; the Liberal Tory fascist – maybe the worst Prime Minister after the useless interims of Brown, Cameron and May-- had passed out on every occasion; he was a real posh fanny, but at least he got his just desserts...Les found it tiring being a catamite in the Nineteenth Century; you at least got a bit of dental work after the Interstellar Muon Crisis of the Forty-First Century...Apparently, Triton was nice this time of year... It made Les nostalgic for extremely hot icy rain...His Trooluzian nostalgia machine bubbled within his loins when he remembered screaming for Take That...He sure took it good in Berlin...

...That was when Elaine realized that her more attractive twin sister must be hiding out on some dull moon base, probably near to another useless dimension...She liked randomly mooning: she guessed Europa but it might even be Triton...Elaine had unknowingly walked past her twin sister at Tufnell Park Station... Elaine wondered if psychics like Les had to guess a lot of the time; Elaine thought Les liked filling in the blanks...Les seemed to guess all the time, he never had the attention span to finish a crossword puzzle; he just randomly lucked out on his numerous predictions and flawed rituals...

"Did you find that re-animated detective's head again?" Les asked Elaine.

...Elaine was surprised that Les spoke to her - she assumed the Giggle Factor was at work here, although she did not confer with The Physics of Tao... Like with everything, it was completely out of the blue, as she had been spying on him for some time; coyly admiring his androgynous appearance, particularly in a trademark skin-tight silver cat suit...He always donned flamboyant clothing for his astral transitions...Les secretly wanted everything to be like Barbarella...Just as he imagined himself as a woman [...It was at this moment that the being known as Erozian Zinny was reading the mind of the seer from a planet now known as Venicova...A place of Venusian coves...Which might be the rough translation, but who really cares about all that dull technical bullshit, right?...]...And everyone knew how Les liked to be well lubricated before travelling through these old portals...He never went through dry!...Even the more well-probed, somewhat saggier, old portals got a good--...

"I found it all a bit loose, if I have to be honest with you, Missy," said Les.

Les sighed a sigh of timeless desolation...He also had a secret crush on his past self: the enigmatic timeless catamite known as The Midnight Pharmacy Lemonade Drinker...Les loved being a grand cosmic masturbator; maybe the projected chaos corrupted science was re-aligned after all...

...When he turned around, Elaine was standing completely naked in front of him...She had invaded his personal six inches...She was also covered with throbbing purple pustules...It must be a demonic pus, thought Les...

"Don't you like me, Les?" cooed Elaine. Her teeth had turned to cockroaches...They flowed from out of her pus-filled maw...

"Maybe another time, darling; I'm not really in the mood," said Les. He stifled a yawn. He had seen this kind of dimensional pzi-trancing before...

"Oh Les, you do know you have to fuck me hard to enter the dimensional nexus? I'm a key, Les. Papus told me so," rasped Elaine, as more pus-covered cockroaches flowed from her mouth.

...Les had seen all the Ghostbusters, so he didn't need a Hollywood breakdown...What a smug little geek!...Les smiled to himself; thankfully he had masturbated throughout The Blue Whale Challenge...As a result, he had a penis over a metre long which he had to fold out and back in; he used the bulbous whitened pock-marks of unprotected sex to hide his over-sized member...That was more than the killer millimetre he had initially anticipated when he first started the challenge...He was unsure about what he should do with it; surely a career in P.O.D. pornography beckoned? This beast might just alter the twilight world of reality stardom forever... 

...In another cosmically challenged stroke of slop-luck for Les Barloy, a time-fissure suddenly opened and a gigantic reptilian claw reached out from within it and grabbed Elaine Pettifer...She was unsure about what she should do, but the scaly claws obviously probed her well enough and started to pull her through the dimensional time-fissure...Elaine started to bite the claw, but the wound unleashed bizarre tiny blood-penises...Each blood-penis frantically probed her...Elaine gushed bloodied pus, as the foul purple pus started to drain from her body...The rip in time closed with a flurry of pus-covered cockroaches as Elaine disappeared from this weird realm-space....

...Les sighed another lengthy sigh; he gently brushed Elaine's cockroach-pus detritus off him...It looked like he was going back to the Colonies after all...He needed to write a confusing prologue to his new Bierce-inspired tome...He had to get these unknown enemy agents off his scent...His instincts told him that the C.O.G. were closing the net around him again...He was sick of scoring for them in all these odd dimensions nowadays...Les secretly wanted to be a mushroom farmer...

...These paranoid thoughts were immediately dispelled from Les Barloy's addled mind when the Tyme-Slyde leading to 1969 mysteriously appeared before him; he knew the C.O.G. were behind this too...Les was always up for a good trip and he had always wondered what it was like to live in extreme poverty, in London, during the Sixties...His communal boho-boner made his mind up for him, as he entered the experimental C.O.G. Tyme-Slyde...

Introduction or The Alternate Prologue: Not another pretentious author’s note...At least be grateful that this will not be yet another gushing dedication to the author's literary agent (the cursed agent being the actual pre-paid lit-pusher; many indie authors are too modest to gush about themselves too much; they're usually too busy trying to cover the real-life bills we all need to actually live...)...Oh, how embarrassing for the fine scribes that gush so luvverly, thought Howard Wendle...Speaking of annoying luvvies...

…This polemical tract for U.R.S.O.M.A.D. research has been directed to all the people who think theatre still continues to be relevant; the crave for "real experiences" remains a smoke screen for reinforcing exclusivitywhilst simultaneously paying lip-service to creative inclusion...As many already know, theatre remains a dry-as-dust mausoleum to the middle-class bourgeois form of this pointlessly elitist type of social cleansing; the agenda cannot be hidden too much nowadays...In fact, they gave up hiding it...

...Theatre still revels in remaining out-of-touch and, essentially, continues to be a stylized playground for those who are bored and way too well-off to know what to do with their easily earned money...Yes, that includes the trust-fund baby hipsters out there, too[...Not to mention the prudish offspring of billionaires, who hate the legacy of permissiveness from the Sixties...]...Thus begins the artsy con: Do something consistently topical; occasionally focus on the young and minorities, don't forget that the buzzwords stick to things like “disadvantaged groups”, "political correctness", "highlighting" and the standardized B.A.M.E. tropes or "Universal Themes"; continually play "Devil's Advocate", but only give the poshos you personally know the actual salaried jobs – keep some tokens on hand (and