The Reptilian Telepathy of Birds by R.K. Galvez (best books to read for knowledge .TXT) 📕

felt bigger than a planet as hundreds of giant sperm cells burst out of his device to help Zip attack some of the alien muto-cannibals. It was getting a bit technical for Krugler. And he didn't know anything about occult magicks. He preferred to leave those things alone and figured he was just having another reaction to his medication again.

As Krugler ejaculated his giant monster sperm, making the plasto-skeleton glow, a portal opened up within the pzionik realm-space. The fissure crackled and rumbled, followed by the sound of huge flapping wings.

Krugler looked up, through pleasured weakened eyes. He really was a great masturbator; his tears were crystallizing in the corners of his eyes. He had always enjoyed the release of semen in the morning. And now he was seeing things. It must be stasis sickness. The caveman was riding a pterodactyl of some kind; the reptile bird’s huge wings flapped as the caveman steadied a blood-gun and took aim at the alien mutant cannibals.

Ovno and Tipp laughed. They flickered, not quite fading.

"Cleaners, Kruggy! The C.O.G. got the cleaners out of retirement! Those jammy time-trippers! You'll be fine, Kruggy!" murmured Ovno.

Zip looked up and nodded at the giant caveman. He grunted at Zip, and continued his savage shooting. He jumped off the pterodactyl and allowed it to feast upon the alien mutant cannibals. The caveman started to casually pummel away at the foul beasts that advance upon him, slowly making his way towards Krugler. Krugler smiled. Tipp flickered for one last time, saying: "It's Trogger, Kruggy. He'll clean it up. I'll see you soon – you’ll see!"

With that Tipp faded. Ovno smiled, he would fade away too, soon, but Ovno jumped into one of the dormant Bots, and after a few moments a strange fizzing sound emitted from the Bot. From its waste shoot, Ovno appeared in a tiny metal suit.

"I'll stay with you for a bit longer, just until Norky turns up. The bots will be needed to rebuild this colony - you know we've got to recycle everything these days!"

The alien cannibals were unable to tear at Ovno in his little metal suit. He slashed at them with tiny blades on the arms of his tiny suit. Krugler waited then he saw the caveman known as Trogger growing. He started growing just like Zip.

Trogger crashed into the larger alien muto-cannibals, helping Zip out. For a brief moment, Zip might have smiled, seeing Trogger enter the fray. The zombie homo Erectus was a great friend, despite the fact she had never had a chance to talk to Trogger.

Krugler felt himself getting weaker; he must need time to replenish his giant sperm. Masses of the larger alien muto-cannibals had cornered some of his gigantic sperm cells and were slowly feasting off them. These foul beings were also trying to capture Trogger's pterodactyl; but the winged reptile was too strong and very smart at out-witting these primitive traps.

Krugler had a feeling this conflict was going to last for a long time. The colony had no decent supplements to assist and stimulant everyone during these dour times. These foul beings ignored Krugler due to his plasto-skeleton, so Krugler tried to think of something to help. He had no idea what this Norky being even looked like.

Krugler secretly hoped this enigmatic Professor Norkgrub would turn up soon. He did not want the next stop to be Time's past. Krugler had a fear of his own past, let alone mucking around with further back in time.

[ * ] * [ * ]

Professor Norkgrub was back in 1968. He was a roadie for the Soft Machine. He had been there right from the start, living at Robert Wyatt’s mum’s house in Canterbury. They had not noticed his ghostly green crystalline aura. He had been a lucky charm for them, and was thankful to Daevid Allen for originally summoning him. He had also been on Robert Wyatt’s window-sill for a long time; Mike Ratledge had tipped the tail end of his drinks on him and Hugh Hopper had even used him as an ashtray. Norky decided to go along for the ride.

They were all doing it again; they had no idea they were wasting time, repeating themselves. Why were they sleeping? Through wasting time, they were paradoxically not wasting time and were actually breaking through musical boundaries that would not be recognized in 1968. Even their record company had been frightened to release them.

Reset was all the rage. Rage for the wage, as the neo-Marxist posers had said. It was a bit trendy, but Norky had no idea about trends; he was a cool mover – some might say a smooth mover. He hated pop-cultural-psycho-babble dialogue and he never claimed to be a hipster Moses.

Norkgrub was crystalline green, his aura was ecstatic. He had summoned some minor demons, including Och, to him get revive his astral manna. It was all part of his time-sliding plan. The band had moved on. The Soft Machine had always been a strange beast of a band. Norky liked the lysergic energy; it was good to be inspired by chemistry.

Once Soft Machine left him, Norkgrub noticed another new band – called Qwerty Queers - were discussing their plans for world domination. They had just made an “underground” film called “Oh Shit!”, so they were definitely “hip”. It was not on after the usual Fellini fare. Norkgrub listened to the band’s inane babbling…

“He washes his feet a lot, too; I don’t think we should keep him,” said the drummer. He had sunglasses and a bandana on. He looked like a hippy radical stereotype; he had been trying to forge his own identity, but ended up looking like an extra from “The Strawberry Statement”.

One time, maybe it was a few minutes ago, the drummer had moaned: “Who fucking remembers the drummer, anyway?”

This drummer was clearly intoxicated during these outbursts. He had not gone to sleep for over a week as he had taken too much Mandrax; and he had been drinking bottles of whiskey all day long. He had been doing this for ages, during the tour. Unfortunately for the band, he was not bothered by the fact that he was regularly vomiting blood; he felt it was for sacrificial reasons and kept on going with the flow.

The lead guitarist had fallen asleep. He had a massive ginger afro that covered his freckled face. He was dribbling whiskey and amphetamine sulphate. The lead singer, with long blonde hair and a face like a rat, smirked, shaking his head. After playing with his hair - twirling it and flicking it into different styles like every other hippy poser - he said:

“What’s happening with the gig in Monterrey? Phone up Russell and find out, will you Bryan.”

No-one responded. An uncomfortable silence infiltrated the green room. Norkgrub slowly realized that this bunch of Qwerty Queers will get forgotten. They were already thinking of how to sell out, making sure they were able to make a smooth transition into advertising. At least their bassist got away. He might go on to bigger things, just like Lemmy. He probably knows Lemmy, thought Norky.

A crystal-comm sounded in Norkgrub’s crystalline ear and Norkgrub remembered his astral-lock was ready. He had to be reincarnated as a giant tortoise-bird that farted lysergic acid. Norkgrub silently faded out, as quietly as he had faded in. Norkgrub never rushed his cosmic triggers; there was always time to fit in everything - there’s always time according to the wise Professor. Maybe he had forgotten about that C.O.G. mission…

…It was almost Out-bloody-rageous.

14) THE MUTO-CHRONO-CHEMO SESSIONS

After two hundred Earth years went by, the alien muto-cannibals were slowly getting stronger. The colony was a total warzone, close to being totally destroyed. The stronger alien muto-cannibals had consumed the weaker ones and were taking it in turns to wrestle Zip and Trogger.

However, it had been a fairly rapid act of genocide for the colony officials. The alien muto-cannibal population was down to at least a million, as opposed to billions. The conflict had stretched the team in different ways: Trogger was already dead and any flesh wounds he sustained immediately healed themselves.

Zip was getting some larger wounds, covered in hideous purple pus. She needed all the help she could get. Her giantess naked ninja moves had been great to witness, as she defeated the cumbersome alien muto-cannibals one by one. They were getting tougher to kill. They refused to adhere to the project articles; they were out of control. Many alien muto-cannibals had grown, despite being slightly smaller than Zip. It had been a weird form of evolution for them.

During the lull, Ovno would scout around the colony spying on the alien muto-cannibals. Krugler had noticed Trogger and Zip getting intimate in between waiting for those vile alien muto-cannibals to attack again. It provided visual stimulation for Krugler. It was not every day you got to see a giant blonde woman copulating with a giant zombie Homo erectus.

There were weirder things in the crazy world, and capitalist democracies certainly produced many paradoxes. And Trogger was certainly erect and did not seem to be homo, Krugler had observed. Even the pterodactyl was cawing at the prehistoric bumping and grinding.

Krugler wished he was not in a plasto-skeleton and was able to participate in their casual copulations. Apparently, it was never meant to be. At least Zip was enjoying her internship with the C.O.G. Ovno returned looking grim and said: “There’s only ten left. They’ve got pretty fat. Some are huge. They’re putting everything into taking you guys out!”

They were all silent. We all knew it was the end. Ovno saw the ten alien-mutant cannibal giants slowly walking towards the remains of the colony. Zip and Trogger prepared for the endgame.

At that point in time, the sky caught on fire: it was some kind of queer cosmic fissure in reality, as a huge flapping sound was heard. It got louder and louder. Trogger’s pterodactyl shrieked; even the ten fat alien-mutant cannibals looked up in a baffled silent hatred.

The sound of an old Hawker Typhoon was also heard; what bizarre magicks were being employed. Krugler saw the Hawker Typhoon land. An elderly man, with long silver hair, jumped out of the cockpit with surprising agility and ran towards Krugler. He looked familiar, as if he had known him for eternity. He was dressed as an R.A.F. pilot from World War Two.

“It’s all right, Mr Krugler, I don’t expect you to remember everything. I’m Tommy Tellman. I’m your life-coach, at some point in time – don’t ask when exactly! We’ve beat these A.M.C.’s before; we always need a bit of A.M.C., though. In the future and in the past, of course! You better come with me,” said Tommy Tellman.

“This isn’t fancy dress,” mumbled Krugler.

Tellman laughed his wheezy laugh.

“I only wear this when I’m in the tyme-craft. I suppose it still looks like a Hawker Typhoon to you? It’s fine; at one stage I had a real one. I’m the only one who can unlock it all. It’s my curse, but I don’t mind it. It’s like being the Navigator out of Flight of The Navigator. It’s better than some curses – like yours, Krugler.”

Krugler stared at Tellman. He obviously had met him at another point in time. Krugler’s mind had gone blank; he needed more stimulants to help his concentration. The flapping wings were almost