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

deafening, as the fissure emanated a strange lysergic mist; the hum of the Hawker engine was barely audible. The alien-muto-cannibals growled at Tellman as he decided to open up a jar.

“Sorry old boy, you’re going to have to get in here,” said Tellman.

“I didn’t realize I needed another vessel. I thought I could survive everything in this plastic-skeleton.”

Tellman shook his head.

“We don’t have much time I’m afraid. When Norky gets here, we’ll all get washed away. It’s his acidic deep clean.”

“How do I get out of it?”

Tellman unclipped the pen-spoon device and put it in his bomber jacket pocket. He then took out a small metal pot – from a hidden inside pocket – and, with a small metallic taper inside the pot, he slowly started to daub the paste onto the plastic skeleton. As a result of this process, it caused the plastic skeleton to melt. In Krugler’s mind, the cream looked like silver Vaseline. Tellman replaced the little pot in his inside pocket once the plastic skeleton was sufficiently dissolved.

“Pure acid, it’s all good. I got this fresh off Doc Hoff in ’38,” noted Tellman.

“I see,” said Krugler. He didn’t have a clue what this Tommy Tellman fellow was talking about.

Tellman helped to scoop Krugler up out of the remains of the dissolving plastic skeleton and put him into the jar.

“Sorry it’s a jam jar. It is clean, but I couldn’t find your other liquid-suits.”

“Will I need more of that Zero-Tee-Seven-Bee stuff again?”

“I don’t know, Krugler, I really don’t know. The C.O.G. might stick you into stasis again. You never can tell. The good Professor and I are freelancers, like most of the demon-tecs here.”

Once Tellman had scooped Krugler up into the jar, he ran with great speed for a man of seventy; he somersaulted into the cockpit with the expert precision of a professional gymnast. He then saluted to Trogger and Zip.

They nodded at Tellman.

“What about Ovno, Mr Tellman?”

“I’m already here, Kruggy,” said Ovno from the cockpit. “Ludovic’s been picked up by Goodnow and Goodmann; he should be fine.”

Tellman smiled, almost looking relieved.

“That’s lucky, though Goodnow and Goodmann are very odd agents. I think they just make it up as they go along, if I’m honest with you. I had already decided to pick Ovno up while he was making sure his suit was strong enough.”

Krugler groaned, like a fat toddler deprived of ice-cream.

“Don’t tell me I’ve got to get in there!” Krugler grumbled.

Ovno and Tommy Tellman could not help but laugh.

“No, it’s for Zip.”

Krugler looked baffled.

“You’ll see,” said Tellman.

Amidst the ear-shredding decibel defying flapping of reptilian wings, Tellman revved the Hawker Typhoon and depressed a button; a mushroom-shaped projectile appeared in front of Ovno. It was mounted on some kind of launcher.

“You only got one hit Ovno,” said Tellman.

The Hawker took off as if it had anti-grav propulsion; Krugler could not see much from his position in the jam jar.

“What’s going on?” asked Krugler.

Tellman and Ovno ignored him for a moment as Ovno aimed the projectile at Zip.

“You can’t be killing her?” Krugler asked, somewhat confused.

“It’s a health supplement, Kruggy; a psilo-bomb or a shroomade - as we call them. Zip’s got to shrink and get into Ovno’s suit. We can’t get her aboard as a giant, can we?”

Krugler had not thought of it like that…

[*] [*] [*]

In this interlude to space and time, Agent Goodnow had performed a satanic ritual. He had copulated with a genetically modified dodo then, at the point of his weak ejaculation, he slit the poor dodo’s throat. He then drank the dodo blood and bathed in it. He then felt refreshed; as if his soul had been cleansed by the gods. He abased himself to the Old Ones and then made his bidding with Belial; the mighty King created after Lucifer. He looked like a beautiful angel, but his chariot of fire can be high maintenance; he needs a lot of offerings and sacrifices.

Goodnow only found this out once he started to think he had outwitted Belial, like Michael. He was no Archangel-agent. He was a vain fop. Goodnow had seen his future self and realized he was vain after all. The dandy did not want to die out; he wanted to be powerful regardless of the cost. He wanted to assume complete control of the C.O.G and all of the world’s powerbase with it.

He activated his pzi-tab attached to his hypo-thalamus. In this precise moment in time, he always went back through his past to re-live it. He performed this recreationally, sometimes using a LSD drip. He called it a system check. It was standard C.O.G. practice to have no skeletons in your closet. Zombies were a different matter, of course.

Goodnow acquired the re-animated dodo that way. Goodmann was having a blood orgy, copulating with the Occultist Dolls skeletons. He had smeared his blood and excrement on them and had allowed them enough manna for his perverted sex rituals. Goodnow had already participated in these repetitive rituals and had left early on this one.

They had bored him; he knew what Goodmann was up to; total destruction and everlasting nihilism. Goodmann’s only political view was a strange form of totalitarian nihilism. Goodnow wanted more. But he had his pzi-tab on full power: he found something he had not seen for a long time. He looked at the document; was it an ancient grimoire he had not seen?

He found his copy of Magical Elements (the Robert Turner translation for anyone interested to know…) and thumbed through it. He knew something was happening; time had a strange way of japing with him.

Goodnow analyzed the old document more carefully.

This is what Goodnow read:

File 767676: THE REPTILIAN TELEPATHY OF BIRDS [for beginners] by Tommy Tellman

Editor’s Note:

The accounts of a possible episode of time-fixing, near the pov-tranced Z.F.Galvez{Zeus Fernando Galvez, 1750-1820} somehow spliced with an unknown - recently aborted - foetus that will never die again. This all happened in Kilburn. The world forces you to live, but to spend you must live unspent. Interrupted by the journal of a wasted anti-life [pre-terminal termination...] by 'Pzi-Doc's Gamussi and Ruhrbello [who is Gamussi's secret-soul trapped inside?… Maybe it’s me again; I don’t really know…]…

…Z.F. Galvez offers himself to be the punished experiment: he submits the world's pain, administered rectally. He takes it like a penitent man. Galvez zooms like a cosmic bluebottle; he's in the small trans-dim settlement of Noizoolu (near Blackhorse Road) - enforced hibernation awaits him, of course; people all seem to be a foul smelling sludge here…

… By the way, a new deal started here ages ago; everyone goes to work for another alien P.R. Company to convince them not to enslave humanity and then destroy the world. They have to work it off for eternity - in some kind of weird immortality existence legislation pact. I mean, what a waste right? No wonder they’re destined to die out…

{For official C.O.G. use only}

Note to other bureaucrats: I know your time is precious too. I wasted enough time reading this drivel. I don’t know what to believe; I shouldn’t have skipped all my meds. If you can’t be bothered to go any further, please skim over this short synopsis as my USP:

Craziness of the realms and inner-sanctums of old haunts within the mystic free-house; we see transitions of how the public house has been constantly destroyed and it was, technically, a mystic speakeasy within a bookshop/cafe. Has our hero(ine) imagined it all? Will there ever be a nice resolution for our American audience and for the under twenty-fives? I don’t know, do I? I’m just thinking whatever I want to think, it’s not like my brain…I forgot I linked my brain up to this… 140 characters per link… In that case, we’ll get him looking after his mum, struggling with bags of shopping, living off meagre benefits, washing the dishes and trying to attempt other domestic tasks that make him quit his once in a lifetime work placement as a robotic sex toy salesman. He ends a life of self-pleasure…

…He reckons he's trapped in a trans-dimensional advert. Reality used to be so much more real than the watered down virtual reality we have to settle for these days… How can you work so much when housework is another way of life? He’ll never be clean… He realizes that everyone should be a paid some kind of national housework allowance to replace benefits and realizes the house might be the key. The homeless, like Galvez, can get parts of the street to care for and maintain and are paid by the state to get housing; this will slowly eradicate general homelessness and forge a return to utopian-communist values.

{PLEASE DO NOT FORGET TO CENSOR}

THE TREATMENT:

PART ONE: Doctor Ramussi's room.

Doctor Ramussi stared out of his dirty window. He licked the dirt off the glass, tasting its fungal dreaminess. He was feeling very light-headed, almost airy.

Ramussi was a particularly peculiar soul; he dressed in a dry-cleaned cream suit and opted for a faded Global Hypercolour T-Shirt underneath. He also wore some ladies suspenders and a corset; but this would not have been known to the outside "real" world. He still likes to wear Velcro slippers in public, though...

He had no place in today’s world, but he always liked to move with the times. This weighed upon him and he seemed to be constantly concerned. He always had time with cause[s] for concern. He had also been a jinxed carrier many moons ago… Also, he was not a real doctor. He was a word-doctor, which didn't mean much today. He got his certificate from an online word-witch coven based in Brazil. They were pretty good at Scrabble, too. It was all electrifying. And the practical was pretty interesting.

As I observed him for longer periods of time, I realized that he was very lonely. He had friends on a camera linked to his micro personal computing-device. He would display his affections for them in various ways, usually in front of this very device. His favourite was a German called Good Mann, or something. He could have been a troll, or a dwarf or even a barbarian. I had severe acid reflux and I was playing Hero Quest at the time, so who really knows?

…It all seemed a bit dull for Ramussi. He would never leave the room. He continued to peer out from the dirty window. He was re-reading Jules Garinet’s ‘Histoire de la Magie en France’ (1818); he looked at the dark mangy clumps of mould that collected in the corners of the window. The gout had been replaced by a hard wearing plastic type substance. This fascinated him for hours. I did not envy existence sometimes. But Ramussi smelt the damp mould spores, licking the divine mould for too long; he started to fill his time by pulling more concerned