Kar-an-far 101

See, it begins with an occidental accident.

He was just walking along with her and him right there with him until he came upon a thought. The doorman beckoned for him to enter. The doorman to distraction-land. But alas, most fortunately he was the doorman and despite the oiliness of his hinges, that much hinged on this time around, and all the wiggling, could not make himself twist through the tiny frame, to pass through everyday normality that some people, not naming any names or pointing any fingers, mind you, considered reality. Not a reality but THE reality. One might find it utterly logical to call such concepts nonsense, if every fibre in one's, two's and three's artificial shells did not have a flashing banner THE REALITY written all over. ® for Reality with a capital existence. Ah, but ah, you'd say. Ones and twos and threes are not the way, for this doorway leads to the dawning of a new day. This day, this way is nothing difficult at all. Quite straightforward, then to the right, next by the tea mug and left again and then just through whatever's in the way. Four's simplicity's sake, we shall call him For - U, better known as un-, being a very intelligent letter and all that jazz. However, he is a pitiful animal, standing tall in a forest-field of grey, blinking his eyes in fear because the light is too bright. The black stars are shining like huge jewel-shaped headlights. The she-cub sighs, rises up on two paws and takes a step. It's the only way to escape tonight. One thought, two.

Fields of brie with birds in between. Trees buzzing, flowers singing and all is illuminate. Challenge your mediocrity. Look beyond what's already there in front of you. Look behind it. Look under it. Calm your nerves with the slow flow of gunpowder gold. It tickles as it trickles down your throat. The soft elixir of 100% proof pleasure overwhelming with a hint of peace eternal. Neon pink and neon red, neon sink and neon bed. Inventiveness is in the air and the air is full of ingenuity! Why live in a house, when you can live in a teapot? Why drive a car when there's a carriage pulled by a host of frogs? Why think when one can imagine and why imagine when one can see, smell, touch, feel and taste? Light up your life – swallow the Sun! He stretches his arm out, his hand, his fingers as far as they would go and grabs the fabric of destiny by its not so metaphorical throat. See, destiny is a rabbit – it will try to run down a hole and hide away unless it's grabbed by the scruff. For realises this now. He drives his caddy onwards. It neighs as it struts and she gives it some sugar.

He comes on yet another gate. The address is 12 Many. The sign says: beware of the dog, make way for the dead. Puzzled, he steps right into the belly of the feast. We are swallowed up by a suburbanite dreamyard. Wait, we? Who's we? Is a we a you and me? Or is that just too good to be? He focuses his attention on her and she focuses on him. Just then their eyes are unlocked and every Saharan desert becomes an Amazonian rainforest. The party has already begun. He grabs some champagne off the snacks platter and makes his royal way forward right through the splitting middle of the fork, ever looking back. It's a funnily solemn occasion about to become solemnly fun. There is a man chasing a woman around the garden. She ends up climbing a tree to get to safety. She growls and he barks. Turns out she was a cat-person and he was a dog-person. In one of the corners there is a love triangle brewing. Rennen von Morgenthal. Matin du Courir fighting over Charity Tenkey... You wouldn't think it of her, her reserved nature being the talk of the town, but she's been quite the first prize in the popularity contest. In the other corner there is our beloved God and The Devil, Good and Evil, Champion and Nemesis, yaddah-yaddah-yah, humanity personified, sitting in a swing-chair sipping pure shipping ethanol from lacquerware teacups. The bell rings, one time, two.

In the middle, beside a pond of wok-fire there are the two succubi. A lovely pair really – the gay demon couple owns a restaurant just off High Street in the West End. But they don't like to be called that, they much prefer “fallen angels”. It's a blessing for their advertising, or so meticulously well-dressed Suzey claims – he does the books, so he would know. Christie hardly agrees with all his partner says – not at all, actually, they have fights all the time but that's apparently good for business too, it would seem, nothing like hellfire cuisine – but usually he's more than happy to stay on the kitchen side and work little miracles of his own. So much damage, so many shards of taste across the palate. All are broken, lost and stuck in time. What time? Oh, 12:07 am but two hours ago. The two cherubim, too, are looking for and pushing away that what would make them whole again. For smiles at his new friends. At least the catering is heavenly, quite something to die for. Like chastising gas, he too passes.

Toward the middle, there is a unique surprise in store. A murder mystery! Emmy force trauma. Busts of Caesar Optimus I and Caesar Salusa II were the only witnesses to this. According to their voiceless yet facially expressive statements, the murder weapon was a 4-pint carton of milk. Lucky bugger! What a way to go, eh? What's the victim's name? Richard Rooster. Apparently, and catch this, everybody thought he was a bit of a dick and turns out he had two women fighting in his head. Imagine the argument: why do you treat me like that? Oh grow up, you act like such a man sometimes! No! Not something you'd believe easily, after all they'd been through, right? And with a Pannini?! Yeah, exactly, that's what I said! And check this out, bro, the stomach was filled with 12p drahms. Post mortem? No, apparently the vic swallowed them voluntarily, seems like he had a taste for money and wanted to keep it in a safe place. Really? You've got to be shitting me! No, but she won't be laying no golden eggs, that's for sure. The giggling detectives move aside as TV 911 reports that even though the victim has remained relatively unscathed the murder has to be solved nevertheless!For smiles a wicked smile and she prances on like a peony prince on a glitter glittery pony. Or, actually, what is THAT? Is it a pony, is it a butterfly, or is it a Mr. Tickle?!

Point of fortune,good to be aware: they know something others don't. Unhappiness too, you see, comes from within. When viewed in an exacerbatingly exasperating ultraviolent light all becomes clear. They weren't there to murder the undying sod of a cod, and it is no surprise when a recovery is made post mortem. Behind the scenes the rulebook is a million volumes thick. The blank pages almost snigger amongst themselves. The guilty party is brought in, their life to be snuffed out. Who, what, where and why are not important, as long as the chosen method is geared for ultimate pleasure. This time around it's eating pains of chocolate for execution and all get to participate. How to tame a dragon, you ask? I found that out when I met your mother. The inquisition uses the interrogation mark instead of the question mark. It is known. Too bad they don't find it funny. After all, it's no time for plans, it's time for sparrows' gallows! For remains in the gathering storm of a crowd when he herself is being dragged to meet their end for a few thoughts. It chooses to escape her unpunishment by trapping his consciousness away, choosing a different way to be. One ripple of a wavelength rings out true well enough. For waddle-waddle-waddle-waddles onwards through the garden of purgatory.

Fields of green and gold, not too warm and not too cold. Ambition runs through these lands in rivers of fire. Veins of red and liquid gold, imbued with passion coursing on with the beat of a drum for power untold. Im-mor-ta-li-ty, think about it! And not just any old immortality – immortality by choice, with a custom fitting of immorality and lack of boredom thrown in for FREE. That is 25% more immortality per lifetime! Who gives a bullet about existential problems, physical and metaphysical stresses of the Everything? Naww, bite my shiny cyanide sadness. Invisibility, telepathy, telekinesis and power over everything animate and inanimate, spirited and not - all of it and so much more is laid down before your feet. Pick it up, just pick it up. Don't let it go on ringing there inside time and space forever and ever. Do it now and as a super-duper extra we'll even throw in a towel! The cinema roll runs through, the music stops, the lights go out. He's not impressed though, she doesn't like cheap deals with more than he bargained for. And aggressive marketing is just one way of saying that there are celestial bodies made of dairy products. The whole festive procession of lights and colours, sounds and tastes moves on. One step, two step, three step, four.


He is blotches of paint dripping on a canvas, mixing, twirling. Becoming loose and losing their very nature. The VI rips through it blood and ruby red. He crumples the parchment up, then folds it out again, not a wrinkle in sight! No magic, just a different way of doing things. Doesn't really clot up, see, and sometimes it flows all over the edge of the world. Big pizza-like, with garlic and parsimony filled crust, mm-mmmm. SO! What's it like inside and outside the box? Ever stop to think why it's a box at all? Why not a ball, can't be all that bad... He thinks it might be an octagon though, even if she wants it to be, it might not, catch the drift? The game in question is that of chess played on a board of 65 squares with St. Lucifer on the odd one out. The antechamber is lit up by a small black sun. You shouldn't really trust that guy, he's full of tricks with sticks and men there and then. Wine flows slowly across the floor like the juice-blood of life. Paw-marks all over though, fire fire fire, the guilty tiger cub wants to roar! Slowly, slowly, one step, two step, three step... For ~

Tomorrow's going to be the day today should have been.