Thursday, 27 November 2014

Chapter 5: By Musket or By Pot

On a cold and dismal December morning in the year 1922, a week or so before Christmas, an obscure cloud of fog appeared over the Thames. Nobody noticed it though; it was hidden from sight by the rest of the fog; fog that often hangs over the Thames on an early winter’s morning.
But on this particular morning there was a fog within the fog. It seemed to know where it was going, gradually floating along the course of the river until it arrived in the region of Westminster, where it came to a halt, and just hung there in the air like, well, fog.
Eventually, from out of the mist emerged a pair of figures; a vaguely disreputable looking young man and an older gentleman of a seafaring ilk. They stood for a moment, looking back out over the river and exchanged a few words, before clapping each other on the back and walking off in opposite directions.
Abe took rooms at the Savoy, where Scott and Zelda were currently residing. After an afternoon’s sleep, a bath, shave, and change of clothes, he was ready to hit the town. They were off to the Bag of Nails, where Bonnie would be performing that night. Scotty was in the bar enjoying a cocktail or three while waiting for Zelda to complete her womanly ablutions, and he immediately tapped Abe for a loan.
                “Shit, Scotty, how come you’ve never got any money?” Abe asked him. “I thought you’d just published another novel.”
                “Zelda’s high maintenance, dude. And I haven’t made any real money from the books yet. And I’m an alcoholic. What more do you need?”
                Zelda’s an unstable psychopath and a bastard, you mean, thought Abe. No wonder you drink so much. I’d drink too if I was married to her.
                “How much do you need?”
                “How much can you spare?”
                “Got any marching powder?”
                “Yeah man.”
After a therapeutic visit to the gents, Abe gave Scott two hundred pounds and bought them a couple of highballs, which he laced liberally with fukkummuppa root. By the time Zelda elected to join them, they had rediscovered their identity as the source of all things, which made her that much easier to bear, and full of love and oneness they piled into a cab and headed for the West End.
Abe loved Bunny from the moment he saw her. From the moment that she stepped onto the stage and into the spotlight, he knew that he would never sleep with another woman as long as he lived. His lady-boning days were over and his life would never be the same. He had no doubt in his mind that God had brought them together, that their togetherness was inevitable, and he had no intention of leaving the club – or for that matter going anywhere ever again – without her.
As luck would have it, she felt the same.
A few days before Christmas, Abe and Bunny waved a fond farewell to the Fitzgeralds, who were returning to New York, and took the train to Winchester, to spend the festive season with Art and Morganna. It had been a year since Bunny had been back to Dwarf House.
                “Art and Morganna will love you,” she told Abe. “They’re really cool.”
                Abe sure as hell hoped so. He was experiencing nervousness and anxiety, feelings he’d never experienced before. He wanted very much to make a good impression on Bunny’s parents, and this surprised him; he’d never cared about that before, either. He wanted to do the honourable thing and ask Art for his daughter’s hand in marriage, but he was drowning in a flood of thoughts, ideas and emotions for which he was woefully unprepared. He didn’t know where they were coming from. It was freaking him out.
Unbeknownst to Bonnie, Art’s drinking over the last twelve months had got dangerously out of hand; he was knocking back three litres of spirits a day. He’d been getting into fights and falling over in the street, he’d been hospitalised twice and arrested three times.  And he was no longer a happy drunk. He was depressed and lost. Morganna felt she should do something, but she had no idea what. Their doctor recommended a psychiatrist, and advised her that unless Art quit drinking once and for all, a future of rubber sheets and dribbling into his mashed up sausage was a certainty; commitment to the asylum and a hideous early death almost guaranteed.
The problem was that Art just couldn’t seem to stop, or even cut down. As the days went by he just drank more and more. He had tried quitting after each of his three arrests, and both trips to the hospital. Once or twice he’d managed to stay dry a day; usually he was drunk within hours. He’d have blackouts, and when he came out of them he often couldn’t even remember taking the first drink. He was rapidly earning a reputation as the town lush. Morganna knew – although she hadn’t mentioned it to Art – that amongst some sections of the community he was known as Art the Alkie. She was humiliated, not for herself, but for him. People were so judgemental, so self-righteous; and the prevailing opinion of the day seemed to be that alcoholism was a moral problem. She couldn’t accept that. She knew Art to be one of the most compassionate, morally upright men she’d ever met. Certainly when compared to the small minded rumourmongers who whispered behind their hands and crossed themselves when he passed by.
Morganna prayed they could get through Christmas without any tears. Art promised her that he’d see the psychiatrist in the New Year. They just needed to make it until then. But it wasn’t all dark skies. She was excited about seeing her beautiful baby girl, and meeting the new man in her life. Bunny hadn’t told her much; Morganna knew his name was Abraham Jones, that his father was something to do with the government in India, that he was rich, charming, and a close friend of F. Scott Fitzgerald, and that was about it. Of the series of encyclopaedias known as “Kings of the World” she remained blissfully unaware. But she could tell that Bonnie was head-over-heels in love with this man, and that was enough for her.
Abe and Bunny were full of festive cheer when they disembarked at Winchester. The warm glow of young love, complimented by several highballs, a couple of lines of Peruvian flake, a dash of fukkummuppa root and lustfulness of Biblical proportions had them lit up like the Christmas decorations which festooned the High Street. After stopping at the Royal Oak for refreshments, Bunny took Abe on a tour of the cathedral, pointing out the stained glass window that had been destroyed by Oliver Cromwell, and regaling him with tales of St. Swithun, the cathedral’s patron saint, who threw banquets to which he invited the poor but never the rich; and of William Walker, the diver who single-handedly prevented the building’s total collapse just a decade beforehand, when the foundations had been waterlogged and the cathedral had started to sink into the swampy mess beneath it. Between 1906 and 1912 Walker worked every day, at depths of six meters, in total darkness, and reinforced the foundations with 25,000 bags of concrete, 115,000 concrete blocks, and 900,000 bricks.
But it was outside in the grounds that Abe’s interest was truly aroused, when they came across the grave of one Thomas Thetcher, a soldier who had drunk himself to death in 1764. The inscription on the headstone read:
In Memory of
A Grenadier in the North Reg. of Hants Militia, who died of a violent Fever contracted by drinking Small Beer when hot the 12 May 1764. Aged 26 Years.
Here sleeps in peace a Hampshire Grenadier,
Who caught his death by drinking cold small beer,
                Soldiers be wise from his untimely fall
And when ye're hot drink Strong or none at all.
An Honest Soldier never is forgot
Whether he die by Musket or by Pot.
                “Poor bastard,” said Abe.
                “He sounds like my dad,” said Bunny.


Art greeted them with well-oiled enthusiasm when they arrived at the house; he’d just returned from the Dwarf’s Head and was three sheets to the wind.
                “Bunny, daahling!” he cooed, smothering her in a bear hug, before turning his attention to Abe. “And you must be the fine and upstanding Mr Jones, the object of my daughter’s affections. Well,” he belched, “you’re very welcome. Come on inside and get in the warm, and we’ll break out the egg-nog or whatever the fuck you call it.”
Bunny was thankful that her father was coherent when they arrived, but he didn’t stay that way for long. After toasting the happy couple with a couple of large whiskies, he staggered off up the stairs, and passed out on the first floor landing.
                “What are we going to do about Dad?” Bunny asked her mother.
                “I just don’t know, darling,” Morganna replied. “I’m at my wits end.”
                “I have an idea,” said Abe.
Abe’s idea was simplicity itself. He proposed to spike Art with fukkummuppa root. The power of the root was such that it would a) sober Art up immediately, and b) take his mind off that very fact. He suggested that the following morning, he should accompany Art to the Dwarf’s Head, do the deed and take him out for the day, while Bunny and Morganna did whatever women did when he wasn’t around.
Because they had no better idea, the women agreed.
Art was over the moon that Abe had decided to join him for his morning constitutional in the Dwarf. He’d spent far too much time drinking alone recently, in the shadowy corners of empty bars, between the gravestones and mausoleums of the churchyard at St. Cross and on the weathered benches of Three Maids Hill, morbidly gazing into the dark bottom of glass after glass after glass after glass and wondering where it had all gone wrong. In spite of the fact that he’d had a tumbler full of whisky before they left the house, Abe noticed that his companion’s hands were trembling violently; so violently, in fact, that he was having problems picking up his glass. After struggling for a while, Art took a tie out of his jacket pocket, and, tying one end around his right wrist and taking the other in his left hand, he slung it across the back of his neck, creating a kind of sling. Slowly, he was able to raise his glass to his mouth without spilling it over himself.
                “You’re in a bad way, my friend,” declared Abe. Art took a long slow drink from his glass, and sat gazing dumbly through him for several moments before responding.
                “Don’t I know it,” he said. “Honestly Abe, I don’t know how I ended up like this. I’m not a bad man. I own a bookshop you know, in New York, in the Village, although I haven’t been back since before Bunny was born. I’m not a tramp or a layabout; I’m not immoral. But I can’t go from one moment to the next without a drink. If I don’t have a drink I start having fits and thinking I’m going to die. It’s pathetic. I feel so weak and spineless. Like such a failure. My friends are full of what they think is good advice. They tell me I should drink beer only; they tell me I should cut down. Beer doesn’t even touch the sides, for the love of God. The three litres of goddamned whisky that I pour into myself every day barely touches the sides, for fuck’s sake. They think that it’s only a matter of willpower. But they’re wrong. They must be, because no matter how determined I am to stay sober, no matter how many promises I make to myself, sooner or later I always end up pissed.  When I start drinking I can’t stop, and when I’m sober I can’t stop myself from starting. I’m trapped, and I can’t see any way out. What the hell’s wrong with me, Abe?”
                Pulling a packet of Luckies from his pocket, Abe lit a cigarette, and said: “You’re an alcoholic Art. That’s all. Beginning and end of story.”
 “But just what the hell does that mean?” Art beseeched him. “What am I meant to do with that knowledge? Just keep drinking until I’ve got a wet brain and I’m shitting my pants every ten minutes? Till I’m locked up in Moonstruck Mansions? Till I’m dead? What?”
“Hey, take it easy man,” said Abe, gently, “don’t get yourself all worked up. As far as I understand it, alcoholism is defined as acute alcohol poisoning. That fits. It’s poisoning you, for sure, which means that alcohol is poisonous, to you, to Art Simpson. Which means that you need to stay the hell away from it. You can’t drink anymore Art. Never again. It’s over.”
“It can’t be poisonous to me,” Art cried in disbelief. “I drink shit loads of the stuff!”
Abe laughed. “Art, you’re a genius!” he said. “Anyway, don’t worry, I’m going to help you. Well, I’m going to help you sober up, at least. I can’t stop you from picking up the next time, but I can certainly get you sober now. And quickly.”
The faint light of hope dawned in Art Simpson’s eyes; the faint light of fragile, barely-daring-to-believe hope.
“Really?” his voice was little more than a whisper. “You can help me?”
Abe grinned at him. It was a mad grin. It was the kind of grin you imagine Rasputin must have had. Or Jack the Ripper. Art didn’t notice; he was too pissed.
“Two more pints of Old Thumper, please Nancy,” Abe said to the pneumatically bosomed bar wench, “and whatever you’d like for yourself.”
“Why, thankyou Mr Jones, you’re a gentleman.”
“Call me Abe.”
“Ok then,” she smiled at him. “Abe.” Giggling coquettishly she went off to pull the pints.
“Now then Art,” said Abe, “when our drinks arrive I’m going to put some special medicine in them.”
“Special medicine, yes. From Africa. It will sober you up instantly, and you will go on a journey. You will experience the world that has been forever beyond your grasp; the world unlimited by the confines of the egoic mind. You will realise who you really are. You will understand everything. You will know yourself, and you will know God. And by the time your journey is over, your body will be free of alcohol. Can you say Amen?”
“Amen!” yelled Art, before slumping over with his head in the ashtray. Enjoy your sleep while you can, thought Abe. In a few minutes you’re going to wake up for good.
Art was hollow, and felt the universe blowing through him. It rushed, like the wind, like water, like an ice-cold holy fire, cleansing and purifying him. He remembered who he was; who he had always been. He saw his essence, the essence of the all, ever flowing like the limitless ocean, the changing names and forms around him like waves that swelled up out of the ocean and subsided back into the ocean, never having been anything other than the ocean.
He was limitless and free; to believe otherwise was delusion. Now he understood. The world was an appearance, a manifestation, a projection, occurring spontaneously again and again and again, so fast that it tricked the mind into believing it was solid and real; that it had its own inherent existence; that it existed in and of itself, independently. But it didn’t. Because it was consciousness and nothing else, seeming to be the world without undergoing any change whatsoever, just like the reflection in a mirror has no existence of its own, because it is always only ever the mirror.
                “It’s wonderful!” he exclaimed. “It’s shiny and sparkly and beautiful!”
                “Yeah, man,” said Abe, who was lurking over by the bushes trying to light a cigarette, “it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” A look of befuddlement passed over his features, then he added: “Except for Bonnie.”
                “That’s nice,” replied Art, in the manner of one who wasn’t listening.
                “How do you feel?” asked Abe.
                “Like king of the world,” said Art.
When, some two days later, Messrs Jones and Simpson made a return to Dwarf House, they were half naked and covered in filth, blood and bruises. The pair of them gave the convincing impression of having been dragged through a hedge backwards; they had leaves in their hair and small rodents in their beards. Their eyes were sunken and looked like black holes. But amazingly, Art was sober, and had been that way for 48 hours. Morganna was overjoyed.
                “Darling!” she ran to meet her husband. “Get in the house quickly; you’ll freeze to death otherwise.”
                “There is no death, honey,” Art replied. “Death is an illusion.” But he smiled lovingly, gave her a kiss, and went inside anyway.
To the relief of everyone, Abe’s plan had worked, and for the first time in two decades, Art was off the sauce. Now they just had to ensure he stayed that way. Abe decided to administer a very weak pot of fukkummuppa root tea to him in the mornings; not enough to have him tripping out of his gourd, but enough to give his life a bit of a twinkle. Over the next few days Art began to resemble something of his old self, and seemed quite content without a drink. He was thoughtful, calm and peaceful. Morganna could barely believe it.
Replacing his morning visits to the pub with rambling daily walks around the town and its environs, sometimes inviting Abe or one of the women to join him, he regularly came home beaming happily, and seemed enthusiastic about his chances of staying sober. In the few days that had passed since his last drink he had even began to make plans for the future, and on Christmas Eve he returned home and announced that he was going to open a another shop, selling books and phonograph records. He’d already spoken to the bank manager, and secured premises in Cathedral Square. He just needed to refurbish the place and source the stock. All being well he aimed to open for business in the spring.
                “I’m so proud of you Dad,” Bunny sniffed as she ran to hug him, trying to hold back the tears.
                “We all are,” said Morganna, as she put her arms around them both. “I’m so grateful to have my husband back.”
                “I’m glad to be back,” he said. “And I promise, I’m back to stay.”
It was all getting a bit emotional for Abe; he knew the tears were about to start rolling, along with the wailing and the sobbing and the hugging and the gnashing of teeth and what have you, and he really didn’t think he could deal with that. So he quietly left the room, donned his overcoat, and went into town, hoping to spot a dwarf or two.



Thursday, 20 November 2014

Chapter 4: The Psychonautilus

“Don’t you think it’s strange?” said Captain Bill Trout, as he closed the hatch behind them.
                “Don’t I think what’s strange?” said Abe.
Abe considered this for a moment.
                “I do now,” he said.

The bridge of the Psychonautilus wasn’t what he expected, not that he knew what he expected.  Something a little more maritime, perhaps. A ship’s wheel, maybe. An engine room. Levers. Crewmen. Some rope. But it was as if he’d walked into a traditional English pub; dark brocade wallpaper of maroon and gold covered the walls, and there was a fully functional oak bar running down one side.  Comfortably worn seating arrayed the other; and a long table, with an old Johanna in the corner. A leather-topped Edwardian pedestal desk, seaman’s chest and pair of heavy walnut bookshelves equipped the near end. Abe spotted copies of the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius, the Origin of the Species, the Communist Manifesto, the Bhagavad Gita, and the Upanishads, as well as volumes by William Blake, Mark Twain, Walt Whitman, Meister Eckhart, Ramakrishna and Vivekananda. There were others that he didn’t recognise at all, by people he’d never heard of. The Doors of Perception, the Way of Zen, the Psychedelic Experience, the Lord of the Rings, Slaughterhouse Five, the Gospel of Thomas, Alcoholics Anonymous. There was more to Bill Trout than met the eye.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” said Abe.
“I haven’t done anything with it,” replied Trout, “it’s constantly changing. When I went ashore this morning it resembled a French patisserie. Probably because I was thinking about breakfast. It reflects whatever is going on in the mind. I wonder where the cat’s got to.”
                “The cat?”
                “A ship’s got to have a ships cat. It’s traditional.” He pulled half a roast chicken from under his reefer jacket. “Shakespeare!” he bellowed, “Where the hell are ya? I‘ve got breakfast.”
There was a sudden explosion, obscuring the bridge beneath an acrid scud of smoke. Through it, faintly at first, but rapidly increasing in volume and proximity, came the unmistakable sound of the William Tell Overture, and the hooves of a thousand thundering warhorses. Abe congratulated himself on his earlier decision to take some fukkummuppa root. If he hadn’t been tripping he might’ve gone quite mad.
                “Well hello,” a voice both haughty and sardonic greeted him from the vicinity of his ankles, “you must be the addlepate we’re taking to London. You have the honour of greeting Shakespeare, first officer and ships cat. Chicken is it, Bill? Spot on. You can have enough of fish, you know.” He hefted his fat ginger and white body up onto the bar and began to pulverise the chicken. “Fish, fish, bloody fish.” Pausing for a moment, meat remnants hanging depravedly from the corners of his mouth to address Abe once more, he said: “I hope you don’t mind my eating while you lollygag around the place. I’m quite famished.”
                “Not at all,” replied Abe, “all those parlour tricks must build up a hunger.”
                “Parlour tricks?” snorted the cat, with as much pique as he could muster; “how dare you, sir. I’ll have you know that I am a warlock of great power, a master arcanist, and a member of the Order of the Golden Dawn. Aleister Crowley is a close personal friend of mine. But not that detestable poet fellow, whatshisname. Yeats. I can’t bear the man.”
                “I beg your pardon,” said Abe.
“Granted,” replied Shakespeare. “Bill, darling, could you pop a drop of scotch in my saucer of milk, please. Hobnobbing with the common folk rather brings on a thirst.”
“You mustn’t mind Shakespeare,” Trout came from behind the bar with jugs of ale for Abe and himself, “he’s not normally so unctuous. It’s only when we have guests. He likes the attention.” 
                “Oh, please!” Shakespeare spat out a mouthful of chewed up fowl; “I couldn’t care less about guests. I’m a cat, in case it’s escaped your notice. I’d come over and stick my rear end in your face, except I don’t want your beard all over it.”
                “Eat your chicken, you awkward animal.”
                Abe and Trout took their beers and repaired to the long table.
                “As I was saying,” Bill continued, “the deck of the Psychonautilus changes with the thoughts and ideas that are prevalent in the mind. We’ve both been thinking about England, hence the décor.”
                “Right,” acknowledged Abe, although he suspected the old fellow was as boiled as an owl.
                “Well then,” said Trout, wiping the foam from his beard and thumping his jug down on the table, “time to raise the anchor and hoist the mainsails.” He went off to rummage through his chest, adding over his shoulder: “A figure of speech. We have no anchor or mainsails. We don’t even have an engine.”
                “No engine?” said Abe, “What powers the ship then?”
                “Consciousness,” declared Trout.
                “Excuse me?” Abe ejaculated in amazement, spraying beer and sputum everywhere. It was clearly about time for some more fukkummuppa root.
                “Consciousness. The Psychonautilus is powered by consciousness, which is why it reflects the ideas in the mind. The mind is nothing but consciousness, taking on shapes, appearing as thoughts and emotions. The same with the Psychonautilus. It is consciousness taking a shape. At this particular moment, the shape of a rather well appointed public house.”
                “Then how can you touch it and taste it and smell it? You’re pulling me by the gonads, old man, I wasn’t born yesterday.” Stamping his foot on the floor and rapping upon the table in the manner of Dr Johnson, Abe refuted it thus: “The floor and table are solid.”
                “Yes,” agreed Bill, “it’s a very convincing illusion. As is the world. As is the universe. And yet the fact remains; they are nothing but consciousness appearing as something else.”
                He came back to the table clutching an illusory cigar box, and it started to drizzle.
                “My God!” exclaimed Abe, “what’s going on now? It’s raining!”
                “Yeah, sorry, my bad,” said Trout. “I’d got to thinking about the Welsh hillsides. But never mind that. We have a long journey ahead of us, and for that we need fuel.” He handed Abe a handful of shifty looking dried mushrooms. “Eat these, and we’ll be on our way.”
                “What are they?”
                “They’re mushrooms. Magic mushrooms. From the Welsh hillsides. We can’t go anywhere without weighing anchor. Think about it like this; your mind is the sail, the mushrooms are the wind.”
                “Hey, you don’t need to convince me,” said Abe, eyeing the grass that was growing under his feet and the bewildered herd of sheep milling about the poop deck, “I’m a big fan of stuff like this.” He swallowed his mushrooms, which were repulsive, washing them down with the dregs of his beer. “Are you familiar with the fukkummuppa root?” he asked Bill.
                “Can’t say I’ve ever had the pleasure,” said Trout. “It’s very hard to come by, so they say.”
                “Yes, it is,” said Abe, and then, turning to look pointedly at the cat; “but Mr Midnight, the witchdoctor, is a close personal friend of mine.” So saying, he put the bag of powdered root on the table. “If we’re going to go travelling, we might as well travel in style.”
                “You wouldn’t know style if it bit you on the arse,” said Shakespeare.
Captain Bill Trout came from the future. He was born on Mars, one of three off-planet colonies, in the year 2055. Exploration was in his blood. His parents had both been officers in the United Navy, and were amongst the first to move out to the colonies. The Earth hadn’t been in a particularly good way in the twenty years or so prior to that, which was why the decision to build colonies had been made. After years of being polluted with carbon emissions and atomic waste, gluttony and avarice, it was barely habitable. The animals were dying out, and the humans were being born deformed or retarded.
Scientists had been warning everyone for years, since the late 20th century. They’d warned about pollution as the number of gas-guzzling vehicles doubled, tripled, quadrupled. So the Earthlings bought more SUVs. They’d warned about global warming, the damage to the ozone layer and the melting polar icecaps. So the Earthlings became three car families and took more jet flights. The blame for this could be laid squarely at the feet of successive right-wing neoliberal governments. By the beginning of the 21st century, governments – for the most part – were little more than money making entities. Capitalism had been an unmitigated disaster; all that had happened was that one percent of the population controlled all the wealth. The reason Capitalism had been such a failed ideology was because it was based on greed. Unless something had a monetary value, it had no value. Consequently citizens of low earning capacity were demonised as “scroungers” and feckless layabouts, and with every year that passed there were more of them.
The oil ran out in 2020.That pissed everyone off. Within a few years the planet was littered with the rusting carcasses of automobiles, and humanity had come to rely solely upon nuclear power, throwing up monstrous and menacing power stations that poisoned the countryside for miles around. Years earlier, some of the more environmentally conscious Earthlings had championed the idea of wind and solar power, but the rich and their puppet governments didn’t like the idea of that. Sunshine and air were free, after all. And you couldn’t make bombs with it either. No, nuclear power; that was the ticket.
As a result of this, and the ensuing atomic catastrophes that would eventually leave the Earth a dead and barren wasteland, by the year 2030 the population of the Earth had shrunk to less than half; only three billion souls were left. Apart from a privileged few - the very ones who had orchestrated this disaster – the inhabitants of Earth lived in varying degrees of poverty and disease. Great swathes of the population had been dispossessed; they lived amongst the filth. Finally, and inevitably, the day came when the people rose up against their oppressors. They armed themselves however they could, and stormed the government buildings; the bastions of the wealthy. In England, the houses of parliament were besieged and those inside were finished off with blunt instruments and automatic weapons. Buckingham Palace was ransacked and put to the torch, and the royal family were rounded up and unceremoniously shot. After that the citizens of the world shared what was left, with each other. There was only one purpose for humanity now, and that was to prevent its own extinction. For this they looked to the stars. The projects for the colonisation of Mars and the Moon were already well underway, and now, miles out in space, work began on “Earthstation”; a space station capable of accommodating twenty thousand people.
The environmental conditions on Terra Firma were deteriorating, rapidly. The land was corrupt, the atmosphere was toxic, and the heat was blistering. It was obvious to everyone that there wasn’t much time left. It was also acknowledged that only a handful of the Earths inhabitants would make it off the planet. Even with the population of the planet shrinking drastically every year, there would still be a couple of billion left. There wasn’t enough time to find a way to move them all, and there was nowhere to move them to. All in all, 144,000 would go out to the space station and the colonies. The others were as good as dead.
Earthstation was completed in 2050. The twenty thousand future occupants were chosen by means of a lottery, and the next few months were spent shuttling them all out there. Finally, the remaining 124,000 left the Earth, escorted by the United Navy’s entire fleet; 44,000 heading to the Moon, and 80,000 going on to Mars.
Bill Trout’s father, Steve, was Captain of the New Morning, one of the transportation ships. His mother, Barbara, was the ships chaplain. She was a minister in the Church of the Words of the Living Jesus, a humanist sect that took the Gospel of Thomas for its text, and believed that the message of the gospels in the New Testament had been perverted by St Paul the Bastard, and the teachings of Christ twisted out of all recognition by the church ever since. Religion had undergone a huge revival in the twilight days of the Earth. Now that the human race had been so thoroughly disabused of the notion that life was all about material gain, they were at a loss. What, if anything, was its purpose? Numerous apocalyptic cults sprang into existence, and the churches, mosques and temples of traditional religion saw attendance sky rocket, as did the psychiatric and mental health professions. Twelve-step recovery groups sprang up on every corner.
The Admiralty was in the Borealis basin, the flattest part of the colony, and it was here that the young Captain and his wife lived, under a self-renewing environmental dome. With the evacuation of Earth complete, the Navy concerned itself with further exploration of the galactic quadrants, with a view to building further colonies. They’d be needed sooner rather than later, because in the first five years on Mars the population doubled in size. Escaping extinction seemed to have given the colonists a new lust for life, and they were reproducing feverishly. Steve and Babs were not immune to the pervading air of randiness, and they had three tiny Trouts, one after the other.
Little Bill was the last to be born, in the summer of 2055, perfectly bald, but with a magnificent beard. There were a lot of hairy kids that year; the public put it down to high levels of potassium in the soil. That autumn the People’s Council announced that any more children right now wouldn’t be in the public interest, and requested the citizens to stop it, please. Prohibited from making any more babies, the populace turned their attention to other pursuits, such as starting schools and crèches for the ones they did have. They were determined to make a better job of education than they had on Earth, and because their dearly held beliefs about life and the universe had been destroyed by its extinction, as completely as light destroys darkness, the whole colony had the beginner’s mind of an infant. For the first time in mankind’s illustrious history, the entire human race knew that they knew nothing. It marked the beginning of a huge evolutionary leap for the species, as they came to find that they were one with the cosmos, and a golden age that would forever after be known as the Revelation.
It was an idyllic Martian childhood for Bill and his sisters, Teri and Tara. The demise of man’s empire-obsessed, greed-fuelled orgy of materialism, and the rabid individualism that was its cause and effect, saw the end of industrial scale agriculture, mass manufacture and the stockpiling of food and resources; the people returned to a more pastoral way of life. Under the life preserving sky-dome, they cultivated the red dusty land as well as they could, wove cloth, and contributed to the communal treasury. The colony was a colourful, exciting place. The pavements were a hive of activity; a confusion of sculptors, blacksmiths, and glassblowers’ stalls, of apothecaries, tailors and potters; musicians, magicians and street performers could be seen on every corner. The children attended school and stayed within the environs of the colony until the age of ten, when they became Navy cadets for a period of five years.
Young Bill was overjoyed at the prospect of joining his father on the New Morning when he was on a mission, rather than being left behind with the littl’uns. He had an enquiring mind, and there was nothing he wanted more than to be in the Navy and explore what was “out there”. His sisters happily returned to planet life after their cadetships, to teach at the school, but Bill was a born spaceman. He was a bright boy, so after his cadetship came to an end he was enlisted as a Warrant Officer, the highest non-commissioned rank in the Navy, on the auxiliary ship Exodus, where he excelled. By the time of his sixteenth birthday, he was a Lieutenant, and a year later he had achieved the rank of Lieutenant-Commander. At the age of eighteen he was made Commander on one of the new Explorer class vessels, the Warrior of Light, on its maiden voyage; a voyage that was to last three Mars years, and take the crew 2.5 million light years across intergalactic space, from the Milky Way to the edge of the Andromeda Galaxy.
The crew of the Warrior of Light were two years into the mission when they started to pick up signals of some sort from one of the star systems on the Andromeda Galaxy’s outer edge. They pinpointed the source to a terrestrial planet with three moons, and commenced to broadcast a return signal, which, as it happens, was Sgt.Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band sent in a wave of subatomic particles.
The planet with which they had made contact was called Mithya by its inhabitants, who were as alien to the crew of the Warrior of Light as the Mars scientists could have hoped for. They were hermaphrodites and telepaths who shared a collective mind; their skin was a luminescent pearly white. They didn’t give birth, in fact they weren’t born at all, in the sense that the humans understood it. They came forth from giant white lotus flowers, like pearls out of oysters. And when their lives were spent, there they returned; to the white womb of the lotus flower. As different from one another as the two races surely were, the Mithyans made their visitors welcome, and the Martians stayed with them for several weeks.
The Mithyans were explorers, but of a wildly different kind. Their interest lay in the intimate knowledge of awareness. It was they who discovered how to traverse the ocean of existence in a ship made out of thoughts and powered by consciousness.  When Commander Trout learned of the existence of such ships he made it his business to learn everything about them. He spoke to the Mithyans at length, and recorded it all in a book. In order to empty their minds prior to existential exploration, the Mithyans chewed a fungus-like shrub that they called Soma.
                “Chew some Soma and you’ll be flying,” they told him.
The crew returned to Mars as conquering heroes two years later, and a national holiday was declared, which would continue to be observed in the years to come, as “Explorers’ Day”. At the tender age of 22 years old, Bill Trout was given his own command, another Explorer class ship, the Atom Heart Mother, making him the youngest Captain in recent naval history. He took it in his stride. To be the Captain of his own spaceship was what he’d always wanted, to be sure, but now he had a far loftier goal. He intended to create his own thought ship, and fly it right into the heart of consciousness.
Bill had six months shore leave, and he meant to make the most of it. He had brought back a chest full of Soma, a parting gift from his friends on Mithya, and requested one of the Navy’s top biochemists to find a quick and efficient way of either growing or reproducing it. He searched the libraries for books on the nature of existence, and started to rise an hour before sunrise every morning so he could meditate, and focus his attention on purifying his mind. He looked into the spiritual traditions of Buddhism, Hinduism, Christian Mysticism, Advaita Vedanta and Kashmir Shaivism, before becoming convinced that they all spoke of knowledge of the same truth, albeit with different words and varying methods. The emptiness of the Buddhists was the consciousness, or “Brahman” of the Vedantins and Shaivists, and the nondual God of the Christian Mystics. He also read The Varieties of Religious Experience by William James, which further convinced him that when a person underwent a genuine mystical or “enlightenment” experience – no matter what their cultural or spiritual background - they experienced the same thing that everyone else experienced, and the truth that was revealed to them was the same truth that was always revealed.
When his tour of duty rolled around, and he took the Atom Heart Mother into deep space on its maiden voyage - another three year trip – every moment away from the bridge was spent in his cabin, where he studied the teachings of Nisargadatta and Ramana Maharishi, the Doctrines of Meister Eckhart, and the Tao Te Ching, as well as reading comparable works from more recent western philosophers such as Eckhart Tolle, Alan Watts and Douglas Harding. He also ate a lot of Soma.
By the time the Mother returned to Mars, he was 25 years old, and ready to build his ship.
The Mithyans couldn’t have been more explicit in their instructions for building a thought ship, as Bill had recorded in his book:
Assuming that the would-be ship-builder has attained a pure and disciplined mind, the following method is apropos:
1.            Eat lots of Soma.
2.            Go to the highest point you can find; a cliff or the top of a tall building will do nicely.
3.            Eat more Soma.
4.            Picture the time and place you intend to visit. Hold that picture firmly and unwaveringly in the mind.
5.            Jump, and the ship will appear.
Note: If the ship should fail to appear, the would-have-been ship-builder should understand that it was due to his own lack of preparation; that he has not gained complete ascendancy of mind, as he plummets to his death.
Bill practically lived on Soma these days, and as a result he was veritably itching to throw himself off a cliff. He packed everything he thought he’d need (a chestful of Soma) into a landhopper, and flew out to Valles Marineris, the largest canyon on the planet. At 2,500 miles long, 120 miles wide and nearly five miles deep, he thought it would suit his purpose admirably.
Standing on the edge of the canyon, looking out at the wide arc of space that surrounded him, at the red rock a hundred miles distant which was the other side of the canyon, and at the seemingly bottomless depths of the yawning crevice at his feet, he said a prayer; a prayer his mother had taught him, which she in turn had heard from the alcoholics who occasionally wandered into her chapel. It went like this:
“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.”
And then, recalling Siddhartha, he pictured Varanasi, India, 600bc. He imagined the sights and smells and sounds. The crowds, the colours; the Brahmins, the ascetics, the penitents; the sadhus and other itinerant holy men. He concentrated, focussing his attention on the vision until it was more real to him than the landscape in which he stood. He could feel the sunshine, the heat on his arms. It was his intention to go back in time and, like Siddhartha, to sit at the feet of the Buddha.
He stepped off the edge.

Bill was explaining all this to Abe, or at least trying to. It was hard to talk, admittedly. The problem wasn’t so much the forming of words as it was remembering what you were saying. Bill would start saying something, and before he’d said three words he would have forgotten what he was talking about. Abe himself, had he been asked, would have said that he couldn’t find his arse with both hands.  He was in the eye of a storm; a hurricane of psychedelic phenomena which flashed through him and round him and past him. He saw the past and future; he saw his birth and death. He saw the one appearing as many, the universe as a city in the mirror of consciousness. He saw the face of God and it was his own. He saw everything. He was without beginning or end. He was the limitless reality.
Some hours later, as the effect of the mushrooms and fukkummuppa root began to wear off, Abe and the Captain slouched in varying states of battered decomposition at the table, limbs jerking, eyes bulging, tongues flopping; dribbling and foaming from their mouths. Shakespeare, first officer and ships cat, warlock of great power, master arcanist and close personal friend of Aleister Crowley, member of the Order of the Golden Dawn and a cat who knew how to handle his Soma, caused the table between them to explode, bringing them violently into the present moment.
                “I’m sorry to break up your party gents,” he announced imperiously, “but land ahoy. We are approaching the White Cliffs of Dover.”

Saturday, 4 October 2014

Chapter 3: The Life and Legend of Thunderclap Jones

Abraham “Thunderclap” Jones was a man who was used to doing – and getting – what he wanted, when he wanted. He was a rake and philanderer, a seducer of women, and he regarded the entire world as his hunting ground. So, when in the winter of 1922, he received an excited telegram from his American drinking buddy Scott, advising him to return to London without delay, he didn’t think twice. He had the wallahs pack his chests, beat and fucked the maid, drove into the village to buy some powdered fukkummuppa root from Mr Midnight the witchdoctor, and then sped his British racing green Bentley Speed Six into Zanzibar, in the hope of finding a ship bound for England.

The telegram had read:
The phrase “friend of Zelda’s” gave him a brief moment’s pause – in his opinion Zelda was a mad and aggravating bitch who should be in a lunatic asylum, and he couldn’t for the life of him work out what his friend saw in her – but he trusted Scott’s judgement otherwise, and if Scotty said he’d found a girl who looked like feasible marriage material, he owed it to himself, to Scott, and to the world at large, to check her out.
Abe was 23 years old, and – as he had told Scotty one drunk evening, at a Benny Goodman gig in Paris the previous summer - his mind had recently turned to such unsettling subjects as his mortality, his future, his lineage and his legacy, and he thought it was high time he got hitched, if only to father a handful of good healthy red-blooded males to ensure the continuance of the family line. He had children, to be sure; he was probably responsible for half of the little savages in the village. They could hardly be considered legitimate heirs though, and if his father knew he’d been rogering the natives – and he’d moved halfway across the world precisely to prevent his father finding out about such things - he’d probably threaten to cut him out of the inheritance, again.
Which would be a drag.
Not only that, but, much as he adored the African girls with their musky aroma, their nosebones and spears and their breasts like ripe coconuts, bare and brown and glistening in the Tanzanian sunshine, he missed the “raa raa” totty that could be found around Knightsbridge and Mayfair, and the panty-soaked, knee-trembling awe that was the inevitable result of the appearance amongst such dim-witted upper-class debutantes of the dashing and legendary philanderer and playboy, libertine and lady-killer that he considered himself to be.

Such being the scenario, he sent Scott the following return telegram:
Upon arriving at the harbour and making his enquiries, however, he was informed by the harbour master that there were no ships going that way, no sir, but that he was welcome to book his passage on the next boat that did, if that was his pleasure. The next ship to England would be leaving in three weeks.
                “Three weeks?” he thundered at the harbour master, indignant with disbelief; “What do you mean three weeks? I haven’t got three weeks. I need to be going today. Now. Right this instant.”
                “I’m sorry sir,” said the harbour master, with as much dignity as he could muster, “it is impossible. Perhaps try sailing from one of the northern ports. There are many more ships sailing from there. You will be bound to find one that suits you. Perhaps you can find a Captain who will take you. There are many Captains for hire in the bars around here.”
                “Yes, yes,” said Abe absent-mindedly to no-one in particular, having dismissed the harbour master from his mind some time ago, “thank you so much.” And with that he was gone.
In one of the seedier dockside bars, he knocked back a half bottle of rum while considering his options. One thing was certain, there was no way he was going to be waiting around in Zanzibar for three weeks. When you got that urge to move, baby, you just had to move. He had his travelling shoes on now, and his wandering head. And no way was he getting on a train, with all the bodies and the heat and the flies and the stench. He considered the pouch of powdered fukkummuppa in his pocket; perhaps if he poured some into the rum it would help him think straight. On the other hand, there was always the chance that it would stop him thinking at all, that the world would melt away and when it reassembled itself he’d find that three weeks had passed and he’d missed the boat anyway. I suppose I’d better try and find a Captain for hire then, he thought to himself as he poured several grams of mind altering root into his rum without noticing.


Abe’s father was the infamous Jeremiah “Sledgehammer” Jones, who had originally gone to India in 1881, where he was employed by Sir Mountstuart Elphinstone Grant Duff, the Governor of Madras at that time, as Head of Native Intelligence. Sledgehammer’s reputation spread like wildfire; he was a man that you would not want standing behind you in a dark alley at night, nor, for that matter, in front of you in a street full of policemen in broad daylight. In fact, Sledgehammer Jones was a man that you would not want within a thousand miles of yourself or your loved ones, or to know that you even existed; not if you had any sense. The eyes of his lackeys peered from every shadowy corner, and he was feared for his ruthlessness, his lack of mercy and the extreme violence he visited upon the hapless subjects of his investigations. This reputation suited Sledgehammer down to the ground. For him, India was a hunting ground in open season. He could do whatever he wanted without fear of retribution, and did. He had a harem of beautiful Indian women, all of whom had been abducted, taken as payment for “protection”, or “donated” by their fathers and husbands in the hope of ending an unremitting campaign of intimidation by his Native Intelligence goons.

In spite of his profligate extra-marital activities, his wife Isobel remained faithful and dedicated to him, and bore him three children; Abe, his only son, who was born in 1899, and his twin sisters Eunice and Erica, who came along a couple of years later. Izzy became pregnant for a fourth time in the year 1904, but the baby was stillborn, and Izzy died too, of complications.
Money was no object to Sledgehammer who, as the Governor’s most trusted aide, advisor, enforcer and “problem solver”, received a commensurately high salary, to which he added the profits gained from his illicit entrepreneurial enterprises of kidnapping, blackmail, and extortion. He was as rich as any man needed to be. Any more would have been gratuitous and unbecoming. Nevertheless, he was called “Sledgehammer” for a reason, and the reason was this: Jeremiah Jones, known to the natives of Madras as “the Bad Man”, or “the White Devil”, believed that to accept the cards life dealt you was to be a flaccid he-bitch of about as much use as a street hooker’s slack and torn arsehole, and that it was incumbent upon any Englishman created by God in His Holy and Perfect Image to be the shaper of his own destiny. Therefore, in 1902, he consolidated upon and expanded his financial concerns by setting up a private import and export company, dealing in “exotic luxuries”.

Importing vast quantities of high grade opium from China, he flooded the entire Indian sub-continent with it, creating millions of hopeless drug addicts at the drop of a hat, and giving birth to a goose that laid more golden eggs with every passing year. To double the productivity of his transports, he had his thugs round up Indian women and children by the hundreds, shipping them to the darkest corners of civilisation, to be sold into slavery or the sex trade, or as game to reserves that specialised in “man-hunting”.
Man-hunting was a recent and sudden phenomenon. Touted as an “exciting and exclusive leisure pursuit”, and promising the thrills of “barbarity, brutality and bloodshed”, it was aimed exclusively at the obscenely rich; people who were so mindlessly rich that they had forgotten they were people, or that they were in any way connected with others or the world around them; people who were so stupidly rich that they believed morality to be a primitive and outdated concept which didn’t apply to them. Personally, Jeremiah despised such people; he felt the same way about them as he did the dogshit that comes in on your shoe and fucks up the carpet; he found them to be emotionally and intellectually retarded, and he considered the existence of such a class of society obnoxious. Had Sledgehammer ever taken the time to read Karl Marx, or been on more than nodding terms with the “shaking Quakers” he sometimes met on visits to the States; had he learnt more in history lessons about the English civil war and activist groups such as the Levellers, who fought for the equal distribution of wealth, popular sovereignty and equality before the law; had it been twenty years later, and had Sledgehammer been able to admit to himself for one moment that he cared about such things, he would have undoubtedly been a communist. But, as the Americans are so fond of pointing out, “if ifs and buts were candy and nuts, we’d all have a merry Christmas.” Besides, he was a businessman, and able to put aside such feelings.



As the only legitimate son of the most feared man in the Empire, the young Thunderclap Jones enjoyed the kind of privileges and debaucheries normally the exclusive reserve of criminally deranged billionaires and wayward heirs to the throne. He spent his formative years in India, where he lived in a village about eight miles from town, in the family house his father had built. It was of a type known locally as a semi-pukka, being a combination of kachcha (mud and dung) and pukka (stone and clay) architecture, and was a massive engorgement of white stone which gleamed in the tropical sun like the omnipotent erection of Jehovah. A shining edifice that could be seen from miles away in every direction; it was bigger than all of the other dwellings in the village put together. It had a grass roof and bamboo verandahs on each floor and every side, and an army of servants and wallahs that saw to young Abe’s needs and satisfied his every whim.
He spent his days causing trouble and fighting with the local street boys, exploring the boundaries of his mind with the aid of countless psychotropic roots and herbs, and enlarging his education with books that he found in the numerous small and dimly lit emporiums of Madras. He was particularly fond of books on philosophy and spirituality, subjects that, in India, known by many as the “Land of Light”, had been handed down from teacher to student, generation after generation, for several thousand years. His nights were filled with more earthly pursuits; the exploration of his sexuality with any girl he could get hold of, which, to his delight, turned out to be quite a few. He groped, molested, fucked, and sodomised his way through untouchable girls from the slums, lower caste girls from the towns and villages, and high caste prostitutes made wet between the legs by his youthful savagery, fear of his father, and the shock of his monstrously oversized ego.

His weakness for brutal sexual congress with any reasonably attractive and willing female – those qualities being his preferences, not his requirements – grew. He wasn’t particularly discriminating, and whether his partner was awake, conscious, or even alive mattered little to him. His only requirement was a snug fit and – from those lovers who still had a pulse – an enthusiasm for exploration and, better yet, exploitation; preferably in public, and for large sums of cash. Wherever they were and whatever they looked like, however young or old they might be; whatever their colour, nationality, religious beliefs or various moral standards; these things meant nothing to him. He was consumed, obsessed, possessed. He was powerless over women.
As each new sexual proclivity became public knowledge, his reputation for iniquity grew into the urban legend of a notorious debaucher and insatiate degrader of women, detestable and despicable, it went without saying, but also quite charming and rather good looking. A fan club of sorts grew up around him, a vast and secret female army of admirers, groupies, fanatics and stalkers that monitored his every move and were known to the newspapers as “Thunderclappers”. Rumours and nicknames abounded, and he was known diversely and in no particular order as “Abe the Omnipotent”, “the Beast of Britain”, “the Punisher”, “the Full English” (as in “I hope my husband gives me the Full English tonight”) and, slightly more disturbingly, “Satan’s Sodomiser” (meaning variously: “the sodomiser who was sent by Satan”, “the one who sodomised Satan”, “the one who sodomised me in the alley last night in a Satanic fashion” or “the one who sodomised me as if he were Satan, the Beast, the Sodomiser of Sodomisers himself; so cruelly, thoroughly and unspeakably, that in my delirium I became a worshipper of the diabolical and a dealer in depravity and degradation; a convert to the church of the Evil One, and an enthusiastic Satanist, with an unholy desire to sodomise others, and their mothers, whoever they are and wherever they may be; brutally and eternally, with no mercy.”)

But it wasn’t until recently that the perennial nom de guerre with which he would forever be associated had come into existence, when it was used as the title for a section on “the Life and Legend of Thunderclap Jones” in a series of popular encyclopaedias published annually from 1919 onwards. The series was called “Kings of the World” and listed inventors and their inventions; men and the movements they had led; religious leaders, brilliant criminals, paragons of virtue, agents of evil and the irretrievable souls that had been lost to hideous plague or insanity, and telling the urban legends and popular myths surrounding them. It was, in short, a celebration of the highest peaks and lowest troughs of humanity, and of its gods and demons; influential people of all kinds that had left an indelible mark upon humanity in some way, good or bad, in any area whatsoever. Abe appeared in the book without being asked for his permission, although he would have granted it gladly, as happy as he was with his hard won reputation as “the most sexually sadistic Satanist in recorded history”, and as “King of the World” of depraved and diabolically inspired debauchment.

The article about him that appeared in the 1919 first edition of “Kings of the World” was a fairly comprehensive account of his history, peppered liberally with gratuitously violent, sexually depraved and utterly fictitious myth, rumour, and lies. Some of the acts that the authors of the encyclopaedia claimed he had committed were obviously impossible outside of the most deviant and twisted imagination, even for a dedicated “lady-boner” such as he. Just reading about some of the vile abuses the book claimed he had visited upon himself and others was enough to turn the stomach so violently that even the least sensitive reader was forced to race to the outhouse when suddenly and without warning, projectile streams of shit and vomit exploded from both ends simultaneously, as if the very guts of man could not tolerate the thought - let alone the reality - of such acts of desecration upon a body, alive or dead or human or otherwise. Such desecration was abhorrent to the fundamental nature of humankind. 

When, years later, Abe finally got around to reading the odious mash of lies contained in the book; lies that the public at large had eagerly lapped up as the truth of who he was, earning him an even more notorious reputation; he was impressed – not to mention repulsed and sickened to his very core -  by the twisted imaginations, warped desires and masturbatory pipe dreams of the authors, which shone through the words of their fantasies, where cowards’ confessions of frustrated desire are often to be found, shining like wistful diamonds in the tedious, everyday dirt of reality. He briefly considered suing them for defamation of character, but discarded the idea for several reasons. Firstly, he already had more money than he could ever know what to do with, so any financial remuneration was going to make absolutely no difference to the quality of his life. His quality of life was sure to suffer, however, if he bogged himself down in a tedious and time consuming court case, when he had far more entertaining things to be doing.
Secondly, he couldn’t help but feel some kind of solidarity with them. They were sick men, that much was clear. Anyone who had a mind like that had to be, and because of his own driving compulsions, he had always identified and sympathised with those who found themselves enslaved to a mental obsession that perverted the character.

In Abe’s experience, such an obsession had the power to drive out any sane or reasonable thought that appeared in the mind, with a preposterous idea totally at odds with common sense, decency, and the sufferer’s own experience; which was almost without fail a tragic catalogue of humiliations and sufferings, various in degrees of intensity or the wreckage they had caused to a man’s life, but every one of them the inevitable result of the same, single cause: that of believing an insane idea, and acting upon it again and again, in spite of the fact that it was obvious to everybody, even to the sufferer himself, that it was killing him, or at the very least, turning him rapidly into a dribbling, delusional, semi-vegetable; mostly harmless, but often exhibiting socially unacceptable behaviour; behaviour of the sort that would qualify you instantly for a lifetime residency in your local insane asylum or maximum security hospital for the criminally disturbed. The only difference Abe could see between himself and those poor souls who were institutionalised for life - due to the actions they performed while driven to insanity by the constant demand for the things, people, substances or experiences which were the desired objects of their respective obsessions; actions that were often dangerous and harmful to others, frequently immoral, and even more frequently illegal – was one of position, wealth and influence. Abe could get away with anything, simply because of who he was; the incredibly wealthy son and heir of the most universally feared and notoriously violent crime boss in recent history. If his conduct was deemed too shocking, repulsive or in violation of taboo, he had only to remove himself from the ensuing furore by going somewhere else - anywhere else - in a world that – to Abe, at least - was nothing more or less than open day in the Garden of Eden. He could buy away trouble as he went, bribing officials to overlook his indiscretions, or blackmailing them so they kept their mouths shut. If the worst came to the worst – which it sometimes did -  he could ensure their silent complicity and powerless acquiescence by invoking the powerful reputation of his father, and sending round a couple of his bullet-headed bullyboys to threaten the very lives of those who dared to challenge him.
There was third, final and far more compelling reason that he didn’t sue the authors and publishers of “Kings of the World” for defamation, and it was this: in spite of the tawdry fabrications about his life and deeds, presented as they were like badly written schlock horror, without subtlety or grace, he was absolutely in love with the nom de guerre that the authors of the book had given him. It would eventually be the name by which he was known around the world; whispered in awestruck voices around the globe, from the residences of Sloane Square to the Sydney Opera house; from the wattle huts of darkest Africa to the slums of Brazil; from the leafy green boughs of the English countryside to the Bowery in New York; from the brothels of Paris and Amsterdam to the travelling freak shows of the southern United States; it was his Title, his Holy Name, the nom de guerre that not only defined him as a person, but that finally revealed to him his God-given purpose in life. From that day onward he would proudly wear the Title of his Holy Office that the authors of “Kings of the World” had instinctually known was his alone; the Title that could only belong to a fallen angel; an angel of divine retribution who held the release of death and the liberation of rebirth in his hands, as they called out to the wretched and the poor in spirit to seek the shelter of his all-encompassing black wings. From that day onward he would be the Destroyer of Assholes.  

Down on the waterfront, nothing had changed but everything was different. Abe was sat outside on a barrel, taking the occasional swallow from his rum bottle, which was empty, and enjoying himself. He hadn’t found a Captain to hire, in fact he hadn’t done much of anything at all, but gaze around in wonder at how beautiful the world was.
It was all so clear to him now, so simple and obvious. There was nothing that needed to be done. Life was like an ocean, an ocean of spontaneity, and all he had to do was allow the waves to crash over him, and to accept whatever they brought with them. After all, what was, was, and what would be, would be. He began to giggle to himself, and the more he giggled the funnier everything became, until he was in a roaring fit of hilarity, the tears running down his face.
It was the fukkummuppa root that had done this.
The fukkummuppa root was a semi-mythical and highly potent hallucinogenic that was said to exist in the jungle. Known to the shamen and witchdoctors since time out of mind, it was a sacred and magical root that could be used to traverse the worlds of the spirits or the dead, the realms of the ancestors or the gods. There were fukkummuppa ceremonies of cleansing, in which entire tribes or villages ingested the root which would then wash away the scum and detritus that settled like dust on a man’s soul, just from contact with the physical world. It was important to do this regularly, because the thicker the dust on the soul, the more earthbound a man became, and the harder it would be for him to move on after death. Such regular rituals kept the soul shining bright, and closer to the gods. The medicine men also used the root to bring about visions, and to drive out demons and evil spirits.

In order to find the fukkummuppa root, you had to know exactly where to look, how to look, and the propitious time in which to do it, which happened to be in the darkest heart of the jungle, out of the corner of your eye, three hours after midnight on your birthday. And even then you’d probably come away empty handed, because it was invisible. The only ones who could find the root were those who had already ingested it; it was only to be seen inside a fukkummuppa trip.
And therein lay the mystical quality of the sacred root. Fukkummuppa revealed things about the world of which you’d always been ignorant. You saw things that you’d never seen. You understood everything. It wasn’t a hallucination in the sense that you were seeing things that weren’t real, it was the opposite. It revealed what was always there, but had forever gone unnoticed.

Abe was seeing something that he hadn’t seen before, at that very moment. As he sat looking out across the endless Indian Ocean, he noticed something out upon the water, or maybe it was just above the water, it was difficult to say. It was a shimmering, shining sort of something, in the way of a mirage in the desert, or the water that seems to appear on a hot road. At first he thought he saw it take the shape of a big fish, or maybe it was an octopus. Then it seemed to appear in the shape of a small ship, or a large Cuban cigar. The more he tried to focus on what he was seeing, the less comprehensible it became. It was like trying to make sense of a piano recital performed by a tone deaf imbecile with no arms in the middle of a thunderstorm, or trying to catch the wind in your hands. It was impossible. It made his brain hurt.
                “Ain’t she beautiful?” came a gruff voice from beside him.
                “I’m sorry, what?” he turned to see a beaming, ruddy face atop a long white beard, garnished with a seaman’s cap.
                “I said ain’t she beautiful,” said the old boy with no small pride, his eyes a twinkle, “the ship. My ship. That ship.”
                “What ship?”
                “For the love of God boy, are you daft? The ship you’ve been mooning over for the last half hour. The one out on the water, hanging there like a mist.”
                And suddenly Abe understood.
                “That’s a ship.”
                “Tha’s right,” said old Sea Legs, “but not just any ship. What you see before you my friend, is the greatest ocean going vessel ever built, the Psychonautilus.” He beamed again, as proud as punch.
                “The Psycho-what now?”
                “The Psycho-nautilus,” intoned the old boy carefully, to be sure that the half-wit had understood. “You’ve heard of Captain Nemo, right?”
                “Well Captain Nemo’s ship was called the Nautilus, and it was the greatest ship that ever sailed the seven seas, y’see?”
                “You what?”
                “Y’see? Because Nemo was an explorer of the seas, see? Well now, I’m an explorer too, but I explore a much wider ocean. I explore the ocean of existence and the limits of the mind, and for that, you need a very different kind of ship. And that is what you are looking at. I named her the Psychonautilus because I thought it was an amusing play on words.” He spat on the ground, then muttered: “I don’t know why I bothered. No-one’s ever understood the joke.”
By now it had dawned on Abe that by some quirk of grace or synchronicity, the ship and Captain which he had gone out looking to find, had found him. All that remained was to broach the subject with old Captain Ahab here, and come to some sort of an agreement. And that would be done far more easily with alcohol.
                “Let me buy you a drink, Captain,” he said, “and you can tell me more about your magnificent ship. And allow me to introduce myself. Abraham “Thunderclap” Jones, Destroyer of Assholes at your service.”
                “Trout”, beamed the seaman through his facial hair, giving him a hearty handshake, “Captain Bill Trout.”
                As if it could have been anything else, thought Abe, as they headed back towards the bar.


As Abe prepared to embark upon the journey that would eventually take him to England, Bunny was in London working the cabaret clubs, where she was earning a lot of money, and building a very fine reputation for herself.
She was a burlesque dancer, a great burlesque dancer, with the instinctual charms and talents that she had inherited from her mother. She had a magnetism that was all but irresistible, and such a charismatic presence that she was literally impossible to ignore. When Bunny stood in the same room as you, you could feel it. She also had a vivid imagination and was endlessly inventive, creating new personas for the stage, which she could become in the blink of an eye, depending upon her mood or whim. With names to match her characters, she became a theatrical chameleon; surprising and delighting audiences with her spontaneity, wit, and mischievous sense of humour. One night she was Bunny Fantastic, superstar of the stage; another night she was Bunny Black, an insolent sulky faced bag of bolshiness, who danced in the most insolent and “couldn’t care less” manner that anyone had ever seen. Another night would bring out Bunny Burlesque, the rosy-cheeked, raunchy good-time girl of British Vaudeville; and yet another would see the provocative strut of the one who would become her most popular and infamous creation; Bunny Rotten, the filthy little alley cat with the bad attitude; the street punk with the “give it a go if you’re man enough” pout, who was rougher than a drug-addicted east-end whore, and sexier than Louise Brooks and Clara Bow rolled into one. She was the perfect alter-ego, because nobody could tell – herself included - where Bunny Simpson finished and Bunny Rotten began.

It was the advent of Bunny Rotten that catapulted her from the rank and file clubs that she’d been working night in, night out, into the big time, at least as far as cabaret went. She became a regular fixture at some of the most famous clubs of the day, the kind of clubs that attracted wealthy, upper class socialites, such as the 'Coconut Grove', the “Kit Cat Club”, and Bunny Rotten’s obvious spiritual home, the 'Bag of Nails'.
It was in the Bag of Nails, while performing as Bunny Rotten that she came to the attention of Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, the king and queen of the Jazz Age, who were instantly smitten by her looks, her attitude, her performance, and the effect that she seemed to have on everyone; an effect that felt like electric static in the air, or an imminent lightning strike. Zelda was particularly enraptured; in Bunny Rotten she saw what she believed to be the epitome of female liberation; the quintessential spirit of the Lost Generation, wrapped up in a smouldering little package of sex and sinfulness. She made it her business to grab Bunny as soon as she left the stage, so they could ply her with drinks and introduce her to the fast moving circles of the social elite that would be her very next conquest.