Dear diary,
So I build a pulley system and use a combination of smoke and lasers to escape from the Giant False Cross. Then I start a dog-walking corporation and hire various sub-companies to train local bird aficionados to drop their binoculars and spend some time with canines instead. The economy surges back to health, and I gladly take credit.
“People of Venus,” I say, after shoving the true mayor of this city away from the microphone during a press conference that I just crashed, “I thank you for that warm welcome.”
“This is Earth, not Venus,” sez a reporter in the third row back.
“Can’t we at least pretend that it’s Venus?” I say. “Have you no sense of silliness about you? Has the profession of journalism muzzled your inner child? What school ruined you, sir or madam?”
“Can you confirm the reports that an extraterrestrial spaceship landed in China and poured forth zigzag-striped female humanoids who all converted to Western Christianity last night?” the reporter ignores my onslaught and instead counterattacks with these unsubstantiated rumors, which I can prove are true by showing everyone my mobile phone-cam’s picture library.
“See this? ...And this? ...And this?” I hold my device’s screen up so that the crowd can sorta make out the gorgeous aliens that I was cavorting with in the last chapter. “Are you able to get a good shot of this? I don’t know which one of these cans is capable of zooming in on small stuff.” (By “cans” I mean “Cable TV cameras”.)
“Those look faked,” sez the reporter. Why is your shadow always at a different angle from everyone else’s?”
I make a stern face. For a moment, I toy with the notion of staring this reporter down; but then a better idea pops into my head. “You know what? I’m done arguing with you,” I say. Then I turn aside and look at my secret service workers who are acting as my bodyguards. “Gals,” I whisper (for they’re both femmes fatales and extremely attractive), “stay calm and don’t move — I’m just going to slide your weapons out of their holsters.” Then I spread my arms and reach with my hands and grab the gun out of the hip-region of each leather belt that is worn by these dangerous women, as their eyes follow me suspiciously.
Turning around with a pistol in either hand like I’m a rich and handsome young Jesus, I aim both firearms at the reporter who’s been giving me a hard time. Each of the guns projects a red dot upon the target’s forehead, to show me and the audience exactly where I’m aiming. But just before I pull the trigger, I notice that standing immediately to this reporter’s right is an evil spirit. This is probably the fiend that has been advising the reporter all along, giving him or her tips and tactics to trip me up.
“Is that your source?” I say, waving both guns in the direction of the spirit.
Now the evil spirit pipes up and cries with a loud voice, saying: “Why don’t you ask me yourself, O Fraudulent Mayor and True King Bryan! Or do you fear to speak with me directly because you assume that I’ll begin to blab many factoids about your private life which only the Christian Devil could possibly know? Is that the real reason that you keep ignoring me? Are you afraid that my revelations will be too embarrassing?”
“I’m not afraid to talk to you,” I shout. “Unclean spirits don’t bother me at all. I eat your kind for breakfast. (I just holy you over an open flame for a moment, then wrap you in a burrito and dip it in hot sauce. It’s pretty good.) Now I hereby command you to come out of that reporter’s body.”
And the evil spirit answers and sez, “I am not inside of anyone else’s body. I have appeared before you in my genuine, physical form: which consists of pure pork, zipped with enough human additives to speak North American.”
“So you’re just a single unclean spirit?” I say, growing interested. “You’re not a whole army of spirits occupying a body that you stole?”
“No, I am just a plain old Grand Unified Swine,” sez the spirit; “I did not steal my current form, like you stole the mayorship.”
At this point, a shocked “Ooh!” goes up from the surrounding audience.
“You lie!” I shout. Then I address the crowd in general: “This evil spirit is on the payroll of a foreign government. I can smell it.”
Now the true mayor comes out of his coma and rises to his feet. A startled “Ah!” goes up from the crowd. The mayor stumbles over to me and sez loudly “Tis YOU who lie. YOU stole this podium from THE TRUE ME. But now I have awakened and am ready to fight you to the death for my lost title.” He puts up his dukes.
“I’m not gonna fistfight you while I’m holding two loaded pistols,” I say, holding the guns up for him to better understand my point. “Things could get dangerous.”
The true mayor puts his dukes back into the pockets of his dinner vest.
“Listen, folks,” speaking into the mayoral microphone, I address the masses who are now becoming restless, “I’ll tell you exactly what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna shoot yon evil spirit with these two firearms. Then I’ll plant the weapons on your ex-mayor here. I promise I’ll resign immediately after committing this sin. Do me a favor and re-elect this fellow, whose birth-name is…” I turn to the mayor and say: “sorry, I don’t think I caught your birth-name.”
“Madame Governess,” he sez.
“Yes, re-elect Madame Governess as your mayor,” I return to my grand campaign speech, “and he will then pardon himself for my crime. At that point, feel free to celebrate by throwing a feast — I don’t mind if you roast the evil spirit that I slew for you: his body is corn-fed pork (which is scandalously tasty, for a non-kosher item); I’ll even bequeath you my collection of seasonings, as a parting gift. I want you to know that I appreciate you all for being such good sports about my reign of terror.” Now I turn back and whisper to the pair of gorgeous secret-servicewomen who are posing as my bodyguards: “Will one of you please reach under my suit coat and retrieve the spice rack from my inner left-hand pocket? I would do it myself, but I’m holding these heavy pistols.”
So the brunette servicewoman lifts high before the audience this rack of spices, which I referred to in my speech as “a lifetime collection of the most exotic seasonings”; and the crowd goes wild. “There’s more where that came from,” I yell into the microphone. Then I step back and take aim with my two pistols so that the red dots are both quivering upon the forehead of the unclean spirit, as the multitudes are leaping around in celebration and constantly threatening to get in the way and block the path of my bullets. — I now empty all my ammo into the fiend, and every shot strikes its mark. I climb down off the stage and go inspect my kill. The evil spirit’s corpse is now lying on its back, with its arms crossed neatly upon its chest, just like it would be positioned if a professional mortician embalmed and beautified it for display in an open coffin at a funeral home. There is a single smoking hole in the forehead of the fiend, right where I was aiming. I whistle and then remark to the surrounding audience: “Looks like this unclean spirit is ready to roast. Should we use my whaling harpoon as a spit?” (The crowd goes wild again.)
I climb back onstage and plant the two handguns on the new mayor, just like I promised. Then I head back over and stand before my two ex-bodyguards from the secret service (you will recall that they are both very beautiful women, also breathtakingly intelligent) — I say to them: “Although I no longer have the firearms in my hands, I was wondering if you would do one last favor for me. Could you reach into my suit coat again and grab the whaling harpoon out of my right-side inner pocket? Then just toss it out to that jovial fellow over by the corpse of the evil spirit — that’s Boccaccio: he’s my personal chef.” So the blonde servicewoman finds the weapon and launches it into the crowd of people. It speeds directly toward the heart of the baker Boccaccio, but he catches it deftly before it pierces his flesh. “Grazie!” he yells, holding it up. Then he uses my whaling harpoon to spit-roast the fiend. After the feast, Boccaccio and I end up sleeping with a whole bunch of damsels who attended this party, including both of those secret-servicewomen who served as my bodyguards, during my stint as fake-mayor.
§
I return to the Great Pyramid in Giza flat broke and exhausted after a weekend of debauchery. When I reach my king-size bed, I fall back and sigh.
“What’s the matter?” sez my magic mirror.
“Oh, nothing, I’m just really tired,” I reply. “I met some aliens and converted them to Pauline Christianity; then Boccaccio and I had another 32-hour orgy.”
“Boccaccio the baker?” sez the mirror. “The one who you rescued from that cage at Tolstoy’s place?”
“Yeah,” I say. “My old roommate, from my log-cabin days.”
“Wasn’t he formerly your personal chef?” sez the mirror.
“He still is,” I say. “I kept him on the payroll when I moved; but I told him to go ahead and just stay in town, at our brothel, until I can figure out how to add an attic to this pyramid.”
“Ah, that makes sense,” sez my magic mirror while nodding.
“Well, here’s a kiss goodnight,” I blow a kiss to my reflection and then pull the bed sheets up to my chin. “Whew! I’m so tired, I feel like I could sleep for at least fifteen minutes.”
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