Dear diary,
So everybody got their prizes, after God’s Lambkin licked open the seals of the scroll that contained the list of the winners of the sweepstakes.
In the meantime, I myself built a bottomless pit that is constantly asmoke. So this was a useful accomplishment, compared to my literary endeavors.
Now, do you remember the book that we were reading with Pig and Humper Bunny, near the beginning of the present volume? I think it was called The Seven Spirits of John, and it contained all the Johns. Well, now an eighth John appears (recall that the number eight, when reclining, becomes the lemniscate: symbol of infinity), and this John writes his own masterpiece, to compete with all the foregoing scrolls and epistles, which he titles The Secret Book According to John, or Apocryphon of John (behold, it is available in Bentley Layton’s collection of the Gnostic Scriptures). This text surpasses all the other Johns’ efforts, except maybe the Dipper’s, but let’s set him aside because, like his disciple Jesus, he never did write any books.
My point is that the resentfullest of the Johns — little Johnny Patmos who wrote the book of REVELATION, which the corporate government’s goons were able to tack onto the belated testament when republishing their bible — I say, this Johnny P., even while plagiarizing his scripture, was politely asked by the Seven Thunders of Eternity to include the aforesaid ultra-John’s Apocryphon, so that little Johnny P’s hackwork might contain at least a section of ecstatic truth within it; yet he resisted. This is recorded in the tenth chapter of Johnny P’s revenge-fest (specifically, Rev. 10:4) — after the Thunders of Eternity commanded him to include the superior John’s writings from the latter’s aforesaid Secret Book, in order to show mercy to aesthetes and wisdom-lovers everywhere, and to give them respite from the torments that Johnny P. was fabricating, little Johnny P. claims that he was told to “seal up” what the thunders said and not to record it! In other words: He lied. As the chapter continues, he claims that he was told to physically EAT his worthier namesake’s book instead; then he sez that its pages gave him a tummy-ache. — If this last part is true, then it serves him right.
So that’s why there are truly eight spirits of John and not just seven, but everyone still refers to seven, because one of the spirits was a traitor, and that’s Johnny Patmos, author of the Book of Revelation. May all the curses that he wrote into his book redound upon his own head.
So, at this point, being given permission to do so by our oversoul, I myself entered into HIS stupid scripture and started to mess with little Johnny Patmos. I handed my herdsman’s rod to him and said: “Measure the temple of your God, etc.” Then, while he was in there taking measurements, I whistled for THE NATIONS to come and trample the place under foot. And they stomped all over the holy temple and the city for more than forty months! (You should’ve seen the look on Johnny’s face — so shocked! — it was priceless.)
Then I phoned up my comrade Fernando Pessoa, who was staying at my house with our co-herdsmen ladyfriends, and I said “Fernando, how long will it take you to come and join me here in the Book of Revelation? I’m committing pranks and having fun; I think you’d like it.”
“The biblical scripture?” Fernando asks.
“Yeah, the final book of the Christian Bible,” I say. “Can you hail a cab and get here A.S.A.P.?”
“Um… yeah — but should I really bother getting a taxi?” asks Fernando. “Why not simply whistle for Pegasus?”
“Peg is slow,” I say. “But, do what you like — call her over; that’s fine; it’s not that important… I’m just screwing around, killing time while waiting for the book to end. If you do decide to join me, however, please grab some sackcloth from our supply shed and bring it along — I’d like to make some uncomfortable robes.”
“Gotcha,” sez Fernando.
So, in less than five minutes, Fernando Pessoa shows up in a taxi cab and hops out at the intersection of chapters ten and eleven, holding a couple bolts of sackcloth.
“Excellent!” I stroke the fabric that he hands me; then I give my friend a big hug. “Thanks for coming. And sorry about the stench of this textual dimension; I just had THE NATIONS overrun Johnny Patmos’ temple, and there was a lot of animal waste that got kicked around — you know these religious fanatics with their bloodlust and sacrifice… Anyway, you look good! — long time no see!”
“It’s only been about two days since we last shepherded together,” Fernando laughs.
“I know, I know,” I say; “but time flies when you’re having fun, and I’ve been hanging around THIS dump,” I extend my arms to indicate the Book of Revelation, “thus, time is at a virtual standstill, ha! However, enough complaining — let’s get these robes made…”
Fernando and I cut and sew the bolts of sackcloth into ugly robes, to replace our fine blue mantles, so that we fit in amongst the environs.
“Alright, now it’s not so obvious that we’re artistic superstars who chose to forgo fame in favor of becoming suburban herdsmen,” I twitch my sackcloth covering. “What do you feel like doing now?”
“Why don’t we go around prophesying doom,” sez Fernando Pessoa; “we could claim that we’re the ‘Two Witnesses’ that Johnny causes to die and resurrect.”
I laugh hard at this: “What a splendid idea!” Then I laugh some more.
So we waltz around the city pontificating zanily to all the extras in Johnny Patmos’ little nightmare-of-a-book; then I summon my spirit animal Bryan the Tyger to come and maul us — he steals the “Beast” role in Johnny’s teleplay — so Fernando and I both die and resurrect, thus scaring the pants off of everyone. Then some of the pantless women try to bed us after feigning a swoon, and we answer their advances, whispering: “Sure, come: let us embrace, as soon as Mr. Hack looks away.” (Hack Scribe is our nickname for Johnny Patmos — most of us characters employ this term when talking privately amongst ourselves, just to boost our morale while playing within his atrocious universe.) This accounts for a lot of the moaning that Johnny ascribes to widespread torments — it’s actually the vocalizations of pleasure.
At this point, there is a war in heaven. But I already covered this part of the story, at the very start of my own previous book, so I’ll skip it now. You can read about that over there, if you’re so inclined. (It’s not very interesting, to tell the truth.)
Then Mary the Harlot, in pre-Magdalene form, conceives a son by simply watching the heavenly orgy that occurs in the wake of the war (tho the orgy scene could alternately be what the war becomes — the movie is ambiguous about this detail). Mary owns the fine house by the rise of the bank: she hides, handsome and richly dressed, behind the blinds of her front window, while the filming goes on below. Then, when her son is born, he is marketed as “Jesus, C.E.O. of America”. (C.E.O. = Chief Executive Officer, the highest-ranking person in a company, who is ultimately responsible for the botching of managerial decisions.) And this moves Mary’s own superego, codenamed Virgo-Draco, to attempt to abort her fetus. So, just as a cat-burglar would steal an infant savior out of its manger, Mary’s ex-husband, God, with the intention of “sacrificing” his prophesied successor, puts on his Mrs. Evilman costume and swipes the babe from Mary’s womb, claiming that the lad is biologically his (God’s) firstborn bastard — the only one he has ever been able to father, although this is his first try and thus he got a hole-in-one. And he refuses to take a paternity test to prove this, arguing that faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen, therefore proof would be akin to doubting his holy testimony; and God abhors his twin brother Science.
So the heavenly infernal Virgo-Draco, along with the trinity of Mary the Magdalene, Mary the Harlot, and Mary the Virgin, plus God the Poet with his nemesis God the Watchmaker all clash like Titans on the battlefield of theology, and it sure ain’t charming to read. It’s like a police report about a domestic disturbance.
Now Fernando Pessoa and I ditch our sackcloth and change back into our blue mantles, but immediately I am struck with a realization: “What are we doing, wearing these herdsman’s weeds, Fernando! — instead of merely watching this farce play out, let us ACT in it.” And Senhor Pessoa smiles and sez: “I’m game!”
So I transmogrify into my spirit animal the Burning Tyger (the same one that I summoned to maul us twain above, when we were posing as prophetic witnesses and wanted to scare the populace by dying and resurrecting; so now I exist within the Burning Tyger as he exists within me: in other words, we are consubstantial — this is in accordance with logion #7 in The Gospel of Thomas: “Jesus said, ‘Blessed is the human being that the Tyger will devour so that the Tyger becomes a human being’”), and I steal the role of Johnny’s BEAST WITH SEVEN HEADS AND TEN HORNS. So I rise out of the sea and roar to my friend Fernando using my thunderous, gravelly BEAST-voice:
“Senhor Pessoa, I have surfaced out of the boiling ocean in order to give you authority to rule the Earth, but you must first choose which type of Apocalyptic Creature you shall look like, for this is not a silly game for humans to play: this is a serious blague that calls for Mythological Monsters.”
And Fernando quickly takes my hint: He builds up and makes ready the laboratory room with the two slabs and all the shackles, and he takes Virgo-Draco from the titanic clash above and chains her up on the slab to our right, and he lovingly manacles her dainty wrists; then he himself, the poet Fernando Pessoa, shackles his own hands and legs to the other slab — the one next to the old black-and-white television set, to our left — then the Lightning from Heaven just happens to strike while he’s buckling the last ankle bracelet, and this Divine Fire courses thru the two metallic slabs, thus mixing the molecules of Senhor Fernando Pessoa together with the atomic construct of Virgo-Draco, and fusing their souls. In sum, the Virgin portion of the latter hybrid flutters away in the form of a hummingbird fruit-bat (which I jot a mental note to make use of later), and Fernando himself transmogrifies into THE DRAGON OF DRAGONS.
So I, Bryan the Ever-Burning Tyger who am the BEAST OF REVELATION, turn on my fierce, earthshaking growl-voice to address Fernando, who is now THE DRAGON OF REVELATION, and I say: “O thou Dragon, hear the words of Bryan the Beast. This is my speech to you, on this occasion: I hereby grant you authority to rule the Earth.”
The people of Earth marvel at my Beastly abilities, and they worship me and my best friend Fernando the Dragon. Then Fernando and I, in these roles of Beast and Dragon, go to war with all of the saints of Johnny’s book. This part is really enjoyable, from our perspective: We get to crush all of Johnny’s screaming multitudes with our paws and claws, and we each get to use our giant monstrous face to kill them and eat them. We snap their bones with our rows of strong sharp teeth, and gulp their blood down our gullet.
What happens next is funny — again, I’m speaking from our perspective — because Fernando the Dragon teaches God’s Lamb to bleat in a way that sounds like a language, only it’s not truly any human tongue: it’s just gobbledygook with a vaguely Portuguese accent. (The idea is that I will pretend to “translate” what the Lamb sez to all the people of Earth.) Then we tell the Lamb to appear on the world stage by burrowing up out of the dirt, and he complains saying “But why would I be underground? I’m not a worm, I’m a lambkin.” And we say “Just trust us — your appearance will be a theatrical success. It will be memorable. Audiences eagerly accept any confident spectacle, when it comes to apocalyptic prophecy, no matter how absurd — the worst thing you can do is bore them. And what you said is right; just look at yourself: you’re a suckling lamb — now, that’s pretty darn dull.” So God’s Lamb agrees to make this fabulous entrance, and it goes over well with the crowd.
Lambkin pops up and begins babbling in “Middle English”, which I “translate” — I tell everyone that our sheep-dip is saying “Beware, for I shall now perform great and miraculous signs!” And I claim that Lambkin is warning us that he will now prove that he is a professional magician by performing trix X, Y, and Z; then Fernando uses his Magic Dragon persona to cause X, Y, and Z to actually occur. This wows the populace, as predicted. They are then shaken down for voluntary donations, yet we wisely declare that we will only accept alms thru a system that requires everyone to get a barcode branded upon their brain or stamped permanently on their wrist. So all the earth folk receive their “Beast Marx” (which is how we decide to market these pseudo-tattoos), and all the populace’s bank accounts get funneled into our own International Monetary Fund automatically, by way of a series of wireless transfers, when we ask for audiences to support our artwork by making a one-time gift of their life savings to THE AMAZING LAMB-BOMB VARIETY SHOW, whereupon the multitudes use their portable devices to scan their hands and heads, because we signed up for a service that allows us to receive secure payments online, using the Internet.
And here below is the address, in case you’re interested in joining the rest of the world in spending hard-earned cyber-cash on clap-trap:
Now Mary the Mother of God repents of her Magdalene-hood and re-becomes Mary the Prostitute. She finds a day-job moonlighting as a clerk at The Refurbished Virgin Plant Shop, which is the nation’s top houseplant wholesaler until the deer eat it. It therefore follows that in chapter seventeen of Johnny Patmos’ propaganda pamphlet, Mary the Whore is seen riding me around — keen readers will recall that I am now Bryan the Tyger playing the role of THE BEAST OF REVELATION.
So here I am, the Beast, with Harlot Mary riding me bareback. (Tis mind-bendingly symbolic.) The best part about this scene is that the actress starring as Mary insisted on playing the entire episode unclad. The only other thing worth mentioning is that Johnny Patmos’ script calls for all sorts of violence and cruelty, but since I’m directing the revision, I cut all that stuff; so the whole sequence is simply smooth-sailing erotica. (You’re welcome. Don’t forget to click that “DONATE” button.)
Now Babylon is rebuilt so that it works for all of humankind and not just the top one percent. The famous Tower of Babel is turned into the globe’s finest research institution, after merging with the Library of Alexandria. The flames therefrom end up overflowing into the seven seas, which become One Lake of Fire. And Fernando the DRAGON OF DRAGONS accompanies me, while I’m still in Tyger form as the BEAST OF BABYLON, and we jump in and go swimming among these blazes, “delighted with the enjoyments of Genius; which to Angels look like torment and insanity” (William Blake) — and this fire-water feels so exuberant that we never come out.
Then the so-called Bad Jesus finally wins his celestial court case (the wheels of justice spin very slowly); thus he is officially declared the winner of Heaven’s War from long ago. It’s rather anticlimactic news, since we’ve all known that this was coming for eons; but it’s nice to have his victory finally authorized by the good gods Fate and Doom. And now the Bad Jesus reveals that he was, all along, one and the same existent as his father: The Unfallen Lucifer in His Glory. (“I just KNEW it!” I roar, in my Tyger voice. “Yes, I possessed this gnosis as well,” sez my Dragon friend Fernando Pessoa.)
So the Bad Jesus who is the Unfallen Lucifer gets to marry ALL THE HARLOTS. (He leaves the male and female fundamentalists for Johnny Patmos, who is secretly elated to receive the crumbs from his own table.) So there is a wonderful white wedding — Lucifer and I are limited to the resources that are available in Saint Johnny’s text; please bear with us — and, during the ceremony, the pre-magdalene Mary stands in for womankind. Despite the limitations imposed upon us by our environment, it is tear-jerkingly beautiful.
Now Johnny Patmos goes to hide in his own Abyss, and he drags along with him his consolation prize of all the prudes of the universe. And they remain in their cave for thousands and thousands of years. (At first, we all wonder where they went; and, when we figure out that they retreated into yon Black Hole, we wonder what they could be doing in there for so long. It doesn’t seem like it would be very fun.) Then, just when we’ve finally forgotten that they ever existed, Johnny Patmos appears at the rim of his Abyss leading his armies of pious bigots back out into his former text, the Book of Revelation, which Fernando and I have since commandeered.
And now my old co-star Leo Tolstoy makes a surprise appearance and joins us: “El! I thought you were gone!” I say, hugging my hero.
“I came back,” sez Leo the Lion; “this was too weird to miss.” (Count Tolstoy appears transmogrified as the Lion of Judah, even tho he’s not technically even Jewish — at least, I’m fairly certain he’s not.)
Johnny Patmos and his host of fundamentalists pour forth from the Abyss to deceive the nations and gather the people of the world to encircle the camp of the Fun Folk, which is located in the depths of Hell and run by Bryan the Tyger, Fernando the Dragon, and Leo the Lion. Also the Unfallen Lucifer who is the Bad Jesus is one of our foremost donors; and he firmly supports our cause.
So now God, dressed as a piece of fire, descends from the balcony, following the conventions of ancient Greek theater, and is brought onstage by way of a crane that lowers him through a trapdoor into the scripture.
The Divine Fire thus lightnings down out of heaven and devours Johnny Patmos, finally destroying him forever. The wicked fundamentalists and all of those who marched around the text during Johnny’s brief appearance in his own propaganda pamphlet are judged to be unsalvageable; however, they’re welcomed into the fold with the rest of us friends, anyway, because we can’t resist breaking rules on behalf of human love. And we never do regret deciding on a whim to save these pious, prude fundamentalists: For they turn out to be nice people, once we get to know them biblically.
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