"So what is this Mike guy like again?" asked Victor to Gert-Jan as our two young heroes approached the front door of Mike Iptollina, (alias Crusty Underwear Boy).

"Well as I said before", replied Gert-Jan, "he's completely mental and speaks in rhymes. Sometimes he does huge lines of tweek and then flails around like Jerry Lewis. Don't worry though, he won't kill you."

"Kill me? I should hope not. Does this guy pack heat? He sounds like a freak. Remember that I have a low tolerance for violence. Let's just get this letter we need and get out of here."

"What's the hurry? Get in and get out- that's how you miss all the fun things in life."

"Gert-Jan, the general assumption must be at all times that every lunatic we meet up with is evil. Evil is a waste of our leisure time. The police are not the only enemies of the party people. We have other assholes and crazies to worry about. Us, we're an easy target too because we don't take sides. We flip flop and flail like fucked-up flounders. Except, of course, when it comes to drugs, sex, and partying. That's when we got things pretty sorted."

"Thank you for so explicitly describing in sharp detail the former me. I wish I could be him again, be DJ Gert-Jan.  It was so easy and rewarding. I could detect the rich sultry aroma of runaway decadence like a bloodhound. It's like a sixth sense with me, a feeling I just go with until I end up in loony tunes fucked up naked world full of people I don't know in a hot tub with two bottles of wine and half a gram of ecstasy in me. 

It used to be a good thing to be me.

But then life became more realistic and caught up with me. It harangued me (is that a word Vicky, harangued?) and squashed me back down into nothing. Nothingness. Oblivion. Not even an idea. Not even an idea of an idea. Not even a hint of hope. Cartesian despair. As flat as a ribbon. As mentally and artistically bankrupt as the head chef at Mc Donald's. Victor, I have been tied up and down with stinking thinking since my parent's funeral. I don't want to end up like them- dead without a purpose. Once I was something, and then I became nothing. Maybe I became a drug addict. I was living for the high of a temporary and illusory escape. An escape from being a has been. An escape from being a wash up. I was a dead insect dried up and trapped between windows panes in an old wooden house. I never though I could feel like that. I never thought it would ever get so bad. How could life turn out to be so low?

Of course I never wanted to be a famous DJ or a pop star in the first place. It just happened. And then it was over. It's like when I first sprouted pubes and masturbated all the time. I never got head until my fifteenth birthday when my older neighbor and I got drunk and did it to each other all night long. Then I started wanting to do it with every other boy and girl in the world. I knew the only way I could do this was to become a dj and make people high with music and ecstasy. I very much enjoyed being the premier teen idol sex addict wanker icon in the Netherlands and France. Wherever I traveled around the world I craved e and coke and flesh that worshipped me. First I grew sick of the random encounters with girls who wanted to fuck me and leave me. I was doing too much e by then. All day every day. After a while that drug starts to fuck with your head and your organs. Makes your kidneys feel like popping corn. Makes your jaw grind like an organ. Makes your shit smell and your stomach bleed and your eyes bug too. 

Maybe when I needed a buck or two I should have let dirty men in train stations pay me to suck their dick. What's wrong with that? What about if I didn't need the money? Donna and I used to fantasize about prostituting ourselves a lot actually. Pretend to be hookers and then let an older couple pick us up and give us free coke and Champagne and fuck us all night. Think that'll ever happen again? Fuck no it won't. Because I am no longer a boy. I am a man. 25 years old. And I am not going to see the destruction of our civil society as we know it. It's not gonna happen all just like I say. I might have no say in the matter. And I won't be interviewed on CNN.

And whether you like it or not Victor, you're not gonna be there with me. We'll never be revolutionary figure heads. History books will not be rewritten. They will never skip over all the useless shit and start teaching LSD, Abbie Hoffman, and Che Guevara."

Victor sighed. "I guess I just want to be a writer."

Gert-Jan continued disgusted.

"Do you know, Victor, my sweet, beautiful and sexy friend, what a writer really is?"

Victor looked into Gert-Jan's eyes and replied without pausing to think.

"A writer is a public dreamer."

Gert-Jan rolled his eyes up into his head.

"Wrong Victor. Wrong. A writer is a failed and/or frustrated revolutionary."

"Perhaps."

"No not perhaps. Exactly. A writer puts into words what he cannot manifest into the physical world. He fucks people's minds so baby ideas can feed and grow. Any great writer is meant to birth what he cannot himself become- a revolutionary. But you can become one. You can be both. You can transgress to birth the Pax Acidus. Get a new self. I have done it already and I suspect you have too or you would not be here with me. Be cautious and afraid but do not be meek, for terror awaits you tonight." 

Victor thought for a minute about this.

"So if a writer is a failed or frustrated revolutionary, then what is a musician?"

"Well a musician has already won the battle. The musician has resolved his bad thoughts and revolved past the doldrums of the language of Heaven and Hell and moved into the realm of the Ultraworld. Melding knowledge and justice into the sound of pure sonic energy. Pure music. In Heaven and Hell there can be no music other than the tortured screams of the Good and the Evil.

To evolve we must be Neitzschians and mutate into happier, healthier, stronger, and more positive beings. By scientifically combining sloth and human DNA I seek to do just that. In fact, it's already been done. Both of us have met mutants. But these poor creatures are by-products who have taken only the negative characteristics of both species. But there is a place  "sous la Seine" where none of that can matter.

I sensed exactly that as I stood over her cold and murky waters, but I didn't know how to get in. There are two main portals into Heaven and Hell. One is in Lake Washington, and the other one is in Prudhoe Bay. Now you know where I am going to and what I am doing here in North America."

Victor laughed. "Soo la Sen? Sous la Seine? Oh I get it, duh, under the Seine river in Paris."

"Bingo. Initially you know I couldn't help seek to avoid all this. I thought I was cracking up big time. Sometimes I do drugs to help keep me awake and sometimes I need more to help me sleep. I feel like the rope in a tipsy worldwide tug-of-war. I think you need to go with me to Prudhoe Bay."

Victor looked surprised.

"Really?"

"Yes, you. I can't do this alone, Victor. What's marrying Sarah and living a normal life compared to evolving? Nothing. Good things can't happen without the will to make them happen."

Victor considered this. Sarah could not be replaced. She would have to wait.

"Gert-Jan, some very smart people still reduce everything in the Universe to will. They say that the will is the 'stuff' of reality. God. Religious people think that But it's not merely the will of God. It's the will of all of us. The Creator cannot have the supreme will. That would separate Him and make him better than His holy creation. That can never happen. What's an artist without his Art? Art is the soul of God and that's what makes us capable of attaining any beautiful goal that we can dream up. Only because we are capable of Art are we capable of importance.

But we must dream and work and suffer, because without suffering there can be no Beauty and thus no Art. What's a quiet life in Evansville compared to mayhem and revolution in the jungles? Happiness is for stupid people."

"Good for you, Vicky, and good for the world, too."

With those word Victor and Gert-Jan pulled into to long gravel driveway at Mike Iptollina's house.  

Gert-Jan hesitated at first, leaving his keys in the ignition and leaving the car running, but after seeing Victor's confused glance, he pulled them from the ignition and put them in his coat pocket. 

"Okay Vicky let's go. Remember that he rhymes. Listen closely for any clues. And act like everything is normal. Better yet pretend that everything is normal. Otherwise he might bug out. Neither of us wants that, trust me."

"But the rhyming thing makes me nervous! I might bug too, you know. Why rhyme anyway? Why? Is he a lyric poet or a singer or something?"

"Hardly. Not in this dimension anyway. We are here because he has this VERY IMPORTANT letter for me. Everything else is extraneous to that point. Even drugs."

Crusty Underwear Boy's house was big and tinny. It was a small house of even and uneven panels of aluminum siding decorated with many rolls of toilet paper. Inside the house were many and various things, all completely out of order. Instead of a proper door there was a just a road sign hanging there that read...

Mike Iptollina (alias Crusty Underwear Boy) opened the kangaroo crossing sign after several raps of Gert-Jan's knuckles and immediately shrieked a high pitch shrill that sounded a lot like an overheated turbine winding down…

"What's up Mike!", greeted Gert-Jan.

True to Gert-Jan's predictions, Crusty Underwear Boy returned the greeting with a couple lines of verse…

Welcome to my humble home
Would you care to hear a poem
I can tell honestly
That I wrote just for thee

Victor looked quizzically at this boy. He was perhaps 18 or so, and seemed friendly enough. Gert-Jan smiled and entered the house.

Mike was wearing a top hat and was smoking a longish cigarette with an ivory filter on it. Mike was naked to the waist except for a superman-style cape. His feet were shod with plastic flip-flops and he sported white underwear briefs that barely hid his surprisingly large package. He turned and smiled at Victor and continued:

I'll call ycu Duddly, and call him Scott
Shall we have cocaine and pot?
Get real high? Get real high?
Like an eagle in the sky!

Gert-Jan feigned pleasure at the thought of doing drugs with Mike and Victor.

"Ugh, yes please. That will do nicely. Thank you. I brought a couple of beers too.

"A couple of beers to dry our tears..."

joked Victor as he smiled. He liked this boy even if he was trying to hard to look like a lost circus sideshow attraction. Some people would do anything for attention. This Mioke kid was mostly normal and did indeed have some weird 'alien boy' aura about him.  

Mike approached Gert-Jan and kissed him. Mike grabbed Gert-Jan's cock through his jeans and gave his package a playful squeeze. 

"Easy now!" retorted Gert-Jan...

When life gives me eggs, I make an omelet
If I still had my balls I'd sell them to Hamlet
When the king and queen stop for tea, I will too
And for cream we'll use your own virile goo. 

"Okay shut up now," Gert-Jan managed to utter. "Drink this beer and mellow. You are in danger of upsetting Victor, you know."

To drink a beer would be quite dear
And there would be no need to fear
This mind of mine that makes me queer
And torments me throughout the year.

Mike disappeared into the kitchen, leaving our two young heroes alone. Victor was in a state of shock and Gert-Jan wallowed in a subdued state of anger and resentment.

"What was that all about?" asked Victor.

"He calls me Scott. Scott Tsunami. Ever hear of him?

"No."

"Me neither."

He calls you Duddly. He said it's part of old Ravulon mythology. Ever hear of old Ravulon prophecy?

"No."

"Me neither."

"Mike knows I've got some quest to go on but I can't seem to get any further details out of him. It's too complicated and silly to think about sober."

Victor nodded in agreement.

"Ah yes, sobriety. The quicker I lose permanent grasp of that concept the happier I'll be," Victor said turning around and making sure the pathway to the front door was clear in case he decided to flee the scene. 

Mike returned with three beers and set them down on the living room coffee table. He pointed the remote control at the TV and switched it on. It was all black and white noise and turned up very loud. He proceeded to chop up some chalky cocaine into fat lines.

Gert-Jan motioned to Victor for a cigarette. Victor pulled one from his package of Camel Lights and handed it to Gert-Jan. Gert-Jan paused for dramatic afffect before he lit it up, sucked down the smoke, exhaled, and then talked openly of free thought, poetry, death and the general lack of smoking facilities in American airports. The main overpowering thesis flowing throughout these thoughtful excursions was that poverty, ignorance, stress, and fear of the unknown all cause cancer. Not just cigarettes. Cigarettes only irritate the tissue and shorten the time frame of the inevitable.

Delicious and nutricious
With the subtle hint of fishes
Tell me all both good and bad
Duddly do you have a bit to add?

"Yeah," Victor replied.

"One day my distant future descendant great-great-whatever granddaughter will watch the first moon walk from another solar system and think us all ignorant asses. I wish I could appear at that very moment and play Primal Scream and give her ecstasy and dance with her for hours and thengo down on her for hours. I'd eat her out and then fill her up one by one full of grapes and then suck them out of her wet young dripping grape juicy pussy. And then I'd fuck her until we conceived a love child."

"That sounds really fun, replied Gert-Jan."

"And then I would say, hey there you beautiful naked girl, you beautiful, free, freshly fucked young woman. I am your great- great- great- great- great grandfather come back to life again. And we were not a bunch of ignorant asses like we appear to be but actually we were real people with real feelings and real emotions and real hard-ons. And then she would laugh and say that she knew it was all true. But she would know deep down inside that it was all true because even though she was my great- great- whatever granddaughter she was different from me in certain ways. I was rougher, more neanderthal, more human and less sloth. And then she would suck me hard and get on top and ride me to slowly to orgasm."   

"Interesting" said gert-Jan as he suddenly noticed the three elephantine lines of cocaine on the table.

Victor looked insulted. "Hey Mike, those things are like a gram each. That's way too much to ever do alone at one sitting." 

Gert-Jan seemed to blow it off.

"Nonesense. Hey Victor, you go first. Up the nose. You got nothing to lose by doing drugs."  

Crusty Underwear Boy chanted in:

This is my favorite late night program
It always makes me snort a gram
It makes me wig and makes me waggle
Like a thirty dollar whore in North Seattle

Victor snorted up the line and turned to Mike.

"So you are nothing special? You are only just some kind of rhyming cocaine moron? Don't you have a special letter or something for Gert-Jan?"

Crusty Underwear Boy responded, 

I think I sense, I think I see
That you resist my company
Many people would be filled with glee
To hear me rhyme on Late Night TV

So please don't be so cruel to me
To question how I choose to be
For if I rhyme, ca c'est la vie
And please do treat me kind-a-ly

"All right Mike, uh, I mean Crusty Underwear Boy. I'm sorry. It's not that you're not entertaining, it's just that you seem primarily concerned with annoying us."

WHIFF goes the bad stuff up Duddly's nose
Swirling round his head like its him that it knows
Worse than trauma, peer pressure, and 80's Renaults  
Like Reagan in the War Room with K up his nose.

Victor was not happy with this answer.

"Well Mike, I hate to snort up all your drugs and run, but we got to be going. That is, unless YOU HAVE SOMETHING FUCKING IMPORTANT TO TELL US. A letter perhaps? Tell me at least that you have the letter from Vurt."

A – B – C – D - E - F - G
What letter would you like to see?
Wouldn't you both just like to know
How you're the stars in life's big show
I'm sorry about the letter though
I traded it with Satan for that big bag of blow

Victor, still shocked by the presence of the strange character from another sense of being than his own, simply nodded. Crusty Underwear Boy stared directly into Victor's eyes and launched into another spurt of verse. Victor was amazed to see that his eyes were no longer pale green but had turned red like the possessed.

Duddly Whoopon Shining Bright
Like a sheep-shagger in the night
Spread your cheeks and you will feel
My slab of meat like red hot veal

With that Crusty Underwear Boy pulled off his shorts revealing a huge knotted ball-less and scrotum-less member with piercings and tattoos adorning most of the available surface. It was an immediate mystery to Gert-Jan how he had kept it all in his underwear without any of it spilling out. Crusty Underwear Boy's eyes were now twin flood lights of evil red light. Then Crusty Underwear Boy began a transformation into Satan.

Gert-Jan wisely used the hideous Satanic transformation time to get the fuck out of there and leaving a shocked Victor to his fate. Victor was unable to move. Once Crusty Underwear Boy morphed into Satan, he spit green slime into his bony fingers and roughly smeared it on his middle finger. Grabbing Victor head with one hand and pulling off his pants with the other, Satan lubricated Victor's rectum with the green spittle. In the ensuing moments before anal penetration, Victor could hear only Gert-Jan's tires squealing as he peeled out of the driveway and presumably towards Alaska. Then Satan proceeded to give Victor's large intestine a good raw rogering. 

When it was over and Crusty Underwear Boy had re-morphed into his old self, Victor, not normally one to lose his temper easily, leapt at Crusty Underwear Boy shouting.

"Holy Shit! You're The Stranger from my deepest and darkest waking nightmares! Holy shit!" and Victor grabbed for Crusty Underwear Boy's vulnerable throat. 

As Victor's hands enclosed tightly around his throat, Crusty Underwear Boy somehow managed to blurt out his next few lines of verse…

'Tis life that's strange my golden lad
'It's sometimes good and sometimes bad
But all in all it's made you dizzy
Because The Artist’s in another city

Gert-Jan, who suddenly had a major revelation about life and loyalty as he sped away, turned the car around and was soon back at the scene. 

Victor's anus had been ripped and torn by Satan's monstrous member and he felt like crying. Victor decided that because he was going to die from either viral infection, internal bleeding, embarrassment, or disbelief, felt it was only fair that Crusty Underwear go out with him. At least it would temporarily spare  people the humiliation of being coked up and then screwed in the ass by this prickly pawn of Satan.

Victor lunged forward and bit into the crotch of Crusty Underwear Boy, much to his immediate displeasure. Gert-Jan tried to pull Victor off of Crusty Underwear Boy but only managed to loosen his locked jaw by kicking him as hard as he could in the head with his Doc Martin boots.

"OUCH GODDAMMIT GERT-JAN"

"STOP VICTOR!"

Victor regained sanity when he saw the bloody corpse-like Crusty Underwear Boy unconscious and strewn through out the room. Portions of his underwear, teeth, and blood were everywhere. 

WHY ARE YOU KICKING ME WHEN I'M TRYING TO KILL THIS MOTHERFUCKER?"

"Because if I don't stop you then you'll kill him and we will be on the lam."

Victor's senses returned and he let loose his grip of Crusty Underwear Boy's neck.

"But he deserves to die. He fucked my asshole."

"Yeah, I had a feeling something like that was gonna happen but I felt I shouldn't tell you for fear you wouldn't come. But bloody assholes aside, and yours is very bloody I must say, there is no doubt that we have learned a great deal tonight. We have learned that we are not crazy. That cum in your ass is physical evidence that another world exists. If we were scientists we would get that stuff analyzed for it's DNA structure."

"But we're not scientists."

"Exactly. So let's get the fuck out of here."

Victor stood up and walked around. He felt violated, even worse than he did when he worked in a Portuguese convenience store for two weeks and then got stiffed on his paycheck. He went to the police to complain and got arrested for being a foreigner. Portuguese people and mutant rapists are like border guards roaming around free on paid vacation- painfully irritating and bad for the bottom line.

Crusty Underwear Boy lay lifeless in the middle of the living room. Victor spit a bloody *loogey* on him. The saliva sizzled like bacon and absorbed into his wounds. 

"Sick."

"Let's get out of here, You probably can't kill him anyway. He's a minion of Satan."

Crusty Underwear Boy now lay awake and on the ground humming and stroking his big cock, now fully erect and leaking pre-cum. 

"So long you sad fuck!" Gert-Jan hollered to Crusty Underwear Boy as he grabbed Victor and pulled him towards the car, pausing only to and grab his beer, a bottle of spring water, and the small baggy of cocaine as he left.

Once safely away from Crusty Underwear Boy's house, Gert-Jan reached into his pocket, removed ten Valiums and put them in Victor's mouth. Gert-Jan then rethought the situation and reached back into Victor's moth and fished two of them back out, popping them instead into his own mouth. 

"Sleep is the only thing that can help us now, Victor."

 END BOOK I