Chapter one of my big, pretentious, possibly overwritten book concerning theosophy, magic, comedy and masturbation. Enjoy, Bebo won't let me upload to legitimate author site. It gets funnier despite it's dark beginning. Honest



"Fallen"


Chapter One

The Hollow Man




Driving manically onwards I gradually left the insanity of that ordinary, dumb city behind me. Ordinary like most cities. It offered nothing and took everything, grinding it to dust between the slow, winding wheels of it's petty boundaries and entrenched restrictions. Dumbed with that persistent refusal of passion that passes for order and reason.
I'd lived in a lot of places. and I mean: I'd lived in a lot of places.
All of them dumb, all of them ordinary; But this place...Even the streets have roofs. Careless fires begin in cheap tenaments but quickly go out through lack of enthusiasm. It's like the people can't spare the oxygen.
a grey, ghost-filled nothing of a city somewhere in the least interesting part of a wholly insignificant country that I'm forced to call home.
That I can never belong to.
Thankfully there are places. There always were. Another constant.
Of course it takes a long time to get to them and for reasons I'll get into later, my shitty, little car refuses to work during the day.
So, the night was still and inky black as I rattled and revved along the dark highway. A distorted radio signal intermittently gave off random blarings of static and noise from my faulty stereo that overlapped and mingled with my own terrible song.
Tree's exploded bone white in the twinned headlights of my vampire car. Briefly sudden grotesques that clawed sharply with twisted, splintered limbs before whipping back to be swallowed by the dead dark.
The clock was ticking now and I was growing closer. I felt that this time peace might be within my grasp. The carnal odour; that abbatoir smell, the corrupting perfume of the intoxicatingly rotten was becoming weaker and I felt myself regain some of my, once, absolute purity.
Now a memory only.
Last night, stained and mired with disgust I had accidently caught sight of my own contorted reflection as it sweated and heaved with animal intent and I shrieked in sudden terror when, outlined with gold; HE looked back and grinned lasciviously using my own stolen eyes.
It was there and then I realised things were breaking down and I knew I had to get out. To make my escape.
To try to wrap up the ends of this thing.
So here I am.
Racing toward the dawn.
Singing of war on Heaven.

By the time my car finally began to sputter and stammer to a halt, I was nearly there. Morning had already started to chase the ghost of night away. Rolling mist curled slowly upward from the long grass and dew sweated upon it's yellowblades sparkling like diamonds in the double beam of my lights.
Tired as I was I stepped from the car into the gloomy clearing with the knowledge that, even here, were the occasional, scattered pinpricks of civilisation. If I wanted to get to the top without the radioactive burden of chattering starngers then I had to begin my climb now.
Through the haze and gloom I saw her.
A slight variation in shade defined the humped shape and I fixed my reddened eyes upon the crooked formation that ran like jagged vertebrae along the broken back of it's ridge and I steeled myself and set off for the top of this special, private hill.
The day brightened slowly with each step towards the peak extinguishing the stars one by one.Universe after universe.
My leg still hurt and I was coughing as usual but I was still relieved at escaping the horrors of last night and excited at what was about to happen.
A buzzard cried out in a desperate croak as it wheeled somewher above me. I grimaced and doubled my efforts, pushing onward to the peak.
Eventually I arrived and clambereing over a final cold rock, green as a rotten tooth, I arrived at the circle and slumped down exhausted.
I sat for a while and lo

It's funny how time takes it's toll. Tomsk is not so good these days. Since his 70's heyday he has fallen victim to steroidal abuse, fathered/wombled/littered? several children with Madame Cholet who have, in the manner of modern foxes, gone *urban*
Leaving the Common and it's solid principles of re-cycling behind them they now live in South London and exist in a twilit world of violence and petty crime. All that matters to them now are drugs, guns and ho's
Their lifestyle is dictated by an aspirational Wom -Bling- Bling outlook.
It's a sad tale and society may be to blame but there are certain areas now (Often visible by large graffited W's in subways, underpasses etc.) where the non-furred are unwelcome. You haven't known fear until youv'e had a posse of wombles squeaking threats in their little Bernard Cribbens voices and wimbling after you when your walking home on your own.
Oddly they have continued the tradition of wearing hats and scarves but no trousers. (I think the designer of choice now is Furberry)You can take the Womble outta Wimbledon but you'll never quite take the Wimbledon out of tha' Womble.
Tomsk as you can imagine is quite sad about his wayward litter and seldom speaks of them.
And Madame Cholet has now moved in with Gdansk a recent, younger, resident of the warren.
Tomsk is often kept awake at night by their loud furry lovemaking (Those walls are paper thin you know.) and tears slowly roll down his greying, hairy face as he goes through his collection of tin cans and other detritus struggling to make use of the things that that the everyday folks leave behind.