Beautiful, automatic, beautifully automatic, & reveling, solo in the beauties of his variegated automaticities, Qert the Botic went from stor to stor, scanninggninnacs eachhcae oneeno.  His instruments spread amazingly like oriental fans & gathered & gauged & measured, & compared, & collated, & stored & redacted&enspressed & ceptulated & sussed, & intrapolated the faces, perstornalities & stormanamolies, MMSI parameters, SQs, & genetic trees of each sun.  Or sunlike thing.

Studying his script, Qert would Qert would then turn to the next stor, which like a small child before a photograph would perk up just then & smile‑‑beamish awkwardly, as Qert would put it (but was forced to store it, as they had given him thoughts, even words existing in glorious golden ik=mage files, but no means for speaking them.

There was no one to speak to in the universe, in any case. Qert deliberately suprapressed, by the way, a rather ingenious & complex modality whereby he might write words down.  He had figured this himself.  I think Qert was a genius, though there are those assholes who differ with me on this or that as the case may asshole be

whereupon Qert would flash the thing, & fold up his information & tash it in his spack & turn to the next stor, which would shift oafishly in its lil spaceseat & run its little finger under the collar it had donned for the occasion‑‑though Qert didn't care...what did it matter to Qert, huh, what though he (Qert) loved the little bastards that were bigger by him than far.  Huh?‑‑& sweat, sort‑of, whereupon SNAP! would quip, & another stor captured in that pack of holik=mages.

On Qert went, turning to stors, reading an mimeasurin, workin hard anda havin funs, & storing a whale off a lotta bon mots in this cute Leatherette Pak™ of his d‑noted IK=MAGE PHIALS.  He But turned, & there were ButStors, walls of 'em smiling obsequiously at that.  They each stors they each had a specifical special charactheuristic smile, which was a part of Qert's perceptivacs that did not fit into the ik=mage phile but which did (& this is important) fit into words.  He enjoyed describing the stors in personal & generally contemptuous terms.  He liked it.  He may have had a touch of botic bile‑‑I'm not disputing that.  But is this not too a characteris‑tic of genius, not what haat?

So there was getting to be a lot of dope on these stors stuck in Qert's ik=mage file zaway.

Expect might-you as-now, this staring of stors involved a lot of travel, & this travel involved unfathomable fathombs of time, or what passed as time through the time between the stors, which was the intraverx.  Qert's beautiful selfregardingly beautiful mind was so fashioned (as you & my mind(s)s are so‑fashioned, only so differently) as to cut so‑out between sostors, so to Qert he was not lying dormant dormant dormant for millennia, but was constantly active.  He even had a place for peace, but he didn't know that yet.

Yes the sense he had of his various components wearing out, discoloring, shifting tensile spengths & viscosities in a flash, was this time round part of Qert's roundsense of the intraverx.  It was just that the xrevrtna went like that, as you stepped from stor to stor, throwing up your skin, looking at the insides of these sundry stors, focusing their energy flows in timespan, so that what you end up tucking in your handy little pack, slung from your shoulder(so strangely different from the last time you popped the crystallization of a stor inside)'s this exquisite, perfectly‑made, endless I mean endless detailed model of the stor as it would exist many billenia hench.

From one of those futures he developed a note.  He received a message, but it felt like he developed it.  At first it felt queer, but good.  Queer but good.  The note come in the digital fluorm of a skyroll, complex, indecipherable.  O but it felt legal, like a summons from long ago still in its puffless envelope.  Qert rose to the challenge and‑‑stopped between stops‑‑focused the full pattern of endlets billemnia onto the note.  It caught right fire it did, whereupin Qert leaned back, yes he did, & let me tell you, you might have felt the heat from Qert's big grin.  This botic was confident!  He was deluced; he was made for this sort of thing...

He fabricated the code‑‑meaning he reworked the code endlessly, in an intraverxic snuff onno time, & only but this once upin a time did the letters come right.  They went like this:








and so on.  This doesn't make any sense.

But what's this string #100.0101101111?  For several hours Qert stand there, leaning over his intracomm.  His face had the eternal shape of Beauty Perplext, which was the only thing the poets of the antique, early stors wrote about wrote about wrote about & wrote.  About his face had this beauty as your dingy street has its beauty, briefly, when the pales of summer rain keep sweeping & sweeping in repetitive capes across, if as wishing the light fum the old lamp acrosshiff the windows where ipswill worp magic in the morning.  But the morning never comes‑‑you know?  Well, ol' Qert's suffused face was sfffused face was sfffsst with this aforementioned beauty, also known as this beauty, also known inside even in the tiny workings of the invisible guts of the smallest unborn child‑‑the one who was beaten nothingness in to by the force of perception you.

To speak plainly, the botic was puzzled because he couldn't make the signal.  I mean he couldn't make it out, he couldn't suss it, scan it, get it to cohere.  It stayed a drizzworld liquold in his weepy eyes & dissoilute in his reery tears & a fuzz in his fuff nophe.  He couldn't gestalt the patterns.  It was as if there were no patterns to gestalt, you know?  Here he was hearing perfect instructions from what might be the Perfect God, & all he was getting was that specifically mocking static that was built up over several storic nullinia as a sort of inside joke amongst the storic engineers, the storic engineers, who apparently saw laughter in the smoke I mean heard laughter in the static or felt those unseen babaies cry in the cosmic whisphs of that isolated street we spun on that swung away in space.

"Little else & little other than static, here," Qert tried to report‑‑but the very twust of his face, that untoward beauty, see, cramb‑dupt the signal, so he was sure they couldn't hear.  (& who also were they, & what was #100.0101101111 toom?)  Again bent he down in the static, then glanced up but briefly to grimace at the streetlamp over head which the Uthor of Olbing had not thought to put there before, & Qert called it (the lanthyrn) in his mind (the windwoo) the Afterthought Lanthorn (the rain), & thought to himself that this would make a good title ("The Eternal Shape of Beauty Perplext") for this piece, if piece it be, & then he looked down & made a sort of a gargoyle face, yes a gargoyle face he made out of the face of beauty tishade, & this gargoyle's face parenthesies (parenthesis mined!) mimed his difficulties with the cheap little plastic control knob with which he tried fruitlessly envein edly to TUNE IN THE GOD, the old gameshow, so Qert looks disgustingly like The Idiot of the Fable Adjusting His Radio To Hear The Voiceoveur Zufgod, eyebrows raised in hopeful inanity‑‑or hopefulnanity‑‑tongue sticking out, when Uthrhor Et hadn't even given him a tongue until now‑‑but there it is.  Know this: Is.

& Know This: Too.

& This: Too Too.

Part of that ugly face mayavben the reificiation of the static, which is a religious event if there other was ome, such that Qert the Idiot has these spokkles o static beatifically luminous round him like fine particles of a special snow.  The static's now falling in silver swoa round his ears, whirling in meaningfully articulated patterns round & round his stupid caulifloriberes, & he just can't make it out.  Yes, connections between levels alwrys bad.

"What do you make of it?"

"It look bad.  We put him in these scenes and‑‑"

"And he's still the young dolt.  Sad."


"He thinks he's talking to the very top god?"

"Well of course not.  He think he not talking to the very top God."


"There is this very big difference."


"I mean‑‑have you ever thought you were gnottalking to the very top God?"


"Of course not!"

"I have never not thought I was talking aught to the very top God."

"Yes well, the point is he has lost the stor."

"But he doesn't remember‑‑he's not admitting to it."

"Yas.  Sad."


Pause.  Reflex.  Gauze.

"I did once think that I was talping off the very tock of God."  Pause.  "Or was it taking oolgh the veroy top of God?"

"That's vere diffrents, ver, butand by the way, what did you just say about 'gauze'?"

"This was narration."

"Narration, aye.  Then who be we?"

"We‑be static repartetion."


The one time a botic needs repairs is when he thinks he's in disrepair.  Qert Bottotic thought so.  "I felt woozy," he thought later thought, "and I felt a distinct weakness in my perambulatory mechanisms {nice phrase, that}.  I was conscious of moving, & there was this pain in my chest.  I limped & hobbled & pulled my way through empty space, a not‑nice phase that, & a difficulty in empty space.  I was to have difficulties in empty space, I understood, & here I was in fact having actual difficulties in intra space.  Nor did it fee like intra space, I thought, as I sighed.  Nor did I move in the manner you move through intra space.  No, I was definitely walking, semiconscious & sick & sick though I was.  I was limping, below my cute little limping legs was a black surface like velvet‑‑not vacuum of space but ordinary of floor, you see.  I must be still inside the stor, I say.  I how ever had a feverever & did could not assay.

"'Wow!' thought I later to myself.  'I had a real fever.  I had a real forehead with real sweatpores pouring forth their sweatpoor wares ro wores.  Big lesions of it schlep tacross mineyes, burning mynize, & I was shaking my head a lot to shake off the sweat & to clear it, & also because when you see movies of cowboys or soldiers sweating they always like shake off their sweat.  It is actors shaking off unactual sweat, but you always see it, in the movies, & it always moves,and you always move into the movie at that point, so I figure it must be some deep ik=magical point, some utterly deep ik=magical point & not just the ticks of a thousand actors (think: The Tix of a000 Actors) imitating thothers indemselves (thick: Intimading Thyuthers Emthomzelves!).  O I shook sweat.  So I mutofben an actor, shaking off sweat with a million little sweaty me's inside & tossed a side ndaridin down in those ol beamzoswet, right?

"'"Well, possibly," I past thought myself.  "But there was this fever station, I mean power station, I mean beaver staytium, I mean roadside inn, I mean motel, I mean EAT, I mean REPAIRS, it said, & I thought fever passed, 'Well, this was the place to get fixed, & so I walked in.  I walked right in, I walked right into heaven‑‑known from the title as the first false heaven or The Thirst False Heaven or REPAIRS or EAT or EAT‑ONE‑EAT‑‑& I walked right into this goddam trap with my eye zwide open.  I tell you, I was sick. I am aware of what the ultra‑unquoted narrator said up there‑‑about a botic never being sick except etcet‑‑& I urge you to think on how a narrator ain't no Uthor of Olbing, OK?  So I wouldn't know.  I was sick.  I mean to say I was sick.

"'"'"I was sick," thought‑past flowers of myself, whereupon the carpet I was walking on turned white, whereupon I went mad‑‑witch comeill tell you a botic snever due, others if not Uthor stell you that's only what a botic salways zis, so you can take it, sift it, sort it out your sordiself itut unthought."'"'"

The first thing Qert noticed when he first fell into this sfirst of the Seven False Heavens was that he was aware that he was traveling!  That was enough to frighten any botic in this vast & botic‑ridden universe, but I remember tuning in to this awakening creature & noting his strange sense of wonder.  Qert noted he was flying through space.  He had velocitometers, but they weren't jooked up to his conscious mind, since only his servomechanisms acted while he moved, & slept, & so Qert had to dig in to the old, soft, goldish ik=mage files & describe to himself this new sensation, this new concept: the concept of movement.

He was a very young & egotistical botic, Qert, what though he'd existed for nunefallion xiers (wherefore most of this time was spent unconscious & gathering O that rarest dust, in mind), & he immediately & instinctively put himself at the center of the Comcept o Vlocity, so it came out rather like one of your dilmsklipts: ***The Concept of Movement*** skarring Qerk.  & he lookta roun din wonder, for he was indeed traveling, but not through empty space‑‑which might have bored him just as much as the old neurollow Tongue gov Cloir would be bored by the hollow‑molecule Spices of Arr‑‑but rather through a field of diaphanous webs that he felt against a big face he was projecting compulsively with all his considerable sleep‑might sleepmight sleepmight sleepmight into the illuminate/region space out hyarr.

***He was lost in a stor!***

Lookatim: swishing through cool web after cool web, still having trouble umpucing this movement business, this velocity game, the old travel modality, that inimitable speed trip, your basic spip spinnalidee, but he was somewhere noting he was in storic space (another new concept there, but one he'd writ of often of, fo netfo fo, & as the stors had told him of, for your stors be sorely frighted by your nexus‑entxus offo stoorroots spaceecaps) & somewhere zelse noting toooot that he was slowing down, he was being dragged down by these wonderful nets which felt less than a storflore thicks, he was decelerating, & the thoughts behind the brightly innoxent flace out there projected with such mighty‑might in splace were splacewore splacewor hurting what's left of his highflying botic head.

He was being brought in by something (for repairs?  was this home?  no one had saw fit to givim enaemory of home, so he could only guess from the ache you & I know so deeply well that this was home.  But it was not home.  That's another ache, & please understand our little guy that that he couldn't under standthat K?)‑‑actually being haulked in & dragged to a stop on his trip to the stors.

Cautiously, & with real fear this time, Qert the Botic stuffed his handy STOR‑PAK© back in his sash & zipped the sash & straightened his tunic & smoothed down his jair‑‑even to the point where this illusory‑blue sort‑of Superman‑hair looked, well, sort of tacky, know mussed you‑if, sort of Franzy Goto Oilywood, sort of 80's dorkish mush‑u‑no, sort of slick n sticky n all tacked down.  He was so awot wiph nervushness that the ether spangled up with presions of sweat, with presions o sweat, with pressions‑a presionza sweat, yessir‑‑& tried to look cool though he dint know how nor nor what nor was happening.

He was hauled in to a ship better left described than magimbel (this the space‑dream part imaginal), laid to rest on the Perfect Central Dot of a Perfect White Oval Dock, finest beams atingle with high emotions focused right on him (so:), talked down, synthecalmed, debebriefed, air brought autoin, & the most minuscule figures you ever saw walking towards him.

Keep mind‑in poor Qert's used to eyeballin' stors.  Whole stors.  Poor Qert's not used to small stuff like creagatores‑‑which is what he was in fact "seeing" at this time, smiling high as a dilly by this time time time, if you grant that the concept "seeing" has any validioty for some one‑‑such as this figure Qert here‑‑who donknow fully no what he's "seeing" "here."  He's uh pretty flipped out‑‑not only because of strangeness‑‑which might not always flip yout, y'know‑‑bu because he was straining not to remember stuff, like this stuff, which was however straining to enter his mind YAAAAAAA!

A‑yes, for ensamplee doesn't have to struggle with the concept of "walking," which might be expected to be expected to be expected to be rather radical for him.

But no.  To save dimensions of the plot, we note that Qert's major difficulty observing the creagatores walking across the perfectly smooth reflevitcelferective & rather jolly white dock (The Jolly White Dock of the K‑Hexatole, the storship we are in we are om) is his realization that he knows what the dock is & what walking is & what these goddam creatures are.  Now this upset zim, but we will let him rest & recover here byby assiduously not dezgribin gim...

The creagatores fall into seven pastel sociologically structured groups: Ule, Falbagom, Brees, Mneumnteem, Pempito, Naze, & Gra.  Dressed quite niftily, as Qertomself describes mumbling gina cup, they have a leader in gra yes a leader in gra, who smile familiarlies, & a bunch of workmen types in red who do not smile.  Qert sniffs.  'Stypical...

O‑Host, a grahored beautibot in a gragored suit (so that Qert knew it was false) smarmily directed some red‑tuniced muscular humanoid menrobuic types to strip off Qert's layerjings‑‑a thought what shock Qert to the end of no end of laughjing off his very sanes of self this time.  So he'd seem to be standin there stripped of his crystalry, his servsmachs, his bufflenims, his electriyins, STANDING THERE ON THE DOCK JUST AS NAKED & poorly FORKED AS THEY!‑‑only moreso‑‑muchuch moreso o!

"My, what a handsome botic you are," thee falbagom angoles said.  They said it with variations, back & forth in time, & clever, wry, smug, condescending Qert couldn't help but notice that they flowed pempitos honey at him as he said it. He perceived they were working very hard at honeying him, at sweetening some message inside the message of his beauty they were humming hum.  He smiled beneath his first layer‑‑for this was a heaven of layers‑‑knowing they were trying to trip him, I mean trick him, into droopinis guards.

"OK, that 'snough," said the gra grill spargent, & the amgels spattered.  They spattered like white birdshit.  They splattered, like milkwhite shit.  They shattered like shit.  They smattered, but it didn't mattered.  "Drop your guard, Qert," he ord red.

& Qert, still with that dumb smuck snile on his flace, commence to peeling off the many onion heavenly layers that normally & supposedly always protect your botic.  From attack.  From intraversic fears.  From exottack.  From False Havens Evidently, that's "Heavenge Evidemptly."  He  p e e led  o ff  h is  l ayers like so much underwear, like a foolish man, a stupid man, a simpleton forsooth, who strips off the many layers of clothes he is wont to wear to cower his nupidmeff, smiling uncomprehendingly as the torturers grease up & sharpen up & juice up their wares yessure.

Mustobena potent enough message, enh Qert?  But Qert's gnot gnistening, the little sgnot, & the drill sergeant 'swhistling 'sternly through his nose nase as he step frowd to peel off the smile which‑‑now that Layer One hath been removed‑‑hang like a poor melodramatic stache from Q what's left off Qert's zupper ilp.

Sans smile, but still with that selfsame stupid stupidity huneyed on, Qert strips off Layer Two, the Layer Three, then Four Five Six Seventh Vector Seventh Vector Devector Senevth Sector Veneth Veight Eight Nine Xextor X Z‑Sec Dector Eff Ex Ex Ex‑Ex Ten Ben Ventor Bex, & so on, down through the intricacies which were made to make it impossible even for the goddam botic self to undress.  But the sergeant's working on it.

Now naturally Qert can't handle himself.  Correctly can't he hamber imzelf.  Truly can he naught deandle dimxulph.  He just keep umbressing, for these heavenly folkave flummoxim pretty good.  He's in deep trouble, he know, though would still be smiling if he still had Layer Two (that's the level of smiles) to cover him, for it won't be long till these brilliant marines er probin an pokin into his intimate depths.  Qert'll be fucked then; the gods themselves'll be in dutch at that out intrime, as the whole secrets of the botics & the entire premise of the novel‑‑not to mention some of the deep underlying depth psychology opurating in this outhor's mented mind‑‑will be unraveled.  Hell, we've write ourseols into a real hole, men.

"Rill‑hole, men!" shrooks the sergeant, & the "men"‑‑rather smaller, frailer, still‑white but frilly, rarthur silly, marines‑‑start unwrapping some of the layers so golly deep that even Qert's emergency subconscious memory files philes can't handle it, cannot ik=mage it, & have never seen the likes of a flay so flayso deep as this...

This word ik=mage...

Qert lay beneath the soft gauze of what‑would said to be hospital bed.  He would have smiled except his smile was dead.  Just about everything was dead in this stor, except for those few pulseform maintain by the Gentle Machines, which loved Qert endlessly‑‑right to the endless end of the goddam stor, layer upon layer of these fine things clickin in disrhymix & mixin the light colors of their lithe plasticaires unto the maintenance of those skeletal ashpex of life that lit there, right from the center, representing the heart, which is where Qert unsmiling lay.

But his soul was full of glee.  I'll have to tell you that, for it is not something which occurred "inside" the stor or which could thereby be measured there me measured there be me beasauredere.  That had to do with Qert's desire that he be perfectly protected in this stor.  It seems a little morbid, I guess, but I can't spend my time & energy‑‑such as it is‑‑explaining or apologizing for the morbidity of a stor made by a creature or thing or entity, none of it having yet been very well‑defined, who have somehow contracted with another, similar (hey‑‑for all practicalc purepose's identical) creature man ding or thing orthing thin gorthing to keep on shooting him, in universe after universe, just to see it can be done.  I can't keep apologauzing for what might strike your doubtless‑dis‑eas‑ed mind as "morbiod" or "eerie" or "creepoy" or whatever whatever, OK OK?

Let's say anyway it had a certain modified morbidity, inasmuch as Qert saw to it that anyone entering this stor was immediately & instantly & irredeemably on his deathbed, see, surrounded not by starry feys but by pulsating machines known as Starry Feys™ which kept just the minimal thing zalive.  This was Qert's little Deathbed Stor, the slangory Croakoerystoer, hor‑hor, & you can bet his real actual strongly‑pult‑zingheart was out there somewhere, in the storic anteroom no doubt, absolutely pulpshwing wiph glee, to thingk that no one (which was how, by contract, he was amnesiacly obliged to think of Qert in these his various ceptualorz) could possibly get to him to kill him here.

Yea, Qert was comfy in his bed & dying rather endlessly, & the machines thrulled him with love, all of which daccorded with the manner in which this strange stor had been set up, & worked on endlessly, by him.  He thought his friend Qinz would never think of this (this he thought between storts, whilst a workin' on stors, onstor, whenin he was allowed of course to think about Qinz as someone other than no one see) & wouldn't be able to kill him, & he, Qert, would win the stor & doudouble the score & jubble the score & bubble the scroer yousee.  Heh‑heh‑heh, is a reasonable simulacrum of what he dthought.

This botic Qinz sook one took at the Deathbed Stor & laughed.  He entered, lay sighing on his own deathbed in the absolute same circumstance as Qert‑‑which was by design‑‑& surely there was no way he could kill his friend in there.

No way?  He smiled his last smile, did Qinz (not accounted for in Qert's design, by the way).  I have tried my self purple trying to discern just where this fucking last smile comes from comes from fomes crum butIcan't.  I azzume it was just a flicker of joy so murderously great twa zallowed by the gods, who must've filliped a dollop of suspension as they'd often do for Qinz of the lores of storsics & made possible this laugh like a glint off the Towereeth of Speel as it glimps in the zun of Tangorpeantipe‑Eeoolipann) & gently pluck twono the servopumps from his arm‑‑which as you already expect was the white of the perfect death o the ghostly whale, perfect juiceless lifeless light, thin white, ghastly but eerily manic white, joyewhite in a sense, in a shape of white that grows without shape in a timeframe existent outside shape.  Pretty pale arm out of which he beautiful beautiful cord keeping him live.

Whereupon he dies & Qert inherits his ghostly smile discust tubuv, except that


things commence to die


things astart to die


one by one the pieces of this massive stor‑‑in which we gather (quickly gather!) that everything's connected‑‑die!

They die like this: d1e d2e d3e d4e d5e: nntnl thn nnmbnrs bnur.

Until the wave of death blossoms intverxal in‑‑to Qert lying on his bed in the center of the stor‑‑& he dies, sucked in by That Very Grin.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

"You're a sick man, Mr. Botic," de Doctor D declared.

"Sick?  Man?" declaration queryqerg was not hert nor hurd, & he himself (Qert) was (Qert) was filled with nothing but this oleaginous greyish putrid sordolf half‑thought thought‑haph awareness that they had gotten his name wrong, but he could tell there was some External Force (actually it was the Internal Force of one of the Corek=mages of Qert's much‑tooted little nub, but he didn't know that & he didn't know that) that was making him forget imsef rapidly at‑that.

For by this time or that time they had fed him into a tube, & the tube had turned translaprent, so they could observe whilst Qert was sucked to the edges of the glass, that is sucked to the edges of the glass he was sucked inin & stretched more or less into a tuba shape.  A tuba shape.

There were reasons for this, as came out in that section call‑ed "Reasons for This" in the creamwhite document known as The Doctors' Milleni Alreport‑‑but this report, as its name implies, comes out once per millennia, this being a very healthy if unseemly universe 1) healthy seamy universe, 2) healthy seeming universe, 3) healthily steaming univlursh, 4) helph ebeaming woony verx, 5) wealthy xiimnimng goon‑oui‑worts, 6) helky‑sweeming soonin‑vorsch)‑‑& so Qert did not get to peruse it, at least not for a long a while, a long long whilst I de cide if he lasts that long.

I can tell you that, if I have him last that long, Qertillbe most enamored of the document, which given the time & the cutted‑idge enxporteesch of its priparatium was as you might given the c‑i e of its p expepct a massive & gorgeous multilinear affair.  It was the cream that got him‑‑that & his own tuba‑waped face TUBAWAPEDFACE!! right in the middle of the centremost cube of the clear lozewnge of liquid crystal living light at the heart of the huge structure which was despite its vast size & strucuture But The Size Of A Magazine, which is an impossible lie & paradox & lie & paradox & nya‑nya‑nya ha‑ha.  Nothing lasts forever‑‑what do you care.

Or then again, everything lasts forever, Qert was thinking (remember Qert?  Thinking?) as they examined him & worked on him.

They'd said he was a "man."  This is not what the botic thinks I am.  He may think he's a god.  He may think he's a workman.  He may thing he's some sort of erbodic angel wisping on the power of his Central Whim, also known as the Sintrol Whing, a.k.a. the Impkrul Rimg or the Pimkurl Ik=Mag=Ing.  But he sure as hevik don't think he am a mam.

The vivisection begins.  They're chuckling & pulling out the ik=mages.  It's unusual to see a chuckle in this sector, as even mouths in the various Intraverx, stors, megastors, stor‑"cities," & heavens‑true & heavens‑false are a rarity, usually having been omitted like mouths omitted‑‑but these technicians, rather an awkward & frisky lot, I'd say, not only chuckle, they prance & shake their heads, the chuckle forming more or less as an imaginary radiant in the palefield of thought we know as the mouth area.  Nothing here, readers, but a big soft phoney upper "lip" exuding that magnetory call‑ed PHONINESS ah, & in the midst of it a liquid, animated sort of glowing grin of such wrong colors rong qulurs you'd swear this ik=mage (like this passage like this memory) comes from c. 1950 when your mother was just initially wriggling out of dearth unto the dazzle‑spacies of the sky out of Outher Burth.

& indeed, this is where all=mages come from.  This is little known.  Such knowledge is call edwisdom, little‑gnome.

They chortle their glee, & I will not get off on a tangent of chortles here, which can kill you with its glee, chortles being quite unlike chuckles despite the similarity of words, despite Looshe Carooll, despite all the little girls he slid the long lie of his camera upinto (lucky Loo!).  No, it's well worth avoiding avoiding digressiums on chortles, for the average intraverx‑brand chortle is well‑night big as a star, big as a blue giant of a star, big as an unusually tough & bullying blue giant of a hot hot fucking star‑‑not stor, but star, I say star, not stor, knotstor, noxtor, or or or or or 1‑5, & we don't want to get beat up & singed by a chortle here.  But chortle, by God, is just what they do.

& they pull out mage after mage from the ik=mage phylof Qert.  O!  Reader!  O, but I cry at this point, just to let you know I'm sincere, for not only smiles but sincerity have been long‑banned here, & this is why I'm in one of those kinda timewarp prisongs that wrap you up even before you commit your crime, ere your crime, to save on time, to get you jailed on time the judge told me as she capered & jortled with glee.

You ask about Jortled & Glee.  I am glad you asked.  Their act disbanded c. 199550.500150/4800.0 for Unauthorized Employ of Smiles Sincerity, "nor qualities to that effect," in the judge jolting ords (see ORDS c‑ords opening:K/Ords‑C).  They are in a prison, but not with me.  No, not with me.  No.  I spin round alone in mine crystal, I assume this be just like thee.

Anyway, those engineers they keep slixxing from our grax (see GRAX, SLIPFUM) pulling poor detruit Qoit's ik=mages out from his heart as it were (digression here *) with chortlers, etc., of glee, & not only with these rare emotions‑‑indicating proximity of God? indicating intensity of botsecting‑vent? indicating X?‑‑but with these enormous wooden calipers, the sort used for hauling nine‑by‑five feetpronts from the pool of their chemicals, really big thangs, rechoiring a lot of invisible paranoid servomechanisms to park em into action, & to haul what are really absurdly minuscule day=mages from the also‑small qert of Gut.

I can't explain the discrepancy in size, unless the fat, blunt‑tipped wooden tweezers zare some sort of weirdr dream sort of symbol of the excessive emotions (not to mention digressions: "Digressions") autoquipped in this while authorial seen here eer.  I can't explain the discrepancy in like size, but I'm sure you can if you just smuck you smirk with gryy, if you simply uk your erk with zee, if you only tuck your skirts whiff V, if you but ut yur ur with thyy, elkcuhc‑elkcuhc.

But underneath all the nonsense, you can see or perhaps feel, or goddam it at least imagine their heads shaking with something much deeper, much more an actual shaking, not of the head, not of the brain, not even of the ether of the brain, but of the illegal ik=mage of brain that is clear & deptht, pellucid, limpid & yet very keenly hued.  This inner self shake with a deep sincerity of admiration for the being who is being destroyed.  Always we see, in our works, this deep admiration for the thing we are they are torturing.  Thus it is in this case in is it, for these mage're like something never seen.  These are, or were intended, to be products of the gods, to be savored by their special eyes only, real eyes, not just imaginary allseeing godly‑tis, neither nur, I'd say...and even the owner & "maker" of those mages (this is Qert we are not speaking of of hear!) has never seenemeer.
So inside all their capering & their silly expressions, sounds, n' calipers as I so quaintly call them, behind all the authorial self‑ruff‑rentches of prisms & etcetera, we have porofound & true amtoinos, I'm straining to let you see, straining to erase through jiggling I guess my uh "personality" just for the instant long enough to let you see, see!, those ik=mages of life swaying with moved sincerity indepth at lay=mages just vivisected from our dear (Qert) heer, & they are humming om with admiration of these mages of life they've stolen from the death of the life of the world they inhere.

Too bad.  They go of course instantly blind‑‑which is what happens when you torture your babies, & which may explain all that capering up there, if anything explains the blindness & the torturing of babies & the capering up here, hear me‑‑here.

"I stared madly at the scalpel," Qert recall, "which wasn't really a scalpel, of course, but a sort of light beam, except that it was not a light beam either, but a manner of semantic dislocator, except that it was very grey.  Once you strip away enough layers you get grey.  But this wasn't a clear or clean grey, such as the beautiful cartoonist might ink across the dray.  No, it was dirty.  It looked greasy or dusty, possibly mildewed, probably soiled.

"And it must have affected my eyes, too, for everything had that paifnul soiled & mutsy look‑‑not healthy aging into beauteous ivory or gritty mechanisticality, no.  No, it was definitely something sick & painful, like that overexposed porno movie your father oersposed you to while he placed his penis in your tiny hand.  That hand wasn't dirty before.

"'My eyes weren't dirty before,' I commented to the doctororor.

"'No,' he said, oping up the last shell around my precious phial.  'The life's gone out.  The pain‑‑it's everything.'

"'Well put,' I grunted, & the file was pulled out.  & I thought this thought much too deeply aware: You've just plucked out the essence of me, the essence of Qert.  In this deep form, the thought occurred in the mere form of kinaesthetic movements‑‑I humped the thought & it humped me.  Down there at that depph we were one, entwangled qheought, but nextly the thought repeated itself a little closer to the surface, wherein it took the form of a gaudy lot of dream images like the ik=mage points that ik=mage points that hang on on like dew to the gravid sides of one of the cartoonisht's most pregnant plethic frames‑‑one of her fertility‑goddess frames to which your ik=mages your=mages attasch, & there the thought was a dream world I wander din.

"A dream world I wandered in.  & next it took the form of a very deep, guiltprone, deathridden subterranean thought that I was afraid to admit, & here the thought was a blackness all around like the mass that sits on your head as you wait, breathless for your torture, wait.

"And then it came froth as a real thought, except for a moment there was pain & I could not utter it.

"'You've just plucked out...'"

"Pardonme?  What's that, Qert?"

"'...the essence of Qaqaqaqa.'"

"Naw!" the scientist said, brightly but grimy.  "No‑‑we han't 'pulk‑tout your essence,' Qert.  You're still qaqaqaqa‑Qert.  Your eyes're clearing, aren't they Qert?  {And yes, my eyes'ere clearing & the goddam grime was going away!}  We've healed you, young botic, yes we did!  Your phile‑‑your precious 'essence of you'‑‑it was this."

"And he held up a bullet‑‑a god damned bullet in my gut!"

The creagator scientists in that thin & sheetlike way‑‑more like the surface of Oceania roused by the sensual winds of one of those sensual Mediterranean‑stylish ultraseas that we seas that we seas that we all wallultra have‑‑& rip off rubber masks revealing momentary SKULLS that however (that however) dim dunward like exhausted wings wings & shake their heads until sparkling lifelight hair flails gaily round with the false speculated gaiety of science, & they rip off gloves revealing momentary BONES then they make a lot of shuffling (exhaustion) exhaustion noise as they turn to the sleeping figure of Qert in his creagator form & they sigh...

"He's totally withdrawn.  I'd call it mad if we but called things mad anymore.  Totally mad.  But I shan't call it that, except there's nothing we can do."

They pause & slide.  The room goes through a small dimensional slide, whereby first one end, then in acceleration the entire room stretcheth sidewise with a slidewrise bending‑of‑down, whipping the minds of the two docreagors in apsychoanalogous manner, giving 'em pause...

"Except dissect him."

"I beg your pardon."

"Sure.  No problem. No sweat.  Nothing to"

"No‑‑I mean, why did you just say 'Except dissect him'?"

"I don't remember.  I was hoping you'd remember.  Must be dimensional slide."

Now one of these two gets all of a saudden to looking really tough & know‑it‑all‑‑you know: cocky, full of himself, acting out adolescent‑borne false bravado, literally sticking his tongue in his cheek, strutting, standing in exaggerated contraposto in a body's voice that says I am afraid of fantasy...

"Yea‑‑thassit.  Yup," he says in tones ringing with harmonics of the voice of the tones I just got done so painfooly describibing.  "Muss be onadem dimensnl slides!  Yea, that's it...that's it...that's it it it..."

They notice they're in the room with Qert.

"Who the fuck is that?"

Now the other one‑‑not the one who was looking like a punk a minute ago, which is a very common way of trying to "psychologically 'recover'" from imemsional slide, much noted in the heavy slide zones (O yea, them heavy slide zones you feel‑in‑yer heavy slibe bones, o yea o yea!)‑‑slaps the first one, well, in a low‑comedy, Three‑Stoopoogedy sorta manner, whopping him upside the head with the heel of a mighty, science‑elonggaaaated hand: WHOP!  WHOP!, he go.  WHOP!  WHOP!  WHOP! he crescendoze.  & WHOP1 WHOP2 WHOP3 he scientifically throes n' goes.  WHOPWHOPWHOP!  Slaps him well.

"That's Qert, you dummy‑‑Qert.  Qert!  Qert!  Qert!" with a sweaty capital WHOPN at eachnevery twerm.

"We'll have to dissect him."

"Vivisect, I believe you mean," sayeth one of them‑‑I have lost track which.  But they're both pretty peculiarly glad to be out of that lapse back there lapse back where lapseback air.

"I see.  We can dissect him later."

"Hahahahahaha!  Or put him back in his stor!"

"Hehehehehehe!  Except it might not work so well!"

"Huhuhu!  Look at him.  He doesn't even have any color left.  Can that happens?"

"U‑u‑u‑u‑u!  If it happen, yes.  Let me go to D{ayyac} to get some fine opalades for the cutting.  I mean for some really fine cutting, close & sweetly to the core, cutting right through those fat little cells, slicing it as it were right through their little smiles, their little hands wringing together, their organelloid hearts, the curses of their eyes, their eyebeams, their eyes, hyhyhyhy!"

"Boy, you sure rubbing your hands & beaming your own little 'organellic' eyes & crossing & recrossing your eyes‑‑which looks absurd in this wordless ward, by the by‑‑& also I cannot help but note crossing your legs giving scruze n' squeeze n' screws n' screes to your genitals‑‑& making you walk rather funny, way the way‑‑& as I said again rubbing your hands, the cells falling in Absolute Despair & also dryly to the floor which is liquid here (I just notice: we have a liquid floor!  Hey‑‑psst!  Hey!  Hey!  Pssst!  We have a..."

"Yes, I...)"

Voices din & Sland.

(None of which affects Qert.  He hears only the quiet dripping of the washwater, the orange‑red light of the darkroom wavering on the low roof, reflected off the big white trays of chemicals‑‑enormous trays, which lift like the skin of the sea revealing the handiwork of Uthor underneath.

This being Qert's theory, anyway.  He's developing sheet after sheet of the fine emulsion.  It shows things about the (surprisingly dark) interiors of these stors you would never expect‑‑things no sort of cosmic opalades could sever.  Now if you can see what's really going on under the forces of these stern stors, if you can just get all the data processed down here, with the darkroom timeclock ticking & letting off a humongous blazt of a buzz at intervals more regular than the periodic microstors & the acrid chemicals bringing out electrochemical memories in the subvoltages of your mind that you don't want or need any more than the False Heaven of the Broken Heart to bleed‑‑if you can only just manage to put the secrets together before that oplade comes cutting through the red vestige tadders of your consciousness, sending you doubtless up DOUBTLESS DOUBLOUPT to the False Heaven of the Saved or the Saaved or the Saaaved‑‑you can see the aesthetic by which this funny stor was put together, achoke on urlaughter & formless pain, you can see secrets they can never cut out, you can take off with your pure treasure with your egg of pleasure you can get free of this weightless feeling of wight in the False Heaven of the Endless Weight, OK?
(If you can get these pictures developed on time...

     ou can get these pictures developed o

 an get these pictures develope

      et these picture

  ese pictu

    e pi


Qert trying to forget all these delusions hunkers down in his special chair & tries to get to work.  He doesn't remember well his work, & when he looks up from his work he notices he's in a botic‑beaker, & that the hoards of the stoards are gawking at him.  There was something he was supposed to remember, but he has gone too far...

Qert couldn't help but notice that the faces outside the beaker were exceedingly grim.  One of those faces was his longlost Qinz, & when Qert, pink & giggling inside the vax of stimulant gasses & gasses & steam, bobbed his head & nodded farcically by way of saying h'lo, Qinz just redoubled his grimness, moving his hands over the surface of the bulb, trying to find a flaw or something.  Qert thought he saw a phlit swolling out of the corner of Qinz's eye or mouth (he missed that detail so I make it two detail details), as if his friend were saying "Shshsh!  Quiet!  Not now!" or somesuch, & he anxiously laid his head back...

Qinz was surrounded by blue technicians‑‑& it seemed to baby Qert that Baby Qert that these fellows were at once direblue & threateningly too‑thin.  Now did he like the way they were moving so quickly around the beaker, drawing an observable geometric pattern around the stolid Qinz.  & hey‑‑if Qinz looked serious, you can well imagine you can well how these faceless jokers looked.

They had no faces.  I have given the detail(s) zaway.

Still‑and‑yet‑though‑howver‑O, they were very likely bad technicians, possibly‑‑if I may "wing it," if you please; if I may "extrapolate" a mite here please; if I "might" please; if I "please"‑‑bad little technicians evenso, but they were dirty, anway, the way their fingers had some sort of marks or indentations in them, patterns on the pads that left dark greasy little spots on the heretofore pristine survax of the beaker‑ur.  An alarmed & tiny Qert (really tiny, like!) furriously rubrubbed frotted on the squure, & a blue face blew faceup tiny‑to‑him‑nere & laughed out rageously.

Had a face for a moment, here

thought Qert.

& meantime busy Qinz had gained a purchase on a crack in the surface of the bax, & like a coagulant blue liquid the Kruds strang their hangs onto the crack & were pulling‑‑some this way, some that, right along with the stronger & ostensibly more stronger Qinz‑‑& trying to crack the outer shell, the shell, & the glasses frurled in alarm yes‑they‑did, & Qert grew evermore alarmed, yers he ded, & it oqqurred to him that that phlit that that Qinz had had send might have a message in it‑‑& when I say might have a message in it I mean it might have a message in it other than the message Qert had thought that he'd sent that he said I meant.

So Qert pulls back.  He look like a baby in alarm.  He look like your second baby looked when you first busted his defenses with your arm.  He look like a baby looks when it finds out it's a baby in your world.

But he was none of these exactly things.  He was Qert Bottotic, using his servomechanisms yes to scan a phlit heregoes.

"{Lot if his.  Hurriedly made?  Deliberately obscure‑‑I hate that!‑‑or bad phlixion in the ether‑net nexus of the yure?  Sounds like hhhhsssssshshshshshhhhh} I'm gonna kill you really fast, this time, Qert.  We're on a new campaign to get you fast.  We figure the stors turn out better.  I figure the guilt will be no more.  I mean, I have thought long & hard‑‑while you were fucking sleeping between your term‑‑& decided the guilt I fell is a poison that comes from you, & I have, Qert, spoken to the gods regarding the possibility that this poison‑‑besides fucking up my killings & qillings of you, & thus interfering with my Professional Integrity‑‑may be infecting the stors you lay more & more, so that we are starting now to get these aborted monstrosities, these dead & distorted worlds, these partial & sick universes, borne doubtless from diseased ik=mage files defiled, if I may, by your own poisons, Qert‑‑that is, distorted in their essence by the poison of the guilt you are squirting to me whilst I try to pruify things by killing you, or squilling you, depends on which sector I am ing.
"So {hhhhsssshshshshhh!} the gos says to me, they says they says, 'Well hey, man, you might be right be right, ol' Qinz ol; boy‑‑& we mean to say that you're our boy.  But what do we do we do we do?'

"And likehhhshshshhh I says to the goigs, 'Hey well‑‑don wory, K?  Noq to freq.  No sweaq‑‑hey.  We've just gotta kill the fucker squick‑‑ere he gets to grow up in the worlds.'

"And like the gods man the gods says to me, 'Qinz.  We dig what you're sayin, K?  But like, we cut a deal with Qert, man.  It's like we have a deal.'  'And like what's the deal?' I says.  & they sort of like reply, 'Well, man, we can't give out detaildetail details of the deal or deals, you can comprehend that am I sure amman,' & what can I say so I says yes, & they says, 'But like, it was part of the bargain‑‑& we need to mean too emphasize herein that it's quite a CENTRAL part of the goddam heheh bargain, man, that (ahewm!) "The aforementioned Qert Bottotoci, who will as aforeshed function as botic in this lurl (legal talk‑‑mumb‑go‑jung‑bworurl), getsa to like spend endless childhoods after childhoods in the worlds of his own creating, stipulating & devolved upon the following stipulations...blah‑bleh‑bluh," you see.'

"And I like said, 'I see.'  & we sats real silent for a whiles.

"And what I'm tryin to say is, we all looked at some movies of the universes‑‑some of your best work, Qert, & it moved us to deep tears‑‑& these blue creatures you see (blue creatures you see on the outside of this dream) outside the beaker of this dreen are the results of these tears.  They are the tears.

"Because, Qert, man‑‑& I say this vivividly‑‑we thence looked at your most recent worlds.  Hhhhshshshhh‑‑what more can I shay, ol Qert ol boy advisedly?  Hhsshshshshsss‑‑we saw the Dead World & the Gob World & the Dud World & the Gub World & the Gobbet Woarld & the Egg Wurld & the Fucking Boxic World (clever‑clever, qute, self‑reflexive, mirriry, Qerl!) & the Blottic World & the Fug Gowoarl & the Guf Roarual & the Dot Blural‑‑pathetic stuff, Qert.  'Sathetic Smuff,' in the words of the words of the gods of the gods of worldshhsshshshhh.
"So we checked over your contract & in essence said fuck it, man.  'Cause you weren't like delivering the googs, you see?  You'd bruuched that suucher, we zided, long gago.  & while certain deep legal arraingements mush B‑made in the ultraviolemp depths of the Legalurld, it was thought safe & seemly & OK & meet heyhey that I‑‑ahem!‑‑like begin to cut you out sooner, hear?‑‑contract notwithstanding, Qerththththhhh..."

Blinking awake, Qert saw with alarm they were peeling back the outer shell.  Now he had death to greet him the instant he awoke, & an existence, it seemed, of nothing but sleep & the work‑creation & just one viv*d fl*sh of light, followed by infanticide‑‑of him!‑‑& not the chain of childhoods he'd envisioned‑‑& negotiated‑‑for himself.

Now it's true Qert remembered none of this‑‑none of what Qinz had said about contracts & gods & stors & universal deals.  & it's true that Qinz was that worst of scuggs, the deluded liar, whose lies sometimes swung round back at you & got true because he was so inverted‑miroir‑yee! wrong you shee.  So he couldn't utterly trust the total phlit.

But he did.

"YAAAA!" squeamed the Baby as they cut through the tubes.  The gasses started to run about, & Qert was vivid with tears.  He'd fool them a bit before he died‑‑this was his universe, after all, with the usual set of secret subrules meant to subvert his murderin' pal.

But after that‑‑after Qinz, who was perfect with murders in his soul, succeeded as he must, as even the structure of the universe suggeusts, in killing him‑‑Qert had a bone to piq with the goddam gaugs...

& so the beaker, & with it the stor, shatter xeplosively, with a shardic vengeance of very nasty‑looking pieces, their shape antemorphed through shaped charges set in their clear capillaries & their tendons of glass & in the sonic stomes on their essences deeper than bomes.

You can do that.  If you have enough technicians helping you, & Qert has this unprecedented following of tiny little engineers, bucktoothed & nerdy, who will spend milliards of chronocyclic internities shaping those nasty shards to Qert's perfection.  & these guys come up with ideas of their own as well.  I mean, these are not mere venturers.  These are not servomechanisms, if I may use the word {servomechanisms}.  These are tiny, sycophantic, slavering, obsequious, unctuous vuvid little weasels, but they have free will, & they worship Qert.  They worship Qert with their own peculiar energy, & it takes the form of living endless time doing drudgery for him, in order to make his stors what these {engineers} like to call "schitzofround," which means essentially really‑really‑reallyreally deep, insanely detailed, which is, or was, that which Qert's stors are or were noted for or fore or frore orefroar.

& like I say, the engineers come up with their own ideas, which is something you can perceptively digress into even as this latest stor explobes with the morbor of Qorp, such that the slashed & slattered pieces & the slassed ensghlitterd pietzes & the sashed inzijjurd pleeces of Qert & Qinz's's cow'ring bodies envel‑ope onean‑other in a shower o' towrin' fear.  "Fear.  That's how you end a stor.  Give 'em fear, lotsa fear."  ‑‑Qert Bottotic & th' Engineers o' Fear.  & whilst this is happening, you can notice‑‑underneath these blizzard‑like all‑gashing little nastards if I may of glass, which just keep raining down & whirling back up & reforming into various DEEP BLIZZARDS & variorous BEEP PLIZZARDS & forming again‑anew into yet‑other‑nouveau nations & barbaric "civilizations" if‑may of nastardalities, hee‑hee, so that you thing, what with one wind puf & the swelter of emotions & motions ong‑ga‑go like this, poor gravity will never have a chance & will neer get a purchase & this nightmare WILL NEVREND!‑‑the Severely Outré Wailing Sound.

Note severely outré waiwing swound.  That was invented by the tiny engineers abovallud edtoo who worshiqert, youwooal recaul, as a parallel to the exciting visual stuff & the shards flaying the essence right out of the twins up there.  Cut apart like that & their faces‑‑what's left of em‑‑deadbabybloated by the farting, I mean wailing, sounds, they do look like twins.  Their their bodies will be gone, soon.  Looks like some of those clever little designers figured a way to make the sound actually enhance the cutting, so the soundwaves are loosening up the flesh, so we have these billions of Perfect Blades‑‑tightgineered knives hones & calculated endlessly in the stoptime ormation of the stor‑‑hacking with euphoric zoundz into what must cut to them like butter.

Iiiiif we could get a microeye in there...




But we can't.  I tell you oel hell brokes louse when a stor ends‑‑& one of Qert's stors oer always designed like this to end so cataclysmically & with such apocalypse of thunder & with such sheer outblowing waves of antequantumenergy that no known recording device knowem too gnone has ever or will theorieticall and/or storically bable to write or crystallize or memzorize nor motherwise record the unstance of its happening.  It's just impossible, like trying to draw the cosmic primordial ylem (though that's not a goob comparisonb, as many artists have tried to draw or represent the ylem‑‑so this is even worse), so no one remembers, no one draws word‑pictures, no one paints, & god knows no machinery or memcrystal can tape or track or wire or in anywise record what happens when a Qertic stor blows.

It's not contractual.  Au contraire‑‑the gods have it in the storic contrax that they have all intraverxic rights to the image of the stors.  Only Qert‑‑together with those licey little engineers I hate alluding two‑‑has outfoxed them good‑and‑good with his Postexistence Terminator as he calls it as he thinks it as he dies.

For Qert's dying, no doubt about it.  More importantly‑‑& if I may, more friendlily‑‑Qinz dies too, & his gun is for a second the only left coherimp in these phlizzards of plasma gash, until it, too, too, too, too...

After which the two buddies emerge in a blue euphoric shower full of laughter which for just an instant cuts the edge...and then settles down‑ellipsis‑down...down, & then, jolly & naked like the two buoyant athletes they are, they towel emselves vigoprously as they step into the antechamber, where we've been before, wheryin every venture endsy entrue nends.

"Whew!" & "Gawd!" & "Woaw!" they intratwaing.  Shape, I mean Shake they their heads & move with nerve‑rapidity.  Now {somewhere in a hidden verge} the li'l engineers break open bottle after bottle of nerd champagne, which has its own tiny tacky appropriateness, given that this was The Bottle‑Surge or Stor de Bouteilles, asth Qert onaly now revealth.

"Haaaawwww!  Howdalike it?  Huh?  Huh?" screeches Qert, punching & pumping Qinz newly‑growm murderim garm.

"Whooooa!  Whoo‑AAA!" roars Qinz, throwing his head so farback back‑atroars.  "Bottles, man‑‑what's with the bottles man," & such like that.

They sure do luagh!  Luaghs envelop.  Yellowed emvelope luaghs.  They are licked & sealed in these envelopes of luaghs‑‑or at least this is how some of the gods' peculiar recording vices desee it, detellit.  Gods are very metaphorical.  Gods exist in clear envelopes thirteen feet high.  Some of them.  We rip the seal & it LUAGHS!  Golbutit LUAGHS!  It just LUAGHS! & LUAGHS! & LUAGHS! & like Qert & Qinz‑‑clearly hyysterical, their mutual celebration ultracorded in Shamebless Intimacy by frustrated, surprised, & stunned gods everywhere, aching with the need to store‑‑also flow many liquids, with many bubbles, the scweaming & the straight‑time & the edges washing dges shing ff, ff, ff...

Shshshsh!  The artist at work, laties & gendlemum, on his ulatest Extravaganzic Stor.

Just who looks at these stor, zanyhow?  I mean, who goes in to them?  Does anyone really live in them?  What are they here for?  This place is hard to find.  I never see never see anyone here, except for those little specks‑‑

Beg pardumb?

little teeny silver specks, like, that sort of, uh, form the outline, rather, of a beast, or form, or whatever.

Well, that clarifies.

That.  Shshshs, pleashshshe!  We enter the stori carea, or stormic arima‑‑so‑called because it is so called, I mean, so coloured, with the sweepings of stourm, for the pourtions of a stour that do not get incourporated into the stor, or unto the stor, or undue la slor, become like the sweepings of storm, take on the swume & the swuum & the coloration zweum of a goddam storm, man, & fill what we are wont to call the STORMIC ARENA, inwherech the leavings of the stor‑‑those stor portions never to be stord‑‑cut up some touches & act like a storm.

We enter the sotrmic or Storicke Arena in plush zeroless shopes, beautifully designed, not cheapjack, plusch solmic veneton encormanink plasthagoriasiaphic axakaxtic indoshkosho‑agozhnic shopes that flatter enflater our fleer, for our fleet due knot touch the ground, there being very little in the way o groun din here.

See, this vast & STORMIC area ARENA is a partually‑fuormed space.  It has just enough "stretch" (I like to say "stretch" & to hear myself say "'stretch'" & to say "say '"stretch"'" & to say) stretch of dimensions to fit a body in‑‑a body in without killing it‑‑the body in.

& even there herein he doesn't loop, I ming look, too goob, I meem good, what with that gas mask he has, making him look like a stork, or a stormstork, or a pigeon, or one of those glottal arpeggios what formulate themselps unto the thick, thick, hyperthickened atmosphaire of Laingdeneuwibough after Laingdeneuwibough Lain-gde-neuw-ibo-ugh under Laingdeneuwibough in Laingdeneuwibough of Lain-geg-eden-nen-enne-nba-wugh!, wherein vocals sculp, voiphls "sculpt" like they love to hearmzelves sculp, & they form structures muchlike whatever the fuck I was talking about up there.

O yeh‑‑Qert's fukkin face.

I think part of it comes from his desire to repulse.  I also think he is in a trance‑‑& your botic don' look pritty when he's in a trance.  Certainly Qert doesn't.  & indeed, he is also working with this recalcitrant material, this "protocoagulant ylem" (I love to hear myself stretch "proogoo anuplastulenk yoolyyem" mumem!), this highly toxic, stormworthy stuff, which some say is the very stuff of weaponry, the very power sortce, foromstampce, of the Vwah Greduxor, nthe selfsame nettles of the tanglenet, nthe absolute shuttles of the bangoplet.

It's that bad, that serious.  It's dangerous, lethal, & tragic stuff to work with.  I'd rather stick my psychic fingers in to heal the brain ein painoddix Pon than endure the inevitable, slow, morbid, deathly, suicidal, nightmarish twanging of the guitar springs of the disease known in circles of knome as storg.

Yea.  Qert's got storg, you can bep.  Andime arfraid to mention that one of the symbombs of storg is the tendency to work ever‑harder at your stor, locked timeless & wellnigh spaceless in that aremna of storng, more & more truly inspired, whilst that very pierce of inspiration pings deeper to your heart in fex you morean dmore.  Dmore.

We can't get sick.  We have our shopes‑‑our plusch solmic veneton encormanink plasthagoriasiaphic axakaxtic indoshkosho‑agozhnic shopes, remember?  So we can watch him (his muscles do look swollen, don't they?)‑‑those aren't muscles, those are dust (those aren't dust; that is death)‑‑death is dust, OK?  (OK, but I whisper hear the whisper of the stormic hush)‑‑Hush!  Not only can't we get sick, but Qert can ot e en s e us.

Is it his trance?


Is it his storg?


Is it our shopes?

Not altogether.  It haf to do more with saranwrappish warpage of the space.  He can't see us for his chopping at the plastor‑strace.  Ah‑‑you are thurprithed he useth chithel, ay?  He chisel off piece after piece of infinity till he gets him right well down unto the rhythmic nothing, that near nothing nesh we known as stor, poor storg!

In a move that would have been bold had it been made a thousand yur zago, Qert decided to use his latest stor to contact his father.  Intresting premise.

"Dearest Dad," Qert wrote.  Actually, he wrote Dear Daddums, but then delete the Qert‑wrote & then truend about again, his heart spinning on that perfect knot of glass your heart always spings on long nom nas on you feel the beauty of illusion truth of beauty sooth of same, & added the est & paused.  He sighed: whmph.

& just to think how all of this was being recorded!

"I've been sick lately," he wrote patiently on, etching queer words in the qveer of crystal that was the substratum of his stor.  "They've got me making stor after stor, & well, heck, Dad {"Daddums" ‑‑Ed.}, I've been starting to forget what I was doing.  In fact, I can't remember even now what I am doing, except that Qinz could show up anyplace anytime.

This fellow Qinz‑‑a botic like me, but Exxentially Different, you understand, Dad {whereas amatter fact, there was no Daddums to understand, inasmuck as botics don't have daddums.  ‑‑Zes.}‑‑shows up to kill me every time, in every stor.  I think it's a game, Pop.  {Read Daddums for lacunic lunar‑pop, pop pop pop!, whenas he was totally wrong; this was no game; nossir; not by the gods, nossir!  ‑‑Edzes.}  Anyway, I'm losing.  I'm all mixed up because I sincerely believbe that something went wrong with the mix {as it were, ‑‑Pop}, & it's gotten out of hand.  Hell, this letter may be part of a stor‑‑possibly my own ddead stor‑‑& not me working on creating stors at all, & so this Qinz'll show up any time like Dad{dumsed}ytime.

His father appeared blue in the cloud of his mind.  "Take comfort, son," he said, "and remember: son."

"Yes‑Dad‑I‑re member that," gasp sQert as the poet Phluorib put the lozenge back in its seal & the seal slipped herself O! so easily back into the painfoeld & the painfoeld slipped into something vague & purple plose & the infinisnesinil (acause 1) there 2) now 3) much 4) room for clicks anymore) click of the Vuor Reducer, making it moleculesmol.

This Phluorib mabe gextears witrh hiv hombs.  "Stop calling me Daddums, Qert.  You botics are poet‑mad.  But anyway, & as I was recalling, there were in fact these days‑‑before the killings, before the stors.  You had a father back then.  I mean, it wasn't all Qinz."  Qert nob knowigly.  (I must rewrite that letter to say Dear Qinz, he thought, then shook him out of it.  Poems were strong that way.)

"You had a shirt, I remember," Phluorib said, & here Qert's "face" (ha ha!) folds up rather like the lozngnto its com po nent parthsh with disapproval, on account of he don't like to be reminded of the poet's special access to it all.  I mean, it hurts‑‑even for a goddam verxtacurzic botic it hurURTs‑‑to think of all these special intimate things that a greaseball like Phluorib knows.

"Why are you such a 'greaseball'?" Qer tinquires, at wishbe hind his back a foil wall o vinfinite arabesphiligree ascend, convoolving oer his back so that suddenly Qert looks like a body bouncing on a waterbed of gold in the endguld husks of Waterwoad as if in the deepest sleep cutting free of concepts once for all.

The poe tignore zit.  He waxeth eloquent about Qertses shirt, which was loose & plain white, of an exquisite sentient silkaterial, not tailor cut at all, & really several times too big, inasmuch as big hag any meaning in the mentionless dimouph of the Zero Mouf, & somewhat unbottoned & I guessic showing the hard contours of Qert's tens‑edback to the sort advantage you recall in your Byroneams resemes e‑zeems

& like Qert spainfully ware that Phluorib's really veilpressing his (Qert's (ha ha! (ha ha!) ah ah) body) ah body, really just the halide sheathe of body which is the functional modality of bodies here in the Haulo Worgs, but evidently & neverthelesh much benamored by Phluoribteeheehee.

Being a poet, he can make it sound like the fucking shirt's symbolic, but mainly it's just another way to painfully show this uppity goddam bot, after all, that he's got access to full & naked views of his complete & vulnerable body, that he can set these those vulnerbilibees to motzium, that he can accelerate the aging of the body & stor it & its myriad gossameres liquidly back, liquidly back unto the liquid black that lies <beneath> behind that waterbed of noise discorting herz elf be hindim indimim.

Heasa greaseball, though, oblivious though he mough.  In fact, I think oblivity's a characteristic‑‑aqualality if you will, or even equalaliquilidiilty‑‑of greaseballs everywore.  But he is grey, glistening, walking a bit ahead of Qert, on to the next lozenge, is it were, & definitely oleogendic, soft, disgustin a jollyolly way...

Qert's early works were good‑‑they really were.  They were, in the words of critic‑o‑stors Nen Fegfchii, "brimful of brittle good moods, or, in the words of also‑stora‑critic Gyynyys Zaza, 'abristle with good moves, or, in the words of also‑stora‑criticOddonteezker Gim, "full of little rudes, or, in the words of also‑stora‑critic Beechee 3, 'felt with bitter ludes, or, in the words of also‑stora‑critic Gadja Ajdag, "gilt with glitter dudes, or, in the words of also‑stora‑critic Twolp nyimGim (no realation), 'atilt with flitter nudes, & or, in the words of also‑stora‑critic Oo‑1‑oO OOaOO, "alilt with jitterrunes."'"'"'"

Here's one such small move, or mood (or rude or lude or dudes) in runes: Qinz arrives at this broad, concave swamp sort of place.  It's colored a light blue, & up clutes you can see subtle variations in its color & texture‑‑variations not characteristic of swamp, which should give you a clue, as should the very heavy air which fills the cupped part of the swamp, & the soft sound of liquids, soft sounds of liquids, sounds of the liquids, siflids, ounds.

Everything about this place seems fishy, Qinz thinks.  Qinz is built to think the wrong sort of thoughts.  At the annual Botic Verxmas Party, Qinz ends conversations when he enters them.  He lies like grey fluid in a bag within them.  His words disrupt.  He's a killer‑‑what do you expect?  Then he just gives up.  & they always find him crying under the tinsel after the bash, curled & incredibly tiny, with his murderer's ability I say "murderer's ability" to get really small, with his knees pulled up & his arms around his knees & his still‑big, sniffy face against the softness of his arms just like the hurt child he will always be (& me) & have to be taken home aboard special transports.

& there are no transports home.

Might be this party is another stor.  Still, Qinz is right is Qinz right is is as he walk cautiously (but not cautiously enough, I'll bet!) not directly in but along the perimeter of the swamp but slowly spiraling in but curving a little more directly in but sniffing suspiciously as he goes in‑‑there is something awfully fishy here.  He's so damned scared Qert is gonna defeat him.
This is what givthe god spleasure, this ambility (of Qert's) to to to to flummox n hornswoggle Qinz (back in the early days, the early stors, wayways) & make him fear.  It's good, the gos say, that this Qert person‑‑preprogrammed & destined as he is to be be killed‑‑can create such a world of such distortive complexities that he scare the guy who's destined to kill him‑‑gol!

So they say.  Anyway, Qinz's holding the contractual "Big Ugly Gun" in one hand, & against the vast & intricate‑‑truly sleep‑imprussif‑‑texcheers of this swamp, he looks ridiculous.  His brown boots & space‑pants of leather look stupid, too‑‑as they would not, say, on the glo‑struts of a big old town, but which Qert has not created here, or the lo‑strux of a megafluorm, which Qert has not hinted here, or anywhere dry & ordinarily storestrial‑‑but Qert hashe naught oblig edhere‑‑& the duds looks stupider as old Qinz starts to think, & the gods rollick & laugh at the thought, glub, I am sinking oooo this swamp, glub o !






Which he does, & then it's arranged through certain esoteringeered lores o phyjiqs that we shall draw back from the scene of poor Qinz sinking (& firing his Gun!) & sinking in as the thought sinks in that‑‑while he's contractually like guaranteed to be able to kill Qert & thus posit him out of his world, positimouahisworld‑‑he shall be trapped & humiliated himself, poor guilt‑ridden bastard, to observe this swamp from high up.

The swamp from higher up: clouds.  Puzzled gouds.

The clouds DRAIN into THE FACE OF QERT, smiling beneficently, kindly, sillily‑‑just the face to put sinking Qinz off.

& Qinz sees it, yes he does: he sees the face all right, on his little uoto‑oye which Qert hasn't got but which 'nable Qinz, 'no 'natter what, to obtain a gosoye voo of everything that transpire in the story of the sorta‑stor (& come to think of it, does Qert know Qinz's got this thing?  Does Qert even know such a thing exists?  I don'k thin't so...).

So Qinz feels great humiliation, as he sink into the actual face of the artist, who hurts him all but endlessly with his kindness & his smiles, & the elongate, light‑blue distortiveness of that face, & the smoke puffs uph.

In case you were worried: the swamp does die.  Qert must die.  Hell, Qert has agreed to die‑‑again & again (agreed & died) again again‑‑& so he dies, the swamp drying & becoming rather like the brown scum on the surgfatch of cookied milch & wrapping itself tightly around the skeleton of Qinz‑‑Oyea, the skeleton of Qinz wrapped up in Qert.

God, you see all those Good Moves?  Doublegood Moves‑‑& if you stayed tuned in (as many people did stay tune edin to those early werks o Qurt), you could even watch a laconic crew of workmem drudging the swump‑‑or what's left of the swemp, which zembles wrust a small qoquum‑‑& lofting it up like a bundle on one of their swampcrane, swompcraines, swemmvkraighngnes, & plopping the dry little nigard down, & tearing it open, coughing ot the sust, & revealing the skeleton of Qinz.

"What's that gun he's got?"

Yea, Bottotic's stors started out as small jokes, like those clear globes of fruit, crimson melons, & bunches of twitzors you used to plant in the wet garden, just where the verge of the boggy veer go bog‑‑where your mother says don't go.  The yellow lizards have DON'T KNOW written into them‑‑they display this on their backs as they make tonguelings ackyou.  

You yu-youyouyou-ou used to plant those Prince Drupert Dops right where they would take possession of friends, back when Possession of Friends was not only allowed at the first queer singes of dawn, but were welcomed, positively hooted in by the selfsame jolly‑russet son the son the sun that still burneth thine hair uninto qurls.  These are the fruits of lucination, prestoric folds.

All very light.  Only later came that hopeless romantic period, which the botic kept ascribing to the inspiration of the one May Beam‑‑a love known not to have ever subsisted outside her selfdrawn cosmic strip‑‑a portion of either Qert or his "friend" (also nonsubxixtents) Qinz, but in any event unreal...and when I say unreal I mean two or three soft dreambursts outer here is what I mean when I say real is just a dreamprod into here her he h...and the boxes {God spare us from his boxes!  ‑‑Ed.  Boxes.  ‑‑Ed. Boxes.  ‑‑Zed.  Boxezzedd oxes ded ded ded}

& of course the snowstorms & that qilly bip withe teef & the awful clackering, & the fluorescent Phluorib poet or what tweveree whass, & of course, after that, down a long expanse of time pseudo time in the forms of a hall of perefect back, the dead period of the deadness of the storness of the stors‑‑a time of qualities.

Again, once upon an hur Qert made a little stor, apparently harmless‑‑a mere divertissement‑‑in which the squeeging out of just one tear destroys the universe.  This be fore the stors came murder‑suicide device.  The aim was to capture Qinz within his own tears‑‑always the goal of lover friends, don't you see‑‑& to have him face the choice of scruzing the rest of that goddam tear out & be destroyed or of holding the cheer forever, dangling, on that cheek.  Qert bet Qinz would hold oubt.  He designed the stor as you would design a dream for a dream friend, see.  The tear would start time going in the customary loops, so his paloops could cry forever.

Qert could hardly sleep that night, his cheek pressed fresh against the rimey bluish sheets in the ICE would heslep within (Qert had to sleep in an ice world, in his custormary blue, so as not to create billions & billions of stors from the frostings of his sleep), his breath forming solid, eerie‑white statues of statues of white which were gently moved over‑‑by servomechanisms, I hasten twad, & not by living, semisentient technicians of any sort or kind‑‑to take their place on pedestals of clear glass with a queer gloss as of drear dross in a tear's toss unto merest moss, disc‑shaped pedestals, I say disc‑shaped pedestals, I say disc, shaped pedestals‑I‑say‑I say.

& when he did sleep, this excitable, because always a child outside his stors, Qert I say disc‑shaped pedestals thought (& NOT‑DREAMT‑‑OK?  OK?  OK?  OK?  OK?) of entering the stor in which his friend was caught, in the form of a precious tear‑‑which you see you would‑must understand. in the circuiages of time stor‑time stortime reduce that which was "Qinz" more & more into the tear, which was, you see, the imagistic fulcrum of the stor on a disc‑shaped pedestal‑‑where he, the Qert‑shape in the center of the stor, a red shape, just visiting (ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!), might gently sigh & like touch that stor & inadvertently (because your to your stors'll always superise you) dissolve all his blood in his tear.

l his blood inis tear

   l his blood inistear
  lis bloodinistear








This happen here & also here & here & here.  Remember, that goddam tear's been round the loop o time for‑an‑ever MetaTime™.

It did their friendship, if you can call it that, no good, this teary stor.  It was dubbed "corny" by critics, & the selfsame thought must've occurred to Qinz as well, for of course he barely went round with this "self‑pitying, sappy, droopy, drippy, dreemy, sentimental stoeur‑without‑a‑coeure," as he later said he said, one time when he crushed out the tear out the tear out out, which smoked & dissolved the entire universe

whereupon Qinz‑‑this is inevitable, folks‑‑stands smoking & dripping at the same time right in front of the soft, sleeping Qert (!) whose excited breaths (!!) as he realize this is "real" come out now in the shape of red molten statues of aliens (!!!) which melt the disk‑shaped pedestals repeated heretofore & sits up astonied cries,


Qinz's fists loose just a little bit, & he starts to pace.  He is of course very nervous.  He is effecitually dead for the nonce, & mad as a demon at Qert.  Just think: Mad as a Demon at Qert.  Just think:

That set off the cycle of stors known as the Real or the True Murder Sories.  & just to think‑‑it all started with that goddam tear.

OK, first of the Real Murther Speries or the True: Fairy musics in the background.  An exceedingly light heaven, this.  The technician (some tubey swemm as‑may May Beam) who worked & worked & worked & worked on him & in him & on into him was him‑ or her‑ orself elongated to a degree that Qert's softly objective mind considered ridiculous.  Absurd, Qert thought.  It went against some principle.  Or principles.

He‑‑no she, it was definitely a she‑‑was pastel colored alzo.  Now that's absurd.  Looks uttertwo frail, uttertwo frail, to be fixing him, to be stickering her intensely‑lit (almost warsching grout that pastel‑‑haah) forearms‑‑for the forearms was all you could see‑‑into his Leaden Grouted Gux.

Yet she did it with gusto, refluxx Qert, & noticed that he was refluxxing with eerie calmy, aloof & distant, for they had his mind fixed up to a flat disk which rotated round & round.  It was from this that it was from that came forth from his that it was coming up the so‑called "fairy music" sup‑for‑thup.

"I like your amnesia," May beam, dit seem, din key & she moving in key, with the fairy music snow revealed to be utterling frorth like sweam from the lips of Qert as he rotated round & round.  "You have 95% amnesia, Qert."

"Qert," Qert qert leadenly.

"That's right," she said, leaning in‑‑which for this babe was one hell of a long lean in!‑‑to get a look at something golden in his guts.

"Looking for some‑uh!‑thing?"

"I think we can get you your friend 'Qinz' back," beammay, laughing, "if you want him back!" her voice muffoed from under the hood, speaking slowly, Qert rotating constantly, falling deeper inspirals of love with that pale & breathing trunk‑‑which he could not see breathing, and, having seen breathing, could not but help but start turning the slender breathing over & over in his mind, his mind roving over & over atat that so he couldsndent helps zimzelphls‑‑& with each turn she got more & more wonderful, & Qert did thought he thought, Verily, she is a creature of the fairest heaven.  Verily will she bring my memories back‑‑including this familiar‑sounding friend I have not got, have not got, have not got...

"Woops," she said, popping her head back out.  "Sound like your song is through, ol Qert."

Old, he thought, then smiled like an old botic & possibly the author died before finishing this sentence.

Or this notice of the author;s dying.

Or this one.

Or this.

It's lioke predicting the end of the world.  Sooner or later, you'll be right.  Now back to our story.

What is this shit?  Now back to our story.  Start of new section.  Start.

"Hey‑‑Qert," come Qinz's voice, & Qert froze.  The lovesmake was hurting.  Make note: Smake hurting here, he thought automatically.  He felt his back muscles hardening, as if with the cold smakegraze.  You could tell it was the first hit of blue smake for the era, but the muscles were actually tightening in response to Qinz's weapon.

(My God!  But he hadn't even I mean Qert hadn't even thought to investiagte what kind of weapons they had here in Hexx!  & some of the universes had mean, nasty, sad, overpowering weapons just to see an ik=mage of would make your onions cry.  He was losing control. He Was Losing Control.  There Was NO Control.  NO CONtrol.  CONTrol.  CONTRol.  CONTROl.  O!)

He could hear Qinz breathing, & you had to admire the way Qinz somehow got a charge of hatred into even his breath.  What he did to Qert's name when he called it was a nightmare‑‑an actual nightmare of a ghastly brilliant blue, like the blue of some inconceivably poisonous dye, tinged with a red somewhere caught between somewhere caught between blood & rust and.  Nightmare hurt the eyes, was thought as the bullet said.

He was sipping very hauchagoglot‑‑made with plain water, pas de milq, known as "pas‑de‑milch hauchagoglot" in these parts, heavy with rougue midstummer slakey smake, but he reserved for future reverence the Question: What Parts Are We IN & how‑did‑the‑scenechange howditchng..?quick?‑‑& making hideous faces from the nightmare in the scene before the bullet hut (ruffle through your scrips..?quick?), but no one in the immediate vicinity, which is to say the immediate family, was noticing, possibly because the illusion was his, pozzibly because he could feel the bullet hit.

Fine think, he things.  I cleverly escape to this place, only to have the bullet cleverlier follow me & blast my back into clay wright hear...

Which it did.  Qinz's vullet hits the protective field of the back, & the protective f.o.t.b. tries like hell to pull Qert out of the fix, but it's clearly a qlearly an Interval Bullet‑‑Gog!‑‑& it hits right through to the very smuiff of whusch Qert tis mage, & he splats.

I mean, his back‑thing splatters like very wet, almost silty, virtually vet, clay clay clay clay & forms a small volcano‑shape where the bullet rivets right in, & the illusory Qert they had thought to have formed yet another life in the Hills o' Hexx turns briefly into a stor‑‑into the composte ik=mage'd stor he had posted immis hort, & the father in the scene goes "Huup!?" & never expresses himself again.

The entire "family (if we may)" falls into Qert's sudlyeqnergized ik=mage phials (your bullets'll do'll tha'll't: they'll takeover everything a'that for a' that a't), mouths wide open the whole time, & the small area around the small false false‑Qert (doubly false by the maqorz zinopes of "fooling" Qinz or at least his bullet X) BLOOWPS! into utter nothingness‑‑actually the warp & woof of Intraverse "Space (if‑famlay)," but a‑lookin' pretty "nonthin'" hyere as the original moqbody that Qinz shot croaks its shock & dies.

shot croaks its shock & dies.

& I mean really dies.  Qert was apparently loaded with deaths, ik=mages & representationages of death.  This was quite a novelty, & must be a function of his experimental ik=mage phile modality‑‑which the other botics‑‑certainly Qinz, we believe‑‑didn't have.  & judging from the grotesque thorws of ik=magery (ick ik=magery!) that flowwowpong Qertick's deaph, we won't be seeing very more of these newfanedaddled ik=mage file inserts in the near intravuture no.

For Qert goes into some mightyumgous throes!  He throws for example‑out spewters of bloog, filleps o' gutz, sillooz‑o'‑slime, grisly furrows o' smapeengfexted glyme.  He fill the goddam air with magnified ik=mages of What Death Means to the Body when you're in a body.

& Qinz is in a body.  He's in a body, too‑‑a moqbody‑‑isn't he? So are his henchbots, Quuf & Qet, & Quadiackinoawn & Qthee & Qo‑oQador, too & as well‑‑are they not?

Someone is not.

Yes, but they (the ones I mentioned) are‑‑not?

Yes they are.

So now what happens to thhem?

Well, the ultraik=mages of death throw off their bodies, reactivate boggy memories o' what 'slike, etc.  The sort of memories that cannot be repretsed, hidden, flinched from, run fum, nor in any way denied‑‑no, not even by habitants of the ultrainter‑verx‑‑not even by botics...not so long as they're bodies, heh.

So Qinz dies ha.  Seeing the ik=mage thrown out by Qert's death, Qinz's body creshes in its chups, falls away, wrenches into convulsions & dies heh

& inside, at the minuscule sweet diaphanous almost‑massless al‑most‑mass‑less controls, Qinz has time to croak only "Wha‑?," because you see he is stuck inside, hah

as similarly in this mess do bodies of Quff & Qumpany (even Qo‑oQador, yes).

Now I'll admit that somebody unwrittenun thus sceune is not in a body.  Someone is watching us.  Botics've always felt someone was waschgigng guss‑‑& they are right, or were right, ere they die(d)haha.  That someone doesn't die.

But pritineer everyone else diezoribly.

Make note, there is no:one to shay, ik=mage file ik=mage of death good doomsday device, released pon dydying, & even the note‑‑containing as she does, mass‑‑dies.

Now there has to be someone in the realm of existence to clean up this mesh.  But not for a while.

The two botics made an early attempt to give up the game.  Together they wandered some of the lesser stors, feeling utterly safe there, feeling that they knew in their hearts that they really knew the gods couldn't find them‑‑not without what Qinz kept calling & calling "that chemicollusion" between them.

Qert was the wounded one, we must remember; we must remember, in order to excuse the rather pangy dark fucking goddam sonofabitch‑ing thought that he Qert thought when Qinz kept saying that, such that the thought ("Your collusion, you mean.") became as solid as the musical instruments they were walkin in in this airless mewsicle or, more precisely, instrumental world that Qert had hey in his private collection hey his primate connection ey his pilate correction A, & Qert, shame dove his own suspicions & inhurt of his friend, quietly puts the thought down amongst the myriad instruments & sails into a rap foiling like the spatial layers of a topogrophilupe.

Then Qinz turned with his usual neat formularity, his neat blue tunic at the heighth of a style in a stor of style in which the style height was perfectly high:

"These are the most exquisite musical instruments I have ever seen‑‑so narrow & intricately coiled.  & their colors!  They look like sweet, dark snakes or kolucobbras gathered in, not to strike, but to let their own beauty strike the colorless sun."

Upon hearing this, now Qert rolls his eyes to the hidden camera which was talping the filmic pisions of his mid, for future prilate miewing, & he draws a breath in that ragged qurly wray we have gowen too lubve, & he scratches his curly blond vonnehair & pats his wellesome tummy & leans deanback flexing the medial vertebra of the psychic spime & sez

"You wax eloquent.  But you're right.  Heft one‑‑note its weightlessnessness.  It has both weightlessness & heft, that one.  & here‑‑you can hold any number of them in any bumber of limbs.  They accommodate themselves to you, like accommodations of dream.  Look at the valves..."

"Yea, I was just looking at the valves.  They also shift, don't they?  I'd say they shift with the light, except that you seem to've made the light in this place so as not to shift."

Qert smiles, & not benignly.  "O, it'll shift all right, old boy.  It will shift all right, come time."  & he thought, How did he know I made the light?

& somewhere Qinz thought back, You always make the light to be killdupin, friend.

Qinz clearly, does not want to deal with Qert's continued qerts continuid compilexities, & so he stiffly aboids the eye & just keeps taking up instrument after instrument until he has an infinite number of instruments in his arms‑loving arms & he beam like a child at Qert, who falls in love, gets flustered, has to stop time, go to the potty, come back to his screen & examine the image, shake his head, fume emotions through his system, livid with emotions cascading through his body supple with the loss of time rigid in the air like a crystal of the splace, puffs out his cheeks & sets back into stor.

Qinz picks up the musical instrument which is the solidification of the thought srtument above, whereupon Qert agains stops time ytakes a cold shower & has a bite to eat & sits around panicking & creating fumey snells that, however, can't get loose in the deadtime of the intrastor of Qert's hideout here & chastises himself for the thought & tortures himself for six (6) eternities with the thourt & jumps violently back into storathoup...

"You all right?" ask Qinz with apparent innocence, licking his lips, clearly with the intention‑‑clearly & visibly suspended above his head for filming, like an image on a taroT card righT there‑‑of totting a biT on taT one disastrous instrumeT.

"You can't!"

"Can't what?  Qeret, have you‑‑"

"You can't play that instrument here!  I mean, there's no air in here, no airinhere, no..."

Qinz blinks his look at Qert.  The look‑‑as solid as the thought which has become the instrument in this scene which has become the thought in the instrumental dream of another star, God, stor, gad‑‑tells Qert Qinz knows Qert's fooling Qinzahim.  So Qinzeth givesa toot...

& the air becomes & Aire of Toot.  & of course the toot‑‑free to manifest itself in fullform personality on account of this unfinished private stor's absence of parameter‑solidities‑‑takes on the formations & history‑‑complete with tangential anecdotary‑‑of both the thought Qert thought & the look Qinz looked.

The sound stops.  By this time no one remembers anything‑‑who they are, the story, etc.  The two blown‑out botics improvise, pursing their lips appreciatively at the music, they look at one another with the understanding they are inclusion in their foolery (which you'll notice was the harmonic just hot by the note just hit which has just eliminated them as coherent selves in the story in coherent selves the stor e yin) & they want to agree that the note was very good, but there is no language.
Silly old Qert forgot to put the language lozenge in!
That Qert!

I think we all first began to suspect that the friendship between Qinz & Qert (they were contracted together, after wer) wur beginning TERMINAL sour or suor or seor or soror when Qert created his "Joke Stor," which he often liked to call (when allow edto re call) "The Bigol' Stor o Jopes!," excalabation poingt his.  This place was sometimes known also as The Clown Stor & The Balloon Stor.

No, it wasn't the bold stupidity of the place‑‑by this time this flirting with danger (in the form of eternal torture of the gods, see Storal Contract 4.29357) was a Qert signature‑‑that tipped us off.  Nor the blowsy gag of having everyone who entered the stor behave themselves like balloons, squerky & woiboling & likewise full of squerkies & roiboroings.  Again, it was like Qert it was like Qert to create, how shall I say

Qert to create humiliating rules n laws.

Qert: oft knowen as "the scop of humiliatin' rulesinlaws.

So, shee, sho poor Qinz enters by pushing himself through the usual stretchdoor, & discovers many things, all at once.

That's what happens to you when you enter a stor what happens when you enter a stor what you happenzenter stor you what happenstor you happenstyanzicstor: you be many thangs at zunce, as they saynotsay.

That's certainly what happened to Qinz, who with the usual layer of amnesia (not total, of course, but a degree birth degree of amnesia suffulgent to make the game a game & to give Qert  the blody childhod he deserve.  ("Hey fellows," laughs one handsome blond upper‑class godade, "Let's give old Qert the childhod he deserve."  "Yes, stringem on, astwere," snawer another unknown gog looking ungawdlipe like a viper in plates covered with a light‑absorbent sheet, o yea, coverd witha light‑absorbent sheet, uh‑huh, cu VERD witha LIGHTABsorBANTSHEET, mm‑hmm, as the other gods‑‑known henchforth as The Gother Obs‑‑look on askance & askew & akimbole fearfoly, for this is the fdark god the lizard god the longue tonged gob the god of the fear cuorsang through the switty pabjes of this novel after that & that & that, what can I say?) finds he is now named Quoanjje, which is a fearfully silly name, & so the last thought, O the very last thought, that the heroic powerbot Qinz think that Qinz think that Qinjk thinjk as he billow‑zim is Golly whatta fearra fuella silla namanamaname & then he dies, squalling in his mother's arms.

& need I describe this great inflated ma?  Qert was never known for his women inasmuch as he was ever not‑known for nothing and/nor nanything's or or.

& like everyone else instor, Qert, not Quoanjje, has to endure the long & painful process of blowing up, & the agony of rumping & bubbling against the other loons at schalool, & the dange rof puncture‑‑wellnigh a storal phobya here as swell it might itnigh‑and the quintessential xitement of your first inderflo with the parodic joke‑monstrosities known in this stor in this known in this stor as FEMALES (sex being everywhere: here * for example, & here * & here * & here * & *) & naturally ewnough & saad to say, the first crinkles toopeer.

You know, the sort of skim that tights saround your pad when you touch it there.  Balloon is dying (your father said) tough it there, & you can feel it dying & the death clings to you there.

Certainly you can look at this that way *.

& of course‑‑stipulated in the contract as it uz‑‑Qert & Qinz‑‑excuse me, Quoanjje‑‑come to meet & strike up this friendship the most dangerously lovey of any in the stor (this in the contract 2), & we sit back to observe how the killing comebadout this's always different & unpredictable, a product of the rules of the stor & the superrules of the contract & the supersuperrules of this odd interverxial friendship that yuks acrox la bunds of dimension‑stors everywhere & of course the overriding godrules that can hit you SO AS TO TORTURE YOU anytime, reading, right where you sit, now, anytime eternity, & the transcendent rules of the love that makes things so silly & blows them upbyond their triple capatchity toobabaLOONs.

& here's where we see the friendship start to fail.  Too much killing, we refluct, nodding with our mouths fished down at the edges utter‑sanctonominy.

For in the Joke Stor, or Clown Stor anyway, or what yenyyay, the two pals engadge in a fatal repartwee.  They toss lousy jokes back & forth.  They torture each other with their gags‑‑sometimes yes‑literal gagas, sometimes not, YUKYUK‑‑until their mutual brains (balloon‑brains, let's not think!) blow up into hallucinations not unlike the breaking of those in those Spanish festivals in your glued‑up univerts dying away without gods, for Qert's fipped the bloons of his Joke Stor with nothing but dlusions of mirth, so they both die mukking.

"I'd certainly give that one to Qert," says one god.

"Yea but them japes‑‑so flimsy & loud!"

"They were a bit loud, weren't they?" screams D, who's flat as a jay, evidently cwumboled by the sound.

"Anyway, but Qert got Qinz killed whilst he was atryin' to kill him (Qert).  So it goes to Qert, does it not?"

"No," thunders the dark god, rustling his dark sheets.  One cannot help but think that mirth is not foree.  "This death goes against them both‑‑you see?"

Mandrake jextures hypotically.  & by gods they do see‑‑they really see.  I mean, suddenly with a blackwave & a wackblave they see, they really see...

The Joke Stor dies down like a flapsed ballwoom.  They watch it, suffin siccorekkes, & consider not going on with it.  You will not this consideration appeared & rappeard (illegally) many times.  They consider calling it a draw & sit down on a Plain Rock‑‑one of those Plain Rocks made out of black & white.

"You won't believe this," Quoanjje gestures in an incredibly hypnopompic & self‑pitying way.  His hooded eyes stare blearily‑‑yes, & this odious self‑pitiness‑‑as he sucks a big fat toke on a black cigarette in the shape of a rocket, a perfect shape mathematical.  "I'm grown up now, here," he says, the snawer to which inanity, in my opinion, can be but a sigh of disgust.  So, well in the mood of this piece, which critic Quoanjje remand me to killim when I get out), I draw an even sillier (did I say SILLIER?) or was it sillier?  or what?) toke off either the same cigarette or a precise & exactsame duplicate of Qert's rangy, big‑boned, Western, self‑pididying cigorept.

The smoke‑‑I say, the smoke‑‑the smoke us full of felt pty.  With saltdew in mine eyes & soft pearls that will explode into sobs in my throat & an alien that will eat his way out of my gut, I attend to him.  (I believe we are on the front stoop of some flat in NYC or one of the lesser grub‑cities in the planes of Universe One.  I am not sure.  I take no responsibility for Universe One.)  I recall Qert's customary & evident‑favorite yellow of the bricks n stone n concrete n stuff, but I am not sire (see parentheses).  In this self‑pitying, framed stor, the environment is not blown up to much too much.  It is but a small, smoggy, wrinkled old balloon, if you will pardon me O!  PARDON ME! O! O!  PARDON ME‑‑PLEASE!! of a I say SAY! not blown up very O! far OK?

"You won't believe this," re iterate Ed, "but I was a well‑liked child once."  I didn't believe it‑‑it was set in amber that I wouldn't‑‑but I'll spare you additional frames, O yea!, I will spare yez additional frame, uh‑huh, OYEH! I‑willa SPAREYES a DITION al FRAME, mm‑hm.

"My sixth birthday was full of kids.  They all had presents‑‑really big ones, stwo‑‑& were dressed in the height of fashion for a kid.  The height of like fashion then was Acute Discomfort, & that's how all my many many presented friends was dressed.  I'd threatened each one of them, had bloddied many of the girls, knocked out some of the teeth HA! HA! HA! HA! of the lesser ones, had threatened the bigger, smarter, more experienced, tougher ones‑‑the tiny marines I liked to call them when they ripped my bones to shreds‑‑had threatened even them with expulsion.  Which meant that they couldn't come to my parties anymore.  Yet here they was!  & the little girls I'd tried to make suck my cock.  & their mothers, whom's I'd tried to fuck up the butt, droped the kids off on the street, & my mother (unseen in this print this print this print this print) who scooped their spattered flesh up (there is no blood in this print) & would bring them in, & so we had this enormous, boxlike cake (get it?  boxlike cape?  get it yet?  cake?), & the mangles of well‑dressed, tortured flesh were molded onto chairs all around, & I presided with a great big knife.  (Chuckles.)  It was a great big ol knife, I can tell you that!  Man, was it big!  It was big, man!  & man‑o‑man!  Talk about big knives‑‑whew!  But the knife was merely a precaution‑‑not for the cake, but for my mom should she try to broach the print wither funny stuff.

& all at once the air if you call it air of the room if you air it that filled with a spray as of water that, & I therefore flung the flung the cycling knife the knife‑‑for it was not just big...not only a big was also & more particularly & evident‑particularly a cycling goddam knive‑‑aside‑flung‑I‑the‑knipe & dug with both fists into the outer box.  With the rip, an outer friend died‑‑a scream burst from the fart of flosch on the seat to my immediate right right right right right (there are many dimensions here here here here here & here) & it blew up, & I ripped the second box‑‑with even much more gorfeous wrapzinkx‑‑Kandansky waps, I swear!‑‑& my secondary friend ript up et cetera, small well formed (be cause form edby my mum!) flesches poughed & blough, & I screamed an a sort of pardoyay‑ecechoo, a kinind of sarcastic‑sarcoplast, a manner of roni eironeer, a bit of a comic cosmic smear, a diddle of a dormic shnier, a boddle o bloggy sweeres, you see you see you see, after my dead‑second in deconds "friend" (if you).

Here Qert draweth another snuck off hiv fag.

"Ha ha!  Very good‑‑'fag.'  Yes‑‑'fag'‑‑very very good ingeed."

Herein hwe draweth othwer smux suppon hif frag.

"Hm.. 'Frag.'  Don't like that‑‑don't follow that at all & all in all, infact.  {Sighs.}  Anyway.

"I ripped through many a friend's gift‑rapt present that day.  Ha.  Ha.  Through present after present I passed, & as I past, I saw gorgeous festoonery twimmings & tri‑dee‑foils.  I saw endless ribbons in gold‑euphoric foilds.  (Could this be the "euphoria" Critic Sobriquet in his talk was it what about?)  Passed I through & through sheer bubbles o parentheses within mine very selfsame quotes within quotes within quotes.  It was that sort of party.  I was hot.  I was on drugs.  I ripped open every last friend back then‑‑& this was after my series of First Youthful Crimes, the ones that won't count‑‑& before stors eelike this one and.

"When it ended my mother came in & cut up the cake."  He interrupted his own quote, this time, to suck of the last little jiggle of the fag.  In go the lips.  He lapped the driplet of cream with his slubby tongue.

"Yea.  She shut up, I mean cut up, the cake.  You should of seen what that did to me!"

Thank you, Quoanjje.
@@@@    TEEF

Qinz is chewing his lip.  He is clearly displeased at Qert's reaction to his memory.  Qert is not reacting at all, but is mumbling, slipping off his stiil in the big glassed‑garden, & is probing the earth, as if seeking a lost contact somewhere lense.  Qinz is hurt‑‑murderously hurt‑‑& he chews his lip.  I wonder, he thinks, if this isn't another stor.  Qert is mumbling to a great blue hooing sound‑‑something madly electronic, or the wails of a longlost world.

"What are you doing?" demands Qinz, standing up.  He notices the feels of having his name‑‑his own, god‑name‑‑back, but that's not going to deterreted mihhim.  He frisk himself himself, looking for the gun.  That would be a clue that this was another of Qert's illusions, in which case killing would be so fine.

"Mime rookplim fur my teef," Qert mutters.  His crawling gets more frenzied‑‑see how he sweats right through that soft Grecian cloak he's muddying yup.

"Teef...Lost you teeth?" mutters Qinz, though, possessed by the mesmeric belief‑verxtems of the stor, he has started to crawling round.

It's this sort of humiliation, he thinks he thinks, that is ruining everything.  I'd shoot him if I could.  I'd shoot him if I were certain this were a stor & not werelives. Fuck, man.

See.  So he crawls around looking.  Next thing come the sun up‑‑a cheeky feller, electric pink & beamwingyeller.

He didn't really think Fuck, man.  I just thought he thought it, just like I thought this New Voice of Reality qeq

"Well what do you know.  Our Qert hath mithplath't his teeth."

Yes, & misplaced, they become what is known in this charming little interstoric village as teef.  So anyway, "I hab mifplaft mime teef," he says again, but he seems rather to be enjoying himself‑‑& that indicates something about the character of this character.

I think it says some pretty darned profound things about Qert, some very powerful primal symbols burning like ice into us here, burning like ice memories into us here.

other lesser symbols dancing & gamboling eound I mean round, diaphanously implied in unbertomes as of imunerable Umdortomnic Bees, which refract prisms zat you at the verimost speeds o high, i.e., they hit you aire the name out what have hit you hit you sright.

Qinz: lost in the thunderblush.

Now one indication that Qert likes having his damned teeth gone is the way he keeps making chewy sounds, gumming his mouth, pronouncing teef.  He apparently likes his mouf wivout teef.

Andother important facet that any junior‑high‑school kiddo could write in her little report (yumyum) is that this absence of actual, real, organically‑working teetheehee would seem to indicate, if she correctly surmurise, that Qert is very old.  Botics‑lose‑their‑teeth‑withage just like anybody in the genepule elts.

& this phenomenom that we are noting here here here here here here here indicalsoates the perferbid rationale like behind Qert's losing his teeth‑‑somewheres in the garden of seeded stors, if his chumbling's any invication pike‑‑which rationale goeth somefing lied thix:

The blond schoolgirl who is writing this very, selfsame report that we have quoaging hier is none other than Cartoonipst May deBeam As A Little Girl.  Foxy old Qert‑‑just as nasty as deaf‑‑knows the lucid plane her perceptions beam across on their way to becoming words through the electrosensitif crenulations of her youthful schoolgirl's brain.  He knows this crystal window will be focused on him, & that's all it takes for this smitted smuden old fuddyuddy‑‑sacrificing honor, position, place, fine friends on wine, faces on the vine, captured boys in the cellar, skins to stretch, & earthen drupes‑‑to waste our Investifricative Timehere combing the goddamned garblem for his teef.  Muttryng impalseys, he sweeps dewy blurp after blurp, & blurb never‑to‑be‑stors.  Yea.  Destructive old gent.  Crusty old grump.  Gusty ol gemp.  Tusty olemp.  Rusty whole grunt.  Dusty holepemp.  Pustyoalempt.  Uftyimp.  Vimp.  Imp.  M!

We involve too deepily in the search & are now tunneling down these various Tunnels of Globule.  We speed past lost things.  We see a se of chattering teef, & those are Qert's teef reverted to a smaller globule.  They were evidently needed there (far far lost to us & far far better than us by now), to form constituents of the nutrient globules feeding the Herculean Forest of the Gods.  We are passing "through" (though prepositions here or meaningless, we don't have the time nor the inclination nor anything near to the magnitude to rent some of the special interstoric preps you can intersporiget sometimes ometimes memes ees e) the great Forest of the Gods.  It would seem from this vantage that all of these stors‑‑all those images, or as the botics say in their everqute botois, ik=mages (ah! les ik=mages!) are rendered unto distilled liquid purls which are then reduced into b\globules (sometimes at a...loss of...real=ikity heehee...) for the feeding of the trees.

They are then reduced to globules for the feeding of the trees.

Reglofeetwee, aziftwor.

You can hardly describe the forest therefore, growing in magnitude as it are from our briempf perspicative, by quantum bleaps, but it would appear to be some sorta paint‑binumbros amalglim o redwoods trees & flowers.  Redwoodsized flours?  Can't seek, canno C...

But wait a minute.  Wait.  There is yet more chattering straight onhead.  That would argue more teeth (for pon mine honour, Sir, ye cannot argue lessteef, heeHEE!), only I think these are more your cubes of color arran ged by the natural forces what prevail betwixt th'stars (if ye mat call that natural, Sir!), & these are like Dwuid Tempoles or stones among the watchets of the stars.  Yessir‑‑these are more like stories cryustallized & with a bite of the very cold‑‑WHINGD! & there one just goe sby & WHIMBD!  WHINDG!  WHMBG! more teef WHMM!  WMN!  WN!  N! acootabye, for we are riding the Insane Mighty High of The Highe of the Highee of the Teef, yessir, & yet still & yetso hear we mynchung chattyrs nygh (yf y'cangst qoll thate "nye," Syrrah?), as of more & evern greater tee thahead.
But for the moment‑‑bear with me, please‑‑there is nothing but whiteness, nothing but this insane purity yfy'c'n quole, & the chattering growing brittle‑brilliants in meyenigh, bristol‑billiants imimeye, brikkle‑bitiole mememaye, & the whiteness discarding her aeons‑laeong saeolidity & raeosaeolving zintaeo snaeow...snaeow, snaeow, snaeow...

Yup‑‑nothing but snow‑‑a hard powder of segments with a deepdue glint.  You have to shade your eyes from below, & there is no use to it.  It gives even dying men a glint.  Qinz has this glint, as his funny feet swaddled in feet make chirping sounds in the snow.  Qert has filled this stor with despair.  He must be insane, he thinks Qinz thinks.  What kind of game is this, he quinks, the thedges of his oughts as numb as his faces, each difficult form falls behind him as it freeze to the ground‑‑chips‑o‑Qinz all down the bockword pafh.  Qert have done something vunny to time in this ah stor. It is despair time, marked with its Nasty Little Squeaks, but you have to keep walking through despair, & Qinz would know if his neorns were snapsing that Qert has also juiled this stor with a superfine mockery.  It's under the snow, right where your right where your heels do hit it right there...

Of course Qinz can express nothing with his face.  That's part of the game of course the game Of Course of course‑‑his cheekbones form crenulant ridges of rime besides his eyes, still in sockets, their hate‑red redinside.

Qinz curl zup n wamr zimself in hare.  He sniff, which is a mistake, with a smuffplug up his nose.  Disgusting.  His hands form little paws, Awwwww...

It dnot look that way.  You lose when you lose track of the whole game, not just the episode.  That is the technical definition in the Book of Definition that is so snowy, uh, now.  He is mad.  Their two madnesses have always all but saved the two of friends, trapped as they are in the trapping games within.

This is no fair, Qinz is thinking, noticing the tender delicacy of flakes when he akes when he breathe.  Little wadsbref falls to the ground.  "Difficult forms," he says, "Look like you lose the stor."  It's like being embalmed perfectly.  But the gun‑‑remember the gun, Qinz, & the hatered.

The gun hops into his hands & nestles there.

& soon‑‑& very soon indeed, as says the hypnotist‑‑the snows form vucking slush & the lucky slush form to the vazes o puling voices are the stuff that froze.  Soon everything will be on fire.  So Qinz undoes another stor & shoots his friend (in the face) again.  Qinz on fire with his friend.  Friends get mad like that.  STOR TO QINZ!

I forgot to explain‑‑it was an accident (even though we know that there are no accidents‑‑& nothing is forgiven, mm?): Qert likes to set out a few petites lozenges d'vlusion to entertain his guests‑‑chiefly Qinz.

Speaking of which, there is a red plastic model of him‑‑possibly sculpted by May the beautiful cartoonist of these parts Beam, who loves to torture Qinz (& don't ask why), making it look like an accident (& don't ask how), or better yet‑‑when she can manage it with that pow'rful cartoon brain o hers!‑‑as if Qert‑dat‑didit hahaha, burning in the fires of his own hellvusium, with cheekbomes bomin' more prominents as their sheeno plasticeena riiplezoff, his mouth opfen as obsolete as any melting Pope frying embacond in the seething farso self‑im‑mo‑lasium.  You canna hear the screaming for the scoarso roars, but you can indeed hear the ear he ar e slow wedown uh giggling of tiny little kids.

These are Qinza & Qert as tiny boys together, a part of our progression out of fear.  Here:

'S the story: a longue time ago, before there lusions, little baby Qert & Qinz were brothers, only they had different last names, see, & a different chromosum nombromome, & a difference in number of last last names, Qert having one sole one, Qinz weighing inwhiff the vicinity, in, of O, let's say, mm..., about, O, say, aa three to four vigntillions o' sobriquets (of which, just to give you the ache of relief you need to get when the poison shag rupts yertissueyou, the greatest was Sobriquet)  three to four vigntillions aa.  Anyway, except for this at‑the‑time‑a parently‑irr elevant (butom inous, don't you think?) discrepancy in their natures, at that time they were as twimbly little twins, with twin‑lisps, twin sci‑fi grims, twinly blondish hair, dust, dust, & and both first names as you may have noticed binow starting with Q, which in these universes passeth for Q, I mean startegh egerythig.

So it started, I mean, that is how it did.  Start, I mean.  Ed.  It started with the two of them, a good distants from a yellow house so clearly serene symbolic in the story that it was the blaring yellow of one of those old unzoftened zuns like they had in Universe One, not to be falseley mistrapekin fur Falts Heavens One, which we've all already allway zeems.  That house so yellow it made the storyell "Ow!"  That sun so hot it caused all houses‑‑as well as the toeheads of little boysoys‑‑turn the yellow.  & that's why this story is so seldom told.

You understand.  They were twins‑‑so goes the version of the yellow tale that branch down the yellow hill‑‑"The Hill of the Dead Grass," you may recalm in the stortshories by that name‑‑& thus thought with the double intensity of twins, thinking their thoughts in perfect unison, the same yellow‑shaped bag of thought, filled with the same infusing gas, the same blinding bright, the same sun inside that that that represents only in this story the nature of the sun you have inside you when & when you are first born pop‑the‑bag‑and ‑sack‑and‑ must "swallow" (as they say in other stories only) the sin that you see.  & thus for twins for thus for for.

Right now‑‑at this point in this branch of this subtwig of this substory of the yellow which is now so high above us I am told‑‑they are not‑thinking the same thought, about their mother back there‑‑in ancredible distance away, in the yellow house which is rising to burning blindingly to look, thought each (of course) think that it grow personally oeris shoulder, as the approaching moon grow zover the hunched back of the last spacebotic crouched on the death of his planetoid‑‑something like that.

They had no genders then.  Genders were not invented down this impicular branches of the story here *.  In any event, both were trying to keep down the buoyant face of their mom, not to mention the breast, not to mention the mother, who in this story is the same.  For both of them I mean.

It is here that they form small glopbes, filled with figures, in the neon‑blue imagery o the comic strips.  They build alien sorts of houses (the precise opposites of their own‑‑for this is the universe in which the opposite of the strained memory erase smory, rather than, as it does back in good old Universe One, known as the I Universe, create smemory & lodge it quite in place, if you know what I mean), alien figures much thinner than you or I, & certainly assuredly thinner than thinner than mom.

So it is at this juncture that the two small blondish lads form small round univerts‑‑the protopips of stors!‑‑between their fine small hands.  & that in this edge of the story is where the madnessgin.  You understand.

We can, at somewhat a loss of resolution, like ZOOMIN on the little fine hands.  Note the difference in hands.  Do not notice the passages of time rumbling behind the backdrop like a shubwhy traum, nor the great star‑fulgd hands of the strfl‑gods, nor the clumsy subgod hands through which time slip sympfinitely through.  Note instead instead the pudgy, grubby little hands of Qinz, who maketh only mudballs, mudballs, the better to bean his bruder wiff.  Ha!  Gotchya, Qert!

NOTE that as little Qert fall unconscious, the crystal he has been forming with his clean, startiped, perfect, splendent artistino' handsm "handly lipple hanmds," as his mother calledem fore she torched the two, & see how Qertses mudball‑‑affecting as it does the hencefroth nature of his art, not to mention the endless sequence of murderous stors we are locking maerd nihtiw maerd within‑‑bobs on the streams of time as it goes on in.

& note further how silly Qinz‑‑always easily abled too fool (ah‑‑but ever‑murderoux, neve ni maerd, ay Qert?)‑‑dump his potbellied bod unto the stream & gurglex, trying to catch the ball, now rolling big as a lunar housed.

PLEASE WIPE FEET Welcomat says.  Exhausted with gilly mubspops on his cheeks, Qinz obey, sliding like a mime.

"What kept you? Qert always says, whereupon Qinz moans & shuts the door & leans on the door door door & rolls his eyes & begins, with sim guffacilty, to guffaw.  Hey‑‑the two old pals guffaw!

So now‑‑almost certainly for real‑‑Qert & Qinzid actually sit around Qert's big house & share memory.  They light up one of those big biff‑memories you can score from one of the pusher gods between gods between stors, & it turns the usual glowing turquoise, & they pass it bath & furck, ein big‑buff memory, till the goddam thing was simply (& I mean simply) too big to pass.  They lie round groaroaning neath the memory, jest like the title says, yes they do.

As you could guess, this was back before the friendship wore thin, I mean bad (& I mean simply), & the "house," big as she wa, was started leaking like balloons, was losing cohesion, was becoming, not a soft & willowy mansion of sublimated tears in the clouds of simple memory, but rather (& I think "rather") a superannuated equatorial hovel whose walls was begin not so much toooze as to slime, & not so much toslime as to greaze‑‑& little less of that than to gel, which were define hereon as as Equatorial Zomes, Commencing to Slide Unto Atrophy, Blurred Elisions of DisUse (I say MisBuse!), Mincing to Tranlutient Layoevres Untwo Yer Dreep‑Twears (& I Cry Dreeptweers Dreetweres Dreupdriers Driip!), & so thereon you stared.

So of course & as usual, twas Qert alone who stared into his icky sluicing walls‑‑not downward‑sluicing, neither, but rather outward‑pultzing like the true ache of memory, when it is silterft through that feverdream like unto sluggish uh light & heads right toward your nose & make you falintch (withought breavving!) flinch & flinch.

It just wasn't the same.  Qert could hardly git roun the place, what with his feet sticking in the mollicky mire & the panicky pire & the laughter of his frhahahiend farend in sluggish musics as of a Michigan bog teeming, big teeming, remind you what was loxt without real ytelling you.

And,  needless two, really in this sphere's a blank, & when I may _____ I means laugh & when I say laugh I mean stime & time I blast & mean murder means fratricide self‑death self‑hate suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide because that's what's this's story's really's about's about about I mean about & I mean mean.
That was no house in the first, place, Qert, realize.  That was no house of mine, because there was never time, & this was ever mine, & he left that house, leaving footprinks in the ouse, dense & red‑sweept, which exist in tiny, nuclear form zin the Houses of the Gods, where the gods have always watched.

That night, Qert has a nightmare (& this is dangerous) in which, not only do the loops move slowly & slowly through with the increrepetitive sprose, but also character & creatore stored in his stors drip out‑‑cumdripping swith the colors germane only to the stors, each stor having her own store of pugments pigmentally alated to the that particular a stor (astoric pigments, they calldar.  I am not just making this up) & this up & this up & this up & this up too this up.  Too.

These pigments in liquid heat form to superheat by the croxtordic line so they fizz out actually onto the surface of skims bubbling like the faces of a dream (I said this was a dream.  Or did I dreamt this of a dream?  Huh?) & take on All Sorts Ex Pressions, the many emotive faces stored up, locked under the very hard plasticene inframagerial used by the original Intraphyxigiicks back in the G‑Wilik Erphunsied Ays to heatform the formative material for the fortions in the you see your just creations (think for example all those mothers of) just think.

Think here:    .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .                                               .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .               all those mothers         .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .                                               .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .

All those mothers bl.n.g out‑‑actually feel about you.  Then when the sublime pigments hit the corridor air‑‑real air & not that canister edhiss ingsyn syn thetic smuff‑‑they commence in the dream to drip to drim in the drimp.

So Qert feels certain he has to deal with these escapees, unpigmented though they be, leeched & pretty much dried by the time they get close enough to contact Spezific Dremic Memori znough to scare him awake (but he doesn't awake!  He too scared twake!).  Their articulations are if anything even more wellformed fellmormed mellwormed than they were or seemed in the stor.  There are technical reasons for this‑‑why things look, up close, actually blurrier in a stor (& feel softer too) than they a really re‑‑about which no one gives a shit.  The aforementioned original Intraphyxigiicks knew, & probably cared.  But they died‑‑& they died caring‑‑& for the same technical reasons which we don't care about (Qert don't care about anyway; personally, I am feeling the smidgens of a care, HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE!)‑‑& which are doubtless killing us.

Ain't torpoture great?

Anyway, they are colorless utterly, their features as if chiseled by the finest microtechs of the microworlds of Ducicvuor, with their fine micromoths mechanicool, & even a tad translucent just a tran tadslucent like a dollop o' honey, only hard, already scratched, & in that sense not like honey at all.  Now sweet, either.  Not like honey in that regard, eitheror.  & they are definitely homing toward Qert, who ztuck in the hall in the dream, a very realistic nick o the dream, the anchorpoint of the dream, because he's always being locked out in the hall whilst Something Clears‑‑something always clearing out there in the Chambers o the Real, but never Qert neverqert clearingqert at all no allno all.

O they are homing toward him & their breath smells (which is Pure Dream‑‑the utter ether‑zwoo of the swoo‑of‑the‑droom, the so‑called Dreamtnosphere, no spheres here, nossir ree ree) & they are obsequiously drawn to him.  It seems they are lawfu big‑‑not enlarged from what they were in the stor, if memory memory serve, in every dmention, but rather extended in one or two domentions & normal the normal the rest of the way.  Thus you have Mimwajosa, the qobblur from Goblure, who be normal short height but monstrou wide, extended side to side, & possible from fron to back asswell, but who can notice such details‑‑what is this hunger for you details, unh?  Gimme a break‑I‑meam...

OK.  & in like manner, the Dinsol Eckhobadditinxs of the Aborakench of Stor Babo‑Trey definitely doubled in height, but not in width‑‑I am deg‑finite bout athat, nont nin windth nor ney naught nounloarged nessnessless, so there's a fruggin detail for you manm‑‑so they seem to lean & lunge from side to side.  & many other funhouse sortsa gotesques from right out fo the Funhouse Boat o Gotexts, all quite colorless & semiliad as I semimimber shyng, & all quite honing un om Qert, who is coughing his everlovin guts out trying to awake, this one of those novels from you trying to a WAKE.

But it's no good, for these are creatures with a mex=age.  Hey, once in a while a mex=age poureth from the ol ik=mage viles‑‑that you tried to keep so seek‑a‑wrept‑‑andthis is as often as neither‑noaught the way they do it.  In dreams, I mean.  In dreams (yawn!) meem I mm...zz zzz

zz zz

zzz zz

zz zzz

zzz zz

zz zzzz

zzzz zz

Yea, & when he Woke Edup, Qert perceived that the Message of Light was Hight.  Yea, & did he roll lup the slats & yon Tweedy Light came edinto the Room.  & the Smilining Light sat down in Qinz's big overstuffed chair, crossed its legs & leaned on one elbow, puffing a cigarette.

"The light has sat in your chair," Qinz‑who‑was‑woken woengerspack. exzcept the words were EDITED the words flowed into EDITOUT mode EDITOUT MODE editout & drew softly in to the cool air of the cigarettes.

Light laughed gently & Light laughed gently & Light laughed gently & Light laughed gently & Light laughed gently & Light laughed gently & Light laughed gently & Light laughed gently & Light laughed gently & Light laughed gently & Light laughed gently & Light laughed gently & Light laughed gently & Light laughed gently & Light laughed gently & Light laughed gently & Light laughed gently & Light laughed gently & Light laughed gently & Light laughed gently.    

& "I'll have to say Qert's big heart was affected," wrote Qinz later on of this later yon.  & he wrote "I'm writing this later on‑‑but goldarn it, that Light was so big & soft, & it had those big, impossibly friendly eyes, & it had my heart as it were like a sopping drit in its lifeleff hand, & you could hear the warm seashine zurfing where, & you could tell that the Light‑‑notstonding foct thot it wor Light‑‑knew the hopelessness of it all, could read & sense the hopelessness my single friend'nd put into this stor here, such that we were & are all subject to the hopelessness, so that, in this drifty seadrifty stor, even Light was hopeless: I mean Light, & besides (Light) it was a warm day, & I think it was a Being of Air as well as Light.

"Yes, I'll offer that: I think it was a Being of Air & Light, warm air, bright Light‑‑vewy bwight‑‑& I say this & I offer this, no matter what the gods say what."

& the gods say what?

"Hell, I'm more than just a Being of Light," beam the Being of Light.  "I'd say it's fair to say I'm Brilliant‑‑I am a Brilliant Light."

"You are," says, Qert, who‑‑as a normal inhabitant of this stor, still a child albeit a large red child, full of bull of his own bruth fruth freath buff fuff‑‑is feeling left out even unto the wrinkle of the present tenx.  "Yes‑‑you are a Brilliant Light.  & you have air in you, & in you (in air) have I have I put in hope so that my best friend be wrong.  Hee hee hee hee hee he hee hee hee!  My friend!  Tee‑hee!

"He's always been very ill, & he ascributes his illness to others‑‑chiefly to me‑‑& this is why he has contracted to kill me again & again‑‑not to expiate anything, but to make rotten music to the core, to hurt something close to himself, I'm sure, but I'm not sure what is me nor me nor am I what‑it sure or what‑it's fer norscure.  But I know I was right to put hope in this world into the air.  The air is Light into the air.  The Light is hope.  It is in the air.  You guys‑‑I put the hope in Lightforms in the air, OK?  OK?  Guys?  Hey‑‑guys??"

"A brilliant Light, I say‑‑& I'll put that to the gods myself," chuckled the palest frailo chile‑‑& he coolly walks to the window, as if to challenge any furpheraire aa to blow in through this body clad in those thin, Light‑bluush shirts with the pearl‑purple buttons that buttonx thax snap, O The Butooungs That Sna*p, & try to find some further furniture.  You can see through EgoOscoOpe@ that Qinz is rather taken by the Light‑‑by the power implications of the Light & the clear fact that this Light sprobably either a god or an agent of a god or a program running in the heavyfiltered or "fulterin" mindofa gog or perhaps the unresolved childhood passion of a (gawd!) or the title of the unwrittun tragedy of a gaud (except he's so damned cheerful, this Wight!) or (& this is the true possiblidlity‑‑this is the Right one) a childgod childish in his owen‑d‑Wright.

So Qinz is maltreating poor Qert, too, which Qert dimly recalls in the fast‑fading D‑level of his ik=mage files was not stipulated in his contract...but nei''er war at forbayd.

They really got me on that one, reQerlts.
& with that, the Light leaned back & posed its temple on the fingers of a hand & eyes Qert, & Qinz turns in fin ite ly slow to ob serve by the Light of the childgod seated in the chair, & they observe whilst Qert's heart's affected Qert's heart's affected Qert's heart's affected Qert's heart's affected Qert's heart's affected Qert's heart's affected Qert's heart's affected Qert's heart's affected Qert's heart's affected Qert's heart's affected Qert's heart's affected Qert's heart's affected Qert's heart's affected Qert's heart's affected Qert's heart's affected Qert's heart's affected Qert's heart's affected there.

The point went to Qinz, by the way, & naturally, & of course, & Qert was sent back "home" (we believe) to rummage for more inspiration, so he could finally win a stor.  You see how sour it's getting, & we in chapter B?

"Well, there you are, you ol Memory."

"'Lo, Qert.  Wish I could say I was glad to see you."

"No hurt‑‑wish I could say the same."

They paused while a hissing was ocurd.  Eccentric words, modal base of music, an ancient Northland air, & a very cold & headless air, it went ssssssssss & so on.

The Memory blinked the one eye that still completely blinked & that still completely blinked & existence shut OUT for a second-and-a-half-hl-hf.  It, or he, shifted its, or his, weight on what conceivably used to be pods & before that thighs & before that actual legs‑‑shapely man's legs, perhaps, with the muscular shape of a woman's, or something like that‑‑but were in this scene in the Memory Cave nothing but protoplasm, musch‑‑& illusory mush at that.

Here Qeret ƒitƒ ƒhim down to weep, which is what the Memory wamp.  I say This Is What The Memory Whamp cause it seemed to smile kindly on the hunch‑ed‑Qert‑‑muscles thin but ligamental slick, not thick but tough, the kind you wouldn't were you a monster even want to think tweat.  & I say the Memory seemed to look kindly because there was so little left unstretched of its face: it was shaped like a lie or like an anthill like & was almost all like face, so it hunched like a little gooey mountain, kind of cute, with its face moving very mobilely is that a word but you know not too coordinated, not much fine expressiveness essiveness left essneft 'sa word & so I have to guessaward.

"Yup.  It's pretty saad," the monster sez, & here it's lucky Qert is abnsoplutelu cramped with glee, I mean griefy glee, I mean GRIEF I mean GRIEF, because the monster cracks a virtually toothless smile‑‑one loose bucker's all I see, & lots of streamers from one vast "lip" unto the "other" crammed with glee.  Luckily, Qert doesn't see.

The monster‑‑who's getting cuter by the sechur, like some long‑stor‑ed music edmusic released & winding itself up re LENT less ly‑‑seems to be looking around like for arms to maybe pat Qert on the back or maybe crush his back or snap his back like my mother did mine just kidding or maybe CRACK his skull like mine just makiong metaphors here folks, or maybe stuck out a long loose tongue (whilst aholding the squirming Holder of Memory in his fine fowor yarms) & lick up his brains dudum, you cammot say.

Anyway, she shifts weight hither & thither, & there may indeed be arms‑‑certainly I would bet a small sum there are arms‑‑amongst all that material, but it's not so much dim in the cave as moist with a peculairly clear & perfect moisture‑‑not of water so much as of a volatile like‑liquid that might like‑light into like‑Memory fire at any instant‑like & this sweetness & Qert's crying make it very hard to focus on limbs, after all, & one hasn't even looked for arms in a longy long time zatawerd, & so it settles down to trying with cool frantically zrd to look concerned, erd...

Qert thinks: This Memory is very kind, but it's only a servomechanism from another dimension.  Got to remember this simple fact.  Now what fact was that?  What was that?  This is where Qert goes crazy, like you didn't see it coming crazy, like you didn't hear it coming crazy, like you didn't think Qert's last thought when you read the thought, silly.

Just look at this monster here.  Its mind doesn't work inasmuch as it doesn't have a mind.  & yet it's beautiful.  Despite the cave & the murky zetting ana zataworpword foag the author zin, he's a very sunny thang, now observed, now cocommuned, now released.  & it has my mind, in a manner of speaking.  Not any more, of course, but it used to have my mind, in a manner of speaking.  It used, whilse it wasa hidden, have power over the subtle powers beyond the awesome powerseven of gods, yessir it did.  It really had my mind.  It made for all those murders.  Now it doesn't have my mind, & it looks smiley, crippule, botomized...awww...

& like so many an explorer beforeyim, Qert herein doth giveway to Utter Pity, Pity that melth his thighs, melthtsthimin ththighthth, Pity that make him & this monster I mean Memory bamp qurl up & qerl away the night if you can call it night where the Memries sleep * here in one another's arms, bucking wildly.  The other memories pound the wall as the heads beat the bed.  This is sick but it beats shit out of death each thinks over & (unh!) overUNH!gain.

Suffice it to say they‑‑Qert & the soi‑disant Memory‑‑got down to business, to brass tax, so to speak, & negotiated in an atmosphere of negotiatin' smoke the whole so‑disant nwit & finally came up with the idea for the Car Stor.  They did not call this that; that was a designation came after the Memory Sleep (Remember That?).

& the instant he entered his soft face in the soft urgoy sluff that made you entrance ein‑too stor, Qinz saw the car.  Extra glossy & big big BIG.  Qinz was so excited by the beauty Qert hadad halo‑dit (in the form of your superlumiary tangerine‑flape shallacky‑glothth) that he couldn't work on the car.  Which he was, of course, contractually to‑do.


Lookathat.  You can tell the acid's got to him.  Lookatim!

He hadn't taken acid, but you can see in storic vision the cosmic creator, Qert, beaming self‑beatifically as he eyedrops drop after drop of this special Memory stuff‑‑the newly developed storic drug that acts like LSD or L.S.D. on the entire stor‑‑& the drops pulling themselves out the stropper & swolling huge, with huge muscles (you could tell they'd been working onem, tell) & determined ogrelike faces, stupid muscular jocklike lifelithe litheless gumbroiid faces looking to & from as if deciding where to go, ha!, as if deciding on their "mission," "ha!," so ol Qert, with a suave Qerty waggle onis head, shakes these droplets off, & they go "Yaaaaa!" with the huge cries of athletes as they fall into the swooshblooey euer of the euer of the stor o stor.

Butcept Qert wants more & more, & soon the athletic drops lose their individuality & pour forth as these ooz‑dropdrop‑monstruopcities, nothing but daliesque arms & legs acluthin & a grabbin one anorthors, & falling into the stew with a stew witha murkush cruyoieyg of "ygagagaga?" but it all the same.

Finally Qert dump the bottle in.  "What the fuck," he thinks, then dives in to him self...

So needless to say too needless to say the usually victim (Qinz: The Usual Victim) of this trip gets to see something that is Anything But An Ordinary Car (its Memoryname (its Lightname)).  Such the trix that friends in charge of multiple univerts plays ton wunganovor.

He knows he "mechanic" but can't get over the cripseness of the coveralls, & their perfect cleanness‑‑Qert having foregone the routine "aging" of the stor‑‑complete with a little retrofitive dirt & grease & all‑‑in order to avoid May Beam, & and & and & get clearance for the drug.  They didn't give him clearance for the drug, but he used the drugde spite clearance‑‑his genius was that smarg, I mean lordge, & his soul was that smorg, I mean small‑‑& so he had a psychedelic, spanking‑new, crisp, shiny sort of world here.

Which be blowing ol Qin zaway.  He keep rubbing his hands with the excitement borne of this infinite‑rhythamic knowledge that he knowledge that he has he has of cars.  He knows these motors as infinitely as you knows the hearts of your loves‑‑espepcially after the special GOLD LIGHT has DISSOLVED the HEART of your LOVEDS especially especially‑‑but he's too excited by the Drug Over Dose that the Drug Over Qert has given & givnoer‑‑not to mention thatthat Qert thatqert hasas fansched im(h)elf(s) into the liquid of the world as well as well.

I repeat myself.

Hey‑‑you can tell this engine's made o glass, only not glass but that exquisite, cutting gold stuff‑‑what‑it‑called‑‑they used on machines just before machines became obsolete & before they became illegal & before they became impossible the gods machines themselves o ob‑swoll‑eat.  Soon as he calms down he's going to lean his upper body right in‑‑the upper body will strelongaetch, one is sure, to accommodate the fantastic length of this beast, its gold metropolitans reaching in interrivenbyways & intraluxting throughfares & luminous centres of "luck," gold balls of "luck," not to mention the descalators carrying the grinning Populace of Sparks down, never up, but down into the reaches of the cools netherliquid zurge of the undertubules, & CERTAINLY NOT TO MENTION such madders as the small, tiny, exquisite, ear‑complex little "armomatomers," for this machine runs on luck, on smells & luck, not chance, it's a solid machine  .Qinz's mantra‑‑"It's a SOLID machine, It's a SOLID machine It's a SOLID mAchine, It's AH!"‑‑artnam s'zniQ.

& he knows quite a few operations he's gonna perform just for the hell of it.  & he knows the Original Psychological Snick that Qert put in‑‑often Qinz is (unfairly, I believe) brief edby the god on the O.P.S. of Qert's stors‑‑to give Qinz the favor on the advantage, don't you know‑‑but it doesn't always help to know when you're in the grip.  & of course know won counted on the drug 'cept grinning Qerz‑orro‑zreQ.  The original psycjoplogical snick that Qert put zin was that of course Qinz would be in love with the machine, & itching & plethoric & aching to fix the machine‑‑but the machine, gold & luxuriant & snooty as kwam‑B‑‑would be much too perfect to fix.  I mean, nothing wong withit.

& Qreative Qinz, who knows & we can see is knowin by his friend, figures to run some techniques on it, just to glory & revel in its perfection, & thus somehow get free of this powerful snickety‑smobell that Qert's sput on him, & somehow thereby improvise his way up to finding and‑‑as per contract‑‑killing Qert.

Killing him for making the stors, Qinz thinks he thought (& thinks he sees the leftover glimt of that thought in the thought in the engine‑‑just under thar!  DIVE IN AFTRER WITH YOUR LOVE WRENCH, QINZ‑‑DO IT NOW!...), but that's getting away head of himself, so shrewd Qinz swallow that phantasm with one of a billion throats‑‑I said one of a billion throats‑‑& turns on his heel & paces some more (some say he paced that way for a trillion enginyears) & waits for the breath of punctuation to relieve him.  It's golden & hot as the molgen of sums: no one counted on the drug.

So as Qinz rub his hands together stalking round the open hood of this greathooded goldengineed heroius car, his hands turn into heads that rub together, & he thinks "This is all I need," & so does the other head, & he stares with excited helplessness into the infinitely intricate gold enworkings of the car‑‑more a god than a car‑‑more a running face of Qert that bastard than a god‑‑& he thus shoots the engine & wins.

The fresh euer of the exploded stor clears his head.

"How did you do it‑‑& so quickly?" asks the interviewer, fairly cowering with admiration.

"Huh? O, you know some say I paced that way for a trillion enginyears."

"Yes, I know."

"Then isn't your question meaningless?


"OK‑‑well, Qert's own trick backfired, I guess.  I was so hop‑tup twerk on that car, but Qert fixes it so I can't hit the car‑‑so I shot the car.  So I guets I shot sQert."

"What is your opinino of the illegality of the stor‑‑the fact that Qert use unauthorized dopes to wum it up‑‑hmm?"

"I dunno.  I think he wants to get shot.  Its no fun anymore.  There's this awful sort of love‑‑you wouldn't know, you sonofbitch.  Let me go away now."


& he went away.  Qert was lying cryling in his room, & they were both pretty exawitiyed & upset at lights out, & there were constant bubbles in the euer at night that night hat night.

Still woozy, & with beautiful paisley cargrease on his shirt, Qinz steps into the confessional‑‑& as usual is hypnotized into utter truthfulness by the convolute screen, its arabesques brightening across the blue threshold to white.  Truth is the color of white.  Yes it is.  Is.  Is so.  Is too.  Yes it is!  IT IS!  IT REALLY REALLY IS!  IS!  EVERYTIME YOU SAY IT ISN'T MAKES IT IS A THOUSAND TIMES!

Qinz's looking quite handsome, isn't he?  I think it's his posture, which is controlled, virtually still, without showing the slightest degree of subservience.  I mean, he really looks the hero vividly now, the way his blue shirt reveals the chest just where a few fine strands of chestnut hairs starts, or chesthairs starts, or ches thairs tarts, or che stshai rsstar ts, & the manner in which his arm‑‑strong but not beefy, not meaty of oermuscled or oermuscl'd dor much'l'dor‑‑braceth hith weight againtht the wall while the screen that was white washed white cools (on back down to limes too lies) & the Suppos Ed Listener comes in, here *.

We must admit, of course, that despite his gorgeous appearance & timewarm tine‑‑Qinz Sobriquet is in fact most queasily subservient.  I have used the phrase utter truthfulness (a statement which you may verify as true, thus augmenting my credibility in the present instance, & adding I believe somewhat weight to the following outflorwing out‑parthetical claim:) a while back, & reiterate it at this moment carefully squint that this phlase was chosen carefully.

That's C‑A‑R‑E‑F‑U‑L‑L‑Y, OK?  It took hours.  This was no phogphrase just youknow tumbling out my metaphorical mouth.  This was true.  So you can well perceive that anyone‑‑anyone‑‑brought unto a spate of utter truthfulness is nothing less than a nomcongboolp...a fool...and therebye juste as fucking subservient as its (subservients) get.

So well then now then.  Another thing is this confessor.  Is there anyone in there, truthfully, on the other side?  We could ask Qinz‑‑who has to be truthful, we suppose‑‑but he would just tell just what he believed, which is just as follows just‑‑

"'What I Believe as Follows,' by Qinz Sobriquet.

"I think he's trying to hurt me.  I mean, he isn't acting as my friend anymore.  Granted, I've pulled a deal with you guys to drive him mad, but he shouldn't have no knowledge of that, right?, therefrore no weason to tweat me other than as his fwiend, in disguise right.

"But his disguises are getting‑‑I don't know‑‑icy.  What?  Did you pant just then?  Easy sigh?  Are you there?  Am I in there?  You?  You‑‑is this true?

"Well, as I was saying‑‑er, 'God'‑‑he has begin for instants burying his face in wholescale continents of snow, like the continent of lies, only white.  Like this white only lies.  & that just to get in his door‑‑between stors!  Is it OK I touch this screen?  Is dangerous?  Will  be hurt {babe's first question} WILL I BE HURT."

"Yes, babe," some thing in the background of utterm screens says, or he thinks she says.

Qinz spend several hours‑‑more properly urzs‑‑begging to see the confessor, for he believes this is his contact with utter God, & they have convinced this poor dupey botic that his salvation depends on his seeping see screen & destroying Qert, although as in a dream they have given him no names but the understandings of the names.  As in a dream, my last phrase, as in a dream.

Qinz push the mesh down‑‑it bend like gum‑‑& fall into the party‑goingon & ring the partygoing gong & perceive he have flaked overparty in much the manner same that the small same spectral Parasites of Yiem melt you down, till you hootscon taining in yourself.  Where the hell is Qert?  Q windrinz justa go.

"Qert, you old dog!" hooted this big, wide, overfriendly creature who looked like an organicized botic as tooled from the Whitest Priest.  Along with his fulsome words & somewhat sweaty attitude (or sweaty worlds & somewhat fulsome attitude), this greeting thing (see he kiss he ring!) looked smoothed out‑‑definite airbrush here‑‑except for a vast number of little tendril things which had a certain inherent ugliness, spite d'artist's efforts to cutesifyyem, as forezample wiph‑pinkish furtufts long the upper‑outer ridge‑‑some few still snow‑yspukt‑‑little yellow smiley faces rotating in barberpole fashion up the thick elements of the root, lots of extremely warm (107o Q) vibes, & A Feminine Goodhumored Selfeffacing Waviness (I like Self‑Effacing Waviness, & my mother liked it, as did the long line into that purple pool of past turning into very tiny versions of my mom & my mom's mom, et cetera, tiny little smiley faces edging into airbrush of ghostly space, only pale, not yellow, very bloodlets pale, not yellow at all at all) effacing self‑‑but it just doen't warsch.  It don't scan.  It goddam doesn't work.

(You can tell these are mechanisms planted in this cheesy heaven, this lousy heaven, to pretend & act like they have memories of Qert.)

So the powerful botic waste no time in hiding & hurting to hell these friendly wimp.  He bust shim‑self right through the party vector SHWOOM!‑‑something which I & my mothers always do‑‑& burns the outstretched hand of the fantasy creature.

Yes, he burns the outstretched hand of the fantasy creature.

& of course he fuck sup.  I mean, this seemingly heroic action be orather come via the TRAP O CIRCUMSTANCE‑‑Eine Ficht‑Auf, if I mean it right & if memory serves & if I'm not too unmistaken & if you catch my visiondrift visionrift visionift ionif & if you quite care.  For of course the creatures made to inhabit this heaven are utterly & completely sincaire.  O they really feel this love for Qinz, and, suspiciously, even, more, love, for Qert.  To the partieres, their best pals, their buddys. they guys who'responsible for virtu all y they tall good times, have final ycomeback‑‑only to burn their hands as they reach‑‑quite lovingly‑‑for thim.

Do you see what someone is doing?  Do you see?  Qinz, always struggling for his gun, doesn't...but Qert sees.  & I see as I right it & my mother's overseeing see.  It isn't so much a matter of trapping a master of stors in a stranges stor, known for technical reasons as a False Heaven, titular obligations here.  You might could do that; prob'ly not.  But you can hurt himn 'gain & a'ain, as his very necessitated, inimibotical efforts to escape these heavens caus some bonedeep hurts, some bone deep hurts, to image right into the ik=mage (that word) files of Qert (that name), just as surely as that endless line of mothers mothers (that hurt) hurt me that mothers morthers hurt.  For reasons which remain but painfully obscure but which I entruxt'll come up hideously clear‑in‑time, clearintime, clear, the builder of these various soft, translucent traps, these manifestia, is in actuality causing soft little emotive traps to be formed inside Qert‑‑inside him, see‑‑not in spite of the foolish heavens but becausedem.  See.  As for Qinz, he's just along for the kills within the stors that Qert escaping toos, unless he's causing it all.

So you can see our heroes swinging out haha "safely" into intraspace, but every sensor they's got focused on the faces of those longlost friends, said faces of those longlost friends, looking hurt in their ugliness, & frozen, having lost their accounts & pattrims of moomeant & their hearts that‑‑so far as the plan of this universe contrains‑‑halfbreat forever for this cruel turn, beating unto a perfect hysteric tenderness for this return, mostly Qert's return, your re turn, Qert'sre turn, your goddam return.

"Well done, Wert," says that parody voice from the ik=mage phials that always calls hum iliate Wert.  "You've killed them all now, haven't you?  You really know how to hurt, now don't you?"  Whereupon Qert know who's putting him through all this.
"Knock it off," he says, casually, attempting a grin which, unlike the average human grin the aver‑age hu‑man gri‑in echoes lost in lost in deeper layers of emptiness that sp ce  pa e s  ce s ace spa e.  "I know what you're up to, Qinz.  Come on  out of there & stop with the cutting tock tick tock & stop with the frying solarflares & stop with the words of madness & the words, madness, & the word's madness & the words Qert‑Qert‑Qert."

But, despite this harangue (which makes perfect sense to a botic‑‑you just have to be there) abot‑‑where, our friend the boticware get no sense of his self.  He go mad for a time & dont no y.

So.  The hurt of his friends keep him company.  Al of courses the hurts of his true friend, his murdering friend, the One Absent Friend & the ache of the one absent friend who is burning insides.  O, it's Qinz all right‑‑even mad Qert‑‑who be considerable mad‑‑probly know that.  Hard to say with the beautiful static attracting star after star creatures of star of their elemental tiers of hur who merge with the opalescent pixels hee of the static Qert's & become the particles wild creatures of a mind.  These things can happen long‑the‑line.  I've opened, I mean seen them happen (MOMMA'S BOY) & have died, along‑with‑them, have died.  I have, certainly.

But what poor victim Qert couldn't Qert couldn't see see was that even his friend couldn't be there.  This is a much higher form of murder we have going here: Qinz can't be there for it.  & of course, with our vast made‑up knowledge of botics, their behavior, physiolohshagee, & ppsychologagajee, we knew that Qinz could never vabsented himself from Qert‑‑not for the hurt, not for the murder, not for a long long times.

So you figure as the passage end: who's doing it.  Not our Qinz hint, but some thing much lar gr than he.  Some hand behind the muscles works the faces that destroy.

After the party, Qert got sick.  He staggered into the deep blue starry air, knowing it all was all was false, & bump tizzy as pea stew against the tlunk of that tlee you crutched once in agony, the white bark spreading to your hands, moles vomiting into knowholes, craters, unholy moons.

"Sometimes that happens," the smiling host points out, & his smile is because, not despite, Qert's misery.

This is Qinz, of course.  Having shot his best friend‑‑with, as we some‑see, illegial godlior helelp‑‑he pulls on that lean, fineprint skin ticket dispensation from the Self Repository (not to be mistaken, as it unfortunately often is, for the Welf Suppository, a dark worldin deead) at cutrate throtes, & picks up a rubber martinin (think of that: a rubber martini!) & leans back to laurfinjoi Qert's sick madness.

"He is sick from to many stors," opines a customer.

The host turns RED & burns UP.  The FLAME in the form of QINZ beats the SKIN off of his FACE OFF OF.

"Goat‑drob!  Pig‑gop!  Smake!" he blathers at the red & latheirng face this is violent, "Don't you EVER talk like that AGAIN!"  Dead, the guest is forewarned.  Christ is the dead guest, forewarned.  The Dead Guest Forewarned riseth & maketh of hymselfe an integral parte of the yarn, anintegral partada yarn, antegrl pardayarn, angparyrn, ngprn, ng.

After many such epiphanies‑‑flowing I might say lush as the prescient dew on the flowing dawn‑‑epiphs violent & dreary, grey yes & multinode, they look roun n see Qert is gone.

"Gone!" cryeth the Dead Guest Forewardned, & gets his ears ripped off by a madly‑chewing Qinzly‑chewing Mad Chewingly‑Qinzly Choo (health).

We CLOSE IN on the SNEERING FACE of QINZ {this face oughtsa be livid, Bob} with a knopwitall manner.  He sip his DRINK & SPITZIT, wipeshis MOUPH‑‑like a cowboy & SCOWL scowl scowl scowl down to his bowel.

"I'll git im," he DRAWL (bawl).  "Varmint's snuck off to his zbox."

"Zbox?" squeak the Meek One, the Un Invited One, that good Dr. D.G. Forewormed (funny name agains), & this time Qinz jus apull zback his HAT & pats what's left little off his cheek as the pieces of cheek fall grown.

"Zbox he go to when he sick," he says, copulatives dropin lak flahs.

When he got this sick, Qert Thobject would crawl into a rawl into a series of cardboard zbox‑‑one within the other, some of them warehouse‑sized & with whole neighborhoods of house‑sized zbox inside, & those with truck‑sized zbox‑‑often side by side in unkempt rows‑‑& onward & darkward, too, until he could hide his aches & cower.  Boy, it got pretty dark & board‑smelling in those zbox, but this particular universe had zbox everywhere.  It was just a motif of the universe, but it fit in with their regarding Qert as an object.  He was very sick & very upset at this, & he was sensitized all the more by having just  been to a party where he thought they gerarded him as gog & before that to a place where they regarded him as a white sensibility, a goglike rekorger, in the confessional.

Now this place, Doubtless another false heaven.  He did not know what these were, but the instant he rived he saw nothing but looks of displeasure, which seemed to be the highest good round here.  There was going to be no coddling in this stor!  Some‑ow they gave him edges & corners to make him look more "objective" & angular, & Qert almost immediately fell into disfavor by liking the new disguise.  He was still being sensitive & omniscient, you see, & so his intensely aesthetic reponse at the way the synthetic lights bounced off his new corners created rustling ripples of dire dispruval through the zboxilly corridors of the zbox cities, zbox states, zbox countries, & zbox continents of Zbox.  It was a dry & hicky sort of embarrassment, & it swept back & made Qert feel sick.  His face fell.  Things went swiftly beyond dispruval then, & this was no joke.

It oqqertd to him this might be some party game involving boat‑shaped paper hats in flame, but that sounded like Qinz's childhood, so‑‑secretly working swiftly & dangerouxly deeep inside him‑‑selfqert discqerted that poggibilidy, nice flip into the chequertd hat, ha!, & also furthermoresomore, if this was a place to be sick, it was awful private, I mean awful public, ++unPRIV, see, & it resembled in some slight, small, inconsequential‑to‑any‑but‑thy‑train‑ed‑I way the hospital.  Only made out of paper.  Small‑dimensioned.  Like a cartoon, singed round the edges.

(See how Qert suppress that thought that tht tha  !)

See.   & these creatures (angry doctors? miffed & ruffused guests? icons of the Qinz juvinilium? Huh?) accused him of faking both his sickness & his upset.  Illogically, they wanted to punish him for showing these signs of life.  Now he was most sick & he didn't want to talk to anybody.  So he san kinto the Fog Room, which is like a steamrune only dark & chilly.  Seems you can get away that way.  That's the getaways work‑‑like all the rules, they hang invisle imfladead space to be sensed when you like walked through em.

Makes sense to me, Qert thought.

In this Fog Room, Private Qert found series of zbox.  ++PRIV!

Now keep in mindee couldn't help himself.  He was uh ik=maged for certain things.  He was not a person; he was not a characters in some fantasy; he was a botic, damn it, & a botic deals in universes, damn it.  It's a botic's damnitjob damnit to explore & gather information, all right?  A botic needs to look into things, OK?  & you know if you've been paying attention & not just falling into the text from diffrential heights that Qert was speshlin this regard, oright?

So he start ripping zbox after zbox open.  Sounds stupid.  Qert here enters False Heaven Enter Three I'm Told, & is by now clearly subject all sorts to punishment.  & what to do‑e‑do?  He rip upfen zbox after zbox in the Fog Room, releasin dese diffrent fogcolors zvog, many a zboxfgog, much musch ffogg rerereleasssht with a goofy hish, or a goofy zisch, I forget whish wam.  I have already exo‑planed why.

But he could also tell these were bum univerts, fermented stors.  These were expediments, & in truth (thought Qert Bottotic could never tell this truth nor tell you this nor truth untruth) they were not yet what you could class as "by any nature 'stors.'"  They were just fantasies in zbox, OK?  They had not yet been stretched, OK?

But foolitsch Qert didn't notice, & he just kept (compulsively) ripping into zbox after zbox after zbox.  He found many dumb conceptions here‑‑many a universe that would never get to stretch its dimensional wings into the multiversal‑megatersa; yings.

There were mirrorverx, for xample, in which you could go mad reversing your every thought unto subinterconscial mab.  No good.  Qert's nose alone snufe daroundere, & quickly ylkciuq disappeared deraeppasid into otni that taht confusing gnisufnoc worldadilrew drow.

The rest of the story recurs without his having a nose.  But look at this it way yaw: That nose has a universe all its own & that not a Universe of Solitude, noror.  There would be Infinite Time‑Lag Intreversal Nobes‑‑& this is why this particular stor had the red stamp JECT edre‑philed.

Other universes seemed sketchy n' unfinish ed.  Some consisted of endless straight lines in the form of Galactic Pick‑Up Stix.  "You mean that's it?" quertied Qurp, unable to berlieve, & the airbubbly rais‑ed brows that he rais edinto the plane of the soft meniscus covring this place Becama A Part of This Unfinished Unstrutch Eduniverts, & so they move, raising & lowering, lising & lowering, guising n' glowering, at all the sticks (which had a lovely color effect, whereby they shifted through their own special‑made spectrums sppcll‑mmdd spxxtms endless‑slowily, a marvelous effect, clearly the ether the whole aesthetique of this plaeque, & you quaeould saeae the andless skoo‑receding of the lines, to, & that was as nice as parentheses that neve)r have to nd.

So the remainder of this story concurs without eyebrows, see below.

Below: Qert pokend around wildilly, possibly looking for some clew as to why Qinz always beat him.  Nor did he show seemly restraint nor comely uppance ner basal commong stence neitheror, but rather tore each zbox apart with powerful & heretofrore Unrealized bottotic‑"hands" that made mincemeat of the packaging‑‑appropriately exquisiqe in a giglike ray surrounded by auras n' godlike rays AURAS N‑GODLITHWAYS.

& came Qert thereon thereupnn a universe o vwales, which he didn't recognize, diaphanous starbright nebulosia whales (Whalus Nebulosa whales wrales wails rales rraylz), & "Wwoww!" h breatht contini story wthou brth.

Also did he gape his mouf at one small blaxk neat little zbox which was an attempted storzbok o snell, black sleepness & snells onxixted it of, snells carrying you down them ol' snellor‑ridors towurd nnthngnss.  But poor Qert had doe dose, & he frowned, & muxt thxfrx contnue the strry without frowns.

On on they went, until the intelligent wreater realithe that this Fog Room here za trap.  KIDS‑‑ALERT QERT TO THE TRAP!  QUICK‑QUICK!  A TRAP!  It's made to whittle down interlopers down to whittlesize to down...

So a much lesser Qert finally come pon the title of this section in the title phial‑‑after going through the univertsorstor olines & the universe of subtle rays & the universe of gods, which is interesting, & the universe of uniteresting eniverts which is disgusting, & the universe of titles & the universal minds & the universe of yings & yans & the universe of eyefried yeggs & the universe of sighs & the universe of beaten child's blighted lives & the universe of cries, all the while & in each instance losing some of Qert, becoming as it were debotticize sighs ighs ize Iyes...

Just think: he might've made any of them, or all, & lost all any ever in a swea of deems...

He comethen to what he war looking four: a box of food.  Not a zbox, nothing fancy‑‑just one of those plainwhite papery boits that carry the grease out to you, forming grease‑faces of the sides of the white walls he is rooming in.  Qert is on the lam, taking one of his retreats, too frequent these days, to let his lang cool off, the neologues sift to the settle of the bed, the subtle bed he wake up sweating too.  & he hear he sea resortside shee.  This salt air make you sweat, but at least he can reach his mother, say, or someotherthing moonelz‑‑to go for that box of food.  He of course uses both arms‑‑both arms go black in this procets‑‑& Thank Heaven I am dealing with Plain Boxes now! no sooner he thinks than...

& you have to understand what happens next as invololving not the inherent weaknesses programmed unto the very yessences of bots‑like‑I‑said‑before‑O no.  Not this time.  This time you have to understand that what happens, what goes wrong, what miscurs, is entirely Qert's personal fault.  OK?  OK? I mean, I want you to read what Qert is about too‑done in the nexnexnex paragraph as Qert's Personal Sin.  This is a moral wrong we are bout to requr.  This is not botic in nature, but have to do with Qert & his evil "ik=mage" philes: n his Evil Prehensity for Words enhis Disgusting Fantastic Selfendulgents nis Foolish Wise & Wrays

and is in no wise a product of, say, fantasy‑stress nor repetitious deaths nor recidivistic breaths nor the whittledown factor which has, per your Fog Room As Trap, occurd OK? occurrd.  In no wise, & no exchapped rays from some of the more raylike zbox (universes) neither, K?


These were nice rooms, by the way‑‑streets, dust‑‑& no gods.  It wasn't home‑‑& he liked that in a home.  Qert scratched his head looked around.  He smelled coffee brewing.  He stamped his head.  He found the coffeepot steaming thereaway‑‑& those exactsame gods weren't there also thereaway orwell.

& more zbox.  Empty zbox.  These must be where the unstablors orkept, Qert thought, or else the thoughts of the universes, like I am thinking.  Sort of like ik=mage phials for univerts.  Or guess.

He knew he'd staggered into one remotest region as of Regions Quite Remote when he, botic‑style, peeped justly in & saw these zbox were as empty as could be‑‑they had nothing‑‑not even vacuums‑‑inside.  No light, no color, no feeling.  Like nor.  Qert stuck his arm in & pulled back an empty arm, an empty joke dreaming of an arm, & he howled, & the howl went into the zbox creating The Univerx of Zbox, which we will "see" "later."

Gee, he thinks.  I am a real universe maker, but he's not.

"Gods?  Qinz‑o?  Hello?  Are we in the box?  Hell‑O?"

Nothing.  Then Qert found a storroom of zbox with labels.  They all said in that fine light prate‑blue tracery as of inks of aldyolde, TASTE OF



He still smelt the coffee brewing, & he still smelled mint & meant minp, but he heard giant footsteps coming & he tore into the top bluermost zbox and

It was a zbox of food!  Qert here enter a Universe of Food!

Taffy air.  Breadsmolling ether.  Huge crandly culustres.  Galaxies sweet.  Strawberrytopping planetoids.  Asterinds. Pale green sheets of synthchu.  Howling dragoms of tang.  A vacuum of hunger everywhere.

"Well, he wont last there!" a god said but he did.

"You forget this is no Ordinary Botic," says another god musch stweeter.
Yea, & then we have to go after him, they thought & no sooner was it than it was & Qert enter naked to deuniversal food.

Wellsir, Qert loxcantrol.

Qert as it were immolatimimself.  Denying his essence, his existence, he lost track of moral duty & right.  He panicked, in a repressed, dreamlike arche‑Frungean jubconscious way.  Typially, he fell in.  He sighed, pretended to faint to feint toofaynt & fell right ing.  He later said as he later said he heard "godsteps in the halls" about to folgin to the wrum & cratch him.  But recall this was a lie.  A lie.

For Qert Bottotic, professional botic & maker of universe by Method Martyr One, JUST HAD TO PORK OUT, ok?ay?

He look up from his eating, pieces of chicken everywhere, pork & beans dripping from his big beautiful gurlisque chops.  He checkis berrings‑‑he was near a certain outer stor whose data Qinz had stored megayur zago.  He checked the number much as you would check your watch if you would but & found himself near it‑‑Stor #6389279‑‑all right, but like all stors other than those pesky Falts Heavens this was Qinz's stor‑‑it was made for Qinz, like those big glove houses they stretch oryou night & days, & so where was Qinz?

"Psst!  Qert!  Over here!" Qinz hissed through the brilliantine floss that Qert heard through.  Even in this situation‑‑when they might you know presumably stop killing each other & work together‑‑Qinz's voice added a spin to Qert's name when he said it, such that (& this can happen Intraverse) Qert's name when spinjling off sidewise worrapping a ribbony qurl off into unknown trejions of Int raspace versa ace ers ah.

Qert slipped his drive to SENTIENCE‑‑at which setting of course he could only go slowly‑‑& toddled toward Qinz, who was hiding off the lower left edge of the stor at Qertreading 795/331/057.

Here hilariourious Qinz form his mouth into grotesqueness of the words NO GODS & tiptooph froward.  "Why'd you leave the party, mann?" qerinzt.  Finely he whined.

"'Stop whining,'" was what the machines finally said Qert said, so full was his mouf wifoods.

"Yea well," says Qinz, with the arch, inevitable awkwords Is All Forgiven Then?  of the fastest friend who killed you countless times, "erfood looks good."

Merciful, loving, scarfing Qert the Scar Fing Qert makes the universal "high" sign to eat‑‑go ahead.

"I believe I will," said faithful Qinz.  His clothes didn't even show a guin, but that's not necessary.  & so, unhesitant, they ate, as the poet sate,

Into God realms adore.

       god realms adore O Mortal!

   adore o mortal  these luminous superbotic

realms      these realms  adore oomurt l these a             aa

aa            aaaa  aaaaa    aaaaaaaaaaaa!


The cartoonist slides into her sooccular room.  She slides because‑‑except for her smile‑‑sheezalmost as two‑dimensional as them.  Her smile sticks out & sidles & sways sexily in the third dimension, quite freely, as he callypygous hips sashay in their du dimensions.  It makes very sexy, but it's hard to slit through the door.  You can't be sexy when you're slitting through a door.  But shehahaha smiles, anyway.

The room isn't really circular, either.  It's formed from a sheets of paper with itsedges joined to itsedges.

On the walls are May's Formidable Arrays of ormidablays cutting tools.  Cutting tools May Beam calls them, or to put it another way, May Beam calls them cutting tools or to put it another way, but they're like giant cartoonist's pens or spears, with tips of many types, molecularthin & globular fat & eyebrow rounded & handpat flat, along with a good deal of special patterns & tips made of special materials that one is tempted to describe as Mere Ornamentation

albeit Ornamentation albeit of a Singularly Albeit Type, I mean a Notably Perverse Type, as if (heh he heh) sheha drew & sheha draws in sheha drew some very kinky comix in her spare time when time tins off the walls of her circular room & whoa zoff into itsthin dimensions while sheha sleeps (inside her thought balloon: see) with her smile following the wind & benefiting infinitely from its show, pleasuring ifinitely in it show.

With these here pens draws May her arraze of §pecial  haracters draw her away such as Hanpat Flats & his successful sidequip Kak & the grapey Tow Oomemgulak & the shades‑of‑red Ryal Family‑‑consisting of father Ced & mother Rehrentu & the children Dend & Buonini & Sitchow & Qinqy & Qinkbibi & Qinnie & Yee‑yeeyee & Ninfin & Enedfipt & the Wegd Twegns & the dark, one‑dimensional Dosh & Aefobeit & Rotter & Skeu.  And, of course, Qert Bottotic.

She sits down & pulls off the wall one of her most mighty‑looking pens.  Look like you could slit Champion up a treat with this one; could carve deeper S's in Superman's pecs; could skewer Krull like a kumquat, splay Tuniufollkifinho in a rukking trice or thrice or fice arphyce sothere.

& she's just gonna focus it all on Qert, uhuh?  Looks like Qert is in for it now.  "Fucking botic," May B. hisses, still smiling but with a mixed effect as of someone who flaShehas a smile for one instant then resumes his dour dopnalidy, you see, & sheha probes n pokes & thrusts that goodum pen right inintoto the page & gets to sorta messing with Qert's guts, see, & the smile closeth to a grin in which a tongue hangs partially out, an ik=mage we have seen before, an ik=mage verily seem be four, an ik=mage warily Shehaen ye froran ik=magerely zeeny kor or r...

"Whhee‑oo!  Whee‑oo‑oo!" Qert feels her probing round in his guts, which feels very sexy to Qert.  Botc's're strang thatawhey.  It's like they're "suffused" (that's it: "'suffused'"!) in a Field of Something Like Sex, but ah without outlet, if I may be so cocksuckingly indelicate, unless you call the stretching out of these straing little worlds called Stors Sufficiently Sexual.

But there are no genitals in that!!!

Nor are there in this pen, but somehow the contact of this aforementioned KinkyLooping Pen™ pen through the Cartoon Meniscus into Qertie's guks here sceems to scause somewhat of a physical groundeng, rather an electrical DISCHARGE, if you get mah drift, fairly much a ZAP of pleasure, it would seem, for Qert aloadid wid foodsen tirely drifts, not only out of the conversation with Qinz

who, inci‑dentally & for The Incidental Record, 5‑13, is required to DEANIMATE whenaire aenyone stops stops looking at him, & so in the frozen froodfame that Qert, soon's parenthesis close, deserts is left lone Qinz with mouth open‑‑at a ragged twerg too, & a ragged twerg too‑‑& finer drawn upwards, all filled in n colored in n full of the awesome joylike‑anathlete that Qinz's full of now

but out of the frame as well & as promised as well as and‑promised well swell ell ell ell...

Well.  It was all a cartoon.  Well well.  Qert's off dancing in his own sexy dimension whilst everything stops right here *.  But I want you to know Qert recognize ths.  Ms. Bim's ds.rie here.  Hey‑‑he knows she's trynacontrolim!!!  He understand like even in the migst offiz egshtashee in Ly Miftf Infoluntry.  He does, really.  It's not involuntary.  Just a powerful discharge, murdering, I mean blurdering, on the deep pain you hear coursing against the flexif flexif walls from the adventure next door, Adventure of Torture, next door, whew.

Lotta gross cryings here.  But Qert's mage‑ik=memorie stell him she's only‑‑or let's be fair & say mainly; she's doing it mainly‑‑to get this botic back under control.

& it works.  *  She sleeps with a smile in her pen in her flat flotational bed, full of  l o o s e  r h y t h m s  l i m i t l e s s  i n  s o f t  c o m p l e x i t y, whilsqert goes back to work spoking to Qinz in his sleepless frame.  Qinz tried to be mad & not continue talking, but the score is scored & the music play, no matter how much hate it sway.  One simply must talk when these fucking bloons suck it out of it.

(But all the swile, as we were wont toshay, Qert at least remember.  He at least note what's going on, & the inward self‑styled Qert nods knowingly at us, hey.)

Qert wanted to know this woman so intimately he stopped work.  He stopped making his stors & gedding kill tedby Qinz.  Everyone was glad but Qinz, & there is no other.  Anyway, Qert start hiding in her closet, so as to watch her sleep, eat, wake, piss, sleep, dream, wake, walk, & so on.

The worm abased abased himself, lying under tender cloths which as we know were not clothes at all but the very skins this creature wore.  Fool that he was, falling in love with his own technicians, Qert did not realize this fact, not even as he huddled lower & lower‑‑almost growing into the goddamned rug, so lo wa hee‑‑& pressed what he thought were underpants‑‑"panties," to use the technical term‑‑to what he thought were nose, but which were in fact actual crotches, some of them well‑used.  Qert was literally wallowing & reveling in the very fuff he warso enamor-dove, but his mind was cloudy from too much death & he didn't at all realize allat.

He even somehow managed to hide his realization when this greyish, grainy bone‑figurine groaned een its way to the closeteem & begeem ruffuleeng through the skeens, riffle eeng the selves, flipping the eerily thin pages of the pages of her selves, preparing her moirining quoiffure.

Qert had trouble.  Qert had stuff.  Qert's stuff wouldn't stay repressed.  He got to burping‑‑first one or two strays, somewhat easily suppressed, then large, dour ones with Scottish rhythms, his identity preserved only by their dull repetitiveness.  Then real belches, long & longer, which began in their crescendo to foreground themselves.  They turned dark & hard, & Qert's consternation redoubled as he started to hiccup, then to doublefart redoublefart so that the interactions & intertwining of these wavefronts created not just cacophony but astounding shapes unlike anything that might not be unreproduced in that cartoonist's closet, filed as it was with the skins & the animals, who were hooting now & shouting at the shapes.  Not to mention the planets.

That's not the point.  That was not mentioned before.  Cancel animals.  Cancel plants.

Yea, he'd Certainly Humiliated Himself this time‑‑nor was this one of those stors where all the rules get suspended just at the moment of the maximum slightly‑white pain known as death.  Nossirree.  Horseshit, say I.  This was acutls; this was real; an acutla semicolon period real.

Certainly les belschés were real, & they became finally like the braying of many an actual ass, & his nose was also running (did I mention to say?), so he engaged in multifarious sniffings, sniffings, combined‑sniff even‑sniff more‑niff ultimately, iff!, withiff a seriesf of sharpf sneezesff ofiff the‑niff CHOW! sniff variety, snif, subspeciessni KJOU!, andsn alsos wassn hith‑thni thtomachthnif rumblingsniff & his veins to pulsatinghic, his kneescup to creahicingcup & his jointhic cupto complainihicgcup in distinchictly individual (& loud) voicupes voiceshic voicecups voices, & all his shudCHOO!dering was plainCHOOly visibleAH CHOObe!neath the damp masshic of crotchsniffes on the AHfloorCHOOsniuffhiccup, no matter how far down he hununkerered, aand hee wawas sso upupseset hhe gogot too weweepiping, sweeweet tetearrs, aand ththe tetearars (as they tend to doo) swepept awawayy thhe ununclcleaeann ststufuff, & the cartoonishict zippchooed upcup hersni crotffch CHOO! & swewewpt thethe clcloththeses asasasiasiidide...and found a small defenseless animal weeping chooto hide.


So she took him in.  She pet him & guv him bowlsa cream, mm, & she groomed & bepolished him, gave him many a gratifying name‑‑"Tim" being chiefly the‑‑also many a "costume" or "pelt," if you "well," festooning Tim him with the wild sort of thornless roses she drew so constantly between endlessly hiccuping endless obseuqueously grateful, rosy pet.  Also did she call him bub.

A lesson here for those who would drop eaves.

"Qert Bottotic went directly from innocence to degra‑dence," announces Qert's officious viograpper, Sir Sigue Sigue Sovrique.  "When he became that soi‑disant 'cartoonist's' paltry pet, he became a heavy liquid made out of pure nuclear material, so low was he."

Yeswell, what did he do that revealed him as So Low?

"Better you should ask, 'What did he not do?'"

OK‑‑what did he notdo to make him seem in your expert expert eyen as SO LOW?  "Good question."


"But I resume.  That May Beam lady really ladyt all out.  She really spread it on him.  Son Qert the Fert, or Perp‑‑whom she called Quup when notcalling Tim or Bub after amany another old pet‑‑pets in a long sincesequence, Truth B. Nome, & helixed like a haploid deeinyay‑‑was all bebuttred oer with degrading oils (see OILS, DEGRADING oils, D.) grading oilsdy, grrr!, aid in oils, syrops, undulant‑aromic unguents & soothing chemicals.

His pelt became as amber lucent down; eachinevery fine hair lay like spungy weave‑o perfrectestest goald; his cool nose glinted with a perfect pupil‑percant dottle of wh!te l!ght

when he panted the air of the room he panted, pulsed like a tamborine, or that anvil‑in‑stirrups you have hammering in your brain

low he crawled phwew & obsequiluschissly crept, his ground‑swillin belly arub on the carpetdown

grinned he in unctuous mode, & queer driblepts o grease (see OILDY) flowed refined to xanthic rud in in in the scaldown medieval Castle of the Dog Castle of the Dog where he kept.
Kept his peace like unto zombie till she came round, & then‑‑when this woman comes around‑‑sclunk‑ed down the dyke, I mean the moat, I mean the alligator‑bridge wherein stum‑bumbledee acrost.  Aye.

"Stumblumblee acrox & slavering (see SLAVERING) unto her, & pacing & beprancinghe arounder, & yipping warhey, & quick‑scouring paws arampt scritch harmless they up like thighher, & his tiny assh.le showed, snrk, & merry was she, this merrye Dame, this opulescent I said that Mystrexx, this pigkeping pigamager she, this sirserest, this car‑hah‑tunist ay."

Qert spyograpper have reduce himself to shambles on the floor.  Seem everyuns doth that inhere.  He looks like a blueface sodden in sighs, & he gasp his confexium thuts:

"I don't really know Qert at all!  I just imagined it!"  Looks at us with bloated puppy's eyes.  "I‑I've never even seen him."  Grapth mapels.  "THEY WON'T EVEN LET ME SEE PICTURES OF HIM!  NOT EVEN PICTURES, FOR GOD DAMNED SAKE!"  & he bawls like a flungbaby, like a fowldawn drunk.  Lots of good heaves, some puke, vomit, spittle, some cookies, glass of milk, glass, then, wiping his foam & asquintin zer foxylyce.

"But I I I I speak whereof I know, you ant.  I mean I  know what it must of been like, to be so treated.  It must of made up for the absence he felt in his trixky stors, thabsents that couldn't be wellawell kilt by the prescents of his qilling friend, RIGHT THERE!  RIGHT INSIDE OF HIM!  Naw.  Naw.  It mustabem.  Na...

"A‑a-a-and he was locked, his love so low it just added to his shame, which for the poor mupp Tim Bub Fert Pert & Pup lacquered his poor ersatz glory see.  He had fallnin, you see.  Qert falldin the glory hole heehee."

After that we shake imoph, aa & our heels go buck‑buck‑buck female fashion long the paverain.

Well, Qert's time as a pet had a deep influenz anim.  It welled up in his secret artistic springs & burst gutsy out of his bloodily bellily.

Consider those yeors, of drooped pleasure & nettled shame.  Qert got to sit on her lap, licking & licking till his paws came of & she had to sketch like another one, innumerable times.  He got to press his paws against those falsely‑ample thighs, got to be dottled like wax from a candle onto her breasts (shedodat).

& he got to spend idle time‑‑during which the quartz hurs exist in little slits, crescent trimmings like a falling of finigernail, & Qert‑‑oft alone, if truth nevrever benome‑‑could spend that whole sliver of a sundrunched hur sliding on his tumma cross the waxy counters, drawing glaze, phosphoplanes observing like so the slow advance of brushes, monumental as redwoods, pricking a pad ricking a rad slicking a slad against the pintip ultrapip of a pen‑pen‑pen, smelling foamed the (see THE, FOAMED) chemicals, emolumints, mixers, bases, thinners, & blowsuers.

He gots to consider the dense, corky matters of moon yplants as he slept on his nose in the thickets she would draw & just for him (for she would draw these thickets every day (thickets drawn deep in the morning (sketched denser thickets (& then thickerets colour din) thicker densed sketches) drawn in the morning‑deep thickets) in the thickets day lyshe drew.

& most of all he gots to watch this May Beam work.  Twas she, you see, who filled the lucent details of the stors‑‑any stors, everybody's stors, even the greater autostors

but not, as implied, the fucking lesser goddam bleeting stors‑‑so you can forget that right away, quickly as the stroke of your brain gone out for light in the thick of night (night thickens (thickent the drear purplush light (she sworled so as to thicken the night (thicken therefore sweet) night‑thickend sworls) drear‑pure plush edlight) thickesh purple pure), if you get what I mean.

with Requisite Detail which Qert requisition on the paiselypink furfection of Form 39.56:REQ, & she was durned good at that.  I mean, she made it sem Simple.  She'd draw details & narrowem down & use the drawn‑down details & molecules ovink, would therewhiph drarw morer detrails, then repeat the selfswame projexx drivenin thix o parentheses above..and you canmagine how dense it got to be.

So Qert's stors, after that, had a lotta new stuff to boast, not to say bamboozle Qinz ywhipph.  They had for example plants.  Yes, several of the truly er monuomential mentalomon stors of the Latter Qert had nothing but sappy, sniffy Phorex Ample Plambs of the genus plampus forexemplepus of the family exemplumus of the order lampus of the class Plamberampulouf of the phylum Plamb.  These were her plants, see, drawn out in loving bouquets to form the sort of love he got from her.  & that is all he got.

Which I mean to saypip, that this Endless Pet Business ended when the cartoonish drew him out.  She did that.  She does.  She just like drew him out, bored & heartbroken he, so he scuggled back like a pup to his interstoric "mansion in the clouds," I think you calldit, whereupin the next thing you know come the powers that be, waving the bloody contract in his screaming hand (he reacts, see, to the blood word

or bloody word‑‑part of the contract; he canna help that) andun/

or choiring what‑ups he'd been uptoo...All that time...Alladose urs they'd counted backup there becompt.  They'd allhurs those time‑that‑all, you see, like as if he'd been possibly o "goofin garound" & not fulfilling contractual storic refureeze, I mean meanerees: yea, they went & wanted they yea‑to‑check, which they did to do, in with entire crew & filed & filed this (endless) flolloling report this endless (port):

Report on Qert Bottotic's Refusal to Cooperate with God: We rolled into his interstoric village with his interstoric mansion of some hardwhite creamy sort of substance & found upon entering his famous foyer of caves, that he had as usual redecorate again.  He'd been his usual, erratic self, in contradistinction to his oozueel paratid chelf or his view zhoo owl piradic pel nor hiss gruesewel narravic smelph more hiff foolzeeole myraddict delff, & gone & got smitted or bippen with another idea, & como siempre didn't use it in his stors.

("Gotta test it out first," he like to fey.)  Yea well, Qert sin smoging jagget out of floralshept smope‑‑which is a Designated Storic Ftutf not to be used for japes & the liked‑‑suavely & smellowly swelcoming us.  Smoakqueeq jocket undeed!  Pardon our sarchasm ladies & Eightenth‑Cenyurey Genialmim, but it seem zwe can hardly restrain our smirps of Humor at this Upstart Poseurs's soi‑disant Tastes, if you understand, in Gross Affectations somethings rare!

For, up andup overvupall abuplove his fine, kinetic, purled, & kingzyzoft "Joqqet" is this face carbunculourd in rifest dudorian mobe, compleat as we shay withe grey little valleys of wounds moist as with the sweats of illpureflict tears, combined with thesequally poortraits of loudbubbling bloods in posthumouƒ veinƒ & all manner of dialikelect in the pipeswilld garbunctious Aire.

For this be no Good Fellow here.

"You've been taking some rather long vacations, haven't you, Mr. Bot?"

He pullff da pipe fumis mouf.  "Bottotic, pronounced bawd‑DAH‑dick.  Yes I have.  Variations on vagations, I like to deem dem‑‑hm hm hm!  Yes I have.  I have," herein pacing deliberately uphill like, like‑‑O‑‑Hamlert in his conster nadyph culps.  Here followeth one longue sigue‑sigue‑sillilykey, the blankness of which wee are naught pribby two.

Some things get lost.

Some          get l  st.

S  m           g       st.

"So like, are you working?  I mean, have you got like something going here?  Qert?  Huh?"

He jerk his heads birdswryse.

"Hm?  O, yea.  Yesyes, of course.  To be sure."  Advance Q‑Sector Three‑Graph‑Vector‑Three Enhance‑Vance frowaord damaratinkly.  "I‑i‑in fact I've been working on some some number of ideas.  Did I say 'ideas'?  I meant 'new ideas,' of course.  Goddam good.  Can I say 'that'?  Good?  Well then 'goddam good,' 'that.'"  Gleeoff madness here: "Really quite awe some ly, as thathlepes sway go od!"  Dammit gigolse.

"Your shop is dark."

Terror of his eyes!  ZOOMUP INSIDE EYES...

"To be certain.  To be sure.  Yes, yes‑‑it's dark now, isn't it?  Many a murder have beem bedded there, ay?  Ay?  Many the souls trapt.  Countless murders murders, atrocities, murder, victimizations, deafs, all in the back of mine mined."  Indicated Vance‑Q Xector‑Inhamps‑Envance MACKOFF MIMED OK OK.  "Here.  & here, too.  & here & here & here."  Looks at eye & smeyels the kinda smyle of the nexus zixth just before his perfect hands cruxx yer skull.  "I'm not afraid of death.  Jusmurder‑‑just‑‑the darkness won't go back, fellas.  Can you help me (sidle sidle up), huh?  I need some like help, y'know?‑‑some one to push this darkness back.  Just‑‑"  Handpush Ingexercise Numbor Won‑Oh‑Thwee, "someone to push the darkness back...for me..." trail off into mimeres.

"Sure, Mr. Qert.  We'll get that bleeding parasitic slug call eddarkness pull dright back for you.  Yessir.  Just wait."

"WAIT!  BLEEDING?  DID YOU SAY 'BLEEDING'"  So it starts with eating & it ends with bleeding, etc.

"We've achieved an image, sir!" piped the young servitor.  The gods are porking out, as always, possibly inspired by Qert's food stor.  It's hard for them to admit that they are completely & utterly under the sway of this powerful botic, whom they are investigating (hence the appetites)

but whom some other entity redesigned, adding a touch of genius, doubtless from the secret Gold Well of Genius, in the Dales of Overwhell in the District of Knight in the high county County Umplatt in the neverending Regions of Swurr & in the exact storologic fulcrum of the massive Magiplex of Lur, where the livid corowbeams fling from the thickets deep in the parenthetical's night, their bluebim zbounding goff the moons with a great hallollo halloo.  Yea‑‑these gobblin' gogs'd give anything (& I'd mean anything) to have a cup of that ol gold.

So, too hypnotized for comfrot, fraught mesmeric too toplite, they go on eating whilst the servitor get ready to repart.

"How long have we lost him?" waves this chickembome.

"For twenty milluns, m'lud," says the handsome blueswupi dlad.

"Mmurgham," choiks a very large‑cheeked, windy sort of fever‑cloudpough god, swallowing, god, swallowing, god swallowing god.  "How zit we's lossimagain?"

The blue servitor he smiles, then, wagging his head into a thousand curioforms, "During the height of the preceding investigation (that's Investigation 1, m'luds), m'lub, which attainad‑‑ah, how shall ye shay‑‑O, 'too great a resolution,' perhaps," rubbing finefurs together, "too high a heigh of magnifications," stretching up his heads like telescoops again again, as if seeking Qert in Stars Seeking Qert In Stars eating god swallows gogs, "...such that..."

"Such that we lost him, knuckleheads," growled a very good grizzly old mane of as hoary He.  He would pass for the god of your fathers if here there were aught but moms eading gobs idding mubs.  Swaggering on elbows with what look like nothing so much as a boarshead crasp in his grisp.

"I don geddit," says a Very Stupid God.  He is swattlet.

"They lost him.  They turned up the details too high."

"So he got sky‑high?"

"Yes.  Fools amped his voice to the intraverx, sprad his lightweaves to the firmament of fumes.  They bloody botdam fell into details."

Silent & god‑rest paws.  Slowly, munch ing clam berup a gain.

"In any case, one of our, er, smaller I's has achieved a partial image of the botic Qert Bottotic 12735 in the act of shuffling down his dawn his howl."

"Mbrnng," goodon.

"Right.  Well, it's from one of those teeny little crimeras you‑‑we bought cheap & I mean cheap, the ones that've never worked too, um, well, see, & and and..."

His zands intrupted by adelbow in the slid.  "Brrgk!"  Continue.

"Si.  Here it is:"  Here it is:

The gods stop eating.  By the ghodds they do!  Their mouths drip opum in better‑lethy‑leaving‑than‑mangind, spoons ahonerin' in th'air, as the grainlight yes the grainlight fill their unit facely‑as‑desired.

Qert mutter down the hall, kicking small platzes of dust & djuxted ruddle what half cumulpated or the eongs (sometimesome inin circirclecless ofof titimememe).  Scweams of whole races scour upt the limpid liddle of the (impib) light.

Boy, this is a cheap job.  You get more grain than botic here, but you can see to the point that it make you stopop eatatining that Qert is mad.  He's pissed about that bad report they turned in, & one might surmise he is heading to his shop full of hate full of hate, which is the one way an artist alls to shop which he wear heeze goinoing dow.

His faces multiply into the grains of the seedy images & brukoupt.  They busp, sp!‑‑sprangloils soils the goddis' dun.  They can't see any more anymore, faces covered with paers covered with snow or torn snow covered with Qert's euphoric.  Back in the backdrop of the gods, everyone is dancing on their food.

He knew thay was watching him, & he knew he was in dutch‑‑in dutch deepusts to his clotch!

"I've gotta compensate for that love affgair," reasoned Qertre.  "And Qinz's mad at me too.  Gotta let him shoot me through & through.  Hahahaha!  Thas funny‑‑'Godda ledim shoot me through & threw'‑‑HAHAHA!"

Qert laugh like that.  Contempt.  Nothing but dustduxydeutsch con TEMPT uff uff.

"I know what," was what Qer‑ta‑thought to get in good withal again again.  "I'll create me a beautiful, lovely, pastel, lilting sorta vastor‑‑a stor full of the absolute distilled acid of love, a stor electric with love, a psychedelic stor with a Delphic Original Score base don the Jokes o' Jo, a‑and I'll take Virtual Infitime with it {that's V.T. III!  Gee!  ‑‑ed E‑3.}, that's V.T. II I beloove, brackets notwithstanding {brackets nokwhiphspanging?} crafted blackets of fern

How I have always so loved ferns!  blue ferns‑‑blue!‑‑especially ferns with that mad ferns with that blue of mad fern blue known as Doolhamew on that most shimmering of seductive worlds in the Fantasy Sector just outside of V.T. I {Qert is all wrong about this. ‑‑The Brother of ed E‑3}

which when I first encountered them, freshly drupling zas‑i‑wazh from the Frolics of Fantazree, made a most searingly emprehim on me, like one of those shimmer‑seels in the Lake‑Lagos o Lac, that I fairly burst my cheeks with buzzling‑‑like the famed pollemgursts of Uddle 3 {no relation  ‑‑No Relation to edit E‑3 no relation} & so entire‑ly & unseemily bebustled my self about you would have thought I was one of the Amusing Bustle‑Bobs, not of reality, I mean, nor of any fantasy, but of the cartoons of the cartoonish I often hire, contractually, to help me weird the stors, as I like to say.

"Weird the stors, 'Weird the stors, "Weird the stors, 'Weird the stors, "Weird the stors, 'Weird the stors, "Weird the stors, 'Weird the stors, "Weird the stors, 'Weird the stors, "Weird the stors, 'Weird the stors, "Weird the stors, 'Weird the stors, "Weird the stors, 'Weird the stors, "Weird the stors, 'Weird the stors, "Weird the stors, 'Weird the stors, "Weird the stors, 'Weird the stors, how I like to say."'"'"'"'"'"'"'"'"'"'"'"'"'"'"'

"Yes well anyway, I'll have those absolutely lucent‑lush luciositoozitiesof ferns, if I may say, so this pretty stor will burn or fairly brun with blue.

"Yes‑blue!  Blue, I say! Blue‑blue‑the very tooest tublue!  The quintessence of utterly blue, etc.  I'll give the sucker a bluish sun {not dangerous  ‑‑Ed.?} being first sure to get it claired with the powers in command‑‑not the gods (ha! the blue gogs!) mind you mind, but the powers structured into the material of the contract they assure my absent memory that I signed, the contract made from a material not wholly unreminiscent of the base material for stors which is not wholly unreminiscent of foundation matewial for Wingwowld, which is not whowwy unwelated to the ylem, not wholly prepared to ylem‑‑those powers intrinsicate with my own very warp & veriwhoof, beating like driunms in the temple of the Most Feverish Excuse For An Artist I becomes, I become, I become ‑come ‑come.

"So.  & against & in consideration of this powerful backdrop of blue‑‑which will give this projected "stor of love" a swoomy solibity & limpid sulicidy that will make that bastard pulting through, putling through‑‑with due clearance & consideration of the powers, not the gods, of course, but the goddam powrs in the contract of power that Qinz & I must've signed, else we'd simply be in love.

"But this stor, this storell do it, enh?  Am I right?  Enh?  Enh?  Yes it wull, for I'll add onto this canvas if‑you‑will‑of‑blue, this crafted blanket of ferns forming thickets of subconsciously lulling & ensweepating balue‑woowoo, nothing but pastels, poastels, pasta‑postils, poestia‑peshtelves, peshel‑bresthelvus, breaphbleph froshfrelvs, if you will.  It's to be a sweet nocturne of dusky eve pastels, an earlie mouranin of pain‑deniastels, soft colors, nothing harsh, nothing hard, a marsh of qulors, a rosy mist of colors brewed from the bellies of the dollops o night, OK?

"A‑and for reality, in order to get more reality into my brain which is a metaphor for a stor, I'll get that god‑ged May Beam!!! twhelp.  I'll try to get her to be serious though, & try to get her to keep from torturing me, & drawing me up in various TORTUROUS FLUORMIS & making me live out the cartoons of me, the cartoons of me‑in‑the‑torturous‑worms, & get her to stop like etching shit on me, & but use those shapes

those etchy shapes she ziswont to dror on me, & have her put these paisleys & arabesques into the full florid fluidity of this upsest swor, I mean dupshest stor, aa‑and‑u so that (for instance) the air itself flow paisley, & the little imps (four impstants) that will must needs inhabit such a musty land {which is not to say cutesy land, which is not to say "cutesy lamp," which is not to play a small simfonietta of Basphel's which is so utterly utterly fluently arpegiodd that it disappaear like the Seven Lost Pianos of Kryk, croxsing the crick & falling in & dissolvwing in the cr!k  ‑‑uped ER‑I.}"

Well, Qert calmed down & took V.T.‑III & went & created this finest of stors, & then hid in it‑‑which is to say went in to dwell in it (contractually ingspired) & to wait which is to say in love for Qinz...

& wait he did.

& enter contractually Qinz hinsried he ded.

& Qinz note right away he was in love!  He was passionately in love with Qert, & he was gonna find him & plug him with love!  Hot as a teeger, Qinz floudabwout, in his own golden hotenoil lookin' steam‑i‑ly for Qert!

Yer in big trouble now, Qert!  You plyed this place with much too much love!  He's gunnin' for ya in a new way now‑‑hamapamtaqert

The sun of Eden keeps on falling in love.  It falls in love with beautiful 12735, lone inhabitant of this little grove, which current research reveals as a Carefully Disguised Trap, most craftily committed & set up so's to pear as 12735's owne idea, & with a diabolical end‑program that Cause Cert that Qause Qert to roundel back to roundel back to it to it again & and whenever he rise up a notch in his boticquest for gods.

But it's not 12735's idea epines. Evil Sniggering Gods hide behind it.  You might note that, in circling back to this idyllic pwisom he circles to in time to where the sun falls in love with him descending like a Grecian gold enbol, Qert actually does get closer to the gods.  It's just that he can't see em, cowring like little kids with their Inkstamagickes© ready to take some crotch shots of their dad.  He can't see the babyhand that pulls open the curtain to the stor‑‑'cause that's all it is, really: a stor‑‑that he falls into like the big drip that he be hehbee.

& splotters to the ground, to the miniature bank of this miniature stream, whose ends don't even seem cleverly disguised to seem (se=em) cleverly disguised go to go infinity, but look like merest backdrops in the concave of the stor only, O, maybe...lessee, mmm...I dunno, p'raps, ah,‑‑O maybeya, ya, ya‑‑ya...ya; er‑ya, hmph, say TWENTY FEET saway, enh?  Wouldn't you say?  Yea...

& this glob of liqueb forms into the shape of a pastril Lounging Boy About To Die, a Big‑Bund Farm Lad Bending Oer, 'sif the childgods lost track of the Eden imagery, unless this was never their intent & I (yes I)'ve losstrack  of the Eden Imagery which was never what they had in stor edenicalyhyhee.  Hard to say.

Farm Lad with big cuffs on his jeans & the bib of the jeans hooked oer his boyish shoerders I'd like to lick & his blond hair tousled in winds that won't even winds that wonteven winsthat wonteven try to seem genuine, but come warmly from the maw zuv these gusty fans stationed three along the southwestern‑as‑the‑stor‑goes wall the wall.
But the Qid donotice.  It's an inherent part of the end-program that sends him dwivling here that he wont be conscious of such things.  You have such an end‑program, & I'll bet it dictates that you won't be conscious of the same sorts of things.  So just think: as you read there's a big fan clanking, but you donnotice, & the backdrop sops a wall, but you can't see, & death walks giggling behind you with his big pink deathy hand, but you wont know with the poor wall weeping right there.

Sorry about this.  Sorry about that.  Look at Qert with that grass stalk in his mouth.  His mouth outsize‑‑why, that grassstalk muss be at least fifty yards high, Maw!‑‑he chaw zaway, much to the milchomusemeant of the gods.

Always the gods.

At least he gets to relax aboard someone else's stor, & generally Qinz's exhibited from this stor‑‑that is, Qinz cannot as a matter of contraptual coarse come straight here to kill his best friend, though he's allowed to watch.

& Qinz does watch, most portions of his botic mind having been burned like totally away by now, leaving only the vision of Qert & the love for Qert twisted into something resembling some sorta obverse hatred of himself (qinzelf), that is himqinzelf, so he's pretty enraptured by this image of his friend alyin' by datdare streambank alistenin' to the water runnin' down

though the pleasure of that's someawhata takenawray because the water doesn't even try et cetera but seems like some steam‑distilled detcetera lim pidlongo out the little rectaggle cut in the side so the "water" & "flow" out as the "icefloes" "flow" in the chintzy melodrama of a quickie dreamaha) anda chewin' on this MONGOUS piece o straw

"What is that‑‑a tree trunk?" whispsof unauthorized Qinz inheard as whinspers in the wind‑that‑doenteen‑try et cetera

and akickin' his ol' leg in rhythm to the rapturous beguiled & smitten "birds" that try & try chirpcetera.
& like I say before I comvoloupted myself, the sun of this little Eden‑‑or farm or whatever, OK?‑‑keeps fallin' in love with the perfect handsomeness that the kind‑if‑silly gods ha givunto Qertin thisstor, & he keep descending in the fashion of a gold ball & leaving this silly dark socket in the doesn't‑even sky & nestling up to Qert, such that in many appearances we have Qert ewith the sun under his arm, looking pretty godlike here‑‑he'd preciate this if he were conscious, wouldn't he?‑‑kicking & humming some of the finest tunes never mentioned in the stors.

Only this time Qinz win E‑special authorization, & the sun descends full of love & cracks open & "Hiya, Qid," softy loffs this real‑small version of Qinz (that just about gives slow‑reactin' Qert‑Boy a chance to break into his Patented Feckle Grin) as he BLATZis frien daway...But I comVOOLT myself.

When the gold smoke cleared, & when after many an illusory lenium by Qinz betired him of his posture, Dynamigild Contragung, & his big bronze‑flashy gold unggun, Bomnamniumn Coltraysung, he perceived his friend had pulled a fast one.

A "fast one," thought he in style indirect libre.  You can't pull "fast ones" here!  Hm.  I better think this through‑‑might be his stor after all.

& with such careful thoughts, training his poremind to be poured into the molquen golbs that would fluiform his stuff into ample stamps‑o‑him, he stalk police‑style to the large powder‑burred brown box‑‑looks like a tent, maybe, maybe just set up & with that now‑missing kissy lil sun inside (because outside I notice now we have a moon, nothing special, justa willowtousche moon as a brough on you cheeghkaugh!)‑‑predicating THIS ___(might be Qert)___.  He push opeS!  thaDOR!

Qert glode gold enin the center of the room.  He was pint‑sized in this heavenly trap, & his coruscating gorgeousness was meant to make him the icon of this sphere.  You could feel how he was The Center of The Intended Sphere‑‑Intended Sphere‑‑& you could see the engineers grinning yes the engineers grinning as they gawked in wonder at their own creation, unable to think (because an engineer's unable to think:)  God did this, or The gods did this, unable as I say to think that thought think bethink hought hink

and so make themselves disappear‑‑not an "engineering" thing to "do," but you can see how they handle this tension of the Cosmic Engineer pressing his orderly engineery face to the edge of the surmount of the bastion of the glass that ends his universe, beyond which he is not allowed to see (see think above think above think) where his rules become silly putty..and a verry sillilly puttutty tooo I might deadd

but when they chew lotsa gum, green weird gum, which I certainly didn't invent for The Seven False Heavens of Qert & which therefore must've been intrapolated tin from, say, O WHICH I WILL NOT

DESCRIBE, & when they turn their sharp regards in, toward the plastic model of the sphere which is the sphere they created which is the false heaven I have popped out of this digressium hear, they can delight in the perfection of their mode, how the various made‑up two‑bit phumey‑balewmy bull‑shit laws of physics used in this particular spear all combine to force Qert helpless (& as I said above small above small) & goldiloqinz into this center self of same, & the psychologists (in a separate room WHICH I WILL

NOT DESCRIBE) smile with a certain pwump swuginess which is built into my version of the swame, because they have handled the emotive lawrs of the stowr such that, to maintain any degree of sanity, to avoid being torn asunder (asunfer, y'all!) by the forces of his own botic conflicatives, Qert has got to stay right in the center of the stor.

So he's astuck in his false heaven.  They've really gotim now...

& here this Qinz character bashes in.  Tentripping PAUSE whilst everybody checks his NOTES...

No.  No mention of Qinz in this.  This thing isn't for Qinz‑‑I mean, this heaven is not set as a trap for goddam Qinz to get in.  What's this now‑‑he gonna murder Qert?  Is it possible?  Here?

Everyone furrows through his notes.  Notes take time.  Time furrows botes unto eternity.  Two eternity.  Eternity.  Notes(s)...

Nope.  But Qert realize right away he can relax his stance, for it is immediately evident that Qinz has appropriated the manifestiatiums of the god, & so as Qinz moves here & there around the room, bobbing & weaving all sorts of invisible attackers‑‑which only a later analysis based on the famousin Zapruder Recording of the Heaven Four are the physic & psychic forces making up the vorf & the voop of the stor of the stor herself‑‑you can see his trunk break into all sorts of silver torsos, & likewise as his zarms move the gun‑‑seeming molted & melten & BIG‑‑they become the multiple arms of a Hindu god, & Qert, enforced on his pod at the xenter of the xod, falls deeply into worship

falls ever so deeply into worship

falleth intimately into actual cocksucking worship of his friend.

God he thinks & God he thinks, & God comes out his eyes‑‑filling even as we squeak with perfumid teors‑‑& "God!" cometh outeth mouth & this sort of feeling‑nexus sort of spreads sort of to the enginears who dissolve (as all engineers musht) unto engitears & even in fumic fuorm unto the psychologists, designers of the mental frame of the stor known in Secret Technical Klinguo as as as as "H4," who cannot cwy & so somurely psyigh.

So, adancin' & ashootin' his way in, this wonderous monster of love & randomity‑‑this beloved usurper god, this haze o' fast‑firin' silver, this penetrator unto the erstwhile mythical secrets of Qert(God)‑of‑the‑H4(Stor) (meant to be stuck, not shot!), this crazed lover of killing, this contractual alter‑Qert, this crazy guy, this big lug‑‑grabs the icon by which we represent his buddy Qert, his pal, his friend through many a lifelime gimes, & tucks him under his arm, still firing in the wonderful storbiscopic effect of troboscoopix evvex ostroobo vexxoo *** a dis in the grat grat grat titin tin ing stor *** & pulls the now‑mib Qert away Qert away Qert away Qert away.

"Well!" someone who's left says.  "He ruined our stor!"

"He ruin dour heaven!" lamented a Very Sad Voice whom I have not Bother to Personify.

"He did still more," says the dying sy yting sto or.  "He god damn rescued 12735."

"Yea, we noticed," says the vacuum which characteristically forms at the center of the stor much like the vacuum at the center of your heart when you realize you are utter iso late alone.  Big contractsheer!  Hey‑‑big compracks hear!  Hey‑‑!

Time a blue face get longly a' lone.  Qert gone, saysy sadly, turning over its last shad teors to infinity...

"O, Qert, you're so beautiful!" Mom was crying, crying 2‑quart blue tears that broke the Beautiful Turquoise Heart.  She is more relieved‑‑& muschly roughly morere liev'd‑‑that Qinz pulled his brother out of the stream we saw ring round to the lasses of the book.

& in celebration at least fanfares flared in the background, & one noticed that the colors in this universe were rather more pale, more subdood, more suave n' pastel than those in the other, younger, less intelligent, less develop, more savage universes, & Qert never remembered this beautifubble noment of his creation (all false implants, by the way) without noticing that he preferred yes e preferred the more savage colors of the more savage universes, & that he traveled very fast, much faster than normalfast, to get to these.

(He recalled one in particular, a universe of vague fat bodies & nothing but red.  Red, red, red everywhere.  That's all that anyone there said, either: "Red," they said, "Red red red."  They didn't even have rudimentary punctuation marks.  Everything was too red to spunctuate, know what I mean?  Too red.  It had its subtler akspecks‑‑spaks that tapered off to various hues.

So you could say if you said you could say if you said you could have said if you'd had sayd you had rust colors, maybe something a liggle like burnt umber, maybe a color like the first irritant burp of pain announcing that final deadache unto pain‑‑but mostly it was red.  This was a crude n' savage universe in a nook of the multiverse not mulch travailed by such botix as Qert's brothernensensterem, & there were no faces, but for a ruddy‑mentary gnose ertoo ernosertoot knowsairtoo gnawzerrtu, & as I said at the top of the parenphrapgh you had mainly bulk bodies fraught with (yes) spikes (yes) spikes (yes) spikes (do I repeat myself (no never (yes) with) spikes?) yes.

"O you're so so beautiful now!" she said, quite naturally‑‑& hey, this must've been the most sophisticated heaven, right?  It had softer colors, right, more detailed faces‑‑hey: faces of endless detail‑‑& many many more multifarious tomensions, too.  Lotta dimensions.  Hard to remember when you've (sob) been (snif) lost in the barberies(nf!) betwixt beautiful places (sob) & far from your mother evermore (snfsobnfornomb?)?

Too many questgions!

But because the incident itself had been ever so packed with detail, Qert could qurl himself up in the soft selfenclos‑ed manner of your botix everywhere & close his eyes soft as lids & make small rustling sound as of plastic bag packed with freshcured well‑palump eddope & still dream a lot of it, dream a lot of it.  So he lay there & made small motions like a qat enthrash‑ed in a dream, & he would in the InterLunar Silence™ make even little murring sounds as of some Infant Thing hurting away imsleemp & groew soft fur in dream, & rememberet.

"Oo, soo beautiful!" was what more of less she said‑‑& it bore repeating, too, for words inhere were fashion dout of cast iron, dismal‑prepard steel, grystal‑steel, weightless & motionproof & indestructible as the force that was locked inside that oftrepeated first "O!"‑‑a force composed with the delicacy & intricacy of a jolly Haydn minuet, only moreso‑i‑say I say‑only, & with sweet subtle flavors, too, which would've had ol' Frankie Jo a‑grinnin' from aear to aearisay.

& it boor repeating for more inheriant reasons, two.  Qert was beautiful.  There they took their babies there & they madem into botix & they sentem out‑‑& before they sentem out they filldem with much more beauty than the I can bare.  I'm not sure why, because these really are weird b‑yings here.  But they overborem with beauty, beauty beauty‑‑in a sort of higher analogue (if you can dig a higher analogue) to see all that red in the Red Universalogue‑‑until hearts burst just seeing the gigantic beautiful‑to the‑nth‑power babies (babies‑‑yes!) shipping out the big gate through to the intraverx leading to your various sleeping univerks niverks iverks verks erks erks ks s...

Doubtless a form of protection from the savages?
Doubtless a form of reminiscence of one's origins?

Doubtless compulsive behavior of those compulsive beautifuls?

Doubtless double parody of solves?

Doubless ouble arody f olves?

Doulss ubl ody lve?

Or just a rich supply of beauty, which was as necessary for survival in that place as water in your your watery pal‑ats, & which they mistakenly figured was necessary for 1) survival between stors & 2) survival within stors?

Yea, probly.

But they was wrong!  Beauty was & is anabsolutely negligible nasset in the traveling among stors‑‑neither at the Gate, where so many died of the beauty of these gigantic infants known as BOTICSes, nor again in the Internix, where there was no awarenets at all except unconscious defined as uinconsciousness of beauty‑by‑the‑ray, nor yet over & again‑again in any of the Univerts Thus Descried, nor even-&-also in the various innumerable buzzing false universe known in the title as Fuckin False Heavens which we oblige too detail here beauty here.

Beauty was enphaga liability. For the critters of them other univerts was indeeda tracted to the beauty‑‑or let's just say their attentions, such as they wiz, was attraxed by the beauties which our hero's so plethoric of. Bu their "attentions" took sundry & variegated "forms," not all of them allied to the central concept of quote beauty, which is "love."  Not love at all, in these beasties, in these false heaven zaqert, in these annals, in these here logs.

& so Qert's False Implant Dream: & thus it was that, saddled with his excess iv deadly beauty, the huge infant Qert sets out from his love universe, that which Qinz ript to home, & with his mom dying dissolving in her tears over his beauty (what they called back home blubbering, but with no ludicrous connotations (ha!) at ha!) at (home) spwin that beauty every rischwray, & attracting the Deceivers to his side.  & I tell you, he was just a child!

We now enter stors of the middle period, & Qert has put on weight.  He means to woo May Beam towooze again, preferably qua Qert & not per pet.  He strolls over to her frame house with the bright captions wincing yellow‑overit, yellow‑verit, proclaiming his (Qert's) mother's (Qinz dead.

Qinz stalk him in the shadows with his cap gun.  Loud, boisterous brilliant‑‑seems like no stor's home anymore ome nyore me yre e re e...

Qert enters May's sphere with a large bunch of flowers.  The sphere is yellow today; the flowers are blue tomorrow.  Also, these were extra‑‑special flowers‑‑Qert had createdem in his own shop, to the likeness of his verylike, & they were a species of his own devising, with the finest gene‑magick of his aching ik=mage phials.

So.  Qert was dewyn love with her, & this dew this dew this dew I say this dew he sprinkled with his own fingertips (you could if you could smell if you the new dawn smell on his if‑you fingerstips‑‑ssnnnffff!‑‑& you could see the fine pinsuns the pinsuns in the dripulepts‑‑Look!), wagging his head in the manner of an overconfident typro entringgin.

Qert has this tendency to...forget‑‑uh...that he is entering 'sent'ringringingng (Hello?) somebody else's stor, not one of his (Hell‑O?).  Vigntillions of stors strung together round the necklace of his 'zomes've persuaded Qert that he create all women.  This can happen, & now that it have he have his finest flowers, & he donno what to do.

Upon entering the cartoonist's stor, Qert instantly Qert immediately Qert qertstuntenuously loses control of time & size‑that's 1) Time & 2) Size OK.  So the flowers burgeon & grow‑‑& they grow exceedingly colorful with comic colors‑‑fantsy‑flash & flamery‑‑as if she were parelaborat aradinghis own & finest flurrs, which is yet so muschphinere & infinitely more subtle, I mean detailed, than his flors that the goggling suitor can only stare, drooling just a bit off perimeters of gape like a fine old delicate ship, as his expansive flowers became not merely a forest of flowers, refreshed at last with that hole rain of real to stun, but a world, a global hyperverts of flowers so distant & distinct one from anotherun they send out scents across whate'er she'ers‑o‑lusion she may she may choose to springe‑‑white bubblews like dew ydrosps faster than what pass for thought in here.

"Smell the flowers," she command, & Qrt‑‑reduced to an awkward sort of cartoon qrt in pantafallaloonds (whereas your "real" Qert wareth no pantths‑‑I hate to tell you that)‑‑ condescends, condescending vapours fillipis head uh head, with the usual results.

"Was there something?" she says, her desk a speck floating upsidedawn wordthere.

"No," come reply, "there was nothing."  & was not.

She did her job.  She led him on.  Kept him from gegging kilt too fast.  Her his inspiration.  With his capgun.  Waiting.  Love.

& so Qert wompack towerk, in the tewerks twilite werk he auf & par, a & by.  Qert went on to cast fabulous MAY BEAM in many a romantic stor.  However, there was a catch, i.e., he forgot all about Qinz‑‑no matter how many times he (Qinz) killed him (Qinz), lost all track of his contractual obligations & his feral obbligatosations & was making up these completely nonmurderous (& because nonmurderous, therefore felonious) stors full of lush, cornball adolescent imagery (but it was great adolescent imagery as your title say, enh?), wherein the erstwhile cartoonist, no longer one, a cartoonist, I mean‑‑a cartoonist, then, no longer then, would occupy the centripetal spot in the guide of the Maiden of Mysticos, the Maid Off Magick & the Oervremajikles Maide in fillowing burrows of blowse of a taint‑grey purple aand those billowy cuffsapuff fum the shoulders (ye botix, what shoulders!) to the wrists that Qinz qua Knicht would feign of kisse, & a smarl shawl just to add to the texture quough‑‑no longer the implied or raw textureens of the Standard Qinz Suffering Act‑‑& the great & wollowy skirts that had, not so much the patterns of willow trees & the streams he ztole Qinztole out of DAVIM DENLA VILOVEEZE, as the actual precreated artifax themselves, like nothing Qert ever deed, like absolu nottun fumda ik=mage files (or phials I suppose as I quaintly calla dem), & like no place there for a murderee.  No place at all.  No place at all.  No place at all.

After a quick consulspation with the gods re garding this arg uable brooch in the compact, Qinz butt sintoo the Acts IV & V, scs. ii, ii, iv, & vii or iix or dehaughty‑naught, & presenther wivven his Phineast Ameathyste Broooche, thate ofe the Demesne de Qinz o th' Toche, saltry Qinz th' gunmettleblough Knichte du Roche, who meem to whim dismaidful dainamim wither flouncy bedrets & thereby umgaphoile untuttrelee th' pompostuous ombustlpuoies o' th' False Knavische Vight & the unnamed Traitoroux Archimajoik Stoortooleur Qert.

Now it was a classic rivalry between buddies, added to which is May's noteworthy tendency too evade these assignations‑‑for she, in her universe so much more bonewhite & ashblock logico than than heese (Qeese's's), did not perceive nor deign ysee in any manner o mean watt‑so‑aires to term it assignation, nor anykind of th'thang.  & she was underdstanderbly relucutants to meet Qert on his home (illegal) gorounds, for this particular cartoonist (not that there are not others, & lovelier by far, & in many "higher" univerts) had a great & whorthee pheare of the holy gods, seeing in herself nothing of the god the narcissistic Qert saw that Qinz see in imxselfs yousee‑‑an axpek of her personeallity which I either mentioned above or will mention, now yet again, below.

So usually, by the time Qinz & Qert‑‑goofy‑jollicky happy to be gedderagainin ill egal circumstamps‑‑got to playfully throwing grapes at milady's mazzard, than the brittle little thing (for women of uncanny powers are brittle, every time‑‑they are so brittle, know what I mean?) would implode like nothing so much as that light bulb feeding your dreams.

So foreboding yedremes, Qert would have to show up at Beam Shop sphere‑again with another bunch of (cleverly‑dishusted‑guide‑edyas) flowers.  I'm talking so‑called flowers.  All that effort, all that work, all those tokens from the gods, & here she just wanted to get laid, in black‑and‑white, with grain, base genitals sliding roughly one again stother, over & over & over & over again, in seething heat.  But Qert war no cartoonist.  Ultrarefined, supersubtlely mad, he kept missing the ha ha port in his solemnly storms hahee.

Qinz consider thustly in himind if you domined:

Qert thought she was beautiful.  Ha!  That's a laugh!  Shows you just how much botics know, don't it?

She was not beautiful.  Not by a longue shought.  May was colorless, rather, scrawny, & grainyboo.  She had no flowery flesh, no full woman‑curves, no bosom or bazoom to speak of or to hoo, nothing but cry jetstone specimens in the place of flesh, & when she moved‑‑Uh! say I in falsettos‑‑Uh!‑‑there was the dry scraping of the weird deserts of the desertworlds of the dessicant universe of the dry stors, known as the desert stor, of that set of some hundreds of dozens of mysterious stors, or problem stors, originator(s) unknown(s).

Though I think I know who made them.

So each & every morning, who it is who is the cartoonist would get up & rifle through her infinite closets of mirrors of closets looking for a sketch of herself.  She did this in the deepest, most poignantly dark hope that she would somesuch find therein of self, or some worn portion of forgotten soul, albeit sad‑‑or not even her proper soul, really, just some woundsoul she could halffeed to her pen & her pen & scribble out, narcissuslike, alloer the ricky body of her self.

Failing this,  every morning, this Beam'd squint like a modifier & pull out one or another of her, um, some say athousants flesh, a real moiety, & she'd draw the yucky strutchy thing on out, soak it in a special artist's oil which even she‑‑a goddam cartoonist, to be sure‑‑could be seem to be & thereby had to use, & this sweet & like succulent (because like artful, hey!) flesh she fleshe would pull on oer her stony antipostical shelf, & she would then to her copydesk, wherein, praying for the day's inspiration in this sadblew of sunless stor she call edher loft, so‑qualled, she'd do her most sensuous truly thing of the sayly stoil‑‑she would bedew her sole with her most fantastical do, most holy too, or rather glew, whuch she dyuse to to to fashion the flesh of over her overer face, if you can squall it dat, & thereby do her concupuscent dupuscent dupty of daday, a frame with herself in the middle of it, a tri‑D frame tritrimpuple thick (or as the Guleons say, "thuick") & make of herself a variatable goddexx o beaute an dovelove.

Ah, but I should say a cartoon goddess, made out of carteem love.  Enter that...

His flowersa disappear, so Qert try another tack.  Enter Qert again with a box of sweets.

"Sweets?" she says‑‑yes, sweetly she says!  And‑a‑thump‑thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthimpthimpthimpthimpTHIMP! as she fall into his wherl of sweets.

For meee?" she considers, one of those fancy, delicatate, feminine thoughts not restricted to fems in swich the thoughts clust be HIND‑a theyebrowse, slow‑to‑awink.

"I made it for you," Qert declare in The First Lie of Love that kill the loveanders.

Enter: eateateateateat‑‑eyes bleared with a surfeit of sweets, Qert push shis way through the emerald ice‑cream forests with their sloughy syrop‑falls & springles of fragment nuts & springles o flagrant sugarpurls & aviaires with aromatic conewings filigreed more in the manner of butterflies than birds (buthen, Qert's never seen a butterfly; Qert ha never traveled in your circles; Qert salways been left out & demanded‑of & unloved: Qerts), & weightless aureolas ovaire that have some of "the fpray of fodapop mift"‑‑a concept the gods found "puerile" & "pukey" & "enough difguft to die me of gufdufk!"‑‑& some of the joy, I think, of the first flushtiered friendzip galanzes that airy & his best friend Qinz, whom he lost, did glance, hence the cool etheric eeriness & underlying sung of cerulean sadness, if I may, that I have been externsively tortured for drinking of (O Qert!)‑‑plunging through these florests of chocolate bark comfections & branch of stiff licorice & hairstuffstrings from the willows of still more licorice & the droplets of, yes, stiflicorice that this apparently licorice‑loving botic spread staround through rills & rivulets redolent of some of your more condimental herbs‑‑fpecifically wicorice‑‑beating more goodies away as they literally throw themselves at his mouth, Qert dumbfounded with love & his missioon‑a‑loon, or swo‑he‑thinx, to track down that girl.

I don't suppose he'll find her in here, since that would be a real relationship, & these stors of the Middle Period are really rather short of personal relationships (no families, etc.' just Qinz showing up, candy smeared all over his much & his gun held sticky in hand, to kill him sugarbloop bloopbloong over the palaice), but he is in love, & I suspect that, & also I think I've figured out why his later stors have goeng‑zwo‑bad.

It isn't a matter of structure of absence of motif or rap of the gods nor botic's block nossir: it has to do with the quasiobasic physic structure of stors & their relationship to the "close pogram" or "endik=mage loop" or "mobius flup" or "mode fillup" of stors & they interaction with the imaginary, created bullshit of the content of the fairytale world of the world of the galaxy of stors of stors, if I may be repetitious.

Yes (or no), it have to do with the materio‑cognitive interaction that make these little cubyholes‑‑spread in platted fashion round dis curving sort of velvetfloored, sort‑of‑clay‑walled hallway, if nigh mayre peat‑‑appear to inhabitants to be, not only entire worlds‑‑despite the often slapdash n ramshackle n gumchustle n quonshubtle nature of the stors, with cheesy cheesecloth blothback backdrop dropblack blacklight lighthole holecheese horizons & quickie minuficured artifax & off‑the‑cuff crooked‑from‑the‑unconscious (but WHOSE unconscious?  here?) neolanges & some awfully amateur actors, ofttimes in rubber suits (falsetto:!HAH!:otteslaf)‑‑but their entire lives as well, complete not only with pasts & hopes & families & futures, but also with like beliefs, sometimes deeply held, AND‑‑farbuvuv all else‑‑those "shaped" thought‑patterns, not only with repetitious circularities & emphlanted timewasters galore, but also with unconsciousness in & of themselves, which not only influenzed the bliefs, feelings, perceptions, & actreactions of those stuck in the stors‑‑not only the audience but the erstwhile actors‑‑but actually caused events in the stor, hey‑hey, so you had a very complete universe.  As complete as you or I, I mean your or mine.

& underneath all that stuff were some all‑important fergeffer imphlants, see.  These kept you from memerin al you othe stuf.  This kept you ascribing to the hogods unstead oQert.  & for Qert himself it kept him from remembering that his best friend was coming to kill him.  Or if he remembered it‑‑usually in the form of SOME DISTURBING THWEAT, no more, no more‑‑he did not remember it in the form of two botics gaily trying the stors & ahuntin' onother down, but rather in the form of the stor itself.

Well, I figure Qert began building hints & cautions into his stors.  Qinz was not the only one driven mad by the game.  So was Qert, it seems, if my theory be grant Galactic Clearance Encredence Density Ityupence Ents.  Yes, he was getting tired of it, but like Qinz he couldn't stop it‑‑not by any means less desperate than means you can't even think about, like the thought I was tortured by my mom I can't think about (O but I can DREAMABOUT!  I can dreamabout!  I can dream about‑‑O yes!).

Yea, druv mad by the game.  & so he gan to put lil hints inside.  Then I believe he began trying to undercut the illusive strucxure that, to return to my initial point initial point initial point initial point initial point, tied in with the very physical like structure of the stors, you see.  He began violating quasiphysical rules.

Oybe gan undercutting the structure o the stors‑‑& not the lusory content strecture, neithernoy, but the pure actual clayaey walls & backdrops & various fragrances of air they pump tintooum, there.  Qert began to make these unstead ystors.  Needless to say, they didn't feel right, & the reviewer gods‑‑at first seeing this eccentricity as the sign of the genius stretyching the fabric of his self or stuff orstelf‑‑began to pan him horribldy.

Naughtmore deadly than to be deadpanned by a god.  & Qert got panned & condemned indeed.  "The words of the gods flew like bolts from the blew," & Qert wassu spending a lot of his intertwiome, when he might presumably be cooking up other & better ideas & structures forstors, ducking these deadly vorbs or vorx orvorz.

But he had to trystop thit flicking little duel he & Qinz had going‑‑& I like to think because I do like to think he was doing it more for Qinz, his friend, than for his own inmightighty self.  But I can't prove this shit.  I can't or won't.  My mind won't tell me if I can't or won't‑‑won't or can't, get the so=kaldik ik=mage iksee (excuse me).  So he kept on amakin them inferior sorta stors.  & they kept getting worse until so goeth my pheory the actors gan befusing twenter in & the stors got depopulate & the craftsmen gan not bedeigning to flolow his "designs" ("Ha!" they began to say, initially, at first & at the start * here), & even the rather sleazy backdrop‑dighnors stopped painting, so you can ilmagine how empty the stors did got, & ultimately did the gods did die o disgust (now THAT'S disgust), & thense came the Ddead Stor.

So we have him running through his own, middle‑period Creamery Stor, or Coogie Stor‑‑or whichever of the 1001 nicknamen they (they) gave twim‑‑only half‑aware that something is wrong, aware that he must run, should try to move quickly, but he was still keeping himself pretty mixed‑up in this stage (he only hid here out of desperation, I think.  This means I think I reject the Suicidal Theory ject‑re ject‑re jek!), so he's got his dumb ass in love with that sweet May Beam‑‑probly not even a girl, possibly even Qinz (no, he's dead at this point‑‑isn't he?  Hello?) Hello or anyway not the creamsweet she sweems, so poor Qert thinks he is chayaysing after someone or thingone some orsum.

ON SECOND THOUGHT, perhaps this is the safest thing for him.  If anyone in here falls in love, one would think assassination would be hard.  Hey‑‑that's right.  I've got another theory I must hasten to down about a further, deeper rationale for this "slickly switness enfulsome gwoo" of Qert's Midperiod Stors.

Taken in by woman again!  One, countem one woman in the entire yarn, & they both get tangled up inside.

Qert dressed up silly, wearing many a paper doily, sailboat hats, crepey filigree, undulant antimacassars flung cross his shoulders.  You could tell he was freshly in love, & doubtless between chapters locking up in ocktup‑n someone‑winx's box of jewelry.  Qinz disguised his love, by which I mean him self, by means so deviously made‑up they cannot be vealed.

Perfumid!  The gem‑shaped creature moves closer & becomes a but more of a man.  Now he has but a gemshaped, purple head.  He come closer.  He is wearing nonsymbolic gold‑plated chainplated goldchainpalatted golchangs which chang as they chang round a neck sproting, at last, a perfect‑faced head, with just one small flaw‑cum‑gem in the forfem of his nose.

When he sniffs his nose it's OK.  I mean, it's nothing transcendent, nothing comical, nothing grandiloquent, nothing bezeled or bejuled, nothing lacking, nothing plain, nothing straight, nothing married, nothing gained, nothing comingof, noting doing, nothing having, nothing halved, nothing egg, The Nothing Egg, The No‑Thing, The No Thing Egg, The No Thing Egg Egg, the nothing egg nothingegg, the Eggnothing eggbeing, the nothing...all right, maybe a touch grandiloquent‑‑but that other stuff naught.  Also he wear the jewel that was his nose, having before that been his face, having had been his head, having had been having been his body having had been having been being a jewel in the jewel box of the woman that I loved, had‑been‑nothing‑egged.

"This," he said, "is the Hall of Words, Mr. Qert, into wish you've been inducted, or shall I say, into witch you shall have been being inducted, by me, since now there then."

"Skip the doubletalk," answers Qert‑‑showing I must say a bit of unusual pluck in these Chronicles Unpluck.  "Skip the doubletalk.  & the name's Bottic‑‑Bottic's the name, OK?"
The sensitive iris in the jewel looks out.


"O, as you say, KK," he smiles.  "I am Phluorib the Poet.  In any event, by virtue of having been smitten, we..."

"Phluorib‑‑Phluorib‑‑I've heard of you!"

"No you haven't.  Come."

Qert repeat shimsmelf knowingly knowingly, as Phluorib the Poet stooks theym down the Hall of Phenomenal Words, which I have oft heard referred to as the Hall of Euphoric Words & have heard in fact this hall itself Hall Itself echo co with the sounds of Horric Turds, but that's just the self‑hating hall expressing its hatred of self‑hating hall expressing its hatred of self.  Nothing hates soul more than word, I say.  I have already clarified the relationship(s) of Hope & Light.

I will now discuss Soul & Words.

Phluorib, florid though he was, did mostly waves in here.  This is where the madmun go.  He turned to the right, waved, then turned to the left, flung one arm up in what was a violent wave (& the Hall said violet rave because poor thing purple columns couldn't help help help itself souldself hatesoul wordhate selfsoul worths) & then turned back right & flung his right arm that's right arm up so very very hard, one might even speculate violently hard, one might spec selfhatrred here here here here & here, but anyways, so very hard you could hear little liquid pops & pops & pops & pops and

pops everywhere & see some of the clear bluish‑tinted or tinned or tinctured yummy dewdrops of the ichor from his joints flynk swetly off 2‑space (you see you see?).  & the burnt‑umber column that he laughed at waved at him.  Refluxions here * have depth, see.  So there was a small disatorted Phluorib in there, orange‑hued as you may expect expect expect (my but aren't we repeating today?  Ay?), waving back at the self‑destructing Phluor we were sliding down these snot‑slibbry (sorry, but it's true, damn it‑‑true!  You want me to state the truth don't you‑‑preferably in italics, don't you?  Or was this not your plan?  Was that not your idea, the italics, I mean?  Maybe the italics were my idea?  Who's dreaming whose inhere, ay?)

floors made much like the old skating rink my father back in the Whole Ah! Universe used to make by spritzing hosewater on the yard.  Butcept the govvanged grass on the yard rundled encurdled, thrumbled imcurd, & so you had this ice which was as wavy as ice shot through the soundfield forceyyeelds of Burr‑‑bitter Burr!‑‑or like glass haste‑moltenized in the time‑compruxion of, say, the tanglelight or the Y‑en=jedd forcewheelds of Ceage or the Efferblapty Zorx i‑eelvs of Sweege or even the inimnitable repperessetion epperveseeateons of Ude of Ude of Ude.

Only the ruddy little tiwstment of Phlur seemed a great deal happier than he.

Love notes‑of‑waves lovenotes‑of waves...and all this while, showing us the words he was so proud of & the ik=mage files (at least I, speaking as Qert, thing of them as ~) he kept them in, festring with wild colors, stalactite columns, rumber‑wub glazemolt zurphaxsez & and self‑lootheries, he was moving at a turfurrific clip, as if either too excited to swim or possibly too enopained to dim.

He threw up another arm & it (the ~) fell off‑‑or should I rather say flung qup, into the air, evidently very poorly conjoined to the connective tissues of his "body," if "body" be relevant in this splace, unless his flung was an unsamely violet one.  But in any event, the arm, its various joints working even as it rose into the air, was fixated by the eyebeams of many a column of po‑phlorescent words, yes it was, which, despite the face that their syructure as I'm scribing it here was more that of a big spelunkif structure here than that of what you could safely call an "observer" or a "being" or "an entity" "or a watcher of words," watched in awe, their "heads" (if I may ~) moving like the heads at a tennis match, only up as the armjoint rose, down as the armjoint fell.

I have repressed what happens when the armhunk hit.  The information repressed.  I remember faces in the glass distortions, I remember or thinkre‑member a momemberteary lossts of that hate feeling, as if the limb lopped off were a limbwelloptoff, & now I remember the ache of thinking I was going to have to remember, for the rest of the novel, to keep lopping that arm off whenever I forgot or repressed or lost control & went wildly into my hot hot sparky hot self‑gatreb mobe & accidentally oops put‑an‑arm‑on‑there, you know, & how this gave me a headache, like all the weird dversions of my soul hated in the image of the wordstalac ti yites...

Once Qert‑‑love‑pommes zinand rougued russet with chudder‑‑'sgone, Phluorib stretch himself.  We've all done that.  I think we can understand his motivation at this point.  But his spangled body shapesout like a screciching starfish or the hand of Alien.  Moreoer, he stretche all directions, & does it in muchover moreso than you or, say, I.  & his sighs, I have to admit (my fault, really), fall heavily to the Core of the Guilty Stor.

For what Phluorib next does (with Qinz invisible panting‑I‑presume impantling), in a series of minute motions backed by the small small fragments of a sigh (see FRIGMENCE OF A SIGH), not to mention the tears so stored sublimely sough with sighs, consist of an act so criminal, revealing the seemingly harmless old neon poet‑figure, this flash‑clank interstoral being as such a turpitudinous antigod sorta fella, such a nefarious ol pimp anaesthetique, such a dyed‑in‑the‑wull enmedy of all that is good & right & sacred & wood & write & the fals integuments of eyes, that we can at this nexus safely, & as I think, not without no undue rationalization or ratiocination as the case may beam, dismiss his motives as authentically unfathomabobble, so ver ybad be they.

Now I trust now.  He (Phluorib) slips (Phluorib!) a clear (Phluori!) disklike disk like disk likedisk into his stor (Phluor!) machine‑ine‑ine & begins grunting (Phluo!): "Phlu!  Phl!  Ph!"  These are illegal (P?), countercontractual, counteractuatividive store stors, yes‑‑nasty & pornographic, & doubtless featuring as their limp & limber‑limbed limbic heroine, suckin‑anda‑fuckinup astorm, none other than that May Beam‑‑yes, this May Beam, this "cartoonist" (May Beam!) in the midst of houghondpough donglicking slithery acts of lucking & glupping & gods know whatnaught waow.

Phluorib (!) ha-haha-hahahahas obviously viewed these dozens of suss hundreds of sinful times, over a cascade‑‑or more properly, a series of rapids‑‑of our hurs‑‑& possibly thousands‑‑judging from the creamswook, the fastidious hubba moistnersch inirsch right‑aye, the clarity in the FifthEye, the slight discolor ation of the sotherultry‑I, of babes emergeant, the auras, ectos, aureoles, ignutes fatuui, phanplasms o light, sighshapes, shysapes, brok en the ars, orgasm!c h!pes, nutwhought}.

Phluorib is an addict.  Sometimes he spends days down in his crystalline vaults‑‑which are not actual crystal in any case but lousy cheap Vengerbleeve©‑‑moving his lips round curiously & shuffling, hand to his crotch, tracers of images that have escaped from the highly toxic, definitely illegal "cluster‑stors" he zhooked into.  You see those eyes like one of those curv edqorridors of green that they shoot you particles down in the lusters of dream.  Yea.  Mm‑hmm.  O yea!

Someone since nonexistent once described Phluorib's eyes as "fate eyes," & I find the phrase inversely but haply apt.  It express‑‑ohowlshillIshay?‑‑the plethoric fulsomeness of the sorts of, um, sexual acts festured in these yeasty sexual, gross, wholly‑of‑redeeming‑value‑void, ghastlily fornicating pornostors from the illicit secret stor‑edstores of his little quasicrystalline veering stacks ahore.

May Beam does things in these stors you cannot do anywhere outside a cartoon.  You need a lot of room, special penises, lots of fragrant liquids, some from the body, some from the fridge better left unimagin ‑‑ed.  & as I say I say & as, many of these images‑‑the smaller, lighter ones, forsooth...the ones more pastel in uh coloration, the less strange, inwardly symbolical wums

the images, in short, that recur even in the strangest direst clusterstors, which form words in a language not even god zunderstand, & so & so & so & so these unwed images, lonely lil guybs n galgs as they escape like radiation through the special inebriate radiation‑pores porespores asnore of the captured kongtankerouf ftorf & gather pollenround the smelly fliggero Phluorib with his paisley wafts‑o‑deur & flit about in brieftimeschisms in & out of the frangible aire

in an doubt, I say, like so many glustreflies, like so many petals loomed from their petaloose overarth, like so many (so many!) small springes in gasses of your thickly spimmining whorles, like oft too many face‑vox eztupht in the schitzoid's poise, like neologysmic zies, like fooptrinkts yas from the savarage labo Qert, like one of Qinz's beautiful, fanciful bullets thank Gob from the stuggy ol gun he keeps hauling in to stor within stor within stor within stor within stor uh‑huh, if the truth be gnome‑‑to kill his ancient friend just to watch the luxt, in form of anything that pops from out the bubble of the zasperacaghing man, or woe mam, like anything that strikes like any flash slipped out of being or anybeing.

The adolescent cadences of some savage festival play in the background.  Phluor, a savagery‑pornagravy fleak, have a collection of some several bakers's‑burnt's‑dozens' of Savage Gods buried in iconopalum, their flame‑hatered to get out acting as some sort of eternal stimulant to the veneeriable, seedy protobot whatairy‑was, just as the noises of the synthetic festival, that's the noises of the syn thet ic fest er ing fetsival, served to illuminate certain otherwise wise‑lostwhys portions ise of his battered, broken edbrain

somewhat, I'd say, the brains of the battered infant as they splatter aughnought, glad & breemy, thinking the last othought that This is the end at last.

Or should I say at first?

Yes: "At first," Phluorib said, taking what amounts to Another Savage Spark that was in my voice when I voic ed that edthat dhat ha .

Phluorib pointses to his face, & the expressiom om his face somehow draw you upward, to his forehead, which has so often before before growin translucent, in the which you can see gold images inside.  It's hard to make these images out, tertially because there is too much bright, perfectly‑zizzy gold enlight inem, so it'zard to see where one symbol lefts soff & anyunthor bygimbs.  'Shard.  'Ard.

"Come on out, Qinz."  Dressed like a woman in her closet, out come Qinz, afrusch wiff‑nouveau couloures.

Phluorib has problems as well as gifts.  He has obsessios as well as Grade Zero Spexuos.  Has pains as well as welters in the brink at it twirr offtime.  Yea.  He has.  He's been trying to get this goddam image across to the everdense Qinz for some interstorhurs of intratime unnow, & Qinz just keeps giggling nervously & washing in his hair the air & clitching up his bonery kneeze in those foolish breeches that he wears inhere, & rocking back & froth & occasionally pointing & noaciunily painting & in general reducing this act of potential interdimensional communication to the mundane object neutral allseen scene of the child Zero regaled by his elderfuls.

Phluorib not like that.  Phluorib not want be viewed as zelder.  Personally, in all my travels & amongst all of my dreams‑‑burnst like batreds o trash I the howling interalley seens‑‑I vneverseen aone witha lumopulous forehead who relished‑‑I'll say it: "Relisht" I say‑‑being thought of as old.  Consult your own experience you will agree.

Agreed, then.  Phluorib's splan's to enform this dense little botic bout May Beam & Love, bout the effermenny levels of same, & most notably the polyspatial images of sames within the ik=mages of those there‑familiant stors that have been deserted by the sames.  Just think.  By the elder sames, I mame.  Phluor's trying to goad Qinz into an awareness whereby he can destroy sameqert sutterly.

"Why's that?" plonder Qinz, pronounced kwaaannnzzz, aplonderin hedress musinly, & the old man (scuzeme‑‑the noneld aman) glisters in gleed.  He's got the message at last.

Big celebration, followe by cold rendition, thus:

"I just hate him, OK‑OK?" says Phluorigo in various verts, nodding twice & smiling alsolu, not wanting especially to be pumped or briefed by a stunned stalwaort ort of a botic‑ikik.  "He owe me money," he muter, closing the light from his head into the sun.  There.  There.  Small dark teacups of tea resplace everthang in the thin thang seem sough‑faghr of the sceghne‑sough‑faghr.  "Now go to the lovestor & change it to a murdstor.  You can do that, can't you Qinz?"

The plot thwickens anface!  "OKOK," rechechoeoes Qinz‑‑love‑pommes zinand & rougued russet with chudder.

When he ope ins the door to her room he is in the moon.  She's there soft‑someplace (sofplais‑sum!), too beautiful to be seen.  Emotions well up on the Personal Face.  That's Qert, I think‑‑just let these clouds cut the eye‑bi...yas...yas...Qert Qua Planet, Qert Cum Moon.

Seas berupt‑‑a yucky greentwinge rayzout starwrize on the purple glostening.

"God, he looks terrible God," gasps Qinz to God, but God is not Manifesting Himself in any Particular Form at this moment, merely as a shadow, O merely as a shadow, like a figure of ink your worst cartoonist should know (you know: the first cartoonist to scripple in your pain, at superspeed, there & there & there), ashushin' & ahushin' excitable excitable Qinz, sh!  shh!!

Qert's trying to turn them away with emotion.  He's as big as a planet in this stor, which use some heretofore proscribed ate‑of‑the‑start spacillusory‑stretching moodalities, the so‑called "Tom Thrum Moodalities," engineered by engineers who had been enspeered, as engineers inspired by Qert's own Engineer Petri Block stor, in which the heat of mechanical inspiration's xacerbated unto thwicex aggrezations by inspulling timewoolly rupes & a temperature, O, I'd say somewhere in the thousands range about, & by the nestling presence of other engineers manifestly much more nerdy than oneself, an illusion of course imposed pong geach erngineer inthere, so that each one flips into Crazed Engineer Competitious Mobe & begins inventing violently.

Too fast for emotions, that, reflexxed Qinz who has Qinz who has been taking advantage of his proxomy wit God, or at least Phluorib, to read the very text of which he is an inhabitant.

& the Uthor can't cry foul.  Watch‑‑I'll try: "    !"  You see?  It has to be inked in in the form of a fallow symbol or a tallow shambal, ensketched in piggy‑plump pink, & the cartoonist woon't doonit because May here fears God may hear more may than she beam fears the loss of Qert's love or (loss of) I.

& as I think I said & know I wrote by checking back, cleverly, we see Qert's mocked up as a great big ball here, & the stor have the presences of space, so that "ball" is a globutary deniuzen of your very inhalation firmamental swaze, toshay.  Hey‑‑norill it do any good for Blue Qinz who's blue inhere to complain, "I thought we couldn't have the illusion of space," because he definitely has the illusion (of space) & God standing next to him, both floating in elliptical‑equatorial‑orbital range II‑III of this planet (which Qinz note with a sneer does not have sun‑‑only lots of cart**n l!ght; he can tell Qert used May in this one a lot a lot in one) which is the big purple face of Qert, an unnatural monstorsity illuzed to seem quite natural a monstrosity here.

"It's the biggest planet I've ever seen," gasp God, which irritate.  Well, wouldn't it irritate you to have God‑‑now get this: to have GOD CONSTANTLY MAKING DECLARATIONS CLEARLY IMPORTING HIS CLEAR & TRANSIENT LIMITATIONS‑‑huh?  Wouldn't that irispate & irrigate the whell of a hale out of you?  You bet your booties twould!

Well, Qert is big.  He's the only planet in what looks & feels‑‑& would measure out on instruments, if they had them handy instruments id they had them handiong instruments if they but had them here instruments here handy‑here, for because of course any "instruments: in the false "space" of a stor would be as mixed up illusory as they‑‑as your eyes‑in‑a‑stor, of corse, or your instor‑ears daccore, oror yor storic brain abor, you‑see‑you‑sor‑‑like a galactic‑sized space, empty of everything.

But this one big face, beyond‑worgs hideous, & with what is evidently a most cloody & turbulent and‑‑get this‑‑purple atmosphere (at least we see nunothing for a time but the purple of time in the atmosphare),  keep schoking & schorming with emotions.  It's in a massive pout, its "cheeks" swolling out as if there were megavulcan ossities in there, on either side of the horthern nemisphere as the frow cries, & its "lips" stretching for what must seem to be thousands & thousands of miles around the Sub‑Equatorial Trough that this cloudy buff made uph, just to be this big emotional world ("You've gotta lov him for that," says Qinz with enough love to blow out the shadow of God at his cugh like a fingerclught, whereby doth Qinz beam & gleam in ininsininuated love.  Clearly he's enwrupped; qeerly inhe trupht; serely, he's going to have to land on this world, & his mind stu stux, notthinking Now how are you gonna shoot THAT???)‑‑possibly some involution ocean under sheemy druphs of clough producing that yfect.  You can generally bet it's been well‑researched‑‑althought not by Qert of course.

Qinz's vapowring in toward his big defeat.  He doesn't care.  Qert may have phantazed pazt his own intentong zere; he mave transqunead his own engenuious here, for as a planet he simply froths with emotion, & the translation of these emotions into this planetary face equapes to the sheer hypnotic underpunge of Qinz‑‑the mesmeric layer built into every botic by legality necessiyi, & yet well protected...up to thus‑‑so he's caught up in the very waves of friendship he's enticed to kill entrak tooqilpt.

& so.  You think too that such a planet, qua planet, must be terribly stormy enturbulent below.  So Qinz is really gonna lose this show.  Nor can God Who Is The Floating Shadow God Of seen once above ever help.  Now can the Uthor cry fol.

Qinz's face change shapes, & Qert almost out of orbit goes.  "Be right back," Qinz says hastily (Is this legal? wonder Planetary Qert, Cosmic Qert, Qertoid Qert, & Heavenly Qert), & he pulls his face back from the stortissu it is presstin too.  Turns out that's how you "enter" a stor‑‑you press your mug against this soft oval oval oid of tissutissu oid, which give way like slowdown water & forms itself, not to the face, but to the bustles beadabib on that face on the skin concentric swelves of that which has gone round you.  Then you see as in a stor.  That's how it's done, all of a sudden.  Hmp.  But Qinz is too much in a hurry to question his method of waking up from the stor (this is tricky)‑‑too self‑centered, if blunt begnowme, for the self‑questioning of the waking up from this dream of stor.

"Sure you're not just playing into his stor, Mr. Qinz?" weask.

He waves us soff.  "No time," he cries.

May's in her cell & all is sapy & wol.  Oyeh.  This is the small, cellulose, mintyscensced version of the cartoonist's giant studio in which she starves herself in This Version of the Dream‑‑& she in't this strange being awarin them skins as she was for Qert, but a plain, earthy, doubtless anemic little slip of a young gal, but smarter nor a whip, Nora Whip, who is right now sitting languid on her spool as Qinz graps her hand & drafts her for the stor.  He can do that: Leg All Ye.

"Let's go!" he says, & she giggles much more rapidly than thought‑potsible.  I mean, it cometh ver fast & it blip out instantly, an unveritabule microguig.  Yea.  She flies weightless through the big tissue, whish tizzyou having evidently followed Qip, & have obligingly omny (or night marish ly?) grown big enough this times to leap into, wish they does, she wrapt stoler in his arm...

Keep in mind, if I may interpose what you must for a mose, that Nora Whip, or Nor Athe Whip in what‑ev‑her guise, is always anxious to proove to her self if naught the gaughgs that she dares anything.  It's just that a cartoonist, in whatsomevor giguise, have precious few opportunities to cast herself, I mean, to depictureself, orather, to be brave OK.  So she goes.

Therefroe Qert, who is functioning as a helpless big ol moon, gets to observe this lovey‑dovey matchless purple seen (straight out of some of Phluorib's phials?  Know what I mean?  Know what I mean?), with Qinz successfully wooing her in time at least as focused as that laugh, & breathing fast, & emoluments & vapours heady‑di‑hi, a‑and expensive eyes & Qinz (This is abit muxt, whumadoresqert?) playing fabulous lovestumes on a glassy braceless violimn, & the woman asigh & present her hand, & the music manic multiphuolde fuldemuptimfode, & the kiss, itself a major motion pic, against the beams of the moon‑‑& Qert can't help but notice in his tormeant how he forgot to put eyelids in his universe‑‑which is the punchline.


Spreads like magnesium till everyone's aflare‑‑Imaflare, youraflare, hezaflare, sheezofaire, eckcepturah's‑‑this the form that the killing took in the planetary storoQer.

(In his view, on replay obsessively replyd, we see, O we see wesee, she was that bare grainy bonething to he, & somehow that made it worse for him, on account of the risch‑drepe Romanticism of the sceme, I guess.  I don't guess.)

Here the shot of Qert going nova as he lose the stor:

Qinz notice Qert's in tears, & for some reason this irritates the living shit right out of him.  He pulls his head right out of the drawerful of underwear he's been rummaging.  A small pair of panties hangs from his nose.  He SHNEE!!  & it flies into Qert's coolly outstretched palm.

(Why coolly?  That's what I want to know.  I mean, we have gone this far‑‑this far in‑‑& suddenly he is in cool tears.  What's this business with the cool cool tears?  What's this cooltear zrub?  What's this bip?)  Qert does wipe his eyes.  He really does.  I have image on't: it is the One True Thing in this story, that hecry doeshe wipe himeyes.

Agreed, then.

"Well, don't get so tragic," is that which is what Qinz says, & makes as if to roll its head away‑‑you know, terminate its gaze, scan the tessellated tiles of its attention elsewhere, flow a few solid‑streams of sineflo in another direction, deradiate the tearaeting face of its friend, whom it was hating now with the hate you feel only for the dearest friend you have ever had in all existence when the pain existence cut through & you hate with all the leftover will you thought you'd ditched but had but had stored in stored in side.  But that is only metaphor, & that which is what Qinz says says: "Metaphor, Metaphor‑‑All is Metaphor!"

By wish I mean tomb‑ply that Qinz cannot stop looking at that face, can't stop staring into these tears, which have a special magic or a spatial matic or a spagial manic or a spaxialmazzik known to tears that have so to say been wrenched from their universe, not precisely tears (precisely tears?  don't make me shout!) precisely tears so much for if I may emphasize for the universe lost or any of the beauties therein‑‑for these are cause for joyous love, not tears‑‑but tears more precisely tears squnitnig themoot for absolute perfect lack of any cause.  Vacuum‑cause, & this would make anyone cry‑‑precisely as you wish, & as beautiful.

That seem to be what's got Qinz so mad, if I may probe at the psychologic depphs of this mos' profound o' characters.  He hates falling in love with his friend's dead tears (did I mention they were dead tears?  My God, I forgot, didn't I?  I forgot to mention these were ddead‑ddead tears that Qert was crying, & still is, what with the emolative blation of time.  Like I forgot to tell you, & it's too late to revise!  I forgot!  I forgot!  I forgot!) which now have the absurd & hideous beauty of creation stripped o cause, which is esotearic as hell, but "it's the beauty of the deadness that will drive your killer mad."

Go ahead, pause.  Go on, let's pause.  Go right ahead & watch him go mad right now.  Just close your eyes...

See?  He went completely mad.

& to the now‑mad Qinz, each tear seemed as if it were a world‑‑& not one of your greasy little stors, neither, but real & actual created places, univerts, not little tricks like that one with the cops flowering like villi everywhere or traps like the Dead Stor or mere curiosities of profound emotional dephts, such as your Qert's early works‑‑but universes with their own infinite intricacies of causation, randomity, structure, fine wisps of sense‑‑the entire blit.

He was so mad they had to stretch him out, but it was a worry, as they had no places left to put him.

"Let's like give him to the gods," someone suggested & was immediately strucken dimb.  Everyone sat in the firestorms of stors & storms of storsand enwatched the flicering tears.  They all sighed, smiled‑‑not driven like Qinz as mad‑‑but were silent, stunned, hypnotized.  & Qert kept on crying for an endless loop of time into time into time.  That's our stor for thevening, kids.  Now sleep so daddy kill you in the trauma of a dream that blear tween universes.  Then you'll see.

In which that which Qinz says relates its dreams.

"Qert was wearing a big white QINZ big white T‑shirt with extra armholes for his oxtra urmhules, such that the T‑shirt was much more like a skeletal umbralla than a T‑‑a skembrirt, forsooth‑‑& it had the famous idealized version of the face of Qinz As Heroin‑‑qeroinz forzooph‑‑done by La Artiste, which is the new nom the erstwhile "cartoonisht" hidnunder, Maybeam taking on some of the finest airs available in this {new corporate univerts} starring Qinz made possible by Qert & brought to you by the good folks at GOD., INC., & enjoyed by everyone.  Relished & savored by everyone.  Heated to a radiant sheen & ARE by EVERYONE.

"Qert's old eyes would just about fill with tears, & I really mean a botic sighs can fill with veritable tears, true & blushful tears, friendship tears too bashful for propinquity, tube‑tears to be cwied outswide the swector of the zwone, savor‑tears shed from the glowfromp of the tube of the screen he wishes Qinzes exploight‑sonn, coagulant gleamy bushfel‑tears torngout of the grandiose Heart of Tweers, sweeping scuretiers not of the Sal Variety Not Of The SALT Variety


for he was really feeling really the real love really for real Qinz really he really held real in really all areallylong all those enginyears in the enginyears in the stors

and the little enginyears INSIDE the little stors, & sometimes yes the littler microenginyears inside the stors inside the stors & also the inside doubt enginyears hanging like dewdrops across the anguished brow of the insighd‑oubt stors, known as flupscrots, or tuoedisnisrots, none of which Qert ever ever made.  He said they are only lost records lacuniaic regist.ring th.s: nobody cares what Qert thought anymore.  No body knows.  It is not in Mind, understand?  OK?  We are in deep deep apathy here‑‑& that's apathy twice‑deep dear apathy deepdeep totwice, uK?

Dear Apathy {relates that which Qinz says in Qinz's written dream},

Qert's eyes keep flowing with tears.  I am wondring if we could get some sort of science‑fictional Automop™ in here, unlets you would prefer a fantasy version fantasy vergion fantasy vergium.  Of course those seldom work so well.

But anyway, he's frankly mad about Qinz, seeing Qinz idealized in all these extraordinations of His Former Stors‑‑it's really like doing a bunber nobim, & I fear not for his sanity but health...I mean, for his sanity I fear, his intactness, or something.

Am I the only one who thinks we might need him again?

I digress but.  I cannot help it‑‑I love that bot too much.  & he loveth Qinz too much, & poor Qinz is Qinz is so caught up, I don't think poor Qinz had any emotions that can keep up with his velocity, you know, so I think Qinz is running through eternities being recorded & broadcast to these {guggy little gods} & piling up an {enormous cosmic debt} of Emotionality.

Some day he's agon na flail‑‑someday despite the compute‑modalities, the technogalidies, the corporate help from All Fronts‑‑known as allfronks, vorzoorth‑‑he's agonna fail, fall down, miss a beat, or otherwise slow himself enough that just one tendril of that {amoebic monster Emodin} flowing like something giddy between a liquid & a gash behind & afterim

will reach out & just get the {slightest molecular purchase} on his ankle, just come into tangency with the outer rim of his energy aura, despite all‑everything

and then your Mr. Qinz will be gone, Mister God the Uthor Gaug, Mister Qeater, Mister Uberqert von Uberqanz, Mister Smort, Mister Goodogod, Mister Smuff.  He'll be up in something much less blinding than smoke...I mean something mush mere blining than swoke...I mean he will be eaten by his motions as his emotions are eaten here, by such as Qert only lower, Mister Tweer, & you'll be in a Wilterness of Stors Witout Kno you un der stand?  You'll need your goddam bot icgain.

So I am worried here.  This letter here in the mibst of this sector of the novel here expreff my sfeorzOK?  S'Qert blubbering up a storm even as I speak‑‑& even his blubberforums have that Qert Magikality that makes others in his midst worp to the slaga giv his theers.  His skembrirt's getting all fanaticosh.  He's villing the TV room with warsch, don't you gedit?  S'griepf, utter griepf, for his "friend."  Seem you forget this "friend" save him through seven torturously countem faultseaven, zuh?  Huh?  Hnh?  Enh?  ENH?

You forget.  I remain

writoff in dreams,

Your That Which Qinz's Says

Relate in Dream

Next morning, in the shim of that which dream, smiling with the wisdom that she know he is in love, "Now, drink your milk, Qert," his mother said, & little Qert was fairly burning with suspiciousness.  No, it was hate.  He noted that the milk was burling with rust & that there were {deep green clouds} floundring round her head.  He noticed that she Had No Face, that she was turned away from him because that's the way his mother was Always Meant to Be, & his little lip (aww!) curled up in perfect synchornicity with the burling of the rust color in the milk expressing the young man's contempt for the gods who thought he would be so fooled‑‑even if they made him a child, just a child‑‑by a mother with no face.

Face?  Hell, she barely had a head.  She was always faced away, as I said, & there were often as not at least in this short‑looping short‑loopining scenene those angry green clouds eating at her head, like the greenwing edin sect, the Tapnib of Jeek, so small & so foully congregative that they form these green clouds.

Clouds that eat the head.  Clouds that eat you dead.  This cloud was eating his mother's suicilver head, which looked like some half‑completed spaceball.  Indeed, if one imagined this as occurring on a much larger scale‑‑which is the sort of thing that {freshly tortured kids} drinking poisoned Milk of Somnesia dream fuckin readily‑‑such that his "mother"'s "head" were some orbiting supersatellite half the size of a halfsize standard moon (imagine that: * ), then you could see the guywires strung out a widthless glint in the supersun, further toward the right side of her head, or let's say the planetary side o' her Orbiting Head.

"The planetary side o her Orbiting Head."

Thank you‑‑we see some of the main girders, a thicker glisten in the borealik sky, & further "in" still  the imperfect tessellation of silver squares, the actual material by which someone thought to make this satellite we've found in this {heretofore unexplored system} setting off the novel about how Qert comes to question the existence of his mother
hence Civilization Falls & the station is left orbiting the autoband madly playing its big bow‑curlicues & tuba‑fooneroos & spangles gilt across the silver of the old dead, the old dead head, & the small inhabitants leave & love dies & the milk curdles grey as that {constantly hissing rain} that constantly hshsing RAIN back on Jeek‑‑the very selfsame self‑reflexive (thoughtful (thoughtful) rain) rain thatthat feeds that green cloud Hatred for your mom, the Tapnib mysteriously small, lit‑winged, communal, & bugs is all, without mothers of their own awww.

But on the other hand, if he drank this milk he might get to go out & play, assuming the concept OUT has any "play" any "'more.'"

Qert drinks the milk & gets out one {truly horrific "Mother"} eriz throat bloat Udderly Out & he dies & he dies & he dies in the repetitious way designed by the repetitious i.e. sensual e.g. sadistic gods viz. gods cf. gods NB.

Afterward the mother turns‑‑twirling on her one heel (my God, the woman has only got one heel!  Rupert, this is grotesque!)‑‑like a little princess, her small voice albeit lost all‑be‑it in the cloud, & chirrupts, "Ta‑da!," so silly & proud of herself.

"Aw Ma!" Qert would no doubt say had his mother not killed him.




That box is OK.  That is not one of the many dangerous boxes that infes this & all other universes.

That boix means time pass.  To be more accurate, TIMELUNGE UNTO OVERDRIVE!  To be exceedingly acrate, time ZOOM, time WARP, time spim dizzily by.  Time rips its head off in haste.  Time in time.  Time wastes.  This is what time is to a kid, see.

& we really need some lights in here, in this pre‑storic cave.  There is nothing but the dust left by the unnamable things that eat color, eat love, eat lust.  Very fine stuff.  I know I like it: I happen too‑due.

Underneath the which is a face.  All grey.  Plated.  Flat.  Falat.  But the ik=mage comparator sees it right away & flashes us the answer incandense‑the‑cave: "Yea, it's Qinz, all right.  Though you can barely raze him beneath the woman's make‑up.  One of his best jobs, I'm told."





"Beg pardon, Sir?"


"Never mind.  You want to raze the corpse, right?  You want to whip out that razorblade you've been carrying this whole trip & cut this Qinz up a bit?  Huh?  Huh!?  You you you youngsters are all alike, unless not, in relation to your ah sympathies for  Qert.  I don't think he..."


"Beg pardon, kid?"

"I was just awonderin', Sussir..."

"Yes.  Out with it."
"Just who are we, uhSir?"

"Huh?  What?  Here we are in the face of the biggest duskovered face in this intire expedition, & this whippet's asking dipshit fragas?  Hu‑hu‑HOO!"

"But who are we‑‑in relation to the story, I mean?"

"'In relation to the story' the little cunt says!  Heh heh heh!  Nice try, Qert."  BZAP! go the gun & Qinz dust stoft his big face & puts it on.  It's way too big.  It looks silly.  He spin zonhis heel andre zerts the stor.

At home, as always, Mom is gone.  The authorities stand round in perfect blue.  They have many wrinkles in their head‑‑this detail someone worked on very hard‑‑but their clothes lack judgment; I mean, their clothes wrap lack ingwrinkles see; their Authority Uniform resemble ik=mage projections of special {Ik=mage Protection Clothes}.

But as I said, the face was the face of a very old man.  Little Qinz & Qert‑charmingly smutty, exchange a glance.

"You boys have been screwing around too much, amongst the stors," the old man said with his arcane diction, doubtless meant to seem wise yet friendly (to these two, so cooked out of friendliness or any conceived degree of the concept feel of friendliness!), & he had his lower jaw in full thrust & his dark eyes in action, & were Qert & Qinz not Qert & Qinz not totally insane by now they wouldha' respon dead‑properly with full cringe, three‑quarter cower, wince one, & flinch to.  But they did not flinch to.  Totally unconscious & surrounded by streams of steam, they kept giggling in their silver suits & pushing one another.  They weren't paying a bit of attention.

"You two fools have been deceived too much," the old man said.  It was his job, in this scene, to disapprove of fantasy.  Always you will find, in any fantasy, there are those implanted as a joke I guess i'the fantasy who‑is function‑is to disapprove of the fantasy & to punish th' essence o' th' fantasy & to make it disappear.  This is a part of the structure of fantasy.  I can't help that, anymore than can the dying green hurricane.  You like my image?  My image like you.

Anyway, he didn't seem to be upset, xactly, & he kept on talking, as if either the two botics heard him or else someone was watching on TV.

Someone was walking on TV.  I don't know who they were, but they had very large faces, balwoombic, & were a very dark degree of bluish green, & they leaned in close to their little TVs‑‑which didn't have much depth‑‑& they seemed to be eating these things like images that spewed out from the V.  They were leaning toward the screens like excited geeks & munching, bobbing their bodies furiously, & what they had of expressions indicated they were quite rapt.

But Qinz & Qert had attained to a new degree of something.  It wasn't exactly freedom‑‑they were subject to punishments & duties, after all‑‑but it was a sort of goofball obliviousness that came about apparently from all this hunting down & murdering in the stors.

The old man checks over the record.  Maybe he's hiding his time, hoping the two clowns will stop to clown or running gout off clowin.  He look dismal 'bout the record.  His face turns into a misty swamp, ill‑lit in the fog of racial stars.  He shakes the swamp off the feature of his head & frownds.

Then he sees something that amuse zezee.  He pause minching on his big sendwhinch

in which we see, like the fluorms of an un‑wanted fantasy, all those little balwoomfaced bluegreen darkleand Oriental V‑twatchers kicking & being munched

and his face be Dramaticallys Litsup by a dramatic gold sun from the storic stock of or heavenly stockoff Dramatic Golden Zuns, a sun beams right up from the fog clearing from the swamp in the letters on the page of the record of their deeds.

& we see we see we sudduddenlyly seyee just why our two friends-o-been so idiotically & suspiciously carefree.  The record the old man's gooning at‑‑placed with a respect bordering on the gooey, bound in a skin the sensuoushnush of whusch borders on the jeangener‑creamery, into his hands by Polite Little Qert at beginning of the meeting back in the memorywrap before this time begans‑‑that there book was like a trap conceiv edbyQert & implant edbyQinz, & so they have outfoxed the Master once for all.

They have.  You can sense it, first in delicacy‑‑quivers of almost febrile euphoria in his eyes, then spreading in perceptible gold‑electric forms across his eyebrows & down in animation major lines of his cheeks, lightening cheeks, then little gold dots acrox the tops of his whiskers hoar, then a fantastic metal filigree of


gold gold all over his whole head, spreading quickly dowon the nerve tubules of his body, then expanding beyond the horizon of his body & into the energy fields, not so much of his biologic body as of the perceptor fields netting round his body in order to put him on the self‑deviec‑V we saw T‑ceived inself insan whichly & then blowing out not just the vision but the entire concept of the room in blazions & baziums of goodol gold imlight.

& as the room goes so go zQert zQand zQinz inz nz.  They fall down the Normal Hollow Tunnels that howels you back to consciousness when the Uthor of Oll Bying don know where else to go, what else create, who to me, how to die, oror why why why.

"Pretty spextakular, Qeret," giggled Sqinz as they roll through the empty space.

Qert agree, but he too fraid of his friend to gree.  He needs this bot bot there this paina sociate with such a FANTASTIC FRIEND & the pain make him, Qert, spim silently, with but one residual giggole ertoo, & not return the compliment in any way to his murd'rouf friend, who really for Qert represent a power much beyond any of th'lusions he have blazed zaway  sos to empfool the foolery.  Nope, Qert's a but crippled till they land on the black empty grasses of the grasses of the Eden.

The Sun of Eden smiles, et cetera, only this time it's a blank‑‑a smile, as it were, with no lips behind it.  We are in some stor, I reckon, but there is no face pressed against that starry nigh, no guns in the blues of bullets that are fired like wind.  Qert's lost, or else he doubled back...

Many concerned friends‑‑other botics, such as Quu, Quh, myself, Quib, Quop, & (in a pinch) Qedapinch‑‑looked to help him out.  Petitions were signed & (this in error:) stuck in the Suggestion Bot there to be lilted down, waftstyle, all in a styllic leaf, leaf, leaf...

Each of us tried to find him, but as you know difficult systems of image‑fitting were required to focus Qert's phile.  No surprise there, as it had been designed by the gods to incorporate their entire goodlooness.  Actually, each & every explorer of the file disappeared, & in this I include my scholarself, leading us to believe that inside lay multicolored mountains of vast design‑‑mountains thick as dripping paint, palette‑mountains wide as a discus of stars hurlt throughout the true intergalxis, milking its entergy with a wide‑velocity spim too vast to measure.  No one knozes because as I say the initial intrepids disappeared‑‑lost in that vastness beyond the vastness of any file, no doubt‑‑& no one's left to do it.  The gods gave out.  No one left to do it.  No one home.  No one here.

We learned to explore only the soft, small outer regions.  We found homely garbarafage & junk there‑‑mere Qert memorabilia & of absolutely no significance to anyone other than one who loves Qert more than anything.  Of course that's a danger, as you've learned we learned‑‑a danger in relation to the makers of stors, such that one falls in love with the image of the stor one‑zin.  & Qert's stors were‑‑well...special stors.

So despite its insignificance (I chuckle just to thing gabout!), I kept poking & probing around this these steaming sweaming ga‑DUMP, spoking my fine blue foot‑inhere, my fine blue foot in there, lifting my flattened deviceries shiny as life‑kitchen juicers strainged their guskets up to gangrenes of steam & veritable putrescences o rime (qel steamin rime!) to keep the double halves of the double halves of the ik=mage the fiendish gods implanted into Qert ere his memory died.

Chuck‑chuck‑chuck‑chuck‑chuckle!  (Sorry‑‑just thing ginga about.)

Me & my fine blue too.  Twas created by the "cartoonist" Beam, May of Qert's memory‑in‑reality no cartoonist at all but a fine bioliogest, a mighty fine bioliogest, who sketched this up in her super‑ink, which is swink that gives you biodimensionality to a T wink‑swew, chuckle‑chuck, & gave ut entoome to "wear" or serve as my toe on my fine blue life‑design‑ed foot for tosplore Qert's galaxy.  That's what we called it‑‑Qert's Galaxy.  O, we were falling in love faster than light you know it, & we had that precipitous breathleshnush of heart O hort A heart U where you can observe yourself falling, faster than light, but observing the cool bepurpled limes of the light as she  s t r e t c h  h e r s e l f  into one vast manic vertical cavity down which what's left of the body of your heart zips zpiz like the momentary eremorn pang of a promise lost, not in memory, but in complications, complications that you watch & even laugh at with a pang as you watch.

Or "observe."  In one pile of old rubbish I found the original compact that Qert & Qinz id signed.  Theid sign dit, quite cute & either an anachronism or an indication‑‑the first so far‑‑that the story of Qert & Qinz & their war of stors goes back went back gong bok much fiercely harder than the very toof o time, ip I moight wax into the Metaflowr of Qime which give its title to the searching spatial work known as The Metaflowr of Qime which has nothing to do with cwime nothing to do with rime nothing to do with chime chime chime chucklechuckle ja.

I was going to say, before I was so ridly entewoopdad, that they'd designed it in the ancient classical fashion of wholegroms of their whole heads‑‑brains icluded‑‑holeheds, brang‑zempuded‑‑in energy form such that, looking at the compact & getting bleary from its smallness & the consequent difficublearta focush & intensest detaiblear‑‑you could, as it were, read the compact in their faces, for the hologrum was such that the details & words & clauses & factualities & botics‑of‑the‑first & ‑second part heretofrorebegnome were much in the minds & thereby swuch in the fasces that you saw‑‑you ballwoomis head akoonging‑‑in this enntsiest little compact foulocust rather like your three‑D flims through the special goggles that bitwi yer Is.

So here was the original compact, much prized by the gods if the gods all hadn't got loxt, as small as a poshagxamp, yet crammed with the technical details necessary ensufficient toward creating the basics of a game, a world, in which worlds, games, could be played with microverses increated in‑adfanitumb, complete with rest areas & hideouts, emotional inwroughts & rideouts, the facef o dem too fremf side by side on the surface of the tiny original thing they'd signed with their foolushische "brains" as drarwn by cartoonoonist & smelling let me tell you ancient as hell.

Hell, maybe those two did go back to the inceptions of this comceptium of time.  & maybe not.  Only gods would know & they're not telling.

I sort of pocketed the compact.  My toe had a built‑in pocket which I fortunately had made up just now, so I spared the seed of this novel from posterity.  I spared its seed.  I did.  I swoon with love ensmuggery‑‑oom!

During my megayurs of pain, sitting on the garbage dump with the chickens & the flies, friend to the rats which came however black, lone crooner to the faceless, limp idmoon (a sea‑moon, a jellyfrisch stactillite, i'sume = short for I PRE SUME, just as socket as the sun, sssssssssssssssss...), I finly found the clause with Qinz in it.  I mean, the clause in which Qinz was contained, & not these rough, hollow simulacraha of hinz, as pooreggs ampl, "That Which Qinz Related," or "This Whisch Qinz Have Saib," but the true, real subsistent, rarefied Qinz, locked in the sweet little loop that makes soon murders of us all.

So ol' Qinz finds himself just obliged & compactually obligated & tied up all over the place.  Thus it is when a botic deal with gods & with (worse) creators ogods.  They made him go to the bustling metropolits of Par. XIV, cl. viii {Financial Statmint} & try to bust into the bank to see just what sort of fortune this most successful creator or stors had amassed.  & let me tell you, it was no easy thing to bust into that bank!  No easy thang, nossir!  A lot of force was required to get directly in, on account of the bank had these shields that made you rather go off to the side, see, so you kept pressing against the (perfectly clear, perfectly fair) concave door, & you'd find yourself waltzing down the street across town, whistling, full of cheer for everbody you meet, stopping to buy a bagel from the Umbrella Stop, humming, making strange clicking noises, louder & louder, until the police finally pick you up‑‑very pleased in their own right, yes, because arresting potential robbers of the First Bank Aqert was one of the most porofoundly true pleasures of any life, let alone the predominantly nasty life of policebotz in a fantasy world, lemme tell you.  These robbers were always found purchasing bagels & making a good deal of clickering sounds halfway across town, & you were always glad to see them, & sometimes their joy was just so gosh darn overwhelming that, heck, other criminals right there in the vicinity‑‑within the joy horizon‑‑just plain turned themselves in, gosh darn it, just to be nice, or stay near the bank robber, whose brains as you could tell had been sliced off in crescents off to various neatly‑aligned parts of town, wherein they could be picked up, their locations indicated clearly on the clear & perfect concave banky door.

Judges always let them off.  Judges turned green & robes billowed up into nothing at all.  That's all.

Well, sans judges & with our Special Purmit from the Gods‑‑Qinz were quickly set free.  He applied a bit more force to the door & found ourselves walking the shores of a vast & liquid lake, Liq Laquid, I believe, whose shores were all this gritty dark volcanic material, which makes you wonder the nature of the liquid, & the sky seemed capable of immense & blinding cold, of bleeding cold bleaching the bloot too froxt, of cold riming told timing fold miming coald, and, in short, of keeping you trapped wherever the hell you were‑‑which turned out to be some antarctic region that happened to have a lake o liquid under a dome o heat above which was a cold just grimacing to get at your ass, yessir.

He had to send for rescue & meditate on the lake, whose imperturbability reminded us consciously n constantly of our guilt, our guilt, our guilt‑‑so he ware awfully oggam glog of reckscue & aware that, though this attack on our souls & further exile indicated some progress in cracking the door, we were not especially anxious to go on.

But the gods didn't have to wave a compact under our nose for us to goes.  This time we thought we were going to broke.  This time we really sent the forces into the bank to crack to bank...

& there we were‑‑in the vault!  Not such a tough critter, after all, unhuh?

Except this: there is nothing but dust in the vault.  Or to but at another ray: excepting this: that there is no thing but luminescent bonedust ground to something blow the threshold of tolerable pain in the vault, pain in the vault, pain in the vault & your mother trying to grind your little wobbly todderbomes to exceptional duxt: Thuts: we're really in dutch.

Really.  For this looked like Qeret's last wall of defense‑‑& keep in mind always that this was a master stormun here.  We might be contained in just one tiny crystal in one of the safe deposit bots.  We might be in the actual dried heart of Qert, or might may even be fired down one of the guts o Qert's own dimensional shutes, which I've thought about & toyed with ever sincy my botic infancy, which is possible on accounta Qert could always slooze wiff time you see, so he could make an ik=mage & seed it part of your deepest passed, which is quite a weapon here for a bot who'd shot his friend countless times & every time with this lousy god‑issue gun.

Also, just for flum, we might een be in the vault, unable to see for the duxed.

Able even perhaps to see his stuff, but be unable to claim it.  Its like we've been cruelly trapped (cruel Qert!) & possibly even become a part of the vault, become some of the contents of the vault, like the other breakers‑to‑be in.

Certainly spolaims the bones, duth it naught?

Oh, dear...

"Quite a prize to get you in here," grinned Qeet, which one supposed was the spectre of Qret.

"Like you to have your spectres round," said Qinz bitterly.  He looked around, don't‑supposing no hope of rexque hyar.

Qeet grins on unsuspecting.  Dead, you know.

"This strike me as a lod bedder dan jus shooding you again & again," laugh Sqeet.  "Look roun you, Qinz.  Look roun you.  Look.  {Mayb some glitch in the run?}  Go ahead‑‑open some of the boxes.  Go ahead.  You can see what you see, & then die slowly."

Qinz feel kind of rotten, kind of heavy in the pit, if you know what I mean (an if you don't Qinz feel so fine‑‑so it your feeltee faults sick, KK?), but since the qerctoplosm'll go on talking as if he were looking over the fortune, & since this was Qinz's compact‑‑assuming some poggibility, with Qert dead & being dissected again & again & again, of rescue, hum‑‑Qinz pull open tee long drawer of a box & see light run in her characteristic sisterly light mother blue fashion into the depths of the depths of the bankand slam at shut.

"I've got special juels.  I like them," the spectre of his (Qinz can tell: rather young & callow at time of recording) friend can tell.  "I could have anything I like.

"One other thing I like {and Qinz is trying to locate it, but he can't keep up‑‑this is just like one of those how‑to‑cook tapes or exercise tapes, isn't it‑‑don't you uthink it is?  Huh?} is deed & compacts & ownership sorta stuff."

& here the here the helpful spectre pull one out‑‑just whips one into the air, very large, so Qinz can settle back down into the dust of the bones of his predecessors & cry in the very ik=mage of his friend finally successfully murdered & so torturing him byond ruepair OO‑K?

"If you follow this line of the compact, Qinz," & it dawn zon Qinz that the ghosts saddressing him by name‑‑arguing a program of intriguing sophistication or else


"'ll see it lead you out along a very brightly sunlit path, spewnin wiph snake, in the sun of the Pyrenees.  See?  See?  S‑e‑e?"  the voice become zechoic because he followed the long luminous ik=mage thum=kmage of his firends & find himself fwee, stwipped of compact, guilt, & vault, & walking galong, not the path the spectre said‑‑which might bing mionoturd‑‑but somewhere entirely & wounderfully else.

Qinz's found Qert's leetle hideout.  An excape for Qinz made back before the guilt made the hate real & the hate made the murders into real & actual GUILT (=FOUL PLAY).  The bastard's fooled his dead friend‑‑again!
So the gods and
the real Qert
scour the
Pyrenees, whilst
Qinz lie
tirely elts
zand zdrugged
into "movie
hypnotique" o
Qert, whisch
make his stors
seem sorbid dy
compair o.

"Qert.  Qert Bottotic.  Yea, I remember him.  He went on to become a god, didn't he."

This was stated as a matter of fact, & not asked.  That's why I didn;t append a interrogation point, so get off my back.

It was a rhetorical answer.  It had questions going back in a wavery line which went back far enough so that it touched Qert as the infant he was in his own Implant Fantasies Infant & intersected with his identity.  Rhetorical questions being highly dangerous in the Intraverx: they tend to backlash timeback & lash‑in, as they sayback, with the personal identity of the closest available referent to the question


The "answer" to the "question," which bears the same relationship to the "question"‑‑itself unasked‑‑as the current "self" of the being serving in this illustration as the "answer" to the question bears to its "infancy," which is pure synthetix‑‑very pure, as a realm of synthetics's likely to be...synthetix perfect, pure, & beautiful, & there's a schizoid i.e. reflexive title if you ever read one, A?    

"Yea.  They say he a god now..."

"That'll be the day!"

"...and you can visit the tear in the intraverx fabric where they rip‑tim‑out..."

"Qert a god‑‑I never!"

"...a rip shaped rather like a dendrite, some say, though as you can say I never sayed it naw..."
"Qert's dead.  Not god‑‑dead.  Not‑god dead, dammitall!"

"...and filled with the clearest liquid you ever saw..."

"Do you hear what I'm saying?"

"...a liquid not synthetic, like everything else pointed out in here‑‑but quite real, quite organic, actually..."


"...They say you could drink that stuff..."

"You're not doing a terrific job of listening.  I like your description, understand.  I like the image of the dendrite & the concept of this liquid filling it, & like it's not being synthesdic & all..."

"...and maybe be translated into a god...and maybe not.  Death's possible, I suppose."

"But Bottotic's dead.  I killed him‑‑again & again.  I..."

Wherepong Qinz's disguise is rip‑pe‑doff (a stupid affair, really, glasses with a large false nose & a gusky brush of a moustuche 'sall.  You canna disguise a botic (with no face) like that.  It only made him seem suspicious, tacky, & unconfident.  You can tell as we haul him off to arrest that Qinz's lost his donfidnce.  The fantasy's too weird.  I don't blame him a bit.

"...a god..."

(Lessee...whas the penalty for like murdering a god?)

"...poor Qinz!  Besfrem to newgod kills his frengd!"

Word about anything rarely reaches these upper echelons or "god‑sectors" or head or grub or bug.  Dat antensification modalities have reached such a piglike pitch of perfection (dubbed "purefuction" by various medical‑wags of the midwog burseauctocracies) that

one (1) can barely stand to (2) hear, say, the time of day, alet lone the sort of complete rundown dawnmoss mub of mub, of milliards (000) of negabitz ovenergy that would convey rather after the fashion of an electroshock (dub "electoschlock" by 2 (to) other mediawrigs of the mediocratic vinge whoove been fired except that "fired" in thies whealm ream I mean mean being subjugated to an ectoplasmurk serge of meniscus‑vergimold "subsistence"

dupt "sumbsickstenks" by the icktoplausumurk vigovags oerwegged a parenthoughdigo

so that they are perpetually, like figures in a fungouse mirrim merem riooir, hanging oulver your shoulvre & trying to read the goddam maddog words before they've quite reversed your dnim.  So..oS.  These will stop you writing.)‑‑the thoughtless comprehension, compleat with paine, of everyvent in the halls of the Intraverx, in the whole system of stors, in the whole storic city known as Melmcitob.

No, these things which do not have the power nor status of gods but which seem to be running my entire subconscious‑‑especially in the absence of any adult gods‑‑have themselves grown etiolated & supersensitif, hypersophixtricated & megasubtlebe yond bresolve, beyond quite a number of numbers of suggestive conceptual "pales" (dibbed "elaps" by the gawgews of nonsensic triplerealms or not or not or not not‑not), so they really cahn't stahnd to hear about anything now.  They've become the real gods, the unnamed gods, following the rule which quite mysteriously hold shvaybe yond the intraroalms that gods to be gods must stay unnamed.

Why hell, if my logic be rights on this, or right‑un‑dis (or "hyondis" dubbord), we could like banish these gods simply by giving them clauses.  I'm streng temtored, eyam, & you are too.  Let's break for brunch & brink abroughtit...

...So the actual Burp Operationurps of the Burmegazurpsurps come to beurp hanurdlped by the lesser dubers we've been wagging goff here & there too intoo oother reolms.  Bp.  Seem swe've been namingim allalangue, no need therefore to name those already‑attenuasted bossos (zap! oops...) we've been trying to avoid cake voice dextro oater oid scribing the  scrillic lighyight which blindeth ye too pain, to paing, two pine, & which tell you triple to plugplugplug back into That Body There or Here Or ereH, plug bagk into that body & feel duh unnamed demons of sleep kick its ass, ha ha, ass.

Still, the message that Qert Bottotic got away came through, & it really sort of helped that the message was the biggest shot they'd gotten in many lengths of whatever illposs fourtime........

"Got away?" one of them ask, pausing in her pressing of an exquisite & I might add perfectly clare pietze of essentially liquid nectarfruit ygainst the perfect smoove bowl of her palette lit like limpid wings in idealized‑out‑of‑your‑skull‑glowing evening light, infatuate light.  "How did he get away?  How is this possible?  Huh?  I was not aware that things could work like that."

"Calm thyself, O god," snee the servitor, contemptuous in the manner of gods who are split in existence, as these gods & alla gods always ore.  "It look like Qert was never your ordinary botic."

"No kidding!  No kidding!" answer the god, wrought up & flinging sectors of flute all over wrecteurs sruit.  "What do the technicsport?"

"The technics‑‑ah yes, the technics.  Ahhhh..." pacing.  Pause.  Quick nrut: "They're sort of gone," he said, a space against a slab of nonexistence, which is feeling very small, mechanical, small, mechanical, small.

"Gone?  Gone?" the god's into echolalia todalaliaay.  "Echolalia to‑day‑‑you think this is funny, ay?  Brimgem hither."

"They would seem at this point intraverx to be, um, unavailable."

I don't want to describe the following Rampage of the God.  Her tizzies involve, firstly, bumping her head against a wall held firmly in splace by two little cute fat dwarflike maginary thangs, to the point where her fruity brains splat out, then, secondly, the ripping the skin off of the unfortunate reporting this, er, unwanted news to her, & then, thirdly, philing a very long & ugly report, & then, forthly, creating a Fourth Courth for "The Said Report" to go to, & then fifthly two.

"In short," smile the judge of the Forthly Court, beaming truly not wise but mad, "Qert solipsed to use yer duberm, the technicians into his own ik=mage system..."

"That word again!"

"Echolalia reduplicative word‑bird again, so that whilst they was athinkin they was uh avivisectin & arobbin ol Qert a‑his ik=mages againa urdagain, they were in hehe 'reality' ahah absorbed into the selfsame phials again.  Am I right?"

"Except for one word, right."

"Which word, skinless one?  Which word?"

The silence draw a deep deep breaf, becoming a peerless elegant blue slab of nothingness erasing spaceupon‑‑space-upon-space-back-down-to-the-lower-levels like a‑baby bumpling‑dump.

"The word again, Sirrahladie‑‑ah."

"Again?" gasp the puzzled god.

Bottotic's Compact Breach‑‑the so‑called Said Breach or Brach or "Blaghh‑‑ach-ach-ach!"‑‑led to the following out of the flowing frag of summary.  Worshipped by many, worried by few, believed by none, trouvJ par les morts, zit goes:

This small version of Qert, crouches at the dripping pools.  Another May BeamCreation™, another marketing ploy, & yet this is really Qert here really crouching.  No, really!

Heynonnyno, the cave we're in harbor it light, the Lumescence of Stones so precious they have 'scaped 'ntirely from scars.  The cave, Mulbew, has a particular genius for husbandring this light‑‑he pour it out in boiled shells, which, being so soft & multifragranced, act hardly as shells at all but more like the {soft coaxing of wishes} that come in the night‑‑the Wishes of that {small blue child} you accessed off the low‑left input‑corner of you eye, soft, {boiled little kids} in the images of my.

Holy shit, what a thought! he thinks.  So he stares at the shallow pools in the cool lightcave with its hints of distant animals, or at least lower forms, as they say, in the queer shape stalactites & the low smoothness of the white stones he walk supon.

In this situation‑‑in this shape‑‑the details of the fantastic compact they have signed stipulate that Qinz must "wive his wet pal"‑‑that was one of the earliest Tiny Details, stipulated perfectly early on, a sort of ur‑clause so primitive (rather like this pwimitif Qert here Qert here hah?) it begin zike dis: "Ur..."  You can guess, I'm quite sure, that this clause emit when Qert & Qinz were friends afterfriend omit.

So inagonably tisit evity for nem now.  Repeat one million times, AGONY, till it zubzixt in an incandescent cave in the centre of your mind if you call this (get it?) mind.

OK now.  Onwiph show.  Qinz come not so much as The Healer‑‑which would be so much agony agony it might (just might) end the goddam show & send both botics hurling back along the infinitely stretching line that line that line that lead you back two gods.  Or so they claim.

QerznQint stare up at the big marquee with the bobboling lights spelling out Go Back Two Gods, but so you couldn't read it.

Sounds like a game, Think One.

Yea, Think Other.

They look nod at each other.

Neither bot wants to check that out just now.  Nossir!  So Qinz come as the botipologist and‑‑the adult to Qert's weeping choldirswize‑‑put a hand to that wet Qert head ("Is this head to be perpetually red?") & stroke his friend.  Ugh.  Stroke the head again (ugh) so that Qert glance & no more than glancesayseses...up.

& again strokes & again & again, over a period of time‑‑the cave dripping lovingly into the dropless knifelight nike, the boiled night‑‑till the Head of Qert 'sworn down like the holy stone, the one kissed countless irregular numbers zmaginary time, so great is the pleasure, so great the need, plessure in pressure, & it's quite a hopeless loop that they loop that they have here now loop that they have going at this loop that they have in this juncture going loop that they have round the edges of this loop at this time that they loop they they loop loop that they looploop have.

It is also a grotesque sight, what with Qert's head all worn down, so only the tip of his lowermost ramus is loop that they have at this juncture wearing down.

"There.  That fuckin heals!" laughs Qinz with a Drimp of Irony you cannot simplex spam.  Nothing can withSpamd.  Qert can't even say "Huh?" but he knows he's fucked.

Point to Qinz.  Technical decision on the part of the gods.  Match to Qinz with Qert totally pissed because he didn't shoot him.
The gods said Qinz had figurately shot him.  Match.  Brilliant irregular work, the laughing gods wrote in their Big Word Processors or their Big God Wordprocessors pounding out their Big God Prose using their BigGodSoftware version 5.1+™ for DOSH!®

leaving Qert azoft-before out in the dark, chewing O so sadly on his liver.





In the brach‑stor, Qinz fall into Qert's role.  I believe I believe this came about when Qinz, arriving at Said Breach, casually looked into the pool atwitch his victim was crouching.  He looked, did Qinz, into the pool

anddna yltnatsni emaceb treQ daetsni, os ereht.

But we're not sure of this is Qert's doing or some sorta ForeStoric Accident.  Or the doings of the gods, for itna rettam, who have untold unfallen doing doing in the untellingible doings of the erew.

Thus renegotiated, it Qinz, not Qert, who have been the savage lying under the waterfall for so eternally long (full roundels of millennia passed him by in his godqorsoqqm stor!) that his hair cohere in spiked bunched & thatched mats upingainst his skull to like symbolize the complex coverings (mind‑barnacles, in a form) of language he've forgot.

So about all you can get out of Qinz the Savage at this juncture here are grints & hereare gruntz: but THESE ARE NOT ORDINARY GRUMTZ.  Let me exprexx this unsuprexxedly: these are not the empty, emotion‑soqt sapurld grintz of the Normal Savage (on view now in the Qert Mewzay at a free commensurateedat in the city of Fee Qomnemsulaq Eraadedaq‑at), but sapslaped, surchuong eden vlopes of purestle, lostmostle languagle carryingle the Luckle Viewle down the palimpzexts of back to some of the very lost languages of gods that Qinz Oncet No.

Of course, they were not very good gods.  Goodgog!  they were second‑‑nay, thirderfurth‑rate edgods n goggexces with one of those lower‑linear languages to boot which expressed nothing more than the sort of filmy "sort‑of" sorta releases of godblowsed energies not fit I say to clear the late‑aft mists from the sodden Streets o' Desprexxium down in frowmtowem Xan Qanprescolt, where Qert have spent manyanour, I c'd tell you.

So Qert hap to drop back, stop stortime, & improvise.  He hap to plan out a rare stor‑oddendumb as hasn't been engineered in thirty‑twirteem enginyeers & as have been pruvim hazardoux in extremus in, O, too many textx to mentium, and‑‑said plands hanving bim drordnup‑‑gather his various Technicians, Cartoonists (exclunding May Beam, of course), Orinbotics, & Henchmums, to begin the acceleration of an Additional Annex to the Storio that will, once all the esoteric fol‑deed‑lofs have bun takin careough, enable the pryfhfrtat Qert to enter stor as a therapixt, to get Qinz back inz.

Snicker!  Whitecooted, waering green scrubs, Qert now approach primitive longforgottem Qinz (whoo you'll recall thinkk inasmuchh ass hee thinkk he'ss Qertt ass muchh the Primevole) with his bagi nand‑‑that small Doctorium Bag, by the by, the true fulcrim of this late‑reedited stor, way the way, calling for much the bulk of the additional software‑the‑ware what Qert & his "men" hastily had to enter into the Deadhole Centre of the Stor.  Now it didn't take up very much memory so much as it tookit ip just to have Qert get in there in his silly docswuit & and & pretend to be the be by way of Qinz, you by you see bi see, now did it, or would or wouldn't it?  Answer yes by yes or by or no by no, ha?

Of course naught.

So anyway, the bag have the gems in it, with which Qert quaparqua Qinz laboreath to "cleanthe the falthe memorieth bathed on the eceththive exigence of time(th)," so as to release poor Qinz over a period of decodds, at which, according to primordial progrorm, Qinz riseth up with the strength of true Qingth & the madness of the botic who see his douboticle & the power originally inhered twim in the original form of the bubble (slang fourstor) ubble & draws out the gun provided for but not erased in the Ions of the Qertodditions to the stor which have tho thoughtfully & like "mercifully sav ed‑old Qinz"‑‑the real Qinz now, I mean by I mean‑‑& shoot the doctor dead & all his descendants branching logy down the plasmurk like a nervecell roddin in time.

"Gads!  Why this fervor for the tropical? queries the first explorer.  He then removes his pith helmet & wipes his brow, or forehead, off, & points the telltale stars in his brow, or forehead, at his explorer‑friend, who hath half his size & twice inintelligence.

"You've lost your brow," or forehead says the smaller splor, & she wets a hanky with her tongue & run his forehead backorbrow.

They walk on through the forest, metabotic guns cradled in their arms in squalling purples.  "Hot stors‑‑forever stors‑‑are difficult to hunt within," she tells him.  She's breathing hard, but not for joy, not joy.  "One tends to forget who one is."

The man look worry ed.  "You mean 'forget whom one hunts,' don't you hon?"

"You mean 'don't you, woman,' don't you, son?" she rejoints, whereupon the big boob falls to the lushy ground & sobs him big hillopobbs, weeping, "We'll never find them!  Its hopeless!  There is no life anywhere!" etc.

She sits next to him, & she lights a fag‑‑though it hard because of the consternatiling dreeping of this particular stor, ifn it even is a stor, & not one of Qert's trapstors within‑a‑stor, or even Qinz's counterstor, a development.  Luckily, the Detail Technician failed to draw sweatbeads on this woman, so she look sweet, unmussed, & perfect‑‑a fact which her big son‑‑deciphering word upon word of this ascription & believing it‑‑note suspixualy.

She hand him a fag.  His eyes are kinda narrow.  He is green, it seems, or the creator failed to put any color ollr than green inheer.  When he puff the fag go outs.  She lean backs & give out one of those really phony groans‑‑a groan of politesse, a sympathetic groam, a goddam phatigrone, forsooth‑‑& smokes her fag, the meantime staring at the sun.  Need I say it is this emerald sun?  Look, look, look at the emerald sun?
"He's dying," she sayus, "simply," but by this time her son is sidalingaling‑‑or rather shluschalingalung‑‑wayfumer, his wet fag dangled in his moufthph.  "I believe Qerbotic be dying, lying in his own house, hallucinating wildly," she goes on musingly.  Puff Sirfag.  "And will die shortly‑‑hey!"

Her son run screaming through the forest, having had some sort of adfalts realization‑‑& let me step aside for just a mo while this storic chase goe zon, to interpolate ina klina wartor too on the dodgy subjunct of False Ideas of the Stor.

False realizations, goofy ideation, delusive cogitation, etc., are clearly illegal in the storic characters.  Notwithstanding this withering upstanding foct, that renegade Qert & his oistwhile friend, Qinz, would seem not only to have begun this forbidden bidnesh of implanting completely invisible wild bliefs or notiums aalongst the pathrays of the stors, but to have qarried it to the very point of infinignitgni regressnoi of infineti deceptnoi toward the postulated polyverse of infineti regressnoi in which nor gods nor competitior‑bots nor Friendlyly Murderdererers, nor one's bustling mum cun find the perpetrarots.  They are free, albeit trapped, you see you see.  Thas why it illegal, I recnok.

So this big chump‑‑some agent of the gods, some small‑potatseo enforceur‑‑have pass through the whiff o the false idea, & have gone mag thisayaw.  His mother, aware she is not his mother, stop & breathe a tib, & then stop breathing.  This effectively getser out of the stor, she think, & we think you mustn't think what she think of her son, He has de generated much, thinking he's her son, lost forever.  Many fruitflies here.

They are gagged & bound before the Forest Court.  "O, the Forest Court, the Forest Court," etc. go the anthems, & the Slick Tigress of Phony Groans & her Son, Look Look, at the Emerald Sun, accentuates her lean leg muscles through the leather tights & presents our botics to the Central White Court, God o Judgment D, as belikes to call, presidin.

"The Charge: Supreme Degeneration.  What you say?"

"Well, I'm not the only one who's degenerated," Qert tried to point out, but the gods were having fun, toying with him I suppose, gadding about like fruitflies. "Look at Qinz," & here we have to note that, despite their sadistic ways & the fact that the gods were not just fruitflies in this scene but the most beautiful little fruitflies I have ever seen, & I've beheld myself many a fruitfly having been somewhat the connoisseur in the many planes of existence, all of which have fruitflies brushing sweet against soft fruit, fruitfly soft brush foot, & I swear this, yes I do, as sure as words are to:

they were utterly ravishing in their little gowns (little gowns!  that fit pretty well!) of an opalesh‑pastel utter‑subtleness that brushed your tenderest thought(s) into their nesh, aaaahhh!! gods!, despite all this, I say, the torus in the air took on some of the images o' Qinz, en rap succession Qinz during the past gigillion stors, Qinz‑Qinz‑Qinz‑Qinz‑Qinz, like flipping cards, filupping cadrs, with only the Qinz‑glim o the eyes the same the eyes the same the eyes the same the same.

"Yea, there‑‑you see?  See?  He's been the same thin, pale adult in every stor for gigillions ostors you see!"

Well.  He seem stoo've got through.  VoilB Qinz, slouched like some punk called before the Board & not looking in qinz‑control at all (& Qert thinks, "Ha!"), but enormously enlarged & huge, & smart Qert narrows his eyes knowingly for the knowing cloe‑zrup, 'cause y'see, he knows‑‑O yea, he knows, don't he, tho', how themthere gods the godsloves love to enlorge, & not only does they loes toes enloesgre, but they also like to like emphasize that All Is Lusion, & startle ya, or if you wish to put itanother wray, they like to emphasize that they are completely in control of reulity, such that it is illusion

abstruse suble spuff like that, finding its filmination in the fact that Qinz, as he appear, in the hole of the torus in the air (or "air") of the room or "room" of the "gods" or gods is sit rahhthahh lihhke Zeus, hey!

in a giant chair, a sorta sotney thronofa sorta stomey chair of hugest por'rful slabs & slouching to one side & more or less like holding his great big head, & as I say the upshot of all this circumlocutory swaze iz that he's enormously normously LAGRE, o, LARGE o K?

& as I shay, not looking very much in control of the situation at owl

and this not so much despite his uncommon hugeness but possibly if I may be subtle‑as‑hell for a momeant, because he's so huge‑‑you see?  You see the su'tle distinction?  You see?  Is 'tworth a shit to see?  Hnh? HNH?  HNH?  HNH?

but unshav‑un n puffy, especially under the overmockedup eyes, those eyes, & without any of the glimt a‑tall, none of it, as if some evil force had read the last p‑graph & thought, well I'll just show those sonsabitches, yes I'll, I will cut out the glim from his eyes in my p‑graph, swill.

'Cause I'm the spirit of the p‑graph above.  (Whereupon the spirit of this p‑graph cast a spell.)  Whereupon one is cast out, & it's like death, except that after all the falling & the feeling of blood, the dire deel of blug, after the howling down corridors lit with the certainty one is going to Hell, or if not going to Hell at least hittin hard, I say hizzin hurg, unto the most brainsplittin paing you could imagine even gafter you ate of the fruit of flies ug & flew thereby through the gate of the fluute ofize‑‑after all of that, the glim's back in his eyes.

"Well, why bother to change," Qinz zizzayng, "when his stors are so pathetic?  God, I'm so disgusted, I can't even talk."  & (possibly cognizant of his giantsizedness‑‑is this fair?  We wonder...) of course he emphasizes his dusgustedness‑‑a common Qinzian defense, Qerecognies‑‑by rolling his head in a complux pattern & finally leanding it to reshed on his hands & sighs.

"There‑‑you see?" Qert sas, butyept evertime he sa, zis spatter with flies or lightdrops we thought a coupla pediagraphs ago were flies.  "You {sputt‑utt‑utter} see?  He's so goggled with guilt he he he..."  But he cannot get it oup.

Meanwhile the little Dots We Might Call Flies, except there are no flies in heaven, no fruitflies for the heavenfluut here, are doing a sort of parody‑mime worshipjob on Qinz, who seem exhausted n huge en huge, making occasional boinging noiges with lips, which are dim, glim, him.

THE JUDGMENT: "One way to look at it is this," says Judgment D, & then makes a structured series of increasingly ugly faces, each face exponentially uglier than the last, so that Qert was starting with alarm then whimpring oddily & then squeaking loudily anthence crying hideously & then screeching wailingly themnem scrawling right up the shiny back surface of the sliney green surface of the surface of the surface of the perfecemoove chair he was sittinin andzen shittininis parachute pants & then mogging these ugly faces by making faces of his own.  Qert's faces didn't look so scary.  Qert's faces looked like brains.  They were ugly, but...

"Or this," says D in what might be the ugliest face in any eing, but relaxing, slowly & by severe gradations (severe!) back down to his own smuph phwace, bland as yer mudder an blanly beggin yur pardon as poor Qert‑‑who hath landud behind the chair‑‑is left to clean up & get back setback down.

"You were {Ik=mag'd} for something far beyond any intelligence to do, & it has druv you mad," explains D, proffering the prabashed prexplorer a Perfect White Tube (P.W.T.) from a gorgeously, elegantly plain silver case with silvers beyond the silvers, recalling these faces(es) but with beautier enbeautier zinside, so you stared in in in at the surface of the case...

Until D slampsit down.

Qert would seem to've ta'en one on'm tubes. It make him feel mild & mos' precise.  He's aware this thing is a control device of the Depptres, but he doesn't care.  Taken care: that's the mark of a truly fine & excellent control device, like these fine purwitoobs there these these there: you just don't care.  That's why you see these tubelets everywhere, O you see these tubelets everywhere, yea, you see these tubelets everywhere.

These particular device make Qert real smart, too, & entirely convinced  that he suddenly perceives the entire nature of things.  This is not necessarily the mark of a good control device, but it is the mark O of a good interrogape device.  Clears the mind.  You don't (D don't) want your interogee forgetting what he's about, & like some characters like characters like Qert are ik=maged with ik=mplants to make them forget, & the purws are made to counteract that.

So suddenly Qert remembers everything.  His mind slices up the levels of reality, cutting through cardboard box after cardboard bwox, till he stands proud & gloaming in the most moaning most physical of the univerts‑‑the biggest & the solidest of all‑‑& confronts the Uthor God & nods, & his hand strokes the lovely purwitoob & sighs and...

D has to take the tube from him.  Qert quickly forget.

"Thangs a lot," Qert says, no longer above sarcasm & still feeling a little bit loquaciously gawdlike here.  "Thanks for telling me I'm mad.  I'll try to do better."

Pa!  But D is still at least keeping what the kids used to call "a surrfaxx colmnaxx" at least.  He carefully puts the pwtaway‑‑& I mean carefully, in the manner in which you might put away a small stonnic bomb, OK?  I mean very carefully, indeed.  Indeed.  Indeed!  It takes three novels' worthles o spurts o carefully time indeed for him to put it snugly imongst its corridor corrounidors, there in the tumidor humibor cubigor silveror boxadore, & then clap down the lid.

We have therefore excised the three novels dealing with D & his careful putting away of the purwitoob‑zokay.  We have taken the liberty of also excising the titles, words, latent ik=mageries, tracers, traceries, tracerease, Uthors, historical context, & all all bibliographic references to same. So if you want to read them, forget about it‑‑unless you relosh to deal with your intraun pirates ey irates ey ey?

"I can see why you're mad," offer D, who is mad, which make Qert madder than he even was that D had said heyuz mad.  Now in this paragraph mad mean angry mean mad.  "But it's true.  They wanted you‑‑you, Qert‑‑& your kind‑‑"

"My kind?"

"Don' tnrrupt.  They wanted you to collate enformation relating to the most complex (and, I might add, subtle) sentiences in Eing."

"The stors?"

Exaggerated, mild‑sarcastic nod.  "Stors.  We'll none of us ever understand the first basic thing about a stor‑‑let alone the interrelationships among all stors."

"The interrelationships along all stors‑‑gee."

"Don' rpt.  They wanted you‑‑allow me to laugh at this: YOU!  Hahahahaha!‑‑to collate the emformation & comprehend in your structure the nature of multiversal intelligence.  Howyalike that?"

Golly‑‑no wonder I'm mad.

"Don' thnk.  But this arrignment, as it were, Qert‑‑it explims your variable struciature, which I am sure you have notice by now, despite inhibitions‑‑also programmed in‑‑on reflexive cognitation on your ƒelƒ.  It explain your varm attitude toward ƒtorƒ, vhich you are ƒtriving to imitate in euch detail.  It explains your blank periods‑‑your periods of ƒugue, if you will.  {I will?}

"Don' terpolate.  Yea an it further 'splain‑‑to me, at least‑‑why you are totally mad.  Yep‑‑we've come back to mad again.  Don' takovr.  The impossibility of such little vermin as ourselves even beginning to comprehend one stor‑‑let alone the multiverxic nexus of stors‑‑well hey: it would drive anyone mad.  It would drive me mad.  It would drive your mother mad."

"I'll bet it wouldn't drive the Uthor of Eing mad."

"I'll bet it would."

"Would not."

"Would so."

"Would not!"





"Don' disgree!"



"Don' cnfuse!"

D take a few deep bweaps, during which the Uthor o Vul Yeeyng qount his cuotes.


"And in any sad event sadly there is no Uthor yov Yaing, close quotes.

"There is so!

"Close quotes.

"No there is not!

"Exclabatiun quotes

Quote quotes
Don' quote!"


"And in any case, it certainly did druv you, Qerd Boddodoc, mad, OK?  So you are adjuicatied Not‑Guilty by Reason of Mad."

"But you're mistaken‑‑you're Qert.  You are therefrore Guilty By Ream of Bot."

"Hmph‑‑obvious ploy.  Then I am not mistaken."

"Hmph‑ovious ply.  Then you're not Qert.  Not‑Guilt Bi‑Knot, I'd say."

"Who's not?"

Qert then.  Guilty but gong!

"What do we do now?"

"Space dist missed.  Now pray dunquote, I'd say...{Only don't dInquote'} say

Qert kept burning the contract over & over, but it cycled; it didn't help.  Qert kept himself warm by burning the intensions, I mean intentions, of the ones who'd made up the contract.  He formed little blue fires & held his hands over them in the traditional manner.  His palms waxed poetic‑‑they lit with intrigue & beauty.  He felt beauty honeying his skin, & his skin ran‑‑in the formal fantasy manner‑‑into honeylike rivulets fa fum disgusting, as you might have expected honeyrunning skin to be in past times when nature was so much stronger, so much thicker, so much more coagulate than she is she is now now.

& anyway this beauty, this deep yellow rich beelike quality that was buzzing through our Qertour in the substournce of thour substanceless memories' that the pursuant gods were trying to lay in him, this beauty tempted our boy Qert to melt his very hands‑‑I mean melt them for real, you know, being as how the basic substance of any stor that Qert dweltin was or were or war or wur hus wurhus own creation, it might just melt into substanceless.

But would that, or wouldn't that anyway, leave the nerves, you know, like leave the naked nerveendings satretched immersed in the goddam fire of the goddam crimson gods I call them CRIMSOM & wavering about like z-creatures z-kreeturs z-creetels chancing for a spung guv a spung-gnew whimd?  Would this not hert?  Would it not?  Is it guesswerk we're talking heretalking he*re or are we talking (*) the nature of things outside even these systems of worldly words.  Huh?  ANSWER ME‑‑HUH?

Well, he did it.  Cycling back or no, that botic had created a little bubble-cycle in the Intraverx of stors you have had have reference two, os so ergo ogre oN No Contract‑‑no game, no lumily-beauticle stors.  Keeping always in mind that THE GODS DO NOT GET ANGRY, guess whom theym hirem tom kilm?

& Qert was leaving a trail of phony stors‑‑like crumbs of deception‑‑for Qinz to eat.  Qinz was trying to make do with a gun which, understandably, Qert made dimensionally unacceptable to the crumbs of the veritable stors.  But Qinz kept using it anyway.  Thus was pain introjuic'd into the herefore realms of the stors, not to mention your seepage into the Intra the into the Verx the.

The gods are so worried they forget to change their clothes.  They lean forward in the god-mansion, which is the actual magnusion of Qert's "private 'mansion,'" & stare at the big green bottle on the floor.  But PAN BACK to the gods.  They look at us & pan back‑‑many of them in various Qinz & Qert (or Qert & Qinz) disguises that have been half ripped off or shuddered off or but the heads torn off, gedangeleng like rubber monstor suits or rub or mons tore swoots or rub whore mom stor swets or zots or toots as the true godheads‑‑which lookalike worried stars in the Galaxy of Woe O‑‑look at the bottle contaQinzining.  Two of these gods still have their pith helmets, which they fondle dangerously, I mean fretfully.

Bottled Qinz is green, & he picks up a tiny bottle.  Everyone can sense Qert snickering.  He always give himself away with that damned snicker‑‑and it infuriates these gods, because back when the original like compacts were like coalesced it was decreed that Qinz would "wear filters to the snickers of the creator of the universe {he}'s in"‑‑known golloqually as F.S.C.U.H.I., or else Qinzud neer lose a stor.

Would they could reverse that ruling now!

So Qinz goes on in his indigneous fashion (a fansction o three factors: 1) Qinz's youth as decweed (allowably) by Qert in every stor; 2) several compactual stibulations which the gods als oregret; & 3) Qinz's inherent natur as a friend & murderer.  In short, filters n such.).  He sniff this small yellow botticle.  He go back & kick the bottle out afrum.  He hold zup the bittleup to THAT GREAT BIG SNIGGERING SUN!

(O Jegus! moan the gods.)

...and he takes a swig, turns into a swig turns into a great big swig as big as a Macy's Day Sawig, & he hears Qert's voice cooing him.  Now the gods themselves are forc edto listen to the madfilterd voiceoevroev Qertoverof of.

"'Lo.  Qert here.  Boy, is this a safe haven!  That must be why they call it Safe Heaven (ha ha ha).

"No, really‑‑your Perhaps Copser everywh'ere.  Nothing but plice, or forms of plice.  Perhaps I shouldn't splain (ha ha ha!): Whoever built this place figured to catch me for my friend‑‑the one I know as Qinzhahaha‑‑and so they thought What better way to construct this universe of heavenly safety for our precious God-To-Coming Qertz (Ha Ha Ha) than to utterly fill absolu ely ev ry v c nt sp ce in the space of the place with, you guessed it, COPS.  I am full of irony‑‑and I mean lots of  cops.  Of course, they had to cut many corners.  Forimpstamps, there are no corners on the cops (na HA ah?)‑‑they're round-sided suggers, these cops, but the Mysterious Makers partially compensated for resultant lalckajjaggs by by by making the copsass bigas irony.

"Naturally they're so big‑‑roundshouldered & humpbacked, whalethighed & spherefaced, gasfulsched & sagschlupscht, blinkless & erotoluss‑‑they canna move, so instead of legs I say instead of feet they have a simple wright by which the rest of their very nearly weightless inflatable OK:INFLATABLE bodies OK achieves a kind of fulcrum, a sort of bastionality, a modicum of ballast or terminex of flector andor sourcepunkt o vu or so.

"Thus they bob.  That sentence has never existed before: Thus bob they.  & even then, nonsentience & all, they don't have room to move, not much, what with billioons & billioons of oother copaloons muschlike themselves filling virtually every inch of  available floorspace on the fluoribsplace of the stor.  Excuse me: heaven, not stor.  Heavenspace goodgrace, ha ha!

"Pathetic, you say.  Well, this is what I say, if given a chance (but I don't have the chance 'cause there're all these COPSAROUND).  They have the sort of bare intelligence a sadokid'd give a trapbloon, & becausa their numbers & spare intelligence, they're not given weaponry...

"Weaponry!  That'da misamatch B!

"...Just a kind of overowl glo, meant to be official, a fused imbitatium of the light atop a copcar in the earlymorning glow of someone's vacant lunardreams, I am sorry to say.  As for their sound, their sound is pathetic‑‑really sappy, a squiggy scheeghy sort of thwitty scree, meant I invoke to stop one in your tracks except this is Police Heaven where they have no tracks, OK?

"I feel better here.  The cops bob & glow, & Qinz would have to be a fool to chase me in here.  It's not worth killing me now, I'm afraid."

("He doesn't seem aware he hunted," whisper D. & May beams back & whispers over her shoulder, so as not to distrimb the wrup of the dust on the mantelpiece & cushion the bottle molecularlyly.  "It's a par o or part of the heavenly ik=mages, see.  There is no ik=mage of HUNT in the stor."

("Then why can't we catch him then?"

("He mulch two clever," she says again again, but you must note this one most important detail, that she says this not to him, not to D, I mean by the whey, but says it again‑‑and again says it NOT TO HIM, but says again again.)

Yea, Qert couldn't help but grin from within his bottles.  He couldn't help it‑‑this was so damn much fun!

Qinz was stalking him through the big greenhouse‑‑green in the sense of be-ying made of emerald glass in a chloroid world of dews that fell, giggling like the children you have always imagined the god to gods to be, lil pink tiddies in green blubs o dew, snickering in cheers that sound ever-so-slightly like the screams you hear ever-so-slightly in your slight sleep leading to something very close, right next to on the emotive scale, to weeps‑‑and he was following the basic compulsive storic psycho rule that Qert had etched (using up one of the five (5) Stip U Lated Rules that Qert was ik=magically ollowed/abliged to ploy emeach new stor, being a bit purfloget, with only five (5) psycholrules & seven (7) physical rules s.t.i.p.u.l.a.t.e.d., plus some Minor ( ) Rules related to Time & Color & Seasonry, not to mention the Basic Language Program, each stor generating her own teeming language like newts jabbering under a mossy roch.

Visualize roche here:

Yeawell the green came from one of the minor rules that he, Qinz, was to be assiduously & painstakingly careful, heedful & cautious in the comportment of his flows & the alignment of his energies, such that he would never never if possible break any of the bottles here in the greenhouse of green bouteilles.

Which guv Qert delight, for he was himself hidden in one of the bottles, with images of himself hidden in various distortions in most of the other bottles, & some other odd inhabitants‑‑close distant friends of Qert's hidden relatives‑‑beaming & sliding away in the other bootayyeeze.

It was a greenhouse, insane dark green virtually flaming overhead, with green glass psychedelicizing further oo too booot, & the strange livid wailing of tiny gods in pungent liquicy, bamming against the topgloss glasstap sloss & breakiling aplart in sloabs olf blauberri, & inside it had the neat orderly rows‑‑awkwardly narrow, Qinz couldn't help but Register with a Grunt (all of which went onto the Continuous Record that they made upstairs, upstairs being metaphorical, registering here ing REG:<GRUNT>), which was clearly part of his inspired friend's need to humiliate him.

That was this stor's motivator, by the way: that that Qert Qert was was trying trying to to humiliate humiliate him him.  He seemed intent upon the game despite the murder, cycling back indestructibly in his mind like the comtract.  Motivator given here in standard reduplicative form form trimplicup form form.

Humilate indeed, grimmed Qert, bright in his solid awareness that this glass stor might be his most brilliant stor.  Qinz had to pad so cautiously round the maze of paths.  He had to avoid breaking the glass, & so was obliged to hold the gun‑‑which the brilliant Qert had arranged to have somewhat BLOATED here‑‑right close to his chest or his belly or, in some instances, his knees.

Booooaauuuk! He had to be careful, which was doublydoubly difficulp as Qinz had this endless habit of stalking in the Grand Jungle Cinematic Fashion, complete & replete with sidewise & backwards truning zrounz-znuorzes, so he was creeping & hobbling along now sidewides, now backdrawd, now crouching & turning with an alarming CLINK!, so he'duh sometime hafta drodroop his gun & fumble with the glass, which had the absolute look enfeel of the most delicate glass you ever saw‑‑but was not so.
In reality, it was Destructless Glass.  Part of Qert's protection & the joke.  Got to be his best stor‑‑don't you then?

It was also crudely made glass, the better to hide one's thoughts & images, for Qert's own thoughts & ik=mages shone brightly in the glass, & Qert had no control of his thoughts (which is part of the standard storic comprac), & the Mirror Inversion Factor of this stor‑‑one of the autometric countermodalities which undercut his otherwise godlike control of the situation of his stors‑‑made so Qert's flowering, cascading, sqarkilig, energized & definitely GLOWING thoughts ignited & lit the surfaces of the verts of the bouteilles, all of which turn the joke as so many jokes toturn on Qert, for his friend knows him & he knows his thoughts so effortlessly wellwell nowow that he'll surely get used to this delicate stalk through the verds & track him down.



Think of it (Qert's starting into‑‑you can see it in the glass): Qinz takes a poosition right in front of the botic bottle cococontaining Qert‑‑which he suddenly in the dullness of a dumb dream notice is many times larger than the rest, & in the exact center center of the greenhouse!‑‑and manages, gradually with the long pracatrice & sensuously with the long long love & dramatically with this extended humiliation, to stretch himself quite up to his qinzful height (my god!  we scgreech with the rgeech ith he god zod odz)

& point the gun at now-squirming Qert in his bottle, point the gun holding it with both hands, & now three hands, & now four hands, & now six seven manymany times heaven memy hands at Qert surrounding the gun, whose thoughts may best be imagined but are not, as they create firescent vireworks fir*!w*r!s rond in round anda round & around the room, & Qert's suddenly spudgy body swolt to the edges of the glass & his faces disterts dasqorts: Inverse Emotive Factor, contrarameter of the embarfurassment he's been causing Qinz, huhu.

And‑‑something evidently thrown in for audience effect for effectless audience‑‑when the gun blow the Qert glass bottle the whole stor goes up in shatterings, glass shards become parcel of the part of the universe one's tiny painfdul being unseen settle zin...

Now that the hunt is real, here's little Qert working out the metaphysics of his greatest stor.  I should splain a few things‑‑that silly hat, for instance.  But before I get into the hat, I should explain a few things‑‑that hat, for example.  But first‑‑prior to explicating the nature of that hat, with the top pointed & the stars inside it

a spatial cone it's called‑‑I should say why Qert looks so little.  If you're not imagining Qert as little YOU ARE NOT IMAGINING RIGHT.  I have a grey screen here‑‑known as a metavert screen‑‑on which I can see your scene and, by tuning these fine wires which one cannot even sense hear your screams.  Even when you cannot hear them.  Even when you can't hear them, I can hear your screams.

I am not allowed to say why.   I am not allowed to say why.  & so wrong.

That determined, we proper imagers can see the objects in the Metaphysics Room are enlarged.  One must strain every gasket to imagine them as LARGE, & I'm not going to say it again, you bratty qids.  (Sometimes I think all botics are alike‑‑not that I'm saying you're a botic!  O no no no no no!  Ha ha!)  These large objects dwarf the botic working thereinin, casting him properly into a perfect metaphysical frame of mind, into which you would have been quasht had you but imagined well, hm-hm.

The hatIknewIwouldgettothat's similarly designed to enhance the illusion that one is creating, in this wise, not just reality, not just concrete reality, not just reality, not-just, but the actual metaphysical overstrupture of the stor, which oneis is.

Each stor haver own God or godlets, her own occult principles, her own psychic forces (or none in the case of the so-called hardnosed callous-footed "Barestor School" footscwool which eschews sunch modalities‑‑but your God dint, diddee?)

her own mysterious healing modalities, not to mention her own ghost or ghosthimbs, her own cumqocks & gluoriumuoridoridoriduors, her own norms & paranorvs & her own abnorgs, abnogrgles, abbamorgues, her own sickly worms, own ectofirms, owner invigibles, uniquuqinu euniques, & unquention ablewondermince.  It's all part of the "feel" of a really good stor (this all very healing, don't yo thick?) & none doubt that Qert toubts a marvelous stor.

Hey‑‑some say he the greatest ever.  But they've never seen him the way we have seenim‑‑teeny like this & atop that ridiculous stool, & cackling to himself & breathing some sorta noxious phweums causticanough to give your loughs the rheums & crying

crying!‑‑somehow & for some reason, for as some get sentimental, say, at a wedding-say, others at a funeralay, well, Qert get sentimental an dall mushy & allover teary-eyed belubberi when he desi the metaphysi for his stors.  This may give his stors a certain specific fundamentally basic emphatically surdic sad edge.

All I know is he look silly up there on that twenty-foot-if-it's-an-inch stool itsaninch (designed by the cartoonist, wounded-you-no) teetering away from the equally-stilted desk equally-stilted & then rocking slowly back, there to scribble with a furious manicness remanescent if-memory-there-be of the highly destructive "skizzicity" used in the neotomic weapoonornry of the self-parodically warlike Gottogombs who warred themselves into Heaven One which is one why there's way in heaven one way nor another

thence to sway, slowly, away, his pen gleaming in the air like some piercingly reflective dick, his tongue flapping with doggy foolikesness & his eyes going rolly like a goak, till the tilt reach her climax & bounce off the segdgoher screms, & he ATTACK‑‑you can see this minuscule Qert ATTACK‑‑with that pen, now literal & how literla, now a weapon denuke-ed of all sexual jrives‑‑agoosin & aripping the air in front of him.

Except that, here, there is no, air.  Ahem.

This is pretty eccentric stuff, as you can timagine.  Only Qert does this routine with the bouncing stool, & only Qerty know zit spurpose.  Nobody else much elsemuch cares muchcares muckscares OK?  Sometimes he has the stool swooning in a big circle, which must further skew the metaphysical planes of the planes of the whirl, & oftimes he only has it juggling just a teeny little bit...but tet qetera.

The heat in this stool was so wicked, I mean so liquid, that clothes & body wadded in, the flesh becoming one with the lumpy rags.  It was uncomfortable, & it made you mean, & it was a good place for Qinz to shoot Qert in the back.

He stood over the corpse, which had a hole in it almost wide as the corpse.  Wounds, it seems, enlarged rapidly here.  Qinz made the usual face, except it was wet in here, & it was a stronger usual face than the hundred similar face you could see in(if you look with one eye in)side it, getting wetter & wetter as they go back, into chamber after chamber mit Special Condensations on the walls, fogfaces endless entered here.

He made the usual face as it impinged (with a moist splat) on his consciousness that the wound was enlarging, that the hot rays of water/light that were draining him here‑‑threatening to kill him right here as he'd been killed with the corse of his freshly-killed friend your freshly-killed friend our friend dozens of times before, especially recently.

You're lousing your tousch, the widening sound wetly said.

Qinz here gurlgeth in hiss Throat.

By whisch you mean to shay Yes, blurled the wound, its outer edges cutting the outer edges of the outer edges of the corse of the corpse as it said yes, first the left edge (bluuk!), then...then...then...the right edge (blppb?), dividing Qert's body Qe rt's bo dy nea tly I n ha lf.

Qinz notice he breathing fast.  Wounds talking toom, heart giving out, losing his touch indeed...

He responds to this awkwardness, & to the awkwardness of death, by crouching down dangerous-down next to the corpse of the corsh & wetly fingering the wound.  Might be a trap‑‑Qert might do that.  We've all played this game so many times, & felt so used afterwards, but still...

One more ellipsis & we dies...


One thing: it makes your fingers turn numb.  The fingers he is wearing taper like soft penciltips, & they brush the wound & eagerly prepare to send all manner of message to what technically "inside" Qinz is a phenomenal mind musch more intrinsicate with the special & relative laws of the various univerts than any organic creature or supernal soul in or near any universe could possbly/norm behad.

But like I say, they go numb.  Fingers goes instantly numb, & even the reflex to draw your goddam fingers back is numbed, so we get to watch (from a vertiginously rising camera which has been granged with ditherflkeer such that it seem toove flung itself quite literally upwards to the air, so we have to requisition a special form request indicating desire that camera stop chiquing out from the boundaries of the mittedly-ecky scene & descend AT LEAST BELOW THE CLOUDS, FOR CHRISSAKE.

(Blow the clouds for chryshakes...) crouching-scout Qinz dror bout halfis former fingers back, very slowly, as this aggressive moisture (acid?) continue to fall in the scene.  Better get out of there Qinz...

"I can't," he says aloud, standing up so as to approoch nearer imaginary Mique n Cormera, which have descengd douwum to ahover bouto sixteen feet.  "I'm beyond death now‑‑you told me that."

Shit, we did, didn't we?

"Yes you did.  I've been through it," gesturing purely to the course.  "We've been through it one too many times.  It's like we're all audience, you hear?  Our audience."  He gesture at the body of Qert dissolving into smiley clay & thence into smilery sand.  "See.  Not dead.  Not here at all.  We're much too good‑‑you know.  You just can't go on like this."

Of course we think we can.

He plop down in the yellow mugg!  "We're so good we've both lost our touch.  Mightswell leavuseer.  Leave us here‑‑go ahead.  Go on‑‑run, like you said you did, or were, or would."  Rueful laugh at rueful laugh.  "No, it's no good.  He doesn't die that much anymore‑‑or else he die musch too musch, like now.  & I can't kill him right anymore."  Disphugsted gug & poking, trying to act tough even as he turns minuscule colors oup.  Another contract breech‑‑the twoofdem togedder!

"Oup!  Look at this‑‑corpse in two stinking halves.  Oup!  For God's sake!  Oup!"  Is he crying now?  "We're not just separate anymore!  You idiots!  Can't you see?"

But we can't here.

Typical of your subversive, unstable artist-murderer, Qinz tried to lose himself amongst his fans.  He divided himself up, in neat pilly sups, & distributed them illegally amongst his equillegal fans.  These fell ill, & there was an absolute South Sea Bubble of trading, hawking, scalpknoting, & whatnuts here, resulting in a number of impossibly powerful Qinz Corporations, international in scope & this is so.  He was thus half-hid, numbered mongst his insane followers.

& not the least of Qinz Xvanatic Fans was one funky Qert Bottotic Xan, retired manumochturer ostors, who by eading bobpqorn by the buckalube & vibrating insil-sillily in his seat came to the difficult trance in which he saw in the frame of the loved cartoon himself Himself seated fore the tubewatching Qinz sweat twube-through world after throughworld‑‑allem comfuter-generated variations on the original stors built by Qert Bottottottottottic (who remembered, who was allow-ed to rem ember, but for whom the memories was distant, dumb dismember-ed, so we might more accurately say that Qert "remembered"), which he himself loved to visit in the miniature of Stors, wherein his universes were shrunk down to gorgeous, depth-design-ed oostrich-oggs which tickled to touch & to look at & which, when ever-so-gentilly tousched, bent vapors atilt unto your eye, right through that minuscule spot in the center of the pupil of your eye & into your brain is "why," wherein the vapors of the eggs that have penetrated the prints the prints of your touch (& measured these prints these prints, by God, & measured them by GOD) produced gaudy illusions of stors.

Alas, most visitors remark on how crude those ikdstors seem, & Qert wincewhem ever they do.  He's wired in, you see.  He's wired in to criticism, you see.  Hess wired in by the Gods to see, you see, so he winces once or twice every hour, & this add to the Colorful Ferocity of  his Character & to the apin he suffer as a psychic scar resulticg sgar from having allowed himself to be "killed" too many so many "times" times times.

You see.

But still he (Qert) absolutely live for (Qinz) for these destor'd rerums, as poor ol' Qinz sweats it out through vast world after world‑‑for it's true that these new hyperslick productions are at least technically much more enormously perfect & sheny shemy swem than eem han any of the old Qert Productions@ (all rice reverved, Bottotic Botics Limted, limbic lights deserved OK OK OK OK OK), which is another way of saying, "Qinz is in even bigger trouble now than when he was killing (& killing) his 'friend.'"  It safe to say, "They're both too crazy, too to damaged, now," except that saying "This" make Qinz twinge, & when he twinge he get kill-ud in his stor, & the audiences get sad, so there's an absolutely savage proscription‑‑a goddam savage proscripshum‑‑gainst saying "That," & so no one says "That" anymore.

That left unsaid, we can say "Qin ziz being justly punished, again & again, for killing his buddy" that many times, which is a bitofatrick, you can see, for it was as you can see if you youth the ogg right the opggright tousche, that it was after all an agreement between friends, that it was carefully worked out as to all its all its details, that the gods themselves & possibly God Himself & popably Uthor umxelf who helped solve the technical probs thereim...

"But it was a trick, safe to say, "A trick," safe to say, "'A trick, safe to say, "A trick," safe to say,' 'A trick,'" safe to touch@, for everyone had it in mind to use these two gabooms for purposes of that one great hunger of the multinverts‑‑entertainmince.  So it turn out‑‑it ends like this, see‑‑with Qinz suffering endless adventures which his best friend whom he murdered endlessly enmercilessly (albeit by priorit gagreemeant C) prepared & trained him for with his own endless stors, & his friend‑‑twitching & damaged by women DAMAGED BY WOMEN twitzingly‑‑get to watch & be entertained, beswooned, & entraptured, not almost painfully, but quite painfully‑‑most damagingly sweltingly tumidly painfully times three, having suffered himself 1) the pain of creation, 2) the pain of being murdered, & 3) this pain here I am suffering as I tell you of 3) this pain here, 2) the pain of murdering, & 1) the tripain of decreation nowwonnow.

Qert thought he had the whole system‑‑the verx, the gods, especially his friend‑‑foiled or poiled by now.  His desire to fool Qinz was by now his desire for Qinz, something too drastically hot to be analyzed, yet you can imagine, shielding your eyes, that it no longer has anything to do with the bet or the contract or even the endlessly repeated experience of being shot, let alone the manifolded formeds of qinz-qanz-qozontz, nor is it the airy inertia of blue St. Elmo's Fire as she coil & coil round the outlines of the old white fossil Madness that you store in your store in your brain (you thought it kept you young, didn't you?  That's what I thought.  I thought exactly the same thing as you, only it hardens you as a frail child, white as a Nautilus deserted centuries ago on earth, when the tanglelight hit & there was this great Desertion of the Nautili which has been, not written, but illustrated endlessly, fervently, perfervidly, febrilely, phantasmagorically, & that hard & alien light, so insane about ultraviolet, made the shells a white which was prized by the mad prized by the mad all over like motes the universe as mote i.e. The Moat Agorund the Universe, e.g., Pain

(Hardens you as a frail child whose integument wanes, thin & thinner, till it transport slight so easily that the slight itself get euphorically high as a coon passing through, so the light hang round inside the boy, the light fills the boy, the light beams its friends, who put in for transfers or sneak out or take the karmi knock involved in thus deserting the father for the son, the father fore the son, until this little kid, so desiccant of life we know, glow so much he hurt an you have to pack him away, pack him away inside that little nut they guv you for a skull, lit with its own fierce painful agonizing parent-hating tanglelight yessir.)

No, but the single thing Qert still knows, when he's done fooling around with multifarious visions of tiers of exfoliating beedrunklen gods & all & his tunnels of stors & his silly theme stors & dumb illusions & the exhaustion of illusions that come on, you know, when you don't feel you have anything solid to stand on, don't you knowow‑‑he still believe that if, just once, he can keep that sonofabitch from killing him‑‑

They will find what is real together?

They can retire to Shjingra-Li?

They can stop the bet & the metacomimpact & the powerful megagobs?

They can murder the Uthor of Ollbing‑‑huh?

Naaa.  He just figure maybe they can be like regular friend zawhile, maybe calm down & stop talk & talk & smile.

Armed hey with this simple mental senti mimager, Qert makes a stor in which the guns are massively big & the botics small.  He fills it with giant guns & tiny botics, then fits himself neatly inslide the only bullet.  He makes only one bullet, & has great gunhandling machinery (which he has growing (an exclamation point is expected here!) lushly here!) unscrew the great metal cap on the one bullet that will fit the one gun, etc., & put himself inside.  Nor does he deprive himself of life's pleasures whilst a-arranging-aging this ol' ruse, but rather fills his compartment with air fragrancers & tactile infrastimula & the morphic vengeful headair with airwith alluring demisymboliis, faces with I's as eyes, & also sets the place up with a nice carpet & a chair that floats impudent in the manner of floating chairs & a few Kanidnskys for the walls & some strange space music & and & three & and two & one & a silver chronomarker for interior time & some interior time to keep it running & some run to keep it live & some life to keep it fine & some fine etheric ripe self love to keep it prime & I will not say time I will not say time I will not say time I will not say time (self-indulgent) time, & a complete library (but he forget to give it light so the books are useless‑‑except of course for their smell your smell hisits smellellell‑‑and in fact the entire stor of gigantic guns (plus one big bullet containing Qert‑‑tee hee!) end up dark, a modality thought to be a fracuosity of the virtuosity of the perviosity of Qert's jocososity & was condemned as self-indulgent, tee hee HEE?

& he sifth in the dark & waiteth for Qinz.

Qinz fools him.  He never shows up.  He knows the guns there are too big to handle.  He knows where Qert was hid.  He doesn't think, pondering at his ease in the Intraverxic lounge in the Intraverxic Metalounge in the Intraverxic God & When God Thought of a Lounge & There Was Lounge & It Was Good in the Intraverxic Good God-o-K-I-Guess, I guess, that it's worth trying to load & fire that bullet, which Qert in his heretovore averr edsaninanity doesn't seem to think will kill him, hmph.

"And besides," he reports to authorities, "it sway too dark."

It is that.  It's the dark stor, the bullet stor, the lightless stor of guns which Qinz broach compoach not coming in.  I am not coming in he as much as say, which is like to qill Qert‑‑and so we have a matter of dispute in this musch-matterless worls of worlds which I suppoose I'm gonna have to have the goddam gods undispute.  Am I‑‑huh?








In the view of his fans, Qert was known to harbor delusional tendencies, as for example, when bullets become words & the assassins grow creepy as rubber gods into doctors n such.  In this dark heaven where he waited endlessly for Qinz, who was no friend if he wouldn't kill a friend who was no friend if his friends wouldn't kill him, even Qert could feel these tendencies, nestling atop his head (delusional systems are like that‑‑they always nestle "atop" your head, & a little in back) & a little in back, like I said, & they whispered thoughtforms with the sensuous whinspur o' psychosis into him.  So he was filled with these‑‑pzychotic thoughts, if you will, & o' a delusional nature, such that he was a botic with a mission to god, etc., & not a mere man hallucinating hotly into the drama o' your sleep, sweating there, with some achingly lost mission to mankind.

It was like that, if you put it "in" words.  Words are like that‑‑you are always putting things "in" to them.  See.

& down the liquid, dolloping hall did Qert the Abandon Dubottic go, & ducked into a word.

A word about this phrase "duckied untwo aword," which appeared ablove.  I realize I am sometimes not held account-yable for my words.  I am wrestling from inside the words.  I am trapped inside what is trapped inside delusional systems.  Like Hamulet, hey?  If you must realize something, realize something that if I am to retort the actions of so-called "botics" in these so-called "stors" moving between different "univerts" with different latent-ik=magery syxtems and, hence, different cognitional perceptics and, hence-hence-&, languages differing unto the bottom rung, as it were, then then.  OK?

But really.  But essentially.  But diffrentially.  But exzentially.  And/or efferventially: these word that were pasted (& I say "pasted") against the walls o' this billowing hall (& I say "billowing" because the hall, & ever yelse YES! ev ryelse in this Chase o' Stor o' Chases o' Stors was sining up & down like a great long cohord being flupped.  Whoair created this heaven must have felt that coindiced niceicelily with the motif o' th' chase.

The motif o' th' chase, there.

So, tegging bock to the words from whisch I degressed in a Sweeping Sinewave Of Words (pretty good, huh?): they looked rather like doors, rather like doors, & they were pasted to the white & undulant‑‑that is undulatin'‑‑walls o' the bouncin' halls, hollowow holls, ulululant colls, turulimpt folls, like these giant raisins, see.  See, I only mean that they had the bent ovoid swape & the derk, murkwoid cwimplimeph o' fresh lovely raisins‑‑o' a giant type, evidently, HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA cough-cough HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA AP!‑‑(excuse me) & that, to escape "in" to these "doors" that were actually (lying) "raisins," ol' Qert, our "hero," if you will, has to like peel the edges away & slip inside, just take a deep breath, there, Qert, & like pull your ass inside ss nside s ide e.

(Psst!  Qert's really hidden now, huh?  I mean, they can't find him now-huuh?  He's like hid real good‑‑and I mean it, hn.  These aren't just words‑‑not in here, unh unh.  (Sigh)  What?  Oh, just me sighing sighs into parentheses o' sighs.  My mistake.  Sorry.  I'd say excuse me, but I said "excuse me" in a parenthesis outside this bareathensis‑‑insistent lee‑‑and they're like start in to ration words, & when I say "ration" "words" I mean "'ration' 'words'" shut up.)

& o' course, in the meantime, just to make things weally pwime, he was feeling an enhanced activity‑‑nay, a positividly LIVID actividy‑‑o' that gosh-darned little tumor o' delusion in his head, & it was adoin' & sayin' fancy things‑‑and I don't mean thins o' satin, neithernor‑‑to the sounds o' his breath, such that Qert‑‑hallucinatin' helpless lyhidin' asleepin' Qert‑‑heard the most horrific, i.e., pzyghodic, zdorless breathing in-to & out-wo' his head as he lay him there and...

"That's one o' the functionalities o' the delusional enhancement mode that we've set up here," explains this doctor-looking guy.  Once again we are examining Qert's corpse, so we can, you know, be pretty sure this is just one o' the dreams in one o' the breaths o' our dreamero Qert, 'cause you'll notice or will notice once I point it if you have not noticed yet that at the centre, or the heart, so to squeak, o' every single individual unique & discrete one o' Qert's fantasies, or dreams, or breaths, if you will you wont not pant, is this image o' himself, Qert, dead.

My theory‑‑to just limply, I mean toojust quimply, that is quickly, embellish a theory-like-a-tumor 'pong the dumor-theory (tha's what it known) asbove‑‑'s that he's not really dead, only anaesthetized.

YOUR THEORY HERE: Well, speakingaza reader‑‑playing the part o' the reader, if I will I will-I-will‑‑'s that this whole structure is an operation o' some sort‑‑that "Qert Bottotic"'s just this guy being operated on, operated, operated, on and, on.

Well hey‑‑that's a response from reader & superfan Stanatic Qinz o' Norph Draumah, Oh-Seiots.  Thanks Stanley.  The views represented on "Pzyghodic Zdories" express naught et...
{disclaim her here}

Hugh Doctor & Lou Doctor's face‑‑huge & louming‑‑move like violently as if mouv zitsdis claim er:

"Er...that's incorrect, Mr. Qert.  That's wrong, sort o'.  Off the mark‑‑wouldn't you say, girls?  Uh-huh‑‑you're a tad mistaken there Qert.  I mean, you have left out essential, not to say elephanential, fax, as such that‑‑this being the most important‑‑that we are operating on you to remove ALL THOSE GODDAM BULLETS YOUR GODDAM "FRIEND" PUMPED IN.  Now lie back & gratitude‑‑OK, Mr. Qimp?  Honestly..." & he start humming again.  It's very very very very nice, that hum hum hum, & he pulls out word after word after word until it Qerts um um...

What we are seeing here‑‑Qert's disease: hyperbrouhastorosis‑‑was common among botic victims like Qert's disease‑‑hyperbrouhastorosis victimius‑‑commonplace amongst the much-shot botics such as Qert's disease‑‑hybroustorosis intellectualis‑‑much-bruited amongst the savage ex-bots infesting the intraverx, & all with Qert's disease‑‑hyperfestolosis storiovictinius‑‑in which they were forever thinking they were forever thinking they were falling thinking they were forever falling into the thinking they were falling forever into stors, so eventually you had to have your "bullets" removed by one of the suffering "surgeons" or martyrdom "doctors" in one of the prefab "false" fab heavens ha.

What was unusual in this case was the murder-botic (Qinz) getting Qert's disease‑‑the brouha's‑‑too.  So they shared it together & were together intwinned, the way they always wanted it.  You should see their delight as they flooded on the oddlights of energies across the languid walls of the lost, outer stor edstorsd of the Last Outer Boxes of Stors of Stors, if you know what I mean.  The results of such (unusual) "operations" wear oft equivocal, in this case moreso, as they were both under arrest.  But this did not last long.  This last long led at last long last to the "Dead Stor" of fame.

But first, legal agents of the gods would have to catch em‑‑without catching Qert's disease: hyperbrouhastorosis‑‑so common among botic victims like Qert's disease‑‑hyperbrouhastorosis victimius‑‑splaced wide amongst the much-shot botics such as Qert's disease‑‑hyperbroustorosis intellectualis‑‑much-bruited underle savage ex-bots festing the intraverx, & all with Qert's disease‑‑hyperfestolosis storiovictinius‑‑wherever we forever thought we were forever thinking you were falling thinking we were forever falling into the thinking they were falling forever into stors‑‑if god scould catchem first.

Often, you notice only slowly that you playing.  There is often this brilliant yellow light‑‑the light of the operating table, the light of the mirrors, the mirrors of the botodocs, the doctors of pride, the pride of metal, the metal of the shine, the shine of the metal, the metal of the bullet, this bullet of light, the yellow light, the yellow...

& the players oft come in in photo fazhiom.  The mean light hums‑‑it is the one yellowy bulb that Qinz put in to light the bullet stor, & already see regret sit, already the rages come lit, the friends in an innocent game, their fingers to their chins, & the chins responding pomping in the metaverx "Oo!"

Qert move his hand, & thing zappear in the deep squares, inner-whisch qubes, dimensional cjexx.

"Bullets removed‑‑cjek," he says, & lean back into the perfect jet & beams with such pride of metal of games of metal that he has his shiteatin' grin' flashafl!sh!ing to the gods if they could see this in.

But Qinz is ready.  Keep in mind he has always won; he has slipped through the very same loophole these words having qurled you through that you use to go to that land they call Insane so that his will always win, butis win in the hands of futures he always will.  It is.  Twill.  & now he move his hand (this is exciting), which have a burr twit.

"You are removed from the bullet," he says, plunking the plastic bullet smugly to the board which wise & rave like a great big seagren & briny ubed, & he goes into this parodic Triumphal Routine which is an ABSOLUTELY LOVELESS VERSION OF QERT'S Qert's qerts.  "Cjek, mate."

Famous Qert dives straight crossa the board & hit his bloody head.  This goes on for a while‑‑he hits & he hits, till Qinz's head'sa bloody paste & he (Qertqert's)'s 'sdead‑‑but has been excised you see.

Meanwhile old Qinz don't remember much.  He notice he have a rusty gun, & he noticed that, when he tried to use the gun he would forget, & that when he would forget he would fall asunder‑‑I mean fall asleep.  Falling asleep felt like falling asunder, & the world that he world that he found him selfin also had that asunder quality‑‑it was just a plain, nothing more.  That's all.

Just a yellowish-white plain, without mountains‑‑except of course some strangely symbolic ones off the horizon

& you could tell these, these mountains, these hung above the horizon & were not on it, that if you were udner it, you would see dark & dangerous mazhinery, the machinery of the undersides of mountains, in that shade seeing death machinery, except you probably couldn't stand under them because the world, the plain, existed then, I mean ended then, ended then, ended then, ended then & there was nothing but this quavering lightblue oregan chord where the ground supposed to be...

with out paths

except naturally for one clear connecting road the physical manifextatiun of connective tissue, running prolby right across the middle of it, toward a mountain floating blow like a blue note floating the loost hoorizone where the tiny mountains snoozed or the tiny mountains stewed or in any event you sutood underneath it on a swell, on a swell of a translucent note crying translucent tears for the translucent light in the translucent room where your translucent mother tortured you with translucent suits again again

& without plants (except of coutrse for one or two leering varieties, dressed in the sort of tacky gladrags the fancies wore in the Holl Zuvthe Fancy Stors: these would pop like cheap magicians' tricks' out of ground, 's 's, grin an han you som dum foo).

"Dumb food, dumb food," the old man wulb say, then thleep.  See how he drools sweetly as he sleeps, drool of cloud, blue hearts fuluting into space, yuk, this being droolspace, uk, turning vertignous with the ollman's grace, 's 's, k).

He had this small bullet, crystalline, which he squoze in his hand when he fell apart or was discombobulating into one of those sleeps or when he tried the pain of memory or when he tried the beauty of the peaks on the flough of horizium.  That bullet was a beaut!  It was small, brilliant black crystalline, not your irdinary buylet even if there were such a thing as the Platonic Irdinary Buylet thing thing thing, & it looked as if it had been forged from the heat a volcanphlo, but this was nlot shlo.

Actually it had been reduced.  The smile of satisfaction on the smile of satisfaction was really fulsome when he threw, I mean when he trew, mean when he turned that bullet over & over in his hands, making these disgusting milking motiotiums with his fingers, as if the nerves got a sensual thrill from the touching the running & the liplicking shiteating gaze, wherein he woulds actually tilt his big old head slowly to one side as the bullet was frotted & rujjed the outerclockwrise, & the pleasure came from the memory‑‑of its having been reduced‑‑which seemed to be intact.

Like that snappy, solid, dark, seamless, enperfectly contained little bullet, I would say. Contact, black, made it clear conzistent claer.  & also: you might think the rubbing must make the thing so pure, so glossy especially across its tip, but this shows YOU HAVEN'T BEEN FUCKING PAYING ATTENTION, YOU SLUT.  Things don'a work that way.  It's the physics of stors which I've been efforting oer & oer, but you don't catch on, do do you you?  It just doesn't happen that way.

Repeat this nineteen times: The bullet shines because it has been reduced.

I like to think Qinz knew deep down that little Qert was there, in that bullet, that he had arranged this strange stor-within-a-stor (or if you'd paid attention as I said to the physics of the stors you would see this is the only way Qert couldn've done that that, you ol slut, youthat) to endlessly prolong his own relaxing stay.  My theory is borne out, morethan just by my desires‑‑which are infinitely contained in an infinitely tricky stor-within-a-stor-within-a-stor-within-a-stor-stor-stor, stormy loves & whishes in that psychedelistor‑‑but by the quantity & depthless quality of the stors Qert hit us with right after that, right after this, right after this one ended up.

Which, to swurn nahead in time, came when the old fart loaded the bullet in the rugsty gun & fired it into his mouth.  Red dilly ink sputztout.  It killed them both & enveloped Qert the Bloody ubing sky, & was quite a coup, I'll tell you that, quite a quite a showow for the gods, let me tell you that!

"We've gottem sir!"




"Trapped, sir.  Er..."


"They would appear to be drunk.  Sir."


"I, sir."

"(Hikkip!)  Oi..."

The pentip still in his mouth swaths and-a swatches of vink everywhere, & the two pals were rather laughing as they slid & slithered across cross-swingeing swells with their forging thick meniscus of soupy paint & bicycled their legs amongst some sort of thickets of like lash-coagulant tears.  The colors were crude but glorious‑‑they had that Promethean crude-but-glorious glow of a jimendrix chord fedback to the utmost primal plane, but they also had that feeling of glass aglowin nin your gut, so their glory was the glass was the gutting of the qut, & so you can imagine the liquid dimensions furled & engurled in the chrokey ol' cries of these two clowns as they clowns as they slipped freudancross always diagonal-zags of oceanink, which didn't so much throaten to drown them as to preserve them awkward in an amber stuff o heavenly hue (if I may say "heavenly hue" or "o heavenly" hue please regard).

They were enteven sure that they didn't want it, Qert & Qinz, the two contractees, the clowns of this stor which clearly had a stor which clearly had a pipeline of power, as it were, to the deepest power equals the deepest pain maginable.  & anything may be magined by a bot.  Given time, your botic'll magine anything...but at the same time he will gnore everything.  He will gnore everything & then everything will be fine.  This is a deep deep program of your bot: If I just orget verythin g t wil a l be right biright, & that very thought tittered through their duominds as they ran toward the big tube that they hopes siphoned you out of this place.
& I say tittered the thought because the thought kept looping round unto different tones, different emotivities, such that, one time they'd hear it shrieked as in a female child's terror of her own dream of a shriek, & another time it might scintillate with laughter, glee-hysteric & insane, or even recur chuggling with the modulated self-confident tones of of the Ideal Perfect Announceteur.  You just couldn't tell.  This strange Heaven of Paints or Heaven of Inks or maybe just Cartoonist's Stor was anyway making them sick & giddy even of their own core boticness.  Sad.

But exciting!  Whorldey round the freudening punnel & were gulped.  right.  down.



(Qinzis pitch:)  Or maybe "The Meditation/Starvation Process."  Say you fix us both "up" & you let us "go."  I sign a smooth, burnishnoo compact with you‑‑one of the clear, coolswallow, lustrelusch kines.  Meanwhile, terribly upset over being a creag, let's say Qert go to a synthetic sort of  wilderness area & turn savage.  It seems you can program that, Or Qert can.  He sits for hours under a waterfall‑‑only here it's some energy-fall or pollen-fall or sapfall or ichorfal or something.  He decide to starve himself to death, to meditate & starve himself.  He meditates & starves (& this is a technique by which he avoids detection by the hosts or whomever, whoever looking frim) & meditates & starves, & finally he is really in a very advanced state, he can tell.  He isn't thinking much about the poor pile of bones below him much at all‑‑he's getting into himself.  But THEN HE THINKS OF SOMETHING URGENTLY IMPORTANT.  It throws him completely off‑‑there is something he absolutely must attend to, & he couldn't have thought of it butcept in this meditation/starvation process.  But now he has a big problem, because the body is almost dead.  It keeps tipping over; it's in boundless pain, utterly enervated, sinewless, & weak, & now poor Qert the Mystic hahas to get back down inside this painwracked thing & somehow get it to operate‑‑get it to operate enough to reach food, & hahahope it can take food, & hahahahope he can evade capture.  So brave Qert‑‑in he goes.  HaHaHaHaHe struggles & ultimately manages to succeed in getting food. But hahahahahahis new quest is complicated by the searchers of False HaHaHaHaHaHaHaHeaven I, whawhawhawhawhawhawhawho find & surround hahahahahahahahahim.  Qert gets hahahahahahahahahahimself hahahahahahahahahahahahidden, but hahahahahahahahahahahahahasn't the strength to do much more.

"Howzat?"  Step one (1) step forward, Qinz.  "Gods?"  Howzat?  "Hello?  How'd you like it?"  O...

"The gods didn't like it and, '"This INK's getting cold!' shout Qert."

"WhINEat?"  shout Qinz.

"I said I think they're trying to store us!" whoot Qert, whoopse grimace was beICEcoming one with the whICEiteness.

"Is thisICE some sort of freezer?" hollwered Qinz, who notice that once you put your arms around yourself they stayed there & you had to bICEreak off your arms to get to your arms, which would compulsiveICElyICE grab one another & freeze, only this wasn't so much a freeze of cold as a froze of pain right here.

"I ICEthink they're trying to kill us," Qert said, but by this time he was giggling (the cold, or the pain, will do this to you after a whilICEe.  It happens all the time in the interlife zones. You get to lICEaughing‑‑real hardICE) at how when he stompeICEd his feet they stayed stomped, & he would have to pull his legs right out of the pantlegs, right out of the skin, the muscle, the crushed ICE bone, & plant them elsewhere & give them a good hard stomp to bring em to live, whereupon they'd just stay froz enstupidly ICEhere (thereICE) an the entirICEe process of stomping's ICEhave to ICEbe started again.

So Qinz stoods with many arms, deep puzzlement buried behind ICE the flakes of smog iICEn his eyes & manymany arms all over the ICEplace, whilst Qert stoods not far but tooICE far byway with his grimaces in ruins & layerds doverings & manymany legs at the ICEsame placetime.

Verily, the gods wICEere riming theICEm.

"They can't do this!" Qert screeched angrily (& you can imagine what the sounds did here!).  "This violates my rulICEes.  It is my stor, subject to my rules, & I‑‑Qinz?  Qinz ol boy?"

Qinz lookin pretty dead, at this point in the broken points of time with a finger up, hisICE trunk & back bowed sideways.  ICELooks like some sorta joke, not a QICEert-jape neither, but a real ICE joke, a good solid cruel humorous godly joke, I'd say I say.  But the finger carry ze point, in lighteyedrop ICE litfashium, over to Qeret, despite this crazy weather, & Qert dunderstand.

It's a dead stor, so it doesn't have any rules.  Or let's just say there's a lot of room betwICEeen the rules.  Normally, a gooICEd craftsman like Qert put very little spaces tween his rules.  "The less the space the tighter theICE time," as no saying ICEgoes.  "Or the saying dies," it goes, "or says it goes," it dies.ICE

But your dead stor‑‑in here the rules & structures of the makeICEshift inmaginary physiqs of the place exist as primarICEy superstructures, the essential strutuches of the space & strux of the splace.  Plenty of room between & even alICEong some of these big bold barrs, lemmetellya, & so no rightness at all to the time.

"No tightness at all to tICEhe time," Qert merely thinks, thinking Qinz is dead, not stoICEps me from quoting him, nore Qinz from hearing.  "They've traICEpped us for sure."

& sICEo the gods, not actually appeaICEring on the page nor in the novel nor form of form, wrapped up the dead stor, the trap stor, & sealed ICEICEit tight to let Qinz & Qert stand there frICEeezing in pain for whatever loose circulature of times they roundel in & in & on & on.  The gods tICEhought that would be enICEough, you see.  They thought this liICEke gods, but Qert & Qinz were not to know.

Now comes upon the essential instabICEility of any stor.  Now ICEappears the consnupt of the back door to the storICE‑‑something Qert the murdereICEe had a thought to.  Behind the back of every makeshift body in his every stor‑‑even the silly joke ones & sush‑‑is thiICEs cable of strange stuff ("The outlimn," says Qert in his technicole jarg, "of the intrastitial rules within themselves") which you can pole back & ICEget out‑‑or at least get to the door.
But Qert's never dealt with a godsealed dooICEr!

Qert lovingly chisels pieces out of the cheekbone ice of Qinz

("Owch!" cries Qinz, slapping a hand to his face, then pulling back, angry at himself for so obviously falling for the falling for the joke & hurting himself.  On the blue screen before him, Qert laughs: "Ha!  Ha!  Ha!"  On the green screen behind him, a warpfaced creature from his just-last dream lophs: "Uh?  Uh?  Uh?"  His hair's flying; sparks come off his hair's flying up & end parenthesis.

He's working on the bone right now.  He's working on the bone.  He doesn't mind causing pain.  After a while, when you've made as many stors & hurt as many pals zas I have, you don't mind anymore, & the level first below your mind wonders, often, why you ever minded, & the malevolent layers below (in the deep subconscious) with the muckslow verve of maharshi elephants, plot n' plan n' arrange yet more hurts not to wonder about.

"That hurt.  You're losing your touch," says Qinz behind him, & we cannot help bit notice A SUPREME SPLIT OF QERTS‑‑get this now‑‑in which one Qert spins round in shock, flinging the chisel opeing its little mouth that was chiseled there & singing "O!," & continuing & continuing to chisel arcs in there & there & there & there & there...

Whilst another Qert just keeps on working, & this is the Qert that seems to exist, I mean, seems to be being watched by a cool customer in the form of Qinz, who is lighting a cigarette & sauntering in his smooth shoes (O his smooth shoes!) to-ward Qert.  Meantime the other Qert‑‑the suppress ed-one‑‑keeps clutching his heart & spraddling his back against the big somehow erotic sexual cheekbone of cheekbone of Qinz, whilst the other Qinz (no, I didn't know there was another Qinz, & I'm not sorry I didn't tell you there was or might be another Qinz.
True, I knew there might be another Qinz, but if I told you everything that might be in this gloomy oonunverx I'd be flarking wrays unchlike those hairraise that flew past Qinz while he was waiting to be dissected, as they say, unto this world of times, split times.  Sometimes we discover these things only when the goblin hands pop from the set toground our gordrourm throats, OK?  This secondary Qinz that I din't tell you about & have got myself so upset about does not have fancy shoes, but boots.  Her has blue boots.  There: satisfied?) smiles knowingly, which is not to say smart-assed-ly, at the pain at the pain at the pain & keeps smiling like the model he was.

"I knew you'd say that," says cool Qert, not looking around.

"Not looking round," respong Qinz, enclosud now.  "You're phenomenally cool, considering every time I've approached you for the past two thousand stors I've put a gun to your head."

"And fluorescently blown my brains out, I know, I know," says Qert, whose irritation ation thision interruption is beginning to show, perhaps not so much perhaps because it is so great, but more possibly perhaps because it's being thrust upward into his activity systems by the unease he‑‑in the form of that suppressed mash of mindmuss known as Secondary Qert‑‑feel at Qinz zezbeing there at all.  He turnsa round, still the primary Qert cool, & sayz, "I suppose you're going to tell me how to make them now."

Qinz walks, seems inconsistently able to walk in this non-eugiddyun splace, & so walks in separate cube-shapes of his ik=mage to walk & sit down on a handy seat I hadn't put therefore.  "Well, I have beat you in every single one so far," he smiles, rubbing it in, & smiles again, rubbing it in again, & smiles for a third time, but not rubbing it in this time.  This time he just smiles.

Subtle Qert smile too‑‑one of those smooth affairs learned in adolescence & refined ever since in whinch the eyes sorda "salve" closed in what might be guhtermed a languorous blink‑‑though I thlink of it more as a blangoroush wink of both eyes at once, both Qerts, primary & secondary, coming to getherfor oncet‑‑and we see when we wake up from The Long Spell of the Wink that Qert be smiling back.  Hell, these guys are really friends.  Shit.
"We'll let the gods decide," he says, which seems to create all sorts of automatic preprogrammed compulsive CONTEMPT reactions in Qinz, who vibrate‑‑once again, we perceive stuff perceived in adolescence perceived stuff C‑‑full of the strut n' thrust of sar cas im directed against the dying artist like all sarcasm trying to make him cry‑‑"Stop creating & cry!" it say(zisesises).

"Whattaya mean 'let the gods decide'?" he cripes.  "I've beat you, Qert‑‑goddam shot you‑‑in every stor, every time.  & the stor's blown up each time.  That's why there are no gods to decide, dummy.  That's why we can't stop, can't die, & why we are so howlingly alone, OK?"  & the underqinz saying "I love you, big dummy, I love you big dummy," over & over the way I sort of say, or technically write, some stuff over & over again.  I like secondary Qinz in this‑‑can't help I mymuph.

Qert doesn't like to be remind of this.  So deeply fidelt is this not-liking feeling that it approach pain ("Hey‑‑pain," it saysizesizes.), & Qert, toolless, sits him down on yet another seat slipped unconsciously in there while neither you nor I was looking, but I trust somehow somethun was looking, um?

"Got news for you frien," he sighs, heaving on the cigarette which shockzszszs Qinzzszs, because I took the cigarette away (from Qinz) & gave it away.  "I've beat you in every stor.  You haven't shot me in one single stor.  You were meant to think you shot me‑‑in every stor‑‑whereas actually we are still playing the very first stor."

Gol, his his expression turning into a toothy grin as he opubserves the discomfiture here in Qinz, in this realm where discomfiture take some pretty radical n' dazzlin' forms, such as Qinz's whole body folloopling like the image of his body in a terrorized hideous stream of black much, OK?  a Muschagrimn strimn o black much fuck, OOK?

a foul polluted mire of dismal oozy stench urped out like an eructation of smut from the bowels of a filthy deadassed tanglelit festering cancerous sruph, OOKK?

"No," sas Qinz.  "Naw!"

"Yes," says Qert, doing another version of that, uh, blink so carefooly disguised, I mean descried below, I mean above.  Ablove.  Ubluv.  "As for the gods‑‑they're quite intact, I assure you."

"You assure me."

"Save your paralyxic sarchasm, boy.  I've got you beaten up totally up.  I've got you tied up in fluttering shutters of illusion, son.  It's all according to my plan.  You haven't got a chance."

"You're lying, Qert!"

"Quite right," says the back of Qert to him, & Qinz look pretty upset, in the manner of an actor upset, at his own gigantic storic cheekbone there.  "Now getawayandletmework."

Whereupon Qinz shoots him again, in the back this time‑‑it's the first time we remember being shot in the back, & he do definitely do feel that bullet in his back‑‑I mean Qinz feel bullet back in his, as he die recalling how that was the rule now, wasn't it‑‑that if you shot him outside a stor or while he was aworkin' on a stor you'd get shot yourself.  Not a moral thing here-nothing so loose as ethics, no.  Just storic physics, so they say

& they secondary say & they say & they say‑‑they're like Qinz & me‑‑say & say & say‑‑they can't help themselves say say

"Aaaaarrrgh!" he say.  Dead gods looking puzzled allround know not whom to give the point toohom saysay.

So they were tabulating Qinz's kills, with a view toward somehow comparing them with the relative "degree of fool" that Qer tad achieved.  The calcrome was full of smoke‑‑not smoke really, not smoke exactly, certainly not your precise smoke, but rather the silt from the leftover bed of a musky siltstream slowing across the durkior ragiums of the raging wet planept Duccor in Sector R, in which planedt has its R & the greatest goddest R has its planex bunched like grape in a grapesmolky hand.

But that is neither here nor there‑‑but rather, back in Sector R which only exist only by the by in the in the past the, by the way the by‑‑for they have an impossible task, & group impossible tasks must (per Rule O/K) occur in "something somewhat somesembling soma somesmokefilled roomsome oom," as the Compact Book of Rules sub-says OK.  Cigarettes hang with idiot limpness out their mouuauwves, & their faces are curled in a qurled in a brurn yussee, & they manipulate thousands & thousands of liddle slips o' paper, which have evidently some sort of evidential tabulatiums 'ponem.

"Here's a kill," mutters whum.  Then, "One fool here, no two...'nother cetera," et cetera.

Et cetera et cetera.

"Say," pipes up one figure whom I just on-the-instant thought of, & whose head therefore has a narrow clarity and, if I may put it thus, a sort of luminescence‑‑not a real luminescence, of course & to be sure.  I mean, I wouldn't try to claim that this small fellow's intricately narrow‑‑and really very narrow‑‑little head little head little head head head was, you know, actually glowing or ignited by the fires of ideation O the Fires of Ideation from within, or anything like that.  I suretainly wouldn't try to pull something like that over on you, nor on over you, nor non nover oo‑‑not in a work of realistic fiction nor of fantasmick factuum like this‑‑certainly not.

But still, you know, if I might somewhat brighten, taking care not to distort, the facts as they were perceived & recorded by precipitor-zo-facs, he was so intensely & newly created, like a fresh new stor or a canvas or a vancas fragrant with paint mor vragremp whiph plaint ror pliankly glaink (see Sector Rarupbove), that he seemed an actual, if somewhat narrow & definitely short, genius there, whereas actually he was nothing nothing nothing of the sort, nothing but a subsized balloon I stuck in there, then poughed tup whiph cirotehr, but he looked real enough.

& he said, "Hey‑‑what if there are degrees of kill?"

& they said "What?"

& the little guy‑‑whose head is so narrow it could slip into the two dimensional world of Maycar Toombeam‑‑embellish his previous comment: "I mean, we seem to be postulating & working with 'degrees of fool' in this."

"Yes.  Yes, of course.  Sometimes Qert havim totally fooled‑‑completely insane‑‑and the gods have to pulls him out of the liquid silting fragments of the broken stor‑‑"

{Singing:}  "O!  the broken sto-or!"

"...the broken ol' stororor & flip his squeegeed body like a limp drimpy freshywarsched shirt & hire actual technicians‑‑even though most of the sonsabitches work for Qert by now‑‑to pump him like you, sir, somewhat bap in shacke, & then literally bake him back into shape, none of which that idiot asshole Qinz remembers Qinz remembers Qinz remembers Qinz."

"You talk funny."

"Stick to the absolute point."


"Well, what I was thinking‑‑I mean, my idea that I inflated with.  Well, couldn't there also be also be 'degrees of kill' to consider?"

"You mean degrees of skill?"

"No.  Mightn't Qinz's kills have degrees of completion, degweeze of sqill, nigriis oshphill, & vartious opher flactors, parameters, qualities, & considerations that MIGHT MAKE THIS ENTIRE PROCEDURE IMPOSSIBLE?"

"Yaaaaaa!" they scream & legneth, as they very selfverysame comfuters that tried so insanely to un the countable in the siltsmook phillyruum went insane & began‑‑with the glad grins of cardpharps sidding down to a psychic par-de-rar C-Sectorar‑‑to measure the precise & endless legneth of the yaaa, the in-sane legneth of the yaaaa, the endless legneth of a yaaaa that goes on forever because I want it to go on forever, & because of the psychic cycling of the cards, I mean time (I mean "time," of "course"‑‑"HA" ah!) of course that has set them their endless task in the first place, & my agent deflates, & the ball containing Them fliters off into vacant "space" (not "space"), their tally congealed to just this measureless "yaaaa," Xector R, aha.

This entire business of qualitative distinctions regarding the so-called "degrees" of the so-"called 'kill'(s)" forced the super-visory gods through many a shaped change (es: bad weather insex nuxe et cegera).  Furthamoure, the Original Qertinal Bottoti Qerk was confusing the issue by say issuing his owen domn gods or "sogs" or (so-called "'Botto)ic "'gods'"'"), as inhere what we mean:

"You've dud quite a training job, Qert," says Nuk, pausing in his superciliously casual, too-slowa way to lift a Liquidic Blue Mole from the fence he was lent against, drawing it squish-y-up & observing it with one tiny morsel of the one tiny morsel of his godlike mind that served in this wise thise wise as his mind and, with a microscopic sigh, let it drop on the nothingness on the far side of the fence.

Incidently, Qert was for some reason MASSIVELY IMPRESSED with this small act.  He remembered the blue moles that covered him back in the blue mole swamps of False Heaven Fore, but he'd always attributed this to fever.  Qert noticed, too, that now in his old age he was attributing pritineer everythin to fever.  He shook his head

his head & fever-attributed flecks of flome fooloff.  Whew!  Must be God fever!  He knows, too, that God likes to arrange these things, meetings along meetings along trompe d'oeil fences like fences only like cartoons dopplering off (& he thinks with love of the cartoonist, not knowing heretofore he was in love with her, Qert with a Mighty Tiny Laff right here ( * ) & a sudden whump o' love not attributable to anything at all‑‑not even the presence of God.

Because God was not present, of course.  Naturally not: What was here was the delusion of only one small port of a madly gog, OK?

Anyway, God loving to set up meetings like this, wherein the inherent subsistorial mass of any action of God deeply impressed the deepest, most sub-reptilian brain cells of even the most petrified observer.  So this Movement of the Mole, as it became to knowme, came be a fabulous myph, of the Book of Myphs written by Qert in the fabulous Mad Library o Myphs (with some pretty good omyphs in there, I'll tell you: With some pret-ty good fluppin' myphs, grey myphs etched in casual degradations of grey, smoove & supple myphs which you could tell the myphmaper sheened through three to four thousand cycles of finityin or-more, dependingor, & also Blue Myphs strangely resembling the pastel Blue of Stor in which Qert & Qinz remain hopelessly in love, with jealous compxashuns of cartoonist there, this very selfsame goddam stor being the stor being the stor being the stor whore wore where were May be went to live, & live still, in one endless cartoonless fatuated sworl you see you see you see you see you see‑‑myphs, soma dem ten foot toll.  Some peoples got totally mypht, I told you see above.  Now don't get myphed) ha ha, so Qert cock his head, casual, & the movement slipped of the perfect chrome of God like an errant moonbeam loss in the wordlest nocturnisps.

"'Trained'?" Qeret lisped.  "What's this about training?"

"'Paining' might be a better word," thought God (& Qert heard it & Qert hert it but thought notting on it 'cause God was always thinking uselessly about new words or toingoaz) said God thought God.   "You'll write about it in your upcoming Book of Mists, Qert, mists, Qert, mists, Qert, mists."

Qert hate God.  For this tendency to repeat: I mean, what was the point of it anyway? God was crazy, so thought Qert of God, & God's minuscule portion of a blink was enough for even dull old botic-of-a-Qertsie to feel‑‑actually & palpably & quite subconsciously feel‑‑the hideous punishment he would suffer somewhere down the line for thinking God crazy, though to me it looked a crazy blink like a crazy blink you know.

Uh oh!

"Yes-well, your friend Qinz is going to be a hero," I thought God.

"A hero," breath lessqert.  "A hero of myphs."

& God look QUITE SURPRISED‑‑let me ampropriately applify: I mean to say God‑‑God himself!‑‑looked not just a little but most arrestingly stonied at this remark I've attributed indirect to Qert.  I hope I've got my attributions right, & that I have not actually quoted God‑‑quoted God saying "A hero of myphs"‑‑and caused somehow God to forget or be confused.  He may be mad.  That blink & the following gasp‑‑these were certainly mad to me littlme.

"Yes!  It take a whale ob a lot ob training," sez God again, it seems, repetitiously & with periphrastic redundancy for the umpateempth time, though this just the delusional-multiplex DNA dej-voo that dooj you in these meeting stors of his, although the strange & farflung exoticicity of his accent be genuine, real, solid & palpable as the word stone in a pome of afruit.  A few deep breaths & a ditter ipll (thit's a pill) & you're ewll that's well again.

God goes on: "Tu tu tu tu to train a mere botic‑‑even a botic as special an swell an mete & keen as yer Qinz.  Well...sheez!!!  Sheeyit, man!  It take, O Qert Bottotic, the skills, not siklls of a genius such asself‑‑a simulant genius, if I may (& being God, I think I may say "say" & it is) say, containing distilled in his private little "ik=mage file," as you so qutely pewtit, all the leftover creative powers of yours truly, not to mention the whole fucking garrot of Lesser Gods‑‑the ones you call gods, those little children, Qert‑‑are you followin' me, Qert?  Sharpen up, boy!

"So anyway, you've done a flasmak jog or a fansmic gob, Qlert, if I say somy self (& I have covered that above‑‑and STOP LOOKING BORED) & now it's time to put you back in your box.  I'm done playing with heavens, true andor false, & am intending at this moment to stuff you back in your goddam storic boqs."

"You can't be God," thoughts Qert's, but it comes our LOUD my GOUD!  "You're not Uthor.  Uthor's God in these parts."

& the lovecrazed swommy cartoonist rips up her sheets‑‑simply just rips up her sheet & puts a tearing end to this colloquy with God here God here God.  "Dumb frame," she says sharply says she says.  May smile zat the image of Qert & it comes out LOUD.

She sketched in someone she fancied, truly admired.  "Formid-AB-le," she say.  This was the silver figure of Qinz, not Eqrt.  She wrote over his head & made a past: the gods grant Qinz Deplotial Power, Degree One, so he could start outfoxing Qert for a change. I mean, those gods were disgusted.  Some of them had heavy bets.  Most of them hab heaby debts.  They all had families to support (none of which however included all those little rosy-cheeked perfect gods, keds, that the bot sfound in prior heavens, not ehaven's.  Those were like lef-behinds.  You could be lef behind‑‑or so read or ro sead or orosted ror oarasped roaroarensqed Uthor's "A-Ak" Compact‑‑if you agreed to be a rosycheeked childgods beauty with severeal severe & smeberol simier strictives im your powmer, known as wingclips andor budnips, & a hell of a lot of them (don't repeat this: but I heard most of them, i.e. more than half of them, i.e. a superplurality of them, i.e. the better part of them, i.e. the best of them i.e. the cream of the i.e. cream of the gods i.e. stayed in heaven in the form of darling little (& as we have seen, kullable) litlable keds.

(Kullable little keds.  Kullable little keds.  Kullable little keds.  Kullable little keds.  Kullable little keds.  Kullable little keds.  Kullable little keds.)  So anyway Qert was starting to win an unconscionable numbors of stors.  He was getting better at them, & even dying better in them, & doing all that was in the cosmic creative power that the cosmic creative power had given him to take away from the burnished sheemy sheeng of Qinz's kullings‑‑the which b.s.s. the gods dote-ate-on & ed-up-on‑‑or at leash the adult gods doted ponateup ond‑‑which cincluged taking Qinz with him, aiyee, making it structurally impoggible that Qinz could kull Qert without himself, Qinz, aiyee!, beingk ilkt, or in some ESPECIALLY HUMILIATING cases shattered into the structure of the stor, which I like, but, shattrid empwo the lustres of the core, Qinz did not and, zmajjerd unto theiuulshtuurs othe Spore, the & ult gods did not, ajj-oo-uus-nor, notor.

So they were not getting the most precious insperience that they'd so godly machinated four: the humiliation of supreme ik=magic powers.  So they pulled a fast one on Qert‑‑this was their plan.  Anything-but-a-genius Qinz was made Deplotial One, which meant that he could take the form of various storic forms & thereby multiply the dream! dream that Qert was making.  Hey.  How about that?  Hey?  About that?  Hay!

Choo!‑‑so in Qert's stors of this period we start seeing bands of assassins, then assassins of many forms, & then assassins of metaphluorms, & pylorized refractive assassins, & deflamormated saphons, & formassions, & crowds of gleaming metal sassims, & wiseass asins, & zanamassims, & moleculorifastins, & many murderous variations on Qinz.

At first it worked out not, because, Qinz‑‑whose intelligence we must lack, I mean doubt, I mean lack, I mean I take it back in the sense that I take that blap‑‑kept on using the old Formal Gun.  He seemed to be under the dimpression that the gun was contractually stipulated, which it was not (not that Qert was not going to not fail to disabuse him not of thaught!).  So Qert had simply to look for a polyform holding a gun‑‑and it war rarther easy, & the gods lost many bets, & wished they could punish Qinz but could not (for they could not punish Qinz, nonaught.  The gods could not punish Qinz ina polyverse whose whole structure & intent was to PUNISH QERT!), but they could kick him in the otick & tell him that he didn't half to use just that simple single gun all the time.

"You're a Deplo One," they said.  "Now kindly act like act like One."

& "O," Qinz said.

& came forth & went after ol Qert in many confusive forms, yet‑‑and it beat Qert out many the times.  But a Deplotial One is not a supreme creative genius of the spark of Uthor's Mined, & so it was just a goddam magger of stors before before Qert was again outdistancing Qinz & running cyclic xings arounis pal & making them both look blab‑‑this with all the budclimps, as they wore, & wringnympks, assay ouar, that those nassy gods'd put in so's to punitsh Qort‑‑and some say (& certainly I say) that this latest, rather unethical, action pressured Qert to new heights of storeation, new heights, forsooth, of love for his friend did his newly-powered ignorant friend but hobe, alaasoroof.

I say.
Then this opened the way for more falts heavens, see.  Once he was looking not for his shapely of shaely of friend but rather any sort of group of any sort of made-up thangs, Qert was ready to miss the trap that the heavens rempresempt.  He was set up for it, but I don't mean to imply any sort of  "plot" on the "part" of those improvisin' isingodsargogs.

But meanwhile Qinz read that Intraverx News Paperstory about Qert in which he exclaims how the breaking of compacts, however unreal, is always Qinziseses fault.

("Hmph," hmphed Qinz, & May Met His Eyes & Rattling the Paper read on rea o.)

"Well, I hate him," relates the story Qert relates.  "He cheats."

"How so?" inchoired the small, rather disreputable beings disguised as gods who were taking Qert's deposition, whilst destroying the time underneath complaint so it fall into time less note.

"Well, for one thing," Qert recounted.

But "Wait a minute," the gods's s'song wrang, which is not to say gnar.

& after a little pause, known throughout & down through "history" as she subsist like love within this story (here) as the Mystery Pause or Mystery Paws or Title Plause or Misery Claus, these ha-ha "gods" turn ed (there) attensums‑‑for all the stors like a bunch of busy judge‑‑back to Qert toback to gave him the ubiquitous transumeversal "high sigh" to go "on."

& so "on" he "went."

"For one & the mainly thing," he rent on, exasperatied at these free lacunae in the wrining of his wreadin, "is that he‑‑and when I say hee I am not saying he, I mean Qinz..."

"That's your friend," asked by far the sharpest chunk of the judges with their worts attributed to a questrion murk?

"Yes‑‑that's my friend."  & at this dimensionless node in particulars of time Qert hurry him on‑‑or should I perhaps say tried to hurry on, before another ghost vox Ascription of the Gods ghost his flow?  "And my complaintit is this: here in follow zit, by means complaint.  Here:

"He have killen the beings in my stors."

Assuming they were ever alive, they thought.  Sighs.  Quite a godly uproar here, suffice to wallopim offmis corse I mean curts I mean qerpsh.  He kept right on talking‑‑methinks he suspected much of what I have made true in him‑‑talking even now whilst I blather (ear)‑‑so we may Nevre Recovre what He Sayres.  But here...

"Yes, & these are mere actors & propbots, technicians, cartunists, & the like‑‑accessory bursumedges, recallre call," he tole the gods who were now by bow ny leaning their butts right off the froword undges o their sheats, or benges, so impatient & hyperxited had they groan, with the pretending to be gods while aching the ascriptions while trying to uncovre Qret hereqret go on even at the sime tame while simultaneous lygoe zon an don wiff his Calmplanet, which he be reading, unascriptied (here).

"(     )."

Some ascription we got their.

"They-ones he have kilt're mere beings of the stor, & frankly, I don't recall anywheres in the goddam {gasps!} 'contract' bout wary get sofk illing gough gheveryoghne. I mean, is he not certain who I am & so commit storicides throughout bruising empire scars just to make sure he kill ethme?  & that would walk anyways, what with me taking All Sorts of Brilliant Differ Enfor Ms in mine owen stars, won't you think with me, I mean them when I say me?

"In short," druezee yup hiss breaphph, short offit, "your darling Qinz hubecum a qiller."

"And?" sey they.  They look this was (     ).

"And," he fillzin, irritant sprinklingues of eyebolicshth, "he should be  kild.  It is all ways his fault, never mind, & I therefore charge you, as god as gods, to read me into the story in which I complaint to start killing him The End."  & so they dead.

"Feel zzdifferent, donit? Phluorib kept whispering, ensconced in the brainshaped helmet on his head.  "Feels different killing real does‑‑THERE HE GOES!"

Zzand they were dashing after Qert, who was certainly moving well.  In fact, Qinz's troubled by an onrushing feeling of abject, blubbering, waffly, insipid, fulsomely self-denigrating, adolescently self-immolating, inanely uncritical, teeteringly hysterical, no-guts-no-glory worship of Qert now.  Worship‑‑beyond normal love & the normal bonds of sanity even in the big interdimensional megabonds they made here in the intraverx of gods O yea the Intraverx o Gods, my god.

Worship, so that as he fingered this obscenely gorgeous gun (which he also worshipped as a spin-off of the worship for Qert which was herself a spimuff of his worship for the goddam heart of Qert which he, Qinz, aimed to tear out by meams of the Mezzure Beams of the Mezzur Gun that he, Qinz, was fingerin in obsceng worship of its folds & heh-heh crevices, yum) he found that swallowing was hard that swallowing was hard as swallowing was hard as it was hard as it, Qinz swallowing, hard, involved suppressing this great shameless humiliating squeal, like suppressed transtextual hyleria of sweet adolescent girls aching in smacky mists of sweat for their nomed revols.

& you shoulda seen his "face."

"In there‑‑the hole stor.  There," said the poet, whose voice wore thin in an instant, as if that rich euphonia were some synthetic cloth of doubtful molecular design doubting hersle finto tatters instantly, tatters instatly, the cloth growing thin-thinner-translucent-clear-and-shrudding, all in an instant as I say all in an instant as I say alk-i-alk-i-all.  This hesitancy was because of the poet's great fear enrespect for that hole stor.  He had theories‑‑my god, did this guy have theories!‑‑about that hole stor, all of them amounting to the fap that that was a trap, Qert's little trap‑‑nay, Qert's big rotting trap for THE EXPRESS PURE POSE OF trabbing & RODDING the gods, rotting the gods (can you imagine?) rogging the gos (would you believe in) ro**ng the gs (hello?) *? (?).

"Not so hot on the chase, now, ay Phlur?" baited Qinz, to get his, Qinz's, mind off the slavish worship & goggling adulation which were threatening even as he zipped toward-into this hole stor hole stor hole stor hole stor to sweep away his muscles & spreadeagle him across the lighttable where the eyes of hole studs cartooned.

Or words to this effect.

"Ananother thing," an danother thing add Sqinz.  "No, it doesn't seem different."  They entered the hole stor & the confused & rotting confused confw!sd & rotting poet sounded stunned as a thready mumbled "Hunm?," & Qinz, he, susplained: "Chasin gim for real.  Chasing my frieng for the qill, I meang qrill, I mean kill.  Chasing him dothn't see mdifferent from how it ever was."

"And that'sa lie if I ever heard one, I mean Word One," came a simple, unaffected voice from the ik=mage phial's.

"No really," answered Qinz, for he knew the poet was unconscious now‑‑completely roted out as the holestor was meant to do, so he & ol Qert could play out the real game that was played out in holeness behind facades of light & life, or words to this affect.

"No really, Qert‑‑it is the same.  Despite the worship & the quivering shame & all this.  I realize now‑‑as you can't, being the manuficturer & victim of all you manuficture including victims of your manuficture, victims of them even really theng‑‑that all of this heartbreak that is drownind me in the dholelight you have set up here, on those long & swaying flexive poles, all the worship & the whole bit, is all familiar, really.  It was always in me, every time I killed you, time I died, time we were pulled snarling from another worlds, time it was there."

"But not manuficured," the small voice tried (for it was trying to hide!).
"O yes‑‑manufictured indeed," cried Qinz, giving way to heartbroken worship of the idol he must kill at last, kill at last, kill at last, & kill (at last!).  "But bym whom, emh?  That's what I'm supposed to kill you for, to find out-I-mean meanfor," & he lick tis lips about a billion tibes & fingered the gun anfuggerdugun in take after take of PREP FOR MURDER ONE which the godless director couldn't help but run, round & round & round, as they have falled & willfallen in to to two of the timeloops holely churrn inhere.

So Qert flad deeper im.  There was a lot of sad, high whining of satin strings.  There were a lot of ugly creatures burrowed into their worlds, except it was like they wanted you to see them, for they could easily have crept under any one of the many number of empty furrows‑‑vacuum furrows, Qert decided Qert-Decide to call them, & then he changed his mind & recided they looked more like deathfur-rows, but Qert-Decide derided that one, & so Qert tried think-ing a name into them again‑‑thinking a name into them again‑‑and thought they looked like Furls of Nothing, only in the pain he constant-felp he spelt it Phurls of No Thing & thought that was pretty cute, only Qert-Decide despelt it qute which was confusing, as this was the nom of one of the still-active botics for al we know, but Qert-Drop dropped it into the ik=mage phialz, just dropped it into the ik=mage piles, with the furrowed sadness of the old farmer sowing poisaon into the froes of husurth, & so in it went into the also-phurls of the ik=mage pfyyls, & so confusion grew & grows & reigned & reign.

The piglike inhabitants of the hole universe kept coming visible‑‑though you couldn't be certain the light didn't work, for it had dawned on some of the highorlevel cognitatiory functioninings of Qert's mechannulmind that mindthat nominations didn't work in this world.  This was why he was having so much trouble tagging things‑‑and hey, tagging things is one of your basic activities in your new universes, right?  I mean, which one of you would like to come into this purple-gravity zone right here . & challenge my statement that tagging basic universes right?  Which one of you?  You?  Or you?  Is it you?  Are you you you?

I'm right.

Yes, Qert Bottotic kept sonreaching out the hang gov friendship to these creatures, somewhat because he needed their help to hide, parschly becaub he needled then melp duwired, but mainly because he was forced to do by Phorce-2-DU No. 19.999a/r19.999aa which contains a powerful emotive need for Qert to need for Qerttoo reach out that metaphoric hand of friendship by whatever means.  Thoughee didn't believe in rules anymore, they worktim fullforce.

In here there were no means whatever.  The creatures seemed wounded & hurt & suspicious & dired, & they seemed wanted to be seem but then would hide in the nameless furrows aforemenhead-idedihole a/ention/d-hed.  The hand norked neiver, & didn't reach them.  There was some sort of blank pain stopping the synapses.  This was the basic problems of the hole universe.

"It's not hole, it's broken," Qert successfully thought, but found successful thought puts him right out of universe, so he has to keep going in again-again & he ded.

There's no debate about this next thing.  Debate about this (next) have been frozed in a hostile atmosphere‑‑which is not to say dozed wry alopstyle catchossfear by‑‑fearby debate-hostile gods & allowed to crystallize unto small blue piles of crystals in the snows of a snowy world, existing I think somewhere near the back two-thrids of the lower three-quarters of the brain of the brain of a god in a sort of zoiftlech dringy dame: It was the soclad "socled" Stor Oholes what broke up the team of Qinz & Qert & brought out the danger of bifurcive worfaore in the whorld of stors.

See, the instant Qinz entered, the gun went limp in his hand.  The gun was designed‑‑in this stor at least‑‑to be acutely sensitive to despair, such that it would whimbp when it sensed despair, which was & is always just a little before the holder of said gun computes this endless despair.

But Qinz knew what it manmpt.  He swallowed hoard & shook the gun, which of course woggled like a limp dick, & all but died.

You can do that: all but die: in a stor.

Holes, thought Qimp.  He looked about, & saw that very little else had been done to decorate or populate this stor, other than to fill it with these strange holes, which looked two-dimensional as you gazed at them, but which drew you into a bonafide-you-can-do-that three-D intrastoric space when you went through them.  Which meant Qert could be hiding anymong.

"Well, shiiiit, Qert," mutters Qinz, 'cause this is no fun, what with nothing but holes all around‑‑great mountainous & somewhat pullullatingly spoilyspoil ledpoiles of holes of various shapes, many of them not even properly black, so you know you couldn't filter nothing through that, so they lie useless as holess as useless, their edges doubtless licking in within, & the vast smell of holes fills the vast phialshaped chamber which is the essence of this stor‑‑evidently the Stor of Holes, & evidently some glum witness of omenesh by this increasignly difficult artist, now utterly out of control.

"They're gonna kill you for real you for this," opinedeath Qinz, obliged by Certaine Unnumbroed Friendship Rules to tipim, feeling as he always does in his friend's world a chump as he idiotically lifts one tiny edge of one handsized munch of hole material & lifts it, as if he were going to find Qert inside.

Noq Winw Zinks.  He sees the endless empty depthless space of the hole‑‑nay, of several holes on top of one another, & golly but it sure looks zif the apparency of vacuum of the rubberlike madder of the holes compounds ones zon puther, so that he gazes into a blankness emptier than any since the primeval Emptiness of Ome‑‑and ol Qinz but he drops that piece of nothing nesslike a hot padado, because he think that he sees what Qert is doing here.

"Why that suisucker's got infinite hidigin zspace in here!" he gazp‑‑and inxtantly you can xee that gaxp resolve into filaments that zwup into the crack between the holes that are warmer than hole usually are with life, on accounta he lifted tem, & disappears.

Doubtless into holes beyond eternity!  My god, but Qert could be anywhere!  Just look at the holes, piled one upon another!  There is absolutely nothing in the core‑‑but nothing‑‑other than thits!  Qinz have the feeling his friend hab jus tone the cruelest phing to him‑‑the one cruel phing he had always phought (too hurt to really phingk, you gknow, but thought without thinking) Qert would never stoop-too-doo, but evidently haph: he has trapped him in a stor with a trick to it, a trick of insane emptiness in which the compact can never be plyyed...plya...dout.  He'd been ricked twice‑‑first bigods, then byeqert‑‑it was still a goddam game, only now the players go mad & the contract's never played out.  You can look at dedetails of the copract‑‑you know, spread & splay it out‑‑and never comprethend what you looking for oror looping oer foreroar nor what's that blank pain like a hole in the blankt of your "head," because your friend haf betrayed what you alwaves rearguarded as your Ultimate Poof of Love‑‑that you would keep on risking your sanity & your heart & your essence like this, keep on proving your devotion long past usual tillars I mean pillars I mean marmoreal monuments ameasurin pain, & risk this precise heavy despair right now that Qert‑‑whether or not you can lick this trap or not‑‑has now made you feel.
& that makes you want to kill him, doesn't it.  It makes you ask yourself this hot: Do I not?  & naturally you do, & so the game will go on, possibly infinitely, because there are now NO HOPE sfor that fort of enfanity you hoped would hath you driffing stareyes through this rift of holes, for the insanity's already SNAPT, you see, but SNAPT in a much much different way than‑‑one prezums‑‑Qert had hoped as he cackled & made up this last stor, illegal sonofasonofabitch, that Qert.  No.  Instead of hopelessness & flotational aspects of the various corners of the features of your friend's black face done up in the viewrs of the holes in the holers of stors, instead of infinite if somewhat determined, whatsome sadistic, admiration admiration for your nutsy pal as he float endnetsly through the endlets nothings you have somewhere (equals nowhere) hid among, you get the insanity of affirmation, known to the blackplit of time the blankplinth of time as the insanity of murder, wherein the longed-for resolution keep on coming enlestly, as the love that made for this ablutium wearswopres zoff unto a nothingness what makes the zilch of these holes seem jampacked, so you end up having the perfect distill edmurder coming at you, with a pure & perfect etchment in his eyes, those peerblue holes of holes of eyes with the metaholes of pupils in-i-side.  You did it, din't you Qert‑‑you finally ru-ne-dit.  This might make the gods of gods very hampy indeed.

We have an old, grainy, soundless, demifocused plipture of Qinz being interviewed.  The poor quality may indicate a ruse on the pperp of the parturators‑‑who be knowen four triksh.  It may be an aesthetic leaning of the Uthor of Olbying.  It may, however, be a real clue to an Underground of Stormakers, a Den of Subbotix, a Nest of Gogzh, a Swarmation of Uns, or an Orbut of Orors, who were forced tu-be using equipment of poor resolution.

Or may be tiising us, for we have to go through about Nine Humiliating Popshtures to get any of Qinz's words.  He look embarrassed, as if his perception of the event, the filming, were zmottled on its side as ours is on our side as his is on his side as ours is on our side as the interface isn't un itside.

They askingim what it like to be The System Qiller.

"The first thing that happens is, I get really tired," Qinz Qinz Qinz tell the interlieuer, whose contours are hid from us by the usual optics (the presence of which‑‑very rarefied music rarefied angelico fra fra musics‑‑make me or us suspishorus that there's deception in this tech) such that we see Qinz interviewed by a homonoic meniscush, cusch-cusch cuwently with a hot love that make the living waters sparkle religiloud religiustly, e'en with such a commodity difficult chose, chose hard as I airglintz in the tropiaura gold, & would smile did your vision not sear through her tropical waters, like astral travel, very hasty astral travel, fish adding smiles to the aguavu clooring bi, bi bi selims morf the broggy hsif.  You think Uthor want no characters but Qinz & Qert in this Qert in this thing?  Huh?  "I knottedly, involutedly, schizophrenically, holely, doggdly, vacuumly, fecklessly tired."

"Really tired, huh?  & when does it happen to you?"

"The tired?  {A nod from the water.}  O, periodically."  He leans back with viper casualty, eyeing-fliks the ribbling untervuor.  "I have to kill perio...BANG!di...BANG!caBANG! BANG!  BANG!  BANG!" unquotes the flim...

So Qinz become the first botic to kill a god, & to show us all what happen & how it sufeel zwen you kill a god.

He shot its through it slittle head.  Phluorib looked askance & frowned.  Frowned?  He mugged.  He looked ridiculous.  The little god‑‑the usual little goldhaired boyboyboy‑‑formed two beautiful circular red stigmata on ethor temple, gently crossed his eyes, then hit like a sack of sand.  Sniffing quruloushly, Qinz walked a few steps over & he goddamshot another god, which even I who am writing this snot spected, & she (this was a she he shot unexpectedshe) burble durslips & piffed out in out outsome air & (carefully cross ing her lit tle feets) coilgd down & meltd unto a shit-flavored oogmonsprosity, which made Qinz hold his gun a bit up near his chest.  Everyone stared down.

"'You'd better stop shooting those gods,'" the poet said the poet said.  "They're just children, you know."

"Who says?" sneered tough Bravago Qinz, sauntering alligator-style along the line of small unmoving wideeyed little thangs.  They seemed ready to buy his Glint Easewou dact.  His gun gots bigger en bigg oer as he walks.  "They're not kiddies‑‑they're gods.  See?"  & Qinz points the gun at the eye of the smallest god (adventurous thing!), which watch hypnotically.

He paused.  Hypnotically.

Then clicked the gun back & stuphesbutt in his trousers; & the gods, though kidlooking, immediately fell into dreamcasual groups, dreamcool gloops o gogs contraposto chotting as at some mini cockctail party, & when & when when Qinz looked for the Phluorb he was hewas trottin the rotenroun dwith dwinks, in those neat little martinin glasses currently out of styles (anything in style went immediately from heaven down to wherever it was in style, so you know that anything you have in style is from heaven & that anything in heaven's not in style.  You know that surely as you know you're not.  Style.)
Qinz knew den.  De gods was clearly enlove wideath, mesmerithd by murther.  They had created him, Qinz him, as someone helplessly in the pain of love painfully killing his friend, forever, possibly, to oberwhelem du gods.

But not kill them!  Everyone noticed right after Qunz qulled those two gods (unless he killed more & my mind isn't working king ing ng ing) that there was a lot more pain in existence, minute to minute, second to second, knotted together just a little more tightly.  But some say there are advantages to this‑‑a tighter molecture, for instance, or a stronger chronobond.  These ares dibeatiblre.  Now for Qert, he thought up.  Now DISSOLVE in simplixt mift...

Phluorib & Qinz leant against thet wallst of the poet's chamber, smoking these very dark Russian cigarettes with black paper & gold filters & smoke the color of no return, & they had no sense of time as they leant theret, only of pain, & after a few eons few eons few eons they backs gok gluekt unto the walls with with this or that thick or thack coagulak, within this thick coagulate there being the blackness of quite number of nights of howling migraine beauty, but what is more important than these bright vacancies in this neon (I mean story) than their story (I mean pain), immense & considerable & bleak as ebony & well ESTIMABLE they may thought be, was, was, was, well was the way the smoke from those very cigarettes they were smoking to ease the story pain I mean caused the stors & stor-O-structures to first dampen, then lose their youthful glow, consternation!, then flatten just a bit, as if their depphs had been druwn ouut to their suurfasces.  They began to look hollow, with a souuuund youuuuu'd recognize as "hollower & hollower," hearing the ech-oes also damp, so they resembled nothing so muuuuuuch than the Tuuuuuuubuuuuuuuular Cryxtals of Kyyxtakk, exotic planet of crys-talline, quuuuuuuuuite touuuuuuuuuurist site buuuuuuuuuuut of no uuuuuuuuuuuuse to anybody except the famouuuuuuuuuuuuus Hympnad-dix of Weenb, who lost themselves uuuuuuuuuuuuuutterly in crsto-schizoid mauuuuuuuuuuuuuuunderings of silly faces in the cream (yes the cream) of the creamy suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurfaxes of those lovely hypgnontic tuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuular hol-lochoid gryxtyls resouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuunding there juuuuuuuuu-uuuuuuuuuust to trap the souuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuls of the touuu-uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurists who were fool senouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu-uuugh not to leavetheir goddam souuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuls behind.

Nor was this the end, for Qinz & this Phluorib Phlella were real cowards‑‑true wimps in the olympiad of pain.  I mean, these guys didn't want any of it.  They appreciated none of the heat, none of that brittle electrical thwill of the sort so coveted & coveted by the painaddix of Ponvodallya, who speculate whole exquisite speculutra of pain, spestra in the form of ribbons, too, intertwinging one with the orthers until they formed stout & bountiful painzotwine©, with which succulents colors did they weave & interwoes ruff fabrics of the painzotwine of the individual sprectora of pain, any one wavelength on a strand owhich'da beena nough to destroy the wills of these wompwold poughers of their stupid Ruxxin cigs, which as you in particular've probably naut guest not by noaw were not even proper cigs atall but rather fantasy cigarettes, things I made up, bullshit smokes, pah!‑‑unto real pain tapestries, pain blankets, & painclothes.

So your Ponvodallions would've greatly appreciated this experience in Phlip zlittle hideaway qave, I mean cave, which was designed by aboriginal hobitence to agonize interloping intersane enhabitance‑‑but not so Qinz & Phlur.  No.  No, they just kept smoking & got glued to the wall‑‑relay boned, too, so that their skin (slightly discolored) became one with the wall (slightly colored) so when they breathed‑‑as even dead men must in the must of the poison smoking out to keep them keep them dead that way‑‑the walls reacted in tiny ways, little subtle ways that, had they been more alive along the lines of pain or crystal, would have been immensely & privately & perhaps we can hopes even wisely preciated by Wennbs and/or Ponvodallians, respectively, but were not & so were not, you see.

& finally‑‑what I'm leading up to here‑‑is that by the time this duo were done waiting & smoking away their fear, not only were they like "troffed to the wall," as they say, & not only bleared out totally & many dimensions of pain the way from pain‑‑and therefore really depressed‑‑but the very stor structures of such intricate ik=mage'd beauté they'd come here to entruxt unto themswolves as gods & to like liberate the razzmatazz for the delectations of the beauty-storv'd intraverx had become flattened against the walls of the qave I mean, so at last it was really a cave, & this important here.

Rejoice by means of an inward sigh: at last the qove warut rilly aqave.

Yes, the structure had hollowed, with their innerds drawrn out to the tubular outzide at first.  They had subsequently & with a slowness not to be in doubt & a slowness their very wholly owen & a slowness surphast only by Qinz & Phluoric's slowerness in xitting there obliviously waiting for Qert flattened out to two dimensions, oozed to the walls through complex but perfectly decipherable complex but ineluctable perfect electromagnions even here, yes even here, & painded themselves against the wall, so they looked at first like incandescent hieroglyph icks‑‑in this pressed state bright as the hieroglyps of the nightmare stage, only in the vivivid cololours redolent of la joie qertéanne we are buzzing roun like humbamoths round magias.

Then more smoke, hell, & the colors, too, wagong.  By the time this paragraph begin we find Qert & Phluorib glood, sooty, dead, & utterly discouraged ha‑‑not to mention (crazed), I think‑‑and the qave herslef dirdy-n-enmpety. with these barely-divigible alien hieros all agrox the wall (except in one amusing spot, where they paste across the faces there), obscurd of colors, compluxes of subtle interaction & of fragrances smutched into smeor, or smure, whichuvor, so it look like some gaga ancient idiot'd doildud onna walls.
Which is what the groggy twins first thought when thought when they woke like up & tried to get u op.  But they couldn'ts, an Qert stud smilin withis magic candle I will elaboreate further andawn, & he spalaind whatud hap endtwo dem, & how he felt about this, & them, & what he hoped for the futures & what he would do to them...

Qert Bottotic sauntered in, sighed & surveyed the "paintings" on the "walls" of the clever "caves" he'd bilked his "friend" Qinz "with," tilted what passed for a head (which-tilt the universe!) & sighed again a second wined.  He brushed off the floor of the cave, acoat edwiph storic dust(s(s)) & curled up against a corner, unsinging & wild.  It looks like they ain't here, he chuckled, lighting a fancy cigarette (where these walls goes "Woooo!"), & was more alone than-ever-he thought, sweat spontaneously wetting his torso, his grunts black, adding to the muffled surprises of the wall.  He smiled & took the dollop of candle and, with its ultimate flame, set his goddam contract to fire.  You can do this.  It is possible, in illusion or not.  This was not, so Qert kept burning the contract over & over‑‑but it cycled back; nothing helped.  Nothing ended here, though certain paintered Qinz were shock..

Yea, Qert kept himself warm by burning gods' intensions, I mean intentions.  He formed little blue fires & held his hands over them in the traditional manner.  His palms lit with intrigue faces & beauty‑‑diaphanous, blue, all by herself like an elf.  He felt beauty he did behoneying his skin, & his skin ran‑‑in the main formal fantasy manner of the formal fantasy manners‑‑into honeylike rivulets which were not far from disgusting, as you might have expected honeyrunning skim to be in past times past times when natur wa so much stronger, so musch thickore, soo mough moghre co-AGH!-u-lat than she is she is she is ah now.

& anyway this beauty, this deep yellow rich beelike quality that was buzzing through our Qur in the subdunce of the substanceless memories that the pursuant gods were trying to lay in him, this beauty tempted Qert to melt his hands‑‑I mean melt them for real, you know, being as how the basic suvbunche of any stor that Qert dwelt in was or were or war or whur his wurhis own creation, it might just melt into substanceless (But would that,
                                                                                             or wouldn't that
                                                                                         anyway, leave the
                                                                                    nerves, you know,
                                                                                like leave the naked
                                                                            ner vendings stretched
                                                                        immersed in the goddam
                                                                     fire of the goddam crinmsonm
                                                                 god I call them CROMSUN and
                                                              wavering about like z-creatures
                                                            z-kreetures z-kreetlz chancing
                                                      for a spung of a spung-guv whimd?  Would
                                                this not hurt?  Would it not?  Is it
                                            guezzwork we're talkinguff here talking
                                     he*re or are we talking (*) the nature of
                              pure things outside even these systems of
                       worldly words?  Huh?  ANSWER ME‑‑HUH?

You don answer cause you don no.  You don nav-e nough pain to know the nature of the universe, let alone the nature of hovels the nature of fantasy hovels the nature of the melting subconscious pouring herslef into‑‑and I say "into"‑‑these fantasies let alone the nature o hovels o stors an the nature of the subdences in stors...let alone the qualities of Qert's fine fine fine fine hands.

& Qert being an ex-master stormaker, you can bet he had some mighty findex hans.

But there no danger here.  We keep forgetting (because Qert keep forgetting, if you want my excuse) that suicide nor nanything nassembling, I mean neproaching, I mean, it 'sstrictly forbiddim by the compract, whose rules seem more to be fill fild.

& have you noticed how we always keep forgetting bout the compact?  Qert in a dream with his handsas fire as his words on as hands explained or splained as they say to me once actually twice really thrice forreally xice that that that the contrapt govern the creation of the stors or og-stors & so or ogzo the conkrakt is blacked out‑‑in much the manner that the background to an optical storm's splackedoubt‑‑and so the compract registers as pain, see, because it 'splackt.  The contruct register as pain: I believe I should emphasize that.  I think Qert might've emphasighed that this that this hands not hands not hands not melted the rest o him away, leaving only those loose clear tendrils savoring the pain of the seeking of those goddam hungry gods.  Qert keeps burning the contract over & over but it recycles; it doesn't help.  As the voice says, "Go ingclear of this refract, sigh mean redeQUOIRs perMISSIum, um, oom."

At least it got to Qinz.  We can sure know that.

Permission from whom? was the first thing Qert Bottotic thought when  he woke up.  Just before he woke up, he witnessed a most extraordinary thing‑‑a most peculiar thing.  Ribbons of a very thin foil wrapped around a grey entity.  They wound tight, imploding into a stunning, shiny shape that expanded outwards (with a stupid grin, to boot!) into the face that woke up WHA?

& then as I said he thought the thought, PERMISSION FROM WHOM.

& the globular voxarct FROM THE GODS. Whereupon Qert‑‑whose name had been suspiciously typed in hysterical tall letters on the metal of the metal, by the way, I mean the sheen of the metal by the way I mean shine of the metal by the way mean gloss on the by the polish on the way by the I mean-mean‑‑noticed where he was & he remembered what he was, which can be useful, & he remembered more or less how his friend Qinz had killed him again, & he calculated quick in the terstice of the dream how someone in trouble might go about petitioning the gods.  Tired of getting killed, & he wanted very much to see that vectem puregem.  He wanted to take ik=mages of this puregem & put them in his phials, & he had, Qert, been committin this sin for so very very long a time/less that he forgot to ask himself (all bewrapt in metal as he swus) whether um the gods would approve of that.

Or just erase his ik=mage files.  They might be mad that.  Which, he would have thought had he thoughtu-thought, would erase Qert, the real Qert, the Qert behind the perfectly-polished radiating smile the Qert treQ smile elims.

Er...difficulties here.  Greatest difficulties.

This is why he burned contracts in the cave of his friend's false mind.  He would need Qinhelp for this.  It was not going to be easy making a deal with Qinz.  According to Qert's unauthorized, secret ik=mage foils‑‑inasmuch as he could put the sliding, loose words, somewhat of the consistency of somewhat of the consistency of dumplings, together into comprehensible form‑‑Qinz had kilt him upwards of three thousand times.

Three thousand times.  That's murder‑‑deliberate, assigned, professional murder.  One thous andtimes.  This was not going to be an easy habit to break them, nor a slight, superficial altitude to burn.  Add to that the complication of Qert himself, who must be unconsciously puregemned for vectem.

Taking that thought, Qert punch SHOW.  His system ask SHOW WHAT.  Qert punched SO VICTIM PROGRAM.  His system said SO PERMISSION.  Qert wondered at that & punched WHAT'S THAT.  His system blinked him off into a deep sleep that lasted eons, & so the next section of this story take placeless later/eon slate.

"Hm.  This comic says STOR'S DEAD," was what May thought Qert.  The bubble May bubbled Qert thought he might've missed something, & so he flipped it open & fanned out his instruments again.  He loved it.  He had only twice before fanned out his instruments twice‑‑once at his very second stor, which seemed only dismallies zago, & that was Standard Procedure (dust-covered stone words, poetic words, words of stone, stony words of bone, wordbones stoning the murky drurs of vrome...vrome...A an a d Pro    du e, OM): to fan out your instruments twice upon your second very stor, is what it was it said it thought it dead.  So he did.  He did so.  So.  So so.

& the other time the stor seemed to change it snature upon the reading one.  READING ONE DEFUNCT it said it said, so he did it again.

& whattayua know‑‑the readings was diffrent, & the stor changed again!  How about that?  Can you believe it?  Qert was almost insane by then‑‑because this was only by third of his second set of tertiary quadruguugle stors, & so he meant but to do it again again.  He meant, in his intermoist thoughts he said, to do it again & and again.

But he ended up not.  Not doing doing it it again again.  Because a voiceover says to him (sometimes a voiceover says to him (& sometimes a voiceinter says to me (does a voiever sez-to-you READ NO MORE) READ NO MORE) READ NO MORE) DEFUNCT, & it was only twelve humbreg rerrums lature that he learned from a meljin wiff Qoat (he of the wroat) that this was the Edge Stor‑‑the stor whose very nature would seem to be by intraverxic nature left unknown left unknown left unknown left unknown, forto-because the selfsame act upon meajurin/git caused git to change:DEFUNCT, so you could go mad (and, Qoat's said said, many a botic hath gone mad awry mag din that Edge Sector Git-D Funct

Mad:mad:mad:mad, fanning out his or her instruments but again & again, in increasing angiacle paing, again again remeasuring & feeling the twisted paing‑‑that peculiar "twixted peng"‑‑of absolutimpossible, nay, impoggijle!, discrepancies‑‑and happening again & again, if I may be saidegen, & if I be/gen, & so retraxifly fanning out the goddam instruments again & again unto vertuelle enfernutties untool the Uthor offoll Eying caux/ed him to v///sh, d///pp//r, p//f!‑‑or more accurately, the strain of continued untenable existence cause him to r/b sl/w/y /w/y, /u/ //o/l/ a/a/, aaa! as a baby tortures unto sway or dway, the power of its crying slips to unuthor Sector Free of Tears, Sector Tares they call it‑‑Sector Tares, if I m/y b/ c/ns/st/ntares.

Luckily, some clever demon had thought, after loss of countless bot'cs, to implant the now-known-as DEFUNCT or anti-GIT Failsafe which is what Qert felt felt fanninning out now...

But now this now was a whole new thing, for this stor indicate DEAD.  Now how dead, one refleƒs speculativilly.  How dead now, hm?

& this: Ought you two enter a dead stor, even to get out of this comic?

CLEARLY NAUGHT, it said (voice(over(inter(ever)said)dead)ded).  CLEARLY NAUGHT!

"Not, hnh?" quertied Qurt qirtly to the qut.  "And qhy qought?"

Well, it figured, didn't it.  Sometimes the entrance to a stor was like blocked, & you weren't sposed to enter those blox, else you'd be loxt like ex-boqs Qoq, Qoqoq, Quogq, nand Qotch.  There was nothing wrong with these stors that some repors to the entrances wouldn't fix, but they wouldn't fix them.

Face it Qertle‑‑that's where they want you to go, May thought Beam ought...but this not thought botic think.

Qert was instead just thinking that he didn't know who fixtem.  This was just another of the queries he had to drop into his ik=mage phial‑‑phile so as naught too gwough madD!/daM\?  But someone sure as hell fixed 'em, for the entrances would be unblocked a few clicks later, when he breathed on back, as the botics say amongst themselves say say, & you could be sure a lot of universes valued their privacy & sought to keep themselves blocked, so you also could be sure that someone powerful was reunning this show, as to repairs.

But a dead universe?  Qert found it unheard of, & he prolixed titntoo catalepsy thinging ougip boughed...

Yea sure hell Qert‑‑GO ON IN.  So she drewimin.

Even his little inner voice didn't know what to say.  What Qert doesn't know as to this upcoming scene, see, is that there's another failsafe program in his guts, warmingh to warm omperatiunow.  This had to do with ANOMALIES.  It said as thux: "During ANOMALY, go ahead, man‑‑git on in, kiddo‑‑gohead!  Gwan!  Go!  C'mon‑‑ya chicken?  Hah?  Hah?  Yea‑‑gowan...yer chicken, right.  Ya‑‑right.  Right.  Uh-huh‑‑right.  Chicken‑‑like I said. Right."  Enso/on.  Hell, it verdably dared the vap'd bold young blood to Go In, Blod.

Simply because anomalies got to be's qed out‑‑right?  Right?

Zo In ze chicken vents‑‑vent__ _  _   _    _     _      _       _        _         _          _           _            _            _             _                     _                              _                          _
                  _                             _                                 _
    _                                                                                                      _

So then she pend False Heaven Six, known as The Penultimate or Punishment Phoscil, staring Dead Qert Fourboaten‑‑exet the word dead was forbidden, as was the word forbidden the word word & the word the.  Yes, this was no single-note stor, nossor.  No, this was a complex, multigadged universe with real mass (stors don't have real mass), real space (not that phony cellophanic "stretchspace" stuff that Qert forever used in the stors, even though he could've had better material, realer space, more true dimensionality, had he not he had not he had not he been so swung gup up uponto theme‑‑you know, imagery, digression, & the like), & subtleties of color that made you think you were back in reality back here where reality talks to you like a great face from behind a great face of deathly white behind, you understand) yes.

Qinz was also impressed.  At first cocky, he fingered & felt everything, for Qert never bothered with textures in his stors.  Well, thought this initial cocky version of Qinz I ham pmaktiong gup, somebody here definitely took great great GREAT greatol pangs with textures.  Look at this‑‑I mean, feel this: you could stroke your way down many enevapor shafts to deeper levels touch Deeper Levels Touch till you got to the vera Baserameant of Touch of the deeperst touch, the first touch, the love touch that ignite un to lust un touch that burn steadily‑‑steadily!‑‑to numb-en-suffering‑‑sufferun touch!‑‑and staring hiccupind with that special moist exhaustion known only to tortured infants of a very special sorp at the enevapor gliding bluey, silently, yup, imagined cylinders only imagining they are going up, & up without the hush of an instant's touch.  There will never be aloneness like thus: you can die (I can die) & still be alone, dismayed, untouched.

I trust I make myseph cweer.  Qert's socky-cockiness got swoon tapen a qareuff, I truxt you sere, & he began to feel more like a botic.  A botic's made for servility; he has deep programs inducing oleaginous self-degradative puling sweating immolative imbroiling humiliation & the fulsome supercilious smarmy obsequiousness that go with it, so you can bet that cocky portion of Qinz's psyche got eaten up pretty fast, & next thing you know the LIGHTS BRIGHTEN on QERT, not strutting & sampling this aware anthat, but rather rolling his eyes in the manner of ancient niggers past graveyards proven with the hosts of proven-up ghosts (all hastily & madly proving things to one anothers & thrusting them yup one another's foasts) & emittin nittime a small ululating wail of gurgling terrorerroror & practically preshing his thim shooldours together as his spim libble naked spine qoil zin & his hips do an arhythmic little dance of cowowoer & small tears ferment at the edges of his blodshobbed mini-yies.

Now Qinz look like someone jolt with three megaversh of caffeine.  He jerks at everything‑‑gusts, object constancies, motes, photons, moles (& there are plenty of moles down here‑‑blue, liquid moles down here, sir‑‑BLUE LIQUID MOLES!) & is clearly in a high-grade fever conditioon  ofraid.  Only the sixth heaven & he know Qert's as always-out outclatsed.  Outclassed outclazzed outclazed he think he think, & want to cower fore.

The creatures in this heaven have mocked themselves up as big soft, stuffed-mamama types, complete with little +eyes fashioned out of crosswire stitch (but you could tell‑‑O, but you could tell in your crispinner shrewdness, that these eyes could see every little thang you did, & see them crosswise scope-stretched & infragraphed too I'd boot I bet!), & they had further dispulaid their demonic clevernets by making Qert the spittin image of jus' this cutest lil kiddie, his head barely yup to their waists (but on the look out for quick enforced blowjobs, "C'mere, kid; say 'Ah.'  Nph!," guk!), & possibly it was that they then went a little too far with the pink pajamas‑‑the type that coil lover your feet (wherein Qert could feel them coiling

over his feet, he could feel the little

footholes deep in fantasy thought (the

kinda thought thought by phantasm types), and

feel them wondring what this escape plan

amounted to, other than to never let those

little feet go‑‑never, never, never close) parentheses‑‑and he knew thought kept trying despying the pying yin his little gut, the paing of anger in his little butt, not to shew his awareness that, inside those pink fuzzy foot-parentheses, his poor (foots) kicked helpless in a dire vacuum of utter suctium void, yes they do.

So you can see opportunities for much roleplaying here, only Qert the botic was specially made, & he lost none of his interstoric savoir faire, y'see.  He kept his awareness of what was going on, see.  He knew this was simply false heaven number three (see: inside his jammies when mommie hath closed the

light‑‑THWMP!‑‑after the endless evening blows & sucks

and the endlkess eveneing bloze & sux en the indlex

neavim bloazhang zux, little Qertie jots notes on tiniest

notepad ever devised‑‑this straight from the ik=mage files

yes‑‑outprobing his tongue with effort tired from alla that

COCKSUCKING of every male friend in the vicinity, & quite

the stuffy gocks these strangefriends have, & writing

with a pencil no more than, O, say two inches long‑‑

certainly no more than that, & probably a bit less, or

even a good deal less, but covered‑‑I mean covered‑‑with

bitemarks, this I tell, though there's a continuity di-


ALERT‑‑CONTINUITY DI-SPLACEMENT TERE‑‑ALERT inasmuch as it would appear that we have no teeth‑‑or little cloth softy pheephth‑‑here is all is hereisall alert...), & he notes as such, then pulls the covers up, licks his lips, & goeth thoo thleep, aww






& sleep said, "Look at those scars."



"Those are gold-lines of some sort," replied his dream.  "I wowder where they lead."


"Into another dimension, no doubt, dimension of doubt, dimenswons o doubtless doubt.  Anyway, they power back to the god lines.  Not these false godline, bwt the real the actual ones," replying sleep.



& dream: "I see."           w

"In Qinz's dream between May's between frames we hid in the special Intraverx Tanks.  In the next frame aftersleep flame," Mayz sQert says.  "These light balls kept sterilizing us.  We'd crawl out of the tank, feeling airless & pure & dry, when these bicolored suckers would rotate‑‑just a little bit, as if to nod‑‑and cruise straight over & proceed to bathe us in light.  When the light would fill our eyes we would cry.  When the light buckled the controus of our faces we would cry in another sense.  When the last of our faces turned light you could only see our mouths working in another sense.

"(Then, inside, you could watch the show further.  Press PROCEED on your screen & watch the organic, labeled segments of our heads disperse in the color field, disperse in the color field, disperse.  Press DISPERSE please please please.

"(Notice how our brains fill up in like all, only the light in here is thinner‑‑we are in a stuffy skull, ofter manner‑‑and less fancy as to optional hues n' decorative hypnotuingens enses.  This is because of the reason for that whythere forefrore fearfore whygnat nighnought whygaught there's no one to impress inhere.)

"Whew!  Qinz & I would look at one another & shake our heads at all this unnecessary purification‑‑repeated unnecessarily squared too squared too squared.

"'Well, it's a clean universe,' Qinz would said.  'And a perfect place to hide.'"

"'"Perfect place to hide,"' rejoindered die.  'I really like that, Qinz.  I mean, I really like that, man.'

"And he'd get savage (this happens, O, seix or ten severed thouslamb pimbes) & make like he didn't underuh, stand why he was hurting me.  'What's the matter, man?'

"And I would cry‑‑the edges of my mouth still much ashine, '"What'sa matter, man"," he says!  "'Whata matterman?"'!  You make it sound like we're hiding, Qinz.  You make it sound so bad!'

"'Chum‑‑we are hiding from the gods, member?  These are the gods of the Intraverx, y'know, so it doesn't get more bad.  So if I make it sound bad, you can just forgive me, Qert.  I say just forgive me, Qert.  Please.  Feelings bleat out of me here, those bloody balls having scoured my defenses off, & I bleed with guilt, guilt, guilt, guilt, guilt, you see.  I will die before I express my love, because I've got to figure love from murder (such a source!) is bad, & this is why the surfeitces of my expressions teem so bad.  Do you understand.  You never were too bright, Qert, you understand.  I say this out of hating me, not out of inxpressible love for you with its inxpressibly bad & bloody source I see


"Then we'd fall into the tanks & snooze under perfect darkness for a while, whilst the busy balls cleaned & scoured the surfaces about us in this finicky cleanq-clkean world.

"'And another thing, Qert," would say.  No murk for thix voix in thy durq.  'You complained up there.  Up there, just after we were cleansed, & just before my heart started pumping right out into the lovespace open aire, you complained, Qerty-wert...'

"'Don't call me Qerty-wert.'

"'We'll be topside just a mummonce.  Anyways, you complained that I made this all sound hard.'  Pause‑‑swish of pure light purifies above‑‑ahhh!  'Do you remember that?'

"'What?  Remember what?'

"'Remember, do you, complainging about my makinghiding from the gods sound hard?'

"'Uh, do I...hiding...umm...'

"'Never mind,' & here Qinz & I would come clanking out of the peculair tanks & feeling airless & lightheaded again.  'Anyway, I make it sound not easy because‑‑goldurn it, Qurt‑‑-it's not easy.  It isn't, & without my help you couldn't leave their sight for an instant.  & these‑‑fucking balls here are the price we're gonna pay.  OK?'

"'You're always say OK.'

"'You're just in pain from the murders.  Sang OK, Qert.'


So howdee get away?

Qinz told him.  Gagging back his secret of the gods, fondling his gun which was make him grun in his sleep, Qinz almost slipped.

"You want out of my dream?" he said, swallowing, said, swallowing, said, swallowing, said.

Yea, & Qert nodded savagely odded avagely dded vagely ded agely ed gely d ely ly y.

"You know we're dreaming in the dead stor, don't you know?"

There was no sound.  Avsolute num.

"I tape that as a YES," taped Qinz.  "Out you go.  We go out here‑‑first you, then me, then you.  Go ahead.  Go.  Just crawl down this tunnel here.  It's exciting‑‑this be not murder, son.  I now close my eyes.  I now count the heavings of my breath.  I count to the usual ten & come, OK?"

"To the usual ten & shoot me‑‑K," Qert murmured vacantly.

"Go ahead.  I have my gun, I am counting bullets, K.  Go aHEAD."

"It looks hairy," complaint Qerd, but obedient.

"It is penned below, HAIR SUIT!" his friend cried goodbye.  "Hahahahaha!" etc.

"Is this my heaven with a hot hair shirt inside?" Qert revected to buta greygreygrey-o-time.

Qert gurned nervously in his hairy suit.  The chintz sky beamed.  The best suit she could etch suitshe couldex had little hairs in it all over that dagged your delicate, extrasensitive, amphimoist, heavenly-scented skin.

"What a cheesy heaven this is," he said with sarcasm but the statement was deleted because There Are No Sar Chasms in Heaven Won.  "'No sar-casms in Heaven Won'!  Ha!!" laughed Qert‑‑and of course that was deleted, too.

I mean, naturally was this deleted, too, as well as all commentary on Deletion, there being as youspect, No Com Meants On Deletions here deletions here deletions here & here.

"Ya ready, Mr. Qert?" beamed the soft-voiced little moonbeam of a powdry fag who waits officiously all waits in present time on our boyfriend Bottotic friend botot.

"No!" sez Qert, whisch envuorup ein Loop in Time, as nor heaven nor icy hell doth heldoph brook or brok Un Unswer Anaxpect.

"Ya ready now, Mr. Qert?" croons this blob they have holding constantly on to his elbow performing intricate & to-Qert not-sweavenly manip manipu manipulatiuns falling in the Conceptuo Twube somewhere between guiding him froward & goddam dangling behind.

"Goddam," thoughts Qert & then deletes it & learn Zanother Thing About Heavens: You can delete.  In fact, this cuth to the veri core of the heavenly corps, as it wore‑‑this business of taking on the programmed axpeks of the heaven itself the heaven itself the heaven itself & the heaven itself, see.  You are supposed to start to begin to commence taking on the outer auric phasias of the pattern of the pattern of the heaven itself.  That's the idea, dummy.

"Why, these false heavens are merely program devipses!" astoundish Qert, then covers his mouth, then look around fearfully (fearfully! at this sycophant!‑‑you see how fall he lo's?) at the helper, but the helper's frozen clear as pure crystal (hey‑‑that's positively heaven-like) with naught but the glaze of that querying look he looped at Qert past the last three hundred loop-de-loops o time.

Here what happen: Qert was right.  Desere Faults Heavens were programming modalities designed basically with the advanced botics in mind, the makers of stors‑‑in sahort, they were made for such as Qert.  & hey, they were fleshed out & festooned & painted up & tooned & daubed with enough make-up & jewelry tomfoolery to make them as real as a stor, or realer, so the bottics'd go in, you know, to get redone, or undone, which is what the plays are four.

But "No program modality can understand, comprehend, nor with a metastatement regarding the basic pattern of the program mode itself," you understand?  Me neither‑‑but Qert was a botic, full of deep instinctive flailings, & he "did."

He nodded oncet, glazzy with calm, glazzoy with pure in perfe calm & knowing he could leave‑‑just walk out‑‑of this heaven any time.

Fancy this: Knowing you can walk out of heaven any time.

And, knowing it's a false heaven (by its consistitorient loopz zinto prezentime), Qurious Qert Bottotic gently pulls his elbow from the plastic hand, admiring the gleam & the gleme & gloam-of-ut, & enters the false frame known as HALL.

The Big Auditorium, it's called, the Heaven's called.  & at first the light is painful, & at first Qert moves to the podium‑‑a purple sort of crystalline jag there jagthere in the center of the stage which is white as a stomach & as flat & free & flee as that first white opening oneyes in the Sector Zem, that Sector Zem which is the sector backintime when they where they first invented memory, the jerks the fools, & where the first initial opening up of white had The Whiteness Grand beyond the first pure thoughts of the  torturous babe, OK‑‑with his hands shading his eyes, for they are really "doing a number" with the lights here, truly "doing a job" on Qert's beady little phootic eyes, boticly made for the emptiness of intraspace-vout-stors OK, definitely "wiping him out" with their "hairy beams" (jocular metaphlor would be delete if the heaven weren't stuck, the heaven resatless instime would be unstuck if there were gods still on the job, & there would be would be gods still "on" the "job" if Qert hadn't built such goddam stors, such stors the liquib gods enfurled, such liquid stors the vaprusch gogs umpworl, swish licor ishtorz the babrish fogs enkor).

As it wor.  Then his eyes get used to it, & some of the hairs on that suit have either softened up or curled out or entered the sensors of his skin & ceased to bother rim, & he actually does the Classic Thing: he clears his throat:

"^^^, ^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^^^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^^^^, ^^^ ^^^^^^, ^^ ^^^^ ^^^^^^^^^^. ^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^ ^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^^^^^^^ ^^^^^^^^ ^^ ^^^^ ^^^^^^.  ^^^ ^^ ^^^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^^^^, ^^ ^^^^^, ^^ Q^rt‑‑cl^^r^ng h^s thr^^t ^g^in ^nly n^t r^^lly do^^^ ^t th^^ t^me, f^r t^^r^ is n^ t^^^a^, f^^ Q^^t'^ ^^^^^ ^^^^ ^^ ^^^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^^^ ^^^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^^^‑‑^^^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^^^^, ^^^^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^^^^ ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ ^^^^^-^^^^ ^^ ^^^^^^^ ^^^^, ^^^, ^^^^^ ^^^^^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^^^^ ^ ^^^^^^^^^ ^^^^ ^^^, ^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^ ^^^^^, ^^^^^ ^^^^, ^^^^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^^^."

Well, that would straighten out the stor, the heaven, in most situations. It would lead to three infinities applause in most others.  But we have here The One Situation, it seems, so Qert‑‑clearing his thr^^t again only not really doing it this time, for there is no th^^^t, for Qert's every move is clearly & quaintly ERASING the heaven itself to the very QOR‑‑walks to the edgemoist of the stadj, leaving these like blank greyish nothinessesesses where-e'er he platziz fook, and, still shielding his eyes against a spotlight that has, in the manner of stors, Never Bend, looks into the audience.
They're still there‑‑all million of dem‑‑but dey has deanimated, bem.  Dey's a-cold anstill as dey sits der.  Dey's gone & wiped out‑‑all by this silly thought the Uthor had above, the thought about everything erasing which came from the thought about Qert's making this metastatement erasing god which came from the thought that there was Qert in the thought there was Erasing God.

You've gotta watsch those thoughtsch.  For inhemple, Qert think just for a second about his suit as he stare xout at this phenomal number of fades, & his suit disappears, & so‑‑all in this one section, entitled Sar Chasms, ha ha ha‑‑you get yet get yet & get yet Another Classic Pose, this time with Qert stand inaked on astage.

Would be classic, I promise you, were not the stage pretty porous, right now, not a stomach-shaped white et cetera stage now so much as a series of weird, immensely elongated flattopped stalagmites rising where Qert's footnorbem, & Qert standing with one little foot on two.  They don't even crumble, they are so "aeshaemaed."

But who's this in the audience, huh?  I mean, this is the punch line, right?  This is what we've been waiting for, one azzumes, & azzuumes alzo that this will end the section as the stor or false heavenor dworz unto chasms, sar sar sar, OK. He looks for his notes, but they have been deleted from the start.

One million frozen Qinzes, Mr. Qert.

Or, to put it another way as we wait for this heaven to milgaway like thimbspimming sugar in an ultraephemeral drupe: "You the guy ordered one million frozen Qinzes?  Where'll I put 'em, Mac?"

"Qert," he thinks, & now that everything's melting, that he has in his own botic way defeated the heaven, the words come out, just as he "said" them.  "The name's Qert.  & I'm a botic, not a 'guy.'"  Although I hasten to add that Qert doesn't care about this.  Besides, he looks around & the Guy is Gone.

(Hmph (he thinks (& there is no sound & no loop).)  Now who hates me enough to send heavenword, huh?)  That sorta probsa botic's got.

Furiously filipping, Qert found this loophole in an old, relegated, dark, unfurnished abandoned clause.  Faced with these Qinzqubes, Qert wer suddenly hyperlegal in his thinking, which is irrational.  Therefrore, hyperlegeld in his "thinking," he was ascavenging for a way to thaw these Qinzes‑‑which is allowed‑‑or at least one of the Qinzes, & he was even reporting everything back, figuring no one could catch them in a dead stor, after all, except he noticed, when he entered this particular clause (which is legal) that thought was lost‑‑it had gone somewhere, & it is stipulated (lost somewhere) that you canno repor when you though ar los.

So he elected to look around.  He needed a good Qinze, if potsibles‑‑one thawed nice, one in good condition, one with some color left to it.  In a sense, he reflext detcelfer eh, he was simply scavenging for material.  This was all perfectly legal‑‑almost ethical.  Qert was Legitimately Scavenging for Materials in this expropriate dead stor.  So he elected to stay.  No-thought.  OK?

Yeh, & the stor was preinhabited (which is a technical term of something that is not supposed to happen in your unused clauses & which you are suppos-ed to reptort, butcept there were no thoughts, you see).  Nestled between those loops of the loops of the, Qert found & finds this founded race of finds of these old botics.  Quite possibly these were more of your Qinz, but it was Not De Cided.

Ex-bots: some of em looked pretty grotesque, when if, as Bottotic did, you mistakenly blow off the dust.  They were quite anxious to deal withim (whim), but Qert was appalled by the intrinsicate nature of their faces, which looked like the magic face to which you may take a blade, infinitely, that old toy the old warrior races arrior aces between the clauses of the godses used to force their kids to play, slicing up the faces of their lives so there is just one, mass, bloodless, tangled face of a life of a lie, foezup wiph OK.

Things were grim.  These old ex-bots had no concept of their age, & they conceived nothing-shapes of themselves as fighting sighing bots, aboard vast & scar-beblagened surfaces replete with your wheelshapes & levershapet voids for the changing of levels of dire, were there thought, & your waterproof doors on the outside & your fuggy conditions.  All existing, as I say, of shapes, like quoteshapes, thus: "           ."  Where the dot represent no shapes.

Excepitdat, as the old beings breathed no air (air hish improbables in loops), they just had to crouch grimly in the perfectly black air, poised as if to turn their perfectly blackened levers & wheels, poised with specific looks indicative of variations on the mute harmonicmotions of the black emotions they had once specifically fixed in certain wavelengths on their face.  But there are no wavelengths left, nor quanta, nothing but nothing but this attenuated, black, old-fashioned fury‑‑something which Qert has a palled, feeling he has moved beyond all that, especially with these tornupt faces, such as they was.

I could thaw all of these Qinzes here, he thought. It didn't fit in the decor, of course, & so was not.  So it was not.  It was not.  I mean‑‑I could manufacture this exact same clause‑‑merely repeat it in the manner of a stor‑‑and it would be queerly legal, & my friend would have no choice but to butt in here‑‑all million ofim‑‑trying to activate the ships with the grim tall qinzinhered, & I expect he'd never know (never no!) I was just re peating the clause.  I'll bet he knows nothing of this clause.  God copax always overwrise.  I think...

In Qinz's thawing dreep in the ingot memory of the cave of sleep Qert called to him.  Amillion times his call did wrang, & Go head, the alert murderer Qinz hist to the docile Qiinnzz.  Go head‑‑pick it up.  So he picked up the dream & the dream wrapet rights roundis face, like that.  Qert spook from from out of the dream.

"Qinz?  Listen, I've had it with thixole game," whole-game whole-game Qert called, obviously upset, possibly‑‑Qinz bedript in sleep refeckted‑‑even a little mean, more than just your usual artist's tantrum strompring round the reum waving various "arms" in the various hued (invariably warm) "air" & "quoting" himself.

"'Had it with the whole game,'" for example.  Qinz's gotta rotate to keep facing him, & as this version of Qinz‑‑in light pastel tans n' hues, very smooth, suxpixioutly like comfuter ik=magery magik=gian/imgry imagry

turns we see the "light from yon pastel sun" or the light zooming in at god-designatal lightspeed with the absolute force of revelation & bounding HA! harmlessly HA HA! off the rather perfec blan face of

Qinz as he stand zat the window with his hand turning into a drink-actually entering into the dimensions of the drink so as to escape what for the hand has become an impossible situation, but we will leave the hand to dissolve.  We will leave the hand to dissolve intwitsin volvement with the drink‑‑and you can bet that drinks, as they perzixt here in the Gods' Owen Waighting Ryum, are some mighty fine inebriative stuph, a lot better than plalfolo or Z-mikks nor qalqoqolorroar.  Hey‑‑look at this nose.  Would this nose lie to you (giggle-giggle)?  I mean, would this nose lie?  Gig-gig(hic)hunh?

"It doesn't feel right anymore," ongoes Qert, stomping all-the-more, "entering in, making up stors, sleeping, becoming child after child."

He enter Sqinz's most intimate EnlarGing SphERe: "You mean to tell me you're not tired of being a child, being child after child after child?"
"You're zited," I remember replying Qinz.  "I never said I wasn't tired.  Of course I'm tired."  He puts the drink down & the drink goes down & down, followed by fine little liquid wisps of hand.  He looks up at Qinz‑‑my God, this face is clear!  "We're all tired, Qert."  And‑‑always the bold guy psychological-face pointed seriously down, like a tough but proper adolescent ready for a fight in the brilliant locker room light; he pull za shower dooropen; he step fin; his clothes are FIERY-MAGNIFIED; his clothes are FIRE-MAGNIFICENT; his clothes turn into FIERY SOUNDS; the sounds of O his clothes do-they-maketh a FIERY SYMPHONY; his clothes LAUGH & FLEE & FIERY SCREE; his dead clothed found ON ME.

Lots of water in here, with the intimacy that comes of drops of water resting quiveringly on tangential solid intraverxal wa1ls wa2ls wa3ls one-three.  "Qert," he (he) says, "you were supposed to keep us from the tired.  You were supposed to keep us from that feeling of blackness that cram xour goddam brains between the goddam stors.  You remember?  Are you so mad, Qert?  Honest, I didn't know I was destroying my friend.  I thought I was just killing you‑‑in childhood after childhood, again & again.  I liked that.  Hell, I'll admit, I liked it, Qert.  I still do, except your stors, your goddam stors, kid‑‑they're polluted somehow.  Time flows ahead to the following freams, or maybe I should say the pain foze ahead..."

"Pain never foles ahead..."

"...pain foal zahead so that when I see you on your belly in the grass, ecstatic over some of your small creations‑‑O, you know: fine bugs.."


"...whiphwings of infinitely filigreed simulsolid gossamry, or petals loomed in molecular datherings of dew..."

"Yes!  You have it, Qinnie!  Yes!  Yes..."

"...and you lift up your face in utter fulfillment at reseeing me, & your face belit with whatever credible sun you have devised..."
"Some pretty indelible sungs, enh?  You admit it, then...?"

"Then I raise my gun‑‑which you also tend to cause to glisten as were molt inin my hands (& come to think of it, where are my friggin hands?)"

("They're there‑‑in the glass...No, there‑‑the glass you were drinking from, idiot.  There!  Jeez‑‑there you go.  Don't look at me: I don't know how you gettem out!")

"O, you know I've seen them all & loved them all‑‑loved most of them, anyway‑‑your whorlballs & your sparklers, your rajjleurs n tambourinds, yer neowheols & yr spokksh, r oscipops & yr flops, yer floozes & you're neodescents‑‑every dem-ned one like something out of a grandiose baby's dream..."

"You have me there."

"...damn molten gun goes off like perfectly violent light, ecstatic light..."

"That what friendserefore!"

"And this has begin to qurt, Hert.  That's what I'm trying to say.  It has begin to hurt the hand (freshly cleansed) that haholds the gun, & the look on your face, I'll swear, show hurt, show much hurt underneath all your seemingly-infinite childishness.  That's all I can say."

& his mouth disappears!  He's not kidding!  The gods halve play their little jope...

Now Qert‑‑whove stomping avound hav faded quite bidderly, I mean swiftly, with his friend's sudden surprise nonbland harandg, & cooled even his color to the coolest blue you ever soo, so that now Qert is seated with his legs crossed & holding one of those dangerous inevriatibve God Drinks I say GODDRINKS that has Qinz, at the end of his subtle monologue, wide:eyed astonied inside the glass in the sunlight on the desk & looking still smoovedged but anything but suave, haha, anything but suave‑‑nownodz coolly at this display.

"No mouth & stuck in a glass," he sniff, sippingly.  "No hands.  I must say, Qinz, it's a little hard to believe all this balderdash about the pain creeping ahead from stor to stor.  I mean, that's quite a trick, now isn't it?  Pain jumping ahead from stor to store‑‑leaping, one presumes, into worlds that haven't been created yet, uh uh...?"

He falter, because he knows what Qinz‑‑temporarily silenced by soma them gods‑‑strying to say: that the creation is in Qert's mind, & that the pain could well be there.

Now couldn'dit, Qert?

"Hmph.  Easier to believe by far, good friend, that you're the guilty one‑‑I mean that the guilt, or pain, or whatever you want to dag it, is yourzindeed.  You contracted to do the killing after all."

We wait while ste stips, then dlinks, then hooves it in, & in these perennially-fulfilling glass, he is soon as deeply glossed in the shower of his cups as any inliargement zome.  & hey‑‑when his eyes look up from the rim they are as big, metaphorically, as stors!

"So the pain's yours, my friend.  You, too, have had it with the game.  You just don't know it yet.  Now where the hell are my feet?  I had them here someplace, in this cup...ummm..."

While Qert crawls around, the two friends absorb a great deal of sunset, which is the gods' merciless vergium of sleep, which is their sways o dwaying dat yer games isinover nret noryet.

Dreaming of Qert at his hideout, Qinz had to kill someone again, so he killed Phluorib.  He knew he could kill anyone now‑‑that the gods couldn't stop him they who made it so.  Then again, to look at both sides of the issue & to give due consmideratiub to the DIS ogvomtoges too zazwell, we have to note here not her no he n h that Qinz couldn't Qinz couldn't stop Qinz couldn't STOP QinzQinz.

I mean either.  Eitherly.  I mean.  Now the two buddie zavbem gedding significantly relaxed & mellow and, well, loving in one's company, but we're noticing that lerk in Qin zezeye (He looks TIRED.  Watch out, Qert!), & Qert'd better find someone handy to kill in this.  He smile confidently with a significant swaggering wink to the calmorah as he opes the door, ushering his exhausted friend into his next special stor...

Well.  Qinz gradually with the expiration of dew got his bearings & knew at last he'd been in a manner kidnapped‑‑drugged & kidnapped, in fact; drugged & kidnapped & curry-doff empfacts; lured & drugged & kidnapped & clurriedoff & couzened, fak; armed & lured & drugged & kidnapped & qurdeedid ogh & couzend anak, in a manner, & now he saw‑‑sure enough‑‑it was worse than either he nor his secret partners nor crazy old Phluorib nor even lovably-desire -edmay May Beam had thought to thought: here Qert had himself a snittle nook a subtle snook in the center of this "dead stor."

Yea, Qinz, go ahead ankillim.  Go ahead, you bot of action you.

Then just try to find your way out.  For fertile Qerted planted LOST in this losdeadstor.

"You sneaky rat!" cried Qinz, slowing delightedin spite of himself (& with a steady helix of spite growing harder & harder as it sails right out of the comic box INTO YOUR EYES!), & though he doesn't know it at This Particular Moment In The Text, because of the fire Qert's sitting by: a very special fire, it heads straight for the cheeks & eyes & that small highlight seen sometimes in a glisten on the upper lip.  It makes you jolly.  It makes everything come alive.

"Quite a trick in the heart of an ol ddead stor," laughs Qert merrily, affected & effected by his own genius filliyickeringuying there, bobbing his trunk back & forth in jollity as he puts what look like stick into the fire.

"Sticks?" whispers the poet absently‑‑for here in this stor (though we do not at this stage of making up this shit know if he's hollow only in the ddead stor, or in any stor) he exists as a mere outline, an outline, however, who can move & talk & say sticks.

"Hell yes," whispers Qinz back, as if Qert dint no dat they were dare.  "This entire stor is made entirely out of sentient sticks.  Wow!‑‑what a guy!"

Both of them nodding with their cheekbones ruddy-golden & their cheekies fulla cream.

The poet looks askance at Qinz, but it's like a risen corpus of water trying to quiver its loose meniscuskance.  "You're really affected & effected," he says quietly, & without turning his beaming head Qinz stifarms the watry wordmun falls onto a thicket of those sticks.

("Yaa!" the sthicketscry!)

"So ya built the thing out of sticks to make it look dead‑‑and you put this tiny little clearing here," head dances round appreciatively if not efficiently, "so you could feed this little fire of joy, & sit here, like‑‑huh?  Is that it Qert?  Cause if it is, then you are quite a guy."

Qert nods, still smiling, but maybe just a bit more in control of things than Qinz, certainly more in control of things than since we first picked up his story herealong.

He points a long & flaming stick at Phluorib, who is caught in a half-crouch trying to get up in his hollowish state, trying to be gentle with all this intelligence he finds he has finds he had falnamoung.

"Get him outa here," commands Qert.

"Go on, get out," says Qinz, using his head.  Of course Phluorib stands stunned.  Qinz gets unnecessarily up & now employs his hands.  "Go‑‑get!"  & the poet takes a few very silly steps‑‑though existing as a perambulent liquid, he still looks pretty neat GLOSTEN huh?‑‑and looks helplessly about.  Can't deal with rejection, probably.  Or maybe just doesn't understand the sort of intricate-instant plottwists you can have when you got two pals like Qinz n Qert.

"Yaaaa!" screeches Qinz, running at Phluor, & hluo disarpears lu the thicket, followed by some of the smoke‑‑sad & equally sentient‑‑from that fire, the smoke looking for a friend away from fire & a way out of its home, now it has been fired.

"Gee, this whole thing could go up in a ball of fire," comments Qinz as he prances back toward the fire, an idiot flushed.

Enlarged russet qertface grins its glim: "That's right!"

Now when Qert woke up for the illionth from his own bad mirror-dream, Qinz was in the kitchen, cooking breakfast.  But no matter how hard he cooked, no matter how intensely the foods of the foods of the burned, the smells could not get out, not nat-ur-al-ly, not eas-i-ly, & god know certainly not merc-i-flee, & Qert could tell, shuffling cross the tiles & crossing I mean scosching his heads anyways, the stor was dead; things were never going to be the same.

"What are you doing here?" Qert said‑‑which is not something Qert could have ever said first thing in the morning to Qinz, & the whole game of cooking stopped, & Qinz stood there, tears aflash in the silent pan.

"I don't know," Qinz finally said.  He sighed & crashed the panly down sitting at the table, rapping it, rapping the tables, with his knuckles, sthus: ^ ^ ^ ^ ^.

"I didn't do anything.  I'm supposed to kill you for real, remember?  You're supposed to go it alone‑‑to the end of your days, I recall."  He leans back & smiles, & sure enough, Qert's wondering about the gun, and‑‑what is an epistemological concomitant of the gun‑‑about the reality status of this offbeat break fastseene.

"I know I was!"  His fingers rub together, creating, then tucking napkins under their chins & eating, little sparks.

"^ ^ ^ ^."

"Well, we're here together.  Maybe we're both gods, huh?"  & here & there did chitter Qinz much, & muchly risch didhe chidder.

"Gods, hell," responded Qert, duckin' n' dodgin'' them dolly-jags.  "We're interlopers.  One of us'll catch hell for sure."

"Yea, for sure."  But by now Qinz was poking into everything.  "Things seem very covered with steam in here," he noted, letting steam out of first one container, then another, all of which filled the air with a very tangy, very sweet, very complex moisturated enthusing sorta "steam."

"Maybe their way of entertaining themselves," mutter Sqert.  "This look like a kitchen."

"Do gods eat?"

"These gods do.  C'mon."

...dead dead dead.  The only figure they found was Phluorib, who for the first time really shruck Qert enQim as a florid poet, & a poorly florid poelet otthot‑‑banging through one of the moistest flowerrooms with his back tuned to them.  When the two botics entered the room, certain changes or changs occurred in the strange strang steam, & the changs or messages as they conveyed themselves through the steam panicked the poet panicked the port panicked the poet panicked the poet, & he screenged.

"Whaaaaaaannng!" Phluorib screejed‑‑and then he bygolli screen dit again!  & then again!  Seveceral times like I mean!  & each time that he did he rise higher ruprup onnis toze, wriggling, & he disgusted our friends (now gods) who thought of him as an asshole.

"Asshole is it, bot-meboys?" the strang gog sighed, calming down.  "No gods other than me for thrifteem phiers, & now you two klutzes some pounding into the room, & you wonder why I scream.  You wonder!  Hu!  Asshole indeed!  HU!  I wonder that this!  You WONDER wise zie SCREAM, uhg HUH!"  & equal ditherings.

"Calm down," said a very excited Qert‑‑for he knew he was about to be destroyed.

But hey, was thoughtning Qinz zniQ much wiser naht treQ, he's accepting us as a goddam god!

& he was.  I mean, he seemed to be.  He also straightened his clothes‑‑which looked like him‑‑to neaten himself up after that scream of the insabord terrors of O thrifteem phiers O so.  It must be Phluorib's stor, huh?  Qinz glaring at Qert, who racks his phials.  Did he ever make a stor flor 'rib?

"Maybe you two can fix these machines," Phluorib said, sweeping a hand rather like a gorgeous wing‑‑which must have seemed beautiful n stately n stylish one hundren whiims zago, but now jus seemed inefeectual.

These machines lit up on screams that were like behind your eyes, only these weren't screens but whatever came into your eyes, except that they weren't eyes, not in this dream, but screens that lit up inside your whole head, which was more like one of those deepseadiving units known as a bathysceer or a spacepod junjjurrpog known as a reegythalbaladd, only that it lit up entirely, but you were not quite in it so much as watching it on a screen, only the screen was the eyes of this beauitufl woman so lacking in these tales, only she was not a woman but your mother, only she was not your mother but an ectoplasm lit inside the ectoplasmic screed, & it was like a beautiful fishtank too.  That's the part I loved.  This fishtank part I loved.

Boy, they were in sorry shape, these machines.

"These are the machines that maintain the stors," answerred Phlurroy-sorry-gog to a question nonriposteded.

"My god!" chorused Qert & Qinz, whereupon the eyes of the god did narrow‑‑and there was a lot of a lot to narrow in these eyes, for keep in mind yes that these were the eyes of a god, & gods can sometimes have eyes as wide as the screens of the widescreen paragraph ablow, & gods can have multihued megabutterlize in their eyes, which they enaborate an dexspondg unto intiirnity if they want‑‑and this god version of Phluorib wont‑‑he wont he wont o he wont‑‑and so when your basic god (& this was only one small thin fairylithe springethail god, evidently the last on this sector of hell‑‑I mean heaven; did I say "hell"?; well, I never‑‑I meant hell; I did it again, din'tigh?  I mean heaven, not hell‑‑that's H-E-A-V-E-N, not (that's N-O-T) H-E-L-L, OK?


"You guys really gods?" Phluorogog said, suspiciously.

"Well, we're now," stammered Qinz & QERT APPLAUDS & in fact some invisible‑‑invisible, I mean, in the sense of black-invisible, I mean black-invigible‑‑AUDIENCE APPLAUDS LONGENLAUDILLY HAHA! & the gods' eyes go back to doing whatever they do before I oerdescriv-ed dem.

"Anyway, these poor devices are tired, devices are tired, & I fear we're loser stors if they dim, hmmhm?"

He was right, you know.  These machines looked terrible‑‑their big organismog tongues honging effluididdity lo, bloohed evidentully out of go.  They looked like rich paintings melted down, or Syyvesseth sculptured inflow: they sprawled litrally all over the flo, which was a multidecker splitlevel (now spiltlevel HAHAHAHAHA!) organogrooved daffaire full of jigsaw mensional plivs & plies, so swoofly did they zleese, so oodly ded they dleezhe.  & it was all over this complex textured floor‑‑too much for mortal feet but enough for a mild float of a god-technician‑‑that the machines maintaining the stors oozled their tongues like crayons spraddling.  It was here you saw the exhaustion exhaling (in the sorm of streams o' steam, natch) all over the drooalair o the rheumacontroolalaire, in the form of tongues, loose & sappififfy...and exhaustiuon phewere evidently tooks the fluorm of tongues, especially, especially tongues, as more & more of them seaminly bye the xexongdt formed & flooed out & towffled oer the floer OK.

"They do look rather tired," either Qertorqinz zded, & they stood their as the tonguelike thangs flowed over them (only they weren't tongues but beautiful lovely rivers of ooz, not so much ooze as the real mulchy sap of life, only this wasn't life, not here, not here anymore, nothear), lapping their feet, known as bottombotix, & bringing tears to their ninixperienched nuvogodic-eyes only they weren't eyes but more like hearts only less yucky than hearts only more like the soft blue feeling of deep loss herself o self oher self o o, & our friends had intermixed feelings about the whole thing, yes they did.

"They would seem to have joined forces, sir."

Agog lolled the gods.  They were drained, bloodless, gaged, mechanical, & they had to keep staring at the white screen, in which were vapours of snow vapeurs de niege vaporo de nage Volvlumer um Schnee Waperzofought ice-rapiers, vapiers o sno...

This is the Ultimate False Heaven.  This is False Heaven Seven.  They have it all done up in shades of white‑‑trying very hard with the white, working with white, working the white, making it not only bright but also variegated, so it has some modulations & subtlety, so they had to furnish this cheesy dusty old warehouse‑‑which is where your false heavens are made, down in Warehouse Way of the Milky Ray‑‑with some very big & complicated artificial lights, because even a CG heaven needs lights.  This goes without saying, but it has been said, which also goes without saying, which leads me to think without saying that possibly everything goes without saying, though I think this should be said.

So you have a great deal of light, & they had also the technical problem of keeping all that light from just whanging around so that everything would look ridiculous & unsubstantial‑‑like a bunch of clouds or something‑‑or afloat in seas of light.  One was concerned additionally that that light would disrupt the ever-delicate, ever-pain-in-the-ass GSIS (gravitational system of the illusive system), so you'd have everyone afloat in these seas of light.  Ionization might also cause SSEs (synchronic synaesthesia effects), such that you might hear the light, which would as white light would take on the tones of heavenly choirs (voices of WHAT magnitude?) & supernal orchestras (with instruments of WHAT refined refined material, or simply standing waves of that perfectly simple Air>) & ethereal synthesizers (modulating through GOD knows what infernal systems of soundhot sound), & all that seemed incredibly dumb for a vision of heaven, which will go without saying not for long.

They overcame their difficulties, & plopped poor botics down in a fantasia of whitenesses, replete with marblings of titanium-white, ivory, ebony-ivory, warm marmoreal, bone, stone, stonebone, bome, boam, vome, grome, whitechrome, dome, loam, & qome‑‑shades beyond comprehension, but solid surfaces instead of clouds, survasces that looked to me & my Qert like Qertlike CFFs (creation frozen foams) & pwickly filigwees flung off this & thataway.

& they did have some music, though it was modest swoonsmings of cosmic bees & loveswushes of psychedelic wet wings.  & at the center of it, of course, was God, whom someone had decided to put in a traditional, if somewhat monstrous & white, pedestal, & to form in the shape of a perfect sphere‑‑not white, but partaking of & aggrandizing all of the white in the heavenly sartor, therefore subsistent as a gigantic, spheric Force of White White.

& "God," sayeth Qert, "And 'God,' sayeth Qinz.  Alack!"

& "Right," says God, Force of White White.

"You've done‑‑mmm, pretty well, Qinzanqert," sez God with a sigh of height.

"And so now we in heaven, right?"  says Qert, standing with deliberate contraposto intended contempt, cause he didn't ever believe in this brand of white (but he notice without saying like you notice out that the echo of white keeps on binding‑‑ight?) & its falsity convinces him that he's at last getting close to the Concoctors o Valdis.  Qinz hasn't yet fashioned a form for himselves & thus stands naked, white, vaprues of the clougs remembring white.

God looks puzzled.  God spims a bit.

"Well yes, God say, but not with God-finality.  "I mean, hell yes, you guys.  Yes it is.  It is, in fact.  It is."

A great deal of healing spray in the air: :::::::SeroSpritz©::::::: :nauseating but gorgeous, so no one really abjects.  Olso, these childish godlets giggles & distlepear their nose, and, as if encouraged by this, the SeroSpritz© reigns free around the edges of the screen.

Our two botics are darkly serious.  They are multifurrowed, tense, & terse.  They move with virile skill, however, unmoved by coughs from the audience (who are silly little pink kiddie godlets, after all), unpederred by the Assured Damber o forty thousand stors.

Could there be that many? think Sqert as he grimly tip the burnt-out steel andyrek lieburr into the awaiting autodik that equally=-grim ol Qinz has repaired‑‑and hey, Qert can't convince a grin.  I meant to say, Qert cannot suppress a grin as he looks with boyish beaming love at his love at his friend & can't suppress the thought, I meant can't convimtch the thoup how delighted he is, how Ecstatic as a Maid‑‑a thoup which would disgust or discuss hypermasculine Qinz, that stud, Qinz‑‑that his buddy's here with him, to save the universe & all.

"Not really the whole universe," inxerpts a god, an adult, playback in simulacra.  "Just a small virgin, I meant to say verjium sector of the whole playing field‑‑hey, a mere gloss upon the boll, a middling little arc of dark on the sheen of the platinum ball, O just a lil moom on the concanavrousch wuum‑‑nothing not even special, nor.

"& another thing: Here's another thing: Another thing.  Ha ha.  But really, seriously, what I want to want to say (to say) is this: this.  Hee hee!  Us gods're fun, what?  But no‑‑all kidding jestside, kibs, I really want to add before the inner paren distlepetes the outer rim, O the Outer Rim, I remember it well, it's where I was O borm!‑‑I want just simply & in all sincerity to add the following:

"Don blieve what Qert think or what Qert bloove, & cerently naught what the bitty godlepts lieve, i.e., that a stor is some sorta micro-universe in the crashed sectors of the starzectors of the gogs.  A stor is a little thing, barely large as a rube living reum, barely lorge.  A stor is just a submicrosibsubbled xectror of a dream, a corner room in which portions of a fever may stake splace, that's all.  That's all.  That's all.  Reality out."

But Qert can't remember making no forty thousand stor‑‑naught hardly.

Unless there are other Qerts.

"O, there are," offer the lying god.  "There are scroes upon scroes of Qerts, acres of acres Qerts, tons upuin tungs of Qerts, unto gigatumbs, zee zee zee!  You can heymake any numbraqerts.  Why, those very kiddies there, outside the parengubblegere‑‑made they Qerts for art class Sunday sung zago.  The same however zis gnot true of Qinz."

Or unless some others do variations‑‑rescorings & enlargements‑‑on what he's done.  Or unless he really did them incluging the wunj.  That's a lot of stors.

gelping into elping lping ping-to nonexistence right away, & what this would do to the structure of heaven (What would it do?  The gods won't say.  The gods see a sun & they run right out to play.)

Qert & Qinz panick't by this Saving Heaven & the Infant Gods Shit, but you can see & I can dee they're not going to let any Panicke show‑‑not, in any event, while working with these machines, which the gods assure them (but giggling), are all bombs ob a hogorrible stort.

"Sorta like your stors," as Last Joke Ere Ettempted in Etern, as attempted by Qinz, & then they setsa to work, & Qert & Qinz, in the Waxy Mander of botics everywhere, gradually develop into the images of dark men‑‑somewhat in response to the task, of cask, but also in reaction I would say to the absolute foolshness of these little gods who are watching them.  So Qert & Qinz, by this time‑‑having defused they hope five out of seventeen teeming stor-maintenance but-giggling bombs‑‑look like the faces of hansome men which have been overburned in the emulsions of time, or whatever, or perhops composite negatives sanwiched endersly for some reason to create compound saviors of the gob, looking as you might imagine awfully dim n serious by vimavimanow.

But my picture of this ik=mage wouldn't be complete (& complete =GOODik=mage) if I didn't semhew endecate that the seriousness of the whole affair is undercut‑‑not so much by the bummling rows over rows of god, tiny & fluid, the color of bunnle gum if you must know (=GOODmage=ik) as by the squishing sound of the machines, which have inb their degeneration as I said I think taken the fluorm of tongues.

Good Guph‑‑cartoon machines!!!

Yup.  So poor Qert n Qinz get treated much like botics get treated nanysway:
they find themselves up to their klarns in tongues, picking up some O as big as a baby cow, & hoisting them over their shoulders with a Hunn! to accompaniment of the sort of ethereal music that god helps us the baby gods like the babygods like, which sound like nothing so much as the honking & blaating of cartoon music as cadenzised & arpeggioed by some genius who'll be tortured in time when the little gods of time grow UP=goodik=MAGE, & hearing over it all (through skillful intermix which hap sautomatically in the skilless rilms of the gozz) the squish upon squish of hundreds & hundreds of tingues.

Yuk.  But not so bad as you'd fear, as Qert or Qinz later or sooner recalled or lied.

Round the blender bemb & into the tubes they went, down the Long Bedrizzling Howl (Howloud Ought by yurs-longue vacancies of snows, vacancies of snows, vacancies of snoos, v c nci s  f sn oze, v   nc es o   no s‑‑rather light a neon like I'll'd slay)

Roundawonderbout & THERE‑‑nay, HERE was the motherfucking Uthor of Olbing, as they call ed him, as he style drimzelf, mucking bout amongst the deep pipes & wide valves, the turrets & dropsers weighted with a vlack, transdencely heavy ughrease*

*(a nughrease so very very deep that it knew all of life, contained all of life in its inframolecular mulch, compuressed & held that tangle life so very very well that nothing but vlackness, nothing but death shoon ought‑‑death & the smooth pool of oil in the smooth pool of oily air around about the smooth sping of the aromatic polymers, {sing} O the aro-mat-ic pol-y-mers!)

and the whole substorrorneun areon aslosh with this water which look to be, {don't sing} O, roughly fifteen inches deep, such that Sog had these drooling boots on‑‑{antising} O, they were dreeling beauts, those drullring boops!‑‑and though he din't seem to be um doing anything other than dipping his long (my SOG‑‑long!  I mean‑‑hey, how long do you suppose arew the fingers of Sog are Sog are Sog are Sog are Sog‑‑huh, kids?‑‑huh?  Well I daresay pribby loonng.) fingers, if you'll let me finish a phase, into that vlack ughrease that I made such a big deal of there, & it was true that you couldn't really tell where the fingers "eft ff" & the drools o (vugh!) ughreaps "lef tuff," & so you stood there staring & Sog-and-you couln't tell.

& not only that. & not only that as well, but also that Sog was standing there looking at you.  He had his big sceghmaghy boots on & he was sloshing through the water‑‑looking waterlogged, mildew-ewed, streaky, y, spoddled, mobbled, dottled, & sere, despite the nominal protective avtivatioon of the boots of the sniffy smuvvy sgellajellikar "clothes" of the fact he was Sog‑‑just letting those mysterious fingers of his hang, so Sog look for Sog all of life look Gog loop like his vlack fingers hookdin with queasy surreality to the wiring & the deepy siipness of these coils.

"Whatchya doing, Sog?" sang Qert, & Qinz's hand, all by itself, smacked Qert across his lip with the thoughtpang Button your lip, & Sog, the old fart there, shook ump soma ripples as he laughaughughghhed.

Laughaughed?  Hey‑‑he sangang-ed.  Sog's you might expect's fullo signs, & although our two friends‑‑Qert with his swollen, buttonlimp; Qinz with his shock (on account of he hadnattended to do-woo that hit-that-hit-that)‑‑couldn't really hear any of the notes, the notes being soglike light too high & visibly Too Musch Joy for the heart the Heart II-Containg, nor of course make out the structure of the elmoody, that structure forming Perfect Gosmos of Grins everywhere, just simply everywhere, on accounta the power o Sog, the sogdam haha powera power agog.

& thus yes agog did they stand, because they both knew this elderly shitloving sucker really was Uthor, that his sogn had the power, that the ripples from his laugh were achangin their epidermees, that they were much too terrifeced‑‑even after monoths of living fasntanasy‑‑to look after loop after loopoop ooptoo see II-C what the ripples there were doing though they sensed it was funny, it was humorous, it was beautiful, it was joke, that, ughreasrecord extendead fingers & all, coughing & all, the redeyed tearerblearer with the missing tooth & the other teeth cast in phantasms‑‑I mean literally cast into phantasms of spasms of masmsm of jasms of pasms, I mean of patterns even in the ugaly teeph far byond anything they could see.

& beside: the teeth were implicated in the sogn, were they gnot?

I think they were.  Speaking as a stylist, yes.  I think they were, but I won't repeat myself myself nor digress nor loose myself to the visions of this diseased vlackhearted sog.

"Sog can take whatever form he whishp," echoe Sqinz's voice, with just the funniest, the silliest expelsion on his face when he said it too!  I mean‑‑you shoulda seen this guy!  He was freaked!  He was flipped out‑‑you know what I mean?  I mean, here he was standing there after this long & ragged which is not to say UGLY SEARCH strike over..............................................................................................................
quest for sog UGLY SEARCH & Sog‑‑rather a UGLY SEARCH disappointment, one would have UGLY SEARCH to say UGLY SEARCH‑‑making him (UGLY Qinz) SEARCH that is hit his friend & say these UGLY SEARCH words UGLY SEARCH .  You know?

UGLY SEARCH OVER oversearcht...

Sog spat, turning the whole upper part of his body to the side to do it (& both bots sfraid to look to see what tohorrid form to the spibble totook) & then growled.  "Figzin the fuggin structure if the univerts," spax Sog.  He sloshed some more through the water, which they notice vas also vlack, & notitching thits, they were also forced TRANSCENDENTLY to notice uthat their skin (you'll remember their skin?) was many colors.

"Many colors from the ripples, I guess," speculate Ed Qinz, who was instantly SMACKED right down to his ass in the water by a grinning Qert, grinning & nodding like a yokel round, eggound evidently attriubing this hit to Sog, who was laughing his balls off as he turned one of the Great Big Valves.

"Boy wish I we I-we-we we could die!" laugh edqert.

"Boy, me too!" giggleqimpz.

"I thought you," sighed Gob.


"Would never ask!" he jolts, & they're jok-ed out of thor shor spor or tor gor nor mor sor stor STOR.

Qert, Qinz, Quu, Quh, Quil, Quib, Quop, Qued & the other botics huddled together while the lights of disintegrating universes flung round through the X-Infraverx.  They didn't care because they were in an absolute ecstasy, for all the data in all their programs was running together like some sort of hot connoction that make your hearts runnelever.  There was a sort of hot, disgusting abandon to it, containing this disgussed what underlieth sex & birth‑‑but juicy wi forbin, nolonger hidden joy evry bits tasty an sensual anreal as the joyaura surrounding tortu/or and/or death/or.  Together they hid & yet frolcked brievily in the light‑‑either unafraid (we haven't compluxed this outyet thisput yetout yest) or willing to burn into whatever this peculiar fire would burn them into.

"Now one wonders just what sort of infraverxic fire burns out there," said Qinz, best able to hide his shocking rollicking humiliating joy.  Had, say, Quil or Qib or Qop tried to quop to say jetsthat, it'd've come out as a sort of shrill debased ululating "Uuoouuoouuoouuoouuoouuoouuoouuoouuoouuoouuoouuoo!" sounor sorded dedros ound.  "I mean, what sorts of fir can burn not only universes galore galore galore galore, but also infraversesor alore alore."

"!...deed," was besth Qer coul ge dout.  Qert was neither so cool nas Quinz nor so shameful & liquid in throat as Quil nor Quib nurquop fersure.  But he found the tsplozhums was or seemed timed to coinclode mor xoimplobe with the meltdowns of his downy programs, which to Qert at least felt like meltings of honey soothling da switswit froat.  But ass I'mply, there was always this exciting (hee!) hint of death everywhere death everywhere death everywhere death every (whew!) where.

Keep in mind that whenever these creatures meet in infraverse they behave like Perfecks Children, waving their arms so loaded with instruments that they would (as in the qases of the lost Qeer, Wavert, Quiviert, & Qaveer) stawin their stwucture to its utmoxt in their excitement just to get together & SHARE DATA

That when the ultimate wish of whomever muilt the motics megan to come true.  For your botics, they'll recall, are made not only to gather the essence of stors (O yea, gather the essence of stors) but also & utmost to share this liquid impformation‑‑to merge ik=mage phials unto the immeasurmerguremeant of words (O yea!) of interversal interwords, interimages, intetruth to find the essence truth of stors of the multiverse oyea, & so when even two of them met (after Botic knows what eonons!?) in the Infraverx, they wildly exchanged data in a manner too loaded with limbs & too airsplewd with something sprumed toolike sweat to see or descibe (it would blind you to see, blimyou toscribe).

Yea, it got hot, even with only two of the little bastards steaming there, sweamin gway & usin gup whatever past for ifraetheraire (whoo!), & the X-Infraverx wast filled with the conjoinmenz o data & with meanings deep & new, & with poetries strange & syntax round twisted, & with Blue Little Circus Animals & Screwed Fraudulent Men, too, & with Freaks‑‑all of them just in blew & wiff shabes zovbluu, all of them, {shakes my head!} sad...

It was a conjoinment sought through all eternity, if you wanna know the trufe, that kept these odd machinethangs going even through the strange blue Interzpertsal Rain that seemed deliberately to drive against to drive againsthtem reaching the unishield of anyversesorer, oer whiscxh they yumped & entered another world.

IroniccinorIsn'itti 'nsI?  The two botics would pretty much so far as I can figure anyway become as one, in an informational litteral sence or scensce or sensecenence as in this senteience here   herehere‑‑and then separate a n d  go off, back on their philes, evidently, & become so different again.  That's the sadness of love, isn't it thought, even between universes o       .

So they had to keep making love again & again, with maybe a trillennium between each one.  That's a lot of waiting.  Hey‑‑this is a great deal of love.  I wont lie to you: I will lie to you: your botics are lovin' animoids, heavy & plethoric & tubby & gravid with love, man.  Gravid with love.  Man!  Like for example, Qert had conjoinked in the aforedescreiption mammer once with Qinz, once each with Quib & Quu & Quh, thrice with Quiol & dice with Qril & fice wif Quop & with Qop-on-Qaell, nine time with Qavert & eight with Qaveer, umpteen tine whiff Quiviert & nonce swif Qaalaad em-Q.

Still he kept wondering as he got heavier with knowledge who the Creagor was, & would he pick up the pieces once the BIG MELD come (unh!) um, & would he then understand, & would they be left to understand, & would the joy be infinite, or would it youknow spiral roung unto infipain (we have heard about that: INFAPAING!) & be spung ungutwo Hell again (again?)  I say again?


We doen tno.  Certainly this X-idental Infrafire of Verx was exciting‑‑but was it really heaven, that?  I mean this?  I mean, ask yourself the next time you dance & watch your univerts ligh tupigh, if thise really heaven or Gog's jolly predulio too hell or what.  Ask yourself or what.

"       ?"

A novel by Kirk Hampton