Rumblitis--Chapter Eighteen

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   EIGHTEEN:
  
   Staci Rumble, the androgynous Holy Ghost Itself, into the spiritual vacuum of the mental ward, frowning down upon an opiate-induced Ray, knowing the poppy soothed, offering solace and contentment in the control of small doses, a needed theophany for the complainers of pain--and they must be able to control their own intake; otherwise, blaming the benevolence of physicians for their own dependence, unable to articulate respect for the majestic narcotic, thinking it candy corn and not the nectar of a comforting God offering consolation in modest ingestion--a blessing of the divine, not to be fucked with by the pseudo-morality of an American Government getting orally-sexed by Monica Samille Lewinsky underneath the ghostly resonation of Jack Kennedy's desk (possibly), ornamented in a Lime-Green Thong purchased online, back in the day. 
   "I have no testicles, but I'm happy sis."  Ray grinned.
   "I know brother.  Just as Christ was AMAZED in the New Testament concerning their lack of faith, He continued onwards towards the Good God, wanting to pilot that Holy Engine of Sublimity.  Now, let me tell you of the days of High Adventure."  Staci smiled, spilling--
   Ezra Pound is alive and living in Nashville, Tennessee; moreover, Anti-Semitism is the foulest and most toxic of all evils; nonetheless, there would be no WASTELAND or penile rants of Joyce without the horrible/insane poet known as Pound.  And there, amidst Nash-Vegas, born pre-mature, placed in an incubator, a father's wicked, adulterous entrance into a carnally cunning cunt mutating his discharge--yes, it takes two--no, it does not take three.  Him, unable to evacuate his bowels as a child.  Medical devices inserted into the rectal cavity, digging out the folly of unfumbled fecal matter.  Next, urinary tract infections.  Sanguine piss.  Surgical appendages inserted into a young urethra, way up inside, probing with pain and misery.  Cranberry Juice is drank.  Night terrors.  Obscene imagery, constantly, always, freaking tattooed on the brain.  Molestation from imagination.  Insomnia.  Sneaking into brother's bed; subsequently, getting punched in the face for fear.  Social Phobia; specifically, inability to urinate or shit publicly, meaning no food or drink till after school, bladder bulging till home and in the safety of suburban habitat, pissing brilliance; then, more bladder infections.  Now, pissing razor blades.  Mother bitching at mutations.  Low Intelligent Quotient.  Inability to learn.  Lost in school.  Stupid.  Cutting after puberty.  Punishment for loins being alive, it being innate knowledge.  Erections, spill of semen--disgusting, causing washing, asceticism; next, stalked by a child-molested female.  Only person he engages in intercourse with.  Only one.  Crabs.  Syphilis.  Penile gash.  Insanity.  Homo-erotic ponderings.  Fear of women.  Celibacy for a decade.  Punishment for masturbation.  Locking himself in closets.  Weights stacked upon his thin back, mimicking march to Calvary.  Esophageal cancer masked by high intake of raw garlic and lycopene paste.  Then, bloody stool.  Venomous, squirting, bloody shit.  Vanderbilt Nurse has him arrested for poetry.  Stupid.  Him.  Real stupid.  9th Grade Drop-Out.  No piss.  No crap.  No talk in public. Cysts on nose.  Self-induced surgery.  Facial mutilation.  But Christ is there.  Hope.  Redemption.  Virgin Mary soothes--every freak needs a mother.  Chronic, Inflammatory Bowel Disease.  Iron Deficiency Anemia.  Complete large intestine ulcerated and inflamed.  Colonoscopies.  Blood transfusions.  Surgery needed to remove gut.  REMICADE IV offers remission.  Anal fungus.  Psoriasis in anal cavity.  Cheating wife.  Epididymitis.  Testicles in abdomen for a year--the size of large marbles, red and severely sore.  Bruxism.  Thrush.  Bloody gums.  Obsessive Compulsive Disorder with Tics.  A goblin of a man.  117 pounds.  Ten to twenty bloody bowel movements daily.  Prednisone.  Disfiguring acne.  Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors.  Ant-Psychotics.  Christ is awesome.  Cheating wife, again.  Teenage curses from black magic witches having a Satanic Bounty on his sanity and genitalia.  Punches himself.  With tools.  Minor concussions.  Lacerations.  Facial stitches.  Burns.  Vanderbilt Burn Unit for facial cleanse.  Smashes hand for gay leanings.  A fucking hammer.  Christ is good.  Obama offers capitalistic communism--ObamaCare.  Free health care, but you have to pay for it--even if you're stupid, depraved, rejected, shapeless, retarded, psychotic, neurotic, dumb to it all.  Herb for medicine illegal in the Dirty South.  Satan is Drugs, they say.  King David, Solomon, using in mystical invocations--no matter.  Get in jail buddy.  Get ass fucked for freedom in the cruel and unusual punishment of the American Prison System.  Morality hates cannabis!  Testicular lacerations.  Makes pass at Publisher in Las Vegas.  Throws away paycheck.  Squeezes manpiece till it bleeds.  Christ is good.  Bill Clinton should remove a testicle for sorrow.  Liquid Metal Arch-Angels/Devils penetrate his barricaded room.  Attempt to smother.  Dog protects, sleeping on his back--all dogs go to heaven.  No depression--fuck depression.  Stands fantastic.  Bleeds more out the ass.  Two months of constipation, pain, weight loss.  Christ is the apex of cool.  Never addiction--that's for the ignorant.  Moderation.  Inspiration.  Christ.  Forever.
   Ray glimpses at the Ghost of His Sister:
   "I hear ya."
   And She wisely offers:
   "You think Sam Champion wears pink panties underneath his business suits?  Pope Francis loves Sam Champion."

Rumblitis--Chapter Seventeen (Shamra Soul)

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   SEVENTEEN:
  
   Ray Rumble, under the psychiatric influence of Doctor Basil Loveflesh, found himself, after spiraling into a stupor from drinking numerous bottles of Purple Passion, in a mental facility near the Canadian Border; specifically, Montana's State Institute For The Weird And Mentally Bizarre.  Ray was not a bit depressed about having lost his testicles; nonetheless, he was freaked about the rubber walls, being dressed in an adult diaper, and the shackles that dumbed his appendages; moreover, he had a scratch on his nose, and it was all bullshit.
   Before the Nurse entered--Ray knew everything about her--Xelba commanding:
   "Don't be a bit attracted to her Ray--it's not over for you yet."
   She swiftly danced into Ray's view, ornamented in the X-Rated Awesome of a Naughty Nurse ensemble, and her name was Shamra--Shamra Soul to be exact.  Shamra's father was of the African-American Variety, having been an assistant head coach at the Texas Longhorns, and her mother was a rascal and rogue, having the history of being a two-fisted product of the Emerald Isle, fighting regularly in their amateur boxing league, her theme song for entering the ring chiming:

   We're Irish--
   We drink,
   We smoke and get esophageal cancer,
   We die and don't care--
   We love Christ.
   Indeed, Shamra was like a chocolate shamrock.  Mystical, and of the best ethnic mix.  Verily, them Irish are the most humble of all, never being pissed about being called THE FIGHTING IRISH during college football season in America like many a sublime Injun concerning titles such as:  REDSKINS, CHIEFS, BRAVES, whatever.  But the American Indian had his reasons, and the Irish are just plain fucking crazy--in the most altruistic and loving way.
   Anyway, as Shamra checked his vitals, Ray smelled her ebony perfume, noticing her angelic curves.  He was smitten.  Could still perform oral sex.  Then, thought about cutting off his lips.
   "You okay today Mr. Rumble?"  She probed.
   Ray, humble to it all, responded:  "God is good."

Rumblitis--Chapter Sixteen (Orchiectomy)

 
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   SIXTEEN:
  
   Ray Rumble.  A mad dash into Doctor Basil Loveflesh's nearby condo.  The sensualistic physician springing forth from a leather recliner, disturbing his fixed attention upon the televised imagery of Hillary Clinton's cankles, the good doctor involved in a lewd manner of self-mutilation in Ray's raging mind.
   "What the hell!?!"  Basil blurted out, zipping up his boot cut Levi's.
   Ray grabbed the astonished physician, letting loose with a tongue lashing:
   "Don't haunt me with your Dmitri Fyodorovich Karamazov crap Doc!  Xelba is my other half--we are supersymmetric synergy!  I will not practice the folly of fornication here on this shithouse of a planet!"
   And, Ray's wasted mind, lost to a theological brainstorm of misinformation and actual realities, remembering Saint Jerome's desire to denounce the demonic dance of women that horribly haunted his morbid and mystical mind; moreover--Origen Adamantius and the infamous emasculation of self, following Christ's Biblical Teaching:  (KJV)--Matthew 19:12:  "For there are some eunuchs, which were so born from their mother's womb:  and there are some eunuchs, which were made eunuchs by men:  and there be eunuchs, which have made themselves eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven's sake.  He that is able to receive it, let him receive it."
   Ray, tears terribly torturing his suffering existence, pleading:
   "Cut me Doc!  Or I'll do it myself and probably bleed to death!"
   In a panic, with a few kitchen utensils and some drug store necessities, Basil, under much distress, performed the medical emasculation, leaving Ray's manpiece at least, knowing a penectomy would offer the suffering of urinary incontinence; thus, he diligently removed the entire spermatic cord and testicles, dodging the sanguine circumstances, and cleansing the wasted area with a hungry splash of saline solution, closing various layers of dermis and tissue with many-a-suture; next, wrapped the fleshy trauma in sterile gauze and bandaged it, saying:
   "Shit.  I haven't smoked since the ignition of the Obama Administration--but I wanna . . . "
   Ray, too stupid to go into shock from the crippling pain, seeing the gore-smeared hands of Basil, simply said:
   "I need a drink Doc--you got any Purple Passion?"

Rumblitis--Chapter Fifteen (Jango Fettology)

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   FIFTEEN:
  
   Ray, deep inside a bottle of Southern Comfort, randomly paging through Harlan Ellison's prophetic piece "I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream", him having, maybe, chatted it up with the linguistic genius Thomas Pynchon once or twice; also, denying George Lucas' "Bad Space" teachings, architecting as a creative consultant the sheer, cosmic mysticism of BABYLON 5--a pulsating Space Opera for the Underground.
   Alas, Ray knew Jango Fett didn't need the double-edged luminosity of ancient weapons, nor junky religions, yet to only possess pure confidence in his corporeal abilities, eating white bread and getting buff, denouncing the low-carb doctrine of Dr. Oz for a trek towards the greatness of girth, easily bench-pressing Obi-Wan; furthermore, James Tiberius Kirk would kick Yoda's ass, doing a double-handed crunch of the green alien's vertebra--the frog-like creature having an uncanny resemblance to the talkative Larry King, though not a raging libido like the Hebrew Prophet of them airwaves, somewhat reminding Ray of the testosterone-driven Brigham Young.
   And Ray Rumble was gracious for the physical epiphany of Jango Fett, thinking religion might be useless.  Timothy Francis Leary, as told by Doctor Basil Loveflesh, himself a Harvard-educated neurologist/psychiatrist, explaining:
   "No matter how enlightened the LSD made Leary, even if it made him the Buddha, he soon realized that you still have to do the dishes.  Yep, even Moses had to wake up, take a shit, shower, shave, and be a man about it all.  Ray--life is not about chasing ghosts and religious comprehension.  We are INCARNATE--in the fucking flesh.  Now go get laid or something."

Rumblitis--Chapter Fourteen (Chief Me)

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   FOURTEEN:
  
   Ray Rumble snapped into the venomous vibrancy of AWAKE--Xelba's profane utterances driving him consciouswards, for he should've religiously retained a sturdy sanctity for her resonating soul; however, he was filled with mirth yesterday, and that grants ominous payback from any haunting ghoul, no matter how gorgeous or loving.
   "Shit--I'm sorry Xelba."  Ray cried.
   So, wishing he had put cannabis in the medically free peace pipe of Montana, known as "The Last Best Place", 4th in American Size, yet 48th in population density, singing Shamanistic songs, perhaps poltergeisting Ray a bit bizarre.  Furthermore, the ex-punter recalled certain, non-canonized Saints of the American Indian Variety, especially WHITE MAN RUNS HIM--the enduring Crow Scout having braved and survived George Armstrong Custer's 1876 expedition against the ultimate human fighting machines dubbed the Sioux, this further fabricating a high cheekbone Montana legacy; moreover, WHITE MAN RUNS HIM would've been selected by Andy Warhol's wild and wasted mind if corporeal existence had thrived him into the buzzed 60's; still, WHITE MAN RUNS HIM entered the mystical trance of sub-cultural Hollywood in 1927, briefly appearing in a fabulous flick known as RED RAIDERS, all while possibly residing near Lodge Grass, yet mythology lurks around the red-hued warriors, and Ray granted reverence to altered states of consciousness, though knowing that rarely did the Red Man arrive there by way of the frustrating FIREWATER.
   As a result of all this historical implantation of Montana memory, if it was really Montana, Ray figured he may take a break from the booze, getting off the sauce for a bit, finding a local Shaman to reveal introspect and shit like that.  For those crazy ass Injuns have sincere creativity in contacting the sublimity and malevolence of spirits, disregarding Buddha's Neutrality of it All, yet Ray did not want to interact with Real People, knowing a Psychopomp "Guide of Souls" would enlighten in a more pragmatic sense for the psychotic activity of his common sense-lacking mind.  But would the Hebrew Engine known as Christ be pissed, or open an alternative direction into the Father's Heart?  Regardless, Ray put a feather in his salt and pepper hair; then, blew a kiss to Christ, doing the synergy of mysticism, knowing:  "What the Hell."  Something Jack Burton, confined within the internal cockpit of THE PORKCHOP EXPRESS used to say, lov'n them Chinese.  And again Ray recollected:  (NKJV) John 14:6--the Holy Fabric of Christ expressing:  "No one comes to the Father but through Me."  So, maybe he would start, immediately, drinking again, finding favor in intoxication like JIMBO and them DOORS, for that was Christ gone Shamanistic, totally, though culminating in a Serpent's Kiss.

Rumblitis--Chapter Thirteen

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   THIRTEEN:
  
   Lieutenant Commander Spinoza scattered across carpeted suburbia, the frigid chill of a Montana Winter clinging to the cemented red brick outside; plus, penetrating the interior of the spacious household, driving a tame , loving, and CONSCIOUS hedgehog to get frisky, playing the part of a true rascal, eagerly hunting for a package of LIFE SAVERS or something in any nearby trashcan.
   Ray came in from his jog.  Elated.  Smiling Sunshine amidst the overcast Alaska of it all, knowing a country with a Bigger Sky eclipses the sexually attractive Sarah Palin's House of Worship.  Anyway, settling into a mediocre loser-like lust for life, Ray got on the Internet and decided to chat up the ladies.  But first, personally insisted, as possibly the asshole author of this toxic tale, praying:
   --Dan Dierdorf --I apologize.  You said that the multiple-named, teleporting Rob Johnson was just as good a running-QB as the divinely dexterous Doug Flutie during the Tennessee Titans' "Music City Miracle" Game; moreover--that is Egyptian balderdash.  Still, while playing for the lightning bolt ornamentation of the now powder blue, sometimes, San Diego Chargers, you offered the illumination of intellectual speech concerning the swift-elfness of the fast-footed Flutie, somewhat proclaiming:  "Doug Flutie just won't go away.  He may not be the best, but he just won't go away."  Awesome, Dierdorf.
   I just hope the NFL doesn't tragically morph into the NBA--it only highlighting the genetically obscene, while pro football remains the only sport without the axiom of a definite weight and height class, more or less--get me?  You got David Beckham weight guys mixing it up with the freakishly large "J.J." Watt of them Houston Texans, him on his way to the Hall Of Fame.  Sincerely, the most common of men would be wise to shoot steroids all night if having to play against that gigantic, smoldering fortress of defensive domination.
   Then, Ray crashed.  This uplifting brainstorm of life soooooooo much better than things macabre; alas, he huddled close to his hedgehog, beeping the sweet sounds of its ambiguous noisemaker, Spinoza offering a "Vroom" of the cute soothe for a pet owner.  Next, Jimmy Kimmel erupted on live television, and Ray was soon sleeping like a rocked-to-rest infant underneath the celestial shimmer of a neon-glittering night.

Rumblitis--Chapter Twelve

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   TWELVE:
  
   Ray was not yet defeated; specifically, he had yet to engage in the totality of an intoxicated destruction, for the sheer hell of it, loving God.  Still, knowing tangible enlightenment is an impossibility, the British philosopher, mathematician, and social critic, Lord Bertrand Russell announcing:
   "I will not die for my beliefs, because I may be wrong."
   Nonetheless, Ray had hope.  It didn't matter that no supersymmetric particles have been overwhelmingly discovered, for SuperSymmetric String Theory outshines its own self, offering a forever function of everything--though the more Ray studied it, the more he didn't understand it.  Regardless, in its own way, everything is connected, such as:  Time, space, the crude matter of an indecent Luke Skywalker and his robotic, masturbating hand, him disgustingly having hopes for creamy copulation with his own sister--and Darth Vader was a sinner (WTF).  Indeed, everything has already happened, yet everything will rear its rancorous head again.  And Ray was wickedly wise concerning his personal ignorance, knowing he wouldn't have casually snorted cinnamon years ago in a clumsy attempt to usurp the Drug War and find personal elation due to the crises of his protracted humanity.  Alas, he reflected:  (KJV, Hebrews 12:2):  "Looking unto Jesus, the author . . . "
   Yep, God has clearly, already, written the novel of existence.  We have been born, died, resurrected, everything--it has all cosmically happened already, and will again.  There is no Free Will, for we are crafted characters in God's literary, somewhat Pantheistic masterpiece.  Thus, Ray felt better.  Drank the cold flow of bull piss, it being over-processed American beer.  Next, he cranked on the cancerous mystery of his menthol E-Cigarette, thinking about going for a jog to embrace the beauty of life, having the reverie of remembering Gregory Widen's storyline of HIGHLANDER (1986)--the best of the sci-fi drama being:
   "Feel the Moose Highlander!"
   Yup.  And as he poured his package and somewhat muscular thighs into a pair of neon spandex, he sang, praising God and the Best of Men:
   Rob Roy--
   The Highland Rogue . . .