Coven - Part 7

They are at it again! I can hardly believe it! Just a couple of posts ago I took steps to foil Turkish deviants by changing a couple of words on my blog. Then on 25th June I had a hit from Israel. The Israeli had come to my blog via a Google search using the words “doris feline big tit”. That’s just taking the piss, that is. I bet it’s Mossad getting back at me. Bastards!

Korky is at the door of The Dandy and God is in Gleneagle. Both are equally uncertain of what will happen next, a confusion they share with this writer. However, it must be remembered that the Bogan CEO, Prutile Frogshide, has sent another on a quest and Sean Bean is similarly nonplussed. He is sitting alone at the Bogan Council boardroom table idly picking his nose and wishing he had taken up the option to become Kevin Rudd.

(Sean is depressed. Nobody likes him and nobody wants to help him. If he has a familiar then it is following the example of the others and ignoring him. Sean cannot remember a single human being who has accepted him for what he is and liked him for himself – except perhaps one.

It was such a long, long time ago. Sean remembers the warm, tobacco and whiskey smell and the touch of a hand softened by loose and wrinkled skin. The dim recollections waver but he can still feel the downy texture of flannelette pyjamas pressed against his face as he lay safely in the arms of ‘Pampa’.

Pampa. Even the word is enough to calm him but, this time, the calm is overlaying uncertainty. He felt it when Frogshide mentioned The Beano and Sean wondered if he should speak out. But then again – why should he? Perhaps it was nothing, another of the coincidences that has plagued Sean all his life. No - best be silent and let Luke discover for himself just how tightly the past was entangled in the future and just how loosely the present held to both. But still, there was that delicious calm so seldom felt and Sean needs more of the same - much more.

He leaves the council offices and looks to see if his car has been missed by the daily raid of vandals and is pleased to find it still has all its wheels and most of its windows. When he turns the key the engine fires so all is right in his world as Sean Bean drives away from Bogan, heading south.

He is aware of strangeness in the landscape. He had seen it from the council offices window but had only been puzzled by an oddity he couldn’t quite identify. Sean’s perception is weak and he missed the turmoil Mayor Porker and the others saw so clearly when they joined him at the window and saw the world with ‘true sight’ for the very first time. Occasionally, however, Sean is shocked to find himself inexplicably far away from where he means to be but then a landmark suddenly appears and proves him closer than he thought. Doggedly he pushes on, always turning south.

So it is less than an hour later when Sean drives into a narrow, tree-lined avenue leading to a clearing where he parks and leaves the car. He walks slowly along rows of marble crosses and concrete tombs. Sean is searching half remembered places for a half remembered feeling. He is searching for Pampa and a long lost emotion that might possibly be love when, abruptly, he stumbles and falls across the prostrate body of God.)

Sean: Shit! What the hell are you doing stretched across the path? You could have busted my bleeding leg you dozy old sod!

God: I’m terribly sorry. It’s this annoying mist, I was trying to see under it like car fog lights are meant to, but it doesn’t seem to work for me.

Sean: What mist? There isn’t any mist.

God: Oh dear, I was afraid of that. So it’s only me that’s blocked. What a nuisance. Would you be kind enough to help me up …? Thank you. Ahhhh, that did the trick.

Sean: What did what trick? Who are you meant to be?

God: When you helped me to my feet the contact between us was enough to dispel the fog. I acquired your perception. It’s a God thing. I’m God, by the way, pleased to meet you face to face at last. You don’t go to church much do you?

Sean: Right. Well you can drop all that crap. Pampa told me all about it and besides, I saw you pop out of the light when Luke called up his familiar.

God: Ah yes. Um …. Pampa? The name is unfamiliar. Pampa is …..?

Sean: My great grandfather. Just up here …. yes, this is his grave. The inscription on the headstone will interest you.

God: The Beano. Born 1899 – Died 1979. Beloved husband of Doris Bean and great grandfather of Sean.

Sean: Thank you for not laughing at my great grandmother’s name. It’s a bit of a family embarrassment. It’s actually pronounced ‘Does’. You know, like in female deer and Cockburn.

God: I was wondering more about ‘The Beano’.

Sean: Ah yes, The Beano. That was a typo or perhaps it should be chiselo. Pampa’s name was Theo Bean but the stonemason at Beaudesert Monumentals Dorised it up and carved the ‘o’ at the end of the wrong word. The bloke was pissed or dyslexic - not sure which. But great grandmother managed to get a good half-price deal on the headstone so it was never corrected.

God: That’s all there was to it?

Sean: Pretty much. Oh, there were rumours and all sorts of local legends started up about The Beano. Some said he was in your trade – a holy man, some even said he was a God, but that’s the sort of thing Pampa would have claimed when he was alive. He was a funny old bugger. He was special though.

God: You said .. uh … Pampa told you all about it. All about what, exactly?

Sean: All the nutty stuff that passes for religion in the country towns and villages around Bogan. Witches, warlocks, goblins and the War of Devotion - that kind of thing. So when someone claims to be God, it’s not something new to me. Pampa said there were dozens of your kind squabbling over market share. I’d forgotten until now.

God: Well I’m the proper God. My son is called Jesus, you know.

Sean: Hey, I knew a kid called Jesus. He was in the same class as me at Beaudesert High. Longhaired kid, thick as pig shit. Watkins! That was his name – Jesus Watkins. The bugger used to preach to us and said he was the son of God. We baptised him in the school bogs. His hair got stuck in the S bend and we nearly drowned the sod, had to bail the pan out with his lunch box before he could breathe. He was such a prat.

God: He still is, I’m afraid.

Sean: Oh, sorry. I didn’t know he was your boy.

God: That’s quite all right, don’t mention it. Did your Pampa say anything else?

Sean: I remember one thing he said. If I needed to know more I should go to the church.

God: Which church?

Sean: I assume he meant his local church. You can just see it down there among the trees at the bottom of the hill. It’s pretty much a ruin now but it’s still a church; Saint Martin of the Plagues, House of Devotions. Do you want to take a closer look?


12 HOURS EARLIER – THE DANDY, JIMBOOMBA.

(Korky and Roscoe Lunchpack entered The Dandy. It was early evening but the place was already packed. The troll at the door nodded to Roscoe and ignored Korky but grabbed the next person to walk in and gave him a good kicking to justify the presence of a troll at the door.

The dance floor was heaving as patrons gyrated and went through exaggerated body positions that would be embarrassing anywhere else but a dance floor. Most dancers mimed sexual congress, some mimed taking a shit and some combined the two. Korky wondered what would happen if the music were to suddenly stop and it seemed someone else was wondering the same thing because the music did stop. Amazingly the dancers carried on as if nothing had changed. They continued to writhe accompanied only by the sounds of shuffling feet, the creak of leather jeans and the rasp of innumerable involuntary farts.

Roscoe forced a path through the crowd until they stood before the biggest table in the club and around the table sat the Coven. They were all there including Mayor Porker and Korky stared open mouthed at the brain-buggering image of herself in the midst of another life. Mayor Porker stared back but did not seem perturbed by the experience. Korky realised that she was not really looking at herself at all. Korky was a ‘familiar’ and as such, was only an assistant to a soul with multiple sources. There might be a million Mayor Porkers but who was counting? This particular Mayor Porker soon lost interest in Korky and turned to a Shizeknicker who had been telling her about the profit to be made on literary prostitution.

Beside them Sean Bean was performing conjuring tricks and Winnie Quark sat gazing impassively into her glass of prune juice. The rest were attendant on the quiet leader of the group, Andy McDuck, who seemed content to smile winningly and let his charm ooze like fish oil. Eventually however, McDuck tired of the simpering adulation and he spoke.)

An Andy McDuck: Ladies and Gentlemen, now that we’ve dumped that horrible music and we can hear ourselves think I believe it is time for regional reports You seem excited about your region, Arnell. Perhaps you will give us the literary prostitution overview?

An Arnell Shizeknicker: Sure, Andy. Things are looking up and the sky’s the limit. The old favourites like ‘Naked Lunch’ and ‘Black Beauty’ are still pulling the punters in but the big money is in the recent edited adaptations of old favourites. I’m talking about books like ‘Dora the Explorer Cops a Dose’ and ‘Foreplay School’ and ‘Anne of Green Pustules’. These books have opened up a whole new market. Instead of damp, smelly reading rooms catering just for the dirty raincoat brigade we now have bright family reading areas opening up in every major shopping centre. I predict literacy will soon be back above the 50% mark and that means more readers for hard-core adaptations like ‘From Here to Maternity’ and ‘Horton Hears a Whore’. But – and this is the exciting bit – we aren’t ignoring the illiterate punters. I’ve brought in dozens of educated young women who have been trained as erotic readers. These girls, many of them with mugs like bags full of spanners, are now pulling in more revenue than the glamour girls who dance in our clubs. So, just to sum up, we’re doing great and takings are up 30%.

An Andy McDuck: That’s wonderful, Arnell. Well done. Okay, what’s next – Magic and the Supernatural. How’s it going Sean?

A Sean Bean: In a word – rubbish! How you expect me to compete against goblins, elves and trolls I just can’t imagine. All I’ve got are card tricks and pulling dollar coins out of peoples nostrils. Have you seen that troll’s act over at Flagstone Flagellation Club? The bugger saws a dozen women in half every night of the week. Okay, it’s no trick, he really does saw them in half and it’s messy but the whole point is the spectacle of it! Nobody wants to come into our Conjure Booths after that kind of show. They can get our tricks in a Christmas cracker for God’s sake. What I need is some real magic. Look, I know we said we didn’t want to go down this path but I honestly think we need to sign up a few genuine witches and warlocks. We need thunder and lightning, the clatter of cloven hooves, manifestations of evil and flags of all nations ex-rectum.

An Andy McDuck: But, Sean we claim to be the genuine witches and a warlock don’t we and therein lays the problem. How would it appear if we brought in outsiders who were more impressive practitioners of the black arts? We would look like fools and, even worse, we would appear weak. This is not the way, Sean. The problem is not with our lack of power but with the perception of our power. For instance, instead of pulling dollar coins out of peoples nostrils we should pull red-hot pokers out of their arses. I can assure you of an audience for that and a well deserved respect from anyone who doesn’t want a red-hot poker pulled out of their arse – that would be just about everybody. It’s simple, effective and unforgettable. That, my dear Sean, is magic. Look everyone; let’s not continue with the regional reports today. We will make them in one weeks time when you will all be able to report a 30% increase in revenue just as Arnell did. Sean, perhaps you will practice your pokerwork just in case there are any disappointments. In the meantime, my public awaits.

(To a chorus of barely suppressed groans McDuck ambled onto the tiny stage and picked up the microphone. He raised one arm and began to snap his fingers in no particular rhythm because there was no music and then he launched into a jaunty rendition of ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ accompanied by Tarquin Troll - Maestro of the Comb and Paper. It was an excruciating performance of schmaltzy dross that ended one hour later with McDuck’s favourite selections from Sound of Music culminating in the Cuckoo Clock number with McDuck acting out all the parts of the Von Trap children. He even ended the song by falling asleep on the step and carrying himself off to bed. It was awful. He returned to the group at the table who had not been game to leave, unlike the rest of the nightclubs customers who had slipped away as soon as the lights went down.)

An Andy McDuck: Well guys, I think we have one more stop before calling it a day. The Olympus Games start tomorrow so I think we should check out the venue.

Korky: Olympus Games?

A Roscoe Lunchpack: It’s a time when the Gods come together to decide The Supreme Being for the next 30 years. They call it The War of Devotion; it’s a sort of get together and elimination match.

Korky: The Confluence.

An Andy McDuck: That’s right, familiar Korky, how clever of you. Whoever prevails at The Confluence controls our universe for 3 decades. Well this time is going to be my time so we will all now study the playing field. It’s at a little place called Saint Martin of the Plagues in Gleneagle. Come on, it’s not very far.


TO BE CONTINUED.