DALI LLAMA & THE HOLY GHOST

[JACkory]

Dali Llama and the Holy Ghost
(a cereal novel)


chapter one, in which the soda begins to go flat...

I didn't know where I was and to be honest I just didn't care. I was wherever I needed to be because I was there. Right? It may have been Transylvania because everything was in black and white. There were a lot of Romanian looking devils lining the streets selling chocolate and whiskey and if that ain't Transylvania I'll eat my shirt...

Which probably would have tasted pretty good at that point in time because hunger was a consuming void that tickled my fancy all the while driving home the obvious...which was that I probably shouldn't have been in Transylvania. It was those damned missionaries.

Don't get me wrong...I don't have anything against good folks spreading their good works around to good people in good time for good reasons...but these suckers were vicious. They said, "Transylvania, right? That's where that bloodsucker lives."

I said, "Well, I don't know if I'd say he actually 'lives' there. 'It's where he resides' would probably be more apt. But it doesn't matter because that dude has closed shop for the next century. Too dangerous, you know. Too much exposure. Too many dudes going rogue, carving stakes from timber wood. You can't help but be concerned. Even if it's just a tiny bit. I'd be skittish, I know that for sure."

"Closed up shop?" the chief missionary asked with an incredulous look on his benevolent face. "That can't be. We need him. He agreed. We had a deal, a signed contract."

I was confused (again). What kind of pact could these pious gents have entered into with this blood sucker who has hitherto been (and will forever remain) nameless. What possible advantage could be gained by an association with such a notorious and legendary fiend? I thought about asking him.

Then I thought better of it.

Though this development was troubling, as you might guess, I was even more concerned with the lack of color in the high noon atmosphere. I didn't think any of those missionaries had an answer for me on that front. So I didn't waste my breath.

As it turned out I didn't need to worry because one of those smelly Romanians stepped up and offered the unsolicited information.

In a thick Romanian accent (which I won't bother replicating) the fat lady in the colorful apron said, "Sir, by the look on your face I can tell that you've never been in a world like this one. A world where bloodsuckers roam the streets at dawn, enjoying a sabbatical once every hundred years or so...a world where figs fall from cursed trees and violence begets violins...a world where steak is steak and stakes come at a premium for a saucy sauce. The gray hue of the sky is the result of nothing more complicated than..."

And with that her husband, for husband he turned out to be, grabbed hold of her arm and cried, "Fool! Wench! You give away the secrets of our technology to outcasts and dissidents? Who is this cretin to understand, as if he were able? His ways are not our ways, you know. That's as it is and that's how it must remain. So shut your smelly trap, gather your gouda cheese balls and get back inside where you belong."

Drats. I was foiled. The missionaries stood to the side snickering. I always knew they had a little of the devil in 'em, even if they would never acknowledge the fact. They were devious and tricky. Yes, they could certainly be benevolent, but on their own time they were bastards and heels.

More fool me for hanging with them.

[JACkory]

Chapter two...in which the missionaries insult my mother

Those missionaries had already crossed the point of getting on my nerves when the head honcho stepped up to me and with a glimmer of mischief in his eye spoke.

"Your mother."

It was these two words that told me all I needed to know about this band of ruffians. I knew I couldn't trust them. From the moment I saw them walking in that Seventh Seal line across the Bohemian mountainside I was sure they were nothing I could use for good. They looked at me like I was twenty ounces of monkey turd rolled up into a big, smelly ball. They gazed at me as if I were the man who set their garbage bins on fire. They peered through the corners of their collective beady little eyes with an expression of true disgust usually reserved for those who have pissed in several bowls of Post Toasties. When they spoke I could hear an undertone of distrust that made me nauseous. Nothing could have offended them more than the smell of my musky shoulders rubbing against them in close quarters. My tattoos drew sarcastic sneers, especially the one that said "Mother".

"Your Mother," the big wazoo repeated. "Your mother, your mother, your mother, your mother, your mother."

Just when I thought I couldn't take it any more he backed and howled, "YOUR MOOOOTHEEEEERRRR!!!"

"You got a problem with my mother?" I began. I could have gone on for hours but felt the point would be more effectively made by a modicum brevity. "The woman who gave birth to me was the salt of the earth. She was the pepper of the universe. She pushed me out into the world with relentless force, secure in the belief that the lump of flesh plopping from her belly would grow to be an earth shaker and a world changer. Many cherished nights I spent with mouth locked onto her bulbous titties, sucking the warm, white, cloudy nectar. The cream of creation was squirting like a leaky faucet down my throat, threatening to choke me. I was sure my clamping had to be painful but her countenance never betrayed any discomfort whatsoever. She simply winced with the first bite, after which a most beatific look overtook her face. I will never be able to repay her for this act of motherly love. It was an idyllic existence, but alas all good things must come to an end. The time had come when I must be weaned from the juice. I was upset but as a five year old child there was no denying a sense of embarrassment betrayed when she was forced, by utility, to flop 'em out and feed me in public. I had no cause to be worried...she fed me well in the remaining years until I turned 21 and reluctantly moved out of the house."

Missionary number one, the big wazoo, stepped back after hearing this touching soliloquy and spat out the vile words, "Your mother's a bitch".

"That she was." I replied.

[JACkory]

chapter 3
...to dance with mary

Without going into any damning details, I must confess that I spent most of yesterday with Mary. I do well without her most of the time. I don’t feel like I need her. Certainly not the way I needed her before. She doesn’t have me wrapped around her finger anymore. I’ve come to a place in my life where I can just take her or leave her, and it’s all my doing this time around. I won’t be her slave.
And yet, when I see her…when I just happen to run into her…I can’t help myself. Those old feelings rise within me. I can’t help but say “yes” when she asks if I want to dance. Nothing in the world, that I know of, is as blissful as the way Mary dances when she’s in the mood. No. she’s not always in that mood. But even then she dances like an angel.
All the talk of freedom and independence from Mary’s grasp, but yesterday I made it a point to run into her. I arranged it, as I knew exactly where she would be. She always waits for me there and I think she’s happy to see me every 3-4 weeks. That’s about how long I can make it without her. That might sound like she still holds some sway in my life, but the difference is that I’M the one calling the shots now.
I called ‘em at about 2:30 pm. She was hesitant, probably a little upset that my visits have been less frequent lately. I was not worried. She was just as glad to see me as I was her. Maybe even more so. She offered me her hand as the music began to play soft, low and psychedelic.
Her dance had begun.
All the clutter in my mind melted away like snow in the sunlight. The stuffing in my brain plucked like tiny wads of cotton candy in a child’s hand. She loaned me the key to my soul’s cell door and let me frolic outside for a couple of hours in the fresh, sweet, herb-scented air. She saw me in ecstasy. She watched my inhibitions shed as if they were an old, dirty coat. She saw me running towards a cliff, too wasted to see it coming, and she caught hold of me. She saved my life.
Then she reminded me of how many times she’d saved my life in our days together. Of course, I could not argue with that. She’d pulled me up from abysmal depths of despair so many times I wouldn’t want to try and count them. She’d opened a window to the world that proved to me, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that my understanding of reality was flawed and without purpose.
I owed her a lot, it’s true.
But it took me a long time to see the truth. Her love was depraved. Behind every beautiful experience we had together she was sucking the life out of me. She was turning a knife that she’d stuck into my heart. I didn’t even know it was there. She was borrowing my thoughts, taking them out of my head, fucking with them, then cramming them back in. I didn’t mind, but the morning after was a haze of exhaustion and headaches.
Her love was selfish. In the end, after all the flattery’s euphoria dwindled to an ember, she simply did not give a shit about me. It wasn’t even about dominance or submission. She needed nothing of me. Her gifts, as well as her curses, were bestowed upon me without the slightest regard for any power they might give her. She didn’t care about power. She didn’t seem to care about anything at all. That didn’t stop her, though, from giving away a mixture of pain and pleasure, a strange alchemy she was proficient with.
All that. All that and more. And there we were, dancing again, in a smoke filled room on a warm April afternoon. All those life-changing memories…Every slice of enlightenment…The curve of her body nestled in mine, arms entwined, holding on to each other for dear life…Her musky perfume intoxicating me…Her eyes a window not to her’s, but to my own soul…
Twisting the knife, sucking the life, she asked, “More?”
I wanted to say “no”. I NEEDED to say “no”.
But it was no good. I knew I would never refuse her completely.
“Someday,” I replied.
“Soon?”
“Maybe. Probably.” I said, with a slight bit of resignation. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to avoid you for long.”
She grinned, an impish grin. “So it is, my darling. So it has been and so it shall be. Until the day you have no more left to give. Until the day you will be unable to take any more from me. A long time from today, though. So tell me you love me. Don’t let me see you walking out the door, or I’ll follow. I won’t be able to help myself.”
“I do, darling Maria. I do love you. Turn away now. Turn away.”
This morning I woke up feeling like someone had bludgeoned me with steel pipes the night before.

[JACkory]

chapter 4
having been totally seduced by a chubby redheaded German

You cannot know how envious I am of your inherit ability to pretend you're doing all the things you wished you could do. You don't just pretend, you actually feel it and you cry in front of your children. You feel as if you should explain the lofty matters of the universe to a 9 year old standing before you confused with a lost teddy bear and even more befuddled by your mind boggling perception of life and how to live it. A perception, it must be said, that is informed primarily by sitting in front of a television screen laughing at a commercial for Fruity Pebbles. Fred Flintstone was such a gruff individual and don't even get me started about Barney. I know you had a crush on Betty and your loathing for Barney had much to do with how you felt he could not satisfy her properly in bed. Then again those rock beds couldn't have been very comfortable and most certainly not a good place for coitus. But what business is it of mine? Fill your son's noggin with all the pop rock philosophy he can stand, you're the one who'll be called upon at Judgment Day to account for throwing up a stomach-full of Fruity Pebbles in the bathtub, rub a dub dubbing with your brother because every penny saved is a penny earned. Water ain't cheap nor gas as well, the gas well never seems to be stocked. Who wants to take a cold bath? What do I care? I was too busy listening to the risque comedy of Flip Wilson to take note of your familial idiosyncrasies. He had this joke about a little kid noticing how he was biologically different than a young girl who was similarly perplexed at the sight of his budding coloring books. As for you, matey, Wilma is a bitch. You must take responsibility for the tragic circumstances that will arise from the mental circumcision you've inflicted on your child and the half empty jar of mayonnaise you left on the kitchen counter, attracting maggots.

[JACkory]

chapter 5
another beginning, this time without dreams

I was going to say something about jigsaw puzzles. More precisely I was going to regale you with a long and lonely story of the jigsaw puzzle I found at the Salvation Army thrift shop on the corner of Mighty Mighty Man & Lonely Jelly Boy in Orlando, Florida. Long and lonely it may not turn out to be but my heart cries out, yea it practically yearns for the opportunity to share my lost year with y0u. You've won me over, it's true. I want to give it to you. You may well say it doesn't make any sense. Welcome to my life, hombre.

The Salvation Army thrift store wasn't of much use to me. At least that was not the case most of the time. There was nothing they had to offer me other than a good book for a quarter once in a blue moon. Such a bargain makes it worth the hundreds of fruitless visits when books are the only thing one has to live for. I mean, you can hit up the Goodwill and find a lot of similar bargains. Many, many more than you're likely to discover at the Army. But it's on the way, only a couple of blocks from my house. I could walk there if I wanted. Which is exactly what I did most of the time.

I do recall an exception to the "Salvation-Army-Ain't-Got-Shit" rule. I'm thinking some scholar or bookworm must have passed away and his/her family, without any other options, hauled off all their books to the Mighty Mighty Man/Lonely Jelly Boy location. I'll never forget the jolt of surprise and jubilation when I first walked in the door and saw a veritable library of quality literature. Volume after volume of hardbacks in pristine condition, each and every one treated exactly the same as the other junk they'd always offered...one single quarter apiece.

Only try to picture it! Only try to imagine my ravenous glee at the prospect of owning a complete set of Charles Dickens' novels for less than five bucks! Kerouac, Pynchon, Roth, Updike, Irving...the usual suspects that turn up in the collections of people who know what the hell they're doing. People with an eye towards quality. Non-fiction volumes, enough to educate the most barbaric tribe in the jungles of southern Africa, where they still shrink people's heads and eat each other for dinner. It wouldn't take such a civilization very long, I wouldn't think, to teach themselves how to read, study Stephen Hawkings' "A Brief History of Time" for a few weeks and eventually find a cure for measles.