The next victim of that vile, depraved experiment – 9 in our nomenclature – was plucked from the numberless horde of οι κινελοι; in other words he was a yob, an Alph the Unsacred, who sprayed himself with Jason reodorant from the same aerosol as John Virgil. Unfortunately, the name with which the mother of this 9 originally introduced him to the world appears to have been redacted from the coroner’s records held at Flax Bourton by censors unknown, and I have been unable to discover any new intelligences, and so ‘9’ this fellow must remain to us, unless it be your pleasure to append to him some condign classical label; why not, as I sometimes do, think of him as Caliban? —
Caliban or Alph
… and equally, more than a little piqued to discover Caliban rematerialised one morning some weeks before his about-to-be-related apotheosis, crossly grunting over the squat rack in the basement of Pex ‘n’ Quads. Earphones jammed into his lugs insulated him from the external world, but did nothing to insulate the external world from the screech of boy band r&b which was inevitably his pleasure. From then until his apotheosis, I would encounter him at irregular but fairly frequent intervals, sometimes alone but usually in the company of Mr Jupiter the expectorating urolagnist, Harrison Lupine the genuine psychopath, Wanksy the fake psychopath, and other thugs and goons, with whom he joked and aggressively jabbered in accents veering wildly between Jafakan and old skool Hartcliffe or Knowle West. When I saw him, I would avert my gaze, out of a mixture of disgust and apprehension. His originally being numbered amongst my forty fellow Spartacists had somewhat discomposed me. But he seemed not to recognize me anyway, for which I gave thanks. —
Pex ‘n’ Quads
The day of Caliban’s apotheosis: a glum morning, the threat of prolonged heavy rain, valium skies lowering over the Avon where it coursed sluggishly alongside the Hotwells Road. John Virgil had had to send a team to induce or forcibly extract Caliban from the special pub for thin middle-aged alcoholics, in which he had somewhat incongruously sought sanctuary. They dragged him, snarling a series of unimaginative but plosive epithets, into the foyer of Pex ‘n’ Quads, and up the stairs into the wellness spa, where the Cerberidae rather kittenishly assuming handmaidenly roles relieved him of his shellsuit. —
Charybdis (Pex ‘n’ Quads)
The usual assortment of gamine Hermaphrodites, ancient cockwashers and Psorietes and ancient cockwashing Psorietes, unsacred Alphs, and cowed employees were corralled into that small space where Caliban, naked and hairy of back, stood staring truculently at the hot tub, that engine of his doom. Herod also was there, at the head of the troupe of playaz – the managers of the various overlapping competencies and their respective minions. —
Herod
- Jesus, said Petra Mountjoy, what a fucking gorilla. —
Petra Mountjoy
There was at this point a mild commotion amongst the assembled throng, and by some mysterious process was exuded Stig O'Dump, who now on daintily reluctant tippy-toes approached the neighbourhood of Charybdis, bearing in his tobacco-stained paws a derogate vial of some natural, organic provenance. —
Stig O’Dump
In case anyone thinks that this broke the enchantment of that accursed pool: we were swiftly apprised by Rumour painted full of tongues that Caliban had fallen victim to that same Aeromonad scourge of the flesh as Herod. It has since emerged [autopsy report – name redacted] that Caliban was a martyr to pancreatitis, so perhaps it is not surprising that he proved less resilient than Herod. Over the ensuing week, multiple amputations and debridements had, not so much saved him from the fasciitis’ ravages, as hacked away at his entelechy. He was certainly to all accounts much diminished when he passed away, culminating the process. —
Aeromonad scourge of the flesh
This site would like to use cookies to count visits and measure advertising. Nothing is set unless you accept.
