St Stephen meets the Silver Wizard

Whether or not it is right to see evolution as any kind of advancement (except perhaps through time) it was quite correct that St Stephen was advanced of his species both in the sense of intellectual capacity and environmental suitability. His twin brains were manipulated on the edge of conscious decision and instinct. If a second member of the new St Stephen species would emerge St Stephen (the founder) could be a useful guide on how to best take advantage of the genetic mutation. Generally St Stephen was very good at adapting to his own unique nature. Until he killed himself.

It was suggested that after the sixth apocalypse the remaining species would diversify and spread to fill the empty landscape. Due to the flooding a great deal of this was waterscape – bu never mind. Losing so many creatures in so short a space time was bound to leave room for new genetic variety.

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Through so many hiccups and false starts St Stephen the pragmatist walks through the rainbow oil, flooded urban utopia – until he found the Silver Wizards Houseboat. The Silver Wizard is sitting naked by his fire listening to the fucking of the river rats while carefully pulling the fleas out of his short beard. He watches his friend through the window of his boat. He is pleased to see his friend (in a way). The Silver Wizard is old enough, wise enough and sufficiently independently minded that he has allowed himself to befriend St Stephen (the lead guitarist in his band) without ever becoming too close, and with the knowledge that such a diversity of personality was something that he should be weary of. St Stephen did not remember that it was him (in his other guise) who had left the Silver Wizard desolate and unemployed – the Silver Wizard remembered.

St Stephen knocked on the Silver Wizards door and rudely let himself in. He did not notice the Silver Wizards nakedness. He was too concerned with himself and with the present time – and if he had noticed he probably would not have been particularly shocked or suprised. St Stephen was rarely suprised by anything. He was certainly a genius but he had a limited imagination.

The psychedlic tea cakes were resting on the top of the small wood burning oven. They were still a little too hot to be perfect. St Stephen helped himself greedily. He needed the unreality to be more familiar and with an easily identifiable cause. The Silver Wizard didnt really mind the rudeness – he had made the cakes for himself and King Derek to share later – but there were enough spare. The Silver Wiard always made too many and they were always all eaten anyway. He was an exceptional baker.

So hows things going, St Stephen, the Silver Wizard said, and wheres your guitar?. St Stephen instinctivly felt for his shoulder before remembering that he had left it at home. That must be what the Silver Wizard looks so apprehensive about St Stephen thought before moronically adding out loud, I left it at home. That was not an explanation – St Stephen was never without his guitar. He would carry it to the kitchen when he was making tea, he would have it on a strap when he was urinating at the thunderbox. The only time when the genetically mutated Saint would be without his guitar is when his second brain was working at these times he was the senior director in the corperation. The citys hegemonic institution. St Stephen should have been a lot less suprised about the nervous glances of the Silver Wizard – he had a senior director from the city sitting in his illegally moored boat in the middle of the artists colony – eating his psychedlic cakes. He was slightly suprised that St Stephen wearing the pin stripped uniform of the citys most intensly destructive authority had ever reached his boat unharmed.

The Silver Wizard did what he always did in such unsettling circumstances. He made himself, and St Stephen each one strong cup of coffee – and because he was feeling particularly vulnerable – he poured a large measure of whiskey in each. He then took himself a phsychedelic cake and dipped it into the steaming murky brown, paradoxical symbol of calm until the tea cake was moments away from polluting the bottom of the cup. It was at that precise moment that he absent mindedly pulled out the macerated marzipan and ingested like a toothless old man.

He paused for a moment, in which St Stephen wondered why he was starting to feel a little humble in front of his old friend. The Silver Wizard then took out his long clay pipe, and fished around his desk for the second of his pipes. When he found it – he lit both the pipes and handed the longer of the two to St Stephen. So, hows the human misery business going, old chap? said the Silver Wizard in as kind a voice as he could manage.

St Stephen smirked to himself – ignoring the bitterness in the Silver Wizards voice. The Silver Wizard spoke again, a little more kindly this time, What brings a senior director of the corperation to risk himself in the artists colony.

St Stephens hands reached for his neck, and there was a collar, and there was a tie – and he reached further and there was a second collar – a jacket collar, and where his guitar should have been was an excutive briefcase. He was wearing his perfect pin stripe suit. Why the fuck am I here?, he thought to himself.

The ratfucker part 2

By the age of four, the ratfucker knew everything he would ever need to know to manage the job he would keep for the rest of his life. He was not stupid. He could pick up the stool that was left in the basement, despite the fact that it reached well above his waist. He could then drag the stool screeching across the basement floor until he reached the photocopier – where he would stop for a short moment to rest himself. The next stage of the operation was to climb up the first rung and then higher until he stood on top of the stool. He would steady himself against the edge of the photocopier and then reach forward to the green button – which he would press. The ratfuker could also read a little, and could understand any instructions left for him telling him which basket each of the letters was to be deposited. Somebody had found him a small cart in a store room and he used that to carry paper in.

At the age of six, the ratfuckers mother, a secretary who had kept her pregnancy and birth giving completely secret, ran away feeling that she had given her son a good career – and that she couldn’t cope anymore with her life anymore.

By the age of fourteen the ratfucker had grown too large for his bed (the printer tray within the photocopier, and decided he would need to find himself a new place to sleep. On the first night that he slept on a pile of paper in the store cupboard he cried to himself.

For his entire life the ratfucker had been developing what would later be known as photocopy art. He realised at a young age that if he pulled paper through the photocopier while he was using it – he could create black streaks down the page. Later he found that he could manipulate images, spreading and distorting them. He could enlarge and reduce, and change the number of colours at his disposal. Words and images could be layered on each other and stuck together with sticky tape before the copying commenced.

The ratfucker was also developing an immense reading ability. He had a large variety of materials to read – and although many of them were very dull – together they created an imaginary world. The office at night was a magical place and some nights he would spend the whole night playing and would have to sleep through the day. Nobody noticed his disappearance – it was assumed he was on holiday. Nobody noticed that he never left the building.

If the daytime was one world (remember that the ratfucker had never seen the sun) and the night was another, then there was a third world – that of the early morning where the cleaners roamed with their different clothing and language. They had different rules, to the other workforce – and they – like the ratfucker did not have to spend their time at one desk – but could move as they liked as long as they eventually covered the entire floor. They were also allowed to take things occasionally from the desks – these were the spoils of war. The cleaners spoke a different language and it was a kinder one – and they were happy to speak to the ratfucker so that soon he could speak cleaner and office worker fluently. Still the ratfucker knew that there was something wrong with the cleaners and that he as an office worker should not spend too much of his time with them.

the death of the bow…

(mourns for bow with tears and much vodka..)
(chances of the sound of this breaking appearing on any future song… = quite high)