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Konformist: McHajj Part IV

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  • Robalini@aol.com
    Please send as far and wide as possible. Thanks, Robert Sterling Editor, The Konformist http://www.konformist.com
    Message 1 of 1 , Oct 11, 1999
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      Please send as far and wide as possible.

      Thanks,

      Robert Sterling
      Editor, The Konformist
      http://www.konformist.com
      http://www.konformist.com/1999/mchajj/mchajj.htm
      http://www.konformist.com/1999/mchajj/mchajj4.htm

      McHajj
      Part IV
      The Chosen Pupil

      The centerpiece for the Newlywed's space station living room was a crystal
      pyramid, It rested, three feet high with its eye in the sky, in the center of
      a shallow ceramic bowl. Upon the hour, the Pope would come out, pour a
      champagne bucket filled with Serpent Piss fermented with goat smegma over the
      sculpture while humming, 'Fiddler on the Roof.' Once the bowl brimmed with
      the jaundiced Holy water, he would open some spigots screwed into the sides
      and fill up enough wine glasses for the guests who were convened at the
      table, waiting.

      David Rockefeller drained his glass in one gulp and ignored the New Year
      toast all the guests imbibed. Some umbrated members of the P2 lodge in Italy
      sampled the brew but noticed nothing of its piquant character, so jaded with
      spirit initiations they were. Ronald McDonald politely sipped the reptilian
      vintage. Barbara declined, good mother that she was becoming. She pulled
      her chiffon maternity blouse emblazoned with the ABC logo away and her
      greasepainted groom played with her protruded navel as if it were some kind
      of cold war red alert button.

      It, when it arrived, in the dying sextet of seconds of 1999, would be the
      first zero gravity savior birthed in an orbital Bethlehem. Rockefeller,
      designated Wise Man Number One, switched on the ultra sound monitor so all
      the guests could scrutinize the young and upcoming embryo. Its pulse seemed
      to quicken every time they passed over the Dead Sea, even though they were
      far beyond the jurisdiction of the earth's electromagnetic field. Soon all
      the conspirants were doing the devil's tap on the table top in synch with the
      heart beat. The Pope kept on humming and kept on pouring his vile brew in
      hopes of upping the ante of the celebration.

      As the crew got tipsy on the rounds of ecumenical cocktail, an argument
      ensued.
      Where would the placenta be air dropped? On theSphinx? On top of the Ka'ba?
      Borobudur? Stonehenge? How about skewering it on the obelisk in
      Washington, D.C.? It became a kind of board game challenge. It was getting
      time for some Robert's Rules of Order as no consensus was arrived at by this
      rogue congress. The only thing unaminous amongst them was that the yolk
      would not, under any circumstance, be freeze dried.

      McPope ignored the fracas and scryed a tissue scrap through an ultra high
      powered microscope. He managed to filch the bit of fetal host through the
      Anchor woman's carnal portal, posing as resident gynecologist, without
      damaging the integrity of the savior. Zooming in on a maze of double helix
      protein chains, he marveled how they began to spin themselves into a kind of
      genetic grail. The Holy Roman Umpire scanned the inebriated guests and
      unnoticed, took a hypodermic needle out of his vestibule pocket and flooded
      the DNA with more of the consecrated wine his unquaffable cadre were gulping
      down so lasciviously. He switched the screen over to the microscope's point
      of view and the guests hushed, sobered up a bit and marveled at the display.

      The Pope stepped up onto a little stage in front of the big screen T.V.which
      showed the DNA as it mutated at warp speed into a trinitarian helix pattern-a
      veritable blue print of the tri-lateral commission. The members of the P-2
      lodge were the first to take notice. Then the Pope clicked on his remote
      control, the numinous eye in the apex of the pyramid in the fountain opened
      up. The Masonic Cyclops looked around as if peering out of some forgotten
      b-movie. A viperous mannikin emerged from the punch and slithered up the
      pyramid and began pissing once again. Underneath the sculpture was the
      phrase: The Chosen Pupil, emblazoned in dark green neon.; Maybe the Pope's
      new grandson would be the true herald of the Novus Ordo Seclorum, the new
      telescope so to speak.

      "The Apex is not a good place for a placenta...we don't want to obscure its
      view now do we?" The Pope asked. Rockefeller burst out laughing, fell off
      his chair and doubled
      up on the floor. "What about my Tri-Lateral Commission! I'll dissolve the
      order if this gets through. Where's Jeremy Rifkin when we need him? You
      didn't send him to a FEMA camp did you along with Bill Cooper? Did you?"

      The clown was too mesmerized by his wife's navel to take notice of the
      commotion. Barbara, feeling the first tremors of labor, stood up and
      excused herself. A door slid open allowing her to pass through to the
      maternity ward. It squeaked like the ones on Star Trek. No one even
      noticed the cue. One of the P2 henchmen stepped out of his own shadow and
      approached the Pope as if preparing to be consecrated by the mobster.
      "And when it's time to crucify again...this time on an Ankh....not a
      cross...right?" He challenged the Papal authority.

      "We can work that in the script...as long as its self replicating." The
      Pope's eyes turned reptilian even though he hadn't even a sip of the
      ambrosia. He jabbed his Crozier into the floor for emphasis and his
      Canonicals began to take on the appearance of medieval armor. Soon the other
      icons emerged out of their space station quarters. The Pillsbury Doughboy
      hopped up on to the Pope's shoulder, puffed up and giggled. Some of the
      Marlboro Men who snuck on board flanked the Pope. One lassoed a P2 and
      dragged him up to the proscenium. One of the Camel brothers grabbed
      Rockefeller by the collar and forced him to kneel before the Pope. Soon some
      nurses wheeled out Barbara and under the camera lights she prepared for the
      birth. Ronald did some cartwheels and plucked a switch on, thus activating a
      global satellite which jammed all communications on earth. The Tidy Bowl
      man would emcee and announce the action. Cameras on.

      The delivery was painless, nearly effortless. And the shining new born was
      put into the Pope's arms and not Ronald's...the clown didn't seem to
      mind..didn't really care about continuity, he was just along for the ride
      anyways. The Pope's eyes flared. And in the Ka'ba far below in Mecca the
      Imam put the final filigrees onto the ball of plutonium and invited the Party
      of Ali inside for one last look. One took a gavel and drove the warhead home
      as he pronounced the guilty verdict. And in China Mao did a jig with Stalin
      and Pol Pot. In Berlin, the Turks were cha-cha ing with the Neo-Nazi's. In
      Bosnia all looked up into the sky as the Marian radiation showered down upon
      them. And the gates of the prisons and asylums of the world were swung open.
      In Israel only love bombs exploded after the perennial peace treaties were
      signed.

      The earth looked so pretty from the space station, all lit up like a
      Christmas Tree in Rockefeller Plaza. Rockefeller was still kneeling. He
      started kissing the Pope's feet. And the savior...the savior didn't even
      protest its expulsion from Barbara's paradisal uterus. There was no
      announcement from this barkless, hairless dog. Ronald comforted his wife who
      took no interest in her apocryphal spawn. She merely groped for a
      microphone, looked for a camera, thankful to be purged of all that weight.

      The Pope took the child over to the Baptismal fount and immersed the creature
      for
      what seemed like a minute and at the Stroke of the milleniual Midnight pulled
      him out of the Serpent piss. He sat the infant on top of the Pyramid. The
      eye turned upward to catch a glimpse of this new Commander in Chief of the
      Federal Reserve. Cigars for all and everyone sang Auld Lang Zion.

      But how would the savior be returned to the Earth? Would there be any reason
      to since the planet was becoming so conflagrated at the moment? The Pope
      laughed sardonically as he watched the Vatican evaporate in the wave of
      thermo-nuclear detonation billowing out of Mecca. But who could trust a t.v.
      screen? Maybe it wasn't real. In his dream, he hardly noticed that the
      space station broke free of the gravitational field and was quickly deviating
      from the planet. The magazine subscription was about to be canceled. The
      newborn nursed at the Pope's breast for he was its Mother Church....He was
      the portable Rome and now they were headed for Mars. The Face on Mars to
      be exact.

      When they arrived, the cadre disbanded and set out to stake a claim. Where
      would the Mount Calvary be on this ochre stained planet? Where would the Via
      Dolorosa be?

      The Pope surveyed the land in a Martian buggy and climbed up to the summit of
      the face . With Sleight of Hand he was able to filch the placenta and with
      newborn in one hand and placenta in the other he said a prayer in
      Martianese-it sounded Latin enough he supposed. He dropped the Placenta into
      the nostril of the face and a volcano began to erupt. He dune buggied away
      and watched as the volcano spewed and out came a lava of glowing green slime.
      It seemed to follow some ancient waterways hidden beneath the martian dust
      and filled these canals.

      Soon a metropolis was born: the new and improved Vaticanopolis. The Pope
      held the newborn up to the sky and tore its space suit away-to toughen it
      up-he made a make shift cradle-manger for the creature and scanned the skies
      for a star...but aghast...he looked up....and on swift wings descended the
      icons, all of them released from the Pandora's box of a now flaming Madison
      Avenue back on earth. The very creatures who gave him a new lease on life,
      the very creatures he betrayed...the creatures who ensured his
      preservation-all of them-a legion of fallen angels , who once they hit the
      surface of the Planet, would vie for power. The Pope merely held up his
      Anhk, the always trusty apotropaic and they had to return to the remains of
      the earth.

      To Be Continued...


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