The Pzi-Apex, R.K. Galvez [reading like a writer TXT] 📗

The Predictable Predicted...

...A long time ago, Les Barloy [a.k.a Regor Nocab] got bored with his hectic life. He left the capitalist idyll and fell out with his theological friends. This took years of style management, of course...While performing as the infamous drag act, Poxie Lute, he had attained some form of minor, slightly unknown, celebrity....A real celeb...Fights had broken out over him...Clubs had been burnt down....He had even been photographed wearing no shoes! It was so “wacky”. It was "News"…

...Eventually, Les Barloy decided to give it a break. So Les broke into his own hypothalamus and tried some hemisphere surfing. It was very hard to keep going and Les finally found out that his brain was being used as some kind of mutated-alien-zombie-ghoul communication mast. Les was annoyed because he wanted some form of assistance; he still had universal rights, even if he might find it tough on universal credit. He got an ancient UB40, fossilized in a metamorphic rock derived mainly from cheap beer, dried hemp and old copies of anarchist magazines. It was a strange time. What record company had done this for a publicity stunt?

....Barloy wracked his feeble brain again, but it was no good, he couldn't think. He needed to build an astral tyme-craft…The agency were not his problem no more; he had gone rogue ages ago. He hoped it would all kick in soon and end it all. To keep himself amused during post-modern contemporary stasis, Barloy told himself stories, and he soon discovered that he was his own best friend. Despite his numerous casual liaisons, particularly in the Ghetto and other various gay bars and drag haunts, he became Poxie Lute, his drag persona was as prominent as his black velvet cap [alas, gone are the days in ye olde Black Cap]; he didn't like it at all…They don’t take any nonsense at the Tavern either…

…Les Barloy woke up on the floor of a public toilet, covered in semen and urine; he was badly bruised and his genitals were sore; he discovered dried blood around his foreskin. Annoyingly, his rectum burned yet again. He was going to be sore everywhere for a while but, somewhat strangely, he remained very happy....He was almost euphoric...

…He phoned his wife[she does not want to be identified due to her "social status"...Her social media street quality was heir-raising...] and told her he had decided to run for Parliament, some old rotten seat, and she cooed at him down the phone and transferred more money to his expense account – that was after begging her rich daddy to believe Les Barloy had changed...No more Professor Norkgrub sessions; no more Bayrolles trickery for him…He would do things the right way from now on...That way being the hypocritically repressed English middle-class way...Tight Asses ahoy!...

...Les Barloy's wife was obsessed with the idea of marrying someone political, or very influential, like a dictator; she instantly became a Professor of Twitter...Luckily for Barloy, his wife was also very rich in her own right after scooping it big on the Trooluzian lotto; he had also forgotten her name anyway….She was a bit dull; just goes to show all the money in the world cannot buy you a personality…Les looked at the name and number etched on his chest. It read: ‘Bruce’. 0909 680 9890…Who was Bruce? He tasted the warm salty semen on his lips and smiled....Oh, so that was Bruce...

 ...Part 23: Pszychez e-bib-l...

...Bruce had a dream; he couldn't get it out of his mind...While aggressively sodomizing his wife, Jane, he was thinking strange thoughts about his undercover antics...He felt that he had done something wrong. But working for the C.O.G. was good. He was testing alien cures; he didn't know if he was being tested upon or over-seeing it. Bruce had noticed his colleague, Parsons, who had once been old, looking very strong and strangely youthful; Parsons had been doing lots of extra work with Crowley…

...Crowley's lackey, Hubbard, was busy writing pulp fiction and hurriedly starting up his organized religion-sect... Bruce smirked. Religion's for gimps, Bruce thought...Anyone could do that Religion con, he thought....Earlier that day, while at work, he had already ejaculated all over his signed copy of Dianetics...He would do the same with any holy article...The nostalgic pulp thing was a side-line if the serious religious con didn't get going. The project might just get cut....Bruce wondered if he had read about Les Barloy in some pulp trash, or if he would happen to see him online later...He loved the instant access of the post-everything age...

...Bruce subscribed to many adult entertainment sites...Jane, his long-suffering wife, seemed to be in that pleasure/pain purgatory zone; but Bruce was still thinking about Les Barloy. His erection throbbed as he plunged it further into Jane's sore anal passge... What had Les done to him? Bruce grunted; he was getting sore - he felt his foreskin disintegrate. Jane was wriggling, but she was handcuffed. She would be getting the strap-on out on him later; Bruce couldn't wait, it excited him even more: he just loved all kinds of penetration...He knew Les liked it deep, too...

He felt the velvet whip beside him, but suddenly started seeing Les Barloy in his mind again; Bruce was mesmerized by his strange fake-tanned features and his loosely-fitting robes...Could this mincing hipster really show him how to build an environmentally friendly Star-Tyme-Craft?... 

...Bruce had screamed at this point, literally scaring the shit out of Jane. His foreskin was probably bleeding again, but Bruce did not care. They were all melded together in a blizzard of bodily secretions. Les was always on Bruce's mind; Bruce hated the fact Barloy had penetrated his mind and was turning him on even more... It was a holy moment. Bruce's penis burned a lot…Two weeks after his encounter with Les Barloy, Bruce kept seeing Les deep within his mind, and his full-on erection never ceased. Bruce's copious use of many other substances might have attributed to his condition also…Bruce then decided to keep penetrating Jane's sore rectum, despite the fact that she was bleeding and probably wanting to use the toilet; he was also in extreme pain, as his penis was swelling and looking very bruised - just like an old banana!...

...However, Bruce was a purist: being sprayed with his wife’s loose bloody excrement and blood made him more determined to keep going; keep on plugging away as his Mumsie would always tell him...It was the effort that counted after all…Bruce didn't know if everything counted in large amounts though...Bruce needed to find Les again and sort out this psychic penetration for good...

...Les Barloy felt he had just re-lived this moment, but didn't want to call it deja-pu. He hated changing his routine, but put on his long cheesecloth robe and changed his turban. His oily skin reflected soft beams of light, as if he was made to be a prism, and he clipped his toe nails with his sacrificial daggers [one foot with a black handle, the other foot with a white handle; it didn‘t matter which path he took, he had already taken the wrong steps many years ago…]. Both knives were carved out of mammoth bone and had formerly been codpieces used by the clown-wright-philosopher, Will Kempspear…And Barloy hated clowning around with these rituals. His information was usually very wrong...

...Part Three[u]: e-bible-bribe

...The beasts inside Les were not demonic muto-mites no more; they were his babies. Fancy that! He had been paid off by aliens. A back-hander as clear as a foggy day. Everyone knew about it. He kept the England Captaincy and bedded the boardroom and backroom staff. These muto-mites had only embedded themselves in his anus. He was feeling specially selected. The aliens wanted him. And the world would be saved. His blood was worth it, and the aliens needed parts and things. Everything would be re-used; they were huge life-force-essence-captors and had formed personality immortality aeons ago...

“It's brains we want!” they had apparently chanted through the mists of time…They had shown those in Kush this simple process but that was not really another story...In fact, it all sounded like more of an untested theory...Hypotheses were prohibited here... 

...These aliens were a bit odd, and usually double-crossed people. They controlled everything; they were God-like; how could we ever compete? Barloy knew he would do something daft to make the sheer misery of survival somewhat more bearable. Barloy decided to pray and drink more mutated blood. He realized it was more opiate-wine-butter-candy than blood; but it didn't matter. Les was going to have to get used to being plain old Les Barloy...He had been contacted by two Agents to perform a private ceremony for the joyous division....

...Part Four[x4]: predicted/predictable[plantheory17]

...Hello my friends! I am Les Barloy. I can see that I need to plug in more and-

...Bruce woke up....He was covered with winged spiders and old plastic bags. He must've gone through a lot last night. It was another crazy one. He probably went for it, and got himself into more shit. He danced the rain and moon dances, and the occasional sun dance...Horse[party] dances were in his blood now...Why were his nipples always sore?...

...Bruce looked in the mirror…He saw Les Barloy...

...Part Five[x5]: Imerod Losal Oditaf...

...We can see him, as those awful agents minds merged. They were both demonic. Goodnow preened his long, flowing, blonde locks. His decayed dodo-face made him look out of place. Goodmann was going through a rubber phallic-mask stage. It was mysteriously biological. The huge phallus, dripping with pus, close to where Goodmann's nose should be, throbbed with demonic, mutated, powers. Goodmann used to have an anus of a nose anyway...Wait...We are the agents, we're back, we're one...Coming as one....We know what Barloy's thinking, but he has always been very weak...He might be protecting that fool, Johnny Quagga. Such a devious fool, we can feel his heart; he will not be able to resist our final ceremony... We shall bind him to our creed and make it lore within our dimensional codex. We shall be all powerful, even more powerful than all powerful, once we have manipulated Barloy...We leave the agents unified thought relayer…They had all known [and unknown] thoughts registered and protected under complex demonic rights management protocols [or D.R.M.P.]...

...Goodnow slashed at his wrists and formed some pure-blood harpies with the cascading blood...The demonic agents laughed so loudly that the fabric of the universe wobbled with the force of an amoeba passing wind...