The Trance Terrors, R.K. Galvez [surface ebook reader TXT] 📗

every century or so. I do not think this block thing really exists, but I got the mind-virus now. It’s definitely viral. I know that it is all sophisticated marketing invention; helps to make those respectably published layabouts feel like pros. It doesn’t exist, it has to be a folly, I say!  

Les laughed and said:

“It does exist when you simply forget to write, though Mr Tellman. The chore of everyday life keeps making some odd interruptions, eh?”

 Tellman lit another eternal cheroot.

 “I had to do this Life-Coach Guru gig. Not one fool teaches Life-Coaching to these lily-livered Life-Coaching hippy softies, do they? They’re all good people at heart. I saw the niche; I can be a total fool but I was lucky to snap that timely niche up very early,” replied Tellman through a silver cloud of smoke.”

Les quietly snored; shaking his head with fatigue. He was finally coming down, after coming on so strong. Tellman assumed Les was agreeing with him; Tellman did not realize that Les was in some kind of hypnogogic reverie.

 Les was thinking about how he ended up in bed with his transsexual babysitter. It was an intoxicated mistake, but Les did not mind it at all…

 Tellman continued, lighting yet another cheroot,

 “I’m comfy but not wealthy. Oh no. Only in an age of non-jobs was I able to achieve my dream of obtaining the greatest non-job of all. All I said was that I had been doing the Life-Coaching lark for a couple of decades under another name. And that was 20 years ago. It's a total lie; the fools brought it, but I’ve never done a whole day of it. I don’t think I would be able to hack it. The easy way at the moment is to just join every new piece of networking technology and you’re away. I’ve frozen myself ten times. Ridiculous really, isn’t it? But just read lots of Deepak Chopra, too, and Bob’s your uncle! You’ll be the best Life-Coach Guru out there without being some flash Yank! They can stuff their primitive firearms and muffin recipes. You’re better off with homeopathy.”

 Les was hoping Tellman would tell him about the mission to save all these exo-planets and various time-realms. Maybe even the earth-realm he had known. Les was a bit disappointed he had not even seen any beat-people yet. It was not satisfying fix for a hardened fantasy junkie like Les…

 Tellman had gone through a few cheroots by now. He sipped his beverage and winced. Les smiled, visibly tired. He hoped Tellman would shut up, but old Tellman then smiled at Les, patting his shoulder, stroking the side of his sweaty face. Les felt a bit hot; he thought about removing his clothing. Tellman lit another cheroot and smiled again and said,

 “Those kids make me smile with their silk stockings and ghettoized mentalities -- us Brits just can’t compete; they’re so much bigger in more ways than one. I’ve known a few Big Mamas in my time, but phew-ee! I wished I’d kept in contact with my old lady. Just a shame that I ended up getting stranded in an experimental tyme-craft in the Bermuda Triangle; these little things always get in the way of real life. The mission was never that important; we’re all dead and alive anyway. Sometimes we don’t even know it! I don't think I ever left my tyme-craft! I'm in a time-flux, aren’t I?" 

 Les did not know what to say. I hated it when Tommy ranted; I ended up getting absorbed into the wallpaper. Les sipped at his gimlet. Tommy Tellman decided to add some Dinosaur teething powder and sweetener to his pint of bitter. Les thought it strange to add yet more chemicals to his already foul tincture. Old Tellman just winked at him.

…Les thought he was getting picked up, but he had forgotten to wash down below; some days he didn't feel like it. He called it going continental. He liked smegma; his old band had been called SmegmaSonix. Oh yes, Les had always liked That Track……

Tommy Tellman started to cry. Les had mis-read the signals; Tellman did not want to pick him up.

 "I miss my family, and the way the world used to be. I wish it could all go back to 1947. I don't like 2014. It's not right. There's not much to look forward too, is there?"

 Les thought Tommy was being a bit melodramatic for someone who's meant to be involved in dealing with these problems. Wasn’t he immortal anyway?

 "Les, may I tell you something?" Tommy mumbled. He had placed his hand on Les’s thin leg.

 "Yes, of course, Tommy, please do!" Les had become erect; he did not know why. He had never been picked up by an older man before.

"Thank you, Les. You are easy to talk to for some kind of old-fashioned mincer. I thought you might hate me."

  "Strange, why would you think I would hate you, Tommy?"

 Les then realized that Tommy had called him a mincer. He decided to let it go. 

 Tommy then spoke slowly:

"Les, listen, I have an important relic in my briefcase from Frinton-on-sea. I want you to look at it and examine it all if that's all right?"

"Sure, I'll do that."

 Tommy handed Les his briefcase. It was something straight out of Doctor Doolittle. It was a strange case. Les thought it felt heavy. As Les opened it, the foul smell of decayed flesh came back to haunt him once again. He looked at the decapitated head. The eyes slowly opened, full of maggots; the mouth struggling to contort some kind of expression; the foul abomination fixed a wry smile at Les. Les thought he was going to be sick.

 Then everything went black for Les.

 Tommy had an idea Les would faint. Les was squeamish. He was just a camptown lady! Tommy finished his bitter and ordered another swift half. Von RapArd was behind the bar; he always knew what Tellman liked. It was a weird bond. He had an idea Von RapArd would end up cleaning up here. His bald head was showing and his awful toupees were falling off still. Les came around, feeling groggy; Les did not like these oddball agents; Von RapArd had a lot of hidden agendas that Les had predicted in 1999...Von RapArd drifted closer to them; the smell of musty vampirism wafted around Les, making him retch. The smell of detritus always followed this renegade barber-surgeon and part-time scientist-journalist. Oh, and sometime bar tender, of course. I don’t know how he fitted it all in. Von RapArd casually glanced at Les, pretending not to notice his pre-pubescent physique.

"I take it he doesn't like his head at breakfast," quipped Von RapArd.

 Tommy shook his head, sniggering like a school-kid.

 "I need a gig Von RapArd! You know I have to carry this curse since my days in Bermuda."

 "You'll never get the non-job back, Tommy. The magazine folded in 1947. Didn't you know that? No-one buys literature no more, especially not of the esoteric kind. It's a hard sell. I used to know Vincent? Remember that nut?"

Tommy Tellman cried again. His tears were made of pure quicksilver. I do not think Life-Coach Gurus are supposed to cry but Tellman could not hold it in. He needed another drink…

Von RapArd decided to leave Tellman to cry it out. He never charged Tellman. The guy had died millions of times for him, just for guiding him to lost dimensional world-realms; that was one debt that would never be repaid.

 That was what made Les look at the gigantic Mirror-TV screen. He felt a need to take the odd head with him. Tommy Tellman was too busy crying to notice Les walking into the TV with this mysterious severed head. Poor Les ended up walking through to the other side. That has to be what I call truly interactive…

 Chapter 66 Khemo-Trunk…Norky had saved them all on Orientis47xx0. All that remained was a husk of a planet that had been stripped of most of its natural resources by corpo-beasts. He wished Zip, his office assistant, was there. She would have a counter-counter-strategy to replenish this planet. Tyme-Pyres were everywhere. Sucking the life out of all realms without even thinking about the worlds they might alter for eternity.

 However, the handy thing with Orientis exo-realm-space was that it was on the Northern line. Zip was lost to him forever; she had been his only astral link back to 1973. It was not an ideal year, but he wanted to catch Gong again. He loved Pot-Head Pixies. Poor Norky must have crystallized the first time he saw them, so he felt he should catch them again.

 And, of course, everything had been frozen in time so there was never any rush. Humans do not always get time, pondered Norky. And Norky did not want to fly there in a Uranian teapot this time, though. He would have too many drones after him. It was a different life-ride thankfully; Norky was getting into U.V. paint again and there were not many zoophytes getting into U.V. paint.

 He looked at Tnuk Nam. He had been consumed by vile dust-aliens. They controlled the vile planet stripping corpo-beasts. These corpo-beasts went from planet to planet, realm to realm, causing havoc in their wake. Norky was sure the realms just needed some good shit to tide them over…

 Tnuk Nam blubbed something in a Yiddish-Venusian patois; it was not easy to translate. The strange death of the voodoo phony had a weird effect on Norky. He actually liked the money-grabbing chancer; he found him funny. He had trained maharishis in a previous existence after all.

 Tnuk Nam had taught Tommy Tellman everything about Life Coaching and now Tellman was a Life-Coach Guru. He had even encouraged Tellman’s failed side career as a pulp writer of strange esoteric writings; he had known all along that he was never officially told. Tellman was a total failure in his eyes. That was the whole point. And he was destined to be that eternal magnificent failure... 

 The present/the past/the future/the great whatever...Les woke up in his bedsit. He felt relieved. He had dreamed it all. He picked up his notations on the Scottish Brotherhood and threw them down the waste disposal to be ethically recycled. He decided to leave his strange pursuits alone..Les could not even remember how he got interested in them. He smiled, tears of excrement dribbled into his mouth…

 Sub-Section 8) The Swift Silence[r]

 "A thousand small useless details - the charming prodigality of the pharmacist -..." [Some minor observation from the isolated agent called Proust...]

 Chapter 4: The Foo-Fu Juice Bars around Zeta Reticula

 The tyme-craft crashed on a new juice bar owned by Papus. Why buy a giant asteroid in Zeta Reticula? Or was it Reticula…The home of Dracula…It was populated by strange cybernetic maggot people… They were massive and harmless but had powers to make humans use them as sexual tools. Their excrement was addictive. Papus was only farming them to take back to Earth as a strange delicacy.

 This procedure needed to be exact, though it was not totally scientific. The infinity lark had finally vanished; nobody worried about such small follies like death anymore. Papus smirked. He needed some help here. This was something the C.O.G. might be able to take advantage of. The new cross-astral link to the other eight hundred or so earth-like exo-planets had not been in vain; Papus was hoping his asteroid would land on H0403079.

The last few digits were Papus’ pzi-phone number - his private mental-line. Papus called it a P-Line. This set up seemed a bit too convenient. Why had he swapped human decadent corruption for unknown alien juices? Unless he was addicted too, thought Les Barloy. Les was still in Islington, listening to Vangelis and watching all of David Lean’s films. He could not be bothered to use his body to time-slide...

Papus knew all this but had lost sight of his muse, Elaine Pettifer. He had turned Elaine into a witch named Shi T. She was not too good at being a witch –