The Illuminatus! Trilogy

"Damn, blast and thunder!" I said, looking at Mano-lete turning his veronica and Concepcion lying there with her poor throat cut. "Now that absolutely does tear it."

I decided not to toddle over to the Starry Wisdom Church this tune around. There is a limit, after all.

Instead, I went out into Tequila y Mota Street and approached the church but kept my distance, trying to figure where BUGGER kept the Time Machine.

While I was reflecting on that, I heard the first pistol shot.

Then a volley.

The next thing I knew the whole population of Fernando Poo- Cubans descended from the prisoners shipped there when it was a penal colony in the 19th century, Spaniards from colonial days, blacks, wogs, and whatnot- were on Tequila y Mota street using up all the munitions they owned. It was the countercoup, of course- the Captain Puta crowd who unseated Tequila y Mota and prevented the nuclear war- but I didn't know that at the time, so I dashed into the nearest doorway and tried to duck the flying bullets, which were coming, mind you, as thick as the darling buds in May. It was hairy. And one Spanish bloke- gay as a tree full of parrots from his trot and his carriage, goes by waving an old cutlass out of a book and shouting, "Better to die on our feet than to live on our knees!"- headed straightway into a group of Regular Army who had finally turned out to try to stop this business. He waded right into them, cutting heads like a pirate, until they shot him as full of holes as Auntie's drawers. That's your Spaniards: even the queers have balls.

Well, this wasn't my show, so I backed up, opened the door and stepped into the building. I just had a moment to recognize which building I had picked, when Saint Toad gave me his bilious eye and said, "You again!"

The trip was less interesting this time (I had seen it before, after all) and I had time to think a bit and realize that old frog-face wasn't using a Time Machine or any mechanical device at all. Then I was in front of a pyramid- they missed that stop last time- and I waited to arrive back in the Hotel Durrutti. To my surprise, when there was a final jerk in the dimensions or whatever they were, I found myself someplace else.

00005, in fact, was in an enormous marbled room deliberately designed to impress the bejesus out of any and all visitors. Pillars reached up to cyclopean heights, supporting a ceiling too high and murky to be visible, and every wall, of which there seemed to be five, was the same impenetrable ivory-grained marble. The eyes instinctively sought the gigantic throne, in the shape of an apple with a seat carved out of it, and made of a flawless gold which gleamed the more brightly in the dim lighting; and the old man who sat on the throne, his white beard reaching almost to the lap of his much whiter robe, commanded attention when he spoke: "If I may be trite," he said in a resonant voice, "you are welcome, my son."

This still wasn't High Church, but it was a definite improvement over the digs where Saint Toad and his loathsome objets d'art festered. Still, 00005's British common sense was disturbed. "I say," he ventured, "you're not some sort of mystic, are you? I must tell you that I don't intend to convert to anything heathen."

"Conversion, as you understand it," the aged figure told him placidly, "consists of pounding one's own words into a man's ears until they start coming out of his mouth. Nothing is of less interest to me. You need have no fear on that ground."

"I see." 00005 pondered. "This wouldn't be Shangri-La or some such place, would it?"

"This is Dallas, Texas, my son." The old man's eyes bore a slight twinkle although his demeanor otherwise remained grave. "We are below the sewers of Dealy Plaza, and I am the Dealy Lama."

00005 shook his head. "I don't mind having my leg pulled," he began.

"I am the Dealy Lama," the old man repeated, "and this is the headquarters of the Erisian Liberation Front."

"A joke's a joke," Chips said, "but how did you manage that frog-faced creature back in the Starry Wisdom Church?"

"Tsathoggua? He is not managed by us. We saved you from him, in fact Twice."

"Tsathoggua?" Chips repeated. "I thought the swine's name was Saint Toad."

"To be sure, that is one of his names. When he first appeared, in Hyperborea, he was known as Tsathoggua, and that is how he is recorded in the Pnakotic Manuscripts, the Necronomicon and other classics. The Atlantean high priests, Klarkash Ton and Lhuv Kerapht, wrote the best descriptions of him, but their works have not survived, except in our own archives."

"You do put on a good front," 00005 said sincerely. "I suppose, fairly soon, you'll get around to telling me that I have been brought here due to some karma or other?" He was actually wishing there were some place to sit down. No doubt, it added to the Lama's dignity to sit while Chips had to stand, but it had been a hard night already and his feet hurt.

"Yes, I have many revelations for you," the old man said.