Daftwager Twitter 48: Deep in the Dungeons of Planet xXx!

Day 48:

07:00; … attending quark lecture … suddenly lecturer is undressed … its Open! … express lust in a physical fashion, the current style … as sub-atomic physicists watch … her orgasm-cry becomes … a whistle?
07:10; Waking to train whistles disorients a mere moment; then I recall: I approach Nantes in urgency. Had I been called on to declare my purpose, I would have called it … headhunting. But I wasn’t. Shame.
07:20; At station is a 10 ft tall man in indentured-servant duds, whose placard bears the writ: ‘Lord Fitzwilly Daftwager Doctor Von Quatloo the Third, Esquire’. Full marks for accuracy, but its a very big sign.
07:30; Not man but mannequin; demon-haunted, bound by Enochian scripts along his mostly-masked ink-black body. Imparts a note, relating to various illicit activities of mine over the past few days. I follow.
07:40; Vulgar ‘stretched limousine’ ‘he’ drives is also other than as immediately appears. Probably of true car stock at some point but one accident & it no doubt developed a demonic blood lust for road rage.
07:50; Read about it in a brief, but eidetic-enhanced, perusal of SIMBAD at the BookPimp’s place. Its why all bad second-hand cars had a former owner in a member of the clergy for whom it drove perfect.
08:00; Whenever a machine causes a death – be it ancient sword, antique gatling gun, or a rusted Ford Cortina – it takes on a dull, malevolent sentience equivalent to wolves, arsonists or all foreigners Abroad.
08:10; A crude application of Marshall Lore’s quantum math known as ‘magic’. Having been exposed to such alchemical algebra a lot recently, the chickenleg witch’s house we approach is less than menacing.
08:20; Not to be upstaged, I glide to the 20ft up doorstep under my own power, rather than have the house lowered in a blaze of condescension. A quick mind-read & I announce myself to – Madam Nation!
08:30; Brief read confirms: Madam Nation is not Doc Nation’s wife – but conceives of herself as such, as she is in the midst of conceiving his child. Witch/harlot, but she has tea before introductions; Manners!
08:40; Resembles a meth laboratory, set up in a Gingerbread House. Several dusty antiques, a great many plants kept in suspiciously strong cages & a stuffed alligator suspended from the ceiling. Tres gauche.
08:50; I guestimate Nation’s paranormal paramour to be 2 & a half decades old, 6 & a quarter months pregnant, that half of her wishes to kill him, half of her wishes to love him, and half, merely to marry him.
09:00; She introduces herself as Miss Mauvais, daughter of famed French mystic Madam Mauvais. Technically she still lives with her mother; mama resides in the decorative urn on the mantlepiece. Immature!
09:10; ‘Madam Nation’ hands me down her Madam Mauvais’ vase from its pride of place, no doubt to disconcert. I read ahead in her intentions, take the vase firmly, remove the lid & I shout greetings inside.
09:20; A voice emerges (thin, tinny & ringing with the ‘ping’ noise one gets when one flicks one’s fingernail off of a Ming vase) apparently disembodied, & apparently Madam Mauvais’ voice. She’s a little deaf.
09:30; It is a soul jar: emblazoned with runes of quantum consequence, a soul jar of glass or clay made will hold the physical & spiritual remains of person post-mortem. Know them? I’ve been taught by them!
09:40; Souls bottled without physical remains; hard & less effective. Still, spirits cease to suffer tearing asunder for their memory & skill. Academics will will, rather than sell, a soul to a school. Ultimate tenure!
09:50; In many ways the scarecrow (waldo, fictive, reverse voo-doo doll) driving Ms Mauvais’ limo & the soul jar I hold are opposites: scarecrow is mindless, but a body; soul jar is disembodied, but a mind.
10:00; I consider the vase in my hands, briefly before returning it. I wondered why Dr. Nation’s zombies were unable to cross Whitby’s wards. Eldritch confessed to an element of science in magic. A reverse?
10:10; Nation despises magic, doesn’t believe in it. I also despise magic, also don’t believe in it – as something I would use myself. I know magic is, stupidly, real. Nation didn’t, before Whitby. Why Mauvais?
10:20; Ms. Mauvais has recounted to me her initial affair with Medicin Nation (a gigglepuss’ study in lovesickness): now business! Asking after the exact means by which her mother still spoke post mortem …
10:30; … belladonna … thyme … wheatgrass … she gave him the ‘magic potion’ her mother’s remains were treated with to stave off ‘soul senility’. Explains the, relatively, high intelligence of UNDEAD zombies.
10:40; Whitby’s undead are high-quality, body & mind machines, made with Egyptian craftsmanship. Nation’s UNDEAD, mass produced, should have been duller than their army originals, if possible; Not so.
10:50; I had wondered why a preliminary breakdown of the great UNDEAD formula yielded ingredients lists like ‘strawberries’, ‘cajun chicken spices’ and ‘love’. It made the zombie Nation seem odd. Odder!
11:00; She was in Languedoc at the time, her usual residence. Left not too long after his Bookpimp theft, one would expect. Losing the formula must have angered her to no end – wait, he stole yet more? Ha!
11:10; Alongside his Bookpimp theft, Nation engaged in relations with, & secured items of magical note from her, or rather her coven. Nation, not believing in magic but very much in power, stole these items.
11:20; Oh dear, oh dear, Doctor Ingot Nation: a believer that there is no ‘we’ in ‘unwed’. This young lady managed to track him, for her own evil purposes by her own mystical means, & lost him after Whitby.
11:30; She sent tempest unto him in Whitby (slander, that was MY flood!) and beleagred his watercraft afterwards, with storm and gale, but miscalculated in summoning a whale (libel, that was God’s whale!).
11:40; Do not really believe in God either, but as someone I see as very-almost a peer of mine – when he applies himself – I won’t have this witch take credit for his admittedly-unimaginative-but-earnest work.
11:50; Interestingly, her crystal balls failed in glimpsing Nation’s current locale. Doing a reverse of my actions in Horologue’s yesterday, she tracked back to Whitby, searching for the greatest combatant; Me!!
12:00; Observed me in Paris – when I disappeared, briefly, in Orleans, she beat me to Nantes, for fear of losing my mighty aid. Quite the little slattern in her buttering, & in a moment I shall make her lick it off.
12:10; She has tried to read my mind & I allowed her; or, rather, I projected what she wanted me to think directly into her brain: she mistook for her own powers. When the topic came to Nation’s locale; off.
12:20; ‘Saw’ my flying, but I fear her list of misdemeanours omitted my mind reading; crystal balls are not for real men of science, who now also appear to be immune to magic telepathy. Now she casts spells!
12:30; Fireball, Magic Arrow, Rain of Acid, A Major Summoning, Carnivore Butterfly Cloud; my Hungarian is simply functional, but that seems to be what she is saying. Seems, because nothing is happening.
12:40; Disappointing; another of Rowling’s many, demented children. Or … possibly … set my mental state reader to project back her earlier mind state … secondary precaution against ‘magic’ mind reading …
12:50; Mad Dame Nation’s ‘dervish dancing’ allows surrepticious inspection of my appartus & confirmation of my hypothesis; spell casting is part mental. Given her increased frenzy in frustration, very ‘mental’.
13:00; Ms. Mauvais is considerably discomposed. She realises: she has inverted her favoured relationship between us; I am weaker far away, where I am oblivious to her observation, where she is omniscient.
13:10; She was confident in calling yours truly to her travelling yurt; believed she had sufficient short game, her mind reading, to seize Nation’s location. She is the 3rd evilest currently-pregnant woman I know.
13:20; She should be proud of that; seems to be deflated. Not particularly pretty – would be called ‘vivacious’ if she pressed her someone to tell her, because no one tells a witch she is ‘square-jaw handsome’.
13:30; I project into Madam Nation’s mind that I am looking at her sternly over the tops of reading glasses I am not actually wearing, then depart. She has the good grace to have me driven back, into Nantes.
13:40; I reflect, on the half-hour return to the train station. That was divertingly idiotic. Yet, even a few weeks ago, before my attainment of mind BORE in Paris, the encounter would have entirely undone me.
13:50; My powers base has increased admirably, but more importantly; they are … streamlined. Subtle. Multipurpose. Precision. They are extensions of my cultivated character, rather than … garish fripperies.
14:00; I don’t shoot lasers from my eyes or transform into a monster-man. I’m an English aristocrat, dammit, & the ability to read minds, influence them, become invisible to them, … it befits my dignified idiom.
14:10; Flight assures observers that if I am fashionably late, it isn’t traffic that slows me, but the lacklustre quality of their company that fails to draw me. In point of fact- I’m here; the driver hands me … paper?
14:20; Informed in writ, Ms Mauvais tells me that she will, at midnight, release the spirit of a murderer from its soul jar & set it to take from my mind, by force, that which I would not reveal to her, in intimacy.
14:30; She suspects my means of blocking her spells requires proximity to the caster; when I am at long range again, she will be able to destroy me. I have – now – nine and a half hours to tell of Nation’s ‘loci’.
14:40; If I do not, this spirit will possess me, rifling through my mind, like a chubby transvestite through his wife’s ‘fat’ clothes, for Nation’s information, then taking permanent possession of my body as reward.
14:50; Feel like cursing back at her, but not my idiom. Panache always in face of apparent defeat. Write prescription of certain prenatal vitamins; her dance lagged in places, she needs to maintain muscle tone.
15:00; Will be possessed by an unstoppable spiritual entity, not subject to BORE because it has no physical brain, in approximately nine hours! Only one course of action!! Become Fratboy-level inebriated!!!
16:00; If I’m to die, it will be in a place of appropriate ambience. Thankfully Nantes has a franchise of Club Dungeon Planet X; it hosts an apocalypse party every night and if I ever died, the world would end.
16:10; Heard it called a mix between a Comicon pre-panel Neil Gaiman signing & RenFair post-punch-up Lucy Lawless orgy. Don’t know what those words mean or who those people are so I say: possibly.
16:20; My personal frame of reference compares it to parties thrown by the Eastern Orthodox Church College of Bishops, where I have snorted snuff out of the narrow navel of Belorussian belly-dancer or …
16:30; … a dramatic reading of Salman Rushdie’s ‘The Satanic Verses’ at La Pantalon Rouge where, in an audience marinated on vodka & language, 4 spontaneous & independant fires started simultaneously.
16:40; The club was founded when a bookstore owner & kink-club promoter coincidentally conceived of the distinctive ‘Club Dungeon Planet X’ moniker for new ventures in their respective lines of business.
16:50; Apparently, as the copyright case dragged on, the 2 encountered, engaged & enraptured each other, opening their 1st joint venue within 6 months of their marriage: venture capital from The BookPimp.
17:00; I am achieving a light libation buzz at the moment in Club Dungeon Planet X, a tastefully attired bookshop with delicious first-editions, large leather armchairs & alcohol sold in moneybox-slit wineflutes.
17:10; It is a club – had to sign in. Can’t risk anyone spilling drinks on the books when quaffing along with Chaucer. Signing in also allowed seeing the memberlist & the name of a woman I really want to meet.
17:20; Over the speakers plays, lightly, one of my favourite ButcherShop Quartet songs, ‘Organ Grinder’, from their early ‘Butcher in a China Shop’ album. *sigh* Rending flesh to accapella barbershop beats.
17:30; All in all, a dream bookshop, in the way BookPimp’s is an immaculate lending library. Also, similar to BP’s, CDPX shuts at 6pm sharp, … when CDPxXx, the basement club below, opens for the night.
17:40; Downstairs: like the patrons, the books here have clear-latex laminated pages, leatherbound covers, are chained to the walls & are free to touch. Quiet little booths for reading, as well as other things …
17:50; CDPxXx Paris would be a perfect refuge from Projectionist Protector nonsense but, in true CDPxXx fashion, the club is being rebuilt after a Standing Stones tour stop! Classic! Here comes the crowd:
18:00; Mohawked malcontent mods couch-lounge, cupping cappuccinos in one hand & holding slim-volume Shakespeare aloft in the other. More than one uses a ruff as a post-pugilist impromptu neckbrace.
18:10; Pierced, fair-haired high hippies perform a live full-back tatt of the Battle of Ypres (framed with Angel Army of Mons). Attendants play, unplugged, the later Beatles beats on expensive acoustic guitars.
18:20; A bespectacled, bowler-hatted, suit-&-tie accountant reads “Cats & the Law”, & holds a leash leading to the steel-spiked rubber collar of a model in skin-tight PVC catsuit, licking cream from a bowl.
18:30; Hard-rock local lead singer, whispers sweet nothings into the ear of a lass attired in reinvented Queen Victoria regalia; fibreglass bustle, underwired decollétage, lace-embroidered crimson latex bodice.
18:40; A pair of elderly nuns, in full habit and steel-toed Doc Martins, quickly sip chilled Jagermeister and chat amicably about Emily Dickinson with a brace of cheerleaders bearing sweet smiles and evil eyes.
18:50; 2 old gents in WW1 gun-grenade-gas-mask trench uniform of opposing sides, hold hands with bling-blessed young gangstars in Sir Philip Sidney’s court dress: black velvet, silver-filigree, big codpiece.
19:00; As Club Dungeon Planet xXx fills for evening & I observe its odd clientele, for the 1st time in some time, I relax; here I’m normal. Here, I could burst into flame and it would be nonchalant lateral move.
19:10; Given that much of time is spent in making some degree of threat to everyone I meet, it is nice to be able to put aside the hat & cane occassionally. Not in a literal sense, you understand; I’m still cursed.
19:20; Yes, I could give the witch Nation’s island abode, for the little good it would do her, & would have if she had the sense to bribe high, right off the bat. As it stands I cannot negotiate with a terror-witch.
19:30; Dignity, you understa- GREAT ODIN’S RAVENS! Are those men in red-and-white striped shirts & blood-splattered aprons, mounting the stage? It can’t be- IT IS!! It is The ButcherShop Quartet!!!
19:40; Bundy; alto, lead singer & chief taxidermist of the band! Manson; soprano, player of spoons & band’s lead animal breeder! Sam’son; mezzo-soprano, washboard-strummer & keeper of band’s knives!
19:50; Reverend J. Jones; baritone, harmonica & sayer of grace! Gacy; alto, bongoes & maker of balloon animals from animal intestines! Dahmer; alto, xylophone & cook! Gein; baritone, concertina & tailor!
20:00; Still, I retain panache. Stolid- BY THE HAMMER OF THOR! Another 6 men breach the stage in assorted animal costumes?! Tonight The ButcherShop Quartet sing with The Petshop Butcherboys!!!
20:10; Jacks Ripper & Springheel; playing lead & bass guitar – wearing crocodile & tiger costumes respectively. Heigh on cello, dressed as a spider. Christie on drums, garbed in long-nosed anteater disguise.
20:20; De Salvo dressed as a mighty termite, playing an acid-etched saxophone. Lead vocals by Wests Rose and Fred, dressed as matching cockatoos in red and green; Rose an ‘honourary’ boy Butcherboy.
20:30; Yes, it is a six-man quartet. They need the spares. A crossover concert! Shall tell my grandchildren of this – while not revealing any weaknesses that they could later use via time-travel to kill me! Brats!
20:40; Petshop Butcherboys: ”Blood Lust” remix of ‘Evil Petting Zoo’ album. ”Frankin-sense” ballad of ‘Looking Butch’ album. ‘Snuff the Magic Dragon’: they played live, with dead animals, in front of PETA.
20:50; Butchershop Quartet: ”WalkIn’ Freezer” of ‘Have a Butchers’ LP. ”Skokie Illinois, Sosé” from ‘Kaiser’ CD. ‘Butch Rhapsody’ they played, with Butch Cassidy’s corpse, at The Sundance Film Festival.
21:00; Various commerial covers follow: Little Petshop of Horrors, Demon Butcher of Fleet Street, etc. At the bar: woman orders a man’s hat, filled with perfume and a plum set floating in the centre. Gotcha!
21:10; I sit on a stool beside her, tap her right thigh and tell her this now called ”The”. Tap her left thigh and tell her this is now called ”Word”. Then, I tell her we should get personal, and spread ”The Word”.
21:20; She considers evisceration, then I lean in quite close, hand on each thigh, & tell ‘her’ that if she doesn’t retreat to the privacy of a booth with me, I will tell everyone what ‘used’ to be between those legs.
21:30; She stares, then draws back, laughs & tells me that she likes her eggs ‘poached-but-unfertilized’ in the morning. I gentlemanly lead her by the hand, to somewhere secluded. ‘Her’ pulse is … accelerated.
21:40; Once hidden, she stops simpering courtesan act; greets me by name. I use ‘her’ true name. Long since The Agnate Gentleman’s Club, London – I meet once again & for the first time – The Cortex Cad!
21:50; This is why ‘last known location’ of the Cortex Cad, pilfered from the French police, is of dubious use. Cad’s last location was a man: who now cannot recall as to why he stole the money or where it is.
22:00; Cad body-jumps. Originally, a form astral projection, returning to his own body after he’d had his fun. Then, an heir presumptive to his title killed him while he slept; a ‘nice place to visit’ became ‘home’.
22:10; The Cad now leaps from body to body, a few months at a time, becoming less focused. Other genders, other races, other ages – experimenting endlessly to pass the time, he is beginning to come apart.
22:20; CC has seen superhuman & subhuman, alien & elf, animal & vegetable. Like a microcosm of his decadent ancestry, he has done everything & everything has happened to him, for a given value of ‘him’.
22:30; Early in his out-of-body experience, The Cad seemed like he was trying on suit after suit. Now it seems that all that remains is a suit – details; his favourite club franchise & drink – with body after body.
22:40; Completely unstoppable, untraceable, he has degraded into a prankster. Unfindable – except if one has a time-viewer which allows one scroll back to the last recorded prank & track him back to now.
22:50; I traced him through all the intervening bodies between a banker in Nice facing imbezzlement charges to a lingerie model in Nantes, who looks over the table with a growing memory of who I really am.
23:00; I allow The Cad to ‘catch up’. How I have gained strange & terrible powers recently, having wonderful intellectual & carnal congress, am meeting so many interesting & homicidal new people, & so on.
23:10; Ordering a bottle of fine wine – from a waitress in so much antique lace & silk (dyed acid green, like her hair & contacts) she resembled a nuking of the entire Victorian era – I ask CC what ‘she’ wants.
23:20; Wine – brought by a waitress dressed in so many frills the effect was a cross of a can-can girl & a demolition-derby’s mardi-gras float – is poured & CC says: you tracked ‘me’ down, ‘Lord’ Daftwager.
23:30; I explain that I have my own interest, but what does The Cortex Cad want? Acting out as he is, having gone through all the combinations he can. President, Satan, Odin; who does he really want to be?
23:40; Villainy 101; What do you really want? Not what can you do, not what you might have to do to get it, not even why you want it. What do you want, deep down inside, in the place we don’t talk about.
23:50; So many fail this piece of self-examination, that they endlessly try to destroy, or save the world, strive for inarticulate emotions, that 10 mins with a durable, mindless clone of their mother could achieve.
00:00; As the spindly model fingers clutch my head, I drink to dull the pain. The Cortex Cad leans in real close, tells me that, deep down inside, where he is still him, he wants to be me. But of course he does!

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