The Search for the Search

originally posted and authored by Pope Logos the Ith

Conventional Chaos Cabal – KopyLeft 2001

The Search for the Reason

Hello. I am John Deer Doe and this is the chronicle of the search of the reason that I may have found, but I’m still unsure of. Perhaps I should start at the beginning. It all started when I ducked under the stoop of an apartment. A perfectly natural apartment. An unnaturally natural apartment.

I stood there looking blankly at the sign saying ‘Vacancy’. Could it be that my methodical search of New York City apartments was for nothing? What luck that I just randomly walk into a place with a vacancy! I noticed that on the bottom of the sign it said to go away. I thought about it for all of three seconds and then went in to see the landlord.

I stood blinking in disbelief as the landlord drearily showed me this apartment. It was slightly on the small side but very cozy, with views to the south and west of small parks. Even better than that was that the rent was stupidly low. What a surprise for my soon-to-be wife: a soon-to-be home. My fiancé is one of those few special people who are perfect and have the decency to deny it. She has that perfect blend of wit, personality, and brains that wins over friends and gets her jobs with the government. We met in the college that we finished roughly two weeks ago with all the bravado and alcohol possible. Good-bye Frat-house, hello Suburbia. It pleased me to no end to be able to find a delightful apartment to surprise her with.

Driving into the government labs where she worked, I parked my car and went inside. Entering the room they had specially set aside for waiting fiancés, I looked up at the clock and picked up a newspaper. It was close to an hour and three days of sport sections until she came out, apologizing about being late and obviously excited about something.

“The most intriguing bit of research…” she said, catching my curiosity enough to ask what she was working on. She noticeably paled and said, “It’s classified.” She told me that she had today and tomorrow off, so we could see the new apartment and celebrate.

Arriving home quickly due to the lack of rush hour traffic, I settled in on the couch that came with the place while my wife went into the bathroom. This was the last time I saw her alive.

I went in to ask her when we should start packing to move in, and if we should bother to bring in what furniture we had as it was crappy compared to the stuff that came with the place. She wasn’t there. After searching the building and the garage, I returned to search the apartment again.

After an hour and six and one tenth minutes of unsuccessful searching I called her mother to see if she had somehow slipped out and took a bus up to her mother’s home.

Sherene, her mother, answered. When I asked if my fiancé was there, she told me she didn’t have a daughter and told me to go do something that I’m still not sure is humanly possible.

Angry at being told off by her mother, and worried about her, I called the police to file a missing persons report, only to be told that the work could not be done unless the missing person called in to report it themselves. I spent a futile half an hour trying to explain that the person was missing, and that I couldn’t contact her to get her to call. This also ended in a suggestion for me to do the humanly impossible.

I promptly got out a small notepad and wrote down those two things to keep track of the ever-growing and all-consuming list of things I’m not sure are humanly possible. After this I went to bed, it being a late hour.

I woke up to the sounds of a small kid on a bicycle peddling down the hall hurling papers at people and doors with all the force he could muster. I then remembered about my wife and skipped breakfast. I ran out the door, only to trip over the paper and land flat on my face.

My new neighbor across the hall helped me to my feet and seemed surprised when I asked if this was a regular occurrence. “Of course it is, except the part about you falling on your face. Then again, this is your first day here so after this it may be a regular occurrence as well. How else would we get our paper?” He was clearly astonished over my stupidity.

On my way to the labs I was pulled over by a police officer who, after looking at my driver’s license for all of two seconds, said “Have a pleasant day,” and left. After he left, I noticed that it said my birthday is on February 30th which it isn’t, or at least wasn’t. I sat there for a moment looking at my other cards which all said my birthday was February 30th. It wasn’t a prank, as I noticed they were the exact same cards, even down to the microwave burn on my Trash Skeet Shooting membership card.

Continuing my way to where my wife works I listened to the radio, which wasn’t bad considering I don’t like traditional Chinese hymns. Nevertheless, what can you complain about?

After reaching the lot where the labs used to be, I found an immense wire fence with armed guards instead. I noticed the large warehouse where the labs used to be with a large Canadian Mafia logo, which was a combination of an igloo and cement shoes. I also noticed that the guards wore flannel jackets, toques, and carried Tommy guns, realized that they probably really were the Canadian Mafia, and wisely drove on.

Very confused and frustrated, I went to a police station that had a very small and legal looking note pinned on the door saying:

 

The police department has been disbanded in favour of a recently passed law prohibiting the breaking of the law, and therefore, breaking of the law shall not be done. – The Management

I also noticed that there were very faintly embossed letters in a square saying “Do not lick here.” After a moment of fearful indecision I licked the door only to find that the door was in fact beef-flavoured. On my way back to the car a sudden stroke of Genius struck me with a strong smack of “Might-just-be-crazy-enough-to-work-if-you-add-enough-hyphens.”

I quickly raced home and turned the television to World-Quest which was then vehemently requesting that whoever stole Brother Magoun’s pornography please return it. I watched for a half hour and then raced to my car, only to end up stuck in 2:30 P.M. traffic which, as is well known, a killer.

After a very slow and hungry hour of wondering if double-decker buses are beef-flavoured, I finally returned to the Canadian Mafia Headquarters in New York.

Basking in the brilliance of my idea, I rolled down my window and said carefully, “Excuse me, I’m here to return Brother Magoun’s pornography, please, eh.”

After a nerve-wreaking moment of staring down those beady Canadian eyes they yelled at me, “Sorry for the inconvenience, go right on through, thank you!”

Successfully inside, I parked my car and went up to what used to be the main building. I stepped inside and went to the antique elevator with a small sign saying ‘Broken’. As I turned to go for the stairs, the elevator doors opened and there stood a Buddhist monk in red and yellow silk robes. He was seemingly unconcerned over the fact that there was no elevator and that he had in fact no visible means of support.

After stepping onto the floor and noticing my gaping mouth he sagaciously said, “Broken elevators do not stop broken Bodhisattvas.” I greeted this apparent wisdom, as I did him, with mouth hanging open and silence for a few more moments.

“You said you had my pornography,” he said gravely.

I again greeted this with characteristic silence and many blank, dull, uncomprehending looks and then by trying to play castanet music with my eyelids. I took out my list of things humanly impossible. I scratched one off, put the pad back, and continued my dumb stare.

The monk spoke loudly, “All things will be answered right after I get my pornography.” This wise koan snapped me out of my trance, and I was enlightened.

I spoke loudly, saying, “You’re Brother Magoun?!”

“Yes and you have my pornography,” he replied.

“No, I don’t,” I said weakly.

“I strongly suspect you do,” he said, nodding his head and holding out his hand.

“No, I don’t,” I again replied weakly.

“Then why did you say you did?” he asked.

“I lied.”

“Ah, a great wisdom.”

After a pause he leaned forward and asked, “Are you looking for something?”

“Yes,” I said and after a few moments, “My fiancé.”

“When did your fiancé go missing?”

“Yesterday around six,” I replied, confused.

Then Brother Magoun said, “Hmm.”

Nervously, I asked him if he’d like to be left alone to which he replied, “No.” After a great pause, he said, “I greatly fear that the disappearance of your fiancé and my pornography are connected.”

I rejected that strongly, saying, “That’s impossible… they’re not connected.”

Then Brother Magoun, with the air of a Buddha said, “The world can tell a snake from a dragon but you cannot fool an Ex-Buddhist monk.” Brother Magoun paused. “Enough of that, though,” he said and removed his robes to reveal a Hawaiian shirt with a dragon print with faux real imitation genuine coconut shell buttons flowing gracefully into surfer shorts. “I’m officially an Ex-Bodhisattva and a Zen Grand Master.”

Again I greeted him with neither words nor silence, but one of the variety of odd sounds you make when no thought at all is happening.

Brother Magoun then said, “Come with me,” and stepped into midair in the elevator platform. After looking for a moment, I decided he was going to teach me levitation so I closed my eyes and stepped forward.

I promptly fell with the gravitational acceleration of negative 9.80 m/s2 all of 30 feet and landed in piles of loosely gathered porno mags.

Brother Magoun floated down and said gravely that these magazines were not his pornography. After we got out, we walked the length of the building, past innumerable rooms. We came to the end of the building and the last room, so we opened the door and stepped in.

Inside was a foldable card table covered with magazines and stacks of official-looking papers. Brother Magoun quickly looked at the magazines and sadly set them aside saying, “These are not my pornography.”

I walked up to the table and picked up some of the loose papers. “This is Jane’s writing,” I said.

“Who’s Jane?”

“My fiancé.”

“You never said before.”

I started leafing through the papers. They were technical and theoretical information about a new weapon for the American government. It was Code-named “Project Pot Luck”. It was pretty much a Luck Bomb, only there seemed to be aggressive and wide-ranging side effects. ‘The Bad Luck Control Factor’, it was called. The weapon worked on the theory of Eristic Chaotic Escalation, whatever that is. It was trying to invert chance and to warp space and time.

Was this why my fiancé was missing? Brother Magoun and I were wondering about this when six strong-looking lumberjacks followed by six sly curlers walked in and surrounded us.

The leader spoke, “Excuse us, but we’ll have to ask you to leave the premises, thank you.”

Magoun yelled at them, “You’ll never kill me!”

One of the lumberjacks, in a Toronto Blue Jays toque, replied “Kill you? Who do you think we are, the Sopranos? We’re Canadian Mafia, you can’t stop us anyway.”

“We’ll go,” I said, “We’ll go.”

They led us up the stairs to the parking lot, and when we drove past the gate they yelled after us, “Thank you, and have a nice day!”

We returned to my new apartment which, although I hadn’t changed my address, still received mail. One was a paycheck from the lab that my wife worked at but doesn’t exist anymore. There was a package that said ‘Happy Birthday from Aunt Millie’, which was late and misdelivered, considering it was well past February 30th and I didn’t have an Aunt Millie. I opened it to find an ugly tie and sweater, which I trashed.

I welcomed Magoun into my place and told him to make himself at home while I got us something to drink to help us think. I checked the fridge and was surprised to find it stocked with Molson. Coming back into the living room, I saw Magoun had neglected the couch in favor of no visible means of support.

Handing him a beer, I settled on the couch and started thinking.

I… we, including Magoun… now have a reason. The “Luck Bomb”. Who knows, perhaps they had a Bad Luck Meltdown. I don’t know, but we will not give up until we find Jane and Magoun’s pornography. If you will excuse me now, the entry is complete and I got to go get Magoun a beer. He’s getting low. Literally.

The Reason For The Search

Hello, I am John Deer Doe, and this is the second entry in my diary. My wife is still missing and so is brother Magoun’s pornography. The last thing that I could remember when I woke up was that I drank too much. I guess I passed out. I figured this out after several hours of unconscious debate.

I woke up and noticed that Brother Magoun was gone. When I went to the fridge to get a Molson, I noticed that the number of beers in the fridge had not gone down but had rather increased. If this kept up its current rate, I would need another fridge in a few days. Fighting this evil trend by grabbing another beer, I noticed something on the fridge door.

It was a note, presumably from brother Magoun, as I cannot write traditional Chinese. After several minutes of intense deliberation I found that I could read traditional Chinese, providing I turned it ninety degrees to the right. Armed with this relevant bit of knowledge, I quickly discerned that Brother Magoun went to the beach. Just as I figured this out, there was a loud thud at the door. This was followed by the ringing of a bike bell and the sound of furious peddling.

I correctly guessed the paper came. Ignoring this, I finished getting ready. After finishing my beers I showered and left to find the beach. Upon stepping out of the door I inadvertently played footsies with the newspaper which, being a conservative paper, handily landed me on my face.

To my surprise a Viking helped me to my feet and said, “You really ought to be more careful.”

Thanking him to conceal my surprise, I walked down the hall. Before, I always thought the Viking was rather snobbish and wouldn’t help a quadriplegic in the middle of the interstate. On my way to the parking lot I read an aptly-named article on how a local DJ, Stella Back, had her equipment stolen and, late yesterday, returned in time for her show.

Wondering if the paper would face a lawsuit over the title, I got into my car and started looking for the beach. I drove for close to an hour futilely looking for the beach. After all this time I noticed the despairingly regular sign alongside the road which had said every mile for the last ten minutes, ‘The Beach – Turn Left’.

By the time I realized this, I had driven past the turn.

Not wanting to turn around, I kept driving thinking that there would probably be another turn-off ahead. Speeding up, I drove on and saw the next turn off too late and drove right past it. Seeing no place else to turn, I drove on thinking that for sure that there would be another turn-off.

After a few seconds I slowed and began taking an exit, only to see it led to Miami. Pulling a U-turn, I turned around just in time to see a cop furiously waving at me.

I pulled over to the side of the road with my head resting on my steering wheel, cursing myself over my stupidity. After five minutes I ran out of swear words and things on the list of things that I don’t think are humanly possible. I lifted my head and saw the road was empty.

I carefully drove on, expecting to be pulled over at any time and took the first right. I quickly reached the beach, which was empty, as usual. The blue water and white sand completely freaked out any native New Yorker so bad that they positively rejoiced to see grimy sidewalks and breathe rancid air.

I wondered what the zoning was to have a beach in the middle of New York as I started looking for Brother Magoun. I wandered around looking for signs of Magoun for a half an hour. I was still no closer to knowing the zoning for the area when I saw Brother Magoun surfing in a red lotus pattern shirt with imitation genuine faux pearl buttons, and a pair of red shorts that reached down to his knees.

He was apparently unhampered by his apparent lack of a surfboard. This is when I noticed a rather large lumberjack with a double-barreled shotgun.

At this time several things were going through my mind. First of all, where did you get a zoning permit for a beach in New York and how much did it cost? Secondly, that this lumberjack was going to shoot Magoun. Thirdly, that Brother Magoun had not noticed either of us yet.

This is when I did what was quite possibly the stupidest thing I have ever done in my life. I tackled a Canadian who was several sizes larger than me while he was hunting. What made this even more dangerous was the fact that I had no Hunter Orange on.

The shot rang out.

Then there was an echo from the ocean, so the shot rang out again.

It echoed off a building and promptly rang out a third time.

Finally, Brother Magoun noticed us and, wondering who was doing all the ringing, stopped surfing and started swimming for the shore. I was still tangled with the rather large Canadian while Magoun made for the shore. Although I caused the would-be assassin to miss his mark, I had no idea the shot would have such an effect on the passing seagulls.

Brother Magoun almost lost his life a second time when he just barely dodged several dead gulls dropping beak down into the ocean like fianchetto.

By this time the large Canadian had disentangled himself from me and had in fact re-entangled me in the process. He was about to repeat this procedure when Magoun made it to the beach and the Canadian promptly left.

Thanking him, I asked, “Who was that lumberjack?”

Magoun looked at the nametag I ripped off during our scuffle and said that he was Mr. Bunyan and was a member of the Canadian mafia. He then asked me where I received my yoga training.

“Nowhere,” I replied.

“Yes, I’ve heard of this place. It seems like a fine school,” he said.

I thanked him then for getting rid of that fellow. This is when Magoun asked if I would like to repay the favour.

Not wanting to seem ungrateful, I quickly said yes.

“Okay you take care of this batch of the mafia,” Magoun said, pointing to the far parking lot where three fellows had joined the large Canadian. It looked like they formed a majority of the clientele at Big, Tall, and Psychopath.

We did the perfectly acceptable thing and ran, or perhaps I should say I ran and Magoun flew. We saw the large Flamenco Dance Club up ahead. The bouncers at the door were Jamaican, but according to the sign it was owned by the French-speaking English of German ancestry.

We quickly ducked into the crowds and tried to fit in. However, the lack of a bare midriff and Spanish-style hats set us apart. The Canadian mafia would have no problem finding us, but for some reason they hadn’t entered yet. I started looking around nervously for another exit.

I was halfway through the crowd when the Canadian Mafia entered. Seeing me, they immediately started to make their way toward us.

This is when Old Hell broke Loose.

Old Hell was, of course, the codename for the Fellowship of Intergalactic Haitian Guerrillas For World Peace (F.I.H.G.F.W.P.) Task Force, which had just broken the French-Speaking English of German Ancestry Worldly Defense Line (F.S.E.G.A.W.D.L.) Code named ‘Loose’.

However, the real pickle, or perhaps the pickled hot pepper, was the fact that the Canadian Mafia was currently engaged in a gang war with both of these organizations. All of a sudden the dance club idea seemed a whole lot less like a good idea. There was a three-way gunfight. A man was beckoning me to come closer across the empty dance floor.

The man who was beckoning me walked up to Magoun and said, “My name is Groin Loincloff and I’m with the Keepers of the Sacred Chaos and the Barbarian Illuminati. I presume you’re John Deer Doe and Brother Magoun?”

“Yes” I said. Looking at Magoun, I asked, “Friend of yours?”

“No,” he said.

“I’m here to get you out,” said Groin Loincloff. “The check is in the ground.”

“He’s a friend of mine now,” Magoun said.

I replied my similar sentiment and said, “Let’s go!”

Groin Loincloff repeated that the check was for $3125.

Appreciating this, the three of us went to the back of the club and into the alleyway behind. At this time, all the light in the Flamenco Club disappeared and the entire structure collapsed into a small black hole, which promptly dissolved.

Groin said, “Blasted Haitians, if they can’t win a fight they drop a blasted black hole into the place.” Then he promptly spit.

Looking at the other two, I asked, “What next?” The other two looked at each other and then looked at me. They looked at each other again and back at me. They shrugged.

Then Magoun yelled, “That’s my pornography!”

Groin and I looked at each other, then realized what he was talking about when we saw a shady-looking fellow glancing around nervously and selling pornography. His eyes had just settled on us when Magoun yelled again, “Stop, pornography thief!” The thief started for the parking lot with the three of us behind. He jumped onto his bicycle with Magoun’s pornography in a tote.

The three of us ran to my car which refused to start. Groin got out yelling, “I’ll fix it!” and put up the hood. He then vehemently cursed in Russian and kicked the tire.

He got in and said, “Try it.” I turned the key and to my surprise it took right off.

Catching up to the fellow, we followed for ten minutes, unsure what to do. Finally, the fellow got off his bike and got on a red double-decker bus. We parked the car ahead of the bus and when the bus came late as usual, we jumped on.

We just about had him when I was unable to resist the temptation and licked the bus. The bus was indeed beef-flavoured but the conductor, being a vegetarian, was naturally unhappy about my licking of his bus. He kicked us off with another suggestion that I added onto my list of things I’m not sure are humanly possible.

Stopping a nearby moped, I yelled, “I’m commandeering this vehicle!”

The fellow shook his head and getting off said, “All you had to do is ask.” Climbing onto the moped, I noticed that Groin had walked off in a completely different direction.

I sped off as Magoun assumed the Lotus position while holding out a large sticker and license plate. I was surprised that after several minutes on the moped, Magoun had caught up to and then passed me. On the back of his shirt the sticker, a bumper sticker it turned out to be, was stuck to the bottom of a license plate.

The plate said ‘XBOO DIS’ and the sticker said ‘Let Big breaths be Big and Small breaths be Small. Just don’t hold your breath while waiting for me to let you pass.’

While I read this I noticed that the pornography thief had gotten off the bus and was running to a familiar fence with familiar guards. Magoun noticed this also and stopped. I comforted Magoun by saying, “Don’t worry, we’ll come back for your pornography. Who knows… maybe my fiancé is connected to this.”

I got off the moped and Magoun gave me a lift back to my car. From there we drove back to my place. Walking into my lobby, I noticed that there was a large herd of gnu there. Glancing around, we saw the remnants of the Viking – presumably the same one who helped me up this morning, as his family was visiting relatives in Miami.

We then decided to be very careful indeed as we wormed our way through the animals. Reaching the elevator we found no respite as that too was full of gnus. We carefully worked our way in and to our dismay found that some gnu had pressed all the buttons on the panel. Just to make sure, I pressed the second floor button several times. We then settled in for a cramped and odorous ride up, down, up, down and after a long ride and reading all about the gnus in the gnuspaper, we reached the second floor.

Sitting back in my chair with the mail, I looked up and to my surprise Brother Magoun was in fact sitting with a visible means of support, namely a couch. Flipping through the mail, there was a now-familiar paycheck and a funny shaped package. This one also said ‘Happy Birthday from Aunt Millie’ but was again on the wrong day and misdelivered.

To give them some credit, it was a different Aunt Millie. Inside it, though, was another ugly tie and an even uglier sweater. Putting these tenderly in the trash, Magoun and I started planning our raid back into the Canadian Mafia Headquarters.

Today we had skipped both breakfast and dinner using the all-purpose liquid substitute Barley-Ethyl Energy Refreshment (B.E.E.R.) instead, so we ordered a pizza and some beer nuts to dry up our new beers on the way down. There was now beer sitting on the floor outside the fridge.

The pizza came in five minutes and the Pizza boy actually refused the tip, which was good considering I had several hundred Jamaican dollars just for these occasions.

After our meal we went into the Big Box Store and bought several big boxes. Ready for our raid tomorrow, I went to bed for the night with Magoun sleeping several feet above the floor, apparently recharged from his race today.

I woke to the sound of a paper hitting the door. I put on pants and a T-shirt to get the paper and once again tripped over the paper before picking it up. Unfortunately, a family of nudists saw this and were apparently shocked and dismayed at my apparent lack of lack of clothing. They quickly covered their children’s eyes and hurriedly went back into their apartment muttering about the indecency of it all.

Walking back into my apartment I found that Magoun was again missing. This mystery was soon solved by the flushing of a toilet and Magoun coming out of the bathroom pulling his shirt out of his shorts.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

After studying this ingenious riddle carefully I said, “One plus one is three.”

“You are ready,” Magoun said.

We ate a quick breakfast of beer and cold pizza and left.

I was surprised by the thick carpet of flowers on the floor of the lobby. What can you say – bullshit makes the flowers grow and isn’t that beautiful?

We loaded the big box into my car and drove to the headquarters of The Canadian Mafia. After cruising past the gaze of the guards, we put on our parkas from the big box. We then put the skis on our back and walked out to the gate.

“Excuse us, we just got in from Canada. Can we get in?”

“Sorry about that, let me get your skis and kit,” one of the guards said.

We nervously gave our skis to the lumberjack and entered. Then the guard yelled out, “A Canadian would never use Red Country Ski Wax on alpine skis! Impostors!”

We ran into the building. After successfully losing the Canadians with a clever ruse (we didn’t take off our shoes and they presumed we were outside), we went upstairs to the second floor. We got lost, and after five minutes of following our trails back and getting lost backwards we ran into none other than Groin Loincloff.

“If you want to find the head of the Canadian Mafia, follow me,” he said.

So we followed him into a hall and passed innumerable water fountains until we reached the one hundred and fiftieth one. Groin pulled a lever and the wall gave way. It was a secret door! We carefully continued until we found a sparse office and heard a thin voice yelling.

“What do you mean you haven’t found them! Find them!”

I did what was quite possibly the second stupidest thing I have ever done and confronted the voice, only to find it belonged to a 13-year-old.

“What??” I said. “You’re just a kid!”

“I’m thirteen, thank you very much,” said the indignant youngster, ruffling his eyebrows.

“How did you get into the Mafia?” I asked.

“Well, when my seventeen-year-old brother was founding a dot-com company, I founded the Canadian mafia. What’s it to you?”

“Where is my fiancé?”

“Jane Doe?”

“Yes,” I said.

Magoun broke in, “Where’s my Pornography?”

“Your wife worked on Pot Luck, didn’t she?” asked the boy.

“Yes.”

“I don’t know where she is. I was trying to steal the weapon, but one of my operatives failed and instead stole brother Magoun’s pornography. This instigated a reversal of the cause-effect duality and created the theoretically impossible Bad Luck Meltdown. Your wife had the radiation all over her. She would have been one of the ones first affected.”

“Where is my pornography?” came Brother Magoun’s impassioned plea.

“Somehow, in Brother Magoun pornography there were instructions on how to control the meltdown.”

Then, a large number of lumberjacks responded to the emergency button the boy was secretly pressing the whole time.

“Don’t worry Magoun I’ll have your pornography soon… Ah ha ha,” said the boy. Then, very self-consciously ruffling his eyebrows, he asked “Does this make me look viler?”

“Yes, yes it does,” I replied

The boy boss of the Canadian Mafia started cackling madly while he ruffled his eyebrows. “Take them away… ah ha ha… take them away!”

After a split second where he paused to ruffle his eyebrows again he asked, “Really?”

“No, not really,” I said.

At this he cackled madly and yelled, “Take them away!”

The lumberjacks were taking us out to the parking lot when Magoun floated out of his parka and freed me by lifting up my guards until I slipped out the bottom of my parka. We then made a mad dash for the gate and then made a mad dash to the car and drove off with the Canadians shooting at us.

Now we might know why the Bad Luck Meltdown happened. Could something as sinister as this come out of that boy’s mind? Could Brother Magoun’s pornography really be the key to it all? Where is and what happened to Jane? I don’t know the answers to these question but I do know that we won’t stop looking for my fiancé and Magoun’s Pornography.

We have a new ally in the war against the Canadian Mafia. Who is Groin Loincloff? I don’t know. All I know is that this is the end of another entry and that I’m getting us some Molsons from the bathroom right now to help solve their overpopulation problem.

The Reason for the Reason

Hello, I am John Deer Doe and this is the third entry in my diary. The last thing I remember is being thankful that we had managed to drink the Molsons back into the fridge. Just before that, I was wondering if Brother Magoun would hit his head on the ceiling.

I woke up the next morning feeling really wonderful from a night of 20 bottles or so of well-spent drinking. I felt the urgent need for my daily bowel movement, which I had been delaying several days. I walked into the hallway just in front of my bathroom and to my surprise an elderly, prim secretary with an immense bun of grey hair was sitting in front of my bathroom at a hideously gilded oak receptionist desk.

She unhurriedly put down her nail file and the telephone receiver after a quick, “I’ll call back.” She looked up with large grandmotherly eyes and asked, “Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” I said. Thinking back, I realize this was a mistake.

The secretary, Mrs. Spinster by the nameplate on her desk, started rifling through paper and folders on her desk. She started saying she probably couldn’t fit me in for another three days. I, now under severe internal and external pressure, gave in to a critical neutron count and went nuclear.

I was yelling at this women asking, “Who the hell do you think you are!” She was trying to prevent me from entering the washroom and was doing a very good job of it, all the while yelling at me, threatening to call security, and telling me to do something that was humanly impossible.

I stopped for a moment and checked the ever-present list of things that are humanly impossible and after careful inspection added another entry.

While all this was going on we were oblivious to Magoun yelling my name at the top of his lungs in what sounded like a drunk’s mantra. Cursing the women again I broke down crying saying, “All I want is a daily bowel movement.”

When she heard this she returned to her desk and asked, “Are you John Deer Doe?”

I looked up, hiccoughed and said yes.

“Good,” she said. “You are two days late, one day late, and right on time for your daily bowel movement. Go on in.”

I hurriedly raced in and dropped my pants. After twenty minutes of intense pain I looked back and wondered what a mason would think of this. Then I got out my list and crossed off another entry on that changing list of things that I’m not sure are humanly possible.

Soon I would have to start a list of things that are humanly possible, but not commonly done. Then I thought what news of this would do to the building material market.

On my way out I tipped my hat, which I had neglected to put on my head, to the secretary and collided with Brother Magoun.

Magoun looked flustered and I asked him what was wrong. He looked up and said I was missing.

I got scared and fearfully asked, “Where am I?”

Brother Magoun said I was here. Satisfied, we got up and went to the kitchen.

“We have to find my pornography,” said Magoun.

“We have to find Jane,” I said.

These two things confirmed, we sat around waiting for whatever would happen next to happen.

The roar of a Harley-Davidson came echoing down the hall and the sound of a paper hitting my door with a force that a discus thrower would be proud of.

“Kids these days sure grow up fast,” Magoun said.

I opened the door and very carefully stepped over the paper to avoid doing what I had done without fail for since I moved here. This is when I fell on my face as I tripped over a box from Aunt Millie that said ‘Happy Birthday’ on the outside, as well as two letters. One was from the government and the other in a plain envelope. Gathering all this and myself up, I went inside.

Looking at the box, I opened it and found another ugly tie and another ugly sweater from another Aunt Millie on another day that is not my birthday. These things I once again trashed. One of the envelopes contained a check for a woman that had disappeared from a job that never existed.

Putting the check on the growing pile, I began to open the plain envelope. As I did this Magoun rooted through the trash and dragged out the tie, which went perfectly with his blue and white Buddha print shirt.

To my amazement at his discovery he sagaciously said, “That’s some Bitching Threads.”

I read the letter. It was written with a fine hand, or I hoped so because I was beginning to get a little aroused over it. Brother Magoun was putting the tie on when I saw who it was from, ruining that train of thought.

John Deer, Mr Doe and Brother Magoun,

The Canadian Mafia shall acquire Brother Magoun’s pornography today at 7PM at the San Francisco Bowling Alley.

Groin Loincloff

I glanced at the clock. It was one in the afternoon. “There’s no way we can make it to San Francisco in six hours.”

Brother Magoun looked up and wisely said, “The San Francisco Bowling Alley is not in San Francisco.”

I looked at him and replied with my personal mantra of “Oh!” and asked him where the bowling alley was.

“San Francisco and New York,” he answered.

“Oh,” I spake my mantra. “How?”

With the benevolent air of the Buddha (or Ex-Buddha) he said, “Through the Quantum Psychics theory of Enmanglement.”

I once more used my ever popular mantra which I could now retire after three days of good service.

“Yeah,” said Brother Magoun. “It just reopened after that earthquake.”

Dazed, I asked Brother Magoun, “So what are we going to do now?”

“Go shopping,” Magoun said, smiling.

After grabbing my jacket, we walked to the end of the hallway. I pressed the button to go down and the doors opened onto a small disco. Pushing in after receiving the nod from one of the immensely strong Jamaican Bouncers, I pressed the button for the lobby and settled in for an elevator ride on the town.

Two Martinis extra wet and three hours later, we finally reached the bottom floor. Staggering into the lobby, I asked Brother Magoun what he found out. After reciting the telephone numbers of twenty-three very good-looking girls he said, “I also found out where the bowling alley is: at the corner of California and Pacific Avenue.”

Outside by my car I dropped my keys and saw the Ladies Auxiliary of the People Against The Public Licking Of Things (L.A. of P.A.T.P.L.O.T.). Much to the disgust of the gentleladies of the Ladies Auxiliary, I licked the parking meter and once again found out a large number of things are beef-flavoured including: Doors, Double-Decker Buses, and (to my surprise) Parking Meters. I was always of the opinion that they’d be onion flavoured.

After an eventful hour at Brother Magoun’s favourite shop (The Surf and Pimp) we had two sets of Birth Control glasses (glasses so ugly women won’t conceive when you wear them) and a feathered boa. We set off for the bowling alley.

On our way, we passed an industrial maul and wondered what the police would think of all that nudity on conveyer belts. Sadly, Industrial people are not very good looking, so we quickly drove on. Pity the maul security.

We entered the San Francisco Bowling Alley, which was in the year of our Board 1958½. I asked Brother Magoun about this, and he said it was the right year. Accepting this, I sat down with him in the small cafeteria, alone in our pimpwear, except for two young men (one a Mormon) and the head of the Canadian Mafia busily ruffling his eyebrows.

The disguises worked, and we watched the full alleys. We had just finished our coffee when the leader of the Mischief Gods got a 66-6 split at hundred pin bowling. This put the Mischief Gods ahead of the Judo-Christian Gods and Angels, who were playing for the right to go to Ol’ Limbo Peak for the championships.

Two people entered the bowling alley, one tagging a ways behind the other. The first was the shifty pornography seller. Brother Magoun started up, but I stopped him at a motion from Groin Loincloff, who was the second man.

The Porno-Man went to the leader of the Canadian Mafia, who had just stopped ruffling his eyebrows and was just about to pass him the pornography when one of the young men (not the Mormon) said, “Chaos and Strife are the roots of all Confusion.”

This is when Old Shit hit The Fan. Old Shit being the French speaking English of German ancestry (FSEOGA) assassination attempt on the leader of the Canadian Mafia. The Attempt consisted of a huge old Chimpanzee wired to blow up when he was close enough. The Fan was the Fellowship of Intergalactic Haitian Guerrillas for World Peace (F.I.H.G.F.W.P.) Protection Force, which had just defected to the Canadian Mafia.

Fairy dust floated up from the floor and then the room went dark. I looked around and saw Jane walking towards me! I grabbed Brother Magoun and turned around in time to see Jane put a scroll into the chimpanzee’s hands. Neither of the young men had noticed any of this yet.

Jane came over, sat down beside me and said, “Wait and watch.”

Suddenly, there was a flash of intense light. We were frozen, but saw everything. The Chimpanzee went not to the head of the Canadian Mafia but to the two young men. It said, “Gentlemen, why does Pickering’s moon go about in reverse orbit? Gentlemen, there are nipples on your chest… do you give milk? And what, pray tell gentlemen is to be done about Heisenberg’s Law?”

The great shaggy Chimpanzee paused.

“Somebody had to put all this confusion here!” With this he revealed the scroll to the two young men and then exploded, knocking the two young men out cold.

Jane turned to me and we were unfrozen. Things had changed. The date was 1958, not 3125, not 1958½ in the year of our board just 1958AD, whatever the hell that meant. The leader of the Canadian mafia was gone. He didn’t leave, he had just vanished. Brother Magoun’s pornography was gone.

The bowling lanes were empty.

Brother Magoun asked Jane very weakly, “Where is my pornography?”

Jane replied, “The World is not ready yet for your pornography Brother Magoun. I could not have your pornography fall into the wrong hands. I had to destroy your pornography. I am so sorry for you.”

Magoun accepted this with as stiff an upper lip as could be expected and excused himself to mourn the loss of his pornography, leaving me and Jane alone except for Groin Loincloff. Ignoring him I asked Jane, “How… what happened? Did you do all that? Who are you?”

Jane smiled and changed into a splendid woman whose eyes were as soft as a feather and as deep as eternity itself, and whose body was a spectacular dance of atoms and universes. Pyrotechnics of pure energy formed her flowing hair, and rainbows manifested and dissolved as she spoke in a warm and gentle voice, “I am Chaos. I am the substance from which your artists and scientists build rhythms. I am the spirit with which your children and clowns laugh in happy anarchy. I am Chaos. I am Eris Kallisti Discordia, and I am your Fiancé.”

She gestured to the two young men, who were still asleep. “They will learn that in time.”

Groin Loincloff walked up to us and said, “Time is short.”

I asked him who he really was and he said, “I am St. Gulik, a cockroach.”

Jane said, “I am Jane and I love you. I am Eris and I love you.” With that, another great flash of light as if all the suns in all the worlds went nova at once and after that things got even weirder.

For more information consult your pineal gland (Cosmic Channel #5).

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