PARTS ONE TO FOUR
INTRO
My life had humble beginnings. You would have read how I came to live with Lem and Betty Parker, back then in ’64. I was six when I met the two people who became my parents from then on. I lived with them for ten years after that, setting out at the age of sixteen to look fate in the eyes and say, "be nice now". Fate has been kind to me and I now have everything prepared for the coming of the Lord. My wife, Dispenser is currently pregnant with the Foetus who will grow and become the true saviour, I am just making sure everything is right for him. We kind have a joint role in the salvation of this damned planet. Somehow he will get all the credit though. Isn’t it always the way? You damned near kill yourself trying to do your job and then someone comes along and takes the credit. So why don’t they just drag me through the mud again? Or hoist me up that flagpole. When you just have regained your confidence they make you walk home in the rain with no shirt on your back. Come on I like the pain!!!
[Ah Al, I think I should take over from here.
No that’s Ok, Hochlor. I can handle it
Are you sure?
Yes, I will just pick up where I left off. Cough, cough]
I talk to saviour everyday, while he sits in his mother’s womb. He has interesting things to say. But this will come later . . . [Big deep breath]
! ! ! Please note: In the popular version of the bible the ruler of the dark region, the netherworld, otherwise known as hell, is named as "SATAN". Well this is yet another typo. The real name of the dark prince is in fact "Santa". Ah ha, now you’re thinking "is this guy on crack, or what?" No, I certainly am not on crack*. It is the absolute truth. The figure who children have adored for the past couple of centuries is in fact the devil.
*Please do not in any circumstance ask Guru Al to elaborate as to what his definition of the word ‘crack’ is. It can only end in tears.
He fills the little children’ s minds with selfish, possessive thoughts. "I want that Dolly, Mummy", "That isn’t the fire truck I wanted", "Shove your crappy Christmas present up your . . ." Sound familiar? Selfish, possessive, obnoxious, greedy little snots. Beat them and send them to bed with no food except fiery chocolate cakes made by P. Firman.
First, there are tales, which must be told, yarns that must be spun. And so it comes to pass that it begins . . . here.
Part Two Part Three Part Four Next Four Parts
Part 1:The Wonder Years
Or, "Back off Kevin Arnold, this is my show"
Cue the early seventies music, imagine a room, imagine a doorway, imagine long strings of technicolour beads blocking the way. Imagine a young man, a groovy ‘do atop his head - a large black Afro - steps inside, parting the beads as he enters (that’s the young man stepping inside, not the large black Afro, which has all this time remained atop his head).
The young man is sixteen, since only yesterday. Yet he knows that his spirit is thousands of years old. His head hurts from the previous day’s celebrations. Positioning himself carefully on the beanbag, he calls to a girl in the corner, a girl with kaleidoscope eyes. "Hey, Lucy." She stands, she falls, she crawls over to him, the heavy haze has dulled her mind.
"Whoa", she says. And he agrees, repeating the word. "Whoa ", she says again, and once more he concurs. Fifteen minutes passes, the two continue to echo the simple word.
Lucy leaves and the young man follows. Another fifteen minutes is spent on pointless dancing and maintenance of large hair. At last the young man realises why he had come.
"I have to tell you", he says. "The end is nigh."
"Bummer."
The young man, doubtless, was myself, Guru Al. It was a party, a groovy shindig, and the site of my first vision. It was no big surprise of course, my surrogate parents had told me all along that it would inevitably happen, and they had been right. Fred Basset had come to them many a time and told them that I would be leaving them soon, and that they must help me on my way.
I saw in front of me that night under the red lights and mirror ball, the image of a woman, feminine and beautiful. She seemed to have an odd penchant for large knives, a blade could just be seen hidden beneath the hem of her (very short) dress. Igor, she called herself, and she told me that I must soon depart, for I would come to play an essential part of the fate of the world.
Igor looked at me; her expression was that of a skeptic. It was as if she was saying "This is the saviour of the world, I don’t think so." I sensed this and immediately felt ill of ease. Suddenly Igor looked up and then back at me, she nodded curtly, winked and smiled.
"Ok, then. I will just be going over here."
Her odd behaviour had scared me. But she soon explained that she had just been communicating to some guy named Nine Turning Mirrors*, by means of telepathy.
* A name which would come to mean much more to me in years to come.
"Long story short, you are to cross paths with the exulted genius NTM in about ten years."
"So who is this guy, this NBN, or was it CNN? BBC? No it was definitely ADD."
"This is obviously going to take longer than I thought."
Guided through the bright streets by Igor, the sun far to brilliant to look at in my frame of mind, I made it home soon to pack and say my goodbyes to Lem and Betty. Too proud perhaps they were, for they could not stop grinning at me as I left, or maybe it was that they could not actually believe that the time had come.
I made the farewell short; the pain was far too real, as I had trodden on a rusty nail on the way over.
"Ooh, that smarts".
Igor took me away, off to the desert. I walked for many days straight, never stopping. And on the fourth day when I arrived back in Perth, I decided that the devil must have been playing tricks with me. Surely with my alert mind, cunning as a mule I am, I could not have been walking around in circles all week.
Disconcerted by this slight set back, I turned around nevertheless and headed back on my way.
I had thought it best if I write the first part myself. But I now hand over the privilege to my lovely, voluptuous, smooth, silky, pink-fleshed, bouncy, gorgeous, blessed by God in the breast department, all together wonderful, with whom it is always a pleasure to spend time, personal assistant Sweet Bosom. It should be noted that Sweet Bosom and myself share a totally platonic relationship, and not as that treacherous snake charmer – Gaston Basteau – previously claimed was a partnership of satanic sex and kinky bondage.
This changing of storyteller is to make sure that the tale of my life is left with a minimum amount of bias.
Hello, Darlings. My name is Sweet Bosom. And I am playing the role of Storyteller today. So sit back and relax. Pay attention James! No David, you can play with the Zygote later. Blinky, I told you not to put that stick there!!!
Pay attention!!!!!!!
Pardon me, I have just got some disruptive children to attend to.
But now, the story . . .
Part One Part Three Part Four Next Four Parts
Part 2: 1974: A Desert Odyssey
Or, "Spank the Sybarite"
For the next forty days Al was to spend his time in the Great Victoria Desert. He had nothing to eat (excluding of course the semi trailer full of food, which he had hired to follow him around), and nothing to drink (except three thousand bottles of water – AL was being sponsored by Evian). AL was completely by myself; even Igor had left, her work being completed for now. Though from time to time Santa would pop in, testing his faith with various offerings such as promises to keep Hanson in hell and never let them out.
The desert was lonely. There was no sound (were that it was for the various journalists who continuously asked him whether he was mad, what his purpose was, what his favourite fabric was and the beating of the circling helicopters).
AL wore only a toga, nothing on his feet (excluding moccasins) and no hat but a sombrero. He was completely exposed to the elements.
And when he was on the verge of cracking Santa came, resulting in some interesting conversation.
"So Al, how’s it hanging?" He was a casual guy.
"It hangs not for you, Santa. Only for God"
AL held strong, never lapsing into that all too comfortable lingo which he would have immediately adopted were that it was (thanks a lot Aidan! – inside joke) that he was at home.
Santa patted his plump stomach and wiped his brow. AL thought then that it must be hell (heh heh) for him to be wearing that thick red suit all the time, especially when he is at home, with the fires and all.
"Come on, loosen up. If you don’t I won’t put you on my list. You don’t want that do you?"
"List? I once knew a girl with a list. No wait a minute that was a lisp. Everyone thought she was insane. Always with the list."
"Ah yeah, great", he replied, suddenly uneasy. This was a trick of Al’s to start rambling, spitting out strange and mundane anecdotes. It seemed to be working this time.
"Go now, for I have no time for you."
"Yes you do. There is still another thirty two days left."
He was right, but AL repeated what he had said, and Santa left. AL didn’t see him for another ten days, and then not for twenty days after that.
So the next time Santa came AL had only two days left, or so he thought. The reporters had left two weeks before, the truck had disappeared shortly after brunch, probably going to refuel. And the plane which had circled every day with his supply of water he had last seen speeding towards the horizon shortly after AL had finished his latest round of target practice with his grenade launcher. A cloud of smoke rose where it had last been, followed by a strange boom.
"He’ll be back", AL assured himself.
But he never was, perhaps he abandoned Al, the feeble-minded cretin.
The desert surroundings had a bizarre affect on the poor guy. Ten minutes after his last drink of Evian, he was reduced to an embarrassing form. He wandered around, pupils dilated, singing.
" . . . Hey big spender. Won’t you spend some time with me?"
It was about then that Al escaped into his fantasyland, MGM World. A dimension of grand Hollywood musical motion pictures.
He found himself strutting through the streets crying out the lyrics to ‘Singing in the rain’. A tap-dancing telephone booth was at his side. It appeared to have the voice of Judy Garland singing ‘Somewhere over the Rainbow’.
Many little paper clips showered him, falling from the sky. Al opened his arms wide, looking up to the heavens and screamed. "For the love of God, please don’t touch my Bonsai!!!"
And just as he saw tiny little Eskimos in furry suits yelling at him for stepping on their igloo, he awoke.
He could afford no more daydreams. As I was saying, AL thought it was only two days left, but he lost his way and it took a little longer.
Part One Part Two Part Four Next Four Parts
Part 3: The Brownish-Reddish grounds of Home
Or, "Dem bones, dem bone, dem dry bones"
Eight months later he arrived in Eucla, and made plans for the return home to his real mother and father, they were to join him, Igor said. Igor had returned again to Al’s side. After his ordeal in the desert Al decided that Igor looked rather attractive.
After a quick ‘nap’ in the back of someone’s Ford Sedan they straightened their rumpled clothes and proceeded on their journey. The quest was to see Al’s biological parents and enlist them to join his campaign of salvation.
When they arrived at the old homestead Al broke down in tears. Not because of the sentimentality of the moment, but rather he remembered that he had left some cookies in the oven, nine months ago.
"Woe is me. Such sweet, delicious cookies, I long for their crunchy taste."
Then Igor said something, Al couldn’t quite hear but it sounded like ‘boof’.
"What did you say?"
"Ah, nothing."
The place itself was the same as Al remembered it . . . except for the three skeletons on the verandah. One was a dog; the other two were humans.
"That’s odd", Al said. "Where are my parents?"
"Ah, Al. Maybe they are your . . ."
"Quiet Igor, I am trying to think." Al walked up to the verandah. "Why would my parents go and leave skeletons here?"
He surveyed the scene. He could see a gun next to one of the skeletons.
"Maybe my parents sold the farm."
"More like they bought the farm," Igor commented.
"And then some skeletons bought the farm."
"Yeah, that’s probably it. We better go now."
Al took one more look at the puzzling scene before him. And then the two left. The next part of their journey would be the toughest. They were to travel to the sacred land of Ga where Al would set up his first church.
Stay tuned for part 4 when Igor and Guru Al attempt the impossible – to bring down the Commie government in Ga which has been ruling for two centuries.
Yes, it is indeed a thrilling ride for all who wish we could return to the ‘McCarthy Era’, and the time when the Reds got the bashing they damn well deserved.
Read, Learn and be Happy,
Guru Al
This has been a production of Guru inc.™
All events in this story are true (excluding those which are fiction).
The Al Chronicles © is a protected work, which cannot be reproduced without the expressed written permission of the author.
Please send money to: ‘The Divine Church of Fred Basset
8484 Conjob Street
yFalminica City
The yFalminican Republic
7486’
When we receive your money we may or may not send you a copy of The Al Chronicles.
The author of this work is proudly associated with the Fascist regime of the yFalminican government. Rule yFalminica!*
Guru Al drinks Rule Cola ™© for the taste of the generation after the next one.
Guru Al proudly wears Right Wing ™© clothing
Adriana Xenide’s hair and wardrobe is done by Sweet Bosom.
Footage from "Steamboat Mickey" was used with the permission of the Walt Disney ©™ Corporation.
*Please note that Guru Al has in no way been bribed or corrupted by representatives of the yFalminican Republic or the ideal of Fascism.
May all you pinko Commies rot in the burning pit of hell. A fate which you most certainly deserve.
Part One Part Two Part Three Next Four Parts
‘FOWL WARS’ Or WHY IT ISN’T WISE TO GET ON THE WRONG SIDE OF AN ESKIMO
Where was it that we left off? Of course, our heroes, or rather misguided fools had set a course for the sacred land of Ga. There they would each play an intricate part in the plan of the almighty.
Ga was at the time, and still is, on a small island just to the east of the southern tip of Madagascar.
In 1783 a semi-inebriated monk, named Woozlewazza, founded Ga. He had been travelling, searching for a nice big vat of rum to drown his sorrows in, when he sighted a glorious vision of the prophet Mike.
Mike sat atop a perfectly symmetrical and altogether geometrically impressive igloo. His finger pointed towards a mountain far to the east. He spoke to Woozlewazza and told him that the mountain was to be the site of a new holy city where God would once again take precedence over everything.
Woozlewazza was too busy humming ‘Girls just wanna have fun’ to notice that the man atop the igloo was talking to him. He swayed with the tune, all the time unaware that a message of great importance was being delivered to him via the prophet Mike.
"When the working day is done, oh girls they just wanna have fun." Woozlewazza sang this up to Mike.
"Yes, very insightful," Mike agreed. Then the igloo melted and Mike disappeared. All that was left was a group of six angry Eskimos verbally abusing Mike for melting their igloo. But they too dissolved into nothingness.
Woozlewazza continued the hunt for a pub or just anyone who wanted to get pissed with him. He saw the mountain that Mike had pointed to and thought perhaps that there would be some grog there.
Once he had arrived at the mount he was disappointed to discover that the only living organisms around were plants and one suspiciously positioned chicken.
The chicken clucked and Woozlewazza gave it a sceptical glance, unsure of what to do now.
The sun sank beneath the horizon and popped up unexpectedly on the opposite side ten hours later. All through these hours the chicken and the monk had both kept a close eye on each other, watching every move of the other. They both dared not shift their position lest the other smash their head in with a rock.
Woozlewazza was not fooled by the chicken’s apparent innocence. He knew that chickens don’t just sit by themselves in the middle of the forest without having some form of devious, underhanded or just plain evil plot that they wish to put into action.
He tried to stare down the chicken and was more or less totally unaware of the approaching band of denim jeans salesmen.
When he was fitted with a snug pair of denims he managed to convince the salesmen of the merits of getting plastered.
They joined him and the five men blissfully got off their faces.
This is the short version of how Ga came to be. Even though Woozlewazza didn’t actually know that Mike had said to establish a city, it happened anyway. The salesmen decided that to watch fat arses try to squeeze into jeans for the rest of their life was slightly under the level of desirable.
Woozlewazza set up camp and decided not to leave also. He was inspired to go sober by something that I shall mention later . . .
Soon the place became famous for carefree style and altogether bludginess of the shanty village. People came for freedom, fun and to get pissed.
That something that made Woozlewazza go sober had been the chicken. He concluded that a chicken that could not be trusted while drunk could certainly not be deemed faithful while sober. Besides it was an odd chicken which genuinely scared him.
So the people built up their town and a name was chosen, formed from two random letters. The city would prosper for two years before the Red menace took hold.
And what of the chicken? Well, it disappeared in mysterious circumstances (along with a large sum of money, five pairs of Ug boots, a collection of pornographic playing cards and a statue depicting Joan of Arc in some odd positions) on the third morning of Ga’s existence. The people decided to erect permanent dwellings for protection against the elements and to ensure that would the chicken return they would be safe.
So it may not have had brilliant beginnings. Yes, the people were driven to extreme lengths because of their frightful reactions to poultry. But that doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that the city came to be as was planned. It was truly holy until . .
.Until What??!!??
Just you wait.
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Next Four Parts
This Page was Last Updated: 02/07/00