by
Rev. Cleve "Donut" Dunkan
It all started innocuously enough. I had received a call from Philo, informing me that I had an engagement in Dobbstown. Philo had been booking my act on the nuclear-cocktail circuit for years now, and it was with both dread and glee that I had anticipated this gig. " 'Bob' 's really excited about this, ya know", purported Dr. Drummond. "He's been a fan of yours for years." Indeed, I had heard reports of his complete collection of all my recordings (something I don't even have). Yes, I knew that after I had started working as a cocktail pianist (in the truest sense of the term) that the lounges of Dobbstown's fabulous casinos would be beckoning me.
No sir, I didn't like it.
I mean, after all, it's one thing to be entertaining pinkboys, dupes, hierarchites, snivelling Bobbies, regular old SubGenii, yetisan, or what-have-yous. But the motherfucking High Epopt on his home turf!
Philo said not to worry."Really, He loves 'Live at the Lava Lounge', especially your interpretations of 'Blow Me(You Don't Even Know Me) and 'It's Not Easy Tryin' to Dance with a Hard-On'". So I figured, what the fuck. The drinks are free. I also knew that if it went well, I could play the X-Day celebrations. Now that would be the pony's balls. I packed my bags.
Gordon had made my travel arrangements (under his own name so that he got the frequent flyer bonus) on Bunghole Air("Your Eye in the Sky""), which necessitated me changing planes fourteen times. I was flying No Class, but they had complementary cocktails so I really couldn't complain. Once again I almost missed my connection at DFW as I was spending too much time at Dobb's Cocktails. It was 47 1/2 hours to Maylasia, where I made my final connection onto a Cessnapool 5-seater for the 90 minute jaunt to Dobbstown.
I began to see the lights glowing out of the jungle soon after takeoff. The winds knocked the little plane around violently, but I didn't once feel the need to reach for the bag with "Mark of the Devil" boldly printed on it.No, I was too transfixed by the glorious sight ahead of me as we started our descent into the promised land.
The plane was a little short on brake fluid but we landed nonetheless. I walked out into a breathtaking world of exotica unimaginable by standards like "Paradise Hawaiian Style" or Arthur Lyman album covers. The foliage was thick with habifropizipulop plants (as was the air with their scent); the landscape carved with streams and pools of glowing water, hosts to lucious flora covered with thin glazes of MWOM. I could see the fantastic lights of the casinos and the spinning red lanterns of the brothels glistening through the haze. It made me pause to reflect: I had been to all the great gaming towns of the world- Vegas, Monaco, St.Thomas, Winnemucca, yes all of them, but none could come close to this. It would be impossible for a human to imagine such beauty and wonder; it was hard enough for a full-blooded SubGenius to.
Philo was waiting for me at the Carousel of Rudeness, and after picking up my luggage and exchanging pleasantries over a couple of shots of Old Dolt, we hopped into his car for the ride downtown.
"The weather's been really pleasant for late monsoon season", Philo drawled as I reached for my sunglasses to cut the neon glare. We were still outside of the Strip, in an area comprised of little shotgun shacks and grass huts. They were homes to the Bobbies, specially imported to do the menial daily tasks necessary to keep a thriving metropolis alive, as well as to amuse the Elder Gods and visiting hierarchites.
"Stang was bummin' that you made the trip before him, but shit, somebodies gotta hold down the fortress."
"Yeah, I know. It's too bad , though, he likes to have a coupla Old Dolts when he gets out of the office." Philo concurred and handed me the jug of liquid frop as we made our way onto the Strip.
I'd played all over the world in my time, but nothing could equal the sight of this. Casinos that were miles in length cowered alongside us. "Bob" the Islander. "Bob" Lu's. The Suffering Bastard. Frop & Frain's. Smith & Jones. But the at the end, loud and proud, it stood majestically, a glowing beacon of light.
PeeDogs Palace. And Puppy Parlor.
Shimmering solid gold teats erupted gloriously, each one squirting a sumptuous milk-white liquid toward the heavens, pouring it on and over the roof of this amazing edifice. Rows of phalli acted as centurions around the walkway that circumscribed the building. Little canoes float patrons down the beet-red which glided through its portals - a 3 story high undulating vagina, with labia made of frop leaves gently fanning a cool misty breeze on the revelers as they make their way into the awaiting Arena of Humiliation. In the plazas center stands the enormous statue of PeeDog, holding court over his stunning acreage, higher than the Colossus of Rhodes, higher than any conspiracy architect could ever dare to imagine. The entire complex was bathed in swirls of light and color, creating an effect that would make Owsley proud. 500 decibels of megasound pump out assorted Doktor Hits (available on sale at the Logo Shop). Was I overwhelmed by it all? You bet, and I'd seen Chesty Morgan.
Philo and I waited briefly in line for our canoe ride in. It took us on calm waters past giant holographic scenes of PoopDog, PeeDog, yea verily the entire Shit Generation universe, brought to life in action packed visions of glory heretofore unseen. We laughed and thrilled as we ducked the "flying" excretions and ejaculations coming forth from the moving murals. No sooner could we catch our breaths than we entered the palatial puppy parlor, filled with the deafening clangings emanating from the slot machines. Large groups of Asians hovered over the gaming tables, leerily eyeing each other as they wagered on pai gow, mah jong, 21, craps, strip poker and whist. Dollar bills with portraits of "Bob", JHVH-1, NuNu, "Dick" and all the others flew furiously from the bettors hands.
We passed readily through the throng, heading toward the left, over to my new home. Ah, there it was. "GLEETER'S". ("Anticipate It") The lounge.
"Well, there's your workbench", Philo said nodding toward the grand piano. It was equipped with leopard-skin valance and Captain's stools with seat belts. I spied Gordon and Sterno at the end of the bar, and hastened to greet my old pals.
"What's you pleasure?" Gordon gregariously asked, with a sweep of his hand toward the bar. After eyeing the aguardente de cana he was grasping, I looked to see the two gallon bucket Sterno was hoisting to his mouth.
"I'll have what he's having", I said as Sterno paused in his refreshment to give me a knowing grin.
"Ah yes, a Flaming Tiki Port and Lemon Juice. A Gleeters original concoction. Superb choice!"
"Make mine a double with a frappy on the side", countered Dr. Drummond.
Justly refreshed, a Bobbie carted my bags to my suite where I would relax awhile before starting my gig. I was such a beautiful view from the 97th floor. An oozing, sore-encrusted sphincter would shoot dejected losers with no more to wager out into the parking lot. The yellow water pool, appearing as a series of puddles, was surrounded by huge mock hydrants. Palm trees swayed in the evening breeze, decorated with the skulls of normals, farmed exclusively for the haven. I could see past the city and hear the screams from the initiates coming from the nearby villages. Ah, heaven at last.
An hour or so passed before I made my way back down to the lounge. Room Cervix delivered some chicken-fried Krystal burgers, a bottle of Matouks extra-hot calypso, and a bag of ketchup chips. A quick G.I.Q. of King Cobra to wash it all down and I was in the proper mood to entertain the troops.
I took the glass elevator down to the Arena of Humiliation, overlooking the Hell on Earth Park to the north, the gigantic frying pan where conspirators ride a water slide into a vat of hot oil. It's quite the tourist attraction, but the air gets too rancid to stay and enjoy it for too long. It's offered as a 24 hour cable TV service, and most people prefer to relax to it for hours that way.
The main room was jumping as I left the elevator and made my way to the lounge. For the first time in my long career, I started to get the jitters. I was so nervous to be performing in front of "Bob". What if He didn't enjoy it? I had to resist those thoughts, be a pro combo guy, and take the job.
The first show went well. A pair of dancing yetis knocked over a table during "Blabber N' Smoke", but only a couple of drinks were spilt and no one got hurt. No sign of "Bob" yet, but the night was young. I decided to wander a bit and familiarize myself with the joint on my break.
Gambling was never a vice of mine, and while I had nothing against it, it just never engorged my penis with blood, so to speak. But the casinos, ah the casinos had always been a lure. Even in the ones in the normals world, basic Time Control was easily attainable. After all, there are no clocks, no windows, no last call, just an oxygen-fed self-sustaining universe. There is no need or desire to ever sleep, drinks are brought to you free of charge, the noise of the clanging reverberates through your skull, vibrating down your spinal chord, as your aura grooves around. But here, in the casinos of Dobbstown, it's just so much MORE. Too much is always better than not enough. Where in, say, Vegas, it was oxygen filled, here it's Church Air pumping through the ventilators. Sex slaves slink around the club, offering up Prairie Squid , and wearing PeeDog belts with a dozen or so dogdicks attached, all smothered in fatback so as to not break the gamblers concentration upon penetration. The games themselves, especially the slot machines, are each like miniature shrine, veritable Madonna's in the Bathtub, in a grotto of sensory overload.
Each machine featured the heads of deities and a variety of Church symbols spinning to the paylines. They looked like electronic Pamplets brought to life. Instead of using coins to play (who needs money?) , these machines took chunks of your soul, and payed you with the same (also redeemable for prizes). A winner, a real SubGenius winner, was judged not by how much money they had, but how much soul they had. Putney Swope would be proud. Scanning the crowd, you could sense the Nental Ifes expanding and contracting. It was an amazing sensation just feeling all this energy moving around.
"Quite the digs, ain't it", Sterno remarked as he eased up alongside me.
"Reminds me of the reform school", I mused, still quite mesmerized.
"Janor had a great time here. He worked Upchuckles, the comedy room. Spent his days kicking everybodys ass on the miniature golfer-head course."
"I brought my clubs along", I said, enthusiastically envisioning
the local abusement park. "It's almost time for me to slide over to the piano.
What are you up to?"
"I'll join you", Sterno nodded. "Time for a
cocktail?"
"It always is", I said as we headed toward the bar.
There was another fun crowd at the second show, although still no sign of the Epopt. Somebody tipped me a squid for playing "I'm A Potato", and Sterno joined in for a medley of Doktors for "Bob" hits, with the whole crowd singing along on "Kassner Head Pussy". I knew then that I was going to like this gig. The crowd was really into it, so after a quick piss break, the show continued.
It was groovin. All those years on the road, playing for assholes, mediocretins, shitheads, the whole gamut of human morons, this was the payoff for those dues. I could stay here forever. Too bad it was only a four week stint. I was already praying for the return engagement.
I was disappointed now that "Bob" hadn't made it. My opening night jitters were long gone and now I was in control. I actually looked forward to meeting the Saint of Sales, the man who had steered me down the glorious path the true enlightenment. Where could He be ?
"Aw, he's gettin' like Howard fuckin'Hughes", Philo informed me. "He'll make it though. He's too busy reaming Bobbies to get out of fuckin' bed. Shit, one of his dick's is a certifiable goddamn rump ranger. Won't even sniff the poon. Hell, even Connie's commented on it, not that she really gives a shit. I mean, He's got one prick with her goddamn name enfuckingraved on it; it just pumps along like a motherfuckin' piston. Yeah, we see Him about once or twice a week."
I was informed that there was a dressing room I hadn't yet checked out; it seemed like a good idea to towel off and wash up before moving around the casino once again. The door at the end of the bar led to a long corridor with utility closets and the like along the length of it. I found the room with a star on the door and went inside. It was a typical small dressing room- table, mirror, shitter, couch and chair, minifrige and glassware. I immediately noticed the champaign bucket with an iced down bottle of T-Bird nestled inside. Resting next to the bucket was a small envelope, which I anxiously tore open. It contained a card. Inside it was written, in scrawl reminiscent of that of a vodka swilling 6-year old, it merely read
"Fuckin' A......"B" ".
Wow. I cracked the Bird and let it take flight.
I nearly choked on my fifth chug as I heard a horrifying scream come from down the hall. I spit the fine perry wine on the floor and rushed out to see what was going on.Gordon was calmly walking down the corridor.
"What the fuck is goin'on down there?" I called to him as he approached.
"Oh, they're just settling a little gambling debt. I believe that the guy was getting denutted."
I cringed while grasping my own balls.
" They use 'em for roulette. NheeGhee loves it Thinks it adds a certain something."
"Well, that's for certain. But I don't get it? In Dobbstown? What about slack? What about..."
Gordon looked at me sharply. "Boy", he said, "there's rules here, just like everywhere else. There's some powerful fuckin' guidelines Jehovah-1 and "Bob" have goin' her, and ya just cain't fuck with 'em. And, ya know, sinnin' on the inside is a whole lot worse than sinnin'on the outside
, and the mightier the sin the mightier the punishment. Take it from an old paramilitarist for "Bob". And anyway," he grinned slyly, you'll find ya get a little more spin for your luck at the tables. Nuts make great dice,too."
I took a big swig .
************
The days and nights seamed endlessly together. Because of the mastery of Time Control my "work hours" were never in any set period, but rather whenever it felt appropriate. Performances could go on for hours, even days if the muse hit, or could be just a single song and a quick skiddadle. Popular sing-a-longs like "Death Cab for Cutie", signature pieces such as " "Bob" is My Load", oldies like "I Need Some Weed and a Blowjob", classic hits such as "Shocked the Living Ghee Out of Me", whatever came up and spewed forth got played. Sometimes guest Doktors would sit in and croon. The ebb and flow of it all was a delight.
Throughout the first two weeks, I resisted the urge to bet my soul. I preferred to spend my breaks taking in all the action. The gaming tables were always packed; but it was the lure of the colorfully glowing slots, emblazoned with "Bob"'s pleasant smiling face, and the soft hypnotic hum of the electrodes, sent out seductive vibes. It was as if being encased in "Bob", like he was always watching, eyes following you everywhere around the cavernous space. He had still not shown his face in the casino, but he often sent cryptic notes and requests, via some fawning Bobbie, to the piano, usually on some spum-crusted napkin with frop burns all over it. I wasn't sure if he was monitoring everything on some closed circuit system, enjoying it all in the privacy of his sex-crazed quarters, or if He was merely able to sense everything that was going on through His hyper-developed chakras. Whatever it was, He seemed to be enjoying the proceedings, and I of course always played his requests. If you can't please your Savior, who can you please? Maybe He could actually see and hear from each image of His face that was plastered around the room. Fuck, whatever it was I just stopped trying to figure it out, accepted it as fact, and went about my business. Faith makes things so much easier.
The day finally came when I decided it was time to try my luck. I could no longer ignore the beautiful machines and the warm glow of the winners. It was time to scope it out. There were so many machines to chose from, selecting the proper one was difficult. You just had to feel the seductress grab hold of your ass as you strolled by. Play Me, Play Me!, they all seemed to call out, like whores beave-shooting from behind glass facades. Finally, I felt passion from one, a beauty called Dobbstown Dollars. Three Dobbsheads on the center line payed a jackpot of eternal slack. I wondered about the odds on that configuration. The Random Number Generators in slot machines are always in play, whether a person is activating the device or not. That means "Bob"'s head was spending eternity spinning and stopping, stopping and spinning. No wonder He was the High Epopt. The heads of normals are always spinning, but they never stop.
"ONE SOUL PER PLAY/TWO SOULS PER PLAY" read the instructions. The bigger the bet, the bigger the payoff, so naturally I went for the max. Placing my left index finger on the scabrous zone at the center of the machine, I could feel particles of my essence flowing out through my fingertip and into the microprocessor. At once the whirring of the wheels began, as the symbols spun furiously around. One by one they dropped into place, and lo and behold it was a winning combination. Not the ultimate jackpot, unfortunately, but a combination of two pipes and a "Lucky NheeGhee" symbol ( how could such a contradiction exist? Only in Dobbstown!) I immediately felt a swelling in my inards; it could be kept or was redeemable for a prize token at the cashiers cage. "Quit Your Job" lit on the upper section, which meant I could get a cheesy joke shop certificate proclaiming freedom from work at the redemption center. I t felt good to be a winner, especially physically, so I decided to have another go.
Minutes turned gradually into hours as my eyes, finger and psyche were transfixed by the mechanism. Soul particles swelled and diminished constantly, pumping in and out like my insides were being screwed. Win,lose,lose win, over and over and over. The sensation was ravishing, hypnotic, drugged. Time Control had won, because Time had truly;y ceased to exist. My gaze was locked with "Bob", as one with my master. The clanging combined with the Church Air created a din within my head, a noise so beautifully clamorous that the brain was smoothed over to its original yetisan creaselessness. I felt alive, more alive than ever before. Cocktails were being injected at various intervals, and Bobbies of Love would wander up for a 100 proof shot of my essence. I left the physical plane and went into a state of slack.
I didn't even notice when the losing started, but I eventually realized I had been away from "work" for a long time. I had to shake myself into some semblance of reality, gradually pulling my finger away from the slot machine and back toward my body. I didn't feel as good as I did while I was playing. I don't think I felt as good as I did before I started. It was evident that I had a little less soul than before. But it really didn't matter to me. I knew I'd win it all back the next time. Once you found the feeling, you knew how to bring it back. Find the right machine, at the right time, when you're relaxed, and you can make the slots feel compelled to be on your side. Glide from one machine to the next, swelling your soul along the way. Yes, it would be good again. Next. Next. Now, it's time to cash in and get back to Gleeters.
"Here you go, one Billygoon album", the effervescent cashier offered as she smiled sweetly. Just what I fucking need. Ah, but it was a start; I knew that the Total Slack prize was not far off. I could play anytime, win anytime, and always stop when I want. I mean, I wasn't going to run out of soul! And although, as a casino employee, it was a conflict of interest to gamble where I worked, everyone did it. What the fuck..
Philo was enjoying a brief respite at the bar when I entered the lounge. "What it look like? Haven't seen you around for days?"
"Days? I was just playin' the slots for an hour or so, over there", I said, pointing off to the casino.
"Been longer than that, broham, but its no big deal. Relax. Have a drink."
I took him up on his suggestion, went to the piano and took the job. It seemed more difficult than ever to get a groove going, as my mind surreptiously wandered back to the gaming experience. It continued like that throughout the night. There were no messages from"Bob" that evening, no bottle of fortified wine in my dressing room after the show. I wondered if I had done something wrong. It had been awhile sine I had been back to my suite; I decided I'd better get some rest. But I'd be back.
I slept fitfully that night(or day, or whatever it was), feeling myself being constantly pulled from the bed to return to the Arena of Humiliation. Why was it named that? My mind began to wonder over and over. Why were they slicing that guys nuts off. Did they put two ZZ's on your cheeks to show that you were marked.? What would cause your expulsion from the giant sphincter in the back of the edifice? Why is PeeDog always smiling? Why is "Bob" always smiling? Why?Why? Why? My mind was conjuring up questions I had no right to ask. Some things are supposed to be taken on pure faith alone. It is not my right to question the thoughts or motives of J.R. "Bob" Dobbs, the holiest of all holy men, the mightiest of all mighty men. He came back from the fucking dead, fer chrissakes, if He truly had died at all. And where was Wellman, I hadn't seen him anywhere the whole time I'd been here. I'd heard he'd been forgiven for his transgression, for it was indeed a show of faith, to prove to everyone that "Bob" COULD NOT DIE! Where was he? "Holed up", so to speak, in Dobbs' penthouse, gloryholing Connie to waves of ecstasy, while "Bob" sat there dipping his fist into a vat Welfare Department certified U.S. Grade A lard, priming it for the next useless Bobbie to "take it like a man" The thoughts rolled incessantly through my brain. And just whose testicles were those in the roulette wheel? No doubt, I had an enquiring mind. I couldn't shut it off. I dressed and quickly went downstairs.
*********
Days turned into weeks. I rarely showed up at Gleeters, and when I did it was half-heartedly. I'd down a couple of Flaming Tiki Port and Lemon Juices, play a few selections and then hurry back. It had gone beyond the slot machines, though. I was hooked on it all. I was quite adapt at craps, probably due to my heritage, and began rolling up a storm. I'd build myself up, only to stumble and fall back a few paces, then regain my step and be right back on track. The feeling was startling. It was as if the mightiest zippyfrop had been implanted in my being, a placebo effect so sultrifying it made my essence implode. As the Now Generation would say, it was awesome.
Despite my poor work habits at the lounge, my engagement was extended. Indefinitely. I would sometimes wonder if I could last, nay withstand, this environment forever. But, after all, it was Dobbstown, the promised land. How long was it till X-Day, anyway. Time, praise "Bob", didn't matter. But it was a sin for me to question why things were happening as they were. I'm just a simple pie-faced cabaret performer, and the wrath of Wotan is something I just don't need. I had to see the Overman, get down to it, mano a mano, and ascertain the answers to all of my questions. If anyone would know, it would be Philo.
I quickly made my way back to Gleeters, but Dr.Drummond was not to be found. I sat at the piano and began to play. And play. And play. Soon enough, I was sure, a Doktor, any Doktor, would slip in for a cocktail and some bali-bali. So I kept playing. It felt good. The crowd increased and started to get into it. We had sing-a-longs, drink-a-longs,chug-a-lugs, schtup-a-thons, grope-a-longs. After about the eightieth song, a myopic Bobbie with bad skin, open sores, and a doubledonger stuck up her slit walked up with a note on a silver tray. As I opened it I immediately recognized the hammered-six-year-olds-like scrawl.
"Keep up the good work.", it read."Break a foot. Remember, time waits for no one. Buy low, sell high. Live it or live with it. See you at the races......"B". "
I kept on playing. Dozens of songs came pouring out. It went on and on, deep into the night. Ah, but the lure. The lure of the game. I could still feel it. Feel it above everything else I felt. The lure was always there. I had to get back. I must, yet I cannot. But I had to. I had to get back soon.
*********
There was yet another extension of the engagement. Indefinite again. It's just a formality now. A triviality, really. The screams from the closet in the hall are happening with more regularity now. They're starting to get to me. I hear them when they're not there sometimes. But the 19 percent wines are a constant. They taste good.
The hum of the slots are a constant, too. The symbols transfix the eyes. Spinning and whirring, over and over again. The soul fills and the soul falls. Why it was just yesterday, at least I think it was yesterday, that I was down to just one tiny piece of my soul. Just the tiniest. I felt decrepit, whithered away. But I knew I'd get it back. I always do. I can't lose. And so it was. Up again. Down again. Down but not out. No, siree, "Bob". Soon, they tell me, it will be X-Day. Oh glorious day of days. I can hardly wait. No more pinkboys and their obtuse antics. Dobbstown should be filling up nicely soon. Six incoming flights a day, I hear. Probably a lot of SubServiants. Oh my soul is bloated. The prize is within my grasp. I can feel it. I've given over 10 good years to "Bob" now, and I feel good. Just one more spin before I cash out and go back to the lounge. One more. Don't it make ya feel good all over, dear friends. Oooops, better luck next time. Don't fret now. Go ahead, son, give her a spin. Win a big ole teddy bear for the little lady. A winner every time. Step right up. Folks, I can guarenTEE this here Hadacol will cure all and heal all ailments known to mankind. Just step right up and be the first in line. Don't crowd now. Go ahead now, give her one more spin. And they're off. The pipe's on the inside down the stretch. Will we have a photo finish? Oh, lookee here, folks, lookee here. Yes, we have a winner , folks, we have a winner. A winner every time. Have a cigar, son. Hurry, hurry, step right up.
Ah, yes. it feels good. Mmm Mmm good. And my nuts are still intact.
END ...for now