WILD BOAR du JOUR

Wild Boar du Jour
Matthu Stull August 2009


August 3 1909: When the rats finally went to sleep, after nibbling at my extremities for some odd number of hours, and after the hazy blue vapors of dawn had transferred beyond the noxious stream of mistly sunlight, I crawled toward my whiskey bottle and took a nice big slug. It was the best breakfast a man could ask for in this freakish landscape of endless jungle nightmare.
In my youth, I had quite a romantic picture of the jungle in my mind. I imagined the parrots and primates and jaguars all frollicking gayly amid strange coconuts and huge flowers of violet and topaz. This fantasy continues with me loading my rifle, kissing Veronica, and shooting a 30-foot long python through the left eye at 40 yards. Then we find the ancient temple full of rare gems and various treasures and whatnot. But no! It's not like that at all! It's a shitty dump full of flesh eating insects, diseases of absurd variety and power, and untold scores of cannibals and malevolent savages.
I took another big gulp of the scotch, then took a piss on one of the slaves we brought along to carry all of our shit.
“Goggo!, wake up, you lazy piece of smelly shit!”, I screamed as I kicked him in the ribs. But Goggo didn't so much as flinch in response. Yeah, you guessed it, he was dead and half rotten now too. His face was all shredded up and eaten up by rats or something else. I carefully took back the few coins I had paid him for last week's work, avoiding to actually touch the slimy dirty skin of the nasty little corpse.
“Son of a bitch.” I mumbled, then staggered over to my rifle. It was time. It was time to kill.
“Hey, can someone bring this stuff to the palace?” I yelled. But there was no answer. Where were all of the slaves, I wondered? How am I gonna move the tent, the kitchen stuff and 3 or 4 crates of rare books to the hunting fields at the Palace of Queen Threenfthra?
“Fuck it.” I muttered and then emptied the whiskey bottle into my mouth. I tossed another one into my rucksack but noticed with no small amount of terror that there were only 4 bottles left. But oh well, I was sure the Quenn would have plenty of drinks for me, as long as I could bring her some wild boar meat, for which she always had a unrelenting craving. But it wouldn't be easy to get there without a horse. Charlotte, some old horse I was using, was eaten 3 days ago my pirhanas. Poor thing, I tried to pull her to safety, but her legs were just bloody bone after about 30 seconds in the Amazon. And then I was even bitten a few times too. I started shooting into the water with my pistol but without much in the way of positive results. Aaahhhhh, the fact is that I must cross roughly 30 miles of dense jungle on foot, without a single guide or servant.

August 6, 1909: I've just hacked a tapir to death with my machete. I have the sharpest machete on the planet. No joke, that's a fact. What, you don't believe me? It cuts through tapir flesh like a samurai sword cuts through marmalade. But it's probably sharper than them jap swords too. I give a fuck, anyway, whether or not you trust the inherent veracity of my claims. The point is this: I got a dead animal to cut up and eat and a half bottle of Scotch to pour down my gullet!

August 8, 1909: I think I took a wrong turn at that village yesterday. I asked some cannibals there which way would take me toward the Palace of Queen Threenfthra and I automatically assumed they were lying to me, so of course, after shooting them point blank with my Laird & Murphy 6 ö 5, I took the direction going exactly opposite to the one they'd suggested. Now I almost rather regret that choice. I'm just surrounded by silly white foamy rapids now, and that silly constant roar which I guess these kayak people just adore. But I adore the roar of the boar. Only maybe slightly less than that of the whore. Furthermore, what matters it now just after before? I'll take this chance to apologize for my meanderings of mind. Perhaps it was not wise to eat that strange mushroom from the jungle's floor......This incessant churning of river ravages me. I must get going and buy a map at some secret kiosk some such place or other. Pray for me, you heathens!!!

August 12 1909: I met a strange old Syrian man today under a steaming cataract of blood at a mountainside of alien vegetables. He gave me a fascinating book called “The Code of Sirozon”. This book has drastically altered my consciousness, so much so that I've developed an amazing psychic ability to navigate this wilderness. With certainty now, I am on the right path to the Palace of the Queen. And I've built a sort of laser spear using some crystals I found in a foggy canyon. I put these crystals into the end of a long branch of some half burnt tree that I found. Then I soaked the staff in a peculiar resin which flowed from a pile of stones under a vast prehistoric terrace of mild richness. Finally I tied it together with some glowing blue spider webs I also found in the foggy cavern near the the canyon of canyons in a land of canyons and deeper gorges than can be believed on this here planet. Of this Laser Spear, it can be said that it is a powerful device, but that I instinctively understood that I must charge it under bright moonlight, preferably a full moon, which was the situation last night. A feeling of supreme power surges through me when I use this laser spear. I have tested it on a few time on some random boulders and I hope you will forgive my sincere delight as I watched these huge rocks dissolve into a fine powder after being struck by the powerful pink beam. The only real drawback is that after 2 or 3 shots, it becomes very weak, not shooting at all, just giving off a subtle and softy rosy amber light. Still, if I charge it and use it only in dire necessity, I will be most happy to have it in my arsenal.
Now, let me take a moment to write a little more abou this ancient book I received. Upon first opening “The Code of Sirozon”, a peculiar mist seemed to swirl around me. The words on the page crept forward almost like Satanic insects, they seemed to levitate before my eyes and at the same time I thought I could hear a muffled chattering murmur of dragons or something, in a language I cannot hope to describe at all whatsoever. After my initial shock of the nature of this volume, I began to perceive actual words in the English language. These words are bizarre in the extreme and I will copy some sections here:
from page 19: “That withall causeth fine timber to squeal up into this there then of rapture's flotation. Canst whither thin milky vapors having blackest shape of eye came narrow. But seest thou how pendulum enformed twin turbo didst bake not blast the fourth vacuums of Quantum Thrust? So too true the cavern lit manifold aflame thereon, caress the sand of bridges whence time simmers in that implosive pulse. Make do with mine envoicings beyond horizon, for that which makest of mine foamy nebulous is therefore contained and optimum to that which alas is of might and broad balance. Still twixt be it conceived to employeth new pistons of stone for thine but the engine it Breathes in fair light of naked raptured effects!”
Of course, any savage can tell you this passage is nothing but rubbish. But to me, as an initiate of The Knights of Exxylcroth, I knew with not even the faintest shade of doubt that there was here in front of me a serious code of interdimensional grandeur. I have only read 32 of the 412 pages, but already something radical is taking place within me. And not just the thoughts in my brain, but all aspects of my being are going through some kind of intense esoteric transformation.

The Cathedral

Twenty Thousand Trumpets all scream,
The Terrible bricks in Alignment Glitter,
Theirs are Dimensions in holiest formation.
What sequence persists, forming Monumental Shadows
and Breathless sepulchral Views, One Hundred Times True!
Bony-eyed Gargoyles Teeming on Towers, vaulted and arched,
stretching for sunlight in the Optimum Gloom.
Here While our chanting Brothers resist the Poking Gentle
Spears from Above,
The Catacombs Whisper a soft stagnant Meadow of Sin.

Unknown Master of North Indian Percussion....Jiarwad Bhagavishnivad

Many people know of the glory of Indian music traditions. It's totally groovy, though, when one discovers that one knows nearly nothing about one of the most incredible percussionists of all time. The secret and silently legendary beyond human conception mastery and mystery of

JIARWAD BHAGAVISHNIVAD has left some scholars wondering: "WTF"

Virtually almost hardly nothing is not nearly known whatsoever about this truly enigmatic character of mythical proportions. I happened to find an manuscript a few years ago that gave me some idea about how far-out were the techniques of this dude. The book was only about 13,000 pages long but i read the first half in less than 8 years. By the time, I'd reached the 83rd chapter, I realized there was a cypher wedged into the strange narrative that was impressively unsolvable by machines and humans alike. I spent weeks studying the cryptic codes but it was obvious that the information was much more advanced than anything I would ever be able to comprehend. There was also that weird book chapter about Asad al Fahd and the connection between Persian musical proclivities and the intermingling of these styles with the north Indian traditions. Well, essentially Asad al Fahd and Jiarwad Bhagavishnivad are believed to have played a duet in the legendary "Hall of Records" located under the front paws of the Sphinx near Cairo in Egypt. This would have taken place in June or July of the year 1889, but there is no way for anyone to confirm whether or not this actually ever happened.

Anyway this book changed my life. I didn't want anyone else to find and read it and learn all of the amazing rhythmic secrets it contained so I burnt the son of a bitch a couple of months ago. If anyone knows anything at all about Jiarwad Bhagavishnivad, please tell me everything. And if you have or know anyone who has ever seen a photograph of the man, it is a holy imperative that you get me in touch with this.

SERVANTs of SIROZON....chapter 2

Suck the Dagger of Purple Fumes releasing. Where the Raging Magma Ejaculates

into the Air in Foaming Force and the Froth of the Vacuum exceeds and then keeps on exceeding. Hermes pretends to hear the Bricks in the Stars of the Rainbow Ruin or the Blue Quivering Spice in his Spells. And there again in the churning abandonment of all Reason, caressing the night winds on the Mountains of Mastery, there also is SIROZON in a cloak on a throne of Perpetual and Perfect Rapture never ending. In the Sacred Grove, where the chanting jewels and the cackling crystals of forever rejoice in their majesty, let the powders sublime and elegant elixirs supply us with power, endless dominant sparkling endless Superior Power of the Highest variety, enthroned in Sacred Eruptions of Perfection !!!

We seriously Throttle the Curve of Space on the backward-spinning Decaying Discs of Destiny. Solid was the door which melted before, when we seated ourselves in the Coach of the Boar, careening between the walls of the cave, majestic again in granite and blessed with the cool glaze of a flustered Ruby breeze. Whereby these in the So-Called Comet of Rotting Fleshes, where a Jackal slept or made its way, the billowing black coughing chokes the gray skies of Heaven.......

Servants of SIROZON....chapter 1

Infinite is the power of SIROZON and his power exceeds in the radiant glory of Everlasting Eternal EXXYLCROTH !!! The Sapphires in the Roaring Rare Forests of Infinite Insanity commence to expand in Cataclysmic vapors of Delirious Delight. All Spasmic wonder collides in Unison as the this hour of our power and the luscious porcelain vibrance of all telepathic magnitude brings up fresh flowing flames from the fountain of the the fast-floating future. The Delightful Dreams which Drip like Daggers from the Whispering Moons of Oblivion are always calling the Names of our Perfumed Mountain Engine. Then Thus those 40 and 11 and 15 true names afloweth evermore in Diamond Canopies Aglow, until seasons withering collapse in a Nebula of Visions almighty and glorious!! Toward naked stars or the serpents entwined, with the Emerald Carcass of the Hydra-Headed Hermaphro-Hawk Hovering within the swimming liquid Pearl of Squirming Destiny, Let those chanting rubies hiss their mellow plans for eternal perpetual everlasting infinite grandeur...

Fear not, my Lovely little children of rarest Exxylcroth. Fear not to tread through the smoking bricks in the Empire of Fire, for the feasting Falcons Fly Furiously at dawn in the Holy Wind of the Temple of our Masters of Endless SIROZON.....remain in the power and the charming vapor of those only our angels at dawn in the Horizon of Sirozon, holy nectars flow forever....And neither fear to taste the harmonies in Lightning writhing, in the sizzling musics of the Potion of Power within that sacred Dynasty of Heaven's Heaven in the Heavens Heaving Heavy Hymns into the Galaxies Forever!

Whence Thither Floweth Trapezoid? My Prettiest in the Mirror, Blowing Mythical Magic at my face....Come Gently toward the Cone. The Stars' Grace in Space !!!

THE CATHEDRAL

Twenty thousand trumpets Scream,
The Terrible Bricks in Alignment Glitter,
Theirs are Dimensions in Holiest Formation.
What sequence Persists forming Monumental Shadows
and Breathless Sepulchral Views, A hundred times true-
Bony-Eyed Gargoyles teeming on Towers,
Vaulted and Arched,
Stretching for Sunlight in the optimum gloom.
Here while our chanting brothers resist the poking
Gentle Spears from ABOVE, the catacombs Whisper
soft Stagnant meadows of Sin !!

(Unto Again) E J A C U L A !!!! ( or "Spiral Naked Bitches)

Dark Gods Stagger forth, Forgetting the Froth in the Basket of Blood.
What Left they behind or rather Wherefore burnest thou THINE Entrails in
Blonde Museum Veranda,
Unto the Pagan Subterfuge and thus UNTO Depths of an Island Soft,
This Hymnal ever-floating Pretends to drift within our bending
Mirrored Chambers unto the seething orGan beyond the great Steps
of Salvation's FIRES of Raging Trapezoid confections, unto which
Dazzlement performs its Dance in Spiced Holy Shadows of an
Elaborate Spewing Statue. The Radiant Blood !!
E J A C U L A !!!! E J A C U L A !!!!
Produce thy Starry Filth on the quivering WAFER,
That of Embracing Rapture on an VOLCANIC DISC !!!
Unto Which Spiral Naked Bitches