| Chapitre | yea/nay |
| 1. Power In The Valley pp. 1-3 | nay |
| 2. The Most Threats Ever There Were pp. 3-6 | YEA |
| 3. Demolishin pp. 6-7 | nay |
| 4. Ruminasiens Of The Fading pp. 8-9 | nay |
| 5. Invigoratien pp. 9-11 | nay |
| Indectic p. 12 | nay |
4 
But lo, only silence return-ed unto him o’er the field. For no Oltralite save Kyte hath even heard that vain & desprate overture—yea Kyte, who hath his panascopic ear extensiens, that he might know the whisprings of any who would make after privacy in his vicinity. Sooth, the tiny voice of Fool were like unto the boo’s of a ghost tot, lost in the breeze of a swishing wren. Nor were any Oltralites save Kyte yet risen from their straw, being night peoples, and impossibol wakers. Hap lay they dreaming of gristle and manhood, which mystiques were much upon their minds.
And Kyte said within himself, So, and wha? I can see. Wherefore saith he no more than, This is I, which all ready is known at a glance? A man saith, I am king here or there; and, I be this giant or that. But he say no more, wherein then lodgeth his gist in mentiening’t atall? Thinketh this one that he addresseth not the intelijent Oltralites here, but some ignorent knot of buttmulligans whose lives’ voids his braggadocio filleth with glamour & glee? Such impositional behemoth out there! These Stalactonitics, ever have they been no respecters of persons. What, then, care they today whether or no we should do them up with respect for their kingship or their giganticism? Hath this one spun right off his axel? As the roostor rideth the hen, so rideth oddity upon the op’ning of this day. And Kyte considerd to answer and say to Fool, I am busy; yet said he nought, for fear was playing its part.
And with a rap from his scepter Kyte wakened his wise man, who ope’d up his eyes and seen above him a Stalactite in a tree, and close-ed his eyes again shut. And Kyte told unto him all these ponderings. And that wise man keepen clampt his lids, and dresst down his King through tight lips, saying, Man, there be peevish eyes upon thee. Relapse down again upon thy sleepslab there, and hap those eyes and their proprietors go fall across some more engaging natien.
But Kyte were awash in wisdoms of his own; and he said, Well. Tho the foe him self be no respecter of persons, yet might he pin to his pride those glowing medals of respect pounded out by hammering hearts in the furnace of our fear. (And the wise man rollen his eyes, behind closed lids.)
Now Fool, hearing no answer, and no supplecation, and no worshipping, nor reference unto his swordery and womanry, was filled with a familier evil spirit. And he sought again the extended ear of Kyte, proclaiming, Henceforth shall it be said, that on this day in the
And he rockt back and rail-ed against the Oltralites, saying, My war machine loometh vast against your war gizmo. Be ware; for mine humer hath dippt, and I am kindld against you, inasmuch as mine humer hath gone dippers. And now that ye be up and around from your sleep, we will be over shortly to hoist sword against you, to assert bolo, to embed lance, to whop and crunch with sir cudgel. Our opium infantry, our donkey cavalry, our dry-lake navy all stand poisd, strung taut as Dagda’s harpstrings, razer-keen to thwang their havoc-tones through the guts of the vale, dissipating
5
all flesh that catcheth those killer vibes. Moreover, ye shall be lushly bombarded by my bombardiers up there in those erectile militery trees which we drag from skirmish to skirmish. Also be expecting the most vicious of our kitchenfolk, they brought afield to beat and mix you with their beaters and mixers. My neph-hew, too, will be in there breaking his bizness upon you. Know ye how to scream? Well: the art is on its way.
BUT. No whetted whizzstone may we fling ye-ways; neither may we to ply any manner of daemonics against you, nor pourings down of piss and boilage and burning oyl, nor layings on of deceit (also calld, chicanry), nor feral beastage, nor superior strategies. For these are things upon the which the Council of Beauties and Brains hath clappt a moratoriem, pending clarificasien of certain religious caca-wacum in our Code of Aggressian. But I say unto you, as many dogs of war as are kenneld upon our field barges, these may we launch off against you. (’Tis this, more than beating and mixing, that I cannot bear to watch. But of course, I enjoy to listen. For there is no crisper symphony than the ripping of an hundred shrieking throats.)
Now folx, we have an thousand specie of weapons that soon or later must be tried; and today seemeth ideal, as my nostrils swell for the smell of bloods blended and of ozone rushing outen the swordsplit air, and of dank clay gouge-ed up outen the ground and sweet grasses stompt over in the zany throes of strife—all, whilst the corpus of you the enemy is sliverd & slawd in kaleidoscopic panarama before me. Ye terrific clowns of tragedy, the Crimson Theatre is come upon!
And say, now. Have ye heard of the alchemyst Plewtonio, devil’s boy, with his nauseous metals that—so crow the futurists—might pfoof a mountain down to ash in one masterclap of uncreation? I have confiscated him away from old Two-Horn Babboo (Babboo, the Trick Triplesixer, calld Devil, whose dominien I have much usurp-ed), and have set Plewtonio to work for me. I send unto him lovers, and in my fortress grottos he laboreth after a bang. He giveth me promises of power: power to father more suns aburst than doth the eastern sky of morn; power to melt the bit offen the masterkey of life. More lovers and more promises, more lovers, more promises, more lovers, more promises, anyata, anyata, anyata. I love the promises; how much more then shall I love the power?
Naturally, the man is full of demons. I keep him neath the ground, about fifty millien rods from me, he there bagging produxion in vicious rooms, amid vicious roomers who pinch and prod to keep him fresh and precious to me. For ’tis more than lovers that I send unto Plewtonio; I send him chiefs and bosses and hardline monkey-punchers. Ever is he chieft, and bosst, and monkey-puncht towards the day of delivery. I want that flash & boom.
So annex unto your roster of conventionel terrors, ye sorrowd seeds of Oltral, the prostrating realisatian that I, with Plewtonio in my corner, might to have turnd up grinning here this very morning, all flush in lethal new profundity of deific scale, packing the wherewithal to unweave the cosmic tapestry in an instant, to make gape-gorges where ridges range-ed, and rat-vapor outen the like of you. Such extravaganza—mine to stage, in time—is just not yet jake to premiere. Not yet.
Hark, then. As it is, woe gon fall upon you as a rain of ruin from the skies, and your limbs gon flit like as sparrows about the field. And your heads gon bid adieu unto their bodies, and your
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bodies adieu unto their heads; for no head shall remain contiguous with its body, neither shall any body be sufferd to push on in its old associatien with its head. Your jolly trollops—I do so hope ye brung them out—gon dance the koochies to our peafowl feathers, gon know the ruby shine and rot-tooth leer of our besotted visages roundabout the celebration blazes. The dance they dance will be a shucking away of that fraxurd exoskelidin they calld their modesty, becoming in the whir of things a frenzied derision of their ridiculis former lifes with you. Glistning in febrile rebirth, emerge they will from the crumbld architexure of a defunct civility, into a saucy new milieu that we hearty recommend. ’Twill be a nectar to our narrowd gleaming eyes, watching them capitchilate without comment unto the logics of conquest. They shall swing their trade o’er to us full bore. Yea, but we will break their guild, I say, paying no industry scale, but compensing merit; ’tis in this way that I have helpt so many—so many jolly trollops—to fetch out those deeper buried talents indigenous to the lot.
Anyata, anyata, anyata; da, da, da, da, da: so jawd he right on and right on, there.
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