Pop Smellers and the Spine of the Earth - Part 4

“I woke up today and something was wrong.  I knew this from the moment that I opened my eyes.  Perhaps even before.  I think that ‘wrong’ is the wrong word to use, but what else could I say?  That it was incorrect?  Askew?  Different? 

Yes.  I woke up today and it was different.  I don’t know what was different, maybe me, maybe the room, or possibly my bed, perhaps even the entire world.  I couldn’t be sure though; it was too early in the day to leap to conclusions; at least not while I was still in bed.  I got up at this point, and that’s when it struck me; cold and hard, rather like a fish with a claw hammer…I realised that the world as I had previously perceived it was no longer valid, no longer solid…no longer real.  I had awoken and was no longer absorbed in this supposedly ‘real’ sphere; I could indulge no more in petty emotional or intellectual games; I could not even trick myself with the idea of the material world.  I could quite easily see my dressing table in the corner of the bedroom but it shone with an intensity that I had previously been unaware of, and yet in the same instant of seeing the full glory within this piece of wooden furniture, I was also able to see through its alleged ‘realness’ (though how a dressing table could allege its own existence, I could not grasp).”

The pit of my stomach had fallen like an elevator down a shaft.  My mouth was dry like a camels’ bum-hole.  I seemed to throb all over.  I finished my pint and hurried to the bar to get another drink.  I was shaking and disjointed.  I ordered a brandy, paid for it and returned to my table and continued to read. What the fuck was wrong with me?

“It was, in essence, the sum of our entire existence, yet it was all trickery and illusion.  For all these years I had been duped by an inanimate object.  The rage flared inside me.  I wanted to hurt the dresser, as it had hurt me.  I wanted to destroy it for humiliating me for so long; and I wasn’t even aware of it!  It made me sick.  It was typical of that kind of furniture, perceiving itself to be superior, with its fine varnish and wonderful burnished walnut grain.  The harsh, grinding humour of the dresser burrowed deep into my psyche.  It was just too degrading.

My anger was suddenly replaced by a profound sense of grief and sadness.  I began to weep.  It was just so unfair!  I had done nothing to deserve such torment.  Especially from a piece of mere carpentry.  Oh, the injustice of it all!  Then came the terror; a sweeping sensation that tore through the core of my very being; leaving my body empty and shaking.”

I knew where this cat was at.  I too had been mocked by furniture on several occasions.  It was one of the reasons why I avoided those furniture superstores that are always advertising on the telly.  I drank a deep draught of the brandy, feeling its warmth spread through my belly.  I looked around, noticing that the bar had become crowded, and that a noisy chatter filled the air, smoke wafted around me, and I realised that I hadn’t had a cigarette for some time. I drew one from the packet and rummaged about in my coat for a light. I found an old box of matches and struck one, inhaling deep and settling back into my chair. The brandy was doing its work and the cigarette was fine. I noticed it was dark outside and realised that I should be getting home to Audrey. My loins stirred instantly, and for a brief moment I was awash with pornographic images of myself and wifey. But I pushed them aside so that I might finish this extraordinary communication from Zagley. I read on. “Devoid of reason; I had been on the verge of destroying an innocent dresser, it had been a gift from my mother too. What was happening to me? It seemed as if I had no concept of anything – or rather; no thing – no ability to distinguish between good furniture and bad.

But it didn’t seem to matter because the way I felt was once again changing, the fear dropped away and was replaced by the most uplifting and invigorating feelings. They pulsed. They flowed. They cascaded through the very core of my being. I was totally joyous, I was enlightened, and this I deduced, was due to the sight that I beheld. It was the sight of my carpet.

Wondrous swirls and whorls of colour, all manner of hues, tones and- did my senses deceive me? Were there not tastes and flavours within my carpet? I could taste the beauty, I could see the many flavours that my carpet gave off. Rich reds merged with stunning blues, golds and silvers throbbed and spun, throwing up the most bizarre yet delicious flavours. Somehow it was all too much, too erotic, and I began to masturbate.

I was pulling on myself, touching, tugging, I was being swept upwards on an erotic carpet of colour that was beyond all description. I could feel my approaching orgasm; a tightening in my stomach and a surge from the very core of my being. My mouth was being stimulated by the vast array of tastes thrown off by the carpet, my eyes drunk from the constantly charging warp and weft. I was on the edge, the cliff top, the very moment before spilling my seed. But that all ceased immediately when I caught a movement from the corner of the room and realised that I was not alone.

I turned around and found myself face to face with the most insane looking thing that I had ever had the misfortune to lay eyes upon. Coupled with the fact that I still held my now rapidly wilting penis in my hand, it was not a good moment. In fact, I would go as far as to say the situation was very bad indeed. The creature before me was obviously human, or at the very least sub-human; it was hunched over and its hair was bedraggled, its eyes were wild black holes, staring into me. I was filled with a mixture of curiosity and revulsion. As I put my cock awkwardly back into my pants, I realised that oddly enough the monstrosity also had what I presumed to be its penis out and it too was attempting to stuff it away. It was at this point that it dawned on me that I had merely been observing myself in the full length mirror on my wardrobe door. Another piece of sly furniture behaviour, and to think that i had been curious yet revolted by myself! Oh! The degradation! The humiliation! It was too much. Why was this happening to me? But it was too late, I had already begun the descent into tortuous self-reflection, despite having no mind with which to process the analysis of ‘me’. No mind.

No mind! That was it! This was the reason for my strange sensations, the reason why I leapt from one feeling to the next without rest. I had no mind and therefore could no longer be real. I did not exist. It was all trickery and illusion. But how could I grasp not the concept of having no mind without actually having one? I didn’t want to think about that. I went out into the street in a vain attempt to be real. A bad mistake.”

I stopped reading for a moment. I too, was assailed by a strange sensation. My brandy was gone and I needed another drink but my legs felt like jelly. I braced myself and got to the bar without collapsing in a blubbery heap. I bought a pint of lager and managed the return journey to the table. Gulping half the pint down immediately, I paused briefly to light another cigarette with shaking hands. What the fuck was wrong with me? I looked at the stack of papers on the table. There were a couple of pages left before I’d finished this ‘letter’. I pushed on. “If nothing was real in my room, everything outside was even less real. If that’s possible. The pavement buckled and rippled like a grey ocean – I had to concentrate with all my will power just to stay upright – yet all around me people were going about their business as if nothing was wrong. The very sky was drawn to a single point as if it were a vast billowing sail suspended by an unseen hand, and all around me buildings towered upward, leaning at such obscene angles that I could not understand why they did not come crashing down upon me. And the noise! It whirred and hummed and shrieked like monstrous gears grinding together; crunching, static like. It was driving me insane.

Perhaps this was what had happened to me? I had awoken this morning and had become completely mad? Surely it was the only possible explanation? I was once again gripped by a dreadful sense of unease, the feelings of utmost terror overwhelmed me, coupled with the noise; I fell to me knees, covering my ears with my hands and shutting my eyes tight against the world, drifting into a black void that was once my mind.

Drifting backwards.

Back.

Blackness.

Silence.

Black.

Nothing.

Silence. The original state.

Indeed! That was a strange one. To perceive oneself as mad! What contradiction! What folly! But what now? To experience great joy? To suffer? But what? For what? For all is transitory. No thing is real for me for all is real to me. Just to see, just to be, for a day, a lifetime, to be someone else, something else.

Perhaps tomorrow I will be a clock. Or a hamburger.

Anything to break up the monotony of absolute divinity.

God, I hate being God.

It’s so boring.

And man thinks he’s got it bad...as the alleged ‘Supreme Being’, the one and only ultimate deity (HA!), I am alone. Who can I pray to? I get bored and that’s why I invented man.  A bit of amusement. I get to experience myself subjectively, see the world through the eyes of others.

But it always comes back to zero. Back here again.

You can only trick yourself for so long.

So here I am again.”

I sat back in the chair, everything in the pub seemed ultra-loud, ultra-garish. The music pounded and the people laughed but beneath it all I perceived a very deep fear and an even deeper sadness. I had to get out. I went home to Audrey.

Pop Smellers and the Spine of the Earth - Part 3

Pop Smellers and the Spine of the Earth
Part 3

A rather harassed looking man stepped out of the lift, and after glancing around the lobby, headed over to where I was sitting. He wore a white shirt with thin blue lines running vertically up (and strangely enough; down) the front, yet the sleeves and back of the garment were punctuated with horizontal stripes. The collar was a darker blue, and the buttons were red. He wore a tie of yellow; it was tied with a fat knot, and was several shades lighter than his trousers, which, by the way, were perfectly ironed. I reckoned that one could quite easily cut oneself on the creases. Red socks peeped out from dark burgundy shoes; perhaps leather; perhaps not. I could not be sure from where I sat. Having assessed his fashion sense, I awaited his arrival; I noted that apart from being a walking colour explosion, he was probably gay for he walked with a grace that the average heterosexual male was incapable of. He half-minced, half-floated down the steps to the seating area where I was still reading the latest news on meat prices and restaurant reviews. I pretended that I hadn’t noticed him but I suspected he was aware of this. He now stood in front of me and was clearing his throat, preparing to speak. I beat him to it. “Do you like meat?” His eyes lit up and for a split second lust registered in his eyes. I was correct about his gay-ness. His gaze dropped to the magazine and he realised I was referring to animal flesh, not man-sex. He was disappointed and he tried to hide it, replying in a quavering voice that he didn’t eat meat and was strictly a soy-bean sausage kind of a guy. “But meat is good; all soft and juicy. Bacon. Chops. Come on! Surely you must like some kind of meat?” Innuendo is good.
“No. I’m a vegetarian.” Looking at him, this was easy to believe. He was thin and pasty looking; his appearance bordered on that of a terminally ill cancer patient. Even if I was gay, I don’t think I’d have banged this fellow.
“Why? Moral, religious, or health?”
“I beg your pardon?” He was confused. Confusion is good.
“Are you a vegetarian for moral, religious or health reasons?”
“Oh, I see. None. I just don’t like the taste.”
“What?!” I exclaimed. This made him even more uncomfortable, and I took a perverse pleasure in this because I could tell what was coming next. “How can you not like the flesh of the beasts? Pig. Cow. Deer. Chicken. What about chicken?”
“What do you mean; chicken? I’m a vegetarian. I don’t eat meat. Full stop. That’s it. No meat. Do you get it?!” He was upset now. Upset is good. Confused and upset are good. His face was pink and sweaty. For the final assault I stood up, and we were face to face, even though he was a good few inches shorter than myself. “But some vegetarians eat chicken. They don’t eat red meat but they love a bit of chicken. Some even eat fish…can you believe that?”
He visibly buckled with a quiet “Oh…”
“So you do eat fish then?”
“Yes.” His reply was but a whisper.
I pushed home my advantage and asked “Since when have fish been considered vegetables?”
“I suppose they haven’t.”, and as an after thought he added “Ever.”.
“Well, some Buddhists consider fish to be sea vegetables, and I’ve even heard of some Buddhists calling different meats by the names of vegetables, just so they can appear pious and eat the poor little meat-beasts. You might want to think about calling ‘beef’ something else; how about ‘eggplant’? You can go into a steak house and order a steak but call it an aubergine. Or maybe order a piece of cod but call it a sea vegetable? You can use that excuse next time someone gets your goat about the whole fish/vegetarian issue.” He looked at me with gratitude.
“Thank you.” he whispered. “Can I suck your cock?”
“No.”
He looked as if he’d just run a marathon and was all shaky and trembling.
“Sit down. Give me my letter. Get yourself together and then go back upstairs and have a nice herbal tea. I’d recommend Lavender & Cactus Fat.”
He sunk into the chair I’d previously occupied and was about to give me the letter he’d been carrying; he was staring off into space when his gaze returned to me. As he passed me the envelope, he asked limply “You are Pop Smellers?”
I took the letter and replied “Of course.”
Then I walked out. It would have been a very stylish exit but then I returned to collect my coat. Then I walked out again; into the cold, hard rain.
It was nice.
I headed for the last bastion of reason and civility; the nearest pub.
The glass panelled doors swung open with a crash, heavy wood on wood, wall on door, and door on wall. It was quiet in the bar and there were few drinkers left at this time of day. One of the reasons that I love to frequent drinking establishments at this particular hour of the day is that half past two is a mysterious time. It’s generally too late for your average lunch-time crowd but too early for the after work boozers, so it’s only the serious drinker, or flexi-time fellow, that lurks over his, or her, alcoholic refreshment. I cast a quick eye around the place, on the off chance of some-one that I knew being there, but as luck may, or may not have it, I recognised no-one. Stepping inside the joint, I gave myself a brisk dog-like shake to remove excess moisture and flung my coat over a chair at a vacant table, and then I headed to the bar for a stiff drink.
The bar, much like the pub itself, was a long, solid affair of wood and steel; it reminded me of the sad fact that many of our traditional imbibing emporiums have become victim to the insane designs of fashionable interiors that, and I quote “…cater to the younger market yet reflect that indescribable atmosphere of the traditional pub.”. I had been involved with several pub ventures over the years, and I always found that the words ‘conceptual’ and ‘pub’ went together as well as ‘fart’ and ‘packed dinner table with royalty’. Having had experience with both, I long ago decided to withdraw from the whole thing; both farting within whiffing distance of the Queen (or is that The Queen?) and being involved, in a business sense, with pubs. In almost all my involvement with pubs, and indeed life itself, I have found that being served is better than serving. There’s lesson in there, but I’m buggered if I can be bothered to find it.
“Hello” I said to the barman. He was agog. Obviously he was not used to being greeted prior to having an order placed within his capable hands.
“Hello” he replied, and then he followed up with “What can I get you?” entwined in a rather false smile. Recalling my last encounter with the poof, and how mean I had been, I decided not to abuse my position. Ooer! Double entendres; how I love them. I managed to order a pint of Witchspotter Ale without being sarcastic and then I retreated to my table and the mysterious letter. Actually, it was not that mysterious because; firstly I knew that Mr Zagley’s letter would say very little that I could understand, and secondly; I knew he would not meet me today because he’d previously sent me letters via a slinking poofter when he’d been unable to meet me. In fact, he’d done this five times before but he always paid me, regardless of whether I met with him or not. I liked that. Thirdly, and finally, I am often subject to terrible fits of outrageous madness that leave me questioning, and thus confirming my lack of, sanity. Perhaps this is due to the excesses of drug taking in my youth. I don’t know.
But anyway…
The letter, like its brothers & sisters, was in a sealed yellow envelope, with my name typed exactly in the centre. No mailing address, no interesting details for me to use my detective skills on. Nothing. I knew it would state the same business as all the previous ones;
Dear Mr Smellers,
Can’t meet today but must talk to you about a very interesting job. Will call soon. Yours Mr Zagley.
And that would be it. However, upon opening the letter, I discovered that I was wrong…very wrong…very, very wrong.
The pages inside had obviously been torn from a journal of some sort, and the writing was erratic, as if written in a hurry:

Pop Smellers and the Spine of the Earth - Part 2

Pop Smellers and the Spine of the Earth
Part 2

I caught the train into town and got off near Flotsam Port Road; I’d often worked around here before I’d gotten into the ‘dick’ business, so I headed down a piss soaked back alley to avoid the crowds and tourists in their retarded, yet expensive, plastic macs. It had stated to rain whilst I was on the train but now it was pissing down. I pulled my collar up and hunched my shoulders against the downward driven rain. It really was quite ineffective but it put me in my detective frame of mind so that was good. Split rubbish bags spewed forth a medley of old food packets, vegetable peelings and rags across my path, and I danced nimbly between week old puddles of vomit. My nose was assailed by a multitude of foul stenches and when I looked up, I could see dirty rain water pouring from the overflows of the buildings on either side of me. These facades were the rear entrances to the clubs and restaurants on the main drag, they were used mainly for deliveries and for smuggling in B Grade celebrities who felt violated by the crowds. Like people, these buildings were all neon and glitter on the public side but the rear told a different story. It is for this exact reason that I took up the fine art of ‘Ass-Studies’ – a practice not dissimilar to phrenology but it substitutes asses for skulls. There’s no scientific basis in it, but it is another way to get my jollies. Having worked in a number of restaurants, I can tell you that what you see up front is nothing like what is going on out back. Anyway, I digress. The alley abruptly ended, and I emerged from the gloom onto a quiet side street, ducking across the road and dodging traffic, until I entered through the glass doors, and found myself in the reception area of Zagley & Chepstowe, Quality Purveyors Inc.
I shook myself off, leaving pools of water on the salmon pink marble floor, and I removed my dripping overcoat whilst casting my eye around the offices. Soft lighting accentuated the small palms and potted plants that were strategically placed around the foyer. Huge leather chairs were geometrically positioned around a squat glass table, which had several general interest magazines and catalogues upon it. It seemed as if the decorator had used a global positioning system on everything, for nothing was out of place. A deep red carpet led up a small flight of wide steps leading to the lift area. It was all so typical, like every other office block in the surrounding streets. Looking back through the plate glass windows I could see that the weather had continued its downward spiral and now it was really pissing it down. The sky had turned a furious black colour and passing cars had switched their headlights on. Actually, this was not strictly true; the drivers of the said cars had done this, not the vehicles themselves but you can see what I’m getting at.
Rain slicked the pavement and if I hadn’t known that it was only two o’clock, I would have sworn that it was coming on for at least five. My appointment with Mr Zagley wasn’t for another fifteen minutes so I took a seat and picked up a selection of reading material; Steak Lovers Monthly caught my eye and I began to peruse a very interesting article on the pros and cons of grain feeding versus cattle spine and brain compound ground up and fed back to other cows. Amazing. Apparently grain is better for cows than cows all minced up and fed back to other cows. Who would have believed it?! I happened to glance up at a clock near the elevators just as one arrived at the ground. Its doors hissed open in near silence; apart from the slightest squeak of rubber and a subdued ‘ping’ from a bell hidden somewhere. It was just before ten past two.

Pop Smellers and the Spine of the Earth - Part 1

Part 1

The name’s Smellers. Pop Smellers. And I’m here to tell you how it is. Actually, I’m here to tell you how it isn’t, because due to the very nature of things, telling you how it is would be impossible and downright dangerous. I’m a private dick but my wife would say otherwise, however, Audrey is prone to fits of violence and insanity so you can’t always take her word on things. As I write this, she is sitting across from me, lounging on a battered floral patterned armchair, and I must say that she looks ravishing: curves in all the right places; energetic; and long dark hair (which I’m sure will be a different colour tomorrow) framing her beautiful, beautiful face. I must stop describing her now, or I shall become far too aroused, and that would be a fruitless endeavour, for in less than five minutes I must leave the house to meet my latest client: the elusive Mr Spag Zagley.
I use the word ‘elusive’ but Zagley is only so when it suits him. He always shows up for ‘client liaisons’ but only if he has arranged them; if I attempt to contact him then I must leave a message after the tone, and may the Gods forgive me if I ever turned up at his offices without first calling his secretary and making an appointment. Mr Zagley is of Eastern European descent, and there is an almost grey pallor to his oily skin. He dresses impeccably in traditional three-piece suits, which he combines with hand stitched silk shirts. The overall effect of the well-dressed gentleman is ruined by his compulsion for cheap and garish ties, which I presume he purchases from discount stores. This is the only explanation I can come up with because at our last ‘client liaison’ (God! I hate that wanky term) he arrived in a dark blue pin striped suit, white shirt, and hideous glittery green tie. Why he chooses these revolting accessories; I do not know. In comparison, his choice of shoe is flawless, and I would estimate that he spends at least a couple of hundred dollars on each pair. I think that anyone who spends that much on footwear must have something wrong with their brain. This belief has caused many an argument between Audrey and I.
I was stirred from my shoe ponderings by my darling wife’s enquiries as to whether or not I would be partaking in a pipe of fine hashish before my meeting with Mr Zagley.
I really shouldn’t.
But I did, and very nice it was too.
I left the house in a haze of cotton wool comfort that one can only achieve through the use of the highest quality opiates, or through prolonged and profound meditations on ancient universal truths. Sadly, I rarely have the time for extended periods of yoga so nowadays a quick pipe and a think must often suffice. I usually find new and interesting perspectives on problems after engaging in intense drug use, but alas; my consumption of illicit substances has declined recently due to the lack of quality goods and pleasant service providers. The problem with most drug
dealers is that they are usually complete and utter fuckwits. They start out all groovy and civilised but over time they devolve into dodgy, money hungry creatures of the night. Many moons ago, when I was, as the young folk say “on the scene”, I dealt in a wide variety of substances including dope, coke, pills, and powdered tiger claw, and I like to believe that I was a fair and honest trader, both kind and flexible with my customers. This line of work brought me into contact with some of the more nefarious characters that populate the drug world, and I often found these people to have an attitude of extreme greed coupled with an intense desire to rip off any one who they came into contact with. Not the best attitude to have when one is, in
essence, a businessman, albeit a merchant of narcotics. I always considered myself most fortunate that I was rarely ripped off, and the quality of my wares was generally of a very high standard. However, my days of mass consumption have eased off of late, and may or may not be resumed. It’s impossible to tell but I must admit that I do get the urge for a really good session every now and then. As I left the house, I noticed that it was rather cool outside so I wrapped my overcoat around my broad chest; I felt rather soft and lax after the dope, and my attention was drawn briefly to my physical body. I am neither overweight nor undernourished; to quote Goldilocks “Pop’s just right.” I like my size and carry just a couple of extra pounds because one never knows when one is going to have to go without food, or for how long. To be whippet-like is to invite disaster. This attitude stems from my days as a poor student and dole bludger; I would often find myself in the difficult position of only having enough money to purchase food or alcohol.
Alcohol always won. In those days, I would often take large quantities of amphetamine so that I could save money by not buying food, however, this nice idea never worked simply because the money I saved from not buying food always ended up being used (I say used for it was never wasted) on cigarettes and fizzy pop lager. Fags and booze are brother and sister to speed. How I love to drink and smoke when I’m speeding off my nut. I would compare these joys to the fine piece of cheese that may accompany an excellent bottle of wine, or the delicious chocolate
that compliments fine pot. Ah! The dreamy recollections of youth! I did some crazy stuff back then in the mists of time. Sadly there are large portions of my past that are black holes to me; my memory is really quite shot to fuck – possibly as a result of my drug use but possibly not. I’m not one to cast aspersions...especially on myself.