Dem Bourgeois Adventurers Go Hero by R.K.Galvez

1: in which VeeCee and Von RapArd get dropped by their rich benefactors.

Imagine this [if you can, as I have no imagination]: a large house, in the countryside, in the middle of nowhere. It's mock-Tudor mixed with some Art Deco Ant+Dec thingies... and the bricks looked like bricks. In this house, there are many rooms, richly furnished to the best standards of all known housing programmes[I have not verified this with any agents, though...]. In this abode, to amuse themselves amongst the dull finery, we see VeeCee, the seer, and his acquaintance - the part-time lyrical assassin and conceptual neurologist - Von RapArd. They have been living on scrambled eggs for over a decade - occasionally they get some fine fungi to amuse their limited palettes. They, also, consumed berries from a bush. They do not know what this bush is, but the berries grow plentifully. The birds consumed them, and they flew away and came back for more - so they must be fine for consumption. VeeCee and VonRapArd had lost their positions as resident subversives; they were to re-apply as mutated subterranean extra-terrestrial cleaners. It was where the contract was king. This was the age they were in, despite pleading to their benefactors - the time was against it; the wave of change began. They needed to move on.

1[a]

Technical-wordy-bit:[in an attempt to be "with it" and trendily post[x10]-modern I have included this awful compromised section. I resisted the urges, but my editor, Mr Stufford-Smithee, pressed me to release it. he made me feel bad, as he was working with a subversive bisexual Afghan creative who is undergoing a sex-change, while trying to remain a fervant jihadist. It is, also, there to appease all politically correct portents of discontent from our reactionary mainstream culture]. Beware: the[] is occasionally schizophrenic - in a po[ish]-mo[ish] way. Here is what VeeCee and Von RapArd look like and a bit of what is called "back-story":

1[b]

VeeCee was born in [classified] he lived for some time in [classified], and likes to consider his heavily religious family as "normal". VeeCee's father was a pre/post-life-coach preacher, who preached to bog-standard life-coaches all over the world. He united them all. VeeCee received a private education and no-one liked him for all the nepotism within his family and their "circle" of protected friends. Micro-protectionism was all the rage[some things never change]. Culpepper was resurrected for them, personally, as was Mssrs Hendrix, Davis and Ray Vaughn for the hoe-downs and other barn dances. But they didn't know much at the time - being still pre-modernized at that time. It was tough, but VeeCee's Uncle, Corny, got him a easy job. It was through this boring job - a sinecure of such - dealing supposed occultist finery and the multiverse's displaced secrets [The Axe Of Truth, The Mace Of Doom, The Key Of Crystalline Eternity and The Sword Of Adonai, to name but a few]; he met the noblesse-de-robe, Von RapArd. They realized they were both lost, useless, creatives - this union had sealed their fates together. They would rebel and instead of collecting this intergalactic trans-dimensional bric-a-brac, they would create it - for whoever.

Only if they had an idea where to start!

Some points to remember [that might be useful, but they're probably not]:

*Practice makes perfect - negative.

*Good ideas always come back to you - negative.

*Keep It Real - a positive negative for all to suffer under.

*The stars do not align the way you ever want them to - who cares now?

*Trendy images of the time are always misleading - you are crazy if you think a sexed-up vampire will rescue you from bullies, or you see rabbits in post-apocalyptic visions, or hear the sea. Aliens are choosy - they only abduct people who have been abducted before. And if a God talks to you directly in your own language. Or if a God makes love to you in your sleep[this happens to VeeCee regularly - God-rape is not a crime, as Mary will clarify].

1[c]

Von RapArd's family had been in the clutches of a notorious barber-surgeon-gang-boss, from Ulan-Bator, and they had to sell their souls to various demons-venturers to get out of such awful ruin [J.C famously spake 'Give It Away' - or was it R.H.C.P?]... In these mutiply-post-modernized times, Von RapArd was essentially an impoverished Vaudeville performer. His "arts" were suspect, but his commitment was never quashed by other established elites - more powerful now than his own. It was a very competitive world, as always, back then. Von RapArd struggled on, despite his huge trust fund. It was tricky[but getting the right time to rock and rhyme gripped had him.] He became a "beat-pire" [the term is part of an awful counter-culture movement that remains very nihilistic, but retains no ideas of it's own. It's cosmic stance was to keep all triggers happy; it remains a magnificent failure, post-1974] and his Epicurean urges flowed through his bloodless body. He had always wanted to look like The Geek from Sixteen Candles, Geoffrey Chaucer, or Blacula. Von RapArd opted for a mixture of all three. His pale skin, bald head, with optional hairpieces and flat cap, made him look severe. But he was warm inside. Von RapArd had achieved maximum reality status now and that was fine: existence may be awful, but it was sure better to exist than to not exist at all. Ever.

1[d]

VeeCee had the same idea - and though they constantly argued - they pretty much agreed on everything. Von RapArd's meagre trust fund provided all necessary expenses, though they had to be frugal with their "creative" pursuits[Thee Idol Pops]. The time was never right - as always - and they always seemed to be running out of time. They spent sometime in a retreat in Arras, before moving to Arles, then back to Paris after sojourns in Madrid and Lisbon. They decided London might offer some solace, but were disappointed in the sequences of time there - it kept regurgitating itself. But cultureless vacuums tended to do that - they worked in cycles. It was easier for them and their old war economies. They stuck with London for a while, before the countryside spaces beckoned them again. City life was melancholic and dirty. So was the countryside, but it was a superior, more sterilized, dirt that won them over[infecting them slowly, evading the Blood Brain Barrier, lodging in the fatty tissues and organs]. All was fine- they just got on with it.

1[e]

VeeCee's journal, Antwerp, January, 1886.

If I was better with compooters [e.g.technical stuff] and other techy-arty things, I would've lavished you with words from my scrap-book. Some of these word-images may offend - and obviously, offending annoys me, so I try to offend no-one - as that's mildly offensive to some people. I destroyed all my photos in an instant rage, as I had offended myself. Even though my very existence causes instant offence to many, it remains the way of the world as always. I attempted to draw pictures in my childish scrawl [as I am no artist, I struggle to scribe also]; but this has been done before by other such radicals like the American-German, Veonntug, in the 1920s [finding "experience" in Dresden, which garnered exposure in the 1960s and 1970s, before going loco in the 1980s]. It went well, as more pieces of Time's tapestry was completed.

With a[firm] hand shake,

*******

1[f]

The real bit regarding the criminal records of VeeCee and Von RapArd: periodically cautioned for existing: 1BC,11BC,20AD, 28AD, 49AD, 67AD, 97AD, 140AD,200AD, 250AD, 300AD, [sabbaticals on Venus, Saturn Charon and in Zeta Reticuli are not on record during this period. However, some new evidence is being gathered from past cases.] 1948, 1957, 1969, 1977, 1981, 1995. 2001, 2004, 2015 and after another period of astral-meanderings, another set of future-cautions in 4589AD. Also, detained under new super-secret legislation [R.I.Psecs. 1234567&8] for being magical transient children out of time and for being time out of mind - and for general bad time-keeping[n.b. latecomers are not admitted].

1[g]

The academic bit [intended for Brownites]: in the annals of Madrid and Croydon, there is a recorded response from an anonymous, bitter, relative, now they've both been disinherited:

THEY DIDN'T GET THE JOBS! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA![repeat chorus;nothing new, though think of the sales....]

Thus endeth parteth ye olde back[e] story[zzzz], thus began an almost observant account of fragmented sequence[s] of events in various time-spaces. There was no need to report[obs.ops.activated]...

2: in which VeeCee and Von RapArd assess "The Situation", while still sponging off various alternative extra-terrestial agencies.

This large-ish house used to be a space-ship of some kind. It was a primitive attempt of course. Both of these so-called "creatives" did not realize the technology at their disposal. They left it alone. The air was full of things, weird sciencey things, that no one person can really, truly, understand. The Great Spirit Of Life-Force was swabbing our collective inter-planetary shaft to quell the eternal universal boredom.

These disturbances made our weird duo's bodies ache - the pus in their minds remained; but they had no dirty thoughts - they were not in the Dirty City[the Curious Cities remained nearby]. They loved the countryside. Space was just a matter of perspective[like all things - everyone is In Search Of Space]. Spaces were in huge demand and short supply; they were getting harder to find - particularly for these two dormant creatives. Who wanted to keep re-living the same bit of time? Society constantly rejected them both, they were not recognized and were hated by the bland establishment of creativity within society. They had become reclusive, turning within themselves. This continued for sometime - maybe eons. And, despite Von RapArd's persistent networking - and some minor chances to expose himself - they were both generally ignored. Knowledge had not gone pop for them yet.

Here's what had popped[in no real order...] Near the large house was a cafe called Tamourin. It was different. It was nothing special - but everyone knew of it. It was here ideas were formed or died. the idea grave was massive here - the sheer brain count dedly. no-one tried to think, repressing their thoughst with vile food and other substances. It was the usual route for VeeCee and Von RapArd. After several courses, it went all slow. Time was covered in some form of fattened-up air. It was being time-fried, atmospherically speaking. The clientele had turned into excreable, mutated, pus-people. Too much time had passed for a long time now . This made VeeCee realize that he still loved all things human and life.

VeeCee prophetically declared:

"It's better to have a gay life of it than commit suicide"

Von RapArd was touched[not for the very first time, but in a long time] he, accidentally, read VeeCee's mind. They would start a universalist new religion together. He thought of other failed attempts like The Branch Divinians, The Moonies, The Cult Of The Supreme Being. It wouldn't do now. They needed new forms, new fashions. Maybe even pastel colours. You never saw Jesus in pedal-pushers - why not? Tonnes of topical questions, like these, pushed through his tiny brain-pustule. It was beautiful; such foolish magnifcence in such dire times.VeeCee was relieved to be thinking [according to some great commentators it's a lot like neurological diarrhoea]. Von RapArd was already composing awful verses for this new religion that VeeCee had called ONEISM [VeeCee would later simplify it to the ISM]. Von RapArd wanted to change the name and call it something more clever for a dumb market. But he couldn't think of anything...

The dialogue went like[and was recorded and monitored for performance purposes]:

Scene One: A Scene In The Tamourin Establishment.

VeeCee and Von RapArd, seated.
Umm?

VeeCee

Von Rap Ard

[Repeat for however long you want.]

This went on for a long time - days, possibly just a few hours, who knows?[as Mr Hendrix reminded them:doodoodoodooduhduhdoodoo...]. It went quickly though - as time always flies. Von RapArd tested his vocal trickery.[Para-suspension relief for the inner mounting soul-flame.]

Here are his preparations. Note: Von RapArd was unable to post[loadupload] his 'Behind-The-Scenes' video online[he has no-0- friends online].

Ingredients[optional]

10.5 ml[oh, yes - YES!...No?...],

50ml[whatever you want, whatever you desire, whatever you might need...],

4oz[miscellaneous passive/aggressive optimistic tendencies in cynical amounts; be optmistically negative. Refuse to keep feeling down.]

Yet more miscellaneous emotions in liberal amounts....

Fruit,

Cherry Brandy,

Vermouth,

Concerta,

Peas,

Peanut Butter,

Port,

Yeast Extract,

Lentils,

Tofu,

E.F.A.

Dubonnet,

Cheese,

Thimerosol

Crumpets,

Gin,

Vegan-friendly bacon,

Trumpets,

Real ale,

Pitta bread,

Bleach,

Horse-radishes.

Arsenic,

Supplements[don't forget getting B-12 tested!]

Asparagus,

A First Aid kit[complete with all known substances],

Spam,

More Mushrooms.

Step one:

Avoid F & L in your time now. Hide the repeat prescription[You know, I know, You know, I -] . Relaxchillaxative yourself up...Cook off the residual liquid, if water is in the pan to lubricate it. Make sure you add the above ingredients, then wait for it to turn to liquid-mould.

Step two:

Now try not to burn it; add everything else[even things you might forget and do not even need] to the pan. STIR. And take all various fruits, and just have a banquet - make sure you're not too gone cooking it all, or you may find yourself really out of it.[IT] Von RapArd had this problem and his creativity stems [UP] from such foul recipes.

The Spittle of Von RapArd:

ON D STREET,DONT EAT ME FEET, DONT SHIT OUT BEETS, FOOKAR, U CANT SHIT IN D STREET, AINT GOOD IF U NEED2HIT UR FEET; I GOT SHIT BUT IT AINT SHIT-SHIT, IT REAL SHIT,2SHIT UP TINGS4DSHIT -

It went on and on - something like that; and he wanted to work in some sort of improvised xylophone instrumental part into it [don't ask how - he couldn't do it live anyway! And eventually lost the lyrics in 1978.] But it turned into a fine evening, they were in the Hacienda, it wasn't bad. Yuppie rave apartment party. It was cheap - it must've been losing so much money; the walls were bleeding various currencies, but who cares when times are shit anyway? Eventually 1987 became 1977 again.It was a redux thing, good for the future. They came back to life here, and went to CBGBs[where's it gone too?]. No-one cared about "The Cool-Thing" too seriously, so it was fine. Hype goes through times - sometimes a real good place can vanish when the hype gets carried away and reputation takes over and people think everything's useless [don't believe...don't believe...]. Back in London, they waded through a newly refurbed Scala, it wasn't the same, but it was similar - it didn't make sense...that was the point these days, of course. The Astoria was their saviour, as usual [it fell during The Great Siege of Old Pastoral London in 08]. It became 1997. Everything was new and hyped-up. hope was high, the come down was inevitable. They were watching Ash; it was getting sweaty. Girlschool were about to come on, tomorrow, whenever; they thought they'd stick around; it was 200- , so it was not impossible, though never the same. They wouldn't have minded catching De La Soul, if time permitted. They had once hoped that the Tribe would reform. But it was a time of hardship - everything was tight. Also, it was strange but the 21st Century had to take everything from past cultures to actually feel like it had it's own identity, despite being shaped by it's own unqiue historical events, it was a very bland time.Possibly as bland as the 1950s [which wasn't too bland - was it?] But it may just be the blandest time ever. Nothing really happened, even when minorities protested [they wanted to see themselves in history on their mediums; the vanity project was revolutionary as always. Symbolic gestures remained better than realistic solutions, as always. The usual fascist defenders of property hurt innocents to get their message across; it wasn't as bad as the past, but it was still bad.] People - normally the innocents - just kept getting hurt. Went on and on[ etc, et al.]

It, also, went round and round[D.O.A]. It was a neverending, destructive, ditty. It was drowning them out - but it kept coming back in fashion. Von RapArd hit the drink, hard; the liquids hit him a lot harder - he was parched and exhausted. His line-break-dance had broken down. He had been on fire, then just a roll; now he was crashing and burning. It was getting all too much for us all.

VeeCee wanted out. He wanted the house to really be a spaceship so he could fly away. Von RapArd liked this idea. They kept moving, though - nothing ever stopped. They knew more would come along, the slow weirdness of waking would leave soon for the soggy slumber of the internalized mind-worlds. And VeeCee needed to work on his unfinished Western Novel[it was taking over a decade to finish], though he was reading the Bible again and painting landscapes on old canvas. He was an odd soul; the townsfolk commented upon how queer he was and stared at him like a freak show. It was the eternal punishment of a lost soul.

Thus ends Book1: the next is only a real dream away...[You Know I'm Only...]...

Errrrrrr?