Written by Jaggedone
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Thursday, 4 November 2010

image for Grand Finale (chapter 30): "Apocalypso Now " (Pygmie style) "Bronx accent my butt," Long John Silver grinned!

Spiderwebs of misty vapour climbed like ivy on the side of the village church, gently. The air was as thick as pea soup after the monsoon rains had subsided allowing the torturous sun to create magic circles of dew dancing upon the misty webs.

The chameloen time machine had served it's purpose, the crew their duty. Now as the splintered, battered raft drifted helplessly floating gently upon the currents of a far off Asian river, "Mekong", maybe, Meking, never!

Those who survived the epic journey were being savaged by mosquitos without fishnets and persperating profoundly as the rising sun beat down upon the wretched, weary survivors, no names, you know who you are?

A squawking parrot pierced the jungle silence as left and right, appearing upon a sixth sense, not knowing but knowing full well, naked pygmies began to load ther blow-pipes with poisonous arrows.

The crew dressed in rags, tatters and barefooted, dragged themselves to their feet and waved to the slightly bewildered onlookers who's penis's were cocked skywards fastened with dry leaves and the string of coconut twigs leaving only their diminutive "cojones" to breath the thickening, perfumed air.

A sudden shudder, the embankment, a peculiar jungle village of mud huts, human coagulated rests strung between cyprus trees; cages filled with wide eyed staring ex GI's, high as kytes and low as the human, debauched race could ever descend to, a stairway, to hell or to heaven?

The little people gathered, blow-pipes raised as the bedraggled crew set foot on Sunset Boulevard, Borneo style.

The squawky parrot landed on the shoulder of one of the crew, and screached, "this way" in a thick, brogue, Bronx accent, they followed.

They approached a huge hut smelling of marijuana weed, dark, they entered, fearing the worse.

Laying in the corner with a pipe dangling out of one side and a bare nipple of a Borneo beauty on the other, he opened his mouth, a giant of a man, his outline was a sure give away, "The Wild One."

"I've been waiting," the air cracked like a hydrogen bomb over Hiroshima, "you have searched high and low for the Oracle of SPOOF TRUTH, Dummkopfs, and I, only I know the secret, but there is one 'Last Tango in Paris' to be danced before you can grasp it with your filthy, grubby hands (and minds)!"

He rose, gently, caressing his pipe and the nipple, "follow," he ordered.

Grabbing a handful of rice from the half eaten morsels left over, the crew exited the local Chinese takeaway at Watford Junction (sorry wrong story).

A white light appeared as the giant exited his hut, a white light so bright that the red, sun-burnt, weary eyes of the crew were lost in a seas of neutrons, atoms and micro-cosmic particles attacking the few ounces of sanity that they still possessed.

One crew member, screamed out (he shall remain nameles but his initials start with E and end with Q) EU-FUCKING-REKA, we are there, we've arrived, THE ORACLE can only be found when insanity enters, it's so simple, it's fucking stupid!

Silence arose as the jungle took it's victims like a million red ants devouring a hum-bug, it's over, nothing or nobody left just the unavoidable TRUTH, which when found no being has ever returned from, AMEN

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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