The Last Paradise.

[MANICHAEAN]

Albert Flussmeister, the Camp Boss was a bit of a contradiction when you first met him. Teutonic by lineage and of an anal disposition, he had the kind of sad, expressive face that would have brought out the Jewish mother in a Palestinian guerrilla. Mind you, if you were catering for the needs of 27 nationalities on an isolated camp in Papua New Guinea; by definition, you had to be somewhat unique.

But Albert had not been his normal self for the last couple of weeks. It was nothing to do with the multiple varieties of cooking rice for the various ethnic inhabitants, the illegal brewing of alcohol in Camp B, nor the Japanese demand for fresh whale meat to celebrate Harmonious Nippon Ancestor Day. No. His backside itched first thing every morning.

He had already considered consulting the South African Indian Doctor Kalesh at the Clinic but had been unsatisfied on previous occasions when he had gone to see him regarding various other ailments. Why, only a month ago he had gone to visit relating to his belief that the malaria pills he was obliged to take were causing voices in his head at two o’clock in the morning. The good doctor had prescribed some henna paste to be mixed with water and dotted on the forehead before every meal, along with the medical advice, “No hurry, no curry, no worry!”

And so on this occasion Albert decided on self-diagnosis. After all there was a wealth of information on the internet. It was just a question of using common sense.

Sure enough, Google revealed that his condition was one of worms that like to come out when you are asleep and who forage for sustenance lurking in one’s local skin crevices. His interest aroused by the idea of a million maggots picnicking on his bottom every night, he set about trying to discover if this was indeed true.

That night he lay on his bed in front of a full length mirror and manipulated his legs such that his knees were touching his ears on either side of his head. Being a creative and practical individual, he also ensured some well-placed sticky electrical tape held each substantial buttock out of the line of sight. Thus he settled down with a flask of strong black coffee and the scene was set for the night time vigil.

Perhaps it was the mesmerizing effect of endeavouring to stare intently at the reflection in the mirror, but in fact Albert drifted off into dreams of happy days as a child, and of munching bratwurst on the banks of the River Mosel.

He awoke, scratched his rear end and realized that if the hungry hoards had reared their heads that night, he had missed it.

“Gott im Himmel, Plan B!”

So the next day he posted an anonymous note on the Site Welfare Notice Board seeking possible guidance from the 6,000 strong site populace. In fact it yielded a great response. Sifting out the usual “Jesus Saves” contributions and ones from sane people with families to support, he found himself left with a shortlist of two.

An electrician assigned to the Permit to Work Dept. by the name of Chuffy Baby De Legaspi was a stand-out candidate. He claimed his Dad had invented a torch that small black people could use in underground tunnels to look for fossils.

The second applicant he was familiar with; a diminutive Texan ex-biker, now a pipe fitter, by the name of Lee Roy Henri La Planche. He reckoned on standing watch during the night and taking a 14 pound hammer to any of “the critters that blighted your ***!”

Albert after a short deliberation opted for Chuffy Baby, as the prospect of vertically challenged indigene of the Lone Star State swinging a hammer around his crown jewels seemed to contain overtones of unknown potential.

But in the end opting for the electrician also proved a disappointment. After arranging a meeting through the pigeon box facility, the proposal put forward seemed to be an attempted scam. No further mention was made of the aforesaid torch, but Chuffy proposed, (that for a suitable fee) some Chinese work mates of his could build a plaster dam across his lower back. Albert declined this innovative idea.

Unfortunately there is no happy ending to date. Albert resorted to reusing the electrical tape to secure a bar of antiseptic soap to his bottom, but resisted an insertion on the basis that the soap bar had sharp edges and he did not relish the prospect of visiting Dr Kalesh with a hemorrhoid hemorrhage.

The symptoms have diminished somewhat, but recently reoccurred on the anniversary of Adolf Hitler's birthday.

[MANICHAEAN]

“I don't advise a haircut man. All hairdressers are in the employment of the government. Hairs are your aerials. They pick up signals from the cosmos and transmit them directly into the brain. That is the reason bald-headed men are uptight.”

It was the monthly site Inter-Denominational Leadership Committee Meeting and Julian Sheridan, (Camp Sports and Recreational Co-coordinator), representing the Church of the SubGenius had just uttered these “bon mots” to Caleb Bates who, seated opposite was representing a belief in The Invisible Pink Unicorn.

Caleb, having had a deficiency in his sebaceous follicle from an early age was not amused and Father Michael McClatchy, who normally chaired this meeting, endeavored to restore some element of religious harmony.

Not that the task was easy, representing as it did, a motley and exotic gathering of scoffers and blasphemers, delvers into mockery science, sadofuturists, megaphysicists, scatalographists, schizophrenics, morealismists, sarcastrophists, and those who delved into the deep waters and undercurrents of; cynisacreligion, apocolyptionomy, ESPectorationalism, hypno-pediatrics, subliminalism, satyriology, Disto-Utopianity, sardonicology, fascetiouism, ridiculophagy, and miscellatheistic theology.

“Now, now lads, tis no time to be baiting one t ’other.”

The broad Irish brogue worked its usual soothing charm, though Caleb’s head still shone like the stern of a Star Wars ship, viewing a galaxy from a retrospective perspective.

“This is really not the sort of behavior and comment I expect from a colleague,” huffed Caleb.

“Invisible Pink Unicorns are beings of great spiritual power. We know this because they are capable of being invisible and pink at the same time. Like all religions, the Faith of the Invisible Pink Unicorns is based upon both logic and faith. We have faith that they are pink and we logically know that they are invisible because we can't see them. There is nothing in our religion relating to your cheap asides about coiffeurs or hair loss.”

“There, there, I know,” said Father Michael. “Julian, my son, stop teasing him so.”

“I was not teasing him Father,” rejoined Julian. “Why, the founder of the Church of the SubGenius, Bob Dobbs, just happened to have a fine head of hair on him, and also I might add, smoked a pipe like yourself. He was also the best salesman of all time and communicated with space aliens.”

“Well Julian, I’m not too sure. No to be sure, to be sure I’m not too sure Mother Church would agree with that,” Father Mike said tolerantly.

“Father, you have to have an open mind. Why that’s the point of this committee is it not so? We believe that the true SubGenii are not actually human, but descendants of the Yeti, mutant offspring of a forbidden sexual union that took place millions of years ago between a resident of Atlantis and a human. The SubGenius does not pretend to super knowledge but to sub knowledge--knowledge of the underthings, the hollow earth from whose darkness issue the demons of the abyss. It is in contemplation of the underthings, the underwear lurking just below the clothing of existence, that the SubGenii display what genius they have. It is the study of this substratum, the corsets of underlying reality that is the SubGenius's strength, for it is from this source that he or she taps the infinite resources of a force that is completely incomprehensible to humans: The Force of Slack."

Up to now, Michael Canning of senior management status and the representative of the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster had kept his own council, but decided the time was right to stand up to all this nonsense. He began gravely and slowly as was his wont, a trick he believed over the years, had enjoined gravitas to his words & awe from his listeners.

“If I might interject here gentleman. The Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster promotes something we term Pastafarianism which challenges the intelligent design form of creationism. The central belief is that an invisible and undetectable Flying Spaghetti Monster created the universe. In it, pirates, being a portmanteau of pasta and Rastafarian are revered as the original Pastafarians and we assert that the steady decline in the number of pirates over the years has resulted in global warming”.

“Utter tosh!” blurted Atwell Goins from the head of the table, totally destroying Canning’s equipoise and sense of importance.

Atwell was a dangerous Mississippi convert from Nordic mythology who had dissipated his early formative years in the delta region of that great state, indulging his perceptions of Thor, Odin and the great Hall of Valhalla. Daily man on man combat for sport had seemed great fun at the time, followed by partying all night bathed in the reflected light from thousands of golden shields and shimmering drawn swords, being served bourbon mead cocktails by beautiful Valkyries and eating Cajun wild boar steak, and whoring. But he had seen the light, a dangerous condition in any man and brought about not so much by a religious revelation, as by the realization that he could no longer sustain the implicit former life-style hang-overs. And so it was only logical that for a Southern boy like himself, that he be drawn to the Church of Last Thursdayism.

“Listen bud, you’ve either got it or you haven’t, and you’re full of it! The only reason some dudes join your Church is that they think it will increase their chances of getting their hands on some weed!”

“My children, please, please!” interjected Father Michael.

But the lines of battle had been drawn and it was somewhat reminiscent of that famous amphitheater at Carthage, where once the air had been rent by the screams of Christian virgins as they were devoured by the Roman lions. Except on this particular occasion, although there were no lions of any notable substance, there were, (Father Michael excepted), certainly no virgins.

“It’s called Pastafarianism, you ragged arsed illiterate” shouted Canning in some heat.

“Pastafarianisn, not Rastafarianism. Don’t you understand where the pasta comes in? Let me lay it out for you. I don't have a problem with your religion or religion in general. What I have a problem with is religion posing as science. If there is a god and he's intelligent, then I would guess he has a sense of humor and aside from which, our God has larger balls than yours! It’s quite easy to understand. Our central belief is that an invisible and undetectable Flying Spaghetti Monster created the universe after drinking heavily. The Monster’s subsequent intoxication was the cause of a flawed Earth. Our Heaven includes a beer volcano and a stripper factory, whereas our Hell is similar, except that the beer is stale and the strippers have STD’s. Pastafarians believe that the concept of pirates as "thieves and outcasts" is misinformation spread by Christian theologians in the Middle Ages and by Hare Krishna’s. Instead, Pastafarians believe that pirates were peace-loving explorers and spreaders of good will who distributed candy to small children, and that modern pirates are in no way similar to the fun-loving buccaneers from history. If you took the time to work it out, you would see that the inclusion of pirates in Pastafarianism illustrates that correlation does not imply causation, as natural disasters are a direct effect of the shrinking numbers of pirates since the 1800s. Look for example at the Gulf of Aden in general & Somalia in particular. Since 2008 Somalia has the highest number of pirates and the lowest carbon emissions of any country."

But Atwell having gained his second wind was not to be subdued.

“It’s all very well what you are saying Michael, but it does not take account of the accepted logic that the world might have been created last Thursday along with, (and this is my point), the appearance of age as found in people's memories, history books, fossils, light already on the way from distant stars, and so forth. As everyone knows, it was predicted that the world would end last Wednesday at 10:00 GMT. Since there now appears to be a world in existence, the entire universe must therefore have been recreated, complete with an apparent "history", last Thursday!”

Father Michael made another attempt to steer the meeting towards more constructive ends.

“This is all very interesting and I’ve been fascinated by what has been said, and the views by implication strongly held, but is there a consensus on the Church’s teaching on the Creation, Original Sin and the Garden Of Eden?”

Julian came out of the blocks like an Olympiad sprinter.

“The central belief in our church is the pursuit of Slack, which generally stands for the sense of freedom, independence, and original thinking that comes when you stop worrying about personal goals. Our church states that we are all born with Original Slack, but that Slack has been stolen from us by a worldwide conspiracy of normal people, or "pinks."

In our church, anyone can become an ordained SubGenius minister by paying a fee of US$35 for a lifetime membership and no other requirement is laid upon prospective members. The Church of the SubGenius is known for a standing offer that stems from the ordainment fee: "Eternal Salvation or triple your money back!" If an ordained SubGenius minister dies and finds himself standing at the gates of "Normal" Hell, he will be personally greeted by church founder J.R.Bob Dobbs and receive a refund check for $105, along with a booklet titled "How to Enjoy Hell for Five Cents an Eternity," which costs $104.95.”

“Umm,” said Atwell. “I’ve also heard it said that with your cult’s money fixation that the general public may be pink, but their money is green!”

Julian let that one go and pursued his inner self.

“I’m personally interested,” entered Father Michael, “in the argument made by our friend Atwell. After Mass last Sunday I was reading something by Philip Gosse called “Omphalos.” In it the argument was that that in order for the world to be "functional", God must have created the Earth with mountains and canyons, trees with no growth rings, and Adam and Eve with no navels. Therefore no evidence that we can see of the presumed age of the earth and universe can be taken as reliable. Which might lead one to conclude that we have a deceptive creator and that from a religious viewpoint, God might have created a fake, perhaps to test us!”

“Interesting,’ said Caleb, now more subdued.

“As you know I always keep an open mind and there was a fascinating piece I came across written by Rabbi Nathan Slifkin, an author whose works have been banned by several Haredi rabbis for going against the tenets of the Talmud. In a rebuttal of the claim that God might have implanted a false history of the age of the Universe in order to test our faith in the truth of the Torah, he wrote that God essentially created two conflicting accounts of Creation: one in nature, and one in the Torah. How can it be determined which is the real story, and which is the fake designed to mislead us? One could equally propose that it is nature which presents the real story, and that the Torah was devised by God to test us with a fake history! One has to be able to rely on God's truthfulness if religion is to function. Or, to put it another way—if God went to enormous lengths to convince us that the world is billions of years old, who are we to disagree?”

Eventually the meeting drew to a close. It had been an interesting afternoon, though Father Michael was unsure on how much progress, if any, he had achieved among the more disparate members of his loosely termed “flock.” But at least, the discussion had been open and any religious divide that existed had not resulted in any participant being burned at the stake. He made a mental note next time to invite members of some other more marginal denominations, namely; the Church of Euthanasia, Iglesia Maradoniana, Jainism, Kibology & the Papua New Guinea Branch of the Landover Baptist Church. Thus resolved, he returned to his room on Camp and commenced his evening devotions.

[Steven Hunley]

My God this was funny. I'd always wanted to take a course in comparative religion and thought it was a good thing. On the other hand, I can never look at spagetti again.

[MANICHAEAN]

I'ts amazing whats out there!
Take care.
M.

[MANICHAEAN]

It was quite a journey, that first home leave back to the UK, and it brought into stark perspective a realisation of where he had been for the last seven months. One thing Papua New Guinea was not, and that was just around the corner a couple of blocks!

The first part of the odyssey broke him in fairly gently, rather like sliding one's body cautiously into a bath of indeterminate heat. In the lounge of the Port Moresby Airport, fit young Australians drank Pacific Beer from cans and watched synchronised swimming at the Olympics on a plasma TV screen. "Macho diggers view wet, nubile Sheila's," would have been how Rupert Murdoch might have phrased it in one of his more classical editorials.

The traveler reflected of his surrounding Oz company. "It's alright for them, only a relatively short hop across to Cairns or Brisbane. He had two days travel in front of him.

The flight to Singapore was a bit eerie, across what he presumed were the islands and southern coastlines of Indonesia and Malaysia. The plane's window view seemed to unravel never ending horizons of clouds, interspersed with intermittent panoramas of wild, seemingly untouched forest and rivers below. No signs of towns or roads, just the odd rising of smoke from among the trees indicating the existence of man. It was a passage of time, of region and perspective; of a twilight out of the Pacific and into a Far East that lay ahead.

Changi Airport eventually evolved, almost as a declaration of hope to a sun that was already in its death throes, and it lit with diminishing strength the western flanks of exposed clouds. He remembered the lines of the Dylan Thomas poem, "Rage, rage against the dying of the light"
and then the plane touched down.

Singapore was everything he had imagined. State of the art modern, clean, efficient, perhaps a little brash and superior at its material success. No longer was beer drunk from cans, but he was back into the world of branded watches and handbags, escalators and boutiques, Starbuck's and duty free, smart Oriental women and Eastern politeness.

The next flight was scheduled for midnight by Singapore Airlines to London Heathrow, twelve hours nonstop. It was the first time he had flown this carrier and could not but help appreciate slim Asian stewardesses sheathed in rich fabric sarongs who glided him to his seat. He remembered then, the time when he had first come out and how he had been dismayed at the
restricted coffin shaped, so called business class seats of Cathy Pacific. He had vowed then not to repeat that experience. This time the seats were upholstered leather, almost two persons wide and designed for comfort, not sardine economics.

He made the mistake though of indulging in yet another meal. Gone was the routine, back in camp of a light breakfast, a snack for lunch and a large evening meal. In today's international travel, it seemed as if hidden armies had an entrenched agenda of watering and feeding one at every available opportunity. Thus on the first leg of his journey he had tucked into Rogan Josh for lunch and now it was pork ribs in soy sauce for dinner, washed down with champagne and a French Bordeaux.

It had started to go wrong further down the line; in fact somewhere over the Indian subcontinent, when the plane hit turbulence for extended periods. He had considered himself a seasoned traveller and had been determined after dinner to turn in for an eight hour sleep and wake suitably refreshed prior to arriving in London. But "petit au petit," he became increasingly aware of his waning resistance to ignore the invidious rumblings of a stomach, as it's contents, not totally digested, were bucked and jolted like the loose wet fish cargo of a trawler in fraught high seas.

Somewhere in the middle of the night; in what time zone, he had not the slightest inclination, he torpedoed his troubled body for the holy sanctuary of the bulkhead convenience and
dropped his load. It must have been akin to delivering twins, but from a male perspective. Spraying "eau de cologne" to disperse the fumes, and suitably relieved he returned to his berth and fell into a sleep, untroubled by worldly or mortal concerns.

He awoke much later, somewhat thick headed, but more refreshed overall, but was shocked to ascertain from the screen flight programme, that he was not, as anticipated, entering European air space, but was in fact over Kandahar! The Pacific was history, the Far East a memory, India had been missed in the dark and he was as yet only approaching the borders of the Middle East ahead. Not even half way yet! His body clock said 10.30am on a Sunday morning, his watch showed a Singapore time of 8.30am and God only knew what the real time was as he traversed the skies of an illimitable planet.


All journeys have an end, though not all stories. Who would have considered that arrival at the steppes of a Russia below, constituted the gateway to his former existence in Western Europe? Time to readjust, albeit for two short weeks before the long haul back.

[Hawkman]

I must say that post #32 is truly a work of genius. It also reads rather like a three-way conversation between myself and my two male siblings. Have you been spying on us?

One wonders whether you have considered the possible course of secular orthodoxy. Should you be curious about the tenets of orthodox secularism, please feel free to consult my blog.

Whilst post #32 is undoubtedly the most learned piece of writing I have ever perused on these boards, I must confess to have been thoroughly entertained by the other two offerings on this page. Somewhere I have some 8mm cinefilm of an approach to Singapore airport shot by my father through the cockpit window of a Douglas DC3 Dakota. Unfortunately, he'd probably not recognise your description of the island. When he was there it still had a proliferation of atap huts with exotic wildlife inhabiting the thatch. His terrestrial mode of transport was an old Nissan, which had once been a staff car belonging an officer of the Imperial Japanese Army, and which had no breaks. (I believe he had to stop it either by driving into unwary natives or pointing it up-hill.) The hub-caps were frequently stolen, so he had to make regular visits to the thieve's market to buy them back.

Thanks for keeping me entertained

Live and be well - H

[AuntShecky]

#31 and #32 remind me of Catch-22, that is, if Joseph Heller had been munching on some strange kind of mushroom.

The spaghetti monster god originated in the mind of a recent author espousing atheism. Don't quote me, but methinks it was Richard Dawkins --not to be confused with Richard Dawson, the recently departed game show host, who, incidentally, also was a co-star on Hogan's Heroes, which portions of your story also resemble, though yours, of course, is funnier and slightly less offensive than the erstwhile sitcom.

Speaking of offensive, the descriptions of the various skin ailments could totter dangerously toward causing nausea (which in itself could be a symptom!) I'm no doctor and don't even play one on TV, but when hearing complaints about rashes and the like, physicians often tell the patient to try a different brand of laundry detergent or fabric softener. Me, on the rare occasions such a problem surfaces, I usually go with the 1% hydrocordisone (though the one percenters, at least the ones who wash, most likely use the really expensive kind of soap--Neutrogena with gold flecks.) Also, you can't go wrong with Gold Bond Powder.

As ever, your writing style is distinctive (it doesn't sound like that of anyone else) and has a piquant wryness all its own.

Watch out for apostrophes-- not needed for simple (non-possessive) plurals, as in "Hare Krishnas."

[MANICHAEAN]

Aunty

"I'm no doctor and don't even play one on TV?" We all have perceived images of different contributors on Lit Net. Call it curiosity, but are you an actress?

Thanks for the information on the skin treatment, but in that particular story section, the ailment in the nether regions was purely fictional.

Also obliged for the punctuation reminder. I've picked up some sloppy habits over the years, though that's no excuse.

I have enjoyed my first week back in the UK; superb weather, lush garden, cold white wine
and thankfully post Olympics.

Best wishes
M.

[MANICHAEAN]

It was one thirty in the morning and he awoke on the sofa from a fitful sleep. The pillow was still damp from the nocturnal sweat on his neck. Death stood shrouded by the door, respectfully almost. It was a trait he had not expected. The figure made no sound, but the noise of strange insects outside in the jungle were heard through the wire mosquito netting of the room’s open window.

He knew from some inner conviction that the appointment had not yet been made and thus was not afraid. Death after all was but an inconvenience. But it was there, waiting, as if a reminder. No discernible approach, no anticipated heavy stale breath on his face.

The dreams had not helped. Forever travelling, but to destinations always unknown. Buses and trains that he missed, maps and timetables he could not understand; always the crowd, some hostile with pagan eyes. Tess had appeared, walking with someone else, smiled and moved on. He swallowed the betrayal, again.

He longed for an element of peace. At one time it had been a privilege to live, fully aware, on the edge of an unconventional existence. Now it seemed like a sliding into insanity and the last two weeks before he was to get out, he knew would be the worse.

The shrouded figure was still apparent by the door. He realized now that it was a rain cape hung by its hood to dry out on the door closure from yesterday’s tropical rain. But that was the logical explanation. That was man’s reality; it was not the more complex and perhaps the more truthful perception in his head.

He remembered it said that God made Man in his own image. Was it feasible that he would meet himself when the time did come?

[Steven Hunley]

You know, to me one marker of a decent author is how much they get out of as few as words as possible. You got to that point long ago.

Like:"The dreams had not helped. Forever travelling, but to destinations always unknown. Buses and trains that he missed, maps and timetables he could not understand; always the crowd, some hostile with pagan eyes. Tess had appeared, walking with someone else, smiled and moved on. He swallowed the betrayal, again"

Great imagery and provocative stuff, and the last line was mind-curdling. Is mind-curdling a word?