The Last Paradise.

The Last Paradise.

Chapter 1: The Camp.

The camp was situated about 12 kilometers west of Port Moresby, half on the fringes of the coastal mangrove swamps and the rest inland penetrating the tropical rain forests of the encroaching mist capped hills. It had been called of late by some commentator, “The Last Frontier,” and he was probably right. As you moved away from the capital; there were no pylons, nor billboards, no glaring MacDonald hamburger joints, nothing in fact, intruding into the basic, clean simplicity of the place.

Timber houses sat on stilts, children played on the dark rich ground and thin, loose limbed pi dogs skulked midst the household rubbish that lay outside.

Further north, up in the ridges of the highlands, numerous tribes existed, each effectively separated from the other by different languages, steep cliffs, raging rivers and the dense jungle. In that jungle, if you were foolish enough to venture, lay exotic creatures like the Taipan death adder that could coagulate your blood within minutes of one bite. Malaria, dengue fever, cholera and crocodiles lurked elsewhere, like silent assassins waiting to take on all encroachers into a private domain.

Chapter 2: The Stalk.

The new white man in the camp, was unaware he was being watched. For in the forest, outside the two lines of perimeter wire that protected the camp, two eyes had patiently and consistently viewed him. To the watcher, the white man represented food.

“Oh what a catch to take back to the village. He would feed them all for many days, and even the dogs would be happy chewing on his bones, as he was a big man, a fine kill!”

The stalked prey, as has been noted, was unaware of all this, for the hunter was a man of the forests, always able to ensure he was upwind.

“The white man would not sense him,” he thought. “He would not catch his scent, raise his head and bolt like other creatures, for he was of the city and had not the instincts of fear and flight.”

Thus it was, that unaware of intentions to the contrary, Mr Jackson was in a relaxed state of existence. In the short time since he had arrived, he had found himself enjoying the work, but most of all the local food which appealed enormously to his taste buds. Sweet potatoes & flaky parrot fish whose flesh fell off the bone and whose texture was a revelation to the unaccustomed palate.

“And how fresh. No additives in this grub, for in the case of the fish, it must have been still flapping as it entered the pan, whilst blood would have run fresh from pigs and wild fowl newly slaughtered.”

In fact he was a little bit worried. Since arriving there had been no wet dreams, no imaginative romping’s with Hugh Hefner’s latest unfulfilled playmate. Instead he had dreamt of feasts of gargantuan significance, of freshly cooked meat, piled high on light cooked rice and of vegetables he had never tasted before and perhaps would never taste again.

Outside the fence, the feelings were reciprocated by the watcher. He imagined the white man simmering in the pot in his compound, suitably furnished with some of his neighbour's onions and a touch of sage. Or alternately, he could be marinated and wrapped in banana leaves and those special spices his wives knew and then buried, surrounded by hot stones and cooked to perfection on a low heat.

“Ah, with meat like that, a man could aspire to the Papuan New Guinea Masterchef competition!”

Chapter 3: The Capital.



“One can't be too cautious about the people one meets in Port Moresby. They're all strange in one way or another.

Me? Oh, I’m new here myself.”


It's quite a town, Port Moresby, rated as one of the world’s least livable cities. High levels of rape, robbery and murder help keep this capital of Papua New Guinea, at the wrong end of the hardship table.

In Lagos, expect chaos. There are gun battles in Bogotá. But there is nowhere on earth quite like Moresby. With poverty, crime, poor healthcare and a rampant gang culture, it consistently scores highest in the international "hardship" table, meaning it is regarded as the worst place to live among 130 world capitals.

Most aspects of daily life in Moresby are problematic. Little bigger than Plymouth, with a population of 250,000, it is a place where murder rates are exceptionally high, thanks mainly to the "raskol" gangs that control large areas of the city. Tales of their exploits are legion; from bank robberies with M-16 machine guns, to car holdups by mobs armed with machetes. Visitors are advised not to go out after sunset, and to avoid walking the streets in most areas even during the day, whilst the houses of the wealthy squat behind walls tipped with razor-wire and gates watched by security guards. With a murder rate there three times that of Moscow, and 23 times that of London it’s the kind of place where you keep yourself to yourself, even when having a quiet beer.

And it was on one such occasion that Gary sat that Sunday morning in the Crowne Plaza Hotel bar, which served not so much the best draft South Pacific beer in town, but one of the safest, duly reflected in their prices. In the centre of the business district and close to Tugubaga Hill, you could sit and read the London edition of the Telegraph & not get any hassle. For in Port Moresby you'll find some of the world's poorest and some of the richest. The poorest will try to sell you anything from a shoeshine to their bodies, and the richest will avoid your eyes, afraid you might try to sell them something.

It has its unique qualities. The permanent population includes: smugglers and black-marketers, fugitives from justice and international con men, espionage and counter-espionage agents, homosexuals, nymphomaniacs, alcoholics, drug addicts, displaced persons, and subversives of every flavour.

Like I said, it's quite a town.

I am surprised no one has commented yet. This is good. You are setting the story up well and jumping from setting to character to setting works nicely; you are building suspense. I know about places like this; Sri-Lanka; Sudan; Somalia, and you capture the imminent terror and menace very well. You display the unmistakable insight of someone who was there. You convey the absolute lawlessness and desolation well.

This line at the end of Ch. 2 draws a little too much attention to itself and breaks the concentration of the story for me. It's doesn't seem appropriate given the preceeding narrative.

Ch.3 is particularly good and you have balanced telling, descriptive passages with the main narrative/MC. It works well.

I look forward to reading more.

Here it is at last. My favorite one by you. ( and it's not even finished--shows I trust you) The descriptions are evocative and exotic. I like exotic, ever since Maugham and his orient and islands. You're making me like it even more. And, as was mentioned, the suspense. I like suspense too. Yummy suspense anyway. And it's a series. You know I like series. Like Hemingway we have to write like we have deadlines. The pressure is on. Certain men work well under pressure.

Keep the pressure and suspense up, will ya?

Chapter 2: Exploratory Talks.

Gary looked up from his newspaper at the approach of another tall, sallow man, who sank in the chair opposite and looked around for the waiter. The tables being all crowded and since Gary’s was a face he recognized, he assumed he was welcome to intrude.

Gary said, "How are you, Steve? Haven't seen you for ages."

The waiter came and Steve ordered a glass of Niugini Ice beer. He was an easy-going, man, that Gary had met before, but did not know much about. He vaguely remembered somebody saying he was from London and was some sort of business consultant.

"What's in the newspaper?" Steve said, casually.

"Oh the usual stuff. The Russians monopolizing space, now that Obama has cut back on the NASA programme. Richard Branson of Virgin taking the silver, but a long way behind"

The beer came and looked good.

Steve continued, "What ever happened to those flying saucers?"

"What flying saucers?"

"You know, what everybody was seeing a few years ago. It's too bad one of those manned satellites wasn't up then. Maybe they would've seen one."

"That's an idea," Gary said.

The two men didn't say anything else for a while and Gary began to wonder if he could go back to his paper without rubbing up the man seated opposite, the wrong way.
Just to say something, Gary said, "Where do you think they come from? The Flying Saucers?"

The other man grinned. "From Mars or Venus, I suppose. Take me to your leader being the greeting.” He yawned and said, "That was always the trouble with those crackpot explanations. If they were aliens from space, then why not show themselves?"

In a strange way Gary became almost defensive. "Oh, there are various answers to that one. We could probably sit around here and think of two or three that made sense."

"Like what?" responded Steve?

"Well, hell, suppose for instance there's this big Galactic League of civilized planets, but it's, let’s say restricted. No memberships until you’ve properly developed space flight. Then you're no longer black-balled, but invited into the club. Meanwhile, they send secret missions down from time to time to keep an eye on your progress."

Steve laughed out loud and nearly spilled his beer. "I see you read the same science fiction stuff that I do!"

An expatriate girl went by dressed in tight Levi’s, high-heeled shoes, and a “look at me” air about her. Both men looked at her superb retreating ***.

"I’ve got a better one.” said Gary.” How's this. There's this alien life form that's way ahead of us. Their civilization is so old that they don't have any records of when it began and how it was in the early days. They've gone beyond things like wars and depressions and revolutions, giving us a bad time here on Earth. They're all like scholars. And some of them are doing historical research on Earth."

Billy Goro, the waiter came up and another two beers were ordered.

Steve said seriously, "You know, there's only one big snag in that sort of talk. Where are they, these observers, or scholars, or spies or whatever they are? Sooner or later we would have caught one of them. This world is so deep in police, counter-espionage outfits and security agents that an alien would slip up in time, no matter how much he'd been trained. He'd slip up, and then they would expose him."

Gary shook his head. "Not necessarily. The first time I ever considered this possibility, it seemed to me that such an alien would base himself in London or New York. Somewhere where he could use the libraries for research, get the daily newspapers and the magazines. Be right in the center of things. But now I don't think so. I think he'd be right here in Port Moresby."

"Why Port Moresby?" said Steve.

"It's the one town in the world where anything goes. Nobody gives a damn about you or your affairs. For instance, I've known you for some time now, and yet I really don’t know much specifically about you; family, education, hobbies etc."

"That's right," Steve admitted. "In this town, it’s a bit like the Foreign Legion, you seldom even ask a man where's he's from. Where are you from, Gary?"

"California.”

"No, you're not." he said with a smile about the eyes.

Gary was taken aback. "What do you mean?"

"I felt your mind probe back a few minutes ago. Telepathy is a sense not trained to any meaningful degree by the humanoids. If they had it, your job—and mine—would be considerably more difficult. Let's face it, in spite of these human bodies we're disguised in, neither of us is humanoid. Where are you really from, Gary?"

"Saturn," Gary said. "How about you?"

"Pluto," Steve responded.

They both laughed and ordered another beer.

"What're you doing here on Earth?" Gary asked Steve.

“I’m running an intergalactic travel agency, with the punters suitably blending in.” he replied. “And you?”

“Oh, I have people running a forum, to evaluate their communication status and abilities.”

“Anything interesting there?"

“Yes just recently. Boo-bobberty-arc-zibber-di do do.”

This instalment had me howling with laughter, keep it up.

Be well!

H :cheers2:

I've been looking forward to reading this. With good reason, I see. =) I can't help but love the last installment. It took an unexpected turn. But, my favourite portion is the description of food in the second installment. Parrot meat that falls off the bone! Yum!

Smerdyakov:
Thanks for the review. Yes, I did go a bit off the rails with the Masterchef thing.

Steve:
Gottcha mate, I hope with this one! Turned it on its head.

Hawk:
It had me smirking as well, as I could not resist the ending.

BookBeauty:
The food is delicious here, but by Harry, I'm packing on the pounds!

Best regards

M.

Wow! This one hops all around the world-- not to mention touching down on a plethora of seemingly-disparate topics (all but the proverbial kitchen sink!) Present-day cannibalism, scholarly aliens! I'm hooked. Waiting to see how all of this connects.

Betcha $10,000 (if I had it) this will be sensational!
(PS That's an adjective Frank used a lot.)

The Village.

Papa Village had, for as long as it’s occupants could remember, nestled on a beach, west of Port Moresby; a small community living mainly on fish from the Coral Sea, scrawny chickens, wild pigs, locally grown yams & the odd tourist who supplemented the villager’s normal diet by wandering in seeking adventure. All in all, it was a very peaceful, happy community. Women had babies, men sat around & scratched their rears, while bare footed kids scampered around in the dirt or climbed coconut trees like they do the world over.

The village elder sat cross legged on his raised porch, brushed aside a mosquito with one hand, whilst holding up before him the classifieds section of the Papua New Guinea Gazette. It was the usual guff;

“Full size mattress for sale. 20 year warranty. Like new. Slight urine smell K20.”

“Turkey for sale. Partially eaten. Only 8 days old. Both drumsticks still intact. K23 o.n.o.”

“Used tombstone, perfect for someone named Oba Baruni Renagi Senior. One only.”


Bored with these temptations, beyond his current means, the eyes of the old man scanned for some potential interest in the romance sub-section.

“Have Viagra. Need woman, any woman between 18 and 80. Contact P.O.Box 167.”

He glanced around in a furtive manner, initiated no doubt by the knowledge that he had once before contacted another ad in this particular portion of the Gazette; namely, the “Port Moresby Date-a- Link” service, without telling any of his three current wives. But it had not been a success. The candidates had been presentable as described in their respective profiles. The trouble arose when in a disrespectful manner, he, a village elder had been informed by some uptight employee of the agency, that anal rape was not a service that was offered, or even advised on a first date.

And so, with the clouds in Gods heaven, piling up in mountainous glory above his head, he turned the page, and a new chapter in the history of this small village began.
He read that an international Japanese consortium, having discovered the potential of gas finds up in the Highlands of the interior and were planning to drill and to build a pipeline all the way down to a new Liquid Gas Plant. Where? Right next to Papa Village.

Entertaining stuff, MAN.

It replaces in a strange way, writing a diary out here.

TIME.

He had not had a drink for over a month now since arriving. Mind you, he had not had a woman either, not that it seemed to matter so much these days. He had not had a drink and his hands were so steady that he would have done credit to any eye surgeon’s operating theatre. Instead, his new attribute was limited to dicing the already diced veg in the mess each lunch time. He was now, also having “logical” dreams which were disturbing and reading George Elliot’s “Middlemarch” in the evenings, didn’t help to change that. Time was so real, the nowness of it all.

Up in the interior Highlands, a national had been killed. Run over by one of those big front loader machines. The camp had been attacked and had to be evacuated. A local Catholic missionary priest had tried to calm things down, but to no avail. The camp was evacuated & feelings still ran high.

Thus upon reflection, he saw his own camp on the coastal lowlands as being relatively peaceful, despite the drilling barge on the jetty being occupied last week by local villagers in canoes, firing arrows. They were still apparently stoning company buses bringing in workers & things were not helped by the guards being paid on the Thursday & fifty per cent being absent the next day. Actually, that was not quite true, for some had turned up at the main gate, still drunk and were making a nuisance of themselves.

He had observed how the inhabitants of this outpost had reacted to the isolation & external threats; the Japanese & Koreans of a stoic demeanor, Australians overly full of black humour, ex South African policemen, (now in a security role), straining at the leash & the odd Brit endeavouring to recollect on how to form a thin red line.

It was one of the last remnants of the Creator’s Eden and Man was encroaching upon it. For the morns were breached by dawns, subtle and unnerving, with air as light as a virgin’s kiss, caressing the hairs on the skin from across the waters of the Coral Sea, whilst the drama of dusk was vivid & stark against a sky in conflict with the passions of advancing night.

But Man was there with all his greed and aspirations and it was somehow soiled.

Like one of those surrounded US hilltop bases in Vietnam, awaiting the Tet offensive, they were suppressing their fears and their daemons. Was it perhaps like the sign above the Auschwitz gate in reverse, “Frei Macht Arbeit.” The freedom was relative, but then, so was it’s cynical interpretation as death.

Two more highly entertaining offerings from the South seas. But, do I detect a flavour of world-weariness creeping into the last instalment? Can it be that your irripressable sense of humour is battling a little less successfully against the tide of absurdity? The latest offering seems to be infused with an underlying darkness. The humour is still there, but it is perhaps a little more acidic than has been your wont. Nil Desperandum and all that.

Anyway, keep up the good work and I'll keep reading it.

Live and be well - H

Its all Auntys fault after reading her thread "Jungles and Deserts." Conrad's "Heart of Darkness" kept creeping in.

“TO BE WITHOUT / TO SEE WITHIN.”

It started off, a Sunday like any other in Papua New Guinea. The tropical dampness was cooled by an early morning breeze from offshore and light imperceptibly emerged from across the populous and impoverished coastal areas of New Britain, Bougainville Island, and Manus, to shed its first rays across a mosaic of bays, and headlands. Later, the sweet-smelling frangipani trees and bright red splashes of bougainvillea would be seen dotting the hillsides. It was the outside mask of a paradise where anything goes and life can be experienced in its purest, rawest and most elemental form.

Up in the brooding Highlands Father Mucahey had finished the 4am mass & was reading the headlines over a cup of Blue Mountain coffee, “Cannibal tribe apologises for eating Methodists.”

Down in the capital, Port Moresby they were still cleaning up from last night in some of the dodgiest watering holes in South East Asia. Think nylon carpet, wooden motifs and some of the scariest-looking bar wenches this side of Halloween. One such was the Weigh Inn, (aka The Crab Shack), where even the cockroaches had genital warts. But enough of the hard sell.

Laurence Price had been in this establishment and for a change was feeling quite elated, despite alternately; the early hour of the morning and the effects of a night of moderate dissipation. Billed somewhat nebulously by his associates back in London as something of a writer, he had ended up in this part of the world by way of Bangkok, Manila & the Northern Territories of Australia. Some said he was seeking inspiration for a new novel, that he was a “Renaissance Man”, but if truth be known, he thrived on the thrill of being exposed to the art of living on the edge. He had always needed that excitement in his life, a bit like Graham Green walking around the streets of London during the Blitz. The need to feel alive, the exhilaration of tempting & more importantly, of surviving potential danger.

It was his type of town, Port Moresby. Despite commanding spectacular views of the Coral Sea, it masked a city in crisis. It was plagued by gangs of violent armed criminals known in the local pidgin as “raskols.” While the word rascal conjures up the image of a naughty schoolboy, this represented something much more sinister. Gangs with names like “Ook Kips Kaboni” or “Red Devils” held sway over large parts of the capital. Car jackings and robberies were a daily hazard, shoot-outs between police and criminals frequent, and rape a danger for women - from both criminals and police officers. Expatriates and middle class Papua New Guineans hunkered down behind high walls and coils of razor wire, more reminiscent of Johannesburg than the South Pacific.

Lawrence smiled inwardly. Last night he had been in his cups with one of those “characters” that Providence throws up in the oddest of places. The individual concerned, was of seasoned appearance, portly of stance & dry of speech. As a long term resident of the island, he’d related the story of how he had got tired of being held up at night when driving home on roads up in the hills. On one occasion, he explained, that he was driving from 10 Mile to 3 Mile and decided through bloody minded exasperation to take an extreme measure.

Sure enough, as he had been manoeuvring through the labyrinth of potholes at 4 Mile, a group of young men armed with machetes walked in front of his car and stopped him. Although somewhat blinded by the headlights, they could tell that he was an expatriate and demanded that he hand over his wallet immediately. He looked back at the dark, hard, raw boned features that surrounded him and the primeval instinct of survival kicked in.

But as they looked inside, they recoiled, for the man was naked behind the steering wheel. Rolls of white flaccid, middle aged flesh became apparent in all their glory. Not a pretty sight. He simply looked at the group and told them that they were late – he had already been held up at 6 Mile and everything worth stealing was stolen.

They let him through. The prospect of making him leave the car “al fresco,” was not envisaged as part of their initial plan of ambush. When he got to the Mobil Station at 1 Mile, he pulled over, took his clothes, wallet, and watch out from under his seat and redressed himself.

The tale told, they had both laughed and ordered another round of beer. To Lawrence, for many reasons on that night, his unplanned drinking companion was a lode stone to the trade of writing. First, it was probably an instinctive appreciation. The more the illusion of the speaking-voice, caused one to listen and to see, so it would be, that one would forget the medium of the printed page and that was where he came in to rectify.

He remembered Tangier where he had seen in the market-place the professional story-teller, surrounded by groups of attentive listeners, with kindling eyes, whose faces moved with every emotion of wonder, anger, tenderness, and sympathy, and whose murmured applause and absorbed silence, were the witnesses and the reward of his art.

The bar maid cleaning glasses behind the counter merged into the backdrop, her teeth long since discoloured red by the betel nut she constantly chewed. A few lights cast the minimum of perspective over empty beer crates and silent bottled sentries on wooden shelves. Lawrence sat, alone yet absorbed. He now had the kernel that a writer must have, namely, that there had to be a story to tell. His early training and thinking had been that probably the first stories of mankind were true stories, but that the true story is rarely good art. It was not until the true story has been converted into fiction by the suppression of whatever was discursive or ungainly, and the addition of a stroke of fantasy, that it became integral, balanced in all its parts. From there one could; suitably sustained with a glass or two, create a medley of reality and romance, of wit and pathos, of fantasy and observation, hopefully complex in thought and various in expression.

It had been a good evening.

Thank you for brightening my morning :D Highly entertaining, as always.

Live and be well - H

Glad it lightened your Sunday morning H.

I had returned to camp on Saturday night, after going into town for my first beer in two months. Popping out for a quick drink here is done with armed guards on the journey & minders inside! So I managed to both quenche my thirst & get material for the story.

Take care.

M.

The third paragraph in the latest installment had yours fooly "in stitches," as me mum used to say. And later on, the use of "al fresco" as a synonym for "au naturel" was funny too. (The late. great Johnny Carson used to call it "a cappella.")

Technically, the whole piece looks good so far. In the latest installment though you might want to do a quick sweep for typos. For instance, there's no need of the apostrophe where you use it for a simple plural--"car jackings."

Thanks Aunty

Corrected.

Regards
M.

As we came into Port Moresby, the coach was quiet and the villages either side appeared ragged and without any meaningful life. Even the views across to the mainland on the other side of the harbour appeared dull. It started to rain, intermittently at first and then heavier.

I was the only European on this trip, the token white man in a bus full of Japanese collegues, plus a Papua New Guinea driver who had his hands full negotiating pot holes, hesitant chickens and wavering indigenous drunks. My boss, from South Carolina, the fullest flowering of Southern degeneracy, had refused to attend. It was not his scene.

We arrived at the Yacht Club,went past heavy security and through a side gate into an open bar on a level with the marina. Outside were moored boats whilst inside an atmosphere of warm interest coupled with something akin to expectation from the uniformed ladies of the bar staff.

There are times in life when in order to learn, you are obliged to unlearn. Back at the camp, fifteen kilometres along the coast from where we were now, the routine was established.

Breakfast, work, siesta, work, dinner, tv, sleep, then up again in an unending daily cycle until your leave became due. Now away from all that in a new location, albeit for one brief afternoon, I could unwind. Perhaps it's more about the fatal gesture than about survival. It often threatens you with derangement but somehow it always leaves you a little saner than you have any right to expect.

Small groups started on their first South Pacific beers drunk straight from the can and encased in cooler casings somewhat reminiscent of the cacooning of crystalis prior to their evolving into butterflies . I looked around at the gathering. A mixed bunch. No real villains and only a few heroes but mostly goodhearted Oriental lunatics. Over in one corner splayed out like a loose limbed Budda, an individual with the appearance of a Charlie Chan version of Tony Soprano complete with a flowery shirt, big shades and a countenance that betrayed the fact that he had likely been an earlier arrival and had already partaken copiously of the grape and hops.

Papua New Guineanian sushi made it's appearance, followed by pizza, and more beer and wine. Fukada San sidled up.

"Gary San, there is wiskey at the bar, but you must pay!"

I approached the bar. Not just wiskey of an indeterminate parentage, but a virgin bottle of Jim Beam.

"Oh thank you Lord for looking down on thy humble servant."

Suitably refreshed, I returned to my base camp group. John Martin, from Contracts had joined us and was engaged in conversation with a Jap I'd not seen before.

"Was he gay?"

"Never seen a Japanese gay before!"

He was neat and there was something about the sensuous nature of the mouth that perhaps gave him away. That and the fact that he appeared to be almost cuddling up to grey haired John from Contracts.

"Perhaps he's got a thing about older men?"

An exaggerated flick of the wrist confirmed it in my mind, but I found myself asking why the interest on my part?

"A strange race. When they work, they work till they drop and when the pressure is off and they get rat arsed on booze you see the other extreme."

It was a good afternoon. A few speeches that alternated, (with no discernible patten), between vocal exuberance and slurred mutterings. Mainly about working together and common goals. More drinks, then back onto the coach.

The rain had stopped, the sun descended gracefully over the wild beauty of Port Moresby Bay to the left and the Godfather had those young Japs who had not passed out, in peals of laughter all the way back to camp.

"Strange, because at work he keeps himself very much to himself and the miserable little bleeder never speaks to anyone!"

The bus rolled up eventually and came to a stop.

"Camp bar's open," somebody shouted.

I made my way back up the hill to my room.

I was told the next day that four Japanese were "missing in action."

And I can understand why! Bless em.

Its a deep thing, almost an authentic subculture. You do not even need to like them to belong.

I soooo enjoy when writers talk about story telling like:

"His early training and thinking had been that probably the first stories of mankind were true stories, but that the true story is rarely good art. It was not until the true story has been converted into fiction by the suppression of whatever was discursive or ungainly, and the addition of a stroke of fantasy, that it became integral, balanced in all its parts. From there one could; suitably sustained with a glass or two, create a medley of reality and romance, of wit and pathos, of fantasy and observation, hopefully complex in thought and various in expression."

Then we have the facinating locations and interesting characters too.

Part of the attraction for me is that everyone has this strange idea that the world is shrinking because of technology and all, but in truth it's as big as it ever was, there are more languages and countries and cultures than we can count. I like it when writing reminds me of this, it leaves more room for me to dream.

Thanks so much for giving us this peak into an exotic world.

Thanks Steve.

It’s all about watching.
Hemingway and Le Carre especially come to mind as so strong in this trait.

For myself, I need to travel to get the stimulus and although I have been very fortunate in this respect I still have ambitions to visit; Havana, Rio & New York before I kick the bucket.

By the way, any news from Aunty?

Best regards
M.

Sorry, been a bit distracted of late. Read this a few days ago and thoroughly enjoyed it. Love your observational style. Christie used to pick her characters from poeple she saw in restaurants and hotels. She'd watch 'em and build backstories and put 'em in books. Great exercise for writing. Your characters feel real.

Best

H

Quite an enjoyable read from the LitNet's answer to Graham Greene. Though he certainly didn't lack a sense of humor, I do believe it wasn't the unique kind of comic vision that places genital warts on cockroaches!

PS-- Thanks for asking. Yours fooly is still here, bum wheel and all.

PPS-- Oh, and I agree with Steven's cogent reply about this non-shrinking world.

Hawk
Thanks for your patience in reading my, at times, somewhat disjointed bits and pieces.

Aunty
Good to see you back in circulation, even if in restricted circumstances. No sppeding around the living room now!

Best regards
M

It was a typical Monday morning mixed bag for the Safety Manager as he got into his office at 5.30am.

“God give me strength. Will I ever get used to this country? Perhaps more important, will I ever be able to adjust back to Potters Bar?”

Parking his pick-up, he checked in through the main entrance door swipe system.

Outside, it was still dark and it seemed almost as if the stars in their heavens were proclaiming the deliverance of Mankind.

In the background as he moved down the corridor, the chatter of radio traffic as security personnel throughout the site went through the daily litany of asking Joint Operations Centre in fifteen different dialects if they were being received loud and clear. The strange thing was it seemed to work, even though the base operator spoke with a strong Bengali accent and the local guards in a babble of stattico grunts.

Opening his office door, the already established routine commenced; check the traps for how many field mice caught during the night & then open the computer. If it had been a good kill ratio, the snake catcher would be called and provided with these little appetizers for his collection of Papuan Taipans kept down at Vector Control.

The week-end had been relatively quiet. One report of a break-in to the female accommodation at 3.20 am followed by a punch-up with the guards who apprehended the guy. Said he was a maintenance man calling to check the AC’s. Apparently the lady inhabitant was dubious of this story!

The e-mails were the usual stuff; the Project Christian Committee wanted authorization to hold a meeting in the Camp B Recreation Room to discuss “The G Spot and Church Dogma.” This he approved, subject to there being a satisfactory number of fire exits & muster points in the event of a rush for the doors.

His agenda this morning after his normal site patrol would be to call in and check the new chef they had taken on in the main kitchen. The French cook had resigned and left last week when his “oeufs cocotte” had been thrown at him during breakfast by a Filipino engineer. The new cook, recruited at short notice, was reported to be a cannibal from the Highlands Region and there were already reservations among the American contingent about the serving up of “Marinated Leg of In-Laws,” although the “Deep Fried Gojons” seemed to be popular with the ladies.

Apparently there were reports that although he added plenty of carrots, onions and bay leaves to his creations, he was in the habit of giving the live meat procured plenty of hardy slaps if he considered it too tough and wiry. This, he believed tenderized the meat, that and the conviction of all culinary gurus that a good dose of fear attains the same result.

A gem beyond price! Laugh out loud funny.

Quote:

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"The e-mails were the usual stuff; the Project Christian Committee wanted authorization to hold a meeting in the Camp B Recreation Room to discuss “The G Spot and Church Dogma.” This he approved, subject to there being a satisfactory number of fire exits & muster points in the event of a rush for the doors."

---

My favourite paragraph :D

Live and be well - H

Glad you liked it H.

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.

“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.

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.

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

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.

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? :D

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

#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."

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.

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?

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?