Excerpt: The Church of Latter Day Eugenics

by Chris Kelso and Tom Bradley (illustrated by Nick Paterson).

Coming soon from Bizarro Pulp Press is THE CHURCH OF LATTER DAY EUGENICS, written by Chris Kelso and Tom Bradley with illustrations by Nick Paterson. It’s weird, it’s literary, and according to John Skipp, “Kelso and Bradley make it rain, sluicing bodily fluids and god down the drain”

A Blue Egyptian goddess. I hear the pulsing of her labia. I see her silhouette. A dense vapour of red smog swirls around us both, fingers the air, forks and laps at the flesh, fills the surrounding atmosphere with transfused gender plasma. I feel something like grill bars beneath my feet, baking my heels like two big slabs of smoked sausage. Through the cloud of crimson I see her true form–at least what I presume to be. Her legs are spread like the Thames, revealing the violet petals of her full, budding vulva. I can’t believe I’m standing before the Big Girl herself. I feel as though I could slip through the open wire grid at any time–but there she is.

“Hello,” I utter in awe. “Permit me to introdu–”

“Empy-ton. Your name is Empty-ton.”

“If you say so, ma’am.”

Her voice emerges like a choir of military wives. Must be the Blue Lotus talking.

“Are you here to feed me, or to be fed to me?”

Quite a question, that. Enough to make the initial rush of the sky-coloured herb sort of level out and bring me to cruising altitude. As this creature lies back awaiting her answer, I can feel me going from a more or less chaotic oscillation to what feels like my proper innate vibe.

It resembles one of those moments of extreme clarity, surpassing any induced by psychedelic or amphetamine, that sometimes come in the earliest stages of a catastrophic drunken binge, when you’re lying flat on your back in the piss and puke at the foot of the stage in a live-music pub, staring straight up into the cosmos. The lead guitar’s neck is protruding like a dick in a fist between your peepers and the ceiling full of strobes and kinky-colored stage lights. The Pete Townsend-wannabe slams all his meager weight behind a power chord, which he lets resound for a few eternities. The strings wobble and writhe chaotically in a chaos of backlit, or toplit, squiggles, but gradually resolve, along with their sound, after the principal attack, to six perfect arrays of crests and troughs, textbook waveforms, as they achieve their resonant frequencies.

“I’ll ask again. Are you here to feed or be fed?”

I use the old journalistic trick of feigning complete, instead of just partial, ignorance. “That depends on who–”

“I am She.”

Just as that guitar chord, so does this She resolve. She, with an upper-case Ess, slowly morphing into the literal Blue Lotus, the vegetative form, the botantical aspect. Then She blossoms further, from petals to skin. The sultry, slim Egyptian lineaments of the blue goddess inflate beautifully to WWI zeppelin shapes (full-scale). Only once before this moment has your mere slob of a narrator-protagonist been considered worthy to see She‘s true condition. The illustration in the pamphlet must have been drawn from life. The She-God is, indeed, a titanically fat middle aged naked lady, who happens to be long and broad as several dozen Titanics.

Her blue skin resolves to the white of a native Anglo Saxonette–made even whiter by the long-legged whole-body garment of raw see-through cotton gauze, precisely as per the pamphlet’s illustration. Her boobs and other naughty bits are clearly visible through the stretched-out material. There are the holes for her nipples to peek through, and the magickal symbols are embroidered here and there in red and blue colored threads, gauged like ship’s cables.

The woo-woo talk dissolves with her Blue Goddess guise, like Isis’ veil lifting off the nude cosmos, like the curtain being drawn back from the Wizard in the Hollywood production that rounded up every midget in the world, recruited them as extras, and left them to sleep among the urinal mints at MGM’s back lot. That’s something like the way I feel, in comparison to my hostess: a pissy dwarf. Fortunately, pissoirs are my element, so I am not knocked off my journalistic stride. A true professional is this –ton, Full or Empty.