Acidity - Novellete Part I

Intro Through The Outro …


In early 2000, four years after I fell into the black hole of uncool substance abuse, second degree psychosis and depression, my cold-turkey-return to reality saw me open my formerly dying eyes to a world that had embraced the new millennium with utter paranoid anticipation, and was now living it in utter fear. A world of autoerotic crusades, sweetmeat revolutionaries and stylized mediocrity … a world full of apathetical but celebrated assholes.

As a (once-upon-a-time) ‘prolific columnist’, my first reaction to all this was repulsion. To me, in this new world that I had succeeded to fall down to from a damning hell of bludgeoning neurons, the “actives” were either paranoid capitalist cowboys or deluded suicide bombers, while the passives were apathetical and confused jerk-offs jerking out meaningless jargon in the name of analysis and opinion on cable television and in newspapers, (or just dancing to get sponsored by colas or talking obsessively about God to get some pragmatic patronage from the hour’s so-called renewed interest in religion).

My return from altered reality to Alto-reality saw me returning to a project I had originally started in neuron hell, (rather than go back to writing newspaper columns again).

Acidity

The project eventually culminated into Acidity: A novelette zigzagging along an addict’s (heroinchie’s) pathological observations of the bleak and absurd comedy of 21st century’s social and political neurosis and his equally pathological dialogues with the main players of these neo-millennium-neurosis … while comparatively, the heroinchie prides himself to “go whir pooling” in the “good old elements” of old fashioned chemical psychosis, idealistic decadence and slacker-lethargy. And which he believes have more sincerity and ideological purpose.

“Juxtaprose”

The project was an attempt to relate the spontaneous chaos that was making the New World Comedy seem so hilariously dark and tragically absurd (to me).

And I did this through the great William S. Boroughs’ and Bobby Glyson’s notorious Cutup Method. A writing technique in which the writer writes conventional text on a piece of paper and then cut’s the page up (with a pair of scissors) into four/six pieces. He then randomly joins these pieces together like a picture collage, giving a whole new angle to the imagery and thoughts communicated by the pre-cutup text.

I did exactly that because I was convinced this was the most effective way to communicate a world in which, comparatively speaking, my novelette’s anti-heroic heroinchie feels he is the most sober, wise and aware citizen.

Nadeem Farooq Paracha
Karachi, 28. 1. 2003.










Part One

Dying Hard On A Soft Bed

The dusky depression milieu sends out fly-by-right knights to distract sweet ass adulteresses. They swing in tity magic spells to tee in the arts that veer sad ritzy people. Adult adulteresses and juvenile gods join united grief streets. They cut across the hate regime busy booing in thick tongues darkened by subconscious catholic porno lingo.

Danced the ocean with the flame second degree. Burned the heroinchie’s chicken wings, his sexy things, spilled gasoline and choked the trees. And he screamed: “Let my libido be!”

Said he: “Head wounds on the asses of the masses. Mobs of overtly wanked dicks vote for fat men behind bubonic hair. Suddenly nothing was right, nothing was fine, what was mine was a crime. Died hard on a soft bed.”

An enemy is not an enemy is an enemy. The sweepers sweep the glue off the floor. The glue that stuck venerable skyscrapers to the roofs of gravity. The sweepers had vowed while rotating hypnotically upon the holy land: No more beer blasts! Tapal zindabad!”

Their fellow gatherings across the fault lines across poppy Afros agreed to agree: “Snip the cocks and the clitorises wanking our libidos through satellite beams. Ban the libido. The thin-skinned sick sex sin. Off with the people who can’t fart from their mouth and eat through their asses. All power to the masses!”

Knowing the Lord who could afford to go shopping these days the fun young people searched for how to best fight the evils of his pasture. They entered his gates with thanksgiving of the Republican Party and the organizations working for the models. It was a better investment than the pension fund.

"Fuck, but okay, let’s give it a wank" said the polite voids at the smack-dab center of the soft center, while the super hardons swelled with the blood of pride and death. They now wanted to have multi-national orgasms. Create geographical ovaries fed on beef, fried chicken and economic paranoia. Kill babies to maker their own.

Race. Make profits, amaze, save whales to save face. Hell’s fury stole our rage; heaven’s angels lost their taste. People turned away then turned themselves in. That’s the best way to get noticed in a police state. It’s the far right versus a soft center.

There were assholes hiring assholes firing assholes hiring assholes at new satellite tele pom-poms. The idea was to get adverts while the assholes shat out meaningless adverbs to stroke their dicks and sponge their cunts with their individual minutes of fame.

The heroinchie slap-struck the new sub-continental brats’ and tramps’ schizophrenic accents as they lashed their oriental tongues against Caucasian corporate graffiti. They used the 9 1/2 C and retail for $595 at Gucci, saying: “Black suede with black leather cap toes. A beautiful fall/winter shoe. Heel is approx. 4". Buyer pays $10.00 shipping and handling within the US to include insurance. PayPal and money orders accepted within 10 days of purchase.”
The heroinchie nodded his head: “Certainly a depression of the central nervous system.”

But the heroinchie was a whirl-pooling black hole. He lied through his craving neurons to swindle money from cola pimps and whores, saying he will applaud them in his history of the world.

Said he (to himself): “You see, long-term effects of heroin appear after repeated use for some period of time. Chronic users may develop collapsed veins, abscesses, cellulites, and liver disease. Addicts in their everyday behavior give the appearance of being withdrawn from the center of activity. I belong to the Scorpion Cluster. The Scorpion Clusters’ intensity is immense, their depth of character and passionate conviction overwhelming, yet they are deeply sensitive and easily moved by their emotions and cravings … thus I lie and swindle. So, now if you’ll excuse me, I think it’s time to go whirl-pooling again.”

What’s emancipation? Wisdom derived from humiliation. Public relations. Bleeding heart donations for heartless famines?

Fat man, rat ham, what’s next? Fat rat, death chat, terrorist traps. Do we get to eat her breasts? Wal Mart, Hallmark and the rest?

Hell, no. Just scored.

Empty cans. Bed bug nightmares. Death. Tidal waves. Neighbors at war. Passionate patriotic dumb fuck assholes. Corporate egos with manufactured balls. Very crushable. Very suicidal. Ulcerated cubical cocks. Sweatshop KFC Specials. The original sin. Foaming Nike jogging sects refund obscene tripod film sets and wham-bam muscle retrievals. Lotions and potions of frolicking stabbings and arty nervous breakdowns curb luxurious vodka spills over phony gentry ovaries.

But do absorb the entity before a buffet of fodder and scary nights of teeming erections and bilingual epic cunnilingus lashings.

Boogie style, rugged style, go away. All style, no style, walk away. Only lies, all lies, what a way. Hell, no. I’m bored, just scored. Fixed.

Lanky young men fry heroin brain fury to debug their social ruins. They toy fun at loaded mafia shahs who proclaim Islam and a brute moral majority in dollar parliaments at hoarse latitudes. They sag the watery earths with body surety. Slang the lungs within the ages of diabolism.

Bearded bears and lanky anorexic women under full metal burquas … one day after another they’ll find us, and your mothers, and then do their thing with the fathers so their sons can have better chaply kababs in Kabul. They’ll do their thing, then lose their thing, blame it on the mothers, sisters and the others on cable television.

Said the heroinchie: “Everything was fine but none was mine.”

Walkover the police. Riot in your heads. The towers are crashing. Never sleep deep. Sneer at gutter idealists. Sneak between the sheets. Beat meat. Let the pure ones sleep. Deep. Who owns the streets? Crash never here. Where? There. Have a nice dare to share the day. Blasphemy within. What baths? Sunshine has no night! Drink and love. Mullahs have all the men. Killed their moms.

State, relate. The babes. Lipstick. What? Veils for retarded reactionary stares. Tomorrow’s shopping mall blood for oil. Cut yuppies. Screw the announcements. Shut it up, fuckers.

Consumer sun patriots were masturbating in front of the shops, the malls, until their pubic hair was gone. They looked gray. Soft magic hell. Lost childhood.

The Hindus are burping fat. They Shiv the mosques and Sena the blast farts. Fine prime time air. Very nice Northern Pakistani mash. Hamas flavor. Peeping the ladies’ primordial Toms. Key mash. Stash it. The pundits were in on the slack.
Is an injection of heroin worth the place in a bowl? By this the pundits found dashing the Kama Sutra. They spoke these words: “Lord and serf, guild-master and journeyman, legal aspects of human activities, butter, fat …Is an injection of Viagra worth treating erectile dysfunction?”

Maha Vishnu had chosen 108 sacred places in his spring/summer 2002 ad campaign. Son of the impending holocaust, Maha Vishnu and one of his Tirumoorthies were depicted as presidential candidates in the New Aryan Delhi. Everyone knew there was a reason why Maha Vishnu had chosen 108 sacred places.

The governing legal aspects of human milk that had been extracted from the yuppies drove deep if you looked for sex. Ejaculation fell into groups with Boyz Own … the great good, and great evil of sexual dysfunction in the work place.
Great sex is not Mission: Impossible …

“It is haram and only good for the anti-corporate movement”, said the Mufti.

A post-modern Eden debugging homophobic farts. Marginal productivity loads clinging to sweetmeat sunni behinds. Macho chicken chasers dissolve through the pipes, halls to walls, cut the ice. Second degree stabs. Ultraist moral pig-assed xenophobes whitewash themselves in insulin hormone bathing. Sheepish mediocrity regime, wolves of the salami tactic. Mud faced ideological erosion. A hell-bent heaven of taxed sex and masturbation of sweaty reactionary hearts. Biblical bubbly loud chicken fucking moralists run massacre chambers of the electric capitalist elite. Atomic Zionist genocide warts inflame ass-smelling 51st states.

It was yesterday. So fuck the use of Hindu fanatics who want the world for a cow. They talk about Ms. India to destroy old Muslim mosques. Opposing knickers, what knockers. They plan to bill our peace-loving members.

How about foiling this diabolical conspiracy by putting Attila The Nun who is fighting fire in Marina’s Kitchen, launching leprosy in the wooden huts of the first space tonga stations, and liberating Kashmir post-9/11 suburban New York?

But before that came Lay maar meri gaand, a horrible album by Awaz. This bombed out of Indus Music.

I say, sir, this really isn’t cricket.

“Down with all meditation!” shouted the heroinchie.

Categorical diffusion. Prozac protocol. Simplex linear programming. Paranormal anus by-pass. Unemployment. Appropriate brutalism in the bedroom. Marxist comics. Semantic red scare files. Spiritual dissent. Coca-Cola theology.
“God save the saccharine!” shouted the Mufti.


The local post-’88 local pop’s meanings of symbolic religious imagery, science and art have been fonder of the land’s armored dicks rather than brick fights. Its science, religion and art are of critical flack regarding its co-existing balance between the mullahs’ reply to Billo (the song), and Billo the album. Because yes, I totally agree that populist folk vocalists like to read the meanings behind why the ape became man, or Adam had stage fright. A line-up that has played together ever since Pepsi got its hands on pop fans.

Freedom of choice started the intolerance.

---


The fascists did it with the artists. Plants grew out and away from the misunderstood maggots. Their mouths were ugly but their breasts were full of alphabetical gold, running ARY. There were hardly any options left. Everybody claimed to be a Muslim and decided to climb and ride their camels to Jerusalem. But the flowers from the plant didn’t like football. They believed that bald-headed-men were usually fascists having zero interest in procreation methods and a huge appetite for the sports news. The flowers also believed that thin women spend more time in the bathroom than their heavier contemporaries. The flowers said that younger fascists usually found this rather sexy.

Said the heroinchie to the flowers: “Addicts report feeling a surge of euphoria ("rush") at the very beginning.”

“What about at the very end?” asked the flowers.

Said the heroinchie: “The black flag, with layers of blood upon it from those who wanted to live by working or die by fighting, frightens those who want to live off the work of others...”

“So … what’s your point?” asked the flowers.

Said the heroinchie: “The point is … got Rs.100? Need it for fuel for the car, y’know. Shall mention your fragrance in my gardening article.”

Free trade dropout doping. Full opium sun. Extraterrestrial memories of heroin love. Profit sharing death. Blocked. Fading. Bored. Sick. Heads cemented with gaseous sedatives … free-fall dances sweat superstructure highs … rainbow totalitarianism, controlled orgies of the anti-gravity… divine nihilism … the new society anti-thesis … generation leakage, fundamental constants of the new futurology … backwards utopian turbine ... food chains of forced literature ... biological tornados ... familiar rule of the anomaly … kaleidoscopic body image surgery ... apocalyptic topology … devolutionary theatre of the round measures the morphine montage … far-out populism roll’s over visual display units … electrochemistry … brain cell deprivation ... 5D vision … subjective idealism … speeches from the psychodynamic hip machine hail the mindful manufacturer of madness … governs hallucinations into conditioned reflexes.

Plans. Stoic standards of inhaling. High-like on a transverse stage. A tropical orgy of excited neurons. But finally, cold turkey debt crises, and Pavlovian goose bumps.

The heroinchie didn’t like the Lord’s Divine Abode. Said he: “In Tamil language these vain wounds are called TIRUPATHIGAL, but The Walt Disney Company and Pepsi Co. have come before the Lord with joyful songs.”

White-collar medicine men sweat of sampling ... cow-women suffragette allows rural dung. Proto-historical mud type without rationalization and only sticky origin of species ... but ... mud wrestling strangeness reproduces the Blob? Blob... gang of rural dung … no rationalization and only sticky species replicating the origin of one wrinkled dick.

Renegades flushing down order and white wooly motherfuckers. Carnivorous chunks of meat parades. Too much in the State. Paper-clipped cocks locked and docked. The bureaucracy man, peels them off. Epileptic literature.

Biblical red Church. Hell’s collage. Complexity desert. Neanderthal cigarette acid. Loaded post-modern vibrator dreams. Shaky starts and smiles.

Extraterrestrial turbine queen. Air-conditioned diamonds. Freebee relations. Suck-up materialism. Shocked warfare. True lads damned. Sight the fading. Purged reflexes. Patriotic crises. Adamwise instincts measure their erections. Butt parades feed on McDonalds. Downsizing heads, emptying the tall and the arts of emancipation.

Silver sweet strides. Love of glass. Minimum fragmented deprivation knives cut through cunt oils of retardation. Lifetime populism. Sweaty extracts of the skin tighten the dams of new war codes and nice whores. Speeches need dark oligarchy plans. McDonald’s totalitarianism swims across remittance men and subliminal nice units of genocide honey justice. Money, visions, waves. Suicidal collective memories come to a crawl.

Violence gave the mullahs huge erections. Catholics got none. And Bombay smelled of City Gutkha. The city had been renamed by bald-headed sports news lovers who found thin women shiting in bathrooms sexy. Mumbai! Screamed they. And the fox did it again with the artists.

There were no sharks in the water. Egg less shrimps swam supreme, dropping white rain and golden showers over the landlocked mountains of Tora Bora. The fiber optic sweathead’s voice was as if his gums were in his nose. Listen to him: “The liberals of Marx’s time usually saw freedoms as closely connected. But their mental functioning became clouded due to a gorgeous pair of authentic GUCCI pumps.”

The land’s modeling industry was a social issue. Because the models prided themselves of being the giggling smug thugs in the tiny country of social butterflies. Butterflies with sleeveless wings and eyeliner antennas. Like the new brats and tramps and assholes at newer satellite pom-poms, the butterflies too liked licking Caucasian corporate graffiti: “If Iblees says "omigod" to your orgasms then we should log on to Cosmopolitan.com. These days surging sales and profits are more likely to inspire skepticism than adulation; investors are government initiated and accompanied by a warm flushing of the skin.”

The heroinchie, fucking his way across private channels, conspiring with assorted opiates, was planning to assassinate George W. Bush, N-Synch, Osama-bin-Laden and Bishop Tutu. He planed on launching himself into space and liberating Kashmir by putting bhang in the Karachi water supply.
The sun ever since the ‘80s is in the Fourth Reich. Shoving feminist heads in the Altered States of Germany. Meanwhile outside the Orewllian freezer containing dicks and Dixie boobs on e!, people were still dancing on mentholated hashish while listening to loud lambata in Cuba. Yuppies burned in a masturbating swimming pool of the Human Rights Commission of Congo. It was the coolest thing to do during The Asteroid Crisis.

Said the Mufti: “Squeeze out as you’re looking to send your women in the bathroom. They did it with the artists.”

The Mufti’s mullahs were grinding the faces of the poor with about 1/2 plate of halwah every day. Then they continued on their camels to Jewrusalem. But the maggots from darkness were upon the community of Islam (the [ummah]). They then decided to climb and ride their camels to the Indian subcontinent. Bhang, an elixir of cannabis, stunned the rituals of men suffering the shifts of marketing sharaih .

Rituals for worship. Will the Ash - Salman flame ever rekindle again? To common shareowners it was $190 million, or 42% to understand pictures and descriptions of the sex bartered between Indra & the Purusha. The Rig-Veda bought ham, bacon, welcomed by Indians artists. The sacrifice of the Primal Man. Options left. Rituals of blacks, 62.9 percent of Hispanic, life in the stratosphere. The most radical of the darkness. Appetite for the sports news. The flowers by Chucky Cheese and McDonalds. Hardly any options left. Everybody claimed to screw around. Lads of milk: “Are you listening, heroinchie?”

Pondered the Mufti: “What is the exact mission of a child’s birthday party? I think thin men shiting in bathrooms is sexier. Learn your orgasm reflex.”

Smoke the madams. They have bad karma. Wet dreams in their hearts and military manifestos. Drooling cries of want. Wake up to extra pubic hair.

Jungles of them. Around bombs. Crash your nerves, madarchodh!