"Don't even go there, the climate's one thing about this city which will never change."

"True. What's happening?"

"Man, I've been really busy. I've acquired Dad's clip joints, peep shows and sex shops; now I'm developing an avant-garde nightspot.''

"Whoa! That's some itinerary.''

"Well it's business fella, keeps me occupied with the right sort of hobbies- know what I mean? What about you rude boy?"

"Laxing dude- spending far too much money."

"Splendid stuff. We must hook up- your shout of course."

To Aleister, Manny was no more than a wide boy, and far too reliant on the dark arts of hype and spin to foster credibility. Both chaps smiled tenderly. Their enforced separation had stifled conversation a wee bit, but it was a trifle, they still loathed one another. Manny's morose minders shuffled, staring vaguely at some passing object. As if frozen their shiny black costumes had halted, but life's momentum raced energetically throughout their dynamic leather clad bodies, causing each tit weight to jangle nervously, like flies caught in a spider's web.

"Totally. It'll be a mercy mission won't it? You're working too hard."

"Better to live as a blazing meteor, than die old gracefully."

"But to what purpose, or don't you care?"

"It's distraction innit? I'm occupying my atoms so intensely, that they'll refuse to leave me. Life's one big party dude and that's purpose enough for me."

"Yeah right man- like what's the end product?"

"Like that's necessary! Does God end? Will time out? I think not. Time just keep changing Bro."

What's that happy atom malarkey all about? Just how did Manny intend to blaze brightly in his dotage? And what ever happened to serenity, honour and love? Aleister was confused; having acted intuitively all his life, he now found it nigh on impossible to think straight, his experiences degenerated, his doubts multiplied. Much of this was a result of his suicidal addiction to cheap angel dust. So, assuming Aleister had once enjoyed continuity and cohesion, life was now, by contrast, an ungovernable slide show of no fixed time span. And yet Aleister couldn't fathom out whom it was operating the projector, nor where to find an emergency exit; some comedian was quite evidently savouring a jape at his expense, and whomsoever it was, must pay.

He and his dealer snorted up a few lines in the bog, shared a splash of toilet humour and did the Spanish Fly deal just before Piggy was called on stage. Aleister parked up at the bar, met Fagan (the thin delicate-looking figure with close cropped hair who had stood in the dock a year before was a changed man now, quietly confident, having bulked up in the prison gym- he wore his unwashed hair in a pony tail, tied back with a blue ribbon); Piggy was first up but died horribly. Aleister continued to feel awkward in the small crowded venue; it burdened him with its smoky claustrophobia, making him unusually aggressive. Worse still the next act was some wretchedly conceited camp squirt, Curious Cecil Gruff; he artfully only half concealed what appeared to be a magic lantern. The coy way in which Cecil postured bothered Aleister no end. Who did he think he was? Jack the fucking biscuit? These negative first impressions combined into a kind of sensorium, retained by Aleister, or rather translated by memory and imagination. Sensing his discomfort, Piggy ambled across, hoping to rub balsam over Aleister's storm-tossed forehead. Piggy respected Aleister's honest independence, but all the paranoid instability worried and depressed him. "What d'ya think then, the big time or Channel Five material?"

"Magic Pigsty, always are son, just don't give up your day job. How about this chap- do you know him?"

"No. Nor does anyone else. A new boy; he is however the self-proclaimed King of Comedy."

"I know it sounds radio rental, but I've witnessed Cecil Gruff's treachery before- in a previous existence. And at that time famine gripped the people of Akkad who had conspired with Shamash-Shum-Ukin and plotted evil."

Enough! Piggy's clients were prone to puerile enunciations, so he remained silent, sipping maraschino via ruby red lips; just about every situation is sanable. As far Piggy was concerned, each chap's concept of sub-consciousness was simply a way of explaining how structural systems have explanatory force- simultaneously unknown, yet effectively present. The question remained: what the dickens did Cecil represent to Aleister?

He gave Aleister a gentle squeeze on the inside leg and smiled. Piggy was a flirt, a proper card, a doughty lemon squeezer- Aleister was glad of his company; it steadied. Equanimity calmed Aleister, fending off eternal verities tampering with his mneme; slowly turning around to face Piggy's glabrous countenance, which possessed soigné parity to Parian marble, he responded:  "Your round innit Geez?"

It was tough shit he'd sold to Aleister, it was Shamanic, coming on- coming on strong. Some bitches, even flea ridden old mongrels like Aleister, couldn't handle deep love action like this shit. He peered into his mince pies for reassurances. The bitch seemed cool. Happily, Piggy drifted away like a trackless spore into a hot humid dusk. Cecil continued to push his luck. He displayed a barbaric propinquity toward taking the piss. His cheap rhetoric, the sly manner in which he represented society, it threw a shitty spanner into the mechanism of psychical economy, devaluing the exchange rate at its very heart.

A self-proclaimed King? Do me a favour! Cecil was simply out for what he could lay his grubby paws on. He couldn't give a tuppeny-toss about those who may be deluded enough to follow him. In the old days folk enjoyed and trusted the rule of and protection from righteous politicians such as Thomas More or James Ramsay MacDonald, these were men of integrity and fibre who stood or fell by their principles. In ancient times more martial but equally legendary leaders flourished: Thor and Odin were brass-balled hairy guys who led from the front, demi-gods, happy, nay eager, to share everything, even their dying energies with their environment. From those golden-age heroes onwards, all subsequent governments had been as corrupt as Narnia. Aleister's thoughts swayed toward regicide, because fundamentally (apart from that Granny shagging stuff) Fagan was spot on- any quack, quasi-prophet or tin-pot opportunist seeking to govern needs to be dissuaded in the most brutal fashion- lest the poor people suffer; for to be governed is to be inspected, spied upon, directed, law driven, regulated, preached at, controlled, goosed and censored, by creatures who have neither the right nor the wisdom nor the virtue to do so.

The Queen of England for example, who possesses arbitrary powers of life and death over her subjects, takes the preposterous title of Supreme Governor on Earth of the Church of England. How mad is that? Because in reality, in the white-hot foundry of Christ's Kingdom, there was no property, no operationally leased building roofs capped with mobile phone aerials, no pride and precedence, no motive indeed and no reward but love. Ah, love. Now school children from the age of four are force-fed daily tales, stuffed full with ornamental and unwise additions dreamed up by the unintelligently devout, concocting a miasma which paraphrases the life cycle of a mysterious first-century Palestinian Jew- stuff and nonsense that kiddies must fit onto the same mental map as the life cycle of the caterpillar. A diabolical Cult of the Individual surrounds Queen Elizabeth, whose face appears on all legal currency and postal stamps; she enjoys numerous palaces, has amassed a vast private fortune, becoming, in fact, the richest witch in the world. What on Earth does Fagan see in her? Her every public action is lauded by a fawning and sycophantic media accompanied by orchestrated pro-royalist demon-strations; behind this figurehead an elite class of parasites rule the decerebrated majority who enjoy the traditional mark of inutile illiteracy by one of three names twice a decade (although some lucky blighters out there are procured by Palace security chiefs for the dubious privilege of being butt-fucked, hard, by Princes, whilst high on drugs).

"And now, you children of my father's flock, is the moment to realise the insurmountable power of conviction" Cecil trumpeted forth a mesmeric message "battles between one's instinctual behaviour and conditioned role, bring painful confusion upon one's soul! Please yourself people, act as you feel, follow your nature, let's all remain real. Come! Gather now; conceive infinity as it actually is."
Cecil produced a magic lantern and proceeded with a phantasmagorical exhibition of suggestive images, punctuated at random by ugly scenes, where he performed explicit bestial acts upon an array of plastic inflatables. Fraught with scared small mammals, acute colours and the odd processional carriage, most fantastical shapes were homorphous to humanity, yet each creature portrayed bore antlers or pointy things akin to the head of a horned mountain goat. All manner of inventive pictures conjured up a kaleidoscopic scene of emotional and spiritual depravity, eating into and becoming ever more pressing upon the mindset of an audience agog. Tension grew; ladies of his harem cried out in ecstasy; stark was Cecil's power. Gross manifestations emanating from CCG's ingenious implement of veneer exposure formed a pictorial mimicry of humanity, laced with vermin, smut, scatology, and eerie religious ideology- not dissimilar from mediaeval exemplars of Judgement Day: alternative cabaret, disguising an excavation into the gauche side of life, lionising deceit and betrayal whilst seeking to disinter a primary fear of self over vast ranging horizons. Thatcherism had won; his peers no longer were willing to curb their whims and fancies. En masse, they shunned responsibility, sobriety, and whole heartedly subscribed to those cheap tricks with which Cecil had cornered the market.

Febrile scuffles had broken out amongst white niggers in the foyer. Aleister espied Piggy's sudoriferous armpits milling amidst the best of them- almost as incompetent as they were brutal; non-thinking easily divisible boot boys to a man, disaccustomed to harmonious mingling at an after-office soiree. A section of stage-struck punters in the auditorium were, by contrast, smitten by spectacle to the point of sensualism. Aleister could feel a collective craving to edge closer to Cecil's contraption. Cecil had turned them on big style. He'd spit roasted the lot of them by talking dirty. Now they were ready to bend over and take it where the sun doesn't shine. Aleister guessed that the promise of requited lust was genuinely scarce fodder for most heavily taxed, hard-working citizens, and now, thanks to Cecil's adept salesmanship, easy virtue had become a big issue of the most primary significance. The gloating horny figure of Curious Cecil Gruff, who now reminded him of his estranged father, pandered to illicit desire, played upon fear and weakness, beseeched volunteers to feast upon the pabulum of his wicked craft. Only a soupçon of sanity survived; it belonged to venerable Aleister, guardian of the adamantine anus: truly not a man to die of ignorance.

Proper leaders, ones who cared about their citizens, set the correct tone, they set the agenda- it's called meritocracy- there's no inheritance and the right people are elevated as a direct result of their worth to society. And that meant everybody, not just the shareholders. It's all about pulling together, respect, boundaries and trust- not shagging domesticated animals or abusing the weak in the way Cecil promoted. His vision was no better than some dreadful divorced single or separated shag-fest where winner takes all in a bleak, lonely world full of malice, mistrust, and paedophilia. Deciphering the nuclear consequences of such undiluted evil on this rudderless ale-house intelligence, Aleister corroborated his heart for battle by swigging the dregs of his pint. Picking up his ferrule, Aleister tried the get at CCG 'of the many and gross inequities' but was hindered in his quest by the power of darkness. A fluctuating phalange of punters, seduced into chaotic tumult, prevented Aleister from marching unto war. As the mob serried together for the grand slam finale, women bared their breasts whilst grown men chewed upon leather belts and butt-bungs.

"Hear me well you seekers of saliva and obey my command! Bend your knees in supplication to the true might of passion" yelled Cecil during his rhapsodical rodomontade "hold hands and circle me, o relinquishers of stoical void."

Aleister wished to scream aloud in his eagerness to halt Cecil in his tracks, yet was lost for words as an ominous shadow menacingly upstaged any notion of gaining attention. A tiny maelstrom of pastel hues appeared, growing into a racy nimbus over Cecil's brightly painted carnival style head, spraying out across the room like an expansive roman candle, showering mere mortals with starry fairy cum. As the dust settled, an awesome three-dimensional monstrosity superimposed itself so as to endow invisibility upon tonight's barnstorming artiste: a gossamery Luciferian countenance with an erect filamentous appendage sprouting from its brow totally stole the show.

"What does he do for an encore? Fuck minors!" Piggy's voice started Aleister, conveying the impetus required to aim a well-deserved haymaker at Cecil. Before one could utter hocus-pocus, the bounder vanished in a puff of smoke. A strange voice enquired: "What the fuck are you doing you nutter?"

A bunch of Muppets were staring at him; they might have purchased council houses but not one had the Aristotle to confront Aleister properly. In panic they pointed a large foam finger accusatively. Poltroon bastards the lot of them, yet consensus was remorseless. Aleister couldn't get a handle on what was occurring. He was so out of synch with the picture it just wasn't funny. Was he the guilty party? Is that why all his spars blanked him? Fagan had seemed contrite and many others had given him short-shrift. Someone could've warned him if he was edging off the rails. Now who would visit him in clink? Young Conservatives? Not a chance. Aleister could no longer handle this level of rejection. At his feet lay CCG, at last bloody well mute, sprawled across the stage in fancy dress, particles of his Woolworth's porch lantern scattered across the deck.

The resident ship of fools was about to away anchor and mutiny so he needed to scarper. He swivelled swiftly and nutted some character in the boat then was on his toes outside into Leicester Square. It was full of mad dogs; the acrid stench of filth contorted his expression, stretching muscles in his lower jaw as he roared back at them. He howled ripe obscenities, growling like a giant wolf from some Norse saga, stuck in his head since the infants. His stature increased until all else appeared to shatter in his wake. As he raced through the green hundreds of pigeons took flight in unison, as if they were all tiny rockets, part of a first strike initiative aimed at destroying the planet. The population deserved it, liars & cheats every last jack. Look! There's the Devil. Where? There. How do you know? Listen well my friend, the light from the bulb up there in the ceiling hit the Devil and bounced off on to my retina; lots of tiny sensory things tingled in my mind. It was they telling my brain cells, no? What! Aren't you imagining things? You're Gonzo.
Am I bollox.
Sprinting through Coventry Street and beyond into Haymarket, Aleister realised that resistance was pure futility. Route Master number 15 bore down on him so hard it felt as if a fireball had exploded inside his chest; he could hardly breathe. As he drowned in his own blood, his sight clouded- other senses seemed to operate fully of their own accord. Energy dissipated from his being. Up above he noticed Fagan's drunken face leering at him.

"Life isn't fair Aleister, not for you or me leastways. The likes of us see, all around the world, we're suffered: purely to be exploited. Even my mate the copper was fucked over. They dropped him like a hot potato when they discovered he was bent. Disposable see? They terminated his career- 29 frigging years! His corruptible tendencies had gone undetected during routine security screenings. The truth? Only guttersnipes know that. And you done good son. We can't let self-proclaimed royalty like Cecil Gruff take liberties. I would have done the same boy; only you beat me to it. Those wankers down the front lapped it up like pussies, thought he was the dog's bollocks, some kind of fucking deity; whilst the working classes, the English working classes! They fought amongst themselves as usual. Fuck 'em. Still you got him OK. Now stay calm mate, I've got something tasty for you before you go."

After wobbling a wee bit Fagan gradually genuflected, holding tightly onto Aleister's hand. With due care and attention, he produced a small wet pink object from his torn pocket. "Here, I extracted Cecil's insolent tongue. I would have tampered with his sphincter had I had time, but you know, been there, done that."

This final act of innocent, if demented compassion, soothed Aleister- as death engulfed him, his last selfless hope, was that his time on Earth had not been spent entirely in vain, and that his crushed, dismembered body would at least become sustenance to stray dogs, foraging swine, jackals and eagles; utilised by scientists for pathological research, profited from by medicine heads, sold abroad illegally, fed to the birds of the heavens, or perhaps the fish of the deep.

This is wisdom