The Free Encyclopaedia

Back in 1983 a door-to-door encyclopaedia salesman paid me a visit. I allowed him in and listened to his spiel. This is an embellished version of what he had to say.

Eldred Q. Gink

Executive Marketing Director

Encyclopaedia Britannica, Inc.

"Good day to you Mr Martin and I have the greatest pleasure in presenting my card and introducing myself as a harbinger of good fortune. Yes Sir. Our computer has selected you from its mighty memory of over ten million others. You, Sir, are to be the lucky recipient of our magnificent new edition of the greatest encyclopaedia in the world."

I looked at him with disdainful interest. Here was another caricature - the world was full of them. The flashing white teeth, the buttoned blue suit with triangle of handkerchief at breast pocket, the floral tie, shiny shoes, heavy looking briefcase, eager insincerity.

“Mr Martin, you have had the incredible good fortune to be chosen as the one in ten million recipient of a full set of the new Encyclopaedia Britannica Three."

"Three?"

A light of hope flickered briefly in Eldred Gink's eyes. He looked pointedly past my shoulder and said, "Yes Sir. The revolutionary approach to the Complete Circle of Knowledge (by the way that is the literal meaning of the Greek word 'encyclopaedia') is to divide the thirty volumes into three distinct areas."

With an unmistakable gesture he shook the briefcase in his right hand and motioned with his left towards the interior of my abode.

"Allow me the opportunity to explain."

I sighed. I led the way inside and told the Executive Marketing Director "If you want to sit down you can." This was not genteel but I felt justified. This fucker was a conman and he should be humiliated a little on behalf of those idiots who had believed his lies about a free gift.

The EB Inc director sat in one of the armchairs and laid his briefcase flat on the carpet and opened it. I went into the kitchen and poured myself a tall glass, two-thirds Virginia topped up with soeties. Then I cut a piece of cheese and went back to the lounge. I placed the wine and the cheese on the arm of the couch and said, "Just hold it," and went out and pissed in the gully. I knew this could prove to be a long show and I wanted to be comfortable. In the back room I collected his pipe, Balkan Special, perlemoen  shell and matches as well as my pouch of dagga and rejoined the harbinger of good fortune. I reclined on the couch like Manet’s Olympia, one hand comfortably in my groin and said, “Okay, Eldred. Go for it."

Eldred had his manual on his knee. “Mr Martin, our computer, with its vast database, has selected…”

“Yes, yes, yes. Now tell me something interesting. The encyclopaedia.” I sipped.

Eldred Gink was no longer showing his large white teeth. For a moment he appeared to brood and then stood up abruptly, unbuttoned his jacket, took it off and draped it over the other armchair. He loosened his tie and said, "Alright. How about offering me a drink?"

I was pleasantly surprised and went to the kitchen and poured a tumbler three quarters Virginia and one quarter soet. (Didn't want him getting too pissed.)

"Sir, I see that our computer is not infallible. I also know that our marketing strategy is, like the Encyclopaedia itself, built upon three fundamentals. Unlike the Encyclopaedia, which is noble in conception, the marketing strategy is base in the extreme. Greed, Deception and Cruelty. I shall continue on this theme at a later stage if necessary, but for the moment I proceed with my dissertation on The Complete Circle of Knowledge.”

He drank from his glass, groaned and removed his toupee. He massaged his balding pate, and then tossed the hairpiece into the open briefcase. I had taken him to be in his mid thirties but now I could see that he was considerably older.

"The first edition, in three volumes, was published in 1768. As the world has changed and the amount of knowledge has increased, so Britannica has grown to keep up with the times. Since its inception it has been the most important single source of authoritative information available to man, and today it retains that exalted status. It was because human knowledge had grown so immensely that Britannica Three was devised. It has been totally restructured to become a complete University In The Home, able to guide one through any field of learning, all the way from the basic outline to a complete and detailed grasp of the whole subject."

He raised his glass to the light, admired the amber colour and took large gulp. He loosened his laces and kicked off his shoes with gratification, wriggling his pinched toes.

"Christ, but your feet stink!" And I hastily lit my pipe.

"In thirty volumes there are over fifty three thousand pages, with forty one million words, twenty six thousand superb illustrations, nineteen hundred maps and one hundred and sixty colour plate inserts. The new three-section format makes it very easy to move about in this vast storehouse of knowledge, with every subject, every fact fitting naturally into place. Sir, you can see that Britannica is totally committed to the dissemination of knowledge. Each and every volume is prefaced with the motto, 'Let knowledge grow from more to more and thus be human life enriched."

“He that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow."

"Sir, you wish to goad me. You wish to be offensive."

I covered my nose with one hand and pointed to the stockinged feet.

With exasperation the owner of the feet pulled off the socks, knotted them together and went and hung them on the window handle to air. Returning, he stood stiffly erect, drained his drink, and flung the-glass sideways into the fireplace with a ceremonial flourish. It smashed into many pieces and I clapped four of five times.

Eldred Gink unbuckled his belt and seated himself. After a lengthy pause in which he seemed to be collecting his thoughts he resumed as follows:

"In the fullness of their experience and wisdom the editors of the fifteenth edition deemed it in the best interests of Mankind to restructure the Encyclopaedia Britannica into three distinct yet interrelated sections - the Propaedia, the Micropaedia, and the Macropaedia. Let us explain diagramatically."

From his case he took two kokis, one red and one blue, and began to write on the wall adjacent to the window, which allowed in the cool light reflected from the south. He drew a large circle in red, divided it into three equal segments and wrote in blue within each.

"The Propaedia is the single volume Outline of Knowledge and guide to the Britannica. It categorizes all fields of learning, breaks them down into their component parts, and shows how they fit together and relate to other areas. And it shows you exactly where each aspect of every subject is dealt with in the main body of the Encyclopaedia.

"Now the Micropaedia, in ten volumes, serves as the ready reference and index. It gives exactly what is needed in short factual entries on more than one hundred thousand topics. And, what is more, for the utmost convenience to the reader it is arranged alphabetically."

“How else?"

"Yes, quite so. There are also seventeen hundred superb illustrations, so for those readers who are illiterate the information is not only told but also shown. And when further facts are required the Micropaedia indicates exactly where more detailed information may be found in the Macropaedia.

"Which brings us to the Macropaedia – the nineteen volume main text. This is the circle of world knowledge in depth. Any part of it you want you can have, right there in your lap, or on a table in front of you, or on the floor, in bed, on the toilet, in your car, flying or sailing, wherever you go, whatever you do, you can have these nineteen volumes right there with you, and you may become an acknowledged master of any area of learning you choose - for what you read will have been contributed by a world famed expert and approved by other world famed experts. But written so clearly and simply that EVERYONE can understand. Even a person afflicted with cretinism; even a mentally retarded dwarf with wide set eyes, a broad flat nose and protruding tongue."

He dropped the kokis back in the briefcase and sat down. I noticed there was blood on his foot.

"Mr Martin, I now wish to share with you my wonder and excitement with regard to the vast and intricately beautiful complexity of the human mind. But my throat is parched and I become hoarse and weak." He unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a tattooed belly.

I had finished my own drink. In the kitchen I filled my glass as before and emptied a can of All Gold Appelkooskonfyt into a bowl. I gave the can a rinse under the tap and filled it with half Virginia and half soet.

"Sir, I thank you. And now for the human mind. It is generally accepted in academic circles that the mind is situated in the brain, which is situated in the head, and that if the brain in the head were to be removed, the mind would inpso facto cease to function. Yes, that's good. I like that. Within the head lies the brain and within the confines of the brain resides the mind, No brain, no mind. A logical consequence of no real interest or significance, so fulsomely obvious. Nevertheless, if we were to remove a head by slicing and hacking with sharp instruments like the carving knife, the cut throat razor, the panga and the cleaver, all honed and stropped to a fine edge, and then sawing through cartilage and bone with a toothed instrument such as the rip saw, the cross cut saw, the tennon saw, or the petrol powered chain saw, the head would be rendered remote from the body. It could then be placed ear down, listening for stealthy vibration, upon a two foot diameter chopping block, and if a fourteen pound sledgehammer were raised to full height and brought down with full force upon the other ear of the said head, one would be left with a fine example of how not to attempt anatomical explorations of the human cranium. Far better to forego decapitation altogether and merely saw off the top of the skull with the aid of the common hacksaw, which has an inexpensive and easily replaceable fine-toothed blade. And then if one were to lift the hatch, so to speak, one would be rewarded with a view of the unimpaired subject of one's learned enquiry. At which juncture one would roll up one's sleeves to above the elbow. Then if one were to place the palm of the right hand upon the convoluted grey surface and push and compress, one could ease the fingers down the side of the cavity, probing ever so carefully for fear of catching a fingernail, until the arm be immersed to mid forearm. At this depth one should be able to feel the edge of the foramen magnum, being the hole in the base of the skull where the occipital bone rests on the first cervical vertebra, being Atlas supporting the world on his shoulders. The fingers should curl naturally about the cerebellum, being less flabby than the cerebrum. The medulla oblongata can be felt at the base of the cerebellum, entering the foramen magnum to connect with the spinal cord. At this point we may apply upward pressure in order to extend the spinal cord in order more easily to hook one's index finger around said cord and said medulla oblongata. If one is experienced in dissection, or the cleaning of large crustaceans, or the harvesting of pyura stolonifers, one should then be able to pluck forth with facility the brain intact. A rapid corkscrew motion exerted forcefully upward is usually sufficient to effect the procedure, it being important for the motion to be swift and smooth in order to snap the spinal cord and optic nerves. So far, so good. The organ is placed upon a bread board and one may then hone and strop ones’ finer instruments and dust off the lenses of ones’ microscope. The in-depth examination commences."

He sipped thoughtfully from his jam tin, stood with his back to the fireplace looking down at me, paced back and forth a few times and sat down again. I had mixed Balkan Special half and half with dagga and was blowing clouds of smoke and inhaling deeply through my nostrils.

"Mr Martin, Sir, it is appropriate to remind ourselves that we are engaged in the pursuit of knowledge through scientific enquiry. Our tools are anatomical dissection, hypothetical metapsychology, didactic philosophical claptrap and the New Encyclopaedia Britannica Three. With the aid of two sharpened sticks one may now prod, probe and turn the pink and grey mass. One may familiarize oneself with the major divisions, being, and we ascend in order from the spinal cord, as follows and exactly thus: the medulla oblongata, being considered a continuation of the spinal cord and attaching to the rhombencephalon, being considered to be the hindbrain, being connected to the mesencephalon, being considered to be the midbrain, being connected to the prosencephalon, being considered to be the forebrain. Now the rhombencaphalon may be seen with the aid of the eyesight to consist of the myelencephalon, being the medulla oblongata, the metencephalon, being the pons, and the cerebellum, being itself, without further ado. Likewise the prosencephalon may be discerned to comprise the diencephalon, being the betwixt brain, being the central connecting part of the forebrain and otherwise known as the between brain, corresponding approximately to the thalamus, and not to be confused with the hypothalamus, and the telencephalon, which happens to be nothing other than the two cerebral hemispheres, which are not at all hemispherical if one is respectful of both the logical and geometrical necessity of the plural term denoting the spherical, when in fact the shape of the two segments together does indeed approximate to the form as applied in the singular, and it becomes clear that such aforesaid confusion could have arisen from no other cause than the intoxifying effect of four parts Ceylon tea to one part methylated spirits upon the cerebral functions of T. Pickering Pick, B. Sc. , Ph.D., M.B., B.Chir., Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons at St Georges Hospital, London, and is yet further proof that the opinionated blatherings of the scientific community in general, and the medical fraternity in particular, should be viewed with scepticism. Be that as it may, if now one were to take up a four-tined stainless steel cutlery fork and grasp it in the left hand manner all good parents forbid their offspring so to do, and if one were then to harpoon the encephalon, having taken a line of sight upon the intersection of Rolando's transverse and antero-posterior fissures, easily distinguished by the large lamina of nerve fibres protruding from the ventral aspect, then one would stabilise, if not totally immobilise, this remarkably volatile organ. One may now wish to commence dissection of the cerebral cortex using ones’ right hand and a suitably honed and boned instrument, of course. At this point it should be noted how disproportionately large is the cerebrum, the centre of thought and consciousness. The average human brain has a mass of approximately one thousand four hundred and nine grams and eighty five percent of this is cerebrum. Over the last million years, give or take a year or two, the cerebrum has mushroomed like a fungus and is clearly an aberration. Mr Martin, Sir, it is clear that you and I, as representatives of the human race, are aberrations of nature. But let us not lose sight of the fact that it is impossible to gauge from our physical structure just how aberrant we really are. Tall persons have heavier brains than short persons but, relative to their height, short persons have larger heads and brains than tall persons. However there is no statistical evidence to show that large headed persons are more intelligent and thus more prone to aberration and depravity than small headed persons."

My pipe had gone out. I looked at Eldred Q. Gink with interest. You never know who will knock on your door. The thought seemed filled with a deep profundity.

"Hey man. You look a bit like Dracula. "

The door-to-door marketing director had begun to drip blood onto his chest. It dripped from his chin, having welled from his mouth. He looked startled and then his face darkened.

"There are sharp edges on this mug," he said accusingly. "And it’s empty. "

When I returned with replenishments Eldred was cleaning up his dentures with a strip of cloth from his shirt. For a few seconds he sat, shoulders slumped, looking at the teeth in his hand. I feared an outburst of emotion but the moment passed -and he placed his set in the briefcase, straightened himself and resumed in an altered voice; the words shuffling and slipping over his gums.

"We are about to examine this wrinkled metastasis the human mind. If the pachydermic creases were ironed flat it would be found that the surface area of the cerebral cortex extends in all directions to a vast two hundred and eighty five thousand square millimetres. The total number of cortical nerve cells…"

"You got a calculator? Divide one million by two hundred and eighty five thousand. What you get?"

"Three point five zero eight double seven one nine."

"One hundred divided by that?"

"Twenty eight point five seven one four two eight."

"Twenty eight percent of a square metre? That's bout a square foot. Unimpressive. How many nerve cells?"

"Fourteen thousand three hundred and twenty eight million." I was unmoved but said nothing.

"Such a number is beyond comprehension. In order to grasp the magnitude of such a cell population it is necessary to take a smaller sample. Let us examine a cube of cortical matter one millimetre by one millimetre by two point five millimetres. That gives two and a half cubic millimetres. Now, Sir, how many neurons do you think could be packed into such a miniscule volume?"

"For fuck's sake! How many?"

"Sixty thousand neurons, Mr Martin. Sixty thousand. Packed into a space no bigger than a pinhead. And each neuron, with its axon and dendrite net, is capable of participating in fifty thousand synapses which, according to my calculations, gives the figure three times ten to the power of nine, being exactly thirty thousand million. Now multiply thirty thousand million by two hundred and fifty thousand and you have the number of synaptic interactions taking place at any given millionth of a second in man's cerebral cortex."

He looked pleased with himself.

"And so? "

"And so, Sir, we are led to the realisation that the human mind has infinite potential. Infinite, I say without fear of contradiction. Infinite. The possibilities, the permutations are not finite. This cerebrum, sliced into rashers and examined with microscopic vision, reveals itself to be the most immensely powerful thinking machine imaginable. Sir, I wish to elaborate on the theme."

Kneeling in front of the fireplace he placed the calculator on the hearth. Wielding one of his shoes as a hammer he struck it several times. Unhappy with the effect, he took up the heavy manual and tried a few blows with the spine.

"Damn thing's indestructible," he said in frustration.

I found this activity to my liking and laughed maniacally. I went out the back and found a brick.

"Try this. Fuck it in its moer."

E.Q. Gink laid the book flat on the hearth and propped the calculator on its edge against it.

"Quick, it’s a cockroach, swat it!" At my exhortation he slammed the brick down with a one handed aim that was true and the Sharp E7L 531 burst open like a ripe pod.

"Ah, here we have it. Take a look at this. Imitation cortex." I returned to the couch and Eldred sat on the edge of his chair. Both trouser legs were torn at the knee and the cloth was turning a deeper shade of blue.

"Sir, it is my express intention, and I must stress that I do indeed intend to express myself with cogency and a dedication to arriving at a logical conclusion, it is my express vocation and duty to reveal to you the working of the human mind and the manner in which said mind is bent on the overweening desire and self driven necessity to categorize all and every thing under the sun. If I may have your attention," and he held up the open calculator and snapped his fingers to focus the gaze of his audience. "We see here the guts of a brain, so to speak. Bits and pieces of electronic paraphernalia. One might describe it loosely as a data processing system, being a collection of electromechanical and electronic components and devices assembled in a plastic module containing switching and, communications components such as transistors, diodes, capacitors, resistors and integrated circuit, all combined into various kinds of circuitry by technical means of the highest integrity, together with a memory system, a power supply, delay lines and various types of magnetic media such as magnets and bits of wire for carrying and transferring and transposing data and information, as coded cybernetically and in strict accordance with binary Boolean logic into instructions, computations and apologetic or accusatory interjections regarding failure and error. One hundred and fifty functions capable thereof, entailing four hundred thousand electronic signals per second traversing highways and byways within this microscopically miniaturized chip of processed silicon to the precise tick of a quartz crystal timing device – all in the interests of and to the greater glorification of the human cerebrum. Let us be quite clear about one thing, Mr Martin. About one thing it is of necessity that we should be quite clear and, without belabouring the point so excessively as to cause offence, and without beating about the bush, it is clearly of the utmost urgency for the purposes of this exercise to be entirely lucid upon this, and this only, the subject, object and ultimate goal of this our expressed endeavour, viz. to promote comprehension and awareness of the innate drive compelling man to describe the descriptions of the functioning of the functions of the super computer situated in the cranial vault."

“Jesus, but you can talk a lot of shit! I thought you were flogging encyclopaedias. What's this got to do with encyclofuckinpaedias?”

Eldred's eyes became round with astonishment. "Do you mean to tell me you haven't been following the simple logic of my argument? Do you mean to say that you are incapable of seeing that my intention is to lead you to the realisation that the New Encyclopaedia Britannica Three is the pinnacle of human learning and the most succinct piece of evidence to date that the human cerebral cortex is within reach of taming the entire universe, of discovering Higg's boson, of crossing the last frontier? Mr Martin, have you not had the faintest inkling that I am in the process of enlightening you, of illuminating your mind so that, by the end of my performance, you will not only be grateful but desperate, I say desperate, to own the New Encyclopaedia Britannica Three?”

I said nothing.

''Mr Martin, I have reached a critical point. I have revealed to you some of the marvellous complexities of the brain and I am about to convince you, once and for all, that even you will be unable to live without the possibility of immediate access to it once you have gazed upon its beauty. And I refer to the Complete Circle of Knowledge as categorized in the Propaedia of the New Encyclopaedia Britannica Three."

He paused and looked into his jam tin. When I mode no move he held it upside down so there could be no doubt as to his wishes.

"Sir, you oblige me to be crudely blatant. You do not encourage subtlety. My tongue is withered at the root. Do you require me to bite my arm like the Ancient Mariner had to in order to utter sound?"

Scowling and muttering, "This had better be good," I fetched what was left of the wine and shared it out. Eldred Q. Gink drank his portion straight off and tossed the can into the corner behind him. Theatrically he smacked his bloodied lips, coughed end cleared his throat.

"Testing. One two three four. Testing. Testing. One two." He massaged his adams apple, coughed again and spat into the breast pocket of his shirt. He got to his feet and made a show of moving the manual to the exact centre line before the fireplace. He then stood on the book facing me, stiffened to attention and raised his eyes ceilingward.

"The Complete Circle of Knowledge, devised and presented by the illustrious Board of Editors of Encyclopaedia Britannica, Inc., choice of domicillium citandi et executandi being Boardroom and Bar, ninth Floor, Britannica House, 425 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois, United States of America, will hereinafter be referred to as The Complete Circle of Knowledge. The Complete Circle of Knowledge, hitherto referred to as The Complete Circle of Knowledge, is the sole property of the aforesaid Board of Editors, elsewhere referred to as the Board of Onanists, and not referred to ever again hereinafter, and should be deemed to constitute the essential credo of the aforesaid Encyclopaedia Britannica and, not withstanding anything to the contrary contained herein, hereto or hereinafter, without prejudice to me, Eldred Q. Gink, officially appointed Executive Marketing Director, Encyclopaedia Brittannica, Inc. (South Africa), under no circumstances whatsoever, be it manfully with fell intention or be it womanfully without prior knowledge of the consequences, the aforesaid credo being deemed to be the ex deo inalienable property of the aforesaid Encyclopaedia Britannica, Inc., shall any man or woman, be it under cover of darkness or be it in flagrant contravention of public decency, singly or generally, refer to, directly or in passing, such aforesaid Circle of Knowledge without the prior payment in full of such monies and stamp duties as should be required in terms of the lien held by the aforesaid Encyclopaedia Britannica Inc. on all or any forms of knowledge purporting to be of the circular ilk or kind. So help me God. The Circle of Knowledge may be depicted schematically as a wheel with a hub and nine spokes, the hub representing the Branches of Scholarship, and the spokes dividing the Circle of Knowledge into nine Areas of Learning. The nine Areas of Learning do consist of Matter and Energy, The Earth, Life on Earth, Human Life, Human Society, Art, Technology, Religion, and the History of Mankind. The hub consisteth of Logic, Mathematics, Science, History, The Humanities, and Philosophy, being the Branches of Scholarship which may be used, selectively or eclectically, to examine any or all of the nine Areas of Learning, which may be divided and subdivided ad infinitum into innumerable categories and components as the mind sees fit. The first Area of Learning to prostrate itself before our scrutiny beeth the universe of the physicist, chemist and astronomer and do be termed Matter and Energy. We may gaze upon the atom and its nucleus, its structure and properties, and its elementary particles. We may examine the periodic variation in the properties of chemical elements and the molecular structure, as well as the bonding and reactions, of chemical compounds. Heat, thermodynamics end not only the various nonsolid states of matter but also the solid state of matter are here alongside each other and the mechanics of particles, as well as both rigid and deformable bodies, which are subject to elasticity, vibrations and flow. Then run your eyes over electricity and magnetism, past waves and wave motion to the open realms of the solar system, stars, galaxies - and the cosmos! The first Area of Learning, quod erat demonstrandum, but in briefest of outline. You may pursue the details forever, if you so wish. The second Area of Learning to raise the curtain happeneth to be The Earth, which is where we are here and now, upon the great globe itself. She appears to us as a planet with physical properties, an internal structure and composition with constituen minerals and rocks. Her outer garment is the atmosphere, of exquisite texture but somewhat befouled, while the undergarment is the hydrosphere - oceans, fresh water bodies, and ice masses, stirred by the motions and forces that created them, and ruffled by weather and climate. Beneath the garments we discern the physical features produced by geomorphic processes acting on her surface. We become aware of her origin and development and are able to interpret the geological record, running through eras, periods and epochs of geological time in response to the unheard music hidden in the shrubbery - Precambrian, Paleozoic, Cambrian, Ordovicien, Silurian, Upper Paleozoic, Devonian, Lower Carboniferous, Upper Carboniferous, Permian, Mezozoic, Triassic, Jurassic, Cretaceous, Cenozoic, Tertiary, Quaternary, Pleistocene, Holocene - the rocks, the life, the stratigraphy, the environment - altering inexorably. Then in the third Area of Learning we can examine Life itself. The characteristics of Life on Earth, the origin of living things and their classification are dealt with. If we wish to believe it there is an explanation of the molecular basis of vital processes involving chemicals, metabolism, bioenergetics and biosynthesis. The vital processes at the molecular level are covered in detail, special attention being given to the cellular basis of the form and function of organisms, the coordination of vital processes through regulation and integration, the procurement and processing of nutrients, gas exchange, internal transport, and elimination. Reproduction, growth, differentiation, morphogenesis and the transmission of traits through heredity are not ignored. Neither are the behavioural responses of organisms, which have evolved and developed a range of individual and group capacities. And an overall picture of the interacting patterns of life is given by an analysis of the biosphere, it being appallingly apparent that Man has set himself above the world of living things that are required to exist in a single system of biotic and environmental interdependencies. Which leads us on to the fourth Area of Learning - Human Life. Verily, Man's chief obsession is with himself. The stages in the development of human life are chronicled in minute detail, from the appearance of prosimian and anthropoid primates with their distinguishing characteristics differentiating them from other mammals in such aspects as vertebral column and posture, manipulative capabilities of hands and feet, dentition, snout, muzzle, nose, brain, nervous system and sensory perception - even the reproductive organs are placed under a magnifying glass - to the Hominidae and the emergence of Homo erectus, Homo flaccidus and Homo sapiens. The evolution of Man is recalled, using fossil and implement records to trace his development through the three Quaternary Periods from one million years ago to ten thousand years ago, when our relations Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon were frequenting all the best caves. And now the attention is brought to focus on truly vast fields of knowledge: human health and diseases, human behaviour end experience, communication and language, and aspects of daily life. Health end Disease covers no less than the entire structure and function of the human body, the manifestations, recognition and treatment of diseases, disorders of the human body, and the practice of medicine. The practice of medicine! The practice of medicine can include any or all of the following: radiology, surgery, obstetrics and gynecology, urology, opthalmology, otolaryngology, neurology, psychiatry, anaesthesiology, pathology, endocrinology, immunology, toxicology, physiology, nutrition, pharmacology, gerontology, cytotechnology, dentistry, orthodontics, periodontics and osteopathy. You takes your pick. Behaviour and Experience is all about conjecture as to whether man is a god or a freak, and how various influences on stages of development, attention, sensation, perception, learning, thinking end personality have resulted in godfreak performing an extremely bizarre range of antics. Communication deals with signals, signs, symbols and gestures as non-vocal means, and speech and laughter as the vocal manifestations. The logical structure, emotional dynamics, and style and technique, both verbal and situational, of humour and wit are covered in detail. The nature, function and structure of language, spoken and written, are defined, and of course considerable attention is given to linguistics and the classification of languages. There are so many languages being jabbered all over the world that no scholar would risk putting an exact number to their quantity. Suffice it to say that there are thirty six main languages or groups of languages. These are as follows: Indo-Iranian, Celtic, Italic, Romance, Greek, Baltic, Slavic, Germanic, English, Albanian, Armenian and Tocharian, which are of the Indo-European variety. Uralic and Basque are non-Indo-European. Indo-Iranian, Dravidian, Austro-Asiatic, Sino-Tibetan, Tai, Japanese, Korean, Altaic, Paleosiberian, Caucasian, Austronesian, Australian Aboriginal and Papuan are the languages of Asia and Oceania. From Africa and the Middle East are the languages of Niger-Congo, Chicari-Nile, Nilo-Sahara, Khoisan, semitic, Egyptian, Berber, Cushitic, and Chadic. Eskimo-Aleut, North Amerindian, Mexican, Central American, South American and Caribbean are the last major groups. Then of course there are Gobbledegook, Codswallop and Horseshit. Extinct languages of which we have knowledge are Anatolian, Etruscan, non-Romance Italic, Sumerian and Tocharian. Artificially constructed languages are Esperanto and Interlingua, whilst machine languages are Fortran and Algol. It is of considerable interest to note that speech developed in man as a direct result of him choosing, a million years ago, to forego making mechanical use of his mouth in food gathering and tool making, thus freeing his oral cavity for such activities as verbal articulation, not to mention fellatio. There could hardly have been a more significant decision in the history of man's development, could there? It is with this thought that we turn to the various Aspects of Daily Life as set out in the Propaedia. And a depressing round of tedium and duty it is too. We are reminded of that ancient curse requiring us to earn our bread by the sweat of our brows all the days of our lives until we return unto the dust from whence we came. This is the gloomiest part of the whole work and I would personally excise it from the Encyclopaedia Britannica if it was in my power to do so. Unfortunately I am not authorised to perform editorial surgery and we are required to bolster up our spirits and plod through the details of a day. Eating and drinking, defecating, sleeping, waking, rising. Masturbating in front of the mirror. Clothing ourselves, housing ourselves. Dragging off to work day in and day out. Procreation. The coupling of man and woman and the feeding, clothing and educating of offspring. And the discussion of the use of leisure time does nothing to cheer. On the contrary, the long list of games is confirmation of the darkness within us. If we aren't keen busy with frivolous play, then we begin to fight or become suicidal. Let us hurry away from such morbidity and move on to a scholarly treatment of the fifth Area of Learning, Human Society. This is divided into culture, social organization and social change, the production, distribution and utilization of wealth, politics and government, law, and education. Once more we are up in the crisp air, able to describe, arrange and theorize, above the smog of Chekhovian despair. Everything you need to know about peasant societies, ancient and modern, ethnocentrism and cultural relativism, kinship systems with special regard to mate selection, marriage, incest, exogamy, endogamy, marriage alliances and customary exchanges of property and services accompanying marriage, the conflict model theory of social structure, which views society and its elements as products of conflict between groups or individuals competing for power, the positive socializing roles of family, peer group and education, the regulation of behaviour that departs from social norms by punishment such as verbal reprimand, fine, imprisonment for varying periods, beating with whip, cane or barbed wire, racking, immersion in liquid, exposure to heat as in burning at stake or frying in chair, attaching of electrical devices to sexual organs, guillotining, hanging, garotting and the threat of any or all such punishments, the dichotomy of Gemeinschaft and Gesellschaft, effects of industrialisation and urbanisation on the modern family, definitions of race, racism, ethnic group and ethnocentrism, the 'baas fok meid, boi fok miesies' theory of the origin of apartheid, the mid twentieth century rediscovery of the poor, the affluent, criminals, sexual deviants, prostitutes, drug abusers, suicides and the physically and mentally handicapped - everything you might want to know about culture, social organization and social change. The production, distribution and utilization of wealth are treated with similar thoroughness but are of little relevance to the likes of us at this stage, so let us skip merrily along to politics and government, raise a hind leg, and trot on to law. Another catalogue of a subject in all its aspects. Ditto education. I tire, Mr Martin, I tire. It must be this cheap rotgut wine. If you would be so good to pass me my hypodermic. And the Methyl Phenidate Hydrochloride.."

"Can't you get it yourself?"

"I fear that if I move from here I will loose the thread and have to start again at the very beginning."

I got up and rummaged in the briefcase until I found the syringe and ampoule and handed them to the orator. The clear liquid was taken up, the left tit of the mermaid on his stomach was pricked and the plunger depressed.

"Ahh. Let's hope this will stimulate my cerebral cortex, improve mental activity and relieve insidious depression and fatigue.”

I took the hypodermic and empty ampoule and dropped them back in the case. I returned to the couch.

"I beg your pardon, but it tends to do this to me." He unzipped his trousers, adjusted himself, pulled up the zip and buckled his belt. "I feel a little stronger. More virile. I can only try. Let's see. Human Society is behind us. The sixth Area of Learning is simply entitled Art. Theory, classification and criticism, yes. Literature, theatre. motion pictures, music, dance, architecture, sculpture, drawing, painting, photography. It’s all there. Words, pictures. Much as you like. I can’t get over this lassitude. So much for art. Number seven - Technology. Measurement and observation, tools and machines. Agriculture, industry, construction, transportation, information, communication, the military, space exploration. Tools and machines. Eight. Religion. Oh my God: Nine: The History of Mankind. Tragic, tragic. And there we are. Done. Finis." He stepped down from his platform and sat on the edge of the chair.

His manner changed. He had not been able to sustain the performance and, inspiration gone, he was becoming businesslike and abrupt.

"Normal selling price, one five three five and fifty cents. Its yours for nix."

"Bullshit. Not a bad spiel but I'm not interested. Try somewhere else."

Gink had his shoes on and was knotting his tie. He looked at me with naked contempt. "I'm telling you this is a free gift. The computer must have fucked up. What a waste. I don't know. Mindless. Bloody lousy wine." He took a two-way radio from the briefcase, extended the aerial and spoke into it.

"Lone Ranger to Hottentots. Lone Ranger to Hottentots. Come in, Hottentots." The radio crackled end a voice was heard.

"Daar's die ou poes. Luister wat hy wil he." And then: "Under and over. Hotnot to Lone Ranger. Ja?"

"Bring it in, bring it in, for Christ's sake. You know the routine. Do I have to come and do it myself?"

I watched him adjusting his hairpiece, smiling experimentally, pulling on his jacket. Could it possibly be? There was a knock at the front door.

"Come in, come in. Hurry up. You know what they said at the office."

Two men in brown dust coats entered the room. One walked backwards, the other forwards. Between them they carried an imitation rosewood bookcase loaded with large volumes bound in red regency. They put it down against the wall, looked about insolently, and left.

Eldred Gink slammed shut his briefcase. "Well, there you are. It’s all yours. Mindless, mindless." He left.

I stood string aghast at the books.

Excerpt from The Aran Islands by JM Synge

 Pats story

One day I was travelling on foot from Galway to Dublin, and the darkness came on me and I ten miles from the town I was wanting to pass the night in. Then a hard rain began to fall and I was tired walking, so when I saw a sort of a house with no roof on it up against the road, I got in the way the walls would give me shelter.
As I was looking round I saw a light in some trees two perches off, and thinking any sort of a house would be better than where I was, I got over a wall and went up to the house to look in at the window.
I saw a dead man laid on a table, and candles lighted, and a woman watching him. I was frightened when I saw him, but it was raining hard, and I said to myself, if he was dead he couldn't hurt me. Then I knocked on the door and the woman came and opened it.
'Good evening, ma'am,' says I.
'Good evening kindly, stranger,' says she, 'Come in out of the rain.' Then she took me in and told me her husband was after dying on her, and she was watching him that night.
'But it's thirsty you'll be, stranger,' says she, 'Come into the parlour.' Then she took me into the parlour—and it was a fine clean house—and she put a cup, with a saucer under it, on the table before me with fine sugar and bread.
When I'd had a cup of tea I went back into the kitchen where the dead man was lying, and she gave me a fine new pipe off the table with a drop of spirits.
'Stranger,' says she, 'would you be afeard to be alone with himself?'
'Not a bit in the world, ma'am,' says I; 'he that's dead can do no hurt,' Then she said she wanted to go over and tell the neighbours the way her husband was after dying on her, and she went out and locked the door behind her.
I smoked one pipe, and I leaned out and took another off the table. I was smoking it with my hand on the back of my chair—the way you are yourself this minute, God bless you—and I looking on the dead man, when he opened his eyes as wide as myself and looked at me.
'Don't be afraid, stranger,' said the dead man; 'I'm not dead at all in the world. Come here and help me up and I'll tell you all about it.'
Well, I went up and took the sheet off of him, and I saw that he had a fine clean shirt on his body, and fine flannel drawers.
He sat up then, and says he—
'I've got a bad wife, stranger, and I let on to be dead the way I'd catch her goings on.'
Then he got two fine sticks he had to keep down his wife, and he put them at each side of his body, and he laid himself out again as if he was dead.
In half an hour his wife came back and a young man along with her. Well, she gave him his tea, and she told him he was tired, and he would do right to go and lie down in the bedroom.
The young man went in and the woman sat down to watch by the dead man. A while after she got up and 'Stranger,' says she, 'I'm going in to get the candle out of the room; I'm thinking the young man will be asleep by this time.' She went into the bedroom, but the divil a bit of her came back.
Then the dead man got up, and he took one stick, and he gave the other to myself. We went in and saw them lying together with her head on his arm.
The dead man hit him a blow with the stick so that the blood out of him leapt up and hit the gallery.
That is my story.

Excerpt taken from here

Paradoxical Materialism

"The stinking rich will always be with us,” I said. “It’s in the Bible.”

“I thought it was the poor who will always be with us,” said the other guy. “Jeez, how long is it going to take this idiot to let us in? All he has to do is push a button.”

“Not so easy,” I said. “There must be a hundred buttons to choose from in that digital fortress.”

We were sitting in the other guy’s car looking at the big sliding gate, waiting for Cupcaked to work out the difference between his arse and his elbow.

“It’s in both the New and Old Testicle,” I went on, “So every exploiter of labour, whether Christian or Jew, feels perfectly justified in paying his workers a pittance, while amassing as much personal wealth as he possibly can. God gave him permission. Ah, at last!”

While the gate got out of our way, the other guy started up, engaged gear, and then stalled the engine. We began to roll back towards the street and there was a long blast from a passing vehicle.

“Nice driving,” I said. “You nearly managed to put a dent in the newest and biggest Merc in the country.”

Cupcake met us in the driveway and indicated where we should park. He seemed pleased to see us.

“I need to show you around,” he said, leading the way towards the house. “You see this?” pointing to the big pond with water feature at the centre of the circular drive. “It’s full of koi, 2k apiece. Two thousand rand for one fucking fish!”  And he spat on the water in disgust. A fish immediately surfaced and made short work of the insult.

We skirted a bed of dwarf cypresses and followed him across an expanse of meticulously raked gravel.

“This is supposed to be a Zen garden,” he said, dragging his feet and then trampling a bonsai oak. We arrived at the front door and stepped inside the grand residence.

Modern, airy, full of light.

“You see what I mean?” said Cupcake, as if we knew what he had been ranting about in his head. “Marble throughout, even on the terraces. Rosa Aurora imported from Portugal”

“Cold in winter,” said the other guy, trying to be helpful.

“Underfloor heating!” snapped Cupcake. “This is the fucking atrium. His Highness likes to lie here a lot.” There were some very comfortable looking recliners. “Looking out to sea by day, and up at the fiery firmament at night, glass of single malt in hand.”

“Single malt?” I said. “Sounds promising.”

Cupcake gave me a hostile look and said, “This is what I mean. This place starts corrupting you the moment you step inside.”

He led the way to a sitting room with a fireplace.

“You see that mantelpiece and the surround? Granite. Stolen from the Acropolis, or the Parthenon, or somewhere. This is the sound system.” He opened the door of a cabinet to reveal electronic equipment. “Speakers in every room. The place is wired so your remote works anywhere in the house. What do you want to listen to? Graceland?Now let me show you the fucking summer lounge.”

The summer lounge also served as the dining room.

“You see these art works everywhere? Very classy, you think. This guy must be a connoisseur. Such good taste. Like fuck! All this cunt does is sign the cheques. The architect designs the house, the design company furnishes it, down to last detail, and the landscape guru sorts out the garden. This is how it works. And check this thing.”

We were heading for the kitchen and in a corner of some interim space stood an old fashioned jukebox.

“This is a genuine imitation jukebox from the 1950s. Art deco crap. You put your dime in, the mechanical arm selects a 7-single, and you’re listening to Fats Domino or Little Richard, crystal clear because it’s all digital and not really the real thing.”

We breezed through the designer kitchen and out to the breakfast nook, which was a kind of glass-walled rondavel jutting out into the garden.

“Now let me show you the master bedroom and hot tub spa,” said Cupcake.

“Don’t bother,” I said. “We’ve got the picture.”

We went and stood on the main terrace and looked out over about a thousand hectares of lawn to the lagoon and the sea in the distance.

“You see those tall palms next to the swimming pool?” said Cupcake. “They were brought in by helicopter. And the pool is kept heated twelve months of the year, even though he is hardly ever in residence.”

“Very nice,” I said. “Now how about offering us some of that famous whisky?”

We made ourselves comfortable in the atrium and were soon joined by Cupcake bearing a tray loaded with a bottle of single malt, ice, Sparletta and glasses.

“This is the life,’ I said.

“Yah,” said the other guy. “This isn’t work. Only a fool would complain about a job like this.” He was looking at Cupcake. “What’s your problem?”

“Problem?” said Cupcake. “This house is my problem, mate. This house is a beautiful woman without a vagina. You know what I mean?”

We looked out at the distant strip of blue sea, with the line of white breakers in front and the blue sky at the back, and thought about it.

“Sorry, I don’t get it,” said the other guy.

“Not a bad metaphor,” I said, savouring the subtle blend of highland peat and sheep’s piss infused in water from a bonny brook. “To fall in love with the beautiful exterior, only to discover that one can never get at the honey pot inside must leave one feeling desolate, man, desolate.”

“Okay, now I see,” said the other guy. “You’re not content with living in luxury if you don’t also possess the fortune that makes it possible.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” said Cupcake. “That’s not what I mean at all. What I mean is that all this is initially seductive, but it’s superficial and largely worthless. I’ve been housesitting the place for three weeks now, and it’s making me suicidal. It’s like living in an empty waiting room, it’s so impersonal and cold. And it doesn’t make the owner happy, either. You should see him. He’s 50, fat, got an ulcer, and just had a triple bypass. He’s divorced and his kids only contact him when they want more money. And you should see his neighbour up the road. One of the richest men in South Africa and a real miserable looking bastard who wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”

“Hey,” I said, “That must be the old dude we nearly crashed into. Does he look like a malevolent toad? Like he’s got no chin he’s so obese?’

“That’s him,’ Sid Cupcake.

“So would you prefer to be looking after some poky two-roomed apartment in a dilapidated block in a rundown part of the city?” asked the other guy. “Where the entrance smells of dustbins and broken plumbing, and there’s a screaming baby next door, and dope fiends overhead trying to kill each other?”

“No, I wouldn’t,’ said Cupcake. “But that’s not what I’m getting at. Look, for the first week or so I couldn’t believe my luck and I was beginning to think that this way of life was what one should aspire to. But then I started to feel uneasy and restless. There was something wrong. It took another three days of worrying about it before I suddenly realised what it was about. The materialism paradox.”

“Too much value attached to the goodies money can buy?” I said. “Tell that to a man who lives in a shack.”

“Why is it a paradox?” asked the other guy.

“Because,’ said Cupcake, “I realised that the millionaire who owns this mansion is, on a certain level, far less of a materialist than I am. Or the man in the shack.

“How so?’

“Look,” said Cupcake, “Let’s take my old Corolla, for example. It’s a crappy old car and it gives me a lot of grief, but I can’t afford an upgrade. When it performs, I’m grateful; and when it misbehaves, I curse and threaten it. I have fond memories of having sex in the back seat, and every dent in the bodywork has a story to tell. You see, I have a relationship with that car. Now take the millionaire. He has a sports car and an SUV standing in the garage. They are hardly ever driven and their owner looks upon them with a total lack of sentiment. He sees them for what they are: disposable commodities that come with a price tag. He values them for the advertising hype about performance, craftsmanship and elegant styling, but only because it confers status. And it’s the same with everything else. This house, the contents, the garden, the fish – they have value for him only because he can afford them and put them on display. He doesn’t relate to the material world the way we do.”

“Well,” I said, “I suppose you could be onto something there. It’s a different way of looking at it. But surely you’re not suggesting this millionaire has a superior value system to yours?”

“Of course not,” said Cupcake. “What I’m saying is that he has become detached from the material objects he possesses. What he values most is the prestige associated with conspicuous consumption. He judges his own success not by how much he enjoys the fruits of his wealth but by the respect, admiration and envy his wealth is able to command. That’s why people like him are driven to make more and more money. There’s always someone able to behave more ostentatiously than you, though, so satisfaction is forever fleeting. I can see what it’s about and it fills me with feelings of meaninglessness and futility. I can’t take this sinecure any longer.”

“Hey, take it easy, man,” said the other guy, getting up to fill the glasses. Cupcake was showing signs of psychological distress, and on the point of becoming seriously distraught. “Keep a grip on the here-and-now. Hold on to the reality of genuine materialism, not that other kak. Here, drink this. This thousand-bucks whisky tastes better with lemonade and gives you more of a kick.”

“Yah,’ I said. “Just because this scumbag materialist has lost his soul down the toilet doesn’t mean we can’t try an wake the dead in his marble-floored mausoleum. We could start with a pool party. Tomorrow.”

“A topless pool party sounds cool,’ said the other guy. “With a venue like this a whole new world of possibilities could open up. What sports car did you say this creep has got in the garage?”

The flicker of interest in Cupcake’s eyes was encouraging. It meant that futility and meaninglessness hadn’t gained the upper hand just yet.

The Relative Importance Of Passing Time

It was clear from the outset that the relationship between Henry Fuckit and Alfred Whitehead was going to be similar to the relationship between a grit of sand and an oyster. The constant nagging irritation would result in a many-layered product greatly adding to the value of the sand but being of doubtful benefit to the shellfish. Innumerable conversations were to take place in that office on the second floor, most of them centred on the subject of Time, and The Passage of Time.

.      Alf Whi	tehead:You do understand the theory of Relativity, don't you?
Henry:	Of course. Both. My grandfather was doorman at the Savoy in London back in nineteen-voetsak and he opened a door for Albert Einstein. It was a momentous moment, not for my grandfather, who didn't know a slide rule from an anal thermometer, but for Herr Egghead. Just imagine the implications if my grandfather had not opened that door.
AW:	Somebody else would have opened it. Or he would have opened it himself.
Henry:	Precisely. You come up with two possibilities without even thinking about it. If we accept the possibility of my grandfather not opening the door as he was required to then the ENTIRE HISTORY OF SCIENCE could have been altered. No. THE ENTIRE HISTORY OF THE WORLD FROM THAT MOMENT.
AW:	Oh for goodness sake! You're trying to tie my testicles in a knot. You know perfectly well that once the moving finger has written etcetera, etcetera. I wish you wouldn't introduce any of your degenerate relations into serious conversation.
Henry:	Yah, but haven't you heard about South Africa's secret space project? At this very moment a spaceship…
AW:	PLEASE!! (Shouts in a frantic whisper, face contorted in alarm. Puts finger to lips and goes to window. Leans out then quickly pulls back.) Just as I thought, you bloody fool. You know their rules about discussing secret projects. They're always trying to catch terrorists and communists, and spies and rooinek traitors. Hand me that hook. (Henry hands him the six-foot window opener standing in corner of room. Leans out and pulls. A scream is heard simultaneously with a clattering and bumping sound.) That'll teach them. Bloody Ape disguised as a Monkey window cleaner. Now where were we? Alright, but keep your voice down.
Henry:	They've launched a spaceship with one person on board: twenty year old Shadrach. His twin brother Meshach they've got in a cage at Apollofontein. The craft will progressively accelerate until it reaches a velocity of 372 000 miles per second. That's really fucking fast. Initially they aimed at Alpha Crucis, the brightest star in Crux Australis, but then chickened out and are now headed for the middle of the Coalsack Nebula for fear of hitting something. The spaceship will travel for half a year and then do a U-turn and come back to earth. Obviously when it gets back after a year Meshach will celebrate his twenty-first birthday with a double helping of putu and five gallons of skokiaan. But Shadrach, South Africa's first astronaut and the world's first time traveller, will find that he's only eleven years old. He will have shrunk in stature, his big manly voice will have turned again to childish treble and his foreskin will have regenerated to its undiminished proportion and elasticity. Our top scientists recently gained access to a special version of the Special Theory of Relativity and have come up with their own conclusion. They talk about contracting time. If this experiment is successful the world will sit up and realise that we're not just a bunch of fascist shitheads with brains the size of peas.
AW:	I see. Mmm. Yes, it makes sense. The implications boggle the credulity. Our leaders could remain young forever. Just a little sabbatical, a time trip, and the years would fall away.
Henry:	For the select few it would mean immortality. Only one problem though.
AW:	What's that?
Henry:	The K factor. Heard the one about the Englishman, the German, the Japanese and the Kaffir? They're each given three iron balls and told to do something with them. I forget how it goes exactly… Anyway the other three do something or other each… I think the Englishman balances one on top of the other and the Jap copies him and the German… Anyway. But the Kaffir - this is where we get the K factor - the Kaffir loses one and breaks the other two.
AW:	Yes I've heard it several times, in different versions in both official languages and yours is far and away the poorest rendition. I don't see any profit in trivializing a serious discussion with badly told jokes of dubious wit.
Henry:	Do you think humour and science are incompatible? I suppose you must, from the disapproving way you tighten your lips in imitation of a cat's anus. The point is the South African astronaut is BLACK and brilliantly imaginative and with a sense of humour light years beyond the grasp of the bush professors on the ground at Appollofontein. ANYTHING MIGHT HAPPEN.
AW:	This might or might not be true. You know that I suspect you of being a bloody liar. A bloody wisecrack. Be that as it may. I can elevate myself above the slings and arrows of swinish pricks. My thoughts dwell in the realms of metaphysics and pure science. Let us resume the discussion having, in a spirit of magnanimity, wiped your filthy slate clean on the strict understanding that you refrain from all further attempts at levity or frivolity. I am your senior in years, position, wisdom and decency. Kindly refer to me as Mr Whitehead and not Alf, Alfred or Fred. Are we in agreement?
Henry:	Yah sure. Anything to make you feel good. Mr Whitehead. Sir. Just call me Fuckit.
AW:	Very well then. That seems to have cleared the air a bit. Now let us discuss The Measurement of Time, a subject of central importance to each and every member of civilian staff working in this Dockyard. Damn the imposition! (Annoyance at the phone ringing on his desk.) You answer it. If it's anything to do with work tell them I'm in the midst of a total re-inventorization of screws, brass, self-tapping, and can't possibly be disturbed.
(Henry picks up phone. Speaks slowly and clearly.)
Henry:	Central Store. Assistant Stores officer Henry Fuckit at your service. Good day. Sentrale Stoor. Assistent Stoor beampte Hendrik Fokdit op jou diens. Goeie dag… Oh, hello… Yes Madam. He's just been in conference with the Admiral but I can see if he's available… Yes… okay… I've got it. I'll make sure he gets the message immediately. Thank you. Goodbye. (Replaces phone).
AW:	My wife?
Henry:	Yes. She says don't forget to make the copies of her knitting patterns and also have you phoned your sister in Canada to find out whether they received the photographs.
AW:	Damn it! I'd clean forgotten the copies.
Henry:	She also said you have a head like a sieve. Mr Whitehead. Sir.
AW:	Ahem. Yes, well that's… No damn business to… as we were saying. Thank you for the message. As we were saying, The Measurement of Time goes back to time immemorial. Our first thinking ancestors became aware that the sun comes up and the sun goes down, the sun comes up and the sun goes down, the sun comes up and the sun goes down. Yes, and it was the movement of the sun, or shall we say the APPARENT movement of the sun, for as you might know the sun does not move about the earth but the earth rotates on its axis and gives the false impression of the sun being in motion about us, east to west, when in fact it is we who are moving west to east. The appearance of the sun moving across the sky having made man aware of the passage of time. The first clock was the sun in the sky and days were regulated accordingly. Now we are at present talking in terms of SOLAR time which I will define in precise and cogent phraseology as time measured by the Earth's daily rotation relative to the Sun resulting in Apparent Solar time which is the time indicated by a sundial marking the position of the Sun relative to the meridian upon which the sundial is located. So far so good and all reasonable and within the grasp of the meanest intelligence. Now the motion of the Sun relative to the stars is not uniform; neither is the orbit of the Earth truly circular but indeed elliptical, both of which factors having resulted in variations in Apparent Solar Time during the course of one year. To remove these damnably irritating little discrepancies we have devised Mean Solar Time which I will now endeavour to explain but require you to sharpen your concentration and to hang upon each and every word in order not to render the time and effort I am expending in elucidation totally null and void. (Henry slaps face and pinches ear lobes.) These variations are corrected by turning our gaze from the Sun to the stars in order to obtain Sidereal Time, Sidereal Time being measured again in accordance with the rotation of the Earth but this time relative to the stars and not the Sun. Unfortunately matters are complicated by the fact that a Sidereal Day is four minutes shorter than a Mean Solar Day and a mathematical formula beyond your grasp must be applied via Sidereal Time to Apparent Solar Time in order to arrive at Mean Solar Time. Yes?
Henry:	Two questions. First, if there's a four-minute difference between the two systems what's to stop them going completely out of synch after a few years; and second…
AW:	Enough! If you wish to ask questions you may submit them in writing. Where there's a will there's a way. Now the Mean Solar Day is divided as follows: one Mean Solar Day equals twenty four Mean Solar Hours; one Mean Solar Hour equals sixty Mean Solar Minutes; one Mean Solar Minute equals sixty Mean Solar Seconds and, ipso facto, one Mean Solar Day comprises 86 400 Mean Solar Seconds. The Mean Solar Day is reckoned to begin at midnight and run through twenty four hours, or to comprise two twelve hour portions, one from midnight to noon and the other from noon to midnight. In the twenty-four-hour system the hours and minutes are given as a four-digit number. For example 0028 means twenty-eight minutes past midnight and 1240 means forty minutes past noon. But, and here we encounter a problem of disastrous proportions, 2400 of September 30 is the same as 0000 of September 31. Now in the twelve-hour system…
Henry:	Excuse me.
AW:	Damn it! I said no questions.
Henry:	This isn't a question, it's a point of order. Thirty days hath September.
AW:	What? For God's sake don't be so bloody pedantic. The twelve-hour system has twelve hours from midnight to noon designated ante meridian, and twelve hours from noon to midnight designated post meridian. However an even more serious ambiguity arises. 12 AM and 12 PM are mutually indistinguishable unless one adds the word 'noon' or 'midnight' to 12. I shall now proceed to discuss in some detail Greenwich Mean Time, Ephemeris Time, Co-ordinated Universal Time, and the Rolls Royce in time, Atomic Time. Now GMT or Greenwich…
Henry:	Please! For Christ's sake, this is INKRREDIBLY boring.
AW:	Boring? BORING? Understand me correctly: do I understand you correctly? Are you saying that you find the most important aspect of your life BORING? I can only put this down to subhuman intelligence. Also you are new here. You are immature, you have not learned. I pity you. You are defenceless. Arm yourself before it is too late. How are you to cope with the years of emptiness that lie ahead? You speak of boredom? Every day of every week of every month of every year will be a nightmare of choking black boredom. Addiction, insanity, suicide. That is what awaits the man not equipped to deal with time.
Henry:	Alright, alright. Tell me about Atomic Time.
AW:	Atomic Time? Very well then but heed my warning. I see danger in your path. There is something amoral and reckless about you. And you are coarse. Be that as it may, you have been warned. Atomic Time. Yes, now Atomic Time is pure and beautiful and the contemplation of its crisp precision never fails to uplift my spirits and help me place one foot in front of the other. Unlike Solar Time and Sidereal Time and Ephemeris Time, which are dynamical and involve the motion of bodies such as Earth, Sun, Moon, Stars and Satellites, Atomic Time is measured by cycles of electromagnetic radiation. There are some fifty-one Atomic Clocks scattered about the world and one of them right here in Simonstown Dockyard. They are all independent but regularly compare recordings and it is conservatively estimated that after a period of three thousand years between them there will be a combined difference in readings of less than one second. This is what makes life tolerable, knowing that every instant of our day is determined and there can be no doubt about the order of each individual succession, in the progress from seven thirty to four thirty, of thirty two thousand four hundred seconds. (Long pause in which they regard each other.)
Henry:	Boss?
AW:	Yes. And don't call me 'Boss'.
Henry:	Don't take offence but can I ask you a personal question?
AW:	Certainly not. I don't want any of your bloody insulting rubbish.
Henry:	It helps to pass some of those dreary seconds. Alright. How about showing me the Atomic Clock?
AW:	Not now. All in good time.

What A View!

How To Get South Africa Working

“So what’s this ‘brainstorming’ story about?”
“I thought it might be an interesting exercise,” I said. “After going into Zwelihle the other day and sitting in the car while we were waiting … just sitting there observing the crap conditions people have to live under …. Well, I thought, shit, there must be a way out of this. It’s like this idea of being trapped in a narrative. I’ve been trying to come up with a way to change the dead-end story we’re living in.”
We were still climbing but the road had levelled out a bit and the Grootbos sign was coming into view.
“Every second citizen has got a pet theory about how to solve the world’s problems,’ said Cupcake. “Who the hell is going to listen to your version of utopia? I mean, you might be sincere and very earnest, and all that, but you’re a nobody. You got fokol credentials.”
“That’s alright,” I said. “That’s not the point. What matters is to make the effort and do the exercise.”
Grootbos Private Nature Reserve. We stopped at the boom and a woman dressed like a Conservation Officer came out from the gatehouse. She was holding a clipboard.
“Tell her we’re coming to lunch,” I said.
She let us through with a friendly smile.
The road was only wide enough for one vehicle and wound through some dense Milkwood forest before coming out into open fynbos. The other guy pulled off in a passing bay to let an oncoming car through.
‘Hey, hold it!” Cupcake called out.
A male baboon had emerged from the bush and was heading for a sign some 20 metres away. On reaching it, he pulled himself up and perched on top of one of the two uprights. The sign read A FED BABOON IS A DEAD BABOON.
“Man, this is classic!” said Cupcake, taking pictures with his mobile.
“I wonder what our cousin would have to say if he could read the message,” I said.
“Probably think it neo-colonial propaganda,” said the other guy. “Like ‘Don’t give the natives strong drink because they can’t handle it’.”
At the Lodge there weren’t many cars in the parking area. We strolled along a path through ericas and proteas, passed a water feature and entered the reception foyer. The restaurant was a long room separated from the famous view by a wall of glass. We went straight to the bar and ordered drinks.
“Let’s sit over here,” I said, leading the way to some comfortable chairs in the far corner.
We took in the classy décor, admired the wide angle display of veld, ocean, mountain and sky, and settled ourselves around a low table. I opened my notebook.
“You’re taking this seriously,” Cupcake commented.
“Yep,” I said. “I’ve even got an agenda: we define the problem; we identify the causes; we propose solutions.”
“Sounds pretty basic,’ said the other guy. “No difficulty in defining the problem. Everybody talks about it, the threefold curse of poverty, unemployment and inequality.”
“Agreed,” I said, “Analysing the causes is going to be more complex, though.”
“We can start with apartheid,” said Cupcake. “Everything can be blamed on apartheid. That’s if we don’t want to lay the blame on the ANC and corruption and incompetence.”
“What about Capitalism?” said the other guy. “The neo-liberal feeding frenzy has brought the world economy to the brink of another Great Depression.”
“I’m glad you mention the Great Depression,” I said. I wrote in my notebook and then lowered the level of my glass, which contained a mix of one tot whisky to one bottle Carling Black Label. “We can learn some useful lessons from the Great Depression.”
“An unregulated banking system caused the Depression,” said Cupcake. “And the present financial crisis, which is beginning to affect us more and more, can be laid at the door of the financial sector – greedy scumbags speculating with assets that don’t exist.”
“And then there’s Globalisation,” said the other guy. “We were incredibly stupid to allow ourselves to be duped into joining the WTO and stop protecting our own manufacturing sector. Free trade is a confidence trick. We’ve lost hundreds of thousands of jobs because of free trade, and now the shops are stocked with cheap Chinese crap that no one can afford because they don’t earn anything.”
“Competition is another con,” said Cupcake. “Competition almost invariably means lower wages and worse working conditions. South Africa has absolutely no chance of competing with China and other Asian countries when it comes to manufacturing basic consumer goods. Look at our textile, clothing and shoe industries. They have all but disappeared because they couldn’t compete with China.”
“Yah, but the Chinese are also in trouble now,” said the other guy. “China’s heading for a fall if …”
“Maybe,” I said. “But listen, we’re getting sidetracked. And we need another drink.”
Both Cupcake and the other guy agreed that I should get the next round, seeing as this outing was my idea.
“Alright,” I said when I returned from the bar. “We’re making progress with our learned discussion. But I’d like to fast forward to the solution part now, if you don’t mind.”
“Okay with me,” said Cupcake. “But we’ve only scratched the surface with the analysis bit.”
“He can’t wait to get up on his soapbox,” said the other guy. Then, to me: “Go for it. Tell us how you propose finding everyone a decent job.”
“The politicians, the economists, , the intellectuals, even the average citizen, they all acknowledge the system isn’t working, and something needs to happen, like tomorrow,” I said. “But nobody has a clue about how to fix it.”
“Nobody,” said Cupcake, “apart from you and a few individuals at Valkenberg and Weskoppies.”
“That’s right,’ I said. “What we need is something drastic, something really bold. Like the New Deal Roosevelt brought in during the Depression. It was pure socialism but it got America working again.”
“I thought it was the Second World War that really got the US economy going?” said Cupcake.
“The New Deal got them started,” I said.
“Jesus, we don’t need a war,” said the other guy. “So tell us, what’s your bold new deal for Mzansi?”
“Well,” I said, “It’s as if our minds have been attacked by some virus that paralyses us and convinces us that we are powerless to change our situation. We just keep repeating the same old stuff about growing the economy, but we don’t actually do anything to make things happen.”
“Yah, it’s strange that we can’t get our asses moving,’ said the other guy. “Especially when you think what South Africa was able to achieve in 2010.”
“The World Cup was another con and a huge waste of resources,” said Cupcake. “But it demonstrated what can be done if we get fired up.”
“Exactly,” I said. “We need to snap out of this collective coma we’ve fallen into, and throw ourselves at another big project. But not something stupid like the FIFA World Cup.”
“That’s for sure,” said the other guy. “The World Cup made some filthy rich folks even richer, and left the country with incredibly expensive stadiums that we don’t need and can’t use. No more of that kind of shit, thank you. But come on, tell us about your amazing plan to get South Africa moving.”
It was at this point that the two men who had been hovering nearby pretending to be looking at the view, but who were actually eavesdropping, decided to cast social decorum aside and draw even closer.
“Please excuse us for interrupting and intruding,” said the older of the two. He was about 40 and spoke with just the faintest hint of a German accent. “We couldn’t help overhearing your most interesting conversation, and wondered whether we …”
Now, when a courteous individual employs ellipsis on me, I generally tend to react graciously. Not like Cupcake, who muttered something about a bloody cheek.
“Please join us,” I said, getting to my feet and holding out my hand for them to shake. My buddies also got to their feet, which was nice of them, and we all introduced ourselves. I noted with suspicion that Cupcake was now grinning sociably.
Dieter and Peter (Dieter was the older of the two) pulled up a chair apiece and we all sat down. Then, almost immediately, Cupcake took up his near empty glass, examined its contents, and then poured them down his throat.
“Aah!” he said with satisfaction, and put the glass back on the table. The other guy then performed the exact same ritual, right down to the appreciative but slightly disappointed ‘Aah!’. My own glass was already empty.
“Barman!” Dieter called imperiously. “Barman! Please send the waitress.”
The waitress arrived and he insisted on buying a round. While we waited for her to come back with the drinks, we exchanged pleasantries. They both worked in the German film industry and were on a working holiday in South Africa. They were knowledgeable and their interest in the country appeared genuine.
When the drinks arrived I was urged to continue with my grand scheme.
“Well, yes, thank you,” I said. “I was going to say that we have to start by changing our perception of the poor. Instead of seeing their needs as a liability and a drain on state resources, we should wake up to the staggeringly vast field of opportunities they offer us. Upliftment of the poor should become the main driving force in our economy. And by upliftment I don’t mean moving a family from a one-roomed shack into a two-roomed RDP hovel. There’s no dignity in living like that, and kids will never reach their potential if they have to grow up in those conditions.”
“You want to build everyone a bloody great mansion?” said the other guy. “You’ve got to be out of your tiny mind.”
“Not a mansion,” I said. “Mansions should be discouraged. No, what I had in mind was something modest but with all mod cons, like three bedrooms, two toilets, bath and shower, and a garage and a small garden. All built to First World standards.”
“Very nice,” said Cupcake. “And it would sort out unemployment for a while. But one small problem: where are you going to get the bucks for all this?”
“Print it,’ I said, and noted a look of derision on the four faces of my audience. “And why not? What I propose is the setting up of a state bank that would lend money at a minimal interest rate for this and other developmental projects. People tend to forget that money has no intrinsic value, and is only created to facilitate trade in goods and services. It’s the goods and services that have value. And this isn’t money that’s being given away. If the loan isn’t repaid the bank can foreclose, just like the private banks do.”
“Mmm, I see,” said the other guy as he sipped his drink, which was a double rum and Coke. “A big housing boom would definitely get the economy roaring.”
“It would also give the manufacturing sector a massive boost,” said Cupcake. “How many houses are we talking about?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “But I would guess at least 5 million. Anyway, 5 million is a nice number to work with. Can you imagine building 5 million houses at one million per unit? That’s 5 trillion rand! And everything must be 100 percent locally produced.”
“With such a project, on such a large scale, we would go from massive unemployment to a shortage of labour,” said Cupcake.
“We would need to fast track a whole lot of trade schools and training colleges,” said the other guy.
“In Germany we have developed a good system for artisan training,” said Peter. “A good artisan is as important as a good doctor. We could share this with you.”
“That’s it, Peter,” I said. “We could learn best practice from Germany and other countries where good systems have been worked out. No need to reinvent the wheel.”
“With so many natural resources,” said Dieter, “Your potential for growth is almost unlimited. Your idea is … Ah, but here come the ladies. Allow me to introduce you.”
The ladies were bearing down on us. Wow! So this is what they meant by a working holiday.
My buddies were on their feet and rapidly metamorphosing from one identity to another. Amazing what affect the presence of young females has on men.
“I hope you and your two friends will join us for lunch?” Dieter said to me. “We can continue the conversation at the table. And maybe you even have some ideas on how to solve the Euro zone crisis?”
Cats:

The Rape Scene From Kikaffir

The Madam, the mistress of the manor, opened her eyes. She had tossed and turned all night and only fallen asleep at the threat of day. And now? She turned to look at the clock. After ten.

She lay on the big bed under the thatch and listened to mid morning at Klein Paradijs. The big bed that had replaced the sacrificial altar upon which the previous owner had been taken apart. It was very quiet. Where was Patience?

Very quiet. She suddenly realised that it was so very still because there was no background rumble from the generator. She had become accustomed to the ever-present, muffled roar of the power plant, the way she was accustomed to the muted hubbub of the sea at their house in the Fog. Now, without that subliminal presence, she felt even more alone and isolated.

Of course the bedside lamp was dead. No power, no light. That meant there would be no hot coffee and no cooked breakfast. This was a bad start to the day and she could feel the anger and frustration mounting in her. What were those lazy bastards up to? Why didn’t they get the fucking generator working?

She got up, put on gown and slippers, and unlocked her bedroom door. Out in the passage there was no maid busy with dustpan and brush. At the head of the stairs she stood and listened for a minute. Two minutes, three. No clatter from the kitchen, no voices, nothing.

She went downstairs, and she was working herself into a state. How dare they take the day off without consulting her! Just because the generator had broken down.

To her surprise, one of the doors to the terrace stood wide open. In the kitchen all was neat and orderly from the previous night, but obviously no one had been in this morning. The house was deserted; she was on her own.

Bunch of fucking poeses! She thought, as she stomped upstairs. Well, she’d take a shower, get dressed, and go out there to the servants’ quarters and give them hell. When Mike gets back he must make an example of one of them. And Patience! She was surprised at Patience, and disappointed. She had been doing so well, having taken over from Miriam with such an air of calm self-confidence. Maybe she was sick, though. That would explain it.

Sickness was definitely on the increase. There had been three deaths in the past week alone. Mike said he didn’t think it was anything infectious. It was just a result of breathing in all that shit in the atmosphere, and they were all equally susceptible. Well Patience mustn’t go and get sick and die. God, what would she do without her?

As she slipped out of her nightwear, Lady wondered whether the water would still be hot. How long had the power been off? Although it didn’t really matter. The day was already so fucking hot she was sweating at the slightest exertion. So much for Klein Paradijs’s ideal climate! The fog was retreating as the ice disappeared, and soon they would have to move from here. But to where?

Getting into the shower she thought she heard a vehicle in the distance. Probably the mechanics working on the generator. The water was adequately hot.

After drying herself she powdered her armpits and her feet, squirted some eu de cologne into the palm of her left hand and patted her fanny and surrounds. Some days the odour was worse than on others. If she used enough scent and perfume she could mask it most of the time. Ah! Someone had come into the bedroom. Probably Patience; or one of the maids. They’d better have a bloody good story ready!

She wrapped her towel about her, pulled off the shower cap and shook her hair down. Hairbrush in hand, she pulled back the door and stepped into the bedroom.

“H..h..h..h!” Her breath was wrenched into her lungs so fast it juddered in the back of her throat. A gallon of adrenalin was being pumped into her system and her heart would have preferred to shut down forever, rather than take on such a workload. Her eye muscles had never been called upon to get this much light onto the retina. Her brain erupted in a billion explosions to produce one response – terror. Nothing feeble and demure like surprise or anger. No, this was stark naked terror. Because everywhere, written in big letters on the wall, on the ceiling, the floor, the window, the door – everywhere she looked – were the words NOW YOU’RE IN TROUBLE, BABY.

She had dropped her brush, her right hand clutched the top of her towel, her left pulled at the bottom of it, and she leaned forward, her knees together.

Seated on the bed was a young black man and she recognised him immediately. He was examining her pistol – the pillow lay to one side – and he looked up when she entered the room.

“Hi,” he said, in a super casual sort of way.

“W..w..what are you…What are you doing in my room?” she managed to say, her voice on the rise. “Get out of my room!” She was beginning to shout. “Get out! Get out! Mike is going to kill you!”

“No he won’t.”

She screamed and jumped sideways, which was the whole idea, because now she couldn’t retreat into the bathroom with the second man blocking the doorway. He had been standing to one side of it and she hadn’t noticed him.

It was Malcolm’s driver; she had seen him often, and had never liked the look of him. He was older than the gardener and had a mean look about him. Now he was sneering with satisfaction at the effect his voice had had on her. And the towel had slipped and she was desperately trying to get it back in place.

“When Bigboy comes back he’s gonna be dead meat,” the driver said. “Malcolm’s the boss now.”

She could smell alcohol but they didn’t look drunk.

“It’s true,” said the gardener. His features were more refined than his brother’s, but there was nothing friendly about the way he was looking at her, nor was there any softness in his voice. “Many of the men are sick and dying. Some of them are dead because they didn’t want to listen to Malcolm. And the rest are right behind him. Mike was a fool to go away, and he was fucking stupid to leave you alone.”

Here was the first thinly veiled threat of what was to come. She was panting with fear and her mind reeled in panic. The driver spoke.

“Malcolm said we must come and visit you.”

The gardener stood up and she backed into the corner. Her eyes were wild and bright, like those of a rat that knows the only way to go is up. But that would require superhuman qualities she didn’t possess. He went and put the pistol on the dressing table and came and stood in front of her.

“You can drop the towel now,” he said.

She didn’t realise it but she was down to her last three options. Screaming for help, fighting, and pleading. All three were equally bad in terms of likely outcome.

“Did you hear what he said?” The driver had also moved closer.

“Keep away from me!” she said. “Keep away!” she screamed. “Leave me! Leave me!”

Like an experienced boxer the driver feinted with a left jab to the head, she instinctively raised her hands to protect herself, and the towel was whipped away so deftly it looked like a well-practised trick.

“Wow!” said the driver, staring. “Man!”

They were both staring, and they had begun to pant, getting as much oxygen into their bloodstreams as possible.

She was trying to hide behind her hands and arms but they offered her so little cover she might as well not have bothered.

“Please! Please don’t do this to me.” She was sobbing now. “Please, I’ll do anything, but please don’t do this to me.”

Of course, by switching to pleading she triggered that other lust in them – the lust to inflict pain and humiliation.

“Did I hear you say please?” the gardener said. “That’s very nice; very good manners.” He was standing with his hands on his hips. “You know who I am, don’t you?”

She nodded.

“What is my name?’

“P..Percy.”

“No, you fucking bitch!” He was suddenly angry, or pretending to be angry. “Not ‘P..Percy’. Percy. Say it.”

“Percy,” she sobbed, nearly messing it up again.

“That’s it,” he said with satisfaction. “Percy. I am Percy the Pig.”

And I am Rover the Rottweiler,” his brother chipped in. He obviously found it funny because he started laughing, but in such an offensive way it couldn’t have had much to do with humour and wit.

“You know that my tail is short?” Percy asked.

She tried to nod, the tears streaming. She knew where this was leading – any shithead could see where it was going. Acting like the victim she had become, she now began to believe she had brought this upon herself. She was being made to see her own guilt.

“Say it then. Say, ‘Your tail is short.’”

“Your tail is short,” she managed to say, as well as, “Oh my God!”

“But?” he demanded. “What else?”

She wept and quivered.

“What else?” he shouted. “What else, you fucking bitch? Say it! Say it!”

“Your cock is big.” There, she had said it.

“Ah, so I’ve got a big cock, have I?” He sounded rather pleased. “And do you know how big it is?”

What could she say?

“Well, I’m going to show you how big it is.”

He unbuckled his belt, undid the waist band button, pulled down the zip, and began to slide his jeans downwards. All very slowly, watching her standing there in her corner clutching herself, trying to look away, crying and whimpering.

First pubic hair and then the organ. Down, down, down until the full length of it was exposed and hung free like a long sausage. He let his pants go and they fell to his knees. From then on erection was extremely rapid, for the sensation of heaviness and stiffness fired his excitement, which in turn accelerated the pace at which tumescence took place. Up it came, higher and higher, until the process was complete, except for some fine tuning in order to reach maximum pressure and torsion, and he announced,

“That’s how big it is.”

She was trying to look the other way but couldn’t have failed to see what had happened. Christ, he was standing less than two metres from her!

“I’ve also got one of those,” said Rover. “It’s not as long as that, but it’s thicker.” And he indulged in another of those jeering, bully-boy laughs of his.

Percy bent over, pulled off his shoes and removed his trousers. He straightened up and moved a bit closer, his weapon swaying and bouncing back and forth.

As they closed in on her she broke off her terrified snivelling and began to snarl and spit, her eyes wild her lips drawn back. A hand reached out to grab her and she lunged with her talons.

“Leave me! Leave me!” she screamed. “Leave me, you fucking animals!”

They stood back, not because they were daunted but because they were preparing to pounce – like they were taking aim.

“Animals, are we?” said Percy. “We’re animals, all three of us. And you’re an animal too, you fucking whore bitch!”

They jumped at the same time, sending her crashing into the wall, knocking the breath out of her. They had both of her wrists, and then Percy was behind her, holding her arms in a half nelson. She tried to kick out at Rover but he parried her foot with his knee and then punched her in the stomach. As she jerked forward in agony he slapped her once, twice, open-handed and back-handed, so hard that she almost lost her senses.

That was it, the fight was over. Amazing what a bit of brute force can do.

The gardener’s hands were on her tits, cupping them, feeling their roundness, weighing their heaviness, and his fingers were at her nipples, his cock hard in the small of her back. She was hardly aware of him because the pain in her stomach was making her retch, and her head was still going round and round. Also, the stinging in her cheeks was almost unbearable.

He bent his knees and pushed his cock between her thighs until its head poked through, protruding beyond her pubic hair. He rubbed it back and forth a few times and said,

“I’m Percy, Percy, Percy the Pig. My tail is short but my cock is big. Now I’m going to show you what it’s like to be fucked by a pig. Get down. Come on, get down on the floor. Down, you bitch. Down!”

He forced her onto her knees and then she was on all fours. There was no point in any more resistance, she could see that. They were going to have their way, even if it meant beating her to a pulp.

“I’m Percy the Pig!” he shouted, also down on the floor now. “Here I come, you fucking bitch. Oink, oink, oink!” He began to butt her with his dick, first in her ass and then lower down, looking for the main entrance. His snout was slippery with semen. She could feel the battering ram at the door, forcing its way in. Oink, oink, oink. Into the vestibule it burst. Oink, oink, oink. It forced its way down the hallway, oink, oink, oink. It had broken all the way in and was about to defile the temple.

Meanwhile, the driver had lost no time in getting his shoes and his pants off, and was standing stiffly to attention, eagerly awaiting his turn to rush into battle.

“Oink! Oink! Aaaah!” The pig gave an ecstatic squeal and ceased all oinking.

He slowly withdrew his slimy black cock and got to his feet, all glassy eyed.

“Woof, woof! I am Rover. Woof, woof!”

Lady looked over her shoulder in time to see the Rottweiler coming at her. She shrieked and tried to crawl away.

“Fetch, Rover! Fetch!” the gardener called to his brother. He was recovering fast and was ready for some post coital entertainment.

Also down on hands and knees, Rover rushed at her and sank his teeth into her fleshy rump. She screamed in pain, much to Percy’s amusement.

Now she was being mounted by the dog. The pig had pioneered the way, making it dead easy for the second animal to gain immediate access, even if this piston did require a slightly bigger bore. Barking excitedly, he began to thrust away, hard and fast. So fast that in next to no time he gave a yelp and a groan and came to a standstill, all urgency suddenly gone out the window. He extricated his length of dripping meat and got up. It was his turn to look upon the world with jaded eyes.

“Keep her there like that,” said Percy, “while I fetch him.”

He opened the bedroom door and went out into the passage.

“Stay like that, bitch,” Rover warned Lady, and he began to laugh his ugly laugh.

“He’s just going to get our friend. You’ll like him. Ha, ha, ha! He’s actually a scientist. A very famous scientist. Ah, here he comes now.”

They could hear rapid footsteps and Percy’s voice. He was saying something reassuring, something encouraging. Then the third rapist appeared in the doorway and Lady let out a terrified scream and tried to get up. Rover grabbed her by the back of her neck, got in front of her and pushed her head down.

Yes, there he was, a fine specimen of evolutionary development, none other than Charles Darwin himself. He stood on the threshold, leaning on his knuckles, his beady eyes taking in the scene, his nostrils quivering.

Even Rover was a little shocked. He had only ever seen Mr Darwin from a distance and hadn’t realised just how big he was. In fact, he was fucking huge. And he was already in the pink and reaching for the sky.

Now, the fact that Lady’s face was being shoved into the carpet meant that her ass was elevated and her gaping cunt was displayed in an obscenely provocative way. As Darwin launched himself into the room, aiming at the target and going for bull’s eye, Percy shouted,

“Go for it, Charlie! Fuck the bitch!”

His only act of foreplay was to give the poes a good sniff, and then the baboon was onto her and into her, his long arms wrapped about her waist, his coarse hair scratching her skin, his hot breath on her shoulder, his bestial grunting in her ear. No wonder she screamed.

And, Jesus, talk about a fucking jackhammer! This guy pomped at such a breakneck speed he almost disappeared in a blur. In less than a minute the grunting crescendo reached its climax. Charlie gave a howling bark as he attempted to pass his genes on to future generations, then almost immediately lost interest. He went and sat in the corner, somewhat dejected, his bone back in the cupboard. All lustre had gone from his eyes and they had acquired exactly the same glazed-over look that the pig’s eyes and the dog’s eyes had taken on.

There was nothing glassy about Percy’s eyes right now. In fact, they were shining intensely and his member was back in business. Watching first his canine brother, and then his simian friend giving it to the bitch where she deserved it most had re-ignited his lust. In he leapt with gusto.

Technical problem, though. Over-lubrication on account of all the body fluid. It was as if his dick had gone numb and he could feel fuckall. To remedy the problem he was obliged to withdraw a short distance at each stroke, and then plunge back in. After a few minutes of using this technique he again went into the aah, aah, aaah and glassy eyes rigmarole.

Christ, this was becoming repetitious! And would you believe it? His cunt-fucking brother was hard as hell again and limbering up for round two. Man, this was becoming downright boring!

But not for long.

Mr Charles Darwin got the focus back in his eyeballs at about the same time as Rover was giving his cock a few strokes up and down to get it in tip top tone and ready for more of the old in-out. Satisfied, he began to take aim. It was at this stage that Mr Darwin behaved in a most ungentlemanly fashion.

He jumped to his feet, rushed forward, shouldered the man out of the way, and shoved his own pinko in as deep as it would go. Then the pneumatic drill got going.

No wonder Rover was indignant! How dare he jump the queue like this! Did he think he was a fucking American?

“Fuck you, Charlie!” he shouted. “You wait your fucking turn, you cheeky bastard!” And he grabbed the ill-mannered ape by the tail and yanked him right out.

With an enraged roar Charlie spun round, his formidable fangs flashing, and threw himself at Rover. Down they both went and human blood was flowing. Percy snapped out of his post-orgasmic daze and leapt upon the brute’s hairy back. All three of them began to roll about, making one helluva racket.

Lady raised her head and turned her long-suffering eyes towards the commotion. It slowly dawned on her that it didn’t make sense for her to remain where she was, crouched on the floor passively presenting her poes for the next prick to come and dip his wick.

Up she got, and across the room did trot, as fast as she could caper. So fast she fell over the corner of the bed and nearly hit her head on the dressing table. Reaching up, she groped about and found her pistol. It was the same type as Mike’s, which meant that its full clip contained 17 slugs.

On her knees, the gun held in both hands, she aimed at the centre of the entangled trio writhing on the floor, and began firing.

Read the odious story in its entirety. Buy Kikaffir