Inappropriate Use of a Podcast presents: Beyond the Near Horizon
Inappropriate Use of a Podcast presents: Beyond the Near Horizon
Oct 6, 1983 - Guest host Enoch Price welcomes Randy Jeremiah Ezekiel
Guest host Enoch Price interviews Randy Jeremiah Ezekiel, founder of the controversial Second Commune of the New Sun.
INAPPROPRIATE USE OF A PODCAST is proud to present encore presentations of the iconic radio program "Beyond the Near Horizon" with host Colonel Stephen Prather. Since 1975, this innovative program has explored the unexplained, the occult and other controversial topics. Featuring interviews with unconventional experts from across the intellectual spectrum, every program lives up to the promise of its creator Colonel Prather to "not allow the ordinary distractions to thwart the search for wisdom and knowledge." As he reminds, "all that and more may just be revealed beyond the near horizon."
Podcast website: https://www.buzzsprout.com/2027077
Apple Podcasts: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/inappropriate-use-of-a-podcast-presents-beyond/id1637243805
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BNH 1983 Thu Oct 6 Beyond the Near Horizon
With Colonel Stephen Prather | GUEST HOST: ENOCH PRICE
ANCR: From an undisclosed location in the Upper Michigan Peninsula, it’s Beyond the Near Horizon featuring Colonel Stephen Prather. Tonight’s guest host, Enoch Price.
INTRO
EP
Thank you very much Stephanie for your introduction. As previously advertised and otherwise communicated, dear listeners- you will be asked to endure a change of tour guide this evening. A dangerous stranger now wanders into your midst, bringing a new cadence and consciousness, whom can make no promise to maintain the purity and frank honesty of the standard bearer, one Colonel Stephen Prather. I guarantee only a carnival mirror of illusion, mixed with deception and deceit all with the aim of producing a surviving refugee of entertainment. This, while the Good Colonel enjoys with his mysterious bride Marisol the George Fister Pitt Memorial paranormal conference in Eureka Springs, Arkansas.
But a further piece of background is called for. My own first name, chosen by my mother is Enoch. It was grafted forever to the name Price, which my father brought to their lustful collaboration. If you are not familiar with the name Enoch Price, I offer that you might first recognize it from my frequent guest appearances on this program. I became known to the people herders-the arrangers for this radio cabaret of the mind by virtue of my many, disturbing, semi-erotic written works on the occult.
Most surveys of my work would start with a book I penned in 1970 named “The Three Headed Wrestler of Filth Castle.” It’s contents so shocking that I was arrested in a Brussels boarding house and locked in an iron cage for eleven days. There I was fed the most marvelous Flemish Stew in little bowls that bore the images of Catholic saints.
Then there is my association with the natural host of this paranormal excursion. The Colonel and I in the deep hours of night have seen together the shape of fear conjured when two human beings embark to write a book together. Our first work was not acclaimed but nonetheless close to our conjoined hearts. “The Giant Rat People of Grundy Virginia’ was its title. It continues to sell poorly, some six years after its publication.
Our second co-offering, ‘The Boy with Fingers for Teeth,’ at this date some four years into its existence remains illegal to purchase or possess outside of Boulder, Colorado. As I speak to you tonight, Colonel Prather and I have already begun immortalizing the extraordinary life of Bigfoot’s long-time mistress, Ellen Smokey Lazar.
But my purpose is not to tantalize you into too great a frenzy. As is always said here, we request your agreement to an expedition for the next little while as we journey together into the darkness, beyond the crest of the vanishing point and infinitely onward.
In the way of setting our bearing, if you lack for some reason a simple calendar, then I state for you now that it is Thursday, October 6th, 1983 according to the Gregorian, a streak we’ve managed to keep alive since 1582.
On tonight’s program we will conduct a piercing and we hope, revealing interview with the leader of the controversial Second Commune of the New Sun. This fledgling institution, bedeviled by rumors of defecation rituals and mass vegetable burials is housed within a recently radio-fumigated and EPA shuttered Jimbos Toy World in Norwalk, Connecticut. At the head of this unusual enterprise is Randy Jeremiah Ezekiel and he is here to answer for all the bizarre events that have taken place at his compound. I must warn you, the answers to the questions I have planned may upend even the most epicurean sensibilities. All will understand if any one of you must switch off your radio.
I pause here to recognize that it is the common conduct of the Colonel to share insights from his own life as he prepares to helm matters of the fantastic. Prather speaks often of his home, spousal relations, estranged children, spoiled nephews, domestic frivolities. What you must learn to accept now is that you can expect little normalcy from the life of Enoch Price.
I have only my handsomely paid manservant Lambert whom is understandably and eagerly obsessed with my eventual death. Even now as I look into his eyes he restrains his reaction, but I am not fooled.
I have already thwarted once this year an assassination attempt through poisoned quail egg. That attempt launched by my very own son Orpheon, whom I sprung into this world with the assistance of his conniving mother Cornelia, herself having attempted a dozen times to snuff me out over the years.
It is true that I now live a solitary life, that even when I am in the company of others, I am in fact, alone observing. So for everyone of you out there listening this evening -a gift- you are hereby given permission to make use of my eyes, fidget with them in your hands. You will find the pupils quite black. Hold them up to the light and then fix them outward as a spyglass to see the world for its true, brutally carnivorous nature.
Lambert, open the Cockburn 72, I need a good glass of port.
Now, something of a confessional. My attention drifted over the morning paper yesterday to learn that Lech Walensa of Poland’s Solidarity movement had been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize.
[Sound of wine being poured]
This is confirmation that once again, —thank you
[Taking a large drink of Port]
-confirmation most public that my own efforts at securing this recognition have failed.
Another please.
[Sound of wine being poured]
While I admit respect for Mr. Walesa and the some ten million poles that make up the ranks of the movement he co-founded with Anna Walentynowicz (vah-len-teen-OH-vitch), with your permission I must distinguish his efforts from my own.
Thank you.
[Taking a quicker sip of Port]
To begin, Walesa has not authored a treatise on the topic of peace-making as I have. The title of my work is simple. Named “Follow these instructions for world peace,” it systematically explains what the unwashed peoples of this planet must do in order to achieve harmony. My second observation is that for this particular work I do not share authoring duties with any other living being, whereas Mr. Walesa clearly benefited from his association with Ms. Walentynowicz. Like Mr. Walesa, she was imprisioned, only having been released earlier this year. And also having been the target of an attempted poisoning or two, perhaps I feel a certain kinship with Walentynowicz as well.
But I digress no further. The plain fact is that I was desperately counting on the Nobel award money to purchase a case of 1966 Palmer Single Harvest Tawny Port. This in turn was to be used in a prisoner exchange with the Romanian government, who are holding my four beloved, Doberman Pinchers. All of them at the moment, Puncture, Incisor, Loretta and Gunshot are safe. But, it is also true that those innocent beasts owe their captivity to my desire to run naked at least once in the streets of Bucharest. This latest setback may require my return to the sideline of organ harvesting, an affair you dear listeners need not be bothered with.
When we return, I will recite a meaningless catalogue of birth anniversaries. Whether you stay or leave is your decision alone.
COMMERCIAL
CSP
Colonel Stephen Prather here. You may find this hard to believe, but there are only seventy-six days left until Christmas. That means the pressure is already on to convince your family you still possess genuine human feelings for them.
But these days that pocketbook is not bottomless. The wife and I have managed to save tons of money by gifting Electrical Supply Catalogues and Meningitis Information Packets to our own court-identified children, but the cost of Christmas is still pretty darn overwhelming. Well, Compression World Enterprises believes we can solve this problem by transforming and regifting the things we throw away every day.
Fast forward that Sony Walkman with me to December 24th. You’re in the kitchen, scraping the dishes off after a dinner of left over meatloaf and crinkle fries. The phone rings and it’s your mother Doratheen with some bad news-it turns out your Cousin Meeka is not dead after all. He had just fallen down a ravine, and now that’s he climbed back up to the roadside, you’ve got a problem: no Christmas gift for Meeka.
Well that problem has a solution and it’s right there in the kitchen. You see, you’ve replaced your has-been trash compactor with the Waste Phoenix 3 from Compression World Enterprises. That three is for each of the separate processes that transform your garbage in the blink of an eye into literal treasure.
How does it work? Well, let’s have a look at what’s at the top of your garbage pile if we may because for the Waste Phoenix 3, that’s where it all starts. Naturally, we have the un-chewed and semi-chewed meatloaf and fries, the condoms you collected from the garage apartment you rent out, crumpled newspaper, eggshells-the usual suspects. Fact is, it doesn’t really matter. We need only to close that bin and turn the left hand dial on the front panel to any of the 14 pre-set shapes. Today, we’ll select the Rhesus Monkey pre-set.
When you press that easy to find Go button, the space age digital counter displays a 1 as the contents of the compartment of the same number are compressed into the shape you chose in around 45 seconds. Another click-and-thump and the number 2 is displayed. That means your monkey has been plopped down into the kiln for its flash baking. Soon enough, we click-and-thump over to number 3, as our monkey friend is dropped into the 3rd and final sealant compartment, where it is irradiated and vacuum suction wrapped in a patent-pending plastic-like coating.
At journey’s end there’s an easy to read bright red FU displayed on the front panel, that stands for finished up. Your brand new gift is ready to be retrieved.
What was destined for the dump moments before is now a fascinating, compacted, marble-textured, hermetically sealed Rhesus Monkey: All ready to to be wrapped for Cousin Meeka or other relatives you don’t speak directly with.
Thanks to an unlimited variety of ingredients, every gift the Waste Phoenix 3 produces has its own look, feel and aroma. Other presets include Giraffe, Tyrannosaurus Rex, President Reagan or superstar Elton John. Just be sure to remind that friend or loved one to keep their gift well away from heat sources to avoid sudden, explosive decompression.
Ordering is easy.
For those of you below the Mason-Dixon, you’ll just need to hop on the next Greyhound to Demming, NM. After you arrive at the Cesar Romero Travel Panaopticon, look for a bearded man in a red Ford pickup, he’ll take you south until you reach state road 9, where you will ride east on horse back until you reach Brinkman’s wash. Wait there until you hear the sound of a rifle being fired-that means a sales rep from Compression World Enterprises is in route to your location with details and options for your new appliance.
Folks in the Northern states will need to arrange passage on a livestock trailer transporting unshorn sheep or llama to Pinecreek Wisconsin. Grab a table in the back at the Blind Saxophone, the only Mandarin-Chilean fusion restaurant in Pinecreek. Within minutes, you should be overwhelmed by an odorless gas released into your booth. By the time you regain consciousness you’ll be safely across the border in Badger, Manitoba where the sales staff there will be ready to go over a list of models and options with you.
Become the great gift-giver in your family today with the Waste Phoenix 3 from Compression World Enterprises. Use the power of garbage for good.
BIRTHDAYS
[Sounds of movement, slight feedback]
EP
What is this thing? This thing, man. There are far too many cords. I can’t even rotate without being strangled by it. The cord. This cord. Right here, man. Wait a moment. Look into my eyes. Were you dropped? Share your pain with me now. Were you dropped as a child? Nevermind, your presence is tiresome. You may return to your booth.
We do sincerely thank those of you who’ve remained with us. Now, it is time to repay you all. I have in my hand now, an envelope left at this desk that was sealed sometime last evening with the intention of inspiring spontaneity and reducing the anticipated length of my commentary. I will now open it.
[Sound of envelop being opened]
From within this simple sleeve, I have withdrawn a single page containing a dossier of sorts on our birthday honorees. What the preparers of this packet could not possibly have known is that I secreted this very missive into the toilet on my arrival here and holding it up to the garish fluorescent light in a room of unimaginable odor made mental note of each person on the list. My knees still cry in agony from the cramped squatting posture required for this operation, but it allowed me my research.
Thus begin we must and we do with a magnificent actress from a city of some obsession to my colleague Colonel Prather. The name of that European capitol: Stockholm. There, on the 6th of October, 1942 the pressurized, trembling pelvis of a woman, a secretary by profession, unknown to you and I, released into the world an artist of some excellence. This child’s father, a clothier, served as captain of the Swedish curling team. The baby’s name, Brit Ekland. While many look at Ms. Ekland through the mere lens of sexuality, I can assure you to the contrary. Some ten years ago, in 1973 I was script consultant on a picture directed by Hambersh Giovanni named The Wicker Dog. The film was a disturbing decent into horticulture that I care not to explain in any depth at present. To point, while on set we were attacked by a disgruntled grip possessing of unnaturally large hands. Ekland not only dispatched of this soul physically with a combination forearm strike and flying backward trip, she then debated with him and a young Argentinian woman from the commissary the efficacy of jungian psychology when practiced on sea-faring vessels. Britt Ekland, who turns 41 years old today, spoke for seventeen hours straight on that topic.
Now let us glide outward from the spires of Stockholm with the wings of seagulls, over the Baltic and North Seas, for a great expanse across the North Atlantic towards the broad American coastline and into the window of a modest home in a borough of New York City called the Bronx. There also 41 years ago today was brought forth a multi-talented cherub, parts singer, clown, host and convincing chameleon. He is familiar to the giants of entertainment and to any connoisseur of impersonation with shockingly accurate renditions from Bugs Bunny to Ted Koppel to the Candy Man, Sammy Davis Jr. His name is Fred Travelena. I had the transformative pleasure of working with Frederick on a non-fiction book focused on the brutal world of Underground Raccoon Theatre in the Philippines. It was during this visit that we were all of us caught in a violent riot following a very poor rendition of Jesus Christ Superstar when the lead Raccoon Tim, took ill. It is no exaggeration to state that the fire Fred started in the forests outside the Manila Vacuum Supply Coliseum saved your humble guest host from certain death at the hands of the Feliciano Soybean Cartel.
But we must briefly leave the world of accolade drenched celebrity behind. Routine consumers of this program will know that we also honor those within our close circle. Be they guest or listener or interloper, ultimately they all become family.
Former guest on these airwaves, Sawyer Linton, brother in law of Cthulhu, Priest of the Old Ones is 60 years old. On a side note, having met and dined with the aforementioned Sawyers entity-in law, I have come to call him by the preferred pronunciation Ka-la-lew. It is his given name, but he explained to me over a dinner of crown roast of pork with mushroom dressing that an improper phonetic spelling of this—the popular Ka-thu-loo—was recorded on his Orange Julius Franchise application paperwork and he holds no bitterness at its expansive use. I feel this only adds to this being’s extraordinary enigma.
Alexus Deb from Buffalo, New York, seller of Condominiums for the Dead, is 33 years old this day.
Salon owner and chairwoman of the Astral Defense League Briony Starla of Inverness, Scotland, whom deflected the course of a rogue Hindu deity into Icelandic waters, turns 58 today. I myself was enjoying a lunch alfresco of Stampede Burger at the Copper Top Cafe under fair skies in Falkirk Scotland on that very day in June 1980. As Ms Starla performed her incantations unknown to us far away in Glasgow, locally the sky grew nearly as dark as midnight for several minutes in the middle of the afternoon, when the warmth of a cloudless summer sky turned suddenly cold.
Presumably encouraged by this confusion, a roughly septigenlran woman in a rose pantsuit at the table adjoining mine, lunged for my plate, snatching up a fistful of hand cut salt and pepper chips-wedge fries in the American colloquial. Even with every ounce of my strength holding her wrists, she managed to force some of the mangled potato matter between her menacing, translucent teeth. I and this woman wrestled wordlessly, accompanied by the unrelated murmur of other diners at the skyward spectacle. Our only utterances were the sounds of exertion and the straining and rattling of the poor boutique table that served as our arena. But our eyes were locked in a much more furious contest. Dear listeners, you must surely know that I have bartered long in matters of the supernatural, but I am still, more than three years later unable to determine the pedigree of this trousered creature. While I was forced to forfeit my lunch when she regurgitated a softening agent onto the whole of my place setting, she gave me a knowing glance as she crept off into the darkness, acknowledging the challenge I had presented. I think of her every time I eat a double-patty burger of any kind.
So this chapter of birthday remembrances is soberly closed. We bring to you next, the inner thoughts of an auspicious few of you, expressed in the form of the personal letter. I invite you to remain in your seat, as we pause for word from a sponsor. I urge you to do this even if the room has grown a bit too warm and the perspiration beneath your thighs has combined with your clothing in a sickening, clammy adhesive. We will return shortly.
COMMERCIAL
CSP
Colonel Stephen Prather here. As human beings we take precautions with just about everything we place into our bodies. Think of sitting down for a typical meal, maybe down at the sub shop. The hoagie roll, the sliced turkey, mustard—all the ingredients on that sandwich have been vetted not only by federal bureaucracies like the department of agriculture and the so-called food and drug administration, but state and local health authorities to boot. Maybe you’re enjoying a Mr. Pibb alongside, that’s covered too. Even that glass of water they bring out first made it’s journey to your table under the governance of many strangers.
It seems we’ve set up a pretty safe situation for ourselves and we can rest easy-or can we? We’ve covered food, water, but what about air? Now your head might be filled with thoughts on so-called pollution from automobiles. Listeners to this program will recall that the emissions in every car that comes down the assembly line are chemically designed and released at the behest of the mysterious Guava group that meets in a chamber within the United Nations complex. Naturally, we need to avoid that, but not for the reasons we’re all told.
So called air filters separate particles out of the air, but what about air nutrition? It’s the most important meal we take and we do so constantly. Some of you may have heard what makes up the lettuce and tomatoes of our air salad: 78.08% nitrogen, 20.95% oxygen. Then you have the croutons, sesame seeds and so on-your carbon dioxide, neon, helium, and a few others. What happens if you have one too many of the proverbial green olive? One too few?
Years ago, I recall watching our old station manager at KTLM The Lemur, Cam Austyn losing his mind over a carbon paper smudge on his commemorative Jack Lord Oahu tie. It was very unlike Cam to register above a polite nod-let alone attack a handicapped kids soccer team just trying to enjoy a little ice cream at the Red Barn after the vomiting fit of a head referee. We found out long after the fact that Cam’s Krypton percentages were completely out of whack. Maybe that was our green olive missing from an otherwise acceptable air salad.
Wouldn’t we all like to have that information on the spot? Well, doctor of Infrared Animal Funeral Sciences, Sparrow Sinclair agrees. She also knows that unlike my ex-mother-in-law, not everyone has a gas chromatograph (crow-MAT-oh-graf) or a mass spectrometer to connect it to. Well, how about one small enough to fit around your neck? It’s the Air-Fine Psychic Air Necklace from The Sparrow Sinclair Company and it’s about to remove a ton of unneeded stress from your life in the most fashionable way possible.
The Air-Fine is powered by space-age thermotropic liquid crystals and surrounded with a beautiful lead-cadmium alloy pendant, heavy enough to keep that necklace snug against your person. That closeness is important, because the Air-Fine literally measures the air right beneath your chin. If for instance there is too much or too little methane in the atmosphere, a happy little pig appears on the front of your pendant. If the background is a light pink, that means the balance is only a little off and you can calmly excuse yourself. If it’s dark red, make like a bat out of hades my friend.
Each of the constituent parts of a healthy air salad have their very own icon. Run high on Ammonia for instance and expect an easy to recognize mop head, alerting you to potential danger.
Better still, you may notice an expanding, tingling sensation after a few hours of use. This feeling of fullness and the precipitous decrease in appetite are all part of the holistic benefits of these dandy little amulets.
If this sounds as good to you as did me, you’re dying to get a hold of one of these and that’s just what I did. I’ve got a relative or three in the hospital for legal and extralegal reasons and improving their airborne nutrition was the first thing that popped into my head. You’ll be pleased to know that every Air-Fine Psychic Air Necklace comes in a beautifully pressure molded vinyl chloride styrene gift box painted in an eye-catching Benzene black. That beautiful presentation was the first thing my dear Aunt Livia commented on while receiving hers before her recent passing.
Call 1-800-247-2469 or 1-800-AIR-CHOW today. Wait for the three clicks to know you’ve been transferred to the Indonesian operator station where agents are waiting to send you a catalogue of material options, colors and a free 40 page side effects manual. Get more when you breathe, get your Air Fine Psychic Air Necklace today.
LETTERS
Before we begin this next segment, I must admit to those of you listening a great foreboding. I sense in a place very nearby the presence of a most evil entity. If you have given birth to a child and if they are still of a coddling age, I suggest that you hold them very closely for the next hour. You may also note that by the mere act of listening to this broadcast any silver in your home will instantly tarnish black. I must assign these strange symptoms to an undefined being at present. Naturally, dear friends, I will keep you up to date on any developments.
Our first letter this evening is from Girth Richards, hailing from an unincorporated territory in Washington County, Maine. “Dear Colonel Prather,” he writes “although my wife Hurtle and I normally write to you with bad news, I am very pleased to say that I have absolutely nothing but joy in my heart today! Thanks to your advice in dealing with our cat Hannibal, he is no longer crossing in and out of a dimensional portal when we run a load in the washing machine. Not only was the adapter cheap and easy to install, we are also saving on our electricity bill.” He goes on to close. “I’m not sure if this will ever be read on the air, but we thought it might be nice for you to hear a happy story for once. Love Girth and Hurtle Richards.”
We thank you for the letter Girth. I make no qualms that I have not technically experienced the sensations of joy or happiness. I have known on some choice occasions, lust, vengeance and victory, but those are a far different terrain. Insofar as joy can be considered an accomplishment, I congratulate you on this.
Lacking any personal frame of reference, your affirmation reminds me of an acquaintance of my father’s named Levi Clyde Whitney. His family made their home along the northern boggy reaches of the Elbe river country southeast of Lubeck in the town of Vedelbacher near the mouth of the sea. There he took time away from the tedium of professional perch training to paint murals on bowling balls. So effective was the illusion of his work, that the images of livestock, men, women and children could be seen running on the ball when it was rolled down the lane at the bowling alley.
After a year of this sideline, word of his unusual talent spread and his work became very sought after, and so began the accumulation of customers, and eventually wealthier clients. Levi and his family were able to relocate to the somewhat more sought after Sheissen borough in the Upper Swamps of Vedelbacher. On the heels of years of near poverty, his family was finally experiencing a solidly middle class existence.
Then on a cold February morning came a knock and the offer of a lifetime. A wealthy and powerful man hailing from the southeast offered to become Levi’s permanent patron. They were all of them to be relocated to the Hoch Sheissen Swamp borough in West Vedelbacher, where the wealthiest of their community dwelled in luxurious estates. Their new grand red velvet bricked two story Victorian with surrounding gardens and a small pond fit in very well indeed.
All of Levi’s brushes, easels, every stick of equipment used in his craft were upgraded to the absolute finest quality. His wife and daughter enjoyed clothing and distraction without end or thought of cost. Levi even took to wearing an Egyptian Baboon fur trapper hat while he painted.
Only two and a half months into his resplendent residency, he was informed by his benefactor of a new project to be named Spleedlehalle, a concert venue which was to have as it’s centerpiece a 40 meter wide bowling ball, the sides of which were to bear the images of two identical teams of running, leaping gymnasts. This massive ball would be released down an equally massive ramp at the beginning of every concert, terminating into a bell strike which was designed to be heard as far away as Macao. It was of course, a career defining commission.
Levi, filled with boundless energy, wrote in his personal diary that very night, that he like Girth Richards, had nothing but joy in his heart. Levi awoke the next day to news that his patron had blown his own brains out. The date was April 30th. That patron’s name was Adolph Hitler. We thank you again for your letter and wish you all the best.
Our next missive comes to us from the hand of Marnie Baker, Salt Lake City, Utah. “Dearest Colonel Prather,” she begins, “Over the last six months I have come to suspect that something unusual is happening to my physical body. My husband Roger is a deep winter fly fisherman who spends months at a time above the arctic circle pursuing gelatinous seasnail. His long term plan is to establish a fishery and eventually feature these tiny fish in a chain restaurant named a “A Snail’s Pace.” We have sold most of our material possessions to fund this dream. Roger has been ridiculed publicly and privately for this venture, but I have always been supportive of him. Earlier this year, his eighth in the profession, he finally managed to tempt his first of those little brown fish onto his hook. Although it turned out to be a plastic replica, I thought it would be nice to celebrate anyway and had a welcome banner made, and prepared a large party for his return home earlier this Spring.
As we have sold our car last year to fund this year’s trip, he arrived home on the back of the sanitation truck. I ran out to greet him in the street and first noticed that he was completely caked head to toe in a light brown mud. Before I could embrace him, he had walked past me, knocked down the mailbox and continued through the front yard and straight into the house. I followed him in as he walked first to the living room, then the kitchen. I asked him how his trip was and if he liked the banner and the other decorations but received no response.
While I described the ingredients in the corn & pineapple casserole I had prepared, he grabbed the pitcher of lemonade I’d made and trust it violently against his groin, shattering it to pieces. This was odd as he is always up for a glass of lemonade in the afternoon.
Since that day, now several weeks back, he has confined himself to the bathroom. He answers no direct questions posed to him and keeps repeating the phrase “here fishy, fishy.” I do not pretend to be an expert on any matter, let alone the spirit world. But when I look at Roger’s behavior since his return, there is a question that has been blaring inside my head night and day-am I a ghost? With warm but potentially haunted regards, Marnie.”
Thank you for your correspondence Marnie. You have raised one of humankind’s most ancient issues. Lambert, pour me a glass of the 59 Barbaresco. I speak now of personal experience as a human being who has frequently transited between the world of the living and that of the dead.
[sound of the cork]
[Sound of wine being poured]
Marnie, what you describe brings to mind a troubling experience of my own while on a press tour in Lincoln, Nebraska, some years ago.
Thank you.
[Deep drink and exhale]
I had recently published my novel “Bloody Yorkshire: The Airedale Terrier Terror” and was appearing at a signing at the Brides of Sinners Book Fair following a tennis racket escape routine by the Aurora Sisters. As I was peckish on arrival, I stopped in at the Tallest Ox Gourmet Steakhouse, where I dined on pureed tomahawk ribeye and a creamed lentil vinaigrette. Some hours later as I was enjoying my second snifter of Hennessy with the other authors in the Red Auerbach Cigar Pavilion I felt a great and sudden undoing within myself. So violent was the outburst of my bowels, that not only were the trousers of my polyester double knit completely compromised, but I myself had been knocked unconscious when I was ejected towards the ceiling of lounge room number four.
When I finally did awaken, I was being attended to by a young Latin woman, who spoke little English. I rose to my feet quickly, dripping with exertion and the remains of my cataclysmic expulsion and began to seek out my fellow authors.
You see, we had been in the midst of a most mystical discussion. I had claimed, perhaps foolishly that I could assemble the spirits most closely connected to those six other authors in the room. I found they had all relocated to lounge room number seven. With hand raised, I triumphantly called out to them as I entered the double doors.
But there was no reaction. Incredibly, as I approached each of them, none would respond, even my one time confidant Dyson Philomena author of the “Flaming Librarian” triology. Oddly, I was able to see, hear and even touch them them all, but they were unable to acknowledge me in the least. Even the concierge, who had been so obliging before, seemed to look right through me, even as I stood directly before him.
Astonished, I rushed back to lounge room number four, to my relief finding that the kind Latin girl was still there, cleaning one of the many charred spots I had created on the carpet. I took her by the shoulders and looked imploringly into her eyes. “Can you see me? I cried.” She responded “For five hundred dollars I will clean you.” I cannot describe the great relief that ran through me in that moment. I realized immediately that I had the good fortune of having encountered a natural clairvoyant. She alone, among all other persons in the Red Auerbach Cigar Pavilion and undoubtedly the whole of Lincoln, Nebraska, was able to see and interact with me.
She later revealed her name to be Atari Garcia de la Cruz as I made out the first of several checks to her. Being unable to arrange standard transport, I turned to her one final time and against odds she secreted my person on a palette of comforters in a freight car bound for Chicago.
Marnie, I do not envy the road you have laid before you. Sell what you must among your remaining possessions and purchase or steal two silver plated Colt Navy pistols. You are to carry these on your person at all times. As you meet those few who are able to see you, you are to demand the contents of their pockets. Out of fairness, you shall carry a bag of unshucked corn, fixed with a sash and ready for dispensing. As you are clearly not a heartless sort, you will leave with each target of your criminal acts a single ear of this corn for their sustenance. This will mean a descent into a life of crime, but I can think of no better way for you to leverage your new capabilities.
Ladies and gentlemen, it is at this time, we must again temporarily allow a pause. The marketer, the collector of receipts comes haunting our doorstep once again. Pray, let us listen for a few moments to the money-impaired cries of this show’s sponsors. When we return, we will have connected to us through the magic of telephony, Randy Jeremiah Ezekiel, impresario of the Second Commune of the New Sun. If you are not too awfully frightened, I hope you will return to join us.
COMMERCIAL
CSP
Colonel Stephen Prather here. You know after over eight years of doing this program I have to admit, the pace of my life has rapidly increased. I find myself traveling at least once every couple of months for conventions, seances, or to answer meritless subpoenas. One thing I find next to impossible, is keeping up with laundry. Do I pay out the snout for overpriced, subpar cleaning or do I hope that my home-grown deodorizer masks the natural sour herring scent my body emits?
Lucky for all of us, we have an ally in this fight and he has a familiar name. Danny Takamoto burst onto our screens in 1966 as an outrageously talented contortionist and has gone on to earn every accolade the repertory wrestling community has to offer. Everyone remembers those eye bending demonstrations on the Rocky Carter Hour, and Danny’s trademark brown calfskin briefs and how thankful we were that they kept such a tight grip on Danny’s otherwise naked pelvis.
Danny for those in the know, went on to successfully market his Vice Shorts line of mens briefs, guaranteed to seal tighter than an Apollo lunar capsule. Well, he’s back again and I’m pretty sure he’s just invented an evolutionary new category of convenience. But first we have to imagine something we thought impossible. What if-my friends-we never had to wash our underwear again? We know very well the disposable diaper, but how about taking that a step further? Well, enter Cleansing Fire, the Self Disintegrating Men’s Jockey from Danny Takamoto Enterprises.
Say goodbye to the very worst part of your laundry and get ready for liberated living. These deteriorating dungarees come in a convenient 5 pack, each of them securely sealed until it’s time to get dressed. And as with all Takamoto products, every single package comes with a tasty stick of chewing gum included.
Once you slip these nappys on, the clock has started. But relax, because you’ve got between 70 to 72 hours of uninterrupted use, depending on relative humidity. Not only do they chemically bond to substances that normally produce odor, but when time is finally up, you need only listen for that special sound:
[Sizzling sound]
That’s the sound of underwear vanishing, my friends
When you hear that, you know the job is done, because these skivvies do their own skedaddling, vaporizing within seconds, leaving only a convenient talcum based residue behind, more than enough odor protection to get you back to your home or hotel room to pop on another pair.
Better yet, you can ride the meerkat and do what I do. Keep an extra in your lunchbox, briefcase or coat pocket. I can’t describe that feeling of pure victory you feel slipping on a new pair in the men’s room right in the middle of your work day, not to mention scoring another delicious piece of that flavorful gum.
Quality can mean a high sticker price. And a five pack of these little wonders will set you back 59.99. Now, that’s a lot of lira - but I have saved the best feature for last. If you find yourself in a tight corner, add a little tap water to your briefs and with minimal kneading they are ready to use as a moldable, explosive compound. Liven up your kid’s birthday party or rig your boss’s toilet and become the top practical joker in your office. I can’t think of anything more convenient, short of a chopper ride with a mysterious Lebanese mercenary who insists on meaningless sex. It’s a dynamite feature.
So, I hope you’ll send your check or money order to Cleansing Fire Self Disintegrating Men’s Jockey by Danny Takamoto Enterprises, c/o Carlito’s Second Hand Plumbing Supply, 2292 40th Avenue, Basement D, Queens, NY 11101. When you receive your order in around 4-6 weeks, it will be packaged in a box for Arthur Giles Sublime Jasmine Rice. On occasion, they have inadvertently sent a real box of Arthur Giles Sublime Jasmine Rice. Should you receive one in error, mail that sucker back to the same address c/o Independent Sicily Brotherhood and allow 27-35 weeks for your replacement.
Cleansing Fire will light the way to your greater freedom. Grab your package today.
INTERVIEW PART 1
I offer now an update on my earlier feeling of foreboding. On further self examination, it appears that I had failed to ingest the little paper sleeve of powders that normally signal the start of my day. This has now been care for. In the way of shading this sketch, each morning, it is my habit to mix these powders in a tall dram of milk from a freshly struck coconut and to recite a power incantation of my own authoring. Now I must offer that I am in no sense a large man, nor am I considerably tall. Many might consider me slight with a frame resembling the good yellow squash, noticeable even under the dark plaid three piece suit that is my trademark of late. Yes Lambert, thank you.
[Sound of wine pouring]
However, the inner workings of my intestinal labyrinth can be chemically fortified in such a way as to resemble the steel baton. I have been warned off my mixture frequently, principally for the illegality of its contents, but such is the life of an iconoclast.
Thank you Lambert.
[A quick deep drink sip]
As promised, we have joining us now via the Higher Plane Hotline, the former county clerk of Ribbonfire, Nevada, who in 1981 moved east to Norwalk, Connecticut, where he would form the Second Commune of the New Sun on the grounds of a defunct Jimbo’s Toy World. A location to this day not deemed fit for human habitation by the Environmental Protection Agency. The perimeter of this compound has been outfitted with robust landscaping and privacy fences. The only thing that seems to escape the grip of this elusive organization are frequent tales of outlandish ritual and dress and the unorthodox use of food stuffs. It is no understatement to say that the very presence of this place has its surrounding community on edge. I welcome to our program Randy Jeremiah Ezekiel.
RJE
Thank you Colonel Prather, it’s a pleasure to be here. I must gently insist that there is no ill-will that I am personally aware of.
EP
I’m afraid to inform you that my name is Enoch Price and it is I who will be your interviewer this evening.
RJE
Please do accept my apologies. Blessings of the Wind Father on to you then and onto the colonel, wherever he may be.
EP
Naturally, we are grateful. Your organization, Mr Ezekiel-
RJE
Oh, please call me hockey.
EP
You’re a fan of the sport? Or is that a norse derivation of some kind?
RJE
No hockey as slang for excrement. It was a childhood nickname and most of my acquaintances use it in conversation.
EP
It was the great poet Fin Yi who said “what life a man trades when he is treated as the diner’s fowl excretion.” There will be time for pity later I suppose. Mr. Hockey, then- there has been much misinformation communicated in news articles, can you state for us here, plainly, the mission of the Second Commune of the New Sun?
RJE
I welcome the question. It is at its core, simplicity. The Wind Father was the first presence that met me as I stared out onto the Atlantic on my arrival here. His force had called me from clear across the continent you see. It is his life and energy that breathed into my bodily openings and began this journey of inspiration.
EP
Are you telling me that you made out with the Wind Father?
RJE
No, I can see where I may have used words clumsily.
EP
Like a blind bomb-maker. What are the origins of this Wind Father?
RJE
In my treasured audiences with him, the Wind Father shared that he is a very ancient being.
EP
Ancient? How old are we talking then?
RJE
Older than the trees, somewhat younger than the mountains.
EP
Aren’t those the lyrics to a John Denver song? What are the abilities of this Wind Father? What does he wield control over?
RJE
He is the very model of a namesake, he wishes only to wind through our existence and to carry the wisdom we produce between all human beings—to disperse what is too often separated needlessly by distance.
EP
Why not worship the postman, then? He carries wisdom to my mailbox on the daily. Lambert, I’m empty here.
RJE
The Wind Father brings a collected wisdom that cannot be duplicated.
[ Wine pouring ]
This was lost for centuries you see. He recalled to me that he had been banished by an ancient civilization.
EP
A demigod Banished? How did they manage that?
RJE
They were a highly mobile river people, sometimes prone to misunderstanding and warfare. Out of deceit they sought the aid of two lesser gods to entrap the Wind Father-
EP
Hold on a minute.
[ Huge drink ]
This sounds suspiciously to me like the Hopi Wind God, Yaponcha.
RJE
I don’t believe I’m familiar.
EP
You should be, you just ripped them off. Does your story involve corn meal being stuffed in a great broken rock?
RJE
I don’t wish to comment.
EP
I have enough enemies without insulting the Hopi. Let’s move on shall we. Now what manifestation does this Wind Father assume?
RJE
I’m sorry?
EP
What does he look like, man?
RJE
He has no physical appearance.
EP
That’s gotta sell a lot of tickets. What about these outfits you people wear?
RJE
I’m sorry, but your tone is somewhat aggressive.
EP
Somewhat aggressive? It’s meant to be fully aggressive, man. Do you want the fifteen dollars for your appearance fee or not?
RJE
I—guess we’ll just continue.
EP
Yuri, you can stop talking into my ear, I know very well that I’m not supposed to talk about the $15 dollar appearance fee. Now then. I have a photo in front of me, what is this idiotic hat you wear called?
RJE
The hat I wear?
EP
Yes, the oversized eraser top disaster, do you have a name for it?
RJE
We call it a handle of love.
EP
A love handle.
RJE
We prefer handle of love.
EP
Not too difficult to see why. Does it have a purpose besides stunting attraction?
RJE
Whether we are waking or asleep, we keep these atop our physical body to better allow the Wind Father to be guided to us through the peripheral voids.
EP
So the Wind Father has poor eyesight.
RJE
He’s never shared.
EP
Yuri, I’ll go to a commercial when I’m damn ready. What about these ridiculous gowns?
RJE
Was that for me?
EP
I don’t know, are you being interviewed today?
RJE
Our charting flows, they are the sails that allow the Wind Father to propel our souls through this life and the coming frontier.
EP
I can’t see shoes in this picture, do you people wear shoes?
RJE
Well, it’s quite interesting actually—
EP
Hold on damnit. You wanna go to commercial, Yuri we can go to your idiotic commercial.
[ Furiously pressing buttons ]
What did that do? Hello
COMMERICIAL
Colonel Stephen Prather back again. You know if you’ve ever been to a party or public gathering where folks are sharing charming or pleasingly awkward family anecdotes, there’s always that moment when the conversation rolls around to you. Normally you’re quick with a joke or that trick you do with your thigh muscle and raw eggs that everyone loves. But when it comes to the family, well that’s a bit of charred antelope corpse.
Well, I’ve been absolutely thrilled with a new service I’ve tried the last few months. It’s called ‘Better Than Your Parents’ from Carl and Helen Trimble of Marble, Minnesota.
That’s right. Get ready to discretely show your real bloodline the exit. That’s because a ‘Better Than Your Parent’s subscription provides real, living breathing people who will meet you at airports, call into parties and ask to speak with your work friends and whom-if you happen to be single will hound you about when you plan to tie the knot.
Now, this life changing service is no small affair and to be sure of your decision, the Trimbles ask you to consider a few questions.
One. Have your parents every tried to trade you for a Chevy Caprice with low mileage and a bald front right tire?
Two. Have your mom or dad regularly burned you in effigy on Easter or the Summer Solstice?
Three. Have either your mother or father insisted that there was a scout badge for hand-packing assault rifle munitions?
If you answered yes to one or more of those questions, then ‘Better than Your Parents” might just be good fit for you.
To get it all started, you’ll need to provide them, along with your fee, your personal biography and some snaps of you from childhood to the present day. What they send you back will take you from Ted Bundy to Bob Newhart faster than a frightened Italian gigilo.
First, there’s that subtle background layer-you’ll be replacing that framed Patrick Nagel with a heartwarming photo composite of Carl and Helen, giving your hair a tussle when you were twelve. And take down that framed People magazine with the Gambler, Kenny Rogers on the cover, that’s now a recent photo of Carl and Helen at the pumpkin festival in matching white sweaters; not a hint of the screaming voice mails or death threats you associate with your own parentage.
As part of their subscription package, you’ll receive a different family story every month. Think about the fact that might be you regaling the rest of the table at your local pub following the Juice Newton concert. That’s because you’re ready with a delightful anecdote about the time Carl slipped on a striped bass and punctured his pelvis. Odds are you won’t find anyone else in the bar able to produce a picture of their father in traction from their wallet.
Price quotes for packages from basic to platinum are available. Request a free full color catalog with poses of your new parents in various states of dress all bound in an authentic crochet cover today. Just send a post card with the words “The promise of love is a menagerie of suffering” to Carl and Helen Trimble, 12 Beefeater Post Lane, Marble Minnesota 55764. Ditch your real parents and start winning at parties today.
INTERVIEW PART 2
EP
Your logic is entirely flawed. No one ever expects testicles, least of all the testicle’d. Why is the bottle empty? The bottle is always empty. We are back dear listeners with the kook from Connecticut, Randy Jeremiah Ezekiel.
RJE
Could you please not use that terminology-
EP
I want you to listen to me. I’m going to give you some good advice, man-making advice. When we were on break, we were discussing your ritual practices.
RJE
Yes, our re-burial of the harvest.
EP
Right off the bat, you must know that the general public is going to find that painfully stupid.
RJE
It is a ritual meant to inspire poverty.
EP
I didn’t realize there was a shortage. If you’re going to get heads through the door, you need the fascinating, the spectacle. You need to begin spray-painting cryptic symbols throughout the city during the night. They need not have a specific meaning. Nonchalantly leave a document in a coffee shop describing to new recruits their role as people spotters for Satan-
RJE
We’re not engaged in that sort-
EP
Or that you specificly seek to sacrifice only animals that are attached to families with children.
RJE
That’s horrifying.
EP
I didn’t say you had to do it, man, you just have to claim you do.
RJE
I don’t think so.
EP
You told me you have twenty members.
RJE
19.
EP
And you yourself, aren’t you a member?
RJE
Yes.
EP
Good God. What do you make in a month?
RJE
It varies. We deal in bartering. We took in a construction workers family, the Marfersons for instance to construct our beautiful fencing and shrubbery.
EP
It’s a fence around a parking lot, try not to lose your grip. What about your cash intake, then?
RJE
We bring in a few hundred a month from those with outside jobs-enough to care for the basics, utilities, property taxes—
EP
Don’t forget count the $15 dollar appearance fee from today. Go to hell Yuri.
RJE
Of course. We generally make or trade for just enough to feed our flock
EP
Get ready for a paradigm shift. Have you considered not burying the vegetables?
RJE
But it is one of the three, core earth rituals. The layers of rotting vegetable flesh over the years allow the Wind Father to find us again and again no matter how far he may roam the peripheral voids.
EP
How old are you Randy?
RJE
It’s Hockey.
EP
No one cares. How old are you?
RJE
I’m 40, in the record keeping of the terrestrial authorities.
EP
Randy, as a connoisseur of fine culture and dining I possess a particular sensitivity to odors. Were I to be standing on the grounds of your compound in Norwalk I am certain of only two things. The first is that I would be meandering like a lost commando to avoid the salvos of seagull feces raining down on your landfill. Second, the aroma would come to inspire night terrors for years to come. I generally loath humanity but I have studied them enough to understand that they tend not to frolic in garbage dumps unless they are within the throes of poverty.
RJE
And the Wind Father welcomes those impoverished- all, regardless of—
EP
Hold on a minute-does the Wind Father have a name?
RJE
Yes, the Wind Father.
EP
That has to get old. Let’s reduce this, shall we? Do you or do you not wish to have a successful cult?
RJE
We wish to spread the message of -his-simplicity, poverty and purity. The message that a life of seclusion, one that strips away the unneeded accumulations of our world can allow us to focus inward and on one another, to grow our collective affections and radiate our humanity in its most natural and beneficial form.
EP
My God, that’s pathetic. Alright, I’m going to send you a book.
RJE
A book.
EP
I authored this work in 1979 while recovering in Pope John Paul II’s private hospital after the mother of my venomous offspring had attempted to murder me with a carcano carbine rifle from the back of a Ducati 4-Stroke as I strolled the Via Condotti in Rome. The name of this book is ‘How to Properly Run a Cult.”
RJE
While I appreciate the kind gesture, that’s not something I’m inter-
EP
I’m going to write my correspondence address on the back sleeve. If you have any questions, you can send them to me there. If you follow the guidance in the book-especially the chapter on the easy economics of dung pottery-you can be turning a significant profit by the first quarter of 1984. I assume you can read.
RJE
Yes-but I’m truly not int-
EP
Randy-
RJE
Yes-
EP
You’re not going to bury the book when you receive it?
RJE
No-no
EP
Good. And Randy-
RJE
Yes-
EP
Lose the hats-
[Hard Disconnect sound]
Well, my dear friends. I have little doubt that we all share the same sense of empty disappointment at this moment. As Pierre Mandalfor wrote, “the starving man having roamed the cold, rainy, cobbled streets met his only reward; to be handed a crayon drawing of a pork chop by an imbecile.” So our head spins with the painful reality we will find here none of the unexplained and unknowable our souls thrive upon. For that failure in this expedition I am truly sorry.
But I tell you now, as I stare at the last burgundy quarter inch of Taylor Port at the bottom of this glass, I see in its dark, blood-like nebula, possibility.
Consider as you are listening now at this late hour that somewhere about you lies a murky shadow not unlike the cloudy center of my wine glass. Maybe a sliver of black peeking from around the lamp there on your desk or underneath your chair? Or perhaps the door is a little ajar and your vision slips across the empty hall and there beyond the threshold of that quiet room down the way, the edge of a bed, end table are being consumed in another lurking darkness.
Every pit of this inkiness of course could hold either boredom or terror, usually the former. After all, have you ever really been frightened to death in your own home? The stories of phantasms and churlish, sadistic demons are always someone else’s tale are they not? Your grandparents or that mean old man across the street have been dead for years. You don’t expect to walk around the corner and find them standing there, reaching out to touch a finger to your arm? It is so quiet though, isn’t it? We believe many of these stories when they happen to others but seldom are forced to suffer their horrible grip ourselves. Surely that wouldn’t happen to you tonight as you were listening to a little voice in a little box on a table.
No, we will all sleep tonight. We will turn every last light out and we will trust the darkness to protect us. And when you are enveloped in that darkness, surely that is only empty air that lies an inch from your exposed throat, or floating a fraction of that above your thin, vesseled eyelids. Of course, there’s nothing. What in this world or the next would be so evil as to descend on you as you sleep? Sit on your chest and trap you beneath your own covers until you suffocate with their horrifying grimace to see you off? No, you may take your rest tonight in the quiet, I’m reasonably sure nothing will happen.
OUTRO
It has been quite an experience to stand at the quarterdeck of this peculiar vessel, to witness only those moments that an otherworldly voyage brings. Nonetheless, the mooring line is tied and my disembarkment is imminent.
To close, I hold in my hand a final list, containing the names of those whom I am to express my thanks towards. Of course, this is another prefabricated suggestion handed down by the orchestrators of this program. I tell you now that my praise will only ever bear the stamp of the battlefield on which it was earned. There will be no lightly considered accolades, no easy medals.
No better demonstration exists than the name of the idiot Randy Jeremiah Ezekiel that sits atop this list. I do not wish to thank him in shape or form.
Next on this list is Stephanie, whom apparently has no last name. While I appreciate her skillful if brief introduction, I have learned only minutes ago that she was responsible for eating the Mexican Tuna Melt Crossaint I left in the lounge refrigerator. There is as we know a special place in hell for thieves and traitors.
Also here the name of my fresh nemesis, Yuri. His blend of accidental cruelty and ineptitude are a unique stew indeed. I can only offer him a small morsel of hatred at this time.
I do speak with some sincerity as I give my thanks to the Colonel though, despite his covert efforts through his underlings to curtail my natural gift of conversation. You will be relieved to know he returns tomorrow. His guest at that time will be Radcliff Nicodemus, proprietor of a passenger van service whom operates as a subcontractor for the space-faring, rat-like Adra-Totuuk as they continue to abduct and experiment on quite specifically workers at fragrance manufacturers for reasons still unknown.
I will now take my leave as Lambert has readied our transport. It will be your choice whether or not to allow the name Enoch Price to fall to the ground of a barren plane, like the dropping of a mature bison or whether you wish to carefully retrieve and wrap it in a handkerchief, hold it close to your bosom and allow it to warm your person during the cold desert night. Until then, as it said, do not allow the ordinary distractions to thwart your search for wisdom and knowledge, all that and more may just be revealed beyond the near horizon. Good night.
