Kephra Space

Planet Earth 2008: It’s a Throwdown Kidney Bean Contest here in the middle of Winter in Montana at thirty degrees below. I’m Frink Watson reporting from channel 93– and I hear this event is being broadcast to over fifty regions in the galaxy... With those words the sleepytime agent jumps into the river carrying on about wooden gates and how there’s always a mystery behind it, possibly initiation into the White Light; only last time it was guarded with a well cast voodoo doll tied by a rope. The agent makes splashy and hits the bottom where the fishies and bacteria are. There’s not really room for him, actually; he’s just wedging himself awkwardly against the side of a hill where the river runs. No fish to eat, no nothing. Back on Earth they’re still finding ways to waste food and entertain the locals. Badly chosen belief systems aid this matter immensely. Like this guy here thinks that keeping hundreds of watermelons on his barn roof will repel unseemly things such as sunlight, angels and aliens. And Loretta here believes that filling her panties with raw meat every morning is just plain good luck. So I smack the raisin bran icon (who ever that is) in the face to do something about this goddam tragedy already. He just winks and tries to sell me on protein and vitamins while posing for the cameras.

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Okay, we’ve already heard about the things that happen on the surface of the sun, but what really goes on? Things you’ll never understand you ignorant child. Lets say it’s that roundy fiery feeling of a refulgent heart burning shining hallelujah light across the world with beamy open scintillant arms of glorious little beastlings roughly the size and shape photons living out immaculate solar lives of mitochondria. What will really get you are the beetles and things sacred. Kephra, the mighty mighty beetle, comes swooping in around midnight from some Nuit-knows-where outside of Pluto to grasp our great Sol in his buggy pinchers. Boy, NASA didn’t see that one coming. The bureaucrats just drink coffee out of cups that say “solo” while smacking dents into their foreheads as their satellites all bounce off a cosmic beetle. These fucking archetypes, there’s no stopping em. And another thing, why has Neptune been spewing out gamma rays lately? On Mars Crunk Stately, the only person to ever set foot on said planet, is waving his arms in performance of the supreme Martian ritual dance. That’s it, we’ll need no more Scorpio or Aries after this. They can finally blow those constellations to smithreenos. Two down, ten to go and soon those government wet dreams of a blank night sky will come true. Kapow! just like that. If we can’t control ourselves and can’t control the world maybe we can control the cosmos. That was their place: control and chaos. Thank you Miss Jenkins, I don’t think I’ll be going out tonight for the biting cold air full of nettle teeth. But thank you for the words on the dualistic matter... And now nobody can be born under any sign. The astrologers just hold their heads in Silence. The sky was trying all it could, but science only made divination harder while remaining completely empirically ignorant, always ready to say the sign is the same as the thing signified. But that was just right, that was their lot... Thank you Kephra for bringing our sun back home from the war...

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Meanwhile, the Resource Destroyers have filled a luge track completely with raisin bran. Then Marty Scumtooth gets the idea that instead of pouring milk down the thing they’ll just toss in cow after cow and arrange it with industrial spinning razor blades at the bottom. A Tibetan bicyclist rides in and explains the rules of the game: “Okay, so you’ve got to watch this whole thing without cringing, blinking, or even scratching your head. For the losing contestants will be given the choice of the pit of fire and lions or of darkness and gnashing of teeth.” Darling little Elvisha Parsley comes in with a pirouette and a tutu, bright blue eyes glowing with pre-adolescent compassion, says, “isn’t that a meany-headed thing to do?” “You shut up, we occupy your ass!” Then they chain her up in the dungeon and wait until she’s eighteen to show her what they really mean. Tibetan cyclists, what are you gonna do...? Watermelon John, what they call him now, is mellowing out, reaching an equilibrium of sorts in which he’s no longer wearing the tin foil hats and dying his cows blue; he’s not passing out over fifty pounds of change at a time to the neighbor kids anymore. What he does do, though, is actually find a dead alien sprawled across the Briar path, big black tongue flopped ten feet out of its mouth. When he shows it to everyone, nobody tries to say he’s crazy, but looking at that huge lumpy slimegreen head conclude he must have created it with the power of thought alone. The reporters shuffle into town in abnormally tiny cars from which absurd amounts of them pour out like clowns, shoving microphones in everyone’s face. “Yeah, I ‘spect he somehow done it with peanut butter and masking tape, you know, not conscious like.”
End.