An All-New Deep Knight Adventure

[Deep Knight]

Flours of Evil
An All-New Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Ten – Sperms of Endearment

When I said the wall moved slowly, I mean REALLY slowly. The ancient technology that made up this death trap was scary, but it was by no means efficient, giving me time to stop the walls and escape! I will not bore you with the details, but let’s just say I was glad that Russian food had so much cabbage in it.

Climbing up the spikes and crawling out the ventilation shaft, I found myself outside in crowded, smoggy Beijing, with no papers or money, and sticking out like a sore occidental thumb. Moving over the rooftops quickly, but not so quickly I would attract attention, I was soon out of the choking smog, and into a clear sunny day. It was then I realized that what I took for the Chinese capitol’s pollution were the grill vents of a Mongolian BBQ place next to the Chinese restaurant I had escaped from. On the other side was a falafel place, “Original” Fish Taco stand, a Starbucks, and Carl Juniors with a drive up window. I was in California not China, at some mall near an interstate highway interchange. That narrowed it down to only about half of the state.

Luckily, I had the tracking chip in my behind, so after a few hours of waggling my fanny in the general direction of the geosynchronous satellites it uses, help finally came. The Slice Girls had been on vacation, but luckily that mid-winter break was in Malibu, and they jumped at the chance to spice up their fun up with some murder and mayhem. Weapons drawn and with Ninja outfits over their skimpy bikinis, we moved in tight formation through the streets and into a Best Western Motel, where I hoped we would be safe from anyone who knew my tastes in lodging.

The girls were all for raiding the restaurant, but I knew that my captors would be long gone, clutching their Dongs tightly in their hot little hands. Besides, a caper like this was too big for China, there had to be someone else behind it. Someone ruthless, cruel, and domestic, like the jugs of cheap wine the girls brought back to the motel. There was only one place such a person could use as a power base, Sacramento, and only one man who fit that bill. Governor Jerry Brown. If I wanted answers, which I did, that would be the place to find them, and the person to attach the electrodes to.

We waited for the neon glow of Sacramento to fade into the moonless sky as the nightclubs and casinos finally shut down at 9 o’clock, and in the dark crept into the Governor’s residence. “Let’s do this, ladies!” I suggested in my best action hero voice, and my homicidal honeys and I moved out. I found it assuring that the guards we were knocking off were Chinese, or at least they looked like it in the impenetrable darkness. Soon we were in the courtyard of the mission-style mansion, creeping through the pitch blackness, our goal in sight. Or if would have been in sight if there had been any light to see. But suddenly, and most unexpectedly, that problem was solved when we were blinded by an array of powerful-yet-efficient LED spotlights closely spaced around the perimeter. At the same time, I heard the unmistakable sound of a hundred Uzi machine pistol bolts being cycled, feeding ammo into their tight chambers, ready to explode at the slightest touch. Ooh, baby, ooh. But there wasn’t time for that now, this latest development could be serious.

“Good evening, Mr. Knight,” came a low, gravelly evil-villain voice that reminded me a bit of Alfalfa from Little Rascals, “We’ve been expecting you. Would you please ask your associates to disarm, and of course, take that large-caliber long-barreled weapon out of your pants and let it drop to the ground.”

I would have asked which one, but levity seemed ill advised, so I and the girls complied. It took a while to empty everything out, or at least everything I was willing to give up, and I’m sure the girls all had a throwing star, dagger, grenade, or bazooka tucked into some convenient hiding place.

“Very wise,” said the voice, “Now prepare to die.”

The silly voice was familiar. “Jerry, is that you? It’s me, Deep Knight. Remember me, we studied Buddhism together back in the 60’s, and occasionally bumped into each other while meditating? And later, when I was the guy Linda Ronstadt left you for?”

“I know who you are, Mr. Deep Knight, which is why you must surely know what happens next. Our allies, the Chinese, failed, but I will not. My fiendish plan is simple. First, I will complete your elimination; second, the Oroville Dam will fail, and we use the resulting public outcry to impeach the President; third, The People’s Republic of California’s secession from the now-weakened United States; fourth, war along with our Pacific Rim allies, the Democratic Republic of Oregon, and Soviet Washington State against the other 47 states and Washington DC. But, as a former friend, and man who took that strange woman off of my hands, I will grant you one last decision. I owe you that much; she was always going around singing, which at first was nice, but later became really annoying. So you get to choose the means of your own death, what’s behind Door Number One, Door Number Two, or in the Governor’s Grab Bag Mystery Box. You have 10 seconds.”

“How can it be a bag and box at the same time?”

“You now have 8 seconds,” said the power-mad governor, not offering any further information.

Some of the girls wanted Door Number One, but to be honest, I had had quite enough of “Number One” after Moscow. Others wanted what was behind The Curtain, even though that wasn’t a choice. But, as the countdown ended my cooler head prevailed, and I did what I wanted no matter how foolish that turned out to be. “I’ll take what’s…”

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

Flours of Evil
An All-New Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Eleven – Pair o’ Dice by the Rash Horde’s Bite

“…in the box!”

“And what means of death do we have today for Deep Knight and his black-suited lady companions?” asked the gloating Governor, cruelty in every syllable. “Monty Hall is here to tell you what you’ve won!”

“Thank you Governor! First, what you didn’t choose! Behind Door Number One, an all-paid final vacation to Hawaii, where you would have stayed on the Big Island in the Royal Hawaiian Motel 6 and been thrown into the scenic Kilauea Volcano! Then there’s Door Number Two, behind which is a hungry tiger that was trained in man-eating by Siegfried and Roy! Down there, kitty! But you chose the box, which contains…” A drum roll interrupted his speech and ended in a cymbal crash, “…a ride on the Oroville Dam Spillway! Tell us about it, Don Pardo!”

“Thank you Monty! The Oroville Spillway is 6,920 feet long and drops 770 feet from top to bottom, with almost 100 thousand cubic feet of water running down it every second! That would be dangerous enough, but two thirds of the way down is a giant, yawing cavity caused by hidden explosives put there in case the election didn’t go our way knowing dam failure would lead to immediate impeachment. Good for step three of our fiendish plan, but bad for you because in the maelstrom that is that thunderous pit your certain doom awaits, either from drowning or dismemberment in the vortex. Congratulations!”

“Best two out of three,” I requested, knowing it never hurt to ask. But my pleas were answered by a barrage of tiny tranquilizer darts, sending me into Nighty-Night Land once more. When we came to, we were in a cargo net, dangling precipitously over the roaring spillway of the Oroville Dam. The girls were all awake and had various knives out to cut us free, but I had the feeling they were going to open the net up and drop us into the waterslide of death soon enough anyway. There was a large set of bleachers erected to the side and covered with the many enemies I’ve made over the last few years. I noticed a group of Buddhist monks from Jerry and my temple were there, their mouths open as if they were cheering loudly. Jerry was addressing the crowd, but the roaring waters were much too loud to hear what he was saying, or for that matter for them to hear the Russian helicopters as they came in low over the Sierra foothills, under Californian radar.

I motioned to the girls, and with bullets and air-to-ground missiles whooshing around us, they climbed to the top of the net, cutting a small opening. They exited through it, up the cable one above the other, and using their bodies as a human ladder I climbed onto the winch and out of danger. Making short work of the operator with a kick to the groin, I pulled up the girls. Once they were safe I let out some winch’s cable and flipped the opened hook over to snag a corner of the bleachers. Pushing the control stick all the way forward, I pulled the seats and more than 90% of their occupants into the spillway, where they were Maytag-washed to a well-deserved doom. The screams were no doubt horrible, but once again, the deadly rushing of the water was so loud I couldn’t hear, no matter how much I strained.

The Russians attacked the stage where Jerry Brown, representatives of the various properly-colored dragon families, and a few Hollywood celebrities were sitting. Unfortunately, the KGB isn’t what is used to be, and most of them got away, except the Black Dragon elder who had taunted me earlier, and a few b-list militia leaders and Dinar gurus. Surrounded by commandos, they and their ancient oriental had no means of escape. Down, but not out, he was typing tweets on his phone like a cornered beast when Vladimir Putin joined me and the girls. “Deep! I am being so glad you are OK! We hack into American Secret Police surveillance system, but not to finding you until hour ago. Lucky I was wisiting secret Russian Army base in High Sierras, only short flying from here.”

It wasn’t that I was ungrateful, but something in his adoring puppy-dog look made me uneasy. Besides, I had unfinished business with the Black Dragon badass who was still snarling and vowing revenge using the hashtags #KillDeepKnight and #IlluminatiAreCucks. I motioned to the Russians to lower their guns after herding the other surviving bit players to the side. This would be a man to man fight, one on one, mango y mango. I slowly wrapped my swollen hands around a pair of the tropical fruit, and circled my prey in the ring of cat-calling soldiers, my attention only on him.

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

Flours of Evil
An All-New Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Twelve – The Dirty Cousin

The ancient head of the Black Dragon Society was obviously skilled in Dim Sum style fighting, no doubt with a minor in the Mu Shu Kung Fu. These two ancient fighting methods mixed food and martial arts in ways that had never been seen in the West. But I had “trained” in the mystic East myself, in my early days traveling on both the Orient Express and the East Chicago “El.” I knew that according to certain monks I could counter his “Chi” with my “Chew,” turning what would start as a food fight into a feast for me. But when the fight started I abandoned this monkish mumbo-jumbo, and instead cheated to win. In fights to the death there is no East or West, only six feet down.

The fight turned out to be a battle of the wills and willies as much as of wits and weapons, so the action was explicit and fierce. Defying gravity, my opponent flew through the air and ran along the tops of trees, his eyebrows flowing in the wind. I countered with a combination of the Heimlich and Picard maneuvers, appearing to be at two places at once while exerting pressure on the bottom of this diaphragm. Wearing him down, I took him in 3 falls, the first two using flying buttocks kicks, and the last a grand piano dropped onto him by Serial Killer Slice, who was working the winch. Vladimir was beside himself in joy, hugging and kissing me as I caught my breath.

“Down, Vlad, down!” I teased him as I playfully warned him off with one of my victim’s ornate daggers, “You’ll give your men the wrong impression!” Smiling shyly, which was indescribably creepy, the obviously smitten dictator settled for my verbal thanks. Not wanting to leave any loose ends, or piss off the Slice Girls by not letting them kill a few people, I let them tidy up the remaining “good guys.” Showing off a bit for the hunky Russian commandos, they shredded the first victim in a frenzy of sword motions they call “le Grande Cuisinart,” instilling a paralyzing sense of dread into the others. Frozen with fear, the remaining victims were more-easily skinned, fileted, and cut into bite sized pieces in the manner of a cannibalistic sushi chef. They did this all with fluid, dance-like motions, using the sprays of spurting blood to accent their choreography. Outstandingly artistic, they were not unlike the ballerinas in Moscow, except the peed-on shoes were on the other feet. This time, I’m almost certain the soakings were unintentional.

Making a string of lame excuses a mile long as to why I couldn’t join him for a night of painting the town of Oroville red, I “returned to Illuminati Headquarters to make a long-overdue report.” I hope playing coy didn’t backfire, my feigned innocence can be devastatingly alluring, but I was tired and didn’t want to have to deal with a drunken dictator who doesn’t like to take “no” for an answer. This was not before directing the repair of the spillway using that black-rubber-sealing-paint-goo-stuff they advertise late at night on the cheap cable channels. Dries fast even under water and works like magic.

Back at home, Velna rushed to kiss me. Putin had given me a cell phone (he uses all cheap “burner phones,” changing them frequently for obvious reasons, and travels with many extras) and I had called my wife, who I was afraid might be frantic with worry. Luckily the Pindars had been keeping her up-to-date, although that included unfiltered descriptions all the embarrassing parts. But, as they say, love means never having to say you’re sorry, unless the paternity tests turn out positive on national TV. Still, something was strange that I couldn’t put my finger on, and when I walked into our bedroom entwined with Velna’s writing body (no easy task on shag carpet), I smelled something familiar. I threw my lingerie-clad wife to the deep plush ground and demanded the truth, “That odor is familiar, too familiar. It’s Vladimir Putin’s new cologne! How did that smitten ex-Soviet’s sissy scent get here?”

“You idiot,” answered my wife, in her genuinely amused way, “That’s your cologne, ‘Old Spice Too Long at Sea.’ Strange, now that you mention it, Vladimir Putin called me a few months ago asking what kind it was. His voice seemed kinda funny, almost dreamy-like.”

“I’ve been wearing it so long, I forgot what it smells like,” I said, embarrassed at my stupid mistake, “When I was young, my father told me that it covers up the smell of other women’s perfume when you …” I stopped short as my foot entered my mouth, realizing that this was perhaps not the best subject for verbal foreplay. “Er, that is, I, um …”

“If I minded a man with a past, I would have never married you millions of times over,” she said sweetly. “As long as you remember that marriages take hard work, so roll up your sleeves and pull down your pants. I only hope you’re not expecting this to include what those ballerinas did that kinky video Satan posted. If men were the ones who had to clean up afterwards, they wouldn’t enjoy it half as much even if it kept them up twice as long. But enough dirty talk, I want dirty action! Give me a kiss, then show me how much you missed me, again and again until we walk funny!”

“I’m sorry I accused you of having seen Putin while I was away,” I apologized while lying in our afterglow. “I had a feeling I had come across that odor before, but just couldn’t place it. My sense of smell was probably a bit off from being drugged then held in the kitchen at a Szechuan-style Chinese restaurant. Regardless, a man should trust his wife, and I’m truly sorry I didn’t.”

“I’ve forgotten it already, big boy,” she said, cuddling, “I know you’ve been stressed, what with jet lag, near death, and being knocked out for days by the devil knows what. If you weren’t a bit paranoid after what you’ve just been through, you wouldn’t be my widdle diddle fuzzy wuzzy. Now, put on this latex Batman suit, warm up the Jell-O pudding in the microwave, and show me once again why I married you.”

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

Flours of Evil
An All-New Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Thirteen – Beat Me in Saint Louis

I stayed home the next day, not only to rest up from the mattress straightening, but because Satan was still not back from Moscow. Besides, I was still walking funny. I booked a meeting with him early the day after, or rather, as early as he gets in after traveling overseas. He was all excited about “levering our brand” by forming the New World Order Ballet and Cirque du Illuminati. The first would play high-class theatres up and down the east and west coasts, the latter have 5 or 6 different shows running at the same time in Vegas at the casinos on the strip we controlled, which was them all. The only thing linking the two, besides our tradenames, would be golden streams of water inundating the dancers at the end of each show. Once again the old fart had let an obsession get in the way of common sense, and I wondered how we would “talk him down” this time. But I didn’t have to worry, before I could even finish opening my mouth, a really skinny ballerina appeared at his door, anger in her eyes and steam coming out of her ears, nose, and mouth.

“Married! You son of bitch, you never tell me you being married! I am to ruining my best ballet slippers with stains! You make mistake to messing with wrong Prima Ballerina, buster!” Taking out a large, ornate Russian Orthodox cross, she opened an ancient book and started to chant some strange words, no doubt meant to cast out demons.

Leaving Satan to his fate at the hands of this emaciated exorcist would have been cruel enough, but behind the bummed-out Bolshoi babe stood Satan’s wife, Gladys, holding a rolling pin. While ancient rituals and incantations can really smart, the rites “Gladdie” was contemplating left permanent scars. Her pointed tail was flicking back and forth, cracking like an overseer’s whip, and what I first mistook for steam was coming out of, um, some place lower than her much thinner, still-chanting rival. I’m a man who has known millions of women in ten thousand different moods, but had never been near one who made both of my testicles suddenly retract with an audible “snap” before.

“You turd,” she began rather testily, “You cheated on me with this ugly, skinny-assed bitch, posted that explicit video of your exploits for the girls in my bridge club to see, and then brought her back home with you? Look at her, there’s more meat on a stalk of celery! But I don’t blame this underfed whore; I blame you, and will see you in Hell before I let you get away with this!”

Before the Princess of Darkness had a chance to lunge forward, I ducked out, watching Satan futilely push the security button under the lip of his desk. His body guards were too far away to save him now, besides, hard lessons had taught them not to get between her and her prince when she was “loaded for bear.”

Nothing came from Satan’s crazy scheme, especially after his wife made a deal with the dancers where they went back to Mother Russia in return for getting to remain in one piece. Satan was not as lucky, but he’s a survivor. Most of the casts will be off in a couple of weeks. As for Vladimir, I’ve tried to maintain a low profile, but it’s impossible not to sense he’s still interested in more than a continued friendship. For example, the card saying “he was sorry I had been kidnapped by the Chinese at one of his airports and hoped his saving me from certain death made up for it” was actually thoughtful, it was the roses and candy that came with it that went over the top. My only hope is he grows tired of the chase and gets a new object of his desire; maybe I can set him up with that new guy in the White House. After all, the government pursuing better relations with Russia would take the spotlight off of our plots and ploys, acting as a sort of “false flag” as it were, and bring balance to the force. Time will tell and heal all wounds; at least that’s what I keep telling Satan.

The end?

[Deep Knight]

Flours of Evil
An All-New Deep Knight Adventure
Epilog – He Done Her Wrong when They Did It Wrong

“I failed my urine test!?!?” I asked, incredulously, the irony of the fluid involved just dripping, er, flowing, er, being very ironic. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“Last week’s random test came back positive for several controlled substances,” said Ms. von Pinkel, our HR Compliance Director and perhaps the least pleasant person in the department, “and some others which look like biological toxins, but our technicians couldn’t identify for sure. Maybe due to some Sexually Transmitted Disease, I’ll call up your wife and ask.”

“Or maybe snake venom from the food at the Mobasa Motor Inn,” I commented, “I thought that stuff that tasted like chicken had a funny texture, and the people at the motel seemed a little too pleased when they took away those dead black mambas. Or come to think of it, the expired Supermodels. Anyway, any drugs I had in me were put there by agents of the wrong kind of evil to knock me out against my will, or from some strange stuff I ate in one of 3 continents that weren’t up to North American standards. It’s not my fault.”

“I’m sorry; we have a zero tolerance policy. You’ll have to go on a year’s probation at half pay, have counseling and daily drug tests, and of course body cavity searches. No exceptions. If your pee comes back dirty even once more, then two strikes and you’re out. Immediate liquidation, no pun intended. Actually, it’s for your own good, some of the things we found in your body would have knocked a grown man out for days, and perhaps even killed him. And I can’t see them being pleasant to use in any dosage.”

“Tell me about it,” I argued, “It’s all in my report. I was gassed, shot with darts, and fawned over by a dictator who saved me from a deranged dragon dynasty dignitary. Think about it logically. As you said, none of these drugs would have made me feel good, so why would I have done them voluntarily? Besides, if I had known my pee was tainted, I had plenty of opportunities to collect other people’s to substitute, believe me.”

“Zero tolerance, no exceptions,” said the beastly bureaucrat, “I’m sorry.”

“You can ask Satan,” I countered, trying one last ploy, “he was there with me.”

“You consumed these drugs while partying with Satan?” she said in slowly measured syllables, “Why didn’t you say so in the first place! When I said we had a zero tolerance policy, I should have said zero tolerance with one exception, keeping the big guy happy.”

“Yes! He was there when it happened, and was having a good time,” I agreed, stretching the meaning of “there” more than a bit, but certainly not lying about the rest considering his enthusiasm for what must have been “on tap” in back at the Bolshoi while I was being knocked out and freighted like cargo.

“Well then, it’s a simple matter of filling out form 1967D, “The Devil Made Me Do That Drug,” which is available online. Click on the “Frequently Requested Forms” button, and it’s near the top. Submit it, and this will all go away as if it was never there.”

And it did. It’s good to have friends in the depths of Hell.

Stay tuned for Deep Knight’s next thrilling adventure, “The Return of Lady P.”

[Deep Knight]

If you would like a soundtrack to the previous post, click on the link below and listen to the Rainy Daze song That Acapulco Gold while reading.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F7A7Hkwqyfw

This song has a special place in my growing up. The band was from Denver, and KIMN the one rock 'n roll station in town pushed it by playing it every hour or so in late 1966 (not 1965 as it says in the notes below the video). Then, as it was taken over by a second record company and climbing the charts in early 1967 the song got pulled from the air when they found out what Acapulco gold actually was.

Psychedelic pop group The Rainy Daze released a 1967 album titled That Acapulco Gold, portraying Mexico as a far-off land where "the streets are lined with bricks of that Acapulco Gold". The title track reached #70 on the Billboard Hot 100 before being pulled from circulation for promoting marijuana use. Vice President Spiro Agnew later denounced the song as "blatant drug-culture propaganda...threatening to destroy our national strength".

I never liked the song, the "through a megaphone" vocals, in the style of "Winchester Cathedral," were annoying. But, I did like the b-side "In My Mind Lives a Forest" very much, although listening to it now I wonder why. Guess it was just "far out."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HHXtIu3mQyY

After the rug got pulled out from under them, the writers of these songs (one of whom was the singer in the band) had also written the lyrics to "Incense and Peppermints," perhaps one of the silliest of the era's lyrics, and went on to do things in the music industry, which is how I later met him. You see, I had this band, and we would have made it big if only ...

The guitar player came back to Colorado, got a new band together, and moved into a group of houses at the edge of Boulder that were waiting to be moved once a deal went through with the phone company to put a switching center there. His new band had many names, all a variation on Leopold Fuchs, the Viennese architect, whose last name sounds exactly as if the "h" was replaced by a "k" if it's pronounced right. The Leopold Fuchs Band, The Leo Fuchs Ranch Band, and The Leopold Fuchs Hate Band were only a few of these variations. They ended up as the "H-Bomb" to get more work, wryly noting that this weapon of mass destruction was more acceptable than any name with a term for carnal love in it.

The neighbors were aghast, but the local kids would stop by and listen, especially when they were coming back from the nearby Jr. High and the band was just getting up. I know because I was one of them. After my first summer job I went out and bought an electric guitar and never looked back.

Enjoy.

[Deep Knight]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4rw1_FNdy-Y

Good sense, innocence, cripplin' mankind
Dead kings, many things I can't define
Occasions, persuasions clutter your mind
Incense and peppermints, the color of time.

Who cares what games we choose?
Little to win, but nothing to lose.

Incense and peppermints, meaningless nouns
Turn on, tune in, turn your eyes around.

Look at yourself, look at yourself, yeah, yeah
Look at yourself, look at yourself, yeah, yeah, yeah!

To divide this cockeyed world in two
Throw your pride to one side, it's the least you can do.
Beatniks and politics, nothing is new
A yardstick for lunatics, one point of view

Who cares what games we choose?
Little to win, but nothin' to lose.

Good sense, innocence, cripplin' mankind
Dead kings, many things I can't define.
Occasion, persuasions clutter your mind
Incense and peppermints, the color of time.

Who cares what games we choose?
Little to win, but nothin' to lose.

Incense and peppermints
Incense and peppermints

Sha la la
Sha la la
Sha la la
Sha la la
Sha la la
Sha la la

My Jr. High School voted on a name for the Spring Dance, and "Incense and Peppermints" won. I remember helping paint some cheesy psychedelic art posters for the wall in art class, and the band that played having a light show (woooo!). I never once thought these were drug lyrics, but reading them now... "Turn on, tune in?" And maybe the incense covers the smell and the peppermints take care of your breath...

BTW - In the video's comments and on another 60's site they say the name "Strawberry Alarm Clock" comes from an "elephant joke" but don't give the joke, as if it's supposed to be obvious. Can anyone explain this to me?

[Burnaby49]

I'll take Incense and Peppermints over this abomination from the same era;

See the tree, how big it's grown
But friend, it hasn't been too long it wasn't big
I laughed at her and she got mad
The first day that she planted it, was just a twig

Then the first snow came and she ran out
To brush the snow away so it wouldn't die
Came runnin' in all excited slipped and almost hurt herself
And I laughed till I cried

She was always young at heart
Kinda dumb and kinda smart and I loved her so
And I surprised her with a puppy
Kept me up all Christmas Eve two years ago

And it would sure embarrass her
When I came in from workin' late 'cause I would know
That she'd been sittin there an' cryin'
Over some sad and silly late, late show

And Honey, I miss you
And I'm bein' good
And I'd love to be with you
If only I could

She wrecked the car and she was sad
And so afraid that I'd be mad, but what the heck
Though I pretended hard to be
Guess you could say she saw through me and hugged my neck

I came home unexpectedly
And caught her cryin' needlessly in the middle of the day
And it was in the early spring
When flowers bloom and robins sing, she went away

And Honey, I miss you
And I'm bein' good
And I'd love to be with you
If only I could

One day while I was not at home
While she was there and all alone the angels came
Now all I have is memories of Honey
And I wake up nights and call her name

Now my life's an empty stage
Where Honey lived, and Honey played and love grew up
And a small cloud passes over head
And cries down on the flower bed that Honey loved


And see the tree, how big it's grown
But friend, it hasn't been too long, it wasn't big
And I laughed at her, she got mad
The first day that she planted it, was just a twig

[Pottapaug1938]

Thanks a bunch, Burnaby. Now, that piece of aural glurge is running through my head on a nonstop loop. Give me Incense and Peppermints any day -- it's not quite Lennon and McCartney, but it's MUCH better than... (even the name of the song makes the fillings in my teeth hurt).

[Burnaby49]

Thanks a bunch, Burnaby. Now, that piece of aural glurge is running through my head on a nonstop loop. Give me Incense and Peppermints any day -- it's not quite Lennon and McCartney, but it's MUCH better than... (even the name of the song makes the fillings in my teeth hurt).

Suck it up Buttercup. That song has plagued me for decades. Incense and Peppermints is at least brisk and unintelligible. Honey is cloying illiterate sludge. The only way Bobby Goldsboro could have redeemed himself after inflicting that horror on us would have been to follow through on these heart-felt lyrics;

And I'd love to be with you
If only I could

[The Observer]

That song has plagued me for decades.

And you decide to inflict it on us? What did we ever do to you to deserve having this piece of melancholy garbage thrown in our faces? Did we not embrace you when you first joined us and made you part of the family here? Do we not tolerate your frequent tangential ruminations on ales and stouts despite them derailing the topic at hand? Do we not appreciate your consummate reporting on the trials and tribulations of people who are too stupid to recognize the legal meteor heading their way? Or is this just a case, to paraphrase King Lear, of finding out how much more painful than reading of a David Van Pelt filing it is to have an ungrateful moderator?

[Burnaby49]

That song has plagued me for decades.

And you decide to inflict it on us? What did we ever do to you to deserve having this piece of melancholy garbage thrown in our faces? Did we not embrace you when you first joined us and made you part of the family here? Do we not tolerate your frequent tangential ruminations on ales and stouts despite them derailing the topic at hand? Do we not appreciate your consummate reporting on the trials and tribulations of people who are too stupid to recognize the legal meteor heading their way? Or is this just a case, to paraphrase King Lear, of finding out how much more painful than reading of a David Van Pelt filing it is to have an ungrateful moderator?

I spent the morning at one of Michael Millar's hearings. If you've read my postings on Millar you can appreciate that, after a session with him, I shouldn't be allowed back on the internet until the rage dissipates.

[Deep Knight]

Even though we Illuminati are not above using vampires and zombies, some things are best left dead. That song is one. Another is Jeanne C. Riley's follow-up to her big hit, Harper Valley PTA.

BTW, I knew Susie Grout, her father was in the tile installation business. If you knew Susie, like I knew Susie, (oh, oh, oh what a gal), you wouldn't be surprised at all.

The Girl Most Likely

Papa worked but his cheque was small
Mama sewed just to help us all
And our old house sure needed paint
And when it rained the roof would leak

Well the teacher's pet was Susie Grout
Born with the silver spoon in her mouth
Miss Goody-Two-Shoes in sovereignty
And I was a "Little Miss Nothin'" and they thought of me as

The girl most likely
Yeah yeah---yeah yeah
---the girl most likely
To wind up in uh-uh jam
They judged by the way I looked not the way I am
Well I guess it's true I looked thr part
But developin' fast was not my fault
Didn't know my sex appeal showed through
Those made over clothes and run down shoes!

Now the doctor's son is hidin' out
And the whole town knows what it's all about
Because the evidence is plain
Ha!--- it ain't me it's Susie Jane!
The girl most likely
Yeah-yeah yeah-yeah--- the girl most likely
Susie's daddy is on the run
And he sure looks funny with that hot shot gun!

Well the weddin' bells can't wait till June
It'd better be now or else real soon
Susie Jane is in the jam
Hey listen that gun go wam wam wam!

Well some of that talk is dyin' now
And there's a lot of most likelys in this town
Just because a house needs a coat of paint
That doesn't mean a girl is somethin' she ain't...

[Pottapaug1938]

Now we have the answer to why Jeannie C. Riley was a "one-hit wonder"....

[Deep Knight]

The Return of Lady P
An All New Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 1 – Introducing the Llama

Sure, cruise missiles and smart bombs taking out key facilities followed by tanks reducing everything left standing to rubble with high explosive shells is efficient, but it lacks soul. I mean, if you can’t kill people with style, what’s the point? After a while, it would become boring like any other job. I prefer adding a bit of panache. Motioning to the tank commander, he withdrew his company leaving a few ruins standing and protecting a handful of survivors. This was also a signal to the Slice Girls, and they unsheathed their swords, turned on their body cameras, and went hunting. It’s always a joy to see people who really enjoy their work taking care of business. Murder, when done right, is an art. This is especially true of disembowelment and dismemberment, what the girls call a “double dis’.” Instead of ending up with a bloody mess, by positioning body parts and entrails with an eye to composition and design, truly appealing results are possible. Videos and still pictures are available on YouTube and FaceBook.

Now it was time to clean-up and cover up. Not only did the blown-and/or-diced-up bodies need to be eliminated, the buildings themselves needed to be rebuilt, before dawn's first light. And the neighbors memories erased, police logs and news reports purged, and lastly the presence of piranha fish in the adjacent river explained. It would be a lot of work, but in the end worth it for the message it sent. Other convent and orphanage complexes would think twice before bad-mouthing the big guy during their annual egg hunt and talent show. Having a skit where the Devil instead of a dragon is killed by Saint George is disrespectful enough, but when the warrior-saint’s place was taken by the Easter Bunny, it crossed a line.

Just then, when we thought it was all over, a group of nuns and children broke out of a hidden cellar and tried to escape. Luckily, the girls were alert and gave chase, catching up to the older and younger stragglers before they had made it out of the area lit by floodlights. This allowed a clear view of the fun, although to save time and not be delayed in their homicide, the girls simplified their technique somewhat. Still, it was enjoyable to see the bodies, sliced lengthwise from the tip of their head to the crotch, fall to either side as the girls jumped through the center, in hot pursuit. They needn’t have worried, the escapees had foolishly chosen to run towards the water, which had been stocked with the aforementioned piranha for just such a possibility. I had the guys running the spotlights illuminate the river so we could watch the fun. Someone even passed out popcorn.

In the lull between the last screams of the swimmers and the black helicopters bringing in the cleanup crews, a whiney Russian-accented voice behind me disturbed my inner peace. Turning around, I saw what looked like a heavy-breathing clown made up to look like Vladimir Putin with too much eye makeup and lipstick. The effect was rather strange, and to be honest, creepier than usual. I had been avoiding Vlad ever since I realized his interest in me went beyond evil to unnatural acts, degrading and unsanitary acts that should only occur between a man and a woman. Call me old fashioned, if you wish, but …

Vladimir, having finally caught his breath, still had terror in his overdone eyes when he appealed to me in a manner that would have been pathetic had he not looked so ridiculous. “Deep!” he begged, “She is to coming! I am needing you to save me!”

To be continued…

Warning: It's now illegal in Russia to share the following image. No shit, this is for real. See http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/vla ... 13bfe34b17 I suggest our many readers in Russia think twice before bringing it up, although the fact you just opened a story thread where the truth about Putin is revealed, whatever the KGB is called these days is no doubt about to break down your door in a few minutes anyway, so why the hell not?

[Deep Knight]

The Return of Lady P
An All New Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 2 –“Buckle My Shoe” My Ass!

“She’s after you?” I summarized, “You idiot, I told you not to date Sorcha Faal! Sure, sex with a shape shifter can be exciting at first, what with them having the ability to reform body parts and orifices. It’s hard to turn down someone that can appeal to every kinky fetish you’ve ever had, starting with your amazon-like fifth-grade teacher. Believe me, I know. But sooner or later they lose control during their own orgasmic pleasures and you find yourself on top of a slimy giant squid, legs up and moaning that you’re its daddy. Or so they say.”

“Not Sorcha, who is being lousy lay in all forms, but Hillary! And I am not saying she shape shifter or piss off old girlfriend, but wery mad at me for hacking e-mails. And to leaking them. And fake news and internet trolls. And fixing election so she not win. Woman not taking joke, is wery, wery sad.”

I winched at the thought of anyone being pursued by Hillary. Her and Bill’s “traffic circle of death” was infamous in the intelligence and online conspiracy communities. Their habit of killing people they once met, who worked for the State of Arkansas when Bill was Governor, or lived within an hour’s drive was well known, with online lists of 50, 100, or 200 victims only scratching the surface. The hits are so good even we Illuminati don’t have a reliable estimate, but I would be surprised if it was under a quarter of a million. The workaholic former first lady is also known for doing most of the wet work herself, just like she insists on being the auctioneer for pizza-restaurant-child-sex-slave auctions. Despite rumors, very few of her friends call her “Crooked Hillary,” “Hangman Hillery” is much more common. Add to this the protection inherent in her positions on the NWO'’s Council of Twelve, the Mason’s Synod of Thirteen, and the Illuminati’s Seven of Eleven, and any fool would realize crossing the former Secretary of State would both be dangerous and hard on my career.

Vladimir seemed to read my mind. “I am also to being important to Satan’s plan to rule world. Did I not always help him with ewil plans? And get him Bolshoi ballerina with wery big bladder?”

“Cool it,” I cautioned, “You’re on the outs with the new guy in Washington since his base started getting suspicious, and Satan has been being really chummy with him recently. I think he’s been promised the position of host on next season’s “Celebrity Apprentice.” The big guy has had this obsession with his “brand” recently, and is looking for ways of getting more public exposure. And what says “evil” more than Reality TV?”

“This is why I come to you,” lied Vladimir, his puppy-dog eyes and longing facial expressions telling the true story, “I am needing someone I can trust, someone with friends in high places, and who owe me for saving life at Orovilles Dam.”

The deviant dictator had a point, he had saved my life and I did owe him one. This didn’t mean I wouldn’t cut him loose or feed him to the dogs if I had the chance, but for the moment I might as well appear to be honorable and see how far it got me. As long has he kept his hands to himself. It was then he said something that softened my heart even more.

“I am also needing someone who is needing help exchanging Draconian currency.”

I was immediately startled. It was not common knowledge that my wife and my little Ammonia venture with our Reptilian partners was in financial trouble. Even though we made fantastic profits, we were being paid in Royal Draconian Xcvtzqs, a currency traded nowhere on Earth. What was necessary was the electronic transfer of funds to an alien bank a few light-years away that dealt in Euros. This worked on paper, but in practice it took years since those transfers only moved at the speed of light. As a result, we were running out of working capital fast.

Vladimir explained how he was setting up a hard-to-exchange currency market in Moscow, and would include Xcvtzqs if we were willing to take New Republic Rubles in exchange. With these we could buy Russian ammonia feedstocks, which could be transported to our plants by Putin Shipping. No wonder the son of a bitch is reportedly the richest man on the planet, always trying to feather his own nest.

“A man in your position wearing that silly makeup doesn’t have much room for negotiation,” I clarified, “But I owe you my life so what the heck, I’ll hide you. If I decide to help beyond that, and that’s a big “if,” you’ll do things my way. I shouldn’t be doing this at all, but I’m tired of having to put on my good suit and going groveling to the banks, robbing them at gunpoint, just to pay salaries and suppliers.“

Vladimir quickly agreed, and gathering the Slice Girls around us, we ducked out before any other NWO minions could see him. No sense in tempting fate, with both the President and Hillary after him it’s hard to tell what the big guy would do if push came to shove. Especially if he listens to his son-in-law, George, the new head of Internal Affairs, and subject of a lot of my more-insulting jokes at work. Taking the back ways, we soon made it to the Spade and Archer’s offices, where my wife Velna already had the outline of a fiendish plan ready to be outlined.

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Return of Lady P
An All New Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 3 – A Night in a Turkish Harem

First things first, and that thing was finding a place for Vladimir Putin to hide. And the most important part of that, a first amongst firsts, was to hide him someplace far from us. When Hillary’s finger is on one of her drones’ buttons, that death-dealing digit almost tasting the taste of blood, the thing furthest from her mind is collateral damage. The years have turned her heart to stone, and according to sources, her once-fun-to-feel behind too. And, if the new guy in the White House found out and was so inclined, it could be even worse, with him dropping one of those “mutha o’ all bombs” things just to prove he wasn’t soft on Russia. A good way to have your and everyone-around-you’s day ruined. So, we needed to keep their homicidal urges at bay using a game of “Putin, Putin, who’s got the Putin?” with Vladimir as the greased razorback.

Spade and Archer, lounging in lizard form in their plush offices (you get used to it after awhile), were all for sending him to the Draconian System with the next ammonia shipment. As long as no one there ate him by mistake, he would be safe, Earth assassins having a hard time remaining unnoticed for more than a few seconds. But I protested, for the simple reason that we needed Vladimir here for appearances in later chapters, both as a comic foil and to amuse us with his bad syntax. Besides, Velna had a better idea.

“Let’s hide him in a house in Chappaqua New York, right next to Hillary and Bill’s place. Sure, the rents are high, but it’s a deductible expense and you can rob a bank or something on the way there to get enough cash. Right under her nose is the last place she’ll look, unless it’s to check for mustache hair.”

“I am to having billions of dollars in banks all over world. Easy to get few million pocket cash from ATM, like I do before going stripper bar.”

“Great idea, honey bunny, and thanks for the offer, Vlad, but I have a suggestion that doesn’t require another bank robbery or accessing accounts that are surely being watched by the Deep State CIA. Why not stay at the Clinton’s place itself? It’s a huge 600-room palatial estate, paid for with your tax dollars, and half the residential wings are completely unused. You could set up shop and not be noticed for weeks. And if you were, you could claim to be a campaign advisor who got caught up in the work or something. Just take off that silly makeup, put on a fake moustache and beard, and keep your shirt on at all times.”

Archer (or was it Spade, they’re really hard to tell apart in their un-shifted form) suggested a Van Dyke beard, while Spade (?) pushed for no beard but a handlebar moustache and mutton-chop sideburns, but otherwise we were agreed (in the end he went for the “Rasputin” look and the cover that he was a “spiritual advisor”). The two Reptilian Pindars shape-shifted into the spittin’ images of Bill and Hillary, and with Vladimir dressed like a Russian Orthodox monk, they took the the UFO and made quick work of dropping him off. The Pindars were worried about playing their parts convincingly, but it turns out the staff and Secret Service have learned to give Hillary a wide berth since she lost the election. With nobody coming near enough to interact with them, and robed monks not being uncommon visitors, the whole operation was unexpectedly easy. They left him with a box of MREs (tasty Meals Ready to Eat made to the specifications of gourmets in the US Army) and one of those tablet computers with hundreds of stupid, time-wasting computer games installed on it.

Their absence gave Velna, the Slice Girls, and I time to order a couple pizzas and think. Hillary and the current president were notoriously vengeful, slow to let go of a grudge, and comfortable with violent homicide. Skills both politics and real estate had taught them. The obvious answer, to kill ‘em and clone ‘em, was out of the question because it would be too easy, and end this story after only 3 chapters. Kissing and making up was too sappy, and a sudden zombie apocalypse which made them all have bigger fish to fry too “iffy.” What we needed was a fall guy, someone to blame this on rather than the deviant Dictator of all the Russias. Someone tailor made for the part, expendable, and not me. No one jumped to mind, but I figured that if we waited long enough some opportunity would present itself as soon as the author found filler material too tedious. I wasn’t far wrong, but the need for action was solved by something completely unexpected, unrelated to the problem at hand, and deadlier than anything we had ever faced. It was like, one second everything was normal, and then in the flash of an instant, it was our worst nightmare.

“I don’t believe it,” I said to Velna, clutching her tightly and moving her onto my lap to protect my nuts. You gotta keep your priorities straight. “I don’t either,” confirmed Velna, wetting herself, and due to my position, me, “I’m too stunned to move, much less describe the sudden appearance of Erasmus of America and some really ugly and heavily-armed men on our security monitors. Didn’t you kill him a few months ago, dear?”

The memory was so horrible I didn’t answer her at the time. It hasn’t gotten any better in the intervening sleepless days, so we’ll skip that story, if you don’t mind. Let’s just say it pales in comparison to what happened when the Pindars returned from their errand in their UFO. The backwash from its hyper-drive braking at light speed creates a wormhole to a black hole in some other dimension. It only appears for an instant, but can suck any loose items into it, which is why the offices “stores” their trash in the garage. The same garage that Erasmus and his clueless cadre had chosen as the way to enter Spade and Archer’s office complex, a move that put them right at the lip of this vortex. Erasmus had opened his mouth as if to speak, but his body started stretching to one side and with a sudden “snap,” was pulled away. If he said anything, its sound was drowned by the giant sucking sound. Sometimes you just get lucky.

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Return of Lady P
An All New Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 4 – Minding Your Ps and Qs

With Spade and Archer back, Vladimir Putin safely tucked away at the Clinton Mansion, and the only ones “in the know” people or lizards that could be trusted, we were safe for the moment. Until one of the idiots in Obama’s Deep State Operation (ODSO) puts 2 and 2 and the story about Oroville Dam together and blabs to Hillary. If you think getting on the wrong side of Satan is bad (if I had known we were going to get caught, I would never looked twice at his married daughter, honest), you should see what happens when you cross “Madame Secretary.” Scarier than Betty Davis in “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane,” and ten times as deadly. It’s said she knows 57 varieties of homicide, which if not for Heinz maintaining their trademark would have been her 2016 campaign slogan. Hillary’s got the skills, and is willing to put in long hours getting the job done and making sure there are no witnesses. Say what you want about the former First Lady, unlike so many politicians today, she’s not afraid of hard work.

The secret was to act fast. Too bad we had no clear idea of how to “find someone else to blame.” You know, a patsy, a fall guy, a scapegoat. I would have added “whipping boy,” but too many of the clues pointed to Putin as it was. I was all for waiting until something dropped into our lap, but Velna, organized as always, decided to map out a strategy on a white board. If the hacked e-mails were coming from Russia, then a Russian would be a logical candidate. Unfortunately, all the Russians we knew were rich friends of Putin, unbalanced ballerinas, creepy chess masters, and Sorcha Faal.

Velna was all for expanding our search to all of Eastern Europe, but I stopped her. Our strategy was to find someone who could have plausibly done the deed, but that was way too obvious. We had to think outside this box, or perhaps the box had to think outside of us. Instead of asking who done it, we should ask who we want to get rid of, since this would be the ultimate result. And at least one answer was the young Elder of the Black Dragon Family. I had killed his predecessor, the older Elder, in my last adventure, and I like to write about things I’ve already researched. The fiendish plan would be to blame it on him, get Hillary off Vlad’s back, and eliminate another goody two shoes head of a secret society who wants to bring prosperity to the world. The only thing we needed was a good story, rich in details, but counter to logic, this would take care of itself.

The reason was decades of “who done it” books and TV shows that found some clever way to have the least likely suspect do it. For example, if a wealthy business man is shot and killed, it’s not: the wife who upset about the mistress; the mistress upset about not leaving the wife; the partner he was embezzling; or the brother he cheated out of their family’s fortune; but the demure secretary you’ve seen for less than a couple minutes and know almost nothing about. This being the solution episode after episode has programmed weak-minded individuals to believe this is normal, and this includes 99.9% of the people who would be investigating this. And as a bonus, pinning this on someone Chinese was so implausible it would have the ring of truth to it. No one in their right mind would make up a story like this. Another reason not to fill in gaps or inconsistencies, imperfection was a sign of authenticity. Sneaky, but that’s how we Illuminati roll.

That night I would have gotten the first good sleep since the night before, had it not been for the attack by the heavily-armed commandos. It seems that even though descriptive chapters like this moved the story line along, their lack of action caused sudden and very violent attacks to intrude on the narrative. Much like how nature abhors a vacuum, our placid planning sucked in a coordinated attack by a group that seemed American, but was healthier and said “eh” at the end of sentences. With a stunned start I realized these were Canadian RCMP Special Forces, led by Justin “Rambo” Trudeau himself! Angry at Russia for controlling Siberia with its killer “freeze your ass off” and “gulag” brands, he had vowed revenge and saw the perfect opportunity in delivering the head of Putin to Hillary. Why anyone would want this reputation is beyond me, but what’s important is he wasn’t prepared for the Slice Girls and their all-American lust for fresh blood.

The bright red uniforms and big “Mountie” hats were easy to see, making our targets easy targets to target. Deadly blades made quick work of what would have been a lengthy and laborious job before the invention of steel. The Mounties were keyed up and anxious, too much maple syrup on your waffles at breakfast will do that, but the Slice Girls smooth and swift. The secret is yogurt and fruit. It also really helps to be relaxed, which is easy with the ladies because they love their work. To keep some of the uniforms in one piece for use as trophies or bedroom role-playing, they went almost entirely for decapitation. One by one, heads rolled. In the end it came down to the Prime Minister and his Royal Canadian Guard, who had barricaded themselves in the woman’s bathroom. Luckily, each of the toilets has a self-destruct mechanism, and switching them on we had only to wait for the first flush to finish the job. But, realizing that this would severely limit their access to bathroom facilities at our offices, the girls attacked instead! Knowing their way around a ladies restroom better than any man, they hacked through our northern neighbors like they were a meat jungle blocking a safari’s approach to the source of the Nile. The girls left the Prime Minister for last, playfully feeding him to the pet piranha instead of cutting him to ribbons. The old “we’re letting you go but you have to use the trick bridge” gag. The giggling, both from the girls and the Pindars, was so loud it almost drowned out the young head of state’s screams.

To be continued…

[Burnaby49]

DON'T EVISCERATE OUR PRIME MINISTER! That's President Trump's planned grande finale climax to his first 100 days in office.

[Deep Knight]

DON'T EVISCERATE OUR PRIME MINISTER! That's President Trump's planned grande finale climax to his first 100 days in office.

I'm not sure if being devoured by carnivorous fish is classified as "evisceration" or not. I suppose it depends on whether the internal organs are freed from the body before consumption, or on the other hand simply eaten in place. I checked in the "Illuminati Big Book of Murder," but it doesn't go into anything that specific. If you really need to know, I suppose I can arrange to have some underwater cameras put into place feeding time.

As for the "false flag," and "Reichstag fire" planned for day 100, I can't speak to that except to pass on the rumor that it is going to be "really big" and "include appearances by several major Hollywood stars." Personally I think having an October surprise in April is pretty pathetic, being a few minutes late might be excusable, but half a year?