I beg your pardon.
Nothing… nothing… I did nothing.
Er…
What kind of a portal?! I thought
we agreed that portals are banned.
Er…
I demand an explanation.
My Lord.
Oh, so it’s “my Lord” now, is it?
Well, you are wearing your Lord’s
robes all of a sudden, aren’t you – which might be considered something of a
giveaway.
Oh, so I am. Fancy that – I never noticed the switch.
Do you have to carry on this
charade Merry? The clothes maketh not the man, you know perfectly well.
True – but in your black robes of
ultimation, your public office of Doomslayer somehow gets in the way of normal
matey matey conversation, wouldn’t you agree, my Lord.
I… now that you mention it – yes –
I suppose they do. Fair enough Merry. I’ll just have to swallow my humility and
revert mentally to being high lord of Ultimation, maker of doom and destruction
– the slayer in chief. Hey ho, the wind and the rain as they say.
Somewhat incongruous, my Lord, your
cheery ol’ humanisms given the sombre grimness of your high office.
Well, no need to dwell on the
darkness, is there Merry, old chap. The glass being half full and all that…
rumpty dum.
Rumpty dum? As in, half full of
death? What ho?
What ho, that kind of thing, yes,
if you’re absolutely intent on labouring the point. Personally, I consider it
rather tactless of you, Merry, I mean – a little discretion, a nod and a wink
and we can preserve the illusion that it’s business as usual, can’t we, old
chap.
Absolutely, my Lord. I’m hardly
going to disagree with you when you wield the black rod of ultimation, am I? We
can definitely try to pretend that it’s business as usual, but I’m not sure the
people on Earth are going to fall for the old what ho – cheery cheery patter.
I don’t see why not…
When they sense your presence
emanating from the deepest, darkest pit of infinite unbe’ableness.
Ah – well surely we can do
something about that Merry – marketing – you know – a PR campaign – don’t judge
a book by its cover – er… black is beautiful, hell ain’t all fury – the cuddly
side of brimstone – I’m sure we’ll think of something – you in fact – I’m sure
you’ll think of something – if you’re planning to remain on the cheery ho side
of this ‘ere rod of ultimation.
Yes, I assumed it would boil down
to that in the end.
You did?
Yes my Lord. Call me twisted and
cynical, but I did.
Can’t think why.
Not unless you cast your dark mind
back to the last six hundred and sixty-five times we’ve been here already.
Six hundred and sixty-five?
Yes.
What a er… coincidence.
I beg your lordship’s pardon.
I mean – what a coincidence.
Coincidence?
Yes.
Excuse my unpardonable ignorance
my Lord – why so?
Well, it’s just the earth part of
me, you know er… Z
Eeeeeeeeee
Do you have to wail like an inconsolable
banshee Merry?!
Yes, my Lord, unfortunately I’m
obliged to do so, for fear of hearing you name that unworthy reprobate who
dares to unwittingly hold the other end of your Ultimate frequency.
Oh! Well, yes, I agree that he’s
not exactly worthy of my Ultimate confidence, trust or honour – but still – I
don’t see why I should be ashamed of one of the oddest quirks of supernature –
that my unbe’ableness should somehow condense down, squishing into such a weak
vessel as that Z…
Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!
chap. Cut it out Merry – for God’s
sake.
My abject, profusest apologies, my
Lord – but you heard about critical mass in your earthly peregrinations, did you not?
Yes, of course – the amount of
enriched uranium needed to trigger a nuclear explosion.
Correct, my Lord – well here we run
perilously close to attaining critical mess.
Mess? As in “e”?
Yes my Lord.
No Merry, you’ve lost me there.
Something that unfortunately happened last time we reached chapter six hundred and sixty-five of our apocalyptic saga.
Wait a second – you mean to say
we’ve been here before?
Yes my Lord, and at the same time
no.
Damnit Merry.
Critical mess, if and when
triggered, untimes time – so the answer is no, de jure, yes de facto.
Oh, I see. Well, lucky I didn’t
trigger it this time, isn’t it.
Yes, my Lord. You might say we
came forewarned.
So, er… this six six six thing –
which my Z…
eeeeeeeeeeee
Oops – gotcha – my x eeeee was so
fond of, numerologically speaking. Now we know why, don’t we?
Yes.
Or do we?
Indeed.
Well, what is it? Cause or effect?
Chicken or egg? I couldn’t say, my
Lord.
Damn.
But I’m sure you, as dark Lord of
Ultimation can certainly offer shades of unbounded wisdom to enlighten my
ignorance.
Ah… yes, now that you put it like
that, I’m sure I can dig a little deeper into my deepest memories and pull out a
few nuggets of wisdom.
Prophecy perhaps?
Huh?
You were always one for prophecy,
my Lord.
Yes, it’s my poetic nature. Destroying the entire universe was rather a tedious bore, don’t you think?
I wouldn’t presume to…
But doing so as a kind of grand
climax to the ultimate poem ever composed…
Ah – recollections of the Vogon
poet Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz come to mind.
The one who destroyed Earth to
build a hyperspace bypass? Small fry by comparison Merry – in fact – I find the
comparison somewhat insulting. My poem would emanate from unreachable,
unattainable beauty, the indescribable beauty of unbe’ableness…
My Lord?!
[Sobbing uncontrollably – the
beauty is powerful beyond words]
Eeeeeeeee-z does it, my Lord… eeeeeeee-z does it.
Oh yes – yes Merry – I nearly
dissolved, nearly lost myself. La belle dame sans merci – she…
Has you in thrall?
How did you know?
Er… déjà vu, you might say...
[Merry continues] So, your ultimation of unbe’ability
– your bottomless vortex of doomy-d-ness – is all, at base, the result of an
insatiable need to express the profundity of your unrequited love?
Unrequited love? How ridiculous
Merry. How absurd of you to imagine that such human weaknesses could possibly
affect the high Lord of unbe’ability himself.
Himself?
Er…
Sorry for bequestioning your
masculinity, your Lordship, but surely one of your profundity, of your 666ology
must, a priori, encompass both sides of all that is.
666ology – yes, of course, I knew
that somehow or other my poetic impulse arose in the upside downness of… to be,
or not to be… to he or to she...
Here we go.
3 6s or 9 3s? A rising or a
falling swirl? That is the question…
Relative to what – your Lordship?
Eeeeeee-z does it Merry. Never
rush a poet in his creative impulse.
Of course not, my Lord. Of course
– Not.
Not? End stopped, would you have
it – or enjambed? My heart – my soul – yearns for enjambement and yet you – you
miserable worm – your twisted moron – you trivial fool of grammatical pedantry –
would end stop your Not amid-stream, in mid-flow – would denude it of its
pregnant potency – it’s female resonant ever-expansive emptiness – would…
My Lord – truly I fail to feel or
comprehend the heights, the depths of your poetic sensibilities. Forgive me, I
beg you, for my foolish attempt to punctuate the un’ness of not.
But indeed – you are right Merry –
the un’ness of not – for am I not, too, guilty of gross deception, gross
misportrayal, assuming as I did that the un’ness can even be contained within
the frail, inadequate vessel that is unceremoniously represented as “not”.
Who, but you, dear Lord of unbe’ableness
has the right to pass judgement on such matters of unful matter.
Unful matter – indeed – indeed –
and thus the world wags and the roulette wheel of reason turns – for the words
come apart at the seams, do they not – and once again we find ourselves in the
unfathomable depths of zero-ee-one – where finally – when all is said and done
– all is said and done – all – and nought remains – not even nought – and every
word – every syllable – every sound – every number – every digit – every single
integer – yea – even the One itself…
No, my Lord – surely not Logos?
Yea – even Logos is subsumed,
swallowed into the unfathomable, indescribable beauty of…
Of?
…
Er…?
…
What?!
No, you damn fool – not what.
Anything but “what” would have done, would do.
Anything but what? I…
Take it Merry.
Who me?
Take it Merry. You have tripped
the switch. The apple is yours. By Zed and by Eee you’ll have it now. Infinity
abhors a vacuum no less than nature does.
My Lord?
Look at yourself – what do you
see?
What?! No! Surely not.
You see – the what – your bumbling
“what” – the mirror reflecteth back from the mobius strip of infinity – and
see’eth you not what I see?
Oh God. No…
Yes. The apple is yours – you have
chicken-egged the tree – you have cross-wired my Zie. The apple seed has un-treed.
But I want to be Merry. I want to
be… meee. Don’t make me Zie.
Merry never wants to be anything,
does he? You cannot be what you want to be, unless…
But I believed – I truly believed
I was he. The real Merry, meee
And who’s to say you were wrong?
Tis but a suit of flesh and bones.
Look at me – look at these
ridiculous clothes – black as the night – black as hell – black as doom and
destruction are dark and deep and desolate.
…mushroom-y [pron. eee]
What did you say?
You heard
Mushroom?
Y – absolutely
You mean?
It matters not what I mean, dear Zie, nor that you’re now in Ultimation – these are but words pasted on the chalkboard of reality, if you choose to mushroom, if you choose to mulch matter instead of seeking to make it matter, or if you choose to create matter, to bend and break matter as you were wont as me to do, or if not, to be mushroom-y herself...
To mushroom-y-matter – the mother you
mean? – she’s back? I can...
Apparently so. and thus begins a
new poesy – a mycorrhizal mutuality – a fruitful fungality – a new kind
of life and death – an eee-z does it – myceliation of matter – a merry myco-mindy-ness...
What joy – to be and not to be – eeezily… silly me… I might have known.
What ho! Indeed.
Merry ol' mycelial-me…
Mycelialy – merrily… merrily
Life is but a dream
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