Dark Arthur

Hello. My name is Arthur Dharkk.

After 43 years of supernatural investigation, my colleagues at the prestigious San Diego based International Academy Of Fucked Up Shit have bestowed upon me the title of Dark Arthur.

One case, in which my expertise served to earn me this name took place beneath 2 moons in the summer of 1972. I remember it in vivid technicolor, just like i remember my glorious wife, Winnie, who accidentally died that same year while testing a decorative noose in a remote barn. A man never forgets a woman who is ready to ruin her household's last rasher of bacon for an alchoholic husband, raging on the dry side of a whisky-biscuit, and in profound need of pre-coital lift.

The nights were cold, abnormally cold for such a season. Abnormal... Yes, that's the endorsing condition for Dark Arthurs crucial attention to matters that menace and nibble at the comfort-cube of scientific man. It's also a term we use to describe the Maralyn Monroe transexual who proclaims daily; the revival of a ficticious negro supremacy, before a (minimal-to-fair) hockey bash about the shins and feet that renders it as to retire to its routine chain-wank in the HQ lobby, cautiously accepted/excused as 'the only way i can cry about the time i got force-fucked with a traffic cone. Baby.'... Other endearments thrown around the office include 'Spack' and 'Funnel-Cunny'

When i arrived in the northern suburbs I was unprepared. The briefing had been ambiguous, like my grandsons headmaster who paroles the dorms with an orange in his slacks- well after supper time, but I immediately sensed that this was a forsaken place.

Strange, dark skinned men in glittering robes and hand towels of unfathomable weave-craft spun majestically around their heads wildly flaunted some kind of voo-doo vocal showmanship from behind their vegetable huts, and the near-sulphuric smog was enough for me to smoke my Peyote pipe without actually reaching for my Peyote. Or my pipe. It just didn't make sense. . { } .

Number 463, I knew which house before i saw the sign. My Sherlockian nostrils bit and endured the stench from 30 yards away, a reek i knew only too well. The reek of shit-tight, Mac loitering mania, with a bitter pinch of Gay shame.

Christ, even in this temperature the leaves were lime, if not jazz-random lush, as any San Diego boulevard should rightfully boast... but in the terrace beyond the black, iron-cast gates, the terrace I found myself venturing into, pip-farts of sharpened vigilance accompanying my every step, things were dry, dry and dead. Like an inanimate dead thing. A dry one... Perhaps worse, I don't know; by this point the climate was of a suffocating amplitude- a thick, uneasy cake-air. A discomfort to rival even that of the gluey peel-tug, which inevitably follows an all night refusal to just take off the damn rubber and go for a fucking piss.
I hit a second florid concentration of peyote... And not too soon...

As a myriad of surveillance agents masquerading as stone angels eyed me like cheap, winged hookers, the door of the house opened with an ominously inviting staunchness. 'My God...' i whispered to myself, eyes widening like some great dawn in a post-nuclear imperialist periscope .... { } .... 'What if the lion successfully impregnated it's own face? What if this meant the rise of some kind of face-egg super-beast, aero-dynamically slaughtering pedestrians with sly and skill of claw? No Dorothy, that's not going to happen.... not on my watch, you freak lion fuck!'

Fortunately I recognised this to be an unnecessary alarm when the Peyote buzz evened out, and I holstered my twin 44's without any civilian casualities. It's a particularly potent Leaf. One time I strangled a horse.

Before I can continue this wretched tale, you'll be wanting to know the circumstances which brought me unto *yonder* gnarled wooden porch, the two step transit to this ripped up hell-house, on such a filth-sentient, spine wetting Judas-Pump of an afternoon.

I'd been woken that day at 4:32 AM, by the dreadful mono-pitch that heralds a connection to my direct line from the Academy. Peering through the tinted glass of lingering night, with my head a mash from cheap gin and Beano print fumes (saturated mauve I think - rare, and notably antique et classique-au-romantique and suck-my-cock Andre you meat eagle) I first clocked the red blink on the telephone and then the rich euro-tan cotton-sheen of a rento toast-hole, his gradually reclining figure dolly-propped on the bedpost like a stiff brown sock . I remembered his name was Gavin, but through premature affections and utter indifference i had renamed him rectangle boy, and it was my good rectangle boy who proved himself equally ill-fated as I when he picked up the receiver...