This is the story of Conjurella Con II. No, the blood
has dried now; the Conjurella memories are no more.
Gone the voices: "Lift him up!", gone the memory, gone
the blood.

It is a decade beyond 1963 now: ten years are passing.
No longer Dallas, but Toronto. David Ferrie is dead.
We are free.

No, this is the story of Cosmicon II, the last weekend
of January, 1973, a comic book convention held at
Winters College, part of York University in Toronto,
an extravaganza that would include future Tonight Show
guest host, P. J. O'Rourke, Ted Nugent, the first
computer game installed in North America (in the
basement of Winters), and, at the last moment, the
blood-stained legend, T. Casey Brennan

No, this is the story of women named A, of abbreviated
names, of Vampirella, of the Absinthe Cafe, of secrets
and legends and dried blood.

This is Cosmicon II. The sixties that spilled the
blood of John Kenedy were over. A memory. A blurred
vision of high school years, followed by the early
sales of fiction stories by T. Casey Brennan...was the
first a cover-featured story in the Major
Magazines/Candar Men's Group men's magazine Charger,
Feb. 1968? (they left out the "T" on my name on the
cover), or was it "Family Curse" in Jim Warren's Eerie
magazine, 1969?

Who knows? This is 1973. David Ferrie is dead; Dallas
is an aborted memory, a dream that couldn't be.

But Cosmicon II will be the scener of another murder,
the murder of the mind of the greatest comic book
publisher that ever lived, Jim Warren. A quarter
century later, a zine called Hungry Freaks would
publish Jim's accouint of a condition which seemed to
attack his central nervous sysytem, a condition which
left him helpless as his company was led to ruin, and
a court-ordered Chapter VI bankruptcy.

Dr. E is close behind; I can feel his cold presence.
Jim Warren has taken to publishing a great many of my
stories. Dr. E is displeased. I am so unsure of
myself; the sudden conversion from being a shy country
boy with few friends and a secret life, to an
overnight celebrity for the award and award
nominations I received for "On the Wings of a Bird",
drawn by the late Jerry Grandeneeti, in Creepy #36,
November 1970 issue, all at the New York Comic Art
Convention at the Statler Hilton in July of 1971. I
stepped off the stage at the awards presentations,
with the Ray Bradbury Cup of Warren's own Frazetta
Awards, and nominations for both the Comic Art Fan and
Shazam Academy of Comic Book Arts awards.

Eerie #38 carried pictures of me receiving that trophy
in 1972; I think there are copies of that issue
floating around Cosmicon II. Flash-bulbs popped, fan
journalists stormed me with tape recorders, mikes, and
questions, and a new era was born in my life. Somehow,
I imagined that, in and amongst the sad, melodramatic
artistry I had perfected -- Warren's letter columns
referred to "the classic T. Casey Brennan allegory",
and compared me to Dali and Rod Serling -- I could
drop little hints and clues of those secrets I carried
so well.

One of my Warren stories began with a man who
resembled me leaning out the window with a rifle,
thinking "Something's going to happen soon...", but I
didn't know then, not all the time, couldn't bear the
Conjurella memory yet.

Some months earlier, I had written "shadow of Dracula"
for Warren's Vampirella comic book; it was recently
reprinted by Harris Comics, who bought Jim's
properties at auction after a court-ordered
bankruptcy, as Vampirella of Drakulon #3, in May 1996.
It was about the Van Helsings from the Bram Stoker
classic, Dracula, it's back in 1897, and they're
attempting to create a blood serum to cure vampirism.
Comic book writers often like to emphasize certain
words in bold-face, and when I showed Daddy, I had
emphasized the words "The Project" on the manuscript,
in a reference to this anti-vampirism nonsense.

Daddy points at the words "The Project", and says:
"You can't do that."

I say: "Why not?" Then I stare in bewilderment, but
inside, that bewilderment is a lie.

Deep within, the Conjurella memory lurks; deep within,
the truth that cannot be: I am only a boy, shy, frail,
sensitive, artistic, but it was my hand that pulled
the trigger. Kidnapped, drugged, tormented, injected:
I am the true cold, dark legend, Lee was innocent. I
killed the President. I shot John Kennedy.

Daddy growls the name of Dr. E.

Closer comes the Conjurella memory; Daddy is right, I
know, but I don't know how, can't remember how Dr. E
could loom forth from the 1950s to forbid me to write
something in a comic book in the 1970s.

In one world, The Project is the Port Hope office of
MK-ULTRA, a hellish reality of forced drug and
hypnosis experiments on children, that will lead to
the asassination of the President.

In another world, The Project is a component in a
vampire comic, a skillful plot device involving a cure
for Vampirella, from the socially inept but brilliant
comic book writer that many readers now feel is Jim
Warren's best ace: T. Casey Brennan.

The two worlds must not collide, but they do, only for
a moment, and I say, inexplicably: "I'm not a little
boy any more. He can't tell me what to do any more."

And now it is 1973 Toronto. Time has washed away the
blood; Dr. E's injections have washed away the memory.
Kennedy is a name in a history book, like Howard
Leslie Brennan. I carry no guilt, no shame, no
recollection of the blood here: JFK in this world was
killed by a lone nut with a defective weapon and no
motive.

I never knew him. I never wept. Not here, not now, not
in the parallell world of Toronto, 1973.

In the days preceding Cosmicon II, I had met, first
Asian A, then American A, and fallen in love with them
both. They weren't spies, public figures, or comic
book publishers, so to put them among the Necronomicon
Monks, they must be half known and half concealed:
Pretty girls named A____ who loved me, once.

Now they are gone, like their love for me. Now they
are memories; now their words of love are as distant
as Dr E's words of torment, or Jim Warren's words of
praise for my comic book stories.

Once they were real. The taste of memories is
bittersweet. In November of 1972, Asian A and I took
the train to Toronto. Asian A put her head on my
shoulder; there is a scent and a taste to Asian women
easily as intoxicating and as addictive as opium. It
Cannot be washed off; it cannot be concealed, and even
now, the scent of an Asian woman will set my heart
pounding, and my lungs hyper-ventillating. The story
of the Necronomicon Monks is truth, but it is absurd
truth, so I will take this one step further, for this
also is true: if an Asian girl, particularly a pretty
Asian girl (which would include about eight out of ten
of them), enters my space, I will know where she is,
what hallways she has walked down, what rooms she has
entered, by scent alone.

But this was the story of the Necronomicon Monks.
Daddy's stories for Street & Smith's 1940s pulp
magazine Love Story were one of the few things that he
ever did that I liked. It was also one of the few
things he ever did that he didn't somehow figure out a
way of using against me. I'd seen Letters to Daddy
from Love Story editor, Daisy Bacon; I think she
published only two of his stories, under the
authorship, Bill Brennan. But he was there, in the
pulps, like Cthulu, Conan, and L. Ron Hubbard, like
Lovecraft's hypothetical book of sorcery, the
Necronomicon. And in 1973, I was developing a strange,
lethal obsession with black magic, that went far
beyond the fictional devices we all used for the
stories in the Warren magazines, Creepy, Eerie, and
Vampirella.

The Necronomicon has always been a subject for debate
among the followers of Lovecraft and the pulps. Some
say Lovecraft created the Necronomicon, like L. Ron
Hubbard's former literary agent, Forry Ackerman,
created Vampirella. Others say it was an actual book
of ancient sorcery, that Lovecraft had discovered and
decided to use in his stories in another 1940s pulp,
Weird Tales. In this latter category is found this
legend: The Necronomicon was discovered by the Holy
Office of the Inquisition, and sealed behind stone in
a monastery in Tibet...even they, who could slaughter
thousands of their own kind, still feared its dark
power.

No: I bear the Dulles Stigmata: protracted delusions
of a religious or occult nature, which are the
trademark symptom of those who were subjected to the
CIA's illegal mind-control experiments of the 1950s,
directly overseen by CIA Director, and later Warren
Commission member, Allen Dulles.

But this is Toronto in 1973. This is Cosmicon II.
Dallas is a decade in the past, and the basement room
where I would remember, and write Conjurella, is more
than two decades in the future. In that fateful
world-to-be of the nineties, I would make contact with
others who plausibly and recognizably (to me, who had
lived it) claimed to have been adbucted and abused by
MK-ULTRA. Yet, the stories would wane into occultism:
terrifying tales of unmistakable CIA abductions are
peppered with the absurd. Abductees, after presenting
what would otherwise be valuable testimony, go on to
relate accounts of neighbors with mind-reading rays,
NASA officials with time machines, and visions of Rose
Kennedy as an ally of the assassins. Nor was I less
guilt in this also. Relating now, in the nineties, my
memories of Dr. E, and the real-life Project, I am
constantly reminded that in the seventies, I wrote
essays for a variety of occult publications, claiming
to be the reincarnation of noted occult figure,
Aleister Crowley. This was as intended by the CIA. I
also carry the Dulles Stigmata. If we are all
reincarnations of Aleister Crowleys, time travelling
through hell with NASA and Rose Kennedy, then our
testimony is far less plausible, except to a very few.

But in Toronto in 1973, I am innocent: not still the
assassin of Dallas that no one saw, not yet the
assassin of Conjurella that no one believed.

Sometime after I fell in love with Asian A, and before
Cosmicon II, I met, and fell in love, with American A.
American A was pretty, but not really quite as pretty
as Asian A, who was indescribably gorgeous. Yet,
American A was not without power over me, and her
power was words of love...promises and whispers, her
fine, slender strands of blonde hair brushing across
my face, so different from the thick, long, sleek
black hair of Asian A.

In the days before Cosmicon II, American A spoke in
promises and whispers, swore she would love me
forever, and begged me not to go to Ontario, where she
knew Asian A awaited me.

But within, there with the memory of Dallas, somehow
concealed and omnipresent, like Poe's Tell-Tale Heart,
was he memory of Linda. Like John Kennedy's blood,
Linda's tears poured over me; like the mythical
Necronomicon of Tibet, Linda's memory was sealed up in
stone, sealed within.

Uncle Johnny was the bad uncle. Quite unlike Uncle
Charley, also of Columbus, Ohio, who had one wife, and
one set of kids, Uncle Johnny married and divorced and
remarried frequently, throughout his unlamented life.
Some time in the early 1950s, he married Aunt Bonnie,
whom I immortalized with the fictional appelation
"Conjurella", in my story of the same name. Her
daughter was Linda, who was the same age as me; for a
while, she came to live with us in Avoca, Michigan.
She was a perfect, exquisite little girl, long blonde
hair, a high I.Q., and an air of placcid quality, even
at the age of five. When she left us with Aunt Bonnie,
in 1953, shortly before I started school, she wore
white muffs with sugar cubes in them; that will always
be my archtypical memory of her, Linda and Aunt Bonnie
leaving. It would not be, it could not be, that
fleeting glimpse of Linda, that day in Dallas, that
hallway on the sixth floor of the Texas School Book
Depository Building, that fleeting glimpse, so cruel,
as the MK-ULTRA operatives hustled her past so
quickly.

But this was Toronto in 1973: Linda was only a whisper
here, from two decades past. Here my heart was filled
with Asian A and American A, as I drank heavily,
autographing copies of Creepy and Eerie, wandering
through the maze of Winters College, attempting to
cope with my chaotic love affairs, my alcoholism, and
my new-found fame. Yet deep within, the memory of
Linda lurked, deep within, I knew: she, like me, had
been of the chosen ones. She, like me, had been born
to kill, born to serve The Project, born to kill John
Kennedy for MK-ULTRA, born to serve the hellish
renegades of the Office of Strategic Services who had
chosen us to end the power of the Kennedy dynasty
forever.

Perhaps, sometimes when American A's blonde hair
brushed against my face, there was that whisper of a
memory of Linda. This was Toronto in 1973, this was an
alternate world. I feared the intense cold of Toronto
in the parallell world of Cosmicon II, 1973, and
Winters College was a vast, unchartable labyrinth.
Sometimes, in my wanders through it, I would come upon
a door leading to the cold, white world outside. For a
moment, I would stare transfixed at the wind blowing
little whisps of snow through the bitter cold. Beyond
those doors was the cold world from which I had come,
and the cold world to which I would return. Beyond
those doors was a cold past in which I had lost Linda
and shot President Kennedy, a cold future in which I
would remember, and transcribe, those things in the
legend of Conjurella.

But within those doors was Cosmicon II, a world of
Asian A and American A playing tug-o-war with my
heart, a world of adulation for the poetic, panelled
prose that had suddenly been evoked from me, a world
of comic book stars and comic book fans, a world with
no John Kennedy writhing in blood from my single, only
shot, a world where The Project was only a brief,
emotion-packed scene from Vampirella. Within the doors
of Cosmicon II, this was truth; the other world, the
alternate world, where The Project was a hell that
MK-ULTRA had created for children, was far behind and
far before.

Yet, paradoxicly, obscenely, unfairly, in that
alternate world of Toronto 1973, Dr. E had stalked me,
and now Jim Warren was his target. Here ate Cosmicon
II, I had found my Shangri-La, a world of comic book
and trivialities, a world of American A and Asian A
battling inside my head for my heart, a world with no
blood of JFK that I had spilled, no sinister designs
of Dr. E and The Project.

But somehow, beyond the lies, in the labyrinth of
Winters College, Dr. E lurked, stalking Jim Warren;
somehow, beyond the comic books, beyond the scent of
Asian A and the whispers of American A, the memory of
The Project lurked.

"You're part of the New Frontier, Casey," Dr. E had
told me earnestly, in the presence of two associates,
after the Kennedy election victory of 1960.

To those who knew, but had been lied to,The Project
was the CIA's ultimate weapon against Castro's Cuba: a
secret invasion force which would combine the
traditional warfare of the past with the super-science
of the future.

Lee believed. Major General Edwin Walker did not.
Walker had been a prominent activist for the
right-wing John Birch Society, which, in that era, had
still been enamored of America's Military, and
America's espionage apparatus. MK-ULTRA had sought a
protective cover of rightists and paramilitarists,
standing ready with their own troops, to aid in the
supposed "invasion of Cuba". Those who did believe had
included American Nazi Party leader, George Lincoln
Rockwell, the scholarly but sinister Dr. Fred G.
Schwartz of the Christian Anti-Communism Crusade
(which shared offices with the Fair Play for Cuba
Committee in New Orleans), and martial arts expert
Bruce Lee, hell-bent on liberating his people from the
murderous brand of communism which had overtaken
China.

But Walker had refused altogether, and Lee, under
orders from David Ferrie, his commanding officer in
the Civial Air Patrol, had fired on Walker and missed,
deliberately, as a warning. Lee believed, but Walker
did not. George Lincoln Rockwell, chess player,
essayist, Nazi leader, friend: he believed also. ("Get
Lincoln out of that Nazi suit, and talk to him
man-to-man, and he's all right," someone had told me
then.)

"Call George and tell him the invasion is off," David
Ferrie said, light-heartedly, after the assassination.
Someyears later, Rockwell would write, sympatheticly,
"Casey thinks he's a Jew but he's not."

But Rockwell, like Edwin Walker, like Bruce Lee, like
Lee himself, would perish. The sicties would claim the
lives of George Lincoln Rockwell and Bruce Lee; Walker
would die later, and horribly.

Rockwell would be shot outside a laundromat, by one of
his own men, in a virtual coup-de-tat by the CIA,
which would place the American Nazi Party squarely in
the camp of the Kennedy assassins, directed no longer
by their own eccentricities, but by the very
government which they had purported to oppose. Major
General Edwin Walker would be stalked and homosexually
raped at a freeway rest stop,, by men who would later
identify him as a willing participant; he died shortly
thereafter, the pain and humiliation were too great.

And Bruce Lee: the cut-outs of memories, the fleeting
glimpses of a past somehow lost, like that fleeting
glimpse of Linda...

That fleeting memory; no before, no after, just the
memory. We are in a hotel room, somewhere. It is
before the JFK assassination, sometime.

Lee is there, like Bruce. They have both seen the
children, Dr. E's children, sitting limply in chairs
with needles in their necks, headsets on their ears,
screens before their vacant faces. Dr. E says: it is
necessary: child assassins formed with the
super-science of the future, child assassins, a proud
tradition of both sides of the now concluded great
warr, child assassins necessaruy for the invasion of
Cuba. It has already grated on Lee; later, he will
seek a friend and confidant in Dallas police officer,
J.D. Tippitt, whom he will tell.

But for Bruce, it is intolerable now.

"Get rid of the kids," Bruce says, "We don't need
them."

Lee sits, staring downward, his hand on his forehead,
wearing that sly, secret smile, only ever-so-slightly
visible.

"I can't," Lee says softly, and matter-of-factly.

Bruce side-steps into position and gestures toward me.

"Get rid of the kid," Bruce says, "Get him out of
here. Take him home. Lose him. Anything."

"I can't," Lee repeats, like deja vu.

Bruce begins a series of blocks, cries, and kicks.

I look at Lee questioningly with drugged vision: Dr. E
or David Ferrie must have injected me again, recently.

Lee says, chuckling, "Well, Bruce goes a little crazy
like that sometimes. There's nothing we can do. It
will pass."

Under the hypnotic drug, I take these words literally,
not as a joke, a game. I wait, horrified, for Bruce's
supposed attack to pass. After, Lee says to Bruce, in
earnest: "That was great. That was magnificent."

But this is Toronto in 1973: this is Cosmicon II. I
never knew them here. The air-tight doors of Winters
College seal out the cold, the wind, the drifting
snow, seal out the tormented past of Dallas, seal out
the bleak future of Conjurella. Within these doors,
there are no memories of the aborted invasion, no
memories of the single shot which my hand fired, no
memories of Christian Anti-Communism or Fair Play for
Cuba...only comic books, and fans of my Warren
stories, only the spectral phantasms of American A and
Asian A, not present, but there in spirit, battling
for the heart of T. Casey Brennan, not the child
assassin, but the poet, not the pawn of Dr. E and
MK-ULTRA, but the pawn of pretty girls, touching,
whispering, promising, their hair in my face, their
scent in my nostrils.

Here, in this sealed off world of Winters College in
1973, T. Casey Brennan was not the secret assassin; he
was Archie, torn between Betty and Veronica; he was
not the drugged, helpless pawn of Dr. E, he was Dobie
Gillis, lost in philosophy and love affairs...

Yet, Dr. E lurked, even here. Inexplicably, Jim Warren
had been strip searched by customs officials, upon
entering Canada, en route from New York. What did they
know, what did they suspect? What motives did they
attribute, what foul plans did they suspect?

Initially, it had seemed impossible to make it to
Cosmicon II, where I had received an invitation to
appear, complete with complimentary room at Winters
College; Winters College, where the doors could block
not only cold, but memories...

And American A, who still loved me then, had begged me
not to go. But go I did, riding into Port Huron with a
friend that morning. I call a Canadian taxi from Port
Huron, ride across the Blue Water Bridge, and soon, I
am at the Canadian National Railway station in Sarnia.
Or maybe I went to Asian A's apartment before the
train station; I don't know anymore, I'm not a
witness, I can't remember.

The Sarnia-based taxi is called "A Stan-Lee Taxi". The
driver gives me his card, and later, I show it at the
convention, as a take-off on the name of the Marvel
Comics publisher known as Stan Lee.

The driver lays a rap that could be entitled: "Great
Tips I Have Been Given". He tells me of a rider
employed by a tire manufacturer, who ships him a full
set of tires, later, as a tip.

He wants comic books. But soon I will have no comic
books. Soon, the bleak future of Conjurella will
propel me into a network of hippie communes, homeless
shelters and free meals. Soon, the insulating doors of
Winters College willinsulate me no more. I sent him no
comic books, though I may have promised.

I board the train for Toronto in Sarnia. I watch, sad
and melancholy, as the Canadian countryside and the
memories flicker past me.

I am alone now. Not the sleek black torrents of hair
of Asian A on my shoulder now, not the promises and
whispers of American A, only sadness, when there
should have been hope.

Within are the memories, forgotten, but not gone, like
a word on the tip of one's tongue, but somehow out of
consciousness, somehow out of reach.

In the last days of David Ferrie's life, in mid-1966,
and early 1967, David Ferrie met with us on several
occassions. I was always drugged and hypnotized during
those meetings, so the words would just barely filter
through, in little bits and fragments. I was no
credible witness, then or now. But I knew Dr. E and
David Ferrie were creating a disease to attack Africa.
It must have been 1966 when David Ferrie told me they
had successfully infected someone.

"It's going to fly!" David Ferrie said of the AIDS
virus, grinning proudly. Daddy smiled a sheepish
smile, and nodded. He was afraid then. So am I. Even
now.

But within the insulating doors of Winters College
awaited the Absinthe Cafe. The memories are
non-sequential now, blurred visions of comic books,
Jim Warren, fellow celebrity guests, and probably the
most outstanding performance ever given by noted rock
musician and hippie deerslayer, Ted Nugent.

Nugent did not socialize with us, but future Tonight
Show guest host P.J. O'Rourke drank that night at the
same table with Jim Warren, me, and a second-rate
comic book writer named Denny O'Neil. The subject of a
controversial underground newspaper called Screw comes
up, then managed by Jim Buckley and Al Goldstein.

Someone, I think Denny O'Neil, says: "Jim Buckley,
he's the real intellectual behind that operation." At
some point, Al Goldstein will be arrested in Cuba and
charged by Fidel Castro with being a fellow CIA agent.

And then someone says, "The Mafia does a pretty good
job of distributing it."

P.J. O'Rourke frowns, sips his drink, and says, "Yeah,
until they take it over."

But my mind is on American A, on the promises and
whispers. She wants me to leave Asian A, wants me to
marry her, wants me to believe in witchcraft, as she
does...

And within, the Dulles Stigmata lurks, like the scars
of Dr. E's needles in my neck. In the Hebrew bible,
the serpent who tempts Eve is NChSh, and the Messiah
yet to come, is MShYCh. In Hebrew, every letter is a
number also, hence, the Qabbaliastic science of
Gematria, the study of the letters and the numbers.
Hebrew is called, by its proponents, a mathematically
correct language: words with the same numeration, are
words with the same meaning, in spite of any apparent
differences, which must be resolved by meditation.

The Dulles Stigmata lurks. NChSh is Nun (50), Cheth
(8), Shin (300), 358. MShYCh is Mem (40), Shin (300),
Yod (10), Cheth (8), 358. Brennan, transliterated into
Hebrew, is Beth (2), Resh (200), He (5), Nun (50), Nun
(50), Aleph (1), Nun (50), 358.

The Dulles Stigmata lurks. Amwerican A wants me to
believe in magic, and I do. And in timeless time,
beyond Dallas, beyond Toronto, beyond the 60s, or the
70s, or the 90s, the words form: I am the Last
Witness. I speak great things and blasphemies. I am
the first to shoot, and the last to testify. I wash
clean the blood. They must have given me clues as to
how they made it; somehow, somehow, I know, AIDS was
begun in Dachau...the torture was only incidental, a
means to an end. Somehow, it was necessary to break
down the resistance of human flesh through torture, so
that such a condition, flesh without natural defenses,
flesh without immunity, could be duplicated in a
laboratory. And Dr. E was an Osteopath; was Osteopathy
only a cover, or was it a component in the creation of
the virus that the World Health Organization would
later spread, in vaccines, throughout Africa? Later,
in the 1980s, the World Health Organization would
write about me in their Geneva-based journal, World
Health, in their October 1983 (page 30) and
January-February 1986 (page 9) issues.

The Dulles Stigmata lurks, and soon, I will be
attempting to duplicate the exact style of roaring
twenties occultist, Aleister Crowley, in a variety of
occult journals, both great and small.

This The Dulles Stigmata lurks, but for now, in the
Absinthe Cafe, there is no memory of the blood of John
Kennedy, only the memory of American A's kisses, and I
want to call her, to tell her again that I love her.
Somehow, I find my way through the labyrinth that is
Winters College, to a wall with two (or is it three)
secluded pay phones. I call American A in Michigan,
and breathe the most oft-repeated phrase of my youth.

"I love you."

She is sad. She wanted to bolt from Michigan and
follow me to Toronto.. "Don't be surprised if I show
up there, after you," she says before I leave for
Cosmicon II. She asks me to swear that I will love her
always, and that I will always be true to her. And I
do swear. It is only half a lie. I can love her
always, but I cannot be true.

I return to the Absinthe, and this is mystery.

Jim Warren says he has called for a prostitute to be
sent to his room.

"To a man like me, time is money," Warren says, "I
don't have time for the kind of courtship that you
do."

All of the guests, including myself, were provided
with complimentary rooms at Winters College, and to
anyone who remembers Cosmicon II from the guests of
honor's perspective, any prostitute who could find the
damned rooms on her own, would have to be considered a
possible CIA agent from the gitgo.

Warren leaves, and returns shortly. He remarks to me
are Suddenly inexplicable, out of rational context.

"Well," Jim Warren says, "I want to keep using your
stories, but she says I can't. She says I have to get
rid of you."

This is the way home:

It would be a matter of split-second timing. I would
take the train from Toronto to Sarnia, where Asian A
would meet me. I would stay overnight with her, then,
in the morning, she would take me across the Blue
Water Bridge to Port Huron, to the bus station, where
I would take the bus down M-21 as far as Emmett, to
the cemetary at Bricker Road. There, Americvan A would
meet me, and drive me the rest of the way home.

In the morning, at Asian A's, I hear Crocodile Rock on
the radio, a song they played so frequently on the
radio whilke American A and I would be parked in front
of my parents' house, making out. I am sad, and full
of longing: will I lose American A? Will I let her
love, her promises and whispers, slip away, for the
sake of holding Asian A?

I go down on Asian A in the morning; I hardly have
time to pull my tongue out of her vagina before she
speeds me to the Port Huron bus station. We just make
it, and I get on the bus to Emmett just before it
leaves. There is no time to wash my face, rinse my
mouth, no time for anything at all.

The bus lets me off at the cemetary at Bricker Road
and M-21, where both my parents will someday be
buried. American A arrives, a few minutes late. She
leaps from the car, and embraces mwe, beaming. I
resist her, only so slightly.

"Don't you want to kiss me?" she exclaims.

Then her tongue is raping my mouth, and her blonde
hair is in my face, which I have just pulled from
Asian A's pussy.

There was so little time.

This is the way of conjecture:

To those who believe, anything proven by the Qabballah
is true absolutely. There is simply no question.

Hypothetical Jim Warren enters the room at the end of
the labyrinth, the prostitute on his arm. With mock
impulsiveness, she embraces him, giggling, and her
ringed finger finds his neck. It is only a pin-prick
at first that he feels there, a jagged fingernail,
perhaps, a harmless scar of love. But suddenly, there
is the weakness; he wants to pull away, wants to
question, wants to wonder at this, but he cannot.

There is so little time.

The girl counts the seconds as hypothetical Jim
Warren, all but overcome now, succumbs to the tiny
hypo concealed in her ring. A decade later, he will be
a virtual invalid, as the deadly MK-ULTA poison
accomplishes the long-term job for which it was
intended.

At last, hypothetical Jim Warren slumps to the floor.
It does not matter; he will not remember.

Dr. E enters with two henchmen, nods to the prostitute
matter-of-factly, and says:

"So this is the great Jim Warren."

But as hypothetical Jim Warren falls, I rise up, the
Dulles Stigmata gnawing at my soul, as the ring poison
has on his. I am the cold, dark one. I am the Last
Witness. I wash clean the blood.

The End