Kid Dangerous and the War Hippy - The world's shortest epic

He'd done it again.

Written something UNBELIEVABLY AWESOME online, and forgot to press send.

Plumes of digital brilliance, lost in a casually catered for blossom of consciousness.

Shiiiiitt...

The world wasn't real... perception seemingly was though. Okay, sure, that brick, that house, was a physical representation of someones humdrum little pile, but what was 'sensual reality' about observing orange brickwork, unless you're a brickie and appreciate a nice lay of the placings? Or it's your home?

Quentin Lomax was one mother fucking screwed up dude. For a start, he was British. Secondly, he was boarding school. (Always a winner with Harry Potter fans, unless they knew). Thirdly, he was schizophrenic. He wasn't a psychopath. That's different. And yet psychopaths and schizophrenics seemingly dip their toes in the same pool of psychotic waters. Because 'psychosis' is the pathway to schizophrenia, if you really want to suffer as a solipsist and think you know better than God, the Pope, the Dalai Lhama, and Jesus Christ. Among a series of other legends in history, most of whom are only remembered for a few pithy statements, after all that effort to conquer, slaughter, oppress and dictate.

'Veni vidi vino' indeed.

It was in the realms of solutions that Quentin operated.

Of course he knew what was going on... Didn't you?

Even his eight year old daughter had sat up recently on the comfy white leather sofa and said 'I think America will start the war'.

What does she know? She's a punk ass kid, being brainwashed by English paranoids in plaster of Paris class.

She doesn't know the full deal. The gentlemen's wit. Man's collective muse, and source of all chuckles... 'The way'.

Christianity itself used to be called 'Brotherhood of the way', and many people we've never heard of lived it, and seemingly ended up the same way we all do, until further notice, until... Judgement Day.

And it was with Judgement Day in mind, that Quentin, the gnarly, pissed off, hippy librarian, of too much cerebral fortitude and not enough bally stamina, had decided not to launch a nuclear offensive against the world in the luxury of his own imaginings, as given the state of his latest hangover, even he could see the magnolia sparkling in the window was a source of divine and purest beauty at that moment, and not a 'cause de guerre' at all...

War is a terrible tribal delusion that is wielded by players and psychopaths.

Players know how to orchestrate power.

Potential killers accept, believe in, and follow that version of specific tribal power.

Essentially, when you're at boarding school, a vital part of the education is learning to be a warrior.

They would fly planes at sixteen years old. Shoot and learn how to strip and reassemble machine guns. Learn advanced techniques of wisdom in small groups of zealous young minds, all clamouring for life experience, fun, and adventure, and read 'The Art of War' with intrigue.

Yet, Quentin had been forced by the insufferable 'Eugene' to learn politics.

What a GHASTLY subject politics it is. No wonder most people don't get involved, and hence, we have a small Government. It's really only for very anally retentive people, looking over minutiae of words to see if someone has done something terrible, when we have ALL been terrible, often. In one version of sin or another.

Aside from Quentin's child proclaiming America the prophetic cause of all future conflict by proxy assumption, his wife was one mother of a psychotic bitch. You see, he'd never dated, or, indeed, accidentally impregnated a 'half-townie' before... And yet, there she wallowed, in her hateful girth on many occasion spewing nags and disdain as a solution to global issues, when she wasn't roaring with laughter at the wit Quentin would proffer as a slave to amusement, like a Jester of doobs.

Maybe she was just under a lot of pressure because Quentin liked to spend most of the time drunk and stoned to cope with the fact he was now a father to a reality he never saw coming. And for an old school prophet, that's pretty myopic.

It was all thanks to Jesus and Indiana Jones the little girl existed at all. After all, on finding out 'Demaray' was pregnant, he had to make a decision.

It was easy really. She was quite a good laugh when stoned, and so he vicariously took the leap of faith off the side of a wall to land on the invisible bridge of gestation period leading to the holy grail of fatherhood.

And what a life.

Consistent lack of funds and takeaway McDonald's overlooking grey skies beside dual carriageways in a lonely forest, to which his daughter, bless her heart, declared 'Best day ever!' one birthday circa five years old.

Quentin Lomax had one saving grace though. Beneath the tired rot of his overly handsome, rugged and gnarly face, hiding a smokescreen of psychological torment, he still retained the cherished gold of humanity. A clear conscience, laced with a sense of humour.

He appeared horrific because he wasn't very professionally minded when it came to 'self-care', yet he muscled on with existence nonetheless, stained trousers et al, and everyone could see that underneath, he was a bit fit.

The sheer mank of bum which conflabbered him this morsel of eternities sufferance was the cataloguing department. But it wasn't enough of a source of hate and rage to unleash Hell fire on Mrs. Charmley-Whethers, who was a seemingly sweet and innocent old lady with a suspicious interest in the 'murder' section of dramatic novels.

Quentin idled to his plums, and collected his mindfulness lesson memories of the pretty leaflets one would take away from a decent session of all sitting in silence and generating karmic flow of group nothingness, as a cleansing antidote to the high speed nightmare of modern living.

He used to enjoy meditation evening, once he'd managed to work out what was going on, and how to maintain vectors.

His method was rare, and unique. He'd adopt the 'Jet Fight pilot' approach to mindfulness, and guide towards cognitive vectors at far higher mind pulse rate than the normals who desperately, secretly wanted to be held, touched, loved, hoped for... by someone. One day. Perhaps a nice glance upon the bridge of two lonely infinities, reaching out with timid eyes of yearning need, but meaningful smile, as they touch in their witnessed hearts the epic song of lovers across physical debris free air, yet are too oppressed by the thought police and transgender Satanics to allow 'real love' to blossom, given the oppression it is subliminally under during a period in the future during the rise of global Satanism.

Quentin wasn't having any of it.

He knew where to hide come talk of war.

The municipal library... Where those of minds would tend to congregate.

There, he would find connections. There, he could brush up on military history and tactics... and there, he could watch Home Alone on DVD, because the movie section addition to a library many years ago had always brought great happiness to the plebs of ubiquity.

He remembered the time he'd lost his virginity, and how revolting it all was.

He remembered 'Nam, and how he had nothing to do with it.

He remembered Sally, and how he'd used her for a kiss age fourteen in the woods, only to realise, the power of negativity in breaking a woman's heart.

Actually, he's never learned that. He doesn't mean to, he just does. He doesn't want to, he just fails to understand, and so do they. Because Quentin had been working as a DIY genius on a self-body modification theory.

He was a bioborg.

And when a bioborg is in full effect mode, it is something to behold.

His chemical upgrades were also 'state authorised', aside from the weed, as he was injected once a week with a powerful anti-psychotic drug which had the same effect as brainwashing him into unemotional automaton status of full regulations and authority obedience. Like a cyber monk. A future cyborg antithesis.

It wasn't fear of the police which made him believe the law.

It was fear of the mad scummers the police are paid to place in jail.

And this two bit dead end town of 'I don't know what' had a few shady characters looming out of the arse of the nether cul de sacs.

But then there were the cool people... The people who brought the social karmic balance with love, kindness, and decency. And thankfully, they outnumbered the denizens of Scummerton Ridge. The baddest cul de sac in Dorset. They never packed blades, they never shouted abuse, they met each other in friendliness and love... and all was distinctly fine in the law abiding 'pleasant areas', especially after a smoke.

What the blurting minions of childhood didn't realise, is the sheer level of freedom they are exposed to in the modern world, yet behave as though they're all oppressed subjects of Minger the Merciless, and her dominion of paranoid, crack addicted chav slaves.

Minger the Merciless is so evil, she operates as a paradoxical counterbalance by making halfhearted gangsters wish to convert to Christianity.

By the power of Ug, she is so reprehensibly unattractive, that the cause of all her evil is presumably in the rational response one might have to looking in the mirror, and realising: 'that is my universal representation of consciousness to the world. OMG. Hellfire me immediately, if 'hope' is a holy virtue at all'.

When walking, her fat, swollen legs would cause industrial echoes of chafing, as the grinding flesh volume of havoc emanating from the frightening gyrations of bulbous ligaments she sported while attempting perambulation, thundered through the very fabric of common decency, beady drips of gnarl juice dripping from her slappered quim.

Not to mention her face's specific truth in detail... which made tombstones look like promise of better things.

She was the trouble starter. The punkin' instigator. And like everyone else in this town who hated Quentin, they hated him for shit he hadn't done. Which is a really dumb way to live out a legendary life. Often the scapegoat for all manner of shit he had nothing to do with, including the weather, Quentin couldn't give a shit what happened to anyone anymore, because they looked mean, were far too joyless and silent, and fear, was their false God of protection.

"I'm just going to bitch the geraniums" said Horlox the Magnificent as he descended from an ivory ladder in the 'current affairs' section. His macho swagger lagged around his thighs as if Arnie had hired him for lessons on how to appear bulbous and proud.

Quentin eyed him with a cool suppository.

One flick, with perfect ninja skill, and bobs your anal vectors.

But Quentin didn't hate Horlox. They just didn't agree on a few principles of war and politics, but that was no reason to fight.

He loved Dandy McFlowerchild the original Hopster a bit, but only when he agreed with him.

And as for Sherlock Dumbstable, that guy was so confusing it was a wonder he wasn't sectioned, or running a multi-national.

"Did you get my lozenge?" he asked discreetly. Not wishing to ionise the terror in Lady Buttercup's fear with higher acumen projection filters.

"Lozenge?"

"The lozenge... I gave it to you to suck... So you might feel better..."

"Oh yes... How kind. Around the time of Ripley, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"Thank you so much. You're too kind."

"I'm not. I'm a munchkin eater and a boffin puncher... but don't let that put you off your Frosties".

"Oh, you tease..."

She chuckled now the moment of geriatric and senile confusion was gone, and her consciousness was glimmering once more in trusted fields of knowing delight.

That was the thing about Quentin. He was a healer... When in truth, he wanted to be 'harder than Rambo'. It's just that God, and his mother, wouldn't let him vanquish his enemies with the blazing spears of a thousand SA80's as it was nowadays called 'Genocide' and saying 'God would be pleased' was only likely to exacerbate the eventual and subsequent punishment delivered once the enthusiasm for blood lust was sated.

According to God, it looks like we're all dead in the future at one point anyway. So thank God for small mercies of this aeon, and give great thanks for freedom.

Freedom, from the Junn... The worst people on the planet by quite a mile, and a reason, we have municipal libraries.

It was easy to think 'everything was stupid'... And Quentin had once got in trouble for it... from God, when God shouted at him 'Enough!' as he lay on the bed going 'Oh man, everything is so dumb'.

But it wasn't dumb. It was awesome. There were clouds in the sky, the sun in space, and chuckling global babies waddling with ducklings, with paranoid parents doing their honest best.

THERE WAS NOTHING WRONG.

IT WAS ALL ABOUT PERCEPTION.

And that, had been learned after a long and tiring struggle one night into the popular science department, where it was confirmed his Goldilocks theory of quantum equanimity was possibly a winner.

And there it was...

Global peace and world salvation... if only for a day... And he'd done it... After years of practicing and trying, and you know what happened? Everyone got bored and fed up.

No wonder he had the world champion McDonald's length chip on his shoulder.

Humanity was actually comprised of complete weirdos.

Not only that, but they blamed him for shit he had nothing to do with, having helped save thousands of them.

The epitome of 'Cuntingdon methods', in effect.

There was only one thing for it... A purge.

A purge of the useless, the evil, and the ungodly.

It would be swell.

Rivers of blood to surf, and Pimms o'clock once machetes and machine guns are down for the night.

"Swim, swim Roger, there's a good fellow," the Henley Regatta lads might herald as they see a drowning poor person in the Thames.

Education. That was the key to being a cunt. Quentin had seen it many times before.

And then came a new low for Quentin. He'd been called a 'drug addict' by his dealer.

He assumed the point of dealers was to sell drugs, but to be called an addict by the dealer who does stronger drugs than Quentin ever does, was definitely signs of a disturbed mind. On the dealer's part. I mean, it's like walking into a Pizza hut, being given a pizza, and called a 'fucking survivor' by the person who works there.

NOT GOOD CUSTOMER RELATIONS.

Not to mention the dribbling source of all grim was a chubby moron with a history of violence.

Christ... Where did they drag these low lives up from?

Then there was Lenoire the heroin addict. The biggest loser this side of Nazism.

So utterly repugnant, immoral, innocuous was his thieving, hateful, irrelevant flesh, it was a wonder we were so lax and hadn't had him shot.

"Oh look Patricia... it's just Lenny the kleptomaniac skaghead with his Rottweiler kicking up mentalism again in the streets with a coke can. Nothing to worry about. Our stock bonds are safe and sound."

"Oh thank Heavens... Do you think the value of his scumminess will affect the Dow Jones?"

"I doubt it. Britain's military complex is doing a roaring trade..."

Quentin was gifted.

Gifted with 'the knowledge'.

And the 'knowledge' had come at a Hell of a price.

Literally.

A trip to Hell on acid.

And that was enough to make the smartest man religious... 'If but you knew the horror'. (Which is officially impossible to put into words. You just have to experience it)...

We all carry emotional baggage and trauma, some at warp factor nine parsec division splitter levels on a retro sub ship, but we must endeavour to 'continue'.

The pain, is immeasurable, when encountered.

Quentin was better now though. For months in rehab after the massive shock to his cranial system, he'd only wanted to die... Maybe be a Buddhist... but nothing more. Death would be welcome, to escape that mind set, if that was designed to be eternal as consciousness.

Hell no.

Whatever his mad hippy ideas, whatever his real thoughts, he was too good for such an horrific fate...

And that's why, he was presumably given a second chance.

A second chance to denounce LSD and mind expanding chemicals, and a chance to spend time with God.

In the South of England, we live closer to the French than we do the Scottish or Irish.

It's not a concern. It's a privilege. For the French make the finest lager in all of Christendom. And the Scottish make something as horrific as Whiskey. I rest my case.

Never, in the field of holy conscious awareness, would Quentin take mind expanding chemicals again. (Cocaine is not a psychoactive). It was the WORST experience EVER when it went wrong, and quite frankly, 'war itself' would be a superior alternative as long as one remained confident and upbeat about survival.

Thus the manifestation of the war hippy.

He'd seen shit, shit that was hallucinatory.

And that was profound at levels beyond Vietnam war movies.

If only he could prove why!

He knew in his own soul, that hippies were hated because their ideology by fascists and authoritarians alike was seen as weak and delusional, but it wasn't, although they had never needed to defend a hippy city from guerrilla attack, in which case, Quentin's money would be on the terrorists.

And that's when Quentin realised we had a problem.

"We DO believe in peace and love... but that makes us vulnerable!"

St. Paul adopted weakness as a survival strategy too.

Sure, if you want to live puffed up and full of ego, beat someone up for something and feel great afterwards... Go ahead. Live the dream.

But if you want to be a pacifist, beating the shit out of people doesn't aid one's cause.

And right now, on Planet Gaia, there were too many naughty sausages.

And Quentin, was here to play the game.

And not only play the game, but at levels yet to be understood by man.

And there was the rub.

He knew the iniquities of women.

The purest evil ever devised by God, to test his bifurcated incarnated reasoning, in a module system, in intergalactic space, by which to perform the ultimate polarised multidimensional movie. The ballad, of the concept, devised in Eternia, for the experiment to manifest.

For the logos, to once again generate: 'Original reality'.

Forget the out of body experiences, the halos, and the succubus.

Where we're going, we're going to need more than roads...

And it was time to learn, how he'd done it.