Hex-Ray Hoodoo Rapture


Hard meat, sexy sinew, gristle and sleek shimmy skin. His hairless head reflects the infrared and U.V., baleful as a bugzapper at midnight. Naked, handsome chest under leopard skin zoot-drape. His pants bulge with 40 ounces of pure panther cooties.


However, it is the eye, the great gorgeous eye, that is the primary instrument of his depravity. The erectile vision bulb, the unholy orb, the swollen ground zero gland of ocular mojo funk. Look on a dollar bill – see the all-seeing eye looking back. Look into the abyss and the abysmal über-peeper looks back. Investigate the Pinkerton’s logo: “We Never Sleep.” The eye sees without ceasing.


Bulging, yearning, hard and sleek as a tainted beef extrusion, it is the eye which emits the endless triple-X radiation, the noxious orgone rays which no female biped can resist or even hope to resist, which is the ultimate source of all the H-Man’s vilest transgressions against the state and crimes against nature herself. It is the great turgid glistering Hypmogoogoopinin’ Eye that I, without hesitation, declare and condemn as utterly anathema.


The charges are as follows, that the defendant did: 1) appear on national TV smirking and smiling to gain world-wide fame 2) seduce with wanton disregard for reproductive rectitude a young virgin untouched by human hands 3) provoke and incite a riot which left countless dead and untold damage to property 4) take part in a shameless low-speed pursuit and televised motorcade flouting decency and due process of law 5) in contradiction to constitutional mandate, take part in a travesty of DNA research to mock and malign the forces of eugenic progress 6) appear at his tribunal unbowed and unrepentant 7) by means of sorcery and sortilege foil the instrument of justice, the electric high chair fitted especially for him with Easo-matic footrest and rocker-recliner head support system.


I will see him fry. I will see him strapped squirming in the hot squat. I will, I will, I will see him raised up on Throne of Glory, flame-broiled to seal in flavorful juices, transmuted heavenward to meet his final fate. I will sit by his side all night in the queasy chair, violet volts sizzling in his foetid flesh. I will not cease from mental flight until Jerusalem Slim returns and says to me, “Well done, good and faithful servant of the Law.”


I will not rest until this blighted knight, this errant errand-boy of eros, is brought in chains, mouth gag, and asbestos eye patch (to seal in foul rays), until he is taken once more before the High Bad Boy Bench and condemned to life in the electric chair. This stinking wound in me will not heal until I see the grinning mouth, the too-tight-trousers, the sleek hairless cranium, under lock and key, damned for all eternity to fry in the blue bolts of judicial juice. I will not rest until my shame, my secret festering psychic wound, is healed by the pure balm of vengeance.


“For me the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man will always be a hero. No matter what they say, he was somebody for us to look up to. He got on the TV game show that time with the honey-coated hoochy-coo girl and said real loud and proud ‘I’ll take Things That Throb for twenty.’ And the answer was right: a migraine. Things That Throb for forty: a herniated tire. Sixty: a python eating a hedgehog. Eighty: a big blister about to pop from yanking on the golden chain too long. One hundred: a pulsar in the heart of the Crab Nebula putting out 75 megatons of foul fulguration per nanosecond.”


Physicians are at a loss to explain the rays emitted by his sinister eye. The facts – such as they are – do not solve the mystery of his strange attraction. As he grows aroused, the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Eye swells out of its orbit, sweat runs down his forehead slick as primeval sludge, veins throb and tighten and tumesce and the phosphorescence begins to rise. No Geiger counter can detect the rays. No photographic paper can show their presence. No cloud chamber can track their course. But ask any sweet young thing and she will tell you that those rays are real indeed.


“Real? Nothing more real in the whole wild world than when he turned those gleams on my gams. I could feel the gaze all the way to the bottom of my honey pot, yanking like sideways gravity. Knock, knock, knocking on Heaven’s door. He stared and there was nothing I could do but skin myself down and say okay, okay, okay, lay those golden beams on me. But the best thing was the tongue bath. I got a pretty long one. I wrapped it two, three, times around his eye and I was plugged in direct to the big dildonic dynamo, juices flowing in through my mouth and running through my spine and out my sluice. My insides melted and oozed out like wax from a holy candle. I know I wasn’t the only one. I know he had a main squeeze, but I took whatever I could get.”


Mr. Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man did have any and all the nubile young schnitzel he desired, but there was one above all who excited his bestial retinal lust to a frenzy that is hard to express. Her name was Miss Queasy Pie. White and cool as lovingly-sculpted cream cheese, so beautiful a form, so virginal a being, that a thousand raging Dero-Pygmies once threw themselves off a cliff in sheer ecstasy after getting a brief glimpse of her fornix. The untainted vessel of pure germ plasm, Miss Queasy Pie was the one morsel of overripe woo-bait that the H-Man could not resist. He saw her one day at the Laundromat, taking tiny weightless silk filigrees out of the washer, flicking them dry with a graceful snap of the wrist and he instantly felt the Maximum Mood Muscle pop a wheelie. He stabbed his foot down on the brake, triple-parked the monster fish-wagon Caddy and strode inside. Sweet detergent fumes, pheromones, funky wadded socks, overheated and supersaturated air— the Laundromat was like a sauna—oven baking her to pallid perfection. In her jeans cut off far north of the knee, T-shirt too short, thong sandals, she was wash day perfection. Dip her in the deep fryer, zap her in the microwave, and you have the most scrumptious snack known to man.


His eye went into orgone overdrive and all the air was sucked out of the room. Sodium white light bathed her and cleansed her. All the washers seized up and spewed forth their contents, neatly folded. Yes, her brights were brighter and her whites were whiter. She could feel the deep-down softness. The H-Man’s seminal shock wave hit her deep in her genes, induced spontaneous mutation and her exuviae fell to the floor. Naked now, and unashamed, she faced him. Palpated, primed and pierced by the noisome retinal rays. There—right there on the Wash and Dry pitted linoleum floor. There—with great plate glass windows open to the street where hundreds of privileged gawkers stood gaping. There— between two ranked rows of porthole washer windows. There did said Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man and said Queasy Pie mate and kneed together their nucleic acids.


I don’t need to tell you, pilgrim, what the result was. Even as his prehensile prepuce grasped at those blissom 95 pounds of estrogen-soaked grade-A creamery butter, as the ocular ramrod slid unceasingly in and out and in and out of the moist poon socket, the city went mad.


Fire and riot, looting and burning, bad language, disrespect, bickering and quibbling: an outrage of unprecedented proportions. Entire city blocks gripped in the hairy hand of King Mob, “We want electric Pampers! We want high-def TV! We want Mad Dog 20/20 I.V. drips!” All because the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man dared cross the line never before crossed. I was there at the barricades. I was at the scene of the crime in my capacity as Lord High Sheriff and übergruppenführer of Squat Team #1. Body armor—yes, I look great in body armor. Plexiglass riot shield, Schutzstaffel helmet with the red light glowing on top, bulletproof cod piece and high tech electro-shock night stick.


My two sweaty fists tight on the Rod of Correction. Juridical juice streaming from the flexo-matic venturi pressure-control nozzle tip. Pearly jets of nacreous spume. Glistening gouts of Special Sauce. My Rod and Staff they comfort me. Shock baton brought down again and again on the malefactors stirred to paroxysms of love and hate by the mere thought, let alone the endlessly repeated video, of the H-Man and the Q-Pie locked in lewd embrace. I, the Lord High Sheriff and Chief Executioner, waded into the rabble flailing my bionic jawbone of an ass and drove back the mob of Philistines single-handedly. My ancient throbbing scepter brought law and order to the city, but by then it was too late. The H-Man was gone and with him our most precious chattel-prize juju baby and her two all-beef patties grinding together like the greasy millstones of love.


You’ve seen the film. Is there anyone in the civilized world who hasn’t seen the endlessly repeated image of the Hypmogoogoopizin’ Man driving in the hulking behemoth Superflymobile? Low rider Pimp de Ville with pump-up shocks and blinking headlights behind mysterious glim-grates. A mile wide, impossible to hide, bold as the Bismarck in the North Sea pestered by overhead recon drones. Yes, we cut to the chase but then everything . . .  slowed . . . down. Feet in molasses, voices at 16 rpm, a squadron of black helicopters like a swollen storm cloud that refuses to let loose its moisture. I followed. I arrived. I eventually caught him red-handed—and still justice was denied.


“Maybe black magic isn’t the right word, nor voodoo nor root doctoring, but the H-Man sure had something real nasty going on down there. We landed the chopper on the roof and broke inside the house and it was like some kind of Black Arts Bargain Bazaar: bunches of chicken heads hanging like garlic, a three-ring exciter shank carved out of pure asafetida, the black cauldron boiling on the stove, a dozen big-eye wretched-waif paintings, an infra-red bathroom. You name it, he had it. And in the so-called sanctum sanctorum was a big book of spells. I thumbed through it for a few seconds and it gave me a poison headache that lasted a month.”


Take two ounces of Squealer wax, a drop of octopus ink, and a half dozen desiccated glow-worm segments. Mix and decant into a Bromo-seltzer bottle and bury under a yew tree. Draw your bath water every day and on the seventh, add the mixture piping hot. Soak for ten minutes or until the vibrations stop. Wear next to your heart, in a gris-gris bag made from the pajama bottoms of a narcoleptic priest, one crushed lodestone. When next you meet the object of your desire, he or she will comply with your every wish.


I went in with the Squat Team and chopper boys and he just gave up. Not a word. No fight. No excuses for the atrocity we found in the next room. Yes, Miss Queasy Pie was very very very dead. Her prime slice would no longer ooze fine sweet peach juice. Her Bermuda love triangle would capture no more mysterious U-2 fly-over reconnaissance planes. Her fresh cream complexion was already blotched and blighted by the Hypmogoogoopizin’ spoors. Never again would her feral moans ring in the night air. No more anatomically-correct Googoo Cluster love-doll action. Never again would any of her pulsing inner organs whisper to me at dawn, “Invade me, invade me, you sexy Panzer Man.”


Gather one box Three Thieves Dejinxing Flakes, a pinch of Chinese gunpowder, a consecrated eucalyptus lozenge, a dozen cubeb wafers and a quart of Lucky Planet oil. Mix in your golden magnetic bladder and apply with your left thumb to your naked skin, making leopard spots, as you stand at a crossroads at midnight under a gibbous moon. If prepared properly, you need fear nothing from the law or its minions.


I have studied the Malleus Maleficarum. I am well versed in the works of Torquemada, Matthew Hopkins, Cotton Mather and John Edgar Hoover. I am quite adept at performing the ordeals of fire, boiling water, the Eucharist, bier-right (in which the murderer—upon approaching the victim—will bleed copiously from mysterious wounds), red-hot pincers, floating, sodium pentathol and polygraph. But in the case of the H-Man, I knew that extraordinary measures would need to be taken to prove his guilt beyond a shadow of the valley of doubt. Probing the innermost recesses of his chromosomal structure, and the structure of his victim, would prove to the twelve worthy and honorable men that he was indeed guilty.


10,000 fruit flies trapped in glass prisons. 10,000 fruit flies, some of them secret red-eyed mutants. 10,00 fruit flies, and every one of them a tiny living litmus test to prove the viciousness of his protoplasm, to show in cold scientific terms that his DNA was beyond even the fondest hope of redemption. I called it the Red-Eyed Special and it ran all night, down in the bottommost subbasement of our top-secret headquarters where we’d dragged him in chains for booking. I took those fruit flies one at a time with tiny tungsten steel tweezers and pressed them to his skin until a positive ID was made. Then these little martyrs for justice were crushed in the jaws of massive steel pincers and the organic oozings were subjected to spectroscopic analysis.


It was said that he came from Skull Island, where naked savages worshiped him and sniveling priests offered for his delectation certain virginal bi-pedal mammals and voodoo cheeseburgers, cash rebates and great salvers heaped with banana meat. It was rumored that Skull Island was his home, where throbbing tom-toms woke the turgid animal rutting instinct, where he did appear at the full moon piercing the noisome sea mist with his terminal ray-gun vision and great grasping monkey-grip. It was foretold that a eugenically-pristine hunter would appear to tame the beast. It was whispered that many would give their lives to bring this juggernaut of jungle rhythm to bay.


A hundred tiny volunteers, crack troops of the Melanogaster species, were placed in a massive hypodermic needle and this needle was positioned directly before the great swollen defiant Hypmogogoopizin’ Eye. On the count of “Eins, Zwei, Drei,” I ran the fine steel tip through the taut erectile membrane and squirted the commando fruit fly mutant suicide squad into his aqueous matter. Drawn out after the flies fused with the flowing protein particles in the eyeball, these brave winged warriors were then crushed to a fine paste, thus proving beyond doubt that the H-Man was guilty. Still, I am appalled to report, when the case came to the tribunal, no amount of evidence, no weight of logic or juridical reason could triumph over his wicked hoodoositical ways.


Procure a flagon of purified war water. Mix in a pinch of aged goopher dust and Fast-Luck flakes. Shake well and blend with an equal quantity of Bend-Over Oil. Slather the resultant unguent on an unused horehound bone-jobber and carry with you into the court of law, preferably in the right hip pocket. When testifying, clasp your hand on the mojo wand and tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Yes, truth shall set you free.


The entire world watched in amazement and disgust as the tribunal went on and on like a cat hit by a truck dragging its mangled leg behind through the ditchweeds. The H-Man sat there smug as King Herod. He grinned for the cameras as he was forced to put the secret fingerless glove on the hand with which he’d pull the ripcord after strapping the suicide booster-pak on Miss Queasy Pie’s naked and flawless human body. And even when the verdict was handed down, “guilty, Guilty, GUILTY!” he was unruffled. Still he sat there calm as a Field Marshall Göring with the tiny hidden cyanide pellet in his twelve year molar. Even as they dragged him off in chains to the holiest-of-holies Death Chamber, he did not bat an eyelash or shed a tear.


“As the court-appointed psychoanalyst, it was my responsibility to administer the third-degree truth assays. Under duress, the subject did reveal certain factoids, though it must be admitted that neurological science was utterly foiled in its attempt to truly understand the nature and meaning of the Hypmogoogoopizin’ power. As the 10,000 candlepower arc lamps were directed into the eye, the subject crooned ‘Buff the monkey, till he shines,’ to the tune of ‘Bali Hai.’ The longest piece of testimony, however, is as follows: ‘Lye, lye, lye. Red Devil lye. Conk out. Red Devil kink conk out. Liar, liar pants on fire. Red Devil conk. King Konk Congolean. Lye, lye, lye. Out out damn spot. Red Devil Lye.” The wattage was increased a hundredfold until the paint began to blister and peel off the walls, the restraining harness started to melt and he cried out: ‘My imp’s names are Pywacket . . . Uneeda . . . Bamboula . . . Gixy . . . Mundungus . . . Cicatrix . . . Tenaculum . . . Probang . . . Volapük!’”


So it was that the H-Man – unredeemed and unrepentant – was brought to the death chamber. In my capacity as Herr Doktor Professor Electropathologie I made certain that the subject was strapped in nice and cozy: his wrists on the arm rests and his feet cinched to the middle leg of the 3-legged Pain Stool. The leather mask was fitted properly and the skin where the electrodes would make contact was slathered with cayenne and habanero conductive essence. This should have been my triumph. This should have been the peak moment in my long career of protecting society from itself. But—as the world well knows— the depth of the H-Man’s depravity knew no bounds and the majesty of the law was dragged mewling through the gutter.


The death warrant was read aloud. The battery of big-bore TV cameras were aimed and locked onto the subject. All doors and windows were secured. Though the H-Man had refused any spiritual counsel, a tape of the Baal Shem Tov, the last Ismaili Imam, Pope Licentious X and the Reverend Jimmy Swaggart’s tearful Master-Race Masturbation Race confessional sermon were played at too many decibels, to clear the room of any and all pagan influences. I felt the power course through me. I smelled my own pheromones, my manly man-funk. I clenched my buttocks tight, gritted my teeth to keep in the squeal of ecstasy and jerked down on the swollen doom-handle. The dynamo moaned as it released its high voltage load. The 3-legged death squat bucked up as squirt after squirt of quintessential spuzz jetted into his body. But . . . but . . . how could we know? With every jolt, with every second the cameras whirred, gobbling up those ineffable images, the H-Man grew stronger, bigger, harder, more handsome—until the leather straps burst asunder, the mask and asbestos eye patch flew from his head, the machinery of loving vengeance seized and all fell silent. He rose, the huge Hypmogoogoopizin’ Eye now emitting monster radiation storms, every band of the spectrum from short wave to gamma rays, sizzling, hissing, screaming electromagnetic ejaculation as we fell to our knees: abject worshipers, in sheer terrified reverence for the mighty H.


So it ended. So the H-Man escaped. He walked out the door, which had melted off its hinges. Down the long corridor as the prisoners serenaded him with huzzahs and banged their tin cups on the xylophone cell bars. Out the front door and into the blaze of a thousand flash bulbs. Back to the hulking Cadillac Coupe de Grace and down the boulevard as the cheering rose and a confetti storm of shredded hundred dollar bills drifted down on him.


“Working with the Commissioner of Genetic Hygiene, I shortly thereafter began to see the shock wave moving through our gene pool. Babies were born with strange sharkskin complexions. Children developed asymmetrical eyes—always the left, always the orbis sinistralis, which swelled with venom. Prepubescent boys and girls woke to find their hair slick and high and greasy, transformed by spontaneous conk mutation. Our agents performed chromosomal breathalizer tests and found a distinct shift in the genome was occurring. How this will affect the pending Germ Plasm Purity Laws is yet to be determined.”


See—a new constellation in the night sky, a dozen stars that form a celestial H. See—at a thousand gravesites the faces of granite angels no longer sad but smiling, suffused with ghostly love-rictus. See—in the flickering buzz of inter-station static, an eye that emits wan granular illumination. See—crypto-pornographic films with titles such as Heaven is Hard, Cream Your Genes, and Gennifer Does Gehenna, in which green-blue migrainous haloes float above the heads of sacred sluts. See—in the crackling fat of the Easter lamb a pattern that might spell out “hyp . . . mo . . . goo  . . . goo.” See—in the fog of the bathroom mirror, in the glare of midnight moonlight on a stormtrooper’s goggle lens, in the retinal imprints of schizophrenic toddlers: images of the H-Man’s triumphant grin. See—the face on the ten thousand dollar bill wink and leer. See—inside yourself that little big-eyed waif-angel who might or might not be your soul, or is perhaps the genetic trace of the Hypmogoogoopizin’ spoor.


Burn a stick of pure puccoon incense while mixing slowly a handful of dried hellebore, one crushed squill, Nebuchadnezzer creme, and a dash of Squatty Boy essence. Mold into a finger shape and bake until hard. Dab the “fingertip” with Squint Oil and apply to your left eye, open. Sit naked in a perfectly dark room with a dead candle while pressing your bone magnet hard and long. If your heart is pure, you will see.

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