The Fool, Isaac Foxsyth.
Born a child of the road story telling came to me early. Father Australia, Mother French, comprehension of language Israel (perhaps Egypt.)
When you don’t speak one language but a mixture of three at the same time, you gotta learn to amuse yourself, because everyone else is confusion manifested.
My family skipped about the globe rather nomadically, eventually settling in a costal town up north, that of which I won’t go into, where I joined the circus and participated in lunacy for 12 good years alongside my regular education.
After completion of High School I jumped an airship towards Nantes, France, and got involved in theatre, installation art and poetry. During this period I was also spending 5 hours a day vigorously writing what I thought to be the screenplay that would kick-start my career. It took 7 years to complete and is yet to kick start shit.
I returned from the motherland fresh, yet unable to continue living in my previous home and thusly migrated to Melbourne town in search of culture and vibration.
Moving away from the world of feature script writing I joined a rag tag bunch of misfits known as “Drunk Mums” as a kind of sideshow geek, bitting the heads off of chickens and foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog.
This was and continues to be a great source of therapy, yet does not occupy my thirst for knowledge…
So, I was off to the Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology to study in the field of Creative Writing. I have learned much from this decision and managed to get some of my work published in the notorious Rabbit Journal.
Now the year has ended and I am working on conceptual absurdist plays, working with surface projection and a cat named “Font” from the enterprise known as “Culture Mechanics.
I would go into details but the nature of this work is rather secretive, so with that I bid you farewell.
Gods Cruel Choke
What do I know of gods and man?
Well answering questions clearly hasn’t exactly been my strong suit, but what I do have is this.
Far in the mountains not too far from Chang Mai in the north of Thailand there is a plant named Datura, otherwise known as the “Moonflower.” The Shamans of old would take it to put themselves in a state of consciousness allowing them to converse with the spirits of the other world. The Idea intrigued me, but if I was to trek out there to get my sticky finger upon some I would have to be careful. If prepared improperly the side effect of the plants toxins included death. So the search quickly changed to finding a shaman, unfortunately after a heavy night of drinking I had lost everything I owned except the cloths on my back, my Remington Sl3 and a nice sized bag of A-grade Opium, the origins of said bag are still unknown to this day.
I found myself selling the opium to tourists in the day times avoiding the police the best I could and sleeping in brothels by night. I was in a bad way, sinking fast into an ocean of booze and whores. The darkness of the city was getting to me and I starting to get the fear.
I developed a habit for choking the whores out until their brains would release Dimethyltryptamine, more commonly known as DMT. They’d spasm for a good minute and a half, which felt great, but once they came out they would be left in a state of euphoria, so thankful they’d make me dinner and let me stay the night free of charge. As you can imagine doing this I developed myself somewhat of a reputation. In particular with the girls of my usual spot The Honey Hotel. There they were proclaiming me a spiritual window to the other side. The word on the street was, to be bedded by me was a gift in the form of an opportunity to talk to their gods, which brings me to Adirake.
Adirake had been the spiritual leader of a small tribe deep within the mountains. His village had, until a few years previous, been untouched by the rape hungry culture of the white man. A place unaffected by science and still governed by the laws of yester morrow. Some years previous to our meeting aid workers had stumbled across his village and introduced the internet as well as providing them with monthly rations. Their lifestyles had been dictated as unacceptable to modern living standards and had undergone severe changes. Due to these changes the villagers had begun to ignore the teachings of Adirake.
In the past it had been him who allowed marriages and the act of copulation and now the village was struggling to find enough food due to over population. A large portion of the youth would travel to the city and find work where they could. Most of which would go into gangs or prostitution.
Adirake had developed a nasty Amyl Nitrate addiction as well as carrying a backpack full of Vodka minnies around at all times, sinking them at a 2 minute average. He was sharing a room with a local whore named Buppha who had moved from the village in search of brighter prospects, the brighter prospects proved to be loads of foreigners sperm over her face and breasts whilst she barks like a dog on all fours.
He was depressed, manically depressed. Nothing could fill the hole in his heart. But when he heard word of my choking shenanigans from Buppha, who had in fact experienced it first had, a light begun to appear at the end of his darkest of tunnels.
I’ll never forget how we first met, the security outside wouldn’t let him in due to his human sacrificial tendencies so he had to get creative. He scaled the adjacent building and burst through the window, he scampered across the room pushing over waitresses and tables alike, palming the customers in the face as they tried to slow him down until he made his way to me sitting by the opposite window. He tackled me through the glass and we sailed down into a thicket of trash beneath.
At first I was terrified, I had seen some things in my time but this was the first time a shaman had tackled me out the window of a two story building.
He spun me his tale, explaining that his people were lost without his spiritual guidance. It was a heart breaking tale indeed.
“Now you see Mr. Batar, now you see what I must do. Name your price and it is yours. Anything and it’s yours.”
Here it was, my opportunity to learn the secrets of the Moonflower, I would be daft to turn down such a tantalizing bargain.
“Sir let me get one thing straight; I want all knowledge you have on the elusive fleur known as the moonflower. You give me this and I will aid you. But let me tell you now, if you want to exterminate the pestilent white men who have eroded your believer culture your gonna need to do more than choke a few bitches out. You dig?” Dug he did indeed, except for the concept of “digging,” used mostly in black exploitation cinema of the 1970’s meaning “Do you understand?”
The plan was simple. I would teach him the choke method, which he would use on the villagers. As for the honkeys, fear would have to be our primary weapon. I had made an acquaintance in a downtown fish market that ran a MDPV, A.K.A Mephedrone, A.K.A Meow Meow export business to the U.S. He was cleverly disguising the synthetic drug as bath salts and had offered me a good price for it. I had turned him down due to the side effects being violent psychosis and hallucinations. If fear is what we needed this is who we would have to talk too.
Open any travel pamphlet on Thailand and you’ll find yourself looking at the words “bring your own water or expect severe diarrhea.” So it was to be their water supply that I would poison. At this point Adirake would perform a ritual reestablishing his power over his people.
All was set, the water was poisoned and the whereabouts of the moonflower along with the guide of how to properly prepare it was tucked neatly in my mind tank.
All went smoothly, except for the fact that the MDPV was a little too effective; I was shortly arrested and imprisoned at the Klong Prem Central Prison for the fact that I was directly responsible for 35 aid relief workers clawing and eating each other’s faces off. There were only 4 survivors found in a pool of their friends blood, screaming that the tree demons of the Forrest would have devoured them if they hadn’t done what they did.
But Adirake got what he wanted, he saved his people. They were back on the rightful path they had been following for thousands of years.
As for me, I’m doing just fine. Using the knowledge passed from my shamanic friend I have started my own import/export business. Using the villagers to move the moonflowers into the prison where I use the inmates to prepare and package it. From there we sell it to major benefactors in 6 major capitals across the world.
The warden gets his cut, as do the guards. The prisoners do what they wish and the villagers get a little coin to buy antiseptics, penicillin, prophylactics, annual visits from a doctor and other then that are left alone to do as they are meant to. Live their lives.
So what’s the moral of this story?
I guess if there is one it’s this, just because it looks like someone needs your help, it doesn’t always mean they do. Don’t expect people to be thankful that you murdered their gods and finally… if you’re in Thailand, keep a very close eye on your belongings or someone like me may destroy your life forever.