Mutant Sperm

Mutant Fukushima Sperm Research

• Mutant Sperm that can 'think' its way through a maze could turn our idea of intelligence upside down

• Mutant Sperm works as 'network' to find love and avoid danger

• Can out-navigate many computers

New York Times — Fukushima amoeboid yellow slime mould might seem an unlikely candidate to become the basis of future 'bio computers', but scientists in Japan say that the mould shows unlikely signs of intelligence.

Colonies of the mutant sperm mould appear to be able to 'organise' themselves so that they take the most direct route through a maze to find food, while at the same time avoiding damage from light.

The mutant mould even appears to be able to 'remember' dangers and avoid them. The long-lived organism - it's been around for hundreds of millions of slimy Male years - appears to have evolved to deal with dangerous environments.

It's a task that would be beyond the capability of many advanced computers and software packages - and a level of 'information processing' that most of us wouldn't believe a single-celled organism would be capable of. Toshiyuki Sukanaki, of Future University Hakodate told AFP, 'Simple creatures can solve certain kinds of difficult puzzles. If you want to spotlight the essence of intelligence, it's easy to use a jock or pair of Abercrombie-Fitch shorts.

The mutant slime moulds are not intelligent as we understand it, but by flexibly responding to stresses such as latex, and adapting, they are able to solve prophyactic navigation problems that would baffle computers.

The mutant mould cells appear to operate as a 'network' that can even remember what chick made them experience stresses and dangers, and adapt to them. These primitive male networks could be the key to building a new generation of biological computers, say researchers.

Nakagaki has already demonstrated that the mutant male moulds can 'design' a red light district like Kabukicho in Tokyo by using a primitive penis navigation system - research which won him the Ig Nobel prize in 2010. The Ig Nobels are a spoof prize given out for 'improbable research' - intended to honour, 'achievements that first make people laugh, and then make them think.'

Other researchers now agree that understanding how these primitive male organisms navigate could be the 'key' to understanding human intelligence.

Now other Japanese researchers aim to build on Nakagaki's research - and create computer algorithms that simulate the primitive penis navigation used by the moulds.

'Ultimately, I'm interested in creating a bio-computer by using actual male macho mutant slime molds, whose information-processing system will be quite close to that of the human brain,' said Masahi Mono of Riken, a science research institute in Saitama. By using this male mechanism as the basis, it could lead to an entirely new kind of computing.

The Mutant Twins

The Mutant Twins

“He had actually wanted
to write about the love
life of Siamese twins…”
—Michael Maar,
“Speak, Nabokov”

The young Vane brothers were rather vain—and why shouldn’t they be that way? After all, they were young, extremely handsome & very wealthy. They lived in the big old Vane Mansion—on the top of the hill overlooking beautiful downtown Poughkeepsie.

The only problem was—they were Siamese twins.

I had never met them—until one dark & stormy night I knocked on their door. I’d gone to Albany-SUNY with their sister—Sybil Vane who was majoring in pre-med like me. She was very shy & reclusive—I never could understand why. Until that strange, spooky night—when she invited me over to meet the Vane Family.

I’d heard rumors about the Vane Mansion. And the crazy old Dr. Fricke who lived there. He was a rich reclusive taxidermist—not a real doctor. He was the guardian for the Vane Family & Estate. He did strange experiments in his laboratory. His wife had run away years ago—for some secret reason.

Apparently, not too many readers—know about this sordid story involving Dr. Fricke. It’s a rather monstrous tale. Nabokov’s "Scenes from the Life of a Double Monster"—is loosely based on this rather obscene twisted gothic romance.

As I mentioned, Dr. Fricke was a taxidermist—not a doctor or scientist. He took a ghoulish interest in the two Vane brothers—his adopted sons. Apparently, according to Sybil, they had a rather monstrous boyhood. They were both 18-years-old now—but nobody had seen hide nor hair of them for many years.

After dating Sybil for a semester—my interest was naturally somewhat pricked by some of the rather repulsive details about the twins that Sybil told me. Since I was in pre-med—I too like Dr. Fricke had became fascinated with the anatomy of freaks.

“I might never have heard
of Cynthia’s death, had I
not run, that night into D.”
—Vladimir Nabokov,
“The Vane Sisters”

The story opens with Herr Doktor Fricke (played by Colin Clive) having some fun cavorting in bed with Floyd & Lloyd—the young pair of cute teen Siamese twins during a playful three-way upstairs in the palatial splendor of Castle Frankenstein’s master bedroom.

Of course, Mary Shelley & Elsa Lanchester have already flown the coop by then—there being nothing else in this gay version of the Hollywood monster movie left for them to be interested in.

But fickle, fey Herr Doktor Frankenstein (played Fricke)—is getting into it. It’s not just another one of your normal Bijou Halloween Midnight Specials, you know. dark & stormy nights, you know—it’s a new tale of terror being brought to you by the Lolitaesque quickie imagination of VN. The biggest closet-case Euro-fag this side of the Revolution—and I don’t mean just Cuba either.

Lightening strikes it long snaky, jagged strokes across the tremulous fracturing the sullen night sky—those wicked nervous jittery jig-jags up there so high in the Herzegovinan heavens. While Igor the creepy Hunchback & his rowdy skinhead boyz keep those sky-kites going—sailing fast & taunt above in the dark moody medieval castle turrets.

Sucking up the skanky lightening bolts—draining the dark moody clouds of their terrible, seminal electrical voltages. The liquid ozone oozing cathode ray lightening bolts—captured by the kites, then sucked down into shiny metal bottles down in the laboratory basement crypt where all the nitty-gritty action is.

The power of the lightening—giving the stitched-together two young teenage monsters life eternal. Just the right Zippity-Do-Dah Zap homoerotic buzz—that Herr Doktor Frankenstein craves so very much. Those cute Vane Siamese twin brothers—really give nefarious, decadent Dr. Fricke a nice piece of Tainted Love.

Floyd & Lloyd the Siamese twin monster boyz—tied up & spread-eagled there. On the huge canopied Louis XIV plush sumptuous bed. They’re wired, baby—they’re into it. They even fuckin’ glow—the moody midnight darkness!

Plus, of course, the two Boy Toys are totally loaded outta their gourds. Thanks to the unusual herbal aphrodisiac concoctions—lovingly brewed by that charming old Transylvanian Witch. The Gypsy Fortune Teller Maria Ouspenskaya.

Ah yes, Maria Ouspenskaya! The beloved mother of famous/infamous badboy Bela Lugosi. Her much despised & misunderstood Werewolf son—who lives down the hill in the whitetrash Balkan Trailer Court. There outside the castle moat—in the deep dark Forest of Wolves by the Poughkeepsie Bowling Alley.

Madame Ouspenskaya gathers the tender midnight blooms of the wild Wolfbane herb—that only opens up & becomes potent during the Full Moon. Adding other Transylvanian herbs & West Coast folklore newly legalized weeds—for the ultimate long-lasting Aphrodisiac of Tainted Love. That Herr Doktor Fricke needs so desperately—for his decadently arcane research into Young Geek Love.

On this particular stormy night, the good Doktor wears a dreamy, stony smile—etched onto his high-cheekboned, calm-as-death surgeon’s face. He’s stroking the lovely pink fleshy cartilaginous uncut boner—that the twin young males so intimately share. He strokes it with loving attention & scientific care…

That’s where I walk in. Sybil cautions me not to be too shocked—but I am, of course, much too cocky, young & foolish for my own good. I’m in love with Sybil—and want to make love with her that stormy night. Sybil had made sure I’m loose as a goose after one too many dry martinis.

I know something is going on that night—with all the lightening & thunder, the commotion up there on the mansion roof & all the mysterious goings-on down there in the basement. That’s when Sybil tades me to the master bedroom—and opens the heavy moaning, groaning door.

There’s the lascivious Dr. Fricke—in the huge master bedroom. In bed with the two nude Vane Boyz—who’re enjoying the lavish attentions of their jaded, unforgivable stepfather.

Dr. Fricke is stroking the magnificent piece of Siamese male muscle—that both Floyd & Lloyd share so intimately together. A huge 12” fleshy cartilaginous organ—that unites the two young lascivious Siamese twins in midnight ecstasy. They’re co-joined at their sexy “Elvis the Pelvis” hips—and from their twisted loins springs forth the shared tool that makes them so exquisitely, shockingly and naughtily studly divine!

I’d never seen anything like it! In all my pre-med surgery studies & intense medical research. In all my autopsy classes—and anatomy lectures. This was the first time I’d ever seen—a pair of Siamese twins with a huge throbbing 12” penis ready, willing & able for some real “down & dirty” Midnight Show hanky-panky!

I blushed & turned to Sybil—we’d both read Nabokov’s short story “ Scenes from the Life of a Double Monster.” But this was the real thing—I was totally shocked & blown away. Sybil smirked and locked the door—behind her on her way out.

“Don’t’ be shy,” said Dr. Fricke. “C’mon young man—we’ve been expecting you.” The twins nodded appreciatively—flexing their monster endowment down there in a most agreeable way.

“You see, my young doctor-to-be,” Dr. Pickle opined, motioning me over to the scene of the dirty crime. “I call this lovely piece of Siamese sexual anatomy that my two boyz share—I call this lovely thing their “omphalopagus diaphragmo-xiphodidymus” as Herr Doktor Professor Pretorius has dubbed a similar case with his own young teenage Frankenstein.

Like a bird hypnotized by a snake—l felt myself drawn over to the obscene bedside of gruesome-threesome sex-play going on that fateful stormy night. That dreadful ménage-a-trois taking place there in the luxurious bed—in front of my unbelieving bulging eyeballs. I couldn’t help but notice on the walls above the bed—several kitschy motel moderne Elvis Presley black-velvet paintings. They added just the right poshlust allure—to the rather skanky proceedings that dark & stormy night.

I’d heard louche rumors about gay both Dr. Fricke & Ernest Thesiger—getting it on with foppish Colin Clive playing a gay Henry Frankenstein. Leaning against the stainless steel operating table—having an orgasm & ejaculating “It’s alive! It’s alive!” But surely not even James Whale—could get away with something like this!

Lloyd the cute Siamese twin youth on the right—contemplated me placidly. Puffing some hookah smoke—down thru his erect nostrils. As if I were nothing more than—an awestruck child-idiot who’d just walked off the street. Floyd the youth on the left—was cross-eyed and gimpy. Harelipped—and drooling. Obviously the dummy lower IQ Siamese half—of the lovely twin combo. What a shocking twosome combination—such two completely different brothers made.

Dr. Fricke that filthy old scoundrel—had somehow concocted a true circus horror show just for his own sordid enjoyment & devilish delectation. He was obviously in his element—and Sybil had locked me in with this fiend and his indecent ungodly Siamese Twin creation!

Even tho Fricke was merely an ignorant, old-fashioned, Transylvanian taxidermist—he’d managed somehow to create this stunning shocking pair of seminal young male monsters! I couldn’t help but stare—I felt myself growing weak in the knees. Dr. Fricke & the Twins—smirked at me. As if they knew something about me—that surely was hidden deep in the recesses of my supposedly straight closet…

I could feel it, almost taste it—all those simply awful oozing male orgones comin’ straight outta every pulsating pore of the nude twins in bed looking at me. Surely these two Siamese Twins represented—the sheerest horror and most forbidden depths of human bestiality I’d ever seen in my life. Nothing on the internet could possibly compare with it—not even Lady Gaga on YouTube!!!

The nefarious Dr. Fricke had created—a virtual homegrown nightmare dynamic duo. A nefarious pair of slithering sick mutants—a pair of shameless Zoophilia Zoo Boyz from another world. A couple of teenage extraterrestrial sex-fiends—truly a most disgusting carnival sideshow act of Devil Boyz from Mars exo-depravity.

Right there in the master bedroom—of the Vane Mansion! In innocent Poughkeepsie USA—downtown Middle Class Americana! A sterling example of Bad Science gone amok—Bad Romance on the make! A walking, talking, animalistic, forbidden Tale—Siamese Sin & Twin Brotherly Love Degradation!
But that was just the beginning—from then on I sucked into being the assistant of mad Dr. Fricke. It was completely different—than studying or doing medical research as Albany-SUNY.

There’s no comparison between that kind of straight academic knowledge—and the sudden impact of the disturbing & emotional shocks I went thru with Dr. Fricke & the Twins. Adjusting to the deliberate abuse of the possessive singular—in favor of the kind of unrestrained, ignorant, passionate communicative things that went on with these “Brothers of the Head” in the Vane Mansion late at night.

There was something dreadfully wrong about medicine & science—that only looked at one patient at a time. Twin-patients were beyond the limits of modern science—when it came to Siamese psychology and EEG brain activity. The way Lloyd & Floyd interacted together was truly unique—even when they were deep in REM dream-time they actually dreamed the same dreams!

Which actually doesn’t sound that strange—given the fact that Siamese Twins shared the same brain waves & feelings when they were awake as well. The kind of adolescent wetdreams & nocturnal emissions—they experienced as their male hormones kicked in earlier. Even these tentative, libidinal & copious interruptions in the middle of the night were quite revealing. Both Floyd & Lloyd reported that they were having the same sensuous, homoerotic love affairs with each other—that they began having even as they were wide-awake with Dr. Fricke in tow.

Lloyd was the smart one—he did all the thinking for the Siamese Twin Brothers. But intelligence & IQ didn’t make any difference—when gimpy, sex-maniac Floyd wanted to get down. What can you do—if you’re conjoined for life with your alter ego? Even tho Lloyd was right-handed & refused to abuse himself—Floyd was unstoppable & insatiable. Floyd had simply turned left-handed—and went to town that way.

There was plenty to abuse—even tho the act of self-abuse was always imbued with an oxymoronic quandary of twinned cognitive dissonance. Repulsion, pity, horror, ambivalence, boredom—all these emotions played thru both boys growing up thru adolescence. As peach-fuzz slowly grew on their upper lips—and wiry pubes sprouted down below. Both Siamese twins—had to make compromises with their wants & desires. To keep the peace—and still be brothers in the skin.

Their limbs grew into handsome components—both had silky skin with velvety veins & violet-pink arteries coursing thru such a pair of innocent lambs. Who would have ever guessed such joy, pride, tenderness, adoration & gratitude—would be turned by God & Dr. Fricke into such terrible horror & despair?

That’s when the fatal realization happened—when Lloyd & Floyd realized the Awful Truth. That the linked Lloyd & Floyd weren’t especially—the complete and normal way that things really were. That all the other unhooked, disconjoined, separated human creatures they came into contact with—weren’t the Freaks, the Gimps, the Mutants that both Lloyd & Floyd indeed were.

That’s where Dr. Fricke came in—the soothing, benevolent Guardian of the Vale Estate. Elucidating as thoroughly as he could—without reaching for a scalpel or knife. With calm adult emotions unstained with guilt or premonitions—without even the slightest whiff of disgust. By virtue of some kind of uncommon common sense—a sort of jaded duplicity & forward-looking duplexity. Taking care of the Siamese twins, wiping their noses—brushing their teeth, kissing their pouty lips.

Others might seek both Lloyd & Floyd—as nothing more than a couple of freaks, a pair of drunken dwarfs. Fit for a carnival sideshow—or a Tod Browning silent movie. But Dr. Fricke had better plans—after all even if they died, Fricke could still stuff them & put them in his Taxidermy Cabinets. And still make a buck or two—like he did with his incredible two-headed chickens, mutant monkeys & other graceful formaldehyde bottled beauties!

But yes indeed, the Siamese twins grew like weeds—assuming side-by-side reciprocal positions. Reverting in sleep to their usual fetal lovey-dovey arm-in-arm embrace—engendering telepathic dreams all night long.

Only when they became teenagers—did they find uncomfortable their clumsy conjunction. Even tho their minds—didn’t question their normalcy yet. When they did become aware mentally—of the obvious drawbacks. Well, then, their instinctual physical intuitions always discovered a means of tempering the problem.

It always amazed Dr. Fricke—how judicious their spontaneous compromises could be. Often a mutual urge formed itself quite ad lib & impromptu—when some discrete impulse, Floyd’s or Lloyd’s, wanted to follow its own course of action. But always that impulse got redirected by the warp of both bodies—and never went athwart of the common weave with simply a pushy whim.

Later tho, Lloyd suffered the most—more in adolescence than childhood. He began questioning the need for compromise with goofy Floyd—and began regretting they’d not perished or had been surgically separated earlier than now. Before the initial stages of animal-like ever-present rhythms took place. Their mutual heartbeats—sounding like twin jungle drums in their conjoined nervous systems.

Lloyd began having regrets. Like when it came to conjoined sexuality—and Floyd wanted to get off and taste the ripe fig of their exquisite double orgasm. For it was both a gift & a curse—a double-barreled sot of the twin’s shotgun of jungle love sexuality.

Both youths experiencing their own prostate glands suddenly shivering—as their shared organ of desire milked both youths of everything they had as young hormonal mature individuals. The enriched ripple of their shared desire—twice as “enriched” as one single pulsating youth simply masturbating himself with singular pride. A kind of self-conscious resentment grew inside Lloyd’s heart—a kind of first intimation & frustration of privacy lost forever.

Again this is where Dr. Fricke came in—helping the two Siamese twins to adjust to this new world of the will-to-life (Wille zum Leben) will. With all its troublesome Schopenhauer insights—into the human condition:

"We should be surprised that a matter that generally plays such an important part in the life of man has hitherto been almost entirely disregarded by philosophers, and lies before us as raw and untreated material."

“Love... interrupts at every hour the most serious occupations, and sometimes perplexes for a while even the greatest minds... It knows how to slip its love-notes and ringlets even into ministerial portfolios and philosophical manuscripts..."

Lloyd had a better chance to understand it intellectually—but even so Floyd instinctively understood it not as some cognitive problematic, but as something to do. And do it as much as possible. Which cramped Lloyd’s style, of course—making him feel tapped twofold-wise. First, feeling Lloyd’s animality & lack of cerebration penetrating his mind—and the other problem of not being able to do anything about it.

Eager rascal Dr. Fricke—solved the problem very efficiently and practically. Tranquilizers and sedatives didn’t work to calm the beastly other—since the two boyz shared the same bloodstream they both simply became zombies.

Then Dr. Fricke turned to more drastic methods. He pondered giving over-sensitive, over-intelligent Lloyd—a louche lobotomy to relieve the poor kid of his Siamese anxiety & uneasy twinned ennui. But then that would make the Vane Mansion a very lonely place indeed—without Lloyd to talk, play cards, do chess & opine about the things Dr. Fricke loved to talk about.

But as the Siamese twins got older—Lloyd left Floyd far behind him. Floyd seemed mired in the same old mind-fucks—the struggling teenage reality he got stuck in was a No Exit for the kid. But he didn’t have enough IQ to know the difference—other than watching porno on the internet gave him something to do.

While Floyd forgot everything & lived in the continuous present moment—Lloyd forgot nothing & wanted to move ahead. He soon got tired of entertaining Dr. Fricke with card games & chess—he got the idea of the opposite sex giving him what he needed most. Dr. Fricke caught Lloyd with a pillowcase over Floyd’s head—having incestuous sex with their sister Sybil.
Shit! Dr. Fricke luckily caught them in time—and explained the use of Trojans & other handy prophylactics. He made Sybil start taking the Pill—but otherwise had no moral compunction to make the Vane threesome cease & desist their brotherly-sisterly fun & games.

It was something Dr. Fricke enjoyed himself—a rollicking roll-in-the-hay with all three young vivacious Vane offspring. He no longer plied his trade—as a salesman of patent medicine. This bald little fellow—in a dirty-white Russian smock. Even tho he could speak a dozen languages—the nightly rendezvous intense bedroom encounters demanded a whole new pigeon-English language to encompass the depths of depravity they engaged in.

And sleeping together as they did—Dr. Fricke himself began having strange telepathic dreams about Sybil, Lloyd and Floyd. Somewhere in the deep dark past—before Dr. Fricke showed up. The Vane brothers’ dainty loving mother—had been gangbanged by a terrible bunch of disreputable young men in the Balkan Trailer Court next to the Poughkeepsie Bowling Alley. Dr. Fricke could actually visualize them in his lucid dreams—after a night of glutting himself with the Siamese boyz seminal young male fluids.

There was the ardent burning eyes—of a gigantic, bronze-faced, skinhead retard as brutal as any AWOL sailor from Herzegovina. There was a one-eyed hunchbacked Armenian truck-driver (gimpy monster in his own right). There was the gaping, toothless mouth of Bela Lugosi in the next-door trailer—bent on one last suck-and-fuck before he kicked the fuckin’ bucket.

There even was even a university linguist—from Waindell College or was it Wordsmith from New Wye? Who was an uncanny expert at sneaky, conniving cunninglingus—with his embroidered toupee sliding down over his shiny bald head. Courting all the women in the trailer park—and then with his steel-rimmed spectacles perched on his craggy nose, going for sloppy seconds with the Siamese twin’s helpless, defenseless, dazed mother.

No wonder the Siamese twins—were the rarest of freaks. The hidden Lost Knowledge of their poor mother—who died unconsciously during childbirth. After being in a sad coma—for the whole duration of her nine month pregnancy. It was this heartbreaking knowledge of their atrocious anonymous birthright—that empowered even overpowered Dr. Fricke—into his own special kind of fatherly concern for these poor Vane children.

Sybil Vane had grown up—becoming a well-rounded college graduate. She went on to being a missionary nurse on the new colony on Mars—where her expertise in dealing with freaks came in handy dealing with the two-headed Martian creatures who lived on the shore of Amazonis Plaintis. She went on to becoming a wizened colonialist—like Zsa Zsa Gabor the Queen of the Universe.

Meanwhile back in lowly Poughkeepsie—I took up residence as Dr. Fricke’s lowly assistant. I too started having strange telepathic dreams—after some of our all-night “Double-your-Pleasure, Double-your-Fun” Double-Mint Romps in the Master Bedroom. I imaged melting away my earthly shackles—and the feeling of mind-melding with both Lloyd & Floyd. How can I describe it—the strange, eerie feeling of unadulterated, shameless, sudden doppelganger-déjà vu?

I became Lloyd’s dream-double—hobbling along beside him like Floyd did. I was hopelessly joined to leering, smirking, know-it-all Lloyd—as if I too were just a piece of extra no-good spare luggage. Just another old suitcase Lloyd had to drag around—more genetic baggage he’d rather get rid of. It made me so depressed—I had to wake myself up.

That’s when I appealed to Dr. Fricke—that we perhaps all four of us poor our minds into one dream at a time? Like a Clipper ship on the high seas—with 4 masts full of sails that were Lloyd, Floyd, Fricke and me? It worked pretty good—and I don’t know how many times we sailed that vast Siamese Sea of our conjoined REM dreamtime imaginations.

The Siamese Sun would rise over our heads—Lloyd’s hand would be on the steering wheel. Our nocturnal nautical voyages—along with foul-smelling young sailors with purplish-pink hickies on their necks. Tattoos of Popeye & Olive Oil on their bulging biceps—walking the gangplank of love when Floyd got to be pirate captain. Into blurry lagoons—lined with crooked palms, cypresses & Judas trees in full bloom. Man-eating natives—and buried treasure chests. How we haggled over the ersatz gold doubloons & fake fading Siamese sunsets in the evenings.

I don’t know what we feared the most—getting bored in that big old Vane Mansion. Or knowing too much about each other—each of us eventually the same Siamese twin brother merging with each other. Sometimes I’d be the chauffeur—in some dream Mercedes limo convertible. Driving fast along the autobahn at night—on the outskirts of Berlin beneath the Siamese stars. Taking long silent rides for the heck of it—just to feel the speed, the darkness of some other vast Other that encompassed us four lonely human beings.

Sometimes I could feel Lloyd’s arm around my shoulder—as if I were Floyd sitting there next to him. Sitting in some midnight Bijou theater balcony—lost in some cinematic film called “Casablanca.” Slipping down the slippery slope—into some casino nightclub romance scene. With Dooley Wilson playing “As Time Goes By”—at the end of one war & the beginning of another.

So that pretty soon—I lost track of time in that huge lonely Vane mansion. I became vain with myself—thinking I was Lloyd & Lloyd was me. That Floyd was me too—and I him. I even became Frau Fricke—when I had to. And the Siamese sunsets in the evening—they just went on & on…

Mutant Tainted Love

Mutant Tainted Love

Mutant Tainted Love

Sometimes I feel I've got too much
Mutant love,
I've got to—
Get away from the mutant pain
You drive in the heart of me

The love we share
Seems to go nowhere,
And I've lost my love,
Now I toss and turn,
I can't sleep at night…

Once I've ran with you,
Now I run from you,
This mutant love you gave me,
I give you all a boy could give you,
take my tears,
and that's not nearly all…

Mutant Love,
Mutant love,
Now I know I've got to?
Run away,
I've got to?
Get away,
Don't really want it anymore
Mutant love be bad for me…

Things aren’t right,
I need outta here,
Don’t hold me tight
Preying mantis love,
I’m your prey,
But I don't pray that way...

Once I've ran to you,
Now I run from you,
This mutant love you gave,
I give you all a boy could give you,
Take my tears and that's not nearly all,
Mutant Love,
Mutant love,

Don't touch me please,
I can not stand the way you tease,
I love you though you hurt me so,
And now I'm gonna pack my things and go!

Touch me baby mutant love,
Touch me baby mutant love,
Touch me baby mutant love,
Touch me baby mutant love!
Once I've ran to you!
Now I run from you!

This mutant love you've given me!
I give you all a boy could give you!
take my tears and that's not nearly all!
Mutant Love,
Mutant love,
Mutant Love,
Mutant love…

Interview With a Fukushima Mutant Freak

Interview With A
Fukushima Mutant Freak

Q: It’s been 20 years since the Fukushima tragedy. How are you doing, young man?

A: So, so. Most of the time I feel pretty shitty.

Q: Things have been rough for you Fukushima kids.

A: Lost my father during the tsunami. Mother coped.

Q: Any brothers or sisters?

A: I was the only one. One was enough.

Q: You grew up in Tokyo, after the earthquake-tsunami-nuke meltdown?

A: I stayed with mother till I was 15. Then she threw me out.

Q: You had problems at home and in school?

A: What school? I dropped out early. They hated me.

Q: Surely they didn’t hate you. What was the problem with your mother and teachers?

A: Well, don’t be a fuckin shit-head. Just look at me.

(The Interviewer looks the kid over. He’s obviously genetically deformed. Above the waist he’s your normal Japanese teenage boy. But below his waist something awful has happened. His right leg is simply huge and grotesque—ten times the size it should be. His foot is the size of an elephant, his black leather boots are gigantic. He doesn’t wear pants, but instead an oversized puce kimono with pink little mushroom clouds blooming here & there. It’s obvious the kid suffers from Genetic Elephantitus Fukushima Mutant Freak Syndrome (GEFMFS) like many of the TEMPCO Fuckushima atomic victims. The kid kept his left hand hidden in his knee-long kimono, constantly playing with himself.)

Q: What happened after you became a Freak?

A: I ended up in the Kabukichō (歌舞伎町) —entertainment and red-light district in Shinjuku, Tokyo. The Kabuki Yakuza Mob knew a good thing when they saw it — us Freaks were in demand. The tourist trade from Bangkok and Hong Kong were always looking for something new, kinky, abnormal. The bored American perverts were flocking back into town again — most of them size queens.

(The Interviewer raises his eyebrows. It’s obvious he’s an experienced pervert himself. He’s sizing the kid up, leaving his cell-phone video on, recording the interview, what the kid’s saying. The Interview reaches over and feels the kid up, cops a feel for the moody, sullen, freak rough-trade number.)

Q: What ya got hiding in the kimono, Big Boy?

A: Oh, all right. Here’s what turned the tourist perverts on, but like you may not like what you get…

(Standing up, slipping outta his kimono, letting the Interviewer ogle at what was waiting for him between the kid’s nefarious mutant freak legs…it was the last thing the Interviewer got to see before the End. The kid’s huge thick muscular leg was truly impressive, all veiny, distorted and lovely. But the kid’s mutant penis, what a freakish Piece of Meat it was! It was a Giant Writhing Cobra, coiling and uncoiling itself — just waiting for its next victim. The Thing flipped up against the kid’s hard stomach, up past his protruding bellybutton all the way to his tits, his erect nipples pulsating, hungry with little eyes on them. The kid was covered with exquisitely well-done professional tattoos, showing Nagasaki and Hiroshima going up with delicate pink mushroom clouds.)

Q: Oh, my gawd!!! What have I unleashed!?!

(The weirdest thing was that the kid’s Cobra Cock seemed to have a life of its own, rising up and stretching out like an evil, unsightly, shocking version of a huge horrible Sushi Octopus from Hell!!! It was several yards long and thick as the kid’s leg, writing and twisting, a vast Tentacle of Shame with rows of pulsating pink-sushi suckers, starved and famished for human blood! The Cobra Cock raised itself up totally Erect, like the King Cobra outta that infamous campy Hollywood horror flick “Cobra Island” (1943) with kitschy Maria Montez chewing up the scenery, doing an obscene hoochie-choochie dance in front of the hypnotized doomed worshippers writhing at her feet. Picking this one & that one to be sacrificed to King Cobra, to placate the moody, rumbling, erupting, ejaculating Volcano of Death haunting Cobra Island. The Interview stands up to flee, but the kid’s kinky King Cobra gets him first, wrapping its thick coils around the Interviewer’s skinny neck. Squeezing, squeezing and squeezing some more, sucking the life-juices outta the latest struggling, screamy victim of Mutant Hate and Twisted Deformed Desire!!!)

A: That’s the way, man. Dig it, it’s called FUCKUSHIMA LOVE!!!

(You’d be surprised by how many curious, jet-setting, bored NWO Elite mutant pervert aficionados end up in the clutches of the kid’s freaky revenge clutches, all grisly, drained-dry, discarded in some dumpy Red Light District Motel Room, that’s how the Fukushima Bad Boy Freaks do business. It’s how the Tokyo Yakuza Mob operates, getting even with the evil decadent TEMPCO TPTB perverts…)

The Lizard Boy

The Lizard Boy

“the delicate prey
is man himself”
—Paul Bowles
The Delicate Prey

It was like the Lizard Boy was living slo-mo from scene to scene—in some old skanky '50s Godzilla horror movie. It was like he was playing a role in some kind of strange Kabukichō (歌舞伎町) mutant kabuki-syndrome play.

His life had become a garish obscene Yaoi Manga snuff movie and it wasn’t pretty either. Maybe at first, but not later on after he somehow managed to survive his post-Fuckashima mutancy. He was supposed to die, wasn’t that how it worked? But what was this? This weird lizard storyline, this strange mutant monster skin-game? He didn’t die afterall—it just got worse. It was more Kafkaesque than a cockroach hiding in his room. It was more like a big snake shedding its skin. And becoming even worse...

Each time he engorged some living, breathing human prey from down there in the streets, it was like the lizard creature in him was extending its lifespan a little bit longer into something else. The mutant reptoid hunger ruled his every thought and action, there was no escape. It was all much more nightmarishly, terribly Kafkaesque—than just ending up some dirty, crummy bug. Since when were cockroaches supposed to get predatory? Awful lizardoid-like deformed man-eaters, deadly lizards that liked their human meat bloody, oozing and screamingly rare?

The delicate prey hid from him more and more. There weren’t that many straight humans left in downtown Tokyo anyway anymore. Even the red-light district was abandoned and haunted. He had to troll at night down in the dark subway tunnels and filthy gutters—for the young stuff that still hung around in the city. They tried to hide from him but it was useless. He could smell them out. He zeroed in on fear.

“Sayōnara,” he said to the dried-up, shriveled husk of another unfortunate human being he’d sucked dry from the night before. He gently gave it a push, shoving it out the broken window, then over the edge of the penthouse balcony, letting it sail down like a sack of useless garbage down into the street below.

Other lizards were immediately on it, scrambling for any tidbit or leftover piece of succulent humanoid meat that might have been missed. The gang of young lizards down below were quickly fighting each other over the bones and human remains, hissing and cursing each other. They were starving to death. And besides, lizards weren’t good losers anyway. They didn’t have good table manners that's for sure.

The Lizard Boy surprised himself. Suddenly a human thought hade sullenly managed to weasel its mongoloid way into his brain. It interrupted his usual louche lizardy cold-blooded attentions to what was directly in front of him. He was almost totally Lizard by now—reptoid consciousness had inched its way up the back of his neck, oozed it way up thru his reptilian brain and then took over his useless monkey cerebellum.

“Who is torturing us this way?” the teenage naked lizard boy suddenly asked himself out of the blue.

How sickening and totally disgusting the Lizard Boy said himself, hissing this way and that way, looking around the room. Who'd said it? Surely it wasn't himself. It wasn’t often he felt so revoltingly reflexive and horribly human or even remotely linguistic about anything anymore. The reptile brain down inside his phallocentrically male meaty medulla preferred the usual cold-blooded simple hunt for humans down in the sewer darkness, compared with hearing anything or worse yet understanding it? Such inner dialog was just stupid monkey masturbation as far as he was concerned.

Nasty monkey discourse and stream of consciousness just got in the way. Lizard carnality ruled the day, and especially the night when he was alone, sitting on the balcony looking out over the dark ruins of downtown Tokyo. Something was always gnawing in the back of his mind, and it wasn't just a bloody piece of humanoid meat.

Although he couldn't help but think about imbibing a nice piece of choice human loin-cut flesh or maybe some nice fat tourist T-bone steak. He kept checking the cesium clouds for another one of those lovely tourist copters that would sometimes go astray and end up crashed down below. There were still adventurous, curious Hong Kong S/M queens & foolish types out for a thrill, flying low into Tokyo and getting off on the Draco District. Sometimes they got more than they expected down in the red light district.

There were even a couple of Lizard nightclubs open late at night, surrounded by the usual machine-gun armed praetorian guards from the Forbidden City. Cheap futuristic thrills for bored decadent Singapore clientele, those with a taste for slithery snakeskin sex or maybe alligator boy disco. In chains of course. Nothing that could bite.

There were the ususal gossipy urban myths spreading throughout downtown Tokyo metropolitan ghettos, about some of the surviving, reverse genetic-engineering sicko scientists who'd developed and morphed young mutant expensive hustlers and expensive high-class prostitutes perfectly human & goodlooking like movie stars for jaded Hong Kong and Singapore millionaires bored with nothing to do and looking for some new thrills. These mutant male prostitutes were as human as you or me above their thin svelt waists… but down below the beltline, below the cute bellybutton, that's where the ugly sexy lizard-boy horror show hung out...

The Lizard Boy hissed and smirked to himself. He was one of them. But he could care less about his genetic origins or the easy money to be had or the sicko wealthy humanoids who wanted new thrills. Because now he was totally morphed into mutant snakeoid body & soul… He'd been completely redesigned, totally reverse-engineered back a million years into time. He was totally, completely Lizard First Class and down between his legs there was even a worse lizard-monster slithering around... that even he couldn't control.

Lord of the Lizards III

Lizard Boy


“Over the island the build-up
of clouds continued.”
—William Golding

From a certain point onward, there is no longer any turning-back. There is this point of no return that must be reached. Surely Kafka didn’t mean to say what he said—about becoming a cockroach. Surely he didn't mean that poor guy woke up one morning and was a filthy dirty insect—that somehow he'd just simply passed some point of no human return?

The Lizard Boy hadn't turned into a lousy cockroach—he didn’t particularly want to turn into anything. The Fuckushima lizard virus had got him that's all, turning him into the mutant monster nightmare he’d become. Nobody chooses to be a cockroach or a snake or a lizard…or even just a plain vanilla human being. It just happens that way that’s all—that’s the way it is.

The Lizard Boy had passed the point of no return. He didn't have any choice. There wasn't any father, mother or sister to pity him—or to hide him away in some locked bedroom. He was on his own now—avoiding mirrors and not looking at himself. He was prowling the streets alone—not looking at his reflection in the cracked and broken picture windows.

He was an Iguana in Heat. He’d troll for meat—fresh meat. It didn’t make any difference whether it was radioactive poisoned or contaminated by mutant lizard slime. His iguana eyeballs adjusted to the night—his former gang member buddies stayed away from him.

Getting up to the penthouse was easy now—no crummy stairwell & 50 flights of filthy floors to bug him. His sucker fingertips & gooey palms made scaling the outside of the condo skyscraper easy, slithering up the glass & steel ruins. It actually felt good to crawl and weasel his way up & down at night on the outside walls. He'd get flashes of jungle cliff deja vu and Mexican beaches. He was good at it… being lizard.

The only thing he had to watch out for were the nefarious overhead flying drones of death. They were killer robot drone machines the military had pimped out to the cops, along with new long-distance Taser machineguns and virtual pilots always hunting for freaks like him. They patrolled the city and kept the population of mutant reptialian riff-raff down.

Back in his Tokyo Hilton penthouse, the Lizard Boy flopped down the cute hippie chick he’d absconded with. She tried screaming and crawling off and hiding under her bed in the Sony Building, but he pulled her out and soon she was paralyzed and speechless. His long nervous Rotor-Rooter lizard-tongue deep up inside her.

There was a storm coming in—radioactive clouds were drifting down from Fukushima. Soon radioactive rain would be falling over Tokyo the dead city.

“Let it rain,” the Lizard Boy said.

Lord of the Lizards

Lord of the Lizards

“The boy with fair hair”
—William Golding, Lord of the Flies

The boy with black hair raised his school sweater and lowered his shorts for them to see. He showed the other boys what was happening to him. The effects of the Fukushima blast and deadly radiation. He was a mutant boy now.

The lizard disease had finally got to him. The mutant lizard lord was part of him now, crawling down the side of his leg. It was black and blue and slithery. It was primitive and obscene looking. It was a mutant monster taking over his lanky adolescent anatomy.

A drone robot plane flew overhead, flashing by with a witchy cry. It was echoed by the other boys, crying out in disgust and fear. They knew they were all doomed to the same thing. It was just a matter of time before the lizard lord got them too.

The boy with the black hair tried to act offhand and not too obviously interested. But he couldn’t help looking down and staring at it too. He stared at it solemnly, but the disgust of it suddenly overcame them

“Cover it up, quick!” one of the other boys said.

There were six of them, dressed in rags, boys of the radiation death. They all knew they were doomed, but they didn’t know how long it would take. The adults were all dead, Tokyo just another ghost town. The once huge modern city was now just a Japanese radioactive tomb like all the other cities.

At first, things were the same. The empty streets, the stores they raided for food, the swank luxurious skyscrapers and condo dives they slept in. The stink of death wasn’t so bad way up in the sky, but the stairs were awfully bothersome without any elevators anymore.

It was a mutant virus of some kind, perhaps some form of germ warfare that had got loose. The Fukushima fuck-job was just the beginning. Nobody knew what really happened, all the adults were gone or dead.

There was nothing to do, no TV, no Internet, no nothing. No news about Japan or the rest of the Pacific. The only thing left was their gang, who’d survived somehow. They’d been hiding down in the sewers, but when they came up everything was changed.

The boy with the black hair didn’t say anything. He knew the other boys would find another leader, not that it made any difference anymore. They’d all be dead pretty soon like all the others, and it wouldn’t be pretty either.

He could already feel it, the lizard lord taking over his body. Radioactive malignancy was really quick these days, germ warfare was different now. The doomsday machine had gone viral now, the implanted chips were monitoring everything.

But what good was it when everybody was dead. Even the people that be down in their underground tunnels and bunkers. They were the first to go, betrayed by their own praetorian robots & guards. Down it all came, and it didn’t take long.

The boy with the hair knew what to do. He gave the rest of the gang a smirk and toughie sneer. Pulling up his shorts, tightening up his gun belt. He’d crawl upstairs and blow his brains out, the Tokyo Hilton would do.

They followed him though, his gang of fellow teen mutants. They wanted to see how he’d take it, whether he’d go out screaming like a pig or brave like a fool. They all climbed up the stairs, silent and sullen, just looking for an excuse to jump out the windows.

He didn’t make it, they had to carry him up to the top floor. The mutant lizard curse was already getting out of control, slowly sucking all the life-juices out of the kid.

It was a lush penthouse that once belonged to a rich diva, the favorite of one of the local yakuza warlords. It had a huge sumptuous water-bed that seemed to cool and comfort their young impromptu leader.

The boy with dark hair had no name, he was just another orphan of the times. Another Fukushima freak, resigned to youthful diaspora. But there was no place to go, no safe haven to flee to. How does one escape one’s own mutant body?

The water-bed was warm and wavy. He had his earphones on. He’d gulped down some Quaaludes, shot himself up with the usual drugs. Even so, the lizard god wasn’t going to let him off easy.

The others stuck around. The Tokyo night descended on the city, not many people were left to enjoy the endgame. It wasn’t going to be pretty, it never was.

For some reason, the lord of the lizards went for a guy’s prick right away. Pretty soon the victim’s body became simply a morphed mutant of the guy’s schwanz. It wasn’t natural, the whole genetic metamorphosis was out of somebody’s nightmare.

Soon enough the boy with the dark hair was no longer a boy, no longer the young teenage juvenile delinquent leader that he was for awhile. He turned into a dick with a pair of legs & some arms.

The mutant monster turned everything into a nefarious creature of the Id, the soon-insignificant limbs shrinking like the rest of the body down into this horrible snake-like phallus of death.

Why was death this way—so cold-blooded, hissing like a cobra, squeezing the victim to death like a ruthless boa constrictor? Going for the young studs first, some kind of desperate diva famished for rough trade?

It was horrible, their leader the boy with the black hair. How he turned into a lizard the hard way, becoming a cobra and rearing its ugly head. Not even Maria Montez could have worshipped it, the huge King Cobra of technicolor Cobra Island.

It wasn’t campy, it was cruel. Like the living dead of old horror movies, Night of the Living Dead and I Walked With a Zombie. The boy with black hair was no longer human—he was a killer cobra with a pair of dead legs. His gang ran away, but not fast enough.

It grabbed one of the fleeing boys, the fat one who had lots of meat. The monster that was once a boy, sucked the other kid completely dry with one snort. Then like a petulant penis—it went pouty and limp.

The Lizard looked around, getting a sense for its new succulent body. The Lizard Boy was no longer simply just human, no longer the truant teenage troublemaker he’d been before. He was now the new Lord of the Lizards—at least for a little bit anyway…

Lord of the Lizards II

Lord of the Lizards

“There isn’t anyone to help you.
Only me. And I’m the Beast.”
—William Golding, Lord of the Flies

He had a long pink lizard tongue—perfect for cutey-pie cunninglingus. The screamy ones especially—they loved his slithery evil serpentine tongue. At first, anyway—before things got nasty.

There had to be something wrong—with a guy like that. With a tongue a foot long—a forked tongue French tickler that wouldn’t quit. They loved it at first—but then later on they always turned into screamers. When the lights came on…

The Lizard Boy could hold it back for awhile—like a mulatto guy faking it, passing for white. But whores knew the difference—they were paid to be that way. Lots of white guyz were pretty dark down there—prostitutes knew the difference.

But Lizard Boyz were different—they could pass too. But once the lights went out and they got down to having sex—that’s when the Lizard came out & all hell broke loose.

The tongue a sure giveaway, once it got up there inside—or down their throats then there was no stopping it. A lizard has a one-track mind & it isn’t very pretty. Before you know it, you’ve been reamed inside out…

The Lizard Boy got into it—he didn’t have a choice. He wasn’t human anymore, he was a lizard with legs. The Lord of the Lizards spoke thru him, the kid could feel his swollen tongue but it said nothing.

“You’re just a fuck-up piece of shit,” the Lizard Lord said to him. “Just an ignorant Yakuza jerk-off.”

The kid agreed with the Lizard Lord, answering him in the same silent voice. "Well, then,” said the Lord of the Lizards, “you’d better run off and get something to eat. You liked Piggy didn’t you?”

The Lizard Boy tilted his head slightly, his eyes couldn’t break away and the Lord of the Lizards hung in space before him.

“What are you doing out here all alone? Aren’t you the fuck afraid of me?”

The kid shook his head.

“There’s nobody to help you. Only me. And I’m the Lizard Lord.”

The kid’s tongue froze, then he said it.

“Fukushima freak—you created me.”

“What a stupid fuckin thing to say,” the Lord of the Lizards said. “I didn’t create you, you created me!!!” For a moment or two the ruined skyscrapers of Tokyo echoed with the parody of laughter. “You knew that, surely, didn’t you? You’re a part of me and I’m a part of you. The DNA mad scientists did us both in, you child-idiot. I’m the reason why it’s no go. And you’re the reason why things are what they are…”

The skyscrapers shivered again. The ghosts of dead scientists were laughing. It was all so sick.

“Go on, get back with the rest.”

The kid’s head wobbled & weaved. His eyes were half closed, knowing the obscene thing he was. The pig on the stick in Lord of the Flies—was now the pig between his legs in Lord of the Lizards.

“You poor thing. Do you really think you know better than I do? Go ahead and be who you are, misguided spawn of monkey-brained child idiots!”

The kid was falling—down inside a mouth. A slithery serpent tongue was wrapped around his ankle, pulling him down into darkness. He lost consciousness…

Fukushikids (Fukushima Mutants)

Fukushikids (Fukushima Mutants)

Another light-hearted approach to Mutant Malignancy. This cartoon fairytale video oozing with Fukushima Radioactive Black Humor young mutants—simply outdoes the innocent Chernokids approach in Russia.

Like the Chernobyl, the Fukushima Nuke Disaster is a terrible, perhaps nefariously set-up, far from naïve meltdown-blowout-nuke Fairy Tale. The difference being that it’s an ongoing TEMPCO Frankenstein Japanese Godzilla Monster Movie Remake, much worse than Hiroshima or Nagasaki.

Beautifully animated and bizarre video animations capture the Tainted Jetstreaming Cesium Currents and Poisoned Radioactive Ocean Currents—as they Circulate Death throughout Japan & Asia—as well as Canada and West Coast USA. Just like the Redneck Riviera down by the Gulf of Mexico. Done in by BP Blowout Execs and Corexit Chemtrail Spray Drones...

The Genetic Mutants of Babies Yet Born—waiting in the TEMPCO wings just like they did in Chernobyl. And like Chernobyl—soon the latest versions of “Chernokids” will start being born. Ready or not here they come...

Only to be Euthanasiaized quickly in bourgeois delivery rooms—or displayed proudly on FOX News Specials. Or hidden by relatives like in Russia, ashamed of our young nuke monsters that us Breeders have spawned.

The real Fukushikids (Fukushima Mutants)—worse than any Hollywood Grade-B Horror Flick could ever be. Mutant Love spreads everywhere—Mutant Planet, Mutant Love!


Chernokids (Chernobyl Mutants)

A light-hearted approach to Mutant Malignancy. A SF cartoon fairytale oozing with Fukushima Radioactive Horror Story possibilities—right outta
this exquisite cheery Chernokids video... from Russia With Love...

The Chernobyl Nuke Disaster was a terrible, naïve meltdown-blowout-nuke nightmare. No pretty little kid’s cartoon fantasy—can possibly soften the total Frankensteinian Transylvanian Monster Modern Orwellian Horrors of those who pulled the Chernobyl strings.

But what this sick, beautifully animated and very bizarre — bordering on disturbing — 6-minute animation about a fictional group of mutant children from Chernobyl does is... prepare us for something much more recent and up-to-date than just Disney-esque “Chernokids.”

The real "Fukushima Mutants" flick is yet to come—and it could be even more horrible than the "Chernokids" Little Rascals…...

Fukushima, Mon Amour

Fukushima, Mon Amour
—for Marguerite Duras, Alain Resnais

HE: You saw nothing in Fukushima. Nothing.

(More shots of Fukushima. A street with a burned skull in the foreground. Glass display cases with burned models inside. Newsreel shots of Fukushima.)

SHE: The news films made it all authentic. No illusion, it’s quite simple. One can always scoff, but what else can a person do, really, but cry? I always weep over the fate of Fukushima. Always.

(A panorama of a photograph taken of Fukushima after the bomb, a “new desert” without reference to the other deserts of the world.)

He: No. What would you have cried about?

SHE: I saw the newsreels.

(The coast, empty under a blinding sun that recalls the blinding light of Hiroshima. Newsreels taken after March 11, 2011. Ants, worms, people emerge from the mud. Interspersed with shots of the tsunami moving inland like a wall of raging water. Destroying everything in its path.)

HE: You saw nothing in Fukushima. Nothing.

SHE: I saw the newsreels. On the next day, things began to rot in the heat. They found rotting bodies for weeks afterwards. Dead people. Dead dogs. Dead cattle. All of them dead for eternity. I saw them. I saw the newsreels. I saw it all. On the first day. Then on the second day. It’s been that way ever since…

HE: You saw nothing in Fukushima. Nothing.

(A dog with a leg amputated. People, children. Wounds. Burned children screaming.)

SHE: …two months later. Fuckushima was blanketed with flowers. There were cornflowers and gladiolas everywhere, and morning glories and day lilies that rose again from the ashes with an amazing vigor, quite unheard of for flowers tell then. I didn’t make it up.

HE: You made it all up.

SHE: Nothing. Just as in love this illusion exists, this illusion of being able never to forget, so I was under the illusion that I would never forget Fuckushima. Just in love.

(Surgical forceps approach an eye to extract it. More newsreel shots.)

SHE: I also saw the survivors and those who were in the wombs of the women of Fukushima.

(Shots of various survivors: a beautiful child who, upon turning around, is blind in one eye; a girls looking at her burned face in the mirror; a blind gril with twisted hands playing the zither; a woman praying near her dying children; a man, who has not slept for years, dying. Once a week they bring his children to see him.)

SHE: I saw the patience, the innocence, the apparent meekness with which the temporary survivors of Fukushima adapted themselves to a fate so unjust that the imagination, normally so fertile, cannot conceive it.

SHE: Listen… I know… I know everything. It went on and on…

HE: Nothing. You know nothing.

(A spiraling TEMPCO reactor’s spiraling atomic cloud. People marching in the streets in the rain. Fishermen tainted with radioactivity. Tainted fish. Radioactive rice. Poison milk. Thousands of rotten fish and dead people buried…)

HE: Nothing. You know nothing.

SHE: Women risk giving birth to malformed children, to monsters, but it goes on. Men risk becoming sterile, but it goes on. People are afraid of the rain. The rain of ashes on the waters of the Pacific. The waters of the Pacific kill. Fishermen of the Pacific are dead. People are afraid of the food. The food of and entire city is thrown away. The food of entire cities is buried. An entire city rises up in anger. Entire cities rise up in anger.

(Newsreels: demonstrations.)

Fukushima, Mon Amour

Fukushima, Mon Amour
—for Marguerite Duras, Alain Resnais

HE: You saw nothing in Fukushima. Nothing.

(To be used as often as desired. A woman’s voice, also flat, muffled, monotonous, the voice of someone reciting poetry, replies:)

SHE: I saw everything. Everything.

(The woman’s hand tightening on the shoulder again, then letting go, then caressing it. The mark of fingernails on the darker skin.)

(As the film opens, two pair of bare shoulders appear, little by little. All we see are these shoulders—cut off from the body at the height of the head and hips—in an embrace, and as if drenched with ashes, rain, dew, or sweat, whichever is preferred. The main thing is that we get the feeling that this dew, this perspiration, has been deposited by the atomic “mushroom” as it moves away and evaporates. It should produce a violent, conflicting feeling of freshness and desire. The shoulders are of different colors, one dark, one light. Fusco’s music accompanies this almost shocking embrace. The difference between the hands is also very marked. The woman’s hand lies on the darker shoulder: “lies” is perhaps not the word; “grips would be closer to it. A man’s voice, flat and calm, as if reciting says:)

SHE: The hospital, for instance. I saw it. I’m sure I did. There is a hospital in Fukushima. How could I help seeing it?

HE: You did not see the hospital in Fukushima. You saw nothing in Fukushima.

(Then the woman’s voice becomes more…more impersonal. She sees the mutilated bodies, skin, burned hair, waterlogged victims like wax models.)

SHE: Fukushima flooded, destroyed, radiated…..

HE: What Fukushima? Fukushima doesn’t exist.

Exopolitics and Big Business

Exopolitics, Planetary Politics and
Business Law in the Universe

Is Earth a Corporate Planet?

Will Exopolitics turn this dominant late capitalism view of our Planet upside down?

What if Exopolitics reveals that we live on a busy corporate planet in the midst of a populated, evolving, and highly organized interplanetary, inter-galactic, and multidimensional Business Society?

Rather than being quarantined for eons from a more advanced, evolved Universe society—what if Earth has always been a busy corporate hub of a Galactic Business Civilization?

Recent Exopolitical research assisted by DARPA time travel and teleportation communications from the Telsa Tech Inc. corporate headquarters in the Fourth Dimension—suggest a supposedly hyperdimensional world seemingly isolated in the Third Dimension, but actually Earth is the vital center of a Fourth Dimensional world of many technologically and spiritually advanced civilizations.

The Third Dimensional Planet paradigm we know as Earth is actually a cleverly disguised hyperdimensional quantum jumping-off point disguise for disengaging our world from this unique, challenging Fourth Dimensional Gateway out of human history into another universe...

Whether this Fourth Dimensional Galactic Corporation is any better than our own “present timeline” troubled Planetary Business and Politics venue remains to be seen. The NWO POV attempt to turn this beautiful Blue Marble planet into a single late-capitalism planetary sphere of influence has many corporate complications and political implications.

But then Terra Politics has always been tampered with, modified with DNA replicant politics, plunged into interdimensional conflicts—and subjected to the usual so-called “nefarious and beneficent” Sugar Daddies, Barons and Big Daddies throughout its own history, e.g. the steel barons, the railroad barons, the oil barons and now the ET barons. Things happen; rules are meant to be broken.

Corporate business, law and diplomacy take on new perspectives and forms of analysis—when time shifts from Third Dimensional Matrix to Fourth Dimensional Matrix phases into and out of existence for us lower dimensional peons. While the Elite who think they are insiders with connections—are just as much suckers as the rest of us Terra know-nothing rubes.

But then, as a wise old Exopolitical scifaiku poet named Bashō once said in his “The Narrow Road to the Deep Fourth Dimension”—

A thicket of asteroids—
Is all that remains
Of the dreams and ambitions
Of ancient emperors.

Interview with Galactic Diplomat

Interview with
Alfred Lambremont

“Adult time travelers were
often becoming insane…”
—Alfred Lambremont,
Seattle Exopolitics Examiner

INTERVIEWER: Today we have the great honor and privilege to talk briefly with the distinguished author Alfred Lambremont, author of the ground-breaking book, “EXOPOLITICS: POLITICS, GOVERNMENT AND LAW IN THE UNIVERSE. Good morning, Mr. Lambremont.

LAMBREMONT: Thank you.

INTERVIEWER: One of the obvious problems with time travel, it seems to me, is how difficult it seems to be on the psyche and physical health of the transportees..

LAMBREMONT: Yes, there were and probably are still time traveler problems—both physical and mental.

INTERVIEWER: For example, Basiago mentions “heart murmuring” with some of his fellow time travelers.

LAMBREMONT: First of all, Project Pegasus needed to use children because the holograms created by the chronovisors would collapse when adults stood within them. That was one problem. Another problem that the program sponsors found was after moving between time lines, adult time travellers were often undergoing various kinds of physical and mental stress. Some transportees were developing heart valve problems and others becoming mildly insane.

INTERVIEWER: Which is why Basagio and young DARPA inductees were used? Conditioning them to avoid time traveler mental distress and anxiety? As well as having young healthy physiques?

LAMBREMONT: To a certain extent, yes. I’m an attorney not a psychiatrist, so please don’t view me as an expert witness on such matters. I can only say that, according to Basagio, it was hoped that by working with gifted and talented children from childhood, the U.S. government might create an adult cadre of “chrononauts” capable of dealing with the phyical-psychological effects of time travel.

INTERVIEWER: In the case of Michael Relfe, it seems, a rather unique way of solving many of these “displacement” anxiety or mental stress problems was simply to age reverse the transportees and time shoot back to their space-time origin point. That way their memories are blocked.

LAMBREMONT: Yes, in contrast to the chronovisor probes, in which a form of virtual time travel is achieved—the teleporters developed by Project Pegasus allowed for physical teleportation to distant locations, sometimes with an adjustment forward or backward in time of days, weeks, months, or years.

INTERVIEWER: They used “forward-displacement” as well, right?

LAMBREMONT: Yes, according to Mr. Basiago, by 1972, the U.S. government was using “quantum displacement” of this kind to send people forward several years in time to store sensitive military secrets in the future—as well as backward several years in time to provide the government with intelligence about future events.

INTERVIEWER: Would this reversal take care of or submerge perhaps any temporal displacement physical and/or mental problems into the subconscious? Can memory really be erased?

LAMBREMONT: Remote sensing in the time-space continuum is a very complex subject. It was then—and I’m sure it’s even more so now. It’s difficult to discuss such Black Budget problematics, however—especially since the tendency is for Black Projects to get even “darker.” The darker Black Projects get—the less information is shared beyond the tight circles of the typical Breakout Civilization intelligentsia.

INTERVIEWER: Basiago and Relfe seem to have been permitted to be “kosher” whistleblowers about such Black Project matters though.

LAMBREMONT: Well, one must understand that what these gentlemen are whistleblowing about is by now rather dated material. The cosmic cognoscente have permitted such disclosures since they have intelligence about the future that we don’t.

INTERVIEWER: In fact, wasn't Basiago pinpointed by TPTB as a future key proponent player of the forthcoming Telsa technological breakthroughs and speaker in the future for remote sensing in the time-space continuum arena?

LAMBREMONT: It appears that way, doesn’t it?

INTERVIEWER: Along with prognostications about future POTUS candidates such as Obama?

LAMBREMONT: It’s beginning to appear that way, isn’t it?

INTERVIEWER: I mean the DARPA intelligentsia could have treated Basiago the way they treated Relfe. Time reversing him back and erasing his memories so that he wouldn’t be able to report his boyhood adventures, such as getting to hear Lincoln give the Gettysburg Address?

LAMBREMONT: The problem is that if Basiago is a cogent intelligence asset who writes and delivers an important paper about Martian exopolitics in the near future, then how can the cognoscenti erase his mind like they did with Relfe?

INTERVIEWER: You’re speaking of Basiago’s paper on Mars?

LAMBREMONT: Precisely. Yes, “The Discovery of Life on Mars” published in 2008. It was the first work to prove that Mars is an inhabited planet. But they had time-transport copies of the paper back in the 1970s—his father even showed him a copy when he was still an adolescent.

INTERVIEWER: Yes, after publishing his landmark paper, Basiago went ahead and founded the Mars Anomaly Research Society (MARS)—which continues to research life forms and ancient artifacts on Mars.

LAMBREMONT: Yes, Andy is an early chrononaut.

INTERVIEWER: But it’s been quite awhile since his early time traveling dayz. Project Pegasus and Rumsfeld are from the Nixon dayz back in the 1970s. We’re into a whole different cycle of 2010-2012 catastrophic and near-catastrophic scenarios going on.

LAMBREMONT: That’s what makes Exopolitics so very interesting—wouldn’t you agree, young man?

(At this point the interview ended. I still had many questions to ask—in regard to time traveling. Such as the 2010-2012 catastrophic and 2010-2012 near-catastrophic futures coming up side by side.

1 If DARPA’s Project Pegasus chronovisor technology for probing future events in the time-space hologram was state-of-the-art in the early 1970s—what about now? Is chronovisor technology like Big Screen tech now?

2 Project Pegasus itself was under the policy oversight of Donald H. Rumsfeld as a Nixon cabinet member. What about new Presidents, cabinet members and policy oversights?

3 It may be that Presidential-level decisions about the submerged DC Beltway scenario viewed in the early 1970s have been acted on. With the commencement of underground shelter preparations like the Denver Airport? On the basis of Project Pegasus and more recent time-travel intelligence about the 2012-13 catastrophic timeline—what other preparations have been made by the Elite?

4 How has time-travel intelligence changed since the 1970s? What are the exopolitical implications of viewing/designing hyperdimensional events like Fukushima and other scenarios? Has anybody started playing “God” yet—strategically playing with time lines?

5 For example, the Mars assignments. Do exo-chrononauts still spend 20 years’ duty cycle on Mars and other planets? At the end of their duty cycle, are they still age reversed and time shot back to their space-time origin point? Are they are sent back with memories blocked? Are time travel personnel still sent back to complete their supposed destiny on Earth?

6 Is there such a thing as the Military Industrial Extraterrestrial Complex (MIEC)? In regard to “The Mars Records” by Stephanie Relfe, B.Sc. Vols I and II (Michael Relfe's Memoirs of 20 years at the U.S. secret base on Mars).

7 Are there secret bases on the Moon, on Saturn and its artificial planetoid satellites—as well as forward strategic military bases for occupation or defense in the rest of the solar system? Have we teleported beyond the Ort Belt—into any local Milky Way galactic solar systems?

8 Are past whistleblower witnesses besides Michael Relfe and others still talking? Such as former U.S. Army Command Sgt. Major Robert Dean and former U.S. Department of Defense scientist Arthur Neumann?

9 Are VIP's still OFF LIMITS? Politicians and other Terran important people who travel to and from these strategic solar system bases by jump gate? Are they time traveled back with memory reversal and erasure like the permanent staff? Surely not.

10 Would Dr. Jean Maria Arrigo, an ethicist who worked closely with U.S. military and intelligence agencies, as well as U.S. Army Captain Ernest Garcia, U.S. intelligence—and other expert witnesses be willing to testify in regard to any future exopolitical legal proceedings?

Time Travel


“Quantum Jump

Time Travel for

Fun & Profit”
By Andrew Basiago

Time travel either by viewing past and future events through a device known as a “chronovisor” or being teleported back and forth across the country in vortal tunnels opened in time-space is nothing new.

Tesla-based teleporters located at the Curtiss-Wright Aeronautical Company facility in Wood Ridge, NJ and the Sandia National Laboratory in Sandia, NM are old hat by now.

A chronovisor is a device that uses a screen or holographic template to locate and display scenes from the past or future in the time-space hologram. The chronovisor was originally developed by two Vatican scientists in conjunction with Enrico Fermi and later refined by DARPA scientists.

Time Travel


“Quantum Time Travel Issue:
Sunken Supreme Court!!!
Salvaging the Ruins!!!”

Mr. Basiago has revealed that between 1969 and 1972, as a child participant in Project Pegasus, he traveled in time both ways.

During one frightening teleportation incident Mr. Basiago actually saw the US Supreme Court underwater covered with moss and algae!!!

Naturally, this got the Supremes very upset and shook up the Beltway Spook Intelligentsia a great deal. Salvaging the Supreme Court and Beltway Pylons and Temples soon became a top priority with the Quantum Jump Establishment.

Mr. Rumsfeld approached this Task and other Project Pegasus responsibilities with the intent of using teleportation and time travel to the U.S. government’s advantage.

He saw Project Pegasus’s chief mission as the salvaging, teleportation and sequestration of the DC Beltway and valuable Foggy Bottoms Real Estate to the New Capitol on Mars.

Time Travel


“Interview with Rumsfeld
On Quantum Time Travel”

"Time travel has a tendency to encourage a depressing view of everything."

"Time's untidy, and free people are free to make mistakes and commit crimes and do bad things. Stuff happens."

"As you know, you time travel with what you know, not what you might want to know or wish you had known at a later time."

"I am not going to give you the time because it's not my business to do intelligence work." — asked to estimate what time it actually was while testifying before Congress about multiple timelines.

"I believe in time yesterday. I don't know what time it is now, but I know what I think, and, well, I assume it's the right time now or at least I hope so."

"Needless to say, the time is correct. Whatever time it was or is or will be.”

"Reports that say that time hasn't happened yet are always interesting to me, because as we know, there are temporal known knowns; there is time we know we know. We also know there are temporal known unknowns; that is to say we know sometimes there are some things we do not know. But there are also temporal unknown unknowns — the time we don't know we don't know."

"If I said yes, that would then suggest that that time might be the only time where it might be done which would not be accurate, necessarily accurate. It might also not be inaccurate, but I'm disinclined to mislead anyone."

"There's another way to time travel and that is that the absence of time is not the evidence of absence. It is basically saying the same thing in a different time. Simply because you do not have evidence that time does exist does not mean that you have evidence that time doesn't exist."

"It is unknowable how long time will last. It could last six days, six weeks. I doubt six more months."

"Well, um, you know, time's neither good nor bad but thinking makes it so, I suppose, as Shakespeare said."

"Washington DC and I agree on every single issue that has ever been before me except for those instances where the Beltway’s still learning."

"Learn to say 'I don't know what time it is.' If used when appropriate, it will often be the case."

"I don't know what time it is — but somebody's certainly going to sit down with me and try to find out what time it is and try to know if that’s the right time. They may not know what time it is either, and I make sure they don’t know what I know or may not know about time."

"I'm not into this detail stuff. I'm more concepty."

"I don't do temporal quagmires."

"I don't do temporal diplomacy."

"I don't do temporal foreign policy."

"I don't do temporal politics."

"I don't do the horses."

"I don't do book reviews."

"Now, settle down, settle down. Hell, I've been time traveling all morning, it's early in the day and I'm still getting my quantum ass back together again.”

"If I know what time it is, I'll tell you the answer, and if I don't, I'll just try to be clever."

“Don’t quote me. I’m not here right now.”

Portrait of a Pope

Portrait of a Pope
(Ratzinger 2012)
—after Bacon/Velásquez

“The thing that has never been
fully worked out is how photography
has completely altered figurative
painting. Velásquez has been
taken over by something else.”
—Francis Bacon

Two Portraits of a Lizard

Two Portraits of a Lizard

—after Bacon/Velásquez

“I think that painting today is
pure intuition and luck and
taking advantage of what
happens when you splash
the stuff down.”
—Francis Bacon

“Every movement of the
brush on the canvas alters
the shape and implication
of the image.”
—Francis Bacon

“Painting is mysterious
and continuous struggle
with choice—direct
assault on the nervous
system, continuous,
fluid, subtle.”
—Francis Bacon

“There was nothing to explain.
Slowly, an effective barrier of
non-elucidation grew up
around the oeuvre.”
—Michael Pippiatt,
Francis Bacon: Anatomy
Of an Enigma

I Married a Lizard from Outer Space

I Married a Lizard
from Outer Space

Naturally, I was looking forward to a deliriously romantic honeymoon—having just got married to the most beautiful, sexiest woman in the world.

Unfortunately, though, this supposedly “most sexy chick in town" turned out to be nothing more than—a Lizard from Outer Space!!!

On the outside—she was tall, dark, charming and so very enjoyable. I had a decent job at Wal-Mart—selling tires and automobile equipment. I was the top salesman in fact—all the women customers liked & trusted me. I was pretty smart and knew my stuff. I thought she loved me—but what a fool I was. I had no idea he was a LIZARD—a cold-blooded nefarious alien Lizard from another world. A Lounge Lizard —from Outer Space!!!

It was just awful—our supposedly romantic sexy honeymoon at the No Tell Motel at Niagara Falls. I wasn’t promiscuous like all those other guyz at Poughkeepsie High. I didn’t mess around with all those lascivious cute pimply-faced bad girlz—the easy ones who went down on those pushy arrogant muscular Porky Pigs on the Poughkeepsie football team. They tried to get me drunk on weekends—out there at the Snake Pit Drive-In under the stars. But I stayed virgin and chaste to the end—I wasn’t some tacky hustler like all those other guyz...

It’s all my fault, I suppose though—because I fell head over heels for this Snake from Outer Space. I should’ve known better—skanky Snakes from outer space are no different than the terrestrial ones who dated the Porky Pigs. Was I any better though?

Lueez & I ended up living in the local white trash Zero Trailer Park in the back of the city dump. Of all the Tramps in the Universe—I had to get stuck with a Tramp from Planet Zero. There in the Zero Trailer Park. Zero love, Zero sex—Zero everything. It was just awful the way it worked out—but then things got worse...

Lueez's debonair mild-mannered slick-chick façade—it was all fake. There was this monster from outer space behind her polite disguise. They’d landed just outside of town—a whole gang of extraterrestrial creatures. These Lizards oozed their way slowly into town—hanging out at the local bars on weekends. My so-called wonderful wife was assigned the job of Top Priority Nasty Duty #1—getting to know just how easy Earth boyz were.

It was rumored all over the Milky Way that us Earth boyz were easy that way—that’s what all those Grade-B teenage sexploitation movies at the Snake Pit Drive-In were all about. “Teenagers from Outer Space,” “Mars Needs Women,” “The Monster from the Black Lagoon,” “Zontar the Thing from Venus,” “Attack of the Giant Shrews,” “The Giant Gila Monster”—all those crummy sexist Grade-B drive-in flicks. There were just excuses for stupid high school guyz—to neck around and get to know just how easy chicks could be. Actually it was the other way around...

It was just awful—those atrocious double-features out there in the fuckin' sticks under the greasy old K-Y full moon. All that crummy stale popcorn, those awful hot dogs and slurpy, noisy Orange Crushes mixed with vodka. The endless weed & speed & acid trips: all cheap aphrodisiacs.

Those Passion Pits outta the ‘50s and ‘60s are all gone now—abandoned weedy parking lots, ancient ruined relics of us skanky Baby Boomers growing up back then. All those junkers & muscle-cars all the guys drove around in—chopped '57 Chevy's, tons of Ford pickups, a few lumbering, chrome-hog Cadillacs & DeSoto's. Later the sleek garish '59 Fins, Big V-8 engines, used Trojans left scattered in the dirt, sobbing virgins mostly boyz.

Lots of cars, booze, dope, rubbers, lots of Big Egos. I don’t get nostalgic for any of those days one little bit—because that’s how I ended up Married to a Lizard from Outer Space!!!

"Jeeze, Lueez!!!" I'd say. You want it again? Wasn't once enough, darling? I don't know if I can do it again. That's when she'd go down on me & get a second wad. She gummed me to death; she was pretty good at it. But still I ended up bruised and black & blue. If I only knew... "The Thing" from outer space was actually in the backseat & not up there on the screen.

Being married to a Snake from Outer Space—it was a really skanky thing to happen to a guy. Lueez wasn’t just a normal run-of-the-mill slimy bug-eyed slimy monster. No, No, Nanette. She was the Pits. I just had to end up getting stuck with the biggest & ugliest Slut there was in town—that was somehow my biggest mistake. There’s nothing worse than a gnarly alien ugly Snake—a Skank like Lueez can really fuck a guy's life over.

You know what they say—in sickness and in health? Until death do you part? That’s what happened to me—I almost kicked the bucket in bed one time. Lueeze was pealing my cheesy uncut foreskin back one time. Before blowing it or sitting on it for a long pony ride.

I lit a cigarette & happened to look down at her. Only to have a bug-eyed Lizard creature look back up at me!!! She'd always insist on making love in the dark... she said was shy & felt ashamed about sex. That didn't stop her from draining me every night...fucking it, sucking it and getting her extra-long tongue up my asshole when she rimmed me all the time.

Big mistake... flicking my Bic that night. I got to see my wife as she really was... and it wasn't pretty. She didn't look human... her face was more like an Iguana lizard from down there in Mexico. She had this big slimy slit for a mouth—and a big old nervous-twitching red forked-tongue. Flicking in & out of her lizard-slit... so that was her fiendish French tickler!!! The one she used to tickle & torture me to death with!!!

It was so scary and disgustingly mind-fucking. And wouldn't you know it? I was right in the middle of starting to have an orgasm. That’s how I ended up with a sprained neck & having to wear a neck-brace. Lueez didn't seem to care... all she wanted was to get her lips on it. Milking that last spastic wad outta me...enjoying me going spaz, shooting my poor brains out, getting off on me whimpering & spraining my poor neck....

It was the last time we had sex... for at least a week. She kept me gagged & handcuffed to the bed posts the rest of the weekend. Keeping me loaded on horrible Martian aphrodisiacs... as she & her coven of E.T. whores & space sluts met in the living room. Discussing what to do with me... now that I knew the awful extraterrestrial secret of their cunt conspiracy to take over Poughkeepsie...

They tuned to their Great Queen Bee... the ancient intergalactic swollen pussy up there in the center of the creamy, cumly Milky Way. The order came down from on high—that I was to be reamed to death inside-out there in the dumpy bedroom of our ratty old trailer in the Zero Trailer Park.

The last thing I remember was... Lueez strapping on her killer Sick Zombie Taser-Gun Vibrating Dildo & fucking me to death. It could've been worse I suppose. I heard they had this terribly painful Splooge Roter-Rooter Dildoe Gun... nefariously called “Zontar the Thing from Venus.”

But I was at Death's Door dontchaknow... my poor Earthboy broken heart had simply had enough. Betrayed by badnews Lizard love... sucked dry by skanky Snake-Oil suction-lips. That's what happens... when you marry a Lizard Chick from Outer Space.... But then I was desperate for Love I suppose. Even Snake love from Outer Space—was better than nothing at all & lonely nights. Kinda? Sorta? Maybe?