Brian Doyle.....wank splat?....or "A" team researcher.

First topic message reminder :

I'll start the ball rolling by punching down.....
Wank splat..!

Eagerly awaiting Brian's lawyer checking out Brian's FB page...then having Brian sectioned. That's if he has a lawyer...
Too stupid to realize he's stupid.
Funny though...

He is quite angry that Sandy is now an admin at EF.

Even our Brian has bigger tits than  " Prayerwoman "

60 years ago Jack Ruby would have booked him.

APB FOR  BRIAN DOYLE 

PLEASE  PICK UP YOUR COURTESY  PHONE , 

The Sanibel  Higher Institute of Tittery ( aka S.H.I.T) ,the  Professor Larsen Research Institute for Academic Peer Review and Wishful Thinking , The Right  Reverend  Dickie Gilbride's Campaign  for  Stronger Paint and more flexible  Plastic  Sheeting,  Scotland  Yard's newly  formed  Genius Detective  Division , the Sean Coleman  Institute of Disembodied  Poetics,  the Porcelain Throne Society  for Adult  Potty Training and Anal  Obsessives,  the Sarah Stanton Memorial Breast Reduction Clinic , the Albrecht von Doyle  Chapter of  HIAG , All Soul's  College  Oxford/ Rhodes Scholarship for Highly Skilled Researchers , Pat Speer Verlag, publishers of  Dick and Jane Go Hunting for Titties and  Nancy Drew and the  Case of the  Mysterious  Missing  Mammaries and mom ( Brian,  your  spaghetti hoops are getting  cold  and if you think I'm going to clean up the mess after your latest  bout of  " researching" then you'll be  back on the  naughty  step again ) are desperate to contact you..

THIS IS  BERLIN  CALLING,  BERLIN  CALLING...COME IN SANIBEL ISLAND...

Our Brian  has  been a  busy little beaver...posting  self eulogising  screed after self aggrandising  word salad..Thrilling all 5 or so regular  viewers with well structured  articulate  prognostications ; yet more examples of the incisive  reasoning and self effacing modesty that's made him the darling of the  JFK assassination research  cognoscenti , and the  most sought after  forum commentator .

Everyone's favourite buxom  detective,  Sanibel Islands answer to Nancy Drew has been posting away , as is his wont,  but yet, unaccountably,  he's  failed to answer a couple of very simple,  straightforward questions. 

I'm sure it must be an oversight. Probably his social secretary misplaced them,  or else they were inadvertently  placed , in the pile marked " fan mail"

Granted,  us poor benighted  ROKCers are just humble  troll punks,  nowhere near the top 5% skill level,  but surely even  us unskilled,  unsophisticated,  unintelligent  trolls would have done  a  little basic research before making any sweeping  unequivocal  claims? Even  poor old unskilled me would have done some rudimentary research before claiming  certain cameras  turned  grey hair black.  Not only black,  but black with a visibly receding hairline.  Admittedly I'm no genius,  but I'd have thought  identifying  someone  by their  hair colour was a far more  reliable  method than  coming up with a  load of  goofy  shite about  obese hands and  giant handbags..

But what do I know? I don't have researchers of the calibre of  Richard Gilbride ( I can  hardly type this with a  straight face) backing up my credibility...

Whatever  else our chum  Brian  has been up to,  and the mind truly  does  boggles, especially when you  add ole Porcelain Thrones anal fixation to the equation,  he's  obviously  been  studying  his ACME Wiley  E Coyote's Guide to the  Criminal Justice  System..

Planning what would undoubtedly be the  greatest  coup in the  history of American  jurisprudence  since Don Jeffries  convinced a jury that it was the  CIAs nefarious  tampering with his bikini bottom in the  swimsuit  round , causing the  now notorious  " wardrobe  malfunction " , that caused him to come last in Miss  Conspiracy  Theorist 2020.(  for further  reference  see Jeffries,  the Estate of  Ernst  Zundel  et al  vs Miss Plandemic 2021 and Miss Horny Holocaust  Denier 2022)

As insightful and self aware as ever our chum  has taken  to issuing  threats of legal action !!!

Apparently  he's  going to hold Greg, James Gordon and  Armstrong  knows who else,  legally accountable for  banning him from a fucking internet  debate  forum..

Better contact the Sun, the  Times and the  Washington Post..Hold the front page!!

Imagine the headlines!!

No tits Shit threatens Legal  Blitz..Gilbride  Went Glug Glug cos Prayerwoman had no Jug Jugs

At least,  with  that outstanding  rack of his,  hes  guaranteed a spot on Page 3....alongside  Sindy,  21, from Birmingham,  a trainee aromatherapist and  fan of nude ping pong. Brian,  65, world's leading authority on the Jimi Hendrix murder , the fastest gun on the internet,  slayer of troll punks and uncredible  boobys,  fan of  auto erotic Pacman and  nude bungee  jumping ( see HM the Queen  vs Doyle and the  Niagara  Falls  branch of  Depends Adult  Diapers)

Meanwhile over on page 4...

Brian Doyle,  65, self anointed  genius detective,  purveyor of correct evidence and  possibly the world's  leading authority regarding the  " Jimi Hendrix murder'( If Carlsberg  only  made self obsessed fantasists), today  threatened Mr Greg  R Parker of ROKC Towers( Southern  Hemisphere  Division), Lord James Gordon,  15th Baron Haw Haw and  Laird of  Beckett's  Mound and unnamed others, with  legal action . 

For the  heinous crimes of  disagreeing with him on an obscure JFK assassination  " research  forum", denying  his correct evidence,  trolling,  cyber stalking,  name calling and sundry other offences.

When contacted, washing his car, wearing  nowt  but a plastic  horned helmet  and a  pair of extremely skimpy  bright pink ladies  panties, outside the  basement  of his mother's house,  where he lives, in incestuous,  sorry for the typo, incellious  isolation , Mr Doyle  had this to say:

" Greg Parker is a  notorious liar, evidence  hacker and booby fantasist, who runs a  demented troll farm. James Gordon is a  criminal and a British bastard. They are too cowardly to face serious evidence and credible  academic peer review,  so they ban the best and brightest,  using  dirty banning and censorship. "

Poor old Brian. Logic has never been his strongest  suit..

He claims Greg was banned from the 13 inch head forum for his booby evidence hacking,  and that no one takes  his crazy Rube Goldberg  concoctions seriously,  then in the very next breath  he claims  James Gordon and Greg are part of the  same  nexus of nefarious moderators,  conspiring to keep him banned and silenced and his so called  correct evidence , from  solving the assassination. 

Apparently 

Also,  in amongst  his vigorous  condemnations of  British  bastardry and  his dewy  eyed  paeans  to American  democratic  sensibilities , he threatens to  sue people  for  disagreeing with him...

As Steely,  Barto, Greg John  Iacoletti,  and  countless  others  found out , the one sure fire way of shutting him up is to ask him  to  produce any  real  verifiable  evidence to back up his extravagant  claims...

Ive  discovered this myself..

Ask  him about the make and model of the cameras  Darnell and Weigmann  used, about the  film stock,  for contemporary  photographic evidence,  for actual  provable  evidence..Not a peep..

Ask him a very simple and straightforward question about  " Prayerwomans " apparent  lack of cleavage...Nothing..

Last year  I asked him to  discuss  H and L, specifically about the  Russian language aspect. What made him think  HARVEY  was a  native  Russian speaker..

Not a peep, except for a  garbled reference to  threads over on the  Education forum..

A forum he spends a large portion of his time denigrating,  often in the most visceral  terminology imaginable...

Maybe I do go a little  overboard with my criticism,  but is everything not relative?

I'd  argue  my critiques and  my satirical  skits accurately  reflect the  level of bullshit that's  churned out..I criticize the place,  and  a considerable majority of the posters( most of them,  in fact,  except  Jeremy B, Jonathan,  RCD, Larry Hancock,  occasionally  Jim DiE and a couple of others), and I would never join. For a myriad number of reasons. Doyle,  on the other hand,  excoriates  the  shite that's  routinely  churned out,  while , at the very same time,  out the other side of his mouth,  he's  begging to be readmitted,  or trying to browbeat  Gil, one of the  few remaining  astute 13 inch headites,  to act as his proxy..

Rightly or wrongly I genuinely think  that  Prayerman,  and the  other  supporting evidence  , core members of the  forum ( and others) have  painstakingly and scrupulously  developed over several years, represent  the  only  real chance to  make any sort of breakthrough,  at such a late stage. With the assassination  almost slipping out of living memory 

To see the evidence  distorted,  misrepresented,  or otherwise  diminished,  by sleight of hand,  bluster and  outright  bullshit , pisses me off. Having the likes of Butler and Larsen shit all over the  hard work of others really  fucking gets on my wick. In an ideal world Butler's  posts should have the equivalent of Government  Health warnings appended.  Or a disclaimer " The above post was meant for entertainment purposes only "

Imho Doyle  uses this case as a vehicle for his personal gripes  and delusions. His lies and distortions are so blatant,  so casual,  and  so potentially  destructive ( simply  because  they  provide  easily accessible, ready made excuses for the  Anyone but Oswald denier brigade. Many of whom  possess far more credibility than Doyle and Gilbride ) I believe  they should be  challenged. 

Like any lie should be. 

In their different, but strangely  complimentary  ways, both Doyle and the 13 inch headites  represent a real impediment to progress.

For Christ's sake,  surely its time to at least try something different? Adopt a  new methodology,  rather than just endlessly regurgitating and  rehashing the same old  tited, shopworn  methods,  that ultimately  failed. 

And failed catastrophically. 

As the case slips inextricably over the  horizon of living memory its time to face up to the facts. Its time to stop retreating to the comfort of cosy anonymity,  with like minded people 

The CT LN  dichotomy  is a  dead end. Endlessly  refighting  ancient  battles, constantly  dredging up the  most  pernicious  conspiracy  junk..I mean  film alteration along with  the doppelganger  fantasy  is another absolute  dead end. That leaves us all open to  derision. 

Also,  it's the way these nonsensical  theories are peddled,  as much as the theories themselves that should give any fair minded individual cause for  real concern. The sly underhanded  duplicity,  lack of  transparency and the  militant  fundamentalist mindset that  predominates. If Armstrong was a  genuine  researcher  rather than a  slick profiteer/ wannabe  propaganda  merchant/ founder of  some  cult like sect , he would have mentioned the problems caused by the  mastiodectomy. There's countless examples of  the  H and L cultsers  unprincipled  chicanery. Not to mention  Fezzo the Fez's irrational  behaviour and inability to accept  any sort of criticism. I mean for fuck sakes  squealing  COINTELPRO over and over  just makes him look like a total  fucking  dick. 

Yet another example of the overweening arrogance that is so often a symptom of full blown  troofery. Look at me!! Look at  my big red fez!! Look how important I am!! US government intelligence agencies monitor every word I say. Dispatching teams of disinformation agents to an obscure  website,  because my every utterance positively   oozes  with earth  shattering  profundity. ( as an aside I wonder what a team of  highly trained psychologists would make of his frantic scribbling? My guess is they'd  diagnose a very angry  shouty  man with a  big red fez , titled  rakishly  over one glazed eye)

The old conspiracy theorist mindset,  that blossomed in the mid 70s, and  reached  fruition with Stone's  film  has failed. 

More and more the subsequent  generations are turning back to the original  Warren Report lie. Treating  conspiracy theories with utter disbelief and  derision,  due in no small part to the efforts of some  notable,  and  still celebrated  conspiracy theorists.. 

This forum  offers a  fresh new irreverent  perspective. Satire is a  sometimes  devastating  weapon in the intellectual  arsenal. 

Look at the  effect  Hogarth  had, arguably  McGillvary  did as much damage to Bonapartes  posthumous  reputation as anyone...

As for the  accusations of vulgarity? I think a few fucking  expletives are far less vulgar and offensive than  the  vast majority of the junk , peddled in the name of research...Just  read through a few threads at random,  not just the usual suspects. Without lapsing into hyperbole  , most of them include cheap  intellectual vulgarity. 

This forum ain't  afraid of failure. After all everyone  makes mistakes. Imho integrity,  and  sincerity, , to a  certain extent at least,  is judged  by how one reacts to  mistakes. If it turns out  Greg,  Barto and co are wrong,  they'll have enough integrity and enough respect for the case, their fellow researchers and themselves to hold up their hands and admit their error . Rather than attempting to pull every low down scammers trick in the book,  in an attempt to  deny their mistakes , in the process  turning the whole fucking thing into a  charade and a tawdry  circus like  travesty 

But if they are right,  and I'm pretty damn confident  they are......

The honest  seeker will happily admit error,  trying to learn from the experience, while making  damn sure the same mistakes aren't made again..

Whereas the  egotists,  the propagandists,  the  fundamentalists and the  charlatans  will do their  damndest to deny , refusing to accept  that  ANY mistake was made 

Ever.

Come on Brian,  show us your  self  proclaimed  highly skilled researchers  chops..

Surely you must have done  SOME research into the cameras  Darnell and Weigmann  used, right?
Surely you weren't just making  random  claims?

Surely  you  must have done some  real serious  research into H and L?

To my mind  your average  conspiracy theorist automatically believes anything that seems to  confirm  their pre existing  beliefs. No matter how  spurious or poorly  sourced. 

Research is  no simply a question of seeking confirmation for pre existing  biases,  or treasured  perceptions/ pet theories...it's  following the facts wherever the facts lead...The kind of staggeringly  gullible,   unthinking  belief in ANYTHING  that  remotely hints at the magical C word, the  sort of  dim witted  embarrassing  dreck inadvertently  pioneered by the likes of Don Jeffries,  perhaps the single most  unimpressive  easily  duped  conspiracy theorist of them all, has ensured  serious independent minded historical enquiry  into the  numerous deeply  traumatic  political  events , has somehow metamorphosed  into a  ( sometimes) genuinely  unnerving  cult like  pseudo  religion.  Replete with  miracles,  saints, holy scriptures, dogmatic  rituals and shunning. 

Who can forget  General of State Security ( first class) Drago's ( supported by his fellow  troika  members-Politruk  Second Class  Burnham ( who also ran a thriving  sideline, moonlighting in the  State Appointed Board for Anal Bleaching...cue Porcelain Thrones sudden , not to mention intense interest in Burnham,  Armstrong only knows what he'll make of Go_ Secure!!! And State Polemicist  Second Class  Dragoo, not forgetting  his trusty set of well  worn bongos , not to mention his stash of Chardonnay, after all the true deep political  theoretician  can only get properly  cognitively  metaphysical  from the  bottom of a wine glass,  while  listening to some  groovy  jazz stylings,  shooby  dooby doo) frantic  campaign? Waging war on all manner of  infiltrators and enemy agents. Culminating in the serio comic " outing" of our very own Brian,  as , and I  quote,  " a multi  headed  disinformation breathing  hydra..Armstrong alone knows what Comrade Drago thought he saw when he looked into the mirror!! Lester Young crossed with  Nikolai  fucking  Yezhov  perhaps..Jammin' At Vortuka..

Trying to  squeeze a  slim 5 foot 9 inch male figure with a  dark  noticable  receding hairline into the  body of a  ( seemingly) flat chested  grey haired  wig wearing  5 foot 4 inch obese middle aged woman is a  fucking  travesty. 

A perversion of the very notion of independent historical research...

Likewise this self defeating,  self destructive  mania  for constantly  rehashing the  same old  stale conspiracy  bullshit..

Here we are in 2022 and some  characters,  apparently  articulate , successful and well educated,  insist wasting everyone's time with the wackiest  alteration  nonsense. 

Roll up  Roll up! One and all!! All aboard the  Magical  Disappearing  Train of Dealey Plaza!! Let's  go hunting for the Dancing  Penguins  who forged the  Moorman Polaroid  in under 2 and a half hours!!

Did you know  that  Doorway Man was  really  Joe Molina  with a  Billy Lovelady facemask  pasted on?

Maybe  Bob Dylan  wrote I Want You  after watching  Pamela Brown  playing  her magic flute on the  sidewalk,  outside the cinema,  after  she'd just finished watching the  Zapruder film,  one rainy New York night,  back in December of 63..

What a  lady, What a night!!

Maybe  Pamela  should  start a blog about  Frankie  Valli and the  Four Seasons  too..

Maybe they based that song on her cinematic exploits..or her struggles with the vortex..

With Werner  Von Braun,  a horse and a  magic flute...Hey Brian  , what can you make with a  Nazi rocket  scientist,  a horse and a  magic flute? On second thoughts  don't answer!! I think we're all still trying to recover from the existential  traumas  of  your  car washing  video

Riding out the said vortex on her horse, playing  her magic  flute, with Mahler's  100 year old  skiddy  y fronts on her head...

I mean,  for  Armstrong's  sake,  if someone  started  posting  links to a  site,  full of  bizarrely  disturbing  posts, claiming Bob Dylan was  sending  them  secret messages  via  his songs, etc etc.,  surely someone would have the decency and the compassion to have a quiet  word. Persuading them to get the help they so obviously  needed. 

This is yet another example of just how  badly askew  their moral  compass, their priorities  , and  sense of perspective  truly are...Some of Ms Brown's  posts are seriously  disturbing. And I mean  seriously..

I  mean,  for fuck sakes,  trying to exploit  the  poor woman's serious  mental  health  issues,  in an attempt to further  their  alterationist  fantasies  is the  equivalent of  that  great researcher/ raconteur Porcelain Throne  attempting to mock Greg's heart  problems..

Fucking  repellent..

Myopic  hypocrites and  bottom feeders...talking of  bottoms ole Porcelain sure seems to spend a lot of time  thinking about, not to  mention  fixating  uponcertain parts of the male anatomy...

With Porcelains  predilection  for  posteriors  and our chums  current  curvaceous  conundrums , they  should  set up  some sort of alliterative  conspiracy themed Creationist theme park 

Bud and  BigDog would be shoo ins as Adam and Eve...our Brian could be  Noah,  with Porcelain  being  led into the  Ark, hand in scaly protuburance  with a  very miffed  looking  Triceratops..

Armstrong have mercy on us all 

P.S. In the words of  Robert Johnson,  Show us  Sarah Stanton's tits  Doyle!! You highly skilled researcher you...

Why debate a lying unqualified and uncredible cunt.....

Discovered in the  files  of Vincent  Palamara,  well known collector of  fairy tales.  

The Collected  Works of Reinhardt  von Stripling ( the  obscure  Teutonic  version of Rudyard Kipling)

His take on the  great, if somewhat controversial  Nobel laureates  " Just  So " stories..

IT'S  JUST SO UNFAIR  STORIES...

Part One The Makings of a Genius Detective/ Linguistic Forensics  Strategist  etc etc. 


SANIBEL ISLAND,  CHRISTMAS EVE 1964

Little  Brian,  his plump rosy cheeks  glowing ,and  his jaws grinding from the extra  ritalin  his poor mother  gave him - since  discovering  his  dads voluminous  stash of  vintage  Third Reich  era hard core  porn , his unwanted,  bizarrely  warped sexual  precociousness has turned the  holiday season into some sort of  Freudian  nightmare in the Doyle  household. Much to the  delight of local  manufacturers of  Christmas  decorations,  especially angels, sales having  shot up  over 1000% since  little Brian  first  discovered  Hot Helga humps her way through  the thorny Herrenvolk- is sitting on his Great Uncle  Fritzl's knee. Little did he know he was witnessing the end of a Sanibel institution ( ironically  next Christmas both Great Uncle and grand nephew would be be singing their  Carol's and  gobbling  their turkey and  sprouts behind the bars and padded walls of an institution in Sanibel)

Trying to  bring a  touch of  festive  cheer, from the " Good Old Days", most specifically his happy  times as a fresh faced innocent  lifeguard in  Upper Silesia( unless you  are from the Nuremberg War Crimes Tribunal,  then from 1939 to 1945  he practiced  flower arranging in Zurich), and from his childhood in Bavaria ( lots of  florid  faced men in leather shorts drinking  beer and slapping each other's  thighs,  only stopping for a lusty  rendition of  Stille  Nacht )  Great Uncle  Fritzl  decided, every Christmas,  to  turn his home into a  good old fashioned  Deutsch  grotto , to give the  local kids, bloated with  rock and roll,  Mickey  Mouse and  insidious  Zionist  propaganda  a taste of the  Old Country. 

Complete with  black clad Trawniki wachmanner,  bread made from sawdust,  starvation  rations, summary execution,  20 hour  shifts at the  newly built  Sanibel  Salt mines, barbed wire,  electric  fences , lots of  snarling  Alsatians,  roll call  every morning at 3am on the  Appelplatz....Christmas in Sanibel!! A little taste of  Germania 

A good healthy  hearty  old fashioned  Aryan  Christmas. The kind of  thing  Dr Goebbels,  and perhaps even  the  Reichsfuhrer  SS, would  have approved of

Dressing up in his old SA truppfuhrers  brown shirt,  still dyed red with communist  blood, and  polishing his  jackboots  until they shone, like  they did that glorious day in June 1940, when he and his kamarads  could see the  reflection of the  hakenkreuz  flag, fluttering  atop the  Eiffel Tower , old Fritzl  became  Ku  Klux  Klaus, Sanibelites  used to  say  It wasn't  really  Christmas  until they  heard his gruff thunderous  roar "the  Yo Ho Heil  No Jews Asian or African Americans! For Caucasian  Kids only "followed by the  inevitable  screaming and  wailing of  sirens. Until  the Florida  Supreme  Court and  Children's  Welfare  Services  intervened,  he would thrill  the  local children with his " magic  tricks "..his favourite  being  " Look! No hands", his bulging  sack, full of  handmade  presents, never  has pollution and  industrial  waste  been  put to such good use, although the  parents  affected by the  bizarre Thalidomide  outbreak of  65 might disagree. But most  of all it was his  German  fables,  until  those spoil sports/ Zionist  lackeys at Sanibel  Social Services  and  those commies  who passed the  Civil  Rights  Act,  intervened, kindly  old Fritzl would  let the little  WASP kiddies pile onto  his knee, under his beard, between his legs, oh how the kiddies would  laugh,  as he unscrewed  his prosthetic leg " Mein  liebe  kinder! Never play with a  flammenwerfer  after you've  drunk 3 litres of  schnapps and executed a  village full of  Soviet  partisans!" ..then he  showed them his badly  mangled  stump...if he had been on the  schnapps,  or if he'd been  watching  young Miss Israel  across the street  do her nude stretching  exercises ( Danke Gott  for  the good   Zeiss  lens  on his binoculars, that's  fine German  craftsmanship  for you,just as clear as the day,  back in the late autumn of 41, when perching atop  his panzer,  he glimpsed the onion domes of the  Kremlin,  glistening in the distance) with  a  surreptitious  glance at the  phone( Mossad were watching AND listening) and  after making  doubly sure the curtains were drawn,  he'd slowly  remove his flecktarn combat  pants, and  his steel grey Wehrmacht  issue longjohns and  show the now ashen  faced and  terrified  kids his other mangled stump.." Mein  lieben  kinder" he'd groan as the young  Sanibelites  began sobbing and screaming " after 15 years sharing a bunk into Vortuka  with a prune faced Prussian with chronic  piles you'd  find a sleeping  Rottweiler  irresistible. Alas however being a Doyle I got the ends mixed up,  spending an agonising  24 or so  hours with mein  traudl  tackle  impaled  upon the  freshly  sharpened  fangs of a  murderous  hundsfott ....they had to  ship a  veterinarian  in from Bremen  with  hands big enough for deal with the swelling,  and  alas mein kinder  it was not the sort of  swelling I had  in mind. How I wish I'd  listened to my Great  Uncle  Hans, taken prisoner  after Konigsgratz. He warned me about the dangers of sleeping  dogs.." Remember a dog is not like  us ! It doesn't  breathe out its ass. Treat a dog the way you treat your cousins "

Ever since his father  gave  him  his old toy soldiers Brian had become fascinated with the military. Marching up and down the  sidewalk , singing  the  Horst  Wessel  Lied in his wavering  castrato,  in his little feldgrau tunic, the Knights  Cross  had  made in Mr Kleinglass' metalwork  class gleaming in the fiery Sanibel sun, like barn full of Jews burning, little  Brian  thought,  until  he grew up and  learned all about the  Holohoax  and  the  other  insidious  Zionist  machinations,  his toy MP40 gripped  tightly,  just in case  any  Polish bandits  or Soviet  untermensch  leap out of the  verdant  Sanibel undergrowth..

The neighbourhood' echoing with his guttural  howls " Juden  Raus  Hande  Hoch  Achtung  "

One of  Great Uncle  Fritzl's tales  really  caught young  Brian's  imagination. 

A story from  the  Weltkreig, from the dark days of 1918  , about  a  brave young  hauptmann, who wanted to keep the  fight going. Defying the  communists and the  Jewish  profit mongers at home , who were destroying the  morale of the  Deutsch  Volk,  with their empty blather about democracy . Young Brian learned a valuable  lesson. That it was a  crime to disagree with the  Ubermensch. Brian  learned all about  the Stab in the  Back too.  How the mighty  undefeated  Imperial  German  Army was betrayed by the  communists,  the  jews, the  pacifists,  the profiteers,  the democrats,  the jews, the  black marketeers,  did  he mention the  jews? Because it was mainly  their  fault. Brian  learned about the  shameful  treaty of  Versailles  too..

Imagine  accusing the  Reich,  with its stable  peace loving  Kaiser of  starting the  war!! Those million or so German  troops  were  just having a picnic in  Belgium!  Little  Brian,  clutching  his dads well  thumbed  badly  stained  copy of  the  Protocols of  Zion , with the blonde muscular  SS men, pin ups from  Das  Schwartz  Korps,  gazing  down,  masterfully , he read and  reread the  story. Great Uncle  Fritzl's voice  echoing through his mind " Liebkin,  if the polizei ask I was  never a scout master, if the INS show up  my name  is Shiva  Chakrabarti,  and  I'm a  female sanitary  products  salesman  from  New Delhi,  and  if they  come asking about any registers burn those books,  magazines and films, and  remember you and your friends were just helping film a nature documentary,  and  remember  also Mr and Mrs Goldschmitt  were dead before I dropped those Zyklon  pellets into their air conditioning,."

This young  hauptmann,  Albrecht  Katheter  von Knobelsdorf , was  sent by his commanding  General,  John Von Waffenstark  und  Doppelgangerus , to counterattack,  after the Entente  forces, specifically  a regiment from the  2nd Australian  Division,  led by Colonel G'day  McTroll and a detachment of  1st Auchtermuchty  Deep Fried  Mars Bars,  led by Capt  C U McGillycutty, threatened to break  through. ..

Oh yes  and  General  Waffenstark had lost his pet dachshund...

The moral,  not to mention the  tactical  lessons of the fairy tale,  one of  Von Stripling's more coherent works, had a  deep impact on the  young would be genius. The  methods  used  having a profound  influence on his subsequent  career as A team detective/ psychologist/ linguistic forensics  expert/ photo analyst 

Brian would often mention his Great Uncle,  dedicating  some of the  numerous  awards/ accolades  he accumulated,  in his unparalleled  career , to his memory. .

Who can  ever  forget  his acceptance speech  , the year he won his 10th consecutive  Lancer  Award? The same  year James Gordon  decided to  rename the  Education Forum  in honour of  Brian? And  Greg  Parker  and Bart Kamp walked  all the way to  Sanibel,  draped in sackcloth,  and  covered in ashes, to beg for his forgiveness ?

Anyhoo,  enough  childish  troll speak  , let's get to the story..

REINHARDT VON STRIPLING 

THE " IT'S  JUST SO UNFAIR STORIES "

THE STORY OF THE CAPTAIN AND THE DACHSHUND 

Spa, Belgium,  October  1918, Headquarters of the  Imperial  German  Army.
A grim day. The day after the night before. The night  the British,  with the  crack troops- ANZACs and Highlanders in the vanguard- broke through the Hindenburg Line 

It is now evening,  the  night after the night before,  grey wisps of the fading daylight struggle in between the heavy drapes, mingling with the choking bluish  haze of stale tobacco , that  hangs like  a  sickly  pall over the  almost  deserted  conference  room 

Ludendorf,  Von Hindenburg,  Seeckt,  their suites and various  staff officers, reduced  to a nervous  chattering rabble, oh yes  and  Kaiser  Wilhelm  II, and  his eldest son,  the Crown  Prince,  Little  Willy too . The  latter having been dragged away from the voracious embraces of his apparently insatiable French mistress,  have long since  departed. 

Hollow eyed and  silent,  barely  returning the salutes of their underlings,  who watch glumly as, one by one,   the parade of   staff cars , disappear into  the twilight. Devoured by the eerie  grey gloom , the way memories are swallowed by the ocean..

Only  one general  remains. Slumped  at the  conference  table. Fidgeting  idly with the sheaf of papers piled before him.

A major general. Bald, with an ill  fitting  toupee,  and haughty  gleam in his heavy  lidded grey eyes. Ruddy  complexion and  bulbous  red nose. A curious mixture of the  comic and the  sinister. Further enhanced by the heavy jowls, sagging over the  collar of his elegantly  tailored  tunic.

Almost obscuring the Pour le  Merite  hanging  round his pudgy  neck. 

The rolls of superfluous  flab also  disguise the  cardboard  tab " Made by Jack White for  HARVEY  Oswald " dangling  like some sort of  unsheathed  Sanibelite,  from the  ribbon 

This is  Generalmajor  John von Waffenstark  und Doppelgangerus 

Commander of 2nd ( Hungarian) Volunteer Doppelgangers 

A crack division,  sent as a  gift by Franz Josef  himself to his German allies. Until now , unaccountably,  they have been used for latrine digging and  other menial  tasks. 

But  von Waffenstark has a  plan. That'll turn the tables on the seemingly victorious  Entente. Win the war for the Central Powers and make his name  Immortal in the annals of warfare. 

Like  Captain  Sandy Larsen,  the one handed lancer of Utah. Who thought he'd carved himself a glorious niche in the said annals..

Until his batman,  Sergeant  V.A.G Coleman,  future  Nobel  Laureate,  told him they were actually  two 'n's in annals

Generalmajior Von Waffenstarks  plan like all great plans before or since,  was as simple as it was  direct. 

Unbeknownst to the  High Command,  even the  Kaiser  himself,  who  were demoralised,   disconsolate,  and  apparently  already  half reconciled to the  imminent  defeat, he had detached  the  2nd ( Hungarian) Volunteer Doppelgangers,  from their usual  latrine digging  duties,  and under his  finest  subordinate,  the  man who had mistaken  a 300lb Belgian  pantomime  dame for  Field  Marshal  Haig, spending  1915 and  most of 1916, on a top secret  intel spook  mission,  behind  Entente lines, disguised as the  rear end of a pantomime  unicorn, Hauptmann  Albrecht  Katheter  von Knobelsdorf,  known to  friend and foe alike as  Our Brian, he had sent them,  armed with the  latest weapons,  machine  pistols and flame throwers,  into no man's land,  to fulfill  the  cunning plan, he and his  dachshund had spent many a long evening together perfecting...

Instead of  digging  shit holes the doppelgangers would win the war. Singlehandedly. 

Oh yes  and  find Generalmajor  von Waffenstarks  pet dachshund.  Debbie  Downer the Dachshund ( Kennel Club  Name  Larrytrotter's  Divine  Haemorrhoids)

END OF PART  ONE

TO BE CONTINUED...

THE CAPTAIN AND THE DACHSHUND  

Part Two

Alone in the  deserted conference room,  tormented by the thunderous  roar of the heavy guns- and going by the individual sounds; the shrill ear splitting whine of the  trench mortars,  the dull percussive  boom of the  howitzers and the  nerve jangling  crump of the  huge Naval  guns, Generalmajor Von Waffenstark  deduces the  Entente frontlines must be no more than 10 km away. 

Perhaps  closer.

Not even the pungent  Hungarian  cognac  in his  silver hip flask ( Decorated with the ancient  Von Waffenstark motto,  " Semper  Bullshittus ", a gift from his mentor,  Johannes  " Jack" Von Weiss ), the cognac he slurps  greedily , filling the  entire  conference room with its  noxious  fumes, reminiscent of a polyglot doppelgangers jockstrap,  after a hard day's  intel  spookery,  can assuage  his badly  frayed nerves. 

As if the Gods  of Irony themselves  have  decided to mock his predicament , lowering his head after yet another  hefty  swig, his by now  bloodshot  eyes  are greeted with a  sight to stir the soul of any bold Teutonic  warrior..

Conjuring up  the  shades of  Arminius,  Roland,  Frundsberg,  Gotz  , Scharnhorst,  Von Gneisenau , old Marschall  Vorwarts  himself,  Blucher,  even  Kaiser Wilhelm  Der Grosse.

Perhaps it was the  extra potent Hungarian  brandy starting to kick in,  but, there, in the empty conference room,  once the  elegant  salon of some  Belgian  noblewoman,  with the  hoarse muffled  chatter of the few remaining  telephone  operators,  and the ominous  thud of the Entente  guns,   causing the windows to  rattle in their  exquisite  gilt stucco  Second  Empire  frames, replacing the  flirtatious  whispering and  breathless laughter,  Von Waffenstark  swore, just above the  blunt spike atop the  pink zen pickelhauber  helmet  of Hauptmann  Von Knobelsdorf , who had just come rushing in, puce faced and out of breath,  like a  300lb photographer's  model from Wuerttenburg , after a particularly  strenuous  day's  photographing,  he saw a  winged  host of  Germanic  heroes  all a flutter , like the time he paid no less than  4 300lb photographer's models from Wuerttenburg to  partake in a  Wagnerian  themed orgy...

Hauptmann  Von Knobelsdorf ( from now on I'll  refer to him as  Our Brian for the sake of brevity) had just  returned from his secret intel  spook mission..

Having been sent by, Generalmajor Von Waffenstark , behind the  Entente  frontlines,  to annihilate  their  best  regiments, while they were  still  forming up.

Utilising the  stormtrooper tactics,  that had  so nearly been  successful , back in the spring. When Operation  Michael  had come within a  pickelhaubers  spike of splitting the  Entente  powers, and  pushing the  British back to their bases,  near the  channel  ports..

Seeing  our Brian  come flip flopping  in , wearing his homemade  zen jackboots,  Von Waffenstark  sits up, slipping  his flask back into his pocket . His eyes, dulled by liquor,  suddenly fill with an expectant  gleam.

For a glorious  second he feels  rejuvenated. The surge of anticipation reinvigorates  him. He feels  young again; young and  unwearied,  he's  sitting  bolt upright,  the  way he  was,  the  magnificent  day back in  September  1914, in that railway  compartment , heading  east,  listening as Ludendorf,  for once his normally high pitched  squeak  sounding  rich and mellow: the unmistakable  voice of victory. Outlining his plans for  Tannenburg,  with the  old Field Marshal  sitting by his side, his mighty grey head, bent over the maps which cover the table, occasionally  looking up, to give a word or two of gruff approval. 

Indeed the rattling of the windows could almost be the  grinding clatter of the  train,  speeding  past Tannenberg and the  Masurian Lakes, racing towards the one, truly  unreachable  destination. 

The past.

Savouring the  moment,  and by now the  seconds had turned into moments,  leaving our Brian standing there, rather awkwardly ,  at attention. Not  knowing  where to look. 

Somewhat embarrassed by his  general's  most unsoldierly  behaviour. Sitting  with a vacant  dreamy gaze, his eyes, already  glistening with moisture,  filled too,  with a  strange  faraway  look . It's a  look he knows all too well. Seeing it in his comrades  eyes, the eyes of the  2 franc prostituties he picks up,  even in the eyes of  the  poor booby Belgian peasants  he accosts. You see our Brian has a  theory. 

About the  assassination of  Franz Ferdinand. 

Serbian  intelligence  had been  running a decades long  double doppelganger project, it was really  Gavrilo  HARVEY  Princip,  a super  secret  spook/ humble  Montenegrin  sheep farmer who did the shooting,  LEE Gavrilo  Princip,  and his fake mom, Rumpipumpi Princip,  emigrated to the  USA, where Rumpipumpi  got a job, as a maid, for the Dulles  family. 

Finally,  waking from his pleasant  trance, Von Waffenstark gets down to business 

" Well herr  Hauptmann  give  me  your  report. And", glowering  menacingly  across the conference table,  he unbuckles his holster,  and  places his Walther  PPK before  him. The custom made  ivory  handle makes a gentle  percussive  thump " if you  start rabbling on about stereoscopic  comparisons of 300lb Sarajevo  fishwives and the fucking  British  poisoning  Rasputin and  smuggling  Czar  Nicholas  out in a  giant  liquorice  flavour  prophylactic I'm going to blow your  fucking  brains  out .."

Narrowing  his eyes, until only two tiny pinpricks of  bloodshot  red are visible amidst the  flaps of porcine flab, he scowls across at Our Brian 

" And why haven't you got that fucking  ponytail  cut yet? This is the Imperial German  Army,  not Fraulein  Tittyfucks  Finishing  School , teaching  frigid  Frankfurters  how to  fornicate. " 

Just as the  Hauptmann is poised to open his mouth  the Generalmajor holds up his hands

" On second  thoughts  don't  tell me!! Ive  just  had to  listen to that  cretinous  degenerate,  Little  Willy spend nearly  two fucking  hours  describing  his latest bout of  gonorrhoea,  he even  brought a pustule to show his father!" Generalmajor Von Waffenstark  groans, rolling his eyes in disgust  " I don't give two fucks  if he's our future Emperor,  I'll  happily  give my life for  him, dying  a glorious  death on the  battlefield,  striving,  until my very last  breath to vanquish  his foes, but I will not  sit and watch as he swallows the  pustulating scab he picked  out of the  snatch of some  disease  ridden  Brussels  whore.. and I'm most certainly not going to listen to you spend another 2 hours describing , in lurid paranoid  detail,  how the British  secretly  murdered Paganini,  by forcing  him to drink 6 bottles of leprosy  infected wine!"

He picks up the pistol,  pointing in first at the suddenly ashen faced Hauptmann Von Knobelsdorf,  his ponytail,  that until then  had been  stuffed, like  a fist up the  rear and of a Kentucky  varmint, up inside  his luminous  pink pickelhauber  helmet ( oh to have  been fly on the  wall of the  HQ of the  German  Poison Gas Corps!!!, Von Knobelsdorfs  previous  unit,  until he was  discovered  dousing  his tobacco in yperite  gas and smoking it, when the then Oberleutnant  explained to the  visiting  Generaloberst  Von Falkenhayn,  then Chief of the  OHL,, " that he wasn't  highly  skilled enough"  to realise luminous  pink helmets were a  stroke of genius. " You Prussian  booby  those British bastards won't be expecting us to come  flouncing  across  no man's land in luminous pink  helmets") suddenly  flops out.

After closing his eyes,  and  muttering  something  prayerfully to himself,  he points the pistol at his own temple,    he takes a deep breath , and  after placing his pistol back on the table,  he fixes Hauptmann Von Knobelsdorf with a withering gaze

" Your  report if you please,  Herr Hauptmann,  begin with your mission,  infiltrating and  annihilating McTrolls  regiment , part of the  2nd Australian Division I believe.  After all  that special  training,  and the  revolutionary  new weaponry: the  MP18 machine pistols and  the  flammenwerfers , your  crack division of doppelgangers  must have made short work of that trollish  Antipodean  rabble"

Just then a particularly violent boom causes the whole room to shake, the chandelier emitting a  crystalline  tinkling - like  eccentric  Bavarian  inventor Impetigo  Von Doyle,  inventor of the short lived ( and  somewhat  ill fated) prosthetic  glass cock, spending a  pfenning- as it sways ominously. A shower of  plaster  dust falls  from the  widening  cracks in the  ceiling,  covering the  table,  Von Waffenstarks  Generalmajors  arabesque insignia,  and both his feldgrau  tunic and crown of his rather  luxurious  toupee with  flecks that resemble  dandruff. Brushing them off,  the  Generalmajors plump features are wreathed in a brief,  nostalgic  smile.

The smile  quickly fades, and,  recognising the  particular sound of the artillery piece he stares balefully  across at Von Knobelsdorf 

" That was a  15 inch howitzer. The 2nd Australian,  specifically  Colonel McTrolls regiment  were the only  Entente unit in this sector armed with  13 inch heads, sorry 15 inch howitzers. Explain  Herr Hauptmann!! And"

He fixes the  nervous  Hauptmann with an icy stare,  toying  absentmindedly with  the  ivory handle of his pistol. Spinning it round,  the dull gleam as it whirls round  reminds Hauptmann Von Knobelsdorf of the time he hired Sarah,  the famous  Liege strumpet,  who advertised  her 12 metal teeth  " 4 above and 8 below "

" You better make it  good." He spins the pistol again. Scattering sparks; a shimmering  dervish  swirl,  across the  high stuccoed  arches and the  crenellated  panels. 

Hauptmann Von Knobelsdorf  takes a  deep breath 

"Well Herr Generalmajor it's  like this"

Hearing  those words Von Waffenstarks  face blanches,  turning  paler than the skin under hood Dickie  Hooke was buried in , his right  cheek begins to  twitch, his shoulders  hunch forward,  his gaze never once leaving the pistol,  even  when  he takes a  slurp, a long noisy impassioned  slurp from the  hip flask,  he produced the  instant the word " Well" left Our Brian's  thin bloodless  lips

" First of all  the  booby who invented  these machine  pistols  was obviously an unskilled  troll. Using  my encyclopedic knowledge of  weapons  forensics  I  exchanged  them"

" With what?" Von Waffenstark  mumbles,  before exhaling a breath,  along muted resigned sigh, sounding  not dissimilar to a condemned man on the  morning of his execution,  looking out through the bars , to behold a day positively  bursting with the first glorious blooms of spring .

Just then another even louder thud fills the conference room, , followed by another,  sounding like the careless steps of some sleepwalking giant , they cause the very walls to tremble 

Like the  knees of a  hardened  Parisian  putain when first confronted with Private  J Butler,  13th Kentucky  Squirrel  Catchers, and  his experimental new " Marriage  Aid" 

" Don't  worry  ma'am,  them springy spiral  things looks more painful than they is,  kinda,  and  don't worry about the  bear neither,  I gets him drunk on finest Kentucky  bourbon,  you just shove this little  ole pole thing  up here and  this crazy  old claw looking thingy up there, give its a good ole stirring,  like you is at yer 9 year old cousins first hoedown, and  lies back and think of  King and Country, wait a minute,  what waz  Cousin  Zeke  done read to me, " Do not partake in sexual relations with the local  population,  no the other thing,  that's right , you frogs gone done kill your  king, you decappy  decrepit,  disembodied,  you done cut off his head, just  like we did to them  Yankees,  see ma'am  it don't hurt a bit, ma'am? ma'am? Dangnabbit she done gone turns blue...its like  maw and paws and me and maws wedding conjugals  all over again "

" Well Mein General  , on one of  our last  intel spook missions behind the lines, I got one of  my best agents, Gefreiter Tomasz  Graf  Von Graves to exchange 1000 machine  pistols and  15 flammenwerfers for 2 dozen wheel lock muskets, with wooden  ramrods and  plug bayonets,  the guy who  exchanged  them, what was his name? Captain  Lord Tarquin  Fortescue  Biggles  Psmith  , heir to the  Viscountcy  of  Portchester,  I think he was Dutch, or Portuguese,  definitely a  neutral,  wait the Portuguese aren't neutral,  are they? It doesn't matter anyway, the guy had no powder and  balls, but he said if we dried some dung and  squished  it into balls the muskets  would work just fine. I'f like me you're good at weapons  forensics  you'll know a gun that hasn't been  fired since 1587 will be in perfect condition.."

" What about the  Australians?" Von Waffenstark  moans " Tell me  you infiltrated and  annihilated  them"

" They ran away publicly,  like the booby trolls they are. They  were too cowardly to face my superior weaponry "

" You mean the 400 year old  wheel lock muskets  that  fire pellets of dried dung?"

" Jawohl Herr Generalmajor. The trollish  noodinicks  ran and they kept running,  my batman,  Unteroffizier  Porcelain  Von Boner even  chased  them...Look there he goes now! Aud Weidershen,  no that's goodbye, Guten Tag  mein leib  von Boner, schnapps and crumpets back st the trench at 1800 hours, remember  I'm  3 1 up in the  Gross  Deutsch  Ker Plunk  Championship,  I always  win"

" I'm  frightened to ask Von Knobelsdorf,  but are you trying to tell me you chased them in this  direction? Through  our lines? Have you ever heard of a little something called  " High Treason"?

" They just kept  running  Herr Generalmajor,  when they saw our helmets and our guns they stopped and  laughed for a  moment,  shot poor Feldwebel  Larsdrop in the  arse, mind you hed been standing on top of the parapet with his trousers round his ankles for  days, he's quite the tactician,  told me he'd been studying the field manuals for 3 weeks "

" Is  this the same  Feldwebel  Larsdrop who was almost shot for  treason? After studying the  gas warfare manuals for  2 weeks  he ended up  causing  over 40 000 casualties,  German  casualties,  he ordered a  mustard gas attack on Dusseldorf,  Has he learned to read yet?"

" Doesn't matter  Herr Generalmajor,  I could tell he was almost as skilled as me. I'm fact I ordered the  2nd ( Hungarian) Volunteer Doppelgangers  to  follow his orders"

" You ordered  10 000 polyglot Hungarian doppelgangers to stand on top of the parapet and drop their  trousers?'

Hauptmann Von Knobelsdorf  smiles broadly " Brilliant  idea , wasn't  it? I lied a little,  I told mama  it was  my idea. I wrote  her a letter. I wrote the Times too. Including  our Order of  Battle and  tactical  dispositions,  just to show those British  bastards we are invincible "

By now  Generalmajor Von Waffenstark has emptied his flask, and smoked all his cigarettes. His twitching has got worse,  becoming a full blown nervous  tic,  he's  reduced to eating  the  cigarette butts, scooping them out the ashtrays with trembling  hands "

Glowing with  pride, and  seemingly unaware of the  Generalmajors  near complete nervous prostration,  Our Brian  continues. His high pitched nasal  whine rising, becoming first a sort of  garbled mezzosoprano  wittering , then the  full blown  ranting of a  bona fide tactical  genius ( its a  little known fact  that  Hannibal,  Alexander the Great  and Genghis Khan  used to rant for about  6 hours a day)

" It was when we were standing there  with our trousers round our ankles that those cowardly trolls started  running..One booby, maybe  Colonel McTroll himself shouted " Mate, we don't shoot bastards with no trousers, by the way, is this the way to Berlin  ? I took it as the concession it obviously was, and  showed him the way to Berlin. After we had totally and utterly annihilated the  Australian  trolls"

" By standing there with your trousers round your ankles, letting one of the finest  fighting  divisions on the entire  Western Front run straight past you, thus breaking through our last  viable  line of defense?"

" I know! Only someone as skilled as me would have thought of such a genius plan "

" What about the 1st Auchtermuchty Deep Fried Mars Bars? Surely,  even with Wheellock  muskets firing dungballs  you must have made short work of a rabble of whisky soaked  reprobrates? Who wear fucking  skirts and  rape raw haggis? I heard  their commander C U McGillycutty has higher  cholesterol  than the whole of Upper Bavaria!"

" I excelled myself  Herr Generalmajor "

A slight flicker of hope animates the  Generalmajors  haggard  features

" Go on Herr Hauptmann "

" Well Herr  Generalmajor,  the doppelgangers and I  made it through the barbed wire,  right into their trenches  in fact..the whole place was full of empty  bottles, they  had  obviously  drunk  themselves  unconscious  the  night before , it looked like every whore this side of the Rhine was in  that trench too...they'd been having a party. St Valium and Buckfasts  Night,  the twin Patron saints of Scotland "

Generalmajor Von Waffenstark was fully alert now, his lethargic  stare having dissolved  into a  wide grin, straightening  his errant  toupee,  in his excitement  it had come  loose, slipping over his forehead 

" Go on, Go on My lieb Oberstleutnant,  I smell an Iron Cross or three, maybe I  can  finally get rid of this junk" he fingers the fake medal hanging round his neck with ill concealed disdain  " maybe " he sighs dreamily  I'll finally get a  real Pour ke Merite, maybe even a promotion! Generalleutnant Von Waffenstark,  hmmm it most  certainly has a ring to it! If the Kaiser  presents our medals in person  remember  I'm first in line for his daughter,  I've heard she's a real vixen, a real  dirty  little minx,  a real fucking  goer as our Scottish friends would say. Well, to business,  don't keep me in suspense,  what happened? How many were killed? How many POWs? Not even YOU could fuck up the  chance of capturing a trench full of inebriated Scotsnen and  Belgian whores...tell me you didn't fuck it up?"

Our Brian's  famously ample  moobs  swell even  further,  the bullet like nipples almost bursting out of his tunic

" Exactly  10 458 dead end  no prisoners "

"10 458 dead end  no prisoners " the elated Generalmajor  repeats , barely able to conceal his delight,  and  perhaps his relief too. Maybe his plan would work.  For a brief  wonderful interlude he slips off through the doorway into the kingdom of daydreams , almost numb with a wild almost chaotic  joy, he begins imagining,  oh so many incredible things, like a brightly painted carousel,  complete with a happy blur, the faces of all his lovers and friends,  waving and smiling as they  spin round majestically,  on the elegantly painted wooden horses, which seem so alive: medals, ballrooms  full of  beautiful women,  glittering chandeliers,  champagne  flutes, princes and dukes crowding round him like awestruck schoolboys,  perhaps even  he dare hope a certain countess  might at last consider his proposal ..

" 10 458...quite a coincidence...that's the same  number of men as your  division.."

Such realisations are made all the  more horrible by the  hope, poor hope! preceding the  downfall. 

There was no sound,  save the faraway,  but not so far, chatter of Entente machine  guns, and the squeak of the heel of our Brains  zen jackboots , there was no sound,  for the  fall was within. The wondrous  delirium of joy the Generalmajor had conjured up  for himself  popped like one of  Porcelain Thrones  pus filled boils...

" 10 459 in fact, sorry  10 460, including me and my batman. I had another absolutely brilliant plan...I ordered my men to pick up the  guns and  shoot themselves..Using my instincts and my inherent  tactical  skills, mommy always said I inherited a drastical willy,   of course  she really  meant to say tactical skills,  I figured out if I get the entire division of doppelgangers to  shoot themselves  those cowardly  Scottish boobys would be so terrified by my skill they'd either surrender,  or run all the way back to  Scotland,  I was 50% right,  and of course a genius like me being  50& right is nearly 100% better than some  unskilled  booby  being  100% right, " Hold on Herr Generalmajor,  After nearly  30 minutes of frantic finger counting  Hauptmann Von Knobelsdorf  gives up" Anyway I  was 50% right,  the booby  trolls  started  running alright.  In fact  they ran and ran and they kept on running...in fact by my calculations  they should be  approximately  30 km  outside Hamburg  now. Cowardly  noodnicks "

" ENOUGH  IVE HEARD ENOUGH!!" Generalmajor Von Waffenstark roars, he begins  rocking back and forth on his chair, dribbling, muttering and  stroking an invisible dog, either that he's  pretending to  jiggle a pair of invisible  titties 

" Tell me  you've found my dachshund...please tell me you've found  dear little Debbie Downer.."

" Jawohl Herr Generalmajor" Our Brian clicks the  heels of his zen jackboots together..

" I had to contact a credible photo analyst or two, you know  The Very Reverend  Dickardus  Von Gilbride? Bremens  top celibate  bungee jumper? And expert on erotic Potemkin  Villages"

Generalmajor Von Waffenstarks  despair gives way to bemusement 

" Photo analysts? Celibate bungee jumping? Erotic what? I only  lost my fucking dachshund  outside the HQ..Have you ever seen a  dachshund? Do you know how small their legs are? Ok ok I don't give a fuck, have  your erotic photo analysts and celibate  Potemkin Villages I don't give a fuck...just bring me Debbie Downer "

" Here she is mein Generalmajor.  Larsdrop  and I spent  hours studying the  dachshund  manual,  in fact it was  just about the last thing he did"

" Herr Hauptmann,  what you have there is white,   has wool and  it goes baa. ITS A  FUCKING  SHEEP NOT A  DACHSHUND  Dachshunds are small, black with stumpy  legs and a surprisingly  elasticated,  not to mention,  accommodating  arsehole..THIS IS A  SHEEP  A GOD DAMN FUCKING  SHEEP "

" That's not  true! Look at this photograph! Certain  cameras turn white wool black,  he no wait a minute,  Lsrsdrop! No wait he shot himself,  fulfilling  my super skilful  plan to defeat those booby trolls "

BANG!

" Was that another shell Herr Generalmajor? No, see I told you my plan was genius! You've  shot yourself too! I'm  just SO Skilful! No wonder  those British  Empire bastards  declared war on me...well hello there little  sheep,y dachshund I think I'll call you  Porcelain Throne,  do you want to hear what  REALLY  happened in Sarajevo?. But before we do, just purely academically  speaking , is it true what the  late Generalmajor  said? About your arsehole?"

FIN

Sounds like Brian is ready to hire Shyster, Shyster & Shyster in his $3 Trillion class action against the entire Western Hemisphere.
Bring it on, Brian....and there's me thinking you were too stupid to realize you are stupid.

Albert is handling the case persona non grata.

Hey Brian,  never  mind making  a  song and dance about  finding  Stanton  in  Weigmann,  any luck  with the  cameras? I'm  just  waiting to call your  bluff you pathetic charlatan. 

What about  " Prayerwomans " breasts?

What about  Mrs Stanton's  statement? And what about the  outstanding  questions  regarding  H and L while  we're at it. Specifically  about the  Russian language aspect 

You've  some  fucking  brass neck , I'll give you that. Have you no sense of pride or integrity?

Do you  care about this case at all? Or is it  just all about  you? Are you  so full of  envy and so distorted  by  an urge for  your stupid  petty revenge ?

Do you not care how many lies you  tell? How  much of a  childish  hypocrite  you  make yourself  look like ?

Your  puerile  fantasy  is  sunk. It is over. Mind you,  it never  really  started. 

You  can  tell as many  lies as you want,  strike as many absurd postures, pretend  Stanton in Weigmann is some  unanswerable  Gotcha. 

When in reality its you  just  retreating to your comfort  zone: blurry photos,  the  perfect opportunity for you to demonstrate  your  " skill" You maybe  thick as  shite  but you do possess a  certain  cunning. You exist in the  shadowlands of sheer  speculation. Where there are only opinions,  no real  definitive  answers. Hence we get  your  case cracking  double stop scenario,  and  your obsession with blurry photos and " identifying " certain  personages. You  wisely  choose to eschew  questions that have  real answers , questions that require  real knowledgeable  research,  to hide your  colossal ignorance behind  your predilection for  bluster  filled word salads and  toxic  gaslighting/ browbeating ( incidentally is Van Gough  a painter or a  half Dutch half Scottish  footballer? I'm sure he played for Rangers,  and  is he any relation to  Cap'n  Bly?)

The sheer fucking  gall of it!

Claiming  Greg , Bart and I  have " run away  publically "

Tell me  the exact  name of the cameras  Weigmann and Darnell  used. Make and  model. The film stock,  shutter speed and all other appropriate  technical  details. Explain IN DETAIL,  providing  contemporary  photographic evidence,  how  these  top of the range,  professional quality cameras  showed  Mrs Stanton's grey hair as black,  and how  she got a  receding hairline .

Show ," Prayerwomans " breasts. Not semi coherent  word salads about  giant handbags,  proper visual proof. 

It should be a walk in the park for such a  skilled researcher,  after all you've been  telling everyone,  for the  past 6 years or so,  how  you've  " proved" Prayerman is  really Sarah Stanton. 

Here's the chance to really  strut your stuff. 

Really  stick it to us unskilled  booby  trolls 

While  you're  at it you can  provide proof the FBI surreptitiously  altered Mrs Stanton's  statement..

Boy, those agents would have given  you  a  run for your money  in the  genius  stakes..

Altering her statement , making it impossible for her to be Prayerman..

Alternatively you could just chum out yet another  meaningless  self aggrandising  rant. 

Then everyone will  know the score for sure...

Not that there's any  real doubt 

I told you Brian,  people aren't  nearly as stupid as you think they are. 

And you are nowhere near as smart as you like to think you are. 

They can  see right  through  your  pathetic  ruse

You're  not a researcher,  you're a  ridiculous fucking  charlatan. A toxic buffoon 

A spoilt  immature  baby  whose  never  grown up. 

I used to  feel  sorry for you. Not in a  patronising way. But in an empathetic  way. I thought  behind all the bluster there lurked a bright,  occasionally witty guy, who  could really  do something,  if he had the  guts to sort his head out. 

I was wrong. 

You're  just the sort of  common or garden  pissant  that's  ten a penny in the  " alternative  media/ online  JFK assassination research community "

Imagine  threatening to sue people  for  having the temerity to disagree with you!!

Clarence  and  Greg are absolutely spot on. 

You actually  don't want to do anything,  you  revel in  your  self appointed  victim status. 

Blaming  James Gordon  absolves you of  the  need to explain  your  overwhelming  failure. 

Bottom line: your  so called  correct evidence is a  total  fucking  joke.

Puerile  childish nonsense,  the sort of thing,  to paraphrase  Schiller  describing Kant's  Proof of God that would  only  satisfy  "Gullible  fools, Graves, Gilbride and  cunts with  agendas  and/ or ulterior  motives "

Go ahead  Brian,  find yourself a lawyer,  and  please  please include  me 

Prove me wrong. 

Show some  class and integrity. 

Answer the questions. They're  perfectly  reasonable questions,  the sort any honest  researcher should be delighted to answer. 

Or pen another ill tempered  frothing at the mouth diatribe. 

Show yourself up as just  another charlatan and  phoney  man of straw 

Steely,  as usual,  was spot on. He's  got you  sussed. Rather than  being  annoyed by your  stupid  childish  lies,  it's  far better just to laugh.

P.S. Please,  for  Armstrong's sake,  invest in a  dictionary,  or check  online. Find out what the word prosaic  actually means..

Prediction....Brian wont hire a lawyer because he is an uncredible lying booby. He thinks we don't know this.
Too stupid to realize he's stupid.
Post something funny. Brian.

That was very funny, Brian.
Now that you are doing as your told....hire a lawyer and prove you're not a liar.

If our Brian  didn't exist you couldn't  possibly invent him

He's got the  self awareness, the  maturity and the  emotional  intelligence ( in fact  make  that every  sort of intelligence) of a 650 million  year old  fossilized  amoeba. That spent it's time flopping and  farting  around the  primeval  ooze whining " its just SO unfair "

Our Brian may well be the oldest  young  teenager in fucking  history. 

Threatening to  sue people for  disagreeing with him on a shitty  internet  " debate forum "!!!

My kingdom of tin foil  hats  AND my entire tin foil  hatted kingdom to be a  CIA  bug on the  wall of  a lawyer's office  down  Sanibel way,  as Brian  comes flip  flopping in, ponytail  bristling,  adjusting his gasmask,  before  attempting to  wipe his glasses,  they always  get a  tad steamed up if he takes the  Sanibel  Expressway,  past a certain  geriatric  yoga/ keep fit centre/ gymnasium.." Mr Goldberg,  id  like to sue some  booby trolls who won't  agree with me,  they refuse to  recognize my correct evidence and admitt a 5 foot 9 inch slim male with dark hair and a visibly receding hairline is in actual fact  an obese 300lb woman with a  penchant for wig wearing,  a giant  handbag  fetish and a  great humongous  pair of invisible titties....wait Mr Goldberg  was it? I've just  remembered I've got some  serious  Jimi Hendrix  research to attend to"

If there's one thing  he loves more than  spending an evening  gazing at the  collage of the  Mary  Pinchot  Meyer/ Lt  Commander  Pitzer  intel spook  hit  crime scene  picture  blow ups Tommy  Graves  made for him, listening to Jimi Plays  Monterey at full volume,  its  watching  as  those hot octogenarians  do their  stretches  in their skin tight lycra  yoga pants ( if only!!)

Ive never heard anything quite so preposterous. Threatening to sue Robbie, Greg, Gil,  James Gordon,  Steely,  Barto, me, Uncle  Tom Cobley,  the  British bastard,  Cap'n  Bly, Van Gough  and  fuck knows who else,  simply because we have   two functioning eyes and basic cognitive  abilities . 

In fact the most  ridiculous thing I'd heard  before  this whole  threatening to sue anyone who  disagrees with the most skilled researcher/ linguistic  forensics  expert/ detective this side of  Hetty  Wainthrop  or t Angela  Lansbury  in Murder,  She Wrote , was the  very  idea that she  Prayerman  figure  was, in fact , a diminutive  rotund  300lb grey haired woman with  a  giant handbag and a  colossal  pair of invisible  titties,  who enjoyed wearing wigs for professional reasons,  and  who had the  misfortune to be photographed by a camera, mysteriously  imbued with  miraculous  properties,  not only  turning her hair black but giving her an instant receding  hairline,  that  vanished as suddenly as it appeared. 

Not only that,  but he is so utterly  clueless and  lacking in  self awareness ( all joking aside  how completely  naive,  blinkered and  ignorant of basic  human  interaction to carry on the way Brian  does? Seriously.  Does  he not  realise how  ridiculous his antics make him  appear? What a  thoroughly  toxic  effect he has? How he turns off 99.9999% of  people who have the slightest  contact with him? As Gil rightly points out he's  his own worst enemy. I'll go a little further,  unfortunately  he's become the worst enemy of everyone remotely interested in learning the truth behind the assassination. His rigmarole , his nonsensical research and  his repulsive  on line persona  plays into the hands of the  lone nutists and their  stalwart  denier  allies. That's why I waste my time with his shite, I suspect thats why we all do. The subject is just  TOO  fucking  important,  and the  potential  impact  is just too great to be  left at the mercy of the likes of Brian and Porcelain Throne ) he tries to make it  look like  its everyone else who are " running away in public " and  refusing to answer reasonable questions. 

1 Stanton in Weigmann is a  moot point. A meaningless distraction,  a feeble attempt to  divert  attention from the other far more  relevant evidence  that would  have destroyed the  whole  Prayerwoman  fantasy , if it wasn't  DOA 

2 The poignant,  almost  tragic  irony is- and despite all his appalling  behaviour,  his never ending  stream of  lies and  distortions ultimately  it  IS tragic  to watch someone  self destruct so publicly and so completely. Brian,  I've apologised to you for the times I  overstepped the mark. Words meant in jest can  still  hurt. You've made me angry,  and I find  most of your antics and  some of your beliefs  reprehensible,  but I  take no real pleasure in this. Indeed at times I  feel like an utter cunt. However,  in the final analysis I it's the evidence that  matters,  the evidence  people  whom I  have a great  deal of respect for have worked  damn fucking  hard  meticulously  piecing  together,  I'll be  fucked  if I'm  going to  stand by and  let you  try to  destroy,  derail,  diminish or even  delay what I  , and  the  other members  here, genuinely  believe is the  best,  last and only chance to  get this case moving - he himself  refuses to answer a few pertinent,  perfectly  reasonable questions. 

In fact,  one might even  say, he's  running  from them in public. 

The Prayerman figure has  dark hair and a visibly  receding hairline. You've  tried  wigs,  hair dye and  fuck knows what else, finally  setting on a  magical camera as your  explanation for this major discrepancy.  On its own it pretty much rules Mrs Stanton out of contention. 

If you have  real evidence  Brian,  lets  see it. I mean real falsifiable  evidence,  technical  specifications and  contemporary photographic evidence. Not just your usual  belligerent  gobbledegook.  I'm sorry Brian,  I simply don't believe you. The whole notion of a magical camera  changing  hair colour and altering  hairlines  is  patent  nonsense. More than that, it's quite  frankly  insulting. Imho it makes it look like you  just don't give a fuck. That you'll  say practically  anything to keep your  fantastical  charade intact.

In the end it's all about  you. And revenge. Youve  never  forgiven the forum,  and  the  members for outing your  various online  personalities and  for challenging your  treasured  self perception. 

Hair colour and  hairlines aside there's also  the question  regarding  Prayerwomans  ( non existent) cleavage. If the figure  IS  female  then it should be  visibly  apparent. 

The figure is  quite clearly  flat chested. Imho it defies belief how anyone can look at that figure and  see a woman. 

Then there's the  question of  her weight.  Huff and puff as much as you like,  throw up as many  smokescreen,  be they in the  shape of  obese hands or huge buttons,  or  even  giant handbags,  the figure is  quite obviously  not obese.

To claim  Prayerman is really an obese 300lb woman  is  in stark denial of what is  clearly  visible. 

Then there's Mrs Stanton's own statement. This almost  Pavlovian  response,  the  default  conspiracists  position  , claiming  anything that  doesn't  fit into the  preferred  pet theory is automatically  fake, is tantamount to cheating. 

Unless you have authentic  probative,  independent  confirmation of  fakery. Quite  frankly  it diminishes the  whole  fucking  thing; if a document/ witness statement/ photo  confirms whatever  pet theory is in the  process of being  peddled,  its trumpeted to the heavens and back,  it gets produced at every possible opportunity,  usually with a  smug " I told you so" rejoinder.  

To claim  Mrs Stanton's  statement is  fake is quite  frankly  ridiculous. What possible reason would the FBI , or whatever agency , have to  fake it? And to fake it in such a  fashion? Pretty much  ruling  Mrs Stanton out of contention. 

Then there's your  much celebrated  " height argument " the guy on your  Facebook  page  explained it brilliantly. 

To attempt to make such measurements,  taking  no account of  scale, plane etc is the  equivalent of  guessing. Despite your  endless  boasts and  claims  you  have  no proven  technical  competence  in this field. You  simply  eyeballs it, and  , as is your wont,  you  then attempted to  browbeat,  or wear folk down with  endless rants, filled with  pseudo  scientific  sounding  gibberish. 

Then there's your  persistent  misrepresentations of  BWF, and  your  insistence on  quoting non existent  evidence,  be they mysteriously  deleted  threads,  videos or  even  posts on your own  fucking  Facebook page. 

If you had any  sort of class, decency or basic self respect  you'd apologise to Greg for  misrepresenting  him.

But we both know you won't. And you don't. 

Brian,  you  relish your  self created,  self perpetuating  tole of wrongly  persecuted  victim. 

The poor innocent  booby  whose vilified for being  too skilful. 

What an absolute  joke

James Gordon us your fig leaf. If you  were  really  serious,  if you really  wanted to get your message out, what the fuck  could  James Gordon do about it?

Aside from the fact he banned the two main,  most visible  proponents of the  theory,  James Gordon couldn't care less about  Prayerman. I don't know where you get the idea it's the Education forums  most cherished  theory?

Brian,  you were wrong. So fucking  what?

MacRae  started the whole  Prayerwoman  fantasy  out of  spite, for a wind up, so he claims. 

And you, Graves and  Gilbride were so eaten up with  bitterness and  so desperate for revenge,  you  bought it.

I shouldn't be  wasting my time with this. You'll ignore this message,  or else you'll  cherrypick  a fragment,  more than  likely out of context and  then  proceed to answer the question  you  wish you had been asked. 

You don't deal in empirical  realities,  you instinctively  shy away from them. You're  crafty enough to  realise your best,  indeed your only  chance of  keeping this  totally bizarre  psychodrama  going is to remain in the  shadowlands. 

Dealing only in the  unprovable  , or in the  contentious. 

When in comes to  H and L you don't have the  slightest  clue about the  Russian language,  or any other provable  aspect,  but you most definitely  can  construct  yourself a fantasy  scenario, with CIA agents  a go  go...CIA agent  Mrs Reid and  CIA Shelley  conniving to frame poor old  HARVEY  , while " white T shirt  LEE, fresh from his star shooting turn, in the  6th floor window,  gets intel spooked to safety. 

Likewise the  shite about  stereoscopic comparisons  between  Altgens 6 and  Weigmann,  its totally  spurious,  meaningless  but vaguely credible  sounding  bullshit. 

Brian,  hair colour,  hairline, lack of  breasts, size, weight,  her own statement  and  Armstrong knows what else, trumps whatever  truly  wonderful  marvels you claim your preternatural  skills  enable you to  see..

Honestly  Brian,  and I  mean  this sincerely,  I'd  take a  step back,  take a  breather,  go out and  have some  fun, get laid, go to a  concert,  do whatever you want,  then,  when you  feel  ready,  take an honest  look  at yourself and your life. Brian,  self delusion is the  greatest  delusion of all. For it's the delusion  from which all other delusions  flow. Not  only  that, self delusion  almost  always  harms the one who us doing the  deluding. Namely  ourselves. 

For fuck sakes,  threatening to  sue  people  for  disagreeing with you?

Seriously  Brian,  I'd take a  break from  all this for awhile,  never  mind other  people's lives,  concentrate on  your own.  

Maybe  it's  time to  try another,  less confrontational  approach,  maybe it's  time to be really  fucking  honest  with  yourself  Brian. 

Despite  everything  I have  nothing  against you personally. Sure , I may have gone a little too far, but haven't we all? Hand on my coal black heart  , most of what ive written,  the vast majority of it in fact,  was meant as a  joke, to satirise,  and  to burlesque  the  online  persona  you've,  for some unfathomable  reason,  chosen to adopt.

I find a lot of  your behaviour  repellent,  most especially  your  willingness  to  smear people I  respect,  your  sometimes  appallingly  casual  relationship with the  truth,  your  condescending  attitude,  the  obvious lack of  respect for  others,  and  most of all yourself. This bizarre  immature  notion you have of research and what it entails...

And most of all your past dalliances with holocaust denial. 

Think about it  Brian. 

Ive told you repeatedly I don't know who Prayerman is. There's a  definite chance it could be Oswald,  so why in the name of  fuck isn't everyone  getting behind this?

I can't understand it. 

If it isn't  him, so fucking  what? As I've  said before,  probably far too often,  what is their to lose that hasn't been lost already?

But if it does turn out to be him...

I know its a  gross oversimplification,  the case is  far deeper and  far more  complex. But at least  its a  start,  a real  start. Dragging this case down from the  wonderfully  woolly  conspiracy  flavoured  clouds, and  into the  here and  now

Freeing the  case from the  poisonous  grip of  conspiracy theorists and  their more disreputable  kin...

Freeing it from the  self righteous  pissants,  the dogmatic  , the cheapjack  hustlers and  bullshit srtists..

I don't know about  metaphysical certainty,  but most of us most certainly know the truth. 

And what have we done with this knowledge,  has it been  transformed into actual  progress?

Nebulous  pie in the  sky theorizing  and endless  fucking  debate,  dredging up the same old shite again and again. 

Certain  people's perceptions of  research sound incredibly similar,  far too similar,  to a commonly  recognized  definition of madness 

Repeating the same action over and over again,  while expecting a different outcome..

What the fuck is  " debating" the SBT, or Badgeman,  Z film  alteration,  the fucking  Mortal  Error  bullshit  or Greer didit,  trying to  cram the assassination into the  wholly  deceptive  left/ right paradigm,  bullet trajectories  etc etc.  ad  infinitum  with  clods and  empty  headed poseurs  going to achieve?

To paraphrase  Ginsberg  I've seen the  best  researchers of my generation  destroyed by  madness, writhing down Lifton streets at dawn, searching  for a  fix to stop this fixation with the  machinery of  debate as it spills out of  David Josephs  bowels..

On that note I will bid our chums over on acjfk  a fond au revoir...

I  know they have  pressing business to attend to...making  Sandy Hook videos for  YouTube and  trying to place poor old  Alan Tippit and the corpse of  his dead father in Dealey Plaza..

By Jiminy  I think ive  cracked it!! Alan Tippit  was Badgeman! He slipped into his dads uniform in the  TSBN toilets, in the  next cubicle to  Joe Molina,  who was having  trouble  fitting  into his Billy Lovelady facemask...lucky  good old HARVEY  was on hand..

" Here Joe let me  help you out with that thing,  are you sure you can  breathe ok? I used to  hate facemask  class, back  when I was out at Nags  Head, back in 59, at Ilusory  Wsrfare  School  this guy Tosh  kept  getting  the facemasks  mixed up,  it ain't  much fun wandering around  the  wilds of  North Carolina  with a  half your  face stuck  inside a rubber Desi Arnez  mask, it wasn't  only  Lucy who had  some" xplainib' to do, wait, did you  hear that? I said  DID YOU  HEAR THAT  JOEA? I forgot you can't hear shit inside one of  those things, it was probably  nothing,  just a  motorcycle  backfiring  or something,  shit is  that the time already? I'm  expecting a  phone call  on the 2nd floor  extension,  then  I've  supposed to  rendezvous with  my CIA cut out,  Mrs Reid, shame she wasn't  bigger, know what I mean? I SAID  SHAME  MRS REID  WASN'T  BIGGERA  ah  forget it Joe, when  you're stuck inside a facemask  its  like you're  stuck in another  world,  about  Mrs Reid,  after Marina I kinda like a  gal  with  something you can  really  hang onto,  know what I mean? That Mrs Stanton  for example,  it's a pity about her problem though,  it musta  been  hell  growing up  back in  those days with  invisible tits,  Mr Stanton  must be one understanding  guy"

Armstrong have mercy on us all..

Actually I think we all could join a class action suit against the slander from Brian.

I know a Florida based attorney from college.
Be my pleasure.

In the  furthermost  corner of  human  perception. Somewhere between insanity and Sanibel Island .

Somewhere between the  the vast oceans of infinity and the  tiniest subatomic particle. 

In the  interstitial  gaps between  what  is said and what must forever remain unspoken 

Where both  time and consciousness  drip like drops of  unsniffed  paint  from the  bristles of The  Great Architect's  Dickie Gilbride shaped  brush 

A place where unicorns  can ride larrytrotters just as easily as an unmuzzled  unclarified Larrytrotter  can ride a unicorn, towards the  threshold  of  divinely  ordained  auto erotic  strangulation,  sorry  I meant  clarification...And  neither , trotter or  unicorn  , ever having to worry about any  blood tests or  swabs  he morning  after  the riding is done. 

A place  far beyond the  looking  glass. Beyond the reach of  eyebrow  twitching  tyrants . Where women can be men and  slim dark haired men with visibly receding hairlines can be 300lb morbidly obese  grey haired women with  an insatiable fetish for giant handbags and outsized  buttons, where they can stand   proudly  defiant,  unashamed of their invisible titties and their anatomically  impossible  wrist size...

A place we can  all reach if we only have the courage to  walk through the  doorway,  turning  left at the  will  call counter  before climbing the stairs to the  2nd floor  lunchroom of the mind, 

A magical place  

Known only as the  BRILIGHT  ZONE

On this week's episode of the  BRILIGHT ZONE we meet an ordinary Dallas  housewife,  a clerk at a local  schoolbook  company.  Her normal  everyday  routine  has been  shattered, and  it's  incredible , the  realisation  , when it hits us, how beautiful and extraordinarily  precious all  the mundane  trivia- the  little  park,  after all one green shoot is the  equivalent of a  shoot of green, the wrinkles on the wizened  face of the old man who  sits motionless  by himself,  the sightless eyes  once seeing sights long  vanished  past forever and the ugliness of the wrinkles  hides nothing but the wonder of the life which  made them-  we all take for granted , the moment we  realise we are about to lose them. 

Forever. 

And for Sarah,  her particular  encounter with forever  just happened to come in the shape of her X ray results. 

Delivered,  by hand,  from the  BRILIGHT ZONE 

Sarah is exhausted.  She's been up since  3am this morning,  getting  her kids  lunches  packed and their clothes  ironed. Making  sure the crusts were cut off her husband's  sandwiches.  Standing in their tiny  bedroom,  watching the first  murmurs of dawn  trickling in- God how fat he's  gotten and  does he always  make  so much  noise snoring,  worse than the pigs  back on daddy's  farm- looking  through the gaps in the curtains,  just about able to make out the  outline of the house  across the  street,  I bet that wanton  floosy  ain't letting her man  do no sleeping , the house  scares her, its dense blackness  silhouetted by the bleary pastel  patches , blotches of daylight scarring the dying face of night , looms  menacingly  , the  vacant eyelike  windows  full of  drab silent  scheming  malevolence,  then she realizes why she is so frightened.  The house across the way is shaped just like their own  house.  Their home.

As she checks her handbag for her bus ticket,  until  yesterday morning she'd never heard of  Sanibel Island before , with a  weary sigh  her fingers  brush the sharp corners of the envelope. 

Her X Ray  results. 

8 hour later she's standing on the sidewalk, somewhere deep in downtown Sanibel,  outside the doctors surgery.. She's  even  more  exhausted now, shattered  in fact,  having spent  7 of the previous  8 hours jolting  through the dusty Texan plains, the  parched Arroyo,  before the scenery changed  dramatically.  Feeling like some kind of timid conquistador , a stranger in an even stranger land,  she found  herself watching  as the teeming Florida swamps went gliding  by, Like stolen snapshots from some fantastic dreamscape. . The little boy a couple of seats back has  spent most of the journey  crying. But, just after they'd passed through Bradenton,  Sarah  thought it looked like a  village out of a horror movie,  she half expected  hordes of zombies to come lumbering after the bus, he finally went to sleep  

Sarah felt herself drifting off too. Dreaming of  zombie white mice with ponytails and  tiny  little zen sandals 

The next moment she heard the  driver's  laconic  backwoods  drawl, " Sanibel  Island,  We've reached the end of the line.All out at Sanibel Island "

All out at Sanibel Island...

After the  journey  she decided  to  treat  herself,  forget the  diet she thinks,  stopping   for coffee and  doughnuts,  in a  funny little  shop, full of black  and  white pictures of half naked   men in  shorts doing gymnastics,  lots of close ups of brawny menin uniforms bending over, the  man who served her , a sallow faced lanky haired  creature  with  filthy  fingernails and a  huge jobby shaped boil on the  tip of  his sharp  pointy nose, thank goodness  HE wasn't half naked  Sarah thought as she crinkled  her  nose, having noticed the stench , like he had been  dipping  fresh excrement into  turpentine   before  eating  it, indeed his teeth  were  stained a nasty greenish  brown and  he had dried  scab like crusts of  discoloured  drool covering  half  his  face. He  seemed toharbour some kind of  bizarre   hatred  of radios.  He insisted  on  searching  her for  any hidden  transistors,  before  Sarah could object  his slippery unnaturally  clammy  fingers  were  all over her, like the  tentacles of some  undersexed  octopus,. As he served her, stopping  twice to spit on the  floor,  kept mumbling away about " Zero tolerance for radios and profanity". Oh yes and about  swords too. Stuck in the sand.  Maybe he was into medieval  role playing Sarah thought,  renaissance  fayres and  that sort of thing.  Her friend Gloria  met her future  husband at one, over in California,  some place called  La Jolla.  Some creepy  guy in armour,  nearly 7 foot tall Gloria said,  but she always did have a vivid imagination, said this guy came clanking  after her, with his little  winkle  dangling  out,  like  a  runty  piece of  spaghetti,  hanging  out a  saucepan,  asking her back to his trailer so he and someone called  Sandy could measure her back!

Weirdo

Sarah  was 10 minutes early for her appointment. 

She stood,fidgeting  nervously with  her buttons,  thank God they're so big, even  though  she couldn't help giggling,  thinking about tiny runty spaghetti guy, , her hands kept  shaking so much, like  the  time  her old next door  neighbour's , Mr and Mr Butler  , decided to have  sex inside the  giant  tumble dryer  he built,  for 3 days solid and for nearly 2 weeks after they went  juddering and shuddering about, no wonder  poor little  Johnny  couldn't  keep his hands  out of other people's  trousers, it was  hardly  his fault!, she thinks as she checks her reflection in the pet shop window,  next door to the  doctors  surgery.  Lucky she did, her wig had come  loose. Fixing it she noticed a sign in the pet shop window,  a LOT of  signs in fact. All looking for lost poodles apparently.  There had been some sort of  doggy  look a like competition,  down at the  Sanibel Christian Identity compound, . Slightly intrigued Sarah counted the posters. What are the odds of 14 Grace Slick lookalike poodles  going missing? 

Mr Truly was right.  These Floridians are a bunch of  crazy commie loving pot smoking hippy   degenerates. Probably  go around  speaking  Russian  to  each  other.  Stepping back from the window  she almost tripped over  what looked like a  hastily  discarded  bin liner, full of, eew  yuck,   really  sticky  sanitary  towels,  what was that? She thought she heard a  tiny whimper,  like when that  brute Billy Lovelady got drunk last Halloween,  and  wearing a Richard Nixon mask that was too big for him , he ran over poor Mrs Reids  chihuahua , when it slid down his forehead and covered his eyes. When was it the other Mrs Reid  told her about  Jeraldine  being a  part time  snoop for  the  CIA? Nosey  cow! She could almost believe  it. Always going on and on about this  guy HARVEY  no one's  ever  met. Boy , was it funny  when  that big gawky  kid, Wesley  Fdazier  showed  up  wearing a  bunny  rabbit  costume " Hi everyone  my name is  HARVEY " As usual  Joe Molina, the wise guy  had to ruin everything,  telling him he looked  more like  Bugs Bunny,  or Oswald the Lucky  Rabbit, for  some  reason  that  seemed to  annoy  Wesley,  " Doncha call me Oswald,  you  filthy  commie,  go back  to  Russia " Even Wesley  musta  got wind of  the rumours,  and  what about  Mr Sjelley, what a turn up, and  him such a  respected  dog breeder too! 

No, it couldn't possibly be  Sarah thought,  as she checked her watch, straightened her buttons and her wig, , making sure the envelope containing the X ray results hadn't fallen out her handbag. It couldn't possibly be one of  those poor little  missing  poodles 

With a  brave little sigh, she looked up at the sign " DR HEPATITIS  Q THRONE and  DR MICHELANGELO  K DOYLE THE FASTEST  BOOBY DOCTORS IN SANIBEL ISLAND "

What silly names Sarah thought as she strode inside 

END OF PART ONE

THE BRILIGHT  ZONE 

           PART TWO

As Sarah  enters the  reception  area ; after almost  dropping  her  handbag in  shock, the  surgery  door  having  seemiingly slammed  shut behind her, with  a  ferocious bang,,  followed  by  , what  sounds like,  the grating  metallic  clanging  of several  locks being bolted by unseen  hands, she is immediately  reminded of  her wise old grandmother. 

Specifically  what  she said about  first  impressions.  And how  important  they are. All her instincts  are telling her to  run...its like  Roy Trulys  birthday party all over again...

If she hadn't been so worried about her X ray results,  and so desperate for answers,  she would have  turned right round,  and  scarpered  out of the  so called  doctors surgery,  as fast as her plump  little legs  could carry her.

Not  stopping until she was back,  safely on board the bus to Texas

Instead of a  receptionists  area for  a reputable,  or even  semi reputable  medical  practitioners,  the place  has the  unsavoury,  quite  frankly  unsanitary  ambience  of some  reeking  squat  / crack den/ bedsit . Full of acne  ridden  goth teenagers , and  their  various,  foul smelling  accoutrements. 

The walls , apart from the  greenish  patches of  damp, and the  mouldy  crusts  of  vaguely  catarrh purple  gelatinous  splatters,  half mould, half unmentionable,  were covered with an array  of  peeling  discoloured  posters. 

Most, cheap tacky 70s pin ups, complete with  clit  shots a go  go , or  barely  legible  hand drawn  Jimt  Hendrix posters, were in the  poorest  taste. 

Sarah  thought  she had walked  into a  squalid  flophouse,  or some  rednecks  trailer. 

She was  just about to  turn round and  leave," I'll  just make an appointment with  Dr  McClellan  out at Parkland " she thought  , when she heard a sort of  lewd  fumbling , it seemed to emenate   from beneath the  desk. A desk strewn with  all manner of  clutter; from  paper cups and discarded  pizza boxes, to piles of  magazines,  mostly  Soldier of Fortune  and  Naughty 40s Reader's Wife's  Special , if this wasn't  disturbing enough,  there were several  quite ominous  looking  double  dildos,  which had,  quite obviously been used recently,  several  truncheoms,  brass knuckledusters,  not to mention  various  items of  Nazi  memorabilia  , mostly  unashamedly homoerotic  blonde haired lantern  jawed  SS officers  action figures. 

In various  stages of undress..

Sarah  distinctly  heard a zip being  hurriedly  pulled up, followed by a loud , almost  amphibian  sounding belch of  satisfaction 

" Howdy  there Missus,  are ye  here to see Dr Doyle,  or is it  Dr Throne you'll be wanting? If itit is, then  you're  shit  out of  luck,  he had an important appointment in Tijuana,  so it's  only  Dr Doyle,  unless you're  from the  Sanibel  Medical  Board,  the  FBI, the FDA, honestly  I swear we didn't know about those  tests, about  those poor  kids  girls down  in Venezuela  growing  another set of testes, or the anti abortion  people,  or even the pro abortion  people,  you're not one of those stormtroopers from the  Sanibel  Department of  Sanitation and Environmental  Health  are you?""

He paused,  attempting to punctuate his garrulous  ravings ith a  thunderous  fart, instead a watery  squelch  dribbled  out, " Aw shucks " he mumbles  " I ain't  got no more  clean  knickers  to wear"

After delivering  his rather rambling,  somewhat  disconnected  monologue in his hoarse barely  intelligible  wheeze , like  some  hillbilly  bullfrog with terminal  emphysema , the bizarre  apparition,  a hulking  6 foot  plus 18 stone lump , cross eyed , lanky unwashed  straw brown  hair , falling to his shoulders  while covering his misshapen  forehead in a  bizarre  Jennifer  Aniston  like wave, a bulbous  nose crisscrossed with  a spidery  mass of  thin reddish  veins, " she" grins at Sarah,  revealing  two rows of  yellow  rotting  stumps

A late middle aged  drunkard. Clearly a man, but yet  absolutely  caked in ferociously poorly  applied make up, foundation,  blusher, mascara even,   seemingly  slapped on at random. The undoubted  piece  de resistance  was  his lips, smeared with  rings of  luminous  red lipstick, they resembled a badly  dilated post coital  female  baboons  lady parts.

What's more " she" had crammed  " herself " into a  garish  white PVC nurses  outfit, the kind down market  strippers  wear, or your average  fashion  conscious  Sanibelite  wears on her hen night. 

For a moment  Sarah  was speechless . She was stunned by the  incredible  spectacle  gurning  at her from across the desk, belching and scratching  as " she" grins  toothlessly  at the  flummoxed  Sarah.  Indeed  Sarah  hadn't  felt  so confused  since the  time , last week,  she saw that new order filler, Lee something  or other,  head into the  2nd floor lunchroom wearing a  brown  plaid  shirt,  only  to  appear,  literally  a fraction of a second  later wearing a  white  T shirt,  with different  trousers,  and  what looked like his front teeth  missing. 

" C'mon  honey " the receptionist  drawls impatiently,  " Dr Doyle's  a busy man"

As if on cue , one of the  two doors , at either side of a small rather dingy  corridor  flew open, and a  petit middle aged woman  came bolting out, in some obvious  distress. Her dyed blonde hair  was badly tousled , her face  , thin and rather angular  was ashen and smeared with blotches of tear stained mascara  streaks, her blouse was  undone, indeed she was  in the process of  redoing her buttons  as she came flying  past her  receptionists  desk

" I only  came in because I  had a  fucking  headache!!" She wails " He wanted to perform an intensive  full body  internal probing,  on me and my pet fucking dog!! In fact the dirty  cunt still has his fist wedged half way  up my Jack Russell  terrier ...Buster here boy , good dog" She sobs, tearing at her disheveled  hair  in anguish. Sarah  thought  she heard a  pathetic  whimper..

But this was quickly  drowned  out, as yet again,  as if on cue,  an anguished  yelling emanated  from the  bowels of the  office,  followed by what  sounded like an ejaculatory  splatter, followed  by  a dull muffled   crack,  like a low calibre  pistol . And a heartbreaking  yowl,  like a  dog, perhaps a  Jack Russell terrier,  had just been shot by a  low calibre pistol...

The woman,  wild eyed with a  mixture of terror and rage , grabs Sarah by the arm before finally turning and  bolting out the office 

" So called  Dr fucking  Doyle is one sick fucking  degenerate. He's  obsessed by tits and  with sticking his fist up anything that  remotely  resembles a humans or a dogs  arsehole "

" Dogs arseholes are  VERY soft, squishy and  oh so  penetratable " the receptionist  muses dreamily. 

" You sick fucks will be  hearing from my lawyers " the woman  cries as she tries to open the  door..

Sarah  didn't  really see what  happened next. 

As Dr Doyle,  dressed in a  blood smeared  white full length  medical  smock,  the sort favoured by the  so called SS "physicians"  in the arbeitslager  and vernichtunglager, out   in the  Wild East , his face practically  obscured by a WW2 vintage  respirator,  pebble glasses,  that  appeared  to be  tinted or badly  steamed , and a  greasy  grey ponytail,  which  hung nooselike  around  his weak  flabby  jowls

" Ah Mrs Stanton,  do please come in" he gestured towards the  half open door. His voice was high pitched and  nasal,  like  that  bullet  headed  little nerd  Alan Tippit,  whose always  hanging around,  trying to peek up the  secretaries  skirts

Still in a state of  utter shock,  mingled with  hefty dollops of  bemusement,  Sarah found herself  moving. Somehow.  Almost  mechanically,  with  almost involuntarily spasmodic   steps. As she heads  down the  murky  corridor, apparently  designed to  resemble a  fully  dilated sphincter,  she glances over her shoulder.

Her horror is  tempered by  sheer fucking  disbelief. She just COULDN'T  be seeing  a  small stunted  dwarf like  entity,  almost identical to the  mutant  larrytrotters  who the old times insisted  still haunted the old abandoned  mineshafts back  in Texas, the Native American  tribes calling  them " the donkey rapers ", while  the local  Mexicans  held El Dio  de Larrytrotter,  to fend off the  foul  deformed goblins  they believed  were evil spirits,  the  ghosts of  angry sheep,  sodomised to death by lonely  cowboys.

Sarah  couldn't  possibly have  seen a Larrytrotter  appear out of nowhere,  with the  little bell on his pointy  hat going  jingle  jangle,  just like in the stories her grandpa  told her, as it dragged the poor woman off to  his lair...

Before  she knew it she found  herself  in Dr Doyle's  office. Small,  somewhat  cramped,  and  reeking of  joss  sticks and the  heavily  pungent, unmistakable  aroma of  Sanibel  Gold. 

Peering through the  dense fog of  aromatic smoke Sarah  glanced at the  numerous  certificates,  apparently  stuck to the wall with some sort of  blu  tack. 

Except  it wasn't  blue.

Gynecologist of the  Year 1942 Dr Albert Doyle  from the  Dr Carl Clauberg  University Dr Albert Doyle  Fully  Accredited  Genius  University of Tijuana. Dr Albert  Doyle Super Genius  University of  Botswana  Dr Albert Doyle  Level 6 Botulinum  Expert University of  Uzbekistan  Dr Albert Doyle  Supercalifragiliscusexpealidocious  Genius  University of  Ulaan  Bataar ( Sanibel  Faculty) Dr Albert Doyle  Connoisseur of  Over 40s Supersized  Jugs University of  Hustler..Dr Albert Doyle  PhD in Hebrew  Alternative Health  University of  Upper Silesia  Dr Albert Doyle,  Certified  Flower  Arranger, University of  Bariloche  Chile, Class of 39  to 45

Pretty impressive  Sarah  thought,  as she reached into her handbag,  for her X ray results. Just then  she was  disturbed  by the  heavy breathing  behind  her, and a  cold  metallic  sensation at the  base of her spine.

Having  locked the door ( and unbeknownst to  Sarah  , having  swallowed the  key. Little did she know  that  " key retrieval " was an integral part of Dr Doyle's  post recovery  regime) and  having  flopped,  with  some agility  it must be said,  across the office,  limbs flapping around with a barely disguised  salacious  glee, like an octopus  who has  just dragged  a  drunk lady octopus into his  cave, Dr Doyle is on his hands and knees,  behind  Sarah,  trying to shove  his stethoscope  down  her dress..

" Dr Doyle,  what ARE you  doing?"

" Examining  you, of course you unskilled noodnick you" came the gutteral  sub erogenous  muttering " You booked in for a  complete anal cavity work out, right?"

Sarah could hear the  heavy breathing  deepen, it sounded like the  doctor  was  practically  hyperventilating. 

" NO" she exclaimed.  Using the  tone of  voice  she usually  reserved for  Mr Truly  at Xmas  parties Supervisor or not, when  he gets  drunk  Sarah  sure ain't  going to let his hands wander over her!

" No!" ,she repeats, emphatically,  moving away,  straightening  her dress, leaving the  Dr shuffling around on his hands and knees, with his stethoscope  stuck  down the  front of what  looks like a pair of  adult nappies. 

A pair of  soiled  adult nappies. Having  lifted up the  front of his smock,  to reveal  the  nappies and a pair of  very  knobbly  knees, and thin spindly  legs too,    covered with  (apparently  homemade)  tattoos. Mostly  swastikas and  runic symbols. Although  the  tattoo  artist had managed to mistake the  Sig  rune for the  logo  of  Vagisil, and  had contrived to misspell  Seig  Heil ( Siege  Hull, perhaps  confusing the  infamous  exhortation with the  little  known  Siege of  Hull, back in the Second  Baron's  War)

" Dr Doyle " Sarah  addresses the  doctor with polite contempt,  pursing  her lips as he fails around the  floor, are those pools of  fresh  blood? Sarah  shivers, before  getting down to business. 

She pulls out her x ray  results  and  places them on the  desk.

Visibly  wretching  at the  mouldy  plate of  spaghetti  hoops and the  crude hand drawn  picture of,  presumably,  a naked Grace Slick,  in a, well,  a rather  unflattering  pose, with what appears to be some bemoobed  ponytailed  incubus  hovering over, poised to  pounce  upon her splayed  limbs 

" Dr Doyle " she repeats frostily,  eyeing the  still spreadeagled  doctor with icy  contempt" I travelled all the way  here, to Sanibel Island  from  Texas,  8 hours Dr Doyle! , to enquire about  my X ray results "
" There isn't a  problem  with  them,  is there?" Having  straightened  his smock and  readjused  his  ventilator,  Dr Doyle  , and after picking  himself up off the floor, like  some  undersexed  albino  lobster,  trying to do- the  hokey  cokey,    plucking  his  stethoscope  out, he attempts to  feign  indifference 

" I'm a  genius at X ray  forensics,  I'm  so skilled in fact I can see things  that  aren't even  there. I diagnosed a  patient with a tumour,  20 years before  those other  boobys down at Sanibel  General.  
The Registrar  Dr Gordon and  his assistant,  Matron  Beckett are criminally  unskilled "

Dr Doyle  flops on his seat, putting  his zen sandalled  feet on the  desk.

Sarah  , with  some considerable  effort,  steadies herself, trying to  curb the  reflexive  gagging from the waves of bilious  nausea ,  caused by the  putrid  stench of  rotten cheese, wafting  up from the  filthy  bunion  scarred feet

" You sent me these X rays, yes? She holds them up, Dr Doyle  leans  forward  slightly,  squinting  myopically  through  his unnaturally  steamed glasses 

If it says " Doyle  gets it done" then  it's my X ray alright" . Dr Doyle  slumps back,  his ventilator  quivering with  louche  suggestiveness..

Like  some horny  teenage virgin dressed in a  homemade  stormtrooper  costume  catching  sight of his Princess  Leia  across the  crowded convention  hall,  at Sanibel  SciFi  Expo '15( Sanibel Islands  first,and  to date only,  Sci Fi convention , thanks  to a  certain  Wookies  overamorous  advances to several  Ewoks  and  one very  traumatised  Yoda.  Sanibel  PD quickly  issued  an  identikit  picture  of  a   what resembled a  hippy in a frighteningly  realistic  ape suit,  the impression however was rather spoiled by the  pink zen sandals and the inappropriately  placed  lightsabre )

" You  sent me these x rays, yes? Diagnosing  cancer of the  scrotum,  I took them to a  doctor back in  Texas, and  he said they were the x rays of a  young male in his mid 20s. Dr Doyle,  how can I  possibly have cancer of the scrotum?"

Leaping up, brandishing his stethoscope with,  what can only be described as,  a pre  ejaculatory  vigour,  the good Dr Doyle  bounds across the room

" if you'll  just  drop your skirt and your knickers,  you are wearing knickers,  right " Dr Doyle gives a libidinous  twitch, both  ventilator and  stethoscope  jiggling in depraved  unison, like a  rubber suited pervert  looking  for the zipper, " oh you  are" he groans " never  mind, just  drop 'em and bend over"

" Dr Doyle " Sarah  replies firmly,  glaring at the  white smocked  apparition " how do you intend to  proceed? Surely with all your medical training,  having attended so many  venerable  institutions" she nods sarcastically  towards the  diplomas stuck to the wall" surely you don't plan to examine my, ahem" blushing slightly  she manages to overcome her innate  shyness,  rather  her anger overcome  her  shyness  for her, " anus, are you  seriously  suggesting you  examine  my posterior,  a woman's  bum , to put it crudely,  to check for cancer of the scrotum?"

Dr Doyle jumps up, looking like a  dancing penguin that's just been electrocuted 

" Of course! I should be examining  your  wrists instead!"

" My wrists?"

" You're  obviously  way beneath my skill level " Dr Doyle  snaps irritably " but wrists are the  optimum  diagnostic  aid, I mean  just by looking at your wrists I could tell you had no breasts,  and  you were a slim twentysomething  male, with dark hair and a  prematurely  receding hairline "

" Dr Doyle LOOK AT ME" Sarah  almost bursts into  tears  " I'ma middle aged woman,  with grey hair and  size DD breasts "

Dr Doyle  plucks the  X rays  from his desk  " You're a  liar! Look at  these X rays, see where it says " Doyle  Gefs it Done" ? And beneath that  see where it says  Mrs Sarah  Stanton? Yes? I took these X rays myself,  if they say you are a  slim man with  dark prematurely  receding  hair and  cancer of the  scrotum,  then that's what you are"

" Dr Doyle," sounding exasperated  by  Doyle's  idiotic  intransigence,  she grabs the  X Ray's out his hand,  and  after fixing him with  the  sort of look that once might have quelled a colonial  mutiny , she shoves them  in her outsized  handbag, " I have been  married for over 30 years,  I have  2 adult children,  I may not be in the best shape  but I  most  certainly am a woman! I have breasts and  grey hair! See! It's not receding,  prematurely or otherwise,  and  I most certainly do not have cancer of the scrotum  because I don't have a scrotum Good  Day to you Dr Doyle "

With one, last,   haughty  look,  Sarah  pirouttes  nimbly,  like  she was  back  in Mr Kudlatys  gym class at Stripling  High, and closing  her jacket, fastening the large round  buttons,  her stupid  husband  think look  like  over pixelated  blobs, Sarah  marches towards the  door..


She heard the  voice,  but only  vaguely. As if  Dr Doyle  was  far far away,  at the other end of a  long tunnel,  or the  bottom of a cavernous  pit

" Oh  Larrytrotter  I  have another unskilled  booby for your collection "

She has blurry recollections; gusts of  hot rancid  breath,  foul animalistic  grunting,  sharp claws tearing at her greedily,  a deeply  degraded,  almost  blasphemous and  over sexualized  slobbering,  like  Grendels  mother started lapdancing  in her face..

It was  then  she slipped into unconsciousness..

Hours, maybe  days passed  , who could  possibly  tell?, before  she found  herself  standing on the  sidewalk  again. On Sanibel  High  Street  as it happens..

Outside the  petshop  and ...and...instead of the  doctors surgery  theres a  hardware  shop...Gilbride,  Graves, Doyle and  Trotter Budget  Paint  Emporium 

Still  slightly  dazed and  unsteady on her feet, Sarah takes a couple of  shaky  steps  forward,  peering into the  window. 

Just  rows and rows of  paint. Tin after  tin. In every  conceivable  shade or colour. 

Suddenly she catches  sight of a  vaguely familiar  shape. The shop assistant. A hulking  sallow  faced  degenerate, in lipstick and white overalls. He leers at her. A repugnant  drooling  pout, his tongue  lolling  out .

Sarah gasps and  trotters back,  as she does so she catches  sight of herself,  reflected from the  glass. Her features distorted  slightly by the  shop window  display  " Dulux  Sanibel  Pink 2 tins for the  price of 1"

She becomes aware of a loud engine too,   revving  just behind her, but its fragmented,  elongated,  distorted. 

Like a sound  reaching out from behind the veil of nightmares.

She sees the reflection  of  a bus pull up  behind  her, a bus full of  full of  larrytrotters. Each  one out for nothing less than  full clarification...

In fact  there were rows of  them,  just gazing blankly  out, like  rows of  medieval  gargoyles  who had  just discovered  porn.

Her vision  becomes  blurred

She imagines she can see the bus door open, and a grotesque  driver leans out, with  green scaly skin, pink vivisection  coloured  eyes, slimy lizard tongue and,  what can only be described as an infernal  ponytail  dangling  limply. He raises a  wizened  talon and  beckons to her, a thick stream of  lascivious  drool dribbling down his misshapen  chin..

The last  thing  she hears  before she passes out is an insidious  mocking voice  hissing 

" All aboard first stop the BRILIGHT ZONE,  second stop ETERNITY "

Her senses  fill with  howls of  shrieking  laughter 

Rather  , I should  say HIS senses fill with  screeches  of diabolical  laughter. 

For the figure falling to his knees,  outside  the Paint Emporium and the petshop on Sanibel High Street  was, naturally,  a slim dark haired  man with a  prematurely  receding  hairline,  and,  presumably  cancer of the scrotum 

FIN

TUNE IN  NEXT WEEK FOR THE BRILIGHT ZONE- KEEPING  THE TROOF UNREAL

Next Episode- Independent minded populist Don Jeffries  finds a lot more truth than he can  handle,  when  he's quantum  leaped  back to  1940s Warsaw. And guess what? He's  landed on the wrong side of the ghetto wall

For once it seems  neither his beliefs nor his lily white stupidity will be able to sustain  him

A Brian Doyle post?...lying bullshit will "naturally follow"...funny though watching him whine...

Sanibel and Wank Splat are getting Ian's wrath.

Ed.Ledoux wrote:Sanibel and Wank Splat are getting Ian's wrath.

Brian has renamed the storm Hurricane Gordon.