THE KING IN THE YELLOW GOLF SWEATER.

Newly discovered in the recently unearthed files of Farnsworth Wright, long time editor of the legendary pulp magazine " Weird Tales " and written by a hitherto unknown member of the " Lovecraft Circle ", Clthulu Vary Baker, allegedly the secret mistress of Walt Disney ( according to a reply sent by Robert Bloch to a fan letter, seeing the " heaving globular mass" of Vary Baker,  during "a grotesquely unconsummated fumble" in the back of Clark Ashton Smith's Model T, inspired HP Lovecraft to create Shub Niggurath,  one of the Elder Gods,  known as " the Black Goat of the Forest " and described as a " fungal accumulation of protoplasmtic orbs" )The King in the Yellow Golf Sweater is an obvious pastiche of Robert Chamber's 1895 decadent masterpiece of Gothic  fiction,  " the King in Yellow "

Basing the hideous tale of ambition,  madness,  credible research and the JFK internet around the central conceit of Chamber's work: the mysterious supernatural " King in Yellow " and the eponymous play. 

A play ,- along with Murder from Within and the Merry Japes of Messrs Burke and Hare, long considered to be the key influence on the late David Lifton's erotic fiction novel " Best Evidence "- that drives its unfortunate readers insane!!

THE KING IN THE YELLOW GOLF SWEATER 

by

CLTHULU VARY BAKER 

Geraldine " It is time stranger, unmask and reveal the self you insist upon keeping hidden "

Sarah " Yes, unmask,  unmask,  we stand before you with our buttons open and the soul of our giant handbags bared. Remove the facemask ! You have worn it so long it no longer hides your true self,  instead it has become your true self. Unmask! Unmask!"

Chorus  " Unmask! Unmask!'

Stranger " No Molina nor Lovelady be I ! You are mistaken! I wear no facemask!"

Sarah ( terrified) " He wears no mask!"

THE KING IN YELLOW  Act 1 Scene 3

1

It has been 4 long years since misfortune struck. A carelessly inserted " 2nd gerbil " , an over ambitious charge of gunpowder and the accidental friction caused by my emergency selfie stick whilst going for my evening bike ride,  led to a rectum shattering internal implosion,  the so called  " Rocket man of Sanibel Island " incident. ( the cell phone footage- of my semi naked self soaring above Lee County,  was, due to the fiery trail and the thick clouds of oily smoke billowing from by ulcerated posterior,  initially thought to be UFO footage,. Causing both the Space Force and the Florida National Guard to scramble interceptor jets from the top secret intel spook base over at Bradenton,  and Doug Caddy to post it on the forum that shall not be named - eventually went viral, accumulating over 200 million views in a matter of days. I'm still considering the offer from KFC to star in their new commercial for their Xtra XTRA Hot' n' Spicy Chicken burrito,  but Don Jeffries says Colonel Sanders granny was Jewish and a serious Zionist fundraising intel spook)

After being propelled by a particularly propulsive fiery gerbil for nearly 2 whole miles ( almost beating John Butler's world record for Internal combustion critter flight, John was infamously catapulted for 2 and a half miles by his attempt to re enact a Carthagian Sacrifice to Moloch,  dousing his prostrate with paraffin and inserting a veritable harem of small furry forest dwelling critters) I landed, headfirst,  in the car park of Mr Whippy Ice Cream Parlour. 

If it wasn't for my trusty helmet and the fancy new titanium lined microwave beam resistant tin foil hat I got from Santa, I would have had,  at the very least,  a fractured skull to go with all the other internal injuries. 

But like myself,  my brain is just too wonderful and beautiful to be damaged!

However,  due to some booby nincompoop of a doctor ( who sounded kinda Australian,  probably one of Greg Parker's winged monkeys) who actually dared to question my genius and my sanity : enquiring why a grown man would go cycling around Sanibel in nothing but a military surplus ventilator,  a pair of ladies yoga pants,  a ponytail and a pair of bright pink flipflops,  with a seriously agitated gerbil burrowing around inside, no less than 4 strategically placed selfie sticks and enough gunpowder to Guy Fawkes ify half of Sanibel,  I ended up being sectioned. Spending almost 4 years in a maximum security psychiatric institution,  after my discharge from the burns unit , having suffered over 95% 3rd degree internal burns and severe nibbling related injuries,  caused by a hysterical gerbil trying to tunnel its way out of my flaming colon 

After going through more psychological testing than HARVEY Oswald back in Jacobi hospital,  and after Larry Trotter,  Stevie Gaal ( " I'm way more likely to snap and go on a rampage ") and Peter Lemkin,  via the Prague Shelter for the Hysterically Paranoid ( " Brian only has a family of voices arguing in his head to deal with,  whereas I have 2 entire continents,   the astral projection of Tosh Plumlee and the undead revenant Harry Dean, endlessly twittering on about vampirising Paul Trejo's fat ass ") provided character references. And after I consented to be chipped , tagged and swore to remain at least 20km away from the Sanibel Community Centre for Geriatric Hasidic Jews, I was released on licence. 

Moving into a halfway house with WIFI and my lifetime ban from the JFK internet currently on appeal....

Dumb noodnicks!! 

I'm BACK and I'm more skilled and credible than ever. 

I'm going to make the trolls and the unskilled boobies pay!! They'll feel like the poker player who cried " Snap " in the night. My friend, the mysterious Mr Dick, " Restorer of Research Reputations " , has discovered an ancient document,  tracing the lineage of the Imperial Credible Research dynasty. 

Only my cousin,  Sanford Doyle Larsen,  stands between me, Brian Larsen Doyle and my rightful crown. 

Only I know the secret of the Yellow Sign. 

And the identity of the King in the Yellow Golf Sweater 

The king before whom all emperors and moderators bow....

2

I rose early the next day, and, with the pale spokes of the watery sun poking through the padded bars that criss cross the window of my dingy attic garret ( being so talented and beautiful I refused to share a dormitory with the other poor boobies), I sipped my ritalin smoothie as I stared thoughtfully down at the street below. 

Still strewn with the wreckage of last night's " Welcome Home Brian " street party. 

What a party!! Up there with Truman Capote's legendary Black and White Masquerade ball ( note to self I wonder if Mrs Stanton was there?) The mead soaked pagan orgy of pillage and rapine when Siggi Silkbeard and Thorkell the Tadgerless raided Lindesfarne back in the 9th century,  and the New Year's Eve Party in the OTHER version of the Shining both Jack White and Jim Fetzer claim Stanley Kubrick showed them,  on a Nevada soundstage, on a break during the shooting of the " Moon Landing " 

As well as having more supermodels than a New Year's Eve party at China Whites, one of my countless admirers had even stapled little grey ponytails to the neighbourhood' kiddies heads. It was lucky Don Jeffries had a supply of spare chloroform to deal with the subsequent scalp lacerations!!

Only 2 fatalities! I must remember to write Mr and Mrs Goldstein and Mr and Mrs Shivaji. Just think how delighted they'll be!! And how fortunate! Most people have to lose at least a couple of children before they receive a handwritten note from yours truly. 

After checking my inbox for fan mail, sending a cursory reply to the plea from State Department,  explaining I still had to claim credit for solving the JFK assassination and the Hendrix intel spook hit before I could consider implementing my ideas for World Peace ( hehehe I am WAY too smart to  mention " the other thing " not wanting to tip " them" off about my imminent enthronement) and checking to see if there were still hordes of screaming teenyboppers besieging the half way house- there were none,  probably still in intensive care,  according to Professor Krammerhead III at the Bureau of Applied Narcotics , interaction with me is 10000000% more likely to trigger encephalopathic shock,  resulting in a coma than overdosing on a cocktail of heroin,  methadone,  methamphetamine and oxycontin- I decided to take a leisurely stroll through the 'hood,  press a little flesh before moseying on over to see Herr Von Braun and his daughter,  Pamela,  in their little tin foil hat workshop. 

Afterwards I plan to visit Mr Dick. Who lives in a filthy rat infested hovel on the first floor,  above the Von Braun's dilapidated workshop, with only his feral inbred Kentuckian " valet", John,  for company. 

Most folks about here, and on the JFK internet shun Mr Dick. They think he is a turpentine crazed madman with vertiginous delusions of grandeur. They are also repulsed by his appearance. Swarthy,  dwarfish- like a bonsai tree version of Tommy " the Ugly Duchess'" Graves, at 4foot 3 inches,  with a flat domed microcephalic skull, like my hero, Schlitzie from Freaks,  grotesque fake wax ears,  allegedly stolen from the old Madame Tussauds waxwork effigy of Dr Crippen , to replace the ears he hacked off in a Van Gogh like fit of unrequited lust ( after hearing about Margaret Thatchers death and receiving the High Court order forbidding him ever to request the exhumation of Princess Diana again) He also possessed no fingers on his right hand,  only crudely mangled stumps,  " The parson only warned us about going blind " he would slur dejectedly, afterI had dragged him up the rickety stairs,, r finding him: sozzled semi trousered and spreadeagled on the sidewalk,  reeking of turpentine and stale piss and singing the coarse ditty,  something about pirates,  timbers all a shiver,  and other unmentionable references to the late Joan Rivers...

He skulks i, secluded,  n his verminous hovel,  except for  John and a constant stream of disheveled street  urchins,  with frighteningly over developed  muscular  forearms,  who bring him brown paper bags full of turpentine  and  " curtain  rods ", surrounded by piles of  mouldy worm eaten tomes. In amongst his personal conspiracy ledgers, a meticulous account of the grand universal conspiracy that threatens our very lifes and liberties,  a conspiracy the King in the Yellow Golf Sweater has ordered me, his most loyal,  trusted and talented viceroy to thwart,  there are all manner of ancient forbidden works: Von Junzts Nameless  Cults, the mad Transylvanian Von Waffenstark's dreaded Doppelchronicon,  the Collected Alchemical Writings and Readers Wifes Woodcuts of the one legged werepig from Warrington,  Raoulle de Pigbie,  Guillaume De Neiderhut's fully illustrated version of the Malleus Mallifactorum,  with an appendix of practical witch finding tips,  even,  or so it's rumoured,  the collected works of Blanche Jacques,  the semi mythical snake and doppel charmer.

I have  to admit, as well  as his alarmingly  disconcerting appearance,  and despite his obvious brilliance( I'd estimate his credible research factor is about. 789 megasanibels,  a full 45.00145 less than mine of course,  but still not too bad) Mr Dick could possibly be described as being just a tad eccentric. 

Often, when I visit him, I find him (  when not frothing in torrid post masturbatory frenzy( a strict  disciplinarian , Mr Dick follows a  rigorous  daily " zen wanking " schedule, ofen interrupting our research  schedule to grab one of the stuffed but surprisingly pliable corpses,,  stretching back to a victim of the Great Plague of 1381, erotic taxidermy  having replaced  non consensual  sodomy as his chosen  hobby, and flexing his mutilated  but iron gripped hand he would then proceed to  thrash wildly until  discharged an apathetic splat of a greenish semi coagulated substance  that he would then  use as a  sweetener, personally I think  it tastes  quite spicy , like  dipping  your tongue into the stump of a newly severed limb ) rolling around on the grimy blood splattered stone floor,  wrestling with his half witted servant, brawling over the bloodied remains of a  freshly trapped carcass of a rat. The winner of these degraded displays of vile diseased homoeroticsm, then proceeds to follow the same debased rituals I dare not describe.  

I will not breach my license!! I have great work to do!!

In spite of his alarming appearance,  his warped appetites and his maniacally fundamentalist Calvinism,  believing only he, Estelle Getty,  Mr Snuffalopicus from Sesame Street,  Gilles de Rais and Pedro the Cruel,  a medieval king of Castile and Leon,  are destined to be saved, Mr Dick is a genius. 

Not quite as geniusy as me of course. 

Until my unfortunate accident and my totally bogus incarceration,  together,  we had managed to decipher the hidden mysteries and the secret codes of the only Holy Books ever revealed to humanity 

Harvey and Lee and the King in Yellow. 

Having discovered the hidden identity of the King in the Yellow Golf Sweater and after pledging our undying allegiance to the Yellow Sign,  only the practical aspects remain. 

The nuts and bolts so to speak. 

It was  with this brilliantly skilled  thought in mind,  I  set out, on that bright spring morning, whistling a jaunty tune,  tripping  lightly,  with my graceful ballerinas step,  across West Hymen Street,  under the graffiti scarred railway bridge that towers so menacingly over the dreary clapboard cottages clustered like orphans down both sides of the  doubly depressing precincts of North Fez Boulevard,  past the crumbling remains of the old Ferrie,  Bertrand and Baker petrol station , barely noticing the local gentry,  ragged spectres clustered,  as ever , at the arse and of the reeking sphincter shaped concourse jutting out the drab smegmatic depths of Porcelain Throne alley, round the medical waste disposal unit Mr Dick keeps almost permanently full,  rifling through the discarded limbs, mummified  animals,  the turpentine bottles and the medical samples,  searching for dregs.

After  all Porcelain Throne is synonymous with dregs. Just about the dreggiest dregs since Ralph Cinque hung up his dregometer.

Finally I reach my destination,  69 Rue Penetratione (named by the ill fated mayor of Conspiracyville,  David G La Petomane,  " I christen this ship" ( " it's a street mr mayor") " Listen,  you lone neuter troll, who is the fucking mayor here? You? Rollie Zavada? The 2nd Zapruder? I christen this street Rue Penetratione,  and henceforth it will be the fucking hub of Conspiracyvilles Little Italy,  capiss you loon nutter scum?")

Slightly troubled by the silence,  and by  the persistent internal itching- apparently when feeling threatened your average gerbil can do a surprising amount of damage, especially to a pre lacerated intestinal tract- I strolled the last  few yards,  towards the grimy workshop,  nestling between Honest Joe's Pawnbrokers Est  Dallas 1963 and the gloomy deeply sinister claustrophobic confines of Herr Gaal's Antiques and Militaria shop,  somewhat buoyed  and slightly  aroused by the brassy strains of Der Horst Wessel Lied floating triumphantly out( it was the tune I'd hear as I stood outside father's study,  waiting for my nightly thrashing). As I approached I could clearly discern the dissonant tuneless tootling of Fraulien Von Braun's flute, mingling with the relentless tapping of Herr Von Braun's tiny hammer.

Peering in through the dust encrusted window,  trying to ignore the luminous  glowing  shapes , the vicious fornicating of the 2 hideous mutated spiders,  dangling from their nooselike webs,  like it was sportsday back at the Sanibel Paedodome,( note to self  find out  if my exclusion  zone includes the ruins of the old Paedodome,  ive  got a sudden urge to use the new archaeological  equipment  I bought on Ebay)I could just about make out the hunched figure of Von Braun, a bedraggled leprous specimen, bent over his workbench,  ironically enough, striking almost exactly the same pose as when he was caught and photographed by an undercover cop,  sprawled over an urinal on Chauncey Holt Street....