Perhaps the most elaborate fantasy which I have ever developed so far in my life concerns a fictional society which I decided to call ”Grobiania” at its inception - which was way back in the middle of the 1990s. It was also the most philosophical fantasy which I have ever developed. And it was a crazy fantasy. Since this fantasy of mine is the most elaborate, and the most philosophical, of all my fantasies I will devote this entire chapter to it.
 
A) INTRODUCTION
 
The source of my inspiration for this fantasy was that hilarious Monty Python movie which hit the movie theaters way back in 1979, “Monty Python and the Life of Brian”. This movie did not inspire the concrete content of my Grobiania fantasy. But it supplied the spirit of this fantasy of mine. The spirit can best be described as absolutely, totally irreverent. The movie The Life of Brian was certainly irreverent. Nothing but nothing was holy, as far as that movie was concerned. The Monty Python gang poked fun of almost literally everything in that movie – Christianity, the Jesus myth, Judaism, the terrorism of modern times, the crackpot Communist sects, the Romans, dour Jewish mothers - everything. Plus: the proverbial kitchen sink! Nothing was too sacred for the Monty Python gang to poke fun at. I loved the movie for that reason - and I emulated it in my Grobiania fantasy.
 
I conjured up an imaginary society which I dubbed “Grobiania” - after the family name of the grubby, unhygienic family of local yokels in the Lil´ Abner comic strip.
 
I must preface my presentation of the content of my Grobiania fantasy with just a little background information.
 
I first began conceiving of this fantasy in the middle of the 1990s. I was sitting in front of one of the excentre presses in the AKM factory - working. If I remember correctly it was in the afternoon and it was a sunny day in the autumn. I do not recall exactly which year this happened. I was thinking about the myth of the Yeti. “Yeti” was supposed to be the Tibetan word which meant “Abominable Snowman”. I began thinking to myself - what if the Yetis were a race of humans who lived up there in the mountains of the Himalayas and who were so disgustingly depraved that they came to be called the “Abominable Snowmen” by the “regular folks” living down in the valleys?
 
My mind began to work on this material. What if the Yetis created the absolutely worst of all societies of human beings which have ever existed? Imagine that they committed every conceivable kind of act which was “bad”. They loved to eat people, they loved to torture people, they were abominably filthy, they loved to torture animals, they practiced slavery, they were warlike, they loved to plunder their neighbors, they were racists, they did drugs etc. They were, in short, the very worst specimens of Homo sapiens which had ever existed on the face of the earth! Now, what could the cause of such depravity be? I asked myself that question. Since I was an Objectivist my answer was, but of course, “It´s their philosophy, stoopid!” I realized that the world´s worst ever society would have to be based on the world´s worst ever philosophy.
 
Now I had something meaty to work with! For the sake of creating a fictional “worst society in the world” I would have to come up with: the very worst philosophy the world has ever seen! I would have to invent a philosophy which was still worse than Kantianism! Now that was a challenge! Did I meet that challenge? Read on and judge for yourself.
 
I must warn you, however, that you must have a strong stomach in order be able to read this chapter. For, my humor is extremely sick. But I suppose that mental health professionals are used to this kind of stuff. The best way to present this fantasy will be to provide you with a selection of fictional historical documents from this fictional society. I will not tell you more than this: the following texts are imagined by me to be a bunch of documents found in the ruins of this fictional society by a bunch of archeologists from more advanced races after the inevitable collapse of Grobiania in the 19th century - since I do not want to give you any plot-spoilers.
 
As you can probably tell, if you go ahead and read this chapter - I have “polished” these fictional documents while writing this chapter. The documents were not worked out in such elaborate detail when they were merely fantasies in my mind. In fact, I did not even conceive the fantasy in terms of documents. Instead, I merely cooked up the events which the documents relate and filed them away in my mind as “true” stories.
 
1) “OUR ORIGINS”
 
Back in the reign of Tyrantthardtta the First, the Buddhist ruler of the Valley of the Golden Goats, there lived a certain con man up in the foothills of the surrounding mountains. This scoundrel is known to us today as “The Enlightened One”. This a-hole wandered around amongst the foothills – making an (in)decent living by means of conning the dumb peasants out of their hard-earned money. Our hero - soon to become The Enlightened One - was very resourceful.
 
Our hero would make gadgets out of cheap scrap wood. Then he would tell the peasants “With this contraption your wives will make butter twice as fast as with the traditional equipment. Buy one of these from me and your investment will be paid back in six months.” And our hero was such a smooth talker that the peasants fell for it. But they soon found out that the gadget just sloshed the yak milk around without producing any butter at all. But by then our hero had moved on to the next village.
 
Our hero would make coils out of leather scraps. And he would tell the peasants “With this wicked thingy you can whip your wives and kids into line in no time. This is the ultimate tool of discipline! Buy one of these from me and within a week you will have the village´s best behaved wife and kiddies!” And, of course every self-respecting peasant wanted well-behaved wives and kiddies - so the yokels lined up to each buy one of the leather coils from our hero. But they soon found out that it only produced a slapping sound and none of those desired “ouches”. As a tool of discipline this device was worthless! But by then our hero had moved on to the next village.
 
Our hero would make gizmos out of pieces of iron which he had scrounged up. And he would tell the peasants “This is the latest thing in stirrups! With a pair of these you will never, ever fall off your yak when you take a ride!” And the peasants had respect for any man, such as our hero, who seemed to know all about such difficult technical subjects. So, they bought his “stirrups” hand over fist. But after a week all the men in the village were walking with a limp - for they had fallen off their yaks! But by then our hero had moved on to the next village.
 
One morning our hero was trekking along, up on a mountainside heading for a fresh village. He heard some angry mutterings behind him. Looking back, he saw that he was being pursued by a pack of angry peasants. His way of life was catching up with him. Our hero knew that he was not sufficiently physically fit to outrun the hardy peasants. So, he scuttled up the mountainside and hid in a cave. The peasants were superstitious - so they dared not enter the cave, which was allegedly haunted by evil spirits. But they camped outside the cave and kept a watch. Our hero was stuck.
 
After sitting in the cave for a few days our hero was mighty hungry. So, he ventured deeper and deeper into the cave looking for something to eat. Deep in the recesses of the cave, in its very bowels in fact, he came upon a pool of water. He stooped to drink of it. And suddenly he recoiled in horror. What a mighty stench! He had never experienced such a foul odor in all his life. The stagnant pool of water was lined with a strange green mold. Our hero gathered up some of it thoughtfully and deposited it in his now empty water sack. Then he had a flash of inspiration!
 
“A certain genius once said that the most powerful force in the universe is that of compounding.” he thought to himself. “Well, what if I compound this horrible smell with another equally horrible one? Maybe I will wind up with something really potent?” He pondered to himself. So, he lowered his trousers and emptied his bowels into the water sack. Then he peed in it. And, finally, he added still some more of the green mold for good measure. He pushed in the cork and shook the mixture vigorously. Then he put the sack aside and let it ferment for a few days. Finally, he gingerly loosened the cork in the water sack and nuzzled up to it with his nose. He gagged! The stench was a thousand times worse than the stench of the mold alone. Our hero shoved the plug back into the water sack with utmost force. This was a dangerous weapon indeed!
 
Our hero was starving by now as he had not eaten for more than a week. “So now it is make or break!” he reasoned to himself. He wandered out to the opening of the cave. “Yoo-hoo - you suckers!” he yodeled to the peasants outside. The peasants rushed at him brandishing their pitchforks! Our hero placed the water sack on the ground, removed the cork and pounced on it! The contents squirted out and drenched the peasants. They fell to the ground coughing, their limbs jerked for a while - and then they expired! Our hero looked on with smug satisfaction. He sat back and thought. “Hmmm! This may very well be the world´s ultimate superweapon. `The smell that kills!´”. Now, I wonder how I can profit to the utmost from this discovery which I have had the good fortune to hit upon? And how much can I profit? Hmmm!” On that momentous day our hero sat back and contemplated.
 
That day was the dawn of our civilization.
 
Our hero soon realized that the Superlatrine, as he christened his invention, would not by itself be enough to win him world power. He needed something more. But - he thought to himself - there must be more of this stuff where it came from. These mountains must be hiding the keys to world power! So, he began wandering about, testing all the animal, vegetable and mineral specimens which he stumbled upon. He was patient. He roamed the mountains for months.
 
Finally, one day in the middle of winter, he met a pilgrim. “Where are you headed – dear brother?” our hero asked.
 
“I am on my way to the holy city up there behind the next mountain range.” the pilgrim answered.
 
“Well, if you are looking for something holy then you sure came to the right place.” our hero answered.
 
“Is that so?” the pilgrim replied skeptically.
 
“Why do you not test me?” our hero challenged the pilgrim “How about the test of fire? Why don´t you camp with me and light a fire? I will show you something the likes of which you have certainly never seen before!”
 
So, the two comrades lit a campfire. Once the fire was good and blazing our hero pulled off his boot and stuck his left foot straight into the fire.
 
“Are you mad?” the pilgrim inquired incredulously.
 
“Oh, no - just holy! You see, once you have learned the secrets of the universe - pain does not trouble you.” our hero answered serenely. The air around the campfire was beginning to smell of burnt protein.
 
“Well,” the pilgrim remarked “I have seen many holy men who have walked on red hot coals and who have slept on beds of nails – so that trick does not impress me very much.”
 
“Okay, how about this one then? Care for a drink?” our hero asked with a sly grin on his face. He proffered his water bag to the pilgrim. The pilgrim accepted the water bag and uncorked it. Then all hell broke loose!
 
“Gaaagh!” The pilgrim cried. Our hero removed his foot from the fire. It was not needed there any longer. He took back the water bag and re-corked it.
 
“What do you think of that?” he asked the pilgrim triumphantly.
 
“I don´t know what hit me!” the poor pilgrim gasped “What was that hideous stuff?”
 
“Why - only the mightiest force in the entire universe! - My dear pilgrim! What do you think would happen if I opened this water bag in the middle of the holiest of the holy monasteries? Do you think that all the prayers of all the monks´ prayer wheels would do them one iota of good?” our hero replied.
 
“Their prayers would not help them in the least! - I must admit. That must be the very worst smell in the world. I daresay that nothing living can withstand it.” the pilgrim conceded.
 
“Damned right nothing living can withstand this! I´ve tested this stuff on animals. Would you care to take a good look at the dead bear I have lying inside the cave over there?” our hero inquired pointing at the entrance to a cave.
 
They went over to the cave and for the sake of taking a look at the bear carcass. And lo and behold - just inside the cave entrance an enormous bear cadaver was rotting.
 
“That beast got too close to my treasured weapon - Superlatrine!” our hero boasted.
 
“Superlatrine? - Is that what you call it? An appropriate name for the stuff, I daresay. It will bring the world to its knees, I foresee.” the pilgrim answered.
 
“Ah – I see we have a prophet here! Well – I just love prophets. For I savor the experience of a good, hearty schadenfreuede every time they get it wrong. Which is each, and every time but of course! Ha, ha, ha! So - I will let you be my side-kick.” our hero replied.
 
“But - I was going to the Holy City beyond the mountains! What if I don´t want to be your side-kick?” was the pilgrim´s response. Our hero whipped out his water bag and uncorked it. Soon the pilgrim was rolling on the ground and retching.
 
“Uncle - Uncle! I´ll do whatever you want me to, man.” the pilgrim gasped desperately “Just shove that Superlatrine stuff somewhere else!”
 
“OK. Now listen up, pilgrim. Henceforth I will refer to you as Mr. Prophet, and you will refer to me as The Enlightened One. Is that clear?” “Yes - Oh Enlightened One!” Mr. Prophet replied obediently. “Now, you know, I´ve been ripping off the peasants around here for the last several years. But at long last I see the errors of my ways. I have been living my life entirely wrong. You get my meaning?” The Enlightened One asked.
 
“Oh yes - Oh Enlightened One! You are done with ripping people off. Now you will devote your life to righteous living!” the Prophet answered.
 
“No, no, no dimwit! A thousand times - no! What I mean is this – I am not going to waste any more of my time on small fry. Any two-bit hustler can rip off mere peasants. But from now on I am going to do it big-time! I have prospects! I am going to rip off the world! I am going to become a philosopher! Just you wait, and see. You and I are going to conquer the world, Mr. Prophet!” the Enlightened One thundered.
 
“You see the city down there in the valley? That will be my first conquest! I am going to begin my career of conquest by taking over The Valley of the Golden Goats, Mr. Prophet!”
 
“But the evil Tyrandtthardtta rules that city - Oh Enlightened One. And you know what he does to rivals and threats? Oh - I shudder at the thought!”
 
“That doesn´t bother me one bit. What behooves it me if Tyrandtthardtta subjects me to savage physical torture? For - I have power!”
 
“You do?” Mr. Prophet wondered with skepticism edging his voice “What kind of power?”
 
“Well, Mr. Prophet. To begin with – have you noticed that I do not roll around on the ground retching when I unleash the Superlatrine?” The Enlightened One inquired.
 
“Why, no – I hadn´t thought of that!” Mr. Prophet replied.
 
“Well, I´ll let you in on a secret. I possess an antidote! Yes, I am in possession of a weed which deadens my sense of smell to such a degree that it renders me immune to the Superlatrine!” The Enlightened One explained.
 
“What is that antidote, pray tell?” Mr. Prophet asked.
 
“Why should I tell you that? It´s one of my most treasured trade secrets. Dummy! My proprietary knowledge of the nature of the two super-weapons which I have in my possession constitutes my pass to world dominion.” - such was The Enlightened One´s obvious answer.
 
The Enlightened One sat back and grinned with satisfaction and then continued “Now you perchance also are wondering how I could put my foot into the fire without being in the least perturbed?”
 
“Why - yes! How did you do that?” Mr. Prophet asked.
 
“Well - I have been wandering around here for months trying out on myself the fruits of nature which abound up here in the mountains. And I have recently discovered a secret mushroom which permanently kills my ability to feel pain. So - when I stuck my foot into the fire, I merely felt some warmth and pressure - but no pain whatsoever! For I had eaten of the magic mushroom. Do you see the implications, Mr. Prophet?” The Enlightened One continued.
 
Mr. Prophet knitted his brow but could not come up with an answer.
 
“Well, I´ll fill you in.” The Enlightened One deigned to tell Mr. Prophet “This mushroom is the key to invincibility. Nobody - and I do say nobody - will be able to rule me! Not even the most vicious tyrant will be able to bend me to his will! For what can a tyrant do to me? He can order his executioner to gouge out my eyes, to crush my balls in a vise, to burn my flesh with red iron and so forth. But what will that matter to me? For, I will not feel a thing! It will not bother me that the tyrant subjects me to the most hideous of tortures! The tyrant will be able to break every bone in my body, to be sure - but he will never be able to even touch my soul! “
 
“My soul will remain insolent forever – I do proudly declare! So, I shall become absolutely, utterly invincible!”
 
Mr. Prophet gazed wide-eyed at The Enlightened One like a love-struck wench.
 
The Enlightened One continued “I tell you, Mr. Prophet. I have beaten both the Buddhists and the Stoics! Those fools thought that they had got it made when they could render themselves indifferent to suffering. But I will go them one better! I will in fact enjoy torment! When the executioner is working me over – why, I will just laugh and hurl still more insults in the face of the tyrant. The tyrant will be out of his wits! I will be able to bring the mightiest King of Kings to his knees and to his wit´s end with the help of this weed! Mark my word!” The Enlightened One boasted triumphantly
 
“Now, Mr. Prophet – surely you want to be in on this scam?”
 
Mr. Prophet assented enthusiastically of course.
 
“Now, we must have still more weapons! And what is the greatest power in the world, Mr. Prophet?” The Enlightened One inquired.
 
“A mighty army – I suppose?” Mr. Prophet replied.
 
“Tsk, tsk, Mr. Prophet. The depredations of all the world´s armies pale in comparison to the destruction wrought by vicious philosophies! A vicious philosophy – one that gets it all wrong from start to finish - that is the key to world power. You must begin by filling men with enthusiasm for a Big Lie! Now, what kind of philosophy will most fill men with enthusiasm, Mr. Prophet?”
 
“A philosophy which makes eminent sense – I suppose?” Mr. Prophet responded - naïve dolt that he was.
 
“Hell no, Stoopid! That is exactly the wrong answer! 180 degrees wrong!” The Enlightened One retorted angrily and testily fingered the leather bottle filled with Superlatrine.
 
“When has a successful philosophy ever made sense? What about the Buddhist worship of nothingness? What about the worship of death by slow torture which is being spread by those Jesus freaks over in the Roman Empire? And what about the elevation of blind obedience to authority which is being perpetrated by Confucius over in China? No, no - Mr. Prophet, we must learn from experience! For the sake of winning dominion over the world, we must cook up the craziest, looniest philosophy ever conceived of! The crazier - the better!
 
“But - we also must be smart. Smart and crazy at the same time! We must play on men´s psychological weaknesses – while at the same time we are advocating something hog wild crazy. Now think! All men worship heroism - do they not?”
 
“Why, yes, of course they do, Oh Enlightened One! They do indeed.”
 
“So, what is the obvious inference, Mr. Prophet?”
 
Mr. Prophet knitted his brows. After a minute of deep thought, he had the answer. “We have to present mankind with a crazy version of heroism - Oh Enlightened One.”
 
“Spot on, Mr. Prophet! I will make something of you - mark my word. Now - what does a hero do?”
 
“He fights evil?”
 
“Oh, come now! What is the essence of being a hero? What distinguishes a hero from a run of the mill, average Joe Blow?”
 
“I guess I do not know - Oh Enlightened One! Pray tell me.”
 
“Well, let us proceed to think inductively, Mr. Prophet. Say that we have two men. One of them slays a mouse. The other slays a lion. Which one of these two men is more heroic?”
 
“Why, the man who slays the lion, but of course!”
 
“Good. Now what would a man have to do for the sake of being a still greater hero than the man who slays the lion, Mr. Prophet?”
 
“He would have to slay a dragon, oh Enlightened One?”
 
“Exactly! Precisely! Now - why would a man who slays a dragon be more of a hero than the man who slays the lion?”
 
Mr. Prophet knitted his brow and pondered.
 
After two minutes The Enlightened One spoke up “Well, I am tired of waiting, Mr. Prophet! I will explain the principle to you - and point out the logical implications of my insight. A hero is a man who fights formidable enemies. And the more formidable the enemy is - the greater is the hero who fights said enemy. Do you agree, Mr. Prophet?”
 
“Why yes, of course. It is obvious now that you point it out to me!”
 
“Good. Now, if that is the basic principle - then what kind of creature must, going by logic, be the greatest hero that ever could possibly be conceived of? Well - I will tell you, because I do not want to waste my time waiting for your dimwitted thought to run its course, Mr. Prophet.
 
“The greatest hero that could possibly be conceived of would have to be the one who fights the most formidable enemy that can possibly be conceived of. Now - what is the most powerful enemy that can possibly be conceived of, Mr. Prophet? I will tell you. The most formidable enemy must be the one which nobody, but nobody - can ever vanquish! If an enemy simply cannot be vanquished, no matter what happens – then there cannot conceivably exist a still more formidable enemy. That is perfectly clear - is it not?”
 
“Why yes. Your logic is impeccable- Oh Enlightened One! Nobody could possibly argue against you!”
 
“Now - I ask you, Mr. Prophet – Which is the one enemy which cannot possibly be defeated?”
 
“I don´t know - Oh Enlightened One. We who are wise know that Satan does not really exist. So, who could be the enemy which cannot possibly be defeated?”
 
“Well - what about reality itself?” the Enlightened One suggested.
 
“What about reality - Oh Enlightened One?”
 
“Dimwit! Don´t you get it? Reality is the one enemy which no one, but no one, can defeat! What happens, for example, if a volcano erupts and you get engulfed by the lava stream? Is there a snowball´s chance in hell that you will survive? Notwithstanding that you are the very mightiest of tyrants - or even the mightiest of philosophers, perchance?”
 
“So - you mean that reality itself is the most formidable enemy a man could ever choose to make war on - Oh Enlightened One?”
 
“You hit the nail on the head, Mr. Prophet! So, you see the obvious implications? If we want to inspire the masses with a vision of heroism - why then we must whip up a war on reality! To wage a war on reality itself – what could be more hopeless? And so the man who chooses to wage war on reality nevertheless - despite the hopelessness of it all – he must possess an absolutely awesome courage! Going up against odds like that takes guts, comrade!”
 
“But will the world fall for it, oh Enlightened One?”
 
“Of course, they will! It is certain! Is it not the craziest ideas available which have always won the allegiance of mankind throughout the ages? Just look at the Buddhism which the morons down there in the valley have swallowed! Those bozos worship nothingness qua nothingness! And that jerk Jesus – he has succeeded at getting people to worship the cross - which was an instrument of death by slow torture! If those guys Buddha and Jesus could do it, so can I! For why cannot I be even more cunning than Buddha and Jesus? What have those bozos got that I haven´t got? I am one helluva con man I´ll have you know! I just know I can do it! I ask you, Mr. Prophet. Am I a lesser man than Buddha or Jesus? Am I? Huh?”
 
“I guess not - Oh Enlightened One. They certainly did not have anything like that Superlatrine! To kill a bear with one sniff! Wow! But how are we going to pull it off - Oh Enlightened One? If it is just the two of us against the entire world?”
 
“Don´t fret – I have a plan! Now listen up . . .” And so, our two heroes proceeded to plan and conspire the whole night long.
 
A few days later, two strangers knocked on the city gates of the palace of Tyrantthardtta down in the valley. “Good morning, Mr. Guard.” the less well-dressed dude said “We wonder if the good tyrant would like to purchase a few choice insults? We deal in the very best insults in the entire realm!” “Are you mad?” the guard barked and drew his sword. “Take it easy, soldier!” Mr. Prophet interjected “Your master might not be happy if you killed me and my master before he got a chance to torment us, would he?” The guard stared at the two alien clowns. He blinked, made a quick decision and showed them into the palace of his Master - that cruel oriental despot, Tyrantthardtta. “Who are these strangers you have placed before me, oh guard?” Tyrantthardtta inquired with irritation in his voice. “Your majesty, I do not quite know how to tell you this, but these two clowns say that they wish to – to – to insult you!” –The guard blurted out in a quavering voice. “WHAT?” the despot thundered.
 
The Enlightened One saw his opening and piped up “Hey Mr. Prophet, comrade – pray tell - Do you know the difference between the sovereign of the Valley of the Golden Goat and a rat?”
 
“Why no - Enlightened One! What is the difference between the magnificent Tyrandtthardtta and a rat, dear companion? Please do enlighten me!” Mr. Prophet replied in a faux innocent tone of voice.
 
Tyrandtthartta stared and waited in suspense for the answer. “The latter will fight when cornered, Mr. Prophet! While the former will just shit in his pants instead - Ha, ha, ha!” The Enlightened One crowed with a hearty laugh.
 
Tyrandtthartta did a double take and then roared to his Captain of the Palace Guard “Send for the executioner on the triple. I´ve got an oh-so-important job for him!”
 
The Enlightened One chuckled and asked the despot “Oh come now, Tyrandtthardtta dear chap, don´t you have any sense of humor?” The despot´s answer was to motion to his guards to tie the two clowns up, in preparation for the arrival of the executioner.
 
While the two alien clowns were lying on the floor without being able to move a finger, The Enlightened One asked his companion in a loud voice “Hey comrade - if this kingdom were to be invaded by the Hindus - where, do you think would be the best place for the magnificent Tyrandtthardtta to hide?”
 
“Pray tell me!” Mr. Prophet replied.
 
“Why, in the palace cesspool, of course! Tyrandtthardtta would blend in perfectly there - so he would have the very best of camouflage. The Hindus would never find him!” The Enlightened One answered with a guffaw.
 
The despot sitting on the throne gnashed his teeth and rolled his eyes. He calmed down just a little bit first when the executioner arrived after a few minutes. “Dear, loyal executioner, you have been practicing this week, I pray. I want you to exceed yourself today when you torment those two clowns over there!” Tyrandtthartta snarled and pointed to the two alien clowns on the floor before him.
 
“Why, yes - your royal Majesty! For - I dispatched two heretics just an hour ago. It took them a whole week to die!” the loyal executioner boasted.
 
“Well - get to work then!” Tyrandtthardtta commanded impatiently and sat back to watch.
 
Two assistants to the executioner wheeled in his equipment. The executioner plucked some redhot bamboo splinters forth from out of a bed of coals and proceeded to insert them under The Enlightened One´s fingernails.
 
“Hey - you´re mad at me, aren´t you, Mr. Tyrant?” The Enlightened One concluded.
 
“Brilliant observation my dear Mr. Clown!” – Tyrandtthardtta responded.
 
“Oh - a brilliant observation – that raises the question of intelligence, doesn´t it?” The Enlightened One remarked to his sidekick “While we are on that subject, Mr. Prophet - Can you tell me what the difference is between the magnificent Tyrandtthardtta and a parrot?”
 
“Why, no! Do tell! – Oh, Enlightened One!” – Mr. Prophet replied.
 
“You can teach a parrot to say 2+2=4!” The Enlightened One pointed out pithily and uttered not a word more. Always economize! Use no more verbiage than necessary to piss the old bastard off!
 
“The bamboo splinters aren´t hot enough! Use the red iron!” Tyrandtthardtta roared to his ever-loyal executioner, thumping his fist on the armrest of his throne. The executioner hastened to obey.
 
Mr. Prophet warned his companion “You´d better watch out- Oh Enlightened One! These monkeys are about to resort to the heavy artillery!”
 
“Oh no! You mean - that clown up there on the throne is about to give a speech? Help! You have heard the reports about the nature of the stuff that comes out of Tyrandtthardtta´s putrid mouth haven´t you? Her Highness the Queen herself never knows whether she is French kissing the monarch or performing analingus on him, Mr. Prophet!” The Enlightened One came back.
 
“Hurry the hell up!” Tyrandtthardtta roared at the executioner.
 
“Say - before you kill me, Mr. Tyrant - would you not care to hear my proposition? Man, have I got a deal for you!” The Enlightened One piped up.
 
“You are attempting to negotiate with me, Mr. Clown? You are tied up there on the floor, about to be mutilated with red iron – and you are proposing a deal to me? Ha, ha, you are indeed demented!” Tyrandtthardtta replied mockingly.
 
“You fool! Don´t you see what´s right before your eyes? Here I am, in a dire predicament if ever there was one - and I show no signs whatsoever of fear! Does not that simple fact ring any bells inside that wart that you carry on top of your shoulders, Mr. Tyrant? Have you ever before seen a man about to be tortured to death who just laughs it off – as I am doing right now?” The Enlightened One asked with a laugh.
 
Tyrandtthardtta blinked. He blinked twice. He rubbed his filthy beard. “Tell me, Mr. Clown. Why on earth are you not worried sick by the imminent prospect of dying a horrible death?”
 
“I´ll tell you! It is because I am invincible! I am in fact the most powerful man in the world! For nothing but nothing scares me! I am the man without fear. I may feel an awful lot of guilt for the things I´ve done – ha, ha, ha – but fear - nada! And therefore, you see - if you team up with me then we will rule everything! What do you think, Mr. Tyrant? You and me ruling the world! Does not that sound like a sweet deal to you, Mr. Tyrant?” was the Enlightened One´s cheerful reply.
 
“You are hardly, in a position to conquer anything right now. You are all tied up, with a redhot poker headed your way. Just how do you think that you will conquer the world, you clown?” Tyrandtthardtta queried.
 
“Well - why don´t you just release me and find out? Evidently, I have a powerful weapon up my sleeve - seeing as I am not worried by the dire predicament which I am in right now. That makes sense doesn´t it? If I am pretty much in control of the situation right now - when I am at such a grave disadvantage – just imagine how much control I am going to have when I hold the high ground! Would you not like me to share some that control with you? We could be partners!” The Enlightened One audaciously suggested.
 
“Just what kind of a partnership is it that you are proposing?” Tyrandtthardtta asked suspiciously.
 
“Well - what is the most powerful weapon in the world, Mr. Tyrant? Fear! As the saying goes: `We have nothing to fear but fear itself!´” The Enlightened One continued “Now - does not that logically imply that the man who feels not a speck of fear whatsoever – he will be the most powerful man on Earth?”
 
“Indeed! That makes eminent sense. But just exactly how does a man reach this heavenly state of bliss – the state of feeling no fear whatsoever? After all – the world is full of badass tyrants like me who specialize in ruling by means of striking terror in the hearts of men.”
 
“Seeing as you have such a good attitude right now, Mr. Tyrant - I will venture to confide my secret in you! The secret is a special mushroom which I have discovered up in the mountains. If a man cooks this mushroom in the right way and then eats it, his nerves system becomes so deadened that ever afterwards he feels no pain whatsoever – no matter what kind of horrible tortures are inflicted on him subsequently. Do you see the implications, Mr. Tyrant? If you just eat this mushroom - then you will become like me! You will become capable of delivering the most sublime insults straight into the very faces of the worst tyrants of the world - with no fear whatsoever of the consequences! You will be invincible!
 
“And there is more. While I was wandering up there in those mountains up there, I also came upon the ultimate military weapon! It is a weapon which would make your armies invincible - if only you possessed it. Superlatrine! The worst smell in the world! One little whiff of this substance kills a man. Why - you could annihilate whole armies if only you possessed enough Superlatrine. And I could show you both of my super-weapons - if only you would release me, that is!”
 
“Hmmm. So - you are not afraid of even the most horrible of tortures? Well - I want proof! Executioner! Put out the clown´s left eye with that redhot poker! We will see just how unafraid in the face of torture this clown really is.” Tyandtthardtta declared.
 
The Enightened One saw his chance. It was now or never. He cried out cheerfully “Bring it on, Mr. Executioner! Bring it on! Do your worst! I am not afraid! Put out my left eye with that red iron!”
 
The executioner did exactly as Tyrandtthardtta had instructed him. Momentarily a mighty hiss went through the room as The Enlightened One´s left eye was turned into scar tissue by the red iron. The room was filled with the reek of burnt protein. And with a mighty laugh from The Enlightened One!
 
“Alreety, alrighty Mr. Tyrant! So now you have indeed destroyed my left eye!” The Enlightened One cried out with glee - and winked at Tyrandtthardtta with his right eye. “But what of it? Have you defeated me? Not by a long shot!
 
“Tell me – where did you find that foul-smelling wife of yours? In the orangutangs´ Beauty Pageant perchance? Eh, get it? You see – I am still insulting you! You have not defeated me – notwithstanding the fact that you have just put out my eye! I am indeed invincible - since I feel not a shred of pain! You cannot intimidate me, you see! In no way whatsoever can you bend me to your will – not one little millimeter! So - release me! In return I will do no less for you than to make you ruler of the entire world. All that I want in return is to be the man behind the throne!”
 
“Amazing! This clown is indeed invincible! Executioner – release him. I must find out what these two secret weapons are. They may very well enable me to rule the world!” Tyrandtthardtta barked.
 
Said and done. Soon three men were eating a nice meal together – Tyrandtthardtta, The Enlightened One and Mr. Prophet.
 
“Now – uuurp! -Show me those two superweapons of yours!” Tyrandtthardtta instructed the Enlightened One when they had eaten their fill.
 
“Oh – yes, Mr. Tyrant – right away!” The Enlightened One said reaching into his robe and whipping out a leather flagon. He uncorked it and held it beneath Tyrandtthardtta´s nose.
 
“Aaagh!” Tyrandtthardtta was in agony in no time. The guards all rushed forward with drawn swords to save their Master. But the Enlightened One flung out some of the wicked contents of the flagon in the direction of the guards. In an instant they were all rolling in agony on the floor.
 
Tyrandtthardtta gasped desperately for air. The Enlightened One asked him a question “Would the bad little boy perhaps like some antidote - Mr. Tyrant?” He extracted a wad of weed from his robe, lit it and held it under Tyrandtthardtta´s nose. After a few moments Tyrandtthardtta recovered.
 
“Oooh! That must have been the worst thing that ever happened to me! So that is your Superlatrine - as you call it?” Tyrandtthardtta asked lamely.
 
“Yes, indeed! And now you will listen to me won´t you - Mr. Tyrant? And you will obey me also! Or else! Now - here are my conditions for making you ruler of the world!
 
“Rule number one:
 
“I call the shots. You can parade before the world as its vainglorious ruler. But I will be the man behind the throne who really makes all the decisions. Comprehend?”
 
“Yes, yes - Oh Enlightened One!” Tyrandtthardtta replied obediently.
 
“Glad we are clear on that. Now my specific position in your government will be that of Minister of Drugs. I will be head of the Drug Department. As such, I will control the use of the Superlatrine and of the Liberator - as my other super-weapon is called.”
 
“Gotcha sir!” Tyrandtthardtta answered dutifully.
 
“Now – rule number two:
 
“Your world empire will need a nobility to keep the machinery going. The nobility will be the citizens who have the privilege of being `liberated´. `Liberation´ will consist of having been exposed to the Liberator weed. At the age of 13 every male who is destined for nobility will be `Liberated´ by being steeped in the smoke from a generous quantity of Liberator weed. After such a treatment, the poor kid will be completely immune to pain. He will be totally without fear of death and maim and torture. So, we will have an Army of Madmen at our disposal. And, no one, but no one could defeat such an Army of Madmen now, could they?” The Enlightened One queried Tyrandtthardtta.
 
“But if the Army of Madmen fears nothing – how will we be able to count on their always being obedient to our orders, Oh Enlightened One?” Tyrandtthardtta asked perceptively.
 
“A great question you ask, Mr. Tyrant! But the answer is simple. The Liberator kills the ability to feel pain. But it does not finish off the olfactory buds. The Army of Madmen will still have a sense of smell. So, you will be able to keep them under your thumb by the judicious use of Superlatrine, Mr. Tyrant! If any madman gets out of line, you just give him a whiff of Superlatrine - and then he will promptly get right back in!” The Enlightened One patiently explained.
 
“Brilliant!” Tyrandtthardtta observed.
 
“But” The Enlightened One continued “Our supply of the two drugs will be strictly limited. Because the mold and the weeds from which I derive the two super-weapons are rare. So, we will have to conserve our supplies of the drugs.
 
“Therefore - rule number three:
 
“We will need a philosophy for the purpose of enabling us to rule the masses in peacetime. And have I got a philosophy for you, Mr. Tyrant! I call this demented word salad the Philosophy of Madness - or alternately – the Facetious Philosophy, which is a still more descriptive name. We can also call it the Big Joke - since this philosophy which I have cooked up is indeed the biggest joke of all time. And get this - for the very reason that it is so crazy it is bound to succeed!
 
For - as you surely know, being an accomplished tyrant, there is a sucker born every minute! Therefore - the craziest philosophy of them all wins every time! And there is no philosophy which is crazier than mine. Because, you see - I advocate a war on reality itself! I tell people to be crazy on principle! Hence - it will work like a charm! It is inevitable that we will win!”
 
Tyrandtthardtta pondered these deep words for a moment and then asked a question “But how will a society which worships insanity even survive? Madmen are not good at producing the goods - are they?”
 
“Well!” The Enlightened One rejoined “Who said that our society is the one that will do the producing? No, by God! We are destined to rule! Those other suckers whom we shall conquer – they will produce for us! Us rulers will survive by means of parasitism! Do not all truly regal men survive by means of parasitism? When has a chieftain or a king or an emperor been anything but a parasite? Comprehend?”
 
Tyandtthardtta concluded the proceedings by raising his goblet and uttering a toast: “Well, then! Here´s to a life of parasitism! Let the conquest begin!”
 
The three conspirators hugged each other in a brotherly fashion and drank the toast. And in this way our society began its illustrious history!
 
2) “THE JESTING OF DZINGHIS KHAN”
 
In the reign of our 113th Glorious Tyrant, Dingbat the Pig, a pipsqueak upstart from the savage steppes to the north of our empire named Dzinghis Khan threatened us with annihilation. Dingbat was having a party when the news of the approaching Mongol horde came.
 
“Don´t bother me! Don´t bother me! Don´t bother me! Can´t you see that I am having an orgy?” Dingbat protested and waved away the messenger. So, his lieutenant had to deal with the threat, as usual. The Army of Madmen was dispatched to head the Mongols off and drive them away before they got too near our heartland.
 
On the Field of Bickering Buzzards the two mighty armies approached each other. The mighty Dzinghis Khan, fool that he was, was full of self-confidence. He knew nothing!
 
Dzinghis stood at the crest of a hill on the morning of the Day of Battle and looked down over the enemy. “Well, well, well” he chuckled to his lieutenant “It looks like there is going to be a fine slaughter today, doesn´t it?”
 
His lieutenant replied “Pray tell me - Master. Is it they or us who are going to get slaughtered?”
 
“Ha, ha, ha! You are ever the great jester - Oh Snorting Horse!” Dzinghis replied with a guffaw.
 
“Now- what is that all about down there? Those Grobian monkeys have dug a ditch in front of their camp. How strange! Ha, ha. Do they imagine that they can stop us with a silly little ditch? But – what is that dark substance which they are pouring into the ditch?”
 
Dzinghis and Snorting Horse watched with fascination as a puzzling scene unfolded. The warriors of the Grobian army were assembling behind the ditch. Then, at an order they all donned thick, woolly garments.
 
“They intend to fight us in woolen armour? How absurd!” Dzinghis remarked.
 
“Oh, well. Everybody knows that those Grobians are crazy! Order the men to prepare for battle! Grobian blood is going to flow!” Dzinghis commanded his lieutenant while shrugging his shoulders.
 
The Grobian commander was watching the scene also, from a hilltop on the Grobian side of the Field of Bickering Buzzards. “Well, well, well - it looks like those Mongol fools are going to rush headlong into our trap. They evidently know nothing about how our Foul Warriors fight! I would not want to be a Mongol warrior today!” He chuckled maliciously.
 
The Mongol horsemen assembled and prepared to charge. Their commander blew his horn. The Field of Bickering Buzzards trembled under the horses´ multitude of hooves. At a signal the Grobian Foul Warriors all leaped into the ditch. They promptly climbed up on the other side, now dripping a dark substance and facing the charging Mongol horsemen. The Mongol horsemen lowered their lances. They were coming in for the kill!
 
As the horsemen approached the Grobians their horses seemed to begin to become worried. There was something in the wind. The Mongols got closer and closer. The Grobian commander was watching. He was perfectly calm. “Ha, ha, ha. This should be fun! In a few seconds those Mongol horses will smell the Superlatrine in the ditch. Then we will see if those Mongols are really such fantastic horsemen as they are made out to be!”
 
The Field of Bickering Buzzards was darkened by the dust cloud thrown up by the Mongol horses. Suddenly - the charging Mongol horses began to buck and shy! The brave Mongol warriors were thrown off their steeds. The battlefield was a ball of confusion. The Foul Warriors saw that it was time. They gave the wild cry that you would expect from an army of madmen and ran like hell towards the Mongols! The Mongol warriors were milling around, dazed and confused by what was in the air. The Foul Warriors soon were upon the Mongols. And they did something totally unexpected – they began embracing the fierce Mongol warriors! The Mongol warriors immediately found their nostrils filled with The Worst Smell in the World. It took them three seconds each to expire. Since the Foul Warriors were outnumbered by the Mongols by twenty to one, it took them a little over one minute to finish off the entire dismounted Mongol cavalry.
 
Dzinghis Khan was astounded. “What the hell just happened?” he asked his lieutenant.
 
“I dunno, Master!” the lieutenant replied while scratching his head “That sure was the weirdest battle I have ever seen! The Grobians seem to have a silent and invisible lethal super-weapon. Maybe we had better reconsider this campaign - Oh Master!”
 
Dzinghis did not need to think for many seconds “Well - they say that discretion is the better part of valour, do they not? There is probably more gold and silver in the lands of the Mohammedans anyway! The Grobians are known everywhere to be human swine. And it stands to reason that being swine, they cannot have much gold! Tell the remains of my proud army that we march west immediately!”
 
It goes without saying that the brave Mongol warriors were all too happy to obey that specific command! And so Dzinghis Khan went on to conquer the entire known world. With the exception that is of that little pustule in the very centre of the map of Eurasia, which is called Grobiania. But mark my word - Dzinghis never messed with us Grobians again!
 
3) “WHEN TOKER TAUNTED TIMUR”
 
Some two hundred years after our glorious victory over Dzinghis Khan a new pipsqueak had the temerity to threaten our empire. The dork´s name was Timur. He imagined that he was destined to become the heir to Dzinghis – the renowned thug who had succeeded at conquering the entire known world (with the single exception of Grobiania – that is). And that asinine fool Timur wanted to begin his career of evil by conquering that exception. Brilliant thinking! Not.
 
Our 137th tyrant, Wad the Horny, was but of course, having an orgy when news arrived of the approaching army. “It looks like we have got a threat to deal with again!” our tyrant remarked as he prepared to go down on a concubine´s backside again “Well - as you know, loyal messenger, I am a miser. Taking into consideration all the partying with which I am engaged right now, the state budget cannot afford the cost of sending out the Army of Madmen to meet Timur. So, we will have to scare him off - instead of meeting him and fighting him. Our strategy will be to gross him out! Before you go off to the executioner to get your head lopped off for bringing me this bad news - announce to the nobility that Mother Grobiania needs a hero who will give his life for his country! We will send out a brave man to confront Timur in the torture chamber!”
 
“Will do, Master!” the ever-loyal messenger replied and went off to carry out his last order before dying.
 
So, a cry went out over the land. A hero was needed – a crazy fool who was not afraid to die. But of course, a multitude of bozos volunteered! The Minister of Strategy had a helluva time picking out the man who would get the privilege of dying for his country. At long last it was found that the honor fell on a demented baron by the name of Toker.
 
Toker was summoned to the palace. There he was given his instructions. And as a warning he was treated to just a tiny whiff of the Superlatrine which would be used on him if he let his country down.
 
And so - Toker set forth - chock full of cheer!
 
Five days later the guards at the encampment of Timur´s army heard a strange song in the middle of the night
 
“The monkey was a power-luster. The monkey wanted to conquer the world. The monkey reeked of monkey shit. The monkey wanted to commit suicide. So - the monkey went to Grobiania! Tra-la-la. The monkey . . .”
 
The guards seized the foolish troubadour.
 
“Oh! Hello guys! Hey, have you guys seen any monkeys around here recently? Besides yourself, that is? Any monkey by the name of Timur perchance? Eek, eek!” the troubadour commented and scratched himself under the armpits. The guards looked at each other, stupefied. Then they shrugged and dragged the poor troubadour into the big tent in the middle of the encampment. You can guess who resided there.
 
“Master!” The guards reported “Verily the Grobians live up to their reputation for being mad! We caught this clown while he was singing heinous insults against you to the moon”
 
Timur scowled and opened his mouth to speak.
 
“Oh - Pew! Who removed the lid from the royal cesspool? The odor blowing this way from over there is just too much!” Toker exclaimed, pointing at Timur, before Timur had had time to enunciate any angry sounds.
 
Timur´s eyes flashed with fury. “Looks like there will be a surfeit of employment for all three of my executioners tonight!” he growled.
 
But Toker just came back with a brilliant piece of mockery “Oh, pray tell me! Why does the mighty Timur always fall off the right side of his horse rather than the left side? Do you know the answer to that one, my darling Timur?” Timur did a doubletake. “It is because Timur´s lame left leg always thinks that the grass is greener on the other side of the horse!”
 
“Executioner!” Timur screamed “Start with the clown´s leg. Let´s see if we cannot disfigure it so much that my left leg looks healthy by comparison! Bring in the iron boot!” The executioner promptly fished a fiendish contraption out of his war chest - an iron boot which by means of hinges could be twisted into a multitude of shapes. And he proceeded to fasten it on Toker´s left leg!
 
“Hey – I say - Oh, mighty Timur! How do you ever manage to poke the queen? It must be difficult to aim straight with that lame left leg of yours! I bet Mrs. Timur does not get it very often - does she?” Toker jested. Timur roared like a wounded lion.
 
And Toker struck again, like a viper
 
“Hey, mighty Timur! How do you ever manage to move your bowels - seeing as you can only use the muscles on the right side of your body? Oh, I know! You shit in spirals, don´t you? First to the left, then to the right - round and round we go! Down into the stinking royal latrine! I bet that you create real works of art every time that you go to the can – Oh, mighty, mighty Timur!”
 
Timur yelled an instruction to his executioner “Draw your dagger and slit that clown´s anus!”
 
“Oh, I´m going to become like you, mighty Timur, aren´t I? Soon I will be shitting in spirals also! Hey – you know, we can sit and shit a double helix together, Timur, side by side! Now - wouldn´t that be fun? We could be shit-buddies! If only I could put up with your stench, that is!”
 
Timur leaned towards his advisor and whispered in his ear “What on earth is a `double helix´? - Count Porky”
 
“I dunno! Maybe it is some fiendish torture method which the Grobians have recently invented.” the trusted Count Porky answered helpfully.
 
“Well - tell the Ministry of Technology to check it out. I´m all for national pride! But we cannot afford to ignore the valuable technological advances of our competitors.” Timur prudently instructed.
 
The executioner had by now pulled down Toker´s trousers and maneuvered Toker into position.
 
“Hey, look at me everybody! I´m mooning at your mighty ruler – the Grand Ape Timur! Wow! Who would have thought that a humble little baron from Grobiania would get the privilege of mooning at the monkey up there on the throne? Why - I think that I must celebrate! Here´s to your health! – Oh, Mighty Timur!” Toker cried out. And proceeded to cut a mighty, mighty fart! “How do you like that salute, Timur? Reminds you of your fragrant wife - doesn´t it? Pity she isn´t here to witness your sick conception of entertainment!”
 
“Oooh!” Toker groaned loudly as the executioner used his dagger in the manner Timur had ordered. Blood and feces poured out onto the floor.
 
“Satisfied, Timur? I bet you´re getting hungry right now. I bet the content of my bowels whets your appetite. For - it sure beats the stuff that you sons of Dzinghis call food around here!”
 
“Executioner! Take care of the clown´s leg. I want to see that Grobian turd beg and plead for mercy!” Timur roared. Toker promptly defended his honor.
 
“Fat chance, mighty Timur! I am a Grobian – haven´t you heard? I do not even know the meaning of that concept which is called `respect´. I live and die for the sake of insulting the high and the mighty! Do your worst, executioner! I dare you. I will be insolent to the bitter end! I promise!”
 
The executioner applied the iron boot to Toker´s left leg. Then he slowly tightened the screws. And in due time the tent was filled with the snap, crackle and pop of bone being crushed.
 
“Whew! This sure makes my endorphins gush through my veins, mighty Timur! I do believe that I am in the mood for a screw. But please – send me a better whore than your queen! For - I have standards. Say – have you heard why Timur´s servants are always supposed to poop before Timur eats his meals? Why – it is because otherwise there wouldn´t be anything on the plate for Timur to eat, of course! Here´s to your health again! – Oh, look here mighty Timur!” Toker cried triumphantly and promptly emptied his bladder on the floor of the tent. “Oops! Guess that I was so scared that I wet myself, Timur! Sort of like when you go into battle – always with your best warriors between you and the enemy - You brave bozo, you!”
 
Timur yelled more instructions to his executioner “It´s time to use some raw muscle power. Tear off that clown´s family jewels!”
 
“So, you´re going to emasculate me? You sly little devil, Timur! Are you envious? Does it trouble you to see that my balls are bigger than those little pebbles of yours? Why, - no wonder that your children are such morons, Timur. With balls like that you´d expect the kiddies to be born with miniscule brains! Like father, like sons!”
 
“Get on with it!” Timur complained to the universe in exasperation. The executioner took a steady grip around Toker´s family jewels and prepared to pull. “Hey, I say - can any of the clowns in this cesspool of a tent guess what the difference is between the mighty Timur´s chef and a sewage worker?” Toker riddled.
 
The executioner pulled, a squishy sound was heard and Toker cried out triumphantly “So, you are all so stoopid that none of you can guess? Well, the answer is that the former studied under the latter! Where else would Timur´s chef learn his trade? Get it, guys – get it?”
 
Timur sighed deeply “We just are not getting anywhere, guys! This is useless. A half hour of gruesome torture and that clown shows no signs whatsoever of remorse. It is high time to fetch the ants!”
 
The assembled courtiers of Timur shivered with terror. For Timur was calling in the very heaviest of his artillery. The executioner scurried off on trembling legs to carry out the awful errand.
 
“Oh, yeah! The ants! The ants are mighty warriors indeed in that land of midgets where Timur comes from! I am really scared of your ants - Oh, mighty, mighty Timur!” Toker called out defiantly.
 
“You will be eaten alive, you fool! Does that fate not scare you, imbecile?” Timur inquired.
 
Toker did not relent “Hey, can anybody here guess how many royal jesters there are in the court of the mighty Timur right now? Why, two of course! A little buffoon from Grobiania in front of the throne and a great big fat one on the throne! Two for the price of one! Timur´s subjects sure are economical – getting all that entertainment without having to pay extra for it!”
 
Timur scowled. The executioner returned. He was carrying a leather bag. Timur gestured towards Toker. The executioner prepared to draw the leather bag over Toker´s head. Toker cried out “Hey, can anybody guess why Timur loves his wife´s booty even more than he loves . . .”
 
Toker was cut off in mid-sentence as the executioner drew that leather bag right down over Toker´s head. Toker´s body twitched, convulsed - and then lay still as a log. After a few more moments the executioner removed the leather bag. A swarm of fiery red ants scurried across the floor of the tent and were promptly stomped upon by the courtiers. The ants were sated, so they could not run very fast – and so the courtiers made short work of them before those ants became dangerous again.
 
And lo and behold - there on the floor of the tent lay a bloody corpse, with a naked skull between its shoulders! The ants had eaten Toker´s entire head clean of every speck of flesh in less than one minute, flat!
 
Timur leaned back in his throne - “Uungh! This unpleasant but oh-so-necessary task has been frustrating. The desperate efforts of my most elite executioner did not elicit the tiniest little squeak of humility from this Grobian swine. What am I to do - dear Advisor? Do you really think that I can send my loyal men into battle against swine like these Grobians with a clean conscience? The very thought grosses me out!”
 
“Verily, Master – methinks that a war against the Grobians would be just too disgusting to contemplate. It would be like fighting human maggots in a pigsty! It simply wouldn´t be clean!” the wise Advisor counseled.
 
“You are right - Oh Trusted Advisor! A war against the Grobians would be just too nauseating to even contemplate. So, we shall turn to the west at the break of dawn. For is there not more gold in the lands of the Saracens anyway? Conquering Grobiania would be not a whit more remunerative than conquering the monkey´s cage in a budget version of a zoo!”
 
So Timur´s army turned west and proceeded to ravage the Middle East. Toker had accomplished his mission. And for roughly 300 years - until the illustrious deeds of the renowned Mozo - Toker was the most exalted man in all of Grobiania. All the little kiddies emulated him. To die such an heroic death was an unparalleled honor, was it not? Everyone and his brother and his sister worshipped the statue of Toker which was erected in front of the royal palace. All the little Grobians pined for an equally heroic death as Toker´s. Now does not that put to death any conceivable doubt that our beloved Grobiania is, was and always will be the world capital of craziness?
 
4) “THE EMBASSY OF MOZO”
 
Now - during the illustrious reign of the 171st tyrant of Grobiania, Tadpole the Hideous, there was reputed to live one real motherf-er in the far-off lands of the Rus. This bastard, who went by the name of Ivan the Terrible, had a reputation which rivaled even that of our own hideous Tadpole. Now this circumstance irritated our ruler to no end. He was envious! “What – am not I the most wicked ruler alive? Who does that dickwad Ivan think that he is? Competing with my reputation! I say we should do something about it – right now!” Tadpole fumed.
 
And just then the Chancellor of the Exchequer happened to come in with a piece of bad news. “Oh - wisest of all the wise rulers of mankind! I fear I must tell you that all our partying is on its way to ruining the realm. Our treasury is running dry!” he informed Tadpole.
 
“Off with his head!” was Tadpole´s natural response.
 
After the Chancellor of the Exchequer had been decapitated Tadpole dealt with the emergency “Well, well, well - so we seem to have an annoying problem with a pipsqueak upstart in far-off Russia. And we have a problem with an empty treasury too! What are we to do - Oh Enlightened One?” Tadpole asked the man behind the throne – who was his Master.
 
The heir to our Founding Father – that is to say, the real ruler of the realm - stroked his filthy blanket of a beard and pondered “I wonder if we could try a little blackmail?”
 
“Blackmail, you suggest? Loyalty to our illustrious traditions! I am all ears!” Tadpole replied. He was obviously intrigued. The two clever men proceeded to put their wise heads together and came up with a plan.
 
A few days later a lone man was seen to set off from Grobiania. He wandered for many days and nights through the lands of the Kazakhs disguised as a sheep herder. After a couple of lonely months of wandering he arrived at the foothills of the Urals. He promptly initiated a campaign of stealing the livestock of the starving peasants living in the area. Of course, soon the Opriknike were scouring the forest and looking for the dirty rotten scoundrel of a thief. For – only the Tsar possessed the right to steal the starving peasants´ source of nourishment. The lone wanderer s.o.b. was guilty of poaching!
 
One night the lone wanderer – who of course was none other than Mozo - came upon a band of men in black who were sitting around a campfire in the forest gorging themselves on the meat of stolen livestock. Lo and behold - the dreaded Opriknike! Ivan the Terrible´s dreaded secret police!
 
“Hello boys! Could anyone of you bozos here perchance give me any directions to the Kremlin? I hear that there is a world-class moron living there. And I come here as a con man with the intent of fooling him out of all his precious gold!” Mozo introduced himself cheerfully.
 
The men in black scowled and raised their swords. Their captain prepared to cut Mozo´s head off.
 
“Oh - I wouldn´t do that if I were you, dear Mr. Opriknike! Your Master back home in the Kremlin might not be so pleased if you deprived him of the pleasure of seeing me tortured to death! And Uncle Ivan is a very forgiving man - is he not?”
 
The captain relented. “Hmmm. I guess we do have to take you back to the Kremlin alive, you fool! And boy - does our dreaded Master have a torture chamber waiting for you!”
 
So, the band of Opriknike set off for Moscow with their precious captive. Mozo just smiled to himself. His plan was going perfectly - so far. Mozo regaled his captors with a cornocupia of merciless insults to the people of Russia. “How many Russians can you fit into a pigsty?” – you know that kind of racist trash. The Opriknike were enraged - but they dared not kill Mozo since their Master might very well want him alive. So - the journey back to Moscow was one long and happy party for Mozo - and one equally long sheer torture session for the unfortunate Opriknike.
 
After a few harrowing (for the Opriknike, that is) weeks, they arrived in Moscow. The men in black presented Mozo to their dreaded Master. The dunce sitting on the throne was hideously ugly. A filthy brown beard beneath a botched imitation of a human face with a bejeweled fur cap on top – and with nothing but seething hatred in between – hovered over the royal court like a buzzard. The hideous monster scowled at Mozo “So, Mr. Clown – I hear that you have been disrespecting my empire?”
 
“Why, oh no - Uncle Ivan! I would never dream of disrespecting your famous garbage dump which goes by the name of Russia. After all - it is no mean achievement to create a pigsty so many thousands of square kilometers in extent! Did you pollute this pigsty all by yourself, Uncle Ivan? Why, back home in Grobiania the biggest pigsties we possess are less than one measly acre big!”
 
Ivan the Terrible clapped his hands and addressed his courtiers “I want everybody assembled in the main torture chamber in ten minutes! We have some important business to attend to!”
 
Said and done. Ten minutes later Ivan the Terrible was presiding over the royal torture chamber. Mozo, but of course, was the main attraction. Ivan spoke to the executioner “OK, Sergej, do your stuff. And you better do your best! This motherf-er needs to be taught a helluva lesson. Now get down to it! I want to see some major torment! Olympic class, you know.”
 
The executioner bowed obsequiously. He tied Mozo down to the torture rack. Mozo promptly joined battle “Hey - Uncle Ivan! Have you heard that amusing story about the Tsar, the Sultan and the Moghul? Well, the Sultan and the Moghul are visiting the Tsar. The Tsar wants to play a game for the sake of entertaining his guests. So, he suggests to his guests that they take turns going into the royal pigsty for the sake of finding out which one of them could stay in there for the longest period of time.
 
"First the Sultan has the honor of going into the pigsty. After one minute he comes running out and cries `Oooh! The pig farted!´ - Then the Moghul gets the honor of paying a visit to the pigsty. After two minutes he comes running out and cries `Oooh! The pig farted!´ - Then the Tsar merrily goes into the pigsty. After ten minutes the pig comes running out and cries `Oooh! The Tsar farted!´ Hey – ha, ha, ha - isn´t that a good one, Uncle Ivan? You´re the man – the human pig that is! Nobody cuts farts like the Tsar of Holy Mother Russia!” Mozo cackled like a hen and proceeded to cut a loud fart himself. In honor of the Tsar, but of course!
 
Ivan the Terrible bit his lip so hard that he bled. As the septic blood rolled down his chin he scowled and exhorted the executioner “Use the thumb screws! I want that motherf-er to beg!”
 
“Oh - I´ll beg alright! That will be the day. I´m tough, I´ll have you know! Why - I was learning the fine art of insulting human swine while under duress already when you were just a twinkle in the eye of Grumpy Grigor, Uncle Ivan!” "
 
On hearing this Ivan roared with rage like a lion. For, you see - Grumpy Grigor was the royal butler of Uncle Ivan´s (purported, perchance?) father, the previous Tsar.
 
The executioner pulled the thumb screws tighter and tighter and tighter. The sound of crumbling bone filled the torture chamber. And just at the instant that Uncle Ivan roared, Mozo averted his face and cried out “Oh, phew! What did you eat for breakfast, Uncle Ivan – essence of mercaptan? Aaugh, I wish that somebody here would take a shit - so that this Kremlin joint would smell better!”
 
Uncle Ivan promptly motioned for the executioner to insert a redhot poker into Mozo´s filthy anus. The room was filled with a mighty sizzle and the smell of burnt protein momentarily permeated the premises. But our hero Mozo did not even work up a sweat!
 
“Oh no, Uncle Ivan! What have you done? Now I am going to have to use diapers for the rest of my life - just like you!”
 
Ivan the Terrible turned to his Prime Advisor and remarked “Andrej. Something just isn´t right! That clown from Grobiania should be writhing on the floor in agony by now – begging for the blessed release of death. But he isn´t even fazed! What the hell is happening?”
 
Andrej stroked his greasy beard and tried to come up with some sort of reply which would keep him safe.
 
Down on the floor of the torture chamber, Mozo piped up and sent still another barb at Uncle Ivan “Hey, Uncle Ivan! How is the Tsaritsa´s digestion? Was her fragrance up to par yesterday? Did your nose get enough of the stinky good stuff last night?”
 
Ivan the Terrible´s eyes grew big as saucers with fright “How in all hell did you know that the Tsaritsa is a gas cat?!”
 
Mozo explained “Oh - Uncle Ivan. It was a piece of cake. Us Grobians have spies everywhere! We were informed by a spy about the fact that the Tsaritsa sends for a generous helping of cabbage soup every evening at dinner time. Now - high royalty such as the Tsaritsa of Russia would not have any need to eat such simple peasant fare as cabbage soup for any mere economic factors would she? So, what could explain her strange diet? Well - our intelligence analysts just put two and two together. It was elementary, Uncle Watson!”
 
Ivan the Terrible frowned. He was worried. He turned to Andrej and instructed “You had better mobilize the entire force of royal executioners. And call in all the reserves to boot. We must interrogate every single one of the Imperial household staff to find those spies!” Andrej nodded and scurried off to carry out his Master´s ominous orders.
 
But unbeknownst to Uncle Ivan, the Grobians did not in fact have any deep agents in the Kremlin. Not a single one! Mozo had just used common sense. For - surely everyone knows that twisted power-lusters such as Ivan the Terrible are afflicted by some twisted sexual perversion or other. Anyone can figure that out with his a-s! At least he can if he is not brain dead.
 
And the most likely perversion that a filthy ruler such as Uncle Ivan might get off on was, but of course, farts! So Mozo had just made a very likely educated guess. Notwithstanding the fact that he was completely uneducated! And lo and behold - it paid off handsomely! Mozo had achieved his goal of wreaking havoc in the court of the Tsar of Mother Russia!
 
Down on the floor Mozo flung still more insults into the ugly face of Uncle Ivan “Hey - Uncle Ivan, dear chap! I must say that I admire your royal architects. It was no mean feat to design a Kremlin which would not burn down - despite all the combustible gases emanating from the royal bedchamber! And it is a wonder that your beard has never caught on fire! But I dare say that you must have a helluva bill every month for all the blown-out windows of the Kremlin which you have to get replaced all the time!”
 
Ivan the Terrible was now at wit´s end. He roared to the executioner “Apply one of those thumbscrews to the clown´s left testicle!” The executioner hastened to comply.
 
Mozo decided on the fly to practice the venerable principle that the best defense is a good offense “Hey, Uncle Ivan - pray enlighten me! How many swine can you fit into the Kremlin?”
 
A soft squishing sound was heard as the executioner tightened the screw. But no cries of agony were discerned. For - Mozo did not feel a blessed thing! After all - he had been “liberated” – had he not?
 
Mozo answered his own question “Stumped, Uncle Ivan? Well - I´ll tell you precisely how many swine you can cram into the Kremlin. Just one! For the Tsar does not like company! He´s hard to get along with, you know! Even if you are a swine just like him!”
 
Now Uncle Ivan finally lost it. He cried out to the executioner “Sergej! I am getting mighty impatient! I want to see results! Pronto!”
 
Sergej swept the floor with his forehead and wailed “But Master - I am doing the very best that I can! I have been applying all my very best tortures to the clown. But this clown just isn´t normal! Something just isn´t right, master! This does not make sense.” Sergej wrung his hands and added “I wonder if this could be witchcraft or something?” – and then Sergej made the sign of the cross.
 
Ivan corrected his executioner “Oh, don´t be ridiculous and give me that religion schtick, Sergej. Every man is a natural being. He always but always is able to feel pain. So, there is no human problem that a sufficiently fiendish torture cannot solve. Come on now, Sergej! You know the truth of that as well as I do.”
 
Sergej looked uncertain but kept his tongue. Uncle Ivan attempted to motivate his loyal executioner “Sergej - my tireless tool! I know that you have served me faithfully for many years. Countless men have died a horrible death at your gore-stained hands and in front of my delighted eyes. I will be eternally grateful to you for that. But I cannot permit myself to go soft. Now if you do not get your act together and make that Grobian grovel within two more minutes there will be one very sorry executioner in the Kremlin! Get my drift?”
 
Sergej did a double-take and exclaimed emphatically “Yes, Master! Yes! I will show you a new definition of the concept of cruelty – momentarily. Just watch me!” But the quavering of his voice gave lie to the fact that Sergej was worried.
 
Sergej reached into his vast toolkit and withdrew a huge knife. He showed the knife to his master. Then, in a demonstrative fashion, he began drawing the edge of the blade across a grindstone - back and forth and back and forth. Oh, my - he was purposefully dulling the knife! Sergej continued until the blade was no sharper than that of a butter knife.
 
“Master!” Sergej proceeded to declare “Now I am about to cut off the clown´s nose with this dull knife. And when I am done with that - I will proceed to divide his dick into two long slivers. And when that pleasant task is completed - I will go on to cut the clown´s tongue out. And then, sans tongue, the clown will not be able to deliver any more insults to you - will he?! Pretty good plan, Master – don´t you think?”
 
Mozo grimaced and cried out “Oh, fie on you - you measly cowards! You propose to cut my tongue out! That is the backdoor fake-out of the contemptible wimp! Oh, come now - Uncle Ivan. Pray do not tell me that you do not have any executioners capable of handling the kind of insolent pipsqueak you have in front of you right now – a fool who has the temerity to pull the leg of the mighty Ivan the Terrible, Tsar of Holy Mother Russia! Is your mighty realm so impoverished that you cannot break the will of a clown like me? Have you no way out but that of the coward?”
 
Uncle Ivan got Mozo´s point. He roared “This farce has gone far enough! I want another executioner! Send for Igor the Ape! Sergej here has failed me!”
 
“But - Master, dear Master!” Sergej cried out in despair as the Opriknike dragged him off to the auxiliary torture chamber.
 
Mozo chuckled to himself “One down - and now the moment of truth in this here torture chamber is getting close!” He was full of self-confidence. He was approaching the inflexion point.
 
Presently Igor the Ape appeared. Uncle Ivan supplied him with his orders without delay “Igor, I am counting on you. Do not dare to let me down. You have five minutes! I want you to have that clown begging and pleading with me like a repentant pedophile priest appealing to God! In five minutes! Hurry up!”
 
Igor kowtowed to the tsar and made ready to cut Mozo´s nose off with the dulled knife. Though Sergej´s ill-advised plan to cut Mozo´s tongue out had now been mothballed Igor reckoned that it would be best to salvage what could be salvaged of his unfortunate predecessor´s plan.
 
Now time was of the essence, Mozo realized. So, he spoke up “Say, Uncle Ivan! Pray tell me - has it ever occurred to you to ask the question why I came to your accursed realm to begin with? Ask yourself, dear moral monster - why in the world would anyone want to visit such a pigsty as Russia? For the sake of getting tortured to death - of all stoopid things? Has it not occurred to you that I am in fact a man with a purpose? Would it not be of interest you to find out just exactly what that purpose might be?”
 
Ivan the Terrible knitted his brows – “Why – yes, yes! Why did you so willingly enter the jaws of a horrible death, you clown? What is your angle?”
 
Igor was approaching Mozo now with the knife.
 
“Well – dear, dear Uncle Ivan! I am a man on a mission. Yes - I have in fact been entrusted with a mission of utmost gravity by the Emperor of Madmen himself!”
 
“What is this mysterious mission you speak of – Oh, foolish clown?”
 
At that very moment Igor began cutting through the cartilage of Mozo´s nose. Mozo wriggled a little and said “Is it not obvious! Blackmail, dear Uncle Ivan! Blackmail!”
 
Uncle Ivan guffawed “You are here to blackmail me?! Haha! That´s the best one in years! You are about to die a horrible death, and you have the effrontery to boast that you are going to blackmail me?! This is just too much!” whereupon Uncle Ivan almost split his sides laughing.
 
But Mozo was not fazed in the least. He just asked Uncle Ivan a simple question “If you think I am so stark raving lunatic mad – then why in the world don´t you ask me what mind-bending kind of stuff it is that I am on?”
 
Ivan the Terrible did a double-take and queried “Why – yes! What are you on - you demented clown? You must in reason have been smoking or shooting something mighty potent for the sake of being able to behave so way, way-out-of-your-raving-mind!”
 
“Well, Uncle Ivan – The simple truth is that I have been liberated, that´s all!
 
“You see – back home in Grobiania we have a drug which kills off the body´s ability to experience pain. You see by now how I have been going through the most exquisite of torments of yours for the last hour, without uttering even as much as the most subdued of moans? You see - I feel no pain whatsoever – not a single little twinge even! So, I am invincible! No matter what your executioners do to me - it does not faze me in the least! Now - tell me, Uncle Ivan – what do you think would happen to you if this drug were made available to all the miserable subjects of your vast empire?”
 
Ivan the Terrible inquired, with an edge of panic in his voice “What - what on earth do you mean?”
 
Mozo replied “Well, didn´t I just tell you that I am here to blackmail you? Now this is the dope – you big, fat Dope, Ivan.
 
“Right now – at this very moment, we Grobians have agents all along the winding borders of your extensive empire. If only my masters back in Grobiania do not hear from me within another five weeks´ time – why then, in that case, all those agents will proceed to busy themselves with smuggling in the Liberator drug into your sprawling empire. "
 
The Liberator drug is, as I hope that you recall, the mushroom which has made me immune to all pain. If only a person ingests this drug one single little time, then forever afterwards he feels no, but no, pain whatsoever. Now - can you imagine the momentous consequences which would follow if Grobiania´s numerous agents began to smuggle the Liberator drug into your Russian Empire?”
 
Ivan the Terrible exclaimed “You can´t possibly be serious!”
 
Mozo came back “Oh - but I am perfectly serious!
 
“Think Uncle Ivan, think - even though you are not used to such an activity - the borders of Russia are many thousands of kilometers long. There is no way in hell that you are going to be able to raise a sufficiently enormous army of Opriknike to patrol that entire border and thereby to prevent the Liberator from entering your empire. For not even this cesspool which is Russia has a sufficiently huge pool of prospective moral monsters to recruit from. And imagine what will happen when your millions of pitiable subjects begin to come into possession of the Liberator! Sheer chaos will prevail! The villages all around Russia will be alive with laughter! Every peasant and his brother and his sister will have a ball at your expense, Uncle Ivan!
 
“For - not a single one of your subjects will fear you in the slightest any longer! Those fools - they will all of them have become invincible after having partaken of the Liberator drug! All your fiendish tortures - what will they avail you? If you torture your subjects for the crime of insulting your mighty name - that will not bother them! "
 
So, you will not have any handle on your subjects any longer! There will not be any way in hell for you to rule your subjects! Outrageously insolent “Tsar Jokes” will be told in all the filthy hovels of the Russian taiga. There will be jesters travelling around the countryside making a fool out of you. Your mighty empire will dissolve in a great big gigantic fit of laughter. It will be the end of everything! Your empire goes kapoot! Can you picture it, Uncle Ivan? The pathetic leer of an end! How does that vision suit you? Not too pretty – Eh?”
 
“Oh - No, no, no!” Ivan the Terrible groaned and broke down into a fit of sobbing “My empire, my precious empire!” Andrej had just slipped quietly back into the room. “Oh - Andrej, my dear Andrej! Did you hear what the clown just said?” Uncle Ivan asked forlornly.
 
“I am afraid I did, Master!” Andrej replied cautiously.
 
“What on earth are we to do, Andrej?” Ivan asked in desperation.
 
Andrej provided the obvious answer “Well, Master. Maybe we should negotiate?”
 
Ivan the Terrible groaned and turned to Mozo “What on Earth do you Grobians want in exchange for not flooding my empire with the Liberator drug?”
 
Mozo had a ready answer “Why - only a mere five million ounces of gold!”
 
“Five million ounces?!” Uncle Ivan blurted out “Why - that is almost ten times the entire annual budget of my government!”
 
Mozo took advantage of Uncle Ivan´s indiscretion “Well, then! If it is only a mere ten times the annual budget – then it should not be utterly impossible for you to pay up! Should it?”
 
“You can´t be serious!” Uncle Ivan spat out.
 
“Which would you prefer, Uncle Ivan?” Mozo commented “To scrape the bottom of the barrel of your economy – or to lose your entire precious empire as such?”
 
Ivan the Terrible stared blankly for a few minutes. Then he turned to Andrej and asked “What do you say the chances are of us coming up with five million ounces of gold? Is there any way we could do it?”
 
Andrej thought long and hard. At length he spoke quietly with his master “Well, we could plunder Poland. They have their hands full with the Swedes right now. So, they might be weak enough for us to trounce them. And it has been 15 long years since the Opriknike ravaged the Ukraine. The peasants down there must have scraped together some scraps of wealth by now which we could grab. After all, there have been 15 years of peace! And we could always work the slaves in the Siberian goldmines just a little bit harder without having them die on us before the gold has been produced. Maybe, just maybe - it might be doable, master!”
 
Ivan the Terrible closed his eyes and took a deep breath “Alright! Discretion is the better part of valour – even of my fake valour, ha, ha, ha! OK, Mr. Clown - you down there on the torture rack - I will accept your conditions!” Uncle Ivan groaned.
 
“Why, what a pleasant non-surprise! Then we have a deal, Uncle Ivan!” Mozo beamed.
 
“Now listen up - I have to be back in Grobiania in five weeks – or else the Liberator will flood your empire! So, you had better have someone cauterize the wound where my nose used to be before I bleed to death. And then you had better release me and provide me with some good horses and a redoubtable force of your best, i.e. worst, Opriknike for an escort - so that I make it back to Grobiania safely and on time! And don´t even think of reneging on your promise! If we don´t get our gold – every single ounce of it - we will inundate your empire with the Liberator drug in no time flat!”
 
“OK, OK! I know when I am beat! I will do everything you say, Mr. Clown!” Ivan the Terrible sighed in resignation. Soon the room resounded with a mighty hiss as Mozo´s nose wound was cauterized.
 
And so - our hero Mozo returned home to Grobiania in triumph!
 
As soon as Mozo crossed the border back into Grobiania he was escorted by the Grobian royal guard. He was received by the Emperor of Madmen himself in the royal palace of the capitol! The assembled nobility cheered rather than jeered – which was a rare event indeed.
 
“Hurrah, hurrah, for Mozo! He has saved our asses! Five million ounces of gold! That will stave off economic collapse for a further forty or fifty years - at least! So - let´s party!”
 
And so - the assembled nobility of Grobiania paid their dues to tradition and proceeded to party!
 
The first thing Mozo did was to go over to the bar for a shot of whisky. The guy beside him said to the bartender “Hit me with a shot of Strong Stuff!” The bartender rolled his eyes and gave the guy a small bottle. The guy swiftly emptied the contents of the bottle into his throat with a flourish and promptly dropped to the floor - unconscious.
 
“200 proof carbonated alcohol, laced with amphetamine! It´s the carbon dioxide that gives the Strong Stuff that renowned kick!” the weary and world-wise bartender confided to Mozo.
 
Mozo stepped over the body lying on the floor and sat down next to an Earl and a Count “What´s up guys?”
 
“I made ten to one on Lingo in the Hotfoot game. Man did he limp afterwards! But he kept his foot in the fire a whole minute longer than his adversary!” the conceited Earl boasted.
 
“Cool!” Mozo replied with admiration “You sure are a smooth operator!”
 
“Yeah, I sure am - but I lost half of my profit the day after in the stock market anyway! Consolidated Heroin tanked when the quarterly earnings report came out!” The Earl confided sheepishly.
 
“What a bitch!” Mozo commiserated.
 
“Get your elbow out of my crotch, dickwad!” a Duke at the next table snarled at a greedy pig of a waiter who was searching the floor for lost coins.
 
A Viscount signaled to a different waiter “Hey - waiter! Stop dawdling over there! I want a dwarf to give me a blow job. For - I happen to like it when a guy sucks me off while standing on his two feet!”
 
“Yes Sir!” the waiter answered mellifluously and turned with a flourish to run off on his errand.
 
“A standing-up blowjob, I think he said! So how do you like that? New ones do come along every now and then after all – how amazing!” Mozo commented with admiration in his voice.
 
“Hey waiter! I want you to find me a nice fat gas cat! For - I am mighty horny right now!” a Baron with an awfully big nose roared at another waiter. The waiter scurried off to comply with the command.
 
“Hey, bring me three grams of permethazine - with vodka and ice – on the double!” a prince regally commanded a waiter.
 
The waiters had their hands full. This was a real party! For - the Grobians had something big to celebrate this day.
 
“Hey waiter! If you don´t get me my fat gas cat over here faster than quick I´m gonna cut your dinky little joke of a dick off with my carving knife!” the Baron was heard to yell.
 
The first waiter approached the Viscount with a dwarf in tow. “Is this to your satisfaction, sir?” the waiter politely inquired.
 
“Hey, dwarf! Get your pointy little head out of my butt! Watch out where you park that ugly wart!” a man standing behind the waiter exclaimed. “I am so sorry, sir!” the dwarf answered “So careless of me. It won´t happen again – I promise!”
 
The Emperor of Madmen sighed and pulled Mozo to the side “C´mon, Mozo! Let´s go somewhere nice and quiet - so that you can give me your report.” As Mozo and the Emperor walked through the passages of the palace to a quiet room the Emperor confided “It´s such a pain in the ass to be an Emperor of Madmen! Almost every single day I ask myself - `What on Earth is the point?´ But please - don´t tell a soul that I just said that!”
 
The Emperor and Mozo proceeded to gab and laugh for several hours over some wine laced with psychotizine.
 
Mozo joked “Ha ha! - I guess that I will never have twins! For those Russian barbarians crushed my left testicle! And both of my thumbs are shot! But of course – I don´t need thumbs – for who wants to work anyway? But they also cut up my anus - so my poor wife - she will have to clean diapers for the rest of her life! What a bitch for the Bitch!”
 
The Emperor confided “And the laugh is on Uncle Ivan! We were bluffing! Our economy is so shot that we can hardly even produce enough of the Liberator drug to keep our own sick society going! But that Ivan the Terrible is so ignorant of philosophy that he does not understand the impotence of evil! Ha-ha! Ignorance is piss – not bliss!”
 
After a few hours of such fetid mirth Mozo went home to his beloved wife. She sure was glad to see him. And she did not really mind the fact that Mozo was now sans nose. After all – a man does not f-k his wife with his nose – does he? Unless he is a really, really kinky S.O.B.!!
 
D) NOTE
 
These documents displayed above are all that remains of the Grobian Empire after the Holy War of Extermination which the Western world waged on the Worst Society in the World as soon as it was discovered by European explorers in the 19th century. The Grobian blight on humanity has finally been destroyed by means of steel and gunpowder. Thank God for European colonialism!