That’s right, I did not write those 200-plus books—maybe a dozen or so. This is why I made up that B.S. about not writing Harm City anymore and devoting myself to history and fiction.
The fact is, now that T. Spoone Slickens has retired to Cape Fear to fish for split-tail clam, Justin W. R. Justice is now in hospice with the “Eetes,” that disloyal negro Stevedore done up and run off…and well, that leaves me occasionally channeling the Khan and attempting to write out of my own addled head.
The reader will note, that this year 2020, in the Ascension of Our Lord Floyd, being my most prolific year thus far in terms of book completions, that this must leave another ghost writer in the wings. Yes, there is Randy Bracken, who I also ghost write for, making that a net wash. It’s about time for me to stop fooling around now and let the readers in on the man that permits me to channel the Khan, who I communicate with through renowned mesmerist Richard Francis Burton—who regards me as a low Irish scoundrel—but appreciates my willingness to continue sparring with him and not least the fact that I am the only human left who does not hear Richard Burton and think drunken 20th century actor.
Henceforth, I will discontinue putting my stamp on advice and current events and masculinity content that I channel through Master Mesmerist Burton, from, from…
Sorry, this is overpowering, my weak modern id is waning dim in the wake of the ancient wisdom of the leading warlord responsible for trodding the sissy thrones of the Scientists of Egypt beneath the bison-horn heels of his booted feet, the man whose prayers to the elder gods brought on the meteor strike now known as the Younger-Dryas Event to cleanse the earth of its effeminate ebony taint…
As the ancients, through W.D. Fard once related:
As Big-Headed Yakub turned the keys in that pink 1954 Cadillac above the Great Pyramid of Shetwerksalot and gunned the engine for the Dog Star, saying, “Don’t worry y’all, I’ll be back with the mothership soon as these scary pale-assed creations of mine become as weak as your sorry asses,” an ominous, bloody-handed shadow, sitting astride a wooly mammoth he had tamed with a pimp slap that opened the Red Sea, loomed awesome and terrible and with his matchless might, struck the nose from the Sphinx and thence drove the Sons of Ham down beneath the cruel Sahara sands…
Well, yes, Little Arthur, the only other garments Chainmail Jockstrap wears other than that storied device of athletic support are his horn-heeled boots and his horned headband. His head is so hard he needs no helmet—but horns are badass and he wanted to commemorate his victory over the Unicorn Twins.
Of course Little Arthur, the Chainmail Jockstrap was conceived by the diabolical Big-Headed Yakub, who designed the Whiteman in the caves of Unholy Patmos, and when the apex of his creation was achieved, in the form of Our Hero, Two-Parts God, One-Part Man, he became afraid of what he had wrought. This is why the ancient mad-scientist of Egypt fashioned the chainmail jockstrap as an anti-paternity belt to prevent Our Hero from raping the Daughters of Ham and respectfully ravishing the beautiful, teak-hued Princesses of the Scientists of Egypt. But such was the virility, the patriarchal potential of the hero who shared characteristics with the Bull of Heaven and the Thunder Stallion of the Four Winds, that this device has since, merely served to prevent his matchless thighs from chaffing.
So, Little Arthur, from our pale remove, from our lonely and wistful scaffold here at the end of Heroic Time, we know the hero or our kind merely, as Chainmail Jockstrap.
Thank, you class dismissed.
No, Little Arthur, you are not permitted to honorably beat down any soy-fed sissies, unless you also abduct their woman and make her your slave girl. One at a time, Little Arthur—leave some for the others.
