What’s he like? Mad, I suppose you’d have to say. Kind, relentlessly patient to the women and cats that entered his cave. In the world, an urban monster: his squat, convex body full of junk food and murderous, meticulously crafted fantasies of revenge and lyric retribution to be visited on those endless purveyors of blindness and self-regarding idiocy posturing in the soiled, sold-out, corners of the entertainment industries. Non-stop reader of gossip magazines, supermarket scandal-sheets and newspapers for the illiterate. Confessed occultist, hermeneut of junk, irrationalist and lifelong student of all forms of hidden and secret knowledge, he could see a universe of meaning and psychic power running through the wiring diagram of a 1920s voltmeter. His mission: expose the underbelly of reason, write down the history and prognosis of the invisible mind grid pulsating through every event of the world, tell — without weeping — how the mystery of reality is but one vast terror-filled psychic laboratory of fear, omnipotence, impotence and manufactured otherness put together by the sheer necessity of all the misbegotten nightmares of human need. Four-eyed scourer of rubbish heaps for navigational tables, astronomical charts and newspaper reports of Unexplained Happenings. Special interest: the Great War and the power psi-clone of the Third Reich. Once, in the Imperial War Museum, he’d felt the Evil One in a few grains of sand on the floor of a tank that had fought Rommel in the desert. It was, he said, waiting there.

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