No Worries

Bunburyland, which, layered in a cake of imagination infinite in its levels, indigestible and delicious at once, is not real the way the Cave of Mirelba is real, or the Dragon of Heaven (Draco Caeli), who is a right real bastard when you come down to it.

It’s not real, but it is powerful, and it does converge at interesting connections, one of the more trivial, but useful for my purposes connections being The Hallway of The Mountain King.

After leaving Trixtero and Slinkiztowicz — detailed below

I traveled to one of the places that is well matched with our reality. There is scarce any magic in that quadrant, and all of it on the edges.

Suited me fine, I was way ahead of the tech in that area, and there wasn’t enough magic to be a danger. Just enough magic for me to steal and put in a special place for future eventualities.

There is in Bunburyland, as you might expect, 13 entrances to the Hall of the Mountain King, and three of them track entrances in our world, those being

Ogof Craig a Ffynnon — a nice little cave, but still roomy enough you can get some work in. Only a couple hours from Arthur’s burial place Bwlch y Saethau, which is not a coincidence you know, as the Youths of Eryri are buried here. Now before you get your knickers in a roar and start lecturing me, with roaring knickers no less (what sort of manners is that), I know they are supposed to sleep somewhere in the Ogof y Daren Cilau system of caves, but this is incorrect, they actually sleep in the Ogof Ffynnon Ddu cave system. Which makes a lot of sense for reasons that are too technical to go into here, although perhaps one day when this whole project is behind me I will have the time to sit in a small cottage by a lake and write up these things — but not now.

Bryce Canyon National Park — Very near the town of Pagan, Utah, where Illuminati Ganga stores a lot of their Orgone collecting tech, no special reason, just Orgone collection is real big in Utah. This part is not a cave, insofar that bizarre rock outcroppings outside the Earth are not a cave, although if you think about it this can seem a pretty arbitrary distinction.

Bedquilt Cave — this is in the Mammoth Cave System in Kentucky. Illuminati Ganga doesn’t really have anything near there. Always keeping in mind the relative definition of nearness.

So if I needed a quick exit, I had three potential choices, and three potential reasons I might like to take that particular exit. But I wasn’t planning on taking an exit.

My mission remained the same as when I first entered the fungal dimension that is defined as Bunburyland, for want of a better identification, for probably the ten thousandth time to gather the items of power needed to open up not just a temporary bridge into the realms of fantasy, but a permanent one, to solidify the potential Tunguska event in my reality’s recent past, allowing the secondary portal to the Continent of Phantaz to be opened, and also to have that portal be a permanent one for even more fucked-up-ness in the time stream, and uhm, oh yeah — also to bring that idiot “The Scoundrel Who Steals Fruit And Apologizes Insincerely” back from the Goblins who had ensnared him with their magical fruits.

So that is.. “The Mission!”

The Hall of The Mountain King is like most things in Bunburyland, prone to exaggeration and baroque and hallucinatory like a wounded man’s imagination when suffering a high fever in the last hour before death.

It’s really great!

At this point I was going to describe the hall. But hey, I’m busy.

Slinkiztowicz had crawled across the breadth of many impossible kingdoms. It had zig-zagged the peaks of twelve misty mountains, which was a propitious number of mountains, it had been tangled on the wheels of six crooked carts, that ran down highways even more crooked than the carts, and from which the cartman sold whatever he had stolen from the town before to every town after, and the tongue of Slinkiztowicz had slithered from its purring mouth and with the twin forks at its end whispered into the ears of the wicked cartman and planted seeds of misdeeds in his mind, for kicks mostly, it was a long journey.

Slinkiztowicz is not a he, nor a she, and says it does not mind what type you put it into, but hates to be called “it”. So we call Slinkiztowicz slinky in these pages, because of the need to identify beings that affect in some way some aspects of the environment.

Slinky is affecting the environment big time now, it is a shadow screwing down along the taproot of Yggdrasil, to that branch on a sidetrail of darkly humorous fantasy that runs parallel to the Hallway of the Mountain Kind, past it and into the heart of the Morrigan who is buried slightly below the Hallway and whose body when it turns in its slumbers moves the evils of the world, the way puppets are moved by hands in a street theater for children.

Slinky is such a predictable little prick/bitch/thing, Slinky wants revenge and thinks there is a way to get that, but there ain’t. I’m a step ahead.

No worries.

This article was part of a longer message relayed via air bubbles arranged in a secret Illuminati Code inside a stalactite dripping in Mark Twain’s Cave

That Stalactite was ancient, and filled with the power of time and fantasy when the Pyramids were new; when Troy fell; when the foundations of Rome were laid; when Christ was crucified; when the Conqueror created the British empire; when Columbus sailed; when the massacre at Lexington was “news.”

That message was there, trapped inside the ice, waiting our reading.

Agent 81 decreed that most of the message would be taken to the secret storage facilities in Saratoga Florida, and buried beneath a particular tree. That’s the way things go here.

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