United Fruit Interview

United Fruit Interview

(Originally published in Is This Music?)

http://www.isthismusic.com/united-fruit-2

Alien essay - analysis of a Fruedian nightmare

(Originally published in Sabotage Times 2011)
http://www.sabotagetimes.com/tv-film/alien-a-freudian-nightmare/

In 1977, the release of Alien had most horror film fans hiding behind their fingertips and men crossing their legs in disgust. Why? Because Alien is driven by feminist ideology and psychosexual theory.

Exhibit A
We open on an eerie black canvas of space, the eternal abyss – an image possibly alluding to the Jungian fear of the unknown. It’s this fear of the unknown which Alien uses to exploit aspects of the male subconscious.
We have penetration
The Nostromo freighter – its craft full of no-hopers stumbles across an alien planetoid.
It’s not long before ship executive officer Kane is attacked.
After discovering a chamber of alien eggs, a recently hatched embryonic object emerges, attaching itself to Kane’s face. The creature’s spiderlike appearance suggests that the face-hugger is representative of repulsion – the instincts and irrational distaste towards a part of oneself, in this case Kane’s fear of being raped has become manifest.
We soon learn that this creature’s means of reproduction involve locating a host to bear its offspring.
As Kane lies sprawled on the ships gurney, the face-hugger eventually releases him having successful impregnated its host. What Alien possibly does here is make a play on the male fear of pregnancy. Men have little awareness of the pain of child birth so when Kane’s character finally gives violent birth to his own hideous entity, the male audience is left utterly shocked. The unconsented impregnation of Kane is the beginning of a barrage of sexual trauma for male characters in the franchise, most of which ultimately end in child birth.
So does Alien carry an anti-abortionist sentiment?
Exhibit B
We have sexual trauma and a merciless pursuer

Alien blatantly develops Freudian imagery to its advantage.
The alien itself possesses a unique androgyny. The skull is phallic in shape, smooth and translucent in texture and gleaming with K-Y jelly – a penis ready to penetrate. But this extra-terrestrial antagonist has several female qualities also. The lubricated orifice of its mouth owes more to the female anatomy than to the male. One must reflect on the feminist Latin mythology Vagina Dentate and the implications that come with it. Alien seems to be an amalgamation of sexual deterrents.

The architects of the crew’s demise are none other than their own faceless corporate employers.

So when the alien stalks the crew, it’s a threat to everyone. The sight of each Nostromo crew-member sends the creature into a terrifying display of salivation. The notion of a sexually motivated being absent of gender is the embodiment of most people’s worst nightmares – the unknown pervert in the shadows.
The fact the creature has no eyes – no windows to the soul – also intimate that it is without mercy or consideration for its victims.
Exhibit C
We have a womb
The Nostromo itself is symbolic. The dimly lit craft is a prison of shadowy compartments and murky hallways. When Ripley jettisons herself from the Nostromo airlock in the movies harrowing fourth act, the accompanying sense of catharsis and escape is akin to a new-borns emergence from the womb.
Ultimate freedom
Ripley is never appreciated on the ship until the creatures attack. Throughout the first film, Ripley dismisses advances by Dallas, Brett and Parker giving her a virginal purity. This purity is repaid through her survival.
Alien also explores certain male prototypes. One example of this takes place in the form of Ash – a genial and affable scientist on the surface, but who is later revealed to be a megalomaniacal artificial android. His demise ends in a distinctly masculine climax. Once his true intentions are discovered, he is decapitated and shoots a spray of milky fluid over the female protagonist.
We have God
The architects of the crew’s demise are none other than their own faceless corporate employers. The sinister Weyland Yutani Corporation plays puppeteer for the majority of the human fatalities. They have a god-like quality in this respect. The alien itself could be perceived as almost god-like in its evolutionary dominance. It plucks off each crew member with effortless efficiency and imposes its sexual will at any given opportunity – masculine in impulse, female in execution.
Only Ripley and her cat survive (we all know what felines represent). In the end only the women will be able to survive.
In the sequels, the alien’s pursuit of Ripley takes on a new complexion. Instead of a simple conflict of the sexes, it’s suggested that the continual resurgence of the creature is actually a manifestation of her own intrinsic desires which she is keen to run away from but cannot.
Alien is a movie of female cynicism and existentialism.

Blueneck Review

Blueneck / Repetitions

Denovali Records

Official Website

Release Date: 23/09/2011

 

(Published in Beard Rock, 2011) http://www.beardrock.co.uk/writers/chris-kelso

 

Quick factoid - Western music is comprised of only 12 notes so these days there aren’t many places left to go…
For this reason we often let it slide when musicians retrace familiar ground. Blueneck, on the other hand, offer a unique and satisfying sonic experience. Ahh…
Following 2010’s “Fallen Host”, Blueneck have decided to ditch the glitch in favour of a warmer, full-band sound. Repetitions marks the first time in their career where the group haven’t recorded in their reclusive Somerset studio and it appears they’ve greatly benefited from this change of scenery. Producer Mat Sampson told the band to embrace all things analogue for this album, an approach which provides the fulcrum for Repetitions.
All the platitudes of post-rock have been side-stepped (for this we are eternally grateful). It doesn’t drag on and on and on…. Neither does it feel cobbled together or ostentatious. Undeniably Blueneck possess a certain sadness, but it’s a good sadness – like when you watch a total choker of a movie, the consequential boo-hoos you experience are merely a healthy expression of your artistic appreciation, your appreciation of poignancy and connectedness.
Duncan Attwood’s voice is still fraught with vulnerability but the musical canvas behind him is intricate, composed and up-lifting. Some will regard it with disdain - as a relentlessly bleak melodrama in the vein of yesteryear Elbow or Oceansize. But beyond the timbre of Attwood’s lulling voice and the sweeping orchestral inserts there is a lyrical sincerity which provides an odd levity to proceedings.
Like its name-sake Repetitions will reveal an embarrassment of riches the more you listen to it.

Writer: Chris Kelso

Trisickle articles/TriPods -

http://trisickle.wordpress.com/2011/11/04/tripod-roses-kings-castles-rkc-british-plastic/

http://trisickle.wordpress.com/2011/11/04/tripod-team-death-not-like-you/

http://trisickle.wordpress.com/2011/11/04/tripod-odonis-odonis-hollandaze/

http://trisickle.wordpress.com/2011/11/04/tripod-dog-is-dead-hands-down/

Unitary - Safe From Harm

Unitary - Safe From Harm

(Originally published in AlterNation Magazine, 2011)

http://alternation.eu/unitary_-_safe_from_harm,id,2761,aktualnosci.html

Johan Hansson’s hobbyhorse UNITARY released its debut album "Second To None" in mid-2003 to universal acclaim. Hansson’s own brand of industrial techno has since gained him some distinguished appearances on numerous Electro compilations CD’s, but aside from these rare contributions has remained virtually absent from our musical radars. So, are we to believe he’s spent almost 8 years perfecting his long anticipated sophomore release Safe from Harm? Well, yes apparently. UNITARY have finally emerged from their Stockholm studio complete with 12 new tracks. Safe from Harm also marks a new stage of the bands evolution – the introduction of vocals.

For fans of the previous instrumental tracks, Safe from Harm has all UNITARY’s trademark fat synth and atmospherics, so there’s no need to descend into sickened choruses of "SELL-OUT!" just yet. There’s even a little instrumental ditty in the form of "Der Perfekte Traum" to keep all you old diehards happy.

With expectation running high, UNITARY will surely be feeling the pressure upon Safe from Harm’s inaugural release. Opener "Aria" begins with digital samples and a distorted bass hook that wouldn’t sound out of place on an Aphex Twin record. UNITARY is a project encompassing a broad spectrum of influence, ranging from the cyber punk narratives of Gary Newman to the gritty post-punk attitude of Ministry (with faint traces of New Wave darlings Cabaret Voltaire thrown into the mix). It’s an impressive start, one which promises to deliver a new take on another increasingly stagnant genre. But when the keyboard riff gives way to the first preview of Hansson’s vocals, things threaten to go a bit pear shaped.
It’s not that he can’t sing you understand, or even that his style of vocal doesn’t fit well in an industrial setting - it’s just that it’s so very inexpressive. In this musical context perhaps such a criticism seems unfair, but titanic tracks like "Calm" and "Colder" deserve more than the monotonic drone Hansson has to offer. There are instances on this album where his voice works well, notably on "Renitent" (it’s amazing what a little auto-tuning will do to repair even the most wooden of singing voices). "Woven Hearts" is a more contemplative track, swapping Hansson’s chunky synth laden overdubs for haunting piano keys. Even here his dull, impassive serenade sounds more at home than on bouncier numbers.

This sole denunciation notwithstanding, there’s little to complain about on "Safe from Harm". UNITARY’s lyrics possess a caustic irony typical amongst Scandinavian exports and the music positively bursts into life with an almost artless enthusiasm. Each song builds up in repetitive sequences before budding into mesmerising mantra. UNITARY’s music would provide the perfect soundtrack to any movie depicting extreme urban decay or life dwelling in an apocalyptic wastelands - you get the idea. Hansson should be congratulated too for writing, producing and performing everything on this record himself and he knows his genre like the back of his own hand. The album as a whole has no problem standing up by itself either and even the most hardened detractor of industrial music won’t help but be won over by the catchy melodies UNITARY effortlessly churn out.

UNITARY’s second album succeeds in what it tries to do and for all its minor flaws is bound to please industrial, techno heads the world over.

Tracklist:

01 Cold
02 Calm
03 Renitent
04 Aria
05 Clarity
06 Zenith
07 Repair
08 Closer Apart
09 Travesty
10 Woven Heart
11 Der Perfekte Traum
12 No Signal

Author: Chris Kelso
Translator: Ankara

Naked Punch

NAKED PUNCH

(originally published in Evergreen Review/Issue 129)

William Burroughs stuck his head into the toilet bowl

- I really gotta go in there?

The dark, caped figure standing behind him nodded to confirm. Burroughs sighed and got back onto his knees. He stared into the corroded, pebble dashed bowl. A long black, junkie’s turd rested half in, half out of the murky toilet water.

- Can’t I at least flush this away first?

The figure shook its head and whispered – negative. Sensing the figures stubborn disposition, Burroughs gripped the side of the ceramic and stooped his neck down into the can.

- God it smells fuckin’ terrible in here! He gargled between mouthfuls of shit water. It was his own bad luck which saw death come visiting in the middle of his weekly defecation. As inevitable as this call had been, Bill never was one to plan for an occasion.

- You think I’ll fit down here?

Silence was his reply.

- Jeez, you’re colder than Kerouac on Ketamine bub.

Once his head was completely in the bowl, he felt two cold, bony hands clutch at his shoulders and dunk him repeatedly. The heroin hoarded turd swished around wildly, breaking up and smearing all over Bill Burroughs. After a few minutes of receiving his swirly, Burroughs tore his shoulders from deaths grip and started wheezing like a fish out of water. He puked up relentless jets of toilet water and dabbed away the russet stains from his face with a handkerchief.

- I’d never fit down there anyway you tyrant motherfucker.

Death indicated that the best way for him to reach the main pipe was foot first. Burroughs dually complied, removing both monk-straps and dipping his left toe into the pool of water.

- Just squeeze through the water-way drain and into the waste pipe Bill. Death instructed.

- Easy for you to say you fuckin square.

****

Once Bill had squashed himself into the narrow funnel leading into the cistern, a light appeared in the near distance. He headed towards it.

 The smell of his own shit gave way to something more complex (and nastier). It was the rank perfume of the sewers. Bill slid out the pipe and landed in another puddle of gunk. Rats raced each other – on floating tampons or on brown logs. All down the brick walls of the underground, menstrual waste seeped through the mortar. The smell was deadly feminine, a smell William had no real taste for. There were huge veined marble pillars that rotated, churning the sewer gunk into a blood coloured stew. He spotted a filthy syringe drift by his leg. Bill sifted through the sewage to retrieve it in a way only a drug addict could ever commit to. There was still some junk in the cylinder, so he cleaned the spike with his fingertip and shot the needle home.

- Oh yeah, that’s the spot baby…

When Burroughs withdrew the tip from the hook of his arm, a strange feeling rushed through his body. It tingled the toes of his feet before coursing up through the shin, past the knee, beyond the groin and eventually landing on the underside of his gut with a THUD! He gave an almighty groan.

- That’s some b-a-a-a-d junk amigo…

Day-Glo arrows pointed him in the direction to hell. He followed.

****

Faced with an endless number of tunnels and dark passageways, Bill rested a moment to consider his current situation. His nostrils flared as a new tide of fecal matter washed over the instep of his feet.

- What happened to good smells like the aroma of a young Tangiers catamite?

Continuing on down the central tunnel, his foot crunched over rods of bone but he kept reassuring himself that he was almost there. The Day-Glo arrows disappeared halfway down the tunnel and he was left in total darkness.

- Hey, what’s the fuckin’ score huh?

There was a vending machine illuminated under a spotlight that said – INSERT INDEX. TAKE ONE TICKET. Burroughs stuck his index into the slot and he felt a small guillotine chop it off at the joint. A ticket stub spat out the bottom of the machine. Bill stemmed the bleeding with a used-condom sheath, which happened to be floating by, and collected his ticket.

It said – INTERZONE/ONE WAY/NOVA.

A train tooted its horn from somewhere inside the darkened tunnel.

- Guess I better get moving.

The ticket suddenly exploded into a million fragments in his hand. A voice from a Tannoy declared

- LAST CALL FOR NOVA EXPRESS TO INTERZONE, PLATFORM 23!

- Balls, that’s my ride!

As he ran to the train door without a ticket, the engines fired into life and Bill could only watch as his ride disappeared into darkness.

- I missed my train!

- Not to worry Mr. Lee, please come this way.

A tall, good looking man wearing a doctor’s lab coat over bloody scrubs waved him over to a hole in the wall.

- Just pop your head in there Mr Lee.

- I don’t think so pal, look what happened last time I stuck a part of myself into a random hole!

Burroughs un-wrapped the latex Band-Aid and shook his finger stump in the docs face.  

- My, my…

- Yeah, exactly!

The hole in the wall looked kind of like a gaping asshole, with the off-pink subway walls and the cracked tiles around the precipice. Burroughs put one leg into the hole. He turned to the helpful doc and said

- You look familiar?

- I don’t think so. I never forget a face.

The doc smiled sinisterly and pushed the rest of Bill Burroughs into the crack…

The Worm God

T H E

 W O R M 

G O D

****

 (Originally published in Dead Mans Tome/August 2011)

Kholo forged westwards, ignoring the maddening squawk of the worm god. Having finally assembled a band of combatants and theologians to accompany him, Kholo was somewhat distressed to find himself journeying through the Amazonian heart of Anoka jungle - completely alone. Each party-member met their own gruesome, untimely end within the first 40 miles of the quest. It was this knowledge which gave credence to his current apprehensions.

 Takak - hunter of game/defiler of taken women - perished at the hands of his own trade, attempting to de-tusk an African elephant before being subsequently trampled to death.

 Kgosi - village surgeon/ priest - had his eyes pecked out by a vulture whilst praying that Takak’s mortal soul reach safe entry into paradise.

 Abigail – murderer/thief/problem solver - was captured by native savages, communally raped and burned alive on a pyre.

 Jehu - navigator/ map maker - fell fourteen feet into a trapping-pit lined with sharp, wooden spikes and inhaled his best smoking pipe in the process. This happened shortly after he and Takak killed a honey bear then ate its liver. Jehu complained of dizziness and nausea before a complete loss of muscular co-ordination saw him plunge to his death. Jehu’s corpse was also stolen by native savages (and again communally raped).

 The others came to similar demise until it was just book collector, Kholo Katanga, left cursing the most damnable luck. Anoka jungle attacked his senses with bright colour and strange sounds; though the dense undergrowth was thinning a little at least. Why Kholo had made it this far he did not know, but the worm was known for its cruel games.

****

The worm god was a gloomy kind of god. He wriggled around on the greyest rain cloud, watching civilisation below, despising every one of its inhabitants for reasons never revealed. The blood of men, women and children coursed through its ribboned, tube-like abdomen and every semester went about ejaculating a freight of eggs into the Anoka. Unforgiving and brutal, the worm god also had the unique benefit of invisibility (no-one ever claimed to’ve actually seen it before, though there were plenty of cave drawings).

 Often town warriors would declare war on the worm. This was, of course, a foolish decision - the kind of decision typical among the strong of arm and weak of mind. The worm’s attacks were random and seemingly motiveless. Kholo wanted to locate then destroy the larvae it birthed into the subterraneous depths of Anoka. Only then could the city be free of its parasitic reign.

****

A peal of thunder overhead made Kholo shelter himself under a Bakke leaf he found wilting in the tropical savannah heat. He drank water from his flask and continued on through the haze of trees. The coming of night brought a nightmarish edge to proceedings. Deeper into the abyss, Kholo relied on instinct alone to see him through the midnight hours for the nocturnal animals of Anoka were silent and lethal. This contributed to its nickname – “Jungle of the Dead”. There was no air of progress here, only stagnant things that refused to grow or evolve. Kholo kept moving, motivated by his desire to return a hero and banish once and for all the town hearsay that he spread his seed among taken women.

 He tried to rest for a while beneath the gibbous moons lunar light, extracting leeches from every corner of his body. He pulled a cluster of red berries from a branch and shoved them in his mouth. He couldn’t remember which types of berry were safe to eat, but hunger ruled over reason. The next morning, Kholo speared some fish heading upstream and ate them on the bone.

****

 It had been three days and Kholo began to doubt the larvae’s existence entirely. Weighed down by his sack of supplies and the giant machete he carried at his side, Kholo was hours away from dropping dead in the middle of nowhere, dehydrated and utterly hopeless - until he came to a clearing. The absence of forest gave distinct path to a darkened temple ahead. Rejuvenated by this discovery, Kholo ambled forth.

 Beneath his feet, Kholo felt a change in terrain. The insect infested lowland soil and course weeds began to smooth out. He sensed this was significant somehow. Kholo felt the presence of the unholy mutated grub festering nearby. He was so excited by this new success that he barely gave second thought to his empty water flask. Kholo was just a collector of rare books on forbidden subjects, not a natural adventurer. So he was perhaps entitled to let his guard down for the sake of a little pride.

 The air grew increasingly humid the closer to the temple Kholo got - more so than in the tropical centre of Anoka. Vines climbed to the apex. He cut through a tapestry of vegetation all the while trying to maintain his optimism. Kholo was dry and thirsty, he couldn’t deny this knowledge. He felt his eye lids scratch together when he blinked and his lips become cracked. On top of all this, Kholo felt his stomach grate which he began to assume were the effects of the berries he’d consumed a few nights earlier. Instinctively, he reached for the flask which he forgot was void of sustenance. The onset of complete exhaustion forced Kholo to rest a moment.

- Bastards son. He cursed.

The water in Anoka was supposedly undrinkable, polluted by the worm’s amniotic fluid. So Kholo was already preparing himself for the possibility he may need to drink his own urine. Kholo heard trees falling in the distance.

 He peered back into the labyrinthine webs of the jungle and felt a return to relief – HE, Kholo Katanga, had made it through the jungle of the dead unscathed! He had quashed the common belief people held that the jungles remorseless nature sought only to give rise to stronger, colder blooded forms of life.

****

 Soon enough, lethargy overwhelmed his pride and Kholo dozed off atop a rock pile. His dreams were full of terrible images of the worm god and the clutch of hideous children it would soon mother. He felt the dead energy of the worm’s omnipresence. He felt its eye upon him, in sleep as well as wakefulness.

 Kholo woke up drenched in his own sweat. He noticed the waning daylight and fretted. The poisoned berries finally made their way back out of his body, heaved onto the grass in a pool of bloody vomit. His feverish nightmares seemed almost real in this place, the delirium of Anoka’s intense heat began to show cracks in Kholo’s mind. He needed water.

 Unlike Anoka, the dark temples structure seemed in constant flux. It beckoned him, whispered his name and promised him nourishment. Before Kholo had time to think rationally, his legs had already pulled his body from the rock pile and started carrying him into the black passageway. The moans of the ruin ceased to call his name, leaving lethal silence.

 A patchwork of hanging fronds grazed over Kholo’s bald scalp as he entered, but his brain was on auto-pilot. He was blissfully unaware of his environment as he passed through it. However, when tiny motes of light began to freckle the dark passageway, Kholo felt horror rise up in him once again. Lined along either side of the temple were sundered human heads impaled on large pikes.

- Bastards son… He heard himself whisper on reflex.

Kholo was beginning to see the darkened temple as a much more symbolic location – not just the Worm’s womb or the larvae’s nest, but a closed-city of malign monsters where simple men and women should never trespass.

****

 Something wriggled and writhed in its own slime noisily. Most of the passageway remained submerged in a veil of shadow but the noises were vivid and Kholo had no desire for its source to be exposed. He’d read once that the substance the larvae secrete during gestation helped in both snaring prey and to lubricate its body to move quickly through narrow tunnels. The vague stench of moist stone filled his nostrils. Then they were full of a smell more foul - the quintessence of evil. A series of moss-grown catacombs faced Kholo.

 The crescent moon shone brightly through the crumbling slabs of the temple ceiling as if alive with a new force. The speared heads were now illuminated, showing the most awful, agonised expressions in clear light. This could only be the work of the worm. Natives were brutal but even this wasn’t their style. He clutched the hilt of his machete like grim death.

 Kholo chose the middle tunnel but there was no logic or reason behind his decision. The mushy sounds drew closer further down the tunnel. Kholo wondered why he was even here. Something was pulling him deeper and deeper into the temples heart. He knew he ought to turn back but, against his better judgement, was compelled to venture lower into the larvae’s lair. Even with the familiar drip of fountain water and the chance to quench his thirst, Kholo’s morbid curiosity could not be pricked.

 A tortured scream sounded that chilled him to the marrow. His step quickened in the face of this potential danger, again Kholo could not explain the reason why. Light began to ebb through the darkness and Kholo’s stride became more paced. He pushed his back against the stony corner and peered round. Kholo saw a group of bear breasted women standing diligently by a red tarp, clutching wooden bowls of glimmering slime. The women then began dipping their hands in, slapping themselves all over with it. Kholo was beguiled by their beauty. Women often had a distracting effect on him. The women’s bosoms glistened while the yolks of their nipples puckered with retained milk. A native man was chanting and held a machete aloft - the spine of which was tipped with blood. Two natives wearing a long worm suit (one at the front, the other at the back) were then lacquered up with the bowls contents. The chanting stopped and the native holding the machete declared

 - The first stage of labour begins…

This prompted furious wriggling around from the men in suit until eventually they burst free and everyone screamed with joy. Kholo’s reflection skittered across the glossy worm suit as he turned to leave.

- STOP! He heard one of natives cry. Instinctively, Kholo started running back through the dark passageway. While most people feared and loathed the worm god, Kholo had read about races who worshipped it. Feet padded after him not far behind. He had no idea where he was going, blindly fingering his way along the stone walls and wild vegetation. The worm worshipers were still pursuing him. Kholo knew he’d gone full circle when the heads on pikes made their faces as he hurried past. To his relief, he could see the passageway exit. Behind him the sound of tracking feet seemed to stop. Kholo allowed a moment to rest and catch a clean breath before throwing himself from the temples passageway and into the moonlit jungle clearing.

****

Sweat seared down Kholo’s face as he tried to process what he’d just seen. Anoka was alive with noise again. His body ached for water and the evident lack of any nearby was driving him insane. Kholo decided to continue on past the dark temple and into last stretch of Anoka.   

 By now, he knew he was as good as dead. Although he’d made it this far into the jungle, he could never make it back out the way he came. Kholo would push deeper into the core until the clearing ended and the ominous forest returned. Guided by celestial light, he was certain he knew which direction to take. But when Kholo turned to face the temple, it was gone. He searched frantically around him, but it had completely vanished. Kholo’s dismay became enflamed further when he realised the clearing was now full of giant exotic trees and vines – much like that of Anoka. He was back in the overgrown jungle, with all its denseness and horror. The vegetation seemed greater now, somehow more congested. There was an evident progress here which was absent before. The music of the night was different too. Before, Kholo could’ve identified a small majority of the Anoka wildlife’s grunts and growls, but now they were more varied, more obscure. Hideous beasts lurked beneath every shadow, no longer hiding places of mere insect or amphibian. Kholo was fenced in with these beasts by the immense vines and weeds which swelled around him. He shook off a cramp that travelled down the course of his left arm.

- Damn berries!

A sudden numbness filled Kholo’s mouth. He tried to produce saliva but was unable. He tried to scream but the tongue was dead in its cave. Panicked by his loss of feeling, Kholo began sticking Bakke leaves into his mouth in the hope that the mild poison from their fleshy roots would help to return some glimmer of sensation. But the more Bakke he filled himself with, the more he seemed to be incapable of tasting it. Kholo was struck with as much regret as he was fear. He should never have eaten those berries. Now, they would be the death of him. Kholo wanted to come to Anoka to prove a point or die like a hero trying. Instead, he’d collapse – dead, forgotten, neck bloated from poison, with his tongue lolling out onto the undergrowth. There was no honour in that.

  As Kholo fell to his knees, the sound of trickling water sparked life into him. He got to his feet, drool now dangling from his numbed lips. He parted a tall thicket of reeds and saw the murky jungle pond in all its glory. Kholo felt dizzy but ecstatic all at once. His only urge was to bathe and drink from the water and he was a slave to these urges. He stripped off and dipped his toe into the layer of green scum which sheeted the ponds surface. The rest of Kholo Katanga followed.

 Thigh deep in the water, he waded forward until it became less shallow, at which point he immersed his head. The worm’s amniotic fluid seemed harmless enough. Kholo could even admit to feeling its benefits as he lapped up handfuls into his mouth. While he couldn’t taste the water, he nevertheless felt replenished by it. Eyes watched him with interest.

 Kholo noticed ripples in the water where the spinal column of a croc weaved in and out. Every part of Anoka despised the smell of human males and sought to eliminate it from its pores in any way necessary.

Carefully, he got back out trying not to disturb the water surface. The crocodile seemed oblivious and didn’t swim anywhere near him. When Kholo turned back the croc had resurfaced onto the mud bank on the opposite side of the lake. It sat on its hindquarters staring back at Kholo. He looked at its face, at its long mandible packed with razor sharp triangles, its smooth belly, and saw in its dead eyes – the presence of the worm god. Kholo suspected he would be struck down at any time, so moved further west.

****

The worm god was conspiring against Kholo, he knew it - the way he’d seen it manipulate Anoka to swallow intruders. Perhaps the worm’s worshippers had the right idea. They appeared immune to its wrath. As Kholo considered this, the suns orb grew fiery red and he felt its heat burn and peel the skin from his bare back. Rays shone down onto the Anoka, melting leaves to pulp and slowing down jungle predators in their tracks. Kholo felt every animal in the jungle watching him undercover. Just as it seemed the night would never leave Anoka, the sun fires into brilliant, searing life with a vengeance. At least Kholo had been nourished which could keep him on his feet at least a little while longer.

  The jungle went on forever, the vines and plants blossomed into huge, intimidating organisms and Kholo’s hope began to die once more. He was hungry. He had to hunt down, catch and kill something. Back in his town the dominant males brought home the food so this was an entirely new challenge for Kholo to conquer. He’d read enough to have a vague idea what was required of him.

  Kholo used his tribal initiative to fashion some rudimentary spears, shaving shreds of wood from tree bark and tying a sharpened stone to the tip with sinew. He used Bakke sap to poison the edge and he was ready.

****

 Fumbling its way through the forest was an eight legged insect with a body fat from insatiable greed. Behind a shrub of leaves, Kholo stalked his prey. The hideous insect moved in such a way that suggested its skinny legs struggled to carry the sheer weight of its body. It didn’t travel more than ten yards at a time without stopping to rest and gobble up more of the jungles defenceless basin dwelling critters. Kholo saw his moment and tossed the spear. To his obvious disappointment, it struck the large insect on the leg and broke apart. The insect moved through the leaves, blissfully unaware that something was hunting it. He had failed and night was preparing to fall heavy.

****

  Kholo sat on the dirt and looked at the blistering sun and the awful lunar body of the moon lying dormant behind it. In a fit of madness, triggered by exhaustion and malnourishment, he began chewing at his own hand. The poisoned berries had made his flesh supple and his bones brittle so he had no trouble biting off and grinding large quantities of himself. Kholo felt no pain for his nerves were dead with poison and his mouth numb with the same reaction. The mental shock was muted by the onset of hallucination. Although Kholo had begun self-cannibalising his own body, to his drug saturated eyes, he believed he was making love to three of the nude females from the darkened temple. He kissed them hard on their mouths and cupped the global mounds of their breasts and slid his fingers between their thighs and smelled the fresh absence of human sex on their flesh and hair. Kholo felt his groin tingle with life and the sense of old habits returning. The worm grew fatter in his breechcloth. On the mud bank the croc watched with cruel relish. The worm god got him…

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