Today’s entry – a fictional piece which contains some sexual references – deals with the results (including flute-inspired jealousy) of a spat between the god Pan and the Archangel Michael – and involves, amongst other characters, our hero, Peter Piper, a Viking ghost named Harald and a duo of Fallen Angel-cum-Crusties. Read on if you dare! Dark humour used throughout: be warned!
Pictures of Pan and the Archangel Michael taken from Google Images…
Pan leered, huge priapic member thrusting out from dusky undergrowth first, horned and slitty-eyed visage following a throbbing nut-sack behind.
Green fur matted with primal and seminal ooze, the sharp tom cat odour of sex so strong as to be nose-clogging and unpleasant, the great being swaggered and clopped and posed his way through the dryad-draped long grass to the thin pathway.
Females of many species trailed in his wake, unable to prevent themselves, their bodies sucked into his powerfully malodorous presence.
Ignoring many, stepping on a fair few, nodding meaningfully at a particularly beautiful virgin, Pan reached the snake-like path and, with one fine over-arm throw, pitched his pipes into the middle. A small tornado of dust, kicked up by the God’s jagged and dirty green hoof, covered the gleaming metal briefly.
Giant and luridly pink flowers, vagina-shaped and coloured, pouted and pursed their luscious lips, gushing great floods of nectar – more than ready to be taken by the vast empurpled bees which buzzed seductively all about.
Grabbing at the pale virgin’s left breast with a none-too-gentle hand, Pan led her into the thick and pulsing heart of the forest. Animal cries followed his exit.
The Archangel watched the road, shaking his head slightly at the Horned One’s sheer musky audacity. Pan’s earthiness inspired both disgust and fascination.
‘Left it to me to finish the spell,’ Michael muttered. ‘As usual…’
Blowing aether in the direction of the instrument, the Celestial One watched as a small localized storm blew the dust away, and the pipes quite out of shape.
Transmuted, and now singular, it lay in the road’s first bend, a battered silver shape with many holes and, as yet, no name.
Michael held up his right hand, palm to the wind, and spoke thusly:
‘Thou shalt be called Flahute, Oh being of silver and music, and thou shalt travel to many lands, from the Gaulish to those as yet undiscovered. Thou shalt give much pleasure, the divine gift of song and the ability to call the Messengers. So mote it be!’
Great wings of gold and scarlet caught the heat of the noontime sun and, briefly aflame, the Being rose in the air and disappeared back into his fair and pleasant Southern Realms.
And so it came to pass as he had specified. And, hidden within its delicacy of sound, coiled like a snake ready to pounce, lay the inner secrets ejaculated by Pan.
The Flahute inspired greed and possessive love; it was stolen several times; men cut one another’s throats to gain control of its power; young women, snared and innocent, drew satyrs and seducers into their lives and bodies – and were spat out, more or less in one piece, days or weeks later.
Pan, pausing from his latest conquest, smirked.
The centuries unrolled like a world-sized map, each one uncovering another slice of the planetary pie.
And, in one hundred-year stretch – called, for Godly reasons, the twentieth of its ilk – it reached the lands now called America, where it lay, in its case, in the back of a shop almost as musky and dusky as the Horned(and horny) one who had started the whole thing!
Our lad, Peter Piper, had many of the attributes necessary for Quest-and-hero-status. He was, indeed, tall and dark and handsome; he was certainly – as fairy tale princes should be – one of three brothers though not, in the strictly chronological sense, the youngest.
He was a fit and sportsmanlike young man, adept at the modern versions of ancient games featuring odd-shaped balls, bats and large grassy areas.
That he was not a Squire in Knightly training might have caused the odd squirming gurn from the Team Up Above – but he wielded a sword of a very different nature: he was a Master of the Mac, and used it to slay dragons, rescue princesses and find Grails. He would do, at a pinch!
The Flahute, meanwhile, had lost its ‘a’ and its ‘h’: careless of it but, in the wider scheme of things, necessary.
It had to blend in, had to be a part of its time – and extraneous fourteenth century letters rather gave the game away.
Peter was a rational man, trained to follow the Journalistic Dictum of checking three sources, trained also to look at the available data before leaping the chasm into the Fey Realms.
These traits caused some consternation Up Above; in fact, Gabriel and Michael almost came to blows over it.
‘How do we get him into the emporium in the first place?’ Raphael snapped, silencing both, in the end.
Uriel, who had remained quiet up till that point, shook his hoary old head and intoned, in a voice like Continental Drift:
‘Lure him in with Retrospective Jethro Tull! Blast out Locomotive Breath and Bouree until he’s ready to sell his soul for a flute! Magic him a guru-teacher and Thor’s your uncle…’
‘Actually, it’s Bob!’ Raphael, a bit of a pedant in these matters, remonstrated.
‘Thor’s your Bob, then! Who, when you get right down to it, really cares?’
Michael, as usual, got the short straw – and was dispatched, with all speed, Down Below in order to, ‘Crank up those albums, man! Pass the bong!’ as Gabriel -who had recently come over all Sixties and was, frankly, an embarrassment to all and sundry – was wont to drawl through veils of whacky-baccy inspired smoke.
And it was so!
Suddenly, it seemed as if our Peter could not pass a street corner without Ian Anderson’s flute, vastly over-amplified, assaulting his very bone marrow.
It quite took him back, to the year he was eighteen, when he’d seen them in concert – and reignited a passion never quite spent.
He sighed. He tried cold logic. But, this was a proto-hero who had received a ghostly visitation before he hit First Grade – and, eventually, thought processes crashing down like a line of dominoes, he and the shop collided mid-Aqualung.
And this was the point at which Pan’s spunky contribution came into its own. The Flute, alerted by mystical runes to its Owner, beckoned and undulated like an especially accomplished houri. Had it had eyelashes, it would have fluttered and batted them. Its breath and finger holes opened with such blatant invitation that Peter, who had been feasting his eyes upon a Gibson Paul at the time, ricocheted to the music case as if catapulted by trebuchet.
He bought it. Or it bought him. The Jury’s still out on that one.
He loved it. And it loved him, as it had been programmed to do. It guarded him jealously. Vetted every girlfriend he undertook. Had effective strategies for dealing with those who fought it for Peter’s soul. It was capable of ascending right up to the Angelic Realms, in octaves of silver loveliness, if pleased; equally, it had more than a touch of the bite and snarl about it if riled.
The Music Magician was duly found. He had been mouldering away in the Renaissance, trying to make sense of Leonardo da Vinci’s cramped mirror writing and quirky designs. This would have been fascinating for future historians, no doubt, but was a waste of his unique talents.
Whether one-legged (apocryphally) or bipedal, long-haired or shorn for respectability’s sake, through a whole range of clothes, lady friends and writing assignments, our Magician led Peter inexorably onwards.
The carpet of years continued to unroll. Peter left for a new land, with the maiden who had become his princess and their two little girls.
The Flute led him to Logres, to the mystical South Western lands.
Pan barked with wry laughter and called up the Viking – just in case. Harald Larusson was a hard man, a jolly old pillager – and, more to the point, a Ghost For Hire: a spectral mercenary, able and more than willing to bend to the highest bidder.
The Horned Capri-man left the wild-life -and-fairy-visitation side of things strictly to Them Upstairs, feeling that the sentimental aspect of such hedge-witchery was not really his bag. If it didn’t involve fucking, he really wasn’t interested.
Harald was not, initially, best pleased. His new des res was anything but: it lacked coasts, longboats, virgins (willing or unwilling) and mead – though not necessarily in that order.
Unable to burn, pillage or exercise his Icelandic Totem Pole, Harald took to lurking despondently on the stairs, wailing occasionally or banging his horned helmet against the walls just to keep his hand in and justify his useless store of buried gelt.
He knew that the rheumy and disgusting old Goat-Man had given him a message, and he had a feeling that the Other Side had as well – but what with his seething envy of the former’s ability to attract – and shag – the most desirable females seen this side of Valhalla, and a most unfortunate evening spent quaffing what tasted like the contents of Woden’s boots whilst clearly containing the strength of a Valkyrie on heat, the memory had, very sensibly, packed its bags and scarpered.
The Archangelic Quartet smote their respective brows, and Pan pummelled his pecker – all in vain.
Harald saw a succession of oddbods, couples and families in and out. Sometimes, bored, he scared them away. Occasionally, the Grim Reaper beat him to it – and, at the doorway, the two would exchange the ironic glance passed from one professional to another at such times.
Harald kept a tally. Eternity is, after all, a hell of a long time – especially when your raison d’etre does not translate into your raison de mort.
The illegible scrawl he used on the stair panels always caused the incomers to assume they had cats, and Harald to mutter, sarcastically:
‘Oh, yeah, cats six foot tall and able to write in Ancient Icelandic Rune. A likely saga!’
Thus far, the total went something like this:
*with an indignant line scratched through the 5 and a neat 4 placed in its stead, next to the somewhat acerbic comment: ‘Actually, I think you’ll find that was one of mine. Double Pneumonia, as I recall.’
Meanwhile, Peter Piper, our Mystic Mac-Man, immersed himself to the hilt in his new land. He got, as they say, stuck in. He travelled afar and he played parts; he partied, wrote, cycled, jogged and made friends both near and far.
Like Harald, he forgot – though for very different reasons. Our hero was following the Hearth Path and it was, though glittering and glimmering with pleasure’s colours, a distracting pas de deux (as these things tend to be). His silver houri remained, for the most part, clipped tightly in her case, sullen and neglected.
Gabriel, under the influence of something herbaceous, caused local flooding. Pan ignited the fire of rebellion in Egypt.
Michael, the Messenger-in-Chief, dragged two Fallen Angels away from their hedonistic daily round of hookah-smoking and magic mushroom masticating – and sent them round to Peter Piper’s pad, telling them that the Pipe itself would give them the cue, and hoping to all the gods that he was right!
Harald, alerted finally to Peter’s existence and now on standby, watched in horror as the Piper, his family and friends had what they quaintly termed a barbecue – and Harald privately called, ‘A wicked waste of a bloody good orgy. I mean, where’s the whole roasted bull? Where are the dancing girls? Why has no one stabbed anyone else? Why are the neighbouring longhouses still standing?’
But the Pipers were happy, so much so that Peter harkened to the Siren call of his old sweetheart and, tenderly taking her from her case, set her to his lips and began to play.
The Fallen Angels, specially grimed and dread-locked for the occasion, had, in the meantime, fallen still further, having landed, by mistake, in Glastonbury – and having bumped into a veritable Fagin of a Dealer. He saw them coming an Apocalypse off, and was able to palm a noxious mixture of street cocaine and horse tranquillizer off on them before disappearing back into the Underworld from whence he had crawled.
Clambering Tor-wards, the FAs skinned up and, against a sky of magnificently regal colouration, vacuumed, toke by toke, any vestigial sense clean out of their heads.
But, they still heard the liquidy notes of the Pipe flowing over the marshes of Avalon – and, pausing only to start, and hastily extinguish, a small fire, they hitched a lift with Puff, the Magic Dragon (or the 121 Glastonbury to Bristol bus, as it was rather more mundanely called) and landed in the woods above the Piper abode – just as Peter, inspired, perhaps, by the Fey, was about to go nuclear on his Beloved.
The FAs, having drifted down the lanes and into the Piper garden, were not received with unanimous rapture – though Peter recognised them for that they truly were underneath the ordure and oil of Patchouli.
Given the Order of the Boot eventually, and completely unable to remember who they were never mind the message they were supposed to be delivering, FA1 and FA2 disappeared, both from the village and, as it happens, from this narrative.
Bombed off their gourds though they undoubtedly were, they still possessed enough Divine Grace to recognise an exit line when it kicked them squarely in the bollocks.
‘Oh, for f***’s sake!’ Raphael was heard to mutter, unable to contain his chagrin.
‘Can’t get the staff, can you?’ agreed Uriel.
‘Pan’s probably got something up his revolting loin cloth,’ Michael added.
‘I am the walrus!’ Gabriel trilled. ‘I am the Egg man…’
Pan, using some of the more explicit gestures ever seen, explained exactly what he wanted Harald to do – though he did encounter an unexpected problem in terms of the Big Viking’s perception of mankind.
‘The bugger you want, ‘Pan explained – with remarkable patience for him – ‘is a tall, dark-haired bloke – and, bit of a give-away, this, he’ll have the Flahute with him!’
‘All look the same to me,’ Harald bellowed. ‘The Living, I mean. Give me any dead Viking and I could tell you his ancestry right back to the Dawn of Time, but those Air-Breathing sods, like so many acorns lying under Yggdrasil.’
‘Riveting,’ Pan said dryly. ‘Just do it…’
He paused, knowing Harald’s weaknesses only too well.
‘…there might be a virgin in it for you!’
Invited by the Sprites of Skiffle Bottom to a Musical Soiree, our Hero packed his Pipe into a rucksack (a free offering from the Far East) and bounced his way down the road.
Three Archangels held their collective breath (and Papua New Guinea was afflicted by a short lasting, but acute, mass attack of asthma) and the other, imagining that he was Bob Dylan, sang a discordant version of ‘Idiot Wind’ on Air Guitar.
Pan punched triumphant fists skywards and, job done, climbed back on board his favourite nymph.
Peter, once he’d side-stepped the Chaise-Longue Shaggers, joined in with bass guitar and his usual enthusiasm.
Harald, hampered by his lack of body, and operating from a brain which had decomposed centuries earlier, was struggling a bit with the finer details. Air up a wench’s skirt was easy peasy – though he would have preferred a hand – but this smell was getting everywhere and making him feel quite light-headed and full of the strong desire to laugh his (non-existent) head off. If he could just siphon it off in the man with the Pipe’s direction, all would be fine – but the smoke was now so thick, he could barely see his own ectoplasm never mind which of the wailing wraiths was wielding the warpipe.
Fortunately for all concerned, Peter Piper chose this moment to stand up – and, what with the low ceilings and the Hobbits in residence, a light finally went on in Harald’s see-through skull.
In his helmet, Harald stood nearer seven feet than six and, although our hero was on the small side for Viking purposes, he was, clearly, a Long Man.
The magical notes of the Flahute clinched it – and Harald began blowing out that weed, as instructed by the Horny Son of the Forest.
The effect was immediate. Nostrils agape, the Sprites and the Piper hoovered it in until their eyes began to cross, and nonsense started to seep from sagging lips.
Harald, his message finally clear in his mind, readied himself for delivery.
Our Hero was co-opted to investigate. It was, after all, his Quest, the others being Lesser Knights in the Court of Camelot.
Trusty nose to the fore, The Piper stepped forward.
Archangels cheered. Pan stuck two fingers up, possibly as a symbol for victory…
Harald, now so stoned himself that he could hardly blow for laughing, watched eagerly as the Long Man sniff-sniffed his way ever closer.
Peter arrived, as all good heroes must, at the precise spot.
The world held its breath.
OR IS IT?!