Door of Piss-Ception

The Doors of Piss-ception

I went over to England in 1974 with ma' folks, from Santa Fe, New
Mexico. I was already pushing six-foot at fifteen, big-broad shoulders,
man, not like you skinny bits over there. I had played baseball at
state level; hell, you know I was the all-round clean cut American kid,
sometimes wince to think about it now. Pappa, was sent over here by the
federal government, don't know what of course exactly he was doin', but
it was real big man, I'll tell you. He was a scientist ma' Pa, one of
the best they tell me. He was stationed at the Manchester Institute of
Science and Technology, off Oxford Road, near the centre. Research into
pills, medicine and stuff, something or other like that he was doin'.
Me and ma moved into a great big Georgian house in West Didsbury, it
was converted into flats with the other families from back home that
the government had paid out for. It was cool at first, everthin' just
seemed so small. Little cars, little people everywhere. I'd walk down
the sidewalk and look like some giant compared to the rest of them
people. One day I went into one of them weird eaterie's you guys call
cafes and ordered the largest meal on the menu, my little head could
think of. Pa, always gave me loads of dollars, or them pound things you
guys call them and they served me an 'all-day breakfast,' yeah, that's
what they call them. I couldn't believe the size of it, call it big, no
it certainly ain't -. I had two! There's somethings 'bout you English
guys, I swear I just cannot work out.

I settled in OK, though, but I missed back home. Those nights out down
the Rodeo bar, ma' country music and that lovely Linda Armstrong, who
served them burgers at Fat Dan's. I liked hangin' out, shootin' ma'
pool like all us young uns did. Over here, you couldn't go out so much.
Talk 'bout bad weather, you guys had no air-conditionin' in summer and
winter, I'm tellin' you man it just don't bear thinkin' 'bout. Well, I
made some good friends over in Manchester, I miss them to this day, but
what happened was tough. So tough, it made ma' Ma-ma ill. I flunked at
Salford grammar school, real bad and we had to go back to the States.
Ma' Pa never returned one night after working late down the lab - I
never saw him again. He'd been not himself for some time though, I
think I lost my real Pa sometime in the months before that. What I can
tell you 'bout what happened is not too good, I'm 'fraid. Some years
after we'd come back to New Mexico. Ma, she'd gone to heaven and I was
livin' with ma' Uncle Joe in Texas. One day a large brown envelope
arrived and in it were some papers. Now, I've had no real proper
education like ma' Papa did, but I knew it was important. He'd
discovered something so special or other I took it to a teacher who was
helpin' me with ma math and stuff. He read it and tried to explain to
me the importance of Pa's discoveries. I think I understand. It was
published by Nebrada University for a short while until the feds came
in and took away the prints. If you want to take a look though I'll
show you, as I saved another parcel which was more personal like, in
nature, like his story kinda' thing. Those Feds ain't gonna bother a
guy like me, so here it is then. Pa wanted people to know, so I'm doin'
it out of ma' duty. To be troo'ful I ain't no good at readin' no more,
them letters they seem to jump aroun' like a sore-assed bear. It's bin
'appenin' ever since I had one of them funny turns I used to get, just
round time Ma' was getting' ill. So, here you go it's over to Pa.

My name is William Sigefried Montnay, but most people just call me Bill
M. If you ever scour the back-prints of "Scientific Eye 1969-82" you'll
probably be aware of me, or at least the research I had become
synonymous with. I was born in Little Rock, Arkansas to a modest home.
Father was an engineer and my mother a housewife, but was the
brilliant-minded woman I've met to this day. It was her that I gained
my thirst for knowledge from though, my restless hunger for scientific
study. From the start she was adamant that I pursue an academic career,
I devoured science fact books with passion, at six years old I was
tormenting insects and not to mention my elderly infirm neighbours,
with the chemistry set father had bought me for Christmas that
year.

At school, I was often in trouble for my pranks, scowling at any
teacher foolish enough to misquote Einstein and torching girls hair
with volcanic burnsen-burners. However, my marks were all without doubt
excellent. I was considered a prodigy somewhat and so it was no
surprise at all when news of my scholarship to Yale materialized.
Mother was so proud and this was my chance to make waves, get noticed.
Eventually I'd be the discoverer of some ground breaking,
all-encompassing theory - I was almost certain in fact.

At Yale, I majored in Biochemistry, but as I matured I became more and
more interested in the applied aspects of chemistry on human biology.
Also I began to inhale anthropological works and became interested in
tribal cultures, shamanism and that type of thing, but I suppose this
was more of my hobby at this time. My circle of brilliant, if
eccentric, friends were mostly members of the medical faculty, doing
their post-graduate research into the most exciting areas of
psychiatry, brain chemistry and neuroscience. The most recent of these
new offshoots was what has become now known more commonly as
Pharma-Psychology. It was in this field that I was to first enter after
graduating with first class honours. During my last few months at Yale,
I had come into correspondence with a certain Professor Zuboff, who was
working over in Manchester, England, on new types of drugs; especially
the hallucinogens and those that could produce profoundly altered
states of consciousness. What with my ever increasing, personal
interest in the transcendental and chemical wizardry it was to prove a
long-lasting and fateful relationship.

After leaving Yale, things went quiet for some time. I moved to New
York, with my fianc?e, Brenda Missouri, and we settled down. I had
acquired an exceptionally well-paid job working for Sandoz
Pharmaceuticals, basic work though the usual type of testing, research,
producing legal reports for the courts and so on. However, it kept
Brenda and me very comfortable for a long time. We had everything
materially one could wish for and soon, just after we married in fact -
we had a child on the way. Franklin Benjamin Montnay was born to us
August 14th 1969; I was the proudest father in the world.

Things were to go slightly haywire shortly after the new arrival,
however. Brenda became almost suicidal and terribly depressed. Without
hesitation I contacted the best consultant psychiatrist in the state
who came to visit informing us, she was suffering from severe
post-natal depression and prescribed an anti-depressant. It caused a
massive strain on our relationship and family life became miserable.
Work at this time was a well-found haven for me. I wasn't getting any
fulfillment here either. There are only so many times you can take a
monkey's blood pressure after IM injecting Thorazine daily for weeks,
or force feeding lobotomized dogs with Largactil to measure brainwaves.
Needing sanctuary I began my correspondence with Zuboff again with
fervor. It was an obsession, almost a full-time job. Soon I was offered
a research post at UMIST, Manchester's center of excellence for
scientific and technological development. I didn't hesitate to go
leaving a massive trust fund for Brenda and Franklin to live on. They
needed a break, Brenda a change to pull-herself together and me to
fulfill my life-long passion for scientific endeavor.

Zuboff, greeted me at the airport with a sticky handshake. He was a
portly man in his mid-fifties, whitish beard, huge handlebar moustache
and behind tiny rimmed glasses he had these little piggy eyes that
twinkled knowingly at you. He was wearing gaudy corduroy pants and an
ill-fitting, bottle green blazer. Underneath was a dirty, white shirt -
huge sweat rings clearly visible around the neck and arms.. With him
was a youth, of about no more than nineteen. Peter, he was introduced
as, and he held out a limp hand, smiling innocently, whilst Zuboff gave
him an adoring glance. I sneakily wiped my hand in my suit pocket, with
some revulsion.

Zuboff despite being the most eminent Bio-chemist of his day, was also
the most rampant, raving homosexual I was ever to meet. He was a
cunning, predatory connesiour of young-men. Of course Zuboff conducted
his private liasion's with the utmost discression. Homosexual
encounters with under 21's were of course illegal in Britain at this
time. In '67 it was rumoured that he'd eloped from Harvard, where he
was on sabbatical for the year to hit the West Coast. He'd apparently
become embroiled with Dr. Timothy Leary, Dr. John Lilley and the
'drop-out, turn on' mentality of the psychedelic movement of the time.
His time was spent in a swirl of free-love parties, rallies and singing
anti-Vietnam war songs on his acoustic guitar on the sunscorched
Californian sands. He gave seminars whilst stark naked on 'freeing your
mind,' even finding enough time to found a gay-love commune in
San-Francisco before retreating back to his cottage back in the Peak
District. A truly most remarkable man!.

In the early days I'd find him in his apartment come office surrounded
by nubile young men of an evening. Often they'd be sitting around naked
or in sarongs, talking about postmodernist theory or other clap-trap,
smoking pot, freebase cocaine and indulging in Zuboff's latest
psychedelic toys. After that they'd bugger each other affectionately,
in what we'd call in the states a 'bum-chain' - the aged Professor as
master of ceremonies. On my first few visits Zuboff invited me to stay,
"Sit down dear chap. Have a G &; T and settle down. We're all
special freinds here aren't we my boys!" I politely refused on every
occasion, handed over my latest research documents and made my way
hastily out of the door.

I'd finished my latest paper for Zuboff, entitled "The Aggressive
Badger in the Lab environment: Ameiolarative and Psychoactive effects
of the cannaboloids in treating Mammalian aggression." I was exhausted,
it was a gloriously sunny afternoon and so I decided to pack up for the
day. I slipped onto Oxford Road and then caught the number 85 bus to
Didsbury, I didn't really want to go home though, but was at a loss
with what to do with myself. As we approached Withington, I felt
something tug me out of my seat and I moved up, got off and exited to
the bustling high street in the 'village.' I wiped my brow, it was
brimming with sweat from the unusually sweltering North-West sunshine
and moved down the High Street, browsing in windows of second
handstores, I bought a dreadful pork pie from a grocery, then sat down
on a bench to eat it. All kinds of thoughts were going through my mind,
some you could say were irrational and obtrusive, others more like the
aural hallucinations, I'd observed in the lab after taking Mescaline,
that time. Over the road was a public house - The Victoria Hotel, I
felt thirsty and could smell the hops from the cellars, infusing a
great thirst in me. I crossed over and made my way in through the heavy
wooden doors, they closed behind me with a sudden thud.

I couldn't beleive my eyes at first with what greeted me. I'd seen
English Pubs before in the movies, or read descriptions of them in
novels, like Dickens. Of course, I imagined them to have changed much
from those days, being more like the bars and saloons we had over in
the States. This place was unbeliveable. Dark, damp, badly aired, smoke
everywhere from the customers, all incessantly smoking their
cheap-cigarrettes. Big red- faced men with beards, swayed at the bar,
laughing and joking, making lewd suggestions to the well-travelled
peroxide blonde bar-maid. She scowled at them using language so
offensive, I couldn't dare repeat it. Immersed in my deluded towers of
academia, I had failed to notice the 'working classes', viewing England
to have grown out of such dated notions and to have mirrored the
oppurtunity for all culture that we enjoyed stateside.

I shuffled over to the bar, trying not to look too conspicuous with my
broad shoulders and expensive flannel suit. Trying to hide my
trans-atlantic twang as best I could I asked, "Excuse me madam, could
you please get me a coke please?"
"Listen, mister we don't serve that type of drink in 'ere. We've got
mild, bitter, lager or the special ale on draught. In bottles, Gold
Label, Sam Smith's Pale Ale or Newcastle Brown. What'll it be then,
love?"
Taken aback somewhat that any bar, even this one, didn't serve coke, I
stumbled for a moment. Wanting to please the growing number of angrily
inquisitive faces around the room I piped up in my best English accent,
"Make it a Special, then."
"One pint of Special coming up," she shouts cowering over the pumps
like a mantis.
"''Nock your bollocks off, Yank," says one of the red-faced men,
laughing - obviously worse for wear from drink.

I looked in disbelief at the swirling, muddy, frothy mixture of beer
she was pouring. Yikes, man it looked like pond water. On the barrel
was written Arthur Smeaton's Extra Special Mild Ale ABV 6.9\% - brewed
in that time old way by generations of Smeaton's at the Old Brewery,
Smelsmerdale, Lancashire. Trying to hide my disgust, I took the misty,
pint glass over to a table at the back of the room where I could
observe things quietly. The pub was like no place on earth I'd been to.
Unexpectedly, I walked into these doors, with no idea of the cultural
significance of what I would find! Not even my few brief
anthropological excursions to visit Amazon tribes had been as bizarre
as this. I supped some of my pint, Jeepers! it didn't taste too bad,
not after the first few mouthfuls anyway.

Casually, I observed the various rites and rituals that made up much of
the social intercourse in the pub. People were playing dominoes, cards
and darts - games I'd never really seen before. Such uncouth and bawdy
language seemed the norm here, as exceptional and inappropriate it
seemed in the circles I moved in. I took out a notepad to record my
thoughts, this is fantastic, I thought. A rare insight into the English
class system. I supped more Smeaton's and then noticed a most unusual
disturbance of the perceptions. The place seemed to suddenly take on a
rosy-romanticised glow of warmth. I was feeling hazy and contented.
Soon, I was up at the bar ordering my second pint.

As I sat back down in my reclusive corner, a figure staggered in,
gibbering inanely, smiling, grinning and rocking. He made his way over
to my corner, pulled out a bottle of wine from a brown paper bag and
sat opposite me. The first thing I noticed or sensed nasally were his
feet. Stinking of hard cheese, rancid sweat and urea - their odour
filled me with an involuntary repulsion and disgust. Bare foot,
three-inch long toenails caked with dirt and yellow discharge stuck
out. He was wearing some kind of boiler suit, covered with what looked
like excrement and vomit. He offered me his hand and out of politeness
I shook it, almost being violently sick in the process. Sporting a long
greyish beard, embroidered with bits of rotting food, seven yellow
teeth were visible and the rest gaping holes into the festering pit of
his mouth.

He tried to start some kind of conversation, but I couldn't make any
sense of the words with the exception of a mumbled, "Bastard, or
Bastard Cunt, dog-rat."
By this time a couple of burly young men playing pool had noticed him
and were cruising over to find out what was going on. This suddenly
animated him and for the first time he spoke clearly.
"You, my American friend. What have you done? He! He! Ha! Ha! You've
been foolish, neglecting your beautiful wife and child...I know......I
know........obsessed with your work, you're as deluded as me. Now
you've entered through the doors that can never be closed......your
fate is sealed....Ha! Ha!" He was interupted as he was picked up by one
of the pool players, another one smashed a cue across his head, blood
was everywhere - I turned my head.They dragged him out screaming into
the streets, "Wait, American - I've much more to tell, please......,"
his last words were interupted by the cracking of bones on the high
street.

Note - Again another unfinished broken shard from the recovered
lap-top. I'll probably finish it one day, but for now I'll let it
fester here for awhile

Steve
July 2002