Wight Sporting Journal

[Sixteen Bits]

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THE TEA PARTY AT THE END OF THE MULTIVERSE
Quantum Spaghetti

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Búa King of Uncertain Dimensions had gone to his bedchambers at the end of a hard day in the office pretending to be the Montrealaise clerk Gregiore L’Erreur and staving off apocalypse at the last moment. An average sort of job, but he was quite exhausted. Far more exhausted, he reflected, than he ought to be. Far more exhausted than usual. His last instructions for the day were to sign up to the various competitions of the next cycle, but at as he sat at his dressing table, took off his rings and glinting things, admired his aging visage in the mirror, and sipped on a bedtime Trapezoidaltine, he wondered how he would ever muster the energy for another round of story-making.

No need, said a voice from behind him – and from the inside of him, concurrently. He spun around on his chair, and there was – who? At first he thought it was the troublesome writer Jimmy Costello, who’d been messing around with quantum shizzle and nearly brought the house down. But as he looked, the image before him changed, and it seemed to the omnipotent sentient reality bubble manifesting as a vaguely theatrical pirate sort of fellow that the image of Jimmy Costello became first a two-headed eagle, and then a writhing worm inside a humanoid shell, and then a woman not unlike Olivia Newton John (pre-surgery) whom Búa had thought a Newtonian Olive, and then the Mitrin Vega, the Mother Star, who had given him several scars and a lot of happy memories from that famous S&M session out in the Andromeda galaxy, and then the worm again, and Jimmy Costello again, and finally, a figure much like Mehdi Ouzaani attempting to look like The Basileus.

It was Leviathan. Kronos of The Void. The Oneiromancer.

It was enough to turn any stout heart to jelly. Búa grinned widely, nodding. Well met, says Búa, welcome to Wight Spit my schizophrenic beast and friend. I hope you are not here to smash the place up again?

This is not Wight Spit, said Leviathan, one Adversary to another. Búa saw that the place had changed, which was peculiar, because he was usually in charge of things like that around here. It was still his bedchamber, but different. Somehow a little greyer. Somehow, abandoned. Forsaken.

Where are we? he says.

The Rejected Realms, replied Leviathan. You have been cast into the abyss.

Oh, well, says Búa, ever so slightly perturbed and not a little disappointed, that’s rather rude, all things considered. Still, I am not wholly surprised. Nothing a little bit of omnipotence couldn’t put right.

Perhaps, replied Leviathan, perhaps not. The Conglomerated Tribes are back, an infinite horde of infected Roman Catholics – at this Búa screwed up his face and made a small sound of disgust – and they are set to overrun you. And then there is this:

Leviathan took out his iPad.

Is that an iPad Air? asks Búa, impressed.

The King of Uncertain Dimensions and the Beast proceeded to have a rather nerdy discussion on the new iPad, and iOS 7, and Mavericks, and how much they both wanted a Mac Pro for Christmas even though they didn’t think much of Christ. When they were done Leviathan showed Búa a message from Nellie.

Wight - every ounce of my being will be devoted to making sure Audio FIX!es the group draw so that the Nellies will be in the same group as Wight so we can retcon your %$#^ back to the pre-whateverthehell era.

What does that even mean? asks Búa.

Well you know Nellie, explained the Reaver of All Things, she never makes much sense at the best of times. Anyways, King of Uncertain Dimensions, your blessed meddling and my coming here are what you might call The Tea Party At The End Of The Multiverse, and I propose we Go Back, Way Back, Back Into Time. And on the way, why don’t we show that cheapshot RMB dominatrix what a proper retcon is, and maybe she will shut up for five minutes and give everyone a break from the Nellie-drivel.

That sounds tremendously final, says Búa, but why not?

[Sixteen Bits]

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THE TEA PARTY AT THE END OF THE MULTIVERSE
Another Way

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The scene changed. It was still the bedchamber of Búa King of Uncertain Dimensions. He was still being attended by Leviathan in an uncomfortable human form, bearing the essence of Alastair I Frosticus, and Jimmy Costello, and Newtonian Olive, and the Mitrin Vega… and some anthropomorphic bear.

But now, the room was reminiscent of a themed ride at a great travelling circus and show. And everywhere outside must be scenes of carnival and celebration and the grotesque.

Wight have won the World Cup, said Leviathan to Búa. The Tamarindian Masvidal has taken a team of unlikely devils and dead residents of a fake paradise and some amateur footballers, and he had placed them at the top of world football. The nation celebrates. How do you like that?

Very much, says Búa, but I’m guessing it’s all gone.

At that moment, a goat joined them in this strange bedchamber that isn’t a bed chamber. Leviathan smiled at the wise old hircine, but the goat gave him a wide birth, understandably. They remain very bitter about their association with The Devil, a blatant misrepresentation by Frosticus and his jolly boys. And now, the goat was cautious not to be seen in the same frame as this Beast of the void.

The world cup is indeed gone. There is irony that it was won in Pasarga, all things considered. The goat here can see that.

If the goat knew what the devil The Devil was on about, it gave no sign.

[Zenega]

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THE TEA PARTY AT THE END OF THE MULTIVERSE
A Song Of Dice And Liars

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The scene changed. It was still the bedchamber of Búa King of Uncertain Dimensions. He was still being attended by Leviathan in an uncomfortable human form, bearing the essence of Alastair I Frosticus, and Jimmy Costello, and Newtonian Olive, and the Mitrin Vega… and the taxi driver and champion liar, Empy Summons.

But now, the room was reminiscent of an apartment in the downtown district of Spit, that famous small capital city in the north-east of Atlantian Oceania where the whole year round it seemed there was a festival of one sort or another, the principle aim of which was to encourage foreign tourists to assemble in places where they could be easily pick-pocketed en masse.

Ah, says Búa, a touch mournfully, my beloved young city of Spit. I shall be sorry to see it go.

At this time, he was manifested in the visage of the insane referee Ludo Hotten, and if you have read the story of A Song Of Dice & Liars, you will know that all night long on the Festival of All Member’s Eve, taxi driver Empy Summons kept seeing the referee in different places around the town, briefly, tantalisingly, in the crowd. (If you have not read the story, well then, too late my friend, too late). It was as if Ludo Hotten was there in the capacity of another story, which just happened to be overlapping with his own. And sure enough, here is the story of Ludo, and all along it was that master of disguise Búa, who refereed to such ignominious distinction in World Cup 62 though no-one knew him to be an omnipotent sentient reality bubble having an adventure in a small backwater sheet of the multiverse.

By the way, wondered Leviathan, where were you all that time, from when Wight turned up in AO during the Great Remove, to when you apparently returned triumphantly dressed up as Homer Simpson in the last World Cup?

Oh, says Búa with a cultivated air of mystery, you know, here and there.

In fact, as they both knew full well, being a pair of omnipotent scoundrels, Búa was slithering hither and thither in his cunning disguise as referee, mating with citizens of Atlantian Oceania, and sewing his seed wherever he went. So that now, the seeds of his labours are swollen and fruitful, and a bounty will be had in those blessed lands that have them, save that is for the nations in which Búa/Ludo, no matter how drunk, no matter how thick his beer goggles, could find no attraction for the child-bearing sexes of those nations. Thus in Wight on the other side of this looming apocalypse, the Wightlingfolk will watch their labours grow and all countries blossom with liars and vouchers, crossbiters and scoldrums and Tom o’Bedlams, while the barren wastelands of elves, birds and Purple Stinging Inconsequentials will wither on the vine of pedestrianism.

Búa and Leviathan and the goat laughed long and loud before The Devil did that thing he does, and the fine murky city of Spit was gone.

Oh, said Búa, sobering. That is a shame.

[Tamarindia]

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THE TEA PARTY AT THE END OF THE MULTIVERSE
The Great Remove

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The scene changed. It was still the bedchamber of Búa King of Uncertain Dimensions. He was still being attended by Leviathan in an uncomfortable human form, bearing the essence of Alastair I Frosticus, and Jimmy Costello, and Newtonian Olive, and the Mitrin Vega… and the beloved Audioslav Remover, Old Shakerssen.

But now, the room was reminiscent of a steaming pile of new rock on the edge of a catastrophic event in nature. Like a volcanic eruption, an earthquake, or a tsunami. Or all three at once.

This looks like our arrival in Atlantian Oceania, says Búa. The goat agreed.

Do you remember why you came here? asked Leviathan. Indeed, the past was becoming sketchy now, even for an omnipotent reality bubble that passed through time in at least eleven directions at once.

For the love of a good woman, says Búa, a Goddess no less!

He was referring to that session of S&M with the Mitrin Vega, of course. Good times. Though she would never admit to enjoying it nearly as much as Búa, even though she was on the ‘S’ side of the deal, the administrator if you will. After being pulled into the dimension of the Mitrin Vega for a punishing session on The Chair of Many Hands, Búa had fallen quite in love with the tempestuous goddess of the stars. But it was roundly unrequited, and no amount of attention-seeking could win back her charms (or that whip, the one with the Velcro and the wasps and the carbon monofilament). In a last desperate attempt to win her vicious affections, he had moved his court lock, stock and several barrels of fluid time to AO to be near to the country of her patronage. When still she refused him, he took the form of Ludo Hotten and ravaged the womenfolk of AO, much to their delight, and the process was thoroughly cathartic, if a little sweaty. And now there are a billion sons of Búa wondering, inside their tiny baby heads, how long they will have to wait before they can tattoo their face.

Good times, says Búa, fondly.

Good times indeed, said Leviathan, until they kicked you out.

[Tamarindia]

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THE TEA PARTY AT THE END OF THE MULTIVERSE
Seven Cardinal Sins & Four Last Things

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The scene changed. It was still the bedchamber of Búa King of Uncertain Dimensions. He was still being attended by Leviathan in an uncomfortable human form, bearing the essence of Alastair I Frosticus, and Jimmy Costello, and Newtonian Olive, and the Mitrin Vega… and the giant dark monk, Saligia.

But now, the room was reminiscent of a lonely road out on the heath, where bitter winds and rains swept by the window and lashed against the panes. Desolate feelings of boredom, dead certainty, parsimony and sanctimony pulled at the soul and reminded Búa that the Seven Cardinal Sins were ever just a few millimetres of amorphous non-crystalline solid material away from condemning a man to Hell and high water.

It was the Lonely Road, winding through the highlands and islands of the Dante Archipelago toward Wight, and each man, woman and sentient animal would walk that path upon their death, in such a way as to confront their sins and reflect upon them, in order that they might be less ordinary, less bored, and less whiney, when they came to the final glory of an afterlife in hell.

Do you remember the journey of Mark Hampton, the murdered president of Bitternea? asked Leviathan of his friend and Adversary. It was on the Lonely Road that he met Boring Nora, the infernal whiner Chickenfoot, Esf the Lame who would not talk to underlings and the man without humour, Bastardo de Lûn.

Ah yes, says Búa, not to mention The Pale Imitations.

They reminisced on the story of the Seven Cardinal Sins and about living in hell for one eighth of an eternity with only two bluebottles for company, and Búa admitted that it would be tragic that future generations would not learn the lessons contained therein.

Do you think, asked Leviathan as he deleted the story from existence, that anyone caught on to the fact you spent an entire cycle allegorising the many faults of a single famed nation?

Passago the Goat, whom we first met upon that Lonely Road in the company of the dwarf woman Boring Nora, did not think so.

[Tamarindia]

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THE TEA PARTY AT THE END OF THE MULTIVERSE
Paradise Hotel

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The scene changed. It was still the bedchamber of Búa King of Uncertain Dimensions. He was still being attended by Leviathan in an uncomfortable human form, bearing the essence of Alastair I Frosticus, and Jimmy Costello, and Newtonian Olive, and the Mitrin Vega… and the serial killer, Mason Banks.

But now, the room was reminiscent of a kebab shop, and at the same time, of a padded cell wherein lies a man, dead, covered in blood, and nothing to explain what became of him. It was Mason Banks of course, who was visited in his cell by his accomplice, Hassan i Sabbah the Master Assassin, to relieve him of his troubles and bring him triumphantly into a pungent kind of nirvana at the Paradise Hotel.

Now Búa and Leviathan were going far back into time, and all was fading, and the Paradise Hotel was crumbling slowly into the mulch of nothingness. Yul Brynner the concierge came to join the two Adversaries and the Goat, and he appealed to Búa not to destroy the false heaven of the hotel and his livelihood, but of course Búa was at the whim of Kronos, The Oneiromancer, the Leviathan – who had a familiar look about him.

[Wight]

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THE TEA PARTY AT THE END OF THE MULTIVERSE
The Curse of Wight

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The scene changed. It was still the bedchamber of Búa King of Uncertain Dimensions. He was still being attended by Leviathan in an uncomfortable human form, bearing the essence of Alastair I Frosticus, and Jimmy Costello, and Newtonian Olive, and the Mitrin Vega… and the baptist, John.

But now, the room was reminiscent of Wight Spit again, and that famous party all those World Cups past, when Búa sought gain by summoning a range of devils, demons, do-gooders and destroyers to court and there to bargain with them and perhaps play a bit of dice.

I recall, says Búa, but not altogether clearly. Now then, where is the blasted text that will illuminate us.

They are gone, explained Leviathan. They have been wiped – you will recall, this is the Ultimate Retcon. This is where it all started, and where it finishes. All is lost, and soon there will be no trace except the wild paranoid delusion of a young and mentally unstable Tamarindian footballer who imagined he won the World Cup managing a team of devils, demons, do-gooders, destroyers and dead celebrities.

Everything was swirling intensely now, the way things do as they move toward the plug-hole of history and of narrative, and not far away is the blackness of the end. Hassan i Sabbah, John The Baptist, Saligia; all disappeared with a final shout into that u-bent oblivion, feeling the force of the final flush. Passago the Goat and Brian Blessed Cloned and the secret agent Credus Coad all washed away.

Búa looked ruefully at Leviathan. And so this is it, he says.

But it was not Leviathan that replied. It was not Leviathan at all. It was the writer, Jimmy Costello.

Dammit, says Búa, I never should have taken my eye off you.

You are done, said Jimmy, typing his final lines.

[Wight]

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THE TEA PARTY AT THE END OF THE MULTIVERSE
Futility Is In The Eye Of The Beholder

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After the famous Baptism of Fire win in Qazox for the Tamarindians, things did not go well for the once-mighty Masvidal. Returning deluded from his ceremonial position as a high priest of ‘Shana, he began to experience storms of the mind in which, he said, he was but a character in a play. He wanted to institute a centre for research into what he called Supernatural Player Theory. In a land of devout atheists, he was at first considered an oddball, then, as his theories became darker and more ridiculous, something of a dangerous loose cannon.

What landed him in the mental hospital was his pronouncement that there was a dark and pungent heaven (an anathema to the citizens of Tamarindia) in which the dead and the undead played football. His assertions that one day he would manage a team of devils and zombies to the World Cup, and win it against another fledgling nation the Polar Islandstates had people startled at his sudden decline. But then the state got involved when he declared the President-Dictablanda, Comrade Doctor Jimmy Sunshine, was in fact dead and replaced by a stooge called Costello. He was quickly packed off to what the Tamarindo called the Asyluum, where he remains to this day, lost in a recursive world of devils and sentient bubbles and intelligent goats, declaring – seditiously, according to some – that Jimmy Sunshine, the Good Doctor, is the sibling of a Devil with an Icelandic-sounding name, and that Jimmy Costello is hell-bent on destroying the world.

He is unlikely to be released.

It was a tragedy for the football team, who, without his undoubted talents, did not fair especially well in the upcoming World Cup 57, and subsequently disappeared from view.

[Wight]

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THE TEA PARTY AT THE END OF THE MULTIVERSE
And Then... Nothing

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The Ultimate Retcon
by Jimmy Costello


The World's First Narrative Featuring Deliberately Disappearing Text By Design


THE END
Some smart arse will want to score a point by disagreeing with my World's First assertion... go on, take the points if it makes you feel better.
Thanks all for reading and sharing, it's been fun.