MONTY’S CRUCIFIXION

By Christopher Howard
trashbarge@hotmail.com

CORINTHIANS 12:14 — 26
For in fact the body is not one member but many.
If the foot should say, "Because I am not a hand, I am not of the body," is it therefore not of
the body?
And if the ear should say, "Because I am not an eye, I am not of the body," is it therefore not
of the body?
If the whole body were an eye, where would be the hearing? If the whole were hearing, where
would be the smelling?
But now God has set the members, each one of them, in the body just as He pleased.
And if they were all one member, where would the body be?
But now indeed there are many members, yet one body.
And the eye cannot say to the hand, "I have no need of you"; nor again the head to the feet, "I
have no need of you."
No, much rather, those members of the body which seem to be weaker are necessary.
And those members of the body which we think to be less honourable, on these we bestow
greater honor; and our unpresentable parts have greater modesty,
but our presentable parts have no need. But God composed the body, having given greater
honor to that part which lacks it,
that there should be no schism in the body, but that the members should have the same care
for one another.
And if one member suffers, all the members suffer with it; or if one member is honored, all the
members rejoice with it
There is no man or woman, just feminine and masculine, dominant and submissive. One
controls the act, one succumbs to the act, all facets bow down to the pleasure of the act.
The masculine awakens, dominates the feminine, insists that the feminine subjugates
itself to the will of its strength. The masculine gives as no man can give; the feminine
receives as no woman can take. The masculine is periodic, a star that revolves yet
fluctuates in strength. The masculine sees where the feminine is blind as the feminine
leads where the masculine daren't tread. The feminine guides through submissiveness.
In the dark of space where the spirits collide, the feminine believes in the gravitational
pull. The feminine submits through love. The feminine submits through understanding.
The feminine leads to a clear path where all can be submissive—where the act, in fact, is
the submission of the actors to the realm of pleasure. In that star that shines with the
necessity of friction there is just one dominant force—the act itself. The act is masculine,
the actors both feminine. In turn the stars shine independently, ultimately surrounded
by the darkness of infinite space they both tangle with the idea of masculinity, till the
one star is born, till the union is complete. There the impermanent star is forever
feminine, beautifully feminine, consistently feminine. One star never consistent yet
consistently feminine, beautifully feminine, impossibly feminine. The star not eternal yet
eternal of love.
Ring Hermoine 878000 for Instant Redemption!

1/
Melbourne, 1993
Monty was now thirty three years old. Aging had taught him many things but
learning had taken him to a height of cynicism. Though the world about him had gotten
smaller through books and travelling, the world within himself seemed larger than ever, larger
and more confusing. It was the confusion bred from a want to understand that made him
cynical of most things in life. As so much confused him he found it safer to disagree,
denouncing everything rather than trying to accept the world as it is. If the inside looked bleak
it only surfaced to make the outside look even more bleak. But it was not depression attacking
him, he knew that his bitterness stemmed from his own miscomprehension. He knew that his
ideology was deliberately anti intellectual in trying to tear down barriers between classes,
between races. He even knew that the more processed of his ideology was born out of a true
wish for anarchy. He had never really come to terms with society and society’s wish. He
claimed that society’s rules had gotten into his blood at a young age and now, without his
consent, they pumped around his heart, into his brain and then flowed into every other facet of
his body. He had to rely solely on that part of the brain that rejected this blood for the
remaining pure blood of his birth. This is where the anarchist lived, continually challenging
every move and every thought processed in the intricate machine. The anarchist had survived
through wars, through suppression, and every day that passed Monty couldn't help but feed it
with the bitterness he felt for the unjust world outside.
During the years of his twenties Monty had made a name of himself as a radical,
extremist writer. Sending controversial typescripts promoting general anarchy and sexual
freedom to various magazines, he had founded upon an underground style market for his
words. Surprisingly the return was great and when he released his first book, at the age of
twenty eight, the royalties got largish as the book became an underground classic, moving
into cult status. This surprised Monty as the book called, ‘The Art of Defecating by
Montgomery (Madman) Michael’, was never intended for a large audience. The story of the
book explains in no more than eighty pages the incident of a constipated politician visiting his
wife’s gynecologist. Though the book was pronounced a work of genius Monty often stated
that the true worth of the book was overlooked and that he believed the essence lay in the
footnote which stated comprehensively all of his beliefs and all of his ideology. This is how
the footnote ran:—

The footnote of a madman.

I must be mad to think of such things, a lunatic to remember and madder still to
attempt to record the un-recordable—to what ends? I am mad because I live in a state of
nihilism. I want to break down and smash every moral that is manifest in our society. I am
crazy because I don't believe for one minute in any facet or fragment of this so called
‘progressive society’ that I live in. I am a lunatic because I don't believe in money and
everything that exists for it. I don't believe in televisions, I don't believe in cars, don't believe
in tables, chairs, kitchens, lounges, bathrooms, apartments, houses, streets, suburbs—
especially suburbs—metropolises, states, countries, worlds, universes and lastly I don't
believe in heaven. I don't believe because all of these things and the questions pertaining to
them are wasting away my life. I can only begin to live my life in this very second when I
discard of them all giving up false securities and breathing the air of my own personalized
reality.
But my words too suffer from this purge of subjugation; I no longer believe in
the word; I can't see clearly before me a work of art. Now, on the brink of completing it, I
want to destroy this book. How I hate sentences, words, letters and how they hate me. In this
relationship I am compelled to be destroyed, for its either one or the other—me or it. And so
with hatred in my heart I am urged to continue—continue if it means my death as an artist, my
death as a human thing.
And so it is that I foretell the forthcoming disaster of these my frivolous words;
disbelief in the art...yet not the artist. God did not stop being God because he created the
world.

Though the money that came from the book was only moderate he had found a
large audience for his writing in general. His full week would have him writing two or three
articles a day and though payments could be slow in coming, when they did he discovered his
bank account rising substantially. Along with this he was on the dole, collecting a check of a
few hundred dollars every two weeks from the government. His justification in taking dole
money read something like, ‘The compensation for you screwing me at my birth!’
Publicly he kept a low profile. Mostly he believed in what he was writing but
often he would express views simply because they would stir peoples emotions. For example
his way of approaching racism and trying to solve it was by exposing it at its worst. He would
refer to minority groups with tactless slang, and slander them in an attempt to arouse passions.
He believed that confrontation could be the answer to finding some sort of compromise
between different factions of society. His idea was to become a part of the lower aspects and
drag people slowly into the issues. When he started using words such as ‘nigger’ and ‘slope’
people began to notice his articles. The reactions to such things were publicly wide and
varied, reaching hysteria at times with current affairs camera crews chasing him through
parks. Luckily he managed to avoid public exposure as he knew the world would see through
the flesh and blood of Montgomery (Madman) Michael. Meanwhile though, the royalties
would be pouring in and Monty would spend as quickly as he earned.
Through all of this Monty was far from being happy. Fame hadn't substantiated
his existence nor had it given him direction. His life on a daily basis had become a tedious
ritual which he found incredibly hard to break. He would wake, would eat, would write,
would fuck, would eat, would write, would eat, would sleep—that was his day, everyday. He
was chained to this ritual and he wasn't quite sure why. He was a bright person, though
childish in his ideology, and he possessed healthy insight into other peoples lives, why could
he not sort out his own? He believed that life had shown him a direction and that it stank. The
modern life consisted of an endless line of suppressions and needless melodrama. A man
might ask himself why he works forty hours a week till the day he is almost dead but he’ll
never hear the answer—that he does it only because society tells him to. And why does the
modern man often suppress the urge to have multiple sex partners?– an urge so naturally
strong? Is it because morality had replaced reality just as ideology can never juxtapose
properly with human nature? Monty believed that we create rules simply to confine our
possibilities and to protect our failures so that we can willingly adhere to other’s expectations.
Monty looked at the two facets of wastage in living—work and the suppression of natural
desire—as the two predominant features that make up the modern man's psychology. What
Monty did not understand was that by breaking the bonds of these characteristics society
enforce upon us, why the individual is still not happy. Why is Monty still not happy?
At thirty three he understood less of himself than he did at twenty three, even
thirteen, perhaps even three. He had arrived at a point in life that didn't mark too clearly in
anyone's books. He had worked so hard to survive on the surface but he had found in the end
that the surface of life had taught him not to care. He plundered through life not caring for
anyone, or for that matter anything. He was alone in the world, but not lonely—he had
forgotten loneliness years before. He was alone and nothing really mattered. His very
existence was even in question; if nothing really mattered than what was of matter? What
existed? What exists? Monty didn't really care but on some days a piece of writing might
prompt him to raise these questions—but it always came back to the same thing. What is a
problem when in the end it all amounts to insignificance and death? He wrote for money but
he knew that every word he scribbled was for insignificance and death. Indeed, he looked at
all art that way, and in turn—looking at all life as art—he would conclude that billions of
souls only realistically added up to insignificance and death. It wasn't such a solemn thought
really. It placed him in time and space and although he would admit that he was not happy he
would be just as ready to admit that he was not sad. Monty subsisted, enjoyed mild pleasures
that the body offers and worked toward insignificance and death. If anything Monty was just
plain bored with society and with life. Being the vigorous anarchist was just a job now and it
had become boringly easy to stir society up. Mention the name Montgomery (Madman)
Michael and then wait for the reaction.

On Mondays at midday Desiree would visit Monty. They would talk for some
five or ten minutes on his latest writings and then they would go to bed. Monty had originally
chosen Desiree out of about a dozen girls. She had black hair and blue eyes and a solid figure.
The day when he had chosen her she and the rest of the girls had been naked. He picked
Desiree because of how hairy she was. She had much pubic hair that thickly approached her
navel in a long patchy trail. She had smiled at him; she was smart enough to see long term
regular work. She had been coming to see Monty every Monday for four years now. At about
2pm, after a cup of tea, Desiree would leave Monty with $80.00 stuffed in her jeans pocket.
 On Tuesdays at midday Elvira would arrive—often she would be late. Puffing
cigarettes and always looking as if just awoken she would first make some coffee then
undress and walk about Monty’s apartment naked. Three years ago he had chosen Elvira from
a top class brothel in South Melbourne. After having an hours sex with her he offered this
weekly chore; she obliged but at a price. He favored her, he presumed, because she was
Spanish but also he was fascinated by her very apparent indifference. He could treat Elvira
like a blown up doll and do as he wanted, and still she would be puffing away on a cigarette
whilst twisting herself acrobatically at his whim. For these gestures and more Elvira would
receive $150.00 and leave at 1.30pm on the dot.

Most of Monty’s physical fantasies were tended to by the girls that visited each
day. He still harbored his boyish fantasies though, and at times he would develop certain
fetishes such as a will to expose himself or to catch others in uncompromising positions. It
was true that he had learnt to deal with his many and varied desires as he had gotten on in age
but still, often his fantasies would remain unfulfilled. Moreover, in this later stage of his life,
fantasy, though still being a fundament of his beliefs and ideology, was becoming less and
less important in his personal life. At some stage he had become sick and tired of social
attitude toward deviations in sex and it had led him to a hard place where he sought out more
the reality of things and dreams. He would attempt to fulfil his dreams, his aspirations and his
fantasies in the physical world but he little believed it was possible. Important still was his
belief that these things of this nature should not be suppressed and regardless the futility in
one striving beyond oneself Monty would always be pushed way beyond his limits.
He still believed strongly in the necessity for an individual to act on his desires
whether covetous or not. Monty knew that fantasy had its limitations and in an attempt to
explain the rights and wrongs of play acting fantasy he had often written of his dark desires to
rape and defile women. He had a deep wish to bridge a gap between the potential sex criminal
and the average man. He wanted the man premeditating rape to listen to him and relate wholly
to his own fantasy before materializing his own. The sex criminal, Monty believed, had a
psychology not unlike his own. He didn't believe that the potential criminal sees or thinks
differently to any other person—only a level of restraint could be different. Every being has
his dark side, though often he will go to extraordinary lengths to suppress it. And Monty also
believed that everyone bore a facility for obscene or deviant social fantasy. ‘A fantasy of this
sort should be nurtured in the mind,’ Monty wrote in an article called Collective Guilt, ‘never
in the physical realm. The fantasy, of rape for instance, should be seen as an act of violence
rather than that of sex.’ He believed that the sexual offender was the one who had lost the
ability to discern between the outer and inner realms. He often commented that hatred was
manifest where confusion had taken one's frustrations into the outer world. Men who commit
crime were not so much fulfilling fantasy but were more fulfilling their own need of hatred
through blatant aggression, not through their sexuality.
He still pointed out strongly, though, that the fantasy need be dealt with rather
than suppressed. He was adamant in his respect for every fantasy possible in the man or
woman's mind but at the same time he could not sympathize with nor condone any act of
aggression connected with sex or sexual fantasy.
Monty was realistic toward his own sexual desires. He understood well that he
hadn't the motivation of a rapist. He admired women too much to really want to harm them
and more than anything he enjoyed the company of women much more than that of men.
When covetous desires did creep into his mind though, he would encourage them rather than
stifle them immediately. It was Monty’s way of dealing with things and he knew in the end he
was safe in his grasp of what is and what should be. He knew what is thought and what is real.
His two worlds they were and he was grateful that he could tell the difference between them.
He had done his best to feed the hungry appetite of sex by having the girls come
in by day and he was doing his best to release—through writing—all of the frustrations he had
felt that the world had inflicted upon him. Here he could separate the whole matter of his
existence. On one side was the sex, the fantasy and a vast amount of characteristics pertaining
to it. And on the other side the frustration, the unjust world and the inherent dislike of just
being. The important thing for him now was to balance. The whole essence of life is to
balance each facet; that had become Monty’s philosophy so well stated in his teenage years
when he had fought hard for the right to believe in his feminine side. The balance was still the
same, the balancing of forces within the soul, and the battle was still as vicious and bloody.
He was still struggling and swaying between those dominant forces and the submissive.
Struggling he was for every avenue he would walk the path would offer many more paths and
the whole intricate city of his psyche would simply get larger the longer he would explore it.
That he had separated his mind into two facets was quite remarkable but he knew it was an
unlikely solution. Each new avenue proposed the imbalance he so dreaded.

‘I am going mad,’ Monty said. ‘Let me interrupt you for a moment, I am going
mad!’
And he writes—PLONK, PLONK, PLONK: ‘The puss oozes from her world
and trickles down her leg...’
Monty could never forgive the world for betraying him. After the betrayal he
had never seen anything twice the same way and what's more he didn’t care. If he dug to a
depth all he would find 'neath the shitty top soil would be cynical hatred, and what a voice it
had!
The puss oozes out of her, for she has embraced the world...
Hatred isn't a good thing. Even Montgomery (Madman) Michael knew that.
Hatred won’t make you feel good, nor will it tell you when to start or stop. Hatred won't
subjugate your pain nor will it stop the pain from poisoning your body. Hatred doesn't live of
itself, it is not a spirit that flies about looking for a body to fill. It is not a thing you can touch
and it doesn't know objects or things, nor does it see. Hatred can't hear, nor taste, nor smell; it
cannot walk, run, stand; it cannot fly, swim or in fact move at all. Hatred is not visible nor
audible. It is not practical, nor is it impractical. It is not a condition, nor a state, nor a disease.
It isn't smart, nor is it dumb. It isn't planned, it isn't obvious, it isn't knowable, it isn't outside,
it isn't a piece of bodily tissue and it uses no space. It isn't anything at all really; but Monty
seems to think it is.
Hatred is existential, inevitable and of much more substance than love—
according to Monty.
PLONK, PLONK, PLONK: ‘The hatred oozes out of her, for she has embraced
the world.’
And hatred is easier to acquire than love. You need not the willingness of
second party to realize hatred.
ROMANS 7:13 — 24
Has then what is good become death to me? Certainly not! But sin, that it might appear sin,
was producing death in me through what is good, so that sin through the commandment might
become exceedingly sinful.
For we know that the law is spiritual, but I am carnal, sold under sin.
For what I am doing, I do not understand. For what I will to do, that I do not practice; but
what I hate, that I do.
If then, I do what I will not to do, I agree with the law that it is good.
But now, it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells in me.
For I know that in me (that is, in my flesh) nothing good dwells; for to will is present with me,
but how to perform what is good I do not find.
For the good that I will to do, I do not do; but the evil I will not to do, that I practice.
Now if I do what I will not to do, it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells in me.
I find then a law, that evil is present with me, the one who wills to do good.
For I delight in the law of God according to the inward man.
But I see another law in my members, warring against the law of my mind, and bringing me
into captivity to the law of sin which is in my members.
O wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?

Have you ever wondered if you are really a man? There is no man, he is merely an
illusion. All your life you have wondered about your existence and now you have arrived
at a place which is not quite real. Everything after the womb seems not quite real. So
how could you call yourself a man? Because you are not a woman? You once thought
you were a boy, you once thought you were a woman, and now you think you are a man.
But as I have said it before, there is no man and there is no woman, only feminine and
masculine, dominant and submissive. Until you realize this nothing will ever seem quite
real. Forever you will run in circles believing in one or the other but never believing in
both simultaneously. You will never believe in the balance, and the weight of the one
force will forever have you revolving around the same axis. In order to understand the
act you must first understand the actors. The act itself is the dominating force and you
yourself are the submission. There is just one way: lacking a man or woman's
intellect—see with feminine eyes the overwhelming power of the masculine and bow
down before it. Meet the true masculine, submit to the true masculine and finally begin
to have a relationship with love. I am the act, I am the masculine; not man nor woman I
can expose your imbalance; not man nor woman you can learn of love. I, the act, love
you!
Ring Hermoine 878000 for instant redemption.

2/
Love is...
Monty had forgotten what love is. There were times when he would look out a
window for nonsensical objects to add to his repertoire of illusions. A falling leaf would have
as great a credibility as love. Going out to pick up the leaf would be as fruitless as calling love
a reality. And how could love be a reality when it exposes itself in dream yet never awakens
the soul with honest conscious recognition. ‘You can pretend love,’ thinks little Mont, ‘but
you can't pretend hatred! No stupid, fucking, cunt, bastard can pretend hatred!’
The world oozes out of her for she embraces the hatred.
He had this idea that there is no opposite to hatred. That hatred is a masterful
thing that cleverly exists in its own realm. The day he made a huge list of all the things that
hatred is not he realized quickly that he had discovered everything hatred is. ‘Hatred,’
according to Monty, ‘is an objective. Mostly it is a self objective that includes the inner and
outer universes.’ Monty believed that hatred exists as an inevitability in these two forms:
inner and outer. One chooses to hate his own soul or one chooses the soul of the world that he
lives in. ‘Why else,’ thought Monty, ‘would people continue to inflict upon themselves the
stupidity of modern living if they didn't suffer from self hatred. Why would they chop the
world up into small pieces if they did not simply hate themselves.’
The ooze embraces her, for the world, for the hatred.
Quite clearly Monty belonged to the group that suffers from outer contempt. He
would let the aforementioned majority destroy our world only they were the part that he most
despised. Belonging to the community of outer contempt involved more intricate, abstract
tendencies. Monty accepted that those belonging to this group were more prone to suicide, or
murder and probably favored suppression through inner force rather than suppression due to
outer influence. But these kind of haters also bore the most inner self respect. They believed
in their own stupidity therefore everything else became obsolete. That's why Monty didn't
care about anything anymore. He believed all of his own stupid ideas. ‘When you gain inner
self respect nothing really matters. It will not matter what you think, for no matter how
abstract, you will always be right and the world outside—that construction of a billion
bricks—will always be wrong because you will always hate it.’ This was Monty’s stupid idea!
PLONK, PLONK, PLONK. He writes: The puss oozes from her world and
trickles down her leg...
When Monty wrote his second book called ‘A Treatise on Hatred’, the public
were after his scalp. This is how the book started:—
In the next twenty pages I intend to explain why I hate anyone who will read
this book...

On Wednesdays at 11.30 am, a chunky blonde would arrive at Monty’s

apartment. Jennifer was motherly in her way. Monty did not like the way she would habitually
clean things around him but he had learnt to deal with it in the two years that she had been
coming to see him. Jennifer was a big girl. She had a round chubby face which was
surrounded by bouncy, shining, straight blonde hair. Her face seemed always tanned—as did
her body which was solid-chunky but not flabby. Apparently she spent a good deal of time
sunning herself in summer.
Jennifer was married—and bored with her marriage. She was the only of the
girls who was not a whore but she allowed Monty the privilege of buying her small things
when she needed them, or ‘lending’ money off him when necessary. Monty enjoyed sex with
Jennifer, and she with him; but at times it was difficult for her to abstain from bringing her
married position into their affair. When they had met at the beach two years previously Monty
had made it clear that their set arrangement would be purely of a sexual nature and that there
would be nothing beyond. Monty didn't care for her husband and less did he care for her
talking of him.
 Jennifer would leave at 3 pm. Rarely would she have money but she conceded—
the sex was nearly always good.

Monty’s third and last book, released early in his thirty third year, would be
hailed as his greatest achievement as a writer hitherto. Titled ‘The Anarchic Reprobate’, it
dealt, in three hundred and thirty three pages, with one single character and his thoughts over
the space of one single minute. Though appreciated widely for its brusque punch, colorful
street language and vivid fantasy, it was condemned in intellectual circles as being the work
of a foul mouthed anarchist whose, ‘evil propaganda may have ominous implications.’
Suddenly Montgomery (Madman) Michael became a hero for the youth—the voice of the
man on the street—and a clear threat to an organized, conservative future. Not strangely, in an
attempt to quash Monty’s credibility through the media, those conservatives most outspoken
in their dislike of Monty did nothing but boost sales and encourage publicity. ‘Any publicity
is good,’ said Monty’s publisher who was finally making a name for himself but Monty
wasn't so sure. Now more than ever people were demanding to see his face and hear him talk
as the book slowly moved into the best seller list and was contracted to British and American
publishers.
To the annoyance of the girls and a few of his neighbors that he got on with
well, he had to change apartments in order to avoid the journalists that would be forever
trying to get a hold of him. At that stage Monty was in more demand for an interview than
anyone else in the country. His view was that his anonymity was, and would be, the source of
his continuity as an artist. He had no desire to put a public face on his books which he
considered farcical in any sense. Why would he want his face connected to books such as The
Art of Defecating, A Treatise on Hatred and The Anarchic Reprobate? These very books that
denounced themselves with their very titles and virtually expounded the stupidity of anyone
who would read them. Monty thought his literature childish and ridiculous. Why should he
want to admit to their ownership? Why would he subjugate himself to interrogation when he
didn’t really care if he was wrong or right in the first place?
‘The idiots want more!’ he would tell his publisher who was laughing whilst
counting the dollars he was raking in. ‘They want more—doesn't it just prove how stupid they
are. Its not enough for me to tell them how stupid they are in my books, they want me to go
on television and show them how much I hate them. All this time I have been preaching the
doctrine of hate and they love it—the hypocrites, serpents, brood of vipers! They love my
contempt for them. What do they think is going on here? Do they think its cool that someone
announces hatred as their living force? Do they think its cool to read someone who doesn't
give a damn if anyone reads his work or not? Oh faithless hypocrites! What has put me here!’
‘You know what your problem is Monty,’ said his publisher. ‘You think too
much. Just forget it man and count your bucks—and get writing me another masterpiece!’
‘No, that's it! I will never write another book as long as I live. With the royalties
coming from my three books I’m sitting comfortable now. I can have a whore a day and never
have to bother with all of that shit!’
‘Monty...Mont baby! You can't give up...you just can't...’

One dirty dusty man files down a mud stricken street in a labyrinth within the
whole. He sees a leper and strikes him with a sword; he sees a snotty Nepalese child and
sucks the mucus from his upper lip before biting off his nose; he sees an Arab with big
terrified eyes and he sticks the hot poker into the sockets watching it cook his eyeballs; he
sees the starving Ethiopian and he kicks him in the ribs; he sees the bushman running and he
spears him in the head; he sees the shanty towns of Brazil and files the people into tall gas
chambers; he sees the British intruders with their idiot flags on las Malvinas and he blows
them off the surface of the earth; he sees the drug addict in Mexico city and he pushes the
uncut deadly venom into his veins; he sees the Hawaiian native and buries him in the sand and
waits till the tide comes in; he sees the homeless in Japan and offers him strychnine for desert;
he sees the coolie in China and drowns him holding his head under the surface of the
cesspool; he sees the Russian complaining and he machine guns his chest; he sees the Turk
lazing by the seaside and throws him from a high cliff; he sees the Indian defecating by the
rail tracks and he swoops up the shit and stuffs it in his mouth while stabbing at his guts; he
sees the white man in Zimbabwe ordering his slaves about and he decapitates him with a short
machete; he sees the French engineer in Gabon and he sticks large firecrackers up his arse and
lights them with glee; he sees a Moroccan doctor praying in the afternoon, as he demolishes
the mosque; he sees the fisherman in Iceland and chokes him sticking a dolphin down his
throat; he sees the educated American and mugs him on the street pissing on him afterwards;
he sees the Filipino woman who he rapes before tossing her into the jungle; he sees the
Afghan rebel and fires through his chest with a missile gun; he sees Eastern Europe and
impales every person one by one; he sees the business man in Paris and sticks a dildo through
his belly button; he sees the Irish renegade and places a home made bomb underneath his bed;
he sees the smug Canadian pretending not to be American and he declares war on the country;
he sees the Vietnamese race and is determined to hell to see it burn; he sees Bangladesh and
hopes for further natural disasters; he sees the whole of Britain and in a karmic gesture
proceeds to inflict on it the massacre and genocide of its own imperial history; he sees the
laughing Nordic countries and freezes them over; he sees the Spaniard and puts him in a ring
of fifty wild bulls and no escape; he sees the Australian and pushes him into the desert
without food or water; he sees...
And for six more pages of The Anarchic Reprobate it goes on as thus—ending
the chapter like this:—
... he sees, he acts, he destroys; he is God is he not?

God or not Monty didn't really care. He was merely advocating the lost
character of freedom of thought. If men can kill and rape each other for real than the
individual has the complete right to think of these things as he likes. That supposed normality
throughout society justifies the crime of war and the raping of its land tells a little mind like
Monty's that society's mentors have no right in telling him what he should think. This was the
ultimate freedom for Monty, the liberation of his mind. No one could tell him that he was sick
for thinking whatever nature had given him the capacity to think. No one could tell him that
what he thought was wrong because there is no such thing as a wrong thought. Every thought
is true to itself. Ever since he was born people had been telling Monty in which way he should
think and which direction he should point and what is right and what is wrong. Are they
suggesting that Monty has no power to think for himself? All of Monty’s life added up to this.
All of the talk of psycho suppression and sexual distinction added up to this. All the drama of
trying to find a steady medium to live in added up to this. All of his frustrations were quite
simply tantamount to him not believing that his mind—his thought realm—was completely
liberated. He didn't care so much about physical restrictions, his sole desire as an artist was to
free his own mind from the restrictions that man's existence had put on it. Is there one person
who has not suffered at the hands of moralists? How ugly to realize how easily controlled we
human beings have become. We romanticize morally and we live romantically with a notion
to bury any evil thoughts that might somehow enter out minds. Is it that we cannot accept that
our mind is just as liable to romanticize violence as it is to romanticize love? Monty saw this
clearly and wrote comprehensively within the walls of The Anarchic Reprobate about the
way human beings have romanticized things such as war throughout history. Here man
instigates his own breach of morals—for at heart everyone is corruptible—but justifies the
truth by burying it in a sea of propaganda. And we write about it affectionately afterwards.
We do think these things so why be scared of our violent nature? Should not we explore it in
an attempt to understand and to live with it, controlling it? Monty wrote that mankind will
break the rules but it will never own up to the evil and hatred within its own mind. He
advocated hatred in everything he wrote. He had a notion that the world might see and hear
hatred and hence recognize it in himself; but it was still a blind angle; no one could really take
what he was offering. That he wrote of shit, piss, blood, puss, disease, disorder, anarchy,
murder, suicide, perversities and hatred was a simple statement in trying to express the other
side of everyone's mind. That genii have so long been expounding what they believe is true
and what they see as fantasy has always been influenced by an appreciating audience's will to
see, to listen, to read the nice things of life. People expected art to tickle their nice side so they
could forget completely that half—so real—of their mind that dictates evil, hatred and sordid
perversities. ‘These people are half people,’ Monty would say. ‘How could they know
themselves and realize their whole truth if they did not understand the complexities of their
half mind that is imprisoned by morals and ethics? And what if the other half exposes itself
unwittingly? What if the rapist comes out and performs an act through sheer ignorance? Here
are your criminals born—directly out of society's moralistic palm.’ Monty believed fully that
anyone who could commit the crimes mentioned so colorfully in The Anarchic Reprobate
were people who could not understand that part of themselves they so desperately try and
ignore. They think if they dwell on their nice side they may never have to face up to their
grim dark side but one day the devil inside takes its own initiative, it acts and succeeds in
taking over the whole body and the nice side is defenseless and worthless due to its profound
ignorance of its enemy. Once again Monty saw the necessary balance; those that cannot judge
swing and sway like a see saw and never understand the other side. They mature, learn of the
good side and master it but when the see saw swings they will be the master no longer. And
you will offer the price of the world for that you do not understand.

Leslie was the most sluttish of his whores. She was a street whore. She had
gladly consented to working for Monty once a week when he had approached her three and a
half years earlier. She would arrive at 12.00 on Thursday's and be straight to business. She
would always leave at 12.30—regardless of where they were at concerning the sex. What
fascinated Monty about Leslie was her ability to act. He knew she faked enjoyment in sex and
yet she was so good at it that it still aroused him—even after all these years. She would moan
and screech obscenities and never refuse him any of his kinky whims. She pretended to enjoy
anything and everything. For her service, for exactly half an hour, Monty paid $65.00. That
was, so she said, according to her hourly rate.

On Friday the youngest and newest of his troupe would arrive. Patrice was fairly
good at distancing herself from her clients but after one year with Monty she had begun to
look forward to their Friday meetings. Patrice was good looking, though nothing spectacular.
She was twenty years old and considering the rest of the girls averaged out in the late
twenties, early thirties, she was quite the bit younger. She was different to the others, more
sensitive, and it concerned Monty to the point that he was thinking of getting rid of her. The
hard thing was that he did actually like her and could appreciate her exuberance at times.
Patrice would not arrive at Monty’s till 3 or 4pm. They would eat together—often they would
go out—then they would listen to music and have sex in his lounge room. Sometimes she
would stay the night. There was nothing normal about this relationship; she was a prostitute.
Monty would either pay her $200.00 for the night or $150.00 if she didn't stay. There had
never been an agreement over the money as Patrice was the only one of the girls who really
trusted him. He paid her according to what he considered fair. She liked him but understood
her position well.

When Monty would awaken on Saturday mornings his heart would lighten. He
would go for a walk and buy a newspaper and eat a late breakfast. There would be no whores
on weekends. These days would be left to reading and writing; but arbitrarily—a weekend is
without discipline.

PETER 2:18 — 22
Servants, be submissive to your masters with all fear, not only to the good and gentle, but also
to the harsh.
For this is commendable, if because of conscience toward God one endures grief, suffering
wrongfully.
For what credit is it if, when you are beaten for your faults, you take it patiently? But when
you do good and suffer for it, if you take it patiently, this is commendable before God.
For to this you were called, because Christ also suffered for us, leaving us an example, that
you should follow His steps:

"Who committed no sin,

Nor was guile found in His mouth"

TIMOTHY 2:11
Let a woman learn in silence with all submission.

Ring Hermoine 878000 for instant redemptio

3/
Hermoine had heard of Montgomery (Madman) Michael and had read his three
books but concluded much the same as Monty would confess—that it was mostly childish
rubbish. She had no reason to believe he would but somehow she was not surprised when he
called her answering the advertisement.
‘No, I don't do house calls darling, you will have to come over here. The address
is...’
 It may have been that Patrice was ill that Friday or just plain curiosity that had
Monty driving over to Hermoine's studio on a cool night in November. It was a clear night, no
clouds and the half moon did its job reflecting the light that makes the earth's atmosphere a
dark violet. Monty drove through the violet like the parenthesized madman in the middle of
his name. Sometimes he liked to let loose on the road and take his chances with the elements.
He didn't think it was a particularly smart thing to do but in a typical Monty way he didn't
care.
There were lights on in the apartment above the adult bookshop at 160 Golgoth
Rd, Hawthorn.
Monty had felt strange all day. After talking to his publisher and telling him that
he would write no more, he had felt a weird sensation of almost being another person. When
he had hung up the phone the electricity had shut off in his apartment and as the curtains were
drawn he had sat there in the dark alone. Perhaps it was relief that he felt from saying that he
need not write anymore or, more significantly, the dark of the day may have been pushing his
soul out into the atmosphere. The possibilities of being a new person had never occurred to
him previously, he had always assumed that his qualities of being were inherent and nothing
could be forced into that nor out of it. He had always advocated change about him but had he
ever considered a new direction and hence a new succeeding character basis? Whatever
Monty would do there would always be an incompleteness hanging over his head.
Although he had written a best seller Monty had never believed himself a writer.
He was too well aware of his childish technique and his naive approach to intellectual
matters. He had never believed in statistics and he merely scoffed at the idea of research and
yet he was willing to criticize every pro intellectual statement existent. Pretentiousness
frightened Monty for he so despised it yet he would have been the first to concede that he
himself was the worst exponent of it. In attacking intellectualisms Monty was leaving his own
pretentious ideals to attacks from every substantial force. His remedy for this was what
brought about his lack of caring for anything. He willingly accepted that he was a poor writer
but who cares? ‘Who cares?’ thought Monty. But what if he could be another person. Sitting
alone in the dark he looked at how silent the darkness could be and he wondered if he—
Montgomery (Madman) Michael—could change so much as light and dark do. Could he
switch on the light now after all the darkness he had lived through? Perhaps... but not during a
blackout!
Was it just another faze of life that he was moving into? Certainly Monty had no
notion to get clean but what does the dirty writer do when he feels there is no dirt left to write
about? Sure he knew that there is dirt everywhere in this big world but all his attempts to
attack it had been misinterpreted as a voice offering a puzzle without offering any solution.
‘The public love that stuff,’ said Monty’s publisher and Monty knew it was true. Generally
speaking a person would be much happier solving the puzzle of a lie than being directly
affronted by the truth. So what was Monty writing for?– a public who seemed to overlook his
brash, blunt truths to read between the lines and see the mystery of the artist that doesn't really
exist? Monty had gotten so paranoid that he believed that people in general were more
interested in a man who would write a book such as The Art of Defecating than the substance
of the actual book. He was terrified that they would find him one day and say disgustedly:
‘You! You wrote this!’ He wanted the books to exist on their own without the artist being
involved with them at all. He would have been quite happy had the books written themselves
without his help at all. He may have been in a position to enjoy them then but no, they had to
be an extension of Monty and his reading public would not be happy till they could extract
more and more of his flesh and blood.
 The blackout had lasted not more than fifteen minutes but it was long enough
for the word redemption to pop into his mind like a flashing neon sign. And there it was an
answer to one avenue of his curiosity.
Ring Hermoine 878000 for instant redemption.
He walked up the thin enclosed stairway. Something of the darkness in this hall
reminded him of the psychologists office he had visited as a child. A red light bulb at the top
of the stairs guided him and it was this—the red light—that brought attention to a blot
drawing the psychologist had shown him that day. He had looked at the drawing and instantly
saw a butterfly but when the psychologist had asked him what he thought it looked like
Monty had said, ‘Blood.’ Though the painting was actually black he called it red, ‘Red like
blood!’
As he raised his head to knock on the door he noted again the weird light that
soaked the whole scene in red. His skin was red and the white shirt he had been wearing was
red also. His blue jeans looked black; how strange it was that things could be made to look
different so easily.
Just as he was about to knock, the door opened and there stood Hermoine
wearing black leather pants with no top. She had strange breasts that protruded like large
lumps. He had never seen breasts like these before and naturally he was drawn to look at them
first.
Noted was the fact that the inside of the apartment was soaked with the same
eerie red light as the outside. In that light it was hard to place Hermoine's facial features in
any distinct way. Her most prominent feature was perhaps her hard jaw line that boasted a
kind of manly self confidence. Her eyes, set well apart, were dark though they could have
been any colour accentuated by the strangeness of the red light. Underneath her biggish man-
like nose rested an almost ironical smile, hiding a mischievousness and also a thorough
knowledge of who it was she was about to address.
‘Madman I presume?’ she queried teasingly in a husky delicate voice. ‘You
don't mind me calling you Madman do you?’
‘No,’ Monty said nervously.
He had been with hundreds of whores but something about this whole scene told
him that he was out of his element here; that there was no way, once entering this room that
he could be in control of what was about to happen. He entered, dragging along side of him a
somewhat deflated ego.
‘Take this!’ She said throwing him a poncho which looked distinctly scarlet in
that light. Now take all of your clothes off and put that on...its so you wont get cold darling.’
She said this quickly then rushed from the room into a darker room beside the open
kitchenette.
The room was just as any other living room. It had blank walls, a few tasteless
pictures hung diagonally over the sofa and a few small tables sat, desperately hiding the
emptiness of a room's corners. Nothing else seemed to stand out until a large metal T-shaped
contraption came into his view. He marveled over the fact that he had not noticed this thing
immediately when he entered the room. It was an unusual piece of furniture. It had on a metal
base four supports for the vertical cylindrical pipe that raised itself about four feet into the air.
A horizontal pipe, identical to the vertical one, met it at its end and promoted two arms of
equal length jutting out at right angles from the vertical support. Added supports were holding
the horizontal bar via diagonal pieces pushing like smaller arms from the vertical pipe. Monty
wasn't sure of what it was but seemed to recognize it in a contemporary arty way—his
illusions would soon be shattered.
 He was fitting the poncho over his naked frame when Hermoine reentered the
room. She motioned him to come over and sit by her on the couch and he did, sinking in
beside her and focussing on her hard breasts again.
He was unsure of himself still. She had created this environment and it
frightened him that she was the master of it. He seemed helpless as he hadn't been for so long.
He could feel now that his life was no longer in his hands that indeed his life was lent to some
kind of higher force of which not even Hermoine was included. She was merely the
instrument that was seeking to make apparent his frailty and the necessities of his weaknesses.
She was intimidating him with her broad shoulders and her muscular frame. Her very
appearance made him feel weak and something less than what he felt when he had been the
writer. Here in this foreign environment he was so small, contrary to how he felt in his own
apartment in which he would spend most hours of the day having little contact with the
outside world. And now in a strange twist of events Hermoine seemed to represent the whole
outside world.
‘So,’ Hermoine said slipping her hand along his leg and up the poncho. ‘So
you're a writer Madman. Tell me what you write about.’
Being that she represented the outside world he felt a need—for the first time in
his career—to explain himself. When she put her warm hands onto his genitals he made an
effort to ignore them so that he might justify his existence.
‘I write about love,’ he said opening his legs further so that she might play with
his testes. ‘I write about the love of the world and the possibilities of the human heart. I write
so that people might come to embrace my knowledge and hence go forth and do good in their
lives rather than bad. I write of salvation. I write that love is salvation and that through love
one can bare the compassion that will help them to understand the whole world and all of its
idiosyncrasies. I write of peace and the unity and equality of all men and women. I write that
brother is equal to brother is equal to sister, and that brother should be always ready and
willing to help others when they are led astray and don't understand the whole complex
system. That's it Hermoine. I offer an understanding of the complete intricate system. I’m
talking of the whole universe now, how it spins, how it weaves, how it influences one's every
day life. I write about the harmony between nature and society, nature and man, the harmony
that is so necessary. My underlying point is this: that we are made up of the same matter as
the universe therefore we have our profound obligation to revolve on a well balanced axis as
the planets do about the sun. Do you understand Hermoine?’
She was jerking the foreskin of his erect penis back and forth till he began to
lose concentration. It was then that she lifted the poncho and lowered her head toward his
penis. It all occurred embarrassingly quickly. She knew his body well. Wiping her mouth she
sat back up and looked at him.
She said to him: ‘Do you not hear how many things they testify against you?’
And he answered her not one word, so that she marveled greatly.
‘Would you like some tea?’
He nodded.
After she had poured the tea and had returned to where he still sat—his poncho
lifted exposing his now flaccid penis—she asked him how much time he required.
‘You're lucky,’ she said, ‘Barry was coming tonight but I told him not to after
you called. This is your day Madman.’
‘I require as much time as it will take.’
‘Granted!’
The tea had an unusual tang to it. Its steam that rose up tickling his nose made
him sneeze a little before he put the cup down. Then it was that he noted a square patch of
white light that hovered on the wall above the T-shaped contraption. He seemed to think that
the patch, not larger than a square foot, was moving down the wall. He thought of asking
Hermoine what it was but when he went to raise his hand and open his mouth nothing
happened. His body's mechanics remained inert. The white square still moved down the wall
and Monty followed its path till it stopped on the T junction where the horizontal arms of that
bizarre contraption met its vertical support. Right at the junction as the square patch of light
hit its mark a quick reflection blinded Monty momentarily. Afterward there was an eerie
silence and though he could not turn around he suspected that Hermoine was no longer beside
him. The room had gotten darker around the patch of light and Monty was becoming
frightened at the prospects of being alone in the dark. He had conceded before that his
immediate fate was not in fact in his hands and that something outside of himself was taking
control—now he believed the outer vehicle to have complete control of his being. His terror
grew as he further came to realize that the patch of confined light was his only source of
security. His mind became so fixed with the light then that blind faith told him that it was
indeed his only sense of surety.
Minutes passed or hours passed, he could not tell. The small projected image
fluctuated not from the spot of the T’s centre-piece. He then heard a noise and a man’s voice
followed with solidity: ‘You see but you do not believe Montgomery (Madman) Michael.
You show the path but you do not follow it. You are a naughty, naughty, naughty little boy!’
When the light disappeared he found his movement again. Turning he could see
Hermoine at the other side attending to the T-square and moving into the centre of the floor.
She was soaked in the red light now and being that she was naked he watched her buttocks
move with jolts as she fastened the metal base of the contraption to the floor with thick belts
that Monty had not noticed before. Now there were ropes dangling from the arms of the metal
T and it reminded Monty of a time when he was young, when he and a few friends used to
swing from a rope on a tree—swinging and landing in a river. An incident connected to this
then of a sudden came to him vividly. The day the rope broke a friend of his named Peter had
been swinging toward the water; he missed the water and landed solidly on some large rocks;
apparently his arm was broken. The pain which would have been excruciating made him cry
and scream whilst all Monty could do while he watched on was laugh in hysterics. He had
fallen over onto the grass rolling about laughing while Peter clutched at his arm screaming in
agony.
Monty began to laugh.
Back in the room Monty began again to laugh hysterically as he watched that
picture of memory that still had Peter screaming in agony. He fell off the couch clutching his
stomach and laughing so much that tears began to well in his eyes.
‘Monty!’ he heard Hermoine say in what he thought was a very manly voice.
‘Madman!’ He looked up, she still had her back turned.
‘Have you never taken acid before?’
‘Acid?’
And then she turned around just as Monty realized for the first time that he had
been drug tripping for the last hour or so. And then he saw it, and when he did he was sure it
was another illusion conjured by the acid.
‘Its no illusion Monty,’ said Hermoine. ‘Look at it—touch it if you wish.’
Hermoine lowered it toward the face that was resting baby-like on the carpet.
‘It cannot be real,’ he thought to himself as he tentatively raised a hand toward
it.
‘Touch it madman,’ she said; and he touched it.
It was a penis, perhaps nine inches long and stiffly standing in the air and thick
like a lumpy cucumber...and it was Hermoine's. When he realized that it was real a shudder of
fright overcame him as the whole picture began to sink in; but before he could escape
Hermoine brought her thick muscular arms down on him and imprisoned him. He began to
shriek and struggle but it was useless. Hermoine carried him to the metal contraption and with
some effort tied his arms to the horizontal piece. Monty knew that he was helpless and unable
to move.
He was tied face down so that his body was bent toward the bar, and so to stand
he would have to raise his backside into the air. Then Hermoine clutched at his feet moving
them perhaps two feet apart into some thick leather belts that were attached to the floor. Once
these were fastened around his feet he was completely immobile.
As his heart thumped he watched Hermoine come around to face him. As he
could not look up all he would see was the large stiff penis wobbling in front of him, as
Hermoine said, ‘You like that Madman? You like my thing? You were surprised weren't you.
You will have to learn that I am full of surprises. You want it Madman? Oh no? Well, we
have better things in store for you!’
Monty could feel it already. The pain. His body was beginning to shudder like a
scared dog. He was becoming delirious with terror as a tingling sensation ran through him
beating around his body in a hope of escaping. He screamed as loud as he could, over and
over but somehow no noise could escape his mouth. He would stretch it and call from the
depths but nothing would come, he was indeed too terrified to even whisper help.
Just then Hermoine raised her right arm.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Monty in a quick panic.
She brought a fist down hard on his head causing it to bounce up and down.
Then she hit him again, and again. She would walk around the figure striking him in all
places, striking him with all of her might.
Monty began to cry. It was not deliberate; he had not cried for some six years
but now a stream of tears came to surface and flow down his face dripping on the carpet in
heavy droplets.
‘Stop it!’ he attempted to say and then in a squealing voice that came bursting
out he said, ‘Stop it, please stop it.’ He panted heavily, sobbing loudly and breathing for air
that he felt escaping him.
‘Please...stop this,’ he cried again as Hermoine continued, thumping his body
from different angles. ‘Hermoine, I will do anything for you if you want me to. I will pay you
as much money as you want. Please stop hitting me.’
Then everything stood still in a silence. Monty was a part of the greatest picture
ever taken. His arms outstretched, his naked muscular figure stretched and bent toward the
floor and his battered bloody face hanging helpless from the cold hard metal that he had been
forced to bend over. His body was somehow beautiful right at that moment. His whiteness
glistened as the elegant lines in his back seemed to withstand an unnatural strain. He was
beautiful hanging there and somehow for the first time he was living. The moment he had
always worked toward; and in this sordid room he would change the whole course of life.
Only Hermoine could see how beautiful he was with all of the naive terror surrounding him.
How she marveled at that delicate figure! And how important she realized was this man who
could see through centuries through sheer and utter foolishness. Everyone who knew Monty's
work knew that he was a fool but they could not help but love him for all of his problems.
Hermoine looked at him, still weeping and struggling with pain.
‘How beautiful you are Monty. I love you Madman. Don't worry! We all love
you.’
‘Please don't strike me again,’ said Monty still struggling for words. ‘Please
don't hurt me!’
‘No more hitting Mont,’ said Hermoine, ‘but darling there is more.’ Just then he
felt Hermoine's lubricated finger slip into his anus.
 ‘No!’ he screamed as loudly as he could. ‘Please don't do this Hermoine...I will
do anything...anything...’
She said: ‘He saved others; himself he cannot save.’
He could feel the penis resting just at the entrance.
Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?
Again he began to feel helpless tears well in his eyes as he felt the distinct pain
when the thick penis entered the back passage making him feel as if he were splitting in two.
Further and further it seemed to push and the pain would get worse and worse till a numbing
would take over his whole body. He hung there despondently, weeping silently now; he was
powerless in all regards and not even crying could change matters now. It was his heart
silently weeping with the ominous truth that none in the world would believe him truthfully
and care for him now that he had been taken to the lowest realm of human despair. He
realized that he was alone in the world, for it was the world finally raping him in reality and
beyond this act there would be no remorse, just a fantasy world that he left behind as a real
human being. There would be no way that the world would ever accept the truth of him. They
would rape him once and following this they would live in their own truth and marvel
frustratingly at their own imbalance, while Montgomery (Madman) Michael—the man—
would sink into oblivion.
‘There is only one thing wrong in the world,’ Monty had written in The
Anarchic Reprobate ‘That people cannot see the full nature of their being. They can never
understand the side that torments them and fruitlessly they go seeking the answers externally.
Pain is a revelation and terror an aspect that can make us whole. In the vast realm of pain and
the fear of pain one only hears the echo of love or hate but never can one see them as
substantial objects. Love will rape you and hate will crucify you and forever the pathetic
spineless fool will wait around for the day when you can glorify all of this muck and call it a
nice world.’
And so he was, bending over his frame pushing backwards and forwards against
the weight of Hermoine. On and on it went, in and out, pushing Monty toward an unexpected
resignation. Still going on, his mind was reaching for a place of peace where this cruel
incident might not really be happening. His mind was passing through all of the manufactured
avenues of his life in order to cling to that one pleasant experience that could make him forget
about what was happening to him. Backwards and forwards he went; almost impossible to
ignore the grunting and groaning of Hermoine. In and out and his mind searched and
searched. But how could Monty find such an intense moment of his life that might compare to
that which was happening to him now? For he needed to search for a thing equal in its
goodness to the sheer weight of badness of what was now upon him. On and on Hermoine
would pump him and Monty could realize that there is no such place in his mind. Life could
give him such a bad thing that might scar him for the rest of his life but it could not give him
the great gift that could sustain him forever. In and out. He came to a little corner that
philosophized that life offers no answers, just questions. On and on it went...

THE END