Court Transcript

LORD SCALES. ’Tis a most curious state of affairs. How am I to judge this mortal, when he flits from one world to the next in the twinkling of an eye? ’Tis well known that I have a fixed distrust of the human world. Nevertheless, I feel myself obliged to reveal a secret – a most arcane and privileged secret, which is kept only amongst lunatics. The secret is this: there is no escape from Freudians and their cunning tricks. Indeed, there is so much to be afraid of them, that I cannot, in so short a time, give full account of their wicked ways or parsimonious nihilism; so I shall only tell the most usual method they have to preserve the status quo, which is by destroying thousands of witches every year, principally by lobotomy – whether it be surgical, chemical or electrical. Therefore, never venture to talk with psychiatrists, because they are obliged to agree only with themselves, and never with their patients. I reveal this secret for the public good, not only for mortals, but diamons too, who are always eager to prove themselves to disbelievers. Alas, the atheist pedant always assumes he is in possession of all the facts; and what he does not know is not worth knowing; yet what he thinks he knows, he doesn’t know at all. Or in the words of Cicero: Quod scis, nihil prodest; quod nescis, multum obest. [What you know profits you nothing, what you don’t know is a great loss]. The sceptic dogs never believe in our diamonic reality; to them we are naught but shadows of the id, or the superstitious phantoms of a bygone age. These materialist buffoons think they have destroyed us with their rationalist pox, which they hold in higher esteem than all the Oracles of Thrace. As if our ephemeral existence could be extinguished by the nihilism of an atheist! As the faithful know, our mysteries may always be explained sufficiently to justify belief in us; but no man can comprehend them, least of all explain how they come to pass. How perverse then, that the sublunary intelligence of the humanists has given rise to monsters more terrible than all the doctors of the Inquisition! Indeed, the active intellect of any materialist is produced by a subconscious participation in all our works.

For in creating their bright new rational world, the atheists have applied the same fanaticism and hypocrisy as any zealot of the faith. All of this is concealed under the respectful semblance of enlightenment and societal reform. They call it progress but ’tis nothing less than the erosion of human sensibilities. This is done primarily through the Arts. In the Old World, it was well understood that Art was the measure of Man’s relation to the higher worlds. I do not speak of Christianity alone. Even the pagan creeds were rooted in our eternal spheres. The Egyptian temples of Isis, the noble works of Greece, the mighty Parthenon and sculptures of Phidias, all bare testament to our allegiance with Humanity. I need only recall the colossal statue of Athene, who towered over 39 feet high, composed of ivory and gold. Her glorious form stood tall and erect, bearing a spear and shield; in her left hand was the image of Nike, and under her feet lay the silver Serpent. And look at Notre Dame in the fourteenth century – the very pinnacle of human genius! Beauty. Beauty. Beauty.

The artisans of the Old World infused their magnificent works with a mystical and spiritual integrity. But in the New World, art is shit, quite literally. Any profanity which severs man from his spiritual roots is deemed of special value. I speak of decadent vanities and ugly abstractions, created purely for the purpose of poisoning the soul. The Rat’s Council that purveys this sewage is naught but an atheist elite, that exists solely to set vacuous fashions, and whose sole contribution to the progress of civilization is the vapid Antichrist of conceptualism. Like the performance artist who demonstrates his scorn of Christianity by burning seven bibles. These modernist quacks justify themselves by a relativistic philosophy, which decrees that the Future always has more value than the Past. Hence these charlatan curs can destroy the past, without being convicted of the same heresies that they impute to the faithful. To speak of the soul in such an age is an anathema. Nothing has value except that which the state avows. So many secrets, conspiracies and manipulations, all contrived by rational minds! But rationalism is the opposite of mysticism. And the art of the mystic is no more. If the modernists call themselves mystics, believe them not: they are duplicitous liars. Judge them by their works.

I fear civilization is at an end. Gone are the artisans of old, whose secrets remain forever lost in the mists of Time; gone is that mysterious extension of artistic sensibility by which Man communes with Nature, and by which Nature interprets Herself intelligibly to him; gone are the eloquent instructions of the Muse, and the mythological apparitions of her forms; gone is that poetic rapture which transcends bodily existence and points to the eternal soul; gone is the technical genius that facilitates the lucid state, and whispers of higher worlds. All that it is the Enemy now. What remains is nothing but spurious abstraction; a wasteland of empty convictions, propped up by derogate sophistry. The sinister aim of this hideous subterfuge is to sever the link between God and Man. For as any demoniac knows, Man is nothing except in relation to God. The consequence of this artistic débâcle is far reaching, and extends into every aspect of human affairs. For if man is naught but an evolutionary accident, and little more than a soulless lump of jelly, then how much easier to cut up his brains!

Alas, Jack Vallis did not know this secret when he first confessed. And because of his refusal to renounce our existence, he now faces oblivion at the hands of doctor Pontius. I say again, this is a most perverse state of affairs. Do the physicians of the New World really believe they can excise our diamonic reality? Are they so obtuse, as to imagine that our entire existence is spent within the confines of a human cranium? As if we had no volition or bodies of our own! ’Tis a rare occurrence indeed, when I find myself defending a mere mortal – especially such a ludicrous transsexual as The Parisian Lady. But defend her I must. For how shall her trial continue if she becomes a turnip? Therefore, I bid Krew to rescue her at once.

KREW. Alas, I fear ’tis too late my Lord.

LORD SCALES. Too late? How so? Are you not Master of the Spheres?

KREW. I am indeed my Lord.

LORD SCALES. Then how is it too late?

KREW. Future Jack has summoned the Selenites instead.

LORD SCALES. Moon creatures?

KREW. I’m afraid so my Lord. He has been communing with them for several weeks now.

LORD SCALES. Did you not warn him of the peril he was in?

KREW. Naturally my Lord. But as usual, he wouldn’t listen…

JACQUES. Thank God I do not have to meet him. That Future Jack is a barmpot. I would rather put myself under the patronage of Saturn, and trust my fate to Chaos, or surrender myself to the indispensable inventions of the Devil, than take a word of his advice. If it wasn’t for Future Jack, I wouldn’t be here!

LORD SCALES. No. If it wasn’t for Future Jack you would be worse than dead. You’d be lost in Limbo for eternity.

JACQUES. My Lord, I beg you, leave Future Jack to his lobotomy.

LORD SCALES. If you would enter the Garden of Demonic Delights, you will show some pity for Future Jack.

JACQUES. Pity? Since when have you shown me the same? I am tired of this charade. Will you not pass sentence and be done with it?

Copyright © Nicholas Shea 2012