Friday, July 27, 2012

Meanwhile, At Ahmed's Tea-Party


The long dining table had been fitted out with a concealed rail gun designed by Q, and installed over a period of weeks by erstwhile agents of her majesty's secret service, so that given the proper signal, the gun could propel any of the metallic dishes placed at the principle origin, causing it to become velocity's best projectile, but for the moment, there was no need of this, as Ahmed was recounting his latest dream, in the manner of some patriarchal crypto-Scheherazade. The dream went something like this:

Ahmed was living on a different planet, and at first, it more or less resembled our own, except for the detail, not apparent at first, that there were no men. This planet was composed solely of women. The men it seems,
were nothing more than strange plant-like beings which were cultivated according to a scientifically informed, yet, ultimately, cult-like programme. And it seems the cult had once been very much like Earth's old mystery religions, and that the women had, in trance-like operations, actually copulated with these tree-things during orgiastic ceremonies. Those ceremonies had long since passed into written memory, and the society had become completely homosocial, the only traces of difference, belonging to the vicissitudes of private morphology and a well-developed erotics, whereas procreation had been de-mystified, and turned into an economic / genetico-industrial complex involving something like a combination of Eugenics and Fashion.
Ahmed seemed particularly interested in the elite upper classes of women who kept secluded monstrous gardens of these phalli-trees, some of which were dwarfed while others made gigantic. The mechanism
of procreation was quite regular, and it was simple science for any woman to choose to give birth to either a fully formed human female, or a simple male seed, to be planted in the "woam", as the soil was termed in this connotation.

Then, right at the end of Ahmed's tale, James Bond broke into the room dressed as T.E. Lawrence, and, before sending a magnificent silver tureen careening down the mahogany dining table floating above its surface to kill Ahmed, he stopped, raised his dish-dash and showed his hairless hot pink vagina surrounded by a horse-shoe shaped wreathus of spiny phallic cacti.


"Welcome Home, Ahmed!"