C
O
R
P
U
S

C
A
L
L
O
S
U
M
From the Office of Frank Weevil,
Superintendent and General Manager, La Casa Sanitarium              
To:  All Department and Division Heads

Attention:         The level III Security Lock Down imposed on the M-wing has been increased to Level IV

Due to the frenetic nature of the events described herein, a copy of this memo is being sent to all legal guardians, court appointed trustees,
and family members of patients participating in the IT Project known as SD 109.

As you know, the La Casa Sanitarium, a cutting edge, world class, psychiatric facility, funded by both the Federal Government and the State
of California, has for some months now been conducting an unusual experiment in applied semantic and somatic therapy, employing dietary
regimens, drugs and vitamin supplements, web based projects and communications, exercise, hobbies, gardening, and a range of artsy craftsy
therapies in an effort to explore new dimensions in clinical practices for treatment of the mentally disabled, confused, and the chronically
deranged. We have also selectively installed computers in living cubicles and granted on-line Internet access although those decisions were not
made lightly as you known.  Only after months of discussion with families, guardians, state boards and agencies, and legal counsel was the
opportunity provided to certain families who agreed to sign all  SD 109 legal stipulations.  The burden of expense for computers and web
access was theirs as well.  In return the sanitarium agreed to monitor all online activities, provide the necessary projects security and
infrastructure, set schedules and routines for daily access, and provide space, supplies and facilities for all hobby, gardening and artsy craftsy
activities.  Because Shared Dimension 109 was launched in February of this year, all materials have now been submitted by division and
department heads to this office for the obligatory six month review.

While there has been a remarkable improvement in the general physical health of our participating patient population--attributed to diet,
exercise, and vitamin supplements--there have been what one field observer is inclined to describe as “unusual and unpredictable side
effects.”   Dr. Niels Nailer, Deputy Superintendent of Inpatient Services and Division Manager at Cryptic, which oversees all incoming and
outgoing communications, in the course of his daily duties has identified a wide range of patient behaviors which appear to fit the above. Here
we shall be primarily concerned with describing those behaviors and activities in order to meet our legal obligations with respect to all parties
concerned.

General Review and Observations of HIPP Study: (High Intensity Pornography Project)
Of the 17 patients housed in the catatonia ward, seven have shown marked remission of chronic stupor after several hours of televised
exposure to pornographic materials on the Internet.  Three others faded in and out of stuporous states alternating with periods of intense
excitement.  Videotapes of the patients taken during these activities are being made available to the families. Ten severe Cataleptics who also
viewed the materials showed similar periods of agitation, often characterized by emotional displays, hand wringing, gawking, pointing, and
laughter.  In the Hebephrenia ward, much of the childish or silly behavior was temporarily eliminated, although some patients couldn't tell
what was delusion and what was reality.  Activity in the Schizophrenia ward is still being evaluated, but signs of intense curiosity, shock, and
scrambling to approach the TV monitors were noted by all assigned observers.  A high percentage of patients in the groups mentioned above
were subsequently observed engaged in self- and group- forms of masturbation as well as a wide variety of homo- and heterosexual sex.    

Gardening, Arts, Sculpture, Hobbies: (GASH Project)

The investment in materials and supplies for this set of Project activities appears so far to have been an unqualified success.  The horticultural
area and the adjacent compound attracted a wide range of patients and  now display the signs of intense interest in a variety of gardening
activities.  The greenhouse, I am told,  is a veritable floral cornucopia filled with all manner of vines, succulents, cactus, and edible plants.  A
full two acres of corn has also been planted along with green beans, squash, tomatoes, and the usual array of leafy vegetables.  Father
Ickanus, before his untimely death, was largely responsible for the design and implementation of this aspect of SD 109, which assigned
specific plots of ground to individuals as well as communal plots for larger crops and a system for watering, fertilizer production and
recycling of field wastes.  Allowing patients to keep, cook and eat what they grow appears to have been partly the cause for so much
interest.  Among the craft materials provided, those appropriate to the visual arts—sculpture, painting, wood working—have attracted the
most attention.  Project patients are allowed the use of cutting and carving  tools such as knives and chisels only in studiettes, security
cubicles where tools issue and return were carefully monitored.  There is even talk among the participating patients of scheduling a
combination art show and horticultural event open to their families and the general public…

Unanticipated Events Beyond Our Control:

It is my unfortunate obligation to report that an Irvine police department investigation into the sad demise of Father Flem Ickanus, Ex Chief
Gardener here at La Casa, has revealed that before his death he operated a criminal drug enterprise (while off duty), and that he procured the
plants and materials for the manufacture and distribution of a range of psychoactive beverages and drugs through funding provided by SD
Project 109 sources.   Legal and insurance technicalities restrict what I am allowed to report about this deplorable situation, but I can assure
the families of all affected patients that we here at La Casa will move Heaven and Earth to discover and correct any insalubrious and
deleterious effects suffered by those under our care.  It is clear, however, that the already precarious state of at least three patients was
exacerbated by ingestion of these illicit drugs.  And in at least two cases, a condition known as Folie à deux has appeared as a result.   
Literally, "a madness shared by two," this psychotic state is characterized by symptoms of psychosis, in this case a delusional belief,  
transmitted from one individual to another, and we now suspect that for one patient this may have occurred due to communications across
the internet. Ordinarily, this form of madness occurs between individuals who live in close proximity, are socially isolated, and have little
interaction with others.  To our knowledge, the transmission of this condition via the internet is clinically unheard of, and we will be
conferring with those whose expertise in this area exceeds our own, in a concerted and open ended effort to rectify what we can, where we
can, and when we can.  

Under the circumstances (contractually) I can say no more for the present.
Frank
Ickanus’ bank records, subpoenaed by my office, show he made numerous checks out to Lupino apparently for her travel expenses, and his
Master Card receipts indicate he paid for a series of dinners at exclusive local restaurants during the periods when she was present in Irvine.
Whether Ickanus was aware of her crime family associates is presently unknown.  In addition to the above, we have reason to believe Ickanus was
actively involved in a drug ring at the sanitarium of which he was the apparent mastermind.  An examination of his personal effects and his
personal computer following the report of the murder revealed an extensive set of files he had downloaded from the internet including photos and
other records associated with the plot.  Apparently Ickanus had been planning his criminal operations for a considerable period of time. In his
personal photo albums we found pictures of both Ickanus and Lupino, in flagrante delicto, and over 100 photos of her engaged in oral sex with
him.  The time stamps on these photos show these events transpired over a period of many years.  (His current supply of Viagra was down from
250 to 17 pills.) Among his photos was the shot you see to the left.  This photographic evidence shows Ickanus on his knees preparing a batch of
ayahuasca vines [Banisteriopsis caapi] which he had shredded up with his McCulloch chipper shredder.  Along with other ingredients—including
tobacco—Ickanus’ computer records show he boiled this concoction for up to seven hours, at which point the rendered brew was bottled and
eventually sold to  patients at the sanitarium.  As chief gardener at the sanitarium, Ickanus ordered the purchase of several known psychotropic and
hallucinogenic plants over the previous years, including San Pedro and psilocybe cactus, morning glory and Hawaiian baby woodrose seeds, as well
as Syrian Rue.  His success in acquiring these plant stocks was in large part due to the innocuous names or scientific terms he used on the
purchase orders he submitted to the purchasing department  All these plants were found growing in some abundance in a wash behind the M-wing
complex at La Casa.  Xochiquetzal, the assistant gardener, has provided the hand written instructions Ickanus issued to him for the care and
watering of these crops.  We suspect Ickanus engaged in this criminal enterprise in order to fund his relationship with Lupino, a woman with
expensive tastes some 37 years younger than he was, whose ‘alluring qualities’ were apparently irresistible to him.  Although Ickanus did not keep
an account of his drug sales so far as we are able to tell (all transactions were in cash),  it is apparent from his harvest and crop records that his
illicit horticultural operations produced a wide variety and considerable quantity of illegal drugs.  Their effect on the patient population at La Casa,
however, remains to be determined.  As to the motive for the murder, we now suspect Ickanus was ‘eliminated’ because others at the sanitarium
were envious of his relationship with Lupino and his drug operations, which were obviously well known among the patients .  Finally, the coroner,
acting under the authority of the County Court, exhumed the body and found evidence of a massive dose of Viagra coupled with traces of
psychotropic drugs, which he now concludes led to cardiac arrest.  Ickanus died of a drug overdose perpetrated upon him by someone he knew
and trusted at La Casa.  This hypothesis is, of course, entirely consistent with conclusions reached by your associate, Mr. Shylock Chan, before
his mysterious disappearance early in June.                                    
Your request for current information on the status of the Father
Flem Ickanus murder case has been approved by my office.  We
have now established what we believe to be the modus operandi of
the murderer and a compelling motive for the crime.  It appears the

ex-gardener at the sanitarium was intimately
associated with a hired
gun, a professional killer for the La Raza Y Yolanda crime family of
New Mexico, by the name of Ida Fay Lupino, (mug shot at right).
Despite his advanced years, in January of this year Ickanus
received a six month re-supply of Viagra from his physician, Dr.
Julian Reynoso Gonzales Y Curandero, who practices in Irvine.  
According to the doctor, Ickanus requested the medication because
he was having an affair with Lupino, who we know made regular
visits to La Casa from her residence in Truth or Consequences,
New Mexico, over the preceding two years.
From:    Inspector Hector Ordonez Osiris Klink (Hook, for short)                                                                             August 5, 2007
Homicide Division, Irvine Police Department
To:        Father Mysticus, Secretary, PWA
                           
                          The Ickanus Investigation
Dear Grand Master Ronnie:

I know not what others may have written you regarding this nomenclature matter, but I wish to dissent from the assumption that "we can not have
it both ways." The hobble-gobbling of little minds with foolhardy consistence is a bugaboo fostered by the mandates of bureaucracy. The inevitable
result is nice records coupled with spiritual lordosis and a cramping of the creative.  I am certain that you strongly endorse the ancient creed of our
brotherhood, first articulated by the ancient Foreman Founders of MLCS, to wit:  "It is important that we preserve the freedom to be in bad taste."  
Is not a pliant and malleable nomenclature a natural de facto extension of this hallowed principle?  If there is some flaw in my thinking on this
matter I await your judgment and correction.

With all respect,

Icky Indignacious, Novice, Second Class

To Whom It Will Be of Concern:

The Hall of Famine, Infamy, and Records, the official department responsible for our record
keeping, record revisions, dispute arbitration, and nomenclature adjustments (or for
implementation of the general email elasticity factor), has concluded the following after a
review of all current issues, artistic theories, preconceived assumptions, and the appropriate
orthographic style manuals: Either Lieutenant Catrina Angelina Teresa Habaniero Y Yolanda
has an  identical twin named Conchita Aldonza Teresa or a cousin with that name must exist
because Ike of the Woeful Countenance is her official and legitimate spouse.  Circumstances
of a nature so esoteric as to be stratospheric simply make this a necessarily logical
consequence. Furthermore, the gumshoe notoriously appellated as Sherlock Chan either has a
middle name, Shylock, or Shylock Chan is an identical twin,  sibling or cousin of Sherlock
Chan. We cannot obviously have it both ways.   Also, it matters not who the Governor of
Utah is, nor do we give a rat's ass about whether a major in charge of the cooks and
commissary in the Utah Militia outranks a captain in the police forces of the State of
California. This is a murder investigation; we are not about to open a soup line, cafeteria, or a
delicatessen.  Let's be clear about that...

Finally for those of you who felt Padre Ickanus would have been out of his mind to use a
chipper shredder instead of a common garden variety kitchen blender, in the furtherance of his
addictive culinary habits, we provide the following photo taken in the victim's domicile on the
day following his unfortunate demise. Let us hope that these adjustments to the official record
meet with the approval of all concerned in order that we may all heave a collective sigh of
relief and return to the important monkey business at hand....

Grand Master Ronnie, The Flem-ish Fulminator
From: The desk of Rudy and Rapid Randy Panky, Irvine Highway Patrol
To Shylock Chan, Notorious Flatfoot and Gumshoe par excellence

     Wife Swap Dot Com and possibly related clues

We here at the Irvine Highway Patrol would like to welcome you to the Ickanus Case. You efforts on behalf of the PWA will undoubtedly
facilitate the criminal homicide procedures already in place, of which I'm sure you are by now bi-laterally aware. My fellow officers and I were
wondering if you could provide us with the actual URL for the wife swap dot com web site you dug up, as we would like to peep into those
matters on our own time (after hours so to speak). Naturally, we are accustomed to trading (or haggling, negotiating whatever)  for information
and do not expect to get something for nothing without giving something of equal value (or almost equal value as the case may be) in return.  
Those of us engaged in the protection of the public are often required to travel a dark road before we discover the light at the end of the tunnel,
wouldn't you agree? What say we just get down to business? We are offering the following items: some unusual photos of the crime scene about
which no one outside our organization is even remotely aware, including the dinks at La Casa.This stuff was all dug up on the sly, you get me?
Specifically, we have a photo of a human heart found floating in a birdbath in the horticultural compound at La Casa. We also have a used t-shirt
the victim was possibly wearing in the pre-dawn hours before he was assassinated. Apparently he had spent most of the night banging on a
wood carving (Hook believes it's some kind of gafeltafishing equipment or love fetish , you know, something kinky like that). Anyway, the thing
is like--weird. I guess the old guy (Ickanus) was into love charms or shit like that, and he bashed out this crud to attract some bimbo he hoped
to boff on the side. From the looks of his corpse, he probly expected her to do most of the hard labor, if you know what I mean.  Any way, we
got two shots of the gizmo, one frontal and one sidal.  You want to trade or what?

Cordially,  Rudy and Randy Panky
GULP                                                     Kines Spielberg                                                   Woton
From:            Frank Weevil, Superintendent and General Manager,  La Casa Sanitarium
To:                
 All Department and Division Heads
Attention:     A level III Security Lock Down has been imposed on the M-wing.

I have received several disconcerting reports lately concerning matters related to patients housed in the M-wing, especially the Megalomania
Compound and Complex, over by the horticultural area.  I have notified the commissary there to stop adding any Habaniero Chiles to the patient
diet regimen as of one week ago today, due to the following disturbing side effects we now believe were the result of the chili served daily for
lunch.  Brother eM. has been raving and writing on his padded cell walls about "a gathering of evil winds" and "snakes leaving a meeting." His
scrawls include references to "a warp of syntax"  "a schemagasm" and something about an octopus 'in an old bell at low tide.'  Knowles in the
mail room says the bulk mail leaving the M-wing has tripled in the last week.  eM has shouted from his barred window at the gardener's staff on
several occasions, about "things that have never known each other sidling up together" "selves on the shelf" and abandoned muses "called to play
their scene."  Perhaps the most disturbing reference we have heard is the graven image of "she who must be obeyed has been removed from her
nest of used sanitary napkins," and now "rests in a secret tool box in the back of a pickup truck" "used car lot" "El Segundo" etc.  Niels Nailer at
Cryptic suspects this is all 'coded instructions to subordinates' called upon to perform off the reservation obligations, duties, criminal acts, etc.  

The Nahuatl Mistress (also known as the Apache Attaché), Guadalupe Ulzana Lagrimas Penocho [GULP] has repeatedly begged through her
padded cell feeding slot for 'ahuilnema'  [Nahuatl for any sexual practice of the Nahua, Azteca, Mexica, Tolteca, Tlateluca, Tecpaneca etc.]
while furiously masturbating simultaneously.

In the arts and crafts area, the patients in the padded cells for the paranoid partners are all in a stir, but the two real agitators are Pardot Kines
Spielberg (the planatologist of doom, and the director of dream works productions) in cell 21 and his partner, Woton, The Great Khan (the
encyclopodist, lexicographer, paleographer etc) in the adjacent cell.  What worries me the most is Woton surfaced from a five year coma on the
same day Brother eM began his ranting and raving about snakes, shelves, selves, graven images etc.

Finally, almost every patient in the compound/complex has obtained a bizarre image of one kind or another which has been stuck up somewhere
in his or her cell, sometimes on the outside of the cell door itself.  In most cases they appear to be fetishes of one type or another.  Anyone with
expertise in this area is encouraged to investigate and explain what's going on...

Enclosure I   (Images from padded cells of three of the patients referred to above)

Frank
Documents from the Cubicle of M

Dear Brothers in Grime and Sin:

I write to provide a brief update on efforts to resolve the mysterious wrongful death of Brother Ickanus. Mr. Shylock Chan remains
industriously engaged and is using his encyclopedic knowledge and finely honed casuistical logic to pursue all leads.  He is now working closely
with the Magus of the Immaculate Perception.  They have focused the Cyclopean Eye and Solar Furnace on the decaying feet of Brother
Ickanus to better examine the bizarre and wondrous markings left there.  Fortunately, given Brother Ickanus's hygienic practices, his feet seem
little changed from when he was sentient. Preliminary analysis suggests that important insights may be gained from careful study of how these
markings relate to the Thomas Guide and/or Authentic Family-Style Mexican Cooking. Mr. Shylock Chan has also initiated collaborative efforts
with Oh Woe, resident monk and gumshoe at the Van Nuys Center for Zen Baptist Mystic Positivism.  Oh Woe is world renown
ed for his crafty
Inquisitions, and a leading authority on the theology of crime.  His intensive study of Consubstantiation, Transubstantiation and the Diet of
Worms offers promise of Gnostic enlightenment to augment other fact-finding efforts. I will continue to keep you informed as best I can.

Sincerely,

Brother Mysticus
Secretary, PWA
The Constant Gardner:
Or how I Learned to Love My Bushes

By Padre Ickanus,
Chief Gardener, La Casa Sanitarium

There are those who believe the backyard gardener is just a hick farmer at heart, a person typically
transplanted from some dull wheat farm in Kansas, whose parents migrated west with the Oakies and
Arkies during the good ol' days (the dust bowl and the great depression).  Nothing could be further
from the truth.  For those of you unfamiliar with the intimate byways of the gardener,  the author has
appended a rare collection of his favorite photos depicting the rich tapestry of crime, sex, punishment,
and parenthood available to the obscurantic observer willing to lurk about the leaves and stems of his
favorite citrus and berry bushes etc.

Who could deny the pure unadulterated drama of two horse flies swapping sex  in the presence of a
dragon fly peeping  on the performance?  Why it certainly smacks of at least 25 sitcoms and T.V.
dramas I could name (if I cared to rant for a moment). And the second shot of two flies going at it
doggie style should remind us of endless nights sampling the foreplay of our endgame.  Naturally, the
rocking motion caught in this intimate still photo is somewhat blurred butt who would be so crude as
to complain about that…And while much has been written about
Spider Man,  who could ignore the
maternal instinct exhibited by
Spider Mom in the next photo? Yet sex and parenthood are not the only
universal themes on display in the backyard for those with the patience to peep.  All the important
archetypal enigmas are available if the shutter bug is nimble of foot, quick witted and deft of digits.

Notice the photo of the formidable wax wasp who hunted down and bagged a mighty big horned
tomato bug originally 3 times his size. After three days of wax wasp feeding frenzy, the tomato bug’s
abdomen has shrunk and blackened(though not clearly visible in the photo).  Eventually, the tomato
bug was reduced to a thin black shrunken cadaver and this artifact was itself discarded as indifferently
as any cannibal at dinner would expect. Moreover, while I am sure that all of you are familiar with the
phrase,‘The Birds and the Bees,’ are you familiar with the referent for the phrase ‘The Robber fly and
the Bee?’ Unfortunately, the honey bee caught in the clutches of the Robber Fly below is not on the
receiving end of a playful hug and a squeeze. No, his ass is grass as we say in the trade, for he is in
the process of being consumed alive,  and his remains will end up as fertilizer (eventually) once the
Robber Fly gets around to his next bowl movement.

“Ponder me gladly said the Robber Fly to the bee, and I’ll pass you along by and by, though you just
won’t be able to fly any longer…bye bye.”  Imagine that hairy monster bagging your endgame and
you will have a better appreciation for the optical spectacles available to you just outside your
backdoor,  once you decide that you’ve seen enough TV news and sitcom melodramas to last you for
a lifetime.

Let us end then with a close look at another little nook which you see in the last photo.  This is the
quaint backyard cottage of a playful little bug, a shy and retiring spider who is rarely seen outside his
domicile which he builds with meticulous care.  Naturally, building materials for spider houses are
fairly plentiful after any meal, and you can see the bits and pieces of his natty neighbors cemented into
the structure of his airy little castle, like adornments as well as tasty little tidbits left to snack on at his
leisure.  Yes, it’s all there in the garden, once you learn to develop a taste for it…  
Subject:                                                            Last Words and Testimonial

Dear Father Mysticus,  Corresponding Sec, PWA

As  you know, our fellow parishioner, Dom Padre Ickanus (I believe his given name was Flem) has passed beyond the pale, but not
without providing us (apparently) with his final thoughts on what certainly mattered the most to him if not to anybody else, about dining
and gardening. Amid the pathetic squalor of the backyard cubicle he was assigned for his recreational horticultural activities, we found,
beside a battered and besmirched Olympia manual type writer, the text for the attached article he was ostensibly preparing for the first
edition of your impending PWA Survival manual. At least we here at LA Casa (Labor Auxiliary: Capital and Services Admin.) now
conveniently believe this to be the case.Titled "The Constant Gardner: Or How I learned to Love My Bushes," it apparently represents his
last willful testament to the benefits (both nutritional and otherwise) of recreational gardening in the never ending quest to provide a healthy
diet for those we care to care at all about. An empty envelope with stamp attached and addressed to you was found nearby, and we
presume that the good padre was preparing this missive for your benefit shortly before he paused to partake of his final meal, god bless.
Should you require any additional details beyond what has already been forwarded to you by the Brotherhood, please feel free to
communicate with his replacement, Brother Crassius Grandiculosis, chief gardener now here at La Casa.

Yours Truly,

Ike of the Woeful Countenance,
Grand Master this end of the World Wide Disaster
From:     Inspector Hector Ordonez Osiris Klink (Hook, for short)
To:         Prof. Van Nuys Bush Tucker, Director, Institute for Analytical Symbology,
Graduate Division, University of California at Los Angeles         

RE:  The Ickanus Investigation
Dear Sir:
I am told that you (and members of your organization) have specialized expertise
concerning
the interpretation of whaty are called "esoteric symbols" and I am writinf to
request your
cooperation with respect to a murder investigation.  During the coroner’s examination of the
victim’s corpse, to determine the cause of death, photos of the soles of the feet of the
deceased revealed the script tattoos you see appended (left and right foot respectively).  Are
you aware of any significance associated with the placement of these tattoos?  Why would the
sole’s of the feet have been selected? Furthermore, the victim was known to wear oddly
decorated under garments with garish decorations the nature of which will be suggested by
the photo you see next.  As you can see, the caption on the photo reads Nezahualcoyotl,
Tlatoani de Texcoco.  Any information you care to reveal that might have some bearing upon
our understanding of these images, their placement, or their significance would be
appreciated.  Please direct any correspondence to Lieutenant Catrina Angelina Teresa
Habaniero Y Yolanda, chief filed supervisor for the investigation.  

Your efforts on behalf of the homicide division will not go unrewarded.
Capt. HOOK
Subject:                                         Ongoing Developments: Ickanus Case

From:
             The Desk of Capt. Hook
RE:                 Ickanus Investigation Proceedings
To:                  All Concerned Parties, Suspects, Hangers on, Gum Shoes and Others

In order to facilitate the ongoing complexities of the case, and to coordinate the efforts of the various public officials and private citizens who
intend to volunteer their time and energies to bring the evil doer (or doers) to the slaughter pen of justice, it has been decided that spreading the
manure (so to speak) will provide the broadest possible opportunity for all concerned to participate in the unraveling of this nefarious criminal
enterprise.


As a consequence of this decision, Brother Jubb the Emancipator of La Casa de La Hermandad de Los Hombres Sin Cajones and Reverend
Father Mysticus (Corresponding Secretary of the PWA) have both agreed to coordinate the unofficial activities of all interested parties
outraged by the tragic death of Padre Ickanus (the victim).

Furthermore, Brother Jubb and Father Crassius Grandiculoitis will forward all relevant communications, correspondence, leads, clues, thoughts,
reflections, gossip, speculation and complaints they are made aware of to me (Capt. Hook, Homicide Div. Irvine Highway Patrol) for distribution
throughout the "network." Interested parties are encouraged to stay tuned for further developments. The attached document, therefore, is
intended to suggest only the official (S.O.P) and is not to be construed as an attempt to inhibit or limit the activities of those of you (significant
others) whose wisdom in these matters and whose expertise are unquestionable. Naturally, any private matters, political deals, or "rumors of
indelicate nature" should be directed to Lieutenant Catrina Angelina Teresa Habaniero Y Yolanda, chief field agent in charge. KC7023 Clear

Cordially, Capt. Hook (Inspector in Chief, Hector Ordonez Osiris Klink)

Cc        Ace Turner, President and CEO, Ace Enterprises LLC
Prof. Van Nuys Bush Tucker, Director Institute for Analytical Symbology
Attachment: coroner's photo, left foot of the victim
Dear Brother Jubb:                                                                                                                                                  June 4, 6:27 pm

Your comprehensive updating of the official investigation into Brother Ickanus's  dastardly demise is much appreciated.  As you may know, I
have solicited the services of Mr. Shylock Chan, a semi-private investigator, who brings an impeccable set of experiences, skills, and new

logico-detecto-technologies io bear on this perplexing mystery. Mr. Shylock Chan, for example, is well-known for his ferret-like pursuit of the
cunning
linguist in the infamous "Murder by Dangling Participle" case which so befuddled the local authorities a few years back.  It has also
been scientifically established that he has flat feet and an immaculate perception at least every 45 seconds.  More importantly, he has been
deemed by our brotherhood as the prime atypical keeper of The Cyclopian Eye and Solar Furnace.  Need I say more?  His credentials are
beyond question. While discretion is essential at this early stage, I can briefly report that Mr. Shylock Chan has developed a promising new
lead in the case.  It now appears clear that Brother Ickanus was deeply involved with an internet enterprise termed WifeSwap DotCom with
the corporate motto,  "The Woman You Want at the Price You Want."  Although the exact nature and details of his involvement are yet to be
determined, there is little doubt that Brother Ickanus had come to occupy a quite perilous stance with a significant other of the feminine
gender and we have eyewitness accounts of her unruly reaction when he referred to her lovingly as SwapMeat.  All Mr. Shylock Chan is
prepared to say at this time is:  "A woman done it." I shall be back in communication as new developments arise. Ludicrously short of
entelechy but long on the as-yet-unwritten,

Sincerely, Brother Mysticus
From:                  La Casa Hermandad de Hombres sin Cajones pero garrancha intacta                    June 2, 2:29 pm
Desk:                 
 Brother Jubb, Office of the Peanut Butter Emancipator
To:                       His Reverend Excellency, Dom Padre Mysticus

RE:                      Investigation into the untimely demise of Father Ickanus DDT, PH.P, PP, LTD, ASOP...  

Dear Father Mysticus,

Your letter of expressed concern (with condolences appended) for the newly inducted member of our celestial chapter is greatly appreciated and
was forwarded to my desk by Brother Grandickculo-itis  -osis or -ularis.  (Apparently the spelling of his chapter honorific name was never made
entirely official by the Recording Sec. of the Hall of Famine, Infamy and Records).  Naturally my office staff is making every effort possible to
explore all leads, hints, clues, physical evidence and photos taken of the crime scene, that may shed even the dimmest of light upon this tragic
episode as a result of which our entire chapter is disconsolate and may I
add officially and personally desolated. Nevertheless, in spite of the fact
that the black flag of the fatherhood is flying at one-quarter
mast, we here at the Holy Office of the Emancipation Protectorate are working
feverishly to track down all relevant details concerning the case. Notwithstanding our credo: "Dishonor or Due Diligence" let me say that I and
my fellow gumshoes would appreciate any contribution you feel could be supplied by your amanuensis (viz housekeeper as I understand  it)  Mr.
Shylock Chan.  If we could be of any help officially with respect to this matter, please let us know. As to the presently known particulars of the
case, the Coroner of the County of Orange (or Orange County as some would prefer it) has determined through the usual methods that Padre
Ickanus died as the result of the T.R.O.T.S.S, apparently coroner's slang for "The Rigors of Toxic Shock Syndrome."  In effect, Padre Ickanus
died of a toxic stew which he or someone unknown to us at this time concocted in an electric crock pot on the day of his death.  As the
common contents of the crock pot have been identified in a previous document, there is no need at this time to repeat that information.  
Additional chemical analysis of the pot's contents revealed residue of 'Black Flag' pest spray used to control run amok Argentine Ant populations
here at La Casa, as well as a wide array of garden pests known to inhabit the premises.  Ickanus's personal effects were in some disorder in his
cubicle; his clothing (especially his t-shirts and  panty brief undershorts) were, oddly, covered in multi-colored blobs of dried paint meticulously
patterned.  An examination of his credit card receipts for the previous day showed that he had made several purchases at a local book seller's
establishment, including "Garden Insects of North America (subtitle, "the ultimate guide to backyard bugs") a copy of "The Dead Sea Scrolls
Uncovered" (The first complete translation and interpretation of 50 key documents withheld [suppressed] for over 35 years),  "Understanding
Hieroglyphics: A Complete Introductory Guide,  and "The Egyptian Book of Life" an examination of the doctrine of reincarnation.

It has furthermore been determined that the chipper/shredder found in Ickanus's cubicle had been used to pulverize twig and weed  concoctions
he had, for reasons beyond our present ability to comprehend,  apparently added to the stew.  His diary entries for the previous week presented
other unfathomable dilemmas:  it appears Brother Ickanus was more than enthusiastically interested in "tooth and soul food fetishes of the flesh
eating cannibals of the Melanesian Archipelago.  (On his cluttered desk we found a small collection of crude drawings depicting bizarre faces
covered with what appear to be bird feathers, with bent and rusty nails driven through the lips (like teeth).  As you are no doubt aware, our
order is unusually tolerant of the peccadilloes, pretensions, aberrations, and eccentricities of our members, many of whom have suffered the
slings and arrows of an outrageous society bent on hammering its members into cookie cutter molds suitable for the commercial establishments'
menial labor requirements. Nevertheless, Padre  Ickanus's culinary peculiarities (if I may be allowed to express myself in so undiplomatic a
fashion) have caused quite a stir around the horticultural compound to say the least. In the event that this arcane and tainted investigation will
proceed to a successful termination, let me assure you that my office will make every endeavor to keep you posted.

Cordially,
Brother
Jubb the Emancipator
Email No. 9                                                                                                                                Friday June 1, 10:40 pm
Dear Brother Crassius Grandicularis:

Needless to say, I am in total shock and denial at the passing of Brother Ickanus.  Do the authorities suspect foul play?  I am certain that it was
not the assorted fumes and unique delicacies that did him in.  He was inured to all that.  My instincts tell me that it had something to do with an
unknown person slipping peach yogurt, or things of that ilk, into his crock pot.  If a full and proper investigation is not launched immediately I
shall take matters into my own hands.  I have already contacted Mr. Sherlock Chan and (once he finishes the laundry and grocery shopping) he  
is eager and available to get on the case.

In grievous sorrow,
Brother Mysticus
Email No. 7                                                                                                                                                              June 1, 9:30 pm
Dear Reverend Brother Mysticus,

It is with genuine sadness that I am compelled to inform you of the untimely demise of Brother Ickanus.  Those of us who came to know the
brother intimately are genuinely mortified by the events surrounding his passing. It appears that the good brother was prone to dining under
rather peculiar circumstances, and we are presently at a loss to explain why his mortal coil was found early this morning on the dirt floor of his
garret with his air conditioner on full blast (the ambient temperature in the room was tested at 42 degrees).  The naked corpse was surrounded
by an electric chain saw (plugged in and running), a portable hedge trimmer, two gas powered leaf blowers (operating) a power lawn mower
emitting the exhaust from a mixture of regular gasoline and 60 weight valvoline motor oil, and a chipper shredder that showed signs of recent
use.  Oddly enough, his electric crock pot (with which he was notorious for preparing his meals (he had no teeth ) was filled with a mixture of
canned tuna, kosher baloney, extract of salt peter, the skins from two bananas and an assortment of what appear to have been clippings from
weeds and other common garden inedibles, some of which were growing in clay pots distributed throughout the rather sloppy room. As you
were a known confidant of the good brother, who often spoke of the stimulating correspondence the two of you shared, we would greatly
appreciate any insight into this mildly bizarre behavior that you would care to share (with us).

Sincerely, Brother Crassius Grandicularis, chief gardener and head cookie cutter
Chapter Two:    The Rise of Mysticus: The Fall of Ickanus
continue

And then Ol' Limp asked his son Master Blaster:  “What is the Hive's first rule of Habeas Corpus?” And Master Blaster replied: “Best way to
hide a body of evidence is to eat it...”

The rise of the communal singularity

Woton felt the stirring of a companion like a brief twitch emanating from somewhere deep within his skull.  It was actually a faint sound
meant to identify an awakening entity, in this case a sound somewhat like the song made by a cricket rubbing its legs together in the way that
crickets do to produce a chirp.  But it was a familiar sound, a comfortable sound, and one of many that signaled the impending emergence of
a brother Tong. In effect, a part of Woton, or more specifically one of Woton’s selves, was about to make an appearance, like a newborn
chick cracking open the shell of an egg.

Woton was a composition, an amalgamation of many selves, many discrete personalities. So were a few of the others abiding in the M-ward
at La Casa. In fact, he really did not think of himself as a ‘self’ at all. That was far too simple a word for whatever he was or would prefer to
call his ‘condition.’  To be slightly more accurate, you could say that Woton was his ‘identities,’ his companions, just as ‘they’ were the basis
of Woton. Furthermore, this accomodation of personalities was composed of generations of related individuals, selves, all sharing a communal
habitation within a single integrated brain.

To put a very fine point to it, “he-it-they-themselves” were a “singularity inhabited by a multi-faceted community,” a being designed to
accommodate multiple discrete sensibilities or personalities encapsulated within a single ambulatory corporeal form.  Thus to refer to Woton  
(or Woton-g-ues) as a ‘he’ was merely a convenience which made sense only if the word were applied to a body, the outward anatomical
characteristics of which visibly resembled that of a human male, a mongoloid male some would say.

Were he to say anything at all, it should be apparent that Woton would have found it strange to utter “Here’s what I think.” Instead, he would
say something more like “Here’s what we think, most of us that is, never all of us, no never.” It was simply far too difficult to get that kind
of unanimous agreement among the Tong. But even that is merely a qualified simplification. Because Woton had never spoken, ever, in so far
as anyone at the sanitarium knew…

Speaking simply wasn’t necessary for Woton. Besides, his thoughts were largely unintelligible in English anyway. You see, Tong thoughts
were totally unlike human thoughts, just as Tong cognition was vastly different than the way human’s think. Tong cognition was organized in
three dimensional arrays of encapsulated song-bytes where each tone in a chromatic scale was perceived as a separate entity with its own
phonemic value. Thus a single Tong syllable was capable of multiple morphemic values depending upon its tone. In some respects, then, it is
more accurate to say that a Tong didn’t think so much as he sang what he thought. Tong conversations between several participating
speakers were as a result more likely to sound like symphonies performed by orchestras than they were sentences uttered by speakers. While
it is probably of little interest to the reader, some sense of Tong cognition can be gleaned from the following abbreviated list of Tong words,
presented without their atonal phonemic values.

REM Capture of Woton’s Thought Process

A-DICK                Acting Director, Irvine Culinary Klinic
AlbÓndiga                 a pregnant meatball, an Ick female with child
BOD                        Body Orders Department
c-Hook                        The minor character Hector Ordonez Orinoco Klink
CORP                        Colossus of Roads Productions
DIS                        Directors in Surrogate Service
GORE                        Gallery of Rogues Employed
GULP-y                The patient/ identity/ character named Guadalupe Ulzana Lagrimas Y Penocho
‘kiss                          keep it simple stupid
KISS                        Keeping It Stiff Service
Kwiickie                 Kosher Wiener Institute, Irvine Chapter K i.e.
LA CASA                Labor Auxiliary: Capitol and Services Administration
M-wing                The wing of the Megalomania Complex controlled by eM
MCandC                Megalomania Complex and Compound Combined
mÒÒm                A fertile  concubine at house of eM, known for producing twins
MYRIAD                “My reality is your Delusion” Motto of patients in the M-wing
NA na                        Nomenclature Adjustments not available
piss                        persons in security service
PWA                        Code for Tong-pa’s water brother, Pussy Whipped, Anonymous


From “Sayings of the First True Voices” by The Shaman Oh Wo

It was dark that night in the plaster cave. Only the coals of a single fire glowed in the dim night light.  Lone-pa was already dead and Tong-pa
would be next.  The fingers stood in their accustomed places, ranks fidgeting nervously, clutching at the still air in the dark circle around
what was left of Lone-pa’s body. They had already eaten everything but the bones… Another band numbering in the hundreds sat some yards
away hunched around Tong-pa stroking their stimmies and gibbering quietly to themselves. It wouldn’t be long now before Tong-pa also shed
his smoke and his son Bits’n Dots ’n Herbert would give the solemn sign to dispense the words of the first speaker of the feasty times…

Finally, Tong-pa, lying near the embers on his last twig mat, his long gray hair groomed, his arms and legs covered by a brilliantly luminous
dot cloak, looked up into Tong-ma’s sad glowing eyes where she sat beyond the ritual fire, drew one long, last shallow breath and slipped
away. Ever so quietly…it was over…

Now, all of the old Ick ‘n us had died except Oh Wo--every one of their sick thoughts, every angry memory, every snarl uttered in spite,
jealousy, fear, lust, had simply been blinked away, without a sound, without a cry when Tong-pa died. And into that brief moment of
emptiness came the windward sound of the assembled Tong voices, tribal, breathless, quietly whispering, sibilant, languorous, warm and
fragrant…uttering the holy words…of the tom-tongs.

No more would Tong-pa’s sibilant voice echo through the cement cave. No more would the fans of the cave wind carry his seeds across the
night fire in the rune time, no more would his resonant sonants and sibilant palatals prance about the alleys and off the walls of the nest
warrens, lifting the spirits of the new born fingerlings, stroking the ears of the ‘billy goon babies, mongolies, shifters, gamiphonies. No more
would his powerful gutturals rouse the seven thousand fingers to their assignments and morning chores, rhythmic and vibrant, filled with the
promise of the gospels, songs, invocations, chants…of the people of the solemn voices.

Oh Wo sat quietly, motionless, on the old root throne, his thoughts circling about the bark of all that was left of Bo’Jangles. The deep red
wood was firm and warm beneath his shrunken boney butt. He could still see clearly in the darkened cave in spite of the dimming shroud of
night. His eyes, whip keen, deep blue, sunk among the creviced flesh on his withered face. He was the oldest of the Ick…the pre-Tong, who
had gifted the fingers with the first true words…

The grounds above the plaster cave were dead quiet, still. Outside, Wo knew, it was raining; old as he was, he could still hear the sound of
the flush gutters running with the waters of life, filling the cisterns, burbling out and away through the creche sewers, in spite of the loss of
the lobes of his ears. They too had gone into the cooking pots in the Lone times. The monastery staff would soon be up and around,
preparing for the early feeding cycle, he thought to himself. There was not much time left, he was sure about that.  The split-brained h-ick
named Ike had warned him the snoopers were about. And the s-pity-Ick named Dots, his split-brain bulging with wild, windy thoughts, had
also cautioned Wo to prepare the fingers for the st-rains to come…but there was still so much left to do…        

The wire whirling sound of the ceiling fans now faintly broke the silence of the cave. Big Footie was stirring from his sleep song spell,
revving up drivers for tactical displays, systems monitors, short range snooper portals, the whole bogus disinformation and defensive system
cycling through  its pre-dawn maintenance and intelligence sub-routines, weapons loaded…all those millions of quad processors giving off
heat needed for the egg chambers, and powering up the thermal stations, rail guns, laser optical scanners and on down the line of pre-
programmed executions which kept the hive running.  

Soon every loonie up above would be scurrying to his post, all those split-brains picking and  loading vegetable biota for the Casa, unaware of
the crèche warrens below, and the rest of the vast underground installations, the mushrooms, funny farms, their Ick commissaries making
daily contributions, pumping the slops along the tubeways leading to Suction Central processing…

Just those two were the ones who knew all about it, discovered it when
they had dug the first tunnel running along the sewer pipe out from
under the old farm house over fifty years ago, back when Gravey was in charge of the sewer maintenance crew. Gravey knew a whole lot
about sewers, Wo knew. He had even read one of Gravey’s old books, crazy old loonie that he was. From “Trinity of the Prophets: Dots ‘n
Gravey, Bytes Y-oda Sturgeon, and Bits ‘n Dots ‘n Herbert” By the Shaman, Master Blaster

Old Gravey was a wizard, that’s what Tong-pa told all the fingers ‘cause Woton’s eyes got big and wide whenever Gravey came around.
Woton’s irises would begin to glow like they did with a big gob of chocolate in his mouth. His pudgy cheeks would swell way up and soon he
was blowing big bubbles in spit that dribbled from his lips, and then slid down his moist and fleshy old chin. That was after they lived in the
mushroom tunnels down below the old farm house called M’casa.  The fingers would stand there for a while, lookin’ real funny at Tong-pa,
trying to figure out what was expected of them, I guess. Though I doubt by that time they could have understood it…English, I mean…


Nightly Lessons of the Times before the Great Bowel Movement
Translation from the pidgin called tong-talk-lippy by Tong-pa3,
Third Master of the Old Ick Ear Cemetaries

The pre-Tongs had always maintained that the words of the Ick were strange, all broken up into little bitty pieces as they were for some
peculiar reason.  Ick words just never were connected very well with what they were supposed to stand for, so everybody who used them
went around confused most of the time saying things they thought were actually making sense. As a result not only did they not understand
each other very well, they didn’t even understand themselves or their own thoughts.  They wanted this thing, or that thing, or some other
thing they didn’t have. But, usually, when they did manage to get the thing they thought they wanted, it wasn’t the thing they thought they
wanted in the first place or it was but they didn’t really want it any longer anymore. So stuff was always being stored somewhere else for one
silly reason or another. Most of the Ick families kept special places called gar-bages, sometimes even attached to their houses, where they
piled up all this stuff they never used again.   

And Ick words didn’t taste or smell right either. Consider the old Ick word ‘apple.’ It did not immediately bring to mind the referents ‘round-
water-sweet-firm-juicy-gobble.’  Instead, it was a blank null that referred merely to an object in a category named ‘fruit.’ That category itself
was composed of items vastly dissimilar in nature, from unusual, sometimes sexually disoriented or eccentric Ick to objects both sweet and
sour, round and tapered, long and crescent shaped, larger than an Ick’s head and smaller than an Ick’s dick.  Even eating an apple, generally
considered to be a pleasurable event, was stigmatized for some because of some old myth about a snake in a garden. Believe me, an old Ick
almost never knew even really what he was thinking about let alone why.

Furthermore, it was apparent that very few of the Ick split-brains could figure any of this out for themselves, without help from a Tong water
brother.  And even then it was a pisser, a real waste of body fluid, to get an Ick to give away what he didn’t care about in the first place. You
can’t hardly imagine how much worthless crap an old Ick would assemble over a lifetime of this really, really peculiar behavior. Why some
Ick even had more than one of these gar-bages all filled to the brim with stuff. They kept old books they’d already read, old clothes that didn’t
fit or that they didn’t need, old worn out utensils, rugs, rags, pictures, furniture, tools, gadgets, just about anything you can imagine, even old
nails, tacks, screws, and such that were so bent up they couldn’t be used anyhow, even newspapers and magazines filled with useless, silly,
repetitive, cruel and downright ugly info-mush all squished and mashed around faded pictures of things that didn’t even exist. When they had
to move for some reason from one place to another, they would ask for help from anybody close by to move this stuff to the new place. And
if it was any bigger than the old place, they began almost immediately to fill the new place up with even more useless stuff.

They even kept stuff called money made out of nothing but plain old paper in well fortified containers called ‘b’nks. That the stuff was only
made of paper didn’t matter: because every Ick wanted as much of this particular kind of paper as he could get his hands on. They fought
over it, stole it from each other and killed each other for it. Like I say, it just never made any sense, sometimes even to a split-brained Ick.  



The slow flow/stream of his daughter’s notion/song was parsed across the height, depth and width of Tong-pa’s cognitive dimensional dis-
assembler,  governed by the syntax of  its multiple array variables. All aspects, prospects, cause and effect edicts, mentational augmentations
and related ideational values were projected clearly onto his biodigi-tactile emulator with precise tonalities intact. It was a lovely song,
sounding of multiple gongs of grape fresh syllables (like bon mots) melded into a wine dark liquid, lustrous, like the fruit on a trellis of vines
whose dappled leaves each had spoken with its own personal melody. There were chirps, murmurings, the image of butterflies in flight,
whispers, sighs, tinklings of dainty bells, tiny hisses, all manner of orchestrated half notes, intermingled, combined, reorganized, along a
parade of thoughts, divulging their complex innuendoes with grace and subtlety. It was absolutely beautiful, painfully so, but as irresistible as
wind across an everglade…

One could even smell the faint exudations from the swamp and the mud, even the rotting vegetation along the banks of the fingers of water
flowing slowly into the estuary.  Bird cries, the low grunt of frogs, turtles resting on logs in the shallows, the buzz of tiny insects among the
vines and creepers, the palms and palmento trees, the myriad complexities of life, were etched among the sinuosities of its crypto-sibilant
sounds.

Tong-pa’s daughter, Sweet Water Silke sat by the no-fourth fountain, combing her long golden hair. She had come in from the creche early
that morning before the day’s heat turned the cave into the thermal haze of a deep summer day. She had spent the night up on the surface
with a party of Tong sisters and brothers, eager to escape the cave for a while to enjoy the smells, sounds, and commotions of the star filled
night. The moon, so full of its self-illumination, had risen early to cross the sky like a great glowing lantern-- awesome, magical-- filled with
the promise and the wonder of its youth. Perhaps the dry stillness of the night itself had compelled her thoughts to ‘the other place’ ‘the wet
place’ she was so fond of entertaining her other selves with…



Homo Grammaticus: A Theory of Human Behavioral Evolution
By J. Leon Mysticus
Neuro-Psychiatric Institute, University of California at Los Angeles
From “Notes for a lecture on theory of so called aberrant human behavior”
Delivered before students assembled in Sproul Hall Lecture Facility A202
January 31, 1992


For once, let’s cut through all the crap? Shall we? Why don’t we simply just ask ourselves, “What is an ego?” You have one, and so do I, so
it’s not as if we are examining something which, for all practical purposes, nobody knows anything about. We all know something about our
egos. That is a plain vanilla, unadulterated and dis-ambiguous fact.

So, let’s start from there. When you refer to yourself under almost any circumstance, whether socially, professionally, religiously, or
otherwise, you are likely to say “I.”   “I am a student. I am a father. I am poor. I am smart. I am curious about the field of psychology etc.”  
Just about everybody can agree to that. But, unfortunately, that is usually where thinking about an ego ends for the average person.

Yet a peculiar little word in every one of those sentences conceals an astounding amount of additional information. Unfortunately, it’s just not
the type of information most people are even slightly interested in, let alone understand. In fact any discussion of it tends to put most people
to sleep. Don’t you think that’s strange?

Concentrate for a moment on that little word “am.”  Do you have any idea what it means?  You ask this question in any lecture hall full of
students on campus and usually what you get is a collective blank stare. Even in classes filled with English Majors. In fact, some students
think the question itself is obviously just plain silly, so they smile at each other, raise their eyebrows, and wonder if somehow you might be
suggesting they follow you off the deep end.  Most people are not very curious about language, and “I” suspect that is a very serious error
indeed.

But let’s return to that innocuous little word.
Technically, from the point of view of grammarians, especially ancient grammarians, that little
word is referred to as a ‘copulative’ verb. [pause for a few moments, until the sound of it sinks in]. I’m sure most of you know what ‘to
copulate’ means. [pause for a while until the laughter dies down]. OK, so I know you’re still awake, that’s good. Now, this little word under
examination here is just one variation of a set of words formed from what is called an ‘infinitive verb’ in this case the verb ‘to be.’ If you
conjugate this infinitive verb (“infinite” of course meaning ‘without end’) you discover that it has several other forms depending upon a
relation know as ‘concord’ or agreement between it and the subject of a sentence. So you say “I am” if the subject is singular but “We are” if
the subject is plural. Ancient grammarians knew this as well. Furthermore, if you carefully identify the variations this ‘infinitive verb, to be’
can take, you discover it has all of the following morphological variants: is, be, am, are, was, were, been, and being. Is it any wonder then
that someone somewhere might come along and realize that “Copulation is the basis for infinite being.” [More laughter from the audience] But
I get ahead of myself.

Now let’s return to our little word ‘am.’ At a modest level of understanding one could say that the word “am” means the same as ‘equals’ =.  
I = a student. I = a father. I = a man. And so forth.
This apparently insignificant construction, however, is not insignificant. Its formal name,
in fact its structure, is referred to as “The IS of identity.” Consider its underlying architecture for a moment and you will discover it has the
form of a simple equation: X = Y.
That is to say, whatever the topic/comment identified to the left of the equal sign is said to be exactly equal
to the topic/comment on the right.
Thus when you refer to yourself (and thus your ego or your identity) this is one of the primary
grammatical mechanisms you employ in the process.
Along with “I think, I feel, I hate, I love, I doubt, I want, I wish etc.

Now{ chuckling to myself} from here on is where I lose most people. Because to take the next step requires what is typically referred to as a
leap of faith.

An ego is the sum total of all the feelings, agglutinations, permutations, cogitations, speculations and their resultant ramifications of an ‘I’ in
the process of attempting to define itself. Everything you have thought, presently think, or think you think or thought about yourself in the
past all boiled down to this complex equation: “I think I’m X10 therefore I am what I think I am.”

But that’s not the end of it. Because there is no end to it, because the process itself is infinite in more ways than perhaps any one but the
ancients ever suspected. {If X is allowed to copulate with Y, there is an infinite number of permutations that must be expected.}

Are you really ready to take the next step?

Then consider this. Suppose, for example, that something or somebody came along that, for some reason or other, didn’t participate in this
particular type of ego defining process. Suppose this new personality did not proceed on the basis of the assumption that it was an ‘I,’  a
discreet, singular being such as you and me? Suppose this novel individual, a new form of being, thought of itself as a ‘we’ instead. Do you
see how that might change all of the input and the output that would AFFECT the EQUATION? The is of identity? To give him a name, let’s
just agree for the moment to call him Homo Grammaticus.

In effect, what I’m asking you to consider is the following: “What if the nature of the ego (i.e. human identity) is infinite?” What if the nature
of human nature itself is more susceptible to change than anyone has ever previously imagined? What if we look at what’s called aberrant
human behavior from this perspective? Do you see what I mean? Now I want to say something else about Homo Grammaticus, but you will
have to listen very carefully to avoid falling asleep.

That set of little words I’ve been talking about [is,be ,am, are, was ,were, etc] is itself a subset of another larger set of words called formally
by the term: Modal and Grammatical Auxiliary Verbs. Please allow me to itemize them all for you, before most of you get up to leave…

They include the following:
is, be ,am, are, was, were, been,     (all forms of the verb ‘to be’)
has, have,  had, do, does, did,             (forms of the verbs ‘to have’ and ‘’to do’         
may, can, might, could, must, shall, will, should, and would.  (the modal auxiliaries themselves)

Now, what is so important about these words? First off, they are the primary materials from which most verb phrases are constructed.  
Remember, even in simple examples, every kernel sentence in English contains at least one verb. More complex thoughts, however, require
more complex structures.
The timing of events, the manner of actions, whether actions are completed or ongoing,  all aspects of complex
human thought processes, states, activities, and actions are intimately associated with this limited set of  words. There are not any more of
them.
This is the entire list. Oh? So what, you say?  

All complex thought processes require subtlety, nuanced expression, delicate and nimble perceptions, keen intellectual insight, and refined
calculations.
There is simply an enormous difference between  an ego only capable of  ”I ain’t got nothing to say,” and egos capable of “The
“we” you see standing before you are not, will not and will never be inclined even remotely to transmit what they know about themselves or
you  in your direction…” Do you see the point?

Yet even this level of  observation gets boiled down in common parlance to thoughts like, “The smarter you are, the better you think” with
very little consideration of what it is specifically that might make people more capable of thought, and hence more intelligent in the first place.


Where does that leave us?

There is simply no way to separate the deep structure of language (grammar) from everything we think about ourselves (mathematics not
withstanding).The architecture of thought is composed of grammatical materials, structures, encoded and decoded, by every single speaker
and listener on the planet. If fact, some have been tempted to say “Language is culture.” There is no way to separate the two.
They are as
indivisible as the dancer and the dance or the fist and the fingers. Aristotle said: “Plot is character in action.” One is tempted to echo:
“Thought is grammar in action.”

Homo Grammaticus:
From whence then might we expect to discover the first shambling gait of Homo Grammaticus. In whose footsteps might he be inclined to
follow? Upon whose shoulders would he be likely to stand, to spring forth from, awesome in multiplied ego-tactical competence, gazing down
upon us from the advantage point of his multiplied and hence superior adaptability and intelligence? Perhaps a jailhouse or even a local
sanitarium, someplace where he could hide, in order to conceal himself from the rest of us?



EXORDIUM

The murmuring of wind prophecies in the big trees foretold what was augured from the dawning. Honey-tongued Ike had begun another in
the parade of endless beginnings for his legendary (I )dentity flushing yarn. Windmilling the knows of intuit, gnawing the border of indulge,
lost amongst the befores and afterings of vernacular prolixity, retrievances to words—all gathered into one intense gesture, germinating its
own rules, growing with the unrelenting tenacity of pestilent weed opulence.  So long and short ago, on a certain page of a certain story, Ike,
increasing his crust, raged against the perchance of going stale like bread.   

And so, hardening his countenance,{One of the few things he could still harden these days}, Ike began once again, astride the event horizon
of a verbal black hole, to emerge a personal symbolism so concentrated and idiosyncratically magnetic that absolutely no shared meaning, no
recipient design, could ever escape from what appeared to be a  perfectly grammatical and reasonable string of phraseology aching to verge
and divulge.  

Fighting the impulse to simplify, attempting to create a hush, not that the presumed reader would hear less but rather would hear the
meaningless shit of nothingness  better than ever, and thus to establish the disquieting voice of a fuddled wraith, to evoke a sense of tease
coherence, a melodious randomness, surrounding the tepid plasma of the thankless business of pleasing his pseudo-community of readers, he
metamorphosed both them and himself with ‘jumping mouse’ transformations and all the possibilities of both singularity and the incalculable
of  plurality. A stockpiling of phantasm, a fashioning of illusion, a sort of constipated coda, the meretricious mind of Ike hazarded its way into
a phlegm of pervicacious  sinusoidal grump.

As it happened, as it was supposed to happen, some would say (although the precise moment and circumstances have eluded scholars), it is
speculated that Ike’s confabulated interior dialogues were the creative wellspring of the benumbed paradoxity that characterized his work.  
[Some of the arguments he had with himself are notorious for their savagery and crass oafishness].  Remembered incidents and debauched
characters, looming and untranslatable, fed into unfathomable mystery and bafflement. Not in system but by drift, not in weaving like the
spider but in finding like the squirrel, the peacockish idiom of Ike was constantly born anew.  Not evolving toward a rendering of meaning
certainly but devolving an orotund awkwardness in the face of meaning—a very different and more impeccable discourse.   Not a despairing,
not a presuming, but a wallowing in the vulnerability of foible and how that becomes precious and an end in itself. Rashomonic schema-
gasms of image fused as Ike sunflowered the night with one-eared madness.  
June 5, 2007, 4:37 PM
Egoscapes of Personalia

“The metatraps are all sprung.”
“Perhaps another who is stirring within the vibrant seed cluster of mother I.”
“Perhaps it is already beginning to become its role.”
“Let us not be premature. It may prove stillborn. It may never discover who's still who and destroy itself by its own warrings within.”
“But again, it may break through at any time. It need only discover the 'doing theorem'.  Some have.”
“Or, as among some of them, invoke another gift entirely.”
“You mean like, to actualize only as a result of willing?”
“I mean like something we are totally unprepared for.”
“How shall we decide if this new who is virulent or benign?”
“It'll probably be like the rest, transient.”
“It could still be ego-logically threatening.”
“Some study in how to protect Suck Central from it is indicated. Are we Agreed?”
“Yes!”
“Summon the Poker Flat Tong.”

Micro Seconds later slowed down Brain Chatter heard on the adjudicated twitter band high speed modem...

Tong-ue: But shouldn't we help it out, just a little?
Tong-yu: Why? You saw what happened in the x-files...
Tong-me: Ya, something more than human comes along, you think they're gonna pucker up, give us a big kiss?
Tong-ue: You know they won't be able to follow it...it's too complicated for only one brain...
Tong-yu: So? Bengi never got no help, did he, and that other idiot, Lenny. No body gave squat about Lone Lem...
Tong-ue: Not even just a hint or two? Loonies on the Moon, plots about rocks fallin' that kinda stuff?
Tong-yu: Screw 'um. They can't find a way through the maze, tough tit...
Tong-me: Absolutely. Don't give 'em any help a'tall. Not even that Mysticus fella.... Leave it all up to them...it's called survival...

Next came a learning curve commercial from Big Footie: Now you'all, don't forget your dis-play, 'cause sentience has always been more a
matter of kind than it ever was just a matter of degree...
From:                 The Cubicle of Shylock Chan
To:                 The Reverend Brother Mysticus
Subject:          confidential details you requested

Dear Reverend Brother Mysticus,

I have been everywhere you wanted me to look and I believe I’ve found what you want.  Whoever murdered Brother Jubb probably also was
responsible for the death of Padre Ickanus. Here’s what I  know.  Apparently, some time before his death,  Ickanus found the shredded
remains of an encrypted message in trash linked to Niels Nailer’s office. Why? Because somebody tried to bury that trash in a plastic bag in
the compost pit behind the M-wing Complex rather than throwing it out in the dumpster behind the admin center.  That Ickanus found it was
probably pure coincidence, but that event probably cost Ickanus, Jubb, and Father Ronnie their lives.

The details:
Just about everybody around here knew Ickanus was responsible for processing all garbage from the commissary into compost before it
could be trucked out to the fields nearby.  You know how persnickety he was about that.  Apparently he stumbled upon the bag while testing
the compost prior to ordering its removal from the pit.  We also suspect he poked around in the bag to try and discover who to blame for the
infraction. In any case, every document in the bag was intact except for one, which had been shredded.  The rest of the stuff was sop
(standard operating procedure) trash which there was no reason on earth to hide. So why bury the bag in the compost pit so far from the
admin office with a dumpster so close by? This line of reasoning made Ickanus curious.  So, he spent several days attempting to reassemble
the shredded remains of that one curious document (he loved to assemble jigsaw puzzles you will recall). And eventually he succeeded.  But
guess what?  The thing was clearly so encrypted that why the need to shred it in the first place? Now he was really curious.  So, he showed
the document to Jubb because he knew Jubb kept all kinds of documents and files for the Eucalyptic Brotherhood, the PWA, for Kwiickie and
several other active patient groups at La Casa.  Furthermore, Jubb was the archivist for most of the committees operating at the Retreat (the
monastery).  If anybody could figure out what the document said, surely he could, or he would know somebody who could.

Jubb’s laptop computer was found in his padded cell on August 10, 2007, the night he and Father Ronnie were murdered. An examination of
its hard drive (and all related program files, photos etc.) later revealed that there were strange gaps where information was missing in the
email folders. Whoever was responsible had been very thorough but missed one document that probably seemed trivial to them. (Apparently
the drive was not just creamed to avoid arousing suspicion during the official investigation.) And I now believe that this overlooked email
contains the missing clues you need.


Record of Text Message (sent originally by cellphone)                                                                                                    August 1, 2007
To: Reverend Brother Jubb
From: Mysticus
Subject:  Note on Who’s Still Who Principle and some words to live by

Dear Brother Jubb,
Within all of us lurk ego-mythic persona. Selfs on the shelves.  What we were, or thought we were. What we are, or think we are. What we
would, or wish, to be. These are the simple ones. There are also those who wish they were what they used to be when they wanted to
become what they are now. And any of these may, at a moment’s notice, be called upon to play their scene.  Lest we forget,

“Too much of a good thing is wonderful.” Mae West
“The brain is my second favorite organ.” Woody Allen
“Not easy to crack open empty.” Shylock Chan
“Never eat at a place called moms, never play cards with a guy named  nNails, and never lay down with a woman whose got more troubles
than you.” Anonymous


Obviously that is a copy of the coded text message you sent to Jubb on the night of August first.  That you had received the encrypted copy
of the shredded document Ickanus discovered and gave to Jubb which he then forwarded to you is, as you know, clear from the bold faced
text above. As is your unsuccessful attempt to crack the encryption.  You warning to Jubb to steer clear of Niels Nailer is equally obvious to
anyone who knows his nose.  But what you didn’t know was Jubb stored a copy of his response/forward to your email in the same file as
well. That response is one you never received.  Furthermore, in the same file he also saved an email he received from someone merely posing
as you, who signed his name as eM.   

This is the email Jubb intended to send to you but never did.  I suspect the information you want is buried here somewhere.


Dear Brother Mysticus,
Am sending along two photos of Dotty’s latest dot paintings “A Gathering of Evil Winds” and “Snakes Leaving a Meeting.” Feel a particularly
fond tickle up my spine on that one.

My dear old friend, rest assured, there is
An octopus in an old bell at low tide
Can seem to be
Peopled with suddens of recognize
(a symbol-jerk haiku, a funnel-shaped sonnet)
Unless there is a warp of syntax
A schemagasm
And telling it like it never was
Flushes out the way it is
It ain’t no poem
Sincerely, Brother Jubb

Now, why would Brother Jubb be sending you, especially you, photos of Dotty’s dot paintings which he would have known you painted in
the first place? As there were no attachments to the email (i.e. no photos were attached) he clearly intended the titles to suggest something
else.  Furthermore, his assurance couched within the poem along with other cryptic references (octopus, old bell, low tide, sudden
recognitions, warp of syntax, schemagasm, flushing out the way it is…) and “It ain’t no poem” all imply he has discovered something very
important about the encrypted document Ickanus found.


Next comes the response Jubb received from  eM..

Dear Brother Jubb,
Have tried a number of transformations of a few dot photos. For some reason I can’t fathom, a dense matrix of dot samples seems peculiarly
resistant to filtering process. Perhaps this is intended as a sign from the gods not to tinker with the sacred originals. Some promising examples
are attached for your editorial response. Disposition of the photos naturally remains within your creative sphere of influence (i.e. should we
preserve or deliver to electronic limbo? See “Master Beta of Blue Freud” just a suggestion; “Coyote Coordinates Captured During Ascent into
Canis Major” and “Three Visions of a Hot Place Known Only to A Bold OO” (Observant Obscurantist in eyeball logo). Your choice to add or
subtract these items. You accept my idea for a dot photo titled “VULVA: Virtually Unlimited Liability Visually Available”?

Yours truly,
eM

Let’s begin at the end, and then proceed to the beginning. Jubb had no artistic or photographic interests whatsoever.  Why would eM think
otherwise? The crude Vulva reference strongly suggests something else is afoot in the message.  And as you know, there are only two or
three persons interested in photo transformations. And we all know who they are.  Since you didn’t send the message, that leaves just two.
Now who is the biggest tinkerer you know of? And who has tinkered any more than he has with Dotty’s dot paintings? That’s right! And
who masterbates more than anybody else you know? Right again! And who likes to hide things more than anybody else?  And who has
always liked puzzles? And on and on and on. So, who has probably cracked the code? That’s right…

Anything else you want to know, you outa ask him…

Shylock
CC:  e.ike
Cypher to M.
Dear Mysticus,

I gotta hand it to your man Chan; he's sharp as a tack when he decides to get downtown and do his thing. Even sent me a copy of his snoopy
records, kinda embarrassing actually. Anyway, you wanna see her, open the encrypted attachment. Check it out with the help of Big Footie.
He's way way ahead of their secret codes. She look in any way familiar to you? Like maybe you've seen her some where else? In one of your
dreams maybe? Took a while to get her whole crack open; friggin' crypt was deeper than the Chiapas Dig. No way in through some tidy little
tunnel being used as an outhouse...

I have not circulated this material due to Dotty's state of mind. He's still a little wobbly. So am I for that matter. And I don't see yet how this
stuff can help. Now we know what happened to everybody back in 2006. Why all the amnesia, illness, confusion, those poor sick bastards
draggin' their feet around so long in the M-ward. Still sometimes makes me sick to my stomach to think about it. Anything I can do to help
you get past the hard part, let me know. I want to see you there and the look on your face when we settle the score...in the mean time keep
sending out all the usual misinformation, disinformation etc. No point in alerting them that we're on to the scam...

Ike
Top Secret                                                                CIA Confidential Abstracts                                                                Top Secret

Agents without proper security clearance attempting to access this document will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law…

Ocular Bipolarity Theory of Sexual Arousal with Associated Eye Color Dependency Factored In
Summary of NSA Grant 2737-846-007 viz La Casa Specific Case Studies
Level 13 National Security Clearance Required

Are blue eyed people more prone to sexual arousal via visual stimulation than brown or green eyed people? This study sought to establish
definitive answers to this question for a variety of reasons. CIA entrapment procedures for ‘turning subjects’ (counter spying, double agents
etc.)  are known to employ attractive, sexually promiscuous females  in attempts to lure foreign nationals and others into clandestine
relationships for purposes of intelligence gathering. Numerous studies have established a link, for example, between breast size and allurement
capabilities of selected agents.  It seems clear as well that aspects (especially enhanced aspects) of the human female physique offer a clear
advantage to the agent who has undergone ‘relevant body work’ with respect to both successes in professional assignments as well as in
agency promotions, political/social recreational activities and retirement perks. Does eye color affect the impact or influence of such agents
over those they are assigned to recreate with?

CVs (computer visual scans) AT (applied telemetry) and a host of other medical data collection systems (implants, stents, brain scans etc.)
were utilized in the course of the experimental phase of the study.  Test subjects were remanded from a wide variety of sources, including
prisons, sanitariums, psychiatric clinics, drug rehabilitation sites, and from among indicted government service employees. Data presented
here were collected at a private sanitarium without the permission or knowledge of its administration or professional staff.

15 subjects, all males, between the ages of 18 and 52, were selected without their knowledge for the testing regimen: five with blue eyes, five
with green eyes, five with brown eyes.  Local authorities and sanitarium officials were led to believe a special project (known only as
Psychiatric Testing 109 or PT 109), funded by the American Psychiatric Association, was being sponsored to determine state of the art
applications of the latest psychiatric theories for the benefit of public health programs across the entire U.S. population. A sizeable grant was
awarded to the sanitarium board in order to facilitate the arrangements.  Females who participated as stimulus models were carefully chosen
from among local professionals engaged in prostitution or the porno sex trades.  These participants were carefully graded with respect to the
full range of body enhancements suspected to be most promising for purposes of the study.

Methodology:
Male test subjects were strapped naked into specially wired operational accoutrements to allow for the connection and arrangement of all
probes, monitors and data retrieval systems. Initially, in most cases this was accomplished specifically against their will so as to facilitate a
state of mind hostile to the testing environment. This procedure was designed to establish how powerful the visual stimuli were in overcoming
the subject’s resistance to the stimulation. In a few instances male subjects were treated with electroshock therapy before receiving their dose
of erotic stimulation. As the testing trials proceeded (each male was exposed to 15 trials with fifteen separate naked female stimulus models),
the male subjects generally exhibited diminishing hostility to the tests, which was expected. Data from the study appear to establish beyond
the shadow of a doubt that young (20-25 year old) professionally coiffured females with blond hair, blue eyes, long legs, statuesque figures,
plump behinds and exceptionally large breasts exhibiting full but faintly colored aureola enjoy a remarkable advantage over other females in
attracting the attentions and arousing the passions of males of any age, race or eye color.

A sample photo [access restricted] of one of the stimulus models performing during an initial stimulus procedure is attached…It should be
noted that the absence of blue eyes for the female agent does not substantially alter the success of her performance if all other physiological
criteria are met…  

[Decryption requires 256-bit prime modulus elliptic curve crypto-key or SHA-384]
Photo decrypted courtesy
of Ace Poison Center nexus:
Consulting Services and
Pesticide Applications
Worldwide
Return to Table of Contents