Dave's Astral Visitation

I just returned from the Fegfest in a filthy mood. What a waste of time! I spent six hours getting into a trance state so I could astral travel from my place to the Quail shack. This is no mean feat in itself, as to get in the trance I had to repeat the chorus of "Rock & Roll Toilet" as a mantra for about six hours, which I did in our dunny (toilet) because of the nice echo in there which allows me to get into the mood faster. I could hear the wife and kids banging on the door of the bog for the first hour or so, but after a while either they stopped or I got into a fugue and the next thing I know I'm in the body of the Cthulhu statue in the Quail house. Now, I knew I might be onto a loser here from the start, as it was only my efforts to prevent mayhem that prompted me to actually get into the godhead. I mean, with my powers I could have manifested into anything, one of the Quails old jockstraps, a Fegtape, a bottle of liquor or some other popular item and that way I would really have seen the party in style. But muggins had to pick Cthulhu, what a total prannet! It took me some time or orient myself for starters, as seeing through what Cthulhu has in the way of eyes is not exactly easy. The problem with being in a totally alien body of an impossibly ancient pan galactic godhead is that they have completely different ways of seeing to us, let alone thinking. I reckon Cthulhu must have at least 500 different modes of perception up against my dozen or so ( I know, I know, we mortals are supposed to have fewer than that but my friends of feg training has honed up a few extra which I've been keeping quiet about up till now) and it was bloody murder trying to work out which of its orifices did what and which bits heard, saw and smelt. After a bit I think I managed to sort out the hearing at least, as I started picking up a few noises and vague blurs that I think were Fegs, but christ knows, the way Cthulhu sees things is so freaking weird they could have been penguins for all I know, everything looked crystalline and the colours were strangely refracted and bent as though I was looking through a Kaleidoscope.. .Just trying to see and hear gave me a whopper headache. Eventually things began to make more sense and it appeared that I was in a room with various vague figures floating about. The mood was somewhat subdued as apparently Bayard and Gross had attempted to eat the contents of Jon Fetters parcel and had been rushed to hospital to have their stomach's pumped. Also the Quail's hamster ( on which he had been conducting some of his more grotesque experiments) had gotten out of its enclosure and had eaten half of Bayard's DAT masters . So all in all , it wasn't really his day. Of Carl P, I saw neither hide nor hair, which made me even more flustered, as I've been confidently predicting the arrival of the little bleeder at the party for months. I reckon the silly sod had just got side-tracked in stalking that daft woman that Vinnie's s always rabbiting on about. So all in all it was real downer and then to cap it all, I heard Nat tell Quail just what she *did *say when Garcia died. The next thing I know the airs turning blue with epithets (and I thought the Quail was a man of peace) and I'm grasped by what passes for my throat and I'm being waved in the air. There’s a god almighty crash and a female scream that's cut off in mid shout and my statue body shatters ( I hope not against Nat’s skull, but who knows, things were confused enough what with seeing through kaleidoscope eyes an all). I felt myself slipping out of the godheads body, but the last thing I heard was the sound of distant sirens and then everything turned black... I came to on my toilet floor, feeling like I'd been put through the wringer. That's the last time I try to prevent one of the Quails plans. Perhaps another of the surrealistic posse can try , but then again if what I heard pans out then the Quail is probably up for murder one or assault and battery at least. But then knowing him, he'll wriggle out of the rap some way or another. Well I'm off to drown my sorrows by listening to "10-4-94, RH at the Crocodile Café". Perhaps we will find out just what happened tomorrow when they all get out of the slammer. dave