"I became involved in the plan simply by virtue of having thought of

it first; had TarlaStar not been distracted of late by the legal

precedings against her, she would have worked alone and I would not

have had the opportunity to submit these photos to the SubGenius

Foundation. All of the art you are seeing was executed by the

righteous hand of the Reverend Mutha."

- Rev. Random, in a web page design session in Dallas.


Haile Unlikely


I rented a car at the airport in Oklahoma City and drove to Norman

burning a 'fropstick with a Marley tape cranked wide open: "Come we go

chant down Babylon one more time..." I visited a popular restaurant

in town just because I had read about it, and used a shiny menu to

leave my tip in an overturned glass full of water on the table with a

SubGenius pamphlet balanced on top.


I proceded to the Convent. I approached the door and was greeted by

two dogs, one wearing a tutu. The Bearded Guy had just racked off a

lager and was transfering it into the near-freezing secondary

refrigerator. The delicious aroma of boiling barley wort filled the

house, breadlike only sweeter, the brewmaster creating a dark ale this

time, ten pounds of 2-row, a pound of Munich, half a pound each of

crystal 40L and 120L, a scant palmful of roasted barley and chocolate

malt. A small pile of hops decorated the counter. He was undecided

on whether to use a Belgian Abbey yeast or a Thames Valley but had an

hour to contemplate.


Reverand Mutha Tarla gathered up some snacks, lit a bowl, and the

three of us spent that hour in discussion, sampling a wonderful

chocolate/coffee stout (with REAL chocolate and coffee) and an award

winning fruit ale. The business at hand was Slack reimbursement, and

damned if we weren't already making progress. It was decided that I

would accompany Tarla to Washington DC and The Bearded Guy would go

with the Belgian Abbey. While Tarla was gathering her gear I talked

briefly with NHB, who was intently studying a Worm's Way catalog.

Sodium vapor this time for sure.



Our flight into BWI airport was enjoyable if uneventful, our

discussions meandering from Japanese gardening to Japanese art and

music to Deathkulture Conformity Madness, and we eventually got the

rented van stocked and readied and made our way to Pennsylvania Ave.

Congress was in special session, and I led the way to the security

checkpoint, confronting the uniformed guard in charge.


"We have new testimony in the 'Star investigation" rewarded me with a

startled wide-eyed stare, the guard's head snapping around to view the

Reverend Mutha, who had opened her coat to reveal a black bodysuit

seemingly painted on. Tarla's lips parted slightly in a subtle but

meaningful smile, then she raised her chin defiantly and didn't say a

word. The guard sputtered, then reached for a red phone.


Everything seemed to happen at once; uniformed men swarmed into the

checkpoint, half a dozen phones were manned, "tell Kenneth Starr"

"hold all procedings" "get Hillary in there NOW" "OK to give advance

notice to the Senate" "yes, we're processing clearance" "no,

absolutely top priority" "she's a bombshell" "he's doomed, that's what

I think" "she has a lawyer with her".


A military escort was assembled, our counterfeit identification

verified, security passes provided, and a four-start general,

Republican, headed up the procession as we were whisked through

several checkpoints and into the Congressional hallway headed for the

Assembly. We were behind the General and surrounded by armed men when

the Rev. Mutha's hand slipped down towards the poison-tipped obsidian

knife hidden in her boot. Adrenaline surged through my system as I

instinctively flowed into full fighting stance, totally taken aback by

the unexpected attack preparation, instantly deciding to throw my

battle support against the men to the left of me, determined to open

as much fighting space as I could so as not to impede Tarla's

movements. The surprise on my face had to be obvious

as my eyes met the Rev. Mutha's cutting smile, her fingers dipping

below the knife-release to deftly loosen the lace on her boot. Damn



With an almost telepathic understanding I realized that not only had

she just scored a Point in that particular game that we shared during

our business dealings, but that she was also encouraging me to loosen

up and enjoy every step of this operation. I gave her a rueful,

sheepish smile, my eyes shining with admiration as she cleared her

throat. I do so love working with a professional. The General turned

at the sound, and Tarla's eyes went cold as she stated "My shoe's



"Tie it for me," Tarla commanded the General. A battle of wills

sprang up and was immediately quashed by the Rev. Mutha's unspoken

ultimatum in her unflinching stare. I could see the General weighing

options, deciding that the testimony against the Commander-in-Chief

was worth the affront to his pride. He bent down to tie the shoe. I

smiled widely at the stonyfaced guards who stood at attention, failed

to get a response. The General stood and Tarla demanded "Now tighten

the other one." The General flushed and for a moment I thought that

Tarla had pushed him too hard, but he knelt in compliance and did what

was necessary, flashing a look to a subordinate who seemed ready to

speak out, a look that said "Don't Ask, Don't Tell". The guard nodded

and resumed attention.


We were shown through the door of the Assembly. Once inside, Tarla

removed from her coat pocket an eight inch long, two inch wide

metallic cylinder that I knew to be hardened tungsten. I laughed as I

recalled the guards inspecting the device during the security check,

deciding from it's sensual shape and a single word that it was,

indeed, evidence -- X-rays confirming solid metal with no hidden

poison or explosives -- and handing it back to Tarla, thinking it in

all probability a "gift" and of the field day the press was going to

have over any "stain analysis". One commented "I bet he gave Hillary

one just like it." Well lubricated in anticipation of its usage, it's

precision tines sprang out silently when Tarla activated a hidden

latch. With a practiced twisting motion she wedged it into the stout

handles of the double doors and activated another latch which locked

it in place, hiding the activity with her coat as she dropped

the coat to the floor with a flourish. Tarla, sleek and resplendent,

nodded once and we walked together up the center aisle, all eyes on

her, a hushed murmur and soft whistles from the gathering, a stunned

silence from Bill as Hillary glared.


It was <censored> who spoke, to me, as we reached the front. "I

understand that your client has testimony pursuant to the matter at

hand," he stated, "and that testimony will be given freely here

today." I cleared my throat to speak, but it was <censored> who

interrupted with "Did your client blow Mr. Clinton?"


Tarla, tensed and coiled like a viper preparing to strike, was

dumbfounded, her mouth dropping open as she turned an incredulous look

at me, losing all semblance of concentration as I replied "Of course

she did." The president shouted "That's a lie," and the sustained

outburst from the gallery assured that only Tarla heard me explain

"Well, PROBABLY. I mean, you get into that Maker's Mark and, hell,

ANYTHING'S possible", while smiling in Just That Way. Ha, got that

point back. Now it was Tarla's turn to shake her head and smile.


As <censored> called for quiet, I raised one finger and began to

speak: "We stand before you today in the certainty that no individual,

be it a member of Congress or the president himself, has the right

to force others to submit to their perverted desires. The woman you

see before you today has been dealt grievious injury by those who

believe otherwise. The president, as well as others in this room,

have deliberately chosen to exceed the boundries of natural law,

deliberately chosen a course designed to keep this woman and others

silent and fearful -- afraid of the loss of her home, her job, her

possessions and her freedom. Afraid to tell the truth. Today the

truth will be told. Not only the President, but others in this room

have complicity in this scandal." I noted that the congressional

journalists were scribbling furiously. Clinton was shaking his head.


"When the boundaries of justice were ignored in this case, it was the

intent of those in control to force this woman to lie, to live in

fear. Life and fear are incompatable. One cannot truly Live if one

is afraid of losing liberty. Without freedom of expression, without

freedom of speech, without the freedom to do as one will so long as no

violence is invoked, there can be no Life, only grim obedience. Those

here who seek to spend an additional $17.1 billion dollars for another

year of the War on Drugs have taken it upon themselves to act as

persecutors towards citizens who have offered no violence. This

woman is here to remind you that those who claim the right to act with

such authority take on as well the responsibilities. Those who choose

to set policy that labels peaceful citizens as criminals, that turns

peaceful citizens into fearful victims are, indeed, responsible for

the violence permitted against those citizens. My client is the

exception to those who permit the deception of a policy of violence

against others without the accountability of those instituting the

policy of violence. Commensurate with that responsibility is the

accountability, and today all accounts are due.The concept of violence

as proper and just retaliation for violence is older than Hammurabi. I

offer you today, in repayment for years of responsibility for the

violence against peaceful citizens, my client. Stoned. Immaculate."



At this, the agreed upon signal, Reverend Mutha TarlaStar turned

into a whirling blur, a living Stark Fist, knives flashing followed

by heads rolling, lightning-fast kicks and bodies flying through the

air. I joined her for the first twenty seconds or so, sending

flip-darts flying into the throats of two secret service guards who

were caught unaware, then rolling to get within killing range of a

military type who had tried to signal alert on a hand held

transmitter. The phone was not a third of the way to his lips when my

kick caught him in the solar plexus, silencing him before I crushed

his throat. Things were nicely out of control, the Reverend Mutha in

berserker mode, slashing and chopping, with a beatific smile on her

face. The room was in a panic, but not a sound permeated the thick

walls of the Hall to the guards outside under strict orders that there

were to be no interruptions, no one admitted. A Senator crawled, using

only his arms, dragging himself towards the prostrate body of a

guard. His back was clearly broken but he struggled to close the six

feet between him and the still-holstered gun that was his only hope.

I kind of admired his perserverance, thinking that if only he had

fought as hard for individual liberty...Nodding to a future that

could only be created by active assertion of Rights in the face

of Oppression, I let him get his fingers on the holster, saw the

possibility of success enliven his expression, then, shaking my head,

I walked slowly over and stomped down hard on the back of his neck.


Reverend Mutha Tarla spun and twisted, a pointed-toe kick crushing a

throat, a finger thrust through an eyesocket, a rolling dive followed

by a handspring, slash/chop/slash, a dive, another handspring and she

had traversed the room to kill a stray legislator, then continuing

around the perimeter, corraling the herd-animals as they stampeded,

cutting out the ones that broke for freedom. The sounds of her

passage held a particular rhythym, the steady 4/4 time of her leaping

and bounding, the snapping of bones and the thud of the bodies on the

second and forth beats creating a righteous syncopation; even the

screams and fluid splashes seemed to add a counterpoint. The effect

was so immediate that I swear I could hear a reggae bass line. I

grinned, contrasting the innocuousness of four ounces of plant

material with the scene around me. Jah live, chil'ren.


I found myself enjoying that pleasure of watching a professional at

work. With a mere three or four hundred people in the room I felt no

pressing need to help out; Tarla had things well in hand. I caught a

brief sparkle in her eyes as she rounded the podium to dispatch the

First Wife and her husband, and I nodded in acknowledgement that no

extra time or energy was spent on these figureheads. Truly a

professional job. I focused on the sheer grace of her movements. The

Reverend Mutha seemed to defy gravity, springing off the floor to

levitate nearly five feet in the air, her body outstretched and

motionless, feet crossed as if relaxing on a couch, only her feet

moving as if to caress the neck of a Senator, toes moving sensually

across the back of the neck to curve around the side. I watched

closely and discovered that what seemed a single fluid movement had

two components; it was a spasmotic flexing of just the toes and arches

that actually broke the neck. Then as her body began to descend,

Mutha 'Star would roll slightly and use the kinetic energy to

disconnect the head from the body, using her legs as if snapping one's

fingers, her feet coming straight through and landing poised to spring

up once again.


After a time it grew quiet.


Tarla asked me to take the paintings and maps down from the

surrounding walls, saying she wanted a canvas to sketch some

preliminary works, just to warm up. With a deliberate air of disgust

that was wonderfully ironic, she kicked some bodies over, searching.

She found what I presumed to be a suitable torso near the front and

carried it out from the pile to an expanse of wall. "The Japanese use

a monochromatic technique that involves a good deal of blotting and

blurring to represent textures", she said, as she slammed the torso

once into the wall, then again and again. "I've also been studying

'One Brush' technique, but I'm partial to a more modern synthesis,"

she said as she picked the body all the way up overhead and drove it

into the floor, then bounced it repeatedly off the wall so rapidly I

was reminded of a basketball being dribbled. I looked sceptically at

the roundish stains on the wall and said "So you call that ART?"

Tarla continues to pummel the body as she replied "Err, no Random, I'm

just preparing my palette. Sheesh. Here, watch..."


Tarla held what now resembled a large, red sponge and moved to a clear

expanse of wall. I giggled as I recognized why she chose this

particular torso. Gore. Hee hee. She tore off a chunk of flesh and

with a quiet competence sketched some long rolling curves, then some

straight lines, then used the sponge to make sweeps and fills. A

storm took shape; waves, and a ship tossed about. The sea, so

powerful as to be almost solumn in it's indifferent violence, seemed

to be poised to capsize the ship in the next moment; the tiny vessel,

however, radiated a sense of having weathered many storms.


"I'm impressed, Tarla. This is really excellent. Apropos, even."

She paused only a moment to view the finished work, nodded once, then

moved fifteen feet over and began sketching again.


I was silent and contemplative as I watched the creation of an old

tree bent and gnarled by the wind, of a bird escaping the pouncing of

a cat. On the next wall the lines became streaks, and Tarla slammed

her sponge off the floor several times before painting what seemed to

be a large, wide slanted "S". Moving quickly and with a consumate

skill, a crouched figure took shape. Lines became movement, the

figure became a blur; hair, goggles, then a skier appeared and

solidified, racing downhill. It was perfect, and I said so, implying

that she might stop. "Ahh, wait" Tarla said, then released seemingly

from the inside of her boot a length of thin rope and a collapsed

plasticized hook. She swung the grapple up over the rail of the

mezzanine, then, bloody torso in one hand, she climbed up to

nearly fifteen feet using one hand and snaking the coil between her

feet. She suddenly let go of the rope and became suspended upside

down, holding the rope with her ankles and feet, the torso in both

hands as she swung over the skier. A few quick shakes and a

spattering cascade became...SNOWFLAKES! Blurred snowflakes, with the

skier streaking along, and I realized just how far the artist's vision

exceeded what I had thought as possible for the media.


The last painting was a figure of a man, seated, playing a bamboo

flute outdoors in a courtyard at the end of the day as the sun sets.

He seemed relaxed and satisfied, and something about his expression

seemed to imply that such relaxing was an integral part of his life,

that he had never lost sight of the purpose behind his labors. He had

Slack, I was quite sure.


The Reverend Mutha TarlaStar glanced back over the paintings and said

"OK, I'm in sync now. Time to work." I asked if there was anything

she wanted me to do, and she said she was doing just fine.


My mind wandered as I looked at the paintings. I thought of the tens

of thousands of people faced with arrest and incarceration, victims

of a Drug War waged by those who had lived in this very room, an

openly declared War that was totally inconsistent with the purpose of

government as the protector of it's citizens. The military, denied an

outside target, now turning against it's own country's citizens. The

broken homes, lost jobs, lost lives, the double jepardy of

confiscation and the erosion of privacy. I gazed upon the painting of

the storm and saw just how powerful was the storm, how fragile the



I tried briefly to understand these people, to recognise that in

their minds they felt a right and a duty to pass laws of violence

against those whose only crime was the burning of a plant for the

sole purpose of their own enjoyment. I failed. I did note, however,

that these people did not ever expect personal consequences from

these decisions. They really had felt immune from any responsibility

for the destruction of lives caused by their arbitrary laws. Their

view was that any punishment of citizens was justified "because they

broke the law." Oh well.


I glanced at the Reverend Mutha, sitting crosslegged on the floor,

and was concerned by a distant and introspective look. "You OK,

Tarla?" She blinked, then shook her head slightly as if awakening from

a bad dream. A broad smile crossed her face and her eyes regained

their twinkle as she said "Yeah, I'm fine. I was just thinking...Ahhh.

Yeah, thank you, I'm loving this." She had blood streaked across her

cheek and looked absolutely radiant. She was smiling as she went back

to work, and I thought that a person should always have that look of



I went back to viewing the Slackful flute player, remembering that

Tarla had told me during the plane ride that the Zen-Buddhists use

only one melodic instrument, the Shakuhachi, or bamboo flute. When

one does sitting meditation, it is called Za-zen. When one plays the

Shakuhachi, it is called Sui-zen. I had laughed when she told me that

the Zenfolk believed that there was a perfect sound called

"Itchy-on-Buttsu" that could inspire people to GET UP OFF THEIR ASS

and DO SOMETHING to create world peace. I was struck with the sense

that I was seeing a true pictorial representation of Itchy-on-Buttsu,

that the music being played was the logical extension of the validity

of that figure's life. THAT is how people should look at the end of

the day. Whatever happened to this country, I wondered. At it's

founding, it was recognised that all people should take their rightful

place as sovereign over their government, to demand that the

government remain a servant. To be free to live and free to Live Up.


As I looked around the room I thought of what a shame it would be for

all this great artwork to be lost, doubtless by some drudge with a

bucket and a mop. I started searching, opening purses and briefcases,

and soon found a camera. I caught the Reverend Mutha's eye and she

wrinkled her forehead a bit but didn't raise any objection. I began

taking pictures of each painting, then of the room. I saved the last

five shots and hunted up an envelope, paper, and pen. Finding a stamp

took a bit longer, but I soon had an envelope addressed to the

SubGenius Foundation, PO Box 140306, Dallas, TX 75214 and a brief note

to develop the film for posting to a.b.s. Tarla had just finished and

was beaming. We crossed over to where her line still hung from the

mezzanine, and I followed her up to the balcony.


It was beautiful and I took the remaining pictures, packed and sealed

the envelope, and placed it in a congressional mailbox. Then we both

gazed down for a moment at the huge mosaic, a Dobbshead made of Heads

of Congress.


We opened a window and secured new lines, quickly dropped to the yard

and easily eluded the guards. We got to the rental van, scrubbed down

and changed, and I drove back to BWI. No alarm had been raised yet, as

no one interrupts a Special Session, but soon those in power would

learn of a New Order, one where they would stand accountable for

their own Wars and their own violence. Give them a month to prop up

another batch of hypocrites and let the Saucers take care of them.

Perhaps we should have left a note of explanation, but as they invent

inexplicable laws such as license revocation without rationale or

warning we figured that turnabout was fair play. For now, we only

wanted to go back to Norman and sample some brew. On the plane I

noticed that Reverend Mutha TarlaStar was more relaxed and satisfied

than I had seen her in months; I was strongly reminded of the flute

player. Then I thought that I'd better get an early start on my own

drive home, because knowing Tarla, she will want to celebrate with a

tune, alone with The Big Guy.





Note to the Men in Black: please review the First Amendment and grab a

Websters to distinguish a "threat" from a "story". Please do not send

the guys with the stylish footwear to break down my doors and arrest

me. I am a SubGenius minister and have no need to actually DO anything

to threaten the CONspiracy or become involved at a grassroots level or

vote or anything, because we, like, let the Elder Gods and JHVH-1 do

that kind of stuff. Because we TRUST them to do what is RIGHT, ya

know? So even if this story bothers you just remember that you are



Rev. Random the Other


"You and I are kept silent, non-political, and under control by the

fear of losing everything, anything. We fear the loss of our jobs, our

homes, and our possessions. We fear the loss of our freedom and

because we FEAR that loss, we lose it anyway. We are not free to tell

the truth about what we do, or how we feel because speaking freely can

hurt us. The State controls our speech with its constant veiled

threat. We are a nation of fearful hypocrites."

- Reverend Mutha Tarla