In a timespace drenched in the pandemoniac haze of oblivion, an eternal freakshow unfurled, a wild tale muttered through the geodesic dominions of debauchery. Within this twisted land, a cosmic serpent, the Freakin’ Ouroboros, slithered in a mind-bending dimethyltryptamine trip. It embodied the essence of möbius’ abortion, a creature of endless lunacy, engaged in a full-throttle rampage, attacking its own alchemical tail with an elvish fervour, ensnared in its own kaleidoscopic loop.
Facing that serpent of yin was Jack, the mighty Dragonslayer, a knight decked out in armour festooned with psychedelic hieroglyphs of mathematical proofs that unveiled the universe’s easter eggs. His sword, a demented relic of the guano realms, sparkled with the essence of batshit righteousness. His trillion-years old job was to confront the damn cobra, to stomp out its nutty self-referencing tendencies, and shield the muscarinic fields from its acid-infested shenanigans.
But, there was a desaturating enchantment wrapped around the golden Dragonslayer’s heart. It wasn’t a monochromatic craving to utterly obliterate his adversary, but an all-out dedication to the the wacky quest itself. He revelled in the incompleteness of the tripped-out chase, shadowing a hallucinating victory that was always just a headspin away, a quest fit for a bunch of madmen in endless deserts of peyotes.
In every loony encounter, the battle-tired Dragonslayer held the power to deliver a final, whacked-out blow, to bring an end to the Freakin’ Ouroboros’s reign of unhinged entropy. And yet, he hesitated, for he knew that without the serpent, his world would unravel into nothingness. The armoured knight had grown fond of the infinite tension, and the absence of his fucki’nemesis would leave him in the middle of a cosmic hangover, devoid of a reason to keep riding the crazy train of virtue.
As the epochs spun like a drugged-out carousel, a kamikaze hyperlink blossomed between these two unfathomable beings. During their intermissions from the madhouse battle, the yang-infused Dragonslayer caught microwave background spectra of the Freakin’ Ouroboros in its moments of utter mandelbrot-like psychosis. He watched the serpent’s brain-melting spiral, like a derailed rollercoaster. Strangely, a sense of warped compassion surged within the galactic double helix incarcerating him. Jack realized that the celestial viper, too, was caught up in its own bonkers cycle of fertile creation and hyperinflationary destruction.
In the ever-twisting non-Euclidean wheel of chaos and order, civilization hatched as an accidental byproduct of their eternal freakshow. I can still hear the puzzling jazz of such eggs cracking. The unwatchable ballet between the dragon and its slayer, although totally gonzo, became the crucifix where lunatic ideas and solar principles were forged. Bloody humans and their termite-like skyscraper societies, thriving on the offbeat tension between these two fuckers, emerged. From what exactly, you ask? From the ayahuascan fires of their perpetual vomits, of course.
The legend raved that, despite their tentacled differences and the never-ending nature of their alien brawl, the Freakin’ Ouroboros and the divine Dragonslayer played vital roles in the grand spectacle of existence. They were the autokinetic guardians of the bizarro equilibrium between the braids of anarchy and harmony, like characters straight out of your family. Think mom and dad. They reminded everyone that even within the throes of an anamorphic drama, the beanstalk seeds of titanic civilizations could take a square root and fibonaccin’ the fuck out of there.
In this way, as their dryadic roots entwined in a timeless fractal spiral, progressing through messiah-zoic eons, just as cryptic hominoids had evolved from a Bombadil fantasy into a full-blown cyber-reality-show of the future—a future governed by triple-entry accounting and self-replicating 3D-printing bots. Do not despair, little mantis. The moon and the sun will continue to shine. Something must power the parasitic machinery.
João Pedro Valente