normal context, we interpret it according to our own social customs and beliefs.
It is hardly surprising, therefore, that when Bill Johnson of Midway, North Carolina noticed a strange marking in the interior of a downed tree, he thought it resembled Jesus Christ. complete with robe and halo.
It all started about 10 days ago, Johnson said. A large limb had fallen from a cherry tree in his front yard. The landlord came and cut the broken limb into smaller pieces, stacking the limbs by a bench next to the tree.
Johnson said he first saw the image when he was out walking his dog, Pogo.
“I happened to look down there and I said, ‘That looks like Jesus,'” he said. “It just amazed me.”
The newspaper doesn’t record what Pogo thought of it, but dogs and trees…
And that, really, is the point. Pogo wouldn’t see the same image as Bill, and neither would just about any of Britain’s Baby Boom generation, who would immediately recognise Dr. Who’s most famous adversary.
In fact, certain of the indiginous tribes of Papua New Guinea, who adhere to the Cargo Cult, would actually recognise…but that’s another story.
A while back, in August, a wild-pig wrestling competition in Northern Montana had to be cancelled after only 1 pig could be found within the 10-mile fee range property along the Marias River, where the boars are usually captured for the event.
Well, pigs can be very critical, as George Orwell indicated. Perhaps the wild boars were too fast for their would-be captors
“Is this anything worth giving up an afternoon’s drinking for?” muttered Bill Warrington as he staggered blearily along Bridge Street in search of Vampires and Zombies.A story had recently appeared to his editor in a dream, suggesting that vampires, werewolves and similar had been seen indulging in secret beer-drinking rituals in Warrington’s underground caverns.The information, which came from an unusually unreliable source, suggested that a series of cellars connecting Warrington Station with a secret location was the scene of some strange goings-on.Whether these cellars these cellars were originally constructed as part of storm drain Bunker leading to the Manchester Ship Canal, or were a lost branch of the famous Williamson Tunnels, was of no interest to anyone.
Bill had been tasked to manufacture (investigate , surely? Ed.) a story about the descendants of the tunnel builders,a zombie-like race, known as Irish Navvies, who never saw the light of day. At least when sober.
Lots of important people who know all about Warrington have denied that there were ever any such tunnels. One bloke in a pub drinking a.Vampire’s Kiss said he couldn’t care less. It appeared that there was no story about Zombies.
.But Bill had a source of information on Vampires.
Tracking Deep Bite to his lair in a booth in Porters Ale House was an easy task for a hack with Bill’s drinking habits. He found him sitting there wearing a pair of Grouch Marx spectacles and moustache, drinking a long ale.
But the initial reaction of Warrington’s foremost authority on underground culture was to deny any knowledge about anything.
Worldly-wise Warrington wearily withdrew a wodge and wafted it in front of the dubiously disguised Deep Bite. “Is there something in this hand that would make you remember about vampires?”
First thing I have to say about vampires. We do NOT… I repeat NOT… Sparkle in the daylight. Last thing I want to hear is another mortal swooning over Edward Cullen!
It has been reported in the British Psychological Society, that Vampires may be classified as succesful psycopaths who are ruthless, callous, fearless and arrogant.The report says that thanks to their superior self-control and conscientiousness, rather than landing in prison, they end up as company chief executives, university chancellors and Queen’s Council barristers. What do you say to that?
There are a lot of famous people who are actually vampires. You can tell who they are, because to make them look ‘normal’ they have to apply a LOT of fake tan. I can not tell you their names however, as we are all sworn to secrecy, however, If I say “Cheap as chips” or “Supermarket Sweep” I think you will know what I mean.
OK, how about this, then? Leading vampire expert Stephen Marche, writing in Esquire magazine on 13th Oct said,“Vampires have overwhelmed pop culture because young straight women want to have sex with gay men.” He went on to say “vampires are normal. They’re not Goth, they’re not scary, they’re not even that weird.”
We do not like the emo clique at all. They are annoying beyond compare. We are not as dangerous as people might think however. Yes we do bite, etc… however the Were’s are worse, with all that hair, all over their bodies.
And its not just the Werewolves, there are weres of pretty much every creature out there, including the weresquirrell… You can spot them easily by there huge red beards and their strange habbits when eating nuts. To try to blend in, they often just call themselves ‘furries’.
At this point our reporter made an excuse and left.
As he drifted off into the night, Bill wondered what the physicists Costas Efthimiou and Sohang Gandhi would have made of these revelations. After all, they had recently published a report proving that vampires didn’t exist.
They argued that, if vampires had first appeared on 1st January 1600, then the human race would have been eaten up by June 1602. They had gone on to say;
“Another philosophical principal related to our argument is the truism given the elaborate title, the anthropic principle. This states that if something is necessary for human existence, then it must be true since we do exist. In the present case, the nonexistence of vampires is necessary for human existence. Apparently, whomever devised the vampire legend had failed his college algebra and philosophy courses.”
Obviously, they never met Deep Bite.
Since this story first came to light, a significant silence has settled on Warrington, which has more than 100K residents. Not a single one has commented on this story. A conspiracy? Or something even less sinister?
This was an introduction for Western audiences to the Japanese perception of underworld honour, contrasting with the big Mafia-based films of the 70’s, The Godfather, Prizzi’s Honour etc. One of the defining moments in the film is where Robert Mitchum cuts off his little finger to prove he is a man with the same moral sense as his Japanese confederates.
This action was intended to be seen as a substitution for ritual seppuku, where the pain and the determination involved reflect a serious moral obligation, or giri, on the part of the person committing the act.
But cutting off your fingers can get out of hand.
Just the other week, a 19-year-old student, Sun Zhongjie, who had only arrived in Shanghai 2 days earlier to work for the Shanghai Pangyuan Construction Machinery Engineering Co Ltd felt compelled to prove his innocence in a dramatic gesture appropriate to the severity of the charge against him – driving an illegal taxi cab.
“I’m happy,” sobbed the 19-year-old from Henan province after he received his finger back an apology from Shanghai City Administration and Law Enforcement Bureau for Pudong New Area District.
Such an extravagant response to petty bureaucracy would surely have struck a chord with dear Omar Khayyam, whose original draft of his Ode To A Traffic Ticket was recently found to have contained these lines:
The moving finger writes, and, having writ, Falls off Moves on: nor all your piety nor wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.
Speeding camel, my arse.
The huddled encampment had come into view hours ago, but had never seemed to get any closer as our tiny convoy negotiated the springtime Mongolian desert. At last we pulled up, and Ted stretched with relief before beginning to unload our paraphernalia. As we looked anxiously round for signs of the scientific expedition we had travelled thousands of miles to film, our interpreter,
Genghis, went to greet the headman outside his yurt. The atmosphere was intense.
“Juju man no here, boss,” said Genghis, “Disfella still make ready”. A keen student of Eng. Lit. – B.A. Mumbai (failed) – Genghis had his own idea of how an interpreter should speak.
“Any other camera crews arrived?”
We were still the first.
The race had begun nearly 3 weeks earlier, in the suburban headquarters of Warrington-online.com. The Editor came rushing up to our table excitedly, narrowly missing the Starbucks waitress, who was clearing away the coffee cups.
“This has got to be the story of the century,” he wheezed, collapsing into a chair. “A major zoological expedition to find a long-lost species of wildlife!”
“David Attenborough going after the Abominable Snowman is he?” asked Ted, slurping noisily at the dregs of his Frappucino.
“Better than that.” The Editor produced a sheaf of printouts from various Web pages, “This story is all over the Internet and Twitter’s on fire. The Fortean Times is going to look for the Mongolian Death Worm!”
“Again?” yawned Ted, idly scratching his beer-gut. “Didn’t they go a few years ago?”
“No, mate, that was a Czech.” And so the story unfolded.
The first known reference in English seems to have come from Professor Roy Chapman Andrews’ 1926 book On the Trail of Ancient Man. He had talked with the Mongolian Prime Minister who wanted to catch the Mongolian Death Worm, or Olgoi Khorkhoi, because the worm had killed one of his relatives.
Quite well-respected in his own time, Professor Chapman Andrews achieved posthumous fame as the inspiration for the character of Indiana Jones.
Inspiration of a different sort was provided by a short story about Olgoi-Khorkhoi from the Russian palaeontologist, Ivan Yefremov. In 1942/1943 he wrote about a worm, which resembled a bloody intestine, that could grow to the length of a small man and mysteriously kill people at great distance, possibly with poison or electricity.
Filled with such scientific material was the boyhood reading of the foremost investigator of the Mongolian Death Worm, Czech author Ivan Mackerle. When he grew up, he searched for the Worm on two occasions in 1990 and 1992, using night-vision goggles and camera-equipped ultralight planes.
The Mongolian Dea
th Worm was brought to the general attention of the English -speaking public by British zoologist Karl Shuker in his 1996 book The Unexplained. This was followed a year later by his Fortean Studies paper on this subject, presented to his colleagues, among whom was Ivan Mackerle.
The presentation must have had a stimulating effect, as in 2003, Adam Davies and Andy Sanderson from Extreme Expeditions travelled to Mongolia to have a look for the fabled beast , funded by The Fortean Times.
This did not deter a second expedition in July, 2006, conducted by the reality-television series, Destination Truth, who, sadly, did not find any truth in the reality of Olgoi Khorkhoi when they reached their destination.
And now, July 2009, just in time for the start of the silly season, New Zealand TV entertainment journalist David Farrier and cameraman Christie Douglas were about to spend two weeks in the Gobi desert. They believe that explosives are the best way to find the “intestine worm” as it is said to be attracted to tremors.
Any suggestion that they may have been influenced by films about Graboids is, of course, unfair.
The widely-differing methods of investigation, and the fact that no expedition has yet succeeded has come as no surprise to Mongolian scientist D. Tsevegmed, who was quoted in the Ulan Bator News as saying that “Mongolians consider that there are 33 different Gobi Deserts, and there are two kinds of death worm in the Gobi.”
“But these articles all say the same thing,” objected Ted. “And I don’t see anything published by scientific journals or other reputable sources.”
“What are you talking about? There are reports here from Cryptozoology News, the Australian Courier Mail, and the Ulan Bator Post and Mongol News. Plus there’s a piece in Wikipedia. You don’t think anyone would put a joke article there, do you?” nodded The Editor, basking in self-delusion. “I can see it now. It’ll be ‘Build A Better Mousetrap’ all over again. Just get confirmation of the Mongolian Death Worm, and everyone and his dog will want to RSS our feeds. All you need are your mobile phones. Take some pictures, record a sound bite or two, blog it on your laptop, and Robert’s your father’s brother. It’ll be a great adventure for the two of you. Is that clear, Bill?”
“Right,” said Ted
Events had moved swiftly after that. The Editor pawned his new Swiss army knife and mortgaged his greenhouse to finance the trip. I had topped up my mobile, and Ted bought a new battery for the laptop. And now here we were, following Genghis into an acrid, smoke-filled yurt that bore the legend – Teahouse of the Death Worm Moon.
We gazed round in astonishment. The wicker walls were papered over with photos and drawings of Olgoi Khorkhoi – the very same photos we had seen on the Internet. Pride of place had been given to a full-size poster of Raiders Of The Lost Ark, with Harrison Ford’s name crossed out and Roy Chapman Andrews written in shaky bright red crayon.
At the far end, a rickety camp table was covered with plasticine rejects from Jurassic Park VI , and a wizened Japanese in steel-rim spectacles and a topi sat behind it, looking for all the world like Mickey Rooney in Breakfast At Tiffany’s and painting eyes on what appeared to be a cross between a Chinese dragon and a Martian stick insect. Every now and then he reached out and tilted the head of a bored-looking iguana whose tongue cast after flies with the world-weary insouciance characteristic of all artists’ models.
“Disfella Hirohito, boss,” said Genghis proudly. “Him very famous man. Work on olla big ones – Godzilla, King Kong, Krakatoa East Of Java.”
“Special effects?” said Ted, doubtfully.
“Him make Death Worm so juju men not go way disappointed. Last time he get here too late.”
It turned out that Hirohito had made a career out of following myth hunters and paranormal investigators. Staying just out of sight, he would provide them with tantalising glimpses of whatever it was they were seeking. Perhaps it was just as well that he was never up close and personal since he tended to have what might be called a gestalt approach to his craft – more Rolf Harris than Gauguin.
This lack of fine detail had got him into trouble more than once. He it was who had dressed his pet and uber-model, Iggy, in a skirt and tried to get him discovered as the Kimono Dragon. On another occasion, he had been stymied by Dian Fossey, who had been quick to publish her book before he could photoshop Godzillas in the Mist.
His career was now at a cusp, and when a villager came in with news that the New Zealanders had gone to the 32nd Gobi by mistake, he seemed to lose heart. All this effort for nothing.
It was close to noon by now, and the metal table top had heated to an uncomfortable degree. Iggy gazed piteously at Ted, lifting first one foot, then another, rocking from side to side in an effort to get some relief.
“Poor little monster,” remarked Ted to Hirohito. “Can’t you put a cloth on the table for him? Then he wouldn’t have to rock so much.”
No one else paid any attention. The feeling of disappointment was palpable. No scientists, no discoveries, and more importantly, no tourist trade spin-offs. We picked up our mobiles and Twittered to the world at large that the Mongolian Death Worm had once again declined to put in an appearance.
After a final round of farewell handshakes with our hosts we commiserated with the little make-up artist on the failure of yet another of his enterprises and wished him good luck for the future. But where would he go from here?
As we turned to depart, Hirohito crouched in front of his pet, swaying from side to side in time with the iguana’s dance. His spectacles gleamed with the fanaticism of one who has discovered the Holy Grail as he picked Iggy up and whispered a mantra, “Rock Less Monstah.”