THE SAGA OF GORDON THE RUINER by Stanislav, a young Polish Plumber- Part 1

Book One.

A Ruinous Feud.

Posted by stanislav,a young polish plumber to Old Holborn at 01 February 2009 15:56

It is in an old, roofless, dilapidated building, without windows or doors, more a few piles of rubble than a building, set in a devastated, once-urban wilderness, two hundred years hence, it is night-time, a handful of dirty, hungry people huddle together.

An Elder speaks: “Gather close, where the walls meet, against the cold, we last few people of the Tribe, we, the remnants of a once mighty people, throw more shitcake on the fire, set Watchmen against the coming of Others, and I will tell you the tale - as my Sire told me and his Sire told him and his Sire told him, back, way back, since the coming of Gordon’s Ruin. These, children and friends, are the legends and commentaries, the hymns and prayers of stanislav the Polish plumber; make unto each other the sign of Ruin and say, after me, the first commandment of stanislav the Pole: Up against the wall, motherfuckers………”

All: “Up against the wall, motherfuckers; up against the wall, motherfuckers, up against the wall, motherfuckers.”

“And Gordon the Ruiner was born, some say hatched, in what were called the BadJocklands o’ Fife, far distant, ten nights march, in a place of ever-warring tribes, of filth and disease, where men dressed and acted as women and women were thrashed like mad dogs and all were an abomination and it was a land of inebriate, cross-dressing, wife-beating, child-molesting Jock sonsafuckingbitches…”

“and it was a land of inebriate, cross-dressing, wife-beating, child-molesting Jock sonsafuckingbitches”

“And Gordon’s father was an Voodoo Witch Doctor of this Tribe and the Keeper of the Bones and Spells and Curses and lived in an fucking manse, which is an Ancients’ word for an knocking shop and an place of Devil worship and infamy and he did go among the tribe and rebuke them and take from them their tokens and goods - as such they had in the days of Plenty, before Ruin claimed all - and spend it upon women’s undergarments for himself. And he was called also an clergyperson, which was a word used by the Ancients to indicate an defiler of children, an filthy fucking bastard.

And Gordon’s birth brought Darkness at the break of Noon and he was seen as one afflicted, sour and ugly but the old tribes did not, as do we, set the mutant out for the dogs to kill and consume, but nourished him instead, for this was Before Ruination came at Gordon’s hand, and there was food and shelter and thanks to stanislav the plumber, water sprang from magic pipes beneath the earth - honest and not invent, pipes, filled with clean water grew everywhere and the Ancients, Before Ruin, knew not of drinking from puddles, or collecting rainwater, as is our custom, now, now that Gordon the Ruinous, skulking and plotting and lying and feuding, has forever laid waste all that the Ancients had made. And Before Ruin, shit was not hoarded and mixed with straw, by the children, for fuel, but washed away down magic pipes into the dead seas. Imagine, water for all, as much as they could drink, so abundant that they splashed it all over themselves, several times a day. Our chronicler saw to it, stanislav was his name and plumbing – or planting and growing the magic water pipes and cutting through all the shit – was his game, Up against the wall motherfuckers, his constant cry, as Ruin’s cold hand gripped the Place ”

“Up against the wall, motherfuckers.”

“And as Gordon grew, even his Sire, the Preacherman and tight-fisted Presbyterian sonofafuckingbitch……”

“Tight-fisted Presbyterian sonofafuckingbitch.”

“…looked on him and said unto his woman, this one must go away and be taught bribery, blackmail and deceit, bullying and cowardice, for he has about him the look of an cunt, an right cunt. And he will flourish in the world of cunts and we shall all prosper from his cuntishness. Look, he cannot speak but only stutter, his jaw jerks even as unto an fiddler’s elbow, dropping like an hangman’s trap-door; down and up, down and up, gulp and spasm, twitch and shudder, as though he were plagued or poxed. And look, ye, at his hands, all bitten and gnawed even until they bleed. This is no ordinary youth; this is an freak, an control freak.

And so Gordon went unto an cuntish gathering place and practiced the dark art of cunting or hooning and after many moonturns, came down from the BadJocklands, where sister mated with brother and mother with son, unto this Place, then called the place of England, an merry place, filled with carefree, flirtatious, dancing men called Morris, gaily striking sticks together, singing fol-de-rol and yo-ho-ho, setting forth, after handsome maidens, on Bright May Mornings, eating the multi-hued fishcreatures of Saint Rick of Padstow, the poultry of St Jamie of Sainsbury and, it is fabled, licking the Crème Brulee off of the Tits of the blessed Saint Nigella; not for the Ancients the foraged rats and weeds, which form our sustenance, the snar-ed blackbird and sparrow, the root porridge and flat bread. But then came Gordon. And with him he brought cuntishness and stupidity and greed and vanity and cruelty and set to his lifework of Ruination and Despair.

And he did promptly prohibit the dancing Morrises and much else of the England place until it was said that one could not walk down the fucking road without breaking the laws of Gordon or being killed by his men-at-arms. And strangers came from Elsewhere at Gordon’s urging and Gordon the Ruinous Jackal gave unto them the homes and trades and even the services of the hospitallers and apothecaries of the Ancients and the ones from Elsewhere, in their millions, gave Gordon their support, for it was not their Place and they cared not for it one trifling bit, not even an flying fuck but cared only for Gordon’s plunder which he did share with them gladly in exchange for their acclamation. And lo, as he curtailed the freedoms of the Ancients, he celebrated by eating snot, before the eyes of the people, even from his own nose.”

“Eating snot, before the eyes of the people, even from his own nose.”

“And in those days, stanislav tells, were viewing boxes, powered by the Gods in the above Place, in which magic happened and Visions of tiny people, much like, even copies of real people, spoke out loud from the innards of the box and there were, too, before Ruin, other Places, beyond. And there other tribes could look into their viewing boxes, in a place that was called All Over The Fucking World. And in All Over The Fucking World the multitudes who then lived, in plenty, Before Ruin, could see Gordon, the filthy, snot-eating Ruiner of all things, but did only laugh and deride and not, as they should have, put him out for Death’s Harvest Home, the horrible fucking bastard.”

“Put him out for Death’s Harvest Home, the horrible fucking bastard. Put him out for Death’s Harvest Home, the horrible fucking bastard ”

“And Gordon fell in with Kinnockio the Welsh Clown and Blair the Grinning Butcher and Imelda the Greedy Scouse Gob and was at once at home among them for they were all useless, idle, thieving cunts……”

“Useless, idle, thieving cunts.”

“…. Feuding, hating each other, bound together by Treachery’s harsh cords, steeped in offence and foulness, pious and righteous their discourse, squalid and filthy their habits, all, as the Ancients said, fur coat and no knickers.”

“All fur coat and no knickers.”

Kinnockio the Clown was then leader of Gordon’s Tribe but was an piece of worthless garbage, tripe; an spluttering charlatan. stanislav tells how Kinnockio, the Welsh Git, could not walk in an straight line without falling over on top of his woman, Greedy Glenys Slime could not speak but only issue interminable, repetitive proclamations and in a contest between Kinnockio the Git and an twittering, walking, talking fencepost called The Major, the people of the Ancient tribes so detested the worthless, spluttering Kinnockio that he lost the contest, even though he should have won, the horrible, thieving Welsh bastard.

“The horrible Welsh git. Up against the wall, motherfuckers and ginger bastards.”

“Kinnockio whined and windbagged that the place of England deserved to have him in charge, botching things up, deserved his sticky Welsh fingers in their pockets, his cawing, sing-song reproving voice in their ears, bleated that the scribes had done for him, The Last Pilgrim Exeunt Must Snuff out the Candle, they had said, should Kinnochio become Chief of Chiefs. And after the horrible and stupid Welsh git was sent to Away in Brussels, a place of thieving and embezzlement and perversion, where he and Glenys and their vile spawn made merry, came another Jockman to lead, an oily, puffed-up sanctimonious bastard, an lawyer, which is an Ancients’ word for thief, and his name was called John Smith - or, in some versions of the Saga, John Smith’s Best Bitter - and he anointed both the Grinning Butcher and the Snot-eating Freak as his heirs and not an moment too soon, children, for Old Smith did die straightways, from an sudden illness or was poisoned and killed by younger men of his own tribe – Byersites, Milburnites, Boatengites and by their witches, Margaret and Patricia and Ruth Man Kelly and Harriet SourSister and by Imelda the Cavernous Scouse Gob, who stood to profit the most. – Quick, fresh shitcakes for the fire, the blood thins and chills the heart as the Saga of Ruin unfolds.

And after the Deceasement of Smith the Pompous, Gordon did plot and intrigue against all and blackmail and bully any in his path to secure unto himself the Chieftain’s role which was his by right, he claimed, as a Son of the Fucking Manse. But his tribesmen knew that others too, in addition to his kin, would see Gordon as defective, misshapen, maladroit and untrustworthy and Gordon’s paramour, call-ed Sneaky Pete, acclaimed, instead, Blair the Grinning Butcher and his woman, Imelda, which event threw Gordon into an rage for the rest of his life, the horrible bad-tempered tantruming snot-eating fucking bastard.

“The horrible bad-tempered tantruming snot-eating fucking bastard.”

“Rejected thus for his vileness and ugliness of spirit, Gordon the Ruiner, cursing, thwarted, secured unto himself an place behind the Throne, as Treasurer, from whence he harried and disrupted the doings of Tony and Imelda the Slatternly Freeloader, who, thieves, cowards and liars themselves, could not restrain the malice of Gordon the Ruiner, nor withstand it. Gordon, feuding, even, in Night-time’s foetid loneliness, with himself, and plotting, whispering contagion and malfeasance, spiteful and vindictive so conspired against the Grinning Blairs they were compelled to abandon the Cunt Throne to Gordon and set themselves to mendicancy, to begging, in the place called All Over The Fucking World, which no longer exists. And by means of numbers pulled from the air - or, as stanislav tells it, Rubbish fucking tractor production statistics – Gordon persuaded some, called Hefferites and Kavanaghites and Toynbeeites and ToiletsMaguireites that he was an genius and an saint when in truth he was nothing but an fucked-up mouthy cunt with shit for brains, with an disposition so vile that people cowered from his rages, which were frequent and Gordon the Ruinous spared not even himself from his rages, so stupid was he that he had once bashed an eye out from his own head and was good even for fuck all… “

“Good even for fuck all..”

“…….and since youth he had blethered, Oh, Forgive me for being a useless, cack-handed, clumsy, ham-fisted, lumbering, pasty-faced, lardy, stuttering nincompoop, it is because I am a person of one-eye-edness, not that I ever mention it to gain sympathy (wink, wink).

stanislav is not clear about the legend of the rocking horse but it is fabled among other Ancients scholars that Gordon, among his male intimates, did often act and dress as an infant, an gross, vile, bloated infant wearing nothing but an cloth around his privates, into which cloth he could warmly and moistly soil himself and be, for a few minutes, happy, squelching in warm shit, shit filling his snotty nostrils, shit oozing-out from the towel, down his fat thighs; shit Paradise. And it was said that one of his counsellors did fashion an image of Gordon the Shitty Ruiner, sat astride an rocking horse, a pink, naked, blubbery babyman, clad in only a shit towel, or an nappy, pouting. And, for fear of it being shown to the Ancients in the place of England and in All Over The Fucking World, Gordon, the Ruinous Shitman Gordon, would permit the image-maker every license, tolerate his every offence until, eventually, terrified, he appointed him as Deputy Ruiner, which, for the Ancients, marked the true beginning of the end, with the coming anew of Sneaky Pete, now Lord Peter, the Foul Cocksucker, the Age of Ruin had properly commenced and an ruinous feud poisoned all, beyond help or redemption...……”

“The night blows, now, cold and rainy and we must find shelter from the storm, behind piled rocks with sticks sharpened against Beasts and Others, who would bite and tear at us, steal our shitcake, our dried ratflesh and all our treasures. Tomorrow is an day of Scavenging, we might find an tin or two of baking beans, in some Holy Retail Ruin. And if so there will be Feasting and I shall continue the Saga of Gordon the Ruiner. Make, friends and children, the Sign of Ruin to one another and say, after me, the second commandment of stanislav the plumber:”

“And they shall be taken, all, and given an quick rub-down with an housebrick and dropp-ed down an mineshaft”

"And so should it have happened, Sleep well, itinerant paupers, ragged and frightened, cold and huingry, in the wreckage and squalor left us by Gordon the Ruinous. Amen"

Posted by stanislav,a young polish plumber to Old Holborn at 01 February 2009 15:56