The Berserker Files

By…?

So where does one begin? Right after zero if memory serves, and memories are all I have that aren’t yet residing in cool crime lab cellars, neatly labelled in hundreds of jars as ‘SITTING AROUND IN MY PANTS – THE ALBUM’ by the comedy group ‘No Cause For A Llama’, the debut, slash, crime of the century.
If only it was a crime. Singular. Alone. At least that would have been manageable. Instead, I had to deal with the innumerable slings and arrows and whips and chains and restraints and slicers that come with the job as ‘Victim’. But do not be misled by the sombre tone of my tome (or those guys with a marble under a cup) for though Andrew, Gareth, Nick and Phil remain unconvictedly responsible for the total dissemination of my material being, through it, we all became the best of friends and unlike myself - Inseparable. These accounts are from what The Daily Mail called ‘The Berserker Files’. The secret diary I kept of my ordeal under Llama studios during the recording of ‘SITTING AROUND IN MY PANTS – THE ALBUM’, or what the New Oxford Dictionary has listed as:

Mutilatorysubrecordial: To endure a most heinous thing under the recording sessions of ‘SITTING AROUND IN MY PANTS – THE ALBUM’, by No Cause For A Llama.

DAY…?
I awoke, and I was simply there. I can't offer any plausible explanation, and to this day (Tuesday) still cannot comprehend how I went from up and coming Egyptologist in the cosy bosom of Oxford University to the chafing restraints of the Llama dungeons where Andrew Irvine, Over-rulerer of the Obsidious Subunderchamber quite clearly was the boss. This was made clear to me in no small terms. In fact the contract proffered upon my arrival was packing a font that could be described as very large.
Just a few minutes before, I had been transcribing a text from a Hermetic order in Iran dated some three thousand years ago in the buxom library of My Heaving Breast University. Apparently, the Gnostic tradition of the time foretold of a secret chamber where the wisdom of Angra Mainyu, most ancient and knowledgeable of Persian Gods, stored all the knowledge that he had knowlegised. I remember reading of signs and portents that would make themselves clear when the time came to soak the world in its wisdom. Then a heavy lull came over me, and my desire to sleep couldn’t be denied.
Before I befell the befouler however, I had a dream. Ra the sun God was having a barbeque but couldn't find his matches. His rage shook the universe and split the skies above Giza where a gold capstone on top of the Great Pyramid was emitting a great energy into the universe. A solid beam of gold pierced the deep belly of the night sky when I realised I had Bic lighter in my pocket, so I stepped up to the barbeque and lit it up, right under the nose of a mightily impressed Ra.
This is the same dream that that was forced out of me as soon as I awoke in the Lords Lair. The end of ‘The No Cause for a Llama Official Mission Statement on the life of a theatrical artiste (or “why we do what we do”)’ was belting my kidneys from speakers placed behind me, as the one named Gareth, (but whom I was to address as ‘The Welshfiend General’) screamed like Satan’s ferret. The pain was nothing short of anything and I readily spilt my guts, then told him all about the dream.
I won't reveal my name other than to say its Simon. My friends call me Simon. The Dark Musician never used my name, as if I were a non-sentient thing like a cardboard box or straw hat. When he did find a need to address me, he would usually scream "On your knees Cardboard Box!" or "Finish your shit moose Straw Hat!" As you can't imagine these were confusing times. Of course there were the tender moments too when he would call me Sputum or his little Cuntfish, but even then I would always have to finish my shit moose. The natural assumption is that the man was mad, and during the first six months of my incarceration this was mine too (albeit, a madman who defied the laws of physics, logic, occasionally gravity, and most definitely cricket), but now, when I reflect upon those crazy times I think of him more as really REALLY mad.

DAY…?
The Obsidious Subunderchamber was only ever lit by a small fire in the middle of the room and I never did see him feed that little flame with any wood or fuel. The constant flickering light played havoc with my already tortured senses, so when it came to the composition of ‘The Ring Pull Song’ I was barely able to cope with what followed.
Losing ones legs for the sake of a song may seem unfair to most but I can be thankful they were at least removed by stealth. I had just finished my daily serving of lightly aerated body waste when Nick von Schlippe (or The Enforcer, as I was to know him) entered the room humming a new tune excitedly. Releasing me from the restrainer, I was ordered to march around the room on the pattern marked on the floor in what looked like blood. A closer inspection revealed it to be my blood. This particular day I was made to do so under threat of paper cuts, for he had armed himself with a ream of A4 paper. The pattern on the floor was clearly the Eye Of Horus, and the sound of a giant heartbeat, that I had to stay in step with, came from what seemed like the fire in the middle of the Eye. And so I marched, to the ever-steady tempo, like a slave ship galley. The mad march continued for hour upon hour, sweat poured from my brow and my pleas for sanity ignored. My legs grew weary, a numb jolt with every step I took until I could bare it no more. Collapsing on the floor I raised my head only to see him smiling benevolently upon me. “It is done,” he said, and with that he screamed, “ALLLLLLRIGHT WEMBLEY...YOU ROCK!!” and left the room.
  My relief was short lived though, for when I attempted to stand up I found two neatly trimmed stumps where my aching legs had once been. I swam in and out of shocked consciousness for the next five days as my mind grappled with the incomprehensible. Once when I awoke, I swear I saw the one they all called Phil (Although I was never allowed to acknowledge this man’s existence at all) sitting on a barstool made from guess whose legs, sipping a Pina Colada. I can’t be sure, but nothing would surprise me now.
The upside to this was that he felt I no longer needed to remain permanently restrained and so I was allowed to roam freely around the dirt floor of the dungeon. I fashioned a sort of large shoe from my redundant trouser legs, which I wrapped around my stumps for comfort and explored the room for a weapon of some sort or a way out. After five exhaustive hours I had discovered the room was completely empty and hermetically sealed so I went to plan B, which was to curl up in a foetal position and wail for my mummy (though curling without legs is more of a slight bending.)
Andrew, or, OHJEEESUSNOO! As I had affectionately started to call him, came down and comforted me in his one big hairy and one big shaved arm, cooing to me like a little child until my sobbing faded. It's those moments, more than the sheer terror, which I think I'll always remember about those crazy days we spent together in that little room we called home. Well, he did anyway. He thought it a great laugh to yell, "Honey, I'm home" when he came down from an ‘Uncle Fred’ recording session topside and poke me with the pointy end of a battered and sweat-soaked guitar. The Welshfiend General found it even more amusing to take blood samples from my stumps for his mysterious experiments. It was well known that he took a fanatical interest in all things bacterial and microscopic and would often peer at me through two petri dishes. It was this phase of our relationship that led to the song "Me & My Amoeba". Every time I hear that song, it brings back the pungent odour of my own blood and terror that defined the recording process, like it does with so many married couples.

DAY…?
One afternoon I awoke from a mushroom-induced coma to see all four of my captors standing over me in brilliant white suits. The one they called Phil, his face in silhouette, flicked a switch and I was bathed in the most incredible white light. As they clicked their fingers in time to the chorus of ‘Ooh Heather’ I passed out and had another dream. I was in a shop window. Around me were dozens of naked bodies performing the most depraved acts imaginable. Men on women, women on women, cats on dogs, all manner of beast and machine. This was obviously some deep-seated sexual repression within my subconscious. Or it could’ve been Amsterdam, for I could see the Oosterdokskade post office in the background. The open-mouthed Dutch pedestrians were crowding ‘round to witness the sordid and noisy spectacle of which I was the star. As I looked down at my naked body, adorned multiple times with the word ‘Hathor’ and the image of a cow, I noticed my bleeding stumps and started to panic. Suddenly the white light was back and I was ‘home’ in my cell. My captors and their suits were nowhere near. It must have been some delirium brought on by my desperate situation. That is until I noticed a small bunch of tulips in the corner of the room. I started screaming once again, which was strangely comforting.
There were some happy times too. ‘The Terrible Juggler’ although performed with an onion and both my testes (crucial to the recording apparently) found my masters in a jovial and relaxed mood, and during the recording of ‘The Ballad of Johnny Rattlesnake’ we had a square dance. But those times were few and far between. The Dark Musician would soon whip me once again into submission. Forcing plectrums under my eyelids and stabbing me in the neck with the end of a USB cable he kept sharpened for such occasions.

DAY…?
One humid night the man they all called Phil moved like a heavy, hairy shadow into my dungeon and beckoned me to follow him. Since I no longer cared what happened to me I followed like the obedient dog I had become. He took me into a room that contained a guitar amp, some cheesy rolls and dip and some mysterious stone tablets. I peered closely at one of the stones and saw the word ‘Abraxas’. Clang! The large stone door closed behind me plunging me into darkness. Quickly I fished out a candle I had cunningly forged from my own earwax and lit it with a match I had built from floor scum. Abraxas was the name of a god who incorporated both Good and Evil, sometimes even being associated with the dual nature of Lucifer himself. ‘Abraxas’ stones were mostly used as amulets or charms by Gnostic sects. Interesting. Using my training in Egyptology I was able to decipher further engravings linking Abraxas with the Eye of Horus and some of the Persian Gods of Pre-Zoroastrian origin. My interest piqued, I hardly noticed the heavy stone door opening behind me. “We need a scream at the end of ‘Sitting Around In My Pants’” said a sombre yet surprisingly polite voice. I turned to see The Enforcer standing in the doorway.
As I was unceremoniously dumped on the floor of the Obsidious Subunderchamber I overheard The Dark Musician whisper, “How much does he know?” to the Welshfiend General. “He knows bugger all boyo!” came the mysterious reply before the pain began in earnest once more. Pain. Pain. I never thought I could endure such pain as this. Normally I would blackout, but this time I focused on the conversation. Several times I heard the word ‘Abraxas’ and the names of several Greek and Persian deities. I don’t know how they did it but the Dark Musician was somehow able to remove the bones of my forearms and upper torso and play them as a kind of marimba on the song ‘I’m A Dick’. The amazing thing was how he was able to reinsert them with no apparent scarring.

DAY…?
How long was I there. I wish I could tell you. The little fire never went out and I was never allowed to see the sunlight. But as suddenly as it began, it ended. I found myself back in My Heaving Breast University at the very same desk I was taken from all those days, weeks or years before. The last thing I remember of that baffling period of my life was all four Llamas standing in the Obsidious Subunderchamber, each holding half a banana and a braided Persian amulet. As the ear-splitting music erupted from the speakers I summoned all the knowledge buried deep in my subconscious and yelled “I AM ATUM - SUPREME GOD OF THE HELIOPOLITIAN ENNEAD” Not knowing what the hell I meant. As the smiles faded from The Dark Musician, The Welshfiend General, The Enforcer and Phil, I experienced another heavy lull, and awoke back here. I have both legs, both testes and a complete set of internal organs. How it happened, why it happened or even if it happened at all, I’ll never know. I do however have a new CD in my Hi-Fi cabinet, 'SITTING AROUND IN MY PANTS – THE ALBUM’ by No Cause For A Llama.

Simon…? is now Head of Egyptology at My Heaving Breast University – Oslo. He can also rock like a mother.