Okay, if you didn't read the first storybook then, I swear to Volrath, you are shit outta luck, if'n you wanted to read that book I mean. This isn't the first book, it isn't even the second, it's the third... That may seem weird as this is the second storybook I write... I'll get to that in a, well... a second. Right after this preface to the prefarce… whatever. 

     I don't worry too much about the English rules of spelling and grammer, yeah, it shows, but sometimes I spell things a certain way because I mean to, or make it bold or capitalized, italicized, oversized, undersized or have it alone (I also have ADD... whatever). It says something about whatever I'm talkin’ ‘bout, you just have to figure out if there’s somethin’ hidden in the words, if’n it's a new or made up word, or if I'm just that bad of a spellor, heehee, I am... See? ‘Spellor’, terrhorrible, and scary weird. Sometimes it's written the way it is because I just think it's funny. I tried to make it easy this first prefarce story though (see? prefarce, easier ta say). Well, let's see where, when, and how we go... rite after this. Stay tooned.

     What ya missed, even if you’d read the first storybook (I doubt it. Doubt it 'til it's certain… whatever "it" is).

     Decades ago, I was on my way to bask in a robin’s nest of frozen, milky deliciousness... ice cream. I hated the little pink spoons they provided, they break easily, and I was always on the lookout for a spoon that’s sturdy enough ta take down all 31 flavours. So, I thought it strange that on my stroll to said cold concoctions, I should see an overly large, plastic (well... I thought it plastic) spoon. This may seem gross, but I picked it up, wiped it off on my tie-dye, and felt pretty good about the most luckiest find that I'd found that day... so far. 

     Things were looking up, and so was I as I left the frozen wasteland in triumph with my eyes upon this prize spoon. I tripped over Holey Bob who lay in my way, why he was laying there I don't know... yet. I broke my spoon upon that fall (and almost my nose), but miraculously it wasn't ruined (but my nose got bigger… and red too). The spoon was transformed by Bob into the Cosmic Utensil, the spork. A new eating utensil that rocked the world that cares about, well... eating utensils. I converted to breakfast finger foods right away as my frosty disposition thawed to this funny sounding rabbit. We became best friends, and I became his student, prophet, and, finally, the 2nd Pope of a new, yet good old-time religion.

     I may be Ajahn to my close friends and family, but I'm known as Pope Bunny Fufu (the 1st) at most doughnut shops, as well as to a congregation of doughnut lovers, the Cathartic Catholic Religion (the C.C.R.), which is spread across 2.4 million inhabited playnets of this Multiverse. I preach the words of Bob ta these diverse beings, some of these words being, "Do this in remembrance of me... Get baked and eat a dozen!" Which we do in celebratory Holey Communion… See? We really do have a good old time... religiously. 

     I'm also a Knight errant in the ‘Knights of the Rouge Antiquated Proboscis’ (I’m a member of long standing in K.R.A.P.), a clown whose mount, Giz-Gaz, gets more attention than I do. He's really kewl, maybe you've seen him? If so, ya know what I mean. Strange, some people are afraid of us Knights (clowns), but Giz-Gaz seems to make my presence tolerable to ‘em. He's that kewl.

     Holey Bob is the 13th child, and son, of a hermaphrodite god/goddess we call Volrath, a Baker, who specializes in pi, umm, pie (you get it, at least I think so by now). Volrath gave Its 13th ‘Self’ begotten child to the Multiverse so that all our spirits would be leavened. The thirteenth child of a Baker's dozen, Bob became the greatest gastronomic creator of breakfast pastries the Multiverse would ever know, and then he died… Um, he got better. 

     His Holeyness is a 6 foot tall white rabbit, a little like his friend Harvey (the pooka), he has a bit of a bigger belly though, as he likes to share in the fruits of his work. Holey Bob's the golden child of Volrath, born of the morning after the longest night. He endeavours in the first book to guide his beguiled prophet through the confusion which is life and the mysteries of how the hell they get the creme into the middle of a Bavarian Creme Bismark. Oh, and if you haven't figured it out, he's full of holes... like my understanding of this Multiverse and the memories of all my many lives.

     And now, time to cast my spellink and see what I catch (I'm trying to set a hook here... with lines and stinkers).

     A story usually has a beginning, middle, and, hopefully, an end. As I said before, this isn't the second book. Ya see, it all started in the middle... the middle of the second book. It's called, "Out Of the Fire and into The PANtheon," each capitalization is a start of a new line on the cover, but with the "P" starting one letter earlier on its line... you can work it out. It's all about Volrath’s children and him/herself. Though I knew it a heavy yet happy task (the reason for the second book’s name), I was still feelin' confident about the shit I’d written in the first book, I swear ta Volrath. Even if it seemed no one had read the books given to them, I thought Bob and I had addressed a few ideas of the infinite well when...

     Let's just be plain here, we experience time in a linear progression, one way. Blind to the future, only dimly aware of now, and our past is just a reflection of that once dimly grasped ‘now’ gone by. So we’re starting in the middle, when it began, and let me tell ya... When it went from ‘here’ took me outside the clock and eventually to come to understand that this didn't just happen. Past, future, forwards and even backwards linear timelines... it's all mixed up in the batter. 

      I was/will be/am on a journey through space and time, to other dimensions and maybe lives. I get to think new and exciting ideas, travel to strange lands and worlds, make friends and play with many godlings, meet a truly loving, innocent god… and kill him. And this, all of this, is going on... write... about... now.....

     I was feelin’ the itch, gotta write something, anything, it's November so it's also novel month. Plus, I’ve a great idea goin’ for the second book. A cold mug of coffee and a half-eaten doughnut beside my computer gives testimony to the long night I'm putting in. You can figure out from those two items alone that I've been into my serial bowl a few times during the night as well. I'm flushed with humour as I sit the Papal Porcelain Seat and write this crap.

     I chuckle to myself about Volrath’s avatar here on playnet dirt (the avatar's female, well, at least in this lifetime) and I'm adding in the part of how his/her avatar is living in an R.V. up in the Northwest with Sasquatch. 

      Sasquatch has a very beautiful singing voice by the way, and an amazing range. I mean, he's been seen in the Andes, the Alps, the Rockies, and all over most every continent, though very little evidence has been left of him to find. He's a very private individual and hard to get to know. Heck, he was a bit jealous when I started hanging around Volrath’s avatar, but I understood. I'm great friends with Volrath and wouldn't think of causing her (the avatar's female, remember?) pain, but he didn't understand that to come between them would hurt her, him, me, and worst of all love (that unseen manifestation of this Multiverse). He's a bit closer to his bestial side than he likes ta look at, so Sasquatch felt a territorial invasion, but who could really blame him though? Volrath, no matter Its sex in an avatars life, is quite a catch and is a being one would not like ta lose contact with. So it was like a sour note when morning struck... hard. Sasquatch began roaring and Volrath’s avatar cringed and looks ta get away to be by herself. Quickly, they pack up their R.V. and split the scene... 

      Noooo! This isn't supposed ta be happenin’, What Is This Crap, Hmm?

     The sound of droning, almost like bees, fills my head and a vibration's going through my whole body. Flabada flabada flabda flada (the vibration's quickening), fluda flda fld fldfld ZZzzzzzllllllllthzzth POP! (hey, sounds aren't easy to convey in writing. what? don't think so? really, try writing the sound of a cigarette burning... nope, that’s a leaky tire, try again... uhuh, not so easy is it? but it is fun.)

      As the morning struck, a shaft of light breaks through my winderpane. Glass shatters into sparkling motes and covers the half-eaten doughnut, makes a film on the cold coffee, and causes very pretty sparkles to twinkle from the backside of my big bald head as it rests against my forearms (ha, I must really be tired, I mean otherwise, how the crap could I sleep through that?!?). Wait… When did I fall asleep? And where did I get that little scar on the back of my enormous bald head? Why didn't anyone (You for instance) tell me I have such a big head? Wait... how can I see the back of my colossal cranium?

      Okay, if you've read the first book (doubt-full, doubt anyone’s really read it through yet... except me, and Bob of course, oh, also the bunch who reviewed it... yep, just me so far. well... you could've read it, I really don't know), if you'd read it you'd be familiar with the way I write. I call it my writers "style," and for you, if you've read my crap before, you understand that I mythspell words, and have a terrhorrible problem with Grammer, though all four of my Grammers have passed... (what? you don't have four Grams? bummer, yeah, we may have had our problems, but it sucks ta be out... hmm, next you'll be telling me you don't have four Gramps either... oh, really? you dirtlings are a strange lot...  I guess "normal" is a perspective too). Well, it should come as no shock to you who've read me that my ‘style’ is more like a sty… or maybe a stile. I just understand that reading it can be 'el sometimes. I go off at tangiants (real big brown de-partures…), a bunch’a crap that seems unrelated, but hopefully will eventually tie-dye in and lead back to the story.

     So, this thing about my puffed-up pate. You may look and say, "Meh, average size… maybe a little thick." But you'd be mythtaken. As we create our holographic dream world to relate with what seems ta arise from outside ourselves, we really don't contemplate the ramifications of our doin’ just that. The whole of our experience is happenin’ inside our heads... How bountifully bombastic my real bonce must be for all this crap ta exist in it, yours too... big head.

     If you'd like to further contemplate some even weirder shit, I swear to Volrath you should read "Quantum Psychology" by R. A. Wilson. You may find that you have more than one head. I was made quite aware of this as I stared at the back of mine (see? we're back already).

    Little motes of rainbow coloured shards still swirl in the air (even after those paragraphs seemingly interrupted what's going on). They swirl in the air around me and start to coalesce, forming into a very bright and shiny 6 foot tall white bunny rabbit. I was about to exclaim a grandiloquent greeting to Holey Bob and maybe get some answers to what this crap was about, when the form resolves itself completely and… it's not Bob.

      "Harvey?" I greet him lamely. 

      You know, Harvey, first book, black ‘n white movie made about him. Really, I'm lucky to get such a celebrity to do cameo appearances in my silly arse crap. I tried to get the guy from "Danny Darko" but he's busy taking out a remnant of the P.F.B.s. There's still plenty of 'em scattered about out there trying to get others to join 'em in their limited, judge-mental, dead-end thinking. Not as many though, that rabbit gives 'em a new way of thinking or scares the crap outta 'em... creepy.

      "Ajahn." the pooka greets me solemnly.

     "Hey, easy with that 'Ajahn' shit, Harvey," I swear to Volrath, "I'm trying to set the mood, create an ambiance of surrealism. Mentioning that label can bring a structured belief of ‘who’ and ‘what’ I am." I explain further, "It's easier to take in new information if you don't have any preconceived ideas or beliefs to get in the way."

     "Remember those words, Knight, as you journey through time and space." Harvey informs me, again with a solemnness in his voice like things are really serious, and it kinda sounds ominous. Especially so as a clown's writing this crap. Hey, we're supposed to bring smiles... Anyways, he's quite the actor here isn't he, very dramatic, sends chills up and down my spine.

      "What's goin’ on? Where's Holey Bob, and what journey where, and when am I taking why?" I try to ask what would seem to be coherent questions, but I'm still all mixed up, and a bit worried over myself, "Am... am I dead?"

      "Calm down dope." Harvey says soothingly as he passes me a loaded hookah.

      "Good idea." I nod my national sized nugget of a head. 

     "You need to be able to think of what you're questioning if you want informative answers." Harvey states, "Focus your thoughts, and no you aren't dead... yet. Just astral projecting."

     I take the proffered pipe and pucker my protruding pout, pulling and a puffin’ on what passingly tastes like Palouse Peach... Ahhh, perfect. Hitting Harvey's hookah heaves my huge head to a higher, um... high, happily. Let’s just say it adjusts my PH level so I won't be so acidic about what's goin’ on here (I'm pretty trippy as 'it' is without that).

      "Bob's working on a new and tasty pastry," he tells me, "and he's yet to even meet you. Bob doesn't know you, so it's LOL who's sent me to get you."

      I stare at him with my eyes gone wide. Well... I think they are, I can't really see ‘em as my humungous head is turned the other way.

     "The journey is on the 'Royal Road,' it's already begun, and you're right in the middle of the, uh... road." Harvey says as his left ear swivels about. Sorry, his ears are enormous, and I can't help but notice what they're doing while he's speaking… distracting to say the least. Anyways, he continues, "You aren't needed as Pope here. Lol needs the Knight of the Rouge Antiquated Proboscis, the clown, the Multiverse's fool. He's desperate and needs your help."

     "Hmmm, and I'm the fool here?" I try to joke... Didn't say I was a funny clown, I just do it for shits and giggles, even a smile will do... swear ta Volrath.

     "Yes, well, let's just say Lol needs a tool and you're it." he tells me seriously (seriously? callin’ me a tool? I think that's a little, ah... uncalled for and- wait a sec!).

     While I was writing about Harvey implying I'm a tool in parenthesis, it dawned on me what he'd just said about Bob not knowing or meeting me a few paragraphs back. Umm, I must be a little disoriented still.

     "Why is Lol desperate and what do you mean Holey Bob and I haven't met?" I question. I'm starting to get my astral legs under me and want real answers here, "I wrote about it in the first book." 

     "You wrote of when you met Holey Bob, not of when he met you..." he goes on despite my confusion, "If you don't snap to, Bob may never meet you or be able to help you in the past... This timeline could cease to exist… Listen Doc, it’s brown trousers time and you’re wearing them."

    "What is this crap, hmm?" I ask dumbfounded... hey, I'm trying ta get smarter here and you gotta ask questions if you want ta get answers.

     "You indeed met Holey Bob, but Bob wasn't holey when he met you." He tells me, trying to get through to me.

     "HOLEY SHIT!" I swear very loudly to Volrath, "What kinda story is this?"

     Harvey just stares at me, waiting for it all to sink pass the thick outer covering of my monstrously monumental melon, it takes a second... or a third… whatever. I think I'm getting a little reactive to all these quips about the size of my... Hmm, guess it is pretty good sized... Poor Mom. Wait an eighth... All that I care ‘bout and love right now won't be ‘nomore’ (‘nomore’, everyone I read my stories to seems ta call ‘em that… odd). Anywho, they won’t be ‘nomore’ if I don't pull my overly large head out of my arse!... How it fit in there bein’ the size it is I can't really say, but I think we all just heard a second "POP!" in this pre-story story.

     “Really? This timeline could cease to exist?” I ask doubtfully.

     “No…” He raises an eyebrow, “What’s happened has already happened, the past is past, you’re just catching up with it is all.”

     "Yeah, I couldn’t really believe that, though my grasp of time is limited, so, I couldn’t disbieve it either. Okay, I'm with ya now… I think. I'll do what I can, but what about..." I point at my sleeping self, "Will I be okay, I mean, will my body be okay, and how do I get back from this journey you claim I'm already on?"

     "You really don't do this astral projection thingy consciously, do you?" Harvey asks. Okay, it was really more of a declarative statement than a question. He's a master thespian and knows just how to deliver a line... No matter if’n the writer's givin’ him (and you) crap lines ta read.

     "Do you mean, wake-up ta seeing the back of my big arse head? No, I don't." I ansewer anyways to emphasize the ridiculousness of arsekin’ such ta one who's obviously ruffled from this new experience… Hey, crappy sarcastic questions get ansewers (just in case yer arsekin’). 

     "You do this all the time when you sleep." he informs me, apparently unphased by what I think is a witty come back… man he’s good, "You just think that they're all dreams, but some, a lot actually, aren't. Now, look down at yourself, no, not at that body." Harvey directs me, which is weird since I'm writing this. You'd think it’d make more sense if’n I was directing this as well (actors, they always wanna direct... sheesh). The pooka goes on after giving me the sign to cut this interruption off by gesturing frantically with his paw/hand drawn across his throat as I… Oh... Sorry, Harvey. Anywho, he continues instructing me, "See that thin translucent silver line?... Follow that with your... your eyes, I guess. You really need ta calm yerself, you appear all fuzzy, and your writing's really startin’ ta ramble all about. I studied at Juilliard, and my diction is perfect... You have me talking like a rube, I mean really, 'yerself'?"

     He's right, I'm nervous so I hit the hookah again. Ya see, I've never taken such a large task on myself before, writing a novel of stories of possible pasts, quantum physics, strange his-stories 'n science, and mysticism and magick. Hoping to tie-dye it all through the Tarot in an entertaining way... and I'm worried no one will read this crap either. So, doing as I'd been directed, I look down and can see this silvery cord coming out of my bluish, glowing form leading to my unconscious body slumped over my computer.

     "See, you're attached. As long as your body's alive anyways, you're attached, it's a line and guide back ta here." he reassures me while his right ear twitches... A brilliant physical actor as well, Harvey has me spellbound now.

     His ears seem to grow as my eye's caught by the movement. They're becoming gargantuan, rivalling my super-sized skull. So much so that they fill my vision... or… am I shrinking? I can't tell, all I know is that a convoluted colossal ear hole of a now massively immense bunny is coming at me... or… or I'm falling into it.

     And what's with me writing about holes and bunnies anyways? (sorry, an errant questioning thought entered and left my mind here, must've been too crowded for it to stay long.. or, or it got lonely in such a large empty space... whatever)

     Before all I can see is blacked out inside this auricle, I think I hear Harvey orating, "Dirtlings, Knights, Multiversal Citizens, my fellow godlings, I lend you my ear." And down the rabbit hole I go.

      I'll be honest with ya here, I really am nervous as I don't know where or when this is goin’. Ya see, once ya dive down the rabbit hole it's best ta forget what ya think you know... It can seem a bit scary, so I really don't want ta go it alone. Reaching back (I'm really stretching it here) I grab hold’a anyone who may be reading this crap...

      Seems I got you. Thanks friend, go ahead and hold as tight as ya want. I don't mind telling ya that your hand isn't the only thing I'm squeezing tight, and I ain't talkin’ ‘bout the three eyes up top (sorry… it's hard ta hold this crap back sometimes. that one kinda’ just slipped out... gimmie a break will ya? I just pulled this friggin playnetoid sized object from my arse, of course it needs tightenin’). Oh, hey! I still have Harvey's hookah.

      "It may help us wade through this crap... swoooooooooooooooth..." I continue in a silly, almost familiar sounding voice while holdin’ it in and holdin’ the hookah out, "Ear man... ear."