entiniams —— = set U PLANET OF THE ARTS VOL 5 ISSUE 4 Johann Wilhelm Schpittbul was a specious medicine peddler on the backroads and in the small towns of Germany from 1646 to 1658. His “Miracle Life Spritzer’ was hawked as a cure for “...all mental and stomach ailments, weakness of muscles, failing eyesight, hearing, hair loss, and other Diabolic influences.” In actual fact the tonic was not much more than a brew of lightly spiced rum and goat's. Schpittbul w trepreneur of no mean intelligence, constantly in search of a cure-all that was, if not mgr ‘least cheani e and better tasting. pee SS te: Se seventeent gish late after Tepartner Omit guste Huvinde, recorded in when he first came across e happily exhausted from rites in his diary; my life. Though | had never been in ckered patterns of amber light seep- songs as their counterparts across he barman mistook me for a regular, for two pulls of ale. Dmitri rarely drank ne, and poured the rest into my friend's re ie was discharged from the St. Brendan hospi- oto Bical abnormalities in volunteer fireman to re- vered an account made by a gypsy medium from tebook....” Prosecuting Attorney: “Shortly after tal burn unit in Massachussetts, he aban search para-normal and psionic potentia the seventeenth century. I submit to th ‘Through gilded cage with sickly eyes) fetch chistes, my rte is a by d@ an anathema. My stupid master sees no v g feathers. I am not even on key, that vile dpmt f my hollow es brother, at the front é eB flame licks his hair, becomes his hair, engulfs Wk alien air breathed out with total deliberation me to charcoal, makes me miss my cue. I see ng ten pieces of copper, please.” aster warbles through his lute, ingrained cues ewdered glass I recognize my new partner as Hd. The cue knocks a song from me, ruffles m iAas broken my voice, the gentle melody cracks He writhes and cries, his back is smoking, a red 4 leaps above the crowd on a bridge of pas an ash of heat blows through me, b Kens fight over my remains. That will be Dearest Mother, . + The dreams have not abated, if anything they grow % In my dreams I am a blacksmith who keeps a garden belttj thoughtless people sitting in overstuffed furniture, staring’ they do not see the worl around them,why they do not alle swerving their ‘ae this one huge vegetable in the centre ad a proper night's sleep since Julien died. garden there are people growing, pale, why they do not go out of my ee why ife. Time is so short, I tell them. Without Hey say “We don’t know what to do.” Then they burst into flame, are reduced to ashes that sterilizes the g ut it can grow nothing but more pale people to sit behind my smithy, in the garden. I went to a gypsywoman, mo éhite’See if she could cast some daylight on my night- mare. I did not really understand her answer, but she said something about a vegetable, so perhaps I am moving in the right direction. I wrote as much of it down as I could remember, am sending you a copy of it, perhaps you will under- stand. Tommorrow afternoon I will be arriving in the small town Julien had last written to me from. Do not tell father, as he would only worry, but I am spending tonight | ny with some people from a travelling carnival. No one unas 0 | CW fot Se SO Wie! has heard of my brother in this caravan, but they do (gg re COG enue ren), all agree that odd things tend to happen in this fa ON CRIES 7 8 a : = town. There was one man, not part of the caravan, me J.D. ScHpithbul e Mira se but travelling along parallel to it. The carnival Se a cee Wee Say members refuse to even see him. He has hinted of my ae re § aitB Spritecr ke brother. I will speak to him again tommorrow. There was another man, with a beautiful singing voice and a dead bird perched on his shoulder. I asked him of Julien and he started, as if Ihad called him by his own name. With a tin on porcelain laugh he dismissed his shock by explaining he had many ae VY. Ye foc: names. I asked him again of Julien. He replied, “It's §—& oe Be Reve 4 De in the air !” and cried. Give my love to father, ee See ¢ food | 0 rate Tasha. Ee ba 0 ec Oy are ACEP M 5 : 3 & ae N52 jet combi 2 7 : g : : eis 5 uel iF S Geom Enaldly newspaper cont. Next Page > U PLANET OF THE ARTS VOL 8 ISSUE 4 Johann Wilhelm Schpittbul was a specious medicine peddler on the backroads and in the small towns of Germany from 1646 to 1658. His “Miracle Life Spritzer” was hawked as a cure for “...all mental and stomach ailments, weakness of muscles, failing eyesight, hearing, hair loss, and other Diabolic influences.” In actual fact the tonic was not much more. than a brew of lightly spiced rum and goat’ But Schpittbul was an entrepreneur of no mean intelligence, constantly in search of a cure-all that was, if not Tg e and better tasting. The travelling bard/historian of the seventeent guste Huvinde, recorded in his now published diaries that it was a muggish late aft when he first came across the Raven and Dungbeetle Pub. Both he and artnen Dmitrpumere happily exhausted from the days work, eager to relax and enjogi int. Hewrites in his diary; a “The pub was in no way peculiar to any of the'thaus h ed through ia my life. Though I had never been in the Raven and Dungbeetle, yet | felt familiar with the pi phair, the checkered patterns of amber light seep- ing across the room over the bawling, brawling fh songs as their counterparts across Europe. | crossed the pungent room with s| CG ct that the barman mistook me for a regular, and even called me by someone else's nate ba alling for two pulls of ale. Dmitri rarely drank more than half a pint, so | drank first thes si nine. and poured the rest into my friend's mouth. ue f “Beside'me, | noticed a fellow | had ared to be a giant albino tomato, or gourd. When | greeted him he did not recog i; id cluiehed his freakish vegetable. As | had a great deal more money than | would need for 1p Wir ig my old friend with milk-stout and whis- was discharged from the St. Brendan hospi- sin volunteer fireman to re- search para-normal and p: the seventeenth century. I submit to thi 4 “ “Through gilded cage with sickly eyes] wren i Gel) muster warbles through his lute, ingrained cues fetch bipeles mi Heh tae is replaced by f Het dered glass 1 recgilte my not parker as ‘an anathema. My stupid master sees no eibutat . The cue knocks a song from me, ruffles feathers. Iam not even on key, that vile damk fe i bi my voice, the gentle melo mck my low is our brother, at the ron ries anid eres, his back is smoking, 0 red flame ele ir, becomes his hair, engulfs 4 asia above the crowd on a bridge fay ae ‘alien air breathed out with total deliberation biy the if ite) fh of heat blows through me, ens me to charcoal, makes me miss my cue. I see ng@-moty iy Op Heanbyight over my remains. That will be ten pieces of copper, please. $ fl Dearest Mother, The dreams have not abated, if anything they grow *eopse Hal A baee NOt ier night's sleep since Julien died. In my dreams I am a blacksmith who keeps a garden beltailit tn the are people growing, pale, thoughtless people sitting in overstuffed furniture, star ; ‘A wohty,they do not go out of my garden, why they do not see the world around them avhy they do not alld fife. Time is so short, I tell them. Without swerving their eyes from this one huge vegetable in the centregf Mie wantin phey say “We don’t know what to do.” Then they burst into flanie, are reduced to ashes that sterilizes the ghillndisa #uar it can grow nothing but more pale people to sit behind my smithy, in the garden. I went to a. gypsywoman, motlieht08ee if she could cast some daylight on my night- mare. I did not really understand her answer, but she said something about a vegetable, so perhaps I am moving in the right direction. I wrote as much of it down as I.could remember, am sending you a copy of it, perhaps you will under- ‘Shand. Tommorrow afternoon I will be arriving in the small town Julien had last written to me from. Do not tell father, as he would only worry, but I am spending tonight with some people from a travelling carnival. No one : has heard of my brother in this caravan, but they do all agree that odd things tend to happen in this UNEASE i town. There was one man, not part of the caravan, IG, Scbpithoul & (ee but travelling along parallel to it. The carnival : y : : é ? members refuse to even see him. He has hinted of my a te.. Faith Spriteer brother. I will speak to him again tommorro : f ‘ There was another man, with a beautiful singing \ Cures aff aifments ina voice and a dead bird perched on his shoulder. I pres saul asked him of Julien and he started, as if [had called (emg a tminhle of an ’ce him by his own name. With a tin on porcelain laugh i ‘ ia he dismissed his shock by explaining he had many names. 1 asked him again of Julien. He replied, “It's ‘nthe air!” and cried: Give my love to father, Tasha. < al: . ay neasEaRE cont. Next. Pace >