After exposure to mounting evidence that he is being surrounded and indwelt by The Devil Hisself (though it is possibly still not too late), Zippy says but few words and again falls asleep. An unexpected visit from the Ferret – because, what else could you expect? – strangely, by email on a plane with no wi-fi, sets this eerily captivating scene…
(Continued, without a break, from where Part the 7th of this mini-saga [of Zippy Z. Zamazda on a plane] left off)
It’s the Ferret! – with an email message and a video attachment.
Zippy reads the message:
“Heh, Dude, I told you, you really shouldn’t have written that note confessing to Kate Mustard’s murder. You better look at the video evidence I sent you in the attachment of you doing it. It’s awful and totally brutal. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. Hard to look at. Made me really sick. Before, I could probably argue with them pretty convincingly that all this is just sophisticated AI, but dude, that note you wrote really complicates things a lot!
“Okay, so I’ll do what I can on my end to try to help you. Stay in L.A. for as long as I tell you, and then come back when the coast is clear. I’ll tell you that, too. And we’re going to need to get the money from your Goldstein deal, heh, over here first, before you come back, to get it safe in a bank account, so that no one can touch it while they try to put you in jail, except who knows how long it might be before you can actually return. Well, we’ll see. Let’s take the first step by you waiting for my call when you’re in L.A. Heh. Signed, Your Friend, Romchuk Ferret.”
Zippy opens the attached video. There is a voiceover, but Zippy cannot identify the male speaker, who says:
“We are inside the manor home of the great, late American PR Executive Boss Lard, which he built illegally and secretly some years before his untimely passing, or murder, with a massive amount of money no one could even guess he had, in the hills on the outskirts of a secluded anonymous village some distance outside Ukraine’s capital, Kyiv.
“It is the night of Tuesday, February 13th, 2018, and not the 12th, like some, eh-hem… ‘wri…ters…’ would have you irrationally believe.
“We are showing you footage pulled off of one of the surveillance cameras from Boss Lard’s manor home, which kept running forever well after his death. We do not know how the two trespassers you see, the man, and the woman, got in, even though the surveillance system connected to the house is sophisticated, state-of-the-art and, what’s more, very expensive.
“But that is not important, given the harrowing ordeal that follows, and a murder so petrifying and horrific in its execution, that we defy anyone to try to come up with the words, in any language, to describe it. For what you are about to see is the work of nothing less than a demon-possessed monster methodically, mechanically, deliberately, and absolutely soullessly slaughtering his victim in what we believe to be a ritual sacrifice and offering to… The Devil…
“Note, for example, the giant church candle, which the suspect holds by its top, thereby pointing the candle’s bottom straight forward; for everything to do with satanic death-cult worship is necessarily an unoriginal inversion: one that they want you and I to see; one that they proudly and deliriously put on open display in perverse ceremony to mockingly and derisively turn the most basic and foundational tenets of Christian faith inside-out… as a defilement…”
Zippy’s jaw drops as he now sees himself approaching Kate Mustard lying on a kind of makeshift altar in a room featuring, in part, a checkerboard-patterned floor. She is wearing a garish flamingo-pink crepe dress; she is disgustingly shoeless; she looks filthy, in more ways than one; she looks diseased and malnourished, and her knobby thin legs are spread wide apart; she, apparently expecting action of a certain kind – the kind she’s been looking for from someone other than Soiree now for a long time.
She is all hot and bothered, and her writhing on the marble table is so lewd that it is sickening. Only the most depraved and porn-stricken minds would likely be able to watch this abomination with any continuing prurient interest; and even they would probably not be able to watch it to the end.
Zippy, meanwhile, is wearing “The Spy Who Loved Me” sapphire-blue tuxedo he’d seen hanging in the costume rental shop where he picks up the “Manservant Special” for his jobs with Soiree; the tux he would look at, he admits, desirously, every time he’d go there. But he’d never actually rented it! Never, never, never!
“You don’t have to be shy about it,” he remembers the shopgirl would say, every time she saw him eyeing it.
“A lot of men come in here for that tux, and have always been very happy afterward about taking it out – for their wives… or, you know… their girlfriends, hmm… Do not worry, Mr. Zamazda; it’s okay, believe me. You are a man, after all… and we are here to help satisfy men’s needs, to the extent we can, that is; otherwise, if all our men walked around with everything all pent up inside them all the time, the world would be gone in a couple of seconds… So, Mr. Zamazda… go ahead… you should know us, by now… We’re very discreet… And I’m sure we have just your size – in fact, right now! I’ll go check in the back…”
And he watches himself approaching Mustard: in his right hand, a giant, yellow church candle. No doubt, it is the candle he’d taken-stolen from a Ukrainian Orthodox church in Kyiv without paying for it, when the woman in charge of sales in the vestibule there wasn’t looking – out of spite, himself being a Ukrainian Greek Catholic, whose allegiance was to Rome.
“What are you gonna do with that big candle, fat boy?” Mustard asks Zippy as he approaches her; dripping drool from her out-of-control mouth, her over-pink slavering lips… Is she mocking him? Or is this the way she gets her trial cocks all worked up and running?
Zippy is standing over her; and now it begins.
He lifts the giant candle high and commences to repeatedly bash Kate Mustard with it in the head – again, and again, and again… before he moves on to the rest of her dead body…
Suddenly startled by a creeping presence, Zippy jerks his head around to the right.
Mr. Nick is standing in the aisle, smiling as he looks down at Zippy.
“Don’t worry so much about all those movie types in Premier Class, Zippy, and that they should haughtily be enjoying the comfort of seating you feel you’ve been unjustly denied. Believe me, not one of them came by their privilege today in any honest way. Each one of them is sitting where they are for free. But I will advise you, from long experience, though I am not obliged to, that there is nothing in life that is free. Eventually, there is a reckoning, and everything has to be paid for. So, in truth, they really have nothing to be so proud of.
“Otherwise, those seats are very expensive and, let’s face it, your brand-new Diaspora Diners Card, proud of it as you may be, would be useless to you in getting one of them… at least on this particular plane. Any request for such a seat using that card, especially in your case, would be denied.
“As for them, I repeat, and believe me when I tell you, they are not worth your time or bother to think about. For they are all just a bunch of… Devil worshippers.”
“They are drug addicts and sexual deviants. They are demented monsters and freaks. They are adrenochrome-drinking pedophiles and death-cult cannibals. Just like the rest of the slimy, deformed, sick, and altogether perverse business – throughout the entire world… It doesn’t matter whether it’s Hollywood, or Kyiv, Ukraine… Everywhere – it is the same… because…
“This plane is goin’ down,
And in a not good way.
Well, I’m just here to see it fall,
Along for th’ ride, as they say…”
And once again, Mr. Nick is gone.
“I can’t take this shit anymore,” Zippy says. His eyes fill with evil sand as, coffin-like, their lids grow heavy, and Zippy has no choice but to succumb to the small dark death of sleep – under black-framed glass…
Filed by Saint Stephan, May 8, 2025