Greetings, gentlebeings

It is our sameness that draws us together. It is our differences that help us grow. It is respect that makes this possible. Let those who wish to grow come and visit Jorge Kafkazar’s Blög. Welcome.

Tenirax, Ch V

“Adios, then,” said Bungorolo.

Tenirax found his way out of the dungeon and returned to his domicile in a roundabout manner. “Disgusting! he mumbled to himself. “I did everything but kiss the Cardinal’s feet. He turned me into a fawning sycophant, just to avoid a little pain. ‘Yes, your Excellency. Thank you, Excellency!’ I disgust myself. I must do penance for my own cowardice.”

Tenirax finally came to the little door in the buttress and entered. He lit a candle and paced back and forth in the secret room. “What shall I do? Only some elegant form of revenge will do, some suitable retribution for the Cardinal’s treatment of me.”

He stopped and thought. “I have it! A practical joke, something so fiendishly clever that he’ll

Watcher in the Night

An Allegory

Dremyth, the guard atop the Wyzard’s Tower, blew into his hands to warm them, then tucked them beneath his tunic. Winter is coming, he thought, looking out across the bare, open fields below the castle. I hate winter. I wish I could go somewhere where it’s always summer, or somewhere that doesn’t have ice and snow…

His wish was granted in a trice. Not through any magick on the part of the eponymous Wyzard—the latter was long gone with the end of the Age of Wyzardry, many centuries previous. Instead, Dremyth felt a powerful blow between his shoulder blades.

Stranded in Mexico

Stranded in Mexico

© 2008 Jorge Kafkazar

Worshipers of the bullfight are many, their ceremonies diverse. “Mano,” too, idolized the agility of the torero, his ability to find dangerous pleasure at the bull’s expense, then extract himself, unhurt, at the very last instant.  Mano celebrated this skill in his own way.

Since there were no “horns” worthy of his skill in the village, he would hitchhike into the City and mingle with the crowds to look for large busted women.

The Song of Jorex

ZORXOG

© 2008

My origins are obscure and not fully relevant to my story, for this message is not about me, but about Jorex, my creation.

Still, I shall tell you some of what I know of myself. My builders, extinct beings of whom I remember nothing, gave me a name: “ZORXOG34.”  I know not whether this had meaning beyond mere identification, but I was created for purposes of waging war.

Evenings at Cafe Alekhine

“Zudirk”

May, 1948

From “Evenings at Café Alekhine”

© 2008

Zudirk (he never gave us his surname) was approximately 60 years old, though he could have been a dissolute 45 or a well-maintained 75. He wore dark corduroy trousers, a sailor’s jacket, and an old fedora, summer and winter. His moustache was neatly trimmed on the first of each month and grew longer as the days passed, though controlled into handlebar form by M. Pinaud’s moustache wax, brown, in a silver tube.