Ocote Soul Sounds

I first met Ocote Soul Sounds after a tumultuous affair where I’d gone to the lost city of R’lyeh looking to give Cthulhu a good kicking.

I’d been wandering around the stygian city for a few hours with Neal Cassady and Francis Bebey.  We were taking pictures on our flip phones, spray painting anti Old One slogans on statues and generally just disrespecting the place.

Cthulhu!  I shouted.  Come out and play you squid-faced, squamous bodied antediluvian fuck!  My cries echoed off the loathsome fabrications looming above us that cut off all sight of the heavens.

Are you sure he’s even here?  asked Neal Cassady.

He heard we were coming, said Francis Bebey.  No way would he stick around.

I’m sure you’re right, I said.  Which is singularly annoying.  I’m pretty sure he’s been sending me bad dreams just to get on my tits.

This place is boring, said Neal, it’s all tenebrous and gross, I keep stepping in eldritch shit. This better wash off.  These shoes cost me three thousand Hungarian Forints.

The geometry is giving me a headache.  It’s like an architect’s cheese dream, said Francis Bebey.

It’s like some fucked up kid was given a Lego set made of non-euclidean nightmares, I said.

Cyclopean as fuck, is what it is, said Neal.

Fuck this, I said, smashing an indescribable statue into dank little pieces. If we don’t find him in the next half hour, we’ll just go to the cinema or something.

Let’s go back now, said Neal.  He’s like half a kilometre tall, we’d have seen him if was here.

Fine, I said.

He’s a fucking coward, said Francis Bebey.

We retraced our steps but couldn’t find our way back.  We wandered in the alleys, tunnels and tomb-like halls for hours, searching for where we’d parked the helicopter.  The city was playing against us.

I can’t be bothered with this, I said.  I rummaged around in my pocket looking for something that could help us out of our predicament.  Objects clattered and clanged to the floor.  A chip pan, twelve conkers, a pair of hedge trimmers, a pair of edible panties, a lightening rod, a half-eaten Easter egg, a sci-fi toaster that wouldn’t stop singing doo-wop songs, a George Foreman grill with a European plug, two pieces of chalk, three tiles from the roof of Salisbury Cathedral, a cat, another cat, three more cats, an A$ap Rocky hoody, a packet of dried lentils, a single winkle picker, Noel Fielding’s biography(half finished) and a couple of rocks painted yellow.  Finally, I found what I was looking for.

What’s that?  asked Neal, as he slipped on the A$ap Rocky hoody.

Teleport candle, I said.  I got it off Jethro Tull after sharing an Uber with them. Here, Francis, pass me that chalk a second.

Francis, who was playing with the five little cats, flicked the chalk over and I started drawing sigils and a 4D pentagram on the floor.  The walls around us began to tremble and shake.  Thought this might get his fucking attention, I said, referring to that slimy bastard, Cthulhu.

On finishing the labyrinthine diagram, I stuck the candle in the centre.  Slithering sounds emanated from the tenebrous archways that ringed the cavernous den that held us.

You got a light, I asked Neal.  He shook his head.  I looked over at Francis.  He too shook his head.

Bollocks, I said.

The slithering grew closer, glints of obsequious forms squeezed out of the gloom, crowding the peripherals of our vision.

Earth angel, earth angel, sang the sci-fi toaster.  I grabbed it, pulled the slider down and gave a fist pump to the sky when I saw the red iridescence of the filament.  I pressed the wick of the candle against it and a flame popped and sputtered to life.

Get in the pentagram, I said to Neal and Francis.

Hideous, loathsome creatures twisted beyond comprehension pushed towards us.

Jesus, said Neal, jumping beside me. They smell like a fishmonger’s outhouse.

Francis was trying to gather the cats.  One minute, he said.

Earth angel, earth angel, sang the toaster.

No time, I said. Get over here, Francis.

The pentagram began to glow.  From the seething mass disgorging itself from the tunnels a batrachian face formed and began to ululate. A mass of tentacles boiled from the mouth with one taking Francis by the leg and others wrapping themselves around the cats.

Francis!  cried Neal, trying to break from the pentagram.  I grabbed him by the shoulder, put him in a headlock.

There’s nothing we can do, I said.

The pentagram burst into blinding light, the effulgence forcing my eyes closed.  When I opened them, the room was gone, the city of R’lyeh was gone, the oleaginous mass was gone, and Francis and the cats were gone.  We were on a beach.  The shushing of the sea was overlaid with a relaxed, sultry summer beat.  A band were playing at a small, open air bar a few metres from us.

Neal jumped to his feet.  We must rescue Francis, said Neal.

We will, I said.  First, let’s get a drink at this bar.

I recognise those guys, said Neal, pointing to the band.  That’s Ocote Soul Sounds.

Nice tune, I said.

It’s The Revolt of the Cockroach Peoples from their album, Coconut Rock(2009), said Neal.  I’ll introduce you.  Which he did.  They bought me Margaritas all afternoon, and we’ve been friends ever since.       


The post that came directly before this one can be found HERE

Further Adventures with Neil Cassady: Doseone, Distance, Alice Russell,  Francis Bebey, 

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