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THE GASMAN COMETH by Luther Blisset (NB this is NOT by Stewart Home)

The room was dark, lit only by a couple of spluttering candles which glanced about the rank, shit smeared walls. The bare-boarded floor was littered with the detritus of that evening’s feast: crumbs of black bread, half-chewed pickled walnuts, prunes, lentil daal and sauerkraut Steve Boob stood up to his full five feet and not-much-more height and looked at his manly torso in a highly polished wooden mirror. His chest glistened as saliva and cooking oil poured from his lips and dripped from his beard.

He pulled the purple balaclava which Janie had knitted him, over his gnome-like face and began to giggle loudly. About his waist was a belt of twisted rope from which dangled a collection of wooden cylinders, cork sealed. About his shoulders a 1970s hessian curtain made a makeshift cloak. Apart from banana skin sandals, he wore nothing else. Lo! a new superhero was born, one who would single-handedly slay Leviathan, the god of Civilisation, and lead the Chosen Few back to a primitive Utopia of hunting and gathering.

But first he needed to decide upon a name. Steve looked at the wall where he had early pondered this conundrum and had scribbled a few ideas in charcoal. THE GREEN GOBLIN and CAPTAIN CAVEMAN were already taken and THE EUNUCH AVENGER would, perhaps, embarrass his son and heir. GAS-TRO-GNOME he liked but it was too cryptic for the Sun reading general public. He would simply be THE GASMAN, striking terror into the hearts of those who refused to give up their creature comforts to live in a rude hut. He could not give a toss if Transco tried to sue.

Mad with excitement, Steve’s mind raced back to earlier times, to the halcyon days of the anti-Poll Tax struggle and to his first manly tryst, his ultimately unrequited love for one Tim Tipple. Tim and Steve had hatched many a cunning plan back then in the early ‘90s. Steve swelled erect with pride as he remembered the time Tim led him around the Lancaster Marsh estate on Bailiff Busting manoeuvres and how they told the locals, Joe and Edna Couch-Potato and their strapping sons, that the bailiffs had hired Gypsies to do their dirty work. Steve had learned an important political lesson then, from Tipple, that the inciting of riots between travellers and local youths was not only the way to beat the Poll Tax but also to strike a blow at the Vampiric Tyranny of Civilisation. Truly Tim had been a worthy Blackadder to Boob’s Baldrick.

He also remembered the plan they had hatched to spray-paint ‘NO POLL TAX!’ on the side of Skerton Bridge over the river Lune. Steve had his little brown mini, Tim had climbing gear. And he had almost gone through with it too, until common sense made him wary. The Anti-Poll Tax Union was packed with Militants and SWPers who would surely love to grass up the daring duo and gloat as the greens got a 10 stretch for their subversive activities. Steve scowled and felt anger burn in his heart at the Trots and their working class chums. After all, if he could live in harmony with the planet, eschewing all the trappings of modern society, why couldn’t they?

It had not been easy, beset by doubters at every turn, but Steve had managed to regress himself to the Stone Age. He had given up his Mini and his telly, central heating, soap and running water. More recently he denied himself clothes as well, preferring to grease his body with Granose vegan margarine and roll in straw to keep warm. His only concession to the twentieth century was Kwik Save ‘No Frills’ baked beans, which he devoured by the gallon and washed down with Old Peculiar.

He felt a tight knot in his colon and quickly reached for another of the neatly turned wooden flasks which covered the table. Uncorking it, he pressed it to his sphincter and emptied the gaseous contents of his bowels into the empty chamber. He hastily replaced the stopper before any of its rancid odour could leak into the room and added it to the dozen or so similar phials on his hempen utility belt. He was ready to go out into the night and wreak his vengeance on the human race.

Luther Blissett, Couch-Potato Press. Please note that Luther Blissett is a multiple identity - i.e. a name used by many people - and that while Stewart Home is one among the many people who've used this name, in most instances (and in this one in particular) he is not the author of the works and actions attributed to this name. Due to the complexity of the disputes Home had with the eco-fascist group Green Anarchist, it seemed best to identify what he did and didn't write when reproducing material relating to that on this site. This process is taking place aprroximately 7 years after the site was established and the material placed on it, and up to 12 years after said material was initially issued.

Audio version of this available on this site via the sounds page index

Anarchist collective Black Flag condemn Steve Booth

Unpopular Books comment on criticism of Steve Booth run by The Fifth Estate (Militant Spasm).

Stewart Home condemns Steve Booth of Anarchist Lancaster Bomber (in Anatomy of a Smear)

Stewart Home condemns Steve Booth (in Anarchist Integralism)

More on Green Anarchist


Audio version available via sounds page index.

Up for sex after death?