ENDRALON.SPACE · ČLÁNEK
5. 7. 2026
IX GOVLEENBAY
Twenty-eight, seventeen, eight, nine, threehunderts and thirteen, eight, seventy, ninety-five, one, fourteen, Koshmir, Twosteer, sexuel, fifty-five Waterangles, twenty-nineKoshiveshers, three hundred and fifteen tables, twenty-one Komens, twelve Smeyghrs. Five, eight, six, nine. End of archiving. Fork didn't ask questions, but he knew.
He knew that NamastFinger was not happy about what had happened in Kavantar. And so Fork decided on his own to break the recharge fleckr tied to the paradigm of YoOilydrop into the sholtar Tamil oh centurial quasar, recharge for the taxinbos, fas and dandas. It wasn't about theYoOilydrop for him at all. But it was the only way he could get into the wormhole and hopefully find the wormhole before Kavantar was decimated by the Kavantarian anthrax. It could be avoided, he thought. And lately, the hrolens and cshamins have been swarming. It shows there are more and more wormholes. It's probably to do with the light cycle of the Bazmaanr flare. The nights are longer now.
If I'd listened more to The Meteonay, Fork thought, I'd know more. And if he'd gone to The Ficanian Psychics for anything other than these coordinates, he wouldn't have gone into such a risky venture as going into a wormhole on his own. But whatever. Someone does unnecessary things, even though he thinks they are absolutely essential for the further development of his living and being. And so did Art. He just got in there and went to investigate the quasar that The Ficanian Psychics recommended. The coordinate problem, and this is why FORE and DOWNSLIP failed, is the so-called emotional cosmic coordinate of sexuel. First of all - who doesn't have the heart abortion these maefees just because it's fashionable, and secondly, who loves their enemies? That's why they could never find the right coordinate until the taxinboer himself made a mistake, and The Ficanian Justice with the providence of The Ficanian Psychics thrust the defenseless Fork into the taxinboer just so his life would have meaning and he could recover from the hakunbelan plague and all the plagues of fright. And so it happened.
NamastFinger had already arranged the rest by him falling in love with her. How fortunate that his body had a heartbeat. It was bad enough that he had the snout, let alone not have the niva! And so Fork found himself in the right quasar, fueled up YoOily, got into his spacesuit, felt like he'd been smeared like a lard on a schmear, and went into the wormhole to wait for the wormfistula. In his mind, he prayed that the wormfistula would not be a sonic one, but a wind one. He couldn't remember NamastFinger ever talking about there being a windstorm in Kavantar, but it was likely. So at least Fork hadn't heard of a place it'd avoided.
A windstorm, otherwise known as a hrolen, came out of the wormfistula, or so Fork called the wormhole, and lasted until it closed again. As far as Fork could remember, the windstorm had never lasted longer than fifteen light cycles. It was worse with a kshamin, a planet-wide sonic blizzard, which usually lasted thirty or forty light cycles.
Many citizens go fifty percent deaf with hearing aids after such storms. That's why there were so many capsules sold in the galaxy with hard rhenian capsules, jaw replacements and supports. Because hearing aids were being replaced along with it. It was a big byzzy, and a multigalactic conglomerate called The HAQVANBE was formed, making body replacements for everything anyone could think of.
The HAQVANBE also had some pretty interesting body modifications. Over the quintans, The HAQVANBE expanded to all the major secondary planets throughout the multigalaxy. So it's pretty clear what kind of business it was, and more importantly, how many wormholes there were. Far too many! ArtFork could no longer remember just how many wormholes there were in Wetlandbad itself.
If he remembered anything, perhaps he wouldn't even want to go on such a suicide mission to Kavantar, and with the goal of stopping the Kavantarian anthrax to boot. Art sat in the ckholay, waiting cramped against the sparking wall of the wormhole, not far from the quasar, still in sight. He remembered faintly what The Ficanian Psychics had told him. They stood there, not moving, and yet he had the impression that they were everywhere. He could see them staring at him through their holes, and he could smell the pungent scent of frogieskulls and tsmeenecs, and then he could smell vashostral. He just didn't remember it is the vashostral. It was familiar to him. But the only thing that was familiar was Fork's body. Even a body has its memory. And the brain, though inhabited by another soul. And so Govleenbay remembered beauty of the smell of the vashostral, for in it he lay like a child on Daw-Tra-Ban hillsides, stroking Mochvana that lay at its side. But ArtFork didn't know all that, he just thought the smell was familiar. Only The Ficanian Psychics knew, knew and saw who had actually come to the meeting. They had seen the hakunbelan plague and ArtFork's rages. Only, what one doesn't ask, one doesn't know, and ArtFork had come to change the past, and no, he certainly didn't want to know anything of his future. And now The Ficanian Psychics were blowing prayoil out of the eye sockets all around him until his eyesight went blank. All he could see were their long arms flapping into the wind there
and back, until it scared him. For a moment, he thought his balls were jingling under his feet so much he was afraid. "Dude. I'm gonna shit myself." And he wasn't far from the truth, he was scared shitless. But on the bright side, he didn't shit himself. When ArtFork left, he didn't know how, but he remembered the coordinate he'd asked about, not realizing that The Ficanian Psychics had told him.
"Weird chicks," he snorted, then remembered that one had the habrey. "Brrr!" He was still shuddering from that as he sat against the sparkly wall of the wormhole. It was all red and orange and gold, but it was also dark and droning. And suddenly it was there. "Fuck! There!" Fork shouted, and stomped on the shmays and was there in a flash. He was there, and he wasn't there. A huge shove shot him into the wormhole, and the Baday wonder, it was such a flick that ArtFork's hat fell off and his koleyms were hanging over one ear.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" he repeated over and over because he had no control. He also didn't know how the FUCK he was going to get back. Isn't he an idiot? Why didn't he ask about it too? But it was really too late for that kind of thinking. The wormfistula was dragging him along, Shmurzaa where. When Fork woke up, he was sitting in the shaking ckholay on some outcropping.
He could see the mountains around him from horizon to horizon. As far as the distance, that might be Kavantar. But what was that crazy noise and trembling? He opened the ckholay, climbed out, the ground shook beneath him. He stuck his head back in the ckholay, tapped the navigation. Smakleen. ArtFork looked around again, and in the dust clouds he saw what looked like a cableway in the distance. That's right. He tapped the timer again.
"Holy shit." He was in Kavantar in Dedimount overquake time. "I don't believe this! Fuck, fuck, fuck!" His vocabulary had dwindled to that word alone. He felt such a deep inner anguish that it made his brain shut down. "I" he waved his hat on the ground, "don´t give a shiiit!" And he stomped on it. Then he sat down and sniffed some Valen tobacco, but only a little, so as not to be distracted. It stung his nose, his heart raced, his eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, he began to pant, his nose dripped, but at least he recovered. Still on his knees, he picked up his hat and banged it on his head. So. Ugh. It's him again.
Why ArtFork had to come here, he didn't know. I guess it all started here. I guess this is where the Kavanarian anthrax started. He started the ckholay and headed for the cableway. He could see the mountains around him from horizon to horizon. As far as the distance, that might be Kavantar. But what was that crazy noise and trembling?
