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A strange, new – possibly dangerous – religious cult threatens to engulf the hub of the financial world, an anonymous whistle-blower revealed today. Claiming bizarre rituals involving black magic, drugs, naked handswains, molten chocolate and doughnuts are taking place in the netherworld beneath the Big Apple’s very streets, the unnamed source refused to reveal his identity.
Top bankers, international financiers, influential stockbrokers, speculators and investors on New York’s Wall Street are joining the mysterious creed in droves. Shrouded in secrecy, at the heart of the weird cult, is the belief there is a massive hole at the rear end of our universe, through which all financial knowledge seeps in from the vacuum beyond. The hole is not to be confused with black holes, which are also very, very big, but suck matter in. According to the unidentified source, who wishes to remain incognito, it is not only financial knowledge coming out, but also unbelievably massive amounts of virtual cash are being excreted from the gigantic orifice. The vast aperture is starting to be known in some sceptical circles as the Bumhole of the Parallel Universe.
Springing from the financial crash of 2008, the strange cult first began in a broom cupboard on the 13th floor of the JP Morgan building in Wall Street, when a freelance cleaner discovered a wallet containing several million dollars, ten grams of coke and a condom, on the floor. Not such an unusual find at the renowned bank, where massive sums of money, and industrial quantities of cocaine, are often left lying about all over the place. Just on one day, last May, $6bn was discovered to have been lost. Gone for good. Turned out someone left it in a bar the night before and couldn’t remember which one. Couldn’t tell the regulators about that one. What was more unusual about this find was that nobody stepped forward to claim the wallet. Phil T. Luker, the finder, a former, unemployed, ticket tout from Brooklyn, saw it as a clear sign from above to start a cult, and to charge extortionate amounts for others to join. He began recruiting followers from JP Morgan to attend strange ceremonies held in the broom cupboard. In no time at all he had three and there wasn’t enough room. Moving to an out-of’-service toilet on the 59th floor, new members soon flocked to hear the word.
A core belief of the bizarre religion is that only the extremely wealthy possess souls. And only multi-millionaires are allowed to become followers. Well, it costs an arm and a leg to join. They call themselves The Chosen Few. As only they are blessed with souls, only they can be saved. Ordinary poor people, those on pathetic middle incomes, and even people on a more than a fair whack, are born without souls. Middle income, schmiddle income, we’re talking serious money here, only the top 1% need apply. No schmuks wanted. In order to enrich themselves even further the chosen disciples must take part in unusual rituals each and every day.
Rumour has it a temple the size of the Vatican has been erected beneath Wall Street where adherents participate in kooky ceremonies involving ring doughnuts and molten chocolate. A former worshipper told me about one strange ceremony he witnessed, on the understanding his identity would not be revealed. His tale is one of the most astounding ever to emerge from Wall Street.
Sweating profusely, it was clear he was still in a state of shock from what he’d seen. In his own words:
Inside the temple, at the rear end, a great golden ring symbolising the great hole in the Universe stands on an altar. Representing the wealth and knowledge being excreted into our Universe, molten chocolate streams out steadily twenty-four hours a day, three-hundred and sixty-five days a year, and three-hundred and sixty-six each leap year. The rituals are highly symbolic. As souls paying homage assemble, ring doughnuts, representing the great orifice, are distributed by naked handswains of the altar. Following which, the devout acolytes approach the giant golden ring, one by one. Once there, they dip their doughnuts into the stream of molten chocolate and touch them with their noses before inserting their tongues into the chocolaty hole. Debasing oneself before the enormous golden orifice is the highest form of worship a follower can show. Meanwhile the entire congregation breaks out in a chant: Our souls, our souls, our souls, we are nothing but our souls.
As convincing proof the gigantic bumhole in the sky exists, my anonymous informant explained that no matter how many thousands of billions of dollars, big banks and the obscenely wealthy siphon off, lose, misplace, or receive in massive bonuses, in the bat of an eyelid, thousands of billions more appear mysteriously onto computer screens to replace them. It’s a fact nobody can deny. What more proof do we need? To use his words, it’s magic.
From its humble beginnings, the cult has rapidly expanded to all corners of the world. Huge Temples dedicated to Our Souls have been raised beneath the streets of financial centres in all major cities everywhere. The financial knowledge coming directly out of the bumhole of the Universe is said to be of such quality it is now directing US economic policy, according to a spokesman, speaking off the record, as well as that of Europe.
Some claim President Obama is a fanatical follower. Others claim the real Obama has been imprisoned, and a clone has taken his place. In Britain all eyes are focussing on George Osborne’s complexion, and speculation is running rife about whether the half-witted Chancellor of the Exchequer might have been replaced a faulty droid.
Another powerbroker convert, whose name cannot be disclosed for legal reasons involving a call girl in a New York hotel and a small donkey, told me of witnessing one ceremony where perma-tanned bigwigs from the World Bank, IMF, ECB, and other topnotch international super-financiers, rubbed shoulders, amongst other bodily parts, with kings, queens, princes, presidents and prime ministers. He described how uplifting it was to see so many important backsides raised in harmony, as they all prostrated themselves before the Almighty Bumhole paying homage by chanting, Our souls, our souls, our souls, we are nothing but our souls. Beautiful. I conclude, using his very words:
Take away all the platinum Rolexes, the Rolls Royces, the palaces and swimming pools, take way the Mediterranean villas, off-shore bank accounts, the yachts and the Savile Row suits. Take away the Calvin Klein underpants, and the wife’s bra . Take it all away, and you’ll see nothing but our souls.
Copyright © 2013, 2012 Bryan Hemming Conil
Singer Songwriter / Writer / Outsider|Vocal Animateur/Poet/Performer/ Learning Gardener| Ducker & Diver| Lover of Nature|Clown|Snapper of pics since 1968|Mother of Sam & Kasia xx|Lover of sea & sky, trees and The River Thames|Confused by Human Beings?| Almost given up| ?
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