Read The illuminatus! trilogy for Free Online Page A

her, later reselling five ounces to George, who then carried it back to Mad Dog without any suspicion that he was virtually completing a cycle, The original seed was part of that strain recommended by General George Washington in the famous letter to Sir John Sinclair in which he writes, “I find that, for all purposes, the Indian hemp is in every way superior to the New Zealand variety previously cultivated here.”
In New York, Rebecca Goodman, deciding that Saul will not be home tonight, slips out of bed, dons a robe and begins to browse through her library. Finally she selects a hook on Babylonian mythology and begins to read:
“Before all of the gods, was Mummu, the spirit of Pure Chaos….”
In Chicago, Simon and Mary Lou Servix sit naked on her bed, legs intertwined in the yabyum lotus position. “No,” Simon is saying, “You don’t move, baby; you wait for
it
to move you.”
Clark Kent and His Supermen swing into a reprise: “We’re gonna rock around the clock tonight … We’re gonna rock rock rock till broad day light.”)
    George’s cellmate in Mad Dog County Jail had a skull-like face with large, protruding front teeth. He was about six and a half feet tall and lay curled up on his cell bunk like a coiled python.
    “Have you asked for treatment?” George asked him.
    “Treatment for what?”
    “Well, if you think you’re an assassin—”
    “I don’t think, baby brother. I’ve killed four white men and two niggers. One in California, the rest down here. Got paid for every one of them.”
    “Is that what you’re in for?” My God, they don’t stick murderers in the same cell with potheads, do they?
    “I’m in for vagrancy,” said the man scornfully. “Actually, I’m just here for safekeeping, till they give me my orders. Then it’s good-bye to whoever—President, civil rights leader, enemy of the people. Someday I’ll be famous. I’m gonna write a book about myself someday, Ace. Course, I’m no good at writing. Look, maybe we can do a deal. I’ll have Sheriff Jim bring you some writing paper if you’ll write about my life. They gonna keep you here forever, you know. I’ll come and visit you between assassinations, and you’ll write the book, and Sheriff Jim’ll keep it safe till I retire. Then you have the book published and you’ll make a lot of money and be real comfortable in jail. Or maybe you can even hire a lawyer to get you out.”
    “Where will you be?” said George. He was still scared, but he was feeling sleepy, too, and he was deciding that this was all bullshit, which had a calming effect on his nerves. But he’d better not go to sleep in the cell while this guy was awake. He didn’t really believe this assassin talk, but it was safe to assume that anybody you met in prison was homosexual.
    As if reading his mind, his cellmate said, “How’d you like to let a famous assassin shove it up to you? How would that be, huh, Ace?”
    “Please,” said George. “That’s not my bag, you know? I really couldn’t do it.”
    “Shit, piss, and corruption,” said the assassin. He suddenly uncoiled and slid off the bunk. “I been wasting my time with you. Now bend the hell over and drop your pants. You are getting it, and there ain’t no further way about it.” He stepped toward George, fists clenched.
    “Guard! Guard!” George yelled. He grabbed the cell door in both hands and began rattling it frantically.
    The man caught George a cuff across the face. Another blow to the jaw knocked George against the wall.
    “Guard!”
he screamed, his head spinning with pot and panic.
    A man in a blue uniform came through the door at the end of the corridor. He seemed miles away and vastly disinterested, like a god who had grown bored with his creations.
    “Now, what the hell is all this yelling about in here?” he asked, his hand on the butt of his revolver, his voice still miles away.
    George opened his mouth, but his cellmate spoke first. “This little long-haired