Tintin and the Magick Hydrocarbons

Brrrrrrpppppp! Tintin lifts his left buttock. Bbbbbbbrrppppp! Ah, that’s better. He picks his teeth and spits out onto his plate a gob of pinkish gristle – the last remaining piece of Snowy. Ffffffffpppppp… he goes. No more will he have to buy that expensive dog food, no longer will he have to take the little terrier on walks, never again will Tintin need to save the pesky pooch from Indians. Brp! Snowy is no longer. Just a tiny piece of meat on a white china plate and the large part of the rather fruity aromas exuding through Tintin’s arse in warm thrusts of air. Brrrruuuuummmmppppp! Captain Haddock puts down his knife and takes out a small pouch he has concealed beneath the table,

            “Heideggerian hippopotamuses!” the Captain shouts.

            Canis lupus familiaris, I believe,” says Tintin.

            “No, not that,” the Captain says, pointing with his pipe toward the saliva-shiny lump of cartilage.

            “What, then, Captain?”

            “Land-lubbing Lacanians! That Mr. Crowley has given me a fake amulet!”

            “Fake, you say? Why, that scoundrel.”

            “Baudrillardean bullfrogs! I’ll flog him to within an inch of his life.”

            “Let’s see the thing.”

            Haddock passes the pouch to the boy reporter who weighs it in his hand before opening it.

            “This amulet looks to be the real thing. Wait a minute. What’s this?”

Tintin takes another pouch from the pouch and then another and another. He lays out the wrinkled objects on the table. Turns them over. Examines them.

            “For what purpose did you acquire this amulet, Captain?”

            “Critchleyesque chrysanthemums! It’s an all-seeing eye.”

            “Hmmm… And how do we use it?”

            “Foucaultdian flamingos! Repeat three times the name of the person you want to locate.”

            “Snowy! Snowy! Snowy!”

            The amber jewel in the amulet begins to glow.

            “There, Captain, look.”

            A mud of purples, reds, and greys flows through yellowish tubes, dark chambers, vapourizes, becomes gaseous, and streams into the very room in which Tintin and the Captain are eating their lunch.

            Gibbering Guattarians! That young terrier needs a good bath.”

            “Thompson and Thomson! Thompson and Thomson! Thompson and Thompson!”

            The amber jewel opens like a flower, shifts and changes until it becomes a hexagonal prism showing the baroque interior of Mr. Crowley’s apartment.

            “Crumbs!” says Tintin.

            “Barthesian breadsticks! What is it, lad?”

            Captain Haddock gets up and walks around the table to where Tintin sits agog.

            “Derridean dangleberries!” shouts the Captain.

            Inscribed in red on the wooden floor of the room is a large inverted pentagram. On each point of the pentagram is a tall black candle in the shape of a penis, spumy white wicks dribble from the candles’ urethras. Black curtains drape the windows. The candlelight plays over the face of a bald man eating what look to be shriveled chipolatas.

            “Blistering Blanchots! That’s Thompson and Thomson!”

            “Aye, Captain. Quite right. Exactly how did you pay for this amulet?”

            Captain Haddock waves his pipe in the air and leaves the room muttering curses.

            Tintin looks into the amulet’s eye. Staked to the floor, naked except for their bowler hats, Thompson and Thomson silently scream while blood dries to a dark red around their groins. Mr. Crowley smiles.

            Tintin closes the amulet, looks at the table and notices the dark hairs and small warts that protrude from the pink pouches.

            Bbbbbbrrrrrrppppppp! Pppprrrrr! Errrp!

            “Quick! To the bathroom, Snowy!”

                                                           Steve Finbow