The Origins of the BSD

The seed which was to sow Dauner was spilled in the early Winter of late 1979, a year rife with lush extravagance and amorality. The first time we met, we engaged in sport for the other’s woman; a modern amorality play. In a crowded Moroccan market, sipping Gris de Guerrouane rose, fortified groins engorged and anticipating release, the famed roue expertly solicited glances from my lady, nearly a late-teen, beguiling, the supple tenderness of her shoulders embracing the welcoming North African sun. Simultaneously, I attracted the gaze of his paramour, her eyes burning holes in my bulging trousers. She had supple skin, smooth as 800 count Egyptian cotton sheets, luminescent as the radiant bulbs above us. Dauner moved first, rising slowly, a premeditated grab to his groin.

Adjusting my bowtie, my lover bit her lip; she sat, shaking violently, boisterous outbursts reverberating through the public square. He gripped his near-empty drink and walked decidedly inside the nearest brasserie. It was all men, a smoky den unwelcoming to women, where we first came to blows. I followed with ignorant confidence. His girl saw me rise, yet could only sit, incapacitated by my raging masculinity- but I do believe, for a split second, I saw fear in her eyes, a hopelessness, as if she alone knew what lay in store for me. Hours later I stumbled into the cruel light of dawn, alone, limping, my ego both crushed and revived. From those first moments with Dauner the seed for the BSD was sown. I returned to the Primordial plains of my youth, desolate, swelled and alone, to hone my craft and birth the BSD.

The first time I met Dauner, I had no inclination as to the scoundrel he was. I, and my stalwart Aleutian man-servant Anuk, were investigating a series of Auto-gyro thefts from the grounds of the Prussian Consulate in Siam. While following up a lead provided by Penelope Bunderbottom from HSS, we found ourselves in the full, fetid depths of an Oriental opium parlor. Surrounded by savage Easterners, most assured members of the Black Lotus Clan all, Anuk and I prepared to defend ourselves against these celestial ruffians. When, as though through Divine providence, this Dauner, this swashbuckler, this pirate of the world's booty, this engineer of chaos, this prophet of Lemarkian Evolution, this man of letters turned rogue scoundrel; burst through a side door. In one arm he cradled a casket of precious stones, gold, and pearls and in the other a demure bride of Genghis. It took only an amateur phrenologist's eye to tell that this man had the firm cranial details of a stately man of high birth, likely one who was at home ensconced in the ivy covered walls of my own Alma-mater, perched so high above the waters of Cayuga. A fellow man of knowledge, this bawdy baller, briefly shouted his intention to abscond with all his possessions, his life, and the immortal souls of his assailants. I, being easily moved by displays of insane bravery befitting of the Light Brigade, shouted testament and agreement and fell upon the Shanghai criminals with wild abandon..... Anuk slammed the fiend against the wall of the Yurt. The swarthy peasant was, moments before, at my throat. But for my stalwart man-servant, my rarefied blood would have commingled with common Mongolian soil. "Who sent you!" I raged, in a manner unbecoming my usual placid, academic affectations. My entreats were met with stony, ignorant silence. Cool logic failing us, Anuk set upon the Carpathian assassin with a more coarse, Aleutian-devised interrogation. Just as my delicate sensibilities could take no more, he uttered a single phrase, "Find the BSD".

This is how I came to find myself shackled, drugged, garbed in sacrificial garments, and deposited at the base of a cyclopean edifice deep within the jungle primeval. In every naive and nook, natives of the fairer sex danced and undulated in syncopated rhythms. Their ululations kept pace by percussionist blind dwarfs who embraced their instruments as lovers. The exotic gyrations, combined with immodest vestments, were moving the whole savage community inexplicably, inexorably to a mass communal climax. Concentric circles of later day Liliths perambulated around a lone central figure. His patrician features marked him as an outsider, not born of deviant peasants, but one who would be quite at home on the fox hunt, polo ground or boccie pitch. These noble features were shanghaied, abducted, held for terrible ransom by the crazed eyes of a man that has discarded abstract notions of morality and decency in the accent to a higher plane of pure desire.

In those eyes, the future of carnal knowledge exploded before me like some multi-dimensional stereopticon. Some illicit Venn diagram made black by the continued, relentless overlap of vice, avarice and lust. A singularity, a wrongness of modesty so deep, so intense, not even light could escape its grasp. I, but for a moment, beheld the future; in all its voluptuous, engorged, form-fitted sweet-sticky-hot-but-with-a-side-of-madness complexity. I collapsed to the floor, the very study of exhaustion. The savages shouted his many monikers “Jungle king” “Navigator of the shoals of chastity””Juan De la Sexface” .This being, whose sole purpose was to mock the Christian notions of prudence, approached and spoke. "I am the BSD...I am the prophet...."