Theophilus Mog – Chapter Eleven

“So, tell me, son, what is the problem?”
“There is no problem. I’m here because my dad made me come.”
“Regardless of why you’re here, you are here. So why not relax and talk to me.”
“There is no problem.”
“What did your Dad say was the problem?”
“He thinks I’m crazy because I hear voices in my head.”
“You hear voices in your head?”
“Who’s? Do you recongize the voice?”
“Yeah. Well, most of the time anyway. They’re usually the voices of famous people. Famous dead people. If I don’t get who they are, I just assume I don’t know about them yet.”
“What do they uusally say, these voices?”
“Be serious, Karl.”
“No, I refuse to be serious. Listen. Do you know how my last name is pronounced?”
“Kant? Is that right?”
“No. It’s pronunced Kunt. Do you know how much shtick I get at school?”
“Did you just put a ‘h’ in stick?”
“It makes me feel more german.”
“Do you get angry at your classmates, Karl when they make fun of you? Do you feel like an outsider?”
“Yes, but so does everyone else in my class.”
“Not really, Karl. Sometimes the alienation felt in a new culture can have a deep impact and lead to major issues later.”
“I’ve been here since I was 6. There’s nothing alien about this place.”
“I think you’re hiding your feelings, Karl.”
“You’re such a dick.”
“Yes, Karl, let it out, let it all out.”
“Don’t stare at my penis when you say that.”
“I was doing no such thing!”
“You’re a paedophile.”
“No, I’m not, Karl. I have a loving wife and two children at home.”
“Have you touched them?”
“Of course, I’ve-”
“Not in the way you mean.”
“You said it.”
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“Your dick must be really small for you to become a shrink.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You sit in here and listen to all these people talk about how small their dicks are you and feel better about yourself. I get it. It’s a sweet deal.”
“You perverted little imp. You’ll probably a delinquent when you grow up and end up in prison when you’re older.”
“At least I won’t be a two inch paedophile who gets off on the misery of other people.”
“Fuck off, kid. I’ll tell your Dad you’re beyong help.”
“Will you dream about me tonight?”
“Think of me when you come!”

Karl Kant gew up to be a very enterprising man. At the age of 17, he started where he bought cadavers off people who didn’t need them. Fitted them out as mythological races and sold them to necrophiliacs the world over. He listed out his techniques for free but charged for personal orders. The skill and the packing that went in were enough to earn him the premium rates he charged. The most in demand and the simplest were vampires. A little makeup. Some teeth. And voila! Werewolves were harder. Usually, he would so no stock on them unless a real hippy or wannabe be rockstar came in. He would ship out only close to three a month anyway but that was enough. He wasn’t really doing it for the money anyway. He closed down the ordering portal in a two years though. He just didn’t have the time anymore. He had found love.

Love came in the surprising form of a girl. On the internet. Her handle was Princest and Karl had no doubts he loved her. He tweeted to her. He Im’d her. He IRC’d her. He spent as much time as possible in communication with Princest. He was pretty sure she liked him too. Otherwise she’d have told him to go and fuck himself by now. He could see no reason why she shouldn’t like him. They were exactly the same. She had even started a body shop website when she was 17! Karl had discovered it too late but once he did, he always ordered from her. He loved the personal notes that came with the body. They made him feel special.

Yet, he had never told her how he felt. (Yeah, I know. Exactly.)

On her advice, he went back to college. To spray-paint ‘FUCK YOU’ on the wall. On his advice, she didn’t get a piercing. She got a magnetic glove that really hurt when brought within ten centimeters of someone else’s piercing. Her friends now hated her. They sent pictures to each other. Of animals in clothes. That was another thing they had in common. They both really liked pictures of various animals in clothes. Dogs in clown costumes, Pigs in victorian dress, Monkeys in tutus. They laughed and laughed at them. And then they went and trolled the happy bloggers.

Life was going pretty alright, for the young Kant, when suddenly something went suddenly wrong. Princest deleted everything. Everything. She took down her twitter account, her blog, her last.FM profile, everything! Karl went a little bit insane. He smashed his computer screen with his keyboard. He just couldn’t understand it. There was no note, nothing! Then, he made up his mind. He grabbed all the money he had and bought a train ticket to where he knew Princest lived. She had always been close enough to visit but they had decided against it. The internet was one thing. Real life was something else entirely. But Karl rode the train for the few hundred miles necessary and ran all the way to the address he had gleaned from his various attempts at stalking her. He didn’t have a house number, just s street name. Sometimes when she wasn’t online, he would just open Google Street View and watch it, hoping to catch anything.

There was nobody on the street. He knocked on every door. Asking for Moira, Princest had told him her first name. He got swore at a lot over the hour it took him to knock on every door. No one knew who he was talking about. He hadn’t minded till the very last door. Then, he broke down. And crying he just fell down on to the street and stayed there. When he was done and there were no more tears left, he got up and made his way back to the train station.

He kept turning around, hoping she’d be there. He knew it happened only in the movies. He hated himself for being such angsty bitch. He thought about killing himself but he was too angry for that. He was never going to find a girl like that again. He rode the train back home. Grabbed a bite to eat and crawled back to his computer. He had a new offline message. From her. She was back! He opened it. It simple read, ‘I knew you liked me. Look in the cupboard.’ He opened it and the breath went right out of him. It was a body done up like Chewbacca.

(It wasn’t her. I’ve got lots of letters from people who don’t seem to understand a goddamn thing! Why would you think it’s her? You’re all mad!)


Theophilus Mog – Chapter Seven

Not much has ever been written on the secret lives of goats. This is because they don’t have any. For if they did, Theophilus Mog would surely have been part of it during her brief stint as one.

She was born to two small, poor goats in a small, poor goat neighbourhood. She was at her mother’s side for as long as she possibly could be before her owner pulled her away and sold her to a petting zoo. There she gained her first fans, as many young children loved her cheerful nature and her unfocused eyes. Much later, when she became famous, these same loyal fans would curse her for selling out and losing touch with her roots. After which, they logged off and went back to their sad little lives.

From petting zoo, she started getting small roles in various nativity scenes that happened throughout the city. At first, she was placed at the back but soon people started seeing her real worth and she was firmly placed as Goat Number One. She became a household name among carolers and people in the Christmas industry. You could just tell she was destined for big things.

The big break happened in the year 1993. A movie offer from a huge director. This was a huge opportunity. There was not much screen time and no dialogue but her character made a huge impact psychologically, to both the characters in the story and the audience. She grabbed it with both hooves. It was a nerve-wracking experience to be on the set with so many big names. Luckily, her scene went off perfectly. It was widely reported that no one had ever been eaten by a T-Rex with such panache before. Spielberg personally congratulated her on her performance.

She still ended up as mutton biriyani a few years later though.

Theophilus Mog – Chapter Six

It is quite a well-known fact that men hunt in packs, regardless of what the prey is – women, other men, chocolate or football boots. This intensely social nature of the male gender of humanity has often been contrasted with the repression of emotion concept. This was until someone said that only because of one did the other actually work at all. The person who pointed this out was a man called Theodore. Theodore Bog. He was born on 16th October 1860, six years later (to the day) than the great, Mr. Oscar Wilde.

Theodore shared many qualities with Him of The Great Wit. They both spurned sport on favour of more artistic pursuit despite big men, studied at the same college, both had older brothers, but the biggest similarity of all was that both of them were big fans of Oscar Wilde.

But when Theo had first come to Trinity College, he was as ignorant as a whale that finds itself with a bowl of petunias in the middle of space, falling towards a planet at high speeds. Yes, he was quite ignorant. It was actually at Oxford that he met many of his friends of later life as his childhood had been a sore disappointment socially. That was the downside of being good at the Classics. He spent many hours pondering the truth behind Beauty and the Art with these new friends. They would lie about the great rooms, waist coats off, wreathed in smoke, the piano played in the background and dissect Pater and Ruskin. Until, that is, the news began to spread about Oscar Wilde and his antics in London. Soon he was the only thing they could talk about. Every day the paper would carry a new epigram, spewed from the mouth of that greek god with a flippancy and nonchalance that captured their minds more than anyone else had ever done.

Theodore especially. Theodore would occasionally take a pen and write out his witticisms on various parts of his body and show them off during the time set aside for sport. He longed to travel to London and meet him personally but the opportunity never arose and Theodore was slightly intimidated. What could he possibly say to Oscar Wilde if he met him? What words could he utter from his own throat that would impress this genius? He spent hours locked in furious agony, simply thinking of how he would introduce himself if he ever met Oscar Wilde.

Curiously enough, as if often happening in real life, the mountain came to Mohammed, which isn’t probably the most suitable phrase to use as it is believed Mr. Wilde liked to be at the bottom. Theodore did not know this. Yet. One day, news arrived that Oscar Wilde was in Oxford again, he was with a student by the name of Lord Alfred Douglas and being entertained by a group of fellow students. Theodore couldn’t believe his ears. He raced away to find out if this was true. He spied Bosie, as that was Lord Alfred Douglas’ nickname and begged him to be allowed to meet Mr. Wilde.

Bosie said no.

Theodore punched him in the nose, kicked him in the nuts and threw him onto the ground before tearing away. Breathless, he finally came to where Oscar Wilde was. On the step of his carriage, just about to leave. Theodore frantically started pulling off his clothes. This managed to get Wilde’s attention. After his shirt off, Wilde could plainly see, as was Theo’s intention, some of his popular eruditions scrawled proudly on naked flesh. Flattered, he got down from the carriage where he was met by a bright red Theodore who could not remember his carefully constructed introduction and simply handed him a pen and pointed towards his right pectoral muscle. Wilde graciously acceded. Then, with a pat on the cheek, got into his carriage rode away.

Theodore Bog never washed again.

This could be why he died of disease a few years later.

Theophilus Mog – Chapter Two

There are mountains and then there are mountains. The same way that there’s snow and there’s goddamn blizzards. Imagine a goddamn blizzard on a goddamn mountain and you’re halfway to imagining the scene at hand. Now picture a group of men, huddling together for warmth. They’re wrapped in layers and layers of professional looking mountain wear. They’re camped against the side of a large rock, trying to hide from the freeze. These men are on a mission.

A little way away, in a cave, another group lay huddled. But these people were very different. They looked rougher and coarser and wore clothes that you couldn’t buy at any store. They were dressed in the skins of wild animals. Many wild animals. There were 4 of them. Two men, a woman and a young girl. They were the last remaining survivors of a tribe of people who had lived in these forsaken mountains for hundreds of years. They had never ventured down from there. Blizzards were a part of their lives. They didn’t know any better. Around them the world had developed. Vaccines were invented and machines that could fly and pokemon cards, but these people knew not of such advancements. They knew the snow, the rain, the earth and the trees. And they knew the Yeti.

Yes, the Yeti. Well, not just one Yeti. That would be ridiculous. Yetis. The herd of Yeti that sometimes lived on the mountain.

The mission men didn’t know about the mountain men, and they wanted to know about the Yeti. The mountain men knew about the Yeti, but didn’t know about the mission men. The Yeti’s knew about both groups and thought they were both pretty stupid.

The storm passed soon enough and each of the three groups started to move again. The first confrontation happened between the mountain men and the Yeti. They bowed their heads and kept a safe distance. The next confrontation happened between the Yeti and a an alien from outer space. The third encounter happened between the mountain men and the mission men. Both were so surprised to see the other group that at first they didn’t do much. Then, finally, tentative greetings were stretched out. This discovery of an indigenous people that had lived without technology for so long made the mission men quite famous. The mountain men became celebrities. Like Shamu. But they were allowed their own bathroom so that was ok.

Theophilus Mog died on the alien dissection table in space.

(Just to tie up the loose end, the alien’s report was favourable. The invasion would be swift.)

Theophilus Mog – Chapter One

One of the biggest revelations that came in my research into the complex existence of Theophilus Mog was the startling fact that he was the second ever living organism on the planet. A tiny single cell of life. Alone in this vast wonderful world. Then he died.

(This would make an excellent start to the movie. The camera pans slowly around a bleak and deserted wasteland. Nothing moves. Then suddenly it focuses on something. We can’t see it. It zooms in closer and closer and closer until we can make out the contours of the spectacular Theophilus Mog. Producers, call me.)

The Many Lives of Theophilus Mog


Theophilis Mog is not a man. He is at some points in time and space a man but he is also many other things. He is as much a man as he is a cactus. I repeat, he is not a man. I cannot stress on this enough as I’m acutely aware of humanity’s misconstrued idea that the world was meant for them. They’re not even the most advanced species on their own planet. That would be cockroaches. (Theophilus Mog was a cockroach once. There isn’t really much that he hasn’t been.) So, yes, Theophilus Mog is not a man.

But then the question arises, What is Theophilus Mog? Theophilus Mog is a being. A very special being. Theophilus Mog is the most reincarnated being in the history of the world. (The Universe is much too big to make statements about. I personally have not even seen half of it and would never even dream about saying anything concrete about it’s nature.) Theophilus Mog is a serial reincarnater. But he brings to each of his lives, such a vivid and passionate life force that one cannot help but be amazed. You might’ve easily walked past him on the street or bought a bagel from him or he would’ve been the wheat plant that made the bagel or the lice on your head and you would never have known it. And that is what makes him such a suitable subject for an autobiography. If you had known, you wouldn’t buy the book, would you? Oh wait, did I say autobiography? I meant biography.

Writing the biography of Thoephilus Mog has a few obvious drawbacks. The main being the problem of choice. With so many startling and astounding lives to pick from, how does one go about choosing which to include and which not to? And the answer is: Randomly. I do not jest. It makes as much sense to me to let the Goddess of Chance (haven’t met her) to decide the contents of this magnum opus, for after all, it was she that decided what lives he would lead in the first place.

And this leads us to another issue, Theophilus while not being a Man, will be referred to with the male pronoun, not because of some deep-rooted chauvinism I possess, but simply because he has more often been male. By exactly one life. His current one. I’m sorry I don’t make the rules. Take it up with the universe, baby. Some of the lives chronicled here will most surely be of the feminine persuasion, and he will be referred to as she during those stories. If in any of these stories, he is neither masculine or feminine or both, the appropriate pronoun will be used. Gender is really just another detail to be honest. I don’t know why I have to waste so many words explaining myself to you. Go away. Get another language if you want equality. Bah.

Yes, where were we? Yes, my magnum opus, this book. I will let Chance decide the stories set in this tome and if you have any complaints or queries, this is her number: any number. Humour isn’t one of my many skills. But writing is. While I didn’t pick the stories, I did write every single word set down henceforth. It was no mean feat to gather details about the lives of Theophilus Mog that happened much before or after my time. That is why I made most of them up. Like all great biographies, I will not let reality get in the way of character progression and a wonderful story that has huge movie potential.

But let us not waste any more time in this charming prelude. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, The Many Lives of Theophilus Mog!