Not in the least...
1933 - 1927
Man will never penetrate outer space.
- Albran, August 1942
Man will never penetrate outer space without a rocket.
- Albran, August 1962
"HIS POWER came from some great reservoir of distilled water,
else it could not have been so transparent yet liquid, so
apparently lacking sophistication while at the same time
actually lacking sophistication. So tasteless, yet wet."
- CLIVE RODNEY FARK KEHLOG ALBRAN was a lifelong member of the Diner's Club and did much of his most creative writing there. His style was that of a man with a much larger brain. Born in Brest-Litovsk, much of his earlier work was published in his native dialect, in which language he is still greatly revered. In an area embracing several hectares in that city, he is still looked upon as a demi-god. His drawings and paintings have been exhibited in Quito, Ecuador. His artistic and literary style have been compared by Chester Gould to the work of Ernest Bushmiller and by Bushmiller to the work of Gould. Upon moving to America, his great desires were to write in his adopted language, English, to make a million dollars, and to retire from pseudo-philosophy so that he might open a chain of laundromats. It is the world's loss that he never succeeded in writing in English.
During much of Albran's lifetime, he was widely thought to be dead. This confusion was the result of the trance-like state Albran affected at public appearances. Conversely, as one might expect of so mystical a figure, after his death many of his followers continued to believe him still alive. Various schools or sects ultimately developed: the Albran Lives School, the Albran Never Lived School and the Two Albrans Faction.
Though a rationale for these conflicting factions can be attributed to Albran's erratic behavior and lifeless appearance in public, in private life Albran was a different person. Given to high comradeship and practical jokes, he once commented that the Whoopie Cushion had done more for mankind's betterment than Marx, Christ and Oral Roberts together.
Though a man of spirit, he was also a man of the flesh. He especially enjoyed having a thin stream of his favorite beverage (Dubonnet and Diet-Rite) poured into his mouth by a lady friend while he lay in a transparent Plexiglas bathtub filled with blueberry yogurt.
To the accusations that he was a whoremonger and womanizer, he frequently replied, "Oh yeah?" Or, sometimes, "So was Rasputin!"
That he is indeed dead is now an undisputed fact, though the date of death remains shrouded in mystery as a result of Albran's own diabolical scheme. His glossy but perfectly preserved body was discovered months or perhaps years later by his literary agent in the tiny, austere room in which he spent his final years. Apparently sensing that the end was near, Albran had hung a five gallon plastic bag of shellac on the ceiling immediately over the chair where he spent so much of his time watching daytime television. As his hand slipped from the arm of the chair, it pulled a wire releasing the shellac which coated his entire body and most of the chair to a depth exceeding a quarter of an inch in many places. Thus, Albran contributed to his own immortality, as well as that of the chair.
The Profit, the book
The Author is deeply indebted to Martin A. Cohen and Sheldon Shacket for conceiving this book, writing it and drawing the pictures. Naturally, any mistakes, errors or omissions are the Author's own.
The Author also suggests that, because the twelve original illustrations are very difficult to understand, you don't waste your time trying.
THE crowds gathered at the foot of the Valley. Thousands pushed their way through. The ominous rumbling was heard for miles. Is he down yet, a merchant selfishly cried. Where can I see him, an old woman shrieked. I have waited for him for over one hundred years, a withered man murmured. The crowd hushed in unison as a glimpse of a figure appeared in the clouded distance. He is here, they whispered. He looked almost young yet his age was impossible to guess. He was not tall, yet he had many tall ways. As they stared, he sat upon a rock. Quietly folding his arms, he began to speak: I am here. I am tired. But I will answer your questions. Bring me food, drink, and don't forget a little gold. A little silver for an answer. A drachma for a doubt, a penny for a thought. For I am The Profit and what I have learned has cost me ten lifetimes. What you are about to learn has cost you two dollars and fifty cents.
A man came forward from the crowd and said, May I ask now? The Master nodded. Master, what have you learned on the Mountain? Everything, the Master responded. Have you knowledge above man? The Master's eyes slowly focused on the humbled interrogator and a chill came over the crowd. The Master spoke: In the scope of the Universe, man knows little. But in his minute wisdom, he thinks himself a god among the other creatures of this planet. How wrong he is can be seen by observing the uses to which man puts his tiny ration of intellect. He gloats over his gold. And lusts after material possessions. And all the while his most precious possession slips through his fingers like the waters of a running brook. He lets go the one thing he cannot nor ever will be able to purchase once it is gone, the precious possession that cannot be borrowed or sold. Time? Is Time the most precious possession, Master? No, my son, the Master replied, but you're close.
A scholar then asked: Could you advise me of a proper vocation, Master? He then said: Some men can earn their keep with the power of their minds. Others must use their backs and hands. This is the same in nature as it is with man. Some animals acquire their food easily, such as rabbits, horses and elephants. Other animals must struggle for their food, like flamingos, moles, and ants. So you see, the nature of the vocation must fit the individual. But I have no abilities, desires, or talents, Master, the man sobbed. Have you thought of becoming a stockbroker? the Master queried.
Then an eccentric looking man said, Speak to us of Art. And he said: It might as easily be said that man could live without Art as that man could live without water. Look upon the innocent scribblings of little children. Doubt not that each of us emerged from the womb an artist. Art is freedom. That which is called Art, yet is made subservient to commerce is not Art. That which is called Art, yet is made subservient to a Nation or State is not Art. That which is called Art, yet is hanging in the Museum of Modern Art is not Art. That crap my six year old son could do, the Master explained.
Etc., etc., etc.
