a true story of savage dread

in the Invisible Landscape


W.C. Leadbeater


Stay tuned for daily updates from the world of Rootboy on my blog,


as well as

Trish's Diary

The Mind-Warp Era stars my pseudonym & alter-ego, W.C. "Lead" Leadbeater, trapped in a world where mass insanity reigns, where the comic book-loving gonzo sees supervillains at every intersection. At paranoia's poison door, he enters the world of the Heavy Metal addict: flying cars, holo-vision, vid-phones, & galaxies controlling fate from 1,000s of light-years ahead, a retro-future created by hurricanes of hallucinations.

& so it goes. (I am really Curt Vague-&-Nuts. I wrote Venus on the Half-Shell, but lost all the buckadingdongs in the lawsuit.)

Parked in his Frat-mobile with the popular tomboy Toni, our erstwhile narrator learns from KRAP, the only station in Invisible City, that the psionic satellite, VADIS, the Vast Active Destructive Intelligence System from the planet Lucifer, has created mass insanity--the secret origins of the Mind-Warp Era. Secret orgies in the back seat of the Batmobile.

VADIS changes him into his favorite comic book character, Slime-thing, stalwart defender of truth, justice, and niceness. Somehow, school continues, in spite of Nova conditions, and Lead graduates from the Invisible High with honors. He moves to the City of Night for college, where he begins to use medical marijuana for his dread mutant killer glaucoma, so-called because his great-grandfather's eyes hemorrhaged & he bled to death. After meeting the great scientist, Otis Bender, inventor of the Bender Shaft, Lead steals an experimental shape-shifting device, the monad, which actually turns him into Slime-thing--but it also changes him in ways he never expected.

The Mind-Warp Era

is based on


All the following is copyrighted by me, and violators will be prosecuted with all manner of bizarre sex and other crimes of passion; whiplash, girl-child in the dark.

Featured stories on this site are:

The Celebration of the Lizard,

originally a Master's Thesis at the University of Chicago. Now with pictures that illustrate the complex symbolism . A shorter version was awarded Special Honors at the University of Chicago as an undergraduate BA Thesis.

It has been published in The Tome.

Literary critic Bill Veeder's comment on reading the first thing I showed him, was::

I think science fiction is in the same state as Elizabethan drama at the turn of the 17th Century. All it needs is its one great figure, its Shakespeare, to pull it all together and you know I think this might be it! (If you can keep this up).

(which I couldn't because I had a nervous breakdown)

This Celebration of the Lizard was written on some righteous weed from

Andy Roach & Joe Clip.

They were roommates, my next-door neighbors in the time I tarried among the Horlots, before the myth that was Bulldog was destroyed by VADIS, on the streets of the City of Night with a harlot's Soft Machine feeling for a point of intersection. Innocence raped with napalm fire by Bozo & the boys & girls from Alfalfa High.

Andy Morlock's Dead,

a collaboration with Timothy Leary about a flat-lined pop artist. reincarnated in the future to make a new career on the moon.

In honor of the psychedelic scientist

This story was written on a nutmeg binge. (It is a little known fact that nutmeg is a psychedelic drug. You make herb tea out of it.)


Indians Scattered on Dawn's Highway Bleeding

a parallel universe where the Indians put the white men on reservations written in collaboration with Victor Four Winds, the Invisible medicine man


(unless you're dumb enough to actually try it)

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I'm also an artist and my cities contain steel erections and my highs are invisible.

Please sign my guestbook. a place where Divine Seduction vies with the Queen of Kool to proclaim this the ultimate in savage dread &



This is an attempt at portraying reality, albeit the reality, the wonder and terror of insanity in a manner more literal than The Mind-Warp Era.

My diagnosis is schizoaffective," defined as simultaneous schizophrenia and an affective disorder like clinical depression or manic-depression. The schizophrenia drives my words into gale-force frenzies of bizarre punctuation; lots of semi-colons--dashes (like this one), parenthetical statements: like the last one... and ellipses. Suicidal depression results in short and choppy sentences, mania bizarre porn, all of which has kept me from fulfilling Veeder's prophecy. My illness can seriously disrupt speech-circuits in the brain, sometimes making of my black humor near incomprehensible word-salad. Timothy Leary always liked my letters and put excerpts into Surfing the Conscious-Nets where he credits me with "good attitudes".

This would have been impossible without his envelopes: Tim really pushed the envelope. Tim used to send me letters in envelopes which were actually entire sheets of hi-power blotto acid.

For years I was hospitalized repeatedly, those years where The Mind-Warp Era began its evolution. Since beginning Clozarel, though, my recovery was miraculous. Unfortunately, my old doctor from Electric City refused to put me on Clozarel. All he ever tried to do was enroll me in Narcoholics Numinous, the dread Scooby Club. They, in turn, told me I had "a pill habit" & to go off all my meds, so I quit goin' to meetin's and reading the Blue Book. I am doing fine without them.

Bill Veeder, first Guggenheim Fellow to a Soviet Nation compared some of my early writing to Shakespeare. If I would never have had my breakdown I might have actually gained that kind of stature already. However, after that my writing was a mixture of genius and garbage. Veeder even had to tell me the next fall that I'd lost it, because I'd gone into a deep depression once I quit weed. I suspected the problem might be not-smoking dope, so with a great deal of trepidation, I smoked a couple submarines and went uptown to view the Dali in the Art Institute, and started over. This time, he said, I don't know what you're doing now, but you're definitely back on the right track. And all you sweet girls with all your sweet talk you can all go take a fucking walk and I guess that I just don't know.

Although my initial use of U-boat cured the mild depression I'd been in for the last couple years, I continued smoking Rasta cigars until I was thrown into the Hotel Gonzo. Marijuana was my form of self-medication and it worked. For awhile. Until it made me paranoid. Yet even in paranoia, Reality was on my side. The one person who loved it all, who reveled at my hurricanes of hallucination, my Mindstorms, was Timothy Leary.


My wife has created a parallel document to this one, the deluxe and delightful Trish the Dish,,the Beautiful Bumble Bee Girl has finally terminated my chronic obsession with


(A basketball player turning into an angel)

If you feel like surfing around quite a bit in pop art, try Trish's trippy pages on

Sabrina, the Teenage Witch


Buffy, the Vampire Slayer.

Trish, like myself, like all my mentally ill friends and some of my mentally ill enemies, suffers from stigma. As an insane science fiction author, stigma has been a major problem for me; everyone in Invisible City knows the great darkness produced in my life by shame and dread. Much of this is fostered by the media portrayal of the mentally ill as violent. As a matter of fact, most of the mentally ill are of more danger to themselves than to others, though there are always exceptions .



(not to mention savage dread in the parallel universe)

Invisible City, North Dakota,

is where I live in my fiction, a bizarre parallel universe created for Timothy Leary, who in turn created Huck Getty Mellon von Schlebrugge out of my interminable letters. Huck is the hero of Surfing the Conscious Nets; a graphic novel. Invisible City is a phantom realm , just north of the Cat's Foot Hills and the Iron Claw Mountains, the Interzone of the real Montana, a strange and alien place. The name comes from Timothy Leary, the President of my Fan Club, the Great Gray Wizard; the fugitive acid casualty who finally took refuge in cyberspace. Nicotine Tim was a man of many paradoxes: once, he sent me a letter saying, "Don't you realize High Times is totally opposed to everything we dream of?" Later, he wrote a letter encouraging me to join Narcoholics Numinous, but when I told him, "I just want to go back to being the little pot-head fixing his glaucoma with dope," he said, "If you can really do that, more and more power to you!", Years later, he called, saying, "We all know illegal drugs are better for you than legal ones." In spite of Tim, I eventually kicked drugz on my own. Though personally, the hardest drug I ever had to quit was nicotine.


The Perky Pam Layout and VADIS, not to mention Whore-lover Fat and Perky Pam herself, are all allusions to Philip K. Dick, the world's greatest dead science fiction author and better than the living ones (except maybe William Gibson). Like Dick, I went BEYOND GOD & SISYPHUS; and the only thing beyond God is Sisyphus. God on his little unicycle, every evening riding the tightwire for Love and Death, for Mind and Body, for all the dualities which exist in the Cosmic Circus where the world is Sophie's abortion. A place to find eldritch things in the twilight.

The Vast Active Destructive Intelligent System, being a Drugster Truckdrivin' Woman and a head of the Ku Klux Klan, hated Jocelynn, my first girlfriend; deep-black so beautiful; thighs the color of midnight, successful hills, sailing submarines all night long. And hey. this "how to get girls thru hypnotism" stuff really works. She came into the dorm, Snitchcock-Hell, playing trance-forming mind-games; I took her in, I drove it deep, a mainline of inter-racial love. This is how it should have been as my best friend from the Invisible High had been a Black Panther. So out of place in the sunset west he was eternally grateful for me helping him on his homework and obtaining straight A's for him.

And she shivered me timbers and blew me woody.



My psychosis first appeared in First and Second Grade, where I was fed Dog-Yummies by Sister Mary Demon for having a childhood schizophrenia, forced to sit in the garbage can for no reason other than being different. These experiences have been included in The Mind-Warp Era as the Burnout in the Dog-Yummy Factory: The nuns were always punishing me but I never knew for what.

Part of the problem was that I had a sixth-grade reading level in first-grade; run, Dick, run simply bored me. As the schizoaffective disorder developed the world became evil, became an eater of corpses; myself, the corpse. The incipient illness disappeared when I left parochial school, only to later reemerge in High School when I wrote a novel for the Actual Schmaing's English class. I turned into my typewriter and had a Gnostic religious experience, an eldritch, mystical vision. which united evolution with religion.

Creation is ongoing and continuous and evolution is the Thought of God.


My illness caused my mind to shatter into vast evolving idea complexes; schizoid, manic, depressed states, an insidious acid, a bitter herb. Until I discovered the God-made herb for the healing of the nation. For years the Gnostic religion revealed to me by the Alien God ate away slowly at my Catholic roots; God was dead, I AM THAT I AM from out of nowhere dying. I descended deeper than the day could ever know into the abyss, the reality of Scripture forsaken. As a teenager I'd been saved at a revival meeting, started reading the Bible every day and speaking in tongues. Then when insanity hit I took on the three stigmata of alienation, blurred reality, and despair.

I saw God die!

Yet nonetheless I went out to the local Catholic church, a belief system which I never abandoned until home on summer break. My mother took myself and all my brothers to confession while I was stoned. The priest kicked me out for citing Nietzsche as my favorite philosopher.




You know you're really in Cartoon-land when Joe Clip money starts to replace your crisp Friendlies.

How did all the marijuana effect my grades, you may ask? If you're a teenage DARE brat and believe all the government propaganda, you'd expect me to have flunked out. When I abandoned Hunter S, Thompson House for the land of the Horlots Bigdom Jacques confronted me with the issue of my nightly submarine trips. When I told him U-boat made me creative, he ejaculated,

--It makes you think you're being creative. It makes you think you're being creative.

--Then why did Veeder give me an A for it?

--Show us your grades!

I fetched my report card. Three A's and a B in a graduate class. He dropped the thing in abject terror. I've never known anyone to look more shocked. He looked like he knew savage dread the way I was later to know fear and loathing.

Unfortunately for the Partnership for a Drug-free America, I finished all of my BA Thesis, A New Chemical Philosophy on marijuana, and graduated with Special Honors for it. Or, as Timothy Leary put it,

"What we don't need now is more new chemicals;

what we do need is a new chemical philosophy for the space age."

My first acid trip was sabotaged by a clown with a bottle of booze, the treachery of the Bozo King and his cohorts in Alfalfa High, the Drug Fraternity . You can read the whole story in The Mind-Warp Era. It was an attempt to punish me for writing psychotic letters to a Vadisystem who lived there, a boy-chick whom I could not convince needed my Dick, not to mention my Zelazny or Farmer. After Bozo made sure I was plenty doped up on acid and vodka he abandoned me to roam the Nite City streets. Copz in Carz the Topless Barz Never Saw the Flight of the alone to the Alone

There was cold night-sin, the thrill of it all with Roxy sirens as I stumbled around amidst the infinite trajectories of headlights crossing Broadway in the red light zone. The joy of oral sex on the streets that autumn night, a hooker in psychedelic furs in the early mourning man-madonna of Genesis. The music inspired me, the brave Imperial aerosol king with his spray-gun of UBIK--the Lamb lay down on Broadway, churchgoers replacing the whores who faded away. Like the corpse- eating world; whatever it eats, it hates.

It was the most wonderful and most terrible thing that ever happened to me.

Rape my Lizard.


Then I moved in next door to Muhammad Ali and Gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson was following me around with a tape recorder after I sent the ROLLING STONE a bizarre letter. At heart, I am Moslem; at heart I am an American artist, and I have no guilt!

After three months in the Hotel Gonzo taking lithium and stelazine I was released. I rented an apartment just across from Harold's Chicken Shack. A good place for an attack of the munchies late at night smoking dem Rasta cigars with my biker buddies, Doc, Eric, and Bruce. Who ripped off my stereo, the ignorant bastards.


When I couldn't find a job or a place to stay in Nite City, I rode the Nova Express back to the Invisible landscape and moved back in with my Mother and my Father, who was dying of Alzheimer's disease. As soon as I was back home, I thought, Bobo Boat books have become bestsellers in the past, why don't I turn my attention to fear and loathing in Nite City? So, I started an autobiography which, however, became an elaborate two thousand page-long porno fantasy when I went into another manic episode.

I spent a couple years at Interzone U. When I first arrived there, I was going thru a deep depression and nearly flunked out. Once the antidepressants kicked in, I became a straight-A student again, this time in the Religious Studies department. While there I showed the story to Earl Ganz, who suggested "cutting it, and turning the whole thing into a comic book about a swamp monster".

And all cities are invisible for fifteen minutes. And how this great wealth came to be in the middle of this poverty is a marvel of marvels of cosmicomic literature, frequently Calvinoistic with elements resembling Borges, like Nicotine Tim, I was outside, looking in. As Jesus said in the Gospel of Thomas, If the mind came from the body it is a marvel. But if the body came from the mind, it is a marvel of marvels. But what I marvel at is how this great wealth came to be in the middle of this great poverty.

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My writing career dissolved into fiction at this point, while schizophrenia took twenty years out of my life. I was repeatedly hospitalized for short terms, lost all contact with the science fiction I'd loved as a youth and did nothing but torment my typewriter, obsessed with writing non-stop for Nobodaddy.

The wrighting (full-brain CHAOS) I did during that period included FEAR AND LOATHING IN THE BATMOBILE, a true story of feral horror torn straight from the heart of the savage id. The Executive Editor of the NATIONAL LAMPOON assured me, "We all agree that this is totally hilarious, but it does not fit our needs at the present time."

WARNING: This story is full of assorted hot nasties. Parental discretion is advised.

The same thing goes for LADYTRON. She is a vampire who resurrects the dead by shivering their timbers and blowing their woodies. Though this was written at a much later period, the manic hypersexuality shows up in some real atomic oral sex. How great a fall for me, to become a purveyor of porn, when such great things had been predicted of me. Here also you see my obsession with oral sex which began with a demon Princess on the streets of Nite City while on acid, the vixen-foxen in her fake fox furs, twilight eye-shadow like a night that would never end. A mourning that would never begin.




I finally got my disability after three petitions and a trial. As soon as I had it, I holed up in the Space Capsule, the upstairs bedroom in my Mother's house; did nothing but write as the manic- depression tore me apart like love. My moods incessantly changed, violently, rapidly, my writing has finally been resurrected from the dread by a galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers and laughers.


Scoobyism--also known as the Scooby Club--is the religion called Narcoholics Numinous. The first time I joined the Invisible Scooby Club it was to have a social life and only for that reason as at the time the dope side of my dual diagnosis was pretty much under control. It isn't hard to fake being a Narcoholic by Scooby Club standards, one brewski is sufficient to convince them you need a Big Book and a Meeting.

Everything Scooby was fine, until I confessed to being on mental medication. Maybe some Scooby Clubs elsewhere are unlike the ones in the Invisible landscape, but the ones out here at the perimeter were constantly trying to convince me that I had a "pill habit" for taking prescription drugs; hypocrite collectors, they apparently take the rather ludicrous viewpoint that the mind has nothing to do with the body. That the Thirteen Steps are the only way to salvation in this Army of the damned. As that dork Mike Holst, my sponsor, put it, "You've got the Program now! Just work a Program on it!"

I quit in frustration following white death-rat suicide.


So then there was that first suicide attempt, which was to change my life permanently. I jumped from my bathroom window and broke both feet. The next day I was transferred from the Invisible Hospital to the one in Electric City on an ambulance. My Mother rode down with me. It was there that I met Trish the Dish when they stuck me on the psych ward after operating on my feet. Amazingly we met years later at Tournaments in Electric City when Perky Pam took us there for competition in pool, ping-pong, checkers, chess and cribbage.

I wanted to dance the cha-cha with her, until pool & UnKool Miltie both vanished into halcyon blues. However, she refused. I called Trish "you little bitch" to give her a hard time. Erection was rapidly replaced by rejection.

Cold. Ice.

Then suddenly there was a phone call. Marriage? You Wanna? followed shortly -- or at least the proposal. She moved in, her illness grew exacerbated, I moved her out -- but true love triumphed.

All this and more in the second half of this page, click here...