Convoluted Half-Pun and the Front Bum Wizard

Dust twisted around mocassins. A pair of brown socks, losely cladding skinny sunburnt white legs, had collected a variety of substances from their recent long journey to the desert ridge. Constituting these substances was a hearty broth including blood, three flavours of semen, vomit (previously the contents of the wearer's digestive tract), mud, dog urine, car exhaust, seasons of saturated sweat and the accumulated micro-detritus of an unclean month spent trudging from the slums of South Central Kidderminster to this Arizona outcrop.
He is Convoluted Half-Pun, the Ambler. He is searching. He is restless.

The Message came to him like the harsh light of sunrise through the heavy lids of a drug-addict lying in some ghastly wrecked living room. It was a spring morning two years ago, and he had sat alone in a 24 hour fast-food 'restaurant' by the side of a motorway somewhere between London and a city to the north. The staff had changed several times, seemingly not bothered by CHP's ongoing presence there. He had had to make many trips to the lavatory to rinse out the caffeine-enhanced fizzy beverages that were keeping him alive, barely, through this self-imposed torture. Food included nuggets of white meat- ostensibly chicken at some point- along with shaped lengths of de-and-re-hydrated potato (apparently), little soft plastic containers of thick sickly-sweet condiments to add flavour to the super-salinated comestibles, and eventually a slightly dry, stickily coated swirl of flaky pastry pitched as a Danish. This last item served it's purpose roughly as a desert. CHP had been brought up in a fairly traditional British way, in which the savoury aspects of family meals (breaded pancakes squirt-filled with minced meat in a dark gravy, tinned vegetables of any kind, and always potatoes either mashed roughly with the skins still on or Good Old Fashioned Chipped into a Pan of Grease), were always jammed down beneath the oppressive, ulcerating moods of the parental disputes and discontent before the grateful clamouring little kids could slap their mucky paws on any kind of desert. Even the disappointing bowls of cold tinned fruit and custard that the Old Folks used to lay on for CHP and his sister looked appealing to his mind's eye compared to the dried-out pastry he'd washed down with cola in the service station that day. Desperation makes a monocle of hindsight.

The Message...