Lucille and Maud (8th)

Blessed lassitude, it works. While creeping unencumbered along the underbelly of the sleeping car, I had lost for a moment the threadbare thread that forced me toward the bright blue light. But now here I was again, in the jittery bowels of the juiceless brains of my accusers, suffering the brunt of their arrows and slings. Your senses, keen again, resurrected, and no longer bothered with pother, here thou art: gone straight to the kernel of what’s perceived. Lewd sex, exactly.

The sowing of the pox. At every deleterious little nook that you could encompass, the ghastly pairings took place. If I understand rightly that awful merging-cum-fissiparous cult, the melting happens first in sticky eagerness, the tearing away in renewed furor follows forthwith. I don’t think anything is gained: another useless endeavor, mysteriously ordained, by helpless all-immerded pupa-puppets sadly performed. The infectious spermous tsunami advances at a tantivy, tantalizingly threatens to engulf even the remote tiny spot wherein somebody (mainly me with the consuetudinary cockroaches) moribundly thrashes and casts. No exit, unless you beat it, scram and scurry to your second life. Maybe not even. Gray mist. At the foot of the rails where their exuviae fell, their fell swearing and screeching is replicated and magnified by the festering swards of the swamp – pullulating swarms of poisoned hairy needles cling to the wheels and indestructibly commence to corrode. A formulaic shiver sends goosebumps all over my grimy swaddle. I want to wipe at least my eyes, but not the wonted lippitudes – a mud of crushed chiggers usually comes out, neatly replaced at once, even before I’ve had leisure to chuck the muck from my stoned, stochastically twitching, fingers. We traverse an adverse country indeed. Felt it in my spongy bones. What I’d give to be taken hostage, mister Chin! Back to the back car, where the innocent freight sees the sun. A carcass full of life, lives. As the flies and their faded children glide down the sliding ramps. Balthus, Delvaux, and I, we all have an eye. Platonic observationalists. Eye and aggie one: the world a crystal on your orbital, orbiting. Alas, though. What’s nice from out the window looking in, ain’t so much so once inside. Pippo’s daughter, Dick she’s called, said it best. The point being that once you are blistering with the flies and their livid infants, the smells attack. Too much stuff tangible and edible at reach, thou art no longer hungry. She found that hunger was precisely a way people outside windows had. The entering itself into the pantry, as it were, shit, took all wish to eat away.

A writer, a preacher of the heavenly aspects only, a psychomatist... Bibliophile, pedophile. Pederast. Pederast: paidos-erastos: lover of children, like a fly loves its larvae. Never a murderer, a rapist, a corruptor: a preacher of hells – telling you you whistle while you burn – a yam, a potato: hot. Ain’t it cool...? An artist, though, hm. Being an artist is a less safe method of approaching the subject. Minor setbacks... You’ve got to have a minimum of talent – or else a more’n common barefaced gall.

It was from one of her passionate letters to Pippo that the trophy-hunting lame chink inspector extracted one of her hairs... In articulo mortis, an indulgence I’m asking of you, in all humility, chink Chin, mister, sir. Absolution miraculously revived her... Look at her jump inside her too narrow shell: she’ll bust her skull. If I get the chaotic gist of her harebrained tales, all is snowy caps, apocalyptic landscapes, last kisses, imbibed bloods, creampies, blow jobs, high stakes, the stratospheric launching of staunch capped heroes, the shrewd glint in the eye of the yearning sick heroine waiting in the terminal ward, the flunkies devotedly sacrificing themsel­ves for the greater joy of the lovers, the sulky dapper military fag and his shining sabre cutting a swath of destruction amid the shitty opinionated aboriginals, the memory of boredom’s refrain – and hey the very fulsome rest of the known romantic crap.

As the trains roll, she told me, in her parroty lilt: “–Once when I went climbing solo, at the Himalayas, the Everest to be precise, and among the heterogonic appurtenances pertaining to the inveterate climber I had to pack also a flask with this sort of pills look like very small boxes and are consequently yklept capsules, reliable remedy to the lack of oxygen above the clouds by which my agonistic heart was liable to fail.”

It seems that she, Maud, the fucking girl (and she of course was much littler then,) unbeknownst to him had emptied one of the capsules of its vital substance and instead had crammed herself in, thus, the well-wooled, good-willed pederast, though carrying in his backpack the same heft, was nonetheless the unwitting sumpter to a par­ticular­ly murderous and nastily surrep­titious stow-away, namely she. When he was up to less than a mile from the freakingly fabled tip of the Everest and ready to plant on it his miraculous willow stick, another attack subverted his body to such an extent he thought sweet death was upon him, so, yetinous doofus that he was, in articulo mortis, as I say, he fumbled and tugged and wrung amongst the nozzles and eyelets, managing to unknot at last the wincing mocking mouth, and so forthwith he sprayed atop the precipitous ice the heteroclite nagging contents of his mostly useless hump; finally he opened with trembling, profoundly chilblained, almost gangrenous fingers the bottle of his medication and there (oh lucky horror,) there was there a single capsule, which after sundry intents he learned again to grasp and lift to his frozen longing lips, when what did he hear (oh premonitory hallucination of cloying annoying death) but a tiny teeny voice exiting from the pill: “–No, dad, don’t; it’s me, it’s me!” It was she, indeed, wouldn’t you know. “–I’ve stowed away in your pillbox out of Rimbaldian, coldly reasoned love and at any rate to be near you in case something gravely grievous happened to arise, like as if you were to fall prey to bony cannibals with prickly flowering reeds on their scant cocks, and some such, so...” Which it was all very nice and sentimental, but how does one solve now this strangling quandary? Either he swallowed her, namely the pill, the pill that was her, and his life was then safe enough for him to crown at length his life’s peak..., or else he spared her life and damned himself to die choking and yet with no mission accomplished at all, a wasted life indeed in all its meanings.

That we are, all concerned, still around, of course, betrays the sorry fact a solution or other was reached, though with how much loss of face on anyone concerned, and especially mine, anyone can imagine.

Her dad in a rush. Putting the burnoose on. My gun, where’s my night-gun...? In the burnoose’s pocket – a cop’s worse than a thief. Soft-voiced: clicks like the clicks heard when, resilient thread by resilient thread, my waking eyelids sever the nocturnal spider webs. Rank sweat and leather. Ratlos arshloch – tells him. Wo ist der tatort... Mein feingeisterest kind, vögeln wir muss, nun verloren du muss, du muss weg sein... The cop’s thick fingers touched her bald cunt – prodded, probed. Her dad was holding fast to his gun inside the pocket of his blue burnoose – vanquishing barely the urge to wipe off the smirk plus the scowl, only a creep as a cop can manage this – gives me the evil eye; wittol as I am, I’m not too keen: with such salient features, or withal otherwise disturbed; disturbed people disturb me, I’m so upset and upside-downed “–I can’t fix on par­ticulars, let alone loan my undivided attention to paltry nimieties such as, sir, his sex or facial and constitutional irregularities such as lameness and harelipnesses, sir!”

The doe-eyed watchfulness stopped much earlier. Didn’t pass that keen-alertness, littlest-noise-triggered, four-legged litmus test – frightened out of my scant wits “–I’ve remained, from the word ruckus, sir, tight-lidded plus anus-throbbing much as a headless female half-buried: heartthrob of an ostrich sworn forever after to hold, of necessity and by the higher imperatives of nature and the nature of the visible, since married to fear, her peace.” “–You mean...” “–Exactly, sir! By the extreme heebie-jeebies extremely distressed; I saw, you might say, sir, about zip.” “–Colored?” “–Wait, there’s a spark in me mind, the bloke was tawny-skinned...? A lit detail feints about the motley duds my pithy brain conjures up from scratch, as if among the pullulating hoi polloi of larvae a more vivacious, jumpy grub were grabbing for attention... Got it: He wore a Titian white shirt...” And the big gudgeon taking notes. “–Yes, sir, your honor; that’s etched on me bipolar brain, alright; though let me be true, sir, and honestly equivocate as to what the phrase must mean, wish I knew, sir, I tell you...! Does it refer to a white Titian shirt, or conversely to a shirt in Titian white...? I’ve no idea, sir. Either Titian painted in a sort of white especial to him, or he used to paint some especially cut and fashioned type of shirt, whatever the color and striping, or else yet, of course, there’s the “xiripous,” serendipitous chance of the none of the above. Ha! Go figure, sir, tricks of my proven schizophrenia, my wife will no doubt tell and expand on it. Anyway...
sir!” “–Relax, I’m just a copper, not an army general; though it is true I take after the best.” “–Yes sir, your honor, if that’s your pleasure sir!” “–You’ll probably be called, for a line-up surveying over, you cappish...?” “–I’m delightfully afraid my burnoose is gaping and something untoward is cheekily peeping...” “–Well, never mind. I think I’ll go now. Thanks.” “–My wife will show you out, sir.” “–That won’t be necessary.” “–Oh, but I insist, respectfully, your honor, sir. And please feel free to, ahem, partake of her leisures – it’s been written, you’ve gotta covet your proximate, come on, encore an effort, otherwise all’s fucked, whole societal mess, no bastards to make cops out off of... Of course, the husband’s always the first to know; more often than not, he actually knows before it happens... And she...? Classically: She says yes, ok, she will, ok, yes. Yes, yes... Alone, fakely distraught, at the foot of the Brueghel bridge, where hissing hurried fuckings take place, I cry at her infidelity, pro infiducia sua, lachrymulam: I let gush and roll...” Only that, like all copsters he wouldn’t get it, he couldn’t – i.q. of a fly on my fly – he looked lost: another sorely mistaken flower-bee caught in a turd.

“–Or if you prefer, sir, head to her drawing room and question her, she’ll confess, probably knows much more’n I, at least she knows how to explain it much better. It was her after all who... Her, the veg lady at the store, saw the terrible assault by the spiggoty creep, sir.” Well, and good night, it’s been a pleasure, I hope now you take yours. Indeed, here’s the burning burnoose (Nisus’s nightgown all over again) undone: my little pricklet at attention, showing in all its proud majesty, no ailing eel tonight. Fucking slatternly wife. Fucked by such a savage. And don’t she quite deserve it...! Afterwards inspecting her hickeys – sucker, betrayed by her own blood...! Everyone’s acquainted with her quaint one – fit for an army of barbarians (sounds scratchy, tautological – can an army be less than barbarian, etc...?)

Rubber lady, hallowed institution, coming attraction, servicing one, another, soon proving able sutler to the whole thoughtless warring lot, from the recently hazed down to the pampered equally incapable royals. But wait. Here they march in, the tripping impis, hi-ho, hi-ho, the fearful armies, the helmeted hails and hells mete-outers, the bromide-eaters, the strongly insigniaed, the seminally cordoned, the poorly chosen, the uniformed, the festooned, the marinated, the ranked, the obsolete, the disarmed, the dimwitted, the drunk, the clogged gook-geeks, the cornballs, the rednecks, the plateau-ed, the dumbstruck, the fucking death-defying squadrons, the platooning plain goons, and the parachutists falling en masse, caroming, bricoling, like maggots – how cute...! – and all of them all but nailing the target, wider and wider with every fuck passing, the whole scowling parade, so decorated, so decep­tively queer, pride of all decorators no doubt, the laces, the plumes, the buttons, the furbelows and panaches, the garters, the ribbons, the sabers, the shining bootees, the golden trimmings, you know, the hanging medallions, the ap­pendages, tiny and huge, far as there’s room enough there, and what will thou wear, for the wear’s all, touch the fabric, tan­talizingly heavenly, don’t you opine, and with this garish undergirth of knots and baubles, I feel so fabulously explicit, forest fairies wouldn’t be uncannier nor showier, my precious, ok? The spangles, the skirts, queasing, puerile. Refulgent niggets comparing the sheen of pipings, the finish of hems. And the hatties, the coloring badges, the frills, the high heels – here they stagger in indeed, the womanly, the overdressed, the impish trippers, hi-whore, hi-whore, we’ve come to tuck you in, hi-whore, hi-whore, to stick our own we’ve come...

Object, object of quasi-unanimous universal desire, the wife: recumbent, splayed, a big hole like the headless mouth of the well of all what’s vilest – bilious, bibulous, starved old boys, too long no see a squaw, quite...? Quit the scuffles, you’ll never learn, and there’s twat for everyone. You always pay for it, anyway, especially when it’s free – unhelpable drive, though, don’t I know, you soft-willed made-up eggshells, but hey, pals, it’s what I mollifyingly say, and welcome, you bet: “–Do as if at home, help yourself, ensure your disease of choice, pullulating yeasts, gelatinous smegmas housing myriads, tenuous unsteady tenements for the lousiest viruses, a word suffices: the cunt as sump – and the one you marry makes you pay the hardest.”

“–Where’s your moth?” – he’d ask, back from killing a few of the plucked bedraggled wretches they had in for questioning; I’d answer maybe like them, “–Search me,” or “–Da hell eye no.” “–Has she been alone?” – the questioning, a drug you can never do without; “–Da hell.” “–Hear something...? Moaning, screaming, orgasms, the such...?” – too near to stand the sickening smog boiling up from his animal’s lungs; “–D.”

Nonetheless, and with a deeper shrug yet; here he pounds: “–From such whore such whoreson, hairy misshapen runt!” – gong! – a crushing blow to the nape, followed by the con­suetudinary litany: “–She must be humping again!” – one, groggily and all, can’t help but thinking: So ugly a drag, fucking all that as all that...?

Whereupon he replies unenticed, unabatedly unbaited, the bullish linebacker: “–The ugly also hump. Actually, hump much oftener than the others; tight dirty whores have to spend most of their time primping up.” Thanks a lot, sentimental education, wet behind the ears and all, but couldn’t ever ask for a better one. “–Can’t forgive her.” The asshole, tacitly acquiescing to the savage torturing of his nutcase – dis­ciplinarian cop of a husband – failed, prick-broken, suicidal and heavily armed. Cruel beast, I knew my face would explode any instant, agonizing toothache, swollen cavity-induced infection – bullet scars, silly girl frightened of everything, and his perfect cures: Against fear of darkness – he’d close me hermetically inside an inner room, no windows, nothing but darkness the whole night, and yet I could see all kinds of specters. Fear of insects, when I saw the enormous shadows the single bulb hanging from the ceiling at suppertime cast on the walls, moths, tipulae, skeeters, geckoes, cockroaches, and once or twice he hunted them down, bittles, geckoes, and smashed them on my plate – and everyone was laughing: my broth, my girl cousin, and himself above all: “–Eat, eat...!” Had to eat the bugs among the loud shrieking railleries: whole, still twitching cockroaches, spiky legs and all, they tasted like vomit. Worst of all still: fear of lightning, fate of the downtrodden. Emperor Prepucius jumping to his death. Me kneeling and praying in a frenzy and wanting to be dead, praying to christ and his fellow supperers for instant delivering death instead of so much suffering – a par­ticular night, resentful after I had become champion of the household over him at devil among tailors, a knack for ball-swiveling and at knocking off pins on the switchboard above the table, he got up screaming like a tricked whore and tied me outside to the flag pole during a raging crazy storm, under the fucking rag, fluttering like disaster, and the end of the world in brimsmoke and no stone unturned, and now no wonder these dirty asswipers (in the meantime become objects of abject cult among the elidible morons) provoke such repugnance – seeing one and hawking up a gleaming oyster which I aim with deadly accuracy at its rot-inspiring core is the one and same thing, besides the sudden healthy rampages when I burn the lot in a whole street or hammer away in a row of monuments, eyesore continuous, conspicuous and ubiquitous above any other one, I never need go too far to blow my steam...

From blows or anguish or the scant shit..., that’s the result: I was fed rotten molars from my own mouth more’n two years in a row: ten-twelve verminous grinders, shot. Couldn’t grind shit for years, fed actual pap, on top of the virtuous devotional honorable venerable slops infants are served down the fodder-funnel – and the concerned citizens treading desperately at the wide end of the funnel as though employed by the wineries of hell – not in order to ripen this much short of unadulterated rot the (also metaphorically goosed, buggered) children’s unfortunate liver, but alas yet a more, afterwards, useless and disabled organ: the brain.

And thus all told rejected universally – plus a couple of spine-rattling scars, same bullet opens a hole up me flopping jowl (waggly wattle is more like it,) and another hole smack in the middle of me puffy cheek: smashed to smithereens a few teeth, others left, though jaggedly nipped – a k.k. bullet, namely keister to kisser, entered me ass, exited me skull, well-punished by some well-armed healthy criminal shooting from downstairs up. Ten years later, another bullet (this time around not self-send) put paid on his and me hurt – our remaining teeth, brother, wouldn’t bother us again.

Fang senior pretended my face would burst like his: swelling of the cavities’ infection out of control: the head a bomb. With every toothache, I’m waiting for my face to burst all over and no recess – the several abscesses reaching their concurrent excruciating apexes. We all so damned jealous, and of whom for decency’s sake, of a ramshackle bone grid with the usual few scruffy pelts hanging there to dry of an awfully ugly and decrepit veg- and fish-monger no less – not that many fish stink fetishists lost about, let me certify. Moreover they’ve put her at the back of the (maxi)store, gouging fishes, gauging weights and prices, never facing the grievously repelled public – she’d it seems been relatively glossy once but now, con­sumed from the insides, the slack of her skins had become all lousy creases and pleats, hairy and allopecic by jumps and starts in patches opposite to what you’d expect, hirsute tits plus balding nape type of distributive attributes kind of berserk organism set-up – she’d hit the parched deadly skids and no way out, hooked from a meathook, it rather looked like, rather I mean than on the customary poisons the frettingly mad rely in order to try to assuage the tortures they go through: pills, smokes, booze or who knows the horrid injectables, but I fear, more accurately, hooked after all in his asphyxiating fists and fits of unwarranted rage, a riot of anguish profligately running both ways, from body to body, from ruin to wrecker, linked blood siblings, raveled in knots of narrowing and snapping veins, wasting away down the quagmire of despair, heartache and turmoil.

And no salvation on sight, neither bestowed by fate nor apportioned by one’s own hands – too frail a constitution, too frail a mind, here’s the rub, too frail a world outlook, where there’s only extant a sure mutual condescension toward the hells of the afterlives, and no other hope available as decreed by the powers that fucking be.

Why didn’t they kill each other, or at least whichever one the other – couldn’t, duh, that’s what; couple of sorry dubs unable to manage even that one, the commonest of roads to deliverance – pity ‘tis, sucker whores, the moral, will-constraining grotesque calisthenics they are obliged to perform at the footpace of the enthroned, and thus imbibe some of the sick giblets-sweat they putrefactively secrete – too ingrained in their indoctrinated consciousnesses the swills of the fathers.

Not here, though. Emancipated, you bet, reincarnating whomever I please. Chugchugs the train to freedom and back. And the contrary of jealous: unjealous all the way – and a wittol withal – paradigmatical­ly so, pushing the full of spite envelope to the other side of the tube instead: don’t ever touch me, go and nag somebody else, whoever, how many you are able to fancy and service, couldn’t care less...

The compartment, the car, the whole contraption full – and the fool listens to me full of tomfoolery. He’s making a full-mooned face like he’d swallow anything: dicksucking wittol, eh. “–Quaint barnacle, strange sieve, fully wrong-headed slush machine. Foully biased, prone to sputter, and unspeakably mean. Only lets across to the free warm new islands of swing... The runt, the unseemly, the disinherited, the unclean!”

The vast elation, greatest so far alive, following news of his demise – the wild celebration in my unfettered brain – even going so far as spending the dear buck and calling the moth long distance. Exulting to her priggish ear such conventionalities as... Now you are free! Go on a cruise. Diddle the steward’s brains off. Or the cabin-boy’s, I hear they are a smidge cheaper. Suspend all intimations of mortality. Spend yourself blind, blow his insurance – must be double – a creep’s bonus for getting his due while fucking the rest of humanity in a fell binge, in a tomb-caving bloody orgy of epic proportions. He died mimicking his parrots as they died. Died laughing and repeatedly orgasming. And now who’s left...? After so fucking long, who’s counting! By the way, his slab and hero’s shingle or saburral plaque, or whatever the fetid fake little faggish patch of cheap sanctimonious nimieties they stick on his paltry headstone, wherever the hell will they plant it, I’ll profane it, I’ll crap on it as often and unsuspectedly as means allow... Parrot master most dilectus. Happiest day on our lives, congratulations all around, tell Vangong, his doughy assy head’s still too yeasty and vaginally discharging, but no matter, let’s tell him often also, I know he ekes a great sustentation for a while after he’s reminded of the notion. The buck’s worth about over. Clang, clang, clang – something fell – a coin – to my coing. Scant payment – blind bard.

After the lull, for the as yet unadapted eye would be wavering, I’d follow meekly the beautiful proceedings, even, if unnoticed, I’d pick from the breeze-swept floor the slimy spent ball of gum the queen would spit away with a thick scummy oyster attached to it for good measure – and what a delicious relish wouldn’t it be in my slow sucking mouth, I’d eat it whole, never having tasted food so glorious, almost fainting of pleasure and all. And chewing the ambrosia, all my senses alert, my peepee erect, still nobody’d catch me in my orgasm; outwardly so casual, son of nature, almost jaded. Yes, I’m again a backstreet dirty little boy, idly prying maybe the dry blood off his scabs. The transfer now completed, I can safely contemplate how the chief Transferor is summoned to the summary justice of the railway officials. He sought with all his might (so he avers) to extricate the cause of such a sieve kind of escape hole in his cellars. He concludes that: it must be a hobo secret sort of mischief doing, a hidden disappearing scrim, a transforming chrysalis case sort of thing, uh, their gathering sump, their voodooing paddock, their intimate hell – they intrude, bore unseen, and, once installed, labor like maggots or ants, bettering (while trapped) the common cavity. Everybody knows that. Unsuspected hanky-pankious chambers are laid where you’d never smell ‘em – ubi­quitous – if one, a dozen – penny each, cheaper.

Fondling with full tongue and gums the palatable kernel of alien saliva, bothering away the while, my raking nails still reeking of the privy, I pry at the just newly dried blood watching the queen dryly brood – which shall it be, a spectacular straightforward, or perchance a subdued, more subtle, refined chink-torture sort of punishment...? The waiting shall be worth; shivery with an­ticipation, the bunch of us, and not one strag­gler, stray or dud amongst us, the selective creep platoon of the whole train, the dusty row of spurned witlings, dopey clods, egg-faced clots lately disabled and forsworn, ropy gores at the chiasms, buccal commissures, coffin-styled doodles stuck at one penumbral end, gamy derelicts, echoingly engaged in an almost in­conspicuous albeit sappy little underhanded rhythm, quietly dis­sembling, as if not quite there, with two fingers through the pockets, each his own scant stick to direct his own soft-bean choreography, static ballerinas where only their softnessess beat – what do they, I mean we, do – indeed what else – jerk off do we. The secularly unrewarded, the peren­nially tarred, the sempiternally postponed are paying themselves something back, if only a little paltry handsel. And some day soon... Retribution’s at hand, its bloody hour won’t tarry, the cleavers of its clock-hands are about to clang... Matters are being taken care of into our own hands. Dormant doormats up until now, but festering underneath, a bunch of downtrodden confounded dust-lapping creeps indeed, but from the dullest of which the all-heroic Doorman awake he shall (heil, Turmann!) stalwart and brisk, aroused arise he will, and with such an alacrity and blatant disregard for the fat manners of the vanquishing profiteers, those ingrainedly indoctrinated and now inveterate and unmendable, too used to mock, exploit and kick around the ugly underlings, that his untiring deeds (Turmanns rastlose Tätigkeit) shall put flowers to the waste, and to waste the spurious flower beds where the heaven-assured-cum-insured camply wrecked and fickle-wickedly fudged with, and always fucked and shat at their hearts’ content through all of their worthless state-worshiping days – there is only the curvy grounds at Arlington for a more feraciously manured cemetery pomposity.

Nobody who shouldn’t scores now by the Doorman – the Doorman unhooks the meshes which the stormy winds mistake for banners, everybody passes but the formerly so self-righteous straight-backed: whom, by the cutting steel sheets of his helix-like arms, get all ineluctably shortened at the neck roughly by a head...

Restless activity, angst amongst the jury, from a watchtower the queen, whose stoic plasma brooks neither vertigoes nor piffles akin, having let fallen amongst their midst the brunt of the eclipse. Erst basking, now flabbergasted, their nostrils narrowing to hairy slits where the nonagenarian maidenheads stew still, as if the earth or the train, aloft, stood still, all are discombobulatingly trying to deal with the verdict. What she whickered and mumbled, while a film of morbid jam enveloped the lek where the phony specter of war roared, and odd sudden haired zonae peppered the walls of this cage now without windows, gaseous, stifling, without exits, without lifts nor shunts, without breathing interstices whatsoever, frenzied zoo where both skins and perches parched and fried under the unremitting waves of shame, was, if I recall aright...

“–Is it stuffy? I’d say! Necrologically so, and just you wait... Sloven yellow-beakers, scuttlebutt embryos, you touted yourselves as the roughest old hawks of riders, and behold, instead you’ve been ridden again by a sodden soiled little dot (meaning me perhaps, whereupon I swelled like a tick fed on bloods of tainted phantasy) – the paltriest lousiest dottiest dottie from the whole immense stipple of the unnoticed, the dun, the gray and the tamed... Not only the head inspector but also each one of thee subservient chippies art guilty as charged in having busted again the wrong specimen... The case is that you as an investigative terrorist unit were charged with the saving task to crack the case by nailing at least one of the maverick old dog filthy barkers who every night, impunely working beneath the clangor and clatter of our unwieldy contraptions, spike the waters of our ceremonial crucible with nauseous brews of lawn run-offs and plenty of other germinous varieties of puny but deadly flues – everyone, especially the car-worshipping, crap-addicted subur­banites, public eyesoring nuisances all, with their crappy dogs, crappy horses, crappy boats, and their chemical lawns and their untidy moronic cavalry attacking each blade, their brain-splitting tractor mowers, their clouds of exhaust and of mephitic methane trailing from their bursting bowels where together rot their tobaccos, beers and sundry fats and smoked meats, the maddening inter­minable fart of their leaf-blowers, crowning glory of betrayed insanity, everyone, not only those dregs of flamboyantly disguised humanity, each fellow, his ugly erogations (lleigs erogueigs) rife: he spits or pisses or intrudes with boogers, fleas, chiggers, moths, and lice the foods of others, everyone pokes in their frazzled frassy nails, everyone slips into the pot the odd maggoty chunk, everyone stirs it with handles of plungers and such – hey, ok, all that’s commonplace and commonly accepted and kosher, but we are talking something else much graver, that plague of ours is plain deathly polluting, that, unlike life itself, is no joke – faithful hallowed superan­nuated, and wet-eared light-headed more expendable railway clerks are nonetheless indistinctly dying by the shovelful, and those of us on the know suffer yet the most – our sweethearts miss our former feisty selves, our moms fret all day, our strop­ping leathers wither and melt, our mettle likewise, our asses bleedingly shorn, our mustaches singed, consequently our braggadocios close to done forever for, our private casks brim with soots, toads, slugs, wyverns, newts and opinicuses, our aprons don’t approve of any of all that alien flagrant muck, and also (much as our uncod­dled ticks unfed fall off) of themselves fed up fall off, our dogs have lost their souls to the barkers and disenchantedly emigrate to the dismal vicinities, lured until, at cheapos’ paradise, chinatown, malignant ant-heap, teeming masses of grubs stercoraceous, their tired bones collapse in a piss-sulfurating corner among many as superabound in those baleful chink so-called grubbing venues, where inside the unbearable stink, thick as the most unpalatable gravy, they are forthwith suppressed, our pet rabbits likewise, mangy as our cunts, but melancholy and pestiferous for an added bane, once they flew the coop, disheveled magpies having forgotten their vocabulary, their manners, their savoir-faire, hungry gypsies scooped them up and swallowed them raw, there’s destiny for you, but no matter, each crook to his loot, the point: that, in a gypsy trick mirror image, we fare not at all better, see us distortedly run, the repeated outbreaks of cholera and other cases of the runs run amuck amongst us, our sucking cup same as our commode runneth indeed full, already en­docrinologically obtuse, now more upset, our system – afflicted with pietism cum priapism (whether appropriate or not,) where the ithyphal­licness makes us still more monkey-like, and in our uncalled-for prognathism (too cruel, trying too hard by half,) we look like as if already extinct, and, jeeze-wheeze, if only could we stop for a second in trying to placate our gratuitous, unwarranted proudnessess and foreignly-made-urgent bodily necessities, if we stopped (for only a second) the mating, the jerking off and the defecating, then maybe could we invest some of the energy now liberating trapping one, one piddling one of the boisterous dark culprits – it is too much to ask...? – getting along with the pest one dies of it – no, but a consummate scavenger follows the scent of his prey, is that so hard...? Is that so freaking aitch, accounting for the smelly piffle they trail up until our cauldron and back...? – Our system sucks. And the anguished sucking noise it makes differs extremely from the crystalline guffaws of our sworn foes the razor-wielding shit-toting tramps. Short of languishing to death our hermetic ministry as a whole is anyway doomed; lest we should valiantly fight, tooth and nails, and petrified cunt-flaps, and probably even if we do, seeing what we’ve got, as effectives and effectivities go, we are ig­nominiously ready for the headslab, where if something is inscribed it shan’t be nice at all, I’ll warrant it, it’ll be a glacial taunt more like: They fought the runs running against the poisoned grains of their ingrained migraine, and went nowhere but latrineward, to hide where no grain, chemically disabled, would ever grow... – facetious, jaunty, jeering, monstrous stuff no railway staff will ever again, without dying of shame, be able to live up to. And yet the clues are ubiquitous – should be easier than that, don’t you think? – Which mandrake or root of evil corrupts the trade is a quandary we can only conjecture about, in fact a waste of scant resources – after all, our vittles, by the nocturnal noisemakers fracidized and mickeyfinned, has got nonetheless to be exhausted, consumed, else we loose the remaining oomph that keeps us and the whole sacralized system running on – and yet again its same ingestion renders us unstintedly unstimulated, restrained, nothing honky-doried, in fact totally heartbroken and flued – in a word, floored, rail-warped, sabotaged, phase-outable, quite useless, and clunked – that’s why your nightly, more addled brains are incapable of lathing out, out of the gross splurgy night matter, the ethereous, deletereous, mephitic, malefic (no doubt as common as common is, and non-descript as non-descript go) simple joe, a everyday shape of one, if ever only one, one, one, but one, only one, of ‘em skillfullest of underhanded frauds. But got it? Were thou listening? Ordinary-looking, thou blockhead! Each one listen, each thee of yourn do that now: Wipe the ass of thy slate clean, and flush with new courage this heart of thine, and indeedy start anew. Turn over thy sphincterous wound a new poison-ivied leaf. Alas, and do I hear oops? Somebody gives more’n two hoots? And who whereabouts is calling boobs? Nobody bids a timely suicide? And who shoots for shits? He stoops to newts? Some boldly one pledges un­mitigated unfor­givable stupidity? Won’t do, though, none fills the bill, got to ask for more, gotta reserve the big prize. The guy bamboozles daily the lot of you, he operates freely under your noses not cut obviously for the finer track­ings, he’s smoother than any of you could’ve ever speculated on your sorry piddling own. He’s the golfer, the captain, the pastor, the preacher, the boss, eek, he’s anyone, actually he’s so well-adapted (or is he a she, a slick vegetable one, a leek, a scorzonera, a suppository-type of a one working at the pharmacy, but no, impossible, hers are not the martyrs’ field of so much filthy devising,) he’s a model citizen, in short, and fashionable, and clear-cut, and elegant, and as the doctor-ordered, and as the authorities-disposed and as the clerics-fostered, and as the cops-asslicked... The joke’s on us, the creampie’s on our shit-eating faces (tastes better taken with capers,) of course: Of course! He’s kicking our chops in for us every day, and with a bleeding smile, pathetically, we take eager turns to greet, and compliment, and thank-you him no end. By his charm we’ve been swept off our feet, by his underhanded return in kind meanwhile he makes sure we never rise again, we are the repeatedly trod-upon dog shit splattered underneath his spiky boots. So quit wheedling and cajoling: the potential murderers are thriving on the fermenting shadows you cast while kowtowing; no, upright, stand up, off now the unhinged vulture vibrators from your lazy recta, and back to real tight-balled coldhearted work. I say! Put them all in line and pitch your stirrupy onslaught. You’ll find them for sure among the customarily well-to-do, all those disgustingly willowy and portly swells, the throaty, the deep-chested-voiced, the professorial, the sermonizers, the long-winded, the direc­torial, the dictatorial, the versatile, the crisp, line ‘em all up and shoot, damn both your eyes, you faltering shrimps, and if any’s a smoker, there thou art, add to the fire, definitely a creep. ‘Tis a cinch, these are the criminals, the most citizen-like, superiorly smiley, uppity wrathy, obstreperously fripperous, highbrowy bored, offensively kind, dismissively lacy, advisory matronly, codedly behaved, fuckingly scouty, the least suspectable, trashy, disagreeable, disrespectuous, crotchety, crippled, malodorous, vernacular and ugly, and all of them with perfectly current valid tokens!”

When the jaundiced hobgoblin finally shut her troubled trap up, I saw, behind the mirroring darkness of my sun specks, the worthless cursory bunch disperse, each a hagbag on his head, none poor-mouthing, none begging to disagree, all aggrieved sumpters carrying nonetheless the added suttle of hideous disappointment to the rusted tare of their cuddling long-ensconced guilt.

Lamely, and in crutches withal. No matter, for I’m still unfound. The new wind sighs. From my hiding-place, near the counted sleepers, the contraption moves. Unwadable lacunae of the excised chapters excepted, a whole miscellanies of anecdotes could be recounted regarding the en­counter with the variegated assets underneath. A meeting with a Brueghelian check­ered soldier beetle, its showy apiarian trichomes that otherwise prey on maggots preying mistakenly on me should perchance be a jovial whirligiggy novelty kind of tip-off, par­ticularly if I suggested that the maggot in case was my one par excellence.