Ch. 27: Dolorous hostelry: Circle Two

“No intercourse at The Pinch Punch.” So read the note safety-pinned to my felt and satin bedspread upon arrival. For me, this was no problem. Asexual by nature, attractive by countenance, I had grown accustomed to spurning advances from animal and vegetable alike.

But here a hot wind blows and stirs my loins. But here this Charming Man is charmed by wraiths in shredded robes of cobwebs.

To have never been truly punished by desire and then get beaned by its full force: I shuddered and sought the nearest cavern with my groin. The unfortunate lusty ghosts traced icy fingertips across the sensitive pits of my knees. And then I saw them and knew that I must have them.

The whining, the wailing, the beauty: I sought to enter and get swept up on their aimless blowabout. A threesome I propose, and their hearts leap. No really, I can see their hearts pulsing above their garments; that’s one of those things about the concupiscent yearners. Every cliché has a source.

Two illicit lovers, separated for eternity, now offered the chance to reunite, and—bonus!—I’m part of the bargain: clean as a fish and just as supple and muscular, innocent as a believer, horny as myth—and theirs. I approach gingerly, my tongue at the ready.

They ignore me completely, slobbering the saliva of death, clutching and shrieking and pounding away. I bid the wind drive them apart again, and forever.

Ch. 1 here
Ch. 2 here
Ch. 3 here
Ch. 4 here
Ch. 5 here
Ch. 6 here
Ch. 7 here
Ch. 8 here
Ch. 9 here
Ch. 10 here
Ch. 11 here
Ch. 12 here
Ch. 13 here
Ch. 14 here
Ch. 15 here
Ch. 16 here
Ch. 17 here
Ch. 18 here
Ch. 19 here
Ch. 20 here
Ch. 21 here
Ch. 22 here
Ch. 23 here
Ch.24 here
Ch. 25 here
Ch. 26 here

Ch. 26: The Stairs Between Limbo and Lust

Prying people out of limbo takes more than a crowbar. You need skills, and a Crave Case of Slyders to toss like goals down the circular staircase. The plus-sized models are the first to extricate themselves from Ovid’s hot tub, nostrils to the increasingly heated igneous metamorphic.

“I’m so glad these stairs are going down,” the models remark to one another as they pass me. Every single one of them says it as if it is an original remark. I smack the last one on the bottom with my striped cane. Something is coming over me like a pink cloud that smells of aging cheese.

TYRA is the last to leave. She decided to try out her charitable debate skills on Plato in preparation for the inevitable talk show showdown. Looking at the flickering shadow of a Slyder is not nearly as delicious as sinking your teeth into one. Join the others! You might become something you never imagined.

I’m paraphrasing here. She went on and on about fear, and also loving yourself, and realizing that you are not the center of the universe. He rolled his eyes throughout. But she seemed to feel good about it.

She also looks good. Her weave shines becomingly in the firelight, her mouth pursed in determination. I stifle an urge to stand on tiptoe to kiss her danger space.

Ch. 1 here
Ch. 2 here
Ch. 3 here
Ch. 4 here
Ch. 5 here
Ch. 6 here
Ch. 7 here
Ch. 8 here
Ch. 9 here
Ch. 10 here
Ch. 11 here
Ch. 12 here
Ch. 13 here
Ch. 14 here
Ch. 15 here
Ch. 16 here
Ch. 17 here
Ch. 18 here
Ch. 19 here
Ch. 20 here
Ch. 21 here
Ch. 22 here
Ch. 23 here
Ch.24 here
Ch. 25 here

The squirrel

Sometime in the fall of this year, we came home to find a dead squirrel in the street in front of our house. We buried it by the tree. Winter came, the ground shifted, and its little red claw emerged, like it was about to escape from the grave.

Spring came, the ground thawed, and it did escape--hopefully with the aid of some other animal. And it was on our sidewalk. And it smelled bad. And we scootched it as close to the grass patch by the road as possible to avoid stepping on it. And we did not re-bury it. Perhaps because it didn't really work the first time? Or maybe we just thought we had done our duty by the squirrel. Or maybe it became a science experiment.

Many things followed, practically on a daily basis. The squirrel stopped smelling. Our next door neighbor stepped in it. The mummified claw detached from the rest of the body. Bones began to show. Dogs sniffed it. Sometimes it disappeared for a few days, but it always came back. And then the torrential rains came.

The squirrel is gone now. Probably down the street somewhere. But his claw remains.

RIP David Markson

Venom Literati favorite David Markson died on Friday.

In memoriam, our former posts that mentioned him:

It all started with Wayne Koestenbaum.
And then we bought The Last Novel.
And then we loved it.
And then we loved it some more.
And then we invited him to our meeting.
And then he didn't come.
And then he set us free.

A walk down Venom Literati memory lane. We'll miss you, David Markson.

Ladies and gentlemen, Ray Cline, master acupuncturist