You’re weak fisted, stated Smith.
I could beat a bishop with this! Bellowed Satogata.
Satogata looked around him and all the bleeders were copying him. If this was
not enough when he farted another farted, when he spat another spat and
when he dropped his pants and pissed into the river another dropped his
pants and pissed also. Satogata was perplexed; he scratched the muck from
his eyes and eyed his reflection do the same.
Quit the copying! Bellowed Satogata.
And inevitably it echoed for Satogata was situated under the bridge.
I’ve had enough of you lot! Bellowed Satogata.
Satogata lazily got to his feet and lugubriously ran. His battered shoes with
jutting toes carried him slowly from under the tenebrous shadow of the
bridge, he ran up the hill and past the shop which was an agora for doxies
and junkies. He kept running until his lungs exploded in his gob. When this
happened Satogata dissipated into a mess of lunting, farting rags. Through a
dirty aperture Satogata saw the world was still copying him, the crowds
were walking, talking, eating, drinking, farting and belching. Satogata closed
his eyes and slept.
Satogata had one thumb up his nose the other was situated up his arse. He
coughed and bellowed but still he could not clear the pipes. Satogata was
under the weather. His arse had been running all night and now his nose was
blocked. Satogata was all alone and pensive. He wanted to kick Grunfeld, but
Grunfeld was nowhere to be seen. Even Smith was somewhere else. And
Barret, and Burton, Satogata was perplexed as to where they were shitting
and pissing. Satogata was on the precipice of weeping.
Excuse me, came a lady’s voice out of the nebula.
Satogata looked up at the fuliginous simulacrum.
Excuse me, came the reiteration.
Satogata shook his head in disbelief. The perplexity produced a myriad of
silent farts saving Satogata from opprobrium. Satogata digged the eczema
from his lids and looked up seeking the topography of the voice.
I’m not dead, emitted Satogata lost in pusillanimity.
Satogata with fatuous reasoning believed that death had surreptitiously
taken him in a silent fart. Death was one recreant fellow.
Thank god for that, said the lady.
The lady was a fine madeup lambkin. All smiling teeth and unblemished
complexion. She smelt of rose water and her hair was cut short. She looked
as though she hadn’t done a day’s work in her life. But neither had Satogata
and he was ruined from head to toe. She didn’t get too close for the reek
emanating off Satogata was ineffable.
Spare me some copper, me lady, said Satogata.
I’ve no money on me, said the lady.
Bloody hell what do you want? Bellowed Satogata.
Something told him that he was not about to get a free copulation. That only
happened in the movies.
I’m a writer, said the lady with an air of superciliousness.
What do you write on? Impugned Satogata.
Paper, emitted the lady extemporaneously.
Never read you, quipped Satogata facetiously.
Satogata pulled the thumb out of his nose for decorum, but acumen dictated
that the thumb blocking his arse should remain. Effluvium lugubriously
dripped from the hairs that protruded from Satogata’s blood red nose. The
lady did her best not to puke. She feigned a smile and concentrated her
vision upon a tree behind Satogata. Pity imbued Satogata once he noticed
the two lazy eyes; she never had a chance, thought he. Lazy eyes equals
lazy arse.
I’ve been published in all the big magazines, said the lady.
The only magazines I’ve read are the imprints on me friend’s arse, said
Satogata.
The lady frowned as though perplexity had penetrated her rectum for the
first time and she could not comprehend what the sensation was that was
undulating throughout her body.
Anyway what do you want? Impugned Satogata.
I want to ask you a question, said the lady.
Fire away, exclaimed Satogata.
What’s it like being homeless? Asked the lady.
Satogata took the thumb from his rectum, stood up and shoved the thumb
down the lady’s throat. The reek of excreta upon his thumb dissolved the
lining of the lady’s throat. Satogata held her head back and forced the lady
to suck upon his thumb. Now and again he felt her teeth nibble the globules
that were adhered to the integument of the thumb; she sucked the puss that
oozed from the purulent wounds under the broken, split nail. With Satogata’s
bloated thumb in her mouth the lady could not articulate the words that
were swirling around in her gut. Puke erupted, filled the lady’s mouth and
warmed Satogata’s thumb.
That’s what it’s like, bellowed Satogata.
Satogata pulled his thumb out of the lady’s mouth with a pop and stuck it in
his own. With alacrity Satogata sucked the puke off his thumb and dried it
upon the dirty rag that was his coat.
I’m going to call the police, cried the lady drowning in tears.
If you do that I’ll be no longer homeless, cried Satogata. But, and this is for
free, as the acid in your gut works, and the puke in your gob attacks your
teeth, tonight when you shit me out, think of me.
