Chapter 28: Goin' to the Sex Crime Movies

Maggie was already in bed. Olney knocked on the bedroom door ... no answer. Where did she go, forlorn Canadian girl, must've skipped the movies. Timid and alone in Sodom. Everyone alone, now.

He ransacked the kitchen for something to drink. Oversight of a calamitous day: no wine, no cognac. Nothing but -- hey, wow -- a bottle of cheap cooking Kirsch left no doubt by Subji and undiscovered until now.

"Well, now, that'll do just fine ... and a litre, to boot."

Thrilled by the wee-dottest of good fortune slung his way, Olney gazed with gratitude at the alcohol content of the nearly full bottle: sa-wacko ce soir! Unbalanced glee loosened the muscles of his face as he settled back with a glass of the sticky stuff.

"Wait for Rhonda's what'll do," he said aloud, suddenly full of senseless hope. "Wait for that peau douce girl. And while waitin'll put this c'risey eau-de-vie to the test. First glass straight down the hatch cum Franz Biberkopf ... yagghh." Olney gasped for air. No sissy he, another glass poured and held high. Swirls it, sniffs: "Aww." Bouquet of maraschinos in a highball. "Yep, well, time to fix the mouth here at Hoity-toity Taste Testers." A sip and a rinse. A gulp: "Wheee-yooo," cheeks blown. "Former flavor of stale cigarettes now coated in thick cherry sauce, grand time." He squirmed in his chair with end-of-the-world glee. "Oh, come dear Rhonda. Save me 'fore I turn 'to a lolly, hee-hee. Encore un szip," sloshing over tongue to tantalize its bibulous zones. "Aww, pancake syrup here." Tongue on fire. Time for the cheek pumps. Rinse again. Gargle: "Ah-hachhh." Garkle gargling Kirsch then coughing like hell is suddenly reminded of his renowned poem, Goin' to the Sex Crime Movies. "Should record it," says he to the bottle, "put under Maggie's pillow, heh-heh." Hums the bluesy tune. Rinse again. "Glurp ... whah!"

It's Friday night I got nuthin' to do.
The pinball's got me bored,
Lord the fuckin' TV too.
I got my blowup doll but what the hell,
Think I'll see a movie and break this spell.

The asthmatic dragon pours more. Next: in with the mouth air and out with the nose air for a symphony of ... "olfactory diss'nance's what it is, screams even." See how quickly goes his hand eern-nn-nee-eeyow into that back pocket for Miss Helen, the nasal nurse. Whonk. "Thank you Miss Helen."

Première dégustation toujours gratuite au Bar de l'Undersink. And the costly thereafters? "No problem, Jack," sez O., proceeding with that intent Husserl was always talking about. And tonight's intent? To pay the price for another night of puero-perdition, glollop-licksmack. "Now, where is that Rhonda." Shifts in chair, sez "Hmmm."

Let's talk about it, he thinks. If only. Maggie not having any, though. Could've saved us all with a little of that spontaneous face-sitting humor ... yet to be discovered in women I have known. Comes love, or the facsimile, and next thing y'know yr human nature is shackled. Don't you dare look at another woman, I'll chop yr balls off, kind of thing. They then la-de-da-ing down the street, no need to look at men the men always looking at them. They then take their pick and put on the spell. He gets his pussy and they get his soul. Fella 'ventually goes bonkers.

Went down to the city hall to pay a fine,
Found myself standin' in a fast movin' line.
The folks inside commenced to whip and wail,
Beatin' they little things and pissin' in a pail.
Puttin' on rubber and tightenin' the leather,
Screamin' "Ooh wee baby" and comin' all over each other.

Rhonda no innocent in all this, though she'd like to be. Sure, nothing would've happened if I hadn't, y'know, pursued it -- her. But's not certain. No-o-o way. Men flush their creamy prey until the passive creatures yield, the predator snared. "Ah-yeh-uh," aloud and goofy faced. "Top up time, Jack. Kiss me with Kirsch, dear sultry petunia, wherever you are." Head bobbing now. And then yr women're always claiming defenseless this and put upon that and ever at the mercy of and always the victim of and mostly taken advantage of and -- glurg, whoo! -- every one of 'em brought up to think she's the Virgin Mary.

I was drivin' down the freeway the other weekend,
Saw a head without a body over on the median.
I screamed and I jerked and I started to beg,
When just a little further was the arms and a leg.
I had to wipe by brow as I hit the gas,
'Cause just beyond the exit was the tits and ass.

So Rhonda hates me, or so the Poot says. Might as well hate herself too. Both of 'em dumb clucks. Not developed, civilized beings at all, but hens at heart. Three of us going separate ways and never will speak of it. Human miseries galore -- glup, gizozzle! Nobody got a clue. Could be a won'ful planet.

Well I made it to the doctor to check my clap,
He had a teenybopper sittin' on his lap.
She was jumpin' up and down like a pneumatic drill,
He said, "Just a minute boy, till I finish this thrill."
I passed by the nurse goin' out the door,
Said, "What can I do this calls for more."

"Hey, let's have s'more that wino delight," says he to the room. "Yeee-ow!" Could have sharpened a pencil in his mouth. "Oh, Rhonda, come thee home, mine'st dear Rhonduhhh. Tarry yet not no moment farther ... no, further. Hasten O thee thy tasteful ankles remembrest well by me to this thy ... hrup." The burp pushes at his bladder. He stands with blowfish cheeks, as another pair rise to greet his lips, hrip-hrup. Pissing in the sink. "Woye. Comme c'est bête, ce viviferous glue. Strong enough t'fortify the benchworks, is it, mean, it is." Sits down again, wobbling in his chair, talking his thoughts to the room. "Musta let out a quart o' ballast there, ah-yeh-uh. Mercy. Hey, the more's the pour the merri-or, Lauritz. S'time for a smoke. C'mere smokiepoo. Oops, dropped 'em. Sur la table d'Avignon les ciggieboos they all fall down. Sur the feelthy floor too, mon. Not 'nough left t'just leave. Gotta get 'em. Uh ... uh ... oh. How come's so hard t'bend over, j'm'demandio. Here's one. Oof. Yay-yuh. Well, now, j'adore mon Feudor, j'do. Pissssh, pissssh. Yep, lighter works fine, know that, now try 'n' light the little ciggie, there's a good lad."

Olney having trouble here. His hand makes several passes with the lighter, sometimes lit, sometimes not, cigarette-a-mouth chasing after it. He stops. Starts again. Now the lighter's burning brightly, but many inches from the cigarette. Now it nuzzles the cigarette, but no burning brightly. "Need a plan," sez he, sitting back. Nothing much comes to mind, so he leans forward, determined to wing it. He plants both elbows firmly on the table. With left hand gripping cheek to hold head steady, the little finger of right hand pressed against jaw (causing eyes to cross and unfocus), the lighter firmly held in other fingers at the tip of the cigarette, itself firmly gripped by tensely puckered lips, he makes a concentrated effort. Aïe! he chokes back a little scream, the cigarette glowing warmly at last, though half of it singed, along with nose and hair.

Smarting yet heroic, he proclaims, "Proud we are, mighty proud. Now then, quite ready I am, so just you come through that door, Miss Rhonda. Wanna play 'Oy spoy wit' moy lit'le oy' all over yr loverly body, hee hee, so run dear Rhonda do run run swiftly to this my lap O Rhondr an' slip thy sappy whim-wham over this my thrrrobbing Henry an' wiggle awhile away, my dear, an' wiggle awhile a-whrup, whrip."

Olney puts the glass and cigarette down, following them with his head. "Ecst'sy everun's 'popcalypse," he mumbles. Feeling comfortable, even cuddly, he softly sings to the table:

Now my girl's in the nuthouse,
She got raped by the pack.
My boyfriend's at the clinic,
With a ripped up crack.
My doll it went and blew up,
In the middle of a whack.
So what I'm gonna do,
'Cept to go on back ....

.... .... to the Sex Crime Movies
Goin' to the Sex Crime Movies
Goin' to the Sex Crime Movies
Goin' to the Sex Crime Movies ....

§§§

Chapter 29: Last Tango in Paname

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