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Chapter 28: Goin' to the Sex Crime Movies Maggie is home already; Olney knocks 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. Olney resolves to drink himself unto sweet oblivion. But! Oversight of a calamitous day: no wine, no cognac. He ransacks the kitchen; the cupboards are bare. A whimper escapes his lips, while deep in his throat a growl of sheer insanity begins to form. Last resort, look under the sink. Hey, wow. Behind the lessives and nettoyants desperate man finds a bottle of cheap cooking Kirsch, misplaced no doubt by Subji and undiscovered until now. "Whoopee! And a liter, to boot." Thrilled by the wee-dottest of good fortune slung his way, Olney gazes with gratitude at the alcohol content of the nearly full bottle: sa-wacko ce soir. Unbalanced glee loosens the muscles of his face as he settles back with a shot glass full of the sticky stupor-inducer. "Wait for Rhonda is what I'll do," sez he, suddenly full of senseless hope. "Wait for that peau douce girl. And while waitin'll put this cerisey eau-de-vie to the test. First glass straight down the hatch, like ol' Franz Biberkopf…." Yagghh. Olney gasps for air. No sissy he, another glass poured and held high. Swirls it, sniffs: "Bouquet of stale maraschinos here. Lloyd have mercy." Girds loins: "Yep, well, time to fix the mouth here at Gloomy Wood Taste Testers. I hear you knockin' Virgil, but you can't come in, ha-ha-ha. "A sip and a rinse sends the Kirsch sloshing over tongue to tantalize its bibulous zones, wheee-yooo, all zones burst into flame, tongue does a grand mal, face dittoes birth of F. Scott's B. Button, cheeks swell like a gobsmacked blowfish. "Dizzy Gillespie's got nothin' on me." Recovers: "Former mouth of stale cigarettes now coated in thick cherry sauce, grand time." He squirms in his chair with end-of-the-world glee. "Oh, come dear Rhonda. Save me 'fore I turn 'to a lolly, by gee by golly." Asthmatic dragon pours another. "Encore un szip. Time again for the cheek pumps." A muffled scream is followed by a death-defying gargle: A-guggle-a-guggle-a-guggle-guggle-gugg. Garkle gargling Kirsch to a snappy rhythm is reminded of his renowned poem, Goin' to the Sex Crime Movies. "Should record it," he says to the bottle, "put under Maggie's pillow." Giggles a bit, then hums, then sings the song's bluesy lyrics: It's Friday night I got nuthin' to do. "Could be an R&B masterpiece; top ten tune for sure." Pours more: Glurp…whah. "Next: in with the mouth air and out with the nose air for a symphony of…olfactory dissonance's what that is." Eern-eeyow goes a hand to back pocket for Miss Helen, the nasal nurse. Whonk. "Thank you, Miss Helen." A massive sneeze erupts, bullet-like gob of snot hits the shot glass, slithers to the tablecloth in cartoonish slow motion. Two more tissues to clean up the mess on face, glass and table. "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? Olney's answer: glollop-licksmack. Rises from chair, shuts the kitchen door: "Don't wanna wake the old boot, her sitting here when Sultry Petunia gets home, no fuckin' way. But say, where is that Rhonda?" Foolish man juggling illusions and delusions. "Hmm. Let's talk about it. If only. Maggie not having any, though. Could've saved us all, joined in, would've loved it, three of us still be friends…but no. Comes love, or the facsimile, and next thing y'know your human nature is shackled. Don't you dare look at another woman, I'll chop off yr balls, 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, "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." The Light of Certainty bathes the stunned mullets of his eyes. "Top up time, Jim. Kiss me with Kirsch, dear Sultry Petunia, before you melt in mine arms." 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 of 'emselves as La Madonna, world to be laid at their feet." I was drivin' down the freeway the other weekend, "So Rhonda hates me, or so says the Poot. 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, galup, gizozzle. Nobody got a clue. Could be a won'ful planet." Well I made it to the doctor to check my clap, "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 further…no, 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 inflated cheeks as another pair rises to greet his lips, hrip-hrup. Pissing in the sink now. "Woye. Comme c'est bête, ce viviferous glue. Strong enough t'fortify the bulkheads, 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, Kirschy, dum de dum dedum." Old Buddy Holly memory transmogrifies to: "Hey, the more's the pour the Melchior, eh, Lauritz?" Reaches for a crumpled pack of Gauloises. "S'time for a smoke. C'mere smokiepoo. Oops, dropped 'em. Sous la table d'Avignon les ciggieboos they all fall down. Sur the feelthy pinche floor, 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. 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. Bent over the table, 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," he announces, sitting back. Nothing much comes to mind, so he leans forward again, 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. He chokes back a little scream, aïe, the cigarette glowing warmly at last, though half of it singed, along with nostril 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, §§§ Chapter 29: Last Tango in Paname |