‘You have a face like a sac of nails’ suggested the shamble leg man to Marjorie, the harridan’s sister’s friend. ‘And, might I add, an ass to match’. ‘Were the Merchant of Pheasants here you surely wouldn’t speak so meanly’ said Marjorie, the harridan’s sister’s friend. ‘Fuck him!’ yelled the shamble leg man. ‘Fuck him and the dross-cart he rode in on!’ The harridan’s sister’s friend Marjorie turned tail and inched her way across the sideways, her sunbonnet clutched under her arm. ‘And a good riddance to you too, sir’ she hissed, her sac of nails face razed with tears.
The shamble leg man had a mean cursed side that came out when he was troubled or unhappy with the world. He took out his anger on women like Marjorie, women with stayed passions and crumpet soft skin. Afterwards he’d sit in the booth by the window in the Greek delicatessen and order a boiled egg sandwich on pumpernickel with angelfish mousse and crabapple pie. The owner of the Greek delicatessen spit into the shamble leg man’s boiled egg sandwich, urinated into the angelfish mousse and hid bees’ stingers to the crabapple pie. The owner of the Greek delicatessen watched from a crack in the kitchen door as the shamble leg man ate his supper oblivious to the spoil he was shoveling into his slobbering maw.
The Merchant of Pheasants lived in a coal-shed behind the Waymart across from the aqueduct. He was often mistaken for the man in the hat as both men wore hats, the Merchant of Pheasant preferring a cane bowler or a rattan boater to the man in the hat’s Corbusier flatcar cap or standard Stetson. The elderly Polish atheist and the Swedish Presbyterian and the Belgian cooper were all given a black-and-white snapshot of the man they knew as the Merchant of Pheasants, so it was easy to see how the one could be mistaken for the other.
The shamble leg man had a mean cursed side that came out when he was troubled or unhappy with the world. He took out his anger on women like Marjorie, women with stayed passions and crumpet soft skin. Afterwards he’d sit in the booth by the window in the Greek delicatessen and order a boiled egg sandwich on pumpernickel with angelfish mousse and crabapple pie. The owner of the Greek delicatessen spit into the shamble leg man’s boiled egg sandwich, urinated into the angelfish mousse and hid bees’ stingers to the crabapple pie. The owner of the Greek delicatessen watched from a crack in the kitchen door as the shamble leg man ate his supper oblivious to the spoil he was shoveling into his slobbering maw.
The Merchant of Pheasants lived in a coal-shed behind the Waymart across from the aqueduct. He was often mistaken for the man in the hat as both men wore hats, the Merchant of Pheasant preferring a cane bowler or a rattan boater to the man in the hat’s Corbusier flatcar cap or standard Stetson. The elderly Polish atheist and the Swedish Presbyterian and the Belgian cooper were all given a black-and-white snapshot of the man they knew as the Merchant of Pheasants, so it was easy to see how the one could be mistaken for the other.
No comments:
Post a Comment