...in Sorocaba Sao Paulo lives a man with a gambol-leg who spends his days capering up and down the street, a cigar tethered to his jaw.
‘…there is no Greater Good except God…’ said the Witness, those at the back of the line moving one step up, those at the front falling one step back. Dejesus pushed his way past the congregants; past a man pulling a wagon with a goat in it, the goat bleating and snorting, past a woman holding a tiny bird in the cradle of her palms, the bird chirping, and past a young boy bouncing a rubber ball, his face bloated with joy. This kind of nonsense exists only in the thoughts of madmen and halfwits. His da smoked Hogswart’s shag, licking the gluey side of the paper with the cob of his tongue. Rupert Rosicrucian of 2727 Dun Laoghaire lane keeps a copy of the ‘Fama fraternitatis Roseae Crucis oder Die Bruderschaft des Ordens der Rosenkreuzer’ in the chest of drawers at the foot of his bed. Next to that, in a specially built cabinet, he keeps a dogeared copy of ‘Confessio oder Bekenntnis der Societät und Bruderschaft Rosenkreuz’, which he returns to now an again to look up the date of doctor Frater C.R.C’s birth. Before leaving the house every morning, which he does without fail at exactly 24 minutes past seven, Rupert Rosicrucian checks the stovetop for red-hot coils and flushes the crapper 25 times time’s five, 27 times if he feels that the first 125 times were done incorrectly; and given the verities of life, and there are many, he could very well be mistaken, necessitating another 27 times 25 times five. Rupert Rosicrucian left for places unknown, leaving a foul stench in the midday air. This was not the first time he’d come and gone; he’d done so many times before. Thieves and gougers, tricksters and mountebanks, many had come and gone over the years, but Rupert Rosicrucian was a cut above, he was different, he had a way with getting away that was stymieing. …he had a leg up to stand on.
‘…there is no Greater Good except God…’ said the Witness, those at the back of the line moving one step up, those at the front falling one step back. Dejesus pushed his way past the congregants; past a man pulling a wagon with a goat in it, the goat bleating and snorting, past a woman holding a tiny bird in the cradle of her palms, the bird chirping, and past a young boy bouncing a rubber ball, his face bloated with joy. This kind of nonsense exists only in the thoughts of madmen and halfwits. His da smoked Hogswart’s shag, licking the gluey side of the paper with the cob of his tongue. Rupert Rosicrucian of 2727 Dun Laoghaire lane keeps a copy of the ‘Fama fraternitatis Roseae Crucis oder Die Bruderschaft des Ordens der Rosenkreuzer’ in the chest of drawers at the foot of his bed. Next to that, in a specially built cabinet, he keeps a dogeared copy of ‘Confessio oder Bekenntnis der Societät und Bruderschaft Rosenkreuz’, which he returns to now an again to look up the date of doctor Frater C.R.C’s birth. Before leaving the house every morning, which he does without fail at exactly 24 minutes past seven, Rupert Rosicrucian checks the stovetop for red-hot coils and flushes the crapper 25 times time’s five, 27 times if he feels that the first 125 times were done incorrectly; and given the verities of life, and there are many, he could very well be mistaken, necessitating another 27 times 25 times five. Rupert Rosicrucian left for places unknown, leaving a foul stench in the midday air. This was not the first time he’d come and gone; he’d done so many times before. Thieves and gougers, tricksters and mountebanks, many had come and gone over the years, but Rupert Rosicrucian was a cut above, he was different, he had a way with getting away that was stymieing. …he had a leg up to stand on.
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