Slavo Šerc fabula dresses in Wellington britches and wooly knee-socks. Its cold, mercilessly cold outside the five-mile fence. Mutis Maqroll and Guaviare Álvaro could give a rat’s ass if the sky fell, each in his own way feeling little sympathy for beggars and shortstops. Slavo Šerc fabula lives in a bedsit above the Greek Deli now owned by the dogmen. He stops short before he reaches the door, stopping to comb his hair and smile in the hallway mirror. He abhors the Flems and merchant-traded sausages. ‘I’ll tell you this… nary is the man who can keep up with me, the galloping rubberneck that I am’. Stopping to raceme his hare he looks at his reflection in the mirror: a man beside himself full of anger and dread. ‘I’m not quite home yet… but mark my words I’ll be there soon!’ Maqroll and Álvaro make a mockery of chicken, faces red as a cock’s cock. ‘abed sleeping is where I should be’ he said, a mirror-image of himself glaring back. ‘not counting the days left before the Feast of the Acolyte’.
The cembalo stood four-nags high. The violist ran his bow across the strings, an inharmonious moan issuing from the instrument’s bowls. The Witness struck his head against the cinderblocks, fays of mortar crumbling onto his trousers and the tops of his shoes. ‘I’ll be damned’ whispered the Witness, careful not to draw attention to himself. ‘they’re making a mockery of me’.
Holding up a piece of torn paper on which was written ‘Olomoucké Syrecky cheese, available at your finer grocers, dry goods store and Farnborough and Zephyrhills Bodega, cordial yours Chagatai Manuela’, he smiled as broadly as a man’s face could possibly smile. As he was of the opinion that a good ripe cheese could remedy whatever ails one, powders and liniments, salves and hardy mustard poultices as useless as a garlic bath, he went in search of a block of Olomoucké Syrecky. As this was unlikely to happen, cheese panaceas a rarity, even among the doctoral, the letters affixed to their names a testament to an arrogant demeanor, he settled for a mustard poultice with sea kelp and garlic.
The cembalo stood four-nags high. The violist ran his bow across the strings, an inharmonious moan issuing from the instrument’s bowls. The Witness struck his head against the cinderblocks, fays of mortar crumbling onto his trousers and the tops of his shoes. ‘I’ll be damned’ whispered the Witness, careful not to draw attention to himself. ‘they’re making a mockery of me’.
Holding up a piece of torn paper on which was written ‘Olomoucké Syrecky cheese, available at your finer grocers, dry goods store and Farnborough and Zephyrhills Bodega, cordial yours Chagatai Manuela’, he smiled as broadly as a man’s face could possibly smile. As he was of the opinion that a good ripe cheese could remedy whatever ails one, powders and liniments, salves and hardy mustard poultices as useless as a garlic bath, he went in search of a block of Olomoucké Syrecky. As this was unlikely to happen, cheese panaceas a rarity, even among the doctoral, the letters affixed to their names a testament to an arrogant demeanor, he settled for a mustard poultice with sea kelp and garlic.
No comments:
Post a Comment