Cudgel Swipe to the Low-Belly

‘Begin at the begin’ said the man in the hat, ‘start there’. Life’s beginnings begin at the beginning then promptly end. There is no middle, halfway or in between, but just an almost there but not quite, a somewhere other than there. The sky fell to its knees in a puddle of rain; an umbrella stuck up it’s upside down. All holes are alike, even those without ways in or out. The man in the hat knew this but paid it little regard. The hole in the sky that let the sunshine in he could agree upon. Soft yolks and holes, these he could make sense of but nothing more, and even if he could he’d rather not, not make anymore sense than was needed.

‘Cabot collected scats’ what an odd thing to say thought the man in the hat musingly. ‘Cabot collected cats’ scats, now that’s more like it’ thought the man in the hat thoughtfully. ‘Cabot collected cats’ scats and mats made out of rats’ scats’ he said to himself, not whisperingly or thoughtfully but musingly. ‘Fuck Cabot’ he yelled ‘and the cats’ scats mat he rode in on’. This is foolish, foolish indeed. Were O’Malley in town there’d be hell to pay, he’d surely not put up with such cockish shenanigans: soft yolks and holes in the sky, what a sorry sad state of affairs indeed, a cudgel swipe to the low-belly, where the wee intestine coils into the rectus amore, that ought to put things back in order. ‘Me grandmamma had it right’ thought the man in the hat out loud, ‘she’d have surely put things right, line the ducks up in a perfect O, she would have, yes mamma, yes, a perfect solvent O’. ‘O dear me dear what a day indeed’ sighed she sighed; so began the harridan’s day, insolvent and full of rumor and punch-ups.