La Puta de Créteil

W.B. stood in front of the mirror admiring his ugliness. The shamble leg man stepped off the curb and onto the street, W.B. staring gaily at his reflection turning said ‘goodness me, what a fine specimen I am’. ‘indeed you are’ said the shamble leg man in mild retort. ‘and might I say a man of upstanding character’. ‘indeed you may dear sir, indeed you may’ said W.B. turning towards his reflection gaily staring. In a move of herculean restraint, for which he paid dearly, W.B. turned from his reflection and walked away, the tails of his greatcoat wagging like a dog’s tail. ‘now there goes a dime of a man’ said the shamble leg man, ‘vanity has many faces, some uglier than others I suppose’. Ugliness is in the eye of the beholder, some less beholding than others; all things considered of course.

Buckram, Camberley and Surrey met beneath the shadow of the Waymart clock, Torre Molinos, having previsited the statue of La Puta de Créteil, bringing with him a cartful of pamphlets and whore’s gloves. ‘I admire a man who doesn’t need any prodding’ said Camberley to Surrey and Buckram. ‘especially one with a nose for the better things in life’ added Surrey, all three shaking their heads like starvelings kneeling in front of the schoolmaster’s table. Unloading his cart, which he did without the aid of a hand truck or a helper, Molinos laid the pamphlets next to the whore’s gloves; one pamphlet per glove, a line of suede gloves and inky paper reaching as far as the eye could see, perhaps further. Ben Bulben of the Bellaghy Bawn stood sternly staring at the Molinos’ whorish wares. Wishing as he wished that he had the gumption to nick a quirt of slatternly love. Bulben has dreams, as sure as he has thoughts, prayers of a Sunday morning in the privy of his yellow canary restroom a stopple his cistern farting. ‘were I Molinos I’d surely have my fingers in the pie’ said Ben Bulben brave brazenly. Poor sod mucking the muck of his desirable desires.