This story, for and about, Ernest Hemingway is my entry in San Luis Obispo's 55-word short story competition in the New Times periodical.
IN ERNEST
by
P.L. Ellars
The writer wrote one true sentence. And then another. And afterwards he got up and stood in the doorway and placed his mouth loosely around both barrels of the shotgun and then closed his eyes and pulled both triggers and at the last instant opened his eyes wide.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
The Samaritan
I saw a kid on a motorcycle just as described in this story one day...
The Samaritan
by
P.L. Ellars
Sometimes you’re in the right place at the right time. If that’s true, then somebody’s got to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The kid on the scuffed up old BMW GS motorcycle was definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was Saturday morning. I had seen him about twenty minutes earlier as I was driving downtown to drop some letters off at the Post Office and do my banking. He was racing up and down the streets standing up on the pegs in baggy shorts, tank top, hightop sneakers and an equally scuffed up old off-road helmet.
I was on my way home and had just gone past the elementary school when I saw him again, this time in my rear view mirror and coming up fast. In front of me, coming from the right, was a kid about 12 or so on his bicycle leaving the playground of the deserted schoolyard. I slowed down to let the kid on the bicycle cross in front of me from right to left. The guy on the motorcycle didn’t. He must have seen my brake lights, but instead of slowing down, I heard his engine speed up and saw him pull out into the oncoming lane to pass me. The kid on the bicycle and the guy on the motorcycle couldn’t see each other through my car; I could only watch what happened in the next few seconds in what seemed like slow motion.
First it was the sound of the motorcycle’s rear tire screeching as the guy locked it up at around 50 miles per hour after he finally saw the kid. I continued braking and came to a complete stop as I watched the heavy motorcycle’s back end swing fast and violently around to the right, swatting the kid on the bicycle like a baseball bat. They both went down hard. The kid and his bicycle were knocked over to the curb on the far side of the intersection, the guy and his motorcycle sliding along on the pavement after him.
It was over in an instant. I drove my car through the intersection, pulled up next to them, got out and was aware of total silence. I looked around to see if anyone heard the accident. No one came out of their house to see what all the commotion was about. The nearest house was about 100 yards away, on the other side of a stand of trees next to the school, so they must not have heard anything. I watched for a few seconds more to see if anybody came out. No one did. I then looked down at the kid on the bicycle. His left arm and leg were obviously broken by the unnatural bend to them. His helmet had been ripped off and blood was streaming from his head; he wasn’t moving. The guy on the motorcycle was starting to move a little and I heard him groan. He was lying face down and his helmet was pushed up to where the chin bar covered his eyes. I walked over to him; he must have heard me because he said:
“Hey man, is somebody there? I need help, man! I need it now! Is somebody there? Come on, man, say something! I think my collarbone is broken, I can’t move my arm. Dude, is anybody there?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Call an ambulance, man. My fuckin’ ankle feels like its ground off. It hurts like hell and I can’t move my arm. Do something, man!”
“The kid you hit is dead.” I told him.
“Yeah? Well, it was an accident, man. An accident. I didn’t mean to hit him. Shit happens. Come on, dude, call the fucking ambulance. I’m in some serious pain here and it’s gettin’ worse.”
“Shit happens? Is that what you said? You killed that kid and all you can say is ‘shit happens’?”
“Hey look, man, he shoulda seen me comin’, you know? How was I supposed to know he was in front of your car. He shoulda seen or heard me, man. Come on, please, call the fuckin’ ambulance. I’m bleedin’ to death here. I need some fuckin’ help, man.”
I walked over to him. The blood had stopped flowing from the dead kid’s head. His eyes were open and he stared off down the road seeing nothing.
I squatted down behind the guy on the motorcycle. He was still lying face down with his helmet pushed up. He could not see me.
“You don’t seem too concerned about the kid on the bike, friend”. I told him.
“Hey, man, look, right now I got to get some help myself. I can’t do shit for him right now. Maybe later, you know, when I get better.”
“And when you get better, then what? Back on the road and on to your next victim? That would hardly be the right thing to do, to turn you loose on the world again. I don’t think you feel much remorse for the kid here.”
“Remorse? I don’t even know what the fuck that means, man. Quit stalling and preachin’ this philosophical bullshit and call the fuckin’ ambulance, man, I’m in pain and need help!”
“But if I help you, I would not be helping the rest of the world.”
“What the fuck are you talking about, man! Just call the goddam ambulance. You know, man, I’m going to report you. You know, it’s against the law, to not help somebody at an accident. You got to…”
I put my knee in between his shoulder blades and pushed the chin bar up higher making sure he could not see me.
“HEY! What the fuck are you doin’, man! Get off me! Are you fuckin’ crazy or somethin’? Get the fuck off me!”
“Maybe the world would be a better place if people like you didn’t drive anymore.” I told him.
“What the hell are you talkin’ about. It ain’t for you to decide, man. Some fuckin’ old judge will do that. I know, I’ve been in court before and I know how this fuckin’ system works, man. I might get some time, but probably not, so get over it and call the goddamn ambulance.”
I put more of my weight on my knee, pressing him closer to the pavement, immobilizing him. I could hear him struggling to breathe. Reaching around, I found his chin and started working my hand up his face under the helmet.
“What the hell are you doing, man! Goddamit! You’re not supposed to move the helmet after an accident. Every fuckin’ asshole knows that!” he gasped.
“Have you ever seen a blind person ride a motorcycle?” I asked him.
“WHAT! No, I haven’t. Oh shit, please don’t! No! man, don’t do that, come on, man, no!”
I kept working my hand up his face, spreading my first two fingers until I was just past his nose. I could feel my fingers were just under his eyes.
“Oh, God, please, mister, please don’t. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to kill that kid. It was an accident. I swear to God I’ll never…”
Putting all of my weight on my knee, I heard the breath rush out of him as I rammed my two fingers deep into his eye sockets. His eyes popped and covered my fingers with warm, thick, slimy mucous. I heard him gasp air in quickly and then start to pant. He continued to breathe in short, fast pants and started sobbing at the same time. I looked around and still no one came out of their house. I walked back to my car, got in and drove away. Looking into the rear view mirror I could see him try and roll over on his back, his shoulders shaking convulsively.
Sometimes the work of a Samaritan is not easy to understand, I’m sure there are gray areas, but I feel that the true Samaritan, the true Samaritan, works for the greater good of all.
Well, a medieval solution to a modern problem, eh?
The Samaritan
by
P.L. Ellars
Sometimes you’re in the right place at the right time. If that’s true, then somebody’s got to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The kid on the scuffed up old BMW GS motorcycle was definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was Saturday morning. I had seen him about twenty minutes earlier as I was driving downtown to drop some letters off at the Post Office and do my banking. He was racing up and down the streets standing up on the pegs in baggy shorts, tank top, hightop sneakers and an equally scuffed up old off-road helmet.
I was on my way home and had just gone past the elementary school when I saw him again, this time in my rear view mirror and coming up fast. In front of me, coming from the right, was a kid about 12 or so on his bicycle leaving the playground of the deserted schoolyard. I slowed down to let the kid on the bicycle cross in front of me from right to left. The guy on the motorcycle didn’t. He must have seen my brake lights, but instead of slowing down, I heard his engine speed up and saw him pull out into the oncoming lane to pass me. The kid on the bicycle and the guy on the motorcycle couldn’t see each other through my car; I could only watch what happened in the next few seconds in what seemed like slow motion.
First it was the sound of the motorcycle’s rear tire screeching as the guy locked it up at around 50 miles per hour after he finally saw the kid. I continued braking and came to a complete stop as I watched the heavy motorcycle’s back end swing fast and violently around to the right, swatting the kid on the bicycle like a baseball bat. They both went down hard. The kid and his bicycle were knocked over to the curb on the far side of the intersection, the guy and his motorcycle sliding along on the pavement after him.
It was over in an instant. I drove my car through the intersection, pulled up next to them, got out and was aware of total silence. I looked around to see if anyone heard the accident. No one came out of their house to see what all the commotion was about. The nearest house was about 100 yards away, on the other side of a stand of trees next to the school, so they must not have heard anything. I watched for a few seconds more to see if anybody came out. No one did. I then looked down at the kid on the bicycle. His left arm and leg were obviously broken by the unnatural bend to them. His helmet had been ripped off and blood was streaming from his head; he wasn’t moving. The guy on the motorcycle was starting to move a little and I heard him groan. He was lying face down and his helmet was pushed up to where the chin bar covered his eyes. I walked over to him; he must have heard me because he said:
“Hey man, is somebody there? I need help, man! I need it now! Is somebody there? Come on, man, say something! I think my collarbone is broken, I can’t move my arm. Dude, is anybody there?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Call an ambulance, man. My fuckin’ ankle feels like its ground off. It hurts like hell and I can’t move my arm. Do something, man!”
“The kid you hit is dead.” I told him.
“Yeah? Well, it was an accident, man. An accident. I didn’t mean to hit him. Shit happens. Come on, dude, call the fucking ambulance. I’m in some serious pain here and it’s gettin’ worse.”
“Shit happens? Is that what you said? You killed that kid and all you can say is ‘shit happens’?”
“Hey look, man, he shoulda seen me comin’, you know? How was I supposed to know he was in front of your car. He shoulda seen or heard me, man. Come on, please, call the fuckin’ ambulance. I’m bleedin’ to death here. I need some fuckin’ help, man.”
I walked over to him. The blood had stopped flowing from the dead kid’s head. His eyes were open and he stared off down the road seeing nothing.
I squatted down behind the guy on the motorcycle. He was still lying face down with his helmet pushed up. He could not see me.
“You don’t seem too concerned about the kid on the bike, friend”. I told him.
“Hey, man, look, right now I got to get some help myself. I can’t do shit for him right now. Maybe later, you know, when I get better.”
“And when you get better, then what? Back on the road and on to your next victim? That would hardly be the right thing to do, to turn you loose on the world again. I don’t think you feel much remorse for the kid here.”
“Remorse? I don’t even know what the fuck that means, man. Quit stalling and preachin’ this philosophical bullshit and call the fuckin’ ambulance, man, I’m in pain and need help!”
“But if I help you, I would not be helping the rest of the world.”
“What the fuck are you talking about, man! Just call the goddam ambulance. You know, man, I’m going to report you. You know, it’s against the law, to not help somebody at an accident. You got to…”
I put my knee in between his shoulder blades and pushed the chin bar up higher making sure he could not see me.
“HEY! What the fuck are you doin’, man! Get off me! Are you fuckin’ crazy or somethin’? Get the fuck off me!”
“Maybe the world would be a better place if people like you didn’t drive anymore.” I told him.
“What the hell are you talkin’ about. It ain’t for you to decide, man. Some fuckin’ old judge will do that. I know, I’ve been in court before and I know how this fuckin’ system works, man. I might get some time, but probably not, so get over it and call the goddamn ambulance.”
I put more of my weight on my knee, pressing him closer to the pavement, immobilizing him. I could hear him struggling to breathe. Reaching around, I found his chin and started working my hand up his face under the helmet.
“What the hell are you doing, man! Goddamit! You’re not supposed to move the helmet after an accident. Every fuckin’ asshole knows that!” he gasped.
“Have you ever seen a blind person ride a motorcycle?” I asked him.
“WHAT! No, I haven’t. Oh shit, please don’t! No! man, don’t do that, come on, man, no!”
I kept working my hand up his face, spreading my first two fingers until I was just past his nose. I could feel my fingers were just under his eyes.
“Oh, God, please, mister, please don’t. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to kill that kid. It was an accident. I swear to God I’ll never…”
Putting all of my weight on my knee, I heard the breath rush out of him as I rammed my two fingers deep into his eye sockets. His eyes popped and covered my fingers with warm, thick, slimy mucous. I heard him gasp air in quickly and then start to pant. He continued to breathe in short, fast pants and started sobbing at the same time. I looked around and still no one came out of their house. I walked back to my car, got in and drove away. Looking into the rear view mirror I could see him try and roll over on his back, his shoulders shaking convulsively.
Sometimes the work of a Samaritan is not easy to understand, I’m sure there are gray areas, but I feel that the true Samaritan, the true Samaritan, works for the greater good of all.
Well, a medieval solution to a modern problem, eh?
Quentin the Queer Quail
I've never been able to look at quails, or any bird for that matter, the same after writing this.
Quentin the Queer Quail
by
P.L. Ellars
Rural England, The Year 1746
“Quentin’s called a meetin’ tonight. At the ‘Tickle Yore Arse Wi’ A Feather Inn’. Pass it on”. Gully the Ghoul told a flock of feathered fiends hanging out in the town square.
“Right, Gully, see you there, then.” replied Bazza the Buzzard winking conspiratorially.
The feathered fiends flew off in separate directions to spread the word. Something big must be up; Quentin hasn’t called a meeting in over 6 months.
Later that evening…
“Arright, ducks, I’ve called…”
“We’re not all ducks, Quentin. Some of us are…”
“I know, Reg, I know! It’s just an expression!”
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
“As I was sayin’, I’ve called this ‘ere meetin’ becuz we’ve got to do sometin’ about Farmer Abattre. The barstid ‘as gone and hung nettin’ over his crops and it’s already killed a couple o’ the boys. I got it on good word from Choker the Chicken who lives out at Farmer Abattre’s. ‘E’s seen the old barstid stringin’ it up and yestiday Bazza the Buzzard was flyin’ over and saw Sammy Swallows, Wilson the Warbler and Bushy Bushtits all hangin’ deader ‘n hell from the fookin’ nettin’. We got to do sometin’ boys, and do sometin’ quick before we all end up hangin’ from it like a Christmas goose.”
“WHAT!” yelled Gander the Gooser.
“Relax, Gander, it’s just an expression. Nuthin’ personal.”
“Well, Quentin, you might’ve chosen some other expression! Oi don’t loik that one a’tall!” retorted Gander the Gooser.
“Anywize, as I wuz sayin’, we’ve got to do something, and we’ve got to do it quick. So’s here’s what I propose…”
The fiends all huddled closer to hear Quentin’s devilish plan. There was much murmuring, squawking, cooing, head bobbing, wing fluttering and ground scratching. The fiends were all in a sweat after hearing Quentin’s plan.
“Crikey!” exclaimed Gully the Ghoul “I think it’ll work. It’s brilliant! When do we do the fooker in and the rest o’ his spawn from hell?”
“At dawn, day after tomorrow. That oughta give us enough time to “stock up”, shall we say, and give the barstid something he’ll never forget. Thinks he can kill us and get away wit’ it…well, no fookin’ way!”
At that, there was a loud chorus of agreement from all present. The rest of the night the feathered fiends spent drinking.
Dawn came early two days later. The feathered fiends had spent the day before scouring the countryside gorging themselves on everything they could find to eat. That night, they quietly roosted in the trees next to Farmer Abattre’s house. Farmer Abattre, his plump wife, their two sons and one daughter slept peacefully, little suspecting what lay in store for them the next day.
At daybreak Quentin had positioned himself at the peak of the barn to better lead the attack. Then they waited.
The little girl came out of the house first and headed for the chicken coop. Quentin whistled sharply two times…the signal for Choker the Chicken, who was lying in wait in the coop with the rest of the fowl fiends, to be on the alert; the little girl was on her way. Quentin gleefully watched from his perch, his topknot twitching uncontrollably with anticipation.
The little girl, dressed in calico with a clean, white apron around her, skipped merrily to the door of the coop, her basket swinging at her side in time to the sweet song she was singing.
She pushed the door open, skipped in and wondered why it was so quiet. As it was her job to collect the eggs each day, she was used to hearing the chickens chattering softly away. It was a familiar and comfortable sound to her. She loved the chickens and collecting the eggs was her favorite farm chore.
Choker and Shanghai the Rooster waited until she had gotten well inside the coop and had closed the door before making their move. Positioning themselves next to some eggs, they watched and waited. She finally was before them and, bending down to pick up the eggs, said, “Oh, thank you, thank you, dear sweet chickens for providing us with…” when Choker and Shanghai flew at her face pecking out her eyes. At that, she dropped her basket and fell to the ground shrieking. The rest of the chickens in the coop swooped in on her, continuing to peck at her eyes, her ears, and every part of her little six-year old body they could reach.
In the meantime, Quentin had given the signal for Bazza the Buzzard, Gander the Gooser, and Creepy Crow to fly down to the porch and quietly wait by the front door. The poor child’s hysterical shrieks brought her mother racing out of the house. When the three large birds waiting on the porch heard the front door open, they scurried in front of it. Mother Abattre, unaware of the birds at her feet, focused only on her child’s screams; the birds easily tripped the poor old woman.
“Take that, ya old hag!” yelled Bazza the Buzzard.
“Yeah, kill us, will ya, bitchy!” echoed Creepy Crow.
Mother Abattre crashed hard at the top of the steps, her head going over the side and smashing her face into the top step. Her weight and momentum kept her body moving on down the steps while her head was firmly wedged at the top, bending her neck backwards until Farmer Abattre, who was now standing in the doorway, heard it snap like a handful of celery being twisted.
He raced down the steps and stood next to his wife’s crumpled body. He could hear his daughter’s screams from the chicken coop growing fainter and fainter. By now the two boys, aged 8 and 10 had appeared on the porch and were staring in disbelief at their mother, then father and then at the chicken coop.
“Da! Da! What’s goin’ on? Is Ma arright? Da!”
Quentin whistled and a dark cloud erupted from the tree next to the house and headed straight for the dumbstruck old man and his two boys. The first pass of the birds covered Farmer Abattre and his boys from head to foot in thick grey and white and brown excrement.
“Ducks! Do your worst!” ordered Quentin, now looking down at the scene below him from his new position above the porch.
The ducks came in low and fast, releasing their load with deadly accuracy. Now Farmer Abattre and the boys were completely whitewashed with slimy, foul smelling duck dung.
“Da! Help me! Help Da! Help!” screamed the two boys.
“Run boys, run, back into the house. Quick now!” yelled the father.
Both boys, covered in duck dung and unable to see, ran in the direction of the house only to trip over their mother.
“Now, Gooser, Now! You and the other geese have at ‘em!” bellowed Quentin, his topknot quivering with rage and joy. Gander and five other geese left the ground at a run from nearby. Two of the geese dropped their loads as they flew over Farmer Abattre’s head scoring direct hits. Gander and the other three geese headed for the boys who, not being able to see, were trying to stand up but kept stumbling over their mother and the steps. The foul fowls released their loads with unerring accuracy.
“Aye! Take that, ye shitheads!” thundered Quentin. “Maybe ye’ll think twice next time afore ye string nettin’ out!”
Farmer Abattre and the boys could barely breathe after the goose attack. The excrement was so thick on their heads and faces that they were inhaling it and spitting it out, gasping for air.
“ARRIGHT! THEY REST OF YE, HAVE AT ‘EM! AND SHOW NO MERCY!” commanded Quentin.
At that hundreds of birds took to the air and proceeded to unload the previous days digested engorgement on the helpless farmer, his dead wife and the two boys. Several of the larger birds pushed open the door to the coop and let the chickens free. The poor little girl lay there in the straw, pecked to death; her face unrecognizable even to her own family.
All the birds now converged on Farmer Abattre and the two boys, pecking at their eyes, ears, and throat. They withstood the onslaught as long as they could, swatting away at the birds, but now blind, gasping for air and bleeding from hundreds of wounds, they finally collapsed in a heap on top of Mother Abattre where the feathered fiends continued the attack until there was no sign of life left.
“Right!” boomed Quentin “Smells like the old bitch was makin’ breakfast. Let’s go in and have a looksee, eh?”
Quentin led the army of birds up the steps, through the door and into the house.
“Arright, ye knows what to do. Start breakin’ the fookin’ place up. Knock over anything and everything ye can.”
Quentin left the birds to the destruction of the farmhouse and went into the kitchen. He was right: Mother Abattre had been in the process of making breakfast for her family and had just got the fire started in the stove. How convenient. How bloody, marvelously convenient.
“Creepy, look here, in the old hag’s haste to save her smelly little kid, the bitch went off and left the firebox door open. You and some of the boys keep feedin’ as much tinder and kindling into it as ye can. I want that fire big and I want it to spill out on to the floor.”
“Right, Quentin, she’s as good as done”
“Arright, my fine feathered fiends, I want a few of ye to grab those napkins off the table and get ‘em burnin’. Then fly ‘em out to the chicken coop and the barn and drop ‘em in the hay. We’ll burn it all down, all of it! Think they can kill a few of us and get away with it, do they? By God and the devil’s twisted tail, the stupid barstids don’t know much about birds!”
All was done as Quentin ordered. The birds then flew back to the tree to watch and make sure the fire consumed everything. Three thick black columns of smoke rose high into the sky. Looking up the road, Quentin could see Farmer Abattre’s neighbors running to help put out the fire. His lips curled up in a tight little smile and he cocked his topknot over at a jaunty angle.
“Well, well, me lads, would ye look at that? I don’t know about you, but I have an overpowerin’ urge for some target practice.”
And with that he took off in the direction of the road.
Quentin the Queer Quail
by
P.L. Ellars
Rural England, The Year 1746
“Quentin’s called a meetin’ tonight. At the ‘Tickle Yore Arse Wi’ A Feather Inn’. Pass it on”. Gully the Ghoul told a flock of feathered fiends hanging out in the town square.
“Right, Gully, see you there, then.” replied Bazza the Buzzard winking conspiratorially.
The feathered fiends flew off in separate directions to spread the word. Something big must be up; Quentin hasn’t called a meeting in over 6 months.
Later that evening…
“Arright, ducks, I’ve called…”
“We’re not all ducks, Quentin. Some of us are…”
“I know, Reg, I know! It’s just an expression!”
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
“As I was sayin’, I’ve called this ‘ere meetin’ becuz we’ve got to do sometin’ about Farmer Abattre. The barstid ‘as gone and hung nettin’ over his crops and it’s already killed a couple o’ the boys. I got it on good word from Choker the Chicken who lives out at Farmer Abattre’s. ‘E’s seen the old barstid stringin’ it up and yestiday Bazza the Buzzard was flyin’ over and saw Sammy Swallows, Wilson the Warbler and Bushy Bushtits all hangin’ deader ‘n hell from the fookin’ nettin’. We got to do sometin’ boys, and do sometin’ quick before we all end up hangin’ from it like a Christmas goose.”
“WHAT!” yelled Gander the Gooser.
“Relax, Gander, it’s just an expression. Nuthin’ personal.”
“Well, Quentin, you might’ve chosen some other expression! Oi don’t loik that one a’tall!” retorted Gander the Gooser.
“Anywize, as I wuz sayin’, we’ve got to do something, and we’ve got to do it quick. So’s here’s what I propose…”
The fiends all huddled closer to hear Quentin’s devilish plan. There was much murmuring, squawking, cooing, head bobbing, wing fluttering and ground scratching. The fiends were all in a sweat after hearing Quentin’s plan.
“Crikey!” exclaimed Gully the Ghoul “I think it’ll work. It’s brilliant! When do we do the fooker in and the rest o’ his spawn from hell?”
“At dawn, day after tomorrow. That oughta give us enough time to “stock up”, shall we say, and give the barstid something he’ll never forget. Thinks he can kill us and get away wit’ it…well, no fookin’ way!”
At that, there was a loud chorus of agreement from all present. The rest of the night the feathered fiends spent drinking.
Dawn came early two days later. The feathered fiends had spent the day before scouring the countryside gorging themselves on everything they could find to eat. That night, they quietly roosted in the trees next to Farmer Abattre’s house. Farmer Abattre, his plump wife, their two sons and one daughter slept peacefully, little suspecting what lay in store for them the next day.
At daybreak Quentin had positioned himself at the peak of the barn to better lead the attack. Then they waited.
The little girl came out of the house first and headed for the chicken coop. Quentin whistled sharply two times…the signal for Choker the Chicken, who was lying in wait in the coop with the rest of the fowl fiends, to be on the alert; the little girl was on her way. Quentin gleefully watched from his perch, his topknot twitching uncontrollably with anticipation.
The little girl, dressed in calico with a clean, white apron around her, skipped merrily to the door of the coop, her basket swinging at her side in time to the sweet song she was singing.
She pushed the door open, skipped in and wondered why it was so quiet. As it was her job to collect the eggs each day, she was used to hearing the chickens chattering softly away. It was a familiar and comfortable sound to her. She loved the chickens and collecting the eggs was her favorite farm chore.
Choker and Shanghai the Rooster waited until she had gotten well inside the coop and had closed the door before making their move. Positioning themselves next to some eggs, they watched and waited. She finally was before them and, bending down to pick up the eggs, said, “Oh, thank you, thank you, dear sweet chickens for providing us with…” when Choker and Shanghai flew at her face pecking out her eyes. At that, she dropped her basket and fell to the ground shrieking. The rest of the chickens in the coop swooped in on her, continuing to peck at her eyes, her ears, and every part of her little six-year old body they could reach.
In the meantime, Quentin had given the signal for Bazza the Buzzard, Gander the Gooser, and Creepy Crow to fly down to the porch and quietly wait by the front door. The poor child’s hysterical shrieks brought her mother racing out of the house. When the three large birds waiting on the porch heard the front door open, they scurried in front of it. Mother Abattre, unaware of the birds at her feet, focused only on her child’s screams; the birds easily tripped the poor old woman.
“Take that, ya old hag!” yelled Bazza the Buzzard.
“Yeah, kill us, will ya, bitchy!” echoed Creepy Crow.
Mother Abattre crashed hard at the top of the steps, her head going over the side and smashing her face into the top step. Her weight and momentum kept her body moving on down the steps while her head was firmly wedged at the top, bending her neck backwards until Farmer Abattre, who was now standing in the doorway, heard it snap like a handful of celery being twisted.
He raced down the steps and stood next to his wife’s crumpled body. He could hear his daughter’s screams from the chicken coop growing fainter and fainter. By now the two boys, aged 8 and 10 had appeared on the porch and were staring in disbelief at their mother, then father and then at the chicken coop.
“Da! Da! What’s goin’ on? Is Ma arright? Da!”
Quentin whistled and a dark cloud erupted from the tree next to the house and headed straight for the dumbstruck old man and his two boys. The first pass of the birds covered Farmer Abattre and his boys from head to foot in thick grey and white and brown excrement.
“Ducks! Do your worst!” ordered Quentin, now looking down at the scene below him from his new position above the porch.
The ducks came in low and fast, releasing their load with deadly accuracy. Now Farmer Abattre and the boys were completely whitewashed with slimy, foul smelling duck dung.
“Da! Help me! Help Da! Help!” screamed the two boys.
“Run boys, run, back into the house. Quick now!” yelled the father.
Both boys, covered in duck dung and unable to see, ran in the direction of the house only to trip over their mother.
“Now, Gooser, Now! You and the other geese have at ‘em!” bellowed Quentin, his topknot quivering with rage and joy. Gander and five other geese left the ground at a run from nearby. Two of the geese dropped their loads as they flew over Farmer Abattre’s head scoring direct hits. Gander and the other three geese headed for the boys who, not being able to see, were trying to stand up but kept stumbling over their mother and the steps. The foul fowls released their loads with unerring accuracy.
“Aye! Take that, ye shitheads!” thundered Quentin. “Maybe ye’ll think twice next time afore ye string nettin’ out!”
Farmer Abattre and the boys could barely breathe after the goose attack. The excrement was so thick on their heads and faces that they were inhaling it and spitting it out, gasping for air.
“ARRIGHT! THEY REST OF YE, HAVE AT ‘EM! AND SHOW NO MERCY!” commanded Quentin.
At that hundreds of birds took to the air and proceeded to unload the previous days digested engorgement on the helpless farmer, his dead wife and the two boys. Several of the larger birds pushed open the door to the coop and let the chickens free. The poor little girl lay there in the straw, pecked to death; her face unrecognizable even to her own family.
All the birds now converged on Farmer Abattre and the two boys, pecking at their eyes, ears, and throat. They withstood the onslaught as long as they could, swatting away at the birds, but now blind, gasping for air and bleeding from hundreds of wounds, they finally collapsed in a heap on top of Mother Abattre where the feathered fiends continued the attack until there was no sign of life left.
“Right!” boomed Quentin “Smells like the old bitch was makin’ breakfast. Let’s go in and have a looksee, eh?”
Quentin led the army of birds up the steps, through the door and into the house.
“Arright, ye knows what to do. Start breakin’ the fookin’ place up. Knock over anything and everything ye can.”
Quentin left the birds to the destruction of the farmhouse and went into the kitchen. He was right: Mother Abattre had been in the process of making breakfast for her family and had just got the fire started in the stove. How convenient. How bloody, marvelously convenient.
“Creepy, look here, in the old hag’s haste to save her smelly little kid, the bitch went off and left the firebox door open. You and some of the boys keep feedin’ as much tinder and kindling into it as ye can. I want that fire big and I want it to spill out on to the floor.”
“Right, Quentin, she’s as good as done”
“Arright, my fine feathered fiends, I want a few of ye to grab those napkins off the table and get ‘em burnin’. Then fly ‘em out to the chicken coop and the barn and drop ‘em in the hay. We’ll burn it all down, all of it! Think they can kill a few of us and get away with it, do they? By God and the devil’s twisted tail, the stupid barstids don’t know much about birds!”
All was done as Quentin ordered. The birds then flew back to the tree to watch and make sure the fire consumed everything. Three thick black columns of smoke rose high into the sky. Looking up the road, Quentin could see Farmer Abattre’s neighbors running to help put out the fire. His lips curled up in a tight little smile and he cocked his topknot over at a jaunty angle.
“Well, well, me lads, would ye look at that? I don’t know about you, but I have an overpowerin’ urge for some target practice.”
And with that he took off in the direction of the road.
The Road
The Road
by
P.L. Ellars
Col. Kelley and the rest of the 1st Virginia Volunteers must be on their way back to Grafton by now. We’ll catch up with them soon enough, I hope. I don’t like being lost out here in the woods like this. Damn, but that was an ugly and funny little skirmish this morning. I had to laugh, though, when I saw Johnny Reb running
away, some of them still in their nightclothes. Already they’re talking about callin’ it
the Philippi races; it was a race all right. I figure they must of been more scared
than we were, the way they took off running. I reckon I shouldn’t have let the boys
chase after them like we did ‘cause all it did was get us lost.
“Hey, Sarge, which way we goin’ to go, to get back with the 1st?”
“Well, Tom, I reckon they’re all on their way back to Grafton, so that’s what we’re
going to do. We’re going north. Everybody, get your gear, we’re headin’ out now.”
That Tom is the youngest one here, but he stood tall this morning. He’s no coward.
They all did. Not a one of us has had much fighting experience before this morning.
With any luck, Johnny Reb will give up this foolishness and we can all get back
home. I know I’m ready. Three months of this and I’ve had more than enough
already. What a hell of a mess.
“All right, men, let’s go. We’re movin’ out.”
They all look as tired as I feel, but if we don’t get going now, we’ll miss our best
chance to hook back up with the 1st Virginia. Damn, that was sure a confusing
morning. I never knew fighting could get so many people mixed up so fast. They
damn sure didn’t tell us about that back in training.
“Tom, you take the lead. Just go on ahead about fifty yards and follow that road
ahead; it seems to be goin’ in the right direction. Keep your eyes peeled and your
ears open, and make as little noise as you can. If you hear anything, you scoot on
back here with the rest of us, quiet like. Those Johnny Rebs that ran off this
morning could be anywhere. We’ll be right behind you.”
“Right, Sarge.”
I'm down to six men, six men out of twelve. I guess the others are all right. I
reckon they’re headed north, too, by now. I didn’t see any of them fall wounded or
anything, so I’m hoping they made it. Now what’s Tom running back here for?
“Sarge! There’s a road up ahead that’s headin’ off northwards. Do you want to take
it?”
“Maybe. Kennedy, you come with me, we’ll go have a look. The rest of you wait
here for my signal. Keep a watch out. Johnny Reb could be anywhere in these trees
just waitin’ to ambush us. I’d bet my last nickel they’ve collected themselves by now and are probably madder than wet hens at the way we routed them this mornin’.
Come on, Kennedy.”
That road does look like it heads north. I reckon we’ll know better when we get to it.
“Kennedy, spread out some and keep it quiet.”
“Yes, Sarge.”
Well, I’ll be damned. Man, would you look at that! That’s about the straightest road
I’ve ever seen. It ain’t much wider than a cart trail, but it looks like it just goes on
forever; I can’t see the end. Those trees coverin’ it seem to grow straight into the
horizon. Man, I ain’t never seen such a beautiful road; the way the sunlight comes
streamin’ in sideways through the trees like that, makin’ the leaves glow with some
kinda’ divine light. It reminds me of the church windows back home. I almost feel
like I know this road; like I’ve been on it before, maybe in a dream.
“Sarge!”
“Keep your voice down, Kennedy, and get over here!”
“Sarge, this road don’t seem natural. I ain’t never seen a road that straight
and…and beautiful before. It looks like it just runs on into tomorrow. Look at the way
the sun comes slantin’ down low through them trees, and that breeze makin’ the
leaves dance like that. It sure as hell looks natural enough, Sarge, but it damn sure
don’t feel that way, ya’ know? Maybe we ought to try another way, Sarge; this road
is givin’ me the jumps.”
“You probably got jumps left over from Philippi this morning. No, Kennedy, this road
is runnin’ due North, and we’re going to have to take it. It’ll be the quickest way
back to Grafton.”
I have to agree with him, though. It was almost supernatural the way this road, this
beautiful road, made me feel. Peaceful and quiet, like the war never made it this far,
and never would; death was as far away as next year, and yet, there is an eerie
feeling to it that we both felt. The road did seem to run on into tomorrow, then
beyond tomorrow, into eternity. I wanted to sit down right there in the dirt, and
stare down that beautiful road until this war was over.
“Kennedy, go back to the junction and signal the other men to come on. Tell ‘em to
be quiet, too. This road will take us where we want to go.”
I watch him trot back to the junction and then turn to look down the road again. I
can picture Lily and me walking hand-in-hand down a road like this; laughing and
talking and saying nothing, watching the shadows of the leaves dance before us;
listening to the mockingbirds singing their songs. I think about her all the time, and
wonder if I’ll ever see her again.
“Sarge, we’re ready. It sure seems quiet here.”
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it? Well, enjoy it now boys, who knows when we’ll have
another quiet moment like this once we get back to the war. All right, these trees
and bushes along the road would be a good place for Johnny Reb to get a little revenge on us, so we’re goin’ to go forward at the ready, rifles up. Tom, I want you
to take the lead, again; you’re the youngest and the fastest. If you see, or hear,
anythin’ in front of you, you tear off runnin’ back to us; if you hear it behind you,
take off runnin’ forward on down the road as fast as you can. With luck, you might
be able to outrun ‘em and make it back to Col. Kelley and the 1st Virginia in Grafton.
The rest of you spread out along either side of the road. I know it ain’t wide, so stay
close to the edge, don’t bunch up and keep low. There ain’t enough of us to make
much of a fight, so the same thing I told Tom goes for you, too. We’ll run back to
the junction if there’s anythin’ in front of us, and straight on ahead if it’s to the side
or behind us. Two bits to the first man that catches up and passes Tom.”
I was glad to hear a couple of them laugh at that.
“All right, Tom, go on ahead, and be sharp!”
I watch Tom move out and wait until he had gone about twenty-five yards before I
give the signal to follow. I don’t know why, but here we are on a road that is as
peaceful and soothing to be on as you could ask for, and I am starting to sweat and
my mouth is dryin’ out; my eyes start to dart left and right like a pendulum on a
grandfather clock. It was the same thing this morning at Philippi, waitin’ for the
battle to start. I take a quick drink from my canteen and that helps to settle my
nerves some. I watch Tom ahead and for a moment he is no longer a young soldier
carrying an Enfield rifle down a road he’s never been on before, ready to shoot down
and kill somebody he doesn't even know; instead, he is what he should be in life, a
16 year old kid carrying a fishin’ pole out to try his luck down at the river, catchin’ a
mess of fish to proudly show off to his mama. I can see the youth in him start to
come out; he is no longer staring straight ahead and watching the road ahead for
trouble, instead, he's walking a little more relaxed, not being cautious. He, too, is
probably dreaming about going fishing in another place, another life. It is too easy
to dream about things other than war on this road; it is just too beautiful. How can
men, complete strangers, try and kill each other on a road like this? The sun is
playing through the leaves and it feels warm. The shadows of the branches
overhead swaying gently back and forth on the ground, and the breeze is carrying
the scent of corn, sweet peas and alfalfa growing in the neighboring fields. I watch
birds flit down to the ground and then back up into the trees. I feel like I am on the
road home again. Lily will be there, waitin’ for me, and the smell of fresh baked
bread and stew will fill the house.
I see the cloud of smoke up ahead first, followed by a deep boom, and then hear the
ball when it hits Tom. A .58 caliber lead ball makes a horrible, thudding sound when
it hits a man. It goes into Tom’s stomach and spins him around, knocking him down.
He lies on his back in the road, dying, his heels kicking and drumming out his death
dance in the dust. He will not die quickly, poor bastard. From behind and to the
side I see and hear more shots. O’Reilly and Kennedy are hit several times before
they can get off a shot and fall silently and lie motionless in the road. Flynn and
Thomson, behind them, fire at the smoke and then start running as fast as they can
back towards the junction. They had not gone far before a volley brings them both
down. Before I can run into the bushes, I feel a ball go through my left thigh. It
spins me around and I, too, lie in the road looking up through the trees to the blue
sky beyond. The next round slams into my shoulder. Turning my head in the dust, I
look over to where Jameson, the last man in our squad, is kneeling in the road,
quickly trying to reload his rifle. Thank God, he never felt the ball that takes the
back of his head off. I can feel the blood flowing warmly over my leg and shoulder,
it won't be long, now. Turning my head, I gaze past Tom, and looking up the road, I can just make out Lily, running to help me; her long, white dress flowing around her
and the sunlight making her hair shine. I try to reach my arm out to her, but it
won't respond. I want to touch her one last time. She is coming closer. The warm
sunlight starts to feel cold; the blue sky is turning gray, and the bright, divine light
of the leaves is starting to dim. I smile up at her as she comes near, holding both
arms out to me. I hear footsteps and angry voices quickly approaching me from
behind. I look back into her eyes, smiling and...
"Hey, Sergeant Taggert, this here Yankee sergeant looks like he might still be
alive...naw, he's dead. They all dead."
by
P.L. Ellars
Col. Kelley and the rest of the 1st Virginia Volunteers must be on their way back to Grafton by now. We’ll catch up with them soon enough, I hope. I don’t like being lost out here in the woods like this. Damn, but that was an ugly and funny little skirmish this morning. I had to laugh, though, when I saw Johnny Reb running
away, some of them still in their nightclothes. Already they’re talking about callin’ it
the Philippi races; it was a race all right. I figure they must of been more scared
than we were, the way they took off running. I reckon I shouldn’t have let the boys
chase after them like we did ‘cause all it did was get us lost.
“Hey, Sarge, which way we goin’ to go, to get back with the 1st?”
“Well, Tom, I reckon they’re all on their way back to Grafton, so that’s what we’re
going to do. We’re going north. Everybody, get your gear, we’re headin’ out now.”
That Tom is the youngest one here, but he stood tall this morning. He’s no coward.
They all did. Not a one of us has had much fighting experience before this morning.
With any luck, Johnny Reb will give up this foolishness and we can all get back
home. I know I’m ready. Three months of this and I’ve had more than enough
already. What a hell of a mess.
“All right, men, let’s go. We’re movin’ out.”
They all look as tired as I feel, but if we don’t get going now, we’ll miss our best
chance to hook back up with the 1st Virginia. Damn, that was sure a confusing
morning. I never knew fighting could get so many people mixed up so fast. They
damn sure didn’t tell us about that back in training.
“Tom, you take the lead. Just go on ahead about fifty yards and follow that road
ahead; it seems to be goin’ in the right direction. Keep your eyes peeled and your
ears open, and make as little noise as you can. If you hear anything, you scoot on
back here with the rest of us, quiet like. Those Johnny Rebs that ran off this
morning could be anywhere. We’ll be right behind you.”
“Right, Sarge.”
I'm down to six men, six men out of twelve. I guess the others are all right. I
reckon they’re headed north, too, by now. I didn’t see any of them fall wounded or
anything, so I’m hoping they made it. Now what’s Tom running back here for?
“Sarge! There’s a road up ahead that’s headin’ off northwards. Do you want to take
it?”
“Maybe. Kennedy, you come with me, we’ll go have a look. The rest of you wait
here for my signal. Keep a watch out. Johnny Reb could be anywhere in these trees
just waitin’ to ambush us. I’d bet my last nickel they’ve collected themselves by now and are probably madder than wet hens at the way we routed them this mornin’.
Come on, Kennedy.”
That road does look like it heads north. I reckon we’ll know better when we get to it.
“Kennedy, spread out some and keep it quiet.”
“Yes, Sarge.”
Well, I’ll be damned. Man, would you look at that! That’s about the straightest road
I’ve ever seen. It ain’t much wider than a cart trail, but it looks like it just goes on
forever; I can’t see the end. Those trees coverin’ it seem to grow straight into the
horizon. Man, I ain’t never seen such a beautiful road; the way the sunlight comes
streamin’ in sideways through the trees like that, makin’ the leaves glow with some
kinda’ divine light. It reminds me of the church windows back home. I almost feel
like I know this road; like I’ve been on it before, maybe in a dream.
“Sarge!”
“Keep your voice down, Kennedy, and get over here!”
“Sarge, this road don’t seem natural. I ain’t never seen a road that straight
and…and beautiful before. It looks like it just runs on into tomorrow. Look at the way
the sun comes slantin’ down low through them trees, and that breeze makin’ the
leaves dance like that. It sure as hell looks natural enough, Sarge, but it damn sure
don’t feel that way, ya’ know? Maybe we ought to try another way, Sarge; this road
is givin’ me the jumps.”
“You probably got jumps left over from Philippi this morning. No, Kennedy, this road
is runnin’ due North, and we’re going to have to take it. It’ll be the quickest way
back to Grafton.”
I have to agree with him, though. It was almost supernatural the way this road, this
beautiful road, made me feel. Peaceful and quiet, like the war never made it this far,
and never would; death was as far away as next year, and yet, there is an eerie
feeling to it that we both felt. The road did seem to run on into tomorrow, then
beyond tomorrow, into eternity. I wanted to sit down right there in the dirt, and
stare down that beautiful road until this war was over.
“Kennedy, go back to the junction and signal the other men to come on. Tell ‘em to
be quiet, too. This road will take us where we want to go.”
I watch him trot back to the junction and then turn to look down the road again. I
can picture Lily and me walking hand-in-hand down a road like this; laughing and
talking and saying nothing, watching the shadows of the leaves dance before us;
listening to the mockingbirds singing their songs. I think about her all the time, and
wonder if I’ll ever see her again.
“Sarge, we’re ready. It sure seems quiet here.”
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it? Well, enjoy it now boys, who knows when we’ll have
another quiet moment like this once we get back to the war. All right, these trees
and bushes along the road would be a good place for Johnny Reb to get a little revenge on us, so we’re goin’ to go forward at the ready, rifles up. Tom, I want you
to take the lead, again; you’re the youngest and the fastest. If you see, or hear,
anythin’ in front of you, you tear off runnin’ back to us; if you hear it behind you,
take off runnin’ forward on down the road as fast as you can. With luck, you might
be able to outrun ‘em and make it back to Col. Kelley and the 1st Virginia in Grafton.
The rest of you spread out along either side of the road. I know it ain’t wide, so stay
close to the edge, don’t bunch up and keep low. There ain’t enough of us to make
much of a fight, so the same thing I told Tom goes for you, too. We’ll run back to
the junction if there’s anythin’ in front of us, and straight on ahead if it’s to the side
or behind us. Two bits to the first man that catches up and passes Tom.”
I was glad to hear a couple of them laugh at that.
“All right, Tom, go on ahead, and be sharp!”
I watch Tom move out and wait until he had gone about twenty-five yards before I
give the signal to follow. I don’t know why, but here we are on a road that is as
peaceful and soothing to be on as you could ask for, and I am starting to sweat and
my mouth is dryin’ out; my eyes start to dart left and right like a pendulum on a
grandfather clock. It was the same thing this morning at Philippi, waitin’ for the
battle to start. I take a quick drink from my canteen and that helps to settle my
nerves some. I watch Tom ahead and for a moment he is no longer a young soldier
carrying an Enfield rifle down a road he’s never been on before, ready to shoot down
and kill somebody he doesn't even know; instead, he is what he should be in life, a
16 year old kid carrying a fishin’ pole out to try his luck down at the river, catchin’ a
mess of fish to proudly show off to his mama. I can see the youth in him start to
come out; he is no longer staring straight ahead and watching the road ahead for
trouble, instead, he's walking a little more relaxed, not being cautious. He, too, is
probably dreaming about going fishing in another place, another life. It is too easy
to dream about things other than war on this road; it is just too beautiful. How can
men, complete strangers, try and kill each other on a road like this? The sun is
playing through the leaves and it feels warm. The shadows of the branches
overhead swaying gently back and forth on the ground, and the breeze is carrying
the scent of corn, sweet peas and alfalfa growing in the neighboring fields. I watch
birds flit down to the ground and then back up into the trees. I feel like I am on the
road home again. Lily will be there, waitin’ for me, and the smell of fresh baked
bread and stew will fill the house.
I see the cloud of smoke up ahead first, followed by a deep boom, and then hear the
ball when it hits Tom. A .58 caliber lead ball makes a horrible, thudding sound when
it hits a man. It goes into Tom’s stomach and spins him around, knocking him down.
He lies on his back in the road, dying, his heels kicking and drumming out his death
dance in the dust. He will not die quickly, poor bastard. From behind and to the
side I see and hear more shots. O’Reilly and Kennedy are hit several times before
they can get off a shot and fall silently and lie motionless in the road. Flynn and
Thomson, behind them, fire at the smoke and then start running as fast as they can
back towards the junction. They had not gone far before a volley brings them both
down. Before I can run into the bushes, I feel a ball go through my left thigh. It
spins me around and I, too, lie in the road looking up through the trees to the blue
sky beyond. The next round slams into my shoulder. Turning my head in the dust, I
look over to where Jameson, the last man in our squad, is kneeling in the road,
quickly trying to reload his rifle. Thank God, he never felt the ball that takes the
back of his head off. I can feel the blood flowing warmly over my leg and shoulder,
it won't be long, now. Turning my head, I gaze past Tom, and looking up the road, I can just make out Lily, running to help me; her long, white dress flowing around her
and the sunlight making her hair shine. I try to reach my arm out to her, but it
won't respond. I want to touch her one last time. She is coming closer. The warm
sunlight starts to feel cold; the blue sky is turning gray, and the bright, divine light
of the leaves is starting to dim. I smile up at her as she comes near, holding both
arms out to me. I hear footsteps and angry voices quickly approaching me from
behind. I look back into her eyes, smiling and...
"Hey, Sergeant Taggert, this here Yankee sergeant looks like he might still be
alive...naw, he's dead. They all dead."
Shakespeare Brings Home the Bacon
What you can do when you rearrange the world's greatest writer's words (besides embarrass him beyond the grave!)
SHAKESPEARE BRINGS HOME THE BACON
by
P.L. Ellars
“Good morrow, Master Shakespeare, I pray thee well?”
“Good dawning to thee my friend Albada, pray away.”
“In my perambulations and peregrinations this day I have had the good fortune and pleasure of coming across Master Bacon’s…”
“Master Bacon, joyfully, dost not have the same effect on me, Albada. Seldom cometh the better, eh?”
“Er, no, sir, I do not mean it in such a way. I was merely mentioning that I have this day, as I was saying, in my wanderings through the city, discovered at Master Libros’ Booke Shoppe and, glad indeed to have had my purse with me, was able to produce said amount required to purchase Master Bacon’s most recent and, therefore current, folios with which I may retire at some future point in time to peruse, at my leisure, with, may I be so bold as to say to thee without offense, Master Shakespeare, no small degree of joyful anticipation.”
“So, thou hast purchased Bacon regurgitations, eh, Albada?” inquires Shakespeare. “Well, happy man be his dole.”
“Well, yes, sir, but…”
“But me no buts, Albada, things without all remedy should be without regard: what’s done, is done. Haves’t with thee? Say no and then I could condemn it as an improbable fiction. Say yes, and produce, and I shall say: This is a sorry sight.” says Shakespeare.
“Yes, Master Shakespeare, I have it here.”
And so Albada reaches into his doublet and pulls out Master Bacon’s most recent work and hands it to Shakespeare. Untying the ribbon, Shakespeare takes notice of the fine quality of paper used in printing.
“Well, Albada, Bacon has’t spared no expense in the production of his nothings. This surely must have cost more than a pound of flesh. ‘Tis soft indeed; soft words asleep on a soft bed. If you will excuse me, Albada, I feel a touch of nature; too much of a good thing last night at dinner.”
Shakespeare rises out of his chair and leaves the room taking Master Bacon’s folio with him.
“Where goest thou, sir?” inquires Albada.
“Away, but tarry you here, I am not infirm of purpose and shall not be long; for brevity is the soul of shit.”
“Take’st thou Master Bacon’s folio, sir?”
“Aye, I will peruse it and return anon.” and with that Shakespeare strides quickly out of the room.
Some five minutes later he returns.
“Ah, our revels are now ended. Here, Albada, here is thy Bacon. Wondrous soft it is. Tis such stuff as dreams are made on. It is a hit, a palpable hit, my friend.”
“But, Master Shakespeare, the frontspiece and dedication are missing. Hast thou forgotten it somewhere?”
“No, Albada, I have not. I have discovered a new use for Master Bacon’s folios. I found his work very absorbing; his frontspiece makes an excellent backpiece.”
“I do not follow you, sir, you talk in riddles.”
“Then, Albada, I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver. Master Bacon’s art is beneath me. Truly, his folios first moved and then impressed me; I was impressed with his art, deeply impressed. He hath made an impression on me. Oh, hell-kite, Albada, be comforted, as I have been, never have I removed more matter with less art at one fell swoop and swipe! Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more and I was finished with the job at hand! I must tell Master Bacon and congratulate him.”
“You used Master Bacon’s folio to… to… are you mad!?” Albada asks incredulously.
“Mad? By the Lord, fool, I am not mad. I am but mad North-Northwest. When the wind is Southerly, I know a hump from a handjob. O, my offense is rank; it smells to heaven, it hath the primal eldest curse upon’t, a critique to be sure. Master Bacon’s frontspiece and dedication now liest in the vasty deep and thus in the whirligig of time! Albada, you are thinking too precisely on the event. ‘Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed.”
“But…but… “ stammered Albada.
“BUT ME NO BUTS! I have told thee! Listen closely, Albada, and I shall explain: there is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune, my fortune; omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie. O, I am fortune’s fool not to seize this offered opportunity. If I act upon it, then the world is mine oyster which I with sword will open.”
“Offered opportunity, Master Shakespeare? I do not understand”. whimpers Albada.
“To make my fortune, Albada, to make my fortune! Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t. Master Bacon’s folios, as I have just discovered, are good for nothing but cleansing oneself. The people will use this to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow. Why woulds’t anyone go back to the old or Turkish or Roman style, having once tried this! O, what men dare do! What men may do! What men daily do, not knowing what they do”!
“I am not sure, Master Sha… “
“O, Lord, what fools these mortals be. Albada, be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. My own fortunes fall in the latter three categories. You must away now for, coincidentally, I have this day a meeting with Master Bacon. Though I dote on his very absence, he shall be here shortly”.
“Master Shakespeare, I cannot believe that thou has used Master Bacon’s folio for such…”
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Albada, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. Expand thy mind! Get thee around it. Get thee over it! Ambition should be made of sterner stuff. Still, it would be best, perhaps, for thou to not mention this at present to anyone, eh, Albada? So swear. Swear by my sword never to speak of this that you have heard. ” demands Shakespeare.
“Yes, Master Shakespeare, I do swear not to speak of this. Who would be foolish enough to believe me anyway?” says Albada. “I shall take my leave, sir, though I be out the cost of my now ruined folio!” replies Albada.
“O, thou are much condemn’d to have an itching palm.” chides Shakespeare.
“I, an itching palm!” retorts Albada.
“Yes, Albada, and know thee this: That way madness lies. Never fear, Albada, I shall put money in thy purse. I say put money in thy purse. And since money is the be-all and end-all for thee, I shall act as swift as a shadow. Here, here is thy outage and then some. It is money well spent for me. As for thy purse, Albada, spending should not be so painful. Remember, there never was yet philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently. So is it with spending. Who steals my purse steals trash; ‘tis something, nothing; ‘twas mine, ‘tis his, and has been slave to thousands.”
“Thank you, Master Shakespeare, and now I shall depart.”
“Parting is such sweet sorrow, Albada.”
Later that morning.
“Francis.”
“William.”
“Well Francis, we have seen better days; yet you wear your vale of years well, like a valiant dust. Come, and therefore sit you down in gentleness, and take upon command what help we have that to your wanting may be minist’red.”
“And to which chair shall I dodder, William? Thou hast a rascal’s wit and tongue! Part of thy charm, I suppose.”
“In thy shadow Francis, my wits faint!” says Shakespeare.
“I see thou hast a copy of mine latest work, William. What thinks’t thou upon it? How now and what’s all this then!? The frontspiece and dedication hast been ripp’d away. How came this outrage to pass, this tragedy of tragedies?”
“What the dickens, indeed, sirrah! We came crying hither at first notice of the loss ourselves! We two writers, you and I, Francis, are like a pair of star-crossed lovers, two households, both alike in dignity, yet I must confess an indignity to thee, Francis. ”
“An indignity? To me, William? Speak man, I will hear it!”
“The purest treasure mortal times afford is spotless reputation, and I’m afraid that I may have tarnished mine and put a brown spot on yours, Francis.”
“Speak clearly, William.”
“Aye, I must be a tower of strength. You wait with bated breath while I must find strength to enter a brave new world, cousin, because you, by chance may crown me!”
“William, I know less and less as you speak more and more!”
“Yea, verily, I see I must be cruel to be kind, Francis; so this bad begins and worse remains behind. I do repent, Francis. You see I have used portions of thy folio for… O, the room is grown too hot! But enough beating about the bush, Francis, for you and I are past our dancing days. I have this morning used the missing portions of thy folio, more as a statement of critique to my friend Albada than as a personal attack on thee, Francis, to wipe my ass!”
At this Sir Francis Bacon starts to jump up out of his chair, but falls back into it in a slump, his shoulders sagging.
“William, this is too much! Even for you. I know we have had our differences in the past – but this! I am finally at a loss for words.”
“Francis, cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will not mend. I must have had one of life’s fitful fevers; I would better be with the dead.” sighs Shakespeare.
“I knowes’t full well, as does the world, that thou hast, on many occasions, purloined my words, William, but this…this is the end.”
“Then this would not be the time to offer thee cakes and ale, Francis, or caviar to the general?”
“Oh, thou art a thieving, insulting rogue, William!”
“Enough whining, sirrah! Your words read as dull as the backside of a knife; therefore, your folios are only good for backsides! I, on the other hand, with writing, am able to breathe life into a stone, quicken a rock, and make you dance canary with spritely fire and motion, whose simple touch is powerful to arise King Pippin, nay, to give great Charlemagne a pen in’s hand and write…do you hear! To write!” Shakespeare thunders.
“Everyone knows you have stolen from me, William, stolen words, ideas…I could write a book on the words you have stolen from me; nay, I will, I SHALL write that book, William!” Sir Francis is shaking with emotion as he rails away at Shakespeare.
“Promuses, Promuses,” says Shakespeare.
“Very clever, William, you literally take the words out of my mouth!”
“Go hang yourselves all! You are idle, shallow things; I am not of your element.”
With that Sir Francis arises and storms out of the room saying over his shoulder
“I shall cut out your tongue!”
“I wrote that first, but, ’tis no matter, I shall speak as much as thou afterwards.” replies Shakespeare.
“I will see you hang’d like clatpoles ere I come any more to your tents. I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave the faction of fools!” yells Sir Francis.
“Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you, thou plagiarizing poltroon! I WROTE THAT FIRST, TOO!!! Come sir, are you ready for death? Hanging is the word, sir. If you be ready for that, you are well cook’d. Go, and a good riddance!”
“I feel for you, William, more in sorrow than in anger, pathetic creature!”
“Damn your eyes, Bacon! I wrote that too! Off with his head!”
Sir Francis slams the door as he makes his exit. Shakespeare goes to the side table and pours a large goblet full of wine and quaffs it down.
“Damn that insufferable, egotistical, plagiarizing, self-centered…wait, that gives me a thought. I will have more to say to him!” Shakespeare races to the window, opens it and looks below just as Sir Francis is emerging from the door.
“BACON, THOU ART A HAM!” screams Shakespeare and slams the window shut.
SHAKESPEARE BRINGS HOME THE BACON
by
P.L. Ellars
“Good morrow, Master Shakespeare, I pray thee well?”
“Good dawning to thee my friend Albada, pray away.”
“In my perambulations and peregrinations this day I have had the good fortune and pleasure of coming across Master Bacon’s…”
“Master Bacon, joyfully, dost not have the same effect on me, Albada. Seldom cometh the better, eh?”
“Er, no, sir, I do not mean it in such a way. I was merely mentioning that I have this day, as I was saying, in my wanderings through the city, discovered at Master Libros’ Booke Shoppe and, glad indeed to have had my purse with me, was able to produce said amount required to purchase Master Bacon’s most recent and, therefore current, folios with which I may retire at some future point in time to peruse, at my leisure, with, may I be so bold as to say to thee without offense, Master Shakespeare, no small degree of joyful anticipation.”
“So, thou hast purchased Bacon regurgitations, eh, Albada?” inquires Shakespeare. “Well, happy man be his dole.”
“Well, yes, sir, but…”
“But me no buts, Albada, things without all remedy should be without regard: what’s done, is done. Haves’t with thee? Say no and then I could condemn it as an improbable fiction. Say yes, and produce, and I shall say: This is a sorry sight.” says Shakespeare.
“Yes, Master Shakespeare, I have it here.”
And so Albada reaches into his doublet and pulls out Master Bacon’s most recent work and hands it to Shakespeare. Untying the ribbon, Shakespeare takes notice of the fine quality of paper used in printing.
“Well, Albada, Bacon has’t spared no expense in the production of his nothings. This surely must have cost more than a pound of flesh. ‘Tis soft indeed; soft words asleep on a soft bed. If you will excuse me, Albada, I feel a touch of nature; too much of a good thing last night at dinner.”
Shakespeare rises out of his chair and leaves the room taking Master Bacon’s folio with him.
“Where goest thou, sir?” inquires Albada.
“Away, but tarry you here, I am not infirm of purpose and shall not be long; for brevity is the soul of shit.”
“Take’st thou Master Bacon’s folio, sir?”
“Aye, I will peruse it and return anon.” and with that Shakespeare strides quickly out of the room.
Some five minutes later he returns.
“Ah, our revels are now ended. Here, Albada, here is thy Bacon. Wondrous soft it is. Tis such stuff as dreams are made on. It is a hit, a palpable hit, my friend.”
“But, Master Shakespeare, the frontspiece and dedication are missing. Hast thou forgotten it somewhere?”
“No, Albada, I have not. I have discovered a new use for Master Bacon’s folios. I found his work very absorbing; his frontspiece makes an excellent backpiece.”
“I do not follow you, sir, you talk in riddles.”
“Then, Albada, I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver. Master Bacon’s art is beneath me. Truly, his folios first moved and then impressed me; I was impressed with his art, deeply impressed. He hath made an impression on me. Oh, hell-kite, Albada, be comforted, as I have been, never have I removed more matter with less art at one fell swoop and swipe! Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more and I was finished with the job at hand! I must tell Master Bacon and congratulate him.”
“You used Master Bacon’s folio to… to… are you mad!?” Albada asks incredulously.
“Mad? By the Lord, fool, I am not mad. I am but mad North-Northwest. When the wind is Southerly, I know a hump from a handjob. O, my offense is rank; it smells to heaven, it hath the primal eldest curse upon’t, a critique to be sure. Master Bacon’s frontspiece and dedication now liest in the vasty deep and thus in the whirligig of time! Albada, you are thinking too precisely on the event. ‘Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed.”
“But…but… “ stammered Albada.
“BUT ME NO BUTS! I have told thee! Listen closely, Albada, and I shall explain: there is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune, my fortune; omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie. O, I am fortune’s fool not to seize this offered opportunity. If I act upon it, then the world is mine oyster which I with sword will open.”
“Offered opportunity, Master Shakespeare? I do not understand”. whimpers Albada.
“To make my fortune, Albada, to make my fortune! Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t. Master Bacon’s folios, as I have just discovered, are good for nothing but cleansing oneself. The people will use this to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow. Why woulds’t anyone go back to the old or Turkish or Roman style, having once tried this! O, what men dare do! What men may do! What men daily do, not knowing what they do”!
“I am not sure, Master Sha… “
“O, Lord, what fools these mortals be. Albada, be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. My own fortunes fall in the latter three categories. You must away now for, coincidentally, I have this day a meeting with Master Bacon. Though I dote on his very absence, he shall be here shortly”.
“Master Shakespeare, I cannot believe that thou has used Master Bacon’s folio for such…”
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Albada, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. Expand thy mind! Get thee around it. Get thee over it! Ambition should be made of sterner stuff. Still, it would be best, perhaps, for thou to not mention this at present to anyone, eh, Albada? So swear. Swear by my sword never to speak of this that you have heard. ” demands Shakespeare.
“Yes, Master Shakespeare, I do swear not to speak of this. Who would be foolish enough to believe me anyway?” says Albada. “I shall take my leave, sir, though I be out the cost of my now ruined folio!” replies Albada.
“O, thou are much condemn’d to have an itching palm.” chides Shakespeare.
“I, an itching palm!” retorts Albada.
“Yes, Albada, and know thee this: That way madness lies. Never fear, Albada, I shall put money in thy purse. I say put money in thy purse. And since money is the be-all and end-all for thee, I shall act as swift as a shadow. Here, here is thy outage and then some. It is money well spent for me. As for thy purse, Albada, spending should not be so painful. Remember, there never was yet philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently. So is it with spending. Who steals my purse steals trash; ‘tis something, nothing; ‘twas mine, ‘tis his, and has been slave to thousands.”
“Thank you, Master Shakespeare, and now I shall depart.”
“Parting is such sweet sorrow, Albada.”
Later that morning.
“Francis.”
“William.”
“Well Francis, we have seen better days; yet you wear your vale of years well, like a valiant dust. Come, and therefore sit you down in gentleness, and take upon command what help we have that to your wanting may be minist’red.”
“And to which chair shall I dodder, William? Thou hast a rascal’s wit and tongue! Part of thy charm, I suppose.”
“In thy shadow Francis, my wits faint!” says Shakespeare.
“I see thou hast a copy of mine latest work, William. What thinks’t thou upon it? How now and what’s all this then!? The frontspiece and dedication hast been ripp’d away. How came this outrage to pass, this tragedy of tragedies?”
“What the dickens, indeed, sirrah! We came crying hither at first notice of the loss ourselves! We two writers, you and I, Francis, are like a pair of star-crossed lovers, two households, both alike in dignity, yet I must confess an indignity to thee, Francis. ”
“An indignity? To me, William? Speak man, I will hear it!”
“The purest treasure mortal times afford is spotless reputation, and I’m afraid that I may have tarnished mine and put a brown spot on yours, Francis.”
“Speak clearly, William.”
“Aye, I must be a tower of strength. You wait with bated breath while I must find strength to enter a brave new world, cousin, because you, by chance may crown me!”
“William, I know less and less as you speak more and more!”
“Yea, verily, I see I must be cruel to be kind, Francis; so this bad begins and worse remains behind. I do repent, Francis. You see I have used portions of thy folio for… O, the room is grown too hot! But enough beating about the bush, Francis, for you and I are past our dancing days. I have this morning used the missing portions of thy folio, more as a statement of critique to my friend Albada than as a personal attack on thee, Francis, to wipe my ass!”
At this Sir Francis Bacon starts to jump up out of his chair, but falls back into it in a slump, his shoulders sagging.
“William, this is too much! Even for you. I know we have had our differences in the past – but this! I am finally at a loss for words.”
“Francis, cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will not mend. I must have had one of life’s fitful fevers; I would better be with the dead.” sighs Shakespeare.
“I knowes’t full well, as does the world, that thou hast, on many occasions, purloined my words, William, but this…this is the end.”
“Then this would not be the time to offer thee cakes and ale, Francis, or caviar to the general?”
“Oh, thou art a thieving, insulting rogue, William!”
“Enough whining, sirrah! Your words read as dull as the backside of a knife; therefore, your folios are only good for backsides! I, on the other hand, with writing, am able to breathe life into a stone, quicken a rock, and make you dance canary with spritely fire and motion, whose simple touch is powerful to arise King Pippin, nay, to give great Charlemagne a pen in’s hand and write…do you hear! To write!” Shakespeare thunders.
“Everyone knows you have stolen from me, William, stolen words, ideas…I could write a book on the words you have stolen from me; nay, I will, I SHALL write that book, William!” Sir Francis is shaking with emotion as he rails away at Shakespeare.
“Promuses, Promuses,” says Shakespeare.
“Very clever, William, you literally take the words out of my mouth!”
“Go hang yourselves all! You are idle, shallow things; I am not of your element.”
With that Sir Francis arises and storms out of the room saying over his shoulder
“I shall cut out your tongue!”
“I wrote that first, but, ’tis no matter, I shall speak as much as thou afterwards.” replies Shakespeare.
“I will see you hang’d like clatpoles ere I come any more to your tents. I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave the faction of fools!” yells Sir Francis.
“Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you, thou plagiarizing poltroon! I WROTE THAT FIRST, TOO!!! Come sir, are you ready for death? Hanging is the word, sir. If you be ready for that, you are well cook’d. Go, and a good riddance!”
“I feel for you, William, more in sorrow than in anger, pathetic creature!”
“Damn your eyes, Bacon! I wrote that too! Off with his head!”
Sir Francis slams the door as he makes his exit. Shakespeare goes to the side table and pours a large goblet full of wine and quaffs it down.
“Damn that insufferable, egotistical, plagiarizing, self-centered…wait, that gives me a thought. I will have more to say to him!” Shakespeare races to the window, opens it and looks below just as Sir Francis is emerging from the door.
“BACON, THOU ART A HAM!” screams Shakespeare and slams the window shut.
Finding Strength
Finding Strength
(Note: This story was entered in a GlimmerTrain writing contest. I have borrowed the names of the characters (Victor, Elizabeth and Henry) from Mary Shelley's great story 'Frankenstein' published in 1818. Claire is Mary's step-sister who ran off with Mary's husband, Percy Bysshe Shelley, and had a lurid affair after Mary gave birth to a premature baby which died. The ending will tie it all together.)
P.L. Ellars
“OK, buddy, here ya are, 1818 Shelley Street. Hoo! what a night. That’s some rain, ain’t it?” the cabbie said as he shifted the taxi into Park.
The rain beat down on the roof of the cab. The fare, a slender man in his early twenties, was staring intently through the window at the house. He was deep in thought. A few seconds passed and the young man made no movement to leave.
“Oh, God,” he was thinking to himself, “this is it. What will they do? It’s not like Elizabeth and I had any control over this; like we planned it or anything.”
“Hey pal, we’re here. Ya owe me $18.60 for the fare. Kinda wet out there, ain’t it?” the cabbie said to him.
“They may never speak to me and Elizabeth again.” the young man thought to himself. “What if they don’t want to see us ever again? I wouldn’t blame them. Oh, Elizabeth, Elizabeth, I love you so much. How could we not have seen this coming?” The rain ran down the cab’s window like tears, blurring his vision of the front door under the porch light.
“Come on buddy, I got to get goin’ here. That’ll be $18.60.”
“All right. Just give me a second, will you?” the young man said to the cabbie. Looking back towards the house, he returned to his thoughts. “I can see Dad now, as soon as he opens the door he’ll be glad to see me. Probably say something corny like, “Victor! Come on in before you melt. Claire! come down, Victor’s here!” and then his Mom’s voice from upstairs; “Keep your wig on, Henry, I’m coming.” Victor knew that once he told his parents of his and Elizabeth’s wedding plans, they would be devastated. Devastated. Ha! That would be an understatement; he might as well rip their hearts out then and there.
Victor gave the cabbie $22.00 and slowly started to get out of the taxi.
“You better hurry pal, if ya don’t wanta get soaked!” the cabbie yelled after him.
The cab drove off into the night leaving Victor standing on the sidewalk staring at his parent’s house. His eyes wandered up to the second floor. He tried to look into his old room, to picture himself living, sleeping there again; safe in his room again. Oh, as a child, how he loved his room. His parents let him decorate it the way he wanted; it was his. After tonight, he thought, he will never see it again.
He slowly started to walk towards the front door. “I can do this. I have to do this. Elizabeth and I are too much in love. We can’t have it any other way; I wish we didn’t have to hurt them, though.” His thoughts flashed to Elizabeth. He pictured her sitting alone back at his apartment. Waiting. Waiting for his return. They would be together then. Comforting each other. Holding hands. Oh, God, this is harder than I thought it would be.
Tears started to run down his cheeks. Thank God it is raining.
He went up the few stairs and wiped his nose on his sleeve before ringing the doorbell. “Oh, Elizabeth, this is for us.”
He could hear his Dad’s footsteps padding up to the door and then he saw the curtain drawn back and his father’s face looking through the glass to see who it was that was calling at this time of night and in the rain. The father’s face lit up when he recognized his son standing on the porch. Victor heard the clicking of the lock being opened.
“Victor, for gosh sakes, come on in before you catch pneumonia! You’re soaking wet. Get in here quick! Claire, bring a towel, it’s Victor, quick, before he melts.” Hearing his Dad say that caused a lump in Victor’s throat. He thought he was going to be sick right there; how could he and Elizabeth do this to them?
“Hi Dad, I’ve got something I need to talk to you and Mom about and it can’t wait. I’ve agonized about this for…”
“Sure, sure, son, but come on in first. You don’t have to tell us out here on the porch.”
“Hi Mom, thanks for the towel.” Victor used the towel to quickly wipe away the rain and tears from his face.
“So, what’s up, son? What’s so important?”
“It’s about me… about me and Elizabeth, Dad, Mom.”
“Elizabeth? How is your sister?”
(Note: This story was entered in a GlimmerTrain writing contest. I have borrowed the names of the characters (Victor, Elizabeth and Henry) from Mary Shelley's great story 'Frankenstein' published in 1818. Claire is Mary's step-sister who ran off with Mary's husband, Percy Bysshe Shelley, and had a lurid affair after Mary gave birth to a premature baby which died. The ending will tie it all together.)
P.L. Ellars
“OK, buddy, here ya are, 1818 Shelley Street. Hoo! what a night. That’s some rain, ain’t it?” the cabbie said as he shifted the taxi into Park.
The rain beat down on the roof of the cab. The fare, a slender man in his early twenties, was staring intently through the window at the house. He was deep in thought. A few seconds passed and the young man made no movement to leave.
“Oh, God,” he was thinking to himself, “this is it. What will they do? It’s not like Elizabeth and I had any control over this; like we planned it or anything.”
“Hey pal, we’re here. Ya owe me $18.60 for the fare. Kinda wet out there, ain’t it?” the cabbie said to him.
“They may never speak to me and Elizabeth again.” the young man thought to himself. “What if they don’t want to see us ever again? I wouldn’t blame them. Oh, Elizabeth, Elizabeth, I love you so much. How could we not have seen this coming?” The rain ran down the cab’s window like tears, blurring his vision of the front door under the porch light.
“Come on buddy, I got to get goin’ here. That’ll be $18.60.”
“All right. Just give me a second, will you?” the young man said to the cabbie. Looking back towards the house, he returned to his thoughts. “I can see Dad now, as soon as he opens the door he’ll be glad to see me. Probably say something corny like, “Victor! Come on in before you melt. Claire! come down, Victor’s here!” and then his Mom’s voice from upstairs; “Keep your wig on, Henry, I’m coming.” Victor knew that once he told his parents of his and Elizabeth’s wedding plans, they would be devastated. Devastated. Ha! That would be an understatement; he might as well rip their hearts out then and there.
Victor gave the cabbie $22.00 and slowly started to get out of the taxi.
“You better hurry pal, if ya don’t wanta get soaked!” the cabbie yelled after him.
The cab drove off into the night leaving Victor standing on the sidewalk staring at his parent’s house. His eyes wandered up to the second floor. He tried to look into his old room, to picture himself living, sleeping there again; safe in his room again. Oh, as a child, how he loved his room. His parents let him decorate it the way he wanted; it was his. After tonight, he thought, he will never see it again.
He slowly started to walk towards the front door. “I can do this. I have to do this. Elizabeth and I are too much in love. We can’t have it any other way; I wish we didn’t have to hurt them, though.” His thoughts flashed to Elizabeth. He pictured her sitting alone back at his apartment. Waiting. Waiting for his return. They would be together then. Comforting each other. Holding hands. Oh, God, this is harder than I thought it would be.
Tears started to run down his cheeks. Thank God it is raining.
He went up the few stairs and wiped his nose on his sleeve before ringing the doorbell. “Oh, Elizabeth, this is for us.”
He could hear his Dad’s footsteps padding up to the door and then he saw the curtain drawn back and his father’s face looking through the glass to see who it was that was calling at this time of night and in the rain. The father’s face lit up when he recognized his son standing on the porch. Victor heard the clicking of the lock being opened.
“Victor, for gosh sakes, come on in before you catch pneumonia! You’re soaking wet. Get in here quick! Claire, bring a towel, it’s Victor, quick, before he melts.” Hearing his Dad say that caused a lump in Victor’s throat. He thought he was going to be sick right there; how could he and Elizabeth do this to them?
“Hi Dad, I’ve got something I need to talk to you and Mom about and it can’t wait. I’ve agonized about this for…”
“Sure, sure, son, but come on in first. You don’t have to tell us out here on the porch.”
“Hi Mom, thanks for the towel.” Victor used the towel to quickly wipe away the rain and tears from his face.
“So, what’s up, son? What’s so important?”
“It’s about me… about me and Elizabeth, Dad, Mom.”
“Elizabeth? How is your sister?”
Club Parodee
Ahhh! La Belle France.
Club Parodee
by
Paul L. Ellars
Paris, October 1, 1925
“Bon jour, Sangfroid, will you breakfast with me?” asks the little man, lighting a Gauloise. He is speaking to a tall, dark, muscular, impeccably dressed Frenchman in an immaculate cream colored double-breasted suit with blazing turquoise silk tie, matching breast pocket hand kerchief and two-tone white and cream shoes.
“Non! Well, oui, d’accord. Bon jour, Patois, what do you say?” Sangfroid asks, lighting a Gauloise. “Garcon! A la recherché du Pain Perdu.” he yells over to the waiter, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
“Oui, monsieur, d’accord!” the waiter answers, lighting up a Gauloise.
“Ah, Sangfroid, I see you still mourn the passing of Marcel. You have had that same breakfast for three years now, your grief must be deep.” Patois says gingerly, blowing small smoke rings into the air above his head. He knows how easily it is to upset Sangfroid and speaking of Marcel is tricky business.
Sangfroid rests his large frame in the chair at the table with his back against the wall. His dark eyes dart around the room, watching who comes and goes at the club. He is in his late twenties, powerfully built, with black hair shining from too much pomade. He pulls thoughtfully at his pencil-thin mustache with his right hand and with his left fingers the deep, masculine cleft in his dark, swarthy Gallic chin as his eyes come to rest on Patois. He inhales deeply on his Gauloise. Sangfroid is a small-time gangster, petty thief, hit-man, pimp, crook, drug dealer, and pamphleteer. Lately he has been upset over the number of Americans that have been moving to Paris, particularly Montparnasse, his neighborhood, and Montmarte, where Torche La Flame, his girl and chanteuse at Club Parodee, lives.
“You know, Patois, these goddam Americains, they are everywhere; they are really making me very angry. I can’t go anywhere anymore without running into a crowd of them; La Rotonde, Café Le Dome, La Closerie, La Coupole, even the goddam Dingo Bar is lousy with these batars! I would puke if I thought I could do it without ruining my suit! And they think they are so clever, so artistic, so literate and sophisticated. Ha! I’ve read some of their crap; it’s very childish and repetitive; “A rose is a rose is a rose…” mon dieu, I could write tripe like that! What brains does it take to do that eh, mon ami?” Sangfroid was starting to work himself into a fever.
“Sangfroid don’t be so hot-blooded! You will upset your stomach and you’ve not even had your breakfast. Eat. We will talk more of this later, though if it will comfort you, I did hear that they found a dead Americain behind Le Select last night, on rue de Day. He had been shot six times, stabbed six times, and bludgeoned six times on the head.”
“A six crime obviously or, perhaps... it was a suicide?” offers Sangfroid.
“Well, the police, naturally, thought of that first, but there was no note.”
“Well, we do not want to disappoint them, do we Patois? I shall mail one to the police today; I shall write to them: ‘Adieu cruel world. I made this look harder than it really was. Messy, n’est pas?’” and he burst out laughing.
“You have the Gallic sense of humor, Sangfroid.” Patois says as he and Sangfroid both nod and make a moue.
“I have heard that in the last five years or so the number of Americains in Paris has increased from 6,000 to over 30,000.” Patois says, inhaling deeply on his Gauloise.
“Sacre fromage! I will move to Marseille if one more goddam Americain moves to Paris!” Sangfroid says puffing angrily on his Gauloise.
“But, Sangfroid, you must admit that the Americains do have a certain joie de vie we should admire, yes? They light up Paris.” argues Patois.
“Only Frenchmen can light up Paris, you imbecile!” Sangfroid quickly clips Patois on the jaw, knocking the Gauloise out of his mouth putting him into a deep sleep. Patois sits slumped over in his chair just as the waiter brings Sangfroid’s breakfast.
“Monsieur has very quick hands.” says the waiter making a moue and taking a deep drag on the Gauloise dangling arrogantly at the corner of his mouth. “You did not even knock the ash off your Gauloise; very impressive. More coffee, monsieur?”
Suddenly the air is pierced with the high-pitched shriek of a classically trained female voice.
“Sangfroid! You brute, what is the meaning of this? Are you an animal? Are you uncivilized? Are you a savage beast? Are you crazy? Can you not control your hot blood, Sangfroid? Zut Alors!”
It is Torche La Flame. The Gauloise between her lips is dancing madly up and down as she blasts Sangfroid, her arms gesturing wildly like an Italian at a hornet’s convention. Here is a fiery redhead that nature has drawn with a French curve…et Dieu crea la femme, oooh la lah! She has just arrived for morning rehearsal and saw Sangfroid knock Patois out.
“I will debate the brute part since you made it a statement, but as for the questions: there is no meaning; oui; somewhat, though I am working on it; non, not really; I don’t think so, but then that’s not for me to say, n’est pas? and finally; oui, most of the time I can.”
He leaps to his feet like a jaguar. Grabbing the Gauloise from his mouth with his left hand he flicks it away; he then wraps his powerful right arm around Torche like a gorilla, pulling her in close to him, squeezing her like a python in heat. She struggles. Sangfroid’s left arm comes around and, like a spider, he holds her immobile as he brings his face in close to hers, his lips puckering up like a chimpanzee.
“Stop it! Stop it, Sangfroid! You know I don’t like this in public! Oh, you beast!” Torche cries, trying to free herself. She manages to get loose enough to slap his face.
Sangfroid stops and looks menacingly at her.
“You would not have done that if I were Jean-Luc Claude Balls, would you, cheri?” he growls. Jean-Luc is Sangfroid’s competition for the heart of Torche La Flame. He is a petty thief, assassin, jewel thief and network marketer. Their rivalry goes back years. Each has had many opportunities to kill the other, but. . . c’est la vie, c’est la guerre, say no more.
Sangfroid, lighting up a Gauloise, returns to his breakfast.
“It’s just that, sometimes, you know, Sangfroid, you act like such an animal, and a reptile, and an arachnid, and a primate.” Torche says tenderly.
“You know, Torche,” he says making a moue and exhaling a long cloud of smoke, “I just might go see that new negress opening at the Theatre des Champs-Elysees tomorrow night. You know the one, Josephine Baker? I’m sure you have heard of her. They say she is pretty hot, for an Americain.” he says tauntingly, avoiding her eyes and concentrates on his breakfast.
“Pteww!” Torche spits and turning on her heel storms off to the stage. Sangfroid chuckles as he puts his Gauloise out in the remains of his breakfast.
“Garcon! Deaux coffees!” he yells at the waiter and then nudges Patois who is starting to come around.
“Come my friend, wake up! Here, let’s have a Gauloise. You should sleep at home and not in clubs; didn’t your mother teach you manners? Ha ha ha ha ha!” Sangfroid laughs derisively at his friend.
“You are such an ordinary little man, Patois.” Sangfroid chides, blowing a cloud of smoke affectionately into his friend’s face.
“I am as ordinary as the sheepskin lining in other men’s codpieces.” replies Patois philosophically.
“Ah, spoken like the true Parisian, mon ami!” Sangfroid says, nodding thoughtfully and makes a moue as he slowly exhales a large cloud of smoke that completely envelops his head.
Chapter Deaux – La Fin
Later that night at Club Parodee, Sangfroid is sitting alone at his small table in the shadows off to the side of the stage where Torche La Flame is singing:
“Por que moi? Por que moi! Non! Oui? Non! et Non!! Por que moi!? Pooorrrrr quuuueeeee mmmoooooooiiiiiiii!?!?”
She finishes her song and, lighting a Gauloise, makes a moue and accepts the crowd’s applause. She saunters over to Sangfroid’s table, sauntering as only a true Parisian boulevardier can saunter.
“Bon nuit, Sangfroid. I like this crowd. This is a good crowd. I like this good crowd. This is a good, likeable crowd. A crowd that is good and likeable. I like it. It is good.”
“Dammit! You biche! You’ve been reading Hemingway! Sacre Coeur de Fromage! What have I told you about these goddam Americains!” Sangfroid inhales half of his Gauloise in one drag and, looking up to the ceiling or heaven, whichever gets in his way first, exhales a large, mushroom shaped cloud.
“For your information, mon cheri,” he continues, “most of these “good and likeable” people are Dadaist! So what do you think now, eh? Eh? I say, eh?” Sangfroid is indignant. The Gauloise is quivering between his lips like a playing card vibrating against the spokes of a bicyclette as it speeds out of control down rue Fatale.
“They are anti-art, cheri! And you, spouting bourgeois, nouveau-pauvre, artistic, faux intellegentsia bullmerde! Ha! What a pathetic little pedantic creature you are, mon cheri. Well, it’s what you get, I suppose, for going to Universite du Pedant. Dear old P.U., and that is what I think of your fauxniness – P.U.!”
The Gauloise in Torche’s mouth hangs limp with shame. It dangles just off-center of her full ruby red lips; lips that have brought much pleasure to Sangfroid, to Sangfroid and many, many, many, many other men, as well as quite a few women, plus some teenage boys and girls. The smoke from her dangling Gauloise curls up into her eyes making them water; they shine like two sparkling diamonds on a sea of blancmange. With shame and embarrassment so unusual in a chanteuse at Club Parodee, Torche looks around the room at the crowd. Dadaist. Of course! How could she have been so wrong? They had been around so long that she forgot that they had started as an anti-art, anti-mainstream anti movement. Dadaist are now considered an art movement, not anti-art. Oh, mon dieu, she thought, I’m so confused; so ashamed. How could I not get it right? I’ve read Sartre, young Sartre, but Sartre nevertheless. Did I not understand? Do I not understand? Sartre must be to blame. Oh sure, I made the choice of my own free will and went from anti-art to art; or was it the other way? It was of my own free will; but the Dadaist are to blame, too, becoming so ambiguous, blurring lines…no it’s Sartre who’s to blame… no, no it’s the Dadaist, no… no… it’s… no. . . . The room starts to spin, the smoke from her Gauloise is choking her and she cannot breathe.
“Fresh air, I need to get some fresh air.” It was Torche’s last free will anti-thought before her world spins out of control like a French politician at a summit meeting. She collapses on Sangfroid’s table, spilling his newly refilled glass of absinthe into his lap. Sangfroid leaps to his feet like a gazelle in springtime, the Gauloise arcing away from his mouth and across the room like the trapeze artiste at Le Raunchy Ranine, as he curses her, “You Corinthian cow! You Bulgarian bovine! You Saracen swine! You Abyssinian…”
“SANGFROID!” It is Jean-Luc Claude Balls. He has just that moment come in through the front door and hears Sangfroid screaming curses at the woman he loves. Jean-Luc looks down at her lying there on the floor at Sangfroid’s feet, the Gauloise slowly dropping millimeter by millimeter until it falls out of her mouth and joins the hundreds of others of its brethren there on the dirty drink splattered floor in a sad post-mortem pastiche of liberte, egalite and fraternite.
“Well, mon ami,” Jean-Luc says in a cold, menacing voice, lighting a Gauloise and eyeing the spreading green stain on Sangfroid’s crotch, “it looks like you will be taking a trip to the free clinic – one way or the other!”
Sangfroid, turning, calmly eyes Jean-Luc, and putting a Gauloise in his mouth, makes a moue, then reaches into his jacket pocket as if for his lighter, instead whips out his .32 caliber Colt’s model 1903 semi-automatic pistol, a gift from his father, Chaudfroid, the night he took him to the brothel, Le Turgide Fontainespew, for Sangfroid’s twelfth birthday. Standing by the stage he quickly snaps off a shot at Jean-Luc who, near the front door thirty meters away, is only grazed on his left thigh by the bullet. Diving behind the nearest table he taunts Sangfroid.
“Ha! You shoot like my mother. . .or is it my sister? Anyway, you shoot like a female member of my family, batar!” Jean-Luc knew his taunt hit its mark when he hears Sangfroid trumpet like a rogue elephant in musth. First making a moue, he then smiles at his petty victory. After lighting a Gauloise to replace the one lost while making his dive, he grabs a dazed midget that is standing by a potted fern and, holding the midget in front of him for a shield, races from potted fern to potted fern towards the stage. When they are only five meters apart Jean-Luc throws the dead, bullet riddled body of the midget at Sangfroid. The dead midget bounces off his powerful, muscular physique like an uncooked champignon. Sangfroid puts a fresh clip in his Colt and a fresh Gauloise in his mouth. His eyes narrow as he looks at Jean-Luc who, in the meantime, has drawn his own gun, a .32 caliber Colt’s model 1903 semi-automatic pistol, a gift from his father, Jean-Luc Sauvaged Balls, the night he took him to the brothel, Le Turgide Fontainespew, for Jean-Luc’s (that would be Jean-Luc fil’s) twelfth birthday.
“NOW I HAVE YOU, CHIEN OF A BATAR!” they yell simultaneously.
“Sacre Fromage!” “Baton de Poisson!” “Avec Fromage!” they yell back and forth, calmly and stoically facing each other, guns blazing away. The room fills with smoke from the guns and the Gauloises Jean-Luc and Sangfroid smoke with fierce determination. Each bullet finds its mark. Jean-Luc’s Gauloise is the first to fall, to join its brethren there on the dirty drink splattered floor in a sad post-mortem pastiche of liberte, egalite and fraternite. Jean-Luc, making a moue, slumps to his knees and looks one last time at Sangfroid. Sangfroid stands there wavering, the Gauloise dangling weakly from the corner of his mouth. His immaculate cream-colored suit and blazing turquoise silk tie and two-tone white and cream shoes are now splattered with blood from the growing red splotches where Jean-Luc’s bullets found their mark. Deep inside his Gallic soul he knew that, because of the red spots all over his suit and the large green absinthe stain on his crotch, he was going to die looking like a flocked Christmas tree.
“Joyeaux Noel, batar!” Jean-Luc croaks and falls forward face down in the Gauloise butts.
“Joyeaux Noel, mon ami, I forgive you, and I forgive you, too, Torche. I did not mean what I said about your fauxniness. You are the one true thing in life, Torche, in my life, the one true and good thing. You are good. And you have been as true as anyone could expect from a chanteuse here at Club Parodee. I forgive you. Your goodness is true, and you have been true to your goodness. Oh, mon dieu, now I am starting to sound like Hemingway! Sacre fromage! Forgive me, Honore, forgive me, Guy de. Marcel, I am coming! I am coming, Marcel!” Sangfroid collapses on Torche La Flame, dying, his last Gauloise burns a little remembrance of him on her left cheek. She will carry that with her until she too dies years later in a shootout at a boulangerie, fingering the scar she calls ‘mon sangfroidette’ as she takes her last breath.
The patrons of Club Parodee start nervously to come out from behind the bar and potted ferns and furniture after the shooting and the shootists die away. A general murmur sweeps the room; here and there people are lighting Gauloises. There is a commotion by the front door; a dark woman with an entourage is entering Club Parodee. As each person recognizes her they let out an audible gasp; the maitre d’ approaches.
“Mademoiselle Baker! What an honor! Please, entrée, to what do we owe this pleasure?” he asks, bowing deeply.
“Why, I’ve come to see the show, of course. You do have a singer called Torche La Flame here, don’t you?”
“Oh, oui, oui, that is her over there, on the floor, under the Christmas tree. She’ll be going on in twenty minutes, at 9 o’clock.”
“Excellent, then champagne for everyone, I am buying!”
A cheer goes up. The furniture is put back in order and a special table for Mademoiselle Josephine and her entourage is set up in front of the stage. Jean-Luc and the midget are dragged off behind the stage and Sangfroid is lifted off Torche La Flame and put next to them in the empty dressing room, the maitre d’ taking care to pocket both pistols. Torche is lifted under her arms by two men and dragged to her dressing room, her heels scraping across the wooden floor until one of her shoes comes off.
“Trouble, monsieur maitre d’?” Mademoiselle Josephine asks.
“Oh, no, no, Mademoiselle Baker, it is nothing, really, just the usual; just another night here at Club Parodee!”
Club Parodee
by
Paul L. Ellars
Paris, October 1, 1925
“Bon jour, Sangfroid, will you breakfast with me?” asks the little man, lighting a Gauloise. He is speaking to a tall, dark, muscular, impeccably dressed Frenchman in an immaculate cream colored double-breasted suit with blazing turquoise silk tie, matching breast pocket hand kerchief and two-tone white and cream shoes.
“Non! Well, oui, d’accord. Bon jour, Patois, what do you say?” Sangfroid asks, lighting a Gauloise. “Garcon! A la recherché du Pain Perdu.” he yells over to the waiter, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
“Oui, monsieur, d’accord!” the waiter answers, lighting up a Gauloise.
“Ah, Sangfroid, I see you still mourn the passing of Marcel. You have had that same breakfast for three years now, your grief must be deep.” Patois says gingerly, blowing small smoke rings into the air above his head. He knows how easily it is to upset Sangfroid and speaking of Marcel is tricky business.
Sangfroid rests his large frame in the chair at the table with his back against the wall. His dark eyes dart around the room, watching who comes and goes at the club. He is in his late twenties, powerfully built, with black hair shining from too much pomade. He pulls thoughtfully at his pencil-thin mustache with his right hand and with his left fingers the deep, masculine cleft in his dark, swarthy Gallic chin as his eyes come to rest on Patois. He inhales deeply on his Gauloise. Sangfroid is a small-time gangster, petty thief, hit-man, pimp, crook, drug dealer, and pamphleteer. Lately he has been upset over the number of Americans that have been moving to Paris, particularly Montparnasse, his neighborhood, and Montmarte, where Torche La Flame, his girl and chanteuse at Club Parodee, lives.
“You know, Patois, these goddam Americains, they are everywhere; they are really making me very angry. I can’t go anywhere anymore without running into a crowd of them; La Rotonde, Café Le Dome, La Closerie, La Coupole, even the goddam Dingo Bar is lousy with these batars! I would puke if I thought I could do it without ruining my suit! And they think they are so clever, so artistic, so literate and sophisticated. Ha! I’ve read some of their crap; it’s very childish and repetitive; “A rose is a rose is a rose…” mon dieu, I could write tripe like that! What brains does it take to do that eh, mon ami?” Sangfroid was starting to work himself into a fever.
“Sangfroid don’t be so hot-blooded! You will upset your stomach and you’ve not even had your breakfast. Eat. We will talk more of this later, though if it will comfort you, I did hear that they found a dead Americain behind Le Select last night, on rue de Day. He had been shot six times, stabbed six times, and bludgeoned six times on the head.”
“A six crime obviously or, perhaps... it was a suicide?” offers Sangfroid.
“Well, the police, naturally, thought of that first, but there was no note.”
“Well, we do not want to disappoint them, do we Patois? I shall mail one to the police today; I shall write to them: ‘Adieu cruel world. I made this look harder than it really was. Messy, n’est pas?’” and he burst out laughing.
“You have the Gallic sense of humor, Sangfroid.” Patois says as he and Sangfroid both nod and make a moue.
“I have heard that in the last five years or so the number of Americains in Paris has increased from 6,000 to over 30,000.” Patois says, inhaling deeply on his Gauloise.
“Sacre fromage! I will move to Marseille if one more goddam Americain moves to Paris!” Sangfroid says puffing angrily on his Gauloise.
“But, Sangfroid, you must admit that the Americains do have a certain joie de vie we should admire, yes? They light up Paris.” argues Patois.
“Only Frenchmen can light up Paris, you imbecile!” Sangfroid quickly clips Patois on the jaw, knocking the Gauloise out of his mouth putting him into a deep sleep. Patois sits slumped over in his chair just as the waiter brings Sangfroid’s breakfast.
“Monsieur has very quick hands.” says the waiter making a moue and taking a deep drag on the Gauloise dangling arrogantly at the corner of his mouth. “You did not even knock the ash off your Gauloise; very impressive. More coffee, monsieur?”
Suddenly the air is pierced with the high-pitched shriek of a classically trained female voice.
“Sangfroid! You brute, what is the meaning of this? Are you an animal? Are you uncivilized? Are you a savage beast? Are you crazy? Can you not control your hot blood, Sangfroid? Zut Alors!”
It is Torche La Flame. The Gauloise between her lips is dancing madly up and down as she blasts Sangfroid, her arms gesturing wildly like an Italian at a hornet’s convention. Here is a fiery redhead that nature has drawn with a French curve…et Dieu crea la femme, oooh la lah! She has just arrived for morning rehearsal and saw Sangfroid knock Patois out.
“I will debate the brute part since you made it a statement, but as for the questions: there is no meaning; oui; somewhat, though I am working on it; non, not really; I don’t think so, but then that’s not for me to say, n’est pas? and finally; oui, most of the time I can.”
He leaps to his feet like a jaguar. Grabbing the Gauloise from his mouth with his left hand he flicks it away; he then wraps his powerful right arm around Torche like a gorilla, pulling her in close to him, squeezing her like a python in heat. She struggles. Sangfroid’s left arm comes around and, like a spider, he holds her immobile as he brings his face in close to hers, his lips puckering up like a chimpanzee.
“Stop it! Stop it, Sangfroid! You know I don’t like this in public! Oh, you beast!” Torche cries, trying to free herself. She manages to get loose enough to slap his face.
Sangfroid stops and looks menacingly at her.
“You would not have done that if I were Jean-Luc Claude Balls, would you, cheri?” he growls. Jean-Luc is Sangfroid’s competition for the heart of Torche La Flame. He is a petty thief, assassin, jewel thief and network marketer. Their rivalry goes back years. Each has had many opportunities to kill the other, but. . . c’est la vie, c’est la guerre, say no more.
Sangfroid, lighting up a Gauloise, returns to his breakfast.
“It’s just that, sometimes, you know, Sangfroid, you act like such an animal, and a reptile, and an arachnid, and a primate.” Torche says tenderly.
“You know, Torche,” he says making a moue and exhaling a long cloud of smoke, “I just might go see that new negress opening at the Theatre des Champs-Elysees tomorrow night. You know the one, Josephine Baker? I’m sure you have heard of her. They say she is pretty hot, for an Americain.” he says tauntingly, avoiding her eyes and concentrates on his breakfast.
“Pteww!” Torche spits and turning on her heel storms off to the stage. Sangfroid chuckles as he puts his Gauloise out in the remains of his breakfast.
“Garcon! Deaux coffees!” he yells at the waiter and then nudges Patois who is starting to come around.
“Come my friend, wake up! Here, let’s have a Gauloise. You should sleep at home and not in clubs; didn’t your mother teach you manners? Ha ha ha ha ha!” Sangfroid laughs derisively at his friend.
“You are such an ordinary little man, Patois.” Sangfroid chides, blowing a cloud of smoke affectionately into his friend’s face.
“I am as ordinary as the sheepskin lining in other men’s codpieces.” replies Patois philosophically.
“Ah, spoken like the true Parisian, mon ami!” Sangfroid says, nodding thoughtfully and makes a moue as he slowly exhales a large cloud of smoke that completely envelops his head.
Chapter Deaux – La Fin
Later that night at Club Parodee, Sangfroid is sitting alone at his small table in the shadows off to the side of the stage where Torche La Flame is singing:
“Por que moi? Por que moi! Non! Oui? Non! et Non!! Por que moi!? Pooorrrrr quuuueeeee mmmoooooooiiiiiiii!?!?”
She finishes her song and, lighting a Gauloise, makes a moue and accepts the crowd’s applause. She saunters over to Sangfroid’s table, sauntering as only a true Parisian boulevardier can saunter.
“Bon nuit, Sangfroid. I like this crowd. This is a good crowd. I like this good crowd. This is a good, likeable crowd. A crowd that is good and likeable. I like it. It is good.”
“Dammit! You biche! You’ve been reading Hemingway! Sacre Coeur de Fromage! What have I told you about these goddam Americains!” Sangfroid inhales half of his Gauloise in one drag and, looking up to the ceiling or heaven, whichever gets in his way first, exhales a large, mushroom shaped cloud.
“For your information, mon cheri,” he continues, “most of these “good and likeable” people are Dadaist! So what do you think now, eh? Eh? I say, eh?” Sangfroid is indignant. The Gauloise is quivering between his lips like a playing card vibrating against the spokes of a bicyclette as it speeds out of control down rue Fatale.
“They are anti-art, cheri! And you, spouting bourgeois, nouveau-pauvre, artistic, faux intellegentsia bullmerde! Ha! What a pathetic little pedantic creature you are, mon cheri. Well, it’s what you get, I suppose, for going to Universite du Pedant. Dear old P.U., and that is what I think of your fauxniness – P.U.!”
The Gauloise in Torche’s mouth hangs limp with shame. It dangles just off-center of her full ruby red lips; lips that have brought much pleasure to Sangfroid, to Sangfroid and many, many, many, many other men, as well as quite a few women, plus some teenage boys and girls. The smoke from her dangling Gauloise curls up into her eyes making them water; they shine like two sparkling diamonds on a sea of blancmange. With shame and embarrassment so unusual in a chanteuse at Club Parodee, Torche looks around the room at the crowd. Dadaist. Of course! How could she have been so wrong? They had been around so long that she forgot that they had started as an anti-art, anti-mainstream anti movement. Dadaist are now considered an art movement, not anti-art. Oh, mon dieu, she thought, I’m so confused; so ashamed. How could I not get it right? I’ve read Sartre, young Sartre, but Sartre nevertheless. Did I not understand? Do I not understand? Sartre must be to blame. Oh sure, I made the choice of my own free will and went from anti-art to art; or was it the other way? It was of my own free will; but the Dadaist are to blame, too, becoming so ambiguous, blurring lines…no it’s Sartre who’s to blame… no, no it’s the Dadaist, no… no… it’s… no. . . . The room starts to spin, the smoke from her Gauloise is choking her and she cannot breathe.
“Fresh air, I need to get some fresh air.” It was Torche’s last free will anti-thought before her world spins out of control like a French politician at a summit meeting. She collapses on Sangfroid’s table, spilling his newly refilled glass of absinthe into his lap. Sangfroid leaps to his feet like a gazelle in springtime, the Gauloise arcing away from his mouth and across the room like the trapeze artiste at Le Raunchy Ranine, as he curses her, “You Corinthian cow! You Bulgarian bovine! You Saracen swine! You Abyssinian…”
“SANGFROID!” It is Jean-Luc Claude Balls. He has just that moment come in through the front door and hears Sangfroid screaming curses at the woman he loves. Jean-Luc looks down at her lying there on the floor at Sangfroid’s feet, the Gauloise slowly dropping millimeter by millimeter until it falls out of her mouth and joins the hundreds of others of its brethren there on the dirty drink splattered floor in a sad post-mortem pastiche of liberte, egalite and fraternite.
“Well, mon ami,” Jean-Luc says in a cold, menacing voice, lighting a Gauloise and eyeing the spreading green stain on Sangfroid’s crotch, “it looks like you will be taking a trip to the free clinic – one way or the other!”
Sangfroid, turning, calmly eyes Jean-Luc, and putting a Gauloise in his mouth, makes a moue, then reaches into his jacket pocket as if for his lighter, instead whips out his .32 caliber Colt’s model 1903 semi-automatic pistol, a gift from his father, Chaudfroid, the night he took him to the brothel, Le Turgide Fontainespew, for Sangfroid’s twelfth birthday. Standing by the stage he quickly snaps off a shot at Jean-Luc who, near the front door thirty meters away, is only grazed on his left thigh by the bullet. Diving behind the nearest table he taunts Sangfroid.
“Ha! You shoot like my mother. . .or is it my sister? Anyway, you shoot like a female member of my family, batar!” Jean-Luc knew his taunt hit its mark when he hears Sangfroid trumpet like a rogue elephant in musth. First making a moue, he then smiles at his petty victory. After lighting a Gauloise to replace the one lost while making his dive, he grabs a dazed midget that is standing by a potted fern and, holding the midget in front of him for a shield, races from potted fern to potted fern towards the stage. When they are only five meters apart Jean-Luc throws the dead, bullet riddled body of the midget at Sangfroid. The dead midget bounces off his powerful, muscular physique like an uncooked champignon. Sangfroid puts a fresh clip in his Colt and a fresh Gauloise in his mouth. His eyes narrow as he looks at Jean-Luc who, in the meantime, has drawn his own gun, a .32 caliber Colt’s model 1903 semi-automatic pistol, a gift from his father, Jean-Luc Sauvaged Balls, the night he took him to the brothel, Le Turgide Fontainespew, for Jean-Luc’s (that would be Jean-Luc fil’s) twelfth birthday.
“NOW I HAVE YOU, CHIEN OF A BATAR!” they yell simultaneously.
“Sacre Fromage!” “Baton de Poisson!” “Avec Fromage!” they yell back and forth, calmly and stoically facing each other, guns blazing away. The room fills with smoke from the guns and the Gauloises Jean-Luc and Sangfroid smoke with fierce determination. Each bullet finds its mark. Jean-Luc’s Gauloise is the first to fall, to join its brethren there on the dirty drink splattered floor in a sad post-mortem pastiche of liberte, egalite and fraternite. Jean-Luc, making a moue, slumps to his knees and looks one last time at Sangfroid. Sangfroid stands there wavering, the Gauloise dangling weakly from the corner of his mouth. His immaculate cream-colored suit and blazing turquoise silk tie and two-tone white and cream shoes are now splattered with blood from the growing red splotches where Jean-Luc’s bullets found their mark. Deep inside his Gallic soul he knew that, because of the red spots all over his suit and the large green absinthe stain on his crotch, he was going to die looking like a flocked Christmas tree.
“Joyeaux Noel, batar!” Jean-Luc croaks and falls forward face down in the Gauloise butts.
“Joyeaux Noel, mon ami, I forgive you, and I forgive you, too, Torche. I did not mean what I said about your fauxniness. You are the one true thing in life, Torche, in my life, the one true and good thing. You are good. And you have been as true as anyone could expect from a chanteuse here at Club Parodee. I forgive you. Your goodness is true, and you have been true to your goodness. Oh, mon dieu, now I am starting to sound like Hemingway! Sacre fromage! Forgive me, Honore, forgive me, Guy de. Marcel, I am coming! I am coming, Marcel!” Sangfroid collapses on Torche La Flame, dying, his last Gauloise burns a little remembrance of him on her left cheek. She will carry that with her until she too dies years later in a shootout at a boulangerie, fingering the scar she calls ‘mon sangfroidette’ as she takes her last breath.
The patrons of Club Parodee start nervously to come out from behind the bar and potted ferns and furniture after the shooting and the shootists die away. A general murmur sweeps the room; here and there people are lighting Gauloises. There is a commotion by the front door; a dark woman with an entourage is entering Club Parodee. As each person recognizes her they let out an audible gasp; the maitre d’ approaches.
“Mademoiselle Baker! What an honor! Please, entrée, to what do we owe this pleasure?” he asks, bowing deeply.
“Why, I’ve come to see the show, of course. You do have a singer called Torche La Flame here, don’t you?”
“Oh, oui, oui, that is her over there, on the floor, under the Christmas tree. She’ll be going on in twenty minutes, at 9 o’clock.”
“Excellent, then champagne for everyone, I am buying!”
A cheer goes up. The furniture is put back in order and a special table for Mademoiselle Josephine and her entourage is set up in front of the stage. Jean-Luc and the midget are dragged off behind the stage and Sangfroid is lifted off Torche La Flame and put next to them in the empty dressing room, the maitre d’ taking care to pocket both pistols. Torche is lifted under her arms by two men and dragged to her dressing room, her heels scraping across the wooden floor until one of her shoes comes off.
“Trouble, monsieur maitre d’?” Mademoiselle Josephine asks.
“Oh, no, no, Mademoiselle Baker, it is nothing, really, just the usual; just another night here at Club Parodee!”
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