| THE HOLY DAZE
Sesquipedalians hopped about the party. Charlie kept bringing up troglodytes. Al scarfed a platter of ham. Subsequently exhibited obstreperous borborygmus. Roaches, stubs, fag-ends, panatella butts, lipsticked filtertips, hecatombed goblets, saucers, bottle caps and other eucharists of the likewise overpopulated ashtrays. Although Charlie remained bullheaded about troglodytes, the host managed to steer the company into a chrestomathy of dogma regarding the supernatural nature of the empyrean. Gene creeped into an alcove with Virginia, while her husband Joseph maintained it would be the ultimate social security setup. A faggot shifted in the fire. Alice thought it was a rat, but kept mum - ashamed of her hysterical reputation. Jack didn't give a damn what anybody thought, he swore it didn't exist. Neither did that other hangout, where the alarm for tomorrow was set to launch his hangover at 5:30. Trudy giggled. The champagne, the sparks on the grate, the oyster tang in the air: she couldn't help it. For her, heaven was a tickle inside an orgasm surrounded by a gas. Jake, the token auto mechanic, who was learning to monkey with computers, agreed it would be a mulligan of coke, smack, pot, peppermint schnapps, Anchor Steam. Trudy shook her head. Stamped a sandaled pixie foot. Said there was no call to drag in drugs - when Charlie interposed, musing aloud, that the raspy call coupled with the exquisite tail pitch of troglodytes was proof sufficient - as well the fish miraculously still speckling our polluted streams - that paradise flourishes underfoot. From the alcove broke a stifled gasp. Al's belly growled. In lieu of excusing himself, he bitched elysium varied according to taste. Cookie backed him up, haranguing the narrowminded with dyke tones. The host, topping Cookie's glass, edgewised the importance of parasites in the scheme of cross purposes. Jake toked on a salvaged goofbutt. On the way down the hall to the loo, Al's ass barked. Alice, who this time heard nothing, smelled swamp; worried somewhere a cock was open and the pilot unlit. Cookie spilled punch, made a move as if to toss cookies. To cover the impending climax, Joseph summed: As long as you ignore what really happens, hell ceases to matter. The host raised his glass and all joined in a toast to the emptiness of existence. Although Charlie abstained; instead zoomed out a tangent how the hearth summoned memories of Wren, and the convenience to cavemen of that for which the Titan eternally suffers. Gene snaked back into the fold. Swiping spittle from her lip with a split nail, Virginia met Al returning from the john. Cattily Trudy hissed Al could now reap desert - a little head in the head. Since the tohu-bohu was inevitable, the host took part in the general braying, mooing, bellowing and ass-laughing-off. Flame swirled in Charlie's eyes. On the embers he urinated with such precision as to imitate the rasp of bushes stuffed with birds. A voice boomed: Xult if a...! Lightning struck. Thunder crashed. The lights failed. Alice struck a match. Screamed. Virginia and Al struck a match on the can. Unable to find a match, Jake ate the roach. Joseph laughed last, choking. The parlor imploded. For Jack it was just another Monday. © Willie Smith |