"aaaaaggrrrroooo eeengreee hoohoooheeeh urguruheeendoooo ugly whore" wails my seventy-four year old flemish neighbour when he finally shoots his mushy middle-aged semen at the fifth bone of my spinal column, it instantly congeals, "that' ll teach you" mutters he and leaves the living room, christopher is still asleep in the bottom drawer of a fake louis seize commode, or fake edwardian, or fake napoleonic, how the fuck should i know, but definitely fake, and definitely asleep and having horrendous dreams about kinky bucktoothed polish priests who are shoving sacerdotal cutlery up his fairly cheap and fairly broad orifices, christopher is a moody illiterate rentboy who administers second-hand blowjobs to fat short-tempered clerics for a wretched living, "not the rosary!" whimpers the ill rentboy, he' s frantically fending off the vile invisible blows of vile invisible priests, i tear a crucifix off the wall and hit christopher on the head, "wake up, altar boy, it' s four am," "don' t call me that" he gruffly snarls and turns his back on me, i pull out the drawer and prod his delicate calves with another crucifix, the walls and floor are covered in crucifixes, all the jesuses have spiteful flemish features, except for this one, this one' s got bitter north french features, "leave me alone, wicked wench," "surly choirboy," "cheap hag," "opportunist bitch," "nasty cow," "illiterate serpent," "selfish harlot," "conceited slut," "dime store floozy," "myopic knave," "diabetic slapper," "i' m not diabetic, i' m epileptic, stupid cunt," "eclectic viper," "half-witted mongrel," "poisonous bitch," "ill-natured poof," "designing dog," "manipulative manhole," "STOP BICKERING, SILLY WHORES" my dodgy neighbour bellows and yanks my left leg, he ties both my legs to his tacky german chandelier, "sing us a cheesy country song about inbreeding wichita siblings," "i don' t know any cheesy country song about inbreeding wichita siblings, but i do know a treacly serbian folk song about…" my dodgy neighbour punches me in the nape, "you bloody well know that i don' t care for treacly serbian folk songs, cheeky titmouse!" the flemish ogre shudders and turns to the illiterate rentboy, "give us a suggestive gypsy dance, dumbstruck faggot," christopher gets up, takes off his black drawers and starts to jig and jerk, "SUGGESTIVE, NOT STARK NAKED, DISOBEDIENT TART" the old cunt roars and locks up the ill rentboy in the top drawer of the phony victorian commode, he puts black tape over the cracks, and grey tape over the keyhole, "i scrounged that commode off graham greene, i scrounged a whole lot of stuff off graham greene, i think that the poor sod was a wee bit scared of me, i didn' t mind him, didn' t mind him at all," "wasn' t he excruciatingly dour?" "no, he wasn' t excruciatingly dour, kitten, he was excruciatingly talkative," "what did he talk about?" "mostly about his precious black-belted imperial pigeons," "did he have names for them?" "stop asking so many questions, you' re irking me into a state of murderousness," "i see," "you see fuck all, shortsighted dyke," he cuts my ties with his serrated hunting knife, i painfully gracelessly fall on the crucifix-littered floor, i catch my reflection in the blade of a daunting turkish sword, fourteen ghastly jesuses are imprinted on my front, my dodgy neighbour sits himself on his red velvety couch that' s laced with puke and run over squirrels, he switches the television on and watches an austrian documentary about rabid heroin pushers in the northeastern part of belfast, he heartily guffaws at so many sirens and vials, i release christopher, we get dressed and comb each others' hair, "we want to go, there are errands we need to run, and there are johns we need to rouse" i tell the flemish monster, "shoo, spoiled orphans, i' m bored of you already" he snaps and flings a bronze statue of neptune at me, we leave the grim oppressive tenement, the churlish coastal sun is reluctantly coming up, i scratch the wax off christopher' s brow, the ill rentboy scratches the dried-up yolk off mine, and then we start to roam the sticky treacherous streets, i defiantly, christopher broodily, or actually it' s the other way round.
this is the end of the first stage of delphine' s fortunate day
Why Do We Exist?
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Literary Fiction, Noir, Pulp Fiction, Short Stories