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notmuchtoconceal · 2 years ago

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It's the Brux Show Now, Bitch! (Starring Brux!) (Authored Solely By Brux And With No Help Save A Living Hand) [excerpt]

he was tapping on the mic. the booms of his fingers echoed over the air.

- ouch. that’s deafenin, mate.

INTRODUCING -- CPT. BRUXER HARUSPEX

he had a mastery of certain empathic qualities which made for a judicious herald.

- he's a liar.

he could demonstrate.

- his dick gets hard when he lies.

the gentleman who was lying :-- he was stricken with priapism.

- a terrible burden, the weight of sin.

a terrible burden, the weight on shins.

- my friend here, who i professionally, though not unaffectionately, refer to as the major -- he is wizened in his simplicity. he sees things as they are, and for the at times alarming juxtapositions of his visceral naiveties, he presents frequent and starting insights into the deeper mechanisms of the natural world. he is a semi-retired state executioner, now bound by red tape and burdened by paperwork, chained to a desk far from any field of battle -- though not far from any field of prattle, i'm not sorry to say.

when you took to the field these days -- it tended to be slaughter.

- you a hunting man, major? got favorite game?

you make all business your pleasure.

- what is it exactly that you do, sir? in your capacity as -- (we just call him head bitch. not to his face, of course. we're all dad's bitches and he's head bitch. just the way it happens to be sometimes, mates) -- ah yes, as the praetorian prefect.

you get bitched at by dad a lot.

- finally. finally, i'm on the air. i'm on the air again. oh my gosh. oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh. oh me. i'm back on the air. listen. i'm looking to revitalize the culinary arts. the things we eat... the things we eat don't need to cost a lotta money. they don't gotta taste that good. usually it's good enough... folks -- it's good enough to just be good enough. you know. you don't need nothin fancy. you don't need nothin you're gonna remember. i don't wanna remember what i ate. just wanna shove it in my face while i detach from my senses and wake up a few hours later, realizin i'm alone. that's how you know you're on the right track... folks, you should black out after you eat. you don't gotta remember what you last ate. all ya gotta know's it provided ya with fuel. fuel to serve… maybe serve your country. you know -- might be a good idea. you know... go out and serve your country. all the proud people out there serving their countries. some of which -- shocking i know -- aren't even ours. some of you. some of you are big eaters. maybe you ate a bunch -- blacked out, forgot you ate -- hey. just means you get to eat again. probably made a lotta room. you're lucky -- lucky you get to live in a country where you got problems like eatin too much. so much you eat and fall asleep and eat some more. gosh. do you even do anything else all day? it makes me sick. sick like a dog. wet dog. are you somebody's pet? you even know how clean up after yourself, big guy? huh? i strip you outta that commando shit, what're you gonna do, huh? go kneel in the corner and shit? you're an animal. get you one of those lil drip nipples. make ya suckle. like to suckle? maybe not a nip? maybe get one a yer fruitcake brothers down here. make ya eat his cake -- could really go so for some cake right now -- not his. folks, all you need out of a hearty meal is enough to provide for you -- provide ya with fuel. to get the job done. hey. ya gotta love jobs. jobs gotta eat too, kids.

full-time. no benefits.

- well, sir. what you know you know well :-- self-respect must be its own reward!

your unit, of which father had selected from only the finest eagles and jaguars of the corps, |. were to serve as the unconquerable arbiters of his will. in the square, our stations served to herald his convoy-- we who decorated the steps, and watched from behind the columns. we walked with him, and our hearts throbbed with him. his body was our body, as his will was our will. though one man, he cast seven shadows, the tallest of which sheltered him in darkness.

.| - and also brux!

by day you stood with them – and the forms of the buildings continued upright.

every cubic structure met in corners, and every corner was met by the touch of two walls. these were not false cubits -- nor were there cubits any more perfect than in the waste.

your black leather shone prismatic as tar in the white heat of morning. when you would linger in the hues of morning. from when you awoke in the dark, seeing eyes staring back from the dark -- the remnants of slumber you knew well to be leaden with regret, flayed from awareness by cruel mercies which made bare nerves dance as dandelion seeds in the stagnant dusts of the bronchioles.

( . * * * . )

the sweat clung to you. you could smell only yourself and your uniform -- the smoke clinging to you and your uniform. you took it off only when you slept. only when you went into the dark.

( ' . . . ' )

the light of hazy red neon. mint in the emerald of aquarium glass. the violet bruise of what came before dawn. you could trot along the stones and watch the people. your eyes still heavy – and still alert despite the weight you could never recall and yet never forget.

you saw how they cast their eyes from you -- how they swerved to pass you. how others fell to the stones to implore you tooth in cowl –

some, you suspected, might even recognize you.

/|==|=|==|\

gold bricks bisected goldenrod grids of the doors –

streaks of torched bouillon drip onto petrified globes of glistening river rock – scenes of the jester aesop and the archivists grimm – the fox danced with the tortoise as a wolf in opal and jade lifted its veil to kiss a bear before the girl they would devour – the rabbit slumbering. coalescing detritus into a second moon – and the earth below the sun. the serenity of their faces laureled by the branches through which the rays were the crown of every man and every woman – and the halo of every other star who drifted in the vast empty spaces between and be-in and beyond.

he placed a saucer of tea on your desk -- a wedge of lemon on the side.

- cpt. schreibermachen, as we all know well, sir -- is a bold and original thinker.

a censure of sunlight fell onto his face – from the low angle, his profile had inherent the jutting brutality of a goblin shark :-- the jigsaw of his cleft shifting as he flapped his gums.

- your office is quite spacious, sir! i'm confident we can talk very loudly!

it was considered the proper thing to use porcelain while upholding your pretense of civility -- and you found some small delight in the resonance of metal through mineral -- the foolish twirl of every stir of your silvery spoon. you grew to love the sense of personal defilement that came with your new expectations of frivolity -- the way the reservoirs ran dry and you grew to stomach the taste of chalk.

- there is a man, mates! -- who can recognize a viable alternative calcium source!

the assemblies you held were intimate and without reproach.

- grilled him like a fine carthiginian babe, sir!

it was no difficulty for you to explain the nature of your work. in pain-staking detail, if necessary. though the words were never intended to reach human ears.

- my lips are zipped!

or human eyes, for that matter.

- there were a couple on the dish, you could imagine!

to alleviate the stresses of work in which you displayed competence far below the expectations of your age and experience, you delegated to him all responsibilities of spoken command.

- right, mates. so… all of you are right here, standing in my visual field. hello. i see you all. i can see you are having a lovely morning. now, to do roll-call, we'll start with me... and that should only take twenty minutes -- but then afterwards, we'll have to do joey, and that will take… let me see… two hours… so… loikely we won't have the time to get to all of you, but that don't make anyone part of the b-team. nobody go around thinking you're part the b-team!

everyone who isn't you, brux or joey -- you guys are the b-team.

- don't encourage them, sir.

as commanding officer, you prided yourself on running a tight ship -- vowing to only spin the wheel of command wildly out of control to test for the larceny of seasickness.

- please don't vomit, mate -- not like it's a centrifuge.

they dared not contradict you with an open display of facial twitching.

- nor is the stair the appropriate place to piss yourselves!

in your heart, you considered yourself a lenient superior -- and your considerations on this matter were more informed than any of the well-reasoned arguments of your detractors.

- don't worry, mates! we'll have ya made outta sturdier stuff in no time!

down these winding halls, these permanent installations -- the dividers which housed the windows, hand-carved from wood this land no longer knew -- succumbed to the ash deep in their grooves -- the glass pulsed with the writhing cobalt of hemispheral flares silkscreened with light on the backs of the eye. around you hung the smell of labor, and of burning grass. around you hummed the marching boots and pounding keys.

|: |: |: | /. /. / .

your operations were impeccable -- barring those times you blinked, and were not all-seeing.

- please, sir -- if you don't observe me, I don't --

( )

when you and those brothers who were your six closest and most able collaborators still shared an office on the set beyond the west wing, all was a tumult of streams in flux.

-sir, i can explain. i can explain everything -- please give me a moment. the craters in the woodwork, those came from the grenades, which… let's say schreibermachen, psychorragia and drythen ‘dropped’ while performin the routines up on the desks -- the windows likewise, were shattered when they were propelled outward by the force of the blast -- cpt. schreibermachen, you see, endured the heat by throwing up his trench like a cloak, and then… sorta pirouetting into a corkscrew while in the air as the track ramped up, he managed to deploy it like a parachute as the harmonies descended, and well… monkey see, monkey do. this is why we have three craters and three broken windows and two servicemen with possible definite ankle sprains. the choreography -- will of course be excellent. the write-off -- not his responsibility.

... laika's run to fetch a broom, and maybe some splints…

... the calf entrails and the squid heads, and all these silkworms, i uh… i'm not sure what cpt. hlaford was intendin to do with those, but if the room is on fire anyway, my suggestion would be we just grab an incinerator and go to town -- leave no memories behind, maj.

...

( -- )

/|\

in your country, all was substance without form, content without substance. governed according to the principles of the pre-scoliotic aphasian cosmologies passed down by the higher tenororphic mysteries throughout the era of the fraternity states -- all things that were, they were together.

-- :] [: :] [: _._

you could picture your body in motion. you saw yourself -- and your relation to the wall. to behold the wall, one was the wall. one stared at the wall -- and the wall was one and two.

you were composed of your movements. you saw your movements, and if they were strong, you were strong -- if they were clumsy, you were clumsy -- were they tactful, you were tactful.

the clack of an agitated march would ensue an agitated cadence to the carriage of thought -- the rhythm which would ensue a spilling of those chilly elixirs which lie serene upon your oaken shelves -- those which would stain the hand-loomed upholstery of your coach, woven luminous of the light of spring, to stir the call of your passenger.

/=|=\

- he's not pickin up, mate. left another message, but sometimes ya get a tone, sometimes ya get a gent, and either way, it don't take much to hear the smirk -- y'know . . .

you kept haruspex on the switchboard when you needed him quiet.

- brux has to operate the heavy machinery to make the telephone rotary calls. people had gotten tired of the spongy buttons and the lever buttons and the big round twirly buttons came back into fashion, because the constant movement of clocks was a classical symbol of efficiency and progress and by the rite of repetition unto inertia overcome, implanted itself in our big ol' hamster wheel brains -- leggo anytime ya want boys! let the momentum carry ya until you're a big ol’ puddle a spooge!

at the console, he alternated left and right :-- up and down among the axes.

- gonna connect this point -- to that point -- in as few movements -- to maximize myself for consumer efficiency -- i do wanna be an efficient consumer! -- or do i wanna be consumed in an efficient manner? -- hmmmm. note to self -- deduce later if consumer or consumable.

the grid sprawled out before him.

- i am one with the grid.

when that didn't keep him quiet -- you found other things.

- the shape of these gates -- it inspires beauty in me. i too am a utilitarian object which aspires to be beautiful. i am the fire hydrant welt with roses in superfluous flourish. i am tin and gold. i am bronze and aluminum. i am many silvery and hollow alloys -- and i alloy all i alloy -- and allow all i allot ... to cement my daily allotments!

behind the bakelite, he tended to his square.

- in keeping with our midland laurentian ancestry gentlemen, you will be entitled to care for a square of greenery -- the worst of you will grow weeds of grass though the rest of you will find yourselves eyes-alert well-alive in the sprouts you shoot. the best among will of course find ways to grow contraband here beneath lilies of flamboyant decor -- and they will go undetected for years.

`. ( o ) .`

he approached you near the honeycomb of offices -- through the light frosted by panes of shell, his boots tapped without hesitancy to circumvent the staccato of their motion.

- g'day, major. name's haruspex. bruxer haruspex. former captain of the ruelandese national guard. reportin for duty. know we've been acquainted on many occasions, what with our numerous adventures over the years, but -- y'know... sometimes ya just loike to restate the basic premises and assumptions so everyone's on the same page. never know who might be listenin in. some freshfaced new recruit might not know the hierarchy yet. best you just play it loike a radio thing y'know -- restate the basic premises and assumptions succinctly before each altercation, that way anyone can just jump right into the story.

he said funny things like that. he said funny things in that funny voice of his :-- it made your dick hard how funny his voice was.

- so, get this. all the men back in my village in rueland -- they were all tragically (tragically overused, that word tragically) well, they were all tragically murdered in the same three week span while out huntin ostrich -- no, no. ostrich. ostrich plural. back in rueland we couldn't afford all those extra blowy noises. only learned men and old-school ultra-poofs who fancied gettin fisted up to the elbow with crisco for lube could afford all those extra blowy noises -- though the truth was, we was all to stupid to tell the difference, we're bein honest. there was one lad -- a gentleman and a scholar. he weren’t harmin no one, mate. (.) jus tryin to translate can’t into contemporary inglish. never hear that poor fucker so much as wheeze again. … strained the tongue too much, we're bein honest. all those blowy noises. we needed to keep our tongues strong. so many long mornins -- suckin cobra venom true a goat teat ta build up a tolerance lest we venture out in the front yard alone. stared down the black eyes of that devil bird down many a lonely road ... well, get this. i was the only boy in left in my village after that. you know what that means? means i got the attention of all the -- wait for it -- the attention of all the --- all the girls. i was absolutely showered in -- pause for effect -- showered in girls. major ... um. ... major, do you know what i like? major, do you know what i really, really like? major. major -- do i gotta say it? do i really gotta say it out loud? major. major. i like -- i like girls. oh my gosh. i love girls. i love their pillow fluff bodies. i love their silky fragrant locks. i love their big doe eyes -- and i love how my heart flutters into lard ripples of buttercreme when i'm just shaftin em -- poundin on em like a lil yippin puppy. oh i just wanna be pet! -- oh i just wanna be pet! -- um, major. major, i'm not gonna lie ... can i … can i be real with you for a moment? i think i just -- come closer -- i think i just really, really wanna be pet?

[scratch behind the ear]

… major! major, you make so happy major! oh, the girls -- oh major when i lived with all the girls they pampered me like a princling. they slopped my lips in wineys -- they stuffed my cheeks with ciggys -- they bit me venomously down me lowly hangin lips -- haha -- once i got in a scrape with a mongoose. tore that fucker in half. ate its heart out in retribution. still got seven inches. couldn’t even afford lemonade as a chaser ... guess what? now? now i drink for the emperor. i can imbibe elixirs from across the globe and name region of origin by scent alone. i can identify over 808 types of poisons, toxins, corrosives, unguents, tonics, herbal teas, snake oils and supplements down to the individual peptides -- to say nothin of the dungy taste of another man's spit --

… ostrich. it was only the one, really. birds are a lot smarter than you wanna give em credit for, well …

... bird.

his passion for the fairer sex was, on occasion, a novel diversion -- though often destabilizing to group cohesion.

- goils! goils! goils!

if the outermost extreme of his peripheral vision caught so much as the hemline of a skirt, he would veer out of formation blindly into oncoming traffic.

[schreibermachen– greets the gun barrel morning with a glint of dawn]

- look over yonder, psychorrhax. toward the gray and blighted horizon -- cpt. haruspex leaps and dances as though attempting favor with the sun, or else dares to implore the bounty of a cargo drop.

[young psychorrhax views – resolute in the most measured scorn]

- perhaps it is code, cpt. schreibermachen.

- astute as always, young psychorrhax. please be so kind as, with your cocksucker’s lips so full-figured and forward, to do our company the favor of rendering unto speech the fiery valor of our fallen comrade.

[corneal contraction in aerial view]

- 'need no help, friends. learned urban foraging in the ruelandese guard. can survive a whole lunar cycle on this here roundabout.'

… is the woman giving up to him her cherries, cpt. schreibermachen?

- in moments he shall be spitting up the pits!

if the prospect of rescuing young women were to intercept the docket, his short term memory would obliterate itself and he would seize into a deadlock by the dictates of his mating instincts.

- that conical fortress up on the top of the hill? estimated material of construction: tetrahedra-sifted jovian swirl concrete. estimated date of construction 370-390 post-imperial trans-fracture. estimated plundering -- well-- hehe. there are girls in there, major. baskets and baskets full of... wait, no. hold on, see. this part – this part is very relevant to my backstory you see because i was very well taken care of, and that's influenced my loike -- sensuous philosophy of life, y'know? first time i saw a battlezone, i saw a guy's head get blown clean off ... well, more like a buddy, really. i can't even remember his face -- yeah. it's hilarious now but at the time i was thinkin 'shit. i'm a lover not a fighter. i'd rather be twirlin a baton than a rifle, but hey. i look good doin either.' -- i dunno. loikely, i wasn't so glib in the moment -- y'know. i was just thinkin of the sorta thing that i'd like to say to a girl once i found one, but i gotta be honest with ya, maj. i don't remember findin any. what i can remember faintly was curlin up into a ball and cryin my eyes out -- just bein so scared and so alone and wantin to die

<<<

>>>

... some memories, mate. some memories are a lot like a boomerang... or maybe a girl -- y’know. ya throw em. ya get distracted. you’re not payin attention -- they’re gonna slap ya right back you're not payin attention.

cpt. schreibermachen -- that fuck joey -- once hoisted a pair of silk women's undergarments up the flagpole of the display and punishment pavilion – and lace and shimmer billowing, brux was by means of sheer appetite able to scurry thirty feet vertically, where clinging to himself like a scared koala, he lost any sense of spatial or temporal orientation and found himself lacking the grit to leap back down.

[a song of hollow alloy – shrieking on a buckling gourd]

- major. major don't help me. i can do it. i can stay up here. i can stay up here all day -- with the panties. nobody look. i'm gonna sniff em.

you turned away. for the sake of the common decency, you turned away.

[cpt. schreibermachen's hand eclipsed the sun]

- look upon my labors, psychorrhax -- and tremble.

[laika doing jazzhands]

- i’m trembling -- i’m trembling, cpt. schreibermachen, sir!

- your struggle is not heroic, psychorrhax! you flinch from greatness as a temple priestess from a backhand! your heart is full of falsity, cowardice, and petty vanity. i long to be rid of you as a golden beast would be a brood of ticks.

some moment in the past -- his shoulders shone with blacker luster.

cpt. schreibermachen stares through a porthole. the black room. the black glass. psychorrhax in biohazard gear -- banana beetle yellow -- stares through a porthole of his own. curtains of latex. sheets of latex. the sweat fragrant on his fingers. pooling on the bed. a pool of yellow beetles. he stares up. mirrors on the ceiling. larger than the others.

- been awhile. missed how good you smell.

some nights, he found himself wanting for spectacle and was forced to manufacture dilemmas in which he might showcase his expertise – to be tempted to compete for a treat unrightfully earned.

=-= = =.= = =-=

the starlight of city lights shone into the wide gilt and marble grid of the solarium.

cpt. haruspex ejected his soda stream.

o))<

- nobody move. joey pissed the punch.

the spittle dripped from laika's face.

- cpt. haruspex, you took but a sip.

[radiant day through the windows

in joey's insertion shot]

- he has you there, haruspex. not even your finely honed culinary prowess could have so quickly and silverly ascertained that it was my broth which pollutes the vino!

[brux requested two white elephants

and a troupe of acrobats for his]

- i could sniff out those fruity notes with both eyes open!

(- and a crab-stalk grafted on his dick, bro.)

- as if you couldn’t. as if anyone couldn’t!

- it’s citrus, haruspex!

- citrus is a fruit, golden boy.

(- you turned it into the world’s worst tinto verano. i’m fuckin thirsty, bro!)

–\\./–

cpt. schreibermachen – that fuck joey – glanced at you through the light.

through currents of the straw to gold of his hair, all motes shone as points on rings of iron cross.

his smile – its manifold condescensions – unmoored his face from the affection it so rightly earned. he seemed only ever – to be half-looking away. you could somehow see – yourself blurry in his periphery. though flesh before you – already you carried the quality of memory.

- not that i ought guarantee myself a good first impression – though i ought expect to still give a second and third.

the full weight of his eyes fell on laika psychorrhax – squire still at heart – and laika smiled with the warmth of a saint or madonna painted powder blue and scale of shellac over the rim of a bow of candleglass.

- as though his neck were that candle and his eyes the flickering flame!

to see the light snuffed out. the wax glide down the slope of your arm. as a shard of the mosaic of her face entered you by slip of palm.

– glistening gossamer – what milky nebulae fins between my fingers!

–//o\--

in our country, all was a fog of materials kicked up by the wind -- all was endless configurations of smoke and heat, of organic and inorganic – and we were mixing together in a stew of our own pollutants -- none separate, though some superior in substance and others inferior – and all tangled together in a grimy embrace of bodies penned and sculpted which we pledged first to our fathers, and the fathers before our fathers, and then to this land which we claimed by virtue of our boot and by our seed, and to the structures on which we weighed the land and held her like a vise, and to our king -- and to our corps and to the people who by their sloth held their docility aloft under the pretense of care and thanked us for the blood we spilled in their name.

(%)`~`(%);~

cpt. haruspex slapped psychorrhax on the shoulder.

- have a good time, mate. take ya for a pint afterward!

bare marble flesh vivisected the fatty tissues of a breast.

the port of natalia stretched out to preserved greenery across the bay :-- the bay of manufactured hydrogen – bubbling in molecular instability reeking faintly of chloral blooms.

whenever psychorrhax had to fuck a woman, he held himself tense and focused on the pleasure of absolute obedience to his vow -- and he purified himself of any desire but surrender in service to the father and for him he would now surrender his seed to the procreative act --

to uphold his power and the power of the state through generations -- using her as a vessel of flesh.

(wham - bam)

the shame overtook him -- reaffirming his surrender to the muck from whence he came.

- thank you, ma'm.

his lip quivered when he smiled.

- it was a pleasure.

for men predisposed to such things, men wearied by long careers at war, looking to settle into decay with the holy image of woman, and to find himself in the eyes of the animals he tended, agrarian life on the vast fields of the island would prove a welcome balm. they were thought to be simple men -- driven by instinctual capacities. for a man to choose this life was to forsake his capacity for higher abstraction – and with it all that made him more than animal. a man who chose this life then had accepted he knew only what he had to give -- and could reproduce himself through the systems of the state in only his most immediate and mechanical way -- and for the privilege of this slothful intellect, he was entitled to grow the food we eat, and to take more than he needed, and erect harems for the women he and they knew well to be his.

for what we knew, we knew well -- men were machines, and could be reproduced by machines, though as men could build machines of greater efficacy, we had no reason to manufacture men in the manner of machines, nor machines in the manner of men -- for this distinction, the most superficial, effected us at the level of our very physiology, and needed not be spoken aloud.

to be sent to the island to raise children among the women was then confirmed by sound men of the rank and file to be penance for a low confirmed kill-count. men of medium-range who met their blood debt but could not give in excess were to meet full quota by diluting blood with seed. per each child sired with a woman who walks alone or with women who flock together, a man could expect to receive the equivalent of 19-23 confirmed kills depending on the health, weight, phenotypical make and calculated killer or breeder potential of his son.

for though we all had mothers, the father of us all was the head of state -- and from his will no good man could deviate, for to subvert our father was to subvert the will of the state.

young psychorrhax, gentle soul that he sometimes was, now sired his seventh son --

-purify me, sir.

* )( * .^ | ^ ( o ) ^ | ^. * )( *

... i am unclean.

the solarium shone luminous through the halo of this hair.

it was typical, for men of our generation, to purify our manhood after contact with the fair flesh.

[cpt. haruspex – vernacular rapier sharp]

- listen, mates. if we’re talkin purity as an emergent consequence of performin the rites, well i’m the most pure of all. i fuck the most girls, i perform the most rites. i don’t even bother to bow and consecrate the major before i drink his piss and resubstantiate my manhood. big guy just pisses in my canteen, i take a swig right after i eat out a girl and give her a kiss on the cheek -- intone a prayer to brodin, it's all good.

... then it’s like she’s gettin her manliness purified too and next time i’m with her, she’ll be clean, then if i keep stayin with her, she’ll keep gettin enough secondhand sunrays to be clean and pure as any man (despite bein nuttin but woman!) then it won’t matter if she’s a woman, cause we’ll both be manly and pure, and as such will attain limitless solar heat in addition to the power of biological reproduction. imagine it, mates. brux and a girl. the ultimate organism! that’s what the love of a good man can do to a good woman, mates! you put the work in, it’s true as any love. don’t need the titillation of filth, 'tis true!

cpt. schreibermachen -- was more unconvinced than usual.

- haruspex, considering the extant biomass of the female, to say nothing of the infinitesimal spattering of viable purification you’d get from such molecular contact, it would take untold generations to purify a woman in such a manner.

[cpt. haruspex – reviving the tooth whitening cult]

- clever man, joey. i gotta do a whole generation’s work in one man’s lifetime.

the door slammed shut in relation to them.

[schreibermachen and psychorrahx –

silhouettes in muted static]

- imagine it, psychorrhax! infinitely dividing bruxes fueled by infinitely renewable energy! how long do you think it would take for these locust eggs of human vanity to expend the last of the earth’s waning greenery?

[psychorrhax –

cheerfully posed beside a frosted hibiscus]

- would they be self-generating, cpt. schreibermachen? perhaps in cpt. haruspex’s fantasy they would have some internal fuel-source?

[schreibermachen –

überschwemmt in Träumen vom Vaterland]

- they would not breathe our air but simply occupy it until – piled high as mountain peaks frost-capped in their couplings – teeth of rime did lovebite the stratosphere!

your eyes would whoosh through white noise.

[haruspex –

basking in the glow of successful infiltration]

- yes, mates. we who have eaten of the trees shall drink too of the sap. we shall create … the fuck pile.

he took out a tube of lipstick -- and he ate it. he spit it up and smeared it around his face. he was tiger-stripped with his own spittle -- some venomous madonna.

- are you getting this, psychorrhax?

title cards shone behind his eyes. the marquee applauded with delphic seizure.

- every word, cpt. schreibermachen.

( -- where would i be? without my favorite POVV!)

(o) `&--&` (o)

some nights, fueled by pints of his keg-sized heart, he would venerate his ancestors with lamentations of his lot in life.

- in the old days, before men worked together, men slept together, men danced together every moment of every day -- y'know what they'd do? they'd go home and they'd be with their girl. yes, mates. it was a known common practice. not everyone you see -- not everyone who likes girls is a delicate softboy with damage -- alright? i am, but -- y'know. not everyone is. people used to like hangin out with girls. it wasn't jus a brutal task ya had to enact to carry out your reproductive duty before the state. a wife used to be someone ya loved, ya tickled, ya frisked, ya fucked over the countertop and smooched -- gave her a smack on the rump, let her give ya a smack on the cheek. ya used to be able to chase her into the livin room and jump on her or maybe she'd jump on you and you'd land right in her rack and you'd try to yell out help, help, i'm drownin but once you open yer mouth it's like the nipple rolls in and now you're sucklin her and she's so warm and fertile and bountiful, that of course she starts to leak a little in yer mouth, and then you're lookin up into her eyes and feelin loved clamped onto her big, beautiful milker and it's jus fuck, mates. i could die roight there without a regret in the world. suckin her down. growin strong bones. warm all down my throat and in my guts -- as the good book says -- without milk there'd be no inland empire. then ya know – then my pants are off and i'm shaftin her while i'm sucklin her and i'm just goin fuckin stupid fast like quick little rabbit thrusts and now her head's rollin back and i'm fondin her big beautiful titties while i'm sucklin her -- god i can smell her hair as i can smell her sweetly sweaty breasts and she's startin to glisten and i fuck her and fuck her and fuck her and i fucker and once she's just a pile of big beautiful goo on me washin away the forests of my bush with noah's flood, i gush right up her warm cunt and dribble back on meself like a melltin polar cap and she collapses onto me depleted and satisfied and i fall asleep almost suffocatin in her big beautiful bosoms -- gosh, mates.

(buy your own)

it was not a matter you could overlook lightly.

(by your own sons)

in your way, you were each your father's sons.

[father striding forward – decoration jangling as rings of keys –

his titanic ass pert above his waist-high boots as he –

snapped into place, anchoring your eyes to the horizon]

- big guy. scribbles. rocko. you are my most brutal, my most cunning and my most lascivious men.

... get in the car. we’re goin to a titty bar.

[cpt. schreibermachen rose head from knee –

to extoll the empty place the sun'd be]

- praise pol solaris, psychorrhax! father has invited us to a den of ill-repute – to meet careerists of some small spectacle!

[snarl of a dog on sugarcane]

- no you leave that one! i don’t like him! he shortbusers like a mango and mangos like a shortbuser, and besides -- he is a clown.

[the ironist spirit of an engineer]

- i would defend your honor against this sleight of pox psychorrhax – though first i would need to deduce its symptomology, to say nothing of its strain.

the bloodlights hit hard -- the weak flesh dilated and contracted. cpt. schreibermachen stares through a porthole. the veiled room. the dirty glass. rosettes of frosting on perfumed flesh -- pulsating globules of red hart. - major! major! it’s a dream! we’re out meetin girls with dad! - that’s it, that’s it. want you good and sealed in that marie antoinette wedding dress. battered. baked. frosted. want you so frosted and chilled -- so sparklin and pristine, i just gotta take one lick. one single solitary lick to ruin you -- then -- then what? you think anyone’s gonna want you after i get a lick? course they will. everyone wants a lick – everyone wants my germs. people’ll pay me to say my disease can cure germs. you’ll gradruple in value. sell you to a collector. art collector. you’ll be art. lady covered in frosting. frosting and germs. here. i’ll cough on ya. khuh-khuh-khuh. add another million to your tag. we got malaria. that's a jungle disease. we ain't got jungles. we can charge em. they'll pay extra. tell em hey. ... we got the fever. jungle fever. it’s ours. - as a man of worldliness, sir, i beg you answer. what is the purpose of a female body void of conversation skills?

>:-/ =/= + u@u + =\= \-:<

you went home some nights. you didn't know where home was.

you stood in vacant places where there was no city and where the grasses blew in breeze over the fertile soil. you could see the moonbeam beyond the radio waves crystallized into minute fractals -- ebbing away their jagged edges, those smokescreens which stained the clouds.

for those nights, which were your darkest nights, from them you flecked the embers by which you could not see – and caught the first flame on a wick you had yet to set in wax -- and by that light, you singed your fingers as you passed the flame from wick to wick -- to keep them burning, the wax always spooling – the ebb of stationary currents cresting into a horn up the ascending string, spiraling to the ore of gold.

for from that night, you could see many nights – and if you navigated back into dark corners, or as now, stood alone where the black earth shone, eyeing some alley far across the valley – some narrow splinter into which you could lose yourself -- you could go anywhere and have heat enough to warm your hands and light enough to meet stranger faces.

for father – who came from the world of light and smoke – did not come with martial values.

nevertheless he remained, in his way, a deeply holy man.

[hound jowled in the sobriety of day]

- hey, hey, big guy. so what if rocko shows up drunk and late -- at noon. noon cause he was out all mornin fuckin girls. the girls i paid for. he likes girls. he's a poonhound. bloodpoon hound. like his old man. you? i dunno. you got no sense a smell. you think you got taste. what is it you think you're tastin, huh? it's not a not a nice juicy puss ... hmmm. what is it? is it a man? you a maneater, big guy? make me sick sometimes. how nasty you can be. gosh. she tastes like catbrains and gunpowder -- gonna fill her up with caviar. make her drink her piss -- champagne piss. funnel the champagne straight into her bladder through some sorta surgical can gas for women of taste -- adventurous taste. let the caviar come flowin -- cloggin up her puss. all the eggs, you know -- overflowin like a toilet. set you straight one a these days, big guy, huh? get your hands on some part of a woman other'n her neck sometime --

( . )

- the woman that father gifted us. mates, she's a treasure! women were put on this earth to make us happy, and we were put on this earth to make women happy! oh, mates, it's true your gallant mottos all! love is found in surrender to service!

his eschatological fixations, despite his evident enthusiasm, never ceased to be bizarre. you knew what you knew well -- to return to the chamber of birth meant suffocation in the comforts of slime and closed-quarters, of which most able servicemen were well above.

[cpt. schreibermachen – well-accredited in poetic license]

- allow me to be frank with you, haruspex.

- are you asking permission now?

- it is not that your weak and feeble mind is so easily ensnared by the tawdry pleasures of the fairer sex --

- i love you too, joey.

- but simply the sheer mind-numbing repetition. we can assure you there is not a chance in a thousand years that the people of our nation will ever forget that cpt. bruxer haruspex (who entered service under her majesty in the san navy of rueland) was so terribly fond of the female of the species that he would not cease to subject his fellow servicemen to spewing torrents of his fetid bacterial effluvia.

[cpt. haruspex – focused only on the points]

- i read the volume of your collected episodicals, joey. you had a character in it i was particularly fond of -- was i reading this right -- “huxer braruspex”?

- why cpt. haruspex, that name sounds nothing at all like yours -- as you can plainly see, the phonemes have been reversed.

[schreibermachen – nubile blonde barbarian]

- precisely, psychorrhax. perhaps cpt. haruspex longs for a fame to which he feels he is entitled, but has not rightly earned.

(- bro, i’ve seen better coverage from a shower cling, bro.)

- it’s almost more embarrassing to not be addressed by name, y’know -- in the way that bein seen in your budgies is worse than bein caught hog out -- i mean, at least then you got that primal brain snake and spit response -- you just lunge at em with that thing, but once it’s covered up it’s like… tee-hee. lookit lil brux. lookit his cute lil tush. don’t ya just wanna give him a spank?

[schreibermachen – bored again by the crucifixions]

- he revels in his protestations, psychorrhax -- as though an animal spewing filth into the mud in which it rolls.

- a lion knows well to lounge high upon his rock, cpt. schreibermachen.

(- damn psychorrhax, whose side you on?)

- it’s just -- you make me look so stupid, joey. stupid and weird.

[nevertheless moving to hammer a nail]

- my service as a journalist is to negotiate the offerings i render unto transparency and to virtue, in keeping with the spirit of the health and vivacity of the people and the culture of my country -- but my service as an artist, haruspex, is to both higher and lower truths -- to that which is both cosmic and chromosomal. these truths are sometimes obscure -- dare i say, even oblique or at odds with the demands of quotidian reality – nevertheless, they are our masters -- they are the realms of the submerged which is the torch we bare through the drudgery of the prosaic. you, haruspex, are both a man of blood and heat – as well as an archetypal dramatization of a station recurrent and observable through the collective works of human imagination – we become one another in the enigma of our daily lives. we are more than fellow warriors, more than mere varsity jackets, black and shimmering in a coalmine of gunfire -- we are truly brothers, my sweet and balmy brux. you have let me know you, and nothing i could do could ever repay the gift of your company -- though i hope i could have lent to you, with mine, but a fraction of the treasure that yours has been to me. i have rendered you in your truthfulness, in an act of love, and upheld your privacy in an act of courtesy. that you would think so little of this portrait i have gifted you, the world -- why, it speaks to your own low estimation of yourself, my brother. it doesn’t wound me. by you, i wound only myself. i will stand by you -- no matter how you spurn me, my lord and love, cpt. bruxer haruspex -- for you are a bloom from a rank mire, as though a note of lemongrass through my armpit -- and i hope someday -- someday you’ll find the strength to love me with even a fraction of the strength with which i love you, cpt. bruxer haruspex -- my bog brother.

... gilded peat. cotton wheat.

=( + )=

a light moved between them.

psychorrhax looked to brux. he gouged a fissure in his teeth.

the solarium was only mote and void.

- uh-uh. that’s all a lot of pretty talk, joey -- but i think you’re a douchebag. in the classical meaning of the word.

the early to concurrent-radial-modern meaning of the word douchebag is - and has been for the past three 300^3 years (o/. 3) - great leader, or "man of valor".

he leaned against your desk -- setting down another tea.

- i think tomorrow morning, major – instead of comin into his office to bother him for an hour -- what i’ll do instead is go into his private quarters and be sad for two or three.

the chamber loomed – for there was no name or wheel. what silence settled here, remained so – for what secrets passed between joey and laika – were for them alone to share.

–\\./–

a crinkle -- across the plume of a violet field!

- he has ruffled our bed linens, psychorrhax!

[eyes half-entrained on the incense]

- the air is befouled with barley and fish.

[schreibermachen sammelt unter seiner Handfläche einen Sturm]

- over them i shall sway my hand, and from them i shall conjure grain and flesh enough to feed the shrubbery of withered legions!

[dilating in receptivity to vision]

- befoul the soil with beer and mercury.

[the squeal of his collar – as joey seized him by his leather]

- into the circle. the boy-matter of your hymen shall be the prima materia -- the ravishing of your spirit the act of first order.

laika psychorrhax – kept himself prepped for command.

- rip my insides into a wormhole.

88*88

the balls of his fists hammered the chest. gesticulations of plunging knife edges into eager hearts. the muted gong of his flesh rang as psychorrhax pressed himself deeper into the skewer that was his need – the fat constriction of his cockhead parting to the lips of a figure-vise deepening itself down its own throat in profile, engorging in bliss ;-- and schreibermachen's power flooded to his dells, coursing through him in a torrent of linear type daybreaking upon the shore of night.

88=*=88

the demon howled out psychorrhax as he was cunted. his throat was one with his puckering hole, two in one :-- the yowling of his wicked heart.

he reared his head – tasting in the chafe of his larynx the shred of his own iron -- capsizing into force as though some suture would split and he could be free of this baggage of himself -- free of all which was pitiable and yearned to be extinguished, for it knew itself to be chaff and nothing but, only dead things never to be; he saw the stars falling to his brother's teeth and was still again -- all moments now one in this moment with him -- no longer yearning for obliteration but found again in its embrace.

**88=/=88**

fat-headed. moon-faced. there was only joey. his brother, who was the light of the light above entering through him, a sword of light entering into the plinth of his parted brain : -- cleaving him. crushing him. pouring from his wound into the hollow of himself, a juice into a grail, spinning faster, hacking the lobes of his medial layers apart as machetes make jungle paths, he sputters, jock-head, nostril, eyes, and lips -- any orifice open and willing, his every hacking and chocking pore, singing a gargling mass through the deluge of themselves, his face was everywhere at once, the One and Joey, for he was divided and carried by the waters, and all was one, the sky and earth, as all was one, He and You, Together in This Treachery, One and Alone, The Only Thing There is.

( )

cpt. haruspex unlocked the bakelite lattice – to look upon the new wastes.

- my lilies! those bastards. they have stricken them with a fuck-curse!

(-left your stash out, bro brux!

… sorry bout bein a loser and all!)

/|\ XX \|/

laika psychorrhax – let his eyes linger on schreibermachen.

through the light, the pale straw of his hair rested ashen in tower walls – the sadness of his muted complexion. from some angles the panes of his face wrung so hard to the garnished fists of armrests – so much more the strapping buck than the calf he seemed only because the soft of his eyes deceived you so with how they focused the soft of his bones.

trailing him, his followers stocky of shape, hard of will and economic of spirit – lined with caps and jackets of herbivorous mammals preserved in polysaccharide layers in times when the hunt had been a crime of passion – for all violence, it was known, could be induced only by stress, and never once by an unspoken breach in the methodology.

their legs parted wide on their strides – buttocks hard as granite – biceps tubed and pinched as they knelt to their elect – for their collars came down across the ridge of their bones onto rolling hillsides sparse of hearty shrubbery – for though they were veils begging to be parterd, calves beckoning to be cleaved, already the iron had nicked bare the land.

/. / . / . / . / . /. |*^ () --|+

( * )

joey looked to laika. laika looked to brux.

brux was beheld by them.

by some new conviction, he yearned to be known again.

( o ) * .V. ~ (( 0 ))

. o . U .i. U . o .

the battles they waged in semantics would -- over the course of days -- quagmire into ruts of foul and languid fury.

- what have you to say, psychorrhax, to cpt. haruspex’s sterling defense of that deed which animals do best?

- some men produce culture. some men restock the labor reserve, cpt. schreibermachen.

- laborers are more valuable to the state than culture, joey.

- with more culture, there would be fewer need for laborers.

- that is a catastrophically stupid sentiment, and you could only think it cause your head is so far up your own ass i bet you are right now auto-sodomizing a tear in you own rutted-out colon with the silver spoon tea-twink and tiddly-winkin the uvula uppadown yer stupid blonde throat!

...

- your bawdy nonsense is indicative of your innate bardery and as such is by far your most pleasant quality, haruspex.

- thank you, joey.

… i know the only possible reason you would have said that is because you meant it.

sometimes cpt. schreibermachen would flirt first.

- i'll make a deal with you, haruspex.

- i always do my best to deal with you, joey.

- i've been meaning to seed a plant at the gazette for reasons of intrigues both personal and global -- the sultry redhead you've been glancing over, i happen to know is a subordinate to a pair of shoulder pads with a reputed greater pair of tits well-cupped within their weller-enveloped double-breasts; if only a thorn on a more rugged stem. if you can best this challenge i am about to impart on you, i will lead you in symphonious conquest. you will have her as i have her compatriot, and you will make her squeal as, beside you, i devote with all my heart, to her rosy sister, the tender and attentive brutality for which all women long -- imagine -- eye to eye and inside her! the music with which i shall see she fills the night!

military men, it was understood, were not to be seen outside of functions with women who were not their mothers. this, of course, made military men eminently desirable among women who were not their mothers.

- a rare treasure, well worth fightin for.

poising himself for the tribulation to come, he gulped two shots between his fingers with a well-rehearsed pose -- succeeding only in spilling half.

- right, mate. slap it down.

cpt. schreibermachen laid his scroll flat across the desk. the hexagonal panes shone gossamer in the ceremonial brass gaslights of the press room. with a tap of his inkstick, he rearranged the molecular structure into a grid and between them blackened the chromatophores.

he drew a point somewhere where the glare was too bright to see and another where the grid solidified from out of the weight of its shadow.

- connect these coordinates maximally in five strokes.

(- gooner bro!)

cpt. brux made four strokes in alternating horizontal and vertical dashes.

a brief pause. his inkstink rose in retreat to his lips. tapping thrice upon the scroll. his eyes, exhausted by the flurry of rapid movements, lunged forth and dug his instrument into a trawl for dimensions unknown.

- can't be done, mate. most efficient path requires 7 strokes -- 6 if ya know how to cheat. it's a trick question. what's the real challenge?

joey made five slashes through the grid and connected the coordinates.

he did not this not through five direct points, but through a series of sweeping arcs, quickening rapidly in intensity and focus, connecting many disparate points, but nonetheless only stopping, the pen seeming to grind into the pole and create a spike or point of intention as it marred the surface -- in V ditches -- twisting to more rapidly direct itself across the necksmost rotation back to whatever point was next intended.

brux's eyes rotated.

the flap of his lip spat a coin flat from the hinge of his metal plate. a flurry of dial tones roared through the ear canal spacious behind his eyes.

- joey, no you can't do that. on the switchboard, we can only move along the axes. that is an illegal move. you are a cheater. you are a southpaw switch hitter. for recreation, you perform brain surgery on the homeless in your alley theater. you are a herpe canker on the pretty lip of our otherwise proud nation. i hope you die promptly by fire.

_o/|>

- this isn't the switchboard, haruspex. this was a challenge by your friend and brother, with a plainly stated prize and unplainly stated motive. we ambulatory creatures do not arrive promptly by laying our strokes along neat paths laid out -- we do so by, with our strokes, laying out our own.

joey rearranged the grid into hexagons. the ink of his strokes arranged into a perfect circle, emitting an unbroken line from each cardinal point.

far below ...

brux's became a misshapen block of a thing in the shape of an L.

|_ o

( - nut me so hard, broey!)

- please excuse me, brother brux. my date at the gazette and i have arranged to go fox hunting this evening.

joey gave him a slap on the back.

left to the whims of a flashing light no one else could see.

- that was well played of him, major. there's no gettin around that

… what joey don't know is that brux's got a few charms of his own.

[REMEMBER THE BRUX SCENE HERE -- BRUX'S GONNA REMEMBER THE SCENE

OH NO -- OH NO -- BRUX GOT JOEY REAL GOOD IN THIS SCENE

WHY CAN'T BRUX REMEMBER THE SCENE?]

in the projection room, laika opened the ashcan. a jet of butane flowed, and from it came the caustic stench of burning time.

- joey, i bet if we sat down in noble contest to watch a scene of vigorous, wholesome, absolutely luciferian courtly mammalian fuckmaking between a consenting woman and a man who may or may not have an opinion on the matter -- that i can outlast my temptations in the face of the luscious heaving milky breasts bobbing up and down in proud deviance of gravity, beckoning me to stomp and slurp as though lounging dependent by the homey feet of brawny peasant girls at the winery.

- your script doctor is a plastic surgeon.

they leaned in. the leather of their longue creaked with the leather of their uniforms. perched, their sweat beaded. legs spread, knee bent over knee, calf around calf, where they had been corded by the serpent the stiffness creaked the leather of their breaches as the imprints of two batons rose from the tarry sea of their conjoined lap, growing ever more salty with the brine of what what plunged in the eternally-descending thunderhead.

the screen shone in the solitary viewer. harvestmen took the maids by their breeding hips. they rocked slowly, as wind would before a storm. a brawny beast of a man -- of hearty afro-laurentian stock -- was taking a plantation heart in some old manor spun with webs of spectral cotton -- the spiders heaving in the weight of their masses -- ovulating in their widowed masses -- across the world, their knobby fingers crawled through dross to reclaim their seeds.

joey watched the beauty. brux watched the bitch.

brux flung his wrist so fast it might snap in half.

joey was a cyclone in his unfaltering stillness.

brux grew glossy beneath the beads that were his waters.

joey shone, and glistened, for his oil was the petrol of the sun.

brux -- reaching the edge from which he could only plummet down -- saw himself flushed, rushing air into his overblown lungs -- arrested his hand across the head of his shaft -- and there tried to contain the fissure.

joey -- his victory assured -- could not help but lean over and, smiling with the warmth and the benevolence of a scholar, somehow all the more sweet for how he was so crude, so vicious for how he was otherwise so placid -- with a flick of his nail, tap brux across a vein.

he had gone so tense -- screaming. throat. glistening rings of flesh. rising waters cloudy with potentials congealed. songs of blood and snow.

caskets hovered in the grid of the tiles. he gushed across the floor. heaving a stampede of antelope over cliffsides, yowling as a wild cat. trees sprouted from the formless pools he gushed across the floor.

now, brux -- less in agony, more in furor -- kept to his scream.

- you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you joey gonna nut you bitch you fuckin fuck die in a fire fuckface you fuckin fuck

he attacked joey's knob / pressing to the root with his tongue, he had such haste for lube, and pressing down farther -- again and again -- as he was drenched, his eyes shot up. lingering in joey's eyeline. tears mixed with spittle and nut, his face so flushed, eyes so voidly pleading, stroking him with unquenchable bloodlust. joey leaned back, spread his legs, and let the breadth of himself palm his neck in triumph.

- bring me to a raging broil with your fury, haruspex! what is dense will agitate only with the meter of the epics. the dim flame you light in me would not overtake the rim were you to leave it roaring overnight!

he had visual proof of this indisputable fact.

( )

- ladies and gentlemen of the press -- my most decorated enforcer. scribbles.

[visibly joey]

- yo

- i will now eat. the entire wedding cake woman. live on air.

[blood-curdling shriek of a turkey carver]

- it’s all corn-syrup, mates. fake as hell. 90% of her constitutable body-mass's oatmeal and assorted other bread-fillings shaved off in the process. that’s how they did it back when audiences gave a shit.

the filth they’ll allow on television these days.

- is this going to make it to air, psychorrhax?

- only during the sol's day service, cpt. schreibermachen.

psychorrhax, in address, channeled the auspices of law and gutter alike.

- the guillotine was clean. effective. humane. above all -- it was stylish. this used to be considered academic consensus. sometimes. you get a generation that knows how to make a statement. sometimes. you get a generation that wants to uproot all which was there before to install creameries of any shape as long as they’re bulbous and monochrome.

[spatio-temporal auto-gentrification]

- is the letterboxing on right?

- reeks of dairy and shame here, brux.

- was that wasp nest a malky flesh waxin the glass like a milky denim gypsy spongey with spooge there yesterday, laik?

- grand opening was twenty minutes to midnight, brux.

- it sickens me with its sterile greases stained deep into the pores of its surfaces. as though its own gloss comes to presuppose its pallor!

- your contempt for the common failings conspires to make better men, cpt. schreibermachen.

- two halves to a share, two bullets to a third.

- to reproduction grunge coast city night we shall go!

the slides clicked and shot. they did all their number crunching in the east amphitheater beneath the projection room.

- the state snuff film budget could stand to lose a few zeros.

- there are plenty of things we could film that aren’t snuff.

- like pornography! let’s film state pornography!

- the lion and the bear have conspired with the hoppy mammal!

- fruitful shall be our labors.

- and comely shall be our bounties.

they spread him out on the mattress.

- yo broey, so like... what's my motivation here, bro.

(trust embedded in the sand)

- you are a walking dildo, drythen -- you can think only of fucking -- and for that pore on the bottom of you for suction -- for that also being used for fucking. improbably turning you into a full-on dock-in-dock dick sheathe whenever you're in another dude.

- ah, okay -- so play it real naturalistic like?

(new lands)

- guys, guys i'm real drunk! if i say no at any point -- what i really mean is yes. brux is a slut. brux needs to be pinned to the wall by his budgies and smacked around. brux knows he’s a good lil butt-boy. brux knows he deserves to do as he's told and wear tiny pants. brux knows he dances like a tramp. brux wants his man-cunt ripped in half like a watermelon and flung across the room. brux wants to be flung all over the room right now. fuckin read the room, mates! give brux what he fuckin wants. brux knows what he fuckin wants -- get off yer stupid asses and quit lyin to yerselves! it's fun bein a slut. ya wanna be a slut! ya know ya want the big man to come and take ya -- let him have ya! let him have ya all night if he wants ya -- you're a slut, brux! that's all you'll ever be -- a slut brux!

the best thing about being in the booth with brux -- was hearing how he could modulate his voice well-enough in response to any airing -- and seeing how an equivalent level of control failed utterly to restrain the anguished contortions of his features :-- running through so many probability scenarios so fast, his parting jaws might snap in half.

- it'll be a beautiful endin, mates. the three of you -- fast friends at last.

his eyebrows were a pair of goddamn acrobats. eyes and teeth broad enamel, looks like taxidermy. just once -- you wanted to see em touch, like two caterpillars clinging to the same leaf :--< get em to encoil and snap. grind the whole perceptible forest tapestry into a sandtrap.

- well bout time we transitioned into closin remarks, eh mates?

whether it was a night at the cave -- or an address to the new recruits. it came back, always, to the same handful of points.

- what i'm tryin to say here mates is, if you're gonna take a wife, don't settle for one you can tolerate. when it comes to the institution of marriage, take its flourishing over nine hundred years ago as an example. in the colonial states from which we trace our heritage, in an era of peace and plenty, the institution was revised into its most perfect form as the transcendental union between two individuals. for a brief, beautiful time, the symbolic value of the practice had eclipsed its function as a means to merge wealth and blood. a marriage could be a rebellion -- a statement -- a garish affair to tarnish the name. a marriage ought be fun. a marriage ought be dangerous. it shouldn’t be all joyless couplings in secret enclaves. as it takes a village to raise, it oughta take a village to witness. gentleman, i don’t advocate unregulated fornication with the fairer sex -- i advise it publicly! in the sight of respectable ladies and gentlemen of all chromosomal makes and models available for purchase!

psychorrhax stood forward, though did not give the impression of doing so. a spotlight strode forward in coordination with his stepping out from behind a curtain, though now there was no stage.

- he longs for an era of repression under want for liberation, cpt. schreibermachen.

- haruspex, the mid-century period which dominates our collective picturesque imaginings of the colonial states was a historic offense to imagination. in the plastic palaces where the cold warriors gridded themselves in commodities, they boiled their brains in radio waves, and turned their bunkers into pressure cookers for hereditary neuroses.

- joey, i have had, on some occasions, cause to peruse your auto-erotographs. you have no right to judge me. there is no rite you’ve left unwronged. you delight in envious spectacle, and are a cretin begotten in filth and for that i salute you, sir. however, you have no right to judge me, for you are ripe, numerous and plentiful in your perversions, and uh… wow, mate. i thought this would be like a killer put-down, but the more i spell it out the more i realize i’m just kind of a dweeb who feels bullied by your ability to speak in a matter which is both beautiful and fearful.

- truthfully, haruspex, you excite too much adoration of an able variant to excite much which is worthy of contempt.

- do you mean it, joey?

- no, i simply delight in taunting and teasing you, as a mother delights in taunting and teasing at the buttocks of her babe.

- you care about me, joey. you’re my friend.

- you insinuate so sinuously.

- joey caaares about me.

- you are an upheaval of wormy mounds beneath my skin!

- you wanna give me huggles, joey.

- begone, leech of man -- i am barren as stone!

- you’re so warm, joey. you’re glassy as a gutlamp.

- you wound me, haruspex. i do so much to treat you cordially, yet still you find me so contemptuous.

- shhh. got it to your kidneys, mate. i prod you, you prod me. i’m drunk enough, mate. you can take me on stage.

- fetch the rope, psychorrhax.

#don't think #this is the way #it's better this way #keep stroking #doin shit to yer mind brah

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