|The Story||The Authors|
"Joselito," hissed Barbara, "you — above all other avatars and customer service representatives of Masculinity on this earthly plane and the nine planes of ethereality — are by the clearest and truest and best representation of WHY I FUCKING HATE MEN!"
Joselito, ignoring the sharp, painful ringing in his ear, clucked his tongue at her. "Jealousy. How redeeming. How it warms the cockles of my heart to see how well all those fifty-minute-hour years, all those thousands of dollars spent on psychotherapy have done you by. Tut-tut-tut. Bad girl."
"You let that bitch rescue Pata and left me here! You abandoned me! Just like my father!"
Joselito (typically) ignored her hysterical tone and continued on in the calm tones, measured cadences and fusty affect of a lecturer in Claude Levi-Strauss' Theory on 'Newly Emergent Patterns in Underwater Basket-Weaving Among the Rwalawana Tribespeople of New Guinea.' "Pata is a pagan. She's allowed to be rescued by Hinenuitepo as often as they both see fit. Neither she nor her Higher Power are bound by the fundamentals and tenets of a Judeo-Christian heritage, i.e. redemption through suffering. As your Higher Power, it is my job to act as your conscience, and to assure that you do not shirk your share of suffering, Barbara, for as we have been taught, it is suffering, the great collective wail of humanity, which holds the fabric of time and space together. In the case of Pata, however, although we have applied the term 'Higher Power' to Hinenuitepo's role in her life, this is in fact a Western simplification for the sake of maintaining the novelistic flow (not to mention allowing Hinenuitepo to join the other Higher Powers for cocktails at the Limbo Room), and their relationship is more aptly defined using the terms Possessed and Possessor. Hinenuitepo is an elemental spirit, and her sharply, four armed, shark-finned figure denotes the force of Death among the indigenous peoples of Oceania, not to mention filling their children with night-terrors and the chill of fear. And fear, as we know..."
But Barbara was too busy gobbling taffy at that point to hear him.
Where in tarnation was the dead dog during all this commotion? the astute reader may find his or her impatient self asking before squatting down to urinate beteen two parked cars as per time-honored New York City etiquette... And a fine toothy question that would indeed be. (Good kitty-kitty-kitty) — the reader's attentions are therefore directed towards the mudflap-festooned doors of Loading Dock C — wherefrom all things taffyluscious and taffrageous were loaded into trucks and onto the backs of mule-trains and elephants camels both bactrian and dromedary, to be delivered to the expectantly (not to say expectorantly) salivating mouths of a nation (nay, a world!) of sugar-addicted taffyfolk — but where today, as the dead dog had just become rather painfully aware, the arose the rioteous voices of a crowd of grown men loudly declaiming and extemporizing, in rhyming cuplets and quatrains, on the elusive natures of Beauty, or Truth, of Tragedy and Comedy, of Loves sacred and Loves profane, of the Gods and the Grape and the o'erbrimming Ocean, great Mother of us all...
The saucy virtues of my belov'd mistress, spake the voice of Monty,
Cause me no small measure of erotic distress
For she, so gript by Venus' fleshly powers
Hath shared herself with John, Karl, Steve and (zounds!) even Kenny Bauers!
Inside, the first in a series of impatient, pained growls emerged from the dead dog's cracked lips. Outside, Monty and the policemen (all now wearing togas, with their hair styled and cut ala the Socratic Method) cheered wildly, drunk on the taffy fumes, as their orgy of poetastery continued.
The end results of these, her lusty compunctions,
Is my afflication with a wide array of erotic dysfunctions
Alas! Just as the winged Eumenides pursued Orestes
So too do merciless crablice wreak their vengeance on my testes!
And as if this painful morning-drip were not enough dejection
My Circe hath bereft me of my pow'rs of erection...