The Figs of May - Carpe Testicularum

The Figs of May - Carpe Testicularum

Chapter 10

     The Story The Authors
Suddenly, he heard a song, comin to him from the distant winds of infinity:
"This is the Desert song, we´re runnin´ all night long through the desert..."

"I´m going insane!" he thought.
we must sign up for world war 3 the soldiers are leaving soon
Aben was suddenly roused from his Apocolyptic reverie by an impolite tap on his hairy shoulder by the infidel temptress in the back of his cab.
"Listen, Bub, if you have to make us late while you spill your foul foreign lunch into the gutter, the least you can do is kill the meter."
Aben turned from his heaving to face her, small bits of half digested cous-cous and with curried raisins, clinging to his beard. The woman was half leaning out of the window of the cab. Her hair and face uncovered for all the infidel world to gawk at and think unclean fornicating thoughts of. From where he stooped half crouched the unholy temptress soft and heaving bosom spilled over the edge of the window and her half open blouse revealing to his burning eyes a deep crack of cleavage as lovingly and painfully tempting as the tender buttocks of a young Syrian goatherd. Aben howled in anger and spat curses. Aben seethed with hatred for this evil land full of buxom devils trying to shake him the Chosen Path and into their foul pit of degredation.
The sudden unbidden ascension of a subgastric air-bubble up the narrow height of his esophagus caused Aben to belch most forcefully into the woman's face, whereupon she found her nostrils filled with a rich and earthy bouquet of effluvations, the subtle olfactory charms of the sundry elements of Aben's lunch bound together contrariwise by the robust sour funk of stomach acids. Even in the shade it was nearly 100 degrees Fahrenheit, with the humidity apporaching 100%, and Aben's passenger -- already hagridden by the torpid weather, and strangely, shakily queasy all morning for no reason she had been able to discern -- was now moved to push her own door weakly open and add the contents of her own stomach to the spattered mess left by Aben, sobbing as she did so.
She knew. It hit her like a Beatle-booted foot in the solar plexus.
Aben was moved to put a hand on her shoulders and steady her was the heaves buckled up and through her.
So that when at last she looked up -- glazed of eye, mouth speckled with flecklets of lo-fat cottage cheese and Vollkornbrot -- feeling about as disgusting as it seemed possible to feeling, sweat adhering her clothes to every rise and sticky cranny of her body -- when she looked up, it was Aben's face she looked into, and it constituted (and this understanding hit her just as suddenly and absolutely as had the certain knowledge that she was pregnant a few minutes beforehand) a mirror of her own (for what she saw in and on his face, the strained aftereffects of humidity and vomiting, she felt as corrolaries in her own face) and for a small icecube of time the two of them gazed deeply and wordlessly into each other's eyes, breathing evenly above the twinly quickening pulses of their respective circulatory systems. Oh, for one single good, kind man, she thought, instead of all these assholes. Fuckers every one. And now I'm pregnant on top of it. Ah, Christ...
Which of course broke the moment. "Thank you," she told Aben, hoisting herself back into the cab and slamming the door.
"Where to, memsahib?" she responded from the front seat, not meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror, and wondering what in the name of the exiled djinn had just happened, and possessing none of the language, neither internal nor external, to describe it, to acknowledge it, let alone act to on it. He pulled back out into the slow jerk of afternoon traffic.
"Oh... how about..." -- realizing she no longer cared; everything was different, the whole world seemed to have changed beneath her -- "I think the, the, the, oh, make it the bar of the Drake Hotel."
lead bed cool man none

Library   |   Contents |   Next Page