Tea at Trimalchio's XXXIII

with Paul Kavanagh



work in progress #6

..to be beaten, others wanted Lucy to call them, "bad boys!" The boys were phonies! Bullshitters! Cowards! Lucy could have done some damage, but she couldn't be bothered. Now, Lucy was like clock work, accurate down to the infinitesimal cog, she had gleaned where to place the tip of her tongue, how to always keep her mouth nice and cozy and warm. Lucy was proud of the fact that she gave the best blowjob. And now Lucy was proud that she had saved a man. It seems the Arkwrights were always being saved. The last time this happened was in Arras, April 11 1917, a British Tommy was lying on his back, blood was pouring from a wound in his neck, the blood was gushing out. He's got his hands up wrapped around his neck endeavoring to mitigate the flow, but his efforts are futile, otiose, he is on the precipice of moribundity and he knows it, seen death all around him, seen death, conversed with death, knows the reek, it's like piss and shit mixed, it's chemistry, it's all chemistry, found that out at the battle of the Somne, he was there at the very beginning, the very first bloody day, no pun intended, July 1 1916, he was eighteen, what an age, not even really a man, a virgin if you must know, kissed a girl, kissed her, hand in hand, they had been out on their bicycles, up through the moors, beautiful, verdant, fecundating, he lost his head, gripped her violently around the waist and glued his lips to hers, she nearly fainted, dear Kathy Ramsbottom, after the shock she kind of enjoyed it, she would have gone the next step but he stopped, stooped, picked up his fallen bicycle and continued on his journey, but she did notice his erection in his pants, there was even a slight damp patch, though she could not fathom out if he had urinated or came, she couldn't ask him, and so she picked up her fallen bicycle and followed him, she was feeling warm and woozy, she really did want to go the next step, they were miles away from the cotton mills, the shops, the homes of the workers, the pub, the cinema, the church, she could hardly walk, but riding her bicycle down the hill put a smile on her face. Back to that poor virgin lying in a compound of piss, blood, not defecated yet, there's nothing inside, not eaten a square meal in days, the fear, the fear stops you eating, see it's all chemistry, it's all about the digestive system, gastrointestinal tract, the alimentary canal. Kathy Ramsbottom on her bike, the little bumps in the road, the hard seat is rubbing her labium, it is parting her labia majora, her clitoral hood has been forced back and her clitoral glans are being extremely stimulated, "O yes yes yes yes, O god yes yes," hear, see the chemistry, the body, but just before she could experience her first orgasm she has to stop and put her feet down for safety, they'd arrived back in town. Arras, April 11 1917, here's how it goes, a series of moves by easy stages via Beauval, Grenas, Ivergny and Coullemont to Gouy-en-Artois, on 9th April, the Battle of Arras opened to the east, it's a brouhaha, they all look like headless chickens running around, screaming, howling, cussing, legless the lot of them. The town's been gutted, the town hall is a skeleton, the belfry is barely standing, there are craters everywhere. The virgin's lying in a crater, like it's a womb, muddy rain water, oil, piss, blood, there's debris everywhere, burntout shops, burntout homes, war is unforgiving, it is beginning to rain, it is a tenebrous day, hardly a ray from the sun can penetrate through the grey heavy clouds, everything's grainy grey, the colors have been sucked out, it's a grey vacuum, and now everything is in slow motion. Oswaldtwistle Crompton Arkwright IX can see time, it looks like ripples, undulating, like a river, it has a soft buzz, like a fly, like a fly endeavoring to escape through a window, time, the fundamental structure is breaking down, the universe splintering, a dimension slipping, dissolving into another dimension, sequences are out of cadence, out of step, Time is being mendacious with him, "Time is not a reality," stated Antiphon the sophist. "I wish they would fucking hurry up," gurgles Oswaldtwistle Crompton Arkwright IX, the iron in his mouth weighing heavy on his tongue, "I'm fucking dying!" He knows he's dying because there's been a slight bit of sciomancy going on, he's been busy talking with Samuel Crompton, "they erected a statue of me in Nelson Square for the pigeons to shit on me and the drunks to vomit and piss on me." He coughs up phlegm, "the things I did, I changed the world, only to die a poor bastard!" Oswaldtwistle Crompton Arkwright IX spits out a bucket of blood, more clots, than liquid, he nearly choked clearing his throat, just his damn luck. He's fighting, his toes are dead it seems, the leg's are quivering, can't control them, kicking, his whole body is twitching, he's close. The incongruity, the object that opened him up, went straight through him, he knows this, he tells himself he won't die, he'll be kissing Kathy Ramsbottom once again up in the moors, no… he'll be fucking her… yes fucking…fucking…FU-C-KING! Suddenly, a yank runs, leaps as though he's doing the diamond, Babe Ruth beats New York Yanks, pitching 3-hit 10-3 win for Red Sox, and he wants to get to Captain Weeks to pick up the dollar he's owed. Weeks might be a Captain, but boy he doesn't have a clue about Baseball, just shows you, anybody can become a Captain, just like a President. He's dashing, a college graduate, swimming champion, ladiesman, cocksman, or is that coxsman, his hero is Charles Cretors, the popcornman, founder of C. Cretors and Company in Chicago. When he gets home he's going to pop peas, green sweetpeas, the peas the Brits mash up and serve with chips and fish. Industry is in the family, he's one of the Fords. "Here kid wrap this around your neck," he shouts tossing a lovely skill scarf at the dying man, "I got it in Paris from a lovely lady, changed by the fuck, not the hour!" and that was it, colliding, coming together, there was the foot print indented on his shoulder, yes, the Yank had used him for a bridge, didn't want to get his boots soiled with blood, piss, shit, and the like. The shirt with the footprint is even now on the wall, hanging like an icon. But nobody saved Ark's father, when he hit the ground his arms and legs were ejected. He created a bloody mess on the street. Luckily, he never took another soul to Hades with him. It happens all the time, some jerk throws himself off a tall building and kills one or two innocent shoppers.

Ark wiped his arse on a lovely pair of breasts. He flushed the toilet..

© Paul Kavanagh 2008

image ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Paul Kavanagh was born in England 1971. His novel, everybody is interested in pigeons, will be published by 40FT Books soon.