Tea at Trimalchio's XXXIX

with Paul Kavanagh

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watching movies

There were three dead bodies, victims of gratuitous violence, it was a sickening scene, scattered all over the front room. Through the carnage two males and one female could be made out. One of the males had been eviscerated. It was a terrible, nightmarish stage, a vista of blood, guts and limbs. It was the kind of panorama that leaves you confounded, without lucid thoughts, precarious. Outside a dog was ululating.

Ostensibly, a drug deal had gone wrong. One of the victims was a known drug dealer. His face had been splashed about all over. It was the kind of face that hit you immediately; it stirred a thousand or more dark memories, memories that filled you with loathing. You even shudder.

They are in the right neighborhood, all the iconography is there; from the window you are able to see a dilapidated shop front, kids loitering, and graffiti. Your senses respond predictably. You even shudder. It is a geography that you know well, but you never want to trespass upon.
"Well Tom, what do you think?" asking was Detective O'Rourke.

Detective O'Rourke had a weight problem.

"I don't know," answered Detective Philips, eyeing his partner's rotund frame.

"What?" blurted Detective O'Rourke his incredulity making him produce a ball of phlegm.

"I just can't get my head around it," said the perplexed Detective Philips, kneeing down and looking closely at the dismembered female.

Kitty stands up abruptly and yawns. "Well, pause the movie," says Kitty with more than a hint of perturbance. Mercutio starts to yap annoyingly. I hate the damn dog. It's so small and helpless. "Look at that," says Kitty pointing to the paused scene, "it's like a Goya." I don't think she is enjoying the movie, what with all the dead bodies and pools of blood, I think she would rather be watching a musical. Mercutio won't stop yapping. I try to give the rat a sly kick. I have to walk Mercutio three times a day. He's full of piss and shit. I pause the movie. He shits only when I am walking alongside a beautiful woman. He only pisses when a car pulls up and a beautiful woman is looking at us. We leave the inanimated scene. Mercutio weaves in and out of Kitty's legs. I hope one day she stands on him.
Detective Philips stood up. "What does it mean?" he said more to himself than to Detective O'Rourke. He looked around him; the walls were smeared in blood, furniture was overturned, the television screen had been smashed.

The burning in his stomach is illuminated upon his face. His face is a tapestry of emotions, sympathy, anger, justice.

I didn't even want to watch this movie. Kitty picked it; she said, "I want to watch this movie, I love the actor and the director, whenever you love the actor and director the movie is always good to watch." Kitty sits back down. Mercutio is sitting upon her lap. He loves every second that sycophant, her hands all over him. He shows his teeth, he gives me the evil look. There's a war coming I feel.
"Here drink this," said O'Rourke handing a bottle of beer to Philips. O'Rourke lit a cigarette and sat down beside Philips. The bar was smoky and music was blaring out of the jukebox.

Philip's praxitelean shoulders have dipped some. His brow is furrowed, something is dragging him down.

A line of old timers sat along the bar, smoking, bullshitting, drinking slowly and watching the football. Philips lugubriously lifted the bottle of beer and swigged.

"What's the matter Tom?" asked O'Rourke.

The neon light rippled over O'Rourke three chins.

"I can't think straight," said Philips putting the bottle down on the bar. "I can't get past it. It's like a rock in the middle of the road. I can't think about anything else. When I try I fail. I keep coming back to it."

There's a knock on the door.

It's Kowwowski. He's panting, his knees look as though they are about to buckle; he's precarious upon his huge, clumsy feet. Even with those big flapping clown's feet he can't stamp Mercutio on the head. I know he has been running. "What's the matter?" asks Kitty motherly. Kowowski sits down, he almost clears the seat; he;s nervous, he won't stop biting his nails. "Do you want a cup of tea?" asks Kitty, nonplussed by the sight of Kowwowski. Even Mercutio is quiet.

There is a feculent odor about Kowwowski but not being rude we do not mention it.

"Kowwowski, what's in the bag?" I ask seeing the sports bag glued to his sweaty back. Kitty is perplexed; she doesn't like Kowwowski, but he keeps turning up. I feel sorry for Kowwowski; he;s just born into it. It;s the consequence of being visceral permanently, you always put yourself in the mix, you can't help it, it is out of your hands. The cerebral is only more flummery, just more data to mix up the already confused confluence. "What's the point," I say to Kitty and she always replies, "we never asked for it." I never fret, it's pointless, like worrying about the vagina dentata.

"Man, they are after me," blurts out Kowwowski removing his bloodied hands from his mouth. "Who are chasing you?" asks Kitty opening the back door. No worries Mercutio won't bolt, he knows he's got it good. I'm sick of Kowwowski, he's always being chased; it's the fear, everybody is full of fear. "I hope it's not the INS?" I ask.

With an adroit right foot I dispatched Mercutio through the open door. Kitty grimacing asks, "what did you do that for?" Before I can close the door or answer her, I'm pushed out of the way and into the kitchen enters fifteen, maybe twenty drug dealers, all kinds, blacks, Mexicans, Irish, Italian;they look brutish and act without an hint of decorum, some are carrying guns, some have machetes, there's baseball bats, knives, the lot. "Let me pop a cap in his ass!" sezs a white kid with his baseball cap on wrong. "I'll drop him!" shouts a football thug. "I'll uccidere il bastardo!" bellows an Italian fat man with hair greased back. "Θα αφαιρει τον ανοιξετε!"" screams a Greek waving his fingers threateningly, his cigarette falls to the floor and scares off Mercutio. Not even a yap. "Worthless rat!" I scream. "Leave the dog alone," says Kitty. "Not even a bark," I say. "You complain when he barks," says Kitty. "It barks at three in the morning!" We are having a right good fight. I'm up for it and I think Kitty would love to tell me about some of the things that have been bothering her. After this fight there will be the cloying plea for a hug, but I promise you this I will be steadfast.

Kowwowski tries to slip out but they shove him to the floor. "You're going nowhere," says an old bald man chewing on a tooth pick. Kowwowski looks up like a lost dog. Some of the young bucks kick him brusquely. He yaps, he sounds just like Mercutio. Their enmity is only matched by my hatred for Mercutio. In my peripheral vision I witness some terrible doings, drug taking, some rolling huge joints, even a game of dice; it's shocking to the system.

Kowwowski tries to escape again but a foot lands smack in his mouth and stops his attempt. "Yo quiero que él!" screams a crazy Mexican with gold teeth.

We can't move. The kitchen is jammed pack with drug dealers.

Kowwowski is crying, dribbling, and has pissed his pants. I am deeply ashamed. I want to say something, but seeing them throwing my furniture around stops me. They have no respect for our furniture; they throw over the table and break the chairs, they smash cups and plates, you would think we were at a Greek wedding; they spray paint the walls leaving their gangs' signs, symbols, hieroglyphs, you know something, hitherto I was never a huge fan of Jean-Michel Basquiat, but seeing how the work develops up close I am overwhelmed. Now I am a huge fan of street art, it is absolutely amazing. A rough looking bald man covered in a myriad of tattoos drinks my tea. A thug with flaming red hair throws the kettle through the window. There is a terrible crash, splinters of glass get everywhere. Tomorrow it is going to be difficult, a hard task to clean up the mess. Two Russians, I know they are Russians because of they keep yelling, "Mne vsyo ostopeezdelo," violently grab hold of Kitty, she screams as they drag her out of the kitchen. I am helpless for a small black youth is holding a handgun to my head. "Where's the fucking drugs!" screams a rather large Mexican holding a loft a long sword. Before I can point to the sportsbag a Triad stabs Kowwowski in the eye with a flick knife and a stream of blood is jettisoned. Kowwowski screams, "please, please, please, not me, not me, not me," and covers the bleeding hole in his hand. "Finish that dog!" orders a stylish looking banker dressed in a fine suit. I throw up as they attack Kowwowski with baseball bats and machetes. They break his legs, they snap loudly; the arms are next, they too snap loudly. This loud snap is the cause of much risibility I am deeply embarrassed for I am covered in puke and splatterings of Kowwowski's blood. These drug lords and thugs are not very professional, I am shocked.


© 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 in Spring 2008.