Tea at Trimalchio's XLII

with Paul Kavanagh

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nick

Where has thou shat and pissed? asked Smith.

The nick, confessed Grunfeld.

Did you get shagged, pillaged, poked, rammed, daisychained? impugned Smith.

They had one peek of me shitty arse and refuted, said Grunfeld.

They are feeding them too well in that torturechamber, said Smith.

From under his right leg Smith produced a bottle of monks' wine. Smith pulled the cork from the wine bottle and took a vociferous swig. From the open mouth of Smith an obstreperous belch was ejaculated.

Birth, said Smith.

Grunfeld smelt like rosewater an incongruity that was not lost on Smith. Grunfeld felt slightly aggrieved to have Smith juxtaposed with him on the bench. Smith reeked of wet farts, saccharine wine, soggy socks and leakage. Smith farted.

Death, said Smith.

Grunfeld had spent two weeks in the local gaol for drunken and disorderly. When the Judge asked the arresting policeman the charge, the policeman, with the verbosity that only a policeman can possess, fabricated a whole trajectory of Grunfeld swearing, cussing, profaning, pissing, defecating, flashing, dancing down the high street completely stark, bullocky naked. The judge knew it would be fatuous to impose a mulct upon Grunfeld and so Grunfeld was sent to the local gaol. While at the gaol Grunfeld practiced his aim, his expertise allowed him to take seven steps back and a golden arc was achieved and the noise was honeyed to Grunfeld's lobes.

What color was your bucket? asked Smith.

At first it was green, but I shat out the drugs they pumped me with and the colour varied, answered Grunfeld.

That's what I am in need of, a good purging, said Smith.

Smith rubbed his gut as though it was full and busily decomposing victuals. Smith never consumed solids. Smith was on a liquid diet that negated all solids like steak, fish, chips, peas, though he could drink pea soup now and again, though this was considered a luxury.

Grunfeld being slightly older of two suffered terribly from inanition and the ramifications.

Smith was still young and virile. Violence flashed across Smith's blood flooded orbs. Grunfeld pictured the golden arc he had achieved in his prison cell. The golden lunting arc had also been iridescent.

Listen Smith me dear boy I think you're in need of something more than a purge, expostulated Grunfeld.

Yes, what is that? impugned Smith.

Well, you've been sitting here next to me and I feel like regurgitating the meal I was presented with this morning, said Grunfeld.

And why is that? asked Smith.

Well, to be crystal clear and straight to the point, you possess the reek of a battered vulva that served a well employed doxy with more peals dripping from her than a queen, said Grunfeld.

Smith was confused at Grunfeld's colorful drollery. Grunfeld was normally not one for pugnacity. The only bellicose act was a wet obstreperous fart he emanated now and again. An ineffable surge undulated through Smith causing Smith to experience a myriad of infinitesimal pandemoniums. Smith was perplexed, he didn’t know if he was about to puke or shit.

Listen I was on the bench first, proclaimed Smith.

Yes but I've just got out of the nick, said Grunfeld.

So? impugned Smith.

Well I'm a master criminal, exclaimed Grunfeld.

Smith felt pangs of pusillanimity now stroke the nick of his arse. If he didn't move he would defecate that was for sure. Grunfeld bloomed with amazing tumescence right there on the bench.

I'll not have you giving out orders like syphilis at a wedding, said Smith.

But Smith's façade slipped with ease exposing the fear.  

The orders are now mine to bark, said Grunfeld.

Smith acquiesced in silence.

First things first, wine my dear chap, said Grunfeld.

Smith obsequiously handed Grunfeld the bottle of wine.

Grunfeld pulled the cork from the cheap wine bottle and swigged greedily. Grunfeld ceased drinking and passed the bottle to Smith.

Hold the bottle for me while I scratch, said Grunfeld.

Smith swirled the snotty dregs around at the bottom of the bottle. The effluvium was discolored. Smith could discern bits of immolated pork, blood, puke and the detritus of liver and kidney.

You've spat in me bottle! bellowed Smith.

The bottle didn't smash; it bounced nosily off Grunfeld's croaked skull. Smith thought of hitting Grunfeld again with the bottle. But the bottle hadn't smashed.


© 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.