Lacking a certain habituality, or a reason for any subsequent activity, yet loathe to appear driven from the scene, as it were, he’d comprehended a desire for refuge within the already written — a security of being done somewhere else, ameliorating the harsh vigil at the lintel of selfishness and its tug of insufficiency.
iii — Non–Cathartic Traditional Monoliths Which Nonetheless Bombed.
For a moment, Legion, passed out in a horrid daze in a neural alley, had transcended Chekhov.
Below him sullenly stretched the smilax pansies of acidic Thebes. He caught a synapse by the hair, unsmelt after fifteen beers but immediately rechargeable, and felt the Ginzu quicken in flush fanaticism. “Patron,” he implored from his horizontal vantage, “must the sea and sky merge awash in these banshee blowsy tracts?”
“It’s pitiful,” Lemaniac agreed, “but not as such perhaps as the mosh pit you crawled out from under.” Singing born in the U.S.A. biodegradably (the Amway distributors had inferential debates over whether ginseng foretold exhaustion), Lemaniac bothered to apply capably interchangeable allotments of may the force be with you to the offensive languorous aging dudes at the Prince of Idiocy, who’d said they rewired aloof omens there (wink, wink).
“O jeepers,” thought Legion recently. Inhibited toward any sex or prurience, he’d purposefully sworn off even the most craven one and dones, and did nothing to dispel his game, listlessly numb to the spurious sybaritism of overt assessments. Enigmatically career–minded, Legion felt out–sourced from the get–go, privily traumatized, and yet straightforward — at last light burn the mojo, then get a new carapace, and finally deluge the fitnesses earnestly of late.
“Weep, ye roaches, for just past yon gazebo lies the rock and the hard place,” Lemaniac announced to an as yet unassembled audience. Half–listlessly enigmas toiled in Atlantian fugue. They flowed all the way back inland for a verst or two, and unheard of calypsos muttered of chapters untold, where no gods dared the overhead gate, so wishful were hexes pressed in reprisal for an outright domain battle between the Ark of the Covenant and a sostenuto de–tox center for Cubist expatriates.
“So they have an open bottle return policy,” Lemaniac explained, “they block out the sun from dusk to dawn, and damned be he who cries ‘hold, enough.’”
* * *
To Legion’s further amazement, theatrical Illyrian field hands, familiarized far from the Maypole, wore sackcloth casually. One might waltz five blocks from the edge of tomorrow before one wilted beneath endothermic filaments. Away from the creaky sympaticas of noisy Sherpas, another station, on the threshing floor of the reparations center, was neatly detested by an immense chanticler, Flip Kelvinator, who was to play Ewell to Lemaniac’s Early.
Already angling nimbly for the saki, which he hyperactively mixed with Kahlua, Flip tossed this neatly back. A four alarm fire escape artist, all but certified, he indicated that Legion could use a vacuum cleaner for his cuticles under an adamantly clerical street lamp down on the corner.
While Legion milled around losing his bearings, presently the dirty bird surfers trooped topside. A stucco blend yawning semantic Utopian elf, Feet Rebus, said under the influence that he was at risk of rating a sob story. The cheesier surfer, res ipsa loquitur, engaged a livelong dispute with the Kelvinator over omnipresent sealing waxes.
“Avast,” the latter indicated, “you’ll soon learn that, to avoid amending their ways, the surfers will try all usable forums to coerce anglers. So look sharp, whipper snappers, unless you want to make the vital statistics home page.”
Legion kept munching sunflower seeds unhappily. In the interim, the distant pier spun rather sea–sickeningly. res ipsa loquitur appeturnanced an introverted hard sell, saying “I’m warier of terms specifying such obscene underlying causes! Look to the vampire — at least he can make deals and say it not spray it!” Legion grasped a stanchion which lurched wickedly.
But lo, from the crow’s nest a shout rang out, “Charybdis anathema is nigh!” And ere they could come about, the awful craft boxed around the compass, swaying loudly in crazily ragged lexicons. “Shovel sand into her ballast,” the Kelvinator coughed, and everyone complied, although Legion felt like hanging from the yard–arm instead.
“Dipstick,” came Lemaniac’s stringent yell from the poop deck, and they grabbed a jolly boat from the davits with little regret. Legion fully took leave of his senses as they flailed back onto the roadstead towards the mainland.
* * *
The Mostly Color Shoe Tree was a teensy weensy sangfroid bansai, frescoed with pincuses, cytoplasms, and perspicacious wiggle worms. The hills, per se, only sufficed to antedate random doily hecklers in a basically sweatier situation. “Here here,” the mimsy borogroves chorused, “he’ll earn what they can’t pay him to do.” Let’s all go out the back door of the Castle affably before the travelogue (201 millimeters) untimelily records our straitened lot.
Did Theda mention that they looked into the mirror proof airlock doors with swift hurrahs? If so, they were lent to a miscarriage of travesty. No stone would fail to signal for a left turn to justify this misunderstood type.
“Haha,” Legion cried out during this last concrescent evaluation. Somewhere back on the farm, detached commensurate screwballs had upped the voltage toward galactic rasp sonars, daring lurid thermal crossovers to turn up on Myspace (now flooded with junk), and his voir dire et cetera adieu fomented unrealistic quotations. As usual, oolong tea leaves fell near vinculums atop the nexus of the somewhat mystical.
Issued only denim cookware and asked nicely to leave the building, Legion managed to fly to the moon and rousted a gerund fancier on the spot. “Whereas at the Castle,” he later observed, “I’d be enveloped in a honeycomb of recondite severity by now,” assuredly ephemeral Vaudevillians rattled neon curtains instead. It mattered little that he had handsome teeth and enough cash to last through a chillier week.
The charade ended with a summons to the Ghost House. Why that didn’t sound so bad was a stumper, evoking a treacly ragtime dim age of bourgeois refinance, mental pictures of an old Polish vanilla sesame chateaux, sprinkled with eerie vitriolic film hauteur, and perhaps some moldy Sargasso horticulture collected off the wall.
Lemaniac invidiously tethered his rocking horse to the sidewalk and seethed in symphonic fortitude. “For want of an outlet mall, perish the thought,” he recited over his blood–red porter, “we might as well deck the halls of every brick house in town.” “That’s a hell of a mentality, to deal and not count the cost,” Legion awkwardly affirmed, this vehemence disconcerted by the craven beige facade of the Ghost House.
They entered in an anteroom silence and rang for an insipid automaton who always felt pointless, as attested by an interim lantern beam turned to unveil a dread, airless lean–to, unfinished but for two ottomans, an open and shut casement, and an ersatz schrank warped fast in the dank atmosphere. Lemaniac yelped at the junkyard dog who witlessly sniffed their baggages. “Aside from bygones and all that,” he said without irony, “inevitably the commended gets one last upper.”
Circa October 2007.