but i knew is that it looked and sounded the perfect image of gastro-intelligence.
i was so drunk with hunger i felt like a haitian after a hurricane.
it was somewhere around wrankled furor that the representative arrived from Mothers Against Daughters Against Brothers who Try to Sleep with the Kind of Men they Almost Become.
as if reading my mind, milo said ‘you could use a hurricane for your mugwumps and after that take all those satchels of yours and—‘. milo trailed off, traversing vast archaelogical digs inside his caffeinated cortex, along the way ostensibly losing all model trains of thought through the seams of his pants.
‘i’m godamn starving…’ is all he eventually came up with. i had to give it to him. it was true. neither of us had eaten breakfast since yesterday.
It started with poverty.
But I forgot about the junk I wanted when the gut kicked in.
My stomach boiled the color of sheer madness and ‘impossible appetite’.
the worst of it was the two of us had been shacked up here next to the Cafeteria for something like two days now. We had came to get our piles out.
Yet here we were lost and lingered, pinned to the steaming asphalt on a bum steer.
‘meanwhile, time’s vomit dribbled on from a thousand infected needles.’
you say the sweetest things, what a vitalist you are, i mean you-
‘god damn if i’m not starving,’ he said, interrupting himself so i didn’t have to.
then there was that time you stopped speaking in coherent sentences, i said, unwilling to complete the sentence.
okay. i’m starving… he said, and also you’re ugly.
lovely, i said.
not lovely. ugly, he said. your breath smells like mrs. mugwumps had a miscarriage. Like. Inside. Of. Your. Mouth…’
‘well well, aren’t we stricken with genital observation today.’
‘…downright dirty-bout-to-blow a fuse with pondwater fluid from your dozens of dirty little faces – that kind of ugly.
‘holiest of holies.’ i said, absently,
the lost tango lyric to an indifferent tune.
incredible mug-wum sighs now fell between us with such absolute synchronicity i could have sworn for a moment we were the same person.
irony was never intentional. nevertheless, after a too-short pause in an otherwise military silence, milo said, Knife?
jesus, where in the cock is that? i said.
i admit i wanted to slap him just then for hoarding all of the incomprehension pills.
right – i’ll mark you down to be perforated then.
goddamnit! you mugwump wanker, i said. i grabbed milo’s clipboard for rhetorical effect.
‘i didn’t say anything about any perforation. just give me the bloodied knife. and i’ll sign already.’
milo shook his facial hair out like a persian cat in a cloudburst pond in dog-day night. it was when i glimpsed postnasal drip in his face-saddle that i sort’ve knew it was time to quit the junk i’d been on from the Cafeteria complex…so i made a mental note to call heidi and cerebus first thing tomorrow.
i was overdue for an appointment with the great Vagina Dialogues, as they quite possibly called themselves behind my back.
i wondered what in the sheer black magic terror those awful garbageslobs were up to these days.
‘…big bad mugwum voodoo’ milo was saying.
and i was about to lose it, frothing up now in a moment of fury that was totally unforeseen by either of us.
‘3-5 word response: if someone left a severed horse’s head under your pillow this morning, would you probably eat it or probably not?’
‘why not ask those mugwum bastards, palanc and calaco,’ i said,
and by now i was so sober with appetite, i probably looked like abortion evidence.
all of them had me just where they wanted me, i’m sure of it.
milo mumbled terse, unreasonable inanities to no one in particular.
another day, another burrito.
words, words, weapons, words, biscuits-words, words shaped like dollars and barfly-dinosaurs.
imagine dinosaurs filled entirely with words. words. words.
god, i can’t tell you how much i hoped they were among his last.
~Translated from The Hammock Hoarder by William Lee (the 3,534th richest man in the world)