Tiberius Ieye didn’t realize that he was just that — an eye with legs — until the day his friend the killer, Garrison Buffoon, a fag who nonetheless had also a honeybuns of a wife named Penny Mile, showed him the eye of an antediluvian sparrow caught in amber…
Said Tiberius Ieye: “Is that a mirror…?”
Said Garrison Buffoon, the killer: “No, silly; it’s the eye of a very ancient sparrow caught in amber… You want to know how old it is…? I’d guess no less than a billion years old or so… If not older still.”
—Somebody gave it to you…?
—Found it while I was on the job… [Why he was killing somebody, understood the Eye.]
They were bathed in penumbrae and squalor… The Killer Buffoon and the Eye had gone to the city to acquire — through any means necessary — a book Penny Mile wanted, about “How to atone serenely enough for one’s crass errors at metempsychosis…” Or some other learned volume approaching this title…
She’d tried and tried, alike with herself, and with his dear husband, and his most intimate friends — with whom he’d have orgiastic sex in the gun-logjammed den while she brewed both tea in the kitchen and, over the crucible in her lab, some incantatory formulae of soul transformation… She’d tried with all her circle of acquaintances, and especially with her husband’s… All flaky fishy soft-wristed malleable fags. But the results, anyhow, left always a lot to be desired.
The Eye was maybe a consequence of her tinkerings with the leaping trips that souls (if too prodded on their behinds) often feel obliged to take from body to body...
As the process was uncalled-for, with neither the souls nor the new recipients of them really ready, horrid creatures ensued, with forms you don’t want to be too clinical in describing lest you provoke yourself into vomiting and loathing.
Once a jinxed sparrow was passing out her window and received the soul of the maid. The maid becoming nothing but a little bit of carbon with the shape of the maid. Penny the Mile had the little carbon maid later engraved upon an amethyst set in platinum and she used it often as a love-charm to entice other girls which were later also subjected to the same indignity of unripe transmogrification…
The bookshop held nothing of any kind of interest inside — just rubbish, just garbage, just fluff… The Eye and the Killer, dismayed, thwarted in their last-ditch expedition, finally hobbled by tiredness and life-purposelessness, started running for the hills. Back to the sticks where weak weedy books didn’t poison the air.
The Mile was waiting home. As she knew Catalonian perfectly, her incantations packed a truer ring than did those of most (if not all outright) of the other more helpless, hapless charmers. And thus her degree of failed success was much greater than that of the rest of witchdom… Many women of the neighborhood had been put to death accused of witchcraft only because they were ugly and surrounded by monsters, but the Mile was free to run crazy and on the raw by night, without fear of being assaulted by corpse-hardened killers, for she could convert at will, becoming a gigantic thrip who smugly could twiddle with anybody’s crotches and them none the wiser, or a firebug and mix with the sparkles of a drink of warm liquor as the knights and lords discussed at night which witch go out and burn…
The knights and lords would gather nightly and under oath and with short brusque squabbles, resolved instantly by the barking of the skin of the shins of each of the squabblers by the great boss with a big stick, they would decide the nightly victim… And the Mile biting their balls, ferociously, when their idea was wrong enough to direct itself to the whereabouts of her home and the Killer’s, and in consequence instead of opining, having to swear devilishly and bang at their own balls… By the time the wrongly inspired knight tried to intervene anew about which witch to bring to justice, the veredict had already been agreed on.
The weirdest type of zoomorphism as a startling new phenomenon didn’t start in their soap-operish homeland till the Catalonian Mile had appeared a shiny day on the sunny, thimy side of the hill leading to their hiding place of a little village. Most of them had seen her as a sweet lagniappe coming of itself, on two pretty gazelle’s legs, both for their enjoyment at seeing her burn, and the more delicious faggoty drudge and grudge that went on while selecting a new sacrificial cunt every night on their Columbus Knights lodge where the sanctimoniousness-weary devil willy-nilly presided.
There were tigers and amphorae and crucifixes on the walls. Buddha was absent, of course. They could transform into hyenas and other beasts of prey in manners quite peculiar. A society of castes which was held in deep contempt by the rest of the untouchable population… [Untouchable except at the time of setting them on the pyre to burn alive, of course, especially the women, the witches so called.]
The Killer was of the opinion that: “Only the irregulars can win the battle against the deadly regulars…”
The Eye agreed. He beat an eyelid in assent.
Upon arriving to their village, a nasty surprise awaited them. They had been declared “off-kickable.” And in effect they had been kicked out. “Why the fuck…?” They inquired, pissed off to the max.
“—New rules apply — no access now!” The soldiers paid by the caste society of witch-burning knights and lords haltingly answered, and their machine guns gleamed menacingly.
As the bullets flew, the Eye and the Killer ran. And ran and ran. Nights, days. On the roads, dodging the mortiferous road blocks…
The Mile, prone to infatuation — or getting fat on a wrong idea — now without her killer honeybuns, felt cheated at life.
Idle in her palace, wasting away the day, thinking only of pseudonyms for her new forms, she suffered first a wicked rebellion of the organs of the body, then an incapacitating stroke; then her father the great master law-giver in the lodge, the wielder of the big stick to bark shins’ skins with, became entangled in the fight of his life — the others unanimously wanted to shorten his name — in effect depriving him of his whole personhood…
Also, the redneck peasants, the most overwhelming of whose passions was thrift, had stolen another of his daughters, and didn’t want to give her back… The great exarch moaned, writhed, his losses climbing…
The Catalonian Mile, her daughter most loved, the witchiest woman in town, pot-bound by her cord-tightening disease, couldn’t help him. Her hair in thrums like tentacles of doom, she, ill-mannered enough, grunted and whirled in order ultimately to rip free from her sinew-slammed paralysis. Her tongue knotted and wedged, prison-pent in an impregnable electromagnetic fence of molars grown like vacuums of distances so daunting that might as well be interstellar… Her world-altering spells reduced to sibilant syllables only attractive to wasps whose squirming nuptials of dances and whimsical stingings caused her to laugh and tremble like an addled chrysalis…
Indeed, her rump on the bier-like bed lay like a chrysalis from which Psyche tried to rise… The Eye had seen the Japanese showing how the souls get out of the assholes in men and off cunts in women… But if now he could have seen Penny the Mile he would most assuredly have popped.
For an instant Penny Mile became a moth, engendered from the carcass of her own frozen rump… She unfolded her wings, hovered above her discarded chrysalis of a hebetated body, cast a forlorn glance on the old slough… And throbbed for action, predisposed to fly posthaste to save her sister…, or the Killer…, or to talk evil obscenities in next night’s sacrificial witch… after this first liberating, very fanciful gig…, when…! When the swarm of wasps took her of course for a handy insect host and, at one fell swoop, the lot of them got rid of their parasitical eggs, eggs with legs pretty soon and immense mammoth mouths, by injecting them in her plump feathery dusty magical disgusting lymphatic drunk faltering body…
The peasantry, meanwhile, storm-swept, ripe for mischief, hearing the end-of-days banshees riding the sneering winds, disabled the innocent daughter… They parboiled her in thawed yolk of written-off menses. In mirth they drank the pith, while flirting with the falling, devastating bolts. Temptation must be always heeded lest we lose our humanity… The evidence in chief of the manifestation of this verity was under our very eyes beneath contempt: the younger sister, the daughter of the great khan of the clan, while sizzling, gloated. Hmmm! That was mighty strange. We nudged the cartilaginous mass she was becoming and streamers of most untherapeutical steam flew up, and bubbles very mean and pestilential burgeoned from the burned ends of the caldron to hug in a lethal embrace the more punishment-deserving amongst us. When the malign fetid waters ebbed we realized we had been purged of the worst elements of the tribe. Had we not yielded to temptation at the beginning, now we not only would have a still more powerful witch amidst us, but our society would live in deadly jeopardy clandestinely truffled with plenty of traitors eying to harm our coming prosperity…
Waylaid, the grieving Killer was also horrendously killed. Unseen, the irrelevant Eye, wielding a magnifying glass, was let alone to study the mosses and lichens and the monstrous tiny gigantic beasts thriving therein.
For Every Tib and Tom Cat
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