For Every Tib and Tom Cat

dijous

all the suspicious characters are men disguised as women






it must have been the worst cognac ever... like licking a rat, I was thinking... and... getting laid, what a waste...! and then, to top it all, that thing, that hellish beverage...



it threw me for a loop... I went... like a Götterdämmerung monkey... fast toward the sink... hilarious... almost broke my neck... I had to gargle something... the fracid water for the tap... much better than the sulfurous cognac... he... that over-male writer, the Stanley Baker type, in the darling film Eve, with glorious Jeanne Moreau as the ur-fatal female... only that, instead of a "bloody Welshman," the stellar oaf was a no less bloody Catalonian... a writer of sorts... "working for the cinema," his words, undersigning his twisted, fancied, productions with that juicy, or maybe just farcical, name of "MM···WW," which must have made, let's say, the curiosity button, of a few potential employers, itch... "what's this MM···WW thing...? is that the name of a machine...?" "no, just a writer... he also wrote for such-and-such... a film..." clever ploy... the guy perhaps not a total imbecile...



now, the fellow himself, a poor performer indeed... getting laid under those conditions, yeah, what a waste... but then, worse... his cognac, yikes...!



I came back from the sink... we were in his garret... his garret, a narrow venue indeed... not ripened into a pigsty yet, but never so clean either... the charwoman herself had been there while we were chatting about "culture..." not a bit too clean herself either... full of blotches, her face... those red and white blotches caused by a state of depression... she came in limping... dragging her heavy shadow like a corpse... she hanged around... with the little skips and dodges of a clumsy thief... she had no success in unhooking any of the jealous grime... faithful, dogmatic grime on the chapped fake porcelains... whipped despondently at the chaos about... carved a few meager scarifications into the dust... smote a few worthless rags into submission... all her utterances were loud sighs of despair... and then she was gone.



said the writer: she was worth a few fucks last year, wait, two or three years ago... but then his family fell apart... a lot of oblique abductions... some obese characters that burst somehow... decimated... an outspoken boy killed by the cops... the sky falling on the whole family concern... the scheme in disarray... I put her in one of my stories... I made her a disaster of an authoress... never managing to sell a line... even to those shitty religious comics... and then she's killed by her religious would-be publisher... who makes of her a quite successful authoress... she manages to sell now many, many books... she's been gruesomely butchered and her dainty flesh is now being used as little tasty bits packed in tiny books... affordable, mock-refined gifts... her flesh turned into choice morsels of bait for fishes... also, as selected treats for cats... she's a scream now... fishes and cats crazy for the stuff...



back from the sink, I had an item rankling... in my mind... I said... ah yes... something about the gods... "Götterdämmerung monkey..." he had been showing off... much like the writer in the film... only that where Stanley Baker says: "I love all women - six to sixty," he said: "I love all the cunts, from four to one hundred and four..."



I said "one hundred..."? I said "four..."?



he smacked his lips... he said: those pouty lips on the cunts of the little girls... why would god make them like that... if not to entice the lips of us men to give them moist kisses, and the more Frenchified the better...?



I said "god..."? I said "men..."?



he got my drift... ok, or rather not god... that damned usurper... but the goddess, the goddess, yeah... goddess Nature... anyway, why would she make them like this...? if not for us human beings to kiss and revere...?



this talk was throwing me off... he must have felt... the freezing settling in... my side to him quite frozen... sending waves of animus... poisoned quills... his creepy words being a deterrence... he blushed bluish... became uxorious... melting into a swamp of effeminate warmth... this fragile plot of his threatening to crumble...



I thawed... he had gorgeous eyes... burning... black.



he was telling me about an outline now... a thriller... a terror thriller... so intensely... very involved... his eyes burning holes in my integuments... seizing power, my throat constricted, my eyes tearing up... he as possessed... so full of passion...



sham passion... but a woman with a wet vagina doesn't have... too keen a sense... about rightly feeling... what is and isn't bogus... she is busy otherwise... no time unwrapping the convoluted wrappers of pretense...



in the outline, all the suspicious characters are men disguised as women... but, at the upshot, the real culprit... the cruel loathsome killer... is a woman disguised as a man... too predictable, I thought...



I was deflating again... he went into some unashamed capers... "darling, our brief epoch will crystallize into a wreath of unforgettable vignettes... with you as a model, my writing shall become divine..." plenty of slavering rubbish of that tenor, caliber...



and then he drilled me... just fair...



I got up and went to fix me a drink... took a morsel from something bitter... tasted of leather... was I chewing on some of his blinders...? I heard him snoring... I drank the cognac... the scream of horror and disgust must have awaken him... his visage betrayed now a frayed exhaustion... as if his skin had become moth-eaten... failure showing through the gnawed skin... but as I was running like one of those monkeys... the failing gods... and stumbled... he laughed... sonorously...



I said... I remember now... something about the last embers... the dying evening of the gods...



"your plots," I said, "all male chauvinist shit... why don't you... become a woman... disguised... operated... and then... make a killing...?"



"a woman...?" he really looked spent.



I spat onto his bundled clothes and, slamming the querulous door, I breathed the nocturnal air, still with a mingy, pissy, taste in my mouth.



Never so well

Never so well
nyac!

Inosculated

Inosculated
anyocs de nyacs!

who the 'ell?

La meva foto
C.R. Morell his paltry efforts,

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