nine-to-one.’
He stares. He croaks a foul imprecation that tails off halfway through. His shoulders slump, and the eyes narrow down into hard-cornered triangles.
I allow the Zippo to flicker out. I hold up the cardboard beaker I am carrying in my other hand. I say, ‘Old man, how would a cup of hot coffee taste right now?’
•
‘So now there’s an Angel of Death,’ he says, ‘ and an Angel of Mercy?’
‘That’s the way it was,’ I say. ‘We don’t have to keep it that way.’
‘It’s too blatant,’ he says. ‘Too Jekyll and Hyde.’
‘So we scrap the Angel of Mercy?’
‘I think so, yeah.’
I make a note. ‘Consider it done.’
•
Sermo Vulgus : A Novel (Excerpt)
Cassie, the flesh is an abomination. This is the logic of all religions, even the Buddhists, who consider themselves above and beyond religion.
Religion demands that the flesh be mortified, mutilated, disowned and discarded.
Yet I am flesh, Cassie, the flesh of flesh. Even now I can feel the blood ebbing through the capillaries of my flaccid penis, as tentative, as irrepressible, as the very first tide.
Cassie, to reject the flesh is to reject a logic so implacable that it requires no explanation or justification. To wit: we were born to enflesh. We are our means to an end, and our end to our means. There is Fucking, then Everything Else.
Think on this, Cassie: the scientists and priests agree that eternity exists. The scientists and priests agree on the theory of infinity. But only the priests pledge to abstain for all eternity. Only the priests resolve to set themselves against the implacable logic of the universe for so long as it exists.
Cassie, have you the courage to join the dog-collared rebels on the barricades while they eternally rail against the will of their god?
•
‘Anyone ever tell you,’ Billy says, ‘that you have serious issues with priests?’
‘It’s nothing personal. It’s more a zeitgeist thing.’
He ponders that awhile. Behind him one of the carp, a flash of orange, breaks the surface of the pond and is gone again.
‘What are we supposed to be saying, though?’ he says. ‘That I was abused by a priest?’
‘Not explicitly, no.’
‘I don’t even know any priests,’ he says. ‘I mean, you never even gave me a childhood.’
‘Like I say, it’s not a personalised thing. It’s more to do with the idea of innocence being abused by religion.’
‘I’m only one man,’ he says. ‘There’s only so much I can shoulder. You don’t think you’re asking me to do too much here?
‘The truly great leaders,’ he adds, ‘had this notion where they’d never ask anyone to do anything they wouldn’t do themselves.’
‘Except I’m not leading you, Billy. We’re collaborating.’
He smirks. It’s there and gone like a flash of carp, so fast I’m not even sure I’ve seen it.
‘What?’ I say. ‘What am I missing here?’
‘How d’you mean?’ he says.
‘What was the smirk in aid of?’
‘Smirk?’
‘Yeah. You smirked.’
‘Did I?’
‘Don’t fuck around, Billy. What are you not telling me?’
He allows that to hang for a while, then reaches for the makings. ‘Let me ask you this,’ he says as he builds a smoke. ‘What colour were Karlsson’s eyes?’
‘Blue.’
‘How many eyes did he have?’
‘Two.’
‘What colour was his hair?’
‘Blond.’
‘Karlsson,’ he says in a chiding tone, ‘had two eyes, both of them brown. His hair was brown too, going a little foxy in the sideburns.’
‘Who gives a fuck,’ I say, ‘if his hair was pink? We’re not writing about Karlsson anymore, we’re writing about you.’
‘Since when?’ he says.
‘Since always. Since you first showed up.’
‘With blond hair,’ he insists, ‘and one blue eye.’ He dips the shades to remind me of the sucked-out prune that used to be his other eye. ‘You’ve never wondered about what happened?’
‘I asked about it, Billy. As I recall,
He stares. He croaks a foul imprecation that tails off halfway through. His shoulders slump, and the eyes narrow down into hard-cornered triangles.
I allow the Zippo to flicker out. I hold up the cardboard beaker I am carrying in my other hand. I say, ‘Old man, how would a cup of hot coffee taste right now?’
•
‘So now there’s an Angel of Death,’ he says, ‘ and an Angel of Mercy?’
‘That’s the way it was,’ I say. ‘We don’t have to keep it that way.’
‘It’s too blatant,’ he says. ‘Too Jekyll and Hyde.’
‘So we scrap the Angel of Mercy?’
‘I think so, yeah.’
I make a note. ‘Consider it done.’
•
Sermo Vulgus : A Novel (Excerpt)
Cassie, the flesh is an abomination. This is the logic of all religions, even the Buddhists, who consider themselves above and beyond religion.
Religion demands that the flesh be mortified, mutilated, disowned and discarded.
Yet I am flesh, Cassie, the flesh of flesh. Even now I can feel the blood ebbing through the capillaries of my flaccid penis, as tentative, as irrepressible, as the very first tide.
Cassie, to reject the flesh is to reject a logic so implacable that it requires no explanation or justification. To wit: we were born to enflesh. We are our means to an end, and our end to our means. There is Fucking, then Everything Else.
Think on this, Cassie: the scientists and priests agree that eternity exists. The scientists and priests agree on the theory of infinity. But only the priests pledge to abstain for all eternity. Only the priests resolve to set themselves against the implacable logic of the universe for so long as it exists.
Cassie, have you the courage to join the dog-collared rebels on the barricades while they eternally rail against the will of their god?
•
‘Anyone ever tell you,’ Billy says, ‘that you have serious issues with priests?’
‘It’s nothing personal. It’s more a zeitgeist thing.’
He ponders that awhile. Behind him one of the carp, a flash of orange, breaks the surface of the pond and is gone again.
‘What are we supposed to be saying, though?’ he says. ‘That I was abused by a priest?’
‘Not explicitly, no.’
‘I don’t even know any priests,’ he says. ‘I mean, you never even gave me a childhood.’
‘Like I say, it’s not a personalised thing. It’s more to do with the idea of innocence being abused by religion.’
‘I’m only one man,’ he says. ‘There’s only so much I can shoulder. You don’t think you’re asking me to do too much here?
‘The truly great leaders,’ he adds, ‘had this notion where they’d never ask anyone to do anything they wouldn’t do themselves.’
‘Except I’m not leading you, Billy. We’re collaborating.’
He smirks. It’s there and gone like a flash of carp, so fast I’m not even sure I’ve seen it.
‘What?’ I say. ‘What am I missing here?’
‘How d’you mean?’ he says.
‘What was the smirk in aid of?’
‘Smirk?’
‘Yeah. You smirked.’
‘Did I?’
‘Don’t fuck around, Billy. What are you not telling me?’
He allows that to hang for a while, then reaches for the makings. ‘Let me ask you this,’ he says as he builds a smoke. ‘What colour were Karlsson’s eyes?’
‘Blue.’
‘How many eyes did he have?’
‘Two.’
‘What colour was his hair?’
‘Blond.’
‘Karlsson,’ he says in a chiding tone, ‘had two eyes, both of them brown. His hair was brown too, going a little foxy in the sideburns.’
‘Who gives a fuck,’ I say, ‘if his hair was pink? We’re not writing about Karlsson anymore, we’re writing about you.’
‘Since when?’ he says.
‘Since always. Since you first showed up.’
‘With blond hair,’ he insists, ‘and one blue eye.’ He dips the shades to remind me of the sucked-out prune that used to be his other eye. ‘You’ve never wondered about what happened?’
‘I asked about it, Billy. As I recall,
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