of that at all. We had a few more
Laughing Marys and radishes. Hogo was sharpening his kris. The whirling grindstone
ground the steel.There was a noise, you know it perhaps. Hogo tested the kris against his thumb. A
red drop of blood. The kris was functioning correctly. After Hogo finished sharpening
his kris he began sharpening his bolo. Then he sharpened his parang and his machete
and his dirk. “I like to keep everything sharp.”
THE President looked out of his window again. It was another night like that night
we described previously and he was looking out of the same window. The Dow-Jones index
was still falling. The folk were still in tatters. The President turned his mind for
a millisecond to us, here. “Great balls of river mud,” the President said. “Is nothing going to go right?” I don’t blame him for feeling that way. Everything is falling
apart. A lot of things are happening. “I love her, Jane,” Hogo said. “Whoever she
is, she is mine, and I am hers, virtually if not actually, forever. I feel I have
to tell you this, because after all I do owe you something for having been the butt
of my unpleasantness for so long. For these years.” “The poet must be reassured and
threatened,” Henry said. “In the same way, Bill must be brought to justice for his
bungling. This latest bit is the last straw absolutely. I see the trial as a kind
of analysis really, more a therapeutic than a judicial procedure. We must discover
the reason, for what he did. When he threw those two six-packs of Miller High Life
through the windscreen of that blue Volkswagen—” Paul inspected Snow White’s window
from his underground installation. “A lucky hit! the idea of installing this underground
installation not far from the house. Now I can keep her under constant surveillance,
through this systemof mirrors and trained dogs. One of my trained dogs is even now investigating that
overly handsome delivery boy from the meat market, who lingered far too long at the
door. I should have a complete report by first light. My God but I had to spend a
lot of money on their training. An estimated two thousand dollars per dog. Well, one
assumes that it is money well spent. If I undertook this project with undertrained
dogs, there is a good chance that everything would go glimmering. Now at least I can
rely on the dog aspect of things.” Snow White was in the kitchen, scoring the meat.
“Oh why does fate give us alternatives to annoy and frustrate ourselves with? Why
for instance do I have the option of going out of the house, through the window, and
sleeping with Paul in his pit? Luckily that alternative is not a very attractive one.
Paul’s princeliness has somehow fallen away, and the naked Paul, without his aura,
is just another complacent bourgeois. And I thought I saw, over his shoulder, a dark
and vilely compelling figure not known to me, as I looked out of my window, in the
mirror. Who is that? Compared to that unknown figure, the figure of Paul is about
as attractive as a mustard plaster. I would never go to his pit, now. Still, as a
possible move, it clutters up the board, obscuring perhaps a more exciting one.”
“NOW I have been left sucking the mop again,” Jane blurted out in the rare-poison
room of her mother’s magnificent duplex apartment on a tree-lined street in a desirable
location. “I have been left sucking the mop in a big way. Hogo de Bergerac no longer
holds me in the highest esteem. His highest esteem has shifted to another, and now
he holds her in it, and I am alone with my malice at last. Face to face with it. For
the first time in my history, I have no lover to temper my malice with healing balsam-scented
older love. Now there is nothing but malice.” Jane regarded the floor-to-ceiling Early
American spice racks with their neatly labeled jars of various sorts of bane including
dayshade, scumlock, hyoscine,
Laughing Marys and radishes. Hogo was sharpening his kris. The whirling grindstone
ground the steel.There was a noise, you know it perhaps. Hogo tested the kris against his thumb. A
red drop of blood. The kris was functioning correctly. After Hogo finished sharpening
his kris he began sharpening his bolo. Then he sharpened his parang and his machete
and his dirk. “I like to keep everything sharp.”
THE President looked out of his window again. It was another night like that night
we described previously and he was looking out of the same window. The Dow-Jones index
was still falling. The folk were still in tatters. The President turned his mind for
a millisecond to us, here. “Great balls of river mud,” the President said. “Is nothing going to go right?” I don’t blame him for feeling that way. Everything is falling
apart. A lot of things are happening. “I love her, Jane,” Hogo said. “Whoever she
is, she is mine, and I am hers, virtually if not actually, forever. I feel I have
to tell you this, because after all I do owe you something for having been the butt
of my unpleasantness for so long. For these years.” “The poet must be reassured and
threatened,” Henry said. “In the same way, Bill must be brought to justice for his
bungling. This latest bit is the last straw absolutely. I see the trial as a kind
of analysis really, more a therapeutic than a judicial procedure. We must discover
the reason, for what he did. When he threw those two six-packs of Miller High Life
through the windscreen of that blue Volkswagen—” Paul inspected Snow White’s window
from his underground installation. “A lucky hit! the idea of installing this underground
installation not far from the house. Now I can keep her under constant surveillance,
through this systemof mirrors and trained dogs. One of my trained dogs is even now investigating that
overly handsome delivery boy from the meat market, who lingered far too long at the
door. I should have a complete report by first light. My God but I had to spend a
lot of money on their training. An estimated two thousand dollars per dog. Well, one
assumes that it is money well spent. If I undertook this project with undertrained
dogs, there is a good chance that everything would go glimmering. Now at least I can
rely on the dog aspect of things.” Snow White was in the kitchen, scoring the meat.
“Oh why does fate give us alternatives to annoy and frustrate ourselves with? Why
for instance do I have the option of going out of the house, through the window, and
sleeping with Paul in his pit? Luckily that alternative is not a very attractive one.
Paul’s princeliness has somehow fallen away, and the naked Paul, without his aura,
is just another complacent bourgeois. And I thought I saw, over his shoulder, a dark
and vilely compelling figure not known to me, as I looked out of my window, in the
mirror. Who is that? Compared to that unknown figure, the figure of Paul is about
as attractive as a mustard plaster. I would never go to his pit, now. Still, as a
possible move, it clutters up the board, obscuring perhaps a more exciting one.”
“NOW I have been left sucking the mop again,” Jane blurted out in the rare-poison
room of her mother’s magnificent duplex apartment on a tree-lined street in a desirable
location. “I have been left sucking the mop in a big way. Hogo de Bergerac no longer
holds me in the highest esteem. His highest esteem has shifted to another, and now
he holds her in it, and I am alone with my malice at last. Face to face with it. For
the first time in my history, I have no lover to temper my malice with healing balsam-scented
older love. Now there is nothing but malice.” Jane regarded the floor-to-ceiling Early
American spice racks with their neatly labeled jars of various sorts of bane including
dayshade, scumlock, hyoscine,
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