The Natural Order of Things by Kevin P. Keating

jars of tannis root, cat’s claw extract, fennel fruit. The weird sisters who toil in the sinister basement labs claim their medicines can reverse the aging process and that they themselves are much older than they appear. He once asked Elsie why she bothers with such obvious chicanery.“Because,” she snapped, “men don’t look at me the way they used to.” His heart started to pound with jealousy. “Men in general or just your husband?” he wanted to ask but lacked the courage to speak the words.
    Claude closes his eyes and tries to stop the flow of distracting thoughts. He must focus on the task at hand, visualize the dog obeying his command (“Sit, boy, sit”), but when he turns around, he finds that Gonzago has disappeared. From the corner of his eye, he glimpses the beast bolting across the yard to the house.
    “Son of a bitch!”
    His heart pounding again, Claude remembers that he left the back door ajar. If Gonzago races upstairs and leaps into bed with Elsie … well, he doesn’t want to think about the consequences, the terrible penalty he will pay. Celibacy for one month? Two? There is no telling how long she will make him suffer, how long he will need to find solace in dirty magazines and masturbation.
    He dashes toward the house, but before he can reach the door and put the leash around the dog’s neck, he feels his toes sink into a lumpy pile of warm shit. He cries out in revulsion and despair, furiously scraping the ghastly black crap from the bottom of his feet.
III
    To his great relief, Claude tracks down Gonzago in the den.
    Panting from all the excitement, the dog sits next to the master’s leather armchair and slurps water from a shiny new dish. Careful not to make any sudden gestures that might startle the animal, Claude removes the amber vial from the pocket of his robe and twists the cap off. His hands start to shake. A bead of sweat rolls down the bridge of his nose. He must not pollute his fingertips. Holding the vial at arm’s length, he pours the poison—one, two, three drops—into the dish. He almost expects to see an explosion of color, a small plume of pink smoke, a magnesium flare shooting across the room, but nothing happens, and Gonzago, after giving the fatal toxin an experimental sniff, laps it up like a king drinking from his favorite chalice.
    Gazing pitilessly down at the dog, Claude whispers, “That’s right, drink deep before you depart.” Smoothing back his hair, he goes to the liquor cabinet and helps himself to a generous glass of absinthe. “Ah, now that’s wormwood,” he says, smacking his lips and sinking into the armchair.
    Ironically, it was here, in this very room, that Edward de Vere, before leaving on his latest business trip, invited Claude to join him for a drink by the fire, two old friends, smoking cigars and nursing tumblers of green liqueur. As usual, Edward had a burning need to brag about his devious plans, the next forbidden excursion, the impending molestation while in Paris, or Copenhagen, or wherever he claimed to be conducting his shady business transactions. Edward frequented exclusive bordellos and other high dollar dens of iniquity recommended by the smarmy black market racketeers who offered him a choice of freshly deloused nymphets imported from the desert wastes of developing countries.
    “Paris is lovely this time of year. Oh, it’s not Amsterdam, of course, but the girls are exceedingly professional … though they do tend to be a bit picky. They detest obesity.Sometimes they refuse to service fat Americans.” He walked over to Claude and patted his belly. Claude glared at him, his nemesis.
    Edward was wearing a poplin dress shirt with French cuffs, a silk tie from Hermes, handcrafted shoes from Milan. His nails were manicured and his teeth were bleached bone white. From the looks of it, he must have had his stiff curlicues and massive swoops of dark hair sculpted by Rodin, a great pompadour modeled after the Gates of Hell.