Temptations of the Flush (Act IV)

Act IV – Private Quarters

* * *

Characters:

POPE RIGHTVINGER - outgoing pope.
POPE FRANCO - incoming pope.
BENITO - domestic servant.
LAZZARO - domestic servant.
LUIGI - gravedigger.
CARDINAL BERTILLONI - senior administrator, Vatican City.
SIGNORE GARIBALDI - mafioso boss.

* * *

Popes old and new take tea and discuss future directions for Curia policy…

‘That thing should be defrocked,’ Pope Franco fumed. ‘He’s clearly a raving homosexual!’

Rightvinger eyed his successor imperiously as he fingered a white cat. ‘Hmm, but I suspect he would enjoy being ‘divested’ ah?’ He raised his Kriegvagon seat slightly causing the feline to twitch.

Franco frowned and tried to discern his counterpart’s inscrutable expression. ‘Well I’ve never been so insulted in my life!’ he raged. ‘The indignity…absolutely diabolical!’

‘Dire-bollock-pull, you say?’ Rightvinger responded with a feint smirk. ‘But shouldn’t one ‘turn the other cheek’…?’

Franco glared ferociously at him. ‘You find this amusing?’

Rightvinger cackled and slapped his knee. ‘Moderately so, ja.’ The cat started and peered up from his lap. ‘But you have to admire Cardinal Felatittio’s enthusiasm - I mean, he was practically champing at the bit.’

‘How dare you!’ The new pope snapped.

‘Or perhaps you found it pleasurable my dear fellow…when he, y’know, offered his succour…?’ The Emeritus winked.

‘I beg your pardon, Franco puffed, ‘you…’

‘And we grant you our pardon,’ Rightvinger deigned. ‘But enough of this loquaciousness; to business I think. We are, after all, here to discuss your future plans are we not?’

Franco sipped sulkily at his tea.

The Pope Emeritus pressed a button on his wheelchair. Shortly, two besuited domestic servants padded into the opulent drawing room. ‘Benito, we will take more tea please. Lazzaro, if you would be kind enough to fetch my aide memoire? Oh, and call maintenance about za blocked lavatory, yes?’

The pair nodded deferentially.

‘Coffee!’ Franco snapped. ‘I prefer coffee…and thank you for asking. Truly, one is overwhelmed by such gracious hospitality.’

The Emeritus ignored him and exchanged a glance with Benito who then disappeared into an adjacent kitchenette. The sound of a coffee grinder broke a stilted silence. The cat mewed and stared down disdainfully at Franco.

‘Manners maketh man,’ Rightvinger commented absently whilst petting his furry friend. ‘Puss, puss, puss, puss,’ he crooned; pursing his lips in a fashion evocative of a grossly distended sphincter. The feline looked up, watching intently as her master fished a tidbit from a silver tray. It promptly wolfed down the morsel from his fingers. ‘Aw, you love za lange-schwein don’t you, ah? Oo-ooh...you little slut! Oo-ooh...you little harlot...ah?...ah?’

The feline purred wildly as it was boisterously fondled and pawed.

The Emeritus returned to his successor. ‘You like cats?’

‘I’m allergic to the brutes,’ Franco sniffed. ‘So I’ll thank you to keep that mangy moggy away from me.’

‘Hmm, we take exception to that, don’t we Magdalene?’ Rightvinger’s maw puckered again and lowered to the cat’s head, planting a slobbering kiss. ‘Don’t listen to that nasty cardinal. We should tell her to put her claws away shouldn’t we, hmm?’ As the feline sniffed adoringly at Rightvinger’s drooling grimace, his dentures slithered from his mouth and crowned her with a toothy-tiara. The cat shook its head and mewed forlornly as her owner retrieved the itinerant mandibles and blew at them.

‘Dis-gusting,’ Franco sneered. ‘I’m surprised such cankerous creatures are permitted here,’ he continued haughtily, ‘left to roam hither and thither…leaving their calling cards on the upholstery…’

‘Nonsense my dear chap,’ Rightvinger countered. ‘My Magdalene is fully potty-trained. Furthermore, she’s a devoted ‘roam-and-cat-lick’. Aren’t you my diddy-pusskin?’ he chortled through slightly furry teeth. The cat stretched up on its haunches and began prancing coquettishly about her master’s lap before presenting him with a quivering rump. ‘Who’s a little Jezebel then? Who’s my strudel-strumpet, ah? Oo-ooh, you vant me to tickle that pretty pink rosebud again don’t you, ah…ah…?’

‘Eeugh...how utterly repugnant,’ Franco muttered.

Shortly, Lazzaro crept in. ‘Your Holiness,’ he said reverentially, handing a leather-bound journal to the Pope Emeritus.

‘Ah thank you Lazzaro, most kind,’ Rightvinger said with a nod. ‘I trust your paw’s healing satisfactorily?’

The tall young man looked down sullenly at his bandaged hand. ‘Yes, your Holiness. Most agreeably.’

‘Good. Now, you will attend to our maintenance concern if you will. Please escort the tradesman straight here and ensure he doesn’t stray.’

‘Yes, your Holiness.’ The servant bowed low and departed.

‘And the coffee…?’ Franco huffed, staring pointedly at his wristwatch.

‘Patience, my discourteous friend, is a virtue,’ Rightvinger scolded. As he shifted awkwardly a gurgling noise emanated from his Kriegvagon. ‘Ooouf, oh dear. I fear my effluvia’s proving a touch bothersome today.’

‘Pfffffft,’ [sic] came a gusty expulsion from his nether regions.

The cat bristled, pricking up its ears with alarm.

All of a sudden, the genteel ambiance was punctured by a thundering cannonade: ‘Brrr-ummphhh!…pitta-pitta-pitta…flumph-phuff…thrump…parp!…phhhlutt…pit-pit…’

The feline wailed, scrambled to floor and promptly hightailed it to the sanctuary of the chaise lounge. It gazed back looking most aggrieved.

‘Puss, puss, puss,’ Rightvinger called after his skulking pet. A flushing sound emanated from his wheelchair followed by the urgent thrumming of a motor and a whooshing sound. ‘Oooh…I love zat bracing air wafting around meine pinkel,’ he chuckled.

‘Phorrrp!...pwit-pwit...fumphhhhhhh…’ rumbled a decidedly damp squib. Sloshing, slurping noises began to swill around within the Kriegvagon’s bowels.

‘Will you desist from your foul percolations!’ Franco bellowed, wrinkling up his nose in disgust.

‘You do not vant za coffee?’ Rightvinger inquired mildly. ‘Hmm, there is no pleasing some people.’

The new pope duly produced a dainty handkerchief as he felt himself gag.

Benito strode into the room wearing a plumber’s mask and bearing a tray. He placed it down before the retching guest and opened the terrace window. Before beating a hasty retreat he coughed politely and discharged a discreet blast of air freshener.

Meanwhile Rightvinger perused his notes. ‘Hmm, let us see what we have in za pipeline. Hmm, I note you’re proposing some reforms? Tell me, what is wrong with preserving centuries of intransigence, ah?’ He paused to gaze at a portrait of Benito Mussolini. ‘You know, if I were you I… Ah…but za vicissitudes of men are no longer my concern…’ As if to underscore his existential angst the Emeritus evacuated a whining fart.

Franco glared up at his predecessor. ‘Well, mercifully, you are not me. What our church - and indeed what I desperately need - is a breath of fresh air. I envision our onward course as a mélange of old and new.’

‘Indeed,’ Rightvinger sniffed, cocking a haughty eyebrow.

‘As everyone knows by now,’ Franco went on, ‘I’m a humble man of modest needs…’

‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ his counterpart butted in. ‘So you will take za guest house and I keep my palace. I’m pleased we’re in accord.’ Dripping, trickling sounds issued from beneath him rising to a crescendo of rapid plopping noises, culminating in an explosive splatter.

Franco brought his handkerchief to his nostrils and eyed him up and down severely. ‘Good God man, are you not well?’

‘I fear I’ve been stricken with an ague of late,’ Rightvinger responded with a dismissive wave. ‘Continue.’

Franco’s began to gasp for air, his eyes streaming. ‘You will… [cough] …excuse me…a moment…’ He felt himself begin to swoon.

‘I must say, you’re looking a little peaky cardinal,’ the Emeritus observed.

‘Whoa …uh-oh…ooh…’ Franco panted, ‘…attack…o’ the vapours...I feel like…the Oracle of Delphi…y’know…seeing stars.’

‘Oh dear,’ Rightvinger said gazing down critically. ‘Well I sincerely hope you have the capacity to fill my shoes satisfactorily. Certainly, I filled my shoes on a regular basis until I acquired this most commodious throne. My very own ‘poopmobile’.’

The new pope gulped at his coffee and began to feel somewhat bolstered by a light breeze. He gathered his wits and addressed his host. ‘The…erm…first point…is the matter of sollicitationis; you know; clergymen who spend more time preying than praying…?’

‘Ah yes. It seems despite my worldwide edict enforcing the concealment of sexual abuse cases, there’s been seepage.’

‘Seepage? Listen, those shyster lawyers are bleeding us dry over this! Our church must act forthwith or face bankruptcy. So I suggest we discreetly petition the European Parliament. Have them lower the legal age of consent to five-years old.’

‘Hmm, an interesting strategy,’ Rightvinger cogitated.

‘As for the existing legions of libertines you’ve been shuffling around the globe, I propose immediate excommunication; leave them to face the jurisdiction of the civil authorities.’

‘Nein! We continue to handle these matters internally and in strictest secrecy. Guarding our reputation trumps any concerns of so-called ‘civic justice’. This is a matter of principle. As supreme representatives of God, do you think we’re answerable to the paltry laws of men? Of course not; we transcend such fripperies. Besides, I’ve an alternative strategy. I’m fully aware of these clergy and za catamites with whom they consort. And I’ve come to za conclusion that cure is better than prevention.You will leave this with me.’

‘I see. Well we might at least implement the second-phase of my scheme; the introduction of Fleshlight™ and Kleenex to all confession cubicles. That way, should a priest experience… [ahem]…‘amorous inclinations’ during confession he might, as it were, contain the matter discreetly.’

‘I will consider this,’ Rightvinger commented nonchalantly.

‘Fine. But I trust this won’t become a sticking point,’ Franco went on, ‘because quite frankly matters have come to a head. Do you know I actually discovered a glory-hole in my local confession box? I was there as a penitent. Initially I assumed the priest was offering home-cooked sausage to the destitute. Dear God…I mean the degeneracy!’

‘Quite,’ Rightvinger murmured. ‘It would seem piety, not patriotism, is the last bastion of za scoundrel.’

‘Well, it is high time we clamped down on this sort of behaviour in our ministries. So I’m advocating the imposition of chastity belts. Furthermore, I’ll insist upon a daily dose of bromide for all clergy. And, for those more ‘wayward’ clerics, we provide child-sized inflatable dolls. I feel confident that, in concerto, these measures will reign in those vile and libidinous urges that have cost us so dearly.’

‘Ah-ha, excellent,’ Rightvinger crowed approvingly (popping a celebratory squeaker). ‘I must concede you have devised a competent damage-limitation strategy.’ A red light began to flash on the Kriegvagon’s control panel. ‘Ah shizer! Not again surely?’ he grumbled. ‘Za sludge tank is almost full. You will be succinct. I have no desire to baste in my own juices again.’

‘Then I will speak of my majestic vision - visited upon me by God himself: ‘Popeworld’. Good wholesome family entertainment with a healthy dose of proselytizing. I received inspiration after reading about Walt Digby – y’know, the McCarthyite racist who hated trade unions and enjoyed fairy stories?’

‘Indeed,’ Rightvinger reflected, ‘I’ve heard of him. I understand he shared many of our political affinities.’

‘Doubtless. Anyway, his muse led me to a shining revelation; St Peter’s Square festooned with carousels, rollercoasters, burger stands...  I see a carnival of characters from our illustrious history like Pope Julius II and Tomás de Torquemada.’

‘Ah-ha,’ Rightvinger slapped his knee approvingly, ‘yes, a useful diversion.’

‘Quite. Not only would it entice more sightseers, but it would also restore funds to our impoverished coffers. We might even utilize our pool of amateur musicians, thespians and clowns.’

‘A splendid notion. In fact I have myself progressed from the pianola to za violin. I might offer the occasional performance as za ‘kiddie-fiddler’ yes?’

‘Hmm, well…a possibility…’ Franco humored him doubtfully. ‘But just think of the vast revenue from corporate sponsorship. There’s also the merchandising potential. Picture it: Jesus Juice, Pope-a-Cola, Heretic Burgers, Papal Peenie-Pads…Pope John Paul II dildos… The possibilities are endless. Further, we commission the IOR to print Popeworld Dollars. Then, at the end of a two-week vacation package, we massively devalue them and claw them back at huge profit.’

‘It seems I’ve underestimated you my dear fellow. You are, like your namesake, General Francisco Franco, a man of uncommon vision. Alright, we will review other matters in due course. There are more pressing matters to attend to before decrepitude overtakes me. Good.’ The Emeritus lowered his seat and stood to pour himself another tea.

Franco quailed as he was confronted by a pair of blotchy, sloughing buttocks through a circular vent in the rear of Rightvinger’s vestments. The Emeritus stooped as his cat scampered up to him, providing a more intimate portrait and one normally reserved for proctologists.

‘By all the saints!’ Franco exclaimed, ‘I’ll never eat a pastrami bagel again.’

‘My main concern, naturally, is we maintain the dignity of za church,’ Rightvinger asserted as he caressed his pet. ‘Oo-ooh what a fluesy, ah? Oo-ooh you’d make a lovely pair of gloves, hmm?’ he cackled raffishly. Feeling a slight updraft he settled back into his chair.

Magdalene wailed and darted towards the visitor.

‘Shoo!’ Franco yelled. ‘Keep that caterwauling quadruped away from me!’ He began sneezing.

There was a rap at the door.

‘Come,’ Rightvinger called out.

Lazzaro stole in accompanied by a disheveled, shambling, wreck-of-a-man in overalls and brandishing a sink plunger.

‘Evenin’ yer’ ‘oliness, I understand you got a problem with yer plumbing?’ Luigi slurred.

‘How dare you!’ Rightvinger spat. ‘Impudent swine!’

‘Ah…err…now…hmm,’ Luigi gabbled, swaying somewhat. ‘Um…I’ve come about the...um...clogged up lav, yeah? The governor mentioned you got a logjam or something?’

Rightvinger ignored him and addressed Lazzaro. ‘Please, will you show this cretin to the restroom. And keep an eye on him, yes? I think it is inebriated. Oh, and the other matter; you are to bring this one to me, ja? Integra et incolumi…understood?’

Lazzaro nodded soberly and led Luigi to the bathroom.

Luigi winced as he dropped his tool bag and regarded his bandaged hand. He peered into the toilet bowl. A solitary kernel of sweet corn sailed a rather stagnant sea. As Lazzaro watched over him from the doorway he quaffed a long draft of liquor and placed a refuse bag by the pedestal. He began to struggle with a pair of long rubber gloves. ‘Ere, give us a hand will yer’?’ he called back to the servant.

‘Sure,’ Lazzaro said, closing the door behind him. ‘But I only have one hand to offer.’

Luigi noticed the servant’s bandage as the pair wrestled with the gloves. ‘Snap,’ he grinned, feeling a certain camaraderie with a fellow sufferer. ‘Right, well, I’d best get this sorted…I left the gas oven on, see?’

With gloves finally secured the gravedigger began groping around the u-bend. ‘Papers,’ he huffed, trying to keep his chin from the bowl. ‘Coor dear, you wouldn’t believe the number of times I’ve ‘ad to fish documents out o’ blocked lavvies.’

‘I see,’ Lazzaro murmured.

Luigi yanked a dripping, sodden mass from the depths and plopped them into the sack. ‘Bleedin’ ‘orrible,’ he shuddered. ‘Reckon there’s bit more up there too.’ He returned his hand to the putrid pool. ‘Y’know, I’m not actually qualified in the maintenance of bogs?’

‘No, you’re a gravedigger…and a fucking thief,’ Lazzaro hissed.

‘Now…um…‘ere…’ Alarm bells rang loud in Luigi’s head. So loud, in fact, that even he could hear them over the dull throb of his hangover. ‘Omar-gawd…you…?’

‘Me.’ Lazzaro grinned maliciously as he stalked towards the prone workman. ‘What’s wrong?’ he snickered, seizing Luigi’s head and thrusting it brutally into the pan, ‘…feeling a little flushed?’

* * *

Bertilloni dialled his cell phone and drummed his fingers to the dialling tone. ‘Answer goddamit.’

‘What already?’ Garibaldi spat.

‘Another fatality. Wiener…Stanislaw Wiener. And he’ll be missed. He was the Archbishop of Warsaw,’ the cardinal said perfunctorily.

‘Oh yeah, he was a regular…paid well…liked ‘em young,’ Garibaldi said with a horse laugh. ‘So he fell off his perch, ah?’

‘Not exactly. He was decapitated… dismembered. My source informs me the walls were adorned with profanities written in his own blood.’

There was a long pause. ‘Mother-fucker. Hey, I only sent my guy ‘round there yesterday. Y’know, the Ganymede Guesthouse. Anyways, he had a sniff around. One of my little boys mentioned this masked monk he saw; tearing down the stairwell. So he followed this freak to the basement. But then the guy just fuckin’ vanished. The kid said he ‘melted into darkness like a phantom, like il Diavolo himself’.

‘Of course…the catacombs!’ Bertilloni exclaimed. ‘There’s a network of rat-runs extending way beyond Vatican state boundaries. Hmm, it seems our assassin’s privy to this. But how? I mean it’s hardy common knowledge…?’

‘Obviously he’s connected. So he has a rendezvous with our bishop then dices him. Y’know, this ain’t good for business,’ Garibaldi murmured gruffly. ‘So I been thinkin’…why don’t I move operations to São Paulo?’

‘But we’re in this together aren’t we? Surely it’s imperative that we find this cutthroat? I mean, what if he knows of us…?’

‘Hey that’s your lookout pal. I’m shippin’ out. I mean, we may be morally bankrupt but at least we’ve stayed financially buoyant all these years. But things ain’t lookin’ too bright now. Y’know that friendly police commandant? Well, he just told me about some other stiff. Monsignor Giuseppe Carrioni, Bishop of Verona - ‘Sloppy Giuseppe’ to his friends. Anyways, the polizia just pulled him out the fuckin’ Tiber. He looked like he’d been fuckin’ crucified. Oh, and he’d had his balls sliced off.’

‘What?’ Bertilloni gasped. ‘Jesus! Of course we must act on this. You must send your men into the catacombs hunt for this killer. I mean if I go down, well…what of your fate?’ the cardinal insinuated.

‘You threatening me - smug little cunt? Garibaldi hissed menacingly. ‘Hey, Listen, forget the inferno, I’ll throw you down the deepest fuckin’ pit there is. I told you, I’m out. Latin America’s where the action is. People-trafficking, drugs…you name it. And thanks to you guys prohibiting condoms they can’t stop having bambinos. So there’s always fresh meat for the whorehouses. So when your cardinals finish spouting their sanctimonious bullshit from the pulpit they can enjoy some R&R in the Favelas they’ve helped create. It’s perfect. Plus the kids can’t afford no fuckin’ lawyers and nobody asks questions when they go missin’.’

‘I think you’re forgetting about the documents in my safe my friend,’ Bertilloni hissed. ‘Many of which might prove, shall we say, embarrassing - even for you. After all, you’re not above sampling your own delectable wares on occasion, are you? Oh, and don’t forget I have you on candid camera.’

Yeah-yeah, whatever. We’re through pal.’

‘We’re not through, damn it!’

He was anwered with the dialling tone.

Bertilloni assumed a faraway look. He gazed from his townhouse window to the infernal embers of Rome’s metropolis. Was it over…all the power, the influence…the wealth…?  Up in flames like the apocalyptic pyre of the cityscape? Perhaps it was time to retire…enjoy all the wealth in sunnier climes…?

Bertilloni’s craggy features took on a wistful expression. But then he noticed smoke wafting around the doorframe. Paint blistered on the door. What the hell? As he stepped over and flung it open, flames consumed him.

© Edwin Black 2013

 

Temptations of the Flush (Act I)

Herewith, the first part of my tale. EB x

Act 1 - Bordello

 

* * *

 

Characters:

 

LUIGI - gravedigger, Vatican City.
CARDINAL BERTILLONI - senior administrator, Vatican City.
FRIAR FARQUHARSON - proprietor of a disreputable guesthouse.

CARDINAL HERMANN GOËBLER - Austrian bishop (deceased).

 

* * *

Somewhere in the dank bowels of the Vatican catacombs…

‘Let me get this straight…you want me to lug some rotten old bug-buffet all the way back from Piazza Vittorio to the morgue? I didn’t see no docket for this…? Nah, it’s more than my bleedin’ job’s worth mate,’ Luigi griped. He juggled the receiver awkwardly, flicking ash into the mouth of an unwitting corpse that just happened to be gawping in his direction.

‘Now you listen here you cretinous drunk, I’ve had just about enough of your impudence!’ Cardinal Bertilloni erupted. ‘Either you attend to this unfortunate incident or you’ll find yourself back on the streets with the rest of the winos.’

‘Alright, alright, keep yer’ bleedin’ skullcap on… Jesus. It just don’t sound legit, that’s all gov’. I mean, what led him to open a maggot-motel anyway?’

‘That, you bacchanalian brute, is hardly your concern.’ Bertilloni snapped haughtily. ‘Now, I must attend to more pressing matters. In case it escaped your leaden wits, there’s a papal conclave in session.’

‘Oh I see… it’s like that is it? Usual story - I do all the spadework while you swan off and then take all the credit,’ Luigi grumbled sullenly.

‘Whatever,’ the cardinal responded dismissively, ‘all I care about is that you handle this matter with the utmost delicacy. Do I make myself clear? Otherwise, who knows, you may receive Saint Peter’s summons sooner than you think…?’

Luigi blanched somewhat, cognizant of the cardinal’s great influence over hearts and minds - some of those minds being of a distinctly criminal bent. He hastily lifted his hipflask and took a long draft. ‘Ah, well… erm… if you put it like that, your eminence,’ he stammered, ‘I s’pose I’d best take a note of the address then.’

Shortly, Luigi refilled his flask with surgical spirit (plus the usual dash of embalming fluid for ‘fortification’). He grabbed the scrawled note, overcoat and keys to the stätion wagon.

The hypnotic sound of pelting rain eased his disquiet somewhat as he drove towards Rome’s red light precinct. He was all too familiar with the shadier parts of town having endured childhood in one of Rome’s orphanages. His escape to a better life had been fleeting. Following his daughter’s death, and freefall into älcoholism, his life had unraveled. Cardinal Bertilloni had gathered up those threads; offered him work and lodgings. But at what price? For what had at first seemed an act of mercy was merely an expediency. Luigi had come to discern his true purpose as a vassal of the church; compelled to do its biddìng and dependent upon its grace. This wasn’t the first time he’d helped to pull the shroud over an ‘indiscretion’.

‘Why do I always get lumbered? Why me, eh?’ Luigi griped as he steered into a backstreet and crawled along a dingy alleyway. The vehicle juddered to a halt. The unremarkable block was one of many guesthouses maintained by the Papal state. He gathered his accoutrements from the trunk and stabbed at a door buzzer, drizzle blurring his sight.

‘Come, get in, get in.’ A middle-aged Dominican Friar all but yanked Luigi over the threshold. The gravedigger was then unceremoniously ushered up four flìghts of stairs. He paused, gasping for breath and peered along a gloomy corridor.

The Black Friar regarded him severely. ‘Come, we must attend to this poor unfortunate soul immediately.’

Luigi dropped his bag and took a swig of his cocktail. ‘Listen, let me explain how this works. I ain’t doing no grafting ‘til I catch my breath - comprendes?’ he wheezed.

‘Ah, but of course. Yes, His Eminence warned me of your sloppiness,’ The Dominican remarked curtly.

‘Sloppiness?’ Luigi protested. ‘Well I’m not the one who let some poor bleeder snuff it under their roof am I? So don’t come the high and mighty with me, alright?’

The friar regarded the pathetic puffing figure speculatively. ‘Forgive me brother Luigi. I was simply trying to impress upon you the dire urgency of the task in hand. In four hours dawn will be upon us and could betray our best intentions.’

‘Alright, point taken,’ Luigi huffed.

‘I should introduce myself,’ the Dominican went on. ‘I’m Friar Georgio Farquharson - ‘Friar Farq’ to my brethren. The knots in my cincture signify poverty, obedience and chastity. In fact, the cardinal regularly reminds us all to ‘get knotted’. Oh, but I fear that last knot has been known to slip rather in this particular establishment…’

‘Eh?’ Luigi responded, attempting to untangle the allusion. ‘Well anyhow, you’d better lead the way mate.’

The Dominican fiddled with a bunch of keys. He turned the lock and bade Luigi follow him inside. He flicked the light on and immediately locked the door behind them. Promptly he strode over to the balcony doors and flung them open. In spite of the chill waft of air, an all-too-familiar stench pervaded the room.

Luigi fought back his nausea. His gaze drifted to the bed. As his mind struggled to comprehend the visual melee, he pondered the possibility that the embalming fluid had finally marinated his brain. ‘What the…? Coor dear… well… I’ve bleedin’ seen it all now mate … I mean, how the ‘ell did that get up there…?’

The pair remained transfixed by a bloated, trussed-up corpse slumped face down on the bed. It appeared to be wearing a gimp mask and was clad in a hirsute costume cut away at the buttocks. Wedged firmly between them was, what looked like, the mottled tip of a medium sized marrow.

‘Um, it was of course causas naturales.’ The Dominican intimated with an uneasy wink.

‘Natural causes you say…?’ Luigi queried, scratching his temple. ‘Ah well, whatever…’ He crouched and unzipped his carryall, removing a body bag along with a selection of tools.

‘Terrible business...’ the Friar commented, ‘… and most unseemly - even for this place.’ He winced and produced a handkerchief, holding it to his mouth as he crossed himself.

Luigi lit a cigarette and surveyed the grim spectacle. He took a long swig from his hipflask and regarded an assortment of root vegetables strewn about the floor. His gaze inexorably strayed back to the marrow nestling within buttocks that were striated by angry welts. ‘Well, to be frank with you Friar, it looks like there might have been foul play afoot,’ he observed. ‘I mean, I’m no expert but even for a flagellant this is going a bit too far innit? Ah, but what I know eh?’

‘Nothing.’ the friar asserted. ‘You know nothing, you remember nothing… you say nothing. I think we both appreciate this, yes? Or must I inform His Eminence of your burning curiosity?’

Luigi stared back defiantly. ‘Ere, don’t you get shirty wi’ me Friar-Fuck!’ he blustered. ‘Remember, I’m doing you a bleedin’ favour ‘ere. And doing it very much off-the-record by the looks of things.’

The Dominican relaxed somewhat. He gazed pensively out the portafinestra and beyond to a coruscating cityscape. ‘Just so long as you understand. It’s imperative we maintain the utmost secrecy.’

‘Trust me, I’m a professional carcass-courier.’ Luigi slurred. ‘And I ain’t spilling no beans neither. Or any other vegetables for that matter,’ he quipped, lobbing his cigarette butt towards the balcony. He set about gathering up the selection of soiled tubas. ‘Coor dear, talk about getting the shit end of the stick,’ he complained.

‘He was the primate for the whole of Austria you know… a contender for the chair of St Peter…’ the Friar reflected gloomily.

Luigi looked up from his exertions. ‘Primate? Bloody ‘ell, he looks more like a bleedin’ baboon to me. Anyway, how d’you reckon that marrow found its way up there?’

Friar Farquharson drew a pained expression. ‘Well, I fear he must have stumbled upon it whilst performing his ablutions.’

‘Stumbled? Yeah right, pull the other one mate!’ Luigi scoffed. ‘And I s’pose it’s been well documented how marrows can suddenly launch themselves up a fella’s ‘mangina’…?’

‘How dare you cast those smutty aspersions over our beloved brother!’ The Friar countered indignantly. ‘Besides, well… you’ve heard of Mexican jumping beans…?’

‘Alright, alright,’ Luigi said raising a placatory hand. ‘I mean, it’s only natural to speculate given the unusual circumstances innit? I mean, maybe it was some bizarre rite of passage that went horribly wrong…? Well, back-passage in this particular instance. Or what if it’s the ‘omosexual version of a sharia divorce…?’

‘Will you shut up?’ The Friar snapped testily. ‘I’ve never heard anything so preposterous!’

‘Sorry mate.’ Luigi said as he struggled to unknot the rope around the cadaver’s wrists. ‘Just that I find all this easier if I’m thinking aloud… Y’know, it takes my mind of the macabre realities?’

Luigi finally unbound the corpse and unsuccessfully attempted to attach one of the ropes around the end of the embedded marrow. ‘Ah bollocks!’ he cursed. ‘Listen you’re gonna ‘ave to help me get this marrow out. If the governor sees this he’ll go apeshit.’

The pair wrestled against the stubborn squash from either side, bracing themselves against a broad fatty rump.

Exasperated, Luigi stood. ‘Ere, grab my waist yeah? If we both yank at the same time we might manage to shift it.’ The friar’s large hands fastened to Luigi’s hips as he finally gained purchase of the slippery green baton. ‘Heave!’ he instructed. They hauled in unison.

Abruptly the obstinate marrow dislodged with a loud ‘squelch’ and went sailing out through the French windows. The pair toppled backwards into a squirming heap. The extraction was followed by the sloppy trumping of escaping gas that finally subsided into a gurgling hiss. The Friar retched as the fetid reek assailed his senses.

‘Ere, do you reckon he just blew you a kiss?’ Luigi jested with a ribald chuckle.

The Friar dusted himself off and scowled at him.

It fell to Luigi to perform the disagreeable task of ensuring there weren’t any further foreign bodies lodged in the corpse’s rectum. He cursed as he retrieved a gold bracelet beaded with fecal matter. ‘Eeuu-yuck!’ he exclaimed. He promptly rinsed his hands, the bracelet, then rewarded himself generously with some further libation. He pocketed the trinket.

It then took the duo some time to manoeuver the considerable deadweight into its bag and then manhandle it into the corridor.

‘He was a big fella, weren’t he?’ Luigi gasped as he slumped against the wall again and tried to catch his breath. ‘The occasional fast wouldn’t ‘ave hurt... I mean, His Grace here could have lived off the fat of the land for years.’

‘He was susceptible to the same temptations that we all are, I suppose,’ the friar reflected. ‘We must pray that he’s been gathered unto God’s bosom.’

Luigi snorted derisively and lit another cigarette. ‘Never mind about breastfeeding, who the ‘ell was this bloke anyway… Cardinal Sin…?

‘Certainly not,’ the Dominican snapped. ‘This was His Eminence Hermann Goëbler, Archbishop of Vienna. A most venerable member of our mother church.’

‘Ah well, in that case he’ll probably get canonized and depicted with one of them gold Frisbees stuck on the back of his ‘ead. They might even make him patron saint of marrows, eh mate?’ Luigi speculated with a lopsided smirk.

‘That is not for us to say brother. We will advise the press office he suffered a mishap whist tilling our vegetable patch for the poor.’

Luigi went to check the time but, much to his dismay, realised his wrist watch was missing. ‘Ahh...fuck!’ he spat petulantly.

‘Yes?’ The friar dutifully inquired.

© Edwin Black 2013.
 

A case study of self-delusion

It could be said that one of the greatest ‘crimes’ against the self is self-delusion – the deliberate denial of one’s own true nature. This is especially pertinent if that denial leads a person to delegate all consequence or responsibility for their actions to a mental aberration or ‘condition'. An ego of this persuasion could exist beyond the confines societal morality and become a law unto themselves; untroubled by conscience or regret. Although such a person might superficially exhibit unorthodox behaviour, does it always follow that there is anything acutely wrong with them? Could it be they’re so captivated by their unfettered existence that they’ll stop at nothing to convince themselves, and the world, that they’re incurable?

I believe that I’ve met such a person and I would like to explain why. However, you can draw your own conclusions as I guide you through the toe-curling, gruesome and occasionally hilarious events that unfolded during my cohabitation with this individual.

Welcome to the world of Riley…

The life of Riley

The following is my account of events, although names have been changed for privacy reasons. Please don’t read any further if you’re of gentle birth or have a delicate disposition. Note: I’ve opted to write this as a vague pastiche of a gothic horror – well, it seemed appropriate somehow…

1. A DATE WITH FATE

Some years ago, having just returned from a stay overseas, I found myself in the unenviable position of being unemployed, broke and looking for accommodation in London. A close friend of mine suggested I might contact his ex-playmate who had a vacant two-bedroom apartment near London Bridge. How could I forsee that my acceptance of this ‘fantastic opportunity' would lead me straight into the clutches of a libertine…?

Riley appeared delighted at the idea of having a reliable ‘flat-sitter’ (since he was now living with his mother) and assured me that his visits would only be occasional - at most, overnight stays. Having met him, my first impressions were that he was an affable person, somewhat shy, but well-intended. The kind of person who might linger in the background of a social function and be infinitely grateful for even a passing exchange of platitudes. Briefly, we traded backgrounds.

Riley had been brought over to the UK by his parents at eight years old and originally hailed from Nigeria. Of diminutive stature, he had a portly build, was bespectacled and sported an unkempt beard. Much of the time he wore an inane grin that imbued him with a childlike, almost imbecilic quality. Although I had reservations regarding his previous involvement with a cult known as the ‘Seventh Day Adventists’, on balance, I decided to pursue the arrangement to move. I collected the door keys and decamped from a friend’s sofa where I’d been temporarily installed.

2. GRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY.

The apartment was situated in a 1930s style, three story block – social housing intended for the poor of that era. Although unlovely in appearance, it was well-tended and recessed from an airy, tree-lined street. In fact, my first impressions of the surroundings were favourable.

In stark contrast, my crushing sense of chagrin at the condition of the apartment was matched only by an overwhelming urge to gag. There was a pervading smell; one of damp and mouldering. In fact, walls that hadn’t already divested themselves of their wallpaper were, in places, blackened by mould. Riley had already instructed me not to open windows in order to guard against stray gusts of wind and a perceived threat of intruders. I surmised that the windows had not been opened for months, if not years. In fact, many of them were sealed with duck tape and blanked-out by refuse bags.

As I ventured warily along the hallway, I found myself wading through discarded fast-food packaging (some containing rotting food), crumpled pages of longhand, used tissues, dirty laundry and a brick-a-brack of miscellany such as astronomy journals, condom packets and chocolate wrappers. (Ferrero Rocher being a clear favourite although I fear that famed ambassador from the commercials might have found the setting less than convivial for one of his opulent soirees.)

My intended (spare) bedroom contained one single mattress almost lost to a deluge of assorted rubbish and dust. Short of hiring a snow plough, I was perplexed as to how I might shift all the crap and begin utilising such a festering garbage heap as my boudoir. To my horror, I discovered that it was inhabited by a species of arachnid called ‘Opiliones’. This species dart around on long, spindly legs and survive by eating fungi, animal remains and also by sucking the juices from their prey. (I would later discover that these creatures shared this latter mode of predation with the owner of the property…)

Greatly disheartened, I lurched toward the kitchen, girding my loins for what other horrors may await. I discovered it thick with grease on work surfaces and walls. Evidently, this had tar-like quality which had ensnared legions of hapless insects. Surely all but the most steadfast etymologist would have quailed in terror? Those creepy-crawlies that had survived this peril were rewarded with a bounty of rotting cereal, flour and spices, etc. In fact, the kitchen represented an entire ecosystem all feasting greedily in a living, seething carpet of compost. The infestation had spread throughout the cupboards, shelves and drawers. It was, in short, vile.

The sitting room was in a similar state to the bedroom excepting that there was a preponderance of discarded cell phone numbers and hastily scrawled mantras such as ‘…must build muscles. IMPORTANT: either have to build them or touch them…’ Initially, I didn’t interpret any sinister connotations in such notes. (I use similar, apparently nonsensical, jottings in my own writing - phrases that, to a casual browser, might appear ludicrous.) At that point, I assumed that Riley shared my passion for composing skits and poems. This supposition was compounded when I perused dusty bookshelves which were brimming over with poetry anthologies, manuals on creative writing and various esoteric publications concerning the healing power of crystals and evangelist teachings.

The walls of the bathroom were glistening with condensation and the porcelain discoloured with limescale. The bath itself was clearly blocked and exhibited a tidemark of scum and pubic hair[?] that had evidently bubbled up from a blockage in the drains. Ever practical, I decided that this would be my first point of attack in my stratagem to wage war on grime.

The toilet was unlike anything on earth (or, I suspect, in the known universe). The pan was encrusted with russet-coloured limescale up to the waterline and bore testimony to countless ill-considered evacuations. In fact, in the course of my life, I’ve witnessed crack-houses that were less squalid. It was at this point that I began to wonder if Dante’s inferno might have been slightly more hospitable…?

Needless to say, I spent the next two weeks scrubbing, disinfecting, sweeping and polishing the festering mountain of grime, filth and decay. I was fortunate in the discovery of some rusted tools in my bedroom since it required a chisel to remove the near-fossilised crud from the toilet pan.

At last, satisfied with my Herculean accomplishments, I resumed my writing in an environment finally fit for human habitation. This period of my life heralded a peculiar odyssey into the psyche of a self-deluded mind.

3. TEA AND SYPMPATHY

I consider myself a compassionate human being; a good listener and generally pretty tolerant. Tales of injustice or illiberal attitudes are vexatious to me. I was therefore moved by what I came to regard as Riley’s tortured existence (or ‘condition’ as he preferred to call it).

As a child, his parents had forced him to attend a ‘church’ that abounded with theories of demonology and damnation. To my mind, this represents an abhorrent and inverted perspective of the human condition that ignores its more sublime and transcendent qualities. Doubtless, such scaremongering took its toll on poor Riley’s young mind. His father also regarded beating to be the mainstay of good parenting practices. Riley attributed much of his ‘condition’ to his brutal father.

When Riley first visited me at his flat, he was thrilled by its transformation from a hovel into home. He wasted no time in explaining that his various childhood traumas had rendered him incapable of performing even the most basic housewifery tasks. ‘Really…?’ I remember commenting with a wry grin. However, moved by his plight, I told him that I was more than happy to maintain the place, pay rent and even prepare (vegetarian) food for him should he stay over. Compassion, in hindsight, isn’t always the best policy.

Within a month, Riley had moved in to the apartment and ensconced himself in his old bedroom. Although I’d had no forewarning of this change of living arrangements, he proved to be amiable (if eccentric) company. At this point, I was fortunate in finding an offer of employment.

Things settled down into a kind of domestic ‘normality’ - although I found Riley’s insatiable curiosity about work, friends and past relations disconcerting at times. There were other matters of concern too; he rarely ventured out of the flat, he still insisted (vehemently) on windows remaining closed and obsessed over washing his hands (around 40 times a day, I learned). There was also the matter of him asking to massage my chest and arms - to which I consented since he claimed this was ‘therapeutic’ for his condition. Initially, these idiosyncrasies didn’t worry me unduly. So I indulged, humoured and entertained his whims.

I decided to help Riley apply for a higher rate of state benefits, encourage him to socialise and generally persuade him to forgo his daily diet of TV chat shows and Ferrero Rocher. I even organised an introductory consultation with a psychotherapist in the hope that it might help him to overcome his ‘condition’ and bolster confidence.

The meeting itself was a startling revelation for all concerned parties. As well as covering Riley’s obsessive-compulsive disorders, the psychiatrist went on to pry into sexual behaviour (well, what more could one possibly expect from your average kwack?). It transpired that Riley was often consumed by a desire to grope and fondle and had already done so in public on several previous occasions. Of more concern was the blithe and jocular manner with which he described these lapses of judgement. The victims of these unwelcome trysts had tended to be men of muscular build who were, understandably, enraged by his amorous advances. I speculated that Riley was lucky not to have been afforded a sturdy punch on the nose. Naturally, the psychiatrist suggested that he voluntarily signed the Sex Offenders Register. Riley refused, became agitated, and requested that the session be terminated. Latterly, he did attend further appointments after much cajoling on my part. However, after only a few sessions, he opted to end the treatment since it was ‘unhelpful to the condition’. Inevitably, I began to wonder if he either wanted to be helped or desired to change. That said, he did agree to take a mild course of sedatives to alleviate ‘agoraphobia’ (his term - not the analyst’s).

4. THRILLS AND SPILLS

Some months into my cohabitation with Riley, further unsavoury details came to light – some trivial, others less so. In many ways, both categories delineated a manifestly odious bedside manner.

Bathing time for Riley entailed frantic and repetitive scrubbing followed by several hours of basting in his own juices. The resultant layer of scum around the bathtub was only removable with bleach. The copious quantities of ‘healing oils’ poured into his bath water also resulted in repeated blockages due to congealed fat. Consequently, much of the effluent water from flats above us gurgled straight up through the hand basin and bath in a mottled plume of foam and foul-smelling water. I suggested that he might start using bathing salts instead but the idea was resoundingly rejected.

If this wasn’t gross enough, then Riley’s toiletry functions were even more repugnant. (I include this simply to illustrate the increasingly fraught situation I found myself in.) Riley had already mentioned that he avoided foodstuffs containing fibre since he detested ‘letting go’ as he called it. Due to some extraordinary carbuncle in his mental landscape, he took great pains to avoid a regular defecation. A daily intake of raw eggs (and other binding foods like white bread and chicken) coupled with, doubtless, sheer grit-determination allowed him to evade normal bowel function for days on end. However, when that moment of doom finally arrived and the floodgates opened - dear God - all hell broke lose! To this day, I’m astonished that the man didn’t self-asphyxiate in those palls of sulphurous fumes whilst perched on his porcelain throne. I remember being woken up, gasping for air, as a putrefying stench enveloped me like a cloud of mustard gas. I was forced to retreat under my duvet, praying I might be spared suffocation, or worse, a severe decimation of brain cells.

As time went by, Riley stopped taking his medication and became predominantly nocturnal. He began to suffer mood swings and was, at times, churlish. He roused himself by late afternoon and then went about his rigid daily regime of feverish ablutions, feeding and then lounging in front of the TV whilst making notes. Occasionally, he might venture to the shops but was mostly housebound. By evening he was still fastened to the sofa savouring the delights of reality television, soap operas and ‘documentaries’ about extreme medical conditions that were - to all intents and purposes - latter day freak shows. Sometimes he would ‘converse’ with the characters on these programmes. I attributed this to him seeing them as some kind of surrogate social network[?]. He conducted all his viewings at high volume which began to cause me sleep deprivation. There were numerous occasions when I had to ask him to lower the volume during the early hours of morning.

On one occasion I decided to take him out for a beer and an informal chat regarding noise levels. It was a quiet local bar that I hoped he might not find too daunting. Unlike myself, he didn’t drink a great deal so by the time I’d meandered back home with him, he was still relatively compos mentis. I, on the other hand, was sozzled. He tailed me into my bedroom and we chatted about the usual silly things that tipsy people discuss. I guess I must have drifted off to sleep. When I finally stirred, to my absolute horror, I realised that I was under attack; there was a hand up my shirt and someone was performing fellatio on me. Was it was some monstrous succubus from the nether regions gorging rapaciously at my very own nether regions? Terror-stricken, I opened my eyes...but it was worse than I imagined! The assailant was none other than my predatory flatmate who busied himself bobbing up and down at my waist...

Even if Riley was my type (which he’s not), I’m still old fashioned enough to subscribe to the idea of ‘consent’. After challenging him, he responded by saying ‘Well…I didn’t think you’d mind…?’ I explained (as evenly as I could) that yes actually, I kind of did mind and he should kindly remove his paw and jaw. Judging by his reaction, my rejection was not well received and regarded as something of a snub. In the course of the next few days he became somewhat distant towards me - which was actually a welcome respite. It also gave me some spare time to fit bolt locks to my bedroom door.

5. PULLING A FAST ONE.

Throughout my stay, Riley was employing the services of rentboys (a vernacular term for male hookers). Initially, this was hardly a concern to me and, moreover, I hoped it might keep him off my back (as it were) and provide the titillation that his life so obviously lacked. The only inconvenience was that I’d be obliged to work late on occasion, while he entertained a ‘guest’ (as he euphemistically referred to these commercial liaisons).

However, there was one such occasion that still confounds me. I’d arrived home late from dinner with a friend and was unnerved to discover a recumbent body on my bed. As you might expect, I asked of the intruder to identify themself which was countered by: ‘Who the fuck are you?’ I provided my name and began to explain that it was in fact my bedroom and I’d be much obliged if he kindly remove his person forthwith. After hurling a tirade of expletives at me, the trespasser managed to rouse himself, gather up his accoutrements and stagger towards Riley’s room.

It was then that Riley entered the fray and enquired why I’d upset his ‘friend’. I explained in no uncertain terms that my status as a tenant bestowed certain privileges, namely, a basic level of privacy and respect. Although Riley found this remark amusing his associate clearly didn’t. With all the dazzling wit and repartee of a true raconteur he informed me that I was a ‘fucking cunt’. As you might imagine, in the ensuing days relations were rather frosty.

I recall a distant friend of Riley’s once dropped by to see how he was faring. He was a very pleasant Frenchman and I’m still in touch with him. He knew Riley from years back – even though Riley never bothered to contact him. Having enquired of Riley’s exploits, the friend was promptly treated to a ‘blow-by-blow’ account of a variety of tawdry encounters.

‘Oh my God Riley,’ the friend laughed, ‘all you seem to do is eat, sleep and fuck…?’

After pondering this, Riley said (without a trace of irony), ‘Yeah…well… it’s not such a bad life though, is it?’

…hardy the sentiments of a poor, tortured soul with a ‘condition’…I conjectured.

6. I CAN’T HELP IT – IT’S THE ‘CONDITION’.

An outside observer might ask why I lingered in such a place given that it brought me such anguish. The truth is that was convenient for work, a nice part of London and the rent was very reasonable. Perhaps I too was self-deluded in my assumption that matters might improve. I must also confess that I’d acquired an almost surreal and morbid fascination with Riley’s utter repulsiveness (maybe it was the writer in me?).

Nevertheless, as a conciliatory gesture, I decided to try to attain better understanding of Riley’s condition and thereby rekindle some sympathy for him. We chatted one evening to the less than dulcet tones of Big Brother. He went on to explain that he suffered from ‘graphomania’, which he described as an overwhelming compulsion to write. ‘Is that such a terrible thing for an aspiring poet…or writer?’ said I, ‘surely there’s worse conditions that can afflict a person?’ The remark prompted Riley to explain that he was ‘polymaniacal’ (in possession of a variety of manias affecting differing mental faculties). He then went on to detail some of his more troublesome bugbears:

Anemophobia; fear of air drafts or wind, automysophobia; fear of being dirty, coprophobia; fear of faeces, ablutomania; obsession with being clean, clinomania; excessive desire to stay in bed (or, in the common tongue, 'lazy').

‘There’s others too,’ Riley explained, ‘I discovered them all from my self-help books…’

‘Heavens!’ I exclaimed, ‘…what other ailments could a poor fellow possibly endure…?’

‘peotillomania,’ he explained casually, ‘it’s an abnormal compulsion for pulling on one’s penis…’

‘I…um…see…’ I stuttered, ‘but is that really such a bad thing? I mean we all indulge in the odd spot of that once in a while…surely? Where’s the harm…y’know?’

It was at this point that he revealed that he’d been placing his ear against my bedroom door late at night to ascertain whether I was masturbating.

‘Would it actually matter if I was?’ I blushed.

‘Yes,’ he insisted, ‘because it disturbs my condition...’

I began to speculate that he’d studied and collected manias and phobias in the same way others might collect postage stamps. These concepts were then enmeshed into a shroud of self-delusion that both justified his idleness and exonerated him from all accusations of wrongdoing. Thus, he could live the life of a libertine, be financed by the state benefits system and be free to transgress all parameters of decency and friendship without fear of guilt or reprisal. But underlying this dark tangled web, I suspected, was ‘hypengyophobia’ i.e. a fear of responsibility…

7. THE LAST STRAW

Gee was an American poet that I’d met at a bar. He’d captivated me with spellbinding verse. He was confident, charming and handsome. It was a joy to share his company. Yes, there were complications; he was out of work and also still dealing with emotional fallout from a previous relationship but overall, I had high hopes for the two of us. I think we both sought something uncomplicated so we were taking things slowly. Kisses, hugs, flirting; still wondering which one of us would be brave enough to take things to the next level…

Gee loaned me some music CDs and mentioned that he might collect them a few days later. He lived nearby so it was easily done. I asked Riley if he would mind passing on the CDs if Gee happened to drop by. Riley assured me it was ‘no problem’ and ‘I’ll handle it…’. Later on that week Riley informed me that Gee had indeed collected his CDs and passed on his regards. Great. By this time, I’d arranged to see Gee at the weekend.

‘Something happened,’ was the ominous remark when I next met Gee and thanked him for the loan of his music.

‘Eh?’ I quizzed anxiously, ‘what d’you mean?’

‘With Riley,’ he said, ‘but I needed the dough…’

‘Hang on Gee, I’m lost. What are you trying to tell me?’

Gee gazed at me searchingly. ‘It just freakin’ happened okay? First he offered fifty but I said “no fuckin’ way man!”. Shit, what does he take me for? But then the deal kept gettin’ higher ‘n’ higher. Hell, I ain’t workin’...and three hundred y'know? That's a lotta dough when you ain’t got nothin’…’

‘You mean...you…with Riley…?’

‘Yeah, that’s the deal. But don’t trip on it. I ain’t into his shit. It's you I'm into - I swear. So we’re still tight, yeah?

‘Gee, I’m going home.’

Despite Gee’s protestations, I headed back utterly crestfallen. Yes, he’d been incredibly candid with me (should I have been more forgiving?) but…the thought of him with Riley…? Euch! I was confused, distressed, messed up… I couldn’t think straight and lacked the moral fibre to discuss the matter further. What was done was done. I chose not to confront Riley about his actions that evening since my mind was in turmoil.

The next morning, I had a more rational perspective. It struck me as richly ironic that Riley would never have been able to make such a tempting financial offer to Gee had I not helped him to obtain extra state benefit. I confess that I found his actions treacherous, amoral and insufferably loathsome. As for Gee, well at least he’d only done it for the money! Despite this partial justification, regretfully, I opted not to see him again.

My thoughts turned to Riley. Did he, in some perverse way, illicit pleasure from my torment or were his actions simply down to an insatiable lust for anything in trousers? To this day, I’m still unsure. I have a theory, however, that he was so fascinated by my ‘normal’ life that he desired to live it by proxy. Indeed, he did his utmost to wheedle out every turn of events from me, every observation and insight to the extent that some evenings it was exasperating. Did he covet this perceived fulfilment, this richness and seek to share in those associated sensations, experiences, pleasures…boyfriends?

I don’t especially relish indecorous displays but sometimes I suppose they're inevitable. It all began in a gentlemanly enough fashion. I began to quiz Riley on his views about transgressions against friendship and personal ethics. Then I mentioned that I was aware of his seduction of Gee and asked him about his motives. I asserted that some might find his actions abhorrent, disloyal and even amoral. Predictably, Riley blamed the ‘condition’ for his behaviour. I argued that a ‘condition’ implies a spontaneous or involuntary act - not a calculated, considered and skilfully executed haggle over payment for sex. Moreover, striking a bargain like that required a reasonable degree of mental lucidity, cunning and even forethought. I demanded to know if he’d planned to reveal this despicable deed. Things got heated.

‘Things happen sometimes…’ he grinned smugly, ‘it is what it is…’

‘But what it actually is,’ I reasoned back, ‘…is testimony to your character.’

‘Yeah…well…welcome to the real world Edwin…’ came the sardonic reposte.

What, I thought, would you know of the real world? ...The sheer, towering conceit of the man was beyond human comprehension!

It was at that point I realised that neither explanation nor apology would be forthcoming. After all, in order to apologise one must first acknowledge wrongdoing. Riley’s propensity for self-delusion denied him this awareness. After all, Riley’s not responsible, is he? He might be patronising, evasive, even calculating…but accountable? No, impossible – responsibility lays squarely with his ‘condition' right?

The upshot of this argument was Riley placing a ban on all visitors of mine to his little tin pot dictatorship of a flat. In some ways, this was a relief since my sister was planning to stay over (and I subsequently discovered that Riley had occasional bisexual tendencies). I’m damn sure that my sibling would never have forgiven me if she’d been grappled by this degenerate. Oh yes - a narrow escape from the jaws of disaster.

It was all becoming an unfathomable mess, a mire…a theatre of the absurd. I realised one thing though – if I stayed at Riley’s place any longer, I’d end up nuttier than a squirrel poo. It was too high a price to pay. I’d had enough of the intrusions, the abuses, the betrayals and all those hackneyed excuses that inevitably followed in their wake. Time to move on…get the hell out...

To this day, Riley remains an enigma to me. Was he insane…? Was he a chameleon, a charlatan…a consummate actor striking the pose of a madman?

Ultimately, I shall never know.

© Edwin Black

Concerning the unsanitary…

Welcome. Yes, the miscreant metaphysician returns to play fast and loose with the laws of language and share this dysfunction with anyone who's vaguely interested. Occasional readers - please bear in mind that I'm still attempting to hone my artistry and 'find my voice'. Erm, whatever that might entail...?

The following extract is from a comedy/satire: Touching Base. It's a novel that I've been neglecting of late but hope to get back to soon. This snippet concerns the arrival of a waste disposal contractor called Burt at Winston Grub's workplace (Winston being the central protagonist). Those involved are:

MAUDLIN LEECH - Androgynous office harridan and terminal gossip-monger. Has also been rumoured to do the occasional book-keeping.
CHASTITY SPOONER - elderly nymphomaniac and receptionist (a blond bombshell that's exploded).
HONORIA TATTLE – Obligatory workplace religious fanatic (cameo).
BURT – Sanitation contractor and living proof of the evolutionary ‘missing link’.

Naturally, it's all done in the worst possible taste! Enjoy...


'Sannie Days are here again' [extract].'This is a stick up!' Burt announced, brandishing an unused tampon at Chastity Spooner, receptionist at Final Resort Inc..

'Oh you're terrible!' She chided gently.

The sanitary-towel-collection-technician from 'Sannie Days' wasted no time eyeing up a woman who (in his opinion) was so amply-breasted she might have founded her own dairy. 'Awite darling, I've come for the old vampires' teabags, yeah?' He said with a hoarse chuckle.

Chastity fluttered her eyelids at him and smiled sweetly. 'Hi Burt. You're looking very nice in those dirty overalls.' She winked shamelessly.

Burt returned a broad smile. 'Yeah...err, it has been said before...' He smirked, winking back at her.

'I missed you last month. Were you on your hols?'

'That's right. Two weeks. Got a bit of a tan now...'

'Is it an all-over tan?' Chastity enquired with a salacious brush of the pen to her lips.

'Pretty well... Bet you still look half-decent in a bikini an' all.'

Chastity giggled coyly. 'Why thank you Burt. Maybe we could compare skin tones sometime?'

'Yeah, I'd be well up for a bit-a-that...no strings attached...y'know? I like 'em well upholstered, if you catch my drift...?'

'I see. Well, I could certainly do with a bit of re-stuffing here and there...' Chastity wheedled saucily, attempting to plump up her rather pendulous bosom.

Burt glanced at his watch. 'Well, I'll 'ave to catch yer later love. Schedules to keep an' all that. We all have to go with the flow. I mean, this is all very absorbing, but I must press-on, as we say in the trade,' he joked. With that, he disappeared into the ladies toilet and went about the unsavoury task of picking up used towels from an overflowing bin. After depositing the new bin, he made his way towards the stairs bearing his soiled cargo.

Maudlin, however, was waiting to pounce. 'Ere, I got a bone to pick with you.' she frowned.

'Yeah? So what can I do for you governor?'

'Excuse me it's 'Mrs Leech' or 'ma'am' to you, yer cheeky sod.' Maud raised a hand as if to slap him.

'Alright, alright, keep yer wig on miss Leech. So what can I do yer for?'

'You were supposed to do a collection last month. Where the 'ell were you, eh?'

'Listen love, I was in Marbella sunning my arse and checking out all da lovely senoritas. Know what I mean?' Burt winked.

'Ere, we'll 'ave less of that kind of talk. There's ladies present.' Maudlin screeched.

'Really? Where...?' Burt retorted.

Maudlin glared at him mercilessly. 'So what happened then? Why didn't they send someone else out, eh? That sanitary bin was overflowing! It's not bleedin' good enough!'

The savagery of Maudlin's stare only served to rile Burt. Other occupants of Final Resort now appeared transfixed by the unfolding melodrama.

'Listen love, don't 'ave a pop at me - just cuz the company forgets a stand-in collection. So I s'pose you were too lazy to pick up a phone up and sort it out?'

'Ere, don't you 'ave a pop at me neither,' Maudlin scolded, 'I'll 'ave a pop at you if you 'ave a pop at me. Anyway I did call 'em but they were too friggin' lazy to answer the phone!'

'Well that ain't my bloody fault!' Burt countered, 'Besides, I'm in a union. I don't 'ave to take this crap from arrogant cows like you...'

Maudlin wasn't accustomed to having someone stand up to her overbearing manner, let alone dare question her edicts. 'You what? Who you calling a bleedin' cow?' Maudlin's face flushed crimson, which in turn, took on a puce pallor. Coupled with her deeply furrowed scowl and clammy quivering jowls, her countenance assumed an uncanny resemblance to a baboon's hind quarters. 'Don't you talk to me like that yer bleedin' dick'ead!' She bellowed.

'Well I don't know why you're so pissed off anyway…bet you 'aven't needed plugging for at least a century.'

'Right, I'm gonna 'ave you!' Maudlin moved to slap him but Burt deftly parried the blow with his free hand. She was obliged to resort to stamping on his heavy-booted foot, which appeared to have little effect other than a comical one. They tussled some more until Maudlin realised he was more than a physical match for her. They glowered at each other venomously.

'You vicious little tart!' Burt snarled.

'Listen!' Maudlin screeched, 'just sling yer bleedin' hook alright? Go on, piss off! And I'll tell you something else for nothing 'n' all. I wouldn't bother going back to the depot cuz I'm cancelling the contract, yeah? 'Cuz by the time I've finished with 'em on the phone you won't 'ave a bleedin' job to go back to,' she concluded with a triumphal note.

With that, Burt turned on his heel and stormed downstairs, oblivious to Chastity’s demure wave goodbye.

'Yeah - good riddance to bad rubbish an' all...' Maudlin taunted after him. Still fuming, she sidled back to her lair.

Honoria promptly joined her. 'Are you alright Maud?' She said putting a consoling arm on her colleague’s shoulder.

'Yeah, I'm fine. I certainly sent that idiot away with a flea in his ear.' Maudlin winced as she rubbed an old injury on her elbow. 'Me old war wound's giving me a bit of gip though.'

Honoria wondered if it was a reference to the Crimea. 'Never mind, Maud. I can get you some aspirin if that helps?' She cooed.

'Nah, I'm alright. Besides, I've dealt with worse dickheads that that in my time. And if he ever comes back, I tell yer, I'll really give 'im what for…'

What the pair failed to notice was Burt tearing back up the stairs and into the office in high dudgeon. The perceived injustice of the exchange had driven him into a fury. He certainly wasn't ready to throw in the towel on what was, clearly, a 'bum (w)rap'. It was therefore something of a shock as he heaved up the sanitary container and upended it over their heads. The empty vessel was then hurled to the corner of the office where it clattered noisily.

Honoria screamed.

'You can stick yer frigging contract!' Burt bawled. 'And you can stick it where you normally stick these bloody things! I'm sick of you lot and I'm sick of this fuckin' job!'

Hearing the commotion, Jason gallantly leapt into action. However, he was too late to apprehend the perpetrator who had sped back downstairs. Maudlin looked up at him dolefully. A particularly soiled tampon had become entangled by the drawstring in one of her enormous faux-gold earrings. Noticing that something moist had adhered itself to her cheek, Honoria promptly burst into tears.

In a show of unity, other office inhabitants gathered around the traumatised pair to offer help, wet-wipes and, generally, put on a show of solidarity. This was with the exception of Winston. Indeed, tucked neatly away, back of shop, no one noticed his absence or the cheeky grin that touched, briefly, across his face.

Oh yes, for those downtrodden souls like Winston, this was a good day. In fact, an excellent day and things were looking decidedly sunnier. Somehow, in some small way, it seemed the cosmic balance had been temporarily restored.

© Edwin Black 2010