My great boot slapped the sky––puddle-wise, that is. Blotting the sun from its reflection, this great boot brought night through the quivers of the frigid muck.
I had just thrown a leg over the frame of my trusty bicycle, only to find it – in a quick moment – standing straight beside the other; what a handy form, I thanksed to Gosh, the body springs like a clock: design is a blessed thing. Thus I carried myself away from the bicycle, along the pavement, thinking of birds and the deepest cracks along my path when it came––gleest glee danced forth, the pub’s door; the sound of drinkers, brings cheer to hear: I pushed it open.
Inside, the calamity of sin had undressed itself. The patrons seated, standing and carousing all as drunk as the socks in my great wet boots. Tap, tap, my boots to the bar: “A pint good sir”; then it came, thus I drank down a hefty gulp and, wiping my upper lip, spied an oddly sight.
There were two boys at the bar, seated: “Brothers,” I spoke to my demons.
It looked that their father had stepped away, to a tinkle, to a crime, god knows what menace shall spring forth on this eve; be that however it will, the boys each had a juice, but a third thing was in plain site, a goodly pint, half-drunk and frothy. Had I not had my own already, I’d have snatched it myself; Goodness knows how the boys felt themselves, small thieves. For it was this tower of drink that the boys eyed like a grand and voluptuous thigh, their excitement had caught my own and in the sordid air was a mixture of adult concern and youthful flight.
Be that however it will, the prime interest now was this: Would they sip? I felt myself the serpent of the Good Books; and yet, I had not done a thing to tempt. I took a sip of my pint and cursed the fate of guilt; no kisskiss to the Allah for this. Grasping more tightly my glass, I carried myself forward as the boys watched the sweaty pint placed before them, abandoned by the lash of temptation, its brown color and creamy froth standing like a great cock––at dawn.
I almost called forth like a Rooster.
But a whore whistled loudly at a table and the men and women seated around it laughed; the end of a joke saddens me, in the way of a deathbed, in the way of a good piss. But ho! My legs stiffened at the sight. One of the boys, and not even the elder looking one at that, reached forth, grasping the pint, smudging its droplets, forever impressing his sinister mark on the dastardly fluid, and what next!
He drank.
As I saw this my heart fluttered and sank all at once, exploded and reassembled like the world whenever your back is turned. I was all engrossed by the boy’s Fall, but redeemed by the frightful lift––in his eyes. He drank it like a demon, then passed it to his brother.
The brother receiving, gave no thanks. For now was not a time for formality and the bourgeois; it was a rite of passage, an eternally recurring festival of loss and gain. I felt I was a farmer tilling the soil and sowing the seed all at once. The whore whistled once more, a big man belched, but I had at this point soared beyond the crass and the audible. As the second boy drank I felt that I would never see again, that blindness would overcome, overwhelm, overcook and overwhateverelseyoumay …. But be that however it will, my great boots took to dancing. I launched into a hailstorm of feet and knees, even my elbows joined the fiasco. The boys, no measure could rescind their sin; the deed was done.
All of a sudden, the father returned. Like a brutal Laius. No blood on his hands and no wee in his bladder. The little Oedipi weaseled. The father took a gander at his pint and turned to the boys asking an inaudible question. The boys looked at one another, perhaps even at me, for I had been close to a godfather in the proceedings, before looking once more at their father.
The father put forth a hearty whack and the boys fell sideways from their stools: “Barman, my boys drank my pint again.”
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Later on, I smoked a sad cigarette. Feeling cheated, I lay on my bicycle, it was as if a lie was cast down, like dice turning up blank. Thus the day came once more, my boots drying like mud chips at the coast.
idiotic investigations 