Part One:The Majestic Glacier
Sweet creeping Jesus, people… if my fragmented memories of what occured are even a whisper of the blasphemous truths which might have happened, let us pray that none of us ever recovers all our faculties. The unwelcome flashbacks I am having are unwholesome at best, and unamerican in every sense- visons of madness and lingere abuse that no sane man should have to endure. Some things are best unremembered, childhood memories drowned in barbituates and marguerita mix, surfacing only in unremmebered dreams and sudden, violent crying jags triggered by the sight of a cigar, or a panama hat…
It did not start auspiciusly.
Hearing Sir C in pain is like watching Mt. Rushmore cry. It just makes no sense, and on the surface, the mind rebels. I became diosoriented, and even as I heard a woman I consider a dear friend begin to explain her agony, trying to scream on her cell phone above the sound of blaring sirens and crying babies, I quickly screamed: “Wrong number! Don’t call back! We don’t serve your kind here! No speako woggo!”
I quickly threw the cell phone away- don’t need anybody tracing that mess back to me. They might think my judgement… unsound.
Fortunately, I knew the fact that she was missing a scheduled appointment in her datebook was probably the source of more genuine agony than the gallstone which, as it turns out, was slightly larger than her gall bladder itself; thus saving me a trip to her hospital bed with a stout length of pipe and a crab fork to show my displeasure. (She’s recovering at home, by the way. The Majestic Glacier will walk among us again soon.)What this meant, however, is that my Vice Chair, right hand and safety authority was not going to be present.
I scored a few amyls from my kit bag, tossed one to Soulhuntre, surveyed the crowd and launched into my saftey lecture:
“The first thing you need to know is that at the first word from any of you, my associate will throw your miserable skins to the wolverines.”
I jabbed a spastic finger at Soulhuntre, cursing my lack of motor control. They looked uncomprehendingly at me, eyes blank and apathetic.
“Immigration. INS.” I repeated, and pointed again. Suddenly they reacted, glancing worriedly at the hulking, hairy behemoth cracking his neck.
I silenced their worried foriegn jabbering by savagely slamming my stick on the table. A few looked, eyes wide, doubtless having flashbacks of the savage beatings of their family by the Tonton Macoute with sticks like this- good. Now they know who’s in charge here. They’d cut enough sugar cane to know about the man with the stick.
Suddenly it occured to me that I had nothing to say. Sir C had hung me out to dry. Cursing under my breath,I began to spout any medical or latin term I could think of, jabbing at them with my stick until they recited some version of it back to me in whatever broken english they learned in their endless inner-tube ride to freedom.
“No one can blame me.” I reminded myself over and over, and popped another amyl. The crank was coming on a little strong, so I was hoping that the amyls would smooth me out enough that I did not begin lashing out with my sjambok; these hardwoods are murder to clean. Just then one of the masses spoke up in english- he knew the mother tongue, and as I found out, nothing was going to stop him from using it- not even having nothing to say…
To be continued soon on http://weblog.foolish-house.com/