The old man walked among the flock gathered in his makeshift church, taking stock of their nubile, barely legal bodies, comparing them to his own withered countenance… when he heard a sharp scratch and saw a dark shadow moving at the speed of illusion across the candyglass window depicting a well-hung Christ dangling his manhood before a flock of salivating children… before he could blink the shadow repeated it’s whip-like movement… there was no way in hell that was a flying squirrel (hell, the word repeated in his inner monologue… hell).
Days before, two men had come to the deepest part of the jungle, where the treetops were so thick that even the African sun, whose ego boiled the droplets of filthy water in distended bellies could not penetrate, where she, Sekhmet, once Hathor, cow now lion had lived in solitude, so much so that she did not even think to hide her bared breasts from the first men she'd lain eyes on in years. Sekhmet pulled her razor-edged Ida, emasculated them in every sense of the word, returned it to the sheath and sped off into the realms of legend, while as the men lay bleeding, her sister Bast masturbated in under a blanked of misanthropic shadows, far removed from the African sunscape.
Sekhmet had refused the peace offering they'd brought on the old man's behalf, knowing the difference between a virtuous man and a hole in the world. Her sharpened teeth shinier than the shoes of selfmade archons, her conscience as clean as a gas station lavatory in Quito, the War-Goddess stalked across the Atlantic, moving in on the homeland of her chosen target... New York City.
Sekhmet had refused the peace offering they'd brought on the old man's behalf, knowing the difference between a virtuous man and a hole in the world. Her sharpened teeth shinier than the shoes of selfmade archons, her conscience as clean as a gas station lavatory in Quito, the War-Goddess stalked across the Atlantic, moving in on the homeland of her chosen target... New York City.
And there she was, outside the old man's window, a shadow bouncing just out of sight, to let him know that all that he had built died tonight.
The old man could smell the blood-warm scent of his fate even before the candyglass shattered and She stood black furred and tall before him, smiled and pulled a small hunting knife from a tight leather sheath (this was not the wide sword blade of her Ida, but a smaller crescent tool, meant for pain of a more delicate nature), but the old man looked back to his naked flock now shivering in the rush of a Manhattan winter, brought on he the broken window, and stood his ground, saying only, in a betrayed warble, "Never trust a God who throws out his heart."
Though the old man thought he would find peace, he found instead that his grey matter was shifting, writhing, transforming into something else, his mind filled with warm, decent thoughts, fathers having ice cream cones with their children, monks chanting words of gratitude to a world they knew was imperfect, orgasms not paid for with money or deceit, great acts of anonymous altruism, hope, goodness, life that was life, the raw juicy electric bittersweet burning truths of the human potential that he had never realized and lived to vanquish were there where once his rotten porcine brain had been.
SHE was making him feel these things, and as he began to cry she handed him the knife... he felt guilt for the very first time in life as he slit his own throat before his sheep, and perhaps, in the end, it might have served to him as come small comfort that his funeral was vigorously attended... that is if you counted the maggots.
"Of Mice, And Men, And Cats"
Copyright: © 2011 Garrett Cook & Ash Lomen
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* The authors would like to mention that this story was created using Alan M. Clark's word tech, as shown in his new book BONEYARD BABIES.
YEAH!
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