“Freaky bitch,” he lifts his arm over his head, takes three steps back and runs towards her, sending out an echoing clap and causing her to fall forward, her red cheeks still shuddering from the blow. “Stop saying my name.”
“Well, if Herapee approves of you,” the original woman says Masochistically, grinning and licking her lips, “I don’t see why we can’t all have a chance.”
“That hurt like hell, didn’t it? You ready to say ‘uncle’?”
“Yes, it was exquisite,” she replies, standing back up and coming towards Joseph hind-first. “Uncle, uncle, uncle. I’ll say whatever you want. Use something this time, something really hard, or sharp.”
Joseph, realizing his tactical blunder and Rabeliasian situation while staring at the woman bending over and spreading her butt cheeks, sees that they’ve encircled his position and are all now unbuttoning trousers and unclipping suspenders, pulling belts out of loops to give him to use, unzipping flies, stepping out of pants crumbled at their feet, squatting, getting on their hands and knees, moving towards him in a great wall of asses, all prepped and ready to go. Now what are you going to do?
“All right, one at a time,” Joseph hollers, “I can’t whip every ass at once. Who wants it the most?”
“Meeeee,” a chorus replies, closing ranks, leaving no space in between. So Joseph, up to his ears in women’s hinnies, takes two of their belts, two large, thick and strong leather ones, and like a gladiator trained by samurais in the art of kendo, begins the most fantastic display of abuse anyone has ever seen. He’s a blur of brown pain, a tornado of snapping dragons, random women yelp in pain, scream uncontrollably from the sting and sigh deep throated sighs of voluminous ecstasy. But still, they do not give him a hole to escape from, when one ass has fallen, two more take its place, like the barbarians of antiquity, they use numbers against the surgical precision of the enemy. Immediately already smacked asses are back up, ready for another volley, pleading for it, backing towards him, hips pushing against each other, jockeying for position, shaking in anticipation, jiggling, flexing, trying anything to catch the torturer’s attention.
Joseph looks for an opening, any available escape route. He goes to work on one bruised ass, sending the woman reeling, and when two more smack together to block the daylight, Joseph gives them a flurry of blows. They’re screaming in felicity, just loving all the attention, adoring the fact that he’s chosen their two asses from all the others to do his best. When they go down, which takes all of Joseph’s energy, their perverse endurance overwhelming him, he stomps on their bodies and dodging several hands in an ominous argyle pattern, he makes a break for it.
There you have it (Beckettly). Wave goodbye to those sad sobs lining up for a ticket to ride. Give the last face you see, a particularly wanting young gal still chasing him with her hinny forward, a promising wink. They’ll be dreaming about the day Joseph Moore whipped their asses for years to come. He can hear it: “There was this one day, when an angel crawled out from within the void, no one could sit down for weeks” and “I was liberated by the seraphim Joseph, he beat my ass so hard I farted my soul out”.
Meanwhile the adversary of man and machinery, with thoughts of naked butts and mean pain, puts on swift wings and crosses rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death, a whole multiverse of abominable creatures, to the end of life itself, where the pale rider resides, breeding with worms, maggots, flies, slugs, bacteria, viruses, what have you, in a prodigious, yet spicy, orgy that causes our hero to pause for a few moments and say: “wow”.
The double-swing doors, the adversary of order, as confusion consistently ensues via egress and ingress, mounted an evocative defense against his distended thoughts, as the onslaught of scepter to chrome, like two dueling homosexual whale onyxes, perpetuated the swift stasis, before he’s caught mid-balestra by the frieze broadening the contours of the distant fortification, of umber partitioned starkly against navy waves, dark boundaries and calligraphied distance, a neutral survey of sandy highlands filthy with frosting swirl mounts and confined, prison shadowed valleys, deep fissures thick with metaphor and desperate heights emaciated of allegory, tumbling down into wild wrinkles splotched with steppe and flora green, capsizing into anthropological pampuh, awfully discriminating hemispheres tantalolagnical in their suggestive virginity tugging him beyond the fleshy recesses and into the forbidden fissures, which contrast Menelausly with the coastal squalor and even more so with the misplaced urban sanctuaries, attempting so desperately to Linnaeus or bathe the organic withdrawals, but he retreats beyond mystery, yielding to that final conduction zone, into cobbles and bones, until he has dropped, humid, horrified, under, into the navel, and although there are unknowns, this foray into the true unknown, where fear is sovereign, like a child pushing the profound limits of allowed territory to simply glimpse the forbidden and finding it, despite its familiarity, a scene of great awe, with its different lawns and strange homes, and being unable to breach its boundary only because of the law, is profound, because a limit is constant, protection, maternal, and that point in which it is violated is transcendental, where the human gateworks collide with the limits of the unreal…
Who do you want it to be beside the great dooryard? Surely not your child, your father or mother, or pet renovated triumphantly, dog or turtle, cat or goldfish, surely not your friend, your spouse, or rival jangling keys. She’s none, and altogether Rockwellian in her plump waste, doughy raised raisins moistly staring eagerly, capacious chest and vast belly bulge, the hidden cauldron of children bones and the listing stern of her haunches, a kennel of a womb, wherein he can hear the angry bark of lost dogs chained to her spine, and lastly, the blushing lunar vacuum of her charms.
The other figure, shrapneled via luminescent echoes of the commune of the street, reversed in shadows, and distended beyond the corona of fluorescence, shook an inked crown as if calling for a new jester, and once he’d traversed the threshold, the space contorted in a wrathful gait, the rustle of pandemonium raged, and the racket of eggshells rioted.
Sometimes, Joseph soars over the right hand coast, right passed Bengal, watching the merchants in sweeping camel caravans, following them on their ancient route, right into Ethiopia and down to the Cape of Good Hope. There, he makes a few loop-de-loops around the small lighthouse, thrilling the tourists with his dogfight-like aerial acrobatics. He has several pictures, probably too many, of him standing behind the sign: “Welcome to the Cape Point, the furthest southwesterly point of the African Continent”. Then, before sundown, he heads for the pole.
"…of course, you must see at least one of the islands, but I would try, if I were you, because I’ve been a few times over the years, to see at least three… yes, they’re divine… so much to do… but you’ve picked a really good time of year… the weather… yes… oh, the beaches are gorgeous… warm… the water is so warm… you’ll be just… maybe one or two blocks… with a view… palm trees and beautiful sunsets… just beautiful sunsets…"
"You are not my father! Who are you? Why do you torment me? I have to pass…"
"…hold on… yeah… wait, hold on… there’s… just one moment…"
"Why? Why are you doing this? I have to pass…"
"Kathy… can you? Kathy… sir, I’m not sure… if you could just… calm down… and let me… hold on… Kathy? Sir… I don’t know what…"
"False fugitive? Grow more… I’m not afraid… your scorpions do not sting me… your pestilence does not ail me…"
"…I’m not sure… sir… Kathy? Are you? Sir… I assure you… I’m not… calm down… let me… hold on… are you okay? There’s nothing to worry about… I’m not… I’m not sure… what you want… how can we help you?"