To keep Roscoe and Carolina from fighting, Harold Bloomguard began to sing a soothing song he just made up called “She’ll not puncture your kidney, Sidney. And he shan’t rupture your spleen, Kathleen.”
But Spermwhale Whalen hobbled back in their midst and his enormous presence looming over Roscoe quieted down the meanest choirboy. Especially when Spermwhale said, “You look like a ruptured rectum sittin there with your mean little mouth all scrunched up. Why don’t you quit pickin on the ladies?”
“Yeah, it makes you ugly Roscoe,” said Ora Lee. “You get drunk you get uglier than usual.”
“I don’t have to take this,” Roscoe Rules said, struggling to his feet and heading toward the duck pond, hoping to find a duck he could kneedrop.
“He gets so ugly he looks like something carved off the back of Quasimodo,” Spencer Van Moot observed.
“Hey, stick around, Roscoe!” Carolina yelled. “Every choir practice needs a soprano.”
“Don’t get nasty now,” Spermwhale whispered as he bit the fat girl on the neck and sent her into paroxysms of passion. They resumed their interminable kiss and rolled around on the ground, making the earth shake under the ear of Francis Tanaguchi, who said, “Dynamite!” and lay next to them hoping the behemoths would couple before his very eyes.
Just then a park homosexual with sandals, long hair and beard walked by the group curiously.
The choirboys looked at this Biblical apparition and Sam Niles said, “Think he’ll take us to heaven?”
“I can use my ticket validated by somebody,” said Father Willie who was furiously trying to think of a way to steal Carolina Moon from Spermwhale Whalen.
“All I can say is I get treated like a dog at home,” Spencer Van Moot whined, returning to his favorite subject.
“Anytime they wanna teach you a lesson they just hold back the sex,” Father Willie agreed, suddenly having a miserable vision of the chubby Jehovah’s Witness seeing him drunk and playing with the thigh of Ora Lee Tingle.
“Well who cares?” said Spencer. “The three most overrated things in the world are: home cooking, home pussy and the FBI.”
“You know, Spermy you got more hair in your nose than on your head,” Carolina Moon said from the shadows where she and Spermwhale and Francis Tanaguchi rolled around.
“What dialogue! What dialogue! I could make you a star, girl!” cried Francis. “Say something back to her, Spermwhale! Something romantic!”
“Okay. I adore you, my darling,” Spermwhale crooned to the sighing fat girl. “Your ass is springy as a life raft.”
“And I love you, Ora Lee,” Francis Tanaguchi blurted suddenly, running to the other cocktail waitress, dragging his fingers through her upswept hairdo, which was no mean task given the half can of hair spray that was on it.
“That’s just whiskey talking, you cute little shit.”
“No it ain’t! I love! I love you!” Francis proclaimed. “If you had a hysterectomy and took your teeth out and owned a liquor store, I swear I’d marry you!”
“Thanks, Junior,” said the disgusted waitress as she pushed Francis away. “You handled that love scene like a real pro-a prophylactic!”
Just then the bearded park fairy with the ascetic face, shoulder-length hair and sandals encountered Roscoe Rules down by the duck pond trying to entice a black duck out of the water so he could hit it with a rock and drown it.
“Hello,” said the Jesus fairy.
“Holy Christ!” said Roscoe Rules and the remark was not that inappropriate.
“Are you with those others?” asked the bearded man, stooping to scoop some water in both hands.
“Yeah. Who the fuck’re you, John the Baptist?”
Ignoring the remark the man said, “Do you men actually screw those women in the park?”
“No, in the cunt,” said Roscoe. “Now take a walk, John, before I bring your fucking head to Salome.”
Meanwhile, back at the choir practice Father Willie was going to hell in a hurry. He had stripped off his shirt and shoes and was asking Ora Lee if she dared him to streak through the park as Harold Bloomguard composed a song called “I Left My Heart in Titty City.”
“Put your shirt back on, Padre,” said his partner Spencer Van Moot. “I gotta quit feeding you all the cherries jubilee. You’re getting to look like a basketball.”
“How’s your como se llama these days, Ora Lee?” asked Francis as he tried to squeeze a finger inside the leg of Ora Lee’s ruffled pants, causing her to honk him severely, making him cry out in pain.
“How do you like being a sex object, huh?” the fat girl grinned.
“See, you’re not a real Mexican!” yelled shirtless Father Willie who was staggering around looking for trouble. “You’re not even a Jap! A real Mexican like General Zapata could take a little hurt without whimpering!”
“How’d you like to get your nuts crushed by this big moose?” said the injured choirboy, holding himself.
“Who’s a moose?” demanded Ora Lee Tingle, glowering at Francis. “You call me names I’ll hit you so hard and fast you’ll think you was in a gang fight!”
“Carolina’s putting on a little more weight,” Baxter Slate observed as he sat next to Sam Niles and the two quietly tried to drink themselves into unconsciousness.
“Maybe she’s pregnant,” Sam observed.
“What’re you trying to say, what’re you trying to say Sam?” Whaddayamean Dean cried out but quieted down when Baxter handed him a full bottle of bourbon.
“If she’s pregnant I’ll take her soon as her milk comes in,” said Spencer Van Moot. “I can’t feed my wife and kids no more on a policeman’s pay what with the inflation and all.”
“That’s cause you spend all your money on faggy clothes! A man your age!” said a voice from the darkness as Roscoe Rules got tired of waiting for someone to coax him back to the flock.
Then Francis Tanaguchi staggered away from the other choirboys and they heard him retching on the grass.
“Booo! Booo! Zapata my rear end!” giggled Father Willie Wright.
And while the party entered its final phase, Alexander Blaney slept on the grass not a hundred feet away beside two friendly ducklings while his mother wept at home and imagined him locked in the cruel embrace of a tattooed merchant seaman in some skid row flop-house.
At the end of that memorable choir practice some ordinary and extraordinary things started to happen.
An ordinary thing was that Whaddayamean Dean broke out in several crying jags and sobbed, “What’re you trying to say?” every time a choirboy was foolish enough to send a remark in his direction.
An extraordinary thing was that Spermwhale Whalen lost his diamond cutter and in fact lost the use of all his muscles. He could only sit against an elm tree and snarl at anyone who came near him. Spermwhale, the biggest strongest and bravest choirboy, was so drunk he was as helpless as the baby ducks out of water.
Another ordinary thing was that Roscoe Rules became as mean as a rabid dog, and with Sam Niles drunk and Spermwhale Whalen helpless, it seemed for a time that no one was around who could tame the young policeman. He was going around jealously insulting Ora Lee and Carolina because they didn’t feel like pulling that train and in any event wouldn’t let anyone as mean as Roscoe have a ride.
“Pig fuckers!” Roscoe Rules sneered. “If you don’t oink they won’t touch you! Gotta lead you up to a trough first to see if you’re worthwhile, huh?”
Sam Niles looked up from where he lay on his stomach groaning, and said, “Roscoe, this just might be the night I get you in a lip lock and shut you up for good.”
“Yeah, go ahead and try it, Niles,” Roscoe said. “You and your friend Slate together couldn’t handle me. Don’t think I don’t know you dopeheads go over there by Duck Island and smoke grass. You ain’t fooling nobody, you two.”