‘And you said you observed Revenue Agent Fechner suffering effects from the adulterated tea.’
‘So it was the tea.’
‘That’s not our area, Sir, I’m afraid. We’re collecting data.’
‘On the knives.’
‘A handsome set of knives indeed, Sir, would you care to see them?’
‘Who is this really? Who are you men?’
‘You were saying Revenue Agent Fechner and his glass eye.’
‘That he was at van Hool’s beer chest; he had his glass eye out so there was just the socket.’
‘And did the knives oh by some chance look like… this, Sir?’
‘Atiencepay, Aylortay. Onay uttingcay etyay.’
‘You think I don’t speak Latin?’
‘Sir, I’m pleased you speak Latin.’
‘Who is this man to your right and left?’
‘Try to focus, Sir. I know it’s difficult.’
‘Fechner was at the chest, had the eye out and was… was opening bottles of beer with the socket. Socket as bottle opener. In goes the bottle, downward yank. The little Line 40s were watching — it was awful!’
‘Revenue Agent Fechner’s going to be fine, Sir. They found the eye and he’s going to be right as rain.’
‘Was it raining, Sir?’
‘Placing the cap in the socket and then yanking down on the bottle, then the children would scream and clap because the cap was in the socket. A little gray sun in the eye. Eye eye!’
‘I say we just cut it out of him right now. It’s right there, Clothier, see it?’
‘Scopolamine you say. Loco weed. Parentis. Mens sano in corpus. And not plastic knives, either. And may I say what handsome skulls you have beneath that skin, boys.’
‘And you last saw Revenue Agent Drinion before the tactical incursion, Sir, or after?’
‘Drinion was at the table. Holding down the table as they say. Almost asleep he seemed. Drinion never takes part. They weren’t touching him — the mosquitoes. His chin in his hand.’
‘You don’t mean that literally, Sir.’
‘Note the honed edge. Note the seven-inch length, you old drone. Note the five stars on the blade and where it says No Stain and Ice Hardened and Zwilling and J.A. Henckels, Solingen FRG. You know what this is?’
‘I just don’t feel well at all, still. The examiners — a whole writhing boiling mass of them on the ground.’
‘From the three-legged race you mean, Sir, you don’t mean what Miriam calls your “third leg,” back in the days when she wanted that leg, Sir, didn’t she, Sir, before it repelled her.’
‘They were rappelling. Ropes in the trees. Victor Charles. A writhing mass of GS-9 examiners — mass copulation among the examiners which I personally observed — it’s all there in my report on a Form 923(a) for personal observations of impropriety; you Inspections men know all about 923(a)s, do you not.’
‘You observed this from the grill, then, Sir.’
‘I observed the effect of the tea in opened sockets and mass frenzied orgylike copulation and humping under the trees, on the table, under the tossed egg, on both ends of the horseshoe grotto. There were actual buttocks thrusting under my grill.’
‘And I believe you said you were wearing an apron, Sir.’
‘Cut him. Take it right off, Clothier.’
‘So by this point in time everyone with the possible exception of the children was suffering definite effects, Sir, you’re saying.’
‘The wieners themselves were writhing, thrusting. Plump, thrusting, shiny, moist, there on the grill, on Mrs. Kagle’s aluminum platter, in the air. I with the fork and observing it all until out of the trees where they breed! Breeding, ever breeding!’
‘I think we’ve got a decent picture of the situation from your particular vantage, Sir.’
‘You know it doesn’t go, Sir. Not really. You’ll stay like this. Look at me. You’ll look like this, Sir. Always. We came to tell you. We’ll cut it off right now if you like. Say the word.’
‘Needles with wings. Knives with wings, all dancing on their sharp tips, shrouds of mosquitoes making it dark. The sky is no longer the sky.’
‘He doesn’t want it, Clothier.’
‘The air no longer white with it.’
‘Get used to it, you impotent old fag. That’s right: fag.’
‘Ixnay, Taylor.’
‘I have seen my wife take her skin off, you know. Since you came all the way down, eh? Peel the white skin of her arm clean off like an opera glove. Take off her face from the top down.’
‘Like: this, Sir?’
‘I think I’m going to be moving over to the next subject of the debriefing now, Sir. With much gratitude for taking the time.’
‘As if it’s even yours, eh, Dwitt? Eh?’
‘I’m simply unprecedentedly upset. I don’t think it’s getting better.’
‘You know what doctors do, don’t you? When you’re asleep. From the top down, like you’re a soft old grape in the back of the fridge that someone’s forgot to throw out. DeWitt, if I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times.’
‘I’m noting that, Sir, as well as Inspections’ appreciation for your cooperation under the circumstances.’
‘Well don’t just lie there say something. Tell them what they want or they’ll cut it off. They’ve as much as said so. Are you a fool?’
‘And I know they’ll be back in, and doing everything possible for your comfort until it comes off, Sir. I mean wears off. The blood level.’
‘I’m naked, you know. Under all this.’
‘We may or may not be needing to interview you again, Sir. When the effects are less noticeable if you understand.’
‘As a jaybird. Buck-naked. Birthday suit.’
‘Tell them, hurry. It’s German.’
‘Yes and I do, I have a penis. Penis.’
‘Hate that word, Clothier.’
‘Dreadful word, eh? Penis? Like something you’d touch with a thick rubber glove if at all.’
‘Why DeWitt you old scalawiggle! I’m still a woman, you know!’
‘Say it with me, boys. Penis penis penis penis penis.’
‘You didn’t forget, oh DeWitt, it’s lovely.’
‘You just get some rest, Sir.’
‘Its name is — I won’t tell you. How do you like that? I won’t!’
‘I remember when you looked at me that way.’
‘It’s got a name. Its name is — I won’t tell you. It’s mine. It’s my third leg, Miriam calls it. But never from the forehead. It’s not a mask. They start with the chin. Upsy daisy. In comes the needle on wings!’
‘Allweshay, Aylortay?’
‘My proboscis itches so I sink it deep before vomiting.’
‘Not in me, DeWitt. It’s like you’re vomiting inside me. Even your expression is as if you’re taken ill. If you could ever see it you’d—’
‘Miriam’s frigid you know.’
‘I’ll be locking this behind me, Sir, but it’s just procedural.’
‘Since our third. A terrible labor. Stillborn. Blue and cold. You know what we named it?’
‘Taylor?’
‘That’s right. Taylor. Fine little Clothier just like his gumpappy.’
‘I just don’t want it. Don’t torture me for not, I beg you.’
‘Shall we… there you are, Sir.’
‘No interest since. Frigid. Dry as a fine martini, Bernie Cheadle’d say.’
‘So then toodleoo, Sir.’
‘Thank God we have our work, boys, eh? And our hobbies. Our home workshops, yes? Fashioning needles and wings for the commonweal? Yes, Aylor?’