I was hanging out with the guys, in my spacious, new office. One of the first things I had done was get a big flatscreen installed. That used to be more difficult than talking sense to the Pope. Now it was a breeze. I just mention it, and it gets done. Rank has priv'ledges. I have a lot of new friends, nice guys, too. We are sitting around with cocktails in our hands. We don't actually drink or eat, but it is cool to pretend. There is a lot of that "Satan was in this room-- wow." going on too. Helps if you know famous people. "Yeah, we're practically buddies. He depends on me, says I'm his devil on the ground, yep." A little bragging, where is the harm in it, I say.
I got the flat screen on and my spotter demon is beaming live footage of Gabriel venting on the Energizer Bunny Mariachi Band, who just launched into yet another mind wrenching abomination of a song. Gabriel has, over the years, picked up quite a Spanish vocabulary and is practicing on them. The words, from what Spanish I know, are very, very vulgar. My, my he is doubting the manhood of the lead singer, a excessively mustachioed and portly howler. The insult just adds to the sense of dejection that is precisely called for in this croaking screeching, all about the loss of honor and a traitorous woman. "With more emotion, Manuel!" The guys are laughing to my witty jab. Oh, there he goes with the sword! Everyone is pointing at the Demon Slayer as he heaves the flaming sword around to the side and behind him, for a good swipe, staggering Mariachi ward, shouting obscenities, what was that one? Putrid son of a mangy, and is it pusstulating,? oh, yes, lets not forget the flea-ridden. You tell 'em, Gabriel. He misses the Mariachi! Unbelievable! A miss that spun him around and brought him to his knees! We're just hooting and whooping, high fiving and snickering, when I feel a chill tap on my shoulder.
Oh, God , it's him. Crap. My whole body tenses, yet oddly my hand doesn't. The glass falls to the lush carpet. I spin around, apologies ready. The room empties of sound. "Satan. Sir." I try to snap my voice to attention. Satan's face grows a smile. "Having some fun? No harm in that, Mogon, good to get in some relaxing after a hard days' work" He puts his arm around my shoulder and turns me back to the flatscreen, giving me a couple of manly shoulder tugs. I thought I heard him use my name. Did I hear right? Satan steps to the corner of the desk, where Aloran is sitting, throws a glance and a slight jerk of the head. Aloran shoots off the corner and stumbles aside. "Got anything to drink?" We are speechless and frozen. Aloran recovers quickest. "What can I get you, Sir." "How about a gin and tonic. Yes, that sounds good. Hey, is this one of those new Hitachi model 7000s? Damn son, you got some pull around here. Good man to know." He looks over at me and winks. "You want some lime with that, Sir?" Aloran from the back, at the bar. "Got any olives? How about two." Aloran brings the empty glass, stirring it with a clinking spoon. "Enjoy, Sir," handing it to him. "Hope it's to your liking." Suddenly, I don't like him. He's an asskisser, too smooth. Gotta keep an eye on him. Satan lifts the glass and offers "Cheers". Cheers all around and just as sudden as it stopped, the party is back on. We watch the Gabriel epic. He is chasing the last Mariachi up the hill, his lungs ejecting perversities. Satan: "I didn't catch that, Mogon, a needle dick bug, what?" "Fornicater, Sir" "Oh, good one, glad that Gabriel is keeping up on his education." Laughter. Gabriel is hacking the last demon to pieces, hurling obscenities with every heave. He stops, leaning on the sword, looking around furtively, disheveled and deranged. It is quiet. In the room the tension builds. Where are the Mariachis? Gabriel looks around triumphantly. "I've killed you, you-" the rest is in Spanish. "Mogon, Sir, what did he say?" I clear my throat loudly. "To put it delicately, he called them sons of festering dog feces." We all about fall out on that one. Satan is looking at me with something like admiration. I am glowing inside. "Here they come!" All eyes to the flatscreen. "There, up on the hill!" I can see them now, wearing black with pink trim. "Seven of 'em." "What's wrong with their hips?" They are running down hill and gyrating, hands flipping back and dipping down. "Oh my God, they are gay Mariachis." We are stomping and nearly on the floor. The Mariachis stop about fifty feet from Gabriel, who is looking at them in disbelief. Some are blowing kisses, others are suggestively swiveling their hips. The guitar players are frantically untuning their guitars. One of the trumpet players lifts a very suggestive phallus to his lips and blows a horrible crawk out of it. The band starts in on the first song, thrusting their hips in unison to the beat. Gabriel is more than furious. He charges into them like a bowling ball, strike bound. The Mariachis deftly scatter, then reform behind him. "They are quick!" Not missing a beat, they continue the nightmare serenade.
to be continued.....
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
About Me
- roberto kiam borderlineartist@gmail.com
- I live in a quaint, little town, plagued with the specter of speculation and commerce. I am trailer trash,with wishes for good dishes. I shoulda died long ago, but like a rescue dog, didn't. I am indescribably scattered. I speak three languages. I walk a tenuously, true path. I am lucky. For myself, for others. God, it is said, protects orphans, widows and the innocent.
2 comments:
In some muslim countries, that would trigger a fatwa against you. You devil:)
Hello Everyone,
My name is Gida.
I am an Alco Sinner.
I have been an Alco Sinner for most of my childhood and a good part of my adult life.
Uh, er, if you don’t mind, I will get to the heart of the matter Mister…… uh, may I take the liberty of calling you Mister Lucifer instead of Mister Satan?? Somehow, Mister Satan sticks to my tongue whereas Mister Lucifer, rolls off nicely.
Many thanks.
Mister Lucifer, I have sinned today and I sinned again yesterday.
Chances are, I will sin tomorrow. Yes, certainly, if you like I can start with my most recent transgressions and move back in time. Once again my apologies for digressing.
This very morning caught me a sinnin while I was a swimmin. I was in the dive well at the local recreational facility bouncing away with the rest of the class. Deep water aerobics don cha know. I was diving in with gusto, me and the rest of the budding demons, kickin and paddlin, paddlin and a kickin my heart, oops, sorry Mister Lucifer, just a figure of speech, paddling my cockles out, when I felt this intense heat bubble up from the tips of my toes to the crown of my shining skull.
Yes, of course I will get to the point Mister Lucifer. Ahem.
It was fire Mister Lucifer and I kid you not. It was the full monty white flame grade of which you are so proud. The type of flame which you have so clearly and frequently demo-ed and imprinted into my data bank on so many momentous occasions. It was of such intensity that I tremble in the telling. And THIS is what led to its malignant arrival.
The babbling instructor was getting on my last nerve. Jill was prattling on about this and that and now that and now this. Her scale at home and how the scale must be off because certainly those 57 cremehorns that she downed before bedtime last nite could not posssssibblllly be the source; and next how many turnips, okay now switch to cross country, keep marchin, she chowed for dinner last nite and how the turnips gave her heartburn and how the heartburn led her to take some pepto bismol and do we all remember that oh so awful bubble gum taste of pepto bismol which is almost but not quite as bad as alker seltzer; moving on now to the temperamental humidity in her house, and yo Mister Lucifer, her furnace is so unpredictable and she simply can’t trust the thermostat because, keep those abs tight, the thermostat seems to have a mind of its own and what a nuisance; now we are sharing the little road trip that she took with her forever friend Suse and they went all the way to Nashville, no sillies, not Tennessee, Nashville Indiana, fooled us, fooled us, and what about those tulip bulbs, didn’t they just suck up that last rain we had and how we are all invited, and be sure and sign up after class, keep those abs tight, to a special halloween festivity sponsored by the recreation center and would we please bring a covered dish; keep marchin, and now we get to recall every halloween costume mommy designed and especially the fairy god, bite my tongue, mother pink taffeta and how wonderful we all look; really we are all amazing and she kids us not and aren’t we all something to behold and well you are maybe getting an inklin of what I had to put up with for a whole hour Mister Lucifer Sir and fellow demons, I began to weep hot blue tantrum tears of, age old fierce and indignant, not to mention self righteous, oh and did I say long repressed, yes definitely very long repressed RAAAYYYY GGGGGGGEEEEEEEEE !!!
I checked in with my swimmate Paul to see if we were on the same page and sadly he seemed to be just peachy without a care in the world to speak of.
Now she is moving into her Georgie Carlin routine without the Carlin. Yes, sad attempts at comedic repertoire which involved such sterling comments about how we ought not to worry if we don’t do the exercises the normal way and well after all there is no norm and if there was a norm wouldn’t we all be in trouble and most of all she would be in the most trouble if there was in fact a norm, not to worry, no norm here, and remember she is the least normal of us all. It began to remind me of my own anxiety about normalcy and my inner moron began to weep.
she is raucous now and laughing uproariously at her own cleverness. her jabberwocky is even more punctuated by hee haw guffaws that occur thrice a second. I am now seeping a dark wine red fluid from every single orifice of my body. My teeth grow steely points and that little forky tail that you promised Mister Lucifer was defiantly peeking out from my swim suit. I am sweating. Yes beneath the cover of water, I am profuse in my ability to sweat. Had we not been in the water, I would have registered an 8 on the richter sweat barometer.
Well, why all of this confession? Excellent question.
It is my head Mister Lucifer. I am a hot head. I am bred from a long and infamous family of hot heads. Yes, some call it passion, but those of us in the know, and surely you are the top dog in this here dept. Mister Lucifer, we are hot heads sprinkled not all that liberally with tiny crystals of passion. Mister Lucifer I am needless to say, your top applicant. There is no one in this room more suited for the job.
Oh excuse me Mister Lucifer, would you mind if I briefly rest my case. Mommykins is calling me for din din. She is preparing a little roast suckling pig with a shiny red ambrosia apple stuffed up its rump. Why yes, Mister Lucifer I do agree that it would be inappropriate to share my concerns with my ghostly confessor and that is why I promise to return just as soon as our repast is past. Oh and by the way, I just love that jaundice look that you are wearing today; it is so well synchronized with your blazing yellow ascot. No of course not, I apologize Mister Lucifer, no such thing as synchronicity. Yes of course the world is a fucking accident. That bastard Carl Jung can burn in hellville, I totally agree. And of course it all random, no divine plan; Mister Lucifer Sir, Mister, Sir, calm down, please sir, I meant no harm, let go of my arrrmmm, sir . . . . . .
Post a Comment