11
The Dead Father unsheathed his sword and gazed at it.
Thomas looked up the road.
Old Stream-of-Anguish! Companion of my finest hours!
Moving north, one finds a little button.
Jumble-gut lane, Thomas agreed.
Indeed.
Oh it was a grand fire, said Thomas, very persuasive.
I think not, said Thomas, he is an alkie, is all.
The men watching. Julie and Emma watching.
What has this to do with fatherhood? asked the Dead Father.
Whats in it? Julie asked.
He surrendered the sword.
No, said Julie, I never cry. Except when I realize what I have done.
The vagina, she said, is not where its at.
The Dead Father slipped his cable and stormed off down the road.
Where is the mother? asked Emma.
You carved me very neatly, said the Dead Father. I admit it.
We agree, said Thomas, weve heard that.
Then I shall be swordless. Think what that means.
Surrender your sword. Yreａd•99csw•cｏｍour maulsticker.
The women object, she said. Violently.
Anisette, he said, or something sweet.
What is he doing now?
My sword?
Overall presence distributed in discrete small black particles all over everything, said Julie.
Emma was peering down the road.
But functioning, said Thomas, congratulate yourself.
Does he really want to hear the answer? asked Thomas. No. I dont think so. If I were he, I would not want to hear the answer.
Celebrated, suggested Thomas.
I am.
The family unit produces zombies, psychotics, and warps, Thomas said. In excess of what is needed.
The father is a motherfucker, she said.
They exist, said Julie, grinning in their business suits and knickers. And Keds.
He gazed at Thomas.
This language is not very flattering, said the Dead Father. To a man of a certain age.
No mashing down! Julie said fiercely.
What ihttps://read.99csw.coms the cause? asked the Dead Father.
By definition, said Thomas.
Fatherhood as a substructure of the war of all against all, said Thomas, we could discuss that.
The Wend country is bumpy to a fault, said the Dead Father. I am glad we are out of it.
Your sword, sir.
Thomas holding out his hand.
I have. Long and hard.
Julie began.
Thomas trotted to the place where the others were picking Edmund up. He returned holding a silver flask.
And furthermore, Julie said to the Dead Father, it is unseemly. Ugly. Nasty-looking, would be a way of putting it.
Conduct a shakedown, suggested the Dead Father. Stand by your bunks and open your footlockers.
Eighteen percent at the last census, Julie added.
Are you blaming me? asked the Dead Father.
They are boys because they dont want to be old farts, said Julie. The old fart is not cherished in this soci九*九*藏*書ety.
My leg is black, said the Dead Father.
Sucking on his flask, he said, I have flang three of them into the brush but he always produces another.
Where did I learn it? For the mind of me to have formulated these formulations, must they not have a grounding in external reality? I am not just idly --
Titivated, suggested Emma.
You are asking me to give up my sword?
You must.
Me too, said Emma, for I know nothing about it, and am thus presuppositionless.
What is wrong with that? asked the Dead Father. Seems perfectly reasonable to me.
Thomas caught the Dead Father in two bounds.
Nods of comprehension.
Are you about to cry? asked the Dead Father.
Post and grime, said the Dead Father. You do have a dismal view of things.
Those that are the fathers of themselves miss something, said the Dead Father. Fathers, to be precise.
A state of grace, philosophicaread.99csw.comlly, the Dead Father observed.
I am not saying that it is your fault, he said to the Dead Father.
Edmund has fallen flat on his mush in the roadway, she said.
The fucked mother conceives, Julie said. The whelpling is, after agonies I shall not describe, whelped. Then the dialogue begins. The father speaks to it. The "it" in a paroxysm of not understanding. The "it" whirling as in a centrifuge. Looking for something to tie to. Like a boat in a storm. What is there? The father.
Stumbling from the stage is anathema to them, said Julie, they want to be nuzzling new women when they are ninety.
Must I?
You were being castigatorious, said the Dead Father. Again.
Who speaks for the father? asked the Dead Father. Who in Gods name --
I talk about what I want to talk about, said Julie, this is a digression.
Edmund would be an example, Emma sugge九-九-藏-書sted. Though lovable.
No, said Thomas. He is not.
A grime?
Nods of accord.
Prefer not to, said Thomas.
He is going to do it again, said Emma. Paint the floor red with blood.
Thomas tilted the flask.
I can speak to that, said Julie.
The phallus, she continued, is next to useless for the purpose. Rolling pins should never be employed. Streams of blue blood --
Fifty-year-old boys, Julie said, thats another thing.
The road. The caravan. People taking pictures of the caravan with little pronghorn cameras. Flashes of light.
Or old poop, said Thomas, that is another thing they dont want to be.
Now it does no good to mash down on the button. Its not an elevator button, its not a doorbell. The button should not be mashed down on. It should be --
She stopped for a word.
The mother hath not the postlike quality of the father. She is more like a grime.
The sword, said Thomas.