Christopher WunderLee - Moore's Mythopoeia

“Oh, you’ve come back to us,” a distorted radio voice says. “We didn’t think we’d ever see you again.” She is a maiden that fair princes would have fought dragons for, a woman so tempting wicked witches couldn’t keep them away, a femme fatale with the gaze of fuzzy logician, a nose like a buttered crumb, a mouth with discharged lips that make her appear to be pouting. She is wearing a men’s dress suit, the full sports jacket hangs off her frame, the long trousers bunching up at the bottom of her legs, the too large black shined shoes giving her the appearance of a cat in men’s boots, the gray button-up vest with her clear sternum underneath, the faint shadow of her chest, a large, out-dated bowler cap on her head, miscellaneous strands of black hair writhe in the wind.

“Pardon me?” Joseph says.

“Why don’t you get in line?”

“What for?”

“Well, you’ve come back to us.”

“I’m going the other way.”

Standing behind the vision in the business suit Joseph can see a long line of ragged wandering ghosts of men, haggard, sycophant women in shredded clothing, some with dirty, rotten children hanging onto their hands, trailing behind them with teddy bears and traveling games click, clacking, whistling, speaking. They all have swords dangling over their heads, hanging from their own personal cloud, which holds a piece of thread tied to the handle of the sword. It is ghastly. Joseph lifts up his wand in a menacing way, preparing to fend off the temptress and she smiles cynically back at him.

“What are you doing?” she asks innocently, mockingly. She removes the large sports coat and throws it over her shoulder.

“You can take off whatever you want, yes, I see you’re not wearing anything under that vest of yours, I know what you’re insinuating, but we both know it’s not going to happen, this is all a set-up to get me to come back from whence I came. This is all a mistake of the probability of set membership.”

“Erinyes? Could you come over here?” she called in a consumed voice. More women in men’s clothing moved towards Joseph’s position, their large patent leather shoes clapping on top of water, their hips swaying provocatively, there is something about women in men’s clothes, a whole gaggle of leering women undressing him with their eyes. Joseph surveys the enemy army, the back of hands running up their bodies, tongues protruding out of luscious lips, circling in phantom fellatio, simulated masturbation fingers wrinkling trousers, winks with all sorts of allusions to kama sutra images, horny whistles, eyebrows raised in feigned orgasms, and one woman wearing nothing but a dry-cleaned white cotton shirt who steps away from the crowd and runs the palms of her hands up clear brown thighs, gyrates her hips, arches her tongue as if gesturing for Joseph to come to her, a fillet in her hair capturing the curls so they hang behind her ears, she sways her falciform body as she moves toward him.

“What do you want? Leave me alone,” Joseph tries, stepping back, his heels already hanging over the abyss.

“You know what we want, we want to help you.”

“I was told the guardians were formidable, but I had no idea. I was picturing some sort of hunchbacked sphinx or perhaps a phoenix but this is infinitely cleverer. The men’s clothes, you can’t change them, can you? You have to keep your clothes the same. You know that we men have strange fantasies about it, so it works. If I was a woman, though, you’d suddenly be male, wouldn’t you? Well, I’m not falling for it, no sir e bob. You want me, you’ll have to fight me, none of this erection magic, it won’t work on me.”

The woman dancing moves closer, turns her back to Joseph and slowly lifts up the tails of her white shirt. “Why don’t you give Herapee a spanking? She’s being very naughty.”

“Yes, hit me, I’m a very bad girl.”

With this, Joseph makes his move. He alters his facial expression to that of a lust-bag, mimicking the look of men he’s seen in strip clubs, and gestures with his index finger for her to come to him. The woman swaddles over, unbuttoning the shirt from the neck down, revealing perfect skin.

“Bend over,” he commands and she spins on one toe.

“Yes,” she whispers, bending over before him and lifting her shirt over her waist.

His hand whips through the air and barks against her backside, causing the skin to ripple and her to take a few steps forward, she utters a hideous peal.

“How do you like that?” Joseph demands. “That goes for the rest of ya, too. I don’t play games, you want a spanking, I’m going to smack you so hard you’ll be a transsexual.”

“More, more…” the woman replies, backing up to him, arching her back and spreading herself open with her fingers. “More.”

“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”.