Christopher WunderLee - Moore's Mythopoeia

“All right, lead the way.”

“I like men that do whatever I want, we should get along famously.”

It was not long before he found himself, in a clear daze, if there is such a thing, which we assure you there is, especially when a love is so nearby, walking with her down the street, her head rested against his shoulder and her arms wrapped around his closest arm as if they had been dating for three or four weeks exclusively and had grown comfortable enough for physical contact, meaning, of course, that a kiss and some moderate fondling of non-erogenous zones were to follow very quickly, at least by the next date, which meant that as long as he kept his mouth shut, he’d be pulsating within her sweaty crotch by month’s end. After that, he would have every opportunity to witness her naked, as the first few love making sessions were always punctuated by the utmost modesty, meaning that both fuckers would remove only the necessary equipment for access and denial, but that any additional roving was utter trespassing and potentially cause for refusal, although it was not unknown for two people to become so amorous that breasts were exposed or full frontal nudity was allowed in the midst of a ravenous episode of first contact.

Captain Vincent was sitting in a booth against the wall of the insides of a refurbished warehouse, unbeknownst to any of his peers, superiors, or other colleagues, it had been converted into a thriving disco where debauchery was promoted with unqualified music, alcoholic beverages, and the pungent fumes of tobacco smoke, all of which were strictly forbidden under Article 876-04 of the Social Ordinance Revised Codes, pages 789 through 795 (very Baylian, he must admit). Elisa, though, had already departed from the captain’s company and was currently standing, quite pleasantly, considering her back-less, black ribbon dress and perched head, at the bar, having been immediately serviced by the gentleman behind it, not even having the opportunity to consider what she intended to order before he stood attentively before her, ignoring the angry grimaces and whines of patrons who had been waiting for up to five minutes for him to get to their orders and returned quite triumphantly with two martinis and a package of hand-rolled cigarettes that were allegedly prepared by underground rollers from an island that had an ancient tradition of tobacco expertise. She immediately lit one of the cigarettes and blew out a large, thick plume of blue smoke like she had just heard the words of god and had been promised some sort of royal position upon her death. The captain, quite out of his element, since he’d never tried alcohol before, nor smoked a cigarette, nor did he intend to that night, knowing full well that excesses were always the symbols of rebellion in the historical annals (see for instance the feminist movement of the late-21 stCentury country of India), did not intend to ignore the attentive vixen who plugged a cancer stick to her lips and drew in an enormous furnace of ashes but couldn’t very well help it since the dance floor was spilling into the seating area and several scantily clad women were being dry humped by their partners, both male and female, right there before him, as well as the momentarily exposings of ass cheeks, cleavage, and nearly non-existent panties as the women waggled to the thumping tempo of some sort of sonic wave.

Elisa Greene, seated directly across from him and with her feet positioned between his legs as she reclined, seemed amused by the captain’s reaction to the hedonistic establishment, and sipped her martini between sacrificial smiles. Vincent, the professional that he was, pulled himself together and turned his attention to his prey.

* * *

Hail holy luminosity, the product of heaven’s portal, or of the eternal cooperation of deity and machine expressing an unblamed, unapproachable effluence of eternal, at least for cosmic-dynamo extra terrestrials, light that behaves like an antennae to focus the pure ethereal stream of Graham Green’s weekly, awarded from the void and infinite universe, oration on the virtue of complete supplication to the general will of the world’s prejudices, however slight. Joseph, who had escaped the Stygian pool, though he was lengthily detained within its grasp, having misunderstood a wishing well for an expansive ocean to cross with the tidal influence of an inflatable raft that had caused an obscure sojourn of sorts, to the best of his knowledge, properly exaggerated. Within the darkness of descending stars of the middle of the multiverse and with a very odd noise emanating out of what was surely an Orphean lyre, unbeknownst to our hero, due to its antiquity related usage, he stood at the cusp of dawn, amongst the piercing rays of the ultraviolet morning, so thickly were the neon, serene drops of pollution quenching the atomic laws of thermodynamics, and witnessed, for the first time, the clear spring of words that flowed upon the hallowed feet of an angel’s wisdom. No equal, save the blind Thamyris and equally vision deficient Maeonides, as well as Tiresias and Phineus, could so properly feed the thoughts of the harmonious numbers as he warbled like a wakeful bird a nocturnal note on the missing subject of our prose.

Now had the all-knowing agent who stood from a vantage point above, from the imperfect empyrean seat, bent down his gaze, to view the maneuverings of Joseph the Angel, as about him stood the sanctities of Section 6 and from his sight received beatitude beyond poetry; on his right was the monitor in which the radiant image was interrupted by his main ally; whom, within his rural sanctuary began to lament so eloquently upon New Urbanization, that highly-fashioned mixed-use development scheme that promised Norman Rockwell mirages to spring from front porches and tire swings as neighbors gabbed about the weather, the postal worker greeted little urchins with a friendly pat on the head, and the sprinklers fed the chem.-lawn. Graham talked on as he was joined by his new wife and as his voice resonated out into the firmament, his own private happy garden was explored in its blissful solitude and transitioned with cinematographical articulacy to scenes of the actual urban streets, as Joseph mounted a mending wall and shot out in the air like an archangel invading the terrestrial plain. It was then, that Vincent observed his substitute query.

Rage transports our adversary who cannot be bound by Fenris chains or dismayed by frightening chasms, so bent was he was on some desperate retribution for the hours and the days. Captain Vincent watched the prey as he was lit by the ambrosial vision of the blessed spirit who he had so recently bed and heard the words of her brother, by some false guile perverting the flattering lies he knew she had been serving him and providing him with an honest glimpse of the fall. No doctor created this spirit, so freely standing in mock ignorance, who has no true allegiance, no constant faith or love, where only her needs must do, whether he wished they would, for what praise could they take delivery of? The pleasure he received from such disobedience, when his will and reason (his choices) were useless and vain, for there was no freedom, but all was made passive and he would serve necessity. No force has caused this revolt, no destiny or fortune or fate, they themselves decreed their own rebellion, it was not for he, although he knew, for his foreknowledge had no influence on their fault, so without the least influence or trespasses, as authors of their own fall, as they judge from themselves of what they choose, they themselves ordain the collapse.

* * *

With Elisa laying across Vincent’s lap, in the Hotel Van Tryst, her mouth hovering near his throat, her breath rebounding off his airy, recently shaved neck, floating like fog up his jaw, it was the captain’s move, for she had suggested the purchase of a nameless bottle of wine, had directed him to the hotel, and had flung herself so carelessly onto him after several moments of hesitant silence (neither party missing the Blauian affects of the scenario). Captain Vincent was no expert in the art of spittle exchange, but he did have a certain seriousness about him when he did it that conveyed to the recipient how much he appreciated the shared experience. The captain gave the matter his full attention and avoided such abandonment that can lead to extraneous amounts of saliva trickling down the sides of the mouth and causing the other party to slide off of the lips. This simultaneously, though, gave the operation a clinical feel and Vincent had never been given the attribute of passion, causing, irreparably, the few women he had been fortunate enough to lock lips with a rather sour feeling for the entire procession, unnaturally causing them to move a few steps forward in the process and arrive at the final destination without sufficient lubrication. Thus, the ultimate aspiration of every man had always eluded poor Vincent; he had never experienced the throbbing, writhing wail of a woman in ecstasy. Fully aware of this, the captain was hesitant to embark on the operation with Elisa, fearing, rather compassionately, that he would so disappoint her that she would calculatedly end their relationship based upon his deficient skills with her wanting mouth.