Christopher WunderLee - Moore's Mythopoeia

When it arrives, of course, bureaucrats and administrators and representatives and fasces and the like all stand for a few moments, gazing up at the flagpoles with their strange banners, then down to the structure erected directly before them, quite sure they’re looking at an enormous penis, complete with ball sacks and wiry pubic hair, until they tear themselves away from it and begin to walk, turning back, as if they might have hallucinated, every few steps, and notice the tulips, which are growing strangely, or altered, or wait, yes, they’ve been attacked too. They head up to their offices, luckily having a window looking down upon the entrance walkway, only to find themselves staring at shapes forced upon the lovely blooms, actual geometrical patterns stomped into the gardens, as if meant to be seen from the air. They shake their heads, strangely confused, even a little disturbed (several female workers actually scream, faint, clutch chests, cry, and go comatose when they first arrive and see the sculpture before them — the enormous phallus just too much for their sensitive sensibilities to manage). It escapes no one, as well, that the action has occurred the first day of Graham Greene’s tenure as a representative, although he makes no mention of it all day, nor intends to ever… in private, of course, he’s given his approval for action being taken against the perpetrators, whom they are, no one knows and everyone’s relieved when city engineers show up late in the afternoon and begin to dismantle the giant erection. The CEO is, obviously, very understandably, on the phone with the director of Section 9, demanding immediate military force be brought to bear on this ‘resistance’, who’ve left a calling card of sorts in the form of a plaque, which reads:

His right to govern me is clear as day

My duty manifest to disobey;

And if that fit observance e’er I shun

May I and duty be alike undone.

* * *

The Sodium Amytal was administered whilst he slept. Elisa had no more ideas. Imagine her hovering over him, a leather captain’s hat on her head, the shiny black bikini, the suede thong, a chain connecting it to her waist, her bare breasts cradled in a latex bodice, too much make up, long, high heeled boots that ran up to her knees; he’s tied to the bed post and she’s taunting him with her parted legs, pungent red jaws extenuated by the strap separating them, the mirror positioned behind her so he can watch her ballet ass quivering over him, the fake tattoos on her left butt cheek, inner thigh, and over her right breast, all the work to get him utterly crying for it, one enormous fantasy she was humiliatingly performing for him, all for Arthur and all for nothing. She brushes the tip of his penis against her pelvis, grabs it and slides it up and down her crotch, “you aren’t going in anywhere unless you’re willing to answer some questions.”

“Okay, yes, yes, whatever you want,” his arms flexed against the bonds, pulling as hard as he can, the head board creaking, lifting his mid section up to meet her. “Please, come on, alright, whatever you want to ask.”

“That’s a good boy, now,” she releases the chain and slips the leather panties off, “now tell me, lover, what were you doing in that restaurant, where I first met you?”

“First let me… let me have… just a taste, come on,” his tongue out, stretching towards the recently discarded thong on his chest.

“OOOooo, you want an appetizer, all you have to do is tell me and I’ll wipe it all over your face.”

“Following you, I was following you,” he responds, his tongue back out and licking the inside of the leather, moaning… “that’s all.”

“Why were you following me? Come on, don’t make me stop” she’s turned around, away from him, straddling his thighs, legs parted, sliding up, then down, up, then down; she smacks him against her soffit, knowing that he has unspeakable surreptitious suggestions about doing things to her winky, that he likes to fondle it, feel the crease between the two cheeks, the curve that leads to her… She s(t)imulates congress, hind first.

“Ohhhh yeessss, ooooOOHHHhhhh, oooookkaaaaaaaaaayyy, I was, I was, I wanted to fuck you, I want to fuck you, I saw you and I couldn’t get you out of my mind, I wanted to taste, to taste that, that sweet, sweet pussy.”

“Where’s your office, the address?” she’s stuffed two of her own fingers inside as she slides up the shaft of his prick, “come on, honey, one answer and you follow my fingers.”

“Ohhhh, ahhhh, oooohhHHHHhhhaaaaa, please, I work, downtown, downtown, come on, ohhhhh, I’m dying, Edwards Street, Sixth Floor, come on, fuck, fuck me.”

“And your phone number?” handling his penis, sliding its tip around, lubricated, “the number and you’re in.” Lies, the entire episode, the uncomfortable after effects, the synthetic squeals, the aching lower belly, the proctalgia, the leather outfit, the time wasted taunting him, he had simply lied to her. She was humiliating herself, giving this man everything he wanted, piss on me, by all means, whip me, why yes, just make sure you do it hard, long fantasies of Grand Inquisitors interrogating virgin witches (complete with costumes), how creative, yes please, do torture me, trashy outfits, thongs, girdles, make up, high heels, sheer dresses, eatable undies, pretending, tongue baths, more please…

One good ride and he was out. Sodium Amytal administered. Finally, no bargains, no tricks, no boring romance and no pretending she was having the time of her life. Just answers.

* * *

Champagne sunlight had toppled over the wet pavement, and the humidity rose with each hour ( nipson anomemata me monan opsin ). The early morning neon fragments (primarily red, orange, and yellow) were lower frequency wavelength particles least scattered by nitrogen and oxygen, atmospheric refraction lifted the Son higher than it actually was while distorting it with differential refraction, giving the city streets an ethereal smolder that Lord Scattering would have found quintessential and giving Joseph the particular impression that heaven was leaking onto the earth.

It was the day of the festival (celebrating the city’s goodwill) and Joseph had every plan to debut his first play, if only he could find a suitable place for his stage and coax his fellow ‘players’ out of their crates and lairs. He’d had a long talk with them the night before, seemingly making headway with promises that he’d find them fish guts and other scraps, while not requiring them to do more than block for him, although one or two would probably have to don some sort of costume (Joseph guiltily omitted that when he’d introduced the idea). And, he’d even found two of the C.I. familiaris , a particularly russet gray female with dyed ruby ears whom he called Daisy Mae and a dear blonde terrier mutt who answered blithely to Linus, both being essential to Scene II, in which he needed some complicated spins and an elaborate bow.

He was returning to the alleyway, having only recently discarded his angel gear and managing some terrestrial clothing (after it appeared his ascension was not to be in the near future), when he saw four of them lounging on a delivery stand in the back of a warehouse. Being a courteous neighbor and in a festive mood, he joined them for some small talk:

“Well kitties, it appears as though the day is upon us. We should pray for our soul or most certainly we will be the sole prey of eternity,” Joseph remarked ibn Arabianly as he took a seat, they casually acknowledging his entrance into their pride and furthering their reputation for idleness. “What can you say about a day like this… my, my…”

He patiently waited for any one of their members to insert their own observation, but realized their inclination for direct communication; he quickly amended his languid words and focused on le mot juste . It was a pure egotistical pleonasm how he continued on, never stopping, speaking as though they were listening like schoolchildren afraid their grades would suffer or that they would be given the ole ruler across the knuckles if they veered their attention, like so many of them could remember on cold autumn mornings, as the teacher began his lecture, snapping the yard stick against his palm and continuing on until lunch time and they could escape out onto the playground.