Joshua Cohen - Witz

Perfidy, he says, you was hungry, then smiles, haven’t had anything, reckon, in a while.

It slithers, a raw pink leeching the animal’s parasite’s parasite slow in its own sleazy grease — to settle in His stomach, a fresh new infestation, this hosting warming Him wrong, an eating fever of fleischig, this meat shvitz and yet, amazingly, without guilt. Thus the squeal of revelation doth enter…pork! this stuff edibles incredible! It can’t be believed, what a ta’am, what a taste; Benjamin breathes. I’ve never had anything — what? Only a growl. He teethes into His next, tears at His meal with assenting nods of the head: one’s slob another’s primitive, and both He’s happy to be.

Pork, Leeds says finally satisfied, proud almost as if he’s responsible not only for this specific preparation, a recipe he’ll secret if only for the kooky thrill of it, but also for the existence of the species entire: it’s the universal meat, after all…you know this, closest animal to us humans, it’s like cannibalism without the threat of prosecution, incarceration, all that prison raping to death — hell, even the darkies agree, they love them their white meat, finish it off with a little watermelon, spit them seeds out, grow their own, if not for the weather. And then you got those people that just went and died, you know, poor souls, the Affiliated they’re calling them, they didn’t know what they’d been missing these however many thousands of years, I done lost count since Christ; too occupied making their retirements, too distracted making the world turn on time, beats me, I’ve been beaten before. I’m glad they’re all dead and gone, serves them right; I hear you got just the firstborns left…you heard the one about that lastborn kid they think survived — they need to find that kid and give Him the business, the what’s what, just deserts. There’ve been rumors, you know about this — former Treasury secretary or head of the Fed out on this nowhere Island, New York, hope of hopes that hole gets totally wiped out soon enough, hand of God or earthswallowed, it’s done enough damage; anyway, this Das they call him, don’t know what it stands for if it ain’t his name or title, he’s out for the firstborns: if he’d do what I’d do then I wish him all the luck in the world…cowering, Benjamin’s a lump, stumped for the saying at the end of the portable, semipotable table, pottydrunk, stuffed on seconds and thirds, more and still nude.

Jesus, my manners in heaven and Leeds gets up only half lucid himself, staggers into the trailer — you must be freezing, he says, ain’t no one yet used to a winter like this…scaring up on a kick, a flail rummaging, think I got an outfit around here somewhere, something from the good old days — he’s rooting amid slop, dripping, jars kept of offal, animal effluvia, raising his head to the wall of the trailer and its cross hung there, the crucifix for a scarecrow that’d never quite worked on the dogs, a scaredog, why not, frighteningly thin branches burdened with white; he rips the shroud off then crows out with the uniform of a Klansmensch — you’ll look just perfect in that hood, it’s very vertical, slimming, throwing it to Benjamin who shrouds it on over His naked; it’s way too tight, but it works. And you should definitely put on a new face, all excitement now, a little much fayg, what he hates — but something new, something different…stoops to grab up snow, under it a fist of sandy soil and below that, black, while with the other hand he frees Benjamin from the gagging peak, on backward, turn it around and try to find your eyes, the slits Oriental: this is so they won’t recognize you; and he begins applying the stain as liberally as his politics allow, digging the thick frozen grime into His face with greasy, rough-wrinkled fingers. I should remember you are who you are, and not this minority reporting out and about, else you’d be in a hell of highwater trouble…lucky for you the more bowls I drink the better my memory gets; what in God’s name was I saying, who are you? he goes as if to punch His teeth, the only light visible, though just knuckles his guest a dark dimple, Benjamin’s wide cheek he shrouds again with the hood he then pyramids high by the tip, its pointy white foreskin: don’t worry, son, I’m kidding, that’s just me having your rib…

A smattering of shots, then two, three more and their echo, their echoes — Leeds falls to the ground, to the hole he’d dug for the face of his guest; it’s not that he’s been shot, as the blood about his mouth is the pig’s, underdone. Those swine after you, he says, don’t worry none, we’ll hold out, I offer full protection plans, no money down, sanctuary veritably guaranteed, this wall’ll never fall. I’m ready for a fight, a standoff, anything; we’ll hold here for months, years, Armageddon, we got enough pork — goddamnit, kid, he’s too loud now, smacking the earth and seeming to cry, I’m only a chaplain, ordained, licensed and bonded, but still…there are rules of engagement, there are dogs. Attack, will you. Fetch the yelps. Simpering whimper. Bitch out the bawls. Then, more shots, the undocumented calls of miniature, metallic, silverbeaked birds…a trampling of nature then fence. Benjamin gathers the hood tight overhead. Leeds quiets, puts a finger to his lips, raises another two to his eyes, with yet another finger points to the wall, sucks his thumb. He follows him, and they take shelter in silence: a squat behind bricks and trailer still puffing its signal…Leeds inconstant, disconsolately weepy one moment then all planning energetic the next. He beats out a march on his log, then springs up and begins searching himself flailingly, desperately behind his trailer the sloppy piles of trash — overwhelmingly papers and leaves fallen from potty refuse dumped black to freeze the baldness — for thrown bones or leftover flesh scrapped to serve, to appease the hungers of the howlings that near, then recede: the fierce howls and moans coming in waves too strong and too irregular for the creek, and in echoes of sounds too distantly dim, too muffled by the trees and leaves then dispersed by the wind to hear as to species or sense…only to near once again, a circling of noise and heat, a brutal noose of scurry and snap: this attack in its muster not animally savage, as would be expected, with barking and bite, but apparently organized, taken out back and executed with discipline — human’s the suspect, the goyim’s good shepherding…

An hour hunts, stalks its approach in ritual ringings, a merging of smokes.

Suddenly, a voice reveals through a megaphone:

Send, it distorts, if a voice of God then the voice of a god testing, just sounding it out…an airhorn, then, so sorry, it says, I pressed the wrong button:

Send, Send, am I doing it right, can you hear me, you can, Send the Minor Out, how’s that, and You Will Not Be Harmed And Neither Will He. Good. I’ve got it now. I’m alright. Be Reasonable. We’re Reasonable People. Or If Not Reasonable Then At Least We’re Trying. There’s No Excuse. I Mean Escape. I’m Sorry. I Apologize Too Much. My Therapist Says I’m Making Progress…enough. Don’t Get Wise With Us, You’re Grossly Outnumbered. Then, gevalt what next what next…there’s from nowhere, as if both visited down from the clouds and as cloud itself — smoke; not pigsmoke, smokesmoke; they’re setting everything on fire…it’s a strategy sieged without mercy, without appeal — if you can’t beatem, burnem, and so this tactically torched forest, the scorching of woods. All’s aflame, the tinder kindled, untamed: the wall’s caught and its craziness burns to growl big, a roar despite the pelting of sky.

The toilets, they smolder.

Never! Leeds says with regard to what, he’s already forgotten, but it’s the thought that counts to ten, nine, eight…then hesitates toward what would’ve been three — throws a grenade that soars up through the fire as if an expelled spark, a bomby wingless creature flying freely over the wall, lands…agents scatter, a smatter of suits and the flutter of ties like rare snakes, the grenade doesn’t — explode: goddamned clods, he says, pinecones, what, defective under battle conditions. A slash of tongues, a roaring, the roofing trees aflame and so they decamp westward behind the trash pilings that front the river further, cedarbrown beneath ice, a stilled running of rust. Our position still secure, Leeds yells into his fist, over, he hisses, a fiery crackle, a burning burr in his throat, the boozy dizziness and the womanly, weakening stress…remembers only then his Mwhatever the hell, remembers it’s all out of ammo. And has been for weeks. Three agents advance slow steady in lockstep, firing shots into twilight, downing stars to be culled for collection. They’ll be examined, byopsied by communists, Mexican migrant trash, aliens picking a new glowing fruit. Regroup, Leeds says, retreat, whatever; he rips off his helmet and punts it away, making contact with it at the brunt of its spike and so hurting his foot, which is bare and so, bleeding…the river’s our only hope, he says limping, gnawing his tongue — I’ll ready the vessel, you hold them off…but without saying with what He’ll defend, Himself and His host, his churchy compound and their Joysey land, besides, any better ideas, the chainsaw he shoves into Benjamin’s hands, Leeds scuttles scarce, into needly underbrush, the shorelining sparse, scurrying low, bareheaded balding and stooped: there to the stolen rental canoe loosely roped to a stump on the verge of the creek rearing his property — a vessel battered old, striped in white peeling paint, beat out of shape in aluminum.