Some of you, having not heard from me, thought I had become a member of the recently departed, and thus called to confirm that that was the case. Unfortunately, they were greatly disappointed. Some even had the temerity to ask for a return of their Golden Roman Asses - the ones they stiffed me on for the Journal. Some just could care less. No matter, I still love all y'all. Noblesse oblige, you know. Now, I shall relate what happened to me at the Saturnalia.
During this joyous period, I was so foolish as to buy some four score books at Barnes & Noble. The NSA got wind of this and without so much as a FISA warrant, searched for the titles. They were beside themselves at what they found. While my Bride and I were upstate, making merry, for your Christmas, they inserted a midget under our bed and a dwarf in a cabinet to spy on me. They reported all the treason that they had collected on me to their masters. It was decided to abduct and render me to one of their foriegn donjons.
And so it happened. One night whilst I was communing with the shade of Aristotle, the midget blasted me silly with his megatron gun. My limbs were tied and a bag put over my head. I was carried off to an old WWII Army Air Corps field. (Floyd Bennet Field, for those of you on the que vivre.) Into an ancient B17 bomber the corpus was unceremoniously tossed and the bag removed. I was surrounded by a squad of Brown Shirted men in shorts along with the midget. The pilot had a dueling scar on his cheek and an Iron Cross around his neck. They gagged me. I knew that I was doomed.
The bomber shook and chattered, but we made it into the air. I knew that we were flying north as the bleak ocean was on my right and the lights of the land of my birth on the left. We stopped at Goose Bay, Thule, Rejkjavik and then Prestwick. The haughty stewardess, armed with a whip offered to sell me a schnitzel. I had no money and thus no food. Then we went off across Europe. The Alps, the Carpathians then the Mare Exume. We landed at an old secret Soviet airfield in Kishiniev. I had been rendered to Wild Moldavia!
Immediately, I was handed off to three former KGB agents, Ivan, Nikita and Leonid. Along with the midget, I was bundled into an aged Soviet armoured personnel carrier. We drove westward for hours over what might have passed for a road in neolithic times. At last we arrived at a boyar's wrecked castle. There was one standing edifice - the donjon. It had two rooms - my tormentors' office and my cell which was dark, dank and dreary.
As soon as my tormentors had refreshed themselves with vodka, caviar and black bread, my torture commenced. I was strapped into a chair in front of a TV. Then it began. I was forced to watch and listen to a certain party's speeches. The mangled English grated on my ears. The close set beady eyes; the ears; the insipid body movements. Then flush rimflour, bil o'ryelly, shorn insanity and yes, curtis sleewa as he mangled two languages while wearing that silly beret. All this mayhem over and over. I warned this lot that I needed my medications, else I should die. They told me that the U.S. Treasury couldn't afford them, so I had better confess all and be done with it. They had set the midget up on a chair. He laughed at and ridiculed me. He clapped his miniscule hands which were attached to balloon-like arms. As he jumped up and down on the chair, he stuck his tongue out at me.
This went on for days. At last I could take no more of it. Twisted facts; unproven conclusions used as premises, circular logic - in two words - no sense. I cracked! Yes!, Yes! I bought and read such authors as Dickens, Paine, Hugo and Marx & Engels. And, my God, The U.S.Constitution! Yes!, I watched PBS, listened to NPR, the BBC, the CBC and Air America! The churls smiled and hurled me into my dungeon. They graciously provided me with a bucket of water, a bowl of cabbage soup and white bread - all rancid. I ate it like a wild ferret and then fell asleep on a bit of straw.
The next morning I was kicked awake. Sitting at the table in the other room was a sneering man with a Death's Head on each of his lapels. He was flanked by two Black Shirted men wearing lederhosen and lugers slung at their sides. It was him! It was president chinney! His sneer turned into a scowl and then he snarled two words: "Garrotte him!" Cruel Fate! Would they at least put a silver coin on my tongue to pay the Ferryman? They all left and had a party outside. They knocked themselves out with vodka. As the night came on, the president and his guards were taken away on stretchers in an ambulance. Their rubber legs being of no help.
While I pondered weak and weary in my dark and dreary cell, there came a tapping, a gentle rapping at my dungeon's window's bars. Startled, I saw an ancient hand at my window's bars. It was Maria! Maria Uspenskya!, with a raven perched on her head. She said: "My son, tonight you will be visited by three old friends at the full of the moon, and you shall live in this cell nevermore!" The raven spake:"Nevermore!" She returned to her fly which was drawn by a dappled mule and had two lanterns giving off yellow light. As she disappeared into the night, I contemplated her words. My tormentors returned to their room, three sheets to the wind and plopped their heads on the table.
As the night drew on and the ashen clouds disappeared, a full moon rose. A mournful thrilling howl filled the leaden air. As the howl turned into a growl, my nefarious tormentors were startled awake. Their hair stood on end like spaghetti. The three KGB types knew! They took to their heels. The midget was at a loss. He scrambled out of the door as the wolf got to his bottom and bit off his pants. I could see three sixes - 666 - branded on his rump. There was screaming and yelling and one hell of a rout. Suddenly, two titanic hands grasped my chamber's window's bars. They easily pulled out the bars along with a good portion of the building as if all were cotton candy. It was the Monster! He carried me to the berline where Maria was waiting and got in himself. I noted the crest on the berline's door. I recognized it. Yes!, He was here! Soon the wolf jumped into the carriage, rested his head on my leg and licked the dead spot on my arm. Maria said: "My son, I have laid a curse on your president's head." The table was set and a bottle of French Cognac was produced to warm our spirits. The deathly screaming soon came to an end and what seemed like a condor flew towards our carriage.
The berline was drawn by eight black percherons with four postillions. A coachman and four footmen, liveried in gold and red uniforms, attended us. These men seemed to stare into eternity. Four phosphoric lanterns lit the outside of the coach. The condor melded into a giant bat and led the way for our berline. Yes!, it was the Count! The old Count in person. We traveled on an ancient Roman road over the steppe. As Dawn raised her rosy fingers, we approached the Wallachia-Romania border. The border guards of both sides were deep into a high stakes craps game. Upon seeing our berline approach with the old Count leading the way, they Crossed themselves and took to the hills. They knew! We soon came to an inn where we repaired for the day. The wolf had transmorgrified by now. He was the jolly Lyle Talbot. Our hosts at the inn seemed in a stupor and obeyed the Count's every request with what seemed like a ghostly obiesance. I glanced at a copy of the Kishiniev Post - Bugle. Its lead story was about an all too often episode in those parts. It seems that a travelling troupe of Gypsies had found the dessicated bodies of three men and a midget on the high road. Their throats had been gnawed open and there were two little punctures on their carotid arteries.
When the Plutonian night drew on, we continued our trek. Soon we were in a leafless forest with gnarled, ghastly trees. The road's sides were delineated by hob-goblins whose heads were on fire. An ice laden wind pelted our berline. Water soaked black clouds hid every star. And the Count led the way. Night transformed into a grey dawn. As we exited the ghostly forest I could see the Carpathian Mountains. We were in Transylvania. We stopped and refreshed ourselves at an inn, very like the one we stayed at earlier. At noon we continued into the mountains. The road was soon bounded by grey-black jagged granite. Antique wooden bridges crossed steep ravines. Peasants tending their flocks made the Sign of the Cross in the Orthodox fashion and flipped the Horns at us as we passed by. They knew! The peasants always know.
We stopped one last time to munch on some goodies and quaff some ale before we commenced our final climb. When we exited the inn, a semi-circle of peasants, villiens and churls armed with spears, halbreds and scimitars greeted us in an unfriendly fashion. They Crossed themselves, flipped us the Horns and covered their eyes. We would have met a very nasty end had the Count not exhaled a sulphorous vapour onto those ruffians. The louts scattered in all directions laying curses of the most virulent nature on our heads. Dr. Frankenstein's Monster and Lyle laughed and lit Cuban cigars. Maria said to me: "My son, those peasants will never learn."
As dusk came on, we climbed higher and higher into those craggy gothic mountains. We reached a plateau and the road was now lit with torches held aloft by the Count's serfs. They were zombie-like creatures. Onward we travelled when an ancient Byzantine castle came into sight. Castle Dracula! We traversed the draw bridge over the keep. The bridge was drawn up as the portcullis yawned. The Count's personal standard arose atop the highest tower. It was a blood red flag with two golden fangs in its center. His Lordship was so gracious as to have my personal standard raised alongside his. Mine is purple with gold edging. A Roman eagle surmounts the legend "SPQR". Beneath it a red pennant flew with my motto: "Nemo Me Impune Lacesit".
His seneschal, a hunch backed gorilla of a man greeted us. We passed through an ante chamber where a man in a black cloak and a white mask was playing an organ fit for a cathedral. As he reached the crescendo, he broke into a maniacal laugh and disappeared into a cavern beneath him. Soulless footmen took us to our warm elegantly appointed apartments. All dressed for supper and met in the dinning hall. The Count greeted and introduced us to another gentleman. A certain Mr. Hyde. He was quite a gregarious person. The table was of a ponderous carved mahogany. Above the fire place was a frieze of the Count's ancestor, Vlad. Vlad the Impaler. It was a scene of Vlad supervising the nailing of the Turkish ambassadors' turbans to their heads and then being impaled.
The Count sat at the head of the table facing Maria. I to his right; the Monster to his left and Lyle and Mr. Hyde faced each other. The Chef du Table was a Sophia Loren look alike amazon. She was draped in a diaphanous peach, pink and puce pastel colored peek-a-boo peignoir. We each were served by likewise dressed sirens. Except for Maria, who was served by a bloodless handsome boy. My favorite Neapolitan goodies were served. We all picked at a sheep's head. The eyes were reserved for me, the guest of horror. Cold urchins. Scungilli. Pig skin braciola. My current favorite wine, a burgundy, imported from Naples - Naples, New York. 9 bucks a gallon. Lambrusco from California for the dessert, which was a sfoliatelle. We retired to cards with cognac or port with Cuban cigars.
We feasted in this fashion for several days and toured the Count's domains with their undead serfs. All good things must come to an end. One morning I was greeted by a delegation of Cuban spies. They sped me off in a helicopter to a decrepit Warsaw Pact airfield. Before I left, Maria said unto me: "My son, beware of the Sign of the Pentagon!" An Antonov 19 flew us to Mexico City where I was inserted into a Venezuelan safe house. Next, a team of Bolivian smugglers got me across the border into Texas where I was passed off to a passel of Quakers running an underground railroad.
When I got home, I embraced my Bride and told her the story. Then I sealed our apartment and threw in a canister of Zyclon-B gas. When the air cleared, I entered the apartment and there was the dwarf on his knees with his Right arm in a salute. Before I kicked him in the face, his last words were: "Mein Leader, I served!" His tongue hung from his mouth with a tattoo on it: "700 Club". Where his nose once existed there was a cave. His eyes looked at each other and his ears formed blinders for them. I had the porter throw him out with the other refuse. He now resides in the garbage dump on Staten Island.
That's the truth; the whole truth; and nothing but the truth.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
OPTION B
Please avert your eyes if your constitution forbids anatomical medical descriptions.
At about New Year, I came down with a dose of perianal cysts. Six of them! Count 'em:
s-i-c-k-x-z. Seven now! They were what Claudia would call a disgusting affair. The quack laughed at me and prescribed some pills that cost 10 bucks apiece. 15 without insurance. I had to take sitz baths. So I popped into the tub and warmed my coolie. But then I couldn't get out of the tub because I could not get safe purchase on the wall side of the tub. The grab bars were of no assistance. Claudia hired a crane which yanked me out. So much for sitz baths. My personal gynecologist told me to sit on a heating pad. I thank Iupiter for his aide - and at no cost. For the past two months I have avoided chairs as much as possible. And have forgotten how to charge up the computer. So, there. That's a story!
You can believe this lollapalooza if you are credulous.
Suit yourself.
-----------------------------------------------------------000---------------------------------------------------------------------
Dixie,
Gaius
SPQR
- Read more...
- 9 comments
- 725 views