Return of Kazootra
Ouch. The hurt. A private burning. Down there. Mikey Mumbawumba may have contracted something. From the strings on his cherry colored electric guitar. "My johnson is hurting," he said in jocular passing, from the palette stack he played his ax on, to the little person's room far in the back of the barny dance hall."That's because Robert Johnson in your trousers went someplace hot," he was ribbed,on his way to the bathroom, by the bone breaking sex machine, Lavoris Crackman. She too was a singer. Her ax was her voice. She had a band. Don't ask them for trouble.
Agonizing through his protracted, halting, fulminating micturation, a note of claret appearing out of the festered knots and into an enameled off white trough with stream of water to take it away, like a soft band leader, he thought of something. As soon as he recovers from the clap, he will christen his sex organ "Robert Johnson" after the famous delta blues mystic. For the kind of person Mikey is, this signifies a change in his world view.
Gonnorhea is famous for hurting like a motherfucker, and Mikey was visibly wincing and writhing, upright, spurting blood and whiz when Kazootra, a lost soul from other places, first came to the establishment, hoping to get drunk and laid. But first, he needed to use the bathroom.
"Hey there," Kazootra said, friendly, personable, allowing for how a fellow person was having a christ-awful time taking a pee, a man in fact visibly bleeding from the organ into the trough, with a cherry red electric guitar strapped on, the neck going up and down as Mikey spazzed in pain.
"Hey, I bet you got the clap. Bummer, pal. That can sure fucking hurt." That's empathy, people. Kazootra had feelings for people he met in honky tonks.
Mikey was too engaged in discomfiture for bon mots, but he was able to grunt an affirmation that he had the clap and it hurt like a motherfucker.
While the pained Mikey waited for the dripping and burning to stop, Kazootra told him about the year he spent in the Spring Garden area of Pittsburgh. He had been on assignment, some shit level NSA garbage, no big deal. Just then he was at liberty. A dork. A dork arrant.
"Oh, it was quite simple," Kazootra explained. "I was supposed to fuck up some stupid hobbyist's attempt at running for city council. But the asshole wrecked his bicycle and croaked. This creep had been demanding the city install bike lanes for years. Soon as they were installed, the poor asshole pedalled himself to Valhalla. He was hit by an eighteen wheeler while crossing an intersection, which adds to my suspicion that he deserved to die. But I was merely supposed to monitor his actions and spread evil rumors."
Guess frankness is best about a place like where this is happening. People have this brand of optimism that suggests that if you get hit by a truck you deserved to die. It's a view point kin to God meant for it to happen, and it's someone's inbred cousin to the view that it's part of the Grand Design. There is crap called 'intelligent design' which says the course of heredity is the way God works, and freak traffic accidents are the way certain types of people die. Mikey Mumbawumba managed to get back to his stack of old wooden pallettes, or 'skids' as they are also called, and resumed playing his instrument. Kazootra was trying make contact with a new culture. More of this saga will slide in your direction, like a disintegrating retaining wall giving way to an innocuous petty spillage of common dirt. Until this starts again, thanks for reading, have a nice one.
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