Message-ID: <5061eli$9710211715@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: mithryl@walrus.com (Mithryl) Subject: CODY: CANTERBURY TALES, 2nd PROLOGUE Newsgroups: rec.arts.prose,alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.moderated Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <62gptc$hgm$1@alice.walrus.com> I just want to ask you one favor. If anyone reads this, it's okay to share it with your friends, but please, whatever you do, don't tell anyone on Chaucer listserver about it, or send them a copy at chaucer-request@listserv.uic.edu. Thanks. I wouldn't want to upset them. -- Cody PILGRIM By Cody Ann Michaels c. All rights reserved PROLOGUE TO THE SECOND EDITON THE END AT SOUTHWARK History is now and England. -- T.S. Elliot History is bunk. -- Henry Ford I suppose you think it's easy being a punching bag and a whore? Like, what do you do? You get slapped. You get beat up. You get kicked around. And you get paid. Nothing to it. Why should I complain? Well, believe me, it's not that easy. Oh sure, there are the thug types whose fondest wish is to parade you naked in a bar or knock you off a stool and make you crawl around giving out free blowjobs to their friends. People who put you in the hospital, or burn their initials in your tits. But belie ve me, that's not the worst. That isn't even the doorway to perception. Not even the foothills to the Himalayas. If you know what I mean. I thought of this the morning I woke up in the hotel and lay there staring at the ceiling, thinking about what had happened the night before. I have this client, see, Nathan, who belongs to one of those scholarly organizations, it's called The Acronisti c Society for the Recreation of Absolutely Useless Everything. Which is why we were here in Southwark, at the Tabard Hotel, which supposedly stands on the exact site of the place where Chaucer started his book, The Canterbury Tales. Nathan is a bug on m edieval lore. He's read all my father's books. My father got his doctorate in Agricultural Engineering, but when he graduated, the only job he could get was teaching Chaucer at a girl's school in Vermont. He didn't know the first thing about Chaucer -- had never even read the Canterbury Tales. But hey, it was a job, and there was all this free college pussy crossing and uncrossing their legs -- it was the sixties, remember? -- so what would you do? He improvised. And today, his books are standard works in all the best colleges. In fact, his Chaucer: The Early Years, is invariably the first reference they cite on the Chaucer list server when someone asks for information. Basically, Dad did what most professors d o. He had his students write term papers, and then he bound them together in a book. Of course, the papers were not necessarily about Chaucer. That would have been boring. He let the girls write about whoever they wanted, and then he changed the names . To Chaucer. So in those days, it was probably the Beatles or maybe Donovan. I don't know who else. Madonna wasn't born yet. Janis Joplin? James Dean? Except he took out the car crash. And since the memory of a teenage girl is notoriously short a bout anything that doesn't have anything to do with herself, no one got huffy about this being unethical or plagarism or like that. I mean, everybody does it! Anyway, he won the Pulitzer. I've decided to stop trying to protect my father. It's not worth it. I mean, I don't have to recover memories that would put him in jail if he wasn't in Congress. There are some things you just never forget. But Nathan worships him. They've never me t, but when Nathan found out I was my father's daughter, he couldn't get enough. Which is why he insisted I go with him on the pilgrimage. Don't ask. It's not like I had a choice. Kelly just woke me up and said Nathan had leased me for two weeks. "What for?" He's got some kind of project. Nathan, I think I told you, is in one of these clubs that do stupid things. Like refight the Crusades. Or relive the Black Death. This year, the spring project was the Canterbury Tales. Nathan, I said, there was no pro stitute in the Canterbury Tales. He said not in the ones that got published. We were going to do the uncensored version. Okay, I realize there are a few of you who are not hip to what I'm talking about. So let me do a fast recap: Chaucer was a man who lived in the middle ages and wrote short stories. He did other stuff, too, because as you can probably guess, there weren 't a lot of magazines that bought short stories in those days, but if you want to know about that, you'll have to read one of my father's books. Just realize, though, you may be reading about Marcello Mastrianni or Jimi Hendrix, depending on whatever who ever wrote that particular chapter was into at the time. The stuff about Bergman and The Seventh Seal is sort of in that area. We do know, although I'm not sure this is a fact, that one of the clever things Chaucer came up with was to wrap some of his stories up into a book about a pilgrimage to Canterbury, which is where the book gets its name. This gets complicated, but about two hundred years before, there had been a bishop or someone at Canterbury who had gotten murdered and become a saint. Again, there are books and books written about this, and if you want more information, I suggest you go on the Chaucer list server and ask them. It's easy. All you have to do is send an email to listserv@listserv.uic.edu and write "sub Chaucer" and then your name in the first message line. No quotes, of course. Cool, huh? The people there are all very friendly and love to answer questions. Anyway, Chaucer starts off his book at this place where we were. The Tabard, in Southwark, which is a slum in south London. I heard it wasn't so hot in those days either. He's on his way to Kent because he's been appointed justice of the peace there. And he meets a group of pilgrims who he joins because he's afraid of highway robbers. The rest of the story is that these people who are going on a pilgrimage to the holy martyr get the idea to tell stories. Everyone will have to tell two stories on th e way to Canterbury. And two more coming back. And the one who tells the best tale wins a free meal. I think this is the innkeeper's idea. He's sort of the tour guide. So the rest of the book is made up of Chaucer's stories and essays and speeches. And it's totally boring. Because, as everyone knows, all the good stuff got burned. Only 24 stories remained. And two of those were incomplete. If you count everyone up, almost forty stories are missing from the trip out. And none survived from the o ne coming back to Southwark. Many scholars believe this last group never got written. Because Chaucer stayed in Canterbury and did not come back with the others. But that still leaves quite a lot unaccounted for. Which explains why we were at Southwark in this hotel, which frankly, had seen better times. I mean, I'd hate to think it always looked like this because it would definitely give you some kind of idea what kind of riff raff Chaucer was hanging out with. Nathan and his friends didn't mind, because for them, this was history. This is where the holy Chaucer had burped and farted. Supposedly. My God, this place didn't look like it had been painted since the dark ages. And the bugs. I knew I had lice. But, of course, no one minded, because that just made the re-creation all the more realistic. I lay there in the dark thinking, Leona Helmsley, where are you when I really need you. The owner of the Tabard and the host on the tour, pilgrimage, had been named Harry Bailly, supposedly a real personage, at least according to the Chaucer list. This is also the name of the present day owner. Harry Bailly Singh. He came here, I mean to England, after the breakup of Pakistan. It was he who arranged for the horses, and the banquet the evening before -- I won't mention -- and all the other paraphanalia. And the drugs. You don't think we were going to do this unstoned, do you? And the costumes. Chaucer describes all this in his general prologue, what everyone was wearing. Along with who was there. It's a real show stopper. You could tell he really didn't know how to write. He just gets started, and wham, everything comes to a dead halt while he describes 31 people. A fe w he just glosses over, but most he goes into in some detail. Right down to the Alpo one of the nun's feeds her dog. Then things pick up again, and the host, Harry Bailly, makes up the story game and invites himself along on the pilgrimage. He says at his own expense. That's what our Harry said, too. But the fact was he was raking off a commission every time someone bought toothpaste or had to go to the bathroom. Okay. Maybe that's an exaggeration, because public bathrooms in England are a lot more available than say, New York. And if you couldn't find one, you could always squat down by the interstate or whatever they call them. After that steak and kidney cu rry at the Tabard, there was a lot of squatting. But lunches. Stopping for lunch. We stopped where Harry told us to. He arranged the accommodations. He got a kickback on the horses. The horse feed was extra. We had to feed the stupid animals. Because if the horse was dead when you returned it, t hey took it off your credit card. And Harry would get a share of that, too. Then we had to pay for the cook. The cook was not a member of the original party. The cook was a crony of Harry's who came along for the ride. And got so fucking drunk he fell off his horse. Just like in Chaucer's book. The cook is one of the storie s in the book that is incomplete. Judging from the way it started out and the condition of the cook, you can guess why. Not that some of Chaucer's stories aren't pretty gross. In fact, I think that's why he's still around. But those stories are nothin g compared to the Cook's Tale. Which I will leave you to judge for yourself. In Chaucer's book, there are only three women. At least that's what they told me on Chaucernet. But since they were quoting my old man's book, I have some doubts. Personally, I think he just left that out. I mean, come on, he was a politician. Just like my dad. I know how these guys operate. They only report what they have to. And Chaucer must have known where a lot of bodies were buried in his day. After all, this was only about six years after the Peasant's Rebellion. And the Black Death had raged in Europe for thirty or forty years. You think that wasn't on his mind? Then there was Richard. The boy king. Chaucer's boss was the regent. I don't have to tell you there was a lot going on. I don't know how I knew this. I just did. But pro ving it was another matter. The tv in our room was broken. Because I had put my foot through it the night before after watching another Morris mystery. I tell you I am off English mysteries forever. Because they never fucking add up. I love the scenary. The houses. The places where evil is done. But I am just so pissed off at John Thaw because he never solves anything and gets it over with. I want the fucking mystery to be over, damnit. Not walking around with its dick and shirttail hanging out as the credits come up and that fucking asshole jaguar disppears round the corner. Will someone with a tank run over that car. Please!!!!!! Anyway, we had to get up early. It was freezing. Raining. April 18 in England is not my idea of a good time to go on a pilgrimage on horseback. Why did we have to use horses? Why not the bullet train? Besides have you ever tried to ride a horse thr ough the suburbs of south London? It's not like it was in Chaucer's day. Someone on Chaucernet said this was Watling Street. The Chaucer list is a great place to do research, especially if you have to do a term paper on Chaucer and have basic basic que stions, like when was he born. Canterbury is in the shire of Kent and Canterbury, in fact, is a corruption of Kent; the Kents were a sophisticated German race who came here in 1250 b.c. The other German races were the Angles, from where we get the name English, and the Saxons, who gave us Essex, Wessex and Safe Sex. He laughed uproariously. Old Harry was a real rump slapper. Get your hand off my back side, mother. Watling Street was an old Roman road. "And," our guide said, "the Romans built to las t." Parts of Watling Street had a "layer of oak logs laid diagonally and covered with moss and holly twigs. This raft carried 9 to 12 inches of sandstone with a covering layer of 6 in. of a black concrete...." (Encyc. Brit., entry "Roads") "Some Roman roads even had curbs and storm drains. Just as Roman aquaducts stayed in use during the Middle Ages and beyond, so did Roman roads." It was still getting a lot of use. Cars were going past us like bullets. The horses shied and threw people. Gravel was thrown up in our faces. I fell off my horse and was dragged, my foot caught in the stirrup. I hated it. Could we all get together , Harry cried as we reached the miniskirts of town. "Now then, who will start us off?" We should all draw straws. Except he had forgotten to bring them with him. He looked around for something else to draw. "How about if we spin the boddle," the cook said. Nathan suggested we flip a coin. The host pointed out there were 33 people here, exactly the number of years of our Lord Jesus's life time, bless us. I wanted to vomit. (Chaucer, incidentally, had originally said there were 29 pilgrims, not inc luding himself and the host, but if you count the number of people he describes in the general prologue, there were 31. The people on Chaucernet had some trouble with this when I brought it up. You wouldn't believe the flames. I mean, actual death thre ats. Like trying to talk to Christians.) "Look," I said. "Just pick someone out. Who told the first story in the book?" "The knight." That would be the guy in the funny metal suit. I thought he was playing the Tinman of Oz. Or Robocop. Each one of us was taking the part of one of the pilgrims. Who else was there? A doctor. A reeve. What's a reeve? I don't know. Maybe he meant rave. A rave's not a person. What about a raven? Quote the raven, "How much more?" A summoner. What does he do? Serves summons, I guess. Well, what about one of the nuns? They both said, oh no, you go first. Anyway, to make a long story brief, the hunchback told the first tale. I know this isn't the same order as the one in the book, but somehow in all the confusion of having to get up at ten in the morning, we forgot the list, and according to my father's book, no one really knows what order the stories went in. Chaucer app arently just threw them together. Or his son did, after Chaucer was dead. In fact, it's thought that Thomas... Sir Thomas Chaucer actually wrote the part about the pilgrimage, as an excuse for make a buck off his father's stories. Because none of the o riginal manuscripts survive. We don't know when they were actually written. Believe me, I know this, because the teenage girl my father was sleeping with at the time told him she looked it up, I forget where. But it's a fact. They also killed most of the dirty stories. Or they may have had them published under a different name. There are different theories. Again, I can only refer you to the Chaucer list for relevant details. I may as well tell you, however -- because eventually you would probably guess -- that just like Chaucer, I am using the pilgrimage as a pretext for presenting a collection of my own stories. The fact is, I hardly remember what happened on that miserabl e three day ride to Canterbury. Eventually, we had to give up and take a bus. It was so embarassing. Everyone on the bus was a pilgrim, too. And the town was full of them. Everyone seemed surprised this was not a new idea. In fact, they had been doi ng this since the middle ages. Long before Chaucer or Harry Bailly were even thought of. And everyone had a story. But do you have any idea what it's like to tell a thirty page short story on a horse to 30 people in a rain storm while riding along an a utobahm or whatever they call them, which by the way ended up at Heathrow Airport? You can barely hear the person next to you, let alone 30 places down the line. Even with a bullhorn. So what Harry suggested was that we each tell a story to the person next to us, and he would repeat it to the person in front or in back of him, and so on, with everyone telling his story at the same time. Get it? It was a mess. Anyway, we eventually got to Cantrbury or whatever it is. Which is where I found out the bishop involved was Beckett. So in a way it was worth while, because I always wanted to visit Beckett's burial place. I just didn't know it was here. My father n ever mentioned Beckett, because he wasn't much into reading. And after he got into the state senate, he sort of gave it up altogether. It wasn't until he got into Congress that his academic career helped him. Do you have any idea what it means to elect a college professor to Congress? It's like letting Jack the Ripper be housemother in a dormitory of coeds. Newt. Gramm. They're all college guys. My dad. It makes you think. Maybe there really is something about all those millenium rumors. With g uys like my pop in charge, something has to be coming. Just wait til he declares for President. Here ends the prologue to the second book. * Oh, and by the way, is there anybody except me who thinks the new color on the front page of the New York Times is to die for? I only wish they would. What were these people thinking? When I stumble into my favorite cafe at 11 in the morning, the last thing I want to see is a three column picture of Radovan Karacic or Rudy Guiliani in vomit whore color. God! Doesn't anybody get it, the news is supposed to be grey! That's the only thing that protects us from reality, that the blood and guts attrocit ies and stinking underhanded tricks are done in grey half tones. This paper looks like a desperate 43rd Street whore whose trying to do with makeup what she can't do with a girdle. I want to scream, get it away from me. Please!!!!!!. Don't let it touc h me. But I got to get my morning whatda you call them when junkies shootup. hit? fix? That's it. fix. Of the news. The latest Diana Wallbanger. Oh. I'm sorry. Was that offensive? I didn't mean it that way. I'm just saying, it's no fun seeing those pictures of her in the car. In day-glo color. The Times would never print that. But the story that another paper, a tabloid, had, that was news. So they printed the picture to show what the other paper had printed. I'm telling you, I wanted to throw up. They are so hypocritical. The Globe or some tab shows a picture of Di with her head blown off, and the Times goes mad. The car crash was only a coverup. That's why there was a closed coffin. Now that's a story. You want to hear another? H is mother's in jail. Two jocks swapping stories as the ball game progressed. Or the boxing match. Or the golf game. Or the tennis tourney. You weren't supposed to bring radios. Or portable tvs. But everyone breaks the rules. The Prioress had a dog . That was against the rules. Nuns were not allowed to have possessions. The convent owned you. The second nun was doing penetence. She had to walk on her knees. The prioress rode the first nun. It saved on horses. If you brought your own. Harry would not get a commission, but he was permitted to add a surcharge. Nathan rode me. I didn't mention that, did I? The reason I was along on the trip in the first place. I had a saddle and high heeled boots. And a bit between my teeth. Which made it hard to talk. And my tits bounced on the ground. Okay. I made a real spectacle of myself. Pretending to be Waldo's horsy worsy. But I was stoned. I wondered what our family preacher was doing here. God, these were good drugs. Harry ran the drug trade in Kent. That was his home base. The Tabard was just a sideline. Get it, Morris? It was no big deal! The Marlins only had three games to go to win the series. It was a big thing. If only the great Dimaggio had not retired. We went out to far, fish. Now that was a story. In the hill town, people scrambled to find batteries for their radios. They co uld pick it up on shortwave. The old man slapped his walkman. Play. Come on and play, damn you. What had he caught? A marlin! Caramba. It was a foretelling. A hole in time. The fish towed him out to see. I do not know who you are, but if we lose now, it will be as men. Together. There was a lump in her throat. She was so proud. Fidel hurl ed the ball. Very few people know that the great dictator once played two seasons on the old New York Alpos while putting himself through law school. Both years the Alpos won the pennant. But went on to lose in the series. Now, he was coming back. Both times it h ad been against the Braves. They had been a Chicago team. What about the Tinman? He wanted a heart. Or was it an oil can? No. He had a can. He needed a girl. Yada da yada da yada. On and on. They went on and on. Everyone talking. No one shuts up. Then, suddenly, all stop. It's dead quiet. Like some thing is about to happen. And then the tension is broken and all begin to talk again. Arcite. Pelomon. Xena, the Warrior Princess. Let me run through this quick. Arcite and the other get locked up. They both fall in love with the same girl, but in different ways. Each gets sprung different. And then they have a fight and one wins and the other gets the girl. End of story. Any questions? Why were they in jail? No information. Who won? Who do you think? Who died? Eventually, we all die in the end, so that is an academic question. I think you're making fun of us. He smiled. Why would I want to do that? Tell us more about the girl. He agreed and went on talking. Emily was a delicate child. She was a stunning red head. She had long curly red hair and humungous knockers. And long legs. And she would pose naked out in the garden under the window wher e the two cousins were locked up and pretend they weren't there. You mean she was a tease? You got it. Or she would wear french underwear. Stuff from Victoria's Secret or Frederick's of Hollywood. High heels. See through bodysuits. Sheer black stockings. With seams. And a whip. Long black gloves. A tight corset that cinched her to 17 inches. A black leather collar. A long leash. One end hooked to the collar. The other in her mouth. Like a good dog. Briefly, I thought Emily might have actually been a dog the two jerks wer e in love with. But then I noticed everyone looking at me. And I knew she was a horse. A pony girl. Someone to mount. She also wore a saddle. And had a bridle in her mouth. And a long tail attached to a broomstick stuck up her ass. Now that's a tale. Chaucer rode an adorable whippet of a girl. She looked like she was fresh off a Benny Hill chorus line. All fresh pink and pastel. With honey-colored hair and rowanberry lips, and honey colored hair curling to white hips. I was thinking of something, I wasn't sure what. Huge eyes. Breasts hanging to her knees. When she was bent over, with the fat boob on her back. I guess what I'm telling you is the horse's tale? You won't begrudge me that? Chaucer was about six feet tall, just like he says in his book. You read it. It's in the prologue to the parson's tale. And fat. He says that, too. He's an armful for any woman. The cook calls him that. But Emily, his mare, was a soulful animal. She was so beautiful. Everyone admired her. And hated the way he abused her. He would make her run at high speed until she dropped. And then he would kick her and make her get up. And she would stand there bleeding. And crying. I felt so bad. I wished I could help her. But girls aren't supposed to h elp other girls. Otherwise, we'd be whipped. The nun's story was a corker. We all admired her courage and fortitude, to be able to put up with stuff like that, and not rebel or try to get even. Which would be offensive to our lord in heaven. It was r ight that my spirit be crushed. That I be cast down. And tormented. As if the very devils in hell were burning me. Because I tell you sisters, on that day of adjustment, those who are not saved will suffer worser treatment. It's a fact. It's in the book. Emily's essays could get a bit morbid. But she did good research. He had to give her that. It's hard to say who had it worser, Arcite or Pelamon. Having to ride two bitches like that. Both boys bounced in the saddle until their women squealed like a turkey. Arcite's however threw him to the floor. And he was crushed beneath her feet. No. Wait a minute. Arcite rode Emily. What were you on? The young nun. How was she? Beatific. Want some? Be my guest, old man. They camped just before Rochester on the Dover road. Around the small campfire, they told tales. Not all the details matched up. Then they would fight. The Janitor was a woman. The terrorist also. Ditto the air force commander. The Head of the United Nations. The Counci l of Birds. The Projector of Space. The Alpha Nutter Hole. These were all configurations and whirls in the terrain. Far back in the woods, there would be no one to watch. She was getting close. You just let her rave. Until the right moment. And then... He passed the bottle under her nose. She said excuse me and left the room. Whre was she. She was out there. She was communication to her station command er. It's just in the keysd a fga Scramble. Take cover srlfakf;aefgigagraer Then the explosion. And the tower was missing tgwer Where was she. She would have toi explain when she got back. She did not think she could do it. Tylpe damn you. tytpe. But she had. She had broken free. Now she was free to do it. She ran down hil.l tjhe bpoys were after her KELllieeeeeeeee But Kelly couldnt save her. SHe went over the edge. and fell /She fell down a flight of stairs. I couldn't help her. she was dead. Then who's this? I don't know. And this? He didn't know anything, Maruice. I'm telling you. He doesn't know. Wshe turned her head sideways as he dragged her thropugh the mud. I had a friend who went on a pilgrimage to Poland once to visit the Black Madonna. It's at the top of the peak. But Poland is flat. Yeah? Poland has more mountains than the Alps. Anyway, he walked from one place to another..and the people followed him and he was given food to eat. It was a great racket. You go some place and you make others pay. If they don't like it, try and collect. TAke the trip back. Remove the pilgrimage . You don't want that, do you? No. I'm sorry. You repent of your ways, don't you? and accept Christ Jesus. yes. Each day they walked from place to place and the people came out and fed them. It was miraculous. You see, the trouble with Chaucer is dictionaries. People keep looking up what he means. And not what he says. It's because of dictionaries. They put the words in a cast. And leave them there. For instance, men in Chaucer's time were all six feet tall. Did you know that? Someone on C haucer group told me. A foot was one sixth of a man's height. Chaucer said he was six feet tall, but his height was half eleven. How does that work out? It's a procrustian bed. Chaucer is who chaucer is. No. It's cthturll lives as maidens die? Is that right? What does that mean? Chaucer has singularities. Just like Hawking said. Does that explain it>? We got on the bus at Bream. You left the horses in a corral. And got on the specially chartered bus with all the clowns in it. There were six tin men. Two amputees with pustulant sores. That you could kiss for a buck. They also had leprosy. Come a nd listen to the Pardoner's tale. I forgive you all your sins. That's one kind of pardon. Don't worry. I'll be alright. That's an even worse one. I forgive you for what you did to me. Is one thing. for what you did to our child is another. I'm no thing. It doesn't matter. But Melanie. I want our daughter to have a chance. He poured lye in her face for disobeying her father's wishes. Then he cut off her ears. He broke each finger of her right hand as she screamed. And he made ... well, you g et the picture. She forgave him. But nothing much changed. He was still that same stinking asshole he ever was. For which you can kiss mine, and lick it out. Be sure and get all the boogers out. Heloise, you never told me he did that. I was ashamed . As each cadette was brought in, she was bent over the desk and given twenty of the sharpest. Her little red bottom hurt for a week. Military command. It's so enchanting. Bracing. If you know what I mean. I think I do. Let's have a go at her tits , shall we. You first. What other games can we play with our horses. You, my lady, start us off. So on the third day, the wife of his accountant in Bath, let the way. As you can guess, each story took a suitable time to tell. They got to Chaucer aro und the sixth or seventh day. By that time, we had been in these rings of hell a long time. In the book, Chaucer talks about Prudence. He doesn't tell you that the real Prudence is on the seventh rung of Dante's Inferno. Remember that. A great club. Right on the beach. So you could. /. they didn't call it the Inferno for nothing. It took years to get it closed. After that, the town turned sort of into a ghost town. No one went there anymore. There were only vestiges of the spirit here on earth. Is that so, My Lady. She laughed. She was a grand duchess in disquise. Fergie! I love Fergie. She's my favorite princess. I'm glad she didn't get hurt. She's so much fun to punch around. The Queen's Royal Punching Bag. That's nice dear. Wham. Who is that woman>? You're daughter-in-law your magesty. Just wait, bitch. I fix you. S ong of the terrorist. We watched the jetliner crash into the cathedral. The columns shook. Beckett came out of the tomb. His bones were removed in the fifteen hundreds. Only the Tudors know where. Owen ap Owen ap Owen oh so many Owens ago, there was a Tudor and a Prince. The Prince drove the Two Door into a fire hydrant. Ripped out her underbelly. And she's been dragging it since. Take it off, Fergie. Take it all off. What a prince. He sold her to a foreigner. And he drove her into a wall. She was getting a lot of hits. Wait a moment, this was supposed to be Di, Morris. It was the other one. I wanted. Too late now, the funeral's all planned. Mother's ordered t he mourners. Be good to get rid of her. I hate the Spencers. Mark Twain wrote this, right? It has to be a joke. My God. Where did she get all those people? They'll cost us millions. I know you're queen, but you've got to economize. The money's no t endless, you know. We've been on the dole for a thousand years. Is that welfare or what? I can't believe it's you. I thought you were dead. That car thing. That was just a ruse. Ruse de Monte Carlo they call it. The prince was glad to have been of service. Europe's executioners. The Grimaldies. They run the hits. And the takeouts. The Koreans own the supermarkets and the Guelph's own the girls. So what can I interest you in? Gradually, the little party made its way through the desert sands. I was telling Rafael, the priest, about the chicken I had in my rooster. What's your rooster. Rooster dooster. We both laughed. He was the only male horse in the group. His master, an old cork, rode him mercilessly. Along with the other priest. Don Quiote was a betting man who lived in a castle by the strand and told such tales that one could believe was a real thing happening. His was the amplitheatre of the mind. He came forth reluctantly to make a killing and then return to his aerie. The second knights tale is so dirty that only a Spanard could have written it. She stood on the balcony and raised her hands. The crowd cheered. Evita! Evita! Evita! While the man beside her stared straight ahead. Peron did not know his name. It was Evita. He did not know she was there. Standing next to him. He wondered who they were calling for. There was a woman in a glass coffin on the table in the dining room. Peron raised his hands and the crowd wept. Il Papa! It was getting mixed up. Christ had returned to the earth. Forgive me. I always have to cry. Where do you think we are? Madagascar, the sign says. Do you think there's a way back? I don't think so. You have to let go. Maybe I should move to Florida. I hate it when he does that. Who cares? She was puzzling things out. What else? I don't know. No one tells me. We have to stop for the knight. Thank God, my feet are killing me. The rule was you had to take care of the horses before you went in to dine. Come on, Cody. Step it up. I'm hungry. I want to eat. Fuck me, dam you or get your brother to do it. She h ad a smart mouth. He slapped her. Let's get this clear. I am the promise keeper in this house. Not you. You do what I tell you. Which meant I had to break a lot of promises I made to other men. I had to rearrange my schedule to fit his. I had to m ake myself available at all times to his friends. And I had to be fucked twice a day. Fucking a bitch horse on an empty stomach is so debilitating. Especially before a heavy meal. This is how heart attacks start. First you feel something. Then it hi ts you. WHAM. You're up agaionst the wall and falling. Fucking bitch exploded in my face. Blew my hands off. Yeah. She doesn't need arms. They get in the way anyway. Unless they're cinched up in back out of the way so tight all her circulation is cut off. The woman's breasts were covered with sores for which she hoped the holy water would cure her. Slight of hand is slight of caper. Yom Kippor came and went. The day of atonement is at hand. When the jet will fall out of the sky and destroy th e cathedral. The huddled masses yearning to breathe free. Like those people in Italy who blew up the church and pretended there was an avalanche. Why can't taht happen here? All would be free. The terrorist would enter the cathedral and blow it up. She was wonof him. A winafin. In a contest. Win a finn in a contest. Take her home. Do what you wyun. That's the way they chalked. Wihjggal gfingh aeofgh'seasogh' dstogdalgadsgw Old English. Means Weathrow done it. Got that on an old Sax channelk. We spell things different here. You got any problems with that? Spell checkers aint' allowed. But how do you make the rules if the language changes? What's right in Wynne may not hold up in Heathrow. It's a messy messy situation, I'm telling you. The terrorists are everywhere. Anything could go next. You've got to have one thing that matters. The language. If we all don't speak the same way, no one will understand. Nathan, shut up. I wanted to sleep. It was four in the morning. We would soon have to get up. All I know is what they feed me. It has to be something else. It was the pattern of the dialogue on the dicathode. That she said mattered. If you looked at it in the light, it showed the pattern of the former recipient. Whemsley, I think it was. Blue on gold. With four chevrons. So what does that prove? She couldn't have been sitting next to you on the night you killed ... She threw a shoe at the screen. Why couldn't he? she wanted to know. Everyone sees a different pattern. Tomorrow we would enter Canterburty and the trip will be saved. It's very simple . They had a form of credit. It wasn't Mastercard, but it was visa. If you went on a pilgrimage it was one thing. But if you gave to someone on a pilgrimage, it was something else. One equaled the other incrementally. A hen was worth three dollars. The girls spent the night at the Bell. And were up early in the morning to service their mounts. Jane rode Emily and Heather had Elizabeth. These girls also told stories, usually in the daily press. The Commoner's Tale. That was a good one. Caught in the duchess again. So that's the story. A rouser. Hoopla. They all thought it was dirty. So it didn't get in the book. They brought it out as Naked Lunch. So you could see the thing on the end of your fork was your eye. She stood there looking at it. Is this for real? I actually did that to myself. What was I thinking? I must have been crazy. It wasn't me. What's my story. I was somewhere else. I need an alibi. I was on pilgrimage. That's a good one. And this is what happened. The Bishop told about his trip to San Luis Opispo. Where the holy martyr don juan de la Becket plunged into the ravine. That was Moriarty. Surely it was Moriarty. But it wasn't. Holmes had gone down into the underworld with the arch fiend. She got a little tiresome at the end. So I never got to Canterbury. We girls weren't allowed on the bus. Hasidim. Very strict dietary restrictions. We only saw it after it was dive bombed. At least, that's the story. -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /