He felt good when he heard the crunch under his foot. He spat on the floor and reached for the pack of cigarettes. He can still taste the cockroach in
his mouth. He uttered a curse, crumpled the pack and threw it at the closed window. It bounced back and fell inside one of the open cans of paint.
Chrome yellow. He spat, uttered a different curse. He lay down on his bed and stared at the ceiling. He contemplated the peeling paint, the cracks,
the stains and saw the familiar trio of nymphets in awkwardly lewd positions, the wreckage of an Intruder beside a coral reef, a window outside a
window, a praying mantis, a pair of pliers, the moon behind the tail of a cat, the face of Baal, and for the first time saw a squatting old man
charming a snake- a new addition to what he calls the frescoes in the chapel of his mind. He rolled on his stomach to the edge of the bed and retched.
His hand fumbled under the bed and found the ashtray. He selected a butt and lit it. Someone turned on the radio next door. He groaned as if it pain,
covered his ears, pulled his hair then pounded the wall till his fist became numb. Nothing happened.
There once was broad
Who was oh so bored
So she went abroad
To be a bawd.
"There must be piped-in country music in hell... well, this could be it."
He smiled at the idea.
"Oh that scoundrel Rimbaud!"
He spat and shakily lit another butt. He got up and went to the kitchen sink and pissed. He fixed himself another mug of instant coffee.
"That's funny. Everything seems to be funny... and I'm not even in a laughing mood... I feel like an Alkaseltzer... yeah right, Pinter..."
"Too predictable, turns the radio on out loud to drown her moans. Moaners, can't even tell whether they're faking it or not. What the hell is it
all about? Why not a jazz station instead? Maybe Pat Matheny'
or for f*ck's sake I'll even prefer gritting my teeth while listening to
than this godawful music!... or maybe
Everything but the Girl
?... oh yeah,
baby!...how about Erik
He imagined listening to Gymnopedie Number 1 when he felt something moving between his legs.
"F*ck! Just what I need!... and how am I suppose to drink this sh*t?"
He took a sip, went out to buy a pack of Camels musing about Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov's concept of lust and Miller's Tropics of Cancer and