Stymphalians swarm her feet picking at the sole that is open like a mouth, whispering that nothing here is for them. Shuffled black derbys rush down in a similar fashion, maybe I too am scared of the bronzebeaks. My thighs tighten at the thought of being eaten, a loosened pocket is created between my hairless skin and the pressed fabric, the veined hand of God slips between the two and wraps itself around the gamey cylinder and grips hard, almost debilitating.
Andrew Soliman’ s round torso is soon in front of me, spouting the same regular niceties. Pardon-please-thanks-tar:
– Afternoon, Doyle. The smug bastard preaches
– Afternoon. I lift up my weary head and rebuild. What is the time? Am I soon to be walked out into my wake? Nureyev dances as I backstroke into the room.
– How ' s your mother? Again this disaster is asked. Mellowsniffing attitude encompasses the question.
– Fine, she is fine. Blunt as ever.
– Alright then good. You spoken to Sudbury? He’ s back from his trip and is already holed up in his auntie Harriets.
Sure sure sure, his auntie Harriet is the epitome of a fish truck, dragging around decaying little bodies that haven ' t the faintest of thoughts within them.
– Oh really, I’ ll see to him at some point then.
A tight corset or rather some lace tights around the base of ankles, bunched up, ready to be risen.
– I posted your letters; they should be on the floor when you walk in so be careful. I think one is left in the post-box, and my fingers were too frost ridden to be rummaging around in there. Lips drawing closer to the canyon of my ear.
– That’ s okay Andrew, I’ ll make use of it.
The large sack around his hip leaves him lopsided and almost limping down the road, a form of scoliosis will set in if left too long in that shape. Here comes everyone, his
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