Some folks sport military garb,
signifying being a Marine, or Army Ranger, or Seal, kind of a cape for
courage, who are far from their courage. As well as others who sport a
monkish cloak, or clergy collar, for Godliness, who are the very reverse
of that inside? I usually do not write a prologue for my short stories,
or for that matter, novelettes or novels, but this very prologue is the
reason you should read this story and carefully weigh up its contents,
you may discover the potency within is far more valuable than the title
suggests. That is to say, the subject here treated is not as foolish as
the title promised. Yes, it is written in a lightheartedness, but there
is marrow in the bone to be discover and once discovered you must guard
it with eyes of a devoted dog. To the dog the marrow is more delicious
than the meat. For marrow is the perfect food invented by nature. This
is a dreaded mystery, concerning religion and private life. Moreover,
the manner of its writing and content are plain and boorish, laughable,
playful, and always concealing. Some invisible courage, some over
confidence, incredible contempt for what men struggle against. That is
the reason you must open this story and carefully and not be deterred by
what might look like nonsense, nor look at the literal meanings, but be
like Plato infers in his "Republic", look for that marrow bone!
Analogue
There was a man in the land of Uz, a perfect and upright man, one that feared God, and of substance, and God boasted of this man. And there was a day the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan was among them. And the devil told God, that yes Job feared him, but should he take the hedge about him away, he would curse him after he got through with Job. And so God gave Job over to Satan with one limitation, not to kill him, otherwise to do with him for a short while, as he pleased, and Satan took away all his substance, all he valued the most, and Job was miserable but he knew God did not forsake him. And Job unaware of this meeting, was steadfast through all the destruction Satan threw at him. Yes there was difficulties job never expected, but had he not taken a closer look at who was the door-keeper, and the shadow of the devil with his big sharp nose and long thin black beard he was so famous for, he might have thought what everyone told him, he had a mark of some sin upon him, but he knew he didn't, he knew he was already weighed and balanced. His neighbor's, sons and wife cursed his bad luck. He even told his wife, "Can you not see the devil, he is right behind you, following you like a serpent in heat"; thus, she in heart, abandoned him. Many times the devil thought Job had reached his end, and thought he had let his failing senses catch the words and roars in his ear of those around him. Job knew, God did not cast any evil thing, so it must be something else, someone else, some hidden counsel that might have taken place, who's to say, I mean when God asked Job "Do you know what's in my storehouses," and Job said "No" well God simply put the brakes on there, said "Then you don't know everything do you wise guy?" Of course I'm stretching it a tinge. Well, in the long run, Job lived 140-years, and was given a double portion of substance after the secret game was over between the devil and God, a double portion from what he had lost that is, for his resoluteness, his devotion, and forever after it became one of the most told tails ever told. Job of course is only one book out of the Old Testament, we can go to the story of Cain and Abel, and it turns out quite different, a little envy on behalf of Cain because God chose Abele's offering more satisfying. Matter of fact we can even look at Noah's grandson Canaan, who was inflicted by Satan and got Noah to drink until he was drunk on his rump, and whooped it up bare flesh and all! So these stories are worth remembering when reading "Osmoses" and perhaps we might somewhere along the line as the question: why does God take the good and leave the bad? My best guess is, to prevent the good from going bad, and hoping the bad in time will turn out to being good.
If you find yourself asking the question, why the protagonist did what he did, when he could have avoided the chaos, it was once said by an old wise man, "Duty is like a man's shadow." And if you ask why the elder brother did what he did, Wassermann, along with his siblings, the answer may be: hot wind is like the devil's breath.
Osmoses
...
Botis the Imp
1
It started off as a gradual unconscious process of assimilating, or absorption. As Wendell Wormwood awoke one evening from a nightmare, to find out, it was a real live demon espousing himself, like a sponge into his flesh, -sitting on his chest-as if it was in the process of demonic possession. The conjecture was to Wendell, that the demonic rapscallion, was in the process of a middle state, or phase of osmosis of his operation. Wendell continued to lay on his back as the terrifying creature sat on his chest, Wendell feeling the weight to be liken to a hundred pound sack of potatoes, and being no more the size of a bulky imp, resembling that of a miniature triceratops. The nose much smaller than his horn like ears, but widely spaced above his lips. Wendell lifted his head some as to see the creature more restored, he had a beer-belly as they say, brown and flabby, with pointed ears, as mentioned, like hooters, with chicken-like legs and hawk-like feet, and he was trying to slide himself completely in through Mr. Wormwood's pours, like sweat coming out. And his tail was long with a little shrub at its end, a pitifully thin looking lariat, in comparison. As he moved to center himself better, his tail got caught on a spring under the mattress and he tried like a: cow, sow, or hog stuck in barbwire trying to wiggle it free, and that was when Wendell woke up, and there before his eyes, lo and behold, was the netherworld creature called Botis, doing mêlée.
"What in tarnation is going on?" yelped Wendell, eyes bigger than a car's headlights. He was in the path of amalgamation of course.
It was no nightmare, alias, it was reality.
His bedroom was rather small, too small to roll about in, so Wendell tried to pull, and push the demon out, by hanging over the side edge of the bed. Then sitting upright the invader pushed deeper beyond his forearm into Wendell's ribs, and it vanished. Wendell's eyes, seeing this, turned crimson. No one in the house could hear him beating on the chest of the demon to make him stop, or if they could, no one came to the rescue, for his screams were quite mortified, loud, yet who would dare?
He was still tired and contemplative of if this was a dream or reality.
"What malarkey is this," he exclaimed to the creature, looking straight into his stout ugly face that showed a mouth wider than his forehead, with a goatee that dripped from the edge of his bottom lip to the end of his neck, which ended up laying on his chest.
It was most difficult to turn right or left in his present condition, which normally he slept on his sides, nonetheless he found himself rocking and rolling to which he fell onto his left side, after several tries, accomplishing it with a triumphal thump, shutting his eyes as he did from the horrid face of the demon that nettled him, yet still the demon struggled with his tail and you could see on his face a faint dull ache, with a cynical looking demeanor, evidently he had never encountered such a trial.
"Oh Lucifer," cried the imp emphatically, but only a figure of expression for he did not want the attention of Lucifer, lest he be boiled alive for his ineffectuality, and slipup, "what a grueling job you've given me." Such was his work day, and throughout the night. It was better, he had told himself, on many occasions: 'It's better than the actual business in the warehouses of Tartarus, counting black sheep, day in and day out' which they called the new comers. Although his present job-earthbound-was constant traveling or worrying about if the subject was going to wake up, for seldom did they.
Lo, all of a sudden, Botis felt a slight itching on his belly-button; slowly he let go of his left arm firmly attached to Wendell's shoulder, and as soon as he did, Wendell pushed the demon back nearly all the way out of him, which caused an impediment for the ungodly creature (there was no discourse or dialog between the two, and to be frank that tail was causing the imp to lose his repartee, likewise, Mr. Wormwood's wits where coming to its end, both now struggling without thinking). Quickly Botis identified the exact spot of the itch, and scratched it with his long talons, as thick and long as an owl's, and a cool and relief shiver run though him, and then he mumbled in a gibberish tone, "This getting one's tail caught in a bedspring makes a person look stupid," contemplating his comrades controversy should they find out in Tartarus, which they'd never see as a mishap, rather a screw-up, -for eventually he'd have to go back to make out his report, or better yet, his account, while sitting down around the breakfast table telling his story... (While everyone would be chewing on a good portion of fried cow guts. He knew this for a fact for they had century after century accustomed themselves to it, they said it was good for the memory, so the total health of the demon race of earthly spies, consisted in eating this cuisine and gulping it down like ducks do water was ideal for their health they believed... this was also said to disinfect their horrible breath! They also ate this until their bellies were tight, and their navel would pop out, agreeable for the long journey ahead. Then after picking their teeth with a pig's trotter, and their chatter was all complete, and the dice put away and the stock of cards hidden in some dry place, they'd go to work again.) anyhow, as I was saying, while sitting down around the breakfast table telling his story, that is to say, his encounter over and over to each and every one, to one another of his pals, his chums, his comrades in arms, whom would gossip like demon more often do, than not, and like: pile lie upon lie, invention upon invention, propaganda upon propaganda, like demon do until it is so unreal he'd become the pun and the laughing stock of Tartarus! While each one of his pals, and chums and comrades, would tell of their triumphs, 'I'd be sacked on the spot,' he told himself, 'if only I didn't have to scratch my bellybutton, who can tell?' But say what you will, thought Botis, what is done is done, he needed to remedy the situation, and do it quickly.
Then Wendell aimed with his right fist at the imp's chest, and knocked the demon from end-to-end of the bed like a boomerang, falling eventually onto the floor, and one hand still on the end railing of the bed, hanging on for whatever reasons, surely not for dear life! His tail being released with a sudden jerk, and shredded from the pull and thrust of the tumbling over the end-edge of the bed.
'What a trying upset,' mumbled Botis, as if his pride was badly wounded, his composure and face in dismay.
The clock read it was half-past three o'clock. Thus he figured it was still early enough to quietly move on from Wendell's house, and should anyone ask, who would be the wiser.
So Botis, quietly leaped from his loss, leaped from the balustrade of the bed like a Bagdad thief in the night, with stammering lips, a sneer at Wendell, through the dim tears that bathed his face for such a screw-up Wendell could not see this of course, and all the better for Bois, save, by and by, he'd have something to boast; consequently, he seized the brimming windowsill with a cantankerous look, raised his strength up into the air with outstretched arms and then looked down as if towards Hell itself, bellowed with Machiavellian-eyes: "To you, ye gods hidden beneath the earth," expressing his surprise cunning at his escape, leaping into the broad moonlight. The weather piercingly warm, yet feeling somewhat fresh and active, trying to put on a pleasant look to his face as not to look suspicious to his employer, or one of those Secret Service Demon and Women (agents of the netherworld) of Tartarus, should he bump into one, such as the Viper Queen, as she was known, and Bit Bertha, both Machiavellian-demon-ness', otherwise known as the quadrilateral-sisters, whom were always looking for emoluments, for them to look the other way, lest they make a nasty report on him. Nay, what then? (it was game time, and I'll tell you what games they played if they got bored, Bit Bertha and Viper Queen, they played the old Tartarus games called: 'Slash and cut', or 'duck your head' or 'who's got the fatter arse' or 'catch and eat the brown beetle' or 'whip the sow,' or 'fork the toad' or 'who can spit thicker' or 'shooting feathered darts at cats and rat and dogs and hogs. And then they'd stretch and sleep)
It struck the family members at the Wormwood home, that it had been quiet, too quiet in Wendell's room too long, as they had previously been conversing to one another for some time on if they should or should not become more aware of what was going on in his room, having been standing by his doorway, and previously pacing the hallway alongside the bedroom, much aware of some kind of commotion had taken place, although they were there when it was taking place also. They unconsciously exchanged glances... and one member asked loudly for Wendell to answer: "Is it safe to come in?" There was no answer, no reply, Wendell had fallen back to sleep, and the family members dare not open the door, err, they could wait until morning and let Wendell tell the story, as they had drummed up to support.
Ah, it all was rather justification of their own phenomenal cowardice; all pretentious, it was an impediment of their character, where they had relied on Wendell for safekeeping, as they had always told one another, as well as for his monetary support "... we're in good hands with Wendell." Therefore to their amorous whispers, Wendell was left to his own, had been left to his own. All had the same obsession, all the same cynical smile, an expressible something or other, that appeared to be like a trial, something too trying to try, and so no one tried anything, and of course doing nothing, is doing something, which is allowing whatever took place to take place. And so they would wait for the results come morning, for the better or worse.
At the Kitchen Table
2
Come Morning, Wendell looked about the kitchen table, among his three family members-a tinge impudent, and risqué, they all stopped what they were doing, bent their heads a shade-akin to know what took place, but shy to ask, they all looked to be a bit fatigued to Wendell, acting as if wanting to scatter themselves but Wendell seized the opportunity to exchange a few confidential words with them at which point, they unbolted themselves, and asked him to join them, their humanity more centered on commercial than the heroic story, the very one that took place but a few hours ago in the wee hours of the night with the demonic creature and his victory over him, and once told, they all felt relieved, saying in unison, "Ah, a nightmare, of course!" Now unrepentant of their cowardice idiosyncrasies they had displayed to one another, now thrown to the wind, laughed at as if it was a finely woven tale of dark linen, with a change in conversations to idiotic hearty maledictions, to oblige one another's choice in their decision not to have disturb Wendell during his trying nightmare. And now they applauded one another of their own independence, as if they had done Wendell some great service. For is it not true, in such cases there always remains in the conscience some of those dishonesties we pour into ourselves. It gives a better after-taste for one who is selling unwholesome liquor.
Someone even made a joke of it, as if to throw a pun at Wendell's immigration, "Next time the demon will know better, to kill the lion before he skins him!"
Said one voice to another: "My dear sister Woolycat, fill this up until it spills over, if you please." They all were drinking wine as red as a cardinal's cap, at the table. Wendell noticed a fly had just drank out of his older brother's glass, Wassermann, nonetheless it bothered him little, he simply shooed the fly away like a beggar who had stolen a coin from his pocket, and in one gulp the wine was gone.
Aforementioned Wendell, with all earnestness, said he: "Spiders do not spin webs for a single fly, or do they?" (A rhetorical question, more a wistful statement) They twisted their body's some, one to another, gave each other faint glances, perhaps not grasping exactly what he meant by that, or perhaps they knew and were in contemplation over it. For had Wendell not been successful, they would have had to turn over a lot of stones to find the snake.
And there Wendell stood, in the anteroom in repast, discerning: there was more honor in cleaning a stable clean, than warning them; for surely the imp was close by, and if he decided to come back as often they did, he would assuredly look and most likely find a new stockpile of flesh to store himself in. All said, Wendell, simply gave a nod with his head right to left, mumbled as he left the house (belief so sorely needed was not found, their caustic humor wounded him deeply... ): said he: "To those cowards who can't swim, no river is shallow enough" showing repugnance towards the group as he went out the front door, down the wooden steps, and on to work on an empty stomach, holding pent-up feelings of lassitude. In return, all the group gave back to Wendell was an air of bantering pity, a voice saying, "Ah, he is too sensitive!"
Now walking down the street, Wendell inhaled the odor of the flowers in the nearby gardens, leaning his head on his shoulder with a look of sweet nothings. Their breath was no longer defused around him. And his soul was bathed in a wave of infinite triumph, as he stopped to read the newspapers which lay close beside him on an old man's newsstand. The old man Epistemon did not take the liberty of interrupting Mr. Wormwood, as to purchase the paper. Wendell noticed his embarrassment, and took out some change to purchase the paper. With a mixture of respect and dryness, the proprietor took the coins, in exchange. Wendell had always thought himself to be a prohibitionist, for country and family before anything, even if one must set up an embargo, but now he was ruling that out, there was residue of pessimism, especially for the likes of his domestic life.
Analogue
There was a man in the land of Uz, a perfect and upright man, one that feared God, and of substance, and God boasted of this man. And there was a day the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan was among them. And the devil told God, that yes Job feared him, but should he take the hedge about him away, he would curse him after he got through with Job. And so God gave Job over to Satan with one limitation, not to kill him, otherwise to do with him for a short while, as he pleased, and Satan took away all his substance, all he valued the most, and Job was miserable but he knew God did not forsake him. And Job unaware of this meeting, was steadfast through all the destruction Satan threw at him. Yes there was difficulties job never expected, but had he not taken a closer look at who was the door-keeper, and the shadow of the devil with his big sharp nose and long thin black beard he was so famous for, he might have thought what everyone told him, he had a mark of some sin upon him, but he knew he didn't, he knew he was already weighed and balanced. His neighbor's, sons and wife cursed his bad luck. He even told his wife, "Can you not see the devil, he is right behind you, following you like a serpent in heat"; thus, she in heart, abandoned him. Many times the devil thought Job had reached his end, and thought he had let his failing senses catch the words and roars in his ear of those around him. Job knew, God did not cast any evil thing, so it must be something else, someone else, some hidden counsel that might have taken place, who's to say, I mean when God asked Job "Do you know what's in my storehouses," and Job said "No" well God simply put the brakes on there, said "Then you don't know everything do you wise guy?" Of course I'm stretching it a tinge. Well, in the long run, Job lived 140-years, and was given a double portion of substance after the secret game was over between the devil and God, a double portion from what he had lost that is, for his resoluteness, his devotion, and forever after it became one of the most told tails ever told. Job of course is only one book out of the Old Testament, we can go to the story of Cain and Abel, and it turns out quite different, a little envy on behalf of Cain because God chose Abele's offering more satisfying. Matter of fact we can even look at Noah's grandson Canaan, who was inflicted by Satan and got Noah to drink until he was drunk on his rump, and whooped it up bare flesh and all! So these stories are worth remembering when reading "Osmoses" and perhaps we might somewhere along the line as the question: why does God take the good and leave the bad? My best guess is, to prevent the good from going bad, and hoping the bad in time will turn out to being good.
If you find yourself asking the question, why the protagonist did what he did, when he could have avoided the chaos, it was once said by an old wise man, "Duty is like a man's shadow." And if you ask why the elder brother did what he did, Wassermann, along with his siblings, the answer may be: hot wind is like the devil's breath.
Osmoses
...
Botis the Imp
1
It started off as a gradual unconscious process of assimilating, or absorption. As Wendell Wormwood awoke one evening from a nightmare, to find out, it was a real live demon espousing himself, like a sponge into his flesh, -sitting on his chest-as if it was in the process of demonic possession. The conjecture was to Wendell, that the demonic rapscallion, was in the process of a middle state, or phase of osmosis of his operation. Wendell continued to lay on his back as the terrifying creature sat on his chest, Wendell feeling the weight to be liken to a hundred pound sack of potatoes, and being no more the size of a bulky imp, resembling that of a miniature triceratops. The nose much smaller than his horn like ears, but widely spaced above his lips. Wendell lifted his head some as to see the creature more restored, he had a beer-belly as they say, brown and flabby, with pointed ears, as mentioned, like hooters, with chicken-like legs and hawk-like feet, and he was trying to slide himself completely in through Mr. Wormwood's pours, like sweat coming out. And his tail was long with a little shrub at its end, a pitifully thin looking lariat, in comparison. As he moved to center himself better, his tail got caught on a spring under the mattress and he tried like a: cow, sow, or hog stuck in barbwire trying to wiggle it free, and that was when Wendell woke up, and there before his eyes, lo and behold, was the netherworld creature called Botis, doing mêlée.
"What in tarnation is going on?" yelped Wendell, eyes bigger than a car's headlights. He was in the path of amalgamation of course.
It was no nightmare, alias, it was reality.
His bedroom was rather small, too small to roll about in, so Wendell tried to pull, and push the demon out, by hanging over the side edge of the bed. Then sitting upright the invader pushed deeper beyond his forearm into Wendell's ribs, and it vanished. Wendell's eyes, seeing this, turned crimson. No one in the house could hear him beating on the chest of the demon to make him stop, or if they could, no one came to the rescue, for his screams were quite mortified, loud, yet who would dare?
He was still tired and contemplative of if this was a dream or reality.
"What malarkey is this," he exclaimed to the creature, looking straight into his stout ugly face that showed a mouth wider than his forehead, with a goatee that dripped from the edge of his bottom lip to the end of his neck, which ended up laying on his chest.
It was most difficult to turn right or left in his present condition, which normally he slept on his sides, nonetheless he found himself rocking and rolling to which he fell onto his left side, after several tries, accomplishing it with a triumphal thump, shutting his eyes as he did from the horrid face of the demon that nettled him, yet still the demon struggled with his tail and you could see on his face a faint dull ache, with a cynical looking demeanor, evidently he had never encountered such a trial.
"Oh Lucifer," cried the imp emphatically, but only a figure of expression for he did not want the attention of Lucifer, lest he be boiled alive for his ineffectuality, and slipup, "what a grueling job you've given me." Such was his work day, and throughout the night. It was better, he had told himself, on many occasions: 'It's better than the actual business in the warehouses of Tartarus, counting black sheep, day in and day out' which they called the new comers. Although his present job-earthbound-was constant traveling or worrying about if the subject was going to wake up, for seldom did they.
Lo, all of a sudden, Botis felt a slight itching on his belly-button; slowly he let go of his left arm firmly attached to Wendell's shoulder, and as soon as he did, Wendell pushed the demon back nearly all the way out of him, which caused an impediment for the ungodly creature (there was no discourse or dialog between the two, and to be frank that tail was causing the imp to lose his repartee, likewise, Mr. Wormwood's wits where coming to its end, both now struggling without thinking). Quickly Botis identified the exact spot of the itch, and scratched it with his long talons, as thick and long as an owl's, and a cool and relief shiver run though him, and then he mumbled in a gibberish tone, "This getting one's tail caught in a bedspring makes a person look stupid," contemplating his comrades controversy should they find out in Tartarus, which they'd never see as a mishap, rather a screw-up, -for eventually he'd have to go back to make out his report, or better yet, his account, while sitting down around the breakfast table telling his story... (While everyone would be chewing on a good portion of fried cow guts. He knew this for a fact for they had century after century accustomed themselves to it, they said it was good for the memory, so the total health of the demon race of earthly spies, consisted in eating this cuisine and gulping it down like ducks do water was ideal for their health they believed... this was also said to disinfect their horrible breath! They also ate this until their bellies were tight, and their navel would pop out, agreeable for the long journey ahead. Then after picking their teeth with a pig's trotter, and their chatter was all complete, and the dice put away and the stock of cards hidden in some dry place, they'd go to work again.) anyhow, as I was saying, while sitting down around the breakfast table telling his story, that is to say, his encounter over and over to each and every one, to one another of his pals, his chums, his comrades in arms, whom would gossip like demon more often do, than not, and like: pile lie upon lie, invention upon invention, propaganda upon propaganda, like demon do until it is so unreal he'd become the pun and the laughing stock of Tartarus! While each one of his pals, and chums and comrades, would tell of their triumphs, 'I'd be sacked on the spot,' he told himself, 'if only I didn't have to scratch my bellybutton, who can tell?' But say what you will, thought Botis, what is done is done, he needed to remedy the situation, and do it quickly.
Then Wendell aimed with his right fist at the imp's chest, and knocked the demon from end-to-end of the bed like a boomerang, falling eventually onto the floor, and one hand still on the end railing of the bed, hanging on for whatever reasons, surely not for dear life! His tail being released with a sudden jerk, and shredded from the pull and thrust of the tumbling over the end-edge of the bed.
'What a trying upset,' mumbled Botis, as if his pride was badly wounded, his composure and face in dismay.
The clock read it was half-past three o'clock. Thus he figured it was still early enough to quietly move on from Wendell's house, and should anyone ask, who would be the wiser.
So Botis, quietly leaped from his loss, leaped from the balustrade of the bed like a Bagdad thief in the night, with stammering lips, a sneer at Wendell, through the dim tears that bathed his face for such a screw-up Wendell could not see this of course, and all the better for Bois, save, by and by, he'd have something to boast; consequently, he seized the brimming windowsill with a cantankerous look, raised his strength up into the air with outstretched arms and then looked down as if towards Hell itself, bellowed with Machiavellian-eyes: "To you, ye gods hidden beneath the earth," expressing his surprise cunning at his escape, leaping into the broad moonlight. The weather piercingly warm, yet feeling somewhat fresh and active, trying to put on a pleasant look to his face as not to look suspicious to his employer, or one of those Secret Service Demon and Women (agents of the netherworld) of Tartarus, should he bump into one, such as the Viper Queen, as she was known, and Bit Bertha, both Machiavellian-demon-ness', otherwise known as the quadrilateral-sisters, whom were always looking for emoluments, for them to look the other way, lest they make a nasty report on him. Nay, what then? (it was game time, and I'll tell you what games they played if they got bored, Bit Bertha and Viper Queen, they played the old Tartarus games called: 'Slash and cut', or 'duck your head' or 'who's got the fatter arse' or 'catch and eat the brown beetle' or 'whip the sow,' or 'fork the toad' or 'who can spit thicker' or 'shooting feathered darts at cats and rat and dogs and hogs. And then they'd stretch and sleep)
It struck the family members at the Wormwood home, that it had been quiet, too quiet in Wendell's room too long, as they had previously been conversing to one another for some time on if they should or should not become more aware of what was going on in his room, having been standing by his doorway, and previously pacing the hallway alongside the bedroom, much aware of some kind of commotion had taken place, although they were there when it was taking place also. They unconsciously exchanged glances... and one member asked loudly for Wendell to answer: "Is it safe to come in?" There was no answer, no reply, Wendell had fallen back to sleep, and the family members dare not open the door, err, they could wait until morning and let Wendell tell the story, as they had drummed up to support.
Ah, it all was rather justification of their own phenomenal cowardice; all pretentious, it was an impediment of their character, where they had relied on Wendell for safekeeping, as they had always told one another, as well as for his monetary support "... we're in good hands with Wendell." Therefore to their amorous whispers, Wendell was left to his own, had been left to his own. All had the same obsession, all the same cynical smile, an expressible something or other, that appeared to be like a trial, something too trying to try, and so no one tried anything, and of course doing nothing, is doing something, which is allowing whatever took place to take place. And so they would wait for the results come morning, for the better or worse.
At the Kitchen Table
2
Come Morning, Wendell looked about the kitchen table, among his three family members-a tinge impudent, and risqué, they all stopped what they were doing, bent their heads a shade-akin to know what took place, but shy to ask, they all looked to be a bit fatigued to Wendell, acting as if wanting to scatter themselves but Wendell seized the opportunity to exchange a few confidential words with them at which point, they unbolted themselves, and asked him to join them, their humanity more centered on commercial than the heroic story, the very one that took place but a few hours ago in the wee hours of the night with the demonic creature and his victory over him, and once told, they all felt relieved, saying in unison, "Ah, a nightmare, of course!" Now unrepentant of their cowardice idiosyncrasies they had displayed to one another, now thrown to the wind, laughed at as if it was a finely woven tale of dark linen, with a change in conversations to idiotic hearty maledictions, to oblige one another's choice in their decision not to have disturb Wendell during his trying nightmare. And now they applauded one another of their own independence, as if they had done Wendell some great service. For is it not true, in such cases there always remains in the conscience some of those dishonesties we pour into ourselves. It gives a better after-taste for one who is selling unwholesome liquor.
Someone even made a joke of it, as if to throw a pun at Wendell's immigration, "Next time the demon will know better, to kill the lion before he skins him!"
Said one voice to another: "My dear sister Woolycat, fill this up until it spills over, if you please." They all were drinking wine as red as a cardinal's cap, at the table. Wendell noticed a fly had just drank out of his older brother's glass, Wassermann, nonetheless it bothered him little, he simply shooed the fly away like a beggar who had stolen a coin from his pocket, and in one gulp the wine was gone.
Aforementioned Wendell, with all earnestness, said he: "Spiders do not spin webs for a single fly, or do they?" (A rhetorical question, more a wistful statement) They twisted their body's some, one to another, gave each other faint glances, perhaps not grasping exactly what he meant by that, or perhaps they knew and were in contemplation over it. For had Wendell not been successful, they would have had to turn over a lot of stones to find the snake.
And there Wendell stood, in the anteroom in repast, discerning: there was more honor in cleaning a stable clean, than warning them; for surely the imp was close by, and if he decided to come back as often they did, he would assuredly look and most likely find a new stockpile of flesh to store himself in. All said, Wendell, simply gave a nod with his head right to left, mumbled as he left the house (belief so sorely needed was not found, their caustic humor wounded him deeply... ): said he: "To those cowards who can't swim, no river is shallow enough" showing repugnance towards the group as he went out the front door, down the wooden steps, and on to work on an empty stomach, holding pent-up feelings of lassitude. In return, all the group gave back to Wendell was an air of bantering pity, a voice saying, "Ah, he is too sensitive!"
Now walking down the street, Wendell inhaled the odor of the flowers in the nearby gardens, leaning his head on his shoulder with a look of sweet nothings. Their breath was no longer defused around him. And his soul was bathed in a wave of infinite triumph, as he stopped to read the newspapers which lay close beside him on an old man's newsstand. The old man Epistemon did not take the liberty of interrupting Mr. Wormwood, as to purchase the paper. Wendell noticed his embarrassment, and took out some change to purchase the paper. With a mixture of respect and dryness, the proprietor took the coins, in exchange. Wendell had always thought himself to be a prohibitionist, for country and family before anything, even if one must set up an embargo, but now he was ruling that out, there was residue of pessimism, especially for the likes of his domestic life.
