THE COORDINATION OF A GREAT NUMBER OF THINGS AT ONCE PLEASED HIM. A CROWD IN OBSERVATION OF A HORSE RACE FOR EXAMPLE- INDEED THE RACE ITSELF, DELIGHTED HIM. “WHAT A SPECTACLE!” HE WOULD EXCLAIM, “WHAT AN ORCHESTRATION!” HE WOULD GIGGLE. “HOW WELL THEY MOVED- SO IN UNISON,” HE’D MUSE. “AND THEIR CLOTHES!” HE GUFFAWED! “HOW SIMILAR THEIR CUT!”
STILL, IT WAS A ROUGHER, MORE BRUTAL MUSIC TO WITNESS THINGS DISARRAYED, SET NOT INTO ORGANIZATION BUT TO BE VIOLENTLY DISORGANIZED, BUT THERE COULD BE NO DENYING THAT IT MOVED HIM—-THAT IT CAUSED HIM TO REAWAKEN INTO A NEW NIGHTTIME OF HIMSELF. HE WOULD SMILE INTO THE DARKNESS. HE WOULD SMILE INTO THE WIND. HE WOULD FEEL THE READINESS IN HIS LEGS AND BEGIN THE HOWLINGS THAT SO UNMISTAKEABLY ANNOUNCED HIS HUNGERS AND HIS JOYS.
"It’s time to quit this business and move on," you counsel with just a touch of desperation, just a small throb of urgency thrumming up from underneath.
But the SHEWOLF does not appear to be interested in your logics or your counsel-she is fascinated by a small bug she has discovered underneath a barstool, she is exhorting it to drink from small pools of beer she has spilled on the ground for the purpose.
The bug begins to drink with apparent thirst and the SHEWOLF breaks into a monstrous grin—onlookers begin clapping stupidly.
Anxiety paws at you from a distance-it stamps impatiently with its hooves but you are among friends, you are inside at the fire and among the warmth of smiling faces and the feeling of celebration.
It’s not that you are unreasonable but simply that you’ve never been able to resist the logic of cider and celebration.
And so even with the prisoners, whom you’ve detained for dark purposes and to whom you’ve administered powerful and obscure sedatives, even with their slumbering bodies promising your doom so close, you begin to drink and cheer along-it’s like sliding up next to a lake of fire and opening a popular paperback to relax- it’s like being under a fatal spell.
A bell sounds and you cock your head as you’ve seen certain birds do.
Policemen erupt into the room brandishing glossy pistols! They are hollering!
"THIS IS THE POLICE!" say the police.
"WHERE ARE THE PARTIES RESPONSIBLE FOR ABDUCTING AND DETAINING THE MEN IN ROOM 214?!" inquire the police.
"Excuse me, sir," you gamble, "Excuse me, Officer, but are you by chance both of northern European stock, Finnish say, and also a trained prize fighter?"
"Further," you continue "I should guess that you’ve recently indulged your penchant for the sublime and exhilarating taste sensation of quality espresso, which you’ve consumed as a gentleman does, black and with tremendous relish."
"The roll of your gait betrays your training, while it is your cheeks, set high and apart that tell of your ancestors. My own uncle was Finnish and it is because of this that I am able to so quickly and easily identify the characteristics, some of the others of which include your blue eyes, fair hair and obvious manic depressive tendencies. The smell of espresso, of course, surrounds you as a delicate and stimulating miasma. In addition, your hands shake."
"ARE YOU IMPLYING, SIR, THAT YOUR UNCLE WAS FINNISH BUT THAT YOUR FATHER WAS NOT?" queried the astonished and somewhat put on the spot policeman.
"Indeed I am, Sir," you answer, "As my father was a snake and cannot be properly said to have nationality."
And then suddenly you move to swallow the policemen! Wild shots are fired as your mouth surrounds these powerful and unfortunate men!
The bullets ricochet, fatally wounding everyone in the room except yourself and the SHEWOLF who is chortling her wolflaughs stupidly and looking at you with an admiration that gives you mixed feelings.
Later, as you peel out on matching 2010 Giant hybrid bicycles, Seekers, designed for riding in congested urban environments, SHEWOLF lights a cigarette and hands it to you, a rare act of deference and respect.
You pull a deep drag and exhale its poison fog into the night, smiling as you crest the hill and begin to dream of the new ways you’ll cheat death tomorrow.