The European Gentleman Purchases a Rose

Decay Embraces spiral centuries. Ancient Egypt desecrated the holy books, stemmed the once-surging tides. They forgot how to read the inscriptions on the temples. The priests rewrote the calendar, molten lead dispersed the seething mob. Every man jack of them waiting for a golden king who had most likely left already.

Perversions bloated the nobility. Strange plagues were conjured in temples bursting like abscesses. Embalming became the going concern.

Confusions reigns. Nothing is true. Nothing is permitted. Everything can be had for a price.

Once again, the European Gentleman purchases a rose. A word to his servant is enough. The cur grovels and begins to dust off everything in sight. He orders a pie, chips, and peas.

Hooded figures conspired to sell the icon, but their treachery was their undoing. They stood before the tribunal, cut and trembling. The barristers could be heard exchanging obscene quips as the judge cleaned his fingernails with a splinter peeled from his gavel.

"Take them out and just...hang them. Okay?"

Great rustling was heard in the king's antechamber, as the king slept in the arms of his favorite rent boy.

"Master," bleated the chief eunuch, "a foul plot is afoot and I fears fo' yo' life."

The king, disturbed at his idyll, drew his Smith & Wesson .45 and dispatched the whining dog, quick as that.

The king was coming as the poison took effect. His eyes bulged like the eggs in a good English breakfast and his last noble words echoed through the marble halls.

"Fetch my potted plants!"

In the ensuing political vacuum, common laborers aspired to Godhood and pimps sought The Grail. Just prior to the cataclysm, the ships left, cold white streaks in the hot brown night, bound for the crumbling flagstones of the attempted cities on the planets. The European mold did not hold, and the encroaching sands laid waste to the careful strategies of the Americans.

In the charnel houses of finance, deep beneath the mirror glass towers erected by the new feudal lords to keep out the serfs, the sacrifice is prepared. Spontaneous applause sounds through the dripping recesses of the caverns as the President's wife is borne in, drugged, happily relating to her esteemed audience the story of a pi-eating contest at a church picnic in her home town, not omitting how much she had enjoyed it when the minister had sodomized her afterwards behind a tree. Everyone was frankly relieved when the High Priest, a member of the never fully dissolved  Inquisition slits her throat. Forming a line, the acolytes begin to violate the wound. Should be another good day at the stock exchange. Praise Baal!

The king's ships were plucked from the sky and the remaining colonists perished from extra-terrestrial viruses, happily munching away at bodies with no defenses from their appetites. No room for bipeds on this planet. Biped, don't let the sun set on you here.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Zeb was gummin' some meat in the Denny's on Interstate 25. The malice in him yella eyes is inestimable, barking forth with the aplomb of a Torquemada or Amin, axe handles orbiting his head, waiting to be deployed emphatically upon some nigger's wooly pate.

"Gawd, why don' sumpin move so's I kin KILL IT ?!"

His dick is hard. He's thinkin' about Lulu, fat as a old sow, fat folds flowing down her chest, bacon grease a-drippin' offa her like a VFW 4th of July barbeque. Yeah, Zeb, he'd like to see Lulu turnin' on a spit over a bed of charcoal briquets. He's a truck-drivin' man with a heart o' gold! Oh Lu LU!! Suck muh righteous Christian dick in the Wal-Mart  parking lot! Gawd! Ah loves you more n' baseball an' World War Two!"

Zeb is 100% American all right. He hath smote the heathen where he live. Now the T.V. tells him strange things. Now the T.V. sings old Celtic songs while Zeb sleeps, after he has turned it off. Zeb sees that Budweiser ad he likes so much. Zeb sees the turkey wattles of the PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. Smiling nobody says nothing. Zeb raises his can of Bud to the screen, toasts the President's health.

In a daze, Zeb suddenly puts down his beer, goes out into the garage and gets his Chinese Kalashnikov, his Glock, and a couplea hand grenades. He starts up the pick-up.

We see a slow-motion video, cell phone, CNN I-report loop of the assassination. Zeb standing there behind his rifle, dreamily masturbating for just a second before he is sawed in half by Secret Service miniature machine guns.

On the video they found in the truck, Zeb explains

"I heard voices in my head said KILL THE PRESIDENT. This is the last round-up. This one for THE GIPPER."

Far way in the green hills of England, in a circle of standing blue stones, a group of Druids celebrate the death of a dragon.

Blaine L. Reininger
Brussels, Belgium

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