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Homunculus

     
    Contrary to popular opinion regarding the bullfight, it is not the bull that becomes enraged by the waving of the red cape, but the cow.  What infuriates the bull is being mistaken for a cow. Harry loved this joke. It spoke to him. Summed up life and yet seemed like secret wisdom. He imagined a conspiracy of grizzled, joyless ancient Spaniards. Those corrupt perverts, leaders of their own desperately sick military industrial complex, bent on preserving a convoluted tapestry of lies in order to shore up a dilapidated patriarchal oligarchy. Somehow their secret has been preserved, even allowed to flourish within a rigidly stratified society constantly attended to by armies of brainwashed masses,  have-nots who in their every waking moment unthinkingly reinforce its archaic codes.  Oh, the irony! That the very essence of maleness, the massive, savage, utterly dignified and heroic black Spanish bull should be sacrificed in a ritual of humiliation which has as its very core the repudiation of maleness itself! And this is masked by a vast, repugnant deception of an entire nation. And these bulls, each and every one sleekly obsidian in their own bovine perspiration of utter steadfastness, fight this injustice to the death, unshaken in this, their final, existential conflict of the purest essence: personal identity! Assertion of their primal maleness! That which should be glorified but instead is tragically snuffed out every weekend for the edification of grunting peasant truck-drivers as they stuff their faces with spicy beef and wash down said beef with hideously colored sodas. To Harry it was like betting against the home team… and winning! And winning and winning, year after year, generations of insanity yielding untold countless billions of pesetas. The Generals knew, the Captains of Industry knew, the Pope knows for sure, look at him smiling! Sweet merciful Christ, THEY ALL NEED TO DIE!

“Excuse me, but the smoke from your cigarette is beginning to bother me.” Oh boy. Hold the phone. School’s out. Harry didn’t take kindly to people interrupting his thoughts. Especially not at 1:45 am on a wash-out Friday night. But this voice was female. This could be good. Harry paused, cooking up just the right insult before slowly turreting in the direction of the enemy. The first thing Harry noticed about her were her eyes. They carried an expression of sympathy so overwhelming as to dissolve any intention he may have had of delivering some cutting coup de grace. That was the plus side. On the minus side she was a little chubby and an enthusiastic proponent of the Goth lifestyle. She smiled. Harry smiled back at her idiotically. Harry was perplexed, nonplused, momentarily hype-mo-tized. The rapidanalysis chip in his brain had gone goofy; he couldn’t quite clock this one. Was it Old Style camouflaged in Trash & Vaudeville or Lunatic, the predator who deceives with kindness? He felt like brushing his face in a series of quick, downward strokes a la Curly of the Three Stooges in an infantile attempt to regain composure.

Posted at 4am on 11/12/2004 | comments are closed Filed Under: Fiction

"The sleep of reason
brings forth monsters."






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