What is he doing now?
Or old poop, said Thomas, that is another thing they dont want to be.
Thomas holding out his hand.
What is wrong with that? asked the Dead Father. Seems perfectly reasonable to me.
Stumbling from the stage is anathema to them, said Julie, they want to be nuzzling new women when they are ninety.
The Dead Father slipped his cable and stormed off down the road.
They exist, said Julie, grinning in their business suits and knickers. And Keds.
Thomas looked up the road.
Where is the mother? asked Emma.
Does he really want to hear the answer? asked Thomas. No. I dont think so. If I were he, I would not want to hear the answer.
We agree, said Thomas, weve heard that.
You carved me very neatly, said the Dead Father. I admit it.
Are you about to cry? asked the Dead Father.
The phallus, she continued, is next to useless for the purpose99lib.net. Rolling pins should never be employed. Streams of blue blood --
Anisette, he said, or something sweet.
She stopped for a word.
Must I?
The sword, said Thomas.
No, said Thomas. He is not.
What is the cause? asked the Dead Father.
Conduct a shakedown, suggested the Dead Father. Stand by your bunks and open your footlockers.
What has this to do with fatherhood? asked the Dead Father.
Old Stream-of-Anguish! Companion of my finest hours!
But functioning, said Thomas, congratulate yourself.
The women object, she said. Violently.
Whats in it? Julie asked.
The road. The caravan. People taking pictures of the caravan with little pronghorn cameras. Flashes of light.
Edmund has fallen flat on his mush in the roadway, she said.
A state of grace, philosophically, the Dead Father observed.
Me too, said Emma, for I know nothing about it, and am thttp://www.99lib.nethus presuppositionless.
Fatherhood as a substructure of the war of all against all, said Thomas, we could discuss that.
You are asking me to give up my sword?
No mashing down! Julie said fiercely.
Prefer not to, said Thomas.
I think not, said Thomas, he is an alkie, is all.
Those that are the fathers of themselves miss something, said the Dead Father. Fathers, to be precise.
Now it does no good to mash down on the button. Its not an elevator button, its not a doorbell. The button should not be mashed down on. It should be --
Julie began.
Edmund would be an example, Emma suggested. Though lovable.
You must.
I can speak to that, said Julie.
Eighteen percent at the last census, Julie added.
You were being castigatorious, said the Dead Father. Again.
Overall presence distributed in discrete small black particles all over everything, said J九_九_藏_书_网ulie.
Oh it was a grand fire, said Thomas, very persuasive.
Your sword, sir.
Moving north, one finds a little button.
Who speaks for the father? asked the Dead Father. Who in Gods name --
Fifty-year-old boys, Julie said, thats another thing.
The vagina, she said, is not where its at.
My leg is black, said the Dead Father.
He surrendered the sword.
The Dead Father unsheathed his sword and gazed at it.
Nods of comprehension.
Thomas caught the Dead Father in two bounds.
The fucked mother conceives, Julie said. The whelpling is, after agonies I shall not describe, whelped. Then the dialogue begins. The father speaks to it. The "it" in a paroxysm of not understanding. The "it" whirling as in a centrifuge. Looking for something to tie to. Like a boat in a storm. What is there? The father.
I talk about what I want to talk about, said
九_九_藏_书_网Julie, this is a digression.
The family unit produces zombies, psychotics, and warps, Thomas said. In excess of what is needed.
Sucking on his flask, he said, I have flang three of them into the brush but he always produces another.
By definition, said Thomas.
He gazed at Thomas.
Are you blaming me? asked the Dead Father.
The father is a motherfucker, she said.
A grime?
I am.
I am not saying that it is your fault, he said to the Dead Father.
The mother hath not the postlike quality of the father. She is more like a grime.
Then I shall be swordless. Think what that means.
Jumble-gut lane, Thomas agreed.
They are boys because they dont want to be old farts, said Julie. The old fart is not cherished in this society.
He is going to do it again, said Emma. Paint the floor red with blood.
Where did I learn it? For the mind of me to have formulated these formul9９lib•nｅtations, must they not have a grounding in external reality? I am not just idly --
Thomas trotted to the place where the others were picking Edmund up. He returned holding a silver flask.
And furthermore, Julie said to the Dead Father, it is unseemly. Ugly. Nasty-looking, would be a way of putting it.
Indeed.
Titivated, suggested Emma.
Post and grime, said the Dead Father. You do have a dismal view of things.
The Wend country is bumpy to a fault, said the Dead Father. I am glad we are out of it.
Emma was peering down the road.
I have. Long and hard.
My sword?
This language is not very flattering, said the Dead Father. To a man of a certain age.
Nods of accord.
The men watching. Julie and Emma watching.
Surrender your sword. Your maulsticker.
No, said Julie, I never cry. Except when I realize what I have done.
Thomas tilted the flask.
Celebrated, suggested Thomas.