Perfectly aware of wearing only underwear, I shoved my fist down the throat of a Waring blender shoplifted last year from Salvation Army. My left index stabbed the puree button. I sought the pure experience.
The engine locked into a screech. Blades bit knuckles; blood seeped, stung, itched; while from the shoulder I wrenched, beefed into it, matching downward thrust against torque.
Bitterly the stalled machine yielded stink.
Kept up pressure. Used left to key suicide prevention. Hit speaker phone. When the do-gooder answered, I blurted a bomb threat. Yelled it repeatedly, till I heard them scurry. Confident they were evacuating, I then punched off.
No turning back. Nothing now between me and the petulant convenience. Sure -- yellowbelly shivers blued the flesh; lemon of a mind salted knuckles, as the stinking blade whined slightly deeper slits; but my soul rubbed hands in glee: I was gonna show more guts than Ulysses. I would choke Charybdis, throttle Progress's whirlpool -- the delusion evolution has a goal, creation a crown, man a god beyond the law of tooth and claw.
Or else -- bit by bit -- arrive today where I'm headed anyway.
America the Vacuum
Edgar sat watching The FBI: Zimbalist in profile after profile. The penis of a plot thickened. The evidence began to mount. So did Clyde.
The music came up. A commercial broke.
Hoover relaxed on the sofa, heels up beside ears, eyes closed, while Clyde labored to root out their frustrations.
America's head cop sucked images of former busts. Especially that of Dorothy Lamour in On The Road To Man Did You Lay Her? while Hope worked Crosby overtime in real estate, both singing only thing really matters is do-re-mi, plus suppression of the Negro.
Life was not bad. Edgar had on everybody the goods. Even bugged Lassie. Listened in on Mr. Ed being not so stable after hours with that white guy with the tie, nice job, straight pretensions.
Hoover hated queers.
But he could count on Clyde, who finished up exactly as the ad ended. The Associate Director regained the straightback beside the sofa. Zimbalist refilled the screen with worry, suspense, bright ideas.
Hoover sighed: America is a great country. If you know how to run it, how to fix it, how to watch it.