H. of Halicarnassus: Inspired by Some Things That Might Have Happened, Maybe - Episode 5

The Bodie of the MOOR - the Invitatione - the Transactione of Menials - PIGRITES demandeth his Libertie - Is hired - Before the Maison - Cupidity of Drink - PIGRITES engageth a Ladie of Ill-Repute

H. looked around nervously, waiting for someone to make the first move. The crowd was still in a state of agitation as its constituents tried to decide whether life had been torn from the body before them justifiably or not. At length the Persian with the sword stepped forward from the hubbub and clapped H. on the shoulders.
"Good show, lad. I owed that Arab son of a bitch all kinds of money, so much it would make your beard go straight." He laughed, and then suddenly appeared grave. "Of course, I had nothing to do with this."
H. gulped. "Of course not."
"That's right. Now that that's out of the way, why not retire to my estate? We're having a few people over, a few of the right people, you understand, and I think you'll be most welcome, seeing as nobody really liked our friend here." He shot a disdainful glance toward the fallen Arab, whose retinue of slaves was still cowering in the darkness outside the theater. The Persian waved a hand in their direction.
"Well, those are yours by right of conquest. I doubt his family will be making much of a fuss. He was a pariah, you see, killed his brother - or maybe your slave knew this when he so effectively dispatched him?" He grinned.
H. put his palms up, facing his interlocutor.
"I have enough to handle in Pigrites, thank you. I'll sell them to you for, I don't know, five minas of silver?"
The Persian's grin broadened.
"Done. Let's be off." He called out to his own retinue of magnificently attired slaves. "You two! Bring those home now. Don't let them get away. Go, boy! Go!" He whistled loudly and the two slaves sprang into action. The Persian began to make his way home, and several of the theater-goers walked with him, laughing and occasionally pointing back at H., who had fallen into line a little ways behind, among the crowd of trailing slaves, and Pigrites with him. Pigrites was still covered in blood, and walked with his head bowed. The Persian slaves were doing little to hide their admiration for their bold compatriot, much to the dismay of their masters, who sent their whip-bearers into the crowds to disabuse them of any notions of revolt. The slaves scattered, and fell even further behind. Now out of earshot, with the crowd of laughing Persians before him, and the slaves trailing forlornly behind, H. spoke without looking at his companion.
"What were you thinking?"
Pigrites did not look up.
"He was going to kill you."
They walked for a while in silence, passing through the darkened streets of Asur, empty except for a few pimps lurking in the archways and slaves advertising the local bawdy-houses. The road began to incline, and they found themselves making their way slowly up hill.
"This leads to the noble estates," said Pigrites.
H. barely heard him.
"Where did you learn to fight like that?"
Pigrites mumbled something.
H. was incensed.
"Boy, you answer me."
Pigrites stopped, and fixed his master with a look. H. was suddenly afraid.
"H.," he said, not bothering any longer with the honorific, "you owe me. I saved your life."
H. met his gaze but said nothing.
"You owe me," he repeated, this time a little more menacingly.
H. cleared his throat.
"And what will you do when I free you?"
Pigrites thought for a moment.
"I'll need work, of course."
H. nodded slowly.
"As a bodyguard?"
"As bodyguard, as concierge, as scribe - I am a man of many talents. I think you're familiar with my work."
H. watched the torches of the Persians in the distance. They had fallen far behind, and the slaves were now passing them. He turned back to Pigrites.
"And how much must I pay for the privilege of employing you?"
"One and a half drachmas a day, not including expenses."
H. mulled the proposition over. This was more than the average skilled mercenary soldier charged, and they had to handle their own expenses. On the other hand, he was terrified of what his slave might do if refused.
"Fine."
A small smile creased Pigrites' lips.
"Wonderful. I'll see you in the morning."
His former slave started back down the hill. H., wondering for a moment, hastened to catch up with his Persian host. A few minutes' jogging caught him up to his host's party. They looked back and cheered as H. arrived. The man with the sword raised his hands and laughed.
"Ah, we thought we had lost you. Come on, we're almost there."
Torches were visible in the distance. These marked the entrance to his host's estate. A pair of footmen stood before the door, scimitars on the belts holding up their garish blue trousers. Seeing the approach of their master, they turned, pulled open the heavy wooden doors, and stood stiffly at attention beside. His host stopped before the doors and turned to address his following.
"Gentlemen, this evening is dedicated to our Greek friend here, who has brought us so much merriment and, what's more, relief!" Some of the men laughed and cheered. "We shall drink to his good health inside. You there!" He pointed at one of his slaves, the group of which had now come into earshot. "Have the kitchen send out the wine. I should like to begin drinking immediately." More cheers.
H. laughed at his host's comments and cheered along with his fellows. He was about to thank his host for his generosity, when he realized that he had no idea what his name was. He leaned over to the Persian next to him.
"I say, whose home is this?"
The man looked at him for a moment, puzzled, before answering in heavily-accented Greek.
"Why, this is the home of Keffir, whom you see before you."
H. nodded and thanked the man. He took a breath:
"I should also like to thank Keffir for his generosity. May the gods bless his household forever."
Keffir beamed.
"You must meet my daughter, friend Greek. She has always liked people her own height."
The men laughed once more, indulging their host, who now began to lead them inside. H. followed, eager for what he was sure would be excellent wine.

Now back in town, Pigrites moved rapidly, focused on a single object. It had been so long. He fingered the few coins he had in his pouch in anticipation. Moving through the darkness, he suddenly found his way blocked by a greasy-looking Persian, all sly grin and flashing teeth.
"Need company?" the pimp asked simply, holding out his hand.
Pigrites reached out and dropped his coins into the open palm. A moment passed as the man felt out the weight of the coins in the darkness. Finally he turned and motioned for Pigrites to follow. They passed through a low arch and descended a staircase illuminated only by the splotchy light cast from a filthy oil lamp. A bouncer with a wicked-looking dagger stood aside and let them pass. They now came into a cramped basement apartment. This held several well-used divans, which themselves held several seemingly bored naked Persian women. The pimp held out his hand, directing Pigrites to pick one. He indicated the one bearing the fewest cuts. The pimp whistled and pointed at the girl. She stood and sauntered off into a side room. The pimp turned to Pigrites.
"You get two passes of the hourglass. If you want more, you pay." He turned a sand-filled glass jar on its side, and made ready to pull the stopper. Pigrites licked his lips and hastened to his room.
The room wasn't much more than a few blankets spread over the cold stone floor, with cushions for bolster. The girl lay against these, her legs spread, apparently eager to earn her pay.
Pigrites grinned. "Hi."
The girl smiled at him, but it was the practiced smile of the courtesan. She pushed up her breasts and begged him to lie with her.
Pigrites stepped out of his clothing and fell into her embrace. Warm flesh. It had been so long. Their lips met. He kissed, with passion, she with practiced reserve. His hands found purchase in every curve. He drew closer and availed himself of the services on offer.
It was not long before he heard the pimp call out.
"Not much longer. Already one pass."
Pigrites sighed.

Studies in Pity: Hitchhiking for Love on the Information Superhighway and Other Bad Metaphors, part 1

Since Studies in Pity will almost certainly be the topic of the 2011 Massey Lectures it's time now to come up with some more material, to delve deep into the black morass of human emotion to see what can be dredged up. We have already examined madness bred in extreme solitude, have examined artwork bred of extreme madness, and witnessed extreme slavishness born of madness; now we look toward the most catholic of human experiences, this being love, and the pity it occasions. Put on your diving suit, turn on your high-intensity diving light, steel thy heart, and wade in with me. Watch out for seaweed strands of desperation, lest they snatch you and prevent you from returning to the loveless world of reality.

Our first visit is to the Winnipeg branch of craiglist.com, one of several popular classifieds sites on the Internet. This site acts as a virtual version of the classifieds page in your local newspaper, wherein, entirely free of charge, one can advertise one's wares, whether car, boat, or half-bottle of Percocet, and then browse the advertisements made by others. When that becomes boring, one can then post in the "rants and raves" section about how much one hates Natives and bad drivers (both of whom will form the bases of Studies in Pity yet to come). When one becomes horny one can direct one's browser to the "personals" section of craigslist, where one can try their luck in sighting warm bodies awaiting love's completion. This is our task.

Item One: Jesus saves but does not provide earth-shattering orgasms

Hello there :)

Ideally I'm looking for a virgin, Christian guy with his head on his shoulders. Someone compassionate about life and ambitious. As well ideally I'd be looking for someone 18-19. I'm wanting an honest relationship with someone that's understanding, not afraid to be wrong and fun. .

I'm a cute, mature, fit female looking for mr.right I guess you could say haha :)

Please attach a picture of yourself and even if you don't think you fit into everything i listed off...there's no harm in sending a message my way and seeing what happens...is there?

For the subject please describe yourself in 2 words! (something a little different)
Take care :)

The words, of course, are just adorable, but it's the picture which is really heartbreaking - you will notice that the reflection in the mirror spells out the first personal plural pronoun. But why are "you" in the shadows? Is she looking for a black man? Who knows. More difficult are her age and experience requirements: 18-19 and untried in the contest of love. Will our mature, fit female ever find a strapping-yet-virginal baptized teenage boy to satisfy her carnal needs? Even if she could, what would the neighbours say about such an unholy union? And one can only imagine what monstrosities the two-word subject requirement will give rise to:

Huge Cock
Cock, Large
Teen Cock
Hung Sexy
Big Pimpin'
Stylin' Right
Love Hungry
Sweet Sensitive
Bargain Hunter
Pussy Magnet
Ass Man

Well, there are some examples for you if you're going to e-mail her. Don't forget that you have to be a "Christian virgin," so, once you've had your fill of non-alcoholic cider and Seventh Heaven reruns and have coaxed your elderly lover into the bedroom, make sure you make a show of removing the cross dangling around your neck before you get into bed, and spend a while fumbling with her bra strap, claiming "you've never done this before." Once you're in, whisper that now you know "what God looks like" before squeezing out a few tears - this should ensure that she doesn't invite you back for another session. If she does, marry her.

Item Two: "I will look at you."

just want the shy nerdy lady??????? - m4w - 51

yes you are the one,although you have a nice body no one takes a second look at you ,it didn,t matter if you were in high school ,university or college or just in the mall. well this man wants you,any race,no use you missing out any longer,meet me in the mall,i will look at you.

This advertisement comes from the "casual encounters" section. "Casual encounters" contains nothing but solicitations from men seeking a sex partner of either gender; it is absolutely impossible to find a woman advertising herself here. This shouldn't be surprising, but it is worth pointing out. Our subject here is actually quite typical, there being two types of men seeking casual encounters: young gays, and old men trapped in loveless marriages who salivate over their daughter's friends. Here we clearly have an example of the latter, though one with an admirable tolerance for the sexual organs of lesser races: "this man wants you," we are told, "any race." How nice. You-of-any-race must of course have a rockin' bod before he will even consider looking at you, but, if you do, rest assured that he will look at you. He says so in the last line of his entry: "I will look at you." This is the rub: he doesn't want to have sex with you, he just wants to look, to feast his eyes on some "shy nerdy lady." One, two hours will pass as he ravishes you with his peepers, sucking down Johnny Walker and chain-smoking cigarillos. He won't ask you to dance, or strip, or to do anything else, but, after he has satisfied himself, will simply stuff twenty dollars into your pants before hustling you off. Don't call him again, because it will be his wife who answers, and she will not be pleased to learn of his kinda-sorta infidelity (imagine the awkwardness of that conversation, please). Instead, enjoy your money, spend it on something to make you feel pretty, but not too pretty, because then strange old illiterate men will not lust after you.

Item Three: Emporiontis, Greek god of erotic discount shopping

Eye contact at Superstore - w4m - 20

Last week, you were ahead of my mother and I in line at Superstore.
You were wearing a brown leather jacket with jeans and an Orlando Bloom type ponytail. I couldn't help but think that you looked like a beautiful Greek God.
I had to ask you to move so I could get my cart by you. We made eye contact and I felt shivers go up my spine.

Just so I know it's you, in your email please tell me which Superstore location we were at.

-Greek Goddess

Well, here we are. Life hasn't gone the way we wanted it to go. We're lonely, miserable, saddled with three children, bills, fried-chicken dinners. We're shopping, again. Dad's in jail, again. The cart rolls along, one wheel sticking, burdened down by bulk cases of pizza pockets and corn dogs (why are the kids so fat?). You're not even sure if the Trans Am is going to make it home this time.

That's when it happens. From the maze of fluorescent dome lights above a beam of dazzling brightness shoots down, illuminating a single object, a more-than-man standing at the checkout counter. Clad in leather and denim, his frayed pony-tail stirred majestically by the breezes issuing forth from the HVAC system, he is as a Greek god. His broad shoulders, his sagging gut, his granite jaw, his impeccable fashion sense: all speak to his divinity. You nearly swoon, but recover just in time to see him cast a glance in your direction, (those magnetic brown eyes!). He is gone. He's forgotten to pack away a red pepper. You take the pepper and hold it close, promising to treasure it forever. "Now now, my sweet," you whisper to your relic, before tucking it away in your purse. You will have to seek him out. He lives not on Olympus, of course, but on the Internet, just as all modern gods do.

H. of Halicarnassus: Inspired by Some Things That Might Have Happened, Maybe - Episode 4

The Very Fine Gardenne - H. near to Fainting in the Gallerye - Pigrites arouseth the Gentry with an Addresse - H. incipitates his Tale - a single Inverity therein - Pangnosis, grandchilde of Jove - the Clergy of Miletus, like unto our Abbottes - The Tablettes of Science - Science Betook by Bandits and Scoundrels - The MOOR, purveyor of paprika, returneth - He seeketh PIGRITES - The clashe of Steelle - H. unmanned - An misfortunate Ende for the MOOR - H. seeketh Lodging

The sun was setting on the common garden of Asur. The imperial gardeners, a hard day's work finished, returned to their homes and yelled at their wives, as was the Persian custom. The quality of their work was evident even to the casual garden visitor. Six tiny irrigation streams flowing from the Erydna watered a lush cornucopia of vegetation: trees, shrubs, flowers of all kinds, imported from all over the empire. Marble statues, many of Greek gods and probably sculpted by Ionians, nestled amid the greenery, at ease beside the occasional, more abstract Zoroastrian-themed work. Shadows danced, occasioned by the wicker torches fixed in the ground at regular intervals. A small theater, commissioned at the request of the local Greek community, lay at the inner edge of the park, close enough to the Erydna to receive the cool evening breeze wafting in from it. It was hard not to feel at ease here.
And yet, behind the unpainted skene of the theater, H. paced nervously. Where were the people? Not a single seat had yet been filled. He began to rehearse his stories once more.
Some time later, he heard voices from the seats. He peeked out from behind the skene, and saw a few Persians standing before the entrance to the theater, chatting. They were well-dressed, their dark beards were neatly-braided, and they had retinues with them. H. was elated: these were exactly the sort of people he had been looking for.
Pigrites appeared from the darkness beyond the theater and ushered them up to their seats, which overlooked the circular orchestra. Questioned about the nature of the night's event, his slave would give up nothing.
This process was repeated a few more times over the next hour, until at last the theater was almost full. With great dignity, Pigrites advanced to the orchestra, whence he looked up at his audience.
"Noble sirs, an unforgettable experience has been promised you; be assured that we intend to deliver . My master, who levies no fee, who asks nothing but your indulgence, has come to the great and prosperous city of Asur to inform you of his many remarkable discoveries. He is a learned man, a sage, and his opinion carries great weight among his people."
With this, Pigrites left the orchestra and disappeared behind the skene. Quiet reigned.
H. swallowed nervously. He had prepared for this. He took a long draught from the cup of wine which had been set out for him and, now filled with the god, he strode out onto the orchestra floor.
All eyes were on him. Some men chuckled slightly when they realized he was a Greek: surely, they thought, this is just another quack doctor peddling his wares. These folded their hands over their ample bellies and prepared themselves to be entertained.
H. cleared his throat and raised his right hand.
"A moment for trivialities, gentlemen. I must know if there will be any difficulties understanding my language. I, regrettably, have not been blessed with training in your noble tongue, and am forced to employ to my own."
A Persian in the front row barked a reply, in Greek:
"Age! Get on with it, Greekling. We know your tongue. How could we not? You people never shut up; we learn it even unwilling."
The men laughed, and H. smiled magnanimously.
"Eien. Then my people have brought you some knowledge already, at no cost to yourselves. I propose to bring your further knowledge still. I am a traveler from the Ionian city of Halicarnassus. I have been to many places, and learned much. I have conferred with the priests of Miletus, seen the ruins of ancient cities on Samos, have supped with Scythians on the steppes." This last was a lie; he had not yet been to Scythia. The crowd looked on, waiting for the hook. H. continued.
"Tales abound of an island city which, ten thousand years ago, sank into the sea. Some say it lies far to the west, beyond the Pillars of Heracles, in the River Ocean. This is a lie." The crowd murmured and leaned forward collectively. "First, I must tell you about the priests at Miletus, from whom one part of this story comes. The story begins with Pangnosis, a grandson of Zeus and gifted with the knowing of everything. When he had been taught to read and write, Pangnosis, realizing that he was mortal (only direct progeny of gods can live on Olympus, after all), thought that it would be important to record his knowledge. He gathered about him all the scribes alive at that time (the priests tell me that this was six thousand years ago, but I do not believe them, because at that time the Titans were still at war with the Olympians, and the gods had not yet had children; we can assume it was a long time ago, however) and bade them record his utterances. At first the scribes did not know why they should trust Pangnosis. They were busy with palace work, they would say, and would try to leave. One by one, however, Pangnosis told to them their darkest secrets, and all of them, shocked by his impossible accuracy, were persuaded to stay with him. For the next eighty years, up until his death, the scribes recorded his every utterance. Much of it was worthless, as Pangnosis had a tendency to get fixated on a single subject, which he would pursue until it was exhausted. A digression could take months, and many tablets were filled detailing such things as the mating rituals of creatures at the bottom of the sea, or else the ten thousand kinds of snowflakes at the top of a mountain. But often he would say something wise and interesting, and these things too were recorded on the tablets. After his death, the scribes (or rather, their own descendants, as many had died and been replaced for their children while working for Pangnosis) vowed to preserve this knowledge. A great library was built to house the tablets and to study them. The library was said to have had ten thousand rooms, each dedicated to one of the subjects on which Pangnosis lectured. However, over the millennia many of the tablets were lost to pirates and invading armies. You see, the tablets were all made of gold or silver, materials which were very common in the time of Pangnosis (it being the golden age). As time passed, these metals receded into the earth and were no longer common, so men looking for easy plunder, having come to know of the library from word of mouth, went there to steal the tablets and melt them down. Eventually, only a few tablets were left: one detailing the perfect recipe for mead, another bearing a copy of the peace treaty between peoples called the Tubus and Porphyrnians (about whom we know nothing), and finally a set of tablets containing the true history of the island city we call Atlantis. The descendants of the original scribes, their numbers now very few thanks to constant warfare, now resolved to spirit these tablets away. They went on a boat to the place where the city of Miletus now is, and they stayed there, dedicating themselves to studying the few tablets that remained. Unfortunately, these tablets too disappeared, appropriated by the king of the city of that era in order to fund his insane war against the Assyrians (who were dominant at that time in Asia). Fortunately, the scribes had committed to memory the contents of the tablets, and they passed this down through the generations. Anyway, this is what the Milesian priests tell me, and I believe them, because I have tasted their mead and it is the finest in the world. The Samian priests tell almost the exact same story, except that they say that the descendants of the scribes came to Samos, and that it is they who possess the true story of Atlantis, but I do not believe them, because although they maintain they received the recipe for the world's best mead, in fact their mead is quite ordinary, similar to that which one could find in any poor deme of Attica. So much for the origin of the story."
H. took a deep breath. At this signal, Pigrites rushed out from behind the stage with his cup of wine, which H. in short order drained, then disappeared. The crowd spurred him onward, entranced. H. was about to continue, until he saw a figure standing at the right hand entrance to the theater. This man, an Arab, was glowering at H., and apparently had been doing so for some time. He marched onto the orchestra floor and, pointing an accusing finger at H., denounced him before the small crowd.
"This man is charlatan! Beware lest he make false promises, rob you and sully the good name of your daughters!"
A chill went down H.'s spine. It was the spice merchant from Ephesus. What were the odds that he would have followed him to Asur?
He bellowed at H.
"Where is my slave? Pigrites? Where are you?"
Pigrites emerged slowly from behind the skene. The crowd looked on, enthralled by the drama before them.
The Arab merchant pointed to the ground in front of him.
"Come here. Now."
Pigrites stood his ground, and looked to H. for support. H. folded his arms over his chest.
"Now hold on. Pigrites here is my property now. You didn't follow through on your promise to get me audience with the tyrant."
The merchant was apoplectic.
"Fuck your mother, Greekling!" Several members of the audience registered their offence at this impropriety with loud cries. "I guaranteed nothing! Hadocles is a fearful, paranoid man, and does not invite to his house every sniveling child from the colonies just because they ask for it."
H. stood, saying nothing. The man had a point: he hadn't guaranteed anything. The knot in his belly told him this wasn't going to end well, and the spinning of the room told him he had once again drank too much wine.
The Arab drew a curved sword from his sash. The glint of polished bronze in the flickering torchlight was an awesome sight.
A man from the crowd stood up and raised his hands.
"Ho there! This isn't a fair fight at all. Our Greekling has no weapon." He pulled another sword from his own belt, this a short one, better suited to stabbing than slashing. He tossed this to H., who caught it gingerly, being not particularly experienced in the handling of such implements. Nevertheless, he held it before him as though he had been using such things all his life, hoping to inspire some fear his opponent. The Arab laughed.
"All this for a little slave? I hope he sucks your dick real nice, Greekling." The Arab brandished his sword and began to advance on H., who retreated a short distance. They began to orbit the circle of the orchestra, each seeking an advantage over the other.
The crowd, now standing, began to cheer on their favourites.
The Arab roared and surged forward, swinging wildly at H., who parried the blows by pure instinct, but was driven backward almost into the crowd, the members of whom now swayed backwards, not wanting to get involved in the fight. H. now took the offensive and lunged clumsily at the Arab, who danced around the blow and poked H. in the thigh the with the tip of his scimitar. The pain was incredible, but it could easily have been a killing stroke; he was being toyed with, he realized.
The Arab merchant put his sword on his shoulder.
"Come now, this is almost a joke. Why don't you just have your slave fight for you? I was going to kill him in any case once I was through with you."
The crowd laughed at his challenge.
Suddenly, Pigrites pushed through the crowd and took his place on the orchestra floor. He snatched the sword from his master, who stepped back automatically. Wordlessly, with a look of grim concentration on his face, Pigrites launched himself at his former master. Surprised by this sudden onslaught, the Arab took a step backward to brace himself. This was all that was needed: Pigrites spun on his heel and delivered a brutal snap kick to the Arab's gut. The crowd gasped. Doubled over, the merchant put up his sword in a feeble gesture of defiance, but to no avail, for Pigrites moved in with astonishing swiftness and, gripping the long hair of his former master, exposing his neck with a quick jerk, he ran the edge of his own sword across it. Dark blood bubbled up around the sword as it split his throat open, and the Arab fell to the ground, kicking spasmodically. His sword clattered beside him. For the next few moments, all that could be heard was the gooey gurgling of the once-fearsome Arab as the life ebbed from him. Then, he was dead.
Pigrites, covered in sweat, wiped the gore from the blade on the trousers of the dead Arab merchant. He handed it back to the Persian who had given it to H. The Persian looked at the slave in astonishment. Pigrites addressed the crowd:
"Tonight has been very trying for my master. If any of you would be so kind as to lodge him for the night, he would gladly share with you the benefit of his wisdom. As you can see," he said, gesturing to the fallen body nearby, "he has acquired many enemies in his tireless pursuit of knowledge."
The crowd murmured.

Epistles: from the Road

Dear Rob,

It's dark as I write this. I'm holding a Maglite in my teeth - sorry so sloppy. Timing belt snapped. It's the only spare part we don't have. Even if we did, it would be a hell of a job to fix it. Nobody's come this way for hours. We're stuck for now. If nobody comes by nine tomorrow morning we'll walk 'till our phone can get a signal. We're about 150 km west out of town. We turned onto the logging road fifteen km ago. Not a light to be seen whichever way you look.

Jess is sulking in the car. She can't handle things like this. Something doesn't go according to plan, she breaks down. I think she's crying. I feel like crying, but I'm not going to. It can't be helped. We'll wait and count stars and listen to the crickets. Well, I will, anyway. It's cold, but it could be colder. We'll survive. Two weeks from now it will have been "an adventure" - that's the way she'll tell it to all of our friends. Her fear will be glossed over. Her childishness will be made myth - the audience will understand that hers was a natural reaction. I, as always, will be the stoic Man, the Rock, the to-be-relied-upon. My name condemns me. My feelings won't figure into the story. How could they? The humour would be lessened. Audience and couple will once more express their reverence for that Ideal, the one that says the girl must be girly and the man manly. I could use less girly right about now.

This trip was supposed to be exciting, a break from the ordinary. Instead, in the tiny world of the car, all problems are amplified. That feminine lack of perspective. You know what I mean. Molehills become moons, breaking out of orbit, threatening the extinction of happier planets. The tension is never resolved, just swallowed. There's no relief in love-making, just a mutual, grunting acknowledgment of animal desire. We've brought too much of the ordinary with us in this tiny hatchback; amazing we could fit it all in, what with her FIVE traveling cases. I'm not amused by this anymore. It's not cute or endearing. Sorry to ramble.

She's stopped crying, I think. I'm supposed to go comfort her. I will, of course. For the sake of this trip we have to get along (our liking one another is always contingent on something else). A counterfeit kiss, then waking hours. She'll sleep, I won't. Good night, Rob.

-Peter

Studies in Pity: A Man Named Kelly

(Herodotus: Episode 4 soon!!)

It is simple truth that there are the rulers and the ruled, the powerful and the oppressed, master and slave. Most of us are slaves, though few of us will acknowledge this fact. On we toil, those above enriched as we below are impoverished. Labour enervates, time diminishes, yet our humanity is preserved by one grace: struggle. In our chronic rebellion, in our straining at the fetters that bind us we achieve a measure of dignity. "No," we say, "we have some power. My body is flesh, weak, but my mind is steel, hard, and it bends for no other." The body is chained, the soul free. Humanity endures.

Those who do not participate in the struggle, who embrace their servitude, these we call thralls, willing slaves. Their soul is bent to the master's lash, quivers at his mere approach, desires nothing more than to please. We are disgusted. We explain to the thrall the nature of the their condition. We shout. We weep at their betrayal. All to no avail: the thrall glows with satisfaction. Even the cruelty of the master is explained: this is for my betterment/I should have known better/the master's ways are not mine. The body is flesh and the mind is flesh, each awaiting the imprint of the master's steel. Not a trace of humanity in this one.

Thus Kelly.

***

Endless prairie road lies behind you. The roar of the tires on cracked asphalt is a sound so familiar that silence will seem strange. The paper coffee cup, now empty, at each bump threatens to fall; you would welcome the excitement. The licence plate on the RV in front of you has by now given up all its secrets: you've rearranged the characters into every possible combination, turned them upside down, seen which configurations spell naughty words. Your back is sweaty, throat dry. You've fantasized thoroughly about several women (some stunning, some mousy and strange), even had enough time to imagine dinner and the inevitable breakup (always tearless). Your eye passes over the console: still going ten klicks over the limit, engine temperature still good (you guess?), oil pressure still nominal, gas... ah, that's almost empty. Dammit. Why didn't you fill up in Rat River? Or was it Rat Lake? Rat Falls? These towns all look the same: aluminum shacks lining the main street, Greyhound depot at the corner, yokels riding ATVs through the ditches, drunk on love and probably beer. You think of the colour grey when you think of Rat River (Ratford?) - someone obviously put great care into choosing the name. The day is grey.

After another hundred acres of canola, a sign appears on your right: DONNA'S GAS, 10 KM INTERSECTION OF HWY 1 & RT. 77. Good. Maybe there'll be a phone there. You think of calling your wife, but why? She'll have been watching TV all day. You'll get the report. Who got kicked off the island. Who lost the most weight. Who ate the roasted horsehair. The baby kicked. Terrific. When are you coming home? Soon. I miss you. I miss you, too. Wait, that's a lie. The leaden inevitability of it all makes your head hurt. You have a sudden urge to ride an ATV through a ditch, drunk on beer and love. You fantasize about Donna.

The sign was prophetic. Grateful for the exercise, you press the brake and turn into Donna's Gas. Before you lie two sets of gas pumps, each with four handles. You pull up beside the set on your left. You open the door and emerge into afternoon greylight, and blink. It feels good to stretch. You indulge yourself, and then pick up the pump handle. The pump beeps. You select a grade of gas. You turn, and a grey blob fills your vision. The blob is bounding toward you. It has legs, arms, a head. No ordinary blob, you realize. Greasy blond hair whipped by strong prairie wind. Coke-bottle glasses. Prodigious acne. Short stubby legs eating up the distance in clumsy strides. Footfalls whisper-quiet, silenced by orthopedic slippers. A nametag pokes out of the grey: KELLY. The tag has three little metal pump tokens attached to it. Awards, you realize.

The blob stands before you, trying to catch its breath. Its lower jaw separates from the rest of the head, revealing yellowed teeth and a tongue caked with white. It speaks in curious, awful arpeggios, now tenor, now castrato. You cringe.
"HELLO sir, WELCOME to DONNA'S GAS. MY name is KELLY, and i'd be GLAD to HELP you out. how ARE you on this GLORIOUS day?"
You mumble. Fine, just fine. What does the blob want? You're a grown man. You can pump the gas. You move to put the pump handle into the filler neck of the gas tank.
The blob gasps.
"SIR! it is my DUTY to INFORM you that you are CURRENTLY at a FULL-SERVICE pump. The SELF-SERVICE pumps are THITHER." He swins his flabby arm out and points at the other set of pumps.
It's fine, it's the same gas right? I can handle it.
The blob is unmoved.
"the GAS from the FULL-SERVICE PUMP, beside WHICH you are currently standing, IS DISPENSED at a price FOUR CENTS greater than that of the GAS from the SELF-SERVICE PUMP. i simply CAN NOT allow you to PUMP this gas on your own. it would amount to NEGLECT of my DUTIES as an EM-PLOY-EE of DONNA'S GAS."
The blob is out of breath again.
You scratch the back of your neck. Alright, well, I'm already started here, so why don't you finish it up. I'm going inside.
"SIR! do you NEED me to check your OIL or WASHER FLUID or even TRANSMISSION FLUID? may i WASH your WINDSHIELD, SIDE WINDOWS, and/or your REAR WINDSHIELD?"
Sure, whatever.
"OKIE DOKIE, no troubles, no worries at all! be DONE in a JIFFY."
As the gas pumps, the blob pulls a brush from the water bucket. With expert L-shaped strokes he cleans your windows, even takes the time to buff out imperfections in the glass. You turn to go inside.
The blob gasps.
"SIR! i'm AFRAID that with the hood CLOSED, i am UNABLE to determine the levels of EITHER your OIL or TRANSMISSION FLUID, or indeed your WINDSHIELD-WASHING LIQUID."
Grumbling, you turn back and open the car door. You pull the hood-release. In one smooth motion the blob unlatches the hood and props it up. The blob says something, but you can't hear him from inside the car.
What?
The blob, now bent over your engine, straightens.
"i SAID this is a FINE automobile. you made an EXCELLENT purchasing DECISION."
The blob beams.

You go inside. A bland-faced red-haired teenager is reading a car magazine at the counter. You approach him.
You jerk your thumb over your shoulder. What's the deal with that guy?
Oh him, yeah that's Kelly, nobody likes him.
What's his problem?
The teenager thinks.
Clearly something. I don't know, he wants our boss to love him.
But the customers must hate him. I hate him. Doesn't that make the boss hate him?
The teenager shrugs.
He sells the right things to the right people, somehow.
You struggle with the illogic of it all.
The door opens. The blob comes bounding in. You turn.
"sir your OIL and TRANSMISSION FLUID are just PEACHY." His face darkens. "however, your WINDSHIELD-WASHING LIQUID is DANGEROUSLY low." Now it brightens. "may I suggest a bottle of DONNA'S BRAND WINDSHIELD-WASHING LIQUID?"
How much?
"MERELY FOUR DOLLARS and NINETY-NINE cents."
Outrageous. But you tell him to put it in.
"EXCELLENT, sir. you will also get FIVE *ADDITIONAL* AEROPLAN PLATINUM CLUB TRAVELING REDEEMABLE POINTS."
Well, now I can fly to Rat River, you joke, lamely.
The blob lets loose a peal of booming laughter. His body is convulsed by the effort. Several gasping breaths later, he wipes a non-existent tear away from his eye.
"VERY humourous, sir."
The blob bounds out of the building, windshield-washer fluid in hand. You turn to the kid again.
Seriously, what does he get out of this?
The kid shrugs.
I don't know, it's like his whole life. He takes care of his mom and he comes here to pump gas and stock shelves. I guess it's his form of pride.
But I mean, there's pride and then there's this.
Well, you bought the fluid, didn't you?
The kid turns back to his magazine.
You watch the blob through the plate-glass windows. With aplomb he fills your washer fluid, not a single drop escaping the reservoir. A flourish and he replaces the cap on the bottle. He moves to go inside.
As he approaches the building (bounding, of course), you see three figures advance toward him. Teenagers. They're running, carrying something. They whoop and cry as they make their way toward the blob.
The blob turns. His expression, horror.
The teens let fly from their cargo as they pass the blob. Eggs. In seconds he is drenched head to toe in shiny egg white and runny yolk. They run away, laughing.
The blob enters the building, dripping and sticky.
"those HOOLIGANS have BEFOULED my GARMENTS. a THOUSAND CURSES on them, I SAY!" He storms off toward the back of the store.
The teenager, unimpressed, approaches the register.
With the washer fluid that's forty-two ninety. Anything else?
As he processes your credit card, you can hear the blob talking on the phone in the back.
"NO, MOTHER, i *DIDN'T* fight them. yes, MOTHER, i'm wearing clean underwear. No. NO. mother. MOther. MOTHER. *MOTHER*. GOODBYE, MOTHER."
You hear him slam the receiver.
Stepping over the now-hard egg, you get in your car and drive away.

Reflections: Because Why Not

Love is a mysterious and powerful thing; that's probably why so much literature, music, why so many movies which concern themselves with it. Mysterious, we say, because one day it is present, and drives us to undertake Olympian deeds where no impetus existed before (and this is its power), and the next it is gone, leaving us puzzled amid the effects of our labour, the instrument of their creation having vanished. What is accomplished by love now seems alien in its absence, and one is driven to wonder just what it was that fired his heart in the first place. Spurs applied to the memory are no help - the photograph tells a story no longer true; the letter seems cold and calculating, where once it had seemed innocent and charming; the gift appears a debt that needs paying; the promise, obviously broken, if ever made in good faith.

Distressing, perhaps, but love's mystery is also cause for good cheer: it has come and gone, but it will come again. Absence of love provides its own impetus, a new kind of fire, which smoulders rather than rages, a slow burn of determination. Every setback, every obstacle is material for this flame; nothing can extinguish it, and through the harshest solitary winters one remains content.

These are trite sentiments, but human nonetheless.

H. of Halicarnassus: Inspired by Some Things That Might Have Happened, Maybe - Episode 3

In which H. maketh a plan - the Streetes bereft of Menne - the linened Headgarb - the districkt of Administration - the Towne crier bekicked - his Exhortatione to the Peoples

3. It was not the best of plans, though H. had to admit that he had few other options. He needed money; to get money he would need to woo a daughter of the nobility; therefore, he had to put himself in a position where he would be in contact with nobles. That meant he had to increase his profile. As a foreigner (a Greek, no less), this would ordinarily be a difficult thing. The only advantage H. possessed in comparison to the average traveler was his formidable education and his reputation as a writer. For, unlike the hordes of semi-literate merchants and dilettante aristocrats who flooded in from the Ionian communities in Asia Minor, H. was already an established author, at least in his hometown of Halicarnassus. Admittedly, his oeuvre was not exactly magisterial, as it mostly consisted of tawdry reiterations of various myths, to be read at the comedy festivals before the main plays in order to work up the crowd, but his name was nevertheless known to a few men. He was already hard at work documenting the histories of a few of the communities he had visited, these being thus far the vast commercial city of Miletus, the island of Samos, and the great and prosperous city of Ephesus.
Here laid his plan: he would have to turn what he had already recorded to his advantage. He needed to organize a reading of his work, that men of substance, learned men, might notice him and invite him to their houses. Of course, the cities he had visited were well-known to all in this area, as was their history, and so he would need to emphasize the unusual, the fantastic.
With the help of Pigrites, he had sorted through his scribblings and had found suitable material with which to sway his audience. Such material had of course to be stretched into a new shape; his purpose was not to preserve word-for-word the tales told him, but to cast light on the marvelous while preserving the broad outline of the story. This is what would win him friends.
Now he just had to get the attention of the people. Shouting at the market corner had proved useless, for it was impossible to make oneself heard over the general din. It was already past noon, and the sun beat mercilessly on the uncovered streets of Asur. The number of customers dwindled, as they sought relief indoors. H. was anxious, for he wished to have an audience before the sun set. This was ambitious, he realized, but he was focused on making his way into the more exotic lands of southern Asia. He would need to make his name known quickly.
H. made his way slowly up the street, toward the government district. Sweat began to soak his fine blue tunic.
"Pigrites," he said as he walked, "it's hot."
"So it is," he heard from behind him.
"What do you propose to do about this?"
He sensed Pigrites was no longer following him. Stopping, he looked back and saw his slave pulling from his girdle a linen towel, which he soon wrapped with astonishing dexterity into a kind of head-dress, complete with a trailing covering for the neck. Pigrites advanced, holding out the makeshift hat.
"Sit would be wise to wear this."
H. put the hat on his head.
"Much better," he said. He watched as Pigrites made another covering for himself.
They continued on their way. A dozen blocks later, they arrived at the intersection of the market road with the main boulevard of the government district. This too was mostly empty in the heat of the afternoon, save for a few men lounging under the entrance to the archival building. Gaily-garbed spearmen guarded the entrance to the colonnaded satrapal palace, and these too tried their best to find themselves some shade under the sheer patchwork walls of the palace. At the center of the intersection stood a ring of stones, around which were placed several granite obelisks. Into these obelisks iron pegs had been driven, and from the pegs were hung little notices, these carved into wood or else, more ostentatiously, painted on sheepskin stretched over a wooden frame. This was where the residents of Asur came to exchange information, and this was where H. had the best chance of getting word out quickly. Dozing in the shade of an obelisk he found a barker. These were slaves employed by merchants and others to make announcements and to make known official proclamations from the royal throne in Susa. Some were even freelancers, and would shout for as long as they were paid. It was one of the latter that H. now found before him.
H. gave the man a light kick.
The man awoke instantly. He jabbered in Persian, and Pigrites cleared his throat.
"He said 'what do you want?'"
Through Pigrites, H. managed to arrange terms with the barker: for four obols, for the rest of the day the barker would make known to passers-by the time and location of H.'s reading.
"Uh, where are we having the reading, Pigrites?"
Pigrites sighed.
"The common garden is free in the early evening, and remains lit until midnight. I suggest sir entertain the masses there."
H. told Pigrites to tell this to the barker, who thereupon nodded and took his payment.
It was a little cooler now, and people were beginning to creep back onto the streets. Noticing this, the barker took a deep breath and began earning his pay. Pigrites provided translation:
"WISE AND UPRIGHT MEN, GIRD THYSELVES FOR A VOYAGE INTO THE FANTASTIC. A SCHOLAR OF A THOUSAND KNOWINGS COMES TO OUR PROVINCIAL TOWN AND BRINGS TALES HERETOFORE KNOWN ONLY TO THE SPIRITS OF OUR ANCESTORS. HE KNOWS WHY THE ISLAND CITY SANK INTO THE OCEAN. HE KNOWS WHERE FROM COMES THE CHARIOT. HE HAS CONFERRED WITH THE PROPHETS AND UNDONE THE MYSTERY OF THE SUN AND THE STARS AND THE SEASONS. OUR INDULGENT MASTER WILL ENHANCE, ELUCIDATE, EDUCATE FOR FREE, THIS EVENING..."
H. sat a short distance away and watched those who came within earshot of the barker. A few particularly wealthy-looking men stopped and heard the barker out, even asking him a few questions. He watched them confer with their retinues before heading off. He was pleased.

Here's an important post and not just a u-tub link

H. of Halicarnassus: Inspired by Some Things That Might Have Happened, Maybe - Episode 2

In which H cometh to the Highe Streete - The Peoples in their Many - Accounting of the Journey of H. - The Mysterie of Pigrites - Congress with a Breadmonger - Successful transaction - The Poore and Betrodden - H. to marryeth a Fine Woman of Virtuous Charackter

2. Freshly bathed and glistening with olive oil, H. stepped out onto the market-street of Asur. Pigrites, letting down the door-flap through which his master had stepped, followed close behind. They beheld a river of humanity surging along the market-course, lapping up the goods along her banks, carrying them away to destinations unknown. This brook babbled unintelligibly, at least to H.'s ear; a thousand sounds issued from a thousand exotic tongues, and their congress made them all the more incomprehensible. He watched as representatives from dozens of nations passed by: Phoenicians, Thracians, Bithynians, Assyrians, Egyptians, Lydians, Medians - these among many he could not yet name. Each, he knew, carried a story with him, a fragment of his nation's history, wrapped up in shawl or robe or chiton or vest.
He breathed in the dry summer air and stretched out his arms, as if to take in the entire scene before him.
"Tell me about this place, Pigrites. I was occupied with my writing in the carriage, so much so I hardly noticed when we arrived at the inn. I couldn't even tell you how we got here, or from where we came!"
Pigrites sighed.
"Sir hired a carriage from Ephesus with his considerable inheritance. We followed the course of the south-flowing stream Erydna, a branch of the Maeander. Having travelled for thirty-five parasangs, we arrived in Asur, which lies near the terminus of the Erydna. It is not a large place, but the market here is, as you can see, quite popular. It's one of the few places at which one can stock one's provisions before making the southern overland journey into Pisidia, and so plays host to merchants from all over. It started as a Doric colony, but the population is mostly Carian now. Though under the broader administration of the satrap of Caria, the tyrant Hadocles is still in charge of local affairs here."
H. let his arms fall to his side. He spoke without turning his head.
"How do you know so much, boy?"
Pigrites thrust out his chin.
"My people are taught to pay the utmost mind to everything that falls under our gaze."
"Your people?"
"Yes."
H. turned around and gestured in annoyance.
"No, who are your people? You look Italic to me."
Pigrites grinned.
"Tyrrhenians sell their slaves far and wide."
Unwilling to pursue the matter further with his reluctant slave, H. turned his attention back to the market. He was hungry, and the breakfast of cold lamb brains offered by the innkeeper had turned his stomach. Wading into the crowd, H. eventually managed to fight his way to the stall of a fruit vendor.
The vendor, who had been with cupped hands crying out in Persian what H. could only assume were the types of goods he was selling and their prices, turned his attention to H. as he approached. The vendor addressed H. in broken Greek.
"Ah, you a Greek, yeah, yeah, I speaken it good. Okay, Greek, you liken dates. I know this. You liken olive oil. I know this. You liken the barley-grind and raisins. Yeah." He removed a cloth which had been covering a wicket basket. "'Beholden, Achilles!' like says your Homer." H. peered into the basket. Inside were round flatbreads, brushed with olive oil and studded with dried grapes and dates. They smelled wonderful.
"How much?" asked H.
"For you is special price. I taken one-sixth obol, and you getten one delicious khurpatzum."
Pigrites suddenly came up from behind and began shouting at the vendor.
"Outrageous!" he said in Greek, before switching to Persian, in which he accused the merchant of a wide array of crimes and religious offenses. The merchant raised his hands and began screaming back at Pigrites. Back and forth the accusations flew, until the vendor at last put his palms up, facing H., and said, in Greek:
"Okay, your friend is good guy. One-sixteenth obol, special price only today."
H. looked at Pigrites, who nodded. He pulled a coin from his pouch and handed it to the vendor, and he in turn reached into his basket and gave him a khurpatzum.
"Light of Ahura Mazda be with you, friend Greek."
H. sat beside the vendor's stall on the steps of a covered portico, glad to be out of the harsh sun. Pigrites stood beside him and pushed away or kicked any beggar who got too close. The streets were full of these bent, almost-naked, sometimes limbless men and women, and while at first their wretched condition stirred H. to pity, their unbearable smell quickly drove away any charitable thoughts forming in his breast.
He ate quickly, eager to get on with the day's work. He had, on the advice of a certain merchant in Ephesus, planned to meet with the tyrant in Asur in order to get funds for his trip, but that design had produced no fruit. He was planning to travel to Egypt overland and to write down the history of all the peoples encountered, no small endeavour, and his inheritance, though ample, was nowhere near large enough to sustain him and what he hoped would be his considerable entourage; he needed a patron. If the tyrant wasn't going to help him, then he would need a Persian noble or a rich merchant.
As if monitoring his thoughts, Pigrites broke in.
"Perhaps sir should marry a daughter of the nobility."
H. was stunned.
"How did you know what I was thinking?"
Pigrites looked off into the distance.
"I have no idea what sir is thinking. My thoughts are simply on the attractiveness of Persian ladies. Their long dark hair, their lush lips. Why, if I were free, that's what I would do."
H. took another bite of flatbread and munched pensively.

Sad Romance Fills Diaries: The Misspent Youth of K. Thor Jensen

Founder of the once-popular Portal of Evil site, Kristopher Thor Jensen also maintained an online diary, into which he poured his woes and miseries, thereby making a stew best described as bittersweet. One can't help but be moved by his tales of bungled romance and teenage anxiety, can't help but notice that his acute self-awareness and self-obsession conceal a real talent for putting the right words in the right places. So read the tale of Jenny, and sup at the table of self-imposed sadness.

If one could die of stupidity, I'd have croaked a thousand times. Thankfully, moronism is not fatal, and I've lived to tell about my mishaps. This is one of the worst.As I graduated high school, I had managed to alienate most of my friends. I borrowed $250 from Malia to pay library fines, and then couldn't pay her back, so felt very guilty about hanging out with her; Nate and Ethan, my former bandmates, had recoiled in terror from the sadly non-punk direction my lifestyle was going; and most of my other pals weren't really all that close anyways. I had started to be friends with people I'd never really hung out with before, but not that often. I was planning to move out ofmy mother's house and start a new life.

And then Jenny called.

She was one of the most depressing people I'd ever known; exuding a complete disaffected entropy, she slept through her life like I slept through my Physics class. And she called me and asked me to go to a memorial for the 51st anniversary of the Hiroshima bombing. The perfect goth date.

We met by the shores of Greenlake, floating paper lanterns with Japanese writing painted on the sides; tiny points of light floated off into the distance. I wore a tweed coat and felt uncomfortable. She asked if she could hug me, and I assented. I become very uncomfortable when I was touched, in those days. A finger on the arm would send me into a flinching paroxysm. It was pretty sad and contributed greatly to no dates for me.

This still happens.

She hugged me and I twitched away inside my tweed coat. It was pretty sad. We went and waited for her mother to come and pick her up, and I walked to the bus stop and home, quiet and seething in the cool summer evening. I went over to her house. We made out in the basement with her parents upstairs. A dog was locked in a room off of hers, scratching and yelping. I had never kissed anyone before and it was a fairly inauspicious way to begin a fairly inauspicious career. My timidity irked her; it was here that I first concieved a usage for the word "inept." I would use it constantly for the next two weeks.

I was throwing a going-away party for Nate at my mother's house while she was out of town on a business trip. I cooked jambalaya. Jenny helped; she was there to give Nate his shirt, and had to leave at seven, when the party started. Seven came and went, and nobody showed. I lost it, freaked, started calling people's homes, panicky at every continually-ringing phone, unanswered. Jenny stood, watched. I finally reached Ethan, at home."Nate told everybody not to come..." and I threw the phone across the room, against the wall, shattering the plastic case, bending the antenna, and ending the conversation before Ethan's "...until ten."

I had sadly miscalculated twice. Once by not knowing when to begin; and once for stopping too early. I broke down and cried, hunching down against the wall. I left with Jenny. We spent the night in Paul Edlefsen's bed, her breath against my neck. Everything I had was ruined. I stayed awake all night, breathing in sync with her, barely holding on. I moved out, into my attic room, rigged up a sad little new life for myself, a life which Jenny was now a part of. Long, weird, tearful conversations over the phone, pissing off my new roommates. It was a mess, and I didn't know how much messier it would get.

When a girl says "I don't want to hurt you," it's going to happen. Don't get all macho and bravadoesque. You will get hurt. I did not know that.

We had our first date. I took her to a gallery opening of "outsider art" We rode the ferry to Bremerton and back, hypnotized by black water. It was all very nice and I took her up to the third floor and we had very bad sex.

Ineptitude.

Things got bad. She brought Max over and made out with him on my bed. She called me up, late at night, and asked, if she didn't get to stay with this one guy tonight, could she stay with me? I loaned her my house key. She dropped it through my mail slot at 3AM. When I opened the door, she was out of sight. I didn't wait up.

H. of Halicarnassus: Inspired by Some Things That Might Have Happened, Maybe - Episode 1

In which we meeteth H. and his Manslave - this being PIGRITES - Rude Awakening in Asur - The Haire and the Filth - Origine of the Manslave - Moors and their Paprika spice - Retiring to the Bath

BOOK ONE

1. H. awoke with a foul taste in his mouth. His head throbbed, his muscles felt useless. He opened his eyes, then shut them quickly again, dazzled by the dust-speckled light. It was already mid-market time, and the sounds of a Carian bazaar drifted through the high, narrow windows of his rustic accommodation: voices crying out for buyers and sellers, the bleating of sheep, the grunts of pack-oxen, the shuffle of sandals in the dust, the clink of half-obols and quarter-minas in the brass scales. He rolled over, into a pile of his own vomit, and lay still for a moment.
"Pigrites," he said, his voice phlegmy and hoarse.
Pigrites padded into the room delicately, carrying a large clay pitcher.
"You're awake."
H. hacked and spat on the hard-packed dirt floor.
"Pigrites," he said again, more firmly this time.
Pigrites bowed deeply, hands steepled.
"Yes, your grace," he intoned solemnly.
"That's better. I didn't pay fifty darics for insolence of this sort." He slowly sat up, cradling his head in his hands. "Or was it a hundred?"
"As I recall," said Pigrites, as he filled the washbasin with hot water, "Sir hired me from an Arabian spice merchant in Ephesus at a rate of two obols a day and never bothered to return me." He left and quickly returned with a tray bearing a decanter of wine, one of cool water, and a bronze cup. He poured out an equal measure of water and wine each into the cup and handed it to his master.
H. drank deeply, and began to pick absently at the chunks of vomit in his curly Grecian hair.
"Well, he was supposed to get me an audience with the tyrant here in Asur, but nothing ever came of it. Those damn shifty Arabs. As I see it, you're just a walking debt made good." He tossed aside a particularly large chunk of yesterday's dinner. "Did I ever tell you how Arabians get their paprika?"
"Oh yes, several times on the road from Ephesus, I think. Let's see: young men in Arabia on the cusp of adulthood are given a leather sack and are told they must venture three days into the desert, where they will find the den of a fire-breathing salamander. Such dens are easily found because salamanders sleep right outside their den during the day in order to absorb the sun's rays and thereby stoke the furnaces in their bellies; such creatures being thirty feet long and bright red, their den is hard to miss. By courage or cunning the youth makes his way past the sleeping giant and into his den, where he must negotiate treacherous stone paths laid over rivers of liquid flame. In the bowels of the den our young man, stout of heart as he is, finds endless caverns filled with fine red powder; this, we are told, is what remains of salamanders of ages past, whose bodies are slowly cremated by the intense heat. No doubt by then soaked in his own sweat, the plucky Arab gathers as much of this as possible into his sack and makes a hasty retreat, lest he raise the ire of the elder salamanders, who keep watch over their ancestral burial grounds. And that's why one can hire ten Egyptian mercenaries for a month with a single choenix of paprika."
H. nodded approvingly.
"That's not bad, but you forgot one thing: they have to scoop the powder with a little golden shovel, or else it loses all its flavour."
"Of course. How foolish of me to forget." Pigrites at last saw and smelled his master's unpresentable state. "Let's draw sir a bath."

Studies in Pity: Assorted Erotica

Sometimes we find ourselves staring at the wall. Usually we're simply in a daze and not thinking about very much at all; the day, packed full of adventure and mischief as it is, has exhausted us, and we require an object whose contemplation will not add to our fatigue. The wall, in its blank earnestness, seems perfect for the task.
On some days, however, some cruel and lonely days, the wall begins to seem more substantial than ourselves. It seems to have more achievements to its credit, more friends, a more robust constitution, and certainly a better sex life. Some of these walls, you realize, have borne witness to the rising of more than three generations of man. They count you among the least of those upon whom their gaze has fallen. Their whiteness and austerity seem no longer neutral, but condemnatory: "You too, creature of flesh and blood, shall pass." Then you realize the wall has three allies, each of whom appears to be conspiring against you in a different way; in their totality, they imprison you. One threatens to collapse, the other to let in the poisonous curry fumes from next door, the last to steal the moisture from your body. Whispers crowd out sane thoughts. You question next the loyalties of the door: "It's not reliable. It's always changing sides. One day open, on the next, closed. This will not do." Even your bookcases, erstwhile comrades, seem no longer trustworthy. Escape is no longer possible. "Fire," you think. The All-Consumer. It is your only recourse...

There's a deep and profound madness there, one which is assuaged by finding men more pitiable than oneself. Some men need not look very far to find people of that sort: they merely stroll down the hall of their well-appointed office to find someone of lower rank than themselves. This done, they enter the office of their subordinate, whip out their dick, place it on the desk of their astonished colleague, and say "What do you think of that?" Then they tuck their manhood away and saunter off, having gathered energy sufficient for at least a weak. Subordinates must simply put up with this behaviour, though at least they have the opportunity to sexually harass their own subordinates, too, and they theirs, in a long-chain of humiliation and enervation.

But not all of us work in offices or have subordinates. We must engage in a virtual dick-waving, must find ourselves a virtual subordinate to humiliate... uh, virtually. For that purpose I nominate David Gonterman, a man in his late thirties who draws cartoons for an audience of exactly nobody, and poorly. If ever you feel the walls closing in, simply swing on over to The Gonterman Shrine and instantly feel better about yourself. JSP, the curator of all things strange, has seen fit to assemble a number of Gonterman Original Works in one place, and has put his acid wit to work in providing running commentary for Daveykins' comics. Though it's gone without an update since 2001, the Shrine remains amusing nonetheless.

Up next: a short story involving Herodotus and his first love, as it might be told by Herodotus himself. Will his eromenos be a girl? A boy? A god in the form of an animal? An animal in the form of a god? A hermaphroditic Ethiopian, aged one-hundred twenty? Who knows?!?

Editorial: Tugging the Heart & Fogging the Mind

CARTER CITY FREE PRESS
HAROLD DEVONSHIRE JR. III - Columnist
May 15, 2009

Ironic.

That's the word that comes to mind when a police sergeant gets their feet cut off by an errant lawnmower.

I looked it up.

Webster's dictionary.

Oh yes.

Irony is the contrast between what actually happens and what we expect to happen.

Nobody would expect a man who spent most of career stepping on others with his Nazi-issued jackboots to lose the very feet which made the wearing of those instruments of oppression possible.

But he did, and in bloody fashion too.

And that's ironic.

All the more so because that lawnmower was being operated at the time by perennial police harassment target Igor Kaminov, that Azerbaijan-born documentary-maker and crusader for human rights, who has made Carter City his home now for some twenty years.

I spoke with Mr. Kaminov at his Plessis St. address.

He lives in a house made from old mattresses.

The mattresses smell like stale urine.

That, he says, reminds him of the kind of urine-soaked justice he received back in the old country.

Kaminov emigrated from his homeland because he was tired of his films being confiscated by the police.

"Every time I tried to make film a couple making love through the windows of their home, you know, the police would like come and, ah, just beat me up and taking my f***ing video away. I wanted to explore the animal kingdom, the passionate sexy animal kingdom, because man is just an animal. I have the teeth marks to prove it."

He shows me where the police bit him, next to the heroin needle tracks on his inner arm.

Taking a massive hit from the crack pipe Kaminov offers me, I find myself sympathizing with him.

Who hasn't been bitten by the police?

Figuratively bitten.

That's some imagery to think about.

I ask him about his life in Carter City.

"At first it was f***ing awesome, man. I could make all the movies I wanted. I got this telephoto lens that lets me watch people f***king from two miles away. I think I've even got a tape of you and your intern here."

He begins rummaging through his bindle-sack.

I tell him there's no need for me to watch myself disappointing yet another woman.

I can see that any time I want.

Just ask my wife.

That whore.

I guide him back to his current predicament, plucking the necessary words from out of the fog of crack smoke through which my mind is wandering.

He points to one of his mattresses, which is flying flat on the ground, and which has a tarp covering most of it.

He lifts the tarp and shows me the huge crop of hallucinogenic mushrooms growing underneath.

"Right, well, there I was mowing my lawn when this f***ing cop comes up and says 'There've been some complaints about you dealing drugs on this corner.' And I'm like, well f*** you man, I won this corner in the '83 Carter City Auction, and I'm not about to give it up. And this guy is always harassing me, telling me I can't s*** where I please and how I can't shoot up in the schoolyard during recess. It's bulls***. Anyway, I start chasing him with my lawnmower, and then he falls down and I f***ing cut his feet off. They didn't come round this way no more after that."

He explained that the man's feet "literally exploded in a shower of blood."

Seems more like a shower of justice to me.

I can still see the stain of justice on the grass where the would-be tyrant fell.

I was going to interview the police sergeant in question, but I felt like I had gotten the full story from this noble crack-smoking Azerbaijani pornographer.

I think the Mayor owes Mr. Kaminov an apology.

I think "my bad" would be a good start.

Isn't that ironic?

Yes it is.

Are rhetorical questions a great stylistic device?

They are indeed.

Story: Erotic Fantasy

Eric the Trollslayer was at wits' end. Sweaty, terrified, and exhausted, he was utterly lost, utterly without a clue as to what he should do. His purpose in life was, and always would be, the defeat and killing of trolls, but perhaps he had bitten off more troll than he could chew. But wait a minute. Defeat and killing, you say? Redundant? By no means! The troll, you see, was a fearsome creature: as tall as two stout men, it tipped the grain scales at two hundred stone and had the muscle to matc. Nigh invincible, one could split their skull open, tear their arms from their sockets (covering oneself in tacky lime-green ichor in the process), run them through a dozen times with one's Valiant Sword of Massive Obliterating Destruction, and within a minute the creature would revive itself. As if by magic (and it probably was magic, Eric suddenly realized) flesh would thread itself back onto bone from an invisible distaff, while those same bones would knit themselves back together, guided by unseen needles. Leaching material from the earth itself, failed organs would reconstitute themselves as quickly as an Abyssal fiend takes to unguarded cattle (Eric, never having seen an abyssal fiend, was unsure how quick such a creature was to engage in this sort of thing, but he was willing to trust to the truth of proverbs). Apparently lacking any recognition that just moments earlier it had been an emerald splotch on the road to Waterdeep, the troll would right itself and begin the process of menacing innocents all over again. The troll could be defeated, but it could not be killed.

That, of course, was where Eric the Trollslayer would come in. No mere dabbler in swords and armour he, this Trollslayer had been trained in the ancient art of Trollslaying. Apprenticed to a blind and wizened old man (who was only about thirty-five, retiring age for the understandably short-lived practitioners of this discipline), he had spent years studying the creatures: their likes, dislikes, strengths, weakness, their haunts, their origins. He learned to fight them, to block their claws with a dinner plate fastened to his left arm, to kick them in the genitals when they were over-committed. Every night he would listen to tales of epic battles fought, would cheer at the victories, would raise his tankard and drink his virgin margarita in silence at the losses.
When he came of age, he was sent on his Examination. The task: kill a troll and return with its head. The old man led him to a nearby troll nest (actually more of a ranch, he later learned, specifically designed to test potential inductees; he had failed to notice the fences and feeding troughs at the time). There, standing before the mouth of a low-ceilinged cave (despite their height, trolls stooped to walk around; they liked to look for money and collectible cards on the ground), his master wordlessly handed unto him the product of his experience: the Trollslayer Weapon. Its name, though uncreative, was accurate. This weapon, like all those of its kind, had been enchanted by a grumpy old wizard they kept locked in the basement of the Trollslayer Brotherhood Lodge. A stubby-looking club that hung at one's side from a leather cord, to the uninformed it looked laughably weak. But when brought near a troll its powers came to life. First, the club would begin to glow a dull red. Then, it would cry like a baby; indeed, gurgles, hiccoughs, and slurping could be heard for a mile around, and little drips of baby snot would gather at the club's tip. This noise would engage the attention of nearby trolls, who ever-hungered for tender baby flesh. Closer and closer they would come, seeking the source of the cries, until they beheld a mere manling, hardly worth the effort of peeling the tough manflesh from thick manbones, which themselves contained fruity manmarrow. But press forward they would, all red eyes, long limbs and pumped pectoral muscles, their claws extended, a cloud of dust rising up behind their loping footfalls. Just as they attempted to strike: wham! The club-baby would screech horribly and the trolls would recoil. Flames would begin to spout from the weapon, the heat prompting the user to surge forward and begin his murderous work. Only fire could prevent the regeneration of trolls, and the Trollslayer Weapon contained an inexhaustible fountain of liquid flame. Green flesh would blacken and curl from several feet away; ichor would steam and hiss and boil away at a glancing blow; troll eyeballs would plump and burst from merest glance at the righteous fire. Yet, as though by magic (and, once more, it probably was, Eric mused) the wielder would remain completely unharmed. In fact, no matter the environment, the club would, when its powers were activated, become totally weightless and release a fine perfumed mist, to cover over the stench of burning troll meat.

On that day Eric had had but one troll to kill, and it had been a delightful experience. Proudly had he returned with his troll head, which, like all others brought back to the Lodge, was set above the mantle of their giant stone fireplace. Of course, having once belonged to a troll, the head still maintained a semblance of life: it would take wheezing breaths, searching for its lungs; blood would congeal and uncongeal as it attempted to find a heart to pump it; eyes would loll uselessly, searching for the body that had once carried them to new and exciting places. Members of the lodge would make conversation with the heads, and some of the trolls became quite popular, with one even being elected Lodge Treasurer.

But that was then. Within a year, Eric had slain fifty trolls, but he had become hungry for more. He wanted to take down the most famous troll of all, Push'Pu. Push'Pu was a the product of a union between a dragon-witch and a gay troll and he had in addition to his already fearsome regenerative powers several magical abilites at his command. He had little embroidered wings with which he could fly around. He could turn people to stone by making unkind remarks about their appearance. He could shoot a little beam of damaging light out of his finger just by saying "zzzzzap" with a lisp. Eric knew he would need an extraordinary weapon to defeat this extraordinary troll. He visited the basement wizard and demanded he improve his weapon. "No," said the wizard. "I only make one every week, and no more. Unless," he said, his voice lowering to conspiratorial whisper, "you wanted to release me from these chains." "Of course, noble wizard!" said Eric. The wizard took the weapon and told him to return in three days. Three days hence, Eric returned to claim his weapon. The basement wizard smiled as he presented the new and improved Trollslayer DeLux, a wicked-looking sword. "How is it different?" asked Eric. "Simply tell it do so and it will leap from your hands and hack the head off of any troll, pouring fire down their throat as it does so. Then it will fly into their hoard and bring you a lot of treasure." "Excellent," said Eric, and he turned to leave. "Wait!" cried the wizard. "What about our deal?"
"I've decided not to uphold my end of the bargain. I am treacherous and vainglorious." "Curses!" said the wizard.

Eric set off for Push'Pu's lair. It was deep in the Chartreuse Curtain Mountains, and the path was guarded by many a troll. But, just as the wizard had said, so the sword worked. Every time he spied a troll from afar, Eric would command the sword to attack and, like a magically-powered regular timekeeping device, the sword would fly from his hands and cut his foe to ashen ribbons. And just as regularly, it would seek out the home of the newly-slain troll and return with whatever gold coins and jewelry and magical trinkets the troll had accumulated over the years. Soon he had so much treasure he could hardly carry it. As he scaled the day-glo heights of Chartreuse Curtain Mountain he became very tired and realized he would not be able to carry his loot any further. Using the sword, he dug a hole in the ground and put all his treasure in there, marking the spot with a pile of stones. He would have to remember to pick it up as he left.

Now it was on to Push'Pu. He approached the forbidding cavern and hunched down to enter. As he made his way deeper into the gloomy lair, the sword, unexpectedly, grew heavier and heavier. The effort of crouching and dragging the increasingly weighty sword caused him to begin to perspire. Sweat, of course, was the bane of the Trollslayer, for it caused trolls to enter a maddened frenzy, in which they became extremely difficult to kill. Trollslayers were taught to master the temperature control of their body and instead regulated themselves by urinating frequently - hence their fondness for tunics, in favour of pantaloons. But the concentration demanded by the sword made Eric forget his training, and he forgot to urinate; thus did his brow moisten. Snuffling could be heard in the distance. A grumbling, lisping troll voice echoed in a distant cavern "What iiiiiiis that DEE-lish-US smell? Daddy thinks somone's come to PA-LAY!" Fear struck Eric for the first time, and this caused him to sweat yet more profusely. The delicate padding of what was surely Push'Pu became more distinct; the monster approached. Eric decided to abandon the sword and make a break for the exit. As he turned to scamper away, his arm was jerked back. The sword would not leave his grip. Panicked, he strained and tugged and yanked at his arm, all to no avail: his hand had been magically bound to the hilt of the sword. "Where ARE youuuuuuu?!" In the dim light of the cave Eric saw the shadow of the fell beast round the corner, and soon enough he was face-to-knee with the stooping, florid majesty of the effeminate master troll. "Why you look good enough to EAT!" And then he did. In one gulp down went erstwhile hero and sword, into the distended but well-exfoliated belly of his one-time nemesis. But before he could sit and luxuriate, Push'Pu's belly split open and disgorged a partially-digested Eric and his very disobedient but angry sword. Push'Pu fell backward as the sword's flames ran up and down his exquisite skin, and Eric's corpse thudded to the ground, the sword landing beside with a clatter. For a moment, all was silent.

Then the sword disappeared in a puff of smoke. When the air cleared, behold, our basement wizard. "Asshole," said the basement wizard, as he reached down to pull a cigarette from Eric's mostly-intact leather jerkin. He lit it with a magical flame that sprouted from the tip of his finger. "That's better," he said to no one in particular, taking a long drag. "Haven't had one of these in two hundred years. Oh yeah," he said nonchalantly, looking at Eric, "thanks for paying into my retirement fund." The wizard departed from the cave, collected the loot his sword had gathered, and lived for another forty years in a magic flying yacht in the invisible city of Kua-Lu.

TH'ENDE

Blogging: Fatgoons, Another Blog (tag: blog blogs, blogging, bLoG, BLOG)

Fat Goons Blog

What is this, you might ask? A link for my browser? Not on my Internet, good sir, you say. Or, if you were a goon, you might say "goon sire." But if you were a goon you would understand the purpose of the above-posted link implicitly. Confused?

Once upon a time there was a little angry man who worked in the video game journalism industry, a position somewhere between fluffer and Governor of Illinois on the great continuum of respectability. This little angry man thought that he was too good for VoodooExtreme.com, the site at which he worked (and which is currently owned by IGN, along with half of the rest of the internet), and he sought to branch out. Often, while immersed in the excitement of copyediting the reviews of video games made by the big-shot video game journalists at the site, this little angry man would consider the game in question and remark "this sure is something awful!" to no one in particular, for the little man had alienated the staff at VoodooExtreme.com with his less-than-pleasant demeanor. When he wasn't busy failing college classes or contemplating the uselessness of his existence, this angry man dreamed of opening his own website, where he could catalogue all kinds of very awful video games. From his wildest flight of fancy he returned with a name: SomethingAwful.com.

The little angry man? Richard "Lowtax" Kyanka. And he succeeded, beyond his most egregious hopes.

Indeed, what began as a website for the express purpose of mocking dreary video games soon blossomed into a hub of internet comedy. You see, the site also hosted a general-purpose webforum, and in a lot of respects this became more popular than the main site, to such an extent that for a time the catchphrase "there's a front page?!" had considerable currency among veteran posters. While the majority of the humour at Something Awful found its origin in video games, inevitably all kinds of discussions were undertaken on the boards: politics, automobiles, sex, life, money, business, etc. It's important to note that a very specific kind of person is going to be drawn to a site that concerns itself mainly with comedy derived from computer games. By and large, this sort of person is fat, bearded, lonely, socially awkward, and possibly smelly, and the members of the Something Awful forums are no exception to this stereotype. Indeed, their penchant for anti-social behaviour both on and off-line in time earned the posters of this forum the nickname goon (see Fig. 1). There is some history to this.

Figure 1: Typical Goons

One of the features of the main site was Mr. Kyanka's "Awful Link of the Day." Every day, without fail, Richard or one of the posters on the forum would dredge up an example of a terrible website, and would post it on Something Awful with a small capsule review, encouraging the world to visit the site to let its owner know just how terrible it was. The site might be poorly coded, or full of animated kittens and jangling background MIDIs, or even dedicated to the lurid business of pedophilia; whatever the case, as long as it offended the sensibilities of a certain little angry webmaster, it was fair game. People who were linked on Something Awful often found their servers overrun by a new flood of external traffic, mostly in the form of either fans of Something Awful or posters on its forums. These folk were liable to make something of a mess when visiting an Awful Link: they would ravage the website's guestbook, make obscene comments on its forums, harass the webmaster with offensive e-mails, and so forth. Those linked were rarely pleased with their misfortune, and often let Mr. Kyanka know by e-mail about their displeasure. Mr. Kyanka, in turn, would post their e-mails on the forums and make sarcastic comments for the amusement of his followers. One day, a particularly simple-minded webmaster, rather irate on account of the desecration at the hands of Something Awful fans of a website which served as a memorial for dozens of her departed cats, and well-versed in empty American radio talk-show rhetoric, accused Mr. Kyanka of having sent his "goons" after her. The term was adopted by the hateful and maladjusted members of this forum as a badge of pride: from then on, they were goons. Goons had secret code phrases so they could identify each other in real life. Goons expressed remorse for the misfortunes of fellow goons by uttering a solemn phrase: "goondolences." Goons also believed in the existence of a sworn Goon Brotherhood, which reflected their ideals and provided a centre for their way of life. Hence "goon sire" above: believing themselves to be lumpen kings among men, goons felt it necessary to create a new vocabulary suited to their elevated status. Their incestuous brand of pidgin-English only reinforced the native arrogance of the goons, since potential challengers, in the form of non-goons, could rarely make themselves understood.

As has already been mentioned, it's pretty clear what sort of person would put stock in this kind of thing: loners, fatties, autistics, or some combination thereof. To the rest of the internet, and indeed to the more discerning members of the forums themselves, "goon" became a term of derision. Extreme social awkwardness was termed "goony," as was an unhealthy obsession with artery-hardening food (and an utter inability to live like a civilized human being: see Fig. 2).

Figure 2: Typical Goon Habitation (aka "Gooncave")

Indeed, goons became infamous for their disturbing feats of gluttony, which they celebrated on the website with long writeups and with high-quality digital photography. Such feats include the construction entirely from meat of a five-pound model British galleon, the consuming in one go of a gallon of milk, the invention of the "hot-dog rollup," a baked half-pound German sausage covered in two pounds of regular ground beef and 10 oz of American cheddar, and so on.

Thus the fatgoon blog: created as a tribute to the acts of excess on the part of the members of Something Awful forums, it serves as a reminder to all of us how far it is possible to fall in life. When you and your four-hundred pound bulk are reclining in a fetid trailer in West Virgina consuming five pound tubs of Mike and Ikes while watching anime, you know it's time for a lifestyle change. But goons will be goons.

Good night, goon sire.

"Eat your heart out, Rodin."

Theft: Someone Else's Much Better Work

Laugh. Live. Love. No time for a "real" blog post; instead laugh (perhaps for the first time while visiting this site!) at something a much better classicist wrote. I've been driven mad by Aeschylus, so it's good to know I'm not the only one.

Fragment of a Greek Tragedy
by A.E. Housman

CHORUS: O suitably-attired-in-leather-boots
Head of a traveller, wherefore seeking whom
Whence by what way how purposed art thou come
To this well-nightingaled vicinity?
My object in inquiring is to know.
But if you happen to be deaf and dumb
And do not understand a word I say,
Then wave your hand, to signify as much.

ALCMAEON: I journeyed hither a Boetian road.
CHORUS: Sailing on horseback, or with feet for oars?
ALCMAEON: Plying with speed my partnership of legs.
CHORUS: Beneath a shining or a rainy Zeus?
ALCMAEON: Mud's sister, not himself, adorns my shoes.
CHORUS: To learn your name would not displease me much.
ALCMAEON: Not all that men desire do they obtain.
CHORUS: Might I then hear at what thy presence shoots.
ALCMAEON: A shepherd's questioned mouth informed me that--
CHORUS: What? for I know not yet what you will say.
ALCMAEON: Nor will you ever, if you interrupt.
CHORUS: Proceed, and I will hold my speechless tongue.
ALCMAEON: This house was Eriphyle's, no one else's.
CHORUS: Nor did he shame his throat with shameful lies.
ALCMAEON: May I then enter, passing through the door?
CHORUS: Go chase into the house a lucky foot.
And, O my son, be, on the one hand, good,
And do not, on the other hand, be bad;
For that is much the safest plan.
ALCMAEON: I go into the house with heels and speed.

CHORUS

Strophe

In speculation
I would not willingly acquire a name
For ill-digested thought;
But after pondering much
To this conclusion I at last have come:
LIFE IS UNCERTAIN.
This truth I have written deep
In my reflective midriff
On tablets not of wax,
Nor with a pen did I inscribe it there,
For many reasons: LIFE, I say, IS NOT
A STRANGER TO UNCERTAINTY.
Not from the flight of omen-yelling fowls
This fact did I discover,
Nor did the Delphine tripod bark it out,
Nor yet Dodona.
Its native ingunuity sufficed
My self-taught diaphragm.

Antistrophe

Why should I mention
The Inachean daughter, loved of Zeus?
Her whom of old the gods,
More provident than kind,
Provided with four hoofs, two horns, one tail,
A gift not asked for,
And sent her forth to learn
The unfamiliar science
Of how to chew the cud.
She therefore, all about the Argive fields,
Went cropping pale green grass and nettle-tops,
Nor did they disagree with her.
But yet, howe'er nutritious, such repasts
I do not hanker after:
Never may Cypris for her seat select
My dappled liver!
Why should I mention Io? Why indeed?
I have no notion why.

Epode

But now does my boding heart,
Unhired, unaccompanied, sing
A strain not meet for the dance.
Yes even the palace appears
To my yoke of circular eyes
(The right, nor omit I the left)
Like a slaughterhouse, so to speak,
Garnished with woolly deaths
And many sphipwrecks of cows.
I therefore in a Cissian strain lament:
And to the rapid
Loud, linen-tattering thumps upon my chest
Resounds in concert
The battering of my unlucky head.

ERIPHYLE (within): O, I am smitten with a hatchet's jaw;
And that in deed and not in word alone.
CHORUS: I thought I heard a sound within the house
Unlike the voice of one that jumps for joy.
ERIPHYLE: He splits my skull, not in a friendly way,
Once more: he purposes to kill me dead.
CHORUS: I would not be reputed rash, but yet
I doubt if all be gay within the house.
ERIPHYLE: O! O! another stroke! that makes the third.
He stabs me to the heart against my wish.
CHORUS: If that be so, thy state of health is poor;
But thine arithmetic is quite correct.