Botchi

Legs now more enamoured of the cold following the deliciously tasteless saltwater solution that he had just swallowed to the last, Kluzens embarked on a fresh endeavour, attempting to reason the situation he had discovered, no, uncovered. The letter had jogged certain memories of yore: splitting beatings administered daily, the purposefully public humiliation of his limp attempts at petanque, the churlish manner in which his contemporaries communicated with him. All except Botchi. Botchi. The only friend that he had to betray, and betray him he had. The ultimate act of betrayal returned, Kluzens could only abet fond memories by looking deeper into the murky past. This happy journey down recollection close could also present the missing pieces of the puzzle. But wait…across the crowded square, Kluzens centred his eyesight on two mysterious figures that appeared in a mirror situated in the window of Archer’s the Locksmith, giving an image that showed them sitting in Foe’s, not three tables from where he had embarked on his brine marathon that very morning.

As the figures interacted, one weeping uncontrollably, one gesticulating towards the complex Meccano model of a womb that had been assembled on the table, Kluzens noticed mannerisms that had not been identified for a number of years. The powerful aura of womanhood that oozed intelligence and a little coyness concurrently was both a wonderful sight to behold and the reenactment of nightmarish past. Kluzens susceptibility of modern woman had been his downfall in the decade of love. His only true amour, Jilly Sanz, being the one that broke his rudimentary heart in two, no three. The discovery of her swollen genitalia was a mystery at first, but the realisation became all too graphic when weeping itches were to manifest themselves throughout his loinal regions not three days later. The flowering of the emerald mushrooms lent themselves to pain, pain that was reflected in his lungs of love. Although basic infection can cease to be over a period of time, the memories of Jilly’s infidelity were reawakened each time the personification of callous woman was presented to Kluzens. Feeling physically sick on a number of levels, he fashioned a theory that it would be wise to covertly investigate this pair closely.

As Kluzens stared at the mysterious twosome he was suddenly smashed by a bolt from the blue, quite literally. Kluzens staggered backwards and tried to control his thoughts. His mind stumbled over the jagged contours of mental debris which was spiralling out of control and seemed to be forming a landscape of schuld within him. Kluzens closed his eyes and stared at the amorphous reality that had crystallized within him like fresh snow dancing through highland copses. Kluzens felt a magnetic charge within his bloated belly, wrenching him to the point of realisation. This was a paradoxical element of chance that was not welcome…as the figures came into full verification he knew it to be true…

This beautiful woman talking to this non-descript gentleman: Kluzens would never be the same again. As the loquacious, feisty minx continued her inexplicable dumb show, encased in a separate milieu of social consciousness behind the window of Foe’s, Kluzens began to understand what had happened. In truth, Kluzens had always been too fascinated by Lego Technic and Rugby League in his youth to discover the intoxicating elixir of Woman – now it had hit him hard, too hard. Jilly Sanz had been a fiction generated by his subconscious to stop Botchi asking impertinent questions – the sexually transmitted disease a desperate addition to give his mythomania a credible veneer. The laddish, slightly sexist tales that he had been famed for in The Bruised Clown back in Ghent seemed more ridiculous than ever. As he bent down to collect the French stick and bruised swedes that he had dropped, he broke out in a gentle sob and rued the demise of his carefree youth, (his halcyon reminiscences grimly misplaced).

Previously his mind had been one – the unified duality: the internal monologue of the I talking to the self (and/or vice versa). Any disagreements had been fairly minor, such as the time he had longed to be brave and join the other boys climbing to the summit of Mungo’s Knoll but had instead been a cowardly, yellow-bellied shit and stopped behind and watched with the girls.

But oh how much more troublesome things were now. Kluzens was no longer a duality, he was now a trinity and the newly discovered domain made all others ancillary to its persistent, insidious demands: that cruel, discriminatory impulse – DESIRE. This vast abstraction had lodged itself in his breast ready to be obtruded onto each and every vessel of goodness that he should clamp eyes on. His desire spanned the four corners of the globe and beyond and dragged his soul behind kicking and screaming. It was like having a new pair of spectacles with which to view the world but the order at Specworld had got jumbled and someone with mild myopia had been given the lenses for someone with optical mumps. He would never be whole again. He was now simultaneously demiurge swordsman and hamster and could only live by the fraudulent maxim that glimpses of wholeness were possible via the fleeting charade of intercourse – the division of the self for the perpetuity of the biological circus. Basically Kluzens wanted to dip his chunky baptist into every warm funbox available.

Kluzens’ desire turned on a sixpence and entered the 11th dimension, thereby mutating into an infinite pot of ginger marmalade, the cosmos swimming inside unable to escape from its cruel viscosity. Pieces of gingery rind became lodged inside a black hole causing the event horizon to diminish and, as a corollary, suck anti-matter sideways into Kluzens’ testes. Small pieces of toast, which had regrettably found their way into the marmalade due to someone’s indiscretionary breakfast antics, collided with stars sending them spinning into trees. A comet disturbed from its cosmic rhythm by the ripe gingeryness of the marmalade became detached from its universal route and landed in Frankfurt destroying all – fortunately no one was at home. Most interestingly quantum effects, stuck in the juicy breakfast condiment, lost their uncertainty making everything certain, (yet more confusing)! However, all agreed that was most pleasant to have ginger marmalade as they’d had that orange stuff for too long: it was time for a change and guava was not a serious alternative.

Kluzens held his arms out to the infinite in a futile gesture of wilful independence. He was no vehicular cog on a treadmill of DNA propagation. He had to assert himself over the arbitrary chaos around him – an act of pure clean irrational will was required. Kluzens clutched one of the swedes he had collected and chanting an ancient mantra under his breath,

“Play me your zither, shoeless Joe
Show us where the ill winds blow
Implement your modem now
Or live in fear of a new cash cow”

he took aim at a passing pallbearer and immediately regretted his actions, though thankfully his aim was traditionally poor, the swede ricocheting off Floyd’s Massage Parlour next door and onto the sidewalk. Memories of his short yet traumatic career as wing defence for Charleroi Reserves in the Belgian Junior Netball League briefly entered Kluzens’ mind, but as they did so he was distracted by the sound of someone calling his name: the accent unmistakably Schleswig-Holstein. Kluzens turned 235 degrees to his left to see a face he recognized but could not place. The man wore a black refuse collector’s woolly hat and an ochre lounge suit. Being a judgemental fool, Kluzens felt this individual spelt trouble. Five dull seconds passed before either man spoke.
“Come you must be famished. Let me purchase womb soup for you from a small out-house on a nearby knoll development I happen to know well, just east of here. You have a look that wears itself uncomfortably, and you seek many answers to the fundamental questions that are posed inwards.”
Kluzens stared at the man, not knowing whether the stranger was a trap set by the spirit of Botchi, old father time perspiring afterthought, or simply a message, an unexpectedly auspicious meeting of two who shared the same raison. He concluded little save it might be wise to follow the man to this development, and shuffled a couple of paces behind.

Next chapter…