Peach-meat and bumble-butt walked into a party. Peach-meat whispered soft and low in bumble-butt’s ear, “It smells like pussy in here.” Bumble-butt nodded gravely… “Not our scene”.
Walking out into the cool-night air, the two inhaled deep, and from the depths of the stinkpot sewers a smell of posies wafted into their nostrils.
“Everything’s okay here,” whispered Bumble-butt.
The two held hands, walking in perfect syncopation, and never a bit out of time.
“Oh glorious glorious glorious, Ben,” Bumble-butt sang. “When will you find my arms again. When will you wake, when will you sleep? When will I be yours to hold and to keep?”
They walked on in silence for a while.
An ape flew over the moon. Peach-meat raped it with his eye. Bumble-butt was startled.
Everything got quiet.
Their pace slowed…
They watched their feet intently. Surely an answer lay hidden in a toenail.
Bumble-butt spoke first. “I’m not happy.”
“I know,” Peach meat admitted. “It pours off of you like milk.”
“I’ve got to walk away.”
Peach-meat thought of pig’s feet.
They’d had good times.
He blew his nose on the side-walk.
The sidewalk sizzled.
He put some gum in his mouth. He waited for the sun to go down. He ate supper, and had tea.
Bumble-butt didn’t blink.
“Define this moment with a decision,” Peach-meat finally said.
“I already have, my sugar-tit-blue. I already have.”
Bumble-butt took one step. Then another. Then another. Each step cracked like a hammer on ice.
Peach-meat began to tremble. Bumble-butt thudded onward.
Peach-meat fell. He hit the ground hard, nearly shattering his glass jar. Sick rose in his throat. He expelled it. His stomach turned with the violence of a whaler’s gun, and he wept like a dead chimney-man’s wife.
No display would turn Bumble-butt around. With fishy eyes, he tried to keep his shoulders from shaking, and just kept walking away.