--------------------------------------------------------------
Permission granted by author for anyone to distribute this
writing free of charge (including translation into any
language)...under condition that no profit is made therefrom,
and that it remain intact and complete, including title and
credit to the original author.
Ezekiel J. Krahlin
http://surf.to/gaybible
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THE MASK OF HORUS
(a parable for the 21st century)
© 1997 by Ezekiel J. Krahlin
(Jehovah's Queer Witness)
PROLOGUE
my claim to fame is another name
on the lips of many fools.
all the world's a checkerboard game
played by the devil's rules.
is it a sin to intend to win
for the sake of same-sex love?
isn't it sage to turn the page
like the fluttery wing of a dove?
LETTER TO THE GLOBAL LESBIAN/GAY COMMUNITY
Through my tales and illustrations, I rework (as well as
create new) mythologies of the world, on behalf of SameSex
civil rights. My stories and illustrations bear the stamp of
ethnicity, of a culture that stands unique above all other
communities. (It is difficult--perhaps by choice--for
EveryStraightMan to perceive any group as "ethnic," if not
defined by a geographical origin...hence, another bone tossed
to the Dog Of Homophobia.)
I carry the TorchOfLiberation for all SameSex Lovers (and to
breeder converts), eager to ignite the world. "The Mask Of
Horus," my first release, will light the fuse BOOM. It numbers
but one among a growing collection of stories called "Parables
For The 21st Century"...said collection yet part of a MajorWork-
InProgress: "The AbsolutelyFinal Testament," (with a
FlorescentPinkTriangle on the front cover, of course).
Let me make one thing perfectly queer: I AM HERE TO SLAY THE
BEAST, THE PERVERT, THE BEAST OF HOMOPHOBIA. So I say unto you,
Oh-Breeder-Of-Ill-Winds-And-Keeper-Of-All-Cures-Such-As-AIDS-And-
Cancer (locked in secret vaults of the CDC, ACS, AMA, and The
Vatican): "Not 666, but SexSexSex! I stand before the entrance
to your offalish cave. Come out, come out wherever you are, you
TeenyDickOfABreederPsychoticMassMurderer! My Pen-is mightier
than any sword you could ever wield!"
And, if I can be so presumptuous as to speak for the entire
Queer Community at large, I address The World: "Watch out
Immoral-StraightMajority, you ain't seen nothin' yet. Pardon
us, RabbitMeat, but watch our Fairy Dust!"
Just as Jesus broke bread to share among his ardent disciples,
I break bread with you, DearQueer reader, with this
deliciously wicked morsel of a tale.
This TrueFairyTale is dedicated to MyLittleChipmunkRandolph-
LouisTaylor, BraveMarine, BraveActivist (1946-1993). Semper
fidelis.
THE MASK OF HORUS
(a parable for the 21st century)
© 1997 by Ezekiel J. Krahlin
(Jehovah's Queer Witness)
Horus raised his scimitar: it shimmered beneath the
bright, florescent lights as blood drops spilled from the tip.
A severed infant lay at his feet. "KuKulcan's cooKies!" he
wiped his brow, "This NuPassover thing is too much like work."
Horus kicked the dead parts into the rapidly-growing mound of
slippery fat. A bell rang "Ding!" and another babe rolled
down the chute and through the swinging panel. It mewled and
puked on the cold linoleum floor. Horus struck.
"That was a noisy little brat!" he said.
"Ding!"
"Ding!"
"Ding!"
The swinging door never came to rest until 5 p.m., when
the factory whistle called it a day. Horus was ready for a
long, steamy shower. There was a lot of hot action in the
company stalls tonight. "As usual," thought Horus, attempting
to undress while rough, masculine hands reached out through
holes in the wall to cop a feel. They hungrily assisted him
in disrobing, and tossed his bloody overalls into the
moleculizer. Horus leaned forward against the tile wall, and
let the hot water cascade over his broad back, as talented
hands massaged the meaty globes of his buttocks. While other
hands proudly caressed his back and thighs, the nub of a
chunky finger teased the ring of his anus till the sphincter
relaxed. As the finger slid forcefully in, Horus shivered
with each knuckle bump. The finger, now deeply lodged, moved
in slow, small circles, tickling the prostrate. He squeezed
his anus to grip the fat sausage as it tried to withdraw.
"Are you worthy to unsheathe Excalibur from The Stone?"
Horus challenged in his darkest masculine voice.
"Apparently not," teased another male voice behind the
wall, whose finger jerked in mock imitation of a virgin in
distress.
"Uhh, uhh," Horus grunted, "by Thor's Hammer, you're
fuckin' good! God damn! What's your name, man? Whose mask
do you wear? I want you boy, I want you bad! Oh fuckin' Eros!
Lick my ass! For Daddy's sake, lick my ass, boy! I'm gonna
burst!" He said all this while shuddering under the hot rains
with the finger working him over, and hands gliding firmly
over his bulging, muscular frame. A glob of cum spread across
the mushroom crown that capped his thick, rock-hard shaft in
the grip of two broad palms.
"Ahhh," moaned Horus, shivering in delight as the finger
worked its way out, leaving him empty like a turned-over
chalice. He reared his masked head toward the shower nozzle.
"Mohammed's Marbles!" he thought, "The fringe benefits in
this place are incredible!" He dropped another quarter in the
coin slot of "Hands 'R' Us," and bent over for a second
assault. But it never came; nor did Horus. "Damn!" he said,
and punched the machine before exiting the stall. A coin
rolled along the floor and into Horus's big toe. He thought
better about bending over--instead looked up in the direction
of the quarter's path. Like a vision from Mt. Olympus stood a
naked soldier beneath a shimmering cascade of water. Wet
ringlets of golden-red hair graced the shining mask of
Alexander.
"My, you're a pretty one," teased the boy behind the
mask, his eyes riveted on you-know-what. He then walked across
the watery floor and almost into Horus's arms. Their plump
erections found each other's crotch, like doves returning to
the nest. Horus twirled a golden curl of hair in his finger (a
wedding ring!), and sighed: "Ah, sweet Jesus. To kiss you is
to kiss an angel."
"Oh, my silver steed," the boy centurion clicked his mask
against Horus's, "thy tongue is the tongue of a serpent. It
cuts my heart like thine scimitar divides chaff from wheat."
His hand was on Horus's ass, slipping a thumb up and down the
crack. Dripping with passion, Horus gently encircled the youth
in his arms, resting his hands upon the shoulder blades. He
shivered at the touch of such soft skin beneath firm and
budding muscle, and whispered: "If wings should sprout
beneath these hands, still would they pale in comparison to
the beauty of man thou art. Ahhh! Sweet sixteen!"
"But I must go!" Abruptly, the boy soldier pulled away,
blew him a kiss, and disappeared.
"That boy's begging to be spanked," muttered Horus, who
decided to pick up the coin and return to his stall for a few,
extra minutes.
#
Horus walked down dark alleys on his way home from work.
He turned around at the sound of an approaching vehicle and
reached for his MazerPak. His parakeet mask dazzled in the
amber lights of a patrol car that rapidly advanced and pulled
over. The window lowered.
"Hey birdman!" catcalled a centurion hidden in shadow,
"Don't you ever take that mask off?" He then leaned toward the
passenger door, revealing the mask of Baldur.
"Oh, it's you," Horus grinned, and swung his GearBag at
the open window. The centurion flinched.
"Come on, Horus, hop inside. I'll take you home." The
back door swung open from an invisible hand.
Horus stepped back. "Gee, Clarence, I hope he's not a
heterosexual."
"Nah. That's my boy. He's in training tonight."
Horus peered inside and saw a naked adolescent in the
mask of Dionysus nonchalantly sprawled across the back seat,
spread-eagle fashion. One leg was stretched to the floor, the
other bent against the seat back.
"Great Gonads, you're hung heavy!" whistled Horus.
The boy shrugged his shoulders, shifting his hips to make
a wider basket to accommodate Horus as he dived in. The
patrol car catapulted off the street, hovered a moment, then
zoomed across the skyscape of NuAthens.
Cramped between car roof and boy, Horus maneuvered like
hand-in-glove, his warrior skirt creeping up in the process
(with a little assistance from Dionysian hands).
"Your hands are all over my ass, and I don't even know
your name," breathed Horus, spilling late seed in the boy's
nest. "That's the best way," he thought to himself. The
unexpected lubrication gave him an instant erection, and a
natural hip-gliding reflex. The young rookie just moaned, too
senseless from Cabernet Sauvignon for conversation yet not too
foregone to position and bend his legs on either side of the
centurion's hips, offering Horus a NuWhitman's sampler of
teenage paradise. Horus fumbled with the GearBag until he
found the travel-size safe sex aerosol, then fumbled in his
mind as to how to shove it under the boy's ass to spray the
crack...during which time his erection seemed to go the way of
uncontrolled heterosexual breeding.
"He's a beauty, ain't he?" Clarence joyfully addressed
Horus's buns in the rear view mirror.
"Umph. Yeah, a real apple from Eden," Horus mumbled,
still fumbling. The boy tried to assist by raising his hips,
but found this impossible, due to the bruiser-body's crushing
weight. Happy, anyway, to be smothered in all this masculine
muscle, the youth smiled in delirious ecstasy.
Clarence flicked on the air conditioner: "His name's
Cleveland, by the way. You know, he has a perfect track
record, even as a rookie. Not one breeder has been able to
resist conversion to male/male love, so far, at the sight of
this buffy darling. He doesn't even have to strip all the
way!"
Bathed in sweat and frustration, Horus surrendered to
disappointment (for the third time tonight). Being so
intimately bound to this copper-toned innocent was, in itself,
a begrudging satisfaction. He tousled the youth's jet-black
curls, and gazed into those amber, Elysian eyes. "Yeah, I see
what you mean," sighed Horus.
"You know, little Cleveland here's been eager like a pup
to bond with you, ever since he laid eyes on you in the
showers. He hasn't shut up about you for weeks!"
"Great," the CenturionChief managed to say with little
enthusiasm. Eyes now shut, Cleveland snored.
"Oh Horus, I apologize. But the little satyr's still on
duty. He's put in an exhausting five hours so far, I might
add." Clarence looked in the mirror to see the drooping
shoulders of a beaten hero. "Ahhh. We'll make it up to you
soon."
Horus worked loose the GearBag under Cleveland's hoof,
unsealed it, and returned the spray can to its pocket. "I
know, I know," he muttered.
Changing the subject, Clarence asked: "Say, what do you
think of this NuPassover Yahweh declared?"
Horus shrugged his shoulders. "I certainly approve all
the way, but I sure am sick of how much work it takes to clean
up these Kalki-sucking perverts!"
"I know what you mean. Hey, when the HetMajority keeps
ignoring AIDS, saying 'Oh, it's only a faggot disease, let 'em
die,' eventually Big Dick's gotta step in, just like he did in
Egypt to free the Hebrews. But this time, he's liberating
gays, slaying the HeteroFirstBorn of every breeder parent, by
letting the disease spread throughout the straight populace.
You should know, Horus," Clarence glanced over his shoulder,
"you're the Angel of Death in both cases."
"I prefer to think of myself as the Angel of
Retribution," Horus corrected, then mused: "Two things I hate
most about this job. One: I think I'm getting tendonitis,
hacking away with my scimitar so much. It's not worth the
overtime. And those sickos really are not worth the trouble."
"Well it won't be much longer," Clarence assured, "Gays
are now rising up all over the world. Before long, they'll
become 'as one of us,' to quote The Old Man."
"Huh? Oh, yeah," chuckled Horus. "Yeah, it's good
what's finally happening down there. But I'll sure as Hades
be glad to take this Siva-Be-Damned mask off my face for once
and all!"
"Well, you know the orders..."
"ATTENTION ALL PATROLS IN QUADRANT FOURTEEN!" The
squawkbox suddenly blared in their faces. "Huh? An emergency!"
Clarence said, grabbing the mike. "Yeah! DeWitt here! What's
the problem?" "JUST GOT AN ALERT FROM YOUR QUADRANT THAT A
MAVERICK RADIOBOT IS BROADCASTING HETEROSEXUAL MUSIC SOMEWHERE
IN SECTOR 119 OR 120! GET THERE ON THE DOUBLE AND SQUELCH THAT
CRAP. WE'RE SENDING REINFORCEMENTS, STAT, TO BACK YOU UP!"
"Right! Over and out!" Clarence turned to Horus. "Sorry
to do this to ya good buddy, but I have no choice."
Clarence swerved the patrol car at a sharp angle,
ejecting his centurion pal from the back seat at the same
moment. "Feces!" thought Horus, descending to earth in a thick
bank of clouds,
"This is a forbidden sector! I'll get chewed out good
for this one!" As he fell, the fog cleared, revealing the
TransAmerica Pyramid, the Bay Bridge and, of course, the
Golden Gate.
#
Horus alighted in a single-resident occupancy at 2306
Market Street, San Francisco, some time in the very late 20th
century. He looked at the crummy walls, the crummy
furnishings, the crummy view across the street: "Wells Fargo
Bank" open air ATM outlet, homophobic wino on SSI begging for
coins, long line of disillusioned wage slaves, faggots and
dykes in faded pink-triangle T-shirts.
A man around thirty-six to forty talked on the phone,
unaware as yet of the miraculous presence that stood directly
behind him. Horus thought: "Suffering succotash of sinful
souls! Is this dude gonna get the DoggyBone!" and waited
patiently.
"Just cut the crap, okay?" the man finished, and slammed
the receiver into its cradle. Furious about something, he
picked up a pen and began scribbling notes to himself. Horus
leaned over his shoulder to read: "Milk, oranges, sharp
cheddar cheese, honey, tomatoes, sesame butter, Akmak
crackers." Exasperated, he tossed the pen aside and turned in
Horus's direction, blinded by anger.
Accustomed to mortals' slow ability to perceive
other-worldly manifestations, the WarriorGod did not move
until the man, open-mouthed, gradually perceived the specter
of a strong, masculine figure with brilliant, silver hair, and
the head of a parakeet. The avian face shone with luminous
tones more brilliant than any on earth: scarlet, lime, white,
and vermilion. The man's eyes watered from the brightness of
the colors, and realized he was having a vision.
"Are you Ra, the Egyptian sun god?" he squinted at the
living icon.
"No, I am Horus, Vindicator Of The Innocent, and Guardian
Of Dead Souls." Silver wings sprouted from his NuCombatBoots,
and he recalled an obligation from Hermes to convey a message
to someone at this address. So he knelt on the ruddy carpet,
extending cupped hands before the man, and said: "I bear you
many gifts."
The man looked into the god's hands, but could not peer
through the explosive beams of light that streamed from his
palms. "I can't see anything," he claimed, "Must be gifts of
the spirit." He mused, "Is one of them to bring Randolph back
to me?"
Horus then rose to his full, towering height, and
proclaimed: "You will soon paint my face."
The man looked up at him and shook his head: "Ohh, I'm
not that good."
"You will be," stated Horus, who then removed his head
which was, after all, only a mask...to reveal his true
identity.
Horus took the man's hands, and they both sat in chairs,
facing each other, knees touching.
The man tenderly clasped Horus's hand in both of his, and
smiled. "Oh, Randolph, it is so good to be with you again."
"The rest of this you won't remember." Horus pulled the
awe-struck man onto his lap, and showered him with tender
kisses. They lay down on the small bed and talked, and
laughed. Several times, the lonely man wept on Horus's
shoulder. Never had the centurion seen another being so much
at peace from a just a small kindness. He caressed the man to
sleep and returned to his own world.
When the man awoke (head resting in arms folded on the
desk), he sat up and stretched. The glare from a computer
screen shone on his face, and he squinted. "Strange daydream!"
he thought, reaching for the keyboard to continue a letter:
even when cast before swine, do not lose their
luster. Now sweetheart, what I am about to say,
I have said many times before, in many
different ways. But I believe it bears
repeating, for I know what is in your heart,
and I know what you need to hear.
I understand you have seen the worst of
war in Vietnam and this will burn in your heart
forever. Yet, in faith, God will heal even that
wound. While this is the worst, you have
suffered other tragedies still more terrible
than any I have known. Nevertheless, not to
seem arrogant or "know-it-all" on my part, I
encourage you to "keep the faith."
Didn't you once tell me that, from a
distance of 3,000 miles, while you lay there
with your self-inflicted bullet lodged so close
to your heart? Not knowing whether or not your
hospital bed would also be your death bed?
(January 16, 1985 will always ring like a
bellwether in my mind.)
I enclose a copy of that incredible (and
your first) letter to me. It has been six
years since that shocking event have your
dreams since dimmed?
The last four years I have hardly heard
from you (most recent being your mysterious
phone call August 1990, more than a year ago).
Yet I write to you, faithfully--must be volumes
by now!--for when I first laid eyes on you, God
spoke to me: "Genie, this is your lover. He
will put you through hell, but in time he will
return everything. Stand by him."
So I stand by you, in spirit, for more
than six years now, knowing that you count on
me, as your best friend, to tell you what you
need to hear. Despite your seeming indifference
(and sometimes, in your rare communique, your
apparent cruelty). I am not "infatuated," but
a clear voice in my heart says to keep being
here for you. I don't know where you are
(somewhere on the east coast, I guess), but can
only trust that my letters, c/o your cousin
Kitty in Arlington, continue to reach you. To
say that I miss you is the Mother Of All
Understatements. SEMPER FIDELIS, My Silver
Steed Randolph (Of The Blazing Temper Tantrum)!
My painting and writing are progressing nicely,
but right now I'm going through a dry cycle. I
hope my painting of "Unicorn Without A Horn"
still delights you, as it did while you were
laid up in that Pennsylvania hospital.
I just had an interesting daydream about
you. Perhaps it was a vision. The Egyptian god
Horus appeared before me, with the usual bird's
head...but instead of a hawk, it was a
parakeet! (Visual pun on "para"-dise?) Then he
removed his head, which turned ...
A shiny object suddenly caught the man's eye. He stepped
away from the computer to pick it up. "Some sort of aerosol,"
he mumbled, turning it in his hand. The labeling was too small
to easily read, so he rummaged in his dresser for the
magnifying glass. On the canister he read:
-------------------------------------------------------
"SEVENTH SEALANT" AEROSOL PROPHYLACTIC
(for both personal and industrial use)
A quantum leap beyond traditional condoms and temporary
factory sealants. 100% effective against the spread of
AIDS, venereal infections, and all other non-airborne
viral/ bacterial / chemical invasions (or money back
guaranteed). Excellent replacement for industrial
goggles. 100% non-deteriorating for its serviceable
life, yet completely dissolves after 50 minutes.
Impermeability Level: 99 (molecular)
Stress Level: 18 (4.5 tons)
Hardness Level: 9 (carborundum)
Tactile Level: 0 (none)
Flexibility Level: 74 (MicroThinGauge)
Biodegradability Level: 1 (minute)
WARNING: Evacuate thoroughly before anal application.
Do not apply to penis tip or labia. Do not apply to
both oral and nasal cavities for the same session. Do
not apply to more than 1/4 of your total body surface
area. Criminal use will result in life termination.
Ozone friendly. Hypo-allergenic. Comes in 5 different
fragrances: musk, vanilla, lotus, leather, socks.
-------------------------------------------------------
#
Meanwhile, back in NuAthens, Horus sat, sulking, on a
NuMarble bench in the Bodhisattva Gardens Tea Room & Fantasy
Emporium. He laid a half-eaten cucumber sandwich on the ledge
of a bubbly fountain. A Cupid HoloSculp, poised on one toe in
the center of this fountain, stopped his pissing for a moment.
"Aw come on, guy," he said, tapping Horus on the shoulder
with a NerfArrow, "two weeks probation ain't so bad. You did
violate a territorial sanction, you know."
Horus, head resting in cupped hands, did not reply.
"What's half a month in the life of an Immortal?" Cupid
implored. "Imagine how much more inferior we'd all feel if
the Chief Commander of Armageddon didn't slip up once in a
while?"
When Cupid saw that Horus still refused to respond, he
whacked him on the mask with the arrow.
"Ouch! Stop that!"
Cupid urinated on the sandwich: "Snap out of it, before
you bring the wrath of Artemis on us all!"
"Oh, Erosito, it's not the job," Horus sighed. "I'm in
love."
"In love? Finally? Well congratulations, you strapping
brute!" Cupid paused to reflect. "It sure wasn't my doing,
not with these wimpy arrows the Administrator of Native
NuAmerican Affairs is handing out these days."
Horus sighed dreamily. "No, I'm not sad at all. I'm
stunned with adoration for a very fine fellow. I wonder if I
even deserve him!"
"Wow! You really are smitten, aren't you? Reminds me of
the good ol' days when I could frolic in the glades, shooting
off dart after dart to every hapless victim in sight...now, I
can't even afford the license fees, let alone NuKiwanis Club
membership, park registration, and business insurance."
"No, Cupie, give yourself credit where credit's due. You
are the Guardian Of Romantic Love, in a time when people and,
I might add, even Goddesses and Gods, not only no longer
believe in that dream, but rant and rave against it. But I
have been blessed to meet a dear soul who is truly a Pearl of
Great Price." Horus spread his arms before the fountain. "So,
my little buddy, congratulations on a sterling performance!"
Cupid radiated joy, and blushed a rosy bronze. "Well, I
did say a prayer for you, my Good Lord."
"You must meet him, Cupid; then you, too, will be
silenced by the great wonder Jehovah has wrought in this
being."
"Well come on," implored the cherub, "tell me already:
Who's the lucky boy? Viadaemon? SriLoki? Teremeus? Avalon?
Al'Darrin?"
Horus shook his lowered head. "No, my angelito, he is
not a boy. He is a Real Man who lives every moment in the
true spirit of Christ."
Cupid dropped his quiver into the fountain with a soft
"plash," and exclaimed: "A boy...not? You have changed, my
Good Horus." Then, with dawning awareness, Cupid gasped. "A
man? A real man? Not one of us? A mortal, for Deity's
sake?"
Horus slowly nodded. "Yes, I'm afraid so. He walks with
dignity, moves with grace, speaks no false words. Yet, he is
humble, clumsy, and funny. The gods always put him in awkward
situations...not to belittle him, but to see how this
refreshingly innocent spirit blossoms like a hyacinth amid a
copse of nettle, each and every time. He is The Amazing Genie
Of The Heart's Magic Lamp!"
"Awk!" exclaimed Cupid in a mock swoon, "True love doth
coat a wooden tongue with an eloquent wax, my spellbound
amigo! I fear far less The Serpent's tongue!"
Deaf to Cupid's joke, the centurion completed his praise:
"There is not a cowardly bone in his body, yet his heart
shines with compassion."
"Well, obviously, you have thought this through, his
being a mortal and all that," Cupid pondered. "I was about to
interrogate, but I can see now, his spirit dances in your
heart. But tell me this, oh LoveStruck Judge of Man..." (Horus
looked up at Cupid, who leaned closer from his pedestal, brow
wrinkled in confusion:) "Why do you hesitate to grant him the
Gift of Immortality, so you can bring him to live with us in
these Happy Hunting Grounds?"
A tear trickled down Horus's neck. "I hesitate because I
am afraid he might not want me."
Cupid frowned. "Or you hesitate because YHWH might
choose for you the other option: that you become mortal!"
Horus waved away that thought. "Oh, no, no! I wouldn't
hesitate for one NanoSecond to be by his side, come NuHell or
HighWater, if I only knew for sure his little lamb heart would
rest beside mine..." Horus stopped in midstream. "Cupid, I
know mortals can have visions of Immortals."
"Yes, it happens quite often," agreed the putti of bow
and quiver, "but, like dreams, are usually ill-remembered."
"Yes, well..." Horus deliberated, "but can a god have
visions of a mortal?"
"Hmmm. A very interesting question!"
"Here, look at this." Horus reached into his GearBag. He
pulled out a folded sheet of loose-leaf paper and handed it to
Cupid. "Apparently, Genie slipped this in when I was
distracted."
"Genie?" The cherub carefully opened it and read:
To my silver-haired stallion, Horus, Lord
of Light. Ah, sweet Jesus. To kiss you is
to kiss an angel. Love, Genie.
Taped to the note was a shiny quarter.
Cupid shrugged his shoulders and sighed: "Well, looks
like we just gotta find a NuCommander In Chief," and, with a
wave of a droopy arrow, shuffled him off to the mortal coil.
The parakeet mask lay at the base of the fountain.
#
"Oh boy, oh boy!" Gene grinned to himself, skip-walking
happily down Castro Street, tossing the Seventh Sealant into
the air time and time again. No matter how he cast it, the
freefalling can of aerosol always found his hand. He thought
of hurling it across the street, to astound people when it
flew back to him. But he caught himself and said, "Now, now,
Genie. Thou shalt not tempt thy Father who art in heaven!"
With that, he flung the Sealant over the roof of Cliff's
Variety and, sure enough, it swung around like a boomerang,
back into Genie's gifted hand. "Hmmm," he examined the
canister, "must have some sort of homing device. Radar
maybe."
Of course, no one paid attention, since Genie was your
token Castro Village Fool. Being manic/depressive (as are all
true artists) and, after 8-1/2 years of residence here, people
chose to ignore his sporadic and emotional flights of fancy.
(Besides, anyone who did notice, thought it was a can of mace,
and gave him wide berth.) He looked around at the
self-absorbed humans rushing to really "important" things,
like: Who will I trick with tonight? What's the latest dirt
at Castro Station? If I let that jaded old queen suck my
dick, will he pop for dinner?
"You suckers!" Gene hollered, laughing all the way to
Without Reservation for his morning cup of coffee and the
daily news. "Can't wait to meet Gorbachev," he mused, "I'm
sure he'll appreciate my input on the Presidio Foundation."
Randolph sat at the counter sipping coffee, when Genie
stepped in.
---finis
(Neptune's Nipples!)
