Horizontal Lives

True Tales of the Infamous Courtesan: Persephone N. Hades and her Horizontal Life underground. How she got there, her mis-adventures and her struggle to re-surface.

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Wanted: More Holes or Bigger Dicks


My Friend: (mid-conversation) How’s 'the house' coming along?


Me: Let’s talk about something else. What else is going on with your life?


MF: I told you everything. What’s up with 'the house'?


Me: Don’t ask. Really. I don’t want to talk about it.


MF: When’re ya moving?


Me: (raising my shoulders in a ‘who knows’ gesture)


MF: Shouldn’t it be ready by now?


Me: (another ‘I don’t know’ gesture)


MF: What are you going to do?


Me: I don’t want to talk about it.


MF: What did they say?


Me: Did you know that Skeet are not actually live creatures?


MF: They didn’t even give you a date to move in?


Me: I thought Skeet were a kinda bird—


MF: Have you even talked to them?


Me: But then I asked my 'Masterbirder Client' and he informed me that Skeet, were actually Clay.


MF: Are you following up on all this? Is there someone there to keep an eye on things?


Me: And not even Clay shaped like Birds. Just Clay.


MF: If it’s not finished, where are you going to go?


Me: This was horrifyingly embarrassing because I said to my other Client, who is the ‘Skeet shooter’, when he came back from his Skeet shoot, ‘What did those poor Skeet ever do to you?’


MF: I want to talk about this. Now I’m getting concerned for you.


Me: You should have seen the look he gave me—the Skeet Shooter--


MF: I know you’re trying to change the subject--


Me: Obviously! There’s nothing I can do. Anyway, the Skeet thing was a big faux pas.


MF: What does your contract with the Builder say?


Me: They have two years. The point is, I haven’t made a faux pas like that, in years. The last time I made a faux pas like that was when I was the youngest one in a touring theatre company and we were on the road in bum-f*ck towns in a bus and truck Shakespeare tour for 365 days and our last stop was D.C. So you can imagine, everyone was pretty well done with each other—


MF: Basically, they’re not giving you any answers?


Me: So here we are, all sick up to here with each other, and together we’re all walking to The Kennedy Center for our last show. And we’re walking up this hill and on the way we pass this apartment complex—


MF: I can’t believe they’re leaving you out to dry like this.


Me: And on the outside of the apartment complex is a sign that proclaims: "Watergate Towers"—or something like that—


MF: Why don’t you want to talk about it?


Me: I just don’t. So I see the sign, and everyone in my company is older than me and pretty sick of my giggly young-ness, but I don’t know, and I see the sign and I say, "Oh my god! You guys! Look! They named an apartment building after that Scandal!"


MF: You didn’t?!


Me: I didn’t know! It was my biggest faux pas until the Skeet incident.


MF: Tell me about the house.


Me: Let it go. Really. I can’t talk about it.


MF: Just tell me one thing—


Me: What?


MF: Have you at least talked to the Builder and told them your situation?


Me: This is how it is: The Builder is in cahoots with the Devil.


MF: (gives me a ‘oh c’mon’ look)


Me: Not to be too Dramatic, but, in all reality, he’s lost his Soul to the guy with the red suit and a pitchfork. My house, my finances, my family is entangled in his mercenary lair. Not to be too totally Dramatic, but frankly, if I had another hole, they’d be in it. Really. They’re screwing me in every hole I have and they’re still searching for more. More holes Please! Really. And not to be too utterly ridiculously Dramatic, but either more holes or a bigger dicks with which to screw me. Luckily, as luck would have it, phew! I’m out of holes! As far as I know. Who knows, maybe in their search, they’ll alert me to a few I didn’t know existed! That could be a good thing, a really good thing, considering the line of work I’m in. But basically, as it stands, they’re screwing me in every hole I have. So, not to run too far out on a Dramatic limb, but even if they find more holes I didn’t even know I had, or bigger dicks with which to F*ck me, either way, I can do nothing about it. So basically, I’m not thinking about it. I’m just zen-ing into the vice-grip sandwich in which they are squeezing me, blissfully pretending it’s a cuddle. Not-to-be-too-Dramatic-or- anything-thank-you-for-asking!


MF: So what you’re saying is, you don’t want to talk about it.


Me: That’s what I’m saying.

MF: Cool. No problem.


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