Rottweiler Soup: Lonely and Wet
Whatever happened to trust? Who the hell was it said ‘you know who your friends are?’ Julius Caesar, I think. Him or Trotsky.
You work with someone, day in, day out, habituate yourself to their foibles, even find those foibles endearing, and then suddenly the day arrives when you realize that you never knew them at all. That they were stringing you along without any concern you might value their friendship, their company.
I’ll tell you what I mean.
I left work at 4.30 today and got back to Herbert Place by 5.15, intending to change into my tracksuit to pop out over to the church hall on Haddington Road for Weight Watchers, but I got to my front door and fumbled for the keys in my pocket only to realize that I’d left not just my keys but also my Nicorettes, my mobile and my wallet, with my ID card inside, back at the embassy. Seeing as how I had to make it to the church by 6.30, I figured I’d give it a miss this week and headed back to the embassy to get my stuff.
It’s quicker to walk back to the embassy than drive, so that’s what I did, and it was a fresh evening so I wasn’t building up too much of a sweat. When I arrived back at the embassy I swapped the usual expletives with Merv the perv, who was manning the metal detector, and used the stairs up to my office because the elevator was locked out.
I made it up the two flights only to find the floor in pitch darkness. Shut down. Or so I thought. As my I groped for the walls, my eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, so that gradually I was able to make out a narrow slit of light beckoning to me from beneath my own door at the end of the corridor. I assumed that it meant the cleaners were doing their rounds, although they normally don’t show until about 9, but it provided me with a horizon, a way of keeping my balance and locating my destination. The darkness had come as a bit of a surprise, but then I figured that because the cleaners are all blind, they don’t need the lights turned on. More of a surprise were the moans and murmurs I began to encounter as I got closer to my office. Not the moans and murmurs of conversation, you understand. The moans and murmurs that blind people make when they’re knocking one out. I imagine, I don’t know. I’m speculating. Anyway, these faintly repellent, oddly sirenic sounds persuaded me that I should perhaps continue my approach more stealthily, imagining, well, imagining I don’t know what. What do you picture when you think of blind people masturbating?
Closer still and my attitude changed. These were noises made by more than one person. I had been bemused. Now I was fucking annoyed. Two blind people fucking in my office. I was really going to give them a piece of my mind. Although part of me thought it might be worth watching for a while first, since they wouldn’t know I was there.
So when I threw open the door of my office I thought there’d be little left to surprise me. I was wrong. It wasn’t the office cleaners at all. It was Frank. Frank Langford. Frank Langford down on all fours, stark bollock naked eating Cointreau and cream out of the anus of an equally undressed Maggie. Not equally undressed. Forgive me. Maggie turned to face me as I burst in, and she was wearing my fucking pilot’s mask. Inhaling my fucking ether!
Cointreau and cream. Jesus, what appalling taste. How could someone do that? Anyone with the slightest experience knows that anilingus requires, at the very least, Amaretto di Saronno and Reddi-Wip deluxe instant real whipped heavy cream. Otherwise it just tastes like shit.
I suppose I must have stood there for two minutes watching, Frank tonguing and probing away, Maggie apparently looking at me; it’s possible that those muffled cries she was making were efforts to call Frank’s attention to the fact that they were not alone, but they could just as easily have been cries of delight, and Frank certainly took them for that, because he seemed only encouraged by her wriggling and ejaculations of one sort or another.
And I credit my heterosexuality for the fact that I’d been there for two minutes before I noticed that Frank was pulling himself off. And it was only when he came—shooting his diseased yellow jism all over my fucking carpet, mind you—that I managed to say, ‘Well, honestly!’ and he realized something was up.
You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a dick shrink so fast. Not that his starting point was so magnificent, you understand, but it was funny nonetheless. Frank sprang to his feet, cock boinging, picked Maggie up and, you’ll never believe this, crouched behind her, so that all I could see was a naked, masked Maggie—okay, that wasn’t so bad—but with Frank’s limp dick peeking through from behind, hanging between her legs.
‘Joe! Joe! What the fuck are you doing here?’
I gestured towards his spunk on my carpet.
‘You could at least have worn a condom, you filthy fuckbag.’
Maggie ripped off the mask, her chest still heaving, either from shock or the ether.
‘Why aren’t you at Weight Watchers?’ she asked.
‘Forgot my keys. Why aren’t you guys at the theatre?’
‘The what?’ Frank looked mystified.
‘You don’t fucking go to the fucking theatre on Wednesday nights, do you, you fucking bastards? You fucking come up here and fucking fuck.’
‘It’s only the second time ever, Joe, I swear’, said Maggie, and I considered believing her. Frank was pulling her over to my chair, where they’d piled up their clothes. I was trying not to laugh now that I had them on the hook.
‘You could have fucking asked.’
‘You know how it is, Joe.’ Frank was pulling on his boxers inside out. That wasn’t accidental, by the way; he reckons he can get two days’ use out of underwear by wearing them inside out as well as inside in. ‘Didn’t like to ask. Didn’t want to embarrass you by letting on we knew what you were up to when you stayed late.’
‘The jerking off. The ether.’
This was not good.
‘How long have you known?’
Frank was grinning now, the twat, hoping this revelation would mollify me. Why on earth would he think that?
‘We’ve known for ages. A good six months. Right?’ He looked to Maggie for confirmation. She nodded. ‘Only we didn’t want to make it obvious, and we didn’t want you to find out that we’d been using it too. We only used a little.’
‘And who the fuck else knows?’
‘Nobody, Joe, I swear’, said Maggie, but then she would say that, wouldn’t she? I looked to Frank for the honest answer, like an idiot, but he just shrugged as if to say, ‘What she said’.
At that very moment an appalling premonition opened up before my eyes. I’m at the execution of young Billy Corcoran, the Slayer from Slane. He’s being led into the chamber, accompanied by a priest and three security guards. He sits down in the chair and they strap him in, fix the electrode to his leg and prepare to place the leather mask over his face. I am sitting in the front row of three tiers of seats, with Kane and Scheisskopf to my left, the other witnesses sat behind me. Just before the mask goes on, who should appear in the doorway but the president himself, and I realize straight away that he is there to throw the switch. He walks over to Corcoran and places an avuncular hand on the youth’s shoulder.
‘Do you have any last requests, my boy?’
Corcoran looks up at the president mournfully, desperately, but sure enough, little by little, a wry smirk plays it way around his lips. The right side of his mouth twitches upward with inspiration and he begins to titter and nod his head eagerly.
‘Yessir. Yessir, I have, now. I do . . . I do have one last request. Please, Mr President, tell me that story again about Joe McManus from the CIA and that mask that he wears when he’s wanking.’
And everyone—the president, Corcoran, Kane and Scheisskopf, all the people in the audience—they all turn and point and laugh at me and laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and make ‘wanker’ gestures with their forefingers and thumbs.
Frank and Maggie were fully dressed by the time I came out of my reverie. Maggie was already tiptoeing past me, carrying her high heels. Frank was putting away the mask, and with the sole of his shoe he massaged his semen into my carpet.
‘Jesus, Frank. Don’t try to make amends. Just do one, will yer?’
‘Aye aye, Cap’n.’
He made to leave, trying his best to look shamefaced, but that’s difficult for Frank, as you can imagine.
‘Just one thing, Frank, before you go.’
‘Yes, boss.’ He stopped in his tracks, willing, I suspect, to do anything.
‘Where’d you get the Cointreau?’
The Anglo-Celt reports that the body of a 70-year-old bloke was found yesterday on Clones Golf Course with the old Salvadoran necktie: throat cut from ear to ear and tongue pulled through to drape down the neck. The middle finger of his right hand had been cut off and pushed up his nose. I’m not sure of the significance of this, but the necktie, I think, is the sign that the guy was an informer.
The June issue of the South Korean gentleman’s magazine Hanguk Jakmul Hakhoe Chi (literal translation: Lucky You Erection) offers advice to its readers on ‘How to be a Cool Dad’.
- Do not throw full ashtrays at the family pet.
- Remember that your children look up to you, so learn how to lie proficiently.
- All fathers give piggybacks. Only the coolest dads give piggybacks in the bath.
- If food falls on the floor and there are children in the room, make a point of explaining all about bacteria and blow on it before putting it in your mouth.
- Children like to know that they live in a happy home, so always kiss your wife hello and goodbye. Unless she has been on the floor, in which case you must blow on her first.
- A cool dad does not wear Adidas outside the home.
- A cool dad buys his kids interesting pets. Swearing mynah birds are, like, totally out of date. Kids these days want hamsters that grind their teeth, a paranoid daschund or a gibbon in a beret. Get this one right and your rep around the neighbourhood will soar. Get it wrong and you’ll be sleeping with the narcoleptic fishes.
- A cool dad will let his children drive the car home from school.
- Make sure you put a lock on your drinks cabinet. Drunken children are neither funny nor clever, even if they think they are.
- Your children do not want you to be their friend. They want to hold you in esteem. If you let them give you a nickname, make sure it is respectful, such as Big Chief, Sage or The Fathernator, not contemptuous, like Running Sore, El Tedio, or The Stenchmaster.
- In return, give your kids obscure, incomprehensible nicknames to add an air of otherness and mystery to the way your mind works. Call your daughters Johnson or Thaumaturge, your sons Elsie or Caribou.
- A cool dad knows that it’s okay to buy Hello Kitty condoms for his daughters, but not for his sons.
- Keep your pornography well hidden from your children. No dad can be regarded as cool if his daughters know he ejaculates over pictures of Loligoth transvestites.
- Learn how to fart the theme tune to Bang Gui Dae Jang.
- Avoid playing sports with anyone younger and/or better than you. Do not play sports with women. Retain dignity at all times. A cool dad knows that it is better to referee football matches or women’s wrestling than to take part.
- Kids today love foreign cultures, so speaking in another language will impress your kids’ friends. Learn a few English phrases, such as ‘Get me a beer’ and ‘You’re no son of mine’ to throw into conversation whenever the kids have friends round. If you want to appear seriously cool, make up a language of your own and pretends it’s Scandinavian without being any more precise than that. Tell them you can’t be more specific for reasons of national security.
- A cool dad does not hit his children. He sets traps for them so that they associate bad deeds with violent retribution from God.
- Encourage your children to study but not to be too smart. A cool dad exudes intelligence and omniscience without having to work at it. If they study too much, they’ll spot you for the dullard you are.
- A cool dad never eats fruit.
Lost half a pound.