Inutility
| -----------------------Chapiter | Thou Art |
| 1. A Old Battler Rousted Outen His Sleepf pp. 1-3 | < hookt in |
| 2. That Voice Cometh On Like As The Very Lord! pp. 4-5 | |
| 3. Investiture In The View That The Voice Is Lord pp. 5-8 | |
| 4. Rapture In The Sweet Symphony Of Living p. 8 | |
| 5. Fraud & Blasphemy: The Art Of The Voice Player pp. 9-10 | |
| 6. Final Price Of The Package pp.10-12 | |
| 7. Indectic pp. 13-14 |
And he outdid all doers, and in his seventh year did slay the giant which was calld Elizaboth Reachout, and also slew he her outsize-ed sons, calld Bomar and Oris, which were cannibols. And he whoppt and slew his way to manhood, purging the environs of werowulfs, and vamphyres, and orchard ghouls, and braindrain mosquita, and jackals-that-leer (calld also, insinuating jackoli), and hosie-nose elophants, and perogryne falcons, and tyranosseri, and sasquatchi; and tax assessorie and other bandits he also woppt & slew. And he took to the sea, and purge-ed it of monsters, and man-managing sirens, and scyllae, and meromaids, and bung eye spittiegitters, and sea-song pirates (such as Aye Eight Jake), and illuminary alagae, and desolatian minnows, and chicken-o-th’-sea, and fannieforcers, and peepot shrimpf, and inky eightleggers (calld multipi), and endangerd bulky whales, and tsunami: so rarefied he the choppy brine, ere retiring from the killzone to age amidst his cheeses and wines.
And tho had he no children, yet he might to have been happy, Old Fornicus, having herds, and servants, and the cream of a millien crops, and a wardrobe that inciteth men to envy. In shag coat and highhat and cashmere girdle he might have presented, or posed a-shimmer in gossamer togs neath golden sun; he had the clothes. Had he too that usual garm he wore: wrecking-vest, with mask & apron, with sweatsandals. Happy might he have been. But. He callen him self The Observer, and concerneth himself too much with the endless abundant tragedies of other men, and so findeth no peace, but only some agitatien in his noticings.
Now it happent that, as he lay pitching upon his midnight straw, rackt by the gasses of foul repast, there came upon him a voice through the night, saying, Old Fornicus, art thou yet asleep?
And Old Fornicus cried out in his unconshous fevers, saying, Back, salty Oceanus, rein back those vengeful cadavers areaching at m’throat; sure I leave-ed thee depth to keep them coverd! And tho he wipe-ed forever his hands with chamois (there in his night images), neither came they clean of spittiegitter spit nor pirate plasma nor scyllae slime. And he grew wroth, and chamois-whippt that unfriendly sea of dreams to froth, crying unto the whole ocean, Meet me in perditian’s flames and be draind! And Oceanus bubbld with fear (there in those night images), and with all its smitten
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cadavers did flow away into a mystic trench.
Then came the voice again, and Old Fornicus began to know his actuel world, to fathom himself abed far from the wake & brine, suffring invasien by a voice in the night. And he accomplisht a fraxurd answer, saying, Hap so. Hap I am asleep, mayhap I not. Cite thy stake in this my state. And as his sanity reloaded after sleep, he musterd up the thought, Let me just to reach in stealth here for my wacking-sword neath the bed, and announce with a blow my passion for privacy. And he use-ed the tactic of distractive talking, saying, What rascol art thou, to come upon me in the midst of my solitude, and my nudidy? Is this that moment in mine hist’ry that my bones be jumpt; hast thou landed here for blitz & pillage? Thou catchest me offline, forsooth, and harsh was I made wake-ed—the usuel beginning of mayham. But beginnings are not endings, miscued maraudier; and I am the dean of endings.
Art thou hap some starlight sportster (saith Old Fornicus), rousting up teams for a ghostly season of moonsport? Souse me with the terms of play, that well they may sink in ere I take to the field. Only keep to speaking, and I shall come thee back with keen reply, shall I; for keen reply is just aboute at hand.
And the voice were grieved, saying, Old Fornicus, Old Fornicus, thou yet dost not know me? And the old man lay fast, arm asearch for trusted rusted sword, grabbing soily raiment under there, and being bit by rats. But he strappt iron to his voice and said, Hold, as I think and think. Hmm. Hmmmmm. Hmmmmm. Hmm.
Then toucht his groping hand upon the rustliness of his wackamaster, the sword he hath name-ed Final Say. (His tongue reciteth, A sword, ’tis but a sword. But his heart protesteth, Nay, ridicolis tung, but more: ’tis our joy hoist, our formidabol phallis, a steamy mean pain-poet. ’Tis the all in wherewithall, the alphage & omegage of our personal preservy. This here that thou call’st Sorrd, ’tis Bobbee-Bugger’s last lesson, one bolt of stygian alloy that we have bent to bizniss. Let us not go, Sword, but a sword. Let us adduce what is legend in the whole slain world out there: here cometh a sizzoling slice of decimasien on the breeze!)
And the voice said, Old Fornicus: ’Tis knewn by all in heaven and in earth that a barricooda renderd thee barren, during thine oceanic hostilities of yore. Therefore hast thou spun out no children, as so many men discover they have done. But, say. Thou hast kept thy righteousness ’twixt the ditches of thy life’s causeway, and canst neither be faulted for thy jaundist eye against the bogies of land and sea, nor again for curtailing by blade the vexatiens of thine environs.
In mine heart (the voice saith) there is a famous place that acheth, when that my faultless ones fetch on childless; and I remind my self of my goodness, saying, Shall I not book them for the famly plan? Therefore, Old Fornicus, now have I a thing for thee, to bestow upon thee, that it be thine; a thing for thee to own, to receive and take dominien o’er, to have as thine obvius undeeded property and thy possessien and thine effect and having and what-not, to horde, and stockopile, and shuffle about, and put say on, to keep and to retain in seasons furious or fair, here and yon, come hoar and high mustard, till ever I signel a stop. Thine! Not his’n, her’n, our’n or their’n, but Thine! For and unto thee alone, also unto none other, this Gift, this right assign-ed Thingue.
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And Old Fornicus use-ed the moments of munificence to stoke him self in the warrior way, with rhythmic breathing, and heartbeat modulasien, and chewing upon a rip-smidgen from the spindle of peyote bread which hangd upon his bedpost. Yea, ofttimes hath such chewing deliverd him from the doldrums; and in time of tussle, it juicen him up, letten him to see the demon worms infesting in his enemies.
And whilst stoking, continued he to exact his distraxiens, saying, So much, all this rich concession, unto one pitty prune goomer that I am? Thou flatterest me fat! What thinkest thou that I have wrought, what flashing miracle of mine excesses hath bagg-ed me such nominasien unto THINGworthiness? Had I but knewn, then hells!—I oughts have done more of’t, and rackt me up a gunnisack load of thy fabulis Thingery!
And feeling him self plumb stoke-ed, and commencing to discern daemons, then said Old Fornicus, Thou hast this Thing for me, I hear; likewise have I for thee a certain presentasien. Yea; for I took a vote, and did vote to cede thee a cut and a bang, did I. A cut and a bang. Slices thick and thin. Come a thruster, part thine hair, slick the floor with the ick of thy capillaries. This for the art that’s in’t.
And he came he up, and thrusted about with his terribol swift sorrd, and kickt out with his skeletous old man’s feet. But all his flashie wacking lack-ed targot taction; for no gratifactory shriek was fetcht, nor spraying of blood, nor chipf nor chunk nor sliver quivring. But the curtain was rent, and the bed was chinkt, and keepabol trinkets they were brake and cast rattling apart, till that arous-ed old bedsman sank there in fatigue, rasping, I mean thee no damage, melodious Vocalidy.
And the voice said, Zound, wouldst thou cut me? Wouldst thou slay me down, and drag me expire-ed out unto the garden and feed me to the beets, that they grow red upon my blood; the turnips, white upon my bone; the cooshaw, saffron upon mine entrails? Old Fornicus, dost thou yet not know me?
And with perturbance beyond that occasiond by e’en the old woman, the spended warrier cried, Nay! Damns & deviance! Words, I know thee not! Wherefore oughts I know any invasive faceless vociferatian? Every voice I know doth strike outen some seeable face, outen its fluxhole, its maw, where goeth in some victual and cometh out some blather. Know thee? I know Ochsniel and six Johns. I know Daniel, and Zenith, and Greer, and Muhh. I knew my rival Hotpopocotyl, and know where to spade him up should I pine for his compny. I know Ruth and Uritauenhotep III and Malshabazzar and Flipper the son of Put. I know the true ID of the underpasse groper. I know an few sweet blossoms in the townes and vales, whose better acquaintance I could bear to make; but they flee my path. I know anguish and angina. But thee? Let me see: Old Fornicus, dost thou know this speakievoice? Nay, Old Fornicus, thou dost not. So there ’tis, friend. Our answer, mine & thine.
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