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Authors: Chris Lynch
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disappearing on me,” Satan says. “You can’t do that.”
“Hallelujah,” Stanley says. “You guessed. Bye-bye, Satan.”
As they talk, the bowl makes tiny incremental shifts, toward the one, toward the other, and small slurps of red-green soup escape.
“Don’t call me that, anymore. Call me Stuart. Call me Stuart now, and that will be better, now.”
“Sorry,” Stanley says, sneering, “don’t think so. Don’t think it could work now, Satan. Don’t think we could go back.”
With this, Satan stops resisting. He takes back the bowl of soup. Or what’s left of it. The table is covered, like a child’s monochrome finger painting.
There is silence, except for the slurpy sound of Satan pouring from the bowl back into the pot. Then he drops the bowl in with it.
“You’re wasted as it is, Stan. You can’t not eat anymore.”
Stanley grunts.
“So, that’s it, is it?” Satan asks, pointing the ladle at Stanley.
“That’s it.”
“You’re just going to starve, right? I’m supposed to believe you’re going to sit here and just, like, rot right here, in front of me, and that’s going to be the end of it? The end of everything?”
Stanley smiles at his brother. He stands up, slowly, unsteadily. He shrugs, before heading for his couch harbor.
Satan stands there, glaring at him, motherly almost. A lot of things, almost.
“You think I’m going to just let you do it, just, leave me like that, Brother?” Satan says.
“You think I need your permission? Brother?”
Satan slams the ladle into the pot, turns, and goes crashing into the kitchen. Stanley turns on the TV with the remote. Satan starts throwing—dishes, utensils, pans and glasses and everything else—around in the well-kept kitchen. He screams as he does it, no words, no point, just sound, walls and walls of wailing sound accompanied by all the breakage and clatter.
Stanley turns the volume up on the television.
They only used the one audiotape. They just went on taping, taping over whatever was on there before, getting to the end of the tape, then turning it over again.
“I love my brother,” says the voice over the growing hiss of the taped-over taped-over tape. “Not fair. I love my brother. Not fair. I love my brother. So scared. I love my brother.
“Not fair.
“I love my brother …”
OFF YA GO, SO
I DON’T UNDERSTAND.
What’s with all the music everywhere? Does everyone, I mean everyone, think he can sing in this country? Everyone thinks he can sing in this country. Why do they do it? Why would they want to?
It rains every damn day here. Not like, a little rain. Not like, most days. It rains buckets and damn buckets every damn day.
Postcards. Traffic jam, Ireland. Blackface sheep standing in the middle of a road that wouldn’t get you anyplace fast even if it wasn’t blocked with blackface sheep. Sunsets gold and orange over Inis Mor or the Burren across Galway Bay. Great, but doesn’t the sun have to come up before it can set?
Guinness. You are more likely to locate a shorty leprechaun with a pot of gold than you are to locate a travel guide without a picture of some old geezer sitting in front of or under a pint of motor oil. Creamy rich warming is what they will have you believe, but if you are looking for what the rest of the world thinks of as beer and decide to do the local economy a favor by buying one of these mothers, which, by the way, take about as long to pour as it takes the average Irishman to whip off his version of “Carrickfergus,” then you are going to receive a quick first lesson in Irish language: Creamy rich warming means, in English, flat soapy burnt.
And while we’re at it. How do you say nine o’clock sharp, in Irish? Eleven thirty. Doesn’t anybody have anyplace to get to?
“Where you been? I been standing here forever, and those jugglers and mimes won’t quit juggling and miming. This is the arts festival, right? Like, the world-famous …”
“I’ve something to tell
“Hallelujah,” Stanley says. “You guessed. Bye-bye, Satan.”
As they talk, the bowl makes tiny incremental shifts, toward the one, toward the other, and small slurps of red-green soup escape.
“Don’t call me that, anymore. Call me Stuart. Call me Stuart now, and that will be better, now.”
“Sorry,” Stanley says, sneering, “don’t think so. Don’t think it could work now, Satan. Don’t think we could go back.”
With this, Satan stops resisting. He takes back the bowl of soup. Or what’s left of it. The table is covered, like a child’s monochrome finger painting.
There is silence, except for the slurpy sound of Satan pouring from the bowl back into the pot. Then he drops the bowl in with it.
“You’re wasted as it is, Stan. You can’t not eat anymore.”
Stanley grunts.
“So, that’s it, is it?” Satan asks, pointing the ladle at Stanley.
“That’s it.”
“You’re just going to starve, right? I’m supposed to believe you’re going to sit here and just, like, rot right here, in front of me, and that’s going to be the end of it? The end of everything?”
Stanley smiles at his brother. He stands up, slowly, unsteadily. He shrugs, before heading for his couch harbor.
Satan stands there, glaring at him, motherly almost. A lot of things, almost.
“You think I’m going to just let you do it, just, leave me like that, Brother?” Satan says.
“You think I need your permission? Brother?”
Satan slams the ladle into the pot, turns, and goes crashing into the kitchen. Stanley turns on the TV with the remote. Satan starts throwing—dishes, utensils, pans and glasses and everything else—around in the well-kept kitchen. He screams as he does it, no words, no point, just sound, walls and walls of wailing sound accompanied by all the breakage and clatter.
Stanley turns the volume up on the television.
They only used the one audiotape. They just went on taping, taping over whatever was on there before, getting to the end of the tape, then turning it over again.
“I love my brother,” says the voice over the growing hiss of the taped-over taped-over tape. “Not fair. I love my brother. Not fair. I love my brother. So scared. I love my brother.
“Not fair.
“I love my brother …”
OFF YA GO, SO
I DON’T UNDERSTAND.
What’s with all the music everywhere? Does everyone, I mean everyone, think he can sing in this country? Everyone thinks he can sing in this country. Why do they do it? Why would they want to?
It rains every damn day here. Not like, a little rain. Not like, most days. It rains buckets and damn buckets every damn day.
Postcards. Traffic jam, Ireland. Blackface sheep standing in the middle of a road that wouldn’t get you anyplace fast even if it wasn’t blocked with blackface sheep. Sunsets gold and orange over Inis Mor or the Burren across Galway Bay. Great, but doesn’t the sun have to come up before it can set?
Guinness. You are more likely to locate a shorty leprechaun with a pot of gold than you are to locate a travel guide without a picture of some old geezer sitting in front of or under a pint of motor oil. Creamy rich warming is what they will have you believe, but if you are looking for what the rest of the world thinks of as beer and decide to do the local economy a favor by buying one of these mothers, which, by the way, take about as long to pour as it takes the average Irishman to whip off his version of “Carrickfergus,” then you are going to receive a quick first lesson in Irish language: Creamy rich warming means, in English, flat soapy burnt.
And while we’re at it. How do you say nine o’clock sharp, in Irish? Eleven thirty. Doesn’t anybody have anyplace to get to?
“Where you been? I been standing here forever, and those jugglers and mimes won’t quit juggling and miming. This is the arts festival, right? Like, the world-famous …”
“I’ve something to tell
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