Read Online Humor by Stanley Donwood - Free Book Online

cycled out of the town to hills in the countryside where I would grunt and sweat my way to a summit, and there survey the land spread before me. Birds sang strange tunes in the trees, and the clouds formed distant plateaux.
     
    The corpses never stayed on the premises for longer than was necessary. I surprised myself daily with the corpses. I learned how to push down gently with a scalpel until the skin gently popped and I was able to slice through the skin, bisecting freckles, drawing a straight line that curved acutely as I changed direction. Once the tattoo was encircled I lifted one edge and attached the clamps. The patch of illustrated epidermis came away relatively easily, needing few nicks and cuts at subcutaneous matter with the scalpel.
    I developed a taste for Italian food, and gradually became known as a high-tipping regular at one of the restaurants. My favourite table, by the window, was always made available for me.
    The summer drew on, and a thick, sultry heat settled on the town. I no longer used my bicycle since I found that Iwas arriving at work with dark circles of sweat under the arms of my shirts, which quickly grew uncomfortable in the air-conditioned office.
    I bought a car after learning to drive one. I found learning difficult, as there were three distinct pedals, a steering wheel, a gearstick, several mirrors, windscreen wipers, indicators, different sorts of lights, and a complex dashboard featuring more dials than I could hope to decipher. And, of course, there was a windscreen, the view from which required constant monitoring.
    However, I eventually overcame these difficulties, and was able to drive to work in the same state of forgetful bewilderment I was sure I shared with my fellow commuters.
    I still sometimes thought about my Giro, but the numbers printed in the little rectangle on the right were indistinct and smudged, and I could not quite make out the amount.
    After all, I had been able to forget most of my girlfriends.
     
    When I had been at the shop for about a year I was in the novel position of manager. I had both a professional and, to a lesser extent, a personal authority over two key workers who I referred to as my team, and two receptionists, one of whom also worked as my secretary.
    In the morning I would look through the photographs of tattoos that had been emailed to me, choosing those which I considered would be quickly resold, or that were particularly artistic and would fetch higher premiums. Most of the surgery (or ‘hackwork’, as we in the team referredprivately to it) was now undertaken by my colleagues, but I still preferred to handle particularly large or prestigious pieces.
    After choosing that day’s purchases and authorising money transfers, I tended to spend an hour or so with my money, moving it from one place to another, in a manner that resembled a ghost playing Patience. I had never seen my money, but I was reassured by the sequences of digits on my computer screen and drew pleasure from watching them increase.
    At lunchtime I would walk to my usual restaurant. I had tried almost everything that had ever been on the menu, but my favourite remained spaghetti Bolognese, and my white napkin caught splatters of salsa di pomodoro as I ate.
    The afternoons were largely occupied with administrative matters. I was now comfortable with A4 paper, but as biros still nagged at a haunted attic of my mind I preferred to use my computer and printing machine, signing letters with a fountain pen.
    Quite often I would spend the evening with the receptionist who also worked as my secretary. We had sex in my new flat, where she would attach me to my bed with ties and belts before taking my erect penis into various parts of herself.
    For a few frightened moments after my orgasm had subsided I worried that she would refuse to untie me, and I would be found by archaeologists of the future on the rusting iron springs of my bed, my flesh mummified on my emaciated frame.

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    I now