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Authors: Terry Richard Bazes
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been alive at the same time, Smedlow would not have cared to meet him. Nonetheless, so dire was his present sense of isolation, that he could not resist the sentimental impulse to touch this ghostly message from the past.
The rock wobbled. A second and more forceful touch slightly dislodged a smaller rock from its position in the wall. He plucked it out, reached his lighter into the cavity, and saw -- not rock -- but pit-black vacancy. Within moments he had shoved his hand back into the hole, grabbed the large rock underneath -- and pulled.
He had just managed to remove this larger rock, lowering it with difficulty onto the floor and then extending his lighter to illuminate the darkened tunnel he’d exposed, when suddenly he heard noises in the hall outside -- a gathering of phlegm and spitting, a jingling of keys. Hurriedly, he strained to pick up first the larger and then the smaller rock and replace them in the wall, mashing his right thumb painfully in the process, when he heard the door open behind him -- and slam shut.
Turning around, he saw her -- the woman they called Ligeia.
She had done up her hair in pigtails. She was wearing a red teddy, which was unfortunately diaphonous. For he couldn’t help noticing that nevuses speckled her swollen udders -- and that a bulging midriff with a convex navel slumped above her lilac garter belt. The thought occurred to him that he could knock her down and grab her keys, but a coral snake had slithered toward the doorway and he had a horror of hazarding that close. It seemed to make matters worse that the woman herself was not in the least bit frightened. Instead, her vast thighs shook like puddings as she began to pace his prison on stilletto heels, smacking a black wire brush against the palm of her left hand:
“Now bend over, mister,” she said, “and drop yer panties.”
Chapter IX.
In which the Prisoner encounters with the Fly and endeavours to escape.
Several minutes had passed since his buttocks had endured the last buffet of humiliation. He had heard the door close behind him, the phlegmy cough and spit of his assailant, the screech of the cross-bolt and the snapping of the locks. His backside burning, his boxer shorts and twilled slacks still around his ankles, Smedlow listened as the high-heels click-clacked down the hallway. That bitch. Even now her odor of hair oil and tobacco -- and the dogbreath of her arousal -- lingered in his nostrils.
His fingertips began to tingle -- and suddenly it was impossible to fight the growing panic that his cell was unbearably too small: familiar symptoms of the fits that had tormented him since childhood. So he was not in the least bit surprised that now his prison began to spin -- the pus-green of the door, the slithering snakes, the filthy sink and seatless toilet, the slimy walls and heap of hay turning faster like a vile carousel until the first suspicion of nausea grew to a conviction in his throat -- and there was nothing left to do but vomit, gasp for air and wet himself.
There, now, wasn’t that better? He found himself lying face-down on the straw, but it was still a few minutes before the spinning would stop and he could calm himself sufficiently to wipe his mouth and legs and pull up his underwear and pants.
His very first fit had overtaken him when Mrs. Kravitz had locked him up among the galoshes and jars of school paste in the third-grade cloakroom. She had found him, ages later, in a puddle of disgrace, a discovery that had been greeted by the shrieking jubilation of his classmates. Unpleasant memories, but sufficient to remind him that he was, in fact, himself, Max Smedlow, a man with a history - - and not a head of cattle to be plundered for its steak by a crew of backwoods cretins.
Something was biting him on the neck. As if by itself, his hand leapt up to smack it, but the instant he
The rock wobbled. A second and more forceful touch slightly dislodged a smaller rock from its position in the wall. He plucked it out, reached his lighter into the cavity, and saw -- not rock -- but pit-black vacancy. Within moments he had shoved his hand back into the hole, grabbed the large rock underneath -- and pulled.
He had just managed to remove this larger rock, lowering it with difficulty onto the floor and then extending his lighter to illuminate the darkened tunnel he’d exposed, when suddenly he heard noises in the hall outside -- a gathering of phlegm and spitting, a jingling of keys. Hurriedly, he strained to pick up first the larger and then the smaller rock and replace them in the wall, mashing his right thumb painfully in the process, when he heard the door open behind him -- and slam shut.
Turning around, he saw her -- the woman they called Ligeia.
She had done up her hair in pigtails. She was wearing a red teddy, which was unfortunately diaphonous. For he couldn’t help noticing that nevuses speckled her swollen udders -- and that a bulging midriff with a convex navel slumped above her lilac garter belt. The thought occurred to him that he could knock her down and grab her keys, but a coral snake had slithered toward the doorway and he had a horror of hazarding that close. It seemed to make matters worse that the woman herself was not in the least bit frightened. Instead, her vast thighs shook like puddings as she began to pace his prison on stilletto heels, smacking a black wire brush against the palm of her left hand:
“Now bend over, mister,” she said, “and drop yer panties.”
Chapter IX.
In which the Prisoner encounters with the Fly and endeavours to escape.
Several minutes had passed since his buttocks had endured the last buffet of humiliation. He had heard the door close behind him, the phlegmy cough and spit of his assailant, the screech of the cross-bolt and the snapping of the locks. His backside burning, his boxer shorts and twilled slacks still around his ankles, Smedlow listened as the high-heels click-clacked down the hallway. That bitch. Even now her odor of hair oil and tobacco -- and the dogbreath of her arousal -- lingered in his nostrils.
His fingertips began to tingle -- and suddenly it was impossible to fight the growing panic that his cell was unbearably too small: familiar symptoms of the fits that had tormented him since childhood. So he was not in the least bit surprised that now his prison began to spin -- the pus-green of the door, the slithering snakes, the filthy sink and seatless toilet, the slimy walls and heap of hay turning faster like a vile carousel until the first suspicion of nausea grew to a conviction in his throat -- and there was nothing left to do but vomit, gasp for air and wet himself.
There, now, wasn’t that better? He found himself lying face-down on the straw, but it was still a few minutes before the spinning would stop and he could calm himself sufficiently to wipe his mouth and legs and pull up his underwear and pants.
His very first fit had overtaken him when Mrs. Kravitz had locked him up among the galoshes and jars of school paste in the third-grade cloakroom. She had found him, ages later, in a puddle of disgrace, a discovery that had been greeted by the shrieking jubilation of his classmates. Unpleasant memories, but sufficient to remind him that he was, in fact, himself, Max Smedlow, a man with a history - - and not a head of cattle to be plundered for its steak by a crew of backwoods cretins.
Something was biting him on the neck. As if by itself, his hand leapt up to smack it, but the instant he
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