Blog #37: The Path of Totality

Blog #37: The Path of Totality

She was almost attractive, and you could tell she was bitter about the near miss… with a behind just a tad too generous for the hot-pants she sported—and a face to match! (Whatever that meant…) The only thing reasonably attractive about her was her neck: it was beautiful! Long (though not in a giraffe-ish kind of way) and smooth and thin and graceful and softly tanned and nicely moisturized but not greasy… Many were the men who had gazed longingly at her neck, only to find themselves forced unto the harsh reality of her sneering lips or cloudy eyes or pocked complexion or myriad, nubby breasts (like a cat, she had as few as four but as many as ten at any given moment, but always an even number) or her hair, like a splattering of dung by something that had eaten a lot of string. Instead of proper feet, she had lobster claws—but if ever she was caught with her shoes off she pretended she was from Maine; her accent wasn’t great, but she could sell it with how she smelled sort of fishy.

Her name was Petra Oleaginos—of the New South Bedford West Oleaginoses (the ones from the old, upper east side in the north part of town)—and most everyone just called her Petra Oleaginos. It was, of course, not at all original, but then again—


Hoyt Dvorak wasn’t having any of it.

“I’ll not have it,” he said in complete redundancy to the narrative. “It simply shall not be!”

“It’s already done, you big hoyt-dvorak,” said Petra, pulling the muck of her hair away from her neck and whorishly thrusting her throat toward him. Seeing he was not to be mesmerized by her sultry neckedness, she festered glumly half a moment. “And, anyway, is it really so bad?”

“To have my dreams shattered?” replied Hoyt, sprawled out upon the cold, snowy ground—in Christ-like effigy (sans the bleeding wounds, but complete with torn and tawdry loincloth). Hoyt Dvorak was like a fungus, only taller. “To have my hopes and desires stripped from me? Then where am I—what am I left with if I’ve been utterly bereft of everything that makes my life worthwhile?”

Petra shrugged. “Eggs?”

“Hm, yes, thank you.” Hoyt was barely mollified. Dragging himself up and burrowing into his coat, he sat down beside Petra on the park bench. “The dreams of your desires are the lies your spleen sodomizes your brain with—”

“Why are you tell me this?!” screamed Petra, tearing out clumps of her rancid hair and cramming it into her ears. “What does it even mean? Spleenly sodimization and—”

Oo-hey—ooo, hey… I ain’t jes waxin’ rhapsodic to get in yer unders, babe.” Hoyt kind of gave her the squinty eye, like maybe there was sumpin’ up—but he weren’t about ta let on none…

“I don’t mind!” wailed Petra, squirmy-faced, hot jam on her neck, emitting an odor not unlike fresh grouper. She did a quick nipple count: Seven… that can’t be right!? Uh, one’s the doorbell…

“Oh, Petra Oleaginos,” said Hoyt, wistfully. “What now? I don’t think I feel rather well.”

Pausing in the feeling up of her self, Petra, abruptly concerned, asked, “You don’t— Where don’t you feel well?”

“Everywhere I go.”

“No, I mean… on a scale from one to ten, how bad do you feel?”

“A scale from one to ten?” Hoyt pondered. “Really fucking awful!”

“Oh, well, you feel… awful?” reiterated Petra; she refused to say “fucking,” so she psychically licked his all-over and moaned instead. “I’m truly sorry to hear that. Why don’t you feel good?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, with a shiver—no doubt, Petra mused, due to her mental tonguing of his person… “Maybe I have the clap.”

“Uh! You do not have the clap, you big, crazy monkey, you!” Petra frowned. Hoyt did look a bit like a gorilla… albeit one covered in beige algae.

“Or—no, no, what is that other one? Rickets? Or angina? Or the bleeding gonorrhea? Or shingles? Or the mange? Or… or the clap again?”

“What,” began Petra, sternly, “(and/or who) did you do to get the clap?”

“Nothing,” Hoyt insisted. “(And/or nobody.)”

“Then you don’t have the clap.”

“Yeah, but what about, like, spontaneous enclapment?” Hoyt insisted. “Is that a thing?”

“I doubt it.”

“Well, it had to have started somewhere… Or maybe it’s like the stigmata?”

“No. But, you know what? You, Hoyt Dvorak, are such a bloody whiner,” said Petra, standing to loom over Hoyt, hands on hips (at first hers but then, obtrusively, his), as she scolded. “Look at me—really, truly look at me! What do you see? How do you think I feel, to be this?!”

“Oh, well… I—” Hoyt felt stunned, but he did as she bade and, perhaps for the very first time ever, honestly, objectively looked at her. “Petra Oleaginos, you… you’re beautiful!”

Kneeling to hover creepily in his lap, a tear rolling down her cheek, Petra’s heart soared. “Am I? Do you mean it, Hoyt? Am I… am I beautiful?!”

“Well, I mean… your neck’s not so bad.”

Not letting his praise go to her head, she kept things on track. “What you have to get into your brain, mister—” And she poked him determinedly in the belly. “—is shit happens! Alright? And then you get over it.”

“And what happens if you don’t get over it?”

“You get covered in shit.”

Nodding his agreement, Hoyt said, “You’re not wrong, Petra Oleaginos. You’re not wrong!” Pulling her up beside him, he hugged her close, trying not to have her hair touch him at all. “And, you know—but at the end of the day, that’s America for you: it’s all about the money and the tits.”

“What about in the morning?” asked Petra.

“In the morning,” replied Hoyt, glowering omnifariously, “there is death.”

“Ah-ha!” squealed Petra Oleaginos, slapping him about the skull and torso and exuberantly clicking her feet and spurting ink from her eyes. “And here I thought there was death—and then the mourning!”

“…I hate you…”



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—Mishka Zakharin © 2015


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