BUFFA

by
Paul Kavanagh

Chalk and cheddar we are, said Satogata.

True blue we are, said Grunfeld.

A drink? Asked Satogata.

Love to share a drink, replied Grunfeld.

Satogata pulled the cork from the cheap wine bottle and passed the cheap wine bottle to Grunfeld.

The sound is slightly above the level I�m accustomed to, said Grunfeld.

It�s the reverberation, said Satogata.

It�s like a ball of fart in the gut just before it is blown out, said Grunfeld.

I concur, I said Satogata.

A ball of fart that is trapped and too big for the gut, said Grunfeld.

Jouncing around the tubes, a bag of wind, said Satogata.

Just like a leather football, said Grunfeld.

If it doesn�t come out of the arse it will escape through the mouth, said Satogata.

Like this, said Grunfeld.

From the open mouth of Grunfeld an obstreperous belch was ejaculated. Grunfeld directed the belch in the direction of Satogata. A deleterious swirl of reek, of sour cabbages, damp socks, sour saccharine wine, putrid phlegm was vacuumed up by Satogata�s hairy mucus encrusted nostrils. Satogata jumped pugnaciously, fatuously to his feet and danced with fist clenched like an old time boxer. A pantomime of doggy braggadolio. It was a compound of the Queensbury�s rules and the foxtrot. Grunfeld was too lethargic to run, his new shoes were too small for his flat feet. Grunfeld was overcome with pusillanimity. He whimpered, wept and entreated silently.

Comets of Pluto! Bellowed Satogata.

Wasn�t me, it wasn�t! Exclaimed Grunfeld.

Who b�jesus was it? Demanded Satogata.

It was my daemon it was, confessed Grunfeld.

Knowing the seriousness of the situation Satogata sat back down into the muddy puddle. Satogata pulled the bottle from Grunfeld and swigged greedily. Before swallowing Satogata swirled the cheap wine around his toothless canker filled mouth.

It wasn�t me, it was that bad soul, said Grunfeld.

The what? Spluttered Satogata.

When the thinkers dichotomized the soul from the body they realized that the body contained two souls, one good and one bad, informed Grunfeld.

Bloody hell! Bellowed Satogata.

Shut the hell up you bleeders! Came a hoarse scream from under a sodden rag.

But the bugger�s been ejaculated, said Grunfeld.

He has, said Satogata.

He has, said Grunfeld.

Satogata lowed his head to Grunfeld gut and Grunfeld tapped his gut to illustrate that the gut was empty. A tenebrous, hollow echo reciprocated. Satogata removed his head from Grunfeld�s gut.

It�s true, you�re empty, said Satogata.

I�ve no badness, sin or evil now in me, pure, said Grunfeld.

Satogata sang a song ebulliently, clapped his hands with felicity, and was ostensibly overcome with euphoria. Grunfeld did not feel the ecstasy Satogata felt.

Listen to those rags, snoring away, filled with farts, it�s an orchestra of wind instruments it is, and can you hear the farts? Asked Grunfeld.

I can and smell them, answered Satogata.

Around Satogata and Grunfeld were a bundle of sodden rags. There were rags desultorily scattered under the bridge. Under the rags there were a myriad of dreamers. Satogata swirled the snotty wine around at the bottom of the bottle.

You know there are a myriad of different farts, you have the common loud fart, you have the silent fart, the wet fart, the raffia fart, the musical fart, the bang, the whimper, the monotonous fart, the mellifluous fart, the dry that turns to wet fart, the spray, the delayed fart, and there�s more, informed Grunfeld.

And the smells, you have the bitter, the sweet, the sour, the peppery, the burnt rubber smell, the saccharine ones, the poached eggs, the putrid beef, the maggot infested ones, the cancer, the decomposing body ones, and let�s not forget the rats that crawl up your arse, informed Satogata.

Satogata lifted a cheek out of the muddy puddle and produced a loud fart. The sound reverberated under the bridge.

See I have a rat up me arse, confessed Satogata.

Those damn Rats, said Grunfeld.

Satogata finished the last of the dregs and expectorated the phlegm. Grunfeld pulled the cork from a bottle of cheap wine and swigged greedily. A huge smiled appeared upon the countenance of Satogata. The smile dissipated with the witnessing of the wine disappearing. Grunfeld ceased drinking and passed the bottle to Satogata. Satogata swirled the snotty dregs around at the bottom of the bottle. The effluvium was discoloured. Satogata could discern bits of immolated pork, blood, puke and the detritus of liver and kidney. Grunfeld would soon be dead. His nacreous integument, his protruding cerulean veins, his bulbous orbs advertised the inevitable. His clammy skin was cold, his tics and paroxysms articulated to Satogata that when he transpired Grunfeld would accompany him on his journey has he accompanied him within the corporeal and temporal dominion.

A thinker once said that man was unhappy because he couldn�t say indoors, said Grunfeld.

He wasn�t one of the rags was he? Asked Satogata.

Wish I had a tab, lamented Grunfeld.

Yes, a B and H would be a treat, said Satogata.

I�ve not had a fag in ages, bewailed Grunfeld.

I was once beautiful, me, reflected Satogata.

You was? Impugned Grunfeld.

Grunfeld mopped the thick desiccated mud from his lids and looked closely at Satogata. The topography of blackheads, seeping puss, eczema, fleabites, erysipelas, parestheisa, sores, haemorrhaging scabs Grunfeld traversed. It was a map of diseases and blemishes. It was a proclamation of moribundity. The integument was ecru. The orbs were inundated with blood and piss. The lips were wan and furrowed. The last time Satogata had shaved the blade had been rust. Satogata would be dead before Grunfeld.

I was up there with Hyacinth, Narcissus, Nireus and Tyro, said Satogata.

What happened? Asked Grunfeld.

Nags, donkeys, ponytails, hounds, bitches; I�m bankrupt, broke, ruined, waiting for the end of the day when all these debts come true, said Satogata.

What will happen at the end of the day? Asked Grunfeld.

I�ll pop me clogs! Bellowed.

Shut the hell up you bleeders! Came a hoarse scream from under a sodden rag.

I�ve sinned, said Satogata.

You have, said Grunfeld.

I�m in need of somebody to carry me load, said Satogata.

It will be a heavy load, said Grunfeld.

Too heavy, said Satogata.

Old Nick wont need mountains to tip the scales, said Grunfeld.

I need to pass on me sins, said Satogata.

You do, said Grunfeld.

I do, said Satogata.

Satogata finished the last of the dregs and expectorated the phlegm.

I need to stretch me legs, said Satogata.

It�s death; it starts in the toes, moves into the legs, and then, said Grunfeld.

Satogata lugubrious got to his feet, it was an onerous endeavour filled with farts, belches and the fracturing of bones worthy of Methuselah. Once on his feet, with equilibrium, and not oscillating, Satogata motioned to Grunfeld to pass him one of the bottles of wine. Next to Grunfeld there were two full bottles of cheap wine. Grunfeld pulled the cork from the wine bottle and took a voracious swig. From the open mouth of Grunfeld an obstreperous belch was ejaculated. Grunfeld directed the belch in the direction of Satogata. In the reek Satogata took the half empty bottle of wine from the obsequious Grunfeld.

Now you can�t blame that on the bad soul, said Satogata.

What? Asked Grunfeld.

You said earlier that you ejaculated the bad soul, said Satogata.

Did I, I can�t remember, said Grunfeld.

You did, you said, and I remember crystal clear that you�ve no badness, sin or evil now in you, pure, you said you were, pure pure said Satogata.

And so I am, said Grunfeld.

Satogata lifted the bottle up and smashed the bottle across Grunfeld�s countenance. The bottle exploded into a myriad of coruscating splinters. The wine washed away the blood that cascaded from Grunfeld�s apertures. Grunfeld was blinded for the glass pierced his vitreous orbs. Grunfeld was too blind to run and his new shoes were too small for his flat feet. Satogata held the jagged bottle in his hand, with the other hand he grabbed Grunfeld�s hairy pate and held it back has he stabbed frantically into the countenance.

� Paul Kavanagh
Reproduced with permission

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