BY FRANCIS CROT
Malton. Two days previously.
Mr. Chinwag was glad he hadn’t the mumps. He was a talking donkey – well! – the guy who played him on this kids’ TV show. But he was bringing the office home plenty. And to those who knew him, and in his own mind, he was that motherfucking talking donkey.
What he had instead of mumps was a very bad throat infection. The physician told him to take time off. It was OK, there were two other men who could operate the same donkey suit. The very same. You can’t just stand down a donkey like that. You have to integrate him into society or there’ll be tears before bed time. Scratch that, there will be royal cataracts of shuddering plasma long before anyone’s even “feelin kinda sleepy.”
Yes, pretty soon, there’s going to be so much blood, all the real blood will be used up, and the blood of fiction and drama will begin to pump. The blood of blog. Macbeth will be totally drained, transformed into a dessicated comedy of manners. Just before Macbeth and Titus Andronicus and practically anything by Seneca tip their awesome offal, a gut-shot chaplain will fount the blood of totally unscathed bystanders. “Hey! That’s my blood!” “I haven’t any left of my own I” strangled sob “haven’t any left.”