In the coming weeks I drew closer, closer. I followed her at night, the kid followed me. We met up at Henry's. As I approached her table, the kid arrested me, pulled me down beside him into a red booth.
"What are you trying to do," he said, "fuck my Moms? Are you fuckin' my Moms?"
"Not yet, son. But it is coming. The god is coming. He of the Old Forest, the King of the Fauns."
"What's that, some kind of faggot? You're a faggot. Why you wanna fuck my Moms? What's wrong with me?"
"Why, you're just a kid. You're a baby. Take that hand off my arm. You are arresting circulation."
"That's just tough titty said the kitty. Live with it, work it into your act. My Moms is outa your zone, Bonzo. Now run on back to the Trees."
"Don't much care for the Trees. I'm allergic."
"Fuck that. Fuck it. Fuck you."
I made with a Vulcan grip to his hand and it wilted into a claw of Thalidomide. His arm soon retracted into his torso, leaving only the promise of more arms to come, larger ones. He flapped it like chicken wing which had been plucked and singed. It looked singed. Now he really looked dorky, like the dork that he was.
His mother looked on, horrified, from the smoky, tinkling distances of light and bodies, of mirror frames, glancing lenses, mopes spuming beer.
