Mary Ellen

The afternoon was hot and sultry. The boys decided to go for a ride. They drove out past the river. It stank in the late afternoon too much run off sewage from the nearby trailer parks and pig farms. The methane made the boys a bit testy. They drove by a slack jawed man carrying a pig underneath his arm. He chewed slowly on a hunk of chewing tobacco. He spit and a long quivering drop hung from his lip and he wiped it off with the corner of his red flannel workshirt.
Decidedly, an appropriate thing to do. After long bouts of dizzying memories, he attempted to forget; to forget the blood, the cigarettes, the expense of his LL Bean red flannel shirt (that he had gotten at a bargain actually) the whole thing. As his thoughts welled in him so did the realization that the body was still propped up on the chaise lounge. he would have to go back and clean up a lot of loose ends, especially with Mary Ellen.
Mary Ellen was a problem, because her name wasn’t mary ellen. It was something else entirely. Regardless of what you may think, his name is svengali mustafa amal. The erroneously named mary ellen was in reality a sheep. he fingered the blade of the knife almost sensually. Svengali had quite a blade fetish. Yes. Baaaaa baa mary ellen, daisy fuelgado the lolita sheep. Underaged, soiled and a smooth lay. Svengali had been buggering livestock for many years. Mary -ellen-daisy had to go: it was this simple. Baaa baaa baaawhat is the cause of thunder? His name changed chiast cakky. Herga. His name was chiasm uttered upon chiasm. He fingered the blade of the knife almost sensually.
It glinted. He twisted it between the two pressed edges of his thumb and forefinger. He drew forth a bead of blood. It trickled down his finger. He lifted the finger to his lips. It wasn’t like blood should taste like he thought. Still he wanted some more. The clock in the hall struck eleven and he walked to the front door. It was almost time. Out in the street the air was very dry and tasted of wood when he licked his lips. Why did he want to lick his lips? He remembered the blood when it ran down his fingertip. The street led straight ahead and he walked by the window of a butcher’s shop.
An assortment of meats hung in the window and he looked down to his fiungertip. he raised it to the glass and smeared it down the front as he stared at the meats hanging by hooks.
He finished the last of his beer. He walked through the butcher shop, toyed with the idea of one last dance with those fine cuts of meat and closed the door behind him. His name was no longer “Metzger.” Walking past the alleys of his youth on the dingy and bleak expanse of this meat packing town, he began to weep.
“No longer anything” was his new moniker he thought. At the bus station he prepared once again for the ritual.
He was tired at this point. The murder/ buggery drained and pained. Something in him popped. Tarbubble. The strains of a mariachi band yawned painlessly into the outside air. The stench of bums and piss will remind us, he thought. Gravity will always remind us always.
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Polly anna the sheep is long gone, maybe. Maybe svengali the lonely word that follows us from bus to bus and calls to us from the baggage holds from city to city like a mocking sexual spectre carved by the teeth of a sadistic angel killed no noe no no no one we can’t be sure of a damn thing can we is myrtle dead, buggered, all three?
Blood on the floor and sweat too choke. bill the rapist of livestock and thresher of pastoral virtue is indeed dying his atonement is made and true.
TRUE. TRUE.
He rots in the station, muttering, mary ellen, waltz with me.