No alimentos

No perros
No camisas
No pantalones
No cuchillos
No pistolas
No fumar
No vulgaridades
No dinero
No asiento

Sign Outside Circus Tent

Near Sacrificial Volcano in Nicaragua

I wish I could smell the dirty fat girlish farts

going pop pop out of your pretty bare girlish bum
and fuck fuck fuck my naughty little
hot fuckbirds cunt for ever
James Joyce
In a letter to his wife Nora

JUGGLERS RISKING LIFE & LIMB

A pasty stout Bull Monk again sat furless, peerless upon his ceramic throne,
smacking soft tattoos beneath a prayer cast toward the open portal above the showerstall:
-

A little brrr-eeze for some rainseed please.

White haired, nearnaked and perspiring beneath a late summer stroke of heat, he

sat with headpiece in his ear, a dangling umbilicus to a cellphone upon his knee,
displaying there tight buttocks pounding round rumps: bishopbeating, cyclopslapping,
conkerwonking, monkspunking, clad in but his whiteys bungeed bout his ankles,
headband on his putty pate, the albino killed by the thousands. Passing the club from
hand to hand he prepared for the final feat.
From outside the open shower window, old Mrs. Coolridges television ablaring:
Come to Jesus!
-

Cmon lads, Bull says. You got forty eight hours to prove me a sinner. Youre not to

be spilled, damaged, or wasted. Else all is on me.

Halleluah! Come to Jesus!

Beside him: Tall spittle flecked mirrors and dry basins streaked with spitwash,
upon the counter a toenail clipper recently plied to manicure his deadly grip, two q-tips
crossed with knotty knobs of burnt orange earwax, a roll of paper handy, the last one.
Tools of the trade.
Outside, within Monks plugged earshout, the siren squeal of a waterpump belt as
a gunkgreen pieceofjunk found its parking spot behind the apartment, and with a primal
coughughcoughughcough the engine finally conks. A tired but sturdy shout:
-

Arrgh! Goddamnit!

Zimmeister, home early, why? Bull mutters: tithetaker, papermaster, joyceturbater,

fartsyartsy bill collector.

The TV droned:
-

An old woman came to me one day and said, I am eighty two years old Reverend, and

I have waited for Christ to come to me, when will he come, she cried, Im afraid I cannot
wait any longer. Old woman, I said to her, you are the seeker not He. Christ will not
come to you old woman. You have to find him!
-

Oh god, Bull moans nearing conclusion, redrimmed eyes squinted on the video screen

balanced on alabaster knee, sweaty drools from broad nostrils flaring for breath.
-

Seek the Lord, support your church, seek salvation, support your congregation, seek

redemption, honor your commitment. Trust me, you will find his Word, just as His Word
came to me one day, like scattered pages from a book
Outside this narrow chamber, beckoned by this misunderstood call, the
comeword: god, beastly nails clicktickclicking across the wooden floors, satanclaws

scuttling up to the door, shadows of those evil feet, the snout sniffing beneath the door,
perhaps sees with dark devileyes pressed to the floor the white feet on both sides of the
ceramic fountain, webbed toes clenching the septic tile.
-

Oh dog, Bull growled.

The devilsnout rummages the crack. Bull shudders, his voice cradled in his

throat, his eyes searching for another prayer. Beast whimpers.

-

Go chamuco go!
From above: spiderwebbed corners, soap scummed shower glass, treacleooze

from a dripping spigot, moldy washcloths growing in the corner, empty shampoo bottles,
a razor kissing the tub with an ironrust stain, a coagulated mass morphing in the
drainsink, the tonsured monk persevering at his onanic trade while the devils anxious
snout snorted dustballs from the outer side of the closed door.
-

Salvation is in your hand, I said to her, no matter your frailty, you have to grip onto

like you will never let go.

-

Hey Ms. Coolridge! the Zimvoice shouts from the alleyway as a car door slams. Mrs.

Coolridge! He shouts more loudly. The televangelist is silenced.

-

Yes! Who is it?

Its me, Zim.

You scared the bejesus out of me, Zim! Made me bounce my tea! Lucky I caught it

without breaking anything. These hands aint much use no more.

-

Sorry, Mrs. Coolridge. Didnt mean to scare you. But I was going to say, you were

playing the TV a little loud again.

-

What?

I was saying that Hot today huh? Zim shouted.

Oh mercy, the old woman cried, it sure is. And yesterday it was damn near cold,

wasnt it? Up and down its been. Never in my life, I say, never in my life. Gods will,
you know, though sometimes I think hes just playing games with us. Giving us a toss,
huh?
Across the open shower portal, an angry shadow crosses.
-

Zim shade, Bull mutters.

In his chamber, Bull then felt the intervening clatterslam of the frontdoor, heavy

feet on the hollow flooring boards. A heavy slam, the shatter of broken ceramic, a
yellburst of frustration: Fuck!
Brrrng.
Bull mulls: Just my luck. All hot and bothered bout somethink. Tithecollector
cant stand the heat. Doctor Couldhavebeen. No guts: no gloryhole.
-

Fuck! Zim shouts. Hey Bull! You going to answer that?

Monk notices the doorknob is unlocked. Brrrng. Giant steps stop at the

bathroom door.
Zims voice just beyond the other side of the door:
-

Hey Godly, whatya doing girl?

Thump, thump, thump of the deviltail.
Bull stops. Collectus interuptus. Also a sin. All sinners must pay. Monk eyes

narrow as fresh surgical cuts as the doorknob begins to turn.

-

Loo occupado papel machachito, Bull shouts.

The telephone rings again. Brrrrng! Knob turns back.

Shit, Zim says beyond the door, giantsteps walking away.

Thanky Lawd. Bull thinks: Poor bloke Zim: Still wrestling with seaspawn. Mumless.

To have a hero who watches his wife blow her hole. An eyeful to catch there. Tells you
how he got the bum fluff above the lip. Wonder what it looks like from there: a squidgob.
Helps me: these queer thoughts.
-

Bull! the voice outside shouts again, Brrrrrnggg.

Hold on! Zim shouts, Hello!

Bull concentrates.

He says we come from the ocean, then cmon you buggers, get you out to sea. Find

the rump of a manatee. Pudendum of a porpeeeeee

To a sacksmacking applause, the monk finally spunks, toes curled tighter, head
back, knees shaking, videoshow clattering to the floor. Quick, the last sheets of paperroll.
Bull observes:
Like snot, albumen, chalazae. Our eggs. So old fashioned.
Loosely wipes his hand of his deed. Tosses ball up and and up and down and
down and into the hole! A white tp lifeboat stuck to his thumb with seminal glue.
-

Hey Bull! Zim called more loudly. Phone call!

Ullo, ullo, ullllllo. Toilet flushes on a paperboat of spartan wrigglers.

Sorry to see you go, better than having you swelling the bulges below, right mateys?
Bull shouts:

Take a message!
To himself:

Gotta dump. Always one then the other. Why is that? So with a groan and a huff,
the loafpinching, funkdealing, duecedropping, tailgrowing, cablelaying, dookpunching,
grumpy pushing, turtleheading, muleburning Bull puts food in the dogs water with a
squeeze and a shiver only to discover: no paper. Looking up, the monk stares into his
apartment mates white towel on the hook, wipes, rehangs, foulside turned about.
-

Look at the mirror, Bull says to himself, what do you a see, a man and his porpee

looking at me.
From his ankles pulls up his fruitylooms, band snapped navel high, whiteys
squeezed into the ample crevice behind.
-

Bull! the voice shouts much louder.

What! Bull shouts again, opening the door, entering the living room all belly and

briefs, pastry thighs and blubbery knees, the floor squeaks under wetwebbed toes.
-

Wheres my pizza? Zim says, seething. My pizzas gone.

Emptyhanded, Zim held out his hands to his roommate, hands asking for his

payment, Bull thought, the collector of tenths from deadend pensioners and deadbeat
drunks.
-

I know, Bull mutters noncontrite.

You know, Zim says, you know who ate it.

Yeah, Bull says, I did.

Of course, you fucking pig.

Jo say, Bull says, bellyscratching in front of living room window, a late summer sun

strippled across his pale and formless form. Hungry, Zim persevered in his search amidst
open cans of soda, stale Wonderbread and opened sausage loaves of cookie dough.

Avoiding having to look upon the whitey clad whitey. Like a newborn, diapered, just
spawned, colorless freak. Cloistered in his cave. Counting the ones and zeroes. His
rosary. Over and over. Like sheets of paper scattered across the street, like meaningless
words typed across the service, like characters in the words, the drops of ink. And so on.
Always back to black and white, to one and none.
-

Shit man, Zim says. I wanted that pizza.

Sorry bro', Bull says, clearing a nostril with a finger, crackitching with the other.

What happened here?

-

Tossed my backpack, broke the vase.

So unzimlike.

I lost my fucking manuscript, Zim says.

What? Monk says.

Flew off the car, Im such a dumbfuck. Tried to catch some old fool who fell in the

street. Left my stuff on the trunk of the car. With my laptop. No back up. Gone. Fucking
spread across the universe.
-

Did you catch him?

Huh?

The old guy? Did you catch him?

Fuck no, he was faking it. Some crazy old bastard in the middle of the street. Should

have let him get hit.

Thinking: why would I say that? Not true at all. Of all the stupid thoughts why
pick that one?
-

Fuck Zim, Bull says, thats fucked. Is that why youre home now?

Nah, something happened at work.

Godley prickes at something no one else could hear, leaped up with head low,

hackles raised, tail up, pucked anus pumping as she barked in between low growls, until
the unseen danger vanished, barks reduced to but a few dogcoughs.
-

What is it girl? Zim says.

Something not right about that dog, Zim, when youre not here, never a peep outa her.

You come home and suddenly she sees spooks everywhere. Notice that?
-

Not really, Zim says. How could I?

And all she does when youre gone is scratch, Monk says. All day, can hear her legs

thumping, her chewing, chomping at her own bones. Not good, man. Skins like a seal,
you know, not like fur, feels naked, kinda unnatural feeling, like some unborn beast.
-

If she had hair and shed everywhere youd be griping about that, Zim says, thinking:

Baldy complaining about baldy. Whos balder. One black, one white. Maybe thats it.
Aquatic ape. Mutant. Fetoid. Cant let it bother me.
As compared to their nearest living relatives, the great apes, humans exhibit many
significant differences in anatomy, including bipedalism, hairless skin, increased
subcutaneous fat, greatly expanded brain size, a hooded nose which prevents water from
entering the nostrils, greasy watrproof skin with an abundance of sebaceous glands and
the ability to carry objects in their hands with great dexterity during locomotion,. There
are several variants on the broad theme that early or proto-humans lived in close
proximity to water, gathering much of their food in or near shallow bodies of water and
developing and adapting new modes of locomotion in order to move and gather food
(including handling food with hands while wading, swimming and diving). Proponents

10

have disagreed on the relative importance of fresh water versus coastal or brackish water
habitats. Although the earliest proponents argued for an early (Miocene) timescale most
now favour the view that the critical period of close association with waterside habitats
was much later, since (or just before) the time of the genus Homo.
-

Yea well, Bull says, story on the telly today about a pit turning on its master. Chewed

her face off. No lips but shes still saying she wants the beast back, was her sweetheart
since a pup. But what you going to do man?
-

About what?

About your stuff?

Nothing I can do. Maybe it was a sign.

Sign of what?

To quit. To quit fucking around.

Youre quitting the paper huh? Thats why you are here.

I wish.
Bull mulls. A lull. Hooded nostrils flaring.

Did you just guff an eggie man?

Yea.

Fuck. Hear about the kid killed by a falling bullet, Bull said, was in the paper.

Yea, I read about it.

What you think the chances of that are, Monk said. Zero, I think.

Then it wouldnt have happened.

You cant give it a number, cuz you cant even fathom the multitude of variables.

11

They give you odds on being eaten by a shark, Zim mutters. Three million to one or

something.
-

But a shark seeks a leg. Bullet doesnt seek a little boys head. Its too random to

consider. Unknowable I think.

-

I see what you mean. Zim says. Thinking: they say a bullet hits the ground at the

same speed it was shot up. Doubt thats true. Other forces, like wind. Slows it down.
Will probably find out it was the stepdad who did it. Also in the paper: death of Dr.
Burge. Professor of philosophy. Died of lung cancer. Dedicated to theory of language.
Known for lively lectures on epistemology. Yea right. Lively as his funeral. Gave me a
C. He smoked and drank Coke all lectures long. Told me: us scientists need to learn how
to write. Enjoyed his hobbies which included magic acts and sleight of hand. Who
thought to place that obit, who came up with that stuff, why put it in at all, live your life
dedicated to truth then vanish without a sight. Bottom line: no one cares.
-

Hey Zim we had two million hits today. Bull says dully, humming from a finger filled

nostril.
-

Fucking deal.

It is a fucking deal man, Bull scowls with a draw of his belly, clench of buttocks. Its

a fucking big deal. Two million and its only six pm. Weve caught the wave from
Hawaii and now Tokyo comes up to bat. Sometimes around eight well get Shanghai,
then Beijing, all of China one time zone, can you believe, it? They all work twenty four
hours anyway, so who cares. Two million and we still got Delhi, St Petersburg. The
fucking world banging at my door, inside my case. Can feel their fingers man, those
millions of fingers reaching in, feeling around, love that feeling man.

12

Eat your own fucking food, Zim says, closing the refrigerator door.
Zim could not bear to look upon his pigment challenged mate. On the door, held

by magnets and chunks of duct tape: Polaroid of Baby Godley. Still cute. Remember:
Need to buy her some food. Forgot again today and yesterday. Coaster from Pale Moon
Saloon. Skillessly torn magazine article on Napsters death. Picture of Johnny Cash, old,
dying in a cheap hotel. Drawing of a womans legs parted upon a dark triangle. Ticket
stubs faded into the unknown. Letter from Momma Bull, a recipe for bean soup.
Reminder of a dentist visit nearly seven months ago. Looking across the wreckage in the
sink, a paperbag leaking some kind of rotten kill, flies banging heads on the window.
Pig. No worse. Swine too clean. Only humans live knowingly in their own shit. Video
of that pig: appetite gone. Pillsbury boy. Worlds fingers up his ass. Find a bunch of
worms wriggling back. Everyones got them. His like pumpkin strings. Eating my pizza
soon.
Zim picks up a scrap of paper with some scribbling on it.
-

Is this a message for me? Zim asks.

I think so, Bull says, eyes closing on the feeling of being pleasantly fingered.

What does it say?

That gal at work.

Who?

Same as always.

Whats the message?

Dont know, that same bitch that always calls. Pen out of ink.

13

You know what, Zim says, dont even answer the phone if you cant write down the

message, okay?
-

Okay, easy man. Bull says. Whats buggin you man?

Work is shit. Manuscripts are dancing all around downtown. No fucking pizza.

Some guy standing in front of me in his underwear asking me too many questions.
Zim thinking: Looking for me. Wont stop calling I suppose. Bonders. Goons.
Coming round, I guess.
-

Sorry dude. Monk said. Hey, who called for me?

Who do you think? Your mom, the only person who ever calls for you.

Yea well, the phone is for moms and bill collectors.

Zim Mask should know: navigator of the suburban sprawl, collector for the daily

tripe from the poor and destitute. He shook his worried head at the pale and sickly
Dominick Felonius Monk: Fat and white as a greasy corpuscle. Shapeless. Formless.
Grey lips, pink eyes. Towheaded nap. Headphone always on his ear, cord hanging like a
catheter, his life support. Counts his worth by how many hits he gets from strangers. Two
million by a tenth penny is two grand. But he could give a shit. Its the touches upon his
brain, the fingers that caress his inner sanctum. Thats the warmth he craves. Music the
universal language. Or is it math. Maybe all the same. All ones and zeroes. Same as
love. Family. All the same. So easy that way.
-

Been wanting to tell you, Bull says, reaching out again. Truman and I finally got our

new program up and running. Remember, started just counting mutations in the song,
changes which can tell us how many times a song gets traded. Working perfecto man.

14

Zim was following the odor of something rotten, something dead. Beneath a
gravemound of plates. Hunger no longer an issue.
- Were charting song DNA man. Song mutations. Most mutations you cant hear,
benign, dont make any difference to the song. But you can see them with my program.
And there are hundreds of them in every song. Some songs can have thousands maybe
millions but the song sounds just like the original. Then some songs come back with one
mutation and it is totally fucked up. This is so cool man. You gotta see it.
-

That is cool, Zim answers, cooling down.

But wait, Bull says, theres more. Thiss got bigger implications. Suppose you took

all the mutated versions of this one song and pooled them all together, averaged them but
in a more sophisticated way. Shared all the data between them. Joined all their DNAs.
What do you think youd get?
-

I dont know, Phil Collins?

Ive done it a bunch of times. I dont know why, but the song after you bring all these

mutations together, the song like has no flaws anymore. Must be something
mathematical to it. But pool them and you get close to perfection, back to the original
state.
-

Sure, unreliable units join to make the most reliable systems. Statistics I like. God I

dont.
-

Right. Order from disorder. Just what I told you.

No, statistics point at a cause. Blind or not. There is a cause.

15

But just think Zim, the song is a person and it is like full of mutations and shit, all

fucked up. Still living, still eating and stuff, but all messed up. Now you join them all
together and it cancels out the bad, leaves only the good.
-

Something to think about. Tell me when you figure out what the good is.

You know what I think. I think this means evolutionary theory is wrong. Individuals

are not fighting for survival, the whole is what is surviving, individuals are flawed, but
just the bits and pieces in a whole system. The whole system is striving for perfection,
moving towards something. Weve been looking at everything with the wrong
magnification if you know what I mean. Need to pull back a bit, then new patterns
emerge.
-

I know where this is heading. Sorry, sounds way too religious to me.

Bro, its how you choose to understand the overall picture of things. You said

yourself we cant think of something without a point of reference. I think this is it, man,
the holy fucking grail. The point of reference has to be beyond ourselves. That is what
this is all about. It leads to some real tough stuff. Like web consciousness dude.
Zim walked across the living room to the couch. Look around as if for a last time:
Fake flowers near the kitchen sink. Framed poster of Jack the pumpkin man. Poster of
Andy Warhol, magenta and green. Plates and spoons on the table near the front door.
Aviator sunglasses a lens missing. Ashtray filled with chewed cherry pits. Bottles of
pimple cream on the coffee table. Piles of magazines and newspaper ads. A gutted
computer beside the couch. An LCD TV on a couple cement blocks. Coke cans. A
stained towel. One sock and two running shoes on the floor. A large print of Miles Davis
fallen from the wall to the floor. He picked up several newspapers and an empty fast

16

food bag off the couch seat. Tossed them aside and sat down. What if they come by and
he is not there? What if they fuck with Bull?
-

Hey Zim?

Huh?

Need a favor bro?

Say no, Zim, stand your ground. Told you that DNA story just to scrounge some

money. The bum on the street: will burn his finger for five bucks.
-

Rent man. Just until next week.

Lease is in Monks hookermoms name. Let her pay.

You got the money I gave you for my rent? Zim asks.

Sure man. I just need mine.

Godly, the blacknosed pit, hairless tarbaby, suddenly looked up, staring at her

reflection in the picture frame sitting on the floor. Didnt know dogs could see their
reflection. Recognize the reflection is them. Or even another dog. Why now, why for a
moment. Self-consciousness a momentary thing with dogs. Maybe. Same with Bull. On
again off again. But animals see same things as us. Trees. Walls. World must be as it is.
Also see things we dont: earthquakes. Wonder what they see? Color maybe. Monk may
be right. Could pop off without a hint.
-

Think you can help? Monk begs

Well, I dont have it with me now.

Thats okay, later is fine. Maybe you can bring it by Robertos? Im there all night.

Ill get a money order at the liquor store and slip it under her door on my way home.
-

It was due yesterday.

17

I know. I know. I got it covered. I slip it under the back door and call her in the

morning. Ask her if she got my payment. No, shell say. Funny, I say, I put it right
under your door. The front door, shell ask? No, of course not. I put it under the back
one. Wouldnt want any one to steal it.
Godley barks as a shadow appears at the screen door.
-

Hey Bull, Trumans shadow calls out.

Alright, Zim says.

Thanks man. Hey Truman, come in, Bull shouts.

Truman enters with his skate board, wethaired, sweat beaded across his face,

soaking through his t-shirt, wearing green and brown army fatigues. Pimpled across
brow, cheeks and chin. Zits what the ocean gave us. Duckdogs some of us: Bull. Truman
closes both doors behind him.
-

How did it go man? Bull asks Truman.

No luck. Old man told me to fuck off. His old lady was there. He has to act tough

when shes around. Wouldnt even give me the car. Had to skate all the way over here.
Hey, I need to crash here a while, hope thats okay.
-

Goddamn it.

Sorry man, but you know what pricks old mens can be. We all got em. Well, mine

aint mine if you know what I mean.

You mean we all get fathered, Zim thought. Sons the fathers of fathers now.
Stayed kids. Had kids and those kids now have to raise their daddikids. What happened
to the fate of repeating your fathers mistakes? Not possible this time around. Dads too
fucked up.

18

Godley lifts its head and barks.

-

Another spook, Zim says.

A hard knock at the door, the bell rings.

Fuck, now what, Bull half whispered, looking nervously at the door.
Now what is you dont eat, Zim thought. Wont hurt you. Guess you dont steal

from dads wallet. Smack you. Wouldnt know. Moms purse never knew what was
missing. Only real men got fathers. Look at Bull. Still sucking titmilk. What about me?
-

Just a minute, Bull yells at the door. In a lower voice, he talks to the other two, we

asked JJ to come over with some weed. Zim, sorry man, but just until tomorrow? Need
a hundred. Truman here was supposed to come with it, dad fucked him. Add it to the loan
I owe you?
-

Versus the loan you wont pay me?

Cmon.

Then what, Zim says, we get kicked out when you dont have rent?

Comon we'll split it with you.

Fifty fifty?

Thirty tres times tres. Cmon man.

Fuck, Zim says, as he pulled out his wallet. Sponge. My money. My pizza. No

paper so he uses my towel to wipe his ass.

Door bell rings again. Godly gets up, barks, walks to the closed door.
-

Just a minute, Bull hollers, be right there.

On the wall, Zim catches the bearded gaze of the tone deaf Che Guevara. Why

Che? Bull somehow betraying me. Can feel it. Zim handed five twenties to flourwhite

19

Bull and two exchanges were made. Five greenbacks for a small white triangle. Host
from Bull to Zim, thumb to thumb. Bull completes a third quick exchange with the man
beyond the door. JJ has spread his influence over the evening.
-

Hey Zim, Truman says, Did Bull tell you about

Yep, he did.

Come take a look

No, gotta get cleaned up. Got some things I got to do tonight.

Were right here bro if you want some hierba, Bull says, then sucked like a withering

cloud into the darkness of his lair.

Zim closed the bathroom door and turned on the shower. A heat wave had settled
over the town, making the rounds unbearable. Had to quit: bond agents looking for him
now. Picked up a few extra payments then escaped. Old lady on Redwood again trying to
quit the paper. Only twenty five bucks for three months you said to her. But I cant even
read any more she said, not with these cataracts. And my hands are so shaky I can even
hold the paper still enough to read even if I could read it. And besides all that, she said, I
doubt I will even be around for three months to tell you the truth. Me: such a piece of
shit. Got her to pay anyway. Needed the money you know.
Stripping off his green company shirt and then his jeans, he was soon beneath the
cool waters. Perhaps Bull on to something. Narcissism attractive only to narcissists.
Weve spent decades idolizing the individual. Zim rubbed the soapbar clean, dropped it
once, then twice before he lathered it against himself. How to make up for a year of
work. Start over again. Must all be in there. Memories never die. Fade. Get lost. Can

20

always find them again. Redoing it all: unbearable to think about. Still could be better
the second time around. Better writer now. Maybe. Cant stand our own sweat on our
skins. When did that begin. Feels same as the ocean. Same salt content. Sweat stings
the eyes. Perhaps we didnt come from the sea. Probably not watermonkeys if that was
always the case. A womans theory: so no one cares. He looked down while the water
flowed over his head. Noticed his belly. Getting pregnant. Pretty soon wont be able to
see the guy below. Disappearing. Back to the muck. No pretty flower you.
The ugliest are the future. Basic evolutionary principle. Change never pretty.
Claws on the end of a flipper. First thumbs, no tail: must have caused a whooping and a
hollering among the aborigines. Only a mother could love her geek. Prodigital son.
Gotta survive the infantocide first. Natures tough. Email from sis this morning: moms
got cancer. No surprise Id be last to know: shell only tell me shes dead after the fact:
not with a check, but with a condescending note sent to someone else: and if you should
ever see my son, please let him know that much to my continuing disappointment there is
no difference between now and then: as in life in death.
Turning off the water, he sees only one towel hanging on the door. Turns it
around: Bulls ass striping my towel again. What to do? Toilet paper. All gone. Gotta
leave this sty. Maybe tonight. Why wait. Zim uses his shirt to dry off his skin. Rubs his
hair, looks in the mirror. Whats this? He notices a piece of toilet paper stuck to the side
of his nose. Plucks it with his little finger. Flicks it away, doesnt notice it still sticks to
his finger. Pressure on the backside swelling.
Flatus is expelled under pressure through the anus, whereby, as a result of the
voluntary or involuntary relaxation of the anal sphincter, the rapid evacuation of gases

21

from the lower intestine occurs. The olfactory components of flatulence include skatole,
indole, and sulfurous compounds. The non-odorous gases are mainly nitrogen (ingested),
carbon dioxide (produced by aerobic microbes or ingested), and hydrogen (produced by
some microbes), as well as lesser amounts of oxygen (ingested) and methane (produced
by anaerobic microbes). Depending upon the relative state of the sphincter
(relaxed/tense) and the positions of the buttocks, this often results in a crackling or
trumpeting sound, but gas can also be passed quietly. The sound varies depending on the
tightness of the sphincter muscle and velocity of the gas being propelled, as well as other
factors such as water and body fat. The auditory pitch (sound) of the flatulence outburst
can also be affected by the anal embouchure. Among humans, flatulence occasionally
happens accidentally, such as incidentally to coughing or sneezing; on other occasions,
flatulence can be voluntarily elicited by tensing the rectum or "bearing down" and
subsequently releasing the anal sphincter, resulting in the expulsion of a flatus. Some
individuals learn to control mucle tension and timing of it release to create controlled
sounds or what has been promoted as flautus music. Flatus is brought to the rectum via
peristalsis, which also causes feces to descend from the large intestine, and may cause a
similar feeling of urgency and discomfort. Nerve endings in the rectum usually enable
individuals to distinguish between flatus and feces, although loose stool can confuse the
individual, occasionally resulting in accidental defecation.
Pfoooooooooooooooooooooot.
-

Clean, dressed and anxious to depart, Zim is met by two stoned imps. Bull is dressed

in t-shirt and shorts. Flip flops on his yellownailed, blueveined, webtoed, nopigment feet.
Truman with a slinky in both hands.

22

Who in the hell made millions coming up with this thing, Truman said. Stupid thing.

You been playing with it for a half an hour dude, Monk said. And you know why? Its

fractals. The curve of its motion and the curve of the coils. Human mind naturally drawn
to stuff like that.
-

True huh. I love that brain shit, Truman said. Show on TV the other night on

lobotomies. Guy used to do them with icepicks. In his office.

-

No way! Bull said.

Yes way! In and out. Go in, sit down, ten minutes later you got a lobotomy. Back to

work. Whatya think Zim?

-

Not now. Gotta go.

Bull, hey tell him your theory on here, Truman shrieked gleefully. Go ahead, tell him

Bull.
-

Its . Bull laughing its neither here nor there. The pixies crumpled into laughter.

And here and there are everywhere, Truman recovers just long enough to say, then

laughing even harder.

-

Here, says Bull composing himself, is whatever we chose to put here. Here can be

created from there or anywhere.

-

I see, Zim says without a smile. And is this theory for place or for time?

Huh, Truman asked.

I dont know, says Bull, probably both, his laughter softening to an open mouth of

bloodless lips and bloodshot eyes like bloody bullet holes.

-

Then you havent given it much thought, Zim says, preparing to take his leave.

Huh, hey where you going? Truman asked.

23

Out. Gotta get some dog food.

Well go too, Monk toned. Munchies much needed and desired.

Ok, see you.

No, well accompany the Zimman, Bull says.

Thats ok, Zim says.

Were ready, lets go Bull, Truman says, pushing them all out into the night air.

END OF CHAPT ONE

24