For Too Many Decades
— now at last —- two jabs of a delicate needle
- rollicking witch laughter
- small nostrils wrinkled fastidiously
- since life crawled from the sea
- old Doctor Sour-apple
- godawful Scotch porridge
- dressed as others dressed
For too many decades I harbored this thirst for vengeance, this desperate drive to make old Doctor Sour-apple pay for his culinary crimes. The godawful Scotch porridge he served every day for breakfast is my only memory of a childhood spent studying and training at his wretched Institute. To go unnoticed on my mission of revenge I dressed as others dressed in the twisting halls of the Institute, the way apprentices have dressed since life crawled from the sea. I kept my small nostrils wrinkled fastidiously as if I could still smell the terrible stench coming from the kitchen, even though years ago, with two jabs of a delicate needle, I severed the nerves in my nose, rendering myself anosmic. In this way, apprentice-berobed and nostrils aquiver, I made my way unchallenged to Doctor Sour-apple’s chambers and peered through the keyhole. From inside I could hear the phonograph he always played, the gargling sounds of rollicking witch laughter that passed for music in his estimation. As the cacophony reached its crescendo, I flung the doors wide and somersaulted into the room, placing three bullets in Sour-apple’s chest.
“I’ve been — waiting for you — so long,” Doctor Sour-apple gasped with his dying breaths, “— now at last — I am — released.” He shuddered and went still, a smile on his gray lips.
fetlocks of many oxen