The Endurance

by brightonsauce

Not sure about this one, maybe lacks an ingredient, maybe lacks story, or meaning, or anything of substance in any way, whatsoever…number ninety-eight thousand, a development piece, continued masturbation forever ;”[ …I’ll keep typing, see if I can fix it up, a little bit, at least, I’m very sorry.

The Endurance, draft two, sense version

by brightonsauce

ENDURANCE, pt 1 only, dr [probably] 2, diary. Drafting, almost there, edit up now.

SCENE 1, BEDROOM

‘Go now, for the shop,’ said Maddy’s wife. ‘for provision, and for we for need, and require, tobacco, and the other such grubby items as you see fit,’ she said, ‘and tampax too, remember me,’ she said.

‘Tiresome, quite dreadful chore,’ replied Maddy ‘Yet, I shall go provision because, my love, it is Friday night, because  I have no work experience tomorrow, hooray.  Weekend is ours, alone-time, to eat chocolate, and to fornicate as we please, honey, all over the place.  Please honey, and baby, please [me],’ he said.

‘…Fetch cat food, and for my extras only a tiny Cointreau miniature,’ she said, ‘[for] my night cap, my lovely’  she said it, and she giggled [finely].  A princess, she wore the fluffy brown dressing gown, tiny finger pressed to her tiny lips. She was quite Betty Boo, a woman [in her house and prime].

‘Umm,’ said Maddy, he growled,  the bear confined in property growled  ‘a bloody waste of money,’ he said, ‘a miniature?  Me?  I’ll buy you a half bottle, dammit, seems more seemly among people. We shall keep bottle in the kitchen cupboard, for months and for Christmas time,’  he said.

So, dressed in his suit jacket of yesteryear’s employment, matched with the  tracksuit trouser – the twin set, and new man-high, manly high boots,  he strolled.  Picture alapetian locks in the Highlands territory metaphor, how they waved up top head, like top head poetry, they flowed, tracer in his wake. [Nice one]

By and large the shop journey was entirely endurable – consisted of a pavement, a dozen lamp posts, perhaps a shadow to step beyond, perhaps a brother beta with his miniatures in bag [for Maddy to pass]?

‘Good evening,’ they might have said, indeed they said it well, both men passaged highway and passe.

Indeed, the only irritation with the shop journey of late, for Maddy, for the 10pm tinkle through doorway, was the total friendliness of the shop employees.  Really, all his own fault, with his timeless bonhomie, his good humour,  thought Maddy.  Perhaps realistically it was his series of animated facial gestures at the counter that so bemused?  He was [so] very good with his face.  These employees, always so pleased to see him, [and his face] yet sometimes he, Maddy wished he really were more anonymous in Brighton & Hove nut bush limits, and  not quite the local celebrity he had become on this simple journey of necessity, al fresco incognito ad nauseum, delightful, he thought.

‘Good evening,’ said Maddy, and ambled past lines of wine towards  the  counter encounter.

‘Allo meester Preek,’ said Tamil Timothy, ‘three more bottles of the wine for you, same as yesterday, no?’

‘No, no,’ he replied, for the Tamil chap was positively confused [in his translation of eyes].

‘And your wife buys two bottles this afternoon.  Later I see your son, he buy two bottles, too,’ said Timothy.

‘No,’ said Maddy, ‘you are mistaken. My tastes are entirely abstemious, parsimonious, you know me?’

‘No,’ said Timothy

‘Certainly just a mere half bottle of Cointreau for me, seigneur, and my milk, the tobacco products as per usual,’ he said, ‘tampax,’he said.

‘There is no half bottle of Cointreau,’ said Timothy, his finger to the shelf. ‘Here are your tampons, madam,’ he said.

‘So Timothy,’ said Maddy, boldly, and utilising acid, quick wit, he decided, and said, ‘one full catering-sized bottle Cointreau, please, and the lottery scratch card and peace be upon you brethren, goodnight,’ he said, knowing very well these people, their Tamil ways, their struggle in jungle, frightful jungle combat through jungles of Ceylon, eventual beach slaughter, he knew their terrible story. Salvation lay only  in this, this corner shop situation far away, housed in Brighton.  Very much the scenario – as with Afghan Alfie, Maddy’s other good friend-mate.  Alfie lived around the next corner but one, his shop likewise dispensed fine wines, tobacco, the traditional English crisps and other necessary accessories, hashish to the sofa lifestyle, or bed throne, mmm crap. [SHIT]

Returning home Maddy encountered the celebratory antics of his brown wife. He relayed, with his fine story-telling, his purchases, and she chortled atop bed, spread naked, aside from her dressing gown, her black leggings, the t-shirt, slippers, knickers and her bra on backwards, worn.

‘How, inside the shop ,’ he said ‘how, there were, had been no miniatures available, can you believe that, darling?’ he said, and moments later he savoured the taste of that first sweet glass of Cointreau, sipped behind the computer screen aside the bed, of course, savoured his hilarious email posted to the writer forum, hic, recalled, the  second glass too, the goblet gobbled upon the duvet, then THEN the arrival of his enormous blonde son, through the front door, THUMP, up the stairs, CRASH and into the room, and the completion of an entire gallon-ton bottle, together in trio.

Later, the music played, included tracks of well-known artistes such as, well who knows exactly, it was all Magic FM all the way, all day, all night long, finally the political debate, and a wrestle: Maddy’s throttling at the hands of his own son, and a:

‘Stop, stop, ’ a final gurgle, the  ‘I am dying, dying, da, da…’ said Maddy, ‘you were right, all along, I was wrong, and please stop screaming my darling, it was horseplay, horseplay…do not call the police,’ he said, to his wife, really.

He did not die that night, because the two fellows cooked sausages together, both the boys really, at 3am and hobside, they discussed the worldwide web of ladies, the situation’s spread in strategic terms for a capture of the ladies.

‘I was the same as you, my son, once upon a trickle in my eyeball’ he said,  ‘hang on in, in the lifestyle until you are in it still at 26,’ he said, ‘my boy, shall become clear by then, that you, you  are bound, bound to be discovered, and re-located – into an office suitably,  a suitable office posting is suitable for you, and wear a suit somehow, somebody somewhere will get you pregnant somehow off to your back, now do it, my son,’ he said. ‘Bon chance, you know, all the same is my brain, I remember it in my own days, how I endeavoured to succeed…’ he said wisely.

Ignatius replied how his guitar début at the anarchist folk/rock jamboree, that same evening, had been a great success – earlier, in fact, ‘except for the bitches…’ said Ignatius.

Maddy scratched an eye, his own eye.  Probably it was the boy’s mother’s influence, he would let it pass…the slur on womankind and folk.  He too yearned for a girlfriend for the young chap, but not like that, not bitches, no, still perhaps with further lifestyle coaching at his knee, the child aged twenty-one, might provide a child of his own for Maddy one day – to shop for, and not the chihuahua purchase threatened by his, his now sleeping upstairs, the wife.

Yet by the mid-morning revival to new consciousness  Maddy actually truly felt truly, truly felt a step closer towards his total real demise, his certain death.   But why?  Had he been poisoned by polonium during his stroll to the shop,  or was he suffered – the agonies  of the so-called Larkin years.  He could not exactly say why he felt so utterly dreadful. His heart whispered to his chest.

‘Pump me, pump me up…’ it said, and weeped only blood.

‘Oh my god,’ thought Maddy, rolled in the bedspread like a woman at lunchtime, sweated the yellow spirit from every pore, hacked constantly into his pillow collective… ‘of course it was the Cointreau liquor, a counterfeit sale by criminals, probably vodka from Russia’ he said in his delirium, ‘oh hell, a black and gypsy Christ,’ he said, overcome by the Russian sentiment.

Suddenly ‘Cup o’ tea,’ he cried, breaking free from a Soviet stupor but then, ‘coffee…’ he said, ‘latte, milky, to go…remission into Americana was inevitable, a  crash, like walls of the house, all caving in, until finally he was recovered to the half-recovery stage, for the return to keyboard, and narrative delivery on a fine Sunday morning, fresh, the day after the day after that horror, egc

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