The bald bespectacled man murmured. It was a knowing murmur. He flipped through four pages on the clipboard, and then he clucked with his tongue.
“Well you’re just in luck, Jim. Seventeen and fresh from the circus. She died about the same time you did. Blonde hair b-cup virgin, and she wants a big hairy man to savage her. Right this way.”
3
The room was cozy and private. In it there was a white bed and upon the bed lay a young woman whose skin was crisp and pale. She wore white lingerie and her blonde hair was long behind her. She didn’t wear make-up. The bedposts were mahogany.
“Hi,” Jim said. “I’m Jim. I died a few days ago. Same as you, I guess.”
The young woman said nothing. She wasn’t beautiful, but she was pretty. She sucked on her bottom lip and touched herself.
Jim thought of the daughter of his uncle’s neighbor and the wonderful acts he had imagined upon her. And he also thought of the daughter of his boss and the wonderful acts he had imagined upon her. He thought of all the wonderful acts he had imagined upon daughters, and sisters, and mothers, and he discovered that imagining was other than performing.
For she was virgin, and he was big and hairy.
He said to the virgin, “I don’t want you to get me wrong, cause you’re gorgeous, but I’m feeling kind of weird about this. I mean, are you sure you want to get savaged? By me?”
“Are you a lumberjack?” the virgin said.
“A lumberjack? Well, not really. I did some tree trimming for a while.”
The virgin quivered, and she touched herself with force. “Savage me,” she said.
So Jim climbed into the bed with the virgin. With his big hands he pushed her small shoulders into the mattress.
She was a terrible kisser, for her tongue was eager and unpracticed. It was therefore that he ceased to kiss her mouth and took his lips to her pussy.
And it was a terrible pussy, for it was unwashed and hairy and the odor was acrid. It was therefore that he ceased to kiss her pussy and formed with his lips a question.
“How did you die?”
The virgin said, “It doesn’t matter. Please just put that lumberjack dick inside of me.”
“I think I have to know.”
“Fine. It was leukemia. I had leukemia for a long time and it sucked and I never got to have any fun and then I died. Now put your dick in me.”
“Oh man,” Jim said. “You’re a kid with cancer? I don’t think I should be doing this.”
“Just give me your dick! I just want your big hairy lumberjack dick!”
But Jim didn’t give the virgin his dick. He stood from the bed and walked to the door. “I’ll have them send a real lumberjack,” he said. And he went through the door and back into hallway of the ship that was called Orgy.
4
Jim wandered through the halls of the ship that was called Orgy for twelve days. He searched for the bald bespectacled man who carried kind eyes and a clipboard, and who was kind, because he wanted to make sure that the virgin received her lumberjack. But he couldn’t find the bald bespectacled man, nor anybody else, and he wandered alone.
He passed by many doors, but he dared not open one. Inside there might be virgins, and he was not a lumberjack.
On the twelfth day he came to an elevator. In the elevator were many buttons. These are the buttons in the elevator in the hallway of the ship that was called Orgy:
Hetero-generic; Homo-generic; Bi-generic; Trans-generic; Pan-sexual; Teens and Virgins; MILFS; Anal; Submission and Domination; Legs, stockings, and feet; Traps; Gangbangs and reverse gangbangs; I just want a rim-job, bro; I’m feeling lucky.
And there was another button, away from the others, and the word upon it was written in flame. The word was MANIAC. Jim said, “Fuck it,” and he pushed the MANIAC button.
5
So Jim came to the Pleasure Dome. The dome was high and the space was wide, and he beheld within it the orgy of the flesh of wild souls.
There was a bulletin board, and upon it were posted several upcoming challenges and events. There was a kick-fucking endurance challenge, an under-vodka deepthroat relay, a long distance ejaculation competition, and an aerial Kama Sutra exposition.
Jim went to the bar. He ordered a neat whiskey. A woman approached him. Her curves were thick and her swagger was supernal. She drank a martini.
“You must be new,” she said.
“How did you guess?”
“You look confused. But mostly it’s the way you’re not fucking anybody right now.”
“Anything I should know about this place?”
“Well, there aren’t any hard rules, but raping is bad etiquette. I wouldn’t kiss anybody, either.”
This was a strange juxtaposition. “Why no kissing?”
The woman set down her martini and whispered into his ear, “Lips lie. Fucks fly.”
So they fucked upon the bar. It was not intimate, nevertheless it was awesome. When they finished, Jim fired his ejaculate high into the dome and it was a firework that flashed and made an emerald glow.
And beneath the emerald glow Jim beheld the aerial Kama Sutra exposition. Couples launched themselves from a trampoline through the uprights of a goal post. They posed at the zenith, and their form and style were judged by card-wielding men.
He beheld a carnival ride that shot sex parties straight up into the dome, where it shook until the party climaxed, then plummeted at freefall back to the ground.
He beheld another angel, greater than the first, who stood on a platform at the center of the orgy. The angel was cut like a diamond and he had a shock of white hair. His teeth were yellow.
“Beelzebub.” The woman with supernal curves took Jim’s hand. “Come. Fly with me.”
They came to the platform and saw that it was covered with white dust. And it was angel dust, for Beelzebub produced it by the scratching of his scalp. The flakes of his scalp became dust.
The angel said, “Fly like the angels fly. Feel what the angels feel. Fuck as the angels fuck.”
“Okay,” said Jim.
He and the woman with supernal curves snorted up the angel dust.
6
With the borrowed wings of the angel’s dust Jim and the woman flew. They felt too, and fucked. And being high Jim beheld the orgy with new clarity.
He saw a thousand souls on their knees with their faces down and asses prone. Behind them stood a thousand more with oiled feet. A whistle blew, and the thousand feet kick-fucked the thousand asses, and the moans were the mingling of pain and satisfaction.
He saw a great mattress and upon the mattress a greater number lounged. They fucked at leisure and drank wine from goblets and they conversed about the ephemeral.
He saw the pools of vodka and the breathless race to make men cum. He saw the longest cummer crowned. The crown was made of pearls, and it was claimed by a woman who wore it rightly as a queen.
And Jim turned to the woman with supernal curves, who flew beside him, and he said, “Let’s blow a hole through the dome.”
So they fucked some more. It was intense fucking, and there was much grunting and ululating. As they approached the climax, Jim put his mouth upon the woman’s mouth. It was a kiss.
The woman pulled her face away and Jim saw his mistake in her eyes.
“Lips lie,” she said.
The borrowed wings molted and Jim fell.
III
1
Jim woke up on a comfortable couch. The couch was in a room and in the room there was a window. An angel sat before the window and looked out through the lens of a telescope and munched on a bowl of popcorn.
Jim knew the angel. “You’re the angel that brought me here,” he said.
“I am.” The angel laughed at something Jim couldn’t see. He popped a kernel of the popcorn into his mouth. “I heard you didn’t waste any time.”
“I can’t hardly remember anything.” Jim sat up and his head imploded. “What the hell? I have a headache.”
Ca-drum.
“That surprises you?”
Na-drum.
“I thought this was paradise.” Jim rubbed the temples of his head with the palms of his hands. He remembered the angel with the white shock and the yellow teeth and the woman with supernal curves. He remembered the kiss. “How can there be headaches in paradise?”
Ca-drum na-drum.
“Well,” said the angel, “One way to do it is by mixing booze with angel dust.”
Jim stood and stretched his limbs. He blinked four times and then he yawned and scratched himself. The angel laughed again and munched the popcorn.
“What the hell are you laughing at?”
“The Ukraine is in revolt,” the angel said. “They are wearing kitchen armor and lighting garbage on fire. Come, take a look.”
Drum ca-nun ca-drum.
So Jim put his eye to the lens of the telescope. He beheld a city street at dusk. On the street a line of riot police advanced against a ragged hoard. The vestments of the hoard were from kitchens and closets, and the weapons of the hoard were from garden sheds.
The street was black with fire and the blackfire glittered over broken glass. Molotov cocktails flashed yellow when they bit into the riot shields. Many lay dead and dying. Jim saw at last a man with a noodle strainer for a helm, who was beaten into death by the batons of the police. He turned away.
Drum ca-nun ca-drum ca-nun ca-drum.
“Is that really happening? Like, on Earth?”
“Yep.”
“Why is that funny?” Jim declined the angel’s popcorn.
“Well in truth it isn’t that funny,” the angel said. “You should have seen Carthage. Now that was a good show. Or Nanking, or Rwanda. This revolt isn’t bad for a slow decade, though.”
“You watch us suffer for entertainment?”
Drumma ca-drumma na-drumma ca-nun ca-drum.
“Suffering is the only thing you’re good at,” the angel said.
“Oh come on.” Jim rubbed the temples of his head with the palms of his hands. “What about baseball? We’re pretty good at baseball.”
“You’re terrible at baseball. Angels play it with a moon and the energies of light.”
“I mean, there’s good stuff, too. Like, weddings and celebrations. Art and architecture. You know, the good stuff.”
“Did you enjoy weddings?”
“Well, no.”
Jim’s head imploded some more. The pain was too much and he went to his knees.
“Fuck,” he said. “Why are we so good at suffering? Why do we suffer at all?”
Drumma ca-nun-drum.
2
BANG!
The door burst open and through it came the bald bespectacled man, who was kind. Instead of a clipboard he carried with him a manila envelope.
“Jim! Well you certainly don’t waste any time, do you?” And the bald bespectacled man handed the manila envelope to Jim.
Jim accepted the envelope. “Did the virgin get her lumberjack?”
“Thirty-nine of them and counting. She’s got quite the appetite.”
“That’s good.” Jim looked upon the envelope. “What is this? Why are you here?”
“It’s a summons. I’m afraid you’ve been served. But don’t worry, Jim. Just keep your chin up and everything will come out alright. Angel.” The bald bespectacled man nodded at the angel and then departed.
“He tried to hook me up with a virgin. At the orgy,” Jim said. “And now he’s summonsing me?”
“Happens a lot around here,” said the angel. “I moonlight as a jazz pianist.”
So Jim opened the envelope and inside there was a single sheet of paper. He read it aloud:
Jim v Logic
You are hereby commanded to appear in the Court of Existence to defend yourself in the above-titled case and to answer to the following charge(s)
Charge(s): Asking a loaded question.
Court of Existence
Jean Paul Sartre Courthouse
Downtown, Paradise
“What the hell is a loaded question?” Jim said.
“I think it means you’re full of shit,” the angel said. And he put his eye to the telescope, munched on the popcorn, and laughed.
3
Jim had defended himself in court before, but that was in Tennessee and for a traffic violation. He doubted his abilities extended to loaded questions in the Court of Existence in paradise. So he took out his smart phone and he searched for:
“human suffering” AND “loaded question” AND “lawyer”.
There was one result. The result was William and William: Defense Attorneys for the Anguish’d Heart. And their offices were in Downtown, Paradise.
So he came to a small office building nestled into one of the many corners of the city. Inside he found a single space, cluttered with parchments and books, and perched on a pile of books was the countenance of William Shakespeare.
“What’s the charge?” Shakespeare didn’t look up, for he was buried in a tome.
“I, uh, I asked a loaded question,” Jim said.
“The question?”
“Why is there suffering. In the world. Why do people suffer.”
“Well, it would seem you’ve come through the right door.” Shakespeare closed the tome. “Please, have a seat.”
There were no chairs in the office, so Jim gathered six large books and stacked them one upon the other and he sat.
“You’re William Shakespeare,” he said.
“I am.”
“I thought you hanged all the lawyers.”
“I did.” Shakespeare found a scrap of parchment and drew a pen from his shirt pocket. “A man cannot always choose how he employs his talents. But he is only lost if he doesn’t employ them at all.”
“Did you say that?”
“Yes. Just now I said that.”
“Cool.”
Shakespeare snapped his fingers. “The summons,” he said. Jim handed him the summons and he looked upon it and sighed. “These relativisms are wearisome. What were the circumstances?”
“Well,” Jim said, “I was looking through this angel’s telescope, I think it was the Ukraine we were looking in on, and some really nasty stuff was going on. The angel thought it was pretty funny, which didn’t really click in my head, you know? So I asked him about the suffering.”
“What did you say exactly?”
“Well, let’s see. I said, Fuck. Why are we so good at suffering? Why do we even suffer?”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
Shakespeare scribbled many lines across the parchment. He blotted twice, and at each blotting he frowned, pursed his lips, looked at the wall, snapped his fingers, and then he wrote something new. He finished with the flourishing of his pen.
He said, “Well, Jim, take comfort in this. It is not merely your heart, but the human heart, that is on trial. These existentialists reach too far. The question might have fallen from worthier lips, but worth is not the question.”
“Great,” Jim said. It sounded like good news. He stuck out his hand and Shakespeare shook it. “So you’ll take the case? And you think we’ll win? I mean, you’re William Shakespeare, right?”
“I’ve yet to win a case,” Shakespeare said. “But all morrows begin without sorrow, and tomorrow these hearts will beat against the narrows. Of logic. Beat against the narrow straights that constrict the mind. Hmmm.” He frowned, pursed his lips, looked at the wall, then he snapped his fingers and said, “Embattled hearts are guilty when they quiver, but beating shape the world that minds arrest.”
Jim was not a poet, and he understood only the first sentence. “Am I fucked?” he said.
“Pretty much,” said Shakespeare.
4
The courtroom was a courtroom. There was a judge, a bailiff, a reporter, and there were also some lawyers. Jim sat with Shakespeare in the back of the courtroom. They waited for their case to be called.
The
case that went before them was case twenty-two, and the lawyer who prosecuted on behalf of Logic was Immanuel Kant. He walked on stiff legs and wore a beard. It was a luscious beard, and many luscious words came out of it.
It was a young girl whose case was twenty-two. Jim came to understand that she had used a slippery slope regarding the origins question, and that slipping down the slope was an assault against reason. She was guilty before the twelfth minute passed. As punishment she received a signed copy of Kant’s book about metaphysics.
“Well that doesn’t seem so bad,” Jim said.
“You’ve never read Kant,” said Shakespeare.
Then the bailiff stood. “Now appearing before Judge Russell, case twenty-three, Jim v Logic.”
Jim followed Shakespeare to the defendant’s table. They waited for the bailiff to say more words.
“The defendant is accused of discharging a loaded question into the face of human suffering.”
“Plead,” Judge Russell said.
“Guiltless,” Shakespeare said.
“Prosecution, go ahead.”
So Immanuel Kant took the courtroom floor. He was small and arrogant and he stroked his luscious beard with his left hand. He said,
“The defendant, hereafter referred to as Jim, asked of an angel, Why is there suffering? This is not an innocent question. It has been sufficiently established that this line of inquiry leads nowhere, and that it debases Logic and fugues the Mind. As it is the purpose of this Court to disabuse Paradise of bad thinking, it is the Court’s Imperative to hold Jim accountable for these words. The question was loaded, and he fired it like grapeshot over Prussia.”
“Prussia?” Jim said.
“Objection!” Shakespeare wielded his pen. “There is no Prussia!”
“Overruled.”
“Damn!”
So Kant continued. “Why is there suffering? The underlying assumption is clear. Embedded in the question is the bold assertion that the tragic nature of mortality is somehow transcendent, that it is tragic because. The question asserts that pain and misery have defensible, perhaps even noble, functions. It is a claim whose magnitude embroils even the most practiced Minds, and Jim offered no evidence to support it. He blithely assumed it, and he buried the assumption in six retarded syllables.
Book of Jim: Agnostic Parables and Dick Jokes From Lucifer's Paradise Page 2
