Swim

Paul Kavanagh

May 2006

There was special offer, stated Grunfeld.

No there wasn’t, replied Satogata.

Yes there bloody was, proclaimed Grunfeld.

I’ll not have your eyes upon me wine! bellowed Satogata.

They’re not on your wine! bellowed Grunfeld.

Satogata lost for words, or maybe a frog in his throat was croaking swigged from the bottle that was adhered to his mud caked hand. This abroach was watched with much pathos. The disappearing wine matched Grunfeld’s declivity into the doldrums. Grunfeld was lachrymose but was too desiccated to weep. Satogata moaned as though in the act of micturating. Each moan got louder and each moan exacerbated Grunfeld’s despair and dryness. Satogata looked up, coughed violently and expectorated in an agonal whimper a bolus green compound, that contained much hair, grass, liver and kidney.

Grunfeld with scotopic blur analytically diagnosed the mess with much avidity. It dissipated the acedia.

Save me the dregs, entreated Grunfeld.

What me blood, snot, kidneys and lungs? impugned Satogata.

That would be wonderful, rhapsodized Grunfeld.

You’re a cannibal! bellowed Satogata.

I’m not! screamed Grunfeld.

You’re not a Christian, exclaimed Satogata.

Satogata lifted up the bottle so that the sun could illuminate the dregs swirling within the wine. The wine was the color of piss and tasted like piss. This acerb product was the ramification of monks’reeking gouty feet. The trapped rays of sun were iridescent in the viscosity. From the aperture of the bottle the reek of dead fish emanated.

Give me a swig, said Grunfeld.

Spell tansphenomenality for me, said Satogata.

Give me a taste, said Grunfeld.

Explain the trinity of the soul, elucidate how the soul mirrors the holy trinity, said Satogata.

Let me wet me whistle with the wine, said Grunfeld.

How many circles did Dante illuminate? asked Satogata.

Go on drown me in wine, it would be fun, said Grunfeld his pissstained orbs nystagmic.

The tone of Grunfeld’s voice had metamorphosed. Affability had superseded desperation. The Machiavellian had ratiocinated that a friendly approach would be more fruitful, that exasperation manifested would only be futile. One only achieved the impossible by luff. It was only a simple thing that was obturating, Satogata could yaw arbitrarily. Satogata was like a rubber band; he could snap any time. A wrong step and Satogata would more than likely kick out Grunfeld’s broken teeth on the other hand he could simply hand over the bottle. But this was a bit of luff, computed Grunfeld. And so riantly Grunfeld slapped Satogata on the back and smiled at the bawcock. There was much aplomb in his countenance. This new façade obfuscated the ague. Satogata was a mercurial bugger forever spitting spitty grist, vim about coprophilia, with a constitution that best can be described as crispation. Satogata was perplexed by the recrudescence, he was a bloody stubborn caitiff was Grunfeld.

I’ll give you a swig if you swim across the river and touch the other bank, said Satogata.

The tete-a-tete was taking place on the bank of the river. The river was a lugubrious, tenebrous reek of dead dogs and drown cats. A tramp floated by now and again, bloated and bleached. The undulations croaked like frogs and moaned like bored whores fighting off ennui, feigning interest in the cock that is pounding them. The river dichotomized, anatomized the town like all good rivers.

You bloody bastard! bellowed Grunfeld.

With alacrity Grunfeld stripped to his ball bag and eczema. His shitty arse smiled at Satogata as his toe tips tested the temperature of the river.

You bloody bastard! Bellowed Grunfeld.

Get in you bloody arse! ordered Satogata.

Can you see me grapes? asked Grunfeld.

They’re close to popping, said Satogata.

Thank god for that! proclaimed Grunfeld.

Slowly with much hesitation Grunfeld in the throes of pusillanimity lowed his skeletal frame into the murky depths. He could no longer see his toes, his knees, and his cock and ball bag. Satogata lifted the bottle to his mouth and sipped. With acumen Satogata had computed that twenty sips would leave enough dregs for Grunfeld.

Bloody hell start swimming or you’ll drown! bellowed Satogata.

Against the dead dogs and stray cats Grunfeld vigorously beat his arms and legs. The fear of death drove him on. The taste of wine left him indefatigable. Grunfeld with head above the water swim like a hound in proximity to moribundity. Satogata bellowed with laughter and swigged viscerally from the bottle adhered to his blood caked hand. Now and again the arse of Grunfeld popped out of the dank waters and this facetious moment, though ephemeral, spasmodic, illuminated Satogata with cheer and felicity. Drowning in ribald tears Grunfeld became obfuscated to Satogata. And out of sight out of mind.

Lost in the disequilibrium of happiness and laughter Satogata downed the wine and dregs.

Grunfeld looked behind him and saw that Satogata was blinded by laughter thus turned back without touching the other bank. The recreant knew that Satogata would be unable to impugn the veracity of his endeavor. Grunfeld was wet; he was huffed, puffed and shagged.

Did you see me swim? asked Grunfeld.

I did, said Satogata.

Grunfeld dried himself with his rags. With damp rags Grunfeld covered his gout, pox and syphilis. Happily dressed Grunfeld jounced over to the muddy puddle and sat juxtaposed to Satogata who welcomed him with much mendacity.

Well, where’s the wine? asked Grunfeld licking his slimy lips.

I swigged it all, confessed Satogata.

Satogata dropped his head with much compunction.

You bloody what? gasped Grunfeld.

It was the fear I thought you were about to drown, wept Satogata.

I’ll have me weight in blood then! bellowed Grunfeld pugnaciously leaping to his feet.

Satogata reciprocated this aberration. With fist clenched both bellicosely huffed through a rictus of braggadocio. But Grunfeld was fatigued. The swimming had done him in. He could barely stand. Truculent though he was the punch he launched never even cut through the air. Overcome with ataxy the arms of Grunfeld effetely fell to his side. Seeing this providence Satogata brought up his boot with jutting toe and connected superlatively with Grunfeld’s crown jewels. Upon impact Grunfeld burst like a sack of wine and pissed blood. Lying in the scotia Grunfeld whimpered.

Bloody hell I can’t stand you anymore! cried Satogata sitting back down.

Death! Lovely death! bellowed the reaved Grunfeld.

I dead man needs a drink before entering the fiery walls of Hades, said Satogata rolling a full bottle towards Grunfeld.

Two for one you bastard, wept Grunfeld. Two for one.

Paul Kavanagh was born in 1971.