Mr Helix Folt, wishing to avoid getting into another tizzy, and resolving therefore to keep to his hearthside while the present disorders persist, finds his resolution sorely tested by the necessity which it puts him under of keeping company with Nanny during one of her illocutionary spesms. For De’Ath speaks today in an even more than usually peevish, grating tone, dropping into the pressure-cooker silence isolated phrases, contextless snatches of an inner dialogue which would horrify if fully exhibited, but which in its fragmentary state serves only to get on the nerves, to breed in the listener a sour, confined rage. —
Helix Folt
Yea, though he walks through the valley of the shadow of De’Ath, there is detectable in the Folty stride that of the jaunty, and in the face of the identical sinner despitewise a hint of, by no means itself unpleasurable, guilt. His course takes him across the bottom of Picton Street and thence along Wellington and Shaftesbury Avenues, where he cuts through the passageway behind the carpentry workshop, and on the sacred steps thereof is granted the spectacle of some more than averagely showy dereliction, in the form of Lord Snatch with his retinue going about his business, trousers lowered to expose skeletal hairless yellowing thighs. Mr Helix Folt vey politely declines His Lordship’s gracious invitation to take part in the morning’s lotophagic ceremony - indeed, how many angels can dance on the end of a needle? - betaking himself instead through the midst of the rites into Albert Place and thence into Ashley Road, where he turns left, and his stride quickens. —
Lord Snatch
“I tell heem everything. I tell him you want to obtain rubbeeng and we go to bordel, and I laugh at heem and say he is not real man, only stinking English homosex who say like like like chill chill chill piss piss piss.” —
Bordel
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