Trousers are a bit worn. A wide cravat as with lapels of his long coat are snug. Double breasted vest smells of blood and feces. Tongue is lapping at blood. Only playing animal. Biting fingers. The floor creaks as blood seeps between the planks. He had smoked just before and the smell of tobacco penetrates her dead body. A picture of a plain woman sits on the mantle. She died too.
She died too, of bleeding many years before, from elephant feces administered into her vagina. Her lineage was of Syria and Napoleon’s army. Her mother was brought back to Palais in indigo dress as a whore and she grew up plain and battered. Before her death, at the hands of an old country man, she had carried on a long contractual affair with a traveler who kept his residence across the ocean at Mississippi on its west. That is where he heard his mother say, as he wiped stray pugnant fingers with blood along his lips, from behind the smoke she said, “Do you believe in the devil? That is her. Touch her.”
He touched her skin, playing with her fingers, tasting her pelvic arch. Her face was mutilated and his arousal was his mother’s proof. The same sensations he felt when he followed behind after sermon, watching the women in town, holding his mother’s firm hand, made him realize that this tingle in his being was put there by the devil. He raped the body on the planks again. She was born a slave in America.
The auctioning could be heard still and even Franks marching forth. Smoked weed as hellish driver of exchange, as the Columbian with disease, of the Africans, of that time in history when forefathers, Jefferson for instance with his bargain with the French, doubling the land and strife for free and slave while advancing the idea of returning the Africans to Africa where generations later they would die in the bush of disease for need of the cure, culled from that weed tobacco, dying African.