The old cunt came from Balliol College, Oxford, after having been by cruel means expelled from Blackfriars’s. He’d spend night’s taedious hours looking for something to do, like a human yo-yo. At times he would translate Pockoke back into Latin out of his own Chinese version. Anytime, anyway a bottle of Port and testosterone. But no matter what his world-acclaimed academic status would grant him no more than obtuse sighing and sonorous staring. His inner circle: an old dog, a little girl Sarah Buick with name and his sister Pengine.
I was eager to get in on it. I called him on September 27th:
Mate, you’re frieth. Wassa problem? Sarah got your notes about Pockoke and delivered it straight to the bartender. The bartender gave grave looks to it notwithstanding and passed it on to Louise. Louise fell in love with you, being a Satanist Geek and a Hoaxer. Then she showed it to Marly. Marly laughed as usual and delivered it to Professor Banged. Professor Banged ascribed it as homework for tha people, recognizable objective for the boys being to transform it into a soft and tong-to-cheek homoerotic short story. Well, one was ready to expect that some weak and vaporous Student would publish it (you know, we’re talking about the fuzzy Master of [Gamble] Arts course. NOT DPhil). And it did happen, by Jove. Goophy Jones, the said Student, have a Parody Random House Project called “Livros Mamãe” — I thing it has something to do with the Bantu people but I would not for the time being deliver any objectionable opinion thereof; then it was Pockoke translated into Gay. The reason why you’re frieth.
Wassa matter? The matter is he published it using your name as pseudonym. Hell of a good idea, nicht wahr? I bought it and wrote an essay called “How Oxford Saiu do Armário” (I got the expression from Brazilian Portuguese). Look, ‘s bloody Time Magazine. Your face on it, charming and sweet and shemale-like. You’re hiding yourself from the public and had no idea what was going on. That’s it mate. So set your manuscript into flames like there’s no tomorrow and forget it.
Oh, I almost forgot. There’s an interview with you on Der Spiegel. I didn’t know you were teasing German little girls since you where five years old. Good God! The Interpol must be by now searching for a piece of evidence in your goddam laptop. Claim guilty! You got nothing to lose.
Escrito por , postado em 26 de janeiro de 2010 às 15:50, arquivado em Contos e com as tags Aristóteles. Deixe um comentário ou veja a discussão em permalink.