Rape-eyed and restless, alone in the moonlight. Five hours sleep in three days. Confined to the study. I have done all that I can think to do, including smashed the picture that several hours of staring informed me I no longer enjoyed. It and the frame are in the garbage, which is tied and sitting by the door. I have rearranged the drawer. I have drunk the wine. Most of all I have consumed every pill in the place. I have now only hours now until I address The Butchers in regards to our policy on moratorium violence. I tried to write down this speech. The attempt took two hours. The first hour was spent trying to write the word moratorium. It is misspelled all over the page. At some point during the beginning of the second hour I put down my pen and picked up on of the girls without realising it.
All time since has been spent attempting to push the muzzle of the gun in past the mouth of the inkwell.
I don’t know what about the clang of metal on metal or metal on glass was not a clear indication to my ear that something was amiss. I hammered away at the mouth of it for minutes, unsure about the special restrictions in place. Reality seemed unwilling to coincide with my wish that gun would be pen and pen would slide easily into opening. Guns had always ably conveyed my agenda before, and yet as a writing implement they proved sub-par. I soon realised I was dealing with a disobedient, gasping mouth opening into an eternity of liquid red. That I wanted out. I wanted it on the page, forming shapes. Letters, in fact, that would convey the meaning in my head into words that I would then communicate again with my mouth as words, verbal ones, at a later point in time. Somehow that task was more difficult than it normally would be. Which was frustrating. I coped with this unexpected frustration by finding myself a new task.
Instead of dipping the gun into the ink, I wanted the gun to have sex with the inkwell.
This was not much easier, for some reason. Whatever my golden girl’s purpose the well would not permit her in. Her ruckus was all for naught. Her demands put down by the hard shell of a container who would not bend. Though she metal, and it glass, the fragile well stood strong against her every attempt to invade. Finesse, perhaps. Persuasion. She twisted around, a slow grinding caress of the inkwell’s lower curve. The saucy glass minx enjoyed it, dripped for it, but still there was no budge. Its nature was to open for only the thin, the artistic, the academic and the gentile. She must never have had one so thick, so hard, so violent and hot inside her.
Tip the gun forward. The inkwell dribbled onto her sight, but even with a bow the bowl will not receive her. Stained, unsatisfied, she circles around the mouth of her would-be lover. Teasing, and contemplating every possible move. A flaw. A crack. Something in that high-class-glass-craft that will admit an instrument of malice deep enough it can clang against the bottom. On her behalf, I fiddle the inkwell’s lid.
I think it must be a rule of the universe. A restriction that will not allow monstrous and violent guns to imitate sleek pens. No rebel prince can ever pass for a poet. His motives, his structure, are evident. His design foreboding, and the eternity of red that he will write his declarations, his laws, and his policies cannot be ink.
“Holy shit Geoff,” stammers Duke, having burst through the door, “the fuck….I heard a shot. Are you…. …. ….ok?”
My dear friend has caught me with ink on my face, and indeed over most of the room. My girl is warm. Satisfied, in a different way. I place her into a drawer and slowly slide it closed. Moving my foot over the hole in the floor, convinced that will help.
“Nothing,” I say.
The perfect crime.