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“Let’s fuck.”
It was at that moment that Arnold Blumm noticed the iron pipe projecting above the surface of the water, not unlike a periscope.
An hour earlier, this Arnold Blumm, of whom little else need be known at this point than that he was bald, played the fiddle, and heard a bell ringing in the distance, had said to himself: “I should not be here; I have a morning class at the conservatory.”
Yet he had remained where he was; he could not get his mind off the witches. He thought of them as “witches” only because there had been three of them and because he had once read Macbeth; the reader is in no way obligated to think of them in the same way.
Arnold Blumm’s consciousness, like the sun, which could not yet be seen, had risen by semitones from a kind of numbness, through a sort of reflection, to a strange species of awareness-an awareness, that is to say, which fell somewhat short of objectivity, that is, dawn. For if the reader, or the author, had occupied the place occupied by Arnold Blumm-that place being the park bench beside the west seawall of that portion of the Intracoastal Waterway known as Lake Leethy, slightly to the south of the West Sago Beach Memorial Library, between the little stucco building which houses the city’s sewage outfall pipes and the north end of what was once called Pirate’s Cove but is now called the Municipal Parking Lot, the Cove having been filled in-and had we been gazing eastward as Arnold Blumm was, we would have seen the grey lake in the foreground, the dark line of hotels and palm trees which was Sago Beach in the middle ground, and in the background the whitish predawn sky, while Arnold Blumm saw something quite different: he saw cunt. Where we would have seen only water, land and sky, Arnold Blumm saw twat, tit, and ass.
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.