The great door to the patio and me dreading to make my entrance. Sandy's hand took hold of my brazenness, saying:

-¡Gimme your key!-

The segue: We went with torn knees to the Anglican Church in Cuyumaca. A trace of the occult paraded by and sat down making itself a door. I worked like a slave on balsa and in the open:

-This is the Mr. Brady's private entrance.- She told me.

We hollered a little in the corridor and a little in the patio. The door had been censored. Oh, and for the first time the buttons on her skirt and her blouse began to open. I entered her mouth and she had saved her ovaries for me, surrendering:

-Mr. Brady's private censor.- ¡Oh great!

I sent the censor to an incubator. It MARCHED up and in. Sandy (Miss Wallace) said "¡God!" "¡You're so real!" and "¡Do me!"

I didn't have the pork to refuse her invitation. The only distraction I saw was me. Her eyes were salt green. I looked into them but they weren't open. Her brazenness reared itself on the head of my rod and her libido lowered its presents onto mine.

My watch protected me from seeing her and her from seeing my bald spot. I advertised that I was coming:

«¡See! ¡SEE! ¡Knee me! ¡KNEE ME!»

I had a reason for coming the first time but the ninth only confirmed that I was omnipotent with the ladies.

When the door opened Sandy was still stuck to me. Finally I was obliged to breathe. Her eyes were white-walled radials.

-I like my self.- I said.

She responded with a nasty truth (she had the truth to juggle along with my ego):

-You're a typical man.- She said. -And when you advertise it you have the obligation to go to the bathroom because I don't want a dose of clap. ¿Were you wearing a condom? ¿Are you contagious?-

Was I contagious? I was NO CONTEST.

-¡And how bad to see you!- She said like the hood of my car.

Then I sort of pretended to be God.

-¿Why?- I asked her.

In lieu of grandstanding she said

-Is this your life and salad dressing?-

"LACE makes waste" read Mr. Brady's private dispatch. I wanted to cut through this mess with a tornado, sack everyone and then leave the U-Boats to sink.

I was a dude one moment, a piece of cheese the next...a Cajun, a movie extra and an informer.

-I'm Tonto.- She said, an alien life form in her hands. -You promised to play POLICEMAN.-

No contest. I had been a limousine driver, a mirror and for a moment I had been transformed into a dog. Oh, I could hear the squirrels--but I was intrigued by the pliers.

-¿No pencils? ¿Do you see what I want? I want to etch in "VISITOR".- I said.

Sandy passed GO and got to ME in the direction of the DOOR and the SUSPECTS. And the bridge. Once under the umbrella I said to my self, "Look at me, I'm talking to my self."

-Now you say this case is old but that is not ME important. And in the sixth place: ¿What woman are you doing when you're pretending to read? I don't want to have to saber her nose.-

The door stayed closed. Sandy and I (Miss Wallace) asserted our selves at the window in order to see more.

I raised the board of my hat in a salute to the imaginary Mr. Brady.

I would have the tulips in time. Enough to hand out, but not enough to pass my self off as a florist.

All my life was there, in three sheets of paper. The informer had tried to use codeine to size-up Elaine. I didn't have that kind of caulk.

The informer had simply stated that I had been in the states accompanied by a woman who passed the night in my «suite», given me cooking lessons (with recipes) and debated killing me for my uniform.

I didn't see anything about pliers in the writing so I incinerated a cigarette. My penis had been limp for close to a minute and was looking for an open door.

-¿Where have you been?- Miss Wallace asked.

-¡In a yellow hell!- I contested. ¡And last one in is a manuscript!

-¿All comfy?- Entered in the distance, the door now closed.

-Yes.- Except my testicles were leaking. And I began to squirm in my two-tone turban. I dreaded making her and told her like a torpedo: -I don't know what powder you're wearing but it's a grade too low.-

She didn't contest this. I had done right by the censor.

-You'd better be serious or watch me MARCH.-

-You can't go now.- She said. -I know it's darn cute watching the senile censor while fucking a concubine...-

Et tu, Medea.

-¿Then how come I can go days without Sally?-

A picture of a sunrise cruised by her libido. I interrupted that thought:

-Spare me your tender rations. I can go without Sally for five or fifteen and then I stop working and flee home to fondle her.-

I fidgeted with my watch. It was a Casio: Quarter to the afternoon.

Her smile sort of totally flipped into her libido.

-Sit down and die, I've prepared you a refreshment.- Sandy said.

Crucify me over the divan today and everyday. The angle of the house, hyenas droning in misery.

Meanwhile, I prepared my bed. The little Cubans in Helium Production were starting to grate (¡tin! ¡tin!) on the Gophers in Glass Crystal.

I probed my self with a flashlight. Sandy placed a silly-looking rabbit in front of me.

-¿What was that now, Brad?- She asked.

To me or anyone sober it was no contest.

-To go to New York and to alleviate all of this.-

-This ain't no easy, city tan.- She replied. -Brady's tennis is sad.-

¡I was write!

-You don't realize.- I said meaning serious shit. -When I returned to the hotel I received an invitation to see more of him in his house. But I didn't have the time or the bras to pencil him in. He dared me to eat at his home without offending him. My reflexes told me I could make it with Mr. Brady this summer and count on him to produce buttered scones for tea.-

Saying this stopped her libido and she insisted:

-You know everything except your reputation.-

But her eyes said "Yes, be randy with me."

-¡No way!- I replied.

-¡Yes way! I visited him on succeeding Tuesdays. My mother was taken by him. He treated me to tea. Money is not significant to Matt Brady. His sex-change operation was delayed for days because his head was full of vultures. He blares at you and this is meant to affect you like you'd die right when he got to the important part. And then there's great seriousness and there you are thinking about creasing his columns of hundred dollar bills, just this side of sober, until your eyes start orbiting, orbiting...¡¡Enough!!...And all you want is to make me.-

I wanted to see her pussy inside me, not this mess of coffee in front of me.

-¿Why do you say that, cozy ass?- I asked her. -¿What? ¿Are you going to take tea in England?-

She pushed ten bucks into my glass, playing with me and then with my sphincter:

-I've been astride much more important people than Matt Brady. His pony was sick one day so he would only see me in his Palace Of Terror.-

-¿Did you play the role of Tonto?- I asked, meaning to be sweet.

-You, Brad. I played I was you. When he fucked me in the ass he fucked you too. I can't appreciate economic indicators or the timbre of tea. And I'm not as tan as I used to be, but when you pass by me you leave me muddled in marbles. I remember that very well. That and how you watched me...-

-¿HOW did I watch you?- I asked her.

She said "pussy" and "pie" and she said "urgh" and "¡woo!". Later, very later, under my direction, we went down to the vault carrying a table and some coffee. I seduced her with my undulating eye movement. I said a lot of crap. I said "You can deal me in." and I said "I'll recline while you suck my rod..."

-¡Come in me this minute, NOW!- She told me.

For a man I was silent. I couldn't move in any direction in her. The sunrise that I thought so picturesque and singular now revolved in front of me reflecting an Eskimo holding a fish.

-¿You say that you're not from around here?- ¡My god! -¿Say, are there any other women you want me to fuck? I'm super when I'm a beast but this isn't important to me because I have a conviction that doesn't come from fucking Matt Brady's secretary or from that little bit about wife-stealing. I'm a human with the personality of a pronoun. A feminine woman would understand. ¿You're feminine aren't you? And me, I'm a vase.-

She didn't say one word. One of the most consistent theories of the mundane is that we're not meant to miniature golf and we're not meant to be rude. Well, I wasn't golfing.

I extended my cock so that she would know my vastness but her hand said put it away. I looked at her and our eyes got all tangled. I returned to her ass. She gripped my drill rod and, before my eyes, her hand guided me until I bored into her. My fingers were like irons stoking the fires of her labia. With her brazenness liberated we fucked furiously until there was no stopping my back or her labia.

Her legs were so dear to me that they recovered my smile.

Her teeth had rescued the pulp of my libido.

I was parallel...

Sandra Wallace mirrored my heart to heart:

-¡Hey! ¿Another woman, huh?-

...I, as in "tea".

The rest was fire-breathing and I still had the Volvo to pay off. Newly minted lamb's anger. I was beginning to tremble or was it her cunt. Then she said:

-This is pretty close to what grates me about you. You're a serious man, yet you haven't the engine to make another engine.-

I evolved to the office and had my mannequin write to Cleopatra and bill me for it.

Time began to pass itself. I set my ass by the window and thought about the fun to come.

I thought a corridor of fire, an office of ruin and a carry-on of luggage. The soothing smell of Mickey's muffins resonated all over the air when she entered the office. I returned my self to see her.

-Yes, Brady must die. Now, politely, or in MARCH.-

To chapter, Capital 13

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