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How To Catch A Buffalo

by Baubo Blixem / Illustration by Alastair Laird / 17.12.2013

Lordly walked into the game reserve hotel reception area wondering whether he had started a relapsing revolution through his regressive rhetoric. He pressed the plump hand he was holding for reassurance. So close to his locus and already there were signs of mutiny. Discombobulating dissonance was not a desirable state of mind. He desperately needed a whisky – or maybe a frenzied frolic. But with the woman on his arm it was never that – it was more a cumbrous cavorting – a kind of rhinoceros hump of sorts.

And this got him thinking about hunting. He had once shot a White Rhino. That was satisfactory. He had secretly imagined it was Harry, that infernal white man who called all the shots. But pondering Harry’s power and prestige only resulted in Lordly pursuing pitiful plausibleness. Here he was – a masculine determiner of the highest order with impeccable manners and plentiful honorary doctorates – and everyone wanted a piece of him. Nobody understood what it was like to live in midpoint. That took skill and deftness and few had those aptitudes.

Lordly imagined himself a nearly extinct Black Rhino as he entered the luxury suite with the woman and ordered a double whisky for himself and a tumbler of impassiveness for her. He gulped his down quickly and fumbled around with her apparels eventually relieving her of her inner layers and inputting her from the rear end. He impelled her hard to express both his fortitude and his fury and as he exploded he shouted out loudly:

“As for me, all I want for Christmas is a Roast Buffalo.”

The idea of a roast buffalo got him worked up into a feverish froth and he surprised the woman with another round of hard humping, after which he wilted into a profoundly liable slumber.

And there he found himself in a decree-dense delusion, armed to the hilt and pursuing a herd of dastardly disagreements. One by one he shot them, until he had killed 34.

“But I must kill 44,” he said to himself. “It is imperative that I do though I am not sure why.”

A larger than life justification appeared to him and said, “Don’t worry – you have killed ten masculine imperatives already and their singular feminine(s) are waiting for you.”

“What is this?” he cried out – “A syntactical suntaktikos?”

“For your sins,” the larger than life justification smiled back at him.

Lordly had to cautiously circumnavigate 77 thrashing and incapacitated vindications on his way to what was beginning to feel like the covenant of culpability.

He suddenly felt afraid.

The justification took him by his hand and led him to a long table where the collective of feminine singulars sat brandishing their knives. They wore Christmas hats and smiled hungrily at him.

“Is this our Christmas meal,” they cried out? “Is this our Chisa Nyama?”

Lordly’s heart filled with trepidation as it dawned on him that something was remiss in this dream.

“No, no. I will shoot a prodigious pachyderm for each of you. Let me go and that is what I will do.”

The feminine singulars laughed and laughed.

They inaugurated the expurgation and etched their agony into their shares. Then someone shouted:

“Look he does not have a heart – there is a piece of platinum where his heart should be.”

“Then let us eat the heartless heretic for Christmas,” they called out in unison and began to slice him up. “He is no longer one of us.”

“Why does everybody want a piece of me?” cried Lordly as he fell into a deep dark place where explanations could not be unearthed.

Then he felt a thump. Something heavy had fallen on top of him. He scrambled sideways but was unable to move. He opened his eyes and beheld the woman sitting astride him. She was performing pleasing paroxysms around his perpendicular.

“I simply must have that roast buffalo for Christmas.” thought Lordly as he closed his eyes and reveled in her riveting rotations.

To be continued …

* Illustration © Alastair Laird

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