'If you keep beatin round the bush you lose ya' push' - Captain Beefheart (from the song) 'I'm gonna Booglarize you Baby'
Within this jungle a Peruvian heart beats out a sexual rhythm. Woman young with tanned skin and sweating long black hair, her smooth coffee body reveals only sinew and muscle undulating beneath, pulsating to the sway of music as she displays her sexual vitality on the dance floor. Horatio watches through telescopic sights, waiting and waiting for that savagely royal brown head to enter his cross hair. He holds his breath as black eyes meet his, terror and adrenaline shoots like a hooked fishing line along his optical nerves catching in the back of his head, makes him dizzy, makes it hard to think.
This girl's gonna meet the monster tonight, she's gonna get booglarised, she's going to get jumped on, get made. He commences his approach, walking over in what he believes is a nonchalant way holding his drink in what he believes to be the same manner taking deft sips out of the plastic pint glass as he dodges around the less attractive women on the dance floor. These he knows he will probably return to later. He stands almost in front of her now and sees that the jungle has cleared a space for this female animal as though afraid and must stay distant. The circle of dancers formed around her attempt to ignore her style and sex, girlfriends dancing with their boyfriends inconspicuously turn them so they will not be facing in her direction lest lust overcomes their weak male minds and sends them in manic desperate pursuit of her, as it has done for Horatio. He stands right in front of her now, she oblivious to his conspicious presence as she dances wrapped up in tribal rhythms. His mouth has become a cliche of dryness so he licks the sweat from his palms to get a little lube on the tongue. He tries to speak and croaks a
hello
She looks up and smiles before turning her back to him, not really seeing, or looking, or noticing, but handing him a polite dismissal as in, I haven't the inclination to bounce on your bones don't bother me this time or in the future. Already, that means retreat. He doesn't look back as he hurries from the floor
Idiot Idiot Idiot
Repeats as he pushes his way through the overgrown throng of sad chubby dancers, the elephant calves dressed as princesses, the morlockian men in white tee-shirts, golden neck chains and fad 80s mullet haircuts, everywhere cankles spilling out of 5inch heels and dental floss thongs riding up mountainous backs out of cavernous ass cracks from too-tight jeans worn much too-low. They all twirl with no grace holding blue liquid sugar drinks scanning the room for fresh meat, for fuck meat. In the corner a woman sits on the floor panda-eyed in her £3 floral print dress ridden up around her waist, her bare legs open revealing her depressed looking worn out white knickers, she has dirt on her face and her blouse is soaked in the blue liquid fizz, she cries clawing at the inches-thick make up on her sad frozen face. Jibbering
It won't come off It won't come off It won't come off
Horatio thinks it wasn't like this when he came in.
Was it like this when I came in?
The sticky floor, the red-faced slurring clientele, the warm beer, the barbie and ken dolls of every variety had previously gone unnoticed. His tunnel vision for Peru has betrayed him, led him into the den of the enemy, a place of frivolous sexual and social depravity where intellect is replaced by alocohol fuelled wit and jabber. Suddenly he is alone in a jungle of hostile animals tearing and braying at each other, excrement pouring from their gaping mouths covering every surface.
He makes it back to the bar and cracks his head open on the counter, drips a little of his brain juice into his plastic 'glass' and swirls it in his hand watching the red-grey blood clot and make patterns like saturns surface in the flat golden liquid. He gulps it down chewing on the coagulated blood and brain fat and eats the plastic glass too, crunching it into razor sharp shards that cut his throat and intestines deep into his bowels leaving shit and rotting food leaking into his blood stream. A surprise for later.
He returns home agreeing with the taxi driver that there is only one god and that god is god. Inshallah.
Scanning the net he searches for a pretend woman who looks enough like the peruvian goddess for him to get a hard-on then works himself into a frenzy of white knuckles and pleasured grimaces. After, he is sad and lonely, he sits, a depleted figure on his bed, looking skinny and pathetic with his pants and trousers round his ankles, rapidly shrinking cock in hand and cum drying on his thighs. His skin is whiter than white. In bright sunlight he is invisible. Or would like to be.
