mute revenge

Aug 23 2012

for use as a teaching tool, The Curator had determined to disinter Postmodernism, and conduct a little black magic to bring it back to life, or at least undeath, with the additional defibrillative properties of Modernism, and the general aid of his research assistant (as required). they set off for its resting place on a fine, sunny day, with a picnic packed.

it was a long walk, and The Curator had the feeling that his assistant was becoming fatigued by carrying Modernism. Modernism was a half-grown elephant, very handsome and muscular, and immaculately dressed, who refused to walk. but he was well worth the effort, as he continually produced droll remarks, such as “I am Pure Altruism”, and “Everyman is a polyglot”. perspiration was beading on the assistant’s brow, but unlike Modernism he was useless for conversation, so he should continue to do what suited him and shut the fuck up.

the burial site was in a grave condition, having been apparently unattended in many years. here the research assistant was directed to lower Modernism gently to the earth, on a nearby comfortable knoll under a few shady willows, for which polite appreciation was expressed. The Curator said a few words of arcane lore over the soil and scratched at it with the toe of his brogue before handing his assistant a shovel and instructing him to dig. Modernism lit a cigarette and offered one to the Curator while they waited; thanking him, the Curator refused.

some hours later, the research assistant had unearthed the coffin. it was not a dignified contemporary coffin, but a rotten old box constructed of raw untreated planks roughly hewn. parts had crumbled away, and The Curator could plainly see that the coffin was empty of anything but a few beetles. he snatched the shovel from his assistant and drove it into the remaining timbers, smashing them to pieces. EMPTY! he cried. EMPTY!

at this, the research assistant could apparently contain himself no longer. im Postmodernism you stupid git, he burst out. and he shoved The Curator to the ground and shat on his face.

No responses yet

Leave a Reply

You must be logged in to post a comment.