The Angel and the Squid—Letters 1792-2008
My Russian/American Angel
Apologies for missing your electronic mail asking one to Skype one. I had just nipped out to the alcohol sales emporium to purchase a half-dozen receptacles of the finest Stella Artois, only to be waylaid by the musky aromas and kippery pages of a second-hand book establishment. Having purchased a rather diseased-looking copy of Denis Johnson’s Angels, I returned to my place of abode (The Pod) to find your missive and rang immediately only to discover—under my tears and sighs—the forlorn cry of the transatlantic ringtone, and yet another electronic mail detailing your need to “run” as you young people so succinctly phrase it. Give my best wishes to your dear mother and, if you have a chance and the time amidst your familial duties, there is an Englishman (heart a-flutter—damn those darn blood-pressure tablets) awaiting your dearest attention.
Steven Finborough, Esq.
Dearest Mr. Finborough,
How lovely to hear you’ve finally convalesced from the neisseria gonorrhae; I trust the ear compress did much justice to such an ailing condition, especially in such a vexing habitus. Next time, I beseech you to refrain from putting your physiognomy so close to—as it is known to a respectable man of your most venerable age and generation—“glory hole.” I am currently detained chez my dear mother, partaking in ale and delicacies of the Russian and Georgian persuasion, as well as the luxury of a full-bodied bath. The Georgian spices are redolent of Indian and Mexican cuisine; however, the plum and the chili are regional, retaining the exclusive flavour of the sub-tropic climes of my ancestry. I believe that the phantom of one’s progenitors possesses one’s sensational proclivities—particularly the gustatory. Indeed, I’ve taken an incorrigible liking to Georgian wine. Just as your acquired fondness for catamites is indubitably related to your Germanic—If you forgive me—Barbaric-etiology. Regardless, I send you my warmest regards.
Your tight little snatch,
Thank you for your electronic mail. Indeed, the rather embarrassing infection I somehow caught from the deep penetration of a young transsexual while in the Far East—and there I thought I was entering the rings of Saturn—has, with a little help from my mother’s mustard, brandy, and oregano poultice, abated. I am very pleased to hear that you are enjoying the culinary delicacies of your homeland. No doubt, your mother is at this very moment in the kitchen whipping up a vodka, potato, and industrial glue soufflé. As I have explained previously, I prefer the delights of Uranus to Eurasian epicure—to misquote a popular beat combo—‘Georgia is never on my mind.’ Visions of you bathing amidst samovars and paintings of grizzled Cossacks had me all a-quiver—needless to say, I shot my bow, and the pearly arrows turned my own bath—claw-footed, porcelain, with taps of golden dolphins spouting crystal clear English water—into a broth of an even further eastern, nay Oriental nation, my bathing water resembling nothing less than a steamy bowl of egg-drop soup.
I hope this finds you well.
Your empurpled fool,
Steven Finborough, Esq.
My squid! How it warms my heart to hear your emulsifying lipids through the exocrine of your characteristic bile, which only your squid sensibilities can muster; I recommend preserving several litres of the egg-drop soup evacuate to be used as unguent for the finesse of your own orbital, that is, if you are able to distinguish Uranal from the Occipital, from such pitiable cephalopod parallax. You do me very little justice, Sir. I’ve committed myself to the devoted guardianship of the very last maidenhead allocated to my generation, which I shall not, under any circumstances, proffer without proper documentation. Do give my regards to your dear wife. On a less asinine note, my mother has indeed whipped up quelquechose charmante—the eponymous “chaffir,” drunk historically by the poor souls of Gulag gaols, constitutive of highly concentrated amount of trimethylaxithine derived from black tea, to induce the joie de vivre. Nevertheless, my dear Englishman, how I long to burrow in your arm-like fins. O Finborough! A most cadent surname suited for...
My Angel of Arbat and of Avenel
Affectionate acknowledgements for your electronic epistle (rather than e-pizzle—your battery-operated phallic confrere). My cephalopodic chivalry precludes one from writing apropos remarks as to your chastity; however, one is certain no, as it were, oxidized key was able to penetrate your glabrous and lubricated lock. Unfortunately, due to circumstances beyond one’s control one will be unable to access said MSN on the day required. May one be so bold as to suggest communicating across the grizzly north Atlantic on Wednesday 5th March at an appropriate hour via the medium known as Skype.
One is, at present, locked in dreary combat with an illuminated tome from the 13th century. It is redolent of a marooned sailor’s underwear.
Salutations to your mater.
The one, the only—Mesonychoteuthis hamiltoni
Aka Steven Finborough, Esq.
I find it most regrettable you weren’t able to attend the aforementioned cyber rendezvous. You see, my importune cad, my dear mater’s computer is equipped with a webcam, through which I wanted to prove the authenticity stamp of my said chastity by means of a posteriori. Your chivalry precludes you not, for you have aimed, but missed the point of reference; the austere maidenhead of my generation, being the notorious and ever elusive sigmoid. To think, my audacious Sir, you’ve indeed violated forcefully; penetrated far deeper than any Far East transsexual, against its free will, the glabrous and lubricated lock of, yes, my heart.
Your sigmoid suction buttercup,
Post Scriptum: Wednesday, the 5th of March in the year of our Lord Jesus Christ Money Greed and Sex, my horsepower carriage will drive me hell-bound back to New Jersey, thus I shall be indisposed.