448. Dàjalog 3.

11 Nov





Fall, Smith Street, on a stone pankeen, in the evening. The sun sunsetted. Shadows are allonguating. The Barbon Man is fervidly naviguating, commenting mostly impatiently the slowness of the connection, interposing sometimes some easy questions to the netbook, the odd sentence in response and from time to time even some bad words & frank blasphemies. He is trying to discharge some program, or some video, who knows. The Lanlord appropinquates.




THE BARBON MAN. Please don’t interrupt, it’s not polite.


The Lanlord remains like this; or, to say differently, decidedly stupefied.


THE LANLORD, trying to apologize. I’m sorry, Sir.


THE BARBON MAN, very very fastidiated. You are deranging me. I told you please don’t disturb. Go to hell with your sorry, Sir!


The Lanlord enreddes.


THE LANLORD. Excuse me, dear Sir, my second sorry was not intended to disturb you, but to ask you to apologize my first one.


THE BARBON MAN, rising his head, almost yelling. Oh, I see. It doesn’t matter, however: I’m really upset let-it-be by your first sorry, let-it-be by your second one. You are decidedly a cullion-infringer, and I daily meet a lot of people very similar to you, and when I reach this very hour I’m very filled with it.


Openly yelling.


I desire to rend your lordship edocted I’m not at your service, and that’s very rude to think people is wanting for colloquiating only because you can find them so easily in a park, or on a stone pankeen. I’m trying to naviguate, if you don’t know, and I need absolute peace, respectful & religious silence. Much-more if you consider that the signal I find in this fucking place is the worst & slowest I ever found, in every place, at every time, in every town, city, village of this filthy, sticky, tacky, stinky, whacky country.


Calming down, a little bit anphanating.


But I think it’s the same, by now I’m interrupted, and the horned connection doesn’t work.


Very suspicious, lurks the Lanlord in the very face.


I don’t like you, your face is desagreable, viscid & untrustable. What do you want from me?


THE LANLORD, confounded. Oh, I was… I’m very sorry…


THE BARBON MAN. & three.


THE LANLORD. … I’m a thousand of times sorry, you have to excuse me. I only wanted to ask you, if you vouchsafe, if you are utilisating a SpeedTouch connection.


THE BARBON MAN watches on the netbook skerm. I think so. Why this question?


THE LANLORD. Because I think it’s mine.


The Lanlord finger-shows a window in the high.


I inhabit this apartment, a very long one, you have to imagine a sort of room-flee, with a sixtyfive meters corridor, &…


THE BARBON MAN, bitterly smiling. Oh, I see. Well, you don’t fregate me: it’s free, okay? I won’t pay a scornful cent. You can go & do in some ass.


He shows to go away with a caphon gesture.


THE LANLORD, sorrowful, protestating. Oh, no! You didn’t understand.


THE BARBON MAN, very excited, seeing on the skerm the download repeliated. Oh, shut the fucking pianell: it works, it works!


THE LANLORD, quite interested. Oh, yes? & it’s fast enough, now?


THE BARBON MAN, newly suspicious. What are you interested in?


THE LANLORD. I have to explain myself. My signal-gun is not working too well: when I try to connect myself, I notice the band is almost always insufficient, & I even can’t discharge my post. I wanted to ask you…


THE BARBON MAN. Dear, I don’t understand why I should be interested in your gun-affairs. What do you want from me? I’m discharging a very important document, I need it, absolutely. Do you know, the barbon life is very very hard.


THE LANLORD, quite shocked. Oh. Are you a barbon man?


THE BARBON MAN with proudness. Oh, yes indeed, lo I a one hundred percent pure & spotless barbon man.


THE LANLORD can’t help to smile a little bit. Spotless? Er…


THE BARBON MAN, yelling. What are you intending, stink-under-the-nose fucking little sixty-meters-corridor-owner bourgeois? That I’m stinking?!


THE LANLORD. Oh, no! But barbon men solitly are not perfumed. And I couldn’t help to see what are you downloading with your netbook.


THE BARBON MAN angry, covering the skerm. Don’t look at it! Dont’t look at it! Don’t be undiscreet!


THE LANLORD tranquilisating. Don’t worry. I’m used to download similar material. And, if I’m allowed to say so, I’m very fond of this type, even if not with this genre.


THE BARBON MAN interested. What is the difference between type and genre?


THE LANLORD. Oh, I principally appreciate videos with women fustigated, mistresses with arrow-pointed lucid boots vergating nude men weeping, women with mice running on their naked bodies, gangbangs with women pissed on, bukkakes with women penetrated by five men at once, orgies with women beated and kicked-on by camionist-like lesbian women, women…


THE BARBON MAN disgusted. What a filth. And what a bore! Always women.


THE LANLORD, with an eureka-expressing face. That’s, that’s, that’s. You’ll be surprised, I guess, but I know.


THE BARBON MAN. You know what?


THE LANLORD. You have to know, my wife is very interested in similar videos, too, and when I download such porn-videos, she’s used to see them back using the chronology. When I’m back home, we usually divert ourselves with five or six of my colleagues re-making what we saw in the videos. She’s very disposable to being beated, pissed, popped, slapped, kicked, cummed, mess-covered, hanged by the arms & spitted on the most pitilessly as possible; she’s satisfied only when penetrated by three of us at once, especially in her ass. My preferred play is when my office-colleague Menenio stress her by her hair, my other office-colleague Artemio stretches her by her right arm, Arsenio makes the same with the left one, and Manilio & Pompilio take a leg each one, my office-chief Ottilio casting her a minimalistic lamp in the mouth till to the mediastine, and Vigilio, our rude and nerborute concierge, spinging in her bottom a chaise d’amour Louis XVIth. After it, we are used to sbeat her against the wall, mostly with the head, till she gains a sort of mystical ecstasy, in which she would do the worst skeefetzes, like eating our ear-poils, sucking our socks, and paint our foot-nails alternately with black and vermilion. When I can coinvolge a ten-fifteen persons, it’s a feast, a feast! We go all at the balcony on the internal court and we bind her to the balaustrate, turning-on in posseding her with flower-vases and gardening-items, with all the neighborhood incitating and applauding at our best prestations, between which the most showy is when we cast her down from the balcony itself, one after the other, attempting to make her impale on my Mercedes posterior radio-antenn, between guessings and encouraging beastly yells. Yesterday evening my wife came back home, and, supremely excited yet, pregustating what I found for our evening-amusement, and smanettating with the chronology didn’t find – oh, no! – what I downloaded of pickling & inspirating on youporn and savagesex; but, for a joke of destiny conjointedly with your most honorable netbook, that what you did find, as-to-say a spaventuous scene with two men kissing tenderly, and a terrific sexual encounter between a young man on his thirties and a communal guard with a fine advice of morosity and a tongue exceedingly long. My wife downloaded in a sort of hypnotical imbambulateness all the fifty-four videos you discharged yesterday evening, watched at all of them with fixed eyeballs, and at the end had a severe hysterical attack. When I rehomed, with seven of my colleagues, the baker at the corner, two wolf-dogs and an ironed club, forethinking at the wonderful, wonderful plays we’ll do together with that tremendous porkoness of my wife, we all found her hanging from the neck from the bathroom door, after ingurgitating two bottles of Old Romagna and one of muriatic acid, having opened her pulse-veins with a pantaloon-zip and attempted to distorch her right leg making fall on it the last twentysix volumes of the Threedogs Encyclopedia. And all believing in goodfaith her most faithful, respectful, loving husband was becamed a homosexual!


THE BARBON MAN, without thinking. What a horror.


THE LANLORD. Oh, I’m so grateful of your comprehension! How kind of you to recognize how dangerous your paraxitic connection can be for an otherwise inexcutable matrimonial situation! You have to imagine, just yesterday in the evening I was returning, beyond my all-excited most-endowed horny piggy friends, with a liquid sum of 150.000 euros from the last commercial operation – I’m specialised in piramid-like truffs, above all I damage oldies and handycappates –, a sum that would give hoxygen and peace to a periclitant home situation – with the new crisis we found ourselves with only seven hundred thousend euros on the count – and I was thinking: O my wife, we have to feast, after so many hunger & misery; at last stratchonness, with its dreadful phantoms (poor-hospitals, antichamber from some politic man, papers and papers to vidimate in order to obtain liquidity from money-prestors) is over! And I was fancing to cover her body with money, champagne, Extra-old Romagna, floods of piss, ear-flegm and the contenute of the cassonett – very heavy to carry on the stairs – at the corner, when I found her in this dispitingly state. Our disappointment was enormous, and we tried in vain to reanimate her beginning the program from a quintuple penetration (the chaise d’amour, the minimalistic lamp, a rolled-on carpet, the baker and one of the wolf-dogs): she was almost senseless, and murmurated: “Bring your filthy hands off from my body, you disgust me… Twee and ribbon-setted-up sissy… Perfumed sodomite, unbeareble sinner… Call for the parrot… I have to be purified from your devilish touch… Your sticky gay fingers… Far from me… Go away… In nowmyneh patrees…”. The evening get to the mountain, do you know? I was so frustrated, and my friends would beat me for the defaillance. I had to pay some money and to undercome to some of the most insupportable practices I never could imagine: and my wife was watching at it! The baker cast a fifty-centimeters tongue in my throat, and I was covered with some violence from each one of my colleagues, with the two wolf-dogs barking and spittifully pissing on me, and my wife, fainting, that repeated: “Oh, do you see it, that you are a bottom?… Yes, yes, give him a beautiful sgroopholatine…”. We had all two to be recoverated at Mary Victoria Hospital, where they disintoxicated my wife and resetted my poor ass; and the worst was that I wasn’t washing myself for weeks, because Ornella for her fifty-fifth birthday was wanting for lots of smegm – and doctors and inphermeers were continuously making nasty remarks, like: “So, you finished to make your merdous plays with that scrophe!”, and: “Annusate how this pork stinks! When you washed yourself the last time? The past year, piece of shit?”, scratching off all my smegm with some rampons, and throwing it away. I could say I was ruined by your vice, do you know? So, you are not old, you are in the midst of a street, and it could happen, but you can bring back in hand your life, making guesses, pretending you to be an Enel agent and robbing old ladies of the social pension, and things like that. I am man of world, I can all understand, but why, why, why, my lad, don’t you love the phyke?


THE BARBON MAN completely upset. … don’t know…


THE LANLORD, posing a hand, fatherly, on the Barbon Man’s shoulder. Sonny, don’t be offended, I could be commodly your father, or an uncle, if you want. Please, avoid depressing thinking, open your mind to the feminine sex, have some good & sane trombate from time to time, even with whores and transvestites, but, for your good, don’t give more a look tho males: it is devasting for your health, people would regard to you as a sphygate and not one good girl would marry you in centuries. And, above all, freeing yourself from your disgusting vice, you’ll never make damage to someone other – like me, for instance. Don’t worry. So, take this five euros. I’m very sorry I can’t give you more, but you know, there’s the crisis, and we all have to pay attention. Only don’t give them to some old faggot in order to have your mink sucked!


THE BARBON MAN, mechanically. … I swear… thank you…


THE LANLORD, allontanating. Be sage, I recommend myself. Think about I said you. One of these evenings I could bring up to my wife, it will be very amusing! She loves fresh flesh! Up with life, dear! Download your e-mails, now. By, dear.


THE BARBON MAN, alone, with dreamy voice. … yes… one of these evenings…


The Barbon Man closes his netbook, reposes it in his purse, takes it on his shoulder and goes to vomit sommessely in a bush.

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