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	I just want to ask you one favor.  If anyone reads this, it's okay
to share it with your friends, but please, whatever you do, don't tell
anyone on Chaucer listserver about it, or send them a copy at
chaucer-request@listserv.uic.edu.  Thanks.  I wouldn't want to upset them.
-- Cody

                             PILGRIM

                      By Cody Ann Michaels
                     c. All rights reserved

                  PROLOGUE TO THE SECOND EDITON

                      THE END AT SOUTHWARK

           History is now and England. -- T.S. Elliot

                      History is bunk. -- Henry Ford

	I suppose you think it's easy being a punching bag and a whore? 
Like, what do you do?  You get slapped.  You get beat up.  You get kicked
around.  And you get paid.  Nothing to it.  Why should I complain?  Well,
believe me, it's not that easy.  Oh sure, there are the thug types whose
fondest wish is to parade you naked in a bar or knock you off a stool and
make you crawl around giving out free blowjobs to their friends.  People
who put you in the hospital, or burn their initials in your tits.  But
belie ve me, that's not the worst.  That isn't even the doorway to
perception.  Not even the foothills to the Himalayas.  If you know what I
mean. 

	I thought of this the morning I woke up in the hotel and lay there
staring at the ceiling, thinking about what had happened the night before.
I have this client, see, Nathan, who belongs to one of those scholarly
organizations, it's called The Acronisti c Society for the Recreation of
Absolutely Useless Everything.  Which is why we were here in Southwark, at
the Tabard Hotel, which supposedly stands on the exact site of the place
where Chaucer started his book, The Canterbury Tales.  Nathan is a bug on
m edieval lore.  He's read all my father's books.  My father got his
doctorate in Agricultural Engineering, but when he graduated, the only job
he could get was teaching Chaucer at a girl's school in Vermont.  He
didn't know the first thing about Chaucer -- had never even read the
Canterbury Tales.  But hey, it was a job, and there was all this free
college pussy crossing and uncrossing their legs -- it was the sixties,
remember? -- so what would you do?  He improvised. 

	And today, his books are standard works in all the best colleges. 
In fact, his Chaucer: The Early Years, is invariably the first reference
they cite on the Chaucer list server when someone asks for information. 
Basically, Dad did what most professors d o.  He had his students write
term papers, and then he bound them together in a book.  Of course, the
papers were not necessarily about Chaucer.  That would have been boring. 
He let the girls write about whoever they wanted, and then he changed the
names .  To Chaucer.  So in those days, it was probably the Beatles or
maybe Donovan.  I don't know who else.  Madonna wasn't born yet.  Janis
Joplin?  James Dean?  Except he took out the car crash.  And since the
memory of a teenage girl is notoriously short a bout anything that doesn't
have anything to do with herself, no one got huffy about this being
unethical or plagarism or like that.  I mean, everybody does it!  Anyway,
he won the Pulitzer. 

	I've decided to stop trying to protect my father.  It's not worth
it.  I mean, I don't have to recover memories that would put him in jail
if he wasn't in Congress.  There are some things you just never forget. 
But Nathan worships him.  They've never me t, but when Nathan found out I
was my father's daughter, he couldn't get enough.  Which is why he
insisted I go with him on the pilgrimage.  Don't ask. 

	It's not like I had a choice.  Kelly just woke me up and said
Nathan had leased me for two weeks.  "What for?" 

	He's got some kind of project.  Nathan, I think I told you, is in
one of these clubs that do stupid things.  Like refight the Crusades.  Or
relive the Black Death.  This year, the spring project was the Canterbury
Tales.  Nathan, I said, there was no pro stitute in the Canterbury Tales. 
He said not in the ones that got published.  We were going to do the
uncensored version. 

	Okay, I realize there are a few of you who are not hip to what I'm
talking about.  So let me do a fast recap: Chaucer was a man who lived in
the middle ages and wrote short stories.  He did other stuff, too, because
as you can probably guess, there weren 't a lot of magazines that bought
short stories in those days, but if you want to know about that, you'll
have to read one of my father's books.  Just realize, though, you may be
reading about Marcello Mastrianni or Jimi Hendrix, depending on whatever
who ever wrote that particular chapter was into at the time.  The stuff
about Bergman and The Seventh Seal is sort of in that area. 

	We do know, although I'm not sure this is a fact, that one of the
clever things Chaucer came up with was to wrap some of his stories up into
a book about a pilgrimage to Canterbury, which is where the book gets its
name.  This gets complicated, but about two hundred years before, there
had been a bishop or someone at Canterbury who had gotten murdered and
become a saint.  Again, there are books and books written about this, and
if you want more information, I suggest you go on the Chaucer list server
and ask them.  It's easy.  All you have to do is send an email to
listserv@listserv.uic.edu and write "sub Chaucer" and then your name in
the first message line.  No quotes, of course.  Cool, huh?  The people
there are all very friendly and love to answer questions. 

	Anyway, Chaucer starts off his book at this place where we were. 
The Tabard, in Southwark, which is a slum in south London.  I heard it
wasn't so hot in those days either.  He's on his way to Kent because he's
been appointed justice of the peace there. And he meets a group of
pilgrims who he joins because he's afraid of highway robbers.  The rest of
the story is that these people who are going on a pilgrimage to the holy
martyr get the idea to tell stories.  Everyone will have to tell two
stories on th e way to Canterbury.  And two more coming back.  And the one
who tells the best tale wins a free meal.  I think this is the innkeeper's
idea.  He's sort of the tour guide.  So the rest of the book is made up of
Chaucer's stories and essays and speeches.  And it's totally boring. 
Because, as everyone knows, all the good stuff got burned.  Only 24
stories remained.  And two of those were incomplete.  If you count
everyone up, almost forty stories are missing from the trip out.  And none
survived from the o ne coming back to Southwark.  Many scholars believe
this last group never got written.  Because Chaucer stayed in Canterbury
and did not come back with the others.  But that still leaves quite a lot
unaccounted for. 

	Which explains why we were at Southwark in this hotel, which
frankly, had seen better times.  I mean, I'd hate to think it always
looked like this because it would definitely give you some kind of idea
what kind of riff raff Chaucer was hanging out with.  Nathan and his
friends didn't mind, because for them, this was history.  This is where
the holy Chaucer had burped and farted.  Supposedly.  My God, this place
didn't look like it had been painted since the dark ages.  And the bugs. 
I knew I had lice. But, of course, no one minded, because that just made
the re-creation all the more realistic.  I lay there in the dark thinking,
Leona Helmsley, where are you when I really need you. 

	The owner of the Tabard and the host on the tour, pilgrimage, had
been named Harry Bailly, supposedly a real personage, at least according
to the Chaucer list.  This is also the name of the present day owner. 
Harry Bailly Singh.  He came here, I mean to England, after the breakup of
Pakistan. 

	It was he who arranged for the horses, and the banquet the evening
before -- I won't mention -- and all the other paraphanalia.  And the
drugs.  You don't think we were going to do this unstoned, do you?  And
the costumes.  Chaucer describes all this in his general prologue, what
everyone was wearing.  Along with who was there.  It's a real show
stopper.  You could tell he really didn't know how to write.  He just gets
started, and wham, everything comes to a dead halt while he describes 31
people.  A fe w he just glosses over, but most he goes into in some
detail.  Right down to the Alpo one of the nun's feeds her dog.  Then
things pick up again, and the host, Harry Bailly, makes up the story game
and invites himself along on the pilgrimage.  He says at his own expense. 
That's what our Harry said, too.  But the fact was he was raking off a
commission every time someone bought toothpaste or had to go to the
bathroom. 

	Okay.  Maybe that's an exaggeration, because public bathrooms in
England are a lot more available than say, New York.  And if you couldn't
find one, you could always squat down by the interstate or whatever they
call them.  After that steak and kidney cu rry at the Tabard, there was a
lot of squatting. 

	But lunches.  Stopping for lunch.  We stopped where Harry told us
to.  He arranged the accommodations.  He got a kickback on the horses. 
The horse feed was extra.  We had to feed the stupid animals.  Because if
the horse was dead when you returned it, t hey took it off your credit
card.  And Harry would get a share of that, too. 

	Then we had to pay for the cook.  The cook was not a member of the
original party.  The cook was a crony of Harry's who came along for the
ride.  And got so fucking drunk he fell off his horse.  Just like in
Chaucer's book.  The cook is one of the storie s in the book that is
incomplete.  Judging from the way it started out and the condition of the
cook, you can guess why.  Not that some of Chaucer's stories aren't pretty
gross.  In fact, I think that's why he's still around.  But those stories
are nothin g compared to the Cook's Tale.  Which I will leave you to judge
for yourself. 

	In Chaucer's book, there are only three women.  At least that's
what they told me on Chaucernet.  But since they were quoting my old man's
book, I have some doubts.  Personally, I think he just left that out.  I
mean, come on, he was a politician.  Just like my dad.  I know how these
guys operate.  They only report what they have to.  And Chaucer must have
known where a lot of bodies were buried in his day.  After all, this was
only about six years after the Peasant's Rebellion.  And the Black Death
had raged in Europe for thirty or forty years.  You think that wasn't on
his mind?  Then there was Richard.  The boy king.  Chaucer's boss was the
regent.  I don't have to tell you there was a lot going on.  I don't know
how I knew this.  I just did.  But pro ving it was another matter. 

	The tv in our room was broken.  Because I had put my foot through
it the night before after watching another Morris mystery.  I tell you I
am off English mysteries forever.  Because they never fucking add up.  I
love the scenary.  The houses.  The places where evil is done.  But I am
just so pissed off at John Thaw because he never solves anything and gets
it over with.  I want the fucking mystery to be over, damnit.  Not walking
around with its dick and shirttail hanging out as the credits come up and
that fucking asshole jaguar disppears round the corner.  Will someone
with a tank run over that car.  Please!!!!!! 

	Anyway, we had to get up early.  It was freezing.  Raining.  April
18 in England is not my idea of a good time to go on a pilgrimage on
horseback.  Why did we have to use horses?  Why not the bullet train? 
Besides have you ever tried to ride a horse thr ough the suburbs of south
London?  It's not like it was in Chaucer's day.  Someone on Chaucernet
said this was Watling Street.  The Chaucer list is a great place to do
research, especially if you have to do a term paper on Chaucer and have
basic basic que stions, like when was he born.  Canterbury is in the shire
of Kent and Canterbury, in fact, is a corruption of Kent; the Kents were a
sophisticated German race who came here in 1250 b.c.  The other German
races were the Angles, from where we get the name English, and the Saxons,
who gave us Essex, Wessex and Safe Sex.  He laughed uproariously.  Old
Harry was a real rump slapper.  Get your hand off my back side, mother. 
Watling Street was an old Roman road.  "And," our guide said, "the Romans
built to las t."  Parts of Watling Street had a "layer of oak logs laid
diagonally and covered with moss and holly twigs.  This raft carried 9 to
12 inches of sandstone with a covering layer of 6 in. of a black
concrete...."  (Encyc. Brit., entry "Roads")  "Some Roman roads even had
curbs and storm drains.  Just as Roman aquaducts stayed in use during the
Middle Ages and beyond, so did Roman roads."

	It was still getting a lot of use.  Cars were going past us like
bullets.  The horses shied and threw people.  Gravel was thrown up in our
faces.  I fell off my horse and was dragged, my foot caught in the
stirrup.  I hated it.  Could we all get together , Harry cried as we
reached the miniskirts of town.  "Now then, who will start us off?"  We
should all draw straws.  Except he had forgotten to bring them with him. 
He looked around for something else to draw.  "How about if we spin the
boddle," the cook said.  Nathan suggested we flip a coin.  The host
pointed out there were 33 people here, exactly the number of years of our
Lord Jesus's life time, bless us.  I wanted to vomit.  (Chaucer,
incidentally, had originally said there were 29 pilgrims, not inc luding
himself and the host, but if you count the number of people he describes
in the general prologue, there were 31.  The people on Chaucernet had some
trouble with this when I brought it up.  You wouldn't believe the flames. 
I mean, actual death thre ats.  Like trying to talk to Christians.) 

	"Look," I said.  "Just pick someone out.  Who told the first story
in the book?" 

	"The knight."  That would be the guy in the funny metal suit.  I
thought he was playing the Tinman of Oz.  Or Robocop. 

	Each one of us was taking the part of one of the pilgrims.  Who
else was there?  A doctor.  A reeve.  What's a reeve?  I don't know. 
Maybe he meant rave.  A rave's not a person.  What about a raven?  Quote
the raven, "How much more?"  A summoner.  What does he do?  Serves
summons, I guess.  Well, what about one of the nuns?  They both said, oh
no, you go first.  Anyway, to make a long story brief, the hunchback told
the first tale. 

	  I know this isn't the same order as the one in the book, but
somehow in all the confusion of having to get up at ten in the morning, we
forgot the list, and according to my father's book, no one really knows
what order the stories went in.  Chaucer app arently just threw them
together.  Or his son did, after Chaucer was dead.  In fact, it's thought
that Thomas... Sir Thomas Chaucer actually wrote the part about the
pilgrimage, as an excuse for make a buck off his father's stories. 
Because none of the o riginal manuscripts survive.  We don't know when
they were actually written.  Believe me, I know this, because the teenage
girl my father was sleeping with at the time told him she looked it up, I
forget where.  But it's a fact.  They also killed most of the dirty
stories.  Or they may have had them published under a different name. 
There are different theories. Again, I can only refer you to the Chaucer
list for relevant details.

	I may as well tell you, however -- because eventually you would
probably guess -- that just like Chaucer, I am using the pilgrimage as a
pretext for presenting a collection of my own stories.  The fact is, I
hardly remember what happened on that miserabl e three day ride to
Canterbury.  Eventually, we had to give up and take a bus.  It was so
embarassing.  Everyone on the bus was a pilgrim, too.  And the town was
full of them.  Everyone seemed surprised this was not a new idea.  In
fact, they had been doi ng this since the middle ages.  Long before
Chaucer or Harry Bailly were even thought of.  And everyone had a story. 
But do you have any idea what it's like to tell a thirty page short story
on a horse to 30 people in a rain storm while riding along an a utobahm or
whatever they call them, which by the way ended up at Heathrow Airport? 
You can barely hear the person next to you, let alone 30 places down the
line.  Even with a bullhorn.  So what Harry suggested was that we each
tell a story to the person next to us, and he would repeat it to the
person in front or in back of him, and so on, with everyone telling his
story at the same time.  Get it?  It was a mess. 

	Anyway, we eventually got to Cantrbury or whatever it is.  Which
is where I found out the bishop involved was Beckett.  So in a way it was
worth while, because I always wanted to visit Beckett's burial place.  I
just didn't know it was here.  My father n ever mentioned Beckett, because
he wasn't much into reading.  And after he got into the state senate, he
sort of gave it up altogether.  It wasn't until he got into Congress that
his academic career helped him.  Do you have any idea what it means to
elect a college professor to Congress?  It's like letting Jack the Ripper
be housemother in a dormitory of coeds.  Newt.  Gramm.  They're all
college guys.  My dad.  It makes you think.  Maybe there really is
something about all those millenium rumors.  With g uys like my pop in
charge, something has to be coming.  Just wait til he declares for
President. 

	Here ends the prologue to the second book.

                                *

	Oh, and by the way, is there anybody except me who thinks the new
color on the front page of the New York Times is to die for?  I only wish
they would.  What were these people thinking?  When I stumble into my
favorite cafe at 11 in the morning, the last thing I want to see is a
three column picture of Radovan Karacic or Rudy Guiliani in vomit whore
color.  God!  Doesn't anybody get it, the news is supposed to be grey! 
That's the only thing that protects us from reality, that the blood and
guts attrocit ies and stinking underhanded tricks are done in grey half
tones.  This paper looks like a desperate 43rd Street whore whose trying
to do with makeup what she can't do with a girdle.  I want to scream, get
it away from me.  Please!!!!!!.  Don't let it touc h me.  But I got to get
my morning whatda you call them when junkies shootup.  hit?  fix?  That's
it.  fix.  Of the news.  The latest Diana Wallbanger.  Oh.  I'm sorry. 
Was that offensive?  I didn't mean it that way.  I'm just saying, it's no
fun seeing those pictures of her in the car.  In day-glo color.  The Times
would never print that.  But the story that another paper, a tabloid, had,
that was news.  So they printed the picture to show what the other paper
had printed.  I'm telling you, I wanted to throw up.  They are so
hypocritical.  The Globe or some tab shows a picture of Di with her head
blown off, and the Times goes mad.  The car crash was only a coverup. 
That's why there was a closed coffin.  Now that's a story.  You want to
hear another?  H is mother's in jail.  Two jocks swapping stories as the
ball game progressed.  Or the boxing match.  Or the golf game.  Or the
tennis tourney.  You weren't supposed to bring radios.  Or portable tvs. 
But everyone breaks the rules.  The Prioress had a dog .  That was against
the rules.  Nuns were not allowed to have possessions.  The convent owned
you.  The second nun was doing penetence.  She had to walk on her knees. 
The prioress rode the first nun. 

	It saved on horses.  If you brought your own.  Harry would not get
a commission, but he was permitted to add a surcharge. 

	Nathan rode me.

	I didn't mention that, did I?  The reason I was along on the trip
in the first place.  I had a saddle and high heeled boots.  And a bit
between my teeth.  Which made it hard to talk.  And my tits bounced on the
ground. 

	Okay.  I made a real spectacle of myself.  Pretending to be
Waldo's horsy worsy.  But I was stoned.  I wondered what our family
preacher was doing here.  God, these were good drugs.  Harry ran the drug
trade in Kent.  That was his home base.  The Tabard was just a sideline. 
Get it, Morris?  It was no big deal! 

	The Marlins only had three games to go to win the series.  It was
a big thing.  If only the great Dimaggio had not retired.  We went out to
far, fish.  Now that was a story.  In the hill town, people scrambled to
find batteries for their radios.  They co uld pick it up on shortwave. 
The old man slapped his walkman.  Play.  Come on and play, damn you. 

	What had he caught?  A marlin!  Caramba.  It was a foretelling.  A
hole in time.  The fish towed him out to see.  I do not know who you are,
but if we lose now, it will be as men.  Together.  There was a lump in her
throat.  She was so proud.  Fidel hurl ed the ball. 

	Very few people know that the great dictator once played two
seasons on the old New York Alpos while putting himself through law
school.  Both years the Alpos won the pennant.  But went on to lose in the
series.  Now, he was coming back.  Both times it h ad been against the
Braves.  They had been a Chicago team. 

	What about the Tinman?  He wanted a heart.  Or was it an oil can? 
No.  He had a can.  He needed a girl.  Yada da yada da yada.  On and on. 
They went on and on.  Everyone talking.  No one shuts up.  Then, suddenly,
all stop.  It's dead quiet.  Like some thing is about to happen.  And then
the tension is broken and all begin to talk again.  Arcite.  Pelomon. 
Xena, the Warrior Princess.  Let me run through this quick.  Arcite and
the other get locked up.  They both fall in love with the same girl, but
in different ways.  Each gets sprung different.  And then they have a
fight and one wins and the other gets the girl.  End of story.  Any
questions? 

	Why were they in jail?

	No information.

	Who won?

	Who do you think?

	Who died?

	Eventually, we all die in the end, so that is an academic question.

	I think you're making fun of us.

	He smiled.  Why would I want to do that?

	Tell us more about the girl.  He agreed and went on talking. 
Emily was a delicate child.  She was a stunning red head.  She had long
curly red hair and humungous knockers.  And long legs.  And she would pose
naked out in the garden under the window wher e the two cousins were
locked up and pretend they weren't there. 

	You mean she was a tease?

	You got it.

	Or she would wear french underwear.  Stuff from Victoria's Secret
or Frederick's of Hollywood.  High heels.  See through bodysuits.  Sheer
black stockings.  With seams.  And a whip. 

	Long black gloves.  A tight corset that cinched her to 17 inches. 
A black leather collar.  A long leash.  One end hooked to the collar.  The
other in her mouth.  Like a good dog.  Briefly, I thought Emily might have
actually been a dog the two jerks wer e in love with.  But then I noticed
everyone looking at me.  And I knew she was a horse. 

	A pony girl.

	Someone to mount.

	She also wore a saddle.

	And had a bridle in her mouth.

	And a long tail attached to a broomstick stuck up her ass.

	Now that's a tale.

	Chaucer rode an adorable whippet of a girl.  She looked like she
was fresh off a Benny Hill chorus line.  All fresh pink and pastel.  With
honey-colored hair and rowanberry lips, and honey colored hair curling to
white hips.  I was thinking of something, I wasn't sure what.  Huge eyes. 
Breasts hanging to her knees.  When she was bent over, with the fat boob
on her back.  I guess what I'm telling you is the horse's tale?  You won't
begrudge me that?  Chaucer was about six feet tall, just like he says in
his book.  You read it.  It's in the prologue to the parson's tale.  And
fat.  He says that, too.  He's an armful for any woman.  The cook calls
him that.  But Emily, his mare, was a soulful animal.  She was so
beautiful.  Everyone admired her.  And hated the way he abused her.  He
would make her run at high speed until she dropped.  And then he would
kick her and make her get up.  And she would stand there bleeding.  And
crying.  I felt so bad.  I wished I could help her.  But girls aren't
supposed to h elp other girls.  Otherwise, we'd be whipped.  The nun's
story was a corker.  We all admired her courage and fortitude, to be able
to put up with stuff like that, and not rebel or try to get even.  Which
would be offensive to our lord in heaven.  It was r ight that my spirit be
crushed.  That I be cast down.  And tormented.  As if the very devils in
hell were burning me.  Because I tell you sisters, on that day of
adjustment, those who are not saved will suffer worser treatment.  It's a
fact.  It's in the book.  Emily's essays could get a bit morbid.  But she
did good research.  He had to give her that.  It's hard to say who had it
worser, Arcite or Pelamon.  Having to ride two bitches like that.  Both
boys bounced in the saddle until their women squealed like a turkey.
Arcite's however threw him to the floor.  And he was crushed beneath her
feet.  No.  Wait a minute.  Arcite rode Emily.  What were you on?  The
young nun.  How was she?  Beatific.  Want some?  Be my guest, old man. 
They camped just before Rochester on the Dover road.  Around the small
campfire, they told tales.  Not all the details matched up.  Then they
would fight.  The Janitor was a woman.  The terrorist also.  Ditto the air
force commander.  The Head of the United Nations.  The Counci l of Birds. 
The Projector of Space.  The Alpha Nutter Hole.  These were all
configurations and whirls in the terrain.  Far back in the woods, there
would be no one to watch.  She was getting close. 

	You just let her rave.  Until the right moment.  And then...

	He passed the bottle under her nose.  She said excuse me and left
the room.  Whre was she.  She was out there.  She was communication to her
station command er.  It's just in the keysd a fga

Scramble.
Take cover
srlfakf;aefgigagraer
Then the explosion.  And the tower was missing 
tgwer

Where was she.  She would have toi explain when she got back.  She did not
think she could do it.  Tylpe damn you.  tytpe. 
But she had.
She had broken free.
Now she was free to do it.
She ran down hil.l
tjhe bpoys were after her
KELllieeeeeeeee
But Kelly couldnt save her.  SHe went over the edge.  and fell
/She fell down a flight of stairs.  I couldn't help  her.  she was dead.
Then who's this?
I don't know.
And this?

He didn't know anything, Maruice.  I'm telling you.  He doesn't know.
Wshe turned her head sideways as he dragged her thropugh the mud.
I had a friend who went on a pilgrimage to Poland once
to visit the Black Madonna.  It's at the top of the peak.  But Poland is
flat.  Yeah?  Poland has more mountains than the Alps.  Anyway, he walked
from one place to another..and the people followed him and he was given
food to eat.  It was a great racket.  You go some place and you make
others pay.  If they don't like it, try and collect.  TAke the trip back. 
Remove the pilgrimage .  You don't want that, do you?  No.  I'm sorry. 
You repent of your ways, don't you?  and accept Christ Jesus. yes.  Each
day they walked from place to place and the people came out and fed them. 
It was miraculous.  You see, the trouble with Chaucer is dictionaries. 
People keep looking up what he means.  And not what he says.  It's because
of dictionaries.  They put the words in a cast.  And leave them there. 
For instance, men in Chaucer's time were all six feet tall.  Did you know
that?  Someone on C haucer group told me.  A foot was one sixth of a man's
height.  Chaucer said he was six feet tall, but his height was half
eleven.  How does that work out?  It's a procrustian bed.  Chaucer is who
chaucer is.  No.  It's cthturll lives as maidens die?  Is that right? 
What does that mean?  Chaucer has singularities.  Just like Hawking said. 
Does that explain it>? 

	We got on the bus at Bream.  You left the horses in a corral.  And
got on the specially chartered bus with all the clowns in it.  There were
six tin men.  Two amputees with pustulant sores.  That you could kiss for
a buck.  They also had leprosy.  Come a nd listen to the Pardoner's tale. 
I forgive you all your sins.  That's one kind of pardon.  Don't worry. 
I'll be alright.  That's an even worse one.  I forgive you for what you
did to me.  Is one thing.  for what you did to our child is another.  I'm
no thing.  It doesn't matter.  But Melanie.  I want our daughter to have a
chance.  He poured lye in her face for disobeying her father's wishes. 
Then he cut off her ears.  He broke each finger of her right hand as she
screamed.  And he made ... well, you g et the picture.  She forgave him. 
But nothing much changed.  He was still that same stinking asshole he ever
was.  For which you can kiss mine, and lick it out.  Be sure and get all
the boogers out.  Heloise, you never told me he did that.  I was ashamed . 
As each cadette was brought in, she was bent over the desk and given
twenty of the sharpest.  Her little red bottom hurt for a week.  Military
command.  It's so enchanting.  Bracing.  If you know what I mean.  I think
I do.  Let's have a go at her tits , shall we.  You first.  What other
games can we play with our horses.  You, my lady, start us off.  So on the
third day, the wife of his accountant in Bath, let the way.  As you can
guess, each story took a suitable time to tell.  They got to Chaucer aro
und the sixth or seventh day.  By that time, we had been in these rings of
hell a long time. 

	In the book, Chaucer talks about Prudence.  He doesn't tell you
that the real Prudence is on the seventh rung of Dante's Inferno. Remember
that.  A great club.  Right on the beach.  So you could. /.  they didn't
call it the Inferno for nothing.  It took years to get it closed.  After
that, the town turned sort of into a ghost town.  No one went there
anymore.  There were only vestiges of the spirit here on earth.  Is that
so, My Lady.  She laughed.  She was a grand duchess in disquise.  Fergie! 
I love Fergie.  She's my favorite princess.  I'm glad she didn't get hurt. 
She's so much fun to punch around.  The Queen's Royal Punching Bag. 
That's nice dear.  Wham.  Who is that woman>?  You're daughter-in-law your
magesty.  Just wait, bitch.  I fix you.  S ong of the terrorist.  We
watched the jetliner crash into the cathedral.  The columns shook. 
Beckett came out of the tomb.  His bones were removed in the fifteen
hundreds.  Only the Tudors know where.  Owen ap Owen ap Owen oh so many
Owens ago, there was a Tudor and a Prince.  The Prince drove the Two Door
into a fire hydrant.  Ripped out her underbelly.  And she's been dragging
it since.  Take it off, Fergie.  Take it all off. 

	What a prince.  He sold her to a foreigner.  And he drove her into
a wall.  She was getting a lot of hits.  Wait a moment, this was supposed
to be Di, Morris.  It was the other one.  I wanted.  Too late now, the
funeral's all planned.  Mother's ordered t he mourners.  Be good to get
rid of her.  I hate the Spencers.  Mark Twain wrote this, right?  It has
to be a joke.  My God.  Where did she get all those people?  They'll cost
us millions.  I know you're queen, but you've got to economize.  The
money's no t endless, you know.  We've been on the dole for a thousand
years.  Is that welfare or what?  I can't believe it's you.  I thought you
were dead.  That car thing.  That was just a ruse.  Ruse de Monte Carlo
they call it.  The prince was glad to have been of service.  Europe's
executioners.  The Grimaldies.  They run the hits.  And the takeouts.  The
Koreans own the supermarkets and the Guelph's own the girls.  So what can
I interest you in? 

	Gradually, the little party made its way through the desert sands. 
I was telling Rafael, the priest, about the chicken I had in my rooster. 
What's your rooster.  Rooster dooster.  We both laughed.  He was the only
male horse in the group.  His master, an old cork, rode him mercilessly. 
Along with the other priest. 

	Don Quiote was a betting man who lived in a castle by the strand
and told such tales that one could believe was a real thing happening. His
was the amplitheatre of the mind.  He came forth reluctantly to make a
killing and then return to his aerie.  The second knights tale is so dirty
that only a Spanard could have written it.  She stood on the balcony and
raised her hands.  The crowd cheered.  Evita!  Evita!  Evita!  While the
man beside her stared straight ahead.  Peron did not know his name.  It
was Evita.  He did not know she was there.  Standing next to him.  He
wondered who they were calling for.  There was a woman in a glass coffin
on the table in the dining room.  Peron raised his hands and the crowd
wept.  Il Papa!  It was getting mixed up.  Christ had returned to the
earth.  Forgive me.  I always have to cry. 

	Where do you think we are?

	Madagascar, the sign says.  Do you think there's a way back?  I
don't think so.  You have to let go.  Maybe I should move to Florida.  I
hate it when he does that.  Who cares?  She was puzzling things out.  What
else?  I don't know.  No one tells me.  We have to stop for the knight. 
Thank God, my feet are killing me.  The rule was you had to take care of
the horses before you went in to dine.  Come on, Cody.  Step it up.  I'm
hungry.  I want to eat.  Fuck me, dam you or get your brother to do it. 
She h ad a smart mouth.  He slapped her.  Let's get this clear.  I am the
promise keeper in this house.  Not you.  You do what I tell you.  Which
meant I had to break a lot of promises I made to other men.  I had to
rearrange my schedule to fit his.  I had to m ake myself available at all
times to his friends.  And I had to be fucked twice a day.  Fucking a
bitch horse on an empty stomach is so debilitating.  Especially before a
heavy meal.  This is how heart attacks start.  First you feel something. 
Then it hi ts you.  WHAM.  You're up agaionst the wall and falling. 
Fucking bitch exploded in my face.  Blew my hands off.  Yeah.  She doesn't
need arms.  They get in the way anyway.  Unless they're cinched up in back
out of the way so tight all her circulation is cut off.  The woman's
breasts were covered with sores for which she hoped the holy water would
cure her.  Slight of hand is slight of caper.  Yom Kippor came and went. 
The day of atonement is at hand.  When the jet will fall out of the sky
and destroy th e cathedral.  The huddled masses yearning to breathe free. 
Like those people in Italy who blew up the church and pretended there was
an avalanche.  Why can't taht happen here?  All would be free.  The
terrorist would enter the cathedral and blow it up.  She was wonof him.  A
winafin.  In a contest.  Win a finn in a contest.  Take her home.  Do what
you wyun.  That's the way they chalked.  Wihjggal gfingh aeofgh'seasogh'
dstogdalgadsgw Old English.  Means Weathrow done it.  Got that on an old
Sax channelk.  We spell things different here.  You got any problems with
that?  Spell checkers aint' allowed.  But how do you make the rules if the
language changes?  What's right in Wynne may not hold up in Heathrow. 
It's a messy messy situation, I'm telling you.  The terrorists are
everywhere.  Anything could go next.  You've got to have one thing that
matters.  The language.  If we all don't speak the same way, no one will
understand.  Nathan, shut up.  I wanted to sleep.  It was four in the
morning.  We would soon have to get up.  All I know is what they feed me. 
It has to be something else. 

	It was the pattern of the dialogue on the dicathode.  That she
said mattered.  If you looked at it in the light, it showed the pattern of
the former recipient.  Whemsley, I think it was.  Blue on gold.  With four
chevrons.  So what does that prove?  She couldn't have been sitting next
to you on the night you killed ... She threw a shoe at the screen.  Why
couldn't he? she wanted to know.  Everyone sees a different pattern. 
Tomorrow we would enter Canterburty and the trip will be saved.  It's very
simple .  They had a form of credit.  It wasn't Mastercard, but it was
visa.  If you went on a pilgrimage it was one thing.  But if you gave to
someone on a pilgrimage, it was something else.  One equaled the other
incrementally.  A hen was worth three dollars.  The girls spent the night
at the Bell.  And were up early in the morning to service their mounts. 
Jane rode Emily and Heather had Elizabeth.  These girls also told stories,
usually in the daily press.  The Commoner's Tale.  That was a good one. 
Caught in the duchess again.  So that's the story.  A rouser.  Hoopla. 
They all thought it was dirty.  So it didn't get in the book.  They
brought it out as Naked Lunch.  So you could see the thing on the end of
your fork was your eye.  She stood there looking at it.  Is this for real? 
I actually did that to myself.  What was I thinking?  I must have been
crazy.  It wasn't me.  What's my story.  I was somewhere else.  I need an
alibi.  I was on pilgrimage.  That's a good one.  And this is what
happened. 

	The Bishop told about his trip to San Luis Opispo.  Where the holy
martyr don juan de la Becket plunged into the ravine.  That was Moriarty. 
Surely it was Moriarty.  But it wasn't.  Holmes had gone down into the
underworld with the arch fiend.  She got a little tiresome at the end. 

	So I never got to Canterbury.  We girls weren't allowed on the
bus.  Hasidim.  Very strict dietary restrictions.  We only saw it after it
was dive bombed.  At least, that's the story. 


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