New to the Paris scene, stands L’Planetarium de Paris, on the elbow of the cul-de-sac, Raphaelo Avenue, where starry-eyed Parisian Eves, commonly known around the town as stormy petrels, tiringly walked hand in hand with their cute starry-eyed sons and daughters in endless circles till nightfall disgustingly transformed them into fading flowers…and Malachi was one of them.
The thriving metro on Friday nights drew the odd questionable character from behind the closing curtain of its wild night-life.
Malachi and young Jiminez witnessed first hand the destruction of innocence, opening with an unguilty verbal confrontation between a very elderly and rather refined French lady and a highly strung young Frenchman, with more hang ups than a clothes line, closing the uncomical act with him grabbing her stuffed fluffy purse and heading for the Arc de Triomphe screaming French obscenities, she hobbled after him, police finally swooping on him, the old lady catching up and beating him almost to a pulp with her umbrella, rightly accusing him of theft, the fluffy stuffed purse flying through the air with the greatest of ease powder puffin’ the robust policeman where it hurts.
In between rounds at the planetary dome, Iranian bread baskets filled with assorted puff pastry treats filled them to overflowing and Aussie mango split drinks at the food fest made their mouths water for more.
At the close of the day the cool evening breeze sent them on another feeding frenzy tucking into Italian meatballs and Pasta, Ravioli, pumping 16-inch thick lasagne and British porky pies till they turned into cot cases in the wee, wee hours of the morn, both complaining of aches and pains to the ignorant midnight manager – the chef in the moon and yelling through their open window, “LIFE’S NO BREEZE! IT’S ALL HOT AIR RISING!”
French Welfare Services readily allowed Malachi to temporarily take Jiminez in until permanent arrangements were settled.
“France is even-handed and open-handed,” boasted Malachi to Angea-Lea’s parents and his own over the telephone hours before he left with Jiminez to Switzerland. He decided to keep the idea of the journey to himself.
* * * * * *
Two wild goats perched loftily on steep rugged rocks, their oriental sword-like horns bolted together, following sneaky swift stabs at the losing opponent, separated by a fierce lightening bolt prior to an out of the blue thundery shower causing them to bolt from the blue as the Peurgeot Mountaineer climbed higher and higher up the Alps.
Syphoning every ounce of energetic strength from the bolt of lightening that hit the knife-sharp edge of the mountain crest that split open the chest of the Ibex to reveal a small cross-shaped bone close to its heart (believed to hold miraculous powers), it cantered wildly over the alpine meadows and ascended the soaring peaks.
Malachi swerved the vehicle in an effort to avoid hitting the fleeing loser, but fearing it was being hunted it spun on the spot and scurried back onto the road colliding head on with the mountaineer, the vehicle killing the beast instantly.
The pair alighted the car and ran to its lifeless side. The mystical bone had popped from its slashed chest and lay in a bloody pool on the head of a glacier white puffball mushroom.
Without a word from either one of them Malachi dragged the Ibex into the middle of a nearby forest and buried it at the base of a red fir.
He dropped to his knees beside the mound of soil and cried heavily as words of apology spilled from his trembling lips.
The chiming voice of an angel broke the minute of deathly silence that followed saying:
THE GOLDEN EAGLE CIRCLES AND PROTECTS ALWAYS.
A RAINBOW OF LOVE I SEND FROM ABOVE THE ARCHANGEL RESTS BENEATH ITS ARC HE SHALL CARRY YOUR TEARS ON WINGS LIKE A DOVE AND TUMBLE THEM INTO CLEAR LAKES AS HE DARTS.
A golden Eagle swept over them, sheltering them under his wings as it came to rest on Malachi’s shoulder. Malachi took it as a sign of good fortune and gave him a verbal message of thanks. In his beak was the mystical bone, Malachi took it and placed it in his top pocket, the Eagle squawked then flew away.
The winner of the buck fight watched from a distance as he lay amongst the wildflowers.
The comical, whistling Marmot lifted their spirits. The wildlife of the wilderness from this day forward revered the splendid Ibex.
* * * * * *
Clarinet soloist Rowan King’s creative swing twist on the writings of Bach bounced its positive sound in numerous rounds off the ceiling of the Mountaineer, until their arrival at Ticino’s Veterinary Hospital.
* * * * * *
Junré watered the brilliant orchids that grew in wild profusion beneath a light canopy of fruit bearing trees where life clings to life atop a small hill commonly known as the Western Edge of a quartzite rock garden off the side entrance to the silver painted entertainment room.
Iridescent Hummingbirds jazzed up a party of breeding flightless birds that nestled in comfort on the spongy ferny floor of the fruit tree forest, human intrusion disturbing their idyllic harmony as blue skies disappeared at dusk.
* * * * * *
An ever-lovin’ pair of lovey doves not much older than seven strolled arm in arm totally absorbed in a cheeky chat of cheeky stories romancing the air on the other side of the Siffleur’s front fence as Antaeus pat-dried the newly washed Bugatti.
“Wild mouthwatering whispers from a luscious lady to her Mister Irresistible could blow us all away. Welcome to the quiet side of the Riviera Dominic and Dominique,” fired Antaeus leaning over the wooden fence to his long lost relatives.
“We were just pretending Uncle Antaeus, Aunt Lalique and Mama have stopped at the corner to view a private antique jewellery display, they have a sign out front of their house called L’ Watch Shoppe, you can come out from behind the garden shed now, the ladies won’t bite you when they show.”
“Come inside you giggling Goschnicks before God turns out the lights and the brown Falcon consumes the campers, they are hungry tonight. Your Auntie Junré is scrubbing the beige suede sofette suite in the entertainment room, pop in and say hello,” Antaeus navigated, then tramped to the back garden, grabbing a tin of leather hide oil on the way and spent a full twenty minutes sitting on the spruce log rubbing the oil into his Redwood coloured leather moccasin boat shoes. “That will keep you both well nourished and superbly soft and supple like the well-oiled woman I worship,” he told his pair of shoes.
Junré switched on the tele-viewer for the late afternoon classic: John Wayne’s – Santa Fe Stampede and placed the cleaning equipment in the hall closet and turned on the ceiling fan to high speed, it was an unusually warm day.
Her niece and nephew stampeded through the archway bleary eyed and searching for an audience who would listen intently to their interesting and inventive love stories they had stored deep inside their lively characters, their reputations developing more and more as each episode unfolded.
“Such a time-consuming show bringing animated images to life,” yawned Junré with a notoriously boring attitude.
“But well worth it when you see how it ends,” Antaeus replied, sandpaper tongue dangling, and purring like a pussycat as he pounced through the side door on all fours.
Following a quick explique on the topic of excitement to the uneducated squirts, Antaeus swept his wife off her feet threatening her pussy galore with captive breeding methods, awesomely transforming his rotating reptile into the creepy crawly every well-bred lady abhores, she termed in a blast of hot air.
“My favourite animal – prehistoric lounge-lizard, the type who can commit brutal acts without endangering himself,” Junré loathsomely voiced loudly then hummed to herself the tune RESPECT adding her own words, “I will ride the rollercoaster when I am good and ready.”
“You should adore all animals especially the exotic,” he said pointing to his pathetic petite slug.
She twitched it miserably betwixt her thumb and forefinger questioning with renewed flair, “Now who could argue with that?”
Luckily the kidlets had seated themselves in front of the noise box as the pair of prehistoric turtle doves dashed into their sleeping quarters.
After much banging and clanging the rest of the party arrived on the doorstep with late christmas gifts and thirsty for warmed eggnog, much like Antaeus.
“An active body is an active mind,” declared the master of the bedroom in a booming voice on his way to the kitchen for a co-enzyme blast. A high concentration supplement in the form of an effervescent tablet dissolved into a bubbly and refreshing lemon-lime flavoured drink that boosted energy production and strengthened the heart of Antaeus. Just the kick-start he needed to keep his vital organs finely tuned.
Antaeus led the way to the dining room the relatives followed the littlies taking their position. Junré trimmed the candles the radius of the brightly glowing sticks made their faces beam.
“I gather you pair of lovers wild have been wallowing in your inner sanctum of sexuality taking gross delight in the delicacies of life,” Lalique poetically injected.
“A place steeped in mystery where the Beauty and her Beast resort to,” Lola breathed heavily with spirit.
“Only one life do we have, so we live it lively that’s our motto,” Antaeus brushed his big brass knuckles against his barrelled chest.
The broadleafed broads breathlessly spread the brushwood tidings of travel like a pair of cracked-up nutcrackers. “Aaah the memory of a shrubby undergrowth under a leafy tree canopy, the rich aromatic oils of the ground plants as they pong their perfume along the moist coast of Brittany,” Lalique described.
“The yellow-flowered gorse uniquely blend with the purple heather in a show of colour so splendid your eyes light up in tune with your smile,” Lola described.
The conversation on conservation interspersed with patches of shadiness from the Ladies of Laziness about their recent trip to the shoreline rotted slowly like an outdoor carpet of rain-sprinkled leaf litter.
No sooner had they arrived they then went.
* * * * * *
Not far from Ticino’s Vet Hospital was a chalet for rent. After a brief introduction at the Hospital Malachi was told to unpack and settle in the rented chalet two doors down.
Malachi’s daily regime involved facial cleansing to unclog his pores of any foul matter, this, he trusted would infuse the idea of having his ultra-dewy girl come in closer contact with him. To keep his baby-boy looks for longer he would moisturise with a vitamin-enriched face cream. Since knowing Angea-Lea his face had become softer to match his honeyed personality he’d adopted from her also.
The lead up to his arrival in Switzerland made him feel a little nervy and as a result of this his face became blotchy with a few spots erupting for a tease. It was just like puberty blues all over again. Just the thought of laying eyes on Angea-Lea’s exquisite beauty once again set off his already smoking gun. It had been in his deep dark past, a weapon of mass destruction.
Jiminez wondered what he was doing to himself when he slipped his hand into his pants feeling the super-smooth skin of his weapon.
He cast his mind back to the days when he was a little boy remembering his mother playing hide and seek with his genitals. Firstly, she would cover his penis and scrotum with his trainer pants babbling to him in baby talk “hide hidy hide”, then she’d peep down his trainer pants saying, “let’s go seek”.
Little Malachi would rip his pants down grab his bait and tackle and scream “here ’tis mommy”. When he relayed this to young Jiminez the boy burst out laughing saying, “What cheek!”
Many of Malachi’s past women would refer to the contents of his erectobolt as a long range heat-seeking missile. His semen was like a bullet shooting out with hostile intention into the pouches of what he’d termed – the enemy. These were women who detested him for his gallivanting. The disarmament phase would take some time especially when his women, and there were many, ended up spitting out his chemical as he would often make the mistake of calling out the other woman’s name he’d made love to previous. One particular woman ended up screaming, “Disarm or else I’ll destroy your nuclear infrastructure and remove your fissionable material completely.” Very little remained undeclared and intact.
Many a time Inspector Dick was called in only to announce Malachi’s strange milky substance was illegally produced.
Another question in view was, “Can the uprising of his weapon of mass destruction be prevented from firing in the future?”
“A resolution? Is that what you are asking?” Musty Malachi would question, thinking to himself I bet they want a less ambitious approach to my dicky deal of how many ladies I can shag in one evening.
In designing a novel romance in a short time later than the death of the latest he would make the decision to be conscious of his urgent wants. Would he pay for his selfishness?
In his action with others, in all respects, he was ordered by the board of sexual control, that he must endure for a time, deprivation of privileges such as authority over women. But, he argued that the women weren’t the only ones to have their feelings hurt – it was a sensitive time for him too, but his frosty facial expressions gave little of this away.
He unpacked his bags and Jiminez unpacked his. “It won’t take us long to settle in Jiminez,” Malachi told him as he drew open the curtains so frilly and neat after opening the front door.
“It looks a top little village,” Jiminez said looking out through the window at the chalets below them. Their chalet was fully furnished they turned on the stereo it played the German classical piece ‘What A Woman Dreams Of In Spring’.
Malachi imagined his dear little woman prancing around a flower garden sniffing the sweet scent of each and every blossom in the depths of spring.
“It is called THE CAVALIER CHALET, what a name my dear boy!”
“What does C-A-V-A-L-I-E-R mean Malachi?”
“A gay military man.”
“You mean a man who likes other men?”
“Yep. Scare the pants off ya?”
“Shit-scared.”
“Now, you make sure you stay on your side of the house – all right,” Malachi warned him scruffing up the boy’s hair with his left hand. “No, really gay means happy and brave.”
“Oh thank God for that.”
They bellyflopped onto the ostrich feather stuffed satin pouched mattresses with laughter when Jiminez heard a re-run of the time Malachi’s hat blew off into the water and the passionate sweety collected.
“What a soggy sob-story,” Jiminez pretended to howl with disappointment and shivered in utter fear. “Yuk how foul!”
“You said it pal!”
While Jiminez rested after the long journey Malachi built up the fire and sat his derrierre on a rocking chair made from the finest and smoothest swiss timber with the hide of an Ibex on the seat, he swallowed hard and a teardrop fell into his right pocket of his mango coloured polar fleece hooded jacket he’d changed into earlier that morn. He needed to do something while he waited for the college to open its doors. So he took out his diary from his fleece lined pocket. It had two Ibex in a dual on the front cover with two hearts linked at the centre as an emblem and when he felt the chestbone of the wounded Ibex he gave it a holy kiss and a rub, instantly he felt an incredible wave of calm.
A snippet from the Brizzie Times told a devistating tale about Mal - boy in his hey-day. It was stuck just inside the front cover, he took the key from around his neck and unlocked the secret book. It read:
SCUD CRUD!!!
There was nowhere to run nowhere to hide when Malachi Castle’s scud would travel a distance of 6000km to his girlfriend’s awaiting pussies half the way round the world. They were defenceless against a ballistic missile attack. He had girls all around the world, there wasn’t a girl he hadn’t made pregnant.
On every third shot his woman was bulleted down with child. The valentine’s day previous to the last a public broadcast over the radio relayed that a central British Clinic was threatening to perform a vasectomy on the notorious Aussie gad-a-bout.
But, his veterinary mates came to the rescue forming an official board to chop the operation. As it was it had been the vasectomy clinic’s gorgeous receptionist – a lovely looking red-head to be the one who complained, it would have been his final blast except she’d had had two blows and feared the third. “It was better than flowers or choccys for the bugger,” she’d said.
He has never been caught he has been disguising himself extremely well, going under Pseudonyms. But…if the complaints didn’t cease soon he would destroy all males with his weapon, the competition is fierce.