《The First Corridor of Old Works》Chapter 7: Pregnant with the End of Civilisation

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Words were exchanged.

A boy with a dirty face, 4 or 5, strutted in, unannounced, carting two buckets of eggs; placed them before Art[ion]; grinned at him. With expectation.

Art regarded the boy, and then the Cyclops, “Give him a bint, Pry.”

From a money-purse, squirrelled somewhere on his person, fingering through it, Pry retrieved a small, bent, brown coin. He thumbed it through the air, and the lad caught it mid-arc; simultaneously bowing to his patrons as he exited. A flamboyant urchin.

“He'll find a way to rob that,” indicating it, “your purse there.”

“I'm a supernatural entity.”

“They don't fear supernatural entities in Painsch – it's all that raw exposure to whicker.”

“I don't understand that -”

“It doesn't mean – it doesn't matter; I'm not intrigued so far, what is the point of this episode; this experiment in government, and the fact of your recounting it to me in this interminable manner?” Art downed the stale liquid remaining in his wooden tankard and commenced cracking eggs into it. After four it was filled – he drank these and sucked the remnants from his moustache. The two buckets had rather more than thirty six eggs; each, in fact. He immediately felt rejuvenated. There was a magical power in eggs. He liked the blood spots, and actively sought them.

“Slua-Sryh, The Queen of Waat, is the ruler of Waat, and everyone knows it; even the peasants. She's teaching them sophistication. She's teaching them self-consciousness; she's teaching them irony by revealing the completely untrue nature of the reality they inhabit, you see, and this is what she's doing - she's faking that's she's faking it.”

“The King's a puppet and they all know it and happily vote for him?”

“That's it.”

“What's the problem? And oh yeah who are you and why do you care?”

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“I'm the one who gives you the quest.”

“- Why is any of this of any importance whatever?”

“Your death. Your disintegration - is any of this of any importance? She's lying. And I didn't tell you. She's like me. She's a Cyclops.” Art cracked eggs into a tankard. Drank them. He'd drank 16 eggs so far and felt more masculine after every tankard.

He liked four at a time because – he just did. He sucked the remnants out of his moustache.

“But why are you...”

“Because she's done a terrible thing.”

“What's that?”

“She's pregnant.”

“- Congrats.”

“No not congrats; she is pregnant with the end of civilisation. - Can you understand that?”

“No I can't. I don't know anything about anything you're muttering about. What is civilisation? What is pregnant? What is... me?” He was being irritating on purpose; this was apparently one of his possible personalities, while hungover - he didn't like this person either.

“- Do you think she is a lady with an eye in her forehead?”

“That's what you said! You're as disjoined as me. You're as manic and inconsistent as I am. You can't finish a thought either. Not me. You. - Buckets of ashcaff is my verisimilar excuse for this turn of events in the course of the things my mind does – but what about you?”

“- Supernatural entity.”

“That's your excuse for -”

“You're right. Toss an egg.”

Art threw an egg at Pry, which he caught softly and inserted – whole – in his mouth. He heard it crack, and watched the faces he did. His eye went weird but Art didn't say anything. He liked watching Cyclops – it was like sheep, no? Singular and plural the same; he'd proceed on that basis until further information was presented to him – eating eggs. He felt, for a moment, all was right with the world; watching a Cyclops, eat an egg. An erotic performance. A sick, momentary, and insane notion, to make himself laugh. He laughed hysterically for three and a half seconds. - This hangover had legs.

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