coffee fell away like beads of colored glass.
“Here’s to you, Marty,” he toasted, “May you rest in peace as we
wake up.” They quaffed their cups and sat down in silence.
Dante often made this complaint: “Tradutori traditori.” Translators
are traitors. But surely he was a translator himself; he translated
divine inspiration into words. By definition then, or its lack, any
literature must be a substandard transubstantiation, a collection of
Chinese whispers imperfectly bound. Similarly, what could anyone
say about this new libation that would do it justice?
As they passed around the cups, Sprout and Roy positively
glowed. And how infectious, that glowing.
“Oh my God,” was something that was said a lot immediately
thereafter. It was clear that God, having long ago left the building,
might be back to stay for a while. Everything slowed to a stop. The
phones rang but no one answered. A variety of bliss had been
conjured from nothing but water, heat and a pattern of organic
matter.
There was no question in any of their minds that something had
happened. But what? No one knew. What they were feeling was
different than anything they had ever felt before.
“That’s it,” said Bennie, the resident authority on kooky
concoctions, “The war is over. Now we got the bomb.”
2. Beer Soup
But of course, they weren’t the only ones.
“Who was that?” Partment asked Bean Unbearable, who had just
answered the door to turn away an undesirable.
“Some crazy little bum. Said he owned the place. I punched him
on his head and told him to fuck off.”
“Good idea. We’ve got to be careful now. Can’t let just anyone in.
Big things afoot.”
“Yeah. And you know what they say about big feet.”
“Huh?” Partment said, looking up from his keyboard, “Oh,
right.” Though enamored with his gusto, he didn’t think much of
Bean’swits. Or those of his army. He hoped when the time came they
would channel some of their self-annihilation into a more global,
ABYSSINIA
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