“Colin,” Roy warned.
“Everything good comes from shit,” Colin hounded the cowering
writer, “Good things produce shit and shit produces good things.
Why do you think this place is so great? Because we’re the secret shit
of society, that’s why.”
“Colin. Shut up,” Roy demanded.
“Why do artists become artists? Because they’re crap at
everything else. Take Roy, here. He’s a fucking visionary. But that’s
because his life is so shit—”
Roy grabbed Colin by the ear and dragged him outside into the
garden. Colin hollered, “Don’t let the moneychangers take over the
temple, Roy!”
It was at this point that Bennie hosed Colin off, stopping the
conversation cold.
Colin retaliated, chasing after him with a bucket of kungkum
water and saturated him too. Bennie and Roy then joined forces,
wrestling Colin’s head into the toilet.
“Now who’s shit?” Roy laughed. But Colin proved too strong for
both of them and broke from their grasp. As he ran from the
bathroom, he crashed into Leona, who had been carrying a full tray
of hot coffee from the kitchen.
The drinks went flying and didn’t scald anyone, but they created
an awful mess on the walls and floor. Soggy Colin lay on top of
bewildered Leona, and gave her a big kiss. She punched him in the
face, sending him reeling backwards into a table of horrified
customers. Soon they were covered in the dregs of their own coffee,
and unsure what to do about it.
“This stain will never come out!” a gaunt woman wearing an
expensive white T-shirt complained. Sprout snuck up behind to
splash Roy and Bennie but missed and soaked the astonished woman
instead.
“Oh. Well, that’s better,” she said as the water had washed away
some of the blotch. Her nipples were poised and ready like
detonation switches. She whooped and emptied her bottle of Evian
on Sprout’s head.
“Drench warfare!” Colin announced, standing up on a chair.
Quickly, the patrons broke into two groups: those who didn’t
want to play and those who could imagine nothing better. The former
group cowered outside, watching through the window, while the
more zealous armed themselves with creamer, lukewarm lattés and
ABYSSINIA
86
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