Porfirio / Small Suitcases

PORFIRIO/Small Suitcases

Two Stories By John Kauffman

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Published by:

John Kauffman at Smashwords

Copyright (c) 2012-2014 by John Kauffman

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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Porfirio

Small Suitcases

Porfirio

San Judah’s Quarters

Judah’s got a grudge. One of his men has compromised the operation, possibly betrayed him, so he’s quickly put out a contract. But the subject is nowhere to be found, on the run and presumably moving northeast, beyond the southwest desert and toward the midlands.

There’s a BOUNTY on the fugitive shepherd! Judah shouts threateningly from the toilet in his master suite on the mansion’s second level. His voice—deep and thick—is like a cannon.

His slaves, servants, menials, pawns—whomever—recoil from the outburst as they clear a tremendous breakfast table in the dining hall on the ground floor.

It is a hearty, lively afternoon.

‘Leaf Pubescence in Barley,’ a corseted slave notes as she plucks a filthy plate from the table.

A eunuch follows her closely, averting housework. He’s in a loose robe and his eyebrows are shaved off. His lips are pale blue with lipstick. Yum, he says, eyeing the plate fearfully and clinging to her.

Judah finishes a principal morning shit, punctuating it with a grunt. He splays his genitals between his massive thighs, pulling at the skin of his scrotum and running his fingers under his testicles like a cartographer charting dimensions, scaling terrain, arranging spatial information. He chatters away, fingering his beard, Not my words, not my words, not my words… He lifts his countenance, ending the deliberation. His gaze is distant but fiery, within a heavy frame of brow. He booms—These are NOT MYYYY WORDS!! He works himself into a tempest, quoting angrily, …but ‘TENDER IS THE STORM!!’ And be it upon the grace-FULL through which the grace-LESS can ABIDE!!

The sluts, serfs, grunts, faggots—whomever—flinch from the echoing tantrum. They quickly finish clearing the table so that they may set it for lunch, whenever it may come.

It is the father’s whim which giveth the day, and it is the father’s whimsy which bringeth and stireth up the gay night, a sympathetic nymph proclaims lightly, not quite admonishing the others. "The father communicates through contradiction. This is his way and his way is forceful..."

I prefer him hung over, the corseted slave says as she carries a stack of plates to the kitchen.

"Oh, he’s hung," the eunuch says, following behind.

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‘Damn the fame, man,’ Pele thought ruefully, as if venting wisdom to an unwitting animal. He scuffed along the sun beat road. ‘What gives, and what without not. And then, of course, the other…’ He weighed his words, vacillating. He repeated that one, with the same tough-tender wheeze of lung, "What gives, and what without not, and then the other. After a moment he caught a jolt. He felt suddenly spry, despite his reservations and the painfully hot afternoon. He cracked aloud, But I am melodious!" But sand, it’d seemed, always got in when he opened his mouth. And his voice creaked from lack of use. He grinned like a zombie under the sun, the fire of day, though it’d never really bothered him. His fleshy eyes, grimy and dim, showed no light. Just pulpy sockets that receded with suspicion beneath the flabby brim of his hat. Bits of whitened hair—like frost, or mold—showed at his temples.

That’s what she’d told me, he reminded himself.

He trailed along side the road as if half-numb…striving within, or toward, or upon himself for an—applicable goal?

Told me long ago, he said again, nurturing the thought of a kind word, a familiar voice.

The memories—childhood, and thereafter—traveled. First downward, like cruising atop an airy longitude, the arc of sky preventing his inner-world from dropping to the ground—oops!—then a curve and up-up-UP. After a moment it all settled to level, returning him to the present,

I am a pick-up artist. A ‘netter.’ A sheep herder (if you’ll give me that). I worked for the man called San Judah. The Great One. Judy Grand. I started as a mule. And then I worked my way up-up-up. Then I watched over the sheeps. He stopped. This fact was cause for pause. He pressed into himself darkly, "But damn that fame, anyway."

Again, he forced himself to brighten, I am melodious! But his left leg quit, sharply cupping into the ground with the sole of his boot as he tripped. He saved his stride, coughing into his fist, …an optimist.

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Pele was enlisted when he’d first experienced the digestive problems. In the Reserves, overseas. He’d often wake from sleep with the sensation of a viral worm laboring through the knotted tract of his lower gut. It’d painfully stake each degree of course through his intestines until he’d have to jump out of his bunk and bolt for the latrine. In a shivering sweat he’d sit and birth a searing pottage, cursing up and down. The problem had grown to affect his eating habits, and he would eat only what was necessary. But he had soon lost the function of appetite altogether.

Soon his piss went bad. At worst, a furious stream would blast out—strained, viscous, reddish from blood, semi-phosphorous and with a slight electrical charge—piss that burned his yank bad. Like a werewolf with the clap, he’d grunt, zipping up. Thank you, Company B!

But then, ‘Payday’ was coming,

Was it a good thing?

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‘Payday’ is what they’d called him those last days at the base—called at him—half-friendly, half something else.

"Hey Payday, there’s a little mess in the shower. C’mon, chop-chop! Ha ha ha!"

It was their little joke. Because he was under investigation. It was an early afternoon when they were departing for the mess hall. A small group