This encounter had me so spellbound that I nearly recoiled in fright when, right in front of us on the wall, two slimebuckets unexpectedly appeared, the ones who were to give me a lot of trouble in the future.
They were the nasty hoods who typically stood around on street corners, cats whose mission in life it was to pester innocent people day and night, take every possible opportunity to raise hell, and get into gory brawls, but only when they involved opponents weaker than they. The greater part of their intellect, to the extent that they could be said to have one, was no doubt only concerned with how they could best bring ruin to themselves and others. Two rat-faced, wily looking, oriental shorthair mutants who got their kicks by swiping meals from other bowls and by crapping on expensive carpets. Cowardly and psychopathic at the same time, one more loutish, more repulsive than the other. The cleverer of the two black brothers was so cross-eyed that he probably saw what was going on in the world 180 times, crossed eyes being a distinctive genetic defect that say more about character than any scientific study. The other jerk had a silly, crooked grin, a fitting indication of his type of humor.
They stood facing us on top of the wall blocking our way. And—does a bear shit in the woods?—they immediately went into battle positions. The two sleazeballs stared at us and made offensive sounds. Their ears stood up as straight as candles; their pupils narrowed, and their tails, as thin and elongated as stove pipes, whipped tightly around their bodies.
Bluebeard stopped, yawned, looked past them, and acted as if they were an obstacle of no greater concern than a dog turd.
"Well, I'll be damned," he said with a smile that was almost congenial, "Herrmann and Herrmann, two merry ass-wipers at our service. What a pleasure to chance upon such estimable personages as you. Now don't tell me you're going to rave to me all over again about the benefits of your castration? But I believe you, boys, you don't have to say a word. Lot less weight without balls, right?"
They looked at each other nervously from the corners of their eyes while snarling and growling ever louder. Looking down at them from the wall, Bluebeard let out a side-splitting guffaw.
"Kong," he challenged. "Why for God's sake do you still put up with these miserable wimps? They're just making you look bad. On the other hand, I can really imagine that a couple of eunuchs might make pretty good conversationalists when there's nothing on the tube."
A grim laugh rang out from a berry bush directly under the wall, a "you really have a big mouth" kind of laugh.
"Bluebeard, you old basket case," said an intentionally insulting voice from the bush. "As I can see, you've been successful in the gay scene. The sweet things can't leave you in peace. The little runt behind you is a splendid specimen indeed. Is he teaching you how they do it?"
"No, though he would like to show you. He knows the ideal position for all three of you."
Suddenly, a beast as big as a Westinghouse king-size deep freeze shot out of the berry bush and landed right in front of us. He was truly the largest, most awe-inspiring brother I had ever come across. Although one is inclined to ascribe the character traits of the engagingly silly Persians to color-points 6, this satanic mammoth would put every standardizing description to shame. The name "Kong" hit the nail on the head. A black head the size of an overripe watermelon grew out of his dirty-white, unkempt coat that had probably never seen a comb, and, like the coats of most long-haired clowns, was hopelessly knotted. The azure-blue eyes, the tiny ears, the flattened, hardly existent nose, indeed every normally visible sense organ and limb vanished in a gigantic furry ball of filth and noxious stench, making it hard to discern Kong's intentions.
The two Orientals humbly took a few steps back, making room for their master. Kong fixed us a while with his piercing gaze before giving out a booming laugh, which seemed to make not only the garden walls but the entire universe tremble. My brave Long John Silver, however, gave hardly a sign of being impressed, and looked him in the face with a successful combination of impassive disdain and cool superiority.
"Has it escaped your attention that certain laws and regulations with respect to territories are in force, my crippled friend?" asked the giant.
Unmoved, Bluebeard yawned for a long, long, long time.
"Kong, don't act as if a sandbox mafioso like you would let crap like territories get on your nerves. Let's cut the bullshit and get down to business. The way I see it, you're looking for a fight. Okay, you can have one. But I don't think I'm the reason why you're itching for a fight. As you will remember, up to now we have had only one difference of opinion from which you, if I recall correctly, came away with some irreparable damage to your sweet behind. It's true you were only a little runt then, and every time your master gave you a pat, you'd piss in his hand in sheer delight. But like I said, in case you have any complaints, I'm ready any time
