it, the rarefied rodent, anxious ran, someway past the dilapidated buckling door with the swallow of a pig, figured outside its vast dimensions and jesikei, being neither jewish nor mexican, rapped on the door from its bulging hinges and aching copper neck. it sang with a buxom dance that jiggled for a rhythm moment, designing the cold-cropped weeping of a doleful Tuesday between the shadowy cirrus-nimbus-billowing and kicked the splintered toes of the beast until it creaked a notch open to a smile. and there ran the cataractest lips of a linear animal, scarred to the bone and skeleton hung the skin so thin it rent the muscles twain-wise, stared back at him, eyes at an even pitch, black bitumen, black death. oh! said the purple-hued, warm-starved crevice at the nape of the face, you should be a guest! and he was, jesikei was, likely to be a guest that darkness, or else of the cobble and sewer and grate, kings of the moist sunless, and sure as wit the night was bland enough for them and cold enough for syphilis which he had better and rather have than frigid languish on the curbside where the strumpets strew their taskmakers and purses like-and-like the same. corrigible, the manic man mustered from hollower lungs than medicine suggests, he waddled backways through the din to the door open was, and jesikei, namesake thought of that cask and hovel, until the moonshine whipped upon the stale sludge of air, and his cockled eyes remembered nothing but blind. and stumbled, he did, with the air of a false wooden leg, the simmering puss of the drink dottering on his nay-saying fleshlips. such welcome cheered the foundering centenarians rapt at the making of mugs of a gin-tonic prest–itation, curled their !s when they whispered the sea whores and lovers of sea and whores of a sort that are muddy of dressed in the cobbling church. jes stuck the fat finger ‘tween cascading rivers of ‘shine, it wassled and waited, perched by the brow of his augustine nose. roman, it wasn’t, nor greek, nor persian, nor negrotic, but elsewise it couldn’t be crystalline snow. oh mullet of men, was jesikei not? none thinking the rats underneath carried notes of the sewage about in their beards, courts of the planks convening in crumbed up old pockets the day. tripped the wood peg, jes he made motion toward three-limb’ed farces, drooling their fattiest humors engorged by the drink. i’ll say for you three-wise my drink’s got the shit-giggles! managed the man with kerosene rasp, haggled hair a-boonden in oily-maid bonds. there was his friend, but asleep, narcloptic he rattled and roamed, choicing his words blisslessly. he was awfully aroused at the three-times-the-charm of blags launched in spitoons of brandied saliva. he knocked caverns that drink on his bald, prickly scalp-scars and nestled the beating of bucolic plague-fits ensnored. should jesikei cramp at the table? he dashed amongst dust-mites scouring the salacious old wood, he rolled his ghoul eyes, he hung the fattest of thoughts with a fancy black noose. to bed and to morrow, he would up with the drunk-dates and ducks, who care nothing for sunshine and little at all for the preachers of doing. give me my bed! hay? nothing but hay, and a barn, and some mallards to mate with. so he curled his forested eye brows with malice, enraged walked the guest to the haunting of goatfeed, nestled magnanimous head in the hay, remembered the absolute pork at the hilt of the inn, and fell to feeling the head of a strumpet of winebottle whismy below.