The Lost Books: Aeneid
Arms and of the man I sing, left an exile from his homeland of Ilium who was to come to Italy, engaged as he was in voiding his mighty bladder. And lo did mighty Aeneas offer up this prayer to the Godhead of the Gods, holding his hands outsretched palm upwards and aiming his own godhead at the stump as he did so. “O ye Gods who dwell in your empyrean fold, grant me now my boon that I might make an exile of yon mercurial humours which now reside within my form. Most heavenly Goddess who did incubate me, this is my prayer and hear me now as a suppliant when I say that should you grant me this favour, I will sacrifice two lowing cattle to your name.” Then did Aeneas allow his hind quarters to unclench and the stream which issued forth was as unto a waterfall which, flowing over a mighty precipice and crashing to earth with a sound like the hammer of Vulcan as he forges reins for the mighty horses of Apollo as they draw the sun across the firmament like Mars drawing his blade across the torso of a foe who falls like Vulcan because Vulcan is a cripple. Such was the stream which sallied forth from Aeneas. Finished now, once more did Aeneas offer up prayers to his mother and this done, sacrificed two yearling cattle to those Gods who dwell on figurative Mt. Olympus. Aeneas gazed into the woods and thought on the destiny of Rome and his duty. Then he slaughtered eight more cattle. Such was the tale of Aeneas’ nightly ablutions as recounted here.
“Should you wish to visit the shade of father Anchises, you must bury the body of a dead comrade.” Aeneas of the prodigious tetanus lay back in the vast throne he had constructed from the cadavers of heifers and intemittently tapping a hoof to his chin, his thought wandering on the destiny of Rome like a vagrant accosting so many young women in a town centre at midnight as the day leans into the Sabbath. Aeneas resolved to stroll on the beach and further ponder the greatness of Rome which was indeed very great.
“Euanananaus, I wish to sojourn,” said Aeneas.
“Very good, sir,” replied the comrade of long-suffering Aeneas who had an anachronistic accent. “Shall I bring the herd?”
“Yes. I should think several legions of lowing cattle and a triumvirate of yearling heifers with azure fur’d coats should suffice.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Make that five blue furred cattle.”
Aeneas walked the beach and left a cadaverous wake after him, like great lumpen cysts from the earth. And so Aeneas walked, putting the sword to the cattle and beseeching the gods all the while. Then he tripped over Misenus’ body.
Turnus’ jaw was proud and his chin protruted so that I feel no shame in describing it as jutting. The woman who sat across from him was best described as dainty, the kind of angelic beauty that wards guys off because they’d just be afraid to break her.
“Listen, angel, you’re talking iskabibble. If this were true, well hell, there’s no way it could be true so I don’t know why I’m entertaining your hypotheses.”
He’d told the secretary to keep her away, but damn it if she wasn’t persistent. She’s barged in and he’d given her five minutes of his precious time. Three-hundred seconds too much but hindsight is 20-20. She’s fed him some cock-and-bull story about cattle, chinks and destiny. Maybe a good fanfiction, certainly a good waste of time. Turnus looked incredulous, she looked hurt. When she looked hurt, Turnus looked incredulous. It was a vicious cycle.
“But I’m telling you the truth! You simply must stop Aeneas, it’s your destiny as ordained by Fate!”
“Listen, babydoll,” replied Turnus “I aint ordained by the Roman Catholic Church, and I aint ordained by Fate. If you want someone to go up on a pulpit for you, then I suggest the YMCA. Careful though, I hear they get rowdy round this time of year.
“If you don’t believe me, then take a gander at these.” She didn’t flash a pair of milky thighs, poor Turnus, but what she palmed to him was just as shocking and twice as attractive. Photos: Cattle dead and a vicious leering man standing over them, proud like Huang Po in Summertime.
“Damn,” said Turnus with a twanging cadence suggesting a ‘y’ in the middle. “Either someone’s having one big-ass barbecue or there’s a global conspiracy afoot. I’m guessing that Mr.Abbatoir here is this Aeneas cat?”
“Bingo. The reason he’s slaughtering all those cattle?”
“Cattle are sacred to the Indians, I’m right in saying?”
“Quick-thinking cat,arntcha. Careful you don’t burn that quick brain of yours out.” She was smiling now.
“So by slaughtering the cattle, Aeneas is trying to offend…no, spiritually destroy the Indian people.”
“On the right track and the Sunshine Special’s heading straight for you.”
“And who better at spiritually destroying people than…Jesus Christ.”
“Aeneas is a Chink.”
“Commander Aeneas, we have brought the yearling heifers as you’ve instructed. And the altar to Ganesh.”
“Excellent, excellent,” said Aeneas of the folded eyelids.