no
sign, however, of my associate Mr. Erwin.
A shrill rabble of
feminine bombast resounded at the hall’s end, where I spied Ammi’s
bare form proudly displaying the depending condom to another nude
sprite—a pointy-breasted brunette. “Holy cow! ” exclaimed the latter one
eyeing the semen-filled reservoir. “ Look at it all!”
“I know,” gushed Ammi, “can you believe it?
And the guy fucked the daylights out of all of us!”
“Holy cow! ”
Great Pegana, I thought dismally. Could I help it that my
seminal deposits were evidently much more voluminous than the
average?
“And you should’ve seen
his goddamn prong! Big as a baby’s leg, I swear—he fucked me so
hard I’ll be walking like a cowboy for a week! ”
I hid behind a somewhat Doric display
pedestal, so not to be seen; what I needed less than anything just
then was this pointy-breasted one wanting to sample my wares,
too.
“I better get this upstairs,” Ammi said,
more quietly, of the ludicrous condom. “You already take
yours?”
“Yeah, two so far…”
I felt my brow furrow at
the arcane discourse. They’re clearly
talking about… spent prophylactics. How eccentric…
The elfin pair separated,
Ammi moving up the stairs to the fourth story—or I’d be more
accurate to say limping.
At that same moment a door farther down
clicked open and out stepped another brazenly unattired
prostitute—this one with nipples sticking out like persimmons—only
to turn down the stairs and proceed behind Ammi. But this woman,
too, had a spent prophylactic dangling from her fingers!
And a moment later?
A third woman did the same…
My astonishment was
plain. What cryptic onus could POSSIBLY
charge these petite strumpets with the task of carrying away used
prophylactics UPSTAIRS? Surely, the
nearest waste basket would do…
The hall remained clear, but when I emerged
from my hiding, my eyes inadvertently fixed on the previously
unnoticed object sitting atop the display pedestal: a crude beige
cylindrical clay-shape roughly the size of a common pail; when
recognition alighted, I muttered beneath my breath a shopworn, “Oh
my God!” for I knew all too well what the unlikely object was:
A cuneiform cylinder.
As any archaeologist and,
indeed, professor of ancient histories would know, these objects
provided humankind with its very first “books,” the most famous
example being the Cyrus Cylinder which, in intricate cuneiform,
detailed the conquest of Babylon by the Persian warrior Cyrus the
Great and verified the prophet Isaiah’s prediction in Old Testament
papyri scrolls of the same two centuries previous. This cylinder, however
(as, I add, without meaning to brag, that I am well-versed in many
variations of cuneiform) did not bear the typical assortments of
logograms, pictoglyphs, and polyphonous sequences of wedges and
slants that the early writing system is known for. Instead, the
clay cylinder before me was covered entirely with the exclusive
stylus marks used to denote numbers.
The entire cylinder, I reiterate, had been
so inscribed.
Oh, if I only had a
month’s time to decipher this cylinder, I
lamented.
I let my considerations
stew, along with my adjacent perplexity regarding the mysterious
redeposition of expended condoms to some paradoxical upward recess
of the building. I knew I must not make myself obvious; therefore,
I strolled about the stair-hall half-pretending to examine various
statues, paintings, and other pedestalled objets-d’art. Periodically, however,
I took hasty opportunities to put my ear to each invaluable
nine-paneled door I passed…
“Ooo-ooo-ahh-ahh… oh, YES!”
“Churn me like butter, honey!”
“Good, good! That’s
a good boy!”
All of the shrill exclamations were in
feminine tones and clearly indicative of some manner of
fornication.
The hall quieted, then, in seeming
increments; alternately, the doors I’d just quitted opened to
release, first, a brawny man with a sated smile on his face,
sign, however, of my associate Mr. Erwin.
A shrill rabble of
feminine bombast resounded at the hall’s end, where I spied Ammi’s
bare form proudly displaying the depending condom to another nude
sprite—a pointy-breasted brunette. “Holy cow! ” exclaimed the latter one
eyeing the semen-filled reservoir. “ Look at it all!”
“I know,” gushed Ammi, “can you believe it?
And the guy fucked the daylights out of all of us!”
“Holy cow! ”
Great Pegana, I thought dismally. Could I help it that my
seminal deposits were evidently much more voluminous than the
average?
“And you should’ve seen
his goddamn prong! Big as a baby’s leg, I swear—he fucked me so
hard I’ll be walking like a cowboy for a week! ”
I hid behind a somewhat Doric display
pedestal, so not to be seen; what I needed less than anything just
then was this pointy-breasted one wanting to sample my wares,
too.
“I better get this upstairs,” Ammi said,
more quietly, of the ludicrous condom. “You already take
yours?”
“Yeah, two so far…”
I felt my brow furrow at
the arcane discourse. They’re clearly
talking about… spent prophylactics. How eccentric…
The elfin pair separated,
Ammi moving up the stairs to the fourth story—or I’d be more
accurate to say limping.
At that same moment a door farther down
clicked open and out stepped another brazenly unattired
prostitute—this one with nipples sticking out like persimmons—only
to turn down the stairs and proceed behind Ammi. But this woman,
too, had a spent prophylactic dangling from her fingers!
And a moment later?
A third woman did the same…
My astonishment was
plain. What cryptic onus could POSSIBLY
charge these petite strumpets with the task of carrying away used
prophylactics UPSTAIRS? Surely, the
nearest waste basket would do…
The hall remained clear, but when I emerged
from my hiding, my eyes inadvertently fixed on the previously
unnoticed object sitting atop the display pedestal: a crude beige
cylindrical clay-shape roughly the size of a common pail; when
recognition alighted, I muttered beneath my breath a shopworn, “Oh
my God!” for I knew all too well what the unlikely object was:
A cuneiform cylinder.
As any archaeologist and,
indeed, professor of ancient histories would know, these objects
provided humankind with its very first “books,” the most famous
example being the Cyrus Cylinder which, in intricate cuneiform,
detailed the conquest of Babylon by the Persian warrior Cyrus the
Great and verified the prophet Isaiah’s prediction in Old Testament
papyri scrolls of the same two centuries previous. This cylinder, however
(as, I add, without meaning to brag, that I am well-versed in many
variations of cuneiform) did not bear the typical assortments of
logograms, pictoglyphs, and polyphonous sequences of wedges and
slants that the early writing system is known for. Instead, the
clay cylinder before me was covered entirely with the exclusive
stylus marks used to denote numbers.
The entire cylinder, I reiterate, had been
so inscribed.
Oh, if I only had a
month’s time to decipher this cylinder, I
lamented.
I let my considerations
stew, along with my adjacent perplexity regarding the mysterious
redeposition of expended condoms to some paradoxical upward recess
of the building. I knew I must not make myself obvious; therefore,
I strolled about the stair-hall half-pretending to examine various
statues, paintings, and other pedestalled objets-d’art. Periodically, however,
I took hasty opportunities to put my ear to each invaluable
nine-paneled door I passed…
“Ooo-ooo-ahh-ahh… oh, YES!”
“Churn me like butter, honey!”
“Good, good! That’s
a good boy!”
All of the shrill exclamations were in
feminine tones and clearly indicative of some manner of
fornication.
The hall quieted, then, in seeming
increments; alternately, the doors I’d just quitted opened to
release, first, a brawny man with a sated smile on his face,
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