When last I added to this record, I spoke of the reaping of financial benefits; but what, the reader may ask, are the benefits of such benefits? What, in a nutshell, doth it profit a man to profit?
So I shall continue my narrative where I left off, or at the least close enough to the frayed end of the previous thread that the current thread may be seen by a casual observer to be of a kind with the first, frayed end and all.
There is a place I know, an island composed entirely of towering, craggy cliffs and forbidding breakers, where, carved into the living rock is a temple to opulence, a wondrous place where the living is high as a pterodactyl’s eye, and the rollers who roll in have to be at least as high as that.
I, even I, with my long history of empires bought and sold like tokens on a playing board, have not been in a position to grace its hallowed halls for some time, having devoted the greater portion of my attention to creation and Time Control, rather than to my once-mighty portfolio. The last time I was a guest of this living tower, I was buying, selling, and populating a different football team every year. Kind of lost my taste for that, but now I’m digressing.
They remember me here, however. It is an indelible part of the temple’s charm that the servitors never forget a face or a wallet, regardless of any surgery or regeneration which may have occurred between visits of either, regardless of the size of the time gulf between those visits. They saw my face, and they saw how my ship rode down to its gunwales in the water, and they saw my cask of old-priest brandy which I had brought to share, and I was remembered, and welcomed.
Oh, there is something, quite a lot of thing, actually, to be said for a serious pampering. If ever the reader is able to engage in a serious pampering, engage heartily and feel no guilt; the self and its temple are due reverence and respect–the act is pure, and there is no shame. Trust me, I’m a holy man.
The servitors of the Temple of Opulence brought me to my usual suite, the one with the cobalt-marble walls, gold floors and cherry wood furniture. I was bathed, and dried, and wrapped in fine silks and furs. A bull was sacrificed and I partook of the revelry and the feast, as jongleurs and dancing girls whirled like autumn leaves in a tempest, flesh and shank and blood and sinew and sweat flashing like stars of flesh in a night of velvet indulgence.
The following morning I awoke naked as a jaybird, splayed out on the buffet table with my head in a bowl of guacamole dip. Of the intervening time my memory can only produce a vague impression of a beautiful blonde girl with golden skin and a bikini the color of mint ice cream.
It was simpler to ooze off the table onto the floor, than it would have been to sit up and place my feet on the floor. After I lay there giggling for a while, a group of people came in and started shouting at me in Japanese. I answered them as best I could; watashi no nihongo wa iijanai desu. Eventually they seemed satisfied and I was bathed again. The remainder of the day was spent in a temple annex, being purified and educated by Ancient Greek mythographers and a Bavarian philosopher from the 19th Century. The night, however…
When the sun went down not only was I fed and entertained, but the copious amounts of liquor I drank flowed over the breasts of a family of prostitutes whose enthusiasm could have fueled a second sun. When the planet’s actual sun rose, I was serenaded to sleep by comedians, their mirth echoing off the vault of the dawn.
The next day was a river of ale, with gladiators grinning in the face of Death, and the blood rained sideways to the gratification of all, a willing sacrifice to the common good, a sanguine blessing that could only be given, never taken–
And the moral of the story?
Don’t ever tell me I’m too old to party. I’m a biker, baby. There are college kids who couldn’t keep up with me.
#truthridesamotorcycle