a dEAD dOG, mESCAL aND vOLCANOES*

Moriches Bibcock eats things soused in oilseed-oil and molasses and wears golfer’s shoes, though he doesn’t. He is neither a wise man nor a learned man, nor a timorous man or a brave man. He is neither either of these. When I first met him he was drunk on pot-sherry and rinse and syllabised every word, half-word and partial-word, word. He had a bump on his head where he’d fallen into a light-standard and a scrap on his cheek, the kind left by cheese-graters or chafer’s-awls. He was muttering something about a dead dog, volcanoes, mescal and a blistering hot Mexican sun. He insisted that I address him as consul-general, which I did, but against my better will and judgment. He died a horrible death by incineration in a crockery fire, soused in rinse, golfer’s shoes and fully-syllabic.