It's Not True

Goldsack is talking to Chicago. Rummaging through what’s left of his underachieving overcoat. They had promised double-density thermal padding. They had promised a warmer winter.

"Grainfields are stacked with potential, this season." He tells his mistress, sly in tone.

Her ears twitch at the financial prognostication. Is he a deity? An omniscient wunderkind, destined to rule heaven and earth with only his two-bit wits and a sack of gold? She knows it’s not true.

Chicago is talking to Goldsack. Whisking messages of urgent intensity on windback arrows. The lobbyists are wrangling again. Are they that relentless?

"I’m hoping for atilla the hunting lopez to return in a hurry," starts Windy City Wendy Sue, "I miss the fur around his neck and I’m looking forward to sampling his kill." Wendy licks her chops audibly.

His mind swerves to meet her new maker. Has she known of the hunting lopez from the beginning? Could she still burn for him? And was allowing such a union to go forward a hygienically sound decision?

"Greetings fly-boy. Love your chatter-chunks. Which one of you remembers alvoranon and the fish scoundrel? Oh my, is that your whisky wollops?"

Chicago makes no sense to Goldsack. "Love to come and stay in the Windy City, Wendy Sue, but I got canker sores. And besides, atilla the hunting lopez is comin’ back into town and I suppose he’ll be staying with Esther and Rosaline Regaltine. Damn loggers!"

Goldsack has become unbearable to Chicago. "Great hearing ya, Antoine-o-tom-a-ton. See ya with a huntin’ knife on top of fiasco. A summer battle of epic proportions. Hey, and give my regards to the pallys. They remind me of Ecuador when I was on speed."

Goldsack hangs up on Chicago. He turns from the telephone, one hand dragging the phone cord out of the wall. "Windy City Wendy Sue, Way Sted".

The television is untouched gold sucking his mind, drug-like and simmering blanked-out pleasure. Goldsack turns to a super station.

"This is Ronny Roundtree on the ultra-tube wired in wave length blasting barn yard network of your grandmother’s fantasies - Lordy Lord 27. It’s the creamed corn that counts." He sings: "Lordy Lord 27, it’s the creamed corn that counts."

The television is lying. Goldsack knows it. He’s always known it. Creamed corn? It’s the cob-cabbers that count!

Chicago was a cob-cabber. Cut from the mold of one thousand kerneled cabs - salted so salted. Goldsack kicks the wall and throws the television at the phone. "Fucking Chicago. When Wendy Sue remembers cobbing a couple of those cabs - then, maybe then I’ll give her a shot at the marbles." Goldsack giggles.

Chicago is damp. Wet from the rain and the telephone soaker. Wet from a wrecked subconscious sally - strapped soundly to her sleepy time. Goldsack makes her squirm. She can’t get enough. "Gargle-gadder! That steam-loaf high train has no say in my day. He’s left on the wrong damn subway this time, Mary!" Windy City Wendy Sue whacks a wheel-barrow and winds down to the wet grass.

The backyard babe is beside the barrow, curled in a cupie-Q waiting for the sky to open. She dreams Deaf/Mute Goldsacks hailing from the heavens singing love songs with no words or music. She knows it’s not true.

The hunting lopez comes tomorrow. Chicago shivers at the shine. Even in high school, Wendy Sue went wild for besta-beasts. "Besta-Beast Bessy," cats would call.

Cats would call again.

"Cool-cat calling!" Mammy shouted in the homestead.

Wendy Sue takes the phone. "Hello?"

"Besta-Beaster! How do you stand that hair!"

Wendy Sue drops the phone. "Mammy, cut the jam, sweet-ham. I don’t need that hot-damn."

"Sweet baby Gumbel-grinder," Mammy spoke to Sue, "Don’t take no crap from me, I’ll take no crap from you. What about your windback tallstack, you know - Goldsack?"

"I’m the number one lopez lover this side of mani-man, super sand. I ain’t given that up for a man who buys his meat from the butcher."

"And who does the lopez hunt, hunny-hun? Your supper sweet or first born son?"

Mammy makes Chicago mad. Wendy Sue whirls white linen lassies at the original host.

Mammy ducks but is enveloped, nonetheless.

Goldsack plays the fiddle. He doesn’t play it well but doesn’t care, either. Wendy Sue wouldn’t. He knows it’s not true.

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