Blood Shadow
Dedicated to Franz Kafka
I’m a pitbull on the pantleg of popportunity. George holds off to the outer perimeter, standing in the shadows, sharpening his diction.
“It’s a remarkable piece of equipment,” Karl says brightly. His eyes glance off Colin, then lock darkly, gleefully with Dick’s. Karl, Dick, and the Russian Technician form the core circle around the apparatus.
“Matter of fact, it is,” says Dick, thinking how he once thought that of Lynnie, his wife. He pets the apparatus that animates under his palm.
George drones on in the shadow, raises his eyebrows in a steeple. He imagines the seductive countenance that he radiates and chuckles nervously.
Colin remains stone still with only a glimmer of interest.
Shame on muh . . . you . . . fool me twice . . . shuh . . . mutters George. Colin cocks his head toward him as if surprised to see the president here.
“They call it the Grolden Gommet,” shoots George, trying to project interest.
“Indeed, Sir, golden,” says Karl, bowing his head. “This is the bed where the prisoner lies during interrogation.” He pets it too, the smooth polycarbon plastic — with all the PCBs one wants, those lovely polychlorinated biphenyls. This is not meant to improve the prisoner’s health.
