bearsk you’re a welcome presence here – indeed just about the only one nowadays. keep reporting, we implore you.
after all that has happened this year, mur is still capable of mongering, given careful financial and psychological planning. and it comes to pass, on a wet windy afternoon, that he has business down the ‘linha’. a chance for a rare journey on the yellow train - and a mission to mônica, who has caught the eye on a web search for suburban beauties.
for those who detest mur’s ramblings, the hard facts are in paragraph nine. go straight there, but waste no time sending a pm to tell the author he’s an arsehole. or asshole. he knows he’s an asshole. or arsehole.
so, with long-forgotten purpose in his stride, mur abandons headquarters for the day.
headquarters? was it just a year ago that the crack troops of capitalism were celebrating victory after victory, crowning themselves with laurels, quaffing champagne at nine in the morning, rep001tering cocaine over their laptops and visiting new centre three times a day?
in march 2009, they huddle catatonically waiting for the end, like the french army at dien bien phu. “ils ne passeront pas, mes braves, but shit, isn’t that the scream of yet another incoming mortar round? will reinforcements never arrive? are the politicians leaving us here to die like cornered rats?”
putting the wreckage behind him mur finds the terminal at cais do sodré almost finished. almost. an age ago he remarked that portugal erects superb football stadia in record time, while this vital project has taken… what? six years? and the final product does not promise to be anything special. why, over the bridge in the drug-wilderness of pragal they have a fine station with every modern amenity. and so it should be, muses mur the soft-centred pinko-leftist.
who is soon smothered by mur the bug-eyed reactionary when the train arrives covered in shitfaced spray-can graffiti. ‘round up these fuckin’ wasters and make them do military service’, he growls, settling down for the scenic ride. the grey, troubled sea echoes his mood, and alighting several stations to the west, mur deals firmly with a creditor. one bullet in the neck: a swift, painless end. pity about the wife and kids, but the fittest must survive. the weak and faint hearted will be treated the way bayern handled sporting the other day.
now for mônica. on the net you’ll find her at [url]http://www.realezas.com/[/url] and at [url]http://www.portaldodesejo.com/monica/index.html[/url] physical location is the rua da escola social in são joão, two minutes walk from the train. she advertises 19 years, but mur’s guess would be 24. less than half his age, either way. she’s charming, pretty, raven-haired, voluptuous. this last word is not a euphemism for ‘fat’, not yet: we have here a substantial curvy babe in her prime. for €50 she offers an unhurried skilful half-hour,
she does leave mur alone in the cramped bedroom for a long time after taking his money – he starts to wonder if she’s gone into the rainy street in bra, heels and panties, trotting down to western union to send the cash straight to minas gerais. but the wait is worthwhile. after a caressing prelude and a cbj with much provocative eye-contact, mur enters mônica, whose elegant fingers begin self-stimulation. she eventually brings herself a hot, shuddering orgasm. real, or fake? gentlemen, the great thing here is that it’s her business entirely, it does not matter, for the performance brings the client to his own long awaited climax, and this is mongering as it should be, intellect and emotions entirely disconnected while all the senses are totally engaged.
mur believes that modern theoreticians would find those distinctions crude and dated. he doesn’t give a fuck.
back at the station of st john, our bible scholar embarks to labour in the vineyard of capitalism, remembering st john’s tale of how jesus ‘found in the temple those that sold oxen and sheep and doves, and the changers of money sitting. and when he had made a scourge of small cords, he drove them all out of the temple, and the sheep, and the oxen; and poured out the changers' money, and overthrew the tables.’
but by the time the yellow train glides beneath the emblematic bridge, mur’s thoughts are neither with the good lord nor with mônica, but with someone else entirely…
