Vivian Pollak


“Poe is so overrated” came the muffled response.  

I see. Vain, sophomoric, and one-dimensional till the end, I thought.

And as if he couldn’t help himself, “…and so are the Beatles!”

I flicked my Bic through the aperture in the door.

There he sat with that stupefied gleam of sexual anticipation in his rheumy eyes. What a bonehead. And, what a boner too! Right through his green tights!  A boy scout badge-worthy tent! Maybe I missed one last opportunity?  I’d put a lot to energy into our 17th Century European Historical Bondage costumes.  His oxford-red argyle chapeau with the craft feather was still nestled snugly on his cranium and the cobalt blue felt cape with the gold bells was fluted symmetrically about his torso.  He was handcuffed to the wrought iron turrets. Very secure indeed. My own harlequin costume with the breast holes cut out and my hard nips ready to commence full-throttle fire-drone mode, made me feel silly all of a sudden. 

Howsomever, what luck to have discovered this abandoned broken down cottage with the wine cellar, in the deep bushes of nowhere. An old swingers pad. A friend of a friend of a friend put me wise to the place. Seriously distant degrees of separation. On our way in, I spied two ceramic gnomes in the garden, their faces in freeze-frame fuck-friendly smiles. But upon closer inspection, I swear those little buggers were cheering me on. Poor dears: they appeared to have been nibbled on by desperation rabbits.  

“Now wait here, Fortunato.”  I cracked up at my sense of humor in giving the game away.

“I will be back in a jiffy.  With the belt and the riding crop!” I added.

I checked the lock one final time.  

Ah, Fortunato. 

I have thought deeply about revenge. And Poe. And narcissism. And evil. But I’m alright. I left a copy of Poe’s Complete Tales under the chair. Once he slumps, it will be his final bit of reading material. 

“Hey! Hello! Little Dove? I’m really randy!”  The bells, though muffled, jangled distinctly.

On my way out, I scooped up both weather-worn gnomes and wrapped them snugly in my ruffled codpiece.

“I shall name you Edgar; and you Allen.”

In pace requiescat.

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