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Short stories

MY HAMLET

     I was dreaming a harangue about a reaming when the phone rang.

     I was fixing an idea. I had a screwdriver, a nail, a bucket and a very pale face in the mirror at the bottom of an orange juice can. I had another screwdriver; held the juice.

     I picked up. Parted lips to say hello. But before I could huff the aitch, the earpiece sucked me in. Screwed up my eyes in time to seize a gimlet.

     The hell – I seemed to be in Hamlet, as interpreted by Laforgue, then ripped off by, but in the end ripped up by, Tough Shit Eliot.

     Horatio was dreaming a harangue about a reaming, when Ophelia Balls bounced into the courtyard. Polonius lay poleaxed under the porch, reciting comatose Die Lorelei backwards in Polish, doing his best to impersonate the Ghost of Christmas Past. 

     Hamlet – played by Christopher the Plumber – screamed into the present. Bawled he didn’t get what he wanted. Horatio suggested he try some thyme. Ophelia saucily tossed her wimple, wiggled clit against chastity belt. Hamlet squealed he didn’t want titty. Just to fuck Mom for being such a pig with his drunk Uncle Claude Johnson.

     Then some member of the camera crew tripped into the picture. Remembered to erect himself.

     The director pondered flying Hecuba in from Cuba. Land her in Orlando. Ferry the queen in a glider up the coast. Infuriate authorities – everything in Cuba hot; but what was he to Hecuba…? As the director spiraled tighter into abulia, the crew member bent Horatio over the railing; fell to burgling philosophical turd.

     In a pinch our master debater Hamlet absorbed the scene. Grabbed Ophelia’s nipples. Whirled her around like a milker gone nuts. Slammed her heels into Horatio’s temple. Smacked the couple off the porch, effectively dismounting the member so he hadda get back with the crew to reality.

     Up the stairs primped Osric. Everybody save the camera stared at the ostrich on his outlandish hat wobble, as the rickety risers trembled under his komodo dragon skin pumps.

     “Lousy pimp!” snorted Ophelia, where she lay twisted against the drainspout.

     With a sneer, ignoring the slur, the waterfly offhandedly handed over the challenge. Our prince declaimed – ham that he was – the harangue disguised as an invitation to a poisoning.

     Some gravedigger, anterior to the above, flipped a skull into the salad. Hamlet dug the joker, while in the ribs the knave of spades dug him; when almost too late Laertes appeared to hop his dead sister.

     Cut to the showdown. Bodies piled up quick. Revenge chain reacted till Horatio, at the bottom, felt the rapier.

     Fortinbras – a travelling bra salesman moonlighting as a doctor of internal pocketbooks – arrived to make a killing off the plague on both closets.

     The phone rang. Picked me up.

     I was fixing an idea. I had a screwdriver, a gimlet, a hammer, a nail of the dog that bit this drill of a symbol of a crash; a hang, a over, a out.    

Willie Smith

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