The Scatological Evidence
His first guess had been that he was in an animal’s burrow. But the scatological evidence pointed elsewhere. The chamber in which he was imprisoned was caked with bones, rot, and feces. Most beasts are wound up, Salbadore thought, so that they never shit in their own hole. But his captors could not be people, either. Of course not, olchap! Rattled and abused; one’s kenning e’n’t perfect in such situations. I’m in a cage! No one bothers to cage a lob of shit!
A Fortnight, Perhaps
That was his best reckoning as to how long he had been held captive below ground. Salbadore’s ignorance on this count was one of several meager clues that he had gleaned about his whereabouts: here, in this hole, he could not count the days because daylight could not reach him. The first hours were nothing but a single intense note of pain and sound that shot through his consciousness like a metal spike splitting an old board. His judgment had been compromised. Naked as he was, with vision blurred from the slowly subsiding concussion, there was nothing to do but curl into a ball and wait for sense to return.
When they dragged the plump carriage driver away, Salbadore could barely withstand the sundering of his attentive faculties, torn in one direction by the hatefully singing scab inside his ear, and in another direction by the barely intelligible screams of the driver as he was slashed . . . raped . . . butchered alive . . . who could know?
Regarding the Kinds
Salbadore’s back cramped again, from being bent over for too long in this cage of scraps. Broken bits of furniture, one or two planks, but mostly sticks and bamboo: nevertheless the cage was sturdy enough. Right in front of Salbadore, one of his horrible little captors squatted on its feet and began to roll the copious lips of its filthy gash around with its own toes.
They were clearly not members of one of the so-called “beautiful kinds” of the anthropomorphia. The pale little demi-men were certainly of one of the lower genera – but which one? The males were easy to identify, for their enormous scrotal sacks swung back and forth, dwarfing their childlike penises. They were not slow-birthers, whatever their proper name. Not unless all the jizz that those offensive, shit-crusted eggs produced was unstable mucus. This was how to discern between the more perfect kinds of life and those that had not yet – and maybe never would – reach a stable form. According to the theories of the masters, kinds with weak reproductive potential, whether it be from slow ontogeny or degenerate seed, must either be very hardy or very randy. How to make your way through life?: By shyly hiding in the clouds, investing hundreds of years in each precious child? Or by fekking every filthy subhuman crack available and letting the strong spunk sort itself out from the weak?
Time Flies
It was only long after the horrible internal ringing had eased, long after he had identified his captors as Bogus abigus, that he finally came to a way of guessing the duration of his captivity. It was by the activity of the bottle flies that seemed to live commensally with the ugly little jackers – by their ceaseless buzzing when feeding on offal, by the foul and dimly shimmering carpet they formed on the dark wall when resting. That is how Salbadore counted time, and this is also how he came to realize that he could not be too deeply hidden from the outside world.
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