Free Pages Torn From a Travel Journal by Edward Lee

eyes.
    “Why, Mr. O’Slaughnassey,” the Irishman greeted. “Now that you’ve got the wife back in line, perhaps you’d care for a nip.” He produced a vulgar hip flask.
    The 60ish show owner’s voice creaked like old timbers. “No, McMullen, I’m tipsy enough from the joy of beatin’ that cunt’a mine silly, don’t cha know?”
    “I’m sure I do, Sir. And it ‘twas as fine a beatin’ as I’ve seen in a long while.”
    “The more ya do for ‘em, the more they lie and connive. Leaves a man no choice but ta bloody ‘em up.”
    “Aye, Mr. O’Slaughnassey.”
    The hooded eyes turned to me. “And what a coincidence this is! I’ll be damned if the gentleman to your side is not the same scoundrel who wasted so much of Bliss’s time earlier, and cost me money!” His bony finger pointed right at me.
    Odd as it seems, it was not trepidation that ensnared me, but a very pure & unadulterated furor. The sight of this treacherous man–a father who would marry his own daughter, cripple her, & pander her out; indeed, the very man who’d just beaten Bliss unmercifully–sent my wits asunder, leaving only my physical body fueled by the rage of humankind’s ancestral days of half-ape barbarity. I flew past the Irish ruffian, & in a second had my hands about O’Slaughnassey’s thin neck, spitting words of venom, “An abomination you are! A slime of the worst of human effluence from the bung-port of Hell!” I began to squeeze the thin neck. “May a pox be on you, you who would maim & molest your own daughter solely for profit in this flesh market that can only be described as luciferic! ” but just as my grip would tighten in this crazed phantasy of strangling the wretch, fists the size of grapefruits battered me from behind until the entire world was spinning about me.
    “A right rat bastard this one is, Sir,” I heard the Irish accent through head-pounding fog. My face was in the dirt.
    “There’s one in every crowd, my good Irish.”
    “Aye, and did ya know that he was workin’ me for info about your wife?”
    “Hmm. Knowing that, I’ll have to beat her all the harder.”
    “The whole job for ‘im, Sir?”
    “For scum like this, we should let the dogs have at his cock and balls, but, no, McMullen. This droog counts for naught–for less than what’s on the corncob after I wipe—and as easy as the police are to pay off, I’ve not the patience for the inconvenience. He’s a mere fly-speck, not worth a good man’s time or effort to set straight. Just throw him off the property.”
    “With pleasure, Sir!”
    “But first . . . ”
    The collision of the Irish fists to my head had me seeing double. But the next collision was not from a fist at all, but O’Slaughnassey’s heavily booted foot.
    Directly to my groin.
    “Here’s a good one to remember me by . . . ” A wizened laugh. “I’ll say, McMullen, all this violence has my old dog up and barking. I think I’ll go to Bliss’s trailer now and knock her about some more, then put some vintage cream up her backside.” His foot roughly nudged my wobbling head. “You hear that, Yankee scum? For raising a hand to me, I’ll keep Bliss uglied up for a good long time. Think about that.”
    I believe his words caused me actually to vomit. Pain cocooned my body, & amid a dark, accented chuckle, I was carried off much the same as a sack of refuse. My consciousness winked in & out, & the agony betwixt my legs existed as an entity of its own. I thought sure that my testes had been ruptured to slush.
    I saw only in mazed blinks: inquisitive faces, staring eyes, agape mouths. I was hauled out of the carnival’s entrance & dropped to the ground, heart hammering. Senseless, I heard an abrasive sound—
    Kuuuuur-HOCK
    —as the surly thug spat copiously into my face.
    “A fresh Irish oyster for ya, lad, with my compliments. And if you’re stupid enough to ever come back here? Ya won’t be leavin’ alive.”
    The rogue tromped off, his laughter like