PUMP MY FRICASSEE
'Down in the Belgian castle the three men who
wore leather were acting like rakes : sizzling
dynamos of fabric and fury, lustful avengers, it
seemed for six hundred years of history. Far out
in the distance, the trim line of a river could be seen
down below : I wondered about the marauding
raiders, and if they ever tried coming up this way.
Everything was peacefully settled; this was
Belgium, after all. What else need be said?
I'd forgotten whether it was King or Queen who
ruled this place. None of it mattered to me; I
was here from a land of the free. Drinking beer,
swaddling myself in a new intimidation.
I wanted that girl over there to notice. To see.
Me. That's how silly I was at twenty-three.
I wanted to say she could pump my fricassee.'