Sunday, April 26, 2015

Chapter Seventeen as Number Eleven

His experiences of the hotel and catering industry have clearly deeply scarred our hero beyond any kind of true repair or reasonableness. It just won't go away. Chapter Seventeen, which underwent potlatch, not the wishy-washy charitable gifting potlatch that so infuriated the Christian missionaries who deemed it uncivilized, rather the genuine total complete and utter destruction kind of potlatch, has again reared its ugly head. And it's not just a polite little head rearing, like maybe a small worm avoiding the trowel, it's an all out gaping jaw, hungry Crocodile prowling the night looking for warthog kind of head rearing.

Quite what to do about Chapter Seventeen is probably beyond your writer of pulp's capacity to control, because there it is, all back together again. There are some who might consider this a savant type feat of memory, but let me assure them, that here where we all live and try to have our being, we were all rather hoping Chapter Seventeen would retreat lonely into the shades. Currently I'm hoping for some kind of compromise. There were Ten commandments, but it's beginning to look as though the Rabbit of Usk might have to consider the number Eleven. Frankly I feel like spitting on the hotel and catering industry, and on a weather forecasting professional whose name I dare not mention, because under no circumstances can your writer of pulp or The Rabbit of Usk live with number twelve. 

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