The Arrival

Colm appeared ready for combat. 

His arms, always the color of unblemished marble, were now speckled with tattoos.

He twirled a curved sword above his head.

He was wearing cutoff shorts. I recognized them as the former bottom half of the pinstripe suit he broke out for memorial services. His legs, never an impressive feature, were covered in welts and fresh scratches. The getup was finished off with boots, a sleeveless New York Knicks t-shirt, and heavy eye makeup.

Colm

MORTAL!!!!

Turdling

Hey.

Colm

Welcome! Any problem finding the place?

Turdling

No, the Yankee hat was a good choice, easy to spot.

Colm

What do you think of the joint?

Turdling

It’s pretty much like you describe it.

Colm

Careful coming up the stairs, the moss covers a fair amount of rot.

Turdling

Are you ok?

Colm

Never better.  Except for my fucking legs, the horseflies are killing me this year.

Turdling

You know the College is looking for you.

Colm

It’s easier to ignore them from up here.

Turdling

You might want to check in.

Colm

With who?

Turdling

The Chair.

Colm

I thought we didn’t have one, that they were going to run the department by conclave or diktat or lottery.

Turdling

No, there’s an interim Chair—you have email, right?

Colm

 . . . . . .?

Turdling

Yea, anyway, Lasher’s the guy’s name.

Colm

Who’s he?

Turdling

They dragged him out of retirement to oversee us while they do a search.

Colm

That’s perfect, he’ll go along with anything, especially if I wait until the last minute.  Come on, come up, we’ve got much to discuss.

Turdling

Are these stairs really safe?

Colm

Fuck no, walk along the edge.  And hold tight to the railing.

Turdling

How do you. . .

But he’d vanished into the house.