The Frenchman

There’s more than one way to skin a cat.

Conversation wasn’t working, rather it was working too well, all she did was talk. Talk good, too. We sat around drinking a bottle of red wine I found in the garage; drinking, talking, listening to music… and she said wonderful things. She was saying something about a young frenchman who caused a food riot. She went on to explain how during a famine the young man had led a small group of people from house to house, and at each house they demanded food and drink; they ate and drank, and if there was no food or drink in the house they went on to the next, all the time taking families, especially the men of the household, with them; their numbers growing.

By the time they reached the local landowner’s mansion, they were a hundred strong. They ate and drank for three days running. Dissentors were put into a large barn and given only the best wine when they asked for water. During these three days, the young man gave speeches, long-winded ravings punctuated with shouts and screams for more wine. He found a fur

coat and wore it. He fell asleep at the table and awoke in a pool of his own urine. The room stank of piss and vomit, and he talked about god to the people. At the table, he conducted orgies where men fucked men, women swallowed cups of sperm, children stood around diddling themselves… a horse was brought into the room and made to show its erection (some prankster had shoved a bottle in its ass and tied a ribbon to it). He said that god was in each one of them, including the horse; that god was a beast, fornicating with children and selling them for money. After three days of this, at the height of their madness, after a long bout of singing, the young man produced a pistol and shot himself in the head. A posse of men, paid for by rich landowners of a nearby town, worried at having heard the news of their friend and neighbor, was sent to dispatch the hoard. Twelve men were killed.


The phone rang. “Hello? Is this Gordy Amede?” “Yes.” “I’m calling from Fort Lauderdale, Florida. I was in World War II with a Gordy Amede.” “I’m sorry, it wasn’t me. I’m too young.” “Too young, huh? Sorry.” “That’s alright.”


She had crawled into my bed with her clothes on. I got into the bed next to her and kissed her. “France, at one point you know, was the art capital of the world.” “Yes.” “I never want to go there, not now. It’s ruined.” “Yes.” “Full of tourists and museums, the French are all whores!”

“Yes, baby, yes.” I kissed her mouth full, getting in close, breathing into my baby. “To hell with the French! I want to fuck! Fuck me!” I mounted her.

© 2002 – Gordy Amede –

About the Author