Chapter One Hundred and Eighteen
During the same stretch of time in which Aloysius was violating Missus Drig, Mister Drig was violating Mister O’Herlihy. Arthur was rather ruthless in the vigour with which he lay siege with his battering ram against Seamus’s castle door, breaching it almost past the possibility of repair. All the violence he had always longed, but never dared try, to invest in his lovemaking with Charlotte was administered to Seamus, who received it with thanks. But, in contrast to the violence of, say, a street brawl, or the battlefield, this violence bound the two men together, effacing the sheen of civility as they reverted to savage dogs gnashing and clawing each other in competition over a small tract of land both simultaneously wished, for reasons of their own, to occupy. Like a maniacal lumberjack hacking at an oak till it breaks, the tree shuddering under each blow until the crack, and, in the sudden rupture, killer and victim are one.
The two men’s grunts would have reminded any auditor of two tugboats suddenly discovering they were headed straight for each other down a narrow, foggy pass, frantically sounding their horns in futile cacophony. But then, without warning, Mister Drig halted his lustful strokes, although his seminal pressure had not yet reached the critical, perilous point, as an idea struck him, which he proceeded to vocalise, so that his lover might hear it too:
“I say—what do you say to the idea of killing the waiter?”
Beneath him, Mister O’Herlihy squirmed in frustrated interruption of his proctological stimulation. “What do you mean?”
“I consider my proposal to be perfectly clear: kill Aloysius, and seize back my wife.”
“But what about me?”
“Hm. Well, I see no reason why you couldn’t stay with us. Charlotte’s a very attractive woman, y’know.”
“I’m sure that she is, but I don’t much fancy women, you know.”
“Not at all?”
“Not really.”
“Oh. Well, perhaps I could see you on alternating days—say, two days a week—no, three days a week. . .”
“Personally, I don’t think you should kill anybody.”
“No?”
“Nah. Life’s too short. Don’t you think?”
From his vantage above Mister O’Herlihy’s buttocks, Mister Drig considered this hypothesis. “Perhaps you’re right.”
“Let’s keep on going. You’ll feel better after. More peaceful.”
“I daresay you’re right.” And Mister Drig took his friend’s advice, withdrawing only upon Seamus’s insistence that he be allowed to unburden Mister Drig of his sperm through the application of his mouth.