The Life of Henry Fuckit
68 Caught in the act
As a dog returns to its own vomit, and as a washed pig resumes wallowing in the mire, so Henry couldn't keep away from the café owners wife. After every fornication, after each successive act of perfidy, he swore it would never happen again, that this time was the last time. For several days contrition helped him believe he was finally done with this madness and he even took to reading from the Gideons Bible he had stolen from the YMCA. Also he would kneel beside his bed and intone from his Catholic Prayer Book: 'Oh my God, I am sorry and beg pardon for all my sins, and detest them above all things, because they deserve thy dreadful punishments, because they have crucified my loving saviour Jesus Christ, and, most of all, because they offend Thine infinite goodness; and I firmly resolve, by the help of Thy grace, never to offend Thee again, and carefully to avoid the occasions of sin.' However, especially in someone without faith, religious imprecations are ineffectual against testosterone and a rank imagination. By the end of the week Henry could think of little else besides the object of his lust and he yearned for Saturday afternoon and the chance to sin once more.
Although a man of many faults, tyrannical, bullying, verbally, physically and sexually abusive, and with a vicious temper too, Basil considered himself a humanitarian, even a philanthropist. Instead of throwing away or selling to a pig farmer his spoilt, over-ripe, rotten, contaminated or otherwise condemned produce it was his sanctimonious habit to drive an odoriferous load of this compost through to Wynberg and donate it to the soup kitchen for the indigent, run by the Catholic Welfare Society. As a result he was able to make frequent reference in conversation to his generous spirit, especially when being importuned for stale bread by the local down-and-outs.
"No bread, no bread. You think I Father Christmas? You go Wynberg soup kitchen. Ever' week I give food for hundreds, thousands people. No bread! Get outa my fuckin' shop!"
He performed his charitable deed invariably on a Saturday afternoon between the hours of three and five o' clock.
If Henry had been more attentive to extraneous details, if he had been more of a detective and less of a dick, he might have noted the absence of a dry squeal as she pushed open the storeroom door. He might even have picked up the characteristic smell of 3-in-one lubricant. He might have thought to himself, Now who the fuck's been oiling this door? But he didn't.
The clothes lay scattered on the floor and she lay spread out on the table in the pre-partum position. As requested, he had duly performed the complicated foreplay procedure involving two proud specimens from the café's fresh vegetables department. There had also been communication about the depth of his love for her, and her's for him, and the shabbiness with which she was treated by her husband. Penetration had ensued and the mechanical process was well under way. The door swung noiselessly on its hinges and the avenging cuckold tip-toed in. After almost tripping on a discarded carrot, he steadied himself, over the erring couple.
The copulatory position they were in resulted in Henry taking the full brunt of the attack and the woman was unscathed. His shout of pain was so loud it resounded all over the block and even further afield. People looked up from what they were doing, raised their eyebrows and wondered what it was they had heard. Emitting the roars and howls of a stricken beast, he pulled on his shorts and rushed from the room, badly injured and in an early stage of shock. Meanwhile, the sight of Henry's tumescence had worked powerfully on the outraged shopkeeper's seething emotions. Without further ado, he undid his belt, dropped his trousers and clambered onto the table. Uninvited, he vigorously put the finishing touches to what Henry had begun. And justice was exacted.
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