Perverted Proverbs

by Marsh Cassady

  "Yes," Che Che said, "now you see. Now you must believe."

  "My God," Peter said, "How is it that you—"

  "That I speak and move?"

  Peter backed slowly to his couch till he felt his legs touch the edge. He sat down abruptly, reaching for Pemby's hand, warm, soft, filled with life.

  "I was cursed," Che Che said. "Because of, shall we say, my proclivities? One day, I was told before I was ... embalmed, that there would be a man obsessed with finding my tomb. At his birth, I would half awaken with a hunger for learning, a need to study languages. I'd travel incognito to distant libraries—Well, yes, you have a term for what I am, or at least one that will suffice. I am one of the undead. Neither dead nor—" Che Che sobbed. "Nor alive, but cursed throughout all eternity ..."

  Suddenly, Pemby stood and rushed toward him. "Oh, you poor thing. You poor, poor dear—" He reached out as if to embrace the mummy, apparently realized what he was doing and stopped.

  Che Che cocked his head. "Yes," he said. "That's my curse." He took a breath and seemed to compose himself. "It was, I learned—my bent, I mean—not at all uncommon. But you know about that. You two are kindred souls." He sighed. "So Doctor Potter, your search is at an end. If you but enter my tomb, you shall never have to want again. Not for anything money can buy." He paused for a moment. "Or maybe you'd just like to see what's there. Maybe you're simply curious. So go ahead and look."

  Peter swallowed hard. "But what will become of you?" he asked, feeling a hint of compassion for this creature, this almost man who had bared his innermost self.

  Che Che shrugged and glanced at the floor. "That should not be your worry."

  "It would be nice," Peter said, "to see what you describe."

  Once more he felt Pemby pulling at his arm. Irritated, he turned. "Yes, Pembroke, what is it?"

  "What about the curse? And the note pinned to the tent?"

  "What about them?"

  "Oh, Potty, don't you understand. I love you. I couldn't bear for anything to happen to you. You mean more to me than life." His eyes glistened brightly. He sniffed and stood up taller, much as Che Che had done a moment or two before. "Dear Potty, let me be the one." The tone determined, still his voice trembled.

  "Huh?" Peter said.

  "Let me be the one to enter the vault."

  "Why?"

  "Don't you see? If you're determined to find out what's there, let me go inside. Then if the curse—"

  "Oh, Pemby, my love, my dearest darling, you'd sacrifice yourself for me?"

  Pemby lowered his head. "Of course, Potty, you know I would."

  "Oh, Pemby, it's been my life. My whole life searching for the answer. For years I've scrounged for money, for years it's been my obsession. But in the face of such love, how can I but answer in kind? Dear, dear Pemby, if it means that much to you, then we simply won't go in."

  Pembroke's head jerked up. "You mean that, Potty? You really do?"

  "I love you too, Pemby. In your words, dear boy, more than even life itself. So it's settled. We'll simply go back to camp and pretend that nothing's happened. In a way, you know it's a relief, the fretting finished. And in my heart I'll know we discovered the pyramid; I'll know—"

  "Oh!! Thank you, Isis, mother supreme. Most powerful goddess of all. Love, yes love has truly triumphed!"

  Peter looked quickly toward Che Che. Even as he gazed, the gauze that bound the former pharaoh broke free. The mummy, no, the man, expanded, grew, filled out, till every bit of gauze was gone. Before Peter stood one of the most handsome men he had ever seen. Young, vibrant, his hair as dark as ebon night, as shiny as a teardrop in the morning sun. His skin, the color of honey in a locust tree, throbbed with the beat of life. He wore a brief skirt and ribbed blouse.

  "What is this?" Pemby asked.

  "Your love has set me free," Che Che answered. "Again I can live. I couldn't have told you that, not in common words. Only in the obscure poem. You see, those who put me to death and entombed me here for centuries thought they knew the greed of man."

  "I'm bewildered," Professor Potter answered.

  Che Che laughed. "The part of the legend that was expunged from the histories told of a man, like me, well, sort of— Maybe not such a queen, if you'll pardon the pun. But a man who loves men. This man would become obsessed with discovering my tomb. And when he did, greed would cause his defeat."

  "Then there is a curse?" Pemby asked.

  "Oh, my yes. But not anymore. In my time, just like yours, there were men who condemned us, persecuted us. They said we were parodies of men, and so they'd make me truly become a parody of a man when a certain person sought me. And forever that way must I remain. Except—"

  "Except if somehow the curse were broken," Pembroke said.

  "Exactly."

  "And by not going into the tomb—"

  "You broke the curse's power," Che Che said.

  "But what would have happened to Potty or me had we gone in there?"

  "I believe you know of the supposed stench that would be released."

  "Yes, though I always doubted that part," Peter said.

  "Oh, no," Che Che answered, "never doubt simply because you don't understand. You see, my persecutors said that I'd chosen a rotten, stinking way of life—as if I had any choice. And so they'd make sure it really stunk. You understand, certain ... chemicals would have been released."

  "In the tomb there?" Peter asked.

  "Would that it were that simple," Che Che said. "But no, within my body ... chemicals that would react to my emotions and in my final despair at the realization that someone was entering my tomb, would thus be released." Che Che sat absently on the throne. "Remember the poem? The bit about the heart that bleeds the stink of human misery?"

  "Yes." Both Peter and Pembroke answered.

  "Injected into my heart." He pounded his chest. "Causing a stench so terrible, it could never be erased. You would become such a pariah that no one could venture within furlongs of where you stood. But once I felt joy and happiness, the chemical's power was dispelled."

  Peter and Pemby turned and embraced each other. Then they turned to Che Che and reached toward him. Arms encircling each other, the three of them became a pyramid so powerful it defied the curse of ages.

  Moral: Don't put the curse before the heart.

  A GRAVE SITUATION

  Once upon a time a strange man started a cult. Now there was nothing unusual about this because many strange men had started many strange cults in the exotic lands of Southern California. Yet, this cult was more bizarre than most because the leader never wanted to show his face but demanded that his followers—all young and handsome men—romp naked before him. For this they were promised great earthly rewards.

  One such young man was a twenty-eight-year-old hairdresser named Greg, who had a lover named David. David loved Greg so deeply that he would do almost anything on earth to keep him happy. David also knew how fortunate he was to have such a lover—a blond-haired beauty with a body to die for.

  One night, David and Greg had arranged to go to dinner to celebrate the second anniversary of their deciding to live together. But Greg didn't come home from work at the beauty salon, and that wasn't like him.

  Maybe he was ill, David thought, lying in a hospital bed somewhere, IV tubes sticking out of his arms; his head and body swathed in bandages. (David had a vivid imagination) Or maybe Greg had left him. That had to be it; he was at someone's apartment, drinking wine, eating cheese, doing things David couldn't bear to think about.

  Tears dripped onto David's hands, clasped tightly in his lap. Life had been just too good to be true. For David had never understood what Greg saw in him. Even his name was phony. He wasn't David Pitney-Buchanan, as he claimed. He was ugly little Luther Higgenbothom from a farm outside Malvern, Ohio.

  His thinning hair was mousey brown; his Adam's apple stuck out so much it looked like he'd swallowed a golf ball; he was short and skinny, with arms that hung below his knees.

&n
bsp; He'd always been philosophical about his looks, even though his mother had once told him: "You're about as good looking as a fresh cow patty drying in the sun." Just after that, he'd left home for good, coming all the way from Northeastern Ohio to Southern California.

  He glanced at his watch. It was after nine. Maybe Greg really was sick, he thought. Maybe—

  Just then the door burst open, and Greg stumbled into the room, out of breath, his clothes awry.

  "My God, Greg, where have you—"

  "Sorry, Davey, I'm sorry."

  "I thought you were ill—" He bit his lower lip. "Then I was sure you'd left me."

  Greg sank into an easy chair. "At the gym today I heard the guys talking. About some sort of group."

  David began to feel indignant now. "What sort of group?"

  "A ... I don't know, a cult, okay? Oh, hell, David, I feel pretty stupid about this. But I wanted to get you something special. Something I couldn't otherwise afford."

  "You've lost me."

  "For our anniversary. I wanted ..." Greg's voice trailed off. He grabbed David's hands, pulled him around and looked into his eyes. "There's this guy, see. An old guy. He seems to have all kinds of money, jewels. And he'll give them to you."

  "That doesn't make any sense."

  "Probably not, I don't know. But it seems this guy somehow got out the word that he likes young guys."

  A chunk of rock dropped in David's stomach. "Oh, no, Greg. And he's handsome, I'll bet—"

  "You've got it all wrong. All he wants is to have us dance. And he watches. All you have to do is agree to join his group."

  David felt worried, puzzled. These sorts of things didn't happen. And he still felt he was losing Greg.

  "We dance, and he watches. That's it," Greg continued. "Then he gives us money and jewels." He paused. "I love you, David. That's the only reason I did this."

  "Really?" He wanted to believe.

  "Really. Dancing naked for some guy doesn't mean anything. You know it's you I love."

  "Dancing naked!"

  Greg reached into his pants pockets and pulled out a wad of bills and a handful of jewels—diamonds, rubies, emeralds.

  "My God, Greg, is that stuff real?"

  "The other guys told me it was."

  "What other guys?"

  "From the gym."

  "How long's this been going on?"

  He shrugged. "I don't know. But a few times and I'll have more money than I know what to do with. We can close the shop, travel, do whatever we want."

  "And you don't question this? Where all this is coming from? What kind of man would try this sort of thing." A new thought struck him. "You said you had to join his group."

  "Yeah, that's the bad part."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I had to sign this paper. Sign it in blood."

  "What!" David leaped from his seat. "My God, Greg, you didn't."

  "There were these two other guys, his bodyguards or whatever. Big guys. They stood there while I agreed to become part of his fold."

  "What kind of man would do this sort of thing?" He glanced at his lover.

  "I don't know. He wears some sort of robe, like a monk's outfit. It hides his face. And he wears these old leather gloves that are filthy-looking. And he has this bad odor. The guys warned me. When he pays you, they said, try not to breathe. But I couldn't help it. He ... he started to tell me how much he enjoyed my ... my performance. And I couldn't hold my breath. It was awful, Dave, like rotting meat in an open sewer. The foulest stench you can imagine."

  David pulled Greg to his feet and embraced him. "Promise me you won't go back."

  "I can't do that."

  "Why?" David released him.

  "The two bodyguards. I had to give my address. They said they'd find out if I lied."

  David felt a headache coming on and slowly massaged his temples. "You've gotten yourself into something then, haven't you?"

  "I'm worried, David. I didn't want to tell you that, but I am."

  "Where do you meet?" David asked.

  "Cemetery," Greg mumbled.

  "What if I go with you next time?" He swallowed hard. "This guy's obviously gay, right? Wanting to watch young guys dance naked."

  "I suppose."

  "Well, I'll go and try to talk to him. Explain that you're my lover, and you're already taken."

  "Do you think it would do any good?"

  "We can try."

  "But—"

  "What is it, Greg?"

  "The two guys guarding the entrance. They don't let just anyone in. You have to be—"

  "What?"

  "Young and ... You know to me you're beautiful."

  David laughed bitterly. "I understand," he said.

  ***

  The next night David and Greg drove to a cemetery north of San Diego. They pulled to the side of the road and stopped.

  David clenched his fists around the steering wheel. Then he looked over at Greg; he could see the fear in his lover's eyes. "It'll be okay," he said. He forced himself to relax. "Come on, let's get this over with."

  As they climbed out of the car, they saw naked men running every which way, yelling and screaming. Dozens of young men. "What's going on?" David asked.

  "I don't know." Greg stood directly in front of one of the men and grabbed his arms. "Jimmy," he said, "Jimmy, what the hell is going on?"

  "We've got to get out of here. The guy is awful; he's a ghoul. A perverted ghoul."

  "What has he done?"

  "What do ghouls do, man? They rob graves. That's where he got all those jewels."

  "Come on, Jimmy, calm down. Start at the beginning."

  The young man sagged. "We got here a little early. A bunch of us. And this guy, this man had dug up a grave. Don't you see, he's a ghoul? That's why he smells so bad. That's where he got the jewels. Sold some, I guess. That's how he paid us."

  "You've got to be kidding," Greg said.

  "Look, Jimmy, is that your name?" David asked.

  "Yeah."

  "Greg tells me you had to sign some sort of pledge, or promise to join this man's cult."

  "So what? The matched bookends, the monsters, they ran as fast as anyone else. It's all over with. There's no one left." He glanced from David to Greg. "Look, guys, I got to be going." He nodded and broke away.

  "Well," David said, "I guess that's it."

  "After all that worrying, it's kind of anti-climactic."

  The two men climbed into the car, and David started the motor. Slowly, they pulled back onto the road. The ghoul was nowhere in sight.

  Moral: A ghoul and his fold are soon parted.

  TO HALVE AND TO HOLD

  Once upon a time in the land of New Jersey lived two men. Robert resided in West Orange and Richard in Morristown.

  One day Robert pulled into the Livingston Mall to go shopping for a sweater to wear to a big bash at his ex-lover's. At the same instant, Richard, who'd promised his roommate he'd stop on the way home from work for a chocolate cheesecake for the dinner his roommate was preparing that evening, pulled into a space just opposite Robert's. Because both men's minds were on their purchases and not on parking, Robert's car and Richard's car hit bumpers.

  Robert jumped from his silver BMW. Richard jumped from his red Ferrari. Each man realized he'd been daydreaming instead of paying attention to parking his car in the lot of the Livingston Mall.

  Robert had been thinking about how he'd face his ex-lover after not seeing him for the last six months. Richard had been thinking how he really shouldn't have eaten the last two pieces of cheesecake, not because his roommate wanted it to complete his intricately planned dinner, though he did, but because Richard worked out so hard each week in the gym to keep off those extra pounds, then blew it all with his lack of self-control.

  At any rate Robert looked up and saw this heavenly man walking toward him. He was tall and tanned with wavy brown hair, and for the first time since puberty when he was accused of cheating on a geometry
exam in high school (all he'd done was slide his paper close to the edge of his desk so that terribly macho but dumb boy, Joey Something-or-other, could see the answers), he was tongue-tied.

  At the very same moment Richard looked up and saw this gorgeous blond with eyes the color of lapis lazuli and the build of an Adonis coming toward him. And he felt giddy and gushy, which hadn't happened since he was a senior in high school and worked with that divine Mr. So-and-so who directed the senior play for which Richard was in charge of makeup.

  "I ... I ... I ... I'm ... uh, that is," Robert said, unable even to think, while Richard blurted: "It was my-fault-all-my-fault-I-don't-know-what-got-into-me-I-simply-wasn't-thinking-you-know-how-it-is-when-your-mind's-not-on-what-you're-doing-but-on-something—"

  Suddenly, they looked at each other and grinned. The grins turned to chuckles, the chuckles to laughter.

  "Let's look to see if there's any damage," Robert said.

  "Good idea," Richard answered.

  The two men closely examined the bumpers, but not too closely. Richard hoped there would be no damage to his car, not because it mattered in the least to him, but so it wouldn't put Robert on the defensive. Robert hoped there'd been no damage to his car, not because he cared a smidgen, but because he didn't want Richard to feel bad. Fortunately, neither could detect the slightest scratch.

  "Thank goodness," Robert said, "there seems to be no damage to your car."

  "To my car," Richard said. "It was yours I was worried about."

  "This old thing," Robert said, though the car was just eight months old.

  "Well, it's my car that's older," Richard said, and he was right. He'd bought it exactly sixteen days before Robert bought his.

  Robert was so taken by Richard he couldn't bear to let him get away without finding out more about him. Richard felt the same about Robert. One of them suggested having a cup of espresso in the Livingston Mall Coffee Shoppe, which they did, chatting about this and that and nothing of consequence, though each was dying, simply dying, to know more about the other. Finally, each knew they could think of no earthly reason to delay their parting, and so it came time to pay the bill.