The ##

John Ashbery Waffles VI, son of billionaire shipping magnate John Ashbery Waffles V, has recently been cut out of his father’s will due to a mishap involving a Malaysian crack den, an Israeli-made flamethrower, and a leather-bound copy of the complete Andrew Marvell anthology, the spine of which is now severely damaged. In order to secure some quick cash, “Jack” Waffles, as he is known to his friends, has joined The ## team, where he will columnize every so often. This is his third post.

To say that it was hot would be an unconscionable wrong. It was searing, seething, blistering. A staggering maw of calefaction, the kind of heat that burned through your canvas shirt, perspiration shredding through like a beast possessed — the kind of seep that makes cigarettes unroll and the tobacco smell lush. He tried to light it anyways. No luck. Slow lines rippled from the seat of the field, lifting some nameless flight of birds onwards, rising lazily into the distance. The carcass was heavy, and it gave off a smell of slow roasting meat, a comforting, smothering, familiar embrace. His shoulders were sore, taut sinew and bone straining against limp muscle and skin. The animal’s unsecured legs tapped against his chest rhythmically, beating along with his unfettered stride. 

His feet were sore. Each contact brought with it a fresh stirring of dirt, rapidly doused by the all too obliging moisture engulfing all things there. A stray cloud crossed the sun. As it departed, light scorched any scrub foolish enough to remain in its hurtling path. From the right angle he could just catch a glint of light, an eager and expectant, albeit brief, pulse of anticipation. Town was less than a couple miles out, and he had done well for himself today. He hated to skin his own game; it always felt like it ruined the nobility of the thing—something pristine, pure, landed.

The skinning shack was the smallest building at the southern tip of a burning street. Comprised of scrap aluminum, it acted like a natural oven, negating any benefit from the shade provided. He had been inside once, and refused to enter again. The man who owned it was a decent guide, but an excellent skinner—an all right fellow overall, except that he didn’t speak a word of the King’s. Desiring to go no closer, he shifted the weight from his shoulders, letting it slide to the ground, and nodded to the waiting man. He shifted his body northwards, leaving behind his game until it had been attended to properly. There was a bar at the north end of town, and he intended to make judicious use of it while he waited.

The street was desolate but alive. Scarcely a movement could be seen anywhere, but the heat oozed from building to building, door to window, entrance to exit, a seething porous miasma of life. It was maybe 40 yards to the wood side of the bar. Movement caught his eye, a pull of wind, long black hair following. No, it was brown. Thick, floating wisps of rich hair. Dark eyes, hazel, with some flecks of green. Skin was olive, southern continental, most likely a Mediterranean blend. Her body was full but toned, more sultry and disruptive than classical. She was too far away to see him.

And then she was gone, swallowed quickly and deeply by the corner ahead. He was stunned, physically weakened. His mind had gone with her into the unknown, stolen and commanded by her allure. And beauty was her allure. He moved on in a daze, skin burning, muscles firing automatically. He had forgotten where he was traveling, and had ended up walking straight out of town. Moving deeper into the high sun, he tried to calm his body and reclaim his thoughts, but they belonged solely to her.