The Sink (standard:Satire, 1927 words)
Author: Ashok Gurumurthy	Added: Mar 18 2005	Views/Reads: 4019/2409	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A parody of Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

employee's will.' 

'I hate your talk. Your bloody bullshit sails well over my head.' 

'As is only expected.' 

'Okay. Forget that. Aren't you interested in making a living?' 

'If you knew how I made my living, you wouldn't ask me this.' 

'I resign. I won't dance to your tunes by asking you the questions you
want me to ask.' 

'Yes. That would contradict the guy paying the piper calling the tune.' 

'What the fuck! I said enough.' 

Monica now interrupted: 'What was it this time, Hoggart?' 

'He said I wasn't making the patterns the tourists really wanted.
Nothing new.' 

There the conversation ended and silence reigned till the end of the
meal. 

*** 

That insouciance was the precise reason why Monica had fallen in love
with Hoggart. As time went on, she began liking everything about him. 
His hair was a unique brown; the closest shade was the one seen in a 
3:1 (by weight) mixture of beach sand and water, so that, when he made 
sand castles in beaches (his chosen profession), the undulating hair 
had a certain natural rhythm when taken with the sand all around; the 
subtle difference in shade asserted his superiority (which his azure 
eyes would fain assure was unreal); the effect was synergic. Indeed, 
the fine colour couldn't have been obtained even if God himself had 
shat on it. Seeing him toil with his bare hands was a throe, for in so 
extreme a feeling it is not possible to say if it is pain or pleasure, 
as in an orgasm. His movements couldn't be called expert, yet the sand 
castles built themselves, as it were, upon the graze of his coaxing 
fingers. 

When he talked, it looked as if the wind were carrying his tongue to the
sides of his mouth and arranging itself in complex orderly vibrations 
(whether of its own accord or by his will it is not possible to say). 
When he walked, the ground seemed to be trembling with pleasure (no, he 
wasn't that fat) and inviting his legs—begging them—to stamp it firmly, 
so that it could generate sufficient friction to carry him. 

When he ate food, it looked as if the food were dying to be ingested in
that it freely allowed itself to be scooped up by the spoons and torn 
by the forks and knives—what pain it endured for that ultimate rapture! 
When he breathed, the wind all but tore his nostrils apart to rush in 
and swim in the heavenly abode his lungs; indeed, but for the air 
waiting outside, they should never come out. 

When he slipped into a hot-water bath, it seemed not as if he were being
massaged and soothed by the water, but as if the hot turbulent water 
were being transported to transcendental tranquillity owing to their 
dashing against unevenly distributed layers of filth deposited over 
weeks; it is hardly surprising that they reacted as destitute children 
that go days without food do on being invited to a feast. When he 
picked up a book to read, the magic of the words' reflecting the 
fusillade of light, while taking millions of blows from the photons 
every second, with the hope of reaching out to those azure eyes was 
unexampled. When he picked up a pen to write down something, it 
appeared as if the pen, shivering with delight, was letting out ink 
involuntarily; don't nervous children pee in their pants? 

The teeth of his comb waged wars by the thousand each time the comb
curled up in his right hand and waded through sticky mud on which 
densely packed and fully intertwined hair stood up, only to take up 
that holy mud upon themselves. The furious bending and twisting that 
the bristles of his toothbrush would subject themselves to evidenced 
their insatiable lust to gather as souvenirs the grime—not that it was 
in short supply—that stubbornly stuck to the treacherous precipices of 
his massive protruding teeth, lest they should decompose before another 
such opportunity arose. 

Monica was proud of her love. 

*** 

Monica's house was well guarded, though she did not know it. The tight
security was due to Reid. He could not bear the thought of assignations 
between Monica and Hoggart. He was spending quite a fortune in ensuring 
that Hoggart did not sneak up to her house. The guards were instructed 
to send him away—a different man every time doing the job—without him 
suspecting that it was by design. How they did it was their own 
business; only, they couldn't hurt him too seriously. Reid was 
delighted with the results, for only twice did Hoggart have to be sent 
away. 

Hoggart was no-one's fool. He realized that he was being deliberately
stopped from entering his sweetheart's house. So, to cut a long story 
short, he dug an underground tunnel to right inside her garden—within 
the innermost ring of plainclothes guards—from the beach where he 
worked. Both ends had a lid made of iron and were cleverly disguised, 
and it was by this route that he was headed to her house on a fine 
evening. 

He entered the kitchen door (he had been given a key) and jogged to her
bedroom, happy in the knowledge that the dirt on him due to the tunnel 
would be mistakenly thought to be the result of work in the beach. He 
threw the door open as a thug shoves aside a child in his way and 
flicked the light switch on. 

She was ready for him; she only had her negligé on, and was seated
calmly on the bed, hands folded, legs stretched on the bed, and head 
propped against a pile of pillows. Showing strong disapproval, she said 
'You're late'. 

He said 'So I am'. 

'You wanted me to think your affection was cooling?' 

'If you have to ask that question, I obviously cannot have intended
that.' 

'I trusted you wouldn't bank on the possible doubt.' 

'You love me so much as to want to confirm?' 

'I hate you that much.' 

'Then you must think me really weak.' 

'I think myself inexorably weak.' 

'You passionately loathe the forces that seem to conspire to slow me
down in my walk here, if your admission is so vehement.' 

'It's just that I don't care for the rest of the world enough to please
you by hinting at the contrary.' 

'This open cynicism will not hurt me.' 

'I hate you enough to let you know I tried to hurt you and couldn't. And
covert optimism is worse than overt cynicism.' 

'What do you think the effect in me will be if every attempt at solace,
humanitarianism, and compassion aimed at the inner hatred in you is to 
wallow down the hill like snowballs in an avalanche?' 

'I should think you would be strongly aroused.' 

'I have no reason to believe there is reason to believe that that is not
true.' 

'I cannot bear the infinite weariness of you stooping to admit your
arousal.' 

'Enough said. Why don't we just fuck?' 

'Because to have it that easy is to refuse to acknowledge that
intercourse for love is a plebeian indulgence.' 

'Cut the god-awful crap. Let me just mount you and make myself scarce.' 

'Your attempt at disguising your contemptuous hate for me could have
been admirable if it had been successful. You may pretend all you like, 
but you cannot melt this mountain of resistance.' 

'Look, I'm going to rape you.' 

'You can't do that without my consent.' 

'Ha! To not have consent is essential for rape.' 

'What if I don't consent to resist?' 

'You goddamned bitch! Rape or not, I'm going to have you now.' 

Intellectual eroticism was her weakness, and Hoggart had capitalized on
it. The pleasurable pain of fornication was as forcibly brutal as their 
mutual hate was well concealed.


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