Facebook Popup Widget
The Scum Gentry Alternative Arts and Media.
Scum Gentry literary magazines and writing websites hub: literary fiction, horror stories, weird fiction and more...

Notes of a Professional Voyeur V - Fiction Serial by Benny Profane

I find myself privately hoping that this short-sighted act of self-denial might eventually drive her to a distraction that will leave her mind wallowing in a muddy pit of impotence and self-doubt. And that all of the negative psychic energy that she transmits into the world will be returned to her ten-fold, until she is left terminally alone and irredeemably forsaken on a sorry vessel of her own construction, in silence and darkness, crying ‘Why? Why? Why?’

You may consider this too hateful. I would like to have the capacity to tap into my inner Buddha, or Christ or Spirit Animal, and begin instead to love this emotional pigmy. But when bridging a gap, it is preferable that the crevasse be linked from both sides and until evidence of mutual construction begins, it is likely that the space will remain imposing and unassailable.

What makes this figure even more insidious is her friendly and affable public persona. She wouldn’t dare to speak to her beloved clientele in the same way in which she addresses her staff.

No, to her irritable and truculent customers she compliantly turns her most genial, jovial and welcoming face. The alacrity with which she transforms her demeanour from snarling remonstrance to artificial jocularity would impress even Janus himself.

Her treatment of the Regulars is marked by charm and positivity, and is buffered by liberal applications of snivelling sycophancy. She is careful to bestow on her patrons the flattery of her attention; humouring each of their trivial utterances, heeding their aspersions and justifying their petty talk. The way in which she gently massages their fevered egos is as sickening as it is affective—accompanied by a laugh as sincere as a harlot’s embrace.

And in turn, the flattered patrons wag their tails and lap up her cursory treats of attention and banter, and each makes a silent pact to disregard the injustices visited upon the quietly suffering bar-keep.

While the lad behind the bar, infernally wedged between these two monoliths, gets on with his work and bides his time, like Odysseus navigating the strait past Scylla and Charybdis, mollifying one and avoiding the other, until the day he finally leaves and is once again in open water.

Looking back at his twinned suppressors, eternally locked through their bitter dependence; he will, one day, float away, and watch their shrinking figures disappear in the distance, under the inexorable rise of a creeping horizon.

But until that day comes, I will, gratefully, have another drink son.





Share this Story:


submit to reddit


Dont Miss a Thing!
Sign-Up for the Monthly Round-Up and get All New Art and Writing Directly to your Inbox!






Previous Page                                           Back to Prose