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Kyrie ~ Michael Reid Busk « Ascent

“Boomerang, nomerate the zeddiest zed in the lexigraph,” I said.  While I leafed through the last volume of The Condensed OED on the sofa, my sister Jane sat cross-legged on the floor, watching ultimate fighting on the television, our tabby Alfred nestled in the crook of her lap.  She was wearing pink Oshkosh overalls. 

“Zyzzyva,” she said, staring at the top-heavy Filipino kickboxer as he kneed an ursine Belarusian in the face.  “That’s zither yalumba double zither yalumba vixen aleph.  It’s a wallybo wittle weevy.   Summy summy peasy peasy.  Amazon,” she concluded, giving me jazz hands.  After an extended grapple, the Belarusian tackled the Filipino face-first onto the mat and was now head-butting his upper back. 

“Ourburos,” she asked, “do you think the zed yalumba double zed yalumba vixen aleph sacrilege –”

“Vixen aleph eviscerate,” I interrupted. 

“Vixen aleph eviscerate, might a mighty mass eviscerate the Brother Ass?” 

“Might a mighty mass eviscerate the Brother Ass?”

“They did in that looky-loo we we looky-loo’d.” 

“Sexton Blake.”                              

“Cherry, Apple, Pumpkin, Mincemeat, Rhubarb,” she rebutted, fiddling with one of her pigtails, her eyes on the bleeding Filipino.  Jane was nine.  I had just turned eleven.  “Verity looky-loo.”

“Verity?  The looky-loo Torture Channel.”  Jane disliked being proven wrong as much as she believed in the transcendent power of human cruelty to outstrip the fictional imagination. 

Our mother Muriel and father Stewart walked into the room, their sleek wheeled luggage parked behind.  As usual, they were wearing dark suits.


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