Let me introduce, if I have your attention, our parting friend, the fellow drooling behind those bars, Miguel the Mongoloid. If you haven’t noticed him there, which I’m sure you have, our friend, Miguel, he’s, how shall we put it, a little stupid in his head. Note his eyes—gleaming like monkey jizzom in jungle moonlight. Note how he works himself shamelessly, such deep ape association, without a modicum of shame, and that’s a lot of cum, and just about the bravest orgasm any of us have ever seen. It’s down syndrome, up, down, up, and squirt, where his hand can rest at his side, but not for so long—our man in the cage will muster the energy for more—creeping, creeping, and yes, he has its attention again, where it has his. Where the sporadic grunts from his idiot throat cannot be distinguished between his forays on communication and autoerotic stimulation. This fool don’t know any words. And this fool don’t know anything but that he has to eat and he has to ejaculate—but where, unless he is shackled, he can reach down and feel himself as he pleases—but where to eat is to wait for his jailer to come around with a slop bucket of fish heads and gruel—and there is hardly a thing Miguel’s thick mind enjoys eating more than fish heads and gruel.
Now, often, in the case of idiots, there will be a comparison between the ability of their intellect and, say, the age of a child—“Stupid over there has the mind of a three year old.” If I haven’t gotten this through, Miguel needs not draw comparison from the intellect of children. Miguel has the mind of a dying slug. There is barely enough there to relay information to his movable appendages. He can’t make any sense out of the light passing through his antennae eyes. A flicker of this or that passing through his radar, and, as Miguel was, his clenched hand would come crashing down on it. As a child in Jalisco, Miguel’s mother would bedazzle him in sombrero and serape, and leave him outside, let’s say, in front of their adobe, where he would squash passing chinchillas and insects, essentially sustaining himself on their splattered remnants, while his mother took on longer and deeper clients, mock moaning in the adobe, until the pesos piled high enough to acquire a burro, strap her nitwit son on, and trek north for greener post-coital interactions.
One such costumer:
Beyond the Rio Grande, Miguel was left outdoors again, shelling armadillos, as it was, or whatever else it could be, whilst his mother went on with the base economics she excelled at and wiped away from her lips.
Give this past some future, folks, beyond the adobe but before the cell, where Miguel has spiraled a great deal upward from his malfunctioning pituitary, but left, nonetheless, outdoors as his aging mother forges on with her vocation, sloppily, as you can imagine, slackened in the old what now, desperate for, well, a hem—but ain’t no needle gonna fix that bitch. And there she was inside, squeezing as hard as she could, but the muscles that had gotten her and her idiot son through all those years were giving in and giving out. Out on the pavement, in the gutted remains of vultures and chupacabras, the bleached bones of steers and queers mounting around him—fifteen pounds of pasty white caught the consideration of our idiot, as it had crawled away from its Caucasian overseers. Miguel brought down his fist on the object, not unlike a tiny, albino melon, mashing it, and scooping its remains into his mouth. Siren noise and a thorough idiot clobbering ensued—a trial and a sentence of we all know what.
The last bucket of fish heads dumped on the floor of his cell, where there was no need to promise him a gig tending to rodents, he crammed it in his mouth, not unlike his mother, until his jailers fitted his neck for twine, but that would not be enough. Where are the electrodes? Where are the spades? Bury him up to his neck and piss on him until he drowns. Care to recant, idiot? Anything to say? “Uhhhhhhshdhhsahfh.” Can anyone decipher that? Vivisection’s the key. Get him out of the ground. Scalpel, nurse. Pour acid on his eyes. Anything else?
And the idiot twitches until he can’t twitch anymore.
