From: donz@uiunix.ui.org (Don Zirilli)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems,rec.arts.books
Subject: Well Met in Manhattan
Date: 24 Dec 92 17:23:54 GMT
Followup-To: rec.arts.poems
Organization: UNIX International, Parsippany, NJ  07054

as a final xmas gift to rab and rap, I though I would conclude the true
story of rabble and rappers meeting in Manhattan.  (though of course 
there's no accounting for epilogs)


Cardinal Taranto took a deep breath and spoke:

"I suppose everyone has one sin they've committed that seems especially
heinous.  Perhaps its very importance is the way in which it defines our
beliefs simply by being contrary to them.  I shall now tell you mine,
and you may infer my character however you like.
	"It began in 1967.  Yes, the Summer of Love.  A few friends and
myself were sharing the Herb of Happiness when a young girl came upon
us.  'What's your name, child?', I asked her.  She replied, 'H-Henderson'
and asked if she could partake with us.  Amused by her nervous stutter,
I passed the pipe to her.  Perhaps you think this is my sin, but no--
it gets much worse.
	"Henderson inhaled deeply and her eyes took on a familiar, distant
look.  She overheard our plans to chain ourselves to the Anthropology
building at [Name Deleted] College and wanted to join us."
	"'Cool,' said Abby."
	"'Far out,' said Allen."
	"'I'm hip to it,' said Tim."
	"Only one refused her, and that was me.  I told her this was a 
job for men, for tough guy revolutionaries.  This act of blatant sexism
was my greatest sin, my most unforgivable sin.  The look of pain in her
eyes was unmistakeable.
	"And from the pain, I watched in awe as her eyes moved into the
realm of anger.  Her teeth sharpened and bat wings shot out from her
back.  'FASCISTS!' she screamed, 'Fucking hypocrites!'
	"I blackened the soul of an innocent.  What is more unforgiveable?"

Of course, by now the Cardinal was on his knees in supplication to his
Lord (whoever that might be), and weeping profusely on the sidewalk.
Did I say sidewalk?  Yes.  While rapt by his eloquent speech no one had
noticed that we had been un-seanced and were now back in Manhattan.
	Sheila was patting Taranto's silver beanie.  "See, Don?  He's not 
so bad."
	"Perhaps not," I replied, "but he's still dangerous."  (And I was
still--and remain--a coward)

	Saying that, we quickly retreated home to my Italian chalet for
one more night of quadebauchery before Sheila and John returned home.  
They had not been satisfied in their quests, but sufficiently confused.  
(This is always my goal)

Now that I'm done, I beg the other participants to make emendations 
wherever necessary in order to promote Accuracy and Fairness.

One more note:  I want to make it explicit that Tom Wachtel is NOT, I 
repeat NOT, the Void Man, which some people mistakenly inferred from
this series, "Well-Met in Manhattan".  And before you ask me who Void
Man is, that's just the point:  I don't know!  I need ANSWERS, not
QUESTIONS.  (though in general, I much prefer a good question to a 
good answer.)


Yours, Merry Solstice, and I shall be usenetless for an entire week
and three days,

Posthumous O'Toole, Defender of the Realm



-- 
Chucklehead awaits the return of his .sig

Aaron Radomski, where are you???