Kleinzeit

Big Mouth

The next day Hospital unsheathed its claws, sheathed them again, made velvet paws, put its paws away, shifted its vast weight from one buttock to another, crossed its legs, played with its watch chain, smoked its pipe, rocked placidly.

Shall I tell you something, my boy? said Hospital.

Tell me something, said Kleinzeit, scuttling like a cockroach away from one of the rockers as it came down to scrunch him.

Yes, said Hospital. Did it upset you when I ate up Flashpoint and the fat man?

Kleinzeit thought about them. What had their names been? Still were, in fact. The names didn’t die, the names sailed on like empty boats. The fat man’s name had been, and still was, M. T. Butts. Flashpoint’s name was what?

Did it? said Hospital, smoking its pipe.

What? said Kleinzeit.

Upset you that I ate them.

Elevenses, I suppose, said Kleinzeit.

You understand things, said Hospital. You’re clever.

Ever so, said Kleinzeit, looking for a mousehole small enough for him.

Yes, said Hospital, and became one infinite black mouth. Didn’t even bother with teeth. Just an infinite black mouth, fetid breath. Kleinzeit backed into a mousehole. If the hole is this big the mice must be like oxen here, he thought.

Tell you something, said the mouth.

Yes, tell me something, said Kleinzeit.

You may have flats and houses and streets and offices and secretaries and telephones and news every hour, said the mouth.

Yes, said Kleinzeit.

You may have industry and careers and television and Greenwich time signals, said the mouth.

Yes, said Kleinzeit. That’s nice copy. That really sings.

You may even have several pushbuttons on your telephone and nothing but sheaves of ten-pound notes in your pocket and glide you may through traffic in a Silver Shadow Rolls-Royce, said the mouth.

It’s building nicely, said Kleinzeit. But don’t overbuild. Hit me with the payoff now, you know.

The mouth yawned. I forgot what I was going to say, it said.

Cheerio, then, said Kleinzeit.

Cheerio, said the mouth.