Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [112]
“A sibyl of a medieval nun. She has guided my life.”
“Oh, you’re truly fantastic,” the young man said gleefully. “And although I didn’t think it would be possible, you’ve gained weight. Where will you ever end? There’s something so unbelievably tacky about your obesity.”
Ignatius rose to his feet and stabbed the young man in the chest with his plastic cutlass.
“Take that, you offal,” Ignatius cried, digging the cutlass into the cashmere sweater. The tip of the cutlass broke off and fell to the flagstone walk.
“Oh, dear,” the young man shrieked. “You’ll tear my sweater, you big crazy thing.”
Down the Alley the women’s art guild members were removing their paintings from the fence and folding their aluminum lawn chairs like Arabs in preparation for stealing away. Their annual outdoor exhibit had been ruined.
“I am the avenging sword of taste and decency,” Ignatius was shouting. As he slashed at the sweater with his broken weapon, the ladies began to dash out the Royal Street end of the Alley. A few stragglers were snatching at their magnolias and camellias in panic.
“Why did I ever stop to talk to you, you maniac?” the young man asked in a vicious and breathless whisper. “This is my very finest sweater.”
“Whore!” Ignatius cried, scraping the cutlass across the young man’s chest.
“Oh, isn’t this horrible.”
He tried to run away, but Ignatius had been holding his arm firmly with the hand that was not wielding the cutlass. Slipping a finger through Ignatius’s hoop earring, the young man pulled downward, breathing to Ignatius, “Drop that sword.”
“Good grief.” Ignatius dropped the sword onto the flagstones. “I think that my ear is broken.”
The young man released the earring.
“Now you’ve done it!” Ignatius slobbered. “You will rot in a federal prison for the remainder of your life.”
“Just look at my sweater, you disgusting monster.”
“Only the most flamboyant offal would be seen in a miscarriage like that. You must have some shame or at least some taste in dress.”
“You awful creature. You huge thing.”
“I will probably spend several years at the Eye, Ear, Nose, and Throat Hospital having this attended to,” Ignatius said, fingering his ear. “You may expect to receive some rather staggering medical bills each month. My corps of attorneys will contact you in the morning wherever it is that you carry on your questionable activities. I shall warn them beforehand that they may expect to see and hear anything. They are all brilliant attorneys, pillars of the community, aristocratic Creole scholars whose knowledge of the more surreptitious forms of living is quite limited. They may even refuse to see you. A considerably lesser representative may be sent to call upon you, some junior partner whom they’ve taken in out of pity.”
“You awful, terrible animal.”
“However, to save you the anxiety of awaiting this phalanx of legal luminaries to arrive at your spider web of an apartment, I shall consent to accepting a settlement now, if you wish. Five or six dollars should suffice.”
“My sweater cost me forty dollars,” the young man said. He felt the worn portion that had been scraped by the cutlass. “Are you prepared to pay for it?”
“Of course not. Never become involved in an altercation with a pauper.”
“I can easily sue you.”
“Perhaps we should both drop the idea of legal recourse. For an event so auspicious as a courtroom trial, you would probably get completely carried away and appear in a tiara and evening gown. An old judge would grow quite confused. Both of us would doubtlessly be found guilty on some trumped up charge.”
“You revolting beast.”
“Why don’t you run along and partake in some dubious recreation that appeals to you,” Ignatius belched. “Look, there’s a sailor drifting along Chartres Street. He looks rather lonely.”
The young man glanced down to the Chartres Street end of the Alley.
“Oh, him,” he said. “That’s only Timmy.”
“Timmy?” Ignatius asked angrily. “Do you know him?”
“Of course,” the young man said in a voice heavy with boredom. “He’s one of my dearest, oldest friends. He’s not