Sorry sword swallower !

Sorry, sorry sword swallower! What in the world has that mouth not engulfed? Scimitars in Cairo, daggers from the Middle Age, bayonets, stilettos, all that stabs or cuts, every metal in a pointed shape ! Nails, they leave such a dreary taste of rust in the mouth. Staples, they lack consistency. Razorblades, his own special trick. Pins, they hurt his stomach. And knives, well, so many knives, but even babies swallow knives, don’t they? Now yesterday, he swallowed a sword the wrong way. Humiliation. Senility. The end of his career. His throat is sore, and his heart too, as he ponders. The fish in his plate seems to be mocking him. He starts slicing, then pauses : that knife! O God! How often swallowed! His livelihood! He wishes he could find the courage to cut his own flesh instead, that bluish place, just here, under the wrist. But he cannot. Let’s feed that big useless body of ours. Let’s forget the pain. Good boy, come one, one more mouthful! But see him choke now! The pain must be agonizing. Down here, in his old, irritated throat, believe me o brother, a fishbone has got stuck! He coughs, and coughs, his face gets violet. Done coughing, now. Slowly he dies, swords and fishbones swirling in his head. The pallid remembrance of having been a great performer yields to a feeling of utter indignation. Sour, sour sword swallower!

Jérôme Saulière