Tomato Rhapsody: A Fable of Love, Lust and Forbidden Fruit - By Adam Schell Page 0,84
precautionary extra should the Saint come back to life. This year that duty fell to Giuseppe, captain of the Twelfth Hour. And so it was that Giuseppe, Capitano della Dodicesima Ora, on the morning of the Feast of the Drunken Saint, rolled his horse-drawn cart into the empty piazza, carrying thirteen Jeroboame bottles of his finest red wine (well, not exactly his finest; those he’d sold to a count in Pisa), eleven of which were infused with a potent extract of Fungi di Santo. He would drug the Cavalieri—all but Benito and the Ebreo.
Giuseppe crinkled his brow, surprised to find anyone in the piazza at this early hour, let alone Benito. God knows, given the chance, the man slept like a pig in cool mud on a hot day. But even from across the piazza Giuseppe could tell it was his underling slinking about and intuited immediately that Benito must be up to something. Figlio di Puttana, thought Giuseppe, detecting an odd bob and gesticulation to Benito’s movement. Curiously, Benito was in the pen where the donkeys were kept the night before the race, held there so they would be equally rested and well fed before the competition.
What is he doing? thought Giuseppe as he neared the pen. He was in no mood to be dealing with Benito at this early hour. He was nervous as is and his bruised buttocks and torn anus ached immeasurably. It made walking unpleasant, sitting difficult and the taking of a shit a supremely brutal act. And to think that his own stepdaughter had done this to him—that wretched bitch!—only made the pain worse. And now, reflected Giuseppe as his wagon drew closer to Benito, I’ve got my other asshole acting up.
“Oh, yes,” Benito whispered salaciously into the donkey’s ear. “That’s it, good donkey. Think happy thoughts, happy-naughty thoughts of green grass and mares in rut. That’s it, sweet donkey, think the thought that cracks your nu—”
“Good God, Benito!” gasped Giuseppe, truly astonished. Not even he could have imagined this.
A burst of nerves shot through Benito as he turned to find Giuseppe just outside the pen; he hadn’t even heard the wagon approach. “Vaffanculo,” Benito sighed. The motion of his arm paused. His grip loosened. His heart pounded. “What are you doing?” asked Giuseppe. Benito shushed Giuseppe angrily. “’Tis all part of playing the Ebreo.”
“This?” Giuseppe’s eyebrows lifted incredulously. “Little do you know,” answered Benito. “No donkey does well a day’s rigor when in the morn it spills its vigor.”
“Ah, I see.”
Benito returned his full attention to the donkey at (and in) hand. His arm was already aching and he didn’t have the time to waste explaining himself to Giuseppe. It was far harder work than he’d envisioned and he was only on his third donkey, with three more to go. (The five she-donkeys were currently separated, in an adjacent pen.) The problem for Benito was that he-donkeys were temperamental creatures, not easily brought to erection, let alone climax. One could not simply masturbate a donkey. No, a he-donkey needed a bit of romance. Before the beasts could grow anything close to a proper bastone they had to be seduced with a blindfold over their eyes and a cloth scented with the pungent musk of a rutting female draped over their nose. And then there was the motion, a long, arm-exhausting stroke that required a firm grip, a thorough slathering of olive oil and the tiniest pinch of clove. All of which led to an explosion that dangerously bucked and tossed Benito from side to side. It was hard, messy and dangerous work, but a necessary part of his masterful plan, and the last thing Benito wanted was that arrogant bastard screwing it up.
“You’ll see,” said Benito derisively. “Come the race, six of these he-studs, robbed of nectar, will move like duds. But my donkey,” Benito made a quick gesture to his donkey in the corner, “heavy of sack and full of vigor, will lead the attack.”
“Well,” said Giuseppe, sniffing warily, “be quick about it. And cover up too this musky stench. Let no nose catch whiff of skunk that Benito is anything but his usual bawdy drunk. But be not drunk. Sip much but do not imbibe, save your kidneys for the ride. Before the race, the less you’re deemed of merit the more you stand to inherit. For he who’s overlooked is he who overtakes. Now, in terms of the crowd, between me and the fool we’ll loosen both tradition and rule,