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Snide, issue 2, February 1941
Page 6
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Tale of the Mangledomvritch by Ray Bradbury (doll dressing a sideline) Mr. Bengol was perambulating down Broadway with his seventeen little children. Mrs. Bengol had just plowed her way through a buttress of females into a dime store. Mr. Bengol stopped, his knuckles on a lamp-post. He made phribbling noises with his tongue. Why in hell, he wondered, didn't Hortense (her name was Hortense Bengol) come out? His seventeen children grew impatient and started chewing up traffic cops. Mr. Bengol sent one little girl into the store to hunt up Mrs. Bengol. The little child toddled into the mass of females that crammed the store, crying 'Hey, ma, get the hell out of there! Pop's dogs are killin' him!' No answer came back, save for the rumple and rustle of swishing skirts and the ominous thud of bodies falling. 'For God's sake!' Mr. Bengol sent another kid packing off into the store to retrieve the little girl and her mother. This time the boy vanished in the blobbing flesh mountain just inside the door. Softly blatting from the distant dime store came the evil chanting of 'Flat Foot Floogie with a Floy Floy!' It made Mr. Bengol (his first name was Xerxes) shudder. So he sent a third kid, a boy with Orson Welles chin-feathers, in. Then he sent a fourth, a fifth, a sixth, a seventh, an eighth, a ninth, a tenth, all in after his precious wife. And all of them were blurted out of sight by the ravenous creature inside the door, the sardonic, silk-clad, tentacled, ravenous, awful monster of fat legs, thin legs, breasts, lips and torsos, of armpits and crotches and other nausea, of bargains and basements and pants half off, of Jewish women with beards and Irish women with bulbous scarlet noses, of nigger women with slick black and sweaty arms and legs, of buckteeth and no teeth and yells and cries and chaos. And Mr. Bengol, after sending off his first ten children, then beckoned to his remaining seven. 'Children,' he gasped, in a tear-thickened mumble, 'you've gotta go in there and find your mama. You just gotta. Something's weird 6
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Tale of the Mangledomvritch by Ray Bradbury (doll dressing a sideline) Mr. Bengol was perambulating down Broadway with his seventeen little children. Mrs. Bengol had just plowed her way through a buttress of females into a dime store. Mr. Bengol stopped, his knuckles on a lamp-post. He made phribbling noises with his tongue. Why in hell, he wondered, didn't Hortense (her name was Hortense Bengol) come out? His seventeen children grew impatient and started chewing up traffic cops. Mr. Bengol sent one little girl into the store to hunt up Mrs. Bengol. The little child toddled into the mass of females that crammed the store, crying 'Hey, ma, get the hell out of there! Pop's dogs are killin' him!' No answer came back, save for the rumple and rustle of swishing skirts and the ominous thud of bodies falling. 'For God's sake!' Mr. Bengol sent another kid packing off into the store to retrieve the little girl and her mother. This time the boy vanished in the blobbing flesh mountain just inside the door. Softly blatting from the distant dime store came the evil chanting of 'Flat Foot Floogie with a Floy Floy!' It made Mr. Bengol (his first name was Xerxes) shudder. So he sent a third kid, a boy with Orson Welles chin-feathers, in. Then he sent a fourth, a fifth, a sixth, a seventh, an eighth, a ninth, a tenth, all in after his precious wife. And all of them were blurted out of sight by the ravenous creature inside the door, the sardonic, silk-clad, tentacled, ravenous, awful monster of fat legs, thin legs, breasts, lips and torsos, of armpits and crotches and other nausea, of bargains and basements and pants half off, of Jewish women with beards and Irish women with bulbous scarlet noses, of nigger women with slick black and sweaty arms and legs, of buckteeth and no teeth and yells and cries and chaos. And Mr. Bengol, after sending off his first ten children, then beckoned to his remaining seven. 'Children,' he gasped, in a tear-thickened mumble, 'you've gotta go in there and find your mama. You just gotta. Something's weird 6
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