Omsatigo does not subscribe to your magazine. But he might be reading it in the bathroom while he takes a massive, hot, satanic, slippery shit. He doesn�t flush and he leaves the seat up. He smokes in your living room. He doesn�t heed the qualifiers that tell the rest of us do-good bad-boys when to stop. That is why we worship him. Because we cannot control him, and we have chosen not to control our lusts. We justify our chosen path: He ain�t as bad as all that! But he is. He is. There is no path. There are only our choices, one wrong after another� or many, simultaneous, side by side by side by side by side. Hold that thought -- You have to go a little ways behind the counter to get to the one bathroom at Esriel�s Cafe. Don�t let peristaltic urgency overwhelm your manners -- get out of the way of the waitress holding aloft a wide tray full of loaded coffee cups. In some other skewed universe, maybe you don�t get out of the way in time; maybe she looks just a pinch too long back over her shoulder to sing out a farewell to the lanky, babyfaced guy on his way out. Clang! go the bells on the front door. Cha-ching! goes the cash register in an unrelated transaction -- some smoky mafioso is buying a green pack of gum. Oof! goes your chest against the svelte breast of the waitress -- o, delectable collision! -- and Ka-Smash! go the coffee cups, spraying chinks of cheap china and hot, wasted coffee all over everything and everyone. You mutter an apology but she doesn�t even look at you. She grabs a rag. Even as you�re backing meekly away, you look with longing enhanced by embarrassment (you haven�t forgotten your need to get to the toilet, of course, but that particular intestinal resonance may actually also play a subtle part in the heightening of your arousal) at the perfect, cruel curve of her skirted ass. But in this universe, you manage to move out of her way. In fact, you turn the maneuver into a veritable genuflection, indicating with a generous gesture of the elbow and forearm your desire to allow her to proceed ahead of you. She doesn�t even look at you. Be right with you, she calls over her shoulder to the overcoated gentleman who is waiting, ruminating on the toothpick in his mouth, to buy a pack of gum. You tuck your shit-eating grin right back where it came from, hoping no-one saw how much of a jackass you suspect you just looked like, as she and her incredibly sexy boots disappear into the crowded dining room. The way to the bathroom is now clear. Pick a stall. They�re all empty. One guy in a black beret splashes into a urinal. You go in the stall farthest from the door, back in the corner. Slide the steel latch home. Depants yourself, make yourself comfortable. You wouldn�t have believed it possible a few minutes ago, but you don�t let go right away. Half-involuntarily, you wait for the sound of the other guy�s hand-washing, the ratchet-ratchet-r-r-r-rip of his paper toweling, the squeak-clunk of the cylindrical waste can�s chrome hatch, and finally the swoosh of the door as he leaves here it comes -- one silent grunt -- the penultimate push -- the plashing projectile of relief! Faintly light-headed, you sit there for a moment, as a token gesture to the habit of waiting to see if you�re really done, but with a good solid one like that, there�s really no question. There�s hardly even anything to wipe. Now that�s satisfying. But when you swing the institutional-green door back open, the bathroom at Esriel�s Cafe has disappeared, replaced by a setting rather more lavish. It�s happening again! You emerge into the Snoke. Tiny, cream-colored, real tiles cover the floor; the walls are similarly covered but with champagne-colored trim. The sinks are many and marble. The fixtures are white gold. Gone are the buzzy fluorescent lights, replaced by gently rose-scented candles, flickering quietly in the steamy air. It�s warm. Recessed bathtubs are everywhere. Each one is filled to the brim, so that the level of water is exactly at floor level. Some of them are dark and still. Some are bubbly and lit from below: purple, aquamarine, emerald, deep brooding red.... Wend your barefooted way among them. This place is huge! The endless tubscape is dotted here and there with elevated islands bearing tropical foliage and songbirds. Some of the larger islands feature cozy-looking little cabins, made of bamboo. The walls fall away as you explore further. The tubs begin to vary in size; some of them are as big as swimming pools. The farther you go, the more intricate their designs become. There are little lakes, grottos, pools with tinkling fountains, split-level bathing extravaganzi with waterfalls -- all lit by the omnipresent pink candles, and all interlaced by curving walkways of cool tile. Which one do you want to dip into? As you�re trying to decide, moving along slowly, breathing the exhilarating vapors, you realize you�ve been hearing music for quite some time now. It sounds like a duet between a dulcimer and a sopranino recorder -- and in fact, it is, as you can see when you round a tiled bend, pushing aside the fronds of a dwarf palm. The musicians are seated on an island, in front of a large-ish bamboo hut. Whatever else happens, they don�t stop playing. Their harmonies are elegant and ethereal. Omsatigo is pulling himself, paunch and all, out of the ruddy water that laps at the tile beach below the musicians� feet. He is squat, dark, jowly and beefy. He has a bald spot on his head. His chest and much of his back are carpeted with curly black hair. He is completely, agressively naked. He detects your presence, and turns around, dripping, bent slightly to the left, to call out to you. Whores! he shouts with great cheer. Whores! He beckons to you. Go ahead. Join him on his island in the Snoke. The dulcimer player slides his foot out of your way without missing a thrum. Come inside and have dinner with us, Omsatigo suggests, and you find yourself unwilling to refuse. The inside of this particular hut looks for all the world like a romantic, unpretentious, comfortable bistro. There are plenty of pink candles in here, flickering shadows into the folds of the bamboo walls. Burgundy and maroon rugs ensnug the dirt floor. Omsatigo�s three whores are seated at the only table. One of them, a meaty, almost fat one, has spaghetti. It's okay but she doesn't like the sauce. She picks at it with her fork and swirls it around, and every now and then she takes a bite. Another one, a battle-scarred one with long broad legs, and a generous black dress, is eating lasagne. It's okay but the sauce bites, she says. The third one -- ripe, plump, with an evil mane of voluptuous hair, merry eyes of bright, brown, happy death, and gorgeous, round, shiny, plump, delicious tits -- says, I'll have some more garlic bread, please. And Omsatigo, grinning from ear to ear and beyond, goes and gets it for her. There is also a dog lying in one corner, coated with golden comfortable hair, exerting a comfortable 80 pounds of pressure on his oval braided rug. He�s chewing mightily on a bone. I don't even know which one of these bitches gave it to him, Omsatigo tells you. Hell, it might have been all three of them. You never fucking know with broads like these. His crassness sets the ambience for everything that happens next. You�re taken aback at first, but somehow you sense not disrespect from him, but a profane kind of gratitude bordering on worship. In this, the Snoke, his native environ, he is a despicable yet loveable pornographer; a sleaze-monger with a heart of burnished pewter. What the hell, you decide. You go with him on his trip. You climb aboard his flatulent soul with conscious abandon. It�s like climbing into a garishly painted import car tricked out with all the right after-market parts -- the bass is going boom! boom! boom! in an unapologetic, puerile, melody-free paean to balls-out adolescence. Don�t worry. The windows of the Snoke are always tinted. So then the meaty one puts down her fork, glances down at her tight, white, slightly sauce-spattered, low-cut, stretch-knit shirt, and the tits pushing groaningly out of it, and sighs, Why can't we have sex now? Dude, just right here? asks the battle-scarred broad. Well, I'm horny, whines the meaty one, and puts both her short fat hands up on the table top. The ultimate power with which she suddenly ignores her food makes her radiate a kind of sex-slut-juice smell and glow, which the other two bitches, try though they might, cannot ignore. Twelve eyes -- that's eight outer and at least four inner -- are now focused on her: on the curve of her low-cut, straining top as it delineates her suckable shoulders; on the curve of her pouting smile; on the curve of her rainy blue eyes. If I had a dick, I'd fuck you so hard right now, murmurs the ripe plump one, her murdurous brown eyes slashing, and the meaty one gets wet in a hot slick second. What the fuck, why not, says the battle-scarred one, and she swipes all the dishes off the table. They clatter and smash against the hardwood floor, just about scaring shit out of the dog. Ooooooh, goody, squeals the meaty chick, her nipples crinkling hard. She crawls up on the table. Lets smack our tits together, she says to the brown-eyed, dripping, plump, ripe piece of fuckable, suckable fruit across from her. (Omsatigo laughs with delight!) And they do. Come here bitch and kiss me, says the scarred, old, used-up whore who is still beautiful in a kind of sagging, knowing way. Her eyes are an indistinct grey. The short meaty bitch sidles over to her, practically smearing a trail across the tabletop as she goes, and they lock mouths and tongue fuck each other for about five minutes, during which time the brown-eyed, hot, round, globe-breasted fount of bittersweet, chilling, electric delight starts to get really dizzy. She jumps up on the table and clutches the meaty cunt's golden fat sweet hips with both her agile hands, and starts humping her ass like a fucking dog. She's ramming against her really hard, and gold sparks fly off and burn the meaty one's rump every time they slam together. The evil-maned one utters a tiny wordless syllable of perfect loving rape with every thrust; her mouth hangs open and her sumptuous lips are unevenly wet with spit. Her sharp little tongue pokes out, just barely; it is brilliant naked pink next to the fuck-me red of her lips. Now the scarred bitch gets her old ass on the table and spreads her big old legs a yard apart, and the meaty bitch, slick with a glowing sheen of sweat, starts to thumb and finger her clit, and starts to fuck her, good and slick and slippery, with her fat, electric, soft, sweet hand. They're still kissing as the ripe, round bitch hammers away at the meaty one's beautiful shiny wide ass. Finally the dog whimpers, gives in, and clambers up on the table where he starts licking the sweat that's dripping down the crack of the ripe one's ass. He licks it hard, with long strokes of his long tongue, and it is the best thing the plump round whore has ever felt. His tongue keeps going, and eventually he works his muzzle under her succulent, sweating thighs and sops at her dripping, wet, bitter, sweet pussy, licking and licking at the dewy brown hairs, splitting her like an overripe melon with his big dog tongue. And they rock like this inside their own private, self-contained, cosmic rocking chair, all of them on the table like that, for what would seem to most mortal men like fucking forever. Rock, squeeze, kiss, suck, fuck, lick, hump, moan, cry, sweat, drip, gush, drink, for hours it seems they just fuck and fuck and fuck each other liquid. Until the dam breaks and they all come together over and over, squeezing tight, holding on as the table comes crashing down in splinters and the dog howls, the bitches howl, the stars howl, the bamboo stalks howl, the spaghetti sauce flies through the air in all directions, gallons and gallons of it liberally drenching everything and everyone, slurping red wetness all over everything with abandon, like totally fucking leaping facefirst into a huge tomatoey mud hole six feet deep, and tits are smeared, chins are smeared, forearms are smeared, thighs are smeared, and it runs down their ass cracks, and they all rub together in the mud, the sauce, the come, the piss, the juice, the blood, the mucous, and they all submerge themselves, and swim, drink, drown, and squeeze together in it like a fucking eternal never-go-back mudbath from the point of no return, and then the dog shakes himself off, and the three fucking beautiful cunt bitch whores all put their tongues and mouths together all at once, and press their breasts, their whole bodies, plump, ripe, fat, scarred, bountiful, together, together, together and gently moan.... And Omsatigo comes over and says, Are you ready for your check? And they are glowing, flushed, and laughing, and can barely nod their heads, so you go over and pay it for them, and then stand ready at the door and hold it open for them. This time your gesture of deferrence is appreciated, and your heart gets big. You get some neatly-folded, fresh, white towels from a shelf by the door, and follow them and Omsatigo out. Everybody slides off the tiles into the warm, rubine water. Omsatigo spreads his hairy bear arms wide. The girls take turns cuddling wetly up to him. They have some requests for the musicians, who are only too ready to comply. It�s really amazing what those cats can do with just a dulcimer and a recorder. You can lounge in the bubbles as long as you want -- being fascinated by Omsatigo�s gravitational pull; admiring the unfake beauty of the three ladies; listening to their smells jangling together like sweet river music in the back seat of a big, square, overpowered car on the long way home; smiling at the songs they like and sing rough-throated together. After a while, you have to take a piss, so you heave yourself out of the water, nakedly grateful for the teases and catcalls of the girls, and for Omsatigo�s ever-ready laughter, and go back into the hut. The can is in the back, behind a clattery bamboo door. There�s no light in here. That�s okay. You�ve been doing this a long time; you can manage in the dark. You listen to your own stream gurgling into the bowl, full force -- pissing naked, now that�s a free feeling. Maybe in some other skewed universe, you turn around and push open the bamboo, and there�s the bathroom at Esriel�s Cafe, right where it always was. Maybe you wash your hands, or maybe you don�t bother. You adjust yourself, go back out through the door behind the counter, and make your way back to your table. The cafe is noisy. This is the peak time. People all around you are interweaving complicated patterns simply, saying, in highly secret codes of flatware clanking, coffee sloshing, flints sparking, ashtrays (chucked edge-first, on table-tops) precessing to a halt, orders up! and sullied plates whisked bangingly away in bus-tubs, everything they cannot say in words. Take it all in. You may need to decode all this someday. So take it in, but remember to leave a big tip. That waitress actually smiled at you! And at the cash register, when she said, You�re welcome, it sounded like she really meant it.