Old Story, but needs to be preserved somewhere

But Mommy

It was a clear dawn sky to which Nathaniel opened his dreary eyes. His fragile pupils dilated and contracted, his breathing stretching the atrophied muscles in his chest. He rose from his bed and moved his arms high above his head, fighting dizziness and temptation to stay erect. A deep, deep yawn consumed his whole body, the end of which was punctuated with a scratching of his stomach and a swallow. The spit caught in his throat, choking him. Something was amiss, his throat burned and his brain shut down to the messages that were coming in the thousands. He recognized that taste, lodged in his throat and burning him through his entirety: gin. This was not any particular gin, mind you, but a rare breed of Cylligan’s Private Chinese Stock, produced in one batch only in the year 1941. This rare and highly potent gin was stuck in Nathaniel’s esophagus and he was too sleepy to get it out. He did not run about, nor really reflect the urgency of the situation in any way; he was frozen in mid stomach scratch with his hair a tussle and his eyes set on the mirror in front of him, literally acting as the reflection of his terror.
After a brief spell, no more than a few moments or minutes, Nathaniel came to his senses and coughed. It was a mighty cough, one that encapsulated all the need for air and sleep and breakfast that had been welling up in Nathaniel for several hours now. The gin spewed from his lips, accompanied by a thick, rich smoke. It poured from his o’ed mouth in such abundance that it filled the pale bedroom. What marvelous smoke this was, creamier than anything Nathaniel had ever tasted. As the fog cleared his bedroom clamored with traffic, boisterous conversation, full bellied laughter and good natured ribbing. Nathaniel was sitting in the middle of the Burmese National’s Gentlemen’s Club in Yangon, surrounded by white haired men of all creeds and builds.
Nathaniel examined himself, noting his immaculate dress. A coat of almost perfect cut graced his well ironed shirt. Heavily starched, slightly tapered navy blue pantaloons hugged his legs, yet breathed just so that he felt he was wearing nothing. Only his grooming was undesirable, still maintaining the chalk outline of drool across his face and hair that went catawampus as if he were of some cannibal descent. He quickly combined the two detractors, drying his nocturnal lake-ettes with his unkept mop and emerging as debonair as the general standing just to his left.
Nathaniel mingled with the crowd, these were in fact his people, and made small jokes to the mistresses that he fancied. He picked up a chilled whiskey, noted its rich chocolate, firm nuttiness, and Belgian yeasty flavors and moved to have a seat next to a particularly suave looking Spaniard. Presuming him to be royalty, and thus have more than accommodating lodgings for the night, Nathaniel began to weave his tale of mystery.
“Pardon me my most gracious sir but I’ve…” he began, but was met with a hand covering his mouth. In front of him stood a massive woman, balancing plates on her forehead to the fascination of nearly a score of eyes. Nathaniel concluded she was a circus freak on display and he tried to begin again. He was met, this time with a chorus of “Gee-gee-gee-gee” which was of course, the popular replacement of “shh” at the time and place. Nathaniel recoiled in horror, his boisterous story of adventure and poverty was a guaranteed place to stay for the night and usually multiple female accompaniments. He transposed his attention of the freak and waited, waited for her to fail so that he could succeed.
It was curious, but the longer he stared at her misshaped body and face, her long head and small hands, the longer he gazed at her mouth agape with no chance of closing, the more he grew to like the woman more and more. He stared for several minutes, joining the shockwave of awe that spread through the party. It was when she produced a violin from some unknown fold of skin that the crowd truly gasped with delight. Her fingers, tiny and numbering more than thirteen, began to cry out to the crowd. They were begging each and every person in the room to commit suicide, to rip out their neighbors’ hair, follicle by follicle and until all were bald and could be equals once again. Her fingers told Nathaniel to swallow his drink and have another, and another, and another; perhaps even to drink them two at a time. Her fingers boldly announced the end of the world was coming, coming from the sky above and rumbling the whole way. Nathaniel felt this rumbling and ducked under his chair with a cry of fright, gripping the legs gasping with terror.
His eyes were sewn shut against the outside world, the violin fading into a cello, mixed with viola. Soon the violin returned and all three sang together and as Nathaniel opened his eyes he realized he was upside down, on a chair big enough to sleep on. There were hundreds of people, facing Nathaniel and looking past him. He straightened himself and looked, he saw a glorious orchestra, blooming with sound in a way that makes one think of the cycle of life, the bloom from the dead, the tide’s continuous lapping of the shore. Nathaniel turned and saw his mother and father, tight lipped and reservedly enjoying moderate entertainment at their most vivacious.
Nathaniel felt himself, namely his chest and genitals. It all made sense to him now, he was seven again. “Ahhhhh,” Nathaniel thought, “to be seven again as I am now! What glory!” Nathaniel basked in his own self satisfaction at defeating time and returning to his youth until he felt an ungodly pressure in his abdomen. The pressure was not of nerves but of lamb and rice, chocolate pudding (three servings) and chocolate milk that was occasionally spilt out of the nose. All of those decadent items, eaten much too fast and with awful manners, were now punishing Nathaniel. He turned to his frigid mother, begging her for pity, to be led to the lavatory. She hissed at him, her priorities were to the arts! He turned to his father and pleaded, leniency and decency prevail and lead him to the lavatory! His father barked at him, told him that a man can hold anything in his gut for at least five hours and this show would end in a paltry three. Nathaniel screamed, drawing the attention of nearly everyone of his future teachers, doctors, policemen and potential in laws, practically the entire social elite of Bruxelles towards him as he relieved himself on the floor of the Royal Cloak Opera Hall; which was until then most untarnished and unsullied musical venue in all of the world.
Nathaniel’s eyes were alight with jubilation as he looked around him in the Burmese Nationals Gentlemen’s Club and saw the audience all looking in his direction. The music had stopped, the freak staring at him with such confused longing that Nathaniel was forced to make a speech.
“Brothers and Sisters, allow me the good graciousness of your ears and eyes! I am free! All will be alright! I have found the key to my disorder and alas! never again shall a pain debilitate me, nor an ache paralyze me in my tracks! I am free from the reign of my body and shall never again play slave to its master! Observe.” To which he removed his pants, filling the room with the vile stench of a lifetime of repressed salmon filets, pasta dishes from around the world and, naturally, chocolate milk