WHERE WERE we? Yes: The Three Bells, where well-fed gentlemen yell, then swell. Between the deck & the chef's desk we see Eve, Renée, Hélène & Estelle, svelte French belles. Belles? Well, yes, except Eve: she's never been svelte, & her feet smell.
Eve's cheerless. "Peter left me," she tells the three.
"Peter?" they yell. They've never met Peter.
Hélène: "Where's Peter?"
Eve: "Tennessee." She sketches the scene: They met when they were seventeen; they spent eleven weeks, never severed, between Yemen & Greece. He's Czech, yet he fled west. Then she met Peter here &, well, flesh met flesh & flesh fed flesh, & then (yet she'll never tell the test spells she'll swell). Then Peter left, & she feels rejected. She bets he'll send the letters he pledged her, yet three weeks &...She weeps.
"Screw Peter!" Estelle yells. The theme depresses her.
Eve weeps. Eve screeches.
"Be serene, Eve," Renée yells. She tells Eve she needn't feel neglected yet. "Between Tennessee & here, letters never speed."
"Yes," yells Hélène. "Send Peter letters & get news."
"Where?" yells Eve. He'd never even tell her the street where he dwelt.
"Then text Peter," Renée yells. "Even better, here's Hélène's cell. Well?"
"Never!" yells Eve. "Here? He'd sense the yells, the jeers, the pell-mell; he'd be perplexed."
"Server!" Renée yells, vexed.
The server, M. Peretz, gets there. "Yes?"
Renée yells: "Three beers!"
"& seven crepes," Eve begs, dejected.
"Sept crêpes, chère Eve?" the server yelps. Hell, she'll swell.
"Je le répète," Eve yells: "sept crêpes."
Next, he & she enter. He & she? Nyet. Fred & Tex, Tennessee gents, enter The Three Bells. Meek, feeble Fred's the femme. See Tex's pecs? Tex's the Tex.
M. Peretz, the server, sees these Western flesh-spheres & weeps: between them they'll spell The Three Bells' end. Severe, he greets them, & they settle between the chef's desk & the French belles.
Fred yells: "Je prends des"--remember the French term, Fred--"eggth grecs."
Tex yells: "& me, je prends chept crêpres."
"Sept crêpes, M. Tex?" yells M. Peretz.
"Yesh, chept. Je le répète," yells Tex: "Chept crêpes de crème, replètes."
The keen server recedes, then reenters. He sets seven crepes, replete, between Fred & Tex, & blended Greek eggs between Tex & Fred. The Tennessee gents feed themselves & swell, & swell.
The French belles eye these gentlemen: the flesh, replete, the sweet crepes, replete, the sheer excess. "Eek!" they screech.
Then Tex's crêpe-less. & yet, & yet? He frets.
"Tekth!" Fred screeches. "Thpeek! M. Peretth! Help!"
Where's M. Peretz? He's fled the scene.
Cheerless Eve, rejected, neglected, speeds there. She flexes Tex's neck, then presses Tex's chest. Tex's neck swells, reddens. He jerks, he frets, he wheezes, he excretes spleen. Eve presses & presses. Then, hey, Tex yelps & ejects the seven sweet crepes, complete.
Fred kneels & yells: "Bleth thee, excthellent wench! Tennethee'th men revere thee!"
Tex feels better. Yes, he feels perfect. "Sherver," he yells, "shend me three beef crepesh. Je prends des crêpes, & there'zh the end."
Yet the crepes never get there, & we reflect (& weep): where's M. Peretz?
