The Mummy’s Cock

I’ve held off adding this story to the blog, because it’s my favourite one to perform live. But for all the tens of people who get see it, there are fives of tens who might want to read it. Besides, it’s a performance piece. I don’t think putting it up here detracts from doing it* on stage.

Fnnk. ‘Doing it’.

Bit of background: when Tutenkahmun’s body was first exhumed, it was anatomically complete. But some time between 1960, when his body was last examined, and 2006, when his body was x-rayed, a certain delicate and intimate part of his body was found to be missing. So this is that story.

Full marks to the reviewer that recognised it as a direct homage / rip-off of Théophile Gautier’s The Mummy’s Foot.

*these are the kind of quality double entendres you can expect to read in this story.

I had entered, in an idle mood, one those exotic bric-a-brac stores, owned and run by the cult of St. Vincent de Paul, where ancient polyester suit jackets mingle with the dust, despair and dandruff of a thousand deceased estates.

It was there, among the mismatched crockery sets and second-hand 3D cinema glasses that I first spied it: a wrinkled wormlike husk, extending from a leathery pouch.

At first I thought it must be some kind of child’s rattle, and swung it violently by the handle. But then I saw it for what it really was: the desiccated man bits of a mummified corpse.

I heard a gruff and gravelly voice at my elbow.

“You have an interest in the Staff of Tutankhamen?”

She was a strange looking lady, nicotine-stained teeth, a prominent mole on her cheekbone, a smooth beard of silky wisps, cascading down her chin like ghostly strands of fairy floss.

“I’ve rather taken a shine to it, yes”, I said — foolish, impetuous man that I was — “ and thought I could use it to stick the papers to my desk, or perhaps an executive desk toy with a limited set of clinking balls”.

“Ha! You would use the royal rod and scarabs as a paper weight? The very idea. Oh, old Ahmenothep would be most surprised if he’d learned that his son’s Desert Snake and Dung Beetles were to be used as a paper weight. He’d be most surprised indeed … two dollars”.

And so I gave the old crone her single piece of imitation gold, and she handed me the Pharaoh’s Jewels, tucked up in its own scrotum like a pair of socks. And I bade her goodbye. But as I left, she cried out one more time:

“A paperweight? The very idea. Old Ahmenotep would not be well-pleased at all. He loved his son as much as his own sister”.

Which is most amusing if you know that Tutankhamen was the product of incest.
Otherwise, it’s just nice.

Upon returning home, I placed the Dehydrated Nile Meat on a pile of papers on my writing desk, and retired to my balcony to pack myself a small metal pipe with the soothing herbs of the Southern Coast. And slowly closed my eyes to be received into the welcoming arms of Morpheus.

I slept, and yet in my sleep, my eyes were open.

I still sat on the balcony of my flat, but the air was fogged with a fragrant mist and there was a great rumbling in my belly. “I could really go for a packet of chips, I thought” …

Oh, the pipe! I wasn’t asleep at all.

But then a noise roused me from my reverie, and I felt the hairs prickle on my neck. It was a faint thump, coming from inside in my study, almost exactly as if that of a frog trapped in a pillowcase.

Odd, I thought. I don’t own a frog.

As I moved inside, my eyes fell upon the papers, and there it was: the Royal Wheat Sheaf, floundering about of its own volition, like a one-eyed axolotl, its little mouth gasping for air!

I was still disoriented by the smoke, but even thus I knew that a pharaonic phallus of several thousand years should not be leaping about unattached to the potentate’s pubis.

Behind me, the curtain stirred, and in shuffled a boy of no more than 19 years, his fine olive skin unable to conceal the tell-tale signs of inbreeding amongst the teeth and palette. He walked across the room with a painful gait, legs bending inwards at the knees and his hand clutching at his lower abdomen, as if to staunch the flow of dust from a seeping wound.

“My Cockie!” he moaned, a pitiful moronic drawl, “I’ve lost my Cockie”.

I threw myself down on one knee. “Oh, most glorious eunuch!” I cried, “Please forgive me. I have located the pride of desert, but I lay no claim to it. I offer you back your most sacred treasure with full supplication. Take it. Take it and be whole again”.

“You found my cockie!”

He grabbing my ersatz paperweight, a warm grin splitting his face like an overripe fig as he stuck it back to his nether regions — upside down — but still more or less in the right vicinity. He then gave me a warm hug, as those with diminished capacity are wont to bestow, and grabbed me by the hand. “My friend!”

And with that we were away. We flew through time and space, until we came to the Egyptian land of the dead, the lush and pleasant land of Osirus. Fields of reeds surrounded us, and in front, among the pyramids, sat the giant form of the great Pharoah Ahmenotep, his massive form extending to the moon. He nodded at us: tiny, tiny ants but half the size of his biggest toe.

“You have restored my son”, he said, “and the dignity of my line — even if it is on upside down. Name your reward and it shall be yours. Unimaginable wealth, eternal life, the hand of my idiot son in marriage: anything you desire.”

“Wow!” I cried, “Anything?” I could still really go some chips” …

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