The sun had been ignored by the fish all day; only at high noon did its rays penetrate the waters of Palos de la Frontera. Fish were fine with their curtailed evolution, for land’s enterprise – this virus of legs – was overrated. The Spanish setting sun suggested a pink virgin butthole squirming over the horizon, as the future would be sodomized by Christopher Columbus and his imagination, both waiting by the port facing the new world.
"We are completely fucked right?" Columbus's imagination said.
"Fucked?" Columbus asked reluctantly.
"Yes, yes."
"No, not so much."
A wave hit the rocks and made a huge splash. A seagull picked at the entrails of a cracked crab. Ice plant was amuck, heartless and bloated. His imagination tried to remain reticent but couldn’t resist.
"I masturbated this morning into my boots," Columbus's imagination said.
"Jesus Christ."
"This trip will be kind of stressful."
"And for that I am very sorry," Columbus said.
Columbus's imagination began breathing audibly. "Two days ago, when you were out looking for spices, I masturbated into your left boot."
"I don't know how to respond to that," Columbus, visibly dismayed, replied.
"Or maybe it was your right boot, I can't remember. I was rather distracted, if you know what I mean."
"I swear you are not flying back with me."
Columbus's imagination contemplated that for a while, and nodded agreeably. True, airplanes had yet to be invented, but there was truth in fiction. It didn’t matter who said what and when – history was a living thing. Besides, if you took infinity and chopped it up into a million pieces, you’d still have infinity. The last visible arc of the sun was flickering like something low on batteries. His imagination wiggled around to get more comfortable. "Airplanes have not been invented yet."
"Yes I know. It was a joke," said Columbus.
"So you lied," said his imagination.
"Yes. I am so sorry. Would you like to have another go at one of my boots?"
"I sense a little sarcasm here."
"You’re a fucking genius."
Since the planning of the expedition, Christopher Columbus's imagination had masturbated more and more frequently. It wasn't so much the act itself, but the liberty one had in doing so. Terrain had to be marked somehow. Dogs had their piss, men had their genes.
The wind throttled in their ears. The sun was gone. The waves let themselves go against the rocks with such abandon, such violence, it seemed almost human. His imagination, hurt that he'd been lied to, sighed and lowered his head.
"There's no point to this trip," his imagination said.
Columbus didn't say anything. He simply closed his eyes, imagining the waters under him moving westward, into nowhere.
