Napoleon of Jerusalem
an excerpt

After a bottle and an athletic interlude I lay awake next to France with visions swimming slowly though my head. Of cannon and blood and red-coated soldiers tromping through the streets of Toulon; of the Peep O’Day Boys and Barclay’s tongue and red-coated soldiers tromping through the streets of Belfast; then as I began to fall asleep entirely the visions changed their focus to France’s legs and red-coated soldiers tromping through the vats of Bordeaux. I’ve never been one for the great focus.

When I awoke, however, I did so still enflamed by transplanted patriotic fire, by a newfound sense of urgency, and by alcohol. “Truth!” I expounded eloquently, leaping from the bed trouserless, “Liberty and, goddamnit, bosoms! Faith!” Tripping over the chamber pot I sprawled, the handsomest metaphor in the western world, unconscious at the feet of a naked France.

I recovered in the most delicious way possible, being licked from head to foot. “Devilish girl!” I cried, pushing away France’s pet Pomeranian from my clearly tantalizing body, and sprang up to robe myself and check on breakfast. A few eggs and half a pig later, I was ready to explain my new plans to ma petite demoiselle. Not surprisingly, the pretty dear looked immediately confused.