I Am Rocco Siffredi

When I woke up, I was Rocco Siffredi. What does Rocco Siffredi eat for breakfast? He does not eat breakfast. He goes out and looks for something to fuck. The first thing I saw was a chick with big tits. So I went up to her and whipped it out. She got on her knees, right there in the street. “Suck,” I said. “Suck hard.” She sucked. She sucked hard.

A cop saw what we were doing, and thought it was obscene or indecent or some stupid shit like that. Cops must not fuck enough, or they’d leave people alone. The cop said, “Hey! You can’t do that here! Go make a porno movie or something.”

“I’m Rocco Siffredi,” I said. “My life is a porno movie. What’re you gonna do? Arrest me for living my fucking life?”

To show the cop I meant business, I pulled out and sprayed my co-star’s cheekbones. Then I wiped off on her hairdo and moved on.

Before I was Rocco Siffredi, I seem to remember I had a job, Iike in a bank or some shit. But now that I was Rocco Siffredi, I went into the bank to fuck. I pushed everyone in line aside. Rocco Siffredi does not wait in line. The teller was African-American.

“Hey,” I said. “You ever see a soul brother with a dick this big?”

She gasped and pulled up her skirt. I slammed it right in.

The man who used to be my boss before I was Rocco Siffredi came out of his office. “What’s going on out here?” He saw what I was doing to my new banker girlfriend. “You’re fired!”

Then he pointed at me.

“You!” he hissed. “You’re double-fired!”

He was always such a bossy fucking boss, but now I was Rocco Siffredi. Nobody bosses Rocco Siffredi. I hosed down my former boss from my former stupid life.

Glazing that idiot with sperm made me hungry. I barged into a steakhouse and got some steaks. I fucked the waitress for the check. She wanted to give me her tip money, but I’m not a whore. I am Rocco Siffredi, porn star supreme!

When the sun went down, I went to a disco. Not just any disco—the most exclusive disco in town. Make that, the world. The velvet rope knew enough to get out of the way.

A Supermodel appeared. She said, “Fuck me hard, Rocco!”

Supermodels like to live dangerously.

Gently, I grabbed her ears. My gunk shot out her nose. It was beautiful.

“What the hell are you doing?” someone said. “It’s past your bedtime and you gotta go to work tomorrow!”

Shit. That voice sounded familiar.

Before I was Rocco Siffredi, I think I had a wife, somewhere.

She was standing in the disco doorway. She had a bottle in her hand. She’s good with a bottle. I dropped the Supermodel. She fell limp to the unmopped disco floor.

My wife approached. She held the bottle by the neck. She holds me that way sometimes. She broke the the bottle against a glittery railing.

My life as Rocco Siffredi was over.

Nerd On A Stick

A desk sat in the middle of an otherwise empty room. The room had white walls. It featured no windows, no paintings, no photographs, no bookcases, no adornments to break up the expanse of white paint except for a series of doors. These were painted white so as to blend in as much as possible with the walls. The doors were metal and strong, but this was not something you could tell at a glance. The ceiling was also white with recessed lighting that was well hidden from anyone first entering the room. There was no carpet. The floor was covered with white linoleum, a single sheet, not squares, the shade picked precisely to match the walls and ceiling. This gave the room a sense of vastness, a sense of loneliness, a sense of silence.

A desk, black, metallic, sat in the middle of the room. Behind the desk in a black swivel chair with comfortable cushions and ample lumbar support, sat a man appearing to be in his mid-thirties with a crew cut. The man was wearing a black suit, a white button down shirt, crisply pressed, and a thin black neck tie. A metal sign on the desk read Bartholomew Squint, Human Resources Manager.

Another man, who also appeared to be in his late twenties, was seated in front of the desk in a small black metal chair. The chair was stationary and had no back. This man was also wearing a suit and tie. An interview of sorts was just reaching an end.

“Thank you for applying,” said the man behind the desk. “I am glad we had this chance to chat. But I do not think you are what we are looking for just now.“

The man who was interviewed stood.

“I appreciate you giving me the opportunity to interview. The job market is tight right now. Do you think you could keep my resume on hand in case something else opens up?”

The interviewer looked at the man with a smile that was more a sneer.

“We do get a lot of applicants, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks.”

The interviewee extended his hand. The man seated behind the desk ignored the hand even though it was mere inches from his nose. The hand stayed suspended in the air over the blotter for an inordinate amount of time. The interviewer stared at it with a look of increasing distaste.

“Please do not leave the way you came in. Exit through the door on your right.”

There were a series of doors around the room. The interviewee retracted his hand, looking sheepish. He picked up his coat and headed to the door on his right. He opened the door and stepped through. The door opened onto air. The interviewee screamed as he fell spinning the thirty stories to the pavement below.

The interviewer got on the intercom. “Ms. Watson. Send in the next applicant.”

The next applicant came in. The interviewer adjusted the nameplate on his desk.

“Hello, Mr. Squint. I am James Murray. I see you have my resume.”

“Yes,” Squint spat out tersely. “Sit down.”

The man sat.

“Tell me Mr. Murray,” Squint asked, his voice absent of warmth or emotion. “Why is there a blank spot on your resume?”

“What do you mean?” asked Murray leaning forward in his chair.

“There is a nine month unaccounted period in your job history. Care to explain?”

“I was trying to write a novel.”

“Were you employed while you were trying to write this novel?”

“No.”

“So you had no job for nine months?”

“I guess you could say that.”

The interviewer drummed his fingers on his desk.

“I don’t like writers as a rule. Don’t like artists either. I can tolerate dancers. They are fun at parties. Are you a dancer Mr. Murray?”

Murray shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not.”

“Too bad,” Squint said. “I am afraid we cannot use you.”

Murray begged, “Please reconsider. I need this job. I won’t let you down. I am hard working. I’m willing to learn. I’ll even put in extra hours for free.”

“I would hope so.”

“What can I do to land this job? I’ll do anything.”

A glint came to the eyes of the interviewer.

“Can you dance Mr. Murray?”

“I can learn.”

Squint commanded, “Dance for me Mr. Murray.”

“Dance for you? What? Here? Now?”

“Yes. Dance for me. You said you would do anything.”

Murray got up slowly. He straightens his tie, then starts to dance. There was no music. Murray had assessed himself accurately. He was not a very good dancer. He was awful.

“Not good enough Mr. Murray,” Squint said. “Simply not good enough. Please exit through the door to your left.”

Murray looked dejected, he headed to the door on his left and opened it. Murray stepped through and fell into a roaring fire. The door he had stepped through shut.

The interviewer sighed with boredom. It was going to be a long day, but variety helped.

The interviews blended into each other. Several victims later, the interviewer dismissed another applicant.

“I don’t understand why you even bothered to apply. Exit through the door directly behind my desk.

The man went to the door, opened it, and stepped through. There was the sound of a shredding machine and blood curdling screams.

Mr. Squint pushed the button on the intercom.

“Ms. Watson, send in the last applicant.”

A twenty-something with a crew cut in a black suit, with a crisp white shirt and a narrow tie entered, appearing surprisingly similar to Mr. Squint.

“Have a seat mister., er, Desoto, is it?” Squint said.

“DeSade,” replied the applicant. “George DeSade.”

“Mr. DeSade,” the interviewer asked. “Your resume seems…adequate. Just barely. Why should I consider you for a position as a Human Resources Assistant?”

DeSade cleared his throat, and then made his pitch..

“I understand I would be assisting with interviewing job applicants. I think I would be an ideal fit. I enjoy causing pain. Physical and mental anguish. I feel I could make a lot of people suffer if I were to be hired. That is all I could really ask for. The salary is secondary.”

The interviewer paused.

Squint sat in silence, making a pyramid with his finger tips. He watched the candidate to see if he would squirm. DeSade did not squirm, he sat rigid and motionless, while exuding an air of complete calm. After a length of time, Squint relaxed his fingers. He flashed a thin grin.

“I see,” said Squint. “Finally a candidate with who I can relate. Not that you really deserve the job. Think of yourself as a fill-in until we can find someone better. When can you start?”

“Next Monday. I’ll be busy this week killing my neighbor’s dog. It is a poison job. Gravy soaked sponge. Need to make sure it takes the bait.”

“Gravy soaked sponge?”

“Expands in the belly,” DeSade explained. “I understand it is dreadful. First time I tried it. Used to use pellet guns.”

“Interesting,” Squint said, resting his chin on a single extended finger. “You may have potential.” Suddenly he glared at the applicant. “But don’t be too pushy. Remember who is in charge. Don’t go bucking for my job, or it won’t go well for you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said DeSade in a voice that dripped sugar. “I’m not overly ambitious. I just want to be part of this organization. It has been one of my lifelong goals. To work in a place like this…and destroy the lives of others.”

Squint grinned. It was friendly evil.

“Good. Keep thinking that way and you could survive with the company…for a while. See you next Monday, after the dog dies.”

“So I have the job?”

“Yes,” said Squint with a slight eye roll. “Go back out the way you came. Ms. Watson will give you some papers to sign.”

Squint reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a strange item. A barbecued kabob of some kind. He offered it to DeSade.

“Nerd on a stick?”

The kabob had a small man with glasses and pocket saver impaled on it. The man appeared to be alive and squirming in agony, despite burns and barbecue sauce.

“Wow, how do you make them so small?”

“Trade secret.”

“Too bad I had a big lunch.”

Squint did not hide his annoyance.

“You don’t know what your missing. The sensitive ones tastes so good. I have more.”

Squint took a bite, ripping off an arm with his teeth. The nerd screamed in a high pitch squeak.

Both men laughed.

“Maybe I will have one after all.”

The Dark Energy That Makes Up Most of the Known Universe

Breathing sounds.  The noises made by machines.  My father, unconscious, lying in a hospital room.  He reminds me of one of those parade balloons tethered by wires and pulled slowly down the street.  He’s bloated and doesn’t look real.  I touch the edge of the bed but not my father before turning away and looking out the window.  All I see is the blackness thick and impenetrable.  No stars shining down and I think maybe we were wrong.  Maybe we’re alone and there’s nothing out there.  I remember the sound of her voice trying to bleed its way through.  The sound distorted and I couldn’t understand what she was saying until I adjusted some of the dials and heard I love you echoing through the capsule before the transmission broke apart and was lost again.

***

My father asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up and I told him I wanted to be an astronaut.

Oh he said well because he always said that.

Or maybe I said a sharpshooter.  You know, an assassin.

What? Father said.  An assassin?

Yes I said I’d really like to kill people.

Kill them dead?  He asked.

Yes I said.  I want to kill bad people.  I was twelve years old.  I thought I was a man.  My father looked at the ceiling then he looked at me.

He said do you know the difference between a good person and a bad person?

I think so I said.

What’s the difference between a good person and a bad person?  My father asked me.

I said a bad person is someone who doesn’t feel guilty about the things they do.

Oh he said well.

Yes I said and a good person is someone who feels guilty about the things they do but they do them anyway.

***

I’m still looking out the window when the nurse enters and I turn just enough to catch her smiling at me.  She checks the machines before touching my father’s head and I watch as she adjusts his pillow and moves his arms into a different position.  You’re the son she asks before logging into the computer attached to the wall.  Yes I tell her while nodding my head.  She reminds me of someone but I can’t remember her name.  Some movie actress from long ago whom I once had a crush on.  The nurse finishes what she’s doing and folds the computer back against the wall.  We’re doing everything we can she says smiling again.  When she leaves the room I stand there looking at my father with my hands hanging at my sides.  He’s old and he’s sick and I know he’s going to die.  I close my eyes and try to think of nothing.  When I open them again it’s dark but I can see lights blinking on the console.  Through the glass the stars shine in the distance.  I know they’re farther away than they appear.  Some of them long dead by the time their light has reached me.  I try the radio again but no one answers.  It’s been several days since my last communication.  Or maybe it was weeks or even months ago, now, since I last heard another human voice.  I’m not really sure anymore.  Maybe I’ve been trapped inside this capsule my entire life drifting aimlessly through space.

***

I’m wearing my space suit because the life support systems have started to fail.  My space suit has its own reserves of oxygen but the gauges are broken so I have no way of knowing how many days I have left. There are still lights blinking on the control panel and they remind me of stars.  The endless years of light growing between us and the radio continues to emanate strange noises but nothing clear comes through.  Something happened.  I passed through some kind of storm and my mind is fuzzy and I keep slipping in and out of dreams.  I feel like there’s an emptiness where something once existed but I don’t know what it is or where it might have gone.

***

When I open my eyes I see the nurse checking on my father again but it’s not the same nurse from before but a different one this time.  She doesn’t seem as friendly as the other one and before I can ask her about my father she leaves the room without either one of us saying anything.  I’m sitting in the corner near the foot of the bed in the green-cushioned chair and my shoulders ache from having slept in such an awkward position.  I stand up and stretch my arms toward the ceiling.  There’s still no light coming through the window and when I look up at the clock I realize I’ve only been asleep for a couple of hours.  When I look at my father lying in the bed I don’t recognize any changes.  Everything looks the same as it did before.

***

I want to leave for a little while, maybe, go and get something to eat.  I walk along the darkened corridor and the space suit makes me feel awkward and slow.  I don’t know why but I start thinking about black holes.  When I enter the elevator the words run through my mind—the gravitational pull from a black hole is so powerful nothing can escape from it not even light.  The elevator doors open and I step out into the lobby near the emergency room.  I see the lights from an ambulance flashing through the window.  It looks like it’s been raining because there’s drops of water covering the glass.  It’s warm when I step outside. There’s a bar not too far from here and I start walking, still, thinking about black holes—a black hole is the remnants of a collapsed star.  What makes it collapse in the first place?  I knew this at one time but can’t seem to remember it now. There’s a black hole at the center of the galaxy—I think I heard this on the radio or, maybe, I saw it, somewhere, on the internet.

***

The bar isn’t very crowded. I sit down at one of the tables and order a beer.  When I take the first sip something comes over me.  I put down the glass and look at the golden liquid shimmering in the light.  I was in another time living alone in a tiny apartment and getting drunk every night.  At first, I thought the knocking was coming from inside my own head but when it didn’t stop I opened the door and saw my father standing there.  It had been two or three years since I’d seen or heard anything from him so I was surprised.  What the hell do you want I said to him.  It’s your mother he said and he rubbed his hands together.  I didn’t ask him to come in.  She’s dead and I laughed because I didn’t know what else to do.  It was cancer he said.  She had cancer but I blamed him for her death.  I was convinced it had to be his fault.  He ran a hand through his thinning hair and I realized for the first time how old he was.  Her funeral was last week my father continued.  We couldn’t find you.  Didn’t know where you were.  I kept holding on to the door because I was afraid to let go.  Oh he said well.  I just wanted to let you know.  He turned to leave.  You son of a bitch I said but he didn’t turn around.  He just kept walking to the end of the hall.  You son of a bitch and I screamed it this time.  Then, I remembered how I stood in the middle of the hallway with my space suit on staring at the tiny point of light where I had watched my father disappear.  I started toward the light but the space suit made me feel awkward and slow.  By the time I reached the door and stepped outside he was driving away in his car.

***

Hours pass before I leave the bar.  I feel the space suit surrounding me and the dead weight of my body inside.  The sound of my own breathing roaring through my head and it reminds me of the ocean, like the sound of waves, crashing against the shore.  I feel like it takes me forever to reach the hospital.  The lights in the windows glaring out at the night and falling on the street like an angry sun.  When I enter the lobby a little boy being chased by his mother runs into me and almost makes me fall.  The mother stutters out an apology before snatching up the boy and carries him, shrieking, back to his seat.  I find the elevator again and when the doors slide shut it reminds me of standing in the airlock just before taking my first steps into the emptiness of space.  When I get off the elevator I see one of the nurses standing in the doorway of my father’s room.  When the nurse sees me she turns and glances at something in the room before turning back to look at me again.  I feel the sudden pull of gravity.  I know the center will no longer hold.

***

When I reach the doorway of my father’s room the nurse touches my arm.  She tries to explain how they tried to call me but kept getting my voice mail.  I nod my head and tell her yes, I know, my phone was turned off.  The nurse moves aside so I can step into the room.  She touches my arm again and when I look at her she smiles.  Take as much time as you need she tells me before she turns and leaves me alone.  They’ve turned off the machines and removed all the tubes and wires.  My father’s body lies beneath the clean white sheet.  I can no longer see his face and I don’t really want to look at it.  But I go over to the bed and lift up the sheet just to make sure.  You son of a bitch I say under my breath before turning to look out the window.  The silence sounds so strange and I put the palms of my hands against my ears.  I keep looking out the window.  I move closer to the glass trying to find something out there.

***

I’m drifting.  I see only faint traces of light and the ghostly reflection of my face in the glass.  There’s a persistent ticking coming from some unknown place in the darkness.  I try turning my head but it doesn’t make any difference.  Suddenly, the sound of static starts bleeding through the radio.  I reach over and turn the dial trying to make the signal clear.  But nothing comes through and I feel, the thrust, the pull of something invisible.  There’s a tingling that begins in my feet and runs all the way through my body before trying to push its way out the top of my skull.  I feel so tired but can’t go to sleep.  The capsule floats in the emptiness of space.  I’m alone in the universe.  I have no way of knowing how long it has been.