Takin’ Care

“I wouldn’t treat you like that, sweetheart,” Paul began, as they arrived by the dumpster behind the bar. The disheveled and emaciated camouflage clad middle-aged woman who picks cigarette butts from the parking lot had just offered Paul what she was sure he wanted, what all the day-drunk baby boomers wanted from her mouth, which might have been pretty, before the hydros and dry rot took her teeth.

“Naw darlin’, I respect ya too much for that,” he went on, “besides, them other fellas are sick. They’re just takin’ advantage of ya.” After saying this he shook his head. “That’s not me. I’m here to take care of ya.”

Paul stood looking expectant and sly, with a plastic bag dangling from his hand, and the woman began to wonder what he was about to propose. Most of these old guys don’t even get hard, and she was sure he was no exception. Usually, they just stand there, hands on hips, playing their part, and after a minute or two, tap the top of her head, hand her a twenty, and return to the bar, where they laughingly tell their buddies about ejaculating into her eyes and hair. Surely, she thought, Paul wasn’t going to proposition her for sex.

“Like I said, I’m here to take care of ya, darlin’,” Paul explained, as he handed her the bag. “I’m givin’ ya a meal, a little somethin’ to eat, and I’m still gonna pay ya.”

The woman reached into the bag and withdrew two sleeves of Munchies BBQ peanuts and a bottle of castor oil. “See?” he asked, with rhetorical reassurance, “It’s nothin’ sexual. You get that there in ya, and in twenty minutes or so, I’ll come back here—right here—so’s I can watch ya do your business. That’s it.” She decided that this was the strangest proposition she had heard, but not the worst. 

Paul stared at her with intense fixation as she painfully tried to gnaw the spicy bar nuts with the remnants of her rotted molars. Each time that she coughed, trying to swallow whole and half-whole peanuts, Paul would interject, applying an exaggerated soothing tone to his gravelly voice, “Aw, that’s alright, darlin’. Don’t choke now, you just swallow some of that there oil back. That’ll help.” As she struggled gulping back the liquid, he gently placed his fingers against the base of the downward tipped bottle, continuing his baby-talk, “That’s right, that’s right. Drink it up, now. Good girl.”

After the peanuts and oil were gone, Paul issued a stark warning, “Now, darlin’. I’m goin’ in there to finish my drink; in about twenty minutes time, I’ll be back out here for ya. Don’t matter how much ya gotta go, if I come back and you’ve already done your business, you’re gonna owe me twenty-five dollars for that there oil an’ them peanuts.” She noticed that, as he said this, his hand was clenched in a fist, which was pulsating with jolts of tension that momentarily whitened his hairy knuckles. “Trust me darlin’, you don’t wanna cross me. Understand?” 

She was already experiencing stomach cramps and intense nausea but, sensing that Paul was the strangling type, she nodded in agreement. “That’s a good girl,” he replied, “Now, don’t you move, and I’ll meet ya right here.”

Paul returned to the bar, endured ribs from fellow alcoholics who had their own theories about what he was doing by the blue dumpster, and then anxiously exited for his appointment. The woman was on her fours in the parking lot, which was dotted with old chewing gum, and sharp with leftover traction sand from the winter. She was swaying back-and-forth and visibly shaking as she shuddered out cyclic breaths while sweat droplets dripped from her nose. Paul bent and looked at the rear of her grungy denims. “Good girl! Good girl!” he said, pulling a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket. “Now, show me!” 

The woman ripped down her pants, and before she could settle into a squat, a mixture of sludgy and pure liquid feces shot from behind her and continued spurting down in a high-velocity stream. Paul’s eyes were brimming with delight as he stared at the mess behind her. He paid no attention as she yanked the bill from his hand, and scampered off, while pulling up her jeans, which were wet and stained from the ordeal. 

Paul dropped to the ground and lowered his mustached face an inch above of a prominent glob of feces, featuring a single intact peanut, that was sitting like an island in a small sea of diarrhea. He closed his eyes and inhaled passionately, breathing in the deliciously sultry scent, and feeling its warmth radiating onto his face. He dipped his finger into the pile and began tasting the oily, bitter-salted paste, before scrubbing it around his mouth with the intimacy of someone privately freeing peanut butter from their teeth. As he savoured the flavour, and the coating on his gums, he closed and eyes and moaned with deep satisfaction.

When he returned to the bar, bellows of laughter met him from the table of drunk sixty-somethings who sat waiting. “We saw you goin’ back behind the dumpster, Paul! We know what you were doin’!” 

Paul looked annoyed and retorted, “I’m not like you fellas, I gave the poor little thing a few bucks spendin’ money and a bite to eat.”

After a renewed round of laughter, another man asked, “Just tell us this, did she blow it as good as we told ya?”

Paul scowled, shook his head in disgust, and responded, “Yous guys are fuckin’ sick.”

The New Craze

Redgrave saw the blood first. The floor was a smooth white tile, those little hexagon pieces like you saw in public restrooms. Spatters beaded on their surface or spread into thick Rorschach blotches that reflected the bald overhead lights.

 He noticed the naked woman second because she sat on a little plastic chair further up the hall, moving a bit with music that throbbed in another room. She was pretty with angular features though she wore her brown hair limp and untended now. 

Her breasts jiggled a bit as she shifted slightly, taking his attention from her face. She was probably mid-twenties, and her right shoulder was decorated with a pattern of colorful tattoos. He thought it odd she’d spent so much time sitting for that, but people’s priorities shifted too.

She looked his way, and he almost jerked his gaze away, but the focus in her dark brown eyes was elsewhere, not really on him, not suggesting she’d taken offense at his ogling. Dreamy, he decided, just before he felt the sting in his upper arm.

The big man, bald, shirtless but wearing a black plastic apron had jabbed him with a needle. The man had led him in here with a grip on his upper arm. He looked at his bicep as the plunger drove fluid into the muscle. 

“On up here,” the man said when he withdrew it and took Redgrave up the passage to a seat across from the woman.

“Get undressed then just sit down here,” the man ordered. “Don’t drag ass. The drug’s gonna make your limbs feel heavy for a while.”

Redgrave looked back at the young woman, but she didn’t seem to notice him. He hesitated anyway. The bald man was pulling on latex gloves, but he noticed the vacillation.

“Go on,” he said. “Don’t slow us down.”

Redgrave peeled his polo shirt off as the man gripped the woman’s arm and urged her to her feet. She looked at his gripping hand, confused a bit, but she complied as the man guided her forward. 

Redgrave watched as they moved on into an area at the end of the hall, an open workspace. He felt a little shock as he looked at the blood smears on the walls. The patterns on the floor tiles were even more plentiful and scattered in there. Several white buckets were positioned near large hooks at the space’s back wall. 

A young woman wearing a surgical mask and a white apron of her own stepped to the bald man’s aid, slipping leather cuffs around the woman’s wrists.

“It’s just easier,” the aproned woman said. “You won’t have to support yourself.”

The bald man took the girl’s arms and looped the connecting chain between the cuffs over one of the hooks that extended down from the ceiling. 

Redgrave’s brain fogged a bit, and the voices became distant as he watched the aproned woman select a sharp instrument, a scalpel, its tiny blade sending a flare of white-light reflection as she moved it.

He realized his leg muscles felt soft. If he tried to turn away, move back up the hall, they would give way.

He just watched. The first incision produced a thread-thin red line in the young woman’s flesh, the line thickening in an instant before droplets of blood moved down across her flesh.

Redgrave felt stirrings inside himself then and despite the drug’s effect, he drew in a quick breath as memory projected those old images.

Danielle, Danielle from fourth period English. Wavy-haired, usually wearing glasses, sweaters that weren’t too tight but didn’t hide her form. Her glasses had been off that night. Sweater too, and she had moved on top of him that warm evening, striving to make the most of the tight space in the car’s back seat. 

She’d looked pretty fabulous there as he gripped her hips. 

The window smashed in as she arched her back, those firm breasts thrust forward as the moans escaped her throat.

The jagged chunk of concrete missed, but the shards of glass cut into her, drawing rivulets of blood from her face and neck, running down her breasts. Her blood rained down upon him as he scrambled to grab his shorts and get out to defend her from her jealous ex.

He fought to control his breath now as the scalpel continued to work and the bald man helped the aproned woman with the flaying, patches of skin dropping one after the other into a bucket. The brightly tattooed skin giving way from the shoulder to reveal black-red muscle beneath, dark, gleaming red as the music pounded, a soundtrack for the scene unfolding. 

The woman made no sound. She must have been given the same injection he’d received, must be numbed, but the drug was supposed to provide an energy burst. He wanted to ask, but the people were too busy.

And he couldn’t form words anyway. He just sat, continuing to watch, thinking of what was in store. 

He lost track of how long it took, but when all of the outer layer was gone, when her head had become a ribbed-crimson dome and her form, still so feminine was free, the aproned woman stepped back. 

“We’re going to unhook the cuffs,” the bald man said. “You should be able to stand now. The sprint should kick in soon.”

Sprint…that was what they called the drug. The drug that made this all possible, extended strength and energy…through…the process.

Redgrave breathed in again, anticipating. 

“Come on,” the bald man said. And cuffs were placed around Redgrave’s wrists then arched over the hook just as before. He let his weight sag, relaxing. They said it helped if you relaxed and the drug’s initial numbing effects really meant you didn’t feel much. Then the euphoria was a cannon blast of energy through your system.

He saw that demonstrated by the girl. She had grown steady. It was true. She walked toward the doorway that opened off this work room. In the dark larger room beyond, where the music originated, lights, laser slashes of purples, reds, greens, blues streaked everywhere.

The girl waited only a moment in the door way and then stepped forward into the mass of writhing, fleshless revelers. They twisted with the music, bobbed, twirled in the mad ecstasy that had been promised in the forms everyone signed.

As the scalpel bit into the back of his neck, Redgrave willed the blade to work quickly. He wanted to catch up to the girl and dance with her, watching her form and looking into those brown eyes until they both dropped.

 Back To Back Belly To Belly

Jordan woke up shortly after midnight but didn’t know why.  He turned over to check with his wife Janet, but she wasn’t there.  He then remembered she had gone on a tour to sell her book “What You Don’t Know”.  Next, he noticed there was a bright light next to the wall.  The amorphous light shape shifted slowly to a naked woman of prodigious dimensions as she approached his bed.  His upper brain shut down, but his lower brain became vigorously engaged.  The now totally realized woman slipped between the covers and embraced and kissed him.  His lower brain made him respond by entering the unknown being.  They rolled around mindlessly making low grunts and groans for a full half hour.  When they were finally spent, his upper brain began to function again and he asked, “Who are you?”

“I’m Penelope.  I mistook you for Jonathan.”

“The Penelope that died here around fifty years ago?”

“Yes, but the dead are bad at judging time.  It seems like it was just a few days ago.  I keep searching for my husband Jonathan.  We were newly married when I got sick.”

Jordan was somehow able to accept what she said despite how outrageous it was.  “I’m sorry but there is a good chance he is dead too.”

Penelope pulled back the covers and was pleased with Jordan’s lower half.  “I know this sounds crazy, but you’re a good substitute.  Jonathan and I had sex three or four times a day.”

Jordan took the hint, and they kept at it several times until they were totally spent.  Their variations kept it interesting.  Jordan had naïvely believed that people fifty years ago didn’t go at it so many different ways.

Jordan, who had never had extramarital sex before, surprised himself by saying “Janet will be gone for another four days.”

Penelope smiled.  Jordan, who usually didn’t go to bed before 11PM, started going to bed at 9PM.  Penelope led them though positions that Jordan had only heard of whispered in his adolescence.  All of their orifices and appendages were engaged.

Jordan expected his life to go back to normal when Janet got home.  After a couple of days, the guilt got to him.  That night in bed he told Janet “You know this house is supposed to be haunted?  Believe or not I’ve been having sex with the ghost, and I won’t recover for a couple of days.”

Janet shocked him by replying “Penelope?”

Jordan’s jaw dropped.

Janet told him “I’ve got my own confession.  She swings both ways, but I suspect she prefers men.  We’ve entertained ourselves while you were out of town.  Can’t say I blame you.  She’s a firecracker.”

While Jordan was recovering his wits, Penelope appeared.  “Do you mind if I join you?  I’d been hoping the time would come to see if three is company.”

Jordan’s strength miraculously recovered.  After an hour of switching partners Jordan and Janet were ready to call it a night and Penelope was growing dim as she did when she was done for the night.

Before they were asleep or disappeared, they heard a male voice inquire of them “I’m Jonathan.  How long have I been gone?”

A mist coalesced to show a sturdily built naked man appearing to be about forty years old.  Penelope and Janet smiled. Jordan was stunned.  The threesome became a foursome, and equity was achieved to the satisfaction of all participants.

Drug Interlude

Surrounded. Devastated. Depraved. Shunned. Something smelling rank, then tossed. Something stomped, soaked with lighter fluid, set aflame. The ashes rose up and formed smoke rings. Recurrent nightmares. I took a step forward, took a step back, like a crab dosed with estrogen, sideways, shuffling, scuffling, shambling, scrabbling. My nervous hands at my sides, jerking, pointing jittery in directions acute, obtuse, antenna, proboscis, bear traps set, suddenly snapped shut. I was alive but marginally. I was awake but subversively. I was. I wasn’t. Ivan! Huh? What the hell is wrong with you? Hands were waving before my eyes. It seemed natural to rear back as if confronted with charging lions, flamethrowers, military airstrikes. Eye! Snap out of it! I was cornered. Herded into the men’s. Snuffling sounds coming from the stalls. Noses packed and wiped. Covert air of insouciance. Yeah, nobody’s fucking high around here. Just business as usual, the basic bar crowd, tavern sleaze, dog-pound muff-hunt. I swear, I didn’t do anything, just minding my own damn business. My hands shaking, pneumatic tools on high vibe. Chuckles, there in front of me. Ya dropped your fucking glasses again, ya psycho. He placed them on my head, set the bridge on my beaky nose. You got a damn hook for a nose, Chuckles surveilled. It’s not growing fast enough, I sputtered, what I need is to lie more. Ivan, you are drunk; but I have just what you need, my son. Oh, shit. When Chuckles called me son I was surely deep in the doo-doo. But tastefully. He hustled me into a freshly vacated stall. With practiced élan he whipped out a crisp bindle and popped it open to reveal the minty crystal powder inside. Well fuck a ding-dong duck, I stammered. The straw was dangling before my sudden sharpish telemetry. I honored Chuckles’ lavish gesture by hoovering a generous portion, and transformed into a man reborn. Equipped with cape, tights, and a sudden ability to fuck off and die.

He Changes His Mind

She’s standing at death’s door. Well, not yet – but soon. Of this, he was quite certain.

Well, after all, it is inevitable. All of us eventually end up at that door. Who knows when one’s number comes up? Her number’s up. So unexpected. For her.

So he cleared his mind of all the usual clutter of data and text and … stuff. A clear mind, a stage on which all the possibilities of his future could play out. He set about making a mental reckoning: plusses and minusses, debits and credits, smiley faces and storm clouds.

Of course, before seeing to all of the other practical matters, there would be the grief. Of course. And the portrayal of his grief for the benefit of the living was certainly going to be a chore, but there was no dodging it. He could probably figure that the worst of the dutiful pantomime would be over in five days, maybe two weeks tops. Well, that’s death for you. Get it over with. 

Come on, now, you must truly and deeply appreciate how losing her will darken your life, before you go over and start to add up all the items in the other column. The loneliness; you must figure that in.

She is a kind and loving person who is always by his side. She has her talents, her flair, her imagination. She has certainly borne her side of the financial burdens in their marriage. All of these he would miss. Oh, he would never forget her; that was his vow. She was an all-around good human being.

But when she was no more, what then? Well, here is how the performance on his stage proceeded:

It means I will be alone, a free agent, on my schedule, with no one to veto my fishing trips or make plans on my behalf. He would go to church and the doctor and the dentist, and the gym when he decided to do so. And the barber and the optometrist ….

My retirement fund will go twice as far when I discontinue all her insurance payments and subscriptions. Why, the savings in hair and nail appointments each month alone! Also, her membership to the gym, where she and her crowd met to stand around in yoga pants and crop tops and chatter. He would cancel about five streaming services he wouldn’t watch if someone held a gun to his head. Let’s say that’s five services at approximately $15 a month per, plus that’s probably five movies a month at each – anywhere from $4 – $6 each. We’re looking at $200 or more a month right there. That halfway pays for a housecleaner every two weeks. They also splurge $200 a month on wine (which he hates and doesn’t drink); that right there is the other half of the maid service bill. Yeah, that would work out nice and tidy.

(Except he was going to have to clean the house by himself, top to bottom, one more time. And ‘clean’ the house he would.)

It means I will have lots of her effects to manage. Her brothers and their wives could have what they wanted of her clothing and jewelry, the rest to be donated. He would retain her laptop (wonder what he’ll find there?). He didn’t really need a second car or its expenses, so her Lexus SUV could be sold. Cancel her car insurance. He could think of three kitchen appliances and a couple of pieces of furniture that he had always found fussy and extraneous. He’d probably post them on the marketplace website and rake in a couple of thou on the sales.

It means I will have more space. Lots more space. Closets – plural! And her hobby room. Half the garage full of her collection of dolls (while his pickup sat out in the elements year ‘round). The dolls – there’s another couple thou if he could manage the online sales. His widower’s budget was looking even healthier.

It means I can upgrade the standard of living around here with potentially a bonus bank. If his numbers are correct – who knows – but the positive balance on the ledger is in black and white. He really doesn’t need anything he doesn’t already have. That’s not humblebrag, that’s just him living in the world that suits him. He loves clean sheets, good food, warm clothes (and cottons in summer’s heat). The world that suits him has southern facing windows and perfectly balanced heat/cool year round. His world, his settings, no compromise.

It means I am on my own for nutrition. He wouldn’t starve; of course not. He could enjoy two or three meals out each week. Keep a supply of cereal, bread, fresh eggs, bacon, sliced meats and cheese. I will have sole responsibility for my food choices.

It means I won’t be seeing her side of the family much anymore (yay). How would he finesse Thanksgiving and Christmas diplomatically? He entertained the fantasy of meeting someone who enjoys holiday cruises so that he would then be apologetically out at sea while her folks were having fun arguing about politics and letting their kids run wild. Something along those lines. This would not be a problem if her people didn’t live right here in the same town.

It means more time to read, more time for long walks to just think and to marvel at this place unto which I have delivered myself. Gone with her (dear girl) would be the nightly Jeopardy! competition, followed by some diversion for two: cribbage, Scrabble, double solitaire. So between the game show and the games, that’s almost the whole evening at least four nights a week. Yes, they were fun times, but now he would basically have an open calendar after 6 pm every weekday. Okay, so what does that suggest? Poker nights? Book clubs? Gym membership (hard no). He was determined that he would NOT waste three hours every night either curled up with his e-reader, or watching YouTube videos on the flat screen. 

It means I hide nothing from myself, and I reveal nothing to anyone. Other than perhaps a cruise companion once in a while, he would gladly not see anyone at all. Ever. Avoiding people is the most prudent plan for a happily-ever-after. To hell with poker night, book club and gym!

It means that – as I go through the most soul-wrenching moments of human experience – she will be in no position to help and guide and counsel me. She will be there of course, but not for his benefit, and certainly not for her own. How unfortunate.

It means I will need to become a different person. From now on, he must listen very closely to every word uttered around him. And he absolutely must weigh every word before he speaks. He must hold everyone he meets at arm’s length, must always think before answering even the most innocuous question. My freedom depends on living a mistake-free life as long as I can.

It means hard work and dedication from this moment forward if I am to live the life I envision. The life I am facilitating, the possibilities I am creating, the freedom I will win this very day.

It means that if I proceed with my plan, I will never sleep easily again. 

His heart nearly stopped. He hasn’t thought this through – no, no, not nearly well enough at all! She will be through that door in minutes – MINUTES!  – at which moment he must be ready to greet her. With a smile on his face – and the syringe behind his back. 

But now this. Doubt. Doubts plural. What ifs. 

It is said that a drowning man has his entire life pass before his eyes; now I can see every episode of Columbo in a flash. They never got one past him in, what was it? Ten seasons? They always get caught. I’m as good as caught. Life sentence if I’m lucky.

Her car door closing resounded from the driveway. Abort!

The kitchen door opened. Her eyes wide with bewildered surprise at the sight of him looming in the doorway, she beamed a sunny smile at him. 

With his left hand, he reached to relieve her of a shopping bag.

As she stepped through the door, he brought his right arm around her back.

Around her shoulder.

He pulled her close and held her tight.

And kissed her cheek playfully as his plot evaporated in a mist. Oh God, that was close!

What a lucky break for her. He hugged her so tightly that he couldn’t see the four-inch knife blade. Which she stuck with sufficient force between his ribs and into his chest.

As he collapsed to the hallway tile floor – stunned, gurgling, eyes wide with panic – she busied herself with the many small details of cleaning up the murder scene.

Robo Ghosts of Futurail, By Kandy Fontaine

You board the Futurail at 03:33, the hour when Thalassa exhales memory through its infrastructure like blood through cracked porcelain. The train isn’t real. It’s a memory artifact—residual code from a dissolved mainframe, still twitching in the city’s dead grid. It runs on recursion and sonar. No destination. No schedule. Just transmission.

You wear a coat cut from signal-dampening fiber, matte black, stitched with anti-surveillance thread. Your spine clicks—segment by segment—each vertebra a reel of extinct cinema. But it’s not prosthetic. It’s a centipede. Segmented. Semi-sentient. A graft from the Thalassa collapse, wired into your nervous system with salt-thread and carbon filament. It remembers things you never lived. Drowned cities. Erotic executions. The sound of lips parting before betrayal. It sings them in pulse-language—low-frequency, encrypted, erotic.

The train is dressed for spectacle. A carnival of mourning. The walls shimmer with confetti—circuitry masquerading as celebration. Circus-light filaments encoded in orgasmic pulse. Nanotech engineered to simulate grief, loop pleasure through trauma, dissolve the difference. You inhale it. It rewrites your breath. It tastes like climax and static.

Nyx follows. Fossil-machine cat. Tail flicking in Morse code. Recursive. Every blink births another Nyx. One in the pipes. One in the mirrors. One fossilized in the bathhouse tiles. She’s a glitch in your myth. A god in your machine.

You jack in.

Your ports open. Your breath becomes ink. Your skin begins to screen.

Then it begins to scream.

Not in sound. In sensation. An erotic broadcast of horrors stitched into your flesh. Each pore a mouth. Each scar a speaker. Barbara Steele’s scream pulses from your collarbone. Edwige Fenech’s stare burns beneath your ribs. Daniela Doria’s drowning face claws at your thighs. Your shoulder plays Phenomena in reverse. Your moans are dubbed. Your pores project. Your skin sings.

The centipede spine clicks in rhythm. Each segment pulses. The train responds. Its wetware hums. The mirrors bleed.

Then Mira Aoki-9 appears.

Lipstick lesbian robot ghost. Dissolved centuries ago in the ocean bed beneath Thalassa. Archived in sonar. Resurrected through obsession. You saw her once—in a bootleg reel called Throat Sprockets: Submerged Cut. A forbidden film. A fetish for the throat. For the voice. For the interface between breath and machine.

She steps from the mirror. Her heels click like reel changes. Her eyes flicker with reversed whale song. She’s wrapped in chrome-thread silk. Her voice tuned to a frequency that makes your spine twitch. You kiss. The mirrors shatter. The train moans.

She rewrites your circuitry with her tongue. She whispers speculative poems into your spine. Each one a memory cocktail. Each one a sacred infection. Her breath syncs with Nyx’s purr. Her fingers leave glyphs on your skin—ritual code, erotic syntax, a language only ghosts understand.

The train becomes the Surreal Beauty Café. A salon of erotic machines. A temple of Queer ritual. A cathedral of extinct desire. The walls bleed velvet. The floor blooms coral. The carnival spins. Nyx purrs beside the altar. Mira dances in glitch. You serve memory cocktails. You become the Archive.

Outside, Thalassa flickers. A loop of drowned architecture and haunted neon. Moon Camp Americana floats in orbit, broadcasting art porn and Teknopriest propaganda. The finishing school for delinquent daughters is empty. The mirrors cracked. The cameras still roll.

Inside the train, time fractures.

Nyx multiplies. Mira glitches. You sing.

Your voice is sonar. Your breath is ink. Your song infects the fossil circuit. The train moans. The ghosts scream. The mirrors bleed.

You see yourself reflected in a thousand timelines—glam detective, fossil priestess, drowned slut, archive incarnate. Each version flickers. Each version sings. Each version is stitched with horror heroines and haunted code.

Mira holds your hand. Nyx curls around your throat. The train pulses.

You are no longer a passenger. You are no longer human.

You are transmission.

You are ritual.

You are myth.

You are the erotic funeral.

And the carnival never ends.