Plague Bitch

Detective Joe Oroborus winced.

“Please tell me you’re not actually going undercover as a stripper…you’re bad enough as it is with the polymorphous perversity, God only knows what you’ll be like slicking a pole with your twat juice…”

“Check you out, honey. You’re starting to sound exactly like me.”

Detective Oroborus looked like he was going to burst into tears.

“D-did I actually say that?”

“D-did you st-utter bitch?”

“How can you be so cruel?” Detective Oroborus fished inside his grimy black denim jeans pocket for an even grimier handkerchief–monogrammed with the initials “S.G.” in the corner–and blew out a copious amount of snot.

“Oh Jeesh, I hope those Chinese nanoparticles or whatever the Wuhan Tang Klan shenans is responsible for this latest batch of the ‘rona stays far, far the fuck away from me.”

“I’m sorry,” said Detective Oroborus. “At any rate, you’ve always done exactly what you wished, and this gig is no exception. Just remember, don’t fuck the customers and you should be fine.”

Kandy Fontaine tossed her fire-engine red curls and laughed, long and so slowly that Detective Oroborus found himself watching the hands of the clock ooze to a pre-Cambrian monoculture. 

“But fucking the customers is why I took this assignment. Don’t you get it? I’m a slutty detective.”

She pointed to the pink, ripe, bursting balloon letters emblazed across her chest: “Kandy Fontaine, Slutty Detective.” 

Detective Oroborus sighed. “I mean yes I’m aware or whatever. Guess I’m just in denial about the full extent of it…areas of your life that I just don’t want to know.”

“That’s no fun,” she purred, leaning over to whisper in his ear. “Did I ever tell you about the threesome I had with the hermaphrodite midgets?”

“I believe they prefer the terms ‘intersex’ and ‘little people,’ respectively” he sniffed.

“Shit got messy,” she said, snort-laughing. I mean literally, shit got messy.”

“Oh hell no, Kandy…I mean Detective Slutty…”

“It’s ok, Officer Porker,” she said. “Breathe. Relax. Have a bump.”

“Not here!” Detective Oroborus screeched. “You cannot just openly snort coke in the operations room. What if somebody…walks in?”

“Hell, half the force is on meth anyway,” said Detective Fontaine with a cackle. 

“I guess you’re right.”

“You KNOW I’m right about that shit,” she said. “Anyway, I gotta joan jett muh ass over to Bumpy’s Clown Room and get undressed in the manager’s office, maybe take his rock hard four inches in muh mouth…”

Detective Oroborus shook his head again and did the sign of the cross.

Manager’s Office, Bumpy’s Clown Room

“That was fucking amazing,” said Bumpy the Clown.

Kandy was still bobbing up and down on his knob, mesmerized, making satisfied animal gurgles and grunting sounds.

“I, um…I finished, Sweepea.”

“Sweepea?”

“That is your name, right?”

“Mrrrggglbbb…lurme gert berk toya…” 

“Ok, but I’m really good, Sweepea. You got the job, honey. You start this Monday. I’m giving you Crystal Kaleta’s job.”

“Mrrrrrrgllllbbbbbrr..”

“Right, so… I kinda need to get back to work? If you could just fill out these I9 forms and sign here, and here, and here…” Bumpy slid the papers into Kandy’s hands.

“Oh maaaaan,” said Kandy, protesting as Bumpy carefully pulled his pud from between her jaws. She stood up, wiped slime from her cheeks, sat down opposite to Bumpy’s desk, chewed her lip, frowned and said…”Man, I hate doing forms. If I give you another beejer, d’ya think you might?”

“Yes, yes,” said Bumpy. “But not now. I need to interview the next girl.”

“Fair enough,” said Kandy. “You satisfied muh appetite for cream atm, but I’ll be back.”

“I kind of figured you would say that,” said Bumpy.

*** 

Kandy’s first night as an undercover stripper went by without any unusual incidents, aside from her usual penchant for wild erotic horseplay. But the club was so sleazy that this went unnoticed for the most part. One customer, a man in a tall black hat, seemed particularly attentive. When Kandy got off her shift, he approached her.”

“Say, I like your style, lady,” he said with a Texas drawl. “Buy you a drink?”

“Well darlin,’ said Kandy, “You know the house rules are that we ain’t supposed to date customers.”

“I’m sorry, Sweepea. I respect the hell outta ya, ya know. I’ll just walk away, no worries, you didn’t hear this from me.”

“Fucktard,” said a voice from behind them.

Kandy and the tall black hat whirled around to be confronted by a rangy young man with corded muscles and black and white tattoos for days. A fire burned in his eyes and he let out a terrible raw energy. 

“Leave Sweepea alone if you know what’s good for ya,” said the man.

“Wow, I like your energy,” Kandy said.

The man smiled, a great big overbroad smile with more than a glimmer of psycho.

“I like your energy,” he said. “Do you know that song ‘Tom Sawyer’ by Rush?'”

“Hells yeah, of course I know that song. Everybody knows that song. That’s a stripper song for sure.” Kandy began to swivel her hips and press against the man as she did so. He pulled away.

“No, no, no, no,” he said. “You’ve gone and spoiled it.'”

“No, I have done nothing of the sort. I’m Today’s Tom Sawyer, and I get high on you.”

The man turned around and stalked away. Kandy pursued him.

***

That night saw Kandy brutally fucked in al the ways she liked it…tied down, whipped, gagged, slapped, dominated to her heart’s content till the cream oozed. She could tell this one had to maintain control at all times. 

Halfway through the session, while she was tied to an x-cross, she began to feel a weird energy pass between them. 

A vortex was opening up. A portal in time and space.

She recognized this portal as something she had studied in Astrophysics at Brown before she began upon the course of action that led inexorably towards her becoming a slutty detective. 

The man swatted his own cheek as though a gnat had bit him.

“What the fuck,” he growled. “Felt like an insect bite, but there’s no insect….”

Within seconds he was swatting across his neck and arms. 

Kandy groaned and drooled through the gag.

“Oh yeah, shit, I gotta let you go,” he said. He unbuckled the straps and unfastened the ball gag, releasing her. 

Kandy wiped the drool away with the back of her hand. “You must be a sadist, or you wouldn’t have done that. Shit, I was just getting going.”

He motioned with one hand, then yelled: “Go, bitch, you’re bad fucking news.”

“Suit yourself,” said Kandy. 

***

Kandy’s stripping performances grew in intensity and even menace. An arts critic came to the club and wrote an essay comparing her act to Antonin Artaud’s Theater of Cruelty. She began employing sound effects and large puppets that she manipulated from a complex board she set up above the stage. She invited men to come up on the stage with her; she would shout at them and make crazed, freaky animal faces. One customer shat himself with fear. While some art punks began attending her shows and taking notes, most of the usual customers began to frequent the club across town. 

Bumpy called Kandy into his office.

“Listen, Sweepea, we’re going to have to have a little talk,” he began, but Kandy raised a hand.

“I know what you’re going to say, and believe me, I have considered, you know, more and gaudier, even sleazier puppets in the act, and suchlike shenans,” said Kandy. “The thing of it is, and I believe this is literally a law of physics, the more puppets you have…”

“Listen, lady,” Bumpy cut her off. “I like you a lot, and believe me, it pains me more than you would think to say this, but this particular business relationship is not working out. It’s just not. I’m afraid I’ll just have to let you go.”

“Really,” said Kandy. She was wearing nothing but strategically placed black tape and mirror shades.

“Really,” said Bumpy. “I’ve run this club for the past 30 years, and before that, my dad ran it, and…”

“You look like you’re about to cry or some crazy shit,” Kandy said in exasperated tones.

“M-maybe I am.”

“Ok, well, what you have to realize is that…I love this job. I really fucking love it. In fact, I think I will continue on as your best, hottest, sexiest stripper, and you will give me a raise…” she looked hard at him.

“There’s no raise, lady, you’re out of your mind. Now get your things and split.”

“No.”

With that, she pulled out her service revolver from her purse and shot him in the head. His skull exploded, splashing his brains against the wall. He slumped over, vomiting blood, and finally landed at her feet.

She gave his head an experimental kick. She was feeling…she couldn’t quite put her finger on the sensation, but she had the sudden image of boiling yeast, and insects under her skin, and growing wings. A strange energy began to course through her veins. She found herself kneeling down and lapping at the spilled blood the way a cat laps a saucer of milk.

I like the way this feels, she thought. I’m going to be a stripper and a killer and a detective. Maybe I’ll commit more crimes and…investigate myself in a kind of mis-en-abyme deal. 

Is the world ready for the first stripper/killer/self-investigator/hall of mirrors infinitely recursive slutty detective?

Perhaps. 

Perhaps not.

THEE ENT…or is it?

My Dinner with Adriana

The life of a serial killer is tough. It’s not as easy as some people think. The work requires months of meticulous study, crafting each act with precision, only to find that no one gets to appreciate your artistry.

To maintain appearances, you must suppress primal impulses and undertake mind-numbing jobs. I became a night porter, which affords me plenty of free time to attend to the duties of my trade.

Today, I rose early to make a critical, anonymous phone call before disposing of pieces of Uberto. Afterwards, I swung by the hardware shop for supplies. So little time, and so much to do.

I’ve lived in cities all my life, always watching from the shadows. When I was ten, I realised how people lie, how they wear masks, how their eyes never line up with their words. That’s when I discovered the streets are empty, even when they’re overflowing with bodies. People are hollow, consumed by their self-importance, and indifferent to the suffering of others. There’s something revolting about how they scurry through life, trampling over one another, locked in their delusions. Even amid crowds, they remain alone.

Now, at thirty-six, all I dream about is killing.

It was two in the afternoon, and all I wanted to do was go home and watch a homemade movie with a cup of hot chocolate. But instead, I had a date. I met Adriana online last week. She’s younger than me, which works in my favour. Less experience. Less… suspicion. We’d arranged to meet for lunch at Perro Rojo. It’s quiet.

It’s perfect.

I took an extra-long look at myself in the mirror this morning. I dress like a typical tourist: khaki shorts, a loose shirt, sandals, and a rucksack slung over one shoulder. Nothing out of the ordinary. Average height, average weight. Clean-shaven. I could be anyone. That’s the trick, though.

I arrive first. The restaurant is empty. Dark tables bathed in low light. A waiter, lean and pale, greets me with a stiff smile and gestures to a booth at the back.

I sit facing the door, positioning my rucksack beside me on the bench. The weight of it is comforting.

Adriana arrives. Late. She’s not as pretty as her pictures. Her photos promised sharp cheekbones like a model’s, but in person, her face is rounder. I can’t decide whether I’m disappointed or relieved. There’s an air of dishonesty, as if she’s crafted an image to be like everyone else. She’s wearing a bohemian-style white dress, and a large crystal pendant dangles between her breasts. She walks with effortless confidence. Too many dates to count.

I stand as she approaches, smiling with the right mix of warmth and detachment.

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Energy work ran over. Client had a major blockage.’

She slides into the seat opposite me.

‘I understand,’ I say. ‘I know how it is when the universe refuses to align.’

She smiles.

The waiter appears and pours water.

Adriana raises a hand. ‘What are the vegan options?’

The waiter smiles. ‘Uh, the roasted vegetables and the quinoa salad are vegan.’

‘That’s it?’ Adriana stares at him, as if he confessed to a crime.

The waiter nods.

‘Quinoa salad,’ she says, as though it’s some moral victory.

‘I’ll have the steak,’ I say.

Adriana narrows her eyes. ‘You eat meat?’

‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘I know it’s not great, but—’

‘It’s unethical, don’t you think? Animals are sentient beings, and we’re all connected. It’s inhumane.’

‘You’re right. I’m not proud of it. But—’

‘That’s… human of you. The universe doesn’t want us to live in such a violent way.’

I smile, but I don’t believe her. I don’t need to. She thinks peace comes from a crystal. Mine comes from watching the life drain from someone’s eyes.

‘That’s why I connect with veganism. It transcends the material world.’

I nod, knowing the real reason I eat meat. There’s dominion in consuming another living being. And I’m not blind to the fact that I, too, am a living being. One day, I’ll be a box of flesh and bone, devoured in turn. There’s a beauty in that symmetry. A balance.

But I don’t say that out loud.

Adriana prattles on about her holistic lifestyle and how she’s healing the world one plant-based meal at a time. Her words are smooth and confident, but something flutters behind her calm façade. It’s an effort to convince herself as much as me.

I nod along. She talks about crystals and their power to channel energy. Her fingers grip the pendant. I can’t help but notice the tension in her shoulders, as though her words are a performance she’s been perfecting for years.

The waiter arrives with our food.

Adriana digs into her quinoa salad with a self-satisfied smile, while I cut into my steak.

I savour the first bite.

‘So,’ she says, ‘what made you try online dating?’

‘The usual,’ I say. ‘Busy schedule.’

A moment of silence passes.

‘Oh, no one’s aligned anymore.’

I sip my wine. ‘Frustrating,’ I say.

She nods. ‘God, yes. My ex? He was so toxic. He didn’t understand my work at all. I tried to cleanse his aura, but he suffered from emotional constipation. Complete narcissist.’

I fight the urge to smile.

The irony’s suffocating.

Adriana twirls the stem of her wine glass between her fingers, studying me.

‘You have an interesting energy.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah.’ She squints. ‘There’s something dark and mysterious about you. Have you ever done shadow work?’

‘Every day,’ I say.

‘That’s so important. Many men struggle with emotional maturity. They don’t even try to evolve.’ She sighs, shaking her head. ‘I’ve been on so many bad dates, I should get a medal. Like, this guy Uberto? Ugh.’

I almost choke on my drink.

Adriana doesn’t notice. She rolls her eyes. ‘He was so low-vibration. Obsessed with cryptocurrency. Plus, the pig never called me back.’

I grip the rucksack’s strap. Uberto. A breath escapes me, and I fight the urge to look inside. He’s still in there, waiting.

Then it hits me. How absurd it all is. How random. The universe, in its cruel humour, ties us together in ways we can’t anticipate.

I turn my focus to her hands as she speaks. Soft. Unscarred.

She’s never cleaned up anything messy.

She grimaces at the memory of Uberto. I swallow my laugh.

If only she knew.

‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘some men are terrible.’

‘Right?’ She smiles, leaning in. ‘It’s exhausting. You want to meet someone evolved, you know?’

I sip my wine and think about the animal I’m eating. The guilt slips away. It isn’t about the animal, is it? It’s about control, about power. And power is so delicious.

Adriana excuses herself to the bathroom. I watch her go, then exhale.

She speaks to me with a warmth I cannot comprehend. Part of me wants to understand her. Part of me wants to break her. To force her to see the emptiness I do.

I unzip my rucksack a few inches. The scent slithers out, coppery, sweet, decay.

Inside, Uberto stares back at me, mouth agape, as if insulted.

I scratch the line of dried semen from his eyelid and zip the bag shut.

When Adriana returns, she stops short of the table. ‘Do you smell that?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘The waiter brought cheese. I sent it away.’

She studies me for a moment, then sits back down.

We continue talking.

She laughs. We finish our meals.

‘You know,’ Adriana says, ‘this is nice. A normal date for once.’

I match her smile. ‘Yes. Normal.’

The word sticks in my throat. Normal. Is it this banal dance of words and fake smiles or the darker currents beneath the surface? The things we don’t speak of, the things that pull at us even as we pretend they don’t?

The city hums outside, indifferent to the dramas unfolding within it.

I picture her head in the bag. How her skin will tear when my mask of patience slips.

The thought excites me, but only for a moment.

A part of me doesn’t want to see her again. A part of me wants to see that flicker of recognition. The moment she realises what I am.

She looks at me, fingers clutching her crystal pendant.

‘You have an unusual energy,’ she says.

My grip tightens on the rucksack. ‘Oh?’

‘Yeah. Like you’re standing on the edge of something. Like you’re about to make a decision.’

The candle flickers.

Does she see me? What’s beneath the mask?

I could end this now. Let her walk away, never knowing how close she came.

She leans in. ‘You should go for it,’ she says. ‘Don’t hold back. The universe rewards those who chase their dreams.’

She reaches for her empty glass. Our eyes meet.

I blow out the candle.

The world holds its breath.

And in the near darkness, I decide.

Digital Dreams in Euphoria: A Fucked-Up Fairy Tale 

In the techno-mystic realm of Euphoria, Queen Cherrypop lounged on her crystalline throne, her neural interface crackling with static as data streams flowed through the kingdom’s quantum networks. The palace walls shimmered with holographic representations of her past battles with the notorious Baroness Cuntingham each pixel encoding the power struggles that had shaped their realm.

Co-Queen Silver materialized beside her, their shared consciousness intertwining through Euphoria’s bioelectric grid. The kingdom had evolved since the days of simple fairy tale magic, now existing in a space where ancient spells merged with cutting-edge technology. Together, they monitored the realm’s vital signs through their enhanced neural networks, watching as the streets below pulsed with neon dreams and digital desires.

“The old powers are stirring again,” Cherrypop whispered, her voice carrying the weight of both organic and synthetic wisdom. She remembered her earlier days as a naive princess before the great technological awakening had transformed their realm into a hybrid of magic and machine. The goddess Twatzapooner’s essence had been uploaded to the kingdom’s mainframe, becoming an AI guardian that watched over their digital domain with algorithmic precision.

A warning flashed across their shared consciousness – unauthorized access in the Dark Forest’s data core. The forest had become a maze of fiber optic cables and quantum entangled trees, where digital predators lurked in the shadows of corrupted code.

“Something’s different this time,” Silver observed, her chrome-enhanced fingers dancing through streams of data. “It feels like… Cuntingham, but evolved.”

In the end, it wasn’t just about power anymore, it was about evolution. As Queens of a kingdom where fairy tale magic had merged with high technology, Cherrypop and Silver understood that their real strength lay not in dominance, but in adaptation. The juxtaposition of technology and humanity had become their greatest weapon against the darkness that threatened their digital domain.

They rose together, their forms flickering between flesh and light, ready to face whatever new horror had emerged from the synthesis of old magic and new tech. In Euphoria, even fairy tales had to upgrade their operating systems.

Life Happens

Six hours after I delivered the valedictorian speech at my high school graduation ceremony in the Trinity School gymnasium, I fucked a transvestite prostitute in an alley off the corner of 44th & 10th. I didn’t know “Stevie” was a dude. For one, he had the same name as the unquestionably female lead singer of Fleetwood Mac (who had an ubermasculine boyfriend named Lindsey). I was also kinda buzzed after knocking back a bottle of Old Grand-Dad washed down by a sixer of PBR tallboys. But the warning signs were there. Stevie had an unusually deep voice … a disproportionately large adam’s apple … knew the name and alma mater of each of the Jets draft picks … and my best friend Simon’s mom told me that my dick tasted like ass after she blew me the next day at his graduation brunch in East Hampton. 

But gender and sexuality issues aside, I knew that Stevie wasn’t my type, and it would be a short-lived romance, when he wouldn’t shut the fuck up about urban renewal and gentrification driving up rents and pushing the working class out of Hell’s Kitchen while I was shredding him behind the dumpster. People shouldn’t have to listen to that annoying first-world petit bourgeois bullshit on a first date, especially on the night of their high school graduation. New Yorkers are so selfish, especially the poor ones.

I learned the truth about Stevie a few years later during my junior year at Georgetown when he showed up at my feminist theology class – disguised in a priest’s cassock and using the pseudonym “Father O’Finnegan” – claiming to be the professor. At least now I know where he mastered his M. Butterfly dick-tuck/butt-lube technique … and why he wouldn’t blow me.

During my gap year between undergrad and NYU Stern, I had a serious live-in girlfriend named Margaret who preferred to be called by her nickname, Peggy – which coincidentally was the same name as my eighth grade art teacher, who looked much better in thigh-high pleather boots and red lace panties (and sucked a better dick) than my Peggy.

Peggy ate with her mouth open and had atrocious table manners. It wasn’t until I took her to the free clinic for a pregnancy test that I found out she was a Peruvian Llama. I guess that’s why the test came back negative. 

But it wasn’t meant to be with us. Maybe because I could never figure out why “Peggy” was a nickname for “Margaret” – I guess it’s just one of those things in life that you’re supposed to accept and pretend to understand, like cryptocurrency or the electoral college or abstract art or the weekly New Yorker  fiction piece. It ended for good when Peggy got bounced from first class on our flight home to New York. Buh-bye, Peggy.

With my first Goldman Sachs paycheck, I bought a silicone sex doll customized into a combination of Posh Spice and Joan of Arc. Some nights I spoke French to her, some nights I spoke Cockney-accented English. Some nights I called her Joan Spice and we ate roasted lamb shanks and drank red wine and snuck into the basement laundry room and made love on the floor, watching ourselves reverently in the washing machine window reflection. Some nights I called her Posh D’Arc and beat the living bejesus fuck out of her. She didn’t complain as much as Stevie and Peggy, even when I snored and pissed the bed. She left me when I got passed over for a promotion.

My first night in prison after my securities fraud conviction, I shit myself to discourage the other cons from raping me. I had heard or read somewhere that’s what Ivan Boesky did, and he was a much better securities fraudster than I was. One of the guards laughed and told me that prisoners don’t rape each other in minimum security federal prison. When I asked him for a pair of clean pants and underwear, he winked and brought me a used, threadbare Smurfette costume. I had to give it back when I got paroled.

A few weeks ago, I met a nice girl named Carol at the coffee urn in the church basement at my Tuesday night meeting (I can’t remember for which group). She’s old as fuck like me – at least 43.  On our first date, she asked why someone with my education and experience was working as a dock hand. I said it was always my dream but life got in the way.

“Life happens,” she agreed.

I think Carol’s a keeper so long as she stops asking stupid questions.

Kandy Fontaine, Slutty Detective vs. Doctor Flesh

Detective Kandy Fontaine bit her cherry-burst red lip until the good krovy oozed. She felt something throb in her fire engine red 70s porno bush crotch that reminded her of the first time she’d been properly dominated; or was it the first time she’d masturbated to David Bowie doing the Jean Genie. At any rate there was something downright Baudelaire about the disgusting, grotesque, splayed open corpse that she and Detective Joe Orouboros were both dissecting with their eyes, the young blonde homicide victim whose blue eyes were fast fading out, while the corpse’s still-erect cock became permanently ensconced in her head-canon of necrophiliac fantasies. 

Detective Joe was meanwhile contemplating the words of Soren Kierkegaard in Fear and Trembling.

“Is it true, do you think…” he began, “that a, there is a universal such that the universal is ethical, is in fact the ethical, and as humans we are naturally bound to follow the ethical, to disclose ourselves to ourselves as the ethical qua qua qua…”

Kandy backhanded him across the choppers. “You’re harshing muh vibe, dickless. Now are you going to fuck me sideways into this here corpse while I get muh OG boombox here playing Bauhaus, solo Tara Vanflower, a bit of the old David J. Haskins solo, Jarboe, a bit of…”

“So that’s a masturbatory auto-fictional reference to Alex S. Johnson, isn’t it? His anthologies with all those hot Goth chicks in them. He’s been obsessed with hot Goths since he discovered Poppy Z. Brite in the early 90s. Kind of sad that he’s still popping one off to those back issues of Carpe Noctem…”

“Who said that?”

The two detectives found themselves mildly spooked by the sudden non-fleshly insertion of a voice from outside…delirious acid flashbacks to a vanilla ice cream sundae with lots of hot fudge…Johnson suddenly recalled that it was in fact Kandy who inserted her hot Johnson into the narrative…strapon autofiction overdrive…she pounds Detective Oroboros in the ass with a narrative dildo. He grunts from behind the ball-gag as she pushes his enormous erection into the corpse’s gushing asshole…

The scene shifts to the secret underground lab of Viola Flesh, who’s turned FBI informant after the events detailed in the full-length novel version of Doctor Flesh. Pandora’s boxes slopping over with fuckery erupt in her dark eyes. Her gender confirming surgery performed by herself with a little help from the revolutionary skin care product she’s designed that also flashmorphs bodies into forms suggested by their voluptuous masturbation fantasies. Is she Jean Genet writing herself beneath the stiff, fetid prison sheets into Divine, and thus Candy Darling? Only time will tell. She drops into Facebook video message mode with Kandy Fontaine who has now assumed the position, ass in the air, the one now wearing the firmly-secured ball gag which cuts cruelly between her Fuck Me Red lipsticked lips….which re-opens the lip wound a tad and there’s a momentary question of her choking on the bloody drool and phlegm as Orobourus reams her out, his full length plunging lubeless into her asshole and slamming her, still endowed with the strap-on, into the corpse…the corpse begins to twitch and perhaps switch-bitch feedback loops back into the couple making the beast with two backs…as Detective Orobouros still contemplates the works of the melancholy father of Existentialism, aroused beyond the measurable by seismograph sweet ache of his cock as he feels his load coming on…he’s seeping…deliberately stops, cools off, makes her beg for it behind the gag…Agent Johnson wonders if he’s gone too far this time…writing his reports in code…prey for rock and roll…undead, undead, undead…he rallies, feeling the pinch as nobody knows from one day to the next when, where and how they’ll all be shuttled into concentration camps…but therein lay material for further fetishistic voyages of the damned…slowly and with infinite skill he forces himself to a dead stop. She’s literally weeping tears of frustration now. “Hrrr crd yr drrrrr ths trrrr mmmmmmmm…” He’s so turned on that he needs to not be turned on by any means necessary, and obviously they’ve gone quite beyond the pale.

What did Kierkegaard mean by revisiting the story of Abraham and Isaac in dialectical terms? But he knew that when he’d picked up Fear and Trembling with intent this time, the intent to meet Kierkegaard on his own terms, there was no turning back…he’d have to do what he had to do, and if that meant going beyond transgression to the point that transgression itself became the eponymous worm orobouros around which the still world turned…twisting the night away…Doctor Flesh’s digits worked her surgically fabricated clit faster and faster and faster…she was oozing like a fountain…like a lake…panting furiously…”Bitch, are you just Jean Geneting my ass into your spank bank?” moaned Detective Fontaine softly in her ear…Dr. Flesh turned around and saw that Slutty Detective Kandy Fontaine had her surrounded with doppelgangers in cherry red tight-fitting vinyl…she was wearing kittie ears, had a whip and a faint tinge of formaldehyde…she sounded like Marlene Dietrich as she bit a piece of Viola’s ear off and swallowed…”I promise to be cruel, I know you want that more than anything…fuck Kierkegaard. Fuck Kant. Fuck Nietzsche. Fuck Sartre. Fuck ethics. Fuck the universe into a sweet ball of fuckery and let’s drive it past those cemetary gates…yes gratuitous Pantera reference…dreams of hot headlights, up-ended rumps on stained state-manufactured mattresses made by the living dead…the corpse has revived behind the multiple penetrations, turns out someone huffed datura powder into its nostrils…Kenneth Anger’s doppelganger, you’re wanted on the white emergency phone…” 

Kandy’s flashbulb orgasm detonates her into the stratosphere on defiant great chaingangs of Being and Nothingness…her entire body spasms over and over, he toes curl, she pulls at the tittay clamps…the boardroom erupts with cheers as Dr. Flesh concludes the PowerPoint presentation…the last slide flickers away down fractal corridors…a small bear on a unicycle wearing Daddy leather pursues her into the outer darkness…

THE END…OF THE BEGINNING

A Cute Triangle

Joel left college with a degree in drinking and fucking, and a secondary in hospitality.  He eventually found a job as a concierge at a downtown hotel.  This led him to an upscale duplex about 15 minutes from the hotel.  It was a nice place in close proximity to downtown.

Joel made several trips from a storage facility to his new residence as he moved in.  On the third trip, as he was taking items into his house, Joel noticed a very fit, shirtless man next door mowing the lawn.  The man waved, and Joel nodded as he continued moving items.  As Joel walked back outside for another load, the man had taken a break from cutting the grass and was drinking some water.

“Hey new neighbor,” the man said with enthusiasm.  “My name is Andy.” 

Joel walked over to introduce himself.  They talked for about an hour about both working downtown, the gym Andy went to, the local baseball team, vinyl records, jazz, whiskey, and cigars.

“Well, I have more boxes in the car, and you need to finish your yard.  It was nice meeting you.  We should get together sometimes.”

“For sure.  Hey.  Why don’t you come over tonight?  You can meet my wife, Erica, and we can continue this.  I haven’t had anyone to talk to that I actually get along with since college.  I have a stocked bar and cigars if that will help influence your decision.”

“Ha, you drive a hard bargain there Andy.  I think I will.  I haven’t had good whiskey in a while.  What time are you thinking?”

“Just come over whenever you want.  Mi casa es su casa now.  Shit, I should have said ahora.”

They both get a good laugh at that statement.

“It’s fine man.  I only know a little Spanish myself.  But yeah, that sounds good.  Looking forward to it.  I’ll see you then.”

After a few more trips, Joel finally got all of his boxes inside.  He set up his record player for music as he unpacked.  The first record he came to was John Coltrane’s ‘Lush Life’.  The horns spoke to him and brought on a peace.  He danced and moved his way around the room placing things here and there.  As he removed items from each box, he remembered the story associated with them.  This brought Joel a mental, as well as a  physical smile.  He pulled out pictures of his dead parents, and of lost loves and letters from them.  Snow globes from his grandmother were in there too.  He shook them and just stared as the horns blew.

There was a knock at the door.  Joel placed a snow globe of Jesus on the table and walked towards the door.  He looked out the window to see Andy patiently waiting.  He opened the door.  Immediately, Andy said,

“I thought you were coming over.”

“I was. I guess I got caught up in unpacking.  What time is it?”

“It’s nine o’clock man.  Are you going to unpack all night or are you going to live a little?”

“You’re right.”  I can do this shit any time.  Let’s go.”

Andy and Joel walked only 20 steps before reaching the other half of the duplex.

Upon entering, Joel heard jazz playing and that eased his nervous mind a bit.  It sounded like the experimental ‘Ascension’ album, but he couldn’t be certain.  He wasn’t a jazz expert but appreciated it nonetheless.  Andy held up the sleeve and asked if Coltrane was ok.  Joel nodded and said,

“It couldn’t be better my man.”

Joel thought of this as a sign of some sort.  Andy excused himself to the kitchen and returned with two Canadian glencairn glasses, distilled water, and a bottle of George T. Stagg bourbon.  Joel gazed upon the bottle with mammoth eyes, a dripping wet mouth, and with an almost reverent tone said,

“Holy shit Andy.  When you said good whiskey, I had no idea you were talking about that.”

“Hell, I figured it’s our first time drinking together so why not?  I have ass loads more in the bar, but this is one of the best I have at the moment.  Get on my real good side and I might just open that 20 year Pappy I’ve got.  It was a gift from the firm.  Haven’t had a good reason to justify opening that bastard yet.”

“I remember you telling me about your work, but that’s one hell of a gift.”

Andy peeled and uncorked the bottle, poured up two proper drams, and said,

“I make those cocksuckers millions of dollars, Joel.  That’s the least they can do.  I think I deserve a good blow job too.”

Andy laughed and Joel chuckled a bit as well.  

“Well shit, drink up.  Erica should be down shortly.  She’s taking a shower.  She can’t appreciate good bourbon.  We have wine for her.  Here’s to new friends.”

Joel smiled, nodded, clinked glasses with Andy, and put the brown nectar to his lips.  They talked more of Andy’s job while listening to Coltrane’s free jazz offering and sipping exquisite bourbon.  

“I don’t know how you listen to that shit,” said a female voice from behind Joel.

Joel turned to see Erica, an extremely sexy blonde, hair still wet, with hips made for birthing.  She was wearing tiny, tight, black shorts that accentuated said hips, with a sleeveless workout shirt that exposed her midriff and highlighted her modest breasts.

“It’s Coltrane babe.  You like some of his stuff. This is Joel.  He’s our new neighbor.  He’s going to be working downtown near me at The Victor.

“Nice to meet you Joel.  Excuse my appearance.  Someone didn’t tell me we were having company.”

“I told you I invited our new neighbor over.  You just weren’t listening.”

“Regardless.  Nice to meet you Joel.  Andy, do we have wine?  I don’t know how you two drink that shit either.”

“Yes babe, there’s Duckhorn in the decanter for you.”

Erica walked past Joel toward the kitchen to get the wine.  Joel then noticed the spectacular ass swaying past him with the slightest hint of cheek peeking out.  It was just enough to set Joel’s mind ablaze with raunchy thoughts.  Seemingly right on cue, Andy spoke up and said,

“Shit, Joel.  Let’s go out back for a cigar.  Padron good for you?”

“That’s more than good.  Damn Andy, you’re giving me the royal treatment tonight.”

“Hey, we’re friends now.  That’s what friends are for.  Am I right?

Andy got up and motioned for Joel to follow him.

“Bring your drink.  Come in the kitchen and talk to Erica.  I’ll go upstairs and get a few sticks.  I’ll be right back.  Be nice to him Erica.”

Joel chuckled and Erica gave a smirky smile as Andy exited the room.  She reached up into the cabinet to get a wine glass, poured a glass from the decanter, and swished it around in her glass while looking at Joel.  She said nothing as she made circles with her glass.  As the wine flowed slowly down the side of the glass, so did Erica’s eyes wander down Joel’s body.  Joel sensed this and became slightly uneasy. 

“How did you and Andy meet?”

Erica snorted a laugh, as if to say, I know you are uncomfortable now.  She took a long pull from the wine glass, looked at it in her hand, set the glass on the table, and said,

“Joel, you are an attractive guy.  Don’t be nervous.  There’s no need for that shit.  We’re not kids, so none of us have time to waste.”

“I’m not nervous. Of course I find you very sexy, but Andy’s right here.”

“I like that Joel. You can keep a secret.”

“That’s not what I mea…”

Andy returned singing some bullshit tune that was popular on the radio.  Erica lifted her glass, took a gargantuan gulp, and with slight attitude, said,

“I’m taking my wine to the hot tub.  You boys have fun together.”

With the cigars in hand, Andy made his way toward the back patio.  Joel followed close behind, still slightly unsettled from his previous encounter.  It was a slightly cool night, but far from cold.  Andy pulled out two seats from under a grandiose wooden table and they each took a seat.  They fired up the cigars, sipped top-shelf whiskey, and talked more of Andy’s work and working out.  There was an immediate connection that Joel felt with Andy, and he was more than thankful for the warm welcome he had received.  As Andy drained the last of his drink, he set his glass down and said,

“Be right back Joel.  Have to grab the bottle.”

As he got up, Erica appeared in the tiniest swimsuit Joel had ever seen.  It was basically strings that only covered her nipples and clit.  As Andy walked past her he could be heard murmuring something to the effect of,

“Jesus, Erica.  It’s his first night over.”

With a towel draped across her shoulder, she twirled around in front of Joel like she was on a photo shoot and said,

“You like my new swimsuit Joel?”

“It’s something alright,” said Joel, as he took down the rest of his drink.

Joel watched as Erica made her way toward the hot tub and slowly got in.  Andy returned with the bottle, poured each another, and said,

“Sorry about that.  I don’t want her to make you uncomfortable.  She can be a real handful sometimes.”

“I’m fine with it.  I mean, she’s attractive and all, but I don’t want you to be uncomfortable either.”

“Shit man, I’m used to it.  Drink up Joel.”

Joel drank up.  They continued shooting the shit like long lost buds finally reconnected after years apart.  Between sips of great whiskey and good conversation, Joel caught Erica’s eyes peering at him like a sex-crazed nymph.  Her head peeking up from the top of the hot tub like a predator laying in wait.  Joel attempted to not let Andy see him looking her way, but at times it was utterly impossible.  While talking with Andy about the latest equipment at his gym, or his unruly partners at the firm, Erica would make sounds from the hot tub, splashing about and laughing to herself.  The wine was really getting in her now, and Joel just couldn’t shake the thought of getting in her as well.  Then, as if on cue, Andy said to Joel,

“Sounds like she’s having a blast.  Want to get in?”

Joel wanted to get in, but he had just met these people.  He really had a connection with Andy and didn’t want to disrespect him by any means.  However, something in Andy’s eyes told Joel that it was okay, so Joel acknowledged that he wanted to get in. The liquor was flowing and they both seemed very open, so Joel didn’t see any harm in taking it just a little further.

“I could run next door and get a suit.”

“You wearing underwear?”

Joel acknowledged that he was. 

“Just wear them then. I’ll do the same.”

Joel and Andy put their cigars that were now nubs on the ashtray, took their drinks to the hot tub, and disrobed.  They both got in as Erica watched and said with an inebriated tone,

“Two men are always better than one.”

“Calm down, will you, Erica?” said Andy.

Erica calmed for a bit and just sat back and enjoyed her wine.  As a matter of fact, all three of them just sat back, looked up at the stars, enjoyed their buzz, and didn’t say much at all.  Soon, Joel felt Erica’s foot touching his and moving up his leg.  Joel looked toward her and smiled.  Andy seemed to know what was going on by Joel’s expression.  Erica’s foot almost reached Joel’s crotch, when he got up in a quick burst and said,

“I’ve had a real good time, but I think I need to go.  I’ve got so much to unpack and I have my orientation at the hotel tomorrow.   After I get settled in, I’ll have you two over for dinner or something.”

Joel got out of the hot tub and started drying off.  Andy got out as well, grabbed a towel and said,

“That sounds good man.  We would love that.  Wouldn’t we Erica?”

A condescending voice from the hot tub was heard,

“Sure would.  Can’t wait.  That’ll be a blast.”

Andy shot a look of disgust to Erica, turned to Joel and said,

“Don’t mind her.  She’s had a few too many…..BOTTLES!  I’ll walk you out.”

Joel spent most of the next day filling out mounds of paperwork, talking to HR via conference calls, and watching company videos.  Joel thought this job would be a piece of cake, and he really liked his new boss Simone. She would walk in on occasion, check on Joel, and get another video ready for him to watch on the computer.  When she would bend over to load another video onto the screen, Joel could not help but stare.  The bare, caramel legs rose from the earth and disappeared into a garden of absolute heaven.  Simone sensed his ogling and just turned her head and smiled at him.  Joel smiled back sheepishly and a little embarrassed.  Simone said,

“Oh, you’re blushing.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes you are Joel.  I know you were checking me out, hun.”

“I’m sorry.  I was looking at your legs.  I can’t lie.”

“That’s quite alright.  I’m proud of these legs.  You know how many squats and deadlifts I have to do at the gym for these legs and this ass?”

“A shitload I bet.”

“Yes, Joel.  A fucking shitload.”

They both laughed, and the tension was eased.  Joel finished his orientation without making a complete ass out of himself, or catching a rape charge.  It was a good first day.  He said his goodbyes to Simone and the few workers that remained.  Joel had to return to his mountain of boxes and get a little bit of unpacking done.

Upon arriving at his place, Joel put on an album by Thelonious Monk with John Coltrane.  These were two of his favorite artists, so it only made sense that this was one of his favorite albums.  Joel felt a little ahead of his time, yet stuck in the past as well.  People his age just didn’t listen to jazz.  They were stuck on the latest pop-drivel, sub-normal, feces played on the top 40 stations day after day.  He enjoyed some old blues and early conscious hip hop, but jazz was the sound that put him where he needed to be.  It soothed him.  It challenged him.  It gave him a purpose and a reason to enjoy existing.  He found that he could get lost in the sound.  He had already unpacked seven boxes when there was a hectic rapping at the door.  He opened the door to see Erica standing there.

“I’m so sorry to bother you.  I see that you are busy, but I just wanted to apologize for the way I acted last night.” 

“Hell, it’s ok.  I had a blast.  I did.”

“The wine got to me and I acted totally inappropriate.  Please forgive me.”

“No harm no fail.  You’re good.  Believe me.  You’re good.”

“Good.  That takes a load off.  Andy was bitching at me the whole night saying that I blew it with the new neighbor, and that I can’t handle my liquor.”

Joel took a second to take the conversation in and said,

“I think we all had a good bit.  No worries.  I just needed to get back home.”

“Well that makes me feel better.  I don’t want to seem like a complete whore.”

Erica smiled seductively at Joel and said,

“Just a very selective female that can be a whore with the right person.”

Erica started laughing awkwardly. Joel followed suit and said,

“Should I open up a bottle of wine then?”

“That sounds good, but I have to get back home and get ready.  Andy and I are meeting an executive from his firm tonight for dinner at Landgua.”

“Isn’t that the fancy place with the big breasted angel over the door?”

“Yep, that’s it.  I have to get all dolled up for the old fart.  I’m the trophy wife.”

“I believe you’re more than that.”

“I am, but in this instance, that’s the role that I have to play.  Andy is up for another goddamn promotion. He lives at that fucking place, and sometimes I think that it’s more important than me.”

“I’m sure he adores you.  He just wants to provide for you.”

“Maybe.  Well, I’ll take a raincheck on that wine, babe.  I’d better go.”

Erica leaned in, put her hand on Joel’s chest, gently kissed him on the cheek, turned, and walked next door.  As she walked Joel couldn’t help but look at her meaty behind swaying with every stride.  He knew that she knew, and that was just fine with him.  Joel shut the door, opened a bottle of wine anyway, and relaxed on the couch.

Joel was awakened by a door slamming and the sounds of squabbling.  It was Erica and Andy, back from dinner.  He couldn’t make out everything that was being said, but he could hear some of the more uproarious moments loud and clear.

“You’re a goddamn whore Erica!  Getting drunk like that at my fucking promotion meeting.  With Howard?  How fucking dare you!  And rubbing on the goddamn waiter like that!”

Joel was now intrigued.  He moved closer to the wall in the area where they were so he could hear a little better.  This was better than soap operas, he thought.

“Oh, fuck Howard!  He was eating it up.  He enjoyed the show Andy.  He couldn’t stop looking at my tits and legs all night.  If you’d not been there, he would’ve tried to fuck me, and you know it.  You’ll get your beloved fucking promotion!  I know that’s all you care about anyway.”

“Be quiet Erica.  We have a neighbor now.”

“You be fucking quiet.  You’re yelling too.  Maybe Joel needs to hear this shit.  Maybe he needs to realize that we’re not the happy fucking neighbors he thinks.”

“Fuck this shit Erica.  I’m going to bed.”

Then there was silence.  The show was over.  Joel decided he needed to go to bed too.  He took a shower, brushed his teeth and layed down.  He had a big day tomorrow.  It was his first official day as concierge trainee at work, plus he was going to get to see beautiful Simone and her magnificent legs again.

Just as Joel was about asleep, there was a light knock at the door.  He got up, put some shorts on, and went to the door.  When he opened the door Andy was standing there slightly swaying with a big grin on his face.

“Hey man, I don’t know how much you heard over there, but I’m sorry.”

“I’ve been asleep.  I haven’t heard anything.”

“Okay.  Shit. Well that’s good.” Andy paused, then continued,

“Ummm, do you want to work out tomorrow after we get off?  I can have two guests on my account if you are interested.”

“Sure, that’ll be great.  You leave the firm at five, right?”

“Yeah.  I can meet you in front of Total Package on 5th, at about say… 5:15?

“For sure.  That sounds good.  Look forward to it.”

“Again, man.  I’m sorry if you heard anything.”

“You’re good my man.  I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”

Just as Joel was drifting to sleep, something awakened him again.  It was Erica and Andy fucking.  It sounded to Joel as if they were in the same room.  The duplex they lived in was extremely posh, but the walls seemed abnormally thin with all of the night’s festivities.  Joel tried to ignore the sounds of carnal lust and go to sleep, but it was getting harder to do so.  Erica’s moaning and the thumping of the bedposts against the wall put Joel into a sexual frenzy.  As Andy worked over Erica, Joel worked himself.  He couldn’t shake the thought of being with both of them.  Things eventually calmed on both sides of the walls and sleep was achieved by all.

Joel woke up late for his first official day at the hotel.  He arrived approximately forty minutes later than he was scheduled.  Simone was not the same flirty woman that he had met yesterday.  There was no mistaking that she was beyond pissed.

“Where the fuck have you been, Joel?  You’re almost an hour late.”

“I know.  It was a crazy night, Simone.  I had a hard time getting to sleep.”

“That’s no excuse.  This hotel is taking a big fucking chance on you.  You can’t play into the powers-that-be’s stereotypes, Joel.  They think they’re doing you a favor by hiring you, when in all actuality they want you to fail just to strengthen their predetermined mindsets.  Do you understand?  For us, that is unacceptable.  Jesus.”

“I know Simone.  I’m sorry.  It won’t happen again.  I promise.”

“For your sake, let’s hope not.”

For the rest of the day Joel was a model employee.  He followed Simone around learning the nuances of The Victor.  He greeted guests, helped with reservations at nearby restaurants, and even carried a bag or two.  Simone was impressed by his desire to do a good job, even though he’d started off on the wrong foot.

“Other than the rough start, you did really well today, Joel.”

“Thanks.  I want to succeed here.”

“Well keep it up.  Do you want to hit up happy hour with a few of us?”

“I’d love to but I have to meet a friend at the gym.”

“Okay, I’ll let you slide this time.  Get to work on time from now on.”

“Will do ma’am.” 

Joel walked a few blocks to Total Package, where he saw Andy.

“Hey Joel.  Are you ready to hit it man?

“I am.”

The two of them worked out gruelingly for well over an hour.  Both Joel and Andy were weak, tired, and pouring sweat.  Andy walked Joel around the entire complex showing him where everything was.  He showed him the sauna, the pool, the smoothie bar, where to get massages, and the showers.  When they were done with the tour, Andy said,

“Well that’s about it.  Pretty nice huh?”

“It is.  I like this place a lot, Andy.”

“Well I usually take a shower before I leave, but if you need to get back and do more unpacking you can head out if you want.”

“I think I need a shower actually.” 

“Yeah, we did go pretty hard.  I am impressed at your strength, Joel.”

“You’re not too shabby yourself.”

They both grabbed their bags and headed toward the showers.  Joel didn’t hesitate undressing in front of Andy and getting under the shower head.  Andy was a little bit hesitant in getting naked in front of Joel, but eventually did, but kept his back to him for the majority of the time.  They finished their showers, dried, and got dressed in fresh clothes.  Andy suggested that they go to the whiskey bar down the street for a drink, and Joel enthusiastically agreed. 

They walked into the bar and got a corner booth.  A scantily-clad, large-breasted, blonde waitress approached the table with a cigar and whiskey menu.  Both Joel and Andy smiled like horny middle school kids and took the menu.  She smiled back and sauntered off.  Joel, looking over the menu, said,

“Jesus.  They think their shit is gold, heh?”

“Yeah, you are paying big-city, upscale bar prices here.  But it’s fine.  Get what you want Joel, I got you.”

“You don’t have to do that man.”

“I insist.  Get what you want.  I got you.”

Joel looked over the menu and got what he wanted.  As a matter of fact, both of them got what they wanted, and more than they needed.  Six to eight whiskies and one Churchill each later, they were both more than tipsy.  Andy slightly slurred, said,

“My man.  I saw you in the shower, and you are fucking packing.  You should have stayed the other night.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, come on man.  We’re adults.  You get the idea, huh?  Erica likes a little extra.  More than I can give her.  I could tell she wanted you.  What gives?”

“Well that was the first night we hung out.”

“I understand.  I can respect that.  It’s just not our first rodeo, you know?”

“You two swing regularly?”

“I wouldn’t say regularly.  As a matter of fact, we haven’t in quite some time.  We like to have regulars that we click with, and we haven’t had that in a while.  I guess that’s why Erica is fiending for it so bad right now.”

“She does seem like a free spirit.”

“Yeah.  I guess you can call it that.  Come on man, let’s get out of here.”

During the next week, Joel was finally able to get everything unpacked and put away.  Him and Andy worked out at the gym three of those evenings after work.  They made plans for Erica and Andy to come over to Joel’s for dinner and drinks Friday night.  Joel was killing it at work.  Simone started flirting a little more, and he went out for drinks with her and a few others from work one night.  Joel didn’t really want to start anything up with Simone.  He thought she was attractive, and he definitely wanted to fuck her, but enjoyed his new job and didn’t want to jeopardize that.  Plus, he had a feeling that he was about to be the third wheel in an already existing relationship, and needed to save his strength.  After work on Friday, Joel went to the store to get some things he needed for dinner.  He wanted to make a good impression on his new neighbors.  He knew that they were used to fine dining and didn’t want to seem uncultured to them. 

Joel planned a dinner of almond and panko crusted salmon with mushroom risotto and sauteed garlic green beans.  He had two bottles of $20 red wine on stand-by as well, even though Andy said that he was going to bring a bottle of bourbon.  Joel had an idea that things could turn sexual, so he popped a little enhancement in pill form and continued with the meal preparation.  Just as he put the green beans on the stove to cook, there was a knock at the door.  Joel thought, here goes nothing, and answered.

“Welcome neighbors.  Come on in.  Make yourselves at home.  It looks a little better than it did a week ago.”

Erica was first to enter and kissed Joel on the cheek and said,

  “It looks gorgeous.  You’ve done amazing things with this place.”

“Thanks.  I wanted it to be in some kind of order when you two arrived.”

“Well, it is.  Shit, something smells good.  What is that fish?”  asked Erica.

“It is.  It’s salmon.  It shouldn’t be too much longer.”

Andy pushed in with a bulldozing presence and oppressive tone and said,

“Check it out Joel.”

Andy showed a bottle of Blanton’s and smiled.

“I’ve had this awhile.  It’s not the most expensive that I have, but it’s hard as fuck to find.  Been waiting on a good time to open this little fucker.”

Joel was intrigued by this little bottle.  He had heard of Blanton’s, but never had the opportunity to try it.  He stared at the little horse on top and fell in love with it instantly.  Dinner went swimmingly, and Joel got all the praise that he was entitled to.

“That meal was fucking epic, Joel,” touted Andy.

“I’m definitely impressed.   The combination of flavors were exquisite,” added Erica.

“Thanks, I’m glad you both enjoyed it.”

Andy took the last gulp of red and said,

“This wine was an awesome pairing too, but I think we should kick it up a notch.”

Andy opened the bottle of Blanton’s as Joel and Erica took the plates to the kitchen.  

“I’ll grab some glasses while I’m in here,” said Joel.

Erica smiled at Joel as they were walking and said,

“I think I’ll have a little whiskey with you two tonight.”

“Oh yeah.  I’ve heard Blanton’s is pretty good.”

“I’m more interested in how good you are,” Erica confessed.

Erica smiled sheepishly and Joel returned the favor.  He looked over the specimen of sex.  Erica was wearing a summer dress that seemed shorter than the average.  As she put dishes in the dishwasher, he got a view of that bulbous tanned ass, and thought the most gutterous thoughts imaginable.

The three of them drank bourbon and listened to numerous selections from Joel’s vinyl records.  Each of them picked an album out to enjoy.  Joel chose a Miles Davis record, Andy decided on Charles Mingus, and Erica picked Prince.  Erica was positioned across from Joel, and at times he got a view of no panties as she crossed and uncrossed her legs.  As ‘Darling Nikki’ played, her smile and stares were just as seductive, as she noticed Joel’s eyes upon her.  Andy suggested that they go next door and get in the hot tub.  Joel and Erica were ecstatic to hear such an idea, and agreed wholeheartedly upon the suggestion.

The three of them walked next door, laughing and galavanting.  They all three stripped naked and got into the hot tub.  Joel was a little more at ease this time.  Andy poured everyone another round as Erica snuggled up to Joel.  Andy handed everyone their drinks and moved to the other side of Erica.  

“We need some music,” Erica said, as she looked at Andy.

On cue, Andy agreed and got out to get a bluetooth speaker from inside the house.

“I want all of you tonight.  I want both of you.  Is that okay with you?” Erica asked Joel.

Joel took a big swallow of brown fluid and said,

“Fuck yes.  I like both of you very much.”

Erica gripped his cock and started to kiss his neck when Andy spoke up,

“What do you want to hear?”

Erica half annoyed by the question said,

“You pick Andy.  Shit.”

Andy picked a continuous mix of a chill EDM session from a streaming site. 

Joel looked at Andy as if for approval for what was now happening and said,

“Sounds fine to me.”

Andy got back into the hot tub and Erica told Joel to sit on the side of the hot tub, and he obliged.  She took his cock into her mouth and Andy got behind her and began fucking her.  She grunted, she moaned, but her eyes were constantly making eye contact with Joel as she deepthroated him, licked up and down his shaft, and sucked and kissed his balls.  Joel was having the time of his life. He was getting his cock sucked by this goddess of lust, and watching his new friend pump her mercilessly. This continued for several minutes until Erica took Joel’s cock out of her mouth just enough to mumble,

“Let’s go to the bedroom.”

Both acknowledged the statement and with action, agreed.  The three of them got out, dried a bit, and scurried into the house.  Once in the bedroom, they continued where they left off.  Erica layed Joel on the bed and began sucking him as Andy fucked her from behind. 

Joel opened his eyes and lifted his head to take the scene in once more and acknowledged,

“You two are so sexy.  I’m loving this.”

Erica smiled a devious grin and said to Joel,

“Now you get behind.”

Joel didn’t waste any time basically tagging out with Andy. He stood, got behind her as Andy laid down, gave a light lick to Erica’s ass, and inserted deep inside her.  Erica moaned with animalistic pleasure.  She was getting her ‘new dick’. New dick that this nymph needed and craved. 

It had been ages since Erica and Andy invited another into their bedroom.  This time was special for Erica. It was someone she actually wanted to fuck.  It wasn’t the typical lame-ass boss, coworker, or salesman that Andy brought around.  No, this was a stranger, with looks, a meaty dick, and personality, that she vibed with.

The fucking and sucking continued in a multitude of positions until Erica told them both to lay back.  She took one after the other in her mouth, each stroke deeper than the next, until Andy blew his load in her mouth. Erica gobbled what she thought of the appetizer down, then turned her attention to Joel. She went deeper and slower with Joel.  Her head bobbed, her eyes stared, and her tongue swirled.  She toyed with his ass a bit to gauge his acceptance.  When Joel lifted and arched, she inserted two fingers inside his ass.  Joel moaned, and excreted a viscous, milky load into her throat.  Erica took it down like grandma’s pistachio pudding, relishing every drop, until nothing was left. 

The three of them laid in a sexual satisfied state of bliss listening to deep house for about a half hour.  Erica got up to shower and Andy asked,

“Get you a drink?”

Joel still comatosed from the sex session of a lifetime said,

“Yeah, my man.  I think I need one.”

Joel watched Andy get up from the bed.  He noticed the tight glutes and massive thighs that had been gained at the gym.  He observed the six pack of abs and the broad shoulders as well.  Joel longed for that physique.

Andy returned with a couple of bourbons. 

“This is not that rare but it’s one of my favorites.  It’s Rare Breed by Wild Turkey.  It’s barrel proof, so the alcohol content is greater, but it’s smooth as shit.  I call it man candy.”

Joel took a sip and exalted,

“I do like man candy.”

“It’s good right?”

“It is.”

Erica emerged from the shower naked and glistening and said,

“I had a fucking blast boys. My girlfriend, Jamie, is getting some ecstasy pills this week. I think we should all take some. What do you say?”

Joel and Andy both agreed and Joel said, “I’ll open that bottle of Pappy for the comedown.” Erica smiled, and melted between the two of them. 

Unfortunately, the ecstasy pills were laced with Fentanyl and all three died in the hot tub that weekend. They weren’t found for another two whole days. Boiled, purple and mushy, with deep house still playing. 

Boiled to a soundtrack. 

In the Midst of the Garden

And out of the ground made the Lord God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil.

— Genesis 2:9 King James Version

‘Have some,’ said the billionaire, laughed. Perfect white teeth. Face dead drained of color. ‘Not what you expected?’ he said. ‘Pizza on a Gulfstream. Probably expected caviar or something,’ he said. ‘Champagne. Salmon terrines. Things like that.’

‘You never have nice things on the Stream,’ said the attorney, leaned back on soft leather, steepled his fingers. ‘No surprise there.’

‘You should try it,’ insisted the billionaire. ‘Flown all the way from Naples. Some fancy pizzeria. Blasted in the microwave,’ he giggled.

‘An insult to Italian cuisine, no doubt,’ said the attorney. He smiled, but his eyes did not follow suit. His mind was elsewhere.

‘You like the plane?’ asked the billionaire.

‘It’s fantastic,’ said the attorney. ‘You ask me each time we fly on it,’ he said.

‘I know,’ said the billionaire. ‘It’s a nouveau riche thing. One never stops wondering whether others appreciate how well you’ve done for yourself.’

‘You inherited,’ said the attorney. ‘You’ve been flying in jets since you were a baby.’

‘That’s what makes it funny,’ said the billionaire. ‘Why it’s a joke.’

‘I don’t get it,’ said the attorney.

The billionaire shrugged, took a slice of pizza, looked at it longingly, dropped it back in the box.

‘At least you’re losing weight,’ said the attorney. ‘Your paunch is gone,’ he pointed, and the billionaire laughed. The laugh seemed painful, labored. It sounded like shattered glass in a paper bag.

‘Down a hundred from two hundred pounds,’ said the billionaire. ‘In less than a year. You have an asshole’s sense of humor,’ he said.

‘I am an asshole,’ said the attorney.

‘Once I’m dead and you control the trust you can use the plane whenever you please,’ said the billionaire. ‘Go all Richie Rich,’ he said.

‘Listen,’ said the attorney. ‘I’m clear on the paperwork. I did it myself. Planes and yachts and share portfolios. But you haven’t answered the other question,’ he said. ‘The one that really tickles my fancy.’

‘I’m dying,’ said the billionaire.

‘Not that. I know that,’ said the attorney, looked at the bloated face. ‘Looks like you’ve been dead a while,’ he said. ‘That’s not the question, and you know it.’

‘About the beneficiary,’ said the billionaire.

‘Yes,’ said the attorney. ‘The son you don’t have. If you had a son, I would have known,’ he said.

‘You’ll meet him soon enough,’ said the billionaire. ‘After I’ve died. It’s all been arranged. You’ll raise him like we’d agreed,’ he said.

‘There’s something wrong about this,’ said the attorney. ‘You won’t give me more than that?’ he asked. ‘Just a story full of holes?’

‘I give you what you need,’ said the billionaire. ‘When he’s grown, he’ll take over. That’s enough. You don’t need to know everything. Everything that matters is in the paperwork.’

‘I’ll raise a child and preserve your wealth,’ said the attorney. ‘That’s no small thing. It’s your entire legacy. Maybe I’m entitled to know,’ he said.

‘You’ll get your reward,’ said the billionaire. There was something menacing in his voice. ‘More than. You’ll be richer than you have any business being,’ he said.

‘How do you know I won’t screw you over?’ asked the attorney, a little shadow-smile on his lips.

The billionaire coughed. There was blood. He dabbed at it with a handkerchief, stared at the red and black spots. It took him a while to catch his breath. He looked out the little round windows at the pillow clouds outside. Then he leaned over, put a hand on the attorney’s knee, made deliberately dramatic eye contact. ‘I’ve retained others as well,’ he said, with a wink. ‘You’re not the only one. You know how this works. I’m not a fool,’ he said.

The attorney shrugged. He’d expected nothing less. Checks and balances.

‘You’re my dearest friend and I love you,’ said the billionaire. ‘You and your extraordinary billables,’ he said.

For a while, the plane thumped quietly on turbulence, each man an island.

‘Where are we going?’ asked the attorney.

‘Where am I going,’ said the billionaire.

‘OK, then,’ said the attorney. ‘Where are you going?’

‘The tract,’ said the billionaire, and the attorney rolled his eyes.

‘That frost-bitten patch of shit land,’ said the attorney, shook his head in disbelief.

‘The very same,’ said the billionaire.

‘They won’t sell,’ said the attorney. ‘You know that, right? They’ve been living there time immemorial. For them the money is an abstract thing. You’ve offered ten times more than market,’ he said. ‘They haven’t even budged.’

‘I’m making them a deal,’ said the billionaire. ‘A better one.’

‘Is that what the satchel is for?’ asked the attorney, nodded at the leather bag at the billionaires feet.

‘It’s a gift,’ said the billionaire.

‘For whom?’

‘None of your business,’ said the billionaire, with a refractory little smirk.

‘A lot of secrets,’ said the attorney. ‘Even for you. It makes me worry.’

‘Not secrets,’ said the billionaire. ‘Some things are just private.’

‘Even from me?’ said the attorney. ‘It’s always been my business to know,’ he said. ‘It’s why you trust me enough to do this for you.’

‘Some things are private,’ said the billionaire.

‘Like offering a fortune for land that’s practically worthless, and creating a trust for a child that doesn’t exist, and a dodgy bag with an undisclosed gift,’ said the attorney.

‘Exactly like that,’ said the billionaire.

‘Maybe I’m starting to think you’re losing your marbles,’ said the attorney.

‘Come now,’ said the billionaire, shook his head. Even that looked painful. ‘You don’t think that.’

The attorney stood up, poured himself a drink from the bar up the aisle. Beams of light slanted crepuscular, played on the cabin’s interior.

‘You’re right,’ said the attorney. ‘I’m just curious. Doesn’t matter. I’m committed. I gave my word and the papers are signed,’ he said. ‘Even if you’re mad as a hatter.’

‘Good,’ said the billionaire. ‘You’re wearing me out. I don’t think I have a lot of wear left.’ He reclined with a long rattling sigh, fumbled with a pillow under his neck. He pressed a button. For the nurse. For his medication.

To help escape his body for a while.

‘I’m sorry this happened to you,’ said the attorney. ‘I can’t believe there’s nothing to be done.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ said the billionaire.

***

They met in a forest, in a timber structure among darkening trees, floor to ceiling aluminum windows watching the world.

It was twilight and the day was long-shadowed and cool.

The billionaire’s Range Rover sped in with intent, as though to sweep all obstacles from its way. But there was no one there. No obstacles whatsoever. Just a quiet gray-gravel path, a couple of watchful lazing cats, red cedar, the shy chatter of woodland creatures. Somewhere down a green-grassed slope, a river murmured, and mountains crowned the distance, snow-capped, heavy with time.

The billionaire was alone. Which was a rarity. It took him a while to get out of the car. By the time he was done he was covered in sweat and his heart was racing. His body felt like it was made of cardboard and phlegm. It was a bitter thing. He fought back tears. A year ago, he ran five miles a day. He had felt immortal. Now he could hardly stand.

There was no one to meet him. Also a rarity. Probably intended as a slight.

One foot in front of the other, like an infant or very old man, the billionaire made his way. Twenty feet that felt like a mile. He had to put all his weight against the door to get it to open. He sort of stumbled inside, arms flailing.

It was bright inside. White-washed. The billionaire blinked. Rubbed his eyes. The place smelled of new paint. An unwholesome smell that promised a headache.

There were business-chic shades of calming pastel, colorful scatter cushions, a large boardroom table. There were faux leather seats and a deep-piled carpet and conference-style charging points and bottled water and keto bars. A little espresso machine. Note pads and pens.

Not unlike his own boardroom in his high-rise headquarters. Not what he’d expected. He had a picture in his head. Of some sort of hut with a muddy entrance. Of wood fires and smoke. Of wrinkled old people and angry, glaring youths. Loincloth. Things like that.

The billionaire thought there was a smell of woodsmoke in the air. Something acrid. But he wasn’t sure. His illness played with his senses.

The woman stood facing the setting sun, cerise on her cheeks. She was slight and short. With her ash white hair tied severely in the nape of her neck, she seemed very old. She was wearing an expensive-looking ivory pantsuit. She turned to him, her face serene. Her eyes showed deep crow’s feet, but her skin was smooth and rosy. She looked like she could live forever or keel over anytime.

There was something cheeky about her solitariness, no doubt. The message not lost on him. Their show of confidence. No need to send the works, they said. This single little lady could handle him, they said. This was not what they’d agreed to. It smacked of bad faith. The boardroom could seat thirty. Easy.

‘I expected to meet the elders,’ said the billionaire. ‘I’ve come a long way. I don’t have time to waste,’ he said.

The woman walked over. The way she sashayed, one foot crossing the other, made him think of a feline. Smooth, soft-pawed, sheathed claws. She took him by the arm, helped him over to two Hello Kitty tub chairs and a small coffee table facing the red setting sun. She seemed to take his weight without effort. He resented this. He was probably half her age. It made him feel like a wraith, a shadow. It made him think he’d made a mistake coming here. On his own. That he had overestimated himself.

And the strange smokey smell did not help, did not put his mind at ease.

‘I thought we could sit here,’ said the woman, in a warm, low-pitched voice. A little husky. Charming. ‘The boardroom seems excessive for just the two of us,’ she said.

‘I asked a question,’ said the billionaire. But he sat. He was exhausted.

‘I speak for the elders,’ said the woman. ‘For all of them. Whatever assurances I give you, you can bank on,’ she said. Her smile thinned. Something glinted hawkish in her eyes. ‘What’s in the satchel?’ she asked.

‘That’s for later,’ said the billionaire, trying to project a strength he did not feel. ‘First, let’s speak.’

‘We’ve spoken before,’ said the woman.

‘I don’t remember that,’ said the billionaire.

‘We’ve spoken before,’ said the woman. ‘You’ve been trying to buy our land for a long time,’ she said. ‘I can’t see the point of this meeting. I thought you might finally accept our refusal if we give it in person.’

‘The deal is different this time,’ said the billionaire. ‘I’m not coming for the land. Not now. Maybe later.’

‘You want the land because you want the tree,’ said the woman. ‘We all know that. You can’t have it,’ she said. ‘There’s no amount of money that will change that.’

‘Like I said,’ said the billionaire, ‘this is a different deal. A more focused one. I’m ill,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you can see that. I’ll be dead soon unless you agree to help me,’ he said.

‘I see,’ said the woman.

The billionaire blinked and coughed. There was smoke in the room. He was sure of it now. He could see it. A thin blue veil. Smelling lively and green.

‘That’s a difficult thing,’ said the woman. ‘A difficult negotiation. Dangerous, even.’

The billionaire tried to get up, but his limbs had no strength. He heard voices behind him. Weak voices. Like from afar. But heading their way.

‘What’s this?’ said the billionaire. ‘You’re drugging me,’ he said.

The woman laughed and the approaching voices seemed to coalesce in that laugh. ‘Things are different here to what you’re accustomed to,’ she said. ‘There’s no treachery, except for what you bring with you.’

‘No,’ said the billionaire, shook his head stubbornly. ‘I’m not here for your Zen bullshit,’ he said.

‘You can leave,’ said the woman. ‘If you want.’

The billionaire felt anger swell. Anger riding on fear.

He thought he could take it by force, if they refused to help. He could take the tree. He could steal it. He had people that could do things like that. It won’t be easy. It won’t be legal. There were risks. But it could be done.

He stood up. With all the strength he still felt in his heart. Tall and strong. But his body did not follow. He stood there, looking down at himself, at the bald spot at the back of his head. He thought he looked worn out and ugly.

The billionaire blinked, and the boardroom was gone. He was sitting in a large hutch, much like he’d imagined before the meeting. He had a headache. He closed his eyes, but he could still see. His body felt distant. Like it had gone somewhere. He felt like a feather on an updraft.

‘This is not right,’ said the billionaire. ‘You’ve done something to me,’ he said.

‘What do you want?’ asked the woman.

‘You know what I want,’ said the billionaire. ‘I want to use the tree. I want to live.’

‘No,’ said the woman. ‘You don’t understand.’

But the billionaire felt ready for this. He had expected them to say that. He thought he understood better than they did. He thought he understood perfectly well. Unencumbered by their peasant morality, he felt, he was free to look at it all with a clear open mind.

***

‘I know everything about the tree,’ said the billionaire. ‘I know it was an ordinary tree. Long ago. One of many on the river. One day,’ he said, ‘it was struck by a light like lightning that came from a dark thing hovering in the clouds. A light that was warm and blinding and that scorched the land and killed everyone in the valley. And I know the light cracked the bole of the tree and made a fissure, and that the tree’s roots lifted away from the soil, and that the roots became hard and gnarled like muscle. And then the tree grew and grew till it was larger than any other tree, and its trunk turned red like blood and its leaves black-blue.

‘For a long time,’ said the billionaire, ‘everyone kept clear of the tree because it was strange and it scared them and it seemed to whisper and move. They thought it might be sacred. Or cursed. Or both. They remembered the death it had brought when the light struck, which seemed like a warning.

‘Now this is probably more fiction than fact,’ said the billionaire. ‘But it seems there was a war and there were bodies choking up the river, some of them washing onto the roots of the tree. And the story goes there was a wounded man that crawled into the fissure because he’d thought no one would look for him there. And they say he’d died there from his wounds, and that the fissure drew him in and that the tree consumed him.

‘But you know all this,’ laughed the billionaire, something unhinged in his voice. ‘And as interesting as all this is, it’s the next bit that clinches it, isn’t it?

‘Because,’ said the billionaire, ‘came spring, the tree bore a single great fruit, and when the fruit ripened it fell to the soil and burst, and there was a baby inside, and as the boy grew they learned it was the man that had died in the fissure.’

He paused. For effect. ‘The very same man,’ said the billionaire, his face tightening in a grimace, his eyes feverish. ‘Renewed. Born again. All his memories intact.’

He held his stomach and laughed. The laughing hurt, but he could not stop. He looked around the hutch for the woman, but could not see her. Somehow, he knew she was listening.

‘Imagine that!’ said the billionaire, with glee. ‘The tree had brought him back. All of him. Body and mind. As he grew, he remembered. Every detail of the life he’d had. He was fully, indubitably himself.

‘But the tree must eat,’ said the billionaire. ‘In the beginning, you put dead people in the fissure, but gave the roots nothing, and the fruit came through rotten and corrupt, or not at all. It’s trade, not a gift, you learned.

‘See?’ said the billionaire. ‘I know the stories. I know all about the tree. I’ve made it my business. I always know my business.’

***

‘You know a great deal,’ said the woman. In an instant, the hutch was gone and the smoke bore him along, and he could hear the river’s cool murmur.

The grass beneath him felt moist, smelled peppery and alive, made him think of childhood, of being young and strong, hale and fearless. He looked up at the black open sky, at the reckless sweep of the Milky Way, felt icy air bite its way into his broken lungs. He dug his fingers into the ground, reclined, closed his eyes. He wondered whether he had died or was dying.

‘You’ve drugged me,’ said the billionaire. ‘They’ll come for you if anything happens to me,’ he said, even though he wasn’t sure that was true, couldn’t remember whether he’d told anyone where he was going.

‘You spied on us,’ said the woman.

‘My drones fly quietly and out of sight,’ said the billionaire. ‘They see and hear everything. People speak. Tell each other stories. To their children. Around campfires. In boardrooms. In bed. Especially when they think no one’s listening. Most of it is nonsense. But if you listen well, you find stories that are true,’ he said.

‘Then you know what the tree demands?’ asked the woman. ‘For its roots. What it eats?’

‘Of course,’ said the billionaire. ‘It demands its due. As it should. It demands a body for a body. The tree’s a good businessman,’ laughed the billionaire. ‘I like that. Nothing is free. Reciprocity. Mutual benefit. It’s a very rational tree,’ he said.

The river had become full-throated. The way it may roar after a storm. The billionaire opened his eyes and looked at the tree. His breath misted in shallow little puffs. He rubbed his knuckles to keep them warm. The tree whispered. The woman felt like a weight in his mind.

The tree towered, its trunk like a Doric column, its roots squirming slowly, like earthworms. He could feel it watching. It seemed to move, bending ever so slightly, like it wanted to get a closer look.

‘And the rest,’ asked the woman. ‘Do you know the rest of the story? The bad part,’ she asked.

The billionaire shrugged, smiled patiently. ‘All that good and evil nonsense,’ he said. ‘I don’t buy into that. Never had. There’s nothing wrong with doing what it takes to survive,’ he said. ‘You took your due. You claimed what was presented to you. It was a gift. It would have been wasteful to leave it fallow. It would have been a profound ingratitude to have access to immortality, and turn your back on it. You did nothing wrong,’ he said.

‘For a long time none of us died,’ said the woman, her voice like water over smooth cool stones. ‘Some of us kept going for hundreds of years,’ she said. Then, softly, a shameful whisper: ‘We fed our babies to the tree,’ she said. ‘Where else to get bodies when no one dies? A life for a life. A body for a body. To keep ourselves going. It was wrong,’ she said. ‘It took us a long time to see that. We told ourselves justifying lies. But it was murder,’ she said.

The tree sort of twisted like it had an itch.

‘Now, we hardly ever use the tree,’ she said. ‘Except in deserving cases. There was a time we even thought of destroying it,’ she said.

‘You need bodies to feed the tree,’ said the billionaire, feeling things were going well for him. ‘For the roots to eat. I can fix that. I have access to bodies,’ he said. ‘People die all the time. For a thousand different reasons that’s no one’s fault. Things get lost,’ he said. ‘People make mistakes. Computers crash or get hacked. Bodies are signed out to go to places that do not expect them and where they never arrive. If you’re connected, there are many ways,’ he said.

He grinned. Pleased with his pitch. He looked for the woman and, sure enough, she was right there. Next to him. Had probably been all this time. For a while they sat together in cool white moonlight, bats flitting about on papery wings. The tree stretched and swayed like any old tree stirring in a breeze. Except, there was no wind.

‘I can help you,’ said the billionaire. ‘If you do this for me. If you give me to the tree. If you give me another chance at life. I can give you as many bodies as you want. You can live forever,’ he said. ‘All of you. Forever.’

‘What do you have in the bag?’ asked the woman.

The billionaire smiled, opened the bag, scooped from it a dead baby, its little body in a blue fetal curl, rigid, its face hard-lined and severe like that of a long-suffering old man. He laid it before the woman, happy to show he could deliver what he had promised.

‘His mother died this morning,’ said the billionaire. ‘In childbirth. Out on the streets in the middle of the night in a screaming gale in the freezing cold. Some homeless woman,’ he said. ‘They found the two of them together. She’d kept it as close as she could, but the nights are long this time of year. It never had a chance. Had been doomed from the outset. From the day of its conception. Happens all the time. I’m not a monster,’ said the billionaire. ‘It’s not like I killed it. But it’s dead and small and easy to travel with, and we might as well use it. This way, at least,’ he said, ‘its death serves a purpose. It did not die in vain.’

The woman sat inscrutable, her head angled so she could watch him, her eyes shimmering obsidian, like the night sky, full of stars.

The billionaire thought he saw something calculating there. And that seemed like a good thing. What he had feared was heated emotion, shock. Calculation served self-interest. It was what he’d been hoping for.

‘We can do a lot of good,’ said the billionaire. ‘You can use the tree to save yourselves,’ he said. ‘Everyone you care for. Everyone you consider deserving. But first you save me,’ he said. ‘That’s the deal.’

He waited in the quiet, listening to the river, waiting for the woman to say something. He did not want to overcook his pitch.

‘You’re reasoning is sound,’ said the woman.

‘Of course,’ said the billionaire.

‘It’s remarkable what one can achieve with reasoning,’ the woman said. ‘Long ago, we also reasoned. Until everything made sense. Until things appeared the way we wanted them to,’ she said.

The billionaire coughed. Dabbed at his mouth. ‘Are we on the same page, then?’ he asked. ‘You’ll put me in the tree. When it bears fruit, you’ll make sure I make my way home. When I’m old enough to remember myself, you’ll have whatever you need to feed the tree for as long as you want. You’ll live forever,’ he said. ‘Like in the old days.’

There came a breeze. It picked up fall fragrances and the smell of something dead in the river.

The tree no longer swayed. Not even a leave stirred. It stood in quiet anticipation. Like it was holding its breath.

‘We’ll give you to the tree,’ said the woman. ‘Like I said,’ she said, ‘we still use it. In deserving cases.’

***

The coughing fit came and refused to let up.

His chest jumbled with sharp stabbing things until his throat tasted like iron and he felt raw and empty. He rolled over on his side and pulled his legs into his chest and wheezed and wept, and blacked out a while.

When he came to, he found himself in an embrace. He smelled fecund soils and fragrances of things verdant and alive, and the embrace tightened.

The billionaire opened his eyes. Hesitantly. Scared he might start coughing again. He saw the woman, not far away, her white hair bright in the cool moonlight, bent over the fissure with the dead baby in her hands, watching him, her eyes dark like death itself.

And then he understood.

‘No!’ said the billionaire. Softly, breathlessly. ‘Take me out!’ he said, feeling the churning movement of a thousand hungry things, not far beneath.

The roots tightened, drew him in.

Ever, ever downward.

He tried to shout, to let out his fear, but his lungs were empty.

Then it was dark, and the moon was gone, and there was no air to breathe, and soft suffocating sand everywhere.

Lucretia My Reflection

Kandy Fontaine adjusted her green-tinged mustache, micro-tuning the nanotech processors. Today the ends flared like the holocentric village villain; tomorrow, or in the next instant, the ends would justify the mean streets her etheric form would wander. 

Truth be told? She was tired. Tired of playing the game. Tired of conforming. So very tired of witchery as usual.

Yes, she had become a cybermagus and a mistress of magick war. She invented Grimwar and enjoyed being the local admin, outsourcing responsibility for the other nodes to various randoms, some of them beastheads–the parrots she dug special. One parrot in particular had looped through several tunnel systems in timespace and had replaced practically its entire body, such as it was, with robotic parts. 

The chaosian play was good as it got, but Kandy realized that she could play forever and the sweetness would continue to follow the law, diminishing returns chasing themselves down the rat’s alleys where the dead men lost their phones.

Lucretia buzzed her.

“Kandy,” she said, pausing to dab at her Fuck Me Red ™ lipstick implants in the mirror. The nanotech particles caused her face to shimmer, and behind tincture of drug couture she became a princess with the keys to the seven worlds.

“My reflection or yours,” said Lucretia quizically. Kandy’s pussy pulsed and warmth spread along her limbs, but she also recalled that the last time she and Lucretia hooked up–some gentech prince in vircher space thought it might be fun to watch their avatars fuck–she’d felt degraded and used, and not in the good way.

“Honesty, or…”

“Girl, you know I’m always honest,” said Lucretia. Which was a damn lie.

GhostDance at 5 zm was key to their reconciliation. They met at Shirleyz City of Dizbusters beneath the lava flow of Death Moon Omega. Both hit the Strobe heavily beforehand and their eyes glittered with skull-clots that chased each other in circles. Holograms of Dr. Gruje Panasky followed them down the streets and byways of adventure that snaked, split and became avenues of sin. 

“We have to stop doing this to one another,” said Kandy finally as their avatars melted back into the writhing pixelated black silkworm bedsheets. “We’re too much alike, and that means one of these days we’re going to jolene one another.”

“D’ya mean like that story where jolenes formed an alliance within the body of a single cyberwhore?”

“Kind of, yes.”

“But that has less than nothing to do with us. Think about this in relation to any response. What kind of feedback response did you get from your therapist the last time you discussed us?”

Kandy didn’t want to go down that road, and said as much. She kissed Lucretia one final time on those lips that were always fading to cyanosis…fantastic flavor, she thought, strawberry switchblend. 

Lucretia pulled out a single blade. It shivered between them. Kandy discovered she no longer had feelings either way. She could die then and be through with all of it.

“Do it,” she said. “I’m ready. Do both of us.”

“I’m ready too,” said Lucretia.

Afterwards they found themselves walking in comfortable silence along the beach of the Luminous Shore, as the other ghosts flickered and zipped in and out of their peripheral vision.

“Twas always thus,” said Kandy after awhile.

“Indeed,” said Lucretia.

“What exactly was up with that gentech prince?” asked Kandy, not really interested in the answer.

“Hell if I know,” said Lucretia. Her chrome skull was becoming more exposed, while Kandy’s was just growing in.

Fucked Up Fairy Tales: Pudding Fairies 

Empress Cherrypop, her flaming red hair unbound and floating in the etheric breeze, gazed down from the crystal balcony of the Euphoric Palace at the writhing mass of pudding fairies below. 

Their gelatinous forms shifted and merged in obscene configurations, reminding her of that documentary on deep sea creatures she’d watched with Silver last night. The way they moved, pulsing with an inner light that made her think of bioluminescent horrors.

“They’re getting restless again,” Silver whispered, wrapping cool arms around Cherrypop’s waist. Her silver hair cascaded over both their shoulders, mixing with the empress’s flame-red tresses like metallic blood.

The pudding fairies had been acting strange ever since that ancient grimoire had been discovered in the palace kitchens, bound in what appeared to be human skin and written in a language that looked suspiciously like binary code.

Below, the pudding fairies began to form a massive spiral, their bodies melting together into a hypnotic vortex of vanilla, chocolate, and blood-red strawberry. It was beautiful in a nauseating way, like watching flesh dissolve in acid.

“Something’s emerging,” Cherrypop said, her voice tight with anticipation and dread.

The spiral began to pulse with an otherworldly light, and from its center rose a figure that made both queens gasp. It was the Mistress of Graves herself, but reconstituted in pudding form, her body a shifting mass of dessert that somehow maintained the shape of a woman in a flowing gown. Her face was a constantly moving tableau of features that seemed to be drowning in custard.

“Welcome to my kingdom,” the pudding apparition gurgled, her voice like someone drowning in butterscotch “I’ve come to claim what’s mine.” 

The fairy creatures below began to keen in harmony, a sound that made Cherrypop’s teeth ache and Silver’s skin crawl with goosebumps.

What happened next occurred with the terrible inevitability of a nightmare. The pudding fairies began to rise, forming a massive wave that threatened to engulf the palace. But Cherrypop and Silver had been prepared for this moment. They joined hands, their ancient queer magic surging between them like electric current.

“Now!” Cherrypop commanded, and Silver pulled out the secret weapon – a massive spoon forged in the fires of the palace kitchen by the royal chef, who had been mysteriously transformed into a talking teapot the week before. The spoon began to glow with an inner light that matched the bioluminescence of the pudding fairies.

The Mistress of Graves let out a shriek that sounded like a thousand spoons scraping against the bottom of empty bowls. Her pudding form began to collapse in on itself as the fairy horde was sucked into the vortex of the magical spoon, their bodies compressing into a single serving of the most dangerous dessert ever created in the Kingdom of Euphoria 

When it was over, all that remained was a single bowl of innocuous-looking pudding on the crystal balcony. Cherrypop and Silver looked at each other, their faces reflected in its perfectly smooth surface.

“What should we do with it?” Silver asked, prodding the bowl with one perfectly manicured finger.

Cherrypop smiled, a wicked gleam in her eye. “Let’s serve it at the next royal banquet. I hear the Duke of Tartland has been plotting against us.” She leaned in to kiss her partner, tasting of cherry wine and revolution. “Besides, who doesn’t love a good pudding?”

The pudding in the bowl wiggled slightly, and both queens could have sworn they heard it giggle.

The Morning After

The amnesia was all too familiar. 

I remembered drinking with Todd at a downtown dive bar. Then nothing. Nada. Blank. Zip. Still, I could fit the pieces together. The narrative wasn’t hard to construct. After all, I hadn’t gotten home all by myself. Somebody had returned me to my apartment and tucked me in all nice and tidy. 

Todd. 

A real gentleman. 

It was enough to make me sick. Which I already was, although not so severe that I couldn’t climb out of bed and pad to the bathroom in my stockinged feet. The thoughtful bastard had even removed my shoes before covering me with a blanket. 

Shedding my blouse and miniskirt, I took a long shower and mentally reviewed last night’s failure. No doubt Todd had searched my billfold to ascertain my address. He had driven me home, using my key to unlock the door, and carried me to bed. 

Chivalric prick. 

Of course, he wasn’t the first. I had been treated like a princess before. Granted, Todd was the first to actually enter my apartment. Most guys called me a cab at the bar, others an ambulance. A few had actually driven me to the emergency room. 

Unfortunately, this was the norm. Believe it or not, most folks are decent people. 

I got out of the shower, toweled dry, and put on some comfy sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt. I fixed myself a cup of coffee and a bowl of instant oatmeal. Half the day was shot. I had slept through it all, slumbering like the dead. Not that it mattered. It was Sunday. I had nothing to do, nowhere to go.

Curled up on the sofa, I finished the oatmeal and nursed my second cup of coffee. Familiar street sounds came through the open window of my second-floor studio. Most people would have found them comforting. I found them loathsome. Last night’s dud date had put me in a foul mood. 

I was losing faith in men. 

The city was full of hipster pussies and woke faggots. Momma’s boys, every last one. Effete do-gooders. Scumbags were getting harder and harder to find. It had been months since my last successful hookup. 

Gene. 

A real degenerate. 

I had regained consciousness the following morning behind a dumpster in a trash-strewn alley, my skirt hiked above my hips, my back bruised and bloody from him pounding me against a cement wall. Used. Abused. I was long overdue for another Gene. 

A man who wouldn’t freak out when I started to fade, a man who knew how to take full advantage of the situation, a man more than capable of sealing the deal . . . 

I was contemplating a third cup of coffee when my phone vibrated. Todd. Fucking great. I had hoped it would be my dealer. My supply was getting low. Todd was checking on me. How touching. I visualized him crossing the threshold of my bedroom, carrying me like a young groom with his chaste bride. 

“Give it up.” I frowned at my device. “You’re not my type.” 

The whole thing was terribly confusing. 

I wondered why he—and the others who had failed to measure up—had even messaged me in the first place. My profile on the dating app should have made my sexual aberration abundantly clear. I was nothing if not transparent. Starting with my screen name . . . 

Mickey Finn.