When The World Ends You Won’t Know It

“Tell me what he’s doing to you when I walk in.”

“He’s got me on my back, my legs up over his shoulders, and he’s standing and leaning over me, pounding me, and he’s holding my arms down over my head, so I’ve just got to take it.”

“Uhhh yeah,” Jay groaned. “Fuck, that’s so hot.”

Shit I still need to move clothes to the dryer I’m going to be up all night doing laundry–

“You like it? You like the way he’s fucking you, you little slut?”

“At first I pretend like I don’t,” Cathy gasped. “I struggle and hit and scratch; that’s why he holds my arms down. He knows what I need–ahhhh–”

“Yeah?” Jay panted. “He knows what’s best for you?”

Is Rory completely out of clean socks or is there one more pair maybe it doesn’t matter she’s not leaving the house slippers are fine–

“Uh … yeah,” Cathy told Jay. “He’s pounding me so hard, so fast, I feel like I can’t take it, but he knows I can. He’s squeezing my wrists so hard it’ll leave bruises, but I don’t care, it feels so good–”

“Yeah?” Jay asked. “So good you don’t care when I walk in, and see him fucking you?”

“No not at all, I just don’t want him to stop–ohhh–I want you to see me taking it–”

“Fuck that’s … you’re going to make me come. I’m close.”

“Me too.” Cathy gave a small unconvincing moan.

SHIT cleaner’s coming tomorrow I forgot to get toilet cleaner is the bodega still open–

“Who is he?” Jay gasped.

“What?”

“The guy who’s fucking you–uuhhh–who–uuhhh–is he?”

“Uh … the bodega guy.”

“What?” Jay stopped thrusting.

“The bodega guy … the guy who runs the bodega?” Cathy stammered. “Hey–” 

Jay un-straddled Cathy from his lap and deposited her onto the bed.

Cathy followed him to the bathroom. “Jay? What the hell?”

“You’re not taking this seriously.”

“What do you mean?”

Jay glared at her with disgust. “The bodega guy? Really?”

“What? He’s, you know, a … man.”

“You’re laughing at me. I’m trying to be vulnerable with you, share something really private and it’s scary for me, and you think it’s funny.”

“I’m not! I was going along with the whole dumb thing–”

“Yeah. Real supportive.” Jay swooshed one hand over the top of his head.

Cathy sighed. “What the hell do you want from me? It’s not my stupid fantasy, it’s yours. Next time, just tell me who I’m supposed to be humping in front of you, ok?”

“Never mind.” Jay wouldn’t turn to face her. 

This only pissed Cathy off more. Her first day off in over a week. She wanted to be sleeping, not coaxing Jay out of a wounded-little-boy mood.

“Jay, I’m sorry you’re hurt, ok? But I can’t do this now. I’ve got to put clothes in the dryer.” She turned and left.

***

“I’ve spoken to Sandy,” said Cathy’s mom. “She wants me to tell you that she won’t disinvite you from Thanksgiving. But she will feel uncomfortable having you there.”

Sandy was Cathy’s sister, and the fucking worst.

Cathy sighed away from the phone. “What am I supposed to do with that, mom? You and dad are the ones hosting. Just because Sandy lives with you–”

“Obviously your father and I want to see you! But you know how anxious Sandy is, with your work–”

“She’s judging me for going to an outdoor barbecue sixteen months ago. Sandy can call me herself if–”

“Cathy, please. Don’t make me take sides! You don’t know how hard this is on your father and I, seeing you and Sandy fall out–”

There had been no falling out. Cathy never liked Sandy. 

***

Cathy had the dream again that night.

In the dream, she is living in the dystopian future of The Handmaid’s Tale, and she is a handmaid. Her Commander is Michael Fassbender. She is brought into the room for their first-ever Ceremony. 

She seats herself on the bed, and waits. 

Michael Fassbender walks in. 

“Hi,” Cathy whispers shyly. “I’m Offassbender.”

Fassbender draws up a chair, sits, and looks deep into her eyes. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I am so sorry you’re going through this–”

“Oh, that’s nice of you to say, but it’s ok! Really!”

Fassbender rakes his hands through his hair and gnashes his teeth. “How can I live with myself, if I do this–”

“Don’t talk like that; it isn’t your fault.” Cathy rests her hand on his thigh. “I know you’re a good person.” 

She clears her throat. 

“You know, back before the dystopia, I saw Shame. I thought you were wonderful in that dumb and boring movie.” 

Cathy gazes meaningfully at his crotch. 

“You have a talent that cannot be contained, it’s so huge. The biggest, most impressive talent I’ve ever seen, much bigger than anyone else’s. It explodes off the screen, your talent, demanding to be felt–”

Fassbender isn’t listening. “I hate this … all of it. I can’t bear the subjugation of women. I’ve got to fight it, whatever the cost–”

“Don’t do that!” Cathy blurts out. “Uh, I mean, that could get us both in trouble, and I’ve already been through so much. I think the best thing to do tonight is, let’s go ahead with the Ceremony as planned, and then you can do some brainstorming later in the week–”

“My god. You’re right; I’m being so selfish.” Fassbender falls to his knees and clasps Cathy’s hands. He gazes up into her face. A single tear trickles down his perfect cheekbone. 

“How can I help you?” he whispers. 

Cathy’s heart pounds. Her loins dampen.

“Well. I’d love it if we undress each other first, and then I want you to sit up and I’ll straddle you and we should spend lots of time kissing, feeling our naked bodies against each other, and then you take my breasts in your mouth one at a time while you’re squeezing my ass, and I’m moaning and bucking my hips and you can feel my dripping pussy grazing the outside of your cock, up and down, until it’s driving us crazy and we can’t stand it and I’m aching to feel you inside me, although I’ll need a vibrator to finish, did you manage to confiscate any before–”

Cathy realizes Michael Fassbender is looking at her funny. 

“I didn’t mean that. I mean, tell me how I can get word to your husband. Jay? I saw his name in your file; you must miss him so.” Fassbender seats himself again in the chair. “Tell me everything about Jay. I want to feel as though I know him–”

“I don’t want to talk about JAY… uh, because it makes me feel so sad,” she adds. “Yup, too painful. Best to just avoid that, and get on with–”

“But Rory? Your daughter? You must be going mad, not knowing where–”

THIS. IS. BULLSHIT. 

“Yeah, but I’m sure she’s with a good family,” Cathy says. “This whole dystopia came about because kids are such a hot commodity, right? She’s probably being spoiled rotten, having a great time; not really anything to worry about there–”

“Cathy.” Fassbender sits beside her on the bed. 

“You can call me Offassbender–”

“Cathy, I’m going to make this right. I will see you reunited with your family. I promise.” Fassbender places his hand over his heart, his flawless face glistening with tears.

“Oh. Well, I’ll be looking forward to that, thanks. But in the meantime–”

“Mommy, I had an accident.” 

Cathy’s eyes flew open. 

Rory was standing by the bed, holding her urine-soaked nightgown away from her body. 

“I tried to get to the bathroom, but daddy’s in there and … I couldn’t hold it.” Rory began crying.

***

“Cath? Are you crying?”

Jay stood awkwardly, hands in pockets, waiting for his wife to explain.

“What’s wrong? Is it something I did?”

Cathy shook her head. “I’m so tired. They hate me, no matter what I do–”

“You’re talking about the nurses again.” Jay’s voice was flat.

“It isn’t just them.” Cathy closed her eyes. “I had to ream out one of my residents last night. He’s a good kid, but he doesn’t get it. They brought in someone who’s coding, ok? And I’m in the middle of dealing with it, giving the nurses instructions. Then he walks in, this friggin’ resident, and starts issuing his own instructions. All completely wrong. Not intentionally being a dick, just being an oblivious guy. But all the nurses stop what they’re doing–what Itold them to do–and start following his instructions! Because he’s a 6’2” bearded dude, and when he walks into a room and speaks in his big stupid guy-voice, people are going to defer to him over me. It doesn’t matter that he’s only a resident and fifteen years younger–”

“Yes, men are garbage,” Jay muttered. “Let’s generalize about all men–”

“I’m not saying men are garbage! But there are these dynamics, assumptions about authority, ok? And I like this kid. I’m not saying he’s an asshole, or bad at his job, but he needs to understand. It isn’t about ego–”

Jay snorted and swooshed one hand over the top of his head.

“Whatever, Jay. Think what you want. But with my work, it isn’t. People could die if some clueless resident sweeps into an already-crowded room and starts giving contradictory orders, ok?”

“So. You told your resident all this, and now he hates you.” 

“It isn’t just that,” Cathy mumbled. “It’s all of it. I’ve had three patients scream ‘gook’ at me over my last two shifts, as I’m trying to help them. Old men encrusted in their own shit and vomit, and they’re tugging at the corners of their eyes–”

“But you always get those, Cath–”

“It’s more than ever, a lot more.” Cathy rubbed her temples. “It feels like it, at least. I don’t know.”

“They’re crazy homeless Vietnam vets. Their brains are mush from drugs–”

“I don’t care if they’re veterans! That doesn’t make it ok!” Cathy shouted, before catching her breath and listening for sounds from Rory’s room. 

Nothing. Cathy and Jay exhaled.

Jay spoke first.

“I’m not excusing them. But this is nothing new, right? You’ve never let it get to you before. Don’t let these losers see that they’re upsetting you, Cath. That’s what they want! You think I love all the jokes about us? The Jewish guy, Asian chick cliché–”

“Except you aren’t actually Jewish,” Cathy cut in. “And that only happened the one time. Right?”

“The one time I know about. But I know people think it, and I don’t let it get to me–”

“Because you aren’t Jewish at all–”

“–but people assume I am, and I don’t bother correcting them. What difference does it make, whether I am or not?” Jay demanded. Cathy didn’t answer. 

He sighed. “Clearly, I’m not saying the right things. Why don’t you call Sandy, or one of your friends–”

“One, Sandy isn’t speaking to me, remember? Two, what friends?”

“What are you talking about? You’ve got friends. The Caseys–”

“I’m only friends with one Casey. I don’t think the other one even likes me–”

“Do you just disagree with me for the sake of it? Do you even hear what it is I’m saying, before you disagree?”

Cathy stared. “What?” 

“You never agree with me, on anything.” 

“That isn’t true–” 

Jay laughed and swooshed one hand over the top of his head. At the same time, they heard whimpering noises from Rory’s room.

“Great. Now Rory’s upset,” Jay muttered. He left the room.

Cathy sat alone on their bed, listening to Jay comfort their daughter through the wall.

***

What. Are. Those. Noises? 

Cathy stared at the ceiling, and listened.

It’s not even snoring really, it’s … the most disgusting breathing sounds I’ve ever heard. Snorting. Snuffling. Weird guttural things. Then that sucking, whistling sound before the hideous, lip-fluttering … I think the tongue is involved too. Oh god … 

She rose and stomped to the bathroom. Jay’s sleep carried on, untroubled.

Cathy tore through the medicine cabinet, chasing melatonin with NyQuil, dousing herself in lavender essential oil. She wondered, not for the first time, why she hadn’t prioritized getting a place with spare bedrooms above all else. 

If there was one piece of advice I could give newlyweds, it would be: separate bedrooms. I’ll have to remember to tell Rory, when the time comes.

After twenty minutes, she decided to give sleep another try.

You got this. 

Cathy re-entered the bedroom and nearly retched. 

Sweet jesus WHY? Why does my bedroom smell worse than my ER? How is that possible?

She approached the bed.

It smells like dozens of feral animals are simultaneously dying, farting, and going through puberty. This cannot all be Jay. One human can’t, just can’t …

Cathy leaned over Jay, and sniffed. 

It IS him! Why, WHY does he smell like Sloth guy from Se7en who’s been tied down to a bed for years? 

What the … 

Jay appeared to be covered in a filmy slime. Cathy poked at him with a trembling finger. 

BEER?! He’s literally sweating beer! Beer is oozing from his pores! Hell no, I … can’t. He’s a Cronenberg movie, not a person. 

Cathy looked around the room.

Every surface is covered in his pubes and body hair and beard hair and nose hair. How can he shed so much hair and still be so hairy? It’s all over me, my clothes; it’s in our food …  

She gazed back down at Jay. 

I can never look at this man again with any trace of desire. 

Jay snorted, then farted, then rolled onto his side whilst smacking his lips.

How did I EVER harbor sexual feelings for him?

***

Jay waited until they were standing on Cathy’s parents’ doorstep to tell her. 

“I’m going to head out as soon as we’re done eating. The main stuff, I mean, not dessert. I promised my parents I’d drop by.”

Cathy stared. “Why the heck didn’t you–”

Her dad opened the door. “Look who it is!” he trilled as he scooped up Rory. “Come inside, how have you been, how was the drive …” he continued autopiloting as he retreated to the TV room.

“Hello.” Sandy greeted them from the kitchen doorway, arms folded and eyes downcast.

“Hey.” Cathy handed Jay her coat and bags, then approached her sister. “What’s new?”

“Mom tell you I moved out?” Sandy asked. She brought a fingernail to her mouth and commenced chewing. “Got a place of my own now.”

“Seriously? That’s great, Sandster!” Cathy meant it. “Where, when, how–”

“It’s one of those tiny houses. You’ve heard of them? For people who care about their carbon footprint–” Sandy stopped as Cathy pushed past her to the windows overlooking the yard.

“Please tell me that isn’t your idea of moving out,” Cathy hissed as she stared at the twee construction where her dad used to grow tomatoes.

A series of defensive squawks issued from Sandy. Cathy rested her forehead against the glass.

***

“What are you doing over there?” Jay asked as he rose from the bed.

“How do you do this?” Nadine frowned and held aloft two ends of a man’s necktie. Save for the tie and her boots, she was naked.

Jay reached under Nadine’s arms from behind and took the tie’s ends. Nadine moved her hands up to her hair.

“Your tits look great like that,” Jay murmured as he looked over her shoulder into the mirror. His hands brushed against them as he worked. “This is hot, actually.” He pressed his pelvis forward, so she could feel that he was hard again.

“Where’d you get this tie?”

“The guy who was here before you left it.”

“Oh yeah? Who is he?” Jay pressed further against her.

“The guy who’s always on the treadmill next to you at Barry’s. You know who I mean–he’s like a foot taller than you, much faster than you? I think he’s a banker; he’s always in these expensive suits. You should see the way he fucks me.”

Jay tried to stay focused on the tie. “You like it?” 

Nadine nodded emphatically, tits bouncing. “I love it, even though I’m sore after, because he’s so big and he can go for so long. And then I had to take you right after–”

“Is that what you did, you nasty slut?”

“Uh-huh. I didn’t even have time to wash up, before you were pounding away–”

“There.” Jay adjusted the knot. “Very professional.” Nadine grinned into the mirror as he cupped her breasts. His lips traveled down to the nape of her neck. “Keep your hands behind your head, but step your legs out further apart.” She obeyed.

Jay lowered to his knees, then sat with bent legs out before him, in between Nadine’s. Releasing his head back, he reached up and guided her into position above him. Nadine continued watching in the mirror, giggling at the first flicks of his tongue.

***

“That is such a friggin’ strawman,” Cathy interrupted. She pushed away her pie.

Sandy glared across the table. “What do you mean?”

“The idea there’s this cabal of non-believers, who are preventing action on climate change. Most people believe in it,” Cathy continued as she re-filled her wine glass. “So what? That doesn’t answer what can, or should, be done. Or mean there’s consensus on exactly what is going to happen, and when …” She noted her parents’ furrowed brows.

What am I doing? Why?

Dunno. Who cares? It’s pissing Sandy off.

Cathy continued: 

“I mean, how do people envision shit going down? Do they think the whole planet’s gonna explode? Or picture simultaneous tsunami waves everywhere? Besides. If you are on the receiving end of a fatal tsunami wave, you won’t know whether it’s happening just there, or everywhere.” 

She paused, saw that Sandy was going to speak, and hurried on: 

“People have always thought they’re staring down end times. Part of being human, I guess. Makes us feel significant. Still. It’s unlikely the end of the world will happen to fall within our hot-sec, stupid-short lifespans, ok?” 

Cathy played with her glass. 

“It’s about your perspective, isn’t it? That’s all. Amalfi was a wealthy, powerful city-state for centuries. Centuries! Then one day, the earth beneath most of the city broke off and fell into the sea. One moment, their only rival is Venice; the next, 90% of their population’s gone. Or look at the Native Americans, ok? 80 to 90 percent of them wiped out by smallpox, before ever seeing the settlers responsible. Or during the Black Death, when up to two-thirds of Europe died … All of those people, they all must have thought the world was ending. They weren’t wrong.” 

“What are you saying?” Sandy asked. 

“I don’t know.”

Skin Flick

They met on midtown Manhattan barstools inside a crowded 5th Avenue pub. She exchanged ninety minutes’ worth of the requisite loungespeak with him over the several white wine spritzers customary for the Friday night ritual. When the time felt right he hailed a taxi to take them uptown, escorting her into his Park Avenue walkup where the young attorney went belly-on with the girl for over an hour. 

Although one night stands were quickly becoming anachronisms, tonight fortune had smiled on Gittleman & Silvestri’s star player. A small part of that fortune probably had hinged on the photo which had recently appeared in the Business section of the Sunday Times above a caption listing the man’s name and credentials, a fact not lost among the bistro’s more aspiring female patrons. 

Another evening spent doing the bedspring hula was not a bad way to pass a wintry midnight. Still, Vincent felt the evening called for a little more creativity on his part than he had thus far demonstrated during their short time together.

***

At first Vincent did not believe Moira would  go for his idea, especially not this quickly.  But neither had he pictured himself sharing the covers of his brass bed alongside the new paralegal from Shengold and Roth three hours after they had exchanged introductions at Marabella’s Alibi Tavern. Early impressions made from a bar stool’s perspective were not always accurate given the sexual paranoia of the 90’s, but black spandex tells no lies. 

Moira had proved herself as enigmatic as a cheerleader with a bullwhip, even enthusiastically assisting him when he slipped the condom on. The raven-haired stranger gave him a surprising E-ticket ride without the traditional waiting period. Considering the evening’s circumstances the suggestion Vincent contemplated sharing with her did not seem so out of line as it would have an hour earlier.

Typically, serendipitous sex amounted to little more than masturbating with a partner. But there seemed a rhythm to his encounter with Moira that went beyond sexual parameters. From the get-go the woman seemed completely in sync almost as if she had known him, and he enjoyed a good verbal sparring partner as much as he did an ebullient companion beneath his sheets. Still, holding her in his arms during those disquieting moments after such cavalier fucking felt vaguely ridiculous. He did not even know the woman’s last name.  Maybe she had told him back at Marabella’s, but if she had he didn’t remember it. His mind had  been on other things, specifically on how much he would enjoy wearing Moira’s long legs around his neck.  The two lay beneath the cool sheets in a gray silence lasting the entire length of Vincent’s Marlboro. 

“You know, the first person who speaks after making love usually says something stupid.” She slid closer to him. “Do you feel like saying something stupid, Vincent?”

He touched her cheek, turning her face toward his so he could look into her eyes.  The gesture seemed almost tender, a strange counterpoint to what he was thinking.

“Can I be honest?”  

“Oh fuck. Is your next sentence going to end with the words ‘genital warts’ or ‘blood test’?”   

He stopped her question with a finger to her lips, offering his most reassuring smile. “I’ve had my shots, okay? It’s just that I don’t often make a suggestion like this.  So if you plan on turning indignant and smacking the shit out of me, tell me now and I can spare myself a lot of embarrassment, all right?”

Moira returned his smile, indicating that she might consider sharing this diversion. “Smacking the shit out of you?  Is that what you’re into?”

An audacious little piece of ass as well as an excellent lay. Vincent liked her. He pulled himself from the bed.

“We can negotiate that part later.” Slipping into his jockey briefs he stepped inside the walk-in closet and returned holding a small video camera. “What I was thinking we might try is a little home movie.  Watta ya say, kid? Ya wanna be a star?”   

Staring at the camcorder she giggled, but her twisted grin revealed nothing of the cogs turning inside the young woman’s head. 

 Moira climbed from the bed and walked to Vincent without covering her nakedness as so many women did on first nights. She squeezed her breasts into his ribs, brushing her lips against his ear while flicking her tongue at it with soft butterfly kisses. When she spoke he felt her warm breath heat his skin.

“That Sony’s got video stabilization, I hope. You know, in the event of bumps or  knocks on this casting couch of yours, that sort of thing?  Wouldn’t want that picture out of focus when you whack off to your video memorabilia, would you, Cecil B.?”  

Vincent smiled, knowing that beneath their repartee Moira had discerned the uneasy demons lurking behind his pig-in-shit expression. Most nights the space alongside him in this bed remained empty, and even a videotaped  remembrance of a warm body seemed better than that empty space. In place of the touch of a woman’s flesh an inventive home video would see Vincent through those nights spent alone. The adage about Nature abhorring a vacuum proved especially true for single men.  Whenever a woman’s hand was unavailable, there was always his own.

Moira paused, contorting her face in mock concentration while she pretended to consider his suggestion.  She was toying with him, but he expected that much. Women enjoyed doing that, as if false modesty were a coy remnant from some earlier age as tight-assed as the new millenium was in danger of becoming.  Finally she answered, “Sure. Why not?  But I’ve got a suggestion too. You want to set up that fancy shutter box while I share it with you?”

She did not have to ask him twice. He pulled a tripod from the closet and placed it beside the bed before the woman might have second thoughts. When he rejoined her Moira was holding her nylons balled in her hands.

“You ever play blind man’s bluff?” she asked, tugging at the sheer material  like a child twisting a long strand of taffy, hiding half her face demurely behind the extended nylon. 

“Not since I was a kid.”

“Well, Vincent, tonight you get to be a kid again.  Shut your eyes.”

Like an obedient child, he did just that. He knew this game, and playing it was going to make for one hell of a mind fucking video.

She tied the stocking securely around his face, covering his eyes and wrenching the fabric so tightly his temples throbbed.  He forced himself not to wince with the sharp pain.

Blinded, he heard the young woman sifting through her hand bag for whatever paraphernalia she had brought along.  Some object jingled and snapped, something metallic sounding like locks twice being opened and clicked shut again. In workmanlike fashion the woman secured his wrists to the supports of the beds brass head rest. She had handcuffed him, and the cuffs were strong suckers from what he could tell. Unable to pull free he yanked himself into a clumsy sitting position, preparing himself for a whole lot more action than, up to this moment,  he would have had any right to expect.

“I’m guessing you’ve done this before,” he said.

“Oh yes. That I have. Wipe that smile off your face, please, or I might become very cross with you.”

“The stocking’s a little tight. Could you loosen it a little?”

“I could. But no. I won’t. You don’t want to spoil the surprise I have planned for you, do you?” She kissed his mouth hard,  her tongue playing hide-and-seek with his. Pulling away she shoved him into the mattress so abruptly he lost his breath. While he gulped for air she tore his jockey briefs from under him. He lay twisting naked before her.

Vincent felt the sudden rash of a blush heat his face.  The reaction to his complete vulnerability first startled, then fascinated him.

“Got you where I want you, huh, Vincent?  Excuse me for just a moment, will you, sweet cakes? I’ve some business to attend to.”  

A moment later Moira’s voice came from what sounded like the kitchen. “Just getting a few things I may be needing. Don’t miss me too much.”  Drawers opened and slammed shut as if the woman were searching for something, but Vincent could not imagine what.

 …or maybe he could . 

“Moira?”

Nothing. Not a word.

“What the fuck–?”  

In the momentary silence a disquieting thought occurred to him. Had he been scammed? Was this woman playing him for a sucker,  seducing him just to rip him off and leave his sorry ass tied here while she ransacked his apartment?  Bar sluts stung wealthy schmucks all the time as a way of life. Christ, some made a living of it. He probably didn’t even know this woman’s real name. Maybe she had lied to him about working for Shengold and Roth too. How could he have been such a stupid shit not to see this coming? 

He pulled at the cuffs that bound his hands to the posts, feeling the flesh of his wrists chafe against the tight metal shackles that scraped harshly against the brass supports. Moira had done a damned good job making certain he could not pull himself free. She was probably robbing him blind right now.

No, not blind.  

Blindfolded.

“Hey!  Come on, Moira! Let me in on it, will you?”

Stupid… Stupid… 

The attorney inside his brain told him that something didn’t add up. There were easier ways to pull this off besides fucking him, and what would the woman hope to find in his kitchen anyway?  Maybe this scenario was part of her game, meant to keep him anxious inside his darkness, intended to make him feel weak and vulnerable. It was a power thing, probably rooted in dated buzz words like penis envy. Moira needed this master/slave bullshit to get herself off.  That had to be it. 

 Had to… 

As silently as a panther she had returned to him. Probably she had been standing aside for a minute or two watching him squirm, savoring the moment.

“I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille,” she said in a throaty whisper that was not an altogether poor imitation of Gloria Swanson. “I turned the camera on, okay?”

Before Vincent could respond she pressed her mouth against his with such breathy force the woman could have been administering CPR.  She smeared his face with wet kisses as if tasting him, sucking and biting at his flesh as she progressed slowly down his neck, kneading his chest with her sharp nails as her tongue slid south in long serpentine streaks. Stopping at his inner thigh she teased him with her fingertips, thumping on his skin, then scratching at it.  He could not tell if she had drawn blood, but he would not be surprised if she had.

“What were you looking for in my kitchen?” he finally managed, aware his voice had lost its wise ass edge.

“Nuh huh.”  

Her mouth curled into a smile as her lips touched his warming inner thigh, and he could not help smiling too. Moira’s open mouth continued its voyage upward. Her lips airbrushed his cock, then took it slowly inside her mouth while her tongue did a mad dance around it.

“Christ, that feels so good–”  

The woman stopped his words by touching his lips with cold fingertips.

“Don’t speak.”   

He felt a  sudden freezing wetness between his legs and recognized at once what the woman had taken from his kitchen.  Moira had slipped ice cubes into her mouth, and Vincent throbbed and swelled with each flick of her chilled tongue. Something bestial reawakened from deep inside him, some ravenous and unwieldy ogre taking its commands from the blood-gorged member pulsating between his legs. Forcing himself to remain silent he concentrated instead on the soft skimming of the woman’s cold lips touching his balls with quick angel kisses. In his mind’s eye he pictured Moira’s lips blue with the icy chill of the cubes warming to the hot flesh of his prick, and he thrust himself at her so she could take him full into her mouth.  

She did. Moira filled her throat with him, licking and biting at his cock like an insatiable animal finally come to feed. Her mouth became a living thing, moving in a rhythmic stop-action motion strobing inside his brain. He wanted to break free of the blindfold and cuffs, to tear his fingers inside his tormentor’s snapping pussy and to fist fuck her raw, then to dine on Moira’s dripping cunt until she begged that he shove himself inside her. In the same moment he almost spilled the volcanic ash bubbling within his groin, she stopped herself cold.

“Do you want to fuck me, Vincent?”

“Yes.”

“Let me hear you say it.  Tell me how much you want to fuck me…”

“I want to fuck you.”

“How  much,  damn you! Tell me how  much  you want to fuck me!” 

She scattered a handful of ice cubes between his legs. The freezing sensation first numbed then excited him while she lapped at the icy puddles in his crotch like a thirsty cat. Vincent’s body twitched and heaved almost against his will.

“I want to fuck you more than anything Ive ever wanted! I want to fuck you in your mouth, in your cunt, in your ass. I want to fuck you six ways from Sunday!  I want to fuck you until your goddamned eyeballs explode!”  

 “Do it!”  she screamed at him, sitting on his chest and pushing her damp vagina into his mouth.

“My hands?” he asked, his voice pleading like a horny teenager’s. “Will you free my hands so I can touch your tits?”

She slapped him open-palmed across his face, slamming him so hard  his front teeth came down painfully on his tongue.  He tasted his own blood.

“No pleasure without pain, you bastard! Do as I tell you!”  

And now her cunt came alive too. It rose and fell on his mouth, and Moira pressed herself so hard against his face he almost could not breathe. Despite the blood inside his mouth he crammed his tongue into her, eating her while grotesque animal noises escaped from deep inside his throat, eating every inch from inside the woman’s vagina until his jaw throbbed with flashes of sharp pain.

She took his cock into her hands sucking it more vigorously than before, almost chewing on it. Vincent pictured his own blood dripping from her teeth into the reddened flesh surrounding his balls, blood she had swilled from his torn skin. Still he engorged inside the woman’s mouth.  She lifted herself on him, and as he slid himself inside his cock grow even harder.  

Straddling him, she leaned and arched her back as if reaching for something above her, then heaved and swelled like an ocean wave breaking on him. The release of hot semen seared through his prick as if he had ejaculated battery acid.

He screamed.  He had to scream. And just as quickly he stopped.

Because something hit his head hard…  

Vincent had only enough time to feel the thick pain explode in his temple.  He passed out that moment into a darkness blacker than what lay behind the woman’s nylon stocking that he still wore tied to his face.

***

Damn. 

Vincent’s head hurt. It hurt bad. He rubbed his temples to soothe the throbbing of the turbojet engines revving inside his brain. It took a moment for the realization to hit him.

 My hands are free!  

When he pulled the nylon stocking from his face the burst of sunlight almost blinded him. Squinting through the mixture of pain and daylight, he looked at his digital clock on the night stand. It was 10:32 a.m.  

 …and the girl was gone. 

Maybe he had been right about that harpy all along, and he was not sorry Moira had left. There certainly was no kick in waking up with the Marquis de Sade. Pulling himself from bed he stepped on the cracked remains of what had been his Sony camcorder. She must have used the video camera to bludgeon him.

“Crazy bitch,” he muttered.

He checked his belongings on the bureau.  The Rolex remained where he had left it and seventy-three dollars lay untouched inside his alligator wallet. At least the woman hadn’t taken anything expensive that he could tell. The videotape cartridge of last night’s performance lay in the middle of the bureau as if Moira had cleared a space for it. Vincent knew he must look like shit. He stared into the wall mirror to verify it.

Moira had smeared four words in blood red lipstick on the glass:

PLAY THE TAPE, VINCENT

He felt genuinely curious now.  Something seemed very squirrely about all of this.  He snapped the video cassette into his VCR and sat on the edge of his bed to watch the Toshiba’s monitor.

Moira came on screen standing in his kitchen. She wore the black spandex mini and was still combing her hair when the picture came on.

What the hell is she do–? 

He leaned forward while she spoke to him with words uttered the night before.

“Hello, Vincent. You couldn’t videotape this particular scene with me because at the moment you’re chained to your bed post waiting for me. And I’ll bet while watching this you’re still wondering, ‘Now just what the fuck was that lunatic bimbette doing in my kitchen making such a racket?’” She pulled a  drawer open and quickly slammed it shut, opening it again to rattle the contents. “See, I didn’t want you to hear what I was really doing in here when I let a very special guest into your apartment. Damned clever of me, wouldn’t you agree, Vincent?”

He scratched his head. The woman was making no sense. Clearly she had come more unzipped than he had imagined.

He heard his own voice on the videotape call to her from the bedroom.

“Moira?” 

On screen, Moira smiled.

“You were getting pretty antsy all chained up in there, weren’t you, sweet cakes? I don’t have very much time, so I guess I should explain what–”

He heard himself on the tape interrupt her again.

“Hey!  Come on, Moira! Let me in on it, will you?”  

“That I will, Vincent.  That I most certainly will,” the woman said directly into the camera. “Tell me, Vincent. Have you asked yourself who’s been holding this expensive Sony while I’ve been making my little speech?”

Almost answering her aloud he felt like an idiot because the thought had not even occurred to him.

The video camera jiggled for a moment, and Moira’s face lost its clarity. The camcorder exchanged hands and now Moira was holding it. The automatic focus kicked in. Once it did, Vincent’s mouth came open as if his jaw had dropped a screw.  

Some other woman was staring at him from the television’s screen. She seemed a sickly imitation of Moira, and her emaciated image roused something sinister inside the shadowy caverns of Vincent’s psyche as a distant memory struggled to be reborn. 

“Vincent, meet my sister. You see, she followed that taxi we took here tonight. Look hard at her. I imagine the family resemblance might be difficult to spot now. But you already know her name.  Think back a few years. You know my big sister, don’t you?” Moira leaned closer to the camera lens. “You  do  know her, don’t you, Vincent?”  

He formed the name on his tongue without uttering a sound. 

“See… Seena…”   

 But the ashen faced woman staring back from the television screen was nothing like the Seena he remembered. 

“I know I’m not very pretty to look at, Vincent,” the woman said in a loathsome mimicry of her sister’s voice. “But you once thought I was. During our one night together you told me I was the most beautiful woman you had ever seen. Is that what you tell all your women? Is that how you get them into that big brass bed of yours?”

Moira zoomed in for a close-up of Seena, enabling Vincent to take a more intimate look at the woman whose ulcerous skin hung in fleshy tatters from her face like a ruined patchquilt. He had to force himself to look at the screen. 

“It’s syphilis, Vincent. The final stages of venereal disease and extremely contagious, caught during one intoxicating evening back in those decadent 80’s when safe sex wasn’t even a part of a man’s vocabulary. Certainly it wasn’t a part of yours. But you always had Lady Luck in your corner, didn’t you? Yours was a dormant form of the spirochete, making you only a delivery boy for the bug, so to speak. Lucky you. That’s what my doctors told me can happen, since you don’t appear to have been infected. Me, I wasn’t so lucky, as you can see for yourself.”  

The picture jiggled as Seena reached to her sister for the camera. Moira came on the screen again while putting on her coat.

“But that doesn’t mean Seena can’t return the favor with some of those micro-organisms you were so willing to share with the women in your life, Vincent. Still feeling lucky enough to roll those dice again? No pleasure without pain. Remember?” 

Moira’s smile evaporated. She finished buttoning her coat and walked out, closing the door very gently behind her. Vincent understood why.

He sprang from the mattress to watch close-up while the videotape’s prologue played out. But already he knew where the rest of the previous night’s documentary was heading.  Elbowing the beads of sweat from his forehead he watched the remainder of the recorded drama unfold on the screen.

“I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille,”  the bony creature on the television’s monitor joked to the blindfolded man handcuffed to the brass posts. 

And Vincent gagged as he watched Seena crawl naked into his bed…

Victim

> U get it?
> Yep U still good for half?
> How much?
> $500 total. $250 U
> …
> I know its $$$. We All Access.
> …
> Don’t be a little bitch, U know you want it.

Kyle sat back, looking at the message stream while he did the math on the two-hundred and fifty bucks he now owed Ryan. It was twice as much as he’d spent on Cyberpunk, hell, it was almost triple what he spent on Witcher 3 even with all the DLC downloadable content – but he figured it was worth it. Plus, he could use his VR surround goggles and really get into it big time.

> Transferring…
> It better be worth it.
> Dude, it’s fuckin sick. I’m in.

Kyle Venmo’d the cash to Ryan and waited for their new shared password to pop up. They’d both VPN in, of course – making sure their real names, web identities and even where they were in the world remained anonymous as they went. Nobody in their right mind would want to publicly admit to being part of this underground MMORPG. Even if it was make-believe. It was still one sick fuck of a game and just the hint that you were playing it could result in major trolling and flaming online by all the snowflakes and Libtards who took offense. He couldn’t see the problem all these sensitive assholes were taking a fit over it. It wasn’t like they’d be doing it in real life, right?

The message window on Kyle’s computer popped up with a long multi letter and number combo password that he immediately saved. He rapid-fired back a message to Ryan, as he flipped open the Reddit board dedicated to Victim. It was time to brag about getting in.

> Okay, Got it.
> Signing off at 0000. U got it until 1200
> Yeah, yeah. Whatevs
> Jelly much?

Kyle sighed, knowing that he’d lost Ryan until midnight and until then he’d be jonesing to jump back on with the same ID. There was no way they’d be able to afford a month membership each and they’d figured they’d piggy-back on the same sign-in code. The guys running Victim wouldn’t care. They already got the cash. So, what if their account stayed up for twenty-four hours? It wasn’t like they could prove they were scamming them. Plus, five hundred bucks for a month was rich. Really rich and Kyle barely had his share. He had no idea where Ryan was IRL or if that was even his real name.

They’d met on Reddit, the front page of the web that hosts bulletin boards for like-minded gamers, fans and nerds and bonded over the bullshit rush-to-street date on the Polish developer’s CD Projekt Red and their futuristic open-world game, Cyberpunk 2077. Billed as the most realistic in-world simulation, it was supposed to be everything that Ready Player One’s worldscape, The Oasis promised. Of course, it wasn’t. Huge bugs, corrupt files and millions of noobs clogging bandwidth had crashed the game multiple times in the first month – and now sixteen months down the line, the place was still a mess of patches and fast fixes that sucked balls. Ryan and Kyle had bonded over trash talking the developers of the game and ended up bouncing from Warcraft to Elder Scrolls looking for new gamers and even established clans they could fuck with once they both got banned for life for flaming the Polish creative team with ‘racist behavior not suitable for the platform’ according to the tersely worded letter they got from the lawyers. Whatevs.

Kyle was fifteen, going on thirty living not-so-large in his Dad’s trailer here in Mobile. He’d grown up with his older brother Duncan, before he shipped off to Raghead land, popping his cherry online back in the day with him. He’d learned everything he needed to know about sex thanks to Pornhub, watched the old Bumfights wino vs. wino street fight videos even his Pop’s enjoyed and he had no love lost for anyone not white or American once they sent Duncan back home in a small box because they couldn’t find all of his bits.

So, when Ryan pinged him way late just as he was going to crash about this new MMORPG out of Romania, he figured that is was going to be for another fire-run at trash talking the ex-Commie assholes or messing with their IP’s. Kyle was blown away with Ryan’s IT chops, he ate code all day and night – and he’d taken Kyle under his wing as a student. Kyle didn’t know how to chop it up anywhere near as tight as Ryan did so he just did the coding grunt work as Ryan planned their major commissioned hacks and attacks.

> U hear about Victim?
> Wassup?
> Fucking tight. I’ll send U some screen grabs. DW snags

The pictures Ryan sent over to Kyle were like nothing he’d ever seen before. Choice.

Whoever was behind Victim was a genius, a deep web covert artist clearly coloring outside the lines. Kyle slugged back the last of his warm hi-test cola as he stared at the assortment of pictures Ryan had nabbed.

> Subs Crypto only. Deep Web grabs.

Ryan had snagged an assortment of shots of a room that looked almost like the garage bay where his Pop’s worked. Industrial car lifts in the back, oil smears and shit everywhere with a ratty old desk chair next to a steel table full of cutting tools. Except these tools were coated in sticky black goo staining the pitted aluminum surface. Blood.

The next few images showed a before-and-after shots of some hippie-looking guy, just some joe, tied to the chair with a Mortal Kombat 8-bit graphics overlay asking something in Cyrillic text. Kyle didn’t have a clue what it said, but it didn’t look good for the guy.

As Kyle flipped through the shots, he realized that whoever these guys were that built this game, they’d done it up right. Projekt Red had gone too big, too soon – promising the world to everyone – and got caught by the sheer size of their space and the ravenous demand of the online players. Here, the guy in the chair looked real – really real – with the latest Unreal metahuman models working overtime. They’d spent all their time on the actor model, every pore of his battered face clean and clear. None of the janky video mannequins that were still the norm in real-time game play. The cut scenes always looked good – but the in-engine playable stuff was usually stiff and fake. These guys were smart. They spent their money where it mattered. The whole world just seemed to be a one-room shithole. Not a ton of processing needed for that.

And the dude in the chair was like he was really there. 

> This shit looks real real.
> IK, right?
> I ran Google translate on the text OS. Sending.

Onscreen, even with the crap quality of the screengrabs, clearly designed to look like some old-school found footage movie, the hippie guy was shit scared. And really hurting. There were closeups of his bloody eyeballs and smashed teeth once the pliers started tearing his face apart. Someone had rearranged his face drastically and a clock onscreen and a hit counter tabbed up the damage. Not a hard interface to work out.

Kyle felt his Cola kick back in his throat, the hard acid reflux gagging him as he scanned the final photos and found out that you could pull someone’s eyes out and leave them dangling on their cheeks as you started to mutilate their genitals. Very fucking cool.

Onscreen, in another window, Ryan’s decrypted text unspooled for Kyle.

> How long can you go? Pick a player and your tools. Longest life onscreen wins. Use avatar and design your Victim. In-Engine purchases apply. Rape module now available. Upgrade now?

The indicators to the left of the guy showed time elapsed and the variety of tools used on the guy. Upgrades to hammers, knives and even chainsaws were available for keeping the person in the chair alive the longest. Looked like the dead guy has stuck it out for four hours and seventeen minutes. A red AMATEUR badge was overlaid onscreen. No rape.

> Can U pick the Victim you want?
> Yep. Costs more though. VIP only.
> Sweet.

And like that, Ryan and Kyle were in. It didn’t take long for the rest of the web to catch on once the developers moved the prototype out of the deep web and into the mainstream with ads on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and on Discord before they all got shut down for community violations. Hell, even Colbert talked about the game late night along with that fat baby out of LA right after him. All of them looked shocked and disgusted and freaked out about the idea of torturing an avatar online for points. But Kyle could bet that they all probably signed up – especially the LA guy. He looked like he’d enjoy torturing someone for points. Victim went mainstream, like porn, and everyone wanted in. Of course, there was a large majority of overly-sensitive folkx who complained about the fact that the number of women being tortured and raped was disproportionally more than men and that coloreds were also much more likely to be bound and beaten and killed than white males. But how would they know that if they hadn’t signed up and played?

All Kyle and Ryan could bitch about was that the cost of playing was so high. And that now that Victim was semi-legit, they’d put a locked and secured paywall and ID verification that required all of their players be at least eighteen or whatever passed for being an adult in their country of origin. Anonymous leaderboard stats were published online on Reddit and on the official Victim homepage (which you had to be a member for only $500 a month) with video feeds and downloadable pix but nobody knew what to expect unless they were legit signed up. Even the pictures Ryan had got from the deep web had gone. Nobody knew anything. Unless they paid.

Victim went public within the first year of being online with an IPO. NASDAQ shit the bed.

E-Sport leagues, the corporate dickwads that played Fortnight and League of Legends all complained once Victim petitioned to be included in their championship events. With the amount of money kicking around the torture MMORPG, it was only a matter of time and beaucoup bucks before they made the cut. No pun intended. A special black site was created for Victim participants to compete in and both Musk and Branson plus a few other rich techno dweebs had promised huge cash prizes for the new leaders every month.

It was Ryan’s brilliant idea to mod up a false adult ID that he and Kyle could use to get on. It took most of that first-year backtracking and establishing banking and false ID credentials that he swapped for IT work to create a proper footprint. He farmed the repetitive code stuff out to Kyle as they established their digital grownup to join up.

And now they were in.

When Ryan logged off at 0000, Kyle almost texted him just to get an idea of what it was like. After all, they both knew what they’d signed up for – a chance to torture a digital human being for the longest time possible. Victim guarded their own private feed seriously with banishment the price for revealing any of the secrets as to the length of time ‘in-game’ and the actual number of attacks or implements used. Video and screen grabs were an instant fail.  The folks that posted on Reddit that claimed to have been actual past subscribers turned out to be mostly bullshit artists, Kyle figured. A woman in Jersey said she’d kept an ex-husband avatar alive for forty-two days with a combination of slow razor cuts you-know-where and limited dirty water rations – but she was quickly shouted out as a liar once web detectives found out she’d never been married or even had an active account with the service. There were rumors out of China of super-extreme torture and interrogation techniques from Red Army veterans who’d done this stuff but it was unofficial. Only top-ranked AOPs – artists of pain as they were known knew the real truth. And they weren’t saying anything here on the open web. At $500 a pop per month, it was a high-price to pay for messing someone fake up – but people paid because it looked so real and they could make up anyone they wanted if they paid extra. Of course, people paid extra in game. Who wouldn’t?

Kyle signed in via his VPN and used the code he shared with Kyle to log in. He flipped on his VR headset to connect as a staccato flashing light surrounded him. He was online.

…

Lights, hard white lights shone in his face as he shook his head, his tongue thick in his mouth. Kyle couldn’t move his arms or legs. The room stank of blood, thick and meaty as he squinted against the harsh brilliance surrounding him. Sitting across from him was an old-school video monitor, smeared and dirty but still readable in the vivid kill room.

To his left, the tray thick with the hooks and the cruel tools of the Victim artist. He tore at the bonds strapping him to the chair he had recognized from the pictures Ryan had sent him and the other images he had heard about. He was in-game. Locked down. Stuck.

Onscreen, the rapid typing of an incoming text message cascaded down the monitor.

> Hey, K. U made it in.
> I’m sorry U had to wait…
> But U be happy to know Ur part of the next DLC. Had to keep things fresh

Kyle screamed as the video feed changed to a wide shot of himself strapped to the chair. Onscreen his health counter winked on as a stopwatch ticker started. Two floating hands, an operator’s control rig selected a scalpel from the tray lying on the table and moved slowly towards him.

> Ur Phase II
> Kids.
> …
> I think this is gonna be MEGA. Subs have been asking 4EVR
> Thx. For playing. R. xoxo

Lacking

Mr. Dawes had just died and I still needed to get Mrs. Singh her water when Owen presented me with the lollipop. 

“I hear somebody missed out on trick-or-treating,” said Owen’s punchable face. He held out a shitty little kids’ lollipop. “Just our way of saying thanks, Kelly. To you and all the other nurses.” 

“Yeah, I’m not really in the mood for a goddamned lollipop, Owen. We’ve been surrounded by nonstop death for over a year, no time off, no pay increase, understaffed, and anytime we complain, nothing gets done. And you’re offering us lollipops? Rethink that. Also: I suspect you wouldn’t have said that shit about trick-or-treating if I were a man.” 

I turned away before Owen could respond. Owen’s admin, so there shouldn’t be too much fallout. 

As I pulled into my driveway that night, I realized I never got Mrs. Singh her water.

***

I can only watch horror movies these days. I find them soothing. Movies meant to cheer people up make me feel stabbier.

I get home before Tom and turn on Murder Moose:

The cyclists awake to find their bicycles gone. Lindsay screams and points upwards: their bicycles are twisted around the highest branches of the pines. 

“Can a moose even do that?” Lindsay cries. “Are we sure it’s not a human–” 

Brandon rolls his eyes. “Of course it’s the moose! Who else would target cyclists, Lindsay? Everyone loves us. We’re not cars.” 

“We’re gonna die out here,” Trevor whispers.

Todd slaps Trevor. “Don’t say that.” 

“Oh yeah? How the fuck do we escape without our bicycles, Todd?” snarls Brandon.

“I’m nothing without my bicycle. Nothing,” whimpers Lindsay. 

“We’ll hike out.” Todd tries to sound confident.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?!” screams Lindsay.

“It’s not so different,” Todd protests. “We’ll still be using our feet, just for walking instead of pedaling–” 

They attack Todd all at once:

“That’s not the same!” 

“You’re talking crazy!” 

“I’d rather fucking die!” 

I got reamed out by my supervisor today. 

“That isn’t the way to raise safety concerns, Kelly. The hospital has protocols in place for this.”

“I tried raising my concerns through the protocols. It didn’t do shit.” 

“I understand you’re upset. But social media is never the answer.” 

Last week, they announced we’d be re-using our PPE by flipping it to the opposite side, like in the early days. Two years ago. 

So I posted about it, along with the chronic understaffing-slash-overworking. I was careful to make it about patient welfare. People don’t give a shit about us, not really. All we get are claps and lollipops. 

“Am I fired, then?” I rose from my chair. “No. Because there’s nowhere near enough staff as it is. You’re not going to suspend me, and you’re not going to change anything around here. So let me get back to my work.” I turned and left, not at all sure I wouldn’t be fired.

The cyclists are trying to hike. They’re still wearing their bicycle helmets, for some reason. 

Lindsay takes a few wobbly steps and falls to her knees with an anguished cry. 

“This will never work,” she moans. 

“You just need to get your stepping legs back,” coaxes Todd. 

Tom walks in and watches me watching TV. 

“Murder Moose again?” 

“Mmm.” I don’t look up at him. It hurts my neck to look all the way up at him. Tom is 6’2”; 6’3” when drunk. 

“Can we pick up the pace, Trevor? I can still see the spot where we slept last night–” 

“No shit I’m going slow, Todd! ALL walking is maddeningly slow, once you’ve had a taste of the bike life!” 

“C’mon you guys, we should just give up,” Lindsay says. 

“I’d be in Mexico by now, if I had my bicycle,” growls Brandon. “I fucking love using a bicycle as my primary means of transportation. It’s so fast and efficient, yet environmentally friendly—” 

“Honestly Brandon, how is this helping?” asks Todd.

All this is from the moose’s POV beneath the lake’s surface. The cyclists being wholly ignorant of moose biology, they are unaware that a moose can stay submerged underwater for minutes at a time.

The cyclists are turning on each other:

“No, I didn’t bring a compass, Todd! I also didn’t pack an abacus or a water-divining stick!” 

“Compasses remain useful and relevant in the present day, Brandon!” 

Brandon rolls his eyes.

“Fuck walking. I’m gonna swim across this massive lake,” says Trevor. “I was MVP of the water polo team four years running. I’ll be outta here in no time!” 

Tom sits beside me on the couch. “I told my family we’re coming for Thanksgiving.”

“Cool.”

“You sure about this? There will be kids there. Mostly teens, but Jack’s kids are still small–”

“It’s fine.”

“We don’t have to, you know. I’m ok with that. But, it’s a four hour drive. If you decide you don’t want to be there, I’m not jumping up to drive you home–”

“FINE. Can we not talk about this during my movie?”

Silence, then a disgusted sigh. “Sorry I interrupted your movie, that you’ve seen a hundred fucking times.” 

I hear him lumber off to the liquor cabinet. Tom’s 6’3” most nights now. I don’t say anything.

“Aw what the fuck, these things can swim?!” screams Trevor, glimpsing the antlers cutting through the water. 

“You got this, man!” Brandon shouts from the shore. 

“Glurrrgh–” Trevor splutters as the moose pulls him under. Within seconds, the clear blue waters are turning red. 

“Trevor! Trevor!” Lindsay shrieks. 

Trevor’s empty helmet bobs to the surface. 

“We’re fucked,” wails Brandon. “If Trevor couldn’t outswim the moose, no one can!” 

I should feel bad for Tom but I don’t. I only feel the lack now. That, I feel all the time. I’m endless exposed nerve, set screaming by every little thing. Everything is a reminder; everything is personal.

Todd, the last survivor, hears the ding of a bicycle bell up ahead:

Ding! Ding! 

“Fellow cyclists!” Todd cries. He runs towards the dinging. 

Ding-ding! Ding-ding!

The moose steps out from behind a tree, smiling: it is he who is dinging the bicycle bell. 

Ding-ding, rings the bell as the moose’s smile widens. 

Dingdingdingding–

The screen cuts to black. The film’s instantly-iconic score of EDM tracks layered with moose sounds swells up as the credits roll.

I also feel anger. I have an ever-growing list of enemies. 

Moms are my enemies. Pregnant women bitching about pregnancy are my enemies. Doctors are my enemies. Hospital admins are my enemies. Contract nurses who make shit-tons more than me, yet are too good to deal with bed pans are my enemies. Happy people are my enemies, and women who get knocked up no problem then don’t even want it are my enemies, and people who go ‘have you considered adoption?’ like it’s soooo fucking easy and there are free orphaned babies lying around everywhere are my enemies, and women who’ve been through this but have made peace with their lacking are my enemies … 

***

The living room was a sea of uncles. 

“Why are all these billionaires going to space?” asked Uncle #1. “If Ihad Bond villain money, I’d go to one of those private islands where you get to hunt people–” 

“That isn’t a real thing!” Uncle #2 screamed. 

“Oh, and the ‘moon’ is?” sneered Uncle #3. 

“The moon is absolutely real!” shouted Uncle #2. 

“Why is a priest here?” Kelly hissed in Tom’s ear, her eyes on the quiet man lurking by the curtains. 

“That’s my Uncle Peter.” 

“You have a priest-uncle?” 

“Yeah. So?” 

“Nothing. They’re only the two creepiest categories of adult male, is all.” Kelly continued to eye him warily. This was the closest she’d ever been to a priest. 

Uncle #3’s wife rushed to her husband’s defense: “Stop twisting his words! I know we’re all idiots to you, but we do believe in the ‘moon.’ It’s the landing on the ‘moon’ that–” 

“Why are you using air quotes around moon?!” shrieked Uncle #2.

Uncle #2’s adult daughter wandered in, waving burnt sage. “Ooh, are we talking about the Taupe Mega-Moon? If anyone’s experiencing technological difficulties, you know what’s up! But it’s also the most auspicious Mega-Moon, according to the indigineous–” 

“THIS is your science-fearing progeny?” Uncle #1 roared at Uncle #2. 

“YOU’RE the ones afraid of science!”  

“Why?” demanded Wife of Uncle #3. “Because we dare to question it, because we refuse to be its bitches–” 

“The moment you stop believing in something, it ceases to hold power over you,” intoned Yogic Cousin. 

“That nonsensical yoga-babble isn’t true of science, you insufferable twat,” groaned her father. 

His daughter waved the sage more vigorously in his direction. 

Kelly left the room. Tom watched her go.

***

“Yuh-huh?” Kelly popped her head into the kitchen after hearing her name.

“Oh. Not you, Aunt Kelly,” said a collegiate niece. “I was talking about the latest Kelly O’Kelly film, The Maple Game. I’ve got tickets to an advance screening tomorrow night, WITH O’Kelly herself doing Q&A after.” 

“Wait–Murder Moose Kelly O’Kelly?”

“Are you a fan?” asked Collegiate Niece. “I’m a huge fan. Which is crazy, because I’m not a maplegore type–Canadian sausagefest much?–but O’Kelly’s movies actually say something. You know?” 

She seemed to expect her Aunt Kelly to say something. Kelly rummaged through her brain.

“Oh?” 

“Like Murder Moose. It’s not about a literal moose; it’s a metaphor to examine Canada’s treatment of its indigineous peoples. Like, expropriation of their lands.” 

“Ah. Wow. I … never thought of it that way.”

“The cyclists represent everything terrible about white people.”

“Well, yeah. That I got.”

“What do you like about it?”

“I like how it’s funny and they all die.”

Tom staggered into the kitchen. “Hel-lo,” he sang. 

He went to lean against the garbage can and nearly fell over. “This garbage can is unreliable,” he muttered.

“What’s up?” Kelly snapped.

“Me and my cousin Jack are gonna go to a strip club,” Tom slurred. No need to lie. Kelly was fine with strip clubs, and judged wives who weren’t.

“Fine. Wait–who’s driving?” Jack’s license was suspended more often than not.

“S’me. I am.”

“The hell you are. How tall are you?” 

Tom’s eyes blazed. “Six-three.” 

“Nope. Get an Uber to drive your drunk 6’2” ass.” 

***

“It’s fucked up, right? I want kids too. But it’s not the end of the world if it doesn’t happen. Kelly would be enough for me. But she won’t be happy with just me. I’m allowed to be hurt, right? When she’s basically saying every day, you are not enough?”

“I get it, man. Dina’s the same, always on my case about something. Nothing I do’s ever good enough. Fuck ‘em, right?” Jack laughed.

Tom frowned. He was pretty sure Jack didn’t get it. He tried again:

“And it’s never her fault, when she treats me like shit. It’s the hormone injections. Then she’s mad at me about that. How unfair it is, that she’s the only one sticking herself with needles, wrecking her body … but she’s the one who wanted the treatments! I said years ago, once we couldn’t do it the normal way, that we should focus on adopting. She said she’d be fine with that. But there’s always some reason why she wants to give whatever doctor or procedure another try. And now we’ve sunk tens of thousands into this with nothing to show for it, and guess what, we don’t have the money for an adoption! And that too, is my fault–”

“Don’t think about that shit now, man. You’ve got the night off! You’re gonna love this place. It’s not like a regular strip club. It’s in the den of this house out in the suburbs. There’s a bunch of sofas, and TV trays with bowls of chicken wings, any hour day or night–”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Trust me, you’re gonna love it.”

Tom went. He did not love it. He sat by himself on a ratty sofa, painfully sober and worried about Kelly. Jack had disappeared with one of the strippers almost immediately; Tom looked around for him, in vain. It occurred to Tom that Jack may have brought him to a brothel.

“Another one?” asked the buck naked waitress-stripper, gesturing to the dregs of Tom’s shitty well drink.

“Uh, yeah. But could I get it with Smirnoff–”

“Nuh-uh. We don’t do anything like that.”

“You got any beer–”

“Nope.”

“Another vodka-soda, then. Thanks.”

“That’s it?” She cocked her head. “You don’t want anything else?”

“Uhhh … could you take the wings away? They were here when I sat down.” Tom handed her the sticky bowl of congealed wings. “Thanks.”

Kelly seemed to be doing ok this trip, so far. But she was like that sometimes. She’d seem to be having a good time, like the old Kelly. Then something would set her off. She’d drag him aside, begging to go. Tom almost preferred the last couple years, with Kelly refusing to go anywhere there might be children. Or parents, or pregnant women. Even if it meant not seeing anyone at all. No friends, no family. But now Kelly wanted to try reconnecting–

Tom got up to leave. He didn’t want to be here, whatever this was. He went searching for Jack. 

Tom found him down another subterranean level, on his knees, eating out a stripper’s ass. Jack’s back was to him, but he had both arms extended out to his sides, hands in a thumbs-up gesture. 

Tom left.

***

Tom woke up Thanksgiving morning to a new text from Jack: 

Hey man. Me and a couple of the strippers are headed up to Philly for the weekend. Cover for me. 

Tom stared at the message. “What the fuck?!” 

“Wuzzit,” mumbled Kelly.

“My idiot cousin. He took me to some weird suburban bordello last night, and apparently he never came home–”

“Mmmphf crazy,” Kelly muttered as she rolled over. Tom wished she’d been more alarmed by the bordello bit.

“How was your night?”

“Fine. I’m going to the movies with your niece tonight. Advance screening of The Maple Game. She invited me.”

“Oh?” Tom tried not to worry. “You’re sure you want to go?”

“It’s a movie, for fuck’s sake. How broken do you think I am?”

***

Looking around the dinner table, Tom wondered why more people didn’t choose adoption. Everyone has seen their gene pool in action at some holiday gathering. It’s not an inspiring sight.

“No phones on the table!” someone commanded sundry nieces and nephews. 

Looking around the dinner table, Kelly wondered which uncle was the priest-uncle. He wasn’t wearing his collar today. It could be any of them, she thought to herself. 

“Where’s daddy?” asked Jack’s four-year-old, barely visible beneath her homemade pilgrim hat. 

“Daddy’d rather be out gorging himself on treifpussy, than sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner with his kin,” slurred Jack’s wife Dina. “I’m sorry sweetie, but it’s time you knew.” 

“I’m secretly 6’3”,” Tom confided.

Dina knocked over a bottle of Chardonnay. 

“My phone!” screamed a nephew.

“This is classic Taupe Mega-Moon,” observed Yogic Cousin. “We can expect lots of tech mishaps over the next 72 hours, along with enhanced fertility. Ancient Aztecs recorded the phenomenon–” 

“The Aztecs had a word for taupe?” barked an uncle. 

“Excuse me,” murmured Kelly. Tom watched her go.

***

I settle into my seat beside Tom’s niece as The Maple Game begins:

An old grizzled detective surveys the crime scene with his new partner, a rookie who arrived straight from Mountie Academy moments earlier. 

“There’s blood everywhere. It’s still sticky,” observes Rookie Mountie, looking at the floor with distaste. 

“Non. C’est ne pas blood,” says Old Grizzled Detective. “C’est syrup.” 

He kneels down, touches the floor, and brings a finger to his lips. “Grade B,” he whispers. 

It’s hard to focus on the movie. All the usual thoughts are racing around my head. 

The detectives review the kills to date: “We found the first three bodies seated in a row,” Old Grizzled Detective says as he slaps photos down on the table. “The first with a tap in the carotid artery, the second with a tap in the femoral artery, and the third with a tap in the aorta. Maple buckets placed beneath all three taps.” 

Rookie Mountie pales. 

“I knew you weren’t ready,” snarls OGD. “You think THAT’s bad?” 

He thrusts more photos before RM. “He exsanguinated his next victim, then replaced the blood with syrup.”

I can’t fully focus on anything anymore, outside of work. I’m always at a distance. 

The detectives go to Quebec’s maximum security prison to interrogate Jacques Bonaparte, the notorious syrup smuggler. Bonaparte is serving 30 years to life for crimes against FPAQ.

“Well, well. It’s been une minute,” Jacques Bonaparte says to Old Grizzled Detective. 

Rookie Mountie turns to his partner: “You know this fils du chien-féminin?” 

“I’m the one who locked him away.” OGD leers at Bonaparte. “You were good, for a while. The best. What was it–300 successful border runs? But in the end you got sloppy-cocky, like the rest.” 

OGD turns to RM. “These sugarbush farmers can sell their product in America for ten times what they’d get here. Makes a man reckless. We caught this assclown when he tried passing off his Canadian swill as Vermont product. You thought the Vermont palate wouldn’t notice the difference, merde-for-brains?”

The detectives shove a picture before Bonaparte. He whistles and looks away. 

“You know him?” 

“Bien sûr. But it would be better for you, if you did not. He is the most dangerous man in all of French-speaking Canada.” Bonaparte leans across the table: “This man runs the beaver trade for the entire province.” 

RM frowns. “I thought the beaver trade dried up in the 19th century?” 

Bonaparte snorts and spits on the ground. “Where’d you find the Rook?”  

OGD squeezes his eyes shut as though in pain. “‘Beaver trade’ is Québécois slang for sex trafficking, imbécile,” he hisses. “What the merde did they teach you at Mountie Academy?” 

I’m exhausted all the time. By the loop of thoughts I can’t stop. By scary waves of hate and anger. And obviously, by work itself, which has been beyond anything these last two years. Sometimes I worry I’m going to collapse right there in the hospital corridors; I don’t know how I can do it another day. But when I get home and lie down I’m overwhelmed by all the thoughts I can’t be alone with. It’s no good until I’m back on my feet again, flinging myself into work. 

There’s a long flashback to the joint American-Canadian sting operation that brought Jacques Bonaparte down. OGD’s American counterpart was some Vermont lady-babe. They kept it professional, despite their obvious mutual attraction, until they had Bonaparte in handcuffs. But then: 

Young-OGD takes her in his arms. “Now THIS is what I call a sappy romance!” She groans, but fucks him anyway. 

A series of moments between the lovers ensues. In one, she shows young-OGD the Vermont sugaring way: 

“That’s more than enough for today’s breakfast. Take too much sap, and you sap the tree’s strength.” 

OGD’s younger self looks around. “Where is your sugar shack with the industrial-size vats?” 

She laughs. “We don’t need vats for this non-commercial amount! We’ll boil it right on the hearth.” 

They set it on the hearth and by the time they’ve finished making love on the bearskin rug, the sap has boiled down to precisely the right amount of syrup for their oatmeal. It is the most delicious oatmeal he’s ever tasted. 

Young-OGD shakes his head. “Throughout my Canadian boyhood, I was told that American maple farmers were capitalist pigs, who only cared about extracting maximum individualized profits. We were raised to believe that our collectivized way of working the sugarbushes was more humane … I’ve been a fool.” 

Time passes. The lovers are quarreling: 

“Please do not return to your ancestral sugarbush,” she sobs. 

“Barb. These weeks with you have been the most joyeux of my life. If this was about turning in my badge, there would be no question. But c’est ne pas that simple. I’m also a 13th-generation Québécois maple farmer. And my people have a saying: blood is thicker than syrup.” 

“What the shit are you talking about, that’s not even true,” Barb wails. 

I find the flashback interlude boring. It’s an excuse for gratuitous nudity. Barb’s got a bangin’ bod.

The present-day detectives rush to the latest scene: the vic’s been boiled alive in a syrup vat. 

“Mon dieu. What a terrible way to go,” gasps Rookie Mountie. 

The coroner shares her observations: “Your perp’s an insider. Someone familiar with the highs and lows of the sugaring season. Who’s experienced firsthand the olfactory overwhelm of a sugar shack in springtime, when the vats are boiling 24/7. Who KNEW that the heady perfume of 5000 metric litres of boiling sap will mask any smell–even the stench of human decomposition.”

Old Grizzled Detective storms out of the sugar shack, visibly shaken. “This country’s nothing but snow and lies,” he roars. “We all pretend that Canada’s this polite and boring paradise. But there’s another side, the one we don’t talk about. The Canada we never let the world see.”

It’s funny, my head is swimming but when I’m 1:1 with a patient, it all goes away and I’m just there with that patient. Work is my only rest, actually. This is not sustainable.

A flash of false hope: a victim is found alive. The detectives rush to the scene. The officer laughs in their faces: “Oh sure. You’s can talk to him all ya want, for all the good it’ll do ya.” 

He leads them to the vic, restrained beneath the tap of a maple tree, babbling idiotically. 

“They gave him the ‘ole, ahhh, whatever’s the non-offensive word for Chinese Water Torture. ‘Cept with maple sap instead of water. Yup. He’s insane.”

More bad news: their sole informant goes missing. He’s later found dead, subjected to the foie gras-making method of gavage with maple syrup. ‘He got a taste of his own médecine,’ reads the note attached to his corpse.

The detectives return to the station. A mob of protestors awaits. “Why haven’t you found the killers?” shouts a woman bearing a PAS DE SANG POUR SIROP sign.

There is no way to be in this world and avoid reminders of children. From friends. Family. Strangers with kids. Strangers asking if I have kids. Commercials, movies, books. Words like “family” and “school” sting. Nowhere is safe. Not out of the house, not in it. I don’t know what to do.

Old Grizzled Detective confronts Jacques Bonaparte: “You sent us on that wild beaver chase to throw us off! You’re the one running things, even now!” 

Bonaparte sneers. “You think a drop of sap flows in this merde-y province without a oui from me?! Maintenant who is the merde-for-brains, eh?” 

As guards drag him back to his cell Bonaparte shouts, “You believe this will stay within the semi-autonomous borders of Francophone Quebec?! The streets of Ontario will run reddish-brown with blood and syrup before I’m through! Global markets will crash!”

OGD is running and shouting into his phone: “We need every Mountie hauling cul to Laurierville NOW. Special protocols governing Mountie powers within Quebec be damned! The Reserve is under attack! I repeat: The Reserve is under attack! C’est ne pas une simulation!”

***

“Here she is, The Maple Game’s writer, director, AND producer, maplegore’s reigning queen, Kelly O’Kelly!” 

The audience is on its feet, clapping, stamping, cheering, and whistling. O’Kelly, seated onstage opposite the interviewer, doesn’t look up from the flask she is struggling to unscrew. 

The interview is awkward from the get-go. 

“If I’d known how attractive you are, I wouldn’t have agreed to appear onstage with you!” The lady-interviewer fixes O’Kelly with a passive-aggressive smile. 

“Right? It should be illegal for me to wear clothes,” O’Kelly replies. “You should see my snatch. Guys seeing it for the first time, they’re like, ‘Whoa! Have I discovered a heretofore unknown Georgia O’Keefe masterpiece?’ And I’m like, ‘surprise, it’s my pussy!’” 

Appalling silence. 

O’Kelly clears her throat. “Please! I’d kill for your boobs.”

The interviewer fake-laughs. “I have to ask: is Kelly O’Kelly your real name, or–”

“Why the actual fuck would I give myself such a stupid fucking name? Obviously it was my cunt mom; so happy she’s dead.” O’Kelly succeeds at last in unscrewing her flask. “Next question.” 

The interviewer’s done with the fake-laughing. “We have a surprise for you tonight: I’ve received an advance copy of your Times profile out this Sunday–”

O’Kelly looks up. “I haven’t seen–”

“–and I’m going to read some excerpts, and get your thoughts, mmmkay?” The interviewer dons reading glasses and proceeds before O’Kelly can respond: 

“‘She’s a fucking bitch,’ said a former member of O’Kelly’s all-female MGMT cover band, Vulvacular Spectacular. ‘Don’t believe the feminist hype. She hates women. She blew my boyfriend. Right in front of me.’” 

The interviewer continues: 

“‘O’Kelly is, without a doubt, the worst human being I’ve ever encountered,’ confirmed Rita Brooks, her onetime roommate and current Chief Justice of the ICC. ‘She fucked my husband. On Christmas.’” 

“First off, Rita’s Jewish, so I don’t see what Christmas has got to do with anything–”

“But do you deny the substance of what these women are saying?” 

O’Kelly shrugs. “Do I personally remember sucking and fucking these dudes? No. But I might have done. Sounds like me. And I believe in believing women.” 

“You believe in believing women,” repeats the interviewer. “That’s your take on these allegations?” 

“Uhh, what now?” 

The interviewer reads on:

“‘She’s truly sick. She slept with my ex-husband. Who also happens to be her brother.’” 

Gasps from the audience. 

The interviewer removes her reading glasses. “That’s from your former sister-in-law. Would you like to respond?” 

Even from my seat, I can see O’Kelly’s gripping her flask so hard her knuckles are white. “I won’t dignify that with a response. Beyond mentioning, my former sister-in-law is in a vicious custody dispute with my brother, and will stoop to any low to hurt him. Next question.”

The interviewer opens her mouth, but O’Kelly resumes talking:

“You know what? Yeah, I’ve fucked a lot of women’s husbands and boyfriends. And I’m gonna keep on fucking other women’s husbands and boyfriends. Why? Cuz I like it. Sex is dope. I’m glad this is happening now, actually. It’s been exhausting, pretending to be a nice human. Not to mention boring A.F.” 

O’Kelly takes a swig from her flask. 

“Seriously: I’m the one to blame in these situations? I’m not the one cheating and lying; I’m not the one shitting all over promises and vows I’ve made! Women supporting women, my flawless ass.” 

She goes for another swig, but the flask is empty. O’Kelly tosses it over her shoulder. 

“Most of the time, with these men, I can’t stand their bitch wives. That’s not ever my main motivation for fucking a dude, but it is an added bonus. They’re usually spoiled princess types who expect perfect marriages, perfect lives. If I get to chip away at that happiness, good.” 

The audience rumblings are growing.

“I like fucking hot dudes. I don’t care if they’re single or not. But, honestly? It adds a little something, when he’s in a committed relationship. I must be damn hot, if I can turn him. And before you think to yourselves, ‘what a sad, sad woman with low self-esteem!’ lemme just say, soooooo many dudes do the same thing, for the same reasons, with other men’s wives and girlfriends, and no one pathologizes the shit out of them.”

O’Kelly is addressing the audience directly now.

“I don’t care if you watch my movies or not. I don’t care if you hate me. I love my ugly thoughts. I know there are people out there who get this. The ones who get it, I hope what I’m saying makes you feel less alone. The rest of you can fuck off into the night.”

O’Kelly rises and exits the stage.

***

Collegiate Niece is apologizing.

“I had no idea the kind of person … she must be going through a mental health crisis, or … I’m so sorry–”

“Don’t be,” Kelly cuts in. “I loved it. This is the best time I’ve had in ages. She’s awesome. Consider me an even bigger fan.”

Tom can see them through the glass as he waits outside in the cold. He’s annoyed until he sees Kelly’s face. She’s smiling and laughing, really laughing.

 What Is Happening To Me

Can I call you back up in a few minutes, Margie? Someone is knocking at the front door.

I hung up the phone with my wife, and I opened up the front door. 

Standing outside was this beautiful looking woman who had tears in her eyes.

What’s the matter, I asked?

Why are you crying?

Please come in and take a seat in the living room with me. 

We sat down on the couch and she thanked me for being such a nice man.

So, why are you crying?

Please do not think that I am losing my mind for what I am about to tell you. If I do not have an orgasm within the next few minutes, I am going to turn into a giant poisonous snake.

Oh my goodness, are you feeling alright?

You see, I knew that was going to be your reaction, sir.

Why can’t you just have an orgasm by yourself?

Those were the rules that were given to me. My orgasm has to be given to me by another person. It is a long and complicated story, sir.

You have got to believe me.

After I have my orgasm, I will tell you all about my current predicament and where I came from.

Is this some sort of practical joke that my wife set up for you to do to me?

Of course not, the lady replied to me.

By now, she was crying out of control.

Please, I beg of you, please help me.

That’s it, I cannot waste any more time. It’s only a matter of moments before I turn into a snake.

Suddenly, she began taking off all of her clothes and then started to take off my clothes as well.

What are you doing? I am married!

Please, I beg of you, your wife will understand if she knew what was in store for me.

Then, she stuck her naked rear end in my face and told me to put my fingers in her vagina and in her asshole.

That’s it, do it just like that, but with more passion. Oh my god, that feels so incredibly good. I feel like I am within seconds of having my orgasm. I feel it coming any second now.

Suddenly she vanished and I just stood there in total disbelief. In her place was this gigantic snake staring straight into my eyes, its tongue was darting in and out of its mouth.

Oh my goodness, she was telling me the truth.

The snake was inching closer and closer to me.

Help, somebody help me!

It was then that I heard a loud, blaring noise.

Just as the snake was just about to strike, I realized where the sound was coming from. I reached over in my bed to turn off my alarm clock.

Honey, are you alright, my wife asked.

Yes, I just had a very strange and terrifying dream, my love. I’m better now, though.

Thank goodness that it was just a bad dream.

Come closer and give me a kiss, Margie.

As my wife opened up her mouth to kiss me, I began screaming, as I noticed her tongue had transformed into that of a snake. It darted in and out of her mouth as she asked me what was wrong.

I thought that you wanted a kiss from me?

How come you are not kissing me back?

Is my morning breath that repulsive?

Everybody Needs A Daddy 

Daddy holds your ID in his pocket because you don’t have those — clothes at all.  College girl, southern drawl, bites the Big Apple, 23, where everybody doubts you are old enough to be at this sex party, stripped, spanked and whipped.  Small town Southern breeding exacerbates a physicality of young-eyed innocence which disturbs the local swingers enough.  A “little girl” who likes it rough, doesn’t want to cum from pain is the kind of girl rich sadists put on planes.   

Need to cry, scream, suffocate, sometimes bleed  — at movie theaters, you’re still IDed.  This new daddy likes the side-eyes he scores holding hands with you in candy stores, your hair in braids, his pinstripes Michael Kors with a houndstooth seven-fold tie, the vanilla disapproving scoffs that make you shy.  He could take out your ID any moment — always keeps it close by.

But he saves that for parties.  Takes it out of his pants for both the concerned and his dom sycophants curious about this new womanchildish addition to his ddlg retinue.  If he pulled out his own, they would know he was only 32, just nine years your senior though his hair’s going prematurely gray.  It adds to the gravitas of his character in this polyamorous age play roleplay.  

You learn this lawyer was once a stage actor when he takes you to Broadway, a play about people putting on a play with Robin Rees, Frances Conroy.  Detail of a life amidst interrogations, you discern, is less about care than decoy.  The more you learn the less mysterious he is to his most impressionable toy.  

But it’s acknowledgement, at last, he wears a mask — not just in sadomasochistic displays at naked parties where you are always cast, one of his favorite props.  He wears three piece suits, this persona in ice cream shops.  Drops more interesting facts over pink peppermint about his former affluent wife who outgrew their kinky experiment. You know real love will require he drop this false face.  Each peek behind it he gives you teases a taste of trust you must earn one detail at a time.  His parents are missionaries, you learn after anal sex at bedtime.

But it’s after a sushi dinner your whole worldview is changed.  You are the only female amidst a table of aged male doms where sordid stories are exchanged about power and control and acquisitions like you.  You blush frequently, answer only when spoken to — until the waiter, refreshing your water, questions is that cute skirt a Burberry plaid?  Not even really a flirt, but you giggle until you see the glowering expression of the hirsute man, mad, on your right, ruddy brute in gray suit, you have only just met tonight.

“Mind your collar, child.”  He speaks while dark irises spark.  No one hears the correction but you in the diaphanous dark only punctuated with tapered light.  You look to Daddy at your left, afraid he might have, but he’s recounting a tale of a torture by toad to the others there.  You stare at your plate, fiddle with hair. 

When dinner is over, before you go home, you spy the two of them speaking alone.  The elder’s hand on Daddy’s back, both looking toward you.  His has the coldest of stares, the iciest blue.  You ponder your decorum in silence all the way the home.  The man who dined on your right has powers unknown.  

Alone in the guest bedroom (Daddy doesn’t visit tonight), you cry for your sins, however slight, until you hear feet by your bed.  Raise your head.  Hope it is him, but it is his primary, the lover, live-in.  She has a sophisticated power, submits only to him.  Hasn’t been nice to you unless he’s around.  She is not a fan, it is clear, of little girls from small towns. 

Helpless to disguise this pain before one who’s happily restrained you for varieties of hurt, you listen to her explain the master’s mind as she toys with your skirt.

“Mark was his dominant for some time.  He is still very much — a mentor, a daddy to him.”

She wipes away tears as you quietly process the biggest revelation to date.

It’s not this new information that Daddy isn’t straight.  You’re bisexual yourself;  he’d not be the first bi guy you’d date.  It’s the submissive part that is hard to process. You’ve never met a man who could finesse such a tearful plea, dominate without a modicum of indignity.  In negotiated public scenes at times as brutal fights, he always found his way to what he likes.  Safewords in place are rarely used.  You’ve kissed, time and again, his whipping hand, self-abused, from overuse on needy skin, a plethora of curious women because everybody needs a daddy to hurt them right — even yours, you learn, in New York City tonight. 

Pink Flamingo & Silver Tinsel

Note to self, literally.

I can’t write “Dear Claudia,” because I don’t know if I’ll have earned my own affection by the time I reread this. I’m giving myself three years to decode my own love language, starting with this letter. Three years to assess and essentially rewrite my life seems to be the sweet spot for this self-esteem experiment. One year would make me too time-pressed to meet my goals and two would be too soon to forget where I came from.

Turning a potential suicide note into a spark of motivation, a pinprick of promise, will be the best Christmas present anyone could give this Cigar City stripper.

I’m told, by self-help books and balding TV personalities, that tough love is the first step towards transition.

So listen up, you stupid hoe. There are going to be some changes.

Instead of getting the cops called on you for blasting Mariah Carey’s Christmas album at ungodly hours, you’re going to lay low. Stick your goddamn nose in a book, why don’t you? Let the septum piercing anchor you in.

No, scrolling through Wattpad erotica your friend Bambi writes from her iPhone doesn’t count. We both know that bitch can’t spell, let alone produce thought-provoking material. (Secret Santa-style gangbangs, no thank you.)

How about reading some Nietzsche or Terence McKenna? At the least, clients will buy into your cliché college fund excuse for stripping. Babbling about psychedelic mushrooms in Kris Kringle lore as men throw dollars at your elf heels—now that’s festive.

But if studying philosophy proves to be as boring as perusing dimly lit comic shops late at night, check real estate listings. Girl, we are not letting the Capital of Crazies consume us until we’re putting around Bealls Outlet, complaining our senior discount only works on Fridays. A diet of chew tobacco and Publix subs is not doing you any favors, you hear me?

You are not the Florida trash you’ve befriended, fucked, loved, then begrudged. 

Scraping glitter out of your ass-crack is only glamorous if you’ve accepted that you’re never leaving the trailer park. 

It may take a cranberry red eviction notice, but you’re destined for things brighter than a tin roof strung with shoddy Christmas lights.

Savor your surroundings now because you won’t want more than a memory three years down the line. Next time you trudge home from a night of awkward lap dances and eggnog shots, trace the porch’s rotting rings. Remember the musk of torn window screens and piling fly corpses. Sit on that muddied lounger and relish the tinkle of homemade wind chimes, the sizzle of the electric bug zapper.

One day—instead of cowering behind the blinds—you’re gonna smirk when you look back on your crackhead neighbors scouring the dirt for dropped pills. You’re gonna forget the ball of brawling stray cats you watched for entertainment when you were too high to remember your Netflix password. 

Speaking of getting high, that’s one thing we need to stop if we’re ever going to move on from this sagging mobile. Swimming on molly until you have to call out from a Saturday night shift is worse than treading water.

Remember that night we spent sweating out a pint of Pabst Blue Ribbon, worried our face was permanently frozen in a creepy Casey Anthony leer? What about the time we tried to pass off to our friends that puking on the pristine grasses of a golf course was a woke political statement?

Yeah, fuck that. The only white powder we need is what awaits us up north. Even if we don’t ever get to take a bite out of the Big Apple, we’ll see snow. (I’m sick of thinking trading in a tank top for a Tapout T signifies cold weather.) Hell, we’ll eat snow on sticks with syrup like the Canadians do. 

Keep stuffing your stockings with dollar bills and this hoe will laugh all the way into the next three New Years. 

Okay, so now that I’ve titillated you with dreams of life beyond chicken wire and powdered party favors, I know you’ll heed what’s written.

This is called the miracle season for a reason. 

So, twenty-three-year-old me, what’s life like away from America’s balmy taint: Tampa, Florida? 

Are your nights still riddled with cute clothes and unappealing faces? Are you still working the stage as a bruised minx named Midnight, the Edgar Allen Hoe of strip clubs? Still playing Pokémon Go between half-hearted hand jobs?

Tell me, did you truly escape the skeeviness of living inside a Fiona Apple music video? Or have you moved onto more traditional hustles? Being a hair salon receptionist or small-town real estate agent might suit you. During high school you loved overhearing gossip and snooping around. Hey, maybe you’re something in-between but cooler, like a bartender or news reporter.

Now that you’ve surely stopped dyeing your hair a Grinch green, have you cuffed anything better for yourself lover-wise? (I’m not talking about bedroom cuffs, missy.) 

You learned the hard way that only Gulf Coast swaggots meet for coffee at 4 AM. Yet don’t feel bad if the best you’ve brought home is a stray cat to sleep under your martini-pink Christmas tree. The gift of self-love comes in parts—not parcels. 

Speaking of loved ones, are you answering invitations to festive family gatherings again? Or do you feel too guilty knowing “performance” once meant singing “Hallelujah” in front of steeples and stained glass, instead of gyrating between a wreathed pole and drunken deadbeats? Do you still have nightmares about Mom and Brad finding out you suckle from candy canes while posing in scarlet fishnets for a living?

As I’m sure you’ve learned by now, a profession can’t define you. Can the same be said about an address though? Even if your night-terrors have ceased, I bet there are whispers during the day: “You can take the trash out of the trailer park, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the trash.”

Does driving by an untouched tire swing or an empty dog house trigger your nostalgia? Remember how you cried when your artificial tree crashed to the ground, all its little bombs exploding into neon shrapnel? You swore to do better every year, acquire more comfort than garland and glass keepsakes from childhood to remind you of the good times.

Well, the good times—or marginally better—times are here. At any rate, I bet you don’t miss scrounging up the courage to smash cockroaches into smears on the bathroom wall. What about binge eating under piss-yellow lighting or rolling on sob-inducing substances that make you question if you actually ran over a baby alligator that one time?

Clean. Legitimately employed. Properly housed. Did you listen to me? Did this shitty snapshot in time (capsule) work? Were the resolutions worth waiting three years?

As long as a cord of Christmas lights isn’t twinkling around your neck like a noose, I suppose I’ve done my job.

The bitch who knows you best,

-XO, Claudia

The Director

Quiet On The Set 
Roll Sound 
Camera Ready 
Action

We’d just scored eighty bucks in  crack from the black dudes in the Sugar Hill neighborhood. The car I’m driving burns oil and produces a trail of gray smoke still visible at night. Adding to the car’s unique characteristics is that the license plates were stolen from an abandoned car in South Tucson and on top of it, they’re expired.

Also there’s no registration for the car and I’m driving without proof of insurance. That’s not even the Bingo, my driver’s license has been suspended for over two years with outstanding warrants for my sorry ass. I don’t have any type of identification whatsoever. Yet, here I am at 1:00 in the morning scoring drugs with a prostitute and an ex-convict still on parole as my passengers. I’ve failed to mention one detail, the brake lights don’t work. Every day I say I’ll fix them, but somehow it just never gets done.

It’s only a couple miles of Tucson neighborhood back streets to navigate until we reach our room at the Paradise Motel on South Sixth Avenue.

“Hey Messiah, get me a beer will ya? Do you want one Santi?” Selma asks. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Don’t want to get stopped for open alcohol in the car! Damn, you’re just inviting the cops to bust our asses.”

“Sorry, I figured it would calm you down some. You look all uptight.”

“And drinking a beer in the car would just add to my stress level.”

“Is it okay if I do a hit real quick like? I’ll hold it down out of sight. I promise.” 

“Then Messiah will want a hit. Five minutes later you’ll want another, flicking the god damn lighter off and on. Even a rookie cop knows what that signifies.”

“You know what you are?” she asks. “Do you know? Huh?”

“This ought to be good. No, tell me. Better pick your words wisely, it’s a long walk back to the motel.”

“You ain’t scaring me. You’re not the director of this movie, ass clown!”

“That’s a good street name for Santi, Director,” Messiah chimes in from the back seat. “Selma, it’s perfect! Director, it fits your personality.”

“Just fine, I can live with that name. Now I’m about to direct your ass to get the fuck out of the car and walk. You’re really pissing me off, Selma.”

“What’s wrong with you, Director?” Messiah asks. “Why can’t you lighten up, relax and have some fun?”

“Why? Did you just ask me why I can’t lighten up? I’ll tell you why! Because I have to babysit you two all the fucking time. Both of you don’t have any type of safety filter. You just go about your lives doing what you want to do, without any concern for the consequences of your actions. Just think about it for a few minutes. How many times have I saved both of your lame asses in the past two weeks? I can think of seven, maybe eight times. Do either of you try to change your inane witless actions? Hell no! You both act with a blatant disregard for simple social standards of conduct. What’s even more incredibly amazing is you’re clueless, you have no idea of the level of stupidity you demonstrate.”

“Are you done putting us down? You’re treating us like some kind of lowlife street trash.”

“Sorry you see it that way Messiah. This reckoning is long overdue. I’ve tried to make you aware of this personality defect for a while now. Neither of you would pay any attention to my pleas. You went on ignoring my advice. Maybe this is the only way to get through to you guys. And I apologize if your feelings were hurt. I’m not purposely being disrespectful, if I didn’t love the both of you I wouldn’t take the time to even mention this shit.”

“So what’s this then, your idea of tough love?” Selma asks. “Are you practicing some radical new kind of therapy you read about in one of those books you’re always reading? Let me tell you this, Director, you can’t control what everyone in the whole world does. Life isn’t a movie, so you can shove your bullshit advice up your ass. Stop the car, I wanna get out now!” she screams. “Don’t want you to have to be responsible for me no more. I’m taking two rocks with me, I put in twenty bucks.”

“Ya me too Director,” Messiah demands, “hand over two rocks.”

I stop, give them the crack and put the car in gear.

“Ain’t ya gonna try stopping us, tell us to get back in the car?” Selma asks.

“Hey Messiah, don’t forget your beer in back. Selma, I didn’t tell you to get out. You both said you wanted out. I’m just doing what you requested.”

“You’re a limp-dick son of a bitch!” Selma screams as I drive away.

“My mother was a very nice lady, I’ll have you know!” I holler back at her.

Forty-five minutes later, there’s a knock on the motel door.

Wonder who that could be?

Goregasm

“Don’t you dare stop now, motherfucker!” Jade gasped, gritting her teeth and peeling her lips back, exposing her gums. A giggle escaped her, her eyes glassing over. “You’re right on the mon— Oooh! keep going!” she continued, grabbing a fistful of his slick hair and twisting it, keeping his face pressed against her soddening pussy. 

Jade arched her back, thrusting her hips, driving his lapping, twisting tongue deeper. “Fuck!” her voice quivered.  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, you mucky bastard!” she managed, panting and wriggling, her jeans and panties down ‘round her ankles.  

“Uch-urggh…” he groaned, his wet, soggy noshing sounds bringing a smile to her face.

“Such a good boy, aren’t you? Mummy’s trained you well.” 

A fresh jolt of ecstasy pulsated through her dripping snatch, punching her in the guts, her g-spot numbing. “Just one more orgasm, and I’ll be satisfied. It’s been so— Oh, God,” she said, throwing her head back, her eyes rolling in their sockets. 

And why shouldn’t I enjoy? It’s taken him long enough to figure out what the fuck he’s doing down there! Men, she thought, her hand patting the ground, searching for his arm. My tits aren’t going to play with themselves, are they, dickhead? Guess I’ll have to show this slow fuck everything! she continued to muse, discovering the cuff to his jumper, pulling, the stump where his hand use to be landing on her pert breast, covering it in gore. 

“That’s it, rub the nipple,” she said, manoeuvring his limb, manipulating the stump that had soggy, pus-dripping veins hanging out of its glistening end. “Where’s your other— Shit, never mind! Don’t. Stop!” 

Jade’s fingers dug into the ground, her body quivered, a third orgasm washed over her.

“Yes!” she declared. “Yes, yes, yeees!”

Spent, she opened her thighs and pushed his head away, getting to her feet and pulling her knickers and jeans up. “That’s more like it,” she said, fastening her belt, eyeing the zombie before her. “That’s the first decent bit of coming I’ve done since this whole shitshow of an apocalypse kicked off, pal. Still want to eat blood, guts and brains, now you’ve had a taste of the good life?” Jade laughed. 

The zombie groaned, staggered to its feet and shuffled towards her. 

“You want cuddles now, eh? Well, I suppose you’ve earned them this time,” she said, accepting him, placing his head against her chest, his sunken cheek pressing against her. “It was worth keeping you alive, painstakingly training you, as I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

“Ugh,” he gargled.

“The struggle I had in yanking your teeth out with those rusty pliers and sawing your hands off was worth it.” Jade grabbed him by a tuft of hair and pulled his head back, looking him in his white, sunken eye, the other one missing. “I love you—in a platonic way—even though you stink worse than an arsehole filled with diarrhea,” she said, swatting flies away from around his head, brushing her fingers through his blood-gelled hair, scalp dropping away. 

Jade smiled, grabbed her top from off the floor, and pulled it on. “Phew, I’m all hot and bothered,” she said, fluffing her tee, wiping sweat from her brow. “Right, where did I put your collar?”

When she turned, she spotted his metal neck cuff—a six-meter chain acting as a lead hung from it—lying next to a tree. “Brilliant,” she said, retrieving it, placing it around his throat. “We better get going, find shelter before sundown, Paul. Once we do, you can show me more tricks you’ve learned with that tongue of yours,” she said, leading him off into the woods.   

Dear S.

It was beginning to look a lot like Christmas at Pitts Creek trailer park. In a mobile home further down the weed-ridden fence of the park, an assorted arrangement of grime-covered decorations hung lazily around on the oval frame of Trailer 37E. They had been there there since the previous Christmas. The wreath on the trailer door was an ugly decaying brown and the plastic snowmen and Santa Claus, were filthy from a year’s worth of rain damage.

Inside 37E, in front of a three-foot Christmas tree of fading health, Dylan, a nine-year-old chubby boy with curly red hair held a sheet of loose-leaf paper with a bright smile on his face.

“I finished my letter to Santa!” the boy said happily.

“Shut the fuck up.” The crushed empty beer can narrowly missed the boy’s head, crashing into the wall with a metal clang.  

Travis, a thirty-five-year-old gas station attendant, was the latest in a long line of suitors for Dylan’s mother Sabrina. Balding with long hair on the sides with a beard and potbelly, he sat in the stained EZ-Boy chair in the center of the trailer. A half spent cigarette sat smoking in one hand while another hand rested on his growing paunch. 

“What’d you say, Dylan?” his mother, Sabrina asked groggily as she emerged from the bathroom. 

Her eyes were dazed. She was a small, curvy woman with disheveled auburn colored hair. A blue sweatshirt with WEST VIRGINIA UNIVERSITY printed on the front hugged her torso tightly. 

“I wrote a letter to Santa. Now he’ll know what I want for Christmas.”

“Oh, um, that’s nice I guess?” 

“How the hell did you write something? You can’t read for shit,” Travis growled.

Sabrina sighed. She learned a while ago that it was pointless to ask any of her boyfriends to be nice to Dylan. Whether it was the ginger hair, the baby fat, or maybe they all just hated being around their girlfriend’s kid, none of them ever cottoned to her kid. 

Still, Travis had a point: her awkward lump of a son wasn’t doing well at school at all. His teachers at the public elementary school told her whenever she answered their calls that Dylan was in danger of repeating the third grade. The teachers kept repeating this word “dyslexia”, or something like that, Sabrina hadn’t been paying much attention. It meant that her son saw letters upside down or in the wrong order or something.

Just what the hell was she supposed to do, anyway? Weren’t there pills for this kind of thing? Shit, she knew how to get pills. Anything to get this kid past the fourth grade. 

It wasn’t hard for her to see why her boyfriends or other kids at school disliked her son. A smelly, husky ginger kid who still believed in Santa made him the perfect bullying target for all the kids his age at school who outgrew Santa years ago. 

She knew damn well that her son was a weirdo who slept with at least five stuffed animals in his bed. Even she was slowly beginning to resent him for being boyfriend repellent. More and more as the days went on, she swore to herself that she’d dump him on his father…as soon as she could figure out who he was. 

“What’s it say?” Travis asked with an evil smirk. 

Happy to read his letter, Dylan’s pudgy hands lifted the sheet to his face.

“Dear Santa, how are you? I am fine, school is still hard but I’ve been extra good with chores, being nice and everything else this year! If it’s not too much trouble could you please bring me a puppy for Christmas? I’d give anything for one. Merry Christmas! Love, Dylan Farina. The End!”

Travis farted loudly. Even groggy, Sabrina couldn’t keep from laughing. 

Dylan frowned, his head sank.

“Sorry honey, but you know we can’t afford to keep a dog.”

“Christ, what a dumb ass,” Travis snickered, cracking open another brew. 

An hour later, Sabrina had taken her son with her to the local Community Center to get her Unemployment Benefits. She usually managed to get a slight raise in her unemployment check whenever she brought her son around to the Center. Who wouldn’t feel bad about the strung-out looking woman dragging along her clueless-looking fat kid with her?

Alone in the trailer, Travis sat reclined in the EZ-Boy watching Family Feud. He went up to go take a piss and had made it halfway to the can before he spotted that little asshole’s letter on the floor. Curious, he bent down and picked it up. It was obvious the tubby birth-defect had a serious reading and writing problem, always writing out letters backwards. Simple words like “CAT” come out looking like Chinese. 

This time, however, from the jumbled up letters on the dumb kid’s letter to Santa came a bizarre surprise. 

“Holy shit! Well God damn me how do you like that?” Travis laughed as he read the letter. 

Well at least the brat had managed to spell the word “PUPPY” right but for fuck’s sake, that stupid shit had spelled “dear” like “dera”. Still, that’s not what made Travis laugh the hardest. Let’s just say the little water-head didn’t spell Santa as “S-A-N-T-A.” Oh no. From an outsider’s perspective, it looked like a creepy crudely-written child’s letter invoking the powers of another man in red. 

Travis could dig it. In his younger days, when he had more hair and less gut, he had gone through his own death metal/underworld phase to the eternal shame of his parents. The tattoo of the Avenged Sevenfold skull with bat-wings logo on his arm could attest to that. 

“This is way too perfect not to share.” He took out his smartphone and snapped a picture of the letter.

  An even better idea occurred to him. He pulled out and flicked open his Zippo. A lick of fire caught the corner of the letter as orange flames slowly crept up the paper. Travis laughed, dropping the paper to the floor. He  took a few more photos as the corners of the sheet curled up in flames. Even amongst the blackening, charring paper, he could still make out the gist of the letter and the amusing misspelling. 

“Now that is metal.” Travis stepped on the smoldering ashes, mushing it into the carpet. 

Maybe he’d post it on Reddit or show it to his buddies at the Hess Station. At least something finally cool came out of having a girlfriend with a kid, even if it was a freak accident. He was still chucking over the kid’s learning disability when he finally made it to the bathroom and unzipped his pants.

A week later, it was Christmas morning. This year it was a white Christmas as over a foot of fresh snow stacked up outside in the trailer park. The merry sounds of holiday songs and Christmas movies drifted from the various mobile homes throughout the park. Inside Dylan’s trailer, his mother and her boyfriend were three sheets to the wind, laughing and snorting lines of Xanax on the surface of their phones. Their depravity was drowned out by Alvin and the Chipmunks’ “Christmas Don’t Be Late” chirping from the small television. 

Even with glowing rainbow lights, the sullen Christmas tree in the corner of the trailer had no luck in raising the holly jolly spirit in this sinkhole of a home.  

In the center of it all, on the dirty, ashen floor sat Dylan. Plopped there in his red pajamas with white snowflakes and reindeer, made the the boy resemble a sad Christmas stocking full of meatloaf. It was hard to believe that he had been so excited to wake up that morning. This wasn’t the Christmas he had been expecting. All night he had dreamt of the moment he would see the yipping, happy puppy that Santa had left him. 

To his heart-shattering disappointment, all he found that morning was an empty plate and glass where he had left extra milk and cookies for Santa. He looked down sadly at the only presents he had received: a couple of Hershey bars and three pairs of socks with Star Wars characters on them. Dylan had never seen any of those movies, but at least the socks were comfy. 

The boy was confused, even more so than usual. This didn’t make any sense. Wasn’t Santa Claus supposed to bring you presents if you were nice? Didn’t he get his letter? Travis said he dropped it off. Dylan wasn’t mean and for the past year he made sure to help out with extra chores for his neighbors around the trailer park. Shouldn’t that have made him worthy of being on the Nice List? How could this be? Unless…

“Sorry honey, but you know we can’t afford to keep a dog.”

No. He wouldn’t even consider it. The problem must have been him. He had failed to prove his worthiness to Santa, so now he didn’t get the puppy, that’s all there was to it. All he could do now was spend the next year being extra, super-duper nice. Then, maybe next Christmas he would finally get the puppy he wanted and he would finally have a his best friend. Trying to find comfort in the presents he had received, the boy began peeling away the wrapper to one of the candy bars, pulling the chocolate to his pudgy freckled face. 

“Merry Christmas babe, Merry fucking Christmas,” Travis sniffed, rubbing his nose.

He unwrapped one of the candy bars by Dylan and took a big bite.

“Hey, that’s mine!” the boy whined.

“What’s the matter, Scrooge McDuck? Haven’t you ever heard that it’s better to give than to receive? Plus it ain’t like you’re starving over there, fat boy,” he smiled with chocolate smudged on his teeth. 

“Mom!” Dylan turned a pleading look towards his Mother.

Her head was in her arms which rested on top of a stack of magazines and broken candy canes piled on the small kitchen counter. Raising her head groggily, she looked at Dylan, then Travis and just shrugged.

“Dylan, honey, why don’t you fix Travis and me another drink?”

Resigned to a disappointing Christmas, the boy wobbled over to the liquor cabinet. He couldn’t read the labels on the colorful amber and green bottles so he just started mixing whatever he could find. Neither adults noticed the tears rolling down his chubby red cheeks as he did this. 

“Jesus wept, will you turn the heat down, Sabrina? I know it’s snowing outside but it’s starting to feel like a god damn furnace in here.” The gas station attendant held a cold beer to his head. 

“I know but I already turned off the heater,” Sabrina said anxiously as sweat began to form on her pale brow. 

Indeed, the temperature inside the trailer was beginning to rise. Dylan wobbled over to the trailer’s window and couldn’t believe his eyes. Only moments ago, there had been at least a foot of snow blanketing the trailer park. Now, that was all gone. While it was still snowing, the mounds of snow were rapidly melting revealing the damp grass underneath. The sun wasn’t anywhere to be found in the white blizzard sky.

“What the hell?” Travis stared dumbfounded, fanning himself with his hand.

“Y-you see that too, right?” Sabrina grasped on to him, her pupils dilated. 

“How is this possible? Even if someone’s having a huge bonfire, it shouldn’t cause this.”

“Look!” Sabrina pointed out towards the window. 

Outside in the melting snow, it looked like at least half a dozen of their neighbors were running away, fleeing from the park, hollering incoherently. Dylan turned his view towards the center of the park towards what everyone was running from and saw what looked like…was that a crater? While they had been “celebrating” Christmas, some kind of large crater had erupted in the center of the trailer park as though something had dug out from it. Now ungodly ripples of heat coming from it were overpowering the blizzard. 

“What’s happening? What are they running from?” Sabrina was growing increasingly hysterical; the pills hadn’t been helping. 

“Shut up. Just shut up for a second. I think a gas pipe must have burst or something, that’s gotta be it.” 

Just then, there came a loud, insistent scratching sound at the door. 

“Aw fuck me, what now?” Travis groaned.

“It’s Santa! He came back because he forgot my puppy!” Dylan perked up immediately.

“Oh for the love of, Santa Claus isn’t real you clod. It’s obviously the Park Supervisor telling us to evacuate. Cheap bastard ruining our Christmas. Well, I’m going to rip him a new asshole. Ho Ho Ho.” He turned towards the trailer door. 

He had only taken a few steps towards the trailer’s door when a vicious force blasted the door off its hinges. The flying  claw-marked door narrowly missed the bearded pot-bellied man as everyone screamed and ducked for cover. The heat that had steadily been rising shot up to sweltering, furnace-like degrees while the rotten smell of brimstone filled the trailer. When Travis uncovered his eyes he saw what had been scratching on the door. 

It was the last thing he would ever see. 

“Holy-“ but Travis couldn’t even finish.

There was nothing holy here. 

It wasn’t a dog, not exactly. To human comprehension, it certainly resembled a dog, the way a wolf might. The visitor was the size of a car; a black snarling beast-shaped cloud. What passed for its lips shriveled back in the front revealing a row of sharp white fangs. It was a dark phantasm that stood on four legs but didn’t touch the ground. Instead of paws, the legs of the creature seemed to fade away when they reached the ground, instead fluttering as wisps of some kind of horrifying charcoal mist. 

Two glowing red eyes on the nightmare’s face made eye contact with Travis. All he could do was listen helplessly as a haunting, ungodly howl filled his mind. In the span of a few seconds, Travis experienced every last drop of pain he had inflicted on others in the thirty-five years he had lived. He felt the pain and misery of every beating he gave his siblings growing up, every woman he had slapped and the torment he gave to others just because he could. So much cruelty and pain, Travis never would have cared but unfortunately for him, his heart grew three sizes that day. 

“No,” he begged.

Then his eyes burst into flame.

Travis started screaming. He turned to face Sabrina and Dylan as twin rockets of fire ignited from his eye sockets. Melted jelly of what used to be his eyes dribbled down his bearded face. It wasn’t long before the screams stopped sounding human anymore and turned into a high pitched wail. 

As he fell to the floor convulsing, the four-legged terror lunged at him. It made an awful roaring sound as it barked, like a thousand agitated pit-bulls eyeing a juicy steak.

In a ferocious chomping motion, razor-sharp teeth sank into Travis’ jugular. The hound’s snout pulled back and tore ribbons of gore from the blinded man. Travis’ limbs flailed about as his screams turned into watery gurgles. A geyser of crimson blood splattered the wall of the trailer, some drops even getting on the small Christmas tree. The wolfish shadow tore and bit while Sabrina screamed, covering her eyes while her son jumped and cheered.

“Awesome!” Dylan pumped his fist. 

By now Travis was long dead, having been reduced to a vaguely human-shaped pile of carnage on the carpet. The hound pulled its snout from the pile of intestines and howled. It was an incomprehensible sound normally found in hurricanes and moments of uncompromising forces of nature. This was the sound you heard as you were being dragged screaming off into hell. 

Mad with terror, Dylan’s mother got up and ran screaming from the trailer, almost tripping over Travis’ entrails as she did so. She flew past the carnivorous shadow dog, out through the hole it had created in her trailer. The beast’s silver eyes darted in the fleeing woman’s direction briefly before turning away as if due to lack of interest. 

In a blind and drug-addled panic, Sabrina ran in a beeline straight through the warm grass. Her downfall came when she craned her inebriated head around to see if the monster was chasing after her. It wasn’t, but she had been so concerned with getting as far away from the monster as possible that she didn’t realize she was heading directly towards the crater. That brief moment of distraction was all it took for her to step over the edge of the dark pit and fall screaming all the way down. 

Only after she had fallen several stories into the scorching abyss did she remember that she had a son. 

Trying to ignore the fading echo of his mother’s screams, Dylan walked over and turned up the volume on the blood sprayed television. Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You” filled the slaughterhouse known as Trailer 37E. He stared in fascinated awe as the hound fed amongst the cheap Christmas decorations. Without realizing it, he gulped anxiously.

The hound raised its intangible head and turned its gaze to Dylan. This time the red eyes weren’t threatening, instead, they made the boy think of everything red that came with Christmas: candy canes, stockings and most of all, Santa’s big red suit. It craned its head to one side then the other before it started making what sounded like a curious whining noise. Dylan’s jaw dropped open as he saw what looked like a short tail wagging at the back of the wolf shaped shadow. 

“It’s okay I won’t hurt you. C’mere boy or… girl?” The chubby kid smiled patting his large thighs.

The large, four-legged shadow slowly crept forward, appearing to sniff cautiously at the boy with what could have been a cold wet nose until it stood in front of him. Its tail continued wagged as Dylan began petting the waves of flowing black shadows along its side. He knew he was petting shadow but to the boy, it felt like he was touching warm black fur.  The hound’s jaw extended as a large pink forked tongue lolled out and began licking his face. 

Dylan laughed happily as the dog licked him. He didn’t even notice when he wiped bits of slobber away from his face that they burned and sizzled like hydrochloric acid once they hit the ground. 

“I knew it! I knew Santa got my letter!”

Tail wagging, the hound phantasm barked as if it agreed.

“I never had a dog before, what should we do?” the boy pondered.

The hound made another whining sound as it pointed its snout towards the pile of gore in the corner.

“What’s the matter, girl? Ohhh, I know!”

The ecstatic boy trotted over in his red pajamas and picked up a bloody severed forearm on the floor. The limb was hairy and had a faded tattoo of a large black skull with bat wings sticking out on the sides. Smiling, the young boy waved the arm in the air.

“You wanna fetch? Huh, do you?”

Another deep, bellowing yip came from the hound as ear-shaped points on the shadow’s head perked up and it crept back to the boy. The hound’s fangs carefully pulled Dylan up from the back of his pajama shirt and placed him on its back. Despite its wriggling, mist-like appearance, the boy had no problem sitting on what felt like a solid, furry back. Heavy snowflakes fell around them as the boy and his dog-headed outside into the melted, trashed wonderland of the trailer park. 

Out past the park’s fence, where the snow hadn’t quite melted yet, there came the faint but growing sound of police sirens. 

“This is the best Christmas ever!” Dylan patted the hound as the long viper tail wagged back and forth behind him like hell’s metronome.

A dozen flashing police cruisers and a large black S.W.A.T. van were parked haphazardly on the street. Officers ran towards the trailer with their weapons drawn but froze when they saw what they were up against. It was already bad enough that they had been dragged away from their families on Christmas, now the unrelenting force of hell itself stood before them, and it looked hungry.

Dylan heard them yell something at him but he was too excited about his new puppy to notice. Turning in the direction of the officers and their lights, the hound growled. It sounding like a motorcycle revving its engine as its back arched and prepared to lunge, fangs bared in anticipation. 

There’s nothing quite as pure as the excitement of a child on Christmas morning. In that very moment, with his family dead and his home in ruins, Dylan couldn’t have been happier. He had gotten what he wanted for Christmas and it was even better than he could have hoped. Now it was time to have some fun. With all his strength, the boy threw the bloody arm as far as he could, straight into the air towards the red and blue lights. 

“Go, long girl, fetch! Fetch!”

***

Previously published by Dark Fire Fiction