Back To Back Belly To Belly

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Janet shocked him by replying “Penelope?”

Jordan’s jaw dropped.

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

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

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

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

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

Drug Interlude

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

He Changes His Mind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her car door closing resounded from the driveway. Abort!

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

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

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

Around her shoulder.

He pulled her close and held her tight.

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

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

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

Robo Ghosts of Futurail, By Kandy Fontaine

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

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

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

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

You jack in.

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

Then it begins to scream.

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

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

Then Mira Aoki-9 appears.

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

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

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

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

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

Inside the train, time fractures.

Nyx multiplies. Mira glitches. You sing.

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

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

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

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

You are transmission.

You are ritual.

You are myth.

You are the erotic funeral.

And the carnival never ends.

Young and Alone

“Yo, white boy! The fuck you wearing?”

Sometimes I take a chance with strangers. I look them right in the eye and pretend I am feeling nothing. I tell them exactly how it is.

“Clothes.” My expression remains as bland and lifeless as one of those photo portraits from 1900.

The man’s friend laughs in the most genuine way imaginable. It almost makes me smile when he cuffs his buddy on the shoulder and mocks him. “Yeah, man!” He says, still laughing. “Something you don’t know nothing about: fashion!” He is so boisterous, so loud and full of amusement, that his exuberance cuts right through the silence of a city muted by snowfall.

“Shiiiit,” the first guy says, head down, defeated. Together, the two strangers stroll off, laughter fading with the passing blocks, audible outbursts swallowed by the weather. In front of me, the green walking man urges me to hurry on across the street. He lights up and counts down, as if a threat. Somewhere beneath all this salt and snow is a crosswalk. I cross the road, persuaded more by the golden arches looming with the promise of cheap, bad food and hot, bland coffee than the green man and his tick-tick-ticking away down to zero, to amber, and then red.

Far off, a car horn echoes. I hear a shout, then more laughter. I think of the two men who are now three blocks south of me. I look, and no one is near, so I allow myself to smile. The encounter has left me in a favorable mood.

To the credit of the gentleman that first inquired about my outfit, my style back then was rather outlandish, inviting scorn. From memory, I was wearing cut-off brown suit pants, roughly shorn somewhere between the ankle and knee. Shants, I had proudly called them—neither pants nor shorts, but somewhere in between. I wore variations of them from age 16 and would continue to do so until age 35. Nothing else. No exception. Whether the height of blazing summer or the dead of frozen winter, it was always the same. It was always shants.

My eggplant socks clashed beautifully with the golden-brown, hybrid legwear. My bruise-hued wing-tip shoes were so worn and damaged from salted, winter streets and general misuse that they were broken at the toes. I think I wore a white sweater that day; way too large, in the style of the early 90s. Loose collar, little zig-zag dashes of yellow, pink and blue arranged in random tallies across the breast. The ensemble was loud, but gorgeous. Gaudy, but fun. Not unlike those delightfully outspoken strangers who I could still manage to hear at the Sinclair a quarter mile down the road.

Snowflakes fell to inhabit my curls. They sat on my brow, big and glittery, a bejeweled tiara. Don’t even get me started on my hair—my jewfro was special, the size of a baby elephant. A woolly mammoth. Truly, the motherfucker was terrifically large. Despite the cold, I couldn’t possibly cover up my pride and joy with a stocking cap. I didn’t know it then, but those curls would fall lank in later years. Gravity would have the last laugh. It always does.

Anyone sensible was indoors, so I had St. Paul all to myself. This was before Uber Eats and streaming services, so people were being social, meeting each other, feeding and entertaining themselves without the aid of digital assistance. I was the only asshole out on my own, out in the cold on the streets. I guess I was desperate, at odds with my fuck-the-world stance. I couldn’t ignore that I was also lonely, that I wanted to connect. I’d make a big show of pushing away. But really, I was just reaching out.

As a whole, I looked the part: a real attention-seeking, sullen youth. Anti-social misfit meets spotlight-seeking spoiled brat. Suburb kid moves to the city. Dime a dozen, even if the outfit and hair separated me just a little bit.

Outside the Mickey-D’s, I saw sad faces from within, each one buried behind a flat burger or one of those dinky apple pies, gloomy expressions lost in steaming, polystyrene cups. At the time, the month before, someone had made millions after suing for burning their hand on spilled, hot coffee. As a result, all the cups came with a warning: CAUTION: CONTENTS VERY HOT. It’s coffee. It better be fucking hot.

Without a vehicle, sometimes I walked the drive-thru. This action received mixed reviews. Smiles and winks at the service window; warnings from some tight-lipped manager that it better be the last time; cordial honks from the car behind me in the queue; heckling slurs from drunks trying to feed themselves and get home before they acquire another DWI. One time, at a Taco Bell, I got a marriage proposal with my Crispy Chicken Burrito. On this particular occasion, however, the night had been as cold as a Dairy Queen Blizzard. With the elements as harsh as they had been, I elected to go inside.

The girl taking my order was enormous, but her face was perhaps the prettiest human visage I had ever seen outside of Hollywood. Her smile was impossibly white and seemed to come easy. She had  massive cheeks that shined like grease on a Big Mac patty. I read her name-tag: Patty. Our hands touched when she handed me my burger. I sort of fell in love.

I found a seat facing the menu and the staff. I took my scalding coffee and read the label. I traced a finger across the bold, capital letters, large and red. CAUTION: CONTENTS VERY HOT. I burned my lip on my first sip. I winced and spilled a dribble on my lap, gasped in pain. I had been warned. There will be no suing this golden empire. I guess I’ll have to make my millions by nefarious trade, or —Lord save me— by climbing the ladder. 

I watched the big girl, playing out fantasies in my mind that included dinky apple pies and straining for breath. I gazed at Patty, large and red. She saw me and smiled. She waved, her press-ons like sorceress talons the exact shade of her work shirt. It was impossible not to think of an awkward handjob.

I smiled back and drank my coffee, which still burned. I devoured the image of Patty with unblinking eyes, savaging away at low-grade beef with my molars. I wished for nothing more than to go home with this woman, to feel the weight of her love on top of me. Corrosive, my beverage burned my tongue, scourged my oesophagus down to my core.

Patty turned away from my leering, looked to the door when it opened with a gust of frigid air. No one was there. It was like a ghost had walked through the entrance, paused, and changed its mind. Through the open door, I heard laughter. It was far away, muted by innumerable snowflakes. I got up to go, waved goodbye to Patty’s epic backside. She was flipping burgers, miles always.

I hefted my mighty jewfro. I brushed burger shrapnel from my shants. I walked out into a city buried in snow, and, trudging along, searched for something, anything. I took a sip and frowned—without the slightest warning, my coffee had gone totally cold.

Petite Girl From France

Years ago when I lived and played in Tucson, Arizona, there was and I believe still is a free alternative newspaper called The Tucson Weekly. It is distributed every Wednesday to outlets across Pima County. It’s the source for local politics, culture, arts, music, food and anything else happening. I particularly like the Personal Ads on the last pages. It contains the typical Women looking for Men, Men looking for Women along with a section for Gay and lesbian folks. There’s a section dedicated to what some would consider bizarre or peculiar sexual practices. I noticed a post from a woman in the ‘Missed Connection’ section of the Personals.

‘Laundry Prince; I spotted you at Aristotle’s Wash n’ Dry last Saturday night. You left with your clothes in a green pillow case, wearing a Frank Zappa t-shirt. You drove away in a red MG convertible. Think you’re sexy and mysterious. Let’s talk Dirty Laundry, Petite Lady 23 from France.’

At first I was upset by being identified as a pathetic nobody, someone without a life doing laundry on a Saturday night. However, ultimately I was flattered by her description. It was now the following Wednesday and I was still wearing the same Zappa shirt with most likely the same jeans and underwear from that night. I took a low maintenance approach to my appearance in the first year after my divorce. The red MG she referred to was loaned to me by Marcia, a Jewish Goddess and friend with benefits. She was back in New Jersey visiting with her parents as well as finalizing her divorce.

I was intrigued by the post and responded to the mailbox at the Tucson Weekly, leaving what I thought was a clever reply.

‘Petite girl from France at Aristotle’s Wash n’ Dry last Saturday night. I have a PHD in dirty laundry and I often air it in public. Call me Friday around noon if you’d like to connect. Signed, Dr. Detergent.’

Friday morning rolled around and I was expecting a phone call from my petite girl from France secret admirer. I checked the phone knowing my bill was past due and my service was subject to being disconnected. I lifted the receiver and… damnit! Of course, why would I have assumed otherwise. 

It was just 7:30 and Mountain Bell opened at 8:00, which gave me time to pay my bill and have my line reconnected by 12:00. Hopefully she wouldn’t call before that time. My bill was seventy-six dollars over two months and I knew I could pay the first month balance of thirty-two dollars with a promise to pay the remaining balance in a week. I’m sort of a professional when it comes to these kinds of negotiations. I’ve never been the responsible type, always opting to gamble with fate. Even though the odds were against me and I usually lost.

I changed my clothes in Superman seconds, hopped in the MG and headed downtown during morning traffic. My intentions mirrored those of a character from a some cheesy romance novel. I have this tendency to fantasize about situations, creating elaborate scenarios that never come to fruition.

Waiting at the red light on Tucson Boulevard, I noticed my dealer smoking a cigarette in front of the Welcome Diner. Immediately my mind clicked into addict mode. It’s rare to see him out and around. He’s a hard guy to find. Even if you do get a hold of him on the phone it takes forever for him to deliver.

The instant the light changed, I gunned the MG and made an illegal U-turn against the oncoming traffic, blaring their horns and drivers screaming profanities at me. Shortly thereafter, the siren of a Tucson police cruiser accompanied by red and blue lights flashing in my rearview mirror. I pulled over and waited for the Officer to approach the vehicle. 

“Well look who we have here! Santiago what the hell are you doing? You know there’s no left turns or U-turns permitted when the suicide lane is activated, now don’t you?”

It was Rick Larson, a cop I’d known for a couple of years now. He once coached my son’s baseball team and was one of the anonymous members of the ‘We’re A Bunch of Drunks’ group I’d been ordered to attend by a judge as a condition to my probation a while back.

“Ya I know Officer Rick, trying to get to a Pharmacy as quickly as possible. My asthma is acting up and I’m in desperate need of an inhaler. I apologize, can you give me a pass and let me get to the pharmacy down the street please? It’s difficult to breathe, I really need an inhaler.”

“This one time! Go on get outta here. Take it easy will ya? This is Marcia’s car isn’t it? Is she still putting up with you?”

“Rick please, it’s an emergency.”

“Ok go! You owe me.”

“Yes I do. Thanks Officer Larson.”

I put the car in gear and now had to make it appear as though I was heading to the pharmacy on Tucson Boulevard. What a lucky break, seeing I didn’t have a valid license, and had warrants out for not appearing in court and other violations. I made it to the Walgreens and pulled into the parking area as Rick passed by, giving me a short blast on the siren.

Can you believe that guy, following me to make sure I wasn’t lying? What an insult for him to think I’d concoct such a story. I smiled as I entered the store, bought some Altoids then quickly returned to my car. I wanted to get back to where I saw my dealer at the restaurant. When I finally returned he was no longer out front. I parked and checked inside, but he was missing in action. 

I reverted back to the original plan and made it to the Mountain Bell office. I entered the building determining this must be my lucky day. There wasn’t another person waiting ahead of me. A voice called out. “Can I help you Sir? Window three.” 

The woman behind the glass was pleasant and extremely helpful. I ended up paying just twenty-three dollars with a promise to take care of the remaining balance in two weeks. I wonder if maybe I should hit the Indian casino or the dog track. It’s rare when I’m the recipient of such fortunate events. The nice lady told me my phone will be reconnected by noon and to have a wonderful day.

I reached home then flipped the switch to the swamp cooler as it responded with a strong burst of air. It was just 10:30 but I checked the phone, discovering the dial tone had yet to be restored. I decided to do the dishes that have piled up over the past few days. Of course, I am out of dish soap, having forgotten to pick some up on my way home from the bar yesterday. Being the resourceful guy I am, I poured in some shampoo as a substitute. It produced an abundant amount of bubbles, plus it left the dishes with the pleasant lavender scent.

After I’d finished, I drifted into the living room and checked the phone once again. Bingo! I was in business. 

Fifteen minutes later the phone rang. 

My petite girl from France sounded a bit different than I had imagined but she did speak with a French accent, adding to the intrigue. We agreed to meet at The Coffee Grounds on Speedway near Bookman’s tomorrow, Saturday morning at 10:00. She suggested the place and the time, so I gave her control of the rendezvous. I thought it would make her more comfortable.

I mentioned that she was already familiar with what I looked like, so I asked how I would recognize her. She told me she’d be wearing a jean skirt, red blouse and had long brown hair, once again mentioning she is petite. I sensed a small amount of excitement in her voice before saying goodbye. After hanging up I realized we hadn’t exchanged names.

I went home early that night and fell asleep in front of the television.

The morning rolled in with rain leaving puddles dotting the landscape after the night’s storm.  

It was 9:40 so I quickly showered, shaved and managed to put on some fresh clothes. I was quite pleased with my reflection in the mirror.

I strolled in through the sliding glass doors of the coffeehouse as though I was a Greek soldier returning home after a victory campaign. I scanned the area filled with customers seated at tables. I didn’t see my petite girl from France with a red blouse and long brown hair. At first I thought she may have decided to forgo our meeting. It was then I noticed a woman who fit her description sitting at a small table in the far corner of the coffee shoppe. I hoped she hadn’t seen me yet, so I could make a quick escape undetected. I was immediately aghast by her appearance. But no such luck, she began waving her tiny hands and calling out mon cheri, mon cheri. I acknowledged her and slowly meandered around the tables and chairs to where she was sitting. I dropped my car keys while nervously trying to put them in my pocket. When I bent to pick them up I could see the bottoms of her tiny shoes while she sat on her chair. She smiled, putting out her hand to shake.

“I wasn’t sure you were going to show up, mon cheri. I realized we never exchanged names. I’m Danielle or Dani.”

“Hello Danielle, it’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Santiago.”

“Oooo I knew you’d have a sexy name to go with your strong features.”

“Thank you, I’m named after my grandfather.”

“It’s wonderful to have the opportunity to get to know one another. Maybe develop some type of friendship or relationship.”

“Are you serious? Isn’t there some kind of law against little people dating big people?”

“You’re so funny. I’ve never heard of such a law. And is that how I should refer to you, as a big person?” 

“You know what I mean. Nevermind I’m sorry. I don’t even know what I mean.”

“If you’re repulsed by me, you’re free to leave. But you’d be making a huge mistake.”

I began to stare at her cleavage complimenting her large round breasts. I began to get a bit horny feeling my cock starting to stiffen.

“I’m not repulsed by you. It’s just that I’m not accustomed to hanging around with what, a little person, dwarf, midget? See I don’t even know what to call you.”

“How about Danielle for a start. And when you bring me home to meet your mother you may describe me as a little person.”

“Now who’s being the comedian?”

“If you give yourself half a chance to get to know me you may find something about me you like.”

“Ya okay. I’m sure you’re an absolute riot.”

“That I am Santiago. Let me be a bit crass. Have you ever had sex with a little person before? I mean fucked her ?” 

“No I haven’t. Now that you mention it however, it does sound intriguing.”

“That’s encouraging so I’ll cut straight to the chase, I want you. There’s no courting period before we fuck. I’m French and the French are connoisseurs when it comes to making love. Do you want to put my statement to the test?”

“I haven’t even had my morning cup of coffee yet.”

“I’ll make you a whole pot of coffee back at my house. Are you game?”

I thought about how I haven’t experienced sex with a little person and couldn’t consider myself fully sexually educated until I’ve tried it all.

“Let me ask you this, do you enjoy oral sex?”

“Honey, I can suck a golf ball through a garden hose.”

“Well let’s say au revoir to this place and head on over to your digs.”

I spent the entire weekend with my petite girl from France. She proved to be humorous, intelligent and extremely sexual. After that we still saw one another off and on until her student Visa expired just as she graduated with her Doctorate Degree in Education. There’s no doubt she would excel as an educator. She taught me the allure and sensuality of ‘La Petite Morte’.

Kandy Fontaine: Slutty Detective of the Quantum Abyss

Kandy Fontaine unarchives herself at 3:33 a.m. in a Tokyo alley slick with neon rain and discarded identities. Her body is a cocktail of quantum foam, cyanide, absinthe, and pussy juice—shaken, not stirred, by the hands of forgotten gods. She emerges from the data sludge like a reborn glitch, mirror shades fogged with entropy, fishnets crawling with subatomic spiders.

She is not a woman. She is not a monster. She is the Kaiju chocolate dab queen of Kathy Acker’s dreamspace, pole-vaulting through the fourth wall with a moan and a wink.

Tokyo gasps.

The skyline folds inward as she lands, heels cracking pavement, her scent rewriting the laws of physics. Salarymen drop their briefcases and weep. Schoolgirls grow fangs. Pachinko machines orgasm in binary. The city knows her. The city wants her. The city fears her.

She walks into Shinjuku like she owns every timeline that ever tried to forget her. Her quantum doubles shimmer in the foam behind her—Kandy 1 through Kandy ∞—each one a slut, a detective, a monster, a poet. They follow her like shadows with unfinished business.

She enters a bathhouse made of collapsing probability. The foam is thick, warm, alive. She strips—mirror shades stay on—and slides into the bath, where her doubles await. They fuck like collapsing waveforms, each orgasm a new universe birthed and destroyed. Kandy screams in every language ever spoken and some that haven’t been invented yet.

She is solving the crime of identity. She is interrogating reality with her tongue and her fists. She is the answer and the question and the glitch in the syntax of the cosmos.

Scene Two: The Dab Awakening

Kandy’s chocolate Kaiju form expands. She dabs once—just once—and the city folds into a Möbius strip of desire. Her dab is a weapon, a dance, a declaration. She is the slutty detective of the quantum abyss, and she’s here to solve the mystery of why reality tastes like betrayal.

She enters a nightclub that doesn’t exist yet. The bouncer is Schrödinger’s cat, alive and dead, aroused and terrified. Inside, the music is made of screams and saxophones. Her doubles take the stage. Kandy Fontaine and the Quantum Sluts. They perform a set that lasts 13 seconds and 3 eternities.

I fucked my future self in a bath of foam
And she told me I was the killer and the clone

The crowd erupts. The crowd dissolves. The crowd becomes foam.

Scene Three: The Detective Work

Kandy finds a clue in the folds of her own labia. It’s a microchip engraved with the word: REMEMBER. She inserts it into her mirror shades. Her vision explodes with data: every orgasm she’s ever had, every betrayal, every time she was called “too much” or “not enough.”

She sees the culprit: Reality itself.

Reality has been gaslighting her since birth. Telling her she’s just a woman. Just a slut. Just a glitch. But she knows better. She’s the detective of desire, and she’s here to arrest the entire concept of normalcy.

She pole-vaults into the Diet Building. Politicians scream. Laws unravel. She dabs again. Chocolate Kaiju splatter coats the walls. She fucks the Prime Minister’s quantum double until he admits that time is a lie and gender is a hologram.

Scene Four: The Dreamspace Trial

Kandy stands trial in Kathy Acker’s dreamspace. The judge is a sentient dildo. The jury is composed of her exes, her doubles, and one confused octopus. The prosecution accuses her of being “too real to be fiction.”

She defends herself with a monologue:

“I am the slut you buried in your subconscious. I am the detective who found your shame and fucked it into poetry. I am the Kaiju who dabs on your expectations. I am the foam. I am the juice. I am the glitch.”

The jury orgasms in unison. The judge explodes. She is acquitted.

Scene Five: The Collapse

Tokyo cannot contain her. The city folds into a black hole of desire. Kandy Fontaine rides the collapse like a stripper pole, mirror shades reflecting the end of everything. Her doubles merge into her. She becomes ∞.

She dabs one last time.

The universe moans.

Epilogue: The Archive Reopens

In a quiet alley in Shinjuku, at 3:33 a.m., a puddle of quantum foam begins to fizz. A mirror shade floats to the surface. A fishnet stocking twitches. The archive reopens.

Kandy Fontaine is coming back.

And this time, she’s bringing the whole dreamspace with her.

Death Shtick

A pretty blonde girl walks into a comedy club, mid-afternoon… 

With a setup like that it’s no wonder the bartender thought she was lost. 

“I’m here to see Dickie Crusher,” the girl said. 

The bartender pointed to a lonely stool at the corner of the bar, where a man was sitting under a cloud of cigarette smoke, huddled over a legal pad. The man with bug eyes, thick glasses, and crazy hair was Dickie Crusher. No doubt about it. 

Dickie looked up from his scribbling as the girl approached. The ballpoint pen sticking in his hand made him look like an ape gripping a crayon. “What do you want?” 

“My name is Sally Amis. I’m a comedian. Trying to make it in the biz. I was wondering if I could talk to you, privately.” 

“Trying to make it in the biz, huh? You want to watch me jerk off?” Dickie laughed maniacally. His dingy, tobacco-stained teeth were as comical as his routine. 

Sally smirked and crossed her arms. “Thanks for the offer. Not interested.” 

“I’ve seen you around. Hitting the circuit. Sucking up those AM slots. Tough crowds. Drunk. Are you funny?” 

“Yes, I’m funny.” 

“OK. Make me laugh.” 

“I haven’t got a mirror handy.” 

Dickie snubbed out his cigarette, murmured positive-sounding grunts. “OK. You got a wit. But that doesn’t necessarily mean you’re funny. At the same time, I never said unfunny people can’t have a career in this biz. Please, come into my office, young lady. I promise I won’t try anything.” 

Dickie’s “office” was a shabby dressing room in the back. 

“You might say I have a ‘residency’ here. This is my desk.” He threw the legal pad down atop the rickety vanity in front of the mirror with the burned-out bulbs. He pointed to the cracked leather sofa at the other end of the room. “That’s my wink wink casting couch. Tee hee. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.” 

Sally didn’t sit. Shoulders tensed, she kept the conversation focused and professional. “I wanted to talk about your jokes. I’ve studied your bits quite closely. For example, that joke you did about the shooting at the doughnut shop on La Brea?” 

“Oh, yeah. Gangland style drive-by. Talk about getting glazed up, am I right? Those doughnuts weren’t the only things with holes in ‘em. Hee hee!” 

“That’s just it. It seems for every crime committed in the city you have the jokes ready in your back pocket. Why?” 

“Bits. I get a bit, and I work it how I work it. And why not? It’s called being a comedian. Any disaster, crime, national tragedy, terrorist attack, you name it. It’s fair game. While the masses are mourning, I’m getting material. It’s how comedians are wired. Most guys are afraid to share those bits, because they want careers, families, and Netflix specials. I tell it like it is, baby. That’s why I’m headlining in this gin joint. No Netflix special for me. But I can make ‘em laugh. Boy do I. Deep down, people need to laugh at what scares them. I’m providing a community service. I’m a hero!” 

“Like the one about the pressure cooker explosive that went off at that movie premiere last month?” 

“Yup, shame, talk about review bombing. Heh heh!” 

“And the woman in Los Feliz, from last week?” 

Dickie’s brow knitted in concentration. “I don’t recall.” 

“Witnesses say she went home with a weird-looking guy? They found her in a freezer.” 

“Oh yeah! Hee hee. Netflix and chilled, am I right? Gnuch! Gnuch! BOINK. Buh-la-la-la! Buh-la-la-la! You’re not laughing.” 

Sally didn’t find Dickie’s jokes particularly funny. But she knew the crowds ate it up, because of the way he delivered his bits. The squeaking voice, the googly eyes. The strange noises. It was the blessing and curse of a trickster to be able to squeeze out a smile in spite of the dark nature seething under the surface. 

The attractive blonde pulled out a ragged notepad to assist with her interview. 

Dickie grabbed a rubber chicken from a large prop chest by the couch, gently squeezed it by the neck. “What do you want to discuss now? My penis size? Nothing to write home about, I assure you.” 

“What about the new bit from just a few days ago? An eleven-year-old girl was found raped and murdered just outside of town. Witnesses claim they saw a man carrying a large cardboard box into the woods, in which the remains were discovered.” 

“Never heard of it,” Dickie said. 

“You did a joke about how kids get so ‘carried away sometimes.’” 

“Haha! Damn, I am pretty funny!” 

“The weird thing is, you seemed to have the bit before the story broke. Even before next of kin had been alerted.” 

“What are you saying, kiddo? That I what? You want I should help the police, like a sniff dog? If I do a bit and it hits too close for comfort then that’s the breaks. Like I told you, these bits are in the air. I just grab a hold of one and tell it like I see it. What’s it to ya, anyway? What kind of comedian are you?” 

A grave look crossed Sally’s face, distorting her otherwise symmetrical features. “I’m not a comedian. I’m a detective. I’ve been studying you closely for months. Everyone else in the LAPD thinks I’m out of my league, that I’m chasing a shadow. They laugh at me as they pass.” 

“They must be the only ones who find you funny.” 

“I know there’s something off about you. And I’m willing to put it all on the line to get you. Because I think you’re sick. You and your whole shtick.” 

Richard “Dickie” Crusher took a long drag off his cigarette. “Now that’s funny. You should run with that. And I mean run.” 

“I’ve been working undercover. Been pulling those late-night spots. Trying to get my face out there. All so I could get close enough in your orbit to be sure. But as soon as I saw you, I knew I had my guy. Your jokes are too specific. Too many details. Like you were actually present at the scene of the crimes. You’ve slipped up now, joking about a story before the public was even aware of it. But the joke’s up, Dickie. Because even though I don’t have the evidence to take you in right this minute, I know you’ll keep slipping, and soon, because you can’t help yourself, and you won’t stop. You better look out, Dickie, because you know I will.” 

Sally pivoted for the door. 

“I told you you should run,” Dickie said. 

Why she did it she couldn’t have said, but Sally turned to get one last look at her favorite subject, the maniac she’d lost sleep—and part of her life—obsessing over. 

She looked up just as Dickie brought the lead-filled rubber chicken down on her head, crushing the skull instantly. And he continued to hammer blows down until he was quite certain she wouldn’t be telling her friends at the LAPD anymore crazy stories. 

That night, Dickie’s act was better than he had ever played before. The audience cracked and spilled onto the floor. It was as if Dickie was delivering his magnum opus, his final shtick. For that’s exactly what it was. Sally Amis was keen enough to tell her colleagues at the station where she’d be that afternoon. And when they didn’t hear back from her, they went to investigate, and they found her stashed in the prop chest from which Dickie had pulled his rubber chicken. 

If you asked any of the audience members who attended that evening, they’ll tell you what an unforgettable show it was, and how you may never see its equal. If you ask the comedians who hover around the clubs in the wee hours of the morning, they’ll tell it to you in industry terms: Dickie really killed. 

The Shifter

A wispy mist still hung in the moonlit night. She painfully fought the overpowering animalistic urge to manifest. Control had been a challenge since moving into the quiet little town of Willow Brook nestled deep within the wooded hills of southern Virginia.  

And for many years, she had tried to suppress it to keep it at bay. But she knew that the contorted and hideous transformation would surface at some point. Inviting the ghastly legacy shackled to her at birth.  

It did not matter where Mary Sawyer lived or how far she traveled. She could not hide nor run from her true, yet ungodly, destiny.

***

“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me today.” Mary distributed a thin pamphlet to each of the librarians around the oval oak table. The white blouse and blue dress pants pulled tight against her stocky sixtyish body. The meeting had ended, and it was time for refreshments.

“Mary…why did we have to meet? This information could have been sent in an email. This… meeting is a waste of time!” exclaimed Hubert Mills. His thin, aging body shook. Crooked fingers scratched his balding head. Round, thick glasses gripped his pointy nose.

“Hubert, it’s nice to get away from work. If you didn’t want to come, no one forced you. I like getting out and mingling with other librarians,” commented Rachael Sommers. “I look forward to our meetings.” Her smile lit up the room. Bouncy brunette curls lightly touched her shapely shoulders. Being the youngest among the group, everyone took notice of Rachael, especially Hubert.

“I’m not saying I don’t like conversing with all of you at the meetings; I just feel sometimes Mary takes advantage. The use of technology can cut out-of-pocket expenses. That’s all.” He adjusted his glasses.

Sara Waldin rolled her faded green eyes. She was the oldest in the group, and retirement was not an option. She lived and breathed books. 

“Give it a rest, Hubert. Next time, don’t come. You ruin it for the rest of us. I rather enjoy talking shop with people who understand me. Heaven knows most of the patrons can’t hold a decent conversation nowadays. They’re too busy scrolling on their phones or texting or instant messaging. How we lived years ago without cell phones…” Sara’s raspy voice trailed away.

Mary stood at the head of the table. Her hands folded in front. She listened to her colleague’s bicker. A tiny smile crept across her wrinkled face. “Hubert, you are correct. The list of upcoming best sellers could have been sent in an email. But it’s quite hard to discuss the various available options about acquiring the books for our collections using email. I know Willow Brook is the main branch, and the other three libraries are considered satellite stations. But each of you is responsible for their collections.” 

Sara was already investigating the snack table. A brownie and cupcake sat on her tiny plate. She shuffled over to the coffee urn. With a shaky hand, she tried to steady the Styrofoam cup. 

Rachael rushed to the older woman’s side. “Let me help, Sara.” She gently took the half-filled steaming cup. With a dash of cream and a teaspoon of sugar, she placed it back by Sara’s seat. 

“Why, thank you, Rachael.” Sara sat down and began to eat. 

Hubert looked around the cramped meeting room. He was the only male attending. Not that he minded—especially being around Rachael. Without saying another word, he heaped several pieces of pastry onto the plate. Minutes later, the band of librarians ate in silence. 

As they finished eating, goodbyes were exchanged. Rachael lagged. Mary noticed the time. The Willow Brook Public Library had few visiting patrons. It was almost closing time for the sleepy little library snuggled against the hills. 

“Is there something else, Rachael?” Mary asked. The older woman clicked the mic, announcing the five-minute warning until closing.

“Actually…if you could spare a few minutes.” Rachael rubbed the back of her neck. 

“Of course, of course. Give me a moment.” Mary held the door for the last remaining patron exiting the building, then locked the front door.

“Let’s go back into the meeting room.” The two women’s shoes echoed in the hallway. Once inside, Rachael began to sob.

“Rachael…why are you crying?” asked Mary. She guided her to a chair. Without hesitation, the young woman delved into an explanation.

“It’s my apartment complex. There are six units.” Rachael sniffed and wiped her nose with a tissue. She sat down across from Mary.

“There’s a new tenant. His name is…Rodney Wilson. He’s just been released from Petersburg Federal Prison from upper Virginia.” Mary remained silent. She had a hunch she knew where this conversation was going.

“Being a librarian, I did what should have been done and checked public records. He was convicted of assault and battery. A fifteen-year sentence.” Her lips and chin trembled.

“Rachael, did he hurt you?” Immediately, Rachael’s eyes held Mary’s. Her head moved slightly back and forth.

“But he’s going to,” whispered Rachael. Mary drew back. 

“Why would you think he wants to cause you harm?” pressed Mary. Rachael stared at her lap. 

“He said he is waiting—for the right time,” murmured Rachael. 

“How did this man end up in Willow Brook, of all places?” Mary crossed her arms.

“I don’t know. There are dozens of small towns from here to Petersburg. He could have picked any of them. Unfortunately, he picked Willow Brook.” Rachael’s head slumped.

“Rodney has to realize if something happens to you, he will return to prison. I’m sure he knows this. Why would he risk his freedom? It doesn’t add up,” stated Mary. Rachael’s eyes were red.

“Maybe he’s just trying to scare me…all bark, no bite,” replied Rachael.

“Or…maybe not. You must take his threat seriously, Rachael. Did you go to the police and report this?” Mary slid her chair closer to the table.

“Yes. I spoke with Detective Ellie Griffin. She told me he served his time and had the right to live anywhere. And until he tries to harm me physically, there’s not much she can do.” Rachael started to cry again.

“What about family?” asked Mary in a soothing tone.

“I…I don’t have a family. My mother passed away almost two years ago. I was an only child. I have no relatives on my father’s or mother’s side. I may have distant cousins, but I have no clue what their names could be or if they even exist. It’s just…me.” She dabbed at her watery eyes.

“And I would think moving would be out of the question. You shouldn’t have to lose your home because of Rodney’s intrusive behavior.” Mary waited a moment. “Why don’t you spend a few days with me? I have a wonderful cottage with a spare bedroom. It’s not much…” She waited for a response.

Rachael forced a smile. “You’re so kind, Mary. But I like my apartment. I should feel safe in my own home.” Mary gave a slight nod.

“Rachael, please be aware of your surroundings at all times. Lock your doors and windows. And if you hear anything, day or night, call the police.” Rachael stood up to leave.

“I appreciate your help, Mary. Thanks for a shoulder to lean on. I’ll be fine.” The two women faced one another. Suddenly, Rachael wrapped her arms around the older woman. Mary briefly held the upset woman.  Rachael eased away. 

“It will be alright, Rachael.” And without saying another, Rachael left the library to hurry home.

***

The urge to shapeshift had become overwhelming as she thought of Rachael’s safety. She had inherited her unique power from her mother’s long bloodline of shapeshifters spanning over a century. This rare ability was a type of metamorphosis—to change into something else.  

The last time Mary allowed herself to shift was at her mother’s funeral. Many had blamed Mary for her mother’s death. But Mary was the only one who knew the truth. And from that day forward, she vowed never to shift again—until now.

Mary realized Rodney Wilson would not stop. His evil intentions toward Rachael were clear. It didn’t matter to him if he returned to prison. He would eventually have his way with Rachael and destroy her life.

***

Mary stood silently in the shadows outside Rachael’s apartment building. Rodney Wilson lived in the bottom unit on the far side. His light was still on at one o’clock in the morning. The rest of the apartments were dark. Dampness hung in the night air. Mary moved along the brick exterior. She bent down and peered through the open blinds. 

Rodney sat alone on the tattered couch. His one hand held a beer while the other rubbed his crotch. The flat screen filled with images of pornography. 

Mary moved to the back entrance. Using her picks, she entered in under a minute. The dimly lit hallway enveloped the change. Her aged body shuddered as the transformation began. She forgot the extent of unbearable pain as her form twisted and contoured to alien skin. It felt like hours, but she knew it was mere seconds. The black leather material adhered to every curve. Mary licked her voluptuous lips. She had to hurry. She did not know how long she could hold the course.

Rodney’s breathing became labored. His hand moved faster and faster. A slight moan emanated from his drooling mouth. And then, before he could release, a knock on the door.

“What the…” His manhood deflated instantly. The marijuana he smoked a short time ago still hung heavy in the air. He slurped the remaining beer—another knock.

“Coming,” he shouted as he tried to get up. The wooziness almost made him puke. As he staggered to the door, a heavier knock came again.

Mary glanced about the empty area outside Apartment 1. Hopefully, all her pounding didn’t wake the neighbors, especially Rachael.

The knob turned several times. Finally, after a few more seconds, Rodney pulled it open. His eyes grew wide.

“Well…isn’t it the sexy woman from upstairs.” Mary slid her hands slowly down her snug leather outfit. Her tongue licked her lips. “Have you finally come to your senses, sweet thing?” His words slurred. 

“I’ve been watching you,” she whispered. Rodney belched. 

“Me? Well…let me tell you…something…I’ve been watching you!” he stuttered. He stepped back and opened the door even wider. “Let’s…get this party started, sweetheart!” 

Mary slinked inside the smelly apartment—a mixture of sweat, weed, and beer. The pornographic images on the television were frozen in place.

Rodney tried desperately to focus. His manhood was coming to attention by the thought of taking this woman right here, right now, in his private domain.

“I knew,” he stifled another belch, “you wanted it the first time I saw your sexy ass. Want to smoke some weed or….do you want a beer?” He swayed slightly.

Mary glanced at the pathetic loser of a man. She struggled to keep her image in place. Her bones ached. And since it had been so long since her last shapeshift the pain intensified with each moment she sustained Rachael’s mirror image.

“No. I came here for one reason and one reason only.” Suddenly, Mary felt she was losing control. Her body shook and shimmied. 

Rodney rubbed his grainy eyes. “What the…is going on? I must be wasted. You…you look like you’re changing.” Drool leaked from the corner of his sagging mouth.

Mary knew she had to act fast. Her shape was beginning to shift. “I want you to leave me alone, Rodney. And if you don’t, I might have to do something you will regret.” And with that said, Mary struck with full force. The knuckles of her fingers rammed into his Adam’s apple with just enough pressure. His spine crumpled.

Rodney gulped for air as he fell to the dirty carpet. He instantly rolled back and forth, grabbing at his neck.

As he finally was able to breathe, Mary leaned down close. Her face shifted again into a distorted hideous creature with protruding bloodshot eyes and jagged teeth. Saliva dripped from her grotesque mouth onto his heaving chest. She ran a long-rotted fingernail down his white, pallid face.

“Do we understand one another, Rodney?” Mary sneered then sucked in the pain. “Rodney, I asked you a question?” She tilted her oblong head filled with slimy black hair. His entire body trembled. 

Mary stood up. “I’ll take that as a yes. And if I see you look in my direction at any time, Rodney, I promise to come back and show you exactly how much I like you.” Mary winked her large, bulging eye, then puckered her ashen lips as if she was blowing him a kiss.

Sweat appeared on Rodney’s forehead. He could not move. His breath in gulps. He watched through bloodshot eyes as the creature turned and left the apartment closing the door behind.

***

The following month, the small group of librarians met once again. Mary was busy setting up the refreshment table. Rachael arrived a bit early and prepped the coffee urn. Sara and Hubert had just sat down and were discussing the latest bestsellers.

“Excuse me, everyone. May I have your attention, please? I am grateful for taking time out of your busy schedules to attend this meeting. With the holidays looming ahead, my list contains…” Mary continued, highlighting the handout. 

After an hour, the small group gathered at the table of pastries, courtesy of Hubert. Powder sugar stuck to his face as he licked his fingers.

“Well, I must say, Hubert, I was quite shocked by the fact you were the one to bring the snacks. They are quite tasty,” remarked Sara. The old woman shoved another cookie into her mouth. Hubert blushed at the compliment.

“I find it only appropriate to contribute to such…informative meetings. I agree to discuss the promising additions to our collections in person…well, it makes sense.” The three women clapped. Again, Hubert’s face blossomed red.

Within twenty minutes, the meeting area had been cleaned. The chairs were returned, and the table was folded. Hubert took his leave with Sara, leaving Rachael and Mary behind.

“I guess I better get back to the branch,” said Rachael. “Oh, I heard you were feeling under the weather, Mary. Is everything alright?” She wrinkled her brow.

“You could say I just didn’t feel like myself. But it passed. Nothing a little rest couldn’t fix. I’m fine now,” replied Mary, trying to hide her grin. 

Rachael turned to leave. “By the way, Rachael, how are things with the new tenant? Is he still bothering you?” Mary crossed her arms.

The young woman hesitated before she spoke. “It’s the strangest thing…I saw Rodney in the stairwell the other day. Usually, he snickers or makes gross sexual remarks, but this time it was different. He barely looked at me. He hurried to get inside his apartment. I felt relieved. Maybe things will be alright after all.” Rachael smiled. 

Mary took a deep breath. She wished to tell Rachael her secret but knew it could never happen. That was the mistake Mary’s mother had made and it cost her life. So, Mary would have to settle for keeping her secret and the fact that Rodney Wilson would never bother Rachael again.

Chocolate Dab Wax Monster: A Bone City Tale Featuring Kandy Fontaine, Slutty Detective

Bone City never slept. It twitched. It moaned. It pulsed with neon and pheromones, a place where reality bent under the weight of too much lube and not enough law. And in the heart of it all, behind the velvet curtain of a strip club called the Velvet Guillotine, Kandy Fontaine stirred a bubbling vat of madness.

She wore a lab coat over fishnets, stilettos that could puncture a man’s soul, and a smirk that had gotten her banned from three dimensions. Kandy wasn’t just a slutty detective—she was a chaos chemist, a femme fatale with a PhD in bad decisions.

“Joe,” she said, not looking up from the swirling goo, “this is going to change everything.”

Joe Oroborous, her partner in crime and tantric yoga instructor, leaned against the wall, puffing on a vape pen that smelled like enlightenment and regret. He was shirtless, as usual, his body a roadmap of tattoos and bite marks.

“You said that last time,” he replied. “We ended up summoning a sentient bong that tried to unionize.”

“This is different,” Kandy said, dropping a strand of Velociraptor DNA into the vat. “Chocolate dab wax. Ninety-nine percent THC. Spliced with dinosaur genetics. It’ll get you stoned and make you extinct.”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “You’re making a weedosaur.”

“I prefer ‘ChocoDabadon’.”

The vat hissed. The goo bubbled. The DNA writhed. Then—boom.

The explosion was small, but the consequences were not. From the shattered beaker and swirling smoke emerged a creature: ten feet tall, dripping with resin, its scales glistening like caramelized obsidian. It had claws shaped like dab tools and eyes that pulsed with psychedelic fury.

It roared—a sound like a bong hit amplified through a Marshall stack—and smashed through the wall, lumbering into the neon-lit streets of Bone City.

The monster’s breath was pure THC. Entire blocks were hotboxed in seconds. Citizens wandered in a daze, giggling, munching on street lamps, proposing to fire hydrants. The mayor declared the city a “420 sanctuary” and married a vending machine.

Kandy and Joe watched from the rooftop of the Velvet Guillotine, sipping mezcal and trying not to inhale too deeply.

“We need to stop it,” Joe said. “Before it turns the whole city into a stoner wasteland.”

Kandy lit a joint shaped like a crucifix. “Bone City’s already a stoner wasteland.”

“Fair. But this thing’s different. It’s primal. It’s horny. It’s high.”

Kandy exhaled. “So are we.”

They tracked the beast to the ruins of the Bone City Zoo, where it had built a nest out of vape cartridges, lingerie, and discarded copies of High Times. It was mating with a billboard of Tommy Chong.

“We need to neutralize it,” Joe said, loading his vape gun with concentrated CBD rounds.

Kandy shook her head. “No. We need to seduce it.”

Joe blinked. “You mean…?”

“Yes. We turn it into a smokable sex toy.”

Back at the lab, they worked fast. Kandy synthesized a pheromone blend from crushed aphrodisiac terpenes and Joe performed a tantric summoning ritual involving goat yoga and interpretive moaning. The monster arrived, drawn by the scent and the sound, its eyes swirling like lava lamps.

It roared, but this time it sounded… curious.

Kandy stepped forward, holding a vibrating nanotech dildo shaped like a raptor claw. “Hey, big guy,” she purred. “Wanna get smoked and stroked?”

The monster paused. Sniffed. Drooled.

Joe activated the containment field. The latex wrapped around the creature like a lover’s embrace. The nanotech pulsed. The pheromones surged. The beast moaned—a sound like Cheech and Chong having a spiritual awakening.

Then it compressed. Shrunk. Transformed.

The result? The world’s first THC-powered, dinosaur-themed, smokable sex toy.

Bone City sobered up. The monster was gone. The streets were safe. And Kandy Fontaine had a new product line: Jurassic Joints™—Get Stoned. Get Boned.

The mayor annulled his marriage to the vending machine and declared Kandy a civic hero. Joe got a tantric medal of honor. The Velvet Guillotine hosted a launch party featuring edible lingerie and a DJ who only played whale sounds.

Kandy lit the tip of the claw and took a drag. “Tastes like victory.”

Joe nodded. “And extinction.”

But Bone City never stayed quiet for long.

A week later, a haunted vape lounge opened on the edge of town. Rumor had it the ghost of a foot fetishist was seducing customers through scented fog. Kandy packed her pheromone pistol. Joe grabbed his lube grenades.

They rode off into the haze, ready for the next case.

Because in Bone City, weird was just the beginning.