You Can’t Go Anywhere

I really thought I was ready.

The premier for my movie was set to play my hometown—after Cannes, Sundance and Toronto—and I insisted that everyone close to me come: my girlfriend, my parents and my homies. Which was going to be difficult, because most of us, outside of my parents, live in Hollywood these days. And right before I broke it to them, the news had reported on yet another movie-theater shooting.

I skulked around my parent’s living room, pausing to gaze at my reflection in a china cabinet. I frowned at my long face, my thin lips and delicate features. I considered my short black hair in a fauxhawk, my cobalt eyes and tanned skin, not to mention my crusty douche-bag mustache. I came off as looking about as greedy and as cheesy as possible. All that was needed to complete the profile were some huge gold chains around my neck. When did I become this guy? The entertainment biz, I tell ya, the ruination of persons.

So here I was, all the way home from Hollywood, and I still had to convince my folks to attend my premiere. Bracing myself for the inevitable backlash, I sighed and went back into the kitchen.

“It’s just not safe, Mickey,” my mother said, pursing her lips in that persnickety way old women have. “There’ve been many movie-theater shootings lately…”

“But you can’t live in fear,” I argued. “Besides, we live in Mowquakwa, Illinois, where nothing ever happens. C’mon, I’m into mixed martial arts. If we run into that, I’ll disarm the puke and call the cops.”

Bad things did happen here, though. Many were convinced Mowquakwa was cursed, built on an old Indian burial ground. I wasn’t about to remind them of that, however.

Dad nodded his gray head in my direction, coming back from the fridge with a beer. “She’s right, Mick,” he said. “It’s just not practical.”

I slapped him on the shoulder. “C’mon, I’m into karate, boxing and wrestling. I’ll protect you, Dad.” I threw some pretend punches at his face and gut, bobbing and weaving as he returned the gesture.

Willa came into the kitchen from the other room, where she’d been watching a fright flick with my homeboys. My girl—thirty, thin and vivacious—looked jailbait but blessedly wasn’t. She wore a collared shirt with popcorn, candy, and film reels on it, along with tight black jeans, and she filled out both like a champ. “C’mon, old people,” she said. “You can’t be fraidy cats. You need a little adventure in your lives!”

Going to a movie’s an adventure? I guess it is nowadays…

How the mighty have fallen.

But I know karate and shit!

Manny G. swaggered in, his Flexfit Cardinals hat on sideways, the stickers still on it. His hair underneath was dyed blond. He wore a silk shirt and trendy, baggy-ass jeans. “Hey gringos,” he said, “you tellin me ya don’t have the cojones to go see a stinkin movie?”

“Thanks, home skillet,” I laughed.

Z-Boz swaggered in after him, an African American in an Oakland Raiders jersey and snakeskin pants that made me look like an amateur baller in comparison. He also wore a black Cardinals hat like Manny G’s. “Yo, fam,” he said, “ya’ll need to get some mayonnaise!

I raised my hand in his direction. “Up-top!” I said.

He hissed like a snake. “Man, ain’t nobody do no ‘up-top’ no more, kid.”

Suddenly, a brilliant scheme found its way into my head. “Tell you what,” I said, turning back to my folks. “You two come with us, and I’ll quit smokin.”

My sainted mother placed her hand over her heart. “Oh, I do hate that habit. Does no good, just kills ya.”

Dad nudged her. “C’mon, Mother. It’s for a good cause.”

Mom touched her gray curls of as if keeping them in place, then wrung her hands in frustration. “I don’t know…”

“I’ll pony up some money for a charitable contribution,” I added. “What’s that club you’re in?”

“The Historical Society.”

“Yes! I’ll pump it up.” I gave Mom the puppy-dog eyes. “Please? Hey, I know Krav Maga, Kajukenbo, taekwondo, Okinawan karate, Shotokan karate, parkour and Kung Fu. I’ll be on that psycho before he can dye his hair Joker-orange!”

Standing behind them, Willa put her arms around my folks and pulled them both in for an embrace. “You seasoned veterans need to show us young people how to let our hair down and have a good time!”

“I feel ya, Willa.” Manny G. said, turning his hat the other way.

“Yeeeaaah, son!” Z-Boz added.

“Aw, poo,” Mom said. “I guess we’ll give it a try.”

“If it helps, I’ll be packin, Mother,” Dad macked.

She turned to him with that tight-lipped frown and narrow eyes. “You leave that thing at home. You’ll probably shoot yourself in the foot.”

Fucking derringer.

“It’s just a pea shooter anyway,” I blurted without thinking. I can be a bit of a dick sometimes.

Mom smoothed her apron over her skirt, for she’d been baking like a Stepford. The rich scent of hot cookie dough was driving me mad. “All right, gang,” she said, “let’s get ready to go to the Bijou, then. Ooh! My cookies!” She took them out of the oven and set them atop the stove.

I found myself jumping up and down and whooping with Willa and my boys.

Little did I know it would be a premature celebration.

***

If I could’ve seen myself entering the movie theater with my arm around Willa and my boys flanking us, my parents—the stragglers—bringing up the rear, I probably would’ve grinned ear to ear. It was to be a celebration of my labor of love, our hands full of popcorn, soda—spiked with peach Schnapps, my girl’s demand—Jujubes, Sour Patch Kids, Raisinets, M&Ms, Goobers, Lemon Heads, Milk Duds, Dots, Junior Mints, Trolli Sour Bites, and Cherry Twizzlers.

“You kids are going to go into anaphylactic shock with all that sugar,” Mom said.

“No, that’s an allergic reaction,” came Willa’s response.

Holding her close, my shorty’s scent was enchanting. She’d put on Kim Kardashian perfume just for the occasion—Gold.

The Pied Piper of the rats, I led my posse up to front-row and center. The screen, huge and inviting, hadn’t been lit up just yet, but the wan bulbs around the stage gleamed like Christmas lights. This evening was like Christmas to me, but little did I know, it was soon to be more like Christmasland in NOS4A2.

I took a load off, and for a few vivacious moments, Willa perched on my lap with her soft, firm behind. Va va voom. She giggled and sat down next to me. My boys took their seats to my left. My folks took the row behind us, showing their age as they groaned into their seats.

“Got the life! Victor gets the spoils,” I  said, tossing candy out to my homies.

My girl and I went at the treats like starving dogs, the candy and popcorn delectable, ambrosia—the sugar made me dizzy, joy fireworking all up in my brain.

Man, I’m such a lightweight…

No anaphylactic shock, but the sudden sugar overdose damn-near numbed my tongue.

Mom leaned forward and placed an arthritic claw on my shoulder. “Fancy place, Mickey. You must be doing pretty well for yourself.”

“Bangin like a baller,” I laughed.

My dad’s hand fell firm upon my other shoulder. “I’m proud of you, Son.”

I craned my head and said, “You haven’t even seen the movie yet!”

That’s when I got a creepy feeling I was being watched. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of some shadowy figure, but by the time I’d turned my head, it had already vanished into the darkness. The fire door was left swinging, however. Someone had placed a brick to keep it open.

Clearly, some hater must’ve thought they were getting a free movie.

Which meant they were ripping me off.

Needless to say, I wasn’t havin none of that. I rose and headed straight for the door.

Cavalierly, Willa rose and ran off ahead of me.

“Whachoo doin, girl?” I snapped.

“I got you!” she said, smiling back over her shoulder.

“Nah, I got this…”

But she’d already closed the door before I could catch up to her.

Heading back to our seats, my homies were laughing and pointing at me.

Manny G. said, “Man, I’m gaggin. She had to handle yo shit!”

“Damn, son, you be doggin,” Z-Boz added.

I shot them both my best look of death through tightly narrowed eyes. “At least I got a girl, poindexters…”

My parents, easily amused, smiled as they looked back at forth between me and my homeboys. They could’ve been at a tennis match.

“You tell ‘em, Son.” My dad bade me into a fist-bump.

Who was I to deny him? “Thanks, Daddo.”

“We just playin,” Manny G. chuckled.

“I feel ya,” Z-Boz said. “Strong shorties be hot.”

“Watch it,” I said, “That’s my girl you talkin bout.”

Meanwhile, the rest of the audience was finally showing up, a compliment to me of course. On top of the world, I snickered as the lights went down and the huge screen came to life, rolling out the coming attractions.

Nothin can touch me.

***

And then, all at once, I really had to question that thought.

Blasting through the fire door came a fiend like the devil himself, all done up in white makeup with black smeared around his eyes and mouth. He was dressed just like the Penguin from Batman Returns, complete with top hat and black coat.

He held a shotgun in his hands, a pistol strapped prominently to his side.

Wise folk say your life flashes before your eyes when confronted by death, but this fool’s sure didn’t. Pure rage consumed me, not only because he was about to ruin my hometown premiere, but also because he aimed to shoot us up as well. So, like any good Dean Koontz fan, I took his advice and ran into what scared me. This clearly caught him off guard, but before I could grab him, he jumped back and leveled the shotgun at my head.

Aw shit…

Acting on reflex, I pulled an Okinawan karate move, swiftly stepping to my left and slapping the gun to the other side. But before I could follow up by kicking it out of his hands, he pivoted away and dodged my foot with ease.

“Satan told me you’d try that…” he wheezed.

Blam! He shot me in the leg.

A sharp ringing erupted in my ears, everything else fading into background noise by comparison.

I cried out—my voice embarrassingly high-pitched—and collapsed onto the floor. The pain exquisite, the whole rotten event instantly transforming into an open house in Hell.

He snickered in a tinny little voice, the Penguin’s laugh exactly. Rushing back over to me, he roughly hauled me up to my feet.

“Prepare to die…” he rasped in my ear, drawing his pistol and holding it to my forehead.

“How the Hell you supposed to prepare for that?” I whined, trying to sound all tough (I didn’t).

He frowned and furrowed his brow, the eyes of the Devil staring deep into mine. “Say your prayers, stupid!”

Seeing my opportunity, that’s when I attempted a Krav Maga move. Lifting my hands in a gesture of surrender, begging him not to shoot, I went to kick him in the nuts while simultaneously crouching down away from the gun. Pretty smart, right?

And yet, once again, he dodged with the grace of a dancer and re-holstered his pistol. With a mocking sneer, he leveled the shotgun back at me.

“You gotta be kiddin me!” I cried.

I’d seen YouTube videos that said gun-disarming didn’t work, and I hadn’t believed it. If it was good enough for Black Scout Survival, it was good enough for me. But, balefully, they’d been right all along.

“Where my homies at?” I screamed in panic. “Cap this fool already!”

“Shut your cocksucker!”

Blam! He shot me in the other leg. I gritted my teeth in agony, writhing in a pool of my own blood.

Finally, the previews came to an abrupt stop and the house lights came up. All I could hear was the screaming of my fam and crew. I rolled onto my side so I could see the catastrophe unfolding before me, live-wiring my brain with a sense of terror and doom.

He’s gonna murder everyone I love!

Meanwhile, my homeboys had drawn their own weapons, but why were they just standing there shaking and not firing? That’s when I knew they were all talk, the fuckin cowards.

“Bust a cap in his ass or you’re dead to me!” I yowled in pain.

But the Penguin was a sharpshooter, shooting both pistols out of their hands just as my boys had finally found their nuts.

That’s when Willa came charging at him from the side. To do what? Some wrestling takedown move? Hurling herself feet first, she was poised to connect a perfect dropkick, and then…

Blam! He spun around and shot her right in the crotch. Blood sprayed out of the back of her skin-tight jeans as she flopped onto the floor. Then he shot her in the tits. Blam! Blam! Instantly deflated.

“No!” I cried out in anguish.

The love of my life! Dead?

Curling up in a ball on the floor, all I could do was pinch myself.

This has gotta be a fucking nightmare!

Meanwhile, everyone else with half a brain had already fled the theater, but my folks had only just begun to rise shakily from their seats, as if suddenly stricken with Parkinson’s.

Blam! He blew the top of Mom’s head clean off, leaving her bottom lip quavering, her tongue lolling around in search of the roof of her mouth. Instinctively, Dad turned to dive into the row behind them to scoop up the top half of her head, just like a male Jackie Kennedy.

“Mom! No!” I cupped my hands tightly over my ears, but still this wasn’t enough to drown out the deafening gun blasts echoing within my skull.

Blam! Hitting him in mid-air, the Penguin shot Dad square in the ass, sending him sprawling into the aisle.

“Dad! No! Oh God, oh Jesus Christ…” I trembled all over and pissed and shit my pants, this black comedy of errors finally taking its toll on my sanity.

In a last ditch effort to take him down, my homies screamed at the top of their lungs and bum-rushed the Penguin. Before their could tackle him though, he blasted Manny G.’s left leg off at the knee. My homeboy went down like a sack of onions.

“Tweedledee and Tweedledumb…” the Penguin mused, laughing in that tinny voice.

Swiftly tucking the shotgun under his arm, he whipped out a machete from under his coat. Then, just as Z-Boz lunged, he cold stabbed his ass in all the Van Damme pressure points: his forehead, high on his left shoulder, lower on his right shoulder, lower on the left and into his heart, and into both of his sides of his abdomen. Z-Boz closed his eyes and sank to his knees just in time to get his head sliced off for good measure.

All my loved ones, dead.

I’d lost the plot.

And I’m next, I knew. And I’m not saved. I’m going straight to Hell.

Lord knew my parents had taken me to church as a child and had been on me to go back ever since, but I wanted horror, the handiwork of the devil, the job of the damned! Shoot, I had a franchise, son!

At least I was bleeding to death, a precious small mercy. My vision was going dark around the edges. Yet I knew I wouldn’t die just yet.

Pulling out my own hair and keening like a banshee, I screamed my guts out as a conflagration set my brain aflame. The breakdown was like spiders crawling out through my ears. All of my loved ones were dead, and demons were going to fuck my straight ass with no Vaseline in damnation, for all eternity. I just knew it.

That’s when the police entered the theater, guns drawn, screaming at the Penguin, “Down on the ground! Right now!”

Instead, he turned on his heel and stared deep into my eyes, grinning with yellowed snaggleteeth as he stuck the pistol under his chin. Took the coward’s way out. Blam! Bloody gray matter blasted out through the top of his head.

Fuck the Joker. By the time the EMTs reached me, I was cackling like the goddamned Mad Hatter.

And I couldn’t stop.

Saw bugs as big as cars on the walls. Shrieked with more laughter. Whipped out my cock and smeared shit all over my own face.

Some fates were worse than death. Worse than even Hell. Where would I go from here?

YOU CAN’T GO ANYWHERE

Repossession

He carried the woman out of the boot of his car using a fireman’s lift. Her wrinkled hand with knotted arthritic joints grazed his cheek, making his skin crawl. He could almost feel the dirt under her nails infect him. Of course, he wanted to help her but, regardless, he was repelled by her feral state.

The pair were at his cottage in the country just outside town in a sparsely populated neighbourhood where it rained so much the rivers swelled to twice their size in winter and the trees dominated the horizon.

He heaved her onto the sofa bed – the springs groaning, moths fluttering out of the crumpled sheets. The woman sighed and showed signs of surfacing. He bolted all the doors and pulled up a chair opposite her – ready with mace and a rope in case things turned nasty. He rolled himself a cigarette with the artistry of a calligrapher.

As the woman came to, she propped her head on her hand and absorbed the scene – red velvet curtains drawn, stale smell of potatoes, spiders’ webs assembled in every corner. This wasn’t a home, definitely not a bachelor’s pad, but a place where untold pain had been suffered. The man licked another cigarette into a perfectly smooth cylinder and offered it to her. She shook her head with a grimace.

It was then she noticed the rope and mace he’d placed on the floor that was lined with plastic sheeting. Trying to shrug off her nausea she said, “I have nothing and I have no family for you to blackmail. Kill me if you want.”

“I’m not going to kill you, and I don’t want anything from you. I’m here to help.”

“So, you’re one of those twisted freaks who gets off on power. Well do your worst.”

“You haven’t aged well,” he said, flicking through some notes. “Says here you’re thirty-two. You look sixty. I’m guessing the drug you’re on is Fathomalide, right? I’ve seen these aging effects before, but not so pronounced. What are you doing on a posh drug like that anyway?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m your repo man and now the best friend you’ve got.”

“Whatever, mate, I’m past caring. You’ve already taken everything from me.”

She stretched her arms then scratched her cheek, loosening a scab of dry skin that floated down from her face, nestling amongst the folds of the duvet. The man noticed her sagging skin hanging from her throat.

“So, you’re going to get me clean? I’m no normal fiend, I warn you.”

“I’ve seen it all before,” he said, prodding his phone, scrolling through pictures of her belongings. “Give it twenty-four hours, you’ll be a new woman. See, my method is I show the addict pictures that connect with their past. It’s cathartic. Taking drugs blocks the emotions, getting in touch with the past sets the mind free – free from the ties of addiction. Being a repo man gives me the perfect opportunity to access their possessions.”

“You don’t have family a family do you; otherwise why would you care about a random stranger like me? And you ain’t no Mother Teresa either, so what gives?”

The man began to tap his foot – disgruntled. He stood and decided not to defend himself. He went to his room, grumbling under his breath, flopped onto his bed and continued analysing pictures. He uploaded the pictures to his laptop and let them scroll across the screen, one after another.

She began to sweat – a cold fever taking control of her body. She could only wait. She pulled on a single strand of hair, curled it around her finger and then plucked it out. By the time the man returned she’d cleared a tiny bald patch above her forehead. He sat and stared at her, curling his upper lip with disgust.

He pointed at her; “your face is – is disgusting. It’s all peeling, look.”

There were flakes of skin in a small heap beside her, mingled with loose strings of hair.

“Let’s get you into a bath and clean you up.”

As they moved into the bathroom, through the open door of his bedroom the woman could see the pictures displayed on his computer. She spied one photo in particular – a shot of an elderly couple – and as the man helped her fragile frame along, her legs buckled from beneath her. She gasped. The man struggled to maintain their balance, feeling her hip bone dig into his side. He rested her on a stool by the sink, drew the woman a bath, laying out some worn towels and a shrivelled-up piece of soap.

“What just happened? You nearly fell,” he said

“My parents, a picture of my parents. They died recently.”

She wiped tears from her eyes as steam clouded the bathroom mirror. The man turned off the taps and the last few droplets splashed into the body of water.

“Take a long soak. We’ll get through this.”

“Why are you doing this to me?

“Take as long as you need and when you’re clean maybe we can look at some more photos. It’ll quicken the process.”

The woman took off her hoodie, leggings and beaten-up trainers as the man closed the door on her. Her naked body was hunched and blighted with scars from bedbugs that had ravaged her skin. She lowered herself into the water and began to shake, falling into a silent fit, losing control of her senses as time ground by slowly.

An hour later the man opened the bathroom door and chucked inside a clean tracksuit for her to wear. As she returned to the living room the man noticed her appearance was significantly altered – her posture was erect, her skin was taut, her scars healed, the leaden glare in her eyes, gone. She was transformed. Then the man’s attention was drawn to a stench emanating from the bathroom.

“Smells like something died in there,” he said, and he went to investigate. As he peered through the door, scouring the room, everything was normal, until he realised laying by the bundle of the woman’s dirty clothes was another pile, consisting of a mysterious material. An odd fly dipped and dodged about the mass, that on closer inspection looked like flesh. He poked it with his foot. It gave way and rippled. The form reminded him of flaccid, discarded intestines.

“The old me,” the woman said, grinning from ear to ear, peering over his shoulder. “I tell you; I’ve never felt better.”

“What just happened?”

“I thought you’ve seen it all. Come on, let’s look at some more pictures, I want to finish this.”

In a daze the man got a bin bag and scooped up the rotting flesh with rubber gloves and it oozed through his fingers. He recoiled in disgust. He dumped the bag outside as maggots squirmed in the creases of the mushy bundle.

After dinner the man collected his laptop from his bedroom and set it up on the kitchen table allowing the woman to comfortably focus her attention on the photos of the possessions that had once represented her entire world.

“Stop,” she said after a dozen or so photos had drifted by, “let me look at that one in more detail.”

A brown teddy bear was pictured – a toy without any real distinguishing features – and yet the woman reacted to it violently, clutching her stomach as if she’d been stabbed. Within seconds, her belly had swollen, stretching her top out as if she was six months pregnant. She pulled up her hoodie and pressed her hands against the naked bulge, stroking bruised veins that poked out of her skin. She whispered gentle words to the unborn soul. “It’s ok,” she said, “this time will be different.”

The man dragged his fingers through his hair and wore a look of disbelief.

“I’m going to need pears, lots of pears,” she said, eyes glued to her tummy.

“Uh, ok. Listen, do you know what’s going on? Because I don’t know what’s going on.”

“I think I’m pregnant.”

“Yes, it looks that way.”

“Pears.”

“Ok, you really want pears. Give me an hour and I’ll stock up. I have to lock you in because we’re not finished. I hope you understand. But you’ll have your pears soon and we’ll figure this out.”

As he returned, heaving groceries under each arm while juggling his keys, he looked around for the woman but she was nowhere to be seen. Only then did he notice a streak of blood marking the floor. He heard a sharp cry. He dropped his bags and raced into the bathroom. The woman was on the floor, resting her back against the bath, writhing in pain. Her lower body was stripped bare and blood gurgled out of her crotch. Then something slimy, something large forced its way out of her, moving imperceptibly, maybe even breathing.

“You did this,” said the woman, “you.”

“Did what? How?” he said.

“Never mind. It’s dead. I don’t know why I thought it would be any different this time.”

“Please explain, what’s happening.”

“My drug, it eats my insides up. I’ve had one miscarriage after another throughout my life.  Seeing that teddy brought all the memories flooding back – memories of a time when I was preparing to become a mum.”

“We need to keep you off the drug and clean your system out. Maybe looking at some more pictures would help. Trust me I know what drugs can do. I never had a proper family because of them. That’s why I always wanted to be a dad. But it hasn’t happened for me yet.”

“That’s a touching story. Look, I believe you mean well but I don’t want this anymore. I can’t do it.”

She got to her feet, blood and mucus pouring down her thighs and walked into the living room as the man laid a towel over the dead foetus, ready to be binned beside the skin festering in the trash cans outside. Despite her anguish, she looked fresh and full of life. Her hair glossy, teeth white. She had oily skin too and was breaking out in spots around her forehead and temples. She could pass for a teenager.

She picked up the laptop, with the man’s phone still hooked up to it, raised them above her head and sent them crashing to the ground, spreading broken electronics to each corner of the room like scuttling cockroaches. The man dashed out of the bathroom, head in hands, and screamed at her with every sinew in his body, causing the girl to cower. “Why!” he cried, “don’t you see that was our only hope!”

“Hope for who? Maybe there’s hope for you, but not me. At least if I can block any memories that trigger me, I can avoid going through more pain.”

The man took several deep breaths. There was always a solution.

“Listen, let’s gets some sleep, we’re both on edge and I’m sure we’ll see things clearer in the morning.”

That night, while the girl tossed and turned in bed – troubled by sinister dreams of rabid dogs attacking her stillborn baby, the man injected her with a sedative and bound and gagged her. By the time she woke up she found herself seated in a large room illuminated by halogen lights and filled with boxes – some nailed shut, others crowbarred open, with possessions spread across the floor.

“This is your lockup, and these are all your repossessed belongings,” said the man. “Now I’m going to take off your gag. Scream if you want to, the place is deserted.”

Once she was freed the girl said, “What now?”

“Well, we find the next trigger.”

“Where does this end? Please let me go before something worse happens.”

“Don’t look at it that way, we’re on the cusp of something important.”

The man began to sift through boxes, ripping open lids and burrowing deep inside. He fished out clothing, kitchenware, paperwork, and held them up to the girl in the hope that an object would spark a reaction. When he found a child’s watch, with the design of a unicorn floating on a rainbow, the girl sat bolt upright, straining against her ropes.

“This is something, isn’t it?” He said. “Who does it belong to? Did you have a child after all? What is it, tell me?”

Her neck began to shift from one side to the other making a loud cracking sound. The man hid the watch from the girl’s view and her body immediately slumped in relaxation.

“Ok,” he said, “I want you to be entirely honest with me. And if you do, I will let you go. This whole thing will be over for you, I promise. But you have to explain yourself.”

“You promise?”

“Yes, I have other things to do too you know.”

“That watch belonged to my older sister. She died of a brain tumour when I was young. I didn’t really know what was happening, I was too little, but anyway I wouldn’t stop crying after she passed. I cried and cried and my parents couldn’t cope. Their solution was to put me on a new drug at the time, Fathomalide. Well, the crying stopped, but it had side effects – uncontrollable vomiting, joint pain, weird growths on my body – things like that. But my parents kept me on it and I seemed to adjust.”

“But now,” he said, “you’re suffering consequences in ways you could never imagine, right?”

“Right. Now do as you promised, let me go.”

“I did promise, didn’t I. But to be honest it’s just too tempting to find out what will happen next.”

He held out the watch, dangling it by her nose as she began to gag and her body rocked from side to side. Her lips trembled and snot dribbled into her mouth. He moved the watch closer to the girl’s nose, dangling it with a steady hand as the girl fell into contortions.

“What are you? What can I do with you?” he said.

The girl spat at the man’s cheek and he wiped off the saliva with the cuff of his shirt. Suddenly there were ripping sounds. Her tracksuit tore as bones jutted out of cloth – spine, shoulders and knees, poking through like jagged knives. He could see blood dripping from her flesh. She tried to close her eyes, but somehow, she was compelled to maintain her gaze.

“Help me!” she cried.

Then everything changed. A cascade of vomit spewed out of her mouth, knocking him back on his heels sending the watch flying across the room. Then a gel-like substance was excreted from her pores all over her body, casting her in a thick layer of gunge from head to toe. As the gel solidified around her body, he could hear the sound of bones shifting and crunching again.

The man listened as her voice murmured from inside her casing. He could hear the girl sobbing, becoming desperate – a clawing cry that set the man’s nerves on end. He couldn’t hold back any longer. He thrust his arms into the gel and searched around, finally grabbing hold of her as she shuddered with fear. He pulled out the body and a green discharge spurted across the room. He unveiled a child of about two years old, draped in sopping wet rags.

“It’s OK, it’s OK,” the man said, wiping the pus from her face. The child took some deep breaths, ceased crying for a few seconds as she took in her environment, her new body and the man staring intently into her eyes. But it didn’t take long before she started up like a car engine and began to wail again.

“Ok,” he said, “what do you want? What shall I do?”

The child was inconsolable. There was the sound of activity outside. It was dawn and the lockup was opening for business.

“We’ve got to get out of here. Hold on to me. I won’t let you go.”

He gathered up the child in his arms and raced to his car before his bleary-eyed co-workers could discover any wrongdoing. The man placed the child in the passenger seat and strapped her in. Still crying, he held her by the shoulders and said, “This doesn’t fit but it’ll have to do for now. Listen, you belong to me now. I can look after you in the ways your parents never could. You will need me like I need you. I know I treated you badly but one day you’ll understand why it had to be done. So, let’s both start over. Just please, please stop crying.”

They drove off into the morning streets, sun nestling behind a block of trees, casting a long shadow in the man’s rear-view mirror.  They had no place where they had to be, nothing tying them down. They would find their own way, in their own time – into the burning heart of the future.

Big Black Widow

Here she comes, stomping down Fifth Avenue, a sexual nightmare on two legs: Big Mary, the terror of all those smaller than she. In other words, everyone.

So many years since she last tore herself out of the shadows.

She was still horribly beautiful, and dressed in black.

Her black hat was hung with a black veil. Long black gloves showed off her biceps and the whiteness of her skin. At fifty paces, she had me on the verge of premature ejaculation.

She didn’t see me, or couldn’t see me. Lesser creatures, the ants all around her, don’t really exist. We’re just packets of energy with little or no mass, aimlessly adrift in nature, while she spans and dominates the world. I could’ve turned around, or ducked into a building, or grabbed a cab. She closed in, staring off into space. Her eyes blazed red, as though she’d been weeping.

“Hey Mary.” We’d been off our playground across the Hudson River for decades, so I didn’t say, Hey Big Mary. That nickname might still be a torment.

She looked around. She seemed lost. ‘Maybe she doesn’t live in the city,’ I thought. ‘She’s just here for the day because someone she loved, or admired, has died.’ It was still difficult to imagine that Big Mary could have friends. What a huge, lonely life she must’ve led.

“Oh. Hey. It’s you.” Her lips moved slowly, like the wings of some magnificent demon.

“Wow, you look exactly the same,” I said. “I mean, you look great. How are you?” Man how stupid can you be? You see a woman dressed in mourning, and ask her how she’s doing.

“Oh, great, except that I’m a widow now.”

“Oh no. I’m sorry. How long were you married?” I mean, who the hell was the lucky guy? A professional wrestler? A monster from Hollywood? And how did you kill him?

“Not even twenty years,” she said.

“Well hey, that’s more than most couples get.” The more I spoke, the more I felt I hadn’t grown or made any progress since the woman I’d just bumped into arrested my development in the Fifth Grade. But that was already more education than most people got.

“Yeah I guess,” Big Mary said. “Hadn’t thought of it that way, yet.”

A moment was about to slip by. Had to grab it, get it back, make it stay, but moments are much more powerful than they seem. When they want to go, they go. “So, uh, you live around here?” The Upper East Side, where everyone who doesn’t live there wants to, was her natural habitat.

“Yeah. It’s weird, our apartment’s in the same building as the funeral parlor. I mean, how convenient. You die, all you gotta do is head downstairs. Don’t even have to put a sweater on.”

It was early spring, a bright day with a cutting chill wind. Big Mary hugged her arms. “Jeezus maybe I should’ve put a sweater on. I got a whole goddamn closet full of cashmere and camel hair.”

Herds of alpacas and vicuñas had been rendered into cloud-like garments to warm Big Mary’s broad alabaster shoulders.

She looked at me, then. We were more or less eye-to-eye.

Memory plays tricks with perspective and creates monsters. Black clothes accentuate height. Big Mary used to wear drab monochrome outfits to school. They were custom-made by her Mom, since store-bought clothes were expensive, and none of the shops in town had anything that’d fit her colossal daughter anyway. Mary’s family was poor.

She let me drape my coat on her shoulders. “Jeezus Mary you used to scare the hell out of me. I used to have nightmares where you’d clomp down the street and knock down buildings and uproot trees. No matter where I hid, you’d find and eat me.”

“Oh yeah?” She looked as though she’d forgotten her husband’s funeral for a moment. “Maybe fate has brought us together today so I could say I’m sorry.”

So she remembered the time she and her ogress cronies dragged me into the little house-schwitz on the playground. They tied me up with a jump-rope and threw me to the floor. Big Mary loomed far overhead, straddled, dropped to her knees. Torture was a kiss, something grade school boys were supposed to dread. But she also whispered that she was going to suck the eyeballs out of my head.

 That was one long, dark recess.

“Tell me about you,” Big Mary said. “You live in the city? Whuddya do?”

“Oh I write stories. For kids, mostly. Not little kids, though. Big kids, I guess.”

“Yeah? You make a living at it?”

“Not really. Not anymore. You got kids?”

“Zero. You?”

“None for me too. I split up with my girlfriend a while back. We had twelve years together. That was all we got. Too bad, because I think we both wanted more.”

“Well that’s pretty funny, isn’t it, us bumping into each other like this after so long and we’re both sorta available. I mean, you are loose, aren’t you?”

“Let’s go for a walk in the park, Mary. There’s a place I like.”

“You haven’t turned into some kinda ax-murderer, have you?”

“Oh, you never know.”

“Okay, let’s go. I don’t mind.”

She didn’t say, ‘I ain’t afraid of you or anyone like you.’ She’d grown polite.

The place I liked was near the carousel. The roundabout was curtained off and closed, due to the wind and cold. A playground for ghosts, the spirits of children who grew up and weren’t children anymore, though of course deep down inside they still were and would always be. The clearing was isolated, and quiet.

Big Mary pulled a face. “You like this place? That’s so weird, cuz it always gives me the creeps. I always jog around it so I don’t have to look.”

“You’re in great shape. You look like a…” I was about to say, ‘glamorous bodyguard’. “…A dancer, some kinda full-contact ballerina.”

“I just try to keep from falling all the way apart is all.” That New Jersey accent won’t go away, ever.

The carousel dissolved in the raking light. The city beyond the trees had dematerialized. I led Big Mary into a stand of ironwoods that grew from the mouth of a red brickwork tunnel. She said, “Look, I already apologized for what I did. I wasn’t really gonna hurt you anyway. I only wanted to smooch-rape you cuz I thought you were cute. Honest.”

“This is known as psycho-drama, Mary. It’s supposed to help people get over past traumas.”

“Okay, go ahead and kill me if you want. Do it quick, though. I’m not into pain.”

“You got the wrong idea. We bring the past back to life in order to make it go away.” I was lying. I lay down on the dirt, face up. The carousel’s organ began to play. The wind wheezed a ghostly music through its pipes.

“What the hell are you doing?” The wind blew Big Mary’s veil off her face. The lines showed. The years pounced into the moment like hyenas.

“This is the only playground we got left, Mary. Do it. But go all the way this time. Please.”

“You don’t mean it,” she said, but she knew I did. She moved, towered over the visible world, the way she had back at school. Her black skirt was a shroud, her black lace panties a chic touch of death. She went down slow, put pressure where the air went in, and where the blood raced to the brain. She knew what to do, where to go, knew how to meet a millionaire husband and how to snuff him when the time was right. Oh you big gorgeous cunning killer.

Everything was so sweet and black and final. But then she stopped, stood up and let the light have its way again. Sometimes I hate light.

“Why not, Mary?” I gasped. “Back then you said forever and ever.”

“We were in Fifth Grade, for chrissakes.”

“Life used to be so scary and serious, then it got light and sorta fun for a while, and now it’s all so dumb and meaningless.”

“Nothing changes,” she said. “The only thing that’s different is that when you’re all grown up it’s okay to be the biggest thing around.” She straightened her stockings, her skirt, set her veil back where it belonged.

“What’re you doing this evening?” I brushed myself off, shook the dead leaves and grass out of my hair. “Do you have to go to some gargantuan funeral banquet, or can I take you out on a date?”

“That’s what I wanted you to ask me out there on the playground,” she said.

We went to the Stork Club for drinks, had dinner at Delmonico’s, danced at Studio 54 and wound up as close to the stars as possible, at Windows on the World. The harbor and New Jersey sparkled like crazy below. We watched a storm come in off the Atlantic to erase the night and shake the skyscrapers to their foundations.

The next morning we went to the old Penn Station, that Roman Temple dedicated to Cronos, and caught a train to Jersey City to visit our old school. But the old red building had been torn down. An octoplex cinema was there instead, and its parking lot had engulfed the playground.

Bingo and the Cockless Wonders

“NEXT!!”

Bingo walked up to the massive wooden desk.

“What’s yer name, kid?”

“I’m the Cockless Wonder.”

The fat man behind the desk raised an eyebrow.

“Well, it’s Bingo – but I’m the Cockless Wonder.”

“You got a name like Bingo and you call yourself the Cockless Wonder?”

“It’s the act. You gotta see it. It’s really–”

“I like it! But we need four more guys. You’re Bingo and they’re the Wonders. I like it.”

“Don’t you want to see the act?” Bingo reached for the zipper on his crotch.

“Not if you’re gonna whip your fuckin’ dick out, kid. Leave the pleasure to the crowd.”

Bingo frowned. “I don’t whip my dick out. I’m a cockless wonder.”

“This is Hollywood, kid. You wanna be a wonder? You gotta have a cock to make it, or you gotta find one that can do it for you. It’s the only way.”

“You don’t understand – I’m different. I don’t need a cock to make it. That’s the whole point.”

“Fuck it. Let’s see what you got.” The fat man leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar.

The kid unzipped his fly and dropped his pants. The fat man was momentarily stunned; he choked on his cigar smoke. A cat hissed and scurried out of the room. Then Bingo began…

It was something magnificent, like a sunrise over Halong Bay. Like the chorus of angels from on high. A foul odor crept into the air, filling the small office space. The fat man sat frozen with awe, his tearful eyes growing wider with each passing moment. He hadn’t felt this way in so long; a lip quivered as his mind rolled through tender childhood memories. The Chinese Ballet had nothing on Bingo. The Roman Empire would have fallen to its knees for him. Such a glorious fantasy display, unparalleled in all of history. This kid had it.

As Bingo finished, the fat man sat silent for a moment. He couldn’t believe it: of all the talent agencies in L.A., Lady Luck had chosen this one to grace with her presence. He grabbed a tissue and wiped snot off his upper lip.

“Just sign right here,” he said.

Bingo walked past the hardware store and took a left, stopped next to a stairwell. He pulled a torn napkin out of his pocket and looked at the address again; this was the place. He climbed the stairs to a red door that groaned when he opened it. Inside, he stood in an old rehearsal hall. The fat man was at the other end of the room, pacing, eyes glued to his wristwatch. He looked up and startled, nearly tripped on his own feet as he went to greet the kid.

“Thank God! I thought we might’ve lost you. Follow me.”

The fat man hurried through another groaning door and Bingo followed. In the next room stood four men: two blondes, a redhead, and a bald one. Bingo could tell they had little means.

“Boys, this here is Bingo,” said the fat man. “He’s gonna make you the Cockless Wonders.”

The men looked concerned. The redhead took a step back.

“It ain’t like that,” said the fat man. “We’re all gettin’ a fuck-ton of money.”

The redhead stepped forward again.

“That’s more like it! This is the time of our lives, gents – believe me!”

Bingo waved the fat man over. “What exactly are these guys here for?”

“Son, it’s showbiz,” said Fatty. “With this act, you’re gonna be on a big circuit – a big stage, see? Can’t have just one guy up there. The crowd gets restless. Besides, this way the name has some zing to it.” He turned to the four guys and winked, then faced Bingo again.

“Okay, kid…go ahead. Show ‘em.” The fat man braced himself for the spectacle.

Bingo shrugged and dropped his pants. Then he began…

It was, of course, phenomenal. It was like the Grand Canyon: pictures could not do it justice. You had to be there yourself. All that beauty pouring out from one source…so much talent, such incredible moxie. Hitler would have been jealous. And the stink! – God, it was overwhelming.

When Bingo finished, the four men applauded. It would have taken a swimming pool to catch all the tears. Only the bald man spoke: “I’m gonna buy my mama a Cadillac.”

The fat man slipped a ten-dollar bill to each of the men. “I’ll have your suits ready on Friday,” he said. They thanked him and left the room in single file.

It was an opera house in New York City. Bingo rolled down the window and saw steam rising from the curb as the limo came to a stop. It was cold as ice out there; he hardly noticed. The past ten months had been a whirlwind of record deals, TV interviews, and a sold-out national tour. The reviews were fairly mixed: “CONTROVERSIAL!” … “GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH!!” … “THIS GUY’S GOING TO HELL.” This was the last leg of the tour and momentum was still on the rise. Top-notch film director Willoughby Jones was considering leads for his new action flick; rumor had it that he might be in the crowd. If tonight went smoothly, the sky was the limit.

Bingo got out of the car and squinted, then held up a hand to block the flashing lights. The fat man exited the vehicle behind him and beamed at the cameras. Bingo waved, gave an unsteady smile as he walked along the carpet. This was a bit more than he’d bargained for, but oh-so delicious. Along the grand marquee stood tall words lit up like a fairground:

TONIGHT!!

BINGO AND THE COCKLESS WONDERS

(Cash Only)

The fat man pushed Bingo through the double doors and into the lobby. They made a sharp right through an entrance marked ‘TALENT.’ Outside, the people were still screaming. There was a long corridor that reeked of spilled champagne; Bingo remembered New Years Eve, and marveled that it was coming up so soon. Time moves fast when you’re keeping busy, he thought. He entered a dressing room and the fat man followed.

Fatty closed the door and faced Bingo squarely. “Listen…I mean, this is kind of a big night. Not that it really matters, but do you do any other numbers…or just the one?”

“Just the one.” Bingo was confident.

The fat man grabbed his shoulders with love. “Okay. Well, no matter what happens, this has been amazing, kid. I want you to know how much it means to me – it means everything.” He looked pretty genuine.

“Just another day on the clock.” Bingo smiled.

“Yeah, but it’s a big fucking clock.” The fat man left the room and walked down the hall as Bingo closed the door. It was almost go-time.

Inside the dressing room, Bingo stood motionless for a moment. It was hard to believe this was all real. Last year he’d been picking up dimes off the sidewalk – it seemed people only dropped dimes, for some reason – and eating from trash cans in the park. His life then was filled with false starts, dead-end jobs, and broken promises. He was never the type to fit in. His response to the talent ad in the local rag had been a joke, a shot in the dark, a last-ditch attempt to do something worthwhile with his final hours. Just that morning, Bingo had decided to jump off the tallest bridge in town. But it was more like a choice, really. Decisions are made with conviction, and the suicide was mostly about apathy. His response to the ad? Now, that was a decision: a conscious effort to complete something once and for all. Just one thing – just one little thing, for God’s sake. It wouldn’t really matter any more or less than the things he had done before, only this time he would see it through to the end. Then he could get on with the suicide, if he still had the balls.

That’s the problem, he’d thought – I don’t have any balls. And the cycle of self-loathing started all over again.

Now Bingo was doing alright. No more dimes off the sidewalk. No more food poisoning from the recycle bin. Things were looking pretty good. So he stopped standing in the dressing room and began walking. He walked straight to the fridge for a bottle of chocolate milk. It was full of them, just as requested. This was important for the show.

Ten minutes later, the show was about to begin. The Wonders walked to center-stage and stood on their marks behind the stage curtain. They were ready. Bingo was ready. Somewhere not far away, the fat man was ready as well. A local radio announcer walked up to Bingo and shook his hand. He held out a Starbucks receipt and a ballpoint pen.

“Listen, if you don’t mind…my kid would really appreciate an autograph. He’s crazy about assholes. Don’t ask.”

Bingo obliged. The announcer thanked him and walked out into the spotlight as the music began playing. The audience piped up in celebration. Bingo stepped to his place in front of the Wonders. It was tuxedos all around.

From there, all Bingo could see was the dark backside of the deep-red curtain. But he could hear the audience; he could smell their popcorn, feel their bank accounts dwindling in the atmosphere. The roar of their excitement was beautiful. Bingo knew he had earned this with his commitment to that one fateful decision. And yet somehow he felt an immense gratitude to the powers beyond his control. It seemed the moment he had stepped out in faith, all the pieces just came together. If he could ride this high for just one more night, Bingo would never consider the bridge again. He could easily carry on living. He promised this, somewhere, deep down inside.

The radio announcer wailed into the microphone: “Ladies and gentlemen! Please give a warm New-York welcome for… BINGO AND THE COCKLESS WONDERRRSSS!!”

The ruby curtain rose. The audience stood clapping and cheering, happy as children on Christmas morning. Bingo waved to them. The Wonders waved to them, too. Panties flew onstage. Then the lights dimmed, the excitement softened, and everyone returned to their seats.

Bingo walked closer to the front of the stage, folding his hands in front of his waist. He turned briefly to his bandmates and nodded. On his cue, the Cockless Wonders cleared their throats and commenced humming a soft acappella number. They swayed from side to side in unison, their tune rolling in rise and fall like the refrain of a Southern Gospel hymn. It was low and sweet, fit for a funeral; the pace was measured, the tempo calm. For some in the crowd, it held a certain familiarity they could not yet define. The Wonders raised their volume. Bingo lowered his head in reverence, and just as the melody lifted he deftly unzipped his fly. Then he dropped his pants to the floor, and the audience gasped: Bingo was as bare as a plastic doll. Not a hair could be found, not a shred of evidence to suggest that he’d ever possessed an organ at all. But for the lack of scars, one could have sworn he was a eunuch, or the victim of some tragic accident.

On the next measure, Bingo turned his back to the audience and bent over at the waist. He spread his cheeks apart gently, and in that moment the sweetest voice rang out through the auditorium:

“Clock strikes upon the hour,
and the sun begins to fade…”

It was an impossibly clear tenor, perfect in pitch. Gorgeous, velvet tone spilled into the theater in waves. The audience gasped again.

“Still enough time to figure out…
how to chase my blues away…”

Such crystalline, operatic body… A range that stretched to infinity… And the vibrato – my god, that vibrato!

“I’ve done alright up to now…
It’s the light of day that shows me how…
And when the night falls… loneliness calls…”

It was beauty incarnate. It was simply indescribable. It was a soulful, heart-crushing rendition of Whitney Houston’s nineteen-eighties mega-hit ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody.’

“Ooohh, I wanna dance with somebody…
I wanna feel the HEAT with some-bah-da-aay…”

The impassioned wails moving each line… An incredible display of control… All that unfettered power, fit for a king, yet reserved to one lowly asshole. It hardly seemed just. The smell was overpowering.

“Yeaahh, I wanna dance with somebody…
With somebody who loves me!”

The Sirens of ancient Greece were rolling in their mythical graves. This kid really had it. By heartache or by stench, not an eye in the house was dry. The fat man watched from the wings; his face was distorted with joy. Somewhere in the third row, Willoughby Jones was frantically reaching for his cell phone.

Bingo couldn’t believe it: for the first time in his life he felt the touch of grace. From a hobo on park benches to the darling of Hollywood; from the bottom of the gutters to the heights of his wildest dreams…this night was worth everything. It could all end tomorrow and he wouldn’t be any less grateful. This was more than the result of a decision; it was a validation of his desperate intention. It was magnificent and it was pure. It was, finally, a holy and miraculous calling.

As the anus reached its final note, Bingo sobbed into his open hands. The crowd went wild.

The Seat of Power

I have done my business on the same toilet as the president. Not at the same time, but my tour guide has assured me I used the same stall as the president did when his motorcade stopped in our small town so he could relieve himself. There is placard on the wall of our town hall commemorating the impromptu visit.

According to my guide, the president spent a long time in the stall and had to work hard to accomplish his task, thus setting an example for all of us. As protocol on such occasions required, the mayor personally handed an extra roll of toilet paper to the president under the door of the stall when he needed seconds. Of course security had to inspect the paper before the mayor could pass it along. This nervous pause caused the mayor, who was also our chief grocer, to sweat profusely. He later confessed to fearing that the rough paper he had acquired in bulk from an overseas supplier might be too rough for the presidential rear. Despite his concerns, the paper was approved and the president made no comment about it except the utterance of a slightly louder grunt while wiping than and he had emitted while using the initial roll. The remainder of that second roll, once touched by the presidential hands is now enshrined in our town museum along with the powder horns of the feuding brothers who first settled the area over three centuries ago.

When his work was done, the president resisted shaking the outstretched hands of well wishers until he had thoroughly scrubbed his own hands, thus driving home to all his commitment to public health. Once his hands were dry, however, there were plenty of grins and handshakes to go around. My guide was one of the lucky ones to be in or near the receiving line. He had come to the town hall to renew the license for his dog, and thanks to providence had seen the president when he came in, waved and headed to the men’s room. My guide had hung around in awe until after that fateful flush, and had been able to press the flesh with a figure still loved and respected by millions. After the motorcade departed, the mayor and council quickly decided to capitalize on this extraordinary event that transpired in our village of 750 souls. A commemorative plaque was ordered, and reference to the event was placed in the town website under the tab for “Tourist Attractions.”

You cannot imagine the pride I feel to have placed my butt so close to history. I have not dared to wash it since I sat upon that throne. My wife has chastised me about this, claiming I will get ill. She has said she will not touch me until I wash. I have scolded her for her lack of patriotism. I have also reminded her that, after forty three years of marriage, she never wants to touch me anyway. I got her there. I watched her sour face trying to find a way around my logic. She could not. I watched her frustration build until she shouted, “Well, I won’t cook for you then until you wash your arse.”

My wife has dug in her heels. So have I. I have been living on take out for the better part of the last two weeks. Still, I know she will win in the end. I must wash eventually. Before I do so I will take a photo of my posterior for posterity, something for my great grandchildren to look at. It will be a keepsake to remind them just how close I once came to the seat of power.

Lube Job

The operator sounded much too cheerful. “P.J. Factory! How may I direct your call?”

Mick Stiff nearly hung up on her. He was looking for regular employment, willing to try a different line of work, but he wasn’t ready to hit an assembly line, especially not in a sweatshop that produced pyjamas. Mick was more the sleep-in-your-undershirt type. But the guy who’d told him to call didn’t sound like he was offering a clock-punch Joe Lunchpail type of job. The guy had stars in his eyes. Mick held the line.

“How soon can you get over here?” It was the guy.

Mick was used to being asked how many inches he had, or if he ever had a problem getting wood. This was refreshing. He got the address and made it over to the P.J. Factory in under an hour.

“Thing is,” the guy said, “most guys don’t even wanna look at their old ladies after they’ve delivered. But that’s where you come in, baby. I saw your loop–the fuck was it called–Milkin’ Mamas. You were brilliant.”

“Thanks.” Mick Stiff shuddered. He’d shot that lactation stroker under severe economic duress.

“You’re a natural, kid. Most men never realize that milkers are the richest source of the most precious substance on Earth.”

“Yeah? You can get crude oil from ‘em?”

“No, you…well, actually, sorta…kid. Sorta. I’m talking about pussy juice.”

“Huh?”

“That’s our motto: We got a use for pussy juice.”

“Uh, OK, but what’s this job you were telling me about?”

“Well, that’s our other motto: We milk it out of ‘em!”

“Milk out of ‘em…what?”

“Why, the pussy juice, you…Look, I’m gonna give you a shot. Ready to work hard?”

“Working hard’s never been a problem, mister, but I still don’t…”

“Maybe it’s better if I show you, kid. Let’s hit the production floor.”

***

The P.J. plant didn’t look like the usual factory. Mick Stiff’s first glimpse of industry was what sent him screaming into the porn biz. But the porn biz had changed. There was too much competition. Stud fees had sunk to laughable levels, but there was no shortage of young guys who wanted a spot on the wet screen. The PJ Factory looked soft. The light was low, the heat was on high, New Age muzak oozed from concealed speakers. There were nude women spread all over the place, leafing through magazines. They looked as though they’d been run through a stretching, softening machine. The P.J. Factory boss saw how Mick stared at them.

“Big tits, that’s our motto!”

“You sure got a lot of mottoes here, Mr…”

“You wanna be a wise-ass, kid? Or do you wanna milk pussy juice?”

“Show me what I’m supposed to do.”

“The job’s a hands-on affair.” The boss grabbed a soft blonde and gave her ass a swat. “Right, toots: assume the position. You’ll be working with Nick, here.”

“Mick. Mick Stiff.”

She didn’t bat an eyelash. She’d never heard of Mick Stiff. She got on her hands and knees on a padded coffee-table, spread wide and looked back over her shoulder at Mick. Her nipples leaked. “Ready when you are, gorgeous,” she said, in a husky voice. “Shouldn’t take me long.”

The signs of recent motherhood were all there. Mick tried to put the traumatic images out of his head: the blood, the smell, the screams. The big blonde swayed her hips. Mick dropped his pants, grabbed her ass and discreetly drooled down her crack. “Courtesy lube” is the professional term.

“Uh-unh, kid. You got the wrong idea. You’re starting off at the wrong end. Remember our motto: We milk it out of ‘em!”

Mick Stiff shuddered again, but his co-star didn’t notice. He moved around to her front end. She lunged, hoovered him in. He breathed on his hands, rubbed them together. “Courtesy palm prep”. Slowly, gently, he milked her.

Jets of cream spurted into a hole in the milking table. There was a barnyard sound as the fluid hit the metal container.

“That’s the way to work her, kid! What’d I say? You’re a natural. Keep goin’ while I get the Extractor.”

Mick kneaded her nipples, squeezed them down and closed them off the way he’d watched his Uncle Olaf do on the farm in Wisconsin. She squirmed, bucked her hips. Mick had been in the porn biz long enough to sense an impending gusher.

There was a squelching sound.

“Yah! Just in the nick of time!”

The blonde groaned and took Mick deep into her throat. He kept on milking.

The liquid spurted. Mick couldn’t believe she wasn’t pissing. He looked at The Extractor: a black rubber accordion hose that ran into an atomic vacuum cleaner. The hose was attached to the blonde with a suction cup. Lights blinked and needles jerked with sounds from a doomsday pinball machine.

“Whoa, stud. You got her going full throttle in no time flat. But here’s where we separate the men from the boys. Now, you do her tits.”

Mick withdrew. No need for further courtesy lube. He mounted her cleavage and got to work.

“Wuh!” she said. “Wuh-uh-uh!”

“Easy, girl.”

“Wuh! Wuh-huh-huh-uh! Nnnnngh—GOD!”

The Extractor blew like an air raid siren. Machine and lactating female went Woop! Woop! Woop!

“Kid! You filled the tank! With one milker!”

The other nude women on the production floor drifted over to see what Mick Stiff was doing to their colleague.

“Don’t crowd him,” the boss said. “Everyone gets a turn. We’re gonna run double shifts, if the new kid’s up to it. How you doin’ there, by the way, Rick?”

“That’s Mick. And I’m doing fine. Ready for another, if you think this one’s had enough. I can handle two, if it’s not against company policy.”

“Mick…Mick! Where you been all my life?”

After brief two-way preliminaries, Mick arranged the milkers belly-to-belly on the Extractor Table and worked them hard.

“You’re a genius, kid! You’re the fucking Mozart of milk! You are the Marcel Proust of pussy juice!”

“Boss, I’m gonna shoot. Can’t hold off much longer.”

“Go ahead, boy. Girls, get in there and help my new partner cum, for chrissakes!”

Mick Stiff vanished in a pink cloud.

***

The P.J. Factory’s executive lounge was a pair of stained recliners near a fridge that contained several six-packs of beer. A black-and-white TV showed an ice hockey game with the sound off. The silence bothered Mick.

“Uh, whuddaya do with all that pussy juice, boss?”

“What do I do with the pussy juice? What…why you…what the fuck do you care what I do with it?”

Zoo Tail

Her ass said, follow me. The way she walked, loosely translated from body language, said, look at my ass. The message was: look at my ass and follow me.

She headed towards the zoo.

This seemed an oddball destination for a woman dressed to hook. Hook up, I mean. Maybe with a friendly guy who doesn’t spend sunny afternoons in an office or shop. She spotted the tail immediately. I’m no private detective. She didn’t make a fuss or call the cops. She looked back to make sure I was still there behind her.

The zoo’s a good place to go because it’s free. Zoo management did some market research, and discovered the admission charge discouraged attendance. The free zoo became a popular attraction. Zookeepers made up for lost ticket sales with a popcorn stand. People stand in line to buy paper boxes of cloud-shaped kernels to feed the monkeys.

The lady with the wonderful behind sashayed through the wrought-iron gate. A zookeeper in a cop-like uniform said a big hello.

She was apparently a regular, well-known to the keepers and the sweepers who follow the elephants around. She’s on a first-name basis with the giraffes, zebras, warthogs and giant anteaters.

A hand-painted sign said, Monkey Island. A green arrow pointed left. She stopped and pretended to study the sign. She looked back.

Modern life means less and less contact with animals. Less genuine contact with other people too, even though we’re smashed closer and closer together, more and more of us every day. But those of us not confined to office space-and-time are free to go outside for fresh air, sunshine and a glimpse of caged nature. I hadn’t been to the zoo for ages.

Monkey Island isn’t a natural geographical phenomenon. Zoo architects dreamed up concrete poured into the shape of a tropical paradise. Just like the ones the general public saw on television while they were growing up, except no palm trees, no beach. Monkey Island is an island only because of its gray, garbage-strewn moat. People throw popcorn at the monkeys. Monkeys love popcorn. They wolf down as much popcorn as they can get their mitts on. But some popcorn inevitably ends up in the listless sludge that surrounds their artifical habitat. Kids in particular are not such amazing popcorn-tossers.

The woman didn’t stop at the popcorn stand. Either she had no dough to blow on frivolous fripperies like feeding monkeys, or else she thought it cruel to make imprisoned creatures turn somersaults for insubstantial snacks. She went to the wrought-iron railing that surrounds the water that surrounds Monkey Island and separates visitors from the resident apes, and leaned over.

Her rear curves were accentuated by how far she leaned.  Man oh man those lucky monkeys got one hell of a cleavage peep.

Perfecto. Time to sidle up, lean casually against the fence and say, ‘scuse me, Miss, but these monkeys sure are fascinating creatures. Sometimes when I watch monkeys I can’t help but think maybe them and us aren’t so different after all. Except the poor monkeys are stuck in a cage and we, for the time being at least, are pretty much free to move around and do as we please.

Then, if fate will have it, a pair of baboons will start humping. She’ll get the idea. Carnal blossoms will expand and unfold. In one of our formerly lonely bedrooms, or in a public toilet stall at the zoo.

She swayed back and forth against the railing, teetered on the brink between the world of people, captive ape territory and dirty water. The watery barrier reflected an upside-down face, a bosom about to spill from a clingy blouse and clouds. On the opposite shore, a pink-ass macaque daintily drank and shot a monkey moon at another monkey with a hard-on.

He was the biggest ape on Monkey Island, some kind of monster gorilla or mandrill, and he was looking at my lady.

He wasn’t exactly handsome, not even for an orangutan. Looked like the zoo barber had taken a defective razor to his pelt. His fur was thin, clumpy, tufted, in patches. He either suffered from simian skin disease, ape-zema, or else stir-craziness had gone psychosomatic on his all-over ape hairdo.

My fantasy girlfriend wasn’t offended by the balding animal’s behavior. Neither was she amused. Most people would go hurh-hurh check it out the freaky chimp’s pullin’ his banana. Then they’d wander off to gawk at the demon-faced hyena. My lady stayed put, bent over, waved her caboose like a cat, and stared.

The colossal howler monkey or lemur or whatever he was stared right back at the lady who was watching him beat his meat. No way to tell if he was just feeling good because the sun was shining warm and pleasant, or if he was excited because she showed up and leaned over. A feeling hit that this was a regular thing for the lady and the monkey. They were engaged in the only kind of date they could legally have, but someone had intruded on their illusion of privacy.

So I didn’t try to start up a conversation with her. Maybe I should’ve. She might’ve snapped out of her trance and come along for some human-to-human intercourse. Or she might’ve told me to get lost and that would’ve been the end.

Another feeling took over. This was something secret, forbidden, hot. The monkey component of my brain said, expose yourself and behave like the confined primate. But you can get locked up for indecent acts in public. There are kids at the zoo, most days. Kids shouldn’t have to see stuff like that.

Field day giggles galore arise from kids who watching a chimp slam the ham.

Ham was the first chimp to be blasted off into Outer Space. Black and white newspaper pix of a monkey in a space suit. He gave a toothy grin or snarled for the camera, but man did his eyes ever look sad.

Teacher, teacher, what’s the monkey doing? More snickers as the embarrassed schoolmarm hustles the punks along to gawp at the rhinoceros. The rhino takes a gushing leak on his bed of straw. Shit-eating scavenger birds scatter, and fly away because they’re free.

If the lady had noticed that a stranger stared, she gave no sign of it. The chimp shot an annoyed smirk, or as close as a monkey’s mug can get to one, and yanked harder. Then he stopped. Watery semen spurted and splatted on cement. Another caged creature, perhaps a female baboon, ambled over on all fours, stuck a finger into the milky puddle, sniffed, tasted, shuffled away to snuffle up a kernel of popcorn someone who hadn’t stopped to watch the monkey show had thrown.

The lady stared at the gorilla or orangutan and wiggled faster, bucked her hips. The monkey kept his eye on me. There, is that what you wanted to see? Will that do, for today?

The monkey won the staring contest, hands down. When I looked over, the lady was gone. She’d walked away and I missed her part of the show.

At least there was no admission charge.

The guy in charge of the zoo’s popcorn concession didn’t even look up when I paid for the smallest cardboard box of popcorn on offer. Big deal, another cheapo customer. First thing you learn in the Big City is don’t make eye contact. He played by the rules.

Zoo etiquette is you feed the monkeys one fluffy kernel at a time. Bond with a lower form of life. Feed the monkeys as though you were their lord and master. Make urbane comments on their antics. Instead, I winged the box at the jack-off monkey’s head. Either I missed or he ducked like lightning. Popcorn exploded all over a section of Monkey Island’s cement floor and started a furry feeding frenzy. The spent ape folded his arms over a patch of leathery chest and closed his black eyelids. For him, the rest of the world was gone.

It’s possible the sexy lady went back to the zoo the next day for another date with her monkey. True-life stories abound about desirable women who fix their love and souls on prison lifers, Death Row losers. They waste their lives in trailers parked just outside prison grounds. They live for full-contact visiting hours.

No more zoo trips for me.

But I learned something. The difference between monkeys and apes is that apes don’t have tails. I don’t have a tail. So maybe I’m an ape. An ape who tails weirdoes, unless they’re headed to the zoo.

Loam

The old man, seated in the chair, moves his lips because his hips can’t talk. They’re too old. Too fat. But he doesn’t think she sees him that way. He thinks she sees him as a mystery-father because she’s too young, too stupid, to know otherwise.

Her fingers trace the lip of the glass of the drink he bought her before she sat down next to him and she listens. Her eyes move with his lips and she waits for him to drink before she laughs—a little too hard and a little too loud. He touches her shoulder for emphasis. He wants her tonight, she thinks, naked and splendid.

My husband is a writer, she says.

I’ve never read a book cover to cover.

How did you get so smart?

Television.

She takes a drink and smiles and waits for him to do something daring. Something a man aware of the urgency of death would do. He doesn’t. He thumbs the tumbler in his hands in a way he thinks she may find sexy. She doesn’t. She doesn’t bother to notice because she’s thinking about the audiobook she downloaded last night, and the way it made her feel this morning when her lips felt loamy and hard to chew on. And she’s thinking about her husband and the way his lips felt pressed against her loamy lips when he left for work with a lunch box and tool box in hand—and how they didn’t say anything to each other all morning—not even goodbye, just a peck.

Do you ever feel like you’ve been chewing on dirt since you spoke your first word? she says.

He hasn’t, but, oddly enough his wife had a year or two after they’d first married and has tried to make him understand the feeling ever since.

Are you related to anyone famous?

No, he says, but I’ve been told I look like a young Harrison Ford.

When were you told that? she asks.

When I was much younger and looked like Harrison Ford.

She laughs but doesn’t smile, her eyes focusing on the tumbler in his hands reflecting a silverfish sheen on the crotch of his dress pants as a subtle rainbow.

Are you gay? she asks him.

No, I’m middle aged, and at this point it’s best to dress nice to distract from the fact of my dying.

She thinks he’s witty and she knows he’s read more books than he lets on, but she also knows he’s taken medication to facilitate his sexual performance, and this makes her horny.

Would you fuck me?

Probably.

Would you enjoy it?

Probably.

They’re both quiet for a long time until she laughs softly but with a smile. He places the glass on the bar and readjusts his pants. She traces her finger along the edge of her lip. He motions toward the bartender.

Good.

She leaves without paying. He stays until after they close, and the bartender has to call him a cab.

Dead Guy in the Basement

Mom willed the house to me. Unexpected.

Ours was a strained relationship. I’d runaway twice before I could legally drive.

My biological Dad was absent more days than Santa Claus and seldom discussed. My few male role models were the dudes Mom dated. Those relationships were short term at best.

Whatever family values I learned came from basic cable TV.

The dead guy, Harold, knew Mom. He never goes into detail.

Judging by the dent in his skull, I figure Harold wronged someone. Mom had a temper. One that I inherited.

How he came to be in the basement, Harold hesitates to discuss.

“Things happen,” he shrugs what is left of his decaying shoulders.

He tell me things – scratch-off lottery numbers, never a big pay-off, but enough to pay the utilities, days to stay home to avoid a traffic accident or being fired from work, dudes not to date again.

On that, he’s been spot on. Imagine that, dating advice from a corpse.

Sometimes I read to Harold. He likes those old detective magazines – stories with titles like “He Strangled Woman with their Panties” or “Nude Model was Too Sexy to Live.”

He likes story time. Me, not as much. I like that Harold enjoys my readings but can’t shake the feeling that maybe Harold’s skull could use another dent.

But then I think about the bills to pay.