memories of a shooting gallery

you know we’re surrounded, right? look at it this way. famine, plagues, diseases, natural disasters. they’ve all been explained in theories, in books, by smart people. they don’t exist because they’ve been explained. we live in a trouble-free society, up until a smart dude from the future writes about the problems that plague us and we learn about them if we’re not dead and the whole things starts all over again, more problems eradicated because we know what causes them and fuck them, man. starvation is caused by hungry multinational corporations taking advantage of people living in poor countries that were harvested and abused by imperialistic colonizing nations that needed cheap labor force. it’s been fucking explained, we don’t need to bother, we have the explanation and the solution. theoretically. who gives a fuck about reality. it doesn’t matter, does it?

Stephan had entered one of his oh so many motherfucking soliloquies and all we could do was listen because we were too damn high on something to punch him out. he blabbered on and on about the evils of explaining, like it was something he could control, or something we were responsible for. none of us cared. in our high, he was highly amusing.

when the tanks fired the first shots, no one moved. missiles razed down buildings and thousands of corpses littered the streets, praying for someone to bury them before the unholy monsters violated their righteousness. no one moved, because the flames leaped high, burning god’s throne and god didn’t stir a muscle; why would he, after all, like he gives a damn. we stared at corpses being raped by hungry mongrels and we knew we were next and we refused to act. 

Aphrodite brought some sanity in the beginning. the med student, the one that tried to save us from the purge of the drug. I remember she came to me with a practiced speech about junk and its consequences. I listened, because her breasts were two magnificent, firm melons begging to be eaten and her legs long and thin, just the way I like them, yet I’d never quit dope because I needed the numbness. life sucked enough the way it was, I couldn’t go back to sobriety, I tried it for a few weeks and it fucking sucked hairy horse balls. the med student with the good intentions became an addict and we shot from the same needle. we fucked too; we didn’t care about prolonging our lives, we had absolutely nothing to live for.

Stephan had grown up in the suburbs, loving family, many friends. prom king too, if I recall correctly, and had been accepted to the ivy leagues. he never went. he wanted to visit other places, see other people, feel other things. he did. in africa, somewhere in the jungles, he tasted some drugs, then he found opium. finally, meth, the baddest bitch alive, got a hold of him; never let go. I cook his ice, so he won’t slice my throat in the dead of the night, like he did to Nick and Piper. I’m safe, because I’m not an agent of the invading aliens that want to turn earth into an amusement park.

from where we sat we couldn’t see the flesh-eating bugs, but they were there, or so we were told by the screaming deadmen shambling around with their noses or ears or eyes missing and they trotted away; we stayed. it was the flesh that kept our souls trapped, perhaps losing our skin would liberate us. nothing happened, the homicidal bugs never came for us. we were too rotten, they said, we had nothing nutritious to offer. we made peace with them and helped them find more victims.

it was easy to find more people; in every church, in every school, in every 7/11, there was one, or twenty, longing for salvation. we offered it, abundantly. we were there, all the fucking time, hidden in a needle, at the tip of a dirty glass pipe. we couldn’t hide but we were tough to find. here it was, the moment of truth, when the priest had a taste. a man of the cloth converted in seconds. ever since, only three-headed demons visited his dreams and the screams, oh the wails breaking the dead of the night were ghoulish. he’d work up a sweat, shoot, then go back to sleep. till one night I grew tired of his shrieks and cut his tongue. next morning, he preached to us using sign language. he lost his hands the same afternoon. finally, he lost his cock. he was still alive, but would gawk into nothingness with his gouged eyes and would smile his toothless smile every five damn minutes. till someone got tired of him, I can’t remember who, and shot him in the head. even the remnants of his brain decorating the dirty wall smiled and preached. we had to clean up the mess and we did because we couldn’t live near anything that reminded us of the greener field we had rejected when the first angel abandoned heaven, thus commencing the story of the world.

we wrote the books too, the stories retold countless of times, in countless of versions. we were the first, the ones who said let there be light, and we never thought of the consequences. how can gods be so reckless? it’s easy, power comes with responsibilities but our minds were numb and we didn’t know. 

Stephan blathered on again, another nonsensical monologue until someone finally shot him in the head. his destroyed cranium kept on talking and we stomped it until there was nothing but splatter on the floor and on the walls. we never cleaned it up. the bugs got it for us. we just stayed, idle. 

the needle was hot when it entered the vein and cold when it came out. the mind was always numb. the dragons dancing in the living room were real but could not breathe fire ‘cause they were too tired to do so. all they wanted was to dance and they did, they performed the charleston for us and we laughed and applauded. then they died, on the spot, when snipers took them out. 

we were once again spared. we begged for death, quick or slow didn’t matter, but nothing happened. we saw it all, the destruction of everything, the explosion of the universe, and what else have you, yet we remained. Stephan couldn’t preach, the dragons weren’t there to dance for our amusement, and when Aphrodite took her clothes off and posed as the ancient goddess she was, we all raped her, and she enjoyed it more than she should and we lost our hardons because her moans were of ecstasy.

the bullets came through the window and the door and the men in black barged in. PARTY’S OVER MOTHERFUCKERS!!!! they bawled and started shooting blindly. we sat still, hoping for the bullet that would spell salvation. never came for me. the others were dead, I was alive. Aphrodite lay on the floor, naked, covered in cum, begging for more. the men in black did her a favor and fucked her in front of me.

I wasn’t naked. I never raped. I just shot. they were done. and dead. the men in black became nothing more than shadows with no substance. she guffawed. she got up, got dressed, kissed me. it was just us…it felt right.

we shot again. what happened? we asked each other, then cackled.

it wasn’t over. it’s never over. 

another needle heated.

nothing else made sense. only the returning dragons that did a waltz for us, then we killed them, cooked them, ate them. 

finally, we danced the tango, with needles hanging from our arms.

A Toenail Thing

“SORRY, I KNOW I’M NEW AT THIS, BUT ISN’T THAT CANNIBALISM?” I ask Carol through the mouth opening of my black latex bondage hood as I turn my head around to look up at her. Before she can answer, I add, “And if it is cannibalism, how does that fall into any of the BDSM categories?”

I’m lying on my stomach on a crumpled bed in a cheap dingy Motel 6 suite while Carol sits comfortably on the back of my bare upper thighs with her bent legs firmly straddling my hips. She wears shiny black thigh-high faux leather boots attached by garter straps to a tightly-laced black vinyl corset. In her right hand she grips the shaft of a braided black leather flogger, now rested at her side after our light warm-up session, while holding silver metal nail clippers in her left hand. After I turn my head around, she thrusts the nail clippers into my face and snarls at me.

I joined this BDSM dating website just a week ago after a long spell of unsuccessful online dating through more mainstream sites in the two years since my divorce. Though I’d never tried BDSM, or anything too kinky, I’ve always been drawn to pushy domineering women (and vice versa) so I figured BDSM may be my bag. After a little internet research, I registered on the site as a “sub” (submissive) seeking a relationship with a “dom” (dominant), hoping for a match. Carol is my first date.

Carol is angry now and glares down at me through the small eye openings of her face mask. “Do you even know what BDSM stands for, you submissive little bitch?” she asks me harshly while raising her right hand and flicking her wrist so that the leather tails of her flogger fly back behind its neck.

“Yes,” I reply eagerly. I’m exhilarated and energized by the threat of another flogging. “I googled ‘BDSM’ last week before I registered on the website; it’s an acronym for bondage, discipline, sadism and masochism.” My heart rate picks up in excitement and anticipation as I watch Carol brandish her flogger.

“You forgot domination and submission, you fucking imbecile,” Carol barks at me while cocking her right arm and readying the flogger for another downward attack.

I acknowledge her with a quick nod. “I understand, but domination and submission are redundant of other letters already in the BDSM acronym so they’re included under the D and S letters for discipline and sadism. It’s just cleaner that way instead of having duplicate letters.”

Carol rolls her eyes at me with an exasperated smirk while lowering the flogger to her side. “OK, Wordsworth, so which of those BDSM letters are you?”

I think about this for a moment, then reply, “Well, like I said, I’m new to this so I’m still trying to figure out which BDSM subgenre suits me best,” then add, “But under any conceivable definition of the BDSM categories, I really don’t think that cannibalism qualifies.”

Carol purses her shiny black glossed lips then nods in agreement. “OK,” she responds hesitantly, “But it isn’t really cannibalism per se if I just want you to eat my toenails and not any actual body part.”

I flash Carol an empathetic smile, then try my best to ease her obvious discomfort without being patronizing. “Well,” I explain patiently, “I never took an anatomy class but I do think that toenails are considered a body part. I mean, think about it, they may not have nerve endings or sensitivity but they couldn’t exist without a human to attach to – right?”

Carol nods coolly, reluctantly acknowledging my sound logic. “OK, but going back to the BDSM categories, if the point is to inflict pain on me when you remove my toenails, then I think that’s either sadism or masochism even if the eating part is technically cannibalism.”

I nod politely then ask as diplomatically as possible, “Well, if you want me to inflict pain on you, then why are you handing me nail clippers? Aren’t those supposed to clip your nails painlessly instead of just ripping them off your toes, and thereby inflicting pain? I don’t mean to be difficult, Carol, but it just seems like me using nail clippers on you is antithetical to the whole BDSM routine.” I pause then add, “And also, if you’re the ‘dom’ and I’m the ‘sub’ in this scenario, then aren’t you the one supposed to be inflicting pain and not me?”

Carol looks down at me silently. Her large brown eyes – so fierce and confident just moments ago – now look sad and doleful like a puppy lost outside in the rain.

Unable to restrain myself after sensing Carol’s vulnerability (and smelling weakness), I pounce like a jungle predator: “Carol, I don’t mean to be rude – and I’m sorry to be so forward – but have you ever done this before?”

Carol blushes deeply and turns her head to avert her eyes from mine. 

I feel Carol squirm uneasily on top of me and sense her embarrassment like a sharp pang in my chest. I feel horrible knowing that I’ve humiliated and disrespected Carol in her “dom” role, and I can tell that I’ve violated some cardinal rule of BDSM etiquette. Maybe this isn’t my game after all.

Thinking quickly, I do my best to backtrack and rehabilitate myself with Carol. “I’m so sorry, Carol, I don’t mean to be a prick, I’m just new to this – it’s literally my first date since I joined the BDSM website – so I’m still not really sure how it works. If you’re still feeling your way along here too, that’s totally cool – we’re both taking this journey together, like exploring a new city that we’ve never visited before.”

Carol relaxes and I can feel the tension drain from her body. She pulls off her face mask and looks at me with a shy grin. “Actually, yeah, I am new to this. It’s only my third BDSM date. The first guy made me slap him with a hog crop then peg him with this silicone strap-on that he brought to the hotel in his backpack, and the second guy cut himself on his ankle spreader bar then just ran out of the room.” 

She sighs deeply then continues, “But they both felt so sure about what they wanted that I didn’t feel comfortable asking them to do my toenail thing,” and adds, “With you I just felt so much more relaxed and confident, like I could ask you for anything and you wouldn’t judge me.” 

Tears begin to well up in Carol’s eyes. She ungrips her leather flogger, which falls lightly onto the bedspread, then raises her right hand to her face and wipes the budding tears from her eyes before they can cascade down her flushed cheeks.

I turn over on the bed then pull off my bondage hood and lay it beside me on the bedspread so that Carol and I are facing each other. I reach my right hand to her face and gently stroke her cheek with the back of my fingers. “I get it, Carol, I really do – and I’m sorry to make you feel so self-conscious and uncomfortable. That’s really not my intent.”

Carol lowers her face and gazes down at my bare chest while nodding slowly. She reaches her hands out and removes the small metal clamps that she’d fastened to my nipples during our warm-up session. I feel a warm tear drop from her face to my solar plexus and watch it trickle down over my side, gaining speed as it passes over my rib cage then onto the bedspread. “Most guys I meet just aren’t into my toenail thing, so that’s why I joined the BDSM site. I just thought maybe I’d meet someone who’s more open to it.”

I take a deep breath then say, “I thought we really hit it off at dinner – we both love sushi thai and had so much to talk about with our careers and goals and hobbies and everything – but the whole BDSM part of this date is kind of going off the rails and not how I expected.” I add, “Honestly, I don’t even know what to expect, this being my first time and all, but I don’t want this to ruin our date. I really do like you and I hope that you like me. Maybe we can just hit the rewind button and start this part over?”

Carol nods her head vigorously in agreement while wiping her eyes again. She looks relieved and refreshed. “I feel the same way, I really like you and don’t want to screw this up over my toenail thing.”

I smile up at her, pleased with myself for reviving her spirits.

Carol raises her eyebrows then asks with renewed vigor, “Wanna go back to my condo to watch a movie?”

“Sounds awesome,” I reply with a reassuring grin, “Any specific movie in mind?”

“Of course,” Carol replies with a suggestive smile, “Edward Scissorhands … I really like him.” 

A few hours later, we’re at Carol’s condo after stopping on the way for gelato. Dressed back in our civilian clothes, we’re nestled together on her living room sofa watching the final scene of Edward Scissorhands, which Carol is thoroughly enjoying. She turns toward me and lifts her far leg over my lap then begins to grind her crotch against my thigh.

“I love this part,” Carol whispers into my ear as she begins to grind harder, “The way that Edward uses his scissors to save Winona Ryder is so fucking hot.”

“Right!” I agree enthusiastically. 

The movie ends after Edward stabs and kills that what’s-his-name nerd kid from Breakfast Club (and Sixteen Candles and Weird Science). As the credits begin to roll, Carol purrs into my ear while continuing to grind my thigh, “Wanna play Edward Scissorhands?”

“Sounds great,” I reply. Though I’m not quite sure what this game entails, I don’t want to be a buzzkill again after our date was barely rescued earlier at the Motel 6. Everything is going well now, but I know that can change on a dime with Carol if I say the wrong thing.

Carol beams at me then jumps up from the sofa. “Cool!” she exclaims, “Just stay here while I go put on my dominatrix outfit and get my scissors!”

“Carol, that’s OK,” I say before she runs off to her bedroom. “You don’t have to bother changing your clothes—,”

But before I can finish my sentence, Carol quickly pivots then strikes me with a hard open-handed slap across my face, which immediately stings while my face burns hot. “I’m the one giving the orders, you fucking slave! Now you’ll sit there, keep your goddamn mouth shut and wait for me like mommy’s little boy-whore!”

I curl up on the sofa and nod to her dutifully with my best sad-eyed Edward Scissorhands face, reminding myself to stick to my submissive role in Carol’s exciting new game.

A few minutes later, Carol exits her bedroom decked out in a skintight full-body black vinyl catwoman suit and a new face mask with feline ears protruding from the sides. She struts into the kitchen on black stiletto heels and opens a drawer beneath the marble countertop next to the refrigerator. She looks and then rifles furiously through the drawer with both hands. After about a minute of searching through all her kitchen drawers, she pounds her fist against the countertop and bellows, “Goddamnit! I can’t find my scissors. I must’ve taken them to work and left them there!”

Carol enters the living room, looks at me sternly with the nail clippers that she now holds firmly in her right hand, then points them at me. “I guess these’ll just have to do. Now sit up and take your shirt off!” she commands me.

“Wait a minute, I’m confused,” I say, “Aren’t I supposed to be Edward? And even if you’re Edward, he never used nail clippers.”

Carol nods silently to herself, walks back to the kitchen then returns holding a large carving knife in her right hand with the nail clippers in her left.

“A kitchen knife?” I ask, barely able to conceal my surprise.

Carol clearly is frustrated and looks at me impatiently for a moment before responding. “It’s a knife, why does it matter what it’s supposed to be used for?” Her voice quivers when she shouts out her next command, “Now just shut the fuck up and strip!”

I’m unable to subdue the laughter that escapes my throat. “But Carol,” I explain in between laughs, “There are special BDSM knives and daggers. Nobody uses kitchen knives. I thought you just wanted to poke around, not carve me up like a pot roast!”

Once again, I push too far and let my mouth get the best of me. “And you still have the nail clippers! Carol, is this whole Edward Scissorhands game just a ploy to get me to eat your toenails again?”

Carol’s face reddens like an electric stovetop while she looks up to the ceiling and  screams something unintelligible, then flings her knife and nail clippers across the room at the wall. She drops to the floor with her hands pressed to her face, then turns on her side and begins to weep uncontrollably in front of the sofa.

I hop up and lift her onto the sofa, where she lies down then hugs her knees to her chest and curls up into a ball. She rocks back and forth in this fetal positon while her weeping intensifies.

I wrap my arms around Carol’s shoulders and feel her shaking like a poodle while her violent sobs continue. I try to calm her down with quiet soothing shhh whispers.

After a minute or two, Carol’s sobbing slows down and she looks up at me with tear-stained cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m just so fucking bad at this. I’ve never used a knife on anyone before, but watching Edward just gave me the idea and got me in the mood.”

“It’s OK, it’s OK,” I whisper softly into her ear while gently caressing her hair. 

Carol’s sobs subside while I massage her arms and shoulders to loosen her tension. After a few moments, she looks up at me in embarrassment and says, “Sorry I’m such a hot mess tonight. I’m trying too hard to fit into this dominatrix role and it’s just not happening for me.”

I smile back at her while giving her upper arm a gentle squeeze. “Tell you what, why don’t we just shelve the BDSM play for tonight and take a bottle of wine out onto the balcony? It’s a beautiful night.” I nod my head toward the balcony with a wink.

Carol sits up on the sofa and looks out the sliding glass door to the balcony, then turns back to me with a smile. “Sounds perfect,” she says with a quiet sniffle. She stands up from the sofa and walks to the kitchen where she pulls a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and takes two wine glasses from a wood cabinet above the countertop. She walks over to the balcony door, looks over at me with a grin and nods her head toward the balcony. “C’mon, let’s go outside.”

I walk over to Carol and take the wine bottle from her so that she can use her free hand to open the sliding glass door to the balcony while holding the wine glasses in her other hand. We walk out onto the balcony then sit on cushioned chairs on either side of a small patio table where Carol sets down the wine glasses, take the bottle from my hand and pours us each a half glass. 

I raise my glass and nod to Carol to do the same. I look out over the balcony rail into the starry black night sky then turn back to Carol with a soft smile. I extend my glass toward hers and toast, “Here’s to our first date, and to your toenail thing.”

Carol giggles as we clink glasses and says, “To our first date, and the end of my toenail thing. I’m over it.”

We both turn our heads to look out past the balcony and sip from our wine glasses. I move my hand across the patio table and place it atop hers on the armrest of her chair. We sit quietly and enjoy the comfortable silence while taking in the beautiful night. 

My heartbeat slows down and I close my eyes. I feel perfectly calm and at ease. I open my eyes when I feel Carol’s soft warm lips gently kiss my cheek. I look over at her with a smile.

Carol leans up in her chair and moves the patio table forward so that she can pull her chair next to mine. She rests her head against my shoulder. “I’m so glad I met you,” she says as she raises her soft brown eyes to mine.

I squeeze her hand as we drink our wine and gaze out into the serene night sky.

Neither of us speak a word.

Tippytoe

It’s always the young girls. The new hires. They are the ones who haven’t learned yet that filing a complaint doesn’t do anything. They think their voices matter. That just because they speak, people will listen. No one is listening. 

I place a plastic container of storebought oatmeal raisin cookies on the counter in the breakroom. The clamshell crinkles like it might crumple in my hands. Grace comes in, always a little late, smelling of freesia and powder and hair that has been heated and sprayed and twisted into pleasing shapes, all smooth curves.  I always make sure I am early for work, the first car in the lot in the first parking spot, even if I am a little rumpled. I turn to her and offer her a cookie. Her nose twitches in distaste, which she tries to mask with politeness. 

“Oh! No thank you, Martha. I don’t like raisins.” She pulls back from me, recoiling.  I look down at my outstretched hand holding a cookie out to her.  My fingers look gray and grubby next to her skin, nails cracked with something brown caked under the longest one. To my horror, I realize it’s blood. I’d awakened with a bloody nose this morning in the dry air of my house, cat hair heating to a kindling in the furnace vents. I thought I had cleaned my hands properly, scrubbing until the skin practically cracked under scalding water, and yet there was the blood.  I withdrew my hand, tossing the cookie in the garbage and tucking the tips of my fingers into the back of my waistband out of sight. I reflexively looked at Liv’s nails. Smooth. Peach. Feminine. Like a doll. I almost reached out with my other hand to touch hers, to twist her skin roughly beneath mine, but with a startle I remembered to stop myself. Grace seems to be holding her breath, letting out a long sigh as she turns towards her cubicle. She has this way of walking on her tippy toes like a mean little cat or a shitty child.  

It seems no matter what I try, it is never right. Never the right cookie. Never the right clothes. Never the right thing to say. Always with the blood under the nails and not the peach nail polish. I try to imagine peach paint on my fingernails clashing against my ruddy skin. No one wants to see peach nail polish on a woman with clotted pouches of flesh under her eyes and knuckles cracked to bleeding.  

That afternoon we have a team meeting. All the employees go to the conference room and sit around the big oval table with the dinged-up edges surrounded by swivel chairs, and we drink Tim Horton’s coffee out of a box and paper cups. My younger colleagues think it’s funny to call it Timmy Ho’s, which I find classless.  The screen at the front of the room reads “Third Quarter Strategic Planning.” Our boss, Charles, a stiff man in a stiff blazer stands at the head of the table flipping through a folder with spreadsheets to hand out to all of us. He dims the lights and starts the presentation. 

Grace sits a few seats down from me, and as the presentation gets on, I stand up and make my way out like I am going to the bathroom. I have been waiting for weeks for an opportunity like this. It’s like it is meant to happen. I pull my scissors from my cardigan pocket. Grace’s hair is draped perfectly over the back of her seat, and with one smooth movement, I snip a long, coiled curl and cup it in my fist. She darts her eyes up at me when I go past, but she hadn’t heard the snipping sound. I can tell. Brody cocks a smirk at her. They hate me, but they don’t know what I’ve done. 

In one of the bathroom stalls. I unfurl my fingers to look at the soft dark hair in my hand. The lights are so bright in here and everything so white that orbs of light pulse at the periphery of my vision, the floaters in my eyes set off like star shine. The neat little whorl looks like a rodent pet in my palm. It had started to stick to the sweat in my first, but that’s okay. I touch my nose to it and breath in. My own hair smells like old cooking oil. I have never understood how girls get their hair to smell this fresh. It’s almost as if they weren’t even living things, incapable of decay. 

I don’t know where else to put her hair until I get home, so I shove the pretty lock down in my underwear. I just tuck it in the front there. I want all the hairs to stay together, and my pocket is too big and loose. At least here it will be out of sight and kept tight. 

As I wash my hands and straighten my sweater in the mirror, I imagine how Grace’s face will look when she realizes a chunk of hair is missing. The way her mouth will fall open. The way her hands will claw at her hair, checking to see if anymore is missing. A stupid, “What the fuck?” will come out of her mouth. Such a dumb phrase from the plump little lips of very dumb girls. I can’t help but smile back at myself in the mirror. I might be ugly, but at least I’m smart. 

When I get back to the meeting room, the presentation is wrapping up. The lights come on, and Brent is looking at the back of Grace’s hair, his forehead bubbling up in guttered lines of confusion, his beady predator eyes squinting behind his cheap, ironically large glasses. My face goes hot, and I look around for something to do to look busy. I start cleaning off the napkins and paper cups from the conference table.  A small group is gathering around Grace to inspect her hair. Heads are shaking back and forth. I head back to my desk and bury my face in my computer screen, busy, busy. 

When the end of the workday comes, I slowly pack up my things, making sure to head by the break room to throw away the cookie container. To my surprise, it is still full. A stab of shame passes through my chest. I tried to do something nice and not one person cares or notices. Walking through the office holding my rejected cookies, I see Grace in Charles’s office, her hands gesturing like my own marionette. She points to the spot on the back of her head where a large chunk is missing. I bury a smile. Our manager looks bored, his eyes drifting to the clock on the wall. Time to go home. Time for a drink.

In my car, I pretend to look busy, like I am looking at my phone. I wait there as Grace tippytoe-walks to her perfect little car. New. Clean. The trick when following someone is to let them follow you first. I back out of my spot, timing things just right so she will be the car directly behind mine. I drive slowly out of the parking lot, nice and normal. Not too fast, not too slow. She’s in my rearview mirror, safe in her box. When I see her turn off, I do a U-turn in the darkening streets. Again, it seems fortuitous that there are no other cars around, and I proceed down the road where she had turned. Soon enough, there she is in front of me on the little two-lane road. Her head bobs along to something poppy on the radio, her shoulders doing a little shimmy. I pull up close behind her and turn on my brights so she can’t see me. Her speed slows. I bet her road rage is prickling at the nape of her neck where her hair is missing. It has been a bad day for Grace. She sits up straighter in her seat. She is trying to make me angry by going too slow, but she doesn’t know I like this kind of game. I don’t care if she brings her car all the way to a stop, just me and her out here on this road after dark. 

I am reaching that point though. The one where I must decide if I am going to go through with this or not. Right now, she doesn’t know it’s me behind her. Nothing has happened. Yet. Sure, she slandered my name to our boss today. I might get called into his office in the morning for a chat, though I am good at playing dumb. Wouldn’t be the first time. But right now, I have a choice to make. I can pull over and let her continue down the road to her safe little apartment with her pet cat, her roommate, and her Tuesday night television. Or I continue this game just a little bit longer. I need to commit. Because when I do, she will have to see me. I think of the way she looks at me every day like I am vile, the way she whispers and giggles with Brody like I don’t understand I am the butt of all their jokes, the way she tattled on me to Charles. 

I imagine the road unfurling in front of her headlights. I imagine just about how far she can see. I know all the roads in this town, and Grace couldn’t have chosen to drive down a more perfect one to get home. Again. Fortuitous. I begin to edge my little Honda hatchback over the double yellow line to start to pass Grace. I press the gas pedal hard with my sneaker, my car lurching forward, my grip tight on the wheel. I want to get right beside her so I can look over and make eye contact one last time. I’m there. This is the moment. I look over at her. She looks back. That expression on her face tells me everything I need to know. Her face shifts from anxious and angry to pure hot disgust. 

I give a little wave and then slowly start to edge my car closer to hers. I move over a little bit. She moves over a little bit. There is a big curve coming up. It is risky for me because I can’t see if there are any oncoming cars to smash into me head-on. The way the day has gone though, I know that isn’t possible. This is supposed to happen. Something out there other than me wants it just as much as I do. I move closer, just inches away from her driver’s side door. She doesn’t have much room to move. I am almost entirely in her lane now. One more little shift closer. Two of her tires find the edge of the pavement. The ravine isn’t directly at the edge of the road, but there is enough of a slant to the shoulder that once she starts to lose control it is all in my hands. She holds the steering wheel with both hands as her tires start to pull off the pavement. Gravel shoots from her tires like buckshot. I easily follow the curve in the road and keep my eyes on the white line. It is tempting to watch. I want to. But I hear her car rip through the guardrail and then silence as it dives through the air. 

Should I go back and check?  Make sure she is dead?  It seems risky. Only a matter of time before another car comes along and notices the hole in the guardrail, the fresh skid marks. Someone will call it in soon enough. Maybe that someone is me. 

Greed-Aid: Press Release

In an era where billionaires struggle to launch themselves into space on mere pocket change, Greed-Aid stands as a beacon of hope for our beleaguered corporate overlords. This star-studded spectacle aims to raise awareness and critical funds for entities that barely scrape by on billions in quarterly profits. The event will feature a lineup of heavily-sponsored artists performing their greatest hits while wearing logos so large they’re visible from failing corporate satellites.

“We’ve seen countless charity events for trivial causes like hunger, disease, and climate change,” says event organizer John Q. Greedhead, adjusting his solid platinum tie pin. “But who speaks for the corporations? Who stands up for the holding companies?” The concert promises to be a transformative experience, with ticket prices starting at the modest sum of one worker’s annual salary.

Greed-Aid will take place in the recently renamed Amazon Prime Gardens (formerly Central Park). The event will feature special VIP experiences, including “Trickle-Down Seating” where wealthy attendees can literally sit above the masses on suspended platforms, allowing their champagne spillage to rain down upon the common folk.

All proceeds will go directly to helping corporations maintain their essential services, such as luxury board retreats and algorithmic employee replacement programs. “It’s time we recognized the real victims,” Greedhead continues, dabbing his eyes with hundred-dollar bills. “Have you seen the price of corporate jets lately? It’s heartbreaking.” 

The public is urged to dig deep into their rapidly depleting savings to support this crucial cause. As our corporate benefactors face the unthinkable prospect of slightly reduced profit margins, we must ask ourselves: if we don’t stand up for billion-dollar companies, who will? 

For more information about how you can help preserve the endangered lifestyle of the 1%, visit http://www.greed-aid.con or contact our platinum-level customer service team at 1-900-CASHGRAB (calls billed at $999.99 per minute, with all proceeds going to executive bonus protection programs.

About Greed-Aid: Founded in the offshore tax haven of your choice, Greed-Aid represents the ultimate evolution of charitable giving – upward mobility of wealth at its finest. We believe in the power of music to open both hearts and wallets, primarily wallets. Our mission is to ensure that no corporation ever has to face the indignity of paying their fair share of taxes or providing living wages to workers.

Contact:

John Q. Greedhead III, Esq.

Chief Exploitation Officer

Greed-Aid Enterprises LLC

Phone: 1-800-FUK-PEPL

Email: golden.parachute@greed-aid.con

Remember: Your support today ensures a brighter tomorrow for those who need it least.

Dividers

I don’t know where I am, but I know I need to go somewhere else. 

I press down hard on the gas pedal and feel my car speed up from 60 to 70 in a second. The broken divider lines painted in the middle of the road pass faster and grow closer together. No cars are approaching from front or behind. I gun down harder on the gas and watch the speedometer hit 80. The divider lines begin to form an unbroken continuum as I accelerate. 

In the distance I see a pair of bright white headlights coming toward me. They grow bigger and brighter as they approach. My speedometer hits 90 and the oncoming headlights begin to illuminate the inside of my car.

I close my eyes.

When I open my eyes, I’m sitting in a bar at night. The only light comes in through a window pane from a tall street lamp in the parking lot. The other bar patrons are just dark silhouettes huddled together at tables spaced across the room with a few more seated at the bar. I see a staircase ascending upwards in the far corner of the room. The first few steps are dark and unlit but the next few steps are dimly lit by a light coming from upstairs. I can’t see above those steps but I want to see what’s upstairs. I stand up from my bar stool and walk toward the staircase but all the bar patrons stop what they’re doing and look at me. A lightbulb above me turns on and shines directly down on me. I must be the only visible object in the room. Everyone can see me. I know the other people are there but I can’t make out their silhouettes while the light above me grows brighter. I have to squint and shield my eyes with my hand to see in front of me. I turn back to the bar and see the bartender looking at me and whispering something to a patron sitting on a bar stool who also turns to look at me.

I walk up to them and say “I’m lost.”

They look back at me and nod their heads in unison but say nothing.

I turn back around to the barroom. The tables are still there but the people are gone. The door to the staircase is closed. I’m alone now.

I close my eyes.

I reopen my eyes and I’m back in my car with the gas pedal pressed to the floor. The speedometer passes 100 and the road dividers are now solid double parallel lines unbroken in space or time. The approaching headlights are now so close and bright that they fill the entire inside of my car. I have to look down to avoid being blinded.

I’m still lost but now I know where I am.

I jerk the steering wheel hard to the left and cross the divider lines.

All goes dark.