Jason K

by Horror Sleaze Trash on September 4, 2013

I am a fucking drunk and a loser who lives in Lansdale, Pa.  I work an 8.50$ an hour job and at the end of the day if it weren’t for my writing I’d shoot myself in the dick. I drink to forget the world. I have no love for it. I have been to prison.  Here is my first novel and a link to some of my passages to my second one as well as other blubs/mind bubbles. Enjoy. Cheers! 
 

WE

REPTILES

CRAWL

…there’s nothing sacred here…

There was an instant flicker of flame and a small billow of smoke as the match rubbed against that striker igniting it for one brief second, one moment in time.  I held the lit match in my hand, compressing it between two fingertips, and watched it burn.  Watched that very flame dance as if it were an exotic dancer performing her very first routine.  Then, in just a split second of time, in a blink of an eye, I let it go.  That very small match that I had held in my hand not but one second ago gave birth to the vehemence, the eagerness, the fervor, the excitement.  It was all burning down, everything that we knew, all that was ours all that was mine, all I had left in this world to remember her by.  As I watched it all burn away, turning into thick black smoke just to disappear into the night sky, I envisioned her on the other side of that flame begging me to put it out, begging me to stop.  Crying, howling, and begging.  Yes babe, beg.  For it shall get you nowhere.

 

I smiled as the flames licked my face like a dirty whore, violent and hot, demeaning and obscene.  I watched it all burn.  What a long and arduous day.  I thought for a second that I could still picture her on the other side of the fire.  Smoke rising to the Heavens while she cried, pleaded, and begged.  The fucking thing was still burning when I finally came out of my hypnotic trance.  I walked back to my shitty little apartment, gathered a few items and stopped for a second to tune my ear to the ever so brilliant sound of sirens, beautiful sirens rushing down Main Street to extinguish the burning thing we once called “home”.  Fuck everyone, I thought out loud.  I took the small baggy from my front pocket, tore it open and shook its contents right on the coffee table.  Tonight will be the night that I die, I said to no one.  I cut the powder into three separate lines, rolled a dollar bill and proceeded to blow them all.  The sirens were getting closer and I knew it was high time for me to get gone.  I slipped into the darkness without incident, tied down my bag and kick started my shitty motorcycle.  Off into the night I went.  Like a phantom.  Like a ghost.  Never to be seen again.

 

 

My whole life has been one big fucking fight. One battle right after the other. I was always fighting with my father, the addiction, women and self destruction the pussy. I grew up in the suburbs about ten miles from Philadelphia. Both of my parents were poor, blue collar working class alcoholics who never gave me anything but daily beatings. My childhood was filled with curse words, salty oatmeal, and drunken fist fights on Christmas. I can still remember my father throwing the ornamentally decorated tree out on the porch, right through the front door, lights and all. I never had a birthday party. Not once. My father was always drunk and hardly ever worked. Even though he beat on my mother as well, she sat beside him night after night singing his sad country songs and got just as fucked up as him. Sometimes I’d go to bed hungry but, they always had their cigarettes and cases of cheap swill. I guess you can say I got used to it. I used to hide under the covers at night, stomach growling, listening to my parents argue over stupid shit or hear them fuck. I prayed that he’d find work and just become normal like all of my friends’ fathers. But he’d work for a week or two and then make up some stupid excuse like, “Everybody hates me there” or “My boss don’t do shit the right way. I can’t work for a motherfucker like that”. It was always ridiculous and for that I hated him even more.

 

I was fifteen when I dropped out of high school. I started drinking and doing drugs. I was sniffing, smoking and swallowing anything I could get my hands on. When I was sixteen I left home. My nefarious lifestyle had me staying with friends, shelters, boarding homes and hotels. If you talked to anyone who knew back then me they’d say I was some kind of tragedy, a devil, a person with no soul.

When I did my first line of blow, it was a fabulous rush. The kind you can’t find anywhere else. White magic is what everyone called it back then. From then on I was addicted and just couldn’t get enough. I sold everything I owned just to keep myself frozen. Eventually the fucking money ran out and I had to become a productive member of the working class. The society that’s forever in debt. Even when you die you have to pay for your own funeral. I can remember my first job. The summer sun beating on the back of my neck, the haze of mid-July. I had gotten hired on a landscaping crew mowing lawns with a bunch of non English speaking dirty fucking Mexicans. They were a ruthless sort and let me learn the trade on my own. I was the newbie, fresh meat for everyone to look at and salivate over.

 

Soon enough, I had grown into my own and a year later I was just like the rest of the Humps spending their week nights binge drinking and condemning the American society. I was addled with rage and regret for listening to my father who told me that I was just another waste of life, to drop out of high school. Be a productive member of society, he would say. He knew fucking shit about that. I had my friends but still we all felt like outcasts. One Friday night we found it out for all our lives. We found the place where the  suburban losers, fuck ups and degenerates go to get away from life for a while. I found the violence and purity and energy in punk and hardcore to be comforting. It took my life in a new direction and made me understand what loyalty and brotherhood meant. It was my new addiction. My friends, and I would get fucked up and go to local underground hardcore shows and make a name for ourselves. I was never anyone in high school but for five hours or so, I was someone in that mosh pit taking hits from fists and feet, then giving them right fucking back. I loved the energy. I loved getting the shit beat out of me then going the next week end and doing it all over again. On Monday those dirty bastard Mexicans would see me with a split lip or a black eye and laugh because they thought I got rolled on for my wallet. Little did they know that I was becoming someone else. Something they could never ever fathom.

 

At eighteen I licked my first pussy. Snatch became another addiction for me. I was drunk and sloppy and so was she. I had fucked women before but I never went down on a girl until then. It opened up a new door for me on sexuality. The next morning, with an aching brain I found a large blood stain on my mattress and a bloody tampon in the toilet floating there like some dead mouse. When I looked at my face in the mirror I had that infamous crimson ring around my mouth indicating that I performed oral on a menstruating slut. When my room mate saw me he just laughed because he knew what I had done. I earned my “Red Wings”. I can remember him saying to me, It won’t be the last time, bro. I stormed into my bedroom like the four horsemen and kicked that bitch out of my bed. I never saw her again.

 

Five or six years went by in an alcoholic, drug induced blur. At this point I had had my nose broken five times along with three ribs, been hit in the back of the head with a champagne bottle, suffered multiple stitches and was involved in a severe car accident and been in the drunk tank countless times. Good jobs were scored and then lost because of late cocaine nights. I’d stay up all night until five or six AM with various hooligan types like myself and have to be at work by seven. No rest for the wicked my one friend used to say to me. Sometimes when I knew that my boss was a push over, I’d take three or four days off at a clip and go on these serious death defying benders. I used to feign sickness or tell him that a relative died. I learned that move from my father, the only useful tool he ever taught me. To come down off of two days of blow abuse, I’d drink a half bottle of Nyquil mixed with a bottle of seven dollar vodka. I’d sleep for a night and then wake up and start it all over again. Bosses used to call me mid day to see how I was doing and I could remember answering with, Fuck it. Cut me out another line. The response was, You’re fired. And I knew it before he even said it. I just didn’t give a fuck and never really did.

 

The girlfriends came and went as well as heartbreak and loneliness. I’d move in with a cunt and after a few months of my shenanigans, they’d grow tired of them and threw me out on the street. I would be back where I started. Penniless and alone. It wasn’t until I met Sarah that things started to change for me. Sure, I was still doing the usual: getting fucked up, into fist fights and arrested. I was living fast and hoping to die young. I was staying with my boy Chris at the time when I first saw her. She was tall, blonde and thin with a razor sharp wit that could cut any man in half. Sarah used to come over with this slutty friend of hers and we’d have these Wild Irish Rose parties coupled with copious amounts of blow. We’d both get all fucked up and do coke off the girls’ asses. Those were wonderful days.

 

Six months went by like a tornado and Sarah and I were moving in together, renting an apartment. It was great. There’s nothing like true love in the beginning. I did everything for her and I was finally starting to fly straight. We found a house on a little dead end street and I found a good job building houses that paid very well and she didn’t want for anything. But one day, I saw that far away look in her eyes. She was beginning to lose interest. She needed to move on and hunt like a wild leopard in the Congo. Untamed. And that’s what she was. A wild creature with a territory the size of Rhode Island. Our relationship started to go downhill and one day she told me that she had enough, it was over, pack your shit and get the fuck out.

 

I took that leap and fell into the deep end. I fell into a depression so great that I would stay in bed for days at a time. I used to blow lines and drink a bottle of whiskey just to feel better. I contemplated suicide. The sorrow turned to hate as I watched her move on. My life had crumbled into rubble. The architecture burned all around me. I found out that she had fucked one of my best friends so, that’s when I lit the match and set fire to our “home” with her in it.

 

Some say that a piece of you dies when you lose someone or when someone you loved leaves your life forever. No, a piece of me didn’t die that night. A piece of me grew stronger. That night her life ended and mine began again.

 

 

 

Part One.

 

I looked out the window of my shitty dank smelling hotel room.  I wasn’t sure if it was the bed or me but there was a funky fucking odor looming around in the room.  The concoction smelled of seawater, hookers and drugs mixed with vomit and stale beer.  I was looking out the window for an ice machine; you know the type that only shitty motels can provide.  I couldn’t see a goddamn thing but I vaguely remembered where it might be located.  I had a half of a case of cheap canned beer, a few sacks of cocaine and some late night television.  I grabbed the tiny trashcan beside my bed, emptied its contents onto the floor and proceeded out the door.

 

I left that town and headed west for a change.  So far west that I ended up at the Pacific Ocean.  I was somewhere outside of Santa Monica in a hotel room that only cost me fifty-five dollars a night with free long distance.  The night before last, I got all-cooted out and called some friends.  I told them how I was living out my dream as a writer and really getting it in.  I told them I was writing five or six stories a day.  They were all impressed.  In reality, I wasn’t writing shit.  I spent most of my days in this fucking shithole drinking, blowing lines and wondering about the beach looking for something, some kind of inspiration, something real.  A couple of my buddies on the other side of the country and on the other end of the line told me to slow down my speech. I told them I couldn’t because I am far too busy and amped up from all the excitement of writing.  I told them I was making big deals in Hollywood.  They all knew I was lying.  I remember the last call I made that night.  I was talking for quite some time.  The postnasal drip was overwhelming my burning nostrils and as I delayed my ramblings for a second to wipe my nose, I had realized that the person on the telephone was not speaking English, but some form of Chinese or Japanese or Mandarin or something fucked up.  So being ever so surprised, I slammed down the receiver and cut out another line.  Please God, don’t let me die.  Not like this, not in here.  Not today or tomorrow or any day after that.  Not in this wretched joint.  At least let me die with dignity.  Perhaps with a lovely young whore on top of me riding my shaft.  More lines, the rails never seemed to end.  The train wasn’t stopping for anything.  Now my heart was beating really fast as I walked down the hallway with a small trash can under my arm accompanied by a tissue and a sweating can of beer.  I meandered down what seemed to be a never-ending pathway to destruction, to Hell, and eventually Satan himself.  I was sweating profusely now.  I wiped my nose with the tissue and took a long hit of warm beer.  I washed down the mixture of snot and coke residue lingering on the back of my throat only to be replaced by more and more.  I swore the floor of the hallway was somehow slanting downhill a bit like some freaky haunted house.  I could see through the peepholes in doorways.  I saw people having sex, people doing drugs, a meth lab.  Sleeping and eating cheap Chinese food dinners.

 

My heart beat faster as I looked and looked.  It all fascinated me.  Simple lives spending their time in this dump.  I got to the end of the hall and looked in one last peephole.  I saw a man sitting on the bed jacking off to a dirty magazine.  I lunged from the door and took a sip from the can.  I was amazed and curious so I took a second look.  Just out of curiosity, of course.  The man had a very large cock and was stroking it furiously.  I must have made some sort of noise because before I knew it the man was staring at the door and getting up off the bed, dick in hand, walking to the door.  My peep show was over and I looked down the hall for an exit, a way out.  It was a dead end.  The door opened just as I was passing it and the man just kind of looked me dead in the eye and smiled.  No thanks, buddy, I said, I’m straight.  Needless to say, I got away from that scene lickety-split.

 

I was lost in the bowels of Hell.  Despair was creeping into my head like a burrowing worm.  I had to get back to the room.  But what about the ice?  The fucking ice, man.  We need the ice.  That was the sole purpose of this great debacle.  I rounded a corner and there was a whore with so much make up on it turned my stomach.  Hey, you know where the ice machine is, my shit’s getting warm back there.  I need ice, man.  Tell me where the fucking ice is, I said.

Five dollars.

Five fucking dollars for what? I asked.

I’ll take you to the ice machine.

By God, I said, five goddamn dollars for a tour of the facilities?  I’ve seen enough already.

 

I turned on my heel and headed deeper in the bowels of this infested hell of a place.  How could this happen? How could I get so lost in a place like this?  One thing was for sure, I wasn’t coming back the way I came.  I would rather face castration.  Suddenly, I stumbled around a corner brushing the wall slightly and looked around to make sure no one saw me.  There she was.  Beautiful, gleaming, and overflowing with ice.  Cold motherfucking ice.  At last.  I took a handful and shoved it in my mouth.  It felt sublime.  I took the tissue out of my pocket and wiped my dripping nose again.  I started to fill up the small trashcan with the hard water.  I saw an exit sign and walked toward it.  By this time, the cocaine was wearing thin, the alcohol the same, and I was becoming aware of my priorities.  Coming down off the white devil is never ever a good time especially when there is no one there to console and talk to you.

 

Somehow, I wound up outside.  There was a hooker standing by the door.  The place was riddled with whores.  I walked over to her with the can of ice and asked if she would like to accompany me to a party.  The night air was very, very cool, languid, and fresh from the ocean.  I could feel a light mist coming from the breakers as it traveled on the wind.  It smelled of salt and sea, I wanted so badly to walk down to the edge of my nemesis and ask her how she was doing out here on the west side.  However, I figured I would get no reply.  Just like always.

 

She was tall and very thin, almost anorexic even, and wore these gigantic red high-heeled shoes.  I walked behind her looking at her ass in a very short leopard print skirt.  I imagined doing lines of devil off that magnificent ass of hers.  I imagined fucking it so sore that she would be walking like a penguin for days.  She turned around and looked at me with a smile asking what room was mine as I wiped my nose with the mucus soaked tissue.  I couldn’t wait to do another bump, for the come down was getting intense now.  For some reason I was starting to get annoyed with this trashy slut.  Maybe it was the powder or maybe it was the lack thereof.  One can never tell on a come down.  One thing was for sure, I didn’t want to sleep alone again for the night. A thought came to my mind, Ha, sleep isn’t going to come until mid morning or the afternoon.  I don’t even like you, I told her.

I don’t even care, she replied, you don’t have to.

We got back to my room.  I fumbled with the key.  I needed some nose candy and fast.  We made our way inside.  I immediately began to cut out some lines.  She opened a beer, handed it to me and opened one for herself.  I blew a line and told her to stuff those cans of beer into that small trash can full of ice.  I thought about waves crashing against rocks, loosening barnacles, crabs, mussels and all of the living things inside of them, washing their contents out to sea.  I wanted those waves to loosen my heart from my chest and wash it out to sea as well.  Never to be seen by anyone ever again.

 

Her face reminded me of an old lumpy pillow I used to sleep on as a child.  Dirty, used and decaying.  She started talking about her fucked up life and her pupils were beginning to dilate.  The coke was kicking in for both of us.  It was four in the morning.  I leaned over and gave her a kiss.  She pulled away.  I don’t kiss, she said, but I do suck dick, lick ass, whatever you like.

Lick ass, huh? I bet you could with that build there, Chuck.

Name’s Cindy, she said.

Charming.

So what do you want? She asked.

I want to get to know you.

You just told me that you don’t fucking like me.

I don’t.  I think you’re trash.  Tell me a story.

I blew another line and pounded a beer as she started in on this story.  I cut some more lines with an expired credit card.  She started to tell me of a lover she used to love, and how he would rather jerk off to porn instead of, how she put it, make passionate love to her.  With a face like that, I probably would do the same.  I asked her if I could make love to her.  She asked me if I had thirty dollars and I answered, Yes, I do.  So I hopped on old pillow face and began to kiss her about the neck and chest.  I was being gentle and kind when she said, I’m not a delicate fucking flower.  Now put it inside me and let’s get this over with.  I told her that I would but I couldn’t.  The drug made my dick limp and there wasn’t a god damn thing I could do about it.  She laughed and then I laughed.  I grabbed a beer and just admired her for a while sitting there naked and beautiful.  A woman could have an ugly face with a nice body but somehow I could find her beautiful.

 

I don’t know why but I find certain women to be attractive when they should either be committed or put in the zoo.  The deeper I got into the drug and the further I dwelled into the madness of alcohol, the more and more I found her to be beautiful.  I saw beauty no one else could see.  The scars, the wounds that would never heal.  The rain cloud that constantly followed her around and sometimes poured on her head ruining her day and days to come.  Yes, it was all happening right there in front of my eyes.  Only I could see it.  She was devoid of any hope whatsoever.  I felt bad as I watched her sniff lines of devil poisoning her, breaking her down even more.  Why? I thought, why?  In a shade of certain light, her face reminded me of a broke down car, desperate and in need of help.  Waiting for someone to come and rescue her.  Tow her away from this place, this life.  She was an outcast whom no one would save.

 

I had awoken completely naked and sweating like some marathon runner with vomit on my pillow and my face.  I wondered what time it was and when I looked at the standard hotel alarm clock sitting on the table next to me, the red LED numbers told me it was three thirty in the afternoon.  Jesus, where the fuck did the day go?  I was alone with a looming sense of discontent, a pounding head, cottonmouth, and blurred vision.  I didn’t care.  Cindy had flown the coop and the drugs and booze were long gone.  She left a few cans of beer.  Sweet, warm, cheap beer.  I got out of bed, looked around, stretched, scratched my balls, reached for a can and cracked a brew.  I took a sip and let the bitter froth hit the back of my parched throat.  The fish bones were present as I  forcefully swallowed it down and for some reason I felt like taking a dive in some Alaskan river. Cold and harsh, I wanted the hypothermia.  To say the least, the foam was hard to swallow let alone digest in my stomach.  I looked in the mirror at my stark body, studied my face.  Four days unshaven.  I was due for a haircut and my breath smelled like garbage from a landfill.  Something was scrawled on the mirror in front of me; some words that my brain just couldn’t ascertain.  Hot pink lipstick straight from a whore’s lips, raunchy kisses that seemed to mime the language poetically which she had written for me to read in this fucked up state of madness.  The dresser drawers were open and rummaged through.  The nightstand was overturned.  The medicine cabinet in the bathroom was ravaged.  Cindy was a tornado, a loveless tornado looking for the devil or anything that would take her away from this world for a while.  I had nothing she could steal except for some writings that I kept in a folder next to the bed. Scribblings of poetic injustice that no one would ever want to read.  Those were left alone but my watch was lifted.  Vile fucking low-life cunt.  Who would steal a decent man’s watch these days?  One thing was for sure, I was not a decent man.

 

I had acquired a stash of said drugs a few nights before from a whore’s pimp who slung the powder on the side for such said occasions as the one I was facing.  See, I had gotten wise to the whole plot, the scheme if you will, of how these hotels work.  The filthy pig fuckers come in your room when you’re out being robbed by a whore or a dealer and double fuck you by taking your stash of fine sticky powder or anything you have that’s worth of value..  Leaving you with nothing but your dick in your hand shitting in a rainstorm.  Ah, yes, I’ve learned my lesson quite a few times.  So the night before I knew I’d be getting into a semi-delusional state. I went and hid an eight ball in a clever place. Hidden away from suspecting whores, fiends, and thieves like myself.  In fact, I knew where it was right off the bat.  I ran into the bathroom, balls dangling about, feet being cut on the broken mirror glass, and flipped the lid off that old pisser and peered in.  Glory be to Christ, it was in there.  Sweet, goddamn devil just ready to snort.  I was on a mission to get snow blind and maybe find the stupid cunt who stole my watch and how does one say it, gave me the “blue balls”.

 

I put on my jeans and took out the expired credit card, threw the eight ball on the table and began to cut it out.  Not all of it but enough to get me back to phase one, back to where I was the night before.  The first line is always the best, like a blast of refreshing wind to the face or a hot bath after a long rainy day of work.  Then after that, it was downhill.  You just needed more to feed the devil himself.  Satan inside.  I found the rest of my money that I hid as well, took a crinkled dollar bill that smelled like dirty vagina and coke residue, rolled it up and continued to blast the parakeet.  Booze, Goddamn it, I need booze.  The foamy warm beer was just not going to cut it in this circumstance.

 

I pulled open the shades and let the sunshine cut through the filth and stench of the place.  What a shithole.  Fucking place was a total mess, a garbage heap of decaying matter, a cesspool of death, of constant despair.  I put on my cleanest dirty shirt and decided that for the next few hours of daylight left I’d venture down to the beach to catch some sun, sand and fun.  I was looking a bit pale.  As I walked down the street, beer in one hand, the other in my pocket and the coke in my backpack, I could feel the instantaneous heat from the asphalt trying to scorch my bare feet.  From the street, I could see the waves, large and solid, like watery bulldozers moving water inland only to retreat and do it all over again.  I had a taste for bourbon as soon as I hit the sand.  I looked around at the town behind me.  Goodbye, I thought, but I must say hello to my nemesis.  The ocean, the water, the waves and everything that she encompasses.  I made a b-line straight for the water.  The roar of the waves, the pounding of the sand and surf together excited me and I started to walk a bit faster.  I made it there, stood facing her, that mean old bitch, with my hands on my hips, and asked her, What the fuck is up?  I thought for a second that I could see an evil smile in one of those breaking waves but I knew her plan.  It was for my demise in years to come.  I ignored that ruse she held under that salty water and looked up at the sun.  It was high in the sky and its golden rays showered me with its warmth making it absolutely comfortable against the oncoming ocean breeze.  I was getting thirsty and I had had enough of her majesty so I decided to walk up the beach a bit inspecting the goings on. The fruitless bullshit that always goes on, the stupid activities that happen on the beach.  No one can actually appreciate the power or majestic beauty of the ocean, the simplicity of it all.  Instead the beach contained it’s little yuppie offspring playing their little yuppie bullshit games.  Fuck all that.  I walked by a happy married couple with a happy infant child building a happy fucking sand castle.  I looked at them and smiled for a second.  They were obviously too happy for words and the jealousy hit me like a brick to the teeth.  I almost had that once.  It was taken away from me with such force and super power that I’m not sure I would ever want it offered to me again. I took a sip of warm brew and my stomach turned at the sight of it all and I threw up what was left of my guts, right then and there, covering their precious happy fucking family sand castle with a direct hit.  I caught my breath and shouted out to the Heavens and to Poseidon himself, I sunk your battleship!  The man stood up, his face was flushed with anger.  There was a certain form of hatred in his eyes, one that I’ve seen before but I just couldn’t place.  He started to walk toward me.  I stood my ground and said, Fuck you buddy.  Fuck you and your happy fake bullshit family.  Fuck your wife, fuck your kid and most of all fuck you.  Come and get some.  The cocaine was talking and for a second I spoke to him in a tongue that I didn’t understand.  I felt like I had read it somewhere before and after a minute of thinking I knew I had.  On the mirror just minutes before.  In hot pink lipstick.

 

The passing of time found me just before dark sprawled out in the dunes dreaming of a red headed girl, lovely and sweet with a smile as broad as the Montana skyline.  In my dream, she was a mystical presence bounding in and out of the fog, her red locks contrasting on the mist making her easy to spot in the confusion, the vapor.  Her emerald green eyes glistened in random patches of sunlight that broke through, penetrating the mist as if only to shine on them for only me to see.  She took my hand and suddenly I felt as if I were all the seasons in one; Spring, Summer, Fall and Winter.  Her small assisting hand clasped mine as we made heated love; kissing each other with the utmost passion and vigor without complete and utter sadness in our dream-like minds.  We were strangers in a foreign land standing atop cliffs overlooking the rough and turbulent Atlantic.  Smiling and welling, staring down at the sea, contemplating the very meaning of death, wondering if we would ultimately survive the plunge into the dark grey waters that is my true nemesis.  The fog cleared and finally I could see her face in full for one last time.  We took the leap, forgetting about time forever, for we knew that one day we would meet up on those golden shores forever to be united.

 

I awoke with my face in the staggeringly hot summer sand and sat up to look at my enchanting surroundings.  I didn’t know exactly where I was at that moment in time and the sun was swiftly setting, dying for the day into the great Pacific.

 

The wind was still full of life as seagulls hung on the air like kites declaring war on the few stragglers who dared stay on the beach to fight them.  The gulls had a formidable attack and were ready by any means necessary to snatch any form of consumables and delicacies that they deemed fit to fill up their thieving crops with.  They were archenemies to be feared, truly enemies.  How the fuck did I get here? I thought.  What demons were driving me this time? What powers?  What forces besieged me to this madness?  I stood up and brushed the sand off my dry sun burnt face, shoulders, and neck.  How long was I asleep for?  And how in the fuck did I end up here?  There are many mysteries to this goddamn life and this, sadly, was one of them.  One that I’ll probably never ever figure out.  Well, old dog, there’s only one thing to do now.  I started slowly walking my way through this endless fucking maze of sand dunes.  Every step was turmoil, for it felt that at any second a large gaping hole would open up and swallow me, ready to take me in and digest me along with all of my failures and my past.

 

I wearily made my way back into the streets of that nameless trash town I was  trying to leave.  In the light of day, that very same town had looked as if one day it might have been a champion boxer taking on a far better opponent going down by force in the third round.  Bludgeoned by the ugly mean old fist of God.  After all, I was on the outskirts of Los Angeles, one of the largest metropolises in the world.  The further I delved into this dark and desolate inhumane cave; I could see through all of the depravity and could easily have gotten whatever I wanted.  Crack, coke, dust, meth, PCP, weed, anything.  The liquor stores were getting more and more plentiful; one on every corner it seemed.  Along with the bodegas where fast food joints of every variety existed.  One room taco stands offering fish tacos and traditional Mexican fare.  What happened to this part of the town? I thought to myself as I gazed at the forlorn faces.  It wasn’t exactly a ghetto.  On the other hand, maybe it was; just not the ghettos of New York or Philadelphia, the kind I was used to.  This was for some reason more cheerful and less bleak with a scathing promise that one day, dreams could be fulfilled and happiness would prevail.  It was just more or less run down in a way like an old woman looking for plastic surgery or like a bum needing a drink.  It was almost incomprehensible.  Single mothers holding welfare babies, drug dealers and pimps who might be fathers of those babies, a bum sitting on the corner with his bottle of wine panhandling for pennies, panhandling for more than what life could offer.  As I rounded a corner getting deeper in it all, it was all starting to happen.  Young gangsters in white wife beaters bearing their shitty jailhouse tattoos standing next to their prize possession cars, chopped low riders.  The ominous presence of them all as they stood on the sidewalk instilled fear in the local police force as the squad car slowly drove on, the officers inside averting their eyes to the prize outside.  The prize being hot bullets, a lead salad.  But, in all the madness, everyone ignored the police and went about their business as if to say, Fuck you to the city. We live here in this squalor not you, pig.  The buildings were tattered and torn but not falling down.  As if to remind me of an old dog living out its last days in pain.  For a moment or two, it had reminded me of North Philly. That shitty, used up place I used to visit sometimes to score drugs.  The poorest of the poor just trying to survive another day to see another sunrise.  I was about eight or ten blocks from the beach, on foot, with no money and a bottle of bourbon acquired from a corner liquor store with a back pack and some  coke.  I decided that it was finally time to find my way out of this bucket full of despair, this gruesome depiction of the American way, the American dream, and keep my eyes open for any sight of the open highway.

 

 

I had no concept of time as we drove up the two-lane highway in the oncoming dark.  It started to rain a little, a light shower, as I reached inside my bag to reveal a pint of good bourbon and offered it to my driver.  She was in her mid-thirties with mousey brown hair, about shoulder length, perfectly poker straight.  The eyes on that woman, through the illumination of the dashboard light, showed a certain form of desperation and sadness one could only acquire from years of sexual abuse and beatings.  She grabbed the bottle from my hand and asked for my name.  Names aren’t important, I said.

Well, if it makes you feel any better, my name’s Linda.

She was sort of charming in a rough and tumble kind of way.  Kind of like spending the day up in the wilderness.  Stay too long and you become your surroundings.  With her left knee navigating the dilapidated Ford Taurus, she popped open the bourbon and took a long pull.  She looked over and smiled, handing back the bottle already a quarter empty.  She was a little on the heavy side batting around, let’s say, two twenty five, five foot five, but sexy nonetheless in the glow of that dashboard light.  She had nice lips and her tits were pushing out of her blouse a little.  I thought to myself, If I get to unbutton that thing they will probably just dump out like boulders rolling down a hill, like taking a massive shit just on the verge of breach.  I took a hit off the bottle, contemplating how tight the buttons must be on that blouse of hers.  POP POP POP.  I could see them putting little cracks in the windshield of the Taurus as they flew everywhere. I told her I was a traveling journalist in search of the perfect story, the perfect line.  Who do you work for? She asked inquisitively.  This seemed to excite chunky Linda a bit.  I compared her extreme build to a refrigerator with a head.  Linda then explained she was indeed a roller derby queen traveling on her way to her next skate meet.  No shit! I said.  Linda just smiled and touched my knee.  I think I excited her some more.  I was a little excited myself.  We passed the bottle back and forth for a while talking about this and that, that and this, and the more she swilled on the bourbon, the looser she got.  I envisioned her as she sucked on the neck of the bottle, imagining her sucking on my pulsating cock, jamming it in and out of her throat.  To my advantage, she was getting more and more touchy-feely, more and more frisky.  I looked over, smiled, and said, Would you be such a dear and stop off at the first liquor store you see?  We’re almost out.  About two miles up the road she pulled into what seemed to be a mini mart full of liquors.  I said I’d be right out and ran inside to acquire said Jesus Juice.  When I came out of said establishment, she was in the passenger seat of the Taurus and tossed me the keys.  This can not be good, I thought.  I sat down and painfully started the engine, made a right out of the parking lot and bounded down the highway.

 

Somewhere between Heaven and Hell and after two to three hours of deep convo and drinking, night started to turn into day as dawn slowly crept over the landscape. I could start to make out what looked to be shapes and forms of tumble weeds and cactuses in the desert.  The bourbon was three quarters gone.  Linda reached over a grubby hand and started rubbing my neck pretty hard.  I hadn’t known if she thought my poor sunburned neck was a roller skate wheel or not, but I knew it needed to stop immediately.  I tried to brush her off with one hand while trying to drive and informed her that she apparently didn’t have quite the magic touch.

That’s okay baby, she said.

She started to kiss my neck and rub my crotch.  This is better, I thought and smiled.  I was getting aroused and my cock began to grow.  Blood filing into it like an army of soldiers preparing for an oncoming battle.  Don’t worry, just drive, she said. My zipper flew down and with a gulp and a slurp, her head disappeared beyond the glow of the Taurus’s dashboard light.  Suddenly she looked up at me from underneath the dashboard, her large body on the floor of the passenger seat, her face down by the break and gas pedals, looking like an absolute minion from Hell, and all shiny from saliva.  She grinned and said to me in almost an evil voice, one that I’ve heard a thousand times before from such proclaimed demigods such as her, This is going to be the best blowjob you’ll ever receive.  I grabbed the bourbon in one hand, flipping the cap off with my thumb, driving with the other exclaiming, Heil Hitler!  I took a drink while she took me in her demon mouth.  She made all these slurping and gagging noises that I had once heard in a horror film as the killer carved up another victim.  Her teeth raked my shaft once or twice and I winced in pain.  This was THE worse blowjob I had ever received.  Fuck me, I thought.  I tried to drink more bourbon and pay attention to the road.  All this fucking raking, I better come.  She was still going at it, slurping, burping, and guzzling like there was no tomorrow.  Like my dick was the only thing that mattered in her life, ever.  I took a sharp turn, her teeth jabbed my balls.  I straightened out, she slurped and gagged.  I turned the radio up to forget about the pain.  The station was playing Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”.  How ironic, I thought, No fucking thriller here.  Just teeth and a bunch of disgusting sounds, not even wetness.  She started to use her tongue on the head of my codpiece; flicking it back and forth in a slow rolling motion, and indeed it felt good.  Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all.  Linda was twisting her head to the point that I thought her neck might snap while using her tongue and hand all in one fluid motion.  She came up for air saying, You’re really big.

Don’t stop now woman, this film is just getting good!

She resumed and a little while later, I came.  She swallowed with a smile and said, Now, wasn’t that nice?

To tell you the truth, I’ve had better.

 

Before I even knew what was coming, she punched me in the nose and the car swerved almost hitting a pole.

What the fuck was that for you raging cunt!

You want another belt?  Pull this car over and get the fuck out you ungrateful bastard! She screamed. Linda almost sounded like a barn owl when she screamed those searing words.  My nose was bleeding all over my white buttoned down shirt.  The refrigerator with a head, the minion from Hell, the steroid taking roller derby queen was about to kick my ass if I didn’t do something and fast.

What the fuck, you massive pile of man meat?  You know, you could pass for a body builder, you lesbian motherfucker! Another belt, only this time to the ribs.  I stepped on the gas, bleeding all over the seat.

Slow down! She screamed.  She sounded like a growling bear. Her manliness was coming out more and more with every breath she took.  The mustache on her face seemed like it was growing thicker as I took the speedometer to one hundred.

 

I turned up the radio to full volume.  Black Sabbath’s “Paranoid” was blaring into the car’s compartment now. It was ironic to say the least.  Linda punched me in the balls.  I laughed and smiled at her saying, Ha ha, they’ve just been drained.  That won’t work you cunt-licking whore of a goat’s mother!  The car was moving at least one twenty now.  I grabbed the bottle of bourbon, took a swig, smiled, and cracked her across the forehead with it.  The impact from the glass bottle left a gash on the skin as I proclaimed, And you can’t suck dick you Refrigerator Perry lookin’ motherfucker!  She started to bleed.  The cut was wide and gushing blood, that crimson fluid. The tough broad tried to take command of the wheel and ran us off the road at one hundred and twenty miles per hour.

We bounced.

We flew a few.

We flipped.

And landed on all four wheels.

 

When I came to, she was still bleeding but somehow I sustained minor cuts and abrasions.  The car was smoking as I breeched the driver’s side door to inspect the damage.  Totaled, I thought, Not much of a lossNot gonna make it to the skate rink tonight there, Linda.  Too bad you suck at sucking cock too. I walked over to the passenger side of the wreck, pulled her two hundred and fifty pound body out of the smoking heap, and placed her over on the driver’s side, right by the door, a few feet away.  I took the bottle of bourbon in my hand, drained it and tossed it beside her bleeding body.  Her thigh had a compound fracture, the bone had penetrated the skin. She moaned and tried to say something but it came out of her mouth as a mumble. Too bad Linda, too bad you’ll never skate againShould have given some better head.  Next time don’t rake so motherfucking much, you muscle bound cunt. I left her laying there for the vultures and started to walk up the highway, thumb out, looking for another ride.  As I walked away, I pulled another bottle from my bag, took a swig.  I had gotten beat up by a roller derby queen but then I thought, Who really won tonight? She is gonna wake up tomorrow morning in pain, tasting come, as I taste the sweet bourbon and blood in the corners of my mouth.  I always liked the taste of my own blood.

 

In a way, I felt broken and defeated.  I got beat up by a woman and I had before declared it would never happen again.  I walked up the highway without a care in the world. The sun was beginning to slowly rise and cars passed me with their high beams on, almost blinding me.  All I could do was smile.  Smile at them in their warm cars going to their warm houses to their loved ones or companions.  I started to think about all of the lovers I ever had.  There were quite a few.  I was very much in love with a particular companion.  Her hair was long like golden threads of sunshine.  Her smile bore crooked teeth and her smooth Danish face accented her high cheekbones whenever she smiled.  Unfortunately, her heart was like a tomb.  Cold, dank and hard to break into.  It should have been a one-night stand, a fling at best, and I’m sorry that it wasn’t just that.  I dug my own grave with that one.  The recollection of her made me smile a bit, and just like that, she was gone, and my mind was back onto the dark highway walking to nowhere.  Nowhere is where I belong.

 

My true love is and always will be the highway with its never-ending opportunities, consequences, and life changing experiences that have made me the man I am today.  Many things change in this strange and mystifying world but the open road never does.  It will always remain cold and heartless, dark and lonely, and full of never ending surprises.  I’ve spent most of my life dealing with unhappiness and today is not ant different from the rest.  Fuck it, I thought to myself, and kept on walking, not looking back at the oncoming sirens wailing from the ambulance.

 

The highway found me a place to rest my feet for a while.  I had already forgotten about the car crash and Linda’s poor blowjob and focused on getting drunk as a skunk.  Before I entered the roadhouse, I took a good blast of devil.  Well, maybe three or four blasts.  I walked in and looked around.  Another dead-end scene with dead-end whores and dead-end tuckers and bikers all sitting there shooting the same old shit they were talking about yesterday.  I’ve seen plenty of these places in my travels.  I saddle up to the bar.  The bartender comes over.  She’s some wrinkly old has been biker chick who trembles when she pours my shot.  I’m pouring the money down my throat.  My tab is getting high and Old Wrinkly comes up to me and says that I need to leave.  Why? I ask.

You need to leave.

Leave where?  I’m out in the middle of nowhere.

She looks at me harshly and says, Look here Mister, just pay your fucking tab and get the fuck out before I call the cops.  You can’t stay here.

Oh, but I love it here.  Can’t I just play a little more, mom?

People eyed me seedily from a corner booth.  What did I do? I ask.

I’m calling the cops, she said with a snide remark. Sometimes I think I invite trouble.  It beckons to me.  I want to see it as if I want to see the very depths of Hell.  I wanted to break everyone’s fucking jaw and make them suffer the way I suffer.  To feel real pain.  I got up, put on my jacket, and look back at the seedy eyed bastards back in the corner booth.  I raised my half-finished double bourbon and stand erect to proclaim to them and them alone, Hitler was a good man.  He had a good plan.  Too bad it didn’t work out.

I raised an eyebrow, smiled my finest crooked smile, drained my shot, and smashed the glass on the floor.  The darkness of the pub seemed to lighten up a bit.  Maybe it was everyone’s eyes growing wide and reflecting off the dingy bar lights.  A few guys smiled and went back on drinking as if they’ve seen it all before.  It was all happening now.  Fuck everyone, I said, fuck this place.  Give me another double!  Just at that moment, some hairy motherfucker with huge tattooed biceps and a head with slick greasy black hair in a Hawaiian shirt, and apparently, a small cock, walked over and asked, no ordered me to leave.  I pulled a cigar from my back pocket, lit it and told him to go fuck his mother.  He stood there folding his big hairy arms, trying to give me his best scary look.  I puffed on my Dutch Master and blew the smoke in his face.  He smiled; I smiled and told him that he was going to die.

 

I left it all behind me.  The house, the dog.  Those tits, that ass, that pretty Danish face.  The best-looking pussy I have ever gotten the pleasure to lick.  It was there staring me right in the face legs spread, juicy and throbbing with every beat of her blonde haired heart.  Immaculate gash.  Sweet fucking pure Danish gash.  I should have stayed, I thought, I should have changed for her, given up my evil ways.  The house, the dog, the gash.  I puffed my cigar some more.  Hawaiian shirt wouldn’t budge.  I looked him straight in the eye and said, Hey buddy, would you like to dance?  Cause frankly, I love to dance.  Ever do the Texas swing?

Get the fuck out now! He screamed.

Come on, not even a kiss? He gripped me up and tried to get me in some sort of a headlock.  I pulled his greasy hair and bit him on the neck like a rabid raccoon.  He let me go and I came after him and caught him square in the nose with my fist.  When I’m done with this bastard I’m gonna do so much devil, I thought as I watched him bleed.  I reached behind the bar and with a claw like hand; I grabbed a handful of unopened bottles of ice-cold beer.  Everyone in the bar was focusing on my actions now.  I hopped up on the bar and cracked open a beer.  Holding it in the air as I walked down the bar, I said in a very boisterous tone, To Hitler.  To communism.  To Stalin.  To General Tsao.  God damn can that motherfucker cook some good fucking chicken!  To America!  To freedom!  Let it ring in your hearts.  Let freedom ring, all you grizzly fucking rat bastards!  There was a small round of applause as I hopped off the bar and looked around for the quickest path out of the place.  Once again, like a phantom, I disappeared.

 

I walked down the highway for what seemed like a century and finally I arrived in another dead man’s town.  Things were a bit different here; the air was drier, the heat was oppressive, pushing down on me like my father’s large calloused hand when I was six years old.  I felt lost.  I felt six years old all over again.  I needed some booze.  I made my way past a dusty old carwash that looked like it had never been used or even opened, for that matter.  The town was small.  Post office, general store, police station, an old hotel and that was about it.  It rather reminded me of an old spaghetti western with tumble weeds abound and shoot ‘em ups in the street at high noon.  On the town’s edge sat a few houses that were stark and outdated.  They seemed abandoned.  I made a b-line straight for the general store to quench myself with some bourbon.  Three brands to choose from: Grand Dad, Beam, and Daniels.  I grabbed one of each.  It couldn’t hurt nothing, I thought.  The clerk eyed me viscously.  He had an appearance about him that reminded me of an older Wilfred Brimley.  Mustache and all but with a wince in his eye that said to me, Don’t you fucking try anything or I’ll give you a shotgun blast to the fucking abdomen.  I bought my three fifths and made a right into the dusty street as I exited the store.  There was a buzz in the town and I could sense the sheriff’s eyes upon my very being as I walked past the police station. I could tell he was a mean old motherfucker who lived his whole life out in the desert eating dust and trouncing around on horseback.  I was out in the desert somewhere near Sedona.  There were no laws in this lawless land.  I was the excitement for a minute or two until he realized that I was just “passin’ through” as they say it in the lawless land.  His eyes were burning a hole in my soul and I felt like a convicted felon.  I was a convicted felon.  I waved hello and he just nodded in return, taking a second of his precious lawless time to expectorate a disgusting concoction of tobacco and saliva that had welled up in the pallet of his lawless desert mouth.  My mind said fuck you, but my face just smiled and said, How you doin’?  This was the last place on God’s green motherfucking earth that I would want to be incarcerated. He raised his cowboy hat and wiped his brow as I just shoved the fifths into my bag and made my way out of that literal one horse town.  I knew that I’d be doomed if I stayed more than a few hours so I headed for the hills to camp out for a few days and let that old tobacco teethed sheriff cool his lawless tool a bit.  He’ll think that I skipped town, a tourist, a hiker just passing through to see the scenery.  I smiled a devilish smile as I walked on down the road into the wide-open sky, to greet the desert with open arms.

 

I found myself nestled up on top of a small hill about three miles outside of that one horse town. The darkness began to creep in so I started a fire. To go along with it, I had three fifths of bourbon and a half of an eight ball of devil.  I also had a head full of rotten, evil thoughts rattling around inside of that skull of mine.  The sun was sluggishly setting into the horizon and the shadows from the remaining twilight reminded me of ghoulish demons crawling in slowly, ready to devour forgotten souls that God had left behind or banished from Heaven.  Was I forgotten? Or was I lost in this world full of decay? On this planet full of self-righteousness and pollution?  Every day the world dies more and more slowly, suffering and suffocating, and no one seems to care.  No one even notices they too are in fact dying along with it as well.  The human race only cares about themselves, not their extinction.  Thinking too much out in the desert alone could drive a man insane.  Drinking too much could drive a man insane.  I guess I was doomed.  The pictures in my mind started to rise and breathe.  Like flames that I had once lit and gave birth to.  Watching her across the fire begging me to stop.  I found a flat rock and began to chop up the powder into long thin lines with my expired credit card.  I have become a common slave to the cocaine.  A junky, a dependant, a fiend.  The cheap cutting up the foul.  I sniffed them all up and took a swig of the Daniels.  Then the Beam.  I looked at the fire I had made and saw the flames dance, slowly, like ballroom dancers in the Victorian era.  Intertwining with each other as the embers below pulsated and glowed with the rhythm of the cool night breeze, like a thousand hearts beating at once in unison to the song no one knows.  I stared at the feverous blaze and instantly felt at one with myself.  As the flames consumed the oxygen in a shark like feeding frenzy, I thought about my recent ex lover, her blissful kisses and how she would whisper I love you in my ear before we would retire our weary bodies before the night sky.  I thought about how safe I felt in that house at the very end of that dead-end street that only a seldom few knew about.  About how I will never go back there to visit, to remind myself of old times, to see the grass growing high or see her walk out to get the mail in her old age or see the place where my dog would be buried.  I would never see it again.  I saw her on the other side.  Screaming.  Begging me to save it all.  To put it out.  To extinguish the already onset flame.

 

Sit down, drink and drown it all in.  Drown, drown, drown, drown.  The bourbons were a comfort to me somehow.  Like an old friend who could put me at ease.  Like a whore who could give an immaculate blowjob.  I felt like it was only the alcohol I could trust in this ungodly, lawless, motherfuck of a landscape.  Because I knew it so well.  I knew its lifeless games and when it would play a seamless ruse upon me, I knew how to beat it and I knew how to win.  Game.  Set.  Match, motherfucker.  I climbed upon a large rock, bottle in hand, and looked out into the darkness, the bleak, the black.  It reminded me of looking into the ocean at night.  The waves of heat dissipating off the sand and soil making their way into the upper atmosphere to become nothing, just like myself.  I saw many faces in the distant deep dark blackness.  I saw my father’s face, when he was angry and beating on me for no reason at all.  I saw all of my former lovers crying and the gaze they shot upon me, eye to eye, when they all told me it was over.  I saw my mother’s face on her deathbed in a cheap hospital, suffering from Leukemia.  The look in her eyes asking, why?  Where were you this whole time that I was suffering?  Why weren’t you there to save me?

I looked deeper into the darkness.  My eyes began to get moist with warm, salty tears and I saw my future wife.  Her auburn hair blowing in the autumn wind somewhere in the wilderness of Pennsylvania.  Her emerald green eyes looked at me and told me that she loved me deeper than any ocean that could exist.  She held my son.  His eyes were blue and his face was as charming and as beautiful as a cherub’s.  I knew that in my heart none of this would ever come to fruition.  I would die alone with nothing to leave behind.  No money, no eulogy, nothing but a past full of violence and abuse for the drink and drug.

 

I heard the fire crackle and snap as it slowly burned its way through a knot in a succumbing log.  I stood up and took a pull of bourbon, grabbed a few thin logs and threw them on the fire feeding its appetite a bit more.  To my surprise, there was a rattlesnake coiled up so close to the warmth of the fire, so close in fact that I almost treaded upon him as I made my way to sit back down.  He laid there quietly warming himself in the cool desert night, perhaps pondering of hunting for a kill as soon as his blood was warm enough and able to get him going again.  I sat down beside the serpent offering him the fifth of opened bourbon hoping he would accept my proposition, my offer.  His black beady eyes stared at me in defiance as his forked tongue slowly made its way in and out of his mouth like a limp cock going in and out, in and out again into some hellish demon pussy.  Flickering and pulsating, tasting the languid dry desert air for some sign of incompetence, an inability perhaps from me or from a passing meal.  I received  nothing from him, no reply. I sat looking at him devilishly and realized that he was indeed more of a devil than I.  A cold hearted serpent with a heart full of venom and I thought that maybe he could be the devil himself coming to me that night and warning me of the dangers and troubles that indeed lie ahead for me.  Somehow, the bourbon was becoming sweeter with every sip that I took and the desire to blow more lines increased with the passing of stars and clouds above me in the night sky.  I sniffed one up my nostril and stared at the fire some more as if trying to see through to the barren landscape ahead.  But what would I see?  Nothing but pitch, black darkness.  The snake was still there like some figurine or statue, just trying to pierce me with its menacing gaze.  Its eyes turned to light grey while the tongue still made its way in and out.  I wanted to find that red haired vixen, that wife of my dreams.  I threw a few more pieces of wood on the flames and cursed the night.  What a goddamned night it was.  My companion started to shake his rattle of a tail in excitement or was it caution.  His mouth snapped at the emptiness, open and poisonous, exposing a white fleshy mouth with needle like fangs ready to kill anything it deemed fit to die.  With nothing but skyline and cacti around me, they played out their part in the night like shadowy statues, figures standing tall, just a bit taller than overbearing gravestones, monuments to remember the dead.  That’s exactly what this place was.  A graveyard, dead land, nothing but No Man’s land and  I fit right in.  The crescent moon hung over my head in a vast sky full of stars and for a second I felt the earth stand still.  For that exact second I was ready to die out there in the desert.  Alone and hopeless in all my depravity and despair, penniless with nothing to show for anything.  I was ready to accept death.  I heard the rattle from the snake as I climbed upon the pile of large boulders I had been camping behind and shouted, Come and take me all mighty God, ruler of the Heavens!  Come and take me and denounce me for I have been with Satan himself!  There was no answer as usual.  Just a handful of stars to my West.  I knew now that I had to make it back to the ocean, and either side at that, I didn’t care which.  If the desert wouldn’t take me then I knew for a fact that she would.  I sipped some Grand Dad and blasted a rail.  I leaned over, touched my friend on his scaly head, as he lay there coiled and still next to the fervor.  The night was quiet and I wondered if it was like the sound of death or passing on to the other side.  Was this indeed what dying sounded like or was it loud and obnoxious like a circular saw right next to your ear spewing splinters and sawdust right into your dying eyes?

 

In the morning, they would come looking for the stranger in the deep dark hills yelling and wailing curses out of sadness, anger and despair in the night.  The sheriff would surely mount his steed with a description already in his head of some longhaired city boy in fashionably chic new wave clothing and in fact, that description would be of me.  I thought of myself as an outlaw in the Wild West days.  Posters drawn up of me crudely sketched with a striking resemblance.  I pictured the sheriff showing up guns-a-blazin’ and me, doing a line of cocaine off the back of my hand just before I drew my piece and shot him down dead in his tracks.  Then I would stand over him pissing on his bullet hole as he lay there dying.

 

I would proclaim in a terrifying scream that I indeed have no respect for the law or any kind of authority, or anyone for that matter.  I would crouch down, get real close to his ear, and whisper as he takes his last dying breath and say, You ain’t the first sheriff I killed, then swill my last gulp of bourbon and toss the empty bottle into the desert sunset.  That is true outlaw shit right there, I thought as I did another rail as long as the horizon.  The coke kicked in again and was giving me an unbelievable high; I felt almost super-human.   Paired along with the bottles of bourbon, I was in some dream like sub-human state.  Not an animal, but more Mesopotamian.  More tribal.  The come down from this drug was going to be pure insanity.  Catatonic despair mixed with fueled sorrow and hatred.  Hatred for all mankind.  I took another hit off the bottle. The charade is over, I thought, the jig is upI need to get out of this desert, out of this one fucking horse town and get back my sea legs. Out to the expanse of it all, endless horizon.  The ocean is where I truly belong.  I grabbed the bottle and took another good pull.  I imagined the light from the fire reflecting in my already glazed eyes.  My friend, the rattle snake, was by my side coiled and cautious, tongue flickering, waiting to see what was next, what would come his way.  I took another pull, swallowed, exhaled and thought, What was next for me?  I pondered the cocaine and then sniffed another blast.  I looked down at the snake and said, This is going to be a long, long, long night my friend.

 

What time is it, I thought.  When I finally awoke, I didn’t know where I was, how I had gotten there, or what I had done.  Things were fuzzy and my mind drew a large cavernous blank.  My mouth was as dry as the motherfucking sand that I was sleeping in.  What day was it?  What fucking time is it?  I looked up into the sky and saw the everlasting sun peering down on me with intense heat.  Two or three o’clock?  Possibly.  I looked around at my hazy surroundings.  The snake was gone and for a second I felt disappointed.  Three bottles were strewn in the sand.  I got up and walked over to one, brushing the sand and dust off myself.  One of them had about quarter of a bottle left of sweet, sweet bourbon stewing in the hot desert sun.  I pulled it up from the sand and drank it down in three or four gulps.  It was extremely boney, hot, and had the viscosity if honey.  I swallowed and said aloud, That’ll put some fucking hair on the old shaft.  I thought I had heard someone laugh.  I looked around but no one was there.  The mind was playing its game as it usually does.  Just like the ocean, it will trick you into thinking there is always a possibility to win.  However, there isn’t.  So does the desert.  It is like a dry ocean; barren like a fifty-year-old woman, menopausal and bitchy.  It will offer you no solace, no companionship, not a fuck.  Just sadness, meanness, and confusion.  It will let you know what’s going on and then in a moment, tell you the complete opposite.  A hot, dry, barren expanse of a woman.  It contains this silence, ghastly and fearsome, like being trapped in a dark room completely alone.  I was the only human around for miles and miles.  I began to hum a Tori Amos tune “Raspberry Swirl” and for a second I broke the silence like an absurd kid throwing a rock through a dime store window.  It all made perfect sense.  I could hear those fucking waves.

 

I took my cock out and took a long and arduous piss.  A feeling of relief overcame me as I zippered up.  What the fuck is this? I said aloud.  There was some form of writing on the surrounding rocks.  It seemed to be a deep, reddish hue and I immediately thought of Native Americans, but this was far too modern, not very old at all.  Bewildered and confused, I walked over to take a closer look and upon inspection, I thought, What is this witchery?  This devil like message that could have been left for only me.  This strangeness, those pictures and words, were somewhat indistinct.  A caricature of a man and a woman inside of what seemed to be a large heart.  Another of a man with a gun facing another man in a cowboy hat, who also held a weapon.  They were all very crudely drawn stick figures.  I looked around for my bag of devil and could taste the postnasal drip already.  I needed the comfort of the powder.  I looked over at another large rock and walked closer.  The letters were medieval and read “FTW”.  Just below that, there was a passage or a poem of sorts that read, “You never loved me.  Now I cannot lie in that bed, I cannot lie down in all of those old fears.  I haven’t slept, singe the colors from my glances.  If I was bleeding, would you tell me?  If I was saying, would you hear me?  You asked for everything but never loved.”  Then right there in that desert fucking heat, in that dried up ocean of time, I knew what I had done.  I killed him.  I killed the snake and used his blood and venom to write it all in my drunken, cocaine high.  He was my only friend in the night, a serpent, who offered me some form of solace to feel connected to the outside world.  I sat down in the sand enamored by what I had done.  I felt like I was living a different life.  A killer, a predator, a hunter.  I felt powerful and strong.  Yet there was some big secret to find out there, not knowing what it was, but I knew I needed to find it out for all my life.  I found the bag of blow lying just beneath the surface of sand and grappled it, my hand like the talon of an eagle swooping into a pristine Alaskan lake gouging out a small salmon from its habitat.  Taking its life and shredding it apart.  I was indeed a predator.  Seclusion was starting to set in and I was boxed, I was caught.  Roped in, like a catfish on a hook.  No way off, no way out.  I laid my head in the sand and began to dream, closing my eyes, their lids heavy and listless.  The bourbon had taken me into a path undefined but the cocaine left me half-awake staring into the sky.  I watched the clouds dissipate and reappear again.  I watched planes cruise by turning their exhaust into vapor clouds way up in the stratosphere.  Then I saw it all.  The end of the world, forests burning, animals dying, all in the background, the music of all this destruction was mining its way into my brain.  It was a Brahms Tragedy but I couldn’t quite make out which one it was.  I saw the flesh dripping off human bone, the bodies burning to the sound of the piano, the children crying as they watch their own bodies turning to ash.  Skin falling off bone like cooked chicken when it’s well done.  I dreamed of every fight I had gotten into, the way I took a punch, my nose broken, my teeth chipped.  I lost them all.  I dreamed of a former lover, who said she loved me, buttering me up because she was angry with herself, her life and what she had become.  Then there was darkness.  Complete and utter darkness.  The only darkness you could find in a theatre while watching a stupid movie on a first date.  You are cumbersome and polite with a chance that you might get some, but you don’t know what it is that you might receive.  A kiss?  A lick of a cunt?  Maybe some dick action.  There was a tiny pinhole of light.  The light became larger and more prominent the further I traveled through this void, floating and mixing it all in time and space.  Everything became pixilated and I started to sense my locale.  I was traveling over centuries of time, over Heaven and Hell, through centuries of irreversible seasons, epochs, periods, intervals.  I was ghosting and I knew, right then and there, I was in a catatonic state; I could see myself in the sand lying there helpless and unaware, cotton mouthed, and with no place to run as the long arm of the law was closing in on me.  Bearing its sharp claws only to rip me to shreds and leave me helpless and bleeding alone on the highway with no hospital for miles.  I was miles from nowhere.  Then there was a big, gigantic bright tunnel of light.  It was blinding.  Too bright to look into.  I was suddenly transported into a room full of people.  People with masks dressed in blue uniforms.

I was being born.

I was being, just being.

There was a cigar and a bit of rope I hoped would strangle my helpless little neck but it was to no avail.

 

Then I was suddenly in the arms of my mother.  I felt cold and forgotten like a weight sinking to the bottom of a lake, like a long drive through a city.  I was trying to clutch her but she persisted, avoiding my consequence.  Avoiding the sperm and egg game, fertilization, the whole she-bang.  I was fresh from the womb, the inner lining, and she looked down on me with utter disdain.  I was a mistake, a monster of her life, something that would never work out.  A failure, a nothing.  The waves were coming in and crashing against my newborn bones, against the set rocks buried deep in my heart.  I looked at her and knew that I was dead. I was dreaming inside my own dream, cold, wet, and heartless, a little version of what I am now.  My mother’s face riddled with torture, her eyes livid with pain, her mouth a frown.  She yelled out in despair, This is not my child!  Take it away!  Throw it in the trash!  It is not mine!

 

Those words were true as I saw myself from a distance.  The blood on the rocks was written in the pale light of the fire.  The fire that I had set.  The fervor, the vehemence.  The torture.  The dichotomy of it all in the shadows of the fire, in the darkness as I watch it burn.  Watch it all burn down around me.

 

The lifeless body of the serpent was in my left hand and my right index finger was dipping itself into the hollowness of the carcass like a quill of a feather, returning and touching the stone, inking the verse in blood.  Snake blood.  Poison blood.  Then I realized that I was born from pain.  Born from two people who never really loved each other but seemingly needed each other, like a drunk needs booze or an addict needs pills or meth or coke.  Ah yes, the coke.  Perhaps I was visualizing myself in a come down in my own dream.  A wicked four hours of pure madness where any one person is capable of doing anything.  Speaking languages I have never learned before.  Tribal words on a non-native tongue.  Incessant insanity.  What did it mean?  The lucid dream-like state I was in.  Where would I end up?  I was running down roads that were not even paved yet, down highways, across rivers and lakes, destined to go nowhere.  When would I stop?  What the fuck was next?  I saw myself stand up almost caveman like and looked around curiously in the darkness as if I had heard a sound off in the distance.  I walked up to the edge of the fire, dead snake in hand, naked to the world and let out an ungodly roar that would frighten even the most wicked of beasts on that night.  I was primal, I was evil.  I was man in his purest form.

 

I awoke sometime later in the day unsure of where I was again but there were three things I was certain of.  I needed food, I needed booze and I needed drugs.  Preferably cocaine. I only had a small quantity left. The first two would be easy to acquire but the last one would be treacherous, almost completely impossible.  I came strolling into town again, but this time my clothes were a little dustier and my hands were stained with dried rattlesnake blood.  What day was it? I thought, what year?  I was a mess; my hair all matted and tangled like some long-haired dog out on a good stray.  My face two weeks unshaven, maybe more.  I looked like a bum that had been through hell and back and in essence, I was.  White devil does wonders to the mind, mixed with bourbon, good bourbon and three to four or five days of complete solitude and deprivation from the outside world, there is no telling what could happen.  I stumbled then tripped and gagged a little.  My non-blurry eye fixated on the sheriff’s compound, I saw him sitting there in a rocking chair like a pompous ass with a shotgun by his side.  His large, expensive, cowboy hat lay low over his country face shadowing it from the desert sun.  What does this faggot know?  He would no sooner love to hog tie me and make me squeal for mercy, fucking me in every orifice of my being, breaking down my moral fiber as I prayed to God or the Jesuit or Gabriel.  But, motherfucker, I pray to a different god.  A white, powdery God.  Our eyes met for a second.  Beady eyes to even beadier eyes.  He nodded to me then spit a luger full of tobacco.  A long brown string of saliva hung from his country lips, almost wire-like.  He wiped it off with the back of his hand bearing a jagged, brown-toothed smile.  I smiled back a helpless grin and headed straight for the hotel.  I lumbered up the steps, pulled the door open and walked in, patting the sand and dust off my jeans and my shirt.  I sat down at the bar.  A frumpy middle-aged woman came waltzing over with a half grin, maybe it was a full grin.

What you want, Sweetie?

Double bourbon, I said, and can I see a menu?  Also a beer.  Make it two beers and two bourbons.  I’m feeling thirsty today.  Say, do you know anyone who has the ‘devil’?

I tried saying it as passively and as candidly as possible but all I got from this diabolical beast were weird looks and an, “I don’t know what you mean, stranger” smile.  Everyone’s got some form of devil or another ‘round here, she said. This is the desert.

By the beard of motherfucking Zeus! I exclaimed a little too loudly, well, get some, give me the contacts.  Call them up.  And hell, what’s the wait on the menu? She looked at me confused and a bit angry.  She poured my drinks one by slowly one and I thanked her and paid for them.  I was then handed a small sheet of paper, which was indeed the menu.  It read Steak and eggs with home fries. It was crudely hand written and looked like some piece of abstract art but I could make out the scrawl.  I looked up from the one sentenced literature and said, Jesus motherfucking Christ, give me the special then.  I’ll take the Monte Christo, shit, I’ll take it all.  Keep pourin’ ‘em babe.  Keep ‘em coming.  I could see in her fat cheeks that she wasn’t amused and she had definitely seen some forms of amusement in her day.

 

She had been across the bridge and traveled the universe divide.  Weathered the storms of the great Atlantic.  Been on the yachts.  Sucked famous cocks behind stages while bands played their sorrowful songs as women moaned and screamed in terror while crude brutes raped their asses with natural mankind pleasure.  Her face was that of stone.

I smiled and said, I’m just kidding.  I’ll take whatever you have.  She yanked the “menu” from my hand and walked into the kitchen.  She pushed open the double swinging doors with great force, using her flabby fucking arms and pudgy fingers for something else rather than pouring watered down drinks or fondling her saggy tits or flicking her own vinegar smelling clit.  The bean.  The women love flicking the bean.  Let’s kill them all, I thought.  Our cocks are useless.  Maybe she fingers her asshole while rubbing that dirty foul smelling bean.  It must smell of years and years of being trapped between those two plump labia, just festering in those nasty, sweaty labia juices while she trotted around all day in this desert heat, not changing those panties for days, maybe weeks.  Imagine the lint that must be trapped in there, I thought, huge fucking balls of it.  Levi’s was ready to buy it the fuck out and actually break the fucking vault open because one could tell that she hadn’t fucked in years, maybe decades and that first orgasm she would have would rock the third world and send a tidal wave so big that America would think that it was a terrorist attack.  Good goddamn.  I raised the glass of bourbon to my parched, everlasting lips and toasted to myself, to this fucking town; may I make it out of here alive.  I drank slow letting it envelope me, letting it burn slow and moisten my throat with the vengeance of one hundred thousand demons.  The hotel was kitschy and it had outlived its Wild West theme.  I didn’t know what town I was in and surprisingly, I didn’t care.  I motioned the husky toolbox of a bartender over and ordered another double bourbon and beer.  Her body reminded me of a butternut squash, ripe in the autumn sun ready to be picked and stewed and I bet if I had bit into her, she would taste like one.  It smelled like sour milk in the place, like week old vomit.  Vomit from a few town drunks with high tabs they could never pay, still full of rot gut whiskey, still full of regret for not leaving this fucking place, still full of death.  They say death can only save a person from it all.  It’s not true, it never was, nor will it ever be.  You get trapped, either by emotions or fuel for the fire and by the fire I mean the fire of emotions.  When a man loses something in this world that he used to love so dear, he feels trapped by it all.  Life.  Death.  The whole motherfucking she-bang.  The whole non winning lottery.  The sleepless nights and bouts of alcoholism and the whores get to you because there is no lost and found, no God, no devil, no up, no down.  The only comfort and solace you can find is in the bottle and maybe a little in the devil, the white devil.  The years disappear slowly like scars; all you have left is some distant memory like an old book you once read or someone you have met.  Like a sip of wine down the throat.  Forgotten, but you still remember the taste of it all.  What was it?  What was her name?  Auld lang syne.

 

The bourbon tasted good.  It was cheap but highly effective.  I didn’t care for the high sweetness of the malt, but hey, as long as it does what it’s intended for, one could care less.  I needed strong drink to get me from pillar to post.  I felt like jerking off then shitting all over the bar, smearing my feces all over and leaving a thin layer of shit all over their lives.  I contemplated asking the bartender if I could stick it in her plump, luscious ass.  The cellulite jiggling as I pound away like a rabid dog, with each thrust going in deeper and deeper, my balls slapping against the cheesy ass as her penetrated anus began to bleed.  Then just as I was about to come, she would begin to moan and screech wildly, like a wounded barn owl and at that moment I’d thrust in as deep as possible and let my baby batter blow all over the inside of her ass.  My cock was beginning to grow as I watched her pour my drink.  It was all happening.

 

I awoke the next morning in some of delusional haze and low and behold, the Butternut Squash was in bed lying next to me.  What had gone wrong? I thought, what the fuck had gone on at all?  I found a half of a fifth of that rotgut blast bourbon on the nightstand next to me.  I fumbled for it and took a nice long tipple from the clear label-less bottle.  The room was completely dark except for a pinhole of sunlight coming through one of the window shades in the chamber of the foul smelling, dark and dismal place that I compared to a grave.  I sat on the edge of the bed, bottle in hand, and my pounding head in the other.  The Squash was snoring heavily.  I looked back at her and with a stiff solitary finger; I poked her firmly in her thick, fleshy back.  She was a solid Squash, all two hundred and seventy five pounds of her.  I did not say, in this instance, to myself, what I had done.  For I knew what I had done or for that matter, what I didn’t do.  To her.  The sheer thought of it all made me heave and to imprison those thoughts, I took another sip from the bottle.  When a man gets a chance to wear the bourbon goggles, many wild and wondrous things can entertain the brain and suddenly things take on a different shape, different forms, and they all start to look good, great even.  Things that you might have found repulsive and repugnant, foul and odious start to look good and delicious, edible.  Those very goggles take the hideous things in life and make them absolutely wonderful again.  Case in point; our sweet and excited subject, the Butternut Squash lying next to me.  Toothless and round with an ass and legs that bear a firm texture of ricotta or cottage cheese.  With a pussy that feels none other than that of the skin of a warm Jewish deli pickle.  I did not eat it like a pickle.  Or did I?  One could not remember at the present time.  What would it matter anyway?  Another pull from the bottle to kill the brain cells and erase the horrible, horrible memories that they held before they reached the vault of my semi-psychotic mind.  She was still snoring, all two hundred and seventy five goddamn pounds of her were still snoring.  Like one gigantic ominous glob of snoring Jell-O.  Her large tits hung on either side of her gelatinous body, like two huge bags of sand ready to ward off some kind of oncoming flood.  Two bags of dead weight full of unctuous flab.  I walked across the tomb and pulled open a shade to let some light in, heaving on the way.  I turned around and found the sunlight shining directly upon her uncovered, naked body.  She was no longer a squash, but now a beached beluga whale.  I couldn’t help it and I proceeded to vomit on the carpeted floor.  Now the room smelled even worse than before.  It only added to the smell of fried onions, whale queefs, vomit and rotten beef.  Beef curtains?  I needed to get out of that situation as quick as possible. I took another drink, finished the bottle. I Put on my pants and shirt, scratched my crotch.  It burned a little and was raw.  Hope I don’t have anything, I thought.  Fuck it if I do.  I opened the door and just before exiting, I said, Goodbye my Butternut Squash, my Beached Beluga.  I sincerely hope that it was as fun for you as it was for me. As I closed the door she was still snoring.

The sun was high in the sky and I was finally on the highway again, ocean bound.  I looked down the road and I could see the heat from the early afternoon rising off it, ripples of hot air disappearing into the desert air.  I took out a cigarillo, unwrapped it, and lit it with the only match I had left.  I was walking with a good pace, five maybe six miles from somewhere and where that was, I was unsure of.  North, South, East, West, shit, I had no fucking clue.  My head felt jumbled and the cigarillo was stale and tasted like a hooker’s gash.  What had been done with it before?  Maybe I had used it in that manner.  My eyes were slightly blurry as I peered into this barren landscape, searching for some sign of human interaction, some form of contact.  There was no event horizon, just lust for the bourbon and the cocaine.  I could have even died for a beer, and that’s saying a lot.  It was hot, very hot and my thirst was growing increasingly stronger.  I was shaking a bit, almost like an elderly person or someone who drank five cups of strong coffee.  I kept up my steady pace, thinking of the ocean, my love.  Of the waves, those cool waves, foamy and full of salt, crashing crashing crashing over me, hydrating everything they touch.  Waves.  Caressing me.  Harboring me.   I missed her.  After a while, I grew tired of walking so I sat my tired ass down on the roadside for a bit.  I was studying cloud formations when I looked over the highway and saw a moving dot a long ways away.  Flashes of light, reflections from the sun, were getting closer, increasingly closer.  I sat there calm and cool, playing with a rock, and watched it all happen.  I thought of sweet, sweet bourbon.  Take me to town, I said aloud, take me any where from this motherfucking desert.  This goddamn prison of solitude, this lonely holocaustic oven of nothingness.  This barren fucking wasteland without drink, without sweet bourbon.  Closer and closer it came. Closer. Closer. I could make out that it was a pickup truck speeding steadily along.  A late model.  Nineteen-eighty something.  It was approaching closer.  I couldn’t quite make out the driver.  Man or woman?  I just prayed that it wasn’t that goddamn hillbilly sheriff.  I’d be fucked if it was.  Proper fucked.  Then the truck stopped at my feet followed by a trail of dust.  I could tell immediately that the brakes needed severe work.  The body was a dark navy blue but it was hard to see covered in all that desert dust.  The brand, a Ford.  American made.

You need a lift, Mister? came a voice from inside the cab.

I stood up and replied, Yeah, I do.  The dust hadn’t quite all cleared and I still couldn’t make out the face inside.  Where are you headed? I asked.

Where am I not, she said politely.

Well, I’d like to head toward the ocean, if that’s at all possible.

Sounds okay I guess, hop on in.

I pulled at the latch and opened the door as it creaked loudly, in dire need of oil.  I dusted myself off a bit and got in.  Before I could close the door she put it in first, popped the clutch and we were off down the open road again.  Ah, the old three on the tree.  Haven’t seen one of them in nearly a decade, I said.  Good model.  American made.  Not like those new Jap rice burners.  This thing is fucking dependable as they come. She looked over at me and gave me the stink eye.  I figured that she couldn’t quite make out my jabberwocky and was speaking in a different form of strange language.  Was the heat getting to me?  Was I doomed?  Hitch hiking can be a dangerous thing.  How was I to know that this bitch wasn’t some lunatic who picked up men only to seduce them and in the heat of the moment produce a razor from her boot and slice off my manhood and throw it out the window going ninety down the highway?  Your cock rolling at high speed on the hot desert asphalt, sizzling like bacon in a pan, as the buzzards swoop down and fight over it.  Swallowing it like ice cream.  The best piece of meat they have ever devoured.

Yeah, it was my old man’s, she said.  I left his sorry ass.  Took his truck.  He thought I was his play toy, tried to do anything he wanted.  Guess the law will be lookin’ for me now.  What’s your name, sugar?

I was far from feeling like sugar.  I was rough and tumbled, like spending a few days in a clothes dryer accompanied by a few large rocks.  Beaten by the fist of God and after that he tossed the spoils to Satan, for more eternal torture.

Names are not really important.  I’m just a drifter.

Oh, okay, Drifter.  My name’s Thelma.  Where ya headin’?

California.  The ocean.  Away from this wretched motherfuck of an existence.

She laughed.  Well you sure do have a way with words.

Thelma had a wonderful smile.  She must have been about twenty-five, twenty-six years old.  Long, sandy blonde hair, five foot six.  A slender build with a petite chest, a small B cup maybe.  I wondered what that ass looked like in those jeans as she sat on the bench seat accelerating faster.  I was hoping I’d find out.  She was wearing a worn out flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to her forearms, tied in a knot at the belly, revealing her exposed “inny”.  I noticed that she had on red heels, but they were not the super high heeled “fuck me” shoes.  They screamed of class, lady-like, not whorish, with red painted toenails to match.  They looked delicious and I immediately wanted to suckle and nibble on them.  She leaned over and reached behind the seat.  I was hoping it wasn’t a gun, and I caught a quick glimpse of cleavage and a bit of pink nipple in her braless flannel.  My cock moved.  What a fucking tease, I thought.  Goddamn was she fucking sexy.  Thelma fumbled around a bit and lurched, finally producing a gallon jug of deep red wine.  Care for a snort? She said with her pretty little grin.

Are you fucking kidding? Says I.

I twisted off the cap, making that familiar old crunching sound as she drove.  George Jones’ “He Stopped Loving Her Today” played on the radio like some unholy wedding song.  I held up the jug with two hands and proclaimed, To the good life! I took a good, solid drink.  I could have drained that entire bottle right there for all my life.

Easy, cowboy, she said.

Okay, cowgirl.

She smiled like an angel.  Who threw her away? I thought.  An idiot, most likely.  An idiot who doesn’t know how to treat a good woman.

 

Some men wouldn’t know what to do with a good woman like Thelma.  Shit, some men wouldn’t even know how to approach a woman like her.  Women like her are complicated, delicate flowers who need constant attention and devotion.  They are the suckling piglets on the tit of the earth.  Remove the tit and what you have before you is one pissed off piggy.  Put a tit full of milk back in their faces and instantly they become happy and content.  Like a pig in shit.  I handed her the jug.  She drove with her right knee on the wheel as she mouthed the opening of the jug.  I saw my cock in that pretty mouth.  I saw myself coming inside of it, her swallowing my juices and smiling in satisfaction afterwards.  Thelma, I said, I think I’m in love.

WHAT!?

I think I’m in love with this fucking wine, I said nonchalantly. Where did you get it?  It’s very delicious.

To tell you the truth it tasted like vulture piss, but that’s neither here nor there.

Back where I come from, she said.  She took another gulp, swallowed, and wiped a little excess off her chin.  I’m from Texas. She handed back the jug almost a quarter empty.  Where you from, Drifter?

All over.

But where were you born?

Pennsylvania.  Near Philly.  Not going back.

Got a woman? She asked.

I did.  Back home.  But unfortunately, it’s not home anymore.  The open road is my home.  I suppose maybe one day I could settle down.  I put my hand on her knee.  She smiled coyly.

Bitch broke your heart, didn’t she huh? She said playfully as she removed my hand.

You could say that she broke my life into pieces.  Shattered it all.

I tried to lay it on thick like peanut butter on cheap white bread.  She had disdain in her eyes as she snatched the jug of wine from me, took a good gulp, swallowed and took another.  The wine was coursing its way through my bloodstream, like some helpless little rabbit being chased by a pack of wildly rabid demon dogs.  It was coming, the ever present fear of it all.  Devil’s blood.  It sneaks up on you like your grandmother at Christmas time, looking for a kiss.  Perverted, ugly, wrinkled and old.  The grape is a wild one.  You accept it because you have no choice not to.  Accept the chase, accept the kill.  Let it envelope you like the madness you have become.  Like the open road.  Like the open ocean, your nemesis.

So what’s your story, Thelma?

Goddamn son-of-a-bitch used to beat me.  And his daddy runs the whole town where we lived.

She broke the silence of the calm and I could for once hear the desperation in her voice.  It was clear as a bell and I knew what she was running from.  WE were birds of a feather.

I said to myself that no man would ever lay a hand on me ever again, so I left.  I just got up and left with no place to go.  I took what was mine and split the scene, left it clean. Well, and maybe about five thousand dollars.

Sad.  I know what it’s like, I said.  Hey, tell me this, do you like bourbon?

Shit, you’re kidding me, right?  I was breast fed on bourbon spiked with milk!

I laughed and smiled.  She smiled.  Our eyes met and then she down shifted into second, then first.  The truck shuddered to a halt on the side of the searing road.

Why are you stopping? I asked, on to the ocean!  On to the liquor store!

Don’t play dumb, she said with that country smile, I know what you want.  I want it too.

She glanced that “come get me” smile and bit down on her bottom lip.  I knew the sign very well.  That little school girl, MTV thing that all the piglets do while they suckle the teat.

Bourbon and waves? I said.

Oh fuck the bourbon, you dumb fucking bull!  She leapt across the seat and onto my lap, kissing me frantically and unbuttoning my shirt at the same time.  We were both breathing heavily in the afternoon heat.  The sweat was beginning to expire from our pores.  Thelma began to unbutton my jeans.  My tongue could taste the wine on her tongue, the malice on her lips, the years of forgotten love, the smoke from all the burned down bridges.  She bit my bottom lip tightly.  My stiff cock was ready to burst through my jeans if she didn’t take it out soon.  I untied her flannel shirt and let my hands make their way up her body as if they had a mind of their own, almost robotic, and placed them on her petite tits.  Firm, small, round, nipples already erect with passion and I whispered in her ear that she was beautiful.  She moaned and I began to unbutton her shirt slowly, carefully.  As I did, I kissed her chest softly and tenderly.  I am a God among men, I thought as I exposed her bare chest seeing two beautiful tits right in front of me.  Now I was the piglet, suckling upon the tits of the world.  Fleshy, pink and round, erect but soft, the perfect combination.  Like a mother hog.  She tilted her head back and moaned a little.  I saw the jug of wine on the floor of the truck leaking slowly through the loosely tightened cap, drip by perilous drip.  She didn’t tighten it enough, I thought, but fuck it, I’ll deal with it later.  In my worrisome confusion about the leaking wine, I did not feel Thelma pull me out of my jeans and put her soaking wet mouth on my throbbing tower of flesh and blood.  Her lips were moving at a rapid pace up and down my shaft.  Is this what Heaven is like? I thought.

Fondle my balls, I said. She did. Goddamn she was excellent at it. Thelma rubbed my asshole slightly and lightly with her perfectly manicured fingers.  Her mouth came off my dick with an easy popping sound.  Don’t come yet, Drifter, she said as she worked her mouth up my body to kiss me.  Her mouth no longer tasted like wine and lust and the only thing I could think of as our lips locked together was the old Butternut Squash, the Beached Beluga.  Thelma’s tongue felt like a petal from a rose, velvety and soft, lush and all woman.  I had managed to open the door of the truck somehow and we fell, tumbling into the hot desert roadside sand.  As we disentangled ourselves from the fall, she shimmied out of her jeans.  I was right, that ass of hers was spectacular.  Apple bottom ass, no cottage cheese in sight, none to be seen.  Only firm taunt skin that would make an old man blush and a priest whip out his cross so fast that God would take a second look.  I went down on you, now it’s my turn to receive, she said with a smile, legs wide open.  The only barrier between that delicate pink rose bud and I was a pair of leopard print panties.  She lay on her back as I spread her legs open even more.  I like to have enough room to do my deed.  I peeled the panties off slowly, inviting the mood.  She was fully shaven and her labia already swollen with blood, excited and turned on.  I caressed her vagina with my hand.  Slowly and easily at first then stuck a finger inside to test her tightness.  She gasped.  Her cunt was hot, wet, tight and delicate and my mouth was salivating, waiting for the meal.  My precious cock was so fucking hard that it was starting to hurt, throbbing so badly with all the guilt of the world, all the shame of mankind itself.  There was no one around for miles but us, the open road, and the solitary desert.

Well get to it.  Don’t fucking stare at it, eat it! She said with such authority.  I didn’t hesitate and went down on that pretty pink hole.  She smelled sweet, almost like licorice, and tasted like fresh raspberries.   Thelma began to pant and moan louder and louder, grinding her hot, swollen crotch in my face, wrapping her slender and sensual legs around my torso so tight that I thought for a moment I might suffocate from it all.  My tongue was working in every humanly way possible.  Up, down, all around making swirling motions and not neglecting the clit for one single second of desert time.  I felt as if I had the tongue of some vile serpent, like an evil komodo dragon.  She began to make these tiny, little, shrill noises, minute squeaks like a mouse.  She queefed and there it was, I had done it, I had made her come.  Again she screamed and then I had made it happen  two more times.  The wine, I thought, the fucking wine is out all over the place, we need to save it.  It’s getting wasted!  And when we get to the liquor store! The bourbon will be all sold out.  Gone! Gone!  What will we do?  I don’t like rum, I detest it with a furious passion.  And you can just fucking forget about tequila.  Nix the vodka.  Bourbon is a man’s drink.  I wiped the juices from my mouth as she pushed me over on my back, reached down and slowly slid it into her tight lubricated void.  My God, I thought, who was the pitiful fuck who gave up this gash, this fresh hew.  She kissed me long and deep, thrusting away at my pole.  I was close, very close.  I grabbed her hips and looked her right in the eye and said very seriously, Do you think they will be all out of bourbon when we get there?  Her reply was a wicked smile as she kissed and took my cock out of her box and gently guided it into her ass.  It was already moist from the great deluge of pussy juices she had supplied.  I came almost immediately, letting it rupture intensely inside of her chasm like a volcanic eruption.  As I finished, I bit her neck hard, like that of a vampire, but I did not draw blood.  She gasped with satisfaction and I dropped my head into the sand as if I had just been struck down by some great prize fighter.  Down for the count.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

The wine.

The wine was leaking out.

All over the floor.

We need to save the wine.

 

Sometime later, I awoke in the passenger seat of the Ford, not knowing what time it actually was.  I could tell that it was mid-afternoon simply because as I looked out the window and up into the atmosphere, the sun was high in the sky.  Usually in the afternoon, I feel like shit and that I did.  I felt like complete and utter rubbish, like a gutter snake.  Through blurry eyes, I looked over at my driver, her hair blowing about from the movement of the speeding truck.  How in the fuck did we get out in the middle of this God forsaken country, this desolate perversion of Hell? I asked.  She said something in response to that statement in a mumbled Texas drawl but I couldn’t quite make it out.  I was nauseous and sweating like a motherfucking nun in a watermelon patch on the fourth of July.  She eyed me up coolly, and I asked Thelma when we would arrive at the liquor store.  She just laughed and said, You need to get something to eat.  You look white as a ghost.  First truck stop I see we’ll stop for grub.  The thought of food didn’t sit quite well with me.  I was detoxing, needing the white devil and fiending for the booze, the cantankerous bourbon whiskey, that sweet juice of the earth.  This desert is going to kill me, I thought.  The waves were beginning to crash into my feeble head. Menacing waves that bring fear, hatred, wanting and then eventually death.  The very kind of waves that separate the brain from that thin layer of jelly inside the skull giving you a concussion.  Thelma was pulling over to the side of the road, the engine a nice warming hum, ceased to a sputtering senseless babble of putts and whines.  You can’t stop here, I said, there’s Mexicans out here that would no sooner rape us then rob us clean than say hello.  How do you say hello in Spanish?  And the vultures!  Can’t you see them circling?  Waiting to prey on our carcasses?  She just laughed and turned off the engine.  She leaned back and pulled out what was left of the wine in that glorious gallon jug.  Not much but a few pulls, I said, but let me have it baby!  Thelma shook it playfully as if to say come and get it.  I snatched that fucking jug off her and took a swig, gulping it down.  It was warm, sweet and strong.  As I drank the ardent cordial, she had already unbuttoned her jeans and was almost on top of me, unbuttoning mine.  Wha, what are you doing?  On to the liquor store goddamn it!  On to the truck stop!  She took my cock into her sweet Texas mouth and made me forget about any liquor for a while…

 

Thelma had grown up on a semi-large cattle ranch some fifty miles outside of Lubbock, Texas.  She told me the town she very seldom frequented was small, her graduating class was small, and I guessed her soon to be husband’s cock was too small for words.  Well, aren’t all cowboys’ cocks small?  I guess that’s why they ride the horse with the biggest one.  Hey Bill, nice tube on that mustang, but check out the one on my monster.  I call him ‘Elephant’.  I guess life out on the open range can get pretty lonely sometimes, and size does matter.  She could rope, ride and brand cattle and all of that ranch nonsense.  Her calloused handed daddy told her once that she had what most folks call “true grit”.  She went on and told me she had been to Dallas but only once when she was a mere spit on the ground and she longed for days away from that godforsaken wind scowl.  She never took anything she didn’t work for and she always worked for what she had, until now.  Thelma was a hardened young slice of a woman full of hot cattle driving days and cold prairie nights.  She knew how to handle herself, and let me tell you, she knew how to in all  aspects.  That’s what had drawn me to her from the start.  Her pussy was tighter than any pussy that I have ever had before.  Also, she was wild.  She rode me like those fucking horses she had at home.  She digested my dick and loved every second of it.  I drove it deeper and deeper into her very entrails like a fucking coffin nail, spasming while my load exploded inside those pink juicy walls of her birth canal.  Then, a mere instant later, she came as well sending hot viscous cunt juices down my shaft.  I thrust some more, exasperating all of my feeling of orgasm, and she took it. She loved it.

 

Thelma’s life story swung near and dear to my heart because I too have been a victim of a small town wanting more from life other than the drab day-to-day democracies of daily toil.  We wanted the hinges off the door; we were directives for distrust and pain.  A life without disorder, or maybe it was the disorder that drove us to this point in life.  We met each other for a reason.  For me, that reason had yet to be determined.  She was a drifter just like me.  A no one in this vast “God fearing” world of incompetence.  This world where vice sometimes overtakes virtue.  Thelma looked down at my limp penis and smiled.  It looks so small, she said, want me to make it big again?  No, I replied in an authoritative tone, let’s get to that truck stop.  I slinked back into the passenger seat and I heard an, Oh no! You are gonna slug out this route, Drifter.  And hey, you never did tell me your real name.

Move over woman, we got miles to burn.

I pushed in the clutch, threw it in second and left the twilight in a shroud of thick desert dust.

About ten miles later down the road we stumbled upon this roadhouse called The Evil Jester.  The parking lot was full of big rigs and motor bikes.  Outside the establishment stood a few wretched whores who would steal your wallet along with your soul without a second thought.  Thelma’s eyes were wide with eagerness.  She was stimulated by it all.  The lights, the rigs, the bikes, the smell of liquor and vomit that seemed to hang on the air like some thick gargantuan fog, only to be overpowered by the stench of sexual promise.  It was madness on a subtle scale, a holocaust of alcohol and drugs, a makeshift infirmary of prostitution.  We walked past the offering whores and were immediately greeted by some muscle bound faggot  bouncer who tried his best to act tougher than what he appeared to be but down by his waist he knew he didn’t pack the heat, the fervor.  He eyed us up and down menacingly and waved us past through to the bar.  The scene was potent and I could smell the corner men’s room emanating its lifeless smell of substance abuse and all night fucking.  The bestiality that occurred in that corner of this very building would be talked about for years to come.  If only the walls could talk, I thought.  The bar was small and the customers were rough as the desert itself.  We saddled up right in front of the taps; the seats where no one likes to sit for the bartender often forgets you are there, but us, Thelma and I, we could not be ignored.  Not on this dreadful night.  The vibe was deathly tense like a belt on a machine that got stretched too tight and would snap at merely the slightest pressure.  She ordered a strawberry daiquiri and I a bourbon with a bourbon back.  We sipped at our drinks and I summoned the barkeep over.  Hey my man, do you know where I can find the devil?  He was a modest man of sorts and was some biker stud affiliated with some gang; prison tattoos laced his arms and neck like immature illustrations in some children’s book.  Poorly done and unlikely to see on a grown man of his caliber.  He stood his ground and laughed.  Sure man, he said, yeah, why don’t you go see that girl there in the pink dress, yeah man, see her.  My face lit up with pure glee like some infant on Christmas day not knowing what he was getting or getting into for that matter.  Okay man, I’ll do that.  That silly tattooed barkeep motioned to the maiden in the pink dress as to say get ready.  I could see it all happening.  Thelma elbowed me in the ribs and said, Hey, what the hell is going on here?

Nothing, just sit here and I’ll be right back.

But, but, don’t leave me here all alone.  Not here.

Look, I said with a cool water smile, they won’t do anything to you, not here, not now that I’m conjuring the devil.

She looked confused but said she would be okay.  I knew she would be.  She could handle herself, I was sure of it.

 

I got up from my barstool and shot the rest of my drink straight down.  I turned on my heel in confidence and made my way to the pink woman.  As I approached, she smiled and opened a door and motioned me inside.  It was dark at first but then I began to see a tiny pinhole of light beckoning me to follow it down some dark and dank hallway.  I could smell marijuana; I guessed they were growing it somewhere.  The skunk bud reeked more and more as I got closer and the light began to get larger, brighter.  From some distant room I heard moans, smacks and screams.   I thought for a second that I might have heard a gun go off. There was the smell of gunpowder lingering for a second or two in the already dank air only to vanish like some macabre memory of a past love.  The maiden in the pink slinky dress took me by my hand and said, It gets a little slippery just about here.  Somehow, we got close, a little too close and I could smell her hair, the cheap dollar store perfume on the nape of her neck.  Her hands were on my waist at this point, making headway toward my crotchal region and suddenly she undid my zipper, reached inside and pulled out my semi-hard cock.  I hesitated for a moment and asked, How much is this going to cost me ‘cause I don’t have money for you.  She let go of my dick as if it were on fire and replied disdainfully, Well, what the fuck?

Onward to the devil, I said, take me to that sweet cocaine.  The pinhole of light became a peephole in a door and then suddenly, a bright red light came over us and I could see two security cameras watching us indiscreetly, recording our every move.  A few seconds later, a sonorous buzz ensued and after that, the door had opened.  Some ape-like bastard greeted the pink bitch with a smirk and motioned her inside.  I, on the other hand, was asked what I was looking for.  What? I said, come on man, I walked all the way down this fucking tunnel and you are going to ask stupid questions?  We all know the score, and we all know how it will end.

I have been expecting you, said a voice from behind some thrift store desk, and in a matching chair sat a man with an accented tongue.  He was a short little spit of a fuck with greasy, slicked back black hair and a complexion that a teenaged fast food clerk would develop later on in life after puberty had won the war.  I stood there in complete and utter terror.  What was this? I thought to myself.  The words I had said earlier to the ape were too potent, too strong and laced with malice.  So, I see that you made the rendezvous with my acquaintance, he said flicking his large penis like cigar into the ashtray on his thrift store desk.  His eyes looked like they had been swimming in a strongly chlorinated pool for about three straight days.  I replied with nothing.  He stared me straight in the eyes, and his red bloodshot eyes were making mine water a bit.  I prohibited his inquiry and asked a question of my own.

Where did you get that sweet fucking desk, man?

Why do jew ask, my friend?

He was putting on his best fucking tough guy act and he knew I could see right through it like saran wrap.

Because it looks like you got it out of the fucking dump, man.  Does it smell like it too?  The dump, that is?

Fuck it, I thought, let’s fuck with ole’ red eyes a bit.  He sat back in his dumpy chair and blew some smoke out of his mouth from his cock cigar as if to claim defeat.  He eyed me squarely and told his whore in the pink slinky dress to shut her filthy pig fucking mouth.  Just then, the ape came over with a brown bag that said, “Have a nice day” on the side of it.  He offered it to me and I took it like a bullet to the chest.  Accepting it without caution, without regard.  I looked inside.  Three goddamn kilos of the white, powder, devil, pure uncut fish scale.

So, what do jew plan to do with all of this coca, hmm?

Was that a trick question? I plan to make a lot of fucking money off this stash.  The street value these days is tiptop.  And in the meanwhile, keep a little for myself, of course.  It’s not every day that you come across pure blow like this.

It is indeed a rare occasion, he said with a half grin.

Look, I’m heading out to California and all I want is some to get me by.

Ah, California, he said, do jew know the enterprise out there?  Hollywood actors and actresses wanting, looking for what I have.  The millions that can be made are right in front of your eyes, my friend.

I said nothing.  I didn’t have to because he knew what I was going to say.  It was all happening right in front of me.  I could see it.  I looked into the picture and saw it all.  Fine clothes, fine cigars, even finer women with bleached cunts just waiting for me to fuck them and providing them with the finest blow, the elephant, the Congo.  I would slide into their loose pussies with a hard cocaine cock, tearing them apart until they bled all over the silk sheets and begged for more.  Burning down palaces in a fiendish rage only to build another and another and another.  Whores upon whores, upon whores, and divulge in my wildest sexual fantasies like some locked up madman in Cheranton.  I was conjuring Hell and I knew it for all of my life.  In all of those twenty-five minutes of his red-eyed presence, I made a reluctant decision that would haunt me forever until my dying day.  I made my way out of that drug tunnel and found Thelma saddled up beside some fat fuck of a biker.

C’mon, I said, we have to go.

This boy’s a real man.  He knows what he wants.

I smiled and said, Come on baby, seriously we have to go.  We are marked now.

Maybe it was the parakeet talking or the influx of bourbon, but I know I said it.

She was drunk.  When certain women get drunk they can get a chip on their shoulder.  She had a massive one.

Thelma!  We gotta get out of here.  I’ll explain to you later!

The guy next to her stood up and said, Look buddy, let go of her arm.

Look motherfucker, I just want to take my girl home and that is that.

He countered with some shit about some biker gang he was affiliated with, blarga, blarga, blarga and I took his glass full of beer and smashed it upside his unbeknownst head.  The blood poured and Thelma began to scream.  My paper bag full of three kilos of cocaine, don’t you forget, is still in my possession.  He went down like a goose in a Canadian hunter’s storm of gunfire. I saw red, red, red in my eyes.  For a few moments in time, I thought that as a human race, we have grown ugly, ogre-like to the entire world.  What do all of the wildlife and forest creatures absolutely think of our presence?  I saw his blood and it only fueled the fire inside me, those previous thoughts engaged me and made me smitten for more of the crimson, the life that was leaking out of his head and his eyes. I loved it.  Some call it blood lust but for me it was pure love, undying love to see someone suffer. To hear a skull break as I employ the butt end of a pint glass upon his head.  Virtue versus vice, I look at my reflection in the mirror as I beat this disgusting, filthy man’s head into a pulp, into oblivion. I hear face bones break as teeth are pounded out of their sockets.  And I smile because I know the hand of God, who deems himself the greatest power in all of this great universe, will not do a motherfucking thing as everyone watches him die, his last breath makes me smile like some kitschy romance movie I used to watch with my ex. But these smiles weren’t fake. I smile and wait for the bolt of lightning to come.  But it doesn’t.

Where the fuck is he now?

Where is your God now?

I stood up and looked down at the man lying on the floor motionless, lifeless.  Blood and glass were all over the place.  I looked in the mirror and wiped a drop of his blood off my face.  Some say blood is actually blue in our veins and only turns a deep red, crimson, when it hits oxygen.  In my veins, in my heart at that very moment, my blood was black. Jet black. Midnight black. Darker than the inside of a coffin. I stood there staring at myself thinking of happier days.  Days when I felt alive.  Nothing could have prepared me for this moment. Nothing at all. Then I unclenched my fists and heard something drop to the floor.  A light click then a thud.  I looked down and saw my switchblade veiled in the hell that I had just created.  Murder.  Gore.  Slaughter.  Bloodshed.  Ancestry.  It is in our nature as human beings to massacre each other into extinction.  It is purely inevitable.  And I could think of nothing else. I guess that’s what happens when you black out, go mad, and think that its your father who you are killing.

 

The waves lapped at our feet like some lost puppy dog begging for forgiveness and as they grew ever so slowly closer, our bodies wrestled and knotted on the warm summer sand of New Jersey.  Two hearts beating as one, the salt licking at our wounds as we bled upon each other.  We were drunk with the feeling and that feeling was love.

Someone is coming, she whispered in my ear.

Fuck them, do you want me to stab them and throw their lifeless bodies into the ocean for you, my love?  I would die for you.

What did you just say?

Do you want me to stab them and throw their bodies into the ocean?

Hey, what the fuck is wrong with you, Drifter?  Ocean?  Wadda you mean?  Can’t you see?  They are coming after you, they are coming!

I looked around me.  The scene was surreal.  Like some party gone horribly wrong and I was the world’s most uninvited guest.  I eyed the bar and thought about playing it cool and walking over to order a drink but second-guessed it.  Thelma just stared at me and I smirked back at her as if to say everything will be okay.  The lifeless biker was now covered completely by some estranged woman screaming like a banshee in a forlorn graveyard.  The sound of it all had broken some form of a barrier between my mind and my inner ear.  Clamorous.  Shrill.  Blaring.  Roaring.  Deafening.  I looked back into the mirror and saw the knife on the floor and my knuckles bloody, raw, and red.  Hours passed, days, months, light years. I remembered nothing.  Thelma asked if I was alright.  We both saw them through the reflection in the mirror.  Three burly long-haired bearded bikers.  They were headed slowly toward us with cruel intent around the other side of the bar, unaware of what had just happened.  Only knowing of some commotion just minutes before.  Light years.  Galaxies.  Universe.  Dark energy.  It was all there in that space-time continuum.  The brown “Have a nice day” bag stood a few feet away from me, mere steps away.  The dark energy was coming.  Pulling everything apart into absolute oblivion.  I reached for the bag and saw something that struck my curiosity inside.  My hand slipped inside like some high school kid trying to feel some pussy underneath some ugly girl’s dress, clawing at it, and eventually reaching it.  I looked back and could see the dark energy approaching cautiously, one brandishing a switchblade similar to my own.  The others, broken bottles.  Oh shit, I thought.  I found the object in the bag, pulled it out and found it to be a very, very nice shiny .45 with a note attached saying, “From one friend to another”.  I smiled, cocked the hammer throwing one into the chamber and simultaneously stood up and shot that projectile into the bar mirror, shattering it into a million diminutive shards.  That stopped them dead in their tracks.  The one fucker in the middle, the ugliest one out of the three and obviously the one with the biggest balls, said in an unsure kind of voice, You can’t kill us all, now can you, faggot? The other two had already dropped their weapons. They were nothing but scared little mice ready to scurry away.

Oh no? I said, and fired one round into his knee.  He fell to the floor like a sack of rotten potatoes.

How does that make you feel you fake fucking faggot?  All I wanted was to take my pretty girl here home and make passionate love to her, but NO, your boy there had to interfere.  Now this is what you all get!

I waved the gun around wildly, trying to look as menacing as possible.  Just then, the bitch that was smothering her dead man rushed up and clawed for my throat.  Thelma countered that kill move with a checkmate to the base of her neck with a matte black 9mm.  The bitch stopped and breathed heavily whispering, okay, okay.  I stood there cocked and loaded and surprised. My expression seemed to say, Where the fuck did you get that gun?

Alright, I screamed, This is what’s gonna happen to all you motherfuckers.  You’re all gonna eat the fucking floor. NOW!

One biker thought he grew some balls and said, Fuck you, we won’t do shit.

Oh, is that so? I said as I walked over to him and shoved the gun in his mouth.

His bleeding buddy lying next to him grabbed his leg and told him to lay down. He did as he was told.  Everyone got down and ate the floor. The few people that remained were munching on the carpet, some licking the hardwood like some rawhide gash.  I looked at her and we both laughed.  I walked over to the till, opened it and took out every piece of cabbage that was in there.

Goddamn, Drifter, I fucking love this shit!

Alright, we got some money, let’s get outta here.

The one who thought he was a hard ass biker with the shot up knee said to me in painful disdain, You’re gonna pay for this you maggot fuck.  Even if I have to find you myself, I’ll make you pay and take your last breath.

Pay? I said in reply, Oh, here, buy one on me comrade.

I crumpled up a twenty dollar bill and threw it in his face.  His eyes were bulging with contempt and looked like they could pop right out of his skull at any moment.  I fired one in the air just for good measure and exclaimed, Try and find me you swine, you low life scum of God’s green earth! Fuck you all!  I am the cock ravaging the cunt of time and I cannot be tamed!

Thelma kicked open the door and blasted a couple rounds into the night air.  There was no one out there, as I heard her laughing in a child-like manner.

Get the truck, I said, I’ll wait here for these faggots to come out.  She ran off with the keys jangling.  What had happened? I thought as I looked down the barrel situated at the bar’s door.  What went wrong?  One thing was for sure now.  They needed a minister, a hearse, and a damn good hospital.  Would they even go to one?  Probably not.  Would the police even be involved in this matter?  Hell no.  Those people out there were nefarious types.  Outlaws just like me and the last thing they needed was the law poking their noses around in their business.  No, these angels of Hell were true believers in eye for an eye, blood for blood, outlaw justice.  I knew they would hunt us like vermin.  And possibly, one day they might catch up with a crazy motherfucker like me and have a showdown. A true gunfight. I was expecting it.

 

Thelma brought the Ford around and I hopped in quickly, still aiming at the scene of the crime.  We sped off in a temptuous rage.  Leaving behind what they call the American dream.  She was driving wildly, intoxicated with bourbon and adrenaline then said, My God, holy mother Mary of motherfucking God!

What?  What!  Are they behind us?

That was fucking great, she said and just then she pulled out a bottle of Wild Turkey out from under the seat.  I’m thirsty, open this will ya?   I took the bottle from her little Texas hands and cracked the seal.  Thelma was tuning the radio and came across some station playing “Friend of the Devil” by The Grateful Dead. I looked into the brown paper bag and smiled. It WAS intoxicating.

I fucking love this song, leave it on! I proclaimed.

The mood was tense and relaxed at the same time.  Fear and adrenaline mixed with the mindset of a vulture.  The desert was chaos.

To the ocean! I said, I need waves!

I never been to the ocean.

Never?

No, just that fucking ranch I grew up on basically.

I took a sip of bourbon and sighed, then took another and handed that pretty girl the bottle.  When she took her long pull of the sweet, sweet juice, she swerved and almost took us down an embankment.  Luckily, I grabbed the wheel and avoided a tragedy.  God is on our side tonight, I thought.

Hey, wadda you say we look for a hotel?  You know some place to rest, relax, get ripped.  I wanna show you something special.

She agreed and looked for a place to stop.  There was a storm brewing in the distance.  Its concoction was emitting thunder and lightning. The dark clouds made the night sky that much darker.  I knew we didn’t have long before it would pour.  Desert rain only comes once in a while but when it does, it unleashes its wrath.  I peered into the brown bag and there they were, three little white babies.  I took out my switchblade, flipped it open and wiped off the dead man’s blood on my shirt, poked it into one like a penetrating penis and took out just enough for a little candy hit.  The lightning flashed across the sky and a few seconds later the thunder rumbled like a subwoofer in a ’69 Impala’s trunk.

Won’t be long now, I said.

I took the candy hit up my nose, jerked my head and said, Jesus cocksucking Christ God all mighty!

Something wrong sweetie?

It’s fucking pure!  He wasn’t lying!

What is?

This three kilos of blow!

I took another hit but only bigger this time.  In the town I grew up in, we used to call it “going skiing” when you did a sniff off a knife blade.  Just then, Hank Williams’ “Lost Highway” came on the radio.

Turn this up! I said.

 

Wait just a goddamn minute.  You have cocaine?

Ha ha ha ha, yes I do.

My laugh was maniacal. The powder was good. It went right to my head. My heart was beginning to beat fast and I felt dizzy. She saw some white powder under my nose and wiped it off then tasted it.

It makes my tongue numb, she said, can we try it?

Try it? I have enough blow here to kill an elephant, I said encouragingly.

Yes. I want to try some.

I’m a professional at this shit.  Here…

I took a tip of a blade full and held it up to her nostril really closed and said, Don’t worry babe, sniff. Hard.

She did and then itched her nose and then sighed.

Virgin nose, I said.

It tastes funny.  Like nothin’ I ever had before,

Baby, this is pure uncut Peruvian white.  The finest in the land.  The street value on this shit is tremendous.

I blasted another one and offered her one.  She took it.  We were headed Northwest looking for the dream, outrunning the law and possibly a gang of bikers.  It was pure outlaw shit.  Bonny and Clyde.  The rain started to come down in cum squirting spurts and then in sheets.  The wipers on the old Ford were slow and lagged like an old man coming out of a liquor store with a case of wine.  We drove through the rain slowly in the desert night, me feeding her coke and bourbon and I, taking the same.  The radio blared “Heart of Gold” by Neil Young as I took another big rail and just then, we came to a small bridge crossing a creek.  She stopped and looked at me.

Why are you stopping? I asked.  She just opened the door, took off her shirt revealing those miraculous tits and ran for the water.

Wait, what?  What’s going on?  You can’t just go.  Not here!  I looked out the windshield at the rain coming down in the yellowish headlights.  I listened to the windshield wipers flapping against the glass and I thought, Do fish fins sound like that when they are out of the water?  I heard her call for me like some distant message, like some old lover in a dream and I stepped out of the truck. The rain fell upon my hot face and it felt very good. I disrobed and made my way through the darkness and pounding rain as lightning chattered across the sky.

Here I am cowboy, she said softly out in the distance.  I tried to see her but couldn’t.  Old memories.  Flashes of light overtook my mind.  Saturday mornings. Hung over and laying in bed.  Snuggling with some red haired beauty and feeling content for a few hours.  Then getting up and making a hearty breakfast for the both of us.  And then after that…

Come on in the water is great!

I made my way to the voice, wiping the rain out of my eyes.  The cocaine was peaking now and I took this all in like a big fresh breath of air.  Fearless.  Bold.  Courageous.  Gallant.  Confident.  Dauntless.

A rider on the storm.  The lightning struck once again somewhere off in the distance, the thunder rolled, sending its sound waves into our ears like Maestoso.

 

I found her in a slow moving shallow pool just yards away.  The water was up to her thighs and the rest of her luscious body was exposed for all of the man fearing world to see.  A truly beautiful sight. The rain falling on her tender skin like golden pellets from Greek Gods, falling off her one by one and landing into the water like glass beads.  Liquid jewels only to be admired by the forgotten that died here on fateful days long lost.  We were there knee deep in it all when she came over and kissed me, full and hard, like we had been in love for so long.  But we weren’t.  I threw her down into the wet clay and thrust my hard cock inside her.  She let out a little whimper and then a sigh like it hurt at first but felt good once I was in.  I could hear the flow of the water as I kept on going and thought of the time I was with that girl I used to called Red.  Flashes in my mind took me back to that place.

Thelma’s cunt felt just like Red’s cunt and tasted the same.  I was ravaging it, tasting every pure drop that she had to offer in that semi-deluge of a river.  She was loving every minute of it and I could see it in her face.  Elaborate torture on some desert riverbank in the rain.  Her hands grasped mine in a clutch so strong; she drove her nails into my palm drawing blood.  I kept on going, telling her I was about to come.

Harder, she moaned.

I went harder. The rain didn’t extinguish that spark of  friction between our muddy loins.  The river was growing wild with torment.  Flash flood.  Rising.  I was rising and slamming my throbbing cock inside Thelma’s pussy as I thought of lost loves and rising tides and days upon the beach.  The sunlight blinding me as we lay there sunning ourselves in the sand while seagulls tag around like old friends on bar crawls.  I gave her a flash flood between her pretty pink lips.  She smiled and said, I love you.

 

 

We found a hotel just outside of Sacramento and I checked us both in under an assumed name.  It was a small establishment and the owner handed me the key to our room.

Lucky number seven, he said.

What’s that? I asked.

Lucky number seven, room number seven.  You two just get hitched?  On your way back from Vegas?

Yeah, yeah.  Won it big too.  Thirty grand over the table.  It was pretty.

Well, good for you.

He smiled and saw right through me as if I were an apparition.  A wisp of smoke or some phantom spook in the night. I was giving him too much information.

No loud music after ten, he said with a smile. He emphasized the word music. It was way past ten o’clock.

Right on brother.

I took the key and we walked out to the truck parked by the curb, got in and made our way to the room.  It was a little place with green shag carpet and a bed that smelled like raw onions and tuna fish sandwiches.  I threw the coke on the bed and took off my jacket.  I needed a shave, a bath and some booze.  My nerves were getting the best of me.  I didn’t know if I had killed that fucking biker for good or not and soon enough we’d see the hammer come down on us.  I could tell that the pigs were hot on a trail.  But which one?  Did it really matter now?  What’s done is definitely done.  Thelma stripped down and made way for the shower.

Ladies first, she said with a smile.

By all means, I said and smacked her supple ass softly.  I found the bottle of bourbon and sipped at it slowly taking in all of the night’s previous events.  I looked at the little ten dollar alarm clock and thought, Jesus, just two o’clock?  Thelma opened the bathroom door letting out a bank of steam and walked out slowly with her towel up to her chest just barely covering her petite body.  She was sexy for sure and I marveled for a second at her diligent beauty.  She stood in front of the mirror, combing back her hair into that slick, Greaser type look and let the towel drop to the floor.  She bent down to the floor reaching for her panties and I caught a little glimpse of that gash.  She looked back at me as she stayed hunched over and said, Are you watching me?  My cock twitched a little as I sipped on the bottle.

Hey baby, I was thinkin’ we should head out up to the Pacific Northwest.  I got a friend up there that might help us out and give us a place to hide for a while.

I don’t know sugar pie.  I wanna stay where it’s warm.  You said you’d take me to the ocean.  Sunny California?

We are in Cali baby.  It would only be for a week or two until the heat gets turned down.  Then we can make our way back down.  Take the scenic route.  Stop and see the red woods, the whole lot.

I’ll think about it, she said with that Texas smile.

Okay.  Now bring that fine bow legged ass of yours over here you sexy thing you.

She smiled and walked over slowly.

Hey, grab me that bag, will you?  She handed it to me and I took out the open kilo and placed it gently on the bed as if it was some newborn baby that needed changing.

Hand me that telephone book.

I made the small incision in the kilo larger and dumped about two grams on the yellow cover of the phone book.

This is raw uncut powder, I said.

Uncut? she asked.

It means that it hasn’t been cut with anything.  Some dealers cut it into thirds to make more for sale.  It triples the kilo in size making it less pure so you do more and more to get high, calling up your dealer, thus spending more of your unemployment check.

But what do they “cut” it with? She asked as she made the quotation marks with her fingers.

Well, I replied as seriously as I could, anything that has a white powdery form.  Talcum powder, Ajax cleanser, Ritilin, Aderol, shit, I’ve had it cut with white Portland cement.  Basically anything that will burn the old nostrils. But mostly they cut it with aspirin. It’s cheap and doesn’t really affect the coke too much.  Back home we used to call that shit street trash and the people who sold it, well, we called them urchins.  But when you’re fiending, you’ll do just about anything to get up.  Anything cut with prescription drugs is a bonus because it’s cut with drugs and mixed with drugs.  Get me?

I cut out two big lines with the expired credit card.

That is horrible, she said somberly.  Is this stuff like that?

Come over here my princess, go down the slopes with the king. Let’s get frozen.

She made her way over on hands and knees.

Take this dollar bill, put it up to your nose, ah, ah, almost into the nostril, that’s it, and do it just like they do in the movies. Sniff.

She did and then she shook her head and let out a small sneeze.  I took the dollar bill from her hand and said, Lemme show thee how it is done.  I railed a long one.  It came on almost instantaneously.  Ah, cocaine high.  What a beautiful institution to be part of.  Just one big rich white lady teaching the morals and principles of losing.  Of wasting it all away and not caring about one single thing other than staying high.  All you need, all you crave is the devil, the white motherfucking devil!

Lemme have another, Thelma said.

I cut out some more.  She did a whopper and I passed her the bottle of bourbon to wash it down with.  We were both laughing so hard about stupid childhood memories that we told each other when the room’s phone rang.  I looked at her and told her to be quiet.  I turned off all the lights, the television.

Hello, yes?

This is the front desk, seems that the card you gave me came up as um, invalid?

You mean INVALID? Not a crippled person? I placed my hand over the phone’s receiver and looked at Thelma chuckling. Yes, that was my ex-wife’s, we had a joint account.

I see he said.

He wasn’t believing it. Not for a second.

I can pay you in cash in the morning.  Look, the Mrs. and I are in a very heated love making session and if you don’t mind…

Say no more Sir.  You can just pay the, let me see here, the forty three fifty when you check out.  I trust you.  No worries.

Thank you sir. Now I must get back to it, she is buckling up the strap on!  Now I got to go! Do not call us again!

Oh…sorry…have a good…

I hung up the phone in the middle of his sentence.

Mindless bastard, what kind of thing is that, phoning someone half way through a strap on session.

Thelma laughed.  Then she asked me what a strap on was.

Take another rail baby, I’ll show you sometime.

We sat there for a few hours and I explained to her the terminology of the cocaine trade.  The different names for blow.  Coke, white, elephant, God’s tongue, etc.  Then I showed her how to cut out perfectly even lines.  We passed the bottle back and forth.  She told me of times on the ranch, laughing and then crying about her abusive father.  How he used to watch her take showers when she was younger, masturbating in front of her while she bathed.  He would jerk off as he touched her  then climax on her feet.  He told her that feet were the dirtiest part of the body so it didn’t matter if he ejaculated on them.

He did this to me until I was about sixteen. My momma never knew.

What a fucking scumbag, I thought, I’d really like to meet this faggot one day.

What’s your real name?  Come on, you can tell me.

My name?

Yeah, come on.

The postnasal drip was heavy on our lips.  We looked like we had spent hours out in some arctic wasteland braving the cold and high wind. We were freezing up.  Snow-blind.I took a swill of the Turkey and said, My name is Michael Ormandy.

Oh?  That sounds like royalty!  Are you coming from a royal family?

No, I’m Polish, Russian, and a little French. My ancestors settled in Philadelphia circa 1925. They were poor Europeans looking for solace in a foreign land. Promises turned into lies and they suffered in turmoil and hard labor.

She just looked at me and then rubbed my face gently.  I looked into her eyes.  They were the size of half dollars.  She was thoroughly high. So was I.

I can feel this scar, she said, it’s still raised a little.  How long have you had it?

She was touching the scar on my chin I received from a childhood accident.

As long as I can remember, I said.

She bent her head down and kissed it softly. Her lips reminded me of another’s but I couldn’t remember who’s. My mind was absolutely blank like the ocean.

I love you, she said.

The place was getting to me.  The pressure was leaning against me as if I was at the bottom of a thousand foot ocean.  Maybe it was the blow or the thought of falling for her, but it was getting to me, I was starting to get the fear.  I pushed her off me and said, Don’t touch my face!  No one touches my face!

She recoiled in horror and started to cry.  I turned my back on her and found the bourbon and took a nice gulp.

Let’s listen to some music, I said.

I reached for the alarm clock radio and tuned it to some country radio station.  Alan Jackson was playing some twangy ballad about a pyramid of cans in the pale moon light trying to swoon some high school lover he lost by some river.  What the fuck did I know?  I tuned it to another station.  Elliot Smith was plucking the guitar crooning, “Make it Over”.

Ah, this is more like it, I said.

Thelma got up and lurched over toward me, kissing me with tear soaked lips.  It tasted just like the ocean. Salty. Briny. Brackish.

Look, I said, we’ll get out of here tomorrow.  Get breakfast, and make our way to the ocean, okay?

She just nodded with an agreeing headshake.  I kissed her forehead and reassured her it would all be okay.  What a first night on the blow, I thought.  What a way to be introduced to this horribly fiendish drug.  But why not do it intimately, with someone you can connect with?  Instead of doing it in some white trash town with white trash losers who would only rape you at the first chance they could get, only to penetrate you for the sake of getting off.  Ignore the madness, I thought, get through the come down.  Think of happiness.  Think of the ocean.  Think of the waves.  Think of the waves.  See them breaking over your head…  The saltiness of it all mixes with the black licorice taste of the Jagermeister.  You go under and breath it all in.  Fill the lungs.  They start to burn.  Open the eyes and see it.  Your watery grave.  Blow another line.  Be somebody. Sink to the bottom of the earth.

 

 

I woke up with the sun peeking through the disheveled blinds, Thelma was next to me half-naked on the bed, posing as if it were a mock murder scene.  I sat up and looked at the situation, took it all in with a deep breath and accepted it like a winning check from the Publisher’s Clearing House.  The alarm clock said nine forty six A.M.  Check out was at eleven.  The cocaine was safe and sound and there was some bourbon left.  I put on my pants and a forty-day-old crumpled t-shirt then kissed Thelma on her left breast, gave the nipple a squeeze.  It hardened almost immediately.  She moaned then stirred, then turned over on her side.  I opened the door to the room and was almost blinded by the sun.  We were on the borderland in between the desert and suburban scrawl.  Housing developments were only about ten miles down the road.  Happy men going to their happy jobs while happy homemaker wives tend to their infant swine, teaching them the way; the journey to a happy, normal life.  I took in the fresh air and decided to walk on down to the manager’s office and look for some ice.  Maybe some of that “continental” breakfast he had advertised and jammered about so much last night.  Lucky number seven, I thought, lucky number motherfucking seven.  I found some ice and grabbed a few bagels, an orange or two and some strawberry jelly that they offer in those cute little single serving square boxes shrouded in those hard to open tin foil lids.  I’ll never get these open, I thought, not with these goddamn morning shakes.  I’ll let Thelma handle it.  She’s got the hands for it.  I set it all on the counter and rang the bell.  It was all so cliché.  Here I was shacked up in some strange hotel with some girl I barely knew with almost three kilos of uncut coke paying for another night with stolen blood money.

I’d like to pay for another night, I said.

How do?  How was your night last night? He asked me with a very upbeat manner.  He was well rested and sober, ready to take on the day.  Carpe Diem.

Well, you know what they say.  When in Rome…

He smiled as if he knew what I was actually talking about but I could tell if he didn’t.  He was trying to make small talk and I was still much too fucked up  for any hillbilly chatter.

Well, one thing’s for sure.  You gave us the right room.  Lucky number seven was alright.

I smiled boyishly and twitched my eyebrow as if to say you know what I mean?

I know what you mean.  Just somethin’ ‘bout a good old fashioned honeymoon.  The desert’s a beautiful place for that.

Yes, yes it is.

I asked for a pack of cigars he had behind the counter. The small hotel was also a little convenience store. I asked for a gallon of orange juice as well. As he retrieved the items I stood there counting out my money.  Mostly dollar bills.  About three hundred and forty nine of them to be exact. As he watched me count the money, he said something that struck a chord of fear in my heart.

Seems that a couple biker fellows came in here last night lookin’ for a guy, they say he tore up a bar really bad.  Put a few of his gang buddies in the hospital.  They looked real mad.

Is that so?  I hope they didn’t come in too late and wake you and the Mrs. causing a big stir and all. That would be most awful.

Na, he said. They came in about a few hours before you and your pretty little lady came in.  It was hard for me to keep a straight face because they were soppin’ wet from that storm that came through.  They were so mad, I guess they just rode through the rain lookin’ for this fellow.  Claims he’s some martial arts expert or green beret or ex military type. A real Chuck Norris. Ha ha, them biker types usually look big and scary, you know, all hairy and puffy.  But last night they looked like a couple of stray cats out in the rain.  You ever get a cat wet Mister?

Hell yes!  That’s the only kind of pussy I like.  Wet pussy!

He chuckled and said, Sure glad you two came.  You go have a nice time now, you hear?

I gave a little mock salute and said, We will my man, we will.

 

I knew those insolent bastards would come looking for us sooner or later.  They had to, to save face.  I’m sure there wasn’t just two of them.  Probably the whole goddamn chapter was with them hunting us down like wild rats, we were pests in their eyes and we disrupted the whole order of things.  When I got back to the room, Thelma was awake and bent over the porcelain god, lurching and wrenching, making horrible sounds.  I took a plastic cup, filled it with some ice, topped it off with Wild Turkey and took a sip.  Thelma glared at me from the shitter. Her eyes glazed and her face flushed from vomiting.  She had a feral look upon her that seemed to say that she would like to be left alone.

How can you be drinking already? She asked.

It’s what I do.  I’m a professional at this sort of thing.  A real ace.  A high roller.

I took another sip and proceeded to cut some devil out on the nightstand.

Have a drink, I said, It’ll make you feel better.  Hair of the fucking rabid mangy mutt!  If not, then I got you some breakfast.

I took a nice long line and felt the rush.  What a beautiful thing, I thought, a goddamn beautiful thing.  Thelma came over and sat down next to me on the bed.

There, in the bag, I said pointing a finger to the floor. Oh, could you hand me those cigars out of there while you’re at it would ya, honey?

She smiled and kissed me on the cheek, got some food out of the brown paper bag and proceeded to attack it like a big cat attacks a newly born zebra calf out in the African plains.  I didn’t want to startle her by telling her that our acquaintances we met the night before were already looking for us. Instead I said, I’m going to draw myself a hot bath.  Clean up.  Snazz myself up a bit.  She just nodded and kept attacking the sustenance.  I grabbed the bourbon, the alarm clock radio and the cocaine.  Don’t need her running off with the essentials, I thought.  Well, not that she would.  I trusted her ninety-five percent.

 

I stood there, in the bathroom, looking into the mirror at myself.  I stood there and stared long and hard.  I thought about everything that I used to own.  It all seemed so important then.  A good job, a pretty woman, a loving dog, a nice house on a little dead-end street in a little dead-end town.  It was all gone now, every last bit of it.  Gone.  The evidence was clear.  I was not destined to live that kind of life.  Not that one.  For some strange reason, I couldn’t remember her face, even though I had been with her for almost four years.  Just gray blue eyes staring at me in hatred.  Disgust.  Anguish.  She gave up on me.  Her heart had been tormented enough.

 

It seems that men are always to blame if a woman’s world doesn’t end up the way she planned it.  It’s silly, futile even, to actually think of her and her wicked ways.  I plugged in the radio and tuned it in.  A song was on that made me think of Red.  “Northern Lad’”.  I don’t know how many times I used to listen to that song with her.  One too many, I suppose.  I blew another line and took a sip of whiskey.  I opened the medicine cabinet and found a fresh razor as if it had been waiting for me.  I got to work.  It’s funny how you can forget that there is a world outside of yourself.  The hair came off in tufts, bit by burdensome bit. It’s funny how you can forget.  Forget something that meant so much to you at the time, but now, it is thousands of light years away and there is no way of going back to retrieve it.  I knew it was bound to happen, I thought, the demons would one day find me and claim me for their own.  I would soon become one of them.  Let the bloodshed start. Let all of the palaces burn, let them come for me.  Let them greet the wolf within.

 

I was now clean-shaven and bathed, I felt like a new person, a cleansed person who had been admired by the mythical gods.  I stepped out of the bathroom only to find Thelma lying on the bed, naked and pleasuring herself to a pornographic movie she had rented through the hotel’s television.  The sound was turned down really low as if she didn’t want me to hear her watching the blonde haired girl performing a sloppy blowjob on the sculpted muscle bound hunk.  I stood there for a second, taking in the scenery.  The large circumcised cock going in and out of her mouth, Thelma rubbing her clit, her pussy lips moist with sex juices as she made little whimpers and moans while flailing her hips ever so gently on the double bed.  It had been a long time since I’ve seen a woman masturbate in front of me.  The last time it happened, I was with Red.  She had a voluptuous pussy, one for the record books.  And the carpet matched the drapes.  She would lie there, perfectly still and stare at me with those green eyes and smile at me, petting herself lightly, rubbing her red hair, and then moving her way to the lips, spreading them open to show me the pink.  Just a peek.  Then onto the clit, rubbing and flicking it until she came and came again.  Thelma was going at it a different way.  She was more voracious, ravenous.  She was putting two fingers in and out of that wet pink hole and so, so unaware that I was standing just mere feet away, watching her pleasure herself.  Her breathing quickened and her legs started to quiver.  I knew she was close.  The whole vaginal area was now glistening like some honey glazed coffee cake.  Her arms went up, stretched over her head and she let out a deep sigh, gratifying, filled with fulfillment.  She opened her blue eyes and saw me standing there in my towel.  She laid there and smiled.

Wanna finish what I started? she asked.

My towel fell to the floor.

 

 

We were bordering on intrusion.  Looking for that endeavor.  The way out.  But there was no way to win, and in all actuality, no way to lose.  We were lost somewhere on route I-80 when we saw a few bikers pass us at full speed.  Thelma had listened to me and cut her hair.  She gave herself a “bob”, the Uma Thurman look, like the character in Pulp Fiction.  Very fucking sexy.  We were now branded as outlaws.  Thieves.  Killers.  People with no moral value.  I was never more proud of myself than I was at that moment.

Did you see those assholes, Michael? She asked me.

Why, yes I did, sweetie buns, should I turn around and blast them away?

She just smiled.  The scenery grew.  Flat land turned to mountains before our eyes and back to flat lands again.  We are food for vultures, I thought.  Thelma pulled out the matte black 9mm.

What the fuck are you gonna do with that? I asked sternly.

Gonna shoot me a rabbit.

A rabbit?

Ha ha, she laughed.  Bag a rabbit and you can get the foot. It’s good luck to have one you know.

I am aware.

What’s wrong, Michael?  You scared of guns? She said sarcastically.

She was high on the devil.  We had been doing it for some time now.  Drinking Budweisers with a bottle of Quervo on the side.  We were ripped, out in the middle of this foreign land.  A land where the cacti grew tall.  The sky was deeper than the deepest blue ocean and the heat would kill you no sooner than a feral Mexican on his way home from a tequila binge after losing his weeks wages in a shighsty Texas Hold ‘em poker game.  We had forgotten about the biker gang.  We had forgotten about the whole debacle.  We were now transfixated on the subject at hand.  Making it to the Pacific Ocean to sell that god-awful drug on the beaches of Southern California and make some real money to get to a place and settle down.  I was going mad.  Settle down, I thought. Settle down and become what?  One of them?   I was going to make it to the west coast and ditch this ball and chain, make a life for myself.  Then I thought maybe I couldn’t be without her.  Who was I going to find?  Where was I going to find someone who could put up with me?

Pull over!  I got one!

The ringing of the gunshot was not as lethal as I had thought it would be.  The vast amount of space out here ate it up like some hungry fat child at a pie-eating contest.  I circled around and pulled over into the dusty shoulder.

What do you plan to do with this thing? I asked.

Cook it.

Cook it?  On an open fire?

We’ll find a spot, she said.

She looked so cute standing there holding that dead hare up by it’s hind legs. It was her trophy.

Look at him, Michael!  He’s a four pounder!  He was quick, but I got him.  Daddy always said I was a good shot!

I always found that when a woman held a gun properly, it was one of the sexiest turn-ons.

 

 

We had robbed the hotel room of everything.  Blankets, towels, television, phone, alarm clock.  Whatever was not bolted down, and there was absolutely nothing that was. We took it all.  Well, stole.  We had some blankets and pillows and hell of enough booze and coke to get us by.  Thelma  stopped at some truck stop and had gone shopping for some goods to dine with the freshly killed rabbit. We got back in the pickup and continued to drive down I-80.  Making our way to that glorious Pacific Ocean.

Hey, honey, can I have a little?  Can I ride the elephant? She asked.

I took out my switchblade and kicked it open, dug it into the kilo.  She took it like a child winning a spelling bee award.  She sat back in the seat and started telling me more about her childhood.  She started to cry.  I took one myself, to my head, a large dose about a gram and instantly I was wired; I was more awake than ever before.  Hearing the stories about her father just made me angry.  I asked her why she didn’t do anything about it.

I didn’t know what to do.

You could have done something.

Like what?

Talk to someone.

It was a small town Michael. Who the fuck should I have told?  My preacher?  He was doing the same thing to his own three, yes, three daughters.  The man has a sex drive bigger than the Grand Canyon.  He never loved his wife.  She was useless. My Pa and him were best friends for years since they was young.  How can I be normal? She asked me with tear soaked cheeks.  How can I?  You are the only person I have ever met who treats me with respect and don’t wanna hurt me.  I love you Michael!  I fucking love you!

I took her in my arms, kissed her forehead, and told her that it would all be okay.  It would never be okay.  Memories haunt you for as long as you breathe.  I as well as anyone knew this to be truer than life itself. I veered off on some dirty rock strewn back road into the wild dusty sky.

 

We set up a little camp around some boulders that sheltered us from the cool night breeze.  I thought for a second I could smell the salt air and taste it on my tongue, the waves enveloping me in their beautiful presence.  I missed the Jersey shore, the smell of the boardwalk, the calm of Barnegate Light.  The place where I cheated death, maybe more than once.  I started a fire and we roasted the bunny.  It served us well with canned potatoes and French cut green beans.  We were like the ancient ones who traversed the country and blazed upon the Oregon Trail.  At that time, we were nomads, telling the world to go fuck itself.  That is exactly what we did.  The night grew colder and we snuggled under that stolen hotel blanket in a feeling.  A feeling of an embodiment of love that we had found for all our lives.  Our boats were in the harbor.  I was starting to feel my doubts.

 

 

I remember the smell of the valley, the cool desert breeze blowing upon my face from a warming land mass, possibly a plateau or some sunny mountainside.  Then I felt it against my face.  A sensation like cold metal.  Cold metal meeting warm flesh.  I opened my eyes then and saw it all happening before them.  The pistol was black, and the hammer was cocked, the only step left was to finally squeeze the trigger.

Don’t pull it, I said.  Squeeze it.  Slowly.

I had looked death in the eye before and every time it is always the same.  You think of things.  Things like loved ones.  Loves lost, regrets and things you wished you had before this final moment.  This time, I thought about my funeral and how utterly sad it would be to have been buried out here in the middle of nowhere.  Locked in a vacancy, somewhere between Heaven and Hell.  No one, not one single soul would know, or even care where I was finally laid to rest for eternity.  Except the extinguisher of my life.  Was it to really happen this time? I thought, was someone or some form of humanity going to finish what the ocean couldn’t?  Minutes seemed to flash by, but in reality, in this fucked up world I played my tiny part in, the minutes were actually only seconds.  Particles of time.  My eyes shifted and I could see skin.  Then I saw the hand that was holding the weapon.  Nicely manicured fingernails.  Right then and there I knew that I was in a storm of feces.  I looked up and saw her eyes staring into mine.

What is this? I asked.

She maneuvered her thumb up to the hammer, my guess was to make sure that it was fully cocked and in that precious silence of the Eastern California desert, I could hear the trigger slowly making its way to its predetermined destination.  But it stopped.

Know what the fuck you are doing, Thelma.  Take it slow.

Who is she! She screamed.

Who is who? I asked very, very confused.

Who the fuck were you talking about in your sleep?  Some two-dollar whore you met while you were out getting my breakfast, huh?  I knew you were just like all the rest.  A pig.  A lowlife, worthless pig.

For a second she took the gun away, only to spit in my face.  I have been insulted in many shapes and forms but nothing injures your morality worse than getting spit on in the face.  She put the gun back to my cheek. I turned and faced her.  The eyes on that woman were burning a hole into the bottomless pit that I call my soul.  Somehow, she found a way into those depths and lit a fire. I moved slowly and said calmly, If you’re gonna do it, do it the right way.  I took a slight grip on the barrel and placed it between my eyes, then smiled.

Just tell me who she is!  Or I swear I’ll…

Jealousy is not a good perfume on you, Thelma.

Time was ticking away and besides the obvious sound of our two pounding hearts, there was the scratch of the trigger again.  Tic, tic, tic.

 

Then a memory, a distant one came to mind…

 

The water was warm for the middle of June.  The sea breeze crept over the mainland from the warming ocean and a little mist came off the waves as they broke at our feet.  There is no better feeling in this world than sitting on the beach, bare feet in the sand, on a sunny calm day drinking cold beers and contemplating life.  Not a care in the world for just that single day.  No bills, no work, no arguments, just you, her, and the magnificent ocean.  My fondest memories of her are when we spent weekends down there at the Jersey shore.  Sitting, laughing, drinking.  Wasting our precious time.  Maybe it’s time to say goodbye for now.  Maybe it’s time to say…

 

Tic, tic, SNAP!

I opened my eyes and saw Thelma standing there looking at the gun as if she had just won a million dollar check. Her eyes were wide with amazement. She couldn’t believe what was actually happening.  I stood up and grabbed her arm, taking the pistol from her hand and with another motion back-handed her with it across her pretty, bewildered face.  Not this time, death, I thought, need to see my baby one more time.   Thelma was lying face down in the sand and dry earth. As I walked toward her, she turned herself over just to find another infuriated man coming after her.  She started to scuttle backwards. I came closer.  Then I was just simply on top of her with one hand on her throat and the other pointing the weapon in her face.  Her eyes were full of fear and I could see her whole childhood in them.  She blinked and then it vanished.  Tears were now jetting down her face.

How does it feel?  How do you like it!

With her firearm clenched in my hand, I put my index finger on the trigger, turned the whole thing ninety degrees and shoved it into her mouth.  I forced it in, past the teeth, like a rapist would force his hard cock into an unaccepting cunt.  Now I knew how powerful they felt.  I turned it back around in the upright position and felt the scraping of her teeth against the stock of the gun as I did.

You like it?

She shook her head no.

You like to fuck with me, don’t you?  You fucking cunt from Hell!

Her eyebrows went up as if to say, what?

I should have done this three fucking years ago.  I should have killed you after that first time you punched me and buried you in the forest by the lake!

She was confused.  I blacked out.  I squeezed the trigger, slowly.

It’s funny how you can forget there is a world out there.  Life goes on.

Nothing.  I squeezed it again, hoping for the worse.

Nothing.  I kept on squeezing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.

I retracted the gun from her mouth and whipped her on the face with it again and again.  The blood glistened on the black matte finish of the 9mm Baretta.

I have to stop myself, I thought.

I stopped, got off her, stood over top of her, and looked at her bloody, mangled face.  She was breathing.  That was a good sign.

Get up, I said, get up and have a drink with me.

She wriggled a little and let out a moan.  I walked over to the Ford and got in the cab, found the pint of  whiskey, uncapped it, and took a nice long pull.  I looked over at her and she was now sitting halfway up, one arm in the sand, the other wiping blood, spit, and tears off her face.  She was sobbing.

Fucking pull that shit on me, eh?  You ain’t shit.  You ain’t nothin’ but another worthless fucking cunt whore.

I took another worthy pull, sat down in the sand and watched her cry.  I picked up the nine and pulled out the clip.  No bullets, no rounds, nothing but emptiness and black.  Then it came to me.  While she was in the store buying food and booze, I forgot that I had emptied the weapon and placed it back into the glove box without notice.

 

The whiskey was mixing well with the hatred and adrenaline and for a brief second I contemplated leaving her out there in that waterless ocean to die.  But I’m not subhuman, I thought, just a notch above that.  It had gone down quickly.  But why did it need to happen?  I was just starting to get a little happiness inside this lonesome heart of mine.  I rooted through the cab of the truck and found a towel we had stolen from the hotel.  I poured some water on it, drenching it and walked over, handed it to her.

Clean yourself up, I said.  We need to get on the road.  Burnin’ daylight.

She didn’t take it at first. Thelma just sat there grinning at me. Then she took the towel and began to wipe off her face.  I bent down to inspect the inflicted damage.  One small cut across her right cheek and a bloody nose, some bruises.

You’ll be okay.  You won’t need stitches, trust me.  You’ll have some bruises and that’s all.  What the fuck were you thinking?

I don’t know, she said, I heard you talking in your sleep and I thought you were in love with another woman, and I lost it.  I didn’t want to hurt you.  I just wanted some answers.

She said all of that through a series of sniffles and sobs.

 

You tried to kill me.

But it wasn’t loaded so it don’t count.

And you knew this?

No. I guess I didn’t.

She leaned over and spit out a mouthful of blood and saliva. She put her face up to her hands and began to cry. I guess I wrecked something beautiful. I sat down in the sand across from her and put my face in my hands.  Thelma fell back and started sobbing.  There I was, stuck in this hellish desert again with the vultures circling around.  I was with some crazy woman, who I had only known for four or five days and already she was in love with me.  It was all happening.

I stood up.

I need to get out of this motherfucking desert! I yelled. I need to get somewhere, anywhere but here.  This place is sucking the life out of me.  I need the waves.  There’s no fucking waves out here.  I’m with some crazy woman who tried to kill me and I have two and a half kilos of coke.  Almost no money, and a pending murder rap on my hands!  I unscrewed the cap and took a sip.  Found the coke, took a whiff.  Could be worse, I thought, I could be dead out here in this motherfucker while the birds pick my bones clean.  Fuck it maybe that is a better option.  I took another shot of the magnificent white devil.

 

 

 

Get in the truck, I yelled.  Let’s fucking go!

The girl cried like I was robbing her dead father’s grave.  Tears were dripping on the floor and I could hear them dropping like bullet casings on concrete.  I was in control.  Pleasure was all mine.  I did a line of blow off the back of my hand.  I was getting deeper and deeper into the madness.  My eyes were bulging; my heart was running like a stallion at the track.  The furlongs of my heart.  I was an unjust bastard robbing a bank high on cocaine and bourbon and who knows what else.

 

Just minutes before this whole debacle, Thelma was sucking my cock in the cab of that old Ford.  I was enjoying it; she would take a shot of bourbon and go down on my shaft.  I sat in the driver’s seat, waiving at the passersby like some advertisement for Viagra.  I didn’t need that shit.  So I took her bruised face and told her to hum.  Hum a fucking tune.  She started humming “Silent Night”.  Ah, that’s it, my little coquette, I thought.  I spread her legs and revealed that sweet crotch and with two dirty, squalid, base fingers, I worked them in there like worms infesting a newly deceased corpse.  I spread the panties aside and drove them inside of her cavity with ease, repose, and satisfaction.  She was so wet and turned on that by the time she hopped on top of me, my steel panther slid right inside.  I took the barrel of the gun and traced the lines that stood out in her collarbone.  They were watching.  God was watching. Let him. Let them.  Then it hit me like a brick to the face.  For an instant, I almost felt bad for what I had done, for hitting her and a veil of remorse set itself over me.  But my evilness drove deeper and deeper inside of her, mining every last little piece of goodness and self worth she had left until it was all gone.  She mouthed the barrel of the Baretta like a hard cold dildo and moaned.  I took it out of her mouth and replaced it with warm sweet bourbon, then helped myself to some as well.  At first, she went easy, but now she was starting to fuck me violently with deliberate, calculated bursts.  She was getting close and the lining of her baby maker was getting tighter around my cock.  I pulled out and shot it all over her stomach and thighs then I took the Baretta and stuck it to where just the barrel could touch her gaping hole, cocked the hammer, smiled and pulled the trigger.

 

And then the next thing I remember was…

 

My hands were shaking, as I demanded everyone to get face down.  The cocaine was running strong and the bourbon took a slight edge off it all.  People were crying, men were praying.  This is a fucking robbery, not a goddamn plane crash!  Jesus, shut the fuck up!

The place fell silent.

I heard a car pass by outside.

Not the cops.  Not now Lord, just let me get by and I swear, I will fucking sell my soul to you if you let me get out of this predicted madness.

I could feel their eyes watching me, but when I looked at them all, their faces were eating the floor.

What now?  Okay, money, money, money. I was going through everyone’s purses and wallets, taking their I.D.’s.

Yeah, you over there, Blondie, give it up.  The whole stash and don’t even THINK about touching the alarm button or you will be the primary meat in tomorrow’s stew for the homeless’ soup kitchen.

I could smell the fear emanating out of her.  This had never happened before.  They had no plan to combat this ugliness, this evil, this injurious wickedness.  I was the only one with the blue prints it seemed and they were torn and faded at best.  Something in my brain had taken me back to the first time I had ever stolen.  It was petty, of course, coming to age as an abused youth in the suburbs of Philadelphia; we were poor and always wanted the finer things in life.  The first thing I ever took without paying for it was a compact disc from the local mall.  I got away with it and what a teenaged rush it was.

Put IT ALL in the bag sweetheart.  That’s it.  Very nice.

You’ll never get away with this you faggot!

Who said that?

Maybe it was my own thoughts, I thought as I looked around. I saw no one. Everyone was on the floor.

Who the fuck said that?  Come on now, be nice to papa and I’ll spare you a quick death.

I did.

I turned around and saw her standing there in the doorway with a smile on her face and the .38 in her hand, shaking. She cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger.

The smell of cordite lingered on the air and reminded me of the fourth of July.

 

 

 

Three months earlier, before any of that happened…

I flew down the steps, almost breaking my fucking ankle, and tumbled a little on the way down them, burst the door open and eventually found myself out on the absolute naked street in the almost frigid, languid, midnight air.  The night offered me an almost syrupy mist as the street lamps loomed over my head like lighthouse beacons guiding my path up the plain sidewalks to where she lived.  I was excited, I had every goddamn right to be.  After all, she WAS the love of my life and suddenly, an overwhelming feeling overtook me, almost conquered me.  It was powerful and exuberant.  I felt like a kid again, waiting for Santa to come on Christmas Eve. It was like the feeling I got on my first day of school.  I hadn’t felt like that since the first day that I had met her.  Anticipation was like a drug to me.  And the high was astonishing.  I knew the boys could wait.  They’d be occupied with the cigars and whiskey I had left them and I thought, maybe, just maybe, that this was the final chance to see how she really felt about me and what she really holds in her heart she calls a tomb.  I was embellished in my own excited thoughts, giddy and high on the coke and whiskey, which seemed to always play a part in this method acting I call my life.  The prospect of heading out West to find a new life was embedding itself like a burrowing worm digging deeper and deeper into the very parts I wanted to erase from memory.  I had just spent ample time with friends and now I had drank up enough courage to finally make an attempt to go and see her.  One.  Last.  Time.  With every step I took, I wished for death, I wished for myself to die.  I looked at my surroundings, then at my arms.  My tattoos seemed to glisten in the thick midnight hour.  The fog seemed to have its own life force, growing thicker by the second, and soon, it would envelope me in a cloud of confusion.  The shroud of viscous and concentrated minuscule raindrops that had lingered upon the air like thoughts from a demented aristocrat, made it hard for me to see, and even find my way around this contemporary town that I knew so well.  Stoplights and green lights looked almost ghostly, as if some apparition was out there directing traffic on its very own accord, saying to everyone who isn’t around, Don’t try and stop me, I’ll do the stopping.  I had no idea of what was going to happen when I knocked on her door.  My thoughts panned out like this in my drunken mind; I would knock on the door, and she would rudely say who is it?

No answer.

The door would open slowly and she would be looking at me in amazement.  She would invite me in.  The rest of the night would be a bore and I would end up leaving even more pissed off than I was before.  But what is anticipation without finalization?  Just thought and wanting.  And look what thoughts can do…

 

Somehow, I had gotten lost, but I could sense that I was getting closer now because the chain on my ankle was loosening itself slowly and I could feel it with every step I took.  The street could see it, the town could see it, and my heart could feel it.  I crossed a street, Main Street, and stopped for a second to take it all in: the memories, and the happy drunks that I had once taken part in then. surely I had acquired a taste for it all.  Life.  I reached into my jacket pocket and withdrew a flask full of whiskey, uncapped it and took a good solid pull in celebration that I would not see this town for a long, long time.  I took it all in for a brief second.  Calm down, calm down, I thought.  My jacket and hat had become laden with minute beads of water as they, the droplets, began to take shape and form, only to find their way and join each other in a mass lifeless suicide, only to be rejoined again by the very chemicals that make them exist.  Was it destiny that had drawn us together?  Layers of time, and reincarnation? Is that what made us lovers?  Or maybe a melody that time has forgot, that an unknown source had forgotten. The melody of falling snow, flakes silently hitting the ground with such violence, the whole world would shift on its very axis.  The silent song of the snow.  Virgin, freshly fallen snow.

 

It was beginning to be difficult to navigate these lonely streets.  Lonely except for the ghosts of old, hiding in the thick fog, shadows of the dead who have not yet crossed over into the afterlife. Amid a life full of violent storms and tidal waves and hurricanes she called her own, my friends said I was a little insane for pursuing her.  I’m far from insane, but closer to the description of a selfish drunk, an all time loser, a nothing. I became what my father intended when he fucked my mother. I should have been a blow job instead of a back seat fuck. She should have ran from him and done what ever it took to stay away. But now, ironically, I was the one who was running away from the very fabric that bound me here.  I ran away from her.

 

She was the most beautiful thing that I had ever seen in all my life.  Gray blue eyes that would haunt you for the rest of your God given life.  Then there was the fire behind them.  That smile.  Oh God, that smile broke me, every time I saw it.  Her smile was like January’s setting sun.  Cold and brash with just a reminder of what you’ll never receive.  Love.  Or warmth.  I needed her like a drug, like a gram of cocaine. I was addicted at first sight.  All too soon they will become memories, I thought, distant memories like a life boat lost at sea in the heart of a fierce, acute stormAlone.  Forgotten.  All the plans forgotten.  All our dreams forgotten.  And you simply stand there, awe struck as the wave is bearing down on you, cresting and smiling its salty fucking smile just before it crushes you and washes everything away.  All of those nights laying in the darkness together, confessing our deepest secrets to one another. GONE. In the blink of an eye, not saying, not doing.  Just washed away in the flood, forgotten.  Two lives shattered like glass lying broken on the pristine hardwood floor.

 

By now, my heart is pounding, the blood flowing violently and I can feel every valve in this vital wretchedness opening and closing with the precision of a well-oiled machine.  As I walked down her street I could smell her, taste her, feel her soft Danish skin upon mine, caressing her supple lips with my tongue.  I can feel her eyes, those gray blue eyes; I can feel them on me, scouring every inch of my being, looking for fault, looking for blame.  The wretchedness starts to beat a little faster.  I walk a little faster, quicken my pace, as if death had began its lifelong chase.  I felt morose.  Dour.  Downcast.  I stop just a few doors from hers.  I take a deep breath and look around.  I asked myself if I’m doing the right thing coming here like this. Of course I had no answer.

 

Where will this lead me? I thought, what happens next?  Was I out of my mind?  Did I have the gun up to my mouth, ready to pull the trigger?  We’ve all done it before.  I pulled at the zipper to my jacket and slowly dug inside for the flask.  I sat down on someone’s stoop, unscrewed it and put it up to my lips, swallowed.  I am still in love with her, I thought.  I take another sip, then another.  The whiskey numbs my mouth, my lips, and my mind.  I still love her, I thought, I would fight to get her back.  But she doesn’t love you anymore.  Did she ever?  She makes graves.  That’s what she does.  It’s what she’s always done.  And she has made mine.  I finish the flask.  Calm down.  Compose yourself.

Numb.

Numb.

I became nothing but numb.

 

The sky had been lacerated by the ever present sword of Shiva and I felt a light rain start to hemorrhage from clouds above, adding to the moisture, the sultriness, that had been acquired from before.  Time was taking its slow moving hand and placing it over that night, that town, as the small jewel like drops of rain cut through the fog like stray bullets shot from unknown guns by unknown soldiers, falling swiftly back to earth.  The gravity pulling them, forcing them to unvolunteered targets and random landing spots in the night.  The rain slashed through the ever present night and hit the parked cars and street lamp poles like ghosts of old, forgotten souls in a forgotten town.  That first kiss.  As I sat there on that lonely stoop, that was all that I could think of, nothing else.  My blood ran cold and the nerves set in.  I could feel the pure rain on my face making its way down into the crevice where my shirt and jacket meet.  I stood up and walked over to her door.  Bolts of lightning shot through my brain as I stood there staring at the closed door.  I wish I had more whiskey, I thought, some liquid guts to calm me down.  But the Siren was calling.

 

I knocked three times and the door finally opened.  I looked into her eyes and then averted mine to the dirty concrete steps I was standing upon.  She smiled and said, You made it?

Yeah.

She stepped aside and invited me in with a motion of her hand.

You’re all wet, she said.

Her smile was still the same.

It’s starting to rain, I replied.

I felt like a big mass of rusted pieces.

Oh, really?  I was in bed reading, almost fell asleep.

You happy to see me? I asked her with a little flash of coy.

Happy?  Well, a little.  Are you still moving away?

Let’s not talk about that, okay?

Her face got sullen and the fire in her eyes showed as she shot me a look of disdain.  I had forgotten that look.  I had almost forgotten them all until now.  I could hear my heart start to bleed inside of me.

 

She was wearing nothing but a white tank top and boy shorts.  Her petite breasts and small nipples poked through the cotton fabric and when she walked up the stairs, her ass cheeks were like asylum scenery, beautiful macabre.  Memories like feral waves came crashing in my mind.  My heart was bled out and dead.  Flowers couldn’t mask the decomposing. Not even the strongest perfume.

I wanted strong drink.

I wanted to blow lines until my head spun off my neck.

I wanted to black out.

I wanted to sink to the bottom of the river and never come up again.

I wanted to run away.

Are you alright? she said as we reached the top of the stairs.

Yes, why?

Nothing.  Have a seat, I’ll be right back.

I sat down on the couch.  She disappeared into the bedroom.  A room we had spent a lot of time in.  Memories, memories.  This is the moment that you tell her you love her, but you don’t.  You LOVED her.  You loved her once. That is all.

The wretchedness I still called my heart, that dead thing in my chest was now in desperate need of burial.  Pick out a plot for it, dig the hole, and throw it in.  No casket. No eulogy.

Hey, you got anything to drink? I said boisterously.

A distant voice came from the bedroom.

Yeah, there’s some wine in the fridge.  Help yourself.

Her voice was muffled through the closed door.  I got up and poured myself a nice tall glass, took a sip.  Pinot.  Nice.  I flopped back down on the couch, and gulped the wine.  I looked around the apartment.  I saw a picture above the television.  It was a photo of the two of us on a picnic.  The only evidence that proves we actually existed once.  Things were a lot different back then.  We still had the fantasy of love before the wave came.

 

The priest is beginning the closing sermon. Everyone is dressed in black.

It is finally done.  Dead and buried.  No remembrance of what existed except for this day.  Let the mourning begin.  No one will cry.

 

The door opened slowly.

She eased her way out of the opening and stood there basking in the sixty watt light, hands turned down, placed on the wall, naked as the day she came into this world.  My mouth got dry and I instantly craved the bourbon.  Was this really happening? I thought.  She stood there and smiled coyly, and motioned for me to come to her, pounce on her like a feral jungle cat.  The memories were gone and the craving for whiskey eluded my pallet only to be replaced with a bitter numbness that held itself on my tongue, like cheap cocaine that had been cut over and over again with even cheaper pharmaceuticals.  The feeling was almost pure.  Lust, mixed with wanton destruction.  I touched my chest where my heart used to reside.  Just an empty crevice.  Someone had dug it out with a spoon and that someone stood directly in front of me.

 

I stood up slowly, and lumbered over to her, placed my hands on her hips, squeezing and feeling the bones beneath the Danish skin and forcefully jerked her body into mine.  She gasped and stared me in the eye.  This was going to be my last mistake before I die.  I kissed her, deep and long, forcing my tongue in and then massaging hers as she let out a long sigh.  It was like a snake looking purposefully for a warm den to winter in.  Her long, slender fingers, those perfect fingertips, were clawing at my throat, and then undoing every button on my shirt, until she finally ended up at my belt buckle.  Her eyes were speaking in tongues, leaving me breathless, exposing me to fault lines I should have never tried to cross.  I wanted to hurt her, choke her, forgive her, until she turned gray, for making me feel all this pain, for making me feel that physical penalty for ever existing, for ever being born.  I wanted to forgive her.  But I couldn’t.  Our eyes locked for a second then she smiled, looked down and then shimmied my pants down to my ankles.  I was as hard as granite.  She hopped upon me, and wrapped her long legs around my waist allowing me to penetrate her easily, calming me and evoking memories that dare not escape this feeble brain at the moment, no matter how hard I tried.  It became very personal between us and there was no drug, no intoxicant that could take the place of this feeling…

 

Light the world on fire and watch it burn.  Flames, fire, burning bridges, buildings falling, the innocent running to find that there is no escape. Only the vast amount of water from the ocean could extinguish it all.  That’s what it felt like.  I wanted to inhale the smoke of the burning flesh from the dying innocent.  I wanted to take an axe to every tree that I ever saw and throw them in the fire just to keep it going.  Let the flames tower up to the Heavens and lick God’s ass.

Get him moving.

 

I thrust my hardness inside of her and as I did, I felt her hot breath on my neck, her finger nails digging into the flesh on my back.  Our hearts were burning together and the blood that flowed through them was like viscous, syncopated lava straight from the mouth of an active volcano.  I could see my reflection in her eyes.  My cock was long and hard, and her pussy was wet with eagerness and desire.  Lust not love.  Don’t tell her you love her, I thought.  Not now.  We were still in the standing position when I turned her around and entered her from behind against the wall, her hands clasped in mine over our heads.  I took my time and thrust her with great coercion and nibbled on her shoulder.  No words, only the language of our bodies, speaking loud, were the only forms of communication we would need…

 

Gas masks sewn into the skin, trench warfare, bleeding eyes and burning mustard gas filled lungs.  That is what I was trying to convey as I tore apart her insides and pounded her cervix.  She was panting and sighing as I slowly moved my lips around the lower side of her A cup breasts.  Nazi concentration camps, withered bodies being shoved into box cars, slowly decaying into nothing under Hitler’s rule.  I moved my mouth into the center of her chest, my lips and teeth nibbling, chewing, and kissing the Danish skin as if it was its own being, its own entity.  I was down at her stomach and she was breathing heavily.  I was still inside of her, plummeting, mining away like a well driller looking for oil…

 

Piles of dead children being bowled over into the earth by massive bulldozers.  The SS laughing in celebration as another thousand get exterminated like vermin.  The alive, soon to be dead, looked on through barbed wire fences and shed a tear for the loved ones, for the friends they saw getting buried in mass graves.  They couldn’t crawl away.

 

I made my way past her rib cage and began licking her belly button.  I knew where I was heading, and I needed no map this time around…

 

Fire.  Conflagration.  Fervor.  Two hundred Jews trapped in a tiny shower, with nothing but a pinhole of light.  The water came on and everyone laughed.  The water stopped.  The gas seeped in and crept like death on wings, consuming every bit of oxygen, emptiness soon made them forget.  Bodies were piled upon each other as the strong climbed to the top, toward the pinhole, gasping for oxygen.  Emptiness will crawl into your soul like dour cockroaches looking for anything to devour.

Forget.

Those who reached the top to finally get one last breath of air were ultimately shot in the face.  If you survived, you were put back into the concentration and became a victim, only left to suffer.

The dying cries of ten thousand angels.  Heaven was burning.

We were all burning in some way or another.

 

The droning of her breath in my ear was overwhelming as I kissed her delicate body, stroking my hard cock in and out of her juicy box, sliding in and out with the greatest of ease.  The nerves and nerve endings were doing their magical job.  Employing themselves and sacrificing it all for our pleasure…

 

The panzer tanks overtook it all.  Decimating the opposition.  Leaving them dead and the ones who did not perish were left with a fragile feeling.  The cross is burning and the Fuehrer is smiling.

 

I clinched the hair on the nape of her neck, just a small fistful and thought about making her pay when she was at her most vulnerable.  Make her suffer the way that I had.  I pulled with just enough force to make her wince in erotic pain.  Now I was in control of the situation as I flipped her like a braised piece of meat and succeeded to take her behind once again.  I quickened my pace and once again nibbled on her shoulder, as my pikestaff menacingly drove itself deeper and deeper inside of her very entrails without caution or awareness…

 

The opposition is closing in.  The mindset is Panic.  God is watching and writing it all down in his big, eternal book.  They were banging on the door.  You are at the final moments in your life.  The custom-made gun is in hand, with the ivory handle and engraved SS logo on the barrel.  How many Jews did it take to acquire such a fine piece of a weapon?  The door bursts open with fury.  The expensive firearm is placed to the temple.  Bang.

Hitler is dead.

 

I finished inside of her, putting every sensation of this moment into the memory bank of my mind

 

It was an easy conflict I thought as I climbed off her and looked for something to wipe myself off with.  Just as fast as it had started, it was over just as easily.  I leaned over and kissed her on the neck, sinking my teeth in a little.  I broke through the shroud of lifeless plastic she called her skin.  Her head was buried into the pillow and she was breathing heavily, her lungs trying to convey the oxygen to her brain.  I lay down beside her and she turned toward me and kissed me on the cheek.  She smiled.  I sighed and kissed her, as our lips moved and our tongues locked in unison like two roving machines knowing the landscape of each other’s toothy caverns.

 

She took her hand and wiped the hair that was stuck to my forehead from sweating so much.  She then held my chin in her perfect hands.  I love you, she said, I always have, through it all.  I replied with two words.  I know.  We lay there together in the dim lamp light, staring into each other’s eyes.  I was so close to her that I could count the freckles in her eyes as she smiled at me.  I saw it all happening before me.  Right then and there it had dawned on me: This would be the last time that I would ever be with her like this.  The last time I would encounter such pleasure, and the last time I would see her ever again.  She got close and whispered in my ear, kissing it first.  I love you now more than ever, she said softly.

I know you do, I know you do.

 

The morning sunlight seemed to penetrate my closed eyelids somehow and soon enough I was well on my way to being awake.  The fog was gone and so was the night; burned away by the sun as if it had never even existed.  Sarah was gone also, as I looked over to the other side of the king sized bed.  The only company I had at the moment was that of an ugly gray house cat staring at me with its poisonous, snake like eyes.  I used my foot and kicked the little motherfucker off the bed.  I heard the toilet flush, followed by the scampering of bare feet on the hardwood floor.  I sat up and craned my neck toward the door.

She stood there in nothing but a small t-shirt and a smile.  She ran and leaped onto the mattress and covers in one fluid motion.

Good morning Babe, she said as she put her arms around my neck with a great big smile.  How was it? She murmured, nibbling on my ear.

All I could think of at the time was waves crashing upon me, killing me, crushing me, taking me down to it all.

Yeah, it was good.  Like old times.

Let’s sleep in for a little and then go out to breakfast at our fave spot.  Wadda say?

She was ecstatic about it.  I felt bad when I said:

You know I can’t.  I have to get going in a little while.

I could see it in her eyes.  Something lit the flame.  My words, they lit a bon fire in her heart.  She took my arm and asked, So what will you do with all your freedom, huh?

What? I replied with pure amazement. I’ll make it up as I go along.

She placed her hand on my cheek and slowly, but softly eased down  into the covers.  She turned over and I took my hand and cupped her breast, kissing her on the nape of her neck.  Her hips pressed into mine and my cock started to rise.  I took my free hand and slid it between her thighs, and then up to her pink rose bud, touching it, caressing as if it were an antique violin.  I plucked at her finely tuned strings while she moaned and sighed and begged me not to stop.  We were already spooning when I entered her  with the greatest of ease.  She was so wet and turned on that her orifice could be compared to that of a suckling pig’s ass.  In that morning sunlight, I took her, one last time, deep and soulful and vigorous.  I fucked her without feeling, without regret, without loss, with intensity, with all the hatred I could muster.  I fucked her.  I fucked her like I never fucked her before.  Her pussy clenched around my cock and I came inside her hard, thrusting deep, deep, deep.  What a good fuck, I thought.  A sweet good fuck.  Now I have to leave.

 

We fell asleep and when I awoke, the sun was starting to set.  My arms were wrapped around Sarah and I did my best to try to break free as softly and as gently as I could.  I actually didn’t want to leave, but I knew that if I stayed the shit would hit the fan again, and I didn’t want that to happen.  There was no turning back the tide.  The part of me that did want to stay, reminded me of good times when we were in love and happy, blowing lines and getting drunk.  Perfect times.  But those days were gone.  Vanished into thin air.  Good times, when all that was needed was love.  Vanished now.  Like a changing season.  Like a reflection as you turn away from the mirror.  Gone.  I watched her sleep, I watched her breathe and wondered what it was she could be dreaming.  Was she dreaming of a happy life with me?  With the bullshit horses she tried to break?  She couldn’t break me.  She never could.  No matter how hard she tried.  It would never come true.  The memories came again, this time distant, old, and slightly faded, of how we used to be, of how we met.  The instant attraction and the weekends on the beach.  How I always looked out for her.  Never made her worry about a thing.  Not a fucking thing.   Now I’m in exile.  And I wonder why.

 

And then, as soon as they appeared, they were gone from my mind.

I watched her breathe for a moment. A look of contentment was pasted on her face.  My cell phone rang and I was instantly pulled out of it all like a drowning victim being rescued from absolute peril.

I pick it up and answered.

Yeah, what’s up?

The person on the other end of the line was telling me something that Sarah couldn’t quite hear through her haze of sleep as I slithered off of the bed.

Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there.  No problem.  Yeah get me a gram.

I hung up the cell and looked over at her, she was awake.  I scanned the floor and gathered my clothes, started to dress.  Everything started to finalize in my head as I pulled up my pants.  I truly felt nothing, my whole body started to go numb.  Maybe it was the detox or the lack of cocaine or maybe I just didn’t care about the time six weeks prior to this whole debacle when she told me she no longer loved me anymore.  Fuck her, I thought as I buttoned up my shirt.  But I knew that it wasn’t over quite yet.

NO! NO! NO! Not like this!

She sat up in bed and looked at me, dazed and bewildered, her eyes still heavy from sleep, from dreaming of those fucking horses, those bullshit horses.

You owe me a proper goodbye, she pleaded.

I thought I gave it to you last night, I said with an added chuckle.

I bent down to tie my shoe.  She slammed her head back down on the pillow and began to sob.  I absolutely hate sobbing.  I stood up and began to walk toward the door.

I fucking hate when a woman sobs, I said. You know that.

What I’d do for one more day with you, she said with a crackly voice.

There’s no need for all of this, I said, you knew this was coming but you still asked me to come over.  Now, you think I’m gonna stick this whole motherfucking thing out after all you’ve done to me?  We were trying to work things out and you went and fucked my boy, behind my back no less.  I got what I wanted last night and that is fucking that.

I grabbed my jacket and hat and put them on.

Nothing to say, huh? Aren’t you always the one with those dagger like replies?  She put her head in her hands and then sat up in the bed that I had built for us both.  Sarah looked at me with tear-filled eyes and asked me to sit beside her one last time.  I obliged her request and took a seat on the bed, my back toward her as she cried.

Turn around and at least face me, can you do that for me?

I turned around to face her and said, What is it, I gotta get going.  She smiled, and a tear fell into her mouth.  I took my calloused hand and gently touched her cheek, stopping a tear from falling, wiping away.  I could feel her yearning; it was touching me from within her like a thousand cemetery vines growing from the graves of the forgotten and unknown.  Her heart was still a tomb.  That much I could feel.  She was almost dead inside and ready to wither away like some putrid flower that no one wanted to be near.  She turned and looked at me with a gargantuan frown.  I tried to shake it off but the only thing I could say to myself was, who’s fucking heart is broken now?  I guess when I look back on it now, both of our hearts were.  Fucking broken and in pieces on the hardwood floor.  She looked truly sad, a look I had only witnessed a few times before.  Times and memories I care not to remember.

Look, I said, it will all be okay.  I promise.

I tried to sound as genuine as possible but she saw through the façade.

Remember when all we wanted was each other? She asked me.

A tear from her eye fell onto the blanket.  It was like a shot heard around the world.  Her words didn’t deafen me, only the tear did.

Yes, and you promised a lot of things, but you never backed it all up.

She sat up and got close, then slapped me hard across the face.  I could feel the malice and despair as her hand traversed its way across the plane of my face.  I just looked at her and smirked because I knew that it was purely out of spite, out of anger because she was losing this battle, but not the war.  She always hated losing, no matter what.

Do you still love me? She asked through streaming tears.

I turned and looked out the window. I left her wonder for a bit.

And?

I would have died for you, Sarah.  I would have gone through the fires of Hell with you and taken the throne from Satan himself.  You know that.  You know how I felt.  I would have drunk up the entire ocean, my only other love, just so your feet could be dry if we were stranded at sea.  I would have given you my heart, just so you could go on living, pumping life though your pristine veins in my honor.

She slapped me again.

Then, why don’t you stay? She said wildly.

She was treading on thin ice and she knew it but she was a risk taker.  She placed her bet and hoped she’d win at the gamble.

I looked at her and thought, it’s not her fault that she was born crazy, a product of a fucked up marriage with a fucked up mother who brain washed her to hate men.  That is exactly what happened.  I took her head in my hands and kissed her lip tasting those salty tears that held themselves on my tongue, like liquid diamonds that I will cherish forever.  I wrapped my arms around her and hugged her tightly, not wanting to let go, but in all reality, I knew I had to.

Do you still love me? She asked again.

No. My heart is three thousand miles away right now.

Her hot and viscous sobs repeated themselves on my neck.  Right then and there she knew that our love was being washed out with the tide.  She had lost the battle.  She had lost all her money she played.  It was all gone.  She looked at me in the eye and said, Make love to me one last time so I can remember you.  I want to feel you inside me.

She reached for the buttons on my shirt and pulled me in close and hard but I sat rigid and statuesque, unforgiving to her manner.

Don’t you ever forget me, Michael.  As long as you live, do not ever forget me.  Okay, baby?

I said nothing.  I could hear her tears hitting the blanket, the bed.  Time stood still for mere seconds.  Like a still life painting, that is the way I had seen the whole situation.  Every tear that she shed was like the sound of falling trees, like the sound of pure and unnatural death in a forest of suicides, like a machine gun in an elementary school classroom, like a cocking of the hammer while playing Russian roulette.  Like lighting a candle.  Like the American flag waving in the wind.  Like a baby sleeping.  Like death creeping up on old age.

 

Auld lang syne.

 

My heart sunk.  I lowered my head, got up, and walked out of the room.  Good luck, I thought, another catastrophe avoided.  The whole way down those steps, I could hear her screaming and begging me to stop, to come back.  Beg, babe, yes, fucking beg.  For it will get you nowhere.  Fucking beg for the old times, for they are light years away.  Fucking beg.  BEG.

I reached the bottom of the stairs, opened the door and dumped out on the mid afternoon street.  Aud lang syne.  Aud lang motherfucking syne.

 

Everyone saw it coming, they all recognized the signs.  It was just a matter of time until I set all of those bridges ablaze and went away for good, never to return again.  I lit fires all over the countryside and watched them all burn to ash and smolder and die.  I forgot it all and stuck to my guns, following through with my plan.  With my callused fingertips, I unscrewed the cap off slowly and took a long, slow gulp.  The whiskey hit my lips with force, with collision.  There is no turning back, not now, I thought.  Broken hearts only want love, and you’ll find none here in this barren fucking place.  Love ridden and as heartless as a catholic nun, this land offers no solace.  I was a loner on the highway of life, once again.  The whiskey tasted top fucking notch.  I took her picture out of my wallet and gave it a good stare.  One last thing to burn, I thought.  I took out a pack of matches from my pocket, lit the whole thing and burned her memory away. Lit a nice cigar with the remainder of the flame.  There was nothing left for me now, nothing to cling to.  Freedom was the only word that came to my mind.

 

 

And three months later…

 

The handle from the 9mm Beretta was getting slippery in my palm.  I was sweating like a marathon runner and my heart was about ready to implode from all of the fish scale I had been doing. Everyone was still on the floor. The smell of gun powder still lingered in the air. Thelma stood there with the smoking .38 in her hand. I looked back and the bank teller who was subsequently throwing the money into the canvass bag was slumped over leaking fresh blood from a hole in her head. There was nothing I could do but put the rest of the blood stained cash into the bag, grab an overwhelmed and shocked Thelma by the arm and usher her out of there. Before we exited the bank I yelled out to the six or so people glued to the floor:

I have all of your fuck addresses. I now know where you all live. If I even get an inkling of a cop following me I will go to the first I.D. card I pull out of my pocket. Does anyone want a surprise visit from me?

There was no answer from any of them. I got us both into the Ford and drove off slowly, calmly like nothing ever happened. Thelma was in shock. She just stared out the windshield. I let ourselves get a ways onto the high way before I offered her a sniff and a gulp of bourbon. She took it. She took it. She took it.

I killed her. I fucking killed her, Michael.

The tears were starting to flow down her face steadily. Then, she let out a little laugh. It grew louder and louder until she was laughing hysterically, beating her fists on the dashboard.

And I fucking love it! I want to do it again and again and again!

 

Let me put this into a great perspective for you, dear reader.  Thelma had fucked me over at the last hotel room. I was glad to get rid of that tick.

 

And this is how it went…

 

I had awoken in a deluge of piss and vomit, not knowing where I was, let alone, what the fuck had happened for the past week and a half.  It was a blur beyond comprehension.  I was fucked on all fronts. In the madness of a cocaine high, I had found out I was out of motherfucking money, and one foul little temptress.  The fucking cunt made out with the bank heist but alas, if she gets busted with it all, she takes the fall. The hostage’s I.D.’s were wiped clean of finger prints and tossed in some random dumpster.  I still had the devil.  Two and a quarter kilos of raw.  Things were still in my favor.  From what I can recall, I had met this bloke at some dive bar and I traded him some blow for some high power blotter acid.  From then and there, life took a turn for the worse.  Now, before you go thinking that this is going to be like some novel you’ve read before, well, you’re wrong.  It’s better.  Because it actually happened.

 

I had met some cunt whore prostitute just outside of town, and offered her a sip of bourbon.  I hadn’t taken the acid yet, I was afraid to consume the mind altering substance in fear of what might happen to me or furthermore, what I might end up doing or committing.  Crimes are evilness leaching from our soul.  So I find myself on the top floor of this building, looking over the whole city. The scenery looked like miles of fire.  I’m with this whore, smoking a nice cigar and sipping on the bottle of bourbon.  I bust out some coke and her face lights up like a goddamn Christmas tree.  We do a few lines a piece.  Then, she asks if she can give me a numby.

What’s the cost? I ask.

No charge, just keep freezing me up.

She was licking her lips in anticipation.

I undid my zipper and let it flop out as she watched it grow.

It flickered with my pulse and finally grew to maximum size.  The whore didn’t hesitate to wrap her herpes laden lips around my throbbing codpiece and continued to stimulate me with felacio.  I asked her how she liked sucking on such a big cock and she just moaned, sending nice vibrations through my shaft.  I told her to put the coke in her mouth and she did. Then she went down on me, giving me what she promised she would.  I told her that I couldn’t come in her mouth, that I needed the kill.  Her panties cam off from under her skirt and before I knew it, she guided me in. She was soaking wet, like a fucking monsoon and I happily entered her cavity, her moist, sultry fucking cunt.  For a second I thought about former lovers, Sarah, Red and Thelma.  I missed Red sometimes.  Her voluptuousness, not like these skinny fucking bitches I found on the street.  My libations were becoming wicked and I took her in every position that I could think of and I must have made a few up in my head also.  My coke dick was treating me well, for I was getting my money’s worth.  Thirty-dollar whore, thirty-dollar Mexican whore.  I pulled out and finished on her B cup tits and asked her if I could do a line off her ass.  She asked if she could do a line off my dick.  I agreed.  She started stroking me and making me hard again with a little bit of tongue action in between.  I handed her a little bag of the devil, she shook it out and poured it right on the head of my throbbing cock and snorted it in one great big motion.  The she finished by working the tip and making me come again with her tongue.

 

She spit out my load and I reached in my pocket and busted out two Cadillacs and reached in the other pocket for the acid.  I crushed it up with my expired credit card and mixed it in with the devil.

What the fuck is that? She asked.

This is gonna blow your motherfucking mind, I told her.

From that point on, things got deathly strange.  The war was on and raging.  Some man with huge sagging hairy tits came up onto the roof yelling and screaming some profane rhetoric and escorted us off the roof and down the stairs.  I could hear music in my head.

Are those wind chimes? I asked hairy tits.

I looked down at my hands and suddenly they had become branches with leaves sprouting out of them.

I need a fucking gardener!  Give me a phone!

I looked over at my little Mexican whore.  She was flailing her arms in a swimming motion, speaking about getting over to the island to slay the mythical beast.

Where is it?  I’ll get that motherfucker.

These leaves are bogging me down, I thought they’d make great paddles but now they are of no use to me.  Then suddenly she started to scream and fell down a flight of stairs and when she reached the bottom, her whole body was wriggling like she started to drown.

I can’t breathe!  I can’t breathe! She screamed.

I looked over at hairy tits and said, I’m going in!  Get on the horn and call the coast guard, man!

Then I grabbed him by the throat and told him:

If I don’t make it out alive, send my condolences to your family.  Fuck it; send them to the goddamn world!

Just then, I loosened my grip on him and splashed into the cause.

The next thing I remember was walking down the street, some strange and lonely street and the buildings were made entirely of robots.  Thousands of robots combined together and formed skyscrapers and houses where babies slept, shit, and ate.  There seemed to be some superior electricity in the air, some magnetic force guiding me to some unknown destination.  I forced myself in that direction.  But why was I going there? I thought, what was the purpose of this, this insanity?  I looked up at the sky and it seemed to be made of puzzle pieces.  A flock of birds just hung still in the air, motionless, undetermined to fly.  I looked down the street.  It seemed to go on forever, like some never-ending corridor to Hell.  The air tasted like sweet spring honey and the concrete looked sublime.  I saw something walking toward me and as it got closer, it seemed to shrink, diminish and dwindle.  I looked down at my newfound friend and picked him up in my hand.  The three-legged pig said to me:

Don’t cry.

I placed him back down on the macadam and asked him where he was going.  He let out a tiny little pig fart and scampered off into the nothingness.  I ran after him yelling:

Wait you little motherfucker, I only want one leg, one hock for my soup you little fucking hog!  You can spare one leg, one fucking hock! I’ve seen two legged pigs before!

I could hear him squealing in the distance.  The little bastard was playing a game of chase with me and I wasn’t about to follow.  I saw a man walking toward me and as he got closer, I could tell that he was some rich type, he had money to boot.

Hey man, what time is it? I asked. Where’s the bliss?

What the fuck are you talking about?

A look of confusion overwhelmed his face.

Where did that little fucking pig go?  I know you saw him run away; now tell me before I put your balls in my soup!

No angel came, he told me.  I still don’t know what that meant, so I moved on looking for the little fucker.  I had stumbled upon some taproom called The Riverside and thought it was a good idea to go in and rest a while, get my head together.  I sat down at the bar and ordered a double bourbon and immediately reached into my pocket and busted out a line of powder on the bar, snorted it and proclaimed:

Sweet motherfucking cocksucking Christ that is the finest snow I have ever inhaled!

The bartender came over with my drink and said, Hey, you can’t do that shit in here buddy.

Why not?

Because this is a fine establishment.

Hmm.  Could have fooled me.  It smells like putrid death had sex with George Washington’s corpse.  Would you like a line or two?  I got plenty to go around.

I guess he declined and suddenly I was back out into the mad, mad world.

I know you got that goddamn pig in there you brash bastards, I yelled. You just don’t want me to have him because you know what I’ll do to him!  You can’t protect him forever!  Advance gentlemen!

I looked back at my imaginary army and held the door open.

Here they come!  Get ready!

 

 

Two days later I was at it again looking down the giving end of the 9mm. I was nervous and high as a motherfucker, but I wondered how nervous the store clerk was with the receiving end of the gun pressed against his chin.  He was shaking.  I looked into his eyes and admired his complexion.

You grew up rich didn’t you? I asked him. And now daddy wants you to work instead of mooching off his hard-earned paycheck, huh?

He didn’t say anything in reply. His eyes just teared up a little as his yuppie textiles hung from his thin fragile frame.

I bet you listen to the fucking Nu-metal and smoke massive amounts of pot, don’t you?

He shook his head yes.

I fucking hate that music.  Mall metal bullshit!

He started to shake a little more intensely.  His lips started to quiver and I asked him:

Do you think that it is a good day to die?

This time I admired the fear in his eyes, the look of despair.

I – I don’t know, he stuttered.

Well, Mr. Fuckin’ Howdy Doody, I think it be.

I cocked the hammer, he closed his eyes.  I could smell the fear emanating out of his yuppie skin.

Daddy wasn’t there to pay me off with some big check to save his little boy’s ass.  What the fuck is that smell, is that sewage?  No.  Fear.

I smiled.

He opened his eyes and I could tell he was looking at my crooked teeth.

Now give me that till!  Slowly, okay Howdy?

I slowly took the barrel of the nine and raised it up to the gap between his eyes, rubbing my index finger on the trigger.

Better hope I don’t fuckin’ sneeze, motherfucker.

I looked at him with a snake-eyed gaze.

Just fork over the dough.  And you can go home tonight and jerk off in your little bed to that fucking Jenna Jameson porn later.  Now GIVE IT!

He moved with the speed of a centipede and slowly opened the drawer.  There wasn’t much.  A fifty, some twenties and the rest was small bills.  I leaned over the counter and said:

Step back, let me see them shoes.

Look, mister, I don’t wanna-

Don’t wanna what?

I don-don’t wanna…

DIE?

He gulped then swallowed the heart that was in his throat.

Take ‘em off, I demanded.

The convenience store was a small one.  Something like a Circle K or 7-11. The kid took off his skate shoes and handed them to me.  I told him to take me to the safe in the back room.  Three grand and a couple hundred in the till.  A nice little score.  After we were all done with the safe I lead him back out to the front and asked for a pack of Maduros and a bottle of Wild Turkey.

Anything else, Sir?

It was an automatic response from being such a shitty chain store clerk for so long.

Yeah, I’ll take a six of the PBR, too.

He grimaced and said, You know mister, I’m gonna lose my job because of this.

I swiftly walked behind the counter and pointed the Berretta right between his eyes.  I pushed the gun into his face making him cower and fall into a rack full of dirty magazines.

That’s all you’re worried about losing?  Look around you, look at where you are.  You have a shit job selling worthless shit to worthless degenerate desert hicks, like yourself.

I reached down, grabbed a magazine, and opened it to a page full of immaculate tits and gash.

Look at this, I said. This is what you should be worrying about.  You should be out there fucking and fucking until your goddamn cock is too sore to touch.  You should be out there snorting blow off their finely shaped asses and then fucking them without remorse or repentance.  Get as much gash as you can, man!  God gave women tits to be suckled and nibble on, asses to be slapped while you’re slamming that gash from behind.  Now get the fuck up and stand in front of me like a man.

Suddenly, without any sign of caution, the door to the store swung open and the entry bell rang declaring a customer coming in.  I turned at the speed of sound and had fixated my nine on the intruder of my articulation.  There she stood, in the doorway, looking at me half drunk, hair a mess, smiling that country smile.

I looked at the clerk and said:

Any last words, faggot?

He was sweating.  I could see it in his eyes.  He didn’t want to die.

Now listen here, let me let you in on a little info that I found out a little while ago.  Don’t let yourself involved in with the guns.  Don’t start houndin’ on the booze.  Stay away from the drugs, that means the pot too, and absolutely never, ever, ever get yourself involved with a hot piece of Texas pussy.

I looked over at her and squeezed the trigger. The bullet shattered the glass behind her. She didn’t even flinch or even blink.  I always did love the smell of gunpowder.

 

I shot off some rounds in the dry desert night sky as she drove on faster, looking out for the police.

You could have killed me, Thelma said.

But I didn’t you ragged cunt.  Where’s the bank money?

I went and buried it.

Buried it?  You lie.

I leaned over and kissed her neck and worked my hand down in between her legs working on her crotch, it was warm, very warm.  I opened the bourbon and poured a little in her mouth, then a lot in mine.

Where’s the coke? She asked.

It’s in my bag.  What the fuck do you think, I’d lose that shit?

Can I have some?

Not right now.  Fuck, find a fucking hotel or something.  I need a blast myself.

I handed her the bottle and shot one off right through the top of the cab of the truck.  That full moon never looked so good.

 

I was half-drunk when we stopped at a little roadside gas station and asked the attendant for directions to the nearest motel.  We were two hours away from the scene of the crime and I doubted that the hound dogs picked up our trail.  We followed the old man’s directions and made it there lickety-split.  I played the old newlywed card again and enlisted us under an assumed name.  Mr. and Mrs. Justin Formative.  I pulled that one out of my ass. Thelma started laughing when I told the middle-aged clerk the name.

Sorry, we just came from Vegas and all, she’s a little tipsy.

His stare was lifeless and for some reason I didn’t trust him too much.  He was a rat-faced fellow with beady little sunken eyes.  I bet if I pulled a piece of Swiss cheese from my pocket, he would have gotten excited and perked up, but unfortunately, I was all out at the moment.  He  gave us our key with little emotion while staring at the counter.  The Maury Povich show on the television right across from the counter.  As we exited the office, the last thing I heard was “You are not the father!”

 

We made it to the room and got in safe.  Another fucking shitty place to sleep, I thought, but not the last.  They are all the same.  Queen sized bed in the middle of the room.  Thin blankets over top a low thread count sheet.  The pillows that look like they had been eat in trays for McDonald’s value meals.  Then there is the television that’s bolted to the wall.  You need an inch and a half sized socket to undo the nuts and after that, you need four-foot bolt cutters to unlatch the thick, gargantuan chain.  The hardware to keep it locked down cost more than the Sanyo set itself.  The fucking room smelled of pure hatred, sex and prostitution.  I’ve smelled it before.  I embraced it and threw my bag on the bed.  Thelma saw this and went right over to it, opened it and buried her face into the open kilo.  I turned her into a fucking fiend.  I looked at myself in the mirror and thought I saw that little three-legged pig on the nightstand behind me.  I looked and nothing was there but an old, disheveled bible.  Don’t try, it had said before it ran off squealing.  What the fuck did it mean?  I wanted to get high and blast off into space.  I cracked open a PBR and lit up a Maduro.

So how much did you make from that clutch?

A couple hundred.

I wasn’t going to tell her the truth.  This thieving cunt.  Next thing you know she’ll have me at my most vulnerable, when I’m inside her, and jack me for it all, the coke, the cash, everything.  I played it smart and said:

Cut me out a couple will ya, babe?

She took the bible from the nightstand and poured some powder on it, and cut it up with an ace card she found straight from the deck in the drawer below.  I sniffed two big lines in succession and handed her the rolled up twenty and the leather bound mass of lies.  Hell was waiting for us.  The only thing was; we didn’t know which road to take to get there.  I started to feel as if I was immune to all disease, to everything impure in this world.  Thelma was winding up and started to talk about her childhood again, about her father.  She passed me the bottle.  I took a gulp, washed down some postnasal drip on the back of my throat.  My ears were just tuning in when she was in the middle of her story.

…I tried to hide from him when he started in on his ‘fun’. I looked for knives, anything to fend him off.  But there was nothing to be found.  When he got on top of me, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t breathe.  My mother just went on as if nothing was going on.  All the while, he told me, whispering into my little ear, that he loved me.  I would rather have been executed.  So, I accepted it, and every night I knew when he would come into my room with his hard little cock wanting to get inside my precious little pussy.  That’s what he called it…

I tuned her out.  I did more lines.  I acted like I cared but in all reality, I didn’t.  She was just another marker on the map.  It wasn’t even sad to me.  I shook my head as if I understood what she was trying to convey, but in my heart, I didn’t even give a fuck.  She was just another whore who fucked over everyone she knew, and placed the blame on her childhood.  Daddy, daddy, daddy.  He did this and he did that.  Fucking deal with it and let it go.  Blame yourself.  I took another shot of cocaine and wiped my nostril clean.

Where’s the fucking money, Thelma?

She looked at me and smiled.  She crawled across the bed toward me like some wounded cat that had gotten its neck caught in the doorway of life.  The drug had taken its hold on her and now she could do nothing about it.  She gave me that come and get me grin. There was snot coming out of her right nostril and her eyes were wide open.  I’ll play along, I thought, fuck it.

I missed your cock, she said in a soft porn star like definition, So stiff and hard.  She started to undo my zipper, slowly, I could hear every little click as she pulled it down.  Those supple lips, those blue eyes looking up at me in anticipation, made me rock fucking hard.  And of course, that deep southern accent.  She leaned in closer and kissed me with full tongue, a little chatter of teeth and began to reach for my shirt pulling it from my waist line as if she were pulling tangled sheets out of a washing machine.  She looked down and gasped playfully, only to find the handle of the Beretta wedging itself between my jeans and my skin.  She looked at me and let out an erotic sigh, reaching for the gun.  I stopped her arm and flung it away.  She was not impressing me at all.  She reached for it again, this time beating me to the punch and grabbed it between her thumb and index finger like a wet noodle, saying playfully:

We won’t need this now, will we?  One gun is enough.  You and I, we’re like a disease.  A symbiotic relationship.

She pulled my inflamed, throbbing piece of finely tuned machinery out of my pants and began to work on it with her lips and tongue.  I pulled out of her mouth and tore the shorts right off her, exposing her fine ass and pretty pink, wet pussy.  With one liquefied motion, I flipped her around so that I could enter her sweet tight gash from behind.  I grabbed the bible right next to us, did the last line as I fucked her and then opened it up to read the ending of revelations.  I closed the good book and smacked her plump ass with it as I thrust in and out of her with the quickness of a squirrel’s action.  Thelma began to moan wildly, like a wounded duck trying to get itself to safety, and then I saw it standing there in the threshold of the bathroom door.

You can’t try, he said to me, don’t even think about it.

Then he gave me a little pig smile and hopped into the bathroom sink and wiggled his way down the drain.  He was gone.  I saw it all happen before my very eyes.  That brown little motherfucker, I thought, one day I’ll catch you.

I continued to slam it to Thelma, even though I was worried about my three-legged friend showing up again.  I turned her on her side and continued to rage upon her, like some awakened volcano about to erupt in violent selfishness after being dormant for a thousand years.  I exiled from her slick cunt and took cock in hand to finish all over her chest, by her neck, giving her a pearl necklace.  I looked down at my hands; there was blood on my palms, thick lumpy crimson blood.  It was all over the sheets as well.  The red-tailed hawk was flying all over the room.  I took my hands and made prints on the walls, then spelled out ‘Lick Cunt’ in my wantonness.  I always had bad luck with the ladies.  This little tiff just proved it.  I couldn’t fall in love with this slag; she was nothing but a casual fuck on a casual journey out West.  Nothing but a cunt with an attitude to back it up.  I wanted no part of it.  I had that before.  I don’t dare want it again.  I wanted to get her behind me.  I should have set out running.

 

After we fucked, Thelma told me she had burned the bank money.  I decided to get out the next morning and leave her high and dry.  That’s exactly what I did, with no regrets.  She told me that she felt guilty about what she had done and ‘God’ compelled her to burn it all or else she would go to Hell.  I guess doing drugs and drinking and having compulsory sex isn’t a sin as well.  Fuck her, I thought.  Another worthless bitch, another wasted time.  I sought the open road again, looking for the action, longing to find that three-legged pig. I had questions to ask him.  The road was my home and I missed it dearly. I could smell the melting of the macadam in the hot sunshine, the vultures circling overhead.  That fucking desert seemed better than staying with a wretched, lying cunt.  She was vile and needed a good ass wiping. If I had stayed, I would have given her one.

 

The sun was high in the sky and I was trapped somewhere in loneliness as I awoke in a drainage ditch, looking for time to quell this incessant pounding in my head.  I looked up and I could tell that from the position of the sun, that it was almost noon.  The vultures were flying high upon the thermals, broad wings lifted their light framework up high by heated air venting from the very land they dare to set foot upon.  Creatures born from flame they were, unafraid of any god or man, no fear of death or dying, because they coveted the dying and longed for the dead.  The carcasses, the corpses, the carrion which kept them alive.   For a second I thought that they might be longing for me, but I was dead wrong.  I was still too much alive.  How can a man still be alive when that very man does not possess a heart to keep his blood pumping strong?  Nothing but flesh and bone walking the earth, with an empty cavity in the middle of his soul for the entire world to see.  A space that is slowly being filled with hatred and disgust.  Disgust for this thing we call the human race.  I brushed myself off with my filthy hands, stuck my thumb out hoping that someone, anyone would pass by, and find me.

 

Red came into my life at the wrong time.  We were soul mates once but now she’s just one more rag that I’m dragging behind me.  She was just a better copy of the previous love, just slightly askew.  No matter how hard she tried to save this ship, it was always destined to run aground.  She was a nice little tart with perfect tits and long auburn hair, and a curvaceous body that would make any man’s mouth water.  She had the greenest eyes that could take your breath away and send you into a hypnotic trance if you looked into them too long.  Red was the epitome of sex and she loved to fuck.  But, what everyone told me came true; she was too nice for me.  I could hear it in the hospital room of her heart when I told her that I didn’t love her.  It sounded like kettledrums in a silent parade.  The crowd lining the silent sidewalks and streets, they can only watch as she breaks down and collapses on the hot summer macadam.  The drums sound on and on as the silent members of the marching band just trample over her as if they were stepping over a log or a boulder, and after they overcome the obstacle, the silent ones start up a song on their once silent instruments. “Auld Lang Syne”. And then the silent crowd erupts into cheers and applause as if nothing drastic had ever happened.

 

I always pondered which song the angels will play for her when she finally goes.  Maybe a song filled with defeat, anger, pain, and loss.  I hope it sounds like a falling bomb.  I hope it sounds like a flickering candle flame or headlights on a highway.  No, like a severe thunderstorm at the end of a sweltering July day.  For death has her marked just like myself.

 

It seemed like I was standing in a long line at the grocery store, as the vultures seemed to loom closer and closer to my presence. The only form of entertainment out in this piece of fucking shit land was doing lines of blow and finishing the bottle of bourbon I still had. Equal the balance, I thought.  Please someone teach me how to swim out in this waterless fuck.  Don’t let me drown.  I was coarsely alone and wished for company, some fake motherfucker to tell my life story to over and over again, some tin ear to just sit there and nod his or her head accordingly.  This fucking desert is going to kill me, I thought, I need to find shade.  There was none to be found, nothing but a gargantuan millstone around my neck coupled with an albatross.  The cocaine was doing me good and I started to draw little pictures in the desert earth, almost like a cave man dwelling. I was taking it all back to the Jurassic era. Then for some strange reason, I drew a robot and above that I wrote, “I will never die”.  It was beginning to get hard to deal with this milieu.

The New Year came and went like a filthy john, and for once, I didn’t miss the pageantry full of faggots and fake friends who think they know me. And as soon as you turn your back on them, they talk vile cum guzzling shit on you and are too afraid or real to actually spit in your face.  I will always be the outcast in society and still don’t give a single solitary cunt fuck about it all.  I left Pennsylvania like a motherfucking whirlwind because the state was eating away at my epidermis.  Nothing but land locked people with land locked blues still believing they could get rich one day selling worthless rubbish at flea markets and auctions.  Home was light years away and I was not missing it one single bit.  Take another line, sip the bourbon.  Let the devil in, let him in and wonder about this empty soul.  Let him take over.  Let him spark a fire that transcends the flames of Hell.  Let him relish and bask in the pit where my heart used to be.  What does he know about horror?  Let the fever set in as you think of her face lying next to another.  I could only wonder…

 

I wanted to leave the lies and the disgrace of that place behind when suddenly, through the haze of the heat coming off the road, I saw a semi lumbering its way down the line. I snorted a line and hoped that the driver would take time to stop his depraved machinery to give a poor weary soul like myself a lift to the nearest buttfuck town where I could score on some easy broad and procure some cheap liquor.  Just to my sarcastic surprise, the driver pulled over to “offer” me a lift.  Well, fuck me, I thought, this gear shifting motherfucker is going to sodomize me with an axle-greased, lubed up handle of a screwdriverMy asshole will be smelling like the bottom end of a diesel truck for days….

He told me that he was actually not too far from his destination, just a little cantina right up the road.  I said:

Okay buddy.  You wanna blast some devil?

I spilled vomit all over the seat.  My stomach just gave way.  I scooped it up and threw it out the door.

Don’t worry, I said. The nuns we’ll see later will get that out.  Those cunts are good with the baking soda.  It works miracles, if you know what I‘m saying.

He looked at me very confused like, but all I could think of was the All Else Failed song, “The Hutton Play”, and then…

 

I was laying in the Indian Ocean with a beautiful woman.  Her tail was like that of a fish.   Her voice like the sound of an open window, curtains whispering their lost souls to the wind.  It sounded like the brushing of hair, like a toilet flushing, like the sound of pissing in the wind, like the sound of despair. Like the sound of two cunts grinding against each other during a scissor kiss.  It sounded like a beautiful flower                                                                                                                                                                                                     growing on a warm summer’s night.  IT SOUNDED LIKE THE FLICKER OF FLAME. THE BRIDGES THAT I HAD BURNED.  It sounded like smoke rising through the atmosphere.  Like the sound of being at the bottom of the ocean.  I heard a voice through the watery grave I call my mind, it then transferred to my form.  The form of a three-legged pig.  I jerked awake to the trucker’s voice saying:

Where ya headed bud?

The ocean.

Well, I gotta make a stop.  You might like this place.  Lotta guys like you in there.  You may find just what you want there.

I really had no concept of what he was talking about until we arrived.

The place was absolutely out in the middle of nowhere, a cantina that looked like a boarding house with iron bars on the windows and the door.  A two story dwelling that looked like it should have been torn down ten years ago.  It looked like a crack house compound out in the middle of the fucking desert.  A haunted house full of macabre and perverted delights.  He pulled the truck around back and parked about thirty yards out.  He turned the ignition key to the left and then, the crude and coarse rumble of the diesel engine died like the family dog.  Suddenly and without notice.  I popped open my door and slid down from the cab to the ground.

What is this place? I asked.

A little cantina, I think you’ll like it.  I’ll be right back, go ahead inside and tell ‘em you’re with Ed.

Ed, eh? Okay.

I looked around at the surroundings.  It was about to get dark soon and this kind of worried me a little. There was absolutely nothing around but I could see mountains far off in the distance. I guessed that they were the Sierra Nevada’s. I could feel a hellacious tingle on my skin, you know the kind you get just before a heavy thunderstorm is about to roll through?  You know something bad is about to happen.  Evil energy.  War pigs gathering in masses.  I flicked open my switchy and stuck it in my bag to snag a blade full of coke, the devil, the white.  I wasn’t gonna go in alone.  I had Satan and Baretta on my side.  The two most powerful forces in the universe. I pushed the gun in a little lower in my waste.  I knocked on the back door.  A little slot at the top of the door opened and all I saw were two beady, brown eyes.

I’m here with Ed, I said.

Then, there were four or five dead bolts unlocking and the door opened slowly. The beady eyes turned into a tall Mexican, and as I stepped inside I saw it all happening before me.  It smelled like anal lube concocted with old man pipe smoke.  There was a definite musk of defeat in the air and I could sense the testosterone.  There were no creatures of mercy here, only trophy winners, keepers of souls; this was not Heaven nor Hell, not even somewhere in between. What I had seen that night was a cacophony of ritualistic teen-age rape and domination. They were keeping girls there, from fifteen on and using them, abusing them for sex and prostitution.  There were girls dancing on tables, under aged girls performing blowjobs and receiving anal right before my very eyes in dark corners of the bar.  I could hear the cries and saw the tears falling to the floor.  When they fell, they shuddered the filthy cum stained wood floor and caused little earthquakes that shook the whole place.  Some were chained, or were in some form of bondage while depraved onlookers laughed and mocked them, throwing money in their faces while cocks were being stroked by drunken hands to induce pleasure.  One of the girls, not more than fifteen years old, was riddled with scars, bleeding from the mouth, and when she bared it, showed only two teeth.  They called her Kelly.  I sat down promptly at a small table and tried to take it all in.  I was in the middle of a sex ring, all coked out and half drunk. I ordered a beer with a vodka back.  The vodka tasted somewhat like bathtub gin and the beer was severely watered down.  The smoke started to burn my eyes and just then, a dire young thing, as pretty as the sunset, with a scar on her cheek, came and sat down next to me.  She was scantily clad in nothing but a bra and boy shorts and called herself, “The Dictionary”, because there wasn’t much she didn’t know.  I could see that she was definitely under age.  About sixteen maybe.

Can you cool my desire? She asked. I’m on fire.

 

I thought about morning commutes, drowning in the river, overdosing on NyQuil, and how I was sweating.  Suddenly, I felt like I should be back home and for a second, I could feel that Pennsylvania winter chill, the suffering, the wind shooting through me like a thousand daggers at once, and for a second, I kind of missed that.  Missing home is just a part of moving on.  I wondered what Sarah was up to.  Whom she might be fucking. Whom she was laying next to that night.  I looked into The Dictionary’s eyes and thought about Hiroshima.  I saw the bomb falling in them and the flash of the explosion.  The sun doesn’t rise for her anymore.  Only an ever present shadow lingers over her as she tries to live from day to day, witnessing the horror of dying over and over again.  Giving up her cunt to men with no love for her, no hope, and no regard for life.  That is what this place was.  An insane asylum that you can never leave, no chance of getting out, no escape.

Ed sent me over, she said and then proceeded to set her little ass on my lap.

Oh yeah, my friend Ed, the big trucker type. What’s your real name?

Julie. I’m seventeen ya know. Another year and they say I can leave Well, at least that’s what Big Joe says.

Who the fuck is Big Joe?

He’s the guy who runs this joint. He’s our pimp.

 

Julie had gone on and on about her freedom and what she was going to do once she got “out”.  I knew about these places and they don’t let you leave.  They either keep you as a servant until you grew old and useless or they take you out back and shoot you in the head and let the coyotes and vultures take care of the rest. But as for me, my money was on the latter. She took her thumb and wiped the underside of my nose and stuck the cocaine residue into her mouth.  She let out a little moan and said:

You got any more mister big shot? Mister big spender?  Ya know what?  I like you.

My palms started to sweat and my mouth went dry.  Julie started to rub my inner thigh and inched her hand closer to my cock.  Then the cold shiver came over me again and I thought about Al Roker’s black Aunt Jemimah-esque face barely visible through a blizzard of blowing flakes, standing there on some lonely Philadelphia street reporting the weather on the fucking dumb Today Show.  He’s screaming into the microphone because the wind is about to blow him over, and he thinks no one out in television land can hear him through the blowing snow. He’s reporting that it is actually the biggest snowfall on record for the city and power lines are down.  People are stranded in cars and busses.  Thirteen related deaths. One suicide. All airlines have been temporarily shut down until further notice, crippling the Northeast and slowly heading out to the Atlantic at the speed of refrigerated molasses. And in the midst of his shouting, screaming voice, his three hundred dollar fedora blows off and is lost forever in the storm.  Just then, the camera cuts out and just before it does, all you can see is Al’s gleaming bald head and snow covered glasses making him blind in the ferocity of the storm.

 

The next thing I knew, The Dictionary was stroking my hard cock with her tiny hand and nibbling on my ear.  I was in some darkened room barely able to see anything. I noticed in the corner a little red light but disregarded it as a farce.  I must have blacked out, I thought, and now I’m with some underage girl about ready to fuck the uterus out of her.  Just as that thought broke through the firewall and infected the hard drive of my brain, I felt something wet on my cock and Julie’s hand working on it again.  It felt cold and sticky and I guessed that it might be some kind of lubricant or spermicide.  She took my left hand and guided it to her ravaged pussy.  It felt like the edges of a torn paper bag sprinkled with sand.

I can’t get wet anymore, she said, that’s just how it is.  But you can come inside me ‘cause I’m barren.

Just like that I was inside of her; I broke through that fortification like the ancient armies of Rome. My mind drifted away from the situation like the way a rape victim’s does. We all have that power. It is a tactic that is rarely used. And then I remembered that in my acid induced stupor I must have found him but forgot about it until then. I resurrected the memory…

 

He told me that his name was Harold Wilson and in his little pig voice, he told me

that a scornful woman he had cheated on used a spell on him to transform his body into a three-legged pig.  He was turned into a three-legged pig because she said that it would be harder for him to run away from predators and foes, but as he put it, she was terribly wrong.  She told him that she made him small enough so no one would notice him and that in fact; she could have made him the size of the isle of Manhattan if she so well pleased, but that would be too selfish of her. She could have turned him into stone and have him spend eternity watching the world go by, just some lonely statue standing there in regret as centuries pass before his frigid, passionless eyes.  The bitch sounded like a real heartless cunt and I wished to never meet her.  Harry was a kind chap and told me that he was searching for this wretched beast woman who did him wrong, and wanted to apologize kindly to her so he could be transformed back into his former self.  I did a line of powder and offered him one.  He stuck his miniature pig nose in the line and snorted then grunted, inhaling only a third of what I had cut out for him and when he was done, he let out a high-pitched pig squeal that made my ears ring.  I liked Harry.  I could tell he liked to party.  He told me that I only spotted him by chance on that day that I dropped the acid and he’s been following me ever since. His small size, he said, could afford him many hiding places and get away routes. I took another line and he took another third.

How the fuck did you wiggle your pork fucking ass down that drain? I asked.

Simple, he said in his squeaky voice, I just did it. You’d be surprised where I can fit into.

The thought crossed my mind of him wiggling his little pork chop ass into a virgin vagina but I didn’t dare want to mention it.  I really didn’t want to embarrass him and make him run away squealing.

Well, fuck, I said, you can follow me around if you want but shit is gonna be fucked up from here on out.  Ever see the Pacific?  That’s where I’m headed buddy.  Clear sailing from here on out.  Fuck this desert shit, it’s for the motherfucking dogs.

He shook his tiny pig head in approval and let out a stout grunt.  Just like that, the little fucker took off again with a squeal and vanished into that western skyline.

 

The lube must have worn off quickly, for my dick felt raw from all the friction.  Julie reached over my chest and turned on a small light.  I was in some bed in some room with only one window.  The light cast a shadow across her young face, making her horizontal scar across her cheek more noticeable and she caught me staring at it.

That’s what they do to the pretty ones who try to get away. She said. Happened when I first got here.  Some of the less fortunate get beat bad, mutilated, but mine was swift and quick.  They stitched me up just fine.  Coulda been worse, but I learned my lesson.

I took out my switchy and reached in my bag for a blast, procured a blade full and offered it to Julie.  She whiffed it up in one big puff and I did one as well.  I took out the bottle of bourbon from my bag and offered her some.  She grabbed the bottle with a “hell yeah” look and gulped some down.  She was grown up for her age, and I admired her naked body in the lamp light.  Shadows formed around her petite tits and hips, long legs sprawled out awkwardly amongst crumpled cum stained sheets. She looked like a freshly caught squid, helpless, feeble and inept.  I climbed on top of her with bottle in hand, and poured a little bourbon in her navel, then slowly and carefully licked it dry.  Then I turned her over and sprinkled some coke on her fabulous little ass, railed it and smacked her supple flesh, leaving a large, red handprint.  She rolled over and told me that I was being a gentleman.  For some strange reason, it had reminded me of times when I had Sarah. She got out of bed and walked over to the corner of the room.  I looked over and there she was fucking with a video camera on a tripod, smiling, naked as the day she was born.

You’re gonna be famous now. She said. You just did coke off the ass of the infamous Julie Ives…

 

 

The smell of the place woke me, really.  My head was lying in a puddle of something sticky and wet and my hands were bound behind my back by what felt like metal chains or handcuffs. I knew this because I had previous trouble with the law.  It reeked of shit, piss, come, and vomit so bad that it made my eyes burn and water.  I was trapped somewhere in the first level of Hell, waiting for Lucifer himself to cast his judgment and either accept me into his kingdom or expel me like a dead fetus at an underground abortion clinic.  I tried to sit up, but was cut short by some choker around my neck.  Wherever I was, it was so dark that sight was of no use to me at the time, only the senses that proved critical were of use to me then.  I could hear moans and screams and what sounded to me like torture. Could it be?  Was I really here in this dark, dank hole, waiting for my acceptance into the pagan land?  I lay there for a while in the midst of all the screams and moans all around me.  Just then, everything went silent and I could hear little tapping, a little pitter-patter of tiny hooves on cold wet concrete.  Then a surprise fell into my ears, like the sound of a poorly planned birthday party.

Michael, Michael…, the tiny high-pitched voice said.  Michael…wake up you fucking bastard!

Satan?  Is that you?  If so, pass the fucking bourbon, motherfucker, ‘cause I’m goddamn thirsty!  Like how I threw that ‘god damn’ in there Lucifer old buddy?

I heard a sneer, a chuckle, and the little voice moved in just a tad closer to my unknown liquid drenched ear.

It’s me Michael, Harry.  I found you.

But, how you little pork motherfucker?  You’re not Satan, the devil incarnate?

No, Michael.  It really is me.  I was up in the Pacific Northwest looking for that bitch who cursed me when I found a wormhole in the middle of this thick, lush, hemlock forest.  I met its creator; somehow, he knew I was coming.  Well, I guess it was a ‘he’.  He didn’t wear a face and his voice sounded like a thousand rose petals blowing in the summer wind.

I laid there and listened to what Harry Wilson, the infamous three-legged pig had to say. His story was a bowl full of vast wonderment with a slice of Americana on the side. Harry had told me that he jumped into the wormhole of time and was transported to any destination his mind could conjure.  At first, he wanted to find that wretched cunt, but was only transported back to the place where she had turned him into a pig.  In between his squeals, squeaks, and grunts, he told me he then wanted to find me, so I could give him solid advice as to what he should do next.  So now, he was here.

You’re in one fuck of a pickle. He said.

Where am I? I asked.

It seems like you’re in some kind of brothel or whore house.

So I’m not in the first stage of Hell? I asked.

Nope.  Not even close.  You’re in some form of a dungeon where they keep people who start trouble.

What happened?

Fuck if I know Michael.  You must have done something to piss someone off.

How do I know for sure that this is really you and not some dream I’m having?

He walked over close to me and said, ‘Cause I can do this. He proceeded to kick me in the ribs with his single hind leg.

FUCK!  That fucking hurt Harry!  Stop fucking around and get me the fuck out of these bindings!

I got an idea, he said squeakily.

Harry climbed up over me and said, Turn over you dumb fucking bastard.

I could feel him crawling across my back and I anticipated what would be coming next. Why was I trapped down here, I thought.  What were the proceedings that had gotten me into this hot mess?  What did I do to make someone that angry at me?  And if so, then why?  The answers were a mystery, an enigma.  I could feel Harry wiggling his chubby little pork ass between my wrists and then I could feel him fitting through the space between my wrists and the binding.

Pull tight, he said, and when you hear me grunt loud, pull as fucking hard as you can.  Got it?

Yes.

On three…. One.  Two.  Three!

Harry let out a grunt and I pulled as hard as I could.  I heard a pop, and then I was free. He let out a loud shrill and scampered around in celebration.  I immediately reached for my neck and took the dog choker off.

Harry!  Fuck yeah buddy!  I owe you one!  These vile cunt whores will fucking pay, I can promise you that!

I crawled around on my knees feeling around the floor with my hands.  The area of the place felt colossal.  Like some mass grave made only for the departure of life.  I could almost smell and taste the darkness.  It was concentrated, dense, and unpleasant.  The horror of it all excited me a little.  Like watching a snuff film.  You know the ending, but not how the person will die.  The marauders were lurching around the victim in the darkness as she cries.  Mouth taped, hands bound.  Her tear-filled eyes can see the other cadavers hanging around the room, like some grotesque artwork on display in a macabre museum. Then it happens, three of them come at her swiftly.  One with a butcher knife, the second with a mace.  Finally the last of them armed only with a scalpel. The one with the knife rapes her until he’s satisfied while the man with the mace beats her with it about her chest and abdomen, flailing wildly as rib bones crack, break, and shatter.  Ever so excited, he has his turn with his hard member, coming inside her as he chokes her with the handle of his weapon, leaving her only little air to stay alive.  He was a professional at it all, a true master of his art.  Then, there is the third.  He is donned in surgical scrubs. She, the victim of this horrid event, is still alive and conscious, delusional and if let free, could be diagnosed as clinically insane.  But freedom is like moral terror.  It comes with a price.  Both are enemies to be feared.  The ‘doctor’ puts a single finger up to his hidden mouth and says calmly; Shhhhhhhhhh. Do not be afraid, child. Death comes cheap for those who weep.

 

The blade penetrates the skin, it cuts clean and deep, and she witnesses her intestines and entrails dangling in his hands right before her very eyes.  She wants to run away to her safe childhood place, but she knows that she can’t.  In the depths of her mind, she cries for her mother, and sees herself in the womb, ready to be born.  The hemorrhage is copious and soon enough, she bleeds out.  A happy ending for all.

 

A little flicker of light shone on the wall in front of me and as I looked up to where it was coming from, I could faintly see the shadowy shape of a doorway.  Harry was gone again.  Vanished into thin fucking air as usual.  I started to climb the stairs like a severely beaten dog scared to face his master again.  Slowly I crept, and when I finally got to the top, my blood began to boil and I replaced the darkness with red.  Gradually and deliberately, I turned the doorknob and to my surprise, it was unlocked.  I opened the door like some lethargic cripple and to my wonderment, there was no one around.  My fucking luck, I thought.  There was a taste of revenge on the air but it was not on my tongue.  I was cautious as I walked down the long hallway and checked each room on the way with vigilance and prudence.  Two of them were empty, but the one closest to the cellar door had a vast pile of clothing, bags and shoes.  I ran in and found my bag almost immediately.  It was under a bloody wedding dress and a few high-heeled shoes.  The “come fuck me” kind. They were abducting girls here and using them for prostitution and paid torture.  Get one in and if she dies, well, there’s another to take her place.  A never ending cycle of depravity for the sexual appetite of short-dick men.  I unzipped my bag. All was there.  The 9mm, check.  The two and a half kilos, check.  Bottle of bourbon, double check.  I took the nine in my hand, checked the clip.  Still loaded.  It’s gonna be like fuckin’ with your eyes shut, I thought.  I cocked the pistol and decided then and there to let retribution be the righteous motherfucking hammer of God.

 

I was lost in some sea of tranquility, conscious but unconscious at the same time.  The clouds were rolling by at a rapid pace, and when I blinked, they seemed to stand still. They were holding in the raindrops that were soon to come and wash away everything in this desert. For a second, I thought I don’t belong here, in this back drop of surreal reality and menacing guilt.  The peyote was getting to me.  It was eating away at my very moral fiber, like a school of small piranha.  Their razor like teeth gnawing and tearing at the flesh, making the wound grow larger and larger with every consuming mouthful.  At the moment, I was dwelling in my disaster.  The demons were once again trying to drag me down with them, trying to destroy me.  I looked over at the Shaman.  He was sitting perfectly still with the long, hand carved pipe in his hand.  He was a dying breed from a dying race.  A true troubadour, an outcast like myself, wondering between the winds, somewhere between this world and the next.  He was neither dead nor alive.  Existence for him was life long punishment, but suicide he said, was never an option.  For, if he chose the latter, he believed that he would never make it to the spirit land and all of his ancestors would be lost in the absence of the sun.  He offered me the pipe again. I took it without hesitation and inhaled a long trail of smoke.  Just then, I felt a strong sense of patriotism grip me around the back of my neck and that Pennsylvania skyline tried to pull those New Jersey waves from my lungs.  I sat back and reached into my bag, grabbed some devil, began to chop it up, and offered it to my newfound friend.  He asked if it was white sand.  I told him that it was ashes from lost souls and that it would take him into another realm of the universe.  We did about two grams a piece.  The sky was clear that night and Orion was showing himself in full splendor.  We drifted off into a trance like state…

 

We walked in the night like wolves, bathed in only moon light, the blood on our fur shining like Christmas garland.  We were hungry for war. Blood thirsty. Longing for a kill. I could taste the iron and copper in my mouth, on the very tip of my numb tongue. Millions of dream catchers hung from the sky.  The Shaman picked up some sand and smelled it, and told me to follow him.

Where are we going? I asked.

Deeper into the spirit world.  There is no God here.  There is no life, or death.  There only IS.

The cool desert wind was at our backs, and we were pliant and compassionate to its gentle push.  I looked up into the atmosphere and there were four moons.  The sand had turned from a blonde haired yellow to an almost blood red and in the distance, I could see the earth. She was dying from sadness, heartbreak, and devastation.  The tide had ceased and the oceans had become devoid of all life.  The world called earth was nothing but one gigantic lamentation.  Shooting stars passed over our heads, and in the Heavens, there they were: Zeus and Andromeda playing a game of chess with nothing but pawns.  No one could win.

We are almost there, said the Shaman, I take it this is the first time for you?

I nodded yes. The kill was getting closer; I could smell it in the air.  I could smell the fear of our enemies.

 

She was a gem that I used to cherish.  She was an absolute cunt.  But I loved her anyway and she evaded me like smoke from a cigar, like love in shitty hotel walls.  Empty glasses and empty bottles lying broken on the new hardwood floor.  It never made any connection; no sorry words were said for the funeral of the mind.  Just two lost fucking souls competing against each other in that thing we call time.  That thing we call love. Those four letters make up the storm that lasts for decades. They say that THIS storm is stronger than the one that plagues Jupiter.  It strangles you, like the American flag wrapped around your neck.  Like the concrete beneath your feet.  Like the smoke you inhale.  Like the money you spend.  The loneliness you love, the scars you have acquired.

 

I was shimmering alone in the sunrise.  The Shaman was gone and I was by myself in those waterless waves, the mirages and images of fake, useless cunts dancing in the distance. Like wretched fowl waiting to be so eagerly executed for Sunday dinner, they were moving closer to me in the light of the desert sand.  They wanted so desperately to take what I have earned and to tell the truth, it wasn’t much, but still they wanted it.  I was an obsession to these vampire-like creatures.  They were the harbingers of sorrow, the bringers of death, and the epitome of everlasting life.  The three of them marched closer toward me.  As they got closer still, they were all horribly beautiful.  Ghastly, and grim, but at the same time, they were glamorous.  Like a highway of hope.  Like kisses that are replaced with tears.  Like the overwhelming tide as you fulfill your suicide.  Take a deep breath.  Let the salt water into the lungs.  Let it take over and then, just as I took a deep breath, they sank their fangs into my skin.  It felt glorious.  Like impending doom. Like childhood beatings when my father used to beat me with a rubber hose and accuse me of fucking my mother.  I looked up at the blinding sun and begged it to fall down upon me.  The taste of rust in my mouth was sweeter than the passion of it all.  I was in fervid rapture, letting all three of them take their turns fucking and sucking me dry. Succumbing I was, to those subterranean beings from Hell who fed on the souls of mankind, leaving them all dead and withered alone in the fucking desert sun.  I could feel their bat like tongues lapping at the punctured veins of my neck as they all took their turns on my cock while the other two ate each other’s pussy.  Shrieks and moans were amplified out there in the vast emptiness of the desert.  I told them all that I was ready.  The tangled mass of limbs and blood soaked lips got on their knees as I stood before them like some drill sergeant, giving them strict commands.  As they all put their mouths together, I took my gun in hand and unloaded my ammunition.

 

Can you hear me?

I recognized the voice but couldn’t put a face to it.

White devil, can you hear me?

My eyes opened slowly and for a second, everything was blurry.  He sat down next to me and offered me some water out of a dirty canteen.  It was sweet and delectable like nectar.

What is this? I asked him.

It is the life from the desert.  It comes from the cactus.  It will keep you alive.  Drink more.

I took another gulp.  Where’s my fucking bourbon? I thought.  I sat up and looked around. It was getting dark.

We must go, said the Shaman, we must get back to my dwelling.  There you can rest.  You have had a long trip, white devil.  I am excited to hear about it.

I couldn’t remember anything.

Yeah, me too, I said.

I got to my feet and followed him as the night began to swallow any remaining light left over by the latter day.  I had made it back from the spirit world, and lived to tell about it all.  Not the first fucking time, I thought.

 

We made it back and he began to tell me of HIS journey.  Through the fire, I could see the pain in his face, wrinkles of time holding sorrow and guilt.  He told me that at first he had seen his wife, of which he was with for many ‘moons’.  That night, in the spirit world, he made love to her on the shores of some raging river.  When they were finished, she turned into a snake and disappeared into a course of boulders somewhere upstream. He tried, he told me, to capture her and cage her, but it was to no avail.  I felt sorry for him, because love is like a slippery snake that evades you and gets away, never to be seen again.  Then he began to tell me that he found his sons out there in ‘the sands of time’. The two of them strong warriors, young at heart and destined for greatness.  The Shaman told me that they were all killed by an evil man while he was away.  His wife raped and mutilated, his sons castrated and gutted like cattle, and the law did nothing to help him in any way.

Why would they? he said, I’m just another poor red man with nothing to offer them in return.

He vowed vengeance for them all, and there was that look in his eye that made me believe him.  I could see the tears welling in his eyes.  He was apparently taken aback by it all.

You see what you long to see. He said. I miss them.  One day we will be together again. So, tell me white devil, what did you see when you walked through the spirit land?

I looked at him through the fire, sipped on my bottle of bourbon, and offered him a line. He refused it.  I inhaled one.  He stood up and turned the coyote he had on a makeshift wooden spit over the blaze.  He was a simple man leading a simple life out there all alone under that big sky.  He wasn’t afraid of anything, not death. Nothing.  For he has seen it all.  It seemed to me he sometimes pushed the boundaries of life and death, walking in the spirit world, wanting to know what comes to you after you stop breathing.  After it all ends, where do we go from here?   I blew another line of raw and said, Do you really want to know what I saw out there in the sand?  He shook his head yes with feverish anticipation.

It was different for me, I saw an old love, but then the sky held many moons and stars.  I was not of this planet, not on this earth.  Then, the mirage came, a wave of evil that I cannot comprehend.  They feasted upon me like a disease, three of them with teeth like dogs, ghoulish and hateful, but careful and precise and delicate.  I was totally at their mercy.

Just then, the red man’s face turned almost white and his eyes stared deep into the fire. The memories were keeping all the tears inside.  Apparently, he knew what evil I was speaking of.  I did another blast of devil, took another swig of bourbon.

Without warning he stood up and said, White devil, you must leave.  I have seen these ‘witches’.  They are forever cursed and walk between the winds.  What you saw was… very real.  They are coming for you.  You are marked now.  Go.

I looked at the old motherfucker and said, You know, you brought this upon yourself, bringing me into your ‘spirit land’ and all.

His eyes were unwavering, he did not flinch. He stood there like a monolith waiting for me to leave. I blew another line.  Why not, I thought, it’s going to be one long fuck of a night out in that darkness wondering if those wretched cunts were indeed hunting me down.  He had me spooked.  I packed up my bag and stood up, offering him my hand and thanking him for my hospitality.  He just stood there staring into the fire.

This is my night, he said.  This is the night I will meet them all.  I will be with my family once again.

He sat down with his back turned to me and said, Please, go.  Leave me in peace.

Just like that I was gone, vanishing into the darkness like some vile rapist, cock out, looking for my next victim.

 

The coke was beginning to run strong.  The darkness seemed never ending.  No horizon. No beginning, and no end.  Only myself and a sliver of moon.  I was alone, in the absolute sense of the word.  I could feel the earth turning below my feet as I swam in the dim and the mystic.  I sat down in the  cooling sand and with careful hands, took a blade full of coke to the head and thought about my mother’s face as I watched her tear drops fall.  I was seven or eight when she had all of her teeth extracted.  She just would just lay there on the couch, lifeless and bleeding from the mouth as my father fell into another pitfall of his ongoing alcoholism, laughing  and berating her, telling her it was ‘no big deal’.  Was it ever a big deal? Or was it simply just the fact that he was a coward who couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag and would rather take his frustration out on the ones that he ‘loved’ rather than facing his fears and becoming a man and stand up to the world, taking it on full force, instead of hiding behind the sun.  I was becoming him, hiding in old fears. Running away from memories and clutching on to self-destruction, to crippling doubt, as life catches up with you and takes its time torturing you with thoughts of what could have been.  I was looking for pavement, a quick moving boat to take me away from this waterless bitch that contained me those days.  I needed something to tow this heaping pile of wreckage I call my heart to the interstate.  I was abandoned, hopeless, and alone with nothing but a half bottle of bourbon, two kilos of fine coke and a lousy tempo in my aching head.  I ingested some more bourbon, the affliction that has been plaguing me since I was born, and decided I needed to cause a bit of mischief.  I took another blade full of the powder.  I looked up at the sky and the moon, for that brief second; it masked and camouflaged itself behind dark clouds.  Just then, I found freedom.  The sand disappeared and I saw a flurry of headlights coming toward me.  I was once again in the arms of my love, the highway.

 

Into this world, we’re thrown, he said, and you can’t decide who your parents should be man, it’s all a fucked up situation.

Exactly, I said in reiteration, my voice fumbling to make contact with my vocal chords as I blasted another tweet of parakeet.  His face reminded me of a trampled on pizza after a horrible incident at a New Years Eve party.  His dreadlocked hair covered his cave man brow, but made no use to hide the pockmarks in his cheeks from years of adolescent acne.  I was taken aback by his ugliness for a moment and thought, my god, what woman would want to fuck this creature, this alien form? Maybe he liked men? Maybe that’s why he picked me up?

Hey, lemme have some of that man!

The small Volkswagen van was filled with the sound of hippy music leaking from cheap speakers. Happy tunes filled with lyrics about flowers and mother earth.  He held out his hand and said, Name’s Curtis.  It smelled like a torn out hymen in that little bus.  I offered him a line and he snuffaluffagussed it right away.

Hey, that’s some good shit man.  Where’d you come across that brother?

I grew it in an oil field and sold my soul to Satan so I could harvest it.  It was owned by Proctor and Gamble.

Oh, I hate those fuckers man!  Way to beat the man, brother!

He offered me another handshake.

I didn’t shake his hand.  His fingernails were long and jagged, with massive amounts of dirt beneath them.

You should probably take care of that, I said, that’s a disease waiting to happen.  So, where are we heading anyway?

We’re off to a party, man!

His exclamation was real. He was truly excited.

Me and my friends, you see those dudes behind me…?

I turned in my seat and looked through the back window of the bus to find a small Honda Civic tailing us closely, the girl in the passenger seat held up her hand and made a peace sign.

 

……We’re on our way up to this big bash, dude, for this guy who just won it big.  It’s gonna be fucking wild, man, acid, weed, mushrooms… hey lemme have another one of those will ya?  It’ll keep me awake while I roll on down the road, dude.

There is no way that I can convey to you with words, how stupid this motherfucker was. That caveman- pizza faced- faggot.  He was merely nothing more than a crewel.

 

We were somewhere in vineyard country, way past Sacramento when I slipped the bourbon out of my bag.  I took a long pull and offered my friend, the crewel, a sip.  He took it whole-heartedly, with vigor, with zeal.  We ran out and I told him to pull over at a winery up ahead so that I could purchase another go ‘round.  He didn’t quite understand what I was trying to explain to him in his Mesopotamian brain so I said, Drink, up there, left.  He pulled the bus over and we both got out.

 

The fields had been picked dry.  A close feeling of emptiness almost consumed me as my eyes scanned the overwhelming latitude.  The migrant workers had made out well and were now sleeping soundly in their feathery cots with loved ones and children, bellies full of cheap brew and wanderlust, waiting for the next harvest.  I was hoping to witness the grape vines burning with scintillating joy, but it was the middle of January, and I should have known better.  I should have known there was nothing up here in the North Country but death and constant extinction and decay.  I was beginning to decay.  If I wore a mask then maybe I could fool it. Fool it all.

 

I wasn’t missing the indigestion of the morning commutes, the silhouettes of dreams as I drove through flooded highways lined with mass public and herded exhaust pipes; spitting out a language we all so very much understand.  Women combing their ragged hair from a night of unloving sex. Men seconding themselves as they look in the visor mirror, picking the remnants of the daily breakfast sandwich from WAWA out of their teeth.  It was about to rupture, my heart, I mean, and it overwhelmed me how everything escaped us as a human race.  We were lost in the transformation of getting from one place we hate, to another we didn’t want to be at.  We longed for the daily commute, it was gratifying in a sense that you could laugh at yourself and say; How ridiculous am I to be stuck in this gridlock? But we are safe in our glass covered coffins behind those windshield wiper blades.

 

Curtis introduced me to his friends, the people in the car behind us and I greeted them all kindly.

This dude’s got some bangin’ blow. He said it rudely and loudly.

I gave him a wary look and said hello to the hippie girl I saw previously. She was obviously the ‘mamma’ of the clan, the one everyone fucked.  Her name was Trish, and when she smiled at me, her teeth looked like the fuzz on a fresh and ripe peach.  I was a new cock to discover and suck upon.  I knew right then and there, I was going to fuck her. I was going to cut her lime.  We stood in the parking lot of the winery and I asked Curtis to follow me in.  We grabbed a cart and perused the isle of the most expensive red wine.  My eyes were wide and I said to him, Hey look, and he took the snow off my blade.  I did one as well.  We grabbed expensive wine off the shelf, threw it in the cart with no care in the world, breaking a few on the touchdown.  Maybe they were just used to hippies and drunks blowing lines of elephant and breaking bottles of wine in their store that they apparently just did not give a fuck.  It must have been part of their daily routine.

 

The juices from her wet pussy cavity were filling in the grooves of my fingertips as I kissed Trish hard on the lips.  Her ship was sinking as I finger fucked her in the back seat of that little bus.  I poured red wine over her small A cup tits and began to lap it up in between them, moving my cocaine induced tongue ever so slowly towards her star shaped nipples.  She was very affectionate, this one. She liked to receive, and forced her crotch into my face as I blew a line off of her venous mound, through that forest of short and course hairs.  Then I licked the remnants up with my feral vernacular, as she tugged on the nape of my neck, forcing my hurricane tongue closer to her hot clit.  I feasted upon it as if it was Thanksgiving dinner. I ate that motherfucker and made her come and come and come again as she moaned and thrust her capsized canoe into my chin and beard.  She left it smelling like a dank tent after a weekend camping trip.  I took out a little sprinkle of the white magic and rubbed it into my dick hole, this bitch was going to get the fuck of a lifetime, I thought, I had eaten out her hippie cunt, now it was my turn.

I turned her over and buried her rotten face into the greasy seat and slipped my Steely Dan easily into that moist orifice as she said:

Do I feel like a rusty old lock?

Just then, I tore the hinges off the door and fucked her harder than I have ever fucked anyone before. I exited her and grabbed the bottle of wine, took a long deep pull and then poured the remnants all over my cock exclaiming, Don’t worry babycakes, this will kill off all the diseases you’re carrying!  Lets fuck some more!

I took my alcohol-slathered member by the hand, guided it into her port and thrust it deep into her entrails, making her gasp for air.  I was crippling her, and I was loving it. Every second of it all.  She was helpless and weak as I moved in and out of her love hole with the fury of a thousand angry snakes.  This is going to be over soon, I thought.  She was moaning like an injured possum.  Just then, on her last howl, I let it all go.

 

 

 

Nothing survives, she said. I don’t love you anymore.

My hands started to shake, as my mind tried to catch up with the words she just said.

Then the fever set in.  It came on slow like a fantastically good wine drunk; everything is peaches and cream until you drink the last of that second magnum.  What happens then? What comes next?  So you move away and live like a dog in the streets while she fucks all your friends and turns them against you.  You nurse the fever with the ONLY thing you can trust.  Jobs are lost.  Friends become enemies.  Your hand is permanently swollen from punching train cars in the heat of the late summer night.  The best friend you have now is, was and always will be there.  There is nothing you can do to contain it all.  The tears fall like stinging rain.  As you age, you’ve learned nothing. I was wondering whose hot cock she might be sucking.  Whom she might be laying next to, telling him her innermost desires and darkest secrets as she lied to him for fun and faked smiles with counterfeit laughs while he barraged her with witty remarks, and bank account figures.  All the time, looking into those grey eyes.  At least she got free drinks out of it, I thought.  He fell for it.  Just like I did. But I grieve to grieve.

 

 

I spread out a heavy line on top of the seat and whiffed it in one try.  It quelled the fever for a minute or two.  The wine was a merlot from two thousand or two thousand and one.  It was sweet and tasted earthy with a hint of mango.  I took a long pull directly from the bottle.  I held it up and looked at the remnants of the bottle in the moonlight.  Half a bottle left, I thought, might as well put it to good use.  It started to rain lightly and Trish was curled up on the seat next to me under an old horse blanket.  I sat there in the dying minutes of the day, watching the light fade as the rain began to belabor upon the windows of that Volkes bus.  The wine was tasty, as I watched the outside land grow darker with every second.  The shadows creeping upon the hills like untamed serial killers on the prowl, searching for victims to slaughter.  It reminded me of watching a really old horror film with the volume turned all the way down.  Just images to soak in, as the radioactive waves from the television seethed into the blood stream, making us who we are today.  Trish stirred a little, put her head in my lap, and started to caress my inner thigh with her thumb.  I drank more wine, and tried to forget about the previous affair, took another blow from the devil.  The rain started to pelt the van with great intent and began to pulsate on the top of the bus.  I thought about home.  I thought about springtime by the lake and bar-b-q’s with lifelong friends and smelling that warm spring breeze; letting it envelope my lungs as I inhale the jasmine and lavender scented air.  The dog woods would be blooming soon, I thought, the fish and wildlife would be coming out of dormancy, only to find another season passed as they prepared themselves for future endeavors.  I was preparing myself for what was about to come in her mouth as she worked on my hard cock with malicious intent.  There is nothing better than a blowjob in the middle of a rainstorm while half drunk off wine, I thought.  Trish was good, she liked to suck a little and then rim me while she worked up and down my shaft with her small hippie hand, all the while making whimpering noises like a tiny white pet mouse.  She could tell that I was about to come, so she opened her mouth wide and I did not hesitate to let it shoot in there and watch my kids dribble down the back of her throat.  She swallowed, then smiled and said, Lemme have some of that wine to wash it down.  I smiled and took the last sip.

 

She told me that she was a product of the Columbine generation, that she was a Catholic at heart but now practiced Buddhism.  I guess she felt some form of connection with me.  I felt some form of connection as soon as my cocktip entered the walls of her box.  I kissed her on the mouth. She had cum breath.

 

I put my hand in my pocket and extracted the piece of sea glass I had been keeping with me all this time.  I held it up to my nose and inhaled a deep breath.  I could smell the ocean even though it was miles and miles away.  She doesn’t feel the same way that I do about her, and that’s fine, I thought.  But something magical still draws me to her.  She is still out there, making graves.  Conquering it all and leaving nothing but memories of true love and skin on skin; a beautiful place where all is lost, where one can meet their demise.  One minute, it’s love, and the next, she turns on you like a scornful, jealous lover and leaves you washed up on the beach.  Alive, confused, and barely breathing, wondering why.

 

Without feeling she has done this to so many.  But, you still want her in that morning hour when the sun begins to rise.  It’s as if the whole world renews itself in those early rays of daylight.  A new day begins and the ghosts of old, who have haunted the maritime night, have returned to a place that locks them away from daytime manner.  If you are careful, you can see a decrepit vessel on the horizon, sailing straight into the rising sun, disappearing as the waves crash upon your bare feet.   The feeling stays with you as you float like a buoy, the feeling of regret, the feeling of terminality, and then there it is again, the familiar taste of rust in your mouth.  She is whispering in your ear.  She has something special to show you.  The waves crash upon you like shattered thoughts, leaving you dry and alone, like a thunderstorm when you’re young. Like a blizzard that traps you inside.  I guess that is the peril of being fortunate.

 

I was alone and free, to know vice, one must accustom himself with virtue, I thought. Virtue was nowhere to be found.  There was no virtue on Pierce Street.  There was nothing there of value.  No safe place, nowhere to hide. No way to get away from it all. I felt safe under that tattered old American flag, as he came lumbering up those creaky old stairs like some exhausted moose, and I knew what was in store.  The waves, the waves, they come and wash, wash everything away.  Take me to the bottom of the lake we used to swim in.  Sink me deep.  Sink me and let this body, this unholy vessel drown, down to the depths, deep in the heart of it all.  Let me drown.  Let me drown…

 

And when you drown………………………is there a Heaven?  Because I sure as fuck know I won’t be going there.

 

 

She was there.  Crooked teeth and everything.  She wrapped me up in herself, her arms were like a mountain. She smiled and told me that she loved me, but I took it for granted, a chance I missed, a target without a bull’s eye.  We loved each other for a minute or two. The kind of love that you can only find in a bathroom stall.  I was already sinking when I first saw her; she crushed me with that smile and those eyes, throwing me further into the depths. Smothering me with her salty kisses.  It was so hard to breathe.  I looked into her eyes. She was a dying breed I simply could not save.

I just want to be loved, she said.

I was paralyzed by those words, transfixed upon her eyes. I DID love her. I loved her so much.  She was headed for extinction and I was hunting her species and driving them to that point.  It was pure divinity.  She was easy to love.  With her Danish smile and crooked teeth.  I placed her in the back of my mind.

 

Trish found me outside lying down in the mud, clutching the empty bottle of wine, as the rain fell on me from the Heavens, like some extravagantly gargantuan shower.  I was crying.

She said, You’re suffering, aren’t you?

I sat up and put the bottle to my lips expecting a flood of wine to engulf my mouth.  Nothing.

I miss her, I said as I put my head down and stared at the puddle I was sitting in.  I slammed down the wine bottle causing a great splash, sending muddy water all over my shirtless torso.  She just stood there looking at me sadly, as the rain began to soak her naked body.

It was a one-night stand that last three motherfucking years! I screamed.

I slammed the bottle down again causing the same reaction.  She squatted down in front of me, touched my face softly, and then moved her hand up to my forehead.  I stared at the winking eye between her legs.  She kissed me on my cheek and told me it would all be okay.  My hand started to rub her thigh lightly.  She looked me in the eyes.  I was inching closer to her slit, traversing the geography of her body along the way.  It will be okay, she said with a whisper into my ear.  The rain picked up and a wicked flash of lightning illuminated the sky for a pure second.  I felt like a caged dog, some pit bull that was way too aggressive to be around anyone.  I might attack without warning. So lock him away and he’ll learn to be tame.

 

My hand was on it now, feeling for the clit, feeling for her soul.

 

When that cage door swings open, I’ll latch on to the first motherfucker I see and won’t let go until they bash my skull apart.  Should have kept me caged.  You were safe when I was in there.  Now you’ll have scars to remind you of who I was.

 

She was moaning and her breathing quickened.  Another flash of lightning.  I saw the bolt touch the ground in her eyes.  The thunder shook the ground.  It was directly over top of us now.  Two fingers were inside squirming about like trapped snakes trying to escape from peril.  I imagined that she was Sarah.  I could see her through the rain. Her hair and her long skinny limbs quivering with every thrust of my hand as I enter and exit violently.  She kissed me hard on the lips.  She was a beautiful affliction.  She panted hard into my ear and kissed my neck then nibbled upon my flesh here and there.  I took her long blonde hair and moved it from behind her ear and placed my lips where she had a tattoo of a Scorpio astrology sign.

I love you Sarah.

I whispered into her ear as softly as I could, barely parting my lips and using as little air to force the words out.  Sarah turned her head and kissed me hard with full on tongue.  She began to unbutton my jeans and soon I felt my throbbing hard cock in her hand.  Before I knew it, we were back there in that bed that I had made for the both of us in that little house on that dead-end street.  We were dry, warm, and safe.  There was still sand on the sheets from our weekend trip to the shore.  I could feel it as I knelt over her, kissing her belly, and waistline.  She always liked that, me kissing her waistline.  I placed my hand over her left breast, feeling the pulse of her heart flutter violently beneath that flesh and bone.  Pushing the blood through every ventricle until it ends up down below her equator, feeding the nerve endings with fresh oxygenated fuel. She eased me in like an old Studebaker trying to fit into a space made for a compact. Don’t let her heartbeat stop, I thought, don’t let it stop until I’m done.  I was clenching her throat tightly with one hand as I came inside her.  It was just as I remembered it.

 

I woke up to the faint sound of hush mumbling and giggles as tent zippers were drawn open to unveil their occupants for the night.  Trish was next to me, sleeping soundly, half of her body in the puddle we fucked in.  We were both without clothing when the rest of Curtis’s friends spotted us.

Look at the dickey beard on that dude, man! I heard one say.

Then a round of laughter.  I looked down and gazed at the overgrown weeds in my garden of love.  It was thick and undeniably ugly, vulgar and vile, not to mention I had awoken with a half-mast.  I looked over at them and they were all chuckling in their hippie/Grateful Dead garb consisting of ragged jeans and tie dye shirts.

 

I grew up as a hardcore kid and never accepted their kind.  Going to shows and becoming part of the scene was a privilege. Belonging to something bigger than life itself was overwhelming at times.  The drama that came with it all was tenfold.  It was a place for the unaccepted, the outcasts of life. For those who dwelled on the fringes of society.  The scrutinized and made fun of.  The ugly, the sad, the ones who dressed funny because they were too poor.  Growing up, that’s what the hardcore scene was about.  Now it’s about trendy clichés and who you are on the internet.  If you’re not cool, with the right set of eyes, then you are nobody.  The acceptance flew out the window like a scared pigeon.

 

Curtis looked over me and shook his head and said, I knew yous two was gonna fuck.  I saw it in both of your eyes.  I knew it!

I started stroking my manhood and said, Well there’s plenty to go around!

They all looked at me funny.  Half-sad and half pissed off.  I got up and made my way to the van and took out my 9mm Baretta.  I looked up at the sky.  What a glorious day it was.  I checked the clip.  Full.  One in the chamber.  Yes.  Who was going to fuck with me, I thought.  Who was going to fuck with a naked guy with a loaded gun?

Wake her up. I said.

I reached in my bag and took out a blade full of the fine devil, snorted it and went back in time.

She won’t wake up, the one hippy bastard said.

I snorted another one and pointed that ever-loving thing we all call a weapon at them all. They all just stood there in disbelief.

She’s not breathing! Curtis yelled.  What did you do, you motherfucker!

I reached around in the floor of the van and found a half bottle of wine, uncorked it and took a long pull.

Nothing, I guess.

You fucking killed her, man!

I suppose I did.  Who the fuck cares, she was just some dumb whore you were all sticking your dirty hippie dicks in anyway.  You can always find another one on the road and convert her just like the last.

Curtis squatted down next to her and started crying, sobbing. I put the gun down next to me and put on my pants.  Found my shirt and shoes, took another whiff of the white stuff, sat back down, and drank more wine.

You can all do what you want with her now, I exclaimed. She won’t mind!  Go ahead you, over there, go ahead and stick your hot meat into her cold body.  It feels good, lemme tell you.  It’s such a rush when you come into a cold box, it feels like nothing you’ve ever had before.

Curtis stood up and said, That was my sister you twisted fuck!

I looked at him blandly, and with a wave of my hand I said, Sister, whore, slut, cunt, fuck. Whatever you faggots want to call her.  I know you were all fucking her.  She told me. And Curtis, you’re the ring leader of it all aren’t you?

I reached down between my legs and grabbed the nine, stood up and dropped the wine.  I walked over to him as everyone else backed away.  The boy had balls, I can tell you that. He stood there like an unflinching statue, waiting to be cut down by the wind.  I put the gun up to his forehead.  He stared down the barrel like it was some extravagant Christmas gift he just received.

Her suffering is done, I said, and yours has just begun.

I cocked it, and as I did, I could feel the pain emanating off those dry vines from years of being raped of their fruit.  I wanted to burn the world as every god laughed in pure delight.  His eyes widened as I looked into them.  Let the blood spill, let his brain matter litter the moist soil.  Let him feel what she had felt.

 

I lowered the weapon and discharged a round into his abdomen.  Bleed out and suffer, I thought, and walked away as he fell, in slow motion like a stone in brackish water.  I imagined him bleeding slowly as he would drown, inhaling the sweet mixture of fresh and salt water into his lungs.  Relieving at first, then, burning with the intensity of mace, only causing him to breathe in more and more and more until he stopped. No one stopped me.  No one cared.  I sat down and did another blast, thinking about what I had just done, looking at them both laying there like lifeless dolls in the gutter. Forgotten and uncared about.  Welcome to my world, I thought. Fuck it all.

 

 

 

 

 

Alone Again.

Part 2.

 

 

We are filled with hatred for mankind, feelings we cannot control, vices that seem to have their daily grip upon us as we transform slowly in front of that television screen; who we were into who we are.  Lifeless vegetables working meaningless jobs only to pay meaningless bills like cable and gym memberships, going to a certain store to pay top dollar for what is it, “organic” fruit?  We have all succumbed to laziness and the world, in my opinion, would be a better place without it.  We are filled with hatred, only because we hate ourselves and what we’ve become.  Living out our everyday lives in the doldrums and repetition we call safety.  We feel safe, being trapped in ourselves and, anything different will change us and cause a chemical imbalance.  So, we take pills for it, there is a pill for everything these days.  Small cocks, dry vaginas, women with small cocks, men with dry vaginas. Abortion?  Take a pill.  Insanity, loneliness, depression, anxiety and even a pill for, get this- hair loss for women.  But, what if they were all placebos and the whole pharmaceutical world was fooling us, tricking us to buy into this

‘big scheme” of theirs.  I self medicate with bourbon and cocaine.  Sure, I’m still filled with hatred for mankind, but surely you jest, not for myself.  I just hate everyone that I meet.  Self-destruction is a form of cleansing one’s self, and suicide is selfish.  Suicide is the coward’s way out of life of this world.  Take a bite of the fucking apple and swallow it, digest it and then shit it out like the motherfucking rest of us.  People take life for granted.  Life is a privilege that has been bestowed upon you through millions of years of evolution.  There is no God, no divine maker who bore man from clay.  There was no serpent.  There was nothing but space, dust, and a great colossal explosion.  Before that there was nothing. When the big ‘boom’ happened, there were three faces in space, smiling down and watching it all happen.  Hitler, Manson, and Judas.

 

We all self medicate ourselves in some form or another, be it television, pornography, or drugs and alcoholism.  We are modest about it, and denounce it when confronted on the issue at hand.  I always self medicated myself with all of the above.

 

 

I put the match to the wick and lit the flame; it spread light into the darkest corners of the room, illuminating her face.  Her high cheekbones cast shadows under her jaw line, giving her the appearance of some form from beyond the grave.  I watched her undress very slowly, with such seduction that could make a man’s heart stop with heated anticipation.  I was falling deeper into something else, someone I didn’t know.  I stuck my forefinger into the open kilo of blow and asked her if she would like to get numb.  Her ribs were sticking out like some malnourished Ethiopian you often see flipping through channels late at night.  The gospel figure speaking, wants you to send money so he can buy more bondage toys for his underage Ethiopian sex slave girls and boys.  Eight-year-old girls are prime, they are starting to develop, where as four year old boys’ assholes are just big enough for his cock to penetrate.  Any younger and his Christian member won’t fit without the proper lubrication, which will cause bleeding, and rupturing of the prostate and maybe the colon.  The girls, well, they can take it deep at that age, for they are forced to be married to tribal elders who have bigger, stronger, and uglier cocks than the almighty stock broking white man…

 

No, I’ve never been numb, she said.

I stretched her body out over the deathly sick looking blanket, covered with semen stains and period blood.  I stuck my powdered finger in her mouth, caressing her tongue, feeling the waves of radiance emanating off those very buds that receive taste.  She moaned slightly and told me that I had the magic touch.  I asked her for her name.

It’s Lisa.  You’re flaccid, she said, but I can see that you’re a grower and not a shower.

Tell me about yourself before I stick this cock in you and take your life.

I heard someone stumbling outside, fumbling with the lock.  Probably just some random drunk looking for a piece, I thought.

I’m from New York City, she said with a little slur.

Her tongue had become numb from the perilous cocaine.

 

Rewind…

I had met Lisa at this kitschy hotel bar some hours earlier.  I had concreted myself on a stool, drinking cheap tequila and Pabst Blue Ribbon specials.  I could tell, right off the bat, that she was down to fuck.

What’s your name, handsome stranger?

Michael.

Well, Michael means “who resembles god”. Did you know that?

I played along and told her that I didn’t.  She was definitely cute with a side of herpes.

Hey, did you book a room here?  We should go back and party.

How much, I asked.

I like you, baby.

I’m going to stick my cock inside of you and kill you. And then I’ll fuck your cold corpse as I stare into your lifeless eyes and eat your cold dead pussy.  That’s what I’m into.  You into it?

It will be an act of faith. She said seriously.

I kissed her hard on the neck, smelling sweet jasmine as she inhaled sharply and let it out with a deep sigh.

I’m in thirty-two, I said.  Come back with me, I’ll blow your motherfucking mind.

She nodded. I swallowed my tequila, downed my beer. We got up. She latched around me. I was some plaything that she used to know in high school. In the back of the courtyard I used to finger bang. I used to move the crotch of her panties away to reveal that sweet, wet gash kissing her while the next bell to start class rang its obstreperous alarm.  Moving my fingers in and out slowly while the wetness of her cunt lubricated the motion of my hand.  The shuffling of feet moving swiftly by us, as we hid behind tall bushes, their newly sprouted springtime buds barely providing enough cover, allowing me more time to get her off.  Rumors were already being spread.  We would be late for class, but she would come.  Everyone would tell about it later.  I was an imaginary king of the class.

 

I popped my finger out of Lisa’s mouth and stuck it into the open bag of cocaine.  It then became caked with snow and I directly inserted it into her rose bud, that open flood gate, and she moaned with an utter shrill that would have awoken the dead in their long forgotten  revolutionary war graves.  My cock was beginning to take shape.  I sprinkled a little bit of snow on her left nipple, placed my mouth upon that teat and sucked hard.  By this time, she was already on her back and was good and ready for insertion.  I worked the tip in slowly, feeling the rush of wetness between her lips, and then, with a violent motion of the hips, I thrust it deep into that whore’s guts, hoping to damage and scramble some of her internal organs on the way in.  Lisa inhaled deeply, as if she had just been stabbed by the knife of God.  She let out a moan that sounded like a lioness in heat.  A sort of growl, but a playful growl.

You like that? I said. There’s plenty more where that came from you fucking slut.

She looked at me with displeasure before I turned her over on her stomach and re-entered my Polish sausage in her from behind, doggy style.  We were going at it for what seemed to be five to six minutes when I felt the explosion deep in my loins ready to erupt.  I pulled her hair and coursed it around my hand, so she couldn’t break free of my grasp. Here it comes, I thought to myself. Let it happen. In and out, in and out. Hitler was a great dictator. It was only his generals who ordered the mass murders.  Just then I smacked her ass, grabbed her hips, one hand on each side, and forced myself deep inside her as I drained my balls, spreading her cheeks so that I could get every millimeter of myself further and further inside that back door.  Lisa just stayed in that position as I pulled out slowly, her face buried in the grimy pillow, just whimpering like a little school girl who didn’t get her way.  I reached for the bottle of bourbon that was on the night stand next to us.  She turned over, looking at me and sighing with content.  I knelt there on that dirty mattress, looking at her, pouring a little bourbon on my descending cock.

For the diseases, of course, I said to her smiling. The little man needs a drink every once in a while too.

Then, just before I took a swig, I made a promising toast.

To the Third Reich, the best form of government known to man!

 

I awoke sometime in the mid morning to the sound of a screaming child and the faint odor from the beginnings of a batch of methamphetamine.  A disaster waiting to happen, I thought.  I got up, found the bottle, and took a nice long pull.  Alone again, I muttered to myself.  I looked down at the half empty bottle of bourbon in my right hand and said to no one, Well, maybe not entirely alone.  I took another sip, found my dirty jeans and put them on one leg at a time.  I looked at myself in the mirror.  My dirty blonde hair was growing over my ears and I had a two week old beard growing on my disheveled face.  I scratched my beard and smiled, bearing yellow stained teeth that reminded me of canned corn. Auld lang syne, I thought, looking at myself in the mirror as the fluorescent bathroom light beat down upon me with its cheapness and ability to make anything look lifeless and droll.  The sunlight blinds me as I walk along these streets in this town that has no name. What day is it? I thought, what month?  How long have I been in this state of despair?  It felt as if just yesterday I was trying to make her love me.  These little suburban towns were all the same.  They all bared the same themes and same street names.  As I passed block after block, I imagined what every woman would look like if I were fucking them. Laying flat on their backs, the facial expressions they would make, as I plugged away at their useless cunts, leaving them vulnerable and unaware of the dangers I had in store. Chivalry is indeed dead, I thought as I passed a little corner bar, back tracked and decided to pop in for a drink and a sit down.  The place was cold, dark and empty, just like any good bar should be.  I sat down on a stool and soaked in the surroundings like an old, dirty sponge.  There was only one other patron in there, down at the end of the bar. Loser’s row, we all used to call it.  That’s where all the good fighters ended up after the title bout.  When you lost it all: the jobs, the girls, the living quarters, this is where you come to find solace and peace of mind.  People often feel pity for these lost souls, but not me because I’m just another regiment in their army.  I heard a door creak open and a man lurched through the door way.  He was an older chap, overweight and looking like he hadn’t gotten a piece in a while.  He was wearing two things that struck me odd; a crudely made eye patch that he fashioned out of cardboard and a red rubber band.  The patch had a picture of an ‘eye’ drawn on it that always looked to the left.  I assumed that he had a severe lazy eye and that he wanted to be remembered for it.  The other thing was a small stuffed parrot that he called ‘Weezy’.  It stood on his shoulder: Lifeless and rigid, like the bartender’s own cock.

What can I get ya? He said in a gruff, almost mechanical voice.

How long’s that guy been here? I replied.

Oh, Harry? He never leaves.  He’s my best customer.  He hit it big and pissed his money away on the roulette tables in Vegas.  After that his wife left him and he’s been drunk ever since.  Poor motherfucker had a looker too.  Rumor has it she’s doing porn and suckin’ cock all the time.  She’s supposedly big in the industry.  Some wild bitch that’ll do what ever they want.

That’s a nice bird buddy.  Gimme a bourbon and water on the side, would ya friend?

Name’s Weezy.  Well, not mine, but his.  They call me ‘Lefty’.  Wild Turkey okay? All I got right now.

That’ll do the trick.

Lefty and I started to shoot the shit and before I knew it, he was sitting on the stool next to me telling me his life’s story pouring free shots into my glass.  He was a good guy.

Lefty grew up on the east side of Baltimore, poor and impoverished.  The one eyed bastard lost his eye on a fishing expedition one day with his father.  I could tell that he was a tough motherfucker, just by his body language and how his mind sank deep into the memories.  He latched onto some form of hatred like a monitor lizard, sinking it’s teeth in deep, injecting the bacterial saliva that will shortly course through ones veins.  Just one more sheep in a whole line waiting to jump over that fence in dreams, I thought. Just one more sheep.  We are all barnyard animals waiting to be slaughtered at some point.  Our flesh, only to be digested by some higher power.  But, us as humans, we are at the top of the food chain, the top of the world.  We are perfect gods and we don’t even know it.  We take life, give birth to life and consume with wantonness.  We trap and conceal what ever we hold dear to our hearts.  We want to contain wildness, but keep ourselves free.

 

The whiskey is evaporating out of the bottle when you don’t screw the cap on, I said.

Nonsense, have another slug on me.

I did.

He did.

We both did.

I looked over at the end of the bar and Harry was gone.

Early night for him, Lefty said.  Usually I just let him sleep it off.  I’ll come in and find him sleepin’ on one of the pool tables.  So you said you were in love?

Yeah, she didn’t have the motherfucking god damn heart to finish what she started. The intestinal fortitude.

 

Just then, I had visions of myself marching up and down the main street of Anytown U.S.A., with a picket sign in hand saying; CUNT.  YOU DIDN’T FINISH WHAT YOU STARTED.  I would shove it in some unsuspecting lady’s face saying:

Look what I have become!  I am nothing!  Throw me in the river!  I am just a single breath you look for as you sink to the bottom!  She didn’t have the courage to finish what she started!

Horror would ensue as the city exhaled its carbon monoxide.  We all get high. We all die. But life goes on.

 

Lefty was jibber- jabbering about torn off limbs and land mines and tropical jungles and military tactics when I stood up and said I had to piss like a motherfucker.  I was starting to come down, the taste of rust was in my mouth again and it reminded me of being born. The bright lights. My mother looking at me in disappointment.  Where’s the other one? She said.  I was a fraternal twin, but somehow, I survived and became the disappointment. My sister died at birth.  From that point on I was nothing but a static object, a meaningless circumstance that my father would later on call a ‘mistake’.  But, aren’t we all just ‘mistakes’?  No one really ‘wants’ to have a kid.  Unless you are some fucked up hippie or a rich fuck who can control space and time with hundred dollar bills and government funding.  Well, then I guess you deserve to have a fucking little brat run around acting like the next George Bush.  One more sheep in the herd.  And the wolves are getting hungry, aren’t they?

 

The taste of cocaine is like waiting for a breakdown to happen.  It’s like the search for god.  It’s like digging up a freshly buried corpse and fucking it over and over again.  The flesh still kind of warm, room temperature from the funeral home.  A smile perfectly implanted on the face of the deceased as you penetrate every motherfucking orifice.  Who cares? They’re dead.  It’s not the first time you’ve done this.  You hear the flesh rip and tear as you thrust it in violently, in the eye socket, the shotgun wound, the severed throat, the elderly vagina. Ninety-eight years young.  Suicide victims deserve to get fucked after they are buried.  Even though it feels like day old pizza, you still fuck the living shit out of it. Nothing like corpse shit on your hard cock.

 

I wiped the top of the toilet tank off with the front of my shirt.  I removed all of the dust and pubic hair and kidney stones that the hoards of drunks had previously left from the night before, days before.  Nothing matters but this right now, I thought, as I cut out a hefty line of raw.  I straddled the toilet like a porn star executing the reverse cow girl, and bent down slowly, inhaled the drug, and let it envelope me with all of its charms and glory.  It was like the rush of the flood, like kissing with your eyes wide open and seeing it all happen, like breathing in the salt air on a July afternoon.

 

I couldn’t remember her face, but I could sure as hell remember how her pussy felt.  Those moist lips on my cock, the ripples of her vaginal walls.  It was like driving down some unknown street, looking for that porch light burning, trying to decipher those house numbers in the dimly lit light.  She was a curse, a one night stand that lasted too long.  She was the bane of my existence.  Another line, then another and another.  I was thousands of miles away from what I used to call home as she twisted the knife, and left me with this burden, this unsavory taste in my mouth. The blood and vomit to clean up on a trampled carpet after some high school keg party.  A life to rebuild like some fucking bombed out building after a terrorist attack.   I was left to clean it up.  I was just left.  There.  Another line, another, and another.  Six lines.  Seven lines.  A hundred lines.  It didn’t matter.  Nothing mattered.  But when did it really?  Feelings come and go like trains in a freight yard.  Feelings of loss, pain and doubt.  We meet our soul mates on the street everyday.  Passing them, brushing shoulders, eyes meeting for a second’s glance.  Unaware of the lives we used to share.  I heard a shuffling of feet and I looked behind my shoulder only to find Lefty standing there in pure wanderlust.  His single eye huge and gleaming like some Christmas star atop some fake plastic tree.  Surprised, I cleared my throat and quickly threw the coke in my bag, got up and tried to exit the stall.  He stood there staring at me with that eye, one arm blocking me.  I was caught, I was fucked and I knew it.

Give me some, he said.

Not for sale, buddy.

I don’t want to BUY any, he replied sternly, I want some and you are gonna give it to me or I’ll call the police.

Blackmail.  Always a useful tool to receive what one asks for.

Okay you one eyed fucker.  I’ll give you a blast.  But don’t go blaming me if your heart fucking seizes up like a worn out old engine, blame the almighty motherfucker up stairs.

I’m as dead as you, he said, now break it out.  Let’s go.

The look on this man’s face was serious, as if someone had lurched ahead of him in a cafeteria lunch line.  I could feel the heat emanating off of his skin.  Or maybe it was my own internal fire.  I poured out a good bit on the counter next to the sink, cut it out into two lines.  Addicts call these railroad tracks, or rails.  I handed him a short length of a drinking straw.  Lefty took it, inserted it into his right nostril and inhaled, moving his head to the right, following the rail until it was gone.  I did the same.

Where did you get this shit?  This is mobydickulous!

Oh, don’t worry.  It’s absolutely pure, uncut.  I acquired it from some Mexican with a fucked up face and a crude sense of humor.  More?

He shook his head yes.  I dumped some more down and scraped, chopped and cut, sniffed.  Lefty started in on a story about when he bought that bar.  How nice and beautiful it was and in such a nice section of town it used to be.  Now his bar sat on the fringes of the same town and no one wants to come out this way except for the old time regulars who are still loyal to the Budweiser and Pabst Blue Ribbon.  He said that he tried to give it a make over one day.  He went all out and furnished the place with fancy lighting, a DJ, even karaoke on Wednesday nights.

No one came out then, he said, I nearly went bankrupt.  No regulars, only a few college kids on Wednesday nights for the karaoke.  I can remember one fellow in particular.  He had a large afro and when he got up on the stage to sing his song, he would start off talking about gas.  The price of gas, how he had gas, he was always smelling like gas.  I used to call him the Gas Man.  It made me laugh every time.  Soon enough, they were gone too.  What’s a man to do?

It’s a rough motherfucker out there, I said as I handed him the straw.

I’m just an old man who served my country, I bought this bar and I don’t know any other way.

Well, I said, at least you have something to hold onto.  Shit, I got nothing.

Lefty slumped down against the wall and looked at the other side of the room with that thousand yard stare.  I had just gotten finished blowing another rail when I looked over my shoulder and found his fat body on the floor shivering and convulsing.

Oh shit!  Oh shit!  He’s overdosing! I thought it but didn’t actually speak it. My brain just kept screaming it into my skull over and over again at full volume. I ran out to the bar, found the phone and dialed 911.  It began to ring that monotone ring until this old lady answered the other end.

911, what’s your emergency?

Hurry!  He’s overdosing, send someone!  He’s fucking dying!

Calm down sir, who is dying?

Lefty, you snide cunt!  Send someone now!  The National Guard, police, fire trucks!  Send them all!

Sir, please calm down and tell me where you are.  What is he overdosing on?

The south side of Baltimore, no wait that’s where he grew up.  I don’t fucking know where I am!  What day is it?

Sunday.  So, you are… how do you not know where you are?

Cocaine motherfucker!  Too much to fast!  Send in the troops!  Send captain America! We need them down here stat!

First I need a location, please tell me how to find you?

Just look for the angry mob, I’m the guy with the picket sign held high!  Just look for the word cunt in thick, bold, black letters!  You can’t miss me, I’m out there right now protesting that she be murdered for what she’s done.

I was making no sense what so ever.  The cocaine was mixing with the adrenaline, causing hysteria and mild shock, making you say and see things that are not happening or even there.  I heard ringing in my ears that seemed to be getting closer and closer.

Sir, sir! Are you there?

Gotta go sister.  The mob is shifting, the tide is coming in.  Our feet are getting wet.

Sir? Sir……

I hung up the phone and looked around for something to help him, anything.  I found nothing.  I made my way back to the bathroom, and found him there foaming at the mouth. His single solitary eye was now rolling in the back of his head.  He was heading for the final stage.  I started to try CPR.  One hand over another pushing on his chest with as much force as I could muster.  I checked for a heartbeat.  Nothing.  I started to beat on his chest with my fist.  Again, nothing.  The ringing was getting closer.

I don’t know how to do this shit! I screamed.

I left him there to die.  In his mind, he was already dead.

 

I got up and went back out to the bar.  I opened the drawer to the cash register.  Only a couple of hundred in small bills.  I lifted the tray and found a few hundred dollar bills and a stack of twenty’s.  I shoved it all in my bag along with as many bottles of liquor as I could fit. Five, ten?  I can’t remember.  The sirens showed up.  I heard car doors slamming. People talking, radios blaring.  I looked around for the back door, found it and kicked it open.  I took one last look back to remember it all.  They were already starting in.  I exited without being known, and ran out into the night. Never to be heard from, never to be seen in that town again.

 

The moon was full and off in the background there were random flashes of lightning illuminating that part of the sky.  There was a storm coming.  I could hear the lonesome sound of a freight train in the distance as it lumbered down some desolate and forsaken rails to nowhere.  I was forsaken and forgotten.  Like some little row boat lost in the middle of the ocean, miles and miles from the sight of land.  I was on the fringes of society.  An outcast whom no one would save.  A reject, a loser who had it all and then lost it in this journey we call life.  The modus operandi; drown your sorrows in booze and drugs.  Nothing else matters.  Pussy is always there, and it comes and goes like the seasons.  Pussy is nothing more than an operative word, just another hole to stick your cock in for the night, or in my case, three and one half minutes.  If I make it that long. The women of my life have always had something to complain about.  Materialistic cunts bitching about one thing or another.  You don’t make enough money, one told me. I need my ninety dollar jeans from my favorite store.  You drink too much, the other said. Why don’t you slow down?  My response was this; why don’t you speed it the fuck up then? You can’t get me off when you eat my snatch.  You’re horrible at it.  Well, that one I’ll have to admit is true.  I have never been a materialistic person.  Money means very little to me and I don’t need a job for monetary gain.  I enjoy the simple things in life.  Cold beer, good booze and loose women.  That’s my modus operandi.  I took a left down some street and came across a large super Wal-Mart.  I decided that I did indeed need to let loose some of this urine in my bulging bladder and stepped through the automatic sliding doors, as I made my way inside the belly of this beast.

 

I guess this is what happens when you are alone on a Saturday night.  People walk through stores late at night down isles full of things we don’t need.  Canned soups, vacuums, dog treats, and cured meats full of preservatives.  I made my way over to the beer and liquor isle, found a forty of Olde English, cracked the cap and started slugging it right there in the store.  We are nothing beneath these fluorescent lights, I thought, as we peruse through shelves stocked with dish towels and fragrant soaps.  Tupperware and fish food.  Electric toasters and motor oil.  We take comfort in these things as we try to forget the day to day macabre.  The horror of actually being alive.  Then, after we buy our five hundred dollar Dyson vacuums and three hundred dollar blenders, we go home and masturbate aimlessly and meaninglessly to videotaped cocks and cunts performing lewd acts for a barrage of cameras, performing for the whole fun loving world.  I guess, in all reality, we gave it the good fight.  I’m half way through the forty when some single mom eyes me up with the come fuck me look.  I imagined what she might look like sucking on my cock as I pulled her hair and made her gag on my thick pulsating member.  But, it’s the ones who lose it all who really never gave a good runny shit about what they could have won.  They gave it up in the first round, threw in the towel.  They were trapped in the absolute insanity of it all.  The materialistic values they were raised on had become their prison cell, a cage. And the heretic was money.  The almighty American dollar. It can buy you anything but happiness boys and girls, and don’t you forget that.  I could hear the rain pelting the metal roof of that titanic super warehouse store.  I went up to this old grand ma and asked her why she was here at one thirty on a Saturday night.

I needed toilet paper, she said.

She had a whole cart full of items.  I toasted her and took a slug from the forty.

I guess the next step, I said, for these super mega stores, is for them to open up an adult section.

Oh, that would be nice, she replied, I need another Ron Jeremy replica, mine is all worn out.

Oh, you like big cocks huh?

Sweety, I’ve taken more big cocks than years that you’ve been alive.

I was enamored.  I contemplated taking her on.  Her old frail body, sagging tits rubbing me in the face with calloused nipples from a lifetime of wearing cheap bras, as she rode on top of me, taking it all in.  Her tight old, putrid pussy crumbling to dust as I pound away at it. Jack hammering into her mine shaft as her dentures fall out from the force of my cock pounding and pounding that ancient, mummified snatch.  Fucking the old, in my opinion, is just like fucking a corpse.  They just lay there like a dead cod, with eyes that stare straight ahead at some unseen object.  Not moaning, not moving the hips to the undulation, just staring at nothing. We justify ourselves, I thought, through lies and false truths. Our hearts give it away as we speak.  The old broad offered me a night in her ‘fun house’.  I told her I had other plans.

 

As we walk down filthy garbage littered streets, we keep an eye out for that simple thing, that one true thing we call happiness.  It’s there.  It’s just hiding, that’s all.  We hustle past the human filth, day by day, decade by decade.  We press on to our dull meaningless jobs, only to pay bills we can never afford, and luxuries made by our fellow man to make us lazy as we evolve into some form of sloth.  The peril of being unfortunate has transcended us all.

 

My bladder was about to explode, the forty had not helped quell the incessant fever that I had in the kidney region of my body.  Fuck it, I thought, I’ll just piss right here, right now.  I took it out and pissed right there on the white speckled floor.  I pissed right on corporate America, the heart and soul of the corn fed, inbred, working class fakes.  The wanna-be winners, the white trash heroes who help feed the Wal-Mart monster.  The monster who has put small mom and pop stores out of business, after years and years of serving their community with a handshake and a friendly smile.  Yes, I was pissing on the floor as American dreams flew out the window. I pissed on shelves full of useless products. I ran up the isle and pissed all over the old lady’s cart, drenching her items, telling her to look at this behemoth, this white whale.  I ran to the front of the store, and pissed right there, leaving a lovely yellow puddle as it spread and crept towards unsuspecting customers’ feet.  And no one seemed to care.  It was as if they had seen it before, as if they were used to it.   I finished and took the empty forty bottle and smashed it to the ground.  When you love someone, I thought to myself as my foot crunched on the clear broken glass, you must love that person no matter who they are or what they have done.  You must love that person with everything you have, with all of your will.  Love them for who they are.  She didn’t, no matter what I did to try and make her love me. Good boy’s never coming back, I thought, as I put my dick back in my pants.  I wanted to break into those dark houses along those cliché streets and rape teen age virgin girls that don’t know any better. Mothers who bake cookies for the homeless, fathers who secretly have online dating profiles. Little brothers who masturbate in the bathtub.  I wanted to rape them with a twelve gauge shotgun.  My cum shot would be the end result of me pulling the trigger.  I wanted to destroy corporate America, the media and the internet.  I wanted an earthquake to happen so that it would send a tsunami so intoxicating, so powerful and violent, that it would wipe California right off the globe.  I wanted to eat flame.  I wanted to see people suffer and die in the rush of the flood.  I wanted everyone to drown like I had in those last few months.  I wanted everyone that I saw to gasp for air. I wanted to consume flame.

 

Back home the trees would now be in full bloom.  Large broad leaves on the limbs of every deciduous, pulling their branches toward earth, heavy and lush and green.  I was not used to this landscape out here, it was different.  Rolling hills with sparse vegetation turned into flat fields with migrant workers using hand tools to cultivate the ground, turning the soil.  Small towns and small lives not modernized enough for the bustle of the semi-urban streets that I had grown up on.  Back home I could lay my head down at night and hear the SEPTA trains lull me to sleep as they were taking the last of their passengers home for the night.  Back home I could still feel his hand gripping the back of my neck. Squeezing so tightly that I would see stars.  But, for some reason, he doesn’t remember doing any of that.  He never did and never will.  Back home the world was still turning for everyone else.  I sold my soul to the devil and I couldn’t steal it back.  I have become someone I don’t know.  There was no back home.  Just bad memories and broken dreams and lies.  The ones she told me while we lay together in that early morning hour.  All the false I love you’s and all of the fake smiles and all of the filthy kisses she gave me after she just sucked my boy’s dick and swallowed his load.

 

Betrayed.  Forgotten.  Alone.

 

I have always been alone in this world.  No one to console me when times got hard.  Wait, that’s not true.  The bottle has always been there, feeding my every need, feeding this machine that has become what alcoholics anonymous would later redeem, “someone to avoid”.  I was someone who everyone should avoid.  Back home it was all gone, washed away in the deluge.

 

I entered a late night diner that sat on the highway a few miles out of town.  It was surrounded by strip malls and gun stores and speeding cars driving to nowhere.  I found a corner booth and looked out into a dark sea of asphalt that will never be parked on.  I imagined this place in all of it’s Sunday splendor.  The hustle and bustle of waitresses working hard to satisfy, like some crude porno film, only this one had old folks and kids playing the main part.

 

Then there she was.  Shining like a polished mirror in the sun.  An absolute horrific nightmare.  Her voice scratchy, like an old record.  She took orders and gave them as well.  She was beautiful and sensual, floating upon the floor like some awkward figure skater about to lose the Olympic gold.  She stood there and scooped out week old ice cream that had already melted and re-froze ten times over.  She fetched burnt, late night coffee for truckers and bums.  Absolute strangers wanted her, their eyes glued upon her heaving tits, her supple ass.  She was common and cheap; like finding a penny sitting there on the lonely side walk of life waiting to be picked up and loved, if not forever, then for just one single stitch of time.  I watched her every move and studied them.  She had a machine’s precision.  Perfection at its finest.  She looked back and smiled at me and I thought, Oh god. I ducked my head under the table and stuck my blade into my bag and inhaled deeply.  The rush was prolific and before I knew it, she was upon me.  Her smile reminded me of a car crash. Of a thousand piranha just gnawing and tearing away at the flesh of the unfortunate who fell into the river.  I was the unfortunate one.  She caught me staring at her as I wiped the post nasal drip from my leaking nostril.  She asked if I would like coffee and I asked for her name.  I was surprised by the viscid Russian accent.

 

Marishka, she said, do you want anything off the fucking menu or do I need to stand here and babysit you all night?

For a moment I envisioned myself lying next to her as she talked, soft and full of neglect, her voice entangled in Russian and broken English.  Her face, was beautiful.  As beautiful as a pristine beach covered with crude and littered with dead, rotting, oil covered water fowl.  I imagined myself lying quietly next to her on some dingy hotel bed massaging her back, working on her smooth skin with my rough, calloused hands, making her moan in delight as I work out every knot.  Soothing every fibrous muscle that she possessed along those sensuous shoulder blades.  I would caress every scar, kiss away every tear that she had ever cried and tell her that it would all be okay if she would only let me know her.  I would run the bath and fix her something to eat, let her spend countless nights in my bed. But, she was a distant galaxy, plump and buxom with unknown stars and constellations. Undiscovered and unknown.  I wanted to turn all of her childhood dreams into a lavish and beautiful film and make her watch it over and over again.  I wanted to rescue her from everything.  A funeral kept both of us apart.

No, I’ll just have coffee, thanks.

I lacked the courage and the heart to speak.  I took another blast of the devil and poured a little bourbon into my coffee, ‘southing’ it up.  I was a bridge no one would cross, an act of desperation that would end up failing.  An ultimate tragedy.

An epitaph that no one would read.

A lost love poem meant for someone special.

A seed that never grew.

A child who learned the word hate too early.

A prayer that God ignored.

I knew right then and there, I was never going home again.  My father was right.  I was a mistake.  And somehow I had to pay for it.

Her eyes were sad and full of pain as they met mine.  They were trying to conceal desperation behind all of that blue.  I could see the reflection of autumn in them, the season of dying, and I tried to convey the same exact feeling of loneliness and loss.  I don’t think that she felt the connection.  I wanted to say to her as she poured another go round of piping hot coffee into my ceramic cup; Hey come spend the night.  I’ll make you feel happy. I’ll rub your tired, sore feet. I’ll kiss you until your lips get sore.  But these words, just like the three words that so many cannot say, just could not exit my pursed lips, the wound that was indeed my mouth.  I found myself sitting there doing more blow.  Befuddled, bewildered and unaware of the dangerous creature.  The flies hovered over me like great seven forty sevens waiting to land, just so they can let that annoying drunk-as-shit-bastard off the plane.

You are pretty, I muttered desperately.

She just gripped the coffee pot tightly and walked away with what one could only assume to be either pride, disgust for all men, or just pure unresolved hatred for the entire human race.  I couldn’t tell either way.

 

What the fuck was I doing in this blaze?  The shadows from the remarkable flame that I had started danced upon the walls of that shitty fucking diner.  I watched it burn and thought, What a beautiful thing.  The Russian waitress brought over my check and as she turned away, I watched the flames crawl up her back like miniature demons, looking for the heart. The heart at times is worth more than gold.  I peered through the billows of smoke and caught a glimpse of Tiger Woods on the television.  He was doing some interview on some late night shit show.  The host of the show laughing maniacally at every joke Tiger spit through his perfectly straight and white teeth.  The flames were now consuming the ceiling.  There was a couple in a booth across from me, eating that week old ice cream, holding hands and smirking at each other as they spoon fed it into each other’s mouths.  They did not seem to care that they were about to die.  Tiger woods looked slow and self- medicated; almost as if he just got done a five week whiskey bender.  I knew the feeling all too well.  His actions reminded me of a cheap puppet.  His smile: FAKE.  His brand new clothes: straight off the shelf of some expensive high end store.  All top shelf Nike golf gear.  The smell of plastic burning, flesh falling off bone.  Cheap formica flaming. Cakes and pies, gone. The cash register was melting away into a gooey puddle of white plastic, metal parts and dollar bills.  And they all just sat there accepting it like a cute and fuzzy puppy they had gotten for Christmas.  Unaware of the consequences and regrets they would encounter down the road.

 

We are the prowlers of the earth, the gentle cock rising, stiffening, with only one thing in mind: THE FINISH LINE.  We eat, we breathe, we shit, we fuck and eventually, we die. Brainless insects we are, bounding from port to port.  Hovel to hovel.  Feeling no pain, no remorse or relief, just the occasional satisfaction when we have an orgasm.

 

I knew there was only one way out.  Through this conspicuous inferno.  I had to tuck tail and run like a wet dog in a hailstorm seeking only a hint of shelter.  I had to make a break for it.  The odds were against me and I knew it.  I was a horse that no one would bet on.  I took another blast and finally broke free.  Freedom was only the beginning.  Losing was the consequence.  And I knew quite well that soon enough, it would eventually happen.

 

In the morning I found myself face down in a back alley somewhere, in limbo, with a hand stranded in a puddle of dirty rain water.  I was in some town that I didn’t know.  The trees were alive with song.  Birds chirping and whistling their individual tunes, welcoming the oncoming spring with every heave of their tiny breasts. There was blood on my shirt and on my hand. A lot of it.  I moved my leg in the malevolent gravel and felt a searing pain.  I looked down at my calf only to witness an oozing gash as wide as the Appalachian Valley. How the fuck did this happen? I thought.  The events were unclear, trapped in a fog.  The morning air was humid and drenched with dew.  One could indeed cut it with a dull blunt blade.  I looked around at those surroundings and thought about my childhood and how I grew up in a town not too unlike this one.  Then there I was-

 

lost in the darkness, running away from the daily beatings as the thunder rolled on and on like some cannon in the distance, coming closer and closer until finally the rain became loquacious and drove me home wet with fear and disappointment.  Facing my father used to be my biggest fear.   Now, I’m not afraid of anything.

 

I opened my eyes and all of those memories were gone.  Disappearing like some speeding car, shiny and fast, down that long and lonesome highway of my mind.  I stood up and picked gravel out of my wound, wincing with displeasure, cursing all mankind.  It began to bleed and I just let it hemorrhage slowly.  Fuck it, I thought.  I heard something rustling in a trash can behind me and I jerked my head to find out what it was.  I heard a grunt and a squeal, and then, more rustling.  I walked over slowly to the disturbance.  I heard a long, wild squeal as I lifted the lid off the can.

He looked up at me and said, You wouldn’t believe what people throw away these days! Here is a perfectly fine tooth brush!

Harry, what are you going to do with a tooth brush?  You’re fucking pig.

Yeah but when I get turned back into my former self, I’ll need one!

That’s fucking gross man.  Where would you even keep it?

I’ll tie it to my back and maybe use it to clean out ladies vaginas while they’re sleeping. Give ‘em a surprise to wake up to.  Me scrubbing their clit and squealing like a banshee!

I need a drink. What the fuck are you doing here? I said as I looked around shaking my head.

 

My throat was abnormally dry and the pain from the fault line on my leg reminded me that I can still feel, I am human after all.  I felt a little bit ‘alive’.  I sprinkled a little bit of coke to numb the wound, then took a blast to the head to celebrate that I was indeed alive. All around me, I saw broken glass, like broken memories littering the ground.

 

Then another one disrupts the barriers of my thoughts.  Sea glass that had been washed in from the previous tide, lying there, shimmering like diamonds in the rising sun.  Diamonds waiting to be cheapened and placed into wedding bands only to be bought by some poor bastard who would offer this cheapened silhouette of the real thing.  He offered it with all of his heart, to the love of his life, only for her to reject him and say ‘no’.  Love can be strange and ominous and beautiful and callous at times.  People put their trust into one another.  They kiss, they laugh, they smile, they hold hands, and do not ever for one second realize what the outcome will be.  But one day, they find out the one they have wanted for the rest of time is interested in someone else.  Someone new, someone you have never met and never will.

 

I am nothing but the garbage of life.  There is no antidote for this disease.  Please someone teach me how to swim in this mess, this landfill.  I am a rape victim, a cold life.  Simplistic garbage waiting to be picked up at the curb.  Life is cold.  My heart is cold with no potential to ever love again.  Just potential to hate and hate myself.

 

I had to react fast and leave this place, this wretch of a filthy alley way.  It was a dirty vein in this unknown town.  Every house I set my eyes upon was an open tract mark full of puss and infectious disease that would never ever heal from years of neglect and abuse.  I looked in the windows of every house around me and instantly hated everyone I saw.  Mothers getting their children ready for school, fathers tying their ties only to impress their corporate counterparts and assume they would cry with jealousy.  Why wasn’t I the one with the happy life, I thought, why was I the one with the broken heart running away from the very thing I used to love?  Every single person was a single cell in the immune system of life trying to combat infection. The disease of being dirt fucking poor and they all knew that it was futile.  It was indeed a losing battle.  But me?  I was a single cell on some serial killer’s tongue, above every one of those dumb, brainless, ignorant fuckers.  They were just a disease, a sickness with no cure. Just simple molecules trapped in a great body of water, and here I am a cell, not a molecule, on the tongue of the great one, sitting there waiting like some age old serpent.  The tongue I rest upon flickers like candle flame in a grave yard hour as he hunts and preys upon the weak in the cool spring time night.  I will taste blood.  I will rise to the surface and consume wild flesh.

 

Harry trailed behind me as I walked through town.  No one seemed to notice him, or his grotesque, high pitched squeal.

What’s the matter, Michael? He said. You seem down and out, lost in a storm of feces?

I long for the ocean, I long for her to wrap her salty, watery waves around me and tell me every secret.  I need her to confess to me every soldier she has ever taken out of love in the heat of combat. Of every weary soul she has ordered a shark attack.  I want her to wash away every memory of every past love I have ever known.  Every hour, every minute of my existence with those women, well, most of them, ‘girls’.

Girls?

Yeah, you know, immature cunts.

Ah-ha, I know exactly what you’re talking about, he said and then let out a very, very, loud grunt.

I need a MILF hooker, I said in response to his erroneous grunt. I’m serious Harry, you wanna use the tooth brush on her while I fuck the ass?

I know just the place, he exclaimed with a shrill squeal, follow me!

I followed that little pig fucker down one street and then the next until we were close to the highway.  The ‘Pig Pen’ it was called.  A truck stop/strip joint with cheap beers and even cheaper whores who would pop their herpes sores on your semi hard dick while you’re almost incoherently drunk and use the puss from the wound as lubrication to slide it home as you score the game winning run. Only you played the odds and have to pay for it in the very end.  It was a synopsis of everything America stood for.  A young boy’s fantasy, an old man’s desire.  The middle aged men came there because their wives had become a dry well, useless in the sex game.  They had become boring and the hunters were looking for new meat to kill. To penetrate, a new hole to stick their hot throbbing excrement into.  A hot, taunt, young, twitching, pussy that did not look like the lunch meat sandwiches their wives packed for them.  The Pig Pen was full of them.  The eyes glued to the tits shaking, ignoring what song was even playing.  The eyes fixated upon and lusting the ever present mound of wetness between their legs as those taunt-skinned girls work on that pole like some massive erection trying their best to make it come.  Dollar bills rained upon the best of them through the haze of cigarette smoke. Every cunt stripper picking them up in delight through the moves in her routine, shoving the contaminated money between her tanned skin and the tight panties she was wearing.  The filth from hundreds and hundreds of hands touching those same bills leaching into the pores of her skin.  But she loves it, she desires it, they all do.  They’d take it up the ass for a dollar, I thought, and that’s what I was willing to offer.

 

I had tucked Harry into my shirt pocket and when I looked down I could see his eyes looking at the stripper’s tits, glued to them like some evil parasite.

They are nice, I told him. Firm and not too saggy with small brown nipples.  Ripe to suckle upon.  Hitler would have approved of these tits.  Every women of the ‘Great Race’ would have been gifted with them, these manufactured breasts made from tripe, and leathery utters.  Tough skin filled with the body fat from slaughtered overweight Jews.  Permanently dyed brown nipples affixed with tiny blonde hairs, implanted into the pores around them like some early Rogaine for men experiment.  Only this was Rogaine for ‘The Great Tits’.  Hitler had his visions, and just imagine what they would be like today.

Harry gave me the ‘what the fuck’ look.  I just pushed him back down in my pocket and ordered another beer.  It was a dark place, this haven for disease and lust and the objectifying of women.  I took a snort from my bag and plunged into a dream…

 

 

Part 3:

Driven Out by flame.

The air was sticky, sweet, and moist as I stood in the stillness. I did not take a single breath. It clung to my tongue like nectar; freshly produced from pistols and stamens. Vivid flowers opening up in the wine colored night only to be pollinated nocturnally by dispassionate moths.  There was not any presence of the unexplained here.  No paranormal activity.  Not God nor Satan. Just the thing we all miss the most:  Justice.  We miss it because we all choose to dwell in our disaster day by day and slip into the pitfalls of despair.  Just abnormal creatures looking for a sound place to rest and sleep as the public train of life moves on and on, from stop to stop taking our money and getting us off and on again and again.  We choose to do nothing about the ongoing punishment that life has inflicted upon us.  In fact, we beckon the beat downs.

 

I stood there still – like an erect cock – gun in hand, shaking.  Listening for a sound. Any noise that might make me want to flee from this wretched place, this lowest part of the bile filled stomach in which nothing digests.  It only gets stored there to become the thick black tar that eventually lines the walls of the colon.  That’s what this place was.  An abyss.  The Marianas trench.  The closest to purgatory that anyone like myself would ever get.  I heard a chorus of moans and the creaking of some loosely put together bed.  The undeniable sound injecting my ear of some underage sex slave getting fucked in the ass.  A brutally enormous member penetrating the ‘exit only’.  No lubrication in sight, just pure lust for the finish.  No wine and roses, only hurting what’s dear inside.

 

I moved closer to the destructiveness going on inside.  I cocked the hammer on the nine.  I put my ear to the door.

Beg for more you little cunt, a man’s voice said.

More, more big daddy.  Give it to me harder!  Please!

Work for it, now put your mouth on my dick!

I recognized those voices but had to think of what their faces had looked like.  Never attempt to board or leave a moving train, I thought.   I kicked the door open and saw it all happening before my jaded eyes.  Ed had his cock in her mouth. Big Joe was there in the corner stroking his small, Mexican penis.  Julie was receiving and gagging.  I stood there with the gun in my hand, shaking.  In the corner was a video camera recording it all.  Ed exiled her mouth. Big Joe took his plump hand off his needle dick. Julie screamed and covered herself from the chest down with the sheet.

No need to do that, baby, I saw all your torn up lady parts already, remember?  I was inside of you, all eight inches tearing up your uterus and broken womb.  Now get over there and shut the fuck up.

How the fuck did you get loose? Ed yelled as I watched his dick twitch with every beat of his heart and, eventually, wither like a scared slug that had just been showered with salt.

 

I could feel the sweat coating the handle of the gun.  Slick as ice, like some freshly painted wall, tacky and new.  Like cold steel making the tips of your fingers numb with every soft caress.  Like the touch of some new unknown lover.  Like the American flag around your neck, choking you with every fiber that was woven by some unnamed  source.  You are hunted by the American dream, a dying breed.

 

I placed the Baretta to his forehead gently and asked him if he knew the meaning of suffering.  No answer.  I forced it into his mouth and asked him again.  I could see the fear in his eyes, along with the undeniable disgust he held for me.

I was just another one of ‘them’ he said.  A poor miserable fuck looking for tight young pussy.  A pedophile, a lover of children.

Funny little thing about Hitler, I said. Is that while trying to create the master race, the prettiest and staunch humans on the planet, he would only eradicate the Jew and the Pole.  Well, because they, their kind, had, haha, big noses, and beady eyes and dark hair. He would put them in a communal shower, naked as the day they were born.  He thought that by putting them in there naked, it would cleanse them of all their previous sins, making them pure.  If they were pure then they were granted eternal life in the kingdom of Heaven.  If they got into Heaven, well then, he thought he was doing no wrong and saving them the pain and toil of daily life.  Do you understand what I’m saying to you Ed?

I saw a single tear roll down his cheek.  I bent down to whisper in his ear, The storm is coming.  And now it is too late to stop it.

I know you, I know who you are. Big Joe said. You’re that guy who stabbed my brother. That guy with that country bitch who started shit at that bar.

I smiled and said, Well, he deserved it didn’t he?  Just like you deserve it.

I pulled the barrel of the nine out of Ed’s mouth, just like he pulled his big hairy cock out of Julie’s just minutes ago.  He let out a deep breath.  I lowered my wrist just a fraction of an inch, squeezed the trigger slowly just like daddy taught me how.  The hot bullet entered the skin into the scrotum, tearing it in two.  He bent over quickly and cried in agony.  The blood began to puddle, making a terrible mess of fried sperm and loose floppy ball skin.  Vas deferens don’t look too good out of the shrink wrapping.

…And then they turned on the gas, I said.  Most of them dyed from being trampled upon, the strongest ones clawing to the top of a pile of the elderly, of children, just so they could purse their lips and get one last breath of air that seeped into a tiny window five feet above their heads.  The gas only came out enough to scare them.  See, in Hitler’s mind, he wasn’t killing them at all, they basically killed themselves.  When it comes down to it, we are all animals and it’s merely survival of the fittest.

I turned to Big Joe and said to him, Now let’s get down to business.

 

With every pull of the trigger I saw her face, her smile, her gray eyes haunting me with sadness and deprivation.  I was a giant in them.  An unexplainable time when two souls entangled each other in their own temptations.   God was once again, moving his tongue.

 

I placed the barrel of the weapon to Ed’s crying face, asking him why he would  transport  underage teens to this place.  Why would he be so cruel and heartless and unforgiving.  Our eyes met through the stillness of the air, and then, without warning, I completed the wantonness.  For a moment, I felt the same way Perry Smith felt on that snowy day, handing out shotgun facelifts to everyone in that house like they were hundred dollar bills.  I wiped the spray of blood off of my face with the back of my hand and turned to Julie.

Defeat is a word I never knew, but Hitler did.

I swung my arm and pointed the gun at her.  She was the blaze in the room, consuming every last little bit of oxygen.  She was the inferno that I once held, her eyes wet with tears. The true American form.  The tragedy that we all think about before we close our eyes and go to sleep.  She screamed and cowered in the corner.  I walked over to her and lowered the gun to her ear.

Hear that? I asked her, that’s the sound of justice.  You’re free Julie, you are finally free.

I went from room to room and found various girls tied and chained.  Some half conscious and bleeding.  My hands shook as I untied ropes and undid various tie down devices and chains.  Once again I had that familiar, incessant taste of rust in my mouth.  One of the girls asked me who I was.

Me? Today, I am God.

 

I stood there in that dying light of the day with Julie.  We watched the plumes of smoke rise high into the atmosphere as the home she knew for three years began to burn to the ground.  There was one thing I never noticed before on the roof, a very proper possession: the American flag.  How ironic, I thought.  A simple symbol of freedom perched upon a place that imprisoned so many.  We shared a blast of the devil and some bourbon.  Then another and then another.  I felt sorry for her.  A corrupted soul who was just looking for food and shelter.  Instead she found iniquity and sorrow and misfortune.  Another good one lost on the left hand path.

 

The left hand path always takes us to places we’ve never seen before.  We choke on the embers of bridges we have burned, and those bridges are reminders of what we’ll never have.  We choke and choke and choke.  Then we suffocate on the preciousness, the cracks in the side walk, the roaring of the early morning alarm clock. The suspense we try to find in the working day, we choke on our broken hearts.  We choke because we have to.  I looked up at the stars and told Julie to watch it burn.  She told me about her former life; a life full of childish dreams.  Of Sundays by the pool and when she would collect rocks, turning them into charms for loved ones and relatives.  She was like an abandoned thrift store, full of useless items and memories.  The memories we always try to forget.  It was a game of chance with her, and I had no real skill.  Just an offering of drugs and cock.   She was more than ten years my junior and she was a poison asp, coiled and ready to strike.   A tight young thing with a very pretty smile.  I could make her mine, I thought, I could find a place with her and settle down and keep her.

 

Keep.

 

 

I could never keep anything.  Everything that I touched withered or turned to stone.  I am a dead sea. A heart where no blood flows through it. A dried field of hay waiting for a spark.  Like the good old American flag waving in the freezing December wind.

Julie stood up and kissed me hard on the lips.  For a second, I wished the fire would spread back to Pennsylvania just to consume, devour and swallow everything I used to stand for.  The hard luck kid who never seemed to have a chance at life finally made it out of that house, off that street, and finally slipped from his repugnant grasp.  There was no longer that taste of deteriorating metal in my mouth, no taste of rust; only worse.  The taste of something sour, like a pussy that hasn’t been washed for a week or two.  I had to think of something sweet and took a sip of bourbon.  It was only Julie’s cum slicked tongue on mine that I tasted as she tried to felch me with my own semen.  I pushed her off me and spit the wad out of my mouth.

What the fuck did you do that for? I yelled.

I wanted to thank you for saving me.

By spitting MY load in my mouth?

Some guys like that, she said, I just thought you might.

She smiled and said, Would you like more?  She laid on her back and started to rub herself through her pink panties.   I stood over her and watched her for a moment as she watched my cock rise, still dangling out through the zipper of my dusty jeans.  I threw the bottle down and went into my bag and said, Wanna get numb?

 

 

 

…I threw the bible in the trash.  That’s right, I threw the good book, the word of God, what ever you want to call that wretched fucking piece of fucking swine shit right in the God damned trash can.  I didn’t care what might happen to me next.  Maybe the righteous motherfucking finger of God will plunge through the clouds and strike me down.  I hope so, I thought.  Harry had left me high and dry again.  This time I needed answers.  I needed to know how I wound up from the strip club to here.  I plopped my sore body down on the dirty mattress and reached for the bottle of whiskey standing on the floor like an ominous being, a ghost, a phantom, next to me.  I poured two fingers worth into a dirty, lipstick stained pint glass.  Neat. No ice.  I always loved it.  The taste of whiskey that is.  Even when I was a child I loved it, I even loved the smell of it.  That fragrant fruity aroma of stale cigarette smoke mixed with cheap Canadian liquor.  When I smelled that on my father’s breath, I knew we were all in for a night of pure terror.  I swallowed down the two fingers worth, just like I swallowed back the tears from incessant lashings from his leather belt.  Auld lang syne, I thought.  I guess I had met her the night before, at the Pig Pen, and now, here she sleeps next to me in some foreign bed in some once again what the fuck town.  I tried to remember the incidents from last night but, the only thing that I could definitely remember was eating and chewing on something bitter, some form of a pill.  I hope she’s not fucking ugly, I thought.  She was snoring and her face was buried deep into the pillow.  I drank some more of the whiskey and scratched my balls, for they itched and burned something fierce.  I let the whiskey traverse down the long filthy alley way into the depths of my guts.  Guts that are ripe, foul, wicked and decaying.  I took a good gander around at my new surroundings.  There were bloody knuckle prints on the walls deviously aligned with holes from a foot.  I looked down at my fists and saw that they were an incredulous match.  The blood had dried and caked upon every knuckle and over every wound that they embellished. A scab had already formed.  Trash was on the floor; papers and clothes strewn all over as if an F-1 tornado had played it’s little part here.  What exactly had happened? I thought.  How long have I been staying here?  I looked in the mirror, only to see a cross on my forehead, like the one you receive on Ash Wednesday transferred to my skin by some maniac.  It was indeed ash as I wiped it off and tasted it.  Then, just as I looked back into the mirror and spit off the ash from the tip my whiskey tongue, I remembered what happened a few nights before.

 

I had eaten something called “Belladonna”, and now I remember what it was.  An extract from the Belladonna flower, a poison that makes you trip, extremely.  But this was mixed with ‘E’ to balance out the potency of the effect.  The guy who sold it to me was scum but he explained it to me generously.  He told me that I would trip like I never have tripped before and cum so fucking hard that I thought my dick was falling off deep inside her cunt.  Somehow, I managed to trade him a bit of coke for that evil pill and I should have never taken it.  I could remember how the whole trip started:

 

I was dogmatic, sinking through the waves of belief, into that open wound.  I was connected to some massive beating heart, looking down on all life. Pretentious life in fear that they themselves were weapons of mass destruction.  Malthus was there, in that room with me, whispering into my bleeding ears, asking me to succumb to the ever burning flame.  The tide, then rushed in to sink me further down through the abyss I call my mind.  Nothing mattered more to me at this time.  My face shrouded in black see-through cloth.  My eyes burned from the smoke, thick black smoke from screaming trees, dying.  A forest being chewed upon by infinite fire designed by Satan himself.  There was not enough water in all of the oceans combined to extinguish the blaze.

 

 

I walked a few steps to the toppled over mini fridge and opened it like an old birthday present.  Shit, there are beers in here, I thought to myself, as I gripped upon the neck of one and uncoiled the cap. I downed a few swigs as I kept on recollecting the previous events.  I must have delved into the depths of despair.  I remembered it clearly:

 

I was in truly rare form, a vicious snarling beast tearing apart everything in my warpath.  I started to hate the whole motherfucking world, mankind and everything around me.  I started to tear apart, rip apart, everything that my barbaric hands could grasp.  I was violent beyond the meaning of violence.  A monster with horrific, superhuman capabilities.  First, I picked up a small television up over my head and threw it through the window, letting it land on some unsuspecting passerby on the street.  I ran up to the mini fridge and drop kicked it square on its side, toppling it over and then asking it if it indeed had enough.

 

More whiskey to drag the life out of me.  Wake the fuck up you cunt, I thought.  You snoring piece of shit cunt. The bathroom was even more fucked up.  It looked as if there had been some cop versus vigilante shoot out in that cubicle of a pisser.  Jagged pieces of porcelain coated the floor like teen age abortion fluid.  Obscene and disgusting.  There was a trail of blood leading to nowhere on the worn out carpet.  What DID exactly happen? I thought, as I whipped my cock out and pissed into the hole where the toilet used to be. I saw the bible laying there crippled and worn in the trash can.  I picked it up and began to read a passage from its shitty pages as loud as I could with whiskey bottle in hand.  She stirred a little, I kept on going.

 

My lips spit out the verse and I remembered her.   She was dark but not ‘midnight’ dark. More of what the southerner’s call a ‘high yeller’.  She had nice, full, pink lips, with a nice curvature of a body.  Her curves reminded me of a hillside I had once sledded down as child.  Supple, sweet and manipulative.  All women are, I thought.  They take what they want and leave you with nothing but your limp cock in your cramped hand.  Men are just suckers, willing to fuck anything with a hole and a heartbeat. A walking, throbbing nutsack full of cum just waiting to let it explode on some petty face.  After that they wash away the flood and nail us to the driftwood cross.

 

More whiskey.  My liver is calling 911 for an ambulance.  More whiskey and then, I charge up myself with a taste of the devil.  It sends sparks to my head, enveloping me with its mad ways, torturing me to take more.   At that time, I couldn’t remember my name.  I could hear her stirring and then she sat up.

Get out you black cunt!

I screamed it. She sat there looking at me with wide eyes, her amazing tits bearing perfect nipples just sagging there smelling the breeze.  She asked for whiskey, something to drink.  I looked her over.  She looked as if she was running some sort of fever, or maybe the sweat breaking on her brow was from the fear of my manly presence.

Lemme has some mo of dat fine ass whiskey you dumb ass crackah!

Well, now you’re speaking my goddamn language, aren’t you?

I poured her another round as I sat down on the bed next to her.  Her miraculous, perky tits were exposed and undeniably ready to be suckled upon.  I was getting hard.  My cock was twitching a little and I felt a little pain down in my kidney region.  She handed me her glass with a tiny cough and asked for another.  What a fucking disgusting whore, I thought.  But I liked them this way.  How was I going to work this?  How was I going to fuck her again and then, just get rid of her?  She lit a cigarette, a Marlboro red.  Her supple Africanesque lips pursed a little and out exited the smoke like some winter time chimney.  She smiled and said to me, Do you remember last night?  You was fun.

I took another sip of whiskey.

She blew out some more smoke from between those supple lips and smiled again.

I smiled and said, Well, how fun was I?

I poured myself another fix of whiskey, did a blast of the devil.  I was feeling very confident.

She laughed and said, You don’t remember?  Well your ass should.

Right then and there she lifted up the sheet to reveal the writhing, twitching, scarred up piece of darkened crudely made want to be man cock between its legs.

Look at my Preakness, it said.

 

I was once again drifting, passing from one place to the next like smoke rings in the dark.  No rides came. No angels came to save me from the unholy darkness, the ghoul that I have become.  I was certain that I was indeed blacklisted from every state I had previously stepped foot in.  I was a downcast, a reject.  I longed for the ocean at that moment.  I longed to feel her waves tickle my skin.  I longed for another near death experience with her.  For her to take away the sun and the air in my lungs. For her to make me feel like the coldest day in January…

 

I grabbed a long shard of glass from the broken window and concealed it in my hand.  It was laughing at the whole thing.  I guess it is funny to trick someone, I thought.  I sat down on the bed next to It.  I grabbed Its parts loosely of course and It said, That feel good bay bay?  I did this for about thirty seconds or so, letting It sink into the realm of pleasure, that good old feeling.

Relax, relax, lay down on your back, lemme take care of you.

It started to moan and wriggle like a freshly caught fish.  I looked down at the puny, black, erection and laughed.  It’s eyes widened and said, What so funny?

With a swift tug and a short pull, I cut those motherfucking borrowed cock and balls off with the transparent piece of window glass.  It screamed.   Not an easy procedure hacking at dark flesh with a piece of glass.  It just lay there crying like the bitch it was born to be.  I stood there in front of It laughing, holding the freshly severed member dangling between two fingers.  I threw the balls against the wall and watched them bounce, then fall into the dirty mess that I created.  I took the ‘cock’ and threw it out the window.  I watched it fall to the street and lay there to sizzle like sausage in an open flame on that hot concrete next to the cheap television.

Why? Why did you do that?

Because I did.

Call an ambulance, I’m bleeding!

Would you like me to reference you as a he? No, not now, haha a SHE.

I looked out the window and tried to disregard the Mariah Carey howls.  Hitler was right, chocolate isn’t so sweet after all.  Down on the street I could see a stray tabby cat licking the oversized tootsie roll.

You better go down and claim what’s yours before it’s too late. I said.

Just then the mangy cat looked up at me as I stood there perched in the broken window, like some bird egging it on.  The miniature beast picked up the severed tie and quickly scurried down the street looking for somewhere safe to devour it’s freshly acquired meal.

 

 

 

…I walked alone down the highway, under the night sky pondering what it would be like at home.  Back home I would be worrying about getting simple food stains out of my forty dollar button downs.  Now I look down at the breast of my shirt and see blood, vomit and whiskey stains.  Is that a pussy juice stain?, I thought.  I know for sure that one is period blood.  Just look how dark red it is.  Then again it may be barbeque sauce.  I was definitely unsure.  Back home the weekends would be filled with sleeping in till eleven and then waking up to only find myself bored and pissed off while we toured the most expensive stores in the local shopping mall and then after that, trying to keep my sanity entertaining simpletons who she called friends feeding them gin and tonics and crackers with a thick, salty substance topped with a thinly sliced cucumber.  Back home I was on a set schedule.  We only had sex once or twice a week and it was always on the same day, in the same room, in the same position as she lay there like a dead fucking cod.  And drinking during the week was a no-no.  Only on the weekends from now on, dear.  Well, fuck that, now I can fuck and drink and blow lines and fuck and drink and blow lines and fuck whenever I want to.  I was born into this demon world and a demon I shall be.  The path is clear to follow through.

 

I saw headlights behind me approaching closer with every step I took further away from them.  But, somehow they caught up with me like an old ghost or a warrant you forgot about.  I was like a humble dwelling; ready to accept anyone at any time.  Who the fuck was I to refuse a ride out here in the middle of the night, in the center of anonymity?  The Germans did indeed, not win.

 

They were a lovely pair, a mother and daughter team in an electric blue mustang, straight six, three ‘o five.  It purred like a freshly born kitten straight out of the alley cat womb.  I liked the style.  It was ballsy.  The window rolled down by a hand crank and a face showed through the darkness, lovely like a peach blossom, like the glowing embers in a camp fire.  She asked me what the fuck I was doing out here all by myself.  I did a whiff of the elephant and she said, It’s going to be that sorta game, huh?

Where are you ladies going? I asked.

Bakersfield, they both called out.

The door opened and I climbed into the back.  I could see the scales poking through her tight white blouse.  I was in the presence of the legion.  Hitler would definitely approve of this ride, I thought.  Jesus was dead.  God is impotent.  God made Africa out of malice because he couldn’t get it up enough to penetrate (penetrate is such a dirty word) the blessed ‘virgin’ Mary.  I guess I’ll go to hell, I thought.  The both of them asked me where I was from.  I told them and in unison they both laughed.  They were high priced ponies, with manicured nails, expensive shoes, but not gaudy like the Jersey shore trash wanna-be’s I was used to.  These broads were different.  They had respect, for themselves and those around them.  Both of them adorned dark brown chestnut hair.  I caught them passing a flask full of unknown liquor to each other.  I could only assume it was scotch, and when I asked for a bite, I was exactly right.  I imagined what they both would look like laying on their back receiving my facial.  Mouths open wide, no camouflage to hide.  Just myself dumping it out of my tiny little dick hole onto their precious little faces whilst their tongues accepted it like Easter candy on that oh-so-holy Sunday morning.  Their eyes were an emerald green.  Lips full, as well as the tits.  And, from what I could tell from the back seat, their legs were long and slim.  They could have been identical twins, except the mom’s face was aged like a brick wall that received too much sun.  The daughter’s though, was as tight and as ripe as a ready to be picked tomato waiting to be devoured.

Bakersfield is roughly a hundred and fifty miles or so, and then after that, it’s on to L.A., the mom said.

 

I did another blade full of devil and offered some to them.  The mom, Amanda, declined but the daughter, Tori, accepted it like a fiend.

Where are we? I asked.

We are in the heart of Napa Valley, Tori said.

I looked at the clock on the radio.  1:30 A.M.  I slunk myself into the back seat, listening to the tune that took me back.  Bob Seger’s “Against the wind”, a timeless classic from the seventies, a lost gem that simply slipped through the cracks in the pavement only to dwell with the rest of them in the depths with the trampled upon lowlifes and worms and filthy soil.  A gruff, middle aged voice came on the radio, “That was Bob Seger with “Against the Wind”. A timeless classic that was featured in the movie “Forrest Gump”.  If you haven’t seen it, well then I guess you’re a loser.  Up next and on the way we have Golden Earring and The Who.  Don’t go anywhere, this is the Mysterious Dave talking to you all out there in La-la land and always playing those late night classics.”

Ooooo, his voice sounds sexy, Amanda said.

He’s just another walking nut sack full of useless cum, I said, so where are you two ladies from?  Amanda eyed me in the rear view but Tori was agile and quick and witty.  I offered her some more powder and then a little for myself.

Kansas, she said, we’re on a move out here.  Figured we’d see the sights before we hit L.A.  Where do you hail from…. we never got your name.

I watched her lips move with every word.  I imagined ramming my hard cock in and out of that mouth while her mother watched and rubbed her clit.  Hitler was a fag and only enjoyed the usefulness of pre-teen boys.  He never felt the warmth or slipperiness of a tight snatch.  He would rather have a dry, puckered boy anus instead.  But, he did lead a devout army and influenced tens of thousands to follow his words.  Words, that could have changed the world in which we live in today.  It was a dangerous game he played and for a while he was a god, a dictator who could have stolen the world and transformed it into something we might have loved.  Tori turned around to face me and unbuttoned her blouse a little, showing me a fading tattoo of a shooting star and the edge of her small brown nipple.  I took the flask out of her hand and uncapped it, took a good pull.  She leaned in between the seats and reached for my crotch and started rubbing me through my jeans.  The blood started to fill the veins as I expanded into greatness.  Tori noticed this and focused on it, licking her lips.  I slunk back some more in the seat and pushed my hidden erection right up in her face.  She smiled and knew what I meant by it all. Her mother was watching it all in the rear view as she commandeered the vehicle down that lost highway into the deep dark night.  I could see down her half unbuttoned blouse, into that bra, into that milky white area of flesh.  She wasn’t hiding anything, and she didn’t have to.   It was just enough to make me harder and excited enough to see what they actually looked like out of that brazier, underneath that tight white lace. Her delicate fingers started to pull down the zipper slowly, millimeter by millimeter.  I was like a strong crane, ready to lift anything.  She pulled me out through the slit in the crotch of my jeans.  My cock just stood there like some forgotten statue, stiff and waiting to be loved.  Tori looked me in the eyes and said, Holy shit! She caressed it up and down as if she were caressing her own body, slow and sensuous.  She rubbed the head of my dick with her thumb, working the dick hole, making it tickle, using the lubrication of my pre-cum on the rim of my swollen head.  Her thumb was like a god send, sending me off into the upper echelons of pleasure. She knew exactly what she was doing, and I was enjoying every motherfucking second of it.  Then, I felt the warmth, that ambience of a warm cavern.  Her lips were working.  The mother was watching.  I thrust my hips into her beautiful mouth as she bobbed her head up and down up and down with grace and vigor feeling her lips traverse the length of my digging bar.  “You better you better you bet….” poured through the speakers in the back seat.  I fucking hate The Who, I thought.  Tori was blowing me and as she did I blew a line off my switch blade.  I reached into her bra and grabbed those tits, took the nipples between my fingers and rubbed them gently.  She hummed on my cock.  A tune I thought I might have heard before, but I wasn’t sure.  With her mouth still working on my flag pole, she started to unbutton her shorts.  And before I knew it, she was on top of me, guiding the hardness into her already wet and swollen pussy lips, like some tree limb or some newly acquired plastic black cock from some unhygienic sex shop.  I was a life once lost.  A burning example for the masses.  A shining cock in the face of the whole industry.  Her pussy was tight, like a carved out niche in a stuccoed wall, like a bug filled crevice in a rotting log, like a wash cloth lubricated with Vaseline.  I gave it to her and she received it like a broken package on Christmas day.  In and out.  In and out.  In and out.  Tori took me out of her pussy, spit on my dick and slowly, eased it into her tight, plump, wretched fucking asshole.  She exhaled with disbelief; with the way I gradually inserted my love handle inside of her anal cavity and then took my time to induce pleasure for both of us.  She reminded me of Anne Hathaway.  Squatting down on me with those tits in my face, that dark hair enveloping me, her soft supple lips upon mine, taking every breath away as I push myself deeper and deeper inside.  I took her feminine legs and placed them on my shoulders, giving myself the opportunity to drive myself deeper inside.  Her pussy felt good between that tear in the leotards.  I moved it slowly, in and out, and I could feel the semi-virgin creases that were still there before she could fuck countless men.  It felt like fucking an arrangement of flowers.  Amanda was still watching when my face contorted and I blew by load.

 

We flew into Bakersfield doing about ninety-five and I asked Amanda if she could stop at the first liquor store she saw.  Tori was in the backseat with me, her head on my lap, sleeping.  I eased my jeans on and buttoned up my shirt as Amanda pulled into Ed’s Liquors.  The mother and I both entered Ed’s and immediately I went right for the bourbon and grabbed a couple bottles of cheap port.  Amanda procured a bottle of rum and a two liter of cola.  She stood in back of me in line at the register and kept smirking at me.

I know that smirk, I told her.

It was hot watching you and my daughter, she whispered in my ear.  I wanna show you something later.

I shook my head yes, paid for my things, and got in the front seat of the mustang.  I was blowing a few lines when I heard the driver’s side door open and Amanda plopped her ass in next to me.

Can I have one? she asked.

I obliged with a nice big, fat rail.  She inhaled it easily and said, Fucking takes me back to the seventies man.  Disco, blow, and cock was all we needed back then, you know?  I shook my head in approval just before I took another rail.  I took inventory of my stash.  I had almost exactly a kilo and a half left.  How our years and our youth pass on, I thought.

So what do you do? She asked.

I’m a writer, a drunk, an addict.  I’m on my way back to California to the pacific.  And after that I may just turn back and head home.  I’m not sure though.  Home is just too far away anymore I guess.  I don’t know if I can even go back there. There is nothing left for me there. I’ve burned every bridge I crossed.

And… You left because she broke your heart?

How did you know?  I mean, how can you tell?

Because you said all that with such sorrow and regret.  You didn’t fight for her and you know it.

I sat there in silence as she cut me to ribbons.  I took the bourbon out of the plastic grocery bag, uncapped it, took a good one, and then handed it to mommy.

I tried. But some people just can’t be swayed.  You can sway critics and bosses and when they know all about you, they feel sorry for you.  They show pity.  But a lover, someone you cherish, they can’t be swayed.  Because they fell in love with the person you were when they met you.  And they expect you to stay like that for the rest of your life.  People change over time.  Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse.  But if you truly love that person, you must give it the good fight.  Because if you can’t, then it’s not even worth trying.

Amanda just stared straight ahead as she flew down the highway.  I could tell that I had struck a nerve with those words.  I reached for the volume knob and tried to turn up the song but she stopped me with a soothing touch of her motherly hand and said, Allow me.  It’s one of my favorites.  Through the airwaves and out of that car radio leeched a timeless song, Neil Young’s “Heart of gold”.  We both just sat there looking into the night, beyond the darkness, at that oncoming double yellow line, pondering the song, the notes, the feeling that it was giving us.  For myself, it seemed to sooth me, reminding me of wooded hills and gurgling little streams.  Of early morning sunrises when the clouds take on that orange hue from the newly rising sun.   Of windy days out by the lake, laying in tall grass just listening to the breeze as it whispered it’s lonely secrets into my ears.  For a second, I felt like nothing, and that’s exactly what I was.  Just some drifter in some lost car looking for paradise.  Looking for an answer to questions that do not even exist yet.  A meeting ground where I can find solace.  But I only conjure Hell and beckon the demons that prevail inside of my body only to drive me on further and further until I am finally done.  I rolled down the window and let the cool night breeze traverse its way into my lungs.  I was a slave to it, that heavenly radiance.  I took another swig of bourbon as Amanda lit a Marlboro red. I could see from the glow of the cherry that she was once like her daughter.  There was a space in her heart that she wished she could have back, a deep void that was left by a lover or maybe a lost love.  Now there was nothing to fill it but maybe a single brittle strand of hope that she might find someone out here in California.  Someone that won’t drown her or push her away or better yet: abandon her.  She just wanted someone who truly loves her for who and what she is. Don’t we all? Don’t we all just want acceptance?

 

I almost deep throated the neck of the bottle as she hit a speed bump pulling into the parking lot of the hotel.

How’s this? She said.

For what? I asked as I wiped bourbon off my face and shirt.

We only drive at night.  Less traffic.  Wake up Tori, I’ll grab our bags.

I looked in the backseat at Tori.  I rubbed her pussy and she stirred, opening her eyes and squinting as if she was looking into the heart of the sun.

It’s time to get up, I said, we’re going to sleep here.

Where are we?  How long was I asleep?

I have no clue where we are.  You fell asleep way before Bakersfield.  You just passed out.

She put on her panties and leaned over, kissed me, and said, Next time you have to do me from behind. I like it hard.

I kissed her back and as I did her mother opened the door saying, Okay you two, time to settle in.  We both exited the mustang, grabbing various bags full of liquor and clothing and cocaine.  I stood there, watched her button up her blouse, and slip her jeans on over those long slim legs.  She must have been about five foot ten with firm c-cup tits.  She could have been an actress or a model but not a ballerina or a dancer.  Her figure had that hourglass shape, wide hips, and just an ass that was a little too big for all that agility.  We grabbed our belongings and followed her mother to the room.  She had the key, Amanda did, and opened it gently and slowly as if expecting someone to be inside.  They both stepped in before me, turning on all the lights, looking under the bed, in the bathroom, the small closet and then, Tori went to the door.  She locked it and positioned the security chain on the door, making sure no one could get in.  Tori stood in front of the door, barricading it and said, Under no circumstances are you to leave here until we do, Okay?

What is this? I said.

Mom, should I tell him now?  Her mother nodded yes.

We are on the run from the witness protection program.  We are fugitives from Miami. Well, not exactly fugitives.  My father is a large drug cartel.  We had a hand in getting him convicted and because we did, they put us in the program.  The feds placed us in some small town out in Montana.  We couldn’t take it, so we ditched it and ran. Now we are here.

Amanda sat down on the bed, opened the bottle of rum and made herself a drink with the cola.  I lay down on the bed next to her and tried to take it all in.  A mother and daughter duo on the run from the law.  We all had something in common.  I sat up and said, Who wants to do some devil?  They both looked at me and smiled.  I grabbed my bag, took out the half kilo, and dumped a small mound on the nightstand.  I took my old driver’s license out of my wallet and started to chop it up into lines.  Tori took the room’s clock radio and put on some music.  I found a dirty dollar bill in my pocket and rolled it into a tight tube, and offered it to mommy first.  She bent her head down and whiffed a big one. Tori walked over and took the rolled up bill in hand, placed it to her nostril and blew one as well.  Next, it was my turn.  I took the biggest one, inhaling it into my lungs with one deep breath and exhaling with such vigor and potency.  I felt like I could swallow the ocean.  I felt like I could walk through a brick wall.  I opened the bottle of port and passed it to Tori. She took a nice long gulp and motioned me over to her. She started to shake her hips to the music blaring from the cheap, exhausted clock radio, and then started grinding her crotch into mine.  I looked back at Amanda to find her blowing another line and sipping at her drink.  Tori handed me the bottle of port and started unbuttoning her blouse, unhooked her bra and reached for the wine. She it from me and started to dribble it slowly in between her luscious tits.  I placed my mouth between the two of them and lapped up the erotic liquid that flowed slowly between those two supple mounds of fat and flesh.  Then it all happened so quickly.  Amanda was behind me, feeling for my cock inside my dirty jeans as I kissed Tori on the mouth, the taste of wine and cocaine and pure infatuation making me hard and ready to come.  Her mom started to take my pants off, exposing my throbbing, stiff erection and took it in her hand, working it so finely with all of that worldly experience.  She was gentle, and used the right motion, the right speed.  Tori turned me around slowly and walked to face me alongside Amanda.  They both got on their knees and started working on me, slow like honey, a noble man’s dream coming true.  They took turns.  One working the cock while the other fondles the balls and sometimes taking a testicle in the mouth, suckling on it like a newborn piglet on a teat.  They would switch off frequently, sharing and sharing and sharing.  I took them and gently placed both of their mouths on my shaft, watching their lips meet as they worked it, one on each side.  Tori took her hand and started using her middle finger on her mom’s pussy.  Amanda started to hum and I could feel the vibrations from that through my cock, making more blood dump into it, making me harder.  I watched them do it in unison, like they had practiced it all before, their lips touching, heads moving together, fingers going in and out of holes, cunts dripping with vaginal extract, waiting for the hard cock.  They both popped off my dick and walked me toward the bed.  I looked at Tori and said, I already had you, is it okay if I do your mom first?  She nodded her head in approval.  I laid Amanda down on her back, kissed her and eased it in, inch by inch, as she gasped.  I could feel her cunt twitching, opening and closing, making herself looser and tighter, unsure of what to do or expect.  I was in and working that pussy slowly like some card game at the casino. I was going to get what I wanted.  Tori placed her hot crotch over her mom’s face and I watched her native tongue lick that clit with eagerness.  I thrust it deep inside of her maternal fixation and then grabbed the port wine on the nightstand next to me.  I dipped my finger in some of the devil and placed it in Tori’s mouth.  She began to moan; either from the rush of the blow, or from the reception of her mother’s caring tongue. We switched positions and I let the daughter receive it from behind, doggy style, while she swirled her tongue around Amanda’s hot gash and the temperature I left from the cajoled friction.  I took the wine and poured some into mommy’s mouth and then drank some myself as I entered, exited and re-entered Tori’s plump pussy again and again and again.  She felt like a freshly opened can of warm baked beans.  Wet, and hard to get into.  I exited Tori and bent down with her to use our tongues together on her mom’s gash.  Amanda said she was about to come and then two seconds later she did.  The whole time I was going down on her mom Tori was stroking my cock keeping the train on time.  I saw them both kissing and it made me hotter.  I was ready and I told them both to lay flat on their backs and open their mouths.  Just as they did, I knelt over them and let just a little squirt into each of them, and then, dumped the rest all over their tits.  As I came, Tori was fingering her mom’s clit and Amanda was fingering her daughters.  When I saw this, I stroked my cock again and had a second orgasm.   Just like that, it was all over.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I finally awoke, Amanda and Tori were long gone.  They only thing they left behind of themselves were memories of the previous night.  I checked my bag.  Everything was still there.  The coke, the bourbon, my pistol and oddly enough, a half bottle of the port.  I unplugged the wine and took a good pull then I stood up slowly and stumbled to the bathroom.  I looked myself over in the mirror.  I was a fantastic mess. A westbound drifter with little to offer but a few jokes and a crooked Pennsylvania smile.  I had no love left in my heart.  Only dreams of who I used to be.  Can I ever go back there, I thought, to that place in time when I actually cared?  When life actually meant something to me?  When love did as well? I looked at my face in the mirror and said aloud to anyone who was listening:

I am exactly what you wanted me to become, dad.  A burning example for the hate generation, another lost soul on this ship of fools.

I punched the mirror with such force, that I went right through the glass and into the interior of the medicine cabinet sending shards of mirrored glass all over that vulgar, tawdry, second rate hotel bathroom.  I looked down at my trembling fist and admired the blood as it began to drip all over the tile floor.  I picked out a few pieces of the mirror from my skin and tossed them in the sink, hearing them clink and clank as they meandered down the drain and disappeared.  I never really appreciated the sight of my own blood until I became what my father would deem me as a ‘man’.  I learned what it meant to ‘earn’ an honest dollar out there on the construction site.  Bleeding meant that you were working hard and earning your battle wounds under that hot summer sun.  After the day was done you go and do what all men must do; you tour the bars, the clubs and hotels that contained the lonely hard working American swine who complained and bitched like ovulating women about their day. You drank copious amounts of liquor and beer and fought everything in sight including each other. We were crushed by the guilt of not making our lives better, of being losers and not finishing school and succumbing to the American un-dream.

 

I grabbed one of those bleached white hotel towels and wrapped my hand up in it.  The wounds were superficial and the bleeding would stop soon enough.  I took the expired credit card out of my wallet and scooped out some powder from the half kilo, dumped it on the nightstand and began to form it into lines.  When I lived with my friend Chris, he called cocaine ‘Devil’.  He said that it brought out the devil in us.  He was right.  One night, we did so much blow together that we must have told our life stories to each other three or four times in the course of three or four hours.  As I took a line up my nostril and into my precious lungs, I thought about those days in that tiny apartment throwing some of the best parties I had ever had a chance to witness in my entire life.  For a time we were gods in that town and they should have sculpted marble statues of us to commemorate our greatness.  I took the bottle of bourbon out of my bag and consumed a good swig.  The sweet taste of bourbon, I thought, the answer to all of life’s problems.  The remote to the television was on the nightstand opposite of me and as I grabbed it, I was stopped short by a cable attached to the underside of it. A theft deterrent, because you have to be absolutely desperate to pawn a hotel television from the Eighties with a matching remote.  Not to say that I haven’t done it.  Turning on the teley, I found that on almost every channel were news stories of impending doom.  Forty-three more people infected with radioactivity from Japan’s damaged reactors due to that crippling tsunami. Hollywood stuntman/ actor Ryan Dunn dies in brutal car wreck.  Autopsy determined that his blood alcohol level was .18 at the time of death.  More than sixty tornadoes ravaged the Midwest as violent storms unleashed … I took another swig of bourbon.  The media and the whole damn planet is a mess, I thought, what else is new.  It was time to vacate the premises, leaving nothing behind for anyone to find.  I packed my bag, slung it over my shoulders, and took the bloody towel off my hand to inspect the damage.  A few deep cuts and some bruising but nothing severe enough for medical attention.  I turned the television up to full volume and stood there watching some third world country causing chaos with A.K. 47’s and grenade launchers on the screen.  I reached up and tore it right off the wall, leaving that idiot box to its demise right there on the green shag carpet.  It just sat there on its side with a multitude of wires hanging out of its ass end, looking like it was shitting worms, blaring the televised insanity that someone, not from this country was experiencing.  The American nature is to witness the horror, torture, and pain.   We prosper off it. That is why reality T.V. shows are such a standard in our culture.  We like to watch the subterraneans of our society inject themselves with toxic pleasures and then, say that we can relate to that even though we’ve never done it firsthand.  That’s the way America works.  We have become a society of Aryans and immigrants, slaves to the dollar bill and all of us now are the minority.  Those who control the media; the internet, the television and phone satellites are the true master race, and we have no inclination whatsoever as to how blind we’ve become to this fact.  We are mice in the maze and we can’t find our way out of it because there is no way out.  No exit.  Only a determination to die where we stand with an uncashed paycheck in our hands. The truth about our lives will be hidden and forgotten in the soil we will be buried under.

 

 

 

 

Lost.  Lost with nowhere to go.  Out here with the junkies and the drunks and the lesbians and the fags.  Forgetting forever and the diamond ring you bought her.  What a wonderful thing heartache can bring.  Can funeral flowers really mask the decomposition?  Wipe the tears from your eyes.  You are nothing but a simple bastard.  A lowlife.  A guttersnipe. You are trying to find that hole in the dark.  Your cock is dead fucking hard but you can’t seem to find it.  And you think that you never will.

 

It’s funny how time moves as you carry your broken self down trash riddled streets in another small no name town.  As people stop and stare at the haggard, faceless person walking with his shoulders slumped and his head bowed low. I think to myself, I really don’t have that much to lose.  I mustered the courage to traverse down some back alley behind storefronts filled with happiness and wonderment.  It was a place I have grown to know well.  Where I have spent the better half of the past three years.  This is where the ultimate losers of the earth come to tell their dreams.  Behind some foul, abhorrent dumpster is where you tell those dreams to ghosts of your past.  At the bottom is where it all happens.  At the bottom, we find out that we are merely just flesh and bone.

I sat down against a brick wall, looked up at the sky, into that everlasting blue, that stratosphere, and wondered where that jet plane might be heading.  Pennsylvania maybe?   I lifted up my pant leg and looked at the gash on my leg.  It had turned green and was beginning to smell like Munster cheese.  I poured some bourbon on it and digested the sting.  Just then, I heard a freight rolling down the line.  I was close to them, the tracks that is.  I took a swig of the sweet stuff and toasted the fugitives, the preachers and the unholy.  They found it out, for all their lives, I thought, as I tipped the bottle back and let it flow down my throat like some great disastrous flood taking what little of a soul I have away.  It was there, calling out to me like some unnamed siren singing to me in my sleep.  Just one nine-millimeter bullet calling me…

 

Violence has always been a part of my life.  Even in my childhood, from birth, it was always prevalent.  I was born, but my twin sister died before me and later on in my twenties, I had found out that my father beat my mother to a pulp for that.  I was always to blame for her death, for her being stillborn.  I grew up a victim, a statistic of abuse, but didn’t begin to realize it until it was too late, until I learned how to hate.  That hate grew strong inside me.  I took it to school and almost killed a student with a lunch tray.  No one could understand what made the hate inside me breed like a cancer, like a terminal disease.  But, they never lived in my house either and witnessed the horror.  Horror can become your friend at times, and so can pain.  The pain is a result of living and feeling alive.  But on that silent little dead end street, I never felt pain until it was too late.  I spent my twenties fighting and proving myself to anyone who could best me.  Self-medication was always part of the game and I found solace in the bottom of a bottle.  Self-destruction gave me the most powerful orgasms that I have ever felt and I thirsted for more.  I was smart and wasted away a good part of my youth holding on to grudges, chasing loose women, and believing in the fact that I was indestructible.

 

…I could smell the residue of cordite in the barrel.  That fine smell of summertime when the sinless trees would maintain broad green leaves on arthritic branches that soak up the last of those ultra violet rays from that dying sun.  The kids on the block would let off bottle rockets at dusk, watching them fly high into that blood-orange sky wondering where they would land and dream of that landing later on in their sleep.  I took another pull off of the bourbon.  I could taste the malicious intent in that liquor, telling me to do it, speaking to me in tongues.  Or maybe it was the demons inside me, those motherfuckers cast from below to make me one of their own, another regiment in their tormented militia.  Another callous on the hand of Satan.  In my ears, I could hear them.  I could hear the pounding of her heart on the sandy beaches of my skin.  The waves, the waves, the waves.  Pushing and pulling, coming and receding, thrusting and withdrawing like some immense salty cock that penetrates us all.  In my ears I can hear her.  Or maybe it was just the ringing from the shot that I fired so close to them, the bullet grazing my scalp that intended to perforate the skull and stab my brain with the force of some over obsessed serial killer who plotted out his victims for years and wanted to go through with it all but lost his nerve at the last second.  That bullet was a coward motherfuck of a tidal wave who should have taken those lungs and drown them in its fury leaving nothing.  Leaving my tongue dangling out from my mouth.  But it didn’t.  I was in some back alley and I couldn’t die.  I tried again, but the gun jammed and I tried my best to un-jam it. I tried to get that hot lead into my head so it could mushroom itself out the back of my skull, through that tough bone matter that protects the most vital part and keeps my wretched heart beating and beating.  I was alone in this madness, this heartbreak.  For I wanted to die.  The suicide fever was burning high.  The definition of suicide began to embellish my thoughts.  ‘The intentional taking of one’s own life’.  The conquest of ending my life would stop the running.  But, I knew that I couldn’t out run sorrow.

 

 

Do you think every possible thing dreams? She said.

Do you fuck with your eyes shut? I asked her.

She cuts herself in places where no one can see.  I do coke.  I drink more bourbon.  I do more coke.  The sky is wide with layers of want.  We want.  It’s that honey colored sky resembling springtime flowers in bloom that tells us there is no savior here, under this godlessness.

Everything dreams, I told her, everything exists to dream.

We stood there in the rain.  The big, gargantuan drops falling on us like old lovers kisses, like kisses from lovers lost.  Wet lips confessing everything.  Wet lips needing to be dried by human skin.  Demon drops possessing us with touch turning us upside down.  Preparing us for the funeral.  Getting us ready to drown in the embalming fluid.  We are chained to death.  We are chained to the fact that our life must end sometime.  We don’t want to face it, but we think about it.  It is always on our minds.  We think about ending this war all of the time, this nightmare, this memory, we think about ending it.  We think about ending our lives.  We think about that big hand coming down to wipe our slate clean.  We look at our reflection in the mirror and wonder, whom are they sleeping with tonight?

The fire is spreading, I told her.

She looked at me with blank eyes, telling me nothing.

I do fuck with my eyes shut. She said.  I never look at their face, you know, the ones that I fuck.  I only want the feeling, not the memory.  I only want them to want me for that minute and a half, and then after that, they can wipe me off and get the fuck out.  A plume of smoke exited her mouth through pursed lips and she said, Care for a smoke?  I mistook her for a callous cunt, but she really only had her own agenda she was dealing with.  Her face was shrouded in cigarette smoke when I studied her physical features.  She could have been an actress or a model, I couldn’t really tell through the thickness of time and sun damage that she cradled in the creases of her skin.  She told me that she was in her forties, a brutish bitch that would twist her body in any position that I wanted, but I declined the offer.  She was interesting nonetheless and I felt like she might have been a companion to me in a former life, or a nurture-less mother, one I compared to my very own.  A slave to the world, a lifeless waif just doing what everyone says and accepting it.   She smelled like an amputated limb; a lifeless part of the body that no longer functioned or had any use.  She breathed smoke.  So much so I thought she might die from lack of oxygen, what some doctors might call asphyxiation.  But, unfortunately, she stayed alive long enough to tell me her gruesome story.  The desperation was leaking out of her pores like drops of hot bacon grease falling into a fire.  It was different from the rest.  A tale of hardwood floors and cameras and bearskin rugs and wet vaginas.

She was a porn goddess and took a dick in her tight young pussy like a handshake from a high school principal.  Congenial.  Appropriate.  Pleasurable.  Celebratory.  She took it so long and motherfucking hard she became one of the best in the industry and then, just like the flicker of a lightning bug on a July night, she faded away into the darkness, into the black.  Extinguished from infamy with the rest of the dollar store candle flames.  She was just another disposable, a jettison, a ditch.  She did it all.  Double penetrations, fifteen dude interracial gangbangs where they all dumped hot cum on her beautiful face. Lesbian circle parties where each woman fucks the other with a massive dildo, like a chain of events, only this was all dirty, abhorrent and hurtful.

But, that’s all part of pornography, she said, that’s why they call it acting.  People think that women like being showered with strange men’s semen, and then being fucked in the ass while you watch the jizz drip off your face as you hold back the tears because his giant cock is ripping your anus and doing God knows what else inside of you.  At times, I felt like a prostitute, a whore.

Well, weren’t you? I asked.

She looked at me very strangely and went on.

After the scenes were done, we’d just stand around talking like nothing had ever happened.  And the camera guys and fluffer girls would ask me out to dinner and shit, thinking I was THAT easy.  At times I couldn’t leave the house because of the horny, sex craving fans who thought they could get close to me.  People don’t understand that porn isn’t real life.  It’s just made up fantasies thought up by the demented minds of hopeless fat fucks who wish they could get hot women, or bang two of them at a time.  Shit like that doesn’t happen in the real world and if anyone tells you that it does, they’re lying to you.

I could see the pain in her eyes.  The kind of sadness you see in your own after you lose something very important.  She had been degraded and fucked like a pig standing in line to be slaughtered.  I took another sip of the bourbon and offered her the bottle.  She took a good swig and lit up another cigarette.  We stood there together under a canopy adjacent to the hotel’s lobby.  The rain was coming down in sheets.

Does it always rain like so hard this time of year? I asked through a cloud of cigarette smoke.  She looked at me and said, You’re not from around here, are you?

I shook my head no.

What are you good at? She asked.

What do you mean?

Well, everyone is good at something; tell me what you’re good at.

The truth is, I told her sternly, is that I’m not very good at anything.  I’m good at jerking off into a wad of toilet paper and fucking up women’s lives when they fall in love with me.  When it boils down to it, I’m no one really.  I’m nothing.

As soon as I said that, I felt a sting in my heart, something that I hadn’t felt in a long time.

The last thing she told me the last time I saw her was ‘I don’t love you anymore’.  I told her my story and she sympathized.  We were kindred spirits for a moment or two, soul mates who were just in the right place at the right time.

You still love her, don’t you?

I don’t know.  I can’t really tell anymore.  It’s almost as if I can’t feel anything. My heart has been a lump of cold coal for a long time now.  The memories are still there but the feeling of wanting her is gone.  The other night I was walking home from the bar, strolling through town when I saw something ironic.  On one side, there was a cook out, a party, and a flock of children playing, singing, and screaming in some back yard.  It looked like a nice time.

I took another swig of bourbon and looked out into the falling rain.

And? She said.

And on the other side of the street, there was a graveyard.  Shrouded in fog and fenced in to contain the ghosts and the undead who lurk in the night.  The only thing separating the two from joining was a gridlocked caravan of vehicles full of happy families and holiday wonderers that were going home to ponder the happy events of the night.  To sleep in their warm beds and make love to each other without animalistic pleasure.  Me, I opted for the graveyard because it looked more appealing.  So, I slept there that night.  I slept amongst the head stones of the lost and the forgotten and the misfortunate.  Have you ever fucked a corpse? I asked her.  She just snapped the cigarette on the ground and stamped it out with the heel of her “come fuck me” shoe.  I took another pull off the bourbon.

Okay, so do you wanna purchase me for the night or are we gonna stand here in the rain looking like a couple of lonely bunny rabbits?

Have you ever been inside a mausoleum? I asked her.

You got seventy-five bucks?

I shook my head yes and smiled.

Let’s go then. She said. I know the place.

 

 

I could still hear the faint sound of her screaming as I walked out the door and dusted off my hands like I had just worked a hard day.  I looked back and saw myself, just a cat’s shadow on the cold tombstones around me.  I’ll put this in perspective:

 

No man in their right mind would follow logic and pay seventy-five dollars, whether it was earned hard or stolen, on some useless dried up old porn star.  I didn’t give a fuck how popular she was.  It meant nothing to me.  I don’t pay to come inside a box.  We entered the mausoleum, slowly and cautiously at first, but once we got in there, we both started to laugh at how ridiculous it was.  I gave her some blow and we did a few lines off the top of a tomb.  We danced in the dark for a little, guided by the light that seeped in through the doorway and ventilation slots near the ceiling.  The gases needed some way to escape.  I wondered if the great one took the mausoleum’s design and accepted it as his own for the concentration showers.  I bet he did.

You could be my mother, I told her.

Do you want mommy to suck on your dick? Is that what you like?

I shook my head in approval.  She unzipped me slowly, bearing forth the hardness that I possessed, and then she put her old porn star mouth upon it, using the knowledge she kept from years of swallowing cocks.  Her wrinkled lips working for the masses, as if she was still on camera, pleasuring, teasing, and keeping me erect.  I was close to exploding in her mouth when she popped off my dick and said, No, not yet.  She did a little strip tease for me, reminding me of autumn’s hue, like a dying day as sunlight fades into the silhouettes of wrinkling trees preparing themselves for the oncoming season of death.  When she took her panties off, her pussy lips flopped down, slapping against her inner thigh, making a sound like Play-doh hitting flesh.  They were long, brown, and glistening with some form of granny juice.  Thick white mayonnaise.  Dark brown like two-week-old lunchmeat that you find in the dumpster when you’re desperate for something to eat.  I stood there with my cock in hand, waiting for the entry, but I couldn’t find it through all of that skin, through all of that meat.  I reached down and winced, spread something and found what I thought may be a hole of some sort.  I took the tip and placed it there, hoping I was right for once and not such a loser like those bastards on The Price Is Right.  Before I knew it, I was fucking her from behind like some insolent retard not wanting the pleasure, just wanting the outcome.  She reached back with her arms and stopped me from thrusting.  I stopped, still inside her as she arched her back and began to work on me with full force, using her Keigel muscles to inch slowly, in and out on my hard member.  I spread her cheeks and looked down at her unshaven asshole.  I saw a little scar running up towards her spine.  It was white and definitive like some little worm making its way out of garden soil…

 

 

No one ever wants to see another person walking down the street looking happy.  No one’s ever exempt from a world full of pain.  It takes a strong man to admit his faults, his imperfections, his loss and his losses to come.  It takes a strong willed motherfucker to forgive and walk down the lonely highway of life and hold his head up high.  It takes an even stronger motherfucker to extinguish the fires he lit on his path to self-destruction as society pities him as an outcast and deems him unfit to dwell among them.  But, that’s the way the world turns sometimes. You give your heart and it gets rejected, spit back in your face, half chewed and rolling down tear soaked cheeks while the opponent who stands before you smiles, her teeth shining bright as the sun.   But, us lowlifes and outcasts, we know how to hide our shame.  We go to our menial jobs, working off hangovers, hoping for the best, showing up late, making bullshit excuses just to earn that paycheck that feels like pussy farts in our hands.  We drink, we do drugs, we hate, we fuck without love and then…eventually, we die unknown and unloved.  The classic example of American freedom.  The white trash embolism infecting the brains of the muses, the silent partners in crime The ones behind the counter throwing out Oxy’s like candy at the Macy’s Day Parade.  Symbolizing every city and then letting them lapse into a coma from over abuse.  Another wounded memory.  We destroy each other.  It’s hereditary.  No one ever wants to see anyone happy.  Not under Obama’s rule.  He just lets it get more and more fucked up.  As a society, we have come to accept it.  We all thought he would be the next Martin Luther King, but, he failed miserably.  Misery leads to suffering.  Suffering leads to self sacrifice.  In another words, SUICIDE.

 

…There was a definite taste of rust in my mouth.  Or maybe it was just the juices from her old pussy, machine driven with parts doctors had installed to keep that gash alive and coming.  That would explain the clenching and un-clenching of those strong labia.  She must be a cyborg, I thought.  There were no machines here, only us, death, and tombs hiding the rotting flesh.  The walls were lined with mold and some form of slime.  It was a perfect picture resembling some horror film noir.   She was now shuddering and ready to come.  Her thighs clenching and quivering like she was riding some bucking horse.  She was.  The muscles spasming.  Her pussy getting tighter as I stroked my cock with precision in and out in and out in and out.  I looked down and saw the mayonnaise foaming on my dick skin as I kept going.  In and out in and out in and out.  The nerve endings firing the impulses to my brain, making me stiffer.  I felt like a dog fucking in a dog dream.  I felt like a porn star…

 

We all act.  We, as society, as humans have become a worldwide faction of liars.  We fake love, we lie about theft, we lie about and fake our daily lives.  The person next to you right now could rob you and kill you, take your license and go to your house and rape your wife.  He would wipe his cum off her bruised face and never think twice about what he’s done.  We lie.  We all lie.

 

…I asked her for her name.

Barbara Bush, she said.

Porn star or real? I asked.

Porn.  Don’t stop.  I’m about to come.  Don’t stop…

 

We let people in, inside our hearts and let them know the real us until it’s too late.  When it is too late, we regret it with all of our being because, we gave them our deepest, darkest secrets.  That is something we can’t get back, we can’t extract that from our lover’s brains and move on.

 

…I could feel her lips clenching around my dick.  It reminded me of running into the ocean at the beginning of every Summer.  The cold water between my legs as the waves crash over me and spread the salty, sandy water over my frail body.  She started to moan and I could tell she was close.  I thrust it inside of her deeper and told her that I was close.  She said she was part of a composite.  She squirted it all over my stomach as I let it flow free from behind…

 

The epitome of sex is like this: Model girls are delicate and soft, bearing their tits for every magazine who will accept them, wearing expensive make-up to make them look glamorous.  Real girls just want to be fucked and loved because they are NOT models and have imperfections.  Model girls will never give you any cooch because, us as lowlifes, can not BUY them, henceforth, making us unequal to the rest of the world.  Normal girls, real girls, who wear high pants and adorn glasses on their face are the best motherfucking lovers on the planet earth.

 

…My knees started to hurt from fucking her doggy style on the cold, dark, clay.  She reached for my bag and found the gun.  That 9mm, loaded and ready for action.  I saw this all happening in slow motion.  Like some shitty, over emphasized action sequence in a low budget film.  I leaned across her back, still inside her, and snatched the pistol out of her hand.  I turned her over, put the gun to her face, and told her to open her mouth.  The cocking of the hammer, those few little clicks, can strike fear in the heart of anyone.  I saw her pulse leaping through the veins in her neck.  She tensed and with a little bit of persuasion from the nine, I had her mouth wide open, her tongue lolly-gagging, ready to catch a seven forty seven……

 

I hit things to make myself feel better.  My right hand is almost useless due to the fact that almost all of my knuckles are a mish-mash of bone and skin.  The tattooed letters representing ‘Hate’ on my knuckles, they now look like they are crudely tattooed on a grocery bag full of butchered pork saying ‘Save’.  It consumed me, this hate, this loathing for the world.  The eye of the storm is always present.  Grave mistakes were made.  Momentous and profound.

 

 

……….What were you thinking, trying to rob me? I said.

I uncocked the hammer and set the gun down by my side.  She was wiping off what I had just shot on her face with a dirty hand.  Her face had the same expression of a beaten, caged dog you see in those sad but true SPCA commercials.  Say something, you fucking old whore, I thought.  She sat there and stared at the gun that was laying calmly by my side.  Maybe guns really scare her, I thought, maybe she had some gruesome encounter with some overbearing man in her past and he pistol whipped the dog shit out of her for trying to steal his coke as well. Who knows, maybe it was a childhood thing.  Maybe her father was like mine and had lined her and her siblings all up in front of him one night as he stood there with a loaded shotgun proclaiming that he was going to end us all.  I couldn’t tell what was what anymore.  People were always trying to get the upper hand on me somehow.

Did you ever think of getting into porn? She said.  You have a nice money shot.

I caressed the gun, easily, and fingered the trigger as it just lay there on the dirt floor like some fluky ex- girlfriend.

Did you just try and steal from me? I shouted.

Yes.

She started to cry.

Why?

I have been broke for over a week.  I’ve been trying to turn tricks but no one wants a used up old bag like me.  You were my first customer.  You seemed easy and I thought I could pull it off.  Please don’t hurt me, please.

I’m not gonna hurt you, I said, I’m gonna do you one better.

I got dressed, picked up the pistol and put it in my waist.  I got some devil out of my bag and cut out some huge lines.  One for me and one for her.  I uncapped the bourbon and offered her some.  I gave her a reassuring smile and told her it would be okay.  We both drank and then sniffed the lines.  I cut out two more and then two more.  I balanced myself out with bourbon, but didn’t let her have one more sip.  She was wired and started to talk.  I tapped on the nine in my waist and told her to shut the fuck up.  I didn’t want to hear her dumb shit.  I composed myself well.  It was all happening.  I could see her looking around for something, for anything to latch onto.  Anything to get herself out of this circumstance.  I cut out four lines on top of that tomb.  I told her to sniff all four.  She declined.  I pulled out the gun and held it against her temple and told her to sniff.  She sniffed up the lines like a brand new vacuum.

Funny thing about the Catholics, I said, is that in the sixteen hundreds, about four hundred years or so ago, they believed in catharsis and abreaction.  This means the purging of bad thoughts or actions through the arousal of pity and terror by witnessing something tragic. The Catholic belief was, bad people had to be punished for the severity of their sin.  If you were accused of practicing witch craft, you’d be burned at the stake.  If you killed another without reason, you’d be decapitated in front of the whole town.  They took things very seriously back in those days.  Did you know that Hitler was a Catholic?

She shook her head no.  Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated, jaw muscles grinding teeth together.  She was shaking, wondering what was coming next.  It’s easy to tell when someone is high, I thought.  It does indeed take one to know one.

So the moral of it all is, I said to her directly, is that if one must suffer for the greater good, then the rest would follow by example.  So they weed out the sinners and make examples of them right before the whole flock.  It was an ingenious plan and, if implemented today, our society would be a calm and phlegmatic institution.  You see, that’s what Hitler’s overwhelming vision was.  Not just a form of communism, but a place, a world where mothers could walk down the streets with their kids and feel safe.  Children wouldn’t get kidnapped or be molested.  There would be no more war.  There would be no more conflict.  Just a serene, tranquil world where everyone co-exists peacefully.  He was a smart man, that Hitler, and I admire his intelligence.  He had millions following him with just words.  Words is all it took to infect minds and make them see his vision.

So what does this have to do with anything, she asked, what does this have to do with me?

Everything.

I told her to go sit in the corner.  She was shaking even more.  The rush of the high was getting to her.  The synapses firing in her brain, the endorphins working overtime.  I looked around the mausoleum and found what looked like a crow bar of sorts.  I took it and wedged it between the lid of the stone tomb and the base.  The top moved a little, making a sound like two bricks rubbing together.  I looked over at her.  She started to cry and asked me what I was doing.  I smiled and kept working at the lid.  After a few tries, I had gotten it open just enough.  I always wondered what it would be like inside one of these things, I thought to myself.  I took a good pull of the bourbon.  I couldn’t see too much inside so I reached in and felt around.  Hair.  Supple skin.  A hand.  Something glass.  I took that out and low and behold it was a bottle of twelve year old scotch.  I reached in and took a ring off the hand.  A diamond wedding band.  This will come in handy later, I thought.  I slipped it into my pocket.  I pointed the weapon at her and told her to come here.

What are you going to do? She stuttered.

You want to steal.  I’m going to teach you a lesson.  A little catharsis at my disposal.  Climb in my sweet.

She hesitated and I shoved the gun in her gut, telling her that she could die now if she wanted.  The tears were jetting down her face. Her eyes sending me that ‘please don’t do this’ look.

You know, you cunts are all the same. You just want to fuck and fuck and fuck and never give anything in return.  And then when it’s all over, when we are at our most vulnerable, you try and take the last thing we have.  Love was never good enough.  My heart was never good enough.  Whatever I did for you was never good enough.

Mister, please don’t do this.  I’m scared.  I’m sorry.

Sorry just won’t cut the mustard now will it?  You had your chance. There are no fucks given on THIS day.  Now get.  The.  Fuck.  In.

She climbed in and started to sob.  Another sobber, I thought.  I hate when cunts sob.  I threw in a lighter and said, Have a look around.  I could see a little light from the flame.  She started to scream as if someone was stabbing her.  I started to close the lid.  Her hand surfaced through the slit I left for her to breathe.  I knew she wouldn’t sleep for at least another four hours due to the cocaine.  Enough time to contemplate her life and how she fucked it all up.  I was doing her a favor.  In the morning when someone would find her, she’d be a better person and thankful to be alive.  Catharsis.  Four hours of complete panic and articulate terror.  Hoping that someone will find her and save her life come sunrise.   The come down for her will leave her scarred for life.  Memories of laying side by side with a deceased, rotting elderly woman with her face half decomposed.  But, isn’t that the point?

 

 

 

In the morning, I found a pay phone and called the local police.  I spoke with an officer and told him I was a neighbor and saw some kids vandalizing the mausoleum.  He said he’d personally check it out.  I felt dead underneath my skin and needed a drink.  Where has this trip taken me, I thought. What is to come next?  I desperately needed the ocean and all of her glory to wash away these evil thoughts.  To purge me of these demons that lurk inside me.  Maybe I was the one who should have been trapped in that tomb.  Maybe.

 

There I was again.  Shuffling my feet as I walked down some unwanted, solitary highway looking for that ‘High Water Mark’ that Thompson had described.  I knew I’d never find it.  Not in a thousand fucking years.  I was separated from the rest.  But what was I really looking for out here so far from home?  So far from the ones that I knew and the comfort of my old bed.  I was an outcast rejected by society.  A failure, an incompetent.  A spurning example of American un-freedom.  The advocate of rejection.  Faking it through life with a bottle in my hand and a declaration in my mouth.  Contemplating suicide.  Finding myself looking down the barrel of the gun.  Eating the steel.  Thinking of her and the life we shared.  The declaration still in my mouth ready to be pushed out by eager lungs.  I could have ended it right then and there.  I could have become another nameless statistic on a long list of nobodies.  What good would that have done?  Then no one would have read this story.  The declaration: Fuck the world.

 

 

 

It was the beginning of July when I finally decided to call my metro sexual brother.  He was always an abject to the fancy clothes, the high tab dinners, the nine dollar mojitos and the women who loved his chiseled profile.  He knew what he wanted in life and claimed his lot.  I couldn’t blame him, because if I held that position, I probably would have been just like him.  When he answered the telephone I could tell that he was caught up in his daily routine; choosing out fashion designs and paging through magazines.  I could hear him thumbing through pages and saying to his assistant; Yes that one, and that one too.  Ohhhh that one looks divine.

He was always a little on the fruity side, I thought to myself, as I listened to his effeminate banter on the other end of the line.

 

So, you just meet crazy women, that’s all.  Meet someone normal.

But, you’re not getting it.  That’s all I attract.  Crazy cunts!

I would feel better if you didn’t use that word in my presence.  It makes me uncomfortable.

Can I say fuck and motherfucker and goddamn?

No. none of those either.

You really have become a lout and a tart, you know that?

I’m not the narrow minded, broke person calling his brother for help am I?

Look, I need a place to stay.  What about that guy you said you knew out here in Cali? That movie producer or whatever.

He writes screen plays.  He does things for sitcoms.  He’s a small timer looking to make it big.  He’ll help you out if you cater to him.  He’s a nice guy.  Don’t shit on him. What ARE you calling yourself these days? Dean? Richard? Sometimes I forget your real name, you know.

I didn’t even answer his question. Instead I just said:

Okay.  Give me his number.  I’ll tell him I’m a writer with a pitch.

My brother just laughed. He gave me his phone number and address and laughed again.  He told me that I couldn’t write to save my life.  For once he was right.  He proceeded to tell me that I was a loser with no luck and then, he hung up on me without even giving me a faggish goodbye.  What a way to be, cunt, I thought, I hope he comes down with something they can’t diagnose.   I placed the receiver back on the cradle and cracked open a magnum of white zinfandel.  It was crisp and fruity and tasted mildly of strawberries.  It reminded me of places that I miss, of my old neighborhood when childhood dreams were the only thing I had to look forward to.  Now I have nothing on the horizon.  I finished the bottle and closed my eyes and proceeded to dream….

 

 

We traversed those rocks that led out into those pounding waves.  Huge boulders brought there by man, placed there in the sand to form a jetty.  The sun was making its ascent into the horizon, only to give birth to another day twelve hours later.  With the lighthouse in tow, her hand was clasped in mine as her long blonde hair blew wildly in my face, I smiled and didn’t seem to care.  I was so happy.  She was so happy.  The salt air giving us both a euphoric high.  Then, the moment came.  The click of the shutter.  One single stitch in time immortalized forever.  We looked out into the waves.  She kissed me and said, Isn’t this just… magnificent?  A fog horn bellowed its low, frog-like tone and we were laying there in bed.

 

I got up and opened a window to let the early Summer breeze rush in like a thousand vicious demons slowly cooling off our sweat soaked skin.  In a doorway I stood, asking her if she would like a drink before I drunkenly stumbled down creaky stairs…

I am in prison, looking out of a small window into an endless field of golden grain.  Writhing, living, and breathing freely in the wind.  There is a mass of people in the middle of the field.  What is it?  Everyone is dressed in black.  A funeral?  But who’s?

 

I am standing next to her.  She is holding my hand and in the other a spray of flowers.  Beautiful flowers wilting in the sun like the American dream.  Who’s in there? I whisper to her. Who’s in the casket?  She looks at me and smiles, kisses me on the cheek and then whispers softly in my ear…

 

I am.

 

 

And then it’s there.  You wake up alone.  With thoughts in your head of a life you used to have.  You look at the empty bottle of wine in your hand and ask why?  Why must life be so motherfucking hard all the time?  So hard in fact that these are the loneliest days of your entire life and you just want to end it all.  You simply want to die.  The nine millimeter is on the nightstand with a single bullet standing next to it.  The days seem to blend together like colors on an abstract oil painting and you ask yourself, how long will this last?  How long has this been lasting?  Forever it seems.  Then it hits you, it strikes you like a heavy weight boxer sending punch drunk blows to his opponent.  You’re nothing.  You’re no one.  You don’t even exist anymore.  Your whole entire life is just the meaning of one word in a dictionary teaming with vocabulary.  There it is on page 925.  Nothing; not anything; not something; naught.  One who or that which is of little importance.  Outside of your hotel room it’s bleak, cloudy and gray.  There’s growth on the trees and shrubs.  Flowers bloom next to the sidewalk leading up to your door.  It seems that life continues to flourish despite the hardships in this world.  But not yours.  Your life is meaningless and devoid of anything good.  You think to yourself you don’t dare want to leave the confines of this room for maybe another two days.  You just want to sit and stare at the surrounding four walls.  You just want to drink the days away, forget that you can even breathe. Forget the simple fact people do care about you to some degree.  You want to forget her face, but you can’t.  So, you drink it away.  You binge and purge and then binge and purge again until every nerve ending tingles with the pleasure of sadness.  Until you pass out from the lack of nutrition.

 

It’s quiet here like a tomb.  You can hear your own heart beat as you take panic breaths.  Tears meander their way down your cheeks.  You look to the night stand.  It’s still there.  That single bullet.  All hope is lost.  It’s coming to an end.  Papers with writing scribbled on them and random books and clothes adorn the floor.  Beer bottles, whiskey bottles, and wine bottles are littered everywhere.  You take note of the mess.  You rub your eyes and look around.  Cocaine residue on the nightstand next to the gun.  You check your bag.  It’s gone.  The kilo is gone.  Are you so surprised?  Then you think, was it all just a dream?  How long have I been here?  What really happened?  Feral memories that you can’t quite make clear or understand rush into your head.  You contemplate the minutes you have left as you shake off the pain.

 

The irony sets in.  You want to die, but you’re too much of a coward to kill yourself.  Too much of a shit cunt to pick up that gun, load that bullet in the chamber and pull the trigger.

 

In your mind, you can see it all happening.  The bullet exiting the barrel in slow motion.  In an instant, the squelchy skin of the temple receiving the powder burn, sizzling just before the projectile enters.  The layers of skin the bullet tears through expand and break like a balloon.  You lick your finger and wipe up the residue, put it in your mouth and sigh.  The bullet becomes subdued in that brain matter and you smile.  You die smiling in a pool of your own blood and drool.  Lonely, lifeless and unknown.   But that’s the way it goes for the downtrodden, the lowest forms of man.  We all can’t be lucky Wall Street execs making the millions on the stock market living in posh penthouse suites with super models sucking on our substandard cocks every night.  We are the subterraneans.  The ones who dwell in the shittiest bars, the hardcore and punk venues, the small apartment parties where we sniff coke and drink cheap beer and vodka and fight for what is ours.  Our little slice of the pizza pie we call the world.  We don’t need millions or super models because we have the biggest cocks and we’re not afraid to whip them out and show them off.  We’re not afraid of cops, or judges, or jail time, or fines, or a criminal record.  We’re not afraid to wake up early every morning and sweat for a pay check.  We are not afraid to fight you if you disgrace our name.  We are not afraid.

 

I have evaded the law for so long now that I have wound up in places I never thought I could dwell in.  Sometimes they were lonely one way back alleys, or filthy hotel rooms with no one there to look at but a cheap prostitute and a mound of cocaine and a prolific taste of rust in my mouth.  I often think about the day I will be free from all of this when I’m a dead man.  Where would I end up next, I thought to myself, some ditch maybe? Some jail cell to rot my days away with devilish thoughts of murders I have committed? Or maybe I’d stow away on a freighter south bound for some tropical sea and dock close to an atoll. Close to those bright, clear blue waters where I could spend out my days listening to the waves and contemplating what could have been. Lost in the paradise, but still trapped in the loneliness and sorrow of daily toil and memory. There has always been this wildness inside of my beckoning to let itself free.

 

I took my brother’s advice and gathered up my shit and called a cab.  I was predetermined to find something.  Some form of solace in one shape or another.  I was out of cocaine.  Or did I really ever even possess it?  I took the last of the bourbon in my mouth, and swallowed it like some crude adult film star taking a money shot from a huge cock.  Vulgar.  Ostentatious.  Garish.  I could hear the cab’s horn blaring outside.  It sounded impatient.  I kicked open the door and slung my backpack over my shoulder, took the empty bottle and flailed it against the wall, watching it shatter into a thousand clear shards.

 

I hopped into the cab and handed him the address and said, Drive.  Apparently we were only a tawdry twenty two miles or so, give or take, from our destination.

Is this place by the ocean? I asked.

His demeanor was menacing.  He looked like he had just drank a fifty five gallon drum of cheap vodka.  He had that stare.  I could feel his eyes piercing my skin as he watched me in the rear view mirror. I didn’t plan on paying the motherfucker and for a second I thought he could sense it.  I asked him if he had anything to drink and he reached under the seat and pulled out a bottle of clear rum.  Better than nothing, I thought.

North Hollywood.

Huh?

North Hollywood, that’s where I’m taking you.  It says East L.A. but who ever gave you this address is wrong.  Believe me buddy, I know the entire area.

I didn’t believe him.  For all I knew he was abducting me and taking me to some abandoned warehouse so he could disassemble me slowly and feed me to his pack of ravenous pit bull fighting dogs.  Piece by motherfucking piece.  What would the police say to my relatives once they solved the case?  Cause of  death: Undetermined.  Better than bearing the shame of suicide, I thought.  Having my family hear that I’d off’ed myself with a nine millimeter Baretta would have them laughing for days.  But, did they truly know the real me?  A famous man had once said that you can only fool some of the people some of the time.  I back this statement one hundred fucking percent.  We’re all fools to some degree or another, watching the dice roll by us, landing on that plush, velvet table, just to let us know we’re all losers.

 

The rum was solid and sweet, like some virginal pussy before a thousand dirty men could penetrate it.  I asked my driver, that dirty old bastard:

Do you know where I might be able to procure some drugs around here?

He eyed me like some cooked piece of meat and said, What are you looking for?

Some, ummmm…. Cocaine.

I know a place. He said.  But don’t you dare tell this guy that Harry brought you.

My head began to pound and the sweat leaked through my skin like a sieve.  He was travelling fast now down back alleys and side streets almost hitting pedestrians and I think he may have ran over a bum laying in the middle of the road, calling it a ‘speed bump’.  I need a speed bump, I thought.  The cab rattled and shook and groaned as he took turns at high speed.  At times I thought we were riding up on two wheels like some stunt driver in some asshole action film.  Please don’t let me die now, God. Not before I get one more taste of that fine powder. Just one more taste and I’m all yours Lord.

 

After about twenty minutes or so we made it to the drug spot.  It was truly the heart of Los Angeles.  Gang territory.  Blacks and Latinos abound.  Milling around, searching for something, anything, like feral ferrets without food.  The American dream maybe?  Or maybe they were just on their way to the post office to pick up their unemployment checks before they got processed into the next day’s mail.  It was a brutish game of chess in that neighborhood and I was almost too afraid to open the door to get out.

That house right there. Harry The Cab Driver said.

His crooked finger pointed at some single story dwelling with bars on the windows and the door.  Protection from the constant coming storm.  He said he’d wait without the meter running, but I knew that was indeed a lie.  I could tell it in his voice.

Go on, he said. Do you wanna fly or not?

I looked at him fearfully at first and then thought, fuck it, what do I really have to lose?  I opened the door and exited the cab. I stood there and watched another Harry leave me alone to face animated horror.  I had no idea what to expect.  The factors that lie in store.  Would I make it out alive?  Maybe not.  But will I ever get to find that out unless I proceed?

 

Relish in the fear.

 

The heart beating in my chest.

 

Expect the unexpected.

 

The adrenaline running strong.

 

I am shaking and I don’t know why.

 

What we do not understand, we fear.

 

I dry heave before I knock on the door.  I absolutely cannot believe I am going through with this, I think to myself.  No answer.  I knock again.  The door opens a crack, I see parts of a face.  Eyes.  Green eyes and black skin.  Gold teeth forming a smile.

Whatch ya want main?

Harry sent me.  The cab driver.  I need some, ummmm, of those white tea cups you have. He told me about them.  He said they could be useful to me.

 

I needed to use him as a scapegoat.  The motherfucking cunt left me there.  There was no other way.

 

The door opened and there stood three big, strong looking Africans with pistols in their hands.

Who the fuck are you? The biggest one exalted.

Look, Harry the cabby sent me over.  He told me that you have some marvelous motherfucking tea cups that I might wanna buy from you gentlemen.

I tapped my hip.

We can go easy and all go to bed later, or we can all make this the wild fucking west. Now what’s it going to be?   Let’s not travel down some slippery slope.

They stepped aside and let me in.  One of the Africans tried to grip me up but I eluded his grasp, and I took the nine from my waist and cocked the hammer.  They all stood still.  Those few clicks sent atomic shock waves through the room.

I’m not a cop.  I’m not trying to rob you.  I was referred to you by that fuck Harry.  I just wanna buy some white and I’ll be gone.

I pulled out a bank roll from my pocket and tried to remember where I had acquired it.  Forrest fires.  Desert snakes.  Rust covered walls with no windows to look into.  Masturbation.  I could hear them on the other side laughing but I couldn’t see them.  I knew they were laughing at me.

 

Babies dying.

In the nuclear blast.

As Hitler sits up above.

In the clouds, laughing.

Radiation falls from the sky in the form of rust.

The American dream disappears in one magical instant due to a wrong decision.  Due to an implanted thought.  Two keys turn simultaneously.  Codes are said.  Buttons are pushed like childhood games.  No one wins, ultimately.  Missiles are launched.  The beating heart of a nation stops just ten minutes later.  Everyone in some targeted major city, their hearts stop beating at that flash of a bright white light.  Lives lost.  Great thoughts lost.  Cultures lost.  Thousands of years flushed down sewers.  The human race almost decimated within an hour’s time because of some selfish higher power had made the decision for “everyone”. A president of the United States plays GOD.   They say that America isn’t in a communist state.  I beg to differ.  The world is on fire.

 

The one African dips out a little on the table and asks me to take a taste.  He hands me a hundred dollar bill, rolled up tightly.  I can tell that it’s a hundred because I can see Ben Franklin’s supple, thin fag like lips turned up into a counterfeit smile.  I sniff one and then the other.  It’s wet and sticky and stays lodged in my nostril for a second or two before dissolving into my mucus membrane.  It’s reminded me of the coke I used to do back in Pennsylvania.  Cut and cut and cut again.  There was a tension in the air.  I was in a snake pit filled with nothing but the Fer-De lance.  I had to react quick and make a choice.  The only thing to say was, Yes, I’ll take five grams.

Make it ten and we got a deal white boy.

Make it ten then!

I was in no position to barter with these hooligans.  They would have hunted me down like a wounded deer, following my blood trail all through those streets. I had no idea how to escape.  I paid for the ten grams and was about ready to leave when the big one said, You ain’t gone leave just yet son.  You gotta share.

 

I knew  that I couldn’t leave without busting out a few lines.  So I did and did and did and did.  Ten grams of coke gone up five peoples’ noses in about twenty minutes time.  I was once again broke, cokeless, homeless and depraved.

Hey, do you have any liquor?  I could use a swig or two.

A short skinny dude with a tall motherfucking afro walked over and handed me a bottle of Quervo Gold.  I took a sip and passed it around like candy.  Everyone was hyper and jibber-jabbering about this and that.  Guns waving in the air like magic wands.  I just sat there and took it all in.  The gods were on my side.  Someone passed me a blunt.  I took it and began to smoke…..

 

I still can’t remember when, or how I lost my way but, I was in some back room with big black titties in my fucking face.  Hoots and hollers, cheering me on like I had just scored a goal in some integral soccer game.  What was happening? I thought.  My mind drew a blank.  I couldn’t remember.  I opened my eyes and saw some huge black woman on top of me.  She was riding my cock like there was no tomorrow.  She thrust down on me and let out a queef so loud, that everyone in the room heard it and began to howl again.  I am in a room full of howler monkeys, I thought, and I’m being fucked by a three hundred pound gorilla.

 

I couldn’t get her off of me.  She just kept riding me and riding me, letting it go in and out of her horrid pussy.  Hitler would have never let this happen, I thought.  I felt myself slip out of her and then I felt another warmth and a sharp pain.  I looked down and I could see her big black lips going up and down on the shaft of my cock.  She popped off and a stringy, consortium of saliva connected her mouth to my dick for just one more second.  Her calloused hand began to stroke my shaft, keeping me erect and when I was hard enough again, she hopped back on me, almost crushing my hips, trying to insert my cock, making sure that I could see, into her bright pink pussy hole.  I was turned on by this, so, before I was in her, this whale of a woman, I quickly turned over and started to fuck her from behind and smacked her fat ass watching those cottage cheese thighs jiggle..  Cameras flashed.  I smiled and gave the old ‘thumbs up’ as I entered and exited making those fat legs jiggle like viscous pudding with every thrust.  Ha ha, yes I did, I grabbed her thighs and dug in deeper and deeper making her moan for more and more.  I pulled out of her dry box and let it shoot all over the small of her black back.  Cameras flashed again.  She moaned in delight and screamed, I love fuckin’ white boys.  I pushed her over on her back and climbed on top of her. I took my still hard cock in my hand and shoved it into her mouth making her gag.  I was in her throat.  Tears were welling in her eyes.  Cameras flashed.

 

Flash flash flash.

 

Tears were rolling down her dark skin.

 

Flash flash flash.

 

One dude had his dick out and was jerking off. Then another then another. I pulled out of her mouth through all the tears and gasps and frowns.  She knew the game.  She knew she had to take it.  I let it go all over her face in globs.  It landed all over her eyes, lips, and cheeks.  She just stared at me as I got off her.  The first guy that was jerking off in the corner of the room walked over and mounted her, then proceeded to do the same.

 

Contempt.

Derision.

Nothing lasts forever.

Rust never sleeps.

 

 

 

There I was again.  Again.  How many chances would I get to cheat death before I would finally die?  The odds were looking slim.  It is this wild streak I have been holding inside for the past six months.  It makes me feel alive.  It makes me strong.

I was there.

Standing in those waves, neck deep, taking it all in.  My skin tense from the nervousness, I could see my breath through it all.  Through all the shattered glass and hurtful words, through all the battering and fists, through all of the wood grain, through all of the wars we ever fought.  I was neck deep taking it all in.  Nothing could save me.  The lightning was striking around me as I looked up at that black, evil looking sky.  I let love aside. Fuck love.   The rain started to sting my face like a million pins being shot at high velocity.  I was neck deep and drifting further on into the surge of the storm, into her heart, into my watery grave…..

 

We find love only for a short time, for a little while.  Whether it is in the most microscopic niche, or in the biggest room, we still find it.  When we do, we are overcome by it.  We love that person with all of our heart.  Love consumes us like gentle flame, burning slowly so it doesn’t hurt at first.  Then we extinguish it and hunger for more.   We watch, and we want as the galaxies collide.  The seas rise over our heads.  The storms in our hearts rage on and cannot be stopped.  Not for anything.

 

FOR EVERY PERSON WHO FALLS IN LOVE ANOTHER TREE IS FELLED.

 

Soon, an entire forest will be lost.  Lost and forgotten to that four letter word.

 

 

There was no one there to stop me.  There was no one there to SAVE me.  Why would they?  I’m no one, and outcast, a lifeless body turned ashen gray, a cold dead heart left out to die.  Further and further, I drift as it comes on.  The storm is like some familiar fever, a beating from a leather belt, a punishment where you kneel on rice and recite the dictionary.  The waves beat my face just like my father did and I like it, I beckon them.  I challenge them.  I began to sink.  I sank down and down and down…

 

Underneath the murky, almost blood colored liquid where time plays no part, I can hear the thunder.  I can see that sudden flash of light.  The high voltage, that electrical charge stronger than man can harness.  The sound of the end.  The waves crashed and crash again as the undertow drags me out a little further.  I’m sinking.  I’m sinking into a sea of promise. A promise called death.  I can hear the waves churning above me.  It feels like an eternity before I hit bottom.  It’s dark down here and green.  A few fish swim slowly by me and an unsuspecting crab scuttles near, scared, with its claws up in some defensive stance like a prize fighter waiting to block a punch.  In my head, I could see visions of my old life.  Glorious times, bad times, loving times.  Times I have been missing forever.  Now, I lay on the bottom of the ocean, almost bereft of oxygen.  I was dying slowly.

 

Ten thousand fingers caress my scalp.  Nagging.  Pulling.  Demanding me to submit to her.  She whispers into my ear.  Come with me love and you will forever under the sea…

 

The current, the current, the push and the pull, the rip tide, is rocking me to sleep.  It tells me stories of horror and of moral terror.  Some of which I already know. Of ships that have been consumed by rogue waves.  Of lives lost over the past four hundred years.  She feasts upon my thoughts.  She feasts upon every heartache and intoxicates herself with my every thought.

 

My lungs were burning as I thought of myself in my mother’s arms as an infant.  I thought of myself as a child.  I thought about every time I was wrong.  The epitome and verisimilitude that I am really just a bastard because my father never wanted anything to do with me.  I lay back down on the bed of the swirling sea.  Listening to the low rumble of thunder up above those crashing waves.

 

Fire.

Forest.

Expedite.

My lungs are burning.

Pianos are roaring.  Ten thousand pianos are playing that same lonely song.  Flashes of light.

Disease.

Cures.

Alcoholism.

Addiction.

Hitler.

Satan.

Waiting for me.

 

I broke the surface of the raging water and inhaled a quick breath of salt air before I was pushed down again into that turbid abyss.  Maybe this is where I belong, I thought. Everything was nothing.  Memories shot through my mind as fast as sound, as fast as song and I broke through the waves again.  The rain again beating the skin of my face.  Large single droplets of fresh water never tasted so good.

 

It’s funny how, just before you’re about to die, your mind thinks of the most frivolous things and small subtleties only seem to matter at that period in time.  I took a quick look around me and saw I was about three hundred yards from shore.  The ocean’s water looked as thick and as gray as the clouds above, a perfect mirror image, complimenting each other.  The wind slashed through waves cutting them into mist just as they would crest.  I felt like it was slicing into my heart.

 

She doesn’t love you anymore.

She doesn’t want you.

You are nothing to her and you haven’t been for a while.

You were never good enough.

 

The sky was viscous with rain and the jagged fingers of lightning, that which reminded me of a very old lady’s hand, pointed their way southward toward that heathenish place we all call Hell.  I was out there in the middle of it all. Begging. Commanding those waves to take me down, back into the depths to show me her acquired diamonds and pearls.

 

Wine.

Cocaine.

Bourbon.

Pussy.

Helplessness.

Wet fucking pussy.

Despair.

Shattered glass.

Broken hearts.

Trust and conviction.

Truth and lies.

Sacrifice.

 

 

It’s not hard to light a flame.  In all reality, it’s very easy to do.  What is hard to do is spark a fire that can lead to desire in someone’s heart.  It is only the brave who are foolish enough to follow through with it all and keep it burning, keeping those embers glowing for as long as one can.  We all want it; that four letter word that is so hard to speak sometimes.  Falling in love can be like committing suicide.  It can be the most devastating thing you have ever put yourself through.   But it can also be the greatest thing that one could ever achieve.  The fires in both participants’ hearts will burn brighter than anything you have ever seen and light up the night sky making it look like day.

 

Our destiny is predetermined at birth and ultimately we all lose at the game.  It’s not the win that we’re really looking for, it’s the gamble.  The infatuation, the yearning for the risk, the act of sticking our necks out and hoping they won’t get trampled upon.  We covet it and tend to it like some newly started fire.  Nurturing the flame until it spreads and becomes uncontrollable.  The forest in our hearts burn to cinder and ash, but we don’t care.  We just like the warm feeling, we need the heat to survive.

 

We are all damned and sometimes, the demons come to us in the night, leaving us hollow and bare.  I rode those waves in to land on that sandy shore forgetting the shadow of my past.  Singing that whole time, that familiar song:

 

Auld Lang Syne.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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