Fucking Bill. Living in fucking Bay Ridge. Fucking Brooklyn. If I had a car, this would be a fifteen minute drive. Or a jet pack. But, NOOOOOO, I have to take the E from Queens to the R through fucking Manhattan into goddamn Brooklyn.
One hour and twenty five minutes. This trip is, according to Hop Stop, going to take me one hour and twenty five goddamn minutes. Fuck me. Fucking Brooklyn.
And then there's the delays. The we're-the-MTA-and-we-have-a-surplus-oops-did-I-say-surplus-because-I-meant-deficit-and-we're-going-to-raise-the-fare-and-reduce-service-and-none-of-you-sweaty-balls-commuters-can-do-a-fucking-thing-about-it-because-you-don't-own-a-car delays. But at least the air conditioning doesn't work. I'd hate to not be able to smell that inside-of-a-pimple smell that homeless guy's got going on.
And the TEASE of that one E stop. On the new E that talks to you and smells nice and is icy cool. Then? Welcome to the R. Which stands for "Rigid Cock That Fucks You In The Ass". One stop on the E and then fifteen thousand stops on the R. The sweaty R starring the Funky Ass Hobo.
Naw, that's waaay too kind....
First off, "funky" might be misinterpreted to mean "eclectic" as if it might pertain to his taste in clothes or music or something. And "hobo" makes me think of guys with perfectly manicured five o'clock shadow, a cigar and a bindle.
This is a stank ass homeless guy.
Stank ass like a bag of jizz soaked socks.
OLD jizz soaked socks.
Usually you get used to smells 'cuz your nosebuds die or whatever, but these fucking nosebuds JUST AIN'T DYING. "R Train of the Living Nosebuds!" starring Everett Mills as the Funk-Assaulted Hero. God, it's fucking PALPABLE.
Shit, you'd think the mass of people between him and me would somewhat mask his funk but it's like it's moving through them to get to me. Like they are a CONDUIT OF STINK. Christ. This fucker smells like scab and anus pie. And he looks fucking dead...
Oh shit. Oh fucking gross! That shit on the news! Oh groooss! What if that motherfucker's sick with it?! Shit, what did they say about it? Something about close physical contact should be avoided...HA! Oh shoot, and I was going to blow this guy. God. Well, no one else seems to give a shit, so, fuck it, I guess.
Oh wait...no, he's not dead, I can see him twitching in his sleep. Well thank God. That would have caused EVEN MORE delays. Some Good Samaritan Fuckhole who was planning on getting off at the next stop would be happy as a pig in shit to yank that red cord, stop the train and let us sit here in the hobo-smelling stillness and just...grooooove. Asshole. Imaginary asshole.
Oh balls.
And speaking of delays...
Hm. Okay, I think what the conductor just said was "Luhguhm ben hed by dapata. Pees aktif hed. Pees sto com an pash wil bo go shurly". Which either means "prepare to sit quietly in a sweltering, stank-ass, non-moving subterranean tube for a shitass long time while I punch myself in the dick" or "whip 'em out gents, a toothless old whore will be by any moment to get your drink orders and flog your dolphins".
Ugh.
He isn't just twitching anymore...he...OH MY FUCKING AUNT! WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO EAT FOR YOUR PUKE TO BE THAT COLOR? JESUS! IT LOOKS LIKE FUCKING SHOE POLISH AND CORN OIL! AND...OH MY BROKEN CLOCK! FUCKING SMELLS LIKE DIARRHEA SUSHI!
That's it, put this over a barrel and fuck it. Next car down here I co-
Oh good. You know what? Whatever. Who fucking needs lights?! I'm here, that fucking guy is over there...I just need to move away from the stink. God, that's sinister...people, the fuck out of my way...oh calm down you sissies...what's the matter, you never smelled the stomach contents of a New York homeless man before? Welcome to the party, tourists...
Yes. Of course. Brilliant. The door is locked. Yes. That's super awesome.
Oh...and our gallant conductor has more to add...
Uh...you have to say something, brainchild...
*sigh*
Good, at least we know the button works.
Ouch!
Feedback much, you fucking retard? Jesus, fucking pull the cock out of your mouth before you talk! Shit, you know, this is probably as intelligible as they get.
God, what the fuck are these idiot tourists screaming about now? Don't worry, they won't start the Lion King without you...why did I leave my fucking iPod at home?
Fucking Bill.
I am never going to Brooklyn again.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Tim, 37
“This job ain’t hard, Mike. When I call out your station, you respond with ‘Station clear.’ Over.
“Repeat. Headquarters to Station 5, what’s your status? Over.
“Goddamnit. Mike, if I find you sleeping again, you ain’t gettin’ a second chance. I’m done with you…Station 4, do you have a visual on Station 5? Over.”
“Negative, HQ… Be on alert. Saw some unusual activity in that direction. Over.”
“Repeat, Station 4.”
“Unusual activity, HQ. Looked like a drunk. Stumbling bad. Sighted 5 minutes ago walking in Mike’s direction. Over.”
“Copy, Station 4. All stations alert; HQ going mobile, en route to Station 5. Station 1 assume responsibility. Copy?”
“This is Station 1; I copy HQ.” “Station 2, I copy.” “Station 3: Yipee kay oh HQ. Full moon TONIGHT! Over.”
“HQ to Station 4. I am now mobile. Do you copy? Over.”
“HQ, I copy…See more wackjobs headin’ that way. No sign of weapons. This don’t look right…Careful Tim...Over.”
“I ain’t the one who needs to worry, Station 4. 3’s right; full moon always brings out the crazies. I’m jonesing to use my taser just to see how far they bounce off the ground. If it ain’t rough, it ain’t right, son. At least that’s what I tell your sist…What the…Station 1, this is HQ. We’ve definitely got a perimeter breach. Get on the phone and call local PD. We’re going to need a wagon. Over.”
“Station 1 to HQ, I copy. Any sign of Mike? Over.”
“HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT!!! Mike is down! Mike is down! All available officers to Station 5! All available officers to Station 5! Aw shit. Aw fuck. Get off of him motherfucker!”
“Station 1 to HQ. Station 1 to HQ. Is that you discharging your weapon? HQ are you under fire? Over.”
“Aw fuck. They tore him to pieces. They tore him to pieces. Fuck. Mike.”
“Station 1 to HQ, what is your current situation? Station 1 to HQ, what the fuck’s going on? I hear more gunfire. Over.”
“Station 1 to Station 4, what’s your ETA to Station 5? Over.”
“Station 1, five minutes. Hold on Tim!”
“HQ to station 1. Mike is still alive. I’m bringing him in. Stay with me Mike. AHHhh! He bit me. Mike fucking bit me. Goddamn I can’t feel my leg. They’re getting back up. They ain’t human; it ain’t fucking human. Help me! Someone PLEASE HELP ME!!! OHfuckinggod!!!”
.
.
.
“Station 4 to Station 1, I just arrived on scene. We’ve got one fucked up situation here. Over.”
Friday, April 24, 2009
Molly, 40
Molly was crying again.
She did not realize she was doing so, but she was indeed crying again.
She sat at the hand carved teak and rosewood table in the kitchen.
In front of her, on the table, was a box of condoms (ribbed...for her pleasure), a large brick of pearl colored powder and a cell phone.
The cell phone was hers, but the condoms and the brick were not hers.
The box was missing eight condoms (all of them ribbed...for her pleasure) and the brick was missing most of one of its corners.
The number flashed through her head and her hand twitched, then lay still again.
She'd gotten that under control.
Fifty five minutes ago she had not had that under control and she had reached out, opened her phone and then dialed the number.
She'd done the same thing ten minutes before that.
But now, it was just a twitch.
And why did it need to be more?
Her name was "Cath" and she was a she.
Those were the facts that Molly knew about her.
The conjectures?
Well, that was different.
They tended to be a bit more...rampant.
But the most forefront of the conjectures involved two of the three items in front of her.
And they were all that mattered to Molly at this particular moment.
"No fair!" Timmy's voice drifted in from the TV room.
"No faaaair! No faaaaaaair!"
Oh Timmy...I could not agree with you more.
Things, in general, were just no fair.
No fair.
Molly hadn't noticed until just then that she had stopped crying.
Her face burned.
She wasn't angry though.
She was...galaxies beyond angry.
Light years beyond angry.
All she felt in her head now was ice.
An hour ago, it had been the goddamn Big Bang in there, but now?
Absolute zero.
Why am I thinking in science and space travel terms?
I haven't thought of the term "absolute zero" since high school chemistry.
Kelvin, right?
Zero degrees Kelvin was "absolute zero", when it was so cold that even cells stopped moving.
The word "cells" made her look at her cell phone again.
Which made her think of the phone number again.
And then the young, cheerful, curvy, firm breasted voice that had first spoken to her as a recording (Hey, this is Cath, leave a message and I'll call you back, 'kay?) and then as a real, live person (Hello?....Hell-oo?....Calvin?).
And if that weren't enough...a brick of heroin?
This is like a bad goddamn movie!
You find the condoms, tear the house apart for the mistress’s number and find...a brick of HEROIN?!
If she kept looking, she was bound to find a cache of weapons grade plutonium or a fucking duffle bag full of body parts, right?
She snorted laughter.
I am so stupid.
I am so stupid.
Eventually, she'd seen his cell phone bill lying in the mess of papers now littering the bedroom floor.
And then she'd found "Cath's" number.
Good, old (young) "Cath".
I suppose he thinks that now that I'm 40 and he's paid for everything he's allowed to fuck "Cath" whenever he likes.
He gave me a son to raise and a hand carved teak and rosewood table for the breakfast nook from which to raise him and so now he can go and plant his cock in that whore's tight, 18 year old ass.
And Molly was crying again.
So what now?
She had called him.
But he hadn't picked up.
And she had been SO ready.
Ready to tell him she knew.
Ready to ask for the divorce.
And then ready to hear him say she wouldn't do that to Tim.
She wouldn't hurt him.
And she wouldn't.
Not before this.
But now?
Now she didn't see Timmy.
She saw her husband's son.
Timothy Matthew Heller.
Named after his father.
Timmy who was already losing interest in her.
Timmy who would grow to need and want and care for her less and less every day.
Timmy who would grow closer to his father and further from his mother every day.
Timmy who would become his father more and more every day.
Timmy who would remind her of him every day.
Timmy who would cheat on his loving, dedicated wife and bring drugs into their home...
"NO FAIR!!!!"
Molly had stopped crying again.
She turned her head slightly towards the living room where Timmy was playing his goddamn Xbox.
The one that he'd bought him.
She picked up the cell phone in front of her and, although the number flashed through her head again, she held down the number 2 and watched as "Matt" popped up on her screen.
The phone rang once, twice, three times and then Matt's amiable, "nice guy" voice told her that he wasn't available right now (because he was balls deep in "Cath"), but to leave a message (just lying around with eight missing, Jesus, eight?!) or call this number if it's a medical emergency (like you can't keep your fucking dick in your pants).
And also to have a really great day (while he came inside some fucking young cunt...without condoms).
Her voice was iron in the winter.
"I know about 'Cath'. I know about the drugs. You have taken everything I care about from me. And now I am going to do the same to you."
She pressed the "End" button and hurled the phone across the kitchen where it bounced off the matching teak and rosewood cabinets and clattered to the imported Italian marble countertop.
Then she sat, motionless, waiting.
Waiting for her phone to ring and to hear Matt unsettled for once in his life.
Waiting for some voice in her head to tell her to calm down and that it wasn't the end of the world.
Waiting for something to stop her from doing what she was thinking of doing.
But there was nothing.
Nothing but the sound of her husband and "Cath" in her ears and the image of her husband and Cath" behind her eyes.
She looked at the brick on the table.
She looked at the dish drainer which held two large juice glasses.
"Timmy?" she said in a high, brittle voice, "You want some juice?"
She did not realize she was doing so, but she was indeed crying again.
She sat at the hand carved teak and rosewood table in the kitchen.
In front of her, on the table, was a box of condoms (ribbed...for her pleasure), a large brick of pearl colored powder and a cell phone.
The cell phone was hers, but the condoms and the brick were not hers.
The box was missing eight condoms (all of them ribbed...for her pleasure) and the brick was missing most of one of its corners.
The number flashed through her head and her hand twitched, then lay still again.
She'd gotten that under control.
Fifty five minutes ago she had not had that under control and she had reached out, opened her phone and then dialed the number.
She'd done the same thing ten minutes before that.
But now, it was just a twitch.
And why did it need to be more?
Her name was "Cath" and she was a she.
Those were the facts that Molly knew about her.
The conjectures?
Well, that was different.
They tended to be a bit more...rampant.
But the most forefront of the conjectures involved two of the three items in front of her.
And they were all that mattered to Molly at this particular moment.
"No fair!" Timmy's voice drifted in from the TV room.
"No faaaair! No faaaaaaair!"
Oh Timmy...I could not agree with you more.
Things, in general, were just no fair.
No fair.
Molly hadn't noticed until just then that she had stopped crying.
Her face burned.
She wasn't angry though.
She was...galaxies beyond angry.
Light years beyond angry.
All she felt in her head now was ice.
An hour ago, it had been the goddamn Big Bang in there, but now?
Absolute zero.
Why am I thinking in science and space travel terms?
I haven't thought of the term "absolute zero" since high school chemistry.
Kelvin, right?
Zero degrees Kelvin was "absolute zero", when it was so cold that even cells stopped moving.
The word "cells" made her look at her cell phone again.
Which made her think of the phone number again.
And then the young, cheerful, curvy, firm breasted voice that had first spoken to her as a recording (Hey, this is Cath, leave a message and I'll call you back, 'kay?) and then as a real, live person (Hello?....Hell-oo?....Calvin?).
And if that weren't enough...a brick of heroin?
This is like a bad goddamn movie!
You find the condoms, tear the house apart for the mistress’s number and find...a brick of HEROIN?!
If she kept looking, she was bound to find a cache of weapons grade plutonium or a fucking duffle bag full of body parts, right?
She snorted laughter.
I am so stupid.
I am so stupid.
Eventually, she'd seen his cell phone bill lying in the mess of papers now littering the bedroom floor.
And then she'd found "Cath's" number.
Good, old (young) "Cath".
I suppose he thinks that now that I'm 40 and he's paid for everything he's allowed to fuck "Cath" whenever he likes.
He gave me a son to raise and a hand carved teak and rosewood table for the breakfast nook from which to raise him and so now he can go and plant his cock in that whore's tight, 18 year old ass.
And Molly was crying again.
So what now?
She had called him.
But he hadn't picked up.
And she had been SO ready.
Ready to tell him she knew.
Ready to ask for the divorce.
And then ready to hear him say she wouldn't do that to Tim.
She wouldn't hurt him.
And she wouldn't.
Not before this.
But now?
Now she didn't see Timmy.
She saw her husband's son.
Timothy Matthew Heller.
Named after his father.
Timmy who was already losing interest in her.
Timmy who would grow to need and want and care for her less and less every day.
Timmy who would grow closer to his father and further from his mother every day.
Timmy who would become his father more and more every day.
Timmy who would remind her of him every day.
Timmy who would cheat on his loving, dedicated wife and bring drugs into their home...
"NO FAIR!!!!"
Molly had stopped crying again.
She turned her head slightly towards the living room where Timmy was playing his goddamn Xbox.
The one that he'd bought him.
She picked up the cell phone in front of her and, although the number flashed through her head again, she held down the number 2 and watched as "Matt" popped up on her screen.
The phone rang once, twice, three times and then Matt's amiable, "nice guy" voice told her that he wasn't available right now (because he was balls deep in "Cath"), but to leave a message (just lying around with eight missing, Jesus, eight?!) or call this number if it's a medical emergency (like you can't keep your fucking dick in your pants).
And also to have a really great day (while he came inside some fucking young cunt...without condoms).
Her voice was iron in the winter.
"I know about 'Cath'. I know about the drugs. You have taken everything I care about from me. And now I am going to do the same to you."
She pressed the "End" button and hurled the phone across the kitchen where it bounced off the matching teak and rosewood cabinets and clattered to the imported Italian marble countertop.
Then she sat, motionless, waiting.
Waiting for her phone to ring and to hear Matt unsettled for once in his life.
Waiting for some voice in her head to tell her to calm down and that it wasn't the end of the world.
Waiting for something to stop her from doing what she was thinking of doing.
But there was nothing.
Nothing but the sound of her husband and "Cath" in her ears and the image of her husband and Cath" behind her eyes.
She looked at the brick on the table.
She looked at the dish drainer which held two large juice glasses.
"Timmy?" she said in a high, brittle voice, "You want some juice?"
Cahty, 29
2:15 pm
"I take a couple uppers, I down a couple downers, but nothin' compares to these blue-and-yellow, purple pills!"
Cathy smiled at the image of her brother dancing around his apartment in his underwear singing this.
"Nice. Very 'listening-to-the-radio-in-2001'."
"Today's the day, Big Sis!"
"Yeah yeah, I'm working a twelve from three to three, can you come over around 6-ish?"
"Let me check my schedule..."
There was a long pause in which Cathy now saw him standing stock still, eyes slightly unfocused, with no expression on his face.
"Yeah, I think I can fit you in, Cath."
Her phone beeped.
She looked at the screen and saw "Matt" blinking.
And speaking of fitting things in...
"I have to go Calvin, Matt's on the other line."
"You're the only person who calls me that..." he responded, seeming not to have heard her.
"Okay, see you around six, bye!"
She pressed the "Send" button.
"Hey, Matt, what's up?"
She hoped she sounded light and airy, like she wasn't just counting the seconds until he arrived, but she didn't think she was doing a great job.
"Hey Cath, I'm on my way over...you got some time for...?"
He let the silence ask the question and she bit her lip.
"Hm, let me see," she paused, doing her best not to sound too eager, "Yeah, I think I can, ahem, fit you in..."
Matt laughed.
"Cathy, please, I'm driving..."
"I'm just getting in now," she said, "How far are you?"
"Maybe five minutes...see you soon..."
"Definitely."
She hung up and walked in to the lobby of Brookhaven Memorial Hospital.
2:50 pm
"I'm sorry again...I don't know where the hell I could've put them..."
Matt was buttoning his shirt.
"And again, don't be. I'm on the pill and I didn't notice any suppurating sores so we should be fine..." she held him from behind, her naked breasts pressing against his back, "Besides...it always feels better this way..."
"Can't argue with that," he said, turning around and kissing her on the mouth.
She pulled back smiling and then froze, "Matt, what's all that about?"
He looked down at his right hand where there was a large, swollen area on the side of his palm.
He sighed, "Nothing. So, these asshole paramedics brought this woman in about twenty minutes before I was headed over here, right? Heart attack, D.R.T. They just need a sawbones sig on the paperwork and everybody's happy. I figure, what the hell, makes me look busy so no one catches me up in anything important. I'm doing a quick once over, confirming that she is, in fact, dead and she starts seizing. I'm holding her down and yelling for the paras to lend a hand, but they're just standing there, gaping like wet-behind-the-ears interns! These guys have been on the job for years, Cathy. So I yell for them to pull their thumbs out and help me restrain this obviously living woman. They finally snap to and are securing her legs and arms and, while I'm trying to make sure she doesn't bite off her own goddamn tongue, she nips me."
"'Nips you'?"
"That's what I said."
"Well, are you okay? Did you have it checked out?" Cathy was concerned, chiefly for Matt (man was she in deep...) but part of her was wondering if this woman had something in her blood...which was now in Matt's blood...Matt who had just been inside her for about a half hour without any sort of protection...
She shivered before she could stop herself, luckily Matt hadn't seen; she didn't want to send the wrong post-coital message, specifically: sex with you makes me shudder.
"According to her records, she was just a regular, old cardiac arrest, no bugs or anything. But, get this, these afterbirths kept saying, 'Doc, she was dead, Doc! She was dead!'" he shrugged, "I got some peroxide on it and by the time I was done, it had clotted. It barely broke the skin, Cath, I'm fine."
She relaxed a bit.
"Good. And if you see her again, tell her I'm the only one who gets to bite you now."
"You can tell her yourself, last I heard they were sending her over her for the autopsy."
"What's your problem over there? That's the third stiff in twelve hours we've got from Mount Cedar...are you molesting the dead again?"
"I can't get hard unless they're hard..." Matt said wistfully, staring off into the distance.
"Christ, how did you ever become a doctor?"
"By sleeping with the right corpses." he said, taking her in his arms.
"Seriously, though, I wanted to ask you about..." he held up his right hand, indicating the gold band around the third finger, "...are you...okay with this?"
"Look," said Cathy, getting serious, "I don't know anything about your home situation, but I'm not looking for a husband. You're fun and you're hot and you fuck like a 20 year old...that's all I really care about."
Matt smiled.
"And that's just fine with me."
"Hey, how did 'the meet' go with my brother?"
"Oh, fine. He's a really funny guy. I told him that this isn't a permanent situation and not to figure me into his long term plans. He gets that, right?"
"He does, but I'll reiterate. He's coming by later for the re-up."
Matt laughed.
"Re-up, nice; you been watching The Wire?"
"You know it."
He looked at his watch.
"Hm, you should be getting to work, Nurse Franklin."
She looked at her own.
"I concur, Doctor Heller."
"Perhaps we can schedule another meeting for some time later this week?" he said in a detached, businesslike tone.
"Hm, yes," said Cathy, trying to match his gravitas, "Perhaps. I do have about a dozen other appointments though. There's a conference in town, of course"
"Of course, Nurse Franklin, of course. Well, call me if you find an opening."
He kissed her again.
"I may be able to squeeze you in. I'll keep you updated, Doctor."
"Thank you, Nurse, I'll do the same."
And with that, Matt left.
Cathy got herself cleaned up and made it to the nurses' station with about a minute to spare.
4:39 pm
Cathy was just entering Mr. Denton's room when her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She ignored it.
She wasn't the type of nurse to answer her cell when she was with a patient, that was just disrespectful.
"Afternoon, Mr. Denton. You rang?"
She watched his eyes look down at himself.
"You...need to use the bed pan?"
His left index finger tapped twice.
"All right, let me help you with that."
This guy was hardcore.
A couple of weeks ago, he was a breathing corpse, the living dead, but a few days ago, his call bell had gone off at the Nurses' Station. She'd called the electrician before she'd called the doctor.
This kind of thing didn't usually happen.
But, sure enough, when she finally came to his room, there he was, pounding on that button with his left index finger.
Two down, Mr. Denton, eight to go...
As she was replacing the bed pan and washing up, her phone rang again.
She dried her hands and looked at it.
It was a number she didn't recognize, but that wasn't too out of the ordinary since her brother lost his cell phone more than once a week sometimes.
She answered.
"Hello?"
Nothing.
"Hell-oo?"
She might have heard someone breathing.
She smiled.
"Calvin?"
There was a click and the beep that let her know she'd been hung up on.
She shrugged, closed her phone and dropped it in her pocket.
She would ask him when he showed up.
7:03 pm
"Speaking relatively, this is totally 'around six'."
"Uh huh."
They were walking through the basement towards the Nurses' Lounge.
"You know, for an Ent—" he began.
"Just! Just shut up! No! Stop! Okay, whatever. I don't care about Hobbits. I really don't."
Calvin subsided, looking pleased with himself.
"Anyway, sorry I'm late."
"No problem. I only have about ten minutes left on my break though."
"That's cool..." he voice became a gravelly whisper, "You got the stuff...?"
Cathy rolled her eyes.
"You are so lucky this is not a very well run establishment, you're too inept to be a real drug dealer."
They entered the Nurses' Lounge and Cathy looked around to make sure they were alone.
She opened her locker with a key and handed him a black plastic bag which he snatched and stuffed into his backpack with over-dramatized caution.
"You are such a fag."
"You are what you eat, Big Sis."
"All right, then you're also a pepperoni hot pocket."
"Burn. So how's Slump?"
"Don't know. He would had gotten off at seven in the morning."
"Gotcha."
"And I hear your thing with Matt went well?"
"Dude, he is so cool. We met in a Starbucks."
"Ha! Nice."
"Yeah, that's not all, he put it in a gift bag."
"Sorry?"
"Yeah, he said it would look less suspicious. He handed me a Body Shop gift bag...with heroin in it...while I was enjoying a caramel flavored iced beverage."
"You probably won't see that on The Wire..."
"It was awesome."
"Well, remember what I said before, he isn't a dealer and he's not going to become one. He just happens to be a guy who has some heroin—"
"—and I happen to be a guy that needs some heroin. It's ridiculous, but it works."
"And it's supposed to be good, right?"
"Are you kidding me? Slump almost blew his load on my papasan."
"And I'm never sitting on your papasan again."
"Suit yourself."
"Okay, I gotta get going. I'll walk you out."
"Thanks again, sis. See you next week?"
"Unless one of us gets arrested."
"Cool."
They walked up the stairs to the first floor in silence.
When they reached the door she held it open.
"Oh, did you call me from some number and hang up?"
"Not that I'm aware of."
"Hm. Okay, whatever. See you around , kid."
"Sho' 'nuff."
She watched him go for a moment, then turned and went back inside.
8:18 pm
"Fourth floor Nurses' Station, Cathy speaking."
It was Dr. Adler.
"Oh, not too bad, Doc."
She liked Dr. Adler.
Most of the doctors here were all right, but sometimes they could be real pricks.
"Aside from the usual, Harold Denton has had quite a breakthrough. Dr. Lewkowicz left a note attached to his chart asking that you be informed."
She listened for a moment.
"Pretty much like you said, Doc. Left index and ring."
She smiled and then laughed.
"He's already figured out the call bell, yes."
She listened and then nodded.
"I'll be sure to tell him, Dr. Adler. He'll be happy to hear it."
She paused.
"You too, good night."
She hung up.
Before she could turn away from the phone, it rang again.
"Fourth floor Nurses'—"
It was Betty, the nursing supervisor.
She needed Cathy in the ER immediately.
"On my way."
She hung up again and took a few steps towards the elevator before reconsidering.
This was an old hospital and waiting for the elevator would take ten times as long as just using the stairs.
She opened the door to the first floor's ER waiting room and Betty was waiting for her with a clipboard.
"Catty, we got sumptin special from Sweet Watta," she looked down at her clipboard, "a Miss Deborah Buntin, can ya bring dis down to the morgue?"
She pointed at a gurney with a large, zippered black bag resting on it.
"No problem." said Cathy.
She got behind the gurney and pushed it towards the elevator.
"God, this fucking thing..." she muttered under her breath.
After some time, the elevator finally arrived.
She pushed the gurney in and pressed the button for the sub-basement.
She noticed the smell almost as soon as the doors closed.
She'd smelled dead bodies before, but this one...smelled...like...
Her stomach writhed and suddenly she was taken back to the night she had returned to her apartment and found the raw chicken breast her alcoholic roommate had left in the microwave over a long weekend...she remembered how the surface of it seemed to pulse and ripple and the sound the flies made as they—
She clamped her lips around a moan and barely managed to stifle her gag reflex.
She was bent over double, eyes squeezed shut, gripping the gurney when she heard the moaning again.
Her eyes snapped open.
She wasn't moaning.
"What...?"
She heard the unmistakable sound of stiff plastic ruffling and then something cold and slick touched her hand.
"Oh my God...!"
She stood up straight and looked at the twitching, shaking bag on the gurney.
"Oh my fucking God!"
Cathy leapt into action.
"You're going to be just fine, uh...Deborah! Deborah, you going to be fine...just stay calm..."
She tried to get her fingers on the tiny zipper tab but both her hands and the bag were jittering wildly.
"Just hang on and try to lay still, Deborah! I'll have you out in a moment!"
The moaning continued, but muffled now as if the woman inside were chewing on the bag or...
"Choking! Oh fuck me sideways!" Cathy finally grabbed hold of the tiny zipper and raked it down, tearing it free of the twisting black fabric.
The smell hit her like a sledgehammer and she had only a second to take in the face of the woman in the bag (ohfuckingshit) before the elevator floor jumped up to meet her.
9:12 pm
"—atty? Sweet baby, are ya all rate?"
"Did I throw up on Miss Buntin?" Cathy asked in a thick voice.
There was a heavy, considering silence and then Betty burst out laughing.
"Nooo, sweety, but you did bump you' head and cut you' arm."
"What...happened...?" she asked weakly.
"Well, George was down in de boiler room and was waiting for the god damned elevator when you showed up, lying in a pool of puke wit Miss Buntin's head stickin' outta her boddy bag. He called a code an' we came ta get you. Now you're in de lounge."
Cathy looked at her left arm and saw a solid band of white about halfway between her hand and her elbow.
"The doc on call patched you up, he'll want to check on you."
"So...that woman's...alive?"
Cathy felt as if she were viewing the world from the bottom of a lake.
A frown settled on Betty's face, "Well...now...she—"
Betty's pager buzzed just then.
"Sweet Mother, anotha one?" she said under her breath. "I have to go, Catty. I'd send you home, but tings 'ave gotten a bit busy while you were out. Just lay here for a bit and the doctor will be down, then come back on up, all rate?"
With that, Betty hurried out of the room.
Cathy suddenly wanted to talk to Matt very badly.
She remembered what had happened to him and then saw in her mind's eye the Mount Cedar tag on Miss Deborah Buntin's body bag.
She reached into her pocket and dialed his number.
It rang three times and went to his voice mail.
She waited, feeling comforted by the sound of his voice and then hung up before the beep.
She didn't really want to leave this as a message.
She thought for a moment and then texted him the message "CALL ME PLEASE."
She closed her phone, put it back in her pocket and took a deep breath.
She was very tired.
She just wanted to sleep, go home and sleep some more.
12:42 am
Cathy's phone rang in her pocket, but she didn't answer it.
"I take a couple uppers, I down a couple downers, but nothin' compares to these blue-and-yellow, purple pills!"
Cathy smiled at the image of her brother dancing around his apartment in his underwear singing this.
"Nice. Very 'listening-to-the-radio-in-2001'."
"Today's the day, Big Sis!"
"Yeah yeah, I'm working a twelve from three to three, can you come over around 6-ish?"
"Let me check my schedule..."
There was a long pause in which Cathy now saw him standing stock still, eyes slightly unfocused, with no expression on his face.
"Yeah, I think I can fit you in, Cath."
Her phone beeped.
She looked at the screen and saw "Matt" blinking.
And speaking of fitting things in...
"I have to go Calvin, Matt's on the other line."
"You're the only person who calls me that..." he responded, seeming not to have heard her.
"Okay, see you around six, bye!"
She pressed the "Send" button.
"Hey, Matt, what's up?"
She hoped she sounded light and airy, like she wasn't just counting the seconds until he arrived, but she didn't think she was doing a great job.
"Hey Cath, I'm on my way over...you got some time for...?"
He let the silence ask the question and she bit her lip.
"Hm, let me see," she paused, doing her best not to sound too eager, "Yeah, I think I can, ahem, fit you in..."
Matt laughed.
"Cathy, please, I'm driving..."
"I'm just getting in now," she said, "How far are you?"
"Maybe five minutes...see you soon..."
"Definitely."
She hung up and walked in to the lobby of Brookhaven Memorial Hospital.
2:50 pm
"I'm sorry again...I don't know where the hell I could've put them..."
Matt was buttoning his shirt.
"And again, don't be. I'm on the pill and I didn't notice any suppurating sores so we should be fine..." she held him from behind, her naked breasts pressing against his back, "Besides...it always feels better this way..."
"Can't argue with that," he said, turning around and kissing her on the mouth.
She pulled back smiling and then froze, "Matt, what's all that about?"
He looked down at his right hand where there was a large, swollen area on the side of his palm.
He sighed, "Nothing. So, these asshole paramedics brought this woman in about twenty minutes before I was headed over here, right? Heart attack, D.R.T. They just need a sawbones sig on the paperwork and everybody's happy. I figure, what the hell, makes me look busy so no one catches me up in anything important. I'm doing a quick once over, confirming that she is, in fact, dead and she starts seizing. I'm holding her down and yelling for the paras to lend a hand, but they're just standing there, gaping like wet-behind-the-ears interns! These guys have been on the job for years, Cathy. So I yell for them to pull their thumbs out and help me restrain this obviously living woman. They finally snap to and are securing her legs and arms and, while I'm trying to make sure she doesn't bite off her own goddamn tongue, she nips me."
"'Nips you'?"
"That's what I said."
"Well, are you okay? Did you have it checked out?" Cathy was concerned, chiefly for Matt (man was she in deep...) but part of her was wondering if this woman had something in her blood...which was now in Matt's blood...Matt who had just been inside her for about a half hour without any sort of protection...
She shivered before she could stop herself, luckily Matt hadn't seen; she didn't want to send the wrong post-coital message, specifically: sex with you makes me shudder.
"According to her records, she was just a regular, old cardiac arrest, no bugs or anything. But, get this, these afterbirths kept saying, 'Doc, she was dead, Doc! She was dead!'" he shrugged, "I got some peroxide on it and by the time I was done, it had clotted. It barely broke the skin, Cath, I'm fine."
She relaxed a bit.
"Good. And if you see her again, tell her I'm the only one who gets to bite you now."
"You can tell her yourself, last I heard they were sending her over her for the autopsy."
"What's your problem over there? That's the third stiff in twelve hours we've got from Mount Cedar...are you molesting the dead again?"
"I can't get hard unless they're hard..." Matt said wistfully, staring off into the distance.
"Christ, how did you ever become a doctor?"
"By sleeping with the right corpses." he said, taking her in his arms.
"Seriously, though, I wanted to ask you about..." he held up his right hand, indicating the gold band around the third finger, "...are you...okay with this?"
"Look," said Cathy, getting serious, "I don't know anything about your home situation, but I'm not looking for a husband. You're fun and you're hot and you fuck like a 20 year old...that's all I really care about."
Matt smiled.
"And that's just fine with me."
"Hey, how did 'the meet' go with my brother?"
"Oh, fine. He's a really funny guy. I told him that this isn't a permanent situation and not to figure me into his long term plans. He gets that, right?"
"He does, but I'll reiterate. He's coming by later for the re-up."
Matt laughed.
"Re-up, nice; you been watching The Wire?"
"You know it."
He looked at his watch.
"Hm, you should be getting to work, Nurse Franklin."
She looked at her own.
"I concur, Doctor Heller."
"Perhaps we can schedule another meeting for some time later this week?" he said in a detached, businesslike tone.
"Hm, yes," said Cathy, trying to match his gravitas, "Perhaps. I do have about a dozen other appointments though. There's a conference in town, of course"
"Of course, Nurse Franklin, of course. Well, call me if you find an opening."
He kissed her again.
"I may be able to squeeze you in. I'll keep you updated, Doctor."
"Thank you, Nurse, I'll do the same."
And with that, Matt left.
Cathy got herself cleaned up and made it to the nurses' station with about a minute to spare.
4:39 pm
Cathy was just entering Mr. Denton's room when her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She ignored it.
She wasn't the type of nurse to answer her cell when she was with a patient, that was just disrespectful.
"Afternoon, Mr. Denton. You rang?"
She watched his eyes look down at himself.
"You...need to use the bed pan?"
His left index finger tapped twice.
"All right, let me help you with that."
This guy was hardcore.
A couple of weeks ago, he was a breathing corpse, the living dead, but a few days ago, his call bell had gone off at the Nurses' Station. She'd called the electrician before she'd called the doctor.
This kind of thing didn't usually happen.
But, sure enough, when she finally came to his room, there he was, pounding on that button with his left index finger.
Two down, Mr. Denton, eight to go...
As she was replacing the bed pan and washing up, her phone rang again.
She dried her hands and looked at it.
It was a number she didn't recognize, but that wasn't too out of the ordinary since her brother lost his cell phone more than once a week sometimes.
She answered.
"Hello?"
Nothing.
"Hell-oo?"
She might have heard someone breathing.
She smiled.
"Calvin?"
There was a click and the beep that let her know she'd been hung up on.
She shrugged, closed her phone and dropped it in her pocket.
She would ask him when he showed up.
7:03 pm
"Speaking relatively, this is totally 'around six'."
"Uh huh."
They were walking through the basement towards the Nurses' Lounge.
"You know, for an Ent—" he began.
"Just! Just shut up! No! Stop! Okay, whatever. I don't care about Hobbits. I really don't."
Calvin subsided, looking pleased with himself.
"Anyway, sorry I'm late."
"No problem. I only have about ten minutes left on my break though."
"That's cool..." he voice became a gravelly whisper, "You got the stuff...?"
Cathy rolled her eyes.
"You are so lucky this is not a very well run establishment, you're too inept to be a real drug dealer."
They entered the Nurses' Lounge and Cathy looked around to make sure they were alone.
She opened her locker with a key and handed him a black plastic bag which he snatched and stuffed into his backpack with over-dramatized caution.
"You are such a fag."
"You are what you eat, Big Sis."
"All right, then you're also a pepperoni hot pocket."
"Burn. So how's Slump?"
"Don't know. He would had gotten off at seven in the morning."
"Gotcha."
"And I hear your thing with Matt went well?"
"Dude, he is so cool. We met in a Starbucks."
"Ha! Nice."
"Yeah, that's not all, he put it in a gift bag."
"Sorry?"
"Yeah, he said it would look less suspicious. He handed me a Body Shop gift bag...with heroin in it...while I was enjoying a caramel flavored iced beverage."
"You probably won't see that on The Wire..."
"It was awesome."
"Well, remember what I said before, he isn't a dealer and he's not going to become one. He just happens to be a guy who has some heroin—"
"—and I happen to be a guy that needs some heroin. It's ridiculous, but it works."
"And it's supposed to be good, right?"
"Are you kidding me? Slump almost blew his load on my papasan."
"And I'm never sitting on your papasan again."
"Suit yourself."
"Okay, I gotta get going. I'll walk you out."
"Thanks again, sis. See you next week?"
"Unless one of us gets arrested."
"Cool."
They walked up the stairs to the first floor in silence.
When they reached the door she held it open.
"Oh, did you call me from some number and hang up?"
"Not that I'm aware of."
"Hm. Okay, whatever. See you around , kid."
"Sho' 'nuff."
She watched him go for a moment, then turned and went back inside.
8:18 pm
"Fourth floor Nurses' Station, Cathy speaking."
It was Dr. Adler.
"Oh, not too bad, Doc."
She liked Dr. Adler.
Most of the doctors here were all right, but sometimes they could be real pricks.
"Aside from the usual, Harold Denton has had quite a breakthrough. Dr. Lewkowicz left a note attached to his chart asking that you be informed."
She listened for a moment.
"Pretty much like you said, Doc. Left index and ring."
She smiled and then laughed.
"He's already figured out the call bell, yes."
She listened and then nodded.
"I'll be sure to tell him, Dr. Adler. He'll be happy to hear it."
She paused.
"You too, good night."
She hung up.
Before she could turn away from the phone, it rang again.
"Fourth floor Nurses'—"
It was Betty, the nursing supervisor.
She needed Cathy in the ER immediately.
"On my way."
She hung up again and took a few steps towards the elevator before reconsidering.
This was an old hospital and waiting for the elevator would take ten times as long as just using the stairs.
She opened the door to the first floor's ER waiting room and Betty was waiting for her with a clipboard.
"Catty, we got sumptin special from Sweet Watta," she looked down at her clipboard, "a Miss Deborah Buntin, can ya bring dis down to the morgue?"
She pointed at a gurney with a large, zippered black bag resting on it.
"No problem." said Cathy.
She got behind the gurney and pushed it towards the elevator.
"God, this fucking thing..." she muttered under her breath.
After some time, the elevator finally arrived.
She pushed the gurney in and pressed the button for the sub-basement.
She noticed the smell almost as soon as the doors closed.
She'd smelled dead bodies before, but this one...smelled...like...
Her stomach writhed and suddenly she was taken back to the night she had returned to her apartment and found the raw chicken breast her alcoholic roommate had left in the microwave over a long weekend...she remembered how the surface of it seemed to pulse and ripple and the sound the flies made as they—
She clamped her lips around a moan and barely managed to stifle her gag reflex.
She was bent over double, eyes squeezed shut, gripping the gurney when she heard the moaning again.
Her eyes snapped open.
She wasn't moaning.
"What...?"
She heard the unmistakable sound of stiff plastic ruffling and then something cold and slick touched her hand.
"Oh my God...!"
She stood up straight and looked at the twitching, shaking bag on the gurney.
"Oh my fucking God!"
Cathy leapt into action.
"You're going to be just fine, uh...Deborah! Deborah, you going to be fine...just stay calm..."
She tried to get her fingers on the tiny zipper tab but both her hands and the bag were jittering wildly.
"Just hang on and try to lay still, Deborah! I'll have you out in a moment!"
The moaning continued, but muffled now as if the woman inside were chewing on the bag or...
"Choking! Oh fuck me sideways!" Cathy finally grabbed hold of the tiny zipper and raked it down, tearing it free of the twisting black fabric.
The smell hit her like a sledgehammer and she had only a second to take in the face of the woman in the bag (ohfuckingshit) before the elevator floor jumped up to meet her.
9:12 pm
"—atty? Sweet baby, are ya all rate?"
"Did I throw up on Miss Buntin?" Cathy asked in a thick voice.
There was a heavy, considering silence and then Betty burst out laughing.
"Nooo, sweety, but you did bump you' head and cut you' arm."
"What...happened...?" she asked weakly.
"Well, George was down in de boiler room and was waiting for the god damned elevator when you showed up, lying in a pool of puke wit Miss Buntin's head stickin' outta her boddy bag. He called a code an' we came ta get you. Now you're in de lounge."
Cathy looked at her left arm and saw a solid band of white about halfway between her hand and her elbow.
"The doc on call patched you up, he'll want to check on you."
"So...that woman's...alive?"
Cathy felt as if she were viewing the world from the bottom of a lake.
A frown settled on Betty's face, "Well...now...she—"
Betty's pager buzzed just then.
"Sweet Mother, anotha one?" she said under her breath. "I have to go, Catty. I'd send you home, but tings 'ave gotten a bit busy while you were out. Just lay here for a bit and the doctor will be down, then come back on up, all rate?"
With that, Betty hurried out of the room.
Cathy suddenly wanted to talk to Matt very badly.
She remembered what had happened to him and then saw in her mind's eye the Mount Cedar tag on Miss Deborah Buntin's body bag.
She reached into her pocket and dialed his number.
It rang three times and went to his voice mail.
She waited, feeling comforted by the sound of his voice and then hung up before the beep.
She didn't really want to leave this as a message.
She thought for a moment and then texted him the message "CALL ME PLEASE."
She closed her phone, put it back in her pocket and took a deep breath.
She was very tired.
She just wanted to sleep, go home and sleep some more.
12:42 am
Cathy's phone rang in her pocket, but she didn't answer it.
Tess, 18
Tess was just having her second orgasm when Tyler bit her.
Usually, she liked a little pain with her pleasure.
She liked when Tyler's (or whoever's) teeth clashed against her clit ring, she liked to be pinned or bound, she even liked a little blood sometimes.
But this fucking hurt.
"Ow, you fucker! Ease up!"
Tyler grunted and pulled his head out from under her skirt. The light was dim, the alley lit only by the marquee over Smashlight across the street, but she thought she saw blood on his mouth.
All at once she wanted him.
Wanted him holding her down and fucking her from behind right here in this alley.
She wanted his teeth all over her.
Something about that look on his face, sort of dazed like he was actually drunk off her pussy.
She'd read that phrase in some book and knew it was just bad erotica, but that look on his face...and the blood on his mouth...
"I want you to fuck me right now," she husked at him, hitching her skirt up and turning to face the wall.
She slid one finger inside herself.
God, she'd never been this wet...
She waited, breathing heavily, with her forehead pressed against the wall.
But Tyler wasn't doing anything.
She looked over her shoulder, panting and saw him, still on his knees, looking...confused?
No longer enthralled by her sex (Anne Rampling? Poppy Z. Brite? The Marquis de Sade?) but just...confused.
"Jesus," she growled, "how fucking dumb can you get? Up here, faggot!" she said in a high pitched, mocking voice.
Tyler looked up at her and she smiled.
"That's it..." She began to slowly pump her hips, waving her exposed ass in his face, "Come up here and get—" she stopped, looking puzzled as he turned away again and then smiled again as he starting moving slowly towards her on his knees.
She liked seeing him on his knees like that.
And now the confused, drunken look was gone.
He looked hungry.
She liked that look even better.
His hands clamped on her hips and she gasped in anticipation, spreading her legs wider to help him get to her.
"Oh fuck this is so hot..." she whispered, "I'm so—"
And that's when Tyler bit her again.
Tess didn't feel a rush pleasure and pain this time; she screamed at the top of her lungs and surged forward, forgetting that she had positioned herself inches away from the dirty wall.
She slammed her head into the bricks and bounced back into Tyler, who was now standing.
She turned, half unconscious, her vision still blurred from the impact and looked up into the face of....Tyler?
Not Tyler, not anymore.
"The...fuck...?" she mumbled.
Tyler leaned in, his breath smelled of blood, her blood, she could see it on his teeth...
Suddenly Tyler was gone.
Tess was brought back somewhat by having narrowly escaped...something at the hands (and teeth) of Tyler.
"He seemed so nice..." she muttered.
She looked toward the sounds coming from her right.
Some guy was on top of Tyler, beating the living shit out of him.
She looked to her left, across the street at Smashlight and saw that Jones, the bouncer, wasn't out front.
Her sluggish mind put two and two together and realized that Jones must have heard her scream and thought something was wrong.
She opened her mouth to say something about a misunderstanding and then she noticed the warmth coursing down her thigh.
"My God, am I still..." she started, then she saw that the inside of her right leg was coated in red from her crotch all the way down to her ankle.
Blood was cascading down her leg and pooling around her right foot.
"Fucking...fucking..." she began and stopped when a wave of faintness passed over her.
She didn't know if it was the blood loss or the collision with the wall, but she was now having trouble putting thoughts together.
She needed help and turned to Jones to ask for it, but now he and Tyler were...making out?
"You...fags..." she hissed in a thick voice.
She watched as Tyler, who had somehow gotten on top of Jones, pulled back from their kiss (it made a sound like duct tape being torn from wet cardboard) with a strip of something connecting the two faces.
Tyler snapped his head back and the strip was now only hanging from Tyler's face.
Tess watched with baffled concentration as the strip slowly disappeared into Tyler's mouth.
She felt stoned.
Nothing was making much sense at this particular moment.
The blood, she remembered.
Help.
She rotated towards the club across the street and set off at a shamble, her thigh pumped more blood every time she put her weight on it.
It seemed to take ages to reach the door, but she made it, feeling the vibrations before she even opened it.
When she did finally manage to pull open the heavy, steel door, the music hit her like a physical force.
She staggered back, almost fell, then lurched inside.
"Stupid..." she said, realizing that she could have just called 911 on her cell before remembering that she'd left it in her purse which she'd laid neatly on the ground before Tyler had removed her panties and started going down on her.
She paused for a moment, completely unsure of what to do.
The bleeding.
Stop the bleeding.
With.
"Tampons," she croaked, and started stumbling towards the bathrooms, leaving another puddle of blood in the dark entryway.
When she reached the dance hall proper, she had to stop again.
She felt the music more than heard it.
It was like being inside a giant drum.
She scanned the crowd, but that was just force of habit.
She never came here alone.
She always had Mel, Koko and Janice with her, as sort of a buffer zone.
Didn't hurt that they were all fugly compared to her either.
That fucking bitch Janice, the time she—
Focus.
The bleeding.
“Yeah, right…” she said under her breath.
She set off towards the bathrooms across the dance floor, leaving yet another, smaller, pool of blood behind.
Over the next twenty minutes, she made her way through the undulating sea of people.
A pale face among other pale faces.
She didn't see these other faces, just overlapping, overexposed demonic blurs like scenes from a nightmare.
And sometimes she saw Tyler's face.
Finally, finally she reached the bathrooms.
She leaned against the wall outside one of them, regaining her strength in order to heave open the door.
She was now soaked in sweat and barely able to keep her eyes open.
"What's that vein called...female? Tyler bit through my female vein..."
She remembered meeting Tyler in the bar across town...what...an hour ago? Two?
They'd been playing that song...
She couldn't remember the name, but she remembered the beat and started swaying to it.
She was on the verge of falling asleep on her feet when she heard, clearly in her head, despite the explosive noise of the club around her, the tearing noise that had emitted from the two figures on the ground just a few minutes ago.
She staggered, almost fell, put her hand out to steady herself and opened her eyes.
She looked across the floor and directly into the eyes of some dork with a boner.
This made her think of Tyler again (I want you to fuck me right now), and his teeth, and her blood on his teeth and suddenly she was going to throw up.
With this last burst of strength, she threw open the bathroom door and stumbled into the puke and piss smelling darkness beyond.
She took a deep breath, inhaling the fetid bathroom stench and, although she felt her stomach roil inside her, she did not throw up.
She made out vague bathroom shapes in the black lit room.
Toilet, sink, condom machine, tampon dispenser.
"Tampons..." she croaked again.
Her blood looked like tar in this light.
She fumbled her way to the tampon dispenser which, when she reached in, she found was filled with used condoms.
The cold, gelid, chlorine-smelling muck on her fingers triggered something deep within her and her gag rose like a piston, bringing with it the Chinese food she'd eaten earlier.
She missed the toilet completely, but then again so had the other people who'd been in here recently.
After what felt like days of throwing up, she collapsed onto the floor in a sitting position.
She was cold now, not in pain, just cold.
Cold and tired.
She remembered the bleeding again and tried to cover the wound with her hand.
"Good news...bad news..." she said in a fading voice.
The good news was the blood seemed to have stopped flooding out of her, the bad news was the area around the bite felt as tough as frozen leather.
But it didn't hurt.
"So...good news...bad news...good news..." she murmured, as the thudding, violet darkness swallowed her whole.
Usually, she liked a little pain with her pleasure.
She liked when Tyler's (or whoever's) teeth clashed against her clit ring, she liked to be pinned or bound, she even liked a little blood sometimes.
But this fucking hurt.
"Ow, you fucker! Ease up!"
Tyler grunted and pulled his head out from under her skirt. The light was dim, the alley lit only by the marquee over Smashlight across the street, but she thought she saw blood on his mouth.
All at once she wanted him.
Wanted him holding her down and fucking her from behind right here in this alley.
She wanted his teeth all over her.
Something about that look on his face, sort of dazed like he was actually drunk off her pussy.
She'd read that phrase in some book and knew it was just bad erotica, but that look on his face...and the blood on his mouth...
"I want you to fuck me right now," she husked at him, hitching her skirt up and turning to face the wall.
She slid one finger inside herself.
God, she'd never been this wet...
She waited, breathing heavily, with her forehead pressed against the wall.
But Tyler wasn't doing anything.
She looked over her shoulder, panting and saw him, still on his knees, looking...confused?
No longer enthralled by her sex (Anne Rampling? Poppy Z. Brite? The Marquis de Sade?) but just...confused.
"Jesus," she growled, "how fucking dumb can you get? Up here, faggot!" she said in a high pitched, mocking voice.
Tyler looked up at her and she smiled.
"That's it..." She began to slowly pump her hips, waving her exposed ass in his face, "Come up here and get—" she stopped, looking puzzled as he turned away again and then smiled again as he starting moving slowly towards her on his knees.
She liked seeing him on his knees like that.
And now the confused, drunken look was gone.
He looked hungry.
She liked that look even better.
His hands clamped on her hips and she gasped in anticipation, spreading her legs wider to help him get to her.
"Oh fuck this is so hot..." she whispered, "I'm so—"
And that's when Tyler bit her again.
Tess didn't feel a rush pleasure and pain this time; she screamed at the top of her lungs and surged forward, forgetting that she had positioned herself inches away from the dirty wall.
She slammed her head into the bricks and bounced back into Tyler, who was now standing.
She turned, half unconscious, her vision still blurred from the impact and looked up into the face of....Tyler?
Not Tyler, not anymore.
"The...fuck...?" she mumbled.
Tyler leaned in, his breath smelled of blood, her blood, she could see it on his teeth...
Suddenly Tyler was gone.
Tess was brought back somewhat by having narrowly escaped...something at the hands (and teeth) of Tyler.
"He seemed so nice..." she muttered.
She looked toward the sounds coming from her right.
Some guy was on top of Tyler, beating the living shit out of him.
She looked to her left, across the street at Smashlight and saw that Jones, the bouncer, wasn't out front.
Her sluggish mind put two and two together and realized that Jones must have heard her scream and thought something was wrong.
She opened her mouth to say something about a misunderstanding and then she noticed the warmth coursing down her thigh.
"My God, am I still..." she started, then she saw that the inside of her right leg was coated in red from her crotch all the way down to her ankle.
Blood was cascading down her leg and pooling around her right foot.
"Fucking...fucking..." she began and stopped when a wave of faintness passed over her.
She didn't know if it was the blood loss or the collision with the wall, but she was now having trouble putting thoughts together.
She needed help and turned to Jones to ask for it, but now he and Tyler were...making out?
"You...fags..." she hissed in a thick voice.
She watched as Tyler, who had somehow gotten on top of Jones, pulled back from their kiss (it made a sound like duct tape being torn from wet cardboard) with a strip of something connecting the two faces.
Tyler snapped his head back and the strip was now only hanging from Tyler's face.
Tess watched with baffled concentration as the strip slowly disappeared into Tyler's mouth.
She felt stoned.
Nothing was making much sense at this particular moment.
The blood, she remembered.
Help.
She rotated towards the club across the street and set off at a shamble, her thigh pumped more blood every time she put her weight on it.
It seemed to take ages to reach the door, but she made it, feeling the vibrations before she even opened it.
When she did finally manage to pull open the heavy, steel door, the music hit her like a physical force.
She staggered back, almost fell, then lurched inside.
"Stupid..." she said, realizing that she could have just called 911 on her cell before remembering that she'd left it in her purse which she'd laid neatly on the ground before Tyler had removed her panties and started going down on her.
She paused for a moment, completely unsure of what to do.
The bleeding.
Stop the bleeding.
With.
"Tampons," she croaked, and started stumbling towards the bathrooms, leaving another puddle of blood in the dark entryway.
When she reached the dance hall proper, she had to stop again.
She felt the music more than heard it.
It was like being inside a giant drum.
She scanned the crowd, but that was just force of habit.
She never came here alone.
She always had Mel, Koko and Janice with her, as sort of a buffer zone.
Didn't hurt that they were all fugly compared to her either.
That fucking bitch Janice, the time she—
Focus.
The bleeding.
“Yeah, right…” she said under her breath.
She set off towards the bathrooms across the dance floor, leaving yet another, smaller, pool of blood behind.
Over the next twenty minutes, she made her way through the undulating sea of people.
A pale face among other pale faces.
She didn't see these other faces, just overlapping, overexposed demonic blurs like scenes from a nightmare.
And sometimes she saw Tyler's face.
Finally, finally she reached the bathrooms.
She leaned against the wall outside one of them, regaining her strength in order to heave open the door.
She was now soaked in sweat and barely able to keep her eyes open.
"What's that vein called...female? Tyler bit through my female vein..."
She remembered meeting Tyler in the bar across town...what...an hour ago? Two?
They'd been playing that song...
She couldn't remember the name, but she remembered the beat and started swaying to it.
She was on the verge of falling asleep on her feet when she heard, clearly in her head, despite the explosive noise of the club around her, the tearing noise that had emitted from the two figures on the ground just a few minutes ago.
She staggered, almost fell, put her hand out to steady herself and opened her eyes.
She looked across the floor and directly into the eyes of some dork with a boner.
This made her think of Tyler again (I want you to fuck me right now), and his teeth, and her blood on his teeth and suddenly she was going to throw up.
With this last burst of strength, she threw open the bathroom door and stumbled into the puke and piss smelling darkness beyond.
She took a deep breath, inhaling the fetid bathroom stench and, although she felt her stomach roil inside her, she did not throw up.
She made out vague bathroom shapes in the black lit room.
Toilet, sink, condom machine, tampon dispenser.
"Tampons..." she croaked again.
Her blood looked like tar in this light.
She fumbled her way to the tampon dispenser which, when she reached in, she found was filled with used condoms.
The cold, gelid, chlorine-smelling muck on her fingers triggered something deep within her and her gag rose like a piston, bringing with it the Chinese food she'd eaten earlier.
She missed the toilet completely, but then again so had the other people who'd been in here recently.
After what felt like days of throwing up, she collapsed onto the floor in a sitting position.
She was cold now, not in pain, just cold.
Cold and tired.
She remembered the bleeding again and tried to cover the wound with her hand.
"Good news...bad news..." she said in a fading voice.
The good news was the blood seemed to have stopped flooding out of her, the bad news was the area around the bite felt as tough as frozen leather.
But it didn't hurt.
"So...good news...bad news...good news..." she murmured, as the thudding, violet darkness swallowed her whole.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Prince, 51
"2morroow and a day, is 2 long 2 stay away!"
Prince reached out and punched a button on the glittering console in front of him and the drum loop in his headphones started again.
"2morrow and a day, is 2 long 2 stay away!" he sang again, harmonizing with the lyrics he'd just sung.
He hit the button again and sang the line again, this time in a lilting falsetto.
He did it again in a slightly childish, bratty voice.
And then a fifth time, speaking the line instead of singing it.
He took the headphones off and hit the button to transfer the output to the studio's surround sound and another button that replayed all of what he had just recorded.
"2morrow and a day, is 2 long 2 stay away!"
"Yeah..." he murmured to himself, "I like that."
He stood, stretched his legs and walked over to the enormous guitar rack lining one whole wall of the studio.
He stood looking for a moment, then smiled and selected Cherry Red, his favorite Gibson.
"Always come back to Cherry..." he said softly to the guitar, placing a small kiss on its neck.
"Always, always..."
As he plugged in the guitar, he heard the solo he was about to record writing itself in his mind.
"Yeah, all right..." he said, agreeing with himself and nodding along with the music in his head.
He stopped for a moment, a small line creasing his smooth brow.
He shook his head slightly, paused, and then smiled again as the small correction was made.
He began humming along a harmony to the newly written guitar loop.
"That's nice..." he said to the studio as he gently strummed Cherry Red.
He reached forward again and pressed three buttons.
Three loud clicks issued from the speakers and then his own voice backed by a drum beat and
For the next twenty two minutes, he was gone; gone to the place where dreams originate, to the place where colors are made, to the place where light comes from.
During these twenty minutes, he was mostly playing the guitar, but every once in a while, he would stop playing and just sing, sometimes using words, sometimes just his voice.
At two points, he dropped Cherry Red and grabbed the nameless bass guitar leaning against the wall and once he sat at the Yamaha grand piano in the corner.
By the time he touched the "Stop" button on the soundboard, he was sweating and there were tears streaming down his face.
He was smiling though, almost laughing.
"Man..." he almost sang, "Man...you got this down..."
He tapped a few keys on the laptop sitting next to the soundboard.
This was one of the best songs he had ever written.
He knew it, could feel it.
The processor made a small whirring noise as it converted the beauty and magic which had just occurred into a sound file.
A moment later, an icon appeared on the screen.
He hated that.
He hated that everything that had just happened in this room was now an icon on a screen on a machine.
On a machine.
He almost growled.
He'd hated when what he did was on a vinyl disc, he'd hated it when it was on a strip of plastic and he'd hated it when it was on a plastic disc, but this...dots and dashes and numbers and letters...on the screen...of a machine?
He clicked on the hateful icon quickly and then smiled beatifically as the room filled up with the sound of what he had just created.
He sat that way, smiling for some time and then, when the sound stopped, he thought again that this was one of the best songs he'd every created.
He clicked once more on the icon titled "Untitled(109)" and dragged it into the small garbage can at the bottom of the screen.
"Not 4 U..." he said under his breath as he clicked "Yes" when the machine asked if he really wanted to discard this file permanently.
He sat back from the screen and sighed.
This was maybe the thirtieth time he'd done this in the four months he'd sequestered himself in his underground studio at Paisley Park.
"2 good 4 U...not 4 U..." he hummed under his breath.
Notes and words were weaving themselves together in his mind.
Maybe the piano this time?
He walked over to the piano and struck a few chords.
"Baby U no this groove is...2 good 4 U...baby U no my love is...just not 4 U..."
He was about to begin the process again when he felt a sharp pain in his chest.
"Damn..." he gasped.
He'd forgotten to eat again.
"Need fuel 4 the Machine," he said absentmindedly, unconsciously glancing at the laptop again as he rose and walked to the large refrigerator in one corner of the studio.
He opened it and peered inside.
"No food 4 U." he said to the empty ice box.
He felt another pang hit him.
"Good lord..." he hissed through gritted teeth.
This had happened before with catastrophic results.
That's why he'd had the refrigerator installed.
But if you didn't put food in the refrigerator, there would be no food in the refrigerator.
He smiled at the little circle he'd just made in his head.
He walked through the door to the studio, enjoying the hiss of air that told him nothing he did in that room would leave that room unless he wanted it to, not even the air.
At the end of the long, purple and gold carpeted hallway was another door, also sound proof, that lead to a stairway that lead up to a third and final sound proof door (this one locked with three locks) from the studio to the house.
After he ate, he was going to write three songs—
He smiled and stopped himself.
Fool.
After he ate he was going to record the three songs that had blossomed inside of him while he had walked from the inner studio, down the hallway and up the stairs.
He inserted his key in the first lock, turned it
The first on piano and organ...
He did the same for the second
The next on bass and tambourine to start, maybe some flute...
He unlocked the third and final lock on the heavy, sound proof door and pushed it open
And for the third? Shoot...for that one...something special—
He heard a sound to his left and turned toward it.
The last thing to go through his mind was the most beautiful piano arrangement the world would never hear.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Monsignor de Kesel, 75
"O my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell, lead all souls to Heaven, especially those who have most need of your mercy." Monsignor de Kesel knelt in his church at the statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe, rosary clasped in hands, and continued, “Fourth sorrowful mystery: Jesus carried the cross.” The priest had prayed the rosary so often in his 75 years of life, the act took no conscious effort on his part; instead he reflected on the hell he had witnessed within the last three days. He had seen such grotesquery that his faith in God’s benevolence had faltered. Yet he understood the necessity of it all. “The world has so few pure and faithful remaining. This is the God of the Old Testament; His judgment is His love.”
Behind him he heard the creak of the door. A group of them had entered. He knew it immediately. The low moaning, the shuffling footsteps were unmistakable. And the stench was repulsive. “How dare they desecrate the house of the Lord with their putridity?” The anger held him for a moment, but he knew that his baseness was equally inappropriate. If he was to die now, his soul needed to be clean.
De Kesel was confident of his own salvation but his decision not to run was acceptance rather than hubris. No doubt this was the End Time; no other explanation was possible. “We must embrace the will of God. He has already decided our fate.” He looked over his right shoulder; the ghouls had stumbled halfway up the church. He recognized one of his acolytes among the three flesheaters. Fear paralyzed him; a mix of emotions, none individually recognizable, washed over him and brought him to tears.
“Uzzah’s sin was to disobey the will of the Lord. Find your resolve,” said the aged clergyman, his voice growing increasingly strained as he bowed his head, trying to ignore the approaching ghouls. “Hail Mary, mother of God, pray--pray for us sinners.” The smell. The smell. Oh God--they were on him--hands grabbed his arm, a terrible pain ripped through his shoulder as one of them bit him. He was knocked backward, a second set of hands pushing him down; he fell with his knees still trapped beneath his body. Searing pain that burned incredibly. There was screaming, hysterical, but he didn't recognize it as his own. A second mouth ripped the flesh from his cheek, teeth grating against bone, bringing the disgusting creature into his line of vision.
“Unholy! Foul!” Blood filling his mouth. Disgust and anger augmented his pain. The third creature ripped through his shirt and tore into his soft belly with its bare hands. Red flooded Monsignor de Kesel’s eyes. Then--nothing.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Dominick, 18
The countdown had begun. Dominick waited anxiously at the boarding gate. The plane that was to take him and his friends to Cancun for their senior trip had arrived, and its passengers emptied the plane quickly, weary-eyed. He glanced across the aisle to see if his travelling partners were as amped as he was: everyone wore a smug smile at the thought of the debaucheries that awaited them in Mexico. “Underage drinking here we come” was Dominick’s only thought. He noticed Linda, the beauty of the group, had an anxious look on her face. She was dressed the part: flip flops, Bermuda shorts, red tank top, and sunglasses, but she was obviously distracted. “That fucker, Jason, better not miss this flight,” she said to no one.
“Available marshals please report to Gate 15. Available marshals please report to Gate 15,” boomed the overhead speaker. Dominick looked at his own gate, number 17. His gate was at the end of the cul de sac, and he had a great vantage point of the plane that had just arrived at 17. He could see the passengers shuffling back and forth in the plane ways, not too odd, but then he thought he saw a window streaked with what may have been blood. “Guys! Check this out.” He pulled his friends closer to the window. A number of plainclothes marshals ran down the hallway, towards the gate awaiting the opening of the plane door. “Oh shit!” Linda mumbled. Dominick saw the pilots empty the cockpit through a trap door and run down the tarmac. “What the fuck is happening?” An impulse to run grabbed Dominick but a group had gathered around him, pinning him to the glass. “Airport security’s on it. They can handle what’s going on”
Then came the panic. A flight attendant, hair and blouse disheveled, ran out of Gate 17. A look of wild terror flashed through her eyes. She screamed three words “EVERYONE FUCKING RUN!” before collapsing. No one moved. Gunfire erupted from gate hallway. Everyone fucking ran. Screams of panic filled the terminal as everyone raced away from the gate. Dominick reacted quicker than most, and he was catching his stride at Gate 5, when he ran into a brick wall, Jason. “Where is she?” He screamed. “Linda, where is she?” He looked back towards the window at Gate 17 and could make out a red tank top lying motionless at the window. “Oh shit.” Without a thought, he and Jason sprinted back.
As they approached, Gate 6, the fire marshalls fell back into the hallway, each shooting at will.
At Gate 8 the marshals formed a semicircle. One yelled for more backup.
Gate 9: “Officer down. Officer down. These things are hostile, and the entire plane’s full of them.”
Gate 13: “I’m out.” “I’m out” “Fall back. Fall back.”
Gate 14: Dominick saw it. Someone, something stepped out of that hallway, and there were a shitload more behind it. It made a lunge for their nearest marshal, took a shot to the chest, stood dazed, and kept coming. A uniformed detail shouted “Shoot them in the head!”
Gate 15: More things spilled out. Dominick paused, and cut left making damn sure to keep out of the cross fire. Jason didn’t. A snap pierced the air, and Dominick noticed his running partner was no longer running. “Jason? JASON!” Dominick snapped his head back and was stopped in his tracks at the sight of Jason’s body seizing. He didn’t hear the marshals shout, “Fall back. Fall back. Everyone get the fuck out.” Bloody flesh and shattered bone replaced what had been his face. Dominick walked over and knelt down by his friend. He’d never seen blood before, and Jason was unrecognizable. Tears sprang from nowhere, and Dominick was sure this wasn’t happening. “Dominick.” A guttural noise escaped from the hole that was Jason’s cheek. “Dominick.”
Dominick could see Jason’s tongue move as he spoke. “Yeah, Jason.”
“Dominick, behind you.”
“Available marshals please report to Gate 15. Available marshals please report to Gate 15,” boomed the overhead speaker. Dominick looked at his own gate, number 17. His gate was at the end of the cul de sac, and he had a great vantage point of the plane that had just arrived at 17. He could see the passengers shuffling back and forth in the plane ways, not too odd, but then he thought he saw a window streaked with what may have been blood. “Guys! Check this out.” He pulled his friends closer to the window. A number of plainclothes marshals ran down the hallway, towards the gate awaiting the opening of the plane door. “Oh shit!” Linda mumbled. Dominick saw the pilots empty the cockpit through a trap door and run down the tarmac. “What the fuck is happening?” An impulse to run grabbed Dominick but a group had gathered around him, pinning him to the glass. “Airport security’s on it. They can handle what’s going on”
Then came the panic. A flight attendant, hair and blouse disheveled, ran out of Gate 17. A look of wild terror flashed through her eyes. She screamed three words “EVERYONE FUCKING RUN!” before collapsing. No one moved. Gunfire erupted from gate hallway. Everyone fucking ran. Screams of panic filled the terminal as everyone raced away from the gate. Dominick reacted quicker than most, and he was catching his stride at Gate 5, when he ran into a brick wall, Jason. “Where is she?” He screamed. “Linda, where is she?” He looked back towards the window at Gate 17 and could make out a red tank top lying motionless at the window. “Oh shit.” Without a thought, he and Jason sprinted back.
As they approached, Gate 6, the fire marshalls fell back into the hallway, each shooting at will.
At Gate 8 the marshals formed a semicircle. One yelled for more backup.
Gate 9: “Officer down. Officer down. These things are hostile, and the entire plane’s full of them.”
Gate 13: “I’m out.” “I’m out” “Fall back. Fall back.”
Gate 14: Dominick saw it. Someone, something stepped out of that hallway, and there were a shitload more behind it. It made a lunge for their nearest marshal, took a shot to the chest, stood dazed, and kept coming. A uniformed detail shouted “Shoot them in the head!”
Gate 15: More things spilled out. Dominick paused, and cut left making damn sure to keep out of the cross fire. Jason didn’t. A snap pierced the air, and Dominick noticed his running partner was no longer running. “Jason? JASON!” Dominick snapped his head back and was stopped in his tracks at the sight of Jason’s body seizing. He didn’t hear the marshals shout, “Fall back. Fall back. Everyone get the fuck out.” Bloody flesh and shattered bone replaced what had been his face. Dominick walked over and knelt down by his friend. He’d never seen blood before, and Jason was unrecognizable. Tears sprang from nowhere, and Dominick was sure this wasn’t happening. “Dominick.” A guttural noise escaped from the hole that was Jason’s cheek. “Dominick.”
Dominick could see Jason’s tongue move as he spoke. “Yeah, Jason.”
“Dominick, behind you.”
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Tim, 7
Monsters!
This is awesome!
Mom wanted me to drink the juice that they said would make me sleep, but I fake drank it like when mom puts vitamins in it when I'm sick.
So now I can shoot the monsters and mom’s asleep in the basement!
Pow!
Blam!
This is JUST like on my Xbox 360!
...what's that?
Uh oh...they broke a window?
I better not get in trouble for that.
Ew.
These monsters smell.
They're all...runny.
That one looks like the time I fell off my bike and skinned my knee but on his face.
Whoa, that one's on fire!
All right monsters!
Eat hot plasma!
Pow pow!
Pow pow pow!
Hey!
No fair!
I shot you!
I shot you with a PLASMA RIFLE!
You hafta fall DOWN!
I SHOT you!
Why aren't you DYING?
This is awesome!
Mom wanted me to drink the juice that they said would make me sleep, but I fake drank it like when mom puts vitamins in it when I'm sick.
So now I can shoot the monsters and mom’s asleep in the basement!
Pow!
Blam!
This is JUST like on my Xbox 360!
...what's that?
Uh oh...they broke a window?
I better not get in trouble for that.
Ew.
These monsters smell.
They're all...runny.
That one looks like the time I fell off my bike and skinned my knee but on his face.
Whoa, that one's on fire!
All right monsters!
Eat hot plasma!
Pow pow!
Pow pow pow!
Hey!
No fair!
I shot you!
I shot you with a PLASMA RIFLE!
You hafta fall DOWN!
I SHOT you!
Why aren't you DYING?
Kevin, 16
"-fucked up!"
"Yeah, man," slurred Kevin, "totally fucked up, man!"
"No! There's (schzzzuz) outside the city (zizzz)rything's all fuc(ZZZZIZZZZ)ful, man..."
Kevin was done with this conversation before it had even fucking started.
"Fuckin' a man, I'm out!"
Just before he closed his phone, he heard what might have been "eating".
He wasn't hungry.
At all.
He didn't want to talk to Dingo.
At all.
He didn't want to meet up with Dingo afterwards.
At all.
What he wanted was to get to know the Mystery Girl.
Up close and personal like.
This wasn't his first time in the club, but it was MOST DEFINITELY his first time in the club trying pills.
He liked pills.
He would try them again and again.
"Try some, buy some..." he muttered either in his head or under his breath.
There she was again.
He'd see her when he wasn't looking for her; she seemed to be slowly making her way across the floor through the writhing clump of people, this time she was leaning on the wall near the bathrooms.
He'd seen her here before tonight, but never talked to her.
Well, what the fuck was he going to say to her?
Mumbling "I wanna bone you" usually wasn't the preferred way to get into a chick's panties.
Or maybe it was.
Man, these pills are working like they should.
He suddenly felt cooler in his mind.
Gaw bless Dingo and his little white pills.
That sounds like some song...
He trailed off inside his own head like a balloon on vacation.
He giggled at the image.
And the cool thing was, not only was the girl here without her ever-present flock of ugly ass friends, but SHE looked fucked up too!
She was swaying back and forth, not really with the music and when she swayed too much, she hit the wall and steadied herself before starting to sway all over again.
If they were BOTH fucked up, shit, this is going to be easy!
Despite his chemically induced confidence, Kevin was sweating.
He'd never gotten past first base and here he was planning on...what?
Feeling her up? Fingering her? Getting a blow job?
Oh man...getting a blow job from the Mystery Girl...oh man...
Kevin lost himself in the moment, unaware he was getting a hard on.
He snapped back to reality when he saw her looking at him.
Oh man...oh fuck...
She then lurched into one of the unisex bathrooms.
Oh shit...oh shit...
Before he could stop himself, he was moving across the floor.
He felt his phone vibrating in his pocket and ignored it.
He felt the bass of the nameless, thudding song vibrating in his ribcage and ignored that too.
Suddenly, he was standing outside the door.
Shit, what now?
Do you knock in a situation like this?
He saw that he was standing in a pool of what looked like chocolate syrup.
"Need some golf shoes..." he laughed to himself.
Then the lights strobed for a moment and it looked like red paint.
His dick was throbbing almost painfully now, seemingly in time with the music.
He'd forgotten about the chocolate syrup.
"No, just do it," he said to himself out loud, "She'll see you...and just know what's up..."
Kevin himself didn't know what was up, but as long as one of them did this could still turn out all right.
He stood for a moment with his hand on the greasy knob, feeling the pills nibble at the edges of himself with their icy little teeth, and opened the door.
"Yeah, man," slurred Kevin, "totally fucked up, man!"
"No! There's (schzzzuz) outside the city (zizzz)rything's all fuc(ZZZZIZZZZ)ful, man..."
Kevin was done with this conversation before it had even fucking started.
"Fuckin' a man, I'm out!"
Just before he closed his phone, he heard what might have been "eating".
He wasn't hungry.
At all.
He didn't want to talk to Dingo.
At all.
He didn't want to meet up with Dingo afterwards.
At all.
What he wanted was to get to know the Mystery Girl.
Up close and personal like.
This wasn't his first time in the club, but it was MOST DEFINITELY his first time in the club trying pills.
He liked pills.
He would try them again and again.
"Try some, buy some..." he muttered either in his head or under his breath.
There she was again.
He'd see her when he wasn't looking for her; she seemed to be slowly making her way across the floor through the writhing clump of people, this time she was leaning on the wall near the bathrooms.
He'd seen her here before tonight, but never talked to her.
Well, what the fuck was he going to say to her?
Mumbling "I wanna bone you" usually wasn't the preferred way to get into a chick's panties.
Or maybe it was.
Man, these pills are working like they should.
He suddenly felt cooler in his mind.
Gaw bless Dingo and his little white pills.
That sounds like some song...
He trailed off inside his own head like a balloon on vacation.
He giggled at the image.
And the cool thing was, not only was the girl here without her ever-present flock of ugly ass friends, but SHE looked fucked up too!
She was swaying back and forth, not really with the music and when she swayed too much, she hit the wall and steadied herself before starting to sway all over again.
If they were BOTH fucked up, shit, this is going to be easy!
Despite his chemically induced confidence, Kevin was sweating.
He'd never gotten past first base and here he was planning on...what?
Feeling her up? Fingering her? Getting a blow job?
Oh man...getting a blow job from the Mystery Girl...oh man...
Kevin lost himself in the moment, unaware he was getting a hard on.
He snapped back to reality when he saw her looking at him.
Oh man...oh fuck...
She then lurched into one of the unisex bathrooms.
Oh shit...oh shit...
Before he could stop himself, he was moving across the floor.
He felt his phone vibrating in his pocket and ignored it.
He felt the bass of the nameless, thudding song vibrating in his ribcage and ignored that too.
Suddenly, he was standing outside the door.
Shit, what now?
Do you knock in a situation like this?
He saw that he was standing in a pool of what looked like chocolate syrup.
"Need some golf shoes..." he laughed to himself.
Then the lights strobed for a moment and it looked like red paint.
His dick was throbbing almost painfully now, seemingly in time with the music.
He'd forgotten about the chocolate syrup.
"No, just do it," he said to himself out loud, "She'll see you...and just know what's up..."
Kevin himself didn't know what was up, but as long as one of them did this could still turn out all right.
He stood for a moment with his hand on the greasy knob, feeling the pills nibble at the edges of himself with their icy little teeth, and opened the door.
Harold, 67
"ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...”
Why in blazes would they have the speaker inside of the God forsaken room? thought Harold.
I know I need assistance, they're the stupid fucking cunts that fucking need TO FUCKING KNOW--
The man in the bed closed his eyes and took a deep, deep breath...held it for five Hippopotamuses...and then let it out, slowly.
This worked when things got red in his mind.
He thought about calling out but although he said "nurse" and heard "nurse" in his head, what came out was a low glottal sound, something like "nnnn".
That was the absolute worst part of all this.
For almost forty years, Harold had taught AP Biology at Pegg High School in Scranton, Pennsylvania.
He knew exactly what had happened to him.
He knew what the doctor's were talking about when they told him he had suffered from a myocardial infarction which had brought on a massive stroke.
He knew that he would never speak clearly or walk without aid ever again.
He might, eventually, with time and exhaustive physical therapy be able to communicate at some level, but, for right now, "nnnn" was "nurse" and no one was coming to help him.
Harold, who had personally helped fifteen students over the years become biologists, doctors and scientific journalists and who had written two books, needed to shit, but he refused to do so until there was someone there who could remove the bedpan.
Stroke or not, he was not going to lie here in his own feces.
The stroke had happened about four weeks ago and, about four days ago he had regained the use of two fingers on his left hand, the index finger and the ring finger.
It was the index finger he was now using to press the Nurses' Call Bell button.
He wasn't completely sure, but he thought he had been pressing it for at least five minutes now.
He looked at the wall clock and confirmed this as fact.
He had woken up from the milky, terrifying images that seemed to be his dreams now at exactly one in the morning.
It was now six past.
If I could walk. If I could get up out of this bed. I'd show you fucking lazy whores a thing or two about fucking your lazy assholes—
Deep breath.
Five Hippopotamuses.
Breathe out.
Regain control of your thoughts.
"They are, after all, your thoughts, Harold."
That had been Adler. Doctor Frank Adler.
He was the one who'd had an inkling about the unique situation Harold was trapped in.
Something about the way Harold's eyes had followed him around made Adler order a third CAT scan.
It was that CAT scan which confirmed what the doctor had suspected.
Harold's mind was undamaged; it was just that the cables connecting his mind to the rest of him had gotten severed during the stroke.
"Harold...this must be torture for you," he'd said at one of their meetings. "You know what's happening around you but you can't do anything about it yet. I say 'yet' because, although you'll never boogie board again, you will get better. I'm going to help you. Pretty soon, you'll get something back. Maybe a finger, maybe a toe, that's the way this works. As soon as you do, you'll feel better because you'll be able to communicate again. I'm hoping this will happen within the month."
And it had.
The doctor was away for the long weekend, but Harold heard from one of the nurses that he would be in at ten o'clock this morning, then maybe these...fugues...would stop.
Adler had mentioned them to Harold after only his second.
God, but the man was perceptive.
"In some stroke victims, the mind will sometimes...'blow a fuse', to be crude. It tries to communicate, just like it's been doing since before you were one year old, and it can't. You may experience something neurologists call a ‘red cloud’. Not only with you be filled with an uncontrollable rage, but, sometimes, the pressure you're exerting can even burst blood vessels in your eyes, actually causing you to 'see red'. These are more apt to occur when you’re alone so the only person that can stop them is you. You and Chillax."
Then, the doctor had drawn a goofy picture of Chillax the Hippopotamus.
He looked over at the table by the door where the doctor had left the drawing.
It was stupid as hell, but at the end of their meeting, Harold had tears in his eyes nonetheless.
"You count five Chillax's...and, nine times out of ten, your red cloud will have blown away."
And it had worked every time.
But this was absurd.
It was now eleven minutes after one and no one had responded to his call bell.
It has to be going off out there. What's the point of it just going in here? It's ridiculous!
"ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED..."
Then, finally, after, his eyes flicked to the clock, fourteen minutes, he heard through the loud, repeating voice, the unmistakable sound of the nurses' paper soled shoes, shuffling up the hallway toward his room.
God these people are lazy. Even their footsteps sound lazy. They're so lazy, they can't even lift their damn feet?
Harold saw a figure approach his room through the pebbled glass wall. She appeared to be listing heavily to one side, but Harold was unsympathetic.
Limp on your own time lady, I'm not going to mess these sheets ag—
Without even slowing, the nurse passed right by Harold's cracked door.
He was stunned.
You...you...fucking....you......cunting.......fuck....
Harold was shaking in his bed. He felt his bowels and bladder let go, felt the warmth spread over his lower body, didn't care.
"ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED..."
Fuuucking....fuuuuuccccckinng....yooouuuu rooootten crrroootch biiiiitch....
Harold blinked and everything in the room was stained with a patina of red. Tears of blood began to seep from the corners of his eyes.
Yyyyyyyooooooooooooooouuuuu...........fuuuuuuuuuccckkkkkkkkiiiiinnnnngggg.....
Suddenly, Harold spoke.
"...cunt...!"
The tiny, rusty word had slipped from his dry and swollen throat.
He blinked, once, twice, the world was now only slightly pink.
I...I spoke. I...spoke!
The blood on his face was joined by his tears.
Stop there? Not on a bet! Not on a fucking bet, you apathetic, club-footed sow!
He took a deep breath, but instead of holding it in, he forced it all out, trying with every fiber of his being to shape a word, but louder and firmer this time.
In his excitement, he'd released the call button and there was only the sound of the nurse's shuffling, paper soled feet and the pounding of blood in his head.
"Nnnnrrrrrr....." he managed before needing to gasp for breath.
He was covered in sweat and piss and shit, but he had never felt more alive.
He stopped panting when he saw the shadow of the nurse of the glass wall pause.
That's right you ditzy troll you, ASSISTANCE IS REQUIRED!
He took in another huge breath and was able to get out, "Nnnnrrrrrrsssssss..." before his breath ran out.
He opened his eyes and was beside himself to see that the idiot nurse was now, just as slowly as before, shuffling towards his room.
He took a deep breath, let it all out, took another one.
This is it! You can do this Harry! The doc will be here in about nine hours and you are going to thank him personally for everything. You are going to thank him and he is going to shake your hand!
"NnnnnuuuurrrsssssssAH!"
Sweat and tears, both of blood and water, were streaming down his face. His blood was a roaring wall of static in his head, blotting out all other sound.
He tasted blood on his tongue and in the back of his throat.
One more, one more and then you can rest! You're not done yet!
Harold filled his lungs to capacity and was about to let loose when the nurse finally reached the door and gently pushed it all the way open.
His breath whooshed out of him, producing a small squeak.
This nurse...she was sick.
There was something wrong.
He remembered the limping, shuffling gait she'd had and looked at her feet.
She wasn't shuffling her feet because she was lazy, she's cut her foot badly. Her...Harold's eyes widened, her left heel was all but gone.
Goodness, that poor—
He raised his eyes to the nurse's face.
She's so...pale...and her eyes...
Harold closed his eyes, took a deep breath and counted five Hippopotamuses.
Why in blazes would they have the speaker inside of the God forsaken room? thought Harold.
I know I need assistance, they're the stupid fucking cunts that fucking need TO FUCKING KNOW--
The man in the bed closed his eyes and took a deep, deep breath...held it for five Hippopotamuses...and then let it out, slowly.
This worked when things got red in his mind.
He thought about calling out but although he said "nurse" and heard "nurse" in his head, what came out was a low glottal sound, something like "nnnn".
That was the absolute worst part of all this.
For almost forty years, Harold had taught AP Biology at Pegg High School in Scranton, Pennsylvania.
He knew exactly what had happened to him.
He knew what the doctor's were talking about when they told him he had suffered from a myocardial infarction which had brought on a massive stroke.
He knew that he would never speak clearly or walk without aid ever again.
He might, eventually, with time and exhaustive physical therapy be able to communicate at some level, but, for right now, "nnnn" was "nurse" and no one was coming to help him.
Harold, who had personally helped fifteen students over the years become biologists, doctors and scientific journalists and who had written two books, needed to shit, but he refused to do so until there was someone there who could remove the bedpan.
Stroke or not, he was not going to lie here in his own feces.
The stroke had happened about four weeks ago and, about four days ago he had regained the use of two fingers on his left hand, the index finger and the ring finger.
It was the index finger he was now using to press the Nurses' Call Bell button.
He wasn't completely sure, but he thought he had been pressing it for at least five minutes now.
He looked at the wall clock and confirmed this as fact.
He had woken up from the milky, terrifying images that seemed to be his dreams now at exactly one in the morning.
It was now six past.
If I could walk. If I could get up out of this bed. I'd show you fucking lazy whores a thing or two about fucking your lazy assholes—
Deep breath.
Five Hippopotamuses.
Breathe out.
Regain control of your thoughts.
"They are, after all, your thoughts, Harold."
That had been Adler. Doctor Frank Adler.
He was the one who'd had an inkling about the unique situation Harold was trapped in.
Something about the way Harold's eyes had followed him around made Adler order a third CAT scan.
It was that CAT scan which confirmed what the doctor had suspected.
Harold's mind was undamaged; it was just that the cables connecting his mind to the rest of him had gotten severed during the stroke.
"Harold...this must be torture for you," he'd said at one of their meetings. "You know what's happening around you but you can't do anything about it yet. I say 'yet' because, although you'll never boogie board again, you will get better. I'm going to help you. Pretty soon, you'll get something back. Maybe a finger, maybe a toe, that's the way this works. As soon as you do, you'll feel better because you'll be able to communicate again. I'm hoping this will happen within the month."
And it had.
The doctor was away for the long weekend, but Harold heard from one of the nurses that he would be in at ten o'clock this morning, then maybe these...fugues...would stop.
Adler had mentioned them to Harold after only his second.
God, but the man was perceptive.
"In some stroke victims, the mind will sometimes...'blow a fuse', to be crude. It tries to communicate, just like it's been doing since before you were one year old, and it can't. You may experience something neurologists call a ‘red cloud’. Not only with you be filled with an uncontrollable rage, but, sometimes, the pressure you're exerting can even burst blood vessels in your eyes, actually causing you to 'see red'. These are more apt to occur when you’re alone so the only person that can stop them is you. You and Chillax."
Then, the doctor had drawn a goofy picture of Chillax the Hippopotamus.
He looked over at the table by the door where the doctor had left the drawing.
It was stupid as hell, but at the end of their meeting, Harold had tears in his eyes nonetheless.
"You count five Chillax's...and, nine times out of ten, your red cloud will have blown away."
And it had worked every time.
But this was absurd.
It was now eleven minutes after one and no one had responded to his call bell.
It has to be going off out there. What's the point of it just going in here? It's ridiculous!
"ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED..."
Then, finally, after, his eyes flicked to the clock, fourteen minutes, he heard through the loud, repeating voice, the unmistakable sound of the nurses' paper soled shoes, shuffling up the hallway toward his room.
God these people are lazy. Even their footsteps sound lazy. They're so lazy, they can't even lift their damn feet?
Harold saw a figure approach his room through the pebbled glass wall. She appeared to be listing heavily to one side, but Harold was unsympathetic.
Limp on your own time lady, I'm not going to mess these sheets ag—
Without even slowing, the nurse passed right by Harold's cracked door.
He was stunned.
You...you...fucking....you......cunting.......fuck....
Harold was shaking in his bed. He felt his bowels and bladder let go, felt the warmth spread over his lower body, didn't care.
"ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED...ASSISTANCE REQUIRED..."
Fuuucking....fuuuuuccccckinng....yooouuuu rooootten crrroootch biiiiitch....
Harold blinked and everything in the room was stained with a patina of red. Tears of blood began to seep from the corners of his eyes.
Yyyyyyyooooooooooooooouuuuu...........fuuuuuuuuuccckkkkkkkkiiiiinnnnngggg.....
Suddenly, Harold spoke.
"...cunt...!"
The tiny, rusty word had slipped from his dry and swollen throat.
He blinked, once, twice, the world was now only slightly pink.
I...I spoke. I...spoke!
The blood on his face was joined by his tears.
Stop there? Not on a bet! Not on a fucking bet, you apathetic, club-footed sow!
He took a deep breath, but instead of holding it in, he forced it all out, trying with every fiber of his being to shape a word, but louder and firmer this time.
In his excitement, he'd released the call button and there was only the sound of the nurse's shuffling, paper soled feet and the pounding of blood in his head.
"Nnnnrrrrrr....." he managed before needing to gasp for breath.
He was covered in sweat and piss and shit, but he had never felt more alive.
He stopped panting when he saw the shadow of the nurse of the glass wall pause.
That's right you ditzy troll you, ASSISTANCE IS REQUIRED!
He took in another huge breath and was able to get out, "Nnnnrrrrrrsssssss..." before his breath ran out.
He opened his eyes and was beside himself to see that the idiot nurse was now, just as slowly as before, shuffling towards his room.
He took a deep breath, let it all out, took another one.
This is it! You can do this Harry! The doc will be here in about nine hours and you are going to thank him personally for everything. You are going to thank him and he is going to shake your hand!
"NnnnnuuuurrrsssssssAH!"
Sweat and tears, both of blood and water, were streaming down his face. His blood was a roaring wall of static in his head, blotting out all other sound.
He tasted blood on his tongue and in the back of his throat.
One more, one more and then you can rest! You're not done yet!
Harold filled his lungs to capacity and was about to let loose when the nurse finally reached the door and gently pushed it all the way open.
His breath whooshed out of him, producing a small squeak.
This nurse...she was sick.
There was something wrong.
He remembered the limping, shuffling gait she'd had and looked at her feet.
She wasn't shuffling her feet because she was lazy, she's cut her foot badly. Her...Harold's eyes widened, her left heel was all but gone.
Goodness, that poor—
He raised his eyes to the nurse's face.
She's so...pale...and her eyes...
Harold closed his eyes, took a deep breath and counted five Hippopotamuses.
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