One Market
The door. I’m the fat girl who’s been told all my life I’m pretty enough to model, only to find myself backstage at the Valentino show getting greased up to fit into a sample. Surprise bitch, you’ve been lied to. The dress is splitting under my girth and I am next to go on. A peek around the curtain shows that the buyers and the media are impatient. Gwyneth, Angelina and Sarah Jessica Parker are in the front row, black sunglasses on. Right as I step out on the stage, the heels of my Jimmy Choo’s shatter like pretzel sticks. Spotlights snap on!
Music bursts my tympanum, photo-flashes shrink pupils to specks, the headset clad, coffee-and-meth fueled coordinator mouthing words I cannot understand, and girl…You-Better-Work-It!
I open the door for Ann, and we step inside One Market. Straight away, I feel a gentle tug toward the table. The table is only a few feet from the front door where the jackals Ann calls her friends are waiting for us, but the deeper inside I venture, the more each moment seem to stretch longer than the one preceding it.
I feel their eyes on me with each step.
I’m overcome with the urge to look busy and I’m already doing something by walking. If it’s possible to fidget while you walk then I am the grand-fucking-master.
Glancing down at my wrist-watch, I see the second-hand revolving slower and… slower until… it’s move… ments…
are… bare… ly… per…
cep… ti… ble.
I have to really concentrate. Just to see that it is in fact still sweeping. It is as if space-time itself is stretched with each step. Then I’m self-aware that I’m staring at my wrist and I follow Ann who is already at the table, blowing air kisses to her friends.
My body’s dipped in Novocaine, even though I’m making forward progress I look down to see if my legs are still moving. An irresistible pull guides me to the table by some unseeable Force. The closer I get, the more persuasive the lasso. My tongue is a towel, I see the table through a cardboard paper roll and I really could use a glass of water. I lose a week of my life walking to the table when it’s only been 15 seconds.
The first to greet me is Babs. The fact that she greets me first is very telling about her since it is no secret how we feel about each other, yet she gives me an air kiss and a rib-crushing hug;
Babs: Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii! How Aaaare yoooou!
I do not return the air kiss.
Me: I’m well Barbara.
I also don’t ask how she is doing; she’s blonde, on the right side of thirty and a swell looking bitch, what the fuck could possibly be wrong. Besides, the only answer my ears yearn to hear would be “Dying, with a touch of dysentery.”
The others give me the half assed greeting and by the time I sit down I feel a month of my life slip away. Ann & Gang resume their conversation, aaannnddd I’m fucking invisible. The waiter stops by and writes down drink orders. I’m not a drinker but I need a crutch so I order a screwdriver. When the waiter brings it to me I death-clutch that motherfucker with both hands so tight, I hear the stress fractures go crackle-n’-pop.
Apparently I’m supposed to drink this thing but I am passing time swishing the jingling ice and watching soundless lips move around the table. Ross, Barbara’s boyfriend is talking to me. Each time a phrase reaches my ear two more sentences leave his mouth.
Ross: I hear you bought a Porsche. Bab’s ex, Darren, used to have a boat ya know, what a fucking loser. I’m thinking of getting a BMW… or maybe a Benz ya know? This way we can both have German cars. Whaddaya think I should get? Oh I know, an Audi! VW’s are ghetto…
I nod.
Ross: Hey cool shirt, International Male right? I’ll bet that cost like fifty-bucks.
Me: Sure, Ross.
I continue the smile-nod thing which apparently is the right thing to do because he keeps the verbal assault going. I down that piss-colored concoction in my tumbler and chase it with three more.
Nobody listens, and nobody’s got anything to say.
Ross: I’m surprised to see you here, you never come out to hang with us.
Me: Uh-huh.
I glance down at my watch. The second-hand is not moving. At all. When I look back up, Ross has rejoined the group conversation. I turn my attention to the floor to ceiling window by the table. My eyes follow a dignified couple our age, mid-twenties, walking down the sidewalk. They stop to fawn over a freshly planted sapling surrounded by a metal barrier erected to give it a fighting chance. Although their poor clothing betrays their social status, they have a look of peace across their faces that comes with knowing you’ve found your life partner. The dignity in which they carry themselves is comforting and familiar. A thirty-ish looking balding black guy skips past them. He sees the gang at the table, pumps his fist in the air in victory and sprints to the door like he’s fresh out of a Tony Robbins seminar.
Fuck me…
I’m staring at islands of ice in my glass that should be shrinking but they aren’t, when he reaches the table. Greetings and the smacks of more air kisses all around. I force myself to look up.
Metro Black guy goes straight to Ann and slathers a kiss on her, and their hug is more… intimate; they are touching at the pelvis.
It’s him. The guy from the pictures in the yellow envelope.
Good ol’ Babs speaks to me like I’m a giggling special needs kid crossing piss streams with my equally challenged twin. I notice a gleam in her voice, like she’s in on a secret and it’s all she can do to let it burst free from her well-practiced dick-sucking lips.
Barbara: This is James, Ann’s… friend. Say hello to James.
The table falls silent. Barbara is so wet with glee in this moment, it’s almost possible for her pussy juice to douse the lake of hate-fire flaring up in my gut. The vodka simmers in my hands creating mini currents in my glass. Ice swirls and I am aware of the butter knife next to me.
I start to stand and I still haven’t decided what I am going to do until I am face to face with him. He is in a crisp suit, hand outstretched, and shares the same “I know something you don’t” smirk with Barbara. I am now at my feet, and what I do surprises even me. I shake the hand of the man who is sticking his cock in my girlfriend.
James: So you’re Eric, Ann’s boyfriend?
I don’t answer.
I long for the crunching of your metacarpals in my grip.
Instead I release his dainty hand and sit. Conversations resume and nobody, not even Ann is speaking to me. Except Ross.
Ross: Why did ya move back to LA? I used ta live In LA but even the west side is so ghetto compared to…
A thought hits me:
These cocksuckers think I don’t know! Everyone at the table thinks I’m clueless about Ann and James fucking.
Looking around the table, none of the other six people seem the least bit phased by this situation. Not once since James has joined us has Ann looked at me. I decide my kill order. I look at Barbara conversing with James and Ann, Preening her hair and flashing her stalactite needle-teeth. She looks… victorious. Like she set this delicious moment up.
Don’t worry, I’ll kill you last.
Outside the window, the young couple James skipped past is not so young anymore. In fact, the only reason I know it’s the same couple is because they’re dressed in the same clothes, just more worn and ill-fitting. The woman is walking with a pronounced stoop and the thin haired man has a pot-belly that seems to grow, straining the buttons on his shirt as I watch him. The cute sapling they were doting over is now a tree. They continue to cross the window.
Moments on the outside of the window are speeding up. Inside where I sit watching the couple, the moments just suck. Ann’s hands are on the table, James, next to her is stroking her palm with his pinkie. I slam back my drink and order my fifth. Finally Ross, God bless his little heart, gets the picture that I have a scarlet “A” for asshole on my chest and avoids eye contact with me. Don’t worry, Ross. Killing you would be like a punting a gimp-legged bunny. It just ain’t right.
More conversations. Words spoken. Me not hearing. I want to run out that door but if I do, I know I will have surrendered Ann forever. Looking at James I notice I can not see his Ann-side hand which is under the table. I see torsion in Ann’s face.
……….
ENOUGH!!
The knife leaps into my hand, in deft economy of motion I spring on the table and plunge the butter-knife into James’ eye-ball with a “SQUISH!” I crave his death. People screaming and in the moment of truth the others at the table flee out the door as One Market empties. Barbara is first outside plowing down the middle-aged couple, slamming the woman’s head against the window-glass with a “THWUMP!”
James and I are on the floor. Me straddling him, one knee on his chest. Knife in his eye-socket, I churn the eye-goo like I am scrambling eggs. There is a grinding sensation of metal on bone vibrating in my hand. James wails.
James: Please. Stop!
Me: Shhhhhh…. everybody talks too much in this city. Why is that?
James: I…I Don’t know!
*SLAP*
Me: Please be quiet.
I try to retract the knife from his eye socket but it’s dug a purchase into skull, I place a foot on his face for leverage and give it the knife a yank. Jets of face-plasma arc on my Versace. James does his best one-eyed cry.
James: I’m sorry…
*SLAP*
He’s not even defending himself, what a pathetic fag.
I reach into his pant pockets, find a pack of his cigarettes in one side, retrieve a torch-lighter from the other and ignite a menthol. I take a relaxing “Eric moment” while I look around the empty bar. Eddie Vedder telling me about Jeremy in barely conversational tones over the speakers. I ponder the pussification of the American male as the Kools soothe my throat icy-fresh.
Outside the window, the tree is shedding its orange and red leaves in the final Autumn of its life, the barrier that once protected served it’s purpose and has crumbled into a pile of rust. The couple is now quite old. The woman, pummeled to the sidewalk from the stampede is surrendering to the relentless inevitability of her final season. Her companion reaches down to lift her. It’s useless. He also succumbs to the pull of the pavement next to her, sobbing.
I see the hoary man’s face. It is Mr. Carter. He knows there will be no spring bloom for any of them. Him, his woman or the tree. They do not make it. I see my watch being torn to shreds right off of my God Damned wrist from the same Force that guided me to my seat.
James: Uuuuuuunnnnnghhh….Ouuuwwwnnngggggg.
*SLAP*
Me: I said be quiet.
Straddling James and taking deep pulls of nicotine, I’m pissed that I can’t remember what I was thinking about before he cut my concentration. Menthol dangling from my lips, I unbuckle his pants…
James: Hey.
…and unzip his zipper…
James: What are you doing?
I take a lung-full of smoke, glowing the cigarette tip orange, lean over face to face and cup my lips over his eye-socket. I exhale.
James:Hoooowwwmmm. *sniff* Chunnnnn-hummmm…
As I lean back, ghostly blue smoke seeps slowly from the face-hole, he whimpers. I reach into his pants and fish out his dick. This seems like as good a place as any to put out the Kool but I have something else in mind. I flick an ash in his eye-socket and pick up the butter knife.
Me: I wanna see how you’re packin’ sport.
James: WAIT! HOLD THE FUCK UP!
James-cock clutched in one hand, I set the knife down on his chest to give him another *SLAP*. I pick it back up, wipe the gore off on my shirt and admire my reflection in its side. My eyes glow red.
James: Hey Dog! It’s all good, right? Let’s work this shit out! Why you gonna do a brothuh like this?
…and place the shallowly serrated edge to his taint just below his scrotum.
I pause here. I do not guzzle his fear, I sip it, swish it in my mouth. It’s tartness biting away at the inner lining of my cheek. It’s not every day you have the opportunity to mutilate someone, so you have to savor the occasion. I am inebriated on his anguish. Visions of Ann suckling on his cock swim in my head. The tongue I share ice cream with gliding on his balls. The same lips that tell me “I love you” wrapped around his shaft.
Vedder is fucking killing it:
“Try to forget this…
TRY!
try to forget this…
TRY!
Try to erase this…
TRY!
try to erase this…”
James: You’re just a stupid nigger! Fuck you!
Me: Says the jackass with menthols in his pocket.
I spit on the blade for lubrication…
James releases his bowels. The scent of his terror smacks me in the face, swaying me giddy. I fumble a grasp on the table leg to stay myself.
James: Pleeeaaassseee!!!
…and I begin to saw. This takes me another cigarette to complete, urethras are a bitch to cut through. It’s exhausting work, I had to switch hands several times. When I am finally finished, I turn the cock over in my hand examining the dick that Ann once sucked. I am not impressed.
I run the serrated teeth of the knife over my tongue, nicking myself, mixing our plasma. His adrenaline laced blood gives an unexpected jolt to my nervous system. A bit of pre-cum drips from my cock, and space-time speeds up back to normal. My world tilts on axis and spins as a single tear of ecstasy materializes.
How I wish I could main-line this shit!
Just as I am about to shove the cock into his eye-hole…
“STOP!”
I look up.
Waiter: That is an egregious waste of dick-steak!
Me: Well, what do you recommend?
He takes the morsel in between his thumb and fingers, pinkie extended.
Waiter: Well, This is not prime cut and I see you’ve left the testicles in place…
James: You sick motherfucker!
Waiter: May I sir?
Me: Please.
*SLAP*
Me: Balls Benedict with cock-scrapple?
The waiter frowns.
Waiter: I can appreciate the poetic nature such a dish could evoke, but may I suggest you avoid the ball, sir? And it’s not generous portions for scrapple, I fear the meat may simply cook away.
Me: We can’t have that now can we?
Waiter: Most certainly not, sir.
Me: Fine, lop off the balls, flip it over once and…
Waiter: May I suggest Cock Tartare?
I consider this for a moment.
Me: Excellent. I’ll take a glass of Grenache Blanc too.
Waiter: Very good sir. I shall return.
James is bleeding out. I don’t want to kill him just yet, there’s so much fun to be had. I remember his torch-lighter. I give it a flick and it hisses to life. I adjust the flame to a blue beam and focus it where his genitals used to be with back and forth flicks of the wrist. James shrieks and passes out.
Thank God something shut him up. Skin bubbles away to nothingness, and I am now into flesh. The aroma is a disturbingly sweet signature of burning pipe tobacco with crisp-yet-subtle undertones of fresh turned top-soil. There is the familiar sizzle-and-pop of morning bacon and I am suddenly very hungry.
Waiter: And here we are sir.
He sets the wine glass and plate down beside me.
Me: Your timing is exquisite. Thank you.
Waiter: Ahem…
Me: Oh! I’m sorry, please forgive me.
I look in James’ pant pockets, no wallet.
*SLAP*
Me: Wake up, James. Where is your wallet?
His glazed over eye regards me for a moment in such a way that it’s clear he does not know where he is. I find it funny watching him realise he’s not looking up at me in stereo-vision, I watch the horror of recall reclaim his face. Fascinating. Curt Cobain takes the mic from Vedder and is crooning “Rape Meeeee!”
Waiter: Ahem…sir, I know we find this amusing but have we checked his coat pocket?
I didn’t realise it but I’m smiling.
Me: Good call you snooty bastard.
I pay the man and he departs. Pushing the food aside, I return my focus on James. I remove his pants entirely and roll him over to his belly. His buttocks and hips are womanly, like he never worked out a day in his life. He cries again. I unzip my pants.
James: Oh God please, no!
I take out my cock.
Me: If you don’t quiet down, I’ll feed you your own dick.
He whimpers. Outside the window, two piles of dust inter-mingled with rags are swept up into the Pacific breeze. I watch the wind take with it any hopes for my redemption. I am now truly lost. Forever.
I close my eyes to force my mind to better days. Futile. Movies of James ass-fucking Ann flash on the screen behind my eyelids. For me, there is no escape from the imagery. I spread my arms, surrendering to the pain.
James: Kill me. Please Lord, take me.
Couldn’t have said it better. I spit in my hand and stroke myself into an erection.
James: I’m a human being!
I let the hate run it’s course through my soul as Cobain eggs me on.
I hear Demon-James’ balls slapping against Ann’s creamy butt cheeks, he’s taunting me while digging in my woman’s ass.
I spread his shitty cheeks…
James: Whyyyyyyyyyy??
…and I make James my comfort woman.
“Hate me.
Do it and do it again.
Waste me.
Rape me, my friend…”
This is not as fun as I would have thought, frankly, revenge-as-dessert is really disappointing but it must really suck for James so I keep pumping. Doin’ it again and again.
I donkey punch him…
……….
Our table of six has now grown to nine. Ann, like everybody else is still ignoring me. Drinks flowing free. Surrounded, alone.
Barbara: Eric, this is Ethan, Clay and…
Ethan and Clay’s eyes glow red. Ross is in his own private rave in his mind, twirling spoons like glow-sticks above his head to music only he can hear.
Me: Excuse me.
I make my way to the mens-room, I turn the sink on and let it run cold. I’m alone. In the mirror, I see my demon-face. Cupping a handful of water, I splash my face and watch the vortex of liquid spin in the basin, taking the red eye-glow with it.
I recall the saying:
“Even if you win the rat race, you are still a rat.”
Time to let go.
End.
Tagged: Questions & Answers
