by Irvine Welsh
19
ASS ASSASSIN
I ROSE EARLY and bundled the Total Gym into the back of the car. Morning was the MMMA and some kickboxing with two stressed-out bulldyke parole officers whose patch includes Little Haiti. Sacré bleu! Then lunch at Whole Paycheck, a spinach wheat lasagne nestling on a bed of more spinach; no more than five hundred cal struck up on the iPhone’s Lifemap app. Then off to the erroneously named Bodysculpt to meet with Lena Sorenson.
Sorenson weighed in at 197.5. And yes, it was on the official scale. But it’s still far too slow. The way she squealed with delight that she was under two hundred just irritated the fuck out of me. I decided that I was going to cardio her ass and burn shit off her. I started her on the elliptical, and doing a 4 × 15-minute workout, increasing the resistance level from 8 to 10 to 12 to 14. Then as Miles ambles in, flashing that easy smile which initially passes off as cool, until you realize the guy is just, well, a little dim, I switch Sorenson onto a treadmill, set at 6 mph.
After some stretching, Miles climbs on the machine next to hers. Sorenson turned as he greeted her with a nod and a grin. He made some cheesy remark I couldn’t catch. Sorenson responded with a tentative smile, but she wasn’t a happy camper. Not only was I working her at increased gradient, I commanded her to go flat out every fourth minute, for one solid minute. — I’m trying to boot up your metabolism.
She responded with the recalcitrant sulk of the fat loser. It cuts no ice. You do as I say, for I am the higher power, I am the bod god and you will submit before me . . . For the last five minutes, I ramped it up to ten, asking her to go flat out for the last two. As she gasped toward the end of the session, I pointed to the calorie counter. — Seven hundred and twenty-two! That’s what I need from you. That’s what you have to bring me!
She shakily returned my offered up high five and repaired, sweating and gasping, to the juice bar for a carrot-and-broccoli concoction. Then Miles, towel slung around his shoulders, sauntered across to her, and I heard him say, — You seemed to be putting a lot in today.
And then my nice little old Jewish lady, Sophia Rosenbaum, arrived. Sophia has recently lost her husband. It’s taken her a long time to come out and start doing things. So I gave her a mild workout on the cycle to protect a knee already pulped to floating shards of bone and slivers of cartilage by the ravages of time. I listened to her tales of children and grandchildren in faraway places, all the time spying on Miles and Sorenson.
And yes, after vanishing for her shower, Lena comes over all candy-assed, to get my approval to leave with Miles, who is waiting by the door, himself showered, wet hair combed back, teeth hanging out to dry. Approve? If only the dumbass little fuck knew that I’d just set her up to have the shit banged out of her! I get back to Sophia as they sneak off out the club.
After putting Sophia through her paces and having an iced tea with her, I picked up the keys for Mom and Lieb’s downtown rabbit hutch, then headed over there. From the top floor I looked out and down. On one side I could see Interstate 95 with cars streaming along it, but the sidewalks were empty. Yes, you can work out here, and in total privacy, so I went back downstairs and hauled the Total Gym out the trunk of the Caddy and into the elevator, setting it up in Mom’s apartment. Then I went to the gym next door, realizing that the treadmills are on a set of wheels you can lower by use of a foot pedal. I pushed one of them through to the apartment. Not cool, but hey-ho, I was only borrowing it. Looking up at the steel beam overhead, I did a little pole dance, stripper-style, on one of the support pillars, which is scaffolding width, locking my legs around it, supporting my own weight easily as I hung upside down, letting the blood rush to my head. Trying to imagine the likes of Sorensen doing that! I then had a decent workout, while watching the sky change behind all the deserted apartment blocks around me.
By early evening I got to the MMMA, and a session in the ring, practicing combos on the pads with Emilio. If Bodysculpt is a pristine nightclub, then the MMMA is a sweat factory. At the bank of machines, the sound of strained grunts over the crash of metal-on-metal evoke a shithouse for the chronically constipated, housed in some shabby railroad goods yard. This is intensified by the fuck-you-in-the-ass blare of the boxing rounds signal with its authoritative green-amber-red glow sequence. Across the other side of the hangar, groups of boxers pummel their bags in combos barked out by the instructor, above the pounding insistence of urban hip hop.
Emilio and I have a bond; both warriors, yes, and both almost but not quite good enough. Whatever anybody says, there are winners and there are the rest. Second is as good as last. I hit my wall back in 2007 at the Marriott Orlando World Center, when I lost my last chance to become a World Muay Thai Champion. I’d made the semifinal in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, the previous year, but ran across an unyielding bull of a chick, whom I can’t bring myself to name, but who looked like Marvin Hagler in a leotard, with faster, heavier hands and feet. I met her again the next year. I’d trained like a mofo and I was at my peak for the rematch. Once again, I fought gamely, but that animal dyke majored in the hurt business and kicked like a fucking mule. It’s not good for the soul to dwell on two bad defeats, so all I’ll say is that I realized I was never going to get past that bitch, who was almost four years younger than me. Competitive career over.
Emilio gets it. There’s a great shot of him on the canvas after being knocked out for the first time. It’s obviously not on display here, but I’ve seen it, and I can relate. It’s that what-the-fuck-just-happened expression; not so much fear, but that slow, sad dawning of the recognition that you’ve just run into your own limitations, as his executioner strutted above him. But I love Emilio’s balls; he’d opted for a warrior pro strike pad rather than full shield, which meant he had to be quick to protect himself from the combos he shouted at me to execute. His nostrils flared, with his face set in blazing concentration, as I unleashed a series of blows and kicks at him.
When we wound up, I had my first session with Annette Cushing, who impressively maintained her composure as she entered the cavernous building. Most Bodysculpt clients would never have made it through those doors. I took her over to one of the heavy bags, and showed her how to wrap her hands. Then we had a good fifteen-minute warm-up, before I demonstrated the basic fighting stance and steps. I had her shadowboxing in the mirror with me for ten. Then I showed her the range of blows and kicks on the bags, working her up to high intensity, only stopping to refine her technique. We finished with some abdominal conditioning exercises and stretching out. Annette was drained, the sweat bursting from her. And also as high as a crack whore with a winning lotto ticket in her purse. — I’ve never had a workout like that before, Lucy. It’s the whole package!
Music to my ears, as I knew Mona, with her femme-girl Pilates, would be livid. So all good. We arranged another appointment before Grace Carillo came in and we trained together on the weights and bar.
Showering afterward, I tried not to think of Grace’s pussy (shaved, I imagined, with the shocking-pink interior spread open, contrasting nicely with the ebony skin), then went for a juice with Emilio before heading off.
So I get back home, there are no photographers or journos in sight, and I try to get into The Biggest Loser repeats (sometimes Bob and Jillian have the patience of saints) but kept wondering about Miles and if he’s fucking Sorenson.
I get the vibrator out, hellbent on pussy satiation but, frustratingly, I’m too distracted to get into it. Even for Terminator 2, perennially in my DVD player, which is the finest film ever fucking made, and one of the best feminist movies of all time. Forget the shrivel-dicked steroid monster; Linda Hamilton is the epitome of demented, badass cool. That anorexic fake-assed bitch who replaced Hamilton in the Connor role for the TV series: no fucking way, man. Those puny limbs never hauled that body up on an overhead bar. Notice how the pull-ups and chin-ups are never done in long shot. Give us a fucking break, broadcasters!
Instead I make some calls, gabbing on the phone with Chef Dominic, then
send a few emails, mainly to clients. But all I can think about is Miles and Lena. Eventually, curiosity gets the better of me and I jump in the Caddy and head north toward Sorenson’s. When I get there the air is hot and close and darkness is starting to fall. I bang on the door. Again. Once more. She isn’t home!
I wait outside in the Cadillac, trying to imagine what their sex would be like. Miles is strictly a ground-and-pound man, without a sensual bone in his robot body. It’s difficult to see what, if anything, a chubster like Sorenson would bring to the carnal table. I just hope he’s hammering her into some kind of ecstasy.
I take a drive, playing the Joan Jett version of “Roadrunner” full fucking blast, singing out loud. I find myself going through Little Haiti, always surprised by the English pub right in the middle of this district; watching small groups of fat ex-pat British men, who all look like chubby packet sausages in a convenience store, marching purposefully into the bar.
It’s around eleven by the time I get back to Sorenson’s. Her car is in her driveway. I park up in the Publix lot, and move toward her gate. Crouching down, I can see her through her window. She had to have been at Miles’s place. But Sorenson doesn’t have that freshly fucked look. She seems unsettled, springing outside, then back in again, as I flit behind the hibiscus bush. Her constant toing and froing between the house and her studio, for no particular reason, is starting to annoy the fuck out of me. I sneak back to the Caddy and take out the .22 air pistol from the trunk, scanning the quiet street with stealth. It’s always deserted around here, but I am aware that this still constitutes a risk.
I lurk behind a large, flowering bush at the back of the house. Then Sorenson emerges into the yard again, setting off a trip light, making me jump back behind the cover of the hibiscus. Something cracks under my feet, but Sorenson doesn’t seem to hear as she struggles with the lock on her studio door in semidarkness under the weak autosensor movement spotlight. I have the gun trained on her swollen ass, presenting an almost unmissible target in those Lycra shorts. — Darn it, she says to herself as I squeeze the trigger and hear a pffft of air, followed by an, — Owww . . . what the . . . oh my God . . . oh . . . oh . . . oh . . . and see Sorenson, mouth open, rubbing her ass, and looking around bemused and in pain.
As she hobbles back toward the house, wincing and massaging her butt, I step back and out onto the street, heading through the open gate and around the corner to my car. I get my phone and hit Sorenson’s digits.
— Lena S? Luce, my voice squashed out ghetto-high and sassy. — What the fuck goes, girlfriend?
— Oh, Lucy, I’m not good! My ass has just been stung! I don’t know what happened!
— Stung? Like by a bug?
— I think so, but I feel like I’ve been stabbed, it’s so sore!
— Where about? I mean, where did this bug sting you?
Silence. Then, — I told you, in my butt.
— Wow . . . I fight back a fucking deluge of mirth, — I’m sorry, I thought when you said your ass had just been stung, you were meaning generally, rather than literally. I’m heading up your way. I’ll come by in about a half hour.
When I head back to Lena’s, her face is still wincing in pain, as I follow her wobbling ass inside. — My backside is so sore . . .
— Too bad . . . I sympathise, as we go into the living room. — The problem with this climate is we’re full of invasive species. I doubt the bug that got you is indigenous. I saw a program on PSB last night about pythons, how they battle with alligators out in Glades—I halt in total shock as I see a treadmill, set up in front of the TV. Impressed doesn’t cover it! — Well done!
— Figured I could burn calories while I watched HBO and Showtime.
Bitch being fucking specific to rub her cable shit in my face, knowing I’m stuck on network.
— Did you do those Morning Pages?
— Yes . . . she says, and points to six sheets of paper on her desk in the office.
— Good. I pick them up.
— I have to confess, I just did them, I kind of forgot about it this morning.
I throw the papers down on the desk.
— But I found them useful!
— Why do you think they’re called Morning Papers? Huh? Huh! Cause you do them in the fucking morning! These are no good, I snap.
— Don’t shout at me! I’ve had a bad day!
I take it down a notch, cause I need to inspect that ass. — Okay, Lena, I’m sorry, I soften. — Now let me see this wound . . . and I soon have her lying on the couch, me hunkered over her, her pants around her ankles and her panties still on, but pulled up into her ass cleft to expose those large, white, goosebumped buttocks. Sorenson must be the whitest chick in southern Florida. I gone branded me that bitch’s fat, lilywhite ass! — That is a sore one, I tell her as I dab the wound with antiseptic. It’s already yellowing and smudging blue-black around the shot’s red tear. — Invasive species . . . I’d put money on it.
Fuck, yeah, I could spread those wobbly globes till I see the pubic hair from her pussy curl around those panties and . . . no, keep it professional. — I’m just gonna clean this up . . . I hear my voice low and throaty.
— Hmmm . . . Sorenson mumbles into the cushion.
After cleaning the injury and administering a Band-Aid, I get up. — All done.
We then sit side by side on the couch, watching her killer 70-inch plasma, Sorenson trying to keep her weight off the damaged buttock. The Siamese twins are back; there’s an information-based program on their disorder. It shows historical photographs of previous sufferers of the condition. The stiff-assed fag actor’s commentary: — Conjoined twins are classified by the point at which their bodies are joined. Amy and Annabel Wilks are the third most common type of conjoined twins, omphalopagus twins, comprising around 15 percent of cases. Their two bodies are fused at the lower chest. The hearts are separate but they partially share a liver, digestive system, and some other organs.
— Sharing a pussy? Sack that fucking shit!
— Those poor girls, Lena moans. — I doubt they’ll be sharing a vagina, but they will share certain nerve endings. So to all intents and purposes that means if this Stephen character is having sex with one of them, then he’s technically having sex with both. It’s sick. It’s rape!
— What?
— It’s against her consent. Amy.
— Fuck that noise! You gotta be kidding!
— Well, it is!
— I see it differently. So you’re saying it’s okay that poor Annabel can’t get fucked, by the boy she loves, cause her frigid bitch of a sister, Amy, that fucking attachment, won’t take one for the team?
— That’s disgusting, Lucy. What kind of a feminist are you?
— One that gets laid occasionally. You seem to be the other variety, I suggest, watching a red flush rise up Sorenson’s cheeks. — So, I’ve been dying to ask, how did it go with Miles from the gym?
— Good . . . Sorenson looks at me, picking at her nails.
— Gimme all the gory details. Did you jump his mutha-fuckin bones?
— Stop it.
— C’mon! Jesus, Lena! Did you guys fuck?
— That’s none of your business!
— That’s a “no” then?
— You can be such a bucket-mouthed sorority girl sometimes, Lucy, she pouts, then she rises and climbs on that treadmill. It’s only set at 4 mph, but at least she went without my prompting.
— Go, Lena!
And I’m trying to see past the fat, that horrible, disfiguring fat. What do I see? Those starey eyes and tight mouth in that pallid face, a crescent of moles on one side of it, like a constellation; only the tense, spooked aspect prevents it from being beautiful. That frizzy, collar-length hair, forever being swept out her eyes and tucked behind her ears.
After her “workout” we go into her studio. Again, the smell of resin and chemicals makes my eyes water. I blink them clear and I see a pile of plastic bones which she’s made in her mold
s, sitting on the workbench. She has the skeleton of the big alien man now hung like a puppet on a series of wires, connected to a beam on the ceiling. It looks expressive and macabre. — This is really coming on.
— I know, but there’s still something not quite right, she says, picking up a camera and taking more photos of it, to complement the ones she has, taken at different angles, all pinned to a series of boards. Then she picks up a skull from the bench. Holds it up to the light, then against the alien man’s fiberglass one.
— That isn’t a human skull? I ask.
— No. It’s a gorilla’s. He died recently, at a zoo in Atlanta. It cost me a lot of money to source it. Unfortunately, it won’t do. She smiles at me and just for a second I’m beset with a terrible unease, then she puts the skull back, and the feeling goes.
20
FUTURE HUMAN—THE PROCESS
AS AN ARTIST Lena Sorenson is vague on her process, describing it as “differing from project to project.” But it is clear that she makes extensive sketches of her landscapes, and then draws her characters into it. It’s also known that Sorenson has started to use software previsualization tools, constructing sets and then dropping the figures into these spaces and manipulating their stances and relationships with each other. “I wanted to get a sense that although the image was part of a shifting scene, it would have the same static feel of permanence a sketch would. And these tools help me get exactly the correct spatial relationships between my figures.”
Sorenson, who has studied taxidermy, then assembles the skeletal structure of the creatures. Usually, with smaller pieces, this is done with the preserved bones of tinier birds and mammals. Sorenson creates a “new” creature by mixing the skeletal parts of old ones to form the frame, combining bone parts of arms, legs, and spinal columns. With larger compositions, bigger bones (particularly the skull and pelvis, which help define the look and posture and therefore the expressions and movement of this “new” creature) are more problematic. These are usually created from scratch, through the construction of molds. Sorenson then wires the bones together in sections. The next stage is to put “flesh” on these bones. Sorenson has been secretive about how this is done, but it probably involves the use of some synthetic claylike material, which is sculpted around the bones to form the figure, before the entire structure is placed into a huge box and moldings are made of the form. Sorenson then removes the “flesh” from the bone structures and places them into the premade molds and pours a resin inside, which sets around them.