The Consumer

by Michael Gira

  Each time I push, she screams.

  After a long struggle, I break through the thin layer of skin. My head is free, looking up at her distorted face. The structure of her face is shifting, falling off to the sides. The thermal lamp is slowly burning away layer after layer of accumulated skin, gradually incinerating the outer evidence of her character.

  She’s strapped down to the slab. As she screams, her body thrashes against its confinement. The straps tear into the broiling flesh like butter. She’s helpless, trapped. The man on the other side of the wall must have secured the straps, then left her here to suffer. But now, watching her closely, it doesn’t seem that she minds her condition after all. When she screams, her face rips with pain, her mouth a torn gash in her face. But half of her pain is obviously ecstasy, like the bliss an athlete obtains with endurance.

  There’s a rhythm to her screams, like the rhythm of two people fucking, or the rhythm I remember as the sound of the heartbeat of the man on the other side of the wall, or both of them combined, a fresh mutation, a new sound with a life of its own.

  I break out of my sack, wrapping a sheet of her skin around my shoulders and jump down to the floor. I walk out of her door and into the room of the man. I stand on his chest and look into his mouth. His tongue hangs down to his chin. His face is shifting, bubbling, dissolving, like the woman’s face. I stand on his tongue. He pulls me into his mouth. Inside his chest, his heartbeat sounds like the dull moaning of the woman.

  (1983 / 1994)

  FRIENDS

  They’d always give me cause to question my basic identity when I’d see them, if I gave them the chance. No question, they were superior to me in every way — by breeding, by economic circumstance, by education, by their social skills.

  The trick was, of course, to develop scenarios wherein even if I failed, suffering the usual thinly veiled humiliation, I’d win.

  For instance, one day they knocked on the door to my apartment. I knew instantly I shouldn’t have answered, but there was no going back. I’d been on my knees, vomiting into the toilet when I heard the knock. I shouldn’t have answered until I’d at least brushed my teeth. But my intelligence was dulled beneath the weight of my hangover, so I acted instinctively without weighing the consequences.

  They smelled my breath. I suppose this should’ve repulsed them, but instead their faces betrayed a blatantly sarcastic, self-satisfied smile. They’d gained access to a secret weakness, a part of myself that would have been better left concealed, and this pleased them. Instantly they knew that a) I had been drunk the night before, and that b) this was another relapse, so I was weak of mind, depressed, probably suicidal and that c) I was of extremely unstable and weak character, unable to muster even the small amount of self-discipline I’d led them to believe I possessed.

  As much as I tried to hide my compromised position, I was unable to convince them to come into the apartment. They kept insisting it was obvious they’d disturbed me, that they’d call me later, but we all knew they wouldn’t.

  In order to come out the winner, in my mind, I memorized their faces, down to the smallest detail, the smallest nuance of expression — the black curling hair growing out of his cheek that he’d missed shaving, the pale pink blemish above her right eyebrow showing through the film of cream-colored makeup, applied with skillful thickness so that it blended out smoothly into her forehead.

  When I closed the door, I held them in my mind, exposing their image permanently onto a blank sheet in a secret file where I kept my memories for future use. I’d use this and other memories of them to serve me, to make them please me. They were flimsy in there, among the images I preserved, foolish really, not threatening at all. Two people who crushed each other’s bodies every other night beneath their mutual flab, muttering gratuitous, lustful phrases into each other’s waxy ears until they’d come. Then they’d roll over, farting a sleep-inducing lullaby.

  I know, because once I needed a place to sleep, and they let me stay on the kitchen floor, sharing a hairy blanket with the dog. A p lace only two feet from the foot of their bed, and they didn’t have the good manners to refrain from their sickening ritual while I was a guest. But then I suppose I was more like a stray cat one takes in because they can’t overcome the guilt they feel at watching it starve. More like that than a friend, so they felt no embarrassment at having me witness their intimate purgatory.

  This is how I remember them.

  (1986 / 1994)

  I’M AN INFANT, I WORSHIP HIM

  I’m a pig, and I smell bad. Mr. Smother is my god, and that’s what he says. He’s always right. I kiss his ass. I suck everything down into my guts. I never shit. My body’s greedy (there's nothing I can do about it). I’m bloated. I’m soft. I weigh 349 pounds. I’m fat scum. I despise myself. I’m sitting here in the pink pajama bottoms my mom gave me when I was 15. They still fit. I hate them, but I wear them. They’re caked around the crotch with various foods that I dripped, and old sperm I never wiped up. My sperm’s sweet. A lot of that sperm’s there now because of Mr. Smother, so I like it. I like to break it off in chunks and grind it between my fingers thinking about him. Then I feel disgusted with myself, but I like feeling that way for him. I’d like him to take a shit on my face while I lay back on the sidewalk and have people crowd around and laugh. He’d point down at my face and tell them how I deserved it, and they’d laugh again in agreement with him. I’d feel good. I like to feel good. I like to touch myself, especially when I pretend I’m someone else. Sometimes in a restaurant I lose myself, I forget I exist. I sneak my hand up under my shirt and rub it along the hair that collects around my bellybutton. The hair’s soft like the hair on a baby’s head. I get hot and I can smell myself. I’m being smothered in my own armpit, then I come, but I don’t feel anything. I discover a puddle of sperm in my crotch. I hurry and pay, then I leave, afraid they’ll notice. When I come, I don’t get an erection. I love myself, but I also hate myself. I should be destroyed. People look at me and think I’m repulsive. They hate me. I like them hating me, because they’re right to do so. I get an erection when I think about a specific person that hates me. Then I get an erection, but I can’t come. Otherwise I just come, like pus drains out of a sore, without getting hard. I need them to hate me, to be sickened by me. Then I get what I deserve.

  Mr. Smother is my boss. He gave me a job. Even though I made him sick, even though he loathed the sight of me from the start. My smell surrounded me. I smell like putrid marmalade. He should have thrown up in my face, but he hired me, even though he hated me. I deserve anything he dishes out. I want him to dish it out. Every day I find ways to make him degrade me, without become so sickening that he fires me. I’d die if he fired me. I worship him. I need him, because he crushes me. He demands that I live up to his requirements, and he punishes me when I can’t. I don’t know why he hasn’t fired me, because I’m weak. I always make mistakes. I love his hairy arms, his hairy chest, his hairy back. I dream about chewing his hair while I masturbate. Then when I don’t come, I feel good, because I didn’t deserve to come. I only come for him when I’m not masturbating. When I come for him, it’s because he makes me come. When I don’t expect it, so I’ll feel bad. But later, when I’m lying in bed thinking about it, I feel good. He knows how to use his authority. He makes me feel like a fat deformed child: I’m sitting in the corner in my diapers, and against my will I shit until it forces its way out onto the floor. My parents come in and scream at me and beat me. Then, when they leave, to show them that I want to be good, I scrape it up with my pudgy hands and eat it. I prove to myself that I can get rid of it and be good. That’s how he makes me feel. I like to feel that way. He doesn’t pay me much money, I’m a fat slob. I don’t deserve to be paid well. I want to hide in his world. He feeds me. I never want to leave him. I get depressed when I have to go home from work, away from him. He makes me feel good.

  He’s my boss: he makes me do things. I’m in the stock room getting a carburetor off the top she
lf, and the ladder breaks under my weight. I fall down like a sack of rotting gelatin. I hate myself. I don’t get hurt, because my fat protects me. I don’t get up. I enjoy being on my back, looking up. I’m an old cow, dying beside the road, waiting for her master to come drive her to the slaughterhouse. I want Mr. Smother to come and investigate the noise, and find me on my back. Then, when he shouts at me, I’ll feel good, because I’ll be on my back, and I’ll feel stupid. He comes in shouting at me before he’s seen what happened. “What’s going on in here! Hurry up! What’re you doing!” He comes up and kicks me in the side, as if trying to determine if I’m alive or dead. I’m in a beautiful dream, looking up into huge angry nostrils, his cold black eyes. Up inside his nostrils the snot is hardened and clings to the hairs in large crystals, like sugar. I think how wonderful it would be to crawl inside his nostril and curl up, eating the sugar, warmed by his breath. “I’m sorry, Mr. Smother. It won’t happen again. I’m sorry!” Before I have a chance to finish apologizing, he says, “You alright?” And walks out to the front counter without waiting for an answer. I like the way he looked at me: I’m a bad dog. I get up and hurry to the bathroom like a fat poodle. I pull down my pants and stand there for a second, listening to him yell at a customer. The customer is whining, complaining that a part that he has bought for his car doesn’t work. Mr. Smother refuses to believe it. He tells him to get out of his shop, now. I hear the door close. No one can resist his authority. I’m playing with myself, thinking about the sugar in his nostrils. I have a tiny penis. I can hold it between two fingers when I jerk it. I pretend I’m milking a little cow. In order to treat Mr. Smother with respect, I hit myself in the face while I jerk. My nose starts bleeding, but I keep going. There’s a little piece of shit stuck to the toilet bowl. I get down on my knees, still jerking, and lick it with my tongue. Now Mr. Smother is beating on the floor. “Come on! Hurry up! What are you doing in there! Get back to work!” I hear him walk away. I wish he would’ve broken the door down. I want him to know that I’ll do anything for him. I almost come. I’m glad when I don’t. It would be a desecration. If he finds me in here with shit on my lips, he’ll be disgusted. Maybe he’ll beat me up. He’ll fire me. Maybe he’ll call the cops. I like cops, but I’m scared of them. If they put me in jail, everything I did or thought would be up to them. That would be good. But I wouldn’t have Mr. Smother anymore.

  I’m walking home from work. I smell like syrup. I want to eat myself, in order to disappear. My slime is soaking through my clothes. People look at me. They laugh to themselves, making their disgust obvious. They can smell me walk by. I love my smell, but I don’t blame them for hating it. I’m repulsive.

  It’s getting dark. I don’t know where I’m walking. I’ve forgotten about going home. I stop at a schoolyard. I’m standing at the fence, looking in, wheezing. I can’t breathe. Walking tires me. I need a rest. Because it’s almost dark, I feel safe here. I won’t be noticed. There are some children playing handball in the schoolyard. I hate their shrieks. They disgust me. They’re too unruly. If I had more courage, I’d go and cut off their heads with my pocket knife. But I’m a coward, and I wouldn’t be able to catch them because I’m too slow and fat. They’d laugh at me and spit at me. I’d deserve it, but I still want to kill them. When I was young, they used to hold me down and spit snot in my mouth. Then I’d throw it up, and they’d force me to eat my vomit before they let me go. When I got home, I’d throw up in the bathroom without being told to, so I could prove to myself that I could take my punishment, and not cause more trouble. But I still hated them, because they punished me without thinking, just to please themselves. That’s not how it should be. It should be done with a sense of duty. If you enjoy your duty, it’s alright, because it’s your place. Mr. Smother is good, because he puts me in my place, and he knows his place.

  There’s a wino asleep in the corner of the schoolyard. The children don’t seem to notice him. He’s a pile of rags and meat. His mouth is open, a hole in the pile. His mouth looks like it’s demanding to be stuffed, of its own will, without him knowing. Now one of the boys notices the wino. I knew this would happen. That’s why I’ve stayed here watching. He gets the other kids’ attention. They crowd around the wino. They’re scared at first. They move up close, then jump back suddenly, giggling, then move back in again. Now they’re not scared anymore. A few of them are spitting on the wino. He doesn’t budge. The first little boy is encouraged. He throws the handball hard at the wino’s head. There’s a sharp crack. The ball bounces off high into the air. The wino doesn’t move. He’s having sickening dreams. Now the first boy takes out his penis and pisses on the wino’s head. Everybody laughs. The wino’s head is steaming from the hot piss. The little boy takes a can of lighter fluid from his pocket and squirts it on the wino. Everybody flicks matches. He’s a pile of meat covered in short blue flames. He doesn’t notice anything. The flames haven’t burnt through his clothes to his skin yet. The children panic. They’re screaming hysterically. They’re scared they’ll get caught and their parents will punish them. The first little boy tries to piss on the wino, to put out the fire, but he can’t piss any-more, so he runs away. When he’s gone, I go into the schoolyard and piss on the wino. No one can see me. It’s dark now, and most of the street lights are broken out. I get down on my knees and look at him. He’s a filthy dog, worse than me. He smells. I like his smell, because it’s sweet, like mine. He’s mumbling incoherently. His words are a part of his sickening dream. The only words I can make out are, “Please” and “Thank you.”

  I stand up and kick him in the balls. I want to see if he’ll react. He moves a little, but doesn’t seem to feel any pain. I feel warm in my crotch. I look at his face. It’s thick with old acne scars, smeared with filth. His teeth have rotted out of his mouth. His left eye is coated with a thin yellow skin, the pupil visible underneath. But the main thing I notice makes me shake, I feel so good: if his disfigurements were cured or erased he’d look exactly like Mr. Smother. I’m in a dream. I love him. I feel sick. I’m spinning. I realize I’ve thrown up. It landed beside his head. I bend down and lick away anything that splashed in his face. I feel better. I try to put myself into his mind. I want to smell his dreams. I have to be obedient. He deserves obedience.

  I grab hold of his arm and pull him up. His arm is strong under his overcoat. I feel happy. I slap him in the face, trying to wake him up. I don’t want him to miss anything. He looks at me indifferently, then goes back to his dreams. But he seems conscious enough to walk. As I lead him away, I whisper into his ear that I’m sorry for bothering him, that I’ll make him feel good again. We stop to rest at the fence. He leans against it, half-conscious. I stick my tongue in his ear, carefully cleaning out all the stale wax that’s accumulated in there for months. He doesn’t seem to feel me doing this, but I don’t care. I swirl it around in my mouth until it becomes liquid, spit it back into his ear, then suck it out again, taking it through the cracks between my teeth. When I’m done with both ears, I swallow everything. I don’t feel sick at all. I like it. I’m thinking about Mr. Smother. It would please him to know I’m doing this. I deserve to be hated by him. It feels good.

  I lead him down the street, pretending we’re two drunks helping each other walk. I bury my head in his shoulder as we go, hiding my face. It’s dark, no one can recognize me. All they’ll be able to say is that they saw him walking with a fat man.

  We come to an abandoned building. I lead him across the vacant lot in front of the building. It’s pitch black here. My smell seems stronger. His smell is mixing with mine. I like the new smell. It’s suffocating. I lay him down against the wall. He says “Thank you,” looking up at me. He repulses me.

  I kick out the plywood that’s nailed over the window I want to go in. It’s black inside. I can’t see anything. I light a match and hold it inside the window. The room is piled with debris, old furniture, rotting garbage. In the center of the room there’s a wide hole, where the floor has caved in. If we fal
l in the hole, we’ll break our arms and legs, and be eaten by rats. As they rip at me, they’ll ejaculate, and so will I. If we keep to the sides of the room, moving along the walls, we won’t fall in. There are some stairs across the room, in the far corner. I want to take him up there. It will be private. I climb through the window into the building. I cut my arm on an old nail. It doesn’t hurt. I can smell my blood. It’s sweeter, more refined, than the smell of my body. I pull him in after me. I have the feeling he’s helping me, because it’s so easy. I feel light. I hold a match up to his face. He’s smiling. It makes me sick. He’s crazed. I don’t know what to expect. His open mouth is like the hole in the floor, and the rats live down in his stomach. I sway. I almost fall into his mouth. He grunts. I smell it against my face. It’s the word, “Please.” We work our way along the wall. We finally get to the stairs. By this time, he’s conscious enough to move on his own. He walks up the stairs in front of me. He moves slowly, but he’s sure of himself, as if he’s been here before. By the matchlight he looks like a drugged giant. I’m glad to be following him. I’m being pulled up the stairs by his smell. He’s controlling me.

  The room is empty except for a couch, and some candles in the center of the floor. Someone must have stayed here before they boarded up the building. I light the candles, then I sit down on the couch. He sits down next to me. I’m covered in his shadow. We don’t talk. He seems to be waiting for something. He looks at me like food. He disgusts me. His smell is strangling me. I realize he’s waiting for me to give him some alcohol. I have to do something quickly or he’ll get suspicious. He could kill me, in order to punish me. I admire him for that. He can do anything he wants. He shouts at me. I don’t understand what he’s saying. His voice is a roar. It stinks. It’s echoing through the room. I’m choking. I take out my pocket knife and hold it open in my lap. I’m in a daze. I’ve always been here with him, it’ll never end. He’s standing up. He’s ready to run out, down the stairs. He’ll fall in the hole. I stab him in the throat. He falls down immediately, jerking around the floor like a fish, the blood pumping out of his neck. It’s putrid, I’m gagging. He rolls over onto the candles I lit, then stops moving. The room has gone dark. I feel around on the floor, reach under him, and pull out a candle. I light it and hold it in front of his face. He looks exactly like Mr. Smother. I feel happy. I start to cry. I touch his cruel eyes. I stick my fingers in his mouth. It’s wonderful: his cool strong tongue, the tongue that shaped the words that made me obey. He's perfect. I feel myself getting a hard on. It’s warm, not like before. My penis is huge, hard, full of blood. I take off his overcoat and shirt and throw them to the side. I undo my pants, letting them fall around my ankles, then I kneel beside him. His chest and his stomach are hard and strong, exactly like Mr. Smother. As I kneel beside him, my erection hovers over his body. I squeeze it in my fist as I cut into his abdomen. I was made for this. I’m happy. As I’m cutting his skin and muscle away, the smell of his intestines rolls up into my face. It’s stale and sharp like wine vomit. The smell makes me drunk. I know I’m going to come this time, because I deserve to come. I’m falling face first into his soft intestines. My mouth is open. I’m sucking his guts into my mouth. I’m eating myself. I’m pretending that Mr. Smother is standing behind me watching me, making sure I eat everything. I’m eating sewage. My stomach is filling up with slime. I can feel myself getting fatter and uglier. I’m worse than I’ve ever been. My smell is dissolving me. I’m burying my head deeper in his guts. I’m losing the ability to distinguish between his guts and my smell. I’m coming into my hand, throwing up into his guts, eating it, throwing up into his guts, eating it again. I’m drowning in my own sperm while I drown in his guts. After I eat his guts, I eat his heart. Then I cut out his tongue and I eat that. I’m licking up my sperm. It’s still hot. It tastes like his guts. I wipe the blood off my face and work my way down the stairs out of the building.