No idea if I’ve slept or not. My eyes were closed, but my veins are still transporting yip. Dumping it in my brain.
Half an hour later I muster the courage to sit up. My room is unrecognizable, a landfill. A toxic zone where creatures subsist on flavored whiskey, beer, empty baggies, stems, straws, points, foil, and stoges. If I ever got headaches now would be the time.
A shower later…
Black Levis, black and red Airmax, Search and Destroy t-shirt, black beanie, apathetic grey jacket—I’m reborn. Un hombre nuevo. A triple-bleached needle.
Indeed! This is the last night before Slutskia comes home. One must take advantage of such things. I pour myself a whiskey, splash of water, and call Delancey. ‘Yeah, 109 Spring…five minutes?’ and we’re off
Four
Lame Lame is the latest outpost in The Meatpacking Colony. Not so many blowjobs ago west of 9thAvenue from 14thStreet to Gansevoort was an endearing cocktail of hanging carcasses, bloody streets and whores—lady-boy whores. Black lady-boy whores. All this pre-photoshop of course. Entering the doors of Lame Lame I’m accosted by the two quasi-owners. Their inherent tragedy escapes no one but them.
‘Cracula, what’s up guy?’
Lord help me. We live in a special moment in our planet’s evolution. For never in all of time has their been anything more gut wrenchingly comical than trust fund Islander kids playing restaurateur/club owner.
‘I’m fine. Where’s big boy?’
‘Aeronymous? He’s over there. Cracula, I want to talk to you about something.’
I’m sure you do you cunt. Instead, you should go home to the apartment your father bought you, open all the script bottles your uncle wrote you, down them, and jump out the fucking window. When you’ve done that, send over the Midwest same same you’ve been brainwashing and I’ll show her how a man fucks.
‘Maybe later.’
Half an hour late, I join the table. Aeronymous looks more massive than usual. The table is of the variety bolted to the floor, forcing the tabletop to split his mid-section, his breasts resting on the silverware. Sporting yet another queerly florescent BAPE sweater, it appears by the contents under the A that I’ve missed the appetizer. A carpaccio of sorts. The massive oval banquet finds Fireman two sames down.
‘Yo Crac, how you feeling?’
Quite alright there Fireman.
The retarded look on the two same sames bridging my boys is striking even in the world of sames. Not a day over 18, a brain cell past 1, or more than 2 weeks into the Island—they should throw in the towel. Pronto. Donate their organs to science, their brains to chimpanzees.
‘Cracula?’
Yes Aeronymous.
‘This is Re and this is Po.’
I see. To The Fireman’s left are two Brazilian sames, to their left Hugatcha and Feather.
Ahh…Feather, real wife stock. Paris born, Boston raised. Not yet entered according to Aeronymous. Could it be true? A Princeton educated tri-lingual virgin! Five foot ten, mid-back Chinese hair, Bolivian yip white skin. A virgin? I shall indoctrinate her, open her soul. Impregnate. We shall have 500 half-bourgeois, half-Mexican natives. I’ll spoon her nightly, lick her for days, only fuck her ass after marriage. I’ll never force her into a threesome—unless she wants it of course. When I masturbate I’ll scan through the Rolodex and finish to her. I swear. If she perishes before her time, I’ll get FEATHER RIP over my heart. All future sames will know my only true love is gone. Muerte. They’ll tell me they understand my detachment, the loss and all. Our mulattos will know that I’ll never love another as I did you, that I’m just fucking the pain away. I will forever be a man-whore in your honor. In fact, after our 500th kid I’ll have you murdered. That’s how much I love you, I’ll make you a martyr. Hang shrines in your honor.
Whoa…back to purgatory.
‘Hey girls.’ Kisses all around.
Next to Feather, Hugatcha. She possesses an ass that belongs below the Mason-Dixon and a brain too powerful for her own good. We fuck on occasion, aggressive sex—could not be hard enough for her. Must have been molested as a kid. One thing she can do, other than utilize her ass, is talk. Days on end, about whatever. Russian literature, architecture, ex-boyfriends, current boyfriend. Lo que sea. Quite a good resource when I’ve been hitting the pipe. The most compelling aspect of Hugatcha is her unshaven cunt. Principally, I’m all for Amoeban evolution in this regard. But with Hugatcha it’s far from an oversight, more an indictment. A manifesto. You shall taste me, vines and all. The Tropic of Hugatcha. Despite hopes to the contrary, I suspect she’s falling in love with me. After all, she has a boyfriend, I have a girlfriend, alcoholism, coke habit, and a bi-weekly trip to speedball island. It’s a no-risk fight. The fix is in. She’s fluent in Russian, but moved to Amoeba early enough to not sound like a double agent. Satan only knows what she and Slutskia banter about. I would love to imagine that in her native tongue Slutskia has more compelling thoughts on art, global warming, Amoeban foreign policy, the spread of AIDS in Africa…though doubtful. If only Hugatcha lived like she fucked (and if only Dutch girls fucked like they lived). It is what it is.
Of course Feather floats above all sames—perhaps she’s human? In the least she’s open ended. A Lynch film, a Miller diatribe, a title to a French painting—untitled. On an Island of self-appointed conclusions, she’s a breath of opium filled air. An unpicked poppy field. The Golden Triangle. Tu sabes?
‘Can I get you a drink sir?’
Indeed. Glass of red please.
‘Yo Crac, you still down for the Jirque my Chain premiere this Saturday?’
Ah, he’s good. The Fireman. Never a whisper, always an alpha boom for all to hear.
‘Just let me know how many tickets you need. I can let my good friend He know.’
The Brazilians straighten necks, arch their backs and retort as if witnessing the second coming.
‘U goey premeirey?’ Hook, line, sinker. The Fireman’s got you.
And in stereo: ‘Yeah, He who owns Jirque my Chain is a good friend of mine.’ With sub-woofers: ‘I’ve given away all my tickets, but since he’s a dear friend I’m sure I can get two more.’
Reel them in. I got the net.
The Fireman makes fast work of his double Grey Goose rocks. No doubt a fat bag in his pocket, couple Valiums in his belly. The man is impervious, a petrified virtuoso. A 6’4”, 220-pound specimen of evolved Island imperfection. I’m afraid if he ever stopped boozing, yacking, and E dropping, he would overnight become his 40 years. Until that day he’ll continue being the common denominator. From squared to square root. Taking it to the Nth to find the common link with any same in the Victoria Chiclet catalogue, or if stranded on the rings of Saturn with a bulldog dyke on dianibal, head miles below, between the (.) and the (1).
‘So Crac, what’ya say?’
Sure, me plus one.
‘Yo Crac?’
Yes Aeronymous.
‘You down to hang for a bit after dinner?’
Perhaps Aeronymous, perhaps.
Aeronymous is a contorter. What you call a PR in Europe. His job is to twist the arms of same sames into coming to Lame Lame or similar establishments. He’s quite good, working his Sidekick day and night like a six-shooter. Firing mass texts and emails, deep stuff, such as Want a free dinner at Lame Lame tonight? or Are you an alcoholic? I have your fix. His extreme girth is a blessing in the realm of contorting, being the ultimate shoulder to cry on after you’ve been dumped, passed over, fucked, OD’d, gone homeless, contracted the HIV, aborted your kid, had your first lesbian experience. Tragically safe. Though it must be Guantanamo Bay torture to have such proximity to young, beautiful, handicapped sames with limited consumption. I want to tell him he’s not missing out. It goes on…for all the free meals consumed, he takes no part in the free alcohol—it is strictly forbidden by The Cult.
‘Your drink sir.’
‘Cheers. Cheers. Cheers. Cheers…’
Cheers to all you, but not before I take a
sip. House red, not awful.
‘Can I take your order, it’s either chicken or steak. I’ll start with you Aeronymous.’
‘I’ll take one of each. Hold the veggies.’
‘Sames, for you?’
Re and Po have a look of utter confusion.
‘Chicken or Steak?’
More perplexing.
‘Light or dark meat sames?’
‘Dark.’ ‘Yes Dark.’ They are Danish after all.
Fireman’s up. ‘Sorry I don’t do contorter menus’ surround sound ‘I’ll take one of each app for the table and the Chilean sea bass for me. And if the sames want something else I got it.’ A relentless force of nature. Unyielding.
Brazilians? ‘Steakey.’ Steakey.
Hugatcha? ‘The chicken please. And could I get another mojito?’
Feather? ‘Just vegetables.’
I love her more than ever. I shall acquire an incurable disease and eye-fuck her with it. The immaculate contraction.
‘Sir for you?’
‘I’ll take a refill on the red and a shot of Patrón, chilled.’
‘And to eat?’
Do I look hungry? I throw him a gander of my blood-shot blues.
Dinner evolves predictably. The Fireman speaks of himself and his good friends at length. ‘…then I took my good friend’s jet to St. Tropez last year…’ front row of MSG ‘…of course I always take care of him in Vegas or The Island…yeah, of course I’ve been to Rio, São Paolo, Angra, Búzios…my good friend…’
The Brazilians moisten in tandem, even the Danes are coming around. Aeronymous, usually charming sans timing in dinner conversation, is dead silent. After all, there’s a steak to go. Despite his obvious commitment to food, his manner of consumption is far from economical. Unless he saves his clothes for later.
‘Yo Aeronymous, left cheek bro.’
‘Word.’
‘Hey Crac, when does The Reverend get back in town?’ Has The Fireman actually played the charity card? The ship’s not even sinking.
‘A few days I think.’
‘Is he staying with you?’
‘Yep.’ Here we go.
‘Our good friend The Reverend started his own charity in Africa helping out the poor.’ Wembley fucking Stadium ‘I’m a big donor. I figure what’s the point of having all this success and money if I can’t give back.’
Systems, controls, operations, conducting, managing common denominators. Fireman in action. I score another house red, chilled Patrón. Hugatcha and the future deceased mother of my 500 natives banter about, relishing in their education and superiority to the sames down the banquet. All the while envying their solace in self-objectification.
‘Yo son, that shit was off the chain. Excuse me, can I get an iced coffee, extra sugar? Cracula, you wanna grab a stoge?’
Sure Aeronymous.
I throw on my apathy and make for the door.
Aeronymous slides his breasts off the table—freedom.
Marlboro lights lit, Aeronymous is off. ‘Yo son, what’s up with those Danish sames?’
‘Re and Po? They’re OK.’
‘Nigga I think Po likes me son.’
Make it happen Aeronymous.
‘I’m going to son. I’m gonna hit that son.’
And I’m gonna go back in, have a night cap and bid everyone farewell. Then, I’m going home to tidy up before Slutskia’s arrival. Sure. ‘Make it happen bro.’
‘Yo son, look who it is. Hey Slave. Hey Treimee.’
Coming through customs is Slave Carsons and Treimee.
Slave is a relentlessly present fellow closing in on 40, with an Amoeban hairline to validate. A son through and through. Born in South Africa to wealthy parents, he’s attempted to morph into a downtown scenester. All the while falling back on the predictable trust fund and flaunting his 3000-square-foot place in Nolita. He’s the annoying sort of fellow that brings sames back to his loft and busts out the martin acoustic. For covers! I could never surmise if Slave wants to be me, or blow me. There are much better folks to be, or blow. Lo que sea.
‘Hey Cracula, what’s happening?’ A real pleading son of a bitch.
And then there’s Treimee. An attractive by-product of Amoeban imperialism and Cold War politics. A lovely same, though cursed with the pattern of boozing to oblivion and alerting the world. During climax, she reverts to her native tongue and shares none of Hugatcha’s mission statements. ‘Ohhhmygawd Craculaaa, you missed the best parteeey last night.’
Let me guess. You ran into each and every bastard that you see every other night, listened to Top 40 Hip Hop with five Classic Rock songs thrown in and ripped rails.
‘It was soooo amazing. I got soooo drunk.’
Palabra.
Slave mad dogs my cock, thinking of something to say. ‘When does Slutskia come back?’
I bet you’d like to know, you cunt. ‘Tomorrow, Slave. Tomorrow.’
‘See you guys inside.’
‘Yo Cracula, that nigga’s your son.’
Five
We grab the sames and head to the downstairs of Lame Lame.
Walking through the velvet rope holds no connotation as it did even six years ago. These days anyone that befriends a contorter, has a fat wallet, or not too fat a cunt, is ushered in.
‘Cracula, what’s up my man?’
Just preparing for another premeditated few hours.
‘That’s good to hear.’
Doormen, security—mad love as they say.
Aeronymous hovers. A hovering BAPE. Fireman holds up the rear, letting the sames in. Chivalric. Frivolous.
Walking down the stairs, Ligga-man blasts.
You’re now controlled by the motherfuckin paidest
With the contrived route Hip Hop has taken, the nightlife playlist on repeat and the chain swaggering offspring floating about, Lay-Z remains relatively digestible.
Blast the propaganda in the headphones
Don’t get me wrong, it’s no Geto Boys.
If ya feelin like payin a nigga, go and get yo loot out
Ladies is paid too, go and get yo loot out
Anyone with cash baby, I’m telling you to
Get, that, loot out yo pocket
Repeater Funney art occupies the stairway. Michelangelo leads us to our table, Lay keeps spitting.
I dumbed it down for all
Now I got control over ya’ll
The Island turning genius into bubblegum empires.
All the inventors be hatin, on the loot that I’m makin
The sames find their place: the Brazilians reflexively go into an ass-shaking ritual, the Danes look around for rappers, Hugatcha talks, Feather listens.
Get, that, loot out yo pocket
Fireman and I post up on the banquette.
‘What’s up Crac, you alright?’
The stance taken: paternal.
Fighting style written: friend to all.
‘I don’t know what you’re going through brother, but I’m your friend. Let me know if you wanna talk.’
I’m not going through anything, just witnessing the decline. My decline, your decline. The Island’s decline.
When our paths first crossed The Fireman was a trainee, a proby. I’ve witnessed his rise to Island Fire Chief. Ladder after ladder, soaring to a steady decline.
Get, that, loot out yo pocket
Did I want to talk? And whatever shall we converse about sir? About the time you took Tambourine, the only same I’ve dated that approaches humanity, on a ladder climbing expedition a month after we split up? Oh you found that common denominator. Didn’t need a calculator for that one. You call me your brother? Our blood types aren’t compatible. You play the universal donor, but you’re just building up your blood bank. All that ladder dwelling, name bombing, same brain washing— and all you’ve to show is a house of cards.
‘Nah, I don’t feel like talking.’
Aeronymous sweats wildebeest pellets, frantically trying to wave down the camarer
o, steak juice settled over his face and upper BAPE. Flailing his arms he’s a one-man glow in the dark rhino minstrel show. Eventually the waitress arrives with a bottle of contorter vodka, bucket of ice, false juice.
‘Excuse me,’ roars The Fireman, speaking for the sames, ‘I’ll take a bottle of Grey Goose, I can’t drink that.’
Jirque my Chain premiere, name rockets, bottle orderings— Fireman doing it. He hands over his black Amex like a Pamplonian bullfighter, going for the kill.
With Lame Lame approaching capacity (shocking a place this size has the capacity for so many cunts), the DJ drops more Top 40 and all the same sames, contorters, japs, male models dressed like gangsters, and AARP members throw their hands in the air. Oblivious.
‘Yo Cracula, just spoke with Lousifer, he’s walking in now.’ Aeronymous, my personal NPR. My Anderson Snooper. The man has a LoJack on every Islander.
‘Cool.’
Grey Goose arrival. The formula’s given.
‘Yo Crac, what’s up my nigga?’
‘Chillin Lous, what’s up with you?’
‘Ah, whatever man.’
‘No doubt, heard you had to handle some shit last night.’
‘Whatever, just some nigga that robbed me. Who was puttin that on blast?’
‘Who do you think?’
Laughs all around.
‘That’s Aeronymous for you.’
Palabra.
Lousifer makes his way through our crew for the requisite pounds, kiss-kiss, gangsta hugs, handshake.
‘Yeah, I ran into this nigga, fucked him up, whatever. You partyin?’
‘Still kinda going from last night.’
‘Word, I got some ish if you’re down.’
‘Indeed kind sir, let’s do this.’
‘Nah, gimme your hand.’
Yeah?
‘Keep that.’
Lousifer, a generous motherfucker. Off to the stall it is…
The line is five deep. Urinals occupied. Never much eye contact in the land of impending yakdom.
Cracula! Where you been hiding? What parties you doing these days…I’m throwing the opening of your mother’s ass, piss off…Cracula, hey man. I left you a message...I know…Cracula, you got any coke…for a same I fucked five years ago? goodbye…
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