Alas, my stall awaits.
Now some folks are sticklers for pouring their gear out on the toilet back and chopping up a line or four. I find those bastards vile. A club toilet seat? When I’m rig-less, I much prefer the freckle an inch and a half southwest of my right index finger.
Fortunately, and not so, Lousifer has provided me with a rock. I search my pockets for two quarters, dimes, nickels, pesos. I’ve a single 1980 penny, the year of my birth. A sign? Divine intervention? A random visit from his holiness? Or was this penny going to attempt a blabbering session? Being the same age and all. I ought to look in the mirror, meditate on what’s happening in my world. Think about where I’m at, where I’m going.
Fortunately, there are no mirrors in the stall. Penny and the wall will have to work. Couple or ten rips later…back to my banquet cell.
Hey Cracula, how you been? I want to talk to you about this business opportunity. When’s a good time? Let’s have lunch… Hey baby…where you been? You partying… Yo man, what’re you doing tomorrow… Cracula, my brother? Love you bro. Call me… There he is. Why didn’t you come to my party the other night? I rented the suite at the Royalton… Yo, you going to Trouble Heaven later? Hunglow… Hey bro, I’m gonna bang some D later. You down…
‘For sure, hit you around three.’
‘Crac, what the fuck happened to you the other night?’
It’s Toreup. Her name is Tore, but there are two 5’11”, blonde, blue-eyed, ghost-skinned, nighttime Island dwelling sames named Tore. This Tore’s coping method is the yip. The other Tore? Well, we call her Toredown.
‘Who knows. Come chill with us.’
I had a thing with Toreup a few years ago, many Islanders have. Despite (well…not despite) her cracking ways she has a place in my heart. She’s stayed with me post-Cult Camp three times, I know her family. She’s invariably dating one of my friends.
‘Maybe, who you with?’ Puta.
Back in my cell, life carries on.
The Fireman lets the Brazilians know they always have a place to stay, if need be. ‘I’m your friend.’
The Danes found the only two brothers in the joint. ‘He looks like 50 Cent.’
Treimee drank, and drank. ‘I’m soooo drunk.’
Slave leans on the rail, mouth open. Stares at my cock.
Hugatcha shakes her vaginal decree, chats.
Feather sways heavenly, playing the fodder.
Aeronymous waddles in place, defying physics. He’s managed to lick away the steak juice from the left quadrant of his face. A steak juice Indian. Without breaking stride, he delivers the night’s final JFK greeting.
everyone jostling, positioning
seeking definition thru proximity in the symbiotic merry-go-round of interchangeable masturbation partners
adrift
those born poor, rich, molested, baptized, privileged, ostracized, illegal, addicted, afflicted, outlawed, destined, political
mistaking juxtaposition for legitimacy
Six
Content with our Aeronymous altruism, Fireman and I decide to head over to Trouble Heaven.
Trouble Heaven is one of Lark Taker’s places, and I’m always up for seeing Lark. On the two-block journey The Fireman attempts a moment.
‘Cracula, you know what you need to do?’
No Fireman, but I’ll bet the farm you do.
‘Just take it easy on the stuff. Listen, we all party. I’m not saying don’t party. Just no late nights, I mean when’s the last time you got laid at seven in the morning? If it’s going to happen it would have happened by then.’
Has he grown so large he can only see himself? In everyone?
‘With guys like us, it’s hard. So many options…’
Having reached our common denominator in his head years ago, it’s no use explaining I’m more letter than number.
‘…and you have Slutskia coming home tomorrow. Don’t fuck it up, she’s a good same.’
No? When I do, won’t you save her? Give her money, take her on a ladder climbing expedition. ‘I hear you man, I hear you.’
Trouble Heaven is a battlefield. Repute with landmines, name-grenades, good friends, inventors, vampires.
Kiss kiss…where you been…I tried calling you…Cracula…what’s up bro…Kiss kiss.
Eye aversions, head nods. To the left sits a table of inventors, name-grenade launchers and their sames.
Inventors are indigenous to The Island. They take many shapes—entrepreneurs, financiers, DJ’s, photographers, designers, hoteliers, pop stars, students, club owners, socialites, humanitarians, gallerists, world travelers. They are all these things. Of course, they are none of them. The only thing they are is arm’s reach of daddy’s pacifier.
At the next table sit Edison, Einstein, and Tesla—photographer, DJ, designer. Despite daddy’s millions they never pay for a drink. They are downtown scenesters after all, they have rights. Closing out the table are six sames of the moment, Sour, and Sebetter.
Sour owns a place around the corner that midwives advertisements, pop photography, referencers playing artist, the occasional charity wank.
Sebetter is a contorter, though he swears to the contrary. He passes his time cruising samesame.com, doing maintenance on his contacts, calling his sponsors, and co-signers brother.
Edison, Einstein, Tesla, Sour, and Sebetter play their music. The sames groupie along.
‘Yeah, Cantbe is a good friend of mine, really sweet guy. I can introduce you if you want.’
‘They’ve all shown at my gallery, they wouldn’t do it anywhere else.’
The sames have no idea they’re listening to covers.
‘Hey Cracula, what’s up with Fireman? He’s a funny guy, huh?’
And you’re not Sebetter?
‘Hey Cracula, that Sebetter’s really changed.’
And you haven’t Fireman? The only brothers in the place pass each other without a word.
At the next table sits Lark’s partner, Heftey Hah. Heftey has the capacity for doublecrossing, backstabbing, nuclear name-dropping, landmine laying, and Biblically lecherous lying. He can also soul search, explore, adapt, be unwaveringly loyal, and hunt the truth. Lovable, forgivable.
Heftey sits at his throne flanked by cronies, yes men, no men, inventors, sames. Plots are hatched, battle plans drawn, kingdoms divided. Are you partying? Stalls are breached.
Each table a sycophantic homophone.
A poor man’s UN full of Amoebans, Parisians, Russians, Ukraines, Brazilians, Brits, Germans, Dutch, Mexicans, Argentines, Icelandics, Australians, Swedes, Canadians, Peruvians, Japanese, Somalians, Dominicans, Norweigans.
The melting pot of homogenous thought.
I bump into my boy Sohi. ‘Cracula, what’s up bro? How’d the other night end up?’
‘Ah, you know how it is.’
‘That I do. You coming to our show tomorrow?’
Sohi is in an all-Israeli death metal band, Pavilion. Quite good.
‘Where?’
‘Pianos.’
Sure, I like Pianos. The upstairs stall is the first place I tasted Dulce after all. ‘No doubt.’
‘If you’re partyin I got.’
‘I’m all supplied, thanks homey.’
‘Cracula!’ Carowine? ‘Where yuu bin stranger?’
Carowine was a passing phase a year back or so. We boozed, got loaded, had reasonably nice sex for a few weeks. Month maybe. She hails from Eureka Springs, Tarkansas, and speaks like it.
‘I tried callin yuuu.’
You know how it is.
Carowine has massive breasts, the fullest lips my cock has tasted, and record-setting elasticity of the labia. She could slingshot children over the English Channel, capture flies, open a roast beef company. I suppose it had been fun.
‘Hey Carowine, how are you sweetie?’ The Fireman imposes himself: kiss-kiss, paw on the DMZ between hip and ass. Rubbing. Fondling. Inflicting his formula.
Carowine informs me that I’m missed
and that she’s seeing Vapid Brain. Vapid is a sword swallower, blackjack dealer, box sitter. A magician of sorts.
‘Are uu parteein?’
Party. Party. Party. Party. Party. Party. Party. Party. Party. Party. Party. Party. Party. Party. Party. Party. Party. Party.
I can’t recall the last time I partied. Does one party in the hospital? The loony bin? No, one has his mouth held open, nose squeezed. One is strapped down and fed intravenously. One keeps to a schedule. One applies formulas. Proven formulas.
‘Of course, let’s go.’
I lead Carowine to the stall. We party.
Exiting stall left, I’m saucer-eyed. Seeing aliens. I forge my way to Lark’s table in the back, Carowine trailing like a geeked gerbil. Not shockingly, The Fireman has positioned himself between two non-English speaking sames.
‘Crac, what’s up my love?’ Kiss-Kiss. Lark is on a roll, in his element. Manifesting his creation. The (pirate)ship’s captain. ‘You know Tricky right?’
Tricky is a half-wit Hungarian that speaks of peace, love, and Buddhism. And there is nothing more tragic than an Islander Buddhist!
Hey Tricky. Kiss-Kiss. ‘Lark, this is Carowine.’ I wonder how her lips fit in those jeans. Kiss-Kiss. I accept my fate and sit next to Tricky.
‘It’s like I was telling you the other night at Hunglow. Buddhism is all about love, loving yourself, loving the earth, loving your fellow man. It’s about being happy alone.’
Tricky is never a day without a ‘serious’ boyfriend, invariably an inventor or pop star.
‘And there are no judgements on drinking, drugs, sex…’
How convenient.
‘…you know what you should do?’
I am a screen. The world a projector.
‘You should come with me to one of the seminars. They’re right down the street from you.’
The reels are getting worse.
I drink Grey Goose, light a red, order a shot of chilled Patrón, return to the stall, find my freckle, and get started.
Pissing, I scratch my balls and am reminded of the impending Slutskia. I suppose I miss her. Do I? Does it matter? I could call Dulce. Carowine is here. I could order a girl off headslist. I could get head from a fat same and feel her tits. I could slam some D at Noddy’s.
Outside the stall I come across Flow.
‘What’s happenin bro?’
El mismo.
‘Take this my brother.’
Good old Flow. Thank God he broke his neck last year—endless Vicodin. I pop three.
Back on the dark side of the moon, the earth continues to revolve. It’s all about love…if you’re sure you can make it, I’ll ask my good friend for more tickets…hello love…I was never a prouder Mexican.
Carowine and I jump on my flying saucer and fly threw Trouble Heaven—past the landmines, name-grenades, inventors, ladder dwellers, same sames.
The yack, Vicodin, gallons of alcohol, and lack of sleep have rendered me a wobbling wreck.
‘Where to?’
‘I’m stayin at a freends just down the streeyt.’
Carowine is forever staying with a friend, crashing a couch. Lo que sea, I’m wasted. We hop a cab.
‘Thirtanth and Fifth pleayse.’
Kissing her neck and squeezing her nipples I wonder if the labia has lengthened. How does she ride a bicycle? No matter, we arrive.
Pleasant enough building, doorman and all. She puts a key in, hits PH1. I lay my forehead against the doors, pass out for 20 flights and come to with my face on the floor. Carowine cackles a hick laugh.
‘You OKAY?’
Don’t feel a thing.
‘I’m gunna stay heeere fir uwhile til I git a place.’
Word.
I zombie past a small office on the left, kitchen to the right, into a decent sized living room. Already a day or two past my normal paranoia, I lay out four serpent-sized lines on the table, light an Amoeban Spirit, and feel up the block from normal.
Serpents consumed, Carowine is off to the races. Twang and all.
‘Back in Eureka Springs, Tarkansas…’
Oh no.
‘…when I wus twelve…’
A run-away ’85 tractor trailer.
‘…my uncle Otis was babysittin meey…’
‘Hey babe, why don’t we not talk for a minute.’
I pull out two Xanbars, crush them up with an expired credit card, make her do a line. Dumping out more gack, I combine forces and do a line, five.
Mierda!
I am on the express line—heading uptown, heading downtown. Stuck in place. Carowine appears to have left Otis and returned to The Island. She takes her shirt off and sits on my lap.
‘You OKAY Cracula?’
Sure, why not. ‘Whose place is this anyway?’
She mumbles something as she takes off my belt, unbuttons my jeans, and pulls out my cock.
‘Whose?’
Response muffled. Lo que sea. I take my shirt off, try and enjoy myself. Eyes closed, I toss my head back. Slutskia, what to do? Dulce, can I go without? The yack, does it ever end? I haven’t slammed in a couple weeks, that counts for something.
I swear Carowine must have learned to give head via bad porn. Or Uncle Otis. About to tell her to stop, I open my eyes and take in a mural of sorts on the ceiling. Squinting my saucers it comes into focus. Covering the entirety of the ceiling is an amateur rendering of Vapid Brain with his shirt off, surrounded by sames.
‘Hey Car, why is there a mural of Vapid Brain on the ceiling?’
No response. I grab my base, remove it from the metronome, and pose the same question.
‘Well...uh…this is his place.’
I’m up. ‘What!’ After all, there is honor amongst thieves, vampires, box sitters.
‘Listen Cracula,’ squeezing my tip, ‘he’s out of town.’
‘Come on Car, that’s not cool. You should have told me.’
Tip squeeze, base stroke.
‘Sorry.’ She went back to work on me. Otis.
One should never make important decisions with heightened pupils or an inflamed cock, but when else can you?
That said, this just isn’t kosher. I have no issue with this cat, bad mural or not. But what the hell, I’ll let the metronome carry on a few more minutes while I rationalize.
As Carowine pendulates I take a ganders of the place. There are pictures of Vapid everywhere. Oh are there pictures. Pictures of Vapid and the British PM Telme Where, pictures of Vapid and President Lush, Mandela, Michael Jackson, Spielberg, Clinton, Chirac, Schroeder, David Hasselhoff.
There is an entire wall of Vapid and tragic Hollywood types. Vapid and Bad Split, Koko Leaves, Preachin Tawke, Son Revoltcha…you’ve got to be kidding me.
The metronome doesn’t miss a beat.
Taking it in, my position changes. Fuck this guy! Vampires, box sitters, or not.
I find myself at The Island’s core. The projection of an Island dream, in the middle of a living brand. I feel nauseous.
Oh, I will show them! I pull the metronome from my cock, rip a few more blasts, and head to the bedroom, Vapid Brain’s bedroom. We disrobe and mount his queen-sized bed. Two dogs intersecting each other labiaorously. Carowine facing the pillow, my ass facing the window.
Rhythmically glancing up, I notice Vapid’s last picture—an image of him and Jesus in a box! Looking at the two of them, I pick up the pace.
Tripping off my speedball for kids, something starts bubbling above Carowine’s ass. Thrusting on, I see The Island in her back. All the inventors are there—Edison, Tesla, Einstein, Bell, Sour, Sebetter, Slutskia…they are singular, one cell—an amoeba. Never one to pass up a good trip, I pull out and move north.
The Island unleashes a single-celled yelp, turns her head to look at me. Fishhooked! How could I do this to her?
Having sodomized The Island, I collapse.
estaba soñando
I was in a Delancey town car on the way to The Meatpacking. I was to meet up with
Satan and God at one of Lark’s places, Notice.
Arriving, I passed the rope, through the door. The clock struck midnight. It was Thursday, the place slammed. Hank was expecting me at the host stand.
‘Hey Cracula.’
Hank.
‘Satan’s waiting for you on table three.’
Cool.
I slithered through the crowd, up the platform steps, and introduced myself.
satan, i’m cracula.
He was a handsome devil. Satan’s trim 6’3” frame covered by a grey and white Gilley’s t-shirt, tight black jeans, black boots and a black jacket. His hair shoulder length and curly. Guadalajara skin, green eyes. If I was healthier, we could pass for brothers. He rose.
‘Cracula, I feel like we’ve met before.’ We shook hands.
yeah?
‘That after-hours on Canal maybe?’
you know, i have seen you around some late night spots. Brownies, Vinyl, my loft.
Releasing hands, we shared a moment. He smiled a devilish grin.
hey satan, where’s god?
‘Don’t worry about him, never on time. I’ve just learned to accept it. Hell, if I sat around waiting on him hand and foot like everyone else, I’d get nothing done. Are you fine with whiskey?’
sure satan. The waitress was hailed.
‘Hey Satan.’ kiss-kiss ‘The usual?’
‘Yes babe.’
This Satan was a cool cat.
‘So Cracula, it’s like this. God and I have a drink now and again, talk about the old times, the future, look at chicks. That sort of thing.’
Bottle of Jack arrives.
Cheers.
Salud.
‘As it turns out, we’ve both developed more than a passing interest in your evolution. This happens every few years or so. When it does we bring the young soul along for a night of cavorting. Speaking of, would you like a line?’
Indeed
Walking to the stall he continued. ‘You see, God and I are songwriting partners of sorts. He does his bit, I do mine. Over the years we’ve developed a brilliant but fragile chemistry. And believe me, no one wants that chemistry upset, makes for bad music.’
Joining me in the stall, Satan pulls out a gold cigarette case and slides the top open, revealing an endless supply. Grasping the bag with his left hand, he emits a talon from his right pinky.
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