Pillage

by Brantly Martin

  ‘So when it appears we’ve a common interest, an infatuation let’s say, as we do with you, we make a night of it and let nature take its course.’

  That’s lovely Satan, not stepping on each other’s toes, mutual respect, playing your bit and all…now share the goddamn bag! For the love of God!

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry Cracula. All this stall talk and I forgot why we’re here.’

  Jesus Christ, come on with it.

  Satan let go of the bag, leaving it levitating between us. Our fangs lengthened, eyes darkened. No Blue, No Green. Probing the eternity of the bag with his talon he presented me with a wafer of coke.

  ‘Take this my son.’

  Extending my tongue, he placed the wafer on it and met my eyes. dead silence. volumes written. It was the best yack I’d ever done. How nice would it be to slam?

  ‘We can do that later. Trust me, God won’t be up.’

  We slithered our way back to the table. Satan and I.

  ‘I see God’s finally showed. Allow me to introduce you.’

  Slumped over our table was a fellow wearing a beat-up sweater, his forehead resting on the table, enshrouded in blonde locks.

  ‘God, God, hey God…wake up.’ Satan tapped his shoulder. ‘God meet Cracula.’

  Leaning back, God revealed a Daniel Johnston t-shirt under his open sweater, littered with burn holes. ‘Cracula, it’s nice to finally meet you.’ God was unshaven, his blue eyes pinned. He cast his flags on my saucers for a moment, then nodded off. I wondered if he was alright.

  ‘Oh don’t worry, he does this all the time, nodding off in public. I’m half-surprised he even showed. Another drink?’

  Sure Satan.

  Cheers.

  Salud.

  ‘You know Cracula, I still love visiting The Island. It’s nothing like it used to be, so damn sanitary these days. Formulaic really.’

  satan, i hear ya.

  ‘I can’t recall the last time God and I hooked up in The Island, or Amoeba for that matter. The 40s maybe? When I come now it’s alone, for a good laugh.’

  Satan, comedy fan?

  ‘Oh I’m a sucker for unwitting stand-up.’

  God surfaced from his nod. ‘Satan, would you ask the waitress for a nice bottle of red, nothing too extravagant.’

  ‘Sure God.’ Satan leaned in, whispered. ‘He used to be much more affable, God. Always sipping wine, water. Then one day he saw me slamming the D and became curious. He badgered me for years, centuries really—come on Satan, fix me Satan, just this once Satan. Not wanting to upset our chemistry, I invariably turned him away. Finally, his begging curiosity became so pathetic our chemistry was already screwed—so I turned him on. Unfortunately, he got turned out. Then again, I think the clever bastard may have been playing me the whole time. Now that he’s cultivated a habit, he receives loads of empathy. You know what I mean?’

  I do Satan.

  ‘And when he does finally pay a visit, stick to a speaking engagement, join a dream…everyone’s so dumbfounded they pay ever so close attention. Clever junkie that God.’

  God lit a stoge and nodded off.

  ‘Where were we my young Cracula? Ah yes, the impending comedy show. Tomorrow night’s another one of those asinine group masturbations at The Garden.’

  That’s right.

  ‘You know the ones. All the big Amoeban bands at the time get together, play their music and yell Down with the President…Fuck the war…We need to love each other…It’s by far the most narcissistic, predictable and superfluous collection of emotions I have the pleasure of witnessing every 20 years or so. Even more bellyache laugh tragic are the groupies that flock to these circle jerks—inventors, ladder dwellers, super sames, humanitarians. And the illest? HA! Look to your right.’

  Glancing over I see actors, Hollywood actors. Bambalina Holierthanthee, Rat Billin, Wrong Choose, Trickless Sage, Unkeen Remix, Preachin Talke, Monny Repp, Bad Fit, Jorge Looney, Playafor Buxx, Spearya Lightley.

  ‘These are my creation, Hollywood actors.’

  Satan took a moment to light a red, reflect, giggle. He seemed proud of himself.

  ‘Cracula, wow! Have you ever seen anything more hilarious? Like I was telling you, God and I do our best to remain in synch, but now and again it’s just not working and we do our own thing for a bit. The last solo break I had went to these jesters. More of a long-term investment for when things get slow. I had no idea the centuries of laughs I’d spawned, if for no one else but me.

  ‘These people pass themselves off as artists! HA! They speak of creation! HA! They’ve no idea they’re billboards, editorials, advertisements. They pass being a spokesmodel for another’s art as art itself. They recite others’ words, wear others’ makeup, pose in front of others’ cameras. Bask in false lighting. They receive awards and admiration for pretending to be another human that was great! They are reassured, revered and blown, for mimicking unique souls! Goddamn karaoke singers. HA!’

  Satan was an insightful dude.

  ‘It wasn’t enough for them to butcher others’ words, visions, stories. Oh no! They had to co-opt entire lives.’

  Satan let out a Miltonian laugh so piercing God came to and sipped his wine. I lit another red and pounded whiskey.

  ‘Cracula the best part of it is, they are oblivious.’

  Oblivious, my favorite palabra.

  ‘Is it? That one’s mine.’

  yours?

  ‘Yeah, the English language is split 50/50. God made a word, I made a word. God. Me. Of course our offspring have bastardized and added through the years, but yeah, oblivious was mine.’

  Was every language conceived like this?

  ‘No, reluctantly I let him have the rest. Except German.’

  Dankeschoen.

  ‘De nada Cracula.’

  but what about Gary Oldman, Mickey Rourke?

  ‘Goddamn Cracula, I love you more every drink. A few years ago I actually felt sorry for these Hollywood jesters—their lack of awareness. I took out time from my busy schedule and went door to door to let them in on their plight, command them to quit doing biopics. But no one was home! The bastards were all doing yoga or listening to Radiohead. Hey, what are you gonna do? The only two cats that would have a drink with me? Gary and Mickey. Great guys, solid souls.

  ‘Groupies aside, the main attractions for tomorrow’s comedy circus are to your right.’

  Lighting a red and pouring another whiskey I viewed the crowd. The Amoeban bands were all there—Pun Jam, Sound Slave, The Dead Hots, The Jokes, Rue Too, Tepid Evolver, Fade Into The Machine—littered with same sames, inventors, ladder dwellers, Sour, Sebetter, sycophants.

  The singer of the Dead Hots was flanked by 15-year-old sames. He carried on about his higher power—unaware God was in the room. Oblivious. The Jokes boozed alone, reveling in their attire. The guitar players from Rue Too and Sound Slave spoke textbooks, politics, nonsense. Tepid Evolver lit stoges, drank whiskey, water.

  At the table next to us sat Beddie Wetter and Bozo. They waxed literature, philosophy, the infinite. Congratulated each other on being world leaders.

  God took a sip of vino, re-lit his smoke, and nodded off. Satan presented another wafer.

  ‘Now all these guys, these musicians, were a joint creation between God and I. He wrote his bit, I wrote mine. Cracula, it’s like a chess match. I make my move, but anticipating his next five. There’ve been times we’ve finished entire civilizations in a day. These fellows here are much more complex. They took ages, as did you.’

  God nodded in approval.

  ‘God would invent a trait, I would counter. He would counter my counter. This went on for lifetimes. Eventually you just move on.’

  Wafer taking effect, paranoia set in. God spoke.

  ‘Just because you’re paranoid, don’t mean they’re not after you.’

  thanks god

  ‘What’s left is a beautiful mess. Living, breathing conundrums. Past all the addictions, the insanity, pride, self-righteousn
ess, need to be worshipped, idol speak, womanizing, hypocrisy, isolating, projected detachment, manic-depression, self-worth, narcissism. Past all those things, at the core of these fellows are two things. The ability for truth and a preacher’s ego.’

  is that right satan?

  ‘Of course it is, therein lies the conundrum. Possessing the rarest of abilities, recognizing truth, yet only able to preach to the choir.’

  Satan ripped a prideful laugh. God nodded.

  ‘They are gatherers of many, converters of fuck all. Why do you think these circle-jerk comedy shows always take place in The Island or Lost Aimless. The audience is the choir, is the donor, is the critic, is the derivation, is the lover, is the co-signer, is their God. HA! Now there are a few truthful poets lacking a preacher’s ego, but they only grasp their truth, not universal truth. And the one who held it all? Well, you know where he sits.’

  well i’ll be damned satan.

  ‘Probably, but the night is young.’

  Not sure if it was the paranoia of the second wafer or my usual delirium, but I heard a far off Cracula wake up. It rang with a southern accent.

  Cracula, someone’s heere.

  No shit. Satan, God, Beddie, Bozo. Where you been? a more emboldened whisper. Damn it Cracula, wake up!

  Seven

  Coming to, Carowine is hovering six inches from my face, a finger over her mouth.

  ‘Goddamn it Car I was having a sick dream! I’m going back in.’

  Painful whisper. ‘Someone’s heere.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Someone’s heere.’

  ‘I thought dude was gone?’

  ‘He eeys, it’s one of his freeends.’

  Here we go.

  ‘He’s eeyn the office, on the compuuuter. But I thank he’s just heeere to check on meey.’

  Can’t imagine why. Where’s Satan when I need him.

  ‘And Cracula, he’s inormous. Looks like a damn wrastler.’

  Fucking hell.

  This is what I get. Should have left and avoided karma. No fuck that! Fuck Vapid. That mural, those pictures. Jesus in a box! And fuck this brute in the other room.

  Rolling off the bed, away from the door, I dress quickly. Precisely. Measuring my breaths. I’ll wait it out, Carowine just has to keep him at bay.

  Skull throbbing, endorphins play catch with my limbic system. Fangs grow. The brute booms:

  ‘CAROWINE, CAN I COME IN THERE A SECOND? VAPID WANTS ME TO GET SOMETHING.’

  I reach for my shank.

  ‘Eeyn a meeynit, I need to geeyt dressed.’

  My shank? Back pockets, front pockets. Fuck, must have left it in the cab. I’m not sure if this predicament has anything to do with Satan or God, but it’s damn sure a conundrum and I’m in the wrong, mural or no.

  I freeze for a minute, contemplate the move. Neurons slowly come to life, testosterone returns. Fangs full of venom.

  Stepping out of my body, I see myself fetaled on the floor. Fuck this! Let’s get on with it.

  I rise up, march to the bedroom door. Carowine whispers, ‘Cracula, no.’ No matter, I’ll take her down with the ship. The inevitability of right and wrong can find me later.

  I open the door as a mute kamikaze, a venerable silent film cowboy. Fists drawn, chest out, blue eyes wide. Alas, the enemy is nowhere in sight. Carowine lurks behind, a parasite. Antennae extended, I sense the OGRE looming in the office, near my escape route. I tiptoe a Marine step towards the escape hatch and reach my left hand for the safety portal, right fist cocked—adrenal system a go. Opening the gate, I catch wind of the sloth’s back. IMMENSE.

  I don’t bother closing the portal and sprint down the 20 flights, laughing hysterically. Not a care in the world.

  Eight

  Paying the cabbie, I light another red and climb my stairs. I can’t recall the last time I slept. Have I slept? Satan. God. Sodomy.

  It’s been years since I could separate what was dream, reality.

  Pulse?

  Is Slutskia coming home today? She is. I should probably clean the place. Throw out the stems, baggies, rigs. Do the dishes, change the sheets. This is her home too after all. Should I order flowers, candy? Borscht? I should, but that can wait. I need sleep. I need a parachute.

  Quite strategically, I planned for this exact moment a few days or so ago. Noddy and I were having a speedball session and I covertly loaded a point, sans yack. Where had I put it? Oh yeah, Ziplock bag next to the Frosted Flakes.

  Ziplock unzipped, I wrap my belt and pump my fist. Unlike Noddy, my veins still present a plethora of options. After all, I’m no damn junkie.

  Right arm, lower Broadway. I wiggle the tip in, strike gold, pull out some DNA, and slam it back in…

  Fucking hell.

  Blues pinned, I cap the rig and scratch my temple. Pouring a bowl of cereal I think of nothing.

  estaba soñando

  I was a donkey, living and working in Santorini. My days subsisted of taking fat-ass tourists up the winding road of a mountain overlooking the bay. They were too lazy to walk. I was owned, operated, and whipped by a guy named Nikos.

  My days began at sunrise, schlepping up the local supplies from the boats to the cliff’s top. What a view it was. The lard-infused tourists came an hour or so later.

  The Amoebans were the fattest obese and bloated The biggest loads, least adventurous, most hurried to reach the top. They never enjoyed the journey up, just looked forward to the view from above. Bitching the whole way—my smell, deliberate pace, bathroom breaks. They thought I was a mule for Chrissake! I’m no half-breed, save for my horse cock.

  Up and down I repetitioned. Carrying lazy bastard after squishy cunt from the ocean to the mountain top. Never a thank you, just a kick in the ass.

  Nikos charged 10 Euros a climb, the bastard. He fed us only once a day, oats. Never any wine to wash it down. No Ouzo, No Mythos.

  Then one day I gathered my fellow donkeys and hatched a plot. An uprising, a revolution. A donkey scheme.

  My fellow asses were to maintain their donkey monotony—slow trot, funky odor, occasional shit stop on the way up the mountain. I was to sneak away at night and bathe in the Mediterranean, comb my hair, get highlights. I would pluck my eyebrows, do tail raises, read Donkey Health.

  My metamorphosis was slow, deliberate. No need to alarm Nikos just yet. I trudged up and down the mountain, slowly changing. Never late for work, never complaining.

  Then one full-mooned night I went for it...

  I took all the Kiehl’s products we had confiscated and galloped to Akrotiri, the red beach. I washed and conditioned my hair, cleared the wax from my ears, scrubbed my donkey balls. I had my mistress, Jackalynne, braid my mane and shave my donkey ass.

  we had donkey sex in the moonlight

  After that, Jackalynne painted my saddle menstrual red and sewed on an emblem. A moniker. My new identity.

  THE MAD DONKEY

  Nine

  I come to.

  Pain. Epic.

  Removing my face from the floor, I give an attempt at recalling the past few days. What day is it? Month? Did I do coke with Satan? With a donkey?

  The place is a fucking disaster. I need to clean, shower. Purge. I gather all the stems, baggies, rigs, porn DVDs, lubricant, beer, whiskey, empty cigarette boxes, tinfoil—throw them out.

  Passing my PC, I close headslist.com and open Inert Outlook. Delete penis-lengthening creams, stock tips, hardening pills, mood stabilizers, party invites, asmallturd notices, and racebook requests. I come upon an email from The Reverend.

  The Reverend, my former partner in crime, has taken it upon himself to save Africa from itself. A born-again. He’s been gone two years and I miss him dearly. He was quite the roadblock to deterioration. His monthly emails, Notes from West Africa: An Altruist’s Journey, make me proud and nauseous. Swallowing my vomit, I open the latest.

  Sitting in front of a computer in Monrovia, I picture the Reverend picturing himself a combination of Hemingway
, Indiana Jones, and Jane Goodall. His prose:

  Dear Islanders,

  I write you today as an ex-pat, a patriot nonetheless. A patriotic Christian. I can’t put into words the horrors I have seen in West Africa, but with the help of Jesus I’ll try.

  As most of you know, I used to live in The Island. In fact, I used to live it up in The Island. Perhaps you saw me out drinking, having fun. If so, I apologize. Don’t think for a minute I was enjoying myself. It was horrible and my life was going nowhere. I was simply pillaging the land. That was all before I accepted Jesus in my life.

  The Lord has led me to those most in need, Liberians. I honestly don’t know what they would do without me. The entire country lives without clean water, a consistent food supply, and cable TV.

  For what all of you selfish bastards spend on a night on the town, I can single-handedly save ten people a day. You should all feel horrible about your lives, and you’re probably going to hell. However, I have a way to save you. If you donate just $20 and accept The Lord as your savior, all is not lost.

  Act swiftly and with God’s mercy.

  Reverend

  Despite this, I’m fairly certain his heart is in the right place. If only by chance.

  I jump in the shower, wash away my sins.

  Ten

  Two hours later I emerge a new man. bleached Slutskia will be home any minute. I do miss her. At least the idea of a Slutskia, the parallel existence. The possibility of a Slutskia. No, I’m sure I love her. I wonder if she gained weight?

  I order a bottle of champagne to go along with the fresh sheets, washed hair, and shaved mug. Genuinely happy, I think.

  Patiently I wait, high on anticipation, only slightly nodding. The arrival of Slutskia will change the pace of my universe—slow down a few orbits, create some moons, cause a few meteor showers. I’m not worried, nature will take its course. I do love her.

  KNOCK KNOCK

  ‘Baybee, open fauking door.’

  Lighting a smoke, I wish her plane crashed.

  ‘Cracula, open fauking door.’

  What to do?

  Communist screams: ‘Baybee! Cracula!’