At this point I have no idea how long my sentence has been, but I know I’m leaving tomorrow. That said, if one receives a blowjob in the forest with no one around, does it make a noise? This has been quite the period of abstinence. Maybe it would do some good? Ahh…but I’m a father to be, wouldn’t want to ordain some cosmic common law.
‘Yeah, I’ve always been into sames.’
estaba soñando
i was laying in bed with slutskia, only i was a SUPERHERO. one centimeter tall. C.M. they called me my only power was walking through walls.
i found myself standing on the mole above her left boob, similar to balancing atop a fire hydrant. my first obstacle, MOUNT SAINT DUBBALDEE, directly in front of me. i was equipped with a utility belt and phaser.
stepping off the hydrant, i slackened some rope from my belt, attached a bowie knife to the end and harpooned SLUTSKIA’S nipple.
as i began my ascent the sleeping LEVIATHAN tossed and turned, leaving me hanging on for dear life. afraid she might wake up, i set the phaser to stun and took aim.
tremors over, i carried on, the NIPPLES proving themselves sufficient leverage for the smooth-skinned climb.
winded when i reached the summit, i took a smoke break, ate a PowerBar. scratched my balls. quite a view, this female. mountains, valleys, freckles, precarious fault lines, peninsulas, dried-up river beds. would be a great place to eat some shrooms. wonder if my guy delivers to dreams?
ahh…but i have a mission, gotta keep moving. i put out my stoge, began the descent
repelling down the south face of DUBBALDEE the rope began to fray, unraveling near the nipple. fuck i picked up the pace, tried to avoid disaster. too late the rope snapped, hurling me toward an impending RIB.
as fortune would have it, SLUTSKIA inhaled at the moment of impact, softening the blow. i escaped with a sprained ankle. catching my breath between ribs, my brain rattled with her heart’s BEAT.
ready to embark on the second leg of the journey, my worst fears were realized
‘BAYBEE, WHAT FAUK U DUU?! WHY THERE IS HARPUUN IN MY NIPPLE BAYBEE?! FAUK CRACULA! I TRY TUU SLEEP. U R BAASTAAARD…U…’
my phaser still on stun, i zapped her forehead. lights out the coast now clear, i set out for my destination.
up and down i floated with the expansion of each breath. over ribs and greenland SKIN, stopping north of the grand innie. i smoked my last red, took a shot of wheatgrass, gargled Listerine, sanitized my hands.
then i invoked my super power
into SLUTSKIA i ventured the belly of the beast through her epidermis, dermis, subcutaneous tissue past melanin, nerve endings, sweat glands, oil glands, hair follicles, blood vessels, pacinian corpuscles hurdled the uterus entered the WOMB suspended next to my lineage
swimming over, i looked for signs of gender
‘what the hell are you doing here?’
guess it’s a girl
‘sorry sweetie, i’m your father.’
‘oh i know, i’ve heard all about you. mom’s always going off on some tangent, usually in Russian. by the way, would you mind telling her to chill on the smokes? it’s getting pretty damn cloudy in here.’
‘sure sweetie, anything else?’
‘actually yeah. if she must drink vodka, tell her to stick to Grey Goose, straight up. all that sugar is fucking killing me.’
‘hey, watch your mouth.’
‘look who’s talking pops.’
true
‘and daddy?’
‘yes dear?
‘please give me a normal name. i don’t know what the hell my grandparents were thinking. cracula? slutskia? are you fucking kidding me?’
‘did you have anything in mind?’
‘dad, i don’t even know what’s out there. i just don’t want to get made fun of in school. anyway, aren’t you supposed to be the creative one? just don’t pigeonhole me before i’m even born. god!’
‘ok sweetie, anything else?’
‘don’t paint my room pink, no daisy wallpaper, none of that shit. cool?’
‘cool.’
‘dad, i’d love to chat, but i’m supposed to have another seven months of peace and quiet. there will be plenty of time for all this get to know you shit. comprende?’
‘si babe. give me a hug.’
‘bye daddy, love you.’
‘love you too, see you soon.’
Twenty-Five
‘Cracula, someone is here for you.’
The Reverend’s arrival means the end of Cult Camp, return to The Island. A new way of living. I’m to be an assembly line worker, an obtuse symbol in a formula. And why not? The Island itself has become part of a formula, no longer its own. Where blood once spotted the streets, money has taken over. Money in the charade of business. People doing business. Business as deconstruction. Business speaking business. Business meetings. I fucking despise it ALL ITS ENTITLEMENT AND PRECOCIOUSNESS.
The most vile spawning of all? Business partners. Is nothing more doomed to implode? Even more than an Island marriage? Partners? Masturbatory rowboats. Reliant on one another to go upstream. At the first sign of taking on water it’s every man for himself.
It continues. The alluding to one’s money via business, whom you are in business with. I’ve done some business there. Indeed it’s who you are in bed with—waiting for the other to pass out so he can get fucked first. Business is a form of invention even the poor can play, must play.
What business are you in? ever so lightly bantered by sames. The retort? Ranging from aphrodisiac to phallic conclusion. Business has always dominated The Island. But now! It has driven a stake through The Island’s heart, exorcised its soul. A tide independent of moon. No more art galleries, shooting galleries, sucking galleries. Just a gang of posers filling up a convention center. So why shouldn’t I accept The Cult? In a city that systematically assassinates free spirits every bastard joins something.
‘What’s up Reverend?’
‘Cracula, how are you man? You look great.’
Years ago, that would have no doubt been a piss taker. These days he’s a man of God, and we’re both men of oaths.
Should I share the news? If anyone is to be confided in, it’s The Reverend. Reckon I would even take comfort in his Biblical assurances. Hmm…not yet.
‘Reverend, I’m officially a Cult member.’
‘Wanna grab a beer?’
Thank god he hasn’t lost all sarcasm.
Jaunting the Rinsurvainsya hills, Slutskia—pregnant Slutskia— commandeers my head. All doomsday thoughts washed away by my Cult Camp experience. For now, I am dutiful, purposeful. Am I a man of conviction?
Driving on, the oh-so-well-meaning Reverend speaks in beautiful, colorful proclamations. Darwin personified—his latest evolution. The modern face of the Jesus world—the fittest. Though part of his evolution, his survival, is to deny IT. Most entertaining.
Well Cracula, the Bible says…Lewis says…Falwell says…
I bite my tongue.
He’s painting quite the picture—long, shallow, played-out brushstrokes. Primary colors. Do all of nature’s venomous creatures not come in stunning, bright, blinding packages? Life-ending snakes, frogs, fish, salesmen, politicians, berries, television.
You have so much to be thankful for. You can’t imagine what I’ve seen in Africa…
I draw blood.
Is it already time to compare and contrast? Have we reached The Island already? Has The Reverend, my dear Reverend, already transformed to an Islander that lives there only to reap the spoils and crucify the inhabitants? A true businessman. An evolved businessman. The evolved business of God.
Most importantly Cracula, we must think of how our actions influence and affect our parents. Do you take them into consideration?
I sever my tongue.
Choke on it. Spew blood. Parents! Is nothing in the galaxy more of a cop-out? Seeking solace in mommy and daddy? Have not wars been fought, racism maintained, ignorance adhered to, gods worship
ped, political parties joined—politics joined! Businessmen made. Parents: religion’s stepson.
I shall teach my daughter everything I know, then have her burn it. Smoke it if she likes.
Nearing The Island life’s variables race through my head. Fireman, Lousifer, Dulce, Noddy, Aeronymous, Tambourine, Slutskia, Slave, Hugatcha, Feather, So, Nowe, Flow, Lark, ladder dwellers, inventors, same sames. Satan, God.
My daughter.
I block out life’s pleasantries—booze, crack, foreign sames— focus on The Cult.
Between measured breaths I meditate over my place in the formula. I shall make myself easily divisible, a square root. I shall start every conversation low. I’ll address thpirituality, watch TV, masturbate to Hollywood. Discuss reality shows. I will fit in.
Entering the Fallen Tunnel, The Island’s fallopian tube, I’m a single sperm cell. Emerging Island-side, I’m a fully developed Cult member.
We circle yuppies, pass Chinatown, and head north on Inventor Ave. Up Dead Broadway, Past Flipriani’s, Wiesel, Sames On Posters. Turn right on Spring.
Climbing the steps behind 109 I feel fresh, alive. Like I never left the stretcher. My incubator awaits.
‘Slutskia, I’m home.’
‘Hey baybee.’
The first hug sends shockwaves, electric currents, humanity.
‘Lauv u baybee.’
I love you.
It all seems real enough, timely in the least. Dropping to my knees, I press my head towards the future.
I’m revived, mistakenly given purpose.
‘Baybee, what u duu?’
Looking after my daughter dear. Ahh...a family, the Amoeban dream. She shall travel the world, converse in multiple tongues. Know enough of politics to despise, possess her father’s eyes. Only speak sardonically when needed. Be a native. My daughter shall do all these things. Or none.
‘Baybee, I tell you I no have keed now. I cannot baybee. How you be fadder. U tuu crazy baybee.’
How do I explain The Cult to Slutskia? To my daughter’s mother? Do my eyes not pronounce rebirth? Are they not the proper amount of blue, white, black. I’m sure after a few days without helicopters, conversing with imaginary people, or cutting myself…she’ll come around.
‘Babe, we’ll talk about this later. I gotta meet up with the boys.’
‘Baybee, you baastaaard!’
I leave Slutskia to a shower and walk over Spring and up Elizabeth to Café Uponya.
Aeronymous, Lousifer, and Noddy waiting. Aeronymous no doubt will be the first to greet, a customs greeting.
‘Yo Cracula, what’s up son? What’s the deal? You look good man.’ Leans in. ‘Welcome to The Cult. Feel free to reach out to me at any hour regarding anything Cult. That’s my word son, love you bro.’
Alas, I’m back in the land of words and sons. Downtown Island, son. Palabra
Aeronymous has done the impossible, the unthinkable, the unattainable. The man has enlarged! Not only is he girthier, he’s acquired a BAPE sweater whose brightness transcends the color wheel. It simply glows. A ginormous, shipwrecked dinoflagellate.
‘No doubt son.’
Lousifer’s next.
‘What up homey? You good, man? Missed you son.’
Lousifer informs me he joined The Cult the day I left, and has been living The Cult lifestyle the same amount of time as me. I feel looked up to, guilty.
Noddy gives a warm embrace, fresh cig burns on his jacket.
‘Love you bro. You know my deal, but I got your back on this whole Cult thing.’ Thanks Noddy. ‘And if you ever step back to the dark side I got you there too.’ Word.
We take our seats in Café Uponya, a table for five. I enjoy the chicken mole. Lousifer orders steak and fries. Noddy lights a stoge, passes out. Aeronymous speaks Cult and devours four cheese enchiladas, a chicken diablo sandwich, rice and beans, eight ears of corn, seven Jarritos, coconut flan.
We say our goodbyes, go our separate ways. Lousifer to collect, Noddy to get loaded and listen to Bite Eyes and Friona, Aeronymous to contort and binge on iced coffee (extra sugar). Me? Home to the wife and kid.
Twenty-Six
Verbally, the next few hours are a tug of war. I speak of The Cult, the new Cracula. Slutskia speaks of helicopters and parents. I propose a new day, she recalls our worst day. Future. Past. My present. Her present.
Mentally, I’m adrift. I dream names and first words. Hair color. How her eyes will stand against the ocean. Losing baby teeth. Playing with puppies. Slutskia’s view doesn’t concern me, she’ll come around.
Tonight we’re to join The Reverend for dinner at some new Meatpacking outpost, Judas Bar. Apparently he’s starting a charity all his own and is seeking dinero. Ever the evolver. Tonight’s dinner is a reach-out(around) to potential donors. This of course means a table full of inventors, businessmen, cunts, good friends, and table-setting sames. Or for me, the first test of The Cult’s power.
Twenty-Seven
Slutskia, our seed, and I hop in Delancey, head west.
Judas Bar is a monster of an establishment, equipped with a 50-foot Judas statue in the center of the room.
‘What party are you with sir?’
The Reverend.
‘Right this way.’
Walking towards the circle-jerk an article I read the other day flashes in my head. In Ducks, War of the Sexes Plays Out in the Evolution of Genitalia. There’s these ducks whose cocks go through a growth spurt every year leading up to mating season. These duck dicks sometimes wind up running the entire length of the duck, in the shape of a corkscrew. Literally spiral out of control. This in response to the female ducks’ elongated, spiraling snatches. Apparently the duck with the longest schlong has first choice. The only catch is, after shooting a few spiral loads, the duck dick falls off! A detachable penis.
We have the largest table in the pond, in front of the statue. The Reverend sits at the head wearing an ill-fitting black suit. He’s flanked by uptown do-gooders, inventors. The table continues with Flow and his same, Nowe and his same, Fireman and eleven Brazilian sames, Slave Carsons, Treimee, businessmen.
Due to our tardiness, the only two remaining seats are next to an inventor named Dickless Lament. We plug in and go through the requisite kiss-kiss, hugs, handshakes, pounds, nice to meet ya’s. Everyone thrilled with my return. Amazed by my appearance. Dismayed by my eyes.
It’s inevitable that Dickless Lament will comment on the food, wine, same sames. And in the most WASPY stance imagined. This vino is acceptable. That said, have you been to The South of Fraunce? HA HA. You’ve yet to encounter a more glorious breed of nobles popping champagne. The amount of money I spend is unimaginable to you. Really. HA HA. Have you ever tasted a ’72 Rothschild. HAH. I live ’72 Rothschild in The South of Fraunce. Did I mention South of Fraunce? HA HA. South of Fraunce. Imagine the experience. HA HA. You should come. I don’t know if you could afford it though. HA HA.
I wonder if he could afford his own funeral? I wonder if he knows the taste of vomit in the morning. Does he know the view from a K hole? Has he experienced Nurcan afterworld? Speedball revolution? The born rich cunt! A night or five at St. Vincent’s? Fucking without daddy’s help? Has he ever looked in the mirror and been forced to see himself?
Do any of these bastards ever take on another’s lens? Am I the only man in The Island with bad eyes? I look at Dickless Lament and pull out my shank.
South of Fraunce. South of Fraunce. South of Fraunce. South of Fraunce. South of Fraunce. South of Fraunce. South of Fraunce. South of Fraunce. South of Fraunce. South of Fraunce. South of…
I shank his WASP eyes and ravage his WASP jugular. He poses on…
South of Fraunce. South of Fraunce. South of Fraunce. South of Fraunce. South of Fraunce. South of Fraunce. South of Fraunce.
Grabbing his WASP tongue I slice it off, put it on my spoon, pull the cotton from my ears, add water, boil, pull a point out of my jacket, bang my arm! I’m loaded on rich WASP cunt.
I�
��ve been on many trips—speedball island, yack moon, heroin bay, planet k, ganja reef, whiskey strait, mdma house, crystal beach, yabba-dabba-doo—this is my first born-rich WASP mainline. Dickless Lament running through my veins.
Filled with the soul of WASP cunt, my lenses flip, fangs retract, entitlement grows. I view my subjects.
I shall allude to my wealth, only specify when called for. I shall hover flippantly, pretend I did things. I shall offer travel. Offer The South of Fraunce! I shall never cheat. I shall have mistresses, epic affairs. I shall play polo and wear it. I won’t travel The Island, I shall do the islands. I shall dine in Amoeba and propagate its ineptitude.
I shall look in my imported mirror and slit my throat.
Ahh…I will do none of these things. I will find common ground, apply formulas. I will fit in.
‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘I take vodka.’ Could she not at least stick to wine?
‘And for you sir?’
Diet Coke.
I tune out Dickless and watch The Fireman in action. His powers have increased…
‘The owner of this place is a good friend of mine. He owns the Paris Judas Bar with another good friend of mine. Hold on that’s my good friend calling from LA. ‘HEY DON…NOT MUCH…JUST EATING AT JUDAS BAR WITH SOME GOOD FRIENDS…YEAH, I CAN DO THAT FOR YOU...SHE’S A GOOD FRIEND OF MINE…I’LL HAVE MY PEOPLE START ON IT.’
The sames are mesmerized, caught in a spell, tractor beamed. I Cultishly think how I might aid, plug in.
‘Who was that, Fireman?’
‘Oh, just my good friend in LA. You know Don, the richest guy in Lost Aimless.’ Speaking to me, for the sames.
‘Sure, what does he want?’ Plugged in. Formulaic. Productive. The Cult in action.
‘Oh, just a favor he needs that only I can do. If he wasn’t such a good friend I might not do it. That reminds me, Don’s sending his private jet for me next week. If you sames aren’t busy, you’re welcome to fly with me to Lost Aimless. My good friend…’
The Fireman is peerless. Relentless. An omnipotent formula applied without discretion.
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