Fitty of Pink: A Parody

by Faythe America

  “Honestly?” I shifted on my feet.

  “Yes. Honestly.”

  “Well, I hope he’ll share.”

  Mr. Pink laughed. “Oh, your rapier wit!” He glanced down with a puzzled expression. “Good Lord! Is that a nickel and a dime I see? I can understand leaving a penny behind, but a nickel and a dime! What were they thinking?”

  Just then, my blood went cold.

  No. Oh God no!

  “Stop. Leave them alone!” I wailed.

  Mr. Pink sighed. “I’m a businessman, Miss Sterling. I can’t leave money lying on the ground. It’s against my entrepreneurial spirit.” He bent over.

  No! He was getting closer to them! I couldn’t take it! “God Damn! I hate nickels and dimes! Get those away!”

  He looked up at me. “Why?”

  “Because they just don’t make sense,” I explained.

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, look at this,” I shook as I picked up his nickel and his dime and held them in my hand. Damn, these things gave me the willies! “Alright. Which one is bigger?” I asked.

  “The nickel,” he answered.

  “Right, now, which one is worth more?”

  “The dime.”

  I balled up my fist and threw them at him. “Exactly!”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Why isn’t the one that’s bigger worth more?”

  He paused. “You know what? I don’t actually know.”

  “I know you don’t know,” I whispered, looking to the night sky, trying to find comfort in the blinking, lonely stars, shining so brightly for someone, anyone, yet finding no one in the night sky but those other stars they can never reach. “It took me three years to accept this. No, I still haven’t accepted it. It’s too ridiculous to accept. It took me years to even acknowledge this was how things were. That society could deem this true and correct, even though it made no sense. That the world would not listen to my arguments, regardless of how thoughtful they were, because this lie had already become convention. In the end, they didn’t care that it made no sense that nickels were larger than dimes but worth less. They didn’t care!”

  My chest rose, my cheeks were flushed. He put his hand on the side of my face.

  “No, don’t comfort me!” I cried, slapping his hand away. He moaned as I struck him. I continued: “It hurts me, deeply, agonizingly, to my core, to know that I must accept things in this world that I know in my heart are wrong just because society demands it. When I realized that yes, nickels were in fact worth less than dimes even though they were bigger, a little part of my innocence died that day.”

  I picked them up. They were in the mud. I rubbed my thumb over some dead president’s head that no one remembered because hot damn! he was fucking old! “I mean, a dime is even smaller than a penny. Seriously, what the fuck?”

  He bent down and covered my trembling, mud-coated hands with his own.

  I choked up, but I couldn’t let the soreness in my throat stop me from continuing. I had to keep going! I had to! “You know that saying ‘nickel and dime’ you? Well, what that really means is that person wants to reveal to you how ugly and nonsensical the world is, and how powerless you are to change any of it! They keep us ignorant and impotent and depressed! That is how they control us!”

  “I see,” he murmured.

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “No, I just didn’t realize how deep you were. I never thought about it that way before. It just makes me wonder if any other economic theories are lies. Like, if you can’t have infinite growth on a finite planet.”

  “No, you can,” I reasoned. “Because you can always think up new stuff to do, and your head space is infinite.”

  “Damn, you’re smart. I wasn’t expecting you to be such a thrilling conversationalist. Are you sure you’re not a philosophy major?”

  “No. I’m undecided,” I said.

  “I thought you were a senior?”

  “I am credit wise, but I can never stay in one place long enough, you know? I mean, except P-Town, because I’ve lived here all my life. But I mean, like, in school. Each time I learn about a subject I want to learn about the next. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to master every academic discipline in my lifetime.”

  “I think you can,” Mr. Pink murmured softly, because really, there’s no other way to murmur. “I think you can do anything you put your mind to.”

  “Well, except make a running car, apparently.”

  “Oh, you can do that too,” he said. “You just need to find someone to supply the right parts. So, how about you stick your hand down my pants?”

  Before I could stick my hand down his pants to pull out whatever spare part he offered, the food came. Like, a helicopter hovered right over us and caused a massive traffic accident, but it was on the other side of the turnpike so whatever. Sirens started blaring and Mr. Pink and I had to yell to each other to communicate. It was hard to hear him, honestly. Like, I couldn’t tell what he said. And I didn’t understand why he kept gesturing to his pants. I already had my napkin in my lap!

  Mr. Pink watched me eat, which was a mistake on his part, because I ended up eating the entire menu.

  “What do you think of a girl that eats the menu after you order it?” I asked him.

  He cupped my cheek. “I think she’s the most one-of-a-kind-gal in the world.”

  Holy hot dogs! I’m so fucking tired of hot dog phrases by now that I think I’m gonna puke the next time I see a hot dog!

  Chapter 7

  The next day, two meatheads in suspicious looking business suits escorted me to a limo parked outside my dorm room. Inside was Mr. Pink.

  “There’s something I haven’t told you yet,” he said, filling up a glass of champagne for me.

  Oh my! My hand shook as I accepted it, and I spilled it all over us.

  “I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed in a girlie tone.

  “That’s alright. It’s my fault.”

  “No, really. I’m such a klutz—”

  “No! It’s my fault!” He screamed, and then hurled the champagne bottle against the car door.

  “Oh no,” I said.

  Mr. Pink balled up his fists and started hammering his temples with them. “I’m sorry for that too. It’s just what you do to me, Miss Sterling. I can’t control myself any longer.”

  Oh sweet merciful Mary!

  He looked up at me, his dark eyes filled with a longing all women yearn to see just once in their lives—the kind of longing that consumes you, frightens you, possesses you…

  “I want to fuck you, Miss Sterling,” he said.

  “What?” For a second I thought he’d just said he wanted to fuck me!

  “I said I want to fuck you,” he repeated.

  Alright. I guess he really did say that.

  Mr. Pink explained the situation further: “I want to spread apart your legs and ram my cock inside you. I want to rut you like a raging bull. I want to imprint my brand deep inside your womb.”

  Oh swanky panky. My womb responded, swimming up to my throat. Wait, that’s gross. I mean, my heart began beating really fast. My womb stayed where it was. Down girl! What the fuck?

  “So you want to make love to me,” I whispered.

  He laughed—low and grim, a darkly musical sound. “I don’t make love, sweetheart. I hump. Hard.”

  Hump hard? Oh gees!

  “I trust you read the nondisclosure agreement,” he said.

  “Uh, yeah,” I lied. I totally hadn’t read it. I didn’t think I needed to. I mean, I wasn’t supposed to disclose anything, right? Well, the best way to not disclose something was to not know anything about it in the first place. That was my thought. But suddenly I didn’t want to tell him that.

  “So you know what I want to do to you, or at least a little bit of it,” he rasped.

  God, the veins in his forehead were pulsating really freaking hard! Was he constipated? How long had he been stuck out here in his
limo, waiting for me to come out? “Dude, lets get out of here!”

  He glanced up, taking a deep breath. “So glad you said that. My thoughts exactly. Driver, to my underground lair.”

  Underground lair? What the fuck! Was that where he made his evil hot dogs?

  The car sped into the night. I know I said it was daytime before, at the beginning of this chapter, like right before I got in the car, but right now it’s nighttime. It took him for-fucking-ever to pour that champagne!

  Beethoven serenaded us. His piano playing, that is. Actually, some guy no one knows was playing Beethoven, not Beethoven himself. I mean, Beethoven was dead before people could record shit, and I do mean shit.

  “Let’s discuss a few things before we go any further,” Mr. Pink drawled.

  A chill crept over my skin as he spoke, as if his breath was made of dry ice. “Okay.”

  “The hard limits, I think,” he whispered, brushing his finger over my thigh. “The things you absolutely will not do, under any circumstances.”

  My throat felt tight. My insides seemed to be churning with need. But what did I need, exactly? His finger on my leg made me need things, like his touch, but the more he touched me the more I needed! What the fuck? FUCK!

  “My hard limits are quite simple,” he purred. “No bowling on hump night. No taking out the trash. No scaphism. No nipple clamps.”

  Well, that all sounded pretty okay. Who liked to bowl on hump night? Too many freaking people out, gyrating their hips to that crappy pop crap they always played at the ally. And take out the trash? Who would want to do that? And who fucking knew what scaphism was anyway? I didn’t want to do shit I didn’t know. And nipple clamps…

  WAIT? WHAT THE FUCK? NIPPLE CLAMPS? WERE THOSE WHAT I THOUGHT THEY WERE? DID THEY GO WHERE IT SOUNDED LIKE THEY WENT?

  “Soft limits, the things we can negotiate,” he continued. “Pony play. Bondage. Natello. Feathers. St. Albert. Butt plugs.”

  Holy moley macaroni! Did he just say butt plugs? BUTT PLUGS? FOR FUCKING REAL?

  I tried to sit up to tell the driver to STOP THE FUCKING CAR NOW!!!! But Mr. Pink held me down.

  “No need to be so eager, sweetheart. We have the entire night ahead of us.”

  An entire night of nipple clamps and butt plugs? I preferred evil hot dogs!

  “You haven’t let me finish,” he murmured, breathless. “Bedtime stories. And…snuggling.”

  Tension left my shoulders. “Snuggling?”

  “Yes. Snuggling. Oh, we’re here,” he said as the car zoomed down a secret under ground passage way beneath Pink Towers.

  Magical Manimal!

  “We’re almost there,” he whispered, eyes gleaming. “My secret, underground lair. And…my dungeon.”

  Chapter 8

  Part 1 of the Interior Goddess’ monologue

  The hallway was almost completely dark. Green strands of silk hung from the ceiling, like seaweed blowing in the infinite silence of the ocean. I was submerged forcefully. My ears started ringing, and the ancient starfish twinkling in the distance looked like stars on the horizon.

  And then, I saw a vision.

  A woman, slowly moving her hands as if time were sifting through her fingers like sand. She was spinning moonlight at her spinning wheel. And it was as if time and space were simplified into a microscopic point within the infinite space of the universe, and yet, that one pinprick upon eternity was as large as the space that contained it, until both the thing that contained everything and the thing that conveyed nothing were one and the same.

  This is what poets whisper, as they find solace with one another in the shadows of a crowded street, pressing their lips to the soft, sensitive surface of skin beneath your ear; This is what they whisper, when they find themselves alone as the sounds of eternity are played upon the heart inside the cage of their chests, longing to be broken free; The sound of their voice moves with that song that all of us were born singing, but none of us remember when we are dying. All we can hope for is to shut our eyes and sink back into the amoeba of consciousness.

  Linger, sweet heart. And whimper as darkness closes around you; as eternity closes around you; as you scream out for another, another, another, always; as you scream until your soul weeps; as you scream until comfort is a scream, and the roughness of your throat is a kiss, and as you surrender yourself to the gods that have kept you prisoner, for even the touch of your captors feels beautiful after spending so much time alone.

  Chapter 9

  I walked down the hallway. Fuck! I felt so weird for some reason. I

  glanced over at Sir. Hotness Pink. Oh yeah, he knows how to work it.

  Wait! Jesus and Holy St. Mother Teresa of Guacamole! I was like almost practically going somewhere I didn’t know…which would make sense since I’d never been here before….but it felt like something…something…FUCK!

  Alright. Calm down. Maggie. Calm the fuck down and try to remember what it was you were supposed to remember. There was something you weren’t supposed to know.

  Golly gee! Where were these voices coming from? Why was my Interior Goddess rearing her bloody head? Why did she demand attention? And why did she speak so freaking weird? And who the fuck was she anyway?

  Wait a moment before you shit! (Yes, seriously, wait a moment. You’re probably WTF-ing so hard right now that you don’t even think this is funny! I mean, you’re just trying to fucking figure out what the FUCK is going on! Don’t worry. Thinking about it won’t help you understand. In fact, pretty much fucking nothing you can do will help you understand because EVEN I DON’T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON and I, Faythe Freaking America, am the one writing this shit).

  While I thought things like this (and yeah, it was like pulling out your hair until all that’s left are scabs on your skull), Mr. Pink was staring at me like something had just gone seriously wrong.

  And I guess something had.

  Depending on your definition of ‘wrong.’

  And you definition of ‘something.’

  “Miss Sterling,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “The thing that I am about to show you I have never shown anyone, except for the tens other women I have taken as lovers to perfect the carnal arts.”

  “Carnal arts? Have you, like, eaten dogs or something with carnies?”

  Mr. Pink looked at me like I’d just slapped him, and then decided to continue on as if I’d said nothing. “I trust you’ve thought long and hard about what you read in the nondisclosure agreement.”

  “Um, sure.” Did I read that bitch? No, I just gave her a tattoo (i.e. signed my name along her tramp stamp, i.e. the little line where your signature goes on the bottom of legal forms).

  He took in a deep breath. “And you’re alright with all of it?”

  I suddenly felt like I should tell him that I hadn’t read it, but I didn’t, because that would give him the edge in our business agreement because he would know something that I didn’t’ t know…but double scooped ice cream crap! I didn’t know what things I was supposed to know! So didn’t that already give him the upper hand? Low-five because you don’t deserve high-five crap! So before I even came up with a game plan, he already had the upper hand! And he was a lot taller than me! So when he stuck his hand in the air for the ‘high-five’ and I couldn’t reach it everyone would laugh! And…

  Wait! He doesn’t know! Not yet! “Of course. I know everything.” I grabbed his pink tie and yanked on it, bringing him down to my level so that our noses touched. “And now that I know everything, I am going to use it to control you.”

  His eyes fluttered shut. He shuddered in the palm of my hand, like the quivering leaf of a Japanese Oak, before it follows the subtle, downward slope of its languid branches in its fatalistic descent towards decomposition and rebirth.

  He moved his cheek, slowly, along my palm. He’d shaved before he met me. I could still smell the aftershave, of periwinkles and peppermint. Then, his bottom lip brushed against my palm.

 
He flicked his tongue against it. I could feel it, a damp, dangerous promise, seeping into my skin. Seeping through my membrane into my blood. Because nothing is sexier than thinking of someone’s germs penetrating the protective layer of your body. Super sunbathing llama piranha crap!

  I moaned. A small sound in the back of my throat.

  Oh Groovy Shit! My tonsils are tingling!

  His lips opened.

  My finger slipped in, at first because I wondered if his tonsils were having sympathy tingles for mine. But before I could relieve his itch, he caressed my finger with his tongue.

  Mmmm…He’d suckled raw garlic before he’d picked me up. Mayhap he thought I was a vampire. Mayhap I was, and tonight, he was going to be my victim. Mayhap speaking in pretend Middle English made me sound smart, and mayhap it didn’t.

  “I am ready to show you my dungeon,” he whispered, grabbing my wrist, slamming me into the wall. His knee slipped in between my legs. I arched my hips against it. It being his legs, not his cock, because I was a virgin, not a nasty, disgusting, filthy, whore-bag like my bff-forever Faythe!

  He gave me the reach around.

  Oh, dirty grandpa’s wearing only his suspenders again crap!

  I was upset, though, when he grabbed the doorknob that had apparently been digging into my back for the past twenty seconds instead of my ass.

  “You know what this means, Miss Sterling,” he whispered.

  “Uh, look. I love garlic as much as the next person, but don’t put your mouth on my nose, okay? Moist garlic is just rank, dude.”

  “This means,” he continued, stepping back, eyes black because he was just such a freaking dark dangerous derringer-wielding debonair! “I’m about to turn you into liquid gold.”

  I gasped as he leaned forward and we fell into the room.

  The lights flickered on.

  I saw what was around me.

  In the most secret part of his secret lair. In his dungeon.

  And I screamed.

  Chapter 10

  Everything was pink. Freaking everything. Holy god-smacked shit! I’m gonna have to gargle salt water for a freaking week! A pink, heart-shaped bed lay in the center of the room. A pink canopy stretched from the ceiling. No, canopy wasn’t the right word. It was like an Arabian princess’ bed.