“In fact, he felt so great that he decided to go for a walk. Unfortunately, after walking a block and a half, he felt weak again. Once more, he took the panties out of his pocket and took a sniff to revive his strength, but the thought that he would be weak again in two minutes was an unsavory one. He thought about it for a while, until he came up with the only solution that there was: he would have to keep the panties to his nose. He realized that he could wear the panties over his head, with the crotch over his nose and mouth, while the leg openings allowed him to see. Once he had the panties over his head thusly, he felt a rush of power that was like nothing he had ever felt before. Just as Spiderman and the other superheroes had their masks, he had his. He remembered the kids taunting him with ‘Pussyman,’ but now he would take on that mantle with pride, and proclaim himself to be Pussyman! Breathing in the sacred power of pussy, he felt invincible. He meant to continue walking, but with the power of pussy coursing through him, he took one step and found himself bounding into the heavens. He was flying! An elderly woman had been walking toward him, but as he took off into the heavens, she screamed and passed out. Soon, he was soaring above the rooftops, looking down in amazement at the people of the city. Not only could he fly: his senses seemed more acute. He could hear and see things more clearly; even though he was high up in the sky, he could make out the individual faces of the people below him; by attuning his ears, he could make out their mundane conversations. He felt like God. For the first time, he wondered where the panties had come from. Certainly not even Tyra Banks had stuff between her legs that could make men fly—not literally, anyway. He had stumbled upon some kind of divine power source: the überpussy, from which all life was born. …Anyway, his mind worked like that for a while, trying to come up with something to explain his miraculous new powers.
“It was while he was soaring over the East Village that he noticed something strange. Had he been Spiderman, he would have said that his ‘Spidey Sense’ was tingling. He felt odd—a creepy feeling spread over his skin; and looking down, he noticed hundreds of people streaming down the street. Actually, when he looked closer, he realized that what he thought were people, were more like ghosts—souls. They were drifting down the street, passing through cars and pedestrians. On their faces, there were the most sorrowful expressions; many of them moaned, as if suffering.
“Pussyman stopped flying and began to descend. His ‘Pussy Sense’ was still tingling. Some people saw him descending and screamed out. Others started pointing in the air at the spectacular sight of a man with panties on his head floating through the air. Maybe they said, ‘Is it a bird? Is it a plane…?’ Who can say for sure? What Pussyman did realize, however, was that none of them noticed the drifting souls. Obviously the panties gave him the ability to see things that were invisible to the average person. Looking down the street, he could see the line of souls stretching off into the distance, so he rose into the air again and continued to follow them. After a few blocks, he began to notice a sound in the air—a piercing wail that even he, for a moment, found himself drawn to; for an instant, he felt his will eroding; a peculiar feeling went through him, as if his soul were trying to escape him. Luckily, his pussy power made him immune, but all these things only verified that something evil was happening in the city. Just as the little boy’s cries had taken possession of him before, he felt as though he were now on a new mission. The piercing wail was getting louder as he continued to follow the stream of spirits. He flew faster, moving closer to the thing that was calling all those wretched souls.
“Soon, he had followed the souls all the way to Central Park. Looking down at the Great Lawn, he saw that tens, if not hundreds of thousands, of people had gathered. That was on top of the hundreds of thousands of drifting souls, which seemed to be congregating there as well. This seemed to be the epicenter of the piercing wail. Looking at all the gathered people, Pussyman suddenly remembered that there was a political rally planned for today. One of the presidential candidates was supposed to give a speech. The candidate had come out of nowhere to take the lead in the polls. He had been staging open-air rallies all over the country; and this openness set him apart from his adversaries, whose campaign events were all staged behind closed doors, with handpicked audiences of ‘the party faithful’ and dozens of security personnel patrolling the audience, to carry away anyone who did not follow the party line. The candidate shunned all that; he walked city streets unafraid; he talked to everyone, and even Pussyman was going to vote for him. Yet, when Pussyman looked toward the stage, where the candidate was supposed to be, he saw what he immediately knew to be a demon. The thing’s head was grossly oversized and misshapen. It had a long, scaly neck, which took up about two-thirds of its body, and the rest of it was nothing but a mass of unruly hair. Pussyman could not even see its legs. To his amazement, he realized that the demon looked exactly like a humongous dick! Even though everyone knew that politicians were all dicks, Pussyman could not believe his eyes. He could not understand why the people in the audience did not see what he saw, but then he realized that the demon’s screeching cries were putting everyone in a trance. That was the noise Pussyman had been hearing. The people, entranced by its spell, were cheering as if the demon’s nonsensical screeching actually meant something; they looked at the demon longingly, as if it were the most beautiful thing they had ever seen. And while all this was going on, their souls, as well as the souls of thousands of others throughout the city, were being sucked into the demon’s drooling mouth.
“Pussyman had hovered over the scene for a while, stunned; but finally realizing the peril they were all in, he flew down to the stage and tried to drop kick the demon. Unfortunately, as the demon had fed on the souls of millions, it did not even budge when Pussyman kicked it. In fact, it was so content in its feeding that it did not even acknowledge Pussyman as he bounced off its body and landed heavily on the stage. Likewise, the cheering spectators did not notice anything either.
“Pussyman’s mind worked frantically for a while, until the answer came to him. Everyone knew that dick was powerless before pussy, so he wrenched the panties off his head and held them before the demon. ‘Take a whiff of that, dickhead!’ Pussyman screamed then, and the demon immediately shuddered and took a step back. ‘The power of pussy compels you!’ Pussyman began chanting then. ‘The power of pussy compels you!’ Each time he said it, the demon groaned. Soon, it was going into convulsions and screaming out in agony. ‘The power of pussy compels you!’ Pussyman screamed triumphantly as a violent contraction seized the demon’s body, and a white, frothy substance came spewing out of its head. Then, after the froth was spewed, the demon began to shrink. Of course, while all this was going on, the people in the audience began to come out of their trance. They looked up at the demon and began to scream. But by now, it had shrunk to such a small size that Pussyman squished it beneath his foot with one mighty stomp. When that was done, he placed the panties over his head again and flew off, shouting to the cheering crowd, ‘Never forget the power of pussy!’”
Stacy finished the story and looked over at Vera to get her assessment.
“So, where did the panties come from?” Vera asked.
Stacy groaned. “What difference would that make?”
“The panties would explain his powers.”
Stacy shook her head, exasperated: “You’re still looking for reason in my stories.”
“That’s a bad thing?”
“Like I told you the last time, stories shouldn’t make sense. The stupider the plot, the more profound the lesson to be learned.”
Vera stared her for a moment, dumbfounded, but then she laughed. Stacy had a smile on her face as well, so Vera did not know if Stacy was being earnest or not. Whatever the case, it did not seem to matter. That early morning, as they drove home, there was something careless in the air. Vera felt relieved and carefree for whatever reason, and she smiled again.
Stacy looked over at her and laughed.
The next day,
when Vera finally woke up, she lay in bed with her eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the city: honking horns, passing traffic and indistinguishable voices from the streets below. Every few moments, there would be the rhythmic clanking of the elevated train. The passing train was strangely soothing, so maybe it was that that kept her on the verge of unconsciousness. But then, all at once, she remembered everything that had happened the previous day. She opened her eyes and sat up in bed, staring at the strange room. It was spacious with inexpensive furniture and an obscure abstract painting print on the far wall. She checked her watch, which was on the nightstand. It was twelve thirty-six in the afternoon. The curtains were open, letting in the day’s light and the day’s sounds. She got out of bed and shuffled over to the window. She could see the elevated train rumbling past, and make out individual passengers. She had the momentary urge to wave at one of them. Down on the street, traffic was moving steadily; people were walking slowly in the summer heat, doing their Saturday shopping. Vera stood staring at them, but her mind was actually on all that had happened the previous day. Regardless of everything, she felt alive inside. The things that had happened the day before were like a wondrous dream. She felt a little drunk.
Eventually, it occurred to her that she was only dressed in her bra and panties—and that she should probably not be standing at the window. She retreated into the room a few steps, and looked around again. The previous day’s clothes were hanging over the back of a chair, near the bed. There was an attached bathroom. She went to it and stared at her reflection for a moment. She was relieved that her face showed little of the effects of her altercation with the old woman. The sudden recollection of that fight made her smile and shake her head, but then she remembered that the old woman was in the hospital now. As Vera’s mind reconstituted all the memories from the previous day, she remembered the detective (whose name she still did not know!) and their date for that evening. That seemed like a dream as well—like something that had happened during a drunken binge. The things she had said to him—all the eroticized banter—had come naturally to her. It had felt easy and good. She smiled. She observed her body in the mirror as she stood there. She was not exactly supermodel material, but she liked her body today. It seemed voluptuous, rather than fat. There was a fine balance, of course, and she felt suddenly sexy and desirable.
Stacy had gotten her a toothbrush; extra sets of underwear and clothes had been set out for her visit. Stacy had pointed out all these things the previous night, during a quick tour of the house, and Vera had been both disturbed and amazed by the extent of Stacy’s preparations. She had felt trapped for a moment, but the feeling had passed.
Now, Vera was brushing her teeth while she sat down on the commode. Afterwards, she took a shower. The water was warm and invigorating, so that she had to resist the urge to sing and dance under the cascade. After the shower, she returned to the bedroom and put on her new clothes: the underwear, a skirt that reached down to the middle of her thighs and a colorful T-shirt. They all fit her perfectly, and she wondered how Stacy had gotten her measurements. She stood posing before the full-length mirror in the bedroom, checking out her buttocks and propping up her breasts, and all the other things that women did in front of the mirror before going out. She twirled around in the skirt, and laughed as the centrifugal force lifted the skirt up, revealing the lacy pink panties Stacy had gotten for her. Her shoulder-length hair was still wet from the shower; typically, she would use a curling iron and styling gel on it before she allowed anyone to see her; makeup was usually a necessity as well, but all of that suddenly seemed needlessly burdensome. Today, of all days, she wanted to be free and natural. She wanted to see things as they were and be the person who she was meant to be. She nodded to her reflection in the mirror one last time, then left the bedroom.
She walked down the hallway, to the kitchen; looking to her right, she noticed the boyfriend sitting on the couch in the living room. The television was tuned to a news channel, but he was staring absentmindedly out of the window. Looking into the living room, she again noticed that cameras and lighting equipment were set up against the wall. Stacy had pointed them out during her tour last night, revealing that the living room was where they filmed the pornos. The thought of it made her shudder. She imagined some of the ghastly things that had been recorded on that couch—the various secretions and discharges that were now embedded in the fabric. She forced herself to think of something else. She went to the boyfriend now, needing to talk and distract herself. As she entered the room, he looked over at her; she smiled to reassure herself and him.
“Where’s Stacy?” she said.
“She went to return the rental van,” he replied. He looked wretched; his face was drawn and his voice was low and lifeless. He continued, “She should be back shortly.”
Vera looked at him with concern: “Are you all right? …I guess you’re still worried about your mother.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you get any news?”
“She’s still unconscious, but she’s out of surgery safely.”
“That’s good.” She glanced at the TV. There was a news report on a fire that had raged at an apartment building. Two kids were dead and the mother was sobbing inconsolably. Vera looked away and focused on the boyfriend again: “Did you get any sleep?”
“Nah,” he said, uneasily.
“Your mother should be fine,” she reminded him, “—isn’t that what they said at the hospital?”
“Yeah, I know,” he said, as if all of that were irrelevant. He looked up at her anxiously at that moment, saying, “That’s not what kept me from sleeping.”
“What’s wrong?”
“You’re a head doctor, right?” he said, suddenly hopeful. He sat up straighter.
“Yeah,” she said, smiling shyly at his description of her profession.
He nodded and sighed, looking desperate and distraught: “…I keep having these strange thoughts,” he said, looking at her anxiously. “I can’t get them out of my head.”
“Thoughts like what?”
“I keep seeing myself dying.”
Vera cringed.
He looked at her with an embarrassed little smile. “…It sounds sick, right?” He laughed then, uneasily.
“Well, dreams usually represent some deeper—”
“No,” he corrected her, “these weren’t dreams. I’ve been up all night, remembering things. It’s like everything I remembered was a lie. …I remember new things now. Things that I thought had happened one way, now seem changed somehow.”
“Things like what?”
“Like this time when Stacy and I went camping. I used to remember it one way, but now I keep seeing these crazy things. God,” he whispered as the scene replayed itself in his mind. He looked up at her warily: “…I can tell you how it feels to have a knife blade slicing into your skin…ripping into your heart…I can tell you all about it, because I’ve been reliving it. I’ve experienced it. That’s not the kind of thing you make up or imagine. I’ve been trying to get it out of my head, but…”
Vera spoke up dutifully: “The imagination is a powerful thing.”
For a moment, he looked at her as if desperate to believe, but then he shook his head. “Why would I imagine something like that?” He put his hands to his forehead absentmindedly, but then noticed that they were shaking visibly. “…Look at me,” he said with an anxious laugh, “—I’m a nervous wreck.”
Vera felt slightly queasy just being around him—especially knowing what she knew. As a psychologist, seeing another human being having a mental breakdown was devastating. “…What else do you remember?” she said then. “Is there anything else?”
“Yeah, but it’s all blurred together. It’s like there are dozens of scenes. The only thing I know for sure is that I’m being killed in all of them.” He looked at her ominously now: “…Stacy’s in all of them, too. You think this has something to do with our relationship? Some kind of subconscious… I don’t kn
ow. …Mom says things about her. Maybe I’m feeling guilty… I don’t know,” he mumbled at last, clutching his head.
“The best thing for you now would be to try to get some rest. Why not lie down and try to take a nap at least?”
“I’ve tried,” he said in frustration. “I’ve been trying since I came back from the hospital…but I keep remembering those things.”
“When did these…”—she searched for the right word—“these visions begin?”
How to Kill Your Boyfriend (in 10 Easy Steps) Page 10