Dead Meat

by Joseph M. Monks

  “What the hell do you think, Farini?” Denny answered, dropping out of Sopranos-mode. He was practically shouting into the phone. “Me and Charlie and Dollar Bill are down here chasing tail and getting right shitfaced. Get on over and make it a foursome, will you? Charlie needs a wing man like the Mets need starting pitching.”

  Chris grinned. At 30, Charlie Fletcher was sixty pounds overweight, prematurely balding, and when it came to members of the opposite sex, as outgoing as a coma patient. If Charlie wanted to get laid, he didn’t need a wing man. He needed a prostitute.

  Chris considered taking Denny up on the invite. The more he did, however, the less appealing it became. Though it had been a while since he’d hung out with the guys, he felt worn out. Tired. He wondered if this was what getting older was all about. Six months earlier, he’d have been happy to shut down Casey’s, or Houlihan’s, or Bowery Bar, content to sleep it off on Saturday before going out and doing it all over again. But in six weeks, he’d tear off another calendar page, and the death-clock would begin ticking down the final year of his twenties.

  “No can do,” he sighed. “Been a long day, and I still got stuff to finish.”

  Guilt over the half-lie began gnawing at him even before the words left his mouth. True, it had been a long day. A long week, even. But work was just a handy excuse. He had nothing important pending. No account reviews, white sheets, or financial analysis that the boss was waiting on. At the moment, the only thing on his desk was yesterday’s New York Times crossword puzzle.

  “Hey,” Denny cajoled. “Don’t gimme that crap. You haven’t been out in forever and I’ll bet my box seats you haven’t got shit on your plate right now.”

  “You’re on,” Chris answered, knowing full well it was a bet he’d lose if Denny called him on it. For a second he wavered, and considered pulling on his coat and heading down to the bar. It was only a couple of subway stops. He could be there before Denny drained his next pint. Well, maybe not that quick, but still...

  “Chris,” Denny said, turning serious. Chris could picture him leaning into the pay phone, using his body to block out the noise. Denny worked demolition and was built like a middle linebacker. The tactic worked.

  “Listen, muscles atrophy if you don’t use ‘em,” the Irishman continued. “You don’t start bending elbows with the boys again, no amount of jacking off is gonna make up for it.”

  “Let me guess, you read that in Weightlifting Monthly?”

  “Chris, come on, it’s me, Denny. Talk to me. You ain’t been around, you never leave your apartment, you’re turning into a fucking hermit. Dude, it’s time...”

  Chris’ grip on the phone tightened involuntarily. He closed his eyes, fighting down the bile that was creeping up his throat.

  “Hey, man, you there? Goddamnit...”

  Chris heard Denny feeding the pay phone. Probably one of the last in Manhattan. He assumed Denny was using it because the cell phone reception in Casey’s was atrocious. To get a signal, he’d have to go outside. With the temperature hovering around freezing, it was no surprise Denny was pumping change into the antique on the wall by the rest rooms.

  “I’m still here, chief, save your quarters,” Chris confirmed. “But listen, really, I got a couple things left to do here, and then I’m heading home and crawling into bed. I feel like shit and can’t afford to wind up with the flu.”

  The words tasted sour in his mouth, and it had nothing to do with the bile. He did feel like shit, but doubted it had anything to do with the flu. Before Denny could protest further, he went on.

  “Listen, I’ll get out next weekend, promise. You guys put something together and I’ll be there, all right?”

  Denny didn’t sound convinced, but he relented. Saturday night, he proclaimed, the fearsome foursome would paint the town red, perhaps with Charlie’s virgin blood.

  “Hey, I heard that!” Fletcher complained. The sound of the men’s room door banging shut echoed in the background.

  “So, we’ll see you Saturday, then?”

  “Saturday,” Chris repeated, and ended the call.

  He wondered who was less certain...he or Denny.

  It wasn’t until he found himself standing in front of Mondo Video, a trendy new hot spot for Greenwich Village videophiles, that Chris realized he’d been walking away from home, not towards it. A red-faced couple, huddled against the cold and holding hands, brushed past as he considered his options. He’d been walking the Village aimlessly for the better part of an hour, avoiding the apartment. He’d have to go home eventually, he supposed. Freezing to death on the street wasn’t a terribly pleasant alternative.

  Chris sniffled, the cold making his nose run and his ears burn. He hadn’t planned on renting a video, but didn’t see any reason why he shouldn’t. He’d just spent an hour meandering around the Village, killing time, delaying the inevitable.

  He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his topcoat, shivering. A gust of wind cut through the wool, biting into his skin.

  A video. Why not? It wasn’t like he had anything better planned. Planning was something he’d given up on a long time ago.

  He studied the posters and DVD sleeves taped to the shop’s crammed display window, his eyes drawn to a neon fixture that made his heart lurch. A fat, pink cherub blazed to life, a glowing white arrow seated in his bow. The cherub winked, and his form went dark. The arrow launched. A split-second later, the arrow buried itself in the chest of a neon-man reading a book. Blue spikes blinked. When the light glowed steady again, the outline of the book remained dark.

  And the man’s eyes were cherry-red hearts.

  The Valentine’s Day reminder made his mouth go dry, his stomach flipping over the way it did when he was on the Cyclone, feeling the tug in his gut going over that first, precipitous drop. In three days, it would be ten months. Ten months exactly since—

  “’Scuse me,” somebody said, breaking Chris out of his reverie. A hard woman with a pinched face and hatchet-blade nose pushed out of the store. Chris stepped aside, clearing her path. She began power-walking down the street, swinging her bag of DVDs like a weapon. Turning away from the display window, Chris put his head down and went inside.

  There were few patrons perusing the shelves. Chris chalked the sparse crowd up to the holiday and the weather. Mondo Video was usually packed on a Friday night, right up until closing. At the moment, though, the kid working the counter looked bored, twisting her multi-colored dreads and waiting for the next customer to check out.

  A teenage girl—she couldn’t have been older than 15, thought Chris—her lip sporting three silver hoops, her ear a dozen more, browsed a rack devoted to Italian horror. Argento, Deodato, the Bavas, Fulci. Chris ignored them. He’d seen them all.

  He eyed the girl. Ink peeked over the collar of her leather jacket. As she plucked a DVD case from the shelf, her jacket shifted enough for him to read the tat. The word CUNT, in fat, black letters.

  The adult section took up the entire back of the store—nearly a third of the building. Unlike other rental outlets in the city, Mondo maintained a decidedly small selection of mainstream titles. That went for porno, as well. Chris usually skipped Mondo if he wanted a spank flick, largely because his tastes didn’t run to the extreme. Gonzo and gang-bang were about as out there as he ventured. Even then, it was the exception, not the rule.

  Tonight, though, , he ignored the front racks and delved deeper, bypassing shelves dedicated to pissing videos, amputee erotica, dwarves/giants/freaks, and hermaphrodites. He didn’t know what he was looking for, only that he needed to keep searching. He’d nearly exhausted his options when an overtly-butch lesbian couple turned away from one rack, disgust etched onto their faces. When they’d gone, Chris walked over.

  The shelf didn’t contain much, perhaps twenty titles in all. The cover boxes were garish, amateur-looking and poorly designed. Chris could tell that some of the sleeves were homemade, probably produced on inkjet printers. The label on the shelf denoting genre
was hand-lettered in black magic marker. It read: CHASERS.

  Chris scanned the talent, but didn’t recognize a single actor or actress. He was about to give up and move on when one of the boxes caught his attention. He took it from the shelf, staring at the featured actress’ face. Though the quality of the image was poor, nothing could diminish the fierce intensity in her eyes. Despite her thin face and pronounced cheekbones, she was startlingly attractive. It was all in her eyes. Jade-green, and catlike. In a word, Chris thought, she was mesmerizing.

  “Pretty wild stuff, huh?”

  Chris turned to find himself face to face with a kid of about 19, wearing a Mondo Video staff shirt. His acetate nameplate identified him as Gooch.

  “You ever rented one?” he asked, gesturing to the shelf. His enthusiasm was disquieting.

  “No, I haven’t,” Chris answered, wishing Gooch away. He was much more interested in the actress on the box cover than the chatty clerk.

  “Trust me,” Gooch assured. “If you like the nasty stuff, it don’t get any better than that.”

  Chris felt a chill dance up his spine, despite the oppressive heat. It felt like the store’s radiators had all gone into overdrive. Gooch didn’t seem to notice. He was eyeing the box in Chris’ hand with undisguised lust.

  “Oh yeah, that’s a good one. Seen it a couple times,” he said approvingly. “That’s some hot fuckin’ shit, let me tell you.”

  Chris’ throat began to close up on him. The near-empty video store suddenly felt claustrophobic—like the walls were closing in on him. It was like he was trying to breathe water. He wanted nothing more to do with the overzealous clerk. He needed to get out of here. Without another word, he turned his back on Gooch and made a beeline for the counter.

  Chris locked the door and slotted the security chain. He shrugged off his coat and threw it over a chair, kicking off his slush-covered shoes and leaving them where they fell. Salt and snowmelt began dripping onto the kitchen floor. It was chilly in the apartment, but he didn’t bother adjusting the thermostat. He was beyond paying attention to the cold, his focus entirely on the DVD in the bright yellow bag. After all, it didn’t get any better.

  So long as you liked the really nasty stuff.

  The video’s production value was far superior to its packaging. The graphics were flashy, the titles bursting onto the screen with all the flair of a Hollywood blockbuster. As the opening credits rolled, it was almost possible to convince himself he was watching something rented from VideoMania, or Peeper’s, one of his usual haunts. The illusion was shattered, however, with the introduction of the performers.

  The actors were ghastly. Chris could think of no better term to describe them. His stomach roiled as they paraded across the screen, in clips teasing scenes that were to come.

  He shuddered, unable to tear his eyes from the gruesome spectacle. He watched in revulsion as a ghoulishly emaciated couple stroked and fondled one another on a filthy, bare mattress. The lighting was dim, the background nothing more than exposed brick and patched concrete. It didn’t look to Chris like a set, made up to resemble the basement in a condemned tenement. He’d lived in his share of slumlord-run hellholes. What he was looking at was the real deal.

  The name Earl E. Grave crept across the screen. A black man who’d been broad and muscular once upon a time, proceeded to spread the legs of a reedy white girl with stringy hair and lips that looked bruised without the benefit of makeup. Her stage name faded in as her co-star’s faded out. Anna Rexia.

  The scene changed. A woman who looked like she belonged in a photo taken at Auschwitz appeared, wearing a bikini meant to emphasize breasts and hips she no longer possessed. Chris could count her ribs, prominently displayed beneath a thin layer of pale flesh stretched taut. Miska Davver dropped into the frame like a spider dangling from a strand of silk.

  The picture dissolved into a chaotic blur of kaleidoscope colors. When the pixels rearranged themselves, a gaunt man who’d managed to retain most of his surfer-boy good looks threw open a full-length leather trench coat, exposing a physique that made Chris cringe.

  The man’s erection hung between bowed, skeletal legs. His kneecaps bulged like softballs shrouded in tissue paper. When the trench coat fell from his shoulders, his toothpick arms were more mantis than human. When he grinned, his lips peeled back to reveal blackened, receding gums. The handful of remaining teeth gave him a jack-o-lantern smile that made Chris physically ill. His stage name forced Chris to shut his eyes.

  Skinnan Bones.

  Chris fought the urge to fast forward. The remote wavered in his hand as more of the cast were introduced. His thumb was poised over the EJECT button when the blonde appeared.

  Her sharp features were oddly compelling—more so on screen than on the cover box. Though her cheeks were hollow and sunken, her eyes bored into him with a savage ferocity. Something smoldered there, just beneath the surface. When her name was revealed, the breath he’d been holding exploded from his lungs. He hit PAUSE, and stared at the moniker.

  Sue Aside.

  The DVD hadn’t been encoded with chapter stops, which forced him to fast-forward through a stomach-churning series of sexual atrocities. When he reached the scene he wanted, he turned up the sound and hit PLAY.

  The camera followed the blonde into a neatly appointed bedroom. A queen bed draped with a violet bedspread sat beneath a framed art print. It was a piece Chris was familiar with, the source material for countless rip-offs and reimaginings. Nighthawks, by Edward Hopper. Two lonely patrons drinking coffee in the middle of the night in a Greenwich Village diner.

  Chris struggled to ignore the setting, jarring as it was. He focused instead on the actress who’d captured his attention at Mondo Video, tuning everything else out.

  Sue Aside was clad in a sleeveless, A-line dress. Though it was ill-fitting, Chris could see that it had once been tight, clingy in all the right places. Not now, though. Now the dress accentuated every imperfection, drawing attention to her jutting hip bones, her birdlike arms, the spider web of blue veins beneath waxy, translucent skin.

  She strode across the room, stopping before the dresser to preen in the vanity mirror. Pulling a brush through her silky mane, she didn’t seem to have a care in the world. Chris didn’t doubt for a minute, though, that she was well aware of the clumps of hair which remained behind in the bristles.

  A young girl entered the bedroom, Earl E. Grave and Skinnan Bones trailing close behind. Unlike the actors and actresses he’d seen in the opening credits, this girl looked the picture of health. Young and vibrant, she had a heart-shaped face, smooth, unblemished skin and sensuous, full lips. She had to be at least eighteen to be doing porn, Chris knew, but if she was legal, it couldn’t be by much. He wouldn’t sell her a pack of smokes, that was for damn sure.

  “I see you brought a friend,” said the blonde, addressing Earl but eyeing the teenager. The scrawny black man flashed a wicked grin. Skinnan Bones leered like a hungry jackal.

  “Home girl got the itch,” said Earl, stroking the newcomer’s hair. “I tol’ her we got what she need to scratch it.”

  “Is that so?” Sue asked, a sing-song lilt in her voice.

  “Uh-huh,” the girl confirmed, nodding vigorously. “I need you to give me what none of the boys at school can.”

  If her dialogue was scripted, Chris judged, she could act. But he wasn’t at all convinced there was a script. He felt certain the whole thing was being ad-libbed.

  “Well, what are you waiting for,” Sue prompted. “C’mon, honey, let’s see some skin.”

  As a rule, Chris didn’t go in for the young-stuff. He liked melons, not mosquito-bites. And he didn’t mind a little junk in the trunk. Still, as the teenager nervously unbuttoned her top, Chris couldn’t help himself. He was hard. Harder than he’d been in months. Watching the blonde giving the youngster orders stirred something in him that had been dormant for a long, long time.

  “Not bad,” appraised the blonde, walking a slow circle ar
ound her new plaything. The girl was naked, save for a pair of knee-socks and black, school-uniform flats. Sue turned to the scarecrow-man.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think we found ourselves some fresh meat,” Bones replied, eyeing her with an almost feral hunger.

  The blonde stood stock still, saying nothing. The silence stretched to the point it became uncomfortable. The girl began to fidget, looking from Bones to Grave and back again, her eyes finally returning to Sue. It was clear that Sue was the ringleader. She had the power here.

  “W-what do I have to do?” the girl asked, her frayed nerves beginning to unravel. Sheer anxiety had flushed her nipples a dark pink. They stood at attention as she awaited Sue’s verdict.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know what to do,” Sue answered, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She flicked one painfully swollen nipple with her index finger. The girl shuddered.

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” the teen protested, gnawing on her bottom lip. “I just meant, you know...”

  “Oh, I know,” Sue said, her words thick as honey. Chris sensed that the statement was layered in double meaning.

  The teen’s focus shifted to the emaciated men surrounding her.

  “Which, uh...who,” she stammered, faltering, unsure how to express herself. She regrouped, asking bluntly, “Which one of you is gonna give it to me?”

  Sue brushed the girl’s cheek with the back of her hand, then tilted her head so they were staring eye to eye.

  “You never know for sure,” Sue said, running the pad of her thumb across the ingénue’s moist lips. “But trust me. All of us are going to give it to you, isn’t that right, Earl?”

  “Fuckin’-A we are,” he agreed, swooping in to whisk the youngster off her feet. He rolled onto the bed with her, eliciting a wave of giggles and squeals as he peppered her neck and breasts with kisses.

  Chris had a hard time watching the rest. Earl mounted her, a non-stop torrent of demeaning dirty-talk pouring out of him. Skinnan Bones stood by, stroking himself to readiness, awaiting his turn. After several minutes of grunting, groping and thrusting, Earl announced his impending climax.