Fuck the Rules

by Chizmar, Richard

  Now I’m gonna let ya think for yourself. After all, this is what it’s all about. So, you started out on the road to your enslavement as a very young boy, having the telievision slowly brainwash ya into subservience. What came next? School, yeah, but there was something before that. C’mon, think. Fuckin’ hell, do I have to spell it out for ya? Think! I just gave you a clue right there. No, not spell; sounds like, though. Hell, good. And where do we get the rikokulous notion of this imaginary place? You guessed it, buddy: you’re goin’ to church, hahahahaha.

  You probably don’t remember this (it was such a long time ago), but when you were just a wee sprog, your parents took ya to one of these houses of lies and had some sick motherfucker try to drown ya in the name of his imaginary sky fairy. You might not recall, but I do. You were fuckin’ terrified and traumatised. You screamed the fuckin’ place down and for the next year afterwards, bath time was a nightmarish reliving of that fateful day. You do remember the years that followed, though. Earliest memories of Sunday mornings, goin’ with Mum ‘n’ Dad back to that shithole to have the fear of God hammered into ya with nine-inch nails of bullshit.

  It’s not even four AM and Father Fiddler will still be asleep in his quarters. Make a quick stop home first. I have plans which will require the use of your Bowie knife. That’s right, mate: you’re about to break another egg. Might not use this one for your omelette though. This egg is rotten as fuck.

  The streets are still empty, so why are ya doin’ the speed limit? Man, you have some serious unlearnin’ to do. Fuckin’ step on it!

  *

  Holy Trinity Catholic Church: Would ya look at this joint! What a pretentious, elaborately designed monstrosity, and these cunts preach humility and frugality. Check out the BMW – wait. Fuck, he has two! All these shit-brained social commentators loudly blame the lower class no-hopers on welfare for bein’ a burden on the economy. Here’s the real burden. This is where a lot of your hard-stolen tax dollars go, while these cunts don’t pay a single fucking cent to live in luxury and convince their idiot flock of sheep to give ‘em even more money. Fuckin’ parasites.

  You can take care of his sweet rides after. Ya don’t wanna alert him to your presence until you’re hoverin’ over his bed, blade in hand. Grab the crowbar – you’ll need it to jimmy open his door.

  *

  Sleepin’ like a baby. Look at the fat fuck. I bet he eats well every night. Give him a nice whack on the head with the crowbar, but don’t kill him – not just yet.

  Holy shit! Fucking disgraceful piece of human garbage! Is that a boy beside him? Man, I shouldn’t be surprised, but this complicates matters somewhat. Even I feel bad about this, but you’re gonna hafta take care of him. Tie the lad up, gag him and lock him in that closet. He doesn’t need to see what’s about to go down. Be careful not to hurt him. Remember: don’t be a cunt. Poor kid. He probably has no idea that what he’s been havin’ done to him is despicable and wrong.

  I know, you just wanna bash this fucker’s brains to mush, but he has to suffer first. This is the lowest act of depravity I can think of, and people have no fucking idea what goes on in the privacy of his bed. I am almost inclined to stand back and watch you go to town on him, but let’s be methodical about this, yeah? Cut the cunt’s tongue out first. Ya don’t want his screams to traumatise the kid more than he already is. Just rip it out of his mouth and slice – don’t be gentle. This should rouse him from the light clobberin’ ya just gave him.

  Brilliant, he’s awake. Ha-ha! Oh, that terror in his eyes is just divine, yeah? Drag him out onto the floor and grab that nice thick candle. Aw, how helpful he is. He’s already naked. Piece of shit. Make him kneel, good. Now shove his face into the floor and ram that candle deep into his filthy arse. Use the force, Luke; he’s got room in there.

  I see you are enjoying yourself again. You’re a sadistic fuck, aren’t ya? Layin’ the boot in to kick that candle up into his guts is a particularly savage touch, haha. Gotta say, I’m enjoying the show myself. He’s gettin’ what he deserves.

  Boot him onto his back. There’s one more thing you need to do to finish him off. That’s the way. Now cut his fuckin’ cock off. He won’t be puttin’ that where it don’t belong anymore. A tongueless scream is a scream nonetheless. You’ve made some room in that filthy mouth of his, now stuff it with a dick fatter than he’s used to takin’ in there.

  Nicely done, mate. Now burn this fuckin’ house of depravity and lies to the ground and let’s get the hell outta here. Grab the kid first and take him to the car park. He won’t go anywhere bound like that.

  A glorious sight, innit? A holy funeral pyre for a disgustingly unholy fuck. Good riddance, Father Fiddler. May you rot in your imaginary Hell.

  *

  OK, what’s next? You’re getting’ the hang of this; time for you to think for yourself again. It’ll be daylight soon, so where do ya wanna go now? What’s another institution designed to enslave? Yes, you’ve got it: school. Thirteen years of indoctrination into a system where you are taught, above any academic learning, to be obedient and follow an insane amount of ludicrous rules. They want you smart enough to be a productive worker and stupid enough to swallow the bullshit they force down your throats without ever questioning their authority. In many ways, the education system is far more insidious than organised religion.

  You seem to have developed a pattern here. I think arson at the local public school is in order. Burn it to ashes before the day of indoctrination begins for hundreds of slaves in the makin’. Should be easy enough. Just head straight for the office, break in and light that fucker up. The rest should take care of itself.

  *

  Good on ya, mate, you’re learnin’. I didn’t need to remind ya of the ‘road rules’, haha. Pull right up to the office. Dawn is fast approachin’ and ya want a clean, quick getaway before the world wakes up to another day of slavery. OK, let’s do this. Don’t forget ya trusty crowbar.

  Now, you’re gonna need to be quick. You’ll have less than a minute to get in there, trash the joint, and light the fucker up before the alarm sounds. This one will be risky, but you’ve got this. Just smash the glass outta the door, get in and get out.

  Fuck! The alarm was instant! Quick, do what ya came to do and let’s get the fuck outta here. Plenty of paper in this office to start a nice bonfire, now light it up!

  You’re efficiency is impressive, haha. Now, let’s get outta here before the pigs arrive.

  Shit. Sirens. They’re onto ya, man, now double-time back to the car. Let’s go!

  They’re here! They’ve blocked ya in. Only way out is through. There’s only one option: fuckin’ ram the cunts.

  BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

  Keep goin’! Get the fuck away, mate!

  Oh shit, you’re hit.

  Watch out for that pole! Fuck!

  Sorry, man. Maybe we were a little hasty with this last venture. I know it hurts. Can you still hear me? Look, you made only a small dent in your journey to freedom, but it was a significant shift in your awakening before ‘The Man’ came ‘n’ took it all away. Just keep this in mind as you fade away. You may be dying, but you are leaving this world… a free man.

  Japanese Flag

  Crystal Jeans

  The first time I ever had an orgasm was with my stepfather’s electric toothbrush. I remember lying on my bed with the sunlight coming through the window, a fuzzy yellow square warming one thigh, the back of the toothbrush jammed against the nub of electrical flesh I had no name for yet. I remember the usual feelings of frustration and pointlessness giving way to pleasure, then too much pleasure, then a light tingly loveliness spreading through my whole body. Then it was over.

  I put the toothbrush back on the shelf above the sink. I didn’t wash it.

  *

  Mum kicked Dad out when I was fourteen. She said he was a useless, worthless man and she’d wasted enough time on him already. She’d recently started evening classes doing aromatherapy and massage therapy, and she’d
made friends with a couple of women who wore tie-dye and sandals and lots of silver bangles. They took her along to their Primal Urges dance group, where she stomped and screamed and writhed and panted to African drums. When her divorce papers came through, they celebrated with a ritual on the beach: tits out, kicking sand, dancing around the campfire. She was a new woman. A shamanic divorcee.

  Dad was not a new man. Dad was pathetic.

  Mum met Andrew six months later at a Rocky Horror Picture Show play in the New Theatre. He was dressed as Eddie: blue jeans, motorcycle boots, black leather waistcoat, a red syrupy gash on his forehead. Mum was Columbia: gold-sequined tux, gold-painted top hat, fat arse crammed into tiny hot pants. They fancied each other straightaway.

  Mum came home with fake blood smeared over her cheeks and a secret sort of knowledge in her eyes. It bothered me.

  *

  Andrew came for Sunday dinner. Mum had recently gone vegan. She’d made a tofurkey – tofu and stuffing moulded into a vaguely bird-shaped lump and marinated with soy sauce, garlic and sherry. In theory it was stupid but it didn’t taste bad. For Andrew she had bought half a pre-cooked chicken from the Deli at Sainsburys. He gulped down his meal, skin and all. When Mum cut herself an extra slice of tofurkey, Andrew smiled indulgently.

  Andrew was thirty-five. He worked in computer programming. He was stocky, not quite fat. Big arms, shoulders like humpback bridges. He wore a faded The Cure t-shirt, black jeans and green Dr Marten shoes. He had black hair combed back Italian-mobster style, a thick-skinned face, big loose lips. He looked like a gargoyle with pretty eyelashes.

  After dinner Andrew drank beers in the sitting room while Mum fluttered around like a dumb butterfly. He asked me some questions. How was school? Was I popular? Did I have a boyfriend? What kind of music was I into? I answered obediently: Shit. No. No. Death metal.

  “I used to be a bit of a headbanger myself when I was your age,” he said. “First gig I ever went to was Megadeth.” He looked at me expectantly.

  “Who are Megadeth?” I asked.

  He frowned. “Only the best metal band of the eighties.”

  I shrugged and sipped my pop. I knew who Megadeth were. I just wanted Andrew to feel obsolete.

  *

  At first I wasn’t sure why I hated Andrew. Maybe it was the smug smiles he flashed when he thought he was being ironic. The way he spoke like a politician sometimes. The bits of goo that formed in the corners of his mouth. But it wasn’t just these things. Andrew had become Man of the House – the proud lord – and Mum took on her new subservient role with a breathless elation. I didn’t like seeing that. The chair at the head of the dinner table became his, along with the armchair closest to the TV. After two months of dating he took over the driving from Mum. Because he knew the road better than her.

  He had claimed all the best seats. And Mum loved it. She all but fanned him with lotus leaves and fed him fucking grapes.

  The day I realised I truly hated the man was a Wednesday. He came to the house with a bottle of South African wine. He walked into the living room and stopped suddenly, sniffing the air like a hound. “I can smell blood,” he said. “Someone’s on their monthlies, I’ll bet!”

  Mum clapped her hands. “Andrew has an amazing sense of smell,” she told me.

  I looked at them with disgust. Andrew was smiling broadly at his clever trick. I put down my homework and went to the bathroom to change my sanitary towel and scrub myself with Mum’s face flannel. I felt violated. What kind of dick is my mother dating? I thought, squeezing the brown-red water out of the flannel until my hands burned.

  *

  It took three months for Andrew to move in. He immediately started to redecorate. He painted over her dark reds and deep purples. He favoured oatmeal, milky coffee, biscuit-brown. Fucking ecru. He swapped her Indian rugs for grey shags, took down her Frida Kahlo prints and put up generic sunsets.

  “I don’t know why I ever bought that thing,” Mum said, frowning at the pregnant African lady figurine she’d loved three months ago.

  Andrew thought Mum’s veganism was ‘a bloody hoot.’ “Go on,” he said to her one dinnertime, “try this meat and tell me it’s not better than that blasted bird food.” He held the fork to her mouth. “Go on, have a taste, Meg.” She opened her mouth and took the beef between her teeth, sliding it off the fork. “Well?” Mum chewed for a long time, big doll eyes focused on Andrew’s face. “Well?” repeated Andrew, smiling.

  Mum smiled back. “It does taste pretty good. I can’t deny it.”

  Andrew grabbed Mum’s plate with its kidney bean and spinach nut roast and emptied it into the bin. “Of course it does. That’s how we know we’re supposed to eat it.”

  I stared at Mum. I knew she’d only gone vegan because of her stupid hippy friends, but it still upset me to see this fickleness so transparently exposed.

  Andrew carved Mum a thick slice of bloody cow and placed it in front of her. “Enjoy, sweetheart,” he said. He looked at me. “What about you? Fancy eating a real meal for a change?”

  “No, I’m happy with my bird food,” I said, smile made of glass.

  *

  Andrew left me alone at first. He was too busy making Mum roar in the bedroom to think about the teenage girl from the previous marriage. But soon he decided he’d better start playing at stepdad. I made this hard for him. If he came into a room I’d vacate it. Mum would take me aside and say, “Why can’t you just give him a chance, hun, for me?” or “He’s lovely when you get to know him.” I’d feign ignorance. “I don’t have anything against him, Mum. He’s fine.”

  Sometimes Andrew would loiter by my bedroom door, nodding his head appreciatively to my music. “I like this,” he’d say. “Sounds a bit like Napalm Death.” I’d look at him like he was a fucking moron and close my door. I wouldn’t slam it.

  He began to try harder. He suggested we have a movie night every Sunday, me, him and Mum. Bowl of popcorn, cold cans of pop, curtains closed, lights off. A family. We all came up with film suggestions but Andrew had the final decision. He’d go down to the one remaining Blockbuster in Wales – in Mum’s Clio – and return with the DVD and some popcorn like a conquering hero. Because it was a family night, we all sat together on the couch, Andrew in the middle, Mum cuddled up to him. He sat with his legs too wide, his thigh touching mine.

  Andrew had this loud braying donkey laugh. He laughed in all the predictable places, at the things stupid people laugh at. The thunderous hee-hawing, the thigh like a warm log of shit – I pushed myself so far to the edge of the couch that I’d end up with red marks on my hips from the armrest.

  Afterwards Andrew liked to switch the lights back on and talk about the film. “I didn’t believe him in this film – his accent was all wrong.” “Did you get the twist? I figured it out within twenty minutes.” I never joined in. Just sat there picking dead rubbery skin off my feet, answering his questions with shrugs.

  One night, after District 9, Mum sighed with exasperation and said, “Well, if you’re not going to speak, you could at least thank Andrew for buying the Pringles.”

  I looked at her. “Is he going to thank us for letting him live in our house?”

  Andrew’s face went like pickled cabbage. “You shouldn’t let her talk to me like that, Meg.”

  Mum’s mouth opened and closed – no words. I ran off to my room, locking the door and turning on my music. A minute later I heard knocking. I shouted, “Leave me the fuck alone!” Silence. Then footsteps, fading away.

  I guess that was the point Andrew stopped trying to make me like him.

  *

  A Saturday night. I came home from my friend’s house stoned and hungry. I was planning on a bowl of Cinnamon Grahams with soya milk. I had no love of soya milk and didn’t care much about the suffering of animals, but I was determined to keep up with the veganism to piss off Andrew.

  The house was quiet when I got in. I went into the kitchen. Mum and Andrew were at the table. Staring at me. There wer
e items laid out in front of them: a bottle of poppers, a half-smoked spliff and two cans of Oranjeboom.

  “What the fuck are you doing with my things?” I shouted.

  “I found them in your bedroom,” said Andrew.

  “What were you doing in my bedroom?”

  “I was looking for a CD.”

  “You were looking for a CD in my fucking underwear drawer?”

  “I could smell the weed.”

  “Oh, fuck off. You were snooping.”

  Andrew glanced at Mum. Mum looked at me desperately. “You’re fifteen! And you’re doing drugs!”

  I scowled. “A spliff and some poppers? Yeah, I’m a real junkie.”

  Andrew lifted his hand slightly, like a politician at the podium. “That isn’t the—”

  “You, shut up,” I said. I turned back to Mum. “Who are you to tell me off about drugs? Smoking bongs in the living room with those fucking hippies – how can you talk?”

  Mum looked down at the table. “I don’t do that anymore.”

  “Exactly,” said Andrew. “Things are going to change around here.” He sliced his hand through the air. “This is going to stop. Your attitude is going to change.” He glanced at Mum. “We’re getting married.”

  “What?”

  Mum smiled weakly. “We’re getting married.” She lifted her chin with something like defiance. “Andrew’s going to be your stepdad.”

  “And you’d better get used to it,” said Andrew. “Now go to your room.”

  That night I lay in bed for hours imagining Andrew being lubelessly raped.

  *