All this heavy thinking about bacon has reminded me of the headache that refuses to relent. It may fade down a little, but it never leaves. Maybe it’s here for good.
Another consequence of deep bacon ponderings: my stomach is growling. I lick my lips and think, bacon.
Apparently the pastry I’d eaten at the drugstore had not been enough to satisfy my hunger. I could eat a horse right now.
But no, that is a lie. I remember horses. Horses are wonderful animals. Who could possibly eat one?
Shit, who knows. Maybe I have before, sometime in my dubious past. I briefly consider the ingredients inside a horse, wondering if perhaps one of the side-effects of consuming such an animal happens to be memory loss, then decide I have no idea what is even inside a horse, nonetheless what they taste like.
Goddamn, I’m crazy.
I think about the bar of chocolate in my coat pocket—but I’d be uncomfortable eating it in front of the kid. He doesn’t look like the most well fed boy, but still, another part of me refuses to share my last bit of food. I’ll just save it until I truly need it.
Truly need...
What do I need?
Her.
I need her. Whoever she is.
She is my chocolate.
The answer to my hunger.
(under the blanket it’s so warm, warm and safe, warm and safe because she’s under here with me, our heads sticking out like content turtles. i feel our cold feet around each other, and they’re so nice, so perfect. i know i want to be here forever. i want to stay. let me stay. the tv is on but i do not know what is playing, i’m more focused on the amazing energy her soft breaths generate. the recently opened box of chocolate candies resting on the sheets in front of us offer bliss. i go to reach for one the same time she does and our hands connect, and it feels so right and we know that it isn’t chocolate we need, but each other, and soon the chocolate is out of our minds completely and all we know are ourselves—our wonderful warmth. her red hair falls into my eyes, temporarily blinding me, and by the time i am able to brush it away, she is no longer in my arms and the box of chocolate is empty.)
And I’m back in oblivion: my new home.
“So I have to ask,” Aerosol says.
“Ask what?”
“What’s with the slippers, bro?”
“Um.”
Short rapid pixels of violence flash before my eyes: my hand raw, my headache throbbing, his skull disintegrating, his brains splattering, his face destroyed, life snipped short.
“Well?”
“These are my funny bunnies,” I tell him.
“Yo, those are pretty tight, I gotta admit. Can I have them?”
I shake my head. These are mine.
He doesn’t press the issue any further, and soon thereafter we finally come across the first twist on this deranged stretch of road. And sure enough, as soon as we make the holy turn around a deteriorating building that a hobo wouldn’t even use to piss on, we find ourselves standing face-to-face with an incredibly large neon sign of a naked woman twisting her metallic nipples.
She’s propped up on top of a wide two-story building, glassy legs spread to the sky, revealing the words “THE RISQUÉ CABARET” welded in the area where her vagina should be—if enormous robot strippers have vaginas, of course.
Apparently they do not.
Aerosol claps me on the back. “We’re here.”
I turn to give him a word of thanks but the kid is already fleeing away from me like a bat out of hell. He looks over his shoulder and shouts, “Thanks for saving me, Dickhead!”
Then he is gone.
It’s all right. His job is finished. Now it’s my turn to lead.
My turn to get things done.
chapter eight
The neon whore lights up half the block, revealing a whole new set of doubtful citizens in its dubious spotlights. Drunks and junkies loiter around the carless parking lot, moving in a sluggish circle. It’s like they’re caught in some kind of surreal cycle of apathy—shooting up, puncturing veins, vomiting, masturbating, rinsing and repeating. It’s a marvel they’re able to stay on their feet so long.
Rock music overpowers the area, sneaking out from inside the club. The vocals are incomprehensible, but the heavy instrumentals are destructive and rude. If it’s this loud outside, then my eardrums are in for one hell of a ride.
My eyes become lost in the large breasted robot’s hypnotic glow, filling me with a sense of curiosity and showering me with a sheet of fright. Each flicker taunts me, egging me on and overwhelming me with a recharged gust of excitement. Beyond these robotic titties lies a series of answers that will almost certainly reveal my identity: who I am, what I’ve done, where I’ve been, who I represent, what the hell’s going on...
Because, really. What the hell is going on?
A muscular man stands behind the rosewood door at the front of the club, arms folded across his chest, pectoral muscles basically ripping out of a tight black T-shirt. His expression maintains the same mean eyes and pissed off snarl as the guy back at the drugstore.
The closer I approach him, the taller he seems to become, and when I’m finally in front of him, he’s towering me by at least a foot and a half, casting a mountain’s worth of shadow over me.
He looks down at me with angry, hateful eyes. “I’ve been wondering when you were gonna show up.”
“Yeah, me too.”
He stares at me for a few moments, then his serious glare cracks and he starts giggling like a little kid. “What the devil you wearin’, boy?”
I feel my cheeks blushing red. I look down at my feet, then back up at him. “Um, these are my funny bunnies.”
“They are off the hook.”
“Thanks.”
“I am lying. That was a lie. They are horrible.”
“Oh.”
He motions to the front door. “You know the drill.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I know the drill.”
I move past him, take a deep breath, and enter The Risqué Cabaret.
* * *
The heavy rosewood door slams shut behind me and I’m suffocating in a cloud of darkness.
Trapped.
Lost in a claustrophobic’s worst nightmare, a narrow entryway’s walls rubbing against my shoulders, I can’t see anything, can’t even breathe, nonetheless think coherently. All I know is I need to get out of here as soon as possible. What have I walked into?
I hold my arms out and walk through the darkness, searching for a door, any door. I don’t even care if it’s the same door I just entered. I want out of this oblivious hell. Now.
My hand connects with a knob. Without hesitating, I quickly twist it and swing the door open, discovering a new world awaiting me on the other side.
A dozen or so varying interior elements rape my perception all at once, dragging me down into a severe state of nausea. Bright red seizure-inducing strobe lights flash throughout the building in perfect, agonizing unison. Spotlights zoom across the carpeted floor and catch unsuspecting junkies in its glare, like an intrusion of naughty cockroaches surprised by the sun’s wrath.
Women dance in scarce clothing, swinging from cages dangling from the ceiling. Others grind against poles attached to random tables. The tables are surprisingly sturdy enough to hold their weight, although their weight doesn’t appear to be much of anything. These girls look like they have the same diet as I’ve been on the past few hours.
The men outnumber the women immensely. Most are slumped in chairs circling the stripper tables, while some lurk around the cages, their eyes following the dancing goddesses in an enthralled rhythm of false spirituality, tongues drooping from their mouths, hands rubbing their own crotches on the outsides of their pants and trying their best not to let anyone else see. Those tired of watching the dancers have skulked into the forgotten shadows by the main bar, washing away their shared sorrows with poisonous alcoholic drainage.
This is their ritual. This is their life.
/> A couple dozen twentysomething year-olds drunkenly sway back and forth on the vast dance floor off on one side of the room, minds already in their last stages of mental decay, bodies clearly pumped up with ecstasy or some other equally effective stimulant.
This is how we lose ourselves. This is how we forget.
But their amnesia is only short term. This isn’t how I forgot. Something happened to me. Something bad.
Something that didn’t just happen on some lousy dance floor.
A select few sit off in the corner, playing a game of cards. From the sounds of their angry ramblings and intoxicated accusations, it’s only a matter of time before a fight breaks out. All it’s going to take is one word to set them all off, and then everything will turn to hell. One word—like, possibly, “cheat”.
Now that I’m inside, the rock music is easier to hear, and the words sting my ears whether I want them to or not. I step over a couple of unconscious drunks and find an empty seat at a stool next to one of the pole dancers, burying my face in my own sweaty palms. The music and strobe light combination absorbs into my brain, soaking itself in me as if I’m just some gargantuan human-sized sponge, multiplying the pain over and over. My limbs grow weak and I surrender my arms to the table, tucking my head inside beside my armpits, falling prey to fatigue.
“Your usual.”
Caught off guard, I straighten my spine and discover a waitress in a miniskirt standing beside me, hip cocked, one arm placed on her side, the other extending toward me with a dark bottle of beer in her hand.
“Oh, okay, thanks.” I take the bottle from her and she’s gone before I even get a chance to negotiate payment.
I shrug and spin back around on the stool, directing all attention to the redhead working a number on the pole attached to my table. The table is long, crafted for more than just a couple of occupants. At least seven other men sit around with me, stools pulled up, globs of drool trickling down their unwashed chins.
The stripper’s attire consists of nothing more than bra and panties, both of which have black and red flames stitched along the embossed edges. The enchanting red fingernail and toenail polish match perfectly with her lingerie.
And then her eyes.
So green, so magical. It’s as if they’re the exact opposite of the phantasmagorical surgeon’s lifeless eyes back at the drugstore. His evil, hers good—so very good. A pair of eyes sent to show me the way to all that is right, to all I’ve forgotten that I secretly wish I hadn’t. These eyes, by God, so green, so striking, so safe. They fill me with this strange wonderful sense of déjà vu, a feeling I’ve been aching to retrieve all night.
The waitress had already popped the lid off the bottle before serving it to me, so all I have to do is squeeze the opening between my lips, tilt my head back, and enjoy as the cold liquid caresses my throat. It tastes so damn good that I get the urge to pound my fist onto the table and howl like a maniac.
Within one swift motion, I empty the entire bottle, and I’m already thinking how much I want another. Fuck ibuprofen. Beer is all I need. I know beer. Beer is good. Yes.
But the waitress is nowhere in sight, so I push the empty bottle aside, readjust myself on the stool, and belch. The music breathes into my ears and sweeps me away with the dancing goddess in front of me.
This Lamb guy is taking a long time to find me. What am I even going to ask him? My mind is a tornado of unsolved puzzles. Half the pieces are missing, claimed by some unknown force.
I don’t know this Lamb, at least not anymore. But he still knows me.
He might even know the dead thug back at the river. Maybe the thug was one of his employees. Fuck, I don’t know. This whole universe is a mystery. Questions like haystacks and answers like needles hidden in the questions. Everything is under my nose but out of my sight.
Who am I?
But that’s not even the most important question anymore. First I need to know if I even want my life back, because so far, I don’t want anything to do with this shit. If this lifestyle is the real me, then I am a monster.
I’m not supposed to be a monster.
The redhead on the table begins making her rounds from customer to customer. They all dig into their pockets for dollar bills whenever she gets close enough. She’s moving closer to me, and I realize I don’t know what to do when she eventually arrives. I don’t have any dollars on me. I have a gun, but I don’t think she wants to see that. I have a chocolate bar. But would she want my candy? Fuck her, I’m saving that for later. What if I find myself trapped, isolated from all of humanity, and that chocolate bar determines whether I live or die?
Oh crap, here she comes. Look at those things! They’re huge.
Before I even know what I’m doing, the chocolate bar has mysteriously transported from my coat pocket to my hand, and I’m shoving it toward the stripper’s bare flesh. “Take it, take it, it’s all I have. Take it.”
“Cute.” She smirks. “If only you had a Klondike Bar, then maybe you’d get head.”
“I will get this Klondike Bar.”
She brings her hand close to my face, gently rubbing my stubble. “Don’t forget Ezzy’s diapers, either.”
(‘da-doo da-doo wake up da-doo wake up’)
“Huh?”
She giggles. “What are you wearing? It is so sexy.”
“What?”
We’re interrupted by the rest of the horny men at the table. Some whistle, others punch the wood, trying to get the girl’s attention.
“Hey, lady,” one of the guys says, “there’s other people here, too, ya know. Jesus Christ, one asshole walks in with funny bunny slippers and all the chicks go crazy. It’s just like my junior prom all over again, I swear.”
Another one says, “Yeah, I got a Klondike Bar for you, sugar tits. What would you do for it?”
More whistles and applause follow.
“Gotta get back to work,” she says, and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Catch ya later tonight, handsome. Wear the slippers.”
And with that, she’s off rubbing her tits in some fat man’s third chin.
“Okay, will do...” I drift off with her warm lipstick smeared across my cheek. Then I blink. “Wait—what?”
I stand up, trying to get attention, when a large hand—paw—clasps down on my shoulder and spins me around. It’s the same huge bastard who’d been standing guard out in front of the club.
“What?” I scream, scared out of my mind.
“Mr. Lamb will see you now.”
“Oh. Uh, cool.”
I glance back over my shoulder, wishing I had some extra time to speak to the girl. But maybe after this is over, she’ll still be waiting for me.
I can only hope.
I turn back to the bouncer. “So, where do I go again?”
He gives me a puzzled look, nods to the right, grunts, and returns back to his post outside.
“Oh, uh, right. I knew that. Carry on.”
I return the chocolate bar to my coat pocket and head toward the direction he’d gestured, soon arriving at a steel door attached to the wall beside the bar. I slip inside to an old, isolated stairway, following the steps up to the next landing. Upon entering the next floor, I find myself standing in a small, darkly lit office.
There’s a desk visible at the back of the room, thanks to a long-necked goose lamp placed on the surface. Papers and other business paraphernalia lay scattered all over the desk, making the actual wooden top scarcely visible.
A ball of dark blond dreadlocks joins the rest of the crap on the desk, sliding across a black tray in a vertical motion and shooting up into a sitting position. A face emerges from within the snakes. The crooked powdered nose attached to the face wiggles exotically from the aftershock of the snorting session. The deadlocked man cracks his neck and roars like a lion.
“Now that’s what I call motherfuckin’ pure!” He stomps his foot on the floor and pounds his fist on the desk.
I remain standing there until his dilated
pupils finally notice my existence. His expression brightens dramatically.
“Bob! It’s about damn time! I thought maybe someone had killed you again.”
(memoria i)
the office is gone. the man with dreadlocks is gone. the world is gone.
i am gone.
darkness. total, enriching darkness.
a cold drift escapes into this darkness, but it is a welcomed breeze, as if before its arrival my flesh had been sizzling to the bone. but now it is all better. the draft soothes my nonexistent skin, makes my phantom lips form an impossible smile. i may be gone but i am still here, just not there.
my mind survives—my body, on the other hand, is off doing its own thing in some other dimension. it’s okay, i don’t need a body. i don’t need a thing, except for this heavenly wind caressing the very core of my soul.
it’s goddamn erotic.
then i orgasm, and i’m forced out of this wonderful darkness and cast back into reality.
only the office and the man with dreadlocks are still gone. instead of the risqué cabaret, i’m now standing in a brightly lit hallway. my legs are asleep and don’t last long before collapsing underneath me.
slowly but surely (sugar pie) i climb back up this green abstract wallpaper until i’ve returned to a sturdy standing position and have a chance to browse my surroundings.
a man stands in front of me, who shares my basic build, only this guy is a little less brawny than myself. in front of him awaits more men and women, all standing straight and still, hands folded behind their backs. when one person steps forward, the rest of them follow. there is no delay in their movements—they are in perfect unison.
i glance over my shoulder, expecting to find even more people waiting in line behind me, stepping behind with the rest, but i’m instead overwhelmed by a deep ocean of pure darkness. the same darkness my spirit had previously been swimming—drowning—in. i’m tempted to leap back into its vast beauty just to lose myself and forget about everything. it’s where i need to be, where destiny is guiding me.
but despite how hard i try to move, i am unable to retreat even a single foot away from the man in front of me. every step he progresses forward—no matter how slight—automatically expands the black wall of nothingness and pushes me after him like some kind of surreal escalator.
The Mind is a Razorblade Page 6