by Steve Finbow
“Pinker!” Z soothes. “Good boy.”
Z kneels in front of beast, holds powerful jaws, whispers in ear,
“Woof,” says dog, “Woof.”
From same room appears another hooded man carrying tubby puppy with large head, floppy sand-colored fur. Hooded man places puppy in pit. Z stands at edge, looks down at puppy, puppy wags tail at sight of Z, opens mouth, out pours series of whimpers, yelps.
“Quiet, Sven,” Z says. “Ssh!”
Hooded man lifts Pinker into pit. Pinker circles Sven, sniffing at puppy’s quivering anus. Pinker licks walls, tastes blood & saliva of previous victims, snaps head forward, grabs Sven by neck, crushing throat. Another bite. Sharpened canines pierce Sven’s soft skull, softer brain. Pinker shakes massive jaws—Sven a rag doll, a chew toy.
“Good boy,” Z says. “Here.” Throws bone to Pinker.
Z turns, walks forwards. Body lithe, slim, transfixing. Made catatonic by her smile, zombie before her eyes. Blood on chest dulled to rust. Z traces hand around shape, nails digging into flesh.
“If I hadn’t already eaten it,” she says, “I would have it for dessert.”
Say, “I really want to kiss you.”
Z throws head back, laughs, laugh both pure & tenebrous. Z leans close. Smell her smell—white rose, think, say. Brushes lips with hers, breathes a word. Cannot hear. Says again. Through veil of chestnut hair, hear dreadful poetry,
“Neverness,” she says, “Neverness.”
Flash of abandoned site. Empty buildings. Railway lines going nowhere. High in mountains. Snow dusted. Crow hunted. Feeling of alien presence. Splash of dark urine, strange faeces. Z’s favorite place. Place of hiding. Hiding place. Hidden place. Do not see it. Do not feel it. Blackness. Neverness. Neverness of history. History of neverness. Know words. No words.
Light. Now. Back lot, on knees amid cigarette ends, spent condoms, bullet casings, princess puking, carcass of dead puppy attracting butterflies & beetles to Sunset Debris dumpster. The Gourd 2 sits on steps sharpening knife on leather strap.
“What is your problem, my friend? Huh? You never learn. You want synchrony or diachrony?” he says, heavy accent making words almost unintelligible.
Say, “Give me what you got.”
The Gourd 2 spits, stands.
“I draw you picture,” he says, takes out primrose yellow, baby pink, & powder blue chalks from shoulder holster.
“I am sender,” he says, writing on back door of roadhouse.
“You are receiver,” he continues. “This,” he says, kicking ribs, “is context; this,” he says, kicking jaw, “is channel; & this,” he says, kicking genitals, “is code. Z does not want anything to do with you,” he says, “you get message? You go far away.” He laughs, tiny black stubs of teeth, ends of burned matchsticks.
Say, “So far away to come back again?”
Roll into ball. He steps back. Jump up, roundhouse kick temple, connects, goes down, stomp his heart, want to make it stop,
Say, “Every linguistic sign is located on two axes: the axis of simultaneity & that of succession, so fuck you!”
Open door; hear roaring bass line of pumping thrash-metal track. The Mex sitting at bar dressed in lilac satin shift, purple feather boa, scarlet six-inch heels.
Say, “Where is she?”
Mex licks lips; sweat breaks through thick pancake foundation. Mex opens mouth. Whatever words are there shrivel, die.
Say, “Again, where is she?”
“If we choose, we can live in a world of comforting illusion,” Mex says.
“Look, baby, one more time, & tell it straight, come on, spill, where is she?”
Mex dummies up. Slap her. Mex won’t break. Hear Z’s laugh. Turn. Z’s beauty blinds.
“I have to go now,” Z says.
Say, “Please stay. We need to finish this.”
Z laughs, says, “I have not been a good friend. This is the last time I will talk to you.”
Head spins. Z laughs again. Feel nauseous at thought of not killing her. Z steps towards, closes eyes & opens mouth. Lean forward. Feel her breath on lips, smell honeysuckle mint. Close eyes. Honeysuckle turns to brimstone, mint to iron. Flash. Open eyes, see trail of grey smoke. No Z. Music stops. Lights come up.
Mex says, “She said you did not have the cojones to kill her.”
Say, “Have just grown a new set.”
Leave. Night. Two grey-blue stars visible in sky slip quicksilver, fall & fall again. See a squiggle of black whiplash over hilltop, smear of slime caught in moonlight. Hear Z’s laugh. Follow along highway, twists & turns just out of reach, just out of touch. Stop. Look back. Should never do. Splash of dark red urine on rear window. Roadhouse’s neon sign blinks on in hiss of static. With night as backdrop, read the words THE BROKEN HEART, watch lights plink, blink, click off, night engulfing…
Roadhouse Blues
…the roadhouse, the still of the desert closing in as I watch the backlights of the Thunderbird paint liquorice lines in the darkness. He’s gone. For now. I walk around the bar turning off the jukeboxes, breathing in the smell of sweat, alcohol, and moisturizer. I sit on a stool, pour myself a sweet cider, look up at the ceiling, the slowing fans, the chasing flies, like children running after a carousel, know that beyond the tobaccoed ceiling, in my bed, beneath dark blue satin sheets, the Mex sleeps, her clitoris buzzing with the thrum of her thumb, her shaved labia a dusky pink, her asshole a black hole sucking in her little finger, the sheets beneath stained with vaginal juices and KY jelly, the thin stream of her pubic hair flowing into the shallow lake of her navel, the scorched valley of her sculptured abdomen lying flat before her augmented breasts, the slightly wall-eyed nipples, her tongue lolling on her chin, her mouth open in a perfect circle, the shiny white teeth, Arlington gravestones, her tiny nose, her long eyelashes, her eyes dark and sparkling, her hair spilling over the pillow like an oilfall. She waits for me.
The sweet cider reminds me of X. Shit… The cockroach exploring the dropped peanut shells, the spilled beer, the scrunched and semen-sodden tissues, remind me of X. The rocks and stones of the desert remind me of X. The small scars. The bruises. The only way to get it done is to do it myself. I know that now.
“Take him to the theme park,” I hear a little voice say. “Take him to the beast.”
We met for the first time a million times. That’s what it felt like. I asked him the ultimate question and he answered, “Yes”. He asked me his version and I told him “Yes” when all along the only answer to any question is “No”. A negative corollary to an over-emotional interrogative. Love must always be answered negatively. Instead of the auxiliary verb “Do” he should have asked using the preterite modal verb “Could” and never the simple futurity of “Will”. The future is never simple. From the moment I met X, our twinned futures would always be complex. Time to put a stop to it. Time to return to the present. Forget the past and the future will take care of itself. I should have known to take care of this.
“Take him to the theme park,” a voice says. “Take him to the beast.”
I sip at the sweet cider, feel its sugar in my throat. The dress I’m wearing, the denim one, poppered along the middle from knee to throat, is his favorite. Was his favorite. He’d run his hand over my neck, softly stroke my throat with his tattooed knuckles—HOPE—encircle it with his strong hand, squeeze, his other hand—my name—holding on to the neck of the dress, and then he’d pull, the pearly poppers bursting open, revealing my nakedness, my skin flushed pink with arousal. He would stare at my body, my small breasts, my long legs, stare into my eyes, turn me quickly, throw me over whatever piece of furniture was at hand, pull out his cock, me wet and spreading, or one knee up, calf muscles stretching, and then… Then he’d put his cock away, run from the room sobbing followed by my laughter.
Later, he’d return and we’d lie on the floor and he’d raise himself on one arm and say,
“I really want to kiss you.”
And I’d reply, “
That wouldn’t be a very good idea.”
And he’d roll on his back and look at the ceiling and say,
“I’ve spoiled things now, haven’t I?”
And I’d say, “No. No. Just give me time.” Huh, time…
“Take him to the theme park,” a loud voice says, “Give him to the beast.”
I tiptoe upstairs, open the bedroom door, the Mex is now asleep, her golden thighs clutching the sheets, a rodeo rider hanging on for dear life as the satin takes her on a night-time ride. I stroke her hair. She mumbles something in Spanish—Muerte. I take my leather hold-all from the bottom of the wardrobe, throw in various dresses, some underwear, the scalpel set I bought from the faggots, the black surgical twine, the steel scissors. From a box, I take the coals from the rusty stove I found at the theme park. Someone told me coal was lucky. Ancient, the solidification of death. I place a coal in a waxed paper bag, and then another, and then another. I stroke the Mex’s hair, close the bedroom door as she turns in her sleep.
Pinker prowls the stairs waiting for me. I take him into the bar, grab a towel, wet it and wipe his muzzle still thick with the puppy’s blood. Drip the blood into each waxed paper bag. Maybe I should take him with me. Let him loose and watch him go. Nah. X would kill him and I wouldn’t want that. I need to think how to do it. Use something that he loves. But what? Beer? Drown him in a bath full, watch the suds spurt pink from his nostrils—pilsner and blackcurrant. Bourbon? Tie him to a chair, funnel it in, bottle after bottle until his liver explodes, his blood turns to alcohol to poison. Books? Break his spine, rend his skin into pages, tattoo him within an inch of his death—King James’ Bible, Pilgrim’s Progress, Don Juan, The Cantos, Ulysses… or some of the Americans: Moby Dick, The Complete Poe, Visions of Cody, Executioner’s Song, Gravity’s Rainbow, Underworld, Infinite Jest… Or those Japs: The Pillow Book, Forbidden Colors, Woman in the Dunes, No Longer Human… Nor the future be. Use the scalpels as pens, the blood as ink, the surgical twine as punctuation… Use him as a blank page. Use him. I take down the book, open it check the gun is sleeping tightly there, smell its oil, its contained heat. A noun pulsing to verb.
I know where he’ll go. I know where he’ll be. After months of not wanting to be
followed it is I who will do the following, be the follower. The motel.
I go to the kitchen out back, open the fridge, take from it a T-bone. Pinker sits at my feet, looking up, his yellow eyes more cat-like than dog, his clipped ears alert, his stub of a tail wagging. I scratch his frowning, inquisitive head and lay out the steak in his bowl; cartoon-like, it hangs over the sides, a flop of flesh dripping watery blood onto the stainless steel floor. Over the rooftop, I hear a slithering, a rattle, wet teeth chittering.
I throw on a denim jacket, heft my bag onto my shoulder, put on my Queen of all Insects sunglasses, open the roadhouse doors and step out into the night. The Gourd’s brother stands by my car ticking in the road, itching to go. He opens the door, bows extravagantly, says,
“Instead of following one another the sounds overlap; a sound which is acoustically perceived as coming after another one can be articulated simultaneously with the latter or even in part before it.”
“I know that,” I say. “Thank you.”
I slip into the seat, look up at The Gourd 2. He smiles, says,
“Everyone, left to his or her own devices, forms an idea about what goes on in language which is very far from the truth.”
“Fucking A,” I say and gun the car, wheels squealing, sand thrown up like a cape behind me. Splash of dark red urine on rear window. I turn on the CD player, turn up the volume, The Kings of Leon’s “Use Somebody” throttles the speakers. I drive and drive and then I drive some more, until…
Pterodactyl Waltz
…hours later, on motel room bed smelling of stale tobacco & staler sweat, walls a color only seen on consumptive albinos, window blinds zigzagging mess of seismic disarray. It starts like this. Itch. Tightening scab lifting at edges, crust a darker red than new blood beneath. But can’t help myself. Confrontation equals language. Whichever way. Always chasing the full stop. Fulls top. Period. Stare into mirror, look at reflection. Ghost of her always there beside me. Shadow being. Being shadow. Shaft of light cuts across murk, shifts seductively around chair legs, garbage bin, brings with it sound of car engine, slamming of door, jangling intercourse of keys. Stand. Room reels. Hold on to air. Roll with it. Open door an inch, look along walkway to motel reception. Above car engine, air ripples with heat, tiny yellow butterflies combust & fall on hood leaving grey snow. She steps out of office, large brown sunglasses making her look like the Queen of all Insects, mouth pouting always in anticipation, dusting of freckles across delicate bridge of nose, chestnut hair caught in breeze. She carries a book. The book. Can barely make out title but know its hollowed-out pages & can see x-ray shine of her gun. That straining of energy, that will to transform matter. She takes off her denim jacket, she wears a sleeveless floral dress, cowboy boots. On her left arm, tattoo of black rose surrounded with her keyword—my name—scored out & scarred, terrible ridges of white-hard flesh surrounding flower. Remember night before the last night sitting drunk on her bedroom floor, she trying to cut it out, gouging beautiful flesh, tattoo already excised & bleeding, a dying jellyfish on bathroom floor. Flopping, reeking, pulsing. Punches. Kicks. Hell out of there. Until next time. Always. Next. Time. Until.
Watch as she pulls heavy leather hold-all from trunk, carries it in both hands to room next to mine, opens door, swings bag in, follows it. Wait a few minutes & step out. Sky an impossible peacock blue, scant clouds trundle across it as if whole world a film set. Pullies. Dollies. Microphones twitching. Cameras swiveling. In the distance, black tail whips over hillsides, stirs sand into djinn, demons, devils. Birds, dizzy in thin air, flash & crash, disappear. Blinds drawn but one slat caught, flipped over. Put one eye to dusty window, close other. Heavy bag on bed, grotesque amputated crocodile. Z stands in front of dark-green screen of television. Starts to undress. Kicks off cowboy boots, undoes a few buttons on floral dress—flowers tiny, pink & purple on white background, cherry blossoms in snow. Pulls down straps from shoulders, breasts small & perfect, stomach flat & pale; naked beneath cotton. See inswing of her sex, scant hairs chestnut & milk chocolate. She leans forward, breasts barely move, nipples erect in air-conditioned cool. Opens hold-all, takes from it paper bag, places it on bed, takes out another, places it beside first; & another & another until bed covered in paper bags gaping cubic toads, stupid & prehistoric. Shadows inside, baby crow in translucent egg. Z walks to back of room; watch her perfect ass, cheeks moving in independent suspension. Hear shower start, cough, stutter & roar, jets break & splutter as water washes over body. Try door handle. It gives. Walk into room. Stroke dress, run hand over scuffed leather of her boots, sniff them. Turn to bed. Paper bags sit squat on duvet cover. Pick one up, weigh it in hand, it has heft, volume. Open it with two fingers, look in, reel back, drop it, open another, & another, put hand to mouth, shake head, each bag contains a human heart blackened & burned. The scat of the beast.
Breathe deeply. Need bourbon. Reach for flask. Bedside table. Look at hers. Roses in a vase. Nice touch. Bend down to smell, rid nostrils of reek of rent muscle. Flowers plastic, sterile. Walk to bathroom. Door open, walls color of boiled ham. Step in. Inhale steam essence of her. Behind clouded glass door, see her body, lithe, writhing in jets, tiny hammers on her body. Remember first time we fucked. On her hands & knees, behind her gently thrusting, feeling heat & clench of her, shoulder blades jutting stubs of newly hewn wings. Flush of her neck. Her mouth half sneer, half smile. Trembling thighs. Aorta echoing in blood. Rollercoaster of vagus nerve as she spasms. Spasm. Spasm. Leaning forward, in final thrusts, whisper into her ear,
“I have always loved you.”
Z looking back at me, hair hanging down, laughing, saying,
“You always will.”
Now, through glass door, watch as Z washes hair. Smell mint exc
itement of her shampoo; imagine spumy molecules running down her back, over her ass, streaming foamily down her legs. Close eyes. Bang head on wall. Snap out if it. Walk back into bedroom, search through things—smell of her—vanilla oranges—overwhelming, dizzying—find her Longman Grammar of Spoken & Written English. Open it, flip through to basic structure of noun-headed phrases chapter. Here, chiseled into page headed “Use of countable nouns in Text samples”, her Ruger SP101. Take it out. Check it’s loaded. Step back into bathroom. Steam obscures view. Jets pounding in ears, in blood. Open door. Aim revolver. She isn’t there.
Look up. Something skitters across roof, zigzagging, heavy. Hear jaws grind wetly.
Holding it down, struggling with it—beast held under water—now it reared up thrashing & snarling—memory of her. Sitting in motel room, looking out into desert, sand rippling, dermis of giant worm, remember first proper day we spent together: sitting on banks of river waiting for her, she slipped silently through trees, wolf shadow & smoke, black tail whipping somewhere over the treetops, held her & held her, touching her soft skin, tasting her lips, tongue entwined in hers. After awhile, she pulled away, looked with those wet stone eyes flecked with azure, said,
“Would you kill a man for me?”
She knelt down, unbuttoned, opened her exquisite mouth. Knew that day, when memory loomed, days were over, would have to have her. Her long legs, arches of her feet, those goddamn eyes. Last day together, after tearing out heart & spitting on it, she had written a letter. Received. Burned & tossed into trash. Memorized it. It said,