by Unknown
***
The following morning, the clean-up crew arrived to begin dismantling the destroyed park attraction. They were shocked to find Bluey, an extension cord tight around his neck, hanging from the mouth of the Ghost Train. He had ripped it from a generator that ran the Ferris Wheel and used it as a noose. Fixing it above the entrance to the doomed tunnel, Bluey had climbed to the top and wrapped the other end several times around his neck. Standing atop the death trap, which had taken the lives of young Jackie Daniels and several men, women and children, Bluey let himself fall forward into a slow motion dive. As the cord reached its full extension, Bluey’s body violently jerked and his neck snapped. He died instantly.
The amusement park never opened again. It remained though, as a terrible reminder of tragedy that fell into disrepair, until finally, years later, it was pulled down for good.
I’M GOING TO FUCK THE PRETTY BOY AND GET YOUR BROTHER HIGH
Dani Brown
I’m not high. I should be. I haven’t had enough sleep. The fabric of reality is tearing away.
If I take this, I will be high. Swallow this little pill sat in the palm of my hand. But I’m saving it.
To share with your brother. To share with the pretty boy. I don’t care which. Either will do. Or both at the same time.
I look out my window, twitching the net. It doesn’t matter if everything is surrounded by a purple aura. It is still light in colour. I’m waiting. For someone. Two someones. They both agreed to come over. Said I needed some help. Didn’t run into an explanation. There wasn’t any point. They wouldn’t have come if I explained. Would have been scared.
But this pill sitting in my palm. There were more. They were strong. I would share the first with whoever showed up first and then get another half for the late arrival. I didn’t want to get up, but I didn’t want to sit still. My recliner was comfortable and space enough for two.
I wanted to share it with the pretty boy and not your brother. Your brother could watch the walls melt while I fucked the pretty boy. All of us high. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Your brother would bring reefer. We will be higher. A knock on the door. I tripped over my own feet answering. Whoever was there heard. One of the two.
I answered and was greeted by, “Are you okay?” Wasn’t one of the two. Some charity or religion trying to sell something, the first paid on commission only – they would be representing a different charity next week before realising the job was a scam. The second option really believed in what they were doing and weren’t paid. I didn’t care which had come to the door, I was expecting company. “Get lost!” I said and slammed the door in their faces.
I crushed my pill in the fall. A straw from the kitchen allowed me to snort chunks and powder ensuring none went to waste. Wasting drugs was not my scene.
It didn’t take long for the double dose to take effect. The purple auras melted into the objects they surrounded, before the trees started to breathe green making it a muddy brown puking into the sky.
The next knock on the door was visible. My pretty boy stood there in girls’ clothes clutching flowers he plucked from someone’s garden. I could see their death. Their aura was sick. Releasing death into the air. I didn’t want to offend him, but I didn’t want death touching me. I ran to kitchen shedding clothes on the way.
“Here, take this,” I said.
I handed him a pill. By this point I was naked. My clothes strewn across the floor. The cotton used to make the fabric was long since dead but it still exhaled death in grey. I didn’t want anything apart from synthetic fabric and my pretty boy near me.
He was sick. I could see it. One last fuck before healing would take place. It would be painful. I couldn’t sit on his face. I would break him before your brother arrived.
Your brother was always fucking late to these things. He was either so laid back he didn’t own a watch or didn’t really want to take part but did out of some sort of obligation. I kept files on people. Lots of files on dead trees. Some were fresh enough to sigh a little green with the exhales. I had a lot of shit on your brother, want to see?
Pretty boy’s drugs kicked in and he stripped. A nudist colony would have been preferred in this state, but sober, all those people were fucking ugly. The come down would hit too hard. They hit hard at the best of times, but staring at greying ball sacks with grey pubes braided together and strung with beads was a bit too much. At least elderly nudists had reefer aplenty, but it wasn’t a place I would opt to take this particular pill in.
By the time the next knock was heard, I was on top of the pretty boy. He couldn’t get it up no matter how much sucking and licking I did. I shoved my tongue down his throat in search of tonsils that weren’t there before letting in your brother.
He had a friend with him. How fucking cute. So your stoner brother brought me another play thing. Some sort of sacrifice he was. His health was poor at the best of times. Sickly, but not an experienced drug user.
There were plenty of drugs to go ‘round. In the kitchen, on the counter, help yourself. I need to get pretty boy hard. We can have a four-way afterwards, but I get first fuck. First fuck on top of the pretty boy. Tell your brother’s friend to go easy on the drugs, his system couldn’t handle them.
His lipstick was smudged. At least it didn’t have an aura of death surrounding it. Your brother can’t see it yet, but he will. So will his friend.
His friend’s health is failing him. He knows it. He shouts about it from the top of his lungs. But no one listens because he is just so fucking strong, determined and seriously lacking in the IQ department. I’ll listen right after I fuck pretty boy to levels of equally stupid.
An arm reached out of the wall and grabbed me. Your brother’s friend, king of bad health pulled me away, but it tore my hair out, leaving it straggly and patchy in places. I looked like shit covered in my own puke.
The hand was there. It wasn’t the drugs. My sleep deprived mind would have noticed something off, but only with these pills could I truly see.
Your brother was really high by this point. Tripping balls from whatever the pills actually were. All the reefer he toked on his way here, never passing the joint to his friend with failing health didn’t help him much. That shit was fucking strong. I should know. I smoked enough of it. Weren’t normal reefer, that. Fucking dusted with some hyper coke or some shit. I don’t really care.
The arm was what mattered now. Your brother stared at it, drool seeping out of his mouth. His tongue poked out a bit too. Human drool and the human tongue have different coloured auras even when falling out of the mouth of the same person.
He was the first to go. The arm, talons poised with sharpened nails, ready to swoop. He was the weak point. He didn’t even scream. His aura went a final shade of blood red before he was swooped away.
My pretty boy laid out on the recliner. The blood splatter got him hard. I saw my chance and jumped on top. Your brother’s friend looked away in embarrassment. It was like he never watched a couple fuck before.
The drugs were starting to kick in for him. He tore away his own clothes. His body was red, whether it was drugs, illness or embarrassment, I didn’t know, couldn’t tell, and really couldn’t care less. His cock was at least semi-hard. If he brought it over I would have sucked him off.
Your brother’s loss wasn’t that big of a deal. The blood splatter wasn’t pleasant cleaning out of the white carpet. Really, what the fuck was I going to say to the cops? A giant arm swept out of the wall and pulled him away while somehow ripping off his arms and legs with something invisible, throwing the gnawed bones back out at me again? It may have been what happened but it wasn’t exactly believable now.
Naked, his friend positioned himself in the centre of the room. It didn’t occur to him the arm could swoop out of the floor or ceiling as well. I have immense respect for his survival instincts. Probably what kept him alive through all his ailments. But I really wanted to sample the taste of pretty boy’s cum on the b
ack of my throat. It meant more to me than my own survival.
It didn’t take long to bring my pretty boy to ejaculation. Once he was up, he was always a quick and easy fuck. No fuss. No messing about. Just fucking and oral sex.
The jiz burnt inside me while it shot out. His eyes rolled into the back of his head displaying the whites. Foam dripped out his mouth. I jumped off, creamy white jiz dripping down my thighs. I was done with him. I had what I wanted. But, boy, did his cum burn. Even the dimples in my thighs where it pooled before gravity took charge and pulled it further down my leg felt the burn.
That’s when I remembered your brother’s friend. He pulled me by my ankles. I thought it was the talon at first because that mother fucker had some coke nails. All he wanted was to lick the creamy white burning fluid of hell from my legs. From my thighs. He rolled some from a dimple in thigh between his fingers and wiped it all over his chest.
The arm came out of the wall again. This time it was a hand. I didn’t fail to notice the blood underneath the nails. Still hungry. It went for me and your brother’s friend. Touching me, it was like ice then it cowered and turned away.
Rats had taken off with my pretty boy’s lost semen. They wanted to wash in it. It didn’t have an aura, just a void where it touched. His balls were drained, and his dick was once again back to its usual limp state.
I don’t know what went on behind the wall until the bones were spat out, and then I could only guess, but I don’t think he ever had the opportunity to get it up again. Pretty boys who don’t give a shit about who they fuck are hard to find. His loss I missed most of all, but your brother brought his friend. A friend who wanted to live.
Trusting was not something that came easy to someone whose mind was riddled by the paranoia of long term drug use, usually just a joint or three before bed with harder stuff reserved for weekends and bank holidays, but it all took its toll. I trusted this sick looking little man. Little in sense of his height; that mother fucker was very well hung. He wiped my legs, looking for semen. At first, I thought he had some sort of fetish, but he wiped it all over the floor and then crawled on his hands and knees to the door.
I followed while my pretty boy’s bones were spat out. The arm didn’t like the spunk. We didn’t have long to open it. The dead wood sent out scents of death as well as the visual grey aura. The jiz was drying. The arm might not mind crusty cum flakes as much as the liquid. Choking on death, we had to get the door open.
Your brother and my pretty boy were blood and bones by that point. Nothing we could have done to bring them back unless fucking on the sidewalk could have brought them back (it didn’t, we tried). I’m terribly sorry about your loss and all, but I too suffered the loss of my pretty boy.
Your brother’s friend wasn’t as easy on the eye, although his cock was always ready for more until my tight anus gave it friction burns, and I had to find another lay for a few weeks. He sweated a lot. My pretty boy was always dry, except that time we drunk ourselves into pissing all over the house.
Enough fucking on the sidewalk, for all we knew the arm could escape the confines of my house. The neighbours didn’t care that we were basically streaking, dressed only in our puke, pretty boy’s cum flakes and your brother’s friend’s jiz. It wasn’t a nice neighbourhood.
Naked junkies weren’t exactly an unusual sight in these parts. No one bothered to phone the cops. I knew there would be time to clean the blood and make some sort of decorative item from the bones before they came out. They needed their own police escort. For cops, this neighbourhood was a no-go zone.
We needed to come down. We ran hand-in-hand for the park. His cock was already erect again. I liked the way it bobbed with life as we ran together. Sex for life, it shouted to anyone who had swallowed these pills (as far as I knew it was just me and him).
So sorry about your brother. Recovery of his bones was an exercise in fear. Anxiety coursed in sync with my paranoia. His friend cried off with the flu but was back later to take me to a cheap motel – fleas and drugs that time. My reward for clean-up was a dirty bed, better than the bench in the park with the winos singing the night away beneath a murky urban sky. Some of them actually had something of a voice and a make shift guitar (metal trash can lid and some strings plucked out of whatever dumpster they dived in for their dinner).
You don’t care, though. You don’t care about anything apart from finding out what happened to your brother. Yes, the cops did eventually come out. They would have had better luck sending out paranormal investigators. I wasn’t arrested on a drugs charge despite my selection of marijuana plants sunning themselves in the window. They were here looking for murder.
What was I to tell them? My walls ate your brother and my former lover. Might find some part of one or both of them if you knock down the plaster. I was another bad trip away from being detained under the Mental Health Act, or so my paranoia informed me. It was hard to say if that was true. My new lover, not so pretty boy, needs a paper bag to cover his head boy, thought it might be true. His paranoia and tolerance of people was on par with mine.
Our love life was much like a game of golf, but what would you care? It’s your brother you’re concerned about. Poor people, especially junkies constantly trying to escape the reality of their situation in a continuous cycle of abuse and never escaping the confines of their poverty, don’t play golf. We do. While we’re high. In the bedroom or on broken sofas foraged from the roadside in your rich neighbourhood – too good to take out the trash. Wouldn’t want to break a nail now, would you?
I’m dripping with buckets of sweat because you chopped up my plants and took away my stash. Like the twitching? I could tell you better where your brother is while high. The event occurred while we were all tripping. Don’t you think I want my pretty boy back? I’d find a way to transplant your brother’s friend’s cock and personality onto his body and fuck all day and all night for weeks on end until the drugs are long out of my system. He was easy on the eye. Great to look at. Not so great at anything else.
Look, I don’t know what happened to your brother. His bones are over there. Split in half, that’s how they came out of the wall. I hung them up with some feathers glued to them. A hot glue gun, a gift from my niece. Junkies are marvellous engineers. My niece wasn’t dumb, she knew this. You don’t though; you don’t appreciate what lurked in your brother. A twisted demon that only came out in the right company. But he was slipping up more and more in later life.
I don’t know, maybe with his bones you can knock down my walls and bring him back. Worth a try. Your toenail is worth more than this dump. You look angry enough to try. Go ahead, do it.
A knock on the door. My new lover. He knows he isn’t pretty. He does try though. Today it is eyeliner. Yesterday it was lipstick in cherry red. He knows I like that. I think I might be in love, but what does that matter? He ain’t pretty, but he puts in the effort. I would still love my pretty boy back.
Go on, find your brother in my walls. I mixed up his bones and pretty boy’s. What can I say? I was high. You try thinking straight when you’re high. I can’t do it when sober, either.
The anger is there lurking in your eyes. Beneath the surface of your skin. I feel uneasy, but it isn’t you or withdrawal causing it. The walls are moving again.
It isn’t rats. I killed all of them last week. I take great pleasure in bashing in their disease-riddled heads. Alas, there are no rats. Not for another few weeks until they recolonise my front room.
I would warn you. I do try. But the words aren’t there without the pills. I can only see faint auras and the fragment of words. I’ve become more dependent on them these past few weeks. Give me my pills, arsehole.
They’re prescribed to me now. The doctors in these parts will write a ‘script for anything as long as they get paid. You wouldn’t know that though; your doctors are decent hard working folks who never come across society’s spat up dregs.
Give me my drugs before I bash in your head with your brother
’s bones, or maybe they’re my former lover’s. Why does it matter? I’ve masturbated with all of them at one point or another down in the park on the bench listening to the winos sing at the moon, hidden behind the urban haze. I only wanted to feel close to my pretty boy, dead, dying, somewhere behind my walls.
The plastered cracked. It’s behind you, I wanted to shout. The words were lost somewhere between my brain and throat so all that came out was a guttural sound, much like what I make when I hit orgasm. My lover’s state without the pill isn’t much better. He manages to point. You look behind you and see the arm. Tentacles on offer today.
I knew it was there, still hungry, waiting for someone who never tasted my pretty boy’s spunk. The scream you make, you sound like a little girl who just saw a little tiny spider. You jump back into my junkie arms. They don’t have track marks yet, but they will in the near future. Yours will too. Today has blown your fucking mind.
We’re all clothed though. That’s an improvement on the last time we ran out of the front door, away from whatever lived in the walls. It ate my rats. That’s why there are less of their skulls to crush beneath my boots.
You’re scared. That’s good. You pissed yourself. That’s bad. It won’t be the first time.
The bricks move. There won’t be any fucking on the sidewalk this afternoon. Even in broad daylight, or as much daylight as urban haze allowed through, the neighbours were at it.
Despite the fact you pissed yourself, you still manage to look around in disgust. You've never seen an urban ghetto before? You created it by buying too many houses and keeping all the dregs trapped together with the occasional hard working family holed up behind barbed wire. Look around. Like what you see? I didn’t think so.
Give me my fucking drugs. Give my lover his drugs. He looks better when I take them. They improve his health. Without my pretty boy to run back to, I want this one healthy. He’s the one. If you’d let me, I’d work and pay for some sort of laser treatment to banish the pock marks and smooth out his skin. A paper bag would no longer be needed in bed. Or strong hallucinogenics. I liked those more. They hurt his feelings less. I was considerate like that. Unlike you. You have no fucking manners coming around here accusing me of murdering your bother. I like your stab proof vest, but can it tame the neighbour’s shot gun? Guns are illegal which means there’s an abundance in these parts.