The thin blouse she wore matched her bridal veil, and the black skirt was tight. With caring hands, he lifted it up to see her face. He was the only one who got to see her face.
Underneath wide eyes looked at him. Her black hair spilled out from underneath the pins, as dark as a raven’s wing. Her nose was etched by the hand of a great artist and her teeth smiled, lips pulling back like the curtain before a big dance. Her skin was white, as pure as the cocaine that was running rampant through his veins. There were so many things about Marget to enjoy, but his favorite part was the tiny mole that sat on the side of her cheek. It was not large. Most people wouldn’t even notice it if they looked at her, and they would not look twice. But it was there. That slight imperfection. It was a pin prick, like the first star on a full moon night. Now his lips reached for that mole like a young calf reaching for mother’s udder, kissing it gently. He ran his tongue over the smooth hairs that sprouted from its center. Then they drifted upwards to meet hers and they locked for a single blissful moment. In that moment everything was perfect, and the universe was flawless.
Joseph opened his eyes and stared into hers. They were beautiful eyes. He stared at her shell-like ears, unadorned by rings and perfectly shaped. But it was the mole he liked best. That was her point of imperfection. Right now, it was turning him on.
One hand started to fumble at the buttons on her blouse, peeling them through the thin fabric. Underneath the bra offered up some slight resistance, but he kissed her and felt her chest heave, as if it was leading his fingers to the latch in the back. Her heart was beating somewhere underneath his open palm and he could hear it in his mind, pounding into him like a flesh hammer. All his nerves were tripped and traveling upwards into his brain, moving in time with his own. He and Marget found a perfect pitch that they could dance to and they became a single soul, merged and kissing passionately on the trailer bed.
Outside a noise disturbed them both. She sat up in shock and he turned away from her. Quickly he jerked the veil back down, hiding her face from anyone who might dare look inside their trailer. Marget was so ugly, no man should have to suffer that. Her ugliness belonged to him and him alone.
With all the speed of a man on crack he darted to the door and threw it open. Outside a shadow shot off into the dark, returning to the abyss that had spawned it.
Only it was not going to get away so easily. “Who’s there?” Joseph demanded and moved down the short steps of the trailer, into the dim light of the porch. The only answer was from the crickets and the mosquitoes, crying softly in the night. In the doorway Marget appeared, clutching her half-open dress to her naked body. “Turn on the lights,” Joseph told her.
She did so, snapping on the outdoor lantern. The illumination revealed vandalism. Two words had been spray painted on the side of his trailer. They were still dripping ink. Ring Worm.
“What does it mean?” she asked quietly. Joseph reached out and wrapped a loving hand around her waist as they both read the words, again and again, like some strange poem. The paint was black and red and wet, sending tendrils down the side of his home. It was a declaration of war.
“I don’t know,” Joseph told her. “That new guy. Maybe. The dude with the van.”
“But he seemed so nice,” Marget argued. “Why would he do this?”
Joseph shrugged. “I’m not sure.” Only he was sure. Somewhere something buried deep in his crack addled mind stirred and yearned to remember.
Beyond them the night was laughing. He could hear it, like fingernails against a chalk board. He took his fiancée inside and decided to clean his gun.
The Visitors
The sound of chickens fighting slipped in through one of the many cracks in the window frame. Once again Leonard Samson wished that he could turn the outside world off.
Because he hated the outside world. That was why he wrote. It had been something he had done since childhood, sitting in front of the typewriter hammering out stories that took place in other worlds. The worlds in his mind were far better than those outside. The world outside was an awful place.
Now the typewriter was silent, and he listened to the Mexicans outside curse Jesus Christ for their failures as their cocks lost in their fights. He listened to them throw down bets and cheer as the victors collected their money. He heard the threats of the losers, all in that strange language that seemed full of whistles and rolling R’s. His hearing zeroed in deeper, and now he could hear the loose change rattling around in their khaki pockets. He could hear paper money being folded and stuffed into cheap button-down shirts. He could hear cheap drugs being snorted or injected directly into welt pulpy skin. He could hear tabs being snapped off cans of beer and slurped quickly. He could hear chickens clucking and the despair of the roosters as they bled-out and died in the dust.
Cock fighting was a filthy, disgusting sport. And it was very popular in these parts, especially behind the liquor store. Of course, nothing like that ever happened inside The Copacabana. It was all over the fence, out of sight and out of mind.
Leonard Samson stood up and groaned. His typewriter was silent. The trailer was small and rocked as he stretched, like a ship in a very weak storm. All around him were books. The trailer was cramped with books. There was not much room to move around.
He would have things no other way. Sometimes he had nightmares about drowning in paper. When he awoke he realized that they were a pleasant dream. There was a silence in paper. There was a peace in death like nothing he had known in this world.
Remains from dinner still stank in the small kitchen. Once again, he had a meal of bull testicles, what they called prairie oysters in Texas, washed down with an energy drink that would keep him active for hours yet. He slammed down some pills that promised him a night of pleasure, with a picture of an engorged bull on the packaging. Leonard could already feel his penis stiffening.
A full-length mirror hung on the closet door, staring at him with a single slick strip of glass. Leonard looked at himself. He saw his hollow eyes, sunk into his skull with lack of sleep. He saw his spindly arthritis ridden fingers, long and disgusting with nails that desperately needed to be trimmed. He saw the straggly gray hair sparse on his head and itching at the temples but lifting off the sides like horns. And he looked at the green teeth hiding behind thin pale lips, a cigarette butt dangling from them, always smoldering.
He looked closer into the blood shot eyes, and then slid over his long face down to his cheap button-down green shirt with matching baggy stained trousers. Bare feet ended in sharp claws because he had forgotten to trim them as well. He looked at himself and saw himself looking back at him. The mirror was mocking him.
An old ash tray fell into his hand. He barely noticed, so intent was he on studying himself. The ash tray was heavy with a short story that he had decided to burn instead of attempting to re-write. He inhaled deeply on his cigarette, finishing it before stubbing the spent butt out.
Then he hurled the ash tray with all his might against the mirror.
Sounds of glass shattering filled the silence. The mirror image was broken. Outside the Mexicans cried as another rooster died.
“Watch your step,” a hidden voice whispered. “Wouldn’t want to cut yourself.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Leonard spit back. He knew damn well that the voice did not exist. It was only in his head. It was his other side, the side of him that was connected to the art, making fun of him. Again. How many times had he considered killing himself just to shut that voice up? Too many to count.
And failures, all of them. How Leonard hated his many failures.
“You know, you really shouldn’t be breaking mirrors. Its bad luck,” the voice continued in that tone, the awful giggling tone he hated so much. It sounded like nails being scraped across a chalk board. “Seven years, Leo. Seven years of bad luck. Nothing for you, though, huh? You’ve had nothing but bad luck since the day you were born.”
“Shut up,” he mumbled and pulled the crumpled pack of cig
arettes from his shirt pocket. Only his mother called him Leo. He insisted that everyone else call him Leonard, or Mr. Samson. The voice knew that and did it solely to taunt him. He lit another cigarette and inhaled. Cigarettes would kill him. They would kill that voice, too. Although there was only one cigarette left. Not enough to kill anyone.
Damn. He would have to go out for another carton soon. And his funds were running low. Maybe when he was out he could pick up another energy drink? or maybe some more pills? He was feeling horny.
“You’re always feeling horny. So yeah, why don’t you pick up another energy drink.”
“Just let me think,” he begged the voice.
“Think? Shit. You don’t know how to think. And you know that the only way to ignore me is by writing.”
Leonard cursed. Puffed. Then once again collapsed behind his cold typewriter. Frozen pages of white paper looked back at him. He wheeled one into the machine.
A moist draft came in through the window and blew over his fingers light as angel breath. They hurt. His wrist hurt. His arms hurt. His chest hurt. Everything hurt. And he did not feel like writing.
But the typewriter was waiting. All those vigilant eyes, each of them silent. So many teeth, all coated with black ichor India ink, ready to lash out at the dreaded blank page they so despised. This machine. This beast. It devoured paper the same way it devoured the mind. It would not stop, he knew. It would never stop. There was no ending and, as a writer, he despised stories that did not end.
He put his fingers onto the keys. He was getting an erection, a big one. A painful one. There was only a single solution for that. Leonard began to move his fingers, making them dance like ten little ballerinas against the machine. The voice in his head fell silent. He stroked the keys, like a loving piano player at his erotic instrument. But he could not write. He could type, but he could not write.
Sound filled the trailer, but the words were hollow. They had no real feeling. No emotional intensity. The characters were nothing, only hollow humans that felt so empty. Desperately he stroked, acting out familiar erotic adventures in his mind. He saw autonomous women with heavily endowed men. There were threesomes and foursomes. Lesbians were here, along with slightly androgynous men. Fantasy after fantasy spilled out from his typewriter keys, followed by perversion after perversion, flowing from his fingertips like a leaking fountain. But it was like playing with himself on a warm day. Everything was flaccid.
His penis twitched and got stiff, but it was not even close to an orgasm. It was more of a mercy boner.
Leonard started to sweat. He wanted another cigarette, but he did not want to leave the trailer. Not in a state like this. Outside the Mexicans screamed as a cock won its fight. Money was collected. Ancient Gods were cursed. He heard a word. Acquaro.
Suddenly his head was full of fantasy. He could see Gods coming down from the mountains and taking other forms, alternate forms. He saw a God become a bull and begin to stalk the virgins through the fields. He saw that giant bull penis, fully erect and long as a man’s arm. He heard the virgins squeal when they saw it. How they wanted that child inside of them. The child of the Gods.
Then there was his voice, not the other voice. His voice, asking him again, “Why did you break that mirror? You can’t afford another.”
Leonard took his hands off the machine. He looked over at the shards on the floor. “Why? Because I don’t want to look at myself anymore,” he said.
“But I still love you,” the voice cooed now that the typewriter had gone silent. “I’m still here for you, Leonard. I’m your biggest fan, you know that. I always have been.”
“Shut up. Just shut the fuck up.”
“Well, if you aren’t going to write, why don’t you go out and have a drink, eh? Come on, man. Take a break. When was the last time you got tight? Go out and get tanked. Be honest, doesn’t a nice cold one sound good on such a hot night?”
“We tried that,” he grumbled. Memories filled his head, what little was left after his ten years spent drinking. All through his twenties he drank. Now he could remember the blurred nights and the sharp hang overs. He could remember the days spent writing bullshit erotic stories, trying to collect money to get drunk. “It didn’t work then. It won’t work now.”
“It worked for me.”
“Nah. Ruins the integrity,” he shook his head. “Of the art. Can’t write with a hangover.”
“But you can’t think without booze. Besides, it will relax you,” the voice prodded and purred. “Put you in touch with your inner self. I know that one of our neighbors is a pharmacist. He’s got pot. Remember how much you used to enjoy smoking pot?”
“YOU KNOW DAMN WELL I HATED SMOKING POT!” Leonard shouted.
“I know,” the voice mumbled softly.
Outside another chicken died. The Mexicans cheered just as loud as, if not louder than, the bullfights in Spain. Bottles of beer fizzled open. Lighters were flicked. Bongs were sparked. Two more roosters were laid into the dirt pen.
“Hey, I just thought of something. Maybe it’s time you lost your virginity, Leonard.”
Silence. He had no answer.
“Is that why you write all this porn, Leonard? You’ve never had a real piece of ass, so you need to make it up. All your dreams are perversions, Leonard. You need to get laid, Leonard.”
“I know. It gets me off.” Would a real woman get him off? He had always wondered but never dared. A woman might ruin his edge. She might take away his writing.
Leonard could not have that.
“But wouldn’t it be nice, just once? to get off with a girl? They’re sweet, Leonard. There’s nothing to be afraid of. They sweat, and they moan, and they groan. They’re warm, especially on cold nights. On cold nights that spot between their legs gets so fucking hot.”
His penis twitched. He felt the head throb. Now it felt close to orgasm.
“And who do you want to lose your virginity too? That sweet young girl you’re always writing about? What was her name?”
“Lila.”
“Lila Torne,” the voice agreed with a prurient twinge. “That’s why you’re writing, isn’t it? Trying to impress her. Write a best-selling novel and make enough money to afford her. That’s why you’re writing this garbage, Leonard. It ain’t pure. Your motives are selfish.”
“I know that.”
“You know but you keep on doing it. You’re going to write about her again, aren’t you? She’s your muse, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“And what happens when she reads your stories, Leonard? What happens when she discovers that you really are just a dirty old man who has never been with a girl ...”
The words fell from his fingertips. He watched them filter out through his mind, travel down his arms, exit through his cuticles, then splay out on the page for all the world to see. The words came faster now. He wrote about himself, and her. They were together. He maneuvered them into a beautiful situation. They sat alone beside a bubbling stream under a low grassy hill in a fantasy landscape. Weird birds danced about, and happy lizard like beasts frolicked in the clear water. There was an old wishing well and he cast his dime in, looking at her with a smile. He told her his wish, that they could be together forever. She laughed.
In this story he was a young man once again and she was willing. He tore off her clothes and kissed exposed flesh, his tongue searching, licking all that beautiful skin. His penis throbbed. It threatened to come.
But he was lying to himself. And his penis could sense lies.
The voice started to laugh. It was grating on his skull, like being rubbed with sand paper. “You really think she’s going to be impressed by that? A fucking fairy tale? Shit, you are a sick old man.”
In a fit of rage, he tore the page from the typewriter and crumpled it up. But this was not enough. It had to burn. It needed to be eradicated from this universe. It needed to be returned to the dust that spawned it. He took out the lighter.
“Get ahold of yo
urself, man! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“You’re right,” he said as the page was engulfed in flames. “I have no integrity. My life is lost. Empty. It’s all so fucking empty.”
“Hell, you never had a life to begin with,” the voice chuckled. “Never.”
Leonard Samson nodded as the page burnt his fingertips. He dropped it, hoping that the flame would take the trailer, too. Now his penis shuddered. Now his penis twitched. He felt a warmth in his pants that instantly turned cold as all his future children died.
Outside a Mexican screamed a prayer to a lost God. Acquaro, he shouted. Acquaro.
Leonard watched the fire burn. He waited for it to take him, but two figures stepped out of the smoke instead. Leonard looked at them, wondering if his mind had finally snapped. Had he finally gone off the deep end? They were made of the purest silver, like liquid mercury, flowing in his little trailer home. One was a boy, although he did not know how he knew that. The other was a girl, but they could have been anything. They were Gods.
Acquaro Page 4