Prelude to Space Rape! & Other Stories

by Jordan Krall

  I looked down at my dessert and wished I hadn’t ordered it. The brownie sundae looked disgusting, like shit covered with wet cotton. I said, “I don’t feel well.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I don’t.” I looked up at her. A few seconds before she hadn’t been wearing her sunglasses but now they were on her face: huge black bug eyes.

  “You are not going to leave,” she said. “You are not going to leave until I do.”

  So what was I going to do? Get up and leave? I didn’t have the guts to do that and she knew it. So what the hell else was I to do?

  I started eating my dessert.

  IX.

  I thought they were birds at first but then I realized I was hearing the fuses of a dozen other bombs as they hissed their conspiratorial blasphemy.

  X.

  Getting a job as a waiter was easy and so I couldn’t help but giggle as I served those two their desserts and watched as that asshole started eating his. The bitch just stared at hers, too cool to actually eat it. It figures. Rich bitch like that has to prepare to eat something so indulgent. It’s not like it’s caviar or some shit like that.

  And can you believe she lied and said she was married to the guy? Ha! It was fucking hilarious.

  Oh well, my plan was in place. Her father was a goner. You know, making a bomb isn’t that difficult if you set your mind to it, talk to the right people, listen to the right guys, the right information, be discerning. I got lucky and talked to that hardcore strega who did that job on Falcone. Shit, that was a beautiful and perfect example of that loop panic shit and I knew if I did it right, I’d be just as successful.

  Then my job would be completed. Vengeance done. Money earned. Her father would be blown to bits, an excellent cadaver sent into oblivion where it belongs.

  People will probably wonder: Oh, was the guy (in this case: me) abused as a child? Did his father and mother lock him in a closet or something?

  Well let me tell you: No, I was not abused. No, my father and mother never locked me in a closet. In fact, they didn’t even believe in locks. I had free reign of the house. Hell, I can’t even remember my father raising his voice to me. My mother, shit, my mother was a saint, always cooking and pouring me really sweet wine even when I was a kid.

  Okay, so where the hell was I?

  Like everything I did, I made the plans elaborate, probably more than they had to be but I figure I might as well. Why the hell not, eh? If you’re going to do something, might as well do it as extreme and as complex as possible. At least that’s what I think.

  So yeah, the fucking asshole at the table ate his dessert and didn’t notice the bitch dropping that capsule into his ice water; shit dissolved in two seconds at the most. I was almost tempted to say something to him about it, make things interesting, and fuck up the bitch’s plans but I thought I might as well stay out of it. My work would be done in due time.

  Well, anyway, I may just be the “waiter” but that’s my side of the story.

  XI.

  One minute I’m eating dessert and the next minute I’m lying on the floor of her bedroom no doubt located in a mansion worth more than my life. Her flip-flop was in my face, the sole of it stained brown from sweat and filth. They weren’t cheap flip-flops, that much I could tell. They were fancy as hell and were now a breathing apparatus, practically strapped to my face, filling my nostrils with an earthy, yet designer, stench. I felt cleansed and awakened. What the hell is wrong with me?

  I looked up at her face, bitchy and scornful as usual. I was an insect for her to smother under her shoe, to crush in a smelly haze of domination. It felt very familiar.

  Her mouth opened and she spat onto my forehead where it stayed for several minutes until it dissolved into my skin and bubbled through my skull.

  Then: the sound of an explosion somewhere outside.

  She dropped the flip-flop from my face, ran to the window, and screamed. “Dad!”

  I pulled myself up, went to the window and saw a car on fire, a fiery shell cracked in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary.

  Watching the flames, I thought about my own father. Where was he?

  He was probably still in that hospital, an ancient building full of vials and pulleys, ice water and dead-eyed doctors. It was an expensive hospital, one with a monthly bill that exceeded my yearly income which is the reason why my three younger sisters had to take over that responsibility. I became the unstable firstborn unable to fulfill his obligation.

  But should I feel guilty about it? It’s not like I didn’t try. Circumstances simply prevented me from providing for his care. Besides, it’s not like he was always mindful of my well-being growing up. He was the type of man who didn’t necessarily care about his children’s emotional welfare. As long as we were outwardly moral, that’s all he cared about. But he wasn’t a bad man. I wouldn’t even go so far as to call him a bad father but maybe he was put into his current position as some way of reaping what he had sowed. Being so wrapped up in his morality had prevented him from enjoying life to the fullest and I can’t help but wonder if his condition is somehow a result of that. But why should I carry that burden as well? Won’t I have enough of my own burdens to deal with as my life goes on?

  Those are terrible things to think about, I know, and I thought of them while watching the car on fire, a car that contained the remains of someone else’s father.

  I thought the car as a suicidal blaze. The flames got taller as if trying to reach the sky and its rain clouds in order to extinguish the inferno, to annihilate the roaring redness of the automobile.

  Her father’s corpse was no doubt nothing but ash though I hoped there would be something she could keep – a school ring, perhaps, or a pendent, a crucifix, something shiny, some symbol pretending to have importance while really being just an empty knick-knack destined for the bottom drawer of a warped and rotted night table.

  Barefoot, she ran outside to embrace the flames, to dig through the car and come out with her childhood hero, the judge himself, the man she searched for in other men. He had always been the gatekeeper to her fame but now….

  The car exploded again.

  She was ripped into two: both parts surprisingly dry as if there had not been blood in her body. They flew in separate directions.

  I picked her flip-flop off the floor, sniffed it, and realized it no longer held any power or significance to me.

  I needed a hospital. I needed ice water and pulleys, dead-eyed doctors and small red elevators, a dozen prescriptions and a breakfast that was plentiful but bland. I needed a fuzzy television, cold sheets, and an elusive son to turn his back on me out of lost faith and disappointment.

  So I found her car keys and started her car, half expecting it to blow up as well but I was safe. The only sound was the radio as it blurted out half-hearted rock music about white hearts and independence.

  I drove to a diner.

  XII.

  A tall Greek man brought me to a corner booth and there I waited for someone to come by and take my order. Out of nowhere a waiter walked up to the table. I thought it was strange that it was a waiter and not a waitress. Usually diners only hired women to be servers. Not only that but it was same creepy waiter from the restaurant.

  “What’ll you have?” he said.

  “Uh, maybe pancakes,” I said, looking down at the menu and seeing they offered several kinds. “The corn pancakes.”

  The creepy waiter grinned. “Good choice, buddy.”

  “What?”

  He leaned in close. He smelt like sulfur and rubber. “I said it was a good choice, buddy.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Anytime, buddy,” the waiter said. “Anytime.”

  XIII.

  The view outside my window is of an apple orchard and it is rotting. It is not a beautiful view but it’s a view. Some rooms don’t even have windows so it is something to be grateful for, I suppose.

  The wallpaper peels down in maize-shaped strips and fall down to the f
loor next to the dead toys.

  I believe I asked for ice water more than twenty minutes ago but I am still thirsty. I wonder what is taking them so long. Perhaps the small red elevators are stuck. Perhaps the explosion outside has delayed things. I simply cannot complain about that.

  Bedtime.

  I strap the breathing apparatus to my face and lie down. My chin lowers to my chest and I smell apples. I hear trains. I’ve heard trains all my life. I’ve carried my son across train tracks. My eyes zoom in on some birds outside my window. Are they birds? Maybe they are just smoke, smoke shaped like a young man.

  I wonder when that ice water is coming. I’m terribly thirsty.

  And terribly disappointed.

  NEON GUTTER MEAT

  I.

  “One of these days, I’ll gonna stab that motherfucker in the throat, know what I’m saying?” Grant dropped the crayon and picked up his cigarette. “I’m not saying I hate the guy but he just doesn’t shut up, you know?”

  Phil shrugged. “I guess.”

  “What do you mean, you guess? You hang out with the guy. You’re telling me you like hearing the same stories over and over? Come on, Phil, don’t give me that bullshit. Don’t be a pussy.”

  “I’m not. I’m not saying I like his stories but I just don’t think I feel as strongly about it as you do,” Phil said, choosing a crayon from the pile. He grabbed a paper and started to color Santa Claus.

  Grant let the unlit cigarette hang out of the corner of his mouth. “Man, you always do this. You never want to take sides. No matter what, you always stay in the middle so you don’t piss anyone off. You’re like fucking Switzerland or something. Always have to be everyone’s friend.”

  Phil shrugged, coloring slowly, giving Santa Claus a dark green hat. “Whatever you say, Grant.” He didn’t feel like discussing it anymore so he figured he’d just keep his head down and color until Grant gave up the topic. It seemed like everyday he’d bring up Davie and how much he hated his stories.

  Five minutes passed and finally Grant said, “Anyone coming to see you today?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe my mom, not sure.”

  “Did you hear from your dad?”

  “No, not since….you know.”

  Grant nodded. “Well, he’s a piece of shit.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “Sorry. But still….fuck that guy.”

  “I guess,” Phil said. “What about you?”

  “Jessica’s going to Florida with her parents. Disneyworld and all that shit. I’m glad someone will get to enjoy the outside world,” Grant said. “Speaking of which, I had a dream about Donald Duck last night.”

  “Again?”

  “Yeah, it was even weirder this time.”

  “That’s makes this, like what, the third time this month?”

  “Fourth.”

  “Shit, Grant, that’s pretty screwed up.”

  “I’m getting used to it which sounds weird but I guess that’s how my mind works, just adapts to all the fucked up shit so I don’t go crazy.”

  Phil laughed. “Too late.”

  Before Grant could reply, a fist landed in the middle of the table, cracking several crayons in a colorful, destructive blur.

  “Hey fuckers.” Davie dug his fist into the table, smearing the wax around.

  “What the fuck’s the matter with you, dude?” Grant said. He pushed Davie’s fist aside and started cleaning the crayon mess.

  “Matter with me? Nothing. Why?”

  Phil said, “You fucking scared us, man, that’s all he’s saying.”

  Davie laughed. “You guys are jumpy as hell. Shit, think you need more meds or something.”

  Grant kept his eyes down, knowing that if he let himself get pissed off at Davie, he might do something he’d end up paying for later. There was zero tolerance for physical aggression of any kind. He had learned that the hard way his first year in the hospital.

  Phil said, “So what’s up, Davie? Anyone coming to see you today?”

  “Why are you always so interested in who’s coming to see everyone? It’s creepy, man. You get off on seeing our moms or something?” Davie laughed, getting close to Phil’s face. “Just stay away from my mom. She’s vulnerable like a poor little lamb in a world of wolves and you’re one of them, Phil. You’re a fucking wolf like in that movie Wolfen. Ever see that?”

  “No.”

  “I think it has something to do with Indians walking on bridges or something, I don’t know. Anyway. Well, yeah, stay away from my mom, will ya? That reminds me. Did I ever tell you about the time my mom took me to Colorado?”

  Grant groaned and pushed away from the table. “Here we go again.”

  “What?” Davie said. “What the fuck’s your problem?”

  “Nothing, man, nothing.”

  “No, seriously. You have something to say, Grant?”

  Phil got between the two of them. “Davie, chill. Grant’s just fucked up today, alright?”

  “Sure, I bet he is. I mean, who wouldn’t be after all those dreams about Daffy Duck.”

  “Donald Duck,” Grant said.

  “Same thing.”

  “No, it’s NOT the same thing.” Grant stood up from the table. “It’s DONALD FUCKING DUCK!”

  Davie shrugged. “So?”

  “Donald Duck is WHITE. Daffy Duck is BLACK. Are you color blind, asshole?”

  “That’s totally racist, dude,” Davie said. He turned to Phil. “Like I was saying, my mom took me to Colorado….”

  Grant said, “Oh my god, Colorado, Colorado, Colorado! We know. Your mom took you to a whorehouse to find your sister but she wasn’t there and instead you found your first grade teacher. How many fucking times do we have to hear this story, Davie?” He tried to keep his cool, tried counting to ten like Dr. Silverman told him to do. Count to ten until the anger goes away. Count to ten. Count to ten. Count to ten.

  One. Two. Three. Nope. Didn’t work this time.

  “You and your stupid fucking stories,” Grant said. “How many times do we have to hear this shit?”

  Davie’s smile melted. His face turned from plastic goofiness to hardened tension. “I’ll tell it as many times as I want.”

  “Well go ahead but I’m not hearing it again,” Grant said, walking away.

  Phil held his head in his hands. He’d always hated when he was stuck in the middle of a conflict. Under his breath he said, “Minnesota, Minnesota, Minnesota.”

  Davie said, “Yeah, get the fuck outta here then, Grant, you fucking psycho.” He turned to Phil. “The hell’s wrong with you? You on his side?”

  “I’m not on anybody’s side. Jesus Christ,” Phil said. Then under his breath again, “Minnesota, Minnesota, Minnesota.”

  Davie sat down. “So can I tell my story or what?”

  II.

  Grant punched the bathroom mirror.

  Actually, it wasn’t really a mirror. Rather, it was a shiny piece of metal that was virtually unbreakable. It made shaving a pain in the ass but limited the chance of anyone using a shard of glass to slit their wrists. Grant thought it was funny that they used the same thing in prison yet they assure him that he isn’t a prisoner but rather a resident of the Drake Mental Health Clinic.

  Resident. That was a joke.

  What happened to being a patient? Grant liked being called a patient. It made him devoid of responsibility. It made him feel like he was there to be given help and support with nothing expected of him in return. Being called a resident seemed to hint at some sort of responsibility on Grant’s part and that bothered him. He wasn’t even sure he had a problem with his mental health.

  “New Jersey, New Jersey, New Jersey,” he said. Dr. Silverman had told the group that in order to get there minds in order, they had to chant the state in which they committed their first “ritual”. It didn’t matter what kind. It could’ve been a ritual of blood, spit, semen, or shit just as long as the whole thing had been completed in one location.

  But
the chant wasn’t helping.

  Grant was still pissed off about that asshole Davie. Other than an act of violence, Grant couldn’t see a solution. He’d have to see Dr. Silverman and tell him that the current therapy just wasn’t working. Sooner or later, Davie was going to be put in his place whether it is during mealtime or the once-a-week recreation period when they play basketball outside on the blacktop. How easy would it be to strangle that guy before the orderlies came? Pretty fucking easy.

  But Grant didn’t really want it to get that far so he grabbed the booklet he was given by the doctor last week: Loop Panic & Mercurated Organ Therapy. Usually he didn’t bother to read any of the literature given to him but he was desperate for something that would save him from carving up Davie.

  Even if the booklet didn’t work, Grant figured he could use the pages to choke Davie. He could stuff them down the fucker’s throat like in that movie he saw a few months ago. If he had access to an axe, Grant thought he might also like chopping Davie’s arm off, too. He could just imagine the blood splattering up, thoughtlessly staining the white walls like crappy modern art.

  However, this was life, not a movie. Grant decided he might have to settle for just kicking the guy’s ass or stealing some of his shit. Davie had a pretty cool comic collection consisting mostly of old issues of JONAH HEX and SCALPHUNTER. Grant found that the only likeable thing about the asshole.

  But before he stole anything, Grant would give the therapy book a chance. He sat on the toilet and opened it to the chapter “Batztoutai with Material Gadgets” but before he finished the page, he heard Davie’s voice echoing in the hallway all the way from the common room.

  “Grant is such a fucking psycho!”