Narcisa

by Jonathan Shaw

  She looked at me and shrugged. “What de fock, bro! De Narcisa don’ got it de e’same kinda sentiment or morality as these e’stupid robot peoples, Cigano! So I never can make no participation to these human e’society of clones peoples here! Forget it!”

  She fell quiet again, lost in contemplation.

  After a while, she went on in a sad, confused little tone that broke my heart. “ . . . But you know, Cigano, I feel it sometime like I really wanna participate in something . . . I just don’ know what is it . . . you know?”

  I knew . . . Poor Narcisa. I said nothing. I just sat shaking my head as she burbled on in a weak, trickling stream of garbled crack-babble, till she was drooling like a sick animal . . . Shit!

  Narcisa was nearing the point of no return. Meltdown was imminent.

  The Whore of Babylon was in urgent need of rest.

  63. PAVING THE ROAD TO HELL

  “IN FORMER DAYS, WHEN IT WAS PROPOSED TO BURN ATHEISTS, CHARITABLE PEOPLE USED TO SUGGEST PUTTING THEM IN THE MADHOUSE INSTEAD [ . . . ], NOT WITHOUT A SILENT SATISFACTION AT THEIR HAVING THEREBY OBTAINED THEIR DESERTS.”

  —John Stuart Mill

  Her lips were dry as cardboard. Finally, she began croaking like a parched tree frog.

  “Liquid! Thirsty, Cigano! Liquido! Juice, water, go!”

  A lightbulb lit up in my brain.

  With Narcisa’s whiny pleas for refreshment ringing in my ear, I got up and went into the kitchen. Desperate for a break, I crushed up some downers, mixed them into some mango juice with ice and went back to where she sat.

  Snatching the glass from my hand, Narcisa powered down the sweet, sticky liquid in one long, greedy gulp, then sat chewing up the ice cubes.

  Yes! Perfect, Max! I grinned to myself and waited.

  I’d been thinking about dosing her for some time. Now I wished I’d done it sooner. It was the most natural thing in the world. At that point, there seemed no other way.

  As I sat waiting for the drug to take hold, she spun around the room, ranting, breaking things, banging into the furniture like a panicked bird flying against a windowpane.

  Finally, the stuff kicked in. She slumped down on the sofa. Her hoarse, raspy curses merged into gentle snores, and that was that.

  Lights out in Babylon.

  I laid her out on the sofa and had my way with her sleeping carcass, then got up and washed her sex grease off in the bathroom sink.

  I put a blanket over her, and kissed her on the forehead.

  The Whore of Babylon was in dreamland.

  Smiling, I climbed up the ladder and fell into my long-abandoned bed.

  Just as I began to doze off, the phone rang.

  Picking up, I glanced at my watch . . .

  Midnight . . . Who the fuck would be calling now . . . ?

  “Por gentileza. May I speak with Narcissss-ssa please?”

  I recognized that frigid, creepy, too-polite reptilian hiss. Even after years. “She’s sleeping right now. Can I help ya with something, uh, Doc?”

  “Well, ahhhh, I must tell you, frankly, Cigano, I’m quite concerned about our dear Narcisa. She’s barely spoken with me since her return from New York, you know, which I find extremely distressing, I might add!”

  I said nothing, waiting for him to go on.

  “I’ve been seeing her around the neighborhood a great deal lately, but she never even stops to speak with me anymore. My goodness! She ignores me as if I were a complete stranger! Most disturbing, I must say! Why, I saw her on the street just this very afternoon, in fact, coming from the direction of your apartment . . .”

  I held my breath, staying quiet, waiting for more.

  After a portentous little pause, he went on. “ . . . I’m aware, of course, that she has been in constant contact with you . . .”

  How the fuck does this guy always “know” so much?

  And now he knows where I live? Como? How did that happen? What the fuck?

  “ . . . And she really doesn’t look well at all to me, my friend, not at all . . .” His irritating nasal voice took on a subtle accusatory edge.

  I could sense a vague threat lingering between his words . . . What does this freaky little shit want? What’s his angle? Maybe Narcisa was right about him stalking her.

  “ . . . When I tried to confront her to tell her she needs to stop taking all those awful drugs, Cigano, she became most aggressive with me! She actually picked up a bottle and smashed it on the pavement, threatening to cut my face with it!”

  Doc sighed. After another melodramatic pause, he began laying his cards on the table.

  “ . . . I’ve been in constant contact with her mother, you know, and we both agree vehemently that Narcisa really must be committed to the state mental institution immediately. Her internment needs to be organized as soon as humanly possible, before it’s too late!”

  “What!?!” I burst out. “Now ya wanna throw Narcisa in th’ fuckin’ nutbin again? Why? Just because she doesn’t wanna stop and chat with you when ya follow her around and hassle her on the street? Are you fuckin’ serious?”

  “It’s for her own good, senhor!” he snapped. “And if you have the slightest regard for her welfare, you must help us! I need you to bring her to the Rio Sul shopping mall tomorrow at noon. It’s just down the street from the Pinel Mental Hospital. I’m sure you can convince her to go with you if you tell her you’re going to buy her a new pair of shoes. My goodness, the shoes she was wearing today! Disgusting! How can you let her walk around like that? She looked like a homeless beggar. And her hair—”

  “Whoa!” I cut him off. “Lemme get this straight. You want me to betray Narcisa’s trust and trick her so you and her mother can get her locked up and pumped full of dope? Como? So she can sit in a room with bars on the window staring out at a fuckin’ tree? You think that’s gonna help her?”

  “It is for her own good, sir! Narcisa is clearly out of control! Even someone like you should be able to see that!”

  I lost it. “Outa control!? Whose fuckin’ control? You and her stupid mother’s? What about her free will? What about her rights as a human being, huh? Narcisa’s an adult, over eighteen! Who th’ fuck are you to decide what’s right for her? Ya can count me out!”

  “But she’s become a degenerate criminal, a hopeless drug addict, Cigano! A menace to herself and to society!”

  “Lissen, man, I’m a recovered addict myself, and I been tryin’ to get her to wake up and ask for help! But that’s the only way it works. An addict’s gotta ask fer help, got it? They gotta want it! That strong-arm shit of yers don’t get it. That just turns people like her away. Then she’ll never wanna get better. She’s gotta be willing, and it don’t just happen when ya snap yer dainty little fingers cuz ya got snubbed by her on the street. So, until Narcisa asks me for help with her problem herself, there’s no way I’m getting involved with some sneaky, backhanded scheme to trick her into th’ nuthouse. Sem chance! No fuckin’ way!”

  “But, Cigano. I have it all worked out! Everything’s already been arranged! You must listen to me. We—”

  “No, Dickless! You lissen to me! Ya wanna stick yer nose in other people’s business and ream my ear out about Narcisa’s problems, then you fucking lissen! I’m the only person she trusts even a little. In time, she may wanna get help, but that’s gotta be her call! Not mine and not yours, and sure as fuck not her stupid pill-poppin’ whore of a mother! Where was that dumb cunt when Narcisa needed a mother? And who th’ fuck are you to go around getting people locked up? Whaddya trying to kill her, like ya killed yer own mo—?”

  Before I could finish, he butted in. “Well, I’m sorry you feel that way, my friend. But I think it’s quite likely the policia would have quite a different view of the matter! Especially if they knew that a convicted criminal was holding Narcisa captive! One who supplies her with drugs in order to keep her in sexual slavery and bondage! I’ve done a bit of my own private research into your checkered history, senhor Ignácio Valência Lobos—a
ka Cigan—”

  “You fucking sick son of a whore!” I hung up.

  A bitter taste invaded my mouth . . . Bastard! Unable to think of sleep, I paced the room, seething, fuming . . . Dirty son of a bitch! My head pounded with an unrelenting, churning fury. My guts were stewing in adrenaline as I thought about different ways to murder Doc. Then a familiar phrase began repeating in my inner ear . . . The spiritual life is not a theory. It has to be lived . . . I doubled over with a pounding headache. Tears of hate and frustration flooded my eyes . . . The spiritual life is not a theory . . . It has to be lived . . . The spiritual life is not a theory . . . It has to be lived . . . Okay! All right! I got it! Stop! Shit!

  Killing Doc was out.

  As Narcisa snored away on the sofa. I swallowed a handful of aspirin. I sat down and turned on the television. Flipping through the channels, trying to keep my mind off murderous thoughts, I landed on the news . . . The World Today. Shit! War. Poverty. Politics. Lies. Mass stupidity. Institutionalized insanity. A world worthy of Narcisa’s worst nightmares! No wonder she wants no part of it! When will the fucking human race ever learn? Maybe we’re all better off dead!

  Just as I was getting drowsy, the phone rang again. I ignored it this time. The answering machine clicked on. A woman’s voice . . . Narcisa’s mother!

  What the fuck? How did this demented cow get my number?

  I’d spoken to the mother a couple of times over the years. Just the odd casual hello when Narcisa had handed me the phone, fed up with listening to her praising Jesus.

  The woman’s voice sounded different now. Aggressive, demanding, hysterical. “Alô! Alô! Somebody say something! Aggghhh! Answer me! Say something! Argghhh! Alô! Alo!”

  I was halfway across the room to pick up when I heard her tone darken. Then the fireworks began. “Answer me, you filthy bastards, in the name of Jesus! Agghh!! Listen to God’s holy word, you dirty godless gypsy pimps!”

  I stood frozen by the phone, listening in horror as the anguished voice screeched on.

  “Alô!! Alô! I know what you doing to my poor, innocent little daughter, feeding those horrible drugs to my poor baby girl to satisfy your perverse sinful sex pleasures! You won’t get away with your crimes! Argh! Repent your evildoing, you dirty heathen faggot scum!!”

  I couldn’t believe my ears as the insane ranting rattled in the air.

  “Aggghhh!! Release my daughter from your filthy gypsy clutch or you will regret it for all eternity!! Aggghhh!! God will punish you. You’re going to burn in everlasting hellfire!! Doc was sent to me by Jesus!”

  Doc! That sick ratfucker’s behind this! Two-faced, evil little prick gave her the number, led her to us right by the nose . . . Bastards! I looked down at Narcisa, snoring peacefully on the sofa as her mother’s mad metallic bleating rose in furious pitch, screeching in my ear like some deranged, Bible-spewing parrot . . . Aggghhh! Jesus! Jesus! Aggghhh . . . Jesus! Hellfire! Fuck!

  Tiptoeing to the phone like a disturbed rattlesnake, I pulled the wire from the wall . . . Goodbye and Amen, Jesus, Joseph and Mary! Thank you come again!

  Seeing double, I crawled up to the loft and fell into a deep, nightmarish slumber.

  64. FOWL PLAY

  “HE WHO DOESN’T KNOW ANGER DOESN’T KNOW ANYTHING. HE DOESN’T KNOW THE IMMEDIATE.”

  —Henri Michaux

  The next day, I was awakened by a hellish racket.

  Crrrraaasssh! “Fock!”

  Narcisa was clattering around in my kitchen again, breaking dishes, scattering food across the floor, wreaking havoc. The usual.

  Too tired to protest, I lay back in the bed, holding my breath, listening to the sounds of destruction, followed by another stream of angry curses.

  “Sheet, sheet, focking e’shee-eet! Is nothing to eat here, Cigano! Que odio, porra, puta merda! Never got no focking food in these place!”

  I groaned, climbing down the ladder. “Whaddya wanna eat, Narcisa?”

  “Go, go, call de boteco, mano, get it de roast chicken deliver! Now! Go, now! Hungry, hungry! Go go go go go go go!”

  With a weary sigh, I picked up the phone and called. Too impatient to wait, Narcisa plopped down on the sofa, stuffing leftovers in her mouth, scraps falling to the floor. Then she slumped over sideways and passed out. As she snored away, I kneeled beside her, cleaning up the wreckage, like an obedient pilgrim paying homage to a savage, bloodthirsty goddess.

  A few minutes later, the guy was knocking at my door with her chicken. Grinning, I brought it into the kitchen and covered the clear plastic container with a towel, like a fevered alien baby sitting in an incubator.

  I climbed back up to the bed and fell asleep.

  A few minutes later, she was up again, shouting. “Chicken! Chicken! Where de focking chicken, hein? Hungry, Cigano! Fome!! Give it to me, go!”

  I rose, stumbled back into the kitchen and prepared her a plate with bread, cheese, olives and the chicken. As I set the food down on the coffee table before her, without looking up, Narcisa began savaging the steaming bird like a famished jackal. Ripping a dripping hunk off with her dirty hands, she shoved it into her mouth and swallowed. Then she reached over and grabbed my freshly laundered comforter to use as a napkin.

  No-oo! Shit! I just washed that goddamn thing! Stop!

  “Please, baby!” I pled. “You’re gonna get that greasy shit all over our nice clean quilt! Wait, Narcisa, just use the plate on the table in front of you! Por favor! Here, hold on a second and I’ll get a towel. Plea—”

  “Menos!! Shut de fock up, Cigano! Leave me be, porra! Go!”

  I tried to hand her the cloth. She slapped it to the floor.

  “Fock off, old Dona Maria! You so pessemista, e’same like e’stupid old bitch!”

  “Whaddya mean I’m pessimistic? Take it easy, man! I’m just giving you a fucking towel to clean yer hands with so ya don’t dirty up the clean blanket, Narcisa! What the fu—”

  “E’stupid!! Don’ you know it? Ever’time you think an’ talk about some focking bad thing, then you make it happen!”

  To demonstrate her profound metaphysical discourse, Narcisa wiped chicken grease from her face with the comforter, as a half-chewed drumstick fell into her lap.

  Bitch! That does it! I tried to grab the quilt. She clutched it with her greasy, grubby mitts. It was a nuthouse tug-o’-war! Exasperated, I yanked it away from her, hard.

  Narcisa glared at me with a look of hatred. Then, quick as a bunny, she grabbed the whole chicken in both hands, and hurled it at my face! SPLAFT!

  The steaming, fleshy projectile exploded into a thousand greasy splinters, coating me and my apartment with mangled carnage! Fu-uck! Then she was up on her feet, raging, pulling books off the shelves and throwing them at me, one by one. I cringed as she hurled the fluttering missiles across the room, bellowing.

  “Pronto! Now you e’satisfy, hein, old Dona Maria? Is all you fault! You create de violence! You predict it an’ make it happen! You wanna see more, hein? Okey! Now I gonna go up to de favela an’ pay de bandido to come here an’ kill you, Cigano! You better get de fock out of Rio fast, e’stupid, cuz these time I gonna finish you!”

  I looked around at the gruesome slaughter she’d just wreaked on my clean, orderly little pad. The home I’d taken her into. My blood was boiling. Looking at her smug, sneering face, I snapped. I leapt on her like a tiger and grabbed her by the neck. “Bitch!” I threw her onto the sofa and shoved my knee into her throat, pinning her.

  Even squashed down like a bug, immobilized, Narcisa screeched on.

  “Hah! Bravo-oo! Congratulation, Cigano, now you gonna beat me, hein? Hah! Is good, very good! Bravo!! Now you de big man, big tough macho man, de bruto! Well, you better enjoy it now, you big ugly e’sheet, cuz these gonna be de last day of de focking life for you, I promise!!”

  I didn’t believe a word of her blustering, delusional threats. Still, I wanted to skin her alive . . . Dirty lowlife bottom-feeding bitch!

  Furious, I spat in her face
. “Look what ya done, ya stupid twat! I let you come and stay here after you got kicked outa everyplace else ya ever show yer ugly crackhead face—”

  She glowered back with a hateful smirk. “Hah! Only you de ugly face in here! Old an’ ugly an’ e’stupid! That’s you! Old Dona Mari—”

  “Shaddup, bitch!” I lowered my weight down on her. “I’m still talking here, cuntface! I just spent th’ last two days feeding you, taking care of ya like a sick brat! Spent my last cash to buy you a fuggin’ chicken! And then ya go and turn my home into a trash can! Fuck you, ya filthy, degenerate whore!”

  An evil grin spread across her face. “Hah! You never gonna see de dirty whoo-ore again! I am leaving forever these time! Hah! An’ you can have you nice clean apartment back. You can sit all alone an’ masturbate all de day in here while you thinking about me an’ all de young handsome mans I gonna making love to while you wait for my amigos come an’ kill you, hahaha!”

  “Amigos!?!” I screamed back. “Amigos!?! You’re fucking insane! You got no friends, Narcisa! Nobody can stand you! Wise up! Ya can’t even stand yerself, ya evil little shit! I’m the last fuggin’ friend you have, and look what ya do to me! Look at this fuggin’ mess!” I gestured at the grusome poultry shrapnel covering every surface.

  “Ever’body love me, Cigano!” Her glassy, lifeless eyes stared out at me like a pair of spiders from the depths of a cave. “Them all hate you an’ wanna kee-eel you! Doc gonna kill you! Hah! I gonna tell him how you beat me up, an’ he gonna come an’ kill you good! Hah!”

  Doc!? What the fuck? Bitch!

  I was ready to slaughter her. I pushed my knee down on her throat. She squeaked like a rubber toy. Her face began to change colors. Even as I choked the life out of her, nothing could contain Narcisa’s arrogance. She just grimaced back with that smug, defiant smirk.

  Then, in her silent, twitching battle, she kicked the coffee table over, spilling passion fruit juice all over the whole disgusting mess. I wanted to drive a bloody spike through her heart.