Corporal Awning Membership
I am in a New England town, or something. There is an ominous feeling in the streets. A warehouse, long and shoddily kept, looms on the horizon. It is an industrial town. Whatever spirit that lived here died a long time ago. It becomes apparent to me that this warehouse is my destination. I am walking on the white street. The sidewalks are black. The sky is about to hemorrhage.
Inside I am met by a person I do not know who looks a lot like Mayo. He is not Mayo. Sitting on a large blue plastic barrel is a girl I tried numerous times in the past to get in bed. She looks like she has been expecting me. Mayo-But-Not-Mayo looks at her like he has been expecting her to notice him looking at her expecting to notice him. She does not notice him looking at her like he has been expecting her to notice him looking at her expecting her to notice him. I notice this; I notice this immediately.
"I'll clone myself if you won't love me," she tells me. Mayo-But-Not-Mayo looks at her like he has been expecting her to notice him looking at her like he was been expecting her to notice him. She does not notice him looking at her like he has been expecting her to notice him looking at her like he has been expecting her to notice him. This is all very French.
"I don't love you," I say very matter-of-factly. "I love Christy." My subconscious flexes. My conscious mind even thinks, 'Too puppy-dogs and lollipops.' It is, however, the truth. "I only wanted to fuck you," I continue.
"That's not all," says Mayo-But-Not-Mayo. "You always told me differently." He is full of romance: romance and bull-shit. Maybe he is Morrisey.
Footsteps sound behind me. Out of the shadows steps one of the after-mentioned clones. She has already made good on her threat. She must have understood what my answer would be and taken preemptive action. Which lead me immediately to think, 'What would have happened if the case had been different?'
If I had returned her sentiments, what then? What would have been done with the clone? Maybe it would have been given to Mayo-But-Not-Mayo/Morrisey. Could he have wanted the clone to notice him looking at it/her like he wanted it/her to notice him looking at it/her? Probably not. He's just so goddamned French like that.
Maybe it would would have been kept up for a while and then eventually euthanized like an orphaned puppy nobody wanted. Perhaps it would have been sold into slavery as a sex toy. Maybe a shag store would have accepted it as a retail itme of the highest order: a twenty-three-year-old white girl with a pronounced bosom that will never age - what a delicious concept!
That is not the case, however, because it/she speaks:
"You can't ignore us all."
"I've ignored entire families before," I say, "including my own. I think I can ignore two of the same girl."
"Not two," Girl Prime says from her barell, "three."
Another clone comes out of the shadows of stage right. It/she is wearing the Marilyn Manson shirt I always admired on Girl Prime.
"Three of you?" I ask Girl Prime.
"Three of us," responds Clone One.
The door opens behind me and yet another clone enters the warehouse from the street. It/she is in a white t-shirt and cut-off jean shorts. She is soaking wet because the sky has finally loosed its bowels upon the New England town, or something. Am I in a sexy Stephen King story?
With three adversaries bent on swaying my affections and a disgruntled figure-head pulling the strings, I come to an understanding: they all have to die. But I pace myself.
I stay very still, waiting for them to make the first move. Being clones, they act ubiquitously. All three descend lazily upon me, no doubt full of perverse intentions, wanting to rub this and suck that. I slowly make for my weapons. Now, I act quickly in a deadly succession:
1.) I retreive a pistol and shoot Mayo-But-Not-Mayo/Morrisey dead. He is no longer French.
2.) I turn the gun on Girl Prime and shoot her off of the barell. I aimed for her right shoulder so as not to fatally wound her. I will turn my attention elsewhere and return to her in the near future.
3.) I discard the pistol; two shots were all I needed.
4.) Clone Two is closest to my right, within striking distance. From my shoe, I have pulled a five inch blade. Having concealed it while I fired upon my first two targets , Clone Two does not see it coming when I swing it across its/her throat. Its/Her jugular is opened and it/she is on the ground bleeding out.
5.) I discard the blade.
6.) I turn quickly to meet Clone Three, catching it/her with a full-barelled kick to the chest. It/She passes smoothly through the air, then passes back through the door quite clumsily, and very hard. It/She will also come later.
7.)My actions all take place within three to five seconds, so Clone One has only had a moment to realize the gravity of the situation. It/She turns to escape but is too pokey in its/her retreat. I grab it/her by the back of the neck and put my foot in its/her calf, bringing it/her to its/her knees. With a thrust of my shoulder, I throw its/her face forward into the concrete floor.
I turn it/her over and stradle it/her. I proceed to strangle the life out of this crime against nature. It/She gasps and kicks. Clone Two and Clone One expire at the same time, drained of the bastardly life which fueled their existence.
8.) I stand and spit on the shell beneath me. Perhaps this is a bit too excessive.
9.) I turn my attention to Girl Prime. She is lying in a heap next to the large blue plastic barell, shivering.
"I need you to see something," I tell her and take her by the leg. I drag her across the floor toward the door. The rain starts to let up against the windows of the warehouse. I push the door open and it swings wide, steadily closing itself, steady enough to crack Girl Prime in the head. That was my intention. Clone Three is unconscious on the sidewalk, which is still black. The street is still white.
10.) I drop Girl Prime's leg and pick up Clone Three underneath its/her arms. It/she is still wet. I drag it/her from the black sidewalk into the white street. Girl Prime stays on the black sidewalk.
"Watch carefully," I tell Girl Prime. I crouch over Clone Three and raise its/her head with my left hand. Again and again, I punch it/her in the face. The rain falls very lightly, misty almost. It pools vaguely with Clone Three's blood, looking very much like oil and water on the white street. My arm finally fatigues but my work is finished, many times over in fact.
The street lights flicker on as a soupy fog rolls through the town. It saturates the white street very quickly and blankets the shell underneath me. In an instant, it/she no longer exists.
I stride back to Girl Prime. She is lying on her belly, perched on her elbows, legs bowed in the air like a bubbly teenager. Her shoulder is bleeding profusely but she has a euphoric smile on her face. She is glad to see me.
I step over her and sit down on her back-side. I fold my arms and think. There is silence. Then, she speaks:
"Hey, you."
I carefully take hold of the top left corner of her head with my right hand and the bottom right corner of her chin with my left hand. My bicep quivers along with the pulse in her forehead. I breathe in. With a flex, I break her neck. Her face and open palms fall flat and drab onto the black sidewalk.
For a moment, I sit and think: Am I the vindicated sub-conscious, only now being able to leave behind old feelings through wanton violence? Is this world that harbors my sadistic desires a metaphorical creation made from studies of Cormac McCarthy and Flannery O'Connor? The Irish and the Scottish share a common enemy in England.
The scope of perspectives within the dream was evidence enough of my awareness. Sometimes I saw everything in the third person; other times I was Wolfensteining it.
I awake with an urgent desire to use the bathroom - number twos.
No comments:
Post a Comment