
A MILLION VERSIONS OF RIGHT
the terribly unusual short fiction
of
Matthew Revert
\*
PUBLISHED BY
LegumeMan Books
Copyright © 2009 by Matthew Revert
Cover & Design Copyright © 2009 by The Spatchcock
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the express written permission of the publisher and author, except where permitted by law
... sudden sleepy movement. The neighbourhood of unseen... jogged his elbow...
- James Joyce
CONTENTS:
THE BOOKMARK THAT WOULDN'T WORK
To the Brothers Gunther, I tip my hat. Jenn shall be thanked for mandatory reasons. Vaughan is to be appreciated like the wind. For those who proofed I give a bucket of my firstborns. And to Brooke who was forced to care, I dribble happy strings of respect
It was certainly no surprise that what I had once referred to lovingly as 'the gentle little rub', had eventually become frenetic masturbation, resulting in my first orgasm.
\*
Under the bed that one lunch time, hiding from my clockwork father, I was excited and disgusted, my pockets chock full of scabs. My hands were adorned in filthy fingernails, all chewed and torn. I laid there under the bed, cribbed among uncomfortable refuse. The sound of approaching footsteps combined with the sight of a looming shadow panged excited nerves throughout me. I jerked quickly, my breathing heavy as I progressed toward the climax. A distinct sense that this feeling couldn't elevate any higher overcame me. When that point of no return had been reached, it was nothing but intense pain. My toes curled, my lips were bitten into leaking sores, sweat lathered me. That was the first time I ever ejaculated a moustachioed tiler.
The moustachioed tiler climbed down my erect shaft and immediately got to work. Retrieving all the tools he needed from a seemingly infinite back pocket, he began to lay miniscule tiles upon my stomach. It wasn't long before my entire lower torso had been well and truly tiled.
The tiler extracted a thermos and a sandwich from his pocket, sat down and had a break. With his gruff exertions, sweaty brow and dirty white overalls the tiler was a sight to behold. He chewed upon his tiny sandwich, spitting out chunks he didn't like.
When my clockwork father finally vacated the house I squirmed my way out from beneath the bed. The tiler appeared angry at the inconvenience these movements caused.
"Sorry," I whispered, as if atonement was necessary.
He momentarily stopped eating his sandwich and stared hard, right into my eyes. A very awkward silence ensued. I had the distinct impression that I shouldn't move at all, lest I further irritated this strange little man. I watched as he retrieved a cigarette from his front pocket and started exhaling the filthy smoke into the room. There was little I could do.
So there I laid, pants around my knees. A good half of my body entombed in miniature tiles. If there was one thing to be said it was that this tiler had a remarkable work ethic. If only he would stop tiling for a while and get off my body.
Burning with hunger, I remember desperately wanting to get up. Stomach acid was knocking against my insides like waves to a shore. Each stomach grumble forced barely spoken profanity from the tiler. I figured it best to stay where I was. My penis was pathetically exposed and flaccid. My urethra was still recovering from the enormous stretch of the moustachioed ejaculation.
Hours passed and my clockwork father was due home any minute. My entire body was tiled except for my face and genitals. I assumed this was an attempt by the tiler to maximise the shame and embarrassment I would feel when my father found me in such a peculiar position.
The sound of the car rumbling up the driveway struck me with fear. The tiler cruelly laughed to himself despite the fact the situation was anything but amusing. No, it wasn't a laugh as much as a verbalised rictus.
My father's footsteps clopped up the front steps. He unlocked the door and entered the house. He gently closed the door behind and began making his way ever closer toward his son's sheer embarrassment and shame.
I lay prone, tiled to the hilt. That tiny bastard was eating a sandwich that never seemed to end. An alarming quantity of crumbs had accumulated in his moustache. I could clearly make them out despite their microscopic nature.
The words of my father upon entering my bedroom still ring in my ears to this day. In a screeching falsetto he exerted the words, "Now fuck me if you ain't all covered up in tiny tiles!"
My father moved closer, eyeing the moustachioed tiler as he ate his sandwich. "One thing you should know, son, is that when faced with a situation such as yours, when you ejaculate something untoward, you should respond in a manner that is at least equally as untoward as the ejaculate."
In fascination, I stared at my father. Without the slightest hesitation, he picked up the tiler in a pinch of his fingers. The tiler dangled ever so awkwardly in my father's grip but remained as apathetic as ever. Once my father nabbed the little sandwich right from the tiler's tight grasp the apathy turned into a miniaturised rage. My father just laughed in a self-assured way as he inserted the tiler into his hefty anus.
"I'm just going to keep him there," he said to me with a pleasant wink.
He turned around and walked toward the lounge room. Moments later I heard the sound of the television coming to life.
Still laying flat and covered in tiles, I pondered what my father had said. He was undoubtedly right, as the tiler certainly wasn't a problem anymore. It was as if my father had demonstrated the positive nature of fighting fire with fire. Birthed from the cock but destroyed up the arse. It was an understandable conclusion to his little life. That it was demonstrated with such ease still dazzled me and filled me with an admiration for my father that I'd never previously experienced. My father was somehow a little less clockwork.
I remember the mild sensation of pain as I peeled the tiny tiles from my ravaged body. Each tile cluster stung my skin as if tearing off a bandaid. With the deed finally complete, I stood straight up and examined my naked body in the mirror. I was covered head to toe, excluding face and genitals, in a red, itchy rash. Tile rash, I thought to myself, what a peculiar development.
I lay in bed, covered in itch and absorbed in deep contemplation. Looking back on it now, I feel as if I was robbed of my first orgasmic experience. Where I should have been reflecting on the strange physical sensations that shot through my body, all I could see was the gruff face of the apathetic tiler as he munched on his bloody sandwich. This would eventually affect my sexual in a most profound manner. Suffice to say, during moments of sexual intimacy, the tilers' face continues to invade my fragile thoughts. It has ruined many a promising night. To this day I call it 'the flaccidity of the tiler's curse'.
\*
My first ejaculatory experience may have been my first visit from the moustachioed tiler but it certainly didn't prove to be the last. As you may imagine, the outcome of my first act of self-love filled me with trepidation. The situation I found myself in was unfortunate. As a pubescent teen, I was in a near constant state of intense arousal which was perpetually at odds with my fear of masturbation. I would go to bed at night and pray to a higher power I didn't quite believe in, to ward off the potentiality of a wet dream. I may have been able to reject the masturbatory temptation in the waking hours, but I had little control over myself when in a state of sleep. Wags at school would boast of the sticky mess they awoke to on a constant basis. I would have loved to wake in a sticky mess. My concern however, was that I would awake covered head to toe in tiles and tiny breadcrumbs, unable to move.
The pretty young things in my class would invade my dream state regularly and it was only a matter of time before this translated into an unconscious eruption in my lower regions. This eventuality did indeed occur. It had been nearly three agitated years since my first and only orgasm.
That night, in my dreams, the girls pranced about in their short little dresses, winding me up like a toy, willing me to snap like a faulty twig.
The next morning I awoke, and like I did every morning, patted my sleepy chest, feeling for tiles. I breathed a sigh of relief as my chest was still naked as the day I was born. I threw back the blankets ready to start the day, but the sticky, wet sensation in my pants became apparent. I couldn't quite believe it. By all accounts, it appeared I had successfully orgasmed without the appearance of a tiler. It aroused me instantly and masturbatory thoughts entered my head immediately. Wary of the time however, I had to shelve them.
The next day at school was full of braggadocio on my part. Sure, I had bragged about my wet dream prowess before but this was the first time I had actually experienced a wet dream to back it up. I boasted loudly and proudly to all and sundry. Quizzical stares assailed me from the chums and wags as my enthusiasm was in direct contrast to my previous, untrue boasts. I'm still not sure whether two and two was ever successfully put together, but that is by the by.
I was determined to masturbate myself into a gooey stupor upon my arrival home. My erection had been a barely tamed beast all day. I felt it could sense the possibilities. Tentatively, yet excitedly, I threw myself on the bed and went to work. I clung to myself ever so tightly as I jerked and pulled the last three years of repression away. The moment of climax was a terrifying yet brilliant one. There was that split second where I feared the worst but the worst simply didn't come. Instead I erupted all over myself in pure ecstasy. The tiler, for whatever reason, had been vanquished from my loins.
This was my ticket to pubescent paradise. My life became a dizzy blur of climax and seminal fluid. No tiler, no problems. It wasn't until my first real sexual encounter some years later that the tiler reappeared and caused all manner of problems for me and my ill-fated sexual partner.
\*
I met her in crying class. She was struggling with the basic methodology involved in the use of crying ribbons. I approached her with pure intentions, failing at the time to notice her exquisite beauty. She sat pathetically with a second generation beginners ribbon hanging lifeless from her right eye. I asked her if she needed help. She accepted. Her acceptance revealed a shame in her voice. I found the display of shame endearing.
I gently tugged on the ribbon, being careful not to irritate her eyeball. The ribbon slipped out and her eyes blinked frantically, as if shaking out the cobwebs. 'Ribbon Jitters' they were called according to the literature. We got to talking. There was a mutual affection and it wasn't long before we were what the other wags called an 'item'.
Sexual intercourse was the inevitable conclusion of our trajectory. Our affection had grown rather deep and the 'love' word had been used on more than one occasion. As it happened, the intercourse was a result of passionate spontaneity. My clockwork father was out for the night at a 'dreary old function.' We were alone in my room discussing matters of interest. The conversation arrived at the topic of nipple wheeze. We lost ourselves in passion.
I was blissfully inside her before I could fully comprehend my actions. Our awkward movements had a resonance of innocence that was purity embodied. As is common during one's first sexual encounter, it was all over relatively quickly. The moment of climax was problematic. For the first time in years, I felt the familiar discomfort as my urethra stretched beyond reasonable limits. My deposit was a treacherous one. It quickly became apparent that I had just ejaculated another moustachioed tiler, only this time into my sweetheart.
\*
I had pulled out too late. It was post-coital devastation of a most unusual kind. I could detect the look of concerned confusion in my sweetheart's eyes. I owned up almost immediately. I explained in detail about the tiler and the high probability that he was now residing somewhere in her vaginal tunnel. Her tears flowed endlessly. Between sobs I was implored get it out at any cost. My efforts to calm her down via Rastafarian impersonation were an instant failure. I asked her to wait while I sought out a torch to shine directly up her region. Although I was gone mere seconds, I'm sure it felt like hours to my poor little sweetheart, as she sobbed wretchedly. Coils of smoke were floating from between her legs, filling the room with the scent of tobacco. I requested my sweetheart remain deathly still, as it appeared the tiler inside her was smoking a cigarette. She fanned at the smoke as it attacked her pretty face. I asked her to part her vaginal walls, which she did in a surprisingly ladylike way. I shone my torch deep within her, searching out the moist crevasses. I could just make out what appeared to be a little hand, waving about a cigarette like some form of diva. I informed my sweetheart that I could see him and she again implored me to hurry. With a long-handled spoon, I scraped about inside her, trying to ensnare the tiler. He was definitely privy to my intrusion as he dodged about, attempting to find sanctuary within the limited space available. Above me, my sweetheart squealed in a discomfort that I'm sure she viewed as pain. The real pain - unfortunately - was soon to come. As if the tiler was aware of the love I felt for my sweetheart he began to stab at her insides. I felt every little stab and slash. Her squeals of agony were intensified. I felt helpless as I desperately reached for the horrid little man. I did eventually manage to get his kicking body out but I tore my sweetheart up rather badly in the process.
With the bastard tiler in my tight grip, I surveyed the scene. Bits of my poor little sweetheart seemed everywhere around the room. Needless to say, my carpet was sodden. My stony gaze returned to the squirming, little tiler in my hand, the source of so much misery in my life. My first sexual experience had concluded with the death of my first true love. I felt worthless.
My mind began to occupy itself with thoughts of the tiler and what I should do with him. I was at quite a loss, until I remembered the previous actions of my father. That day, laying on the floor, covered in tiles, my father had indeed come to the rescue. His actions were so sure. He did what he did with barely a thought and it had worked. One thing you should know son, is that when faced with a situation such as yours, when you ejaculate something untoward, you should respond in a manner that is at least equally as untoward as the ejaculate. These were the strange words my father had said. With conviction I slid the moustachioed tiler into my tight anus.
\*
The tiler's presence was by no means muted. I could feel every movement as he writhed about my inner workings. A profound sense of discomfort overwhelmed my being, as I contemplated the purpose of my actions. On top of the discomfort was the feeling that my bowel tract was at that very moment being tiled. Just how long the tiler was to remain inside me, I didn't know. The first few minutes had been extremely unpleasant and I shuddered at the possibility that the fate which had befallen me was a permanent one. How was I to defecate or even walk appropriately, given the constant clench required to keep the wretched tiler inside? Clearly I needed to consult my father in the matter, which is precisely what I did.
I awkwardly walked toward my father in a style that could best be described as a blimey tortoise. He was in his sitting chair watching his stories. I wasn't aware of my father's tele-visual tastes but the show seemed especially unusual. There was a man on the screen among the shrubbery, and the hat he was wearing was clearly incorrect. In a mild panic, I averted my gaze. My father looked up at me, examining my blood spangled body. Rather than a shocked or horrified reaction he simply nodded knowingly with a degree of genuine warmth that momentarily elevated me from my emotional doldrums I had been lost within. Explaining the situation in detail, with several well-timed points of the finger toward my backside the gist was understood completely. He informed me that although he had chosen to dispose of the tiler via his anus, it wasn't necessarily a path that I should take. He looked me square in the eye and repeated something that will resonate within me for the rest of my life:
"There are a million versions of right, son."
Those were his exact words. They circulated throughout my mind as I tried to grasp their import.
I spent a great many weeks with the tiler inside me as I couldn't find any alternative solutions to my woe. My precarious bowel movements were infused with miniature tiles and cigarette butts. On the odd occasions where my mind wasn't obsessed with the beast inside me, I mourned my sweetheart. I had completely stopped attending classes and accepting guests into my home.
These were dark days as I retreated more and more within myself, almost shunning the reality of the world around me. My father's words were still but an unbreakable cipher in my mind. Any efforts made to convince my father to expand upon his statement were met with a solemn shake of the head and inexplicable gesticulation.
Descending deeper into a private hell I beat upon walls with bare fists and slapped my weeping rump, trying to knock the tiler about. He remained very much alive inside me, assumedly subsisting on a back pocket full of never ending sandwiches and god knows what other edibles.
When an unfortunate situation removes all vigour from life there comes a time when you must seek a conclusion. It appeared as though having the tiler inside me simply wasn't working out as I'd planned. My bowels were pregnant with a life that irritated me to a completely unreasonable degree. After many sleepless nights, I finally arrived at the decision it was time for the tiler to go. I simply couldn't tolerate his presence anymore. He had ruined all that was worthwhile about my life and if it didn't end soon I feared my life would.
The bowel movement was dramatic in the worst possible way. Based on the sensation of my anal stretch and tear, I was sure the tiler had grown in size. Sprays of gassy blood painted the toilet bowl murky red. Tiny tiles shattered upon impact with the porcelain. Stools of the most improbable shapes, colours and consistencies rocketed from my tiny hell hole. Then there was the smell! The fetid, miasmic stench engulfed the toilet room. I felt as if caught in a death tempest.
Eventually, with much pain and applied pressure, the object of my woe slowly began to slide out of me. Bloody flatulence and splatterings of faecal inhumanities accompanied its exit from my worn and torn body. When I thought the pain could get no more severe I finally felt the tiler exit me completely and drop into the toilet stew with a mighty splash. I sat upon the toilet for upwards of an hour as I tried to assimilate the intense pain and fatigue I was feeling.
When I had sufficiently recovered, it dawned on me that I could hear no sound whatsoever coming from the toilet bowl. I expected to hear the angry tiler splashing around, fighting for breath and swearing emphatically in my general direction. I tuned in closely to the minutiae of sound within the room. I concentrated so deeply that I heard the blood rushing through my veins but still, no thrashing, splashing tiler. Could it be true? Was the tiler dead? I was almost too scared to look. I had to psyche myself into it. I slowly stood up with my pants still around my ankles and stared hard into the revolting bowl. Nestled within the grisly muck, exactly where I would have expected to find the tiler, I found something else; something that filled me with immense concern. If my eyes weren't deceiving me, instead of the tiler's body, all I could see was a rather large black stapler!
\*
My mind was in cartwheels of wretched confusion. I immediately picked up the stapler, completely unaware I was subjecting my hand to pure filth. I held the stapler up, studying it. Toilet juice ran down my arm. I was far too preoccupied with the reality of the stapler to be overly concerned. Before I knew it, I had entered into tiny mental spasms. I ran from the toilet room, stapler in hand, arms flailing, pants still at my ankles. A wall, which I swear should not have been there, eventually cut short my little episode by knocking me out cold.
I awoke to my father standing over me, staring down, face full of concern. I was covered in blood, tiles, faecal matter and cigarette butts. The stapler was still firmly in my grip. Once again my father had found me in an unfortunate situation with my genitals exposed. Through a daze of concussion, I relayed the events which had just occurred. He nodded, as if completely unsurprised by my experience. He helped me up into a chair, looked hard at me and simply said, "Have you tried the stapler yet?"
I watched him walk away, taking his position back in front of the television. I sat for a while, once again contemplating my father's words. Everything appeared so simple to him. Perhaps the truth really was that simple. Perhaps I had let this whole situation work me up into a ball of neurosis for nothing.
I showered thoroughly, scouring every speck of my body several times over until I felt sufficiently clean. The stapler had been soaking in a cleaning solution that I'd purchased from a discount balm outlet. By the time I was dried off and changed, it too was sufficiently clean. I took it with me into my bedroom and sat it on the desk. I ruminated for a while before I worked up the gumption to test its functionality. I squared a short stack of loose paper and readied the stapler for work. The result was an utter failure. There were roughly ten sheets in the paper stack and the staple barely penetrated the first couple. I kept subtracting sheets, seeking the threshold. As it turned out, the threshold was only three and even this appeared a struggle for the bowel stapler. This was the tiler all over again, I could sense it. He had seen fit to make my life unpleasant from the first moment I ejaculated him all those years ago. I didn't know if he had turned himself into the stapler, or whether it was a naturally occurring phenomenon but it fit his modus operandi to a tee. I cursed his wretched name. I picked up the wretched stapler and motioned to hurl it against a wall. I stopped. I couldn't bring myself to do it. I placed it back on the desk, glared at it, cursed the tiler once more and finally sought refuge in my bed. I fell asleep almost instantly with a conviction to never have an orgasm again.
\*
The older you get, the more difficult it seems to repress your sexual urges. At least this was my experience. I had blossomed into a rather attractive young man. I was understandably attracted to women - and they me. I avoided relationships and situations that would provoke unwanted urges. The unpredictability of an urge-inducing situation was a constant problem. For instance, I might glance across and see a lady tying her shoe and nearly explode in my pants there and then. Life was a frustrating struggle and of course I eventually garnered a reputation for being either stuck up or of homosexual proclivity. To tell them the truth was not an option. Shortly after my twenty-fifth year another, wet dream struck.
\*
I woke up completely draped in tiles, save for my face and genitals. There was another moustachioed little monster, sitting on my chin, blowing foul smoke into my face. I passed out
\*
When I awoke the second time there was another tiler. They were fighting each other. Throwing tiles and kicking at shins. I watched the strange spectacle for some time completely enthralled. Unusual feelings began to well within me. Staring at these little men whom I was responsible for creating, I felt somewhat like a god. Even if their purpose in life was to cause me discomfort and frustration I was still their creator. Not even they could deny me that. I freed my right arm from its tile encrustation and began to masturbate ferociously. The ejaculation birthed forth yet another tiler from my weary penis. This tiler instantly joined the first two in their brawl. I kept masturbating, again and again. Each new ejaculation introduced new tilers into the fight. They were all identical with their moustaches and little white overalls. Hours passed. Days passed. I lost all track of time. When my body finally gave in, there must have been close to a hundred tilers. The ongoing fight was full of violence. There were bloody corpses strewn throughout my room. Those still alive wouldn't give up. They were each determined to be the only one.
\*
Once again I awoke to the sight of my father standing over me. As my vision cleared, it became apparent he was holding my testicles in his hand. They were no longer attached to my body. I slowly scanned the bedroom. There were no more tilers. What I plainly saw was a large black garbage bag. Through a small hole in one side a miniature, lifeless arm poked free. My anal stapler was still on the desk. It hadn't been disposed of. As I stared once more at my severed testicles in my father's hand I pondered. My father had stopped being clockwork long ago. This further proved it. He carefully inserted my testicles into his anus and walked away, calling back, "This is just another version of right.
"If my hair were a wave I'd ride it," crowed Chip as he proudly popped Allen's scrotum. The scrotal pulp swung from his clawed hand in strings of unpleasantness.
"You maggoty bitch!" screamed Allen, "You popped the wrong one!"
Allen's hands clung desperately at his crotch as he surveyed the damage.
Chip flicked his hand free of as much scrotal pulp as possible and moved in for a closer look, eager to survey the damage he'd inflicted on his brother.
"Fucking heck! I really did a harper on yer ol' nutsack, didn't I?"
With a clenched fist, Allen swung aimlessly in the general direction of Chip's face. The swift jets of fist breeze reminded Chip of his mother, which in turn, reminded him of nipples.
"What were you doing flopping out the wrong ballbag anyway?" he asked the increasingly agitated Allen.
"We already agreed on this, Chip! I flop out my real bag o' man junk for the crowd to get a good peep. I swivel slightly to allow for the switch and BANG! You pop Mr Wilkens bag."
"Seems like the sort of thing I should have remembered," said Chip with a raised eyebrow. This was greeted with an emphatic nod from Allen.
"Can't you just keep Mr Wilkens' nutsack? We were going to pop it anyway."
Allen looked stunned, "Keep Mr Wilkens' sack? What the hell will we pop then, Chip?"
"Who says grade four students wanna see a man's sack get popped anyway?"
"It doesn't fucking matter what the grade four students want to see! This is something Mr Wilkens NEEDS them to see!"
\*
Mr Wilkens was the principal at Yandish Muff Primary School. He'd worked his way up from a substitute position some 30 years ago. As a man of dignity, Mr Wilkens believed himself to be a role model to his increasingly unattractive body of students. It was a responsibility he carried around earnestly.
"I'm not a complicated man am I, Bernice?"
Bernice was Mr Wilkens assistant and comrade. Her advanced age instilled a simpleminded wisdom that she utilised with aplomb to get to the grit of a situation.
She stared back at Mr Wilkens with enormous compassion. From where she stood, Mr Wilkens looked frail and childlike. A cheap suit hung loosely from his limbs and his hair was frightfully unsound. As he coughed and stumbled over his words, moths spiralled from his mouth, seeking refuge near the lights on the ceiling.
"What makes you ask such a strange question, Mr W? Have you been eating the extra curricular activities again?"
"No, no, Bernice, nothing like that. I'm just starting to wonder if I've made the right decision regarding next week's demonstration."
Bernice fought her way through the swarm of moths and draped her thick arm over Mr Wilkens shoulder.
"Are you talking about the ball poppin', sir?"
"Yes, you know I am!"
"Now, now, don't go getting all worked up on me. A couple of days ago you thought this was the greatest idea in the entire history of education. What happened?"
"Well... it's balls in general. They're such unpleasant things. I'm not sure I want my students looking at them."
Bernice erupted with burps of laughter, involuntarily urinating in the process.
"You silly goose, Mr Wilkens! Yes, balls are ugly as sin but the balls your kiddies'll be looking at are getting well and truly popped. Don't view it as your students looking at ugly balls, view it as your students watching something ugly gettin' destroyed!"
Mr Wilkens slowed his breathing until it had reached a more relaxed pace. A smile began to form.
"You really are a gem, Bernice. What would I do without you?"
"You'd probably have to lick your own damn arsehole is what!"
The laughter erupted once more as Mr Wilkens loosened his belt and shimmied out of his pants. With his cheeks spread, Bernice drove her tongue in deep.
\*
Chip sat across from Allen, who sat across from their mother, who sat under her husband. Mr Wilkens' scrotum sat limply by Allen's plate, making a whistling sound every so often. His mother couldn't take her long eyes off it.
"Do we really need that dirty sack on the table? We're eating for fucksake, Allen!"
Allen shifted awkwardly in his chair, the pain in his crotch burning hot and wet. Chip involuntarily rubbed his thighs in an masturbatory fashion, which caused his father to giggle and point.
"Don't encourage them, Pat," spat their mother.
"Sorry, Alice, it's just that he was moving his hands like he was getting off and there's a ball sack on the table. It's just funny is all."
An awkward silence engulfed the dinner table. The boys exchanged a furtive glance before Chip spoke up on Allen's behalf.
"Mum, Allen's got a problem... a problem with his junk."
Allen's face flushed red with embarrassment, slapping Chip with an attack of the giggles, which in turn started his father up again. Alice punched Pat in the chin, trying to get him to set a better example. The punch triggered a sneeze within Pat, which showered his poor wife with mucous. Alice reached for her cleavage hanky and began to wipe at the snotty film.
"What do you mean, Chip? What's wrong with Allen's junk?"
Using animated eyeballs, Allen tried in vain to end the current conversation but Chip didn't pick up on the subtlety. Alice was staring intently, trying to drain more information from her sons.
"It was an accident mum... a rather unpleasant accident."
"What was an accident? Why are you being so coy?"
"I popped Allen's junk!" yelled Chip while averting his eyes from his mother's scrutiny.
"You what?" said Alice, with mouth agape.
"Whose junk is that then?" said Pat, pointing to Mr Wilkens' tabletop scrotum.
"That belongs to Mr Wilkens," said Allen coyly.
"Who the hell's Mr Wilkens?" asked the increasingly impatient Alice.
"He's the principal at Yandish Muff," said Chip, whimsically pondering nipples.
"Why do you have his fucking junk on our dinner table?" asked Alice with ever escalating levels of anger.
"He gave it to us!" said Chip proudly, "We're performing a demonstration for his grade four students next week."
"Involving the principal's balls?" laughed Pat.
"Yes! He insisted we use his. He wants his kids to see a pair of hairy balls get well and truly popped," continued Chip.
"Why?" implored Alice, "It sounds outlandish on every level."
An uncomfortable silence descended on the table, interspersed with Pat stifling his giggles. Chip swept the sack off the table and shoved it in his pocket, employing the out of sight, out of mind method. Alice was staring into a great nothingness, lost in thought. Allen was fidgeting and uncontrollably moving his legs in a rhythmic fashion, sending slight vibrations throughout the room. As the hours dripped away, dinner grew decidedly cold.
\*
Mr Wilkens sat in his office busily drafting the permission slips for the upcoming demonstration. Bernice entered and immediately caught sight of Mr. Wilkens.
"Please don't tell me you haven't sent those things out yet?" she asked with a tone of disbelief.
"I know, I should have sent these ruddy things out last week but it's an extremely delicate subject. Thanks to you though, Bernice, I have my angle."
"Thanks to me?" she asked, somewhat taken aback.
"Don't you see? You really hit the nail on the head when you were talking about the destruction of ugly. The scrotum is an undeniably horrendous appendage. I can't conceive of anyone not wanting to witness the destruction of such a vulgar manifestation of biology. Here," Mr Wilkens handed Bernice the permission form, "read this; let me know what you think."
With the eye of an Irish cock and loosening bowels, Bernice held up the permission form and began to read.
To the Guardian,
Yandish Muff Primary School has always prided itself on its attitude toward esoteric tomfoolery. As educators, we utilise such methods as a means of bolstering ego and self-satisfaction. As parents, your general apathy allows us to continue on our self-aggrandising path. For this we thank you.
Shortly I will be conducting a demonstration that I believe is vitally important for your children to see. The demonstration in question will include the destruction of a standard male scrotum. Due to the unattractive nature of a scrotum, it is strongly believed that your children would benefit from witnessing its destruction.
We live in a world dominated by certain aesthetics. Aesthetics that the scrotum only detract from. In order to maintain a strong stance in support of beauty, we will embark upon the symbolic gesture of dismissing the opposite.
Please grant us your blessing and sign this permission form with pride.
Sincerely,
Mr Spencer Wilkens,
Principal
Mr Wilkens was biting his bottom lip and crossing his legs into a knot as he anxiously watched Bernice read the form. When she finished, she placed it to one side and stared intently into Mr Wilkens' eyes.
"Well... what did you think?" he asked impatiently.
Bernice was trying not to give anything away but despite every effort, a large smile broke its way through her exterior shell of cool.
"You drop those strides, Mr Wilkens. I think somebody's arsehole needs a lickin'."
Mr Wilkens beamed, "You like it! you really like it!"
\*
"I don't know what to do, Chip. I really need some balls."
Allen was crying quite uncontrollably as Chip, with a face full of concern, looked on.
"I'm thinking, Allen. Let me think. This hollering ain't gonna bring 'em back."
Chip turned to face the mirror and carefully touched up his quiff. This activity helped stimulate his brain juice, which he hoped would lead to an adequate solution to Allen's scrotal dilemma. An idea began to twist and form in Chip's mind as his quiff stretched like arms in the morning.
"I've got it!" he shouted, knocking Allen from his brittle sitting chain.
"What?" moaned Allen from the cold floor.
"Well, you've lost your balls, right?"
"Somebody, who shall remain nameless, popped 'em for me!" he spat back.
"Okay, okay, that's by the by. Point is, we still have a perfectly good set of balls right here." Chip reached into his pocket and retrieved Mr Wilkins scrotum, which he waved about like a dainty glove smeared in cream.
"That don't belong to me, Chip! I can't just take Mr Wilkens balls and staple it to my crotch stump"
"And why the fuck not? We'll be up on that stage a good thirty feet from the audience. We just have to make a fake sack, pretend it's Mr Wilkens' and you can pocket his originals. Who the hell will be able to tell from that distance, Allen?"
Allen was still on the ground, letting Chip's words penetrate and absorb. He really does have a point, he thought as he fingered his crotch pus, wishing he had his junk back.
"So, what do you think?" asked Chip, somewhat impatiently.
"I think you may have a point. Why waste a perfectly good scrotum?" responded Allen eventually.
Chip clapped his hands together, breaking both palms and snapping a button. "Good O!" he yelled, "So, now we just have to get ourselves a proxy for the demonstration."
"Do you think we could perhaps staple those balls onto me first?" Allen asked.
"We'll do it later, Allen, I promise. I think I just fucked up my hands."
\*
Hedging Littlepop paced his lounge room in a rage, the permission form clutched tightly in his hand as he read it over and over. With each reading his anger intensified until it was a white hot ball in the pit of his stomach.
"Can you believe this malarkey, Tina?"
Tina Littlepop was Hedging's wife and business partner. Together they ran a testicular advocacy group with the overall aim of abolishing discrimination toward the scrotum.
"We've been fighting too damn long for some stuffy nosed academic cunt to fill our children with this shit!" continued Hedging.
"Well, we simply won't allow Alex to attend dear," said Tina, trying to calm her infuriated husband.
"You bet your arse Alex won't be attending but that's not nearly enough! No child should be indoctrinated into mindless testicular discrimination."
"But that's not for us to decide, dear. That's the individual responsibility of the parent."
"You can be really naïve, Tina, you know that? In a perfect world every parent would do what was right for their child but this ain't no perfect world, Tina! Parents don't give a shit. Sure, let their child grow up hating themselves for a God given appendage. Who cares right? Well I fucking care, Tina!"
Hedging unzipped his jeans and removed his scrotum proudly.
"Alex, come here!"
Moments later, the pitter-patter of feet could be heard running down the hallway. When Alex arrived to face his parents, he flashed a giant grin and picked his arse.
"What's this, Alex?" asked Hedging as he pointed toward his exposed scrotum.
"That's yer junk, dad," answered Alex proudly.
"Yes, son, it is my junk. And what do you think about junk?"
"It's important."
"Yes, and WHY is it important?" enquired Hedging, with a giant grin.
"It's important because it's part of who I am. It's important because without it, I would never have been made."
Hedging picked up his son in loving arms and held him tight. "Yes, good boy. Don't let anyone tell you any differently. Run along now."
Alex hopped down from his fathers embrace and scuttled off to play with his collection of germs, one of which was pregnant.
"You see, Tina? This is what we're fighting for: the sanctity of biology and the awakening of acceptance. I'll stop this demonic presentation if it's the last thing I do."
As Hedging spoke, his scrotum flopped about in flamboyant animation, reacting to every word. Tina smiled sharply, nicking her soft cheek with a shard of lip. The blood drizzled down her chin, dripping off in gory worms.
"If it means anything to you, hun, I find your junk remarkably appealing."
She lunged forward and with a claw-like grip, clutched her husband's proud balls.
\*
"Sit still you shit tube sucking whore!" screamed Chip as he tried in vain to position the stapler above Allen's writhing crotch. "The more you squirm about, the more attempts I'm going to have to make."
Allen whimpered in anticipation of the pain he was about to experience.
"Don't we at least have a balm we can put on it?" he pleaded.
"I've already told you, NO FUCKING BALM!!! Just sit still and I'll be finished before you know it. It's just like tearing off a sandwich only in this case we're stapling foreign junk to your crotch stump."
There was something reassuring about these words as they draped over Allen's trembling body. They calmed him inexplicably. The burning wet pain abated and his eyes opened bravely. He thrust his crotch out and averted his eyes. I really don't need to see this, he thought. Chip steadied himself, stapler in one hand and Mr Wilkens' scrotum in the other. It's all a matter of angles, he told himself as he lined up the scrotum with Allen's bloody crotch. The scrotum was placed roughly in the position one would expect to find a scrotum. He slammed the stapler down with purpose, securing the junk loosely into place. Allen emitted a horrific howl which caused electrical interference in the surrounding ten block area.
"You sack of tits!" cried Allen. "This feels particularly unpleasant."
"Stop your bitching. I got it on didn't I?"
It hung blackened, lifeless and slightly off centre, but Chip was right; Allen had a scrotum once more.
\*
"We've received some rather illuminating reports about a demonstration you have planned for your grade four students next week, Mr Wilkens."
Mr Wilkens entered defensive mode and summoned up all the rants and speeches he had within. Internally he was composing the most appropriate line of response.
"Do you have anything to say for yourself, Mr Wilkens?"
The board of tangential education sat before him, overbearing in height and number. Why must they insist on such implausibly tall chairs, he thought, their intense scrutiny still directed toward his diminutive frame.
"First let me explain my motives, ladyfellows and gentlehaps of the tangential board. Who among you can honestly proclaim to remain unaffected by the dismal affront to anatomy that is the scrotum? Have you not caught glimpse of this putrid appendage and retched in disgust? Have you not questioned nature's agenda and asked yourself why we haven't been afforded the dignity that would accompany the internal concealment of the scrotum? Well let me tell you something, I have! Not a minute goes by where I don't question this pernicious infliction wrought by an unjust biology.
"My argument isn't just a question of dignity. This dilemma extends into the realm of aesthetics and the search for and preservation of beauty. How can such beauty be preserved and celebrated when it is wrought impotent by the very nature of the putrid scrotum? I don't assume that a meagre demonstration can eradicate this disease but if I can instil within these children a necessary level of revulsion, then I have made an important step toward a scrotum-free future for all of us."
Mr Wilkens finished his rant, inhaled some much needed oxygen and coughed up a few hopelessly flapping moths, much to the surprise of the tangential board. Silence permeated the room, which caused Mr Wilkens some considerable anxiety. When the silence eventually broke, it was due to laughter wafting over from members of the board. Mr Wilkens took a defensive step backward and prepared the muscle contortions required for an effective scowl. The man situated on the highest chair finally spoke up.
"Mr Wilkens, I can see you're very passionate about this particular issue and rightly so if you ask me! The scrotum is putrid, as you suggest, and I can think of nothing better than instilling this reality into the minds of babes. We called you here, Mr Wilkens, not because we want to forbid the demonstration, but because we would like an invitation ourselves. We feel somewhat miffed that you never thought to ask."
A smile replaced the impending scowl as Mr Wilkens said, "Come one, come all!"
Joviality filled the room and a half hearted version of the rumba spilled onto the floor. Mr Wilkens' mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. It was a message from Bernice. Come on back to the office, Mr W so I can give that arsehole of yours a good lickin'.
\*
It didn't even look slightly real. Chip had packed a pink stocking with grapes and cookie dough. It was hanging comically from his fly, slapping against his knees.
"Fuck me with a pickle stick, Chip. That doesn't look too good," said Allen in disbelief.
Chip sighed deeply and stroked his chin. "It's not so much what it looks like, its how you use it. If we believe that this thing," he thrust his hips, "is a dirty ol' sack, we can make others believe it too."
"You think?" replied Allen, his doubt apparent.
"Well what the fuck else are we gonna do, huh? I don't see you offering any solutions. This way you get to keep Mr Wilkens' sack and he still gets his demonstration."
"Yeah, well I wouldn't have to keep his ballbag if you hadn't popped mine!"
Both Chip and Allen had entered into a defensive mode, their body language and intonation infused with distrust and caution. The bricolage scrotum hung limp and impassive, accentuating the unease between them. They were both aware of the effect the impending demonstration was having on them. They were brothers. They were the closest of friends. Now a popped nut sack threatened their bond. A bond that had previously withstood everything life had thrown at it. Allen felt an intensity of anger previously unimaginable. Chip was overcome by a powerful, unflappable guilt.
"I'm sorry, Allen."
Tears began to form in Chip's guilt-ridden eyes as the meagre apology dribbled off his lips. For Chip, there was no weight lifted. The act of apology only reinforced his self-loathing. Chip's tears had a nauseating influence on Allen, who also began to feel guilt. It became apparent to Allen that he too was complicit in the death of his scrotum. Sure, Chip had acted with inappropriate haste and had popped the first thing he saw but it was Allen who had ensured there was something to pop in the first place. If anything, they were both at fault.
Allen's introspection was interrupted by an inhuman scream from Chip, who was now hunched over in what appeared to be agony. He lunged toward his brother with compassion and worry.
"Chip! Are you alright? What's happened?"
He draped his arm over Chip's shoulder, trying to deduce the cause of the scream.
"Allen," wheezed Chip, "I want you to have this."
Allen directed his gaze toward Chip's extended, bloody hand. It was Chip's scrotum. It seemed to breathe in his hand and leaked a substance similar to molasses.
\*
In his position as testicular advocate, Hedging Littlepop was often approached by like minds: people who were fed up with scrotal discrimination. He decided to gather a group of scrotal enthusiasts and labelled them, the Scroats.
Hedging had enlisted the help of his wife and son in order to convert their garage into a makeshift meeting hall. A podium, constructed of hardened wine, stood proudly in the centre of the converted garage. Alex had created a banner that bore the likeness of a jar stuffed to the brim with scrotums, which hung dramatically behind the podium. Loudspeakers filled the room with dismal vox pops, recorded on cylinders, covering a wide variety of scrotally slanted subject matter. The air in the garage carried a scent of pine.
As a Scroat, there were only two rules. The first was to ensure the sanctity of the scrotum was tirelessly upheld and the second: during a meeting, the scrotum must always be on display, preferably without interference from the penile shaft. So there stood a group of twelve ideological men, each with their scrotums hanging from their jeans, each with a glint in their eye. Standing before the men with an air of distinct purpose was Hedging. He held the permission form sent home from Yandish Muff aloft.
"Men, today is one of tremendous import. The sickening spectacle of scrotal discrimination reached a grisly low earlier this week, when my precious Alex handed me this permission form."
Hedging waved the form about hypnotically, eliciting a quiet awe from the group.
"Upon reading this form, what do you think I saw?"
The men shook their heads, wondering what the form could possibly contain.
"It was a blatant case of anti-scrotal advocacy, of course! It would appear that the principal of Yandish Muff feels it appropriate to subject his grade four students to an especially nasty demonstration, fuelled solely by his own prejudice and hate. That's right, fellow Scroats, later this week, the students at Yandish Muff will be forced to witness the live popping of a human scrotum!"
The gasps of shock spiralled from the men in the room. One went as far as to tuck his scrotum back into his pants, presumedly as a misguided defensive measure. He was asked to leave the Scroats immediately, which he did without question.
When the unexpected ousting had finished and everyone's nerves were a little calmer, Hedging continued.
"And so, what do we do about it? Do we sit here with our nads dangling while our children are turned into mindless haters by agenda-driven fundamentalists? Or do we pump our chests, storm the fort and proclaim the scrotum a prejudice-free zone?"
The men cheered, deeply swayed by Hedging's strong, passionate words. They formed a tight circle and rubbed their scrotums together gently. This was conducted in a way that avoided homosexual overtones of any sort. It was a potentially sexual act devoid of sexuality, like a Moyle biting off a foreskin, like fellatio from your cousin, like an enema from your family doctor.
Hedging signalled for his wife and son to enter the garage. They were holding musical instruments. Tina held a banjo in one hand and a 12-string acoustic guitar in the other. Alex struggled with a double bass, double his size. The Scroats looked on in confusion.
"Gentlemen, my family and I would like to perform a song for you all, infused with an intoxicating blend of folk and country elements. I think you'll find the harmonies rather delicate. For the sake of branding, we are known as Hedging Littlepop and the Family Littlepops."
The Scroats cheered and danced as the Family Littlepops began to play.
\*
Mr Wilkens sat in silence, guilt assailing him in violent waves. He had focused so intently on the principles surrounding the decision to remove his scrotum that it hadn't occurred to him to tell his wife. It had become painfully obvious that she was concerned. It was written all over her face. Several years ago Tina Wilkens had adopted the habit of writing her current emotional situation on her face with an easily removable array of organic inks. It wasn't unusual for the emotional scrawl to be updated over 30 times in one day. For the past week however, the words gravely concerned had remained. A quick glance at Tina's chin revealed the cause of her concern: no sexual activity. Mr Wilkens regretted the lack of sexual tomfoolery but he didn't know how Tina would respond to his deballing. He had come so close to dropping his strides on several occasions, but just as the belt was loosening, he would quickly tighten it back up. It couldn't remain unspoken for much longer and Mr Wilkens knew it. If he could just buy a little more time, perhaps after the demonstration, then it would all be okay.
But he wasn't afforded this time. Tina had to speak up, "What's going on, Spence? You've been so distant lately. I feel as if we're drifting apart."
Tina's eyes welled with tears that slowly snaked down her cheeks, smudging the facial scrawl. Mr Wilkens bit his lower lip, attempting to find the right words. Tina lunged toward him, placing her hands firmly on either shoulder and began to shake her sorry husband. A monopoly board fell from his shirt, along with a large book devoted to monopoly strategy.
"Speak to me! Why won't you fucking speak to me?" implored Tina as her quiet tears evolved into violent sobbing.
Mr Wilkens shrugged out of Tina's grip and fell onto the bed in a ball of waste. He too began to cry in a piercing shriek that cracked all but four of Tina's teeth. Tina began to intensify her wail, as if in competition with Mr Wilkens. The warbled, shrieks shattered mirrors and sternums as their tear ducts ran dry before pumping thick, black blood.
Before communication could commence, they were involuntarily thrust into a whirling vortex of despair. Duct blood coagulated into jellied stones on the bedspread. The crying had achieved a level of abstraction, divorced totally from the situation.
They were both at the mercy of momentum, which wouldn't end until its course had been run. This took fifteen hours.
Slumped back upon the soiled bedspread, Tina and Mr Wilkens began the process of recovery. Their eyes stung with the ferocity of their tears and their stomachs had been heaved into a state of emptiness. Tina rolled into Mr Wilkens and draped her arm across him, accidentally poking him in the eye. They remained in solemn silence for an indeterminate time. Mr Wilkens utilized the silence to ponder the absence of his testicles; to ponder the right words; to ponder how dangerous ice hockey was as a sport. It was time for Tina to finally hear the truth... for better or worse.
"Tina, there is something that I must tell you."
Finally, she thought and scrawled it upon her brow.
\*
Allen covered his shock pocked face with shaking hands. He couldn't physically bring himself to accept Chip's grisly offering, which looked for all intents and purposes, like a melting slab of disastrously unsound, meat ice cream.
"Chip, what have you done?"
"This whole fucking situation is my fault, Allen. I acted without thought. My eyes were on the prize most certainly but I never stopped to make sure it was the right prize. Here, take it... please."
Chip forced his scrotum into Allen's rigidly cupped hand before falling backward on a conveniently placed pile of soft.
"But what are you going do? You need balls too, Chip. Don't pretend you don't."
"I have options. I have options bubbling from every orifice."
Allen didn't look convinced as he watched his brother writhe about in self-inflicted agony. Chip was biting chunks of bottom lip away and spitting them at the wall in tiny, red impact explosions, trying to reroute the pain from his crotch. All this achieved was dual locales of pain, both severe, neither capitulating to the other. Allen began absentmindedly squeezing the scrotum like a novelty stress ball, watching the horrible spectacle unfold before his eyes, repeating this isn't right in an endless loop. Having already tried a multitude of pain lessening body contortions to no avail, Chip swung to his feet and begun an unsteady, Mick Jagger rooster walk around the room. He stumbled about, bumping into unfortunately positioned Jenga towers and hollow cubes of sugar glass covered in cancer cures, before finally toppling into Allen. Both began to fall in what appeared to be an easily avoidable slow motion. Upon impact Allen's fist clenched tight, instantly mashing Chip's dismembered scrotum, showering them both in red, snot-like goo.
"Ugh! I got some in my mouth!" choked Allen, as the goo drizzled down his throat.
"Oh, that's just fucking wonderful!" replied Chip sarcastically as he stared at the smeared remains of his junk.
They both remained on the ground for quite some time. One was coughing up ball paste and the other attempting to cope with burning hot pain. As this unpleasant situation unfolded, Alice walked in and saw the predicament in which her sons were embroiled.
"My Jenga towers!" she screamed toward the ceiling.
\*
Tina Wilkens sat alone in a barrel, quietly gathering her thoughts. She fingered the texture of the wood while running her tongue gently over her arms. Her husband had always been a deeply ideological man, which hadn't bothered Tina in the slightest.
Up until now.
It was his ideological adherence that made him such a passionate man and it was this passion that Tina had fallen in love with. By no means did Tina agree with many of Spencer's dogmatic beliefs but that had never been an issue. Their differences only served to strengthen the bond they shared. This was different. This went beyond the realm of intellectual curiosity and ventured into the physical world. Her husband had removed his scrotum, and for what? Simply to prove a hollow point? Was it really necessary to destroy a scrotum in order to convince the world they were wretched things? Besides, although she'd never dream of admitting it to his face, Tina was rather fond of Spencer's cute, little scrotum. It had always reminded her of a crowning badger's vagina and had a faint scent of pumice. Some nights while Spencer slept, she would nuzzle it with cat-like curiosity. Those days were now officially over and to Tina, this felt like the death of their meadowy frolics. How could she possibly look Spencer in the eye and tell him it was alright? She couldn't. For the foreseeable future, she would remain curled up inside her barrel, watering the seeds of her resentment with tit juice and arse cream.
\*
Mr Wilkens was acutely aware that he would find Tina inside her barrel of introspection. Given the number of hours she had already been in there, he knew it was rather serious this time.
Could it be possible that Tina was lamenting the removal of my junk? he wondered. Surely not, a woman that bemoans the loss of a scrotum is no woman of mine. It's certainly not the fiery minxtits I married.
It was at this point that Mr Wilkens arrived at the deluded opinion that Tina was only mad because he hadn't informed her of his plan. Yes, that must be it! No matter how cringe-worthy the appendage, if that appendage is getting removed, your significant other has a right to know. It was with this self-assurance that Mr Wilkens approached the barrel. He was confident that the right words to alleviate the situation would be found. He peered inside and stared at his wife, in a foetal ball within her wooden womb. Feathers billowed from no discernable source, which Mr Wilkens batted away with a pogo stick.
"Tina my dear," he whispered, "I've come to make amends."
With fishy eyes Tina slowly stared up at Mr Wilkens. It was some time before words managed to escape her mouth (and rather strangely, her collection of thighs).
"Make amends, Spencer? And how exactly are you going to do that?"
"Via an admission, an admission that acting without consultation was a grave mistake!"
Tina slowly rose from the barrel like a poorly controlled string puppet until she was able to meet her husband's gaze.
"And let's say that you did consult me, Spencer, what if I had refused?"
These weren't the words Mr Wilkens had expected to hear and his rehearsed reply was left flailing like an arm-clad, jelly brick.
Tina and Mr Wilkens stared coldly at each other. An oceanic slurry of negativity engulfed every inch of the atmosphere around them.
"So, what are you trying to say, Tina? Would you rather I have kept my balls?"
"What does it matter? You've already gone and done it! Anything I could possibly say would be an exercise in redundancy."
"No, Tina, I want to hear you say it!" yelled Mr Wilkens, releasing more moths than he thought possible, which Tina doused in gravy.
"Ok, I resent you deballing yourself. I wish you had never done it. It sickens me in a rather potent way."
Tina was chock full of defiance and facial scrawl declaring war. Spencer's overconfident attitude had sent her plummeting over the edge of decency and well-mannered rebuttal. She was no longer anxious about letting her husband know how she really felt. Meanwhile, Mr Wilkens was dry heaving at the unexpected revelation and sliding a thick finger deep into his bellybutton, stifling whatever bodily slush was bound to spew out if left unchecked.
"You wanna know what else, Spence?" said Tina scornfully.
He just glared in her general direction waiting for her to continue.
"I fucking loved your balls! I used to sing to them at night while you slept. I gave them the love you never did."
Mr Wilkens grew an instant beard as these words stabbed at his now withering heart. In one painful moment, the entirety of his marriage seemed like a vulgar lie. Everything Tina had ever said appeared rooted in deep dishonesty. As he stared as his ballbag loving wife, he knew immediately that it was now a stranger who stood before him. A stranger diametrically opposed to his most deeply felt ideal.
Tina was growing impatient as the silence lengthened well beyond that which conversational etiquette allowed.
"Are you gonna say something?" she asked her husband snidely.
Mr Wilkens continued to stare hard into Tina's empowered eyes. He tried to drain as much meaning as possible from her steely gaze but could only infer disdain.
"It just goes to show that you can never truly know a person," he finally offered.
Tina began to laugh hysterically, spraying the ceiling in liquid schadenfreude, which formed pools that dripped upon them like acid rain.
"Not true, dear," she said with faux housewife kindness, "I truly know you. I know everything there is to know about you. I know that you hide behind your dogmas like a child who hides under their favourite blanket, too fucking scared to dissect the foundation of your opinions before you set them in stone. No room for revision because that would indicate uncertainty, which is the one thing that scares you more than anything. Well I've got news for you, sweetheart, everything you've ever believed is wrong."
Tina was selecting her words carefully, ensuring each one caused maximum pain. The desire to hurt her husband had become overwhelming.
"It's actually kind of fitting," she continued, "that someone who never appeared to have any balls has decided to remove them. Now your mind and your body are one, my dear."
Mr Wilkens stood rigidly, shaking with an indescribable pain, which manifested itself as rage.
"GET OUT!!!" he boomed while pointing at the door.
Tina stood straight, gave a melodramatic salute and screamed, "Yessir!"
She left without uttering a word, struggling to carry her barrel.
\*
This probably won't be that effective, thought Tina Littlepop as she helped her husband zip up his pro-scrotum outfit. The costume itself made very little sense and struggled to convey even a rudimentary message. The unitard was coated in some indistinct, hardened batter. A paperboard placard hung around Hedging's neck, which bore a hasty drawing of a silhouette. Above the silhouette was the cryptic question, "your son?" and beneath the silhouette a far more cryptic, "is this what happens yet?" The placard message was discussed among the Scroats in a meeting that didn't end until consensus was met. Hedging openly admitted that the message became somewhat confused as the hours dragged by and as a result, they arrived at an unsatisfactory decision. The legs of the costume were entwined in brolga spine, which had been donated by a local eatery. The costume was topped off with a breadbag cape that attracted all manner of native birds. As one would expect, the construction of the costume allowed for the scrotum's exposure at all times.
"Be honest, Tina, do you think this'll work?" asked an anxious Hedging with arms akimbo. Tina's tentative nod betrayed her lack of confidence but Hedging thought it appropriate to ignore the unhelpful body language. Instead he whistled his faith back.
"I had some initial doubts but now I'm quite sure", said Hedging. Just picture it my dear: 25 men, all dressed thus," he waved a hand about his person, "Imposing themselves on the demonstration, chanting something about scrotal sanctity and what have you. All of us proudly exposing the God giving mechanisms they despise so absolutely. We'll usher those poor children out of the building and give them a demonstration of our own. A demonstration that extols biology's virtue. No scrotums harmed!"
Tina gently patted her headstrong husband on the shoulder and whispered, "Yes, dear, this is a valid fight," so only she could hear.
\*
Alice ascended the stairs with two bowls of steaming areola soup destined for the talk holes of her sense-bereft sons. The bowls slid about the tray in a melodic clatter as her mind fired up into loops of worry. I have to assume that they mean well but the injuries they sustain are so complete. And the frequency in which events of this nature occur is alarming. They'll be dead before they hit 30. In no way will they be able to father children, not with the mess they've made of themselves downstairs. I sense such absolute incompetence. My sons, my strange little boys...
Alice's thoughts eventually trailed off into a realm of barely remembered anecdotes concerning the fluff and puff of her own youth. I was so acutely sensible and yet I had a sense of whimsy that rejected much of what reality had to offer. I recall no feelings of discontent, nor did I find myself in harm's way, but I had adventures, did I what! I'd arrange any damn thing into arbitrary order, confusing the whole neighbourhood. Referring to me as the plantlick girl; what a nerve! But I sure did love it! Me and my jar of stink worms foraged out of whatever sewer my parents dragged me to that week and didn't I complain? Like an episode of My Sweet 16! I was that little girl with the voice of drowning elbows, at least that's how old lady Henrietta described it in those infernal music classes. I was kicked out of the choir for singing in bronze, but that didn't stop me from forming my own choir. I remember gathering the neighbourhood pariahs and forcing them to open up their stinky yaps and just yell. Boy did we yell at just about anyone. Scared Mr Touchmedoodle half to death and got a right earful from those snooty law enforcers. There was a hefty bounty offered for the first person who managed to kick me plain in the face.
Alice shook herself until the tangents fell away like dead leeches. Why do we have such a long flight of stairs anyway? We only have a one storey house!
\*
Chip and Allen were tucked into their respective beds, pale and sweaty with fever, each with ice packed around their loins. The woollen blankets hugged at them like over-zealous grandmothers. The curtains were drawn, painting the room dark brown. A rotten playground smell hung about like cobwebs.
The brothers could hear the clanking tray as Alice approached the door.
"I bet that's soup," moaned Chip.
"Of course its fucking soup," replied Allen, "she just told us she was gonna fetch it."
"Hey, don't shoot the messenger."
"What messenger?" yelled Allen, "You're not delivering a valid message."
Alice opened the door violently when she heard the muffled sound of her bickering sons.
"Will you two cut it out already?" she implored through clenched teeth, rendering her words incoherent.
Alice sat at the foot of Chip's bed and stared at her sons, who stared back like terrified lambs. Dedicating one hand to each son, she began to rub their legs lovingly. They both began to purr like perverted kittens, which made Alice cease the motherly act immediately. The purring slowly stopped and calm washed over the darkened room.
"Have I ever told you boys about the time your father was convinced he'd lost his testicles?"
They both sat up in bed, wordlessly imploring their mother to continue her story with a series of knuckle taps.
"It was a good five years before whichever one of you came first was born. I was working at a little company that came up with slurs for some of the premier racist comedians of the day. Your father didn't approve of my work. He was of the opinion that racial slurs should be saved for the boudoir but I was good at my job and persisted. Pat got so damn angry that he wouldn't talk to me for weeks at a time and if he did communicate, it was simply to give me a swift kick in the tits. I was stubborn though and wasn't going to let a little tit bruise stop me. It wasn't until I started submitting slurs against the whites that Pat would finally get his wish. I was the one who gave Flannigan Bromley the "white shitpecker" slur that ultimately got him killed.
"I'd somehow managed to drag your father along to a Bromley act with the promise that his jokes were almost solely about soda. Being quite the soda enthusiast, Pat agreed but it was conditional on us staying at opposite ends of the room. So Bromley got up on stage and surveyed the mostly white audience. The first thing he said was, 'What's the rumpus ya white shitpeckers?' At first there was this eerie silence. I don't think anyone was willing to believe they heard what they'd heard. One fellow toward the front plucked up the courage to ask Bromley to repeat himself. So Bromley, looking a bit nervous now, clutched the microphone and repeated himself, 'What's the rumpus ya white shitpeckers?' Well, there was no doubt about it, Bromley had slurred against the whites and the whites weren't happy about it. The crowd rushed the stage, devouring Bromley in their mass humanity.
"Your father and I were the only ones left on the floor. We glanced at each other from opposite ends of the room and I remember giving him a big shrug, at which point my shoulders came clean off at an alarming pace. They shot up to the ceiling and ricocheted back toward the ground. Pat could see my wayward shoulders and got himself quite concerned. He rushed toward me, his arms up like a vigilant goalkeeper. He was intent on stopping my shoulders should they try and bounce past him. He stopped the left shoulder and forced it deep within his trench coat pocket. My right shoulder was still bouncing around like a nutter and in the darkness of the club, Pat was having a hard time keeping his eye on it. Well, it whizzed past his face and he instinctively turned himself around. Before anyone could make sense of the situation, my right shoulder had bounced off the opposite wall and come flying back right into his man zone. The shoulder dropped to the ground and Pat was quick to follow. I ran toward him in a panic and pocketed my other shoulder before it could do anymore damage. Poor Pat was shaking with shock and balled up like a snotty tissue. I kept asking if he was okay but he just muttered something about soda. And all the while poor Bromley was trapped on the stage, slowly drowning in the crowd's saliva. He was dead less than five minutes later.
"A miscommunication led to thirty ambulances arriving at the club and Pat got loaded up into one. Another stayed behind to deal with Bromley and the audience went back to wherever they came from. I remember pacing the hospital waiting room in quite a panic and my tears were flowing freely. I had returned my shoulders to their rightful positions but that didn't really alleviate my anxiety. I knew Pat was currently having his testes prodded and poked by someone who wasn't me and I got myself all jealous. I started slapping nurses and willing their pain to travel astrally onto the face of those doctors who were violating your father.
"I knocked about eighty nurses out cold, each with bright red slap marks wrestling with the makeup caked on their faces. A doctor walked up to me looking as grave as you can possibly get. He told me that Pat's scrotum couldn't be located! I rushed past him and spilled into the room where Pat was getting treated. He looked up at me with the saddest eyes you've ever seen, seriously, these eyes could have killed God, and he tells me that his boys were gone and I just dove in and hugged him tighter than I've ever hugged anyone.
"They didn't keep him in the hospital for long as they figured there wasn't much point. I mean, if they're gone they're gone and it wasn't as if a medical procedure existed that'd bring his boys back. You're silly father asked to be dragged home, so I had to spend some time with your uncle Billy reinforcing a tricycle that your poor old mum had to peddle home. So there I was pumping my chicken legs as hard as I could, your father secured with some ties I had only just purchased. He was scraping along the road behind me, arms folded in front of him like Count Dracula. The silly bugger was still wearing his hospital robe and the asphalt was sanding his arse red raw. So when we finally got home (a feat that took me four bloody days!), not only did I have to tend to your father's lack of scrotum but I was also rubbing implausible quantities of ointment into his body length scab. Each time I applied pressure of any kind, a jet of pus shot out accompanied by a farting noise. I was covered in strings of back juice. Your father had erected some creepy mausoleum-like structure on his crotch and was playing Gregorian chant LP's on a depressing loop.
"This malarkey went on for nearly two months and I was starting to get sick of it. I'd already quit my job and the only money coming into the house were royalties from an STD I developed in conjunction with Blackmyer Ltd. They went belly up soon after when it was discovered their STDs weren't actually contagious.
I remember slapping the needle off whatever depressing Gregorian chant LP was playing and kicking his memorial groin structure into a crumble. I sat at the end of his bed, much like I'm doing with you boys right now, and told him that we needed to move on. Until now he hadn't let me look at his crotch once. He thought that the very notion of his wife seeing the mess down there would be an affront to his masculinity. But I got real close to his face, his heavy breath fogging up my eyeballs, and I told him that if he didn't give me a good ol' gander, I'd be out the door before he could slam the needle back down on his LP.
"He stared up at me with eyes so pathetic that they were nearly obnoxious. He tried in vain to have me capitulate but he knew the jig was up. He begrudgingly wiped away the mausoleum rubble and lifted the loin cloth slowly. Fists of stink flew from his revealed crotch and knocked me to the ground. I fought my way to my feet and got in as close as my nose would bear.
I tell you what boys, the light in the room may not have been great, but I saw them, clear as day! There, lying just below his withered, catheter-stuffed shaft were his testicles!
"I screamed in disbelief. All this shit for nothing. I fetched a body length mirror from the garage and rushed back to Pat. I flicked on the light and held the mirror up to him, imploring him to look. He saw the flippin' things straight away. His hand darted down and cupped them like a thirsty man might cup water from a stream. I mean, to be completely fair, one ball had a clear shoulder-shaped dent and the other had split in two but they were still there godammit!
"As you'd expect, we wanted answers. We marched on down to the hospital and demanded to see the doctor who treated your father. Turns out the fucking weasel had quit one week prior. He was one of those prejudiced scrotum haters. The bastard knew from the start that Pat's balls were there but he was working on a theory of ignorance. He was convinced that by simply refusing to acknowledge the existence of your scrotum, it would eventually just vanish!
Who knows, he may have been right but luckily for us, and clearly luckily for you, my sons, we thought to have a look and validate for ourselves. It was the best damn decision we've ever made."
\*
Chip and Allen sat in silence for quite some time after Alice finished her story. It was a side of their father they didn't know and in a way it made them lose respect for him. Allen eventually broke the silence.
"So you're telling us that we're the result of scrambled balls?"
Alice smiled warmly, "In a manner of speaking, yes you are, my dears."
"I can't help thinking that explains a lot," said Chip quietly.
Alice chuckled and stood up, wiping her hands on her burlap dress.
"Now," she said, "while you were sleeping, your father and I performed a little procedure that we're hoping will help you both."
Chip and Allen stared at each other in fear-laden wonder before unanimously asking, "Whatever did you two cads do to us?"
In one swift movement, Alice ripped the blankets off her pantless sons, whipping lashes into the surrounding walls. A few steps toward the light switch and the room became doused in an ungodly luminescence, which all but drowned out fine detail and dilated pupils in the surrounding suburbs. After a lengthy period of squint-filled adjustment, Allen and Chip glanced toward their crotches and squealed in delight. Secured tightly on each of them was a solitary, blackened ball.
"Your father and I were of the opinion that you both need something down there, even if it wasn't much. We noticed that you'd attempted to attach Mr Wilkens' sack to Allen, which was actually quite a good idea but the execution was poor. It was disastrously off-centre and you only used a staple to hold it on. I had your father pop it off with a staple remover and take it to the garage where he was able to jigsaw it in half and weld any splits shut. You're going to notice flecks of swarf in your discharges but it shouldn't result in too many aesthetic issues. After your father had finished the preparation I got down between your legs and stitched it on tight as you can get. Those babies aren't dropping off in a hurry. What do you think?"
Both sons lunged toward their mother and embraced her, tears of joy streaming down their faces. Chip pulled away and wiped snotty strings from his nose and chin.
"They're going to work like balls should, won't they?" he asked.
Alice guffawed powerfully, regained her composure and said, "Don't be daft, of course they wont."
\*
The demonstration was little more than a day away but for Spencer Wilkens, it was flailing like a packet of seizures. All he could focus on was the image of Tina leaving, struggling with the barrel. He dwelled on every nuance of the confrontation, every word she had said, every word he had said. The look on Tina's face had burnt itself into his mind, into his psyche. His scrotal stump had not stopped weeping a mucousy slime ever since, not even for a second. Bernice emerged from beneath Mr Wilkens legs and picked an arse hair from her tongue.
"What the hell's wrong, Mr W? This isn't like you one iddy bit. You're normally hollering and air punching when I'm tongue deep up ya but I feel as if I'm chewing out cadaver arse."
Mr Wilkens furrowed his brow and sighed loudly.
"It's certainly not you, dear Bernice. I fear I'm headlong involved in a personal crisis, perhaps even a crisis of faith."
Bernice fetched a chair and placed it adjacent to Mr Wilkens' slumped body, sitting herself down with coccyx cracking force.
"Okay, spill it. What's going on?" asked Bernice.
Mr Wilkens coughed up a ball of dead moths and continued.
"It's Tina. She admitted a rather startling revelation to me yesterday. I finally plucked up the courage to tell her about my scrotum removal and she appeared to lose all signs of sanity. Turns out she loved the damn thing!"
Benice fanned at her flushed face, "I think I'm getting the vapours."
"Tell me about it! How could anyone, let alone my own wife, like those things? It just isn't natural. And how am I supposed to reconcile this?" He threw up his arms dramatically, "I kicked her out!"
The chair Bernice was on buckled and she fell flat on her back. When Mr Wilkens rushed to her aid he was greeted with a hefty slap across the face. Mr Wilkens walked away from Bernice and in a whining voice asked, "Why on earth did you do that?"
Bernice eased herself up and strode over toward the pathetically writhing Mr Wilkens and gave him a firm kick in the anti-nuts.
"What was that for?" he screamed desperately.
"You silly old fool, you go get your damn balls back and beg Tina for forgiveness!"
Her words stung Mr Wilkens as they coiled through his eardrums like an emptying drain. No, not you too, Bernice; has the whole world gone insane? To Mr Wilkens, the world suddenly appeared awash in anti-idealistic anathema. He watched Bernice's mouth flapping wildly but his ears had already waxed over in self defence. It was as if he was caught behind a pane of glass and drowning. He felt like he was being attacked by spears of unreason. He thought of Tina and felt a surge of love so strong that his heart tore like trouser seams. He could feel fragments of heart floating inside his body like dead fish and wept.
Bernice was still screaming soundlessly when Mr Wilkens left to get his wife back.
\*
The Scroats sat proudly in their matching protest suits watching Hedging stand before them. He projected a blueprint of Yandish Muff and its immediate surrounds onto the wall behind. The logistical phase was reaching full swing and final arrangements were being made for the protest. Hedging stood before his men to reiterate the plan they had so carefully concocted.
"The plan will be thus: five of you are to enter from the back of the auditorium as the demonstration begins. All lights in the building will be shot out and spotlights wheeled in by five more of you, who will approach from the front. With the spotlights in place, two more will enter from the roof and drop a large, white sheet across the back of the stage, while two more must set up a data projector in the designated area. A pre-prepared presentation of unsullied scrotums will be projected upon the sheet as I enter from stage left. As I begin unloading my pro-scrotum rhetoric throughout the auditorium, the rest of you are to run about the aisles in a frenzy, all the while, extolling god's passion for balls. Any children rejecting the pro-scrotum message will be given a carefully practiced slap that is designed to alter ingrained synapse patterns without causing injury. Spencer Wilkens is to be killed, along with anyone else aiding in the demonstration. Any resultant corpses are to be displayed in a victory march down Main Street, where spectators will be encouraged to reveal their scrotums or embrace someone else's. In the long term it is hoped that any momentum gained via this protest can be built upon in a global anti-discrimination effort."
The plan flew by like verbal bullets, striking each Scroat, inflicting wounds of passion. They stood, they cheered and they embraced, strengthening their bond, furthering their cause, forming a unity and feeling deep togetherness.
"Men, you make me proud," exclaimed Hedging as he clutched himself with conviction. "To anyone cowardly enough to proclaim this battle unworthy, I introduce you to the cold back of my hand."
Hedging raising his hand toward the ceiling acted as a cue for Tina, who had spent the meeting crouched in the corner. She flicked a switch, triggering a dramatic laser show which Hedging, in partnership with his family, had spent some time developing. The Scroats sat transfixed, chewing on unpeeled carrots, watching the multi-coloured lasers dance above their heads. This is going to be an important event, thought Hedging as he basked in the adoration of his men.
\*
"Has anyone seen Mr W?" enquired a panicked Bernice as she darted through the narrow corridors of Yandish Muff. Repetition of the question merely saw a multiplication of the deaf ears on which it fell.
"You apathetic pack of cunts!" she screamed toward the shrinking backs of the uninterested teachers and students as they walked away.
She began elbowing windows into glassy explosions as the panic increased. This was the day of the demonstration and she hadn't heard a peep from Mr Wilkens. It worried her greatly. She could only assume that Mr Wilkens' absence was her own fault. Why the hell would I go telling Mr W to go and get his balls back? That's gotta be the dumbest bit of advice I've given. He's probably off trying to have 'em reattached and meanwhile we're gonna have ourselves an assembly full of children with no purpose. I always gotta be telling people to go chasin' love and whatnot.
Bernice was an apologetic romantic. She was always proclaiming the virtues of love, yet had never experienced it herself. The possibility of courtship was rendered impotent on account of two vaginally lodged irons, inserted as part of a failed government initiative. So, although the feeling of love was possible, the impossibility of sexual relations ensured that Bernice stymied the notion well before it had a chance to flower into something painful. The sad truth was that the closest thing to love she'd ever allowed herself to feel involved her tongue probing the depths of Mr Wilkens' arse. Although she wouldn't admit it out loud, the thought of Mr Wilkens not having his testicles instilled within her a vague hope that a relationship with him was possible, even if it was based on mutual genital mutilation. Because of this, Bernice supported the demonstration one-hundred percent. As an appendage, she bore no ill will toward the scrotum but as a romantic she believed that if there was a possibility of reciprocated love, it should be embraced by all means necessary. Anything for love.
She continued to prowl the corridors of Yandish Muff, confronting teacher after teacher, student after student but to no avail. The demonstration was mere hours away and Mr Wilkens was nowhere to be found.
\*
Mr Wilkens' bony fists pounded against the door for what felt like hours before it opened. Alice stood before him in a state of confusion, trying to retrieve his face from within her memory banks. Out of breath and bloody knuckled, Mr Wilkens fell to his knees and clutched at Alice's leg, pleading to speak to Allen and Chip.
"They're both resting," she said with a suspicious glare.
"I'm afraid you don't understand. They have something very important of mine. I must retrieve it as a matter of urgency".
There was an unsual lilt contained within the intonation of his wretched sobbing that triggered something within Alice and, although she'd never met the man, she instantly knew it was Mr Wilkens. Furthermore, she knew exactly why he was here. She always knew her international directory of idiosyncratic intonation would come in handy.
"You're here for your balls aren't you?"
Mr Wilkens nodded desperately, letting go of Alice's leg and pulling the front of his pants down with one pathetic hand, exposing his orphaned shaft.
"Just look at me!" he cried, "I'm an incomplete monster!"
This ignited a wave of anger in Alice, who couldn't help but dwell on the fact that both her sons were now disfigured as a result of this stupid man.
"Who do you think you are, coming to my house and begging my sons for your balls back? Do you have any idea of the hell you've put my beautiful boys through?"
"What do you mean?" he asked with trepidation.
"They're not very intelligent boys and you lump them with the responsibility of minding your sack? I'm sorry, Mr Wilkens, but you won't be getting it back. Your scrotum is currently in use and I don't foresee that use expiring anytime soon."
Alice's arms were crossed tight as Mr Wilkens eyes widened in fright. He stammered for over an hour before the words began to swirl into sense.
"What do you mean they're in use? What possible use could there be for such a thing? What have you done with my boys?"
"What have I done with your boys? What did you do to mine? Both my sons lost their scrotums, thanks to your fucking demonstration! As a result, the only fucking ballbag they have between them is yours! My husband and I did the only thing anyone who cares for their children would do. We split yours up and gave them half each."
It was too much to bear. Tears leapt out of Mr Wilkens in thick, salty jets, triggering accelerated salinity throughout Alice's prize-winning garden.
"You venomous bitch! You had no right!" he yelled through the increasing torrent of tears.
Throughout this encounter, Chip stood at his bedroom window, watching it all unfold like a poorly made origami crane. He ran his fingers over the new half-scrotum, wondering if it was all worth it. He glanced toward the bookcase, where the bricolage scrotum he'd created for Allen now sat. There was no way Mr Wilkens was getting Chip's half of his balls back but if he was willing to accept it, he'd gladly gift the fake one. From the window it was apparent that Alice was winning the argument because Mr Wilkens was dusting himself off and readying to leave. Chip felt compelled to open the window and yell, "Mr Wilkens, take this!"
The bricolage scrotum flew through the air, relinquishing several grapes from within. Mr Wilkens made an effort to catch it but grossly over estimated the force of the throw and wound up backing through a window across the road. The bricolage scrotum landed several hundred feet short of this mark, right next to Alice, who picked it up and moved toward Mr Wilkens. He was quite badly cut up. She thrust the scrotum toward him.
"Just take this and leave." Mr Wilkens struggled up and clutched at the bricolage scrotum.
"What do you expect me to do with this?" With a weary hand he brushed glass from his heavily punctured face. "It's not even real."
"It's real enough for you, Mr Wilkens. Now I'd like to ask you to leave my family alone," said Alice solemnly, not giving an inch of ground.
He massaged his temples, coughed up a few more dead moths and gave in. He feebly stuffed the bricolage scrotum down his slacks and began to limp home. This thing doesn't even look slightly real, he thought to himself, utterly dejected and spent.
\*
The children of Yandish Muff poured into the auditorium, taking their seats and chewing on strips of carpet. The resultant hubbub was understandable. Few children in the room knew what they were about to see. They'd only been told it was important. The weight of expectation, mixed with the rush of missing class, filled them with bowel releasing levels of nervous excitement. Several dozen children had already broken their feet after an impromptu game of 'kick the wall' broke out. It took the school nurse a good half hour to reinflate the pulped toes. When the children had grown weary of the carpet, they began chewing on each other in an impressive display of childhood savagery. Ears were torn off, skin stripped and in general, a right old mess was made. The school nurse rolled her eyes, hitched up her sleeves and began the thankless task of bodily reattachment.
Throughout the gory display, members of the tangential education board mingled with teachers in a V.I.P. area of sorts. They were all gloriously oblivious to the violent acts committed by their students. They snacked on crackers dipped in mashed gibbon and sipped from jam lids full of diluted bleach. All in all they possessed a general merriment bolstered by a sense of anticipation. The demonstration excited them like little else in recent memory.
"This Wilkens fellow better put on one hell of a display," quipped a member of the board. "There's a demonstration occurring at Bleeding Gash Primary today wherein students shall be taught the dangers of idle hands."
"Oh yes, I read about that in Educational Esoterics last week. They'll be ripping into some delinquents, forcing the cads to repent or lose their hands in a bear trap. I'd wager quite strongly that repentance or not, these chaps will be losing their dirty masturbators."
Teachers and members of the board swelled with dry, self-satisfied laughter, instinctively patting each other on the back without even noticing.
"Well if old Wilkens pulls this off, I dare say it will go down as an end of year highlight. He'll be nosing a hefty bonus afterward, you just watch."
The laughter continued for quite some time before a teacher raised a rather valid question.
"Speaking of Wilkens, where in the devil is he?"
They all looked about before shrugging their shoulders in ignorance.
"I dare say he's backstage giving a last minute pep talk to the sorry nimrods who agreed to do this. I imagine he'll be popping his head in to say hello afterward."
They all nodded in robotic agreement before averting their attention to the empty stage, making sure to avoid looking at the students, nine of whom had already died from blood loss. The school nurse was now huddled in a far corner, nervously chain smoking. She was already contemplating the word 'truck'.
A hush descended upon the auditorium, an unknown prompt signalling a beginning to the proceedings. All eyes were fixed upon the stage, where a lonely microphone stand resided. A slight movement of the stage curtain, unknowingly caused by a breeze, set the crowd off into a delirious applause in which many already wounded students broke their hands.
\*
The sound of the rapturous applause sent the five Scroats at the back entrance into action. They flung themselves through the door and made their way toward the sound, firearms at the ready. Several immediate wrong turns resulted but were quickly forgotten when the light from the main hall came into view.
The Scroat leading the approach signalled toward the others in a series of unrehearsed hand gestures that were ignored after mass confusion set in. Their heavy footsteps caught the attention of the audience and several dove for safety underneath their chairs when the firearms were noticed. Without a second thought, all five Scroats began firing haphazardly in the direction of the lights, tearing them apart in a cacophony of bullets and broken glass. As the lights were struck, the glass showered upon the cowering students, shredding many apart in red flashes. The Scroats continued to pump round after round into the ceiling, weakening its structure significantly, before destroying it altogether. Large portions of ceiling fell to the ground, crushing the vast majority of the surviving students to death. The school nurse stood up abruptly in an instinctual display of concern but quickly decided on a hasty exit when she began to understand the extent of the damage.
The teachers and members of the board looked on in bemusement. They were cordoned off from the bedlam thanks to the position of their V.I.P area. If this is part of Wilkens' demonstration I'm quite impressed, thought one, It's just a shame about the evident loss of life.
In a sudden burst of confusion, two large, Scroat-manned spotlights were wheeled in from the front entrance and directed toward the ravaged audience in blinding columns. This was followed by two Scroats on ropes falling from the stage ceiling. They fumbled about until they managed to secure a large white cloth made from several dozen sheets. It formed an impressively stark backdrop. Data projectors were immediately placed into position, filling the white backdrop with a strange presentation. There was a series of images, some containing prominent scrotums and some not. Each image containing a scrotum was branded with a large, green tick. Any image not containing a scrotum bore a red cross. These images were interspersed with blocks of bold text, which spoke of the propensity toward homosexuality experienced by eunuchs. Accompanying the text was a spurious statistic claiming that ninety percent of females desire a scrotum of their own. The remaining ten perecent were deemed Neo Nazi lesbians. The final love heart framed slide displayed a crudely drawn Esperanto flag shaking hands with a scrotum. This was punctuated with an orchestra hit that signalled the arrival of Hedging from stage left.
Clutching at the microphone, sensing the importance of what he and his men were achieving, Hedging allowed himself a moment of reflection before diving headlong into his prepared diatribe.
"Children of Yandish Muff's grade four class, I stand before you today in deliverance of a message. A message that flies sharply in the face of what you were brought here to hear. Each of you are at a stage in your life where you've probably been mercifully removed from the debate surrounding the scrotal sanctity. Can I have a show of hands in order for me to gauge those of you who have been afflicted with damaging parental prose?"
Hedging looked upon the gory slush of dead students, waiting for a response that showed no sign of arriving. Somewhat agitated, he continued.
"I choose to take your silence as a positive sign. My assumption is that you have never been taught to hate your scrotum. I am here to tell you that you were within a hair's breath of having this grisly message hammered into your poor, little skulls. I represent a group affectionately known as the 'Scroats'. It is our goal to ensure that the negative attitudes toward the scrotum are abolished. You were brought here today in order to be infected with these attitudes. The Scroats will not let this happen. We implore you to look upon your scrotum for what it is: a god given appendage that is instrumental in the role of procreation. Without the scrotum, none of you would be here. Your dastardly Mr Wilkens wouldn't be here. Distinguished members of the tangential board wouldn't be here. NOTHING would be here! If he is man enough, I call for Mr Wilkens to meet me on stage and accept his penance."
Hedging went silent as he awaited the arrival of Mr Wilkens. After four hours it was apparent that this wasn't going to happen. With a finger pointed toward the tangential board, he boomed the question, "WHERE IS MR WILKENS?"
The stunned members of the board looked among themselves, nodding furiously like falling plates of jelly. The position of their V.I.P. area made a quick dash for escape impossible without an elaborate series of limbo-like manoeuvres. One member was begrudgingly nominated as a spokesperson.
"We're terribly sorry to you and your band of unusual men but Mr Wilkens is a no show. Nobody has seen him today. We assumed you were a planned part of the demonstration but we're starting to believe that is not the case. It would be very much appreciated if you would leave. No one from the board will speak ill of this incident and you can go about your confusing protests freely."
Before Hedging had a chance to reply, five more Scroats burst into the room and began circling the corpse-strewn rubble chanting, "GOD ENJOYS THE SCROTUM! JESUS HAD A SCROTUM!"
"Stop it!" Hedging yelled at his chanting men, who obeyed immediately. "This isn't working at all. Let's get out of here."
The teachers and board members watched in fascination as the strange group of forlorn men lumbered out of the auditorium in single file. When the coast was clear, the board members had their drivers come and physically pick them up and take them away.
\*
Bernice was already waiting on the couch when Mr Wilkens stumbled through the door, bricolage scrotum in tow.
"What in the heck is that, Mr W?" she asked in disbelief.
Mr Wilkens look surprised but happy to see his assistant. It was a dash of normality in what had turned out to be a decidedly un-normal day. "Bernice, my dear, when did you get here?"
"I've been waiting here for about five hours. I knew you'd show up sooner or later."
She became guarded before asking, "So, d'ya get Tina back?"
Mr Wilkens fell onto the couch next to Bernice and allowed himself a hearty laugh, which released some of the negativity within him.
"No, Bernice, it's fair to say that I didn't get Tina back. All I got was this thing."
He waved the bricolage scrotum about in her confused face.
"And what exactly is that?" she asked, selfishly pleased that Tina was still gone.
"This is my new scrotum. It would appear that my real one is indisposed right now and I shouldn't expect to get it back anytime soon."
Mr Wilkens' laughter was quickly replaced with pitiful sobbing and helplessness. Bernice wasn't prepared to let her boss dwell.
"Now let me get something straight, Mr W. You're telling me that even without Tina, you want your balls back?"
"I don't know, Bernice."
"Well, do you hate balls or not?"
"I really don't know, Bernice."
She rolled her eyes and pressed on, "Okay then, are you so obsessed with balls that you'd be willing to keep that ridiculous thing?" She pointed toward the bricolage scrotum.
Bernice snatched the scrotum from his hand and flung it into the fire, which resulted in an unexpected explosion that blackened the room.
"Even if you did want your balls back, Mr W, you don't wanna be worshiping some imitation. If there's sanctity to be had, whichever side of the scrotum debate you're on, you don't wanna be shitting all over it with a crudely made recreation."
Mr Wilkens draped his arm over Bernice's shoulders and nuzzled into her neck.
"You know, I think you're right," he mumbled through mouthfuls of neck fat.
Bernice grinned. She was comfortable in this position and she yearned to make it last.
"You know something, Mr W?" she asked.
"What?"
"I prefer you without balls. I don't want them things getting in the way when I have my tongue up you."
Mr Wilkens laughed a little too hard, accidentally biting down on Bernice's neck, taking a chunk of flesh with him as he pulled away.
"Sorry about that," he said as blood trickled down his chin.
Bernice waved it off with a forgiving hand.
"You know, Bernice, I also prefer myself without balls. I don't want balls. I've never wanted balls. The fact that Tina managed to convince me otherwise is actually quite terrifying and that isn't an influence I need in my life."
He kissed Bernice on the cheek and fell to the ground in a violent coughing fit. Hundreds of moths poured out of his mouth with every new heave. They died just as quickly as they were born. Bernice was instantly at his side, massaging his stomach and brushing the dead moths from his eyes. It took some time for Mr Wilkens to recover from the exertion.
Bernice helped Mr Wilkens to his feet and gently guided him back toward the safety of the couch. As his backside made contact, one last cough birthed two perfectly formed butterflies, which danced about in rings together. The two sat in comfortable silence for some time as they watched the butterflies dance.
"Bernice," said Mr Wilkens, eventually breaking the silence.
"Yes Mr W?"
"Call me Spencer."
She tells me to shut the fuck up and that little nightly zone I so carefully create for myself vanishes, like it never existed. I muster up a huff and flick off the stereo. The sound cuts out immediately and I'm left in an uncomfortable silence. My ears begin to adjust and pick out night-time noises, usually ignored by those blessed with the ability to sleep. She has already drifted off. I stare into the back of her head through the darkness, resenting her completely.
I admit I'm prone to melodrama but music is important to me and without it I just can't sleep. Or, if I do manage to shut down, my sleep is infiltrated by damaging thoughts. There's something magical about the sonorous ebbs and flows of a trusted CD. It lulls me into comfort; it massages my brain. I'm lost without it.
Fucking Nadia! She's snoring already. I have no doubt that she could sleep through my most ferocious death metal album at full blast. She could find warm slumber during the chilliest black metal. I try not to think the worst of people but she's doing this solely to punish me, I'm sure of it. I clutch my music to me like a security blanket and it clutches me right back. Tonight my blanket has been shredded.
I lie awake in bed with my wide eyes staring at the ceiling. Fearing the dancing shadows, I masturbate while thinking of limes.
\*
Nadia counteracts my miserable, insomnia-ridden mood with sickening cheerfulness. She's eating toast and passing comment about something on the television. I have no time for it.
"You really pissed me off last night!" My words drip with involuntary venom. She stares at me with surprised eyes.
"What are you on about?" she finally says.
I enter damage control. "Shit, sorry babe. I didn't mean to sound like such a fucking prick. I just had trouble sleeping 'cause you made me turn off my music." Fuck I sound pathetic! A smile crosses Nadia's face as she comes to grips with the petty childishness I'm displaying.
"You're kidding me right? You haven't been brooding all night have you?" Her lack of respect sends a spike of anger to my brain. I repress it admirably.
"I'm having a shower," I respond as a means of escape, knowing full well she will have left for work by the time I get out.
I hear music in the stabbing shower water. It cleanses me metaphorically and physically.
\*
I hate my job thoroughly. It's so redundant that my not doing it would affect the world in no perceivable way. I work for a company called Astenburger Ltd. My job is to yell at walls in order to test their emotional fortitude. The company founder, Leonard Astenburger, claims that walls absorb the emotional state of anyone who comes into contact with them via a process similar to osmosis. Over time, the weight of a wall's emotional burden can lead to degradation and instability. Unsubstantiated documentation presented by Astenburger himself, claims that many lives have been lost due to the collapse of emotion charged walls. This claim has been scientifically refuted ad nauseum but due to a core group of supporters and stakeholders the shady operation continues. This rakes in considerable money for the company and Astenburger personally. Of course this doesn't translate into much money in my pocket.
"You shit! You smell like old tits! Why don't you give a fuck to your father?"
The wall gives no indication that it has absorbed what I'm yelling. Company policy dictates that no less than 90% of what I yell must consist of inexplicable insults. I yell more in one week than most people probably yell in their whole lives. My throat is covered in a leathery callous. I have developed formidable vocal stamina.
The various instruments used to measure the emotional fortitude of a wall before and after yelling, spit out esoteric data. I send this data to a department which specialises in the analysis. The results of the analysis are little known among those outside a key circle of managerial types. Annual reports are circulated under the guise of transparency but these reports are virtually impenetrable and go largely unread.
I shout myself hoarse for eight hours. The day ambles along at a painfully slow pace. The thought of arriving home and soothing myself with music normally calms me enough to deal with my miserable days but Nadia fucked that up the arse with a knife.
I'm tired and angry.
\*
People have a way of surprising you and sometimes this surprise is even a good thing. I arrive home in woeful spirits having spent my nightly train ride rehearsing polite yet hateful things to say to Nadia. Before I have a chance to unburden myself I am confronted with a parcel placed atop the doormat. It's lovingly gift wrapped and addressed to me. My inner child is excitingly clicking his heels. There's a card attached that says:
Dear Michael,
Get a good night's sleep, okay!
You can be such a baby sometimes.
Don't worry numb nuts, I still love you.
This way we both win!
Lots of love,
Nadia
I tear into the delicate package, unsympathetic to the time and care taken to wrap it. I'm dumbstruck. Entombed within is a simple set of headphones.
"You like?"
I look up. Nadia is leaning against the doorframe wearing nothing but one of my old, large t-shirts. A large smile beams from her face. She looks fucking good.
"Now I can sleep in silence and you can sleep to your music."
The solution is so simple that I make a mental note to kick myself later for not having thought of it.
"This is great! Thanks!" I can't think of anything more appropriate to say. I feel light, as if a chronic constipation has been relieved. Nadia strides over with her arms spread wide, wordlessly imploring me for a hug. I fall into her arms and loose myself in her idiosyncratic odours, the odours that you only recognise and appreciate with time -- individual like a fingerprint. We retreat to the bedroom and fuck painfully. Desperately.
\*
After dinner we're both relaxing on the couch; Nadia with her head on my shoulder watching television and me staring at the headphones, which I have now removed from the packaging. I try them on, prompting Nadia to reposition her head. Unconsciously, she doesn't want to get in the way. The headphones feel incredibly comfortable. After a few seconds I barely know I'm wearing them. I can't wait to lie back in bed and drift off, beautiful sounds feeding my starving ears.
The late night news possesses a hypnotic monotony that has lulled Nadia to sleep. I roll with it by gently nudging her awake and suggesting that bed may be in order. I wave my new headphones at her in anticipation. Barely awake, she smiles at me with genuine warmth and love. The opposite of this smile would kill you dead.
The bed sheets feel cold and smooth against my naked legs and the pre-sleep lamplight fills the room with warm ambience. Nadia and I engage in a mandatory hug, which ends the pre-sleep ritual. Unbeknownst to her, I silently fart several times. This is common. This is love.
Nadia has rolled over onto her side as I plug the jack into the stereo. I carefully place the headphones on my head. I visualise a king being crowned and immediately curse my delusions of grandeur. I turn the stereo on and the mechanical sound of a preloaded CD whirs into life. As I lay back I flick the lamp off, the room is minutely illuminated by the stereo's blue display. My finger easily finds the play button on the remote despite the lack of light. I could perform every function on my stereo remote in the blackest void. My tactile memory is strong.
My anticipation drags the split seconds out as I wait for the first track to start. My eyes are closed, every atom in my body prepared for sustenance.
Through the left headphone speaker a slapping noise fades to life. It's not until the meaty groaning begins in the right channel that I become completely confused. I flick the lamp back on and stare at the stereo. The display indicates that the CD is playing. I skip forward a couple of tracks only to be confronted with more slapping sounds, more groaning. I remove the headphones in a mild panic. I strain my ears, hoping that somehow the sounds I'm hearing aren't originating from the headphones. There's nothing to hear except the heavy breathing of Nadia beside me. I hold the headphones to my ear once more and there it is, clear as day. The same masturbatory sounds. I throw the headphones down on the bed beside me, while attempting to massage the stress from my brow. My eyes shift back and forward between the stereo and the headphones. I snap myself out of whatever reverie I'm in, intent on justifying the entirely odd phenomena. Without much thought, I pluck the headphone cable out of the stereo. Intensely loud, blastbeat ridden death metal pours into the room. Nadia wakes with a start, unusual for her as she will sleep through almost anything.
"Fuck, Michael! Use the headphones!!!"
I dive toward the stereo's power button, cutting the sound off abruptly.
"Sorry babe, you don't understand..."
"Just let me sleep."
She rolls over, ignoring me, leaving me to deal with the situation alone. I don't dare make a sound.
\*
I try numerous CDs and every stereo in the house. The sounds differ from track to track, album to album but essentially it's all the same; a vast cornucopia of wanking. Some of the wanking carries a strange, dignified air that fills me with immediate envy.
I cower pathetically in the corner of the lounge room, which suddenly seems foreign and foreboding. The occult headphones are plastered to my ears, vexation drowning my brain. The ceaseless masturbation crawls into my ears, pulling me in, ensuring I am part of each and every groan, pant and slap. The physical and mental exhaustion mercifully knocks me out at about 4 am.
\*
Nadia finds me the next morning splayed out in the lounge room, fast asleep. The headphones are still steadfastly attached to my ears. When I don't respond to her concerned voice she begins to kick me until finally I stir. My body is caked in dry, sticky sweat and my face is stained with tears. In a daze I remove the headphones and stare blankly, right into her eyes.
"What the fuck, Michael?"
Dull shards of understanding and perception emerge as my body tries to reboot. My brain attempts to scan for the appropriate wording to explain myself but I feel as if the wanking has erased everything.
"Have you been here all night? What was wrong with the bed?"
My only response is to feebly hold up the headphones, offering them to Nadia. "Listen," is all I can say.
Tentatively she takes possession of the headphones while staring at me as if I were a stranger. Her body language places a psychological distance between us and it terrifies me. I watch closely as she listens and starts to hear what I've been hearing.
"What the hell are you listening to, Michael? What is this shit?"
She throws the headphones down and gives me an accusatory stare. I prop myself up against the wall, engaging in the conversation against my better judgement.
"It's wanking, Nadia."
"Yes! I can hear that it's wanking! Why the fuck are you listening to it?"
"It won't stop -- it's ceaseless and I don't know where it's coming from."
"What do you mean 'you don't know where it's coming from'?"
"It's the new headphones you got for me. Wanking is all they will play. No matter what CD I put into the stereo, it comes out as wanking."
"What shit are you on right now, Mike? You're scaring the hell out of me."
"I fucking wish I was on something. At least then there would be a fucking explanation."
Nadia continues to stare, clearly unable to process what I'm saying. Painfully I stand up, using the wall behind me for support.
"Look, I know alright! It's crazy, I'm going mad! I am completely willing to accept the fact that I've snapped and this is all some fucked up hallucination."
Nadia slowly shakes her head involuntarily. Tears slowly creep from her eyes.
"Nadia please! Prove to me that this is a hallucination. Take the headphones, get them to play music. Please, prove that I'm going mad. I need a shower; I'm going to be late."
I limp away, leaving Nadia behind to wrestle with the situation. I need to wash away the stink of my undoing.
\*
I'm working up the strength to start pouring abuse at the blank wall in front of me when I receive a phone call from my supervisor. I hold the phone to my ear half expecting to hear masturbation. Instead I'm subjected to Dean's intolerable smarm.
"Hi, Michael. Dean here."
"Hi, Mr Hayes." A familiar sense of dread always accompanies these chats.
"How you travelling, Michael?"
"Fantastic, never better."
"Good to hear. We need to have a chat, Michael."
"About what, sir?"
"Best not to discuss it over the phone. Come to my office this afternoon. Does two sound good?"
Silence at my end.
"You still there, Michael?"
"Umm... yes sir."
"Two pm this afternoon. Does that suit you?"
Mr. Hayes hangs up before I have a chance to yay or nay the proposition. I'm hardly in a position to bargain but even farcical democracy is better than nothing.
Whenever someone asks me for a chat my defences tweak automatically. It feels like my internal organs are coming loose and rattling around my torso. The simpler they ask, the more devastating the result. At least that's been my experience. I envisage absurdly melodramatic scenarios in my head, one of the worst being Mr Hayes questioning me about 'all this masturbation you've been listening to' and then whipping my bare arse with rhubarb. Most of the scenarios usually follow a typical, 'you're fired' type trajectory and result in me walking home forlorn. There's usually an equally forlorn looking puppy following me. We don't befriend each other, I think he's just attracted to the scent of my misery. I picture myself explaining the job loss to Nadia and watch as the guts of her financial security are violently ripped away. I watch her walk out the door, in too much of a hurry to put pants on. She'd rather expose her shame to the world than spend a second longer with me. She walks along the side of the road, thumb jutted out, imploring the perverts of the world to give her a ride -- to take her away from me. A car load of horny men pull up beside her. Nadia enters the car without as much as a glance back in my direction. I never see her again and my life enters a period of total ruin.
I have this nasty habit of letting my imagination sprint away from anything resembling logic. By the time I'm even partially aware it's usually too late. The damage has been done.
2 pm will arrive with funereal dread. I spend the remaining hours before the 'meeting' staring blankly at the wall I'm supposed to be abusing. I cast my mind back to the headphones and have an unusual urge to use them. There's something about their masturbatory consistency which appeals to me. It seems ordered somehow. Despite the confusion and discomfort, when I put on those headphones I know exactly what I'm going to get.
\*
"It's your readings, Michael. You don't appear to be eliciting any response whatsoever from the walls you're testing."
My teeth grit as I suppress boiling rage. Mr. Hayes sits calmly across from me, a passive perversion accentuating every hate-filled chunk of his being.
"Can you explain these results, Michael?"
His smile momentarily disappears and I become aware of the unnatural fluorescent light bathing his office.
"I follow every procedure to the letter including the abuse to non-abuse ratio. Perhaps there's no response to get.
His smile returns, brighter and more sickening than the office lights.
"Michael, Michael, Michael... I'm disappointed in you. Are you to tell me that you have no belief in Astenburger's theories?"
Of course I have no fucking belief, I think. My answer is only slightly more tactful.
"Look Mr. Hayes, I'm just doing my job. Mine is not to question why."
I notice his eyes bulge. In a flash he gathers his composure and attacks with more rehearsed bullshit.
"Any man worth his salt should question why on a minute by minute basis." He places his hands in his pockets and begins a slow walk around the office. "Did you know that in your department you remain the only employee to have sustained a zero result?"
"No sir, I did not know that," I say feebly, without any thought of defending myself.
"How does it make you feel?"
"Fairly ambivalent either way, sir," I say coldly, devoid of emotion.
"You really need to shape up, Michael. I'm officially putting you on notice. You have two weeks to get your act together. Am I understood?"
I nod gravely.
"Excellent! You may leave now. I sincerely look forward to seeing you here again under more positive circumstances. Please believe me when I tell you that I don't like doing this sort of thing. I guess in reality I'm a bit naïve, Michael. I have this unquenchable ideal that we can all work together harmoniously."
A revolting smile crosses his smarmy face as he extends his hand out toward me. Against my better judgement I shake it. I coat his palm in my nerve-induced sweat.
\*
"YOU FUCKING CUNT! YOU FUCKING CUNT!! YOU MOTHERFUCKING CUNT!!!'
I'm screaming at the top of my lungs to a wall that really doesn't give a shit. "What the fuck do I have to do to you? What do I have to say? WHY DON'T YOU SCULL A CAN OF ELEPHANT NIPPLES YOU GIANT PIECE OF ELDERLY SHIT, WHY DON'T YOU GO AND BLINK PISS!!!"
My efforts strike me as particularly fruitless. I punch the wall, skinning my knuckles and leaving a streak of blood behind. To my addled mind the blood appears to spell the word pathetic and I really have to agree.
The urge to resign from this sham of a job multiplies within me. In the end its pure fear that stops me. The status quo may fill me with hate but there's something to be said for comfort.
I stare hard at the instrumentation, willing it to fudge a reading. I'm sure dodgy instrumentation accounts for every reading registered by every other employee to date. I seem to have been cursed with instrumentation that refutes Astenberger's theories even more vehemently than I do. In a way we're allies in a house of fools. I can't deny that a large part of me would feel incredibly disappointed if a reading were to occur. I still have some semblance of pride.
I cast my mind back to my psychopathic night spent with the headphones. My mind is far too sleep-deprived and hazy to formulate any meaningful theories. I know what I heard but I won't discount auditory hallucination, except that Nadia heard it too! She clearly said that she heard it. Unless I was hallucinating Nadia's reaction too. She may have been saying the exact opposite and I was contorting her words into what I needed to hear, in which case I am the very definition of crazy. She's probably packed up her bags and left. I'll arrive home to find that bitch gone with a hurriedly scrawled note in her wake:
Michael,
You make life hell. I'm outta here.
Fuck off and die!
Die! Die! Die! Die!
Sincerely,
Nads
It's just like that bitch to fuck off when I need her more than ever. She could make it so much better. All she has to say is, "Michael! You're right, I hear it too. Let's fuck." Instead she pisses off with a carload of dirty perverts. She's telling them the most vulgar lies and the lousy cunts all snigger and fidget while they feel her up en masse.
Breathe Michael, breath... I feel as if every screw has come loose. I've worked myself up into an unbelievably stupid, inane panic. I'm too scared to go home... but I need her. I need her more than ever. She's my anchor -- she's an unmoveable calm, devouring my pathetic tumults. I think my thoughts are trying to kill me.
The walls refuse to respond. Nothing I say is good enough.
\*
The train ride home was wretched. I had to fight the urge to ask strangers what I should be yelling at my walls. There's a perpetual feeling that everyone knows exactly what to say except me. My decisions are wrong, my choices are wrong -- everything I have a hand in is wrong. I anticipated Nadia with equal parts intense need and dread. She wields the power to proclaim me sane or other.
Approaching my front door I slow down exaggeratedly; like a mime walking against invisible wind. I fumble with the house keys, dropping them on the doorstep. I can only assume this is a deliberate ploy to buy more time. The time I try to buy seems to correlate directly to the creeping dread expanding within me. I just have to open the fucking door! The door is a clotted bandaid, which I'll tear off as fast as possible. I don't care how much skin it takes.
I step cautiously over the threshold and enter my dimly lit house. The curtains are drawn, only slits of dying sunlight are granted entry. The vibe in this room stings my brain. The walls and furniture seem to cut at Dr. Caligari angles. I pick up on a bread trail of empty, contorted CD cases. I follow the trail through the house, arriving in the bedroom. I'm confronted with the hunched, shivering shadow of Nadia cowering in the corner with strips of daylight cutting searing lines through her body. The image chills me to the bone. I flick the light on, trying to douse myself in the safety of its basking glow. I wish I hadn't.
Under the stark illumination lie hundreds of horribly shining CDs. The viscera from the empty cases which have led me to this point. I notice ten or so headphones like my own strewn about the refuse. Nadia stares directly into my eyes. She seems lost. Her eyes are choked with thick, jelly-like tears. She's wearing the headphones. Unseen pressure building within her forces her upright like a tortured jack-in-the-box. She rips the headphones off, throwing them against the wall.
"Babe, what's wrong?"
"They never cum, Michael! They just keep wanking and wanking but they never cum!"
She keeps repeating they never cum, lost in delirium. I take quick, nervous strides toward her and shake her hard by the shoulders.
"Come back to me Nadia. What the fuck is this?" Something registers in her eyes, the light of reason shines.
"I've tried every CD in the house. They all do it! I thought perhaps the sounds were coming from the headphones themselves but..."
"...but what, Nadia?"
"They all respond to volume control, track skipping and random play. The wanking stops when the CD stops. It doesn't make any sense."
Nadia gestures toward the other headphones with a shaking arm. "I went to the store, the store where I purchased your first set. I got every one they had in stock. None of them do it. It's just the set I bought for you!"
I stand a while, pondering Nadia's maniacal words, an uncontrollable smile dances across my face. "You know what this means don't you, Nadia?"
She stares blankly, I answer for her, "This means that I'm not fucking crazy! You hear it plain as day. So the only question is, where the hell is this shit coming from?"
"You tell me, Michael! I've been asking myself that question all day. I can't stop listening to it. They NEVER cum!"
I hadn't thought about it before but Nadia was right. The masturbation was ceaseless without any hint of climax. There was just perpetual momentum; a clockwork toy, winding up without release, without breaking. It was a disturbing thought. Who did these disembodied auditory signals of self-gratification belong to? Why were they being channelled through those headphones? These questions simply led to new questions, like rancid bog bubbles rising to the surface.
Looking at Nadia, wrapped in a blanket and warming her hands with herbal tea, I feel uncontrollably choked with tears. I resent her for breaking down. She's my rock, Nadia's not allowed to crumble. Whatever we've subjected ourselves to has affected us in a deeply psychological way.
"Nadia?"
She slowly turns her head to face me, waiting for me to continue.
"Let's fuck."
After gently placing her herbal tea on the coffee table she crawls on top of me, cocooning us both within her blanket. We claw at each other ferociously, trying to dig deeper into the other's body. I bury my nose into her raw armpit, allowing the miasma to thrive within me. As we fuck, we cry. Our unstoppable tears intermingling. We thrust in agony, achieving a mutual orgasm, unlike the poor souls in the headphones. Afterward we remain entangled, sobbing and quivering. This is how we remain until morning.
\*
I choose not to shower after I wake up. I'm steeped in Nadia's scent and I feel safe that way. Nadia returns to sleep on the couch after calling in sick. I'd follow her lead if my position at work wasn't so vulnerable. I move in for a goodbye kiss, inhaling her morning breath deeply. She smiles warmly at me before drifting back off. I stop to stare at her one last time before leaving for another day of demeaning, disempowering labour.
I arrive at work dishevelled but on time. It appears my next assignment is a residential wall. We don't usually get residential assignments and the fact I've been handed it has me thinking that I'm getting wound down, faded out. Give Michael the ephemeral shit while the real employees focus on the commercial walls. I fill out the necessary paperwork and head back to the train station.
My mobile rings half way through the trip. It's Mr. Hayes.
"Michael! How are you today?"
"On my way to the job I was assigned, sir. I'll be there in about half an hour."
"No rush, no rush. Treat yourself to a nice cup of coffee on the way."
The smarmy bastard!
"I personally requested you for this job, Michael."
"You did, sir?" I feel like saying, 'no shit!'
"Yes I did, Michael. I like you and I would like nothing more than for you to succeed. This residential address is a shoe in!"
"Why's that, sir?"
"The house I'm sending you to is nearly ninety years old! Those walls have had plenty of time to suck up some emotional waste. You can't fail. I doubt whether you'll even have to insult them, just tip your hat. The meter readings will be off the chart!"
"I'm not wearing a hat sir."
"Michael, you really crack me up! I'll talk to you soon sport. Don't disappoint me!"
"I'll endeavour to do my best s..." He hangs up before I finish the sentence. What a cunt!
I turn into a small residential street lined with large oak trees that form a canopy of sorts. The whole damn place is doused in shade and sickening happiness. The street itself is quite short and I reach my destination in a matter of minutes despite my amble. On the way I step on a dead bird. I consider this an omen, although I can't decipher it. The house in question certainly looks as old as Mr. Hayes said it was. I half expect him to be waiting inside with a stopwatch saying, this was a test and you're late! I wouldn't put it past the prick. I pass through a decrepit wooden gate that still holds endless charm despite its decay. The front garden is noticeably overgrown, yet it feels deliberate.
The elderly lady who answers the door smiles warmly before proclaiming, "Astenburger is a wonderful man. Thank you ever so much for coming."
Great, who else but an Astenburger nut would pay for this sham service? I keep these thoughts to myself and slide past her fat thighs. The house smells like a holding cell for those about to die. I attempt to enter my 'professional' mode, which to my critical ears sounds painfully forced.
"Pleased to meet you, Mrs Webber, I'm Michael. It's always a delight to meet Astenburger admirers among the general public."
In my head I envision my clone performing a sloppy operation on me. Afterward my family gather to celebrate my transformation into the world's most pathetic eunuch.
"My husband and I have been avid followers of Mr. Astenburger for many years now."
I nod politely. What else can I do?
"Which wall will I be working on today, Mrs Webber?"
She claps her wrinkled hands together joyously. "Follow me! T his way, this way!"
Mrs Webber has more life and energy at 80 than I've ever had. If she dropped into the splits I wouldn't be surprised. A childish desire to push her over rapes my mind. I slap the thought hard, putting it to rest.
I follow Mrs Webber through a long hallway into a well lit, sparsely furnished room. She gestures to a large wall and begins to reel off her story while I set up the instrumentation. I pay little attention. It takes on the ambience of muzak.
"That wall you're looking at has quite an incredible history. I've lived in this very house since the day I was born. My father built this house with his bare hands. Do you have any idea what dedication such an act entails? Of course you don't! The younger generations are all impatient and lazy -- no offence intended. It's just that you all want things right away -- now! You're all more willing to pay someone else to do the job for you than to do it yourself. That's all by the by I suppose.
"My father, god bless him, lost something in that wall. My father was obsessed with limes, had been ever since he was a nipper, or so I'm told. He had a tree out back in his childhood home. He loved that dear tree. He was never happier than when he was harvesting limes. He was involved in a never-ending search for the perfect lime. At least he thought his search would be never-ending. Shortly before the construction of this house began he ventured to the very same lime tree from childhood for one last harvest. Like a gift from god he saw it -- the perfect lime! Did he snatch it up? Yes, indeed he did! In the weeks leading up to the construction of this house, he wouldn't be seen without that lime in his proud, working man's hands.
"That's not even the best part. When I was a little girl he'd tell me that he discovered the perfect way to preserve the lime. He claimed that it would NEVER rot! Can you believe it? Apparently the perfection inherent in that lime imbued him with a complex theoretical capacity. He was able to adapt and execute this preservation method in a matter of days. Something must have happened along the way though -- I never did see the lime. My father told me he lost it. Simple as that! I've spent my entire life contemplating that lime. You want to hear my theory? Of course you do! I believe that somehow during the construction of that wall, the wall you're here to test, the lime became trapped.
I'd bet my bottom dollar that waiting inside that wall is a pristine lime, preserved to perfection! I never did have the heart to tear it down though. If it's in there, it'll communicate with us! I'm counting on Astenburger's methods to make contact with my father's crowning achievement."
I stare up at Mrs Webber, who is still lost inside her vacuous fantasies. I want to be anywhere but here. The instrumentation has been set up and I appear to be sipping from a cup of tea I don't remember being given. Mrs Webber's ponderous story largely washed over me but I heard the word limes mentioned on numerous occasions. She seems nice enough, a bit starved for attention perhaps. Sexually speaking I wouldn't want anything to do with her -- I don't even know why I'm thinking about it. She's still standing politely just outside of my field of vision. I have to get her out.
"Sorry Mrs Webber, it's not permitted for clients to witness the process. I hope you understand."
She looks disappointed but she nods warmly and leaves me alone.
I feel self-conscious about screaming profanity with elderly ears in the adjacent room. My insults come across more as whispered suggestions.
"Hey flatty. Would you mind giving me a response? I'm about to be fired don't you know? I'll rub my cock on you. That'll get you going, you garden hat."
I take a step back. I'm clearly just embarrassing myself. As the day bleeds on I spend more time contemplating the wall than actually insulting it. I visualise it as a manifestation of my employment. It sprouts great wings and flies away like a toaster on a screensaver. My waning motivation concocts images of me attempting to capture the wall with a butterfly net. I get within striking distance, swing the net with all my strength and watch as it shatters upon impact. Shards of twisted metal skewer my body. I retrieve a white, blood stained flag from my pocket and wave it about. I surrender! The wall comes crashing down, the growing shadow darkening my world. Pitch black.
\*
I arrive home after another shitful day and find Nadia once more in darkness, the headphones secured to her ears with masking tape. She claims that the headphone masturbation is evolving into an obsession. I ask politely if I can spend some time with the headphones to which she begrudgingly agrees. For the next hour I absorb the masturbation cathartically as Nadia watches impatiently. Rather than reclaim the headphones afterward, she throws me against the wall and violently pulls down my jeans. For the first time in months she gives me a blowjob -- probably the best blowjob I've had in years. It's as if her life depends on it; as if she's trying to swallow me whole.
For inexplicable reasons, Mrs Webber enters my headspace several times throughout. I shake her visage away as best I can. Nadia's mouth is firmly clamped around me when I ejaculate. After she swallows, she slowly stands up, looking confused. To my bewilderment, Nadia claims that my semen tastes exactly like limejuice. I shrug it off as a psychological distortion on Nadia's part until she exhumes a lime pip that has mysteriously wedged itself toward the back of her mouth.
The rest of the night is spent taking turns with the headphones while the other watches. I leave Nadia with the headphones while I make my way wearily to work.
\*
"Do we have anything yet?"
Mrs Webber looks hopeful. She reminds me of a child, a child I was about to disappoint.
"Sorry Mrs Webber, it will take a couple of days for the preliminary data to be analysed. You'll receive a full report bearing Astenburger's insignia."
Although it clearly isn't the answer she's looking for, the mention of Astenburger's insignia sets her eyes alight. Mrs Webber ponders the thought for a while and suddenly starts sniffing the air like a hungry cat.
"You know something, Michael? You smell more strongly of sex than anyone I've ever met. I can almost see the sex wafting from you." How do I respond to a comment like that? I stand dumbfounded for some time.
"I haven't showered in a couple of days"
"It doesn't offend me any but I'd recommend a basic hygiene regimen. Especially when you consider that you're representing Astenburger."
"I'll certainly keep that in mind, Mrs Webber." I make my way hurriedly over to the wall and arrange the instrumentation haphazardly. Mrs Webber voluntarily leaves the room. Once more I have a cup of tea in my hand I don't remember being given. I stare the wall down confrontationally.
"I will break you, you fucking son of a bitch! I'll poke your tits out with a dirty spoon and feed them to your mother. I WILL BREAK YOU!!!"
This continues for some time before my hoarse voice gives up. I seek Mrs Webber out. I have an uncontrollable urge to ask her a few questions. She's on the toilet, door wide open. She looks terrified.
"What are you doing? Get out of here!"
"I just have a few fucking questions, Mrs Webber."
"Are you going to rape me?"
"NO! I am not going to rape you. I just have some simple questions I need you to answer."
"At least allow me my decency."
"You get your fucking decency AFTER I've asked you the questions."
She begins to sob in that inimitable way elderly ladies do.
"Look, stop crying. I'm not going to hurt you."
"Just ask your questions and leave me be."
I get right to the point. "Why do you believe Astenburger's bullshit theories? What evidence out there suggests that any of this is even remotely true?"
"More to the point, what are you doing working for Astenburger when you clearly don't believe in his theories?"
"It's a job -- people need money -- I'M PEOPLE, MRS WEBBER!!!"
"Are you going to rape me?"
"NO!!! I'M NOT GOING TO FUCKING RAPE YOU!!!"
"Why not?"
"Why not? I'll tell you why the fuck not: because I DON'T rape people. Get that out of your fried mind."
"Is it because you find me unattractive? Is that it?"
"No, it's because I don't believe rape will get me anywhere. I have no desire for power over anyone. Plus, let's be honest, Mrs Webber, you're old. I don't make a habit of fucking people more than twice my age."
"If I asked you politely, would you rape me?"
"If you asked me politely it wouldn't be rape would it!?"
"Would you consider making love to me? I'm a virgin, Michael. I need love, even if it's only physical and fleeting."
"I'm sorry, Mrs Webber, there's no way on earth I could do that."
I watch closely as the mood in her cataract-stricken eyes turns cold. I can feel the environmental mood change.
"How do you think your employer would react when I tell them you harassed me like this? How do you think the Police would react, Michael? You clearly haven't thought this through."
I wince as reality sucker punches me in the gut. The weight of my folly crushes me to dust.
"How can you be a virgin, Mrs Webber? How does anyone in this day and age stay a virgin? I thought you said you were married?"
"I'm not of this day and age, Michael. For me, the topic of sex never came up until it was too late. Now, are you going to love me Michael?"
"There's a problem that I don't think you're considering."
"What's that?"
"In order for me to 'make love' to you, certain physical reactions need to occur that given the circumstances, aren't probable."
"You're talking about erections aren't you, Michael?"
I nod emphatically.
"Don't be foolish, you're more erect than you've ever been."
I look down at my trouser front and sure enough, my penis is painfully erect. I'm in danger of bursting through my jeans. There isn't a hint of arousal anywhere in my body, yet physically I'm all ready to go. Perhaps my body is simply trying to save me from myself. Keep me out of harm's way. I capitulate.
"Where do you want to do this?"
"Follow me to the boudoir, Michael."
She rises from the toilet without wiping, trousers still at her ankles, and waddles toward the bedroom. I follow.
\*
"I need to know that you love me, Nadia. I feel lost and I'm relying on you."
"Where's this coming from?"
"I had a horrible day at work. The sort of day I can't even begin to describe."
"I love you more than you'll ever admit to yourself. I love you so much it causes pain."
"Life is horrible pain."
"The pain of my love is wonderful."
"I need to take the headphones with me to work tomorrow, Nadia." The look of fear on her eyes drowns my heart.
"You'll get them straight back. Please, Nadia, I need them."
She paces the room, rubbing her chin with dirty hands. I can already sense that the solution she's looking for doesn't exist.
"You can take them, Michael, I won't stop you. Please don't keep them from me. When you're not here, they're all I have."
I comfort Nadia with everything I have, which admittedly, isn't much. I stroke her knotted hair and kiss her unwashed neck. She cries into my chest. I feel the warm damp of her tears as they seep into me. I find musical qualities within the crying. As it continues, it strikes me: I haven't listened to music in days. This is the first time I've even thought of it. I spend significant time with the melancholy symphony, willing Nadia's demons away while ignoring my own. That night we perform acts of unspeakable passion. We can't stop.
\*
I make my way back to Mrs Webber's. She still appears entranced in post coital bliss. I arrange the usual instrumentation along with the headphones. I ask if she has a portable stereo. She fetches me one immediately.
"What on earth are you doing, Michael?"
I ignore the question. I hate her questions. "Can you get me a CD, Mrs Webber?"
"What CD do you want?"
"It doesn't matter. Anything."
She spends some time foraging around for a CD that won't embarrass her. She returns with a pile of five or so. I grab the first one my hand touches, dropping the rest. The plastic clatter elevates Mrs Webber's anxiety and she takes a cautious step backward. I load the CD roughly, intent on getting the job done. Sleep deprivation retards my coordination and every basic movement becomes a matter of second and third takes. The CD is loaded. I fumble with the headphone jack. On the fifth or sixth attempt I get it plugged in.
"Michael! What is this? Tell me what it is you're doing? I could call your supervisor at the drop of a hat."
"Shut up or fuck off, Mrs Webber."
She takes several more defensive steps backward, finding solace against the adjacent wall. The icons on each stereo button, which indicate the function, have faded with use. I cycle through them all, searching for 'play'. When I hear that magical sound of the CD whirring into life I pump a fist of internal victory. Holding up the enigmatic headphones against my ears I listen for the masturbation, making sure it isn't an isolated phenomenon. It isn't. Wanking fills my headspace instantly. I turn the volume up as far as it will go and press the headphones firmly against the wall.
"What are you doing now, Michael?"
"I'm waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
"When it happens, we'll both know."
An air of excitement buzzes within me as I wait. I have no idea what it is I'm waiting for but I'll stay here as long as it takes. The instrumentation refuses to register anything out of the ordinary. I cast my mind to Nadia. She must be pacing the house in a powerful state of insecurity -- fuck I love that crazy bitch! She needs the headphones more than me. I feel horrible for depriving her. It's like scooping a fish from a pond and throwing it on the bank to flop around in agony. It isn't hard for me to envision Nadia as a helpless fish, drying under the blazing sun. Flopping and flailing in concentric circles as her life ebbs away. I shed a tear which feels like a nail forcing its way through my duct. The instrumentation refuses to register anything out of the ordinary. I think about my job -- I think about all jobs. The lack of purpose chokes me. My bank account remains at a constant level of stifling oppression, willing me to keep going, filling me with fear. How many jobs could be removed from the world without consequence? I've never met a single person who does anything worth a damn. The instrumentation refuses to register anything out of the ordinary. Sex! This absurd drive, which satisfies for mere moments before we're compelled to need it again. On more than one occasion I've dreamed about tearing my cock off and firing it into hell's cunt, where it is swallowed and forgotten. My testicles manufacture generations of potential people, all of which die a quick death in a condom or the shower drain. I perform millions of abortions daily and nobody cares. The day my seed grows is the day I owe my sincere apologies to the world...
The instrumentation is going fucking nuts!
A rumbling sound, like a localised earthquake, shakes the room. Mrs Webber lets out a deathly scream. An enormous crack traces its way from ground to ceiling. Steadfastly, I keep the headphones pressed against the wall. More cracks form and dance randomly over the surface. Mrs Webber is cowering in the corner, entranced yet terrified. A small portion of the wall crumbles away, giving birth to a plume of plaster dust. More sections crumble and fall, covering me with dust and debris. Before long I'm holding the headphones against nothing. The wall has turned to rubble.
Both Mrs Webber and I are powder white and blinking through the dissipating plume. My instrumentation has thrown up vast quantities of data and the blinking light indicates that automatic shut off is imminent to avoid overload.
I stare at where the wall used to be, taking in the mound of rubble. Mrs Webber dives with surprising agility toward the debris and frantically starts to sift through it.
"The Lime! The Lime!" she yells.
I get down beside her, compelled to aid in her search. It doesn't take long for a green, circular shape to emerge. I pluck it up and hold it above my head. Mrs Webber falls back sobbing. I can't believe the condition the lime is in.
"The lime! You found the lime! I knew it would be there. I found my father's beloved lime!"
Slowly I hand the lime to Mrs Webber's shaking, hungry hands. She carefully takes the lime from me and holds it before her eyes. With tears flowing, cutting trails through her powder white face she looks warmly toward me and says, "Mr. Astenburger is a FABULOUS man."
I let the events and Mrs Webber's words sink in before saying, "You know something Mrs Webber, you may actually be right."
Ever so gently she wipes the dust from the lime with her shirt, cleaning it with love. She studies the lime ever closer, eventually her expression changes. The awe has vanished.
"You know Michael, this lime really isn't that perfect at all. I've seen hundreds of limes more pristine than this at the supermarket. This is actually a little disappointing."
\*
I exit Mrs Webber's home. Nadia is waiting for me. She must have followed me. Sweat is pouring from her body and she is visibly shaking.
"Michael! The headphones, Michael, give me the fucking headphones. I need them, Michael, please let me have them."
I completely die inside as I hand the headphones over. Everything Nadia was has been distorted beyond recognition. She snatches them from me and begins to run.
"I'll see you tonight Michael. I'm sorry."
Her voice trails away and she's gone. Instinct tells me that she's gone for good. Right there, on the footpath, I break down and cry. A few passers-by give me a wide birth and utter things amongst themselves. Goodbye Nadia.
My mobile phone shears through my pain and despair. I hold the phone against my ear half expecting to hear Nadia crying.
"Michael!" Mr Hayes' voice booms instead.
"Hi sir."
"What the hell happened?"
"I got a response, sir."
"You're fucking telling me you got a response! The remote data feed is off the charts! How?"
"Persistence."
"Can you meet me in two hours at the office? I have someone here who wants to talk to you."
"I'll be there."
"See you then, Michael, see you then."
\*
Until this day I had only seen Astenburger in photos. Now, there he was, sitting in front of me, eyes gleaming. He was a man in his late sixties with snow white hair and black rim glasses. He reminds me somewhat of Colonel Sanders.
"I'm sure I don't have to tell you who this is," says Mr. Hayes, full of pride.
"Of course not. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Astenburger."
Astenburger leans across the table to shake my hand. He has the smooth hands I'd imagine aristocracy to have. "The pleasure is all mine Michael. You look terrible. Are you alright?"
"To be honest sir, it's been a fairly taxing day."
Astenburger's shrill laughter fills the room, followed closely by the laughter of Mr. Hayes. I've never seen the office and I don't even know who it belongs to. It has a blurry, maniacal edge to it, which disorients me.
"I'm sure you have, I'm sure you have. Now, Michael, I came here today to thank you personally. The readings we received from you have been triple-checked and there is no doubt regarding the certainty of the results. I believe that what you did today single-handedly validates my assertions more than any theory I can wretch forth. How on earth did you do it?"
"It was all just a big wank, sir."
A stunned silence replaces the joviality. Mr. Hayes stares at Astenburger, searching for the correct response. Laughter fills the room once more.
"You are a scream, Michael! Seriously though, I'll have you fill out a report detailing the events. I can essentially guarantee a hefty raise coming your way."
\*
The scene I walk away from resembles a cardboard cut-out of reality; faces frozen in rehearsed emotion. Everywhere around me there is overwhelming heat and suffocation. I make my way to the bathroom. The mirror reveals several coagulated wounds mapped across my face. Beyond these I search for that spark which makes me who I am. There is no spark to be found. I am officially empty. I hear Nadia's voice tripping down stairs in my head, fading away into nothing. I dive after her but she's already gone -- broken and gone. I leave work, resolving to never return again.
Approaching my house I can't quite shake the feeling a mausoleum might elicit. The sky around me is sympathetically overcast and grey. I vomit down the face of my front door where I find a note:
Michael,
Every part of me loves you. You subvert my hell and I give you nothing in return. You deserve so much more than me and I'll never be more than I am. Please find it in your heart to hate me with everything you have. Anything less would crush me.
I've taken the headphones, Michael, I need them. I won't be coming back. I can't come back. There's something I haven't told you. Remember how the masturbation in the headphones never resulted in orgasm? I was proven wrong, Michael. Eventually it did. The disembodied voices came in me en masse, drowning me in their seed. I think I'm pregnant, Michael. My skull is engorged with life. I don't know where this process will lead me but I do know that I need to be alone with the father. The father in the headphones. I can't say what I'm about to give birth to, but I will love it with everything I can muster.
You still mean more to me than anything. Other than my child, I can't imagine anything coming close. I'm in pain, Michael. I am in such never-ending pain and I don't know how to cope. When you picture me, picture me leaving. You have to kill your love for me.
Love eternally,
Nadia
I skulk through the house, kicking CDs out of my path. Every room is infused with our combined BO, which reminds me instantly how far we both slipped. I have an urge to open every curtain and window to flush the place out but I can't be bothered. Instead I begin sifting through the CDs littering the carpet, trying to find something to suit the mood. I settle on a mid 90s Funeral Doom album that I didn't even know I still had. I contemplate emptying my bladder and maybe inducing some more vomit but I do neither. I pop open the tray in my stereo and place the CD inside. With the sticky remote gripped tightly in my hand I fall back on the couch. I hit play, close my eyes and resent her completely.
Part 1: How I met Max.
I met Max unusually. He would lurk about the barber shops that dotted the streets around the Hair District. He was bald as a snooker ball and clearly had no need to utilise the services of a barber. I was a barber enthusiast and chronicler. I was compiling an elaborate volume about local barber culture when I met Max in Dean's Hairporium. Well, I didn't exactly meet Max but it was the first time I noticed his presence. I was comfortably reclined while Dean himself lathered up my cheekbones with a custom made mixture. I began questioning him about contextuality within shaving perception, and the juxtaposed aesthetical versus functional dichotomy within hair design. Dean's answer was unsatisfactory inasmuch as he didn't answer. Eventually he relayed a story concerning the banality of the day thus far.
It was Max who knocked over the jar of combs on the adjacent bench. It was Max who interrupted the banality. Both Dean and I directed our attention toward the ruckus. There was Max, crouching in a pose of frozen fear. Before we could question him, he had leapt dramatically through the storefront window. A shower of glass ensued. With cheeks still foaming I hurried after the mysterious intruder, which proved to be an exercise in redundancy. Max was quite a speedy man. I emerged outside just in time to see him duck into an alley. Meanwhile, there stood Dean, gesticulating wildly toward the broken window. He made mention of his mother before sobbing rather powerfully. He shooed me away and flipped the sign on the front door several times, eventually deciding on 'closed'. I made note of the event in my journal.
My journal had become a tome dedicated to the minutiae of barberal life. I drew a sketch of the shattered window as I recalled it from the safety of a local eatery. The eatery in question, 'Peter's Peatery', had attracted my attention several months ago when a barber's pole was erected by the entrance. This was a crafty way of ushering the countless barbers through the doors on their many and varied lunch hours.
At this stage, I didn't know Max by name, but his bald visage humped my brain. Why in the hell was he skulking around Dean's Hairporium? To what gain of his? Why hadn't I seen him earlier? It's possible that I was so totally caught up in my intricate shave that I simply blocked out the stimulus around me. If that was the case, what kind of chronicler was I? Certainly it was my job to stay utterly tuned in to my surrounding environment as far as barber shops were concerned. I took a sloppy bite of my welt burger. Several strands of hair caught in my teeth. This was the kind of place where finding no hair in your food was cause for complaint.
\*
The clock had just hit three pm when I heard the sound of more shattering glass -- this time from Hairtastic Hair for Men. Glen, the owner of this establishment was standing by the store's shattered front window, gesticulating even more violently than Dean had earlier. My eyes scanned the main strip, searching for the culprit. My eyes failed me. I ran over to Glen with my journal carefully tucked under my arm. He looked especially distraught, as if the window were a living, breathing member of his family. Asking Glen to explain what had occurred was rather useless, such was the sheer level of his distress. Glen did mutter something which struck as potentially significant. Through the whining and the tears, he clearly made reference to a bald man and a toppled jar of sanitised combs. I thanked Glen with a bow, drew a rough sketch of the shattered window and gave him my sincerest condolences before leaving the scene.
News reports later that evening indicated a string of window breakages at several key locales around the District. This was growing as interesting as it was unsettling. In each instance a jar of combs was inadvertently toppled by a bald man fleeing the scene on foot. A wave of confusion laced with anxiety spread throughout the Hair District. It was my job as chronicler to remain on the scene and make note of any future developments for the sake of posterity.
My mind kept replaying grainy liminal footage of the bald man. What was his motive? My initial theory leaned toward the possibility that he was a man jealous of hair and as such, was initiating an act of terror against the local barber population. Such a situation was something I had feared since my interest in barber culture began. It was only a matter of time until jealousy erupted into destruction. This theory of mine didn't sit comfortably. There was something almost accidental about each occurrence. The reports I had read backed up my own experience. The windows weren't broken until the bald man inadvertently toppled a comb jar. The comb jars had all displayed remarkable resilience by refusing to break.
I knew the man who made these comb jars, he went by the name Billy Backwash. I had interviewed Billy several years ago when news of his comb jars filtered through from Berlin. Billy had moved to Berlin some twenty years ago to pursue his love of comb holding devices. Word on the street was that Berlin allowed particular ingredients in the making of its glassware that most other civilised countries wouldn't touch. Initial experiments in his home country with industrial grade hardened plastics were largely successful, yet aesthetically unrewarding. Glass was where it was at and Billy knew it. Billy had fortuitously arrived in the Hair District several days earlier to attend a barber's conference as a keynote speaker. If I wanted to get inside the head of the bald man, I needed to find out about these comb jars. Billy was my man and I knew just where to find him.
\*
I swung the saloon style doors open and strode confidently into Ben's Barbers Bar. This was the drinking hole for any barber of note. Billy used to work here before moving to Berlin. If Billy was anywhere he'd be here.
My eyes scanned the darkness. I could make out several recognisable, smokey silhouettes; none of them Billy. I approached the bar with purpose, my eyes boring into Smith, the Barbers' Barman. He was delicately sprinkling beard shavings over an overindulgent cocktail. I knew this cocktail well, they called it the 'Hairy Nonsense', a popular drink around these parts.
"What's new, Smith?" I inquired politely.
Smith stared up at me, smiling warmly and blowing me kisses.
"Jack Backtrack! So good to see you within these hallowed walls. It's been a while."
"Yeah, I'm sorry about that. I've been busy with my work." I held up my journal. The smile widened over Smith's glowing face.
"I'm sure I'm not the only one who'd kill to get a peek inside that journal."
"Sorry, Smith, it's all a work in progress. You know it ain't gonna happen."
"You throbbing tease! What can I do for you, Jack?"
"I need to find Billy. I know he's here for the barber's conference. I also know that if he's in the District, he's here in this bar."
"Why of course he's here, Jack! He's sitting right beside you!"
I was taken aback. Smith was right. Sitting beside me, enjoying the recently made Hairy Nonsense was Billy himself. He was grinning at me intensely, in a disconcerting way.
"You going blind, Jack?" he inquired, with undertones of mock.
"This dive is darker than death, Billy."
Billy waved his hand as if to erase the dissatisfaction of our reunion.
"So tell me, Jack, why were you looking for me? I can't help but be intrigued."
"I need to know about the jars, Billy. We have some strange shit happening at the moment. I need to get to the bottom of it... fast!"
"Ahh, you're referring to the mysterious window breaker running amok around your precious Hair District?"
"Don't speak ill of the District, Billy. How do you know about the windows?"
"Are you kidding me? I can't walk two steps without hearing some bummed out barber regaling me with their tales of woe. Most of these guys haven't even been hit personally but they feel the fear. I'm guessing that by the time I get back, news will have reached Berlin. You guys sure know how to party."
"This is a party that I don't want an invite to. I need your help, Billy."
"Me? I only arrived in the country a few days ago! What can I do to help?"
"It's those comb jars of yours, Billy. I was there at Dean's when the bald man first hit. The window didn't cop a smashing until your comb jar was accidentally knocked down. It spooked the bald bastard pretty good. He made a flying leap for the window. He reached his target admirably. Turns out that one of your jars was responsible in each incident."
"Don't speak ill of the jars, Jack! The only thing those jars are guilty of is being perfect in an imperfect world."
"You know I love the jars, Billy. I'm just saying that your jars were a starting point."
Billy was shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He knocked back the cocktail before gesturing toward Smith for another. He looked somewhat guilty.
"Can I get you anything to drink? I feel kinda uneven talking to you like this."
I hadn't touched an alcoholic drink in three months. The events leading up to today were enough to make a man return to old ways. After a mild inner struggle I refused with a firm shake of the head.
"Sorry, Billy. I'm trying this whole 'dry' thing on for size. I did some things I'm not proud of but that's by the by. I need your help."
"I won't pretend I'm not disappointed but I know when to lie down. Ok, shoot. What do you want to know?"
I struggled for the right words. I was trying to knit them together into coherence. My false starts were beginning to annoy me. Eventually I had to admit I didn't know.
"Well that's just great, Jack! You come on all hot n' heavy and then go limp on me!"
Billy looked genuinely hurt.
"I'm sorry, I just don't know. The right questions aren't bubbling to the surface. All I know is that your comb jars are a part of this mess. It can't be a coincidence."
"Ok then, some fruitcake has a hard on for my glassware. It wouldn't be first time it's happened. My guff has attracted some real pieces of work. This bald man's in love with my work. He knows that I specialise in comb jars and figures he'll go to the one place where my comb jars are everywhere. There ain't no town with a Hair District like this one, Jack."
"If what you're saying is right, and I will admit it's a possibility, why doesn't he just steal one? If it's your work he's after, why doesn't he just slip one in his bag, take it home and idolise it in privacy?"
"I won't pretend I know how these whackos work. However, what better place to admire something you love than in the place it was made for? You could set one of my comb jars up on your mantle but it wasn't made for some rickety mantle. It was made for the pristine environs of the barber's shop. If you take it away from the barber's shop, you essentially remove its soul."
I was stroking my chin hard. Billy's words made sense, almost too much sense. The problem was they were still flailing about in the world of theory. I needed to catch the bald man in the act and I had no idea how to do it. I had to pin this bastard to the wall and force him to talk, maybe slap him about for good measure.
If you mess with the District, you mess with my heart.
The situation was rolling by my headspace like a low budget film noir. My introspective silence was filling Billy with discomfort. He was shifting about in his chair like a horny teen waiting for an opportunity to grope the class hussy.
"Talk to me, Jack, what are you thinking?" He clearly couldn't stand the silence.
"I'm thinking that you may be right, Billy, but I need to know for sure. I need to catch him in the act. I need to talk to this guy."
"You do, huh? And how exactly are you going to do that?"
"Therein lies the rub. There are hundreds of barbers in this district and I'd say all of them use your jars. I could just waltz from barber to barber and hope I get lucky but that ain't a real plan. I need to think."
Billy nodded in agreement while he ordered his third Hairy Nonsense. I rummaged through the pocket on my apron until I found my card. I handed it over.
"Look, Billy, it's been a blast and you've been helpful. Thanks a bunch. I gotta go and wrap my head around this. If you think of anything, give me a call."
"You know it, Jack. Will I see you at the conference?"
"We'll see."
My slow, deliberate stride toward the exit morphed into a dash of desperation when I heard the shouting coming from outside. There goes another window.
\*
A distressed babble of barbers were clustered outside the shattered storefront of Ricardo's Fringe Akimbo. This brazen cad was targeting the deluxe establishments now. I shook Ricardo until he snapped out of his stupor. I needed to know which way the bald bastard had headed. He pointed toward the south end of the main strip and I started running, cursing the fullness of my uncooperative bladder.
A smidge of luck finally fell my way when I noticed a trail of artistically shaped blood drops leading off into the distance. Ricardo's window had given the bald man a nasty bite. The drops may well have spelled out the words, 'follow me'. Such was the majesty of the discovery. I ran maniacally, keeping my eyes firmly planted on the ground-bound trail, which veered sharply up a side street. The lighting outside the main strip was poor and I had to strain to make out the dark blotches of blood.
The Hair District was complicated; a lymphatic system, spidering out in every direction from the main strip. It's not the sort of place that lends itself to the notion of 'getting lucky'. If you're following someone you had better damn well make sure you can see them otherwise they'll shake you with ease. Each side street leads to other, smaller side streets, which in turn branch out to even more. If you're not familiar with the area you'll get lost in minutes. It takes several years to traverse this place with confidence. It takes several more to traverse this place with certainty.
The trail of blood was becoming erratic. Rather than a steady, straight line, it was beginning to skew left and right. Occasionally it would form a mini ring of gory distress before emerging as a straight line once more. I was becoming disoriented as my bladder pushed hard against my internal workings. I was torn between losing the trail or losing my dignity. I decided on an awkward mixture of both. I was going to have to relieve myself right here in the side street. I'd keep my eye glued to the trail and hope no one saw me breaking a cardinal rule of the District. You don't piss in the streets here. It shows disrespect.
I barely unzipped myself in time. A hard, steady stream of liquid disrespect sprayed into the pristine wall outside Yancy's Hairathon. I apologised profusely to no one, knowing deep down I was doing the right thing. This was for the greater good of the District. If I lost the trail the bald man wouldn't be stopped. After what felt like an eternity, the flow ceased and I was able to zip myself back up unseen. I took a deep breath and started once more on the trail.
The drops were becoming more clustered, as if the bald man had to keep stopping, possibly due to the injury, weariness or both. This was positive. The only thing I hate more than seeing someone hurt is seeing someone disrespect the Hair District. The blood had veered into a dead end alley. I had the bastard now. I entered with caution.
The alley was impossibly dark and unforgiving. I stood still, willing my eyes to adjust to some level of visibility that never seemed to arrive. I was squinting; at least I think I was squinting. It was hard to tell. Tentatively, I edged forward. A glowing orange dot appeared, floating, alternating between calm serenity and erratic, yet controlled darting. The scent of tobacco crept invasively up my nose. It was him, the bald man, smoking in the distance. He couldn't see me, I was sure of that but he could certainly hear me. Each step seemed to disturb something. I was conspicuous like a pencil in a pen factory.
"Who's that? Is that you, girl?"
The voice cut through the darkness, all rough and intimidated.
"It's over, bald man," I replied with forced conviction.
"Whadaya mean its over? Who are you calling bald?"
The voice sounded real familiar. My resolve began to fade. A flash of light broke the darkness. I had made a mistake. Standing with his face bathed in the cigarette lighter glow was Messy Phil, the district recluse. How could I mistake that voice for anyone else? My determination was messing with me, making me hear what I wanted to hear.
"You gotta be kidding me!" I snapped.
"Who is it? I can't make out your face." Messy Phil was swiping the air with his lighter, trying to disperse the light enough to see me.
"Sorry, Phil, I made a mistake. It's Jack Backtrack. I thought you were someone else."
"You frightened the cack outta me, Jack! What are you doing skulking around the alleys anyway?" He extinguished the lighter. We were once more in darkness.
"Have you heard about the junk that's been going on around here lately, Phil?"
"You thought I was that fucking bald man didn't you?"
"I guess I did. I was a little overconfident I guess you could say. I was following a trail of blood that I thought was his. Are you hurt, Phil?"
"Hurt!?" A wheezing, hacking laughter disrupted the conversational flow. "Did you take a close look at that blood, Jack?"
"No, why do you ask?"
"It's jam! Just jam!"
"Nobody has that much jam, Phil."
"You're half right. The average person doesn't have that much jam but if you're trying to catch a wank fairy you make sure you have a good supply."
"Again with the wank fairies, Phil? You gotta be kiddin' me. There aren't any wank fairies in the District. There never have been. There never will be."
"You sound so damn sure of yourself, don't ya? They're here. They're everywhere! You can hear 'em at night crawling around your balls. They have to think you're asleep, otherwise they won't touch you. They're crafty bastards too. They won't come near your balls if they think you've tampered with 'em in any way. I made an adhesive paste, hoping to trap one of 'em like fly paper. I could feel the breeze of its wings flapping right near me but it could sense the paste. It took off faster than a shot. I decided to come here because if there's one thing a wank fairy can't resist its jam and the smell of balls. These back alley's smell like balls all the way."
"Don't speak ill of the District, Phil."
"What? You think balls smell bad? Balls smell pretty flippin' special if you ask me!"
"You're a strange man, Phil."
"You just wait til I got myself one of them little wank fairies. You won't be calling me strange then."
"You show me the fairy and I'll reconsider. Right now though, I need to know about the bald man. Did you see him flee?"
"I'd love to be able help you, Jack but strange ol' Messy Phil ain't seen a thing."
I sighed deeply while fumbling about my apron pocket for another card. I handed it to him. It took several attempts before his fingers were able to grip it.
"If you see or hear anything, you let me know."
"Sure thing, boss."
I turned around and faced the oppressive darkness. I was going to have to find my way out of this warren.
"Hey Jack, take this."
I turned around to find Phil shoving something small and hard into my hand.
"I've got plenty. It'll give you some light."
It was a cigarette lighter. I flicked it on and the alley around me became dimly illuminated.
"Thanks Phil, I owe you one."
"Forget about it. People don't owe me shit."
I turned around and slowly made my way back to the main strip. I needed some sleep. Things would look better in the morning.
\*
It felt good to get my clothes off, like I could breathe again. I fell back onto my unmade bed, feeling the cool kiss of the sheets. My body swam in comfort and my mind floated aimlessly in fog. The open window spewed agitated breeze, which dried the sweat on my brow and crotch. I tucked my journal beneath the pillows, which propped them up unpleasantly. It didn't bother me as I had grown very used to the feeling. My eyelids fell like a guillotine. Before long my sleep was deep and perfect.
The perfect sleep was short lived. Dreams of a pernicious nature attacked me that night. The dreams were fluid and horrible. No narrative emerged from the stew of collaged imagery but the pervasive feeling was one of dread. Occasionally an image would rise only to be sucked back down into the dangerous mess. My heart beat sharp against my chest and the lamp in my head intensified its dirty light. I couldn't relax while the District was in turmoil. The longer you live in the Hair District, the more it seeps into you. The District and I shared a deeply symbiotic relationship. When it was hurting, I was hurting. This place was like an iron lung. For my own survival, I needed it in perfect working order.
The shrill resonance of the telephone plucked me out of my dream state. I took a few seconds to take stock of my surroundings: the same old apartment, the same old bed. Everything was weeping. I was sluiced in sweat. I held the phone to my ear. It was Billy.
"Come and meet me at the bar. I have an idea."
"Let me take a shower and I'll be right there."
We hung up simultaneously and I made a fast track to the bathroom.
\*
Rather than feeling cleansed, the shower felt wrong, like I was trying to wash the sweat off with more sweat. The water oozed down my body in thick rivulets. I got out of there quick smart. I felt somewhat better when I had dried off but the stickiness remained to some degree. I changed my underwear but more or less wore what I'd had on yesterday. There was no time for wardrobe selections.
\*
Ben's Barbers Bar took on a different shape in the early morning light. You could actually make out faces, which was a pleasant change. These guys cooked a mean breakfast, and as such the place was densely populated. Billy was sitting at the bar, talking to Smith. I crept up beside him and gave him a poor shoulder massage as a way of greeting. Billy shrugged uncomfortably and brushed my hands away.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, you fruity bastard!?"
He was right. It was a poorly devised greeting, a very unnatural thing for me to do.
"Sorry, Billy. I slept pretty rough. I'm not thinking clearly."
"Clearly! Have you eaten yet?"
I shook my head.
"Well, I recommend you get some food into you before you start feeling up other paying customers."
Smith winked at me while pointing to his shoulders.
"I'm ever so tense, Jack."
"Put a sock in it, Smith. Get me a dreadlock omelette."
"Why, someone's feeling particularly hungry this morning aren't they?" Smith continued to grin.
"Just get it for me, will ya!?"
"As you wish, sir."
Smith called my order into the kitchen, leaving Billy and I alone.
"Ok Billy, what's this idea of yours?"
"You cut right to the chase don't you?"
"Let's just say that my patience is running thinner than an anorexic's wrist."
The dreadlock omelette was placed in front of me. I shovelled the woolly chunks into my mouth.
"Ok, so I think we both agree that my jars are attracting the bald man somehow?"
"It strikes me as logical. But that doesn't matter if we don't know which jar he'll target next."
"True, true, true. But what if we can predict where he'll strike next?"
"I'd say you were a genius and give you a sloppy one on the cheek."
"Well you better get your lips ready."
"Why? What do you know?"
Billy sipped dramatically at his Hairy Nonsense, keeping me in deliberate suspense.
"Spit it out, Billy!" I yelled.
"Ok, ok, don't get your knickers in a knot. We have a barber's conference coming up in a few days right?"
"We do." I was intrigued.
"Now, what if I could promise you an attraction so damn irresistible that no self-respecting jar fiend would be able to stay away?"
"I'd pucker up and plant another sloppy on you, Billy. What are you saying?"
"I was going to save it as a surprise but for the good of the District, I'm willing to let the news slip early."
"What news?" I was as impatient as I was excited.
"I'm going to be giving a world first preview of some brand spanking new, hot off the press, comb jars at the convention. It was going to be unveiled as the grand finale."
"Holy flippin' hell! New jars?"
Billy sat back with folded arms, looking pretty damn content with himself.
"So, where's my two sloppy ones?"
I regained some form of composure and gripped Billy's face firmly with either hand. I planted two dribbly, tongue lashing kisses on each cheek, which made Billy giggle.
"Alright, alright, get off!"
"So you're willing to compromise the impact of the finale?"
"For the good of the District, Jack. You'll have your bald man. He won't be able to resist."
"You're a beautiful bastard, Billy! How are we going to get the word out?"
"You leave that up to me. I have my ways."
"I don't know how to thank you." I was gushing.
"Just get to the bottom of this. That's all the thanks I need."
I wanted to hug the guy. I wanted to pluck him up in my arms and thank him on behalf of the District. Good ol' Billy Backwash. Ambassador for barber's culture everywhere. The world could certainly do with a few more like him. I glanced down at my dreadlock omelette, when I glanced back, Billy was gone. What a go-getter. Now the hard part began. The conference was still two days away. There was going to be some waiting involved.
\*
I trawled glumly through the District. The place wasn't the same. Walking up the main strip I counted eleven boarded up windows and many more depressed barbers. Way to suck the life outta this place, bald man, I thought as I kicked at stones and slumped against lamp posts. Many barbers had decided to close up shop until further notice, too afraid of being hit with a smashing. It was the clientele who suffered the most. The dependability of their barber was coming into question. No one should be forced to think such sickening thoughts. These forgotten souls were mourning the loss of their would-be haircuts. Some of these poor bastards had collapsed in the shut up doorways of their lifelong barber, running their panicked fingers through overgrown beards. This place was losing its verve and vigour. This wasn't the way things were meant to play out. I'd been in the Hair District for over fifteen years and I'd personally never seen a darker day.
The paparazzi were out in force too. News had filtered out through gopher tunnels of information. The trash peddlers who ran those vacuous gossip rags would pay a mint for a good photo of a dishevelled barber. Zoom in close. Make sure you capture their puffy, tear-stained cheeks in all of their pathetic glory, you fucking hogs! As I walked I sensed the macro lens of their filthy cameras, tracking my movements, begging me for a tasty photo op. I remained as banal in my actions as possible. I kept my arms firmly planted by my sides, my head slightly down and my face frozen in deliberate ambiguity. Those bastards weren't going to use me to drag the District down any further. I had to get out of their misery addicted path before I did something I was going to regret.
\*
I decided the waiting game would be better played out in my apartment. The streets were too depressing. We were all feeding off each other's melancholy. It just wasn't healthy. Best brood in isolation so as not to infect others. I needed some time alone anyway. The gumshoe thing just wasn't a natural fit and it took it out of me. I had to refuel the old engines if I was going to be of any use.
I was sprawled on my sweat stained bed, combing through my journal, looking for clues, something I'd missed. One thing I'll say for myself, I'm a thorough documentarian. The sheer level of detail was sickening. There would have been a time, perhaps only a few days ago, where I'd soak up the detail like life-giving light. I knew so much and yet here I was, confronted with the worst crisis the District had faced in my lifetime and I had nothing. I was dead weight. My journal amounted to no more than an elaborate fluff piece, a flight of fancy by someone with too much time on their hands. I flung the journal aside and buried my face in the pillows. Boy did the tears fly.
I'll admit it off the bat, I'm a crying man. I can't help myself. It turns me on like a switch. There's a point you reach in the midst of a good cry where you lose yourself completely. You no longer control your body and it feels fantastic. My dirty bastard gets harder than an assassin and I pull on it like a bellringer. Imagine the sight: a full grown man, naked as the truth, crying his heart out, wanking his heart out. Needless to say, these are activities best pursued in the privacy of your own home.
My pent up frustration had essentially been cried out. It felt good. Goodbye weight of the world, hello weight of the District. I slept a bit afterward. It was a dreamless sleep and it was exactly what I needed.
I awoke into the same world as before. I was rested but it only ensured I saw things all the more clearly. This place, this District was dying and by association, I was too. I wondered what Billy was up to. He was a big name. A hotshot. I knew he'd have the know-how to get word out. I just hoped our bald man would notice. But, even if he did notice, what next? Sure, we lure him into the convention, get him all hot n' heavy over the new comb jars. Then what? If there's one thing this guy has proved over and over again, it's that he can escape. This was probably a long way from being over.
I crawled pathetically toward my journal, which I'd tossed unlovingly like a bag of canker sores onto the carpet. Cradling my leather-bound purpose in nurturing arms I kissed it gently and apologised for the treatment. It felt heavier than usual -- sadder somehow. I flicked to my first entry about the bald man. At this point the bald man was a footnote, a curiosity. Who knew? I was right there, getting lathered up like a decadent sucker, while the seed to our woe was planted right in front of my damn face! I could have grabbed the bastard; could have wrestled him to the ground shouting, "You sir, shall not proceed!" But no, that wasn't how it played out. I sat there like a slack-jawed fuck, watching. He hesitated too. I recall it well. If my wits had been up to snuff, I would have caught him easily.
I was feeling sorry for myself in an ugly way.
\*
Billy finally rang at six that evening. He told me to watch Hair Me Now and then he hung up. I didn't get a word in. Hair Me Now was the top rating barber related channel on television. I'd helped out in the formative years but left when my work was done. If you wanted to know about barber culture, Hair Me Now was the place to turn. There was always a never-ending roster of friendly faces to gently guide you. Seasoned pros and hobbyists alike were catered for. I had avoided the channel like the plague since the beginning of the bald man debacle. As I flicked the television on, I knew why my avoidance had been necessary. Current affairs reporter Chris McChris was on screen crying uncontrollably. I upped the volume.
Why does it keep happening folks? Why isn't anyone looking out for us? Barber after barber shattered, destroyed, heartbroken. WHY??? Once again we implore our viewers, if you can provide ANY information about the bald man, PLEASE let us know. We will forward your information to law enforcement officials with your utmost privacy in mind.
The next 15 minutes of the program were occupied with Chris McChris' gentle sobbing. It was a harrowing display. Mercifully, it was eventually interrupted by a special announcement. My ears pricked up, my eyes bulged. There he was on screen, Billy Backwash, looking and sounding as officious as ever.
Gentlefellows, for those not familiar, I would like to introduce myself. I am Billy Backwash of Backwash's Comb Glassery and Barberal Ephemera. For many years I have made my name in the field of comb glassing. I work from my factory in Berlin where I'm afforded the opportunity to work with materials of the highest standard. Any artisan worth his salt must concede that the materials used play a role of tremendous enormity. I have been granted permission to work with a new set of materials. Materials of unheralded quality and property. Utilising these materials I have spent the last several years perfecting a new set of comb jars, which I can honestly say rate as my best work to date. I am terribly fond of these new jars and am personally excited about the prospect of my barber friends enjoying them too. This Thursday at the annual Hair District Barber's Conference I will present these jars in person. You, my friends, will be the first people outside of my research team to lay their eyes upon my new generation of comb storage glassware. I sincerely look forward to seeing you there. These are troubling times. Let us look toward the light. Thank you.
The announcement was replayed several times over the course of the night. Billy Backwash was a wonderful, wonderful man. He transformed himself in front of the camera's gaze. Whereas in person Billy often had a tendency toward smugness, in the public eye he was the consummate, empathic professional. No one could doubt the sincerity of his words. When he said these new comb jars were his best yet, he damn well meant it.
I tried to materialise the possibility of the jars in my mind but I lacked the scope to formulate such wonder. The jars of my mind would always stall on the current design. Was it possible that Billy had truly outdone perfection? This was quite simply a remarkable possibility. Almost impossible to believe.
After several hours of jar contemplation it dawned on me that the bald man had vanished from my headspace. The true power of this wonderful barber culture was in its ability to transcend, cut through all the guff. It allowed us a way of seeing beyond the grisly present into a utopian ideal. We were religious in our fervour. That we allowed the disruptive malarkey of a nameless bald man to dampen our spirits was sacrilegious. How could we hope to reverse the situation if we ourselves refused to lift a finger? How could we achieve anything from behind our locked doors? Law enforcement could only go so far. They had nothing invested in the Hair District. For them it was mere routine -- a by the book display of understandable apathy. No, it was us on the front lines that needed to rise up. I would stop this bald man. I would save this district. My resolve had inflated toward infinity.
\*
The next morning I walked along the main strip, soaking up the environment in scientific detail. The mood wasn't quite as dark as before. Some people were even smiling. Billy had certainly achieved his goal. Everyone here had seen the broadcast. It wasn't even gossip. It was a promise from the mouth of Billy Backwash himself. Powerful energy permeated the air that we breathed. An industrious vendor was already selling t-shirts which bore the slogan 'I'm looking forward to the new jars'. Excited district dwellers were buying them in a frenzy, throwing their cash down, slipping t-shirts over their proud heads and yelling, "Keep the change," before skipping away.
I stood on the sidelines, arms folded, a content smile plastered on my face. I felt like a proud father watching his children flourish despite the devastation. Of course, the bald man was still out there, but right now, in this moment, it didn't seem to matter. We humans are imbued with a remarkable resilience. Sometimes that's easy to forget. I felt it in my bones. We would overcome.
I slipped into Peter's Peatery for a bite to eat and a quick shave. Messy Phil was up in Peter's face, making him feel pretty damn uncomfortable. Peter's eyes jumped to mine. They had "save me" written all over them. I walked confidently and with purpose.
"What the hell are you doing, Phil?" I had force in my voice.
He turned around all jittery and gormless.
"I'm so glad you're here, Jack! You're not going to believe it!"
I stared him down, trying to assess the threat he posed to Peter. My reading was largely benign. What we had here was the town crank, making the norms feel antsy.
"I think perhaps you oughta buy something from the Peatery or get out, Phil."
"Jeez, Jack! Don't be like that. I was only trying to show Peter here what I got."
"I'm not sure Peter's interested in what you've got."
Peter gave an emphatic nod behind Phil's back, letting me know that my instincts were blazing.
"Screw it!" Phil yelled, "I'll just damn well show you. Come 'ere!"
Phil marched toward an unoccupied table and retrieved a twitching, writhing tea towel from his coat pocket. The grin he was shooting covered most of his face.
"You ain't going to call me strange anymore, Jack. This town'll see that my head is screwed on good and proper."
He carefully unfolded the tea towel bit by bit. He was dragging the moment out. I stood outwardly unimpressed. Inside my gut was a whirl of shit and spice. This bastard better not have what I think he has.
He had exactly what I thought he'd have. As the last flap of tea towel was moved away, there it was. No taller than a book of matches and skinny as a chicken leg. It was a wank fairy. My mouth fell open.
"You gotta be kidding me" It was all I could say.
"Yeah, you'd like that wouldn't you, Jack? I told ya, didn't I? The wank fairies are real! I caught this little lady last night. I revised the recipe for my ball paste. She couldn't sense a thing. She flew right into my sac and BAM! She was stuck. I peeled her off all nice n' gentle and gave her a wash. She's mine!"
I got my eyeballs nice and close. It looked real as real can look. Its tiny chest breathed in and out, its eyelids flickered. It was covered in thick, unpleasant veins that pumped with an audible hiss. Fuck it was ugly but I had to admit, I was impressed.
"I have to admit, Phil, I'm impressed."
"That means a lot coming from you, Jack."
Phil stretched his arms out, imploring me for a hug.
"I'm not going to hug you, Phil."
"Yessir!"
From behind us, Peter piped up.
"That thing really smells!"
It didn't strike me at first but Peter was right. A particularly foul odour was wafting from the wank fairy. A flush of red hot embarrassment crawled about Messy Phil's face.
"Yeah, I guess you could say that's the only problem. She's cute as a button n' all but she's always farting! I mean it too. I'm not saying she farts regularly, I'm saying that she's involved in an endless drawn out fart. It's not especially pleasant."
"You can say that again. You know, I hate to tell you Phil, but I think this is going to be a deal breaker. It doesn't matter that it exists. If it's always shooting off down there then there ain't nobody who'll want anything to do with it."
"Aww Jack, don't say that!"
Phil looked genuinely hurt and I couldn't allay his fears. That little thing was truly disgusting. He began to slouch and sniff back what I assume were the onset of tears.
"Look Phil, you've proved they exist, that's something. Just don't try forcing it on people. Perhaps you should take a couple of photos and then let it go."
Phil looked enraged, as if I'd just taken a dump over his entire life up to this point -- maybe I had. I wasn't given the benefit of a reply. Phil just shut up and slowly walked out, being careful to wrap his fetid wank fairy back in the towel. I didn't feel so hungry anymore. That thing had a smell that really lingered. It wasn't good for the District.
\*
In general, the mood leading up to the convention remained fairly positive. There were three more windows smashed, three more comb jars knocked over and although we certainly weren't happy about it, we were growing used to it. Humans adjust to atrocity as a means of survival. Almost everyone I saw flaunted their 'I'm looking forward to the new jars' t-shirt with pride. The mood still retained that essential electricity. People really were looking forward to the jars. I was too of course, but I had a bald man to stop.
As much as I wanted to jump into the festivities I knew I couldn't, not yet, business before pleasure. I had to weigh it up. I could forget about the bald man, enjoy the convention and watch as the District swirled further down the civic toilet or I could stand up and try to put a stop to this mess. Obviously I chose the latter.
The waiting game had given me time to formulate the rudiments of a plan. Billy provided information about where the jars would be placed before the dramatic unveiling. I had been granted early access to the Barber's Grace Athenaeum where the convention was taking place. I was given permission to set up a food table near the future location of the jars. The jars were to be kept on a table toward the western wall of the athenaeum. My idea was to disguise myself as a basket of crows and sit atop the tactfully placed food table. I chose a basket of crows as my disguise because I assumed it wasn't a food that most attendees would care to eat. If everything went to plan it would just be me and the bald man. Billy agreed to inform the attendees where the jars were being kept but would ask earnestly that they not be approached until the unveiling. It was a calculated risk. There was a great deal of respect within the barber culture and we were almost certain that Billy's wishes would be steadfastly respected. It was also a calculated risk on our part that the bald man simply wouldn't be able to resist. As far as we knew, he had no ties to the barber world. The code of ethics wouldn't mean a great deal to him. It was an utterly brilliant plan.
\*
My mother graciously agreed to help me with the disguise so I had her shipped express to my apartment. My mother was a real trooper. All of her husbands died during a confusing incident involving incorrect pronunciation. I was quite young at the time and couldn't really comprehend the situation. All my mother would tell me is that they were 'ill-prepared' and left it at that. She looked after me and three of my four sisters with endless love and compassion. There wasn't a single thing she wouldn't do for us. This was as true today as it was back then.
As we sat, sewing together my basket of crows, I filled her in on recent events. She appeared deeply hurt, full of empathy. Barber culture only mattered to her via proxy. On a personal level she wasn't terribly interested in the world I had become entrenched within, but through her unwavering love of me, she was able to feel what I was feeling. At random intervals she would throw her soft, flabby arms around me, trying to hug all the sadness away. It sure felt comforting. One grows so damn used to going it alone that it's easy to forget what real support feels like. I bathed in the feeling, I lovingly wallowed in it.
As the final stiches were sewn on my disguise I took several steps backward. It didn't matter which angle or from what distance I viewed it, it looked amazing. The level of detail was exquisite. My role throughout the construction consisted of little more than passing needles and thread to my skilfully endowed mother. After much playful goading I agreed to try it on. It had to be done. No use spending all of this time on the disguise if it wasn't going to fit. I shuffled off into my bedroom, costume in hand. It fit immaculately. My arms and legs slid right into it, my face was wonderfully obscured. For all intents and purposes, I was a basket of crows. My mother agreed adamantly. Her face was glowing with a smile that could guide ships away from jagged shores. She put her arms around me one last time before I helped package her up and send her back home. We agreed to meet up more regularly. This made my heart smile.
\*
The morning of a barber's conference excites like little else. Gammy knees are imbued with previously forgotten stamina. Weak appetites are strengthened ten fold and laughter becomes the chosen language. A magical mood hung about the air like decorations. My mood, however, was somewhat dampened by my impending endeavour. The bald man was still out there and until I had him under control I was always going to be a little edgy. I didn't sleep the previous night. I spent every waking hour frozen in thought but I believed intuitively that the odds were good. The situation had been orchestrated with collective expertise and I wasn't going to let the community down. The basket of crows disguise was carefully laid out on the kitchen counter. The morning light shining through the window was kind to every loving detail. I'd have to store it in my barber's satchel until I was ready to use it. I couldn't have anyone seeing it before the fact. The only people privy to my activities were my mother, Billy, myself and a few key people at the athenaeum.
I had arranged to arrive several hours before the convention was due to start. I had to situate myself while ensuring I wasn't witnessed by the eager beaver, early arrival types. I met Arvo Williams at the back entrance. Arvo was an extraordinary advocate of barber's culture. The debut convention was put together by him alone way back when, before most people even knew what a temple fade was. He supported my activities entirely and was more than happy to help out in any way he could. All I really needed from Arvo was early access to the athenaeum and for him to keep his mouth shut. I trusted him.
Billy was already inside. He had his new jars set up already, tantalisingly draped with a silk sheet. Just knowing I was so close to the jars gave me goosebumps upon goosebumps. I had to suppress my impatience. I'd see them in due course. It was better to lay eyes upon them as part of the community anyway. It would strengthen the glue that bound us as a culture. Billy shot me a knowing glance.
"Morning, you!" he said with calm excitement.
"If it ain't the man of the moment," I replied with false cool.
"Sorry I can't give you a peek at the jars, Jack. You know how it is -- ethics and all that."
"Think nothing of it. If you tried to give me a peek, I'd give you a peek of the back of my hand."
"So noble aren't we?"
"Lay off it, Billy. It's going to be a hell of a day."
"So, you're all ready to catch your bald man?"
"I'm about as ready as I'll ever be. Here's hoping my bald man plays along."
"The odds are good, Jack."
"I'd rather it wasn't a matter of odds. Right now I'm in the mood for certainty."
"I'll keep my fingers crossed for you. How's the costume?"
"I'd be lying if I told you it wasn't brilliant. My mother knows her way around a needle and thread."
"I have a pretty strong set of eyebrows that'll attest to that! If you'll excuse me, I have to get some things prepared. We'll meet up later ok?"
"Sure thing, Billy, knock em dead."
Billy headed toward the podium on the athenaeum stage. I headed toward my mock food table. It was a perfect location, a mere two feet from the jars. I removed my disguise from the satchel and laid it out on the table. It wouldn't be long before we had arrivals on our hands. I began to carefully slip into my basket of crows. It was perfectly designed. I had a clear line of sight through some borderline invisible peek-holes. As I settled into my final position I could see the table of jars perfectly. It would be impossible for the bald man to know he was being watched.
\*
I don't know how long I'd been situated but eventually I heard the sound of patrons shuffling inside. The electric mood managed to seep into my body despite the disguise. Not being a part of the group stung me somewhat but I bit my bottom lip and reaffirmed the importance of my current situation. I kept my eyes planted firmly toward the table of jars. I could barely afford to blink. My ears couldn't help but seek out conversation, which unfortunately came across as muffled and incomprehensible. The room was really filling up now. Unfortunately there was still no sign of the bald man.
The amplified voice of Martin Stinkwater assailed the air in search of attention. Martin was a longstanding master of ceremonies for the conference and a wonderful moustache sculptor. The athenaeum ebbed into a barely contained hush as Martin began his introductory speech:
"Gentlefellow of the industry; guests from rotund locales, I would cordially like to extend my yam-like arm in welcoming you to the 35th annual Hair District Barber's Conference."
-90 minutes of uninterrupted applause-
"We currently face uncertain times. In such times it is remarkably easy to lose your bearings. Life loses its essential vim. The turn out I see before me however, proves one thing that I believe to be full of certainty. We as a group, as a culture, are strong. If someone knocks us on our backsides, we proudly proclaim 'oh yes, on my backside is it? I shan't be beaten whether on my feet or on my backside. I can live a perfectly acceptable life right down here. I shan't rest. I shall open up a chain of restaurants bearing the slogan 'I'm still here'. Perhaps I'll marry an abstract notion such as the colour green and invite my friends and family to bless the union. Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to fart at convention and suck on society's hairy man tits..."
Martin Stinkwater's increasingly tangential rant was mercifully cut off at this point, which triggered a further 30 minutes of applause. I couldn't help but chuckle. Stinkwater's rants were as much a part of the convention as the procession of 'slight forelocks'. I yearned to escape my disguise all the more and no doubt, news of my absence was already spreading throughout the crowd. I was usually situated at the registration table, greeting the guests with a warm smile as they retrieved their name badges and complimentary packets of roller fringe. The name badges were, by and large, a formality as everyone knew everyone, but it added a little something to the day. It would be naïve to assume that the bald man would brazenly waltz up to the registration table. That isn't the way life works. Solutions aren't handed to you wrapped in a bow. Solutions require a painstaking process, which my cramped muscles could adamantly attest to. I wanted to pop my head out of the disguise and exclaim to my comrades, "It's alright, your friend Jack is here!" But I knew it wasn't an option. I knew it wouldn't bag me a bald man.
My first real test arrived about 20 minutes after the aborted opening address by Stinkwater. A brief recess was declared after the physical exertion caused by excessive applause was deemed too much for some of the older attendees. As one would expect, they made a bee line toward the food tables, only briefly finding themselves waylaid by the hidden bounty on the jar table. I was on one of nine dozen food tables and was situated in the outer quadrant. Most attendees seemed happy enough to gorge on the delectable pastries, lovingly crafted at the hairline bakery on the main strip. Other, more weight conscious attendees begrudgingly ate standard, supermarket grade fruit, lovingly crafted by no one. Although my crow costume dulled most auditory signals, I could still hear the groans of pleasure as mouth after mouth savoured the flavours. Several people wandered toward my table but only made disparaging remarks about the culinary merits of crow. This was exactly what I wanted to hear. It was evidence that my costume was a resounding success. A potential issue did emerge during the recess however. The desirable nature of the comb jar table ensured that many attendees were magnetically drawn toward it, obscuring my view to a rather unfortunate degree. I had to hope that our bald man wasn't the kind to mull about in crowds. If he was going to approach the jars, it was my hunch he'd do it when the crowds weren't looking.
A bell rang throughout the athenaeum, which signalled the end of the recess. If history was a guide, I would have placed a bet on many last minute pastries being stuffed into hair-filled pockets. The separation anxiety I was feeling only intensified as the mystical voice of Old Man Muttonchop filled the room. As far as the genre of Barber Pop music was concerned, Old Man Muttonchop was it. After the gory demise of traditional barbershop music of the 50s, Old Man Muttonchop was a torchbearer of sorts. The violent backlash toward barbershop music started when mercenary barber enthusiasts proclaimed the absence of barber-related material within the style as blasphemous. Many promising musicians were lynched in what will go down as one of the darkest days in the history of barber culture. However the solemn weight of history never deterred from the grandeur that was Old Man Muttonchop's vocoder-drenched voice. It sat in the middle of the room in a rousing monotony, even affecting me within the confines of my costume. The compressed kick drums resounded in a dependable four to the floor loop. Stabs of synthesiser accentuated the musical meal like capers. Old Man Muttonchop wooed the crowd with a bumpy version of his hit, 'I Hair You'. The crowd sang along with every word, which managed to conceal the passages that Old Man Muttonchop forgot. I was thankful for the ear bursting applause that heralded the end of the performance, as it successfully masked the wolf whistles I couldn't help but make.
\*
The whole day turned sour late into the afternoon. An intriguing colloquium on shaving techniques had entered into its third hour and I was doing my best to soak it all in while keeping my eyes on the jar table. I had survived two more recesses and my counterfeit crows had remained untouched. The bald man was still distressingly absent and my bladder was leaking embarrassingly. A foul smell began to waft in and around me, trapping itself within the claustrophobic confines of my costume.
My initial assumption was that I had defecated unknowingly and the smell was breaking free. As best as I could tell, my backside remained unsullied, except for the shameful patch of urine. The smell didn't strike me as pissy in nature and it was attacking from the wrong direction. This was originating externally and burrowing internally. The smell couldn't have been coming from me but it was damn familiar. I ran my olfactory memory around in circles trying to place it but collapsed before I arrived at a conclusion. Then I saw it. The answer to my dilemma. There it was, hovering right about my peek holes. A damn, stinking wank fairy.
In the light of the athenaeum I could actually make out the dull green odour trail. The wank fairy was the epitome of foul. Its many veins pumped thick and black. Its face was permanently contorted into a hellish, lockjawed scream and its dilated eyes darted frenetically. A voice accompanied the wank fairy in flight.
"What d'ya have there, girl?"
The voice was familiar and didn't come as a surprise. It was Messy Phil, gatecrashing the convention and sneaking a feed from the food tables. I couldn't blame the guy, the convention put on a hell of a feast and stale gourmet pastries were better than the guff he normally called a meal. Still, it stung to know he wasn't here for love of hair. Phil's shadow loomed and darkened my line of sight.
"You gotta be kidding me! It's a basket of crows. That's your favourite!"
I swore under my breath. That messy bastard had dragged his newfound wank fairy along and the little bitch had an appetite for crows.
"Which one d'ya want? I'll pick it out for you. Maybe even feed it to you if ya want."
The wank fairy vanished from my sight, probably landing somewhere on top of the costume. I pictured it skulking about up there, tainting everything it touched. I really needed a shower.
"You want that one, girl? Nice choice. It looks proper juicy."
I could feel Phil's hand picking at my costume, trying to force one of the crows off.
"The little bastard's stuck! They must have congealed or somesuch."
I was gritting my teeth, trying my best not to yell at him. My thoughts were deafening but I knew they couldn't be heard. I knew it was a redundant exercise. That gormless putz was ruining everything.
"Something weird is happening, girl. I don't think these crows are real."
His voice was getting louder and I just knew he was attracting unwanted attention. I had to do something.
"Psssstt," I whispered, "Phil, down here."
He kept on picking at my costume, getting more forceful with every passing second. I raised my voice ever so slightly.
"Flaming heck Phil, it's me, Jack Backtrack! Will you get your hands off?"
His grip loosened on my costume and through the peek holes I saw Phil take several steps back while stroking his stubbled chin quizzically.
"D'ya hear that, girl? I swear one of them crows just spoke."
He looked around in every direction, attempting to deduce another possible source for the voice he believed he'd heard. Eventually he just chuckled with a shrug of the shoulders and reapproached me.
"Must be getting a touch of the ol' crazies."
Once more the tugging on my costume began, much more forceful this time. I could sense he was going to tear it apart. I couldn't control myself.
"Fucking hell, Phil! Get your fucking hands off me!"
He squealed sharply and starting yelling repeatedly, "The crows are talking, the crows are talking! Come quick everyone, you ain't gonna believe this."
I gulped in despair. The jig was up. The sound of shuffling multitudes approached and although I couldn't see it, all eyes were on me. The din had morphed into an elongated, questioning tone.
"Just listen," Phil yelled.
The crowd obeyed and the din was replaced by a hush. Phil was yanking at my costume with vigour, rocking me back and fourth. I bit my bottom lip and braced myself for the inevitable collapse.
"Speak to me ya little buggers," he pleaded as he continued to yank ever harder.
I felt myself topple forward with uncontrollable momentum. I let out a yell, which provoked a surprised murmur. "I've got ya boys, Phil said, as I came falling down like a cracked piñata, spilling out like liquid and colliding directly with the table of precious comb jars. The table rocked slightly before deciding to give up and collapse. The jars broke free of their delicate covering in exaggerated slow motion and bounced on the unforgiving ground before rolling erratically in a dazzling display of perfection. Billy Backwash's unmistakable voice howled in horror as convention goers all caught unavoidable early glimpses of his pride and joy.
I remained still, praying for death to pluck me up and take me. I wasn't capable of rolling over and staring my comrades in the eye. They knew it was me regardless and their eyes burned searing holes in me. Billy was unsympathetic. I couldn't blame him. After all, I'd ruined the impact of his work. He strode over toward me and kicked the rest of my costume away until I was utterly exposed.
"You little fuck!" he yelled, "Look at me!!!"
Shunning commonsense, I obeyed and slowly rolled over like a dying animal. Their eyes were upon me, clouded with hatred, screaming for blood. I stammered and spluttered, excreting a pathetic I'm sorry.
Billy's arms were folded in front, his compassion broken and wounded.
"Get the hell out," he said coldly.
It wasn't easy but I managed to stand on shaking, cramp-raped legs. I kept my head down, avoiding their rage as best I could. I stumbled toward the door, willing my legs to increase their speed. They didn't. My passage was slow and hopeless. My tears were trite and meaningless. The crowd had begun muttering sour nothings toward my back. One chap was quite vocal in sarcastically thanking me for catching the bald man, before calling me a hack. His spit sprayed the back of my neck and I felt his passion.
\*
I made the trek toward my apartment with nothing but my tears and emerging erection for company. I felt as if the District was trying to push me out like a constipated turd; waste that had overstayed its welcome. Barber's poles had stopped spinning and the wind was mocking me.
I had to believe the District would find a way to forgive me aided by the passing of time. I was only trying to protect it. I had so much invested in this place, in these people. I needed them and I felt as if deep down, they needed me. The defeatist nature of my thoughts tried to convince me otherwise. I wasn't a barber, so essentially I contributed nothing to the District. I was merely a chronicler of events in which I wasn't a part: a professional observer, an amateur sleuth, a hack. I could have just caught the next bus out of the District and I'd have been forgotten like a snap of the fingers. Perhaps if I were lucky, a few of them would remember me as the bastard who ruined Billy's new jars.
My tears were flowing and my erection was painful. I'd have to get home fast and gratify myself before the tears subsided. My legs were a little more cooperative by now so I jogged the rest of the way home, allowing the District to pass me by in a melancholy blur. I kept my head down and my ears closed until my apartment complex loomed.
I was approaching my front door, contemplating the bottle of bourbon I'd stupidly decided not to throw out when I had embarked upon the dry life. It had my name on it in flashing neon and there wasn't a damn thing stopping me from quenching that aching thirst. Besides, I'd earned it. It had been a true stinker of a day and I wanted to lose myself for a while. My key slid easily into the lock and the door clicked open. It was dark and nasty in there, as if my room had been adjusting to my emotional state and giving me that miserable company we all sometimes crave. I was about to remove my dick and give it a whack but a rustling sound broke my concentration. I zipped myself up and surveyed the darkened room. As my eyes adjusted, the fuzzy silhouette of an intruder began to reveal itself. A sickening, cold shiver ran up my entire body, killing my erection and quickening the beat of my heart. I was frozen in fear, wanting to reach for the light but finding myself incapable. I whispered, 'Who's there?' but found my words vanishing into inaudibility. Suddenly the click of a cigarette lighter introduced dull light into my apartment, followed quickly by a glowing orange dot. Instinctively my hand, disobeying my mind, flicked at my light switch. My apartment was doused in dirty, piss-coloured light, revealing everything.
He was sitting awkwardly in my armchair, trying to hold the cigarette smoke in his lungs without coughing it up. He wore a trench coat that struck me as an affront to the real him lurking inside. His head was noticeably miniscule and his face was puffed up like a Botox nightmare. His eyes were beady, like they originally belonged to an old doll and his lips were pink leather. I didn't have to strain the old noodle too hard to know who he was. There was no doubt about it. It was the bald man.
He ground his cigarette out on the arm of my chair before standing up with an outreached hand, imploring me for a shake. My fists wanted to smash his face but he spoke up before they were given the opportunity.
"Hello there, squire, I'm Max."
Part 2: I Wish I'd Never Met Max
He remained standing there for a socially awkward amount of time, his hand reaching out like a child trying after his mother's tit. I wasn't giving any ground. I had too many questions sprinting around my head. The most pressing of which concerned his ability to get into my apartment. Besides, I couldn't deny how cute he looked, reaching out for my hand, not giving up. He was inching toward me like time lapse photography. His movement was borderline imperceptible but he was definitely getting closer. He struck me as the sort of no talent kid who would have been forced to play a tree in school plays. I could picture the drama teacher calling out directions from backstage, telling him to shuffle this way and that but him never quite managing to find the right spot.
He was getting more awkward by the minute and hiding it poorly. I suddenly didn't feel so threatened by this intruder. I would have placed a bet that his mother dropped him off if he didn't look so damn old. I shrugged my shoulders and made my way to the kitchen. I still had a bottle of bourbon to suck down. The daffy bastard kept standing there with his outreached hand, even after I'd left his general vicinity. I plucked my bourbon from its hidey hole and slid right by him, reclaiming my armchair. I fell into it, noticing immediately the burn he'd left in the upholstery. I was agitated like a motherfucker.
"You're a real fucking piece of work, you know that? You break into my home and burn the shit outta my chair and for what? That's what I'd like to know."
The bald man's eyes lit up as if to thank me for breaking the silence. He finally put his arm down to his side and began brushing his hip nervously.
"I'm ever so sorry for the disruption and quite frankly I have no excuse for it, except for my needing urgently to speak with you."
He spoke like an English fop, which riled me. I wanted to slap the accent right outta his mouth.
"You know I've been trying to track you down right?" I asked.
"Well, isn't that a happy coincidence!"
"Yeah, well I get the feeling we're after each other for different reasons. Speaking of which, what's yours? How do you know who I am? How do you know where I live?"
The bald son of a bitch actually looked surprised, as if my line of questioning was somehow unexpected. He wasn't giving me anything.
"You gonna say something, bald man? Or do I have to slap it out of you?"
He shook his head, momentarily developing jowls of impressive flaccidity.
"Please, call me Max. I want you to view me as a friend."
The whole 'friend' line caught me right in the middle of my first burning swig of bourbon and I sprayed like an army of defensive skunks.
"You gotta be kidding me right? Friend? You ruined my fucking life and strangely enough, that doesn't get me too jovial."
"What do you mean? How could it be that I have ruined your life?"
I wanted to crack open his shiny head like a coconut but the energy wasn't there. I still had some pretty nasty cramps coursing through my body thanks to that basket of crows outfit. Right now, all I wanted to do was drink the events of the day away. I knew however I'd have to subdue the bastard somehow. Those guys at the convention seemed pretty sore about me toppling those jars and my name needed cleaning like a hobo.
My plan was simple. I'd make the bald man go to the toilet and mid-piss, I'd clock him on the head with a box of tins. He goes down, I tie him up and we forget this whole incident ever happened. The simplicity of it all was just what I needed.
"Hey bald man," I said, finally responding to his question.
"Please call me, Max."
"Okay, Max. I need you to do something for me."
"What?"
"I think it would be a good idea if you went to the toilet."
Max stammered a little before saying, "No, I don't think that's necessary. My bladder is really rather empty."
I sighed deeply. "Seriously Max, as a favour to me, I need you to go the toilet."
"But... why?"
He was confused as heck, it was written all over him. "Just do it would ya, Max? Whenever a new guest enters my home, the first thing I ask 'em to do is use the facilities. It unites you with the abode and it comforts me."
As far as malarkey goes, I was shooting for the stars but somehow Max was buying it. He began to move slowly, backing toward the kitchen.
"Once you're out of the kitchen, it's the first door on your right, just through the bathroom."
He nodded at me, turned around cautiously and followed my directions while I rushed toward the cupboard below the kitchen sink to fetch a sizeable, yet wieldy box of tins. There were three boxes to choose from and I knew I'd have to make my decision fast. One was clearly too big and the other two were roughly the same size. I grabbed one of the smaller and made my way cautiously toward the toilet.
Max was standing there all awkward. He was talking to his penis, trying to provoke the reluctant piss. "C'mon, just do it! Would it be too much to ask that you come out for a change?" It was kinda pathetic and I felt a little sorry for him. If he'd have been anyone else I probably wouldn't have knocked him down. But he wasn't, so I did.
He fell in three stages. First he went down to his knees, which made a sharp cracking sound. Then onto his side, at which point I heard something burst. Finally he sprawled prostrate on his back. The first thing I noticed was his pathetic dick, flopping from his fly like a dead worm. There was a smell about him too. I couldn't really put my finger on it, but if buttons could rot, it may well have been that.
I dragged him into the lounge room and managed to force his limp body into a chair where I proceeded to tie him up tighter than a Christmas ham. This wasn't a catch I was eager to let slip away. I was going to have to wait until morning before I handed him in to the Barber's Justice Force. All the members would still be at the convention and it wouldn't be a wise move to waltz on over there. It didn't really matter. I had some serious drinking to do.
\*
I know that people talk in their sleep. It's part of the human condition and it would be unreasonable for me to frown upon it. Hell, I probably do it. What I didn't know was that people can also talk while they're knocked out cold. I'd downed a fair bit of the bourbon and decided to crash just after midnight. This was all well and good, the alcohol was kind to me, knocking me out fast, before the convention fiasco had a real chance to germinate inside me. It would have been less than an hour later that Max started up with his unconscious yabber. It was damn loud too. He was shouting about wet cardboard with escalating volume. Almost like he was having an argument with someone inside his head. It was hard to ascertain the context of the argument but based on the obvious passion in his voice, I was willing to bet he was on the wet cardboard's side.
I was sure he'd woken up and so I stumbled over to him. He was still secured with the rope and his eyes were definitely shut but boy was he yelling. Even in the darkness of my lounge room I got a bleary-eyed view of his red face. I slapped him about a couple of times partly to see if he was really knocked out and partly to shut him the hell up. He was definitely knocked out but my slapping didn't manage to shut him up.
The cardboard argument was now juxtaposed with a high pitch whining cry, accompanied by pathetic tears. I kept slapping him, trying to knock him out further. It wasn't working at all. My hand felt like it was about to shatter and eventually I gave up. I stumbled back to the bedroom and leapt face-first onto the bed, covering my head with a pillow. The whining and yelling were still seeping through and I sure as hell wasn't getting any sleep as long as he was going to keep it up.
I woke up just after six am, which at least meant I managed a bit of sleep. What instantly struck me was the utter silence permeating my apartment. Max had finally shut up. I felt instantly uneasy and my initial thought was that he must have escaped. I bolted from bed, ignoring the pounding in my head. Max was still there, wide awake, sitting politely.
"Morning, Jack," he said all chipper and energised.
"So you finally managed to shut up, hey?" His mood was irritating me. He was the one who copped a box of tins to the head but it felt like I was the one lumped with the task of recovering from it.
"What are you on about? Didn't you sleep well?"
"You shit me into oblivion, Max. I want that noted. Just letting you know that I'm turning your sorry arse in today."
His eyes widened. "What do you mean? You really mustn't. I can't tell you what a mistake that would be."
"I already made that damn mistake. I should never have started following you in the first place. I'm tired, I'm hung over and I don't have a hell of a lot of patience right now. I'll be heading out in a few minutes to talk to the Barber's Justice Force about you. Do you need to piss or anything? I don't want you messing up my carpet."
His head hung forlornly, like whatever plan he had was ruined. "Do what you need to do, Jack. I had hoped it wouldn't end like this."
"Do you need to piss or what?"
"No sir, I do not."
I swiped my hand at him in bemusement and headed out the door.
\*
The Barber's Justice Force was formed nearly fifteen years ago when it became apparent that officially recognised law enforcement weren't overly concerned with matters related to the Hair District. Based on the 'Law', the Hair District had the lowest crime rate anywhere in the city. Our laws were based more on internally manifested dogma, which we believed was more important. You can't control everyone with the same set of rules. It isn't productive. We disciplined our own justly, efficiently and perhaps most importantly: fairly. Let's face it, say we called the men in blue about our little problem with Max. The best we could realistically hope for was a petty vandalism charge for the broken windows. Because none of the jars actually broke, we wouldn't even be able to get him for the real problem. My guess was the Justice Force would charge him for disturbing the karmic equilibrium of the Hair District which was a fairly major infringement as far as they were concerned. A typical punishment for such a crime was to shave the head of the offender. As Max was bald as a monkey's arse, more creative measures would have to be taken.
My hangover was gaining in ferocity as I walked the streets of the District. I was being reminded, none too subtly, why I had stopped drinking and my body was making me pay for the lapse. My bowels were compacted with toxic sludge and my head was pure throb. I could feel the whiskers on my unshaven face curling outward and creeping for my nostrils. I tried repeatedly to brush them away with my tired hands but it was a fight I was losing. Content in the knowledge that Max would soon get what was coming to him and I could finally get some rest, I just put up with it.
The District was quiet this morning, which wasn't all that unusual considering the post-convention celebrations probably only finished an hour or so ago. It was largely accepted that most shops in the District wouldn't open until noon on the day following the conference. A few bodies pocked the stark streets but they weren't paying any attention to me. With any luck I'd make it to the Justice Force headquarters before anyone from the convention saw me.
The headquarters weren't far from the main strip. I cast my mind to Max in my apartment, hoping like mad he hadn't pissed himself. That man wasn't a natural pisser; that much I knew. He could barely squeeze out a few drops before I clocked him last night and he sure as heck wasn't in a pissing mood this morning. It didn't make a lot of sense but nothing about Max made much sense.
I arrived at Tangles for Gentlemen and made my way up the side street. There was a small door a few metres up the road only two foot high. I knocked with my foot, hoping that someone was awake. Moments later, the door swung open and a tired looking Lindsey Barker was staring up at me.
"Well look who it is," he exclaimed with a croaky, post-grog voice.
"Hey Lindsey. Sorry for knocking so early and all that but I need to speak with you guys."
He laughed to himself and replied, "Not to worry, Jack. We've been expecting you."
"You have?"
"We have. Come on in."
The entrance was small and I had to get on my gut and slide into the reception area. Lindsey was slow this morning, sliding like a dead snail. The prolonged entrance gave my mind time to ponder the situation. Why the fuck were they expecting me? Did they already know I had Max? I was prepared to wait for the answers -- what other choice did I have? But it didn't exactly sit well.
I heard Lindsey drop into the reception room, which was thankfully tall enough to stand up straight in.
"You guys should really think about getting a taller door," I said light-heartedly.
"It's all we could afford," was the succinct response.
The reception area was notable for its hair-covered walls. They were known as the walls of justice. To me it seemed like a bizarre trophy room but who was I to question it? Personally I'd probably just throw the hair of a perpetrator away, or at least give it to a wig maker. There was no need to be reminded of every suspect found guilty in the District. How was it good for morale? I glanced at the empty reception desk, which caught the attention of Lindsey. "We gave Bertie the day off. He went pretty hard last night."
"I'm sure he did. Bertie knows how to drink."
Lindsey nodded politely and gestured toward the justice room, "They're waiting for you, Jack."
I nodded anxiously and stepped into the justice room where all five elected members of the Barber's Justice Force sat in waiting. They were all old men, having served on the Force for several decades. It was a job they clearly held very close to their hearts and retirement wasn't likely any time soon. On a normal day I looked upon these men with great respect and admiration. Today however, I was totally infused with suspicion. There was no logical reason for all five of them to be up so early. There was even less reason for them to have been expecting me.
It was Titsy McBannon who spoke up first, looking a little worse for wear, "Jack, please sit down and make yourself comfortable."
"So, Lindsey says you were expecting me?"
"Quite right, Jack."
"Why? How could you know why I'm here?"
"Let me guess, Jack. You have the bald man and your just eager as a beaver to hand him over to us?"
I stiffened in shock, accidentally farting in the process. My knee locked and I fell to my side, rolling end over end until I hit the wall, crushing the bag of Barber's Delight chips I had in my pocket. There goes breakfast, I thought through the pain. I was helped to my feet by two men I only half-recognised. I was initially grateful for the help but I started to get worried when they wouldn't let me go.
"I'm alright now. You can let me go, boys."
"I'm terribly sorry, Jack, but they've been ordered not to loosen their grip," said Titsy, full of smarm.
I made an attempt to twist out of their hold but it only served as a signal for it to tighten. "What the hell is this, Titsy? Let me fucking loose."
"Please, Jack. There's no point denying it. We figured out the truth."
My eyes widened and I stopped struggling. Instead my foggy brain was working overtime trying to comprehend what I had just heard. "Would you boys mind telling me the truth you're referring to?"
Titsy rose from his seat and stepped slowly toward me until he was mere inches from my face. His cantaloupe breath licked at me.
"You had us all convinced, Jack. We believed in good faith that you were out to capture the bald man. Instead it's become apparent that you and he were in cahoots."
I began to struggle again like a rabid animal acutely aware he was about to be put down. "What the fuck, Titsy?! You don't honestly believe that shit do you?"
"Deny it all you like, Jack. It will only strengthen our case against you."
"Would you bloated fucks mind filling me in?"
Titsy clutched at my chin with his wrinkled hand, using unnecessary levels of pressure.
"Your language is rather over the top don't you think, Jack? You really ought to tone it down. You wanted to be a hero didn't you? You didn't feel like you were truly a part of the District? I mean, let's face it, you have no qualifications in any of the multitudinous fields Barberdom has to offer. You wanted to make a little name for yourself didn't you, Jack? You hire some patsy to start knocking over the comb jars simply so you can capture him and look like the hero. That really is pathetic, Jack."
My hangover had bloomed into rage. This was an affront to my character and I wasn't going to stand for it. My blood coursed through me like cracking whips, willing me into action.
"When exactly did you come up with this theory?" I asked through gnarled teeth, specks of spittle spraying Titsy's face.
"It was after you left the convention last night. We all got to talking and through our inebriation we could see no other possibility. By early morning there was a crowd vying for your blood, Jack. You're damn lucky I'm a just man. I don't want to see any blood spilt within this district. You will simply be banished and I don't foresee a situation in which your return will be possible."
That was the final straw. Buoyed by a ferocious blast of adrenaline, I twisted from the human bondage and landed a swift uppercut to Titsy's chin. He stumbled backward with flailing arms and cried like an injured choir of schoolgirls. His wrists exploded like over-inflated water balloons and bled arcs of cartoon rainbows, filling the room with multi-coloured light. Titsy fell in a pile on the floor, his body bubbling into muck seconds later.
"It's happening again!" screamed another member of the force as he drove a novelty pen into his eye. The two men, who had only moments ago entwined me in their arms, now dropped their pants revealing unusually small penises. They began smashing their faces into a messy pulp on the wall to my left, eventually falling to the ground in exact synchronicity.
"You bastard!" said the remaining Force members just before clawing their throats away.
Still heaving with adrenaline, I surveyed the scene around me. Except for the writhing man who had penned himself in the eye, they were all dead. I made a hasty retreat for the exit, diving onto my stomach in order to fit into the corridor. A few well-timed farts helped propel me with increasing speed and I emerged on the street like a burst water main.
The street was still mercifully unpopulated but I couldn't risk the possibility that I'd be seen. I decided to make use of the confusing side streets, which would add significant time to my journey home but was more likely to get me there in one piece. The adrenaline was slowly giving in to my hangover and I felt as if I would collapse. I wouldn't allow myself to stop though. I needed to get out of this place. The word would soon be out and the whole fucking District would be after me.
As I approached my apartment block my pace had involuntarily slowed to cautious edging. Cautious to the extent that it took me nine boring hours to cross my street and when I did finally cross, I was inexplicably naked and covered in crude street art. I covered my genitals with cupped hands and made a dash for the stairs.
I was in the middle of my third stride when a large butterfly net dropped over me, prohibiting my movement entirely. Before I could fully comprehend the situation I was plucked from the ground and half carried, half dragged away. The only glimpse I got of my abductor revealed that he wore a large red, satin cape that appeared to billow despite the lack of wind. It was shortly afterward that I passed out.
\*
I ebbed into consciousness with fluttering eyes and meaty exertions. I had no idea where I was but it sure as hell looked like the walls of this place were made of animal skeletons. A blue tarpaulin stretched above me, dulling the sunlight and concealing my sense of environment. My head didn't throb quite as much but the events of the morning were still distressingly vivid. Where the hell was I?
"Oh joy! You're awake, Jack."
I craned my head toward the direction of the familiar voice. What at first looked like nothing more than a blurry silhouette slowly came into focus. It was Max. He was wearing the large cape that I'd glimpsed earlier and taking a kettle from the stove. He looked frustratingly content.
"Would you like some tea? It's a special blend that I'm certain you'll enjoy."
"I want to know where the fuck I am!"
"You're at my place, Jack. Believe me it wasn't safe in your apartment."
Max walked carefully toward me with a steaming mug of tea that had a harsh odour to it. Several awkward seconds passed where I refused to accept the offering. Slightly defeated, he placed the tea beside me. "You really should drink up, Jack. It'll do you the world of good."
"Just tell me why I'm here. What happened to my apartment?"
"Let's just say you had some guests waiting eagerly for your return. I take it you're not a very well liked man at the moment?"
"Whatever gave you that idea?"
"There were men waiting for you in your apartment."
"I was being sarcastic you fucking retard!"
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I..."
"Just cut it out, will ya? Who the hell are you?"
"But I already introduced myself. I'm Max."
"Yeah, I know your fucking name but what's your deal? Why have you been terrorising the Hair District?"
I felt as if the plug had been pulled on common sense and it was all draining away into nothingness.
"I tried to tell you last night, Jack, but you felt it necessary to give me a nasty whack. I would have told you this morning but you were keen as a bean to leave."
"Well I'm all ears now."
"The simplest way for me to put it is to say that I am a scientist engaged in field research." Max took a sip of his tea and spat it out instantly. "Wow, that tastes particularly dreadful. I wouldn't recommend touching yours, Jack."
"Yeah, thanks for tip. What do you mean field research?"
"I wish to embark upon a process that could have a detrimental effect on the Hair District. At the same time, this process will almost certainly benefit mankind. Well, womankind primarily."
"Care to enlighten me about this 'process'?"
Max shifted in his chair and removed his cape, which he placed carefully at his side. He contorted his fingers into an intricate knot that he rested on his chin before continuing. "What do you know about menstruation, Jack?"
"As little as possible," I replied with slight embarrassment.
Max outstretched his hand, as if attempting to stifle my embarrassment. "No, that's okay. I'll fill you in on a few things."
Against my better judgement I gave him a nod, allowing him to continue.
"You see, Jack, menstruation wasn't exactly a biological development. In fact, if we go back as little as a hundred and fifty years ago, there was no menstruation."
My eyebrows rose in utter disbelief. "You're a blade short of a pair of scissors."
"I know it sounds absurd at first but please, hear me out."
Once again I nodded, this time with a little less patience.
Max continued, "The world is governed by patriarchal ideals, Jack. The world of a hundred and fifty years ago was a deeply misogynistic one. I'd argue that in a great many ways it still is. Any misogyny you witness today however is nothing compared to back then. There was a deep-seated concern in the mid 1800s that women would soon rise to power and crush the dominion of the patriarchy. There was evidence everywhere you looked. Women were forming idealistic groups with the sole purpose of taking down the established system. Wages for women were rising astronomically. All of a sudden the common man didn't feel too comfortable. There were meetings arranged at a very high level with the aim of rectifying the problem.
"My great, great grandfather was a key component of these meetings and a prominent scientist. He was one of several men charged with the task of reversing the 'woman dilemma' as it was known. It was quickly decided that propaganda wouldn't be an effective course of action and might even do more harm than good. So they looked to my great, great grandfather to create a physical barrier within the body of womankind itself. This, Jack, was the origin of the menstrual cycle.
"Propaganda was eventually used but it was only to dupe women into receiving vaccinations for a mysterious virus that never actually existed. This vaccination ultimately delivered menstruation to the world. What was so ingenious about the injected menstruation was that it only needed to be applied to an individual once. After menstruation was planted it was engineered to pass onto any eventual female offspring. The menstruation was designed to emerge during the pubescent years and fade away when the potential usefulness of a woman was deemed over. This resulted in that strange phenomenon known as menopause."
I had become literally dumbstruck by Max's story. I'd never heard anything with so many logical loopholes in my life but his enthusiasm was strangely admirable, even if it did indicate extreme delusional psychosis. So many questions swam about my skullspace but there was only one I was interested in.
"So, what does this shit have to do with me?" I was staring at Max intensely, willing a satisfactory answer to come forward.
"It's because of your standing within the District, Jack. I'm in a position where the repercussions of my actions won't be significant enough to provide satisfactory empathic data." His hands gesticulated with each word, earnest passion leaking from him like sweat.
"You're going to have to dumb it down for me. What 'position' are you in that requires my input?"
"Don't you see? I'm bald, Jack!"
My face was drooping with incomprehension. "What the hell does being bald have to do with anything?"
A look of apology washed across Max's face. "Oh, I haven't told you the bit that involves you yet, have I?"
I shook my head, partly in response but mostly in bemusement.
"Well Jack, if I follow through with abolishing menstruation..."
I cut him off instantly. "What do you mean 'abolishing menstruation'? You're making less sense the more you talk. Do you have any idea how fucking nuts you sound?"
Max shifted uncomfortably in his chair, rubbing at his legs fiercely. "Do you know what makes this so sad, Jack? I had spent hours rehearsing every little thing I was going to tell you. I get so caught up in the moment that I leave out the most important parts. If you'll allow, I'd like to fill you in."
I huffed like a moody teen. "Well you've come this far, why stop now?"
"Thank you, Jack!" Max repositioned himself and prepared for what I hoped would be the rest of the story. "Okay, so women all over the world have been infected with menstruation which, for a period of time, achieves the desired goal. Many feel ashamed and many feel as if there is something gravely wrong with them. All doctors -- and we're talking on an international scale here, Jack -- have been requested to inform concerned women that menstruation has always existed and every woman is afflicted. The trust instilled in the family doctor meant that the lie was a surprisingly easy pill to swallow. The shame associated with the vaginal area ensured that most women never spoke of it. Those that did were deemed crass to the point of imprisonment. It was the birth of the biggest conspiracy ever perpetrated by mankind.
"It didn't take long before my great, great grandfather began to regret everything he had helped instigate. His scientific detachment gave way to empathy and he made it his mission to reverse the onset of menstruation. He began working tirelessly on a remedy. The walls had eyes and ears though, Jack, and he was soon discovered. Just as he completed his first trial batch of 'woebegone', as he called it, he was set upon by pornography. It was a physical manifestation of pornography sent by some very powerful people to kill him. He was dead in an instant.
"My great grandfather came across his notes and the first batch of woebegone several decades later. He was no scientist and couldn't even decipher the rudiments. However, he was instinctive enough to know that they were important. As such, everything was stored in a vat of my great grandmother's chutney where he was sure it wouldn't be touched -- my great grandmother was renowned for her unpleasant chutney.
"As luck would have it, shortly after my grandfather was born, he stumbled upon the chutney vat and went for a swim that nearly took his life. When he was eventually rescued -- several months later -- my great, great grandfather's notes were attached to his legs. Whereas most children of sound mind exhibited love for a favourite teddy bear or doll, my grandfather became enamoured with the notes. Thankfully he was in possession of mild scientific aptitude. He could sense their import almost immediately. He handed the notes down to my father and instilled a love of science that ultimately lead to a failed batch of woebegone. This same love of science was eventually handed down to me and I finally perfected the woebegone formula. I've been sitting on the woebegone for decades and it has become apparent that I need to act. I will ultimately end menstruation."
I was staring hard into Max's eyes, trying to extract jest from his story. No matter how hard I stared, Max was as earnest as ever. "I have no doubt that you're nuttier than a testicle factory, Max, but you haven't even touched on how I'm involved in this."
Max nodded in agreement before taking another sip of tea. He sprayed the putrid broth from his mouth in disgust, seemingly unaware that he had already endured it once. "Wow, that tastes particularly dreadful. I wouldn't recommend touching yours, Jack."
"Duly fucking noted. Get to the point."
"Of course, I'm sorry, Jack. You see, the onset of menstruation had a particularly unusual side effect. Unusual in that the side effect befell the male population. It stumped them then and it still stumps us now. You see, Jack, men never used to have hair. The minute females began to experience menstruation hair began to sprout from the male head."
I clenched my fists into white hot balls, feeling an intense urge to punch him. Who the fuck did this whacko think I was? Did he really think anyone, let alone me, would fall for this cock and bull story? Max could clearly sense the rage my disbelief was causing and defensively waved twinkly fingers at me. This calmed me for reasons beyond my understanding.
"So after all of that, it leaves me with you, Jack. I have every reason to believe that if I enact my plan and the menstruation stops, all men will lose their hair once more. I've been watching you for several weeks and I can think of no one more qualified to understand the detriment my actions may cause. At the same time, if I do follow through with it, I need to do it in the place it would affect the most. I need to know how bad it could get."
I glared at Max in stubborn silence. I had been to hell in the last couple of days and for what? For this? For some nutjob to unload his delusional fantasies on me? For some bald bastard to fuck up the only thing I truly loved? The District was my heart and Max's jar toppling antics were the hands wrenching it from my chest. I didn't want to say a word to him because there was nothing worth saying. There were no words qualified enough to express my desolation; my rage. There was only the growing silence, which clearly made Max uncomfortable and filled me with a fleeting sense of power and control.
He stood up and walked toward a tiny chest of drawers. I watched in detachment. From the top drawer he retrieved a small jar of red pills, which he shook nervously in his hand like a medicinal maraca. The drawer was gently closed and Max made his way back to the chair.
"These pills, Jack, they'll show you what it's like to be female. They'll force you to feel what so many women were designed to feel. These pills will temporarily inflict the symptoms of menstruation. I can't make you help me and concede that expecting your counsel is quite unlikely. But I need you to feel it, Jack."
He placed the pills carefully on my chin and I stared at them in their spherical perfection.
"I need to leave for a few days. I plead with you to stay here. It's not safe for you on the streets. I sincerely apologise for any misery my actions may have caused. Really I do. Just think about what I've told you. Take the pills, Jack. I hope you'll still be here when I return."
Max tightened his cape and headed out the door, turning around one final time to reiterate, "Take the pills, Jack." I stared at the closed door for what felt like hours until the overwhelming thought broke through, what's with that stupid fucking cape?!
\*
I wasn't about to start shoving mysterious pills down my throat, especially if they came from that maniacal bald man. Who knows what they were laced with? I'd probably swallow the pill and find my dick slurping into my body like wet spaghetti. I had one goal in mind. I had to get back into the good books with my comrades from the District. If I didn't, my life was fucked. I readily admit that I knocked over Billy's jars but it was completely accidental. I was even willing to endure some form of punishment for the mistake. If it meant that I had a shaved head for a while, so be it.
I needed rest and I needed plenty of it. When my head was clear I would simply amble into the District with an apologetic smile and take it from there. It was up to them to forgive me. I just hoped they could find it in their hearts. It was a tall order. I shut my eyes and sleep struck me instantly. I dreamt a montage of slimy tongues licking up coffee rings from various surfaces. It was strangely cathartic.
I awoke in reasonably high spirits surrounded by bowls. I hadn't collected bowls in my sleep since my pubescent years and my return to old ways intrigued me. I brushed them aside and embraced the dull chinking sounds with open ears. My bladder was long like a bank queue and if I didn't get the piss out of me soon it was bound to burst like a bank queue. Max's abode didn't appear to contain a toilet of any sort so I filled several of the bowls that now littered his house.
I approached the only door Max had with optimism. An optimism that was dashed the second I stepped outside.
"There he is!" someone yelled as they threw a pair of barber's scissors with devastating velocity. I caught a flash of their angry face before a blur of spinning steel engulfed my vision. My forehead stopped the blur and the scissors lodged with a cartoon-like twang. I fell backward, instinctively pulling the door shut with a hooked foot. I clutched at the scissors, feeling my warm blood trickle like a weak fountain. There was no real pain at first, just surprise and a deafening ringing in my ears. When the pain did hit a few minutes later it burnt like lightning. I howled with tears, which instantly gave me an erection. While my wanking hand went to work, the other grasped at the scissors in my forehead. All the while the blood and tears merged on my chin before arcing to the floor. As I ejaculated I recalled how angry the scissor thrower had looked, which caused my semen to retreat back into my testicles and shiver like an orphaned lamb.
The ringing in my ears faded, giving way to the multitudes which had now gathered outside Max's house. They were screaming for my hair; for my death. Slamming at the walls with bare feet and hacking at the front door with scissors and combs. The door splintered and cracked but somehow refused to give in. I was faced with imminent death and strangely, all I could think about was the packet of Barber's Delight chips which had been crushed beneath my fall earlier.
I crawled back into the bed that Max had prepared for me, curled into a world-ignoring ball and closed my eyes. I was inside the chip packet, empathising with each and every chip as they became crushed into crumbs. I moved in to hug them, to mourn them, but I was also crushed. I could feel every crumbled speck of myself as if still connected by phantoms but I had no control. Instead I felt every piece of myself assimilate into the potato dust; felt every piece of myself screaming in private torment, I don't belong here.
\*
I opened my eyes to calm. The multitudes were gone. I reached for my forehead, already half-assuming it had all been a dream. The scissors were still lodged as painfully as ever. I picked at the clotted blood, inviting fresh flow. I felt utterly trapped and alone. I even found myself longing for the return of Max. I didn't want to be alone in this mess. How could they all shun me so utterly? Hadn't my work meant anything to any of them? Couldn't they see that I lived and breathed the District just as they did? I was a part of them as they were a part of me. Wiping me out of the District should be sadomasochism on their part. At least that's what I would have thought. Now I was seeing things differently, in an uncomfortable new light. They didn't need me. They didn't care.
My mind kept lingering on Max's menstruation claim. It's not as if I began to believe him. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I disbelieved, but he was damn passionate; I couldn't deny him that. I wanted that passion within myself. The passion I used to have. The passion that Max had removed from me. I wanted to inflict him with my revenge. The truth was I did have thoughts of revenge; it's just that they weren't directed at Max. They were directed at the District. Max's only mistake was to clumsily knock over the comb jars and I was an unfortunate casualty of that. The District hadn't even made a mistake. They were calculated in their attempts to do me in. The more I thought about it the darker the residents of the District seemed. They didn't deserve my passion and commitment. They deserved nothing.
I ran my fingers seductively over the jar of pills. I pondered their contents and imagined my body absorbing them. I contemplated popping one in my mouth and waiting for my body to react. I wanted desperately to trust someone and I sure as fuck couldn't trust those bastards out there. Max was the only thing left. Could I trust him? Did I want to trust him?
The minutes dragged like decades. I explored Max's strange little home, which was ascetic in its design. There was an armchair, a stove and an unfinished manuscript, penned by Max, devoted to buttock jokes. I flicked through it. The jokes weren't overly amusing and I could understand why it sat unfinished. There was a basket of food in the corner that I assumed was for me. I hadn't eaten in a while and knew that hunger should be knocking but it wasn't. The food looked unfamiliar and didn't smell overly edible. I left it as a last resort. I decided it would be sensible to pass the time sleeping and forget about the District, Max and the scissors in my head.
Sleep wanted to take me but my body wouldn't allow it to fully penetrate. I just skirted around the dazed edges. Restless dream flashes concerning women's rights and misogyny drizzled through my brain. A militant feminist performance artist was extolling the virtues of menstruation and flicking her blood at me with spindly fingers. Several more women informed me that the artist didn't speak for them; that for every woman who embraced menstruation there were a hundred others who didn't. I was reminded that a man has no right to an opinion regarding the topic at hand. I was told to go back to my macho Hair District and have a bear hugging party. My penis was minced by horse teeth and I was laughed at. I mounted the same mutilating horse and tried to escape the mockery but was bucked off after a short time. I crawled desperately through a field that at once became an enormous vagina-scape. I was swallowed into nothingness.
I popped the lid without thinking and placed a pill onto my tongue. I swallowed and felt as it travelled down my throat in a painful, dry scrape. Then I just waited.
\*
There was nothing at first except for an increase in my appetite. I crawled over toward the basket of food and sniffed at the contents. I picked up a jar of grey paste and slowly unscrewed the lid. The smell leapt out and bitch-slapped my nose. I dry wretched but had nothing to bring up. After several minutes I acclimatised to the odour and decided to scrape out a large gob of the paste with my fingers. It instantly dried into a crust, which transformed the odour into delectability embodied. I sucked at the hard crust and embraced a flavour that was orgasmic in its utter perfection. I scooped out as much paste as my fingers would allow and smeared it about my body. The next several hours were spent picking at the crust and devouring as much as I could. The acid in my stomach churned in appreciation.
With my appetite satisfied I began to experience an amazing awareness of my own body. My nipples were aching and jutting out like pins. I spat on my hands and slowly massaged the saliva into my nipples, which did little to curtail the sting. This affected my mood rather strongly and I began to cry dismally, which in turn gave me an erection that I took care of immediately. I grew incredibly angry at my penis after I ejaculated and slapped it about until it shrivelled away. Every emotion inside me grew into unstoppable behemoths that wrapped themselves around everything. I wanted to break things, I wanted to howl but most of all I wanted my mother. I screamed for her, knowing full well she wouldn't come. I hugged at a pillow, pretending it was her; imagining her caring arms around me, totally looking after me.
A tremendous pressure attacked my stomach that knocked me into a foetal position. It didn't matter how I contorted my body, the pressure only increased until I was doubled over in pain. This was accompanied by a fever which lathered me in sweat. I vomited every speck of the hardened paste onto my lap and developed unstoppable gas.
The cramps in my body refused to subside so I began pushing on the scissors in my forehead, hoping it would cause enough pain to take my mind off the rest of my increasing woes. It didn't work. Instead I was now forced to deal with my head wound combined with everything else. I started thinking about seemingly random objects and these thoughts filled me with excuses to cry. There was a pen that didn't work. A box assembled incorrectly. Board games with missing rulebooks. I imagined what it must be like to crave a straight line and have no access to a ruler. More and more seemingly arbitrary scenarios popped into my head and all of them were indescribably upsetting. There was no way in hell that women actually endured this shit. Was there?
\*
Max came back two days into my menstruation facsimile. He saw me sprawled on the ground like a rape victim and a smile developed on his face. "You took the pills!" he proclaimed with a loud clap.
I stared up at him with pure rage. I wanted to tear his arms off and beat him with them. I wanted to hide under blankets and sob about extensions cords. I wanted to bite his balls off and shove 'em up his smug arse. Instead I managed a pathetic, "Where have you been?"
"There will be plenty of time to discuss that. For now I want to know how you feel?"
I scoffed at the pure indignity of the question. "How do you think I feel? It's like my fucking guts are being squeezed in a vice."
Max chuckled in what I assumed was an attempt to irritate me. "I know, Jack. It's a bloody wretched feeling isn't it? Don't worry, it will pass soon. I just needed you to know how it felt."
"Have you been through this?"
"I sure have. I've already tried it on myself."
"How chivalrous of you," I said sarcastically.
He brushed off the comment and simply asked, "So, are you in?"
To be honest, the minute the pills kicked in I had forgotten all about Max's story. I was lodged purely in the present moment, just dealing with the orgy of symptoms. The only thing I knew was if there was even an ounce of truth to his claim, it would be inhumane for me to not help him. No one should have to experience this shit. The diabolical sensations occupying every inch of my body were beyond mere description. My mood was such that a negative outcome for the Hair District teased me with joy. I wanted revenge.
"I'm in."
Max clapped his hands and leaned in for a hug. I wanted to reciprocate but something stopped me. "None of that shit. Just tell me what we need to do."
Max smiled warmly and patted me on the shoulder, a gesture that I shrugged out of. "All will be revealed in the morning, Jack. For now, I really feel you should sleep your present condition off."
I wasn't about to disagree with him. After politely asking Max if he'd mind tucking me in, I drifted off easily. If my cramps were still intent on attacking me during sleep, I was mercifully unaware.
\*
I woke up relatively fine. My nipples were still tender and vomit had managed to mat itself into my pubes but otherwise I couldn't complain. With my improved physical condition I was surprised to find that my desire to take down the Hair District hadn't abated. It's interesting how quickly we can let things go when given no other choice. My heart and soul one day was my disdain the next. I grinned at the thought of their hair falling out, their businesses closing, their jars becoming useless. My only real problem involved Max. I was reasonably certain that his story was a crock of shit, which would mean status quo-ville for the District. Sure, he'd proven he could temporarily induce the symptoms of menstruation -- at least I hoped it was temporary -- but it was another thing entirely to convince me that the mere removal of menstruation would result in hair loss. He hadn't even convinced me he could get rid of menstruation to begin with.
Max was involved in an early morning callisthenic ritual that involved graphic nudity. I saw him engaged in the kind of angles unfit for the eyes of man. Every lunge and bend was interjected with a gentle bladder massage that involved the chant, "My urine, my urine, I'm going to do some urine." I swear his fucking bladder must have been a damn tumbleweed. Max was a man who simply couldn't piss and it intrigued me. Where did all the liquid go? It's safe to say that the more time I spent with Max, the more comfortable I felt around him. That's not to say I liked him. He'd had a pretty major role to play in the end of my life as I knew it and I couldn't just forgive that. I'd just stopped viewing him as threat. He sure as fuck wasn't throwing scissors at me, which was a good start. The only life I had right now involved him and I was doggedly going to ride it out. What else was there to do?
His callisthenics showed no signs of ending and I was getting antsy. "When are you going to tell me the fucking plan?" I asked in agitation.
Max craned his head in my direction, maintaining his current pose. "Sorry Jack, I didn't know you were awake. You sure slept like a baby last night."
"Would you put some clothes on for fucksake, Max? That knob of yours isn't too nice to look at."
He blushed so heavily that his left ear folded inward. "Of course, Jack. My nudity is rather unsavoury, I'll grant you that." He wrapped his cape around his body like he was braving a snowstorm. He sat uncomfortably close and gave me a peck on the cheek, which earned him a quick slap.
"Let's just forget I did that shall we, Jack?"
"Sounds fine by me. What's the plan?"
"You sure get to business don't you? You don't want a playful chat first or a neck rub?"
"Fuck off, Max. What's the plan?"
Once again, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clearly not used to such insurmountable rejection. "Okay, so here's what we're going to do." He fetched a bottle that contained about a litre of red liquid. "This is woebegone, Jack. This stops menstruation."
It looked like red cordial to me but I didn't care any more. "What do we do with it?"
"It's simple really. The best way to ensure maximum consumption is to spike the water supply. We just have to pour this into the catchment that supplies the District and then we wait."
I furrowed my brow, visibly annoyed by the simplicity of it all. "What? So that's it? You need my help pouring some liquid into a fucking catchment?"
"Well, yes, Jack. I never needed you to help administer the woebegone. I just wanted to seek your council, which, when I think back, you really haven't provided me with."
"Forget about it, let's just scalp these fuckers."
Max grew silent save for the rhythmic tapping of his fingers on the bottle. I stared at him with impatience. "No Jack, this isn't right. You appear to have your heart set on revenge, which is clouding your judgement. I wouldn't feel comfortable using the woebegone knowing that your intentions weren't admirable."
I clutched Max with stiff hands and captured him in my stare. "Look, Max. You're right, I want those fuckers to pay for what they did, but taking that pill was quite possibly the worst experience of my life. I don't care if the Hair District remains unaffected by what we do. It's our duty as humans to end such vile suffering. The fact that women routinely experience such unprecedented misery at the hands of this criminally administered virus is unforgivable. Let's do what we can."
I was lying my tits off but thankfully Max didn't pick up on it. Sure, no one should have to experience menstruation but it was revenge that I was after; pure and simple. I just hoped that somehow he was right and that by reversing menstruation we could abolish hair in the male population. Let's see those smug bastards try and style hair when it doesn't exist, I thought with a smirk.
Max flashed an unusual smile. I'm sure he wanted to believe me more than he actually did. He nodded before saying, "Well, I guess we'll do it tonight then."
\*
I had expressed concern to Max regarding my safety outside of his house. The scissors in my forehead were a pretty good indicator that the District wished me pain. Max had assured me that he'd take care of it and I actually believed him. His daughter -- who was now menstruation free thanks to a positive woebegone trial -- was a costume maker earning her living in a nearby sewer system. Max had contacted her immediately after I raised my concern and I was told that a costume would be ready for me to collect some time that afternoon. There was an entrance to the sewer system under a section of floorboard in Max's house. Apparently he and his daughter were quite close and they appreciated the direct link to each other. Max told me that when noon arrived we would take a trip into the sewers to which I reluctantly agreed. Noon arrived fast.
Max thrust a flashlight into my hand and suggested I wear one of his several body stockings. They were made of a material that repelled 'the old sewer nasties' as he called them. He broke into laughter and flippantly informed me that the stocking was actually to protect the sewer from me. I didn't know if I should be offended or not but I squeezed my body into the stocking anyway. It was about as flattering as British teeth but it made my penis look impressively large. I was pretty sure my immediate future would involve several pelvic thrusts.
After jimmying open the area of floorboard leading to the sewer, Max made his way inside, gesticulating toward me, beckoning me to follow. It was damp like an elderly nappy but smelled a fair bit better than I would have expected. The stale air was infused with a distinct pine odour. I'd never been in the sewer system before. It was a whole new plain of existence. I knew that the Hair District continued to buzz with life just above me, yet I felt so utterly separated from it. I no longer viewed this as a bad thing.
The longer I spent with Max, the more I wanted to know about him. He was no doubt an intriguing man and to be honest, I'd essentially forgotten that he was ultimately responsible for the mess I was in.
"What's with your house, Max?" I asked after an hour or so of silent sewer walking.
"What do you mean, Jack?"
"Those barbers wanted me dead. Your house isn't exactly fortified. I wouldn't be surprised if a mild breeze knocked it down."
"To be honest, I don't know. People just don't like coming inside it. Maybe they think it's cursed or somesuch nonsense," he said with a chuckle, "What's with this sudden interest in my abode anyway?"
"I don't know. We haven't said a word to each other in over an hour. I kinda feel like talking."
"And given everything that's happening, it's my house you want to know about?"
"Well I've spent a fair chunk of my life there lately. I don't understand what the hell it is! What's it made of anyway? They're skeletons covering the walls right?"
"The skeletons are the walls," said Max, finally giving in. I'm not a wasteful man, Jack. Many years ago I was gifted several dozen bison that I maintained poorly. It wasn't a deliberate act on my part. I simply wasn't schooled in bison care. As one would expect, they all died, leaving me with a mountain of rotting flesh. I could have enlisted municipal aid and had them removed but it just wasn't my style. I used the bison as best I could. Their meat was boiled and forged into a carpet-like layer. Their organs were utilised in clothing and the walls in my home were made from the bones. I dare say my home repels because it reminds us of our mortality."
Max's story trailed off without really giving me any information. My eyes had finally adjusted to the snaking environment unwinding before me. To my surprise, the sewer system was quite heavily populated with all manner of people, each of them seemingly normal, going about routine tasks. We passed a man with a standard chin fixing his penny farthing, swearing under his breath. A group of small girls were slapping a much older, larger woman, trying to wake her up from what I assumed was alcohol induced slumber. An old man who was walking a large dog who was walking a smaller dog who was dragging a dead frog waved at Max in recognition, Max waved back. Of the two hundred or so people we passed in the sewer, Max seemed to know most of them.
"How do you know all these people?" I asked, frustrated for reasons I couldn't comprehend.
"I've been coming down here for many years now. I find the sewers infinitely more peaceful than the streets. The people here are usually a fair bit more wholesome."
"Aren't you worried about all the piss and shit?"
"Nah," he replied dismissively.
\*
We had been walking for some time. The scissors in my head were aching like a motherfucker and the body stocking was starting to chafe. I'd barely even had a chance to thrust my pelvis. Max hadn't slowed down one iota during the whole walk and I was struggling to keep up while trying not to show it outwardly. My armpits were making a wheezing sound that clearly blew my cover.
"Don't worry Jack, we're nearly there."
"I'm not worried," I said in a squeaky voice that tried to suck my testicles away.
"You are worried but that's okay. Just around this bend and we'll be there."
As the sewer turned it began to give way to a large expanse of space filled with makeshift houses and hubbub. A small, wooden sign informed me that we were about to enter the town of 'Drippings'. The name was apt. Every structure and growth dripped with multi-hued liquid and sludge. The pine scent from the tunnels had intensified, tickling me with nausea.
My eyes immediately latched onto what appeared to be a barber's shop called, 'Shitty's Trims'. Old habits are hard to shake I guess and it was a struggle not to waltz on in. My hands even reached for my journal, which I hadn't held for days now. I won't pretend I didn't feel a pang of loss but I shook it off like leeches. Customers streamed out of Shitty's Trims, all sporting rather handsome bouffants, which I mentally graded for style and execution. The dignified dos clashed awkwardly against the grimy surrounds of the sewer. I wanted to creep in for a closer look. I wanted to touch the hair and get a feel for the product used. I wanted to examine the barber's instruments and assess their quality but I didn't. I stood glued to the spot, watching the endless march of satisfied customers.
Throughout my nostalgic reverie Max was involved in heavy conversation with an ever-widening man called Hamp. I later learnt that his widening was nothing more than an optical illusion caused by the refractive qualities of his many tumours. Hamp led us through an arterial cluster of confusing passages before we finally arrived at a little cabin emblazoned with, "Charlotte Parking's Drippings Costumery".
"This is my little girl's place," beamed Max proudly. "I'd wager that your costume is ready, Jack."
"About my costume, what the hell is it anyway? I wouldn't mind knowing what I'm gonna look like."
Max shrugged his shoulders and flashed a cute grin. "My little girl likes to surprise. In fact, nobody goes into her shop knowing what they'll walk out wearing. I remember one chap walking in and leaving minutes later looking exactly as he had before. In a rather charming coincidence, my daughter fashioned a costume that matched the current look of the customer exactly."
"That wouldn't help me much would it?" I said dryly.
Max ignored me and knocked at the cabin door. The immediate sound of pulleys and cranks rumbled and a large blast of steam exploded from a nearby valve. I jumped backward defensively, only to be greeted by the door gently opening. A small lady topped with a large red bouffant stood confidently. Her nose was an accumulation of colourful warts and her skin was ash white.
"Daddykins!" she yelped before throwing her arms around Max who hugged her back viciously.
"And how is my little girl?"
"Shit like a weather report."
"Bored with hammers?"
"Hardly worth winding it up really."
"Tarred with snark aren't we?"
"You'd only know from the wrong angle daddykins."
I didn't have a clue what they were talking about, but something within the rhythmic ebb and flow of their banter comforted me. I never had a child of my own, deciding instead to follow the dreamy siren call of the chaste barber's life. My life had been a blur of hair design, shaves and combs. It was in studying the mutual love circulating between Max and his daughter that I was hit with something akin to regret. I had a girl once; a fucking corker of a girl. We were set to get married but I swapped her engagement ring for a vintage barber's chair. She left me soon afterward and I never saw her again. She had childbearing hips like you wouldn't believe.
The moment we were inside the cabin, Charlotte got right down to business.
"You Jack?" she asked with a pointing finger.
"Sure am."
"The costume's out back in a red box marked with your name. Go and put it on for me. I want to make sure it works."
Several fumbling minutes later I emerged in what I think was the costume. I didn't know what the hell I was but judging by the way Max and Charlotte hugged and cheered, I'm guessing it turned out as expected.
"So, um... what am I supposed to be?" I asked eventually.
They both stared in shock, clearly offended by my ignorance. "I'm not trying to offend. I'm sure it looks exactly as it should but I don't know what the fuck it is."
"Ya daft shit! It's a knee!" screamed Charlotte, eventually breaking her slack-jawed stupor.
I studied myself in one of the many mirrors that lined the walls. It finally hit me and I couldn't deny it. I was dressed as a knee.
\*
Max and I finally entered the Hair District just after ten pm. It was the first time I'd set foot in the District since the slaughter at the Justice Force. The knee costume prohibited my movement to such an extent that I had to jump or shuffle in order to move. I grew tired easily and -- much to the chagrin of Max -- needed frequent rest stops.
The District hadn't changed a bit, except for the posters plastered across every available surface bearing my photo. WANTED was stamped across each of them. My first feeling upon seeing the photo was embarrassment. It had to be the worst one they could find. I was captured mid blink and there was a definite string of drool swinging from my chin. This was topped off with a ghastly mop of severe bed hair. I cringed within my knee suit, wondering if Max would laugh but he remained stoic, focusing utterly on the task at hand. It helped bolster my sprits somewhat and I was able to convert my embarrassment into a healthy rage. Those bastards weren't just content with wiping me out. They wanted to glean a few cheap laughs at my expense.
We passed various characters, some of whom I recognised, others that I didn't. Each time somebody got within scrutinising distance, my heart beat like drunken fists. A babble of barbers slightly liquored up and cruising for evening fun approached us in zombie stumbles. They huddled together and quickly chose someone to speak on the group's behalf. A short man with cracked glasses spoke up.
"You there!" he yelled to Max, who stopped and stared in a benign fashion. "What brings you to these parts, stranger man? What's with the knee?"
"I'm merely passing through," he said jovially. "As for the knee here," he patted me with a gentle hand, "we've been friends for longer than I care to recall."
"And how does one befriend a knee exactly?"
"It's simple really. We met at University where he exhibited a remarkable ability to crush ice. Being as that was my major, we became steady comrades. I excelled in the theoretical aspects whereas Patrick -- that's the knee's name by the way -- hammered home the practical nature of the field. We've been good friends ever since and still partake in ice crushery to this very day."
By the time Max finished his story the barbers had already dispersed, clearly too shitfaced to glean any value. I was impressed and mildly concerned by his sheer capacity to lie. For a man I trusted, as I now did, it was an alarming trait. I had come too far to let it stop me but I kept it in the back of my mind. I would have questioned Max immediately were it not for the costume I was wearing. It muffled my every word into mumbles. Instead I followed like a sheep, hoping that we'd have no more close calls. But a close call soon followed, in the form of instant recognition.
"Jack! Jack! Is that you?"
Both Max and I darted around in a panic, trying to find the source of the familiar voice. From the shadows of a nearby tree skulked none other than Messy Phil. The closer he came, the more his eyes widened in apparent delight.
"It is you! What'cha doin' dressed up in a big ol' knee?"
I muffled a hasty reply, which wasn't understood. Max tried to concoct another quick reply but it was lost on Phil. Somehow he knew it was me.
"You know you really shouldn't be here, right? These people want your fucking head on a stick. Hypocrites the lot of 'em, if you ask me."
I was intrigued by Phil's seeming inability to join the mob in their reactionary hate. I tried desperately to ask questions but every word died against the interior of my suit. Meanwhile Max stood dumbfounded.
"I've been trying to tell 'em. As if you'd do anything to harm this fucking place but do ya think they're listening? Of course not! What's more, they're crediting my wank fairy for hunting you down. All of sudden everyone fucking wants one. D'ya think I've forgotten the way they all treated her when they thought she was a no good fart machine? Those bastards ain't laying a finger on my little girl." He patted his pocket carefully, clearly suggesting that the wank fairy lurked inside.
"So my advice to you, Jacky boy, is to get the hell out of here. Go start your own Hair District. You don't need these lousy people, especially if they're gonna go accusing you of all this shit."
Max finally interjected for the both of us, "You seem like a good man and I do assure you that we don't intend to spend long in this place. However, we do have something that requires urgent attention. Within the hour we'll be gone. Do I have your word that you'll remain tight-lipped about our presence here?"
"What, me?!" Phil's eyes beamed in surprise, "I ain't telling them shit, you can be sure of that. To be honest, I don't even like this place. Don't think I've had a haircut in about five years and the last time I did, it wasn't in this shit of a district. You just make sure you keep quiet about ol' Messy Phil here. I don't think they'd take too kindly to my helping you n' all."
"You have my word, Phil. Very good to meet you."
With that encounter over we went our separate ways. Phil skulked back into the shadows while Max and I made our way to the water treatment facility.
\*
The Hair District's water was all treated in one location before it was supplied to the taps of its inhabitants. This made our job easier but there were still obstacles. Max had explained in rigid detail the series of filtrations and treatments applied to the water before it was deemed suitable for drinking. We'd have to ensure we added the woebegone at the final stage, so it couldn't filter out. Max had detailed blueprints of the facility that neither of us could read so we decided on the dumb luck method.
We arrived at the facility close to 11 pm and snuck around the back. The water supply had never been compromised before so thankfully security was lax. Max cut away a section of wire fence big enough for my knee costume to slip through. We were immediately set upon by a dozen or so fairly aggressive looking guard dogs, which Max managed to sedate with a disturbing interpretive dance. I was impressed. We dodged the spread of sleeping dogs and came to a steel door with all manner of cautionary signs. Max lightly knocked against the door, sending out ominous reverberations and loosening my anxious bowel. A few seconds later a tall, gangly looking man opened up, staring at us with a mixture of surprise and caution.
"And who are you two likely lads?" he asked with a cocked brow.
Max replied with a wet, all consuming sneeze that drenched the man in mucous and mystery chunks. The man ran past them both with hands against his face, as if he were burning, screaming, "I'm prone to infection, you cad!"
We were granted easy access from this point forward. The tall man appeared to be the only inkling of life and the inside of the facility was adequately signed. We followed a series of arrows which led to an area called, 'The Final Chapter'. Churning turbines roared dangerously, pumping vast torrents of water into large containers, finally spitting it out into a pool. Max ran toward this pool while I tried pathetically to follow. He was trying to yell out instructions but I couldn't hear a thing over the raging water. And so I stood uselessly still, hoping that Max could carry out the contamination solo.
In the heat of my debilitating knee costume I really started to wonder why I'd even bothered tagging along. There was no doubt in my mind that I was nothing but a hindrance. Max could have so easily enacted his plan on his own, leaving me to get some rest. I still felt the vaguest after effects following my foray into menstruation. Despite having checked several times, I was overcome by the sensation of sizeable breasts protruding from my chest. They weren't there of course and what bothered me the most was that I kind of wished they were. It isn't something I'd attribute to any perversion. Instead it was as if they should be there, like I was meant to have them.
Max broke my train of thought, waving the emptied bottle of woebegone. I followed him out, tripping several times. The dogs were still fast asleep and there was no sign of the tall, snotty man.
With the deed done, there was nothing else to do but wait.
Part 3: I really wish I'd never met Max
I stayed with Max, telling myself it was to help monitor the progress of the woebegone. A wall of bulky televisions relayed imagery from every corner of the District in flickering black and white. Max positioned himself directly in front of the cathode wall, jotting down notes like an inspired songwriter. I stayed to one side, watching Max watch everyone else.
Max had a list of tasks that I was responsible for. These felt like little crumbs he'd thrown my way to keep me occupied. I was like a child being given a bowl of dummy mixture to stir while my father made the real cake. I had to remove the dust accumulation on the televisions and periodically ensure the cable connections were secure, things like that. Things that didn't really matter.
Newspapers littered the carpet, all brandishing melodramatic headlines about mass pregnancy scares and the population explosions that would result. This confused me. There weren't enough women in the District for mass pregnancy to be of any real concern - at least I didn't think there were enough women. It was my job to scour through the newspapers for new developments but it was a redundant task. The newspapers never said anything new and most of what they did say was clearly untrue. Instead I spent most of my time fondling phantom tits, willing them into existence and sulking when my will wasn't met.
Max hadn't said a word to me in four days and I was beginning to feel like a girlfriend jilted for televised sports. I tried to gain his attention by acting up, much as you'd expect from an ignored child. I became increasingly flatulent and wafted the resulting smell toward him with desktop fans and doo-wop dance moves. He remained unresponsive. I soaked paper in pungent, early morning urine, folded them into limp planes and floated them in his direction. He merely batted them away with a nonchalant hand. I felt a tantrum swirling to life inside me. It began at my feet and worked its way up my body in an irritating scrape. It culminated around the scissors jutting from my forehead, throbbing like a heart attack.
I took a deep breath and let fly, "You bald fuck! Why are you ignoring me?" My arms were involuntarily flailing and my legs became kick-happy. Max didn't appear to register the display so I stepped it up a notch. "You big bag of tits! You think you can just leave me sitting here and not say a word? I have needs too, you know! WHY ARE YOU IGNORING ME?!" I tore my clothes off, hurling them at the wall of televisions -- still no response.
"You selfish fuck!"
Without thinking I was releasing my bowels into cupped hands. I rolled my shit into fiendish projectiles and threw them with all my power at Max. Several balls hit the mark, exploding on impact and caking his bald head in a faecal wig.
Max finally turned around to face me. "Jack, what the devil are you doing?" He wiped his hand over his head and stared hard at his brown-stained fingers, bringing them to his nose and recoiling in disgust. "Jack, is this faecal matter? That's terribly unpleasant. Why would you do such a thing? Are you crying?"
Sure enough, tears were streaming down my cheeks. Nothing could stop my penis from engorging, filling me with shame. "Look what you've made me do now, Max! You know what happens when I cry."
Max was confused. "No, I don't actually. What happens?"
I pointed toward my erection with shaking fingers. "THIS, MAX! THIS HAPPENS!!!"
"That's an unusual reaction to tears. When did this start?"
He was interrogating me and it pissed me off. "That's not the fucking point! It just happens okay. WHY HAVE YOU BEEN IGNORING ME?"
"Ignoring you? How old are you, Jack? Seven? I've got very important work to do and you know that. Do you understand the enormity of what's been happening in the district? Take a look at the screens, Jack!" he demanded.
I did as he asked. As far as I could see, it was just the same old imagery replaying itself over and over.
"Do you notice anything?"
I shook my head in an exaggerated fashion.
"The women, Jack! Look at the women. Day by day more are arriving in the District. It's as if they've been drawn to it."
"So? What's your point?" I asked before blowing a saliva-drenched raspberry.
Max rolled his eyes. "Why is it that a male dominated community is suddenly attracting so many women?"
I couldn't tell if his question was rhetorical or if he was really asking, so I squeezed out a fart and yelled, "BECAUSE THEY IS ALL FAGS!!!"
He looked angry, like he wanted to punch the shit out of me. Instead he composed himself admirably and answered his own question.
"One can assume, Jack, that somehow women are finding out about the absence of menstruation within the District. News is filtering out and women are filing in. It's really rather extraordinary."
"BOOOOORRRRIIINNNGGGG" I chanted over and over.
Max slapped me on the fourth chant, which sent me toward the nearest corner where I cowered.
"You've really become quite impossible to communicate with!" he said through gritted teeth.
"I just want you to stop working and start paying attention to me," I said from my corner, tugging absentmindedly at my penis.
Max began walking toward me. "I become engrossed in my work to the point where nothing else exists. It's only a temporary state. You'll get me back soon enough."
Max was clearly disturbed by my outburst. I wanted to suck it all back in and forget it ever happened but I couldn't stop myself. Childishness kept pouring from my mouth. "But I want you back NOWWWW!!!"
"Jack, you've grown exceptionally emotional. I'm at once confused and intrigued. Can I ask, have you consumed any tap water since the woebegone application?"
I nodded in the affirmative.
\*
I awoke the next morning to find Max sitting at the foot of my bed. He was staring at me intently and taking notes. The tears from the previous day had dried into eye husks that I picked at painfully.
"Ah good. You're awake, Jack. How are you travelling this morning?"
I had the uncomfortable feeling that Max had been sitting there all night watching me sleep. I was beginning to feel like a guinea pig and it didn't sit well.
"Sorry, Jack. I can give you a few minutes to find your bearings if you'd like?"
"Have you been watching me all night?"
"I most certainly have," he said with happy nods.
"Can I ask why?"
"You most certainly can."
We sat silently. I was filled with discomfort and Max wasn't.
"Well? Are you gonna fucking tell me or what?"
"Of course, Jack." He cleared his throat and rubbed his chin, which now had thick stubble breaking through. "I think that something rather unexpected has happened."
"Like what?"
"Jack, would you mind terribly if I examined your penis?"
My ears pricked defensively. Words kept trying to form but died on my tongue prematurely. I really didn't want Max feeling up my junk.
"I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. I just need to have a very quick -- very professional -- peep at your todger. I can assure you it's for purely scientific reasons."
I felt an embarrassing surge of homophobia washing all of my logic away. "If you think I'm letting you down there, you better give me a pretty fucking good explanation."
"I think I may know what caused your little hissy fit last night. However, I can't confirm this until you man up and show me your flippin' cock."
I could see the Max's patience waning and I felt pathetic. He was a scientist. It wasn't like he was getting his balls puffed up or anything. I capitulated and threw my blankets to one side. Max let out an exasperated thank you and carefully slid down my underpants, making train noises as he did.
He was down there for quite some time. I could feel his warm breath on my package and I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a pleasing sensation. When he reappeared, concern was painted across his face like acne.
"It's as I suspected, Jack. I think we have a problem."
"What? What problem? What the fuck are you on about?" Those words pricked at me horribly.
"Perhaps you'd best take a look for yourself." Max leant back and massaged his brow with a worried hand. I slowly sat up, focusing all my attention cockward. The tip of my penis was gushing woundless blood. It was sliding down my shaft and pooling below my balls. I gasped dramatically, the urge to faint looming.
"What the hell's happening to me, Max? Why am I bleeding down there?"
"I can only offer a hypothesis," he replied, sincerely apologetic.
"Well offer away!" I barked.
Max dribbled a few false starts and nervous rambles before attempting to get to the point. "Well you see, I hadn't envisioned a scenario wherein woebegone would need trialling on males. It simply hadn't occurred to me that it would be an issue. The woebegone was developed to target a specifically female biology. I may be wrong here Jack but it would appear that the presence of woebegone inside the body of a male is actually altering the biology."
"What the fuck are you saying?"
"Jack... I think you may be menstruating."
I passed out.
\*
I fluttered back into consciousness some time later. It took a while for my surroundings to drift back into focus but when they did, I was alarmed to find myself strapped into what looked like a dentist chair. The fact I was naked with an endoscope stuffed up my dick was cause for significantly greater levels of alarm. Max was nowhere to be found and I felt like an abducted child. My instinctive reaction was to flail about wildly and fight my restraints. Each sharp movement caused the endoscope to snake about painfully. It wasn't long before I capitulated and accepted my situation with pathetic whimpers. The erection that ensued redefined my own definition of pain. I could feel my urethra clamping itself tightly around the endoscope. I couldn't tell if the ceaseless blood was due to my newfound menstruation or a bog standard laceration. Whatever the cause, it didn't really matter. I was officially miserable in ways I hadn't previously thought possible.
Max finally graced me with his presence about an hour or so into my ordeal. He looked calm and well rested. A large smile danced about his face that mocked me with its pure joy. Upon seeing me he threw his hands up in celebration. "Jack, you're awake! How do you feel?"
"Is that supposed to be some fucking joke? How do you think I feel? What have you done to me, you bastard?"
Max clearly found my rage confronting. It was as if he couldn't quite figure out why I was so pissed off. He even left a pause just in case I wanted to flash him a big 'gotchya' grin before admitting I was winding him up. Instead I kicked my rage up a notch and reiterated "IS THIS SOME FUCKING JOKE, MAX?"
"Calm down, Jack. I'm merely running a few tests. You want me to get to the bottom of this don't you?"
"Merely running a few tests? You've shoved a camera up my cock. WITHOUT my permission!"
"You had passed out. I assumed permission was implied."
I was the silent one now. I couldn't believe he possessed the nerve to be so damn sure of himself. I wasn't about to pass judgement on his abilities as a scientist but when it came to people he was a borderline sociopath.
"Can you maybe see why violating someone while they're passed out isn't the best course of action?"
He glanced at the endoscope and at once a wave of understanding crashed down around him. "Holly hell, Jack! I'm so sorry. Yes, you have yourself a pretty good point there. If it makes you feel any better, I've managed to confirm that you are indeed menstruating."
It didn't make me feel any better. It actually made me feel several times worse. "Are you sure it isn't just the pill you gave me? It'll pass, right?"
"No, it most certainly isn't the pill. My pill doesn't induce actual menstruation, just the symptoms. I find it exceedingly unlikely that it will pass."
I wanted to cry but I'd run dry. The implications of what I was being told were too much to comprehend.
"You'll be interested to know that it's not just you, Jack. All men in the District appear to have been affected."
"You've given them all menstruation?" I couldn't contain the dirty smirk that grew on my face.
"It's best not to look at it from that perspective. What I've done is successfully remove menstruation from the female population. I've found it pays to look at these things from a positive angle, bright side of life and all that."
"What about you Max, are you bleeding?"
"Oh lord no!" His response was immediate. He actually made me feel foolish for having thought otherwise. "I don't drink water and even if I had consumed the water, I assume I'm too old to suffer from menstruation."
"Lucky you," I muttered, my heart not really in it.
Max directed the chair I was strapped in toward a wall where a large television was mounted. "I've been pouring through the surveillance footage and edited the pertinent bits together. It has a surprising narrative thrust. Would you like to see it?"
He had already dimmed the lights and started the presentation before I had a chance to say anything. I watched.
It all commenced with a simple, heartfelt message that read: To Charlotte. You are my muse and an astounding timekeeper. Where others have failed spectacularly, you have only failed mildly. Giv 'em all hell, sweetheart. This was followed by a slow fade-in to a shot of the District at night, deserted and undoubtedly beguiling. Sinead O'Conner's 'Nothing Compares' spilled from wall mounted speakers and the montage began. Still after still of nervous looking barbers filled the screen; some were hunched over in what looked like cramps. Menstrually induced I assumed. This was followed by video footage of Glen from Hairtastic for Men, pacing back and forth with tears streaming down his face. He had scrawled 'I'm not pretty' all over his shop mirrors with red lipstick. It was interesting to note that there were three spelling variations on the word 'pretty' and none were correct. More stills followed. Rubbish bags overflowing with blood-stained aprons sat in alleyways. Vomit lined gutters and storefronts. Countless shots displayed men involved in heated slap fights. The screen went black and a poorly drawn and animated old man entered from the right. A speech bubble appeared above his head with "what do we 'ave 'ere?" written in comic sans. This segment of the presentation focused on women. Women were populating the District in large numbers. They looked undeniably happy. The men on the other hand appeared decidedly uncomfortable. The District had slid into chaos. It was a strange kind of chaos. Everything about the District had been turned on its head but I honestly couldn't tell if they were worse off because of it. The screen went dark and the music faded out. I sat in silence for some time before eventually remembering to ask, "Can you remove this thing from inside my dick now?"
\*
After my first menstrual cycle passed, I began to venture out into the District alone. I had to keep wearing my knee costume because it was likely the District still wanted me dead. It probably would have been safer to stay with Max or move somewhere far away but I had to see it all with my own eyes. I couldn't deny my feelings of hatred toward the District for the lack of trust and faith they had shown in me. At the same time, nostalgia tickled my body. The better part of my life had been spent devouring every nuance of the District and I couldn't write that off so easily. It still owned a part of my heart. The fact it had all become so corrupted filled me with genuine melancholy. The residents as individuals no longer meant anything to me but the District as a whole was still infused with magic and I mourned the pain it must have been feeling.
I still expected to see the District plastered with posters calling for my death but most of them had been torn down. I was surprised to find some graffiti -- the first I'd ever seen in the District -- outside Peter's Peatery which read BRING BACK JACK. It wasn't enough to get me out of the costume but it was a nice change from the bloodlust previously exhibited.
The streets weren't overly populated but there really were a lot of women around. My initial instinct was to feel uncomfortable. I immediately reprimanded myself for the latent misogyny I was feeling. It was weird as hell though. It's not something we ever spoke about but women weren't something we really paid attention to in the District. Looking around now, I honestly couldn't tell you if they'd always been there or if it was a new development. If what Max had said was true, these women only came after the woebegone. Barbers, as a whole, are virginal creatures at heart. Most of my barberial acquaintances abstained from the physical act of intercourse. Styling hair was sexual enough for them and at the time I completely understood that. Looking now at all the women I was suddenly filled with a previously unknown lust. My penis stirred without the aid of tears for the first time since my university days. There really were some remarkable looking ladies about. I contemplated fondling myself, assuming the bulky costume I was wearing would mask any suspect activity but I thought better of it. That wasn't why I was here.
Most of my old haunts were closed, each adorned with hastily written signs promising they'd be back in business as soon as possible. I wondered if they accepted their menstruation yet or whether they were stubbornly attributing it to mysterious penile dysfunctions. If it weren't for Max I seriously doubt I'd be willing to believe it. Thinking about Max my mind tweaked.
If it weren't for Max NONE of this shit would've happened. If it weren't for Max I'd still be enjoying my old life without the need to hide inside a giant fucking knee. If it weren't for Max I'd be stagnating in a cloistered existence. I hated him and I loved him.
\*
I didn't even notice that my relationship with Max had blossomed into romance until I absentmindedly pecked him on the cheek one night before retiring to bed. He was quietly watching the surveillance footage. In the glow of the screens he looked fierce and strong, like a tiger. I leant in and pressed my lips to him, the tip of my tongue ran trails up his wrinkled skin. Having broken his concentration he looked at me, right in the eyes. A knowing grin filled his face, followed by a slight nod. In bed that night I couldn't extract him from my thoughts even though I tried. I really, really tried.
My growing feelings toward Max were confused by the fact I found him extremely unattractive. I longed to wrap my arms around him yet the thought made me slightly queasy. I was undoubtedly heterosexual yet found myself pining for another male many times my senior. The very concept of fucking him withered my dick into a flap of empty skin but I still wanted to. I slept poorly that night and conceded that I should alert Max to my quandary.
\*
"So, uh... Max. I don't really know how to say this but..."
Max held a rigid finger to my lips, vanquishing my words. "You don't need to say a word, Jack. I know how you feel. You've been feeling this way for quite some time yet you wouldn't admit it to yourself." He was smiling like my favourite grandfather.
I lowered his finger. "That's not it, Max. Yes, I have these feelings toward you but..."
Once more he held his finger to my mouth. "I know, Jack. You find me intensely unattractive and couldn't possibly bring yourself to engage in sexual congress. I doubt it would even be physically possible for you. I do have a solution though."
My eyes bulged like a squashed fish. "You do?"
"I most certainly do. Remember Charlotte?" I nodded. "Do you find her attractive in any way?"
I cast my mind back to Charlotte with her red bouffant, pale skin and wart cluster nose. The dank of the sewer warmly embracing her. "Yeah, from what I recall she wasn't half bad."
Max grinned. "What if I were to tell you that by rogering her you could pleasure me?"
My eyebrow cocked. The idea was grotesque but it did intrigue me. "What the hell are you on about?"
"My daughter and I share an unusual connection. It's purely involuntary but whenever Charlotte engages in intimacy I feel what she feels coursing through my body. She's kind of my orgasmic proxy."
I gulped down the saliva that had accumulated during Max's revelation. "You can't be fucking serious."
"Oh indeed I am, Jack. If you're willing, I'll arrange a meeting between Charlotte and yourself for this evening. You don't have to worry about Charlotte. She's quite taken with you physically."
I thought about it for a while, refusing to respond immediately. The image of Charlotte's pallid body writhing around on top of mine had me feeling admittedly randy. The fact that I would be sexually gratifying Max without actually having to fuck him was pretty enticing too.
"Let's do it," I said with a nod. Max clapped his hands together and rubbed himself suggestively. It was fairly unpleasant.
\*
Max had arranged for Charlotte and me to meet in the sewers that evening. I was given a crudely drawn map that led me just beyond the sewer town of Drippings and into a facsimile of a park. It was depressingly dank but the moss coverage was impressive. The whole park was bathed in an eerie red light, the source of which I couldn't discern. Sitting on a bench within the shadows of a spindly moss mound sat Charlotte; her skin was virtually glowing in the darkness.
She stood politely, beckoning me with a hand tipped in red nail polish. It would have been less disturbing had it been her own but I obeyed. I sat beside her and watched as she threw the hand over her shoulder. "For good luck," she whispered before taking me in her arms and wrestling me to the damp ground below. Her bouffant nuzzled my face like a loving cat and then... pure pleasure...
...Max bit his bottom lip and shuddered in ecstasy.
...Somewhere in Chile, a man began devouring his own lips.
I felt pretty damn good when I emerged from the sewer. My post-coital face remained ever present. I caught sight of Max who was sleeping soundly in his chair, naked as you can get before you start stripping skin. I gave him a kiss and flicked my tongue over his nipple. It was disgusting.
My tongue roused Max from his sleep. I jumped back apologetically and was greeted with an understanding smile.
"How was it?" yawned Max.
"Good," I responded self-consciously.
"My question was a mere formality," he said with an uncontained smile. "I know how good it was, believe me. I haven't experienced an orgasm of that magnitude for some time. I didn't even know I still had it in me." He stroked his dick in a congratulatory fashion. I dry-wretched in response. Having noticed my involuntary reaction, Max quickly covered himself with a blanket. "It must have fallen off when I was sleeping. I'm sorry for that, Jack. Not a pretty sight I know."
The correct response would have been for me to assure him it was fine. That his nudity was beautiful. Instead I nodded and with a scrunched up face mouthed, "Yeah." He clearly understood and bore no ill-will.
"Will you two gelatinous dynamos be meeting up again?"
I sincerely hoped so but intending to remain coy, I responded with a high pitch, elongated "maybeeee" that took 15 minutes to say. By the time I'd finished Max had fallen back to sleep.
\*
Using Charlotte as our willing conduit, Max and I continued developing our strange relationship for the next few months. Truth be told, I didn't really think much about the District in this time. I was experiencing regular menstruation and although not happy about it, I was kinda getting used to it. I pretty much stayed within the confines of my bed during these times and Max knew better than to sass me.
Max was still monitoring the surveillance footage fed from the District but it wasn't the all-consuming obsession it had been. He kept handing me reports on the progress and I wasn't too surprised to find that the District wasn't doing too well. Perhaps my proximity to the instigator of the male menstruation meant that I had an easier time than most.
"They all look so lost," I said to Max while staring at the footage.
"It's not at all surprising," replied Max, "You're in a rather privileged position really. You know as much as there is to know at this point. These people are caught within the grip of something they don't understand."
"But surely they must be starting to get the picture."
"It isn't as simple as that, Jack. Acclimatising to a new reality takes time. The mind is stubborn and won't give up without a fight. Add that to the fact they haven't been told exactly what's happening and you have chaos."
I kept glancing at the screens, letting Max's words settle on me like dandruff. The District was riddled with scientists, all wearing government sanctioned pink unitards. They held electronic devices up to random surfaces and gobbled upon reading the results.
"These people deem to call themselves scientists?" scoffed Max. "There's no methodology in their approach. They're attacking from every angle."
"I bet they'd at least ask permission before sliding a camera up your dick," I mocked.
"Shush! That was a misunderstanding. I already apologised for that."
I draped my arm over Max's shoulders and laughed. "I'm just winding you up, ya big lug. But seriously, how did all these scientists find out about the District?"
Max rested his hand on my arse before answering. "Look at this way. You get one man in a doctor's office complaining of penile bleeding and you write it off as a freak occurrence. You get twenty men suffering the same affliction and you have the start of an epidemic. These doctors' did what any responsible doctor would do. They reported it."
"So that means news gets out and the District becomes a laughing stock?"
"Not necessarily. The District seems to have attracted an increasing number of female types. It's reaching a point where the gender population is split 50/50."
"That doesn't make sense. What's attracting all the women? It's not as if they know their menstruation will vanish."
"No, but they know they will at least find even footing. Perhaps they're drawn to the area without explanation."
"Like Close Encounters of the Third Kind?"
"I've never heard that song," replied Max in confusion.
"Clearly."
"Regardless, I certainly don't think it's a bad thing to give the District a burst of oestrogen."
Something within me didn't sit too comfortably and I grew silent. Max tightened his grip on my arse and asked, "What's wrong?"
"I don't know. It's just, haven't you removed choice here?"
"What do you mean, Jack?"
"There has to be countless women out there who view menstruation as a key aspect of their femininity. Do you have the right to take that away?"
"Jack, menstruation was INDUCED. It was never a natural component of femininity." He removed his hand from my arse and began rubbing his thighs. "Look at it this way, Jack, if menstruation makes a woman a woman, what makes a man a man?"
"Not menstruating?"
"That seems terribly pithy to me, Jack."
I didn't have the energy to retort. I wasn't the right person to hypothesise about women's rights. The only woman I ever had much contact with was my mother and I never viewed her through gender. She was always just my mother.
\*
I decided I needed to clear my head, so I went on a knee-clad trip into the District. I didn't approach anybody and nobody approached me. I eavesdropped though. It was the best way to get relevant information. I saw a group of horrified looking barbers speaking in hushed tones. I recognised them all but was surprised to find their names escaped me. It was almost as if my mind was erasing the District and I got the impression that eventually there'd be nothing left of it inside me. The discomfort I expected to manifest from this thought never eventuated.
I still had the desire to know what they were saying. The closer I edged, the clearer it got. The muffling caused by the knee costume combined with the whispered nature of their chat didn't provide the clarity I wanted but key words jumped out at me. One word was mentioned several times. That word was 'manpon'. From what I could understand, a couple of barbers in the babble were prepared to 'give it a go', whatever that meant. I was hoping Max could elucidate.
I had now edged so close to the group that I was somehow standing on everyone's toes, which understandably pissed them off.
"...and that's why I don't like knees!" proclaimed one, while pointing toward his crushed foot.
The others nodded in response, mumbling knee-related obscenities while gesturing toward their own feet. I tried to bow in apology but only succeeded in rolling forward in embarrassing slow motion. Without the benefit of my arms I couldn't maintain any sort of balance and flailed about on the ground pathetically. The barbers left me there to flail. It took me nearly two hours to rock myself back to my feet. By that time I was covered in home-printed towel advertisements.
\*
I slunk home in a pretty sore mood with thoughts of the mysterious manpon flappin' about inside. When I say 'home' I'm talking about Max's. I had come to accept his home as my own. I even cherished it somewhat. What I used to find so alien and confusing now warmed my heart comfortably. As I entered, the familiar scent of hummus and buttons lulled me. Max turned away from the wall of televisions and faced me. A smile, warm as apple pie, beamed in my direction. I couldn't help but reciprocate, even if the knee suit meant he couldn't actually see it. He slowly got up and helped me out of the knee. I hadn't told him I was naked underneath and when he discovered this, a cute blush coloured his face.
"Oh, Jack," he gasped, "you are quite a sight."
I covered myself with a hand and blushed back. Max brushed my hand away, penetrating my reluctance.
"Please don't, Jack. Let me see."
My arms fell awkwardly by my side. Max crouched down, getting as close as possible without touching. I felt his warm breath on my balls and dry wretched instantly. Max quickly popped up, a little ashamed.
"Jack, I strongly feel you should go to Charlotte right this instant."
He looked intensely serious and I felt no alternative but to obey.
"Please, Jack, don't linger. If you stay much longer I fear I may jump you. I'm randy as a two bob fountain."
I made for the sewer entrance, grabbing a robe on the way. I stopped short and remembered to ask Max, "What do you know about the manpon?"
"I'm sorry, Jack, I'm in no frame of mind to think right now. I'm harder than Contra. I assure you, after I've experienced my release I'll get right onto that."
\*
I no longer needed a map to locate Drippings. These liaisons with Charlotte were becoming quite regular. I could sense Max's arousal with every slimy step I took, which sped my pace. I really wanted to satisfy him. I really wanted to satisfy myself. The cast of regular sewer dwellers traipsed past me on their day to day activities but I largely ignored them. My mind was on sex, pure and simple. Charlotte was an interesting specimen. We were both well aware that our use for each other was purely physical and we accepted this. I didn't know why Charlotte should be so eager to partake in this arrangement. My understanding of women was clearly antiquated but I did wonder if she might begin to develop emotional feelings toward me. I shook the thought away. This was a bridge I'd cross if I came to it.
\*
"Those scissors in your head remind me of my first boyfriend," said Charlotte as she twirled her hair.
"What, he had scissors in his head?" I asked, surprised.
"NO!" she yelled with a laugh. "He just had a very sharp mind!"
She fell backward onto the moss, laughing uncontrollably, clutching at her waist. I didn't see what was so funny. I watched as she writhed about and pictured me fucking her into submission. I approached with intent and pinned her arms to the ground. She spat playfully in my eye and set off laughing again. The saliva clogged my sockets, turning her into a watery blur. I slammed my lips against hers, preventing another spit attack. She slid her slimy tongue into my mouth and lapped at my fillings, a few of which broke off into her mouth. She swallowed with satisfaction and moved her mouth toward my ear.
"I think I'm going to fart," she whispered before doing exactly that.
"You stinky firefly," I said before we both started laughing.
"I've been eating pine." She ran her knee over my crotch.
I tore at her vest with animalistic hands, revealing her two storey breasts.
"Fuck me like a communist dictator," she pleaded.
I didn't know how to go about this so I just fucked her in the normal manner. She didn't seem bothered. Instead she moaned in F minor with a hint of vibrato. Her arsehole sucked at my finger like a dummy, trimming my nail in the process. I tried placing Max's face over Charlotte's as a means to acknowledge my purpose here, but the image forced a string of reflux over her chin. She flicked at the reflux with her tongue before glistening her lips with it. We climaxed at the same time, our gushes colliding and blending. Both of us flopped to our backs. Charlotte retrieved a severed finger, lit the tip and smoked it like a cigarette.
"I wonder what daddykins made of that?" she asked.
The question seemed creepy, really hammering home the situation. I decided not to dwell on it. Instead I blew a wet kiss toward the sewer roof and imagined it splashing over Max's lips. I smiled.
Max was waiting for me when I arrived home. A goofy, post orgasmic grin plastered his face.
"You filthy vixens," he said while rubbing his backside.
"Did you like?"
He nodded. "I've written you a little song, Jack."
"I didn't know you wrote music."
"I don't. This was an act of love. I felt the music blasting through me. Would you like to hear it?"
I sat down wearily. I wasn't sure I did want to hear his song but I nodded anyway.
"Great!" he yelled with a hand clap. Then he scurried off to retrieve the necessary tools. He returned with a zither and already I was cringing. He sat down and began to play.
With you in my life I feel happy
Life with you is just great
I hope that you'll stay by my side
Meeting you was fate
Inside I feel a burning flame
This flame it burns for you
Now I know the joy of love
Jack, you see me through
Oh Jack!
Sweet Jack!
You are the one for Max
You are the ying to my yang, dear
There's nothing that I wouldn't do
One thing I can promise
I'll always care for you
Loving you is flowers, baby
Loving you is joy
Loving Jack is beautiful
Jack, you are my boy
Oh Jack!
Sweet Jack!
You are the one for Max
The song ended and Max carefully put down his zither. Tears of happiness leaked from my eyes despite the mediocrity of the performance.
"What did you think, Jack?"
"It was beautiful," I responded, feeling truly loved.
\*
I had already forgotten about the manpon when Max bought it up the next day.
"So this manpon you mentioned, it strikes me as a truly productive measure."
"Oh yeah," I said, suddenly recalling. "So what exactly is it?"
"It's a sanitary tube for menstruating men according to these documents," Max said, waving a handful of papers.
"How does it work?"
"The tube itself is made from absorbent cotton and slides over the menstruating penis. A strap is secured beneath the scrotum to keep the tube in place. To top it off, a small cottony nub penetrates the urethra to control blood from the source."
"Holy shit! Does this mean they've accepted male menstruation?"
"Not quite," Max said with a smirk. "They insist on referring to it as penile bleeding but the fact the manpon even exists is a very positive sign."
I nodded in absolute agreement, feeling strangely proud of the District. "So, where do I get one?"
"Well, it's currently in beta testing so they aren't yet commercially available. I think I can get you on the program though."
"You can?"
"Just leave it with me," said Max while tapping his nose mysteriously. A little dribble of blood crept out, suggesting he'd tapped too hard.
I instinctively lunged forward to help him but he turned away. "Don't worry, Jack. My nose is always doing silly things like that."
\*
Max went out the next day. I could feel the symptoms that I now associated with PMS nipping at my heels. Max had the habit of leaving the house whenever PMS would rear its head and I was pretty sure this was a deliberate ploy. Clearly I was difficult to live with during these periods.
My nipples began to tingle, which was always the first sign. It was like someone had rubbed salt in them. I silently cursed this invisible person with a clenched fist. Thankfully my emotions were still relatively in check but I did have the unshakable feeling that I was bloated and fat. I pinched the perceived excess on my thighs and focused intently on my stomach, which I could swear was inflating right before my eyes. I'm hideous, I thought. Who will want a fat cow like me? I tried to move through this mindset. I imagined it as a pool and I was wading slowly, in measured strokes, trying to reach the safe end where tranquillity ruled. Instead I felt the end I was in thickening and trapping me. Where the hell is he? What kinda bastard leaves someone alone like this?
The day progressed and the anger was starting to really take hold. I drew a picture of Max on the wall with stink lines climbing off at every angle. A voice bubble floated above his head. He was saying, "I'm a big bag of smelly cocks and I taste like smelly cocks," and it was cathartic. Boy you smell, Max! That's what you get for leaving me alone, you know. He wasn't listening though. He just stayed on the wall in all his poorly drawn apathy. I wanted to kick him. You don't care about me! You piece of shit. You think you can write me a love song and then leave me alone? Think again bud! I'm not that kinda guy!
I rummaged around for a few scraps of paper with the intention of writing Max a hate song. I found a few reports on the District lying about and used the back to scrawl on. I wrote the first line: Oh, Mr snotty anus pants. I stared at this line for some time. I began to find the word 'pants' profoundly sad and I cried and I cried. I threw away my unfinished song, still weeping, still thinking about pants. I bemoaned the inevitable death all pants experience when they wear away. I bemoaned the pants that get ignored when they don't fit. I felt like an ignored pair of pants and I wept for myself. I wanted someone to hug. I wanted to curl up in a ball and sleep. I wanted Max to walk through that door and suck the feeling out of me like a vampire. I stared at it. I kept staring. He didn't come. I ran toward the door, trailing tears along the way. I pounded with my fists, screaming Max's name. I motioned to slam my head melodramatically against the door but stopped when I remembered the scissors propped in my forehead. I fingered the scissors and my crying intensified. It wasn't fair. Everything was unfair. Why did I have scissors wedged in my forehead? Why hadn't Max tried to remove them? How had my life turned into this? How could I go on like this? Why did I feel so dirty? I needed a shower. Why didn't I have the energy to shower? Did Max even have a shower? Had I ever showered at Max's? Why couldn't I remember? I began to think about pants again. I wept with increasing intensity. I fell to my knees. The first cramps punched from within my gut. I buckled over, scrunching myself into a ball. The gut punches persisted, again and again. I remained in a ball. I continued to weep.
\*
Max finally arrived home just after eleven in the morning. He shuffled toward my position on the floor. I was still balled up, surrounded by urine. I glanced up at him with bloodshot eyes.
"How could you leave me alone like this, you heartless fuck?"
"Shhh, Jack. I have something for you."
He gently lifted my head and placed two ibuprofen tablets on my tongue. He hurried toward the sink, letting my head drop sharply. I vocalised the discomfort this caused like a wonky fire alarm. Max attempted to cover both his ears with one hand as he filled a glass with water. He offered the water to me, apologising profusely for letting my head drop. I refused to willingly take the glass so he resorted to awkwardly dribbling the water into my uncooperative mouth.
"Don't be such a child, Jack. This will make all the hurties go away."
I snatched the water from him and took an exaggerated mouthful. It must have been a little ambitious because I coughed and choked as the water flooded my throat. Max gently patted my back until my coughing fit stopped.
"I have something else for you."
I just stared at him, refusing to say a word. Max retrieved a box I'd never seen before.
"What is it?" I eventually asked.
"It's those manpons you wanted. It looks like I got back just in time too."
He pointed toward my crotch and waved his hand across his nose, batting away phantom smells. I snatched the box from him and examined the plastic-wrapped tubes inside.
"Why don't you try one on, Jack?"
"Why don't you try one on, MAX?" I replied mockingly.
He simply rolled his eyes and reached for my fly. I tried to struggle out of his grip but he was determined. When he finally unzipped me, my cock flopped out like a dead body from a closet.
"Yes, see? You're bleeding. You need this."
He tore into the manpon wrapper with his teeth while holding my cock with his free hand. I sat there, half resigned, half turned on. I watched as he rolled it down my shaft and felt a pinch as the nub penetrated my urethra. I noticed that Max was grinning ear to ear and it pissed me off. I wanted to deny him this joy but I felt so utterly helpless that I just let him go about it. As he secured the strap around my balls he lingered, telling me he was making sure it was on tight. I assured him it was but he really wanted to be sure. When he was finally finished he stood up.
"There we go! All done! Now stand up and give me a twirl."
I obeyed him without thought, turning around slowly with my pants at my ankles.
"It looks sterling, Jack!"
With arms outstretched, I moved in for a hug which Max warmly reciprocated.
"Thank you, Max," I whispered before pulling him closer.
Part 4: I'm never leaving Max
I was summoned into the District by a mysterious note slid under Max's door. I wriggled into my knee costume and waited in Peter's Peatery as the note suggested. I hadn't been back in months and the District seemed to be doing well. I was surprisingly pleased, which suggested that my rage had subsided.
A new ad for Manpons blared from a television. A group of men were playing soccer on a field with vigour and exuberance. The camera zoomed in fast to a handsome man who had just kicked a goal. He gave a knowing wink to the viewer, which was followed by a voiceover proclaiming Nobody needs to know. Live life as it was intended without embarrassing stains and leakage. Try new Action Man Sanitary Tubes.
The ad ended just as Messy Phil sat down opposite. "So, you got my note then?"
"That was you, huh?" I responded, still amazed by the ad.
"You know it, sport." He leant in close, "You know, just between you and me, I'm pretty sure you can take yer costume off now. Although I can understand what you're saying now."
"Yeah, I had the designer re-think the mouth hole. By which I mean, it actually has a mouth hole now. What do you mean I can take this thing off?" My attention was completely on Phil now.
"They want you back, Jack. Those dipshits think their cock bleeds are some kinda divine punishment for kicking you out." He erupted in phlegm-drenched laughter.
Phil's laughter was infectious and I joined in, "Are you kidding me? How do they figure that?"
"Remember, these are the same people who had you kicked out for something you didn't even do. They don't know what the fuck they're on about." His laughter stopped and he grew quite serious. "So, you gonna come back to us or what?"
I hadn't even considered re-entering the District as a possibility. I was amazed to find my initial reaction was a giant no which I illustrated with a slow shake of my head.
"Whaddya mean? You gotta come back, Jack. This place ain't the same without you."
I glanced out the window, absorbing the serenity that had now overcome the main street. Couples were holding hands. Women were walking in and out of barber shops. Some barber shops had even converted to a unisex salon-type arrangement. Things were better than they had ever been and we had male menstruation to thank. "You know, Phil, you guys don't need me. And for the first time in a long time, I don't need you. I think I want to focus on other things now."
Phil flashed a big, teeth-stained smile. "You know, you're a bit like me in some ways."
"I am?"
"Yeah, you are. We do our own thing. We're not tied down by convention."
"I used to be."
"Nah, fuck that. I mean, yeah, you had a real hard on for this place but you weren't one of those hair cutters. You found your own way to get involved. I respect that."
I had to give it to Phil. He was more on the ball then any of us gave him credit for. "I'd shake your hand but this costume kinda makes it hard."
Phil laughed again. "Well, I won't beg ya or anything. I'm not that desperate. Just make sure you come and see us from time to time."
"You know it, Phil. Where's your wank fairy by the way? I thought you two were attached at the hip"
Phil went all quiet, his face growing pink. "Yeah, umm... About that... I sat on her. She's dead."
He looked more embarrassed than upset but I gave him a consolatory pat on the shoulder anyway. "That must have been hard for you. I'm sorry, Phil."
"Yeah, well. It ain't so bad. She did fucking stink and once I got the stain outta my pants..."
"I'm sure it was for the best."
"Yeah..." Phil stared past me, lost in memory.
I stood up and began to leave. Phil snapped out of his reflection and interjected before I reached the door.
"They should be thanking you, ya know."
I spun around. "Why's that?"
"Well since the bleeding, everyone's hair has become fucking remarkable. It's thicker and more luscious than ever before."
"It is?
"You bet it is. Anyway, you get going. Don't be a stranger."
I waved at Phil and walked slowly out of the Peatery. I hadn't really thought about it since we spiked the water but I was under the impression everyone was supposed to lose their hair. I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed it sooner. The more I thought about it the more agitated I became. Max had some explaining to do.
\*
I arrived home to find Max preparing a romantic dinner for us. I was beginning to feel PMS taking over my body again. Had it really been a month already? More like three weeks I suppose, when you subtract the lead up and the actual period. What a jip. Max wiped his hands on a towel before approaching me with outstretched arms.
"Heya, Jack. How was your day, hun?"
His arms tried to close around me but I shrugged out of the embrace. Max looked a little hurt.
"What's wrong, babe?"
I stared him in the eyes, feeling as if tears would stream any minute.
"You haven't been honest with me, Max."
"How do you mean? Honesty is a virtue, Jack; one that I abide by."
Maintaining eye contact was emotionally draining so I began pacing around the room with my arms folded tightly at my chest.
"What was it you told me before all this menstruation bullshit began?" I asked.
Max shrugged. "That's a very broad question, my dear. I told you many things."
"Well think back, Max. Think back to the hair. What did you tell me about the hair?"
I began to stare at him once more, noticing a little flicker of guilt glazing his eyes.
"You told me that every male who consumes the woebegone would lose their hair. Why hasn't anyone lost their hair, Max?" I was crying now but my penis didn't stir.
"Oh Jack, I never said that they'd definitely lose their hair. It was an educated guess on my part based on preliminary trials."
"So you destroyed my life based on a guess?" I was yelling now.
"No, no, Jack. Please don't suggest I have destroyed your life. As I've already told you, I'm sorry you were ostracised from the District. It wasn't my intention."
"What exactly was your intention, huh?"
As I said these words Max also broke into tears. He lurched about with desperate hands, imploring me for sympathetic affection. I avoided him coldly.
"Spit it out, Max!" I screamed.
"I'M SORRY!!!" he responded, falling to his knees and rolling into a bunny balance stance. "It's all my fault!"
"Spill it, you bastard," I said, my tears drying, replaced by simmering rage.
"I shouldn't have involved you, Jack. I was passing through the District on an unrelated matter. I saw you waltzing about. You looked so comfortable. I was smitten instantly. I followed you into a barbershop, just to watch you. You were taking down notes and just consumed. I admired the drive I saw in your eyes and I longed to reach out to you there and then. I became flustered and knocked over a comb jar by accident. Fearing reprisal, I ran, smashed my way through the storefront window and fled. I never would have assumed my little accident would garner such a reaction from the District and especially you. I wanted to approach you and introduce myself but I was cowardly. Instead I began knocking over more and more jars, hoping you'd follow me and you did, Jack!"
"So you were just using the District to get to me?" My voice contained a strange calm.
"It's not as simple as that! I became infatuated. My capacity for reason eroded and there was only you." He rolled out of his bunny balance and remained on his back, staring toward the ceiling.
"What about this whole woebegone thing? Would you have spiked the water if I hadn't been here?"
"Oh yes, Jack, you must believe me. My intention was always to administer the woebegone. Had I not met you I certainly wouldn't have chosen such an inappropriate location. I mean there were virtually no females here!"
"And the hair loss? You knew it wouldn't happen all along didn't you?"
"It was the only lie I could think of at the time. It was such a stupid lie that I assumed you were never convinced. I assumed you only went along with it to be with me. I mean seriously, Jack, the most rudimentary historical investigation would reveal that men had hair right from the beginning."
I was seated now. Letting Max's words blow like tumbleweeds through my head. He struggled up on all fours and began crawling pathetically toward me, puckering his lips the whole time. I couldn't help myself. I leaned forward and gave him a kiss.
"You know something, Max?" I asked when our lips separated.
"Yes, Jack?"
"You're a real cunt."
His name was Stephan and he called his new manoeuvre the 'Power Blink'...
\*
"Come here, Patrick, I believe I have perfected something rather special."
Patrick glanced at Stephan, stood up and carefully pitter-pattered toward him, paying particular attention to the sway of his hips.
"What is it, Stephan? I've grown immensely weary of your demonstrations."
"Shush now, Patrick. This is extra ordinary. I have a conviction, I am convinced, I can assure you... this will blow your fucking socks off, Patrick."
"Oh good lord! Must you insist on populating your every last utterance with such excessive melodrama? Show me this little fancy of yours and let me get back to the cultivation of my hips."
Stephan flashed a knowing grin. "Okay, brace yourself now, Patrick. No need for the snark."
Patrick rolled his eyes in an exaggerated fashion, momentarily losing his retinas.
"Serves you right you haughty shit," said Stephan as he gestured toward a prepared chair. "Sit! Sit!"
Patrick sat with an emotive thud, testing the limits of the chair's durability. Stephan scampered out of the room for a few seconds, which felt like hours to Patrick's exasperated mind. When Stephan returned he was wearing only a belt stretched a few notches too tight.
"Very attractive, Stephan," said Patrick with disgusted sarcasm.
The flabbier portions of Stephan's anatomy hung in a particularly unpleasant fashion. The restriction of the belt caused a gorge of blood to stiffen his penis quite dramatically. Patrick responded unfavourably, clearly uncomfortable with the display.
"Please do something to avert my gaze from your sickly region, Stephan. I'm not sure I can take this."
"Awfully sorry, Patrick. I'll grant you it seems a tad dramatic but in order for my demonstration to be conveyed with appropriate gravitas I must perform in nothing spare this belt."
"Just get it over with!" said Patrick, hypnotised by Stephan's throbbing, bobbing member.
Stephan entered a stance approximating that of a Sumo wrestler preparing for combat. With arms akimbo he strained to the point of defecation as his body cultivated the necessary ingredients for the blink to birth. When the time was right, Stephan's eyelids gracefully dropped, sending out a wave of gentle breeze accompanied by a flatulent sound. The breeze caressed Patrick's forehead before dissipating into the glorious ether. Patrick sat in his chair dazed, trying to process and assimilate what he had just witnessed. Stephan fell back against the wall, exhausted as a womb at a midwives party. A heavy silence ensued while Patrick gathered his thoughts and impressions.
"My word, Stephan, that was exhilarating! How on earth are you able to do that?"
Stephan was roused back to reality as the depleted energy slowly started to refill.
"You see, Patrick (panting, breathing) I call it (wheezing, coughing) -- I call it the 'Power Blink'. It certainly isn't (coughing, panting, breathing, wheezing) easy."
"How did you develop it?" asked Patrick still stunned.
Stephan took several deep breaths, stabilising himself enough to talk with his usual drama and exuberance.
"It was quite by accident. It was a rosy morning -- if rosy can be adequately used to describe the various hues etched into my mind's eye. I was awake in bed, consumed in my own warmth and comfort. The sun was shining vividly through the window and a giant cock bird was singing the most enchanting tunes. The night before having been a mild one, I left my window slightly ajar. The cock bird swooped into my room and flew about this way and that. My eyes carefully tracked its each and every movement. Then, as if drawn to me like a magpie to silver, the cock bird landed on my heaving chest and stared hard into my sleepy eyes. A stare as intense I've never seen. The cock bird took an exaggerated breath, its lungs inflating its slick chest to alarming levels..."
"Then what?" asked Patrick, entranced by Stephan's poetic recollections.
"Ah yes, Patrick, then what indeed! I'll tell you what happened next. This little cock bird, this feathered enchantress, spat in my face. A plume of glittery dust enveloped me and I inhaled deep lungfulls. Before I had comprehended this strange occurrence, the cock bird fluttered away, leaving me with dusty lungs and halcyon recollection."
Stephan sat pensively, constantly searching for and immediately losing the right words, while Patrick's childlike impatience chipped away at his outward resilience.
"And how does this lead to your magnificent blink, Stephan? I simply must hear the meat of your story."
Stephan's pensive silence persisted -- all possible vocalisation became lost in introspective whimsy. This caused Patrick to flail his arms about in what would later be called 'an entirely uncivil display'. Such was the extent of Patrick's flail that his limp hand collided with a nearby doorframe -- mild bleeding ensued.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHH! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! STEPHAN, I AM WOUNDED!!!! HELP ME! FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS REMOTELY DECENT -- HELP ME!!!"
Patrick began to sob wretchedly as he nursed the small cut on his hand. The cries snapped Stephan out of his introspection and he quickly took stock of his good friend's situation -- he felt a great deal of worry.
"Oh Patrick, you poor devil, I can most certainly see droplets of crimson blood."
Stephan began to hyperventilate as empathy overwhelmed him. Patrick continued to howl uncontrollably, his injured hand held up for the world to see.
"Why, Lord? Why have you deemed it necessary to afflict me with such pain?"
He fell back in despair as the howling became melancholy weeping.
"How can I help you, Patrick? Please let me know."
Through a thick veil of tears Patrick looked up at Stephan, paying particular attention to the tight belt and exposed penis.
"For one thing, Stephan, you can take that fucking belt off and cover your shame. In my condition I should not be subjected to such a damaging display of nonchalance."
Stephan glanced down at his exposed genitalia and felt a hot flush of embarrassment.
"Of course, Patrick, I will clothe myself post haste. Don't move. I'll be back."
\*
When Stephan returned he was wearing four sweet potatoes. His genitals were still clearly exposed but it was better than nothing.
"Whilst dressing myself I came up with a solution to your horrible situation," said Stephan, "and I really think you should hear me out..."
"NO!" interjected Patrick. "Its okay, Stephan, I have already formed a solution. After my tears have adequately subsided I will call Monsieur Vladimir and have a bandaid installed. He is the only one who can help me now."
"Good Lord, Patrick! That was my exact solution" said Stephan with genuine surprise.
They fell about laughing, until Patrick remembered the pain he was in, which caused him to stop immediately.
"I'll make a call to Monsieur Vladimir after lunch. I need some time to regain control of my emotional state."
"Can you describe the wound?" asked Monsieur Vladimir to Patrick over the phone in an accent that approximated a Mexican poorly attempting to speak German.
"It's a very standard looking wound. There's a mild coagulation peppered with a faint hint of elementary scabbing."
"The healing process has begun. It is gravely important that this procedure be performed on this very night."
"Tonight? Is there room enough in your schedule?"
"Patrick, Patrick... there simply has to be room in my schedule. I don't think I need to tell you the danger we're facing. If we wait until the dawning of a new day, you may very well find that wound of yours gone -- vanished!"
"That is a fate I certainly intend on avoiding, Monsieur. When shall I see you?"
"No, I will come to you. Stay inside -- the refreshing outdoor air may heal your wound beyond any possible chance of the installation taking place. I will endeavour to make your acquaintance by 10pm."
"I will be waiting, Monsieur."
\*
Patrick hung up the phone gravely and glared in Stephan's direction.
"You fucking cad! You're responsible for this chaos. I doubt I need to tell you that I expect you to cover half of my medical bills."
"Of course, Patrick, in fact I would feel deeply uncomfortable and offended if you didn't allow me the honour of paying the total cost of your bills."
Patrick smiled warmly, "Oh, Stephan, how in the world could I stay mad at you? I feel as if I could marry your wife."
"Who knows -- perhaps by this evening's end we'll both be marrying my wife!" said Stephan jovially. The two fine men embraced warmly, Patrick making sure that his injured hand was kept at a safe distance.
\*
Lucille was Stephan's wife. She lived in a large tyre and only came inside the house on rare occasions for the purpose of unsatisfactory sexual intercourse. Stephan ran to the back yard yelling, "LUCILLE! LUCILLE!! I have a proposition for you. Where in the devil's name are you, Lucille?"
From a large black tyre toward the far end of the backyard emerged a strikingly beautiful, fair-haired woman wearing a milkmaid's dress and matching bonnet.
"Oh, there you are my love," said Stephan as Lucille approached.
"Where the hell else would I be, Stephan? I've been living in this here tyre for ten years -- I'm a creature of habit and it's not logical to assume I'd be anywhere else."
"You are a doll, Lucille. I have a wonderful proposition for you."
Lucille's eyebrows arched with interest, "What sort of proposition?"
"Before I dive headlong into propositions, Lucille, I must provide you with the context surrounding my proposition."
"Get it over with," said Lucille with arms crossed.
"Yes, quite. You remember my very good friend, Patrick?"
Lucille rolled her eyes, "Yes, of course I remember him. I find him to be an incessant bore!"
"Be that as it may he has very recently been through a rather unpleasant experience. I was demonstrating a new manoeuvre."
"A new manoeuvre, hey?" opined Lucille with a knowing tone, "and what is this new manoeuvre if you don't mind me asking?"
"It's called the 'Power Blink' Lucille, but that really is by the by. I implore you to let me finish what I'm trying to say."
"Go on." Lucille's arms were crossed tighter than ever.
"Well you see, Lucille, my demonstration of the 'Power Blink' caused such a tremendous response from Patrick that he began flailing his arms this way and that. The next thing the poor chap knew his hand had slammed into a nearby doorframe."
A spike of concern crossed Lucille's face, "Oh my, is he alright?"
"Debateable, Lucille, extremely debateable. As we stand here talking, Patrick is inside nursing a mild injury."
Lucille's eyes welled with sympathetic tears, which she made no attempt to stifle.
"That's not even the worst of it! Upon injuring his hand I noticed several droplets of blood. His injury broke skin, Lucille!"
Lucille was sobbing quite uncontrollably, repeating, "Poor Patrick, poor Patrick," over and over.
"Try not to worry, Lucille, an appointment has already been made for a bandaid installation this evening."
"Who's installing the bandaid? There's so many bandaid installation hacks out there."
"No need to concern yourself with that. Monsieur Vladimir is coming here to perform the procedure himself before the wound heals."
"Thank heavens for that!" Lucille looked a little calmer and her breathing slowly returned to normal. "Now, what was this proposition of yours, Stephan?"
"It started as a throwaway comment but the more Patrick and I thought about it, the more it began to make sense."
"The more sense what began to make?"
"Would you, Lucille, consider marrying both Patrick and myself?"
There was a moment of ambiguous silence. Stephan had no idea what was running through Lucille's mind. That was until an enormous smile spread across her face and she hugged Stephan with all of her might.
"Oh Stephan, I'd be honoured to marry the both of you!"
\*
The long wait for the arrival of Monsieur Vladimir was excruciating. Patrick and Stephan passed the time by staring intently at the mild wound on Patrick's hand, which was showing ever more signs of healing. Lucille remained in the back yard, yelling occasional questions that went unheard from within the house and as such, went unanswered. This didn't bother her.
"I do hope Monsieur Vladimir arrives soon. I distinctly feel the itch that often accompanies the healing of a mild scratch."
"Calm yourself immediately, Patrick. Those negative thoughts won't help your condition. We have to believe with conviction that your injury can be appropriately dealt with before any major healing can take place."
"Yes, you're right, Stephan. My mental state must remain healthy. Why don't you go fetch Lucille? I'm sure she would greatly enjoy witnessing Monsieur Vladimir at work."
"Sterling idea, Patrick, I'll fetch her post haste!"
In Stephan's haste, one of the sweet potatoes he was wearing fell to the ground rendering him slightly more naked.
\*
During Stephan's short absence, Patrick threw himself about the room in a most melodramatic fashion. He stared skyward and repeatedly screamed, "WHY ME!?" His faith in a higher power had been severely tested after the day's miserable events and his weaker parts doubted his ability to go on. His weary eyes bulged like a million Rodney Dangerfields and tears stained his cheeks.
\*
Stephan and Lucille entered the room together in a synchronised crab walk. Patrick stared glibly at the display, trying his best to suck the tears up.
"Yes, you're quite right, Patrick," said Stephan, "This crab walk hasn't turned out nearly as amusing as we'd hoped. On behalf of us both I'd like to offer sincere apologies."
Lucille sheepishly exited the crab stance and pouted at Stephan before turning to Patrick.
"It's all his doing you know!" said Lucille, pointing at Stephan with an accusatory finger, "I wanted to enter the house normally but Stephan roped me in to this ludicrous crab walk."
"That's enough, Lucille! Patrick doesn't need to hear this."
"I beg your bloody pardon? I have a right to save face don't I?"
Patrick sacrificially threw his arms into the air, "Please! That's enough people. Let us not get bogged down in this unfortunate quagmire. Don't worry, Lucille. Not for one moment would I ever dream of harbouring the thought that you were responsible for that worrisome display."
Stephan scrunched up his face like a confused Muppet.
"Don't you worry either, Stephan. In happier times I'm sure I'd be crab walking right there with you and really, I do appreciate the effort. Right now however, there's only one person who can lift me from these horrifying doldrums..."
\*
In an act of suspiciously perfect timing, there was a knock at the door...
\*
The perfect timing was indeed suspicious. As it so happened, Monsieur Vladimir had been waiting on the porch for a good hour with a comically large ear-horn pressed to the keyhole, readying himself for the perfect entry. He understood the risk he was facing by not proceeding with the procedure at his earliest convenience but he really was rather fond of a dramatic entrance.
\*
Stephan threw open the front door and fell at Monsieur Vladimir's feet in veneration.
"Thank heavens you've arrived, Monsieur Vladimir!"
Monsieur Vladimir stared down at Stephan in confusion.
"My word man, you're dressed in nothing but sweet potatoes!"
"I'm sorry," whimpered Stephan with genuine shame.
"That's not for us to worry about now. Where's Patrick? What is the current state of the minor wound?"
"I'm over here, Monsieur!" whined Patrick in a pathetic voice.
Monsieur Vladimir ran to him with long, crotch-tearing strides.
"We need a kitchen bench and a sturdy lamp. Everything else I require is right here."
Monsieur Vladimir was holding up a large lady's handbag, which triggered a stunned awe from his small, not unattractive audience.
"The process of bandaid installation is rather complex," began Monsieur, feeling he should provide some context, "There are very few of us qualified to perform such a task, and of those few, even less perform the job well." He scratched at his jowls with a penny whistle before continuing. "For starters, you must be well-skilled at surgical procedure. This surgical skill must be combined with a thorough understanding of organic mechanics -- not an easy field to master and certainly not for hobbyists. Furthermore, in cases of mild abrasion the process must be performed in haste due to the tendency small wounds have of healing quickly. Bandaid installations are frequently cancelled due to wounds healing of their own accord. Many practitioners face financial ruin as a result. I would describe my own success in the field as a happy accident."
Stephan gave Monsieur a small clap before running into the kitchen and clearing the bench of all debris. Meanwhile, Lucille retreated to her backyard tyre to fetch a lamp. The area was prepared in a very short amount of time and they all combined their strength to lift Patrick and place him gently on the bench. Patrick remained rigid and awkward throughout, as if the exercise had imbued him with the soul of a dead weight.
"Get that lamp turned on and aim it at the wound," barked Monsieur Vladimir, "And could somebody please tell me why it smells like a tyre?"
"The lamp is mine. I retrieved it from my tyre," dribbled Lucille in embarrassment.
Ignoring Lucille's answer, Monsieur Vladimir commanded anyone who wasn't Patrick to: "Stand back and brace yourselves for some sickly potty mouth."
This order was obeyed without question.
\*
The lamplight shone warm yellow on the rapidly healing wound.
"Don't heal on me you fucking bitch!" screamed Monsieur Vladimir as he opened his handbag to retrieve the tools. The first was a hypodermic needle filled with a brown substance simply labelled 'Biological Agent'. Monsieur turned to Stephan and Lucille and said, "I use this on my balls," followed by a wink. He immediately turned his head back around and drove the needle into Patrick's shoulder.
"You're going to feel an intense desire to expel gas before you drift off into unconsciousness. I'd ask you politely not to. It's a truly disgusting thing."
As predicted, the gas built rapidly within Patrick and the intense desire to let it out overwhelmed him completely. Just before he passed out, a small squeak escaped from his rear.
"Bastard! That will most definitely smell!" yelled Monsieur.
\*
With Patrick lost to induced unconsciousness, the procedure could begin. Armed with what looked like acupuncture needles, Monsieur Vladimir surrounded the wound.
"This should halt the healing. I use them on my balls."
Next up, Monsieur Vladimir retrieved what appeared to be a clamping device fashioned from wood and opened the minute wound as much as it would allow. In the opening he sprinkled what looked like pepper.
"What are you sprinkling on Patrick?" asked a worried Stephan.
Without looking back Monsieur Vladimir explained, "It's a regenerative resin extracted from the common gibbon. It acts to reverse the healing. In basic terms, it regenerates the injury process and allows us to start afresh. I often use it on my balls."
"Can Patrick feel anything?" asked Lucille.
"Not a chance! He is out like an army of lights. When he awakes he will experience only the most rudimentary discomfort."
With a wrench the size of tweezers, Monsieur Vladimir began to poke around in the wound.
"Living creatures have a series of what approximates bodily pipes. My task is to rejoin the pipes damaged in Patrick's arm and restore them to optimal capacity. With the area in question optimised, I can then proceed with the bandaid installation. In the case of exceptionally mild injury, such as what we're facing with Patrick here, the process is wonderfully redundant, carried out none-the-less to the utmost precision."
\*
The longer the process dragged on, the more agitated Monsieur Vladimir became.
"This lamp you found me is too fucking hot! What wattage are we working with here? It's certainly more than I'd recommend. My god! It's like a miniature sun and an affront to anything remotely decent."
"I'm terribly sorry Monsieur Vladimir -- it's the only lamp I have" said Lucille. "I found the bulb under a chair."
"Ah fuck! Don't listen to me, Lucille. I'm becoming agitated. I really ought to focus on the procedure at hand. I think I'm ready to begin the installation of the bandaid."
\*
As Monsieur Vladimir retrieved the bandaid from his handbag the heat from the lamp bore down upon his forehead. His pores were slowly filling with reservoirs of sweat that threatened the success of everything.
"Oh no! It's starting to happen! Sweat! I'm starting to sweat. This could potentially derail the whole operation."
"You must work like the wind, Monsieur!" cried Stephan with pathos.
The bandaid was artfully removed from its wrapping and moved into position. Sweat began to wriggle down Monsieur Vladimir's forehead.
"If it gets into my eyes we're ruined!"
"It can't end like this!" screamed Lucille, covering her eyes with tear-stained hands.
The bandaid was placed into tentative position and Monsieur Vladimir examined the area with what he called a 'squarest cubing wedge'.
"This wedge will help me align the bandaid with utmost precision. It was devloped in France. It works well on my balls."
The worms of sweat began to circle Monsieur Vladimir's terrified eyes, his mascara smudging into racoon-like rings of dishevelry.
"I AM DESTINED TO FAIL!!!"
Lucille collapsed on the ground in distress.
"PLEASE, MONSIEUR!!!" screamed Stephan, "YOU MUST WORK LIKE THE WIND!!!"
\*
These words, work like the wind, cycled ceaselessly through Stephan's head. He glanced about the chaotic scene: Lucille passed out on the ground, Patrick dead to the world on the kitchen bench, and Monsieur Vladimir with his petrified racoon eyes on the verge of nervous collapse. I simply must rectify the wretched situation... but how?
The answer struck Stephan like semen in a whore's eye.
"OF COURSE!!! THE 'POWER BLINK'!!!"
\*
Stephan ripped away the sweet potatoes and immediately fetched a belt from the belt closet. He tightened the belt around his pink, naked body and entered into the sumoesque stance. From the corner of his sweat-threatened eyes Monsieur Vladimir caught sight of the display.
"What the devil, Stephan? You look appalling! This procedure's done for by the way."
"I wouldn't count on it, Monsieur. You will finish this procedure admirably."
Stephan strained once more to the point of defecation, allowing his eyelids to gently drop. The flatulent sound resonated throughout the kitchen as the gentle wave of air travelled artfully to Monsieur Vladimir's brow. Stephan fell backward from the exertion.
"My word that is refreshing!" exclaimed Monsieur as the sweat threatening his eyes dried.
"The sweat has dried. I proclaim that manoeuvre of yours as something rather special indeed. The procedure will be completed on this day!!!"
\*
As an ordained minister, it was Monsieur Vladimir who wed Stephan and Patrick and Lucille on a warm autumn afternoon in the backyard, next to Lucille's tyre. The bandaid on Patrick's arm had been installed with unheralded expertise and would eventually disintegrate into his arm after several years, leaving behind a fairly well conditioned area.
Following the exertion of two 'Power Blinks' in one day, Stephan lost significant motor control and was confined to a wheelchair. Paralysis had affected a good two thirds of his body. Given the extent of Stephan's condition, Patrick agreed to pay for half of the bandaid installation bill. Lucille beamed with pride as she draped her arms over the shoulders of her new husbands-to-be.
"I now pronounce you husband and husband and wife. You may all kiss each other!" said Monsieur Vladimir proudly.
Patrick and Lucille bent down and gave Stephan a kiss on his drool-spangled lips. Although never to be performed again, the 'Power Blink' was never forgotten.
THE BOOKMARK THAT WOULDN'T WORK
Life was a trial for Amanda Dink. Amanda dreamed of being an avid reader but suffered from 'Slow Eye'. It was a debilitating condition that slowed the movement and perception of the eyeball to an unworkable degree. Ever since racism was abolished for being 'unprofessional', 'Slow Eye' provided an easy target in which former racists could pour their scorn. It was as if Amanda's eyeballs dragged across each sentence like an overweight corpse. Her brain was so much faster than that and it was a constant source of bother that she should be made to dwell on each word, ruining the intended flow.
Amanda's bookshelves buckled under the immense weight of her large collection and what really stung the most was that each and every book remained unfinished. As a result of her slow eyes, Amanda never managed to get much further than a few meagre pages. This affliction was exacerbated by a poor numerical memory. Amanda was able to count to seven without too much trouble but everything after that scabbed her brain over in hardened frustration.
Amanda would see fellow commuters on her morning train blissfully lost in whatever book they were reading and marvel at how far some of them had progressed. It wasn't uncommon for some to have surpassed the halfway point. Some were even tantilisingly close to that magical last word on that magical last page. The jealousy Amanda felt was all-consuming. One time she actually saw a passenger close a book, having just finished it and stare contentedly out the window, having just finished it. How is it possible? she would often think, cursing her wretched slow eyes.
\*
It surprises many to learn that bookmarks are a relatively recent development in history. Many advances in science and technology occurred well before the first inkling of the modern bookmark took shape. It was a chap by the name of Earnest Titswaller who stumbled upon what is commonly believed to have been the first bookmark. While reading a book on how to win at Nintendos he found himself growing decidedly weary. He was seconds away from closing the book -- and praying he'd remember where he was up to -- when a wayward bird torpedoed in through his open window. In a state of confusion, the bird flew directly into the book, knocking it from Earnest's hands. The book landed on the floor with the poor bird wedged between the pages. Feeling tired, Earnest thought little of it and promptly fell asleep. It wasn't until the next morning when the import of the serendipitous events of the night prior hit home.
Earnest awoke in a well-rested and enthusiastic state of mind. His first thought related to the desire to win at Nintendos. He reached down for his trusty book and was initially startled to find the dead bird nestled within. Eventually he recalled what had happened and was readying to dispose of the bird when it dawned on him: the book had fallen in such a way that the bird remained stuck between the pages. After carefully removing it and wiping away the visceral smears, he was delighted that he didn't have to rely on his memory in order to resume the book. He continued to utilise the dead bird until the book was finished, never losing his place once. Needless to say, he successfully managed to win at Nintendos.
An entrepreneurial spirit now infused Earnest and he recruited several friends to hunt for birds. Via some well-executed demonstrations, he convinced many thousands that his dead birds would ensure no one had to lose their place in a book ever again. Earnest developed and honed his technique by pre-flattening the birds and draining them of fluid. This made it easier for the consumer to wedge the bird and ensured books came away from the experience with fewer stains.
For the next few years, Earnest's 'Birds for Books' business boomed and he made significant amounts of money. There were those who mimicked his success, hunting their own birds and accumulating large financial reward themselves. Millions across the world were now using birds to help keep their place in books. This boom could only go so far however as the increased demand for Bookbirds saw a devastating decrease in the bird population. It wasn't long until all bird species were officially extinct. New methods of book place-holding were soon explored.
\*
"Read anything good lately, Amanda?" asked a sniggering group of co-workers at the steel mill where she worked. It was a question that had been posed to Amanda on numerous occasions, simply to get an entertaining rise. She had long ago decided not to let their bitchy words deflate her although it didn't help that all of Amanda's co-workers were avid readers and, more importantly, book finishers. No one can help having 'Slow Eye'. Surely they have some smelting to do, she thought as the co-workers formed an imposing ring around her. The shoving soon commenced followed by fevered speed-reading; all at Amanda's expense.
Penny Needlescrapes watched the mass bullying as she smelted rods. She had a deep affection for Amanda that went well beyond typical male fantasy lesbianism. Penny also suffered from the debilitating 'Slow Eye'. She admired Amanda's strength and multitudinous breasts (of which there were roughly forty). Penny wished she had the courage to admit her affliction but knew it wouldn't happen. Prejudice was abundant, like pus in a blister store. Penny's 'Slow Eye' needn't be revealed however. Penny was now the proud owner of a brand new bookmark.
\*
Following the extinction of every bird (and the gibbon), the torch was handed over to science. A significant amount of time was devoted to the book place-holding dilemma. Utilising advancements in nanotechnology, books were soon developed that could remember what point their readers had reached.
The necessary technology required reading matter to form a rudimentary consciousness. Books were soon aware of their own content and behaved accordingly.
Those books deemed 'classics' pomped around, demeaning all and sundry with their egotism. It wasn't uncommon for a book to actively prevent those deemed unworthy from reading its contents. There were books that would refuse to open or snap shut without warning. This led to a fear of literature that saw anxious readers resorting to material of the most unsavoury kind.
It was the fiction that wallowed in pornographic gratuity that benefited the most from the new technology. These unsavoury books -- now comprehending their content -- were in a state of constant sexual arousal. As a result, wave after wave of readers were molested by their own reading material. Books that dwelt upon the most obscene graphic violence were imbued with a bloodlust that sparked a paper cut epidemic. For a period of eighteen months, all books were avoided. This sent the field of nanotechnology into a downward spiral that permanently destroyed its reputability. It is for this reason that nanotechnology's sole commercial use remains in the field of pornography to this day.
\*
Penny ambushed Amanda in the rod storeroom. Although her methods were intimidating, her intentions were pure. Amanda tried fiercely to scurry from beneath Penny's growing loom.
"Please don't run, I just want to help you."
The sincerity in Penny's eyes comforted Amanda immediately. She had never seen such sincerity before and it made her feel safe. Amanda wasn't the kind of girl that attracted help from her fellow humans. Her slow eyes made eye contact a laborious chore and it gave her an outward appearance of mild retardation. She had been implored to maintain eye contact when involved in conversation so many times that it was pointless keeping count.
Penny knelt down to meet Amanda's gaze and together their slug paced eyes slowly locked. There was an instant connection between the two that bloomed into a lung-crushing hug. They both fell to the floor, struggling for breath, which was granted via the hug's abortion.
"You have it too, don't you?" asked Amanda.
"You know it, sport," replied Penny.
They fell once more into an eyeball-popping embrace that didn't end until death had overcome them. Fortunately the power of their connection ensured they were quickly resuscitated by gentle winds of mutual understanding.
"You'll have to forgive me," said Amanda, "It's just so overwhelming to meet someone who understands what I feel."
Penny smiled warmly, her luscious lips coated in dribble. "You want to read, don't you?"
Amanda found the question confronting. How did she possess the nerve to just say it like that?
"It's ok," said Penny, "I was like you not so long ago. I'd start reading and tire after an hour or so, only to have read a couple of meagre pages."
Amanda was interested now. This kindred spirit had clearly overcome a very similar problem.
"So, what did you do?" trembled Amanda.
"The answer turned out to be so simple. I was introduced to it by an acquaintance."
"What answer?"
Penny flashed a grin and reached inside her collar pocket. A few anxious seconds of fumbling later and she had found it. "I got it!" she beamed. In her hand was a simple slip of card, yet it seemed to radiate with such abundant purpose.
"What is it?" asked a clearly awe-struck Amanda.
Penny grinned knowingly. "Rather than tell you, how about I show you?" She detached a novel that was strapped to the back of her head. It was a thick one, probably over 500 pages. The sheer size filled Amanda with all-encompassing defeat. What I wouldn't give to make my way through such a volume, she thought.
Penny fanned the pages of the novel wildly, "Tell me when to stop."
Confused by the demonstration, the fanning had to occur several times before Amanda muttered a feeble, "Stop."
Penny held the novel open at the spread. "Okay, remember this. We're on page 240 - 241. You got that?"
Amanda nodded.
"No, say it out loud. I need to make sure you remember. What spread are we on?"
"240 - 241," she repeated.
What happened next was so overwhelming that Amanda feared she would faint. Penny held up the book, with the pages still at 240 - 241 and slid the slip of card inside. With the dramatic flair of an illusionist she snapped it shut.
"NOOOO!" screamed Amanda instinctively.
"What if I were to tell you that thanks to this slip of card, we'll be able to find our spot in any book instantly?"
"I'D SAY YOU WERE A LYING WHORE!" Amanda was clearly a little distressed.
With those harsh words ringing in her ears, Penny flipped open the book at the exact spot where the slip had been placed and held it up to Amanda.
"Would you please read aloud the spread you are currently seeing?"
Amanda moved in close, waiting for her eyes to catch up. When they finally did, she focused on the page numbers. Sure enough, the book was back at 240 - 241. This time she did faint.
\*
A parapsychologist by the name of Herman Friars stumbled upon the next phase in the evolution of the bookmark while conducting a séance in Pasadena. Herman Friars was well-respected in his field and conducted weekly séances in various decrepit locales around town.
One such gathering found Friars attempting to communicate with the soul of one Stephanie Dundergrass. Dundergrass was a Pasadena resident in the late 1800s who had passed over while attempting to maintain her spot in an entertaining romance romp she had been reading. Historical evidence suggests the book was entitled 'Longing for a Plague-free Johnson'.
Dundergrass grew weary with reading at roughly the halfway point and sought sleep. Not wishing to lose her place, she rigged up a rather elaborate sleeping chair to ensure her upright position was maintained. Her arms were locked into place by a trusted servant and the book attached to her hands with mild adhesive.
As the servant left Dundergrass to her own devices for the night, he quite accidentally toppled a lamp. The adhesive used turned out to be extremely flammable and the flames from the lamp leapt toward her hands, eventually devouring her body, burning her to a crisp. Stephanie Dundergrass' corpse was discovered the next morning by her father. The burnt-out book was still firmly attached to her blackened hands.
Aware of the fascinating history surrounding Dundergrass, Friars gathered a small group of paranormal enthusiasts to attend the séance. The group held hands and in unison chanted Stephanie's name. Immediately a disembodied voice wafted through the air exclaiming I never lost my place. I never lost my place. Give me a tome in which I may read.
Friars reached into a nearby satchel and placed his latest book, 'On Why I'm Cumming', onto the table. The book flipped open, controlled spiritually by Dundergrass and immediately slammed shut again.
"I SHALL NEVER LOSE MY PLACE," said the ghostly voice as the book reopened at the exact same spot.
Participants of the séance sat aghast as the energy left the room. From beyond the grave, Stephanie Dundergrass had achieved what so many had failed to do. News of the occurrence spread internationally. Séances became the standard way to maintain one's place in a book. Herman Friars benefited financially by teaching the skills involved and it wasn't long before basic séance techniques were taught in school as essential research tools.
However, the extreme spike in spirit world contact upset the theosophical balance and the world was soon inundated with poltergeist activity and church burnings. Representatives from the major religions formed an emergency committee with a goal of ending the séances. Thanks to some hard work they were ultimately successful and once more, the issue of marking one's place within a book was relegated insurmountable.
\*
The shock of Penny's bookmark demonstration was enough to render Amanda bedridden for upwards of a month. Penny steadfastly sat at Amanda's bedside, willing her back to health.
"You simply must wake up," Penny implored. "I believe that within you lurks a voracious reader and, with the aid of a bookmark, your 'Slow Eye' will be forgotten."
Having spent so long at Amanda's unconscious side, Penny got to know her equally concerned family very well. The source of the 'Slow Eye' was revealed.
Amanda's eyes never used to be an issue. In fact, it was the rest of her body that had made life difficult. As a child Amanda had what was known as 'Fast Body'. On any given occasion, her body would move as if in fast forward, tiring out anyone bearing witness. This was with the exception of her eyes, which doctors claimed, moved in exact accordance to acceptable protocol. A confusing calibration treatment was initiated, with the eventual aim of matching the speed of Amanda's body with her perfectly average eyes. Due to poor handwriting, the calibration treatment met with some hurdles. Although successful as far as body speed went, Amanda's eyes were slowed to a drone. When evidence of the mistake was shown to the doctor responsible, he leapt gracefully from a window and was never heard from again. This was in direct contrast to Penny's particular strain of 'Slow Eye', which was caused by a test screening of 'The Curious Case of Benjamin Button'.
\*
Amanda's eyelids rose like a bridge. Penny stood over her, wearing a smile and absolutely nothing else.
"Your labia are really long," were the first words from Amanda's mouth.
Covering herself up with an embarrassed hand, Penny held the bookmark aloft with the other. The look of awe returned to Amanda immediately, however she was able to stave off another fainting spell.
"You absolutely have to get yourself one, Amanda."
"But I don't even know what it's called, Penny. I don't even know where to get one."
"All you need to know is that it's called a bookmark. I'll take care of the rest."
The word bookmark repeated itself hypnotically inside Amanda's head. How could the answer to life's most enduring mystery be so simple? she thought.
\*
Ironically it was an illiterate man called Doodlewanky Peppercorn who stumbled upon what is today known as the bookmark. Sending his son Mark off to school one morning he had to provide a note of absence for the day prior. His wife Trumpetina had to write the note when his own effort resulted in plagiarism.
Not wanting Mark to forget the note, he slid it into his mathematics textbook. In what will surely go down in history as one of life's happiest accidents, Doodlewanky slid the note into the book at the exact page his son -- and the rest of the class -- were currently up to.
That day in maths class the teacher anxiously clutched the textbook to his chest, hoping that somehow he would stumble upon the correct page. All students were instructed to ready their own copies, which is when Mark happened across his note of absence. Flicking through the book to retrieve the note, he was utterly mystified to find it opening to the page his teacher had so desperately wanted. His arms fell to his side as the urge to collapse bit at him.
Meanwhile Mark's teacher paced the classroom, casting glances at his students all the while. Most avoided eye contact while some simply lost themselves in his crotch. There was one student however who appeared to already have his book open in what the teacher could only decipher as a crazed act of cocksureness.
"What's that in your book, Mark?" he asked.
Not receiving any reply, the teacher strode over toward the desk.
"I asked you a question, Mark!"
It was then that he saw it. This student, this nobody, had somehow managed to find the page. What's more, he'd done it easily.
"How is this possible?" he asked Mark, who was still dazed.
Mark picked up the note with a shaking hand and held it up to his teacher.
"I'm supposed to give you this, sir," he stammered.
The teacher plucked the note from Mark's hand and asked, "Where did you retrieve this note, young man?"
"It was in my book, Sir. My father must have put it there."
The teacher's eyes widened and at once, he was struck by the sheer enormity of what had occurred. He picked up Mark's book and opened it to a random page. Quickly noting the page number, he slid the note back inside and closed it with a dramatic thud, causing all the students to jump in fright. His eyes darted frantically around the classroom where the students sat dumbfounded. Very slowly, he opened the book, unsure of the outcome. Ever so nervously he read the page number and to his utter amazement found that Mark's slip of paper had achieved what previously he'd only dreamt about.
"YOU'VE DONE IT, MARK!" he yelled before collapsing lifelessly.
\*
"They're still so new that a lot of places can't afford to stock them yet," said Penny as she walked with Amanda. "The only reason I can even afford one is coz I know a guy who makes bootlegs."
Amanda still couldn't believe what they were about to do. If what Penny said was true, by the end of the day she'd have her very own bookmark. Amanda had already been convinced to withdraw five-hundred dollars from her savings account, which she clutched tightly in a balled fist.
"Seriously, these things are selling for up to ten grand. I know five-hundred seems a lot, but it's nothing compared to how much these things are worth."
Amanda believed Penny implicitly. Sure, spending such large sums of money wasn't a regular occurrence in her life but this was worth it. If it meant she would finish a book, any price was worth it.
"Thank you, Penny."
"For what?"
Amanda stood lamb-like, her jumper pulled childishly over her hands. "For helping me realise my dream, for believing in me. No one ever has before and I can't tell you how much it means to me."
Penny pulled Amanda in for a hug. "It's okay. Remember, I'm just like you. After this we can start our own reading club."
Amanda pulled away in total excitement. "What!? A reading club!? That's been my dream since before my mother was even born!"
She pulled Penny back into the hug, squeezing harder than ever as mutual admiration coursed through their bodies.
\*
They arrived at a residential address just outside the CBD. It was a stylish looking place with minimalist design, almost certainly German in approach.
"This place was designed from sketches by Ludwig Mies van der Rohe himself," said Penny.
"I have no idea who that is," replied Amanda.
"It doesn't matter. All you need to know is that inside this house lurks your new bookmark."
That was enough to send Amanda into spirals of joy. It was such an unassuming house, yet it contained the potential to alter the course of her life significantly.
"I'm almost too nervous to go inside," she whimpered.
"It's okay. Just follow me," responded Penny with a sympathetic nod.
Penny's knuckles rapped against the door as Amanda hid nervously behind her. Time stretched as they awaited an answer. When the door finally opened, both let out a gasp, followed by a delicate queef.
"Ahhhhhhh, you made it, girls," said the overtly confident man who answered the door.
He was of average height and sported a single, awkward dreadlock that arched from his head.
"I'd like you to meet Vincent Peopleworthy," said Penny to Amanda. "Vincent, this is Amanda."
Vincent looked Amanda up and down and decided he enjoyed what he saw.
"Pleased to meet you, Amanda," he said with hand outstretched.
Amanda placed her delicate hand in his and nodded self-consciously.
"So, you girls ready for a bookmark or what?"
\*
The accidental discovery of book marking became known as the Doodlewanky method. A research team was quickly developed thanks to the joint efforts of many international interest groups. For six months, Doodlewanky Peppercorn was subject to a barrage of invasive testing that destroyed his marriage.
The problem faced by the research team concerned Doodlewanky's inability to comprehend what had happened. As far as he was concerned, all he did was slip his son an absence note, no more. The researchers didn't care. In their methodical minds the discovery of the bookmark was a carefully deployed series of intrinsically sensible decisions. No one, under any circumstances, stumbles across such a thing, it was simply impossible.
Having decided that Doodlewanky had been paid off by those with competing interests, the researchers eventually gave up. It was too late for Doodlewanky however. He was now synonymous with the rumoured discovery and there was nothing he could do or say to change that. It wasn't until the opportunity to appear on television presented itself that Doodlewanky was able to set the record straight.
The talk show was called, 'Are You Ready to Start Talking for Audiences?' and was one of the top rating shows on TV. The host of the show, Blimey Stinksnatch, had requested Doodlewanky specifically and buzz surrounding the airing was high.
Record numbers tuned in, readying themselves for what they assumed were the wise words of 'The Reading Prophet' as he'd come to be known. The first words that fell from Doodlewanky's mouth were enough to destroy any and all illusions, "I can't read."
Incensed by this revelation, Blimey Stinksnatch choked Doodlewanky to death. No one endeavoured to stop her. After this incident, on-air choking became fashionable and many people needlessly died in what will go down in history as 'a rather regrettable period'.
\*
"I'm sorry to get all brazen on your lovely arses but I needs to see the money." Vincent rubbed his fingers together, illustrating his point. Amanda reluctantly let her $500 drop on the kitchen counter in a crumpled heap.
"It seems a little harsh, I know, but I've had more than one dirty scammer try to rip me off. I hope you understand n' all."
"It's fine," said Penny, "We totally get it."
Vincent flashed a series of confusing winks at the two ladies and gestured for them to follow.
They arrived in a small room decked out in 'Who's the Boss' memorabilia.
"I loved that show," offered Amanda.
"Who didn't?" responded Vincent. "You two ladies wait right here, I'll be back."
He returned a minute later with a small briefcase. Amanda nearly wet herself, fully aware that the briefcase contained her future.
"Now I got three for you to choose from, all hand-crafted in Lisbon."
He slowly opened the briefcase, the charming scent of bookmarks filling the air. They sat perfectly, three lined up, all screaming buy me! Perspiration formed on Amanda's forehead. Her eyes hadn't caught up yet and were only now starting to take them in.
"They're beautiful."
"They sure as hell are," said Vincent, full of pride. "I guarantee ya, take these out n' about and there ain't no one who'll think you paid a measly 500 for 'em."
"I just don't know how to choose."
"Take your time. I ain't gonna pressure you."
Amanda turned to face Penny. "If it weren't for you, I'd never have this opportunity. I'd be honoured if you'd choose one for me."
Penny blushed her cheeks apart and shook her head like she was having a seizure.
"Please, Penny. It would mean the world to me."
After an internal dialogue that concluded with the consumption of elk, Penny agreed. She walked toward the briefcase and studied the three bookmarks available. They all looked so stunning, so perfect. She thought of Amanda and tried her best to match each bookmark with her personality. It was vital that she made the right decision. Eventually she picked one up, saying, "This is it. I just know it."
She held the bookmark toward Amanda, praying it would suffice. There was a painful moment of silence, which mercifully ended with emphatic nods of approval.
"It's perfect, Penny. Thank you so much."
Once more they both hugged. Vincent attempted to muscle his way in but was elbowed away. The bookmark was a marvel of design. It was stark white with bold, black text that advertised an insurance company. Its grandeur was topped off by the company's web address.
\*
The notion that a tool so vital to the art of reading was discovered by an illiterate sickened the elite who steadfastly refused to ever utilise such a device. This had obvious impact on any financial gain investors hoped to make. A posthumous ploy to paint Doodlewanky as an eccentric genius was enacted. Several covert authors penned labyrinthine novels emblazoned with Doodlewanky's name that were presented to the world as uncovered masterpieces. The ploy unravelled when the novels were deemed poor by many of the world's leading critics.
This didn't completely deter everyone however. A rich philanthropist called Newlunge Cracklebang was extremely interested in the humanitarian possibilities the bookmark suggested. He was forward thinking (and rich) enough to ignore the reactionary furore that had arisen to this point. He recruited a team of scientists and designers to develop a range of bookmark prototypes. The team ultimately consisted of 450 scientists (many of whom specialised in bisonry) and 200 designers (many of whom were dead). A research/development institute was erected in Yemen and christened 'The Tit' after Cracklebang's mother.
The first bookmark (codename: Harpies Knee) was completed eight months later. Doubling as a bison insemination device, Harpies Knee was an alarmingly expensive example of overindulgence. Costing 20 million to develop it was soon shelved after a trial suggested it only had a ten percent success rate. It was back to the drawing board for Cracklebang and his team.
\*
Amanda could barely contain her excitement as she hurried home from Vincent's. Her bookmark was safely stored in a complimentary case to protect it from outside elements. Tucked under her arm was a 700 page instruction manual that went over the basic aspects of bookmark use. A more detailed edition was available should she request it. Given the immense size of the basic manual, Amanda sincerely hoped it wouldn't be necessary. The fact that the manual was so long it required the use of a bookmark struck Amanda as unusual.
The agonising trip home finally came to an end. Amanda scurried into her apartment and drew the blinds, not wanting the outside world to interfere with her special moment. With the environment prepared she carefully removed the bookmark from its protective casing and sat it on the coffee table. She spent several minutes staring at it in veneration. Beside the bookmark she placed the hefty operation manual. Her eyes glanced over toward her bookshelves. How can I possibly choose which book to use first? I desire to read them all. She decided to shut her eyes and point randomly toward the bookcase, letting fate decide. With her eyes tightly closed and an outstretched finger, she walked toward the bookshelf, toppling several nativity displays along the way. Finally she felt her finger bump into a spine. A grin enveloped her face. My first book, she thought. Her eyes opened and she plucked it from the shelf. The book was 'On Why I'm Cumming' by Herman Friars. Oh joy! I've heard this one is very good.
\*
The next four days were spent sleeplessly pouring over the instruction manual. She was only an eighth of the way through but was fairly certain she had acquired the adequate knowledge to use her bookmark. She wisely decided on a nap first which turned into a seven day sleeping binge. When Amanda finally awoke she was full of energy and desire. She scurried toward the coffee table where the bookmark awaited, urinating on the way. She opened 'On Why I'm Cumming', got comfortable and began to read.
The prose was remarkably dense and largely nonsensical. Many lines had to be read more than 80 times before even the slightest meaning was revealed. After 10 hours, Amanda was disheartened to find she had only progressed six pages and still had no idea why Herman Friars was cumming. Her slow eyes had really copped a workout in the last few days, so she decided now would be the right time to use her bookmark. Picking it up carefully from the coffee table, trying her best to remember the recommended grip, she placed it into the book. Amanda shook as she began to close it, reminding herself several times that the instructions promised her place would be maintained. When the book was completely shut, she crossed herself and retired to bed, body unfed and exhausted.
Amanda awoke in high spirits. 'On Why I'm Cumming' sat on the coffee table beckoning her. It seemed inconceivable that she would soon pick up the book and continue exactly where she left off.
The book felt majestic in her grip. The bookmark jutted out, doing its job tirelessly. You've been here all night, just holding my place. I love you. She opened the book where the bookmark suggested and was immediately struck by confusion. No, this doesn't look at all correct. I hadn't progressed this far, not even close. Amanda was staring in horror at page 190, knowing full well that she barely managed 10 pages the day before. Is it possible that I just lost track of time? After muddling her way through several passages it was obvious the bookmark had failed. Tears clogged her eyes and she fell backward, sobbing wretchedly. She had pinned her hopes so completely on the success of the bookmark that there was no fallback.
\*
Harpies Knee was a resounding failure but it didn't stop Newlunge Cracklebang from persevering. Dozens more bookmark prototypes were developed at unthinkable costs but with each new prototype, they arrived closer to one that worked. Word of their ambitious project spread throughout the scientific community and at last the Doodlewanky controversy faded from view.
The number of lives lost during the bookmark's development tormented Cracklebang but with each new fatality, his will to succeed only increased. He wasn't having so many good men die for nothing. And so it was, seven years after the first prototype, a bookmark called 'The Wrinkly Slit' was trailed with overwhelmingly positive results. Cracklebang and the seven surviving members of his team rejoiced and the world's media was instantly alerted.
Cracklebang was regarded a hero on an international level. He was awarded the annual P.I.S.S award (Performance in Scientific Studies) which he dedicated to the memory of the good men and women who died for the dream. Production on commercial bookmarks began immediately.
The technology associated with the first generation bookmarks was exceedingly expensive. The first batch came off the production line with a price tag of $120 000 ensuring that only the most affluent individuals could afford to possess one. They were snapped up surprisingly fast by the military, who refused to divulge their intended use for the bookmarks.
Within two years, the cost of bookmarks came down to a more manageable $30 000 and they finally started to filter into family homes and schools. The impact was immediate but widened the divide between social classes -- the price still being well beyond the means of lower income families.
\*
Penny grew very worried about Amanda who hadn't been to work in nearly a month. She desperately wanted to give Amanda the opportunity to enjoy the bookmark alone but so much time had passed that the worry took over. She paid Amanda a visit that night.
When her door knocks went unanswered at first, it only intensified her concern.
"C'mon Amanda, I know you're in there. It's Penny. Please open the door."
After 40 minutes of unwavering pleading, Amanda finally opened up. Her eyes were puffed shut from the constant tears.
"Oh no!" said Penny as she wrapped her arms around Amanda. "You poor thing. What's happened?
"It's the bookmark. I can't get it to work," sobbed Amanda.
"Let's have a look at it. We'll get to the bottom of this."
Penny led Amanda back into the house and sat her on the couch. Penny's presence provoked a tiny smile on Amanda's face, the first in days.
"Now, tell me what the problem is?"
Amanda picked up the book in order to demonstrate. "It's simple really. I insert the bookmark as specified in the instructions and when I open up where the bookmark suggests, the page is always wrong. I've tried hundreds of times but it's beyond my capabilities. I can't work, I can't sleep and small pieces of my back have fallen off."
Penny's eyebrow cocked in suspicion. "That doesn't sound right. Give it here, let me have a look."
Amanda handed the book to Penny who found a page and quickly slid the bookmark in. She waited a few seconds before reopening the book. Sure enough, the page was wildly wrong.
"I don't get it," she said, still staring at the page. "Amanda, I don't think there's anything wrong with your method. I think it's the bookmark itself. It simply doesn't work."
A tiny burst of relief erupted in Amanda. For the first time she had a glimmer of hope. Maybe it wasn't her after all. She had just obtained a faulty bookmark.
"What can we do?" asked Amanda, "I can't afford to buy another one."
"Buy another?" scoffed Penny. "Screw that! We're marching over to Vincent's and getting a replacement right now. You're not spending a cent more."
"Do you think he'll do it?"
"He'd better or he'll be wearing my fist!"
Amanda grinned and wrapped her arms around Penny. We sure hug a lot, Penny thought.
\*
The high cost of bookmarks caused an underground bootlegging movement. Wildly unpredictable replicas found their way onto the market boasting an irresistible price tag. Underground bookmarks didn't exhibit the same level of craftsmanship and weren't subjected to the barrage of safety testing of their commercial counterparts.
Like anything though, the bootlegging technique was honed and achieved a level of stability comparable to the commercially produced product. The practice was still against the law but was no longer heavily enforced. An unspoken agreement that the benefit of bookmarks outweighed the legality permeated most cities where bootlegging took place. As long as injury didn't occur, bootleggers were no longer prosecuted.
\*
"Vincent! Open up!" screamed Penny as she pounded the door.
The passion in Penny's voice intimidated Amanda but she definitely appreciated having her as an ally. A tired looking Vincent eventually opened, wiping his eyes and yawning like a whore on Tuesday.
"What the hell! You ladies woke me," he said with irritation.
"I don't care! You have some explaining to do. What's with the bad gear, Vincent?"
Vincent looked deeply offended. "What!? Bad gear? You gotta be shitting me. I ain't never given out bad gear in my life."
"Yeah? Well explain this!" Penny snatched the bookmark from Amanda's hands and waved it in front of Vincent's nose.
Vincent dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "I don't got time for this shit right now. Why don't you girls run along?"
Penny pushed past Vincent in a huff, dragging Amanda behind.
"Hey bitch! Get outta my house!"
"We'll get out when you give Amanda a replacement!"
"I ain't giving anyone shit!"
Penny stormed over to Vincent's rather stark bookcase and pulled out a book about pens. She slammed the book and bookmark down on the kitchen counter.
"There, try it for yourself! Your shit doesn't work!"
Vincent eyed the two ladies suspiciously. What are they trying to pull? He thought. Tentatively he picked up the book and flicked to a random page.
"Remember to pay attention to the page number," yelled Penny.
"Alright, alright. I'm not an idiot."
Vincent placed the book mark at roughly the half way point, paying attention to the page numbers; 340 - 341. He let it sit for a while before opening it again at the marked page. He couldn't believe what he saw. He had been thrown back to page 22 - 23...
The history of the bookmark is an admittedly complex one. Although the perfect design hasn't yet been achieved, developments continue to occur at a remarkable pace. The price continues to plummet and more families are able to utilise one. Government initiatives have been created to ensure lower income families are given the chance to own one. It can only be assumed that in the next five years, bookmarks will achieve the ubiquity they so deeply deserve.
It's important to recognise the sacrifices that were an unfortunate by-product on the road to the bookmark. From the early days of Bookbirds to the serendipitous discovery by Doodlewanky, the road has been plagued with difficulty. Maybe now, as the bookmark moves ever closer toward perfection, we can appreciate exactly how we got here.
\*
..."What is this shit?" Vincent asked in amazement.
"What did we fucking tell you?" Penny retorted. "Now go get a replacement for Amanda here and prove to us that it works before we leave."
Vincent was deeply disturbed. He had never sold bad gear before and it sickened him. His eyes darted around the room wildly, as if searching for an easy solution.
"Well?" asked the increasingly impatient Penny.
"Sorry, no refunds," screamed Vincent before diving dramatically from his first storey window. He died upon impact.
Amanda slumped forward and with tear varnished eyes said, "I just want to read a book and finally reach the end."
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Matthew Revert is absurdity's whore. His writing explores the lack of sense in all things and plays with the notion that nothing is ultimately wrong or right. He is most comfortable in the gutter and sees profound things in filthy places.
His first book A Million Versions of Right was published by LegumeMan Books in 2009.
He is currently hard at work on his second and third: The Tumours Made Me Interesting and Stealing Fred Savage.
He can be contacted here:matthewrevert@hotmail.com
LEGUMEMAN BOOKS
Extreme and/or Unusual Fiction for
Extreme and/or Unusual People
Also by LegumeMan
Spare Key by R. Frederick Hamilton
Archelon Ranch by Garrett Cook
Dinner Bell for the Dream Worms by Jason Wuchenich
10 A BOOT STOMPING 20 A HUMAN FACE 30 GOTO 10 by Jess Gulbranson
The Place In Between by The Reverend Steven Rage
Snake Jaw by Andrew Gallacher
Tales of Sin and Madness by Brett McBean
Table of Contents
THE BOOKMARK THAT WOULDN'T WORK

