SHORT STORY 8
T H E R E - I S - N O - D I A G N O S I S
SHORT STORY 8
THERE IS NO DIAGNOSIS
There is a near infinite number of people that can suffer for my amusement. You know none of them, and neither do I.
The door into that hotel suite finally swung open as several men, from undetermined Asian origins, stormed in – yet all they found was little old me sitting comfortably in a leather armchair. Smoke And Mirrors, from Puscifer, was playing on the stereo as I looked up from my blood covered hands. Those men in tailored suits were dumbstruck for a moment as they scanned the open space, looking for three other human specimens that were currently absent from the picture. A tiny guy then marched in. Grabbing my face, he squeezed my jaw like a furious dentist, and snarled in Mandarin as if those cunts assumed that I understood what the fuck they were saying. He then slapped me across the face! I couldn't help but smirk with shock. That was when I noticed several droplets of piss on the floor, next to that two-foot-tall vase. That little prick went to strike my face again – however, my hand rose and we high-fived! He instantly reacted to the blood that smeared across his palm and screamed like a fucking lunatic! Suddenly I was dragged out of there by two pillars of muscle, while those who had been searching the other rooms came back empty handed.
Soon, upstairs, I was seated at a dining table in another suite. An older Asian guy with a cravat and of gold rings on every finger, came escorted by several girls. One of the little Chinese runts who had unintentionally helped me into this establishment was forced onto a chair next to me: it was little Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes himself. He'd lost all of his cool demeanor as he twitched, glancing at everything below eye-level. Mr. Cravat whispered into the ear of some slick-looking guy. And in turn, Mr. Intermediate then relayed the message to Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes who nodded incessantly at every word. Twisting toward me, he then stuttered, "Where is everybody? What happened in the room? What the fuck did you do, man?!"
My cheek still burned when I spotted Mr. Slappy lingering near the doorway. Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes continued whining, while I focused on Mr. Slappy and how much I wanted to smash a fucking window with his face.
Impatient, Mr. Cravat thumped the tabletop and squawked at Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes, thus provoking the wrath of one of the many bodyguards who smacked him across the back of the scalp! "The fuck happened to the others! Speak! Tell them something!"
Sniffing at that repugnant tang of dried blood, I rubbed my fingertips together in front of my face. "Nothing happened. They picked the lock. Left me there by myself."
Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes quickly rattled off a translation down the grape-vine, where it was immediately refuted by Mr. Slappy's sarcastic laughter.
Annoyed, Mr. Cravat half-turned his snout toward that chuckling subordinate.
Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes then informed me of Mr. Slappy's repudiation, "Can't pick the lock. It's a key-card. There's no keyhole to pick!"
"I don't know how they opened the door, but they obviously did something that fucking worked," I snarled, when suddenly Mr. Slappy grabbed my wrist, exposing the bloodstains to Mr. Cravat.
"Seriously, man," Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes pleaded in hushed tones. "Tell them something, or we're seriously fucked!"
BOOM went the whole table, as Mr. Intermediate smashed a marble bust upon the fingers of Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes!
My smile stretched as I watched that little social-climber shriek. Mr. Intermediate seemed professionally indifferent as he nodded again. A security guard then came down on the young Asian guy like the restraints on a roller coaster – yeah, as if the well-being of Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes was any of my fucking concern. However, his horrified voice was worse than feedback! His squealing was enough to get even me talking, just to shut him the fuck up. "They've been eighty-sixed."
Everyone, including the tormented Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes, paused and squinted with their already squinty-chinky eyes. Is that racist, even when it's a genuine observation?
"When Mr. Fag-Boy and Miss Resting-Bitch-Face weren't throwing hissy-fits at the locked door, they kept themselves busy by snorting copious amounts of cocaine," I slowly recalled. "The entire time, Little Miss Shitty-Pants ranted endlessly while she finger-fucked her phone. It's a love affair. No man could ever compete against a girl's fucking app-addiction."
Mr. Cravat sniggered, as his head rose back. He clearly seemed capable of comprehending my recollections without translation.
The giant bodyguard clutching Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes had somewhat loosened his grip once I'd begun to appease his boss, but I scowled, "Hey, no slacking off on the fucking job! Why the fuck should I cooperate if you don't have some kind of fucking leverage over me?! Come on, guys! You threaten him, and that's what makes me talk! Come on, Jesus fuck! Choke him!"
Mr. Cravat tilted his expression, and then finally took a seat opposite me. A servant from the shadows automatically stepped up and poured him a glass of gin.
Taking a stiff, white napkin from the table arrangement, I wiped the residual blood from my palms. "Never tried opening the door myself. Why bother. The others all went ape-shit at it with no success."
"What are you talking about?" Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes muttered with his American accent. Suddenly the guard thumped him, and he gasped, "Come on! Get to the point!"
Looking around the whole room with its wet black windows, I finally confessed, "I flushed them down the toilet."
"Man, stop messing with these guys!"
"I. Flushed. Them. All. Down. The fucking toilet!"
Mr. Cravat glanced at nothing.
"There was this nice blender in the suite. I literally liquidated them. And then flushed them down the toilet like the worthless fucking shit that they were!"
"Tell them what they want to hear! Tell them where the fuck the others are!" Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes mumbled. "The fuck is wrong with you?!"
"Apparently, according to my therapist, there's absolutely nothing wrong with me. She said that, "There is no diagnosis." That I have, "Finely-tuned coping-mechanisms." My life has been validated. Now, how about you shut your fucking hole and let me finish telling the fucking story."
Several hours earlier, a miserable wind had kept me company while I stood in the middle of Mühlendamm bridge. After I finished reading a short letter, I stared down at the black waters below the refection of the Berlin Dom. The railing on the bridge was low and easy to climb. That alone gave me some reassurance that I didn't have to travel all the way back to Scotland in order to finish what I had so stupidly postponed. This year's winter felt exactly the same as last year's, and I was still here, despite my best efforts. Screwing up the letter, I tossed it into the river as I thought of the sigils that I'd burnt on the shores of Loch Ness. The devils at the summit of the Holy Mountain Of Pigs had been right all along: I had indeed been duped by the oxytocin! However, out there on the bridge, the water was once again calling for me.
Yet, I soon felt something watching me. Twisting to my left, I glanced across the two triple-lanes, toward the other side of the empty bridge. There, that old, bearded man in black robes, glared straight back at me. I hadn't seen him since the funeral in Potsdam. Turning toward that gloomy old rabbi, I wasn't surprised that he urgently walked away. The rain then began pelting down. If I wanted a sign from the great indifference of the hopeless fucking universe, then this was as good as any.
Following the tall stranger, I had a fistful of questions for that whimsical cunt, but a few blocks toward Stadtmitte, he turned and entered an old building just before I could grab his arm. A looming bouncer then slammed his hand against my chest! It felt like I had walked into a telephone pole. Watching the old man disappear into what looked like a luxury hotel, I sneered at the bouncer before scanning over the wide building's nineteenth century facade.
I had been led astray AGAIN!
Straightening my wet overcoat, I turned back the way I'd come – only to collide right into a swarm of assholes exiting several taxis. At least half a dozen umbrellas popped open at once, so I ducked under their blackened canopies as they swept past the overwhelmed bouncer.
That group of ten young, Chinese business men was defined by an aggressive sense of expensive style. In the narrow lobby they all shook off the rain and laughed about whatever the fuck twenty-something-year-old CEO's fucking laughed about. I was only interested in finding that enigmatic old prick, but the huge lounge in the front of the building was completely deserted. Joining the youngsters, I dumped my coat at the front desk, before we all stumbled up the large marble staircase. The hysterics coming from those guys dressed in Canali, Brioni, and Zegna was exactly what you'd expect from kids taking cocaine on an empty stomach. Why no one had noticed my presence was anyone's fucking guess.
The top floor was a club called, The Little China Embassy. My old friend, AJ, had once described his experience at an exclusive strip-bar in Dubai, but as decadent as that had sounded, this was weirder. The open plan had multiple levels soaked in a rich atmosphere of opulent crimson and olive highlights. The clientele were all from the smug-faced-gentlemen portion of the gender-spectrum, while the staff ranged from every other inclination of humanity. However, my simplistic presumption that the place was merely a glorified opium den was soon corrected once my retina sponged up the acts taking place at various tables, booths, and VIP conclaves. Bodily fluids were on the menu tonight! I was awe-struck. Was this the promised land, the sixth day's work? The closest customer was using chopsticks to pluck snails from the spread-eagle genitals of some flat-chested girl sprawled upon the table. Another horde of posh-nosed old men were huddled around a naked boy who bent over and released a Champagne-enema into the awaiting crystal glasses. Behind the cheers that ensued, two men in their fifties (who were probably good, upstanding egalitarian partisans by day), were using thick rubber tubing to castigate every orifice from a circle of girls that had been bound together with bondage rope. This was a club for the elite iconoclast who had left their redundant notions of social norms, along with their spotless wedding rings of fidelity-deception, at the front desk. There wasn't a single moral-compass to be found in anyone's vest pocket this evening. After all, why should successful husbands remain attracted to aging wives, when they only desired the pristine flesh of little girls with perfectly petite pink bits. Flesh ages – lust does not.
I was savoring the sight of a fecal discharge pouring from a slender boy into the cupped hands of a delighted grandpa, when I first met Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes. He slung his arm around my shoulders like we were best buddies from boarding school where we used to jerk off over our room-mate every other night. Like the rest of his friends, he was laughing at how subservient the polite hostess was as she led the group toward their booth. It was when he suddenly spat on the floor, that my eyes were directed toward his designer dress shoes that reminded me of two black Lamborghini Huracáns – hence his given designation. Twisting away, I shed his arm like I was shaking off a used condom that had floated my way on a drunken breeze.
Loser, by Beck, then came over the loud sound system, just as my eyes spotted someone unexpected. For a moment, I just scowled at her from across that humid house of ill-repute, until that woman slowly looked directly back at my suspicious bewilderment. It was her, the Iranian woman from last year! She immediately rose from a crowd of suits as voices pawed at her departing swagger. Not once did her pupils look away from mine. Sauntering across the club, her black ponytail swung to the rhythm of her provocative hips within an elegant black, Yves Saint-Laurent dress. She placed her glass on a table as she approached, looking as if she was getting ready to fight. Suddenly Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes danced limply in front of me. The Iranian woman walked by, glaring condemnation at my presence as she grabbed my hand. She would have dragged me after her without resistance – had I not spotted the old rabbi. He was lurking in some secluded doorway, where he watched me as if he was forbidden from blinking. In the past I would have unquestioningly gone after the drop-dead-gorgeous female, but the quid pro quo of women gave me little more than easily forgotten idle talk. So, I ripped my wrist free from the Iranian and slammed my elbow into Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes driving him clean out of my way! But the second I approached the distant rabbi, he took a single step backward, and completely vanished into the shadows. Quickening my pace, I strode right through another cluster of Asian business men as I fought to catch a glimpse of that elusive character. However, my lack of manners clearly set off a few red-flags, and that last group of assholes weren't about to let my indiscretions slide. Some little shit grabbed my arm. I tore myself loose without regard, as I continued toward that doorway. Again, I was latched onto. With fuming impatience, I wrenched my arms out of the grasp of those nagging fucks, but I swung off balance and crashed straight into two chicks and a dick! The subsequent screams of indignation from those three cunts was a declaration of war! The crowd’s overreaction only exacerbated my frustration as I tried to move on. Those three lecherous cretins clung on like leeches and we all went down a second time, landing right in front of someone stepping out of the very doorway that I had endeavored to reach. Pinned under three bitches, my chin was ground against the floorboards where I saw three books THUD down inches from my face. I was held there for long enough to read the spine of each: The Storm Of Steel, by Ernst Jünger, Mysterium Coniunctionis, by Carl Jung, and The Magical Revival, by Kenneth Grant. A redwood of an old guy with pale blue eyes and wispy white hair, slowly knelt and collected his reading material without so much as a glance at my existence.
Moments later, an unknown number of security men in Italian suits, hurried off the collateral-damage including myself. I went without a word, while those three loud mouths seemed determined to inconvenience everyone's mood this evening.
We were soon locked in one of the hotel suites with nothing to do but wait. Mr. Fag-Boy was the first to busy himself by wrestling with the door in a flaccid attempt to protest this Shakespearean injustice. He was your typical Berlin douche with a rat-face below an overgrown porcupine of a bleached hairstyle. Miss Shitty-Pants was the spitting image of the 2015 Valentino Donna Fragrance model, and she immediately went looking for the Dom Pérignon. Miss Resting-Bitch-Face looked like Taylor Swift, who always reminded me of the anal-porn-star, Krystal Boyd. She also wasted no time pulling out her golden case of narcotics. No medieval torture had ever been as agonizing as having to listen to the petulant voices filling that suite with an alien language that made screaming babies sound soothing. I hated every square inch of those nauseating fucks!
Seeing how they'd served colonoscopies for appetizers upstairs, I was without a doubt that spillage happens – and my face had been pressed hard against that contaminated floor! So, I moved straight to the bathroom, accepting that there was no possibility of finding the old rabbi anymore. A passage from Milton then crossed my predicament, "All is not lost; the unconquerable will, and study of revenge, immortal hate, and courage never to submit or yield: and what is else not to be overcome? That glory never shall his wrath or might extort from me." Hanging my jacket, I rolled up my sleeves and thoroughly scrubbed my hands before washing my face with excessive amounts of soap. Standing there with water dripping from my face, I stared vacantly into the marble basin. This was a classy joint. No expense spared. A fancy playground for the rich and perverse. Because, after all, there's no degenerate act that money couldn't accommodate. If you could afford it. And of course, afford to cover it up. Yet no one, no matter whom or how cool, could afford to let the status quo fathom how despicable they really were behind closed doors. People are never as understanding as the insecure like to overestimate. The core principle of privacy was: anything goes – if you could afford it! The audacious claim that no grown adult was helpless, was only ever true if they could afford help. If they could afford justice. If they could afford hope. But if you couldn't, then get the fuck back down where you belong! And I clearly wasn't part of this affluent world. I wasn't meant to be here. Sir Francis Bacon then spoke up in the back of my head, "The mind is the man, and the knowledge of the mind. A man is but what he knoweth." However, this did little to outweigh my abysmal thoughts that ran violent at an accelerating rate. The chrome faucet was still gushing, yet it still couldn't drown out those squealing voices in the other room, until a line from Macbeth became another ear-worm, repeating, "Full of scorpions is my mind."
The bathroom door then eased open, and Miss Resting-Bitch-Face leaned in with derision in her eyes.
Turning my back on her, I reached my suit jacket – when she suddenly grabbed my arm! Slowly facing that female, I could feel those scorpions stabbing at the insides of my claustrophobic skull. She seemed fascinated with the snake-skeleton tattoo down my left arm that she yanked at as if I was a mannequin. With a brutal twist, I once again tore myself out of the pathetic grasp of another arrogant whore.
"Didn't think you perverts ever washed your hands," Miss Resting-Bitch-Face spoke, with a somewhat approachable smile. "I mean, why bother?"
"You know," I whispered, like a good, small-talking son of a bitch, "I'd rather have chunks of wheat-laced shit on my dick from a super model like yourself, than have even the tiniest bit of my own crap under my fingernails."
"Don't be revolting!"
"Says the girl who's just been hanging out with scat-munchers."
"Not anymore! Fucks canceled my fucking contract!"
"You work here?"
"You going to miss filling martini glasses with your hot angry diarrhea, foaming like a latte as if your ass has rabies?"
"Get over it. It's just a job!"
"And I'm sure you earned every cent, laying links of peanut-butter over the sweating bellies of billionaires."
"Don't talk about peanut-butter."
"Did you mistakenly use 'crunchy' instead of 'smooth' to irrigate your anus?"
"It's all shit. Shit is shit!"
"Reminds me of a story I heard in Japan. There was this typical salary-man, who would visit this one particular dominatrix. Every day he saw her on the way to work, and he'd hand over his lunchbox packed with sushi that had been meticulously prepared for him by his wife. The dominatrix would then take her morning dump right on top of his lunch while he watched. He never touched her. Had no interest sexually. Instead, he believed that she was so perfect that nothing, not even her shit could be bad. And so he ate her daily deposit like each mouthful was a blessing."
"You're not going to call that some kind of warped form of fucking love!"
"Didn't you have regulars who 'loved' your ass too."
"Hated every one of you sick fucks with your greasy fucking eyes! As if I was meant to get off on you judging me! Fucking hated it most of all when you all tried cuddling up, pretending to give a fuck with your desperate fucking baby voices! Fucking insulting!"
"Nothing more suspicious than someone saying they understand you."
"None of you fucks even get the message that I'm trying to fucking ignore all your bullshit! You all just keep on whimpering, talking to me like I'm your fucking pet!"
"Yet you played along."
"It's a job!"
"Whatever pays the bills."
"Exactly! Give me your fucking cash so I can get back to fucking work!"
I leaned back against the sink and paused... The impertinence in her voice seemed directed personally toward me.
"Girl's got to do what a girl's got to do!"
"And a pervert's got to go where his obsession leads him."
"Better the devil you know."
"Why'd they fire your ass?"
"Definitely wasn't your personality, was it."
"Everyone's got their limit."
"Only so much literal shit you can put up with?"
"Most of you wrinkly old fucks have the lamest fantasies! It's all some variation of the same kind of anal-fixation."
"Sounds like a fun party."
"Seriously, it's not."
"What's the straw that broke the camel's rectum?"
"Opposite of what you said before."
"You fucking creeps love shoving whatever up my rear, but when this guy suggested I fist-fuck his fat ass, that was it, I'd had e-fucking-nough! That's just fucking disgusting! At least I know where my shit's coming from. But who has any fucking idea what's been up his diseased asshole! Fuck that! No thanks!"
"Thought you were about to say that some guy wanted to sit on your face, rest his balls on your eyes, while he squeezed a fat shit directly into your nostrils. Imagine that. Shit filling your nasal cavity until you're deep-throating an endless fucking log!"
"You've done that to one of the girls here, haven't you, you twisted fuck!"
"Still easier that trying to take a shit into a condom."
"Why would you even want to?!"
"It's a thing. Fill a condom with shit, tie it up, and leave in the fridge. Once it's frozen, you shove it up someone's ass!"
I paused again, glaring at her... The voices of the other two continued scratching at the walls.
"Can't stand the cunts working here, like those two fucks! Hate their constant fronting. Only looking out for the next drink and dumbfuck to score their drugs from. Such a fucking joke. These sluts all sexualize themselves to attract the eye of some big-spender or whatever, but the fucking moment they get the attention of a nobody, these same cunts scream 'rape'! Fuck them! Totally fucking asking for it! And fucking hate it when you gross old creepers come into the club wearing my favorite brands, like Cartier. It's offensive to my sense of taste! None of you have any fucking style! You all ruin it for people like me with some class!"
"Can't be bothered explaining! I know what I mean! If you don't get it, that's your fucking problem. Don't know why the fuck I'm even talking to you. You're the same as the rest of these fucking perverts!" she said, before sliding her back down the wall, and taking a seat on the floor. She had this longing in her eyes as she sat in her skimpy Dior dress, clutching her Bottega purse like a security-blanket. "There's always bigger fish shitting on everyone else."
Looking at the bathtub, I wondered how many times it had been filled with human feces. "Suffering is necessary."
"Yeah, blah, blah. Whatever, douche-bag! Just because you can't relate to a tragedy doesn't mean the rest of us don't understand what's going on! I'm fucking tired of shit like Facebook! Nothing but trolls and negativity. Can't get away from it. Wish every single asshole on social media would go fuck themselves! And I don't give a shit what you think, so keep your fucking mouth shut, okay!"
"And yet we're all thinking the same shit!"
"We're nothing alike!"
"If we weren't all so easily categorized, then there wouldn't be a whole mental health industry making a quick buck from applying the same fucking formula to our standardized thinking."
"Bitch, my depression isn't the same anyone else’s! And my fucking feeling aren't the subject for a cunt like you to fucking minimize!"
"Given enough questionnaires, any doctor can reduce your mental state to a one-line definition, and you know why?"
"Because your pain is not unique, and neither is your fucking medication!"
"Hey, asshole! People are more than just fucking stereotypes for your ridiculous generalizations! You're just a fucking dick! Like the rest of the fucking cunts in this fucking place. I'm over it! I want to be a kid again, when I was treated with some respect. It's fucking exhausting! Sick of being surrounded by abusive friends trying to use me for whatever the fuck they want. Fuck all this shit! Remember being happiest when I had nothing to my name."
"Fucking spare me," I barked. "Starving to death ain't nobody's idea of a good fucking time!"
As she continued talking, I became aware of stepping outside of myself. The realization then came to me that all of our words were little more than egos clashing in a vain attempt to outsmart each other. But why was I even engaged in conversation with this female. A heated debate could become desirable if there was a lesson to be learned, or if I was aiming to seduce her. However, I was too fucking repulsed by that female to want anything to do with her shit-talking triviality. I hadn't spoken in several minutes, when an impulsive idea suddenly feed the bowels of my mind. Digesting that inspiration, my unconscious processed that dysentery-narrative into a vision of what I suddenly wanted. I wanted nothing more than to piss right on that cunt's infuriated Playboy-eyes!
"Hey!" And her hand slapped the floor where the Bvlgari jewelry on her wrist clattered loudly! She was expecting a response to something I hadn't been listening to. "Jesus, you're such a useless fuck!"
There comes a point where talking ultimately solves nothing – action must be taken.
Mr. Fag-Boy then lurched around the bathroom door, and so, Miss Resting-Bitch-Face instinctively burst into obnoxious laughter right on cue. My loathing toward those meat-insects inflamed my nervous system with spasms of intolerance. I'm no stranger to strippers and friends that work in the sex industry, and there's even a massage parlor at the entrance to my apartment building, where the Russian ladies always politely share a passing hello. So, respect was given where respect was found. These three cunts however, deserved no such common courtesy. Yet still, turning away, I kept quiet. After all, who the fuck was I to look down on their existence? I had once held the firm belief that people with money were smarter than those without – until a friend refuted my opinion by noting that kids born into money hadn't earned it. Ergo: there was no correlation between intelligence and someone's success. Some are just luckier than others. Some have earned it. And some are just resentful, like me.
With my head down, I went to the kitchen in that wide-spread suite and had a look at the coffee machine. Miss Shitty-Pants coincidentally decided that she was suddenly an expert barista, and of course, everything I was doing was ever so melodramatically wrong. The other two also had to interfere like all know-it-alls had to. Miss Shitty-Pants was whining in her mother-tongue, when she then elbowed me in the ribs as she began pulling the coffee machine apart. Gripping the edge of the counter top, I could physically feel my body temperature boil. Mr. Fag-Boy then started berating me, like I understood whatever his foreign, fake lisp was insinuating. However, when the third slut began kicking at the locked door, a transcendent calm welled-up inside my chest, emanating from one simple thought: either no one was standing guard outside the door, or no one gave a fuck what we did in here. An empty bottle of whiskey then shattered against the door! Only silence answered. It was confirmed. We were locked in and left to ourselves. So, if I was trapped, then surely this was the ideal opportunity that I had been looking for. All I had to do was trust my unconscious. For I am whatever I am. As little or as great as I may be in the scheme of the universe, I will be all I will be.
Stepping over to the dub-step rumbling out of the stereo, my fingertips tapped the power display. The abrupt dead-air was instantly met by outrageous cries from all three cunts. Turning toward the open kitchen, I found Miss Shitty-Pants marching my way. I grabbed a brass vase, walked straight for her, and swung that heavy object directly into her fucking head! She dropped like a duck that had just flown head-first into the windscreen of a 747. Mr. Fag-Boy squealed but I heard nothing after I punched him directly in his fucking windpipe! He fell discarded upon the floor like a screwed-up, paper towel in a public toilet. Moving around the kitchen counter, I found Miss Resting-Bitch-Face taking a step backward – so I helped her: by clamping my hand over her face and slamming her skull back down against the edge of the fucking sink! The impact of bone against marble transformed her bitch-face into one of absolutely no personality. Dead or alive, those meat-insects looked just as unappetizing as ever. Returning to the squirming male, I watched his eyes bulge one final time before his balled-up body shuddered from complete asphyxiation. Miss Shitty-Pants however, was muttering something as she crawled on all fours like a stunned sack of shit. My foot then filled her gut! She crashed onto her back, and then the sole of my polished shoe stomped her snobbish features into the uncooked pulp of human-stroganoff!
I sighed at last, listening to the near silence of inner city living. Plugging my MP3 player into the stereo, the opening track, Addis, from the album by Om, soon filled the entire suite. While staring out the huge windows at the rain, I missed real storms, like the cyclones that had torn at my childhood home. Finally, I tilted my head quietly toward the locked door. No one had come. No one had stopped me. No one knew what I'd just done. And if no one ever found out what had happened here tonight then there would be no consequences of consequence.
One by one, I dragged the dead meat into the bathroom. Wasting no time, I stripped the bodies naked. Casually folding the perfume-drenched clothes into irrelevant piles, I left them neatly in the bedroom drawers. The kitchen was fully equipped to host a banquet if need be, and I found it supplied with all the appropriate cutting utensils. So, I plucked your everyday carving knife that was normally used to distribute the dismemberment of bloated turkeys on nights like this (it was Thanksgiving after all). First thing I did was position all three bodies hanging over the bathtub with the heads downward inside. My left hand grasped the first scalp while my left knee rested between the shoulder-blades. The heads were held above the bath as the knife then split the necks down to the bone. With the 'power-supply' already off, there was little arterial-spray from the jugulars. I severed arteries like hydraulic cabling, parting skin like rubber, and cutting into the cartilage like thick plastic. What are human bodies but: "an apparatus consisting of interrelated parts with separate functions, used in the performance of some kind of work." Once all three slender throats had huge holes puncturing them, I placed the carcases upside-down in the tub and watched gravity empty them of their warm juices that trickled down the drain. I then remembered a discussion between Richard Dawkins and some other philosopher, which involved a minor disagreement about the analogy of referring to the human body as a 'machine'. For a machine has a set of designed plans in which they are built from, where as a human body has evolved and adapts. But staring at the wounds in those human duplicates, for all intents and purposes, the analogy worked just fine for me.
After the first body was empty of blood, the blade sliced around the entire neck, cutting into the spine. The bones in the neck were tricky, but no more of a task than breaking off chicken wings with your bare hands while you enjoy your meal. The third body however, was still being a bitch. The spinal cord wouldn't break, the vertebrae were too tight. I had to twist and wrench the head 360° twice before the last tether snapped. The head landed next to the others in the bath, before I turned on the faucet and rinsed my hands above the slaughter. The three headless carcases no longer annoyed me, they were just chores that needed to be dealt with.
Looking through the kitchen again, I found a brand-new pair of scissors. I then cut off all that product-clogged hair from the three decapitated trophies. Filling a frying pan with the locks, I soaked the hair in cooking oil before setting it on fire under the stove's smoke-extractor. It stunk like barbequed Styrofoam.
Next, I unplugged the blender and carried it into the bathroom. I've seen people blending an iPhone on YouTube, so why not blend a few humans. Of course, this took preparation. The blender wasn't like your average wood-chipper, you can't just shove in a whole arm or leg. First, I took my time disarticulating each body. And those bodies swooned like lovers that I had absolutely no affinity toward. Male or female, they meant no more than meat, not even meat that I wanted a bite out of. I didn't desire to fuck any of it, I just needed to erase the remains. This was about redefining my environment in order to suit myself, by molding the world with my own two hands.
All the blood washed away as the water continually ran down the plughole, leaving little-to-no mess. Arms were cut at the shoulders, elbows, and wrists. Legs were cut at the hips, knees, and defiant ankles. All I saw was a bathtub full of pulpy kindling.
Taking a forearm over to the bathroom sink, I used the carving knife and separated the radius and ulna, before stripping lengths of muscle from the two bones. With a dash of water here and there, the blender made mince from the slithers of flesh in practically no time. Into the toilet I then poured that slop and flushed it all away! My workspace was clean, but the two bones from the unidentified forearm still held clumps of residual meat. So, I stuffed the bare bones into the oven where they baked at a high temperature.
This systematic-procedure continued for the better part of an hour. Naturally, with each new limb my skill improved. I worked ever more efficiently between the sink, toilet, and stove. The remaining hands and feet though, proved to be tough little bastards. So, I decided to boil them first in a big stainless-steel pot. The hot water loosened up the congested carpal and tarsal bones. However, I quickly learned that I could simply ignore the blender entirely for those extremities, and just cut them into quarters before flushing them directly down the toilet. One set of painted fingernails resembled the aerodynamic fenders from a row of Ducatis as they raced down that porcelain. The feet took a bit more encouragement, but the kitchen's mallet helped bash my fucking way through any resistant ligaments.
Next was the dismembered torsos. With a small fruit knife, I sliced open the first belly with a shallow cut below the sternum down to the pubis. Using both hands, I pried open that great laceration, like spreading the curtain toward visions of Unit 731. I paused at that sight of shiny membranes and discolored organs. Grays and purples, pinks and scarlets. Intricate tissues meshed with hairline veins. All those crucial lumps of doe-like flesh clung to their designated seating, fulfilling an exclusive and vital occupation. These were components in a holistic system where every part was reliant on one another to sustain an operative homeostasis. Grabbing the second torso, I immediately sliced it open. And then the third. After I peeled apart all three long incisions, I leaned back, comparing the three. They were utterly indistinguishable! There were no mammary glands, and the genitals were waxed down to the nub. Apart from a miniscule penis in the mix, those carcases were identical. We're all the same glorified alimentary-canal. Using the scissors, I extracted the large and small intestine from the first carcase. Dumping the stringy conduits upon another body, I dug in deep, finding where the colon reached the anus. Carefully severing the orifice, I then cut the connection to the stomach. Bundling up that serpent of entrails, I stepped over to the toilet, where inch by inch, lengths of bowels were chopped off into the bowl. Shit happened – I flushed it away.
Once all three intestines were disposed of, I thoroughly washed my hands and the scissors. I knew that the remaining torsos were free to hack up without concern for tainting the meat. But I shook my head – I had no fucking intention of frying up any of that shit for a late-night snack. However, those mutilated bodies had become much more attractive since my modifications. Flipping over one of the females, I yanked its rump up over the edge of the bath and examined its pale but perfect asshole. Overcome with a sudden curious lust, I grabbed the hip with one hand as my other drove two fingers into an accepting rectum. My digits popped out into the gutted gut, so I rolled the body over, spreading its lacerated belly like giant labia. Admiring my two fingers waving back at me within the hollow, I put some serious thought into sodomizing that meat. But my disgust soon reminded me of my simple objective.
From then on, I moved quickly with the scissors. Ripping out random chunks, hand over fist, I threw the butchered internal organs into the toilet and then flushed them away, never to be seen again.
After the abdomens had been eviscerated and all three rib-cages had been scooped out, I had a moment of wondering if anyone was ever really going to check in on my imprisonment. If someone walked in and found me with those meat-wet scissors while hunched over the three mangled bodies, I would have been beyond all plausible excuse. Caught red-handed. But I wasn't. Because no one came. Nothing ever stops me from my desecration. Yet Mara had stopped me last year. So, therein lies my root-value for her. With a little perspective, it was clear that she was the defining difference between last year and this. Unfortunately, though, she was well aware that too much time spent in my company brought out the worst in me. And looking in the bath, I knew that this was inevitable.
With the mallet and a steak knife, I chopped up the ribs and shattered the spinal columns. Shredding skin and muscle fibers with a long bread knife, I returned to the blender before flushing the last traces of the torsos into the city's sewers.
While I waited for the skeletal ruins to bake in the oven, I turned to the three hairless heads. The two females now looked like twins, but the male was as forgettable as ever. I skinned their faces, scalped them, and then spun the blender one last time. Placing another load of bones in the oven, I then bashed out each and every tooth from all three tattered skulls. There would be no identifying anyone here tonight. After rummaging through the bedroom closet, I found a dry-cleaning clothes hanger. Straightening the cheap wire, I stabbed it into the cavities behind those empty eye-sockets, scrambled the brains like stirring a pot of paint – now that's what I call a homemade, frontal-lobe abortion!
"Seriously, man, what the fuck are you talking about!?" Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes whispered, slowly shaking his head as he leaned as far away from me as his chair would physically allow. "That didn't fucking happen!"
Smiling, I glanced at that shriveled little shit, and then looked back at Mr. Cravat. "He's right. None of that happened."
"How did you get blood on your hands?" Mr. Intermediate hissed, now smoking a cigarette.
I twisted slowly around, and while eyeballing that cunt, in an exaggerated, slow-motion shrug, I replied, "Told you, they picked the lock and fucked off."
"You're lying," Mr. Slappy sneered.
"What did you do with the bones?" Mr. Cravat then spoke up, as he shifted in his seat. "Where are the heads?"
"They're in a tall, black vase, back in the suite," I said quietly. "The heads are stacked inside – soaking in my piss. The rest of the bones, they're in two plastic rubbish bags under the kitchen sink. Ready to be dumped in random trashcans around the city."
A stale silence lingered.
"Liar," Mr. Slappy scoffed.
"Have a look!" I stated. "Go see for your-fucking-self!"
"Yes. Go look," Mr. Cravat croaked. "Take him with you."
Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes then lunged away, denying that he had ever seen me before this evening!
On the way down the corridor toward the elevator, my mind strayed back to the Mühlendamm bridge where I had been reading a letter that Mara had sent me: "I despise everything you believe in. I despise your deceptive and treacherous nature. I despise you for not being honest with me, knowing full well that this is the one and only thing important to me. I despise you for not respecting me enough to be honest with me and trusting that I will find the solution for both of us. I despise you for shitting all over me and my heart despite everything I've done for you and held and helped you through. I despise the fact that you're a selfish ungrateful cunt! Most of all I despise you for being my one and only weakness and that I love you so much." As the men filled the elevator, I noticed that Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes was held in an arm-lock by security, and yet I was standing free. Was I to blame for taking anyone on a ride if they willingly came along? But a crime was still a crime, even if they let me get away with it. That old proverb then reminded me that there were worse people than me out there, good people, "So good that he's good for nothing." Naturally, naysayers insist that there's something deeply wrong with you, me, and everyone. Of course, our logic is flawed, biased, and egotistical. No one is impartial to their own personally relevant dilemmas. But confessions of the heart did little if only the self can enlighten the self. Therefore, sharing is a distraction. Should I bottle it up and transmute the self by myself? Bottle it up like the ashes of the sigil magick that I had begun filling glass jars with. The greater truth of your own plans must be kept to yourself, for ultimately no one cares about your reasons for treating another human being like a piece of fucking meat. Looking at Mr. Lamborghini-Shoes cringe, Burroughs then spoke to me, "And avoid fools at any cost."
The elevator doors opened, and I glared down that dark corridor toward the distant suite – when suddenly the piercing fire alarm rang out! Doors along the corridor soon flung open, as bodyguards raced their high-paying clients out of there! Dozens of half-naked girls also quickly poured into the hallways. Much like shit in the toilet, I had no choice but to go with the flow. Reaching a turn in the corridor, I glanced back through that human-stampede, and spotted Mr. Intermediate and Mr. Slappy fighting against the crowd and chasing after my inexplicable escape.
The mob burst into an emergency staircase, and once I reached the next level down, a tiny hand grabbed my elbow and yanked me through a door with heroic strength. More Asian men with pink eyes and unbuttoned pants came stumbling out of other rooms, as some skinny little kid led me against the grain. I whipped my arm loose, and that small Indian boy immediately spun, bleating at me while he pointed at another door just beyond a herd of whores. There the impatient Iranian woman stood with arms crossed. This time, I swam like a sewer-rat up the s-bend toward the light coming from behind her impeccable feminine silhouette. That staunch woman said nothing, her sour expression making her beautiful face appear even more delicious as she locked the door behind me. The boy was left in the corridor to fend for himself. Scanning across a very different hotel suite, I saw two old gentlemen in tuxedos glide around the corner from the kitchen in electric wheelchairs. They were both in their seventies, and not one of those identical twins had a single leg among them. Then, to my left, a blind man in a three-piece suit, shuffled into the lounge from a bedroom. His entire face was so badly scared that it appeared as if he had once slipped while trying to shave with a chainsaw. Instead of your typical seeing-eye-dog, he had a huge hyena on a leash. The Iranian woman walked to a door on the far side of the suite, and after an extended moment of who-the-hell, one of the Stumpy-Twins raised a frail hand and gestured that I could kindly get the fuck out of there. Cautious of Mr. Salami's surly-looking pet, I noticed a gold brooch pinned to his lapel. Pointy like a Doré halo and resembling masonic imagery, the ornament seemed somewhat familiar, though, I couldn't recall why – probably because I was too disturbed by the insane gurgling noises coming from that giant fucking hyena.
The Iranian woman wrapped a black shawl over her shoulders, collected her Chanel purse, and then led me into a new series of corridors completely separate from the first. We seemed to have entered the neighboring building, yet the fire alarm persisted wherever we hurried. Soon she descended a smaller staircase to the basement parking lot where the alarm echoed even louder. I had made it all the way to exit ramp before my strange guide actually noticed that I was no longer following her.
"There's nothing in the vase!"
It wasn't her voice that stopped me, but the freezing wind coming down from the street.
"What happened to those three?!" the Iranian's accusing tone felt like I was inhaling ammonia. "What witchcraft have you commit this time?!"
Turning, I smiled as I spoke, "Witchcraft? Are you fucking high?!"
"I will not be intimidated!"
"Sure about that?"
"I see the curses that you've sent sniffing at my doorstep! Every day I see them! Every day since your insolence at the lake!"
"Please," I winced, while staring at the exit ramp. "It's a 'loch'."
"I see them!" she snarled. "Waiting outside. I see their wet eyes. They hide but I still see them watching me!"
"But the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question is, have they started singing you lullabies while you sleep?"
"Why waste your time with this toying!" the woman snarled. "Why must you insist on shirking among such puerile infatuations and inferior spirits?!"
I was aroused by her unshaken confidence. There was an innate pride to her voice that smelt like royalty, and I was developing quite a curiosity for tasting some of her elitist meat. However, I had another priority, "Who's the old rabbi?"
We both stood in contempt for a moment – when the fire alarm abruptly quit, yet the echo throbbed within that cavernous parking lot.
"You never looked in the vase, did you."
She was a stone.
"Tell you what, cutie pie. If you get my coat back from the front desk, we'll call it even."
A BEEP BEEP then drew my eyes to a silver Lexus RC 350.
Fire trucks and ambulances with epileptic indigo lights filled the streets around The Little China Embassy. And while the Lexus quietly drove away, Helena Winkelman’s deranged string quartet, Quadriga, crawled out from the dashboard.
"Your friend, the one that you abandoned back there, he'll be held responsible for inviting you in." The Iranian woman's voice seemed softer, genuinely concerned. "They won't be forgiving about it."
"A little while ago, I brought my girlfriend into a session with my psychologist. During which she cried – a lot. My therapist then told me that it wasn't 'normal' to feel 'fine' about watching my girlfriend cry," I recalled, as the car speed through the sodden city. "And yet, after everything, for a third time, the official diagnosis is in: just because I think this way doesn't make me sick! So, if I make my home my gallows, then what the fuck do I care about some nobody taking the fall for me back there!"
"You should have died!" the Iranian woman murmured. "You do realize that! Explain yourself!"
"WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU TO ME?! I DON'T FUCKING OWE ANYONE ANY FUCKING EXPLANATIONS!"
The Lexus swerved down a side street and came to a sudden standstill at the corner of nowhere and consequence – that's my exit, thanks. I was about to slam the passenger’s side door shut, when that woman spoke up, "There's a man in Moldova, pray you meet him before those from the Tigris banish you!"
Fuck that cunt! I was done with all this cryptic talk. Yet as the Lexus sped away, a sentiment from Genghis Khan rang throughout my vindictive little head, "The greatest happiness is to scatter your enemy, to drive him before you, to see his cities reduced to ashes, to see those who love him shrouded in tears, and to gather into your bosom his wives and daughters."
© 2015 BRUCE STIRLING JOHN KNOX