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January 11, 2010

Whale Call

Filed under: News — Jon @ 6:04 pm

I was cutting a rug in the basement of the Misplaced Genital Fuzz Rash to forget my troubles when a girl of appropriate height and requisite weight did some unknowable type of boogaloo over to me. We exchanged nods. The music was a blaring death-moan of a beluga whale being clubbed to death with mixtables as the two of us bobbed together in a sea of glaring neon. Her face was pockmarked with the black death and slathered with makeup. We began to laugh as the moans increased to an undulating, drumbeat-interrupted scream of pain.
The girl was wearing a striped t-shirt over a tight body, and before I realized what was happening we were back at her apartment, tongues punching at the back of each others throats. It was a grisly scene for her roommates, two straight laced ponytails with worry smudged glasses sticking out the front. I beckoned to them with a curled finger, but they had already left out the front door, unoccupied chairs mocking my seductive gaze. My hand danced around the back of the girl’s shirt only to find it not there, a bizarre and horrible plastic contraption replacing it, connecting a padded fabric covering her chest to itself.
The girl giggled as I tried to make sense of the complicated latching mechanism, and spilled several pills onto the table. I would later learn these were methylenedioxymethamphetamine, but at the time I was on a bit too much E to care.
My breath caught in my throat and I began to cry. The entwined padlock of plastic and fabric twisted and stretched under my clumsy fingers, my face contorted, my vision blurry and distorted. The girl’s laughs became louder and louder.
I stopped myself, breath loud in my ears. Plastic and fabric, these should not pose a significant obstacle in a man’s pursuit of that thing she’s been doing oh god fabric is easily cut and the plastic is soft a knife a knife can get through that so easily like butter she’s like butter the knife cuts through like butter
My hands fill with red, and I pause. I the brassiere slides off, and I am overjoyed.
Moment of clarity. I just stabbed a much younger girl to death with a kitchen knife to remove her bra. I look around and breathe a sigh of relief, at least her roommates weren’t here to see this. How embarrassing.  I am probably not in the greatest state of mind to deal with this, but like my momma said, Ecstacy is the Einstein drug. All it takes is a little concentration and you can something something I down the entire bottle of pills and immediately go blind.
I grope around the dead girl’s apartment and think of a way to get myself out of this sticky situation. I stab the girl a few more times to stop her from making that noise, then drag her to the window. Out of window, out of mind. There is a crash and a scream from below, and I decide to call my mother. I wander around until I find a telephone in the inkiness and dial the number.
“Hi, mom.” I say, hiding my sheer terror at the thought that she might see me naked from the waist down, cool air blowing at my nethers from the loud open window.
“Hello? Who is this?”
“Hi, mom, it’s Rube, I was wondering if you could help me out.”
“Who is this! You’re not making any sense!”
“It’s Rube, mom! I’m at this… friend’s apartment and I was wondering if maybe I could get a ride.”
“You’re not making… you’re not speaking… is this Rube?”
“Yes this is Rube. Mom I just need-”
“Look, I don’t know who you are, but you leave me the… fuck… alone.”
There was a gutteral click and an electronic hum, and I stumbled backwards into a potted plant, or a third roommate. I shrieked with primal fury and clawed at it, then drop kicked in its general direction, missing and landing with a sharp crack on one of my arms. Half of my blindness flared neon, gay nightclub pink.
The top of my vision suddenly came back, the top venetian blind gone, a slit for me to peek through.  Men in suits were crowding around me, sunglasses and earpieces and finely combed moustaches. One was shouting into his wrist. I dragged myself across the carpet and they didn’t seem to notice, fibers rubbing across my face. A TV is on, silent and broadcasting my face. I am wearing a suit, and debating an Asian diplomat about tax reform. I am losing.
The men drag me to my private highly modified Boeing 747-200B and we sit in the dining room as we drift away to my home, where I expect to die of natural causes.

1 Comment »

  1. Woah woah woah woah, that was trippy, now I feel like I’m on drugs.

    Comment by danineteen — January 14, 2010 @ 10:35 am

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