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Laura, Toucan Editrice

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Page 13--The Journalist Of Fingers, Cont'd

I can tell by the subtle drooping of her eyelids, but it’s of no importance. I don’t think a day passes without me talking to someone who has no freaking idea what I’m talking about. It’s a learned response. Sickle can just shrug off vital bits of esoterica, a skill which has lead to many a conversation consisting solely of an aimless dramatic monologue and an absently nodding head.
Once again, we sigh.
“I don’t love him,” she says, “but I liked it.”
The thin contours of her smooth face release, her lips so filled with longing for the touch of another, salivating in pure fantasy.
“Do what you want.” I say, “You’re young, you should enjoy it. Do you think I’m judging you? I’ve no need to.”
“I’m good, right?”
“Of course you are. There’s nothing in you. No catalyst for the
the cancer of pregnancy.” I said, in actuality doubting her volatile innards could sustain fetal growth.
“I know, but I can’t help but feel—” “Like a real woman? Fulfilled? Dirty?”
“I guess.”
“Do you want to be clean? Do you want to be pure?”
“I don’t know.” “Don’t bother. Let them all in you. All the world’s a cock and we’re but a bunch of filthy holes. So open wide, dearest.”
And Sickle pouts still, my wisdom obviously lost on her. This is a nowhere conversation. We could loop back around on this same topic for hours and hours. Well, it’s the price you pay for knowing a girl’s mind so intimately. Most guys chase after women to get somewhere, but Sickle Cell’s been a living dead-end from the very beginning. We’re like eternity in a cubicle, the two of us, but the crushed dream apathy is still a few leagues off.
“At least you’re attaining your desires,” I mumble, “I covet what I see every day. Fantasizing, idealizing, molesting in my mind. But you know what? I’ll never have it. Like a fly drawn to an enticing light, I’ll incinerate upon the most passing touch.”
“And what is it you want?”
“Something you’ll never know.” I say knowingly.
Standing up, I stretch out my arms. Hearing a crack in my shoulders, I do the same with my legs. As I cast my eyes downward my thoughts turn to the cabal of flesh typewriters, spewing their seed from copper orifices. Another hallucination, probably a side-effect from all the neck ink.
Looking to the moist night sky, I absently mumble. “Tell me, little Sickle Cell, can masturbation ever involve more than a single person?”
“Is it still technically masturbation if more than one body is involved? Like a group, or maybe even a couple?”
“I . . . don’t think so.”
I see a little bulge surface on her cheek and move around. I’ve always thought it was just a chick thing, but now I know I’m running out of time.
“You see precious, girls can not use the journalism easily,” I explain, “It requires easy accessibility and that’s not possible with the female body. Things are too internal, you follow?”
“Obviously. I couldn’t imagine it any other way.”
My arm wraps around Sickle and I draw her close, her body warmed by the hot pangs of muscular liquidation. Someday I will leave her. It’s inevitable, maybe even sooner than later. When that time comes, pristine fleshy teeth will gnaw at her delicate brain. If left alone,
the system will assimilate her. The journalism, a solitary act, long slandered, will protect and keep her many cells a single composite entity. I have become her protector.
“It’s getting late,” I say, bending down to caress her hair again, “We should go.”
She stands, the light from the streetlamp pouring through her. Hunched slightly, she begins to walk. As we turn the corner, I look down the alley.
“Sickle,” I ask, “Do you remember our disastrous attempt at entrepreneurship? That time I found the intestinal pump behind that dumpster over there? Remember how I used it to suck out all your gunk?”
“When was this?”
“Not that long ago. I harvested it as a skin crème and worked out a deal with Halberd. He got some guy to pedal it off on a bunch of old wasps who became horribly addicted. It sunk through their skin, flowed around their bloodstream, eventually affecting the brain. Thinking they were little girls, they picked up your scent and sprinted after you (much to the discontent of their Alzheimer's rotted hips) tearing at you with nail polish coated claws. If Halberd wasn’t there to flick a lit cigarette at the old sluts, you’d be dead. Remember how their pink skin went up in a cloud of flame? Your melting flesh affected their very psychology, driving them mad with chemical nostalgia. Of course the gunk was still highly flammable. They think they’ve got life experience, but they’re still slaves to vanity.”
“That never happened.”
“You really don’t remember?”
“No,” she says.
A long thin worm, like an otherworldly thread, slithers out of her apple shaped cheeks and falls to the ground.

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