I feel sexy when I go out at night.
My hair is done up just right, with not a strand out of place. The paint and powder on my lips and face are perfection. Not a single blemish or unkind line mars my face. I'm not beautiful. I am stunning. All heads turn to watch me when I enter a room.
Tonight it's the L Bar, a middle of the road kind of place. Not too fancy, but not too scummy either. It's a place where middle class drones go to forget their shitty jobs and their shitty lives, and if they're lucky, they'll find a willing woman to help them forget their shitty wives, if only for a brief, sweaty moment in the back seat of their mid-sized sedan. Senseless sex in a sensible car.
I've never been to this particular bar before, but really, I've been to this same bar a million times. Change the name on the cruddy neon sign outside, and this bar is identical to all the others. Still, I never go the same bar twice. One night stands with places and people, that's how my nights out on the town go. Luckily, in a city this size, I can remain anonymous forever. Just a passing face in their passing lives, and although I stalk in like a sleek predator, almost none of them will remember me tomorrow. They'll be lost in their jobs and their overtime, and I'll fade away like I never existed.
I settle in an empty space at the bar between a man in a rumpled suit and a couple engaged in tepid conversation that never make eye contact with each other. I order a vodka tonic. The bartender nods. He is well-built with defined muscles semi-visible through his too-tight shirt, but his face is starting to wear under the strain of too many lost dreams and not enough sleep. He brings me my drink, and I pay, tipping him just the right amount to not draw attention one way or the other.
I sip my drink and survey the room. The mammoth mirror behind the bar allows me to scan the room without even having to turn my head. The faces are a blur, each banal, beaten person losing their individuality when seen together. These are the down-trodden masses, linked by misery and regret. The air is thick with their failure, and I breathe it in like a narcotic.
I search the darkness, seizing upon each face and then discarding it. With a clinical eye, I evaluate them. Every line on their creased faces, every varied expression, every laugh and forced smile speak volumes about the person behind the facade. I judge them all and find them lacking. In disgust, I down the rest of my drink and turn away from the bar. And that's when I see him.
In a hidden corner of the room, he sits slumped over a pint of dark beer. He stares into his drink, looking for answers or escape. There is sadness in his face, but underneath that sadness lurks something fierce. He is not nearly as numb as he first seemed. I believe he merely needs to be provoked for that anger in him to erupt, and I am feeling especially provocative tonight.
Smiling, I jot three words on a napkin and walk towards his secluded corner. I stand in front of him, but my presence doesn't penetrate into whatever dark passages his thoughts are currently treading. I slip the napkin into his limp hand. He looks up at me then. My smile widens, and with a certain satisfaction, I see the lust ignite in his eyes. Then I walk away. I don't have to look back to see him reading my note and those three powerful words: Meet me outside.
I walk outside, and before the door closes behind me, he's standing next to me. He starts to talk, but I silence him with a finger on his lips. I press my body against him. He shivers.
My lips brush his ear as I whisper "Take me to your car."
We walk quickly to his vehicle, a blue or gray minivan. It is impossible to figure out which under the greasy yellow street lights. He begins to drive, and I direct him to a poorly lit alley a few blocks from the bar. This alley and a million like it in this city are used on an almost nightly basis for cheap, anonymous sex, usually with money changing hands, and it serves as the perfect spot for us to go unnoticed.
We look at each other. His eyes explore the curve of my breasts and the edge of my skirt that has accidentally on-purpose inched up my thighs so that the thinnest glimpse of black lace panties is visible. His eyes gorge themselves on my body. But I just stare at his face. I'm looking at his greedy eyes and that sloppy, obscene grin. He keeps licking his lips.
He reaches out a tentative hand to fumble at my breasts. I'm looking at the wedding ring on his finger. We have a winner.
"You're married?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
He pulls his hand back as if I had slapped it away. He looks hard at the ring, a plain gold band.
"Does it bother you?" he asks, the anger clear in his voice.
"No. In fact, that's exactly what I'm looking for."
The wet smile returns to his meaty lips, and he is on me. He shoves his tongue into my mouth, and it's all I can do not to retch at the taste of stale beer and cigarettes. He tastes like the floor of the bar we were just in probably tastes.
I push him gently away, even though my mind is screaming violence. He looks up at me, angry and confused. I put my hand in his lap and tug.
"Let's see it," I say and deliberately lick my red lips.
I move my hand from his lap to his head, running my fingers through his hair. My other hand reaches into my purse. Focused on undoing his belt, he doesn't notice.
He works his pants and boxer shorts down to his knees. I stroke his thinning hair once more, and then I grab a handful and yank his head back hard.
He's moaning, "Oh, yeah, baby. I like it rough," and I plunge the knife into his right eye. His moans turn to screams, and his body spasms violently. I hold the knife in his eye socket and begin to twist. After what feels like hours, the screams stop, but his body keeps twitching. I pull the knife out of his face. The sound of the metal blade scraping his bone sends an unpleasant shudder up my spine. I wipe the gore from the knife onto the minivan's gray interior. Or is it blue?
I slip the wedding band from his still warm finger and place it in my purse along with the knife. Stabbing someone in the eye produces considerably less blood than most other areas of the body and making myself presentable again takes no time at all. I am out of the minivan and out of the alley before he is even finished twitching.
My own car is parked a few blocks away. The few people I pass on the street take no notice of me, or at least, they don't look at me long enough to be able to describe me later. I get into my car and drive home.
"Honey, I'm home," I say as I enter.
My husband is sitting in his recliner, right where I left him. I stand in front of him. He doesn't even see me.
"I went out to a bar, honey, and I met another dreadful guy. He wanted to cheat on his wife, just like you. But that's okay. I took care of that."
"Anyway, I feel all gross so I'm going to run upstairs and shower."
I lean down and kiss my husband on the cheek.
"Oh, I almost forgot. I brought you another one." I toss the wedding ring on the table beside the recliner. The ring clinks on the pile of other rings stacked on the table.
My husband says nothing, but I think he's smiling at me. I know that some people would say it's just the decaying of his flesh that is pulling his lips into that smile, but I know better. He's much happier now. We are much happier now. Happier than we've ever been.
So happy.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Friday, October 3, 2008
Not Funny
Preparation
"Christ it's hot out," he muttered to himself.
Sweat dripped down his back, soaking his suit. The suit was stifling at best, and in this weather, he might as well be wearing a parka. The sun broiled his back as he leaned into the trunk of his car, getting his gear ready. He mentally ran through the things he needed for the job, checking each exotic gadget off his mental list as he stuffed it into his bag.
He wasn't too worried. He had done this so many times it was old hat, but as always, he couldn't help but feel a modicum of dread at the upcoming hour of his life. Once he went in there, the world would turn upside down. All the screams and the yelling. He shuddered. There are some things a man can't ever get used to.
Sighing, he fumbled with a piece of latex, twisting and manipulating it. The finished product was crude, but it would work. As soon as the door to the house opened, he would use this to disarm the person at the door. Funny how something so simple would make the rest of the job so much easier, and by extension, make it a lot easier to get paid. Hell, he might even get a little extra if he impressed them enough. He stuffed it into his pocket.
Always keep your clients happy, he thought. In his line of work, he relied mostly on word of mouth, and one bad job could ruin him in a town this size. If his reputation was destroyed, he'd either have to start again in a new town or he'd have to go back to delivering pizza, and that was just not an option. He was a self-made man, and even though he sometimes had to act the fool to keep his clients happy, at the end of the day, he was his own boss, and he never had to take a job he didn't feel comfortable taking. He was not a rich man, but he was satisfied.
He checked his watch. It was just about time to head in. He pulled his bag out of the trunk. The bag felt heavy. He briefly thought about getting back into shape, but that thought was gone as quickly as it appeared. He reached out to close the trunk and stopped himself. Getting sloppy, he thought, and grabbed a pair of gloves from the trunk. He slipped them on.
He closed the trunk, picked up his bags, and headed up the walkway to the house.
Colorful balloons and streamers decorated the front door. He smiled. Time to get this party started.
His hand reached out the to door, but it swung open before he could touch it. A middle-aged woman stood in the doorway looking at him. She screamed.
"Oh my god, kids!"
A herd of children stood behind her and went into hysterics at the sight of him.
He put on his biggest smile, and a balloon in the shape of a flower appeared in his hand as if by magic. He handed it to the woman.
Turning to the children he said, "Hi kids! It's me! Zoinks the Clown! And today we're going to have the bestest birthday party in the whole world!"
All the children cheered, and everyone had a great time at the party.
Except for little Jimmy who got molested in the bathroom while everyone watched Zoinks make balloon animals. But that is a story for another time.
"Christ it's hot out," he muttered to himself.
Sweat dripped down his back, soaking his suit. The suit was stifling at best, and in this weather, he might as well be wearing a parka. The sun broiled his back as he leaned into the trunk of his car, getting his gear ready. He mentally ran through the things he needed for the job, checking each exotic gadget off his mental list as he stuffed it into his bag.
He wasn't too worried. He had done this so many times it was old hat, but as always, he couldn't help but feel a modicum of dread at the upcoming hour of his life. Once he went in there, the world would turn upside down. All the screams and the yelling. He shuddered. There are some things a man can't ever get used to.
Sighing, he fumbled with a piece of latex, twisting and manipulating it. The finished product was crude, but it would work. As soon as the door to the house opened, he would use this to disarm the person at the door. Funny how something so simple would make the rest of the job so much easier, and by extension, make it a lot easier to get paid. Hell, he might even get a little extra if he impressed them enough. He stuffed it into his pocket.
Always keep your clients happy, he thought. In his line of work, he relied mostly on word of mouth, and one bad job could ruin him in a town this size. If his reputation was destroyed, he'd either have to start again in a new town or he'd have to go back to delivering pizza, and that was just not an option. He was a self-made man, and even though he sometimes had to act the fool to keep his clients happy, at the end of the day, he was his own boss, and he never had to take a job he didn't feel comfortable taking. He was not a rich man, but he was satisfied.
He checked his watch. It was just about time to head in. He pulled his bag out of the trunk. The bag felt heavy. He briefly thought about getting back into shape, but that thought was gone as quickly as it appeared. He reached out to close the trunk and stopped himself. Getting sloppy, he thought, and grabbed a pair of gloves from the trunk. He slipped them on.
He closed the trunk, picked up his bags, and headed up the walkway to the house.
Colorful balloons and streamers decorated the front door. He smiled. Time to get this party started.
His hand reached out the to door, but it swung open before he could touch it. A middle-aged woman stood in the doorway looking at him. She screamed.
"Oh my god, kids!"
A herd of children stood behind her and went into hysterics at the sight of him.
He put on his biggest smile, and a balloon in the shape of a flower appeared in his hand as if by magic. He handed it to the woman.
Turning to the children he said, "Hi kids! It's me! Zoinks the Clown! And today we're going to have the bestest birthday party in the whole world!"
All the children cheered, and everyone had a great time at the party.
Except for little Jimmy who got molested in the bathroom while everyone watched Zoinks make balloon animals. But that is a story for another time.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
An Exercise in Friendship
The Conspiracy
I'm nervous.
I would never admit that to the rest of the squad as we stand waiting in the back of our truck. The signs on the side of the truck say "Speedy Delivery" and beneath that "Your package in a flash." Even though we're not a shipping company, we certainly deliver.
My team and I only get called in when there is no room for error, no second chances. And today we're supposed to neutralize some scientist guy who crossed the wrong people. The details are pretty sketchy, and to be honest, I like it that way. When we make problems go away, I don't want to know the problem's name or how many kids he has or whether he prefers vanilla ice cream over chocolate. I just do my job, and I do it well.
But today I'm nervous.
Something doesn't feel right. From the moment this job came down the wire, I got this feeling in my gut that I couldn't shake. And instead of going away, that feeling just keeps gnawing at me worse and worse. Every fiber of my being is screaming, "Turn around, call this thing off," but I suppress those urges because I don't have any other choice. The people I work for don't take no for an answer. I take a deep breath and signal Lopez, the point man.
Lopez opens the back door of the truck, and we coil out like a striking snake. Once we start moving, the training takes over, and there's no more conscious thought, just instinct and reaction. There's no time to think and there's definitely no time for nagging doubts about what we're going to do.
My team is already stacked against the door. Normally, I would have them blow the door open and they'd storm in like the devil's legion, but this job requires subtlety. Even the local cops who generally have their heads up their asses are gonna suspect foul play if the front door is blown to bits with military grade explosives. So I have Lopez pick the lock.
The door opens with the slightest click. We listen. We can hear a voice inside, frantically raving about something. I distinctly hear the word "ketchup." No time to wonder why. I send the squad into the house.
After that, everything happens quickly. There is very little noise. The man we had come to kill was a small, bookish man. He never even heard Lopez creep behind him and inject the neurotoxin into his neck. The injection works instantly, and the small man's body slumps to the floor. His eyes stare off into the distance, unblinking. But he is not dead.
I don't know what this man did to piss off whoever he pissed off, but they wanted him to suffer before he died. This neurotoxin is particularly nasty because it stimulates all the pain centers of your brain as it kills you. Theory has it that the pain is so intense, every second feels like an eternity of torture, and it takes an hour for the poison to kill an average-sized man. You do the math. I've killed hundreds of men in hundreds of different ways, but from what I understand, there is no more painful way to die.
We had to wait for the poison to finish the job, so my team began preparing the scene to look like a suicide. I stay with the body, and because the action is, for the most part, over, I start to get that nagging feeling tearing through my gut again. I look through the the papers scattered around the room to try and get my mind off of things.
I start reading, and I can't stop reading. Periodically, members of my squad come in and ask me questions. I wave them off without even hearing them. Could this be real? Could this be true? I should have realized. I should have listened to my gut. This secret is too big, too important to bury alongside the scientist we just killed. I need to tell someone. I need to tell the world. The truth must be heard.
And that's when I feel the needle in my neck. My muscles lose control and I'm falling. I guess someone had orders to kill anyone who was exposed to the scientist's work, or maybe someone just turned on me. It happens in this business. I just have time to wonder if Lopez was the one who killed me. Then the pain ignites, and I'm in hell.
I'm nervous.
I would never admit that to the rest of the squad as we stand waiting in the back of our truck. The signs on the side of the truck say "Speedy Delivery" and beneath that "Your package in a flash." Even though we're not a shipping company, we certainly deliver.
My team and I only get called in when there is no room for error, no second chances. And today we're supposed to neutralize some scientist guy who crossed the wrong people. The details are pretty sketchy, and to be honest, I like it that way. When we make problems go away, I don't want to know the problem's name or how many kids he has or whether he prefers vanilla ice cream over chocolate. I just do my job, and I do it well.
But today I'm nervous.
Something doesn't feel right. From the moment this job came down the wire, I got this feeling in my gut that I couldn't shake. And instead of going away, that feeling just keeps gnawing at me worse and worse. Every fiber of my being is screaming, "Turn around, call this thing off," but I suppress those urges because I don't have any other choice. The people I work for don't take no for an answer. I take a deep breath and signal Lopez, the point man.
Lopez opens the back door of the truck, and we coil out like a striking snake. Once we start moving, the training takes over, and there's no more conscious thought, just instinct and reaction. There's no time to think and there's definitely no time for nagging doubts about what we're going to do.
My team is already stacked against the door. Normally, I would have them blow the door open and they'd storm in like the devil's legion, but this job requires subtlety. Even the local cops who generally have their heads up their asses are gonna suspect foul play if the front door is blown to bits with military grade explosives. So I have Lopez pick the lock.
The door opens with the slightest click. We listen. We can hear a voice inside, frantically raving about something. I distinctly hear the word "ketchup." No time to wonder why. I send the squad into the house.
After that, everything happens quickly. There is very little noise. The man we had come to kill was a small, bookish man. He never even heard Lopez creep behind him and inject the neurotoxin into his neck. The injection works instantly, and the small man's body slumps to the floor. His eyes stare off into the distance, unblinking. But he is not dead.
I don't know what this man did to piss off whoever he pissed off, but they wanted him to suffer before he died. This neurotoxin is particularly nasty because it stimulates all the pain centers of your brain as it kills you. Theory has it that the pain is so intense, every second feels like an eternity of torture, and it takes an hour for the poison to kill an average-sized man. You do the math. I've killed hundreds of men in hundreds of different ways, but from what I understand, there is no more painful way to die.
We had to wait for the poison to finish the job, so my team began preparing the scene to look like a suicide. I stay with the body, and because the action is, for the most part, over, I start to get that nagging feeling tearing through my gut again. I look through the the papers scattered around the room to try and get my mind off of things.
I start reading, and I can't stop reading. Periodically, members of my squad come in and ask me questions. I wave them off without even hearing them. Could this be real? Could this be true? I should have realized. I should have listened to my gut. This secret is too big, too important to bury alongside the scientist we just killed. I need to tell someone. I need to tell the world. The truth must be heard.
And that's when I feel the needle in my neck. My muscles lose control and I'm falling. I guess someone had orders to kill anyone who was exposed to the scientist's work, or maybe someone just turned on me. It happens in this business. I just have time to wonder if Lopez was the one who killed me. Then the pain ignites, and I'm in hell.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
October 1, 2008 - First One Woohoo
Cold Wind
Cold wind blew in from the ocean so Ed had the beach to himself. The solitude satisfied him. He wanted to be alone, and the chill overcast sky and the desolate beach felt like the perfect place for it. During the summer, the sand bristled with bright colors and smiling faces, a happy setting for happy people. But Ed was never happy anymore, and this grey place was his perfect purgatory.
His eyes squinted against the almost freezing gusts as he stared out into the water. The ocean was massive in a way his mind had trouble understanding. The waves stretched out forever until it met the infinity of the sky on the horizon. The sheer size of it overwhelmed him for a moment, and Ed thought about how much the ocean resembled his pain. His hurt was vast and deep, and he felt like it went on forever. His misery was ever-shifting, ebbing and flowing, and it felt like a force of nature against which he was powerless.
With shaking fingers, he lit a cigarette, shielding it from the wind with his body. He was cold, but the chill invigorated him. Every gust of wind on his skin made him feel alive and real. He breathed in deeply, relishing the smoke and the cool air in his lungs, and as always, Ed’s thoughts returned to her.
Anna was the most beautiful woman Ed had ever known. She was so beautiful that the word “beautiful” itself lost all meaning in relation to any other thing in the world. Beautiful was her word, her adjective. Her eyes were dark pools of eternity, and time had no meaning when she looked at him. Her skin was polished marble, carved by the hand of an ancient master.
And the day Anna had told Ed that she loved him was the day his life began. Every day before that, he had never really existed, and with her love, he was finally born.
Then Anna got sick. She faded into nothing, and then she was gone. And Ed was a walking shadow once more. The blood in his veins froze, and his heart was a dead piece of meat in his chest. She left him empty inside, and that emptiness ached.
Ed had gone to see her at the funeral home. She was beautiful in death, surrounded by silk and flowers. Her skin was cold, but Ed half expected her to sit up and smile at him and make everything alright. If the dead could be resurrected by sheer force of will, Ed knew his love could bring her back and breathe life into her the way she had breathed life into him. But she didn’t come back.
Anna was cremated. Her ashes were spread in the ocean at the very spot where Ed stood. He felt close to her here, in her final resting place. The wind on his cheek was her cold touch from beyond death, and the sound of the waves was her whispering in his ear that she still loved him.
The rest of the world held nothing for him anymore. He sat and watched and tried to make sense of it all. He didn’t believe in God, but he wanted to, if for no other reason than to have someone to hate, something big enough to take all of his hate.
His friends were no help. They had tried their best to be there for him, but their laughter held no joy for him. He just missed her even more.
So he stood on the beach, and he missed her. With every fiber of his being, he missed her.
Ed stomped his cigarette butt into the sand and prepared to light another one. He placed the cigarette between his lips and paused. The world had gone still around him. The wind was still blowing but everything was silence. The waves parted and a slim pale figure arose from the waves. She was radiant.
Anna had come back to him.
Ed ran to her. The frigid water chilled his bones, but nothing mattered except her. Anna held out her hand, and Ed took it. Without a word, she walked back into the sea, and he followed.
The water engulfed them, covering their heads, but still they walked forever into the dark ocean.
Cold wind blew in from the ocean so Ed had the beach to himself. The solitude satisfied him. He wanted to be alone, and the chill overcast sky and the desolate beach felt like the perfect place for it. During the summer, the sand bristled with bright colors and smiling faces, a happy setting for happy people. But Ed was never happy anymore, and this grey place was his perfect purgatory.
His eyes squinted against the almost freezing gusts as he stared out into the water. The ocean was massive in a way his mind had trouble understanding. The waves stretched out forever until it met the infinity of the sky on the horizon. The sheer size of it overwhelmed him for a moment, and Ed thought about how much the ocean resembled his pain. His hurt was vast and deep, and he felt like it went on forever. His misery was ever-shifting, ebbing and flowing, and it felt like a force of nature against which he was powerless.
With shaking fingers, he lit a cigarette, shielding it from the wind with his body. He was cold, but the chill invigorated him. Every gust of wind on his skin made him feel alive and real. He breathed in deeply, relishing the smoke and the cool air in his lungs, and as always, Ed’s thoughts returned to her.
Anna was the most beautiful woman Ed had ever known. She was so beautiful that the word “beautiful” itself lost all meaning in relation to any other thing in the world. Beautiful was her word, her adjective. Her eyes were dark pools of eternity, and time had no meaning when she looked at him. Her skin was polished marble, carved by the hand of an ancient master.
And the day Anna had told Ed that she loved him was the day his life began. Every day before that, he had never really existed, and with her love, he was finally born.
Then Anna got sick. She faded into nothing, and then she was gone. And Ed was a walking shadow once more. The blood in his veins froze, and his heart was a dead piece of meat in his chest. She left him empty inside, and that emptiness ached.
Ed had gone to see her at the funeral home. She was beautiful in death, surrounded by silk and flowers. Her skin was cold, but Ed half expected her to sit up and smile at him and make everything alright. If the dead could be resurrected by sheer force of will, Ed knew his love could bring her back and breathe life into her the way she had breathed life into him. But she didn’t come back.
Anna was cremated. Her ashes were spread in the ocean at the very spot where Ed stood. He felt close to her here, in her final resting place. The wind on his cheek was her cold touch from beyond death, and the sound of the waves was her whispering in his ear that she still loved him.
The rest of the world held nothing for him anymore. He sat and watched and tried to make sense of it all. He didn’t believe in God, but he wanted to, if for no other reason than to have someone to hate, something big enough to take all of his hate.
His friends were no help. They had tried their best to be there for him, but their laughter held no joy for him. He just missed her even more.
So he stood on the beach, and he missed her. With every fiber of his being, he missed her.
Ed stomped his cigarette butt into the sand and prepared to light another one. He placed the cigarette between his lips and paused. The world had gone still around him. The wind was still blowing but everything was silence. The waves parted and a slim pale figure arose from the waves. She was radiant.
Anna had come back to him.
Ed ran to her. The frigid water chilled his bones, but nothing mattered except her. Anna held out her hand, and Ed took it. Without a word, she walked back into the sea, and he followed.
The water engulfed them, covering their heads, but still they walked forever into the dark ocean.
Howdy
I'm starting this mostly for me, but making it public adds an urgency to it, gives it more weight.
I want to motivate myself to start writing again, and I figured, why not write a little story everyday. I'm not going to post about my life or my job or what I had for dinner. I just want to tell stories. Good or bad, I'm putting it out there.
So that's that.
I want to motivate myself to start writing again, and I figured, why not write a little story everyday. I'm not going to post about my life or my job or what I had for dinner. I just want to tell stories. Good or bad, I'm putting it out there.
So that's that.
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