Posted on September 17, 2005 at 23:47:13.
mon*stros*i*ty 44
By M Satai
mon*stros*i*ty 44
Days pass…
Its Monday, February 23. Im sitting in the window of a Starbucks at 6.41am. My leg hurts. I have to take a shit.
I don’t feel like talking about the well-lit white wooden church yesterday. I don’t feel like talking about the zombies on the outside…or it is the zombies on the inside? I can’t be bothered to make the distinction between the dead and the dead. When something is rotting you can’t tell the difference between inside and outside
In glass chambers above the pipe organs, on each side of the altar, a dead girl, naked, in a sheer white wrapping…
Dead girls all over. Sipping coffee in café’s. Talking on cell phones. Driving cars. Jogging by with headphones.
Big-eyed dead girls. Blonde dead girls. Pony-tail dead girls. Bicycle-riding dead girls. High-heel-wearing dead girls. Dog-walking dead girls.
Every cunt that walks passed is like a mass grave, a mouth full of worms and lies, an infection, an innoculation by way of ripping out a chunk of groin flesh…
--Kiss me, kiss me, the dead bride says.
This is not a marriage—it’s an infection
…………………………………………………………………………….Damn, where was I, what happened? Have I been unconscious? It’s February 25th now, a Wednesday. I don’t remember a thing. Was I given a shot, was something removed from inside me, was something else put in?
Have I been temporarily dead?
Serial-Killer Delivers
“Flowers of Evil”
Who would have thought it would be like this, carrying around a valise of dead assholes through the city? When I thought of becoming a serial killer, I thought it would be a lot more glamorous somehow, a lot cooler.
I didn’t figure that there was a guild system in place…I didn’t plan on serving a fucking apprenticeship.
I wouldn’t have thought that whole hierarchical organizational bullshit would have saturated even to this level. I figured this was still a fancy-free kind of profession. You know, hang loose, freelance, anything goes. I pictured myself more or less just running amok with my scalpel, my bone-saw, my ice-pick; that there’d be a lot more freedom to it all. Who could have guessed that serial murder nowadays was a lot like buying a fried chicken franchise?
I should have known, I guess. Nowadays you can’t even be a poet without paying a licensing fee.
Goddammit, they put the pinch on you at every fucking turn.
Krentz lives on West 87th. His place smells of old milk, old hair, old books, old dust, old boxes full of old nothing. That makes sense: Krentz himself is old, 70, 80, 90, so old the fucking number doesn’t make a difference. He’s got no teeth anymore, no eye-sight, no hard-on…nothing hard. He sits, dressed in a smelly bathrobe, melting away in a soft musty armchair, looking at the glossy pages of bird magazines. What’s he listening to today? Rachmaninoff? Dvorjak? He reaches for a glass on the table. His liver-spotted hand trembles.
--Have you come to deliver my precious bouquet, my darling boy? My wrinkled brown rosebuds?
His voice crackles and croaks. It laughs by rheumatic fits and starts.
Bastard, he can barely keep the spit in his mouth. Wet, spastic mouth, like an asshole itself, it is, like a constipated asshole, slick with a freshly administered enema, trying to work out a turd.
Drunk, on top of everything else—christ, I want to smash his skull to pieces with the nearly empty decanter at his side. I want to see his putrid brains—a colorless fluid by now I’d suspect, lifeless, like sterile semen.
Do you know what I have to do, what risks and commotion I have to endure to collect his dozen assholes? And why assholes, of all things, dammit—why must I be subject to his inane fetishes when I’m doing all the work? The meeting in bars and health clubs, the wooing, the convincing, the goading, the seducing, the threatening…and then the slaughter itself, the dragging and yanking, the stink, and the mess in the bathroom coring out a rectum when you’re covered in sweat and blood and slipping in the shit all over the place…
And the fucker knows, old and drunk and senile as he is…he knows if I bring him an asshole that isn’t fresh, that belongs to some dishwashing hag over 40 or somebody’s grandma. You’d have to see it to believe it, watching him poke that ugly hooked beak of his over the wrinkled brown hole of some 70-year-old shut-in I conked out on the upper east side. The repugnance on old Krentz’s face, the disapproving look he gives me…
And it’s no use trying fool him either—its not any use at all washing them assholes all pink and rosy, plucking out the white hairs and trying to sell him on the idea that it belongs to some 13-year-old, oh no sir—that would make my life too fucking easy. No, that nose of Krentz’s, that hideous, obscene, gnarled vulture beak of his can smell a fresh asshole a thousand miles away…
--There are no short-cuts to serial killing boy, the old fucker slobbers at me and I feel the neck of that whisky decanter in my sweaty grip, I feel the heft of it thunk fatally and satisfyingly on his soft skull as if I’d actually hit him with it, as if I had the balls to do it.
Instead, I hand him the still slightly bleeding assholes all bundled up in florist paper that’s gone damp and pink. He can read my mind, I guess, no, that’s not it: he can smell my asshole. He can smell the excitement in it, the betrayal, the arousal, the death in it, something being born.
He cackles and hacks.
--I’ll fuck you up the ass. Yeah, you better watch your asshole boy. Old Krentz will get ya, he’ll get ya, Boo…
And on and on like that. Senile ramblings. Just old man ranting and raving is all it is. You know how it goes--you know. Fucking father-figures, teachers, priests, mentors…the whole rotten lot of them.
You have to listen—you have to take it up the ass. At least until you don’t have to take it anymore.Until you can’t take it anymore.
Fucker, he’s right after all. Sitting up in that decaying bachelor’s apartment, rotting away, flipping through his bird magazines, sipping old whisky, sniffing his bouquet of assholes…
That’s the future, that’s me—and that’s only if I’m lucky.
I can’t take it anymore.
And then some time passes and I think…………………………………………..Yes, I can. I can take it.
In any event, I do.
I take out my pad and jot down a short to-do list:
1. Stop believing in the existence of myself
2. Stop believing in the existence other people
3. Stop believing in Him.
There are small black checkmarks next to the first two items. How…what do I have to do to be able to put a check next to number 3?
One day I’ll core the mouth out of that old shithead’s face, that sloppy asshole-mouth of his. I’ll carry his brown puckered lips in my bag like a dried-out slug, that’ll be the day, the last fucking rose I’ll ever pluck and I’ll deliver it to myself…well, to no one really.
Anyway, I spend the rest of the afternoon sitting in a café’, hating everyone around me, and sipping tea while looking through a copy of The Image, a pornographic novel by an author named Jean deBerg. It’s not too interesting, I think, all the talk about erotic sacrifice at the end of the book, and the girl doesn’t even die in the end.
I keep asking dead author, the non-existent characters, the ink and paper on the table in front of me, Where’s the romance? Where?