Posted on September 17, 2005 at 23:48:09.
mon*stros*i*ty 233
By M Satai
mon*stros*i*ty 233
And now it’s February 26, a Thursday, and it’s around 8.30am.
zombie point-zero I think of a writer, sitting alone in a room, writing just before dawn…and something suddenly slips out of his head, leaks out of his ear, maybe, a cold trickle down the side of his neck. Or it might leap, like a frog with fur and a monkey’s face, off the top of his shoulders, and land with a sliding splat on the other side of the room and stare up at him with large, nocturnal eyes, grinning, with a sharp-toothed, monkey-gibberish grin.
No, no…that is how the writer might describe it later, how he might personify it, how he might fictionalize it.
What it would really be…it would be a blob, a formless phlegmy mass, greenish-yellow, like a pus or the nameless leakage from an infected wound, but somehow alive.
zombie-infection The writer would be horrified, disgusted, terrified by this thing that had come out of him and he’d want to destroy it, to erase it, but, of course, that would be impossible. As sick and afraid and revolted as he might be, he’d also be fascinated at this self-emission, the way one is fascinated by a nose-picking, or a particularly heavy load of shit, inasmuch as it was formed inside, that it issued from the dark cavities of his own body…
He’d be fascinated and unable to destroy his own creation…
And this viscous wad would walk, crawl, really, sidling, crablike, amoebalike, out of the room, the writer’s room, and into the city. It would slip into the water supply, into the subway system, into the rat population, into the ventilation ducts of office buildings, etc etc etc, each etc a glyph for how on thing leads to another thing, leads to all things, everything is everything…
zombie-apocalypse Organs without a body…the diseased slop, disconnected, sick, gall-bladders, pancreases, lungs, stomachs, miles and miles of intestines, all taken out of context, without the boundaries of flesh, the border of bone, not lifeless, but all life, such unmitigated, unspeakable horror.
To imagine what might be large enough to encompass all these discarded organs, this unassimilable diseased slop, you’d have to imagine god It-self, you’d have to imagine a towering zombie-god, you’d have to imagine life as death, an assemblage of way too many parts, an aggregrate-machine so complex, short-sightedely, and randomly designed as to be rendered completely useless.
You’d have to imagine a monstrous machine that produces nothing.
Zombie.
zombie-industrial Necropolis, now, is filled with the hasty construction of these cancerous machines, spreading, organically and chaotically, across the landscape in a provisional and opportunistic way. And outside of each factory, feeding these immense, nonstop zombie-machines, the people of necropolis line up, patient and dociles, like cows, businessmen, mothers, architectural design students, marketing directors, daycare workers, grammer school teachers with entire classes of 9-year-olds, all that traffic lined up outside the tunnels, stalled on the bridges, coming into the airports…all of them walking orderly into the open and irresistible mouth of the zombie.
Hurts so much…I’m so thirsty…hurts…why don’t they give me something to drink…god, Im so cold…what’s that sound, that sound, why won’t anyone come, why won’t anyone, where is everyone…momma…
# # #
He hears the men come into the jail. They’re drunk, rowdy, cursing. The police chief says, “You know the rules, gentlemen. You got til dawn. You don’t kill him, you hear? Don’t mark up his face too much. Girl’s got a big day tomorrow.”
The laughter was harsh and crude and filled with hatred.
Why do they have to be so angry? Billy wondered. Why do they have to hate me? He sits trembling against the cold stone wall on the narrow cot in his cell. The men, jeering and cursing, are coming down the short hallway, opening the clanging door with drunken awkwardness. He can recognize their voices: Mr. Harrow from the drug store; Mr. Jenkins, the school wrestling coach. Mr. Tyler, the fertilizer farmer. Mr. Dawkins, his dad’s friend…they were all men that Billy had known all his life, had seen in town, at school, at home.
He closed his eyes, trembling, holding his knees against his chest. He had accepted his fate; there was no use fighting, couldn’t they see that? Why did it have to be like this? They had already burst into the cell and someone yanked him off the cot and threw him to the stone floor. He could feel their hostility, the naked lust for violence radiating from their bodies as they looked down at him.
The white spaghetti-strap dress he wore had tangled around his long smooth legs and he fell helplessly with a soft gasp. Someone yanked him back to his knees by his ponytail and smacked him hard across the cheek.
Someone growled derisively to the man who’d struck him.
--Remember, don’t fuck up kewpie doll’s face.
Billy tasted blood in his mouth.
--I’d kill you right now if wose weren’t in store for you, you little faggot.
A chorus of drunken laughter followed. Billy felt Mr. Dawkins, he was sure it was Mr. Dawkins, pull his head close. The old man’s hot sour breath burned against Billy’s lips and the drunken man leered,
--You don’t want that Pepsodent smile busted up girly then I better feel nothing but tongue. Open up queer…
And Billy tasted hot salty flesh almost immediately, the sour meat in his mouth nearly gagging him as his head was held fast between two strong hands and he had no choice but to suck, to suck or to suffocate. Within moments, it seemed, the jism blasted against the back of his throat, and Billy gulped it down, gulped as fast as he could.
A moment later, he felt a cock forced into his rectum and then another stuffed into his bruised mouth. He was beaten with fists and straps and sticks, dragged out of the cell and into the yard where he was strung up with leather thongs to a post in the dust. He was beaten some more there, and raped repeatedly. Many of the men came back for more. It was as if they inspired each other to greater acts of arousal and cruelty. Even the old men, unable to penetrate him, rubbed their wrinkled genitals in their arthritic hands and leaked their impotent cum on his bruised body. A crowd had gathered by then, and Billy, his once beautiful white dress in tatters, knelt limp and bleeding in the halogen lights of a circle of parked SUV’s, as the men abused him over and over and over.
--Don’t break any bones, bitch has got a long walk down the aisle tomorrow, someone shouted over the drunken mob.
More laughter. Shouts. Someone sing-song answers:
--She’s getting married in the morning…
A fresh howl of laughter…
They had suspended him from a kind of overhead beam at one point, his bare feet nearly clear off the ground, as he struggled to keep his balance on painted tiptoes, his arms feeling as if they’d been nearly pulled from their sockets.
They took turns.
Someone had Billy’s narrows hips in their iron grip and gave it to him up his bleeding ass with such violence that the rape, even after so many others, penetrated Billy’s dimming consciousness. It wasn’t until his rapist came into his rectum that Billy realized it was Grant, the thick-headed jock who used to bully him in high-school.
At one point, Mr. Taylor, the mechanic, came forward with a leer and a circlet of twisted barbed-wire in his outstretched hands.
--Wouldn’t wanna forget your tiara, would ya Barbie doll?
How they laughed, how the crowd of them howled with laughter when the barbed-wire tiara was pressed onto Billy’s head.
--How’s that princess? Mr. Taylor drawled.
--Why she’s pretty as a picture in a fairy tale, someone else shouted.
# # #
Sometime later, Billy regained consciousness. He was back in the cell, lying curled up on the cold floor. His dress, once so beautiful, was nearly in tatters, like confetti. Around his throbbing head, the tiara of barbed wire seemed to be stapled into his skull. Every part of his body felt bruised and lacerated and no place more than his poor, torn asshole. He could feel the cum of other men like a wad of something alien inside him…and he could taste their seed in his mouth, a taste so bitter and dirty he knew it would never wash away.
But worse of all, the sun was up. Billy could tell the sun was up, even in the basement of the police station where his cell was located. He could see it the way the light spilled from the heavy door at the end of the hall that had just swung open. The deputies were coming for him. He could hear the sharp footsteps of their polished shoes on the polished floors. He could hear their loud, aggressive, excited voices. They were coming, coming to walk him down the aisle.
Billy closed his eyes.
The worse was yet to come…