Contributor: George Sparling
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I used to get persistent thoughts of going to prison without Deadazine, the guards not handing out my usual nighttime dose. Denial of D, especially by strangers wearing uniforms and packing Tasers, wasn’t like withdrawing from it gradually under a psychiatrist’s script-wring hands.
“Getting a dozen 50,000 volts, wires sticking into my heart, I hovered over my corpse witnessing a wasted life. My only success: death,” I said, wearing boxer shorts and a sleeveless undershirt, looking at the kitchen floor.
“Steve, you’ll never go to prison. Take the med,” Nan said, handing me the huge tablet which I downed with Ginseng tea, a culture clash I never resolved. Nan used to snort Kleenex-soaked crank. Now she never had to blow her nose, just let the booger-clogged nostrils absorb her snot.
“It’s leaking out your nose, Nan, “ I said. D hit my synapses, and I felt great love for her.
“It was either from the bloody nose when I slammed into corner of the car door or that love tap you gave me last night, thinking I was Girls Wanna Get Knocked Around But They’d Rather Be Shopping For Dildos With Jagged Sharp Points To Inflict Bodily Harm On Their Drugged Boyfriends,” Nan said, pulling a foot-long horror-film alien tentacle out her nose, rolling it up and dropping it out the window onto magnolias.
I liked movies of garroted bodies floating in ooze, perverted ex-apparatchiks spunking their dicks in cold fondue. The movie of a dominatrix telling off a would-be assassin by talk-slurping his erection pleased me. Ms. Dominatrix raised her skirt and twisted a full-fashioned, seamed stocking, wrapping it around his nut bag. And when she told him that she’d panty-hosed-strangled a lecher much worse than him, a guy who used to eat half-cooked penises off of dead positive-thinking delusionists. Big D worked much faster.
“I tell you, Nan, it’s worse than mind-reading with Braille.”
“Like what? You’ve done worse stuff,” she said.
“Give me one example,” I said,
“Like going boldly, raping Dobermans or selling pirated Froot-Loops laced with LSD-drenched cranberry juice for $3,000 to seniors, thinking the cereal cured their Alzheimer’s disease,” she said.
“You always make me sound guilty. It’s another way to say I’m sorry, I guess,” I said.
“Still afraid of prison, I presume,” she said, her filmic Ann Savage resemblance reminding me of Savage’s telephone-corded death, strangled accidentally by a man who never got arrested for it in “Detour.” ( so I thought )
Nan must’ve given me extra-strength Deadazine because now I’m in a room where men and women, wearing bowties and stiff white shirts, asked questions that I will never answer because Deadazine made answer only in semaphore, an ancient practice only Boy Scouts know.
“It’s impossible to fake it, Steve. Lying doesn’t work these days.” It was Nan, every pore of her face an extinct volcano. “Even dogs are on to you.”
“How?”
She left the room. They took me to a dungeon where famous Ms. Dominatrix stripped me and bound me with ropes. Her day job, a judge on the court of appeals in District 107 whose jurisdiction covered whatever wasn’t reported in media, like viral videos sent from millions of people living next to cemetery headstones. It pleased men that whatever she’d do to me was legal. Of course, that meant I had to relocate to a cemetery in Greece.
Orders were orders. She wanted to find out the source of Deadazine. I told her a woman named Nan.
The judge wrapped my neck with fake, Styrofoam barbed wire, the kind bought at Wal-Mart for $1.99. Then, she released it, fake blood streaming down my throat. My Adam’s apple felt as if it should eaten, an apple a day kept women gnawing my throat.
“I’d love to see you bleed and die,” Nan said.
“You’ll end up in detention if you sit there and watch Steve’s theatrical blood stream out and die,” Ms. Dominatrix said. “Guantanamo needs more femmes.”
I wilted, plopped backwards, the watered-down catsup nearly drowning me.
The judge undid the dominatrix paraphernalia, then, naked except for a metal-spiked glove, knocked the shit out of Nan. When she came to, groped the furniture to get off the floor, she tried to swallow, but couldn’t, barbed wire clung so tight she stopped breathing.
A foot-long lease dangled from the wire.
The judge, now in a black robe and topped off in a white wig, gave the verdict: Nan’s term to be served under the influence of Deadazine in a condo in my building.
My turn to pull the wire.
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I live in Northern California.
I've stopped making much sense long ago. But I do like Tom Waits, Bartok quartets, Don Winslow, Jonathan Letham, Joyce Carol Oates and Christina Stead.
In my spare time I have more spare time.
Read more »
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I used to get persistent thoughts of going to prison without Deadazine, the guards not handing out my usual nighttime dose. Denial of D, especially by strangers wearing uniforms and packing Tasers, wasn’t like withdrawing from it gradually under a psychiatrist’s script-wring hands.
“Getting a dozen 50,000 volts, wires sticking into my heart, I hovered over my corpse witnessing a wasted life. My only success: death,” I said, wearing boxer shorts and a sleeveless undershirt, looking at the kitchen floor.
“Steve, you’ll never go to prison. Take the med,” Nan said, handing me the huge tablet which I downed with Ginseng tea, a culture clash I never resolved. Nan used to snort Kleenex-soaked crank. Now she never had to blow her nose, just let the booger-clogged nostrils absorb her snot.
“It’s leaking out your nose, Nan, “ I said. D hit my synapses, and I felt great love for her.
“It was either from the bloody nose when I slammed into corner of the car door or that love tap you gave me last night, thinking I was Girls Wanna Get Knocked Around But They’d Rather Be Shopping For Dildos With Jagged Sharp Points To Inflict Bodily Harm On Their Drugged Boyfriends,” Nan said, pulling a foot-long horror-film alien tentacle out her nose, rolling it up and dropping it out the window onto magnolias.
I liked movies of garroted bodies floating in ooze, perverted ex-apparatchiks spunking their dicks in cold fondue. The movie of a dominatrix telling off a would-be assassin by talk-slurping his erection pleased me. Ms. Dominatrix raised her skirt and twisted a full-fashioned, seamed stocking, wrapping it around his nut bag. And when she told him that she’d panty-hosed-strangled a lecher much worse than him, a guy who used to eat half-cooked penises off of dead positive-thinking delusionists. Big D worked much faster.
“I tell you, Nan, it’s worse than mind-reading with Braille.”
“Like what? You’ve done worse stuff,” she said.
“Give me one example,” I said,
“Like going boldly, raping Dobermans or selling pirated Froot-Loops laced with LSD-drenched cranberry juice for $3,000 to seniors, thinking the cereal cured their Alzheimer’s disease,” she said.
“You always make me sound guilty. It’s another way to say I’m sorry, I guess,” I said.
“Still afraid of prison, I presume,” she said, her filmic Ann Savage resemblance reminding me of Savage’s telephone-corded death, strangled accidentally by a man who never got arrested for it in “Detour.” ( so I thought )
Nan must’ve given me extra-strength Deadazine because now I’m in a room where men and women, wearing bowties and stiff white shirts, asked questions that I will never answer because Deadazine made answer only in semaphore, an ancient practice only Boy Scouts know.
“It’s impossible to fake it, Steve. Lying doesn’t work these days.” It was Nan, every pore of her face an extinct volcano. “Even dogs are on to you.”
“How?”
She left the room. They took me to a dungeon where famous Ms. Dominatrix stripped me and bound me with ropes. Her day job, a judge on the court of appeals in District 107 whose jurisdiction covered whatever wasn’t reported in media, like viral videos sent from millions of people living next to cemetery headstones. It pleased men that whatever she’d do to me was legal. Of course, that meant I had to relocate to a cemetery in Greece.
Orders were orders. She wanted to find out the source of Deadazine. I told her a woman named Nan.
The judge wrapped my neck with fake, Styrofoam barbed wire, the kind bought at Wal-Mart for $1.99. Then, she released it, fake blood streaming down my throat. My Adam’s apple felt as if it should eaten, an apple a day kept women gnawing my throat.
“I’d love to see you bleed and die,” Nan said.
“You’ll end up in detention if you sit there and watch Steve’s theatrical blood stream out and die,” Ms. Dominatrix said. “Guantanamo needs more femmes.”
I wilted, plopped backwards, the watered-down catsup nearly drowning me.
The judge undid the dominatrix paraphernalia, then, naked except for a metal-spiked glove, knocked the shit out of Nan. When she came to, groped the furniture to get off the floor, she tried to swallow, but couldn’t, barbed wire clung so tight she stopped breathing.
A foot-long lease dangled from the wire.
The judge, now in a black robe and topped off in a white wig, gave the verdict: Nan’s term to be served under the influence of Deadazine in a condo in my building.
My turn to pull the wire.
- - -
I live in Northern California.
I've stopped making much sense long ago. But I do like Tom Waits, Bartok quartets, Don Winslow, Jonathan Letham, Joyce Carol Oates and Christina Stead.
In my spare time I have more spare time.
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Author:
George Sparling
