Everday Madness And Other Reasons To Die

            There’s a fat blister on my cock, down there by the base, that I’ve taken to calling Mildred.  Mildred is a resilient old bitch; she’s been with me awhile, even though she often bleeds milky puss.  She’s survived all the creams and pills and fingernail picking I can throw her way.  Ladies don’t like Mildred.  Often, as their faces draw near and their pretty mouths open to take me in, the sight of old Mildred will send them reeling back as if my penis were an angry raccoon.  I don’t mind.  Mildred is a proud battle scar, an indication of triumph.  She often itches something fierce, though.  This is why I currently have my hand down the front of my slacks, working fiercely to scratch her out of existence.

            It’s a Friday night in May, I think, and I’m at a hotel in Atlanta.  I can’t remember the name of the place, but it seems nice - bright new carpet, towering ceilings with marble columns that rise imposingly from the floor, an attractive female staff with big tits and tight asses framed in form defining uniforms.

            My parents are having a party with some sort of disco theme, so I’m dressed in a yellow and green plaid leisure suit.  The pants are flat in the front and flare at the ankles around black leather platform shoes decorated on top with big silver buckles.  My shirt is just a regular white Oxford, but I leave it unbuttoned until just above my belly button.  I wasn’t sure what kind of socks would be tacky enough, so I’m wearing none.  Earlier, sipping my fourth scotch, I caught a glance of myself in a mirror and laughed wildly.

            I haven’t eaten today, and, now on my sixth drink, I’m slipping down into that dark, mean, drunk place.  I’m trying to hide near the bar while watching one of my mother’s friends who designs lingerie for Playboy, debating whether or not she can get me a date with one of her models.  I see Stephen Summers flirting with one of my cousins and I hope they don’t end up spending the night together.

I’ve been sneaking away to the bathroom throughout the night, snorting long lines of cocaine off a travel brochure that I picked up in the lobby (See Stone Mountain!).  The last time, as I stepped out of the stall, my father was washing his hands and glared at me in the mirror while I pushed up the high skin around my cheek and sniffled loudly.  He asked if I was sick then, drunk, wandered off without waiting for my answer.

              There’s a low, painful ringing noise in my ears and I wince, wonder if anyone else hears it, doubt that they do.  The air is sour and smells like the mist from a fresh sneeze.  Outside a wall of thick glass windows, above the silhouettes of tall buildings, the sky is gunmetal gray and the clouds are hanging low.

            “Reilly!  Reilly!”

            I turn and see an old woman walking towards me, pulling a thin man with brown hair who is short and has a dark shadow of beard on his chin.

            “Reilly,” the old woman, whom I don’t recognize, pants to me.  “I’m glad I found you.”  She’s wearing a faded, royal blue pant suit and her hair is curly and permed.  “I was just talking to Remmie here, and it turns out he’s the mayor down there in…” She snaps her fingers, “what’s the name of the town you’re at now?  Where you’re going to school.  Your grandma told me but I just can’t recall.”

            The way she snaps her fingers annoys me and I contemplate kicking her in the cunt, but instead murmur, “I don’t remember either.”

            She looks at me as if I have a learning disability, then turns to the man expectantly.  A smile hints at the corners of his mouth, but he just shrugs at her and offers no answer.

            “Oh well,” she continues.  “He’s the mayor.  I thought I should introduce you two.  It really is a small world, isn’t it?”

            “Remmie?” I ask him.  “With a Y?”

            He has on a flowered polyester shirt, faded yellow bell bottoms, and camo hunting boots.

“IE,” he tells me.

            “Ah,” I shake his hand, say, “Nice to meet you.  I’m the anti-man.”

            He raises his brow and the woman gives a little fake titter.  Her plaster smile cracks, tries to break.  Remmie laughs.  He’s swaying slightly.



            Later, I’m standing with my ear against the wall, hunting for the source of that goddam ringing noise.  Out of the corner of my eye, what looks like a pterodactyl,  maybe just a mutant flying lizard, flaps past the windows.  I drain my drink and chew up the ice, the loud popping and cracking between my teeth almost overwhelming the ringing.

            There’s commotion at the door.  My father is waving his bottle of Budweiser while screaming at a mountainous security guard dressed in a uniform of navy slacks and a white collared shirt that has a gold shield stitched to the sleeve.  None of his clothes fit him – too tight I think.  A white plastic rectangle attached  to his chest reads “BOWERS” in strong black letters.

            “Quiet down?  Quiet down!” My father is yelling. “What’s your problem, asshole?  We rented this whole goddam floor and we’ll be as loud as we want.  The concierge told me we wouldn’t be disturbed, so get your fat ass out of here and go bitch to him!”

            I arrive just as my dad drops his beer and shoves the guard with both fists, hard.  Stepping between them, I raise my arms, one hand on each man’s chest.  This brings my brightly colored jacket into clearer view, and the interlacing striped fabric makes me nauseous, like rabid squirrels are trying to claw through my stomach lining.  I begin spewing clichés like, “Okay, guy, we don’t want any trouble,” and “I know you’re just doing your job, fella.  We can work this out,” but the guard is beyond reason now and blotchy redness is climbing up his neck.

            “”Return to your rooms now, sirs.  This gathering is being officially ordered to disband.”

            From my father: “Disband?  Are you fucking serious, you stupid prick?”  He looks at me, confused, then angry as he turns back to Bowers. “Get the fuck out of here and leave us alone!”

            I palm a folded up hundred from my pocket and hand it to the guard.  Franklin’s one visible green eye stares up at me before the guard shakes my hand and accepts the bill.

            “Thank you,” he says, “ but you’re still being ordered to disband.”

            Everyone’s watching now, and the cocaine makes my blood hot and angry.

“Oh, you retarded motherfucker,” I hiss.  “You really want to be like that?  Take the money then still be a dick?  I’ll kill you, asshole.  You think I care about your life?”  I grab the name tag pinned to his chest and rip it off, then calmly drop it and slowly say, “Turn around, and get…the fuck…out.”

            “You little shit!” he screams, his arm coming up with a clenched fist, loaded to swing.

            Before I can set myself in a defensive Shaolin Kung-Fu stance – left palm forward, right fist clenched - I see, partly obscured by the guards bulk, Remmie running up fast.  Both his arms are raised over his head, holding a big ceramic serving platter that still drips brightly colored red and yellow sauces that splatter his hair. 

He brings the thick plate down on the guard’s head with the sound of shattering pottery and a dull thud of skull cracking under flesh.  Bowers falls in a big mound, blood that is already pumping from the torn skin turns his hair dark and wet while it saturates the carpet and swells out into a macabre, rust brown halo around his head.  I kick him twice quickly, once in the gut, then again on the side of his thick throat.

            The police arrive with an ambulance and Bowers leaves on a stretcher.  The guests mill around the cops, giving explanations while money is offered and future favors promised.  The officers leave, richer and apologizing for the inconvenience.  The party continues.

           

I’m in line at the bar when Remmie approaches, his smile big and drunk.

            “How ‘bout that, Reilly?”

            “Good fun, Mayor.  Highlight of this party at least.”

            I order myself a scotch, him a whiskey, and we take our drinks and wander toward the windows.

            “So what do you do, Reilly?  Besides college, I mean.”

            “Well, I’ve been working on a nervous breakdown for the last couple months.”

            “Oh yeah?  How’s that going?”

            I shrug, throw out my bottom lip, “So far, so good, I suppose.”

            “You like to hunt?  I find that helps with stress.”

            “Not since I was a kid.”

            “I go out everyday.  Got to kill something, right?  Otherwise, I’m just not myself.”

            “Really…I guess that’s one way to handle all the pressure.  I’m pretty sure I’m insane, though, so I probably shouldn’t start murdering things.  That could lead down a bad road.”

            “Killing, not murder.  Fine line difference.”

            “Sorry.  You ever kill a Polar Bear, Mr. Mayor?”

            “No.  But my friend shot a Bald Eagle.”

            “Isn’t that illegal?”
            “He’s in federal prison now.”

            “Ah.  That’s too bad.  By the way, do you hear the fucking ringing?”

            He ignores me, says, “Sasquatches have been bad this year.”

            “What’s that?”

            “Sasquatches.  Smelly fuckers have been everywhere.”

            “Oh yeah?  Well, that’s interesting.”

            “I shot one a couple years ago.  A little one.  A pup.  Just winged it, though.”

            “You sure it wasn’t a raccoon?” I ask. “Or maybe a really hairy person?”

            “Nah.  It was Bigfoot.  I usually coat my ammo in Poison Dart Frog mucus, but that day I had forgotten.”  He empties his glass. “Just think, if I wouldn’t have been so goddam sloppy and forgetful, the poison probably would have dropped that fucker after a hundred yards and I’d be famous now.”

            “Tough break.”

“I’ve got a hard on.  You like pussy, Reilly?”

“I surely do, Mr. Mayor.  Very much, actually.”

“You like strippers?”

“Not as much as whores.  Strippers leave you with a hard on, and that empowers the terrorists.  We can’t let those bastards win.”

“I fucking love whores.  Let’s go buy us some.  You grab a couple bottles from that bartender and meet me in the lobby.”

“Alright.”

He starts off, then spins back, points a finger in my face.

“You ain’t a Jew, are you?”

“No.”

“Good.  Alright.  Just checking.  Let’s go.”



We spend the next hours of night weaving along Buckhead roads, drinking bourbon, occasionally firing Remmie’s .45 out the window of the truck, and visiting strip clubs and Korean massage parlors.  At four a.m., inside Miss Kim’s AAA Spa, I’m lying on a stiff massage table, my tacky Goodwill suit in a rumpled pile on the floor.  The cocaine is a long forgotten memory and the liquor is pounding full steam towards blackness. 

An almond eyed shirtless Asian is fondling my flaccid cock in her tiny hands.  As she bends down and begins to lick it with quick, darting movements of her triangular tongue, the ceiling spins and opens up, so I decide to close my eyes.  Seconds later, I pass out.