Posted: November 18, 2013 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , ,

While there’s no real news on the novel front (several months to go before the publisher makes their choice, and I’m taking a bit of a holiday hiatus from working on new material), I thought I’d post something from the past. This is a story I did around twenty years ago, and I think it holds up rather nicely.


Moving slowly through the silent midnight streets, looking for a fix or a fuck, at this point it doesn’t matter, just need that rush, that burn, that moment of sweet release and wild, reckless abandon. To feel the steel penetrate the vein, to feel penetration of another sort, I am desperate to be violated.  I begin to invent a name, a place, a story to tell, if for no other reason than to amuse myself and whomever I choose to conduct my dark business with. I might as well take the fun where I find it; who know when it may come ‘round again. I stoop to retrieve a discarded butt from the gutter, light it with my last match.  A shroud of blue smoke encircles my head as if it were a poison fog, and I forget who I am, who I’m supposed to be.  Not that it matters – names, places, faces, stories, it’s all lies, no place for truth at this level of the world.  I hear some tuneless colored bebop coming from an apartment window above, hear the mad cackling of the degenerates inside as they dig their own tunnels to oblivion.  I can feel them watching me, their filthy little eyes all over me, eyeing me as though I were an unwanted gift from a particularly suspect uncle.  “Look away, fuckers!” I want to scream, “Close the window and bar the door.  You won’t like what I bring to the party.”  But I refrain, knowing that they know better, they always do.  I continue into the darkness and giggle maniacally to myself, because I know what they don’t know, what they can’t know, that they’ll be dead soon enough by hands more willing and capable and familiar than my own.  I’m still giggling when I stumble over the cripple.

He’s laid out on the sidewalk, head resting against a wall.  I bend down for a closer inspection, and realize the cripple is dead. Very, very dead. The cripple reeks of cigarettes and booze and shit and piss and vomit and other things I can’t quite (can’t quite) identify. His skin mostly rotted from the bones, maggots writhing seductively in the places where flesh still clung, hoping desperately to maintain some human form.  I then saw that the cripple, even in death, had a treat to offer me.  Hanging from a crook in his arm was a hypo, half filled with things not even God would know about, but these are desperate times, and I am a desperate soul, and anyway, let’s not quibble over content when it’s right there, free for the taking.  The needle slides roughly from his arm, a small chunk of fetid skin and gore coming away with it, but no matter: it’s unbecoming to turn down a gift, and I’m nothing if not a gentleman.

“Thank you, brother,” I mutter as I wipe the rig on my pantleg, clean as I need it to be. Despite my assessment of its departure, the cripple’s head turned to face me.  “What are you looking at,” the cripple whispered, its voice rasping like sandpaper on bone. “What is it you think you see?”  I’m too far gone to be shocked by this turn; if you’re out here in this place, at this hour, when the dark things slither out to feed, you’d do well to be geared for surprises. “I think I see the wonder of wonders, the joy of joys, the Alpha, the Omega, and all four bloody horsemen taking the night train to king-fucking oblivion,” I growl. “Now shut up and die already, I’ve things to attend to.” Pocketing the syringe, I turn and duck down an alleyway, tear off my coat and sink the needle deep into a vein, hungry for the fix, hungry for the violation, and there it is, there it is, there it is, the dark warm narcotic amber dream, the rancid flood of the mind’s garbage, the release of the poison, for all thoughts are poison, and the visions, my god, the visions are so real and so profound and it all makes sense and I understand, truly understand, and the dirty little fuckers run down the street laughing and playing their dirty little games, and I return to the street, still hungry for the violation.

  1. Bizarre and full of strange intensity! 🙂

What do you think?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s