by Willie Smith
The cad in the Cadillac threw his bindu off into a trash bin. Swerved to run down some beggar of a has-been.
The apostate then proceeded to transport across state lines a virtual prostitute. Tooted his horn up her shift untold dimensions. States the slut spiked his slivovitz with a micro black hole. Causing him to affect catalepsy.
After, she downed a Pepsi. Wedged in his mouth a Pall Mall. Zipped him up. Buckled him back. Rebuttoned Arrow. Cinched Windsor knot. Then disappeared into the singularity; leaving him to return in time to meet – in the passenger seat – her anti-whore.
Respondent claims everytime he reached over to touch the invert Jezebel, a bell inside his head rang; causing him to salivate spacetime froth, into which he pitched like a salesman for the tar and the nicotine.
"Filter, flavor, fliptop quark!" he spouted, as they wheeled him down for electro-shock.
He was selling cigarettes. He didn’t care who heard.
"I’d rather fuck than bitch!" he screamed. "I’d walk a mile for an asshole!"
They extracted his wisdom. Installed a bracelet of teeth. Anchored tongue.
Came a finger threw the switch.
The anti-whore – overdressed in white – oversaw his coming to. She had a history, too. Used to be a positron in a quantum bar, slaving as an overweight B girl. People called her Electra. Amber Bernstein how she signed a check.
The cad spit up coming out of the anaesthetic. Funny how awareness nauseates. Thought it something he ate. But it was all bile.
Fasted night before. Neither had there been anaesthetic. It was just the shock – the juicing his brain black-widow-hourglass scarlet; juice dry as a juicy autowreck flare.
Staff had zapped a kingdom come in his face. Through puke he clenched a mask – rigid nothing twisted, pang angrily freezedried in vacuum spasm.
He remained a salesman. Pitch not yet back. What the hell expect – pitchforked under Cadillac lightning, third eye trashed, pineal pithed?
Finding Electra’s eyes – brown olives with pits of pupil poking through – he thought of witches. First of Circe, Hecate, Medea. But then fastforwarded couple millenia to Salem.
"You can take the cunt out of country," he belted, "but you can’t take the country out of cunt!"
Electra readied a valium syrette. Broke it out of its package. Primed plunger. But as she leaned over to punch calmative into biceps, her shirt beeped.
She shifted bulk. With left hand freed cell from uniform pocket.
"Electra, on ward five," she monotoned into her palm, right hand holding up syrette, needle pointed at acoustic ceiling.
"Have a commander – Beep! Beep! – " the cad hooted with lack of segue just this side of word salad, "welcome aboard!"
"No," Electra breathed into her cell. "Consumer coming out of electro. I was prepaing to sedate, Doctor, when…"
The cadmus realized – adam in the universe of his electro midnight – nobody lives in the present. Because neither light nor electricity travel instantaneously.
By the time light touches the eye, and by the further bio-electric delay of the brain vaulting the data up into consciousness, it is no longer now – now being eternally, at best, a peek into the splitsecond past. Consciousness never exists in the present. Awareness of which lag, as the cadmus drifted from his black night widow mare red hour electric glass, caused the cad unto reflex to sicken.
"Did I let fear," the consumer blurted, "commandeer me? – dear me, no!" and the floored Cadillac sped for the exit.
On Skyros – Electra’s native star – positron denotes a member of the lower classes striving through meditation and good works to acquire a penis a cut above the birth unit. She-males abound on Skyros. In fact, all positrons with spin 2 possess a full complement of penis, testicles, vulva, breasts. They also tend to run to fat.
Through swingdoors he blasted. Rocketed down the hall into the lobby. Terrorized four anti-whores on coffee; not that panic anti-mattered; one hefty one – a hundred nonetheless pounds under Electra – in her flight tipped over the Coke machine. Change, glass, fizz flooded linoleum.
Tipped security a nod, as the Pink fumbled for his own cell – bugeyed, knock-kneed, in no mood to chase. Wheeled through revolving door like a gang- inter- bang dimensional pimp.
Out in the parking lot hulked a lot of cars and no lack of cops. The cad licked lips. Saw he was licked.
Everywhere law obscenely bobbed. Crouched behind hoods. Lurked among fenders. Sucked cigars between mirror sunglasses and shotgun muzzles. Others sprawled on trunks, itching to fire automatics prone. Hunched behind wheels, a few plainclothes squinted over open sights.
The consumer felt popular; also felt lust to devour. For which ravening hunger too polite.
"Winston tastes good," he screamed at the assembled windshields, "like a lampshade should!" then jammed in mouth fist; chomped through thumb.
Staff wrestled rundown beggar back in ward. Inwardly outraged, lips pursed, Amber Bernstein walloped valium into consumer, whom security had already stunned.
The men in blue melted smiles into miles of uncertain shields wind howled anti-wolf at alien moon. Back on dot wiped. No matter third eye gone, pineal pithed.
"Not a cough…" the cad muttered in his strapped-down snooze, under a snood of electrodes, "in a carload. And… they are mild."
About the author:
Willie Smith is deeply ashamed of being human. His work celebrates this horror. He is approaching 60, unemployed and shouldn't be around much longer. Read him while he's still wasting oxygen! He highly recommends "Spider Fuck" archived in issue #9 of EXQUISITE CORPSE MAGAZINE at corpse.org. oneleggedcowpress.org also has a quirky tale of filth and degradation entitled "Dada After Math." Semantikon.com offers free his novella "Submachinegun Consciousness." His novel OEDIPUS CADET is available from amazon.com and the publisher blackheron.com.