the-voice-of-hell

[the-voice-of-hell]

[the-voice-of-hell]

ignore this. i didn't post this. move along now.

[the-voice-of-hell]

[the-voice-of-hell]

pay this no mind, i needs it somewhere else...

[the-voice-of-hell]

PIXILLATED, pt 02

by me, maybe under the pen name Caesar Train Magenta, idk

CONTENT WARNINGS: fetishization of busty women, a trans woman having to be closeted, organized crime.

Chapter One: Adulting

Bobbi was very gay. She’d never thought of herself that way, though it was an obvious enough thing to believe. A homophobe would compare her assigned gender to her interest in dressing lady-like and have some choice slurs. But she only came to think of herself as more woman than crossdresser within the last few years—well past the bloom of her youth—in response to the increased visibility of transgender women in popular culture. And what is a woman who loves only women? Gay, Bobbi.

And so she realized this one day as she got up for work, trading the feminine undergarments she slept in for closeted manly drag. She wasn’t feeling great about having to look in the mirror to shave, and took a moment to breathe in the presence of womanhood. There she was, still in a grog of dream sauce, wobbling on pink-socked feet beneath a giant poster of Dolly Parton that spanned from the wall above her bathroom door onto the ceiling, looking down like God from the Sistine Chapel. She could almost feel Dolly’s peroxide blonde tresses falling around her face as they sweetly kissed, big breasts pressed between them, and thought that she’d gladly marry that lady, even in her very advanced age. It was a love inspired by the physical, but transcending it.  Bobbi was certain of that.

But it was one of many gay little fantasies, several of which were depicted in posters around her room—Elvira, Tawny Kitaen, Julie Strain, Shannon Tweed, Anna Nicole Smith, and a coterie of less famous womanly women. The dream girls were left behind as she trudged into the bathroom to get Roberted enough for banking.

The mirror was not Bobbi’s friend in the morning. Early fifties, thick and thin in the ways typical of old men, chin a bit too strong, forehead a bit too tall, some deep lines coming in. But the true wrinkles and loose skin of old age hadn’t set in, and the hair she had was thick and curly. That was one blessing from nature—the wild mess of her hair in the morning resembled the teased-out mops of her favorite ’80s and ’90s ladies. But it had to be tamed into a sleazy-looking ponytail for work, with copious product. Soon she would look like a ginger Steven Seagal.

Bobbi’s condo was a tiny thing in downtown Villa Coneja, California. The town was dull, flat, and semi-rural, but for a strip of six to twelve story modern buildings in the middle, like something out of Ohio. Her condo was in the third tallest building in town, a one bedroom which she treated like a studio with a very large walk-in closet. She stepped out in Robert mode, only one block from the bank where she worked in the second tallest building in town. The nearest structures gleamed blue, black, white, and mirrored in the early morning shadows, and planter flowers hanging from street lamps buzzed with fat insects.

“Morning, Robert.”

“Howdy, Bob.”

Familiar people dogged her all the way to her little office on the seventh floor. Accept your identity, be whoever makes us the most comfortable. She closed the office door and rubbed her face. Just eight and a half hours to go.

A rap at the door and it opened, not waiting for a response. It was Steve. “Bagels and donuts at the meeting, big guy. You ready for this?”

“Don’t be a morning person, Steve. Nobody likes that.”

The younger man laughed as he walked away, firing finger guns through the tinted window beside Bobbi’s door. There was a ceiling to floor Venetian blind there and she deployed it, with a burst of dust.

But he had her. She’d forgotten about the meeting, and it was time. It’s not like she had to do a presentation or be a center of attention at this meeting. It was just jaw-grindingly dull. She felt like ripping up paper or kicking holes in the table with her knee, but had to resist.

Time is the enemy. Life is poured from one cup into another and back again, losing a drop here and a drop there until nothing is left. Bobbi got older as the day progressed. What are we doing to make up for these quarterly shortfalls? What have you done for Harvest Bounty Bank lately? How is your agenda today going to contribute to corporate profitability and your job security tomorrow?

She had paperwork to do until well after noon, just processing the business she’d already initiated, not doing anything new to push those profits, and she felt like the boss was looking over her shoulder about it. But she recognized it was just a feeling. Running a bank of any size was a license to print money, and the boss was surely just racking up a bar tab on company credit cards and eating hundred dollar steaks.

In the late afternoon daylight slammed her office, penetrating the blinds no matter how tightly they were screwed shut. The AC pushed the atmosphere around in sludgy invisible chunks of alternating bitter liquid nitrogen cold and stifling muggy heat. The clock moved backward.

A light rap at the door. Must be Helen. “Come in.”

It was not Helen. It was your four o’clock, Bobbi. The woman came into the room tentatively, then more boldly, and took a seat without waiting to be invited. She crossed her legs and leaned back in the chair, but didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands, as if she still had the body memory of striking up a cigarette in those situations from decades in the past.

The woman was tall, near six feet and solidly built, but showing the first signs of decrepitude at sixtyish years old, her back hunched forward at the neck and her skin going thin and dry. She was tall-featured, beautiful, and Asian, with a dark blazer and skirt over a less formal mustard yellow shirt that revealed weather-beaten but substantial cleavage.

As she moved her mouth to form words, creases flicked in and out of existence at the corners of it, but her lips and teeth were fascinating, pulling Bobbi into her words immediately. Her silver and dark grey hair was in a large but tame curly bob.

“I’m Julia, Mr. Schultz. Robert?”

“Yes. You were here for ... Lefebvre Entertainment?,” she read off her monitor as subtly as she could.

“That’s us,” she winced and her eyes did a little dance before she regained focus. Not happy at work. “We’re always profitable, but there have been some shifts in the market we need to catch up with. I’m sure we can sew this up pretty quickly. You saw my application? The numbers?”

Bobbi shook a fugue out of her head. “Yeah, that’s right. Strong numbers, but..,” she tried to remember what had bothered her about the application, “I’m led to wonder what kind of entertainment Lefebvre produces. The numbers were too strong for a small commercial studio, but too weak for...”

“Adult entertainment, yes. This bank is spitting distance from the San Fernando Valley. Let’s not mince words.” She crossed her arms and gazed into her eyes with cold fire.

“So you are in adult entertainment. I don’t think this bank is a good fit for—”

“Nobody in this office has ever signed off on a loan for this industry? What would be the harm? I get that nobody wants to be the first, but all your bank would ever see of what we do is our name on the records. It’s nothing, and we wouldn’t advertise who it is we’re banking with.”

Bobbi leaned back and sighed, looking away. “You understand, I’m very unlikely to say yes here. But I am curious. Why the low numbers?”

“No video. The CEO was never interested in moving pictures, and I guess he imagined more of the public was on his page than not. He guessed wrong, but his willingness to pivot now should tell you he’s competent enough to make money in an industry where it’s just about impossible to lose it.” She shrugged and let her arms fall at her sides. “Robert, look at me.”

Bobbi looked into her eyes again, and was held fast. Something in Julia was holding her by the shoulders with strong, cold hands. “I don’t know what I should be saying,” said Bobbi. “You’re lovely and earnest and tough, I can tell you’re great at business, and I respect you too much to want to waste your time.” She felt like a nerdy boy again, falling to pieces in front of a girl he liked, knowing all hope was about to be lost.

Julia smiled. “You’re not a Robert, are you? You’re more of a Bobby.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Be a Bobby, dear, and humor me for a moment. If you were considering a business loan and had doubts about that business, what would you do to settle those doubts?”

She gulped and fumbled with her fingers, the sweat in her hair suddenly going cold.

Julia continued, “We work in the evening. Come and see the studio, look over the boss’s numbers, whatever. What do you say? My car or yours?”

“I don’t—”

“My Lexus is really nice. Just a few thousand miles, AC works on a dime.”

“—own a car.”

“I had a notion.” She stood tall—not quite as tall as Bobbi but making her feel like a pitiful gnome in that moment—and stretched. As much as Julia had been all business on the way in, Bobbi could tell then that she had breast implants. She almost fell out of her seat.

“I shouldn’t,” she croaked.

“But you will. It’s no big deal.” Julia’s voice was crisp, heady, and subtly smoky.

Bobbi was in her disgusting afternoon orange office space, too hot and too cold, oppressed by everything, but she had been flicked halfway out of the picture frame. The world had taken on a new dimension for which she was totally unprepared.

She let herself be seduced by this senior citizen, knowing full well there was no hot sexy reward at the end of this trip. The lady was a CFO in a scuzzy industry, using sex appeal just far enough to take care of business. Unless Bobbi signed off on the loan, they were both wasting their time, and who knew what the mobbish creeps of that business would do if she went into the dragon’s lair and said no?

A world of possibilities, all bad, but Bobbi dragged herself upright and followed the sinister woman like a dog.

Julia whipped the Lexus like a true Californian - speed limits were as well-observed as antique laws about where you can wash your donkey. Maybe if the highways weren’t scorching hells ashimmer with rivers of blood and broken glass, Bobbi would have learned to drive. She always had to unfocus and pretend she was on a carnival ride when somebody drove her somewhere.

“Relax, Bobby. I could tell you were having no fun in the office. This is just a little change of scenery for you. Stepping out for a breather. But you have to remember to breathe.” Again she seemed for a moment like she wanted to light a cigarette or hand one to her passenger. She shrugged it off and zipped around somebody who dared to only do sixty-five in a forty-five zone.

“I’m breathing, I’m breathing. Are we going all the way to San Fernando?”

“Yeah, we’re going all the way.” She snorted at the double-entendre. Too self-aware to be a Bond femme fatale. “Tell me about yourself, buddy. We might get hung up on the highway for an hour.”

“Let’s wait until we’re actually in the gridlock. I’d hate to distract you at these speeds.”

“What?” She looked away from the road long enough to accidentally murder several car lengths of school children. “Where are you from Bobby?”

“Idaho.”

“I’d drive so fast if I lived there.”

“That’s nice.”

Julia was right. Congestion was predictable. Californians drove so fast because they knew it could stop dead for hours and hours depending on where and when they had to go. They reached a point where they were sitting still for ten minutes at a time between moments of inching speed. Her music was just the mild-mannered office lady part of the dial, a blend of soft pop ballads from the eighties through the tens, and she turned it down to a murmur so they could talk.

“It’s time, Bobby. Talk to me like we’re going to do business together, whatever happens next.”

Bobbi cracked her neck and tried to relax into the seat. She looked at Julia with friendly resignation. “Sure. I could ask you about your kids maybe?”

Julia pursed her lips and looked very old for a moment. “How about yours, Bobby?”

“Never had ’em, but people usually like to talk about theirs. Not you? You don’t have to tell me why.”

“I can’t imagine you’ve never had kids. You have it all sorted out, Bobby. Financial responsibility. Hygiene. Basic social skills. It’s a low bar for men. Unless..?”

“Not gay but the relationships never go that far. I admit, I gave up. But that’s not your story, is it?”

“You got me. I had a daughter at a bad moment in life. She ended up in the system. I don’t even know where she is anymore, but I don’t know if we ever loved each other, so what does it matter?”

“I’m sorry. This isn’t going well. And here we are, stuck in the car, unable to just leave the awkward situation, right? What would you like to talk about, Julia?”

“Thanks, Bobby. Well, now I’m all curious why your relationships don’t last. Irresponsible? Unromantic? Unfaithful? Strange fetish?”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Strange fetish it is. It’s OK Bobby. You don’t have to tell me. This trip shouldn’t be too sexy for you to handle. The photography we do is very vanilla.”

“I like vanilla.”

“Sure you do, kiddo. I don’t imagine you have opinions about baseball.”

“Do you?”

“Or cars. What do we even have in common?” Julia regarded her sadly.

“We’re stuck in traffic. And I feel like we’re both trying to like each other?”

“We are. And I do, Bobby. You’re alright, whatever weird toys you have in the closet.”

“Hehe. Thanks, Julia.” She blushed.

“We could talk about your toys.”

“Oh my god, I don’t know about that.” She shifted in her seat.

“I could go first.”

Bobbi tugged at the collar of her shirt. “I definitely wouldn’t talk with a client about that.”

“Heehee. It’s OK, babe. Let’s just listen to these vocoder kids moan about love.”

“Good idea. And I do like you, so remember that.”

“Right back atcha, Bobby.”

They tore through a neighborhood of weedy yards where some black kids had to break up a kickball game to avoid turning into red smears beneath her wheels, coming to a corporate park with no signage except for an unrelated printing press. Lefebvre Entertainment didn’t want to be seen. She had a reserved parking spot but couldn’t quite tokyo drift into position.

Bobbi recovered her land legs and followed Julia to the back side of the building. Julia called somebody on her phone. “I’m bringing a lender to meet Aubrey. Now. We can wait a bit, but I’ll want to get in... Mmhm. Thank you.” She dropped the phone in her purse. “Think you can keep it in your pants, in a place of sexy business?”

“Of course.”

“I knew you were a good kid, Bobby.”

Julia led her to a big loading dock with the metal gate rolled down, and unlocked a small steel door beside it with an RFID dongle. She held the door open for her. Bobbi went in, feeling cold inside despite the hot weather.

The loading dock floor had been converted to a series of photography sets. Industrial HVAC kept the place cold in spite of the massive banks of bright lights. Two shoots were going on at the same time, with young ladies in various states of undress, going through all the poses a director could think of, while camera operators took hundreds of shots per minute. Julia led Bobbi up a ramp beside the proceedings, onto the loading dock proper, where most of the space was taken up by equipment. Between the thick metal stands they could see glimpses of the girls doing what they do. It was all so remote, the idea it should make someone horny seemed laughable.

Then they went into a wood-paneled hallway, around a corner into a broader continuation of the same—this part hung with fake plants and posters of porn and californiana. They passed another old gal with short white hair and a more formal suit jacket and skirt. Julia exchanged meaningful glances with her and Bobbi nodded.

But something was itching at her. Julia had stirred a sense of déjà vu in Bobbi, which had gradually faded as she spent more time in her company. But it pinged her again at the pornographic images in the hall. Something about the style, so abstract and vague she had no hope of placing it, told her she had seen this before. And the white-haired woman clinched it. Who was she? And again, after that moment, who was Julia?

The floor was hard concrete beneath thin green office carpet. Together with the cheapness of the wood paneling in the halls it evoked the idea this was just another industrial space like the docks, but with an extremely superficial veneer of anything else. They came to a door with a textured and frosted window reading “Aubrey Gordon, CEO” in precisely painted sans-serif letters.

But that room wasn’t the office itself. It was a waiting room, where they took the only seats that weren’t pew-like benches against the wall. Still far from comfortable, the chairs were hard plastic, hanging around a glass-topped oval coffee table strewn with bland photography books and pornographic magazines. The magazines were dogeared and wrinkled.

Bobbi asked, “You used to model here?”

“That’s right. Been in business here a long time. Smart ladies change companies, keep looking for a better deal. It’s alright though; I don’t have to see any of my old pictures on the wall.”

“I can’t really imagine what that feels like, having done that work, knowing you’re out there like that. But I hope you don’t feel bad about how you looked. You’re lovely.”

She cracked up, a cackling laugh. “You’re a sweetheart, Bobby. Don’t ever change.” She picked up one of the magazines and offered it to her. “Wanna see what we do?”

“I don’t want to do anything I wouldn’t do in any other business I might lend to.”

“You’d look at what they do.”

“Yes, but...”

“You wouldn’t look at dirty pics. Afraid that your body will betray you? That you’ll get a visible erection in mixed company?”

Bobbi blushed and laughed. “No, but that might happen if you keep talking dirty like that. Take it down a notch, ma’am.”

Julia said, “Suit yourself,” and perused the magazine herself.

Bobbi checked her phone suddenly, panic rising at the possibility she’d walked into a den of organized crime. No bars. The walls behind those panels were all concrete and corrugated metal. What messages had come in before she lost connection? Nothing. Nobody in the bank thought anything of her leaving with Julia.

And why should they? It was an old business lady leading a dorky Robert out into an old business situation, surely. Bobbi didn’t know why she was, on some level, wishing people in the office knew where she was, had some concern for her safety as well. It wasn’t something that ever would have happened in the first place, and would put her job at risk if it was.

She wanted to just run her eyes over the whole scene, look for clues, for something to think about, but her eyes gravitated to Julia and stayed there. As much as Bobbi kept the pictures of lady idols in their youth, her sense of beauty had aged with her. Ladies in pictures could be icons of immortal beauty, but of the women she met in real life, she was only really attracted to those closer to her own age. Women in their twenties and thirties looked almost like children to her.

Julia’s forearms were exposed by the flex in her elbows, drawing cuffs back from wrists, and showing how her skin there had every kind of discoloration of age. Dark little moles, tiny red dots, freckles, more mysterious splotches, in all shades between pallor and the tan of the rest of her skin. But it didn’t matter. Bobbi’s own arms, while younger, were still textured with the progress of life. The lady before her was glamorous in a way she hadn’t seen in a long time - at least, that she’d taken notice of, because it was in someone closer to her own age. She could imagine touching her, running fingers up the trimmed fuzz on her neck into the thick dark grey curls on her head, nuzzling the silver curls at the front, working her lips from cheekbone down to meet Julia’s expressive little mouth.

Bobbi didn’t want to be making herself any more vulnerable in a situation where she’d already foolishly thrown herself to wolves, but her imagination was getting away from her. She unfocused her eyes, so it would, hopefully, look like she was looking at nothing in particular, but in her head she was touching Julia’s sides, moving her hands up toward those impressive breasts.

Then it clicked. Julia Folly. July 1982. Bobbi was in the presence of a true idol, somebody who had ruled despotic over her erotic imagination for nearly as long as it had existed. Her skin burned pink from head to toe and her breath escaped, thinned to desperate little gasps.

A guy came into the room—a creepy old imp like Robert Blake in Lost Highway—and said, “We’re done, Ms. Folly.”

“Thank you, Robin...” Her eyes fell on Bobbi. “You OK, Bobby?”

“Yes,” she mouthed, unable to make a sound.

Robin moved on and Julia sorted Bobbi out with a bottle of water and some attention. The attention made things worse at every moment she touched her, but she somehow managed to tamp down the chaotic energy enough to face the man.

Aubrey Gordon’s office was less cold than the rest of the building, perfectly regulated and sealed in thicker panels of more expensive wood. His ceiling was strange fuzzy drop tiles, but at least it was clean. His floor was Roman tile, and his furniture luxurious and bulky. Ivory bas-reliefs of pornographically proportioned women were inset on the walls to each side of his desk, and his chair’s dark brown leather back rose high above his shoulders like a royal throne.

The man himself had a physical energy not unlike Larry King. He was short but seemed powerful, like if he sucker punched you, you would go the hell down. Dark framed glasses did nothing to hide that he was a savage little animal in human skin.

“What do you have for me, Julia?”

“Bobby Schultz, Harvest Bounty Bank. About the video loan.”

“Have a seat, Bobby.” He gestured with a powerful liver-spotted hand, a few thick gold rings there knocking the surface of his desk. It wasn’t an invitation, but a demand.

Bobbi sat down. “Hello, Mr. Gordon. I’m just taking a look at the operation here as part of my considerations. Ms. Folly’s idea, as was this meeting.” She held out a hand to shake his, while not wanting to touch him in any way.

Gordon took the hand in a manly way, practically splitting her larger hand in two with his grip, then dropped her on the wood like a dead fish. “Please to meet you,” he said, sounding not at all pleased. “I hope you realize it’s an easy fucking call to make. Money’s money. Don’t yank our dicks, alright?”

“Yes sir,” she squeaked. It was a bad situation. There wasn’t a way she could say no, without finding out how mobbish Gordon was. He didn’t even have to hint at a threat. And what was that Robin character to him? “Robin let us in, tonight.”

“Yeah? That’s my executive assistant. He’d usually be the guy you were talking with, but what can I say? I want to get this shit done. You going to help us get this shit done? Make your bank some easy dough?” He leaned forward, a fist on his chin, surprisingly green eyes penetrating Bobbi’s soul.

“I, uh, I, ah...”

Julia leaned over and touched Bobbi’s cheek, gently pulling her gaze up to her own. Her face nearly brushed against breasts along the way. Julia said, “It really is an easy decision. You sign off, you never even have to look at us again. Just reap the rewards and call it a day, yes?” She stood and left Bobbi physically alone in that terrible psychic space.

“We’ll see what we can do, Mr. Gordon.”

He pursed his lips angrily, turning them buttermilk white. “Sounds a little like a dick yank, son, but alright. See what you can fucking do.” He flicked a wrist and Julia quickly scooped up Bobbi, leading her out of the room.

“Sorry,” she said in the lobby, “Seems he’s in a worse mood than usual.”

“I have to get the hell out of here,” Bobbi said quietly, weakly.

“Bobby, it’s OK. I can show you out.” She was already leading her back into the hall, supporting her with a strong arm. The big breast against Bobbi’s side did nothing to quell her overpowering sense of alarm.

“Yes. Let’s go.”

They were out in the hall again, walking briskly. Bobbi was in a terrified stagger, Julia taking slower and even steps, trying to slow Bobbi down as well. “You need to relax, like I said before, Bobby. I can show you some nice people, get you a drink? Not like you have to drive yourself home.”

“I can’t.”

Instead of leading her out the way they came, Julia pulled her into a room near the bend in the hall. It was a changing room with big brightly lit mirrors, a few young naked ladies down the way barely glancing up at them.

“Don’t,” Bobbi squeaked, but Julia kept dragging her into a separate area from the makeup room, more like the green room in a high school drama department, save for the glass tanks of snakes and rabbits. Julia shoved her down into a very soft couch, then pulled up a stool to face her directly.

“Bobby, calm down. Please. I get it. You didn’t want to deal with our world in the first place. I can get you off Aubrey’s radar, OK? I just don’t want you to walk away thinking less of me. I didn’t know it would go like that. I could have guessed, but maybe I wasn’t thinking straight. Just get with me. Look at me, kid.”

Bobbi looked up at Julia with teary eyes. “I’m sorry. I feel like a baby.”

She smiled. “Are you better, Bobby? We can go now. I’ll take you home.”

“Thank you, Julia.”

She took her out through the big cold studio, into the stifling sun of dusk, and back to the wild ride.

-

<back

[the-voice-of-hell]

PIXILLATED, pt 01

by me, maybe under the pen name Caesar Train Magenta, idk

CONTENT WARNINGS: F-slur and discussion of homophobia right off the bat. This section contains the sexual thoughts of a child character, I hope handled in a tastefully restrained way. Also contains descriptions of women's bodies in an objectified context, and the descriptions of women of color within that context might make some readers feel more uncomfortable. Again, I hope this is redeemed slightly by context. The part that seems most excessive is set-up for the rest of the story, which is erotic.

Prologue: A Puddle of 1982

Bobby hated junior high. It wasn’t the place where he’d first learned the word “faggot” and its meaning, but it was the place where he’d heard it the most. But hey, when the weather was hot, shorts were sensible wear. So what if they showed a lot of his pale legs? That hadn’t been a problem a few years before. So what if he had Michael Jackson on his binders? Again, this hadn’t been a problem a few short years prior. But junior high was time for everyone to grow up or die. Blink and it’s all over for you.

He wasn’t gay; he knew that much. He loved everything about women. Not so much girls, who were part of the wall of jeering faces in class. Women were awesome though. The big, long hair. The colorful faces. The jewelry and fashion. The sense of fun. They didn’t have to be as amazing as MTV ladies, but that helped. Even regular ladies—like his teachers—tilted his head toward the mystical. And they were so nice. As he awakened to the sensations of desire, he imagined nice ladies cradling his body, soft hands with painted nails, boughs of beautiful hair brushing against his bare skin, and the faces of angels above.

He hated junior high, but he hated being harassed by police moreso, and in the small town of Dexter, Idaho, the cops had nothing better to do with their time than to round up truants. The only time he’d skipped, they led him by the ear up to his mom’s porch, where his skin boiled away in pink humiliation. So he went willingly to the halls of that dire institution on weary feet, walking an hour each way to avoid the shrieking violent anarchy of the school bus ride.

Stepping off his porch at seven in the morning, the cold air rocked his frail body. But he knew it wouldn’t last, so he didn’t bother dressing for it. He walked briskly corner to corner, street to street, past cruelly barking dogs and creeping delivery vehicles. It was all chain link fences shot through with clods of tall yellow grass, squat ranch style family homes, and not a real human in sight. Presumably they were inside the phantom carriages, or inside the houses living out Folgers commercials, but on his walks not one pale face confronted him, and it was pleasing.

Since Bobby was first prescribed glasses, the world had gained a clarity that entranced. Every grain of gravel, every blade of grass, broken twig, or cottony split cigarette filter at the side of the road combined into an endless seasick mural that he sometimes had to tear his eyes away from. One day in late spring of 1982, an unnatural shape drew his attention into an evaporating puddle by an ugly little park.

It was the corner of some kind of paper. It could have been anything—a matchbook, a parking ticket, a xeroxed fad diet sucked off the dashboard of an office lady on the way home when she opened the window for a little air—but Bobby was compelled to stop, to know, and paid the price with a head rush. He nudged the paper half free of the muddy water, and was rewarded with knowledge.

Carnal knowledge. The thick paper was printed with an Asian woman in a baseball outfit, the top pulled up to reveal ample and completely bare breasts. The blue sky near the corner he had caught simply read JULY. Bobby’s heart skipped a beat, his face flushed, and he looked around the world with wild eyes. Not even a bird was there to see him, to see his embarrassment, but in the distance a green station wagon was coming down the road.

Bobby stepped over the puddle and wrapped sweaty palms around the top of the park’s short fence, took a moment of rest, waiting for the station wagon to pass. He imagined the driver slowing, asking if he needed help, and knew if that happened that he would be unable to speak. But the soft chug of the engine and the moan of rubber on crumbling street parallaxed past him in the usual way, without a moment of pause.

He took a sharp breath and swivelled his head again. No more cars. He dove hands first into the puddle and extracted his treasure, careful padding it dry with his t-shirt, trembling. As he pulled the backpack off his shoulders and secreted away the prize, a dragonfly on a gleaming fencepost stretched its wings, shaking off morning dew. It regarded him with the same rapt attention that he regarded the ragged calendar, and when he took flight, the creature did as well.

Few people would be at the school as early as Bobby, very few. Certainly none in the boy’s restroom, where he first dared to take the time to fully drink in the details of those sodden pages. The light was cold, the stall painted a warm grey, the tiles at his feet brick red and reasonably clean for the janitor’s late labors the day before. The crude drawings and obscene humor of the walls could not compete for his attention then.

The calendar was folded open and flattened with July facing out, and when he unfolded it he discovered that the first few months and December had been torn away. The month of April was only there in calendar form, its representative girl and her antecedents all lost. Still in the puddle? The pages were still sticky with water and Bobby separated them with religious patience, daubing away the remaining fluid with toilet paper.

On the back of April’s days, Miss May was revealed. Right below the fold of the calendar her name and the photographer credit were barely visible—Vanity Fyre and Hogstrom Thrumborg. Vanity was dressed as an improbably sexy nurse, rubber phlebotomy strap pressing on her breasts, half-concealing the areolae, while her white skirt rode up to reveal a fuzzy thatch of orange pubic hair. The carpet didn’t quite match the drapes, as the crass say, her teased-out feathers of straight hair a sort of honey blonde color. She was at the edge of a hospital bed with one leg up, holding an oversized novelty syringe.

That was all that one was meant to notice, but Bobby saw the body and demeanor beneath. Vanity Fyre was slim but soft, with the weak appearance of a person who never tried hard at anything. Her hips were narrow and her breasts modest. The strap across them turned two lumps into four. Her face was tall and narrow, relatively plain but for a nose with that naturally notched and sculpted look one might associate with another European ethnicity beside one’s own. They have fancy noses over in Somewhereland. The eyes were young and brown, cast down, not engaging the fantasy of sexy menace to the fullest extent. She was shy or weary.

Buried in the fold beneath Miss June, the names read Lily Bauch and Hogstrom Thrumborg again. Lily was styled as a pastoral girl in red and white gingham, with brighter blonde hair in braided pig-tails. She had dropped a basket of eggs, causing her breasts and mons to become exposed, somehow. Again, different carpet, a sort of medium brown. Her areolae were small and pale brown, breasts modest and pert. She was more fleshy than Vanity, perhaps shortness making her proportionally broader. Were it not for the breadth of her hips and fullness of her muff, the illusion of taboo childhood might have worked. Her face was short and babyish, eyes big and dark blue. Lily’s expression of surprise at this calamity was deeply false, no doubt held an uncomfortably long time for Hogstrom’s lens, but she did not look unhappy. It was easy to imagine this risque business actually appealed to her - that she was having fun.

Miss July was Julia Folly, Bobby’s introduction to the world of adult entertainment, and photographed by Alesandro Massimo. A baseball cap was pulled down over her forehead and brow, and her eyes were small both for Asian ancestry and for squinting in the sun of an outdoor photoshoot. She had those black stripes painted beneath her eyes to complete the image of a determined athlete, but to Bobby they evoked a tribal warrior. The black hair behind her head, long and full enough to be visible at her sides as well, was all tight curls and liquid shimmer. Incredible.

Julia’s expression matched the styling of the fantasy presented - fiercely determined. But perhaps she was just angry on that day, and it came across. Her hands were in fingerless gloves and loosely gripped the baseball bat across her shoulders.

She had the most womanly body in the calendar yet, full and strong, with the largest breasts Bobby’d ever seen on a slim woman. He wasn’t aware of breast implants at that time, wowed by the effect with perfect naivety. Her nipples were relaxed and areolae large, pink, and silky. Where the sunlight fell most directly across her body, it blazed with golden light, and her pose revealed more of the labia than the other girls as well—which was powerfully compelling, but he moved on. What else would he find?

Miss August was Tilly Charms, photographed by Alesandro. She was a slimmer woman, much like Vanity in build, but olive-skinned and with shorter and chocolate brown hair—only shoulder length. The tight curls may have been permed in, the style lacked bangs and other features, like a soft and uniform helmet. She’d been shot outside, reclining in a shaded hammock that complicated the colors across her body with a sheen of sky blue. Tilly was wearing a limp straw hat and a red mesh shirt that revealed the comparative pallor of her untanned breasts.

That was all she was wearing, her brown pubic hair fully exposed in a random shaft of sunlight. The idea of somebody wearing a shirt and no pants seemed somehow more obscene than any of the cheesy costumes in the book yet. Her pale green eyes held a sensuous expression, slightly serious, like she was welcoming a lover to a wild tryst, but expecting a real relationship as well.

Miss September was Africa Jackson (by Alesandro), a beautiful and fairly dark-skinned black woman, whose considerable charms were undercut by a bored expression and dark sunglasses. The shape of her face couldn’t be mistaken for white even had she been light-skinned, West African character in every detail. The idea behind the photoshoot was inscrutable. She was up to her belly button in a swimming pool, wearing a neon green spaghetti-strap bikini top that was missing the cloth that would actually conceal anything. Had that been cut away or was the garment constructed that way out of green string?

Africa’s hair defied gravity in a thick spray of bangs and thicker ponytail, natural kinks shining with some kind of product, and the frame of her shades was neon pink. Barely a drop of pool water reached a higher place on that shining brown body, like she’d slipped into it very carefully just for the shot. Her muscles were stronger than the other girls and her flesh less soft. Her breasts also defied gravity—again the breast implants he could not recognize—and the nipples were outrageously erect.

Miss October was Destiny Beech, again shot by Hogstrom Thrumborg, master of awkward studio work. Her hair was big, black, and slightly wavy, and her skin was pale. Sexy witch colors, with black eyeliner, pale blue eyes, and bright red lipstick. She wasn’t actually styled as a witch, though the set was in black and autumn hues. Destiny wore a black silk kimono with thin gold lines of some unreadable design, folded back to fully reveal her naked body. The closest yet to full-figured in the calendar, she had a curvy body with pleasing hips. Her breasts were as large and pink as Julia’s, but seemed smaller on a body where everything else was a bit larger as well. A few random dots of a cooler hue came from purple fingernail polish, shining where a hand rested on her hip.

Destiny’s face was blankly pleasant, like she was just modeling sweaters in a K-Mart catalog. Bobby wondered what was behind those eyes. Overall, she was the closest he’d seen in the calendar to his emerging preferences, checking all the boxes with cold professionalism.

At last there was Miss November, her name barely visible where only a sliver of her calendar page remained—Sabrina Succubus. The photographer credit was lost, but it must have been Hogstrom, because the setting was indoors and the lighting unremarkable. More of her picture came off on toilet paper daubing than Bobby would have preferred, leaving irregular white blotches among the water damage. Still, she was all there. Sabrina’s pose was intended to disguise her solid physique and play up the assets that got her the job. Her short, curveless body was twisted at an angle to suggest what wasn’t there; her naturally large, soft breasts would sag to her navel if not propped on crossed arms. They were rather like the breasts of his geography teacher, which were enthralling to the boy.

Sabrina’s face was also the least glamorous in the book, just a bit too broad for the usual modeling gigs, with a smile that had a bit too much gum. Her eyes were nearly black and sparkled sweetly; her hair would be naturally straight and black but for tease, crimp, and brown highlights. Nothing was disguising her native Central or South American ancestry, but in a tasteless Thanksgiving theme, she wore a sexy native North American costume. Light buckskin lingerie with beads and fringes, a feathered headband. Bobby found her naked skin lovely. It was almost orange with tan in areas that see the light, fading to a creamy tone of a rather different hue over the breasts, which had large, light brown areolae—with some variety to their color as well. He touched her with one of his bright pink fingers and was immediately ashamed to have dared.

They were saints, angels, creatures of dream brought to some semblance of reality in his life. Bobby was blessed, and thus transformed. He carefully put the ladies away, knowing he would spend a lot more time with them in years to come.

-

next>

[the-voice-of-hell]

#spookybackgroundappreciationsgiving

And in the spirit of the holiday, we still count the middle ones despite non-spookiness and having a foreground layer, respectively. It’s the only true way to celebrate Spookybackgroundappreciationsgiving.

–Colin

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ignore this post

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THE MIDNIGHT COLLECTION

Read the new dark fiction collection I've edited!

Long time no write! I’ve had a lot of blog posts percolating in my head that I can’t wait to get back into. In the meantime, I’d like to announce the release of a dark fiction collection that I’ve edited and designed. It’s twelve short stories, poems, and non-fiction, including two stories and a poem by yours truly. Our first volume is themed on ‘Feast & Famine’—with a good mixture of both. You…

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Reefer Madness (1936)

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[the-voice-of-hell]

who wants a covid vaccine version of reefer madness?  coming thru at a theater near you, and get funk like a shoe, whut.

[the-voice-of-hell]

Rent is Theft, part 26, The End

Read from the beginning here, read the previous chapter here.  Note:  My MC is a Filipina trans woman and I am not.  If you have notes on that or anything else, hit me up.

                                                     ***

      This is pretty spoilery from the first paragraph, so...

       I went to the kids’s apartment and assessed the damage.  Olivia and Knobby had Deandre in the bedroom and used a bandana to tourniquet his leg.  I let them know the pig was dead and checked out Mike’s body.

      He still looked so alive, I dragged a blanket over him and made some half-assed sign of the cross.  By then, Momi was bringing Patrick and Perry into the room, and Olivia was standing in the bedroom door to let Deandre hear any happenings without moving him.  Marcie and Richie showed up at the door.

      Speech time.  “Alright, this is over.”  My energy started out confident, but suddenly choked.  I had been going on adrenaline from the fight, maybe, but mid-sentence I realized I had welcomed all these nice people into Hell.

      I killed Mike.  I wobbled on my legs, standing over that body, eyes searching my people - my victims.  “We need to get the hell out of here before it gets any worse.  I am so sorry I brought you into this.”

      “Bitch shut the hell up.”  Perry tried to walk away, and Patrick snagged his hand.

      I threw up my hands.  Yeah.  I’m done.

      Marcie said, “Alright, we should go.  Get anything you need and just go.  Does anybody need help with anything?  I can’t do much, but maybe we can help each other one more time before...”  She seemed to finally make sense of the lump on the ground behind me and pressed her face into Richie’s arm.

      Deandre yelped in pain, dragging himself into the room, grunting in agony with each step.  He leaned on Knobby.  “It was worth a shot.  A couple months no rent, I coulda ended up this fucked up just out there on the street.”

      Patrick said, “Yeah, well, I got nothin’ nice to say, so… Let’s just get the fuck out, huh?”

      Momi held me close.  I thought of something and looked around for an answer.  “Grime.  Does anyone have a phone?”

      “I don’t think ours are gonna work,” Knobby said.  “The chargers melted, like...”

      Deandre said, “I put mines in the freezer.  Somebody wanna grab it for me?”  Knobby hurried away.

      Olivia came over to Momi and me, a scrawny cat in baggy underwear and tank top.  She wrapped her arms around us.  “Thanks mom.”

      I stifled tears, then my heart skipped a beat when I heard a distant pop.  A pop followed by a sound of glass breaking, and a mess spreading over the hall carpet.  Another pop.

      Knobby came back in a hurry, gave Deandre the phone.  “It’s fuckin’ raining eyeballs in the halls, guys.  Is that bad?  It feels bad.”

      Deandre got Grime.  “Dude.  Don’t come back.  The place is all fucked up.  Just forget it…  I don’t know!  It’s bad.  I’m goin’ to the hospital bad.”

      Patrick shushed him, shushed all of us.  Olivia let go of the group hug and bent her big ears.

      The elevator doors were opening.

      We were all so quiet we could hear Grime on the phone say, “How’s Courtney?”

      Then his words were lost under the sound of footsteps and bouncing balls, of some unknown horde spilling into the hall, marching in irregular time.

      Perry started to panic, tried to run away, but Patrick wrapped arms around him again.  “Hey man, put your hands up!  We gotta put our hands up!  There are bodies, man!”  He stepped away from his man and put his own hands up, nodded.  Perry slowly unfurled himself and complied, fell in beside Patrick, both looking toward the door in terror.

      Deandre hung up the phone and flopped into the bedroom, out of sight.  Olivia joined him in there, followed by Marcie and Richie.

      I thought about who was out in the hall.  Who was out in the hall?  Was it cops?  What would they think of the bug man’s corpse?  Momi tried to drag me toward the room, then gave up and put her hands up.

      They stood in the door.  Behind them I could see Charlie’s greasy head.  “There they are!”

      He was marching with creatures in grey trenchcoats.  Giant cicadas?  They pulled human-like hands from their pockets, loose eyeballs falling out and rolling on the carpets.  They quickly filed into the room to stand,each transfixing a single finger on a different one of us.

      Perry backed up, trembling violently, shaking his head.  Patrick stepped between him and the accusing finger.  “No!  Fuck this shit!  Back OFF!”

      The things were unmoved.  Charlie came into the room as more filed in from behind.

      “ProperCo stands for quality service, and that means keeping paying customers safe from trespassers.  You degenerates sicken me.  Take them out!”

      The last cicadas started trying bedroom doors.  They opened one, then as they approached the one with Deandre and the kids, Momi ran to block them.  “Hey!,” she yelled.  The one pointing at her wheeled in place, keeping its accusing finger trained on her, but not moving.

      I’d been paralyzed, but apparently it was go time.  I started moving, but was still in the grip.  I managed one step Momi’s direction.  No, baby.

      One got its hand on the doorknob, and she bashed it aside with both arms.  I’d seen enough bizarre things today, but this still surprised me.  The thing seemed to break apart at the joints, collapsing like bowling pins inside its coat.

      Momi looked surprised too, but didn’t have much time to react.  The remaining creatures didn’t even pause at the destruction of their comrade, another rushing to take the place of the one she demolished.  She was too close for a proper punch so she bumped it back a step with her body and then kicked it in the middle.

      Like the first, it fell to pieces.  The trenchcoat spilled its contents - more of those eyeballs, a creepy fluid like tobacco spit, and the gleaming oil-colored segments of the creature.  Some of the limbs had a comb-like fringe of sharp black spines.

      She kicked the pieces away and looked to me, ready for the next.  I grabbed the arm of the one pointing at me and immediately had to let go, fingers bleeding.  It stopped pointing and raised its hands to grab me.  But as swift as they were filing in, they were oddly slow.  I shoved it back with two fists to the chest.  It felt fragile - no more sturdy than a cheap kitchen appliance.

      Over its shoulder I could see Patrick going to town on them, encouraged by Momi’s success.  I yelled to him, “Watch for the spines!”

      “HahaHA!  Take that!”

      It was an empowering moment.  We kicked, shoved, and stomped the things apart.  But more kept coming.  What the fuck was this?  What were we supposed to do?  I got to Momi, almost tripping a trenchcoat scrap tangled on my foot.

      “Let’s get everyone to the elevator or the stairs!”

      “OK!”  She whipped the bedroom door open and gestured for everyone to come out.  One by one they came out into the unreal scene of weird horrors and had to deal with it.  I could hardly keep up with dismantling the cicadas and looking at my people.  I wished I could see how Marcie was doing.  Leimomi was the best able to carry Deandre and was taking care of that, at least.

      “Call me a fuckin’ degenerate?”  Patrick was attacking Charlie with a severed bug limb, wielding the thing like a scimitar.  Through the frantic scene I saw his expression change as blood splashed over it.  He sucked in his lips in regret and horror.  Didn’t know it would be that sharp.

      I think Charlie was one of the things I almost tripped over on my way into the hall, bringing up the rear.  Deandre and Momi were closest to me.  Deandre was glancing back into the room just as we escaped and his eyes widened in shock.  “Mike!”

      “I know!”  I knew it was my fault.

      “He’s still alive!”

      I heard Marcie’s voice from up ahead, “Mikey!  Oh god!”

      Momi stopped in her tracks.  Our group was jammed up in the hall, fighting cicada men for every inch of ground as more and more spilled out of the stairwell.  The elevator door was closed, which may have been a good sign.

      “Momi, pass Deandre up the line, call the elevator!”

      She looked like she didn’t know if that would all be possible, but at least hit the call button while she could.  I didn’t stick around to see how she handled Deandre.  If Mike really was alive, he probably wouldn’t survive being moved - not like this - but I had to try.

      The mindless creatures were focused on the crowd of us, so they had mostly abandoned the room.  In the riot of action I had been unable to see the consequences of this melee.  The grey light revealed a ruined world.  The ground was completely covered with spiny black corpses tangled with rough grey cloth and filthy brown viscera.  Peppered throughout were those fucking eyeballs.  Charlie’s corpse was little more than a bump underneath the mass of insect limbs.  The furniture was all flipped or smashed, every surface blistered from the heat treatment, and the air still hazy with that smoke.

      There were two dark figures inching toward Mike.  He was alive, legs paralyzed and tangled in the blanket, reaching out to me in terror.  “Courtney oh man… Oh god!”

      “I know!”  I charged through the waste, kicking up chunks of chitin that had the weight of vacuum attachments or celery stalks.  The mess thinned out closer to the windows, and closer to him.  I charged up on the monsters, did the double-fisted punch to one’s back.

      It was as effective as before - the thing’s torso ripped almost completely free of its limbs, surging out of the coat for a moment before toppling to the floor.  The other one got to mike and reached down to his face like a priest.

      I could see myself doing a jump kick, busting it apart like Jean Claude Van Damme.  A little hustle, a hop, and bam.  But the vision betrayed me.  My feet snagged in the remains of the creature I’d just smashed, and I fell down hard.  The spiny limbs ripped right into me, slicing my stomach and left arm.

      My face bounced off the floor, stars everywhere.  I was picked up, somebody strong, soft, sweaty.  Momi was dragging Mike and I over the mess.  I started catching cuts again.  Was I in shock?  I was aware of the ragged state of my arm, of the flesh around my belly wound swelling and burning, but the pain seemed remote.  I could see Mike beside me, goggle-eyed and looking like a sausage with sweat beading on his discolored, purple-pink skin.

      Ow!  Too much.  I hauled myself to my feet, all my injuries starting to throb and scream at the same time.  “I’m good, I’m...”  The end of the hall with the stairs was walled off with a teeming ruin of chitin and fabric.  Busy mindless teeming hands worked from the other side to clear the mess while Richie pressed a door against it like a shield and Marcie leapt up to smack the reaching creatures.

      Ding!  The elevator reached the floor and the doors opened, just Momi, Mike, and I facing it.  As the metal rolled back, we could see the cicada men arrayed in right rows, like black metal machine guns in a rack.

      There was only one door to get away from them - a place with no exits, no escape.  We all crowded into my apartment, Richie closing and locking the door behind us, snapping off bits of bug extremities as he did.  A scattering of eyeballs had made it through and rolled across the floor like it was a big pool table.  Marcie aggressively crushed the things.

      Richie kept his palms on the door.  “They are sooo gonna get in.”  He turned around, pressing his back against it.  “What are we gonna do?  What are we gonna do?”

      I was leaning against my bedroom door frame again, no Mae West now.  I felt cold while my wounds felt hot, the blood already thickening to warm glue, gobbing inside my robe.

      Leimomi was holding Mike close like lovers in a waltz.  His toes scraped the ground.  Probably he was already dead.  Her hair was sad dregs of what it used to be.

      Olivia and Knobby helped Deandre sit on a couch and settled in beside him, exhausted and unsure.

      Patrick held Perry close as the taller older man looked away from us pointedly, head sunk.  Patrick looked shell-shocked.

      Marcie yelped, “Richie!”

      Richie turned around, planting palms on the door again, and saw what she was freaking about.  The doors hinges were coming unscrewed, amid a furious buzzing in the hall.

      Patrick said, “What now, woman?”

      I turned away, walked into my bedroom, looked at the haze and the blisters, the pathetic remnants of my nest.  A glob of blood sucked free from my stomach and splashed on the floor.  I looked down at it curiously.  The ground puckered and warped like a black hole’s event horizon.  I felt like I was falling into it.

      No, I caught myself.  I was just staggering from the blood loss.

      “What now, woman?”

      Momi defended me, “Shut up, dude.”

      I became aware of people coming into the room behind me, but I just looked around, ahead of me.  The window.  We could go out the window.  I took a few halting steps that way, then more toward the closet.  It looked cozy in there.  Dark.  Yeah, hide, lay low until this blows over.  Why not?

      The sound of the door flying off the hinges.  Insect feet tapping their march, like goose stepping on chipmunk RPMs.  I glimpsed Richie and Marcie moving toward the bathroom, but I got their attention.

      “Hey!  Follow me, guys.  I got this.  We got this.”

      Momi closed in beside me, Patrick pulled Perry behind me, Deandre and kids were back there somewhere too.  I walked into the closet on floating steps, pushed my way in with a blood soaked left hand.  Ran it along the wall.  I knew everyone was behind me, pushed in by the crush of insect men.  I couldn’t see, could only feel the blood and the darkness, warm ahead of us.

      I led them into that place.

                                                      ***

      Graeme Wexell tried his prox key on the alley side door of the building.  It didn’t work.  Considering what that most likely meant, he quickly walked away, circled the block.

      He put in both earbuds and tried Courtney’s phone again, then Deandre’s, then Patrick’s, then Deandre’s again.  Having circled the block with no response, he leaned on the fence dividing the apartment’s alley from the next property, looked the building up and down impatiently.  It was maddeningly opaque, reflecting the overcast early morning light all too perfectly.

      He needed a better angle to stake it out without being clocked.  If the floories were perp walked out, he’d know to go look for them at a police station.  If they came out any other way, he could talk to them, find out what happened.  He could not bring himself to give up the watch.

      Casting about for a solution, he hit on something a little desperate, perhaps equally risky.  Clearly, not thinking clearly.  He went into the alley on the other side of the fence, which was adjacent to an older building with a disused fire escape.

      He rolled a dumpster under the thing, heaved himself up on top, and carefully leapt to the bottom rung.  He hadn’t climbed anything in years, but had a sort of natural strength that helped overcome his lack of athleticism.  It was still an effort he’d be feeling the next day, but he got to the lowest level of the fire escape.

      Due to the narrow old bars, he’d be poorly visible from the street but still able to see the next alley over the fence just fine.  He slouched low to avoid notice, stared intently.  Minutes passed before he started trying to call people again, to no avail.

      The morning clouds burned away into a relatively blue sky, his lack of sleep and the strain of his exertion and stress and hunger threatened to take him under.  He felt like he was going insane, like he’d just die on that rusty old rack, get discovered months later by some Law & Order styled policemen who’d crack wise about his cargo shorts.

      It was the worst experience of his whole excursion into revolutionary anti-capitalist action.  But at 9:43 AM, his patience was rewarded with a revelation.

      The back door of the apartments opened and three bizarre dark creatures in trenchcoats filed out, so smoothly and eerily that it seemed the three were unfolding from one.  One held the door and the other two flanked the opening like guard statues.  His heart vibrated in time with their uncanny movements.  The blood left his head in a rush.  He almost fainted, but instead gripped the steel bars with sweaty white-knuckled fists.

      More of the creatures filed out into the broad daylight.  No fear of discovery?  No one seemed to look into the alley, take notice.  Christ, what sorts of things happen in this world, if this is possible?  The next set were dragging the blood-drenched corpse of landlord Charlie.  They hauled him to the trash compactor and tried to heave him inside.

      But they were too weak.  They used spiny extra limbs from within their coats to start snipping him to pieces, throwing each part in the dumpster like so much meat, leaving blood and chunks all over the area.  They took something from what was left of his clothes and came back toward the door.  Meanwhile, another two had gone out to the sidewalk, grabbing a random lady off the street and dragging her toward the building.

      Graeme wanted to move, to save her, but she wasn’t resisting.  Had they instantly killed her with some sort of venom?  His mind just kept melting, slipping through the bars with his sweat.

      The things circled, dipping and weaving with robot efficiency.  One put the item from Charlie into her pocket, the others scissored away her jacket and shirt with arm spines, before slipping a corporate polo shirt over her head and shoulders.

      They filed back inside like dancers on a cuckoo clock, closing the door behind themselves and leaving the woman dazed, standing.  She took the item out of her pocket.  Keys.  She used the prox key to open the back door and disappeared inside.

      Graeme stayed in a hotel for a few weeks before transferring to a different job in Texas.  He never returned to Seattle.

                                                      ***

      The tall shining Myrmidon Apartments were clean and new - barely used.  People came in to check out the rooms, see if there was anything they could afford, sometimes just for a glimpse at a life they’d never achieve.  One such man had come in on that day, looked out the window into the void of sky while the manager blathered through the sales pitch in the background.  Room 1203.

      He put his fingers to the glass and leaned his head closer.  He could imagine passing through the membrane, losing his mind, another fish in a sea of sky.  The manager took mental note to hit the spot with Windex after he was gone.

      The manager’s phone rang.  “Just a moment, let me...”

      “Mm-hm.”  The man walked into another room - the bedroom - all antiseptically squared away in its stock furnishings and plastic plants.

      He heard a noise in the closet and came near, brow wrinkling in fear.  An animal?

      No.  The door opened from within.  I stood there, a vision in black gossamer and jewels. He fell over the bed, then quickly scrambled to his feet.

      “I’m Courtney,” I told him from the mouth on my face.  "You can go if you want, get on a waiting list for roach and bed bug infested low income housing, or try to get by with more than four hours of commuting every day while your rent rises faster than your pay.  You can do anything."

      "I can’t afford this.  How did you know?"

      "You're right, this place is a monument to automatized, mindless, bottomless greed.  It can never be a home, can only rob you blind and spit you out…  But there is somewhere you can go that won't cost you anything, I swear to god."

      The walls nearest me began to swell red and suppurate with ill fluids.  In the next room, the manager started talking to him again.  “Alright, Mr. Coral, where were we?”  Footsteps approaching.  The bed started to twist in place on the inflamed flesh of the floor.

      He looked at me, lost.  “What do I do?  What is this?”

      I beckoned, arms pulling him with invisible power, a siren with skin of turquoise and lavendar.  He staggered toward me.

      “It won’t cost you anything,” I told him from the mouth on my throat.  “All you have to do is come with me.  All you have to do is disappear.”

                                                  THE END

[the-voice-of-hell]

Rent is Theft, part 25

Read from the beginning here, read the previous chapter here.  Note:  My MC is a Filipina trans woman and I am not.  If you have notes on that or anything else, hit me up.

                                                     ***

      I felt a chill.  My body was too beaten to react with a shiver, but there was a chill, like my most exposed flesh was draining of blood, stung by the air with pain.  But low key.  My eyes stung with the salt of dried sweat as I opened them, and my nostrils burned with lingering smoke.

      I forced myself to a sitting position, feeling almost too lightweight and airy, a dried piece of driftwood.  My limbs were very stiff.  It took a while to figure out what time of day it was - early morning, the light gray and dim, glowing like cathode ray tubes where it peeked through the windows.  Smoke hung in the air from the day of burning, but I sensed that nothing was currently in flames.  How much of that had I imagined?  The apartment hadn’t melted completely into a coal-black abyss, so the worst of it had surely been in my head.

      Leimomi.  I jolted awake and staggered around the apartment, trying to call to her, my throat too dry to make a sound.  She was on the bathroom floor, at first only visible to me as a sprawled mass of dark mangled hair, in parts sunk to deeper black, smoking.  How had she gotten in there?

      I pulled her head and shoulders up onto my lap.  She was easy to slide across the floor because the sweat underneath her body didn’t dry the way it had on top.  Something alarmed me badly.  As I pulled, her hair was coming out in dramatic clumps.  It felt like I was killing her.       I gasped, the choke finally bringing enough saliva to my throat to start making sounds again.  I used my voice to hyperventilate and make incoherent plaintive noises.  I know what they meant.  She woke up crying as well, which was a massive relief.

      I kissed her mangled salty forehead, pressed my cheek there, tamped down my panic enough to make soothing noises.

      “What happened to us?  What’s... Am I... Where is..?”

      I took the questions seriously, looking over her head and body for answers.  “Your hair… You’re OK, you really are, but your hair is burned... Don’t worry, it’s OK.”

      She cried and I held her, though my body ached and cramped so badly I almost spasmed with the pain.  At last she calmed enough that I felt bold enough to do something, to say something beyond my soothing.

      “Hey, when I say your hair is burned, I mean just your hair.  It’ll grow back, your head is fine.  But we should get this gross stuff off of you, honey.  I’m going to run you a bath, OK?  You get in and wait for me.”  I choked.  “I’ll geh- water too.”

      I helped her into the bathtub, and she sloughed off almost all of the mass of her hair at once, leaving flimsy thin strands half glued all around her face, head, and neck.  Her forehead was knotted from crying and I kissed it, wishing I could smooth it out.

      Just as I was leaving to get our water, she cried, “Oh no!  It’s your hair too!”

      I turned to look at her and felt up my head.  Some of my hair was coming loose, and I quick stepped to the mirror in panic.  Please don’t be male pattern.  It wasn’t as bad as hers, wasn’t bald in the front at all.  Tears streaked my face again, this time in relief.

      But then I felt it.  Just below the crown, there was a bald area, the flesh warped and numb from a burn.

      “Courtney, it’s gone.  The mouth!  And my hair.”

      She was right.  Our curses had been burned out of us.  And the bald spot was low enough I could probably work with it, if it ended up as a permanent thing.  “That’s good, I mean... That’s good.”  I peeled myself from the mirror and smiled at her one time before going for the water again.

      The grey light was already more fully formed than when I first woke, though still weak.  Maybe it was an overcast morning out there.  I remembered using warm saltwater to gargle when sick, and added some table salt to the first glass I poured.  I gargled it, I swallowed some.  As my voice healed under the effort, I spoke to Momi through the rooms.  “We’re doing good, baby.  We got through the worst of it!  It’s good...”  I trailed off, unsure if she could hear me over running water, realizing I was talking to myself more than her.

      I cut off two slices of cheese and tossed them in a bowl with some chips, poured Momi a tall luke-warm glass of water, and went back to the bathroom.  She turned off the water as I came in, looked at me with her big eyebrows scrunched up.  As long as she still had those, I was in love.  I smiled much more easily then, and sat beside the tub.

      “Drink this.  Kinda gargle it a little too.”

      She did.  “Bleh.  Gross.”

      “I think warm water goes down easier when you’re dehydrated like this.  At least I didn’t add salt to yours.”

      “Ew.”

      “Heh.”  I gobbled up my share of the cheese and chips, then smiled at her again.

      “Why are you smiling at me so much?”

      “I’m just so glad we’re done with the curses, that we’re alive.  I swear, I’m gonna get more interviews, get something going.  If we have to move to Kalamazoo and flip burgers, we’re going to be OK.”  I wanted to help wipe away the rest of the loose hairs, but she was eating the food, drinking the water.  “When you’re done I just wanna take a super quick shower before we check in on everyone else.”

      “Oh god, I hope Marcie is OK.”  She hugged herself.

      “You can bet she is.”  What could possibly be wrong with the world right then?

      My gaze drifted through the smoke, took in some details as the weak sun revealed them.  There were blisters and warps in every surface.  The mirror’s backing was badly oxidized into rusty splotches and speckles.  What the hell?

      I helped wipe away Momi’s burned hairs and wrapped a scarf around her head, cancer patient style.  Then I hopped into the shower and rinsed the salty crud off my bones.  I heard voices in my apartment, towel-dried and put on a bathrobe as quick as I could.

      There was no bedroom door to obscure me as I hopped around, trying to get ready.  Methadone Mike and Deandre glanced at me a few times.  At last I slouched against the door frame like Mae West.  “Hey boys.  How’s everybody doing today?”  Momi looked embarrassed.

      Deandre said, “Fit to get eaten.  We just got slow roasted las’ night.”

      Mike said, “That’s ta say, like, why are you in such a good mood?”

      I slapped the back of my head with both hands.  “Only one mouth today.”

      Deandre grabbed his body and started patting himself down.  “Huh.”

      “I did ask you a question.  You talked to anyone else yet?”

      Mike said, “Uh, just to check in.  Everybody’s alive except... Graeme ain’t answerin’ his door.”

      I was startled, then thought better.  “Sometimes in crunch time programmers’ll work overnight.  Bet he isn’t even home yet.  Stayed out on purpose just to beat the heat.”

      “Well shit, you think everybody is cured?”

      I shrugged.

      “Except Graeme,” Mike added.

      “Alright,” said Deandre, “Let’s find out.  But look at this shit.”  He gestured around the place.  Every surface was blistered or warped from the heat.  The air was hazy from old smoke with no way to vent.  “We gotta get out of here.  We’re lucky to be alive.”

      I nodded eagerly and swept Momi along with us as we stepped into the hall.  “This is our chance.  We got through it, guys.  We can walk away...”

      In the hall, the lights were all dim and irregular - the light somehow blotchy.  Glancing up, it looked like they had little bubbles in the glass of the fixtures.  Heat damage?  We went to Olivia and Knobby’s door and knocked.

      Suddenly, the elevator softly chimed its presence on the floor.  I glanced that way over Momi’s shoulder, expecting Grime to step out of the door looking like a semi-pleasant zombie.  Instead, before the door fully slid open, a horrible animal’s head ripped free, thrashing and tossing spittle.

      We all leapt at the noise.  It was surging, slamming to get into the hall.  The scrape and bustle coming from inside the elevator - meaty flanks beating the sides of the box, impatient hooves scratching.  It was a wild boar with a head the size of my torso.  The bug-sniffing pig?

      “No!” I shouted, “You’re supposed to have an appointment!”

      Momi dragged me out of the hall as it came in, slamming against a wall in its mad scramble.  I was in an apartment, it was out of sight, but I could still hear it, still feel it in the floor - an ogre, a giant.  Olivia and Knobby were bedraggled and terrified, looking like twelve year olds in their sweaty underclothes.  Deandre was shoving at them, yelling something.

      I found Momi’s eyes and hardly had a moment to catch my reeling mind before she was thrown against me.  She had been blocking the door, and one bash from the beast sent her crashing.  We scrambled to push the door back into place as the monster wound up for another attack.

      Momi cried, “We need a gun!”

      Deandre might have said something about that, but the pig crashed into the door again like thunder.  The door was knocked off the hinges, Momi and I were mashed together under it as the monster barreled past us into the room.

      My head was spinning, ears ringing, when I heard the voice of that fucking bug man out in the hall.  “What’s that boy?  You smell somethin’ good?  Get ’em boy, get ’em!”

      I tried to tell him to fuck off and die, but couldn’t breathe.  I struggled to stand, slipping against the wall.  To one side, the boar rampaged through Olivia and Knobby’s apartment.  Right in front of me, Momi was pushing the door out into the hall like a massive shield.  She smashed it against the wall and I saw a spindly white man’s arm flap behind it like a spider in death throes.

       I caught my breath and she was lifting me up by an arm.  We faced the living room.  The boar had already annihilated the coffee table and upended every piece of furniture that remained.  The children were hiding, Deandre and Methadone Mike facing it from either side, armed with stools.

      “Hey!” I yelled at the thing.  “We didn’t call for you!”

      It whipped around to look at me, and the guys charged in.  It looked mildly surprised to be stabbed from both sides, and spun in place again.  This time, the power of its movement sent the guys down.  Deandre was shoved back by his own stool, losing his grip and going end over end.  Mike’s stool flipped away and exploded on the ceiling.  His body went ragdoll to the floor and bounced.

      Before I could even blink, it reached a leg over - with almost no effort at all - and drove it down onto Mike’s back with a horrible noise.  He spasmed one time and fell still.  It wasn’t even looking at him.  It was staring at me.

      The thing was so full of power, its barest movement made things explode.  I knew if it touched me I’d die badly.  The kitchen had a window to the living room and I tried to dive through that, hoping Momi would take the opportunity to shut herself in one of the bedrooms.

      I only got my upper body through, snagging my thigh on the wall.  My legs were hanging out, wagging as I scrambled to get in.  The pig was so fast.  I felt it crash into me, into the wall.

      I think it had tried to bite my leg but missed, then when it pulled back to bite me again, its tusks flipped me the rest of the way into the kitchen.  Lucky, but it still felt like taking a baseball bat to the thighs.  I was on a high counter trying to get my balance when sharp hooves kicked me onto the floor - it had reared up to attack me.

      Fortunately it knocked me out of its own reach.  I yelled, “Momi, hide!” and hoped she’d do the smart thing.  I heard it hit the floor again and scrape hooves to come get me.  I jumped up on the counter again, planning to go through the kitchen window back to the living room as soon as it got close.

      The kitchen had a clear view of the apartment door and as the beast rounded the corner, I saw Richie stepping into the apartment behind it.

      “No!  Run!  It killed Mike!”  I screamed.

      It whipped around again, crashing into every wall as it went.  I tried going through the window, but again got tripped up, falling out headfirst and landing like a pile of bowling pins.  I blacked out.

      Deandre was pulling me to my feet, Olivia and Knobby were behind him.  They were waving for us to come join them in the bedroom, in safety.  Deandre looked very frustrated.  “Just ’cause I’m gangster doesn’t mean I have a gun.”

      My head bobbled in shock.  “Uh-huh, hm - fuck.  Where’s Leimomi?”

      “I’ll go help her.  You get in there with the kids, dammit.”

      My heart sank and I almost collapsed again, sliding out of his arms.  Then I shook my head and steeled myself.  “Where did she go?”

      He shook his head.  “Out there.”

      Pretty quickly, we were both out in the hall.  Knobby gave me his aluminum bat and Deandre got a knife.  I heard the pig in one of the other apartments, heard movement from others as well, heard voices.  Olivia and Knobby’s door was where Momi had left  it - on top of some unmoving fucko who was dead for all I cared.  The pig had also knocked the doors off of Methadone Mike’s apartment and Leimomi’s.  I heard a buzzing overhead like moths around an electric lamp. I glanced up and saw the light fixtures were actually full of eyeballs, which obscured the light and bobbed around each other like they were boiling.

      Patrick and Marcie came out of Patrick and Perry’s apartment, both carrying short spears made from halves of the same broken mop handle.  Marcie said, “Where’s my boy?”

      We exchanged very emotional looks in that moment, but the sound of the pig thrashing in Momi’s apartment drew our attention.  We all hustled to that broken door, gathered outside it in the hall.  I said, “Hey, pig!  Suey!”

      In response, I heard it wreck some more furniture before storming back into our line of sight.  It surged toward us, toward the hall, and we all stepped to the sides of the door.  Patrick and Marcie were on one side, Deandre and I on the other.  As it came into the hall thrashing - a grey-brown tornado of bristling hair and gleaming tusk - we all did our best to attack it.

      Hitting it with the baseball bat was like hitting leather-covered steel.  The shock and its thrashing threw me to the ground again.  It stomped Deandre’s leg and he collapsed, though he barely managed to escape another stomp by lurching out of the way.  His face was completely unrecognizable from the pain, doubled in on itself like a baseball cover.

      It jerked back into the apartment, leaving the four of us in the hall, splashed with blood.  Another calm before another storm - it would surely come attack us again in less than a minute.  Deandre couldn’t get up, Marcie had lost her spear, Patrick’s face was purple and swollen.

      To Marcie I said, “Help Deandre get to Olivia and Knobby!  I’ll help Richie.”

      She shook her head, grabbed Patrick’s spear, and went after the thing in Momi’s apartment.  I looked at Patrick in desperation, he shook his head.  I knew he had to get back to Perry.

      I grabbed Deandre’s shoulders to drag him, but he pushed me away.  “Don’t!  Find your girl!”

      “That thing’ll stomp you dead!”

      “Go!”  Blood spewed from his leg in time with his pulse.

      I took the permission and ran into the apartment.

      Richie was dodging it over by the window, bouncing around like a too-tall marionette on a string.  The pig had a spear and a knife sticking out of its flanks, but wasn’t slowing at all.  Marcie was throwing a stool at it, again to no effect.  Where the Hell is Leimomi?

      “Come on!,” Marcie yelled. “Suey suey!,” I yelled.  That’s a thing they say on farms, right?

      The boar was obsessed with Richie in that moment, ignoring anything we threw at it.  He was more agile than the thing, like a cowboy at an unusually sadistic rodeo event, but it was so much faster.  It whacked him in the shin with its tusks and flipped him off its head.  He spiraled in the air like a starfish before hitting the ground.

      The beast came rushing at him, and Marcie blocked it with a cushy chair.  When it failed to flick the furniture aside quickly enough, it decided to burrow its way through, sending a snow of stuffing and wood chips flying.  As it dug, its weight had Marcie and Richie sliding tangled across the carpet.

      I pushed a couch upside down, covering the pig and the chair, and I jumped on top.  I waved for Marcie and Richie to get away from the chair, and they did.  Just in time, the monster ripped out through the chair, out from under the couch.  I bucked loose and the couch rolled over me.

      When I got loose, I saw it headbutting Marcie full force in the guts, then spinning to face Richie.  He kicked it but it just lurched into the foot, pushing the boy on his ass again.  Marcie was too winded to help, I was still getting to my feet, and the horrible thing’s massive jaws were perfectly poised to start devouring Richie’s softest parts.

      Momi came into the room with a long flat metal rectangle, gripped in two places with rags.  She slapped the wall to get its attention.  “Hey!  Hey!”  She waved the metal closer to its face, swooping dangerously close to Richie’s head to do so.

      The pig lost interest in Richie and nipped at Momi’s clumsy weapon.  Unfortunately for Richie, it was stomping all over him to get to her.  He was bloody in a split second.  I found my footing and charged in.

      I grabbed its tail, jerked with all my strength.  It really hated that, bellowed and turned to face me, trampling Richie again.  I lost my grip on the tail.  It was facing me almost instantly.  This was it.  Deranged animal fury, blood and bristles, gleaming tusks - and me completely without a weapon.

      It hit me with its face, a battering ram of bone and enamel.  We went to the floor together, prey and predator, jerking and screaming.  I pulled myself out from under it.

      Leimomi was coming to help me, Marcie to Richie.  The boar was on its side, twitching.  Momi had stabbed it from behind with the metal, and deep.  She pulled me into her big arms.  I gasped as my diaphragm started working again.

      “Where did you get that… spear?”

      “Bottom of Mikey’s bed.  Are you OK?”

      “Uh… I think so.”  I sat up.  “Deandre.  Mike.  What the fuck is happening here?”

      Marcie had Richie sitting up again.  “We got it?”

      I pulled myself up to my feet on Momi’s shoulders.  “Checking for bed bugs.  We gotta get Deandre to a hospital.  And you.”

      “Huh?”

      Marcie said, “Hush up, baby.  Let’s get you walking, OK?”

      I went into the hall.  Deandre was gone, a trail of blood leading back to Olivia and Knobby’s place, past the corpse of the bug man.  Overhead, the eyeballs in the lighting fixtures were seething, angry.

      Momi came into the hall behind me.  “What should we do?”

      “Get everyone together, down there.  Fucking... Hell, I don’t want Marcie to see... Mike like that.”

      “Should I tell her..?”

      “We should all go down there.  Get Patrick and Perry.”  I yelled to Marcie, “Hey, we’re going to Olivia and Knobby’s apartment first, OK?”  She made some kind of noise back, then we went to work.

                                                       ***

Read next chapter here.

[the-voice-of-hell]

Rent is Theft, part 24

Read from the beginning here, read the previous chapter here.  Note:  My MC is a Filipina trans woman and I am not.  If you have notes on that or anything else, hit me up.

                                                      ***

      The air was thick with heat.  Was it my imagination, or was the ceiling softly glowing orange?  I felt like there was a wind coming from somewhere, like what you’d imagine the wind felt like in Mount Doom that was blowing Elijah Wood’s shag around.  I felt it in my ears and it made it hard to hear myself or Leimomi.

      But I persevered, running through any faerie tales I could remember, and making them as baroque with silly details as I could manage.  The little mermaid had a waterlogged beanie baby collection with individual names, Bluebeard’s bride stuck her sisters back together with novelty Hello Kitty duct tape stolen from his sex dungeon.  I couldn’t hear a word of it outside of my thoughts.  Was I making a sound?  Was I even breathing?

      A building ache finally forced me to face biological reality again.  I had to pee.  My skin was on fire, the world was on fire, but it was still an invisible flame - nothing smoking, nothing scorching, no yellow inferno roiling out of my ruined flesh.  It was just a feeling of dangerous, alarming heat, dancing over everything.  Were there actual heat waves coming off my skin?  I couldn’t tell.  Sweat rained over my eyes and I blinked it away, but I forced myself to stand up.

      I felt like a wooden skeleton.  No muscle, just clacking fake bones.  How was I moving?  I reached the bathroom, stumbled through the door and almost fell down.  Instinctively I reached for something to hold onto.  I grabbed a dangling hand towel.

      It immediately slipped out of its perch, causing a weird floppy piece of shiny garbage to double over and splatter to the ground.  It was my improvised *redacted*  How had I not noticed it sitting where I left it, at any point in the last few days?  Where it hit the floor, a spray of green trash slime splurted out of the midsection, onto the tiles and my feet.  It smelled like a dumpster.

      I was just glad I didn’t fall on the floor, either from the incident or from despair, because I knew I would have pissed myself where I lay.  I turned to the toilet and laboriously went through the necessary motions.  In my imagination, the flushing toilet would have blown miraculously cooled pisswater back in my face, granted a moment’s surcease from the invisible flames, but no.  This air wouldn’t take moisture, and that water was probably warm enough to slow boil eggs.

      I walked again, the burning wooden skeleton, clacking away.  In the bathroom door I was arrested by the scene before me.  There were our little beds, like funeral biers - mine empty and Leimomi’s occupied by a limpid melting Ophelia.  The upholstery glistened like the sweat on her body, drenched.  The lighting fixtures held a dull light as if the heat in the air was pure electricity half waking them from the slumber we’d induced.  Was that blackening along the walls, in the areas nearest the ceiling?  The ceiling itself was definitely glowing orange now.

      Leimomi lifted her head - clearly an agonizing thing to do - and tugged a pillow under it so she could more easily look at me.  Drops ran down her face, but were they sweat or tears?  She was too weary to make a facial expression that would tell.  “Courtney,” her voice was minute, distant, rippled the way light is rippled by heat waves.  “Tell another.”

      As I walked back to my bed, black curls of slow-burned posters crumbled in my wake and fell like dry leaves.  I surrendered to gravity carefully, one hand, one more, my hips, rolled over, feeling like dead weight.  “I love you,” I said, not hearing a word of it.  I took up my water bottle again, dribbling what I could past the lips, then told another story.

      Were these thoughts without sounds?  Could she hear them?  Could she hear them with her mind, our bodies burned away from our souls, free to listen without ears?  I didn’t know.

      Once upon a time there was a young gal with a bad family.  Maybe dad died, leaving her in the care of wicked stepmom, or maybe that was her real mom but she liked to pretend it wasn’t, due to the pain that somebody biologically obligated to care for you just doesn’t, a way to not feel like that was her fault - that she was inherently and uniquely horrible.  People called her Cinderella because she was covered in the ashes of rock star posters.

      Stepmom and three stepsisters made her do all the chores and such, but you know, that sort of thing isn’t usually like they say it is in stories.  It’s not like, do these chores or we cut you, you ugly slag.  It’s more like, “Oh I just can’t right now, could you please?  You’re so much better at that,” or malicious compliance where they do the chores so bad it makes the more responsible person stop asking.

      They’d make Cinderella do emotional labor too.  The girls would gab about their drama all day, say “You’re such a good listener,” but never afford a moment of reciprocation.  Stepmom would get home from work and need to take a shit, but had constipation so she’d be in there a long time.  At some point back when Cinderella was eleven, she invited her into the bathroom, so she could pass that time venting about coworkers she hated.  Cinderella was too young to realize this was a flavor of child abuse, putting worries onto someone who doesn’t deserve them, isn’t equipped to understand them - and also making it pretty likely she’d grow up into that “amirite ladies” culture of woe and bitchery, unable to have a conversation of her own about the nice things in life, only ever able to talk about who was a bitch to whom, or who’s getting fat, or whatever.

      And there she was, a young lady, still not out from under the shadow of that porcelain throne.  But somehow she hadn’t absorbed that particular type of damage - she still had the ability to dream, to think of things beautiful and interesting.  It was worn down every time her stepmom spoke, but it still remained.  She had a spark of life.

      One day prom was coming - man I’m like the five hundredth person to turn this into a modern high school thing aren’t I? - and Cinderella really wanted to go.  She just wanted a chance to feel beautiful, to maybe dance with somebody.  There was no dream she would be loved, but just that she could feel something glittering and sweet.  It went without saying then, that she was not going.  Nobody had specifically forbidden it, nobody made any mention of it, but all preparations and discussion revolved around stepsisters and their needs.

      The night of the prom came and those kids were out the door.  Cinderella knew it was coming, but somehow spaced out on it until the last minute, until there was no denying it.  As the door clicked shut, stepmom put up the legs on her recliner and turned up the volume on a commercial for the Kia Summer Sales Event.  Cinderella walked upstairs like a ghost, and fell down crying in the hall.

      The door to the linen closet opened, and a beautiful little figure in taffeta, purple,and rhinestones appeared, hair a beautifully piled coiff of glossy black ringlets, a pencil thin moustache on their lips.  She looked up in amazement, not able to see clearly through the tears, no idea if she could trust what she was seeing.

      “Prince?,” she asked.

      It was indeed Prince, and he was funky.  Perhaps in becoming a ghost he had lost a foot of height.  But why was he appearing to her, and not to Morris Day?  He said, “Yes, Cinderella. This is no dream.  I was sent to make your life beautiful - but only for one shining moment.”

      “Wow.  But aren’t you a total *redacted* hound?  How can you be a fairy godmother?”

      “I might be the crown champion of boy vs. girl ball, but do I look like someone afraid to be called a fairy?”

      “And you did that homophobic song about how a lesbian girl needs to learn to be straight.”

      “Like I told Lisa and Wendy, we don’t talk about the back catalogue, girl.”

      “Is this your punishment for something?”

      “Being a Jehovah’s Witness.  Turns out telling babies not to get crucial healthcare is a bad thing.  But let’s focus on your problems.  What is keeping you from the prom tonight?”

      “My stepmom and stepsisters don’t care about me, just want me to slave away for them forever, never have a time for myself.”

      “I will make them care about you, make them slaves to you, and make this time be only for yourself.”  He pulled out a magic guitar, spraying sparkles across the beige carpet.

      “No!  I don’t want any of that.”

      “But you want to go to prom, right girl?”

      “Yeah.  Yes, please, my lord.”

      “I love the respect, but I am not allowed to be addressed as such, at this stage in my career.  And so again, pray tell, what keeps you from this promenade?  If you would not have me remove your problems, perhaps there are boons that can be offered.”

      “Well, I don’t have a dress, or makeup, or nice hair, or a way to go to the school.”

      “Crucial.  I can work with this.  Come.”  He clapped twice above his head and led her into her bedroom.  While he was unusually small, his magic guitar was full size and dragged on the carpet behind him.

      In Cinderella’s room, under a silver shaft of moonlight, he did a little dance and grabbed his crotch.  It was part of the magic, completely justified.  Her room was basically a walk-in closet, and some of her cleaning stuff was jammed in there as well.  He pointed his finger at a mop with a spray of sparkles.  It transformed into a beautiful silver-white wig.  He spun his finger in the air and it flew onto her head.

      “Wow,” said Cinderella.

      He picked up the guitar, did a spin, then played a cool riff.  Her ratty sweats changed into a fuchsia ball gown with neon purple lace and a bodice covered in purple rhinestones.  “It’s so beautiful,” she cried.

      “You know it,” he said.  “Now let’s sort out this situation.”  He pointed the guitar’s head at her face like a gun and played a wild guitar solo.  She could feel the ashes sliding around her skin, changing shape.  Looking at a dingy mirror, she saw the carbon condense into eyeliner, eyeshadow, and glittering lipstick, leaving her skin clean and clear.

      “I’m gonna cry again, I’m sorry,” she said, hand on her heart.

      “Don’t ruin that makeup, girl.  There is one item left to attend to.  Thy conveyance.  Approach me.”  He turned his back to her and with a wave of his hand the window opened.

      She came near to the little man, not knowing what to expect.  As she drew near, he seemed to increase in size - no, the whole world was increasing in size, or she was shrinking!  He scooched forward on his guitar, leaving room for her to straddle it in the back, and then it started to fly.  She grabbed his little waist and they flew off into the night sky.

      Smoke then, curling around my body like tendrils from incense, rising to pool and eddy at the ceiling.  It intensified, white and opaque at the corners of my vision, but inverted to darkness as it reached the glowing orange expanse - a negative print of the ocean, the opposite of water.

      Prince flew her to school and daintily alit to the gymnasium roof.  “I’ll wait for you under the north bleachers of the baseball field.  If you aren’t there at midnight, I cannot help you get home.”

      “Thank you so much, Prince!  I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

      “All I really need is to know that U believe.”  He pointed at the sky and took a tiny bow.

      Cinderella found a hatch to get down from the roof.  There was a ladder to a catwalk high above the gym floor, and she could see the prom below.  A few people bustled to do the last minute preparations, but there was only one dim light on.

      She wandered around looking for a way down and found nothing.  What good was it to be at prom if you could only watch it from afar?  But at last she found a rope to climb down on - one of the ropes they’d use in PR class, with knots at regular intervals.  She tossed it down and started climbing.

      When she got to the bottom, she realized she was in the middle of the dance floor.  As party lights came on and the rest of the students came in, she was the center of attention.  “Who is she?”  “How did she get in here?”  They were impressed.

      She humbly demurred and headed to the punch bowls.  A chaperone was glaring at her and not noticing somebody else spiking the punch.  It was going to be one of those nights.  The DJ led off with “Fight for Your Right to Party,” which was ironic because fighting for your right to party is expressly against policy at school events.

      Phew, I thought.  Are we alive or dead?  Will this ever end?  I can’t stand it.  Christ.

      A kinda short dapper gentleman approached Cinderella and said, “Hey babe, I haven’t seen you around the school before.  Wanna cut a rug?”

      “There’s no rug, but I’ll dance.”

      “Let’s buff this basketball court wax to a high shine.”

      They danced and chatted softly between songs, and enjoyed each other’s company.  Occasionally people would congratulate the dapper gentleman on his fortune in monopolizing the attention of a radiant queen.  People would smile at them and ask questions, take pics of her dress on their cellphones.

      Her own stepsisters didn’t recognize her.  It was a magical and glittering moment.  But best of all, she was really starting to feel like a woman, like a person who could be sought after by a dashing suitor.  It was the dapper gentleman that was making her feel like that, with his smooth ways.  Maybe he felt the need to stay with her because he was insecure about his height, or maybe she was just that appealing to him, but he was gently affectionate and suave and cool, and he knew how to dance.

      I could see myself limned in blue and yellow flames like a gas stove burner.  The world above the orange glow of a furnace, the walls around cracking and blistering, the world below a whorl of charcoal and soot.  In between the flesh cooked with no end.

      Proms crown people, right?  That’s why people make Cinderella into a prom story on Nickelodeon or whatever, so they can get the prince in there.  So ceremony begins and they crown dapper gentleman and mystery girl!  They say come to the stage, so we can crown thee at the stroke of midnight.

      That reminds her that she’s about to lose her magic, miss her ride.  But will it be worth it?  No, if she was left in dingy sweats and a mop wig on stage, she’d never live it down.  This was supposed to be a glittering and magical moment, but now it would end in tragedy.

      She couldn’t resist, she kissed him one time, then said, “I’m sorry,” and bolted for the door.  People were too surprised to react fast, and she lost any pursuers on her way to the baseball field.  Would Prince be there?  Midnight was so close.

      At the stroke of midnight she was halfway to the field, when she saw him rise into the night sky, momentarily silhouetted by the moon - Prince, straddling a magic guitar.  And just like that, the mop head fell into her hands, the ashes spread over her skin, the dress became dirty sweats.

      A whirlwind of ashen scraps blew past my face and I choked on the burning trash.

      There’s more, there’s more.  I swear.  I can do it for you, Leimomi.  I can do it for what’s left of you.  She, um, she went home on foot, right?  Fuck, glass slippers.  There’s supposed to be slippers.  I forgot them.

      I know, facial recognition technology.  Yeah.  So dapper Deandre is going through the school after that, using the facial recognition software on his phone, comparing all the girls with the mystery lady on his phone.  The stepsisters are all like, me, me, but...  No, that doesn’t even make sense.

      She’s going to get found, like, maybe she’s the equivalent of a TA but for the janitor instead.  A JA, that’s our Cinderella, and he takes a pic of her face almost by accident and it matches and he’s like, baby it’s me.

      She can’t see that, doesn’t want to be known the way she is now, which the janitor thinks is lame because you shouldn’t be ashamed of your class, you know?  Patrick’s a janitor.  Ugh, where was I?  She like, um...

      Bursts of sparks and chunks of molten rock fell in random splashes around us.  If any of that touched our boiling meat, it would bore a hole straight through like industrial acid.  No escape was possible, only luck of the draw.  Who would survive and what would be left of them?, like the movie said.

      Cinderella!  Dapper Deandre prom king finds her and says, “It’s OK, sometimes your clothes and your hair and stuff are gonna suck, but you’re beautiful and cute and I will never forget our night together.  If you don’t wanna be with me, that’s cool, but I just hope, I dunno...”  And she kisses him   It’s romantic because she looks gross but he’s like.  Fuck.

      The world was coming apart into orbs of light raining into an abyss.  Nothing remained between what had once been the floor and ceiling, and no one.  There was only a heat too intense to even bother with becoming fire.  It had become another state of matter, or nothing at all.

      At last the light was consumed with black.

                                                        ***

  Read next chapter here.

[the-voice-of-hell]

Rent is Theft, part 23

Read from the beginning here, read the previous chapter here.  Note:  My MC is a Filipina trans woman and I am not.  If you have notes on that or anything else, hit me up.

                                                      ***

      I turned on the fans, turned off any lights I’d missed before.  Don’t panic.  The quick increase in the heat was counter to what the internet said about concrete, but maybe that was just because it’s a rather thin layer of the stuff.  Nothing supernatural in that, right?

      We drank our water.  I unlashed the twine that bound the ottomans into my fake bed, so we could space our bodies out a bit more as we lay there.  I retied them into two beds, as much as I didn’t want the extra labor.  You lay on three ottomans in a row, they’ll slide apart on you over time, and your body will be unconsciously tense as you try to hold them together.  That would be more work, ultimately.

      So we were on two improvised mini-beds, three feet apart, like a Hays Code era film about a married couple.  No implied fucking in this household.  The conjugal bed is hidden in the attic, along with the gay stuff and prospering criminals and other contraband concepts.

      “Did I apologize for this yet?,” I asked.

      “Yeah, stop doing that.”  She rolled the bottle on her forehead.  The cooling effect wouldn’t last.

      “Maybe we should talk about something to take our minds off the heat.”

      “I can’t think of what.  I don’t wanna tell cute stories when it’s like this, because when I think about the story after that, I’ll think about being hot.”

      “Yeah.  I could play music.”

      “But... same thing.”

      “Oh yeah, even worse.  I know whenever I hear a song I’ll remember other stuff that was going on when I played it before.  Maybe we’ll just talk about cold things, see if we can trick our imaginations.”

      “I don’t think my imagination is that good.”

      “Alright I thought of something I can do, but will you be OK just layin’ there alone?”

      “You’ll be here with me, right?”

      “You bet.  I was gonna go on my laptop and try to get more job interviews.”

      “Good idea.  Thank you, Courtney.”

      “You don’t have to say that.”

      I got my laptop out of the living room and brought it in.  I knew running it in that heat was a bad idea, but was getting desperate.  I lay down on my belly, chin propped with a thin pillow, arms dangling over the edge of the ottoman to my compy.  I turned it on.

      It took only a little longer to start up from nothing, but once I was past the loading screens, I found performance still very laggy.  Slow background startup operations, I’m sure.  But I had a bad feeling and kept my eye glued to the bottom right of the taskbar.

      I was waiting for a specific program to load - one that monitored motherboard performance.  I wouldn’t have to open it, because once it loaded from startup, it would display the processor temp right there in thumbnail.  A useful little thing.

      The thumbnail was only part visible glowing red beneath a pop-up window from the program.  “Excessive heat alert.  Shutdown recommended.”  Shit.  That made it official.  I couldn’t afford for my computer to melt now, so I turned it off.

      “My computer won’t work.  There goes that idea.”

      “Ugh.  I’m sorry.”

      “We apologize a lot, don’t we?”

      She seemed like she wanted to turn her head to face me, but that it would be too much exercise in her current state, and gave up after the most fleeting glance.  “Sorry about that.”

      “Love you.  I’ll think of something to talk about.”

      “OK.  Just remember.”

      “Nothing that will remind you of this later.  Roger.”  I drank my warm water and pondered it.  There was another knock at the door.  Fine.

      The doorknob was as hot as a hot shower now, initially shocking to the touch, but not scorching.  I got it open.  “Deandre.  Kids.  Pretty messed up, huh?”

      Deandre said, “Yeah.  Feels like we should all get out while we can.  This can’t be safe.  What are the odds they see us if we just use the stairs, go down one more floor, and hide out in the hall?  Ain’t nobody lives on that floor.”

      Knobby asked, “Are we gonna be alright?  I’m, eh, gettin’ kinda...”

      “I don’t know guys.  You could try it, I just...  I’d hate so much for any of us to get caught now, y’know?  It makes me sick.”

      “Heat can make you sick,” said Olivia.

      “I know it,” I said.  “I say, do what feels right.  I can’t tell you what to do and I wouldn’t want to.”

      “That’s the problem.  Nothing feels right,” said Deandre.

      “Well, until you make a move, drink plenty of water and rest as much as possible.  Guy said one hundred twenty-five degrees for three hours, but that’s up there.  Shouldn’t be that bad down here.  It shouldn’t.”

      “Yeah.”

      Me and Leimomi drank more water, as best we could.  It’s hard to chug when your body is starting to cook like a hot dog.  I searched my mind in increasing desperation.

      “Erotic Grime thriller.”

      “What?  Why?,” she asked.

      “Because it was the first thing I thought of, and the less we think of that guy sexually, the better.  You won’t wanna remember this later and you won’t.”

      “Heh.  Fuck it, OK.”

      “So Grime is a fast-paced computer programming man in the fast-paced world of computer programming.  The office is abuzz with activity.  It’s crunch time.  That’s when a product is about to hit a big milestone and we’re lagging behind expectation, so we all have to work extra hours.”

      “You’re there?”

      “Naw, no thanks.  Funny I was thinking of myself as part of that world.  I never do that, these days.  Maybe it was because I’ve been looking at job listings.

      Anyway, Grime is burning the midnight oil.  He’s wearing his skinny jeans and one of those ‘communist party’ t-shirts that has Karl Marx and Lenin with lampshades on their heads and bottles in hand.”

      “Don’t know that one.  Hard to imagine.”

      “It’s a bright red t-shirt.  It shrank in the wash a little bit.  Not enough he would throw it away, but a tighter fit than he’d usually go for.  In the cold late fall weather his nipples are pressing against the cloth.”

      “Ooh.”

      “Yeah, they’re ‘green’ buildings, so management skimps on AC in summer and heat in winter.  So Grime is there, nippin’ out, but typing so fast, like Sick Boy in Hackers, green matrix code raining down across his screens.  He’ll win the day.”

      “Does he have cool sunglasses?”

      “Is that hot?”

      “We’re all too hot right now, Courtney.”

      “His midnight black wraparound shades are ink dark portals to a level of Hell that is pure ice.  I think there was one of those in Dante’s Divine Comedy.  But yeah, frost is forming on the keys.  He has to step back, lest he freeze the whole desk like a liquid nitrogen bath.”

      “I can’t imagine it.”

      “Point is, he’s sexy action cool.  And he thinks he’s alone, but he’s wrong.  A sound from several cubicles away makes him leap for the katana at his deskside.”

      “Like a ninja sword?”

      “Exactly.  They let guys have those if they have enough corporate spirit.”

      “OK.”

      “His blade flashes like blue lightning, but nobody falls to his deadly moves.  He sees a guy step into the hall.”

      “A guy?  Huh.  A guy?  Are they gonna..?  Is there a girl in this one?”

      “No way.  It’s old school slash, baby.”

      “Does that mean..?”

      “Yup.  So he sees the guy stretching and is embarrassed.  He tosses the sword into a nearby cubicle, hoping he isn’t noticed.”

      “What’s the guy look like?”

      “He’s a silver fox.  Name is Michael Haeckel, he’s like six foot four.  Not chubby like Grime but not too skinny either.  You can tell just because he’s that tall and has big hands, he’s packing *redacted*”

      “Whoa.  Is he real?  Did you used to work with him?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Is it OK to make a dirty story about somebody else?”

      “I dunno.  We’re getting broiled like baby back ribs in here.  Ethics can wait.  Anyway, Michael was kinda sleepy and started to get *redacted*”

      “Can that happen?”

      “If you’re sleepy enough and you are packing *redacted* in my story.  So the outline of *redacted* is pretty visible in his acid wash jeans, and Grime is like, whoa, shit.  He hopes he wasn’t noticed.  He lucked out.  Michael does notice his situation though and picks up a clipboard fake casual to hold over his *redacted* while he goes to say hi.

      ‘Hey Graeme,’ Michael says.  ‘Hey,’ says Grime.  They talk about work, and how other guys don’t have the dedication like they do, to work so late on crunch.  Randomly, the subject of donating to charity comes up.  All the tech boys do it for tax breaks.”

      “That’s nice.”

      “It would be better for the world if any of those pricks paid their taxes.  Michael mentions that he’s giving to some LGBT charity.  Grime says that’s cool, but wonders why Michael feels like that’s a good one.  After all, he’s married to a lady and stuff.”

      “Hm.”

      “He says he’s actually bi.  One time in college he had sex with a dude and feels like it was beautiful and nobody should be judged for love.  Grime is like, cool, but you have been with nothing else but ladies forever.  Do you still feel bi?”

      “That seems rude.”

      “So does the funky bass music starting to play out of thin air - the sounds of love are soon to come.  Michael says, ‘Yeah,’ and they have a big moment.  Sexual tension in the air so thick you could cut it.”

      “Hm.  He’s six foot six?”

      “Yup.”

      “Silver fox?  Like a furry?”

      “Sure, why not?  So the guy says, ‘Maybe my wife doesn’t mind if I do stuff sometimes,’ and Grime is like, ‘Oh shit, I’ve never been with a dude before.  Is this really happening?’  And Michael is like, take it slow, and they do.”

      “Like taking off their clothes slow and stuff, or *redacted* slow?”

      “The first one.  Michael suggests they just watch each other *redacted* for a few minutes, see how it feels.  Grime and him are alone, think it’s funny.  Why not take advantage?  They *redaaaaaaaacted*”

      “Cool.  But I can’t *redacted* myself right now.”

      “Good.  That would be unethical, maybe.  I don’t know, whatever.  So the guys are showing each other what they got, and Michael is like, ‘Damn, Graham, what you wanna do now?,’ and Grime says ‘Graeme,’ but kinda chokes on it because he’s *redacted* like it’s water in the desert.  Oh. reminds me, drink some water, babe.”  I did the same, hard as it was.

      “So,” I continued, “Grime is *redacted*  Michael has to push him back a little and say, ‘Easy there, tiger.’  And that makes Grime all sad because he was fixin’ to experience *redacted*  That thing is too magnificent.”

      “What’s it look like?”

      “It’s like a white dude’s *redacted*, y’know, all *redaaaaacted, includes missile metaphor*”

      “Wow.  Haha, his *redacted* is the bomb.”

      “True.  So Michael says he wants to *redaaaaaaaacted*”

      “What’s it feel like, for somebody to have their *redacted* on a *redacted* ?”

      “Kinda crazy, like you got two *redacted* in a wrestling match, daring each other to make a move, but they can’t.  Not without help.  So Grime grabs *redacted*  He remembers to check in with Michael, because he doesn’t want to lose his privileges.  Michael lets him know, yeah, he’s doing it too *redacted*

      So he loosens up his grip a bit, and *redaaaaaaaaaaacted*

      “Yeah.  So they’re *redacted*?”

      “Yeah, y’know *redacted*  Does that make sense?  Anyway, it feels real good.  They’re feeling it, because *redaaaacted* lightly while *redaaaacted* tightly.”

      “That was a rhyme.  You should be a rapper.”

      “Oh yeah.  That’s a good job.  Where do I interview for that one?”

      “Sorry.”  She drank more water.  “Go on.”

      “They can’t take much more of it.  *redaaacted* so they gotta step back.

      So Grime is looking at the big man’s *redacted* and feeling inadequate, feeling like a child.  The guy senses his hesitance and says, ‘I like what you got, kid.  Let me see that.’  Then he goes down to his knees, taps an office chair to suggest Grime sit down in it.  Our boy rolls into position.

      He isn’t feeling it that much, like, *redaaacted*  But Michael gives him a look, so kind and beautiful like Obi-Wan Kenobi.  Then the older guy nuzzles Grime’s *redacted*  He feels Michael’s beard on his *redacted*  It feels crazy, but he knows he can't just *redacted* because it would scratch up his *redacted*

      Then Michael *redaaacted*  Grime is lightheaded, feeling like he might *redacted* at any moment, *redaaaaaaacted*

      But then Michael relents, right as Grime is about to *redacted*  He leans back and says, ‘You wanna feel this *redacted*?’  He’s gesturing to his *redacted*  Grime is speechless.  How can he say yes?  He’s never done anything like that before.  But still, he agrees.  Sometimes you hafta jump in the deep end.”

      “Whoa.  You think Grime would take a *redacted* in the *redacted*?”

      “Probably like it better if it was *redacted* but I bet he would.  Y’know, it’s just a story though.  Grime could have two *redacted* and taste like rose water if we wanted.”

      “Two *redacted* and he can *redacted* a furry?  OK.  Tell me about it.”

      “For real?  Grime has two *redacted* now?  And I’m supposed to get real about the furry thing?”

      “You mean he wasn’t really a furry?”

      “I guess he could be.  What kind of furry do you like?  Wolf boys?  Horse boys?”

      “Um, you said he was a silver fox.  And now Grime has two *redacted* and he wants to get a *redacted* in his *redacted* for a first time.”

      “Hm.  So Grime’s *redacteds* are kinda hanging there, like *redacted* but as soon as the older guy suggests *redacted* they both *redacted*

      “Why couldn’t Grime have had two *redacted* instead of the red hands thing?”

      “You really picturing that?  Because it’s just kinda abstract to me.  Hard to call the image to mind, really.  For me.”

      “I was thinkin’ like what it would feel like to have both in my *redacted* at the same time, be all filled up like that.”

      “Damn, baby.  I’d like to see that.  But I can’t *redacted* right now.  It’s too hot.”  I took a drink.

      “I know.”

      “Before I go on, should I describe the fox *redacted* looking like a fox *redacted* or a human *redacted* that maybe has some more hairs on it?”

      “What’s a fox *redacted* look like?  Don’t do it if it’s real weird.  That’s just gross.”

      “I don’t know, but I’d imagine they look like regular dog *redacted* which are pretty fuckin’ gross.  Moving on then, the silver-furred fox man stood up to his full height, his long human-like *redacted* brushing against Grime’s *redacted*  It was time for Grime to *redacted*

      They pushed all the printers and folders and three by five cards and highlighters and shit off of the desk, and Grime sat himself there with his legs up in the air.  Fox Michael probably made a sound like a fox makes, whatever that is.”

      “A howl, probably.”

      “Probably he howled.  Sometimes a howl is a mournful sound, the baying of bloodthirsty creatures on the moors, singing how theirs is a life of pursuit, of famine and violent feast, and eternal scraping in a social order from which the only escape is death.  But for the horny fox man, the howl is of Looney Tunes-esque hubba-hubba awooga-styled lust.  He rubs Grime’s *redacted* all over with his big fox paws, giving him little scratches with his short sharp claws.  Grime finds that exciting and bites his lip.

      Then Michael *redaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaacted*

      “What are Grime’s two *redacted* doing?”

      “They’re wondering why they only have three *redacted* between them and not four.”

      “Three *redacted*?  What would that be like?”

      “Three *redacted* is good when you’re rubbing them on a regular set of two, because the *redacted* go between each other, don’t butt against each other and get sore.  It’s pure sensation, like God intended.”

      “Damn.  That makes me wish I had three *redacted* Courtney.”

      “Would you also like two *redacted*?  While we’re handing out body parts, it’s OK.”

      “No, I don’t know if I could have *redacted* right.  I don’t know.”

      “It’s OK, I prefer you with *redacted*  I mean, if you have a *redacted* and three *redacted* that might be kinda hard to *redacted* without being like you’re getting kicked in the *redacted* all the time, so you have some decisions to make.”

      “I don’t know what to do.”  She seemed a little upset.

      “It’s OK, babe!  It’s just a game.”

      “Ugh, sorry.  It was just the heat.  That would be weird if I was sad about pretend *redacted*”

      “Oh good.  I love you too much, honey.”

      “I’d laugh but it’s too hot.”

      “I understand.  Do you want me to keep going?”

      “Can you?  It’s bad in here.  Real bad.”

      “We’re just trying to kill time.  How much time have we been doing this?”

      “I dunno.  Feels like hours.”

      I got up the will to look at the time on my phone.  “Oh Christ.  It’s only been eleven minutes.”  I sobbed once, before I even noticed what I was doing.

      “Don’t cry, Courtney.”

      “You’re right,” I choked it down.  “Gotta conserve my water.”  I took another drink.  “So Grime is holding his *redacted* together loosely, one palm over the *redacted* kinda *redacted* so he doesn’t *redacted* before the fox even gets started.  Michael *redaaaaacted*”

      “Uh huh.”

      “Maybe I should be doing Goldilocks and the Three Bears.”

      “Whatever’s easiest.”

      “I guess we’re already here.  And I’ll have time to get through the whole fucking Grimm Brothers catalog.”  I almost cried again.

      “It’s OK.  You can stop, and we’ll just...”

      “No, no.  I can do this.  So Michael has his *redacted* all *redacted*  It’s *redaaaaacted*  I think if Michael is basically so humanoid his *redacted* looks like a *redacted* he’s gotta have a tail and an animal head.  So his tail is wagging like a happy dog and his face is all, again, awooga awooga.  You know, like a cartoon wolf when he sees a hot chick.

      He *redaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaacted*

      Meanwhile, Grime is losing his mind.  He’s insane with ecstasy, didn’t even know it was possible to feel that good.  But he can’t get it together to help out, or say something, or do anything yet.  His mind is a technicolor CG explosion, like a commercial for expensive fruit juice.  Meanwhile his grip on his own *redacteds* has firmed into a stiff claw shape, like he’s clutching a stick shift in a muscle car.

      Finally, sometime around *redacted* Grime gets his brains back.  He says, ‘*redacted*’  Michael is ready and *redacted*  Grime knows if he actually *redacted* he’s gonna *redacted* on the spot, *redaaacted*”

      “Holy shit, Courtney.”

      “So Grime knows it’s basically game over, but he doesn’t wanna go out like a bitch.  He’s gotta get Michael to *redacted* somehow.  He knows he has practically no chance, but he begs for it, hopes that’ll work.  ‘Michael, *redacted* please.  I need your *redacted* dude.’  Michael likes that, but will he do it?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “You could make that up.  No pressure.  But does he *redacted* first?”

      “Yeah, but I can’t say it like you.”

      “OK, maybe I can teach you how someday.  You can be my bard apprentice.  In the meantime, Michael felt his *redaaacted*  His mind turned inside out, his mirthful expression went slack as lust stole the blood from his brain, then his eyes bulged and nostrils flared as...  I forgot he has a fox head.  Let’s say his long pink wet tongue flopped out the side of his mouth and he rolled his muzzle around and his ears went like... helicopters or whatever.

      Just for funsies, let’s imagine *redacted*  When it’s *redacted* hitting Grime’s *redacted* he feels a thrill *redacted* and he knows he actually won.

      He gets each *redacted* in a medium firm grip and they *redacted*  For whatever reason, *redacted*  Each got *redacted*  Grime’s *redacted* was *redacted* but in his excitement, and with his *redacted* it *redacted*  A *redacted* in a magic instant, then *redacted* their *redacted* like in the fancy grocery store, where they got those little pipes that spray water on the lettuce heads.  You know what I’m talking about?  Remember seeing one of those?”

      “OK, but it’s *redacted*?”

      “Yeah, it’s Grime’s *redacted* and it’s *redacted*  He yells in joy and then sucks in his mouth and bugs his eyes.  Oops, he thinks, somebody might be around.

      Michael *redacted* hastily, but not too fast, just to avoid accidents or discomfort, and uses his tall vantage to look around over the tops of the cubicles.  There’s nobody in sight, and he says as much.  He takes a wad of tissues out of a box and dabs up the *redacted* on himself while he watches Grime recover.

      He’s not recovering fast.  When Michael *redacted* the sensation prolonged his *redacted* even more, though there wasn’t much *redacted* left to *redacted*  It was kinda pathetic, just his two *redacted* rapidly *redacted*  Michael could see Grime’s *redacted* in the crappy green lights and the way they *redacted*  Grime’s head lolled and all he could say was ‘oh man’ over and over again.”

      “Oh fox man.”

      “Good catch.  I guess Michael’s probably lapping up the *redacted* from his muzzle and chest, leaving dabbed tongue shapes on his shirt.”

      “They didn’t get naked?”

      “I don’t remember.  That’s a missed opportunity.  Coulda said what they look like naked.”

      “Fox man and two *redacted* Grime.”

      “It’s true.”  I exhaled.  It would have been a sigh but I didn’t have the strength to muster a good inhale at the beginning, just weakly deflated my shallow lungs.  I had to hork down some air a moment later to make up for it.

      “You OK, Courtney?”

      “Ugh.  Sorry.  Let’s drink more water.”

                                                        ***

   Read next chapter here.