Gender: Female
Status: Single
Age: 103
Sign: Scorpio
Country: US
Signup Date: 12/5/2006
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Thursday, April 26, 2007
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Fame By Tom Leins
I sick up another bit of Anton, and crawl back onto the veranda. Dr. Rat is where I left him, nursing a Lipton Tea- sugar, no milk. He gestures towards another drink on a tray nearby.
"Lemon?" I ask hopefully.
"Sorry, no lemon."
I shrug, wipe my mouth on my filthy sleeve and haul myself into the deckchair next to Dr. Rat. A fierce crack of thunder and a sudden deluge puncture the slow Nashville afternoon.
Dr Rat closes his eyes and listens to the drone of the rain. He is razor-thin, wears an eye-patch and smokes his cigarettes through a long, slender holder. He has made a career out of quasi-medical depravity, and looks the part. A siren wails in the distance. Dr Rat opens his good eye warily. Earlier this year he spent thirteen days in jail for his involvement in a botched sex-change operation. I paid his $2,312 bail out of my most recent royalty cheque, as a gesture of good faith. I have been attending these unpredictable fortnightly consultations with Dr. Rat for the last eighteen months. He tells marvelous stories of the rich and famous that unsettle and entertain me in equal measure, but he won't tell me what I want to know.
"Doctor, can you cure me?"
A sharp grin flashes out, lingers and fades. Finally he says, "Yes, Coley. I think I can."
Without wanting to sing my own praises too much, I'm moderately famous – a honky-tonk hero to a large and voluble cross-section of America's music-buying public. 46 million Americans smoke. 47 million Americans buy Christian Pop records. That makes me more popular than smoking, and a heck of a lot less likely to ruin your lungs. Nevertheless, it's tough concealing your bulimia when you're in the public eye as much as me. Nearly as tough as trying to conceal your cannibalism.
My car crawls through the stagnant suburbs, the rain doing nothing to blot out my desperate butcher-shop visions. As I hit Main Street traffic starts to move sluggishly. Juicy-looking cops in ill-fitting uniforms do their best to keep the traffic moving, but the overturned eighteen-wheeler proves to be too fascinating an obstacle. I wind down the window to get a better look. To me, a traffic accident is an all-you-can-eat buffet of flesh and innards, and I feel myself getting hot under the collar. To distract myself I turn on the radio, and crank it up to 11. One of my own songs 'Never Slouch In The Presence Of the Lord' is playing, and I feel like a real Southern-fried asshole. A cop turns around to glare at me, and then he catches a glimpse of my wet-look perm and rhinestone-flecked shirt and realises who I am.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Clarke. Take care on these wet roads now, sir. "
I wind my window up hastily, but hear him turn back to his cop buddies and call me something unpleasant. They look over their shoulders and grin. I wave sarcastically and drive on. When you're North America's twelfth most successful Christian Pop chartbuster of all time you've got to take the rough with the smooth.
As I enter the Civic Center, I nod to the hollowed out old codger slouched in the ticket booth– his head covered by a black synthetic 'mop-top' wig. My Uncle Clive. His rheumy eyes stare right through me. Dr Rat fixed him. People say he used to have the same affliction as me. I don't know. I was too young to remember what he was like before he turned into the cadaver he resembles now.
In the lobby Janine is sobbing wholeheartedly. She's just been sent a fax. Apparently Anton has been reported dead by a mutual friend. I feel my gut-fluid bubble ominously, and fight to keep it down. I offer Janine the briefest of hugs and a few mumbled words of consolation. Anton is her brother-in-law. Her moose-jaw gurgles mournfully on my shoulder until I extricate myself from her grip and swagger backstage in search of a clean change of clothes.
Show time. The elderly folks in the front row do the resurrection shuffle. I flash them my cheesiest grins whilst emoting to high Heaven and dreaming about cheerleader's thighs and the fat chewy arms of obese welfare cheats. I'm filled with nervous excitement regarding what Dr. Rat has planned for me. During the intermission I calm myself down by snacking on the withered limbs of a milky-white cripple in the disabled toilets – eventually sicking him up in a carrier bag outside before it was time to go back on.
After asking a subdued Janine to cancel the rest of my booking for this month, I drive over to Dr. Rat's house. He has promised me a "last supper" before the course of treatment begins. I begin to tuck in heartily to the torso of the feral child that Dr. Rat kept in his basement for "social experiments." That's when I notice a flashbulb go off outside Dr. Rat's house.
Mouth still full of stringy child, I upend the dinner table and grab Dr. Rat by the throat, grunting threats. After a couple of good punches he manages to wriggle free and stumble into the backyard. He edges towards the chain-link fence wearing nothing but his shabby robe and the bewildered frown of an amateur illusionist whose attempt to saw the body in half has worked all too well. I regurgitate what little of the child I had already chomped on, screaming obscenities at Dr Rat. The assembled crowd gasps. The camera crew scramble backwards. The Sheriff's nervous young deputies inch towards me, weakly brandishing their nightstick. Minutes later they finally manage to pry me off Dr Rat – bits of eye and cheek stuck between my teeth - and cram me cackling and bloodied into the back of the Sheriff's cruiser. Finally, fame has swallowed me whole.
Roommates By Molly Lederer
"Look," Rodolfo said calmly, tweezing his left eyebrow with methodic precision. "I said I was sorry about it."
Frank eyed his room-mate warily. "It's not abut the Cocoa Krispies."
"I know I ate your bananas too, and I swear to God I'll replace everything next time I go to the store."
Frank was surprised. "My bananas too?"
"There were only three. And two of them had gone all brown and spotty. But the other one – it was weird – it was, like, still green and firm."
Frank regained his composure. "That's not the point. That's not what I'm teed off about, and you know it."
Rodolfo sighed dramatically and slapped the tweezers down on the porcelain sink. "I'm sorry, I guess I'm not telepathetic, Frank. What exactly are you teed off about?"
"Telepathic." Frank shifted uncomfortably in the cramped doorway.
Rodolfo tapped the toe of his red alligator cowboy boot and clicked one long red fingernail on his rhinestone watchface. "Time is a' tickin,' Chatty Kathy!"
"It's – it's what you're doing."
Rodolfo raised his now-perfect left eyebrow. "I'm afraid I'm not following your drift, Frank. Your fragrant Rite-Guard-Irish-Spring-Bud-Light-and-corn-chip-residue drift."
Rodolfo had a point about the corn chips, but Frank wasn't about to admit it now. "What happened to your songwriting, man?"
"It was crap! We both know it. You're the one with the regular gigs as a musician." Rodolfo pronounced the word musi-chi-one, Frank noted.
"Regular? I host open mic night once a week. My paychecks come from the Coffee Cabana. But I'm still trying to…"
"Well, I'm through trying! My talents lie elsewhere. I have found something I am actually honest-to-goodness good at and by God I'm gonna do it!" Rodolfo finished this statement with a triumphant blast of hairspray on the bangs of his big blond wig.
Frank was suddenly reminded of waiting in the doorway of his childhood bathroom in Jersey, dumb-founded and transfixed by his older sisters' elaborate beauty rituals. Armed with bobby pins and hot pink cans of Aerosol spray, they blowdried, teased, and shellacked their bangs into strange scalloped formations that were as impressive as they were unflattering. As they wrestled each hair into submission, they'd argue – "The left side, Ann-Marie! There's a gaping fucking hole!" – "It's not a hole, it's a dip, ya doofus!" -- while all Frank wanted to do was pee. Somehow, all these years later in the bathroom of this two-bedroom in Tennessee, absolutely nothing had changed.
"…And when you're really good, you've just gotta ride it, like really harness that gift and ride it all the way," Rodolfo was explaining breezily as he adjusted the stuffing in his bra.
"But Rodolfo…" Frank wanted to tell him the truth: he wasn't good, that there was no gift, that he actually really sucked, if you wanted to get right down to it, and furthermore it was kind of insulting to the guys who were really good, not to mention the artist herself, and creatively it was a total cop-out, almost like plagiarism or something – but what he said was, "Forget it…" and shuffled down the hall to play with his Xbox.
"You think you're a liberal, Frank, but you are a S-Q-U-A-R-E!" Rodolfo sang from the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, Rodolfo bopped his fully made-up face in front of the TV screen. "I'm off!" he chirped, smelling like a Wild West whorehouse, or at least what Frank imagined one would smell like. "Why don't you come, Frank. Just stop by!"
Rodolfo could only stay irritated with Frank for as long as it took his hairspray to harden. With similar magnanimous spirit, Frank allowed, "Maybe."
"'Kay, byeee!" The apartment door slammed shut.
Frank turned off the Xbox and stared at the blank screen for awhile. It was Friday night, and it was hot as hell in their apartment, what with the air conditioner on the fritz. Maybe he was biased about it because it was her, because he loved her so much and couldn't stand to see her mocked. Maybe it wasn't mocking, but "homage," as Rodolfo always justified it. Maybe Rodolfo was better than Frank gave him credit for.
Frank eased tentatively off the couch and stretched. He didn't need extended time in the bathroom to get ready, just his keys and his wallet, conveniently centered on the coffee table. Maybe it would be good.
Half an hour later, he found himself staring slack-jawed at the main stage of Club Pussywillow, where Rodolfo was pantomime-pouring himself a cup of coffee. Or rather, as the song lyric goes, "a cup of ambition." Then Rodolfo was high-stepping his way through the rest of Dolly Parton's "9 to 5," lip-synching a half-measure behind the words, dancing with confidence in spite of no discernible sense of rhythm, a lipstick smudge visible across his front tooth and upper lip. The crowd was polite but unenthused.
At the line "It's enough to drive you crazy if you let it," Rodolfo let loose with a tremendous neck roll, presumably to illustrate crazy. There followed a loud popping sound, and Rodolfo grabbed his neck and gasped. The song played on, but Rodolfo did not move. Neck cocked, hand clapped to it, one cowboy boot still poised to prance, he just stood there. Finally somebody cut the music and a burly stage technician helped Rodolfo into the wings. The crowd dispensed six claps, two whistles, and a muted "Woo hoo" (from Frank.)
Later, at home, Frank let Rodolfo eat all of his Lucky Charms. Then he made him a cold compress for his neck and helped him to bed. As Frank stood in his bedroom doorway to say good night, Rodolfo looked up at him plaintively, burped softly, and asked, "But wasn't I good up until then?"
Frank swallowed hard, considered the six months left on their lease, and lied.
Fingers
By Bradley Paul Valentine
Rumor had it that to sleep with this woman all you had to do was cut off one of your fingers and give it to her. I heard several different stories from the different guys on the crew I'd been paired with on the various nights I worked on the riot squad after the gas shortages. Being new, "the rookie," I figured they were putting me on. But over the period of a month the stories continued. I didn't believe them. Aside from being outrageous, all of the men had all of their fingers or else they would have been cut from the squad as being disabled. Regardless, every man on the crew stood by his claim, citing without hesitation or elaboration their "reliable sources."
The girl in question worked at this little cafe that stayed open every night until 2 AM. We never saw her anywhere else but standing against this very ugly wall smoking cigarettes as we patrolled the area. She was there on my first night on the job all the way to the end of my four-month stint. The tales went on about those men who because of this girl supposedly were walking the city short of a finger or two or several more. I could not imagine it.
The men who slept with her, as the stories went, told of how she would take their severed finger and hold it in her hand as she lead them through the cafe to the back room where there was a bare mattress. They told of how when she took off her shirt underneath would be a loose necklace of the finger bones of all the men she had slept with. But it didn't matter to these men who'd been pushed past the point of desperation by their desire for her. Normally indifferent to the men, never tempted without her fee, she would supposedly commit to the sex acts with an intensity that would make them forget about their severed finger sitting on a crate by the mattress.
Finally I made up my mind to meet her. I found her out by the wall of the cafe, cigarette in hand as usual. Seeing her up close, I understood why the men would talk about her. She was very pretty standing against that ugly wall. I felt immediately embarrassed, brought back from the mist of unreality that sets in after many sleepless nights with the men and their tales. Of course they were just wild stories, I thought.
"Aren't you going to ask me why I want their fingers?" she asked me.
I did not say anything. I could see my partner across the street in the cab of the truck laughing hysterically, trying to hide his face.
"I'll tell you," she went on casually.
I turned back to her.
"But that comes with a price, too."
I thought that she must have been joking even though she looked at me, not smiling, deadly serious.
Feng Shui By Rubber John
Ideally you should get someone in that knows what they're talking about - someone with experience. Perhaps even pay them to sort it all out for you. Ideally.
What you do is clear everything out before you start so that you can assess the space, the shape and size and then decorate - make it clean and fresh. Make it new.
I've done OK on my own, I think. It feels good.
The Qi (Chi) now flows freely from the windows of my third storey flat, carried by the restless wind from the south. This is said to bring luck.
It circulates around the living room, through to the kitchen area, my bedroom and the bathroom- all of which I have painted in a smooth, white paint.
White gives the impression of space and has a calming energy, along with cool colours such as blue. I have included tiny proportions of these colours in the décor for the bathroom.
Some of the furniture was already appropriate, like the sofa and chairs. These are now set in places that allow the energy to travel more freely. The table, however, along with some other items had to be replaced. The colours were all wrong and totally upset the harmony of the room.
I bought two new tables- a circular glass coffee table for the centre of the living room and a smaller bedside table for my bedroom.
I also threw out lots of junk, including a set of drawers and a couple of stools that I never used, but I decided to add a few more plants as I don't get out much besides work and my complexion could do with the oxygen.
Mugs and cups were replaced. So was my entire cutlery set.
My posters have been relegated to two walls only. Miss Saigon is hung on the wall to the left of the kitchen - Cats and Les Miz on the opposing wall.
I have placed my meditation mat where the Qi is at its pinnacle, and where I purposefully left a sizeable space free of furniture. This spot also allows a generous view out of the window and across the town's sky, but at the same time completely eclipses the Ruben scum down below that drink and scorn their way through their moral free existences.
My coats and hats will be stored along with all of my other clothes and shoes in various compartments in the new wardrobe that I bought for my bedroom.
Books, films and music will be kept packed and out of the way with the stereo system near the sofa and the skulls will be put in order on one of the shelves in the kitchen.
I will have to remove Rachel's body from the bath tub. I could skin her, then put all of her organs in polythene bags and put them in the freezer. Unfortunately though, there isn't enough room for her head in the fridge, what with Penny's head and those hands from that woman I can't remember the name of, but I could keep her complete skeleton in my bed for a while until I figure out if it works well enough with the current scheme of the flat.
Those Yin-Yang coasters I bought can go anywhere really. I'll leave a couple in the living room, a couple in the kitchen and one in the bedroom.
I'm not sure about the curtains though. They might have to go.
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5:44 PM
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