Thursday, November 20, 2008

"When did I break up with Tallulah?"
"When," he says, "and how."
He's trying to look interested, this one. I'll give him that much. It's getting so I don't even fucking know these guys anymore. Every day another fucking guy. And when I fill up that guy, they send in another and another and fuck, how many years have I been telling this story now? Maybe five years? Or maybe I'm dead and I've been telling it over and over and over for all time. Maybe that's my Hell. To tell it to these guys who don't even care. Who have no notion of personal service. Don't these guys even care about personal service?
At least this guy tries to look interested.
"I don't know when I broke up with her man. May I have a cigarette? I can tell you how though. It was always the same man. Always the same. They'd ask me something like, what are you looking for, man? And I'd stare out the window and I'd think, I don't know, and I'd say, I don't know. And I'd smoke then like I'm smoking now, you get it?"
He nods and I blow in his face.
"Sometimes I'd say, you're fucking perfect, baby. And then I'd watch as they laid out their imperfections, list all the things that were wrong with themselves, how they'd fucking tear their skin off and expose their bleeding fucking heart just to be as fucking messed up as they saw that I was, to tell me that the whole human race was flawed, that everyone was fucked, that no one was perfect. Then I'd smoke again, see. And I'd say, well maybe that's it. Maybe I'm looking for perfection, baby, and maybe this ain't it. And I'd smoke and then I'd blow in their face and then I'd walk out and I'd never look back."
And get this. The guy in the fucking suit in the tiny white room sitting opposite me - you know what he does then?
He fucking smiles at me. We have a fucking moment, I swear to fucking God.
I see a doorway. A doorway far away, maybe over a desert on top of a cliff, over a lake of fire filled with the teeth and claws of an unknown terror - but I see a fucking doorway nonetheless, and I've got the time, nothing to do but talk, so I start walking.
"Oh man, but Tallulah, you want to hear about Tallulah?"
I ask him in a whisper, soft and secret, and the way I say it, I know he wants to. His little fucking eyes go narrow and wet while the pupils inside grow wide - just like Tallulah used to, I think. I'm real fucking funny to myself sometimes.
"I don't know man, you know what they do to me in here if I talk about fuc-"
He clicks off the recording machine. This guy is fantastic. This guy is my white fucking knight asleep on his steed while the horse blindly storms this castle I'm imprisoned in. He even leans back on his chair. Tilts it, you know? So I give it to him.
"She used to let me slap her. I don't mean all the time. I mean when we were fucking, she fucking loved it."
That's got to get him hard. Stupid fuck.
"Yeah man, I'd grab her by the fucking throat and I'd pound my cock into that bitch and slap her face and she'd be screaming, do it again, do it again, man she fucking loved it."
The guy actually clears his throat here.
I want to laugh but this is important.
"You know what she used to say...?" I could be reading from a fucking Playboy for all this guy cares. "She used to say, please may I worship your cock, Master."
"Oh yeah. And I wouldn't ask her to take her clothes off, man, I wouldn't fuck tell her, I'd fucking order her to take her clothes off. Oh god, Tallulah. You would've fucking shat, Man."
I smoke here. Slow and deliberate.
"Those fucking legs, long and white and slender and honey and they tasted like teenage dreams, baby, and they felt like the most dangerous promise, man, and she'd be laying there, squirming and aching and I'd just stare at those legs for days, for weeks, and fucking time never mattered, man, it was her fucking wet and how long I could hold it, you know? And I'd slide my hand over her knees and she'd reach for me but I'd stay just so far away and I'd push her back down if she tried to rise and I'd use my nails so gently on the smooth moon of her thighs and she'd cry and I'd sigh and lift her legs oh so high to show her behind. Before I spread her wide and slid my fingers inside and she'd die the tiny death over and over and over before I'd even taken my fucking clothes off, man."
And it's time, here, now, with his eyes glazed over as he leans over the desk and I sense the spectre of his fucking hard-on in the room with us.
"And when I let her come for my cock, oh god she used to - hey man, you got any more smokes, man? I need another smoke, man."
He looks confused. "Uh, sorry?"
"Another smoke, chief? I get to talking, you know, I get to talking, I need a fucking cigarette, helps me talk, you know?"
He's hilarious. He's squashing the empty packet and looking under his files and tapping his pockets and he says, be right back, and stands up and I almost get poked in the eye with the tent that he's pitchin' but he doesn't even know, he just opens the door and runs down the corridor towards - I don't know. Towards somewhere. Towards somewhere that is not here.
And the door slowly, slowly closes.
Almost.
And I stand there with my foot holding it open and I can feel a happening here, baby. I can feel a happening.
The door has never been open. The door is open.
I look around and there are no guards, no signs, no demons nor devils, no flames or wires or guns or tridents. Nothing. Just a corridor with a door at both ends.
I think about the poor sucker and start to laugh as I see a newspaper with the headline - Stupid Man Defeated by Dick.
And I laugh
and laugh and laugh
and laugh and laugh and run
and run and run and run and run
out the doors one by one out the doors
one by one out the doors into the fucking sun.

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