Fusty Psychosis

There isn't much to say about this post, and it's not a case of it is what it is but, rather, it is what it never was because it's now a Psychedelic Kimchi post, which renders it impervious to any (and all) criticism and expectations for explanation!.*


“This is a bad idea. Fuck this, okay?”

Non always says things like that at times like these but I’m not one to listen. College is a bore and I’ve got to do something to take my mind off that chore. He looks at me with puppy-dog eyes and waits for Steph to chime in with support, but Steph sits in the back of the Camaro, silence her rapport. Can’t help but smile, don’t want to grin, but degenerate sin is alluring, far from vile. “Stay here then,” I say, “and pretend there’s no evil to taint me.”

Cruising the avenue on Friday night isn’t so bad, you just need to know which adventures you wish to have. Stay in one place for too long, the police are bound to arrive and flash a badge. The crotch-rocket gangs have nothing to fear because they just like to revel in their shiny new gear. The cops never hassle them, no matter what the proposed offense; the police work solely for the pleasure of those kids’ priviliged-class parents. As for the rest of us, we grow accustomed to the avenue’s secret: get away with all that you can score, keep rolling to avoid tasting the concrete floor.

I stand beside Josh “Meathook” Schumacher, discussing the rising price of Hershey bars, smooth and sweet. You don’t call him “Meathook” to his rugged face, but when he leans over and his studded leather jacket slides open, even a stupid girl like me can easily spot the trademark motivational device of this sidewalk employee. I hear stories of this wacky guy, brandishing the sharpened hook, making polite inquiries such as “Where’s my money, bitch?” while some woman goes pale and begs for clemency. I’m sure that it could happen but not to me; I always pay the price up front, and thus enjoy being home free.

Crotch-rocket boys, youthful pillars of a future society? Yes, they’ve also got what I crave, but their price far outweighs the need, supposedly. Twisting the tassels of my pullover between their manicured fingers, they propose that money “means nothing to me, how about you take a ride on the rocket and you’ll get the dust for free”. Another fancy boy will shout “zoom zoom!” and they all burst into laughter, so full of guiltless glee. I’ve learned to decline with ease but always wonder, where are all the classy debutantes while these boys practice the art of sleaze? Oh yeah, they’re collecting at some swanky party, content to let their men pillage whomever they please.

So I deal with the Meathook and he deals with me. Sharing a similar plight, we just like to do whatever we need to ease our decrepit flight. Buying Hershey’s chocolate is scarcely a free-for-all. I still pay his price for what I want; bullshit aside, it’s an eightball.

You keep moving as I said before, so we race to the nearest convenience store. Clerks hate hooligans so they gawk and leer but sure as hell don’t complain when my trio clutters the counter with plenty of Cheetos and cheap beer. It’s never a night for fine wine, thus we settle for a case of Bud Light. “Cash or charge?” the old man screams, and I say “Cash, my good man” as I throw down a twenty, the raw anticipation causing my eyes to gleam. “Hop in and let’s go” Non suggests, and he’s on to something good; there’s a party afoot and we’re a sizable portion of that syndicated show.

We glide down the Ave. and from the back seat Steph shouts to greet all the guys she’d like to have. It would be easier if she occupied the passenger seat I suppose, and she’s my friend, we know, but the front seat is for me, not the ho. We get passed by a cherry Corvette. Non wants one, but as for me, I’m content to savor the taste of a dainty menthol cigarette. Down the interstate we fly. I’m glad that life is, similarly, passing me by. On Blairs Ferry I smile because I’m quite merry but not for the reason Non may think. I’m just wondering how cool it would be to snort a line while residing within a Jesuit monastery. I should be disappointed with this lyrical flow, but then again, I lost my sense of rhythm a lifetime ago.

We show up at Will’s place, and rambunctious Tom Waller is the first visage I face. Standing outside the house, his mouth spews “Indian coming through” because he craves the verbal joust. Such abrasive demeanor suits his customary red locks, going hand-in-hand with the abusive masquerade which is his method of small talk. Wild as the Hawaiian shirts he loves to wear, this intoxicated bastard makes haphazard statements without the slightest tact or care. I’m lucky though; I’m not often a welcome sight for the white eye but when I sit down my thighs don’t touch, which means that he doesn’t exhibit scorn toward me all too much. One thing is for sure, Steph has been hearing stories regarding the monumental size of his cock. Exaggerated tales or not I’m happily uncertain, but if Tom puts the moves on her I’ll refrain from attempting any sort of block.

A cohesive crew we‘re not and I’m quite leery regarding the precise composition of this leonine bunch. Pomp is the hymn of our collective roar but even a dainty hand, if raised, effortlessly disrupts our bliss; we readily cower before the might of a satin fist. Case in point? Doesn’t matter who is present or who gets pissed, I came to snort a couple lines, and then a few more. To any soul which dare voice dissent, I simply remind them of their own folly, neatly packaged as a bulging, smoking joint.

Chop it up...
Will harbors vice times three: Bear, Bitch, and Moan. As usual, he likes to direct it toward silly, little me. “Hey, I don’t want to be an ass” he begins, trying to save face, “but Sunday my parents are getting back, and,” pausing to guzzle beer, hoping it will quench the creeping fear of self-induced disgrace, “I don’t think they will be happy if they discover somebody’s been in their house, doing crack.” He and Non make a complimentary pair, the latter quite skinny, the former quite fat, both good-natured yet incredibly naive. I’m not vindictive, but Will speaks in error and, therefore, I enlighten him regarding that. I wink and I smile in response, content with my lackluster wit and putrescent guile. “Tis no crack, Will, so worry not. Better yet, I won’t smoke it, so your house won’t reek of pot.” Drunk as can be, he doesn’t argue with that and leaves me alone to rot. I’ll be something in a minute; I don’t know if I am wretchedly ensnared or gloriously free, but nonetheless I’m something within that encroaching moment, something inching ever closer to me
... and break me down.

Snap-crackle-pop! The world implodes and my nose decides to bleed. I’m not a slick jockey. I’m the galloping, dying steed. A tissue may stop the crimson flow, but why halt the taste which restores putrid flesh to life? Day, night -who gives a rat’s ass where and when I am - the fact is that wherever I’m going, I’m eager to go.

Voices surround my wayward mind and what I latch on to is this: “Shit, Will,” Tom snarls, beginning his ‘dis’, “your mom heard how big my dick is and she came up to me, straight-up begging for my phone number.” Everyone enters into acute silence, eager to hear just how this will pan out, and we wait not long. “But I said ‘Damn, chill baby. Forget my digits, just get down on your chubby knees and suck on this lumber.’” We smile and giggle as the firebrand points to his crotch, whereas Will prefers to cringe and wiggle. “Shit bitch!” Will constructs his retort via pure reflex, “My mom doesn’t want a piece of that genetic defect.” My decimated nose lessens its vermilion rain and I want to compliment Will’s reaction even though I am vaguely aware that it will provide no personal gain. “Funny guy, Tom, but the Slim Jim is going out of style, thank god.” He sips cold beer for a short while but that just means he’s rummaging through his devious mind for the best way to poke and prod. The twinkle in his eyes suggests that to such end his heart pleats and that my psyche is the victim he yearns to savagely beat. Fuck, do I need another line? Have to be careful though, my brain’s already entwined and barreling toward a steep incline. Need to stay cozy and plush, delay the rush because I’m the toilet that Tom’s looking to flush.

“Hey Megan. Megan. Lately I’ve been looking for something, but I don’t know where to begin.” I feel a rush now and I want to grimace at the forthcoming onslaught but all I can do is flash a flimsy grin. “What’s that, Tommy” I manage, disturbingly eager to give the sadist the signal for go, lounging between anticipation and mirrored snow. “Not sure how to say it, but it roams along the grassy plains and isn’t exactly tame.” He sets his beer down upon the coffee table, insidiously keen to explain. “You know, help me out here. I know it’s not a deer.” Oh yeah I see where this is going. The trick to Tom’s pathetic magic is that it often goes a faint step beyond annoying. “What do you call them?” He intentionally wavers, intent upon performance that packs a supposed punch. Deep inside I feel my emotions crunch. Index fingers extended beside his massive head and he gestures at horns. “You know? Ta-tonka! Ta-tonka!” The crowd erupts in laughter, bemused by his display.

Infused with white chocolate I’m not inclined to mourn. Then again, I’m hardly one to emerge the raging storm. “Okay, dipshit. First of all, the movie was about the fucking Sioux, and-” but the front door swings open and enter Dave Long, visibly ecstatic and eager to address our quarrelsome crew. Fickle fervor flees the burning coop as I join my drunken comrades to await the breaking news.

“Dude!” he exclaims, arms swaying to and fro. “Get out to the driveway!” The crowd needs more than enthusiastic commands to defeat beloved inertia and Steph is the first to squeak “How come?” and to this ‘Nippy’ Dave Long is visibly perturbed. “Guys, goddamn. Stevie’s outside with his pants down, holding a bottle rocket with his butt cheeks!” By this insinuation I’m not terribly tantalized, shocked, or disturbed. “Whoa,” Will chimes in, fishing for the juicy information. “Are you saying that Stevie is gonna shoot the rocket out of his ass?” Dave pounds out a “Fuck yeah” and to this Tom casts a nod unto Will accompanied by the universal, obligatory "Sweet”. Jumping to their feet, everyone rushes forth, each heart brimming with obscene jubilation. Two things are certain: Whatever we do, we just reek of class, but this time, everyone shall exclude me.

I want to feel the burning blade of ignominy searing through the idolatry of deified Shame cast to immortalize the balding eagle which plucked a fertile cherry from the timid branch. Bird of Prey is the one to blame but I’m so beaten and weak that I cannot link vicious crime to infernal name. I’m breaking apart and yet complete. I’d say life is tidy but it sure ain’t neat.

_____________________________

Dobrynya Nikitich

* Okay, just a bit of explanation. A while ago, someone had asked me to write something different or, more to the point, differently than I normally would, not so much on subject matter, per se, but rather with regard to stylistic concerns. One of the many suggestions was to go for a decidedly singsong format, and I did just that, and this was the result. Were they satiated? Partially, insomuch that it was what they requested, even if they also thought the vignette was essentially plotless, but they didn't specify the necessity of a plot, so they need to keep quiet. Do I like it? Ostensibly, no, but in consideration of why it was produced, I think it has a quaint charm. Besides, one of the other suggestions had been poetry, and fuck that.