20151208

Willie Smith



POP CULTURE

                Coax a pop from the machine of mom. Flip – in the den – guzzling Dr Pepper – through channels. Nothing on. Set empty on top of the Zenith. Peel duds till I, too, have nothing on.
                Enter – sack about to pop – the master bedroom. Remove from the closet a Playboy. Repair to the can to fix a prob.
                The girls look ten years older – twice my age. Bypass the duds. Pick the foldout. Jump her off the page to pump the last drops of horn, leaving me alone at the bottom of boredom’s dry swimmingpool. Air-dogpaddle back into the closet. Replace the wrinkled slick.
                To avoid drowning in the forever till I leave home for college, graduate, find a job to hate – locate the Colt. Wander into the kitchen. Blast mom bent over a roast. Only duds, I think, but how she throws her carcass screaming over the pot, maybe not.
                Pop mom four more times, horsing with the Colt. Till the action jams; anyway bored with the action. To keep from preserving the look on my face, reach from the cupboard above the stove the Milk Duds.
                Jump, candy gone, back into my duds. Drift back downstairs. This business of being a kid, I kid you not, not fun. Wait for, sprawled on the floor before the Zenith, the return of pop, at the end of the business day, to pop the dream.



TORSO TEMPTRESS

                The moon had just begun to wax when I gave my sister fifty whacks. She kept coming after me to come to bed and there come together. So I gathered from the way she gathered up her skirts when giving me those looks. So, to keep pure, to keep clean, away I hacked, till of her remained but this bag of things over my shoulder thrown and on the basement floor a torso.
                Tossed the bag in the furnace. Interred in the deep freeze the torso, pending a later decision. Scrubbed and bleached the concrete floor. Replaced the cleansed ax in the tool shed.
                When Mom and Dad returned from their cruise through the Dardanelles and asked where had gone sister Nell? I shrugged, “Hell – am I my sister’s keeper?” eyes rolling up like curve balls of how could anybody be so stupid as to ask?
                Inquiries got made. Posters posted. Bulletins put out. The web electrified. Our parents even sprang for a detective for a few exorbitant months. Nothing – Nell had apparently sublimed into thin air.
                I assisted the police as best I could. But in the end agreed with their bureaucracy’s relegating Nell’s case to the status of cold.
                Strangely, though, as the weeks drooled into the months, nightmares nagged me to horse around with the corpse. I even conceived odd bodily swellings that I interpreted as, for lack of a better word, love.
                One moonless night I sneaked from my bedroom. Dug out from under the frozen turkey legs and beefsteaks and icy packages of blueberries and beans the torso. Stuffed her into the microwave, but she was too big that way to defrost. So tossed her into a tub of hot water, adding a few kettles of the boiling, and pretty soon she grew pretty much as fresh and flexible as she had been at our last get-together, so many months before, the last time I had seen Nell all together. I swaddled her in a bath towel. Moved down the dark hall, cradling her chest in my arms. Entered my bedroom. Left off the overhead.
                Had Nell’s advances disgusted me simply because I feared she would not hold still? People moving around unconstrained indeed do make me nervous. I looked at her propped up on the dresser, thigh stumps coyly spread, rest of her shadowed in a garnet glow from the nightlight plugged into the baseboard opposite the dresser. Well, she’d hold still now…
                I parted with a finger her nether, and only remaining, lips. Dry. The entrance slack, but distinctly lacking in the slick. Fixed that with a soup of toothpaste, Vick’s Vapo-rub, rubbing alcohol, Micatin and makeup remover. A recipe both greasy and sterile. Nobody was going to get hurt here. But… wait… forgot to ask. When you don’t first ask, there are always those who misconstrue the situation as rape.
                “Nellie,” I breathed. “Whoa, Nellie – knowing you got the hots for me, tonight I got for you good news. You wouldn’t mind? I’ll go gentle; soon’s I figure out roughly what it is here I need to do. How about I elevate the target with a pillow under those grade-A buttocks? Believe I caught you more than once admiring my own swell butt, we after all tadpoles from the same pool.”
                Withdrew the finger. Stepped out of my bathrobe. Into a hand leaped my frog. Inserted into the prepared slot the pink croaker. Into the mind leaped medico slang: the croaker referred the torso to the sawbones.
                “’Smatter,” I joked, halfway in, to put her totally at ease, “cat got your tongue?”
                Turned out humping every bit as groovy as hacking with the ax bit. Plus the climax drained my soul of anything and everything bitter.
                I cleaned her out with mouth-to-mouth. Swished around in my buccal cavity the mix of Crest, Vicks, seed, Micatin, etc.; spat it in a bucket. To make sure all whistle clean. Washed and dried her off. Repacked her in the deep freeze.

                Went on for weeks like that. Sneak Nell out of the freeze. Thaw thing in tub. Lug her back to my chamber. “Lug” hardly the word. Nell was light. Couldn’t weigh more than forty pounds, with all those ungainly legs, fumbling arms – and most of all ugly fat head – hacked off.
                Actually Nell was a looker. Another reason I knew she carried for me a torch: beautiful chicks always herd after me. I heard it on the news. Another, by the way, nice part of the dismemberment – nobody has ever heard it on the news; because it – like any junky – has never been ON the news. Ha ha.
                One other benefit to our relationship: the total absence of jealousy. Her locked away all day in the deep freeze I knew damn well she wasn’t cheating. My own chastity, of course, never in question.
                How I used to worry, her gone all day at Amazon. Where she worked as some kind of programmer or spider designer or electronic fishfudger or something. Idling about in a sea of young nerds. I feared, without me around to lust after, she might perforce lose her virginity with one of those braintrustees or headhunters or startup-blasters or whatever. And think if she had bred with one of those monsters! Fearfully would I check the hamper every month, to make sure there were stains. Another reason to keep the ax sharp. Had there ever appeared no blood, I would’ve immediately implemented Plan B, i.e., seek her that day in her cubicle and hack the slut up on the spot. Fortunately, I never spotted any lack of sloughed egg during any of those monthly inspections.
                Tragically, after just a few weeks of nightly use, Nellie began to wear out. The repeated thaws, the time spent making wild love at room temperature, the refreezings – all contributed to turning her tunnel of love to mush.
                I felt bad about her wearing out. Like she was leaving me, running away for maybe another guy. But what could I do? She was already dead…
                “Luddite!” I can hear her sneer. When she said that, back in the days when she was all together and walking around and going to work, she made me feel almost as rotten as when she was, right in the midst here of our blossoming affair, giving out.
                She didn’t really say “Luddite!” She was always quiet, modest, studious. Although that all probably smokescreen for her creepy lust for her own brother. But we grew up close, only eighteen months apart. Raised Catholic by our pure Austrian mother and our hardworking, somewhat henpecked, German-Irish father. I swear I could hear Nell think. Especially after I realized, shortly after this Christmas, that she was allowing herself to get hot for yours victimized.
                I don’t have a cell phone. Never owned a computer. I don’t even drive a car. Take the bus to work. Monroe only a forty-minute busride. Gives me time, each way, to catch up on the daydreaming.
                She thought other insults, too. But they all centered on my computer ignorance, my lack of being electronically hip, my impossibility to communicate with, due to my refusal to get an email account, or even so much as buy a simple mobile.
                Another reason I eventually got around to hacking her up. I couldn’t bear all the calumny that leaped out anytime I looked past the face into her naked mind. Inside, she had become what the textbooks might call a Circe or a witch or what’s the word… incubus!
                Obviously, that inner rottenness was now coming out even in Nellie – my pet name for Nell after the surgery. Back in the days when she was all together I would never have thought of my intellectual younger sister as anybody but Nell. That was Nell staying late after work. Nell in the corner brooding over her laptop. Nell upstairs in the john yakking jargon into her cell, mumbling algebra to herself over dinner. And that was Nell, and yet almost Nellie, on the way to becoming Nellie, giving me those looks. She affected ankle-length skirts. Her own take on nerd-fashion, I suppose. And she actually gathered up her skirts, like about to cross a mud puddle, when shooting me The Medusa, as I called those weird leers that provoked erection, i.e., turned my unit to stone.
                My frustration over Nell’s growing advances was even causing me to act out at work. I was never what you’d call lax. But in the months preceding the surgery, I had been observing myself morphing into a strict disciplinarian. Take that prisoner, I forget his name, I caught red-handed with a balloon of morphine. I confiscated the contraband. Glared at the inmate he’d hear more about this tomorrow.
                I always carry with me a small cyanide cap, in the unlikely event I should be captured during a riot and become the victim of what inmates term payback, but what the world calls torture. Maybe I stuffed the balloon in the same pocket with the cyanide, maybe that’s how. At any rate, later that afternoon, walking past the offender’s cell, the balloon must have fallen out of my pocket. Fallen where he could easily reach it.
                When the evening shift discovered him, he was blue as past-pulldate liverwurst. The autopsy indeed did turn up cyanide; but the overwhelming consensus was the smuggled-in dope had in fact been a hotshot; perhaps itself payback for some underworld faux pas the inmate had committed on the outside, prior to his arrival at our facility.
                Then there was that incident with the rats and that guy in Block 15 who suffered from a severely abnormal, not to say downright ridiculous, fear of rodents. Him I was forced to discipline due to that morning in the yard I caught him looking at me decidedly sideways. Gave me as much the creeps as the battalion of rats I locked him up with down in the hole obviously gave him. He didn’t die, though. Just learned a lesson. We all need to learn – how come God put us here on this concrete earth.
                Well, maybe I had gone a tad too far, crossed a line with a toe or two. But it wasn’t my fault. It was those looks from Nell, and the things she kept doing with her skirts; plus the thoughts. All that of course now changed. Since the surgery, and especially since the beginning of Nellie’s and my affair, I’d on the job become noticeably more easygoing.
                I’d even – like the good old days – before Nell’s infatuation manifested – lapsed back into working crossword puzzles or playing scrabble with myself. I invented solitaire scrabble and would play it at the job all day long, if it weren’t for stopping to do the daily crossword, and maybe also one or two from a book, and of course the rare interruption from the odd inmate getting out of line. But the line had so much relaxed. I even turned a blind eye of late on guys doing dope. Hell, junk was their solitaire.
                I managed to prolong the affair, and thus the Era of Good Feelings, by hitting on the idea of turning Nellie around to explore oral. She didn’t seem to mind. Recoiled not in the least when I lubricated the throat stump, held her upsidedown by the ribcage and slipped down the esophagus on through what felt like her pylorus.
                Went on like that for almost a month. Till, once again under a waxing moon, I could no longer tolerate the consistency, say nought the stink, of the mush into which her upper GI had morphed. Not that I didn’t try like hell to ignore the deterioration. Tried concentrating on scrabble, while rutting away at her gooshy fetid foodtube.
                I loved the game. Played right hand against left. I’d had over seven years of practice – working for the State – of the right hand not knowing what the left was doing. So the competition came naturally. And, just as naturally, the left refused to share info with the right. A mental trick a yogi would no doubt admire, how I could play word games inside my head, one side against the other, without ever one hand tipping to the other. No different, like I say, than how we were trained to perform the job at the State reformatory. The miracle, my own personal stroke of genius, was transferring this professional attitude to a contest inside my own skull.
                Worked like a charm. I even upped the ante by entering a third hand – my penis. Arranging and re-arranging my penis’ letters into words extended the use of Nellie’s rotting innards at least another dozen days, till nearly full moon.
                Got a bit more mileage out of her in fondling the memory, while humping, of one of the few times Nell – when she was all together and working – actually did speak to me, and she went on and on about how the Cyber Age was going at last to force the bureaucracies to resort to efficiency. Because it would become impossible for the right not to know the business of the left. Because it is the very nature of computers to share information. They talk to each other. Talk to themselves. Streamline data; or stream data; or some such techie-talk. Nell, typical of today’s nerds immersed 25 hours 8 days a week in jargon, had virtually forgotten how to speak English.
                The final night I was able to get past the mush and the pew, when the moon had waned to a predawn fingernail paring, my crutch was laughing outloud picturing the rat-eyed bureaucrats overcoming the cyber challenge by not only walling off the right from the left, but by programming in a third hand, just as I had dreamed up dealing my penis into solitaire scrabble, similar to how I kept inserting my realtime goodtime penis into the festering torso.
                When push came to shove and Nellie had utterly and irrevocably betrayed me, I rented an industrial strength grinder. Set the device up in the basement. Shoved the whole torso through. Reducing her, bones and all, to a lean and rather tempting-looking, especially after drizzling on red food coloring, sort of people burger.
                Thing made a racket to wake the dead. But I had waited till Mom and Dad were gone on yet another cruise, this time the Caribbean, and the neighbors knew better than to complain about whatever noise issuing from the home of a grim-faced armed-to-the-teeth State prison guard. The parents had actually quit-claimed the house to me, Nell so long missing and presumed dead, they elderly and each with one foot in the nursing home, not wanting any hitches when the time came to be herded through the Medicaid bureaucracy.
                Cookie was delighted to get forty pounds of fresh burger. Meant he could pocket the dough the State allocated for purchase of one entire month’s supply of ground meat. I told him it was from an elk an old Army buddy had shot. Had more than he needed. Didn’t know what to do with the surplus. His freezer chock full. Cookie gave out a smile just as even as the signature blank on an IRS form. Said nothing beyond, “Hey, thanks.” Asked, not wanting to hear any more lies, no questions.
                Numerous compliments flew back about the quality of the new burger. Like I say, it was loaded with bone meal and lean as a 25 year-old female geek could be. I prided myself on how I was improving the nutritional content of the inmates’ diet.
                Not so much out of generosity, as out of fear of what we might otherwise do to him, Cookie shared the windfall with staff. Totaled only about $300, but we guards threw a nice little party for ourselves, even invited Cookie and a few other reliable trustees. Cake and cookies for all. Plus a case of Johnny Walker Black for the drinkers. I never touch the stuff. Clouds the brain so bad the daydreams get all mixed up, can’t do the crossword, scrabble makes no sense. I appeased my sweet tooth. Exchanged a few pleasantries. Left without receiving any other benefit. Chalked the debit up to my own innate sense of generosity.
                Unfortunately, three of the boys subsequently lost their positions. Seems once plastered on the scotch, they wandered off and gangraped one of the punks in Block 13. Would have been okay; maybe they’d’ve lost a day’s pay for intoxicated on the job; nobody would’ve believed the punk’s outlandish allegations. But the kid wound up dead, and that’s never good; somebody had to pay. Ah well, as they say, no good deed ever goes unpunished.
                Myself, I seem to have settled down pretty good. Took a while to get over Nellie leaving me like that. Initially, I couldn’t even masturbate; it just wasn’t the same without her cute little hunk to coax me along. But eventually the skill returned. I don’t ride a bicycle; never owned one; but, you know what they say.



PRAY FOR PREY

                I wanna grok your socks. Stare at your dogs. Look up your dress while you mount the stairs – not a care in the world, unaware lust whirled through my blood, twisted inside the nerve, owned in a bone, arrowed through the marrow.
                I do not care about your name and address. Just wanna grok your socks, stare at the heels, peek up your dress – while you mount the stairs – whistling snatches from the wolf, praying – puckering – for a slip to flit into view, while zephyrs with your dress flirt.
                I wanna grok your socks, stare at your toes, look up your dress, while you archly mount the stairs, and I pray – with the rest of the heels – whistling wildeyed through the wind for prey.



Willie Smith videos can be found at YouTube
 
 
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