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BELLEVUE MENTAL HOSPITAL is a visual time dash through the distorted memory banks of Auggie Joust who voluntarily sequesters his miserable self into a psychotic narcotic prison in the year 2005. Placed under the suspicious supervision of Dr. Vic Himmerick, the boy finds his muse, looses his marbles and documents the hedonistic behavior of every slutty hipster that penetrated the evil heart of the Capitol Hill cool scene through 2007 in Seattle America. This 150-page, 23,000 word novella was written by Jason Anfinsen, author of the books Juke All Over Your Face & Stab At Sleep, which "read like the brain thinks" according to Tastes Like Chicken.
Bellevue Mental Hospital
JA003
$12
shipping included
Check / Money Order
Jason Anfinsen / / / 1521 Bellevue Avenue. #101. Seattle WA 98122
CHIZZLE RHODES | 8
BEAST FISTER.
I had horns waggled, yes horns waggled, the fire spewing blow dart Charlabell Tint and convinced her to deliver a hefty slap of payback to that puke package Chizzle Rhodes. While I was here drift listening to Radiohead, Tint sat in Himmerick's official hospital van. Old blue number with running boards on the side. A classic. Here comes Chizzle Rhodes, the cold sore on the mouth of Capitol Hill. God should have never allowed him to be birthed into this life. Let's hope his children are denied the chance. Two of the smelliest scene killing bodies in this body-killing scene made out in that classic van for thirteen minutes until the window on the passenger side lowered, releasing a carefree snake of erogenous heat.
"Baby I missed you like shit," Rhodes told Tint.
"That doesn't please me in the least."
"Maybe this gift will." Rhodes reached back into the seat of his Jordache jeans and pulled something out.
"Take it Tint!"
"I don-wan-nah."
"You gotta. It's a piece of the Berlin Wall."
Tint's face folded backwards in. "Was that why they deported you?" she asked.
"Which dingle-dick narc'd my shit?"
"Neighbor Wes."
"That weasel can go suck a seamen shake."
"You leave me in this gorkin palace and bring me back an ass rock? Did you think that I would enjoy a foreign stone smeared with crap? Did you honestly shove that up your bum and then be so dumb to get your dumb-bum busted?"
"Its not like that honey. I got superfucked on tour. One night I drank gasoline. Shit was out of control. But I fled those flingflarken times to bring you this piece of history."
"This is a shitty brick."
"Baby I've loved you from the moment I first loved you."
"Oh please you arrogant twerp. Now is NOT the time to sing me to death with one of your puke songs!"
Chizzle's face burned red under the brim of his officially licensed Chicago White Sox cap.
"You no good stupid turd. I can't stand to see the sight of you any longer. We're history!" Charlabell screamed.
"You," he says with a heavy amazement, "are breaking up with Chizzle Rhodes?"
"Ugh. You are such a root canal."
"The Chizzle Rhodes? I mean baby, seriously, you wanna break it off with the volcano cock of Cap Hill?"
"Why don't you sell this rock on the internet, you dim superstar, and then get that face of yours fixed!"
Chizzle grabs a bottle that lay lifeless on the curb as those two ghouls began to fly around the parking lot, like maracas twirling in a wind of violence. Tiny giggles of joy escaped from my mouth as I sat ringside, wishing for the death of someone, anyone but me. Sound crawled out of the cracks between the fingers of tight hands which desperately attempted to sound proof my audio excitement from touching the wicked sky.
"You want to dance Tint? Let's dance," Chizzle said. He wrestled his way across the body of his fiancé, tearing her already torn clothes to shreds, then tossing her into a green metal dumpster, jumping in for a taste of blood, all this while miraculously keeping his baseball cap in perfect poser position.
"I know about you and the scene's most favorite plow."
"Which one, who?" asked Rhodes. What a hang nail he was, and probably still is.
"All of them you slut," Tint blared in a voice that glowed fluorescent terror. Her eyes snarled a blazen furor. "I bet that your dick has worldwide Aids," she scoured, "and I hope for the sake of what's left of earth's cruel humanity that you suffer immensely and die slowly."
Himmerick once told me "even backwash trash basket babies have feelings just like us normal people." Chizzle Rhodes was no exception. Kid cocked back and crashed the bottle against the cold trashcan. Drops of glass rained down on the Seattle night. Tint shrieked with bedazzled fear as the scarred screamer of Beast Fister stabbed a shard through Tint's left wrist. Loud cries faded fast as that no good Rhodes pulled the flap of the dumpster down. Two zombie britches killing or copulating, whatever the difference may be. Lightning from the bang of Charlabell Tint's voice struck the jaws of the filth monster with pulsating immediacy, causing the flap to flip open, allowing the box to spit out more of Tint's orgasmic howl. Rhodes wore smears of blood across his evil mouth. In his palm now rested the former hand of Charlabell Tint. Ring still attached as glorious red spray like old faithful.
"I told you baby, that this bling was an us ring. And without us, ding-a-ling, there's no such thing."
"You deviant asshole," she yelled.
"Deviant asshole, deviant asshole," echoed Boise. The unpleasant mascot had flown onto the good behavior patio for a bath in the moon light.
"Shut the fuck up Boise, you stupid turkey."
For once I agreed with Chizzle Rhodes. Charlabell Tint began to kick and punch with every last ounce of hate. Hate hurts. Rhodes was in a world of hurt. He hated it.
"I told you Chizzle," she said. "Never to fall for her."
"Her, who?"
"That, that, that Arwinne!"
"Look señorita," I heard Chizzle say. "Are you humanly capable of measuring the explosion that occurs when voices in any language combine the words Beast and Fister?"
"You motherfucker," Charlabell yelled. "I'm going to slash your sack apart and gnaw your balls off one by bloody one you, you, anti-repopulator!"
"Baby. Oh, baby, you can't do dat. I totes loves my balls."
"You want funny? I'll give you funny bunny. Here ya go smutty sonny, have the whole funny handful."
Charlabell Tint began mouth humping Chizzle Rhodes with her mutilated appendage. I could imagine the engagement ring slicing vital pieces of faker throat. Giant drinks of wannabe blood drifting down his faux-sophagus. Charlabell gave her former fist one last thrust which sent Chizzle's head back hard towards the ground. Himmerick quickly ruins our panties like a period.
"Well well well," he sneered. "Who would like to explain tonight's carnage?"
"Beat it shit stain," Chizzle groaned. His voice sounded worse now than it did before. Some accomplishment.
"My old lady and I having a lovers quarrel," he tells Himmerick, coughing globs of pink into his red hand. Himmerick pulls out an orange plastic canister of scrumptious white pills. The man who wished to be called 'doctor' shook the medicine like a tambourine. Tint dying on the ground bleeding, Boise scratching his button eyes with those claw feet, I nearly rubbed one out watching Chizzle Rhodes freak the fuck out and down into the adverse reaction of coming off Nepolathine, the 'Hop-Skippity-Scap.' His wanting body jumps and wiggles without concern for safety or approval in the withdrawal dance of dire necessity. Heavy sickness. Himmerick pulls out a long rod that sent waves of electricity into the spazzy puss of Chizzle Rhodes.
"Goddamn this ghoul scene," Tint screamed.
"Ghoul scene. Ghoul scene," echoed Boise.
Himmerick laughed that high pitched curdle. His behavior became fatally bonkers. His lack of remorse gave proof that he also lacked authentic medical degrees. This imposter heed and hawed that high pitched curdle. Boise cock-a-doodle-dooed. Tint verbally rioted at the full moon as Himmerick, the hospital's chief tormentor shocked the burlesque dancer with the zapper. She lasted seven seconds longer than Rhodes, that fart. He was now worth less than a super saver Beast Fister disc. Boise swooped in and snatched Tint's old hand with the ring still attached and gave it to Dr. Vic Himmerick. "Oh Boise," Himmerick said as he took the hand, and with his dastardly pet perched atop his hunching shoulder, flaunted it directly in the pusillaminous gazes of enraptured patients, cheering and whistling and clapping with hallucinatory servitude inside the theater of his manic mind.
NEIGHBOR WES | 9
MAKE THOSE CLOWNS BLEED.
"Bellevue Mental Hospital is spray painted all over our jerseys which means we're mental patients and players for life. Wouldn't you say, sweet-tush?"
"Ah yes," the blond lamb smiled as she pawed our file amongst the stack. "Neighbor Wes and you must be…"
"Auggie Joust," I smiled as if I had already won the game. "I'm the reason your heart just stopped."
"Ooh," she said. "Here is your Frisbee and your masks. Best of luck."
My fingers deliberately stroked her soft hands when she gave us our goods.
"Luck? I just hit the jackpot," I told her with a wink.
"I call bullshit Rosie." Wes said. "What masks are you talking about?"
"Get with it creep," the hotness said to Wes.
"I realize that I like it kinky on the regular," Wes said. "But this face don't wear masks. My man Auggie don't either. Good god baby you are too damn gorgeous to be telling me to wear a mask," Wes said, "especially if you're not going to let me get my dinkle damp."
"Don't worry about him," I assured the blond lamb. "He's kurrazzee," I motioned towards this Rosie, knowing she would boomerang back someday soon.
Neighbor Wes and Auggie Joust entered the amateur toss off at the 2006 Seattle Festival of Frisbees Festival.
"You can at least take off your wool coat."
"Black is cooler than the heat," Wes says.
We chose to toss off in the greener patches near the far entrance of Cal Anderson Park. Behind the waterfall, in the indistinct distance, Himmerick stood with a boy. The two of them were close and careful. Himmerick gently patted kiddo on the back as them two faded away.
The strangers in masks with Frisbees kept me well paranoid. A ribald voice echoed from the nose of a bullhorn.
"Ladies and gentlemen welcome to the 2006 Seattle Festival of Frisbees Festival."
Every clown with a Frisbee chanted 'sfoff' 'sfoff' 'sfoff'. Their collective Frisbee thrust caused the sky to resemble a snapshot of alien rush hour.
"Today you are a part of history Seattle. 2006 has set a record for having over 200 tossers."
That lame line got a friendly chuckle from only the mouth of its messenger. Everyone else was silent and psychotic as we sizzled in masks under the sun's relentless rays.
"Hello Capitol Hill cools. My name is Gavin Speckles, this city's newest and District Attorney and this year's Frisbee Festival mayor."
"Where's your faggy sash?"
"Can it clown," Speckles said.
Wes pulled out a hell of a joint as I dug for fire.
"Did you snake my black lighter?" I asked.
"No, I bought my own," Wes said.
"If you knew that I already had one, then why the hell would you buy another black lighter?"
"So I would know exactly when you snaked mine."
"The first rule of today's competition," Speckles announced through a wrinkly voice which leaked slowly out of his ass mouth, "is that every participant must wear their mask at all times."
Wes took off his mask to light the joint.
"Rule number two," Speckles continued.
"Kiddo took off his mask yo," shouted some clown.
"Eject them bozos," another clown yelled.
"Make those clowns bleed."
It was clown mutiny.
Cloaked beneath the guise of an ordinary circus clown, I pummeled through the mass of Frisbee wielding contestants like the flash of porn that first burnt your eyes. My feet shot me around the nation of replicating grimaces like a punk rock circle pit. Fierce face sneer glistened with manic velocity as I flipped the laughing gas masked maniacs off with two crooked fingers. Oi oi oi. The boy put the hard back in core, so much so, that I even lost my best shoe.
"Throw the bodies of those guilty clowns to the wolf pack public!" Speckles commanded. He was a justice addict.
Himmerick came strutting through the Frisbee assault and grabbed Neighbor Wes by the ear, committing a yank crime.
"I didn't even do anything this time," Wes screamed.
BEARCLAW and TOI | 10
BRAIN SPLATTER.
I awoke in a sweat of freeze. My dumpling body was badly in need of Pacific Northwest weed. I put on my flops and hopped down that troublesome hall. Knocked on studio cell 107. Neighbor Wes appeared wearing a mask like a dream I once had.
"Merry Christmas Satan."
"Nice face," I said.
"No no," he tells me, "its only a mask."
Wes erases the clown smile to reveal a bandaged patch of Cauliflower ear.
"Lets cop some medicinal cough medicine."
Fall afternoon like ice. Frozen breath showed signs that I was still alive. Soft hands rubbed in warm pockets of the vintage green sweater. Brown corduroy bucket hat swung low over baby blues. Scruffball. Wes makes a cellular call.
"I thought you said weed dude's down the hall?"
"Doiy," Wes said. "He's crazy, remember?"
Neighbor Wes was the fuckjaw of the street circuit.
"Dude wants some groceries," Wes tells Bearclaw, "and he looks weird too. Yes, totally, its absolutely that new kiddo yo."
There was laughter like when foreigners make fun of you in a language you wished you could understand only to justify the ensuing violence.
At studio cell 103 in the Bellevue Mental Hospital, Bearclaw the baby face mary pusher says "fo sho" as he opens the door. Youngin hit me hard with a kooky hand slap knuckle tap that I reciprocated rather nicely if you really must know.
Inside eye spy a lot full of graveyard ashtrays, zip lock bags stuffed with stank fluff, youth in the room reeked like a nursery of stoned stillborns. In a shirt that says "Bellevue Mental Hospital," Bearclaw's girlie Toi plays Connect Four.
"I'm so fucking great at Connect Four," Neighbor Wes declares.
He squats down next to the stickly girl, with knees bent under bulky purple UW sweats, and says that "any patient who dares to challenge him is stupid before they even know it."
My man Wes got friendly with Toi, as me Auggie, stepped into the office of Bearclaw. The kitchen.
"What'll it be pops?" he says, sizing up my vintage garb.
"Tell me about today's specials."
"This right here, this slamma-jamma, is from deep in the Bahamas. They call this Brain Splatter," Bearclaw said.
"I'd like one order of Brain Splatter please."
"Check this cat out," Bearclaw says to Toi. "Kiddo's wise cracking like us youngins. My man's a real funny bunny."
His hands were sinking into a blue coffee jar with a side handle where a light wooden spoon called home. Stash pot.
"Alright funny bunny. I gotta snatch $150 for this herr."
"OK," I say, "gimme a total of three bags of fifty."
"Fo sho?" the prepubescent boy asks me.
"Absolutely fo sho," I grinned, adjusting my bucket hat.
"Oh snap," says Bearclaw in a frenzy. "I need my calcs."
This tubby child with chunks of dirt on his upper lip like he went to the good behavior patio and rubbed crud all over, reached for his cell phone to add up the sale. No one likes a transaction scene.
"Motherfucker always uses that celly/calc," says Toi. "Its so purposeful for all of his entrepreneurial needs. Earlier I saw my baby Bearclaw scratch his balls with it."
"Which color am I again?" Wes asked Toi, not paying any attention to anyone else's lives, as usual. He and Toi had been desperately battling to connect four.
"You are the red," Toi said, blowing her sticky lemon nail polish dry while filling her chewing gum bubble with air. What a talent. Bearclaw was scientifically measuring pillows of primo, artistically arranging my sack.
"What kind of freakout scale is that?" I asked.
"This calibrator here is a rare one that kiddos can cop anywheres," he says, "like New York or Tijuana, but this tight soldier right herr, my bizzle brazzle way out weigh out, was copped in the Soviet Union of Russia, my amigo."
"There are literally hundreds of things wrong with what you just said," I inform the cracked out adolescent.
"Tell me about it," Toi shouted. "Kiddo thinks he knows everything about shit. And by looking at both of us, ain't it most obvious who is more righter?"
"That kid's the writer," Neighbor Wes said.
"Be quiet when businessmen are speaking," Bearclaw told his woman. He seemed on the edge. A place we knew well.
"I'm just saying is all," Toi huffed at her man, spitting her white gob of chewing gum at him, as that barely legal boy Bearclaw hands me a healthy bag of funky flammables.
"Here you go sergeant. Weighs out perfect, plus a lil lil."
"That's such a great weight," I wink and nod at him like rappers do on black entertainment television.
"Fo sho."
"Why did you go do that for?" Toi shouted.
Neighbor Wes tripped the eject button on Connect Four, causing all of the plastic pieces to fall onto the floor. Toi's skeletal frame was ecstatic.
"One of us has to be a winner, you mongrel."
"I'm the winner, I was red. Red is the new blood," Wes starts in. "Do you honestly think any loser is even worth my dying love?" shouts Wes.
"All of the girls love the winner me, they play my game. You know it, Himmerick knows it, its well known. Did you also know that I can smell pussy three states away? My beak speaks to them. I live to sniff Labia lips and punish vaginas."
No one knew what had gotten into Neighbor Wes. We awaited his next move in cautious silence. Wes wheezed into a quiet fall on the floor.
"Here you go Bearclaw," I said wrapping up the sale. "One hundred and fifty real American dollars."
"Watcha mean real?" Bearclaw said.
Toi gave a look as if ready to strike.
"No fakers in the bunch," I smiled real big like after a bowel movement the morning after a wild night of booze.
Bearclaw snatches the bills from my hand like a salmon in the stream. Kiddo wraps a rubbed band, that he had on his hand, around the wad of cash, and flings into a wooden box decorated with Dia De Los Muertos celebratory scare flare.
"Fo sho," he says to me, knuckle tapping, hand slapping, back smacking goodbye, each with an eye locked on one another, as I dragged the heap of Neighbor Wes out of the after school drug store.
DJ CRISCO SANCHEZ | 11
FOREIGN WORD, Y'HEARD?
"This is definitely the best thing I'm going to see all day," said Neighbor Wes, exhaling his boom blast of whipped nitrous. He franticly pulls the resting blinds, introducing us to a blistering jab of a.m. luminescence. No coffee in sight. Head twisted right to find some lunatic performing the Hop Skippity Scap. This kiddo kicked it royal with class, like he had done the Combustible Huxtable before.
"That's how them cucarachas do," Wes says.
"Them, who?"
Crisco Sanchez was the foreign exchange patient who immigrated from Mexico and had been in and out of seven distinct psycho spots. Latino kiddo was known for being off his dose of dailies and on as the scene's best deaf DJ. The Crisco kid scuffed spirits off the urine soaked walkway like history's most uncontrollable octopus. Chicano boy apparently suffered defeat from the sucker punch sky. Our senseless friend was enthralled with his invisible nemesis, struggling for victory against a nonexistent opponent, until a real one appeared. You know the assailant as Dr. Vic Himmerick, who recently clubbed Crisco Sanchez on the cranium with what we used to call a 'ghetto box.'
"Holy wow," Wes screamed, thirsty for south of the border red. "Himmerick knocked out Sanchez, dios mio!" Neighbor Wes was running down that disgusting hall. "Himmerick knocked out Sanchez you sluts. Suck it up!"
Crisco Sanchez was now dressed from his thick hair to those tight jeans in ethnic blood. The sidewalk sported a fresh puddle of spicy head splash. Unconscious Sanchez mumbled tremendous threats of indistinguishable pain. The mighty stereo smash courtesy of the good doctor destroyed this poor victim's difficult language. Sanchez was deported back to his homeland of dreamland right there on the curb.
"There goes another one," said Neighbor Wes.
LONNIE STRUDEL | 12
BOOBY TRAPS.
In the middle of the dark night on Capitol Hill is when all of the prime time kiddos rocked it down. This particular night was quite cool, as was I. Eyes witnessed the heartless beasts in action. Their warped faces snickered with grime. Oh how I dreamt for them to slit my throat and gouge on my flesh.
Up Pike Street I came across a spot called Northwest Actors Studio. There was a lame attempt at a poster in a case full of faded bulbs. A sure sign of the talent showcased within. Booby Traps was written in dark pencil on white notebook paper, really, really gay. The date was tonight and the time was right so I went inside believing the evening was destined for evil. I was only half right. Room was stuffy with couches and me crouching back in the fourth or fifth row. The curtain opened to reveal the delectable sight of Lonnie Strudel, that cunt. It was simply embarrassing, his failed effort at a genuine black box theatrical. If that scummy bastard would have printed programs I could have zipped through his stage career, but no, he refused to conform. Never did anything on the norm, that Lonnie.
So this Strudel, who had been known throughout the underground for being his own world of weird, started the show with a monologue and I admit, he had it.
I fainted onto the light gust of cool that was his voice. I begged deeply for that mouth to hum on me. He was speaking and I was listening to the deafening sound of male venom.
That night Seattle America was turned on by the candor of Lonnie Strudel, as he charismatically banged back his past stack of found footage rewound for an audience of me. There was one more person, cackling like mad at lines that weren't yet uttered, whose grisly profile could not be properly identified, lurking in the back of the house. God bless the back of the house.
That unforgettable night I witnessed Lonnie Strudel, body covered in marshmallow spread, admit the gruesome secret of being molested by a county public defender. He went into detail about suckle fucking bareback trucking the shoot of pooper Gavin Speckles. Strudel slanted the incident towards statutory rape, and provided the delighted jury with more than enough evidence to forever find that Speckles guilty. Young Lonnie was just a juvenile, at the time.
Strudel cleaned the filthy beans he spilled on Speckles by writhing on the floor, snarling and grinding, until he dialed the cell number of a soon to be ex-girlfriend.
"Rosie Santanarosa," Strudel bellowed into the receiver, "this is the last time you will ever hear my voice. You were lucky that it lasted as long as it did. Now we are the end."
Strudel stuffed the cell phone into a bag of gasoline, and with a terrifying glaze in his hooligan eyes, set fire to the cellophane bomb. Lonnie laughed like when you try to open a bag of stubborn chips real wild. Kid lifted the third floor window and proceeded to fling that shit. Himmerick came from the back of the house and rushed the stage, sedating the performance artiste during his disastrous solo showcase of lifesaving information, which ran only one night, for a total of nine minutes.
ROSIE SANTANAROSA | 13
GLOW LAKE.
Every sneeze of ink snotted into dear diary that evening was a reaction to that Lonnie Strudel. He made me work. There was a spark. I clearly understood the dying language he spoke when he came to life on stage. His iconic physique made me speak only a pulverized sigh.
The night was like any other. It was raining in the space needle. I had taken way too many drugs. Buzz buzz buzz. It was the sound of voyage skipping, page flipping, back to the minute someone was there for me.
Two girls stood at the gate.
"Its always unlocked," I smiled.
"So are my pants," the one on the left said.
It was so on.
"This way to ecstasy," I said while motioning to my studio cell 101, on the other side of their world.
"Yeah yeah yeah," that smarmy one said. "I'll come over there and stick ecstasy up your ass."
What a mouth. The other one was silently swaying like pollen trapped in a breeze. I will take them both, I thought.
"Please don't reveal that you two sophisticated beings wish to partake in the gothic antics of Neighbor Wes."
"That kid is for chumps," the mouthy one snipped.
"Your darlings mouths appear too sweet to be in the weed needs of a certain Bearclaw, am I wrong?"
"I only do drugs that I can inject," the wild one roared.
"Then I can only assume that you are the long lost lover of that silly squirt Matty Lee Roundtree?"
"Hey," the beast growled. "Why don't you go fuck your typewriter some more?"
"Oh really?"
"Yeah. Write yourself into a better bag of pig piss."
"Pig piss?"
"Pig fucking piss," she snarled.
"We're here for Lonnie Strudel," the other one said.
I almost died.
"The Lonnie Strudel?"
"Yeah Nietzsche. The Lonnie Strudel. You seen him anywheres around this creep campus?"
"All apologies my dearest, but I wasn't aware that Strudel was a patient of this hospital."
"Patient?" the tricky one laughed. "Lonnie Strudel is the goddamn mayor of this hospital."
"Sad times fair maidens. Sordid chapter of history indeed when two very fine tigers such as you cannot find the prey which they are hunting for. We all must lose, sometimes."
"You really are a jumbo fuck tart aren't you Joust?"
The unstable one began to walk towards me.
"Girlfriends, please, you so don't even know me."
This campestral kitten reached into a knapsack strapped around her acne back and pulled out the March 7, 2007 edition of the Capitol Hill Times. "You're Auggie Joust honey pie." She was waving the feature article of my face in my face. "The smutty writer that everyone's been talking about. I've got you."
"Holy shit you only got one hand."
It was Charlabell Tint, the fire-breathing sizzle stick. She walked right up to my grille. Inches of breath separated us.
"Don't worry sweets," she says. "The other hand can still chop the wang off a Chinaman."
"Just so you know, I charge $1000 per signature."
"You think you are famouser than me?"
"More famous."
"Oh you fucking new jack. Don't let a little press go to your dense head," Charlabell Tint said as a senior to my freshman, poking her elite finger, attached to the only hand she still had, against my turbid skull.
"I am the queen of this ghoul scene."
"Let's scram," the blond lamb finally said.
"Alright Joust," Tint tells me. "You're coming with us."
Back seat of a toasted almond Montecarlo. Fugazi. 43rd Street South and Madison. Suitcase of Pabst. Me and them.
"If I were to guess where you were taking me, I wouldn't imagine in a million years would I?"
"No you wouldn't," Tint said. "So zip your screwy lips or I'll staple them shut."
She wasn't kidding. There was a stapler in her hand, the only one she still had. She was sending snaps of staples into her thigh. No one could imagine why. That other girl was Drivin N' Cryin like an Atlanta band. She turned to me.
"Welcome to glow lake."
"Glow what? Wait a minute toots. Mind telling me who the hell you're supposed to be?"
"Sure thing sunshine." Girl leans back over the long vinyl seat inside that ancient Montecarlo and knocks her face against mine.
"I'm Rosie Sanatanarosa. The sweetest sugar any mouth in Seattle could ever suck."
The girl Strudel broke it off with during Booby Traps. Sure. They had come to acquire vital details from that somber slut who not only severed ties with Santanarosa on a celly, but in a public execution for all to enjoy.
Many intoxicated freakazoids rummaged along the shore. Wild dogs howled in the evening heat as animals were dying to drown in that refreshing lake.
"Crab cakes and football, clam bakes and Rophynol, that's what Maryland is all about," roared one enthusiastic sport-playing rapist amongst the flock of glassy heathens.
"Last bitch to the raft is gorkin," Rosie declared.
She ran into the wash and splashed towards the moon. Tint sat on the beach, protecting her stump from a potential soak.
My ankles sank nicely into the arctic surf. Thousands of pebbles, chipped stones, remnants of great boulders festered the sharp bottom. The thick torrent I sliced through to get to the raft, the vigilant trek I splashed across to avoid the label gorkin, was a heavy one. I chose the traditional stroke. Hand over hand, flippy little kicks, as I say, the traditional way. Somehow the raft began to move further and further away from the struggling buoy that was I. Had I really only swam four fricken feet? I kicked and grabbed more water with my extremely wrinkled hands. My feet were still touching the rocky lake floor. I hadn't even crossed the warning rope when my shivering body felt a wave of warmth.
"I just peed," smiled Rosie.
"How totally gorkin," I scoffed.
'"You are." She playfully swatted water towards my kisser before backstroking deeper into glow lake, leaving me to play the chase game.
For the next seventeen minutes I swam, finally making it to the raft, such a weak blob, that Rosie had to yank me up. The journey shouldn't have taken seventeen minutes on a goddamn pogo stick.
"You're glowing pretty spooky," I said.
"You're shinning quite pretty yourself," Rosie said, stroking my upper chest with a prune hand.
"Holy balls I'm such a slime."
Along the surface of my skin rested a gentle layer of bioluminescent film that transmitted flickering sparkles off my entire body suit, like nothing you had ever seen.
"The shitty city dumps toxic material into this lake," Rosie Santanarosa admitted with a fluorescent smile.
"We'll probably all die."
"Blimey. Are you serious?"
"I never lie," this Rosie told me. She was neon something.
"Don't be afraid Auggie. We're all chemicals."
Hanging like an illuminated pulse in the eerie night, her hand called for mine. I lifted my crappy palm and placed it inches from hers.
Together our flesh vibrated radioactive materials in our singular tantric display. It was and still is, some kind of moment.
My body felt warped as if regurgitated from the mouth of a cryogenic chamber. Tiny aneurysms crisply exploded on the synapses of my bubble brain. Explosions In The Sky, the Austin band, played encores behind my dusk heap eyes. There was damage. Permanent. I was submerged in that chem bath for only an hour, but the effects are still felt to this day. Very insignificant amounts of radiation burn into colorful existence when I drink liquor.
Our biohazard beings checked out as the sun came up on Bellevue Avenue with Charlabell Tint, Rosie Santanarosa and myself gazing down at the Capitol Hill cools as they lackadaisically began their day. Behind this window we sat.
"Can I inspect your bath?" Rosie asked.
I followed her to my wicked washroom of photo slayings mutilations hangings skeletons plagues celluloid morgue circus where a spider dangled from the ceiling.
Santanarosa leaked, wiped, then moved aside from the pot for me to piss in. I whipped it out. It was harder than not.
"Ooh look at that weenie."
"You should try it with some mustard," I said, showering out a glowing yellow stream of ankle spray.
"Why don't you try it with some blood?"
Rosie, who always seemed good and pure, creamed as if in need of an exorcism as she ripped her black and white striped skirt while jostling it down to her tattooed ankles. Olive green cotton thong slid down the back of her legs and quickly sunk to the ground.
"Please penetrate my senses senseless Auggie Joust."
"Don't tell me what to do, and fine, I'd love to."
"Thrash my flesh. Make my unworthy body bleed."
I got behind the behind of Rosie Sanatanarosa. She held the towel bar on the far wall for full support. Thrusting forward into the future of her pleasure, I reached around for that clit, found it, rubbed her raw. Slutty nutty butt fucking her body away like Lonnie Strudel never dreamed.
"Goddamnit you fuck like a Tsunami," Rosie cried.
"Tell me about it."
"Jesus Christ couldn't punch a splish hole like you on his goddamn birthday!"
Rosie and I came pretty good before Tint walked in, allowing me time to make for the shower.
"You two scream the best noise," Tint said as she stopped our motion commotion and proceeded to drop a couple of ploppers into my toilet bowl. Those young misfit slits started slurping face. It was steamy but then I saw them fine. Reminds me of the time I watched Tint suck the bomb breath of Chizzle Rhodes.
"Let's all get clean," Rosie said as she began to gently shove Charlabell under the cascade of cleansing water.
"Wait," Tint said, unwrapping the red white gauze on her blood stump which Rosie began spreading lavender lube around and around where a friendly appendage used to be, genuinely feeling for former fingers, not knowing where Charlabell's old knuckles were that night.
"Hey watch that thing," Tint said.
"Hey wash that thing," I smiled.
Rosie began to scrub suds on Tint's mutilated chest and neck. Tint was busy, one hand and all, shuffling the dickens out of my penis, like a Las Vegas card shark.
"I've always wanted to jerk off a strange writer in the one of strangest places on the planet."
Auggie Joust : granter of wishes.
"I want you to taste me," Rosie eventually said.
Her hand cupped my skull and pushed me slowly towards the towel of fur between those thighs.
"Oh my god," Santanarosa starts to scream, "Auggie Joust your tongue is going to lick my pussy to insanity."
"Better than Lonnie Strudel?"
Rosie looks down at me, and says with a smile like a nasty sliver of some midnight moon, "Lonnie Whodel?"
LONNIE STRUDEL | 14
CAME INTO MY CELL.
"How was she?" Strudel said.
"Which one, who?" I devilishly grinned.
"Rosie Santanarosa. My most favorite love!"
Strudel grabbed a long hard something. Might have been a racket, or mallet, and crashed it down hard on my left toe.
"Aw wah," I barbled.
"This is my ghoul scene," soared from the mouth of an electrified Strudel. "These pathological monstrosities live for another day of my being. I make this place feel and react like no other."
His confidence was impermeable. I couldn't look him in the eye. There was a gravity-pulling thump of fear inside. Not for my life, but for what would happen to his.
Like crackle out of order, I pop snapped. Strudel had no chance. I gave him none and leaped on top of the boy. My beard mashed his boyish good looks into a helpless slosh for me to slurp. There was animal tension. Our faces collided like rams on a mountain top fighting over the summer sun.
Two males not afraid to die.
Two boys tough enough to kill.
Two things anxious to bust each other's sack.
"If you tell anyone," Strudel said.
"Easy baby, I never tell the truth."
Strudel punched me in the mouth. With my right I socked him in the belly. Then with my left I slammed his face with a taste of Psalm Sunday. My slaps were meant to arouse, not abuse. When he came back up I grabbed him by his succulent throat and bit in. He screamed but didn't sound terrified. Lonnie Strudel took off his shirt then took off mine. He punched me in the face one more time.
"Stop fucking hitting me," I yelled.
"No one tell me what to do!"
Strudel grabbed the back of my head and with his slimy hand that bastard palmed my nog and sent it down to his choleric crotch where I slowly unzipped his fancypants and slowly pulled it out.
"I've never."
"Yeah," Strudel said. "Neither have I."
Absent of trepidation, I went for it and gagged right off.
"Are you going to barf?" he asked.
"If I do, it will be in your mouth."
"Quit stalling," he says to me. "Suck."
Strudel slapped my face and I slapped him right back. Again we did the routine. Again. There was a time when we both stopped. I slapped fast and when he tried to slap one last time, I ducked down and began to suck down.
"You bastard Auggie Joust."
With Lonnie in my mouth I clawed his thighs and savagely ripped his fancypants to the ground. Lonnie Strudel's pelvis grinded me raw. The face of sin I saw. There was only time now. He was getting closer and I was worried sick. Swallow or spit, what the fuck? Where am I? I hocked him out.
"Hey what gives?" Strudel cried.
"Shut the shit you faggot. I'm over it. This is gay."
Without hate, but well in my right, I picked up a ball peen hammer and brought it down on Lonnie Strudel's knee.
"Aw wah," he yelled.
"I'm Auggie Fucking Joust. You better ask somebody."
"I did ask somebody," Strudel said. "Himmerick read me every line in your queer catalog."
"That dirtbag!"
I almost died.
"Don't fight it Auggie. Sanatanrosa only did you to anger me. And Tint, well, she's a legendary doorknob that allows anyone with a good hand a fair turn."
"Did you really just make that pun in my studio?"
"The least you could do is finish me off," Strudel said behind a pair of desperate eyes.
"Nah," I waved. "I don-wan-nah."
"What are you afraid of Auggie?"
"That you'll fuck yourself to death Strudel."
That migraine wasn't as injured as I had thought. I sat considered giving him another pop with the bat, or was it a broomstick? Whatever. God did give him two knees, after all. I walked towards the table where a stuffed hash pipe rested nice.
"Mind if I?" I asked Strudel.
"My fucking knee," he whimpered in voice that tried like hell to constrict me into a building of guilt. But he was faking it. Everyone on Capitol Hill was too.
My black lighter evoked the hash pipe. I sucked on that no problem. While eyes shut I blithely fantasized about Lonnie Strudel ass-fucking that Arwinne Jablonski and honestly I liked it. My face felt its horny smile break apart from the crack of a fist racking against it. Pop. Strudel served me a sandwich of dirty knuckles. Flooring me to unconsciousness that sassy mess grabbed me there on the carpet. I felt him twist me over and turn me on.
Irritating steel with snuggles of pink feathers clamped my wrists tight. I was locked. Next thing I felt was a blindfold and heard the confirmation sound of a Polaroid picture. With a violent tug Strudel ripped my britches. He yanked my pants then yanked his cock. Multiple yank crimes like the San Diego band Drive Like Jehu.
"Shit!"
"Yes," Strudel said. "You're gonna get yours pushed in."
This is what I heard next: spitting.
This is what I felt next: rape.
Lonnie Strudel was inside of me, illustrating the flash cards for a storybook definition of 'rapeable.' I wanted him dead. I wanted him to never stop.
"My ass," I cried.
"Don't worry Auggie. Blood is blood."
"Can you at least use some of your faggy lube?"
With a force greater than a sacrificial Aztec slaughter, Strudel fully massacred my race.
"Maybe a little more spit," I suggested.
"Cease all speak you maggot. You are my servant now filth bowl. Enjoy these thrusts and beg for my mercy."
I could feel the blood trickle out of my ripped anus. It joined the red from my back in the sweaty hair cavern of my devastated ass crack. Strudel rammed his Lonnie into me for approximately five straight hours. I couldn't help but want to give him notes during his plow. Wished he had whispered something sweet, but he was an animal. His moves were archaic. Strudel did reach around and I liked that swell. This demented dreamer was fucking the life out of me, Auggie. Lonnie Strudel was my first. You never forget your first.
LONNIE STRUDEL | 15
JUMPER.
I was awakened by a blast of ambulance sirens as flashy lights twirled around my dark room. My bones rustled like crispy leaves when I attempted to rise. I managed to roll onto my side and scoot myself off that mattress. There was pain all around the circumference of my pooper. The shoot. My asshole was torn like two lovers.
"Precious citizens. Let this world feel the death of me. You mustn't mourn over the loss of me. My demise is a present to you my most favorite loves. Days upon us are evil and black. This event. Tonight's final bow, will spark my eternal flame in the hearts of all true beings. They will forever remember to never forget the Lonnie Strudel."
"Aren't you going to save him?" I asked Himmerick who came strolling down that wicked hallway whistling a terrible theme.
"Who says he wants to be saved?" Himmerick retorted.
"Who wants to be saved?" Boise the seagull echoed.
"Get that eagle out of here."
"Eagle? Isn't that a notorious homosexual hangout?"
"Hello Auggie."
"Hello Boise."
"Hello Auggie."
"Hello Boise."
"Hello Boise," the bird said.
"Hello Auggie," I repeated.
"See. He's talking to himself. I knew that kid was crazy."
Old Himmerick's guts were busted. He couldn't get enough and his cackle made me cringe. Boise was killing.
"Quick Joust, give Boise something to improv."
"You're a dick."
"How many feathers am I holding up," Boise asked.
"Feathers," Himmerick laughed.
"Why don't you two help save that Strudel?"
"Why don't you eat some treats?" Himmerick smiled.
"I'm not hungry at the moment."
"What's the matter Joust?" Himmerick asked real sour like the host of a prison game show. "Not up for getting high?"
Boise cheered like an announcer.
"Not up for getting high. Not up for getting high. Ladies and gentleman Auggie Joust isn't up for getting high. We have a winner."
"Look," I started to say, just as Lonnie Strudel once again wailed into the dangerous night.
"For millions of valuable seconds my rare stock has diminished in this death camp with this despicable gaggle of loons and that wretched excuse for a doctor. Is this fair? Am I not sane? Tonight I will prove to this doomed society just how capable of sanity I truly am."
The entire scofflaw community has been summoned here to tonight's gala, by this colorful caricature of genius. With both hands extended far from his majestic collection of flesh, the fragile shell of Lonnie Strudel sailed off the roof of the Bellevue Mental Hospital. My eyes never not blinked like the moment that kiddo ended his show. Snapshots went off like the fourth of July. Flashes of lights captured his expired image. Silence resonated until the record of life scratched us back to now.
"There goes another one," Himmerick sighed.
"There goes another one," screeched Boise.
"There goes the only one," I said so only I could hear.
"I sure am having fun with you tonight Auggie Joust," Himmerick said, lighting up a cigarillo.
"What a great title for a book I'll never write."
"Want to talk about anything?"
"Fake doctors?"
"Lonnie Strudel."
"Oh that venereal disease?" I had already forgotten.
"Yes him."
"That dramatic display was his artistic choice."
Himmerick scribbled.
"Have you ever considered suicide?"
"Well doiy," I said with my index finger against the temple of my head. "But gliding off the top of a loony bin to splat yourself into future history books is terribly gay."
"Who isn't?"
Shit! I knew right then that Himmerick knew about Strudel and me and our everlasting fuck fest encounter.
"Go on," Himmerick suggested.
I was silent. That stupid doctor had tricked Strudel into coming onto me and then literally coming onto me. Now old Himmy wanted me to admit my homosexual tendencies for the suicide case that died shamefully on tonight's stage.
"Fuck the dead," I smiled.
That was my out. I went to shut the door.
Himmerick stood outside of my cell and scribbled like mad on his stupid pad. "I'll be gone by the morning light," I said.
"Why do you want to leave?" Himmerick asked.
"I'm over it."
"The screwball city or dumb face kids?"
"The whole bag of nuts," I said.
"Auggie, do you like being alive?"
"I feel too comfortable in this place. It feels too easy. There is no danger. I've served my time. Now, I break out."
"How so?"
"Boredom is the brain's worst enemy."
Himmerick wrote that down word for word.
"You could never leave all of this." Himmerick waved his hand around like a wax replica of Vanna White. "All of your unsold books and poopy paintings must breathe in the air where they were created."
"You goddamn quack."
"Did you love Lonnie Strudel?"
"I only love weed and Jesus."
"Jokes aside, do you even know what love is?"
"I love just about everyone on earth, equally."
"That's baloney."
"Baloney is swept up pig parts. I am so true."
"Interesting."
"Yes I am. Unlike you. You are just a phony."
"Am I?"
"Very much so. A false version of something real."
"But you must believe that I do exist."
"This is why I must leave."
Himmerick scribbled the verbal volley on his pad. He was failing to extrapolate anything of worth.
"How real do you believe that I am?" Himmerick asked.
"You are simply a written creation in my paper dream."
"Your books?"
"My books."
"What you fail to realize young Auggie, is that unless your books, those rotten words that come from your vile brain, never make it to print, how can anything that you say happened be remembered as ever being real?"
"Bollocks!" I yelled. "My writing is my reality."
"It that makes sense in your head, then why subscribe to ferocious mood swings like some geriatric?"
"Because if I didn't have my frequent case of BUGS, the drug companies would go bankrupt."
"Care for an afternoon Nep?"
"Muchas gracias garcon, tengo mucho hambre."
I removed the wonderful pill from Himmerick's clam hand seconds before he purposely snapped it shut.
"Stop doing that."
"I'm testing your reaction time," he said.
"I'm the best."
"Matty Lee Roundtree beat you."
"I hate Matty."
"Tell me Auggie. Why do you wish to escape your wonderful new surroundings here in this Seattle America?"
"First of all, no one calls it that. Second, it's now May 2007," I reminded him. "I've served two years in this stink joint."
"Peanuts," Himmerick said. "Two years is the life expectancy for most South American rodents."
"What a useless statistic," I said.
"Then tell me Auggie. What are you?"
"I'm Auggie Joust motherfucker. So the best kid you will ever know."
Himmerick hiccupped a terrible chuckle.
"That's absurd," he said. "You appear to be bright and creative but by no means could you ever qualify as being the best kid I know. I say, your ego has more magnitude than the devastating explosion of a terrorist car bomb."
"Thanks for the boost of confidence doctor. I've always valued your professional opinion."
"Don't you realize that you neither have to leave here nor go there? Nowhere can help you. Your battle is within."
"Yeah? And who am I fighting?"
"The answer appears to be obvious to everyone but you."
Dirtbag Vic was smiling like a shit eater as he presented me with a handful of pills that I swatted out of his filthy hand. They were everywhere, all over the floor. Himmerick silently watched as I slammed the door on my final evening in the Bellevue Mental Hospital.
photograph by Heather Christianson
I had horns waggled, yes horns waggled, the fire spewing blow dart Charlabell Tint and convinced her to deliver a hefty slap of payback to that puke package Chizzle Rhodes. While I was here drift listening to Radiohead, Tint sat in Himmerick's official hospital van. Old blue number with running boards on the side. A classic. Here comes Chizzle Rhodes, the cold sore on the mouth of Capitol Hill. God should have never allowed him to be birthed into this life. Let's hope his children are denied the chance. Two of the smelliest scene killing bodies in this body-killing scene made out in that classic van for thirteen minutes until the window on the passenger side lowered, releasing a carefree snake of erogenous heat.
"Baby I missed you like shit," Rhodes told Tint.
"That doesn't please me in the least."
"Maybe this gift will." Rhodes reached back into the seat of his Jordache jeans and pulled something out.
"Take it Tint!"
"I don-wan-nah."
"You gotta. It's a piece of the Berlin Wall."
Tint's face folded backwards in. "Was that why they deported you?" she asked.
"Which dingle-dick narc'd my shit?"
"Neighbor Wes."
"That weasel can go suck a seamen shake."
"You leave me in this gorkin palace and bring me back an ass rock? Did you think that I would enjoy a foreign stone smeared with crap? Did you honestly shove that up your bum and then be so dumb to get your dumb-bum busted?"
"Its not like that honey. I got superfucked on tour. One night I drank gasoline. Shit was out of control. But I fled those flingflarken times to bring you this piece of history."
"This is a shitty brick."
"Baby I've loved you from the moment I first loved you."
"Oh please you arrogant twerp. Now is NOT the time to sing me to death with one of your puke songs!"
Chizzle's face burned red under the brim of his officially licensed Chicago White Sox cap.
"You no good stupid turd. I can't stand to see the sight of you any longer. We're history!" Charlabell screamed.
"You," he says with a heavy amazement, "are breaking up with Chizzle Rhodes?"
"Ugh. You are such a root canal."
"The Chizzle Rhodes? I mean baby, seriously, you wanna break it off with the volcano cock of Cap Hill?"
"Why don't you sell this rock on the internet, you dim superstar, and then get that face of yours fixed!"
Chizzle grabs a bottle that lay lifeless on the curb as those two ghouls began to fly around the parking lot, like maracas twirling in a wind of violence. Tiny giggles of joy escaped from my mouth as I sat ringside, wishing for the death of someone, anyone but me. Sound crawled out of the cracks between the fingers of tight hands which desperately attempted to sound proof my audio excitement from touching the wicked sky.
"You want to dance Tint? Let's dance," Chizzle said. He wrestled his way across the body of his fiancé, tearing her already torn clothes to shreds, then tossing her into a green metal dumpster, jumping in for a taste of blood, all this while miraculously keeping his baseball cap in perfect poser position.
"I know about you and the scene's most favorite plow."
"Which one, who?" asked Rhodes. What a hang nail he was, and probably still is.
"All of them you slut," Tint blared in a voice that glowed fluorescent terror. Her eyes snarled a blazen furor. "I bet that your dick has worldwide Aids," she scoured, "and I hope for the sake of what's left of earth's cruel humanity that you suffer immensely and die slowly."
Himmerick once told me "even backwash trash basket babies have feelings just like us normal people." Chizzle Rhodes was no exception. Kid cocked back and crashed the bottle against the cold trashcan. Drops of glass rained down on the Seattle night. Tint shrieked with bedazzled fear as the scarred screamer of Beast Fister stabbed a shard through Tint's left wrist. Loud cries faded fast as that no good Rhodes pulled the flap of the dumpster down. Two zombie britches killing or copulating, whatever the difference may be. Lightning from the bang of Charlabell Tint's voice struck the jaws of the filth monster with pulsating immediacy, causing the flap to flip open, allowing the box to spit out more of Tint's orgasmic howl. Rhodes wore smears of blood across his evil mouth. In his palm now rested the former hand of Charlabell Tint. Ring still attached as glorious red spray like old faithful.
"I told you baby, that this bling was an us ring. And without us, ding-a-ling, there's no such thing."
"You deviant asshole," she yelled.
"Deviant asshole, deviant asshole," echoed Boise. The unpleasant mascot had flown onto the good behavior patio for a bath in the moon light.
"Shut the fuck up Boise, you stupid turkey."
For once I agreed with Chizzle Rhodes. Charlabell Tint began to kick and punch with every last ounce of hate. Hate hurts. Rhodes was in a world of hurt. He hated it.
"I told you Chizzle," she said. "Never to fall for her."
"Her, who?"
"That, that, that Arwinne!"
"Look señorita," I heard Chizzle say. "Are you humanly capable of measuring the explosion that occurs when voices in any language combine the words Beast and Fister?"
"You motherfucker," Charlabell yelled. "I'm going to slash your sack apart and gnaw your balls off one by bloody one you, you, anti-repopulator!"
"Baby. Oh, baby, you can't do dat. I totes loves my balls."
"You want funny? I'll give you funny bunny. Here ya go smutty sonny, have the whole funny handful."
Charlabell Tint began mouth humping Chizzle Rhodes with her mutilated appendage. I could imagine the engagement ring slicing vital pieces of faker throat. Giant drinks of wannabe blood drifting down his faux-sophagus. Charlabell gave her former fist one last thrust which sent Chizzle's head back hard towards the ground. Himmerick quickly ruins our panties like a period.
"Well well well," he sneered. "Who would like to explain tonight's carnage?"
"Beat it shit stain," Chizzle groaned. His voice sounded worse now than it did before. Some accomplishment.
"My old lady and I having a lovers quarrel," he tells Himmerick, coughing globs of pink into his red hand. Himmerick pulls out an orange plastic canister of scrumptious white pills. The man who wished to be called 'doctor' shook the medicine like a tambourine. Tint dying on the ground bleeding, Boise scratching his button eyes with those claw feet, I nearly rubbed one out watching Chizzle Rhodes freak the fuck out and down into the adverse reaction of coming off Nepolathine, the 'Hop-Skippity-Scap.' His wanting body jumps and wiggles without concern for safety or approval in the withdrawal dance of dire necessity. Heavy sickness. Himmerick pulls out a long rod that sent waves of electricity into the spazzy puss of Chizzle Rhodes.
"Goddamn this ghoul scene," Tint screamed.
"Ghoul scene. Ghoul scene," echoed Boise.
Himmerick laughed that high pitched curdle. His behavior became fatally bonkers. His lack of remorse gave proof that he also lacked authentic medical degrees. This imposter heed and hawed that high pitched curdle. Boise cock-a-doodle-dooed. Tint verbally rioted at the full moon as Himmerick, the hospital's chief tormentor shocked the burlesque dancer with the zapper. She lasted seven seconds longer than Rhodes, that fart. He was now worth less than a super saver Beast Fister disc. Boise swooped in and snatched Tint's old hand with the ring still attached and gave it to Dr. Vic Himmerick. "Oh Boise," Himmerick said as he took the hand, and with his dastardly pet perched atop his hunching shoulder, flaunted it directly in the pusillaminous gazes of enraptured patients, cheering and whistling and clapping with hallucinatory servitude inside the theater of his manic mind.
NEIGHBOR WES | 9
MAKE THOSE CLOWNS BLEED.
"Bellevue Mental Hospital is spray painted all over our jerseys which means we're mental patients and players for life. Wouldn't you say, sweet-tush?"
"Ah yes," the blond lamb smiled as she pawed our file amongst the stack. "Neighbor Wes and you must be…"
"Auggie Joust," I smiled as if I had already won the game. "I'm the reason your heart just stopped."
"Ooh," she said. "Here is your Frisbee and your masks. Best of luck."
My fingers deliberately stroked her soft hands when she gave us our goods.
"Luck? I just hit the jackpot," I told her with a wink.
"I call bullshit Rosie." Wes said. "What masks are you talking about?"
"Get with it creep," the hotness said to Wes.
"I realize that I like it kinky on the regular," Wes said. "But this face don't wear masks. My man Auggie don't either. Good god baby you are too damn gorgeous to be telling me to wear a mask," Wes said, "especially if you're not going to let me get my dinkle damp."
"Don't worry about him," I assured the blond lamb. "He's kurrazzee," I motioned towards this Rosie, knowing she would boomerang back someday soon.
Neighbor Wes and Auggie Joust entered the amateur toss off at the 2006 Seattle Festival of Frisbees Festival.
"You can at least take off your wool coat."
"Black is cooler than the heat," Wes says.
We chose to toss off in the greener patches near the far entrance of Cal Anderson Park. Behind the waterfall, in the indistinct distance, Himmerick stood with a boy. The two of them were close and careful. Himmerick gently patted kiddo on the back as them two faded away.
The strangers in masks with Frisbees kept me well paranoid. A ribald voice echoed from the nose of a bullhorn.
"Ladies and gentlemen welcome to the 2006 Seattle Festival of Frisbees Festival."
Every clown with a Frisbee chanted 'sfoff' 'sfoff' 'sfoff'. Their collective Frisbee thrust caused the sky to resemble a snapshot of alien rush hour.
"Today you are a part of history Seattle. 2006 has set a record for having over 200 tossers."
That lame line got a friendly chuckle from only the mouth of its messenger. Everyone else was silent and psychotic as we sizzled in masks under the sun's relentless rays.
"Hello Capitol Hill cools. My name is Gavin Speckles, this city's newest and District Attorney and this year's Frisbee Festival mayor."
"Where's your faggy sash?"
"Can it clown," Speckles said.
Wes pulled out a hell of a joint as I dug for fire.
"Did you snake my black lighter?" I asked.
"No, I bought my own," Wes said.
"If you knew that I already had one, then why the hell would you buy another black lighter?"
"So I would know exactly when you snaked mine."
"The first rule of today's competition," Speckles announced through a wrinkly voice which leaked slowly out of his ass mouth, "is that every participant must wear their mask at all times."
Wes took off his mask to light the joint.
"Rule number two," Speckles continued.
"Kiddo took off his mask yo," shouted some clown.
"Eject them bozos," another clown yelled.
"Make those clowns bleed."
It was clown mutiny.
Cloaked beneath the guise of an ordinary circus clown, I pummeled through the mass of Frisbee wielding contestants like the flash of porn that first burnt your eyes. My feet shot me around the nation of replicating grimaces like a punk rock circle pit. Fierce face sneer glistened with manic velocity as I flipped the laughing gas masked maniacs off with two crooked fingers. Oi oi oi. The boy put the hard back in core, so much so, that I even lost my best shoe.
"Throw the bodies of those guilty clowns to the wolf pack public!" Speckles commanded. He was a justice addict.
Himmerick came strutting through the Frisbee assault and grabbed Neighbor Wes by the ear, committing a yank crime.
"I didn't even do anything this time," Wes screamed.
BEARCLAW and TOI | 10
BRAIN SPLATTER.
I awoke in a sweat of freeze. My dumpling body was badly in need of Pacific Northwest weed. I put on my flops and hopped down that troublesome hall. Knocked on studio cell 107. Neighbor Wes appeared wearing a mask like a dream I once had.
"Merry Christmas Satan."
"Nice face," I said.
"No no," he tells me, "its only a mask."
Wes erases the clown smile to reveal a bandaged patch of Cauliflower ear.
"Lets cop some medicinal cough medicine."
Fall afternoon like ice. Frozen breath showed signs that I was still alive. Soft hands rubbed in warm pockets of the vintage green sweater. Brown corduroy bucket hat swung low over baby blues. Scruffball. Wes makes a cellular call.
"I thought you said weed dude's down the hall?"
"Doiy," Wes said. "He's crazy, remember?"
Neighbor Wes was the fuckjaw of the street circuit.
"Dude wants some groceries," Wes tells Bearclaw, "and he looks weird too. Yes, totally, its absolutely that new kiddo yo."
There was laughter like when foreigners make fun of you in a language you wished you could understand only to justify the ensuing violence.
At studio cell 103 in the Bellevue Mental Hospital, Bearclaw the baby face mary pusher says "fo sho" as he opens the door. Youngin hit me hard with a kooky hand slap knuckle tap that I reciprocated rather nicely if you really must know.
Inside eye spy a lot full of graveyard ashtrays, zip lock bags stuffed with stank fluff, youth in the room reeked like a nursery of stoned stillborns. In a shirt that says "Bellevue Mental Hospital," Bearclaw's girlie Toi plays Connect Four.
"I'm so fucking great at Connect Four," Neighbor Wes declares.
He squats down next to the stickly girl, with knees bent under bulky purple UW sweats, and says that "any patient who dares to challenge him is stupid before they even know it."
My man Wes got friendly with Toi, as me Auggie, stepped into the office of Bearclaw. The kitchen.
"What'll it be pops?" he says, sizing up my vintage garb.
"Tell me about today's specials."
"This right here, this slamma-jamma, is from deep in the Bahamas. They call this Brain Splatter," Bearclaw said.
"I'd like one order of Brain Splatter please."
"Check this cat out," Bearclaw says to Toi. "Kiddo's wise cracking like us youngins. My man's a real funny bunny."
His hands were sinking into a blue coffee jar with a side handle where a light wooden spoon called home. Stash pot.
"Alright funny bunny. I gotta snatch $150 for this herr."
"OK," I say, "gimme a total of three bags of fifty."
"Fo sho?" the prepubescent boy asks me.
"Absolutely fo sho," I grinned, adjusting my bucket hat.
"Oh snap," says Bearclaw in a frenzy. "I need my calcs."
This tubby child with chunks of dirt on his upper lip like he went to the good behavior patio and rubbed crud all over, reached for his cell phone to add up the sale. No one likes a transaction scene.
"Motherfucker always uses that celly/calc," says Toi. "Its so purposeful for all of his entrepreneurial needs. Earlier I saw my baby Bearclaw scratch his balls with it."
"Which color am I again?" Wes asked Toi, not paying any attention to anyone else's lives, as usual. He and Toi had been desperately battling to connect four.
"You are the red," Toi said, blowing her sticky lemon nail polish dry while filling her chewing gum bubble with air. What a talent. Bearclaw was scientifically measuring pillows of primo, artistically arranging my sack.
"What kind of freakout scale is that?" I asked.
"This calibrator here is a rare one that kiddos can cop anywheres," he says, "like New York or Tijuana, but this tight soldier right herr, my bizzle brazzle way out weigh out, was copped in the Soviet Union of Russia, my amigo."
"There are literally hundreds of things wrong with what you just said," I inform the cracked out adolescent.
"Tell me about it," Toi shouted. "Kiddo thinks he knows everything about shit. And by looking at both of us, ain't it most obvious who is more righter?"
"That kid's the writer," Neighbor Wes said.
"Be quiet when businessmen are speaking," Bearclaw told his woman. He seemed on the edge. A place we knew well.
"I'm just saying is all," Toi huffed at her man, spitting her white gob of chewing gum at him, as that barely legal boy Bearclaw hands me a healthy bag of funky flammables.
"Here you go sergeant. Weighs out perfect, plus a lil lil."
"That's such a great weight," I wink and nod at him like rappers do on black entertainment television.
"Fo sho."
"Why did you go do that for?" Toi shouted.
Neighbor Wes tripped the eject button on Connect Four, causing all of the plastic pieces to fall onto the floor. Toi's skeletal frame was ecstatic.
"One of us has to be a winner, you mongrel."
"I'm the winner, I was red. Red is the new blood," Wes starts in. "Do you honestly think any loser is even worth my dying love?" shouts Wes.
"All of the girls love the winner me, they play my game. You know it, Himmerick knows it, its well known. Did you also know that I can smell pussy three states away? My beak speaks to them. I live to sniff Labia lips and punish vaginas."
No one knew what had gotten into Neighbor Wes. We awaited his next move in cautious silence. Wes wheezed into a quiet fall on the floor.
"Here you go Bearclaw," I said wrapping up the sale. "One hundred and fifty real American dollars."
"Watcha mean real?" Bearclaw said.
Toi gave a look as if ready to strike.
"No fakers in the bunch," I smiled real big like after a bowel movement the morning after a wild night of booze.
Bearclaw snatches the bills from my hand like a salmon in the stream. Kiddo wraps a rubbed band, that he had on his hand, around the wad of cash, and flings into a wooden box decorated with Dia De Los Muertos celebratory scare flare.
"Fo sho," he says to me, knuckle tapping, hand slapping, back smacking goodbye, each with an eye locked on one another, as I dragged the heap of Neighbor Wes out of the after school drug store.
DJ CRISCO SANCHEZ | 11
FOREIGN WORD, Y'HEARD?
"This is definitely the best thing I'm going to see all day," said Neighbor Wes, exhaling his boom blast of whipped nitrous. He franticly pulls the resting blinds, introducing us to a blistering jab of a.m. luminescence. No coffee in sight. Head twisted right to find some lunatic performing the Hop Skippity Scap. This kiddo kicked it royal with class, like he had done the Combustible Huxtable before.
"That's how them cucarachas do," Wes says.
"Them, who?"
Crisco Sanchez was the foreign exchange patient who immigrated from Mexico and had been in and out of seven distinct psycho spots. Latino kiddo was known for being off his dose of dailies and on as the scene's best deaf DJ. The Crisco kid scuffed spirits off the urine soaked walkway like history's most uncontrollable octopus. Chicano boy apparently suffered defeat from the sucker punch sky. Our senseless friend was enthralled with his invisible nemesis, struggling for victory against a nonexistent opponent, until a real one appeared. You know the assailant as Dr. Vic Himmerick, who recently clubbed Crisco Sanchez on the cranium with what we used to call a 'ghetto box.'
"Holy wow," Wes screamed, thirsty for south of the border red. "Himmerick knocked out Sanchez, dios mio!" Neighbor Wes was running down that disgusting hall. "Himmerick knocked out Sanchez you sluts. Suck it up!"
Crisco Sanchez was now dressed from his thick hair to those tight jeans in ethnic blood. The sidewalk sported a fresh puddle of spicy head splash. Unconscious Sanchez mumbled tremendous threats of indistinguishable pain. The mighty stereo smash courtesy of the good doctor destroyed this poor victim's difficult language. Sanchez was deported back to his homeland of dreamland right there on the curb.
"There goes another one," said Neighbor Wes.
LONNIE STRUDEL | 12
BOOBY TRAPS.
In the middle of the dark night on Capitol Hill is when all of the prime time kiddos rocked it down. This particular night was quite cool, as was I. Eyes witnessed the heartless beasts in action. Their warped faces snickered with grime. Oh how I dreamt for them to slit my throat and gouge on my flesh.
Up Pike Street I came across a spot called Northwest Actors Studio. There was a lame attempt at a poster in a case full of faded bulbs. A sure sign of the talent showcased within. Booby Traps was written in dark pencil on white notebook paper, really, really gay. The date was tonight and the time was right so I went inside believing the evening was destined for evil. I was only half right. Room was stuffy with couches and me crouching back in the fourth or fifth row. The curtain opened to reveal the delectable sight of Lonnie Strudel, that cunt. It was simply embarrassing, his failed effort at a genuine black box theatrical. If that scummy bastard would have printed programs I could have zipped through his stage career, but no, he refused to conform. Never did anything on the norm, that Lonnie.
So this Strudel, who had been known throughout the underground for being his own world of weird, started the show with a monologue and I admit, he had it.
I fainted onto the light gust of cool that was his voice. I begged deeply for that mouth to hum on me. He was speaking and I was listening to the deafening sound of male venom.
That night Seattle America was turned on by the candor of Lonnie Strudel, as he charismatically banged back his past stack of found footage rewound for an audience of me. There was one more person, cackling like mad at lines that weren't yet uttered, whose grisly profile could not be properly identified, lurking in the back of the house. God bless the back of the house.
That unforgettable night I witnessed Lonnie Strudel, body covered in marshmallow spread, admit the gruesome secret of being molested by a county public defender. He went into detail about suckle fucking bareback trucking the shoot of pooper Gavin Speckles. Strudel slanted the incident towards statutory rape, and provided the delighted jury with more than enough evidence to forever find that Speckles guilty. Young Lonnie was just a juvenile, at the time.
Strudel cleaned the filthy beans he spilled on Speckles by writhing on the floor, snarling and grinding, until he dialed the cell number of a soon to be ex-girlfriend.
"Rosie Santanarosa," Strudel bellowed into the receiver, "this is the last time you will ever hear my voice. You were lucky that it lasted as long as it did. Now we are the end."
Strudel stuffed the cell phone into a bag of gasoline, and with a terrifying glaze in his hooligan eyes, set fire to the cellophane bomb. Lonnie laughed like when you try to open a bag of stubborn chips real wild. Kid lifted the third floor window and proceeded to fling that shit. Himmerick came from the back of the house and rushed the stage, sedating the performance artiste during his disastrous solo showcase of lifesaving information, which ran only one night, for a total of nine minutes.
ROSIE SANTANAROSA | 13
GLOW LAKE.
Every sneeze of ink snotted into dear diary that evening was a reaction to that Lonnie Strudel. He made me work. There was a spark. I clearly understood the dying language he spoke when he came to life on stage. His iconic physique made me speak only a pulverized sigh.
The night was like any other. It was raining in the space needle. I had taken way too many drugs. Buzz buzz buzz. It was the sound of voyage skipping, page flipping, back to the minute someone was there for me.
Two girls stood at the gate.
"Its always unlocked," I smiled.
"So are my pants," the one on the left said.
It was so on.
"This way to ecstasy," I said while motioning to my studio cell 101, on the other side of their world.
"Yeah yeah yeah," that smarmy one said. "I'll come over there and stick ecstasy up your ass."
What a mouth. The other one was silently swaying like pollen trapped in a breeze. I will take them both, I thought.
"Please don't reveal that you two sophisticated beings wish to partake in the gothic antics of Neighbor Wes."
"That kid is for chumps," the mouthy one snipped.
"Your darlings mouths appear too sweet to be in the weed needs of a certain Bearclaw, am I wrong?"
"I only do drugs that I can inject," the wild one roared.
"Then I can only assume that you are the long lost lover of that silly squirt Matty Lee Roundtree?"
"Hey," the beast growled. "Why don't you go fuck your typewriter some more?"
"Oh really?"
"Yeah. Write yourself into a better bag of pig piss."
"Pig piss?"
"Pig fucking piss," she snarled.
"We're here for Lonnie Strudel," the other one said.
I almost died.
"The Lonnie Strudel?"
"Yeah Nietzsche. The Lonnie Strudel. You seen him anywheres around this creep campus?"
"All apologies my dearest, but I wasn't aware that Strudel was a patient of this hospital."
"Patient?" the tricky one laughed. "Lonnie Strudel is the goddamn mayor of this hospital."
"Sad times fair maidens. Sordid chapter of history indeed when two very fine tigers such as you cannot find the prey which they are hunting for. We all must lose, sometimes."
"You really are a jumbo fuck tart aren't you Joust?"
The unstable one began to walk towards me.
"Girlfriends, please, you so don't even know me."
This campestral kitten reached into a knapsack strapped around her acne back and pulled out the March 7, 2007 edition of the Capitol Hill Times. "You're Auggie Joust honey pie." She was waving the feature article of my face in my face. "The smutty writer that everyone's been talking about. I've got you."
"Holy shit you only got one hand."
It was Charlabell Tint, the fire-breathing sizzle stick. She walked right up to my grille. Inches of breath separated us.
"Don't worry sweets," she says. "The other hand can still chop the wang off a Chinaman."
"Just so you know, I charge $1000 per signature."
"You think you are famouser than me?"
"More famous."
"Oh you fucking new jack. Don't let a little press go to your dense head," Charlabell Tint said as a senior to my freshman, poking her elite finger, attached to the only hand she still had, against my turbid skull.
"I am the queen of this ghoul scene."
"Let's scram," the blond lamb finally said.
"Alright Joust," Tint tells me. "You're coming with us."
Back seat of a toasted almond Montecarlo. Fugazi. 43rd Street South and Madison. Suitcase of Pabst. Me and them.
"If I were to guess where you were taking me, I wouldn't imagine in a million years would I?"
"No you wouldn't," Tint said. "So zip your screwy lips or I'll staple them shut."
She wasn't kidding. There was a stapler in her hand, the only one she still had. She was sending snaps of staples into her thigh. No one could imagine why. That other girl was Drivin N' Cryin like an Atlanta band. She turned to me.
"Welcome to glow lake."
"Glow what? Wait a minute toots. Mind telling me who the hell you're supposed to be?"
"Sure thing sunshine." Girl leans back over the long vinyl seat inside that ancient Montecarlo and knocks her face against mine.
"I'm Rosie Sanatanarosa. The sweetest sugar any mouth in Seattle could ever suck."
The girl Strudel broke it off with during Booby Traps. Sure. They had come to acquire vital details from that somber slut who not only severed ties with Santanarosa on a celly, but in a public execution for all to enjoy.
Many intoxicated freakazoids rummaged along the shore. Wild dogs howled in the evening heat as animals were dying to drown in that refreshing lake.
"Crab cakes and football, clam bakes and Rophynol, that's what Maryland is all about," roared one enthusiastic sport-playing rapist amongst the flock of glassy heathens.
"Last bitch to the raft is gorkin," Rosie declared.
She ran into the wash and splashed towards the moon. Tint sat on the beach, protecting her stump from a potential soak.
My ankles sank nicely into the arctic surf. Thousands of pebbles, chipped stones, remnants of great boulders festered the sharp bottom. The thick torrent I sliced through to get to the raft, the vigilant trek I splashed across to avoid the label gorkin, was a heavy one. I chose the traditional stroke. Hand over hand, flippy little kicks, as I say, the traditional way. Somehow the raft began to move further and further away from the struggling buoy that was I. Had I really only swam four fricken feet? I kicked and grabbed more water with my extremely wrinkled hands. My feet were still touching the rocky lake floor. I hadn't even crossed the warning rope when my shivering body felt a wave of warmth.
"I just peed," smiled Rosie.
"How totally gorkin," I scoffed.
'"You are." She playfully swatted water towards my kisser before backstroking deeper into glow lake, leaving me to play the chase game.
For the next seventeen minutes I swam, finally making it to the raft, such a weak blob, that Rosie had to yank me up. The journey shouldn't have taken seventeen minutes on a goddamn pogo stick.
"You're glowing pretty spooky," I said.
"You're shinning quite pretty yourself," Rosie said, stroking my upper chest with a prune hand.
"Holy balls I'm such a slime."
Along the surface of my skin rested a gentle layer of bioluminescent film that transmitted flickering sparkles off my entire body suit, like nothing you had ever seen.
"The shitty city dumps toxic material into this lake," Rosie Santanarosa admitted with a fluorescent smile.
"We'll probably all die."
"Blimey. Are you serious?"
"I never lie," this Rosie told me. She was neon something.
"Don't be afraid Auggie. We're all chemicals."
Hanging like an illuminated pulse in the eerie night, her hand called for mine. I lifted my crappy palm and placed it inches from hers.
Together our flesh vibrated radioactive materials in our singular tantric display. It was and still is, some kind of moment.
My body felt warped as if regurgitated from the mouth of a cryogenic chamber. Tiny aneurysms crisply exploded on the synapses of my bubble brain. Explosions In The Sky, the Austin band, played encores behind my dusk heap eyes. There was damage. Permanent. I was submerged in that chem bath for only an hour, but the effects are still felt to this day. Very insignificant amounts of radiation burn into colorful existence when I drink liquor.
Our biohazard beings checked out as the sun came up on Bellevue Avenue with Charlabell Tint, Rosie Santanarosa and myself gazing down at the Capitol Hill cools as they lackadaisically began their day. Behind this window we sat.
"Can I inspect your bath?" Rosie asked.
I followed her to my wicked washroom of photo slayings mutilations hangings skeletons plagues celluloid morgue circus where a spider dangled from the ceiling.
Santanarosa leaked, wiped, then moved aside from the pot for me to piss in. I whipped it out. It was harder than not.
"Ooh look at that weenie."
"You should try it with some mustard," I said, showering out a glowing yellow stream of ankle spray.
"Why don't you try it with some blood?"
Rosie, who always seemed good and pure, creamed as if in need of an exorcism as she ripped her black and white striped skirt while jostling it down to her tattooed ankles. Olive green cotton thong slid down the back of her legs and quickly sunk to the ground.
"Please penetrate my senses senseless Auggie Joust."
"Don't tell me what to do, and fine, I'd love to."
"Thrash my flesh. Make my unworthy body bleed."
I got behind the behind of Rosie Sanatanarosa. She held the towel bar on the far wall for full support. Thrusting forward into the future of her pleasure, I reached around for that clit, found it, rubbed her raw. Slutty nutty butt fucking her body away like Lonnie Strudel never dreamed.
"Goddamnit you fuck like a Tsunami," Rosie cried.
"Tell me about it."
"Jesus Christ couldn't punch a splish hole like you on his goddamn birthday!"
Rosie and I came pretty good before Tint walked in, allowing me time to make for the shower.
"You two scream the best noise," Tint said as she stopped our motion commotion and proceeded to drop a couple of ploppers into my toilet bowl. Those young misfit slits started slurping face. It was steamy but then I saw them fine. Reminds me of the time I watched Tint suck the bomb breath of Chizzle Rhodes.
"Let's all get clean," Rosie said as she began to gently shove Charlabell under the cascade of cleansing water.
"Wait," Tint said, unwrapping the red white gauze on her blood stump which Rosie began spreading lavender lube around and around where a friendly appendage used to be, genuinely feeling for former fingers, not knowing where Charlabell's old knuckles were that night.
"Hey watch that thing," Tint said.
"Hey wash that thing," I smiled.
Rosie began to scrub suds on Tint's mutilated chest and neck. Tint was busy, one hand and all, shuffling the dickens out of my penis, like a Las Vegas card shark.
"I've always wanted to jerk off a strange writer in the one of strangest places on the planet."
Auggie Joust : granter of wishes.
"I want you to taste me," Rosie eventually said.
Her hand cupped my skull and pushed me slowly towards the towel of fur between those thighs.
"Oh my god," Santanarosa starts to scream, "Auggie Joust your tongue is going to lick my pussy to insanity."
"Better than Lonnie Strudel?"
Rosie looks down at me, and says with a smile like a nasty sliver of some midnight moon, "Lonnie Whodel?"
LONNIE STRUDEL | 14
CAME INTO MY CELL.
"How was she?" Strudel said.
"Which one, who?" I devilishly grinned.
"Rosie Santanarosa. My most favorite love!"
Strudel grabbed a long hard something. Might have been a racket, or mallet, and crashed it down hard on my left toe.
"Aw wah," I barbled.
"This is my ghoul scene," soared from the mouth of an electrified Strudel. "These pathological monstrosities live for another day of my being. I make this place feel and react like no other."
His confidence was impermeable. I couldn't look him in the eye. There was a gravity-pulling thump of fear inside. Not for my life, but for what would happen to his.
Like crackle out of order, I pop snapped. Strudel had no chance. I gave him none and leaped on top of the boy. My beard mashed his boyish good looks into a helpless slosh for me to slurp. There was animal tension. Our faces collided like rams on a mountain top fighting over the summer sun.
Two males not afraid to die.
Two boys tough enough to kill.
Two things anxious to bust each other's sack.
"If you tell anyone," Strudel said.
"Easy baby, I never tell the truth."
Strudel punched me in the mouth. With my right I socked him in the belly. Then with my left I slammed his face with a taste of Psalm Sunday. My slaps were meant to arouse, not abuse. When he came back up I grabbed him by his succulent throat and bit in. He screamed but didn't sound terrified. Lonnie Strudel took off his shirt then took off mine. He punched me in the face one more time.
"Stop fucking hitting me," I yelled.
"No one tell me what to do!"
Strudel grabbed the back of my head and with his slimy hand that bastard palmed my nog and sent it down to his choleric crotch where I slowly unzipped his fancypants and slowly pulled it out.
"I've never."
"Yeah," Strudel said. "Neither have I."
Absent of trepidation, I went for it and gagged right off.
"Are you going to barf?" he asked.
"If I do, it will be in your mouth."
"Quit stalling," he says to me. "Suck."
Strudel slapped my face and I slapped him right back. Again we did the routine. Again. There was a time when we both stopped. I slapped fast and when he tried to slap one last time, I ducked down and began to suck down.
"You bastard Auggie Joust."
With Lonnie in my mouth I clawed his thighs and savagely ripped his fancypants to the ground. Lonnie Strudel's pelvis grinded me raw. The face of sin I saw. There was only time now. He was getting closer and I was worried sick. Swallow or spit, what the fuck? Where am I? I hocked him out.
"Hey what gives?" Strudel cried.
"Shut the shit you faggot. I'm over it. This is gay."
Without hate, but well in my right, I picked up a ball peen hammer and brought it down on Lonnie Strudel's knee.
"Aw wah," he yelled.
"I'm Auggie Fucking Joust. You better ask somebody."
"I did ask somebody," Strudel said. "Himmerick read me every line in your queer catalog."
"That dirtbag!"
I almost died.
"Don't fight it Auggie. Sanatanrosa only did you to anger me. And Tint, well, she's a legendary doorknob that allows anyone with a good hand a fair turn."
"Did you really just make that pun in my studio?"
"The least you could do is finish me off," Strudel said behind a pair of desperate eyes.
"Nah," I waved. "I don-wan-nah."
"What are you afraid of Auggie?"
"That you'll fuck yourself to death Strudel."
That migraine wasn't as injured as I had thought. I sat considered giving him another pop with the bat, or was it a broomstick? Whatever. God did give him two knees, after all. I walked towards the table where a stuffed hash pipe rested nice.
"Mind if I?" I asked Strudel.
"My fucking knee," he whimpered in voice that tried like hell to constrict me into a building of guilt. But he was faking it. Everyone on Capitol Hill was too.
My black lighter evoked the hash pipe. I sucked on that no problem. While eyes shut I blithely fantasized about Lonnie Strudel ass-fucking that Arwinne Jablonski and honestly I liked it. My face felt its horny smile break apart from the crack of a fist racking against it. Pop. Strudel served me a sandwich of dirty knuckles. Flooring me to unconsciousness that sassy mess grabbed me there on the carpet. I felt him twist me over and turn me on.
Irritating steel with snuggles of pink feathers clamped my wrists tight. I was locked. Next thing I felt was a blindfold and heard the confirmation sound of a Polaroid picture. With a violent tug Strudel ripped my britches. He yanked my pants then yanked his cock. Multiple yank crimes like the San Diego band Drive Like Jehu.
"Shit!"
"Yes," Strudel said. "You're gonna get yours pushed in."
This is what I heard next: spitting.
This is what I felt next: rape.
Lonnie Strudel was inside of me, illustrating the flash cards for a storybook definition of 'rapeable.' I wanted him dead. I wanted him to never stop.
"My ass," I cried.
"Don't worry Auggie. Blood is blood."
"Can you at least use some of your faggy lube?"
With a force greater than a sacrificial Aztec slaughter, Strudel fully massacred my race.
"Maybe a little more spit," I suggested.
"Cease all speak you maggot. You are my servant now filth bowl. Enjoy these thrusts and beg for my mercy."
I could feel the blood trickle out of my ripped anus. It joined the red from my back in the sweaty hair cavern of my devastated ass crack. Strudel rammed his Lonnie into me for approximately five straight hours. I couldn't help but want to give him notes during his plow. Wished he had whispered something sweet, but he was an animal. His moves were archaic. Strudel did reach around and I liked that swell. This demented dreamer was fucking the life out of me, Auggie. Lonnie Strudel was my first. You never forget your first.
LONNIE STRUDEL | 15
JUMPER.
I was awakened by a blast of ambulance sirens as flashy lights twirled around my dark room. My bones rustled like crispy leaves when I attempted to rise. I managed to roll onto my side and scoot myself off that mattress. There was pain all around the circumference of my pooper. The shoot. My asshole was torn like two lovers.
"Precious citizens. Let this world feel the death of me. You mustn't mourn over the loss of me. My demise is a present to you my most favorite loves. Days upon us are evil and black. This event. Tonight's final bow, will spark my eternal flame in the hearts of all true beings. They will forever remember to never forget the Lonnie Strudel."
"Aren't you going to save him?" I asked Himmerick who came strolling down that wicked hallway whistling a terrible theme.
"Who says he wants to be saved?" Himmerick retorted.
"Who wants to be saved?" Boise the seagull echoed.
"Get that eagle out of here."
"Eagle? Isn't that a notorious homosexual hangout?"
"Hello Auggie."
"Hello Boise."
"Hello Auggie."
"Hello Boise."
"Hello Boise," the bird said.
"Hello Auggie," I repeated.
"See. He's talking to himself. I knew that kid was crazy."
Old Himmerick's guts were busted. He couldn't get enough and his cackle made me cringe. Boise was killing.
"Quick Joust, give Boise something to improv."
"You're a dick."
"How many feathers am I holding up," Boise asked.
"Feathers," Himmerick laughed.
"Why don't you two help save that Strudel?"
"Why don't you eat some treats?" Himmerick smiled.
"I'm not hungry at the moment."
"What's the matter Joust?" Himmerick asked real sour like the host of a prison game show. "Not up for getting high?"
Boise cheered like an announcer.
"Not up for getting high. Not up for getting high. Ladies and gentleman Auggie Joust isn't up for getting high. We have a winner."
"Look," I started to say, just as Lonnie Strudel once again wailed into the dangerous night.
"For millions of valuable seconds my rare stock has diminished in this death camp with this despicable gaggle of loons and that wretched excuse for a doctor. Is this fair? Am I not sane? Tonight I will prove to this doomed society just how capable of sanity I truly am."
The entire scofflaw community has been summoned here to tonight's gala, by this colorful caricature of genius. With both hands extended far from his majestic collection of flesh, the fragile shell of Lonnie Strudel sailed off the roof of the Bellevue Mental Hospital. My eyes never not blinked like the moment that kiddo ended his show. Snapshots went off like the fourth of July. Flashes of lights captured his expired image. Silence resonated until the record of life scratched us back to now.
"There goes another one," Himmerick sighed.
"There goes another one," screeched Boise.
"There goes the only one," I said so only I could hear.
"I sure am having fun with you tonight Auggie Joust," Himmerick said, lighting up a cigarillo.
"What a great title for a book I'll never write."
"Want to talk about anything?"
"Fake doctors?"
"Lonnie Strudel."
"Oh that venereal disease?" I had already forgotten.
"Yes him."
"That dramatic display was his artistic choice."
Himmerick scribbled.
"Have you ever considered suicide?"
"Well doiy," I said with my index finger against the temple of my head. "But gliding off the top of a loony bin to splat yourself into future history books is terribly gay."
"Who isn't?"
Shit! I knew right then that Himmerick knew about Strudel and me and our everlasting fuck fest encounter.
"Go on," Himmerick suggested.
I was silent. That stupid doctor had tricked Strudel into coming onto me and then literally coming onto me. Now old Himmy wanted me to admit my homosexual tendencies for the suicide case that died shamefully on tonight's stage.
"Fuck the dead," I smiled.
That was my out. I went to shut the door.
Himmerick stood outside of my cell and scribbled like mad on his stupid pad. "I'll be gone by the morning light," I said.
"Why do you want to leave?" Himmerick asked.
"I'm over it."
"The screwball city or dumb face kids?"
"The whole bag of nuts," I said.
"Auggie, do you like being alive?"
"I feel too comfortable in this place. It feels too easy. There is no danger. I've served my time. Now, I break out."
"How so?"
"Boredom is the brain's worst enemy."
Himmerick wrote that down word for word.
"You could never leave all of this." Himmerick waved his hand around like a wax replica of Vanna White. "All of your unsold books and poopy paintings must breathe in the air where they were created."
"You goddamn quack."
"Did you love Lonnie Strudel?"
"I only love weed and Jesus."
"Jokes aside, do you even know what love is?"
"I love just about everyone on earth, equally."
"That's baloney."
"Baloney is swept up pig parts. I am so true."
"Interesting."
"Yes I am. Unlike you. You are just a phony."
"Am I?"
"Very much so. A false version of something real."
"But you must believe that I do exist."
"This is why I must leave."
Himmerick scribbled the verbal volley on his pad. He was failing to extrapolate anything of worth.
"How real do you believe that I am?" Himmerick asked.
"You are simply a written creation in my paper dream."
"Your books?"
"My books."
"What you fail to realize young Auggie, is that unless your books, those rotten words that come from your vile brain, never make it to print, how can anything that you say happened be remembered as ever being real?"
"Bollocks!" I yelled. "My writing is my reality."
"It that makes sense in your head, then why subscribe to ferocious mood swings like some geriatric?"
"Because if I didn't have my frequent case of BUGS, the drug companies would go bankrupt."
"Care for an afternoon Nep?"
"Muchas gracias garcon, tengo mucho hambre."
I removed the wonderful pill from Himmerick's clam hand seconds before he purposely snapped it shut.
"Stop doing that."
"I'm testing your reaction time," he said.
"I'm the best."
"Matty Lee Roundtree beat you."
"I hate Matty."
"Tell me Auggie. Why do you wish to escape your wonderful new surroundings here in this Seattle America?"
"First of all, no one calls it that. Second, it's now May 2007," I reminded him. "I've served two years in this stink joint."
"Peanuts," Himmerick said. "Two years is the life expectancy for most South American rodents."
"What a useless statistic," I said.
"Then tell me Auggie. What are you?"
"I'm Auggie Joust motherfucker. So the best kid you will ever know."
Himmerick hiccupped a terrible chuckle.
"That's absurd," he said. "You appear to be bright and creative but by no means could you ever qualify as being the best kid I know. I say, your ego has more magnitude than the devastating explosion of a terrorist car bomb."
"Thanks for the boost of confidence doctor. I've always valued your professional opinion."
"Don't you realize that you neither have to leave here nor go there? Nowhere can help you. Your battle is within."
"Yeah? And who am I fighting?"
"The answer appears to be obvious to everyone but you."
Dirtbag Vic was smiling like a shit eater as he presented me with a handful of pills that I swatted out of his filthy hand. They were everywhere, all over the floor. Himmerick silently watched as I slammed the door on my final evening in the Bellevue Mental Hospital.