The following fragment is extracted from my new book The Zombie Hunter. This work is protected by copyright. All rights reserved.
ATTENTION! If you are easily offended, you are underage or you do not read/enjoy dark themes associated with explicit sexuality and use of drugs, please do not read past this point.
MY MEDICAL CABINET contains ordered neatly on glass shelves, the following drugs packed and tagged in plastic cylindrical recipients: Xanax, Rohypnol, Zyprexa, Prazosin, Gaviscon, Purified Fish Oil, Aspirin, Glucosamine & Chondroitin Osteo Bi-Flex, Multi-minerals, Calcium + vitamin D, Vitamin C supplement made from organic lemons, Japanese garlic supplement, collagen capsules, coenzyme Q 10 supplement, Zetia and another three boxes tagged red, blue and green, Big Boobs told me to take one of each a day. Every Friday I go back to base where they give me an injection. They say that keeps me calm. They say: “you don’t want to be freaked out all the time, do you?”
By the bed, I have some crack cocaine in an envelope stashed inside the base of the lamp. Every now and again, I buy meth from a fellow called Mongo. He used to be in an MC, but they kicked him out, nobody knows why. I have his shit stashed inside the soles of my boots.
Jay, the nerd from the NSA likes meth. Yeah, we worked together in Mexico. Yeah, they brought him over, because he was in this fusion team from the beginning. He loves doing meth with me, since he says I’m one of those who listen. We always end up doing too much and then he talks a lot without making any sense. Jay is confused, more than that: he wants to become a woman in a distant future. See? I was right. At home he puts on a blonde wig and his girlfriend’s tight black dress and a pair of high heel platforms. I admitted I enjoyed transsexual sex, especially when he-she happens to be Hispanic or otherwise nicely tanned and is in a scene where he-she takes it from two dudes at the same time. This is why Jay’s sending me gigabytes of tranny porn every day. A hot, large breasted penis slinging bitch rammed by two dudes at once would have made me go gaga two years ago. These days it doesn’t mean much. I can barely get a hard on watching some of that. Of course, I still enjoy it, but the passion is gone, you know, because the passion went somewhere else.
There is no doubt in my head the nerd has been placed with me just to make sure I grow dumber by the day and take my pills. “The guys” know what I like, trannies included. However, I know myself better and they might be in for a surprise.
It worries me that I feel very sick, I’d say I’m on the brink of physical collapse. After the injections, my blood vessels burst and I get blue all over the place. After the red pill I nauseate and sometimes spend my afternoons puking with a wet towel tied around my head. After the green pill I’m full of excitement and energy, my heart is racing and I need to eat a lot, proteins in particular. I developed a genuine craving for raw beef meat, the bloodier the better. After the blue pill I need to sleep and I’m mellow, without being able to become sentimental. I’m mostly slow, just slow.
They keep repeating to me how mentally ill I am and how they need to run more tests to improve treatment. I’ve actually started using the cocaine and the meth to counter the effects of these enigmatic substances they force me to take. In Europe I would have never made such a serious shit out of this, but here where I’m monitored even during sleep, here I must. It is the duty of any prisoner to escape any way that he can and this is my way. I know “the guys” are killing me in a manner that is both callous and systematic. What I am can be best described as a human lab test animal.
The Agency provided me with a small one bed apartment where everything from the floors to the walls and the furniture is a clean white. One morning I cut myself and I sprayed some blood on the kitchen wall. I did it on purpose. When I came back from my daily stroll, the stain had been removed and the wall repainted. It smelt like fresh paint when I got my nose closer to it and when I touched it it was still wet under my fingertips. This is how I know the blood was there, and I wasn’t hallucinating or imagining things. Plus, I had a cut on my finger.
Otherwise they are providing me with an illusion of freedom. I can watch TV, navigate the Internet and masturbate as much as I please. Nowadays I’m not so keen on hookers. As I said, the act itself has lost its appeal a long time ago. They send me a monthly allowance straight into my bank account, allowance I use to buy meat and drugs. I have almost half a cow in my fridge, because I go through half a cow in a couple of days.
The other morning, after my injection, I didn’t return straight home. We headed back to DC and then I told Bernstein to drop me next to the park, because I felt like going for a walk. As soon as he vanished I changed course and walked and walked without a purpose and then there was this billboard featuring a beautiful Asian woman, nearly naked, striking a twisted pose with a shoulder popping out and one knee bent towards the other. It said Givency underneath. The face looked familiar so I came nearer, but as I traced the contours of her elongated, smooth cheeks I recognized Lily. I waited there like an idiot, gazing at her empty eyes staring down at me, the drug addict, the wreck, the remorseful, the zombie and a black man, who pretended to be a blind beggar, put a hand on my shoulder and said:
“Damned fine woman!”
Above us, the heavens opened and a cold drizzle drenched us both enwrapped by the etheric feel of the poster-ads fashion chicks. I told him:
“Not this one. Her sister, man.”
My black man must have gone a long time when I realized I was wet and shivering, the rain sticking the clothes to my skin. For a while I stood there reflecting upon the havoc I was and where I drew my Pearl and I got the impression none of this was real, as in life, the pavement, the rain, the billboard and certainly not that beggar. Maybe it is as Pearl used to think. Maybe that Matrix film was more real than what we thought was real.
I grabbed a taxi back to my apartment and the radio played some electro pop song, I think it was Helena Beat by Foster the People. The Xanax I gobbled with a bit of coca cola light, just before catching the ride was now making the face of the taxi driver melt into the city scape. Then by chance, I turned my head to the window and I thought I saw Pearl walking down the boulevard. Such occurrences are impossible, so unless we transgressed in a parallel universe, it must have been the drugs. But there she was, in her pink, short dress with a beady skull on the back and an inscription: Dia de los Muertos. The socks were up over her knees, black and shiny. She had spiky heel platform shoes and a pearl bracelet. Her hair was tied in a high pony tail which moved in the manner of a pendulum tongue. Man, she could walk those heels!
I shouted to the driver to pull over. He pissed me off because he reacted in slow motion. Pearl! Pearl! Wait! Pearl! Just as I started running ahead waving through the row of Hindu cows populating the street, Pearl vanished like a bubble of soap. God damn it, man! If that idiot had pulled over when I told him to, I might have caught up with her. Unsurprisingly, the idiot hung on for me, since I had been yet to pay for the ride.
He told me in a dense, foreign accent:
“Mate, yeaw’re bluding.”
Yeah, today is Friday, I thought. I went:
“Yeaw’re bluding. Fuck, aye?”
This motherfucker was pissing me off big time with his notifications. I gazed upon my face in the rear view mirror and he was right. A tiny stream was coming from my eyes over my nose, a dark red, oily stream. My fingernails already looked about to fall off, darkened as if I had them hammered and now this. To make it worse, the cut I gave myself on the cheek a few days before, while tripping on crack, appeared badly infected and it dripped a yellowish liquid. With this in mind and a paper towel courtesy to the driver I went back in and said:
“Damned drugs… Drive!”
I had the bloke’s big black eyes snapping curious gazes at me all the way to my place. For the time being I was too dreamy-sleepy to argue about anything. Better make conversation. So I asked him:
“Where are ya from?”
He smirked then turned around to face me, offering me a close up of his round Polynesian features.
“Samoa, but I grew up un Neew Zuland.”
Ah yeah, it was a sign from above. Halleluiah!
I told him:
“When I lived in London, I had a friend from New Zealand. His name was Stevie. He was twenty two years old when he died. This is his legacy: gonna get my woman and go there one day. Gonna buy a house by the beach and we’re gonna live off the grid. Gonna buy me some sheep and a goat for company and meat and then I’m ‘a hit the SPCA and grab the ugliest dog in there and we’re gonna live happily ever after, man.”
“Oh, yeah, mate?”
“Hell, yeah, bro!”
“Don’t geet me wrong, mate, but yeaw look like shut. Do yeaw want me to teek yeaw to a hosputal unsteed?”
“Yeaw should teek ut uasy, mate.”
“Watch the fuckin’ road!” I growled at him. He pissed me off, that nosy cunt!
In the water filtered light blurring my sight, I recalled the kid at the NSA and the blonde wig humped by two guys by the pool.
“I don’t want to be alone today,” I said.
Just before my block I changed my mind and gave him the nerd’s address instead.
The previous night I couldn’t help myself and I checked her blog. Pearl wrote:
“Hello world! I have a fly in my room. The poor thing goes round and round in circles unable to find a way out. I’ve decided to start feeding it. I give it mango juice and sometimes my own blood.”
Here I had to go over the sentence twice. This is an exercise I was going to repeat throughout the text. Damned nutcase! She’s cutting herself again.
“I’m going to tell you about purpose and direction. Let us say that when the nature or the divine blesses you with a certain gift, you already have a purpose. Or so you think. Your purpose is to use and perfect that gift for your benefit and the delight of the universe. The presence of the purpose gives you a clear direction. This is what happened to me.
Then I became twelve and before my body started the dramatic change I personally hated, someone came along and snatched that purpose from me. Now it wasn’t my purpose anymore, it was my mother’s pride, it was begging for attention from my father, it was my cousin’s pretext for picking me up from school and making me perform fellatio on the back seat. I soon lost direction and without direction I was a fly going round and round and round, trying to fill the void with goals like finishing my studies cum laudae or making a career change to become a great chef one day. But it caught up with me and then I grasped something needed to snap in order to be set free.
A while ago I stood before a man entirely stripped of clothing and dignity. It was my fault I got there the way I was, therefore I took our morning rituals as a rather religious act of humbleness and repentance. Yes, there can be something like this in situations of sin, uninhibited sexuality and utter filth.
I need to tell you about this man first, because he was no ordinary fellow. He was certainly crazy, but what mattered more to me was that dazzling mix of sadism and kindness. We’re talking about a man who carved out another man’s genitalia and slapped them into the open palm of my hand saying: for ya! We’re talking about a man who built explosive devices in the bathroom and had mined the whole house, starting from the basement up, just because I was selling my body for a living and part of it was his fault. We’re talking a man who kidnapped me from my kidnappers and then cut a deal to surrender me to my cousin who hired those men, only to change his mind after my long and arduous pleas and get me pregnant instead. I’ve never seen or heard of such harmonious mix of darkness and light, of stain and purity, apart from myths and tales, perhaps. Hence I ponder Teine must have been one genuine devil. No human being possesses that amount of cunning charm and cold blooded personality.
It comes as no surprise that this man was the first to succeed in breaking me so utterly when others had tried and failed. He fed this fly I was; he fed it honey and poison… Indeed, my hell could be sweet and bitterly addictive.
I took as much as I could until one day when I broke down the way a rusty engine breaks down and I couldn’t go any further. There were no options laid before me. I was dying, somewhere on the floor at his feet, insignificant, forgotten, blamed.
Consider it a paradox, but I would have never found my way out had it not been for a brutal act, so familiar to me since my twelve years of age. At the time it happened with Teine, a part of me had already understood what Teine was and what he had done before meeting me. I grasped the intricacies of his twisted soul ever since we lay together for the first time. What went on that first time eludes my consideration, not only due to the voracity of the act itself, but rather to the complex and treacherous nature of the whole affair. However, what took place that first time pales in comparison to what came next. I shall not enter details, but we had what’s called progression.
When you reach this stage of personal damnation, the purpose and direction are very distant metaphors. When you reach this stage, you simply bend over the filthy ceramic rim of a public toilet bowl, calling the safe word, although, without creating a serious fuss over being ignored. You bend there, devoted and desperate as you wait to be split open. There is no lube, no baby oil to ease the pain, no butter either, just spit, thick spit and a tremor of rage. It might come as a shock to learn just how amazing the moment was. No sex act has the capacity to reach quite that same blissful mix of pleasure, pain, and endorphins. No drug is stronger than what I experienced then with my face levitating above that shit-place and his fingers stripped of his bad boy biker gang rings – those rings rarely came off, by the way – digging deep inside me, up to the knuckles and beyond. Between killing me and giving me the orgasm of a lifetime, Teine pulled out decreeing I wasn’t even able to take a fist. Come down hard, little fly!
I was madly in love with Teine and I would have given everything – I didn’t have much left to begin with – to belong to him and only to him, body and mind. I would have sold my soul to the devil to hear him say: “yer mine, baby, and I, yers.” But then, while living with the physical disappointment of my physical limitations, I felt him going in the regular way and the motion itself, the carelessness of that monotonous movement, devastated me more than the wild thrusts. One hand squashed my wrist while another pushed my head with pace and determination and he slurred venomous words throughout, words that spoke about my death and how he would sit in the pub drinking his whiskey, listening to my tragic story in the news. Daughter of a French whore, he tagged me.
I don’t know if that was the flipping point or the moment when the tip of my nose dipped into that water. All I know is that a toilet paper holder had flown in his direction and that he didn’t fight back. All I know is that ten minutes later I was alone and my fists were bleeding from the repeated action of punching the mirror. All I know is that at some point I decided to give myself a battle scar and this is how I got this red claw mark on my right cheek.
A month after this incident, Teine and I married. Four months after, he sent me to die, a martyr in his failing revolution. Then he came to die with me. What I am now, sadly, still resembles this fly I’m keeping alive against the natural course of events. But I’m going and I should have been dead already. What I’m wondering is why? Where is the purpose?”
Jay opened the door without make-up and wig on. The girlfriend was not around either. Apparently she’d gone to Kentucky to visit her obese mother battling a foot infection. Have you any idea what Xanax mixed with meth does to you? Well, I use the combo, because I don’t come down as hard when I take my Zanny right before I do the meth. It messes with my heart rate, though, but I do hope something breaks in there and I get to end this crap life once and for all. Neah, it doesn’t happen. Are ya kiddin’ me? I’m strong as a bull, fuck me!
The nerd was listening to Cuban music. I said:
“I like that. Make it louder.”
We were both on the floor, high as kites on an azure sky and Jay rolled over me asking something silly:
“If I put that wig and big silicone tits, would you fuck me, Mike?”
He made me laugh so much, I pissed my pants.
“I’m too fuckin’ stoned to fuck anything, ya twisted thang!”
Jay opened my zipper and was playing with my numb cock.
“When I put that wig, I stare at myself in the mirror. I’d bang myself, man. I’d bang myself pretty hard,” he murmured close to my face, reminding me that psycho in the Silence of the Lambs.
I flipped him on one side and dashed into the bathroom to puke.
There, hunkered between the heavens and the abyss I was drifting over an ocean, I was shooting towards my dream like a rocket zooming on the target. The colors burnt my eyes. Fucking cars everywhere and people all around, passing at an accelerated pace. Pearl was waiting for me in her yellow temple. She was wearing a red dress buttoned up to her neck in the Chinese style of the nineteen thirties. A pink ribbon crossed her head, holding up her ebony hair. And then I read forgiveness in those anime greenish eyes, such sweet, soft melancholy my soul ached and my knees bent. But this was not why I collapsed at her bare feet, licking the dust off her tiny toes. She was running her delicate fingertips through the wild curls of my chestnut brown hair, laughing because my tongue tickled and a smell of orange blossoms was oozing from underneath her dress, straight into my nostrils. “Ralph Duval,” she giggled. “I have a whole list, Muffin,” I replied.
But Jay went on over my thoughts:
“Hey, Mike, I’m sorry, man. I just feel so lonely. Mike, I’m sorry, will you still be my friend?”
Jay was banging on the door with his bony fist.
“Hey, Mike, everything’s all right in there?”
Yeah, I was slightly decomposing, but otherwise, never felt better. And the latter, just because the Zanny was keeping me from crashing the whole way through. To make it scarier, the blood vessels in my dick were turning a putrid blue and the mushroom color seemed to have changed permanently from healthy pink to a rusty crimson.
“Mike, do you even like me or is it just because we do drugs?”
A reddish urine was filling the toilet bowl and Jay wanted to know if I liked him for real. You see how life is funny sometimes.
I cracked the door opened just a notch and I said:
“Hey, Jay, everything’s great, man, I’m just dying a little bit, but this ain’t the Zanny and the meth and all that other shit we’ve been doing. This is the injections I receive each Friday and the red, blue and green pills I’m taking one of each a day.”
Jay gazed at me perplex and then his face became a wrinkled, blood vessels crossed brain, but I went on:
“I’ve noticed changes, ya know… I have these eyes wide open nightmares, ya know, I’m seeing things.”
The brain shrugged, asking me:
“Hey, shall I put that blonde wig or what?”
I closed my eyes and opened them again to turn the brain into a face, but the trick didn’t work. Therefore, I continued:
“What’s happening to me, man? Ya oughtta know, they’re paying yer ass to keep me company.”
Jay’s brain exposed and tempting responded with a question:
“What do you really want, man?”
Jay knows what I want and this is something every man wants: I want to be free. I want my bitch to forgive me and hop behind me and then we’re gonna go to ride low for a while, to reconnect. That’s what I want. I want to be free and have me a bit of laughter with the wind in my face and I don’t want any goddamn Big Bro prying eyes and Friday injections and experiments and medical cabinets filled with plastic boxes filled with pills and supplements and no motherfucking Agency and fusion drills and Big Boobs shrinks telling me to hug the pain away. That’s what I want.
“You look like shit, man. I’m gonna call the guys,” the brain said.
Right then I opened the door fully and before he could escape, I put one arm around his neck and another over his mouth.
“Ya know what I want, bitch!”
And I squeezed till I heard a pop. He remained soft as a rag in my arms and I told him, just so that he got it right this time around:
“I have a goddamn list I’m gonna take care of. And when I’m done with it, I wanna let go and die, unless she tells me not to. That’s what I want.”
See, with all the meth and the fuck talk I forgot to take my green pill. What about the anti-psychotic, plus the sleeping aid, how about the Purified Fish Oil and the Aspirin to prevent heart failure, the Glucosamine & Chondroitin Osteo Bi-Flex for healthy joints and bones, the Multi-minerals for general tonus, the Vitamin C supplement made from organic lemons, the Japanese garlic supplement, the collagen capsules and coenzyme Q 10 supplements to fight free radicals and make me feel younger, the Zetia to inhibit bad cholesterol and keep my blood running smoothly and the Gaviscon against heartburn after the whopper hamburger I had that morning… See how I’m about to ignore all that and submit myself to health hazards? Ha-ha! I don’t know who’s crazier: me or them, thinking they could trick me.
Later on, I stole Mongo’s motorbike and headed straight for Bernstein’s place.
The Zombie Hunter, an original novel by Dianne Winter