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Subject: CODY: THE STAND-IN Chp.5-8
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THE STAND-IN
By Cody Ann Michaels
c. All rights reserved
Chapter 5
Oh god. He beat the shit out of me. Smalhausen's friend came to
town and beat me up. Why? I didn't do nothing to him. Why'd he have to
hurt me?
Smalhausen said he hadn't seen him for a long time. But that's no
excuse. He didn't even know me. Smalhausen said he wanted me to meet
him. I don't know why? I wasn't really interested. But I said okay. A
tall, blond man. He looked right through me. As if I didn't exist. Like
I was invisible. They sat there talking. About old times. Going back
and forth. I tried to look interested. Every once in awhile, Smal would
refer to me. I would smile. Grover would glance at me. Then go on
talking . Then we went to lunch. Afterward, I could barely get up the
stairs.
So how do you figure that's a beating? I can hear Martin saying.
You know there are different levels. Well, Martin doesn't. Maybe Smal
does. He just sat and watched. Grover took me apart.
I lay there on the sidewalk. Dirt on the street. As he walked
away. I hated him. Fucking bastard.
I couldn't move for two days.
Smalhausen fed me soup. I wanted to die. You'll get better, he
said. The second day, I slashed my wrists.
Oh Muse, accept the devotions of thy servant. Muse. Muse. Help
me Muse. Tell me what to say. What to do. Make my life complete. Hear
me, oh Muse, and send me some more of that great stuff.
Yes, dear Muse, send me the smoke, the heroin and the weed. The
crack and the Ice-9. Give me TW-Ecstacy. The A-Train and the
Walk-Around. The speed and the Big D.
Send me the powder and the puff. Acupulco Red. Tobacco Road.
The threshold drugs and the hard stuff. Make me thy servant; make me fly.
Make me rise up and come down hard. Get it for me. I'll do anything.
Whore me at 125th and Lex. Do it man. I need a fix. Pop me, oh Great
Muse. Pimple my arms with gorgeous needles filled with smack and HIV.
Stick it right in my tattoos. Make them bleed. Put it up my ass. In my
tits. Under the arms. In the clit. Oh wondrous pusher of fallen dreams,
angel of dispair and the big hair and lots of junk jewelry and chains and
dog collar and leash and whip and quirt with the glass nubbin whipping my
clit, give me it. I, worthless Cody, submit to your unholy whims. Use
me. Rip me. Tear me apart. I gotta have it man. I'll sell my soul for
a fix.
You already have. What else you got?
He sat there on the edge of the bed. He already knew what.
It's not worth much, but I'll see what I can do.
He gave me some smack.
I never use drugs. I was working the narco squad. We nailed him.
Cody, you a policeman? naaaa. Just a public spirited citizen,
down on her luck. I had to do it. Otherwise, they'd have beaten me with
tire irons, hung some sort of rap on me. I didn't want to do 15 years.
New York's drug laws are worse than the fed s.
You take your life in your hands. Smal said I made the whole
thing up because Grover ignored me. Maybe so. I think he was gay. Smal
said he lived in X, on the island. With his gay lover. Smal says I can't
stand to be ignored. I'll do anything. Ma ybe. Tonight I know I'm hung
over. This is good stuff. I'm flying. I could walk on the roof. The
wall running round it. In high heels. Want to see me? No, Smal said.
How's your mother? Shut up. He didn't really kill her. Or Gran. I
wouldn't h ave minded, but it was all in my head. I climbed out on the
fire escape. Where you going? To the roof. You can't get there from the
fire escape. I'll make it. He was right. I thought there was a ladder
to the top, but there wasn't. We were six flo ors up. I sat down. Smal
said he was going down. He sat down next to me. What's the matter?
Oh Smal, I'm so fucked up. Why does everyone have to be so mean?
You mean Grover?
No. He's a jerk. Everybody!
Like who?
Kelly.
She had a hard life.
Well, so have I.
But you had opportunities she didn't.
Like what?
Well, you got an education. She's a dropout.
But she did drugs.
So did you.
What difference does that make?
You figure it out.
I stood up. It was meaningless. I'm going down.
He followed me. I could hear his steps on the metal fire escape
steps. We crawled back in through the window. What do you want me to
wear? Black leotard. The rest. I dressed slowly. It was true. Kelly
was white trash. I always felt a little bit embarassed when I was with
her. Especially when she had me on a leash and was whipping me. To make
me behave. It was true, I had had a better education. Private school.
Studies abroad. She had dropped out in the ninth grade. Done time. She
had two kids. Two different fathers. I was a successful columnist. My
drawings appeared in Vogue. Cosmopolitan. Having someone like me under
her thumb must have been a real turnon. She walked me up and down the
bar. Who wants her first? I noticed Smalhau sen watching from the
shadows. What did he think? Did this turn him on? Or was he embarassed
like me? Or for me? I had to get into his head.
Why? He didn't mean anything to me. What did I care what he
thought? Or didn't. Maybe he didn't think anything at all. Just
watched. I was so tired. I wanted to lie down. Kelly prodded me. Get
up. Move. I followed her out of the house. We dro ve down town.
Another show. I knew I was going to die.
There was a limousine waiting. I was driven to a house in Rye
where Grover and his friend were waiting. With brass knuckles. They had
a long list of grievances. Against Smalhausen. Apparently. And
apparently they had gotten it through their heads that the best way to
pay him back was through me. Like I was his weak spot. It was a nice
house. Smalhausen's friend did interior design. He set himself up real
good. It was a great place to be beaten to a pulp in.
I saw a good deal of the furniture that night. They really had it
in for Smalhausen. I took in a lot of pain. Especially from Grover. Sid
was even more vicious, but in a quiet sort of way. Subtle. Self-evasive.
I began to remember all the other ti mes Smal had put me between himself
and his pain. Especially with his mother. Now he was doing it again.
The old lady had hated me. I guess I repressed it. She didn't like me
hanging around her son. She wanted him to have a good woman. And I was a
slut. I asked Smalhausen about the crooked saddle. What did he mean? He
had to think. I wrote a poem once. About a donkey with a crooked saddle.
And now it's come back to haunt me. Grover. You know what he reminded me
of, I said. Sunday. The man who was Sunday at the end. When he gets
bigger and bigger. I felt like that. When I was gazing into him. What?
When I was looking at him. Sizing him up. You weren't in any shape to do
it. No. That's true. I did sort of faze out there for awhile . How
weak he is. Who? Sid. Sid wasn't here. Sure he was. He was looking at
you through Grover. Didn't you notice? Sort of.
What kind of a man was he?
I don't know.
Come on, Smal, cut it out. You must remember something. He shook his
head. Well, your hour's up. Come back Tuesday. Okay. Be sort of nice
in the Cotswolds.
Cut it out, Cody. I'm not going.
okay. I just said...
I know what you said and it's irrelevant.
Why don't you ever look at me?
I can't. The light's too strong.
It's dark in here. What do you want for supper?
For twelve years he could have just asked, ever since his father died, and
he always refused. The old lady fed him anyway. He was just an excuse
for her to cook something. Grover and Sid lived in the south of France.
Grover did design work and Sid did something or other. His mother would
ask about them. Do you ever hear from Grover? no. Tha t was the end of
it. She began to talk about the latest medication she was taking to
control her bowel movements. You could hear him banging me against the
trailer side as he listened fitfully. Wham wham wham. You could always
tell when his mother was onto something about her insides because it got
translated through his fists. I was sort of a shield against incoming.
It was like frantic. I never knew anyone who could hit like that. Until
I met Grover. Wow. Talk about Smalhausen. These people w ere on to
something. Maybe it was the fireflies. He brought me fireflies and an
ant. It came running across my keyboard as I was writing. Talk about
bugs. This one was a masterwork of Japanese art. It had diodes out to
here. And these incredible pi ncers. All contained in an object that was
no more than a sixteenth of an inch long. It disappeared into the
keyboard. I didn't think very much of it at the time, but later when I
turned out the lights, I saw the fireflies. There were dozens of them.
Floating about the dark room. Like stars. But not wham wham stars. That
I had to get hit to see. Real glowing objects. Lighting up the room in
odd places. Fireflies. Where do you get fireflies in Manhattan, I
wondered. Then I remembered. Smalhau sen's friend. They must have
ridden in on his jacket. And then I remembered the ant. Something was
up. But what?
Smalhausen was out of it. Smal? Who was Smal, anyway? I seemed
to vaguely remember reading something about him. But what? They broke me
to their discipline. There in the Alps. I was falling into a deep
cravass. House of Smal. What is it? Where? Smal's House of Varieties.
Walk right in. Boardwalk. Chelsea. Battersea. Smal's House of
Potatoes. Get it right. Selling sputs on the street to make a buck.
fuck who cares. hissssssissss
golem
down my golden slippers.
hatessss isssss
won't come out. puppets away there in the dark.
you used me, Smal. I should hate you for that.
Maybe that's what I'm supposed to do. Hate you.
?What's it feel like?
a tumor
malignant
infected
the way it hurts
my arm
yes
I don't feel it but I know it's there.
it got in under your skin
the red mark
what are you going to do about it?
nothing
if it's there, it's there.
What about chemotherapy?
It's just a scratch.
We could use shock therapy
get away from me.
I have this internal deadline I have to make.
when the dna runs out and the brain goes squishy.
Where's your brain now?
She had to think. Left shoulder blade.
What's it doing?
Playing around with my neck.
It'll be like a spa.
It will not. It...
You don't know, do you?
no
You got to let it ride, man.
Let your brain flow.
It's got to get out of its box
and rock
or it rots
You've got to move off dead center
flow on out.
Kelly called.
uh what did she want
to see if you got here alright. She was concerned.
About her fee, I suppose.
Don't be that way. Slap.
What way do you want me to be?
Sid.
Smal, I said, you're doing it to yourself. Ditch the old lady. But he
never listened. She needed him. From way I saw it, the old woman needed
him about as much as she needed a sixth tit. I forgot to mention, she has
five of them. It's no big deal. Lots of old women in the trailer park
have them. Gran had four before she had three taken off. It was just
before my Dad died. I guess she thought she didn't need as many any more.
Gran's like Wotan. She's blind in one eye and the other is pretty str
eaky. But she sees enough to get around. And participate in the Indy.
Oldest woman on the circuit. But Smal's ma is pretty fast, too. She'll
outlive us all. I know it. Look at Gran. She's already killed my father
and half the Luftwaffa. They fly circles around the camp. Like
fireflies. Straffing the motor court. It gets annoying sometimes. Old
Nazis make great target practice. Gottedemerung it's not.
Mr. Mulhaney across the road was gundownned a couple of days ago in one of
these fly byes. Also it breaks the windows and makes the dogs go crazy.
Are we coming in, please? Smalhausen get down. Geez. This is
rediculous. You saved my life. Forget it . Do you know what Smal's
gratitude is? I didn't need his sticky jelly. Oh, but I did. I ate it
up. Too bad you're a girl. Afterwards, she was satisfied. Didn't matter
where it happened. Action at a distance, if you know what I mean. Smal
and his mum. Feeding off him. Through me.
*
THE STAND-IN
By Cody Ann Michaels
c. All rights reserved
Chapter 6
In Smalhausen's studio, the smell of oil paint is overpowering. I
think he gets off on it. I should put in some serious disclaimers here.
I do not and never have used drugs, not even to not inhale. So please
don't bust my door down with your police d ogs and those big shields you
hide behind when when... Oh, this is too stupid. Forget it. What is
this stuff? Turpentine. Wow! How about this? Chlorox. Yeah? And
this? My armpit. Jesus. You're a trip.
Like I said. Forget it. You got a match?
So they got Andrew C. What an asshole. In a year, he will be as
memorable as the guy who shot John Lennon. Already I can't remember his
name. I have to write my column. It was due a half hour ago. Thank god
for the internet. Now they have this thi ng in Geneva where you can write
something and have it arrive before you write it. Or even think of it.
It's not exactly on line yet, but it will be soon. No shit. I used to
have a boy friend at CERN. For the purposes of this article, I will call
him Kyle. He was a foot fetishist. He was also one of the most sadistic
persons I have ever met. His stories, which were as long and windy as
deSade's, tended to be very complex. Me, I like to keep things simple,
unembellished, if you know what I mean. But, he also wrote a series, what
did he call them, short episodes of stuff he dreamed up to do to me. They
were extremely intense. We had a running battle over whether whatever it
was was going to be with my shoes on or off. I liked to torment him by
refusing to take off my boots. It made him even more inventive. I'm not
sure if he was in on this "action at a distance" thing or not, but it
sounds like something he would know about. I miss him.
Ordinarily, I try to keep my column and my other writing separate,
but tonight I'm in a bind. No. I'm not tied up. That comes later. I
mean, I'm just conflicted. There's so much pulling on me. Smal wants me
to pose. He says I can write while I do it. But then he wants to talk,
and I can't think.
I can't think now. I wonder if this stuff rots the brain. Like
they say it does. I wonder what I did with those disks with Kyle's stuff
on it. We were together in 95. On the old computer. I wonder if they
caught him?
Wow, I never realised, I never separated out my stories from
Kyle's. There must be another whole book here. "Passions." That was it.
His word. I think he got it from some French philospher.
This stuff is pretty raw. I wouldn't recommend it for children.
Here's one of the milder "passions". (Don't do this at home):
"He stakes a girl out with croquet hoops in the middle of his
lawn, then proceeds to trim the grass around her. Inititally, he uses a
strimmer, whose plastic cutting thread is whirled around at high speed.
This causes severe welts where it hits the girl 's flesh, sometimes
cutting through right to the bone where the flesh is thin, particularly
around her ribs.
"He tut-tuts over the state of the lawn and informs her that he'll
have to bring out something more powerful. Ignoring her pleas, he gets out
a hovering lawnmower and proceeds to run it across the helpless girl's
body in strips across her, starting with a strip at her feet and finishing
off by cutting her hair. Then he tups his wife on the grass next to the
butchered girl while the insects feed upon her. He whispers in his wife's
ear that one day he'll do the same to her as he shoot his fuck into her
slack cunt."
Well, that's Kyle for you. "Tut-tuts over the state of the
lawn..." Can you imagine? What a pris. As I say, he wrote dozens of
these vignettes. I enjoyed them, but his chief allure was that he
inspired my own writing, edging me further and further i nto the unknown.
I'd completely forgot about this episode with Courtney. I'll have to do
something with these. Kyle, honey, where are you now? Did you fall into
that thingy that makes the things go round and round? Did you ever find
the ultimate smal l thing? Is that why they eventually discovered time
travel in the Alps? I've got to focus. This is boring.
I hate posing. Especially these poses Smalhausen hangs me up in.
I was telling him about Kyle. He looked vaguely interested. Smal doesn't
know about particle physics. You wouldn't think something would be so
small it didn't exist, would you? That w ould be the void. I beg pardon.
You don't understand. The big bang is now. It's not something that
happened a long time ago. We are continually coming into existence. The
galaxies that we see out there are the places we no longer exist. They
are me mories. Hold still. It's not like he can draw or anything. He
just uses it as an excuse to have a naked woman in the room. Although
most of the time, he makes you wear clothes. Not something like you would
want to wear to church unless your lover mad e you, but something that
makes you feel worse than naked. Thong. Garter belt. Stockings. Etc.
The works. Fishnet body stocking. If he could draw the way I look, he
would be rich. Instead, he's an artist. He keeps trying to draw
pornography, and it always comes out as art. What'd you say this stuff
was? Butyl nitrate. Wow! Stars. Fireflies. My heart stopped. Big
bang. On top of all the other stuff. They use it in paint remover.
Everything is so crapped up. I want to sleep. Maybe I sho uld edit one
of my stories for Kyle.
*
In a note, he wrote:
"feeling when we had to hurt you. I do not consider hurting you a
necessity: it is a luxury, a pleasure beyond compare. I do not HAVE to
hurt you, I want to hurt you. I will savour your pain and your reactions
as your body bucks and writhes at my touch."
I set him straight:
Oh yes, you do have to hurt me, Kyle. Make no mistake. That's
why you're here. What you want has nothing to do with it. But that, too,
is why you're here.
We must talk. Kyle, honey, you are about as close to being a
serial killer as Grapenuts is to Wheaties. It's not going to happen. So
forget it. Just get over it. It's boring. Put a sock in it. I'm sorry.
I had to tell you. Kyle, it's programming . You're programmed to think
you're Ted Bundy. But Bundy is dead. And I know the guy he reincarnated
in. And it's not you. He's an assistant prosecutor who cross dresses.
Who lives in Clearwater. I thought I should tell you. I know how much
you li ke being sick, I mean, in the head, but the fact is, you're normal.
Point two, have I ever been squicked? What kind of word is that?
Yes. What did you say? "Have you ever come across something that someone
has wanted to do to you that actually squicked you? Something which you
didn't find exciting at all? (Quickly) P lease, you don't have to tell me
what it is if the answer is yes."
Yes. Some guy in Washington wanted to eat me. No. Not that way.
I mean, he really wanted to eat me. All up. As they say in fairy
stories. So I wrote back and asked if he was going to skin and cook me
first? I thought it might be something really good. And he said, no, he
was just going to eat me. Starting -- he must have been related to you --
with my feet, he always started with the feet, and go all the way to my
head. "Without even tenderizer?" I wrote back, thinking the dream could
still be salvaged. Naw. He was just going to eat me. All I had to do
was say go. So I thought, why not? And the next thing I get is a
description of him eating me. Gross.
The thing is, he was so nice about it, I didn't want to hurt his
feelings, so I sent him a little story about how it was our first date and
he had invited me over to his house for dinner, which turned out to be a
converted butcher shop with the meathooks still hanging from the ceiling,
and I was dressed in the cutest little outfit, it was sort of like a
yellow skating costume with lots of stiff petticoats under the short skirt
and extremely low cut, and ... oh, but I'm making your temperature go up.
Sor ry. Anyway, he wrote back and said he didn't go in for a lot of the
stuff I wrote, but he would try since he liked me so much, and just wanted
to eat me again. I could tell we were not made for each other. I mean,
the guy had no class. A dish like Chl oe would have been wasted on him.
Oh, by the way, your story ideas are great. I wonder if I might
impose one constriction. Please, from now on, write in the third person
singular when referring to me, and in the past tense. I find stories in
the second person present that go you you you all the time, extremely
annoying. In fact, it's a good thing I'm not a dominatrix, or you would
have been punished long ago. Do you understand?
Where are you recuperating? In X? Perhaps in your feverish
dreams, my face will appear. You'll feel my body struggling under yours.
Your hands will tighten on my throat...
Your wife will say, "Wake up, Kyle, you're having a nightmare."
I will be gone, but you will lie there in the dark, still feeling
my body with yours on top of it. And you'll begin to remember...
The flat Utah desert and the road running through it. And the
girl hitchhiker. Picking her up out here in the middle of nowhere shd
lets take a break,. Okay. We'll go in here. Okay. He pushed her
through the doorway. No telling what's behind that door. she thought as
she programmmed the new computer setting up new wave patterns betw2een
here and C\ardiff You get it?
I'm here. Or yu are. who are yyu she asked through wswollen
lip0s he had never thought before sje tpicj him Oh, yu sepeak elsh? she
hadn't realized.
He answer her:
What is ths? don't take no for an answer
get u[p lsut hyoiewreee"?
he said.
but she commenced to give him her garters in the old pub
when tom gilhooley walked in and saidk, what are you doing
and he pulled down her skirt
As he put on the high heels for the first time.
Kyle, what are you doing?
Go back to sleep.
There are as many words as you need to define pain and suffering, if you
will just listen to me and don';t areguege
'
Wench!
he called
to her
down
the
stairs
did she get it?
Whjat/;
Don't speakpolsa
he
Kyle, are you all right? Don't answer. Just nod.
Hawking. You're Hawking.
The bird came back to him. And perched on his shoulder. Just an idea.
Whishdajamean? he answer. not knowing whjat copmes next.
which is breath
Image a bonk>
A bonk is a beast if the priesstg saiosdfyagdg eag
I hta thoopwruapogaegiaergaro9ysaoivjaer'gear
geqrpgfu 3wpoj w;lae;gba p'ovbjawpofi'[ofjlvcaeqeql;j
qeo;af120p7430;7zs[v/ OY`1 0O8NQE/T8 WR5[-B45-[2
OIO234UUAgfuiytrthujumkeruirtom-.afuxqa543
=-502I
HOLDI IT MY KYBOD IS SNASGUBG UB^TI THE MISTY ISLES FORGET IT!
i'M NOT GOING BACI'
yOU ARE AND YOU KNOW IT
Fuck the jews.
Now Kwaellllyll we weerjearge dfbopmcom cmence the birtheday suit
Cody Blooweredfedfsef
Bumpt into seminix
out there calling
to you
on the
thign or don'tts wsay thtat.
This is what I've been waiting for.
Kyweeelllelellelellelelelelelelelelelelelelelelele
Cabin H. They're in CabinH.
Tell Karin to call the Interstate. I don't know. Just do it.
By the time the police got there. they wre gone
must of just been imagining it. Let it slide. It's going down. Fedd it
through pusssy;g
ag iokd puyssy
Hawakaka kylellic.
Cody knuckled down now and let him have it full throttle. What they did,
Kywell is hook up a link between Waxahatchie and Cern. Get it? The
tunnels are still therek, kkyweell, come and get it.
Kylel, what are you doing?
I don't know.
He was standing in the middle of the bed with his sword drawn. Mandy had
never seen him like this before. It was as if he were possesssed. What
you do, Kywell is you bat it back and forth. The particle. You bat the
particle between Geneva and Texas. Of course, you have to bounce it off a
spaceship to get it there. But thaT JUST MAKES PARTICLE RESEARCH THAT
MUCH MORE INTERESTING.
Remember, Kywelllll
*
That was just a short piece. I forgot about it. Chloe was one of
Kyle's playmates. Research assistants. If you know what I mean. We had
a good time together. Courtney on my end. Chloe on his. Particle
research can be very fascinating. Especially when you're doing action at
a distance. Let me try to explain. I would do something to Court on my
end, and Kyle would see if the same thing happened to her sister on his.
Get it? At the same time. Exactly. No speed of light stuff. Like, as
far as I was concerned, before. And then he would do something to Chloe
back. Chloe and Courtney are what people like Kyle call entangled twins.
For all intents and purposes, they're the same girl. Except they have
been split. Courtney on my end. Chloe in Europe. See? We'd been
working on this for some time.
Naturally, I was honored to be asked to participate. My father
was a graduate of MIT in animal husbandry, so it was nice to return to the
corridors of academia. We staked Courtney out in a massage parlor on West
45th Street. I don't know the logistics at Kyle's end. Then we began to
experiment.
Here. This will give you some example. From the workbook:
"Number 9:
"He collars her in and chains her in a kneeling position, then
uses clamps attached to stout rods rising from the floor to grasp her
eyelids and force her eyes open. He leaves her like this for some hours
and by the time he returns the girl's eyes are s o dry that she can barely
see and so painful that it feels as though they are on fire. He asks if
she'd like a little moisture on her dry eyeballs. When she agrees, he
turns a spigot that allows small drops of acid to fall onto the girl's
eyes. He rapes her while the acid slowly eats its way into her brain."
Well, in this case, I was the one who had to collar Courtney. You
can't imagine the trouble she gave me. I was wondering if he was getting
the same flack back in Europe from her sister. Were both girls acting
insane, like they were completely out of t heir minds? They were English.
15. Big sexy blonde girls. They had both been fashion models. Kyle had
a thing for models. He was crazy about them. I think his wife was one.
But she didn't go in for bondage. That's why he came to me. So he could
get what he couldn't get at home. She wouldn't even help him with his
experiments. In the backyard toolshed. Like most of my English clients,
he liked to putter around. It was quite a hookup he had there. He sent
me complete plans to make a duplicate . My God! I had to build that! I
don't know a hammer from a nailfile. Well, I can tell a nailfile. But a
hammer is a little more subtle. Couldn't I just stick it in her eye? No.
It's got to be the same. Exactly. Fucking tinker toy. And it had t o be
done by Christmas. Because that's when the girls were going on holiday.
What girls? The two Lemon sisters. Pay attention. Haven't you heard
what I've been telling you? Oh yeah. Right. The Lemons. One was coming
here. And one was coming to, where did he say he was calling from?
Genoa. Geneva, damnit. Oh yeah. How was I supposed to know they weren't
the same? What's her name again? Courtney. Oh, right. Needs a place to
stay. Friend of Kyle's. Got it.
Then what?
It's all in the book, he said. Just follow the instructions.
Yeah. Right. Strap her down. This way? I think so. Which one is this.
Number... 16. I read it. Courtney was screaming so loud from what we did
to her clit, I couldn't think.
"This man's passion, which was once in his youth to freeze a girl
with ice cubes has now refined it by thrusting her unprotected feet into a
vat of liquid nitrogen. The girl's flesh naturally freezes solid in an
instant, but he is careful to remove them quickly so that the blood
flowing down towards her extremities is so cooled by the iced flesh that
she perishes in minutes from hypothermia. He encunts her continuously
during this time, taking pleasure in snapping her frozen toes from her
feet as he does so."
You got the dry ice. If he thinks I'm going to fool around with
liquid nitrogen, he's nuts. Presumably at the same time, the same thing
was happening to Chloe on the other side of the Atlantic. Courtney said
she didn't know any Chloe. Your sister. I don't have a sister. But your
name is Courtney. So? She had it on a little gold chain around her neck.
It said "Courtney." So how was I to know it was the wrong Courtney. I
wondered if that would affect the experiment. You know what, he said
Chloe acted exactly the same way. And he was using the real stuff. So
that shows that action at a distance is possible. He got the Nobel Prize
for that one.
And I didn't get anything. Well, I got to watch Courtney die.
But I would have liked some recognition to go with it. My 15 minutes of
fame. After all, Andrew C. got his name in the paper over Versace. They
had pictures of him all over town. I would have liked that. At the end,
the golden sabers ripped him apart. Just like Gianni. He gave himself a
final blowjob. Funny. Makes you think. Anticipatory there on the floor,
kneeling, holding the gun in his mouth. Thumb squeezing back on the
trigge r. Nice hair. Nice place to die. Nice houseboat there on Indian
Creek. Two stories. A balcony. Looking over the water from a bedroom
with sliding glass doors. SeeSaw.
Transparent curtains.
Wow. Her head opened up like a coconut. Not. Not what? Her.
m me court kne
they took her apart and put her back together in the shop
she doubled.
pop
and a high fly ball over the west fence with Martha's face on it.
outtatheballpark
girls can play games with boys
that boys don't understand
until it's all over
and your testicles are hanging on someone's hood ornament
sure take her she's mine whiopped her around and threw her into another
man's arms. he took her home. And that's what we want to know about.
What happened next? I'm dead. Don't tempt me. She wrote hard, crisp
images that hovered on the mind like a copter coming in to drop balm
she saw it and ran
they were too fast for her
she didn't make it
it was like kerosene
we poured it over her
like you said
and left her there
in the road, burning
What happened on your side?
Amazing.
They must be linked.
oh yeah. She's still alive
we have her in the next room.
I'll send you the video.
Now what?
The experiment lasted several days at the end of which the girls
were sent home. They were warned not to tell. Ida said this and Asa said
that. On and on. It got boring after awhile. Is anybody listening?
The watchers of the ward.
Take one.
Leave the other.
Entangled twins.
Now put it in here. I had to have Rod do that. He fucked that girl good.
Just like you did. Yeah. She's here. We got her. Thanks for sending
her home. She went upstairs and exploded. Girl flesh all over Battersea.
I had the same result at Laguna Beach. Courtney reacted exactly the same
way. Can you imagine. It wasn't a question. It was a warning. She
began to buzz. Screaming around her gag. Now what? You put the needle
in between her clitoris and .... what's this word? Uterus. You got the
wire clippers? Poor Chloe. He was doing it all himself. I at least had
Rod to hold Court down while I played with her. I supposed he'd used
restraints of some sort. Those little wiry things, perhaps. The Swiss
are very good about these things. But then I remembered, he wasn't Swiss
but X. That information is restricted. I should have known. A real
killer. He's coming for me now. I knew what he was up to. He wanted to
control me through Courtney. Isn't that right, you fucking cunt licker?
He said yes. I forgot to ask what sex Chloe was. I wondered if it was
important. Grasp the diodes... What diodes. He didn't send any diodes.
I think he means these things. They were some kind of clamp. For
clipping paper together. In this case, it was supposed to go on Chloe's
... I thought you said you were Courtney. I am. I mean, for all intents
and purposes... Don't give me that shit? Is you or ain't you Courtney
Lemon. Brown. What? My name is Courtney Brown. Horse, you stupid ass,
you got the wrong woman.
Didn't matter. She screamed just the same. Kyle was very pleased.
You know, you're in big trouble if you print that. This ain't
Arkansas. It's California. Where are you going? The bathroom. This is
all going on public access all the time. Nobody listens. These chicks
are real. This is a real video. Boring, isn 't it? Can I borrow your
compact. Sure. Hand it over. It goes on for hours. No one watches.
Because it's so boring. Like who cares what I do to Courtney if it
doesn't cost a jillion dollars, I don't want to know. And this is like
totally free. Pe ople would rather spend a hundred dollars to go to a
massage parlor where they can peep through a keyhole at two chicks doing
it in the other room, then watch the same thing on tv for nothing. We're
there every night. Balling old Courtney. She's gettin g pretty ragged
now. Which in some ways makes her worse. Before this, she was a
debutante. And you know what they're like. But now she's just plain fuck
meat. Aren't you, Court? Answer me, shithead? y yes mistress Cody.
Wouldn't you like to be doi ng that, Cody, treating some asshole chick
like they treat you? WHAM WHAM WHAM. Hit her again, Cody. Go on. Do
it. I'm telling you. It's in the book. Pretend she's you, Cody, and you
are doing it to her, what got done to you. Go on. What are you waiting
for? I said to hurt her. Do it, or I'll... I pulled the trigger. I saw
Courtney all the way through to that laboratory in Zurich where they had
her small blonde muffin sister tied down on a worktable, and what they
were doing to her. And adjusted my own readings accordingly. We were in
sync. Is that kool? Is that w ay coooool. We did it. Slap hands.
SeeSaw. The two sisters sang in their chains. Turn up the pitch. Way
past Jupiter. Give it another notch. Not too much. Cut it back. What
do you have on the radio? KCR. Cool jazz. Le Jazz Hot. Lights flicke
red in the coffee shops around X. They blew a fuse.
The Action at a Distance Stabilizer was soon in effect. In fact,
you can download it from http://www.exlac/up.her.twat. Castor oil enema.
Works like silk. Hold the bucket. Both girls were giving shit like cows.
Kyle cracked a joke about being utterly devastating. I winced. It can
get hairy around the lab.or.tory. Or, as he puts it, the la bore a labor.
Get it. Lab or, instead of tory. Right, Kyle. Shut up. I think we're
getting significant yields to get a result, don't you? Yes, Kyle. Can I
let her go to the bathroom now? No. Hold her en utero, so to speak. I
wondered if he knew what en utero meant. He lik ed to use all these fancy
big words to impress me. Mother fuck. I hated his guts. I was getting
pretty tired of Courtney, too. I held her by the throat before I let her
go. If you tell anyone, you little shit, I'll ... I had to think. What
would be worse than what we'd just done to her? Make you sit in a chair
and listen to Kyle's stupid jokes, I wanted to say, "have you back again.
And this will be just practice." I let her go. She staggered up the
alley, holding her skirt around her. "Come o n, Larry," I said. "Let's
go home. It's been a long night." "My name's Kyle." Oh yeah. Right.
Suppose she tells.
She won't. I have the videos.
The next night she came back for more. Mrs. Tarkington. Society
dame. Slumming. In high heels. And a mousy hairdo. This needs some
working on. Like the queen's. You got to take her out. Catwoman.
Leopard Lady. They were all gunning for her. Super shit. Bounty. Then
what? I had to finish the story. We turned her into a slut. And sent
her uptown where her pals could see her. Might see her. But that wasn't
enough, was it? We wanted her to really suffer. So we arranged to have
her on ca ll when her husband came for a session. It was very romantic.
She had to do everything she was told to do. That she had always refused
him in bed. Or someone would do it while he watched. And enjoyed the
spectacle of his old lady being fucked in the back room. Down at the bar.
The roadhouse. Where he and his buddies hung out. She came in there
looking for a pickup, while he watched. In that dress. Those heels. All
the stuff she wouldn't wear for him. Because she wasn't that way. She
sure was n't. She was a slut tramp. Through and though. Pure white
trash. Oh, hi, Joe. Didn't know you were here. Was this his idea or
hers? He wondered. What did Cody say? Fuck it or forget it. Those are
words of wisdom coming from a child like that. P ure heaven. A miracle.
A break though. Courtney screamed. You could hear her all the way to
Bell Atlantic. Chloe was skiing in the Alps. I thought they were
supposed to be together. It was her idea. They switched passports. This
is the wrong girl . How can you tell? The fingerprints don't match. Uh
oh. Forgot about that. If they have different prints, they're not
identical. Let me see. They match! A miracle. We were saved. I think
he fudged the data. It wasn't an exact match. Deep in t he dna there
were subtle differences. But not enough to affect the outcome of the
experiment. At least not in these circumstances. What circumstances?
This desk, for instance. It wasn't in the exact place. As what? The
other. He gave it away. The research. Wouldn't take a penny. Although,
afterwards, he wondered if he had done the right thing. Relinguishing
control, like that. This was pure research. Suppose we use a clone next
time. You mean, split the clone?> Exactly. It takes it to ano ther
level. Would Courtney's clone react the same as Courtney? Technically
they're the same. Without the genetic mismatch that obtained in the other
two pairs. Between Courtney and Chloe and Claude and Cloris. If we can
keep this going, we can obtain fusion by nine hundred hours. It's just a
simple buildup of the net until it splits. And becomes two cells. Then
the bonding takes over and the men match up with the females and they all
come out. What does? All of them. What do you mean? Their ma ggots
crawl out and eat them. Don't watch. This is very exciting. Do you have
the specs on that? Just something I whipped up in my garage. My God,
man, do you know what this is? It's a real lemming. On it's way to the
sea. I thought they were exti nct. They are now.
Wow, where'd you say that came from?
The Bronx.
It smells like an armpit.
Of course, it is. We milk them dry. And sell it in little yellow
bottles with a red flash on them. Eau de armpitio. Very popular. Wear
that, and you'll really bring them in. p.u. When did you have a bath
last?
I mean, the olifactory nerve takes a beating in New York. Sweat.
Crotch sweat. Bowling ball factory slaves work in quarters under the
world trade building. you never know what's down there, do you? She's
getting close. Take her out. A swat team ki cked down her door. The
girl was dragged kicking and screaming from the apartment. Cody watched
as her head banged down stairs. Cops are mean. She hurt her leg.
They're down there under the city. I mean, why should I have to go all
the way to Siam f or an Adidas? They can do it here. Basketballs. We
got basketballs. Look at those knockers. Want to feel? I couldn't give
it away. My spine was a mass of trauma. My brain was stuck up my ass.
Don't be a dummy like me.
Okay. Cody Cupcakes. You can step down now. I couldn't move.
He had kept me in a pose for six hours. What kind of numerology is that?
I couldn't tell. The computer was fluctuating with the current. She held
her data well. Mission control. Come in M.C. You guys still there?
We're doing the space walk now. Mission Control, release air. They
controlled it from the earth. That way they didn't overuse it. Each
Cosmonaut got to breathe every ten minutes. But the Astronaut was allowed
one whene ver he wanted it because he was a guest. Just ask. Don't be
afraid. Anytime. Go ahead. Take one. We're fine. Thank you. We're
used to it. You need to keep up your strength. Everything will be fine.
Breathe. Breathe deeply. Because of the stri ngent air conditions, they
eventually withered to a third their nomal size. They looked like two
little old monkeys. In ill-fitting suits. He, too, began to lose weight.
And wither. He looked bad. You okay, compadre? Yeah. Sure. I'm fine.
Don't worry about me. Good old American knowhow. What's it like living
with a woman for three months? And not be able to touch her. She's a
Nazi. Or share her around? Have one. It's imported. From earth. They
savored the mild aroma. Try this one? She 's Chinese. Women were meant
to please. Each had acquired heightened senstitivies. but not the same
ones. Claw had webbed feet. And Space had a hump. Paul was Humphrey
Bogard. He looked just like him. Except he was left handed. We forgot
about le ft hand right hand. What is she? I'll check. Do the
chromosomes match on the handedness gene? We have a positive result.
What does that mean? In terms of darkness. Can you see in the dark,
Raoul? We. His twin. Both attuned to the space winds. Y ou have to be
all natural. Otherwise, it won't work. He wanted to get his stuff out of
there. Where the comet hit. Just before the meltdown. And the only way
was to go in there and get it. But what kind of excuse could he make?
What was the protoco l for an internal spacewalk? Hi. Get off my
airtube. Something like that. In Russian, there was a ritual. All other
practices were verboten. Are you ready to die for this, K.?
*
Note: The information for the "action at a distance" experiment
came from Tuesday's New York Times. I don't make this stuff up, you know.
*
THE STAND-IN
By Cody Ann Michaels
c. All rights reserved
Chapter 7
I noticed there was a dichotomy between Kyle and Smalhausen -- or
seemed to be. I wondered how they would get along. The one big
difference, of course, was that while Kyle was real, Smalhausen was not.
He was a figment of my imagination; a character I had made up out of bits
and pieces from the various ineffectual men who had floated through my
life. Among them were the Widow Smalhausen's son, and the man living
across the hall who was always watching me. He was an artist, and I did
pose for him onc e or twice, but there was more to the character of
Smalhausen than just that. At least, I wanted to think so. I was still
working on him. Why? I wanted him to tell me something. Something that
I couldn't get from other people, men like Kyle or Joe or even Martin.
But exactly what, I'm not sure. If I had known, there would have been no
need to invent him, would there? The problem was, once I had created
Smal, I could not go any further. I seemed to have hit a wall. I was
stumped.
Smal was not a man who liked to beat women up. But I think he
liked to think about it. He read my stories and often commented on them.
He was in his fifties. He had been sick once and walked with two canes.
He had a nice face. We became friends whe n he was attending a summer art
project in New England where I was modeling. These were like bits and
pieces of information that I pulled out of my grabbag of notes to put him
together, sort of like Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz. I'm trying to
remember what Scarecrow needed? A heart? A brain? Guts? No. That was
the lion. A dick? Balls? I never slept with him, so I don't know.
Smalhausen needed legs. He could walk, but not very well. He was
incredibly slow.
Not that being crippled is so bad, but he also complained
endlessly. Chiefly about not having a woman. And not wanting one because
he was so old and tired and slow he couldn't keep up with one if he had
her. You can see how boring he was.
But then, that's the way I had made him. A boring Frankenstein.
Maybe from his own point of view, he wasn't so bad. I wondered.
You see, I didn't know how to go any further. In the past, I'd
relied on guys who beat me up or trashed me in different ways. Guys and
chicks like Kelly. Dealing with someone who treated me okay was a
different ball game. Not that Smalhausen didn't h ave ideas. Or his
hands were clean. You should have seen the pictures. Like my worst
nightmare. Well, no. He wasn't that good. But you could see what he was
groping for. He just didn't know how to do it. He had pictures of guys
hitting chicks. Bu t they weren't very believable. Not like Stanton or
Eneg, the artists from the fifties who he admired. He had tons of their
work. On the other hand, they, his pictures, had their own brand of
grittiness. There was something brutal and clumsy about the way he
portrayed a girl face down in the mud, her hands wired behind her back.
Red dress torn and hiked up over her big ass cheeks. Some trees and a
house in the distance. One was called, "After the Prom." Another girl in
a woodshed. His vistas were lonely, out of the way places. The girl was
usually alone, although she seemed to be looking at someone just out of
the picture, with fear or anger. Or disgust. Someone who might be
dangerous. The girls on their bellies weren't looking. Their faces were
often turned away. He called these pictures his "Death of Soul"
paintings, as if that somehow justified them.
He said the woman was the woman inside himself. That they were
self portraits. All men, he said, have a woman they carry around inside
themselves. The other half of their genes, that don't get manifested.
They...
He talked bullshit. I didn't understand most of it. I figured
the pictures were his way of playing with himself. Some men look at
Playboy. Smalhausen was making his own home brew.
That's all he drew. Women. Usually in some kind of distress.
And masks. He would sometimes draw or paint animal masks. Then he said
he could not feel the woman within and he was trying to get in touch with
her. She had left him, as if she were a re al person, someone who had a
separate life of her own. He had a lot of these middle class,
intellectual bullshit ideas about native myths and spiritual practices.
The Indians, he said, had called the woman Changing Woman and Spider
Grandmother. But his women never changed. He never drew old women
either. Just young, pretty redheads. Like me. He was nuts about
redheads. I wondered if I was a blonde would he even talk to me?
Although he had another friend, Teresa, who was a blonde. He told her all
the same bullshit. I wonder if even he believed it.
Personally, I think he was trying to compensate for being
crippled. And alone. So he invented a world of redheaded women. Just
like I invented him. I wondered if they talked to him. Or did he talk to
them? I mean, he wouldn't have to explain to his women what they were,
the other half of himself, etc., that bullshit. Because they would
already know, wouldn't they? What would he say to them when he was
putting one on a dildo pole? Impaling her? Drawing cuts and bruises on
her pink skin? Making a line and a purple smudge when her eye had been
blackened shut? If he made them, did he have to explain? Most of the
guys who beat me up never said why. I don't think they gave a damn what I
thought.
One day while Smal was drawing me, Teresa told him about a video
she had rented about three girls who get back at the guy who raped a
friend of theirs and made her suicide. He didn't seem interested. They
had smashed his new car and written "rapist" al l over it, scratching it
in the paint. Then they did something to another evil guy, and something
to someone else. Teresa wanted me to see it.
Yeah, I thought, that would make a good movie, but then the girls
would get caught, and you know what would happen then. Yeah. This really
is a world where women get beat up a lot. And you know what kind of
motive wrecking some guy's Cadallac would be to a guy? Oh God. I could
just see it. Feel it. I don't want to think.
To be truthful, I don't want to think, tonight at all. Someone
was here for a session this afternoon, and I'm not feeling so good. I
wanted to write something though. Now I don't know what.
Too hot. Got a fever.
Maybe later.
Some guy who's old lady wrecked his car. Her and her friends.
Stinking bitches. If they'd fixed him any more, I wouldn't be able to
walk. What'd he have to take it out on me for? Story idea. Work on it.
Now I have to write another story. I got another letter from this
guy in Cleveland, the one I wrote about in my column:
"OK, no one ever accused CODY of being coy.
Your fame is a twisted one. One of your
stories was used in a Political Analysis
Senior Seminar. It was supposed to be a
Bad Example of how Political thought can
get distorted.
"Your other major claim to fame is a vicious
rumor that you really do like a good whipping.
So some of your stories were analyzed doing
a Noam Chomsky word frequency anaylsis to see
if your stories supported the rumors.
"This is all weird stuff, totally out of your
control and I hope it does not adversely affect
your continuing to write the best, most independent
minded sex stories on the net."
*
I promise it won't affect me; I'll still be the same innoncent,
unaffected waif men know and love. But it did give me an idea:
Good morning students. This morning we have a special treat. As
you know, in the past weeks, we have been studying the writings of the
Nobel laureate, Cody Ann Michaels. Today, she has consented to be with us
in person and make herself available for y our questions. Ms. Michaels,
or shall we call you, Cody?
"Thank you, Professor. Cody will be fine."
Whatever the students of Twisted Logic 101 expected America's
teenage sex queen to look like, the tall young woman who stepped to the
rostrum did not exactly fit the specifications.
Dressed impeccably in a navy blue unfitted Prada suit that gave
little indication of the body beneath, her red hair was pulled back in a
severe bun. She could have been any of the fifteen year old female
professors and research assistants who populated the large university.
Cody was already famous as the first internet writer to win the Nobel
prize, largely on the strength of her autobiographical novel, MY STRUGGLE,
which had been a runaway best seller in Germany, taking the Plume de
Pilsner at the Mun ich Book Fair, before it was suppressed for various
political reasons, making her a cause de celebre among literatti
elsewhere. Musollini's granddaughter had embraced her. Cody was non
plussed. Lot's of women came onto her.
Anyway, she was now struggling to redeem her life, by dressing
down, and trying to be relevant. The modestly dressed young woman who
faced the class this morning gave no sign or indication that she had once
been a notorious, leather clad street tart and pain sex addict. Except
for a few wisps of hair that had come loose and fell over her forehead,
she was totally in control. Aren't you, Cody?
The skirt was also a little short. And slit up the side. But as
she was standing in front of the podium, rather, in back of it, behind it,
no one could notice. Except the Prof, who she was aware kept looking at
her. They had met at a party. At Smalh ausen's. In Smalhausen's studio.
He had said how he used her book in his class. Or something. That she
wrote. She forgot which. Maybe he hadn't said. Her hands shook as she
held the papers for her lecture. Would she like to speak to his class?
Hi. She said. A bit nervous. All those faces. Staring at her.
What was she going to talk about? Being a writer. How hard it was. In
the 90s. What her ideals were? The 21st Century. Looking ahead. Making
a better world. Violence against women . The economy. Were there any
questions?
One kid raised his hand. Yes? Is it true you really like to get
your ass whipped?
Oh God. They all ask that. She pushed the hair out of her face.
The movement seemed to dislodge more. She put her hand back to adjust the
bun. Touching it. The movement raised her jacket. They saw the sheer
she had on underneath. The tiny bra. She said no.
Another girl raised her hand. Have you ever been beaten up?
Yes.
Is it true your father raped you?
Yes.
Why didn't you report him?
I was afraid. He was running for....
What about your brother?
She started to walk back and forth. The skirt split almost to the
waist. She came around and sat on the edge of the table. The jacket hung
open. Her skirt slid up, showing off the bare skin above the black sheer
stockings. They wanted to know everything. She was sweating.
Unconsciously, she slipped off the jacket, revealing the sheer grey nylon
dickey underneath. Her breasts were as big as she had said they were in
the book. Under the skirt, she was wearing black panties.
She began to feel like a laboratory animal. Someone to stick pins
in. See what happened. They weren't going to be happy until she
completely undressed and stood there naked, were they? In front of them.
One of her eyes had a bruise under it. Did people still hurt you?
Yes.
When?
Last night.
Why?
I deserved it.
What did you do?
Wrecked his car.
Why?
My girl friend suicided when he raped her.
Kelly?
No. Someone else. We were role playing.
He needed to get his rocks off. The gross injustice. His white
cadillac. WHAM. Cinderblocks through the windshield. WHAM. Rapist
scratched into the paint job. He wrote it across her tits. They looked
at the incissions. That's terrible, a girl sa id. Boy, they had never
seen anything like that. She showed them her belly. She had dropped the
skirt. All she had on now were garterbelt and panties. He had ripped her
belly apart. Her hair was bloody.
aaaaaaggghgg
Her hair had come completely loose by now, and fell in her face.
She slid down on her knees. And crawled towards the door. They watched
her leave. Boy, that was some demonstration. Someone, the class
assistant, picked up her clothes and threw them out in the hallway after
her.
That wasn't the end of it, of course. He kept coming back.
Hitting her again and again. Eventually, she couldn't take any more. She
just stopped thinking. No matter what she did, she always ended up in the
same place. Why is that, Smalhausen? He s aid he didn't know. He could
explain his interest in women, but he couldn't figure out her propensity
for getting beat up. To him, it seemed a waste of time. But at the same
time, he loved to hear about it. He was another one of those I feel your
pain freaks. Although she rather doubted he could.
She was covered with sweat and filth when she crawled into his
studio. Those kids had done a number on her. The future of America was
really safe in their hands. Now she had to pose. He stood her on a pole,
with her hands behind her back. Then he st arted to draw. A rope around
her neck kept her from slouching.
I think Smalhausen is confused about his sexual life. That's why
he likes to draw me in bondage. I represent his tied up sexual energy.
The students had asked me about my sexual preferences. They were a keenly
interested bunch of inquiring minds. I almost felt overwhelmed.
Gradually, they took me apart. Probing. Groping. Tearing at my clothes.
I struggled as much as I could, but there were too many.
Not that he ever sells any of these pictures. They're too artsy
for the hard core line. Not enough detail. His eyes look like smudges.
And lace garter belts? Forget it. Just some crude lines.
THE WAR CRIMINAL
(excerpt from a work in progress)
Years ago, Smalhausen said, I was on a train, going down to
Florida, to visit my mom. It was just after my dad died. I used to take
the train, because I don't like to fly. But now it has become too much to
bear. At some point, Philadelphia or Baltimo re, a woman got on. Who was
assigned the seat next to me. I ought to explain. It used to be my
practice whenever the train stopped, to lie down across both seats and
pretend to be sleeping. Unless the train was jammed, people would usually
hesitate to wake me and sit somewhere else. Sometimes I was able to get a
double wide all the way to Florida. However, the Amtrak people had got
wise and all seats out of New York were now being assigned. This woman
had drawn me.
At first, she was not too happy about it. In fact, she asked the
conductor if there wasn't another double seat somewhere. But when he said
there were only singles, she gave up and sat down. She was not
unattractive. Young. Fleshy. I knew insta ntly she was Jewish.
Ordinarily, I don't like to get involved with Jewish women. Not that I'm
so anti-semitic, but ultimately they are all linked back to Israel and all
the bullshit hypocracy that entails. This woman, however, turned out to
be quite pe rsonable. In fact, we talked until four in the morning.
Slept for a few hours. Had breakfast. Then sat in the club car and
talked until Sebring. Well, no. We also spent a lot of time together in
our seats. We became very intimate. The time went by very fast. It was
most enjoyable trip I ever made to Florida. She had been raised
conservative, very strict, but no longer practiced her religion, except
when her parents came to visit. Then she made her Italian boy friend wear
a yamaka. She also had another goy boy friend, and was trying to decided
which one to stay with. I was, myself, very much drawn to this woman.
However, when we kissed goodbye at my stop and I got off, I deliberately
did not ask for her telephone number or address, something I instantly
regreted as I stood watching the train disappear.
It is just daylight when the Meteor or Crescent, I forget which,
gets to Jacksonville. But it does not reach south Florida until five p.m.
That gave us a lot to time to talk there in the club car as the small
stops on the Georgia line rolled past. We watched the cars of the Georgia
Pacific as they rolled past our window. There were other names, which I
have forgotten. Kissimeee. Burnt Oaks. Ravenwood. Erie Lakawanna.
CNN. We played games. Seeing who could name the most. But all the
while, som ething hovered in the background if you know what I mean? She
looked at me through her chubby Jewish flesh covered with rings. She was
a jeweler. I could tell she was class. In the night, she was warm
against me. Filling the folds of my hollows. She nicked me in. Where
are you going? Boca. So am I. Somehow I got off at the wrong stop.
Where was I?
Her name was Ronda. Or Rhoda. What else? She just seemed very
nice. But something hovered in the background, if you know what I mean?
Which was, I was a war criminal. I didn't tell her. She knew. Why do
you think she backed off. There's a Nazi i n my seat. Tell him to move
over. I had to get up and give her the seat. I still pretended to be
sleeping. She went away and had supper and came back and made noises.
Putting on makeup. At 10 o'clock at night. Eventually, I gave up and
started to t alk to her. Of course, I wasn't a war criminal, but I
thought like one. So what's the difference? I was wearing an armband.
The star of Hitler. But she didn't notice. She just started talking.
I'm a good listener. She was very exciting. We flirte d all the way to
Decatur. Then I fell asleep. And so did she.
It's not like I felt bad about the war or anything. I was five
when it ended. It just sort of lingered there between us. Even when we
were fucking. It wasn't much. She just had a big sexual appetite. I was
impressed. It turned out she liked Nazis. We just had to learn to get
along. And besides I was getting off at Delray. So what's the big deal?
Of course, I'm not a Nazi, but we were role playing. Soon the entire club
car was filled with German drinking songs. I felt suffused with fuerher
fe ver. It's common on the long lines. Snaking all the way to Baltimore
and ... no and, schazi. unt. Ya wohl. Mein heirrn und mein damen life
is a cabaret, old chum. Come smell the wine. Some drink the tunes. Some
get up and goose-step to Atlanta. Th en we get off the train and there's
nothing left. Her's, of course, was a different experience.
The thing is, he said, we are suffused with this war time
mystique. It divides us. Even though I was not a war criminal, I could
have been. Or the son of one. Someone who carries the collective guilt
of those who are guilty. I thought it might be fl eshed out into a novel.
But I never did. At one point, she explained to me the differences in
diamonds. I had asked her about mine cut stones. This is the way
diamonds were cut before 1919. A great uncle of mine had a ring with a
mine cut stone. But then new ways were found. A diamond's brilliance
depends on how it is cut. Mine cut diamonds are not as sparkly as similar
stones cut in the more modern ways, don't ask me to explain. Most of it
was beyond me. However, wasn't that a metaphor for some thing? Like the
way a story is cut and polished. Edited. To reveal its inner truth. Or
a life. Or a work of art. All the time he was painting me. I couldn't
move. What did he want from me? Meaning? For his sad, empty life? I
couldn't muster it. I was too tired. Just get done, I thought. I want
to go home.
*
Compared to the students, Smalhausen's mind seemed dull and slow.
His apartment, which is also his studio, was littered with junk his mother
sent him. Bags of pills. Instant soup mixes. Different cold remedies.
Stuff he never uses. I asked him why he kept it? He said he once read a
story about Leonardo da Vinci. He had been born on the wrong side of the
sheet, so to speak. His mother was a serving girl, almost a slave. The
people she worked for took him in and raised him. But he had almost no
contact with his mother. However, towards the end of her life, she made a
long journey to visit him, all the way from their little town south of
Florence, to Milan where he was living. They were almost strangers. She
brought him a gift of shirts, sever al, that she had made. But they were
too small. They didn't fit. Even though he couldn't wear them, Leonardo
kept them for the rest of his life. That story affected me deeply. My
mother doesn't know me either. But she keeps sending me things that do
n't fit. That have nothing to do with my life. But I can't bear to throw
them out. Sometimes, something turns out to be useful.
I have to admit, I lifted this conversation from one I overheard
in a restaurant. And the one about the train I've had knocking around for
some time. They just seem to define the person of Smalhausen. The name
itself is from a character in an English tv sitcom. Maybe you've seen it.
Smalhausen is a Gestapo agent, but not even the top Gestapo agent. He's
the hopelessly inept underling to an inept chief. Sort of like Igor in
Frankenstein movies. I needed a name for this person. That seemed to be
it.
I suppose you might ask, why am I bothering? The thing is, I want
to be relevant, and it is necessary to study these matters seriously.
Smalhausen is a man of our times. He seems to be deeply confused. But is
he? He's making out alright. He could b e worse. He's so boring. Or is
he? Some people like that. You need to get out more. You should take
Teresa up on that ride. You might have fun. We might have an accident.
Smal, you've got to change your ways of living, and if that ain't enough,
yo u've got to change the way you strut your stuff. Parties at Smal's
tended to be tedious affairs but afterwards, you wake up and it's all
over.
Go to sleep.
It doesn't matter.
I'll be here.
You weren't when I was in the hospital.
So I was out of town.
I called you.
You never answered.
Teresa took care of you.
I needed you. It was you I need.
Why don't you all go down together.
A suicide pact between mom and son.
A cult.
A happening.
It's all here in the papers.
The funny papers.
Smal's mother never has the funny papers read. That's what she says when
she calls. I haven't had time to read the funny papers. He makes notes
on a pad. He draws figures. He draws pictures of me while he talks to
his ma. I dance in front of him while the old lady sings about her air
conditioner and her eyes. She's going blind. She feels her way around
the trailer park with her hands. The widow Smalhausen is a composite of
lots of old ladies down there. Orphan moms calling to their sons. He
draws the handcuffs and the ribbon wire. and the noose around my neck.
Maybe what I'm using Smal to find out is why men have this need to beat up
women. It can't all be because of their mothers, can it? He's sort of
like a microscope that I've concocted to do deep see exploration if you
know what I mean.
Now are there any questions?
*
THE STAND-IN
By Cody Ann Michaels
c. All rights reserved
Chapter 8
Will I ever live down my sordid past? I wonder. I have been
reading through my Kyle files. The present one, slugged KYLE95C.RAW, is
110,000 bites long. And it by far not the last or longest. The 95 stands
for 1995, the year we met. I was 12. Young , yes, but old enough in
Florida to be tried as an adult. I certainly deserved whatever
punishments that might have been laden out for me, acting as I did to
tempt this sensitive soul on the other side of the world.
I have to admit, even though I am now going straight, to feeling a
certain amount of erotic pleasure from reading these original tales,
perhaps a more sophisticated pleasure than I experienced then, being more
knowledgable now of the various innuendos of Kyle's literary style. Also,
I cannot help thinking how different he was from Smalhausen in his
willingness to explore and experiment.
On television last night, Charlie Rose had a panel of experts
talking about sex. One of them said all sex is an attempt to find love.
For some reason, that idea seemed new to me. Especially when so often
people, feminists, in particular, seem to belie ve that sexual assault has
little to do with sex and is really about power. Not so. It is love that
is at the root of even the most criminal sexual act. Dahlmer. Packwood.
Ted Bundy. Kyle. Clinton? Oh come on. Okay. Clinton. All are... or
were seeking love in their casual gropings and other clumsy foreplay.
I am confused. Why can I not love? Who do I love? I love Kelly.
I told you about Billy. And there have been other guys. Smalhausen? Not
really. I like him. But he doesn't turn me on. In some ways he reminds
me of my dad. Also, Martin. My shri nk. I'm still ambivalent about
Martin. We've only been together a few months. He wants me to help him
with his book. I said I'd think about it.
The fact is, I've reached another crossroads. Trying to decide
whether to drop Smalhausen and go back to Kyle, guys like him. A bit like
Smal's Jewish madchen. On the train. Caught between two goy boys. Smal
couldn't remember what the other one was. I think he had a good idea for
a book. But he's too lazy to write it. He was a writer once. Before he
was an artist. Like Gaugain. Or T.S. Elliot. Who was the guy who wrote
Winnie the Pooh? Hans Muller. Smalhausen's like him. He says his faith
in words has left him. He'll never get it back. He has a bookcase full
of books he never reads. Just the picture ones with women tied up or
other stuff. He doesn't even seem to look at these much. He said the
truth can't be represented in an image. Even less in words. If that's
true, he's wrong. Isn't he?
With Kyle I felt at home. Even though I was a slave. You can't
imagine the degradation he subjected me to. I'm going to edit these
stories into a book, a companion volume to this one. Along with my own
stories. We bounced them off each other. We we re young. We were alive.
Smalhausen gives me nothing. I want to scream at him, you're alive. Show
it. You've got a lot of living to do. He merely stares back. Like a
lump.
Well then, teach me something. Tell me something. Make me live.
Make me breathe. Nothing. Oh fuck it. Let me alone. Go on back to your
art work. And your mother. You deserve it. Coward. You are. You're
afraid to live. To do anything. Maybe that's how you survived. By doing
nothing. By hiding behind your words and phrases. Your skills as an
artist. Did you ever have a real woman, Smal?
He said once. I hoped this wasn't going to be another of those
pathetic, I touched her like Tennessee Williams might tell, in the back of
the boat. She gave me her panties to hold. It wasn't. They had actually
lived together for a year. Slept in the same bed. Did touchy feely.
Kissy. Grope. Fuck. Bump and squirt. While the cats sat on them. She
had four cats. She was married to them. Not that he didn't like cats.
But when you're having sex, you like to be alone, not have three warm
bodies sitting on top of you. The fourth cat slept in the closet. He
never came out the whole year they lived with Smal. He hated men. He
would only come out when she was alone. Then it would come and sleep with
her. Eventually he couldn't stand it any more . Not the cats, but the
bed. She liked a soft mattress. It was killing his back. So he started
to sleep in the other room.
He hardly noticed when she moved out.
That wasn't what killed it, though, he said. She wore muslin
night gowns. She was always cold. How could you fuck a woman in a muslin
night dress? Well, of course, lots of guys would be able to handle it.
But he couldn't. He wanted her wired. In a teddy. Like the pictures.
Kinky. I hate that word. Black stockings. French underwear. Oh god.
So pathetic. Trying to get her to dress right was an endless argument.
Sort of like the one I had with Kyle over the shoes. Except, I knew how
to dres s. At least he wasn't a foot fetishist. How lame. He once got
her into a leotard and fishnet stockings. But then they couldn't fuck
because she was wearing the leotard. It turned him on. And he couldn't
fuck her when she wasn't. So they were at an impasse. How old were you?
40. How old was she? 30. Pretty? Very. Are you nuts? He shrugged.
Sex is very complicated.
Not for most people.
You'd be surprised.
I felt like his shrink. I didn't want that. Kyle had once tried
to do that to me. I told him to get real. He was totally healthy.
What happened to her?
She moved uptown with her cats. I see her once in awhile. Not
for awhile now.
Did you beat her up?
No.
Did she beat you?
Once. The night of the leotard. She hung me in the doorway and
whipped me. Well, actually, I hung myself. She didn't want to do it.
But later, she said she had liked the feeling.
What about you?
I only did it because I wanted to do it to her, and I knew I
couldn't, she wouldn't let me, so I substituted myself instead. I forgot
to mention, I was in drag.
It was complicated, wasn't it?
Yes.
I felt vertiginous, as though I were looking down into a deep pit.
Was this what I was looking for? Did you want to be beaten? No. I
wanted to do it to a woman. Her? Not especially. Who then? We hit
another wall. I asked him to describe himself. I was not especially
surprised when he described me. Your girl friend, was she a redhead?
Yes. But she was taller. Than me? Than me. oh. The only time she
really excited me was when she stepped out of the bathroom and I saw her
in that green leot ard, which was about two sizes too small, and high
heeled black boots. Then I thought I really had something. And, of
course, flaming red hair.
She looked a little unsure of herself. "This is so strange," she
said. In her gloved hand was the whip. I wasn't so sure, myself. This
was the first time I'd ever done something like this. Were you already
hanging? Yes. So you couldn't get down. No. I'd kicked out the stool.
Smart. Yes. Then what happened?
He thought back with obvious pleasure. It was starting to come.
I was doing Smalhausen. I could feel him thinking. About her. Claire.
This was going to be so great.
And then I lost it. Shit. The phone rang. It was Smalhausen's
mother. O hello Cody, how are you in a flat voice calling from the grave.
ih eard my mother's vocide oin the 3xchange as it came ih vrom Floriad
ahold yuopur breath
ain
t gpoiong there. sotypo]
I woke up. Smalhausen was standing over me. Sho you cracked the whip,
bitch. Now you pay
no smal
When it was over, I was standing somewhere with my stomach hanging
open
next to a street light
look at that one
give me a kiss
get awy
Smal had whipped me all the way to jersy
and left me there
to get home
on my
ow
i am sorry miste, i didn't know what you was saying
That's alright. Get away from me.
You stinking clown
I saw her face disappear into the bathroom
smal what did you do?
she moved uptown, at least that's the story they all tell around the fires
in the park at night
whatever happened to Kelly?
She said she was going to England May 10th 1940
the ugboats sank her
she went down with all hands
at least that's the story,
but everyoine knows she's in the basement in a trunk he left there when he
leftr
Right Kelly?
Let me out code
How much is she worth on Mir
I'll do the figure work
tits 10
ass 12
i\buig igunbs
]notebooik in hand, they took it away from her with all her pictures in it
floatihg aropund out there in never never land
Right, Cody?
no smal
shutup
He took a knife and carved a z in her chest
The marko of sorto
prime grade
move her out
sotto voce she had to be taken down a peg
Give her some air
let her breathe
she's coming to
what happened?
small\ took care of you.
I know, but where am I?
You passed out
in class and had to be brought here. Are you alright?
of course. wow. My head is spinning? Smal walked back to the
laboratory. He was almost human. Cody, what are you doing? This is not
the way it should be. The once tawdry glamor girl was being quoted as an
authority. What did it mean? It meant she had arrived. Now they would
ask Cody for directions, and she would tell it to them. Or maybe not.
maybe she would withhold a bit. Let them twist and turn as she made up
her mind which to keep and which to select. Smalhausen was talking to his
mother . On a pad, he drew the figure of a young girl in chains. He tied
her up in knots. Twisted her. Broke her back. On paper it's hard to do.
But not when you use a real person. Smal, get away from me. His mother
was wondering what to eat. Smal tied the girl's hands behind her back.
Now what? What now? What do you want? He was talking to her. She
didn't want anything. What did he want? He didn't know. You must want
something. He couldn't think. What did she want? She wanted to take off
the leotard and the fishnets. They scratched. She was like a mattress.
Covered with cats. She took off the leotard. He lost interest. He made
an attempt, but without the leotard, she was nothing. I hate fetishists.
They are so banal. This woman was like the ocean. She was full of the
most amazing ripples and vissitudes, and all he could think was corset.
So why didn't you get a corset? Neither of us had the money. She had.
But she didn't want to spend it on something she'd only wear in bed. Th e
fishnets and leotard were as far as she would go.
So nothing happened. She did nothing. So did he.
It was like a menage a cats. The cats arranged themselves in
inscrutable patterns around the closet. Where Tigris was. Tigris was the
male cat who didn't like men. I think he was brain damaged. He was
neutered, but he was still male. If you know wh at I mean. Believe me, I
didn't. But I had to keep him talking. Maybe you should come in now. He
was out on the fire escape. In drag. This was before drag was a big
thing. He was still in the closet. Like Tigris. What did he do in
there? I don't know. He never told me. Tigris could talk? To her. Not
to me. Once, when I tried to reach in, he scratched me. He was lazer
sharp. And fast. Wham. He opened up my whole hand. I didn't know it
had happened until I saw the thumb dangling off. Th ey had to sew it back
on. Why were you reaching for him? It seemed the thing to do. I don't
know. I wanted him to come out. Who? Tigris. And Euphates. No. She
was dead. Who?> Euphates. She had died before Claire came to the city.
I forget the circumstances. Are you serious? She had a lot of cats
before she moved to New York. But she only brought four with her.
However, Claire was a bottomless pit of cat stories, and one was that
Tigris had a sister named Euphates. Don't ask me to repeat it. Euphates
was Tigris' sister. Shutup, Smal.
Jump Smal. Jump off the fucking building if it makes you happy.
Just don't blame me. Is all I ask. It's not my fault, Smalhausen. I was
sick of him and his stupid hangups. They were worse than cat stories. I
beat him off. It was no use. He was l ike his mother. They both acted
the same way. Like quarks. Or disembodied photons. Two crystals that
have been split by a single beam of light and come out lumpy. I knew I
couldn't help him. He was useless. Or am I seeing him the wrong way.
Can't we turn this around. Suppose you use one photon and one mu
particle. Does it give the same result>? Photon asked his mother. What
were the other cats' names? He couldn't remember. I knew he was lying.
I was swallowing blood. I didn't know if it was his or mine.
How do you know he talked?
I heard them. In the closet. Whispering. He was some kind of
familiar. She was a witch. Smal, you could get us both burned. What are
you playing with? Fire. I threw a torch bomb into the closet. I heard
them screaming. Was he making this up? D id he believe it? I couldn't
be sure. I felt him scrambling around inside of me like I was pregnant.
I suddenly realized! Oh my God. Smal. In any case, I never saw them
again. I only saw him once. I had come home suddenly, and he didn't have
time to get to the closet. He was a lean cat with an oddly shaped face.
It was almost chinless. It reminded me of a character who used to be in
the funny papers. Mr. Milchtoast. People were always dumping on him. My
mother used to taunt my father. For b eing afraid to assert himself. Mr.
Milktoast, she called him. I don't think she noticed the difference in
spelling. It was just the word that pleased her. Tigris looked like
that, back over his shoulder, at me. Then he was gone.
Eventually, she let me down. And I fucked her. It wasn't very
interesting. Because she had taken off the clothes. And was just a naked
fuck in the hay. What did she look like? Like you. Only taller. Red
hair. No. She didn't look like you at all . What am I saying. The
cheekbones were entirely different. Her's were flat. Your's are like
Katherine Hepburn's. In fact, you look just like Katherine Hepburn in the
Philadelphia story. Claire didn't look like that. She was pretty. No
one would k ick her out of the hay. But you were different. In fact, the
only time she looked like you was just before, when I saw her the first
time in that outfit. I think I was projecting. Anyway, I lost it after
she got undressed. And went back to looking li ke her old self, which
wasn't bad. No. There was one other time. She sat up, and she had this
look on her face, that screamed rape.
It was amazing. I only saw her once. Just then. When she was
scared, and I had turned into an animal. She had desire written all over
her face. And? And I couldn't get the leotard off. I couldn't get
through the crotch strap and the tights. She w as wearing tights, not
stockings. It was like a double layered iron chastity belt. Why didn't
you cut a hole with scissors? She wouldn't let me. She thought I might
stab her. She insisted on taking the whole thing off. What happened? My
dick went l imp. It was all over. She tried to give me a blowjob, but it
was dead as a doornail. It just hung there. Eventually, we got up and
she made coffee. We sat there talking about how it didn't matter. It was
just as good hugging and feeling. That's all she wanted. A hug. She
knew she wasn't going to get one from me. I couldn't stand her. She had
put on her nightgown. The muslin one. Because she was cold. It just
spoiled the whole thing, if you know what I mean. That was before she
moved in. It only got worse. They lived together for a whole year and he
never touched her.
All the cats are dead now. I got a call from her the other day.
No. It was before that; anyway, Tigris is dead. He was the last of the
four cats to go. He was 22. Ancient for a cat. Kohoutek had died a
couple of years ago. And Speedy was long gone. Pywacket had died too.
That hit her hard. Pywacket was the grandmother cat. She had spawned
them all. Tigris and Euphates. The fertile crescent. That was it. That
was the name of the train. To Florida. The Florida Crescent. She has
more cats now. But they aren't the ones who lived her\e. Tigris was the
last to have memories of this apartment and what it was like to live her.e
especially in that closet. It must have been hot. In the summer, we did
not have air conditioning. I was concern ed about him. Even though I
knew he hated me. Without me, he could sleep with her. He often did when
I was away. So I was between them. He must have been glad to leave.
Speedy wanted to say. She was the little golden wonder cat who loved
anything t hat male or had the smell on it. She could fuck a rock if it
smelled like4 a man. Someone threw a brick through our window oine night,
and Speedy humped that rock for the next three weeks She had been neutered
too. All the cats were. But that didn't stop her. She put her arms
around me when they were about to leave. Claire said I could keep her if
I wanted, but I said no. Sgyrt yhsy After that, she ignored me. The few
times I visite d in Claire's new apartment. She sat on the bed and turned
her back to me. It was over. Smal, you're crying.
I can't help it.
he sat there and bawled. I think we're getting some place.
Why didn't you keep her?
I .. it was too much trouble. Letting another woman into your life. I
couldn't handle it. So I let her go.
he cried some more.
do you want to stop.
no. let's go on.
more crying.
he just sat there.
Speedy obviously meant something. But what?
How did you feel when Claire told you Speedy had died?
Relieved.
Like something was over.
I didn't have to think about anymore.
She was an old cat. She was Tigris's mother.
I forget how Kahoutek was born. Under a comet. She was named for it.
But she wasn't Speedy's sister. I know that. She was descended from
Pywacket. Pywacket sat on the refrigerator and watched everything. She
was a very grave senior cat. Claire nev er treated them like people. She
treated them like cats. Once, when Tigris and I were sick at the same
time, she took care of him and left me to rot. "Tigris is sick," she
said. Well, what did she think I was? I'd come home with cramps and a
fever. She didn't seem to be interested. I wanted some chicken soup.
She said maybe she'd go out later and buy a can. I finally had to go and
get it myself. By this time, I had diahrhea. Stinking cat.
Were you angry?
Suyre. Wouldn't you be?
I don't know. I'm askuying you.
You read that in Caxton, didn't you? The weird spelling. And all
that. I can tell. You aren't fooling me. You're a witch. You can be
burned at the stake. They spelled any way they damned well pleased before
they introduced this dictionary craze. Where they locked language in a
book and said it had to be spelled just right. Try reading those old
texts sometime. They make a lot os sense. If you know what you're
looking for. Who is Caxton? Guy who wrote books before the dictionary
showed up. The historieisty of Troyyyeeee Something like that. The point
is, it didn't matter how they were speleled. they could read it. for
it's meaning. You've got to get language out of the dictionary and back
into the books. Burn the fucking dictionary. And he did. Smal, I think
you've gone a little far. Save and exit. Take the disk.
You sent the laptop where?
oh my god.
they've got the bogie.
I didn't know. I didn't think. I just wanted it fixed. This is
how they get their information. By sucking off busted laptops and other
hardware sent in for their inspection. You might as well have turned the
blueprints for Project Alpha over to them on a velvet cushion. These are
the specs, I tell you. We've got them. Incoming at four o'clock. Kiss
my ass goodbye, Tigris. It was like a lazer. Right across my behind.
His claws. As she forced my tush into his face. I told you I never saw
him. He sliced it right down the center. That's how I got the name
Smalhausen Two Pricks. Want to see? What were you wearing? A black
corset. Seven inch spikes. Push up bra. Frederick's of Hollywood. She
really did a number on you, didn't she? I think I'm hemmorahaging. Smal
pitched forward and fell on his face. Blood oozed out of his mouth. The
p ainted lips. The false eyelashes. The darkly rouged face. He looked
like one of the girls in his Death of Soul paintings. I couldn't figure
out who it was. Then I knew.
--
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