Geeked Out

Geeked Out

Mark Coleman

Her gaze is so blank. She might as well be staring out of empty sockets. Socked her in the jaw, then tried to make up for it in the sack, but I’d been hitting the bottle too hard. Soft and as worthless as an imprint of a grenade in silly putty with the pin missing. Trying to contort her body into a position suitable for at least an IV drip. Went Kowalski on the dump. Threw a highball into the wall, kicked over the fucking table, tore apart her negligee with my rotten teeth, and stepped out half dressed in a pair of Hell battered slippers.

The queen at the corner liquor looked me over as though he were a parole board, before sighing and bagging my handle. Stepped out and squared up with a square and a long, dirty hit of rotgut. Come back with apology glued lips, and haggard eyes brimming with drink and guilt. Expire with the spent sigh that usually proceeds a dozen bus transfers from the tenement euthanized side of an otherwise familiar city.

Feeling worse than a geek shamed with a chicken blood bellyache. Self-hatred in the marrow and suicide on the brain. Hundreds of unflinching eyes priding themselves on their obvious superiority. It’s always down from the bleachers. You find yourself in the shock envied position of the spectator, and before you know it you’re crawling like the lice on your body to bite the head off of a shit filthy fowl.

Night after night follows. The slow creeping up Jacob’s Ladder. The pinnacle of which is the nose dive from the very top. The descent and the ascent are simultaneous and harmonious. Seldom do they break the code and quarrel. Even more remote is the possibility that they’ll cut all ties. They just keep weaving more and more intricate webs. You end up like so many junkyard windshields. The pleading turns cold and you end up hanging from someone’s gable.

You don’t swing you just freeze. Out shopping for dimes and nickels with cons worked too death by so many others before you even fell out the pages of a Gabriel Garcia Marquez story. Using a placebo as a pillow with the umbilical cord cut and dismantled. Cold as a dead coal pit with the mists slow waltzing their ways over sewer grating and trash can handle. A few rays of sunlight caressing the stiff joints of the pawnshop uprights. The cues standing guard over the billiard hall liquor bottles. (Stern as a stepfather with a razor strop and coke in his nose hairs. The serpent learning where and when to strike in his tenderly abusive hand.)

In and out of alleys that don’t end but just stop and start in three card monte confusion. Disease putrid syringes and broken pipes on The Yellow Brick Road. Just like they fell off a garrote conveyer belt on its way to Sodom. Opium dens with their backs turned towards you, and their eyes caught dazedly following the enchanting wisps of smoke. Soothing the confusion that reigns supreme in a world that is no more than a shoddily assembled bomb shelter.

Everyone squirming to find sanctuary beneath a school desk as the preacher screams down his helium inflated nostrils. Pupils capturing the flames in the kike crematorium. Whole generations funneling from plant chimneys. The screeches on the landing ever increasing in volume and speed. Dynamite secreted into every fissure of the human body. Bombshells in the already wobbly kneecaps of tamale hawkers that the spicks devour without bothering with the tricky removal of the husks.

The whole rape population comes out of every goddamn crack and cockroach up under age petticoats. The shrill, wild eyed bumpkin bitches are bear hugged from behind by no less than five brutes, and face fucked until they drown their own vomit and fifty ball sacks worth of semen. Sisters of Ragged Dick disemboweled with jagged hunting knifes by inbred, cousin fucking rednecks who finally realize their full potential. The whole world transforms in a matter of seconds into a giant crater ridden piss-hole of sick junkies’ pores. The sun goes out, and the moon with it. The streetlamps flicker and strobe under shades of far too human red.

Niggers thrown into high current rivers of bile as though they were Popeye buckets, and ride like Tom Sawyer on their brothers’ carcasses straight to the ocean, where they end up thrown from waterspouts, and impaled on towering baleen tridents that blot out any sign of the horizon.

Rickshaws full throttling beneath sickle black jacks. Their cargos’ skulls thudding and rolling along the pavement where they’re force trepanned by derrick sized power drills. Shredding the skin of syphilitic spade cocks. Poor excuse for a well-slicked cunt. The remainder of which are re-serviced as spittoons for escaped TB patients. Spilling over with lung puke. The assholes stretched in Grand Canyon competition. Fisted mercilessly to gigantism. Lunatics crouching at every corner devouring ruffian hearts and livers. All matter of viscera cascading from mouths reminding one of feeding time at the nursery home.

Finally, the lights go out. I swig. Swagger turns to stagger. I catch a belly shot from some manner of furniture, and double over gasping momentarily. As soon as I recover from the unexpected sucker, I deluge myself with what must be one of the longest whiskey chugs in human history. I stand at the bedroom door trying to make out the frame in the dark. Slowly, I make my way beneath the covers. I sleep alone for the first time in years.