Wake the Dead by J S Khan. Fiction. First published // The 2nd Hand TXT // Spring 2011


“An attentive examination should ascertain a point, drawn in the middle of an empty circle, which is a fiction; the point is the tip of a long tendril, crawling out like a serpent; this worm, growing into a monster, is a concealed personality.”
—Andrei Bely

An ego-monster of confabulistic contortions. Ra ra ra. What proportions.  How do you think I’d look in that? Feel the bass bathing us in our little loft, our cozy love-nest, the beat thrumming in our chests, drowning out your own heart’s thumping. Simply fantastic. She’s like some goddess of nihilism, right? All that razzle-dazzle, plus a castle in the sky. That’s what’s up. Those clouds like melting lumps of coffee ice-cream, those twirling-whirling girls descending the winding staircase, their breasts glazed in strawberry syrup. Pinch ’em: ouch. Oh you silly man, you.

And after we grow glutted on all the new, supernew pop mōōsic videos and downloadable mōōvies (they’re nuthin’ but a buncha Gootube celebrities, anyway), we shall go out and wrangle up a whole slew of real-life, honest-to-God hookers we find showcasing their wares in the cyberspace classifieds. Who needs a pimp? Too many witnesses. Never had no use for a middleman anyway. Well, you know what I mean. Who’s not ambisextrous these days?

Real-life requires a hyphen, cyberspace none. Relax: we’re nothing but simulacra. Who would enflesh such fantasies?

Tell me: what’s your name tonight? Angel Fang. O please Ms. Gabby, scratch me, sniff me, burn me, scar me. Please pretty please. But do you think you could touch me, just once?

Keep your secrets, boy. No one cares.

And we shall go out jogging like we did that one night, remember? Early November, and the stars burning so, so lovely, Cassiopeia dizzy in her rumble-seat tied and shackled in the darkling depths above and Orion straddling the earth with his great ballsack gleaming, the full moon’s silver overflow enflaming us with its madness. But how could I forget such a romantic evening, such an exhilarating night, even after all these years? The thrills and spills? Why, sometimes I still think I can smell the body buried behind the First Presbyterian on Washington–

Enough playacting. We could go to K.T.’s, but it’s costumes only. Who’s vomiting on who? Never understood the raw magnetism of foam skin, slithy dragonscales or sly foxwhiskers. To charm the snake. O you wicked little. Once when maybe four or five on my rubber dolphin floaty in the pool. Tell no one. Had a dream once the Lion raped the Tin Man. Oh my. Are you ready to milk the moocow? At least real animals are warm. Cowboys and their mounts. Got pheromones like a rhesus monkey myself. Who’s a good boy? Jesus. Ass worship though — that’s something else entirely. Rituals in shaggy sheep pants get me in touch with my own roots.

Each consciousness pursues the death of the Other, don’t you know that yet? If I say yes will you touch me? Pinch me, punch me? No, but a tobacco enema might excite your bowels good. Give you some sweet ass cancer. Where are the nose-hooks, the ropes, the handcuffs? Where is your collar? Ready for your spanking? Tell me what is the safeword. I’m always a different person, don’t you know that? What a radical. No need for masks. But D.W. is just another pinheaded philatelist. What is it with collecting pervs? Can’t stop but lick it. You have to think like a futurist with these fetishmongers. Is one a precursor, a prehistoric throwback?

And we shall go out like we did that one night, remember, the moonbeams falling like tinsel, and our nerves ringing from the report of it, the cool autumn air and garden glistening under streetlamps, the evening rain still a swirling residue, stardrops of dew, and that sweet young girl or should I say delicious little woman finding you sprawled out on the sidewalk moaning, holding your legs with eyes pinched shut and lips pressed tight. Twist your ankle, ma’am? And you in the bushes, panning out from this close-up of my lips. I must say I looked the part: classic damsel in distress. And her the Southern belle lost in the big city, Dante’s Inferno in her backpack. Got a penchant for punishment, sweetheart? But oh we’ll get to that–

Stop it. Stop it now. Who’s pissing on who? No chip off the old block: I know what you like. Get your rocks off. Light’s on, where is your mirror? Where are your rattler and pacifier? Where is your gooey chewy, baby? Go sit in the corner. You know I love those pigtails. Want me to tickle? Stomp on you like a cockroach. Impale you on my stiletto heel. Fee fi fo fum, I smell the blood of a suppressed Victorian. Who would you rather screw: your mother or your sister? My father, natürlich. Classic test of a submariner. The salt in a sailor’s spunk. Tell me, what’s your most cherished fantasy? Child and parent, student and teacher, slave and master? You on top, me on bottom, you on bottom, me on top? I’ll pretend to be you, you pretend to be me. I’ll pretend to be you pretending to be me, you me pretending to be you. You the woman, me the man. I the man and you the woman. Both of us women, now both of us men. This is getting boring. If the shoe fits, the pantyhose and stockings. Real freaks, freaking out. Strange worlds produce strange people. Let me suck on your big thoe, like in Carnie Freaks IV: The Bearded Lady’s Revenge, when Dog Boy lapped her hinderparts, equally bearded, and she brained the muscleman whilst he devilishly twisted his greased mustachios — the thoe from offscreen suddenly squirming up his pimply arse, equally mustachioed. Ouch. Where is the Crab Man? Oh you know what I like.

Looking for the girlfriend experience? Lips locked on naughty. Look at me. Deny the orgasm. You bitch. Deprive the oxygen. You hhhnuh hhuuunhhu. Better stop looking at me. Never felt so disgusted, so ashamed, so used up, so new. So refreshed. Ah please don’t–

Stop being so fresh. We should snap up some hookers like you mentioned earlier. That will cure us — at least I hope it will cure us — of that night so noxious, so wondrous, when we went out and you brought the camera, remember, and Cassiopeia was literally flipping out in sheer ekstasis so we could both see straight through her floozy dress and Orion with his twin jewels throbbed over the birches and I began firing those Whistling Moon Travelers at you and you rolled naked in the grass all wet with dew and washed with the silver discharge of the moon your belly writhing flushed red sparks shrieking all around you snap-crackle-pop-pop-pop. Yes and that cocky businesswoman or should I say scared little girl who found me lying on the sidewalk shivering, dressed now and pretending, yes, eyes closed and lips pressed tight to keep from laughing. And us snatching her and swifting her to the cemetery near the old church where you whispered I’ve always wanted to, where I said let’s wake the dead, sweetheart, get their bodies rolling, their bones raised, their bones a-rattling, yes, both of us slightly drunk and her utterly soaked in fear when she woke facedown in the dirt over the buried casket, her pale ass gleaming in waves and pressed tight against the granite. Thumb’s up, thump’s up, fingerpoint: bang. Rats skitter past in shadowlanes. Oh please don’t. Her throaty sighs and highpitched whimpers. Shouldn’a of been out so late, sweetpea, mimicking her Southern drawl, but you’ll learn soon enough, darlin’–

Nothing to see here, nothing to know. Better keep on walking, Jackson.

What came first: sex or sin? Why does orthodox religion degrade women? Homosexuals? Shouldn’t all people be degraded equally? Slip on your nun shawl; I’ll be your priest. Confess all. Spit in my mouth. Do you need some lube? Some beads, some plugs? How about some nipple-clamps? A knife in your side, a gun to your head? Feel it in your ureteric bud. Aw, Ah twat Ah taw a puttytat. Yur so innocent and purty. You know I know what you like. It is only through the Symbolic we approach the Other, the taint of the strange, love. The skull’s lewd grin. Fat feeders and old farts too, sagging lips and wrinkled cheeks. Puckered dugs. Stretchmarks and cellulite. An imaginary image: rub it up against your gaping wound. And all manner of diverse stigmata. It’s that time of month — ready to re-earn your Red Badge of Courage? I know you know what I like. Are you a sneaky little dirtnapping little necknibbler? Suck my blood. Bruises and bitemarks and bloodstained sheets, oh please God don’t–

Will you let me watch? Please let me watch. What is your most-secret secret? Call me the Rape-Artist. I think hooking up with those hookers is your best idea yet, in fact several just popped up right here, just a click away, all this digital romance, this flesh unfleshed, this space rendered specious, it’s almost spiritual. Yes and the girls will come with their credit card machines and we will glaze their breasts in raspberry syrup, the girls will come and we will pay cash just in case we get too excited and we will glaze their breasts in cherry syrup, and I will let you watch as I glaze their breasts in chocolate or peanut butter or caramel syrup like I know you like like that night in November, just imagine, only remember, after our gambols in the park, you filming me clothed in nothing but the shadows cast by the steeple, enormous and rockhard, as I whispered in that girl’s ear and made her touch your Naughty Jesus, head pressed facedown in the dead roses at the foot of the tombstone. Smell the flowers, kid. Dribble-dabble all down your chin. That’s what’s up. Oh please don’t. Shutup. And that thick ass bent gleaming over the granite like a second moon itself and you forcing her orgasm and her moaning and Orion winking and Cassiopeia cackling and you striking her across her face and me striking her again across the face. Now fire away. Never been so disgusted, so ashamed, so excited. And the camera trembling raised in my right hand smashing her in the head one last time yes and the soft wet crunch and limbs going limp, bodies falling, oh God can’t–

Sthhhnuh… hhuuunhhu… huuun…

Mmmm. Huh?

Too excited: couldn’t stop. But it is the same thing every time. Strange people produce strange worlds. What about those hookers? Too late. Poor little girl. Tell no one. Play that song again. One desires to please — but pleasure never satisfies desire. Un pauvre bébé. Well, pine away. Tomorrow always. If so, if so. Take it to the next level. My God, so good — for now.

But what if found out? The body casketless? Our commingled blood and juices?

Alone, in separate cells, we shall flagellate ourselves.


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