"Dirty, Good-for-nothin' C*nts" [Part I]

WBCzolgosz/11--Fiction--Test Drive

These guys, again.

Keech and Pony, two peas in a pod, devil may care, no worse for wear, rough and tumble, ready for anything, ready to rumble,walking and talking, reeling and rocking, rocking and rolling, good to go, good for nothing, going for broke, champing at the bit, bouncing off the walls, dancing in the street, fast on their feet, jerking everyone's chains, at it again, up to no good, out for themselves, out on the town, out and about, along for the ride.

These pricks, these miserable pricks.

It was Dozy's place, fourth of the kalends of October, her bridal shower, but God knows she wasn't getting married anytime soon. There were half a dozen of them, lolling about, chasing dragons, shot up with funk and love. Randal and Heebie on one end of the couch, fags, wound up like twin embryos and sometimes suckling on one another. Jam and Janie on the other end, same position, same everything, different sexes, at least. And maybe with a shade more enthusiasm, but just a shade. It would be difficult to say with certainty that any of them were alive, leave alone lively.

Slow motion, like telescoping through a crypt.

Like treading glue.

Toby was sitting cross-legged on the magic carpet, tracing the sorcerer's embroidery, drool-faced and just fucking gone, and with a sewing needle lodged in her big toe—right in the bone. How it got there, where it came from, none could say. Nobody knew, least of all Toby. She moaned every now and again, made suck-suck noises, her own contribution to the engrossing conversation. And the life of the party, the light of the universe, was Dozy, herself, the one doing all the talking. She had her opinions about faith, opinions about medicine, about politics and the economy, about Big Brother and Palm Sunday, but damned if she could articulate any of them.

Mostly, she was going, “Heebie”-this and “Toby”-that, and “Janie”-this and “Randal”-that, and making up adventures, giving everyone equal billing—making certain she had a storyline for every single person. Like, “Janie is pedalling her bicycle through the enchanted forest, and her bicycle has a banana seat, and she's carrying Heebie's gold, on a silver cord around her neck, and the cord is tied with a Gordian knot. And here comes Toby, through the trees, brandishing the hero's sword, which is so heavy that all the men from all the races couldn't lift it if they banded together.” And “Randal”-this and “Toby”-that, and so on, just gibberish, and even a spot for herself: “Dozy is the queen of the unicorn people, burner of the wicker man, keeper of the eternal flame, forever and ever, amen.”

She just liked the feel of her tongue moving inside of her mouth.

No one was listening. They all had junk in their veins, junk in their brains.

This was the shit side of town and everyone wore denim and leather, usually.

And there was a seventh person, slumped over by the stacks of laundered but unfolded clothes, no longer breathing, no longer among the living. His name was Macro, once upon a time, a million and a half years before, three hours ago—done in by his own dirty kit. Poisonous bits of rust and residue flowed upstream to his heart and caused it to seize. Took him just under two minutes to die, but with no small amount of discomfort. Dozy barely noticed him over there and didn't know him by name, so there was no chance of him making his way into her fantastic stories.

“And Jam went to the cradle of life, to the fountain of youth, in the days of yore, on the coast of gold, and met a youngly maiden fair, flaxen hair, kraken stare, Yogi Bear, floating chair, truth or dare.” Et cetera, et cetera.

She was a little rich girl, in bygone days, our Dozy, the daughter of Dr. Indy Bhugra. Could have had the whole world, or part of it, one of the good parts. Could have gone to Harvard or Yale or Nixon or DeVry. Could have become an accountant or record producer. Daddy used to tell her, “If you dream it you can achieve it, because the sky is the limit, so aim high.” Something about reaching a man's exceeding grasp, too.

But then she found the dope and the dope was love, love, love.

Heebie's nose was whistling as he breathed, sleepily, and Toby's toe kept twitching—as if it, completely alive and aware of itself, was attempting to dislodge and remove the needle by shaking it out. Without realizing her own attention to these events, Dozy began to incorporate dancing digits and a singing proboscis into her narrative. “Heebie's nose and Toby's toes went waltzing by the bottom stair, to the basement there, in the lightning's glare, and, uhh, to the gorgon's stare.” And “Randal”-this and “Dozy”-that, but no mention, still, of Macro—may he rest in peace.

There was a storm brewing outside. Sleet and fire riding cold and hot on the north wind.
It was the intention of these guys, these cunts, Keech and Pony, not invited to Dozy's bridal shower in the first place, to rain on the parade...

(To Be Continued)