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Short Story

mikebarron82290's picture mikebarron82290
0 posts

Hey cultists! This is a short excerpt of a new piece I'm working on. If anyone has the time or interest to give it a look that would be just swell. Once it becomes more complete and once my funds are in order I plan on renewing my subscription to the Workshop (Which is indeed awesome) and submitting it there. Here goes:

If God was a butcher, Sable would be the beaten beyond tender scraps he swipes aside with a cleaver and feeds to the strays. Looking at her, I see a severed cunt, gouged wet holes covered in glitter and flanging wide open in front of me. That glitter is the gaudiness of America; pressed and stamped into tiny glowing specks. There was glitter all around us. It had to be there. Nevada is nothing without the lights. Sable’s lipstick was just an extension of the glitter. You couldn’t look at those cracked red curled lips without thinking of all the cocks stuffed into them. All the other men throat deep into those fucking tainted jowls. Sable couldn’t open her mouth to speak without you seeing it as an orifice.

We were sitting at our familiar table in the strip bar. Sable sat across from me smack-sucking a cigarette, her putrid yellow teeth warped around it like flies on sherbet. With her every smoldering breath I was transfixed. Sable’s body was a skeleton sculpted in alabaster, stark blinding white. She used dancing to fund her college education. Sable wasn’t from the same litter as the rest of the girls. She was just some stray dog who found her way into the pack. Far from her archetypical stripper counterparts, Sable would rather fuck, read Nietzsche, and tell you life is meaningless over coffee and cigarettes. Some etiquette she had for an intellectual, the way she slurped through her espresso and mumbled over twitching drags of smoke.

She was going on in melodious bursts about nothing in particular. It was a rapid-fire staccato speech, words fired in clips at whatever target she could shake her chin at. I could hardly listen from looking at those fucking jowls.

“YOU just don’t get it. She scoffed. “They don’t want you to get it. They make damn certain of that it’s what they do.”

It’s two in the afternoon and I’m still drinking coffee with this lunatic at the bar. I could use a little fun, so I figure I’ll pander to her whole charade for a while. I forge up some attentiveness and do my best Sigmund Freud. “They who Sable? Exactly who are you going on about now?”

“You know Levi. Them. The collective 'they.' The all consuming all watching 'they.' The same 'they' the privileged class has perpetuated for centuries. They are among us, watching us, and you don’t even see them. Fucking phantoms. They’re up there in their ivory towers, in their crisp tailored suits, the decadent little shits, while the fucking plebes like us go on rotting with the minutiae of our daily lives.”

Sable is like a critic who sits alone in a theater and heckles the empty stage. I’m getting a rise out of seeing her with all that wasted energy.

“Plebes. Interesting. And how can you explain these, phantoms you speak of Sable?”

She twists her lips into an exaggerated jack-O-lantern grin, and interlocks her hands. She knows I’m belittling her. That smile looks stamped on, like an emblem hot iron branded into an uncooperative beast.

“It’s all theatre,” She goes on. “-an interwoven network of pure boredom. It’s well-ordered nonsense. A passionless race for the prize. It’s all connected with a current; a dragging, jolting current that numbs and inebriates all in its path. They parade around with their brands to stun us, to attract and distract us from the hell they’ve created. Like ventriloquists at our backs we’re manipulated. Mass detachment, an unplugging of the current, is the only means to stop it. Only then can one see the spectacle for what it is,” she pauses, puffing smoke in my face. “Despair.”

A cheap watch warped around a strong black wrist, Sly, the club owner, slams his fist down on the table and interrupts us.

“Break’s over. Clean up and get back on the stage. We’re running a tight shift tonight.”

Sable sucks dry the rest of her cup and complies.

“Nice seeing you Levi.”

Sitting there alone now, I figure I might as well be on my way out. Heading for the door, I catch a glimpse of Sable as she takes the stage. For all that talk of distraction, she could sure put on a show.