Thursday, October 26, 2006

From "Crunched," the Fictionalized Autobiography of David Novak

Can a woman's flesh be colder than ice?

As consciousness slowly seeped into my vivid dreams--me killing terrorists, on a big boat, as usual--this was the question that gripped me. Standing over Osama's corpse, my eyes crept open, revealing the glare of the bright sun shining through the cracked and crusty blinds. The blinds of a flop-house are wiser than any man. Perpetually closed, they're eternally exposed to both sides of the world. The sunny street, teeming with promise, hope and people striving to make their insignificant bit of the Earth better. And the other side--the inside--a debauched, hidden place where only the opposite of hope thrives.

My eyes refocused on my watch atop the night-stand, or rather the metal folding chair used for that purpose. I can only imagine what other uses the guests at this home of pleasure and horror made of that chair. 3:72pm. Shit. Another board meeting flushed down the toilet of time. Slowly, my other senses began to awaken. The chalky taste of last night's quaaludes. An aroma next, unforgettable: day-old Chicken Quesadillas and Chalupas. Between fifteen and sixteen hours old, judging from the smell.

Then my flesh. I begin to do what we humans pitifully describe as feel. Poor choice, that word, because while I can "feel" a white hot poker sizzling through muscle and bone, what I truly feel is loneliness, heartache, despair. We ought to have two words for feel. The first thing I feel is heaviness, on my left side, trapping my arm. Motionless, soul-crushing weight. I look--it's Diane. Or Suzanne. Or Lianne. Whatever her name was, the object of my drug-fueled desires last night. Her nude body, pale--too pale--her stomach showing traces of powder. White Gold. With delicious nacho cheese smeared... down there. Then I feel more. Coolness. Coldness. Bitter, freezing pain. Can a woman's flesh be colder than ice?

Finally, my fifth sense returns from my dreams to the dirty world where we all live. I can hear... nothing. No breath. No heartbeat. Roxanne? Dead.

My lips whisper, "Not again."

to be continued...


Nacho Chime said...

You're crusty, taco man. By the way, you misspelled Cory Lidle's name in your post a few days back. That's kind. Don't worry, the joke still came through--the whole tragic plane crash and all. Listen, I was happy during that 174 day absence. Now I'm not. I have to listen to you making excuses for things like the astringent "FIRE" sauce and those confetti chives adorning every crap-treat. Plah...

Taco Bell Champion! said...

Boy nacho chime, you sure sizzled me. Both with the spelling and overstepping the lines of goodness and decency in this civilization of ours. But sometimes when you're in an epic struggle like ours, you lose perspective. Like in Battlestar Galactica when they're fighting the Cylons on New Caprica. Unlike Col. Tigh, though, I know when I've made a mistake.

You made a mistake, too, though. Never shit on TB's fire sauce. You just lost yourself a free TB Champion t-shirt, Sealfon.