by Kirk Alex
“You look much better today, Mr. Biggs.”
Bullshit, Biggs thought.
“The other day I was hoping the ceiling would come crashing down on me. I was lying in bed, wishing the ceiling would just crash on top of me.” He didn’t really know why he even bothered to tell any of this to the college kid. Just take the prescription, get the Elavil, and hit the road, Cecil.
“Why is that?”
“You’re asking me?”
“I’m asking you, Mr. Biggs.”
“You’re the ‘experts.’ You tell me. . . . You tell me why I can’t sleep most nights . . . and on the rare occasion that I manage to fall asleep, why is it I hope I don’t wake up the next day?”
“It’s depression. . . .”
“No shit.”
Biggs’s hand was back in his pocket, and he had his index finger inside the trigger guard. Although the college guy was not aware of the gun and had no idea what was going on, he was beginning to grow just a bit nervous around Mr. Cecil O. Biggs.
“It will pass. Like it usually does. It’s a phase you’re going through.”
“You don’t get it: I’m tired. . . . See no point to any of it. . . . Not only do I loathe this existence, but I loathe the filthy pee-hole I was squeezed out of. . . . This is why none of us could ever be clean or one hundred percent sane and mentally healthy. . . . Look how we’re brought into this world: through some whore’s dirty twat, some two-bit streetwalker’s diseased and gamey snapper. As a species we never stood a chance.”
“That’s being rather cynical, isn’t it?”
“You might call it that. I call it being realistic.”
“Like I said: it’s temporary.”
Biggs’s eyes were back on the fly. The buzzing seemed to dominate his attention.
“Sure. I can’t expect anything, can I?”
“We can put you back on Trilafon. You can be put on both, like before.”
Biggs let the fly go for the time being. Trilafon was the anti-psychotic drug with rather nasty side effects, more so than Elavil. Doctors all over the nation were way too eager to prescribe the deadly meds. The pharmaceutical corporations who manufactured the mind-altering toxins had their hooks into the medical profession, and deep. Everyone was corrupt. There was no one left to trust. They’d damaged him enough as far as he was concerned.
“No, thanks.”
The bishop considered committing himself. If he did that, not only would they have him back on Trilafon, but possibly shock therapy. As he had learned many times over, shock therapy was far more enjoyable when he was the one doing the administering—on others.
“Your Elavil subscription has been updated. It should help you get back on track.”
It was just as well he’d kept his mouth shut about having psychotic thoughts and/or wanting to commit himself, because just then some zonked out Korean War vet pressed his scarred, demented face up against the glass door, slobbering on it, licking the glass and shouting at the top of his lungs: “FUCK-YOU! YEAH, YOU BUDDY! POSITIVELY YOU! MOTHERFUCKER!” The old guy looked at the college kid. “AND YOU! FUCK EVERY ONE OF YOU! HEAR ME? FUCK YOU ALL! AND FUCK YOUR SISTER, TOO, BUDDY!”
Two orderlies in white coats moved up from behind to restrain and drag the yeller away, who could still be heard, shouting and making threats. “Fuck you and you and you, too. Your mother sucks mule dick, you hear? Your mama sucks mule pipe, and your daddy takes dog dick in the ass.”
The college kid was silent. Waited for Biggs, whose attention was back on the fly up in the corner, to stop watching it and look at him. The guy cleared his throat. Biggs turned away from the fly. Thought how much pleasure it would give him to put two rounds into that nothing, West LA soap opera face. Bang bang. What a sight that would make; what a pretty sight to see all that rosy brain matter spatter all over the white walls and tile floor. Yeah; he would have liked that. One bullet right between the eyes—and watch the back of the twerp’s skull explode something like a ripe watermelon or one of Wilburn Flinger’s pomegranates. And then a second bullet for good measure. Coup de grace.
“Your sex drive. What’s the status there?”
Biggs preferred looking at anything but the guy’s face. This time he looked right at him. Said nothing.
“If you’d rather not respond . . .”
“The status of my sex drive is that it drives me crazy.”
“How’s that?”
“How’s that? Most of the time I can’t get enough no matter how much I get, the rest of the time I can’t get it up.” Scribble that in your file, he thought. Mustache wrote something down. Looked back up.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“I have many girlfriends.”
“Would you like to talk to a sex therapist?”
“What for?”
The guy nodded. Didn’t seem to give a damn one way or the other. Just doing his job. Logging in time. Until the day he would shuck the VA and land a lucrative gig in Beverly Hills, dealing with neurotic showbiz types, or maybe even their rude poodles. Movie people had shrinks that they took their poodles to.
The wannabe head quack wrote something else in his open file. Made Cecil curious, but not curious enough to inquire what exactly the guy was jotting down about him. The pros/the cons. Negative comments he was slamming down against his name and character. Like the time up at Atascadero because he hadn’t felt like talking to anyone, he had written on a piece of paper that the devil had stuck a cookie in his throat and he couldn’t speak. He had been called a Satan worshipper because of it. Negative comments/observations noted against him. A pile of it. Mountains of it. They kept writing things down and writing things down in that file that was as thick as Betty Lou Rutterschmidt’s oversized Bible.
“Are you experiencing psychotic thoughts, possibly psychotic episodes?”
Just this: I’m a stalker by nature, Biggs came close to confessing. Predatory, if you will. It’s in my blood. In this world you’re either predator or you’re prey. I’ve been both, you see. Predators tend to have a healthier life span, in my humble estimation, and more fun. Then thought better of it. Why reveal things that they would only be obligated to use against you eventually? What sense did that make? If he admitted to any of it they’d be dragging him away the same way they did the loose cannon a moment ago. After all, he was supposed to be cured. More or less.
“I get notions. Not exactly psychotic . . . but out there. . . . Possibly borderline.”
“For instance?”
“Like I explained earlier: feelings of inadequacy. There’s a hollowness; lethargy. . . .”
“You’re depressed.”
Some revelation, thought Biggs.
“Define: One in the hand is worth two in the bush.”
Not if the two in the bush were dead, thought Biggs. No, the one in the hand wouldn’t be worth two in the bush.
“Value what you have over what you don’t.”
It was too easy. These low IQ buffoons were beyond dumb. Marvin’s fancy rats were brighter than this. Had to be. Roscoe’s two dogs were sharper than this. And that rabbit: Brenda’s pet rabbit, whose name presently escaped him: Belden, Bennett; no, Bentley, was more aware. Well, this was the VA. They had him working here. Wouldn’t want to actually hire anyone genuinely brilliant, or even someone who came close. No.
The mind healer was writing something in his file. Looked up, without acknowledging whether he liked his response or not. He had more of the same, however.
“Define: An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.” This form of low-grade quizzing was not only an insult to his intelligence, not only pointless and idiotic, but so entirely ridiculous it was laughable. The irony of it was: they were the ones who were supposed to be sane and normal. This here lame performance by the wannabe shrink backed up everything he had believed about them all along: that they were certifiable, and in serious denial.
“Better to be safe than sorry.”
The next one, though, d
amned near caused him to slip up.
“Define: If you bury the hatchet, don’t mark the grave.”
Cecil bit his tongue. Wanted to say: When you dump a body, make certain that you don’t leave traceable evidence. He took his time. Forced himself to. A wrong answer could, possibly, have you back in a straitjacket. One never knew. Freud Jr. waited.
Biggs sighed. Cleared his throat.
“It simply means this: Let bygones be bygones. What’s done is done. No point dwelling on the past.”
The sissy in white seemed satisfied. Wrote things down. Like I said, thought Biggs: easy to please. So long as you played their game. Although it hadn’t taken much to out-think the simple-minded fucker at all. World was full of them. Not much different from Charlotte Yvonne or J.J.
“You’ll be fine. Just have to take it easy. . . .”
“Take it easy?” Sure, thought Biggs. I’m thinking of splattering your brains all over your starched white frock right now, and you’re telling me to take it easy?
“Easy enough for you to say. . . .”
“Ride it out. It’s a phase you’re going through, a mild one. You’ve been there before, according to your file, but you’re doing much better these days. What you’re experiencing presently is a mild relapse—because you’ve been off the medication for a while. Once the medication kicks in you should be fine—”
“How long?”
The guy shrugged. “Anywhere from a few days to a couple of weeks.”
Biggs didn’t like to hear it and his expression showed it.
“Why did you wait to get your prescription refilled?”
“I don’t like coming here. Place creeps me out.”
“I understand. However, any time you stop taking your meds cold turkey, the way you did—it is going to result in your feeling this way. You are having a bout, experiencing a phase.”
How many times did he have to be reminded of it? Skip it. The punk was wet-behind-the-ears. In diapers, practically. Baby powder residue on his ass. Like Olin Goodfellow. Now there was a head case.
“What if I went out and did something that could be construed as psychotic? What would you say, then?”
“For example?”
“Who knows? Just a hypothetical question.”
“I understand. How would that get rid of your depression?”
“It might not. Then again: it might alleviate it. Might help me feel better. . . .”
“To do something ‘that could be construed as psychotic’?”
“Could be a way to decompress. Pressure builds up, anyone would tell you that much. Life can be a bitch. There’s the stress factor: living in a congested hellhole like Southern California.” Biggs paused. “It’s possible I’m ‘out there’ for having this perspective on things. . . .”
The psych major’s nervousness became more obvious to Cecil, especially now that the guy could not even bring himself to look him in the eye longer than a few brief seconds at a time. The intensity of his black marble eyes bore right through them and they couldn’t take it. Too weak, Cecil thought. No balls. Spineless lemmings lacking any sort of intestinal fortitude and/or genuine intelligence. And this guy was going to be another Siggy Freud? Of course.
“Look, you’re not ‘out there.’ However, what you’re getting at is starting to sound ‘out there.’”
“I don’t know. I get this ringing in my ears. . . . Sounds a lot like that fly buzzing around up there. Hear the fly? See it up there in the corner? The buzzing comes and goes. Sometimes it sneaks up in my sleep. . . .”
“Pick up your Elavil.” The guy couldn’t wait to get rid of him, it seemed. “The depression will lift eventually. Don’t do anything foolish. If your condition doesn’t improve, come back and see us. That’s what we’re here for.”
He handed him the piece of paper. Left the room. That was it. Cecil remained seated. He stared at the hallway through the open door, at the cripples (mental and otherwise) who walked past.
“I should have put one between your eyes, ‘Freud.’ Would that have lifted my depression any? It certainly wouldn’t have hurt it any.”
He was looking at the fly again, and thought: Maybe I could put a bullet between my eyes? Why don’t I do that instead? Hell, only an asshole takes his own life. Only a dumb fucking jerk/total crazy-ass bastard is going to commit suicide. He wasn’t about to start thinking along those lines again. Too much was at stake. He stood to lose all he’d worked for.
Biggs got up. Stepped into the hallway. Picked up his meds at the pharmacy in the other wing, can of soda, and was back out in the sunlight. Walked toward the Cadillac.
CHAPTER 36
Marvin still had that hip-hop crap playing on his portable radio.
“Was they cool in there?”
Biggs leaned in through the passenger window and snatched the radio from the other man’s grasp. Dropped it. Stomped the life out of it.
“Why, dude?”
“Because I loathe rap.”
“Yeah? Ain’t no worse than that fuckin’ disco you be playin’ all the time up at the cribby.”
“Only to drown out the bitches’ screaming and carrying on.”
Biggs got in on the driver’s side. Popped a single Elavil in his mouth and chased it with a pull from his soda.
“You owe me a boom box, Hoss. I don’t be boo-shittin’, neither.”
Biggs handed what remained of the soda to Marvin to finish off. It was always preferable to hearing him whine about not getting any. Muck drank it down, not at all happy at having had his radio crushed.
Biggs started the engine, not giving a damn one way or the other. Looked at Muck long and hard.
“Who sent you?”
“Who sent me?”
“I asked you a simple question: Who sent you?”
“Yo mama did.”
“She’s dead.”
“I know ho be dead.”
“Don’t ever cross me, Marvin. . . . You ever cross me, it’ll be the last time you cross anyone.”
On that, Cecil O. drove the big car out of the parking lot. Got on the 405, north. Took it to the 134, and headed east.
CHAPTER 37
Rumor had been floating around for weeks now: certain Temple City bureaucrats with a hard-on for him were intent on putting him out of business for good, or at the least eager to shut him down until issues of violence related to the haunted house he owned were resolved to their satisfaction. Didn’t make a bit of difference to the self-serving functionaries that the claims were counterfeit and made by individuals who were in the country illegally.
City left a notice on his front gate: No Trespassing. By the order of the office of . . . bla bla bla. In other words: Fuck you, Mr. Small Businessman. Frankly, we don’t give a shit that Halloween is, by far, the most lucrative day of the year for the type of business that you’re in. Illegals are human beings and they have rights. This is America. Yes, but what about my rights? As an American and a tax payer? You don’t rate because your vote is rarely for our side.
He and Marvin had driven up to the Bordello of Fear in the Caddy. The old and quite impressive two story airplane hangar type of structure had been an actual slaughter house at one time. Cecil’s long gone benefactor had purchased it just as it had been shut down and was about to be razed and turned into a Texas roadhouse type of joint. A ten foot tall wall surrounded his property. Black: all of it. Hangar and wall and gate. High end security system in evidence: one perched up at the top of the left side of the gate, its brother across the way on its right. Cecil even had cameras way up on the roof, near the large neon likeness of Trusty Lusty grinning his sinister grin, with blood flowing from his fangs and tongue. There it was, bigger than life: Large black neon letters, stating for one and all easy to pick up from a goodly distance: Trusty Lusty’s Bordello of Fear.
Paid through the nose for the juice. His light bill high enough every month. Was worth it to him. Good for publicity to leave it on. Only what good did it do him when there
was a large padlock dangling from the gate? Put there by his detractors. And his detractors were legion. Too many to count.
“You knowed they was gonna shut you down?”
“Suspected as much. Hoped that they had enough sense to let me get through the holiday. Hurts like a bitch to have to give up this kind of revenue.”
“Pepper belly done it,” said Marvin. “Tryin’ real hard to shake my brother down.” Biggs got out of the Caddy and walked up to the handful of people waiting there: concerned and bewildered. His employees. He apologized.
“No one had given me a heads-up, either. Been threatening to shut us down for weeks now. Didn’t think they could be so mercenary as to actually put working people out of work like this.”
“When do we open, Mr. Biggs?” One of the Hispanic-American males asked.
“As soon as I get word, Mr. Tampico, I’ll let all of you know. I realize how much you depend on what you earn here. Paying off bills and putting food on the table only gets tougher in this what used to be a great nation. You can thank all the Marxist/socialist slime for being behind it. Liberals.”
Contessa Arroyo and her significant other Prospero, felt a need to let him know how much they were going to miss that evening’s tips and all the other weekends they wouldn’t be open and making money. They had two young mouths to feed.
“This is still America,” said Biggs. “No one is going to starve, not a single one of you will have to worry about going hungry, not if I can help it.” He promised to have a bucket of the best jambalaya his chef Greta can make delivered first thing the next day to anyone interested. “How’s that sound? And I don’t mean only tomorrow, either, folks, or the next day. You have a difficult time scraping enough funds to buy groceries, you let me know. From now on until we re-open—and I guarantee you, we will re-open. I don’t quit. Cecil Biggs never quits—on anything he starts. Bordello of Fear means everything to me.”
