by Unknown
In some neighborhoods, the sounds of the males’ chirping is enough that people standing next to each other would have to shout to be heard.
There was nobody there for Jennifer to talk to.
Her jeans and panties off now, the skin on her buttocks prickled in the chill. She had to do this.
The cicada would not be back until she was fifty-one.
Jennifer rushed forward and pressed her body into their thousands. She clenched her fists, mashing the bodies together and hearing the skins break softly, like a nacho in melted cheese might.
Those cicadas that were pressed up against the lenses of her glasses writhed as if they were on a microscope slide. Some squeezed free of their gray skins like Vic Solvig had liberated himself from his condom. Others wriggled around the edges of the wire frames with brown and red and green legs and antennae. She did not blink or wince.
Many of the cicadas had red veins in the membranes of their wings.
Jennifer breathed through clenched teeth in tight, prolonged gasps. She ground her hips into the pulp on the tree. The male cicadas screamed in her ears.
She did not say a word.
DEAD ISSUE
Rex Miller
Writers have a problem with their readers attributing the traits of their characters to the writers themselves. This is especially troublesome for writers with dark imaginations. You know the shtick—you write about serial killers or child molesters and some donut in Paducah immediately thinks you’re a serial killer or child molester yourself, and he writes you a dumb letter and reports your name to the FBI. This can also be a problem for spouses who read our twisted scenarios and wonder who it really is they are sleeping with each night. It is usually not an issue for writers when dealing with one another. We understand the creative process and know we’re able to create characters of abject darkness that are nothing like us. Right. But after reading Rex Miller’s utterly convincing “Dead Issue,” I started having my own doubts about this guy who lives in the Midwest and sounds so normal and nice on the phone.
Inside the big car it smelled of booze, weed, new car smells, and musk, and she slid across the slick, cold seat letting it all hit her at once. She was high and saw no danger signs.
“Hi, baby,” he said, leaning into her.
“Hello, darling,” she breathed, and he kissed her very lightly and turned the ignition key, pulling away from the curb and heading out toward the highway. She was hot stuff.
“It was fun, wasn’t it?” Foxy Roxy. Twenty-two. Unmarried.
“Uh huh.” Her live-in lover.
“I love to party,” she said sexily, leaning into the solidness of him beside her.
“I know you do, honey.”
“You had a good time—huh?” She looked at him.
“Sure.”
The woman started to reach over and turn on the radio and then remembered, caught herself in time, and asked:
“Want some music?”
“Pass,” he said softly, smiling, pulling her tightly up against him. She smelled womanly, he imagined he could smell her pussy scent through the other fragrances in his nose, and he looked over at her chest. It was a black cocktail dress under the coat and he slipped his hand inside. Her body felt warm. He stiffened, imagining what it would be like later to stuff his maleness into her mouth, choke her with his masculinity. He smiled, feeling the heat and growing hardness as he touched her, thinking about her taking him in her mouth later. How he’d make her swallow it. Her pale, smooth, alabaster skin, so soft and sleek and unblemished. She looked like a teenybopper when she was naked. Little flat tits and a young girl’s high, firm ass.
At the stop sign he pulled her to him, kissing her roughly, kissing her closed mouth as hard as he could. “You make me hot for you,” he breathed.
“Good,” she said, startled. He looked back and pulled out onto the highway.
“Yeah,” he said and suddenly pulled over again, right on the shoulder of the road in front of all the traffic and started making out with her like he was about to take her clothes off right there and put it to her in the middle of traffic.
“Somebody got horny,” she laughed into his mouth sexily and he squeezed her breast very hard and said:
“Tongue.” She obliged him.
“Let’s go home,” she purred.
“Tongue. Stick that fucking tongue in my mouth.” They kissed some more. He imagined what her wet, red mouth would look like later, the look of that long, white throat as she licked and sucked.
“I’m going to make you eat a beautiful girl’s cunt while I fuck you in the ass,” he told her. He was always threatening to make her do it with another woman, but she realized it was just pillow talk. She went along with it as usual.
“Okay. I’ll go down on Linda for you,” she told him. She knew he fantasized about her and their next door neighbor: a vacuous, somewhat overweight slut whom she wouldn’t touch on a bet.
“Yeah. That’d make you hot, wouldn’t it?” He pinched her breast through the thin fabric of the cocktail dress and the bra, really hurting her.
“Ouch. Oh—honey. Don’t.”
“Get yourself all wet down there thinking about eating Linda’s hot cunt while I ream out your ass.”
“Little whore.” He grabbed her long hair in back and twisted it savagely as he forced her mouth to his.
“Let—don’t—”
“Will you put that cunt TONGUE in my mouth, goddamn you, you fucking hot little tramp? Do I have to tell you every time when I kiss your little whore mouth? Now stick that bitch out as far as you can.” She did and he kissed her brutally, sucking her tongue. Then he eased up a bit and started kissing her gently and tenderly, but still with her hair in his hand. Getting very dangerous now and oddly she began to smell it before she sensed his mood. It was like he was turning into an animal.
“Let’s go home, darling. Come on,” she said, looking around as if people would see them. And he relaxed the lock on her hair and she pulled away in the moment when he checked the rearview mirror and pulled back onto the highway.
“You’re nothing but a fucking cunt, you know that?” he asked her in a soft, lilting, pleasant tone. His love-making voice.
“I’m your cunt, baby,” she said. She had a splitting headache now and her breast was sore and her tongue hurt. She wanted to get him home and they’d do it and then he’d leave her alone. It was amazing. He’d come in about a minute and then go right to sleep like a baby. She knew him like a book.
“Slide back over here, you fucking bitch.” She came back.
“That’s right.” She felt his large right hand reach over and caress her left knee, sliding up the leg under the short skirt.
“I hate fucking pantyhose,” he said. “I wish I knew who the pussy was who invented the sons of bitches, I’d like to kick the living crap out of them.”
“They’re wonderful, baby. Don’t say that.” She was trying to snap him out of it a little till they got home.
“Did I just tell you they suck? I oughta get you a pair of crotchless pantyhose so that twat would always be open for me—eh?”
“That’s a good idea,” she said.
“You fucking had your legs open tonight,” he said dangerously.
“Huh?”
“HUH? You heard me, bitch. Every time that prick Joel smiled at you, you’d spread those fucking legs a little more. You’re nothing but a cheap fucking cooze.”
“Darling, don’t talk silly.”
“Bullshit. If you want to suck Joel’s dick so badly, why don’t I invite him over and we’ll take turns with you? Is that what you’d like, you fucking bitch?”
“I just want you,” she said as he bore down, squeezing her soft inner thigh in his vise-grip. She cried out and he laughed.
“Oh, yeah.” He let go of her momentarily, inflamed now. And he waited quietly at the stop sign. She tried to figure the best way to handle him now. She knew what he was like when he started his fantasy games.
&n
bsp; “Linda sounds better to me,” she said. “Maybe we could get her over and you could watch us together. Would you like that?” But he was gone. He didn’t bite and as soon as the traffic moved out he hung a right on an unfamiliar county road and she said, “Let’s not go this way, honey. Come on. Let’s go home and make love.”
“Yeah,” he said, driving.
“Are you mad at me or just playing?”
“Yeah. I’m playing.”
“You know I would never even look at anybody else. You’re all I want.”
“Yeah. You’re—” He didn’t even bother to finish. Suddenly she felt a chill in the car. She was starting to become afraid, and she realized that was ridiculous.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you, too,” he said, surprisingly. She slid back to him and he kissed her. In a moment he pulled over again, but this time he cut the engine, putting it in Park and killing the lights. It was a heavily traveled but dark stretch of county road. A truck came by. He began kissing her very gently and she responded. “I can’t wait to get home with you. I want to make it with you here. Please, baby?”
“Let’s go home, darling, it isn’t that far. We’ll be so much more comfortable.” He kept kissing her. “I’m cold.”
“You need something hot.” He unbuckled his belt and undid his pants. By the time he’d moved down in the seat and repositioned himself, his trousers down, he was limp. He took her by the hair again and pushed her down on top of him, saying:
“Make it WET,” as he started jacking himself off into her mouth. She licked the head of it. He was hard almost instantly, and she put a cold hand under his balls as she started going back and forth on him with her mouth. He had to fight not to explode.
“Squeeze, you goddamn shit fuck, SQUEEZE MY BALLS.” He had her hair with his left hand, ramming it into her throat, slamming her back and forth on him, choking her with the fullness of his penis, and when she squeezed him he began shooting into her.
“Come on, come on, COME ON. Ohhh.” He let go. And he kept her down on him.
“Don’t stop licking, fuck shit, oh, oh please, OOOH!” She knew he couldn’t come again that soon but he made the noise he made when he came. It must have really gotten him off. He pulled his pants back up. “Was that good?” she asked, mischievously.
But all he could think about was the way she’d looked, close to Joel, the two of them almost SNUGGLING right there in the living room. That fucking whore. He’d seen her once reach over and pat his arm when they were laughing about something. Flirting with him like some goddamn tramp.
“You really like to flirt in front of me, don’t you, you scummy bitch?” he said, out of nowhere. She looked at him sharply.
“I don’t flirt.” Her voice had a hard, surprised edge. He reached out and took her hair like a handle and cracked her head forward on the padded dash.
“OHHHHHH!” She cried out, she couldn’t see. Blue and red and yellow stars exploded.
“Yeah. You like to flirt so well. See if this teaches you something,” he said, the car still moving, but him turning and with a big, mean fist punching her as hard as he could, aiming at nothing, but catching her a hard, grazing shot in the kidneys as she jerked farther forward, the blow knocking her down into a heap on the floorboard of the car.
“Goddamn shit bitch,” he fumed.
Nothing. She was still.
“How’s THAT feel, you whore?” She didn’t say anything but he could see her moving, breathing hard. He pulled over again, braking but keeping the car running. He touched her arm.
“I’m hurt.”
“You’re not hurt, cunt. Get up.”
“(something)—the hospital.”
“Speak up. What’d you say?”
“Better get me to the hospital, honey.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m bleeding inside.”
“That’s no big deal. You’ll be all right. I didn’t even hit you that hard. Get up.”
“Better get me to a hospital, fast.” It was her serious voice and it snapped him out of it.
“Really?”
“Yeah, babe. I’m hurt. I’m bleeding inside. I can feel it. It’s—real bad.” She cried.
“Shit,” he said, but he pulled out and decided he’d run her by the emergency ward.
“Where’s Memorial?”
“On Grand.”
“You mean MacArthur.”
“It’s on Grand. Good Samaritan’s on MacArthur.”
“You’ll be all right. Fuck.”
“It’s the baby,” she told him.
“Bullshit.”
“I can feel it.”
“That’s crap,” he said, but his tone lacked conviction.
“I think you hurt the baby,” she said softly.
“Bull. You don’t know that.” He exhaled. Always something.
“I can feel—OH!” She screamed twice, as sharp pains hit her.
“Take it easy,” he said, gently.
“Hurry.”
“Listen. You, tell ‘em you fell down the stairs. Don’t say anything about me or—who the fuck knows? I might get some heat on it. Just say you fell.”
“I fell on my back?”
“Yeah. You could be coming up the stairs, you slip, go over backward, and land on your back. Whatever.”
“No.” She’d worked as a candy striper. “They’ll never buy it. They know from the way somebody has an injury. I better say somebody did it to me. You know, some drunk guy on the street or something.”
“Don’t be stupid. They INVESTIGATE that kind of crap. You don’t want the goddamn police. Use your brain. You fell down the back stairs.”
“OHHHHHHHHH! Jesus!”
“Come on. Shit. You’ll be okay. I’ll be there in three minutes.”
“We don’t have time.”
“HUH?” He was worried now, worried for the first time since he’d hit her.
“We won’t make the hospital.”
“What do you mean we won’t make—”
“It’s bad. Stop at a gas station or something. Blood’s comin’ out of me fast.” She could feel herself hemorrhaging.
“Aw, shit. Take it easy. Hold on, now.”
“STOP! Come on. NOW!”
“Okay, okay.” He wheeled into a gas station and convenience store. Got out and tried the door marked Ladies, to see if he’d need to go in and get a key for her, but it was open. He turned to go get her but she’d managed to get out of the vehicle and was standing right behind him, clutching herself, moaning. He was beginning to worry now.
“AH!” It was almost a scream. She burst into the women’s john and slammed the door. He went back to the car and waited, pissed at the inconvenience.
Five minutes. Enough already. He got out and banged on the door of the toilet. Nothing. He tried it and it was locked. Fucking bitch.
“Open this, goddamn it. Come—” He felt it click open and turned the knob as she staggered back in, collapsing onto the commode in a stall. He followed her.
“Let’s go.”
“I passed it.”
“Huh?”
“I passed tissue. The baby. I passed the baby. YOU KILLED OUR BABY, YOU FUCKER.”
“BULLSHIT!”
“I passed the baby.”
He was very still. Watching.
“I’m messed up inside. I need a doctor.”
“Fuck the doctor, all right?”
“Please. You’ve already killed my baby. Do you want me to die, too?”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“You mean bastard,” she sobbed, letting it all pour out.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he said in his gentlest tones. Trying to hold her in his arms, inhaling disinfectant, listening to her weep. “I’ll make it up to you, I swear. And a couple of—you know, six, eight weeks. It’s not really a baby yet anyway, it’s just—” He felt her stiffen as she cried and tried to pull away from him. He changed tactics and cooed to her and stroked
her and finally she let him hold her.
Foxy Roxy eventually cried herself out. He kept holding her. Figuring what would be the coolest move. No way was he taking her to a hospital where the heat could get their nose into it. Get some haired-off social worker on his case. Fuck that shit.
“Come on, doll.” He whispered, and very gently he eased her up, and they made their way to the car, him practically carrying her.
He was extremely tender and solicitous all the way home. She assured him she could go under her own power but he supported her from the car into the apartment building, and all the way up in the elevator.
He carried her in, tenderly, lovingly, like a newlywed husband, and gently deposited her on the bed. She curled up into a fetal ball and hugged a pillow.
He went into the next room and built himself a stiff one at their wet bar, and came back in the bedroom.
The little black cocktail dress had hiked up on her and the back of her beautiful, sexy legs, and that great butt looked so good to him. He told her:
“You never looked so fuckable, baby.”
“Get real,” she moaned, hugging her pillow.
“Is this real enough for you?” he asked, unzipping and guiding himself into her mouth. “I love you baby,” he said. “You know I do, don’t you?”
She tried to push him away but when he was like this it was better to just go along with him. She’d learned the hard way.
It was over pretty quickly, and she was getting lightheaded from the blood loss so she knew if she was going to do something she’d better be doing it. He was snoring, the bastard. Really sawing those logs. Passed out, dead to the world.
She went in the kitchen and got what she needed and came back and took care of business. When she was through she forced herself to take a fast shower, then called for a Yellow Cab and got dressed. She was waiting for it, in front, when the taxi pulled up to take her to the hospital.
It was the next day before she told the cops about him and four guys let themselves in and found him.
“Forty-one, I make it,” the M.E. told the ranking officer in charge. He’d counted forty-one stab wounds in the decedent’s bod. “Somebody was truly pissed,” he said.
