God damn it. Those fucking assholes…
Del heard Sancho laugh derisively, adding, “And it’s even the gimp’s house!” This made the party goers laugh all the more.
“You’re shitting me?” Del heard someone else say.
The tracks of Del’s tears slinked down his paint and shame stained face. The scene worsened when it turned into an all-out convulsive crying fit. Snot ran unimpeded from Del’s nose and hung off his false chin, grossing people out. People began throwing cups of beer from the keg at Del’s face.
This has got to stop. Please! Help me, someone! Anyone!!
The foam mixed with the others that splashed and dripped off his face and drenched his naked, rib thin chest. Del’s colostomy bag was filling from the internal pressure of his wracked sobbing fit, getting rigid and spastic. The ventilator pressure alarms sounded and kept pace with Del’s despair. The continued laughter from the crowd was loud and almost comical now.
Oh Christ, oh fuck me. I’d give anything and I mean anything to –
“Get back at them?” the girl finished.
She appeared out of thin air. She sat on Del’s lap, face to face with him. Her skinny arms were wrapped in an embrace around his neck and her hair was dreadlocked and smelled faintly of musk, sugar, and sulfur. She was the girl from his dream and of his dreams.
A paint pellet sailed right through her, doing no damage. Del blinked in shock. Del doubted his own eyes. The girl smiled at him.
“Oh, I am quite real,” the girl assured Del, “As real as you’re ever-loving soul. These bozos just can’t see me, is all.” Del blinked his eyes some more. The specter still straddled him. Del tried his level best to not slip out of control and go spinning headlong into madness. She added, “Aren’t you getting tired of this shit?”
Yes.
“Of course you are,” she replied.
What does she want from me? I don’t need a massage.
“This I know.”
What do you mean?
“We’ll barter, you and I,” she began, “just a simple exchange, for my help.”
A quick splat of exploded paint pellet went through the girl’s back and hit Del in his midsection, almost detaching his colostomy bag in the bargain. “You are stuck between a rock and a hard place, Delano,” she told him, “And you don’t really have a lot of options.” Another pellet exploded, this time in the midst of Del’s greasy, tangled, smelly hair. More shouts of appreciation from the crowd leaked with the paint into Del’s ear. “You can let them continue to torture and humiliate you, or you can get back at them.”
But, what can I do?
“By yourself, not a thing,” she said, “but with my help, payback,” she promised him, “will be a son of a bitch.”
Del looked at the phantom. He disappointed himself for giving even a moment’s credence to what she had to say. No-one can help him, especially not this mirage, this little slip of a girl sitting on his lap. It was simply ridiculous.
What can she do?
“Oh my, a great deal, Delano,” she told him. “Now I’m going to show you something really cool, okay? Something I think you will get a real kick out of.” Del just stared at her as she spoke and the pellets whizzed in through the girl and hit him. “Now this can be a trifle startling, so you will need to steel yourself for it.” She warned with a stern look on her face. “I’m going to do this so that you know without a doubt that I am serious.” Del numbed and stared blankly at the girl. “You ready?” she asked.
Yes. Why not? I am already mad. I must be to entertain any of this crazy shit.
“Okay,” she replied, “here goes nothing.”
The girl’s eyes changed first. They transformed from a deep, soulful brown to a frighteningly dark blood red. They glowed. And then her young pert face became aged and deeply wrinkled. Her face turned green like a putrid avocado.
Even with his dead legs, Del could feel in an instant how heavy the creature became, perched as it was on his lap. The demon’s fingers had long, dirty and yellowed nails. They were as foul smelling and as dangerous appearing as the mad jumble of gray teeth that were crowding its awful hole of a mouth.
And then, in a blink of an eye, the horrible vision turned back into the sweet looking girl. Even in his mind, Del was speechless.
“As you can see, Delano,” she said, “I’m the real deal.” Del stared at her. “I can make you well and help you get back at them,” the girl indicated with a quick jerk of her head, the dreads bouncing.
What do I have to do?
“It’s simple. All you have to do, Delano, is to invite me in,” she replied with a twinkle fading from red to brown in her eyes. “But it must be a serious and formal invitation.”
Saying that I do invite you in, what do you want from me in return? I know you can read my thoughts, so you know I’m not stupid or gullible.
“I know that, Delano.”
There’s no such thing as a free lunch.
“Also true,” she agreed.
So, what is it you want from me in exchange for your help?
She smiled shyly at him. She wanted to say it out loud, but found she couldn’t. Liking him, she shrugged her shoulders, instead. Then she glanced away from Del, red-faced.
He didn’t quite know what to make of it. But as the Texas song-bird once sang: ‘Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.’
So: fuck it, Del thought, I’m free. I might as well hop on board and see where this crazy bus takes me. I sure as shit got nothing left to lose.
NINE
The gimp was still passed out, sitting in his chair. Sancho was watching him. He stared darkly at all the bells, whistles and doo-dads that kept the worthless fuck alive. Take the wheelchair, for instance. It was more than a chair. The big bastard was an expensive, light-weight, portable throne. Sancho figured the thing was worth more than most of the cars he’d owned. It was far too good for the likes of Sailor Del, Sancho thought. He reconnected the gimp to his breathing machine. That was another thing that Sancho thought was over-done and ridiculous. It had all kinds of knobs and dials and buttons and what-not. Del didn’t need all that fancy shit to breathe. It pissed Sancho off that he didn’t know enough about the machine to mess with Del more. That’s why he just silenced the machine and disconnected him. Del got just as blue and his torturer had just as much fun.
Sancho knelt down on his knees. He followed Del’s line and made certain that the urine catheter was knotted nice and tight. He almost wished Del didn’t lay a monthly golden egg. Sancho would love to see if he could make the gimp blow up all at once, instead of dying slowly like he was. It would be almost worth the loss of Del’s government checks to do that. Not quite, but almost.
Maybe if Sancho ever won the lottery, or when he gets enough paid videotape orders for Luci’s film debut (that she didn’t even know about), he wouldn’t need the gimp’s money any longer. Once Amateur Initiations #1, starring the new adult sensation of Luci Goosey started flying off the shelves, then look out. Sancho would pay Del back, alright. He would pay the Navy fuck back in spades.
* * * * *
After Del ratted him out for dealing, Sancho had somehow convinced himself that he would still be okay. Sancho didn’t really dig being in the Navy, anyway, so it was no big hootie-doo that he was going to be tossed out on his ear. Really, who gives a rat’s ass? It was all suck-ass shit work to Sancho. Taking orders and licking the boots of his superiors was not for someone as clever and resourceful as he.
In his time as a squid, Sancho experienced not one thing that would make him want to stay on after his enlistment period was up.
The Navy never stationed Sancho overseas. They taught him nothing more useful than to always keep the deck wet, in case someone important shows up. Always look busy and don’t ever volunteer for anything. This was the sort of dumb shit Sancho already knew. He certainly didn’t need the fucking Navy to teach him that. So, he stupidly thought his Dishonorable Discharge would be enoug
h punishment. It was dim-witted as hell for Sancho to have thought that way. He was loathed to discover first-hand just how off base that kind of thinking was. The Navy did give him a Dishonorable Discharge, just not right away.
Sancho was tried, found guilty and sentenced to prison. The Navy waited until he served his time, and then he got his Dishonorable Discharge. He was sentenced to six years, but only had to serve three. His good behavior was enough to cut his sentence in half. Sancho didn’t have much choice in the matter. When he was imprisoned, he was always too scared and abused to start much of a ruckus. Still, three years of hard time in the brig at the Naval Weapons Station was hard fucking time.
Drug dealers there are regarded slightly higher than purveyors of kiddie porn. Sancho was reminded of this almost every day. He was force-fed healthy doses of hard cock that was dished out liberally and with venom from the huge soldiers that had, maybe, a handful of functioning brain cells left between the lot of them. And those brain cells apparently told them to smack the holy shit out of Sancho.
Rusty was the ring leader. The huge craggy Lt. had criss-crossed scars all over his heavily muscled chest. He would see them whenever the unhinged Lt. would get some cohorts together and proceed to run a train on Sancho.
Rusty would call him Luci when he wanted to fuck. Sancho wasn’t nearly big enough to fight back. He was a perpetual victim. His fellow prisoners regularly stole his food, which made him even weaker and more vulnerable. In fact, there were many days when semen and his own feces were all Sancho ate.
When he thought about it, he supposed he was fortunate to contract nothing more virulent than good old fashioned gonorrhea in his throat and a few busted ribs and teeth. Every night after they tired of him, Sancho would cry himself to sleep, conjuring up different ways to get back at Del.
Sancho did get Rusty, though. It was simple and ingenious. All he had to do was sprinkle some crushed glass into some raisin and rice moonshine that one of his fuck-buddies conjured up for him.
The dumb shit even scooped the bottom of his cup a few times, thinking it was un-dissolved sugar, or something. Rusty shat and vomited great gouts of blood, along with actual chunks of stomach lining. When he died, no-one cared to look into it, because he was just an old, alcoholic, drug fucked, sodomizing convict. Who cares?
Sancho was released soon after. Then he saw Luci. He began talking to her and Sancho put two and two together. It made him chuckle. Luci was Rusty’s kid? Aw, hell no! It was almost as if shit was planned. Add to that the tasty verity that she was also married to Popeye the fucking Sailor Man, himself.
It just can’t be! Sancho remembered thinking: God must be smiling on me.
And now, as he grinned at the man passed out in his ultra fancy wheelchair, Sancho had proof positive that god almighty existed. A total and complete reversal of fortune had occurred. His prayers had been answered. It was manifesting, right before Sancho’s very eyes.
God is good. Indeed.
* * * * *
Del came to in his wheelchair and opened his eyes. He glanced down toward his lap and noticed that things were still the same. His urine catheter was still tied in a knot. The colostomy bag was an overstuffed sausage, taut as it was with Del’s waste. The pressure felt from them both was nearly unbearable. The pain shot through his whole body and made him wince. At least his ventilator was attached to him. Del could hear it as it breathed evenly for him. But Del’s belly was singing a different tune. It felt uncomfortably full. He looked up and saw that his feeding tube was rolled on to full. His abdomen was dangerously distended.
Del looked straight ahead. Sancho was sitting in front of Del at a card table, smiling at him.
“How you doing there, buddy?” Sancho asked Del. He was rolling a joint. A bottle of Jack Daniel’s Single Barrel sat uncorked on the table. A glass of the amber liquid was splashed over rocks. Sancho’s dope induced half-smile lit up his face. An IV pole stood sentinel beside him. The bag of normal saline ran through a clear tube into a plush vein on the back of Sancho’s left hand. The derelict pimp drug dealer fuck had started an IV on his own self. Judging from the hooded flutter of his eyes and the way his head canted, Sancho had apparently helped himself to Del’s Demerol. Sancho noticed Del staring at his IV.
“Sorry about that, Del, my man,” Sancho said, licking the double wide rolling paper and twisting the ends. Sancho rolled the fat joint between his index finger and thumb to loosen the sticky, stinky bud. He took a luxurious sip of the whiskey. “I hope you don’t mind that I helped myself to your pain meds.” Sancho told him. “If you do mind, just say so and I’ll stop,” he continued with a hearty laugh. “No? Yes? What is it, then? We cool, then? Yeah, of course we are. We’re friends after all, aren’t we? Yes? Share and share alike, am I right?”
Del sat there motionless. He blinked rapidly at Sancho, squinting through all the pressure and pain. He hoped, so bad, that the washout fuck-tard would come closer to him. Close enough, anyway.
Come on. Pretty, please.
“I’m just gonna go and hold on to your meds, horde them, if you will,” he told Del, “Since you don’t mind.” Del was beginning to shake from the pain and frustration. Sancho lit the joint, pulling in a deep drag. He sipped some more of the liquor. “Mmm,” he added, “That goddamned Demorol is delicious.” Sancho scratched at his neck.
Get up, you derelict. Come on over here and fuck with me.
Sancho laughed again. But he did get up –
Yes.
– and grabbed the IV pole. He started wheeling it toward Del.
“How’s about some smoke, instead,” Sancho offered as he approached Del’s mechanical ventilator.
Sancho deactivated the pressure and volume alarms. He then took another drag off the joint, thereby keeping the cherry tip lit. He removed the adaptor from the trachea tube in Del’s neck. Sancho bent at the waist and blew a thick column of cannabis down into Del’s airway.
Del felt the smoke enter his virgin lungs causing them to contract and sting uncomfortably. A stir began below that and suddenly Del felt as though someone had just dumped a gallon of wet cement down his airways, filling both lungs.
Fuck, I can’t breathe. I’m gonna fucking die…
“You’re turning red, Del. What the matter?” asked Sancho. His grin widened with Del’s discomfort. Silently, the suffering man pleaded with his torturer. Sancho ignored him. He pulled on the weed again and blew it once more down Del’s throat. Del felt the cement move up from his lungs and into his trachea. Sancho stopped for a moment. Something looked strange to him. What the in the holy hell is this?
Something big…
He saw it move again.
“What the fuck?” Sancho said and he leaned in closer to get a better gander. A blood red eyeball looked back at Sancho. His own breath escaped him in a shocked rush as the eye in Del’s airway hole blinked and then disappeared from view.
Something wicked…
Del was turning from red to blue as a still shocked Sancho forgot to re-connect Del to his breathing machine. Sancho was still standing flat-footed and dumb as a gray-green, ancient, wrinkled, clawed hand shot out of Del’s trachea.
Here it comes…
As quick as you please, the demon grabbed Sancho’s thick, luxurious hair and held it in a firm grip.
“Come on in, shit-heel,” it muttered and pulled Sancho down the artificial airway and deep into Del, proper.
Del took a deep, lung rattling, earth shattering breath in with a joy he’d never known. He stared at the tiny hollow IV catheter as it swung back and forth and dripped Demerol in a widening puddle on the carpeted floor.
I can breathe, I can breathe. I can fucking breathe.
And there was something else: Del could also feel his fingers and toes begin to tingle delightfully as his functions returned.
Sancho was good for something, after all.
The demon quickly leapt out of Del’s neck and stood before him as the young girl.
“Tha
t was fun,” she said, wiping the snot from her outfit.
The demon girl went to the card table and snatched up the JD and swigged deeply from the bottle. She then walked it and the cork over to Del, who was still sitting and breathing deliciously deep.
She grabbed hold of the airway and just yanked the fucker out. She dropped the artificial hunk of medical-grade plastic to the floor. It lay in a cradle of mucous.
The demon took the cork from the whiskey bottle and screwed it into Del’s neck stoma hole.
“Have some,” she said and put the bottle up to Del’s plastic mouth.
He opened his new jaw for the first time. With some creaking and popping, Del took in and swallowed some. He then breathed a little more, this time through his opened mouth. He cherished the way the air felt as it passed over fuzzy teeth and a furry tongue.
The demon smiled and handed Del the bottle. He automatically reached for it with the hand that should still be dead. Del held the bottle firm and brought it to his own mouth. He hardly spilled a drop.
“Thank you,” Del croaked with a voice that was weak and raspy from disuse.
He took another drink of the pricey firewater. After all, it was bought with his money.
“Try to stand,” the demon girl advised.
Del was barely even shaky as he rose to a standing position. He held all of his weight on his sickly spindly fish-belly white legs. Del wobbled just a bit as he made his way slowly and carefully to the card table. He rested with his hands flat on the vinyl top and breathed some more.
“Very good,” she told him, “Very good, indeed.”
“Feels good,” a croaking Del agreed.
“And it will get better and easier with every minute that passes,” she added.
Del nodded his agreement. He noticed a plate of lined coke and a rolled and taped bill lay beside it. Del had never indulged. He was a Navy man from a long line of Navy men. He’d never tried any drugs. Del drank and swore and fucked like a sailor. He was, after all, a Navy man. Was. And so he thought, why not? Again, his money bought it. Del could hear Luci starting to stir down the hall in what used to be their bedroom. He looked over to the girl and raised his eyebrows in question.
The Place in Between Page 7
