by Weston Ochse
Paco was staring so intently at Brett that he never noticed Daddy Pain’s approach. So when he was grabbed by the back of the neck and hauled to his feet he couldn’t help but squeal.
“Now get over here and use this goat as it’s meant to be used.”
Daddy Pain’s iron grip held Paco in place.
Brett wiped his nose with the back of his hand and pulled himself awkwardly to a standing position.
Daddy Pain shoved Paco towards the center of the room. The other members of Family Pain and B.J. turned to watch the spectacle just as a crowd would watch elephants lumber along, be-glittered women balanced and beaming on their backs.
Paco found his balance and crouched slightly, his hands open and ready.
Brett stretched his shoulder muscles by wind-milling his arms several times. When he stopped, he nodded to indicate he was ready.
“And remember, boy. Goats can bend and goats can break, but make no mistake, if you kill it, it’s gone forever.” Daddy Pain sneered.
Being called a goat and referred to as an it was beginning to wear on Paco. His identity had become something less than human. For a man who’d struggled with identity all of his life, this change in focus should have been easier, but Paco had only recently discovered himself and firmly embraced the person who had come to be known in West Hollywood as Paco Le Poulet. He didn’t want to relinquish that. He’d come too far.
Brett feinted first left, then right.
Paco didn’t bite.
Brett feinted a single leg takedown.
Paco still didn’t move. Instead, he concentrated on the movement of his opponent’s center. The chest would tell him his opponent’s true intentions.
Suddenly Brett fell to the ground, the move fast and authentic. He landed in a crouch and kicked out in a long sweeping arc, his foot at ankle level. Paco saw it coming and leapt, but he was a fraction too slow. The heel of his left foot was swept aside, turning him in midair. He fell heavily on his chest, the breath leaving him in a rush.
Paco pushed himself up quickly, just in time for his face to intercept a kick. Blood and white light shot through him. Temporarily blinded by the pain, he never saw the next blow as agony overtook him, another kick intercepting the other side of his face.
Paco’s vision narrowed to pinpricks. He fought to maintain his balance and keep his hands ready to defend himself, but it was like feeling one’s way around in the dark.
He heard a hoarse giggle, then the sound of air being displaced. Paco leaned back and felt a kick pass within inches of his face. Stationary as he was, it was only a matter of seconds before he’d be hit again. Paco furiously blinked his eyes and began to circle.
As he moved, the blood returned to his brain and his vision cleared slightly. Everything had happened so fast. It couldn’t have taken more than ten seconds and within that time he’d been knocked to the ground and kicked twice in the face. He’d been lucky it hadn’t been worse.
Brett lunged with what looked like a lazy punch. Paco brought his hands up to intercept and felt Brett’s hand wrap around his left wrist instead. Brett lifted the gripped wrist and jerked down on the fingers.
Paco screamed as the nerves in the wrist joint spasmed and fired. To ease the pain, Paco stood on his tip toes, hoping desperately that the increased elevation would relieve the painful strain on his wrists. And it did—but only for a moment because Brett took the opportunity, shifted his grip on Paco’s wrist and spun.
Suddenly Brett was behind Paco, pushing the awkwardly bent arm higher and against Paco’s back in a move known as a chicken wing. Brett’s other hand had wrapped itself around Paco’s throat and begun to squeeze.
“You made me look bad in front of my daddy.” Brett’s words were a slurred growl in Paco’s ear. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
Paco raged against the cataclysmic wave of pain. He had to move. He had to find a way to make Brett let go or his arm would surely break. Whether it be at the elbow or at the shoulder or at the wrist or even in the fucking middle of his ulna, his arm was definitely going to break unless he managed to do something. He surged against the Tsunami tide of agony and moved an inch. Then somehow he managed to move two more.
Imperceptibly, from within the fiery corona of Brett’s sadism, Paco had managed to move three inches to his right. Instead of operating under rational thought, his body moved instinctively. Dropping his left shoulder, Paco brought his right fist down in a wicked arc. When it intersected Brett’s crotch, Paco felt an immediate response.
The hand fell away from his neck. The grip on his arm loosened. And that was all he needed.
Instead of another strike to the groin, Paco brought his left arm up with as much force as he could muster. His elbow crashed into Brett’s jaw, snapping the fighter’s mouth shut with a painfully audible clack.
His arm fell to his side as it was released. He tried to move it and found that he couldn’t. It wasn’t broken, but it was now a bloodless appendage and would do him no good for the moment.
Paco staggered away from the danger that was Brett. He spun, ready to defend himself, one arm weakly scouting his defense. He swayed a moment, then managed to steady himself.
Brett still stood, his body canted, ready for collapse. Surely, he would have fallen had it not been for his father’s hand gripping his hair. Daddy Pain’s arm was at full stretch as he held up the stiff body of his son. He grimaced and instead of letting him go, he brought his son to him.
And embraced him.
And never in the history of fathers and sons had an embrace been so devoid of love. Daddy Pain released his grip on his son’s hair and shifted his hands beneath the shoulders. There, in the tender parts of the underarms where a million nerve endings pulsed, he gripped and twisted.
Brett reacted like he’d sniffed ammonia. He squirmed in the vicious embrace. The moment Daddy Pain saw his son was awake he pushed him aside. Brett staggered, fought gravity and won. Somehow he’d managed to keep his balance.
“Daddy, no,” he gasped
Daddy Pain interlocked his hands behind Brett’s neck then brought both his legs up to encircle his son’s waist. He fell backward, bringing his son with him to the ground. From his back, Daddy Pain held his son immobile and secure.
Paco watched as the muscles in Daddy Pain’s arms and thighs convulsed, contracted and constricted. Like an angry mass of pythons, Daddy Pain’s limbs went to work.
It was only a moment before his son went limp.
8. Barbequed Woody Woodpecker
From atop the stage of Leather Kitty, Daddy Pain performed, deconstructing friend, lover and stranger alike with the lyrics of a made up song that turned words into action. Anyone and everyone who’d been part of Paco’s life, who’d made him who he’d become, was transforming into something twisted and ruined. Paco’s friends and lovers from West Hollywood had formed a line along with members of his family and neighbors from Idaho, favorite TV stars, comic book heroes and others he’d barely seen but who had somehow made an imprint upon his psyche. The line snaked out the door and around the corner to where the man was offering work for laptops.
One after another and another, they approached, bowed and embraced Daddy Pain, allowing him to twist their humanity away.
One after the other, they gave them their necks, or their wrists, or their ankles, and clapped gleefully as he snap-crackle-popped them through his special brand of salvation.
Once Paco realized what he’d done, he shrieked for them to run, but his voice went unheard beneath the sudden staccato rap of Eminem pretending to be Stan pretending to be Eminem at 200 decibels from forty seven man high speakers shaped like magenta neon cocks, pulsating in rhythm to the backbeat. Paco couldn’t understand why they were willingly sacrificing themselves. He couldn’t understand why they allowed themselves to be changed and refused to fight against the evilness known as Daddy Pain.
Woody Woodpecker from his Saturday morning cartoons came next in line and giggled his trademark laugh
as Daddy Pain wrung his neck. Then the body was passed from arm to arm until it reached the rest of Family Pain. In no time, Panther Joey and Dudes 1 and 2 plucked away the feathers. Randy used a chainsaw to slice upon the stomach. Tiny wolves swung down from entrails and scampered to safety. These were ignored as Dudes 1 and 2 used what remained of the intestines to play a game of Cat’s Cradle. Soon Brett had what was left of Woody roasting on a spit above a raging fire, fueled by a hundred Donna Karan, Armani and Stefani knockoffs.
And as Paco’s Mother and Father stripped off their clothes and began to wrestle naked beside Daddy Pain, another line began to form as B.J. handed out plates and bibs, to all those eager to consume BBQ’d woodpecker. Then the creature lifted up his head and stared Paco in the eyes as it offered its trademarked sing-song laugh, over and over and over again.
Paco woke with a silent scream, his throat too raw to break the cloying silence of the room. He lie shivering and soon fell into a deep sleep, where he dreamed of a little boy who liked to dress up as a girl, even after he was caught and beaten by his daddy.
“I don’t ever want to see you wearing this again!”
“But Daddy. I want to look pretty like Mommy.”
The white dress went into the burn barrel, the same barrel that ate his dolls and the family dog when it got hit by a delivery truck in the spring. The same barrel that would eat all of his best things over the years. Had his father known about the dress he kept in the basement, he would have burned that as well. But the little boy still managed to keep some things secret.
9. Trampoline Girl
He woke the next morning to the sounds of elastic springs going boing, boing, boing. He moved to sit up but a bolt of lightning arched from his left shoulder. He lay back and panted, hearing the same sound over and over. He finally determined it was coming from outside at about the same time he noticed that his shoulder had been bandaged and his left arm had been taped to his chest to keep the shoulder immobile. He’d had the procedure done before and knew that it was in his best interests not to fight it. Still, he hated the feeling of forced immobility. It was the next thing worse to claustrophobia.
He let the dreamy cobwebs frizzle from his mind until the need to go to the bathroom became too much. With gargantuan effort, he sat up and trundled through the maze of cots to the hole. Using his right hand, he relieved himself, then returned to his cot.
The boing, boing, boing sounds disappeared.
He licked his lips. He wasn’t hungry, but he wanted some water.
“Hey,” he whispered. “Anyone here?”
The room was silent for a moment before he heard a muffled, “No.”
“Who is that…Lily?”
“No, it’s Tiki,” said a voice with a French accent.
“Hi. We haven’t met. I’m Paco.”
“I know.” There was silence for a moment. “You’re new.”
“Where’s B.J.?” he asked.
Paco received no response so he shuffled over to the other’s cot.
“Stay away,” Tiki said. “I don’t want anyone to touch me.”
Paco stopped, then backed up to his own cot and sat down again. “Are you hurt?”
“Does bear sheet on the woods?”
Paco laughed. “You mean shit in the woods?”
“Yes. Sheet in the woods.”
“How long have you been here?” Paco asked after awhile.
“I’ve heard you ask that before. You should really stop worrying about time. It is forever against you, Monsieur Le Poulet.”
“Sounds like you’ve given up.”
The comment earned him a grudging silence. He thought about asking another question just to keep the conversation going, but nothing came to mind, so instead he stood and walked to the door. He put his ear to it and listened for a moment before trying the knob. To his surprise it was unlocked.
He opened the door, half expecting Brett to be standing there with a baseball bat, but instead he was greeted with an empty hallway.
He heard the rustle of blankets behind him, but ignored them. If the others wanted to find out what he was doing then they’d have to follow him.
He tip-toed down the hall towards the dining room. When he was halfway there, the boing, boing, boing resumed. He halted like a deer in the middle of the woods who’d just heard a branch break. What was that sound?
It took him a few moments, but he finally started again. When he entered the dining room, he saw Panther Joey sitting at the head of the table in the seat usually reserved for Daddy Pain. The fighter was eating from an immense bowl of Fruit Loops.
“You missed breakfast,” he said.
“Can I have some water?”
Panther Joey glanced around to see if anyone else was watching, then gestured towards the sink with his spoon. “Help yourself. But no fucking around, okay?”
Paco nodded, keeping his eyes on the other’s short face, his boxer’s nose, and his deep set eyes.
“And don’t think of running. This house is locked up tighter than a nun’s snatch. Nothing getting in or out unless Daddy Pain says so.”
“Thank you.”
Instead of responding, Panther Joey attacked his food, his concentration focused on the end of his spoon.
Paco went to the sink. He considered grabbing one of the plastic glasses in the drainer sitting on the counter, but he didn’t want to get in trouble. So he leaned under the faucet and let the water flow over his sandpaper-dry tongue.
When he was satiated, he wiped his mouth and turned towards the floor-to-ceiling window on the other side of the dinner table. The light seeped in from beneath the heavy black velvet curtain. The sounds, whatever they were, had to be coming from the back yard.
“What is that noise?” Paco asked carefully.
“What noise?”
“Don’t you hear it? Sounds like a trampoline.”
Panther Joey looked first at Paco, then towards the window. A pained look was in his eyes.
“I don’t hear anything.”
How could he not hear that? Paco pointed towards the window. “Do you mean you don’t hear that?” The sound of the trampoline was as loud and as regular as a grandfather clock.
The pained look remained in Panther Joey’s eyes.
“You do hear it, don’t you?” Paco shook his head. “Why won’t you admit it.”
“It’s not what you think,” Panther Joey said, swirling the multicolored loops in what remained of the milk.
“It sounds like a trampoline. Is it something different?”
“It’s…it’s…” Panther Joey seemed to come to an internal conclusion. He stared at Paco with flat eyes. “It’s something you should leave alone.”
“Oh.”
“I wouldn’t mention that you know about the trampoline to Daddy Pain, either.”
“Okay.” Paco stood beside the sink wondering what was wrong about the trampoline, but he just didn’t have enough information to form an opinion. The advice to keep it from Daddy Pain seemed sound, though. If Paco had the chance, he’d keep everything from the crazed MMA cult leader. “Where’s B.J.?”
Panther Joey stared at his spoon for a moment before he answered, “You’re full of a lot of questions today aren’t you, goat?”
Paco shrugged. “I was just wondering. I didn’t see him in there and the others don’t seem to know.”
He got only a stone-faced stare as a reply. Paco considered asking again, but knew he’d been understood. A slice of anger cut through his fear. He hated being treated like an object. This goat thing was going too far.
Panther Joey finished his cereal and took his bowl to the sink.
Paco took advantage of the moment, slipped into the living room and approached the sliding glass door. The constant boing, boing, boing was like poison ivy to his psyche and he just had to scratch it.
The back yard came into view as he neared the glass. Across a flagstone patio covered with expensive furniture was an expanse of manicured grass that sl
oped slightly upwards until it abruptly ended at the rock wall of a garden, which crept up the hill and out of sight. But a different object drew his attention and captured it. There, in the center of the back yard was a trampoline. A young blonde girl in a white sun dress jumped up and down to the metronomic sounds of boing, boing, boing. But there was something strange about the sight and it wasn’t until a few seconds had passed that Paco noticed that the fabric of the trampoline was flush with the ground, so that every time the girl descended, part of her lower body disappeared, hidden by the horizon of the lawn.
The image of the girl was so out of place and asynchronous in this crazy place that he stopped breathing as he watched. One moment she was staring into the sky, her arms out as if begging the sun to take her, and the next her body was piercing the earth like a drill rupturing the dirt over and over as she rose and fell.
“Who let you out of the room?” came a voice from behind him.
The spell broken, Paco spun only to catch a fist between the eyes. He bounced against the glass, then fell to the floor. His vision swayed as a carnival-version of Randy weeble-wobbled towards him. Then Paco realized that he was the one weeble-wobbling. A foot came up and knocked the lights out, but not before it hurt real bad.
10. Pain Management
The cycle of pain continued that afternoon as Brett rolled the floor with him. Paco let their momentum carry them as he was pressed into different positions, ever aware of the uselessness of his right arm, which was still bound to his chest with a length of Ace bandage. Although it was awkward, he went with the flow, allowing Brett the chance to show his father that he could exert power over a goat without the need to kill him. Still, it was an exercise in pain management, not to allow himself to be so entirely dominated that he was going to get another injury.
One thing Paco realized was that he was a better wrestler than Brett. Sure, the other knew Brazilian Jujitsu and some sort of kickboxing and clearly had the edge in those disciplines, but when it came to straight leverage and classic Western-style wrestling, Paco had a distinct advantage. And it was that advantage that allowed him to keep himself relatively safe.
