by Unknown
ZZZ…
Hunger woke her this time. The sweet, heavenly scent of cinnamon rolls drifted through the room until it reached her. I must have the munchies because I want a million of those. Benson pushed open the door with his foot. He was carrying a tray with a pan of cinnamon rolls and two glasses of milk. He’s an angel.
“I thought these might hit the spot.” He was right. They ate and talked and laughed. This is perfect. He gets me. Amelia was horrified when they looked down and realized they’d eaten the whole pan. They decided to be big kids and go play in the snow to work off all that icing. Benson excitedly jumped from the bed and said he was going to go check the garage for his old sled. Amelia decided to rest on the bed until he came back. She closed her eyes and listened to the cinnamon rolls moving through her empty stomach as she waited.
ZZZ…
“Open up! We saw your footprints. We know you’re there. Todd? Officer Todd?” Amelia slowly sat up. Her head felt like it weighed a million pounds. Each beat of her heart made her head pound. Or is that the knocking at the door? Amelia was experiencing the worst hangover of her short life. I feel like death.
She was heading to answer the door when she saw Todd’s body. I’ve never had a two-part dream before. I need to wake up. It’s time to go sledding. I want to go sledding.
Amelia ran to her room and locked the door. She began putting on layer after layer of clothing. She put on thick socks and her snow boots. She zipped up her coat. She was putting on her scarf when they knocked down the front door and found Todd’s body.
Amelia walked into her closet and pulled the door closed behind her. She fumbled in the dark for her thickest belt. She looped it around the closet rod and then rested her chin against the belt. “I’m ready, baby. Let’s go sledding.”
MAGGOT BRAIN THEORY
Lyndon D. Johnson
Ugly, repugnant son of a whore sitting there wasting away with what he calls a bad habit. Yeah, right, a fucking bad habit? More like a disease, a virus, plaguing the lives of those around him. Like so many homeless addicts down here, his family refuses to acknowledge his existence. Can you blame them? Look at him. Gaunt, sullen face with dark rings around his bulging, yellow eyes. Tattered, piss stained clothes; stolen from another junkie, no doubt. They do that down here, you know? Take from each other.
Savages.
They share shit, too. Like needles, pussy, and I’m talking about rotten, aged, septic pussy! Nasty little drug fiends crawling around, sniffing out their next fix, willing to suck you off with their foul, diseased ridden mouths just for a fix. Genders aren’t specific, either.
These people submerge themselves deep beneath the hollows of despair, the cold void of nothingness, hiding in the wretched bowels of the city. A city once vibrant, elegant. A great city built on the strength of the blue-collar worker. Now, forgotten, lost in the mighty economic globalization of corporate greed. A city left to rot and the people in it… forgotten, discarded like tainted meat.
The profound sense of loss, hopelessness, driving most to act out in ways society would deem inhumane. Addicts, the homeless, the mentally ill lost in a world built for only one purpose. To enslave. To control. Slaves never dream to be free. A slave only dreams to be King.
Their world exists in the shadows beneath our world which most people never acknowledge. Either, they're too afraid to face the hard fucking truth, or they have no fucks to give. The latter, unfortunately, is chosen for this situation. So many discarded, shunned by a society unwilling to possess empathy for the less fortunate. Instead, it creates a viral pandemic of mental disease spreading like the black plague. Well, people, wake the fuck up! We are witnessing the black plague of the 21st century! And no one will do anything about it! It’s a shame. But, that’s why I’m here. To relieve their pain, their hunger, their sickness.
Lost amongst the vile and depraved, surrounded by maggots swarming over the rotting flesh infesting this lost city, was Logan, my little brother. Once a scholar, an athlete, loved dearly by our parents–more than me, I might add, fell victim to the maggot brain a few months ago.
I learned how deep a person can go, becoming susceptible to anything offered in return for a fix. Logan was my first guinea pig back in college. His addiction grew, his mind clouded, blackened by the disease. Easy to manipulate, Logan did my bidding. Without question, my brother did heinous acts just so he could get high. It inevitably killed him.
***
A woman approaches from my right flank. The smell of stale piss and puke hits my nostrils as she comes closer. I stay true, watching her come into view with my peripherals.
A moment of silence.
She’s studying me.
Then, in a raspy tone from too much sucking on a pipe, she asks, “Hey, man, you a cop?"
I ignore her. Though, I could see how I would be mistaken for someone from the narcotics' division. Under Armor hoodie, jeans, white sneakers, clean and fresh. But, either way, this woman is ignorant of the reason I’m down here.
She presses the issue, “Hey, mother fucker! I axed you a goddamn question. You a cop or not...?” She demands. I turn to look at her. God, she’s a spectacle. Her face littered with sores. Her time on the street has rotted away her beauty. It shows in her weathered, wrinkled skin, sunken eye sockets. Her mouth is void of any pearly whites, her gums too rotten, unable to house teeth. The stench alone forces me to hold my breath. This woman has now entered my personal space. And man, it's worse than putrid flesh baking on a scorching Detroit summer day. My eyes well up as the pungent odor rapes my olfaction. I pull out a handkerchief, (my red one) to filter the woman’s odor. The look on her face tells me she’s offended by the gesture.
I respond to her question, “No. No, I’m not.” Refusing to turn my entire body to acknowledge her, I continue to scan the viaduct. She continues to stare me down waiting for a cue, a sign, anything to see if I’m lying. I don’t recognize her. She’s not one of the regular filth that hovers around the viaduct.
“What’s your name...?” I ask, in hopes to reduce the tension and deter any unwanted accusations. I wait for a response.
“... Lydia,” she replies.
“Hi, Lydia, I’m Nolan. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say. A smile adorned my face to show Lydia I wasn’t a threat. Though, meeting Lydia, I think it’ll be fun to experiment one more time.
This abandoned viaduct in the Milwaukee Junction is one of many hot spots for most of the addicts in the city. A haven away from the police. Unfortunately, because of the lack of police presence, it leaves an immense door wide open for predators of all types. Lydia should be careful approaching strangers she doesn’t recognize.
“Say, Lydia, you look like you’ve gone without a fix. Am I correct in this assumption?” She stares at me with wondrous eyes, her constant itching, annoying, but I know it’s her craving clawing viciously behind her skull. “What do you say we get out of here and I let you partake in this magical beast?” I pull a small clear vial from my pocket and wiggle it in front of her face with my index and thumb. Lydia licks her lips as if she’s about to sink her teeth into a succulent steak. “Whaddya say…?”
“Shit. Is that what I think is?” Lydia asks. Just from the coloured crystals she recognizes that it’s flakka. The most popular and sought after drug on the street right now. And I had this bitch under control by waving the vial in her face like a dog being teased with a treat.
“So, you in?”
“Fuck yeah, I am!” She declared.
“Good. There’s a place not far from here. Whaddya say we head over there for a little fun?” My smile is wide with delight. Lydia smiles from ear to ear exposing more of her rotten gums. I put my arm around her and we make our way up the sidewalk. I look back towards the viaduct. And there is Logan, standing under the archway, leaning against the steel pillar, watching me leave with Lydia. An odd sight no doubt. I shrug it off, thinking nothing of it. It’s just my head playing tricks on me, I tell myself.
A cold chill slithers down my spine causing my body to shudder.
“Damn, you all right…?” Lydia asks.
“Yes. I’m fine. Just the evening breeze cutting through me.” I say.
***
A few blocks from the viaduct a house sits on the corner. An old Victorian style home which is plagued with years of neglect. An abandoned home left to rot since the nineteen sixties after the majority of the city's population fled into the suburbs. Now, its innards are infested with floppers, drug fiends, and the wretched filth that scurries beneath the streets of Detroit. The red and brown brick is faded from the relentless wrath of the elements and time. Plywood covers a few windows and a large slab is now the house’s front door, decorated with area gangs' graffiti.
Lydia stops for a moment. Is she afraid to enter the house? Something compels her to second guess what she was doing.
“It’s ok, sweetheart. They have a room just for us with a bed in it. We can get fucked up and still be comfortable."
Lydia looks up with her decaying grin. I’d guess, Lydia may be only thirty, but the streets have been relentless and unforgiving to her beauty. Under the leathery, wrinkled, gaunt face, there was once a beautiful, vibrant woman, full of promise, confidence. Then, a tragedy affected her life, or... pressures of society–something, ripped Lydia apart forcing her to seek a means to an end. Consuming alcohol, weed, cocaine, opiates. From there the monster needed more to distort Lydia’s reality, so she smoked crack, meth, anything she could pollute her mind with. Severing her family and friends at the neck, destroying. Searching for that outlet freeing her from whatever pain plagues her poor mind. Finding an escape to numb her senses from this wretched world until her mind is no longer firing on all neurons, just a single spark. A one simple, command. Feed.
The access to the house is on the side, so Lydia and I make our way around, trudging through the tall grass and uncultivated weeds. Jolting the wooden door with my shoulder open, a stench thick and vile blasts me in the face raping my nostrils. The funk of human fluids stale and fresh: urine, sweat, feces, vomit, all combine into one atmospheric obscenity. Pulling Lydia by the hand, we make our way up a couple steps into the kitchen–well, what’s left of it. I flick open my Zippo, the flame dances emanating an orange globe to what use to be the kitchen. Cabinetry in shambles, some missing doors, spray paint stretches across the remaining cabinet doors, and along the walls leading to the hallway.
“C’mon, this way,” I say to Lydia, leading her along the littered graffiti slang. Standing in the hallway, we make a left down the hall heading back towards the front door. Left, along the wall, more graffiti guiding us to the stairs. The wallpaper is shredded, pieces dangle, the wood trim moldy and faded. The stench is so thick, it’s palpable. To the right of the stairs the grand living room with its massive fireplace, the furniture burnt or broken. The entire house was just a shell. Its soul died years ago. I move the Zippo into the living room, the glow reveals an array of bodies, mangled into a giant comatose orgy. The carpet is saturated with stale piss and vomit. I see two junkies in the corner, their pants around their ankles, humping. Unaware of the reality they’re in, the guy humps the girl with a sloth-like rhythm, finishing with a delayed, lackluster thrust into her cunt, followed by an apathetic moan from her. The Zippo flame faintly grabs their attention. Their eyes glow in the orange flame as if possessed. They’re oblivious to Lydia and I standing there, watching. The grunts from the two skeletons boning stir the pot of the rotting infestation of junkies.
“Let’s get upstairs, shall we?” I say leading Lydia back into the hallway then up the flight of stairs. The wood creaks beneath our weight as we ascend to the top floor. This time, there’s the stench of putrid flesh. One room must house a dead junkie lost and forgotten. We reach the top. Straight ahead, slightly to the left, is the bathroom. Around the railing and banister, is a row of four bedrooms. I’ve noticed Lydia has said little since we entered the house. Curiosity tickled me in the crotch so I ask, “are you ok...? We’ll check this first room here so we can hurry and get fucked up.” I open the heavy wood door. The aching hinges scream echoing throughout the upstairs. This was the master suite. A canopy bed to the right with only its tall, hand carved posts stand in a haunting fashion. A deep cherry armoire across from the bed, with its doors unhinged sits in the corner, and a makeup table next to it, by the window. The room, unfortunately, is occupied. More junkie rats claim the room, defiling it with their excrements.
The next room, judging by the strong pungent odor was the room that housed the corpse.
“Can’t we pick another one, yo?” Lydia asks.
“No, because I’m certain the other two room are occupied. Whereas this one. Well, it’ll be all ours. Besides, I don’t think who’s ever in here rotting away will mind.” I say turning the tarnished door handle. The stagnant air causes me to stumble back bumping into Lydia. “Fuck, that’s ripe,” I exclaim. The sight of the room sends chilling ripples down my spine.
Lydia, with both hands on my shoulders peaks around me, to see the body on the floor. Blueish, gray, glistening with decay. Our gag reflexes on high alert, we make our way into the room. I can tell Lydia is hesitant. But, no matter how hard her she wants to resist, she has no choice. That drive in her to feed is stronger than any rational decision Lydia’s mind can conjure.
The bed is a queen size, stained, but manageable. Soon, Lydia will be in her own world spinning into a realm of where the stench of the putrid corpse will possess a sweet aroma, filled with the exotic intoxication of feral lust. The corpse on the floor holds a special place in my heart. It was my first, the one who spawned my sickness, and my craving. That’s why I brought Lydia here. My craving is too strong now to ignore. I need my fix.
Lydia plops on the side of the bed, looking around the room, still disgusted by the obscene pile of human compost in the middle of the room. “Christ, man, I can’t stop fucking looking at it,” Lydia cringes. It’s one eye wide, a grayish white, dead. The other just an empty socket. Most of its flesh, organs, and any other biomaterial has broken down entirely. He (because of the shriveled cock), still dangling between its bony, greenish legs.
“This is only a thing you need to concern yourself with, sweetheart.” I pull out the small glass vial with a black cap, filled three-quarters of the way is the hottest drug on the fucking street right now. Flakka. Or in other areas, people call it gravel. I guess because it looks like those colourful little pebbles. Lydia licks her lips, salivating for the high she was about to experience, the monster inside her head howling for a fix. I throw my sweater on the bed and prepare our candy that will get us trashed.
Lydia power snorts a line off the end table. Her face contorts as the burn travels through her nasal cavity. I sit patiently watching her snort her life away. I snort a line, but of my personal stash of cocaine. Does Lydia grasp the notion that this is her last high? The last time she’ll feel anything? I watch intently–her eyes specifically, as the flakka infiltrates her mind.
“Fuck me.” She exclaims rubbing her nose vigorously, eyes twitching as the drug takes hold of her. Lydia flops back onto the bed laughing hysterically, her eyes wide with intensity. Then, it stops. Silence.
I slide closer. Maybe she passed out. The thought is interrupted by Lydia’s scream as she pops up to meet my face. Inches from my face, Lydia's eyes possess a craziness I’ve never seen. Behind those eyes, I can see madness. I can see flakka doing its work.
“Lydia, darling, can you hear me…?” Lydia just stares through me. No response. So, I continue, “Why don’t you lie back for me, take your clothes off."
“I’m the angel of fire, motha fucker. My body burns with sexual desire. Tear my flesh and fuck my soul. Fuck my soul so that Christ will weep. Rape his ass until it bleeds!” Lydia rants, bursting into a fit of laughter, stripping her clothes off, flinging her shirt, then her pants; twirling her red, lacy thong on her index finger, her cunt bushy with a pungent, foul musk. It insults my olfaction. I tur
n away, disgusted. I try to decipher which is worse, the rotting corpse or Lydia’s snatch.
The odor now is foul inside my mouth as I force myself not to breathe through my nose, it triggers my gag reflex. I spit out some yellowish bile. Now an acrid flavour burns my mouth.
I watch as she claws at her pale flesh. Blood and pus ooze from her open soars as she rips into them, tearing the scabs. Heavy panting escapes her mouth as blood trickles down her arms, torso, and legs. My cock is pressing against my jeans.
“Why don’t you fuck the body of Christ,” I suggest, gesturing to the corpse.
Lydia sits up, flops off the bed. Like a zombie, she flails her arms, lurching across the room until she is standing over the green putrid body.
“My cunt will resonate, the, my Lord and Savior,” Lydia says raising her arms into a crucifixion pose. Lydia glances over and smiles, sticks out her tongue, then descends on top of the corpse. The site before me is appalling but erotic. My cock gauges the level of sexual depravity. I rub the bulge in my jeans as Lydia gyrates her bony hips, the head of the corpse jerks with every thrust. Lydia leans her head back, she belts out a wild shriek while shaking her head as her tongue lashes the air. A wild beast with an insatiable desire, Lydia ravishes the corpse as her body slams up and down, its one eye stares at me, begging me to stop her.
Caught up in the frenzy of our debauchery, I snort two more lines of cocaine. Well, I thought it was cocaine. In the heat of my own deranged desire, I didn’t notice the vial in my hand. Lydia flops off the corpse, her gaze homing in on me as she slithers on her stomach towards me–panting–convulsing for her fix. At that moment, I lose all rational thought, my reality is twisted into a nightmare I can’t wake up from.
