CROWS MC SET-TO LOAD

by Bloom, Cassandra

  Then something at the bottom of the stairs, something waiting in the darkness, said, “You a whore or not?”

  And suddenly, just like I knew everything else, I knew there was no turning back. There was no escape from this place.

  I cursed Malcolm’s name—curiously calling him “Mack”—and continued down the stairs.

  Nine…

  Ten…

  Eleven…

  The hot, reeking stench seemed to reach out like a living thing and grab me as my foot fell on the second-to-last step.

  Getting it, I took another step—Twelve—and finally dared to take another step into the darkness, away from the stairs.

  Here it was dark. Here I had to look with my hands looking for something or somebody that might help me get out of this place.

  “You got me?” the voice called out, seeming to offer itself to me.

  And then my hands fell upon the soft, stinking mass of a long-forgotten corpse. Gasping at the fresh wave of rot that assaulted my nostrils, I blinked at a sudden wave of clarity—light!—that illuminated my freshly discovered treasure.

  And there, before me, I saw myself. I stared back, naked and dead and rotting—my legs splayed and my body showing signs of recent use—and I held my arms open as a lover might when awaiting an embrace.

  “You found me, Mia!” Dead-Mia moaned up at me, triumphant and elated. “You fou-ou-ou-ound me!”

  Then, seeming ecstatic to answer the question, Dead-Mia leapt at me, grinning wide and exposing a length of latex still occupying the corner of her mouth. “AND I FOUND YOU!” she bellowed, taking hold of me and pulling me into her.

  “JACE!” I cried out, not sure why—not sure if I was in the now or the then; not sure when “now” or “then” were or where the line between them existed—and fought to pull away from myself. “JACE! PLEASE! GET ME OFF OF—”

  ****

  “—OFF OF ME!”

  The cry that escaped my lips was muffled as I fell face first out of one of the hospital’s waiting room chairs. I landed on the floor in a heap, still seeing bits and pieces of that long-abandoned cellar in my periphery. Panting, one part panicked and one part embarrassed, I glanced around, thankful that the hospital was, for the most part, empty. Forcing my legs to work and lift the rest of me up, I began the tolling job of collecting myself. I caught my breath just as the receptionist managed to get somebody to come out to see to me, and I just as quickly waved them away. I figured I’d done enough to embarrass myself already. As I did all of this, I caught sight of my reflection in the polarized glass window behind me. My hair was a mess—I honestly couldn’t remember when I had last brushed it—and my unmade face was pale, sporting dark, worried circles that rode under my eyes. The part of me that was all-too used to staring at myself in the mirror—The whore! I reminded myself before just as quickly dismissing it; issuing yet another reminder that, no, that wasn’t me anymore—thought that what it saw was hideous. The other part, the part that was ecstatic to be free of the lifestyle of the first, thought I’d never looked more beautiful. A little silent war waged within myself regarding which one was right. Then I caught myself off guard, asking how I’d feel if Jace were to wake up this instant and see me like this.

  I clenched my eye shut, looking away from my reflection and once again planted myself back in the seat.

  Touché, I thought inwardly as I reached for my purse.

  I figured a little foundation wouldn’t kill me.

  It had been two days.

  Two, too damned long days.

  And Jace still wasn’t awake.

  He’s never going to wake up. Face it, girl, he’s gone. You were too late.

  I cringed at the thought as the voice of my depression forced itself upon me. I’d decided some time ago that Depression wasn’t unlike a personal mind-rape; you could fight and cry all you want, but it only seemed to make it that much worse when it wriggled its way inside of you. To the core. Making you its own and hurting you every second along the way. Or, of course, you could just sit there and take it—this seemed somehow worse to me, but I was no less guilty than others in allowing it to happen—and just stare, dead-eyed and broken, as it worked.

  Then the after…

  Oh shit, the after!

  The sympathy that you were just so sure was forced or phony. The eye-rollers who were so certain they had it all figured out despite never experiencing the reality of it; they always urged you to shrug it off or forget about it—they (knew) thought a little fresh air or exercise was all it took to drag yourself out of it. Fucking know-nothing assholes! And then there were the fellow sufferers, who almost seemed worse than all the others at times. Oh, they were sincere. There was never any shortage of that, but they’re sincere in the same way a mirror is sincere. You see in them what you hate in yourself, and you’re brought back to it—forced to relive it—and you feel that pain and panic slip back around your neck like a noose and suddenly you’re crying…

  And they call it healing.

  Scab-Pickers Anonymous: join the group therapy and let others get their fingernails under that truly stubborn puppy; we’ll make you bleed yet!

  A ghost from my past asked me why I should care about being raped by my own mind—demanded to know whether or not I was a whore—and my throat tightened and my eyes burned.

  I’d almost forgotten that Depression liked to bring friends.

  When I was around Jace, Depression was too scared to force itself on me; too worried to bring its friends.

  And now he’s probably dead!

  I was about to start crying, but the soft hiss of the automatic doors called to me and I glanced up as Danny walked through. The big, outwardly terrifying-looking man paused to look around, spotted me, and then resumed his massive, purposeful stride around a row of seats to approach me. A mixture of emotions flooded me at the sight: relief at seeing a friendly face as the frontrunner, but I couldn’t deny the narrow-but-deep well of spite and bitterness. Danny had been there in my old apartment as it burned around us. Worse yet, he’d been shot—what?—three, four, maybe even five times! By all accounts he should’ve been the worst off of the three of us—By all accounts he should be dead!—but, nope, he’d almost been out and about before me. And all I’d suffered was some smoke inhalation and a few minor burns!

  Shot, burned, and sucking in God-only-knew how much poisonous smoke, and here he was, the picture of health.

  “That’s me, girlie:” he’d drawled when I’d first seen him after the event, “a big, gay war machine. Like a tank with a giant fuckin’ rainbow painted ‘cross the side.”

  I hated myself for that narrow-but-deep well. It wasn’t an emotional response I was proud to have, but…

  For Jace, I thought to myself, refusing to believe what my depression kept trying to convince me of. I can do this for Jace.

  “How ya doin’, girlie?” Danny asked as he plopped down next to me.

  “Fine,” I replied, lying more with that one word than I thought possible from a single syllable. I hardly recognized my own voice as I said it; it was more of a croak—a dry, sad burping sound—than an actual word. It sounded as dead as I had begun to feel…

  And I hated it.

  I hated my reflection, hated my voice, hated Danny for living so easily through so much while Jace couldn’t even woke up. I hated…

  I sighed, realizing Depression was busy in mid-mind-rape and convincing me I hated everything. Squeezing my eyes shut, I decided to just hate how I felt and leave it at that.

  “Jace’ll come through, just ya wait. He might look like a frilly little faggy-boy, but he’s tough as week old steak, ya’ll see,” Danny assured me, setting one of his large heavy hands over my shoulder. “But he wouldn’t like seein’ ya this way.”

  I glanced down at his hand, marveling out how it seemed to swallow the entirety of the area. It was like seeing a bear rest a paw over a child; it seemed so outwardly threatening and yet, in the moment it happened, too awe-inspiring
and captivating to draw away from.

  The laugh that escaped me was humorless and I looked down, ashamed that I had allowed it to slip out of me. Danny just stared at me, his face filled with patience and understanding. But, as briefly as I’d known him, I couldn’t help but understand this to be just the sort of person he was: bizarrely simple in his staggering complexity. Seeming to read my mind, he gently squeezed my shoulder and gave me a reassuring smile. It was caring and sympathetic, but there was something coy there, too; as though he knew something that I would just have to wait to find out for myself.

  Judging from his words, this wasn’t far from the truth he was trying to convey.

  I took a deep breath and nodded slowly, offering a silent “thank you” as I let myself lean against him. There was something incredibly comforting about cozying up beside a big, gay war machine. Far as I was concerned, every girl should have at least one.

  “Candy’s worried about ya too,” he smiled. “She should be here soon.”

  I perked at the mention of my ex-whore-mentor and now just best friend. “Has she been busy?” I asked, curiosity driving my eyes in an upward glance.

  “I should say so. Ever since she took Jace’s offer she’s been scouring the city, practically takin’ to the damn streets like some kinda big-tittied superheroine—saving all the whores she can find. A good number of ‘em bailed on the Crew when ya two slipped through the cracks, but some were too scared to even try.”

  I stared in astonishment at that, imagining Candy putting herself on the line like that for our old… what? Colleagues? Sisters?

  Was it better to think of fellow prostitutes as co-workers or as members of some sort of sorority of sex-merchants?

  Except they weren’t my co-workers anymore; weren’t my sorority. I wasn’t a prostitute anymore. I wasn’t!

  Still awestruck, I said, “Guess she’s taking this new job seriously, huh?”

  Danny nodded, shrugged, and stared off at a bland bit of hospital wall art. “Whorin’s what she knows,” he said, punctuating it with a not-quite-shrug that only served to cock his head slightly to one side. “Least that’s what she says. Says that she wants t’see them girls in a good place—makin’ good money and bein’ takin’ care of.” He smiled and cleared his throat, saying in a not-very-good Candy-esque falsetto, “‘Those fine-ass bitches work their asses off—literally!—to show the dick-swingers of this here city a good time! I owe it to them to make it worth their while!’” Finished with the mock-quote, he looked back at me, seeming to wait for my assessment on his impression.

  I could only offer a smile, punctuated with a gentle, albeit forced, giggle.

  He scowled, knowing I was politely telling him (without telling him) that his Candy was nothing short of shit, and shrugged yet again. This time with both shoulders. “Either way, the girl’s motivated. The promise of overseeing a privately-owned brothel has put the very spark o’ life into her; done lit a fire in her panties that I’m sure no John ever had.”

  “You sound like you’ve got a little crush,” I teased him.

  Danny scoffed at that and shook his head. “Not likely, girlie,” he said. “‘Less she’s hidin’ at least eight inches o’ spicy sausage in them fishnets, of course. And believe me when I says that I’m not sure there’s much room in what little she wears to hide much o’ anything. I’d be damn lucky to fit a pinky in them shorts if I was so inclined, which I ain’t; be too scared I’d touch somethin’ I shouldn’t.”

  I laughed and shook my head at him. “And what is it that you think we have down there?” I demanded.

  “Girl, I know what y’all got down there; ain’t no mystery. ‘Cept what us fags know that no arrow”—the word I’d come to learn was Danny’s term for straight men—“knows is this: y’all girlies got teeth in yer pussies.”

  I nearly doubled over with laughter. “Ex-excuse me?” I finally coughed out.

  “Ya heard me, girlie,” he insisted. “Teeth!” He made a show of hinging his palms together so that his hooked fingers snapped together like bestial jaws a few inches from my face. “Centuries ago, us faggots learned the terrible secret of Cuntus Fangata and swore a holy oath to use the soft, gentle, toothless depths of our fellow man’s poop-chutes. That’s how I knows if I go pokin’ ‘round in Candy’s no-no-zone just to try an’ prove it can’t be done I’m prolly gonna wind up losin’ a finger.”

  I was nearly crying with laughter at that point. “P-puh-please te-tell me… you don’t… really believe all that!” I begged through panting bursts.

  Danny smirked and gave me a playful look. “Nah. But it’s good propaganda to pass around in our conversion efforts. But ya didn’t hear that from me, kay?” He paused then, drawing in a heavy breath and groaning. It occurred to me that he was putting a lot of effort into keeping me relaxed—keeping me laughing and staving off my depression in Jace’s absence—and forcing himself not to worry. Or at least not to show it. “But… yeah,” he finally said, seeming eager to keep the silence from getting too thick around us. That Candy… she’s a feisty girl, ain’t she?”

  I laughed and nodded. “You have no idea,” I said, but the line felt forced.

  At the other end of the room, where the door that separated the waiting room—us—from where they had Jace—him—a doctor slipped through to consult the receptionist. For a long, teasing moment, I was offered a glance to the other side. It was nothing special to look at: just a sterile, long corridor lined with doors. An empty wheelchair waited beside one of the walls, looking like an abandoned soldier of war under the glare of the indifferent fluorescents, and the urge to break free of Danny’s banter, slip past the still-closing door, and take to the hall like a rogue warrior was upon me. After braving a burning building for him, it seemed a pathetically tame follow-up to steal across the imaginary “DO NOT CROSS”-line separating us from him. I wanted to be there with him, damned all the rules!

  Once more seeming to read my mind, however, Danny’s grip on my shoulder tightened. It was nothing painful, barely even a genuine hold, but it was the sort of gesture that reminded me I wouldn’t make it more than an inch from my seat before he’d be keeping me from making a mistake I’d likely regret.

  “Ye’ll see him soon,” Danny said, starting to stand then. “In the meantime, why don’t ya come with me?”

  “Come with… where?” I asked, stupefied by the shift in tone. “What about Candy?”

  Danny chuckled at that. “Girl’s got a cell,” he reminded me. “I can give ‘er the ol’ ringy-dingy an’ tell ‘er to meet us somewhere…” he paused to look around for effect, “Well, somewhere less depressin’.”

  “I think I’d sooner stay here. You know, just in case anything happens,” I said.

  “Don’t make me carry ya outta here, girlie,” Danny said as he rose to his full height, reminding me in that instant that he could make true on such a threat.

  Damn, I thought, it’s like he really can read my mind!

  Still standing over me, he placed his hands on his equally large hips. “Besides, ye an’ I both know ya can’t get a decent sleep here in the waitin’ room. So let’s go. These twats know my number an’ know to call it when Jace is done with his crazy-ass nap.”

  Before I could open my mouth to offer another protest, Danny had my hand in his and was leading me out the door. The rush of the cool night air hitting my face felt incredible and I could feel myself relaxing a bit as Danny led me to his bike. It, like him, was incredibly massive and intimidating until you stopped to truly study it for what it was.

  The words “HARLEY” and “FAT BOY” were easy enough to see, but when you looked closely you saw any number of playful tells that I, for one, found rather comical. The seat, when one looked straight down at it, was a gay pride flag stitched in strips of colorful leather, and there was something undeniably phallic in nature about the gas tank, which shone a bright and seemingly regal purple under the parking lot’s lights. The license plate—“MERC”—was a bit more
obscure, something that I’d first mistook as an abbreviation of “mercenary.” Given his size and intimidating stature, I’d been certain early on that his involvement in Jace’s motorcycle gang was on par with breaking kneecaps and smashing skulls, and so I felt justified in assuming such a thing. But, no; like all thing’s related to Danny, they were simple in their complexity. And while I still had no idea why he had the nickname, “MERC” was short for “Mercury,” which was what everyone who knew him was expected to call him.

  He’d been patient with me thus far, but I’d started to notice a creasing in his brow whenever I slipped up and called him “Danny.” I’d since taken to “cheating” and just avoiding using any titles when it could be avoided.

  In that moment, being forced towards the giant motorcycle and guided away from the hospital—which was undeniably the source of a great deal of anxiety judging from how much lighter I felt with every step I took away from it—I couldn’t deny how thankful I suddenly felt. Suddenly I was every bit as certain as he had been in the waiting room that I needed this. I needed the feel of the night air on my face. And, though I wanted to consider myself a monogamous girl and had undeniably fell in love with the sensation of flying on the back of Jace’s motorcycle, I decided I was feeling naughty enough to “cheat” and accept a ride on the back of Danny’s Fat Boy.

  Yeah, I needed this!

  “Ya look a million times better already,” Danny grinned triumphantly.

  “Ha ha,” I said in an attempt to sound sarcastic, going so far as to roll my eyes, but couldn’t help but smile back. “Thanks for this, Danny. You really are a true friend.”

  “Nothin’ like a gay redneck to be a girl’s best-friend,” Danny smirked.

  “Funny that you should say that. I was just thinking the same thing,” I replied with a giggle as he handed me a helmet and before slipping it on, glanced back at him. “Is Candy still working then?” I asked, tilting my head and feeling like a bobblehead doll as the helmet overbalanced the gesture.