Warmed and Bound: A Velvet Anthology

by ed. Pela Via

  now: Chance the dick

  She says, “Should I believe you, Chance?”

  That’s a damned good question. One I don’t have a good answer for, so I try the glib, “Why would I lie?”

  “Can I see your hand?”

  I give her my left. She smiles, like it’s a present with a pretty red bow. I watch her teeth peek out from between those red lips. They’re too neat and orderly. That can’t be trusted. I say, “You like my manicure? Only the best for Chance.”

  She takes the index finger, her finger, into her mouth, and holds it there like a thought. I feel the tip of her tongue. She slides it out and says, “Those are my fingers.”

  I take my hand back. With the shock of losing my fingers and the swelling of the replacements, I hadn’t realized I had woman’s fingers. Jesus, I’m getting old. I’m slipping. Maybe I need to wear those giant, never-in-style glasses my doc kept pestering me about.

  I say, “What are the odds?”

  She laughs and says, “Arm wrestle maybe?” She laughs harder. My office gets darker, if that’s possible. She adds, “So what do we do now, Chance?”

  Hell if I know. There is still so much I don’t know about this dame. Who did this to us? How did we get here? How did we get to here? Maybe I could drop a fin on Mickey down at the boardwalk. He’s a standup stoolie with good dirt. Then, I’ll . . .

  “Yo, Chance? Why don’t we just swap digits and call it a night?” she says.

  “What? I’m gonna get to the bottom of this. I’m thinking it’s Coolie and his Alley Boys, as they’re just sick enough to do this, and they hang out at the laundromat. Or maybe it’s that new Asian gang. I’ve heard they’ve been doing black market organ stuff, and . . .”

  She stands up and puts her hand with my fingers over my mouth, and then one into my mouth. It tastes like me. She’s sexy and deviant. I can’t help but stare at her blouse. She steps back and takes off my fedora. I will not tell you what’s under there. She lays it bucket-side up on my desk. She plucks my fingers off her hand. The red stitches snap and fall away. There’s no stopping this. It doesn’t seem to hurt her as she’s smiling, but it’s a sad kind of smile, one that says I know what’s really happening. That kind of smile is always sad. She puts my fingers inside my hat, though she saves one finger and has it trace the curves inside her blouse, tucks it under her skirt quickly, then back inside the hat. She’s breathing hard and I feel nothing. She snaps at me with her good hand and nods. I know to give her my left hand. She grabs the hand and takes back her fingers. I don’t feel pain, but there is an overwhelming sense of loss; it’s huge, sitting in the room with us, making everything heavy. She twists her fingers back on her hand, flexes, and waves at me.

  She says, “Which one will you put on first, Chance?” She lifts the hat, shakes it all around like the queen of some church bakesale raffle, then holds the hat above my head. “Come on, now, Chance. Take your pick.”

  And I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know what to do anymore. Maybe I won’t do anything. I’ll just sit in my corner office, underneath my neon sign that no one will bother to read, a sign as useless as an unanswered phone call.

  ——————————

  Soccer Moms and Pro Wrestler Dads

  by Bradley Sands

  Anarchy fucking rules. My leather jacket fucking rules. The anarchy symbol on the back of my leather jacket fucking rules. The red paint that I used to paint the anarchy symbol on the back of my jacket fucking rules. Saying that things “fucking rule” fucking rules. Riots in the streets fucking rule. Pee wee soccer games fucking rule.

  I sit in a folding beach chair on the sidelines, watching my little sister play out on the field. The chair is uncomfortable. A strip of polyester fabric is poking me in the ass. I do not like to be poked in the ass. But it is worth being poked in the ass. It is a really great pee wee soccer game. It is total anarchy, super-retardo anarchy awesomeness. It is the most anarchist thing on Earth, I think.

  Oh wait, I forgot about riots in the streets.

  But riots in the streets don’t have little girls picking clumps of grass out of the ground instead of defending their goal, little girls chasing butterflies instead of the ball, little girls tripping over the ball, little girls kicking the ball into the wrong goal, little girls calling their opponents cuntbags, little girls screaming as they run away from the ball.

  Riots in the streets don’t have soccer moms. Riots in the streets don’t have soccer dads. Riots in the streets don’t have riots between soccer moms and soccer dads over pee wee soccer games. Riots in the streets are over real world issues. Real world issues are fucking lame.

  I say it out loud, “Real world issues are fucking lame.”

  Sometimes when I think strongly about things I blurt my opinions out. I can not help it.

  My mom says, “Watch your language, Artie.”

  I sneer at her.

  She removes a jar of extra hot mustard from her fanny pack.

  Extra spicy hot mustard is not very anarchist. Extra hot mustard is the tool the overlords use to keep down the proletarians. It is what they threaten us with whenever we speak our mind. It is what my mom forces down my throat whenever I tell her to go fuck herself. Whenever I tell her that she is a filthy cuntbag. This is unfortunate because I really like the word cuntbag. It is very cute. It rolls off my tongue. The world would be a better place if I could use cuntbag as a term of endearment without feeling like a volcano has erupted in my mouth.

  I hate my mom. I will kill her. I will kill her after everybody goes anarchy. I will declare war on her face. I will do this when it is legal to declare war on her face. I do not want to blow up her face before it is legal. I can barely handle a strip of polyester fabric poking me in the ass. I do not think I could handle prison.

  I compliment my mom on her T-shirt. Compliments are the best way to prevent mustard volcanoes from erupting in my mouth. “Nice shirt, Mom. I like the soccer-playing bears. They are very cute. I also like that the shirt is ten sizes too small for you. I like how it accentuates your fatty-fattiness. I like how it shows off the blubber of your huge tits. I like how I can see every jiggle of your ginormous stomach. I like how it makes you look like you’re having quadruplets.”

  “Aww, thanks, honey,” she says, putting the jar of extra hot mustard back into her fanny pack.

  She stands up to give my uncle a lap dance. I am horrified. My uncle is sexually excited. My uncle is a chubby chaser.

  My uncle is my new dad.

  I will launch a Scud missile at my uncle’s head after everybody goes anarchy. I plan to aim my Scud missile at his forehead. I will do this because he has a Fu Manchu mustache and Fu Manchu mustaches fucking rule. I am hoping his mustache will be able to survive the attack.

  My little sister scores a goal. Mom and New Dad cheer.

  Mom and New Dad realize their daughter had scored in her own team’s goal. They stop cheering. My uncle starts laughing. His laughter sounds fake and melodramatic like he’s a bad guy in a pro wrestling league. This does not surprise me. He is a bad guy in a pro wrestling league. His stage name is Kin Corn Karn. He stole the name from an old Nintendo wrestling game because he couldn’t think of anything good. Kin Corn Karn is an awesome name, but my uncle sucks.

  My uncle stops laughing. He and Mom call my little sister a loser. They tell her they still love her. They say she will do better next time. They blow her kisses.

  I yell, “Anarchy rules!” I feel a little sad about not yelling “fucking rules.”

  The goalie for my little sister’s team is very mad. She pulls my little sister’s shorts down.

  My little sister is not pleasant to look at. She resembles a muppet/tank hybrid. She is even more unpleasant to look at when her shorts are wrapped around her ankles.

  My little sister shoves the bottom of her soccer cleats up the goalie’s anus.

  The goalie cries. She does not like to have the bottom of my little sister’s soccer cleats up he
r anus.

  My little sister is the epitome of evil.

  But I still love her. I have a genetic disposition toward loving my little sister even though she is the epitome of evil. I also have a genetic disposition toward obesity. My genetic disposition toward obesity is responsible for my daily beatings at school. My genetic disposition toward obesity is responsible for my nickname, Chubby-Chub-Chub-Chub. If it were not for my genetic disposition toward obesity, I would not have to blow up my high school.

  The goalie’s father glares at my little sister. He says, “You are a terrible human being.”

  My uncle says, “Listen, brother. Don’t call my daughter a terrible human being!”

  My uncle calls everyone “brother.” I think he stole it from Hulk Hogan. Maybe he likes to confuse people? People are very confused whenever he calls me “brother” in public. They probably think, I am very confused. I did not know he was Artie’s brother. I thought he was Artie’s new stepfather. Is he Artie’s new stepfather AND his brother? Is that even possible? Something seems morally unsound about it. Doesn’t anarchy fucking rule?

  The goalie’s mother calls my uncle a shitty father.

  My mom takes the bottle of extra hot mustard out of her fanny pack, goes over to the goalie’s mother, and squirts two servings down her throat.

  The goalie’s mother screams.

  Her husband pulls down my mom’s pants.

  My uncle goes over and gives him a piledriver.

  The goalie’s father is now unconscious.

  The goalie’s mother is very angry. She pulls on my uncle’s Fu Manchu mustache.

  My uncle’s fatal flaw in the wrestling ring causes him to howl.

  The parents of the competing soccer team watch the confrontation. They look confused. They look left out. They pump their fists in the air and run across the field. They crush a few of their children. Either they do not notice or do not care.

  My little sister’s team’s parents look a little scared. They pick up their folding beach chairs and attack.

  The pee wee soccer girls pick clumps of grass out of the ground, chase butterflies, trip over the ball, call their opponents cuntbags, scream as they run away from the ball, and kick it in the wrong goal.

  I march through the chaos. I smile. I take pictures. I stomp on the ground. I hoot. I duck to avoid flying beach chairs.

  I feel a tear splatter down my cheek.

  The glorious anarchy has made me think of my real dad. He died last year.

  My real dad died during a riot at a pee wee soccer game. It was one just like this, except the opposing team’s parents were wielding broken beer bottles. The mother of a girl who my little sister anally penetrated was one of those parents.

  The mother of a girl who my little sister anally penetrated put a broken beer bottle through my real dad’s brain.

  I feel bad about saying that pee wee soccer games fucking rule. Pee wee soccer games do not fucking rule.

  They fucking suck.

  And crying is not very anarchist. I wish I could get myself to stop. I really miss my dad’s ZZ Top beard.

  ——————————

  Take Arms Against a Sea

  by Mark Jaskowski

  Getting hired at Movie Land secured for me free movie rentals, what my college degree failed to deliver. The pay’s atrocious but I think of the money I save on films as the check from a second job. I trot out of here every evening not much closer to making rent but with a B-grade horror flick or grainy forgotten detective story tucked under one arm, ready to pass the time with bourbon instead of popcorn until I fall asleep or Stephanie gets home. She thinks it’s a sign that I should go back to grad school. She doesn’t get that pulp enthusiasts are generally regarded as poor film theorists. I try to explain it to her but there’s no talking to someone with convictions.

  Andy got me the job when Stephanie called in one favor or other, which means I try to be civil and wait for him to tell me I owe him. He was vaguely apologetic about the piss test and rolled his eyes when I told him I didn’t use anything. I’m trying hard not to count my blessings, stocking the romantic-comedy shelves much too far before noon.

  ———

  Andy’s house is ancient. He doesn’t try to hide it. Powder-blue paint flakes off on my finger when I press the doorbell. He comes to the door, sleepy or stoned and wearing a bathrobe.

  “Wow, Jim. It’s late, man.”

  “We need to talk. About Stephanie.”

  He nods, yawning. “Sure, sure. Come in.” He closes the door behind me. The place is about what I expected inside, with magazines and envelopes strewn around and a digital scale conspicuously alone on a coffee table. “How’s she doing, Jim? Haven’t seen her in a while. I was just going to call.”

  I nod, pacing around the room. “You haven’t seen her?”

  “No. Shit, what time is it?” I follow him into the kitchen. “You want a cup of coffee?”

  He reaches for the pot and, following his movement, I see it. Set upright against the microwave. Stephanie’s waitress pad. She had it yesterday.

  “You haven’t seen her.”

  He starts to shake his head, concentrating on pouring coffee. I swing, wildly and with all my weight behind it. A child could dodge the punch but Andy’s not paying attention. The coffee pot shatters on the floor. Cold sloshing coffee under my feet. The mug rolls around on the countertop and I pick it up. It doesn’t quite break against his jaw so I swing it again.

  He crumples to the floor, fetal, and spits blood. He tries to form words but gets out nothing but bubbles. I lean down, forearm to his throat and staring him in the face.

  “You haven’t seen her. Fuck you.”

  I drag him across the kitchen, through a side door to the garage. He sputters and kicks but can’t find his footing. I let him fall to the ground and shut the handcuffs tight around his wrists.

  “What . . .”

  “‘Easier with the bitch gone,’ right?”

  Andy gives me a gurgling cough and spits. “What?”

  I raise my eyebrows and let him work through it.

  His face falls. “You dumb bastard—”

  I bring my elbow across his cheek. Spatter against the walls, on his face. “Careful now.”

  “Jim, come on. It’s not that. It’s . . .”

  He’s scooting backward, away from me. I kick him in the ribs until he goes fetal again. “It’s what?”

  He whines. “It’s just business, okay? A little scare. Hell, you think she’s never threatened me?” He flinches back, waiting, but I don’t hit him. “I just talked to her, okay. That’s all I was going to do.”

  “Or else you break her nose.”

  His hands go up in defense. “No, man, it’s not like that. I never, I’d never . . .”

  My fist comes away from his nose dripping. He moans on the floor. I’m thinking scheduling and work and his cocky fucking smile and I grit my teeth with guilt and focus on Stephanie’s bruised face instead. I rummage around and find a length of rubber hose and a power drill. I use the hose to lash the cuffs to the water heater. He’s half-prone and struggling. I switch on the drill in front of his face. He bucks forward. He’s writhing hard enough that the cuffs break skin. Trickle of blood. He lunges again and lets out a little moan and goes a little more still.

  The power drill has a nice loud motor. The bit looks expensive, durable. I move the drill in circles in front of his face, letting him get the picture. His eyes go wide. He pushes himself back as far as he can.

  I start with the feet.

  ———

  Andy’s stove is old and gas-powered. I turn everything on and toss my bloody clothes inside. There’s an extra set in the trunk of the car. I leave his sink stained red from washing my hands, but if I understand pilot lights correctly, it shouldn’t matter. I light a candle and nab three thousand dollars in crumpled bills from a drawer before walking out to the car nude but for my boots.

  I roll the window down to the
cool night. My clothes smell like dryer sheets. Stephanie’s touch. She finds it funny, I suspect, to be all domestic sometimes. My heart tugs at my stomach and my head threatens to spin off and I tell myself to breathe, breathe. You did the right thing, Jim. I pull the threads all toward each other, piecing it together while trying to keep my eyes on the yellow line. It seems rather suspect. Overheard conversation, a good bit of assumption, the sneaking suspicion that I maybe flew off the handle a little bit there. Like maybe my head got muddied up. It does that sometimes.

  But it didn’t feel muddied when I left home. Two hours ago, the whole situation was all kinds of clear. Stephanie came home with a broken nose and a story, a story about the door to the kitchen at the diner where she works and how she’d been telling them to fix it for months, but I’d heard Andy talking to his druggie lackeys. I’d quoted it to his face back there and I saw the reaction all over him. And when your girlfriend has a dealer partner who’s threatening things all over the place, so you can hear them, maybe there’s only one thing to do if you want to keep looking in the mirror.

  Running through it, it sounds pretty thin. I take a cigarette from Stephanie’s pack in the cupholder. I quit years ago but it helps. I focus on the road, on the smell of my shirt, on the smoke. Have to get home. Need to get near Stephanie. She’s calming. She’s waiting for me, asleep, at the center of the world and all I have to do is drive.