Projectile Dysfunction

Kurtis L. Darby

          You have the tiniest, horniest, hornless devil swimming in the opaque falls of your hair.  It enjoys rubbing its male-female-male genitals against the vessel, the vessel that carries the thoughts that the world will never know because you keep them caged.  You aren’t sure who it is you’re trying to protect, anymore.  You just know that pot helps to keep the thoughts from consuming that part of the mind that produces the violent impulses that are sent to your angry hand.  No, not that one.  Your other angry hand.  You are not for, or against, violence.  You just know that to give into those thoughts will further complicate your life before you get a chance to peer at the masterpiece on your devil’s back.

          Your mother and father are too dangerously mainstream to understand why you spend all of your time in your basement room, staring at the wall.  Unlike them, you know that you aren’t really staring at the wall.  You are staring at the universes crawling like centipedes in the cracks in the wall.  You can see that there are tiny planets in those universes, with tiny people who see their universes as being enormous and infinite, and themselves as being infinitely enormous.

          The one time you dica deppord, those people leapt from the planets in the universes in the cracks in your wall and began to walk around your room, destroying and creating things.  Those people told you that you were a creep, that you wore the most unattractive clothing, odor, and facial expressions they’d ever seen, and that they did not appreciate your kind inhabiting their world.  You attempted to explain to them that this was neither their world nor your own.  They just thought you were being a coy little puissant so they started to flog you with saliva strands.  Those strands of saliva hurt you right down to that pulsating core of seething emotion lying in the penumbra of your heart.  So after that you never dica deppord again, but somehow those people stayed and never returned to the planets, in the universes, in the cracks in your wall.  Whenever you see one, you have to haul-ass before they open their mouths.  So you mostly just stay in your room, chain-smoking pot and wishing those wall-crack people back into their damned planets, in the universes, in the cracks in your wall.

          You have a pretty good pot source.  You don’t know her name or how you met her.  All you know is, you take your allowance to the far side of the train tracks and, real smooth and subtle-like, slip the bills into her hand, all the time hoping she doesn’t feel how clammy your palms are because then she might not think you were cool, so she’d stop selling you pot, and you’d never be able to control those impulses that threaten to take over your hand, make you do things that you probably shouldn’t do right now.  But you are cool, so she slips a baggie into your pocket and gives you her trademark silver grin, and now you know you’re alright, and that she’ll not stop selling you pot or hand you over to the Saliva- strand people, and shit, are you glad of that.

          Your little devil, who’s not really your devil, starts to rub its male-female-male genitals against your skull.  You know it’s trying to tell you that this woman you get your pot from wants to make it with you.  You don’t want to make it with her.  You really wish the damn devil would stop humping your skull.  You start to scream inside your mind for it to stop, hoping the sound will carry outside of your skull and reach the devil, but it’s not working.  You don’t want to scream out loud because the woman you get your pot from might think you were talking to her and even if you explained to her that you were talking to the devil in your hair she still might not sell you pot anymore.  So you try to just scream it under your breath.  She asks what it was you said.  You just nod, smile, and start to walk away.  She grabs your arm and you turn to see her silver smile again.  She asks you to come smoke with her, and man, your devil really starts to go at your skull.

          She leads you to her run-down building, right up the piss-covered steps and into her shabby apartment.  Sitting on a broken sofa, she lights up a stick, all the while studying you.  You can just imagine what your father would say if he saw you in a place like this.  He’d probably start to wring his hands and beg your mother to talk to you, to please talk to you.

          The woman you get your pot from has her eyes fixed on your face.  In her eyes, you can see the reflection of your devil blissfully clawing at your scalp.  You want to swat him, but you don’t want her to think you’re not cool so you just stare back and nod, dumbly.      She tells you that you look dangerous.  You seem like someone that would hurt her.  You say “Really,” and your voice cracks because you don’t want to be here, with her.  It probably isn’t the coolest thing you could say but what the hell could you say, that you aren’t for or against violence that you spend all of your time running from the people who leapt out of the planets, in the universes, in the cracks in your wall, and that those people like to beat you with strands of saliva because you don’t smell, look, or talk like they’d like you to?  She probably wouldn’t understand.  She might stop selling you pot, and you do not want that.  That’s the last thing you want.  You really need your pot.  Now you’re wondering why she invited you, if she thinks you’re dangerous.  So you consider punching her in the face, so she’d like you more and wouldn’t stop selling you pot.  But you don’t want to do anything different than what you’ve been doing all of this time, so you decide not to punch her and just continue to nod dumbly until she asks why you’re nodding.  You figure that nodding must not be cool, so you stop it and just let your dumb smile remain on your face.  She smiles sideways at you and slits her eyes.  You despise her for that look, and those thoughts are starting to flare up.  You know you need pot and you need it now.  So you stick out your hand in a semi-pinch and she slips the joint between your thumb and index fingers.

          You take a huge drag because you really need one, and besides, you always take a huge drag.  You start to cough, and you are a bit surprised by that, because you never cough.  Her pot tastes a little different than what she usually sells you, so you imagine that she must keep the strongest pot for herself.  You feel like you’re inhaling sulfur.  You continue to drag and cough.  You look into her eyes and you can see that your devil has totally stopped moving and is just staring into the shimmering darkness of her eyes.

          A noise sounds and starts to ride the waves of darkness, and they’re exploding all around you.  You lower your eyes until you can see her mouth.  She’s laughing.  She’s laughing at you.  Her laughter is laughing at you.  She’s laughing at her laughter, laughing at you.  Her laughter is laughing at her, laughing at her laughter, laughing at you.  Her laughter is pink and you don’t like it.

          Her laughter is slithering in your mouth, twisting and swirling around your tongue.  You are drowning in the shimmering darkness.  You feel something stiff between your legs and you know that it’s a penis.  You don’t know if it’s your own.  You can’t remember if you have a penis or a vagina.  You just know that it’s hard and uncomfortable.  You glance around the room, and you can see that it has turned pink with laughter.  You push her off of you, and the laughter turns angry.  It’s angry, pink, saliva-covered laughter and you are afraid.  You are afraid so you start to call, “Owari.”

          You don’t know who Owari, is but you know you need him right now because you are trapped inside the pit of pink laughter.  The woman you get your pot from can move through the laughter.  She reaches out and grabs you, screaming something at you from her angry mouth.  You see the saliva strands and now you know who she is.  You know where she came from.  Now you’re angry.  Now there’s nothing to hold back those thoughts, so they become impulses that flood your body.  You don’t remember why you ever tried to fight this feeling, why you tried to keep those thoughts caged.  This is what must be, so you allow your impulses to fill your hand.  Both of your hands are angry now, so they start to strike, strike, strike her.  The laughter breaks up with every strike.  You continue to strike until you can see the door. 

You run out.

          Now the Saliva-strand people are all over, spitting angry laughter at you.  They know who you are.  They’ve always known.  So have you.  You run home to look for Owari.  Your devil is active again, doing angry flips and somersaults.  He’s growing.  You feel his weight pushing you down.  You’re running bent over under the spastic sun, as it drops golden ejaculate on your head.

          The sky is lurching at you.  It’s trying to steal your devil and you have your devil, but it’s your devil, and you don’t want to let it go.  It’s not really your devil, but that’s what you believe now.  That’s what you know to be true.

          You burst through the door and head down to your basement room, hoping Owari will be there.  He’s not around, so you lie down and try to stop your heart from burrowing through your chest.  Your eyes won’t close, not even to blink.  They are just burning and bouncing from wall to wall in shapeless patterns, looking for Owari and the Saliva-strand people.

          You jump up and are confronted by an electrical cord that stand five feet tall.  It is very angry at you and is intent on letting you know that it does not appreciate the way you remain separate and won’t become a part of what it is.  You tell it that you meant no harm, that you don’t want any trouble, you just want to find Owari, so that perhaps he can free you from the angry pink nightmare you’re trapped in. 

The cord wants to hear no such thing.  It’s had enough of your aloofness and now those impulses are telling you that you’ve had enough of the damned cord. 

You start to fight the cord, but it’s fast and incredibly strong.  Just when you’re getting the better of it, the cord wraps its alarm clock around you and tosses you to the ground.  What a dirty trick to pull an alarm clock on you like that.  The cord is not a fair fighter.  You’re angry as hell.  You have not time for this because you must find Owari.  You tell the cord that you give, but it refuses to release you.  Your anger turns to fear, as you feel the cord unfasten your pants and draw them down.

        A gun joins in and starts to penetrate you deeply from behind.  Every time you open your mouth to scream, the barrel is thrust in again, harder, faster, deeper.  Your voice is the tiniest whisper, struggling for freedom beneath the pain of every moment.  Some strange screeching noise accompanies every reverse stroke.  The Saliva-strand people are all around you now, pelting you with insults and, of course, saliva.  The cord is speaking its dogmatic rhetoric into your ear.  You fall to some deep dark gray pit within you.  It’s all happening at a distance now.

You surface and pull your soiled underwear and pants up.  Next to you on the floor is your devil.  It’s now the size of a small child, but by its gray color and complete lack of movement, you know it’s dead.  Now you can see the masterpiece on its back.

It’s a square divided into eight smaller squares.  The first square shows a small child being chased by a group of children.  The second is the Saliva-strand people leaping out of your wall.  The third is you striking a woman.  The fourth is you being held down by an alarm clock and taken by a gun.  The fifth is you dressed in a black coat, standing over your father.  The sixth is you dressed the same way, standing over your mother.  The seventh is you standing in a convenience store.  The last is simply the word “Owari,” scrawled in red.

You think you understand, so you pick up the gun, that with the aid of a tricky cord and alarm clock, violated you.  It’s your mother’s gun.  Your father had begged her to get rid of it, to please get rid of it.  You slip it behind your belt and put on your black jacket.

Your father’s at the stove, cooking dinner.  You tell him the food smells great.

 When he turns around, you shoot him in the stomach.  He falls, crying and begging someone you don’t know to save him. 

You stand over him and shoot him once more. 

You begin walking down the hallway.  Your mother runs out of the bathroom, adjusting her clothes with one of her ‘toys’ in her hand.  You nod to it and smile a little.

When she looks down, you fire a shot between her breasts. 

You stand over her, as she screams every obscenity she can think of at you.  When you think you’ve heard them, all you shoot her in the head and head out of the door, strolling through the cool evening air.

The convenience store is fairly empty except for two teens trying to buy beer, a couple buying condoms, and an old lady stealing cat food.  You pace around frantically, looking for Owari.  Just when you start to think that maybe you read the masterpiece incorrectly, there he is.

He’s tall, dark, and slim, with a broad grin.  He nods to you and draws two guns from his pockets.  You smile back and follow him to the front of the store.  He begins to shoot at the store clerk.  He must have poor aim because he continually misses. 

You want to help him out so you shoot the store clerk right in his left eye. 

Owari is smiling at you; he is pleased.  He turns to the shocked faces of the teens and begins firing at them.  He must have poor vision also, because as close as he is, he can’t seem to hit them. 

So you fire at them, killing them both.  Now Owari nods toward the back and you know he means for you to get the couple.  You run to the back of the store and find them cowering in a corner.  The guy is using the woman as a shield.  You can’t help but laugh as you shoot them both.

        You return to the front of the store.  Owari is smiling broadly with his guns pointed directly at you.  He’s firing but the shots aren’t hitting.  You read the masterpiece correctly.