Posted on: May 23rd, 2010 Davidjack vs. Samjay at the Track

by Micah Dean Hicks

Just another Stone Coffeeâ„¢ hot day at the track and Davidjack’s in the lead driving for Yellow Cleanâ„¢, when Samjay hits the side of his car and sends the whole group spinning into wall. Glass cracks, helmets ricochet through cabs, and tires split open. The whole thing is shut down in a cloud of smoke, and the fans scream and shake their babies. Samjay gets out and vomits on the road, wipes his chin, and waves to the crowd.

Davidjack rolls out pissed as a hornet in his Yellow Cleanâ„¢ jacket and pants, stumbles over to Samjay, and starts giving that fucker an Original Ass Whoopingâ„¢.

Corporate sponsors in the audience, Ass Whooping reps, see Davidjack working over Samjay and start booing. He doesn’t have a license to use our product, they say. These bastards come piling out the stands and running onto the track in their brown suit jackets and sunglasses.

Davidjack sees they mean to fine him in blood and jumps back in his car. Yellow #8 is dead. He goes over and kicks Samjay in the nuts again, takes his keys, gets in Blue #11, and shoots back out on the track. Davidjack cuts Donuts© across the backs of those brown-suited fucks, bounces the wrecked car over them, then slams it into the last one trying to climb the wall, and the engine catches fire. Davidjack jumps up on the hood, grabs his dick, and waves. The fans shake those babies for all they’re worth. They’ve never seen entertainment like this.

Then the announcer comes in, starts tallying the damages and talking who’s at fault. Organizers shouldn’t have let people on the track, but Yellow Clean’s driver shouldn’t be a murdering fuck, but Blue Clean should be more careful bout who uses their equipment, but Ass Whooping reps shouldn’t have been out past the bleachers in the first place.

Davidjack knows somebody’s gonna bleed millions for this and he gets the shakes. Starts jogging around the track to make himself feel better. Shit gets quiet then. Reporters crowd around the finish line and snap pictures of this fucker finishing the race on foot. Into the papers Davidjack goes, a goddamned inspiration, nothing gonna stop his spirit, a fine athlete and model for our young people.

Yellow Cleanâ„¢ shells out sixteen million to Davidjack to buy his image, hires an airbrushed look alike to stand in for the commercials, and Davidjack goes home to retire in a bubble of heroine and cocaine.

Twenty years later, Davidjack has married, fathered three children, has one grandson, and can’t remember any of it. Constant injections of cheap smack have melted his veins and muscles into a brown pseudo-foot. The man has become a gastropod, a giant fucking snail, an embarrassment to the fine sport of Nascarâ„¢.

One day, Davidjack’s dumbshit grandkid comes talking to him about the soapbox derby and something drops somewhere deep inside that snail brain of his. Davidjack pushes the kid out the way and slithers toward the door, race lighting up in his head like a radio tower.

Davidjack makes a slime trail into the sun, but his brown body is too lettuce-like to withstand the rays, and the whole spectrum of hot light cuts swaths through him until he’s ash, and the fucker was so stoned he never even knew it. Burns up like spider silk, smokes like tires, and smells like sewage. Family scoops him into an urn and by god, he can be a hero again.
They organize a big to-do at the track for the funeral, invite all his old racing buddies, broadcast the service over the PA system into the packed stands. Just when the reporters turn to get pictures of the Yellow CleanTM urn wearing those medals, they see Samjay, now a bloated gastropod himself, reaching his funnel mouth down into the urn and chewing up the ashes. The crunching of Davidjack’s dust is the only thing you can hear over the PA for ten full seconds.

Reporter throws a mic in his face: Samjay, why dishonor the memory of Davidjack, one of the sport’s heroes?

Samjay looks up, smack-lust glowing in his eyestalks. Who? he says.

Filed under: bad-ass, stories | 5 Comments »

Posted on: May 9th, 2010 The Same Under The Skin

by Sandra M. Odell

I recognize her sitting five seats down at the bar. She notices my attention and invites me over with a sip of her drink and a nod to the empty stool to her right. We are diseased, and long for understanding company.

She says her name is Cindy. Small, Clairol blonde, buxom Cindy with a blue, winged heart tattoo under her left collarbone. I introduce myself as Steve, buy her another what-she’s-having. She traces circles around the knuckles of my right hand with the sweat from her glass. There is a band of pale skin at the base of her ring finger.

When the neckline of her blouse has plunged lower than decency would prefer, and I’ve had more than enough to drink, I tell the bartender to keep the change and we follow our need into the night. The haze of the bar gives way to the neon succor up and down the strip. She says it certainly is nipply out tonight, and rubs her chest against my arm to prove it.

Two blocks down, past an all-night convenience store and the huddled masses in empty doorways, there is a once grand hotel fallen on hard times. The Middle Eastern clerk behind the Plexiglas is engrossed in late night wrestling. I pay in cash. He slides the room key through the pass-thru, no questions asked or answers expected. A steroid freak in black and white face paint shakes his moneymaker and the television crowd goes wild.

Room 314, third floor, at the end of the hall beneath a bare bulb choreographing stark shadows. Cindy precedes me into the room. I make a show of enjoying the show. Faded floral wallpaper and anonymous watercolor landscapes are what pass for décor, not that we pay much attention. She, me, the bed. Our kisses curdle as we undress one another without the hassle of diagnosis or other small talk.

We stretch out together, hungering in earnest, seeking, perhaps for a moment, an elusive human connection, until flesh gives way to rot. The worms slither out from under my tongue, coiling past my lips, eager for the Bacardi heat of her mouth. She swallows, no surprise there, and gags, or groans; it all sounds the same anymore. I top her and force myself down her throat, writhing, black mucus slick. Press-on claws lay open my back as she thrashes beneath me, septic blood seeping into the sheets. I buck against the meaty rise of her hip, and she dry-humps my thigh like a high school sweetheart.

Down from her mouth to the hollow of her throat sour with sweat. The worms slither over her nipples, areolas tightening at the segmented intrusion burrowing under the skin. I slide a hand between her legs. She is moist with contagion, ready for me, I think, but she wiggles away and pushes me onto my back. She nips and pinches down my body to my gangrenous excitement, cooing as she takes me in hand. What a big boy am I, and well cut. She wraps her lips around the head of my penis, probing the slit with her tongue to open me for her own worms. They coil up my urethra, a throbbing counterpoint to the claw up my ass.

Too much, not enough. I crave release that comes from the heart and not the pustulant rupturing of my balls. I want to feel again, genuinely feel, not scream and thrash and sweat. Feel for myself alone. I struggle to remember what it was like before the infection took hold and I became a used thing like a crusty wad of tissue or scabrous Band-Aid. No good. The memories are far and away as I ride her mouth with fistfuls of hair for reins.

Cindy is glassy-eyed and drooling when I finally let her up for air. Fuckable. Used. I don’t look down as wet tendrils guide me into place and pull me in for that first, clammy thrust. Neither does she. Worse. We see one another for the first time. It. Hurts? Cindy brushes her fingers across my cheek. I dare press my lips to the inside of her wrist. Yes. Hurts.

The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out. Diseased. And hope a pox on our souls. We kiss, eyes open, as she cries my tears. When the end comes, there’s nothing for it but to hold tight to one another and pretend, for the barest moment, there are only two of us in bed.