Dis-Ease

Dis-Ease

Wilma,
         Your decision to leave me strikes me as strange.  I must admit that although this exclamation of dis-ease on your part couldn’t possibly have made those crab-cakes any more tasteless, it did, however, spoil whatever flavor my life had.
         You may feel free…loosed…even more alive now and your thighs may scream for coital variance but goddamnit, I can’t even whack-off anymore—and it’s only been 24 hours since you informed me of my inability to sustain any sexual interest on your part.  You are a rotten oyster, dripping and stinking, walled in for rancidity’s sake.  You need cracked open… the odor is suffocating.  And so I’ve decided to kill you.  Sounds like a feasible enough plan to me.
         And don’t sell my Buddy Holly records!
         I got fired yesterday but you wouldn’t clam up long enough for me to inform you.  I’ve decided to kill my boss too.  So I guess that’s about it.
         Don’t slip and fall onto too many dicks before I get the chance to run you through.
                                       
                                       Eagerly,
                                               Bart

         Bart is emotionally inept.  He may also be described as eccentric (historically this term has been applied to the homosexual or insane—Bart is neither…he is simply queer, odd,  fanciful even).  Besides the two debilitating obstacles of intemperance and peculiarity, he has yet another problem…his girlfriend, Wilma.  He also happens to be spineless to such an extreme that it may be taken as rugged apathy.  Do not make this misinterpretation.
………………..
         “Weksplein!”
         Bart drops his current analysis sheet for pork loin, a PL-203 as it is referred to in the industry, and meekly answers the beckon from within the “Honcho Quarters” (this clever pun never fails to produce an internal snicker). 
         “Yeah?”
         “Come in here.”
A pause of uncertain origin occurs right here.  Imagine it… until you’re bored… then begin reading again.  The shuffle of rubber orthopaedic soles against dirt-carpet (that really hard floor covering more closely resembling a poor assembly of granules than something composed of textiles—most commonly found in classrooms and telemarketing centers) announces Bart’s entrance into his boss’s cell. 
“Close that door.  Have a seat, Bartholomew.”
Imperceptibly, a wince reflex startles Bart and enables his emaciated fingers to topple over the plastic bust of Stalin that is purported to “really tie the room together.”  A deep sigh from the owner of the bust brings us back to the conversation.
“Now I realize, son, that your family has a strong name around here but the corporation has just finished an in-depth efficiency evaluation of every position and yours has been deemed…,” papers shuffled,  glasses stuffed toward the brow, nervous fingers scathingly scanning, “[grunt] ‘extraneous and dispensable to the extremes that—‘”
Rather than listening to the continuing validation of his industrial worthlessness, Bart slowly rises and leaks out of the room, careful to close the door without any trace of discourtesy or resolve.
.…………………..


The decision to kill is sometimes difficult to pin-town temporally.  It is ethereal, esoteric, deliciously erotic, and yet seductively hidden behind the action or planning of said action.  However, in Bart’s case, we can look at the exact moment of the homicidal ass-slap.  This would be the dream.
.......................................
         
The mailing of the letter proves to be tremendously more difficult than Bart had imagined, due less to his fear of her disapproval than to his sudden and disconcerting epiphany regarding the nature of relationships.  Men - Good, Solid, Predictable, Logical; Women - Batty.
         After a brief moment in the light of definitive truth, he returns to his quest.  As he slithers towards the dingily worn dirt carpeting of  his tenement stairwell, his insight into  gender interaction allies itself with a domain of marine decor, briney sweat, and neon waiters. He is back at Red Lobster.

         Bart watches the waiter closely.  His neatly groomed mustache taunts Bart with its quick expansion and contraction depending on the degree of entertainment its owner receives from insulting a beautiful woman’s table partner.
         “Fries, cheddar potato, or coleslaw?”
         “Huh...whuh?”
         “Jesusbart! This nice young gentleman is speaking to you.  I’m sorry sir, but my boyfriend...he’s a little odd, please be patient.  Youknowwhathesaidtomeonce?  One time we were watching his brother’s rock band...I can’t remember the name...G.I.A!  That’s it!  Anyway, we were watching the show, god is awesome that’s what it stands for, we were watching the show and people were moving and smokingpot and he turns to me and stares for awhile.  I just look back and finally he says that I look familiar and he wonders if he can take me out some time.  Thenheasksmyname,canyouimagine,hisgirlfriendof tenyearsandheasksmemyname!  My name!  Isn’t that just th--”
         “Fries.”
         “Thank you.  Madam, I will return shortly with your cheesebread and salad.”
         Bart notices the deliberate swagger the waiter’s stride has taken on after making five solid minutes of eye contact with Wilma directly in front of him.  He takes another sip of his shrimp marguerita and lets the confrontation dissipate with the crushed ice coolly running down his throat.
...........................
                                 
         Wilma:  The modern equivalent of old carnival freakshows.  Bart is the barker.  People generally notice his sparse frame haphazardly negotiating itself around obstacles much like a crawfish on heroin.  His frame revolves around a seemingly concrete spine (we’ve previously discussed his literal spine).  Quickly though, their eyes leave the oddly rickety Bart and fall upon the real spectacle, Wilma.  This narrator won’t go so far as to say that she is Helen-beautiful, but people can’t pull their eyes away from her just as drivers slow down to see the twisted frames of casualties in an accident.  However internally envious the onlooker may be, they are repulsed but drawn towards the disturbance.  This is Wilma.
................................

         It may have been the SummerFest Shrimperitas selfishly slugged down in efforts at drowning out Wilma, but upon his return to his tenement, Bart falls awkwardly against the tarnished iron rail that leads us up into the building.  Lying on the steps for what may have been hours, a mildly erotic but feverishly disconcerting dream occupies Bart’s swimming thoughts.  It involves a midget and a blowjob.
...............................
         
         “What do you think?”  Bart asks infuriated by the still lingering taste in his mouth.  Fucking midgets. Tasting of salt and chlorine, he almost chokes upon the thought of seafood.
         “The Glock is a nice, light, quality weapon.  Cheap ammo, never locks up...here, try it yourself.”
         The mechanical click of  releasing the slide reminds Bart of the crack of crab legs.
         “What kind of hole does it leave?”
         “Pardon me?”
         “What kind of hole?  Large, small, clean, ragged?  What KIND of FUCKING HOLE?!”
         “Well, sir, if you would kindly stop yelling I will tell you....it really depends on what kind of ammo you use.”
         “Tell me...could I take a midget’s head off with it?”
......................

         The long walk home from his former job at Weksplein Seafood and Fish was not lightened by the looming dinner date with Wilma.  The last few months, actually years, were hardly good for either of them and when she called him moments after his firing, his present emotional state convinced him that she would end ten years of multitudinous fucks and fights tonight.  Turns out, he was right. 
         She suggests sushi but his newly formed disgust for raw fish (having just been relieved of the position proudly labelled Meat Aesthetic Analyses Specialist) causes him to negotiate for Red Lobster.  She orders a lobster tail and dishes out her theory regarding free-range ass.  He boredly eats crabcakes and swallows her dull and breaded drivel.  His penis begins shrinking to diminutive size and he notices it trying to crawl back inside of him.  The weakness of his will merely operates the wench that winds up his manhood.  This proves to be an actuality when, two months later, he is diagnosed with a rare form of urethral shrinkage.  This shrinkage causes impotence and eventually a very very short and nonfunctional penis.
................................

         Unsure of his decision, Bart again lifts the phone receiver and anxiously awaits the raspy grumble of “Kenneth Green the Vagrant Medium.” The room containing the phone appears softer, more like the comforting interior of a womb than the tired dinginess of tenement stucco-paint.  The foreboding solidity of its walls dissolves with Bart’s increasing appreciation of the rooms magical utility.
           “Arraaaaghhhnuuuh.  I said I ain’t gonna give you cracks the code until my checkpoint is validated.  Now stay away!  And tell that damn black dog that keeps talking me into baring myself to taxi-cabs to go bark up someone else’s tree!”
         “Kenny G?”
         “Huh?  Who’s there?”
         “Kenny, it’s me, Bart...remember?  The guy with the phone.”
         “Oh yeah, well hell, Bart,  I thought you were one of the others.  Why don’t you just start yelling and whispering things to me while I’m walking around like the others.  Why the reliance on the phone?”
         “I’m not a fucking voice or any sort of incarnation or creation of yours.  I’m a real person with a real phone.”
         “Yeah...well, no matter.  What can I do you for?”
         “I sent the letter.  I did it.”
         “Good.  Good.”
         “Yeah...so...um, I mean, now what?”
         “Now what?  Kill her, man.”
         “But what if... isn’t this... wrong or at least ill--”
         “Stop!  Don’t bother me with those terms.  Legality, my fine little friend is the arena of mortals.  I know nothing of it.”
         “What about morality?  I went to Sunday school, I know.”
         A hearty laugh comes across the line.  It seems to swell and fill the room with its audacious condescension.  The psychic bum with the apparent auditory connection with a phone across town continues,
         “Consequences dictate your course of action.  Rightness is relative.  It’s only wrong if you believe it to be.  Don’t play subject to the puritanical legislation of human congress.  You are above it.  Now... go forth and get rid of her.”  A dial tone...Kenneth is gone.  Due to the peculiar circumstance of a phone in an isolated room in Bart’s tenement connected to the inner ear of a bum, he places more stock in Kenneth’s words than he should.
.....................
         
Shaking himself free from the debilitating reminiscence of Red Lobster, Bart notices that the letter in his hand is soaked with sweat.  He shakes the loose condensation off of his death-threat with increasing veracity until the danger of mutilation brings his action to a halt.  Satisfied with his effort, he begins his descent down the stairwell and into the light of day.
         The mailbox sits seductively on the corner of Temperance Ave. and Trasher Ct..  Bart lumbers toward it eager to deposit his package into its awaiting slit.  Sweat pours down his brow and, wiping it, he stumbles over the inanimate form of a woman.  Upon closer inspection, he notices that her eyes are too oddly colored to belong to something living.  Removing his shoe, he pokes at the corpse’s eye with his orange-wool clad toes.  If he happened to be sans socks and the form happened to be alive, it would have noticed that Bart has not five, but four toes...the four little ones.  He feels his foot contact the surface of her eye and slowly applies pressure.  A high-pitched whine startles him and he loses his balance falling compromisingly onto the corpse.  The shock of his present situation is enhanced by the shrinking of the woman’s body beneath him.  The whining continues until it ends with a stunning flagellation.  Bart realizes that his body rests squarely upon the solidity of the sidewalk now obviously supporting a three-foot six latex deflation.  Realizing his luck, Bart quickly rolls the sex-doll up, places it in his coat pocket and finishes his trek to the still anticipating slot.  He watches somewhat separated from his physical movements as the letter smoothly slides along the walls of the metallic vagina and comes to rest with a consummate flit.
......................

         He can see himself in the ceiling mirror.  Her beautifully bulbous ass carves a delicate heart in the reflection of the black satin sheets.  The sheets move luxuriously on either side of the heart with small peaks commanding the action.  With careful observation and some basic knowledge of carnal activities Bart decides that these “peaks” are his feet.  As his gaze descends the ninety-foot walls dripping with red taffeta and candles, he smells a wafting muskiness, complete with floral aftertones.  His ears pick up on the slow, rhythmic sound of silken friction.  Convinced that this is the best blowjob that he has ever experienced, his legs twitch uncontrollably and his body struggles to find centeredness.  Bart emits a shrill yelp of pleasure at seemingly exact intervals which combine with the woody vibrations of the mahogany bed posts to create the most deeply meaningful melody he has ever heard.  Bart likes to watch Wilma when she does this so he pulls the sheets gently towards the porcelain heart, deep black waves rolling toward an immaculate island revealing a grinning midget with a mouth full. 
.........................

         “A midget!”
         “What was that, Bartholomew?”
         “Midget.  You are a despicably dull and arcanely idiotic half-pint.  Midget is actually to respectable a term for you and you know how I loathe you little fuckers.  It would be just too kind to put you in the same group as that dwarfy sicko that cut off my big toe at that acid party in college.  Instead I will rob you of the politically responsible and recognized identity of ‘midget’.”
         “Bartholomew, now son, you’re not making any sense here.”
         “Sense?!!  You want sense?  How about firing the last living Weksplein from the company his grandfather started?  Sense!  Here’s some more sense.”  Bart pulls the rolled up doll out of his pocket and throws it at his ex-boss.  “Blow!”
         “What?”
         “Blow it up!  Damn, who the fuck put you in charge?  I guess what you lack in brains you must make up for in brawn...but wait, you’re an elf so that can’t be it....Keep BLOWING!  When you get finished blowing up the body stop and put the limp head in your mouth.”
         “Bar--”
         The click of a glock quickly silences any more resistance.
         “Put it in your mouth...up to the neck.”
         Training the barrel of the weapon against his victim’s temple, Bart furthers the oddity of the situation by inflating the rest of the doll until his ex-boss’s eyes pop out and he slumps, dead, across his eighteen-inch high desk.  His eyes, rolling about the floor of the office opposite him, stain the wood finish and seem happy and free to Bart.  With a smile, he uncocks the gun and whistles “Margueritaville” as he saunters out of the manager’s office of  Weksplein’s Seafood and Fish.
...........................

         Feeling particularly good about his productive morning, Bart almost skips on his way back from Red Lobster.  Just fifteen minutes ago, he secured a red plastic sheller from the dumpster behind the restaurant.  Visions of a weak, bleeding Wilma, which would have caused him an attack of shame and guilt only 24 hours before, fill his heart like the condemned lobsters in the lobby-tank:  an orgy of  claws, eyes, and red.  Rounding the corner of Temperance Ave. and floating south on Slayer St., Bart becomes increasingly aware of quick footsteps resounding from the sidewalk behind him.  Although he is not rushing down the street, the footsteps behind him answer two for every single click of his heels.  The footsteps don’t seem to be getting louder but rather than satiating his curiosity about his pursuer, he quickens his step and begins to whistle.  Each time Bart reaches the peak of his song, the voice belonging to the follower rounds out the musical phrase with astoundingly accurate pitch.  On the third repetition of the tune, Bart is snagged by a crude meat hook and finds himself careening toward the brick building to his right. 
         Upon his eventual waking from the impact of the incarnadine brick, his eyes treat him to the full visage of his attacker.  A small man, approximately three-and-a-half feet short, stands over Bart, flaccid penis in hand drooping less than three inches from his lips.  Bart attempts to move but finds his hands and feet bound.  Investigating the source of his immobility, he sees that the deflated arms and legs of an inflatable woman hold tight the corresponding parts on his body.  With a dillinger-style pistol thrust in his face and another weapon trained on his mouth, Bart begins to feel queasy.  Vomiting up the previous night’s meal, he notices that the crabcakes have much more flavor coming out than they did going in.  The midget begins to speak and Bart silently wishes for the contrasting blandness of last night’s experience with this dish.  Evacuation almost always offends the senses more than consumption.  Bart will soon experience the exception to this rule.
         “Mr. Weksplein.”
         “Whuh...how do you... more important who are... What do you want with me?”
         “Nothing more than the satisfaction of a good sucking.”
         “Fuck man, I’m not... you can’t, fuck, man...I mean--”
         Click.  Bart watches in awe as the simple flip of a knuckle imbues the midget with more power than before.
         “Bart.  Bartbartbartbartbart.  I’ve spoken to your boss at the plant.  It seems that part of the efficiency evaluations you underwent include a manual check of systems and stored material on each employee’s computer.  Your boss, an elevationally challenged man like myself, found some disturbing files.  One in particular I remember was labeled M.A.N.”  The midget pauses expecting a reaction.
         In retrospect, Bart decides that his communication with Midgets Are Noxious, Inc. from his office computer probably wasn’t too wise.  He couldn’t prevent it; as part of his membership fees and agreement, he was required to have an e-mail address.  Since he was paid so poorly by the wretched pygmy that ran his office, he couldn’t afford a computer of his own.  Some employees play Minesweeper or Solitile when they were supposed to be working, he holds internet chat-sessions with other people disturbed by the internationally growing hordes of midgets.
         Obviously satisfied by the depth and duration of the pause given by Bart, the midget speaks again,
         “You’re firing, sir, was my doing.”
         “Who the fuck...what did...who are you?”
         “Let’s just say that I am one of the leaders of the most powerful secret legion in the world.”
         “R.U.N.T.”
         “You’ve heard of us.  Not that it surprises me...your crimes against us have been well documented.  Let it stand that the Rebellious Union for Nontall Tolerance will not leave you unpunished.”
         Resigning, Bart asks, “Now what?”
         Pressing the gun even harder against Bart’s temple, the midget delivers his edict.
         “Put the limp head in your mouth.”
         “You sick--”
         Before Bart could finish, the midget’s member was in his mouth.  Furthering the oddity of the situation, the intruder inflates the rest of himself until Bart feels that his eyes might pop out.
............................

         Her back is turned to him as Bart stealthily enters Wilma’s apartment.  Thanking himself for not giving her the key back, he fingers the sheller in his pocket.  He slowly approaches her, admiring the jagged spear-like rigidity of his weapon.  Red and plastic, the perfect tool for dealing with a rotten oyster.  His over-anxious breathing clues her in to his encroaching mass and just as he positions the sheller in his hand for proper insertion and destruction, she turns to face him.  A look of confusion and shock moves over her eyes producing a face resembling that sorrowful lobster-stare one observes while delivering the squirming crustacean into its steaming death.
         “Where are my records?”
         “Which ones?”
         “My Jimmy Buffet records!  Didn’t you get my letter?”
         “No.”
         “Lying bitch.”
         “I didn’t.”
         Disappointed but resolved to kill, Bart sums it up for her.  The confusion on Wilma’s face turns to fear.  She stutters,
         “You...w-w-w-ouldn’t”
         “Yeah?”
         With a quick downward slash, Bart sufficiently rips a gash in Wilma’s annoyingly eel-like neck.  Bart listens to the gurgle of fading life, relishing the feeling of accomplishment.  After a brief moment,  he begins to search feverishly for his records finally locating the familiar Avon box.  He cracks it open and meets with the genuine grin that he loves so much.  A warm rush of satisfaction eases over Bart as he stares into the sea-green eyes of his beloved Jimmy.
         “Ahhh Jimmy, where ya been?  I’ve missed you.”
         Exhibiting the careful precision of a trained butcher, Bart places the needle neatly into the static grooves at the beginning of the album.  He smiles when he realizes that he gave this record player to Wilma for their third Christmas together.  As Jimmy’s voice begins to float across the seas and archipelagos of bloodthirsty satiation, Bart sets sail for the shores of his new world.
………………….

         Picking himself up off of the stairs leading into his building, Bart pauses momentarily to evaluate the previous few minutes.  He remembers falling against the rail, black sheets, and a midget.  Deciding that there isn’t much more to investigate and not wanting to look like a transient, Bart climbs the stairs and enters the building. 
         After three floors of hiking, Bart turns right and follows the cracked lights down the hall towards what should have been his door.  Noticing that the numbers on his door have been changed and that the red halfmoon hanging above his eyehole had been taken, Bart places his keys into the lock.  They slide in smoothly and with a quick flick of the wrist, he walks inside of the room.
         The room that should be his apartment is naked, pink, and possessive of only one piece of décor, a phone.  Stumbling around the room in a stupor, he makes a move to the door.  He tugs and twists, but the door is sealed shut, locked from the outside.  Spying again the phone, he rushes to it and picks up the receiver.  An oddly low dial tone greets his ears and within seconds he can hear a grumbling voice stammering on about protocol and dog biscuits.
         “Get out!  Get away!  Leave me alone!  I don’t have any of your damn information.  In fact, to my knowledge, the file was shipped to Houston from Boston two weeks ago.  It was loaded by a very attractive young woman by the name of Ms. Brown.  Please, talk to your superiors and find out what happened.  Why should I have it?”
         “Hullo…uh…can you hear me?”
         “Of course I can hear you, what kind of a question is that?  And by the way I’ve decided that I will not continue to accost street walkers for your pleasure.  Those biscuits that I bought you were almost three dollars.  I had to beg for six days to accumulate that much money.  So no, I don’t want to talk to you again.  Fuckin’ dog.  Shooo, go home.”
         “Uh…who are you talking to?”
         “You…you can’t fool me Sammy, I know it’s you, I can smell your wet fur.”
         “I’m not…umm…my name is Bart.”
         “Bart…Bart.  Hmmm, are you a new voice?”
         “Pardon me?”
         “Are you new here to my mind?  If so, I don’t want you.  I have enough voices to deal with what with those fuckers from the Pentagon and that damn smelly dog.”
         “You talk to the Pentagon?”
         “Oh, just when they want to harass me.”
         “Oh.”
         “So what do you want?”
         “Umm…who are you?”
         “My name is Kenneth Green the Vagrant Medium.”
         “So you’re a psychic.”
         “Kinda…listen, uh…..Bart, what is it that you want.”
         Bart kindly fills Kenneth in with the gory details of his firing, getting dumped, drinking too much shrimp, the midget dream, and finding the hidden pink room with the phone. 
         “So, you say you’re talking to me over the phone.”
         “Yeah.”
         “Weird…umm…well, I’m not on a phone.”
         “I gathered that.”
         “Do me a favor, will ya?  Don’t tell anyone about this.  All I need is more voices screaming in my ears while I’m trying to conduct business.”
         “Sure, uh…well…umm, what do you think I should do.”
         “Kid, it’s this easy.  You write a letter to your uh…what’s her—“
         “Wilma.”
         “Wilma…well you write a letter to her, threaten to kill her, kill your boss, and then kill her.”
         “But..”
         “No buts…you called me, remember?”
         “Well that’s not exactly wh—“
         “Listen, if you think wandering into a room, picking up a phone connected to some homeless medium’s mind, and speaking to him about your rather pathetic existence is a common occurrence, then don’t listen to me.  However, I would say that strictly due to the sheer oddity of this situation, you would place more weight and faith in me.  What, do you think everyone has this opportunity?”
         “I guess not.”
         “Right, so kill ‘em.”
         “How?”
         “You’ll figure it out.”
         The phone clicks and a normal dial-tone speaks into Bart’s ear.  Looking at the phone, Bart hears another click and turns around to find the door open.  He walks out of the door and down the hall, this time noticing the black “4” on the wall opposite the stairwell.  Realizing his position, he quickly jogs down one flight of stairs, flies down the hall, and is at his kitchen table feverishly writing the letter before the door to his apartment closes.  The words seem to ooze, without effort, onto the --

         “Huuungggh?”
         Kevin Stalls looks up from his desk to see the commanding form of Nurse Wilma Thrasher, all three-foot-five of her, his last page tauntingly moving in between her stubby digits.  The pastel pink of the room outlines her pudgy silhouette.
         “Now Kevin, we can’t have you missing dinner.  It’s seafood night, and you will not be allowed to stay in your room when everyone else is enjoying the meal.  If you would please put all of this away and escort me to the cafeteria.”
Giving the piece of paper back to Kevin, Nurse Wilma continues, 
“Doctor Anderson said that he is pleased that you are applying yourself to creative processes.  It is proven that sculpture or painting or writing allows the bad feelings and thoughts to find another, more healthy outlet.  However, we are not very pleased with the continual discoveries of your little playthings.”  She indicates towards the blow up doll head that is sticking out from underneath Kevin’s cot.  Picking it up with a definite air of disgust, she folds it under her arm and stands at the door expectantly.
        “Let’s go, Kevin.”
        As Kevin and Nurse Thrasher walk the twenty paces down to the cafeteria, the gentle melodies of Jimmy Buffett begin to increase in volume (Item 3.4.119:2, Category 6:  “No music is to be heard, composed or played in any State Hospital for the Mentally Ill unless that music is Jimmy Buffett.  In studies conducted by the State Board for Health in it’s 1991 study of aggression triggers, Jimmy Buffett’s clever sea-wit had been classified as the safest, and most therapeutic form of music for the mentally ill.  See Item 4.2.248:15, Category 3 for further statutes regarding the punishment of this Item.” ).  Nurse Thrasher firmly places Kevin in a seat and watches as he begins to play with the crab and shrimp fritters in front of him.  She tells him that the incident with his roommate, Kenny Green, has been investigated and that Kenny awaits transport to a more heavily guarded facility.
“He should never have done that to you.  He was a sexual deviant…he shouldn’t have forced you to… to… to give him oral sex.  We are taking all measures to ensure that this will never happen again in this facility.  We apologize.”
After about ten minutes of apologizing to the mute, she tires of the fight and heads back towards the nurse’s station to prepare the evening’s doses of medication.
Kevin stares as her little frame marches away, mumbling to himself.
      “Bitch.”