This is the fourth chapter in Smith’s anti-saga. Do try to enjoy if you really must read it.
The door clicked, hissing a sour wind with its crawl to open.
A set of light beige drapes parted over a bright pink wall, memory plush, and slippery to the touch.
There was a covered pink slide opening into the wall just below center, and its initial site caused me to shudder, and scratch with memory.
It was a darker shade of pink, polished with fresh lubricant that smelled curiously between cotton candy and feet — or was it popcorn — and with a mouth that looked wide enough to accommodate the girth of a small aquatic mammal.
Eye level to mine stared a bulbous, shiny pink button.
It was about the size of a golf ball, slightly drooped — with a soft pleasing texture; and at this moment Ken’s voice squeaked overhead “It’s ok, Smith. Give it a squeeze.”
“What’ll happen?” I leaned in prejudiciously, but it was only as it appeared — a bulbous, shiny pink button.
“Let’s just say, ‘it helps the medicine go down’. Okay?
There was a small washer crusted beneath soft dark spores foresting the base boards, and up along the wall.
Rust bled from a hard scrape, staining my fingers as I leaned in, stopping just before the slip, and released it.
The glint of clean metal followed the incline for several seconds before toppling flat, as I listened, straining to catch its shine for another fifty-feet dark, until it twisted from view entirely.
“Down to where?”
But he only repeated, “Push it.”
A dark abstraction hit my guts, and I found myself inching backwards while fumbling over a garble of stuttered trepidation.
Sobriety barrel rolled my senses beneath a storm of hard truths. Every time I tried to breach another realization kept me in the reel.
Sure I’d been slammed in before.
I caught my first charge in second grade for selling rollies and homebrew outta’ the boy’s room.
At a buck a Jack, and 20 a pop between choice faculty and kids, I also caught my first lesson in supply and demand:
Those with a demand, don’t always agree with the supplier.
After that, hell, it seems like every other month I was picked up for something:
Disorderly conduct, including assault against a priest, and sexual battery involving several lit candles.
Residential Burglary with intent to distribute, and consume narcotics.
Shooting dope at mass (I swear! It was a totally separate offense).
Hobo camping in the mall, and other shit like that.
Half of it wasn’t even my fuck up.
But try convincing an over, or under-worked hard-on with a badge and a gun you’re innocent of anything they’re already gunnin’ for.
Shit, I’ll even let you have a squeaky-clean record for this deal.
See what I mean? You’re guilty, every time.
But through all that bullshit the memory of previous gigs reminded me it wasn’t concrete.
Soon I’d be refitted among the spokes to turn the wheel all over again.
But from the looks of that fucking drop, I knew there was no more catch and release. This was it. I was hooked, scaled, and headed to the fryer.
Welcome to the Pit.
(Okay, as for that Res. stint, I swear I thought they’d gone on vacation like, months before. But it was 3am on Christmas.
And because it was the ol’ X-mas, an’ I was the dope man that night, I thought it’d be a riot to dress up like you know who.
The look of distress on that poor kid’s face made it all worth it, and I couldn’t stop laughing all the way downtown.
No one’ll ever convince him to rig up. Then again, they won’t be able to convince him Santa ain’t real either.)
Suddenly my mind snapped into radical acceptance. With the door sealed behind me, and this being the only way through, I breathed deep, and again, and then quickly squished the bulb with a defiant “AAAAAHHHHH!”
Its plush pushed pleasing between my fingers, slowly inflating outward for another satisfying squeeze, and then another, but each time nothing happened, and I thought ‘yeah, this ain’t so bad’.
And then it did.
A hard dose of pheromones spittled out through air vents lining the slide, as a warm, drumming euphoria rushed my senses.
It had a heavy narcotic base, but there was something else — a deep sexual compulsion swelling my penis like it had in the cell.
Then another announced itself, and now the room began to vibrate with a degradation of the most vicious pleasure.
But oh! What a relief from the concussed reality of a sober mind!
Another spritz filled the room, and the drapes became a pair of waxed lips parting over a moist, pink vagina.
My fingers pinched its clitoral head with the lock of an infant discovering its sense of grasp, before letting go, and then grabbing it again.
I felt a strong, heavy high now, a perfect euphoria — like trolling — on dope.
But cherry, you know? You couldn’t appreciate this as a junkie, not really.
My eyes couldn’t stop rolling, lost in a series of pleasurable hallucinations, and in everything everywhere I knew it to be all alright.
The vagina glistened, sweating fractured beads of light that slipped between its labia in a brilliant display of lust.
Then it came, hard, and thick.
A kaleidoscopic mess shot from above the contracting vaginal mouth with sloppy pleasure splashing my mouth, and face.
My penis swelled to the rhythm of an invisible flow, until its head throbbed to the brink of popping.
Another delayed spritz seeped into the air as I started sucking, and then lapping the clit with the sexual appetite of a pubescent boy who’d just walked onto a live porn set.
It had a taste, and texture reminiscent of a ham and cheese sandwich, smeared with a thick rainbow condiment now coating most of my upper body with its gross viscosity.
Suddenly an angry woman whom I knew to be my dead Babushka appeared. She was a watery peripheral haze — like a round bent blob — but I recognized the fear of my youth in her harsh, cackling presence; rasping accusations of immoral behavior in a bitter, foreign language.
And because it was all a manifest of my hallucination, I’m certain it would have sounded foreign even to Russians with all the clicks, and rolls blending together in a fluent rage.
Suddenly her gypsy rings struck the back of my head, resounding every inch of contact with painful reverberations.
Again they struck, and then again. All the while berating me in a flurry of gibberish, when her other, naked hand moved to smacking, and tugging on my penis as if trying to remove it in an effort to rid my mind of temptation.
Ejaculate spurt in long, hot shoots of electric iridescence.
I grabbed at my genitals, flinching, and cowering over the drain before quickly remembering — I had no Russian ancestry.
Before I could turn for a better view, she had gone, and instead of her voice now rose a moan.
A low, short expression that I couldn’t distinguish whether for pleasure, or pain, when another terrible realization rushed my mind, seizing my heart with a clenching force.
What if —
What if this really was a person, and not just some sexual plaything?
A woman of grotesque proportion… perhaps even the last surviving member of her giant race.
I shut my eyes in heavy sway, and then I could see it all play out in my mind:
One night she goes out for a quick stop, only to be captured by local serfs with torches — how she hated fire in those days.
They sold her to their lord for an ox, and two goats, to live out her years in some raped existence.
But who was she before?
I bet she was a good person with a family of loving, (stupid, but) friendly giants.
Yep, she had a wonderful, innocent family who depended on her love, her presence — everything she was, and wasn’t.
Fearful, and insecure.
Guardian, and entrepreneur.
She was a person with potential, and all the world in her grasp.
Now she’s reduced to a forced existence.
Stripped of identity, empathy, sympathy, and all together worth beyond hourly molestation.
Her husband immediately fell into a crack debt he couldn’t square, and had to sell the first born to be jellied into glue. That didn’t cut it I’m afraid, and he soon had to sell the other.
He spent all their worth on a shotgun and shells.
Of course it was too small.
They found him drowned in the bathroom sink.
My heart ached, and my head reeled with disgust altogether.
Compounded that I might have been an unwitting associate, and the horror retched from my twisting guts out my mouth in electric spatters of yellow.
It coat the labia, lightly lubricating the opening where it washed deep down the hole.
Then a piercing rush sounded from below, and before I could react, a ballistic of refracted shapes shot from the orifice, and knocked me to the ground.
The thrush of their wings softened their cries as their tiny bodies Pollacked the opposite wall.
I kneeled before the scene, naked with arms outstretched and my eyes rolled back, pleading forgiveness between violent affirmations to never again take such a display for granted.
I shut my eyes as the last shape hit, and on the dark of my lids, I saw the vagina. A long red tongue writhed up from deep inside, washed, dripping with light, as it circled its labia to catch the liquid.
It only made it worse, of course, sloppily painting around its mouth before discovering the clitoral bulb, begging through side-split lips, “Mmmm! I want you inside me!”
It was a soft voice — feminine and deeply sensual, yet artificial.
I wanted to fuck it.
And because I desperately wanted to fuck it, I had no other option than to obey its command.
I asked wiping away a thick smear of snot and tears.
So I stood up, pushed deep inside the tight, wet orifice, and fell head first down the lubricated slide.
Everything everywhere was dark as pitch, until the sharp neon shapes returned, fluttering in and out of view.
It was all very pleasant, and I was reminded of how enjoyable tripping in the dark could be. There’s no interference so everything you see is a new experience pulsing with animated surreality.
That’s usually what Hollywood doesn’t understand about visuals, too many films illustrate tripping as a full blown Thompsonesque narrative loosing an orgy of nightclubbing reptiles onto an unsuspecting mind.
Perhaps if it’s your first time…?
The best visuals during a day trip will be mostly peripheral — like the old Babushka, she’s there, but is she really? — and when you turn to bring them into focus they abstract into patterns of light or other forms.
Unfortunately, the underlying visual interference blurs the fun.
In contrast, the darker it is, the more immersed in visually pleasant emotions your experience can be.
Unless you’re fryin out with some drag who watches too many of those drug films, and doesn’t understand you can’t chase someone in the throes of a hard trip through a dark graveyard with an oak branch trumpeting like a goddamn elephant.
This stresses the mind, and when you stress a mind too much on a trip someone’s going to hit hard.
But I wasn’t in a graveyard, and the drugs now warned me I’d passed the exit 50 feet up. I should have panicked, and if it were acid my heart woulda’ burst through my chest. But the warm embrace of narcotics kept me cool, so I closed my eyes again and slipped deep into my mind.
Instead of black, my surroundings were blue — not a tube but deep cerulean sky.
Heavy summer clouds flashed in the distance like terrifying columns, but before me was sunshine, sunshine and blue skies, and I couldn’t stop grinning.
My face hurt like a sonofabitch, but in that moment everything felt just… too… right.
I turned over to find myself meandering above a southern dirt road etched through an animated patchwork of singing cropland, and dancing forest.
Suddenly, ‘ol Tractor-Bob, and Miss Mary-Time Mable appeared, waving salutations as tanned distortions.
Bob, with no shirt beneath a pair of gritty overalls had been digging in his corn, while Mable rocked lazily on her wraparound next to a sweaty pitcher of iced tea.
And just like that, I was a small child — a sweet little girl alone in a still field, picking wild flowers with the noon sun warm on my face, and back.
I couldn’t see myself, of course, but I knew it to be so because I felt it to be.
Fat abstractions buzzed into flight, moving between little pastel flowers like swine moving between troughs.
There I sat delighted in focus, when the storm suddenly rolled in with its darkening sky. Where once was blue, now was black.
Air and earth struck from every direction as the gentle field stretched, heaving towards the sky as if being pulled, until it broke from its bed and swept away into the storm.
Layer after layer before me ripped, breaking, churning altogether until the landscape had become a great black emotion too terrible to be perceived.
Just when my layer broke, I opened my eyes and was sucked into the vortex. Thrashing about the violence until I’d lost all sense of direction. I shut my eyes again, but this only illuminated the scene with a powerful realization for its size.
Electric limbs stretched across space, with bright, wispy appendages striking, and illuminating carnage with terrifying ferocity.
I opened my eyes to a small white dot wavering far above, and the dot grew larger, as the storm funneled me up toward the serenity of warm sky.
Larger, and larger still — until I saw it wasn’t white at all, but pink. Vibrant pink, like the slide, and before I realized what was happening, I fell up through the opening, splashing down into a pool of Vaseline.
There must’ve been a dozen pairs of interlocked legs, all writhing together through the mire.
Before I could right myself to the surface, an enormous glass dildo carved through the emollient a little more than an inch above my eyes.
Three feet across, with a head easily larger than my fist, and despite the viscosity, had it fallen that much closer I would’ve undoubtly been knocked unconscious and drowned in sexual lubricant.
A yellow nylon rope gordianed around its middle where hand grooves had been worn between giant pleasure knobs. The lubricant caused it to warp into a refracted mirage, giving it the appearance of a penis-eel-like creature that’d been hooked while snaking through the amber balm.
I gripped onto the shaft with the avidity of a drowning man, and was quickly hulled to the surface, where I dangled above the pool for several seconds running neon swaths of petroleum from my body.
Lubricant weighed on my lids, blinding me to my surroundings, though just able to discern the pool’s mouth below speckled with its thrashing orgy of bodies.
The space was alive with loud rapacious moans struggling up beneath a frightening wall of violence.
Wet stabbing thrusts accompanied vociferous pleasure to my left, right, forwards, and back — but none so prominent as to my left.
Despite being only four, maybe five feet above the pool, in my manic state I misread this distance by ten times that. Then the conveyor kicked in, jostling me forward to the squeal of an angry crank.
As I lurched onward the distance to the pool appeared to lengthen, and this illusion caused me to thrash wildly in the air, pleading above the fray “Don’t let go! Oh please — OH Shitty-SHITTER!”
When I reached its brim a kaleidoscope of dark hands vied for my legs, dragging me down as I struggled against their reach, but to no avail.
I was food for sharks.
Collapsing onto the hard-concrete floor at the foot of the pool in a puddle of pink, and amber lubricant, I soon found myself fighting against invisible forces when a foot nudged into my ribs through the pitched laughter of a cheap Rasta drawl —
“Smitty! I been wonderin’ where dey’d dump ya’, bah-ee! What are de odds, eh?”
Wiping at my eyes only smeared them shut until the voice suggested, “’Ear mon, lemme’ see dat face.”
A calloused hand cradled the back of my head while another gently dragged a wad of tissues over my eyes, nose, and mouth as I lay swatting at light-vibrations playing over my closed lids.
And then there he was. Half-Pint stared down at me with his beady bloodshot eyes. He had a bald head now, clean with an iridescent halo emanating like a homeless saint. I choked my arms about his neck and began sobbing into a curly black tuft lining his sweaty, bare chest.
“Easy, easy bah-ee! Da’ fuck you tink dey say if dey saw dis, huh? Dey’d toss ah’ shit fah real, Jah-seph!”
“I’m not Joseph…” I gripped his face exclaiming; “I’m nothing… No one, just stolen sentience veiled within a hodgepodge of regurgitated matter.”
My thoughts trailed to the pool before us. With about a 10-foot diameter, and a depth at least equal to that, it resembled one of those cheap family pools that sit in backyards as a testament to their limited wealth.
A carpeted fat man sat in a lifeguard’s highchair masturbating to the orgy in the pool with an evil, slathering expression of carnality.
The room itself was a large circular chamber, about the size of a city block, with a dark, concrete atmosphere, and deep trailing bend toward its far right.
Like the cell above, the walls had been graffitied with every manner of waste produced by the human body, and the air had long fused into this sour choke so that every breath created a separate struggle to keep the bile in my stomach.
Three tiers defined the mid, and upper room which meandered around a wide bend. Rusted fire escapes were the only method of maneuvering between them, though each were neatly folded from reach, and guarded by large bodied people dressed in black leather that’d been stitched into various bondage fashions.
Chain-link rails bordered each tier, topped with bent, and bloodied razor wire. Abused corpses hung over the sides, many with large wounds oozing cum, while others were just bruised, and hacked torso’s with sagging requiems of frozen horror.
Emaciated figures watched in suspension from barbed wire cages behind sunken masks of anxiety, and everywhere I looked was an orgy of flesh — like a swarming menagerie of perversion; it was both awesome, and terrifying.
Suddenly I shot to my feet exclaiming to those in the pool; “I am born of Prometheus — shat from the loins of his character… killing me will only bring fire, and pain!” This angered the lifeguard, who thrust a globular load of cold semen at my feet with a bestial sneer.
“See that?” I returned to Half-Pint; “That’s sex! Sex is primitive. Our gut, and our loins command us, not our brains. And that man there —” I paused accusingly toward the lifeguard, “Is exactly why you shouldn’t masturbate! Monstrous, hairy-fucker of the profoundly grotesque! I’m practically choking on the sight of him!”
Half-Pint’s lips pursed sideways before adding, “Smit, just shut da fuck up fah a min-aught! Dat man ain’t…” But in my mind I was too busy making my point to hear him. Really hear him.
“Right! Of course! Of course you know what I know — you who thinks for others…” I’d gripped his face insisting; “Don’t you see? Sex leads to rape, Half, and rape leads to marriage.” then I threw it away again.
“Next thing you know you’re sending money to sustain some poor bastard in one of those starving Christian commercials, all so you can marry ’em off —” I leaned in with a hushed tone of paranoia “or release them into the world unchecked, and unneutered to rinse, and repeat.
“Just a bunch of hungry, bottomless mouths. I don’t want any part of that! Half, you gotta’ tell ‘em man! They’ll listen to you! Color strikes fear into the hearts of every white-man…” and then I stood up declaring; “This man has something to say! If you don’t want to listen… that’s fine! But if you do… okay!
“Heroine is a sophisticated man’s decadence; unlike sex with you lay-about pederasts!”
After a few quick bows I turned back to Half-Pint and shrugged; “Sorry man, they don’t care. I guess a black man just can’t get any respect in prison anymore. Even if he is from South…” I glared hard into his bright, popping eyes and then shrugged “whereeverthefuck.
“You shoulda’ never let white people back into the rap game, my man!” I continued with an accusing finger. “But you did. An’ now it’s gotta be dealt with!” he cocked a brow over his half smile of what the fuck?? until I blurted with wide, angry eyes “Country-Rap! A bunch of backwoods confederates trying to evolve their image… Is that what the forefathers intended for ‘white-pride’?
“Like my daddy always said, or another, ‘if you can’t break ‘em, steal their image until nuthin’ remains of their culture.’”
At that moment he swung an arm around my neck directing me to my feet, and then onward, away from the pool. “Yah dad-ee used tah say dat, Smit?”
“I said ‘or another’, Half, don’t throw me into this mess!” My foot caught a chink in the concrete as I turned to break from his yoke, toppling me backwards like some Friday night drunk.
“Jee-zus! Ya’s ‘a Fahken mess, ‘eh?” He offered his arm but I’d already stumbled to my feet. He was right however. I’d been wide-eyed since regaining my sight and at that moment he backhanded my jaw to bring me out.
“Ya was ahnly s’posed tah squeeze it one tahm, ya fahken junk-ay pah-vaht!” and he erupted in another fit of laughter, slapping my back and then massaging my shoulders.
“Look mon, ya don’ wanna go any where’s else in ‘ere. Trahst me.
“Most of dem ain’t no good. Dey kill junk-ays in ere Smit.” he nodded with sincerity, adding “Lahk’a’ spaht, brah! First dey cook up a rig wit bah-tarry acid, an’ bah-king soda, den put dat shit ah’na waht pedah-stool an’ release two junk-ays atta time. Whoevah’s left standing get’s tah shoot dat shit in der veins.” He shook his head, releasing vibrant trails until his face became an indiscernible smudge.
“Yahs saw! B’ glad ya got dat crazy fahkah Ken, an’ pray fah dem fu-cha niggahs he don’ nah-vah come outta da clah-set! Shee-aht!” then he prodded my shoulder with a hard middle-finger adding “B’sides, once ya see da’ resa’dant Dahc’tar, dare’s ahnly so many places dey gon’ put ya.”
By now, the drugs had peaked leaving only a heavy stone, with vibrant trails between gentle peripheral abstractions.
He flexed his arm to pull me close and then we stopped, “Smit Bah-ee, I want ya’ tah look ovah’ dare… you see dat big dyke ovah dare?”
Behind a column toward his nod stood a large, dark-skinned woman with a shaved head and no other article of clothing beyond a strap-on shank. Blood painted her stomach and tits, and washed over the white cheeks of a young corpse whose body was bent, bound to a wooden chair where it jostled vigorously against exaggerative thrusts as she locked her one, dark eye on the two of us and smiled.
On the second tier above, a half-broken man pushed through a wall of writhing bodies.
One arm gimped in a sling, with his other hand gripped onto a broom-handle staff. He struggled to keep his eyes open through their swell, while bleeding from a crooked nose slanted above his hanging jaw as he staggered a pitiful hop on one leg. His other had been lopped at the knee where a crude bone still protruded from the wound.
And then two more men, and a woman joined him.
Dressed in worn army boots, and black leather bondage, one wore a gas mask with a faded oversized straitjacket to hide his bent, sickly frame. A pair of leather pants hugged his legs, tallied with an impressive array of useless zippers.
The other, shirtless, heavy set man dawned a gimp mask and like the woman, wore a shiny black leather kilt.
In contrast, the woman was the only healthy looking one of the bunch being not too fat, or skinny — although her face still bore the residue of too many sleepless nights. Her hair was shoulder length, like unkempt straw, with chest straps to support her naked breasts.
In their arms each hugged a pyramid of toilet paper rolls, which they dumped onto the grated floor once assuming their position beside the disfigured man, where together, they appeared like an imposing resistance to the scene.
“So, where am I? This — place… gotta’ name?”
“Welcome, tah ‘Dee Sevahn.’” He announced miserably.
There was a strange familiarity to the name. “Why D7?”
“B’cuz Dis is dee Sevahnt pit.” he sighed.
“Sev-Seven… Seventh pit — The Seventh Pit? That’s what you said? Sonofabitch! How many fucken pits are there… and why the fuck are we here? This place is for batters, and receivers. Not tight ends!”
He gave me a hard-quizzical glare repeating “Bah-tah’s?”
“Yeah, gay dudes.”
“Watch who ya’ callin’ gay, bah-ee!” I’d struck a hidden nerve. “But e’en if ah was, am ah suddahnly diff’rahnt tah you? ‘eh? All dem times ya was dahp sick, ya tinkin’ I let ya go cuz I wanted ya bang-bang? Bwa-ha-ha!” he gave my ass a hard slap.
“Nah bah-ee! Don’ be gon’ Ken on me, Smit. Jee-zus!”
“Christ! That’s not what I mean. I wasn’t implying you’re — let alone that I give a… forget it! Just lay out the fucking grid, man!”
“Ah’gin wit dee ah-dahs! Haw many tahms, Smit-bah-ee? Eh? Haw many fahk…”
The chamber narrowed into a dark hall as we approached the far bend. Suddenly, a flaming roll of toilet paper trailed high above our heads like a meteor, arching back toward the pool where it disappeared beneath the rim.
Another followed directly, and then another, and another; filling the sky from every direction, as I stood letting Half-Pint talk out his frustrations.
It was like Christmas, this shower of brilliant trails all falling toward the other in, or around the pool’s base without disturbing the orgy.
“… livahn faht in da belly of da wh…”
Jesus Christ you hyper-zealot! You’re still raving?
“…wit da hoof, ahn da cock…”
“The rules are simple.” A soft voice teased behind. It was rich, smooth and carried on dark waves.
I turned to find a pale shirtless man with a young, skeletal frame, short, and black trussed hair, with a Guy Faux facial, black, and a pair of tight, black leather pants tucked into the open black wings to an untied pair of 18-hole curb-stompers.
Yeah, a real goth shithead.
“Or don’t.” And just like that, he darted off around the bend, as swift-footed as a woodland elf in some epic fantasy novel, before a jarring powerful force threw me up, and forward where I came to a violent stop against a column.