American Monsters (5 page)

― Hold on guys, I have to go to the bathroom.

You are at a 7-11 somewhere on the 10 freeway. You don’t know where this party is, but since no one asked you to drive, you are not worried. You do know it has something to do with the bizarre owner of The Motel Chain and his haunted Halloween mansion. Whatever. You know you’ll get there eventually. But the thing is, the party is about an hour and a half away, and you have someone sitting on your lap. Translation: many bathroom breaks on this adventure. You go inside to get the bathroom key. The lady behind the counter lets you know that it is open and around the corner. You walk over and open the door.

You turn to bolt the lock so you see the man inside too late. He has a knife in one hand, duct tape in the other. He grabs your wrist and twists your arm hard behind your back.

― What took you so long, sweet little Debbie?

He reeks of alcohol. His hand is over your mouth. He twists your arm further up your back and makes you cry out.

― Now Debbie, since you aren’t cooperating, I guess I’m going to have to make you behave.

He duct tapes your
mouth shut. Oh please God let someone notice. Let someone notice.

― Now, I ‘sume that you got some friends out there waiting so I’ll make this as quick as I possibly can.

You struggle. He pushes you down onto the floor. You cry and gurgle behind your taped mouth. He tries to get on top of you but you wriggle and kick until finally, like a WWF wrestler, he grabs your ankles and flips you like a pancake onto your stomach. Your forehead cracks open on the floor tiles, face down in your blood. He cuts your shirt off, slashing your back several times. After anally raping you, he stabs, slashes, guts and mutilates several parts of your body. He laps up your blood with his tongue. The 7-11 bathroom: the slaughterhouse.

He has a clean pair of clothes in a plastic bag in the corner. He quickly changes, washes the blood off of his face, takes the few parts of you he is keeping and exits the bathroom. He sits in his car and watches your friends. No one even notices. He even goes over and asks them where the party is. They are more than happy to spread the word. He drives off. Your friends are oblivious.

You would think you’d be dead, right? He butchered you, straight out of Friday The 13th or Scream. Your body is in pieces, and some of them are now missing. You sit up out of your body.

You are face down but somehow the laws of corporality are no longer applicable to you in this recently deceased state. You sit up without turning around. You look around at the blood, you look down at your murdered body and something happens: You can feel the rage building upon the smallest bit of energy that composes you in this ghostly state. The blood, the gore, the memory of the knife, the slashing, the ripping and tearing, all of the fury, the absolute wrath floods in like amoeba, reproducing until your spirit, the specter, the shade that remains of your body buzzes like a scream behind duct tape. You stand up. You look in the mirror and you have no reflection. He stole your fucking reflection, you smash your fist into the mirror, the fierce rush of outrage rushes through your electric shadow body and the mirror shatters. You look down, one last time, at the remains of your body. This will not go unpunished.

You walk through the door, your body buzzing from the energy your death has created. You remember his face. You remember his voice. You will find him. You look both ways before you cross the street.

The
Super 8 camera is focused on a stream of red liquid. On the DAT sound card you hear the hissing noise accompanying the pouring.

The camera pulls back and you see Galactic Canary, a little yellow bird girl pouring a jug of burgundy water over a row of marijuana plants. The camera spins around the room, stopping twice to focus on Cerulean Amazon, a little blue bird girl, and Cherry Thrush, figure it out. Cherry Thrush lights her cigarette with her fingertip, focusing her eyes intently on the end of the Camel, and quickly breaking her gaze as soon as it is lit. She takes a puff and blows out the smoke towards Galactic Canary. The camera follows the wispy threads until it lands on her face. She finishes and nimbly jumps off the counter top.

Galactic Canary:

The weed is doing so much better since we stopped putting our tampons in there.

Cherry Thrush:

I know, look at how big the buds are getting. First off, I can’t believe how quickly the plants died when we put in those chemical-infested tampons, but second and more importantly, I can’t believe I ever put those poison sticks into my vagina. Ew. It just gives me the creeps.

Cerulean Amazon:

I always manage to spill the menstrual water on myself! What is up with that?

Galactic Canary:

Oh well. Battle scar. So can we all talk business really quick? There’s this Halloween party, you know the Motel Chain guy? Do you think we’ll have enough to sell at that party? I heard he wasn’t having security or anything.

Cerulean Amazon:

No, he is having security, but I heard they aren’t even real security guards. They’re his private army or something and they won’t fuck with anyone. It says on the flier that no one will even be searched. Who knows if the weirdo will actually do all that stuff, but that’s what it says.

Cherry Thrush:

The plants are doing better but I still don’t think we’ll have that much to sell. Maybe we should up the price a bit? We give them all such good deals most of the time, but it’s not really like we can explain how our bright idea of sticking tampons in soil didn’t quite work out how we thought. Jeez, it's a good thing I made you two stockpile seeds, otherwise we’d be up shit creek right now.

Cerulean Amazon:

Did the Rastas show up yesterday for their quarter pound?

Cherry Thrush:

Of course they did! [laughing] They were even here early.

Galactic Canary:

Did they make us another sculpture?

Cherry Thrush:

Yeah, this one has us flying and surrounded by fire somehow. It’s pretty cool, it’s out in the front room, you didn’t see it?

Galactic Canary:

No, I guess not. Who’s getting their rag next?

Cerulean Amazon:

I am, it should be here tomorrow. My back aches and I was constipated this morning.

Galactic Canary:

Good, well not that you were constipated, that sucks, but yeah good because our poor babies need lots of loves. I got fresh towels and fresh jars from Costco. Sheesh. I can’t believe how horrible those tampons were. I will never forget the sight of our honeys all withered and poisoned.

Cherry Thrush:

It’s almost 420, are you two ready to smoke?

Galactic Canary:

Let me just do the candles and incense.

She begins lighting the candles around the room from her spot on the floor.

Galactic Canary:

I’ve blown a bunch more of the goddess pipes. I have a Kali, Medusa, Barb Wire, Ripley, Tank Girl, and the Powerpuff Girls. Can you guys think of any more I could work on? We could make money off of that for sure and it still stays in the family.

Cerulean Amazon:

Oh yeah! I forgot to tell you guys that this girl came up to me at the last party we went to and she said she loves her goddess pipe so much and she was totally excited that girls made it and that she managed to get lucky and get her hands on it. Cool huh?

Cherry Thrush:

Should we maybe take some to the party? Maybe make some small one-hitters, sell ‘em for like 15 bucks or something. I think that would work. Yeah, I’m going to head back there right now and blow some glass for a while. You girls want to smoke this bowl?

From her seat on the couch, Cherry Thrush, concentrates on their stash of weed and levitates it and their goddess bong towards her body. Galactic Canary intercepts the bong and
Cerulean Amazon catches the jar of weed. They each pack a nug into the bowl, hold hands, chant, and ceremonially smoke. They hug and go about their bloodweed chores, picking, weighing, packaging, and blowing glass.

You ran away
from home not long ago. Your uncle touched you wrong and you were out of there. You’ve been hitchhiking for a few days and have ended up in Las Vegas. You love the lights and the bustle, you think you’ll like it here. The only problem really is that jobs for women come in very limited varieties: the self-selling kind and the dancing kind — though some think there’s no difference at all between the two, especially in Vegas.

You’ve decided to stay, at least for a bit, maybe try to be one of the showgirls at a big hotel, but that requires starting from the bottom. The bottom being The Tiger’s Tail, but so far it’s sort of been okay. Although, you did have to give a manager a blow job to get hired... But anyway, you’ve had your share of shady situations having hitchhiked from Montana, so The Tiger’s Tail seems tame and at least controlled compared to those other times. It’s not so bad, at least that’s what you tell yourself. And you do love to dance. You really love to dance and you get paid well enough. “It’s not so bad” is your new mantra.

This particular night you’ve not been feeling well. Kind of like a stomach ache, but not quite. You’ve never felt anything quite like this before, so you smoke some pot before you go on just to relax. You debate taking a valium or muscle relaxant, you know the other girls have loads of everything, but the pot seems to do the trick. You dance alone tonight because your partner, Shelli, is out sick. You wish you had just taken the night off as well, you two could have watched scary movies and eaten fudge. Oh well, you think, as you dance away.

It’s pretty packed in The Tiger’s Tail tonight [you grab the pole and twirl around] hopefully there’ll be some good tips. You thrust and gyrate to the music [you run your tongue along the pole] and you actually have fun up there, but only when you pretend there is no one watching. The minute you make eye contact you feel dirty and nasty, a feeling that no amount of Liquid Plumr could ever get rid of. You focus on the music, until suddenly your abdomen is wrenched with cramps. Your back is to the audience, you double over, you hear yells and catcalls, you feel money bounce off your butt.

And then the deluge hits. You feel liquid running down your leg... blood. What? Oh man, this is so Carrie, you think to yourself, as the cramps pull you to the floor. This is your first period ever, and what a great time for it to happen. Naked and dancing in a strip bar. You hunch over while the pain wrenches your insides.

And then the screaming starts. You turn yourself around to see what’s going on to find the bar dotted with fallen men. Literally. The men in the club have collapsed, twitching and writhing, bloody noses and rolled back eyes. You look around at the women, all staring in horror at your blood-drenched legs and the crowd of prone men.

― Holy shit I think they’re all dead!

Someone screams. You start screaming. And then you fall into a dead faint.

Little did you know that the reason you hadn’t menstruated until now was because you have three cervixes, and one had not quite matured yet. It decided tonight was the night to make you three times a woman, and the power of the pheromones produced by your tri-uteri was enough to kill men. The collapsed males had, in effect, been exterminated by you, through no fault of your own. They carry you out to the hospital, and while you are sleeping, they run a million and one tests resulting in zero and no answers.