Take it off, he’s saying, maybe, the staggering thumping walkabout drums, the sludgy drone of the guitar, hitch-stepping along, the whining, sneering vocals, golden apple mind, all so thick and loud as if they’re laid out in the very heart of the song, nowhere it could get any more, but here he is, pawing at her, gripping fingers slid ineffectually off the slippery gloss of her saggy short-sleeved shirt undone at the bottom tails of it lopped loose over his slopping belly, about her hips rocked forward, back, forward, and back, but the rest of the buttons fastened all the way up to her collar dark about her throat, forward, and back, his one hand slapping at her flank, reaching for her buttons, his grimace obscured by the dark, his other hand more definitely placed, gripping the pale seam at her shoulder beneath the ghostly sway of her hair, c’mon, he might be saying, the dim shapes made by his mouth, shake it? take it off, Ilanna be you. Olive, too, all of you.
Shut up, she says, without much of an affect in any direction, forward, and down, and close, and then up and back, away, and again, through and against and inside all that sound, the guitar still sluggishly belling but splintered within and above a wriggling carillon, she lifts a hand from where it’s been braced on the grimy carpet shifting her balance to compensate but still she’s forward, and back, and forward as she slaps his hand from her shoulder, stop it, she says, or no, or wait, let go, something, something, coming back, he’s saying something, pale fringe of his beard ruffling brushing his chest, his shoulder working twisting with the effort, see, be, me, “I wanna see,” he’s shouting in the sudden vasty silence, and hearing himself he slams his mouth shut. There’s footsteps in all that space left by the vanished music, sluff and squeak of a floorboard but also a heeling thump, she jerks up, alarmed, a shadow clunking passes rustle of rough cloth someone still behind her’s saying “Kept her warm, Hobie?” as she twists about still knelt there knees to either side of the man laid flat on the carpet. A low and warmly yellow light flicks on, clink and chime of a swaying pull-chain, a man’s sitting himself in the chair beside it. Darkness clings to the stiff denim of his jacket and his jeans, his head shaved bald and his cheeks, shook slowly, side to side. “I don’t know,” he says, a rumble.
“She’s,” says the man laid flat on the floor, but her hand cups his mouth, fingers tangled in that beard. “This is not,” she says.
“Hey,” says the man stood behind her, “you want, he’s got.” His hair just long enough to manage unruly, shirtless, narrow arms folded up about himself, washed-out red sweatpants hacked off just below his knees. “That wasn’t,” she says, and he shrugs.
“Hobie,” says the man in the chair, “you come in her yet?” His elbows rested companionably on the arms of that chair, wide and flat, like maple candies. “Fuck you doing, girl, fucken a geezer like Hobie?”
She lifts herself forward, pushes back down, a slow, deliberate stroke, teeth glinting as she bites her lower lip, “Got something better?” she says. Hobie squeaks, her hand still over his mouth. The man in the chair unfolds a chuckle in rumbling, indulgent stages as he sits himself back far enough to reach into a pocket of his jeans, then leans forward, on the edge of that chair, hand held up and out, and pinched between fingers and thumb a tiny silvery crumple of foil. She snatches at it, but he folds his hand back just enough, she lurches for it, a gruntled “hey” from Hobie, she seizes that hand in both of hers, bending it to her against his show of resistance, prying at his fingers till she can pluck at the foil he holds tight, “You want to party,” he says.
“I want to get fucked up,” she says.
“That’s a couple points there,” he says, with a nod at the foil in their grip. “You got fifty bucks?”
“You’ll get your money’s worth,” she says, wrenching the foil free as he lets her. “Damn straight,” he growls. She’s twisting the foil, peeling it open, careful of the stuff within, white powder tainted with a thinly chemical yellow that she brings up and in to herself, “Hey,” says Hobie, uncomfortable below, “you wanna,” between them both, “can I, could I,” as the man in the chair says, “Greedy bitches,” shaking his head, “greedy, greedy bitches.”
“It, it soaks up, I don’t know,” she’s saying, “whatever it can, whatever I, because it, it has to build a shell, he said,” frowning, where was this going, “it is a shell,” she says, “a husk, but it has to build a shell, of whatever it,” smiling, here it is, back on track, “whatever it takes, from, from the,” looking down, frowning, it’s gone again, her bare shoulder, her breast, there it is, the thumb-sized nodule of darkness set in a pucker, there, “what,” she says, “where, where’s my shirt?”
“Get that off her,” says the man in the chair, only he’s not in the chair, he’s squatted before her, dark knee over Hobie’s beard, “Hold still,” he says, though she isn’t moving, “hold her still,” a hand, clamping her shoulder, crimping her shirt there, not his hand, “there were,” she says, looking behind her, “fuck that’s cold.”
“Get that off her,” the man squatting before her is saying, jangle and clink as he undoes his belt, “hold still, hold her still,” as she’s flinching jerking up and forward, away from the shirtless man behind her, intent on her buttocks, his other hand stroking, smearing, working, “stay put, girl,” the man before her’s growling, “I ain’t goin in after Hobie,” hunched toward her, over her, “now,” he says, cupping her colorless hair with one of his enormous hands, “let’s see what you got.”
“Fuck,” she says. “That’s cold.”
“It’s dark,” says Hobie, a fingertip hovering, not quite touching that nodule the size of a thumbprint, set in a pucker of flesh on the upper slope of her breast. “It’s really, really dark,” he says, but she’s already saying “Yeah, yeah yeah, that’s, that’s new, like, in the last month or so new, but, I mean, I guess, I’ve only had it for, had it for, uh, what, December-January-February, March-April-May, June, what is that, seven? seven months, more or less, so, what is that, half? is that half? a third, less than a third, since, don’t, don’t touch it, don’t. Don’t.”
“Good shit, huh,” says Hobie, a grin lurking in his pale beard.
“It’s, it’s, a while, it’s been a while,” she says, “I’m not, not usually so, so, so what’s the word, for, for words? The word for words?” but the question runs away in a skitter of laughter, “the guy,” she says, tamping it down, “the guy who, who, the guy that was in that movie, he had a limp, he had a limp and a coffee cup, and it turned out the whole time he was really, really, really bad, the whole Keyser, Keyser, Keyser, I’m, I’m,” a deep and shaky breath, she swallows, sat there by the low yellow lamp, the only light, sat in that chair with the arms like glossy maple candies, naked, knees drawn up, arms about herself, and Hobie crouched solicitously beside her, he’s pulled on a ratty grey thermal undershirt, “I’m thinking too much,” she says, “for a while there, for just a little bit,” looking to the carpet before them, greenishly greyly beigely stretched into shadows, strewn with litter and trash, peppered with filth, her knees there specked with dirt and sand and bits of bark, a pebble, “I was,” she says, “I wasn’t, thinking, at all, but now,” shaking her head, faster, more viciously, that colorless hair whipped back and forth, Hobie’s hand held over her shoulder now, her back, not touching, not daring to touch, “hey,” he says, “hey, what are you, hey,” but she lurches back suddenly, suddenly still, “I’m thinking too much,” she says, “too much. Are those skis?”
She’s pointing, there, in the gloom stood up in a corner are lengths of a darker solidity, curled at the tips.
“Yeah,” says Hobie, “Scottie, he’s a packrat. All kinds a shit up in here.”
Looking down, frowning, her bare shoulder, her breast, the blackly empty nodule, “What,” she says, “what happened, where’s my shirt?”
“You know,” says Hobie, “they’re coming back.”
“Yeah,” she says. “I’m cold.”
“Get it off her,” he snarls, shoving the shoulder the man behind her’s got a hold of, “hey,” she says, abrupted, as the man beneath her grunts, a hand up, batting away her loose shirttail, “hold her,” the man before her’s saying, “hold her still, stay put, bitch, you ain’t gettin up offa Hobie just yet,” looming toward her, shadows peeling from his big bald head, her eyes widen as the man behind her yanks himself close, “come,” she grunts, “come on,” as leer lit up the man before her clamps his big hand about the back of her head twisting to wind those colorless strands about thick fingers tightening, her eyes glaze over, his other hand, he’s lifting the tumid head of his cock, he’s lowering her unresisting mouth to meet it, “okay,” he says, “okay,” guttural, rough, “let’s see,” as the whole assemblage of them sets to, herking and jerking in sprung and interfering rhythms, “what you got,” he says, “I,” she’s saying, Jo says, “I,” she says, “I need my shoes,” as she’s buttoning up her shirt.
“The fuck is that,” he says, lifting his big bald head so the hand that had pillowed it can point, “that thing,” he says, “on your tit. What is that.”
“Shoes,” she says, sat up on her knees. Falling forward onto her hands, bent low to pull from under the couch a pair of cargo shorts. “The fuck I took them off.”
“Seriously,” he says. “What is that. Cancer? Is it a tumor?” Sitting up, elbows on those glossy armrests, “Scottie,” he says, and again, “Scottie,” looking past her to the man slumped at the other end of the couch, legs splayed in those washed-out red sweatpants, bare feet stirring in the filth, struggling for the leverage to lift his unruly head. “Did you know this bitch was defective?” says the man in the chair.
“Where,” says Jo, back up on her knees to tug the shorts up to her waist, “the fuck,” nimbly doing up the fly as she pushes up onto her feet, looking about, “Christ,” she says. “Could be anywhere in this mess.”
“What’s your hustle,” says the man in the chair. His denim’s gone, jeans and jacket, his T-shirt, underpants, only a pair of bright white socks, “party ain’t over,” slapping his chest with those big wide hands, pap-pap-pap, “this is just a, intermission.” The lamp beside the chair has been switched off, the only light seeps low and dim from somewhere else to lick along his chest and shoulders, about his upper arms, to illuminate jagged loops and angles slashed, blued tattoos, illegibly occult. “Hobie can fetch us some coffee,” he says, “maybe some breakfast burr-i-tos,” relishing that middle syllable. “I bet you want sausage on yours.” Chuckling, at his own joke. She drops the shirt she’d been peeling from the carpet to turn, lifting away a colorless lock to look at him directly, blankly, those piercing eyes of his in turn beneath brows as hairlessly bare as the rest of his head. “I have to go,” she says, turning back to that scumble of discarded clothing, “it’s, whatever time it is,” she kicks a drift away, clearing space along the paneled wall, looking, looking, “morning o’clock. I got work.”
“You ain’t got nothin,” says the man in the chair. “Scottie! Go kick Hobie up or somethin.” Sat back in that chair, bare knees wide, he lifts a hand, index and middle fingers upright, and pinched between them a shining twist of foil. “Baby want another fuckin bump.” The hair on his forearm, dark lashes curling down to his elbow a converse of the hair upon his unsunned thigh, that thickens to a thicket in his languid lap. “Get over here,” he says, to her. She snorts, shaking her head, turns away, headed past the end of the sofa toward the doorway there, and daylight somewhere beyond. He lowers his arm. Those big hands clamp the glossy armrests of the chair and pull, lifting himself to his feet already in motion.
“Shit,” she spits, scrambling hands and knees as that big swung hand whips back above his head to counterbalance a mighty kick that only half-connects, he’s stumbled by his over-extended followthrough, but it’s still enough to knock her over on her side, curled tight as she crumple-rustle rolls on her back away and up on her hands and knees again, scrabbling, his balance regained he hikes up his knee to drive a stomp of a kick, his heel, her hip, a resonant thunk and her grunt and she’s back on her side again bare feet skidding through clutter for purchase on the carpet to push herself up, away, “Fucking bitch,” he snarls, aiming another kick, his socked foot, her skull rocked sideways, a gasp of a sob, “look at me like,” he’s growling, dropped to his own knee, it rattles the room, and he clamps a big hand about her wrenching head, “one thing,” he snarls, spittle bubbled over his lip, his other hand seizing her shorts at her hip, yanking, shaking her against her throes, “better wise,” and the carpet beneath lit up in a sharply sudden flash of too-bright light. Startled, he sits back, sat up, blinking, befuddled, her head loosed from his grip. She rolls herself over onto her back, her arms lifted up, hands come together a doubled fist from which there sprouts the stubby barrel of a pistol.
“You,” she says.
But he’s swung that hand again, a slap to collide with her bundled hands, a meaty pop to knock them aside, that barrel askew, “You!” she shrieks, but that hand a fist on the backswing catches her cheek her nose a flatly thump. His other hand’s caught up hers, jerking twisting yank he’s got the gun by the barrel, butt of it canted up and back. Jo’s half over on her side turned away, hand braced on the cluttered carpet and her elbow pushing a struggle up to turn and look at him, colorless hair a-dangle, blood an ugly bloom below her nose, about her mouth. He snorts, once, derisively, passing the pistol from the one hand to the other, turning it over, pebbled metal frame, handle wrapped about in black tape. Tosses it away, thunk and clatter.
“Fuck me,” mutters Scottie, curled up there on the couch.
He balls up the one hand, lifts it high, but then opens it, lowers it, lays it almost gently over her bloodied mouth, pressing, leaning, pushing against her, grinding her twisting straining head into the carpet, “Oh,” he growls, hiked up on his haunches lurching from one side to another as he holds her, “this is gonna be fun,” he says, hefting one knee up and a twist to straddle her but squirming she shoves a foot up into his groin to smash testicles against a bracketing thigh to skew that swelling cock, her head slipped free from his loosening hand as howling he topples, felled. She scrambles again, not so much away from him as after what he’d tossed, sweeping junk and laundry clink of bottle flimsy clang of aluminum cans “bitch you bitch” he’s sputtering thickly, “fucking cunt,” overbalanced as he tries to stand himself up, falling back again. More carefully pushing himself upright, his chest his shoulders bellowing with great rough heaving gouts of air hauled in, flung out, socks planted, hunched forward protectively, those big hands held out before him, primed, “You,” he says, and spits out a cough. Her scrambling’s stopped, her back to him, bent low, head hidden. “You’re dead,” he says.
She looks back at him, over her shoulder, then springs.
It’s a twisting, turning thing, that leap, low to the carpet, the clatter and rattle of stuff fell away from what she’s lifted, the one end held in both her hands, the other pointed tipped a gleam that even in this dim light sparks and runnels down the rushing mirrored length of it held straight and true to punch a spurt of darkness slipping inches of it swallowed sunk those eyes of his too wide to pierce look up forlorn the low stained ceiling as his head rolls back now swivel suddenly down his head rocked forward as the weight of her slams into him, shoulder to chest by the blade stuck in her hands held back the hilt of it pushing screaming crying stumbled kicking knocking him loosely flailing back into that chair a skid a thunk a splintering crunch. A gurgle beneath her, a straining rasp, not quite a word, one of those big hands clenching the wide and glossy arm of the chair. She pushes the blade another groaning clenching inch. A white sock kicks once, reflexively.
Gulping air too quickly pushing up and off, uncertainly back, she lets go of the hilt of the sword that stays there, immobile, thrust half the length of it or more through the back of the empty chair before her, white stuffing leaked from the hole it’s punched through the dull red corduroy cushion of it.
“Wait,” says Jo.
Scottie screeching “What the fuck!” he’s burst up off the couch, she starts, violently, but he’s past her, leaned over that chair, seizing the hilt and yanking, to no effect. “You have a sword,” she says, flatly.
“The fuck did you do that!” He yanks the implacable hilt once more. Heads around through the doorway into the kitchen beyond, “You stuck it through the goddamn wall!” Looking out over the bar to her stood there on the carpet. “Hobie’s gonna be pissed.”
“Why do you have a sword,” she says, laying a hand on the hilt. It’s wrapped in some seamless matte black stuff, soft, softly but regularly ridged. “What is this.”
“That,” he says, coming back through the doorway, “is a Honshu tactical broadsword with the ten-sixty high carbon steel and the ergonomic grip, you,” he says, “you crazy, fucking,” shaking that unruly head of his, “bitch.”
“It’s so,” she says, squeezing the hilt, pressing the stuff between fingers and thumb, “it’d be like,” she says, “fighting with an oven mitt on.” Letting go. Turning away.
“Hey,” says Scottie. “Hey!” Stepping up and out to grab the hilt himself, pulling once more, fruitlessly. “You gonna help me with this?”
“I need my shoes,” says Jo, sourly, kicking her way through the trash.
“The White Worm,” written by Jason Simon, Steve Kille, and Mark Laughlin, ©2001. Honshu Swords founded in 1968 by Masamune Honshu.
