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Last updateTue, 06 Aug 2013 2am

Back You are here: Home Stories Words for the People Short Stories The Fix
Wednesday, 01 May 2013 17:18

The Fix Featured

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For all appearances I’m living the typical low-lifer’s fantasy: I’m an important criminal with a life full of action and intrigue. I know what you are thinking. You’re thinking: wow, this guy’s really full of himself. Get a Life. But, I know the real score: I’m just some ordinary loser in constant pursuit of The Fix. Any fix. Pussy … drugs … board games … whatever.

Right now I’m getting all down on myself with a gun to my head.



Pathetic infantile Sea Monkey!

While I can’t get enough of getting all down on myself, the gun part is starting to feel a little overdone, and well, pathetic. I pull my junk harder, place the barrel of the gun in my mouth, and think about giving it to myself real good. But, my junk barely flutters before it finally goes limp.


I pull the gun out of my mouth and squeeze the useless lump of flesh in my calloused paw. What the hell am I supposed to do with this?

Then Pussy walks in.

Pussy’s my pet kitty. My ex-girlfriend named him Bingo but the dumb carp didn’t know what we all know when it comes to Bingo: Bingo’s a dog’s name. And Pussy ain’t no dog. Pussy’s a twenty pound mouser with a purr box measured in horsepower and balls the size of baby fists. I love my Pussy and my Pussy loves me.

So when Pussy saunters into the room a hot Maine Coon mess of love and fur, I tuck my junk away and make room for Pussy. I rub him so hard the sparks are flying and his fur’s playing Ring Around the Rosie on my lap. Then just before I get my fix, he hops off and leaves like the fickle bastard I fell in love with.

I start feeling Sorry for myself, but after awhile, I get bored with that so I look around and I-Spy a deluxe game edition of Trouble. But I quit getting chucks from playing that with myself like two games ago. So what’s the use?

I throw some clothes on, spin my gun around a few times like a real cowboy, and head out into the night in search of men worse than me.

I head to The Neon Boneyard.


In the parking lot there’s a bum transformer. It’s buzzing and zapping like God’s drunk and playing a good ole game of Operation with the Devil himself. Rain’s dropping red, a million little lamps crashing neon into the ground, forming puddles of Lite Brite exclaiming Girls Girls Girls only upside down and backwards like me.

Entering the Boneyard, I notice that although the parking lot is empty, the usual layer of smoke and gloom is present. I light a smoke in contribution to the haze and feel cool. An asymmetrical body is draped across the bar, eyes alert, familiar. He smells like rotten meat.

A man worse than me.


He’s playing Monopoly with the bartender and judging from the pile of confetti in front of him he’s winning. Face long, teeth sharp, skin pale, Marcus has an acute nose for weakness. He’s like some underground animal that only emerges from its den to snatch dinner.

“Guess Who?” I say, all slap happy and shit.

He motions for me to join him. Thin pale lips wrapped around yellow elongated teeth, Marcus always smiles. That and the way he laughs through closed teeth tell you the guy wore his lack of honor as a badge of honor.

“So good to see you, Mikey-Boy,” he says. “Been a long time.”

“Been busy cleaning my guns,” I say. I draw hard on my cigarette to displace the rotten meat taste of him from my teeth. Out of my pocket, I fish a Ticket to Ride, slap it into his hot ratty paw, and tell him I’m looking for something exotic.

And he knows I don’t mean Boggle.


I follow Marcus through the back of the Boneyard and outside, climb the stairs to the apartment above the bar. The front door opens to the kitchen. Two girls joined at the hip look up from their game of Connect Four and squint briefly at Marcus and me before returning to their game.

Marcus points to the girls, “Now obviously these will not do for you, my best, most favorite customer. I have something special for you.”

But, if that’s true, I’m playing a whole new game tonight. And before your go all puritanical on me, age ain’t what makes these chicks illegal.

Looking over the conjoined girls, I wonder if I’ve gotten myself in over my head. The very prospect excites me and I am pleased as punch to feel a good portion of my blood supply diverted and filling my pant pocket.

Marcus squeals, “Let me show you the way. Hmmm? I got something so very special for you. So lucky you are to have a special friend like me.”

He’s trying to lead me to a door but I’m still staring at the girls. “I’ll take the girls too,” I tell him.

With this the girls scrunch up their faces and cry. And, as if playing some fucked up game of Twister, they get down on all eights and scuttle over to Marcus on hands and knees. They’re saying No No No over and over as if it is the only word they know.

But I’m thinking Yes Yes Yes. I find myself incredibly excited by the fact that they find me so appalling. I almost blow it right there. I’m thinking it’s Candy Land tonight, Mikey-Boy, and it’s doubles across the board.

“I’m afraid they are not ready yet,” Marcus says, fingering the underside of a girl’s chin. “Why, this one right here,” he coos, putting his finger into her mouth, “bit the finger off Denny last week. And I tell you what, she would’ve liked to bite off something else!” He laughs, removing his finger before the girl Hungry Hippo’s it off. Then he pats them both on the head affectionately.

Not budging, I lower my voice, all breath-heavy I say, “I’ll take that Risk.”

“No can do,” he insists, “but right this way I have something very exciting for you.”

I consider putting up a fight but I don’t want to lose my magnificent boner playing Chinese Checkers, so I give in. I blow the girls a kiss and follow Marcus to a door painted black. He laughs and tells me not to get too wet then leaves me to attend to the girls.

I open the door and enter a dimly lit room. The walls are black, the floor the color of a sea green Crayola. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust but then I see her. But not before her salty sea stench sends me drooling.

She’s smooth and boneless like a sea cucumber. She takes notice of me, her pallid green skin writhing over underlying muscle. Shapeless, bulging eyes at the end of stalks undulate as an amoebic mass, slugging her body behind her across the room. She oozes a viscous snail trail as she goes along.

I pat my gun and smile.

When she reaches me, she stops, and her eye stalks sink into her head like a slug hit with salt. She looks up and stares at me with a cold, sunken, fish-like look that screams stripper ennui.

She sees right through me.

Then with the air of familiarity she flops on her back. Her wet mouth gapes open then shuts only to immediately open again. Glutinous bubbles gurgle in her throat, break free from her lips, waver a moment before popping, then drip down her chin.

Go Fish.

I drop my pants to the floor but leave my coat on so I don’t get cold. What I take to be legs spread apart revealing a shiny crease glazed what I assume is some other loser’s man gravy.

She’s slips her legs up around me and pulls me in. I Bubble Bobble my way into her cold, fishy viscera and the minute I’m belly deep, I think I’ve blown it already. Hot and hard into what feels like a wet slimy rag.

A whole new game for this fella.

But, then I hear this sucking sound which makes my head feel Rummy, and somehow my junk doesn’t feel right, but I can’t think and there’s no pain. I look down between the flaps of my coat and see blood covering my thighs, and I realize that if I don’t get this fishwich off me, her cooch is going to chew off my tackle.

I try to pull away from her but her legs are like rubber bands and are firmly locked behind me. The suck suck suck of her cooch makes me feel warm, wistful and complacent. And I’m thinking about how nice it would be to have a gun in my mouth. I’m not sure, but I think I’m blowing it for real this time.

But, then it starts to hurt, and there’s a popping sound in addition to the suck suck suck and I’m thinking that maybe I need to get a fucking Clue.

Then all hell breaks loose with a cartilaginous crack of breaking wings and I can’t get her off me fast enough. At all. My hands scramble through my coat pockets searching for my gun, and I scream, “You ain’t sinking my Battleship, you stinking carp!”

But, my gun … is not there.

Where is it? Where is it?!

Then… BANG!

She’s turning her head into a Cribbage board, flying fish bits and Cranium spraying my coat.

It doesn’t take me but a second to push her off my junk. Surprisingly, I find it for the most part intact. I flick off the largest chunks of fish goo, and remove my gun from her slimy hand-like appendage. I pull up my pants and hurry out, passing a panting Marcus playing Jenga with the topside of the twins. “Hey …”

I shuffle home, crying along the way.



It’ll never be enough.



Back in my room, I look to my left and see the calming colors of a Parcheesi board but I’m too exhausted from all the boohooing. I don’t even clean up. I just grab Pussy and crawl into bed, suicide sushi and all. Tucking my gun into my mouth, my junk grows heavy and northward. Smiling, drifting into oblivion, I dream of girls joined at the hip begging for mercy while I tell them to suck it.

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Last modified on Friday, 23 August 2013 19:33
Nikki Guerlain

Nikki Guerlain lives in Portlandia. She can be reached at nikkiguerlain@gmail.com.

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