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Member
Join Date: Jan 2008
Gender: Male
Posts: 2
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Double Feature: Wednesday & The Laundromat
Wednesday
I dislocated my jaw because I didn’t like it. Mom swam with me to the emergency room.
At the hospital, a nurse congratulated Mom because her tummy looked big. Mom was not pregnant. Mom hadn’t taken a shit in twelve days.
The doctor wired my jaw shut.
“Never look back when eating a sandwich!” said the doctor as he patted my back.
“What if it’s made of rubber?” I asked the doctor.
The doctor wasn’t paying attention. The doctor was nose deep in some nurse’s tits.
Mom cried because her tummy hurt. Dad was waiting outside.
In the parking lot, I demanded that we take the bus. Dad threw me his prosthetic leg. Dad began to shush me. Dad said I was too loud. The sky was sleeping.
In the car, I fell asleep.
When I awoke, dad was drinking spaghetti sauce. Mom was not in the front seat. Dad turned around and looked at me.
“Oh, you’re awake. That’s good, that’s good,” he said.
Dad threw me his wallet. Dad’s wallet was made of eel skin.
“It has too much money, do something about that!” he yelled over the foreign music. The radio was playing Japanese pop music.
Dad’s wallet was covered in teeth marks. I grabbed some butter from my pocket and quickly smeared it on the wallet. Dad turned around and sneered.
“That’s a good idea,” said the sneer on Dad’s face. Dad’s hand slapped me. It slapped me very hard. It hurt more than it should have. My molars were bleeding.
I looked at the sky. I looked at dad. I took a glance at my left hand. I decided I didn’t like it anymore so I violently took it off and nonchalantly rolled down the window. I tossed my hand out the window. It rolled and then bounced a few times. Dad didn’t notice.
I fell asleep.
Mom kicked down my window. She crawled in. Mom now had three legs.
“It’s time!” she told me. Mom was undressing in my room. I didn’t like it. There was red all around her dress. Mom punched at her tummy. Mom did not like her tummy.
I got up and swam to the kitchen. From the cupboard I seized a jar of peanut butter. I furiously began stirring the peanut butter with my stump. My hand was now a phantom limb.
Dad stopped drinking spaghetti sauce and gazed from across the room.
“Where is your brother? Have you no manners?” he asked.
“Fuck dinner.” I calmly replied.
Dad threw the cat at my head. My ear began bleeding. I rose to my feet and summoned for Jesus. He didn’t show. Dad got up and struck me in the nose. My eyes began to water and my nose became a cherry drink faucet. I did not fall. He punch slapped me again, this time in the chin. My jaw began to drip.
I swooned to the ground and fell asleep.
Dad took my face and slapped it. I opened my eyes. Dad grabbed a fistful of my collar and pulled my face close. Close to his face.
“Can I trust you?” dad asked.
I nodded.
“Somebody has to eat the baby,” he quickly whispered, “I don’t know if I can do it because I just ate two of your mother’s birth control pills.”
The logic was messy. My eyes got big and watery. My mouth was wired shut. Dad got up and kicked the wooden chair. It ran out the door and tripped on the steps.
In the kitchen, I spooned some of the sweat off my foot and took a sip. I grabbed a straw and immediately made my way to Mom’s room. The baby was resting on Mom’s belly.
I slapped Mom. She woke up. I spit some acid into her eyes and swiftly snatched the baby. The baby was organic, nothing imported. I squeezed his face and he stopped making noises. Wide-eyed, he stared at me in bewilderment, as if wondering what exactly it was I was doing. I squeezed again and he slapped my good hand.
“Okay, that’s enough,” he muttered and flew out the window. He had no wings.
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The Laundromat
I decided to go to confession. It had been twelve years since I had last gone.
Grabbing my periwinkle sports coat, I strutted out the back door. Dad was passed out. Probably from drinking too much spaghetti sauce. As I carefully pushed the screen door into place, Mom’s face emerged from behind the screen door.
“Band-aids, I need band-aids!” she clamored.
I ignored her and continued down the street, whistling my favorite ditty. I couldn’t find my car because its color was a mystery to me. The color “persimmon” was roughly scribbled on my left hand.
Slowly, I searched for a persimmon car. After twelve minutes, I gave up.
Instinctively, I jammed my finger into my ear and dug around for a few seconds. I pulled my finger out. The finger glistened with menacing delight in the moonlight. I took a quick sniff. At first, it smelt faintly of old socks but then the smell quickly evaporated into wet dog. Intrigued by my body, I hurriedly sat on the curb adjacent to Mellowstone St. and began inspecting my nose. I had to take my shoes off.
The ordeal didn’t last too long. I got up and put my shoes on. I got rid of the socks because they were uncomfortable. They were defective.
Momentarily forgetting my fear of the dark, I silently marched up Main St. and straddled a couple lamp posts on the way. As I shuffled past the Laundromat I saw something I had never seen before.
What looked like a vagrant was seated at one of the moderately accustomed tables present within the Laundromat. Due to his presence, the Laundromat slightly smelled of fish. Normally, the smell of the detergent would overpower his essence but he really did smell like fish.
I ventured within.
It turned out that from outside, my view was extremely limited. The wall was merely an obstruction. Inside the Laundromat were half a dozen cameras. Littered with spotlights, there was an effervescent glow amicably present at all times.
To one corner of the room, what looked like the director was sitting on a stool. In addition to the fishily smell, there was an aroma of sweat and scented lubricants. Surrounding the director were his understudies, each memorizing his lines and studying his every movement. In case he ever became sick, one of the dozen would take his place, for the day.
What I forgot to mention was that the director had a painting for a head. No, not a mask or a hat but a painting. His head was a painting. The painting was the Mona Lisa. Inquisitively, I wondered in astonishment at the pragmatism of the situation.
Sitting across from the director was Mrs. Claus. Mrs. Claus was strategically positioned on a bed made of that NASA foam. The foam that forms around your body. Mrs. Claus looked surprisingly attractive for her age. Oddly enough, she was wearing extremely revealing lingerie. What did Santa think of that?
It wasn’t until a dozen seconds had passed that I realized the absurdity of the situation. The director who had the Mona Lisa for a head was filming a pornographic film in the Laundromat. I must have walked in during one of the many breaks they take while filming a pornographic film.
Quietly, I slithered across the floor and sat at one of the tables. Nobody said anything; in fact, nobody seemed to acknowledge my presence.
An hour and twenty minutes passed and absolutely nothing happened. I was bored out of my mind. The hobo was now slumped into his Cromwellian chair only now he was fast asleep.
His clothes were still in the washer and other than the stench, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Mrs. Claus looked as if she was posing for a picture. Further inspecting, I realized she was staring straight ahead of her; never blinking.
I questioned her authenticity. Maybe she was a statue placed on the bed for the film.
Looking at the director, he was now actively conversing with his understudies. Deep in thought, each seemed to scribble notes at random intervals.
“…testing the resilience of such an animal would only maim Fritz. I think that getting a more docile animal, perhaps from a petting zoo would seem more appropriate,” rambled the director. With each gesticulation, the painting that was his head rattled with appropriateness.
“I’ve got turtles in the back of my pickup if you need them,” I managed to clobber out.
Midsentence, he got quiet. The painting shifted positions and seemed to be looking at me. Why did I say that? I don’t even own a pickup let alone know the precise color of my car.
“****,” I thought.
“Excuse me?” the director asked.
“I said I have turtles, if you want them,” I repeated. Again, I didn’t know why I was talking.
The director inquisitively looked at me. With his hands in his lap, the director made an attempt to stand up. He immediately slumped over and viciously hit the ground at an angle with corner of his frame. The understudies quickly began taking notes. The director staggered to his feet.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, “bionic enhancements my ass.”
Strutting, the director made his way toward my table. In a sense of urgency I quickly reached inside my coat and pulled out the first object I could find: a pen. I meticulously placed it directly in front of me on the table and waited.
After what seemed like 1.2 milliseconds, the director dramatically lifted his hands above the painting. The hands became fists. With all his might, he slammed the fists down onto the table. His side went down, mine went up. I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my chin and fell to the ground.
“Do not pollute my tables with your pen!” he shouted into my left ear.
By now I was crying. I felt apt to reply but the pain in my chin was bothering me. Was I bleeding? As the director continued shouting at my head, I checked for blood.
I started at my lip and slowly made my way down for added suspense. My cleft was now an inch longer. I quickly realized that the new addition was indeed a cut. A deep cut. A cut in need of stitches.
Looking back at the understudies, they were all furiously turning pages and writing. Incessantly writing. In front of me was the director, still inordinate.
“I need a doctor,” was all I could mutter.
Abruptly, Mona Lisa’s mouth stopped moving. Inspecting my face, the director seemed to focus all his attention at my cut, as if only realizing its existence now.
He sneered. “Constantly yapping will lead to nowhere now will it? I guess you do need a doctor.”
Turning to the on looking crowd that compromised of his understudies, he quickly snapped his fingers. “Dr. Fist, this one looks like a bleeder.”
Dr. Fist? What kind of doctor would call himself Dr. Fist? Not that he would have the choice of course, since it was a last name.
Dr. Fist’s head looked like a peanut. He had an immense gap separating his two front teeth and this certainly didn’t help his image.
“Wake up Mr. Corrigan, wake up!” he stammered as he repeatedly slapped me.
“Stop! I’m awake, I’m here!” I managed to irk between the fifth and sixth slap.
He stopped. Dr. Fist gesticulated something and promptly attempted to lick his elbow. He failed.
“It appears that you are fine,” said the director.
“And this big welt under my mouth?” I said, pointing at my cut.
Straining Mona Lisa’s eyes, the director came closer to my face and inspected the jagged incision with unfaltering attention.
“It is a cut, but now you’ll have a bigger cleft,” he breathed into my face with a maniacal grin.
I touched the wound again and this time there was less blood, the swelling had gone down. Dr. Fist retreated to the crowd and immediately resumed his note-taking.
At this instance, the washing machine stopped and the hobo awoke. With sheer contentment, he yawned. A pungent aroma filled the room. Ignoring the blood that had collected on the floor, the hobo flopped over the now turned over table and opened the washer door.
Holding the door open, the hobo took a deep breathe. "My belt was a little tight Frank, maybe next time you could tell me before I fall asleep."
Frank must have been the director's name.
"I'm sorry Finch, next time I will make sure to tell you," replied the director.
"Make nothing of it, I do not perform in front of an audience, rid my set of this pestilence," he said.
I think he was talking about me.
Hopping into the washing machine, he quickly disappeared behind a layer of wet clothes.
"You hear that?" said the director, "Finch doesn't want you here, so leave."
Jumping to my feet, I tasted blood. Careening my way out of the Laundromat, I straightened my coat and fixated my eyes on the front door.
The director lunged at my feet and I fell to the floor. My chin hit the ground with a convincing wallop. With immense pain, I clutched my chin. It began to bleed, again.
Quick with his feet, the director swung at my ear. With a semi-audible crack, he popped my temple. I toppled over and quickly grabbed for the door handle. Wheezing, I coughed up more blood. The director swung again but I managed to counter his attack with a swing of my own. He moved out of the way and my fist hit the wall, immediately shattering my fourth knuckle. Contorting with pain, I pulled my hand back and slapped at it.
Grabbing a fistful of hair, the director directed my head toward his fully extended knee and both my forehead and chin were first to make contact. By now, my chin was pulsating with pain. I was dizzy and everything was spinning. Unable to respond, my body slumped over in the corner of the room.
The director grabbed the painting that was his head and began thrusting the edges of the painting into my forehead. I didn't understand his fixation with my forehead. It also began to bleed. Seeming to have reached satisfaction, he ceased and quickly positioned his head back into place.
I fell asleep to the sweet sound of the narrator cursing. Cursing at the crimson stain my forehead must have left on the Mona Lisa's neck. I either fell asleep or went into a coma; one of the two. Maybe both.
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