Orange Teeth and Mr Fat
The under-cover cop whom I spat on for screaming, 'Vete a la Mierda Puta!' at me had orange teeth. The fetid sweat dripped off his face into my open gasping mouth. Pinned under the fat his landing on me, forced air to abandon my lungs as sperm leaves it’s once owner in a screaming rush. He smiled feeling the oxygen leaving me, and then spat directly into my open mouth. Next, I heard voices beyond him, and then I defecated myself. I could not inhale, and in trying produced a low, whining sob. My ankles were grabbed, orange face rolled over and I was dragged feet first into a car. I lost consciousness as my head struck the underside of the half-opened door.
The lurid stench of my shit caused the brain to decide. Either play dead, or deal with this. But the eyes had another idea. If they don’t focus on anything, they’ll be just fine. But it was too late. An action dealt everything its own hand, as ice-water hit like stinging bees on your naked ass while humping in flowered fields. The oxygen burned, gulping I cried. In opening my eyes only the left shed information, sliced sense only a fraction. I raised my hands but only to the height of my abdomen, when the chains cut into the wrists. Again I cried. My mother came at that moment saying, ‘If you don’t stop I’ll give you something to cry about!’, when she would grab my hair and begin with the slapping. I’d try to pull her hands off but my hair yanked out. Moving away wasn’t an option either, she’d often corner me. Afterwards, leaning-in as I cringed on the floor, she would whisper, ‘Wait till he gets home’. My bladder would let loose. Just as it did now. Why would things change over the years?
There is a sharp series of slaps, then cries and further moaning. Those not used to it, troglodyte sex between men is not an event you want to observe often. I read what happened to German women when the Russian soldiers arrived in the remaining months of the Second World War their gang raping lasted weeks. The daughters too were not spared. Forced to watch their mothers sexually assaulted, and afterwards they were nailed alive to wooden crosses. The youngest women and children were often kept together in abandoned dormitories, schools, and then systematically abused with gruesome results. Here, new arrivals are treated similarly. Lasting upwards of several months until the next stumble along. Among the twenty-thousand plus inmates, there are only a handful international offenders serving time. Authorities keep us apart. Startlingly I ran into a Norwegian man months ago for only a moment. Awaiting trial for embezzlement, he wanders the crowded halls. Pus infected skin pulling on his emaciated form. Muttering should I find some way, either through me or another, to have him killed. ‘Been here six years. No visitors. No word. It’s the humane thing’. The crowd swallowed him. Taken toward that affliction. I haven’t seen him since.
Tribulation in my own suffering is my own dealings. My right eye glued shut from the bleeding gash from my head having struck the car door, chained, whimpering, smelling my bowels, those conservative thoughts, beliefs held strong, ran for safety amongst that stampeding logic. All fled leaving a seldom embryo. More cold water poured on me mixed fear with anger. Footsteps reached me, stopping on my right. Losing two teeth, right eye partially blind, numerous brandings, the tip of my right ear torn away by pliers or teeth, am not sure as the beatings lasted days. Two traded turns during the conception. One used a wooden staff, while the other a lighted cigar. They took me to ‘the bed’ consisting of a table. I was bent over, arms out to the corners, tied, and repeatedly abused by them and the staff. My impregnation began.
I did not shed a tear, and will never. The fat fuck lying above me screwed my ass day and night for weeks. If you don’t find protection when you enter this place, you’ll be consumed. I became another bitch, and transport counsel (one drug is as good as another) for an established ‘leader'. I explained to him my problem with Mr Fat. It was soon resolved. Mr Fat was tied down and I shoved a rusted nail having first dipped in my shit, up his penis. He was left several days for the infection to get its hold. Six months latter Mr Fat still whimpers when he pisses. So do I care? About world events? My horses, the kids? Money? I have not seen anyone, legal representation or from an embassy, coming to the rescue. I read an article last year praising the person who can believe in the fact they are what they are and to live with that, enjoy that, love that. Sure. Spend some time here, cheer the person who believes. If you still are a person.
What possibly goes through the mind of someone boosting such recommendations? Where does their mind even come from? What form of hypocrisy are they born into? I washed my sins with charity. Contributing toward a number of causes I slept easy.
I did something. Not for myself so much, for the greater good as well did I thrive. Producing commodities the public required, even demanded for God sakes!! They bought hole hearteningly those blessed folks with their hard earnings, and I in-turn place their trust with actions for dead and dying in third-world countries. Marching yonder I believed none of it. Its pathetic infrastructure clearly out dated and single-minded. What good has any of it done? Why can’t we simply just die normally? What’s wrong with dripping shit? And by the Holy we want to give, indeed, and we must, but first a message from our diarrhea sponsors and their new treatment for that irritable bowel syndrome an advertisement from my company illuminated so well.
The company had several products prompting fast, effective colon control. I targeted developing community’s world-wide and awarded lucrative contracts. Did it reach the end-user? Indeed. Two present. I completed my contractual business as a provider. Distribution was not my matter. I enjoyed my wealth, my brainstorming. I handed new deals to fellow associates who were very thankful. We all sat around patting one an others soft assess. I was nearing sixty-two, contemplating opting out, confided with my therapist, listened to colleagues, and took long hot baths. Alone. Like it had been for the past twenty years. The ex was not interested in such lavation. I liked the bourbon, bubbles and masturbation for myself. She and I both on the way out, like our sex, mostly when we both had way too much to drink, in the dark, waking the next afternoon with a crushing hangover, a mouth tasting as if I’d chewed aluminum foil all night. I married at a weak point in life. At an end, I slept in freezing rooms wearing two pairs of pants, three pairs of socks, and a cap, with a toilet whose water froze. No finances or none on the horizon. The only song I knew came when looking into the mirror, blood-shot eyes like a German road map, driveling self-pity.
Mr Fat rolled on to his side. He whines in his sleep now. Does he pity? Maybe I should have shoved the nail in his ear.
Dozing off I thought very little of tomorrow. Fowl heavy odours, walls streaming with damp, fungus, rotting flesh (amazing how many different colours the skin alters), sex, maggot filled rice. A letter would come addressed too me. I wouldn’t know that now. Now, I faded out. The letter was being read in the authority’s office. Censored. I never received anything before. They wanted to know what this was all about. How could it happen? Who knew I was here? Who talked?