Bosley Gravel, eclectic hack writer, was born in the Midwest, and came of age in Texas and southern New Mexico. He writes in a variety of genres. His fiction focuses on the absurdly tragic, and the tragically absurd. He likes good black coffee, nightmares, Billie Holiday, and that hour just before the sun comes up.
I’m knuckle deep in a tranny named Angel Dust – no wings and no memories.
Fappin’ Frank has wired a stereo to his computer, Pandora streams spoken and broken words. Burroughs, Rollins, Biafra, hipsters without makeup, without faces. Electric conversations cross and short circuit.
This punker chick in a plastic skirt, no panties and unshaved armpits that leak pheromones in a visible fog of crotch-laden reek, presides. Suddenly she develops some ethics and tries to scold what appears to be twelve-year old kid when she sees him snorting a line of coke with a Gonzo-nosed rapper.
“Fuck off, you ignorant bitch,” the kid says in a warble. “I’m thirty-two, ever heard of congenital growth-hormone deficiency? I lack the proper quantities of a polypeptide hormone.”
The Gonzo-nosed rapper giggles into the front of his hand as the kid uses a razor blade and his line of coke to form a crude representation of polypeptide molecule. The girl shakes her head, and sneers, utterly confused.
“You get it?” he asks.
“It means you’re some kind of midget?” she says.
The Gonzo-nose rapper stops laughing long enough to correct an error in the molecule chain. He resumes laughing blood starts trickling out of his nose.
“Does your dick work?” she inquires after no answer. The kid snorts the maze of coke and washes it down with a can of warm beer. Finally she’s lost her patience, “Can you fuck or not?”
Angel Dust kisses me deep, then shoves her bulky tongue into my ear. I think of earwigs and parasites. Without warning the spoken word becomes an a capella rendering of Nirvana’s “Teen Spirit”. Angel Dust whispers something about irony as she tongue fucks my ear. The punk chick and the kid are fist-fighting now. The Gonzo-nose rapper is sitting with his head tipped back trying to stymie the blood flow. His nostrils are immense desert caverns, big enough to hide guns and supplies – a terrorist’s paradise.
I realize the place is full of people. There is French giant named Legacy that broke his back before he could go pro on the wrestling circuit. We had this thing once, but it got complicated real quick. There are identical twins in golden mullets (business in the front, party in the back) they’ve got a pretty as milk-cream Mormon girl in her shredded Mormon garments stretched between them. They fuck her from both ends like a couple of loggers trying to saw down a tree with cross-cut logging saw. They break every tenth thrust to high five each other.
Angel Dust grinds down, and I’m down another knuckle joint.
“Did I ever tell you,” she says, “about my time in the service in Iraq?”
“No,” I say.
“Hell of a time,” she says, “a hell of a time. The things I saw.”
“What did you see?” I ask.
“Lots of sand,” Angel Dust says and grinds. “Two fingers please.”
I oblige and the music turns to some clunking techo mix, some shit-dicked DJ has brutalized Johnny Cash’s Ring of Fire. I feel violated, offended. The room goes dark and then a strobe, glow-sticks and glitter start. The room is made of silicon, robot flesh. They make sex toys out of the stuff. The room runs on two double D batteries.
“She was thinking with her pussy,” I overhear this guy say as he waves light sticks like he’s directing an airplane down the runway.
“What?” his dance partner replies.
“Have you heard the expression he was thinking with dick?”
“Yeah, yeah. His little head.”
“Well, this bitch, she was thinking with her clit. Her little pussy, you dig?”
Angel Dust orgasms, I feel my knuckles popping like a June-bug in a neon blue bug zapper. I go to pull away; she stops me and says, “I’m post-op, it means I can have multiples.” She pulls a silver flask from between her cleavage, tips it and then offers it to me.
“No thanks,” I say, “whiskey gives me the shits.”
Fappin’ Frank’s, parents come in and ask us what the blue bloody fuck we are doing in here. “Feet on the floor,” his mom says. “Let’s see those hands.” Angel Dust and I hide in the shadows an exchange long wet tongue kisses as she rolls along with her seventh orgasm …
… Street lights flicker on, and we are in the parking lot behind the Wal-mart. A bunch of Mexican employees in blue smocks dance around like apes in front of Clarke’s monolith, but it’s a cardboard compacting machine. One falls in and is crushed to pulp.
It is dawn; it is dusk.
All I know is I love Angel Dust like I’ve loved no other. An old man is pushing a cart full of groceries. He has no idea what Wal-Mart has done to and for the working class. He spits white balls of sputum from his dry mouth and says, “Not my America, I didn’t vote no Alabama porch monkey into the whitehouse.” He lights a cigar that goes up like a roman candle – red, white and blue. Angel Dust forcefully tips the whiskey flask into my mouth to muffle my voice as I compulsively recite the pledge of allegiance.
“Fuck it, honey,” she says. “What’s a little diarrhea between lovers?”
“Yep, fuck it, hep-cat,” I say and feel it go down my throat and start spraying out my ass. “Fuck it all.”
Angel Dust is shuddering now; her surgically enhanced tits are squirting milk. At least that’s what I take it for at first, but it tastes musty and acrid, might be semen.
“When are you going to make an honest woman of me?” Angel Dust says as the moon turns to smoldering gunpowder.
“That isn’t going to be easy. It’s a big job,” I say, “a real big job. I’m not even lawfully employed.”
“What about the writing gig?” she asks sweetly.
“That wasn’t writing, that was typing,” I say. “Big difference, big fucking difference.”
She grinds, “You think you can fit three down below?”
“Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy,” I try, and three slide right in. Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy just like I’d speculated.
We’re inside my car now. I have fuzzy dice, and a shrunken head hanging from the mirror. I’ve got a shiny black eight-ball on the end of the stick shift. I let out the clutch and Angel Dust shifts the gears; she’s not going to give my right hand back so easily.
“Where are we going?” she says. We lurch forward.
“Vegas, baby,” I say. “You want to get married for reals?”
“Hell yeah,” she says.
We drive all night in my cherry red ragtop. Angel Dust cums into triple digits – she wasn’t kidding about the multiple orgasms. I’ll bet my fingers are pruny as hell. About seven AM, we shuffle into the chapel sideways, like a crab. Might as well be joined at the hip. The reverend is an obese Italian guy dripping grease from Elvis sideburns. I’d called ahead and Gonzo-nosed rapper and his polypeptide deficient sidekick are acting as best man and bride’s maid, respectively.
“You got a ring or something?” the fat-ass Italian says.
“I am the ring, honey,” Angel Dust replies without missing a beat.
“You’re so full of shit, darling,” I say. “You’re more like a chastity bracelet.”
“Wrist deep,” she says and squeezes, “this thing just got real.”
“I’ll wear you on my sleeve from here to eternity, hep-cat.”
“I love it when you talk dirty,” she replies and wetly orgasms.
The reverend takes this as a sign to move forward with the ceremony. Three hundred seconds of Latin later, Angel Dust and I are death do us part. The Italian wipes grease off his face with an black handkerchief and collapses into a reinforced chair. The Gonzo-nosed rapper and the kid clap wildly, they throw handfuls of cooked rice, snapdragons heads, and blue-jay feathers.
“Want to hit the crap tables?” Angel Dust asks.
“Sure,” I say, “why not?” We shuffle out the door, stiffing the reverend on the bill. Outside the glittering neon lights of Las Vegas ring as true as any pop culture apocalypse ever has.
“It’s the beginning of a great adventure,” Angel Dust says.
“Isn’t it always?” I reply.
“Smart ass,” she says, “but that’s why I love you.”
I’m wrist deep in this tranny named Angel Dust; no wings and no memories.