I forgive my blue woman once the taste leaves my mouth. I must. She is something I cannot stay mad at. Besides, without her my world would be blunt-somber, perhaps nothing.
I stagger from my room, slight hunger. Into the meaty wreckage, swirl-whirling me into dizziness, tornadoing red.
An arm hangs from Fria like an offering, and her companion’s disfigurements received body chunks as well.
The storm and madness are still fill-screaming the streets outside. People are babbling crazy and beating and killing each other. Some rain-pounds fall through the roofless section of the warehouse, almost a Hell carnival outside.
My feet stick to the floor, and my eyes dizzy-roll as usual, as they walk to the toilet, pass a few sleep-dying corpses in the corner. Not too many homeless ones in the warehouse today, just a few. The rest must’ve been sickened away. I guess there’s not much point in them staying; half of the roof is missing along with the entire front wall; not much shelter for anyone here. If there was another place to go, I would’ve left too.
I piss in a corner, too weak to move the sculpture gore. It burns, and I like it…
When I turn around, the blue woman is there; she has been behind me for the whole piss. An inch away, watching me go to the bathroom. She’s not sleeping like she usually does at this time, like all blue women do for entertainment, like I figured she was doing now.
She has the same happy look on her face that she had when I awoke, issuing love emotions from her blue skin that sink acidly into mine. I grab her around the back and pull her closer. As I caress her buttock-mounds, she caresses my stomach.
Vodka groans from his toilet seat, trying to push his way out of the sculpture-fortress. He crawls out with palms flaky with dried blood-film. The blood isn’t his. It came from the wounds of skinheads/crazies. Coughs take turns burst-popping from his lungs.
He sits and lights an old cigarette, sitting next to the corpse of John — the weird old guy that lived in back of the warehouse. John isn’t completely dead, as everycorpse else in the room, just sleeping without a heartbeat. Vodka uses the perverted man’s back as an ashtray, spitting shhh -dust all over him. Vodka always loved his smoking. But he doesn’t seem to be enjoying the smoke now, even when defacing a half-dead man’s back.
“Where’s the portal?” Vodka asks me. The tone is unfamiliar. A normal tone — not a fake German accent.
I look around the room for the portal, but it’s gone.
When my mind goes back to my girl, I feel a sharp pain of perception. It creeps up on me and swims through her skin into my mind.
Looking into the blue woman’s eyes, I figure her all out. I see all of the plans she has for me and know that I’m not just sex-food for her. I feel that emotional-telepathy the blue women have. And my mind snaps with a greenish-red color, the color of unbelief, mistrust.
Her eyes glitter into me, guided by icy fingers to my stomach.
Her telepathy-emotions tell me: You are pregnant.
She had shot her cum ball into my gut — tongue-kissing gave her an orgasm — and now a baby blue woman is squirming in me.
She smiles, proud of herself.
I start thinking. Seriously. Men can be the only creatures to spit cum into someone else. I come to the conclusion that blue women are actually men with breasts and vaginas.
So. I must be gay.
With the rage of homophobia — a phobia that’s very strong in me because I was never exposed to homosexuality during my younger years, and it is yellowish-gray in color. Blaming the blue woman for turning me into a pregnant homosexual — as if I didn’t have enough problems — my fists decide to break her face.
She doesn’t swell or bleed from the punches. She doesn’t seem shocked at me either. But she does fall down into a comfortable sleep, curled up in a red film. Some of my knuckles go fat. They darken around the edges and say, “Why’d you do that for? You don’t know how to hit anybody.”
“Why’d you do that for?” Vodka asks from another side of the warehouse.
I grip my swelling parts. “She turned me into a pregnant faggot.”
“A pedophile, too,” he adds.
Sighing, looking down at her/his sleeping body. And even though I hate homosexuality, I still find her/him amazingly attractive. Which means I’m in the middle of a sexual identity crisis.
“Fucking bitch,” I tell her/him for putting me in this situation. “I’m getting an abortion.”
Of course, I’m kidding myself. She/he has me now. I’m the wife of a four-year-old blue woman and there’s no getting out of it, because she’s an absolute beauty — even if she is male — and I’m slave-weak to her.
“Go back to being a street whore,” I tell her.
Then I carry her into my room, into my bed.
Suddenly I realize something else:
My God’s Eyes have ran away from me.
I can’t see in the third person anymore.
I panic, sick.
A whirl of gin-dust heat pours over me. The only sight left is the crippled one, drug-damaged. It makes me frenzied and ill.
The power left me the second I tried to look into Satan Burger.
It has to be the storm that cut out my vision, cut out my vision like it cuts out electricity. Or maybe it was God. Maybe God stopped feeling sorry for me and wants me to use my normal sight. Or maybe something happened at Satan Burger that I’m not allowed to see.
“There must be something wrong,” I croak at Vodka. “At Satan Burger, I mean. The portal wouldn’t be down like this.”
“It’s just because of the storm,” he answers, cigarette calm.
“The Crazies probably got in and ripped apart Satan Burger, like they did to the warehouse.”
“Nothing’s wrong. You’re being paranoid,” he says.
“I’d be lucky if paranoia is the only thing I’m being.” I hear my words freaking, silly-going. ” Everything’s wrong. Let’s go to Satan Burger.”
“I don’t want to go to Satan Burger,” he whines. At least he can still whine.
“You don’t have a choice. It’s the end of the world.”
“We’re not going anywhere, not with the streets clogged up like they are.”
“We might as well try,” I argue. “Unless you want to become one of these living corpses on the ground.”
He says, “That doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”
Scene 19
Streets Raging
I convert Vodka to get himself up and going, trip-boring into the car. The old lightning Gremlin starting up a whir, with a good collection of gas still in its gut.
A puddle-mud row is the closest thing to use for a street; we spark-scrape over curbs to get there. People and debris and handmade shelters — cheap patchwork or plastic tents, boxes, piled up scraps — clutter all other areas; even the carpeting on the sidewalks are not accessible. The rain seems to be black-yellow in color, I stare up at it in the sky. Mud water splashes under the wheels, greasing up the windshield.
The street is furious. The rain is sinister and the ill-fighting people are all coated with blankets or trash and plastics over their tops, trying to stop the cold and the plague-rain. The rain’s consistency candywrap the street people, melting them it seems, leaking over their eyes and faces to make them blank or inflamed or uncontrollably nervous.