Shattergirl: Hyr Testimony Read online

  Shattergirl, Hyr Testimony

  BY ALEX S. JOHNSON

  Nocturnicorn books 2017

  “Shatterrgirl: Hyr Testimony” is copyright ©2017 by Alex S. Johnson. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce in any form.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places and events may be a product of paranoia. Please seek professional help.

  For Karina Sims and Lydia Lunch

  I feel the winds of the wings of madness

  Baudelaire

  Table of Contents

  1. The Trash

  2. SKULLFUCK OMEGA!!! (STAINS)

  3. LENA HARRINGTON

  4. Charlie and the Death Train

  5. Lucy

  6. Husband

  7. Bordello of Death

  8. Transubstantial

  1. The Trash

  Spit. Split. Spatter. Splatter. And all that trash.

  What do you see when you look at me? Wreckage. Something split, broken, bent. A sorry tale of society’s butt ends, piled up by the roadside. Or huddled under the concrete pillars of highway onramps covered with leaves and dirt—you’d think they were junk if you saw them at all. Or outside shopping malls with a cart they push on squeaky wheels to the end of the sidewalk. These squeaking sounds do not summon the grease, although occasionally, the police show up to protect the wealthy and their lattes from the homeless woman and her predations. The baggage turns around again, doing that Sisyphus shuffle on flat ground in high heels filched from a department store Dumpster. Her center of gravity lies in her stomach which resembles a bowling ball. The wheels stick. She grunts. Hey lady you’re walking funny. My response would be (muy Clint Eastwood): well, at least I’m walking, kid. I’ll hobble if I have to. Hey, can you drive a shopping cart? Anyway. Sometimes dresses inappropriate to the weather—green Winter coats with red fur collars kind of thing—and definitely for all occasions except homelessness, wrong wrong wrong.

  Because, folks, that’s what we have to fucking wear. We’re trash and we own it. And on some days, the clothes are absolutely perfect.

  Don’t turn your head. That’s rude. Rudeness will cost a bitch.

  I don’t feel sorry for me. I feel sorry for you. You think you’re so free, but your choices are limited. Maybe every once in awhile you get a girl’s night out, but you have to change at your girlfriend’s so you can go to that bar where those hot guys hang. You don’t dare try anything. You’re a voyeur. Very close to a drooler. Your BFF makes fun of you, and while it’s mean and unfair, and you know gawking at the goods and lying to your husband about it is just a single, slippery step away from face down on a mattress at the No Tell Motel while some sleazy stranger slathered in tattoos fucks your ass, you abstain. That doesn’t make you a hero. It makes you a coward. And not free.

  Just a second, I think I heard something.

  Did you hear that? That gurgling sound? Fucking pipes, man. Now I’ll have to get out the tools. They’re not meant for plumbing. I mean, I don’t use them that way. But gurgling over time becomes a vewy vewy vexing sensation.

  Could be ghosts, too. Never know. A lot of bad things happened here, besides the fires and the floods and the plague. Most of the ghosts are all right, but some…you’ll probably meet Lucy. Just show no fear. That’s what she feeds on.

  You have the right to be scared now, but I’m warning you, after awhile, you will lose that right. There’s nothing more annoying than a grown woman with eyes as big as saucers looking like a puppy you’re drowning. Jesus Wept. You have it all over me and you think you’re the victim? How’d you like to come home to all this clutter? Maybe you can be my maid. Oh for fuck’s sakes, I was joking.

  Kinda.

  A nice hot PVC maid dusting with a ball-gag…

  Ever watch those kinda shows? Yeah, I know you do. Been at your window a bunch of times. Infra-green flashes, see them? You put on a robe and rushed out, but I was already far away. Back to my hidey-hole. Don’t worry. They’re still on my phone. I haven’t gotten around to transferring the jpegs.

  Just sit a minute and stop running your mouth. Ok, you can talk now.

  What?

  Sorry. I can’t HEAR YOU. What’s this mumble mumble shit? Wanna see mah teeyuts, girlie gurl? Ermigard, mah brersts er perping ert! Nah, I didn’t think you went that way. Dommage. We might have had some good fun. Like those paperbacks you hide from your husband. Fifty Shades of De Sade Lite? Didja think I didn’t know about those? And guess who else knows? Hubby. He’s been dying to ask you about a three-way. But the man is no damn good for you. You know it, you’re just too blind to see. Even with those gorgeous hazel eyes.

  You don’t think I made choices, good ones? The same as you? Probably better than yours? Yeah. So don’t look at me that way.

  It’s nothing. I’ll be all right.

  I told you it’s nothing.

  I got this jacket from Army-Navy surplus and it don’t fit me but it might fit you. See how that works? I take a theme and expand upon it. Yes, I know that ain’t correct English. So get a spellcheck for chrissake.

  I’m a mess a bottomless pit a SHATTERGIRL but what carries me through is my gift. You see, I clone. People, discourse, relationships, the news, littrature, cereal boxes, whatever.

  And I’m good.

  A very good, very efficient, very scary copycat. When I do clone, and I don’t mean that recombinant DNA shit, but flashclone—glamor—I become invisible. That is why they never see a bitch coming. He didn’t see coming. Or him—the other one. They’ll never be found. And you won’t find me either. NOT that you’ll come looking, because—yeah, the redirect thing. We discussed that. I have these tunnels wired, baby. Booby traps and shit.

  They’re all DOWN HERE WITH ME.

  So, basically, I can become very, very small. I stuff the SHATTERGIRL inside me like one of those camping jackets, you know, where you can stuff the whole thing inside one pocket, zip that fucker shut? I’m a big fan of that shit. Anything reversible, or inside out. Marsupials can teach us a lot. So, I marsupiate—yep, made that one up—and gestate outta my basic SHATTERSELF to walk among y’all, friendly like.

  Why are you walking away? Didn’t your mom ever teach you nothin? Oh yeah, you can’t WALK AWAY except in your head. You and I, we have a whole lot in common that way. I can see your eyes searching, scanning your brain for a hideaway. Don’t you wish your brain could marsupiate like me? But you know it’s not that simple. I don’t have a pouch in there either. What I have are WALLS. Like the nice, sturdy brick walls that keep you down here with me, even if you had some unfortunate notion like escaping. Nothing ventured, nothing gained? Maybe. But I wouldn’t test the WALLS.

  Ok, so say I know nothing. I’m open to suggestions.

  My mom sure taught me a whole lotta nothin. She taught me to be nothing, believe in nothing, have nothing. Dad was the one who taught me something. With his belt. And his junk.

  Dad was all right. I had to, you know, take care of him. Obviously. Wanna know where I got these STAINS?

  Ok, I have a question for you. I’ll let you talk. Stop fidgeting. And gimme a godam cigarette already. You don’t smoke? Shit. I think I’ve got one in here.

  SHE POKES AROUND IN HER JACKET LOOKING FOR THE NICOTINE PRODUCT.

  (That is an instance, an example of my invisibility. Third person. A lot of authors do that fancy pants shit. I’m not a writer—I do. Vive le difference.

  Spit split spatter scatter. Have you ever seen a human nightmare? I mean, they look like people. Oh good people, listen to my sermon. Listen to Jesus. Humble yourself before JIZZUSALL. Drink his damn drink. Smoke his damn smoke. Oh, you do have some TOBACCO CIGARETTES after all. Yes, officer, these are regulati
on tobacco as provided by the good farmers of Virginia. We wouldn’t want you to think it was something else. The funny baccy.

  Oh lord I have to stop fucking around and get down to business. My IQ tests were through the roof. I think that’s why Mom took me out of school when I was 10. Or 12. Daddy was my teacher. And so was JIZZUS. But drinking from that chalice may possibly have dumbed me down. I couldn’t tie my own fucking shoelaces. So they called me names. Slut. Mut. Nut. Squishy BUTT-MUTT.

  Spatter split scatter bitch. I named myself SHATTERGIRL after the superheroin of the same name. That is not a typo. You need to go through the gates of DRUG HELL to get to NIRVANA or some shit. You really don’t.

  I have to get this down before it makes its own plans dammit.

  Ok, whattya want to know? Seriously you CAN ask me anything. I’m a farmer’s daughter a bother to the authorities the witch in the well a ding dong bell a brat a twat…but these are my real teeth. I’ll show you.

  I name thee SCUZZ!!! You think when I said my real teeth I meant the ones I was born with? No, man. These got socked out of me by some godamn lesbian in a bar. I wasn’t coming on to her girlfriend or anything. I swear to tell the tooth and nothing but the tooth. No, this is a set of falsies. But they go over some of my actual dentition. I’ll show you that too. Oh, stop whining! I didn’t tie you too tight, did I?

  Ever notice how teats and teeth sound alike on that superbad dyslexic heroin shit?

  SOME TIME LATER…SAME HELLHOLE

  All I want is for someone to listen to me.

  You, for example, seemed like a sympathetic type. It’s something about your eyes—no, please don’t look away. I want you to see that I will not hurt or harm you. But I didn’t think you would come willingly. Even though—but never mind. We have more that links us together than sets us apart, but I’m not the one in denial. When I release you, you’ll know I’ve told the tooth.

  HA HA. Get it? Because…oh, never mind. For awhile the alleged victim loses their sense of humor entirely.

  Sigmund Freud thought the teeth had something to do with the eyes which had something to do with the cunt which had something to do with MEN and their fucking passionate obsessions with their COCKS and what might happen to them under certain ahem conditions. But there’s no Freud for ladies. What with the bits being tucked in and all, MEN assume we have nothing; nothing to see, nothing to be afraid for, just move it along.

  That is where they would be WRONG. You know what I’m talking about. You’re a sister. Nod and say thank you and please tell me more. All right, the tape, I know…redneck bondage, right? But that’s not what this is about. Maybe it might have been sometime in the past, which is where I got some of these STAINS.

  Hey, I’m trying to lend a little humor to what would be an otherwise deeply unpleasant situation. I don’t think you appreciate the effort I’m putting into this.

  What’s the matter, kid? Cat drugged you DUMB?

  Ok so.

  My name is Charlie Morgan. You can nod. Hi, Charlie, you fucking freak of nature. Could you please untie me so I can go back to my mundane life with the two kids and the husband who beats me but not so people can see, not physically—he’s a nice guy, he’s just got a high-pressure job. Could you please release me back into captivity?

  So you see, it’s more than just a case of crazy bitch kidnaps suburban soccer mom with possible lesbian rape in mind. Although that can be arranged—ha ha! Well, it’s already a terror scene, so…and I do have the implements for that task. But I wouldn’t do that to you. I’m taking you out of your comfort zone, beyond your threshold and, unfortunately, muted—think of it as a pause button, because you talk an awful lot of shit.

  It’s more than just homeless head case jumps the Queen of the Cheerleaders—go OMEGAS!—and takes her down into some awful bad places so she can torture her to death while filming it for Youtube. Although that too can be easily arranged. But I’m not into that snuff crap either.

  This is not a movie, this is not a game, and I’m not some kind of distaff Jigsaw come to test you. I can and will instruct you, though. For example, I want you to look me in the fucking eyes and not with that horrible about-to-die bunny fatalism. Hey, the OMEGAS didn’t always win, right? And you hid your tears so you could be brave for the Captain, Ken Harrington. Captain Ken. OH CAPTOR MY CAPTAIN. Whom you eventually married. And then you hid your tears again for different reasons—to be brave for the kids. Privately you told them that Daddy is just venting; they’ll understand when they’re older; since he was passed up for partner he’s worried when he’ll get a chance again, especially with that new kid. Adults do things that kids do but for different reasons. That’s what you tell Jimmy and Susie Anne. Ok, Billy Bob and little Melissa. And I know it’s not the OMEGAS, fer crissakes, it’s the PIT BULLS or something equally moronic. Do you know what the Omega is? It’s the 24th, and last, letter of the Greek alphabet. It signals the conclusion, the end. Like, for another example, when you had to suck off Big Boy in his truck after the big game, win or lose, the climax tasted like his cum.

  Shit, it’s easy to sound like a cliché. Bull dyke, bad domina, some porn snuff hootenanny. But just like your life turned out so well on the outside but feels like rotting death on the inside, mine, well, think of the photo-negative of that. Think of the reverse side of the obverse of the uppermost, to, like, infinity. Think of someone who’s never kept a job for more than two weeks, who has let men into her twat for a dinner and a night at a motel. I rent me slit, luv. Yup, c’est moi. The kind of slob you wouldn’t give a second to if you saw her on the street. Which is ironic, because you saw me on that street every fucking day this year, and kept seeing until you saw right the fuck through me. Yeah, whimper. Whimper good. This is going to be a long night. Hell, if you don’t take it easy, it’s going to be a long indefinite stay. You need to learn some shit.

  “Later that night, so the story goes, rent/rewind, return my videos.” Do you know that song? Have you ever heard it? No, I don’t suppose you have. But it’s a great tune. It’s based on the novel and the movie American Psycho. I do love Christian Bale. Did you know—hmm, maybe you do—he based his interpretation of the serial killer protagonist on Tom Cruise? Something about his eyes, there being nothing behind them. Oh ye who knows nothing about the serial killer mind except what she’s seen on TV and in the movies. I challenge you to go beyond your preconceptions and try to understand me as a human being. Ya dig?

  But omigod, isn’t it supposed to be, like, the other way around? If you humanize yourself, speak to me, get inside my crazy meth-bomb skull, talk to a sister like she’s got twattage too and your electrical pulse and her wattage intertwine like the finest wine…everything will be ok. That’s when the skill set blinks and the blade sinks into HER brain, not YOUR SHAME. And everything is La de Da Gooey Gumdrops Omega times infinity. But this is the other side. You’ve never seen this side because it can’t be scripted, it can’t be motion-captured delineated morphed spore/shroomed rewound. I want YOU to consider ME as a real human and not some crazy lady who pricked you with a needle and shoved you into a freight elevator and then down a manhole and into your current vida loca.

  HELL YES I HAVE PROBLEMS. And for once, just once, the problems of the woman you’ve ignored, seen through like she’s transparent, are your problems.

  Consider these facts.

  You are 25 feet underground. Nobody can hear you. If I unbuttoned your sassy lip, you could shout and scream as loud as you wished and STILL nobody would hear. That’s a stubborn fact, Missy.

  But things are going to change for you very soon. The wheels have been set in motion. And the Death Train is coming.

  Yeah I know. These aren’t those kinds of tunnels. Excuse me, hollow sidewalks. There were never train tracks here. Maybe some carts. Maybe some dollies. The moving and the other kind. Prossies, women of the night, bringers of the sleaze and the disease. The miners came down from the mountains looking for a good time, and first, they found sluts and dr
ink and opium. Then the Death Train came for them.

  I can hear it shrieking some nights, through the pipes. And while it’s not a warm, fuzzy feeling, it’s a factual sensation. As in, Memento Mori.

  Remember that you die.

  I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. Although I will try. First I will try logic and persuasion. Then, if necessary—and ONLY if necessary—other tools will be employed. I’ve put you on a sharp learning curve, and if you get cut up, I won’t be able to teach you what you need to learn.

  You could think of this is Adult Education for Silly Women.

  Don’t think I haven’t tried before.

  Practice makes perfect, right?

  You may encounter in your travels a failed student. She will tell you some trash about me and how I was mean and cruel to her and all that shit. But she lies, and liars get the Hell they deserve. Mendacity is a sin beyond any reckoning. It pops my mercury up the tube before the glass explodes.

  So don’t. Fucking. Lie.

  Please.

  I have more patience than you would expect. I’m a teacher. I’m not an arbitrary, capricious tyrant. I’m here to help you help yourself. So help me help you.

  Listen. If a man invites you to suck him off, and he’s a popular guy, a dude’s dude, a man’s man, a man for all seasonings…it’s not a compliment. I Googled those Youtube videos from the day, from your high school graduation. The tailgate party. Booze, drugs, the sticky, the ice, the vomiting! Oh Lord yes, the pukeapalooza after the spunkstorm. Remember the sick, slick, sour taste of cum down your throat? You wanted so bad to fit in. You squeezed yourself into a little Barbie box for his benefit.

  Now look at you. Dirty, disgusting, filthy.

  However, I am more than confident that after our sessions are successfully concluded, you will do the right thing. For yourself. For your children. For women.