[Child of God]: 416.Short Stories.Vodka and Tequila

Elma tried to fit through the hole in the fence, but her extra abdominal flesh snagged on the plastic fraying along the holes edge. Terror gripped her as the heavy ‘thuds’ drew closer and closer. Sweet coated her palms and forehead as she wiggled and thrashed like a fish caught in a net—

“That’s it! I’ve had enough!” 

Stopping mid-sentence, I can’t help but raise an eyebrow to the voice. Is that voice coming from where I think it is?

“Ya, it is! Me! Ya, that’s right, it’s me! I’ve got a bone to pick with you!”

…My character has a bone to pick with me? Well, this is definitely a first!

“Listen here and listen good; I refuse to continue with this story!”

I can’t help but chuckle at the scene before me; my main character stuck in a fence because she’s too fat to get through, glaring at me with her arms stiffly crossed. A few strings of dyed-purple hair were falling into her eyes, completing the amusing picture.

….Uh oh…..looks like she heard me chuckling at her, ‘cause she’s getting even madder now! Her face is turning the shade of a tomato! Man, she looks ready to blow a gasket!

“It’s not funny!!!”

That does me in and I can’t help but laugh out loud at her, absolutely infuriating her.

“If you don’t shut the hell up, I swear to god I’m gonna—!”

“Ok, ok, calm down Elma. What’s up? Why are you so peeved all of a sudden?”

“Why am I ‘peeved’? Why, you ask? Just look at me; I’M STUCK IN A FUCKING FENCE, BEING COMPARED TO A FISH, ABOUT TO BE TORTURED AND MAIMED AND RAPED AND GOD ONLY KNOWS WHAT THE FUCK ELSE!!! AND YOU ASK ME WHY I’M ‘PEEVED’???”

Slowly I blink, regarding my now huffing character. Setting my pen down, my eyebrows furrow a bit. “Who’s to say you’re gonna be getting maimed, or tortured or raped? I haven’t even written that far yet.”

“And you’re not going to! I want a new story!”

“…Come again?”

“You heard me! I demand a new story! I refuse to take part any longer in this one!”

“Er, you don’t really have a choice in the matter Elma. You were created for this story, not another.”

“Fuck that! If you created both me and the story, you can then change the story!”

Sighing, I close my eyes and rub my head, still not believing I was having this conversation. “It’s not that easy Elma—”

“Sure it is!”

“—because of the type of character you are. You need a high-stress situation in order to develop into the character you have the potential for. That’s why you’re in the nasty situation now, but you are gonna come out of it better than new.”

“Well, that’s pretty fucking selfish of ya, now isn’t it?! Making me only the way YOU want me? Did you even stop to think about ME and what I might want? Huh? Did ya?”

I open my eyes and frown hard at her. “Elma, what you might want isn’t always what is best for you.” Great, now I sound like a bloody parent!

“I would think I would know me better that you would! After all, I AM ME!”

“Elma, I CREATED you! I know things about you that you know even know yet!”

“Bullshit! I know me better than anyone else!”

“Fine!” I’ve had enough. “You think you can do better? You think you know yourself better than your creator? Fine! Write your own damn story then!”

I hand the purpled-haired chubby my writing pen, then lean back and put my feet up. This will definitely be interesting to see what mess she gets herself into. So long as she doesn’t get herself killed, I should still be able to salvage her character in the end. Who knows? Maybe she’ll be all the better for it.

With a victorious grin, Elma snatches the pen out of my hand. “Oh, I don’t think; I KNOW I’ll do better! Let’s see…..first, time for a setting change.” A few stroked of the pen finds Elma free of the fence. Instead of nighttime outside an old farm house, she’s standing on a sunny beach with gentle waves lapping at her bare feet. “Much better!”

A beach? How in the world is a beach going to factor in? Giving my head a shake, I stand and stretch. “I’m getting a drink. Want anything Elma?”

Elma doesn’t even look up. “Vodka straight.”

Frowning slightly at her, I leave her be to her ‘masterpiece’ for a bit.

Finally emerging from my lair after over 48 hours of self-confinement, I can’t help but grimace at the smell that greets me. Crap, I knew I shoulda done those dishes before I locked myself away in my writing room. Holding my sleeve over my nose, I brace myself before entering the kitchen, afraid of what I might find.

And for good reason.

I can’t help but stumble back as the first intense wave hits me. Holding my breath, I remove my sleeve only long enough to pull the collar of my shirt over my nose, then replace the sleeve back to it’s previous position. Even a double layer of cloth doesn’t stop the smell from penetrating and making my eyes water. The aroma of sour milk, moldy cheese, rotten eggs leftovers and two-day gone pork all mixed together stimulates my gag reflex. Darting over to the window, I struggle against the rust that has kept the pane in place for the last five months. I had swore to fix that when I first moved in, but had never gotten around to it. It was somewhere on my to-do list.

‘Well, that somewhere just became number one!’ Slamming my weight against the window, I’m almost willing to break the damn thing just to get some air in here right now. Seeing the whole shoulder-heave isn’t working, I bring my foot up and start kicking it. “Open damnit, open!”

One more desperate kick is all the convincing it needs before flying open, and almost sending me to the street below. Untangling myself from the painful split-position I ended up in, my lungs greatly take in all the fresh air they can, before desperately trying to get rid of it. Ah yes, the sweet poison of city air; gives ya all the lifetime of minerals you could ever want, or need, all in one breath! Why was I so desperate to get a whiff of it again?

A glance toward the kitchen quickly reminds me; it was either a torturous, quick death by asphyxiation or a slow but relatively painless death by poisoning. What a choice.

Giving the room a few minutes to air out, I sit on the window sill and look at the bustle below. Everyone in such a hurry to get no where as fast as they can, gladly poisoning themselves so long as they are as comfortable as possible while they die. Convenience, efficiency, greed…it’s what makes the capitalist system go round. Without it, the entire Western world would collapse.

But would that really be a bad thing? Personally, I think we need our superior-complex infested asses shaken a bit to get us back in touch with the human condition. We’ve ignored it, masked it, tried to cover it up because it’s inconvenient. How we hate to be reminded of what we are eh?

“Oooo boy. Just look where my line of thought has landed me!” Chuckling, I drag myself from my window seat and brace to once again face the monster within my kitchen. I only make it one step before stopping as a thought hit me. A grin twitching a bit on my lips, I make a slight detour to the bathroom to pick up my weapon before facing The Odor From the Great Beyound again.

“Here you are!” With a sadistic smile, I pick up the can and turn to leave, but a glimpse of my reflection makes me pause. That person staring back at me…is that really me? Reaching up, I touch the sagging, sleep-deprived face. God, I look so….old! I’m only twenty five, so why the hell are the bags under my eyes so big?? My eyes don’t even look brown anymore! They’re more of a grey colour now! And my hair, oh god, my hair seems to have gotten the worst of everything these last five months! The natural curls I’ve has since childhood have all but disappeared now. Greasy, unkempt and slicked back, you’d think I had bad dye job rather than being a true natural blond. To say I looked like shit would be putting it nicely.

“Rachelle, what have you done to yourself?” The sadness in the question startles me, even though I’m the one who said it! Shaking my head, I lower my hand and chuckle. “Girl, you really need a boyfriend!”

Keeping the can tight to my chest, I cautiously peep around the corner, looking first right, then left. Coast is clear! Holding my breath, I dive from my spot in the bathroom to behind the ugly, beat-up couch, landing with a thud and a curse. Right, forgot I had put my books behind the couch until I could put up some bookshelves. Another thing on my to-do list that just got moved up in priority. Who woulda guessed that books had such a nasty bite to them?

A few minutes after babying my now bruised knees and elbows found me on my belly, slithering towards the kitchen, making sure to avoid the random boxes, plates and other…things that littered the floor. Somewhere in the back of my mind, cleaning was also moved up on the list.
Pausing at the entrance, I took a deep breath before springing into the kitchen. Taking my foe by surprise gave me the advantage as I quickly thrusted the can forward, delighting in its unheard screams as it slowly dissolved under my awesome power. “Muhahaha!! Take that, Evil Stench! Die! Die!!” So engrossed in my victory, I didn’t even notice it lash out for one last attack. It hit me so suddenly I couldn’t counter, taking it head on. I wavered on my feet, the room spinning as its dying wave of stench hit me. Feeling myself starting to gag, I finally snapped out of my stupor and once again lashed out with my own weapon, mercilessly destroying all traces I could of the monster.

Panting slightly, the lavender weapon was placed on the counter, within easy reach should the monster somehow come back to life or if other decided to come and avenge it. Trying to ignore the disaster around me that had created the creature in the first place, I pull the vodka and tequila from the practically empty fridge. Opening the cupboard, a frown replaces my victory grin. Bloody hell! The only clean glasses were the two half-litre penis glasses. Why the hell did I still have those again?

Oh ya, they were gifts from my brother before I moved. He had given them to me, joking they were likely gonna be all the action I was gonna get until I came back to reality.

Snickering, I grabbed them by the balls (which just so happened to double as the handles) and filled them with the desired drinks. ‘When did I even start drinking?’ The question made me pause as I put the bottles away. Before I had moved to the city, I hadn’t even had a glass of wine before. Now, I was downing half a litre of straight tequila. The question caused my frown to deepen as I picked up the cups and started back towards my writing room. Well, I suppose it was really the bedroom, but since I rarely slept in there, I figure it’s become my official writing room.
When had I started drinking? Well, when I moved here obviously, but when specifically? Why?

‘Because it takes my mind off how lonely I am.’

Again, I pause at the thought. Lonely? How could I possibly be lonely? I talk to my parents every night on the phone. My brother visits me once a month. I’m out with my friends for at least a few hours each day. My publisher hounds me at least twice a week, not to mention the collection agencies. Hell, they love me so much they call every night! So how in the world could I possibly be lonely?

A deep swing of one of the penises provides a quick answer. Shit, that was the vodka penis, not the tequila! Fuck, I hate straight vodka!! Gahh!!!! It burns!!

I’m still choking a bit as I open the writing room door and sit back down. Elma looks up to me, irritated at being interrupted. She wasn’t on the beach anymore, but had rather taken my chair at the desk. Not saying a word, I put the offensive glass down in front of her and take a swing of my own as I sit on the mattress on the floor. Ah, my lovely tequila. Now that’s more like it! “So, how’s the masterpiece looking eh Elma?”

Elma grins at me victoriously, holding up a ten-page chapter manuscript. The shock must have shown on my face, because her grin deepened. How the hell could she write ten pages in that span of time? Just how long did I take battling the Odour Monster??

“Oh, I think I it’s slowly coming along.” The taunt in her voice made me take another swing before reaching for the papers.

The purple-haired goddess floated over the waters, longing to fill the emptiness within her. ‘That boy on the sand should do quite nicely’ she thought with a grin, floating towards him. The boy stopped, noticing the goddess floating towards him, hypnotized by her beauty. Her full, round breast swayed slightly in the wind as she came closer—

Five lines in, and I already have to stop. She used the same descriptive word three times in one paragraph! As if that wasn’t painful enough, just the overall style! It’s horrible! Not even bothering to read the rest in detail, I began skimming through the other pages.

…This is nothing but a smut story!!

“Elma, you spend ten pages describing a developing orgy! How the hell do you even have an orgy with only one girl and seven guys?! Not to mention that you’ve completely changed your entire character, personality and physique! This isn’t you at all; this is some completely different character!!”

My words didn’t faze Elma at all. “Hey, you said I could write my own story, so there it is.”

I look at her in disbelief. “You want to get gang-banged by seven guys?! That’s what you want for your story? To be some sex goddess that guys use and then forget about ten seconds later? What the hell kind of story is that?!”

This time, I seem to have hit a nerve. “What the fuck else do you expect?! You only created me one way!! I can’t do anything I want to because of the way you created me, so I may as well get something out of the deal!!”

“You can do what you were created for Elma.” My response is soft as I reach a hand towards her. “Elma, are you really surprised that you can’t do anything else, other than what you were created for?”

She doesn’t reply as she jerks away from my touch, her face steadily growing redder.

“Why are you trying to be someone you aren’t?”

Golden eyes burn into my own as her head snaps to glare at me. Looking from the liquid-filled penis in my hand back to my eyes, she sneers. “Like you’re one to talk!”

Her words cut right through me, seeming to pierce right into the core of my being. Is that what I was trying to do? Was I trying to be something I wasn’t? That’s silly though! I’m a writer! I’ve always been a writer!

But, why did I need to move to the city then? Why was it that when I did move here, I felt like I *had* to start into the bar scene? I *had* to loosen up a bit, shrug off some of that small-town naivety and morality. Suddenly, it became *everything* to write that second, or third best seller to make the money. It was no longer enough just to write for the pure joy of it. For the first time, writing became something I dreaded instead of something I loved. I had to meet that deadline, or I wouldn’t make the money I needed.

In the end, it had become all about the money. I had fallen into the capitalist system, the disgusting wheel of greed that I had despised for so long. It was almost sadly ironic; because of my writing, I had become what I had hoped to change through my writing. I had sold myself out. 

I was trying to be something I wasn’t meant to be. And that’s why I was lonely. It wasn’t for want of people that I was lonely; it was for want of myself. I missed my true self. It was too much wearing a mask day in and day out.

I smiled sadly at Elma, the first warning of tears tickling my eyes. “You’re right Elma. We’ve both prostituted ourselves.”

Elma’s expression didn’t soften, but confusion began to cloud her eyes.

“We’re both stuck in a fence right now Elma, with crazy people out to get us. We’re both trying to run away, and that’s why we both got stuck.”

“Uh, the only crazy person right now is the one in front of me.”

Chuckling, I reach again for her hand, successfully taking it this time. “Maybe. Tell you what Elma; let me write your story. I won’t rush it, I promise. Then, when it’s done, you can tell me if you like it or not. If you don’t, I’ll write you a new one. How does that sound?”

Skeptical, Elma looked at my hand covering hers, then back up to me. “And you’ll write it, any way I want it if I don’t like it?”

“Any way you want it. The only condition is, you have to let me finish the story you were originally created for first, ok?”

“…If you try to screw me over, I’ll get your muses to revolt.” Despite her threat, I could see she was seriously considering the offer.

“And if you try to revolt before I finish your story, I get to throw your character onto the backburner for a few years until you calm down. Deal?” Wow, this was a lot easier than I had first thought it would be. A bit too easy almost, but hell, I wasn’t about to complain!

A small grin made its way to her lips. “Deal.”

Once again, Elma was back in the fence in the middle of the night, behind an old farm house. But I didn’t go back to her just yet. I had my own things to think about; before I could continue her story, I had to think long and hard about my own.

The bright red letters read 2am. Maybe I should wait until tomorrow? No. Everything always gets put off until tomorrow. That’s the reason I had to face off against the Stenchenator tonight in the first place. Picking up the phone, I dialed the familiar numbers, holding my breath while I waited for someone to pick up.

“Mom? It’s Rachelle. No, I’m fine. Everything’s ok. It’s just…mom, can I come home tomorrow?”

As I listened to my mother’s tired, irritated yet happy tone, I couldn’t stop myself for reaching for my pen. A little novella of tonight’s events is just what I need to keep my publisher off my back for a while until I can get the novel done. And, it’ll give my readers an opportunity to speculate for a bit on whether this story is meant to be an allegory, or just be taken at face value. Readers always like to look for what isn’t there. Mind you, if they find it, guess it must be there, whether you intended it to be or not.