Five-Oh-Six-Three (Part Seven)

©2012 David Jasmin-Green

“Hello there, whitey,” the huge meat mountain propped at an awkward angle in the far corner of the alcove said. “I realise that you find my appearance – how shall I put it? A little less that appealing, shall we say? I may be nauseating, sunshine, but I'm no damned fool, and I can smell your unbridled disgust from here. If you're about to lose control of your sphincter muscle kindly step outside - I like to keep my hovel as clean as possible under the circumstances. What can I tell you about being indescribably loathsome? Ugliness is a fact of life in this cesspool, so you'd better get used to it. Take your time, white boy, 'cos we've got a whole lot of it on our hands..... Nice and sleazy does it, A?

Maybe, if I'm lucky, you'll like me a little better once you get to know me, and maybe once you start to deteriorate you'll realise that we're all in the same putrid ugly boat together. Maybe you'll eventually forget or learn to overlook the appalling mess I've become for reasons that I can't get my idiot head around no matter how hard I try. And maybe, if I'm really fortunate, once you begin to reform - if it's a suitable form that Old Horny has in mind for you, that is - you'll want to hump my bones. You haven't got much of a cock on you, but I suppose it'll have to do.....

Naah, forget I said that. Sexual fantasy is one of the surprisingly powerful straws that I clutch onto to help me through the hard times, which encompasses most of the time down here, sadly. I know I should quit dreaming because, they say, it's unhealthy to crave what you can never have, but who knows what the future holds? In the meantime, feel free to look away whenever you find my magnificent depravity too sickening to bear, sugar plum. Shit, feel free to spew your guts up, if it helps – as long as you do it outside.”

“What..... Who are you?” Blain stuttered, taking in the enormous, almost butt-naked black woman before him. He smiled involuntarily as he noted how tiny her hands and feet looked on the ends of her tree trunk limbs, limbs that poked out at odd angles from tier upon tier of chaotically piled, coffee coloured folds. He cringed at the sight of her monstrous tits, each one many times his own weight, tits with areolas bigger than dinner plates and nipples like Boeing 747 wheel nuts. The woman looked like she had been liquidised and poured into a mould in the corner of the niche and left to solidify - which, come to think of it, maybe she had. “Fuck, you look like a petrified chocolate fountain,” Blain couldn't help saying.

“Thanks, buster,” she replied. “Overflowing with compliments, ain't ya?”

Luckily, Blain thought, she had a piece of cloth draped over her, you know, he told himself carefully, over her naughty bits. If she was sitting up more rigidly, he guessed, he wouldn't have been able to accidentally catch a glimpse of the unfortunate woman's genitalia even in the absence of the cloth, because that area of her anatomy would have been completely buried beneath many rolls of blubber – you'd have to roll her in a fair few sacks of flour to find the wet bit, he reflected - but because of the awkward angle at which she lay the filthy scrap of cloth covered her no doubt tropical rain forest sized pubic triangle and the other bits and bobs of usually captivating female anatomy that in this case he did his best not to think about, never mind envisage.

“My name, wait for it,” she said, “is Trinket Dichotomy Worship My Ginormous, Wobbling Glory (Or I'll Flatten You Fuckless, Cunt-face, And Shag You Silly Before You Recover And Do A Sneaky Runner, You Devious Ass-hole) Catastrophic Cum-dumpster Delicate Delilah Pudding-shaped Skank-mattress. But please, call me Trinket; it's a little nicer than my full, hell-borne title, and it saves time – which, I used to believe, is the most precious of commodities.”

Blain couldn't take his eyes off the woman's head, once he had grown accustomed to the rest of her, that is. Well, she didn't have a head as such. The gargantuan blob that was her entirety – 'Don't call here a fucking blob, she has a name, you ignorant prick! She's a person just like you, so stop rubbishing her whatever circumstance has turned her into,' a furious voice screamed out from deep inside his head - was so huge that her skull was almost entirely buried in a vast, shapeless slab of blubber. Curiously, though, her face wasn't fat at all. The woman's face stood proud of the surrounding flesh as if the monster responsible for the travesty of a human being that the onlooker beheld wanted, no, needed her to hang on to her Earthly appearance. Blain reckoned that anyone who had known Trinket during her lifetime wouldn't have had much difficulty recognising her now. In fact he recognised her himself, he was sure of it – her distinctive features and her deep, confident American accent was terribly familiar, but for some reason he couldn't quite place where he knew her from.

Idly he recalled the 'Yo momma' jokes that he had always been enormously fond of. 'Yo momma is so fat that her belt is size equator.' 'Yo momma is so huge that they'll have to considerably deepen and widen the Grand Canyon at enormous expense in order to bury her when she chokes to death on one of those mega-burgers that she insists on stuffing her stupid fat face with.' 'Yo momma is so fucking massive that she has a gravitational field and a selection of smaller tubbies orbit her improbably vast waistline.....'

“You're Condoleezza Price – no, Rice- aren't you?” Blain said when Trinket's face finally rang the appropriate bell at the back of his mind. Strangely, he suddenly realised (he had been somewhat preoccupied up until that point) the walls of Trinket's compact home from home were clad in shoddily applied pale blue flock wallpaper that was hanging off here and there and mouldering in places, but then the walls were damp and far from flat, so even an expert interior decorator would have found it impossible to apply wallpaper even remotely pleasingly on such a surface. It was the thought that counted, he guessed.

“No!” Trinket roared. “No no, definitely not. Yes..... No, I'm sure it's a no. Well maybe, damn it; you'll have to settle with that, sunshine, because I can't remember. Who is this Condoleezza Mice, anyhow?”

“Rice,” Blain corrected her, his train of thought unruffled. “Or at least you used to be. But that's not possible, surely, because Condoleezza Rice isn't dead - not to my knowledge, anyway. As far as I know she was alive and kicking when I expired, but that shouldn't surprise me as I don't remember my own death. I don't remember being hit by a number 17 bus or being axe murdered or blown to bits by terrorists or anything of that ilk; I don't even remember having a nasty cold that might have developed complications.....”

“I don't think I've ever heard of this person you speak of, sweetie,” Trinket replied. “Condoleezza is a stupid name if you ask me. It sounds too similar to 'condominium,' it's an awful, tongue twisting mouthful, and I don't like it one tiny bit. I hope my mother would have had the decency to choose a nicer name than that for me, but I can't remember much about her at all. It's weird..... I remember a whole lot of stuff about the world I lived in and a fair bit about at least some of the people I knew, but apart from a handful of anonymous snippets I remember very little about the life I lived. Nothing personal, anyway. I don't know about you, honey, but I find that deeply painful and frustrating and above all infuriating - it's unspeakably cruel to steal a person's memories, their entire identity..... Who is this Condoleezza Lice, anyway?”

“Rice,” Blain corrected her again. “Condoleezza Rice was the Secretary of State when George Bush was President of the USA. Hang about, perhaps she was the Vice President, or maybe the Assistant Vice President or something like that, I don't really know. Maybe I do know, or I should know, but I can't remember. Oh, shit. Politics isn't exactly my strongest subject, I'm afraid, and if it was my specialist subject on Mastermind I'd score a big, fat zero. Basically it bores the tits off me, and I can only remember the little information I picked up from watching the evening news and listening to the radio while I was driving.

I've never voted in my life, because as far as I'm concerned all politicians are tossers. They all shit in the same stinking pot, they're all self-serving, brown-nosed arse-holes, they're power hungry parasites interested only in lining their own nests, they're all prize cunts..... Actually I did vote a few times now I come to think of it - I can't remember any details, but I'm ashamed to admit that they were cowardly votes, votes cast to impress others and be part of the 'in' crowd rather than to express my true wishes, and if my mind isn't trying to deceive me I invariably voted Monster Raving Loony Party on those occasions.

Condoleezza was a big shot, Trinket, that's all you or I need to know. When the Iraq war started she was plastered all over the TV, often with another cun - big shot. What was his bloody name? Colin, Colin Powell. He couldn't be a normal, everyday Colin just like every other one, of course; he insisted that the world referred to him as Colin, the stuck up git - the 'o' in his otherwise perfectly ordinary name was pronounced like the 'o' in 'bone'.”

“I don't think I've ever heard the name Colin or Colin Powell,” Trinket said. “Was he a descendant of that kiddy-fiddler, the bloke who started the Scout movement?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Baden Powell,” she replied. “Or Lord Baden Powell, as he liked to be called. I read somewhere that he had a secret penchant for little boys, the dirty bastard, though there's no evidence that he ever submitted to his twisted desires and physically acted out his fantasies. Unfortunately for him, though, to even think such perverted thoughts is sin enough to earn a place here. Who did he think he was, a Catholic priest? No, that's unfair; I knew a few Catholic priests during my lifetime, and as far as I know none of them concealed choir boys under their cassocks for their own sexual gratification. Isn't it funny how I can recall odd details like that, but nothing even remotely personal? I've always mistrusted men who claim to be able to live without women, by the way, excepting homosexuals, of course..... Whatever Baden Powell did it must have been pretty bad, because I reckon that's the sick fuck spread-eagled across the teacher's desk over there in the schoolroom.”

Blain peered through the entrance to Trinket's private alcove and scanned the opposite wall of the main cavern through the crowd until his eyes settled on a recess almost directly opposite the one he was standing in. He found himself looking into a crudely assembled classroom. 'THOU SHALT NOT VIOLATE INNOCENT CHILDREN!' someone had scrawled across the blackboard in large, spidery letters. Beneath that ominous commandment an unfortunate individual was bent forwards over the teacher's desk, and a couple of six inch nails had been hammered through the backs of his wrists deep into the highly polished oak to keep him in a suitable position to receive his punishment.

The victim was a man, that's all that could be said for sure. He was wearing an antique Scouts' uniform, only his shorts were around his ankles and most of his body was hidden behind the stout, pink and white tiger striped something that stood behind him wearing nothing but a mitre board. The violent jerking of the demonic rapist's hips forced Blain to divert his gaze and try to think about more pleasant things.

He thought about butterflies fluttering by on a glorious summers' day, he thought about drunkenly blowing the seeds from an endless number of dandelion clocks and laughing like a kid, which in all honesty he still was at the time. He thought about sweet little dicky-birds singing their lovely songs in the gently fluttering leafy parasol above his head while he sat on the shade dappled grass sharing a bag of chips and a couple of bottles of Thunderbird wine with an achingly beautiful mixed race girl whose name he couldn't for the life of him remember.

“I, erm, I don't believe the two Powells are related,” Blain muttered, unable to stop his eyes from taking in another glimpse of the horrific scene. The improbable rapist turned his head slightly, just enough so that the onlooker could witness the malevolent grin spreading across his ragged, fun-fur face. “It's Bagpuss,” Blain said. “Whoever the poor bastard nailed to that desk is, he's having the living shit raped out of him by fucking Bagpuss..... Hang on, Trinket, don't you think the victim's legs are a bit dark for an elderly English Scoutmaster? That's not Baden Powell, you flid! Sorry, dear, that just slipped out, I don't know what I was thinking. Anyway, whoever is being violently buggered by that comical looking but nevertheless awful demon is wearing a single white glove. That detail, along with the fact that he keeps squealing 'Ooooow!' gives the game away - it's Michael frigging Jackson, I'm sure of it.”

“Aaah,” Trinket said. “And I thought he'd been acquitted.”