brother R

[cutthroat]

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<font color="#ffffff" size="1">[ October 25, 2006 07:16 PM: Message edited by: black cats and cunnilingus ]</font>

[cutthroat]

<DIV style="text-align:justify;">"This is television station TCN Channel Nine, owned and operated by Television Corporation Limited, 168 Castlereagh Street, Sydney, transmitting on 195 to 202 megacycles per second from Artarmon Road, Willoughby, with an effective radiated power of 100,000 watts vision and 20,000 watts sound!"

"Again!!!" The psychadelic-spun junkie priestess, mouth heavy and drooling her skewered pleads for redemption clutched at the carpet in a crackling wash of static, screamed and curved her spine into an impossible knot, clawing at his throat, trying to open up the noise, trying to make the dark even bigger, the noise even fatter because his lips stretched and breaking across his cheeks was just not enough.

"THIS is television station TCN Channel Nine!! Owned and operated by Television Corporation Limited!!"

"LOUDER. LOUDER. LOUDER."

He held her face, forced her eyes into his, the blood tasting just as much like the ocean, skin as gritty as the beaches and veins so bloated you could feel them pulsing with want in clenching dilemmas around the bone.

"Transmittin'! On 195 to 202 megacycles per second! From Artarmon Road!!!"

Thrashing, twisting, tearing with fingernails that snapped off, spitting blood from blistered lips nearly seared off her face, glassburnt and methsour. What excited him was the flatness of a windpipe beneath his palm that would still her manic convulsions for a second, making her eyes distend in panic as he spun in the control of her blood pumping.

"AN EFFECTIVE RADIATED POWER OF 100,000 WATTS VISION!!"

She was screaming louder and louder and louder and longer and higher until her throat cracked and the dam broke and the sobs came pouring from her chest like a great flood. They opened the night together with wide mouths lined with rotting yellow teeth and he did not know if he could ever leave this madness.

"20,000 WATTS, SOUND!!"</div>

<font color="#757575" size="1">[ September 21, 2006 12:22 PM: Message edited by: black cats and cunnilingus ]</font>

[cutthroat]

<DIV style="text-align:justify;">"All right brother, here's what you do." His sister calmly suckled at the lipsticked end of a cigarette, snared in the occasional narcotic tremor as the psuedo-siblings draped themselves fashionably over her canopy bed, sliding and squeaking against dirty satin sheets. Decked out in expensive (white white white!) leathers and furs, skintight pants and exaggerated Grace Jones makeup, rolling onto their respective hips and elbows to hoover rails the size of poodle legs off a framed photo of James St. James (flies glued to his face in the exact constellation she kissed to sleep every night). "You ditch the drugs, (snort) get fuckin' coherent (sn-snooorrt) and start making yourself some alternative lives (heartwrenching, ribsnapping gasp)."

"Wh..whot?" Fingers slippery at the edge of lucidity, the cretin Christ could barely lift his head from the pillow, let alone swandive into her own perversions about his one life. His heart galloped when he thought about not even being able to fling that heavy slab of a chest upright and run from the room in case she started punching again. He was still too queasy to even touch the purple/red hamburgered bulge of flesh around his right eye, so he just turned his hips away from hers, swimming through satin.

"You don't know what to do about all these rabbits, right? You don't wanna give up any of them because it feels" Little sister wasn't fast enough, even in her cocaine beat, to soften her crooning, to keep it from curdling into a nasty hiss. "just so lovely with all of them? Well, you're a clever, industrious boy. You get your head straight and you could live at least six separate lives. And you only need what, four?" She turned her face towards him, like a crooked sunflower (bleached a jaundiced yellow) to the sun and dissolved into a wetlash batting smile. Like always, he could not tell if she was serious. He could not see anything in those halfblind eyes. "Five, if ya' count me. But I don't mind sharin'."

"Jis stop." Blood trickled from his lip. "Stop." Or was it his nose? He sorted a line through each nostril to make sure it wasn't his nose, and it tasted like he was swallowing down throatfuls of spare change, that coppery blood taste unavoidable. "We're gawn' t'that therapist so yew'll leave ays alone. Ay'll fucken figure somethin' oot."

"Figure something oooot?!" Like a Frankenstein monster pulsing with electric life shot from the sky, bed springs squealed as she bolted upright. "Fucking figure what oot, Renton? Here! I'll fucking tell you, we can save the doctor some time! You can either have all of one person or fucking nothing. You can't take one thing from that girl and this thing from another, just sticking around for the parts you like and ditching the others. You don't treat people like that." She had to pause, so weighed by her own irreverence with a delicious pain as Tyson and Caine bumped sightlessly over piles of clothes, rattled the occasional empty rolling vodka bottle and jammed cold gummy noses into to their mother's palm that hung over the edge of the bed. "Oh, and there is no way you can fuck that girl just because she has a clean apartment."

And the whitebellied thug, King Sadim bruising everything he touched, would've blushed, if all his blood hadn't been busy leaking from warwounds.

"Yah..no wey."</div>

[cutthroat]

<DIV style="text-align:justify;">"Ay jis dunnay wha' 'm supposed t'be dayen'."

Inside the doctor's sanitary soft pink office, his actions seemed far more degenerating than they did in the safe dark half of the streets. Every clench of wrought fists was epic, every rake of knuckles through his oilblack hair end of the world. And every week it was the same "cute" v-neck sweater in grey that he washed diligently now, hands always shaking too hard to part his hair straight, struggling for a pose of sound mind, if even for just an hour.

"Fuck, man, it's like ays nevir 'ad a family as a kid, ay thought that's whot ay wanted. Needed. Bu' who knows what ay need? Fuck, someone tell me, an' ay'll fucken pure git it."</div>

<font color="#757575" size="1">[ September 23, 2006 11:58 PM: Message edited by: black cats and cunnilingus ]</font>

[cutthroat]

<center>
keep movin'. stay. keep movin'. stay.

i never thought i'd meet somebody
who makes me feel the way you do
so someone tell me why
i find that i'm
terminally ambivalent
over you

don't ever mention commitment
'cos i could never say i do
but mention you're leaving
i'll be on my knees and pleading
i'm terminally ambivalent
over you

i never thought i'd meet somebody
who makes me feel the way you do
when cupid meets psyche
i get stupid, so don't mind me
i'm terminally ambivalent
over you</center>

[cutthroat]

Dear Brother,

My hands may be tied,
but yours are so dirty.

Good luck,
j.d

[cutthroat]

<DIV style="text-align:justify;">"So Renton, how have things been the past week?"

"Th'last message on m' answerin' machine wis fourty six sec'nds of someone cryin'."

"..Really."

"Wif' real loud country music 'n th' background."

"..."

On the long walk home (dressed in a filthy grey sweater and the bone-licking tremors of withdrawl), at least he could smile about the fact that all that time the doctor sat gaping at him in confused, panicked silence was still being charged (by the hour) onto one of his sister's credit cards.</div>

<font color="#f7f7f7" size="1">[ October 05, 2006 11:15 AM: Message edited by: black cats and cunnilingus ]</font>

[cutthroat]

<DIV style="text-align:justify;">The Las Vegas police department called at 1:23am.

They found her there, in the city of sin. Three broken ribs (a wheezing punctured lung), a dislocated shoulder, shattered cheekbone, a fractured collarbone and thirty two assorted stitches mapping out a battered bruiseway of a body. They said she destroyed seven hundred dollars worth of equiptment when they came at her with the rape kit. He didn't know what to do, but thankfully his body moved faithfully in the motions of addiction and he reached through the dark for his poison, his veins cold, indifferent and mechicanical as they opened up eagerly.</div>

<font color="#f7f7f7" size="1">[ October 05, 2006 01:00 PM: Message edited by: black cats and cunnilingus ]</font>

<font color="#f7f7f7" size="1">[ October 05, 2006 01:29 PM: Message edited by: black cats and cunnilingus ]</font>

[cutthroat]

<DIV style="text-align:justify;">Renton was a slanted stack of bones propped against the bathroom's door frame, arms crossed, eyes glazed, barely able to see through the thick curtains of smoke spinning themselves as atmosphere for the seedy hotel room. A degenerate ozone that fell around them in dusty curls, hardened in their throats. While the smoke swam in languid, constantly evolving masks in front of their faces, the twins, the filthy black junkie Gemini moved in the epochal clockwork of need and frustration, bumping against each other in the blind navigation of another strange mattress.

He didn't feel like talking, but he hated the way Jeuls sipped at her straight vodka and plowed through three or four tin folds of meth like he wasn't even there, glued to a four dollar porno sweating from the TV. Occasionally, she'd splash vodka over her bare chest as she leapt to her knees and screech him over to catch "this incredible money shot!"

"The police called me. They got our number somehow." This encouraged a curious, paranoid tilt of Jeuls' tattoo'd neck, who didn't bother turning away from the TV completely. "Did ay tell y' where 'ey found her?"

"Her? Who? Which her? That scummy redhead? Clean apartment girl? That overeducated cunt in the glasses?" She spat her jive into the television screen, both eyes lifeless and glimmering with smut. Veins like a spiderweb thrumming in a heart-stopping concert. "Oh! Norma?! I haven't seen her in weeks, do you think she's dead? Like, with her dog feasting on her pretty little Peruvian face just to survive?" Pausing into the erratic hiss of breath filtered through a cigarette, she turned her Slavic-sculpted jaw to her twin.

Rents held her in a granite stare. She batted her eyelashes apologetically, her one good eye rolling mindlessly back to the television while the useless yellow one continued to glare straight ahead.

"No, not those hers. And stop that, y' look fucken demented. Yer th' cunt who needs an eyepatch."

"Oh, Pais? Her? Christ. What the fuck was wrong with your parents?" Her mouth mangled into a strange smile as she sprawled across the dirty roach motel mattress (sheets shucked from the bed and thrown over a chair) and fished his pants from the floor. The distance of smooth tattooed skin between her shoulders shrank, blades (graced by knots scarring that came with repeatedly swinging from the ceiling on meathooks) practically kissing over her spine as she sat upright again.

"I mean, besides the inability to operate heavy machinery?" She made her throat bleat out a noise similar to a car careening off an ice-slick bridge as she jammed her tiny fists into his pockets, grunting happily at the wash of spare change spilling against her palm. She didn't even bother grabbing at the crumpled balls of twenties that floated onto her thighs.

"Vegas." His thumb found the crook of his elbow and stroked at the junkie gospel scripted in pinprick Braille. Purring in dirty black tones thoughtfully. "Fucken Vegas. That's th'last place ay woulda looked."

"If you'd been looking. Not so fucking busy chasing skirts." She pointed her cigarette at him accusingly, eyes bright and focused at the idea of pinning one more misery to Renton's suit of disorder that hung from him like a stolen kiss. "Was it another suicide attempt? Another hopeless swing at upstaging the grand melodrama that is her brother? Jesus." Thoughtfully rattling her fistful of quarters, she leaned into the television (her body a long white stretch of bone and skin, an elegant spine twisting) and punched the volume down a few notches, muting the flamboyant sideshow of porno glowing pink and slick. "Some people never learn."

As usual, she punctuated her sentences with leisurely gangs of smoke rings, half-lidded compliments underneath a new shock of white-blonde hair that reminded Renton of Kenny Kenny. "The trauma just looks so good on you." Her eyes cut across the room as she kicked her ankles over the lip of the mattress and pulled herself to the edge.

"We dunno yet. Sh's nawt talkin'. T' anyone." His body fell in a clumsy bone ballet from the doorway, palms cramming his eyes into the back of his skull as his fingertips knotted in an overgrown, greasy cowl of black hair. He had to shake off the feelings that tickled at the cracking grey chambers of his heart when he imagined the filth goddess's fists tangled there. Jeuls offered him a sleek, methslick fold of aluminum foil with her eyes round and piteous as she collected the bruised snarl of her knees underneath her.

"Maybe she's saving us all a little misery this time!" Sometimes the optimist.

"Ay dunno t'dew. D'ay fucken fly down there? I can't jis call, fuck, how fucken inconsiderate can y'fucken git? An' if ay do go, ay'll miss another fucken appointment." And he didn't know how long he could go before holding up another liquor store with his rat queen, but he only flinched instead of mentioning this. "An' fucken money?" His teeth grit involuntarily, body clenching in an unforgiving clutch. "Forgit it, fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Inconsiderate? Inconsiderate is expecting everyone to abandon their lives when you slit your fucking wrists, Renton. Let it go. Haven't I told you, you can't save everyone? I mean, shit, just look at you." And she did, leveling his moony curve of a speed-shivering chest and empty socket eyes with a disgusted once over. This bare-bulb lighting bathed him in corpse colors and his nose dripped into the absent swipe of a wrist's belly.

"It wissn't a fucken suicide attempt. Y'dunnae puncture yer own fucken lung. (snake's hiss of breath stolen through a glass tube) Dislocate yer own shoulder (and again, gasped with caution).. S' physically fucken impossible, someone fucken did this t'er, Jeuls. Someone fucken tried t'kill m'sister." Choked by loyalty, carried from the rolling green hills of Scotland, words leapt in suicide droves from his lips, replacing the empty space in his lungs with crisp white smoke.

"You're so paranoid." Jeuls fixed him with a shrewd frown, lips bloating into an insulted pout -- as if he had learned nothing a life with women like her. Like Ana. Ophelia. They would stop at nothing. He should know that. For a second, she wanted to lurch from the bed, smack the lighter ouf of his hands, splash molten amphetamines across his cheeks, splinter the tooter into his gums and scar him with a reminder that would disfigure, leave him a harelipped monstrosity, so he would never forget what a lovesick monster could do. Instead, she pinched a couple of quarters into the Magic Fingers, evoking violent mattress tremors while Renton chased thin white curls of smoke through a burnt glass tube.

"Y-y-you never kn-know. S-s-she could've r-r-ran out of razorblades. A-and pills. And D-dashboard Confessional r-r-records." Still stung from the sister crack, Jeuls was accustomed to being the only one.

She giggled throatily, throwing herself back on the bed with a bounce of barely there tits and scissor-kick of legs that mocked the fragility of a baby deer's first few steps as the bed seizured violently underneath her. She struggled in vain to keep her glass of liquor upright. "So, how're y-y-you gunna get down there?"

Renton watched her jiggle across the mattress under the influence of the Magic Fingers, rattling her 'huh-huh-huh!' giggling noise from a sooty chest as the straight vodka tumbler in her fist emptied onto her stomach and his head started to cloud. Heavy and black, fingers clotting into fists that sang for violence.

"Ay'll git th' money."

Two knees broke underneath him and he fell like a wolf between her thighs, foreheads cracking together as she flung her empty glass against the wall and noosed his neck with a broad, proud smile.

"You always do."</div>

[cutthroat]

<DIV style="text-align:justify;">without narcotics stringing him up and down the dirty streets, the harsh, weathered howl of his sick sister tearing up the night or the cold noses of a two-headed blind hound digging into his back, the battered junkie prince collapsed into sleep like an old decrepit building stuffed full of dynamite, into a thundering cloud of thick numb darkness that could cleanse his soul of it's miseries in a wash of broken glass and unforgiving steel. dust from the desert was still smeared over his cheeks (broken by brooks of tears that had stopped falling somewhere near kentucky), a bare chest angled over the fork of his denim-licked legs that flinched and ripped through the sheets in the first stuttering stages of sleep.

his dreams were a foggy graveyard of regrets, echoing with the mewling howls of aborted babies, tragic bastard sons dead in the arms of drug-addled mothers, rejected promises lurching for his throat with bloodhungry teeth. this was his dreamland, where he could kiss the bloated, rotting foreheads of long lost love forgotten and hold hands with his sister who's mutilated face smiled up at him from a beatific halo shine of fire, whispering promise gospel that she would be there all the time now, to make up for when he was never there for her.

sometimes he'd wake up and she'd be there, at his fingertips in a riot of bedsheets, the smell of smoke and liquor heavy on his bruised skin but sometimes shallow palms would roll over the valley her body left in her mattress before the blackness was back, gnawing at the edges of blurred vision, filling his limbs with lead. with or without the sewer princess, he welcomed it, prayed for the seductive choke of sleep before the fierce sadness returned with consciousness.

even when the sun peeled back the starry sky and started to pry at his soft, rheumy eyes, he dug his chin into lumpy pillows and knocked the neglected kitten clawing across his hips onto the floor. he would sleep through the sorrow, rise like a cretin jesus in three days time with the same exhausted circles under his eyes and stigmata of trackmarks and tattoos weeping the names of true life fairytale lovers that betrayed his heart.

his dream carnival of decay or the apartment of a girl who seemed to see through the sick suit of his complexes, who made a disastrous living trying to save the souls of boys who danced gleefully down the wormhole of the mortal coil, he could not decide which world was worse.</div>

<font color="#ffffff" size="1">[ October 29, 2006 09:43 AM: Message edited by: black cats and cunnilingus ]</font>