Something Wonderful is going to Happen! (Installment 4, Chapters 6 & 7)

The following are the 6th and 7th chapters of a longer work which I will be submitting in installments. It is a satire of sorts with elements of dark comedy. It follows a main character with a clearly defined morality that is well removed from normalcy.

This story contains scenes that are graphic, vulgar, and very likely per the definitions of some, blasphemous. IF YOU ARE EASILY OFFENDED, DON’T READ THIS STORY!!!

A bus pulls into a station somewhere in New York City. The setting looks rough, dirty streets are lined with dirty people. A bum lays on a corner passed out, an empty begging cup in front of him. Like the bum and his strange assortment of raggedy clothing, this whole world inside of its larger one is dingy and falling apart.

A girl walks by: skinny, young, and pretty despite her glass eye and whore’s garb. Her hair is long and black, contrasting sharply with her light skin, in turn contrasting sharply with her facial features. Pretty like a photo, in the soulless, lifeless way of a photo. For her there is no hope here.

A man exits the station: young, tall, oblivious, out of place. He has a duffel bag in his hand and a something in his eye. A what? Maybe it’s a people magnet? Maybe it’s a whore magnet? Myssy, the young prostitute, thinks it’s a Myssy magnet, because as soon as she sees what is in his eye, whatever it is, she is drawn to it.

“Do you think I’m pretty?” she asks.

“Maybe before you got the ugly stick upside your head,” he replies.

Myssy smiles. This is what her chosen profession has taught her: whenever something hurts you smile and act like you’ve enjoyed it. The more you act like you’ve enjoyed it, the quicker they come and the quicker they leave. But the something in this stranger’s eye has her craving the coming more than the leaving and the whole situation has her wanting to pout the way she did when her father got drunk and screamed obscenities at her.

“I was prettier before,” she says pointing to her eye.

“Undoubtedly,” he replies and begins to walk away.

“What you lookin for?” she questions grabbing the young man by the arm.

“A place to stay.”

“You can stay with me for a bit,” she says pushing her flat chest against the side of his body.

The young man rolls his eyes, “And how much would that cost?”

“It depends what you want,” she says clamping a hand on his inner thy.

“I want to sleep, and I don’t make a habit of renting pu##y anyway,” he says pushing the girl away and continuing in his aimless direction.

Myssy starts to let him go, then feels an urge to grab him again. “What?”

“You know where you’re going?” Myssy points to the top of a large dilapidated building where a tall steeple can just be seen jutting out from behind. “You can stay at the old church. They‘ll take care of ya there.”

The young man looks as though he is about to say something mean again, holds his tongue and says, “Thank you,” and begins crossing the street.

“Where ya goin?” Myssy asks.

“The Church,” the young man says pointing to the alleyway between the ruined structure and a warehouse. Myssy doesn’t want him to go that way, but there are surely people watching. There are always people that watch you here--people that would get angry if she told him he just as soon take a more scenic route.

“What‘s your name?” she asks, again grabbing the young man’s arm, this time pressing it to her stomach.

“I haven’t thought of one yet.”

Myssy dismisses this strange response and propositions him again. “It doesn‘t matter. Come on back with me.”

“P##s on you,” he replies pushing Myssy away.

“Twenty dollars,” she responds, but the young man disappears into the darkness.

There was little doubt I was destined to be King and have lots and lots of pu##y. But I soon learned that just because you are destined to be King does not make you one. And a King is a King regardless the size of his kingdom. I learned this from King Slappy, and God rest his soul, he taught me this valuable lesson early.

Fresh off the bus in New York, I viewed this world as though it was already mine, every dirty transient and cheap whore. But it wasn’t mine. The whole block belonged to King Slappy--a man who had made his kingdom by first owning pu##y and then renting it out to others. Not my style, but to each his own and to Slappy that of a street pimp. One of his girls, Myssy, who I would get to know quite well later, accosted me outside the bus station and promised me sex for money. I turned her down and started towards an old church where she said a wanna be King could stay for free.

And it has always been of debate whether she was in on the con or not. In the years that would pass, she always would tell me that she tried to warn me against that alleyway--to simply go around. But I’ve never seen it like that. She was a servant at the time, and a servant’s lot is to her king. As I sit here, after having done the thing I’ve done, it seems impossible that she was not part of the whole hustle. I can see Slappy telling her, “If they don’t buy the pu##y, send them to the alley.”

The resolution is that I am King and I must be right. If Myssy led me to the alley, she led me to the alley if for no other reason than I say it is so. But again, I wasn’t King then. Could I be wrong? And this is what Myssy did to me. I couldn’t trust her. I couldn’t make heads or tails of her from day one--this ugly beautiful girl that would be the first I would own--she made me human and there is nothing more damaging to a King than being made human. Humans are confused and Kings are always right. It’s what sets us apart.

But back to Slappy and my first lesson in being a King. King’s are to always understand their surroundings. If I had known that, I would have understood that an alley in another man’s Kingdom is a bad place to be all alone.

It was in this alleyway I met King Slappy himself and two goons. They demanded a tax of all I owned. I protested that this was not fair, to which I was hit upside the head with a hollow metal pipe. Although it didn’t impress me at the time, the fact that Slappy did the honor of striking the blow and did it in the face of so little complaint, would be a thing I would later grow to admire. But I would always admire Slappy. His kingdom was small, but he did things right. “Give me all your money!” “No.” And then there was a flash and the taste of iron in my mouth. This was the sign of a good King. Good Kings know that whatever they want is the right thing and anyone who wants differently should be dealt with quickly.

It’s the same in the corporate world. An oil company wanted to drill a well on the front doorstep of my mother’s house once. My brother, a g##damned treehugger, didn’t want them to. The law said negotiations had to take place. The treehugger took this literally. The day after my brother’s “legal” protest took place my mother was sued for everything she owned. Today there is a huge rig pad in the yard and mom still pays homage to those particular captains of industry.

But enough of my family and their dogoodedness. I’ve been done with them a long time. They never understood this whole world of kings and followers and how the words of a king are always the right ones. It’s no wonder they’re ruined.

You can either be a king and rule or a nothing and behave. King Slappy had taught me that although preordained, I had not yet taken my seat upon the throne. I remember how quickly I gave him my money after being reminded of my insignificance. I remember the way I mumbled as he tried to rip my duffel bag away, the way he laughed when I told him he couldn’t have that because it was important to me. I thought I saw weakness in this King Slappy when he told me I could keep the bag. And then the good King took a p##s on it and gave me a swift kick to the ribcage. Game set and match to Slappy. A good, strong King, someone a young man like myself would do well to emulate.