Angel Colón: No Happy Endings

Arthur Darvish needed extra money so he went to the sperm bank.

He figured it would be simple. They’d give him a cup, a good porn flick, and some time alone to pop one—or two—off in a cup. Maybe they’d spot him a little extra cash for the lie about pursuing his doctorate at Columbia University. Embellishing his credentials wouldn’t be a big deal. It wasn’t like this was a job interview. Besides, better to do something for the betterment of mankind instead of leaving all that genetic material in a sock or a napkin.

They took him as he was queuing up a scene on the DVD they gave him, “SUPER BIKER SLUTS FROM MARS XXX.” Strong arms grabbed him. A hand with a rag on it covered his mouth and nose.

Arthur woke up strapped into a cheap dentist’s chair, a gag in his mouth, a plastic and metal tube around his raw cock—no—this was not what he considered “easy.” He made note of the bandage on the crook of his right arm. There’d been a needle in him. They’d injected him with something that made everything feel dream-like. The edges of the world were fan-brushed into oblivion and the lights above were so very warm. There was a thick, lemony scent in the air. It was pleasant. More than pleasant. He couldn’t lie to himself, this felt pretty damn spectacular. If he were in a right state of mind, he’d be afraid. The miracle of modern chemistry kept all that anxiety at bay.

Those thoughts and the fact he’d came too many times to count in the past three hours kept him from maintaining an erection. Surely he’d donated enough. It had to be time to go home. Those were the drugs talking. Nothing about this situation was normal and absolutely nothing about it indicated it would end, but Arthur had an easy time ignoring those instincts under the warm, warm lights. He started counting the little shards of light that appeared in his peripheral whenever he stared at the bulbs for too long.

A male nurse appeared over him. Arthur remembered him from the front desk upstairs. Was he there the whole time? Arthur couldn’t remember.

“We have a small problem,” the nurse said. He smiled. “Well, beyond the small problem you already have.” He had a light accent, but it didn’t garble his speech. If anything, it made the man sound more sophisticated—well traveled.

Arthur blinked. He wanted to ask what this was all about. Wanted an explanation for this treatment. All he managed was a slur of gibberish. He saw drool fall onto his hospital gown. He couldn’t remember when he put that on—did he put that on? He shifted his hips. Felt a bump between his ass cheeks.

The nurse lifted a clipboard. “We tend to run background checks, but I am behind on my quotas, so we decided to scoop you up either way.” He wrote something down. “I normally try to keep my stock pure, you know. I don’t really give a damn what school you went to—that does not matter.” He frowned, his eyes darkened. “You see, what does matter, Mister Darvish, is your drug history.”

Arthur moaned. He’d maybe lied a little bit about his past. He didn’t feel like mentioning anything about the pills. It wasn’t like he was too far gone. He’d cut back the last few weeks since he couldn’t get his roommate, Tony, the amount of money he needed. That’s mostly what led to this. He figured donating blood would be too difficult.

“Would you like to see a sample of your sperm?” The nurse dragged a cart over with a computer monitor. He turned the screen on. There was a black and white picture—at first still. “See, when you abuse drugs there are so many unforeseen consequences. One being, the effect on your reproductive organs.” The nurse moved a mouse and clicked twice. “Sperm are very easy to damage.” The screen shifted. Now there was a collection of sperm, none moving. There were a few with two tails or two heads. The nurse sighed. “Your sperm are completely damaged—unacceptable.”

Arthur watched the nurse walk to the vacuum and flip a switch. There was a small window of quiet, but then the machine started to howl. He felt a tug at his nethers, but no pain. He noticed his gown was hiked up above his waist.

“I don’t like junkies, Mister Darvish.” The nurse walked to a cabinet and opened it up. Inside, rows upon rows of empty cylinders and little paper bags. The nurse placed his clipboard in a sleeve on the cabinet door. “You sully the gene pool. Ruin society as a whole.” He fished a remote from his pocket and pressed a single red button. “My clients would go insane if I gave them defective product. Hell, it makes me insane.”

Arthur wanted to ask, Why are you doing this? Or Can’t I just leave? but there was a sudden tension in his ass and legs. It felt like his skin was too tight. A low hum came from between his legs. He felt heat near his balls, but no pain. Whatever they’d injected him with; it was worth more than any of the Percocet and OxyContin pills he used to chew up weeks ago. He could only watch the nurse depress that button, or look down at the tube pulling desperately at his now flaccid cock. The tube leading to the container he assumed was meant to be filled with his semen was slowly turning pink, then a deep red. Christ, was he bleeding? He moaned and jerked his shoulders. Came off more like he was slow dancing. The hum grew louder and that tightness began crawling up his gut and into his chest.

“It is an unfortunate turn of events. You could have gone anywhere else. Normally, I would give you a lethal dose of whatever I had lying around and let you sleep forever,” the nurse said, “But a waste like you does not deserve that. A lying, sterile piece of human trash. No, you deserve to die violently.” The nurse leaned in. “That feeling? It is the electrode up your ass. It is on the highest setting.” His breath smelled like cigarettes. He smiled and it looked like he’d been eating corn on the cob.

Arthur felt a hammer cold cock him in the center of his chest. There was a sudden flutter, as if doves would burst from his mouth. He smelled ozone, a sudden jolt of pain that ran from his tailbone and into the space between his shoulder blades. His hands tightened and his toes curled. Jaw clenched so tight he thought he’d shatter his teeth. He saw the nurse hover over him again, a smile on his face. The pain continued and flared into every muscle. Arthur seized—a single, full-body cramp. The straps holding his arms down gave way and with a final jolt of consciousness, Arthur swung his arm as hard as he could, the buckle of his restraint slashing the bastard’s face—good.

His spirit left in the breath that followed and his body went slack. The stranger left the room and called in two nurses in scrubs to deal with the mess left behind.

On the night she was arrested, Fantine Park busied herself playing Blackjack and drinking watered down gin and tonics. “Hit me.” She tapped the drab green velveteen Blackjack table, directly under her hand—two jacks both black. Her attention wasn’t on the cards, though. She was busy watching the bank of TVs above the faded green card table.

The dealer arched a brow. “Are you sure?” she asked.

“No questions.” Fan tapped the table again. She looked from screen to screen. A boxing match, horse races, a bunch of girls dancing—nothing with the news. “You guys don’t have a local news stations, weather or something?”