Christopher WunderLee - The Loony - a novella of epic proportions

Albert’s quite pleased and waits respectfully until the maker is out of ear-shot before he says: “Kicked his sanctified ass.”

“That we did,” Ladybirde confirms, a good sport ungloatingly.

“He’ll recover,” Lolly offers, as though a therapist for them all.

His white pleated paper thimble is filled brightly this evening, all sorts of stimulating colors; he trolls the contents to see what he’s got. “Hmmm…” he’s done well, some psychotropics, mooders, downers, psychedelics, and then, well then, he sees it, and he fumbles through the pile, dripping pills like jelly beans onto the floor, hearing faintly their scurrying rolls, and he retrieves her.

Hoisting it like an Olympian torch, Albert waddles desperately towards his room, too agitated to bother with the rainbow of chaos he’s created on the tiles, or the throng of greedy poppers all scrambling for the best high, or the every other Tuesday nurse bending at her waist to pick up a rotten towel, her buttocks framed perfectly and crying out for a good whack. He smells her hair already, and can almost feel it against his face. As he downs his Styrofoam water, he plops it in his mouth and smells her body.

He enters his room and stands at the door, thinking she might already be in bed, but she’s not. He checks underneath, out the window, perhaps in the closet. Patience. He sits at the end of his mattress and rubs his hands together. His gaze is downcast, staring at his over-working fingers rolling methodically over each other, he realizes there’s a presence, someone at the door, and he’s caught within her eyes, sympathetically, apprehensively looking into his.

“I had trouble…”

“Harris, Harris…”

He’s off the bed and against her, her mouth hot and mixing with his tongue, her thin arms draped around his neck like a prize, he’s clutching her against his entire body, wants even their knees to be touching. She’s wearing a speckled summer dress of lavender flowers and vines. He remembers when she bought it, debuted it for him right out of the dressing room, pirouetted proudly in it, its brief lines swinging up and exposing her nude thighs. He’s already rubbed one red, plunked the back up and roamed around her synthetic silk panties, causing one side to ride up her crack, exposing the full cheek. He’s buried his face in the cradle of her neck and shoulder, where the stench of her sex is most maternal, his none ass grabbing hand is in her armpit, moist and aromatic. He quivers slightly, the whole existentialist days forcing him to rejoice too strongly, his composure tossed off like a challenge, his body reflexively contorting itself in elated vertigo. He tries to remain circumspect, at first, reminding himself of his suspicion, and the guarded secrets she’s been hired to loosen, he stares into her face, her whole face, investigating it for a plot, for the purpose of this new charade, but he only sees an Aphrodite mask. He tells himself there are too many pretenses, that they need to talk about the last time, as she purrs against his shoulder and pelvis grinds, swivels those savory hips along with his fumblings, that this is just further deceit. Was that love in her eyes or contention? He’s misread her from the very genesis, from the bar to the base, how many men has she been bedded with since then, a hundred, two, all of them embraced and given full access. It hurt him so, the betrayal, the men she’s ran through the script with, all those foreign fingers inside her, those anonymous dicks poking her good, those sweaty mouths cupping her nipples, hands roaming her freely, her going along with it the same way, visiting her victims like a saintly siren of sensual salvation, come to give them all a little toss before wandering onto her next roll. He was ashamed of himself for holding her, afraid he wouldn’t let go when he should.

“Oh, Harris…” was all he could manage.

“Don’t worry, you don’t have to say anything,” she breathes into his ear. She’d been in town for a week, just trying to get a pass to see him. An officer, a captain by the name of Franks, had taken pity upon her and gotten her in (how many times did she blow him for that? What sort of nasty little promises did she make? What sort of illicit acts?). An injured dog of jealousy barked in his mind. They must be getting desperate, that last interview hadn’t gone well for them, he’d toyed with them and they knew it. And now… now he was the prince of rose blooming rock satellites. They were really failing on this one. She’s been given the green light: fuck him into confession. No, no, no…

But, to feel her skin, to see her jade eyes, and smell her winterfresh breath, he couldn’t risk it, he couldn’t preserve himself, not with that there and that there (he’s taken to probing her between the legs), and those bouncing buttons on her chest. He’s pitiful. The jealousy he felt has subdued, he had to settle himself down, down boy, don’t let those wily charms work over his analytical prick. She picks up on it immediately, a true professional, begins to really turn it on, the two still pressed together, her entire ass hanging out, his hand now motionless, just resting on the exposed cheek, she begins to lead him by leaning back, to the bed. Ah, ha. He statues himself in place. She looks up doll eyed, comic books her lower lip out, and tilts her head impeachingly. She remains still, save her nervous groin.

“I’m soppy wet for it,” she intones warily, “don’t make me beg.”

They have had her locked up in the desert outside of Windhoek, where the sand is so cinnamon it looks like it should be surfed with toast. There were no other men — only a girl about a year out of high school who’d come from a Manhattan socialite’s womb and joined her church’s mission to convert the animists in the Kalahari region. Only, she got caught up with a dark man, a chief’s son, who convinced her to join their land war against the progeny of the Boerish Dutch. She was arrested after a bomb went off in a fat white man’s mansion, killing all eight of his Negro servants, but not harming the master of the house, and taken to the jail. Harris met her and spooned her affectionately every night, asexually, until the girl was sitting at the edge of their bed, weeping, feeling sorry for herself, her skirt pulled over her knees and leaned down to lay her head on the pillow and exposed a sliver of her rouge maw. Admittedly, Harris had dove for it and not let go until the little whiner was creamy all over and opened up and subdued. After that, her and her little action figure (garnering the name from her willingness to allow Harris to practice invultuation upon her) pulled the itchy army blankets up over their heads every night and slurped and sucked and grinded until morning chow call.

She was released just thirty days before, after sanitation and debriefing. The young girl, as far as she knew, was still there, probably fingering herself constantly, she’d become a real whore. Harris showed Albert some pictures, she looked like a girl on the cover of cereal box, freckles on her checks and nose, big blue pond eyes, a slightly off-kilter grin, brown pigtails and baby fat arms. Albert licked his lips, imagining two sets of boobies brushing against one another and furry chops meshing together.

Albert listens, calculating the accuracy and the plausibility versus the doubtful and the fabricated, decides the total equals truth, at least some granule of it, and tries to forget the gnawing questions about last time. Why’d she do it? There was no one he could trust, certainly not this silver-lipped, sex crazed super spy. But she was there, finally with him, after all those nihilistic hours of waiting. He should be overjoyed, clamoring to get that dress off, he should have his dick in her right now, she should be scratchy his back with her long nails, and grunting, and they should be in sweaty delight. He could share a vagina. He’d done it in the past, so what, for now, if she’s lying, if she’s just been dicked by more men than he’s ever known, throw in some midgets and a giant, or some girls. She was there, had been rubbing him just the right way.