Delicious Tacos - The Pussy

The 110 is backed up to Oregon and surface streets are a Bosch hell of shattered metal, folks. Bones meat blood and sinew in the streets. Insurance salesmen desperate to get home in time for the game, ripping babies out of car seats and holding them by the feet and slamming their little faces into light poles in a spray of blood and gristle to hear the mothers scream. Riot troops with flamethrowers just broiling people alive in their minivans, it’s a real mess out there folks. Why would you stop drinking. A crack in the earth has opened at the interchange of the 10 East and the northbound 605 and Satan has emerged 20 stories tall in flame to rape commuters with an ever-spiraling tentacle cock covered in poisonous barbs and there’s an accident in the carpool lane that CHP is busy trying to clear but it’s going to be at least an hour. CHP spokesperson Rick Martinez is telling commuters out there to stay put folks. Stay where you are if you can, you do not want to be on the road tonight. Truckers passing you will leer from high windows with the ghoulish face of your father. The dead beckon you to hell from twisted reflections in his hubcaps. Giant spiky lugnuts swirling, you feel the flesh ripped off your face, tongue torn out twitching on the asphalt, shredded throat croaking, wordless agony… it’s a real mess out there folks. Better buy as much liquor as you can as soon as you get home folks, you do not want to be sober out there. Traffic brought to you by Mattress Masters. You spend one third of your life on your mattress, why wouldn’t you choose the best. Mattress Masters: sweet dreams.

I masturbated in the car to make myself feel better. Struggled with my belt in a fast patch, grabbed the gym T shirt I’d left in the passenger seat. Draped it over my penis. Thought of a blowjob Gertrude gave me one hot afternoon on a coke hangover. Do you want me to suck your dick, she said. I miss you, lover. Remembered cumming without warning her. How could you, you ruin it. Grab her head and force her to take you deep and shoot down her throat while she tries to wiggle off. You had a good one, she said. Like 8 spurts. I lost it in a slow patch when a trucker was right next to me. He’s seen worse.

That was good for 15 minutes. But by the time I got to the 5 interchange I knew I was going to the liquor store. 50 more minutes to get there. I bought a pint of Christian Brothers for $6.99. Maybe I can pace myself, I thought. It was gone in 20 minutes on an empty stomach. Barely felt it but woke up with a hangover. The only thing that’s gonna take the hangover away is another $6.99 pint of Christian Brothers. If you got a better idea I’d love to hear it.

It’s the light that gets me. Dark at 4:30. I just want to drink and sleep. You try to go outside but it’s cold and all the girls walking around have big sweaters on. No more yoga pants. Why go outside if you won’t see a fully defined pubic mound, the mathematically perfect curve of an ass crack jiggling. What’s the point.

Drink and sleep. Your hormones crash. Go to the gym and your strength has fallen off a cliff. Creaky joints. Every movement grates like bone on bone. I believe I tore my rotator cuff. This is another way of saying: my shoulder hurts. “Rotator cuff” is the only piece of shoulder anatomy I know the name of. Therefore I tore my rotator cuff. No heavy bench press, no heavy military. I now have the upper body of Barbie without the tits. It hurts when I hold the bar to dead lift. It hurts when I support the bar to squat. It hurts when I do a pullup.

Keep hammering on it anyway. Low weight high reps. Just to the point where it hurts but my arm doesn’t rip off my torso, spray onlookers with arterial blood. What are you gonna do, not lift weights? God made me to be a flabby pussy. I skip two weeks, suddenly I’m built like a white garbage bag full of jelly with willow branches sticking out. I am genetically half a man, it’s only with vigilant struggle that I approach the threshold of fuckability.

Cold and dark, cold and dark. I just want to eat a hearty stew of root vegetables and drink burgundy wine. Pass out to the TV. Mind you this is Los Angeles, cold is 60 degrees. But still. Something happens at the end of daylight savings time. The days are already shorter, shorter, the sunset starts at 3. The whole afternoon is weird cold queasy twilight. Then daylight savings ends. Lopping an hour off the light doesn’t seem like a big deal but it is, it’s like getting dropped out of bed into ice water, like throwing the emergency brake on the freeway. Every ancient gene that tells you to hole up with pelts and a fire kicks in all at once. White people are not meant to work in winter. Two hundred thousand years telling you if you go outside and do anything you’re going to die. No fighting it. You can only make it worse by trying.

You can drink your way through it, eat your way through it, sleep your way through it. But the phone is still going off, buzzing, telling you you have to work. Talk to people. The rent is due. The bills. If you don’t fuck soon you’re gonna feel ugly. Have to get dates. Go on OKCupid, go out to bars… work work work. Every conversation is an annoyance, a distraction from what you really want: to crawl in a hole and die.

The police helicopter comes at three in the morning. I am a nonviolent person. But I want a laser pointer. I want to get it in the pilot’s eye and have him flinch and lose the stick for one second. The bird goes down in fire, he burns alive, his children fatherless. Always at three in the morning. LAPD flies low, rattles the windows. Spindly spotlight fingers some cholo’s garage. Engine drone like a whole Stukka squadron, thump thump thump of the blades, the loudspeaker. “JOSE ECHEVARRIA, COME OUT OF THE HOUSE.” Excellent pronunciation, they roll the R’s and everything.

I want a Stinger missile. Heat seeker made to get planes on takeoff and landing. Turned the war around for the Afghan mujaheddin, took out the Soviets’ Hind gunships. I want a Stinger. Hot whoosh of gas out the end of the tube as I launch. Recoilless. The missile streaks across the sky, spiraling as it homes in on the LAPD’s heat signature. The bird spins only a few times since the fuckers fly low enough to almost touch. Plunges half cocked into my neighbor’s courtyard where the barking dogs are also immolated. The other neighbor’s truck with the variable-rhythm alarm that goes off if a dandelion petal lands on its hood explodes magnificently in flame. LAPD pilot emerging from the wreckage with his flesh burned off like a ghoul before he staggers and dies. Jose Echevarria sprints into the night, parkouring over fences, knowing he got a gift from God. He will live to steal car stereos another day. And I can go back to fucking sleep.

I am a nonviolent person. But I bought an axe for my Patrick Bateman Halloween costume. It sits on my air conditioner. I daydream about using it. Mexican kids come to steal my bike again but this time I’m ready. The porch light snaps on and the sliding door roars open fast and there I am swinging, laughing and taking limbs. The kid further from me with the bolt cutters panics as I dismember his buddy. He makes it over the porch rail but stumbles in the rhododendrons, I leap the rail and catch him. Big full body strokes that get him at the wrists and ankles. I daydream about the barking dogs; making meatballs full of poison, ground glass… find my hands pantomiming, forming the meat.

Dark dreams, dark thoughts. Wintertime. Even out here with sunshine and flowers, you carry the cold with you. No way to fight it. Like the man said, don’t try. Suck it up and kill time dreaming of the axe. Wait till it’s over. Two thousand more hours to go.

Went down the block to get a Patra Burger. The Echo Park Christmas parade was going on. Teen cheerleaders shimmying down Sunset. Mexican Christmas carols play out of Mustangs. Short skirts. Yoga pants. Fifteen years old, tops. Like all straight men, I am powerfully sexually attracted to underage girls. Far more than to women of legal age. If you aren’t, say so in the comments. I’ll know everything else you say is also a lie.