Charles Bock - Beautiful Children

“See my body was just starting to show back then. I guess with the trimesters my lips must have become wider, something, because it's come totally unclasped.”

“Just take it out then.”

“I CAN’T. All the hole needs is an hour and it closes. NO WAY I give up the stud after everything that's happened. Come on. We have to get the ball back into the clasp.”

Daphney paused, giggled self-consciously. “Don't be such a pussy.” Her legs opened, wide and inviting. “Lestat's been begging me to let him do this. You don't even know.

“Hey,” she added, almost as an afterthought, “you know how to use pliers, right?”

Not far away the door creaked on its hinges. Cars passed with airy swooshing sounds. As the girl knelt, her knee settled onto tile that was hard and smooth and uncomfortable. Overhead the lights hummed to life now, brightening the scene in front of her, but just as quickly as the moment came, and her eyes began adjusting, the bulb went dim. The girl decided to wait for her next opportunity, transferred the pliers from her weak to her strong hand, and made an uncertain, preliminary attempt at working their jaws. If she needed more light, Daphney offered her the Bic, and though the offer was made as a joke, the concern underlying it was undeniable.

The girl weakly asked Daphney to hold the lighter a little lower, please, yeah, that should do it.

She edged forward, grimacing, sober now, too sober for her own good, she did not want to be here and she did not know what she was doing and she did not know how to get out of this, and these thoughts were shattered by new sounds — to her immediate left, the mongrel dog, sniffing her face. Now the girl felt a wet brush down the side of her cheek, the dog was licking the girl with the shaved head, dabbing at her face, slobbery and affectionate strokes — an event that Daphney found just perfect; Daphney atop the toilet like an upended turtle, her legs spread in invitation, her pregnant belly hanging down on top of the girl's forehead; Daphney giggling in spite of herself, pulling on the dog's jump rope, the dog pulling right back, going for the girl's eyes.

The lighter's flame caromed. Daphney lurched on her throne, calling out, “Careful now.”

Between the meat of her thighs the studs were gleaming jewels, a misshapen five-petaled flower, and as the girl with the shaved head moved in, an unfresh aroma was suddenly pungent. The girl gagged, then gave a nervous giggle, then, despite herself, continued, peeling apart the vagina's lips, feeling the steel bloom delicate on her fingertips, smooth, its appearance fascinating, alluring.

Daphney exhaled a gasp; her body stiffened. The girl felt an urge to kiss her crown jewel, to take Daphney's clitoral bolt into her mouth, suck and roll it around on her tongue.

As quickly as this instinct passed, the girl was struck by the desire to reach inside Daphney, dig her hand, her whole forearm in there, to reach inside until she got to Daphney's unborn child. She wondered if crushing the child's skull right here and now might be the best thing. Rip that little tadpole baby from Daphney's stomach. Leave that embryo floating in the toilet, but at least finished, at least that.

Withdrawing from between Daphney's legs, she sucked for air, as deep a breath as had ever been taken.

“I need the cough syrup.”

Daphney laughed and seemed relieved herself. “Totally.” Reaching down the side of the toilet, she found the backpack and fumbled about. “Oh,” she said. “Snap. I know what we can do.”

There was more rummaging, the sounds of clatter. The Happy Meal box returned to the domain of the blue-yellow flame.

Daphney liberated the burnt spoon. A small clear vial.

“Wh… Wha—”

Incredulous, Daphney cut her off. “Let me get this straight. I'm letting you take pliers into my cooch— and YOU can't trust ME ?”

4.3

A collective oooh. Bodies spilled off the widened sidewalk, ignored traffic signals, bypassed the elevated walkways whose construction had cost taxpayers many a pretty penny. Necks craned, cameras flashed; in front of the pirate-themed hotel, the show was under way: a pair of larger-than-life-size nineteenth-century barges engaging each other: hired acrobats swinging from the airy sails. White smoke billowed, cannonballs flew.

The windshield of the FBImobile was soaked with electricity. Feedback reverberated through a crappy door speaker (the other had blown out three songs ago). In Kenny's eardrums, the speed metal and industrial noise of college radio station KUNV sounded like a whole lot of static and mess. He nodded dully along to the distortions. His fingers clung limply to the bottom rung of the steering wheel.

To his right, the boy remained slumped in the shotgun seat, eyes shut, his head resting on both the window and the bucket seat. All the running and screaming and excitement with the cell phone must have tuckered him out. All the chaos Newell caused, wasn't it something how oblivious he looked? How at peace.

Beyond the child's dormant body, above and behind the lump of his Adam's apple, a mast toppled, landing in the created lagoon with a spectacular splash. Kenny took in the choreographed effect without much interest, and looked beyond it, down the length of the Strip, taking in as much of its pulsing scale and scope as he could at once. The spectacle was too large and bright, reaching above the limits of the windshield, farther into the distance than his eyes could follow, each inch flashing, blinking. But as he stared, singular facets were discernible, not quite catching his eye so much as they came into focus, providing Kenny with points to concentrate on: a mammoth, postmodern take on the Egyptian pyramids that was sleek and shiny as black onyx; the glittering Eiffel Tower and the recreated laser-bright arc that acted as its hotel entranceway.

Kenny reached forward and turned the stick thing where the volume knob once had been; and as he did, the meat of the boy's neck became apparent to him. Newell's jugular predominated, appearing unnaturally thick.

Rhythms from neighboring car stereos and taxi horns merged in with what was left of the distorted radio noise. Motorcycle engines gunned unrepentantly — because if James Dean were still alive, even at a hundred and nine, that's what he'd have been doing. Traffic wasn't moving at all. For a moment Kenny stared at the big rig that was cruising solely to draw attention to the movie poster airbrushed on its flank. He noticed the small group of Hispanics, exhausted and still wearing their hotel uniforms, who had gathered underneath a bus station's covered waiting area. Someone kept their horn pressed for an extended period, and this brought a spate of other horns. Kenny adjusted himself in his seat, moving his tailbone off a crushed soda cup. He'd spent a half hour cleaning the front seats, and felt the FBImobile was looking pretty good, but oh well, no one was perfect.

His breaths were soft and he looked to his right and watched the boy sleeping. For a time Kenny invested himself in Newell's peace. His eyes moved down the boy's body now; he looked at the plastic cup balanced in Newell's crotch.

Inside the FBImobile there was a palpable inevitability, the sense of a predetermined result reaching its conclusion.

The moment was torture, for with it Kenny not only stared, but caught himself staring, and still did not stop, but for the first time was consciously aware that he was lingering on the sight — the cup perfectly at rest between the boy's thighs. Kenny felt himself flushed and tingling and very much ashamed. It was all he could do to stay inside his own skin, all he could do to force his eyes upward.

Luminescent mythologies. Blinking in montage.