Bad to the bone, p.23
Bad to the Bone, page 23
Finally, my new consort had to be sexually interesting. Both Wendell and I were accustomed to unfettered sexual expression. A frigid bitch who laid beneath us, unmoving, simply wouldn’t do.
Or would it?
If I wanted a shy, obedient female, how could I expect sexual experience?
The solution was to go the other way. To find a bitch whose lack of experience, in combination with obedience unto death, would hold our interest. For a month or two.
Once the criteria were established, the solution was simple enough. For some time, I’d been cultivating an eighteen-year-old Cambodian girl. Blossom Nol. My initial interest was purely selfish. I thought it might be amusing to put her with Marcy for an evening’s entertainment. My and Wendell’s entertainment. Of course.
Blossom Nol is an amazing creature. She has the body of a twelve-year-old and the face of an angel. Large dark eyes. Button nose. Soft, heavy lips. Tiny chin. All framed by thick black hair.
Her breasts are so small they make almost no impression on her white blouse. Her arms and legs are pitifully thin. Her hips are nearly invisible and her black skirt falls in a straight line from her waist to her knees.
I’d become her personal Therapist a month before my pussy problem existed and discovered a bizarre life history. Like many Cambodians, her family had fled the murderous politics of the Khmer Rouge. Fortunately, they’d left before the fall of South Vietnam, when the competition for U.S. visas was less keen. When it was still possible to bribe Cambodian officials to advance families to the top of the emigration list.
Luckily, Blossom had never experienced the horrors of the new Kampuchea. Unluckily, her father made Pol Pot seem like Santa Claus.
Blossom was unable to recall a time in her life when she hadn’t been routinely beaten.
Her father used a four-foot length of quarter-inch wooden doweling to drive home his personal idea of proper human behavior. He called these lessons “stripes.”
Spill your milk: one stripe. Cry over spilled milk: two stripes. Pee your pants: one stripe. Poop your pants: two stripes. Disobedience meant blood.
The discipline continued as she got older. Despite manifest obedience that, she claims, was immediate and complete. Her only solace was a loving grandmother who died when she was seven years old.
Boo-hoo-hoo.
The grandmother’s death left Daddy Nol with a big problem. He and Mommy Nol (whose only attempt to interfere with Daddy’s discipline earned her a personal set of stripes) owned a small restaurant in the West Village. The economics of immigrant life were such that both were forced to work.
With granny gone to the big rice paddy in the sky, who would supervise young Blossom? Professional child care was never considered. In the first place, the Nols worked at night. In the second and most important place, outsiders would infect young Blossom with, curse of curses, “American nonsense.”
Daddy had even resisted sending Blossom to school. Until Immigration threatened to reject his application for citizenship.
The solution was simple enough. Each afternoon, Daddy Nol left his restaurant to meet Blossom as she came out of school. Ever the concerned parent, he escorted her home, waited while she used the toilet and undressed, then tied her to her bed and went back to work.
Leaving her with a single injunction: “No pee sheet. You pee sheet, you get stripes.”
Blossom spent the next ten years tied to her bed. (On weekends she was allowed to scrub the apartment before her parents went to the restaurant.)
She ran away from home when she was seventeen and was raped four times in the first month.
Naturally enough, given her circumstances, Blossom considered suicide, but was afraid to go through with it. Somehow, she wandered into Hanover House. She told me that she knew she’d found a home when her Therapist began to curse her. She didn’t mind the shouting as long as it wasn’t followed with stripes, ropes and rapes.
Blossom spent her first year at Hanover House in routine therapy. The therapy had been worthless, but she’d proven herself a willing worker and our cleaning business always needed bodies.
“You’re a very brave girl, Blossom,” I told her after three or four therapy sessions. “But bravery isn’t enough. You must heal yourself.”
“How can I do this?” She kept her bony hands on her bony knees and her eyes on her hands. She never looked up.
“Do you trust me, Blossom?”
“Yes.”
I heard adoration in her voice. I swear it.
“You’ve been running away from your past. You’ll never heal your wounds by running away. Do you understand?”
“Yes. No. I’m not sure.”
“Until you confront the damage done by your family, the wounds will remain open. No matter what happens to you, even if it’s all good, the wounds will continue to fester. By running away from the demon of your father, you keep him alive. You must descend into the abyss and you must do it voluntarily. Do you know the story of St. George and the dragon?” My tone, in direct contrast to that of her regular therapist, was kind, almost paternal.
“Yes.”
“If St. George had surrendered to his fear, he would have been haunted for the rest of his life. No matter how fast or far he ran, he would never escape the dragon. The dragon would own his soul. Of course, if he fights the dragon, it might kill him. But if there’s no risk, there’s no possibility of gain. Are you following me?”
“I. What? I.”
She shook her head, sending her long, glossy hair swirling about her face. In some ways, she was quite attractive. Suddenly, I found myself looking forward to the night when she would step into my bedroom. Suddenly, I was no longer bored.
“You must five the wounds. You must allow yourself to experience the totality of your pain. Knowing full well that you can walk away any time you wish. Make no mistake, Blossom, it won’t be easy. Your past is a powerful dragon. You must anticipate a long and bitter fight.” A fight, I didn’t add, which would end on the day I became bored with her.
“What do I have to do?” Her voice was high and tiny with just a hint of the sing-song of her native language.
“You must re-create the entire experience. The ropes, the stripes, the obedience. Even the rapes. If you win, if you see the fight through to the end, you will have the inner strength you desperately desire. Look at me, Blossom.” I lifted her chin until our eyes met. “Make no mistake, here. This is not a quest to be undertaken lightly. If you make the attempt and fail, the dragon will grow stronger. Don’t try it unless you mean to see it through.”
Just a thought: although I characterized Blossom’s history as bizarre, very few of my poochies enjoyed mainstream childhoods. Blossom was an exaggerated version of the average poochie. She was the archetypal poochie.
When Blossom came to me, she was wearing the white, cotton nightgown common to all Hanoverian females. It covered her body completely, from her shoulders to her ankles. Blossom’s eyes were riveted to the floor and if she noticed Wendell the Wonderful perched on the edge of the bed, she gave no sign.
“Blossom?” I asked.
“I’ve come to fight the dragon.” Her thin voice held all the conviction of a chicken announcing its intention to eat the hawk. Yet I must admit that I took a moment to admire her courage. She had no real weapons and the dragon (meaning me) would surely devour her.
“Come here, Blossom.”
Wendell’s eyes were on fire. I hadn’t told him about Blossom. She was to be a gift and the best gifts come as a surprise. Blossom was my ‘bizarre pussy surprise.’
I was sitting in a leather club chair and I took Blossom on my lap and began to stroke her hair.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Blossom?”
“Yes. I know I must.”
“Are you afraid, Blossom?”
“Yes. I’m afraid that I’ll fail.”
Her body was feather light, yet the sharp bones of her left shoulder and hip pushed against me as I cradled her in my arms.
“Have you ever had sex with a man, Blossom?”
She hesitated and I knew that she was aware of Wendell. “I’ve been raped.”
“Have you ever been with a man for pleasure?”
“No.”
“Were any of the men who raped you black men?”
“Two were black.”
“How did the rapes happen?”
“I didn’t have a place to live and the men told me I could stay with them. I didn’t know I was supposed…That I had to do it with them. When I refused, they made me do it.”
“Are you afraid, Blossom?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to see it through to the end?”
“Yes.”
I trussed her up like a chicken. I tied her elbows to her ribcage and her wrists to her thighs. She could not lie flat on her stomach. Nor could she lower her legs. Wendell, in the process of shedding his clothes, took a moment to admire her body. Blossom’s tiny breasts were little more than dark circles against pale ivory skin. Her sex was prominent and virtually hairless. With her legs drawn up, her narrow buttocks disappeared altogether.
After we finished (there was more, of course, much, much more, and for only $79.95 and the genitalia of your first born child, I’ll be glad to send you the unedited video), I untied her without comment, then took several blankets from the linen closet and tossed them on the floor at the foot of my bed.
“You will sleep here,” I announced. Having secured her obedience by feigning paternal concern, I switched over to the ‘master mode.’ With all my obligations, I didn’t have time to coax her. She’d already taken enough of my energies.
She started to put on her nightgown, but I took it away from her. “You are not to cover yourself unless I tell you to cover yourself. You’re in a different phase, now, and I must be a proper dragon.” I held up my final surprise, a four-foot length of wooden doweling. “Obedience, Blossom. Obedience or stripes.”
Hello, Poochie.
Bye-bye, Poochies.
Hanover House was a convenience I could no longer afford. The constant quarreling. The bullshit politics. Enough was enough.
Time is the limiting factor in all great efforts. I was needed at the lab, but I was forced to spend long hours baby-sitting two hundred neurotic poochies. (Neurotic poochies? An example of redundancy fit for the dictionary.) Originally, I’d planned to simply disappear, but that course of action had obvious flaws. My deserted poochies would first grow resentful, then seek out lawyers, investigative journalists, fat detectives, Geraldo Rivera!
I decided to end the Hanoverian experiment by uniting my poochies. By keeping them distracted while I made my getaway.
My performance was masterful. I had them gather in the meeting room, then wait a half hour before I made my appearance. When I entered by the rear doors, all eyes turned to me.
I literally dragged myself to the front of the room. “The time has come to end the great experiment,” I announced.
The melodrama of the moment was so overwhelming I allowed a tear to form in the corner of my right eye.
“No. No. No.” They stood in their seats, shouting.
“As most of you know, we’ve been investigated by several agencies over the last two years. In each and every case we’ve been cleared of any wrongdoing. Yet each investigation has taken its toll. Our legal costs have been enormous and contributions have virtually stopped because of the bad publicity.”
This last was a complete lie. There had never been any ‘contributions.’ My only source of income was the slave labor I exacted from my poochies.
“The wolf is at the door,” I continued. “The buildings are about to be repossessed.” (Of course they were. The properties were heavily mortgaged and I hadn’t made a payment in eight months.) “We can’t even afford to buy food and clothing. It’s…” I began to sob and moan. “Hanover House is gone, but you must not let the Hanoverian system die. You have the knowledge. You have the strength. Stay close to each other. Meet in small groups. You must live as the early Christians lived. You must be aware of your enemies at all times. As for me, I must go into a brief exile, but I will return to you if you keep hope alive. If you do not forget that the Hanoverian system is the last great hope for mankind.”
At this point I broke down completely. Most of my poochies broke down as well. They forgot about the quarreling, the complaints and the bullshit poochie politics.
When I recovered somewhat, I tossed them a bone. Our cleaning business was still viable. I’d gotten offers from prospective buyers, but I would not sell. Instead, I would turn the business over to the Therapists who’d been running it all along.
Most of my poochies hadn’t had to look for a job in years. Few of them were psychologically prepared for the rigors of mainstream employment. Their jobs would keep them together. That and the hope (should I say the threat?) of my return. By the time they sorted it out, I’d be gone.
“It’s possible to view these events as a stroke of good fortune. As an opportunity. Some of you have become more dependent on Hanover House than Hanoverian psychology. Some of you have become dependent on me. What you must remember is that your therapy was designed to give you the strength to meet crises. I’ve always counseled you on the dangers of drug addiction. Well, you can also become addicted to situations and individuals. Withdrawal from addiction, from any addiction, is inevitably painful. Withdrawal is also necessary.”
I ran the St. George and the dragon bit up the flagpole, then paused, giving them a chance to swallow the bait. What choice did they have? My bait was the only food in the sea. Not that I harbored any romantic delusions. Without me, their real addiction, to their neurotic poochie egos, would blow them apart within six months. The ones who didn’t leave immediately, would separate into pockets of orthodoxy, neo-orthodoxy and outright heresy.
But, of course, I only needed a month to become yesterday’s news. If not to my poochies, some of whom would surely keep the myth alive, then to any official agency with the ability to make my life miserable.
I sent the few Therapists addicted to PURE out to the lab where they would function as security. I gave the rest of the poochies five days to get out.
I endured their good-bye hugs until I could stand it no more. Pleading an imminent breakdown, I retired to my quarters. Blossom was sitting in a chair instead of on the floor, and I was forced to give her stripes. She received them with resolute determination.
I enjoyed the stripes, though I lacked the energy for sex. My performance had taken its toll, but its success filled me with a sense of accomplishment. I slept the sleep of the truly innocent.
I woke at four and began to write. It’s now seven-fifteen. The writing was so effortless that I begin to believe that I missed my true calling. I should have been a writer instead of a psychopath.
The fat detective must pay. The fat detective’s payment begins this afternoon with the arrival of the fat detective’s fat bitch. I have judged her to be seriously disturbed and the only remedy to be chemotherapy. How does the saying go? The dope shall make you PURE? Here, Poochie.
TWENTY-SEVEN
BETTY HALUKA, DESPITE A perfunctory description provided by Stanley Moodrow, had entertained many images of the cult leader, Davis Craddock. She’d imagined him to be anything from a white-robed guru to a tweedy academic, eventually settling on a tall, slender figure, an urbane maniac whose glittering eyes revealed his underlying insanity. She’d been expecting to meet Craddock all along; her Therapist had assured her that Craddock personally interviewed all patients before they became part of the Hanoverian community. Still, the summons came as a shock. Betty was marched up to Craddock’s suite before she could shed her coat.
“The thing is to just be yourself,” her Therapist, Jack Burke, advised. “No pretensions. He’ll see through you in a minute.” He smiled as he advised her, thinking of Craddock’s penchant for seduction as a test of worthiness. For most of Hanover House’s existence, a night with Davis Craddock had been an absolute precondition to the admission of females. But over the last year, what with all the problems, Craddock had become less concerned with day-to-day Hanoverian life. Now the experiment was entering a new, unpredictable phase. Yet the great man could still take the time to counsel a patient. That’s what made him a great man.
Betty, following her Therapist up the stairs, was aware of the general agitation within the community. Knots of Hanoverians, their bags already packed, talked excitedly. Many were crying. If Betty had had the instincts of an ex-cop, the alarm bells would have been ringing loud enough to wake the dead, but Betty deliberately refused to speculate, focusing her attention on what she would say to Davis Craddock.
“This is it. Good luck.” Burke held the door to Craddock’s suite open.
“You’re not coming in?”
“It’s a personal interview.” He grinned lewdly. “I’m sure you’ll find it enlightening.”
Betty stepped into what real estate agents like to call an eat-in kitchen. The counters, sinks and stove gleamed with the efforts of Hanoverians to please their master. The floors and walls were spotless.
“Are you Betty?” A small, Asian girl sat by a white Formica table. Her hands were folded on her lap, her eyes downcast.
“I am.”
“You can go inside. Davis is waiting for you.”
Betty expected to enter an office or, at the least, a cozy living room. Instead, she found an enormous bedroom, big enough for a pool table and a bank of electronic gear against the far wall. She let her eyes wander for a moment, trying to take it in, then noticed the black man sitting calmly in an overstuffed chair. He was enormous, almost as big as Moodrow, and he regarded her with curious, amused eyes.
“Wendell Bogard,” he announced. “At your service.”
Without answering, Betty turned her attention to the man sitting at the foot of the bed. Far from her expectations, Davis Craddock was short and wiry, with a thick head of stiff, black hair that hung over his brow, dominating his small dark eyes. Looking into those eyes, Betty found no trace of the glittering insanity she’d anticipated. The man’s eyes were dead black circles, as blank and empty as the eyes of a cooked fish on a plate.
