Fickle Read online

  proudblacktrannie @ February 2 01:05 am

  Just on—breathless air kisses all around. Three words, fickel: Call Mr. Groin (or get a different lawyer if you must).

  36-D @ February 2 01:08 am

  My offer is open: the Rottweiler will be at your side, growling deep in his throat and waiting for the sic command, the moment you say the word.

  fickel @ February 2 01:10 am

  I appreciate everyone’s concerns. I’m just not ready to play hardball yet.

  marleybones @ February 2 01:13 am

  Also, I think you anticipate that any lawyer you call on is going to clamp down—shove you into “helpless female” mode and refuse to allow you to investigate Mr. Suicide’s death yourself.

  fickel @ February 2 01:14 am

  Well, isn’t that what you’d anticipate the Rottweiler would do?

  36-D @ February 2 01:16 am

  He’d shut your investigation down but he would never keep you in the dark. Trust me.

  i.went.to.harvard @ February 2 01:22 am

  Another moment of silence. I think that we must ask ourselves whether fickel is enjoying this whole nightmare, on some level. Perhaps “enjoying” isn’t quite the word?

  marleybones @ February 2 01:23 am

  A woman tries to take control of her situation, and instantly she’s “getting off” on being abused.

  i.went.to.harvard @ February 2 01:24 am

  Ouch. Stepped in that one, I admit.

  hitman @ February 2 01:25 am

  And another wuss apologizes for stating the obvious. Hey, femi-nazi: if women want to be treated like equals they can do like men and walk around topless at the beach. Until then, zip it.

  marleybones @ February 2 01:27 am

  What’s your point?

  hitman @ February 2 01:28 am

  My point is that there’s a lot more going on here than some poor female trying to get out from under, and if you haven’t caught on to that you can take your famous “female intuition” you dykes are so proud of and stuff it somewhere.

  marleybones @ February 2 01:30 am

  Chuckle, chuckle. These misogynistic posts of yours reveal more about you than you realize.

  hitman @ February 2 01:31 am

  Make me LOL, lady. Why would I give a thought about what you “intuit” about me?

  chinkigirl @ February 2 01:33 am

  I’m not up on the literature, but I don’t think feminists buy into the female intuition mystique.

  proudblacktrannie @ February 2 01:34 am

  Oh I have some intuition at work right now telling me some interesting things about hitman. And by the way, before you lay some crap on me, let me point out that I don’t give a damn whether you care about what I think.

  webmaggot @ February 2 01:35 am

  Wait, so now gays have female intuition? Does this mean it’s not linked to, like, how much testosterone you have, but more to whether you crave dick?

  proudblacktrannie @ February 2 01:36 am

  We call it gaydar, sweetie, and you don’t even want to know what mine’s picked up about you.

  fickel @ February 2 01:39 am

  Okay, guys. If you need some confirmation about where my head is at, well, I’m seeing this through. And if I’m frightened of anything it’s the idea of having to lie back while someone else takes up my problems. I’m not sure I would call my mindset “enjoyment” OR “self-empowerment,” but I can guarantee that it isn’t rooted in feminism or romanticism or the desire to live out a pulp fantasy. There’s a measure of stubbornness involved—that I’ll confess. Anyway, I hope you all can understand.

  marleybones @ February 2 01:40 am

  I hear you loud and clear. Just watch yourself.

  i.went.to.harvard @ February 2 01:41 am

  Amen.

  chinkigirl @ February 2 01:42 am

  I’m almost afraid to ask, but what is your plan, fickel? You asked Mysterious Hottie to meet you at the Jewelers Building. What do you think the two of you can learn there?

  fickel @ February 2 01:44 am

  Slenderbuns. What he meant when he said that I was “the girl.” It seems like everyone I encounter assumes that I had some kind of relationship with Mr. Suicide. I’ve got to break through that somehow. That means either finding the actual E or coming up with something that definitively separates my identity from hers.

  proudblacktrannie @ February 2 01:45 am

  And having the Hottie along? Is this a way to get closer?

  roadrage @ February 2 01:46 am

  Having him along sounds better than having him “pop up” as usual. (No, that is not a sex joke.)

  fickel @ February 2 01:50 am

  Actually, neither of those reasons occurred to me, although I’m not anywhere near comfortable with who he is in all of this. I mean, could he really be this suicide witness looking to lend a shoulder to the girl most likely to have been squirted with Mr. Suicide’s eyeball juice? Well, it’s less hard to swallow than it might come across.

  But my real motive is that he seems good with strangers. I’m less good at getting them to listen to me and answer my questions. So, he wants to help and I want him to.

  36-D @ February 2 01:56 am

  He’s like bait. Beefcake for Slenderbuns.

  fickel @ February 2 01:59 am

  Weeeeeeell, okay, maybe that also, just a wee little bit.

  proudblacktrannie @ February 2 02:00 am

  BEE-YITCH! I’m proud of you!

  chinkigirl @ February 2 02:03 am

  By the way, where is hitman? Shouldn’t he be swooping in to point out that everything fickel’s done and plans to do comes down to her being a slut or a whore?

  36-D @ February 2 02:05 am

  Did us girlies hurt our favorite sexist’s feelings?

  webmaggot @ February 2 02:06 am

  I thought I was your favorite sexist?

  roadrage @ February 2 02:07 am

  Dewd. Next to hitman, you and me are chicks.

  fickel @ February 2 02:08 am

  Huh. Well, guess we’ll just have to forge ahead without.

  leo tolstoy @ February 2 02:09 am

  He must escape from this power. And the means of escape every man had in his own hands…death.

  fickel @ February 2 02:11 am

  I don’t want to bum you out, leo t., but you’re beginning to sound kind of Russian? Shouldn’t you be off writing something long and broody just before your spectacular suicide?

  roadrage @ February 2 02:12 am

  I got it in my head somehow that Rasputin had an eighteen-incher.

  fickel @ February 2 02:13 am

  Now there’s something to hang yourself with.

  23

  02.02 @ 2:37 am:

  wuh-up, Slacker Dude?

  Had an interesting yesterday, just returned to B-Town. Check it out:

  I dug up sum wheels and am doing a drive-by, just to see if m’fave babe Killer Chick is around. Out comes Slacker Dude, carrying his rucksack. Kid’s kind of boppin along like he’s got distance on his not-giant brain and so I slides along to see wu-up. Dude’s got his hoodie up so not looking out to notice some ought-o dragging ass to keep pace with him. Other words I’m kool but diss can’t last.

  Couple blocks down my boy is hip-hoppin along toward an intersection other side there stands a “No Entry” sign so dang it awl fo-sho my fun is ovah unless I go f’it. I shoves a little gas on up the engine and give a pop on the horn, then a “Hey, brooooo-dah! Little help, y’mind?”

  He don’t mind, which is aftah-awl NAWT a s’prize. Turns on the ball of his foot at a ninety degree and walks to my vee-hicle like he’s been waitin for me to show.

  “Pike, bro? I been driving around this fukin neighborhood for a fukin half hour and there’s nothing but one fukin ways and no fukin entries. I gots to get to the Pike, man,” I sez.

  Slack rests his hand on the ruff of my vee-hicle, takes a sniff around the inn-terior, then a gander down my clothes, even c
hekin owt my hands up-on the wheel. Does he recognize me from the internet café? Seems like a “no,” goin by his buh-lank faze, but you nevah knowz with a twist such as he. Any event, I seems to be wut he lookin faw and he tightens his grip on his rucksack.

  “How faw y’goin’?”

  I gives him the once-over like he did t’me now that it’s “occurred to me” to give the dewd a lift.

  I say “Alb’ny” and de boy bops round and gets on in nex-a me. Keeps the rucksack at his feet rather than slinging it in the back. Guess he’s not big on leg room.

  “Got anything fer gas?” I ask, offhanded-like.

  “Y’right. Smoke?” He’s already pulling a Camel out the pack with his teeth. Funny little twink.

  So we travel I’m thinkin two hours out the Pike. Got some snow goin on, starts to hail and my wipers get to thrubbin and squeakin. Slacker Dude sho likes his tobaccee, plus poking at his bollocks through his oversized fatigues. Got radio ADD azzwell. I tell him to cool it with changing the stations and he raises his hands. “You d’man.”

  So I’m looking round for where this li’l old adventure is goin’ when the motel appears down the highway. Big tall pole. REST, it says up top. I allus like a direct approach, so I slides on down the ramp. Road’s slick and I fishtail.

  “Use a drink? I’m buyin.”

  He’s rooting around in his jean jac for another cigarette. “Sho’ wudevah.” Close your eyes, dis kid’s a gen-u-wine black man.

  I pull into the motel lot, cross to the packie for a bottle of bourbon, then hit the motel office. Wait until I’m climbing the stairs to the upper rooms before I jerk my head in the direction of my car. Tell you, I more’n half expect the little roach to have disappeared on me, but he pushes the car door, slaps it closed, and wanders my way. So he tricks after all; I kinnah wundahd.

  I’m splashing us a couple when he ambles on in, slings his rucksack over by one of the beds. I walk over and offer him a glass and he kind of assumes the position, raising his arms and bringing his jac up like for a frisk. I snort-laugh and shove the door closed. Fuckah must be mighty well confused.

  When I turn around he’s seated on one of the beds, feet splayed. He rolls back onto one elbow, posin so’s I can check him out. I notice he’s keepin’ one e-ball on the rucksack thru-out.

  So I rubs my crotch, licks my chops like a hubby just home from the office looking for some cunny after a hard day, then I walk at the dude to make him make his move. His plan, u’course, is to roll me—guy’s a fagg troll and he’s thinkin to ovah-powah me while I’m groping him. He starts to get at it so’s I grab his wrist, hard.

  “Easy,” I say. “Caught your act back in Central Square d’other night. Found out some freak’s tailing your sistah but you don’t warn her or nothing ’cause then she’ll read in the freak’s blog about what a perv you are. You are in fact a scag in need of some learning.”

  I give him a mo to catch up, and then another to react. As I figure, he’s got nothing but bull to offer. “What’s your fuckin…?” he starts, so I snaps his pinky finger back. I let go of him and lean back on my legs while he’s still figuring where the pain’s coming from, then just as he gets what’s down I offer him a quick one-two-three to his face. Kid slaps down flat on his back and flips backwards over the bed. True I hit him hard enough, even cut my knuckle on his damned tooth, and the dude’s lightweight but he ain’t THAT light. I go round to see what’s going on down there and sho nough the dude’s in the rucksack. Blood on his teeth but I see that cause he’s smiling and I get it: Slacker Dude’s aiming to fleece my ass at gunpoint.

  Cute. I’m on him before he can grab his piece. He does what comes to him, springing straight up from his ass to skull-ram my gut, fists flailing. Decent little fight style but he’s no match and I proceed to beat the crap out of him. I let him feel some pain, backing him against the wall, slugging—he will learn to care for those who care for him, one way or another.

  Anyhow, the kid sags his way up from the floor on all fours, trembling and swaying on his knee; don’t know how the little fuk can see or even breathe, but then, you know, the human body is a remarkable instrument. He brings his pulpy face up, all bloody and squishy like a fistful of raw meat, and tries to say something. Some sort of plea, I would imagine. Like he wouldn’t have blowed me an extra eyeball socket at point blank range, had he the chance. Like he didn’t leave poor Killer Chick all vulnerable to the likes of me, back in Boston. I walk at him, lend him a gentle hand under his shaking armpit to raise him up a little, and then I lay an uppercut to his under-jaw, practically from carpet level. There’s a sweet crunch, the whispery crackle of bone or teeth or maybe both, as his body arcs up and back and lands in a clutter, half on the floor, half against the wall. Still, it’s all nice and quiet. Don’t want to disturb the fat fornicators slurping up one another’s juicies next door, y’know.

  After I wash up, I turn on the tub tap. I go out into the room and over to Slacker Dude. He’s lying with his head under the radiator where he hid it after I left off pulping him. Seems way out of it, but as I approach I see that his pants begin to go dark around the crotch. Guy pissing himself in his condition is a pretty sight—he’s coherent, see? I lean in and check out his hands, his fingers spasming as they clutch the back of his neck. Protect the spine—now there’s instinct for you. Remarkable. On the other hand, he’s lying with his face pressed down in a pool of his own vomit. Stinks—what was Killer Chick servin’ this punk? I mean besides herself.

  I pick him up by his clothes and half carry, half drag him into the bathroom and dump him in the tub—just a lot of clatterin’ joints against the rusty porcelain. I pop the shower tap. Living ought to feel good for him this day. Unless of course he never gets it together and ends up drowning in a couple a inches of water at the bottom of the tub. Poor little sleaze; what a way to go.

  Before leaving I rustle around in the rucksack for the heater but turns out—no piece! Silly Dood lost his firearm. Why he didn’t check while he was in my car waiting for me? I got no answer for that except maybe he had no suspicion whatsoever that it might not be where he’d stashed it.

  Who to suspect of lifting it—Killer Chick? She is one slippery kitty. To be friendly, like, I break a glass in the sink, then take the time to carve her a message in the boy she likes best. What message? The one he should have left her himself, but didn’t.

  I’m feeling generous, and so take the couple pounds of tight-packed dope from his rucksack. Wouldn’t want the cops finding that. Crap hayseed—bright Saint Patrick’s farkin green.

  TALK, NIHILIST DOGS

  boytoucher @ 02.02 03:04 am

  S’up wichu mon? U goin Sy-Ko?

  eddielizard @ 02.02 03:06 am

  Wantin dick does it, mon.

  boytoucher @ 02.02 03:10 am

  I donno. Seems more like this is about the chick?

  fullfrontal @ 02.02 03:11 am

  Like exactly, mon frere.

  garbo @ 02.02 03:15 am

  You are hot for this chick so you beat up her boyfriend? Are you back in junior high or at that point was it reform school?

  fullfrontal @ 02.02 03:19 am

  Dood tried to pull a robbery at gunpoint and got his ass wiped. Boo hoo.

  garbo @ 02.02 03:23 am

  What gun? The one in your imagination? Maybe he was looking for a tissue to clean the blood out of his nose from when you punched him out.

  fullfrontal @ 02.02 03:25 am

  Maybe he was looking to blow me and it didn’t work out for him.

  garbo @ 02.02 03:26 am

  Maybe you acted exactly like that’s what you were after as payment for the ride you gave him. Maybe it WAS what you were after, but you can’t HANDLE it.

  boytoucher @ 02.02 03:29 am

  Sheeet you are such a raggin bitch. Wut you doin here?

  garbo @ 02.02 03:30 am

  Fuking with your heads, low-lifes. Had enough?

  fullfrontal @ 02.02 03:31 am

  Not
frum you, honey. Never enough from my girl.

  garbo @ 02.02 03:32 am

  I’m just relieved I never met up with you. Now I know why you didn’t show.

  fullfrontal @ 02.02 03:33 am

  Why would that be, pray tell?

  garbo @ 02.02 03:35 am

  I don’t know—you got this tongue-in-cheek psycho thing going on here and maybe you don’t want someone announcing that it’s for real.

  fullfrontal @ 02.02 03:37 am

  And how would our meeting result in my revealing on this blog that I’m a genuine psycho, gash?

  garbo @ 02.02 03:38 am

  Maybe you’re afraid I would post it.

  fullfrontal @ 02.02 03:39 am

  Maybe if I were psycho you wouldn’t have fingers to post with.

  garbo @ 02.02 03:41 am

  Maybe I can type with my nose.

  fullfrontal @ 02.02 03:42 am

  You think you’d leave our date with a nose?

  garbo @ 02.02 03:43 am

  Creepier by the minute.

  fullfrontal @ 02.02 03:44 am

  I live to serve.

  garbo @ 02.02 03:45 am

  Serve? Serve who?

  fullfrontal @ 02.02 03:47 am

  My god: L.T.

  garbo @ 02.02 03:48 am

  And who’s that supposed to be? Lawrence Tierney, that psycho from the movies?

  fullfrontal @ 02.02 03:50 am

  Try Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy, b’yitch.

  garbo @ 02.02 04:00 am

  When do we dance, o prophet?

  fullfrontal @ 02.02 04:09 am

  I’ll let you know.

  24

  February 3 @ 1:24 am

  >I SEE A MURDER…LATER, I GET LAID<

  I know you’re all going to give me ess-loads of grief for what I am about to relate, but, as you know, it was bugging me how Slenderbuns called me “the girl” before closing down like a clam shack during red tide (and no, that’s not a sexual innuendo). I wanted to talk to him, and decided to make my own chance to do just that. As you will see, however, sometimes those bold steps in life can blow up big-time. My fingers shake, to be truthful, as I write this.