The Apocalypse Reader Part 13

PSYCHIC: I don't know that term.

MACKEREL: Boredom is what we call knowledge over here. The idea is that you never quite quote-unquote know, you just stop caring if you quote-unquote know. That's when you know.

PSYCHIC: Sounds interesting.

He lifts his head up for a moment and looks sincerely at Mackerel.

PSYCHIC: I mean that. You're a beautiful kid. I'm just- MACKEREL: I know. I have to get out of here anyway. I've got a date with that wannabe cannibal guy. I just wanted to see you fist f.u.c.k him. It's so notorious.

PSYCHIC: I'll page you.

MACKEREL: Yeah, if I'm not food by then.

He crosses his fingers.

PSYCHIC: Page me when you're food. If I don't page you first. Or put paging me in your will. I'm just saying I care about you.

MACKEREL: (angrily) Then give me some heroin. Jesus Christ, what does it f.u.c.king take?

A HALF HOUR later, Mackerel is sitting cross-legged on some gra.s.s in the town's little central park talking directly to you readers. He still isn't stoned, and there's a vibe of desperation in his voice.

MACKEREL: (dourly) Hey, you want the cutest piece of a.s.s you've ever had in your lives? I mean cutest for you, not for me. I happen to hate my good looks in a complicated way. Anyway, I'll trade you.

You: Thanks for spending time with us. You're G.o.d, et cetera, and we love your stupid Arkansas accent. Meaning yes.

MACKEREL: I even scream with an Arkansas accent. You'll love that too.

You: What's the trade? We're so d.a.m.ned h.o.r.n.y.

MACKEREL: Don't rush me. I'm not like josh. I need to get to know things before I do them.

You: At least take off your shirt.

MACKEREL: There's a trick to being me. It's called "who the f.u.c.k are you to ask?" When I'm shirtless, you'll know it.

You: Then make us hard.

MACKEREL: You already are. All it takes is my face. I think my haircut helps too. Long hair's back. But I guess when you're a pedophile, any kid is p.o.r.n. Correct me if I'm wrong.

You: What do you like to do in bed? We mean what is "f.u.c.k" to you?

MACKEREL: Shooting heroin. Next?

You: Junkies are so boring. If you weren't thirteen, we wouldn't be here. We'd be in Thailand.

MACKEREL: (laughing) Next. This is awesome. I was never loved when I was straight. So I'm drunk on your gayness. If you weren't here, I'd be in school or prison.

You: The world's a bar when we're with you. If you were old enough to be officially gay, you'd realize that's gay for "we love you." A thirteen-year-old skinny blond boy drunk in an Arkansas gay bar, Jesus. Let's play truth or dare.

MACKEREL: Cool. I like you so far. Okay, you earned it.

He whips off his T-shirt, and hurls it away.

You: Truth. By the way, you have the world's most perfect little ashtrays ... we mean nipples.

MACKEREL: Okay, do you have any heroin? And before you say that's cheating, Kant says truth lies in the question one asks in pursuit of the truth. Actually, Buddha said that too. So now you know me. Oh, and thanks for the compliment, you liars. Dare.

You: We dare you to explain your intellect. You're thirteen. You quit school at eleven. Your foster parents chained you to a bunk bed at night. You're dyslexic. You're cute. So how the h.e.l.l do you do it?

MACKEREL: I'm like a parrot. Literally, it's a serious condition. Parrot syndrome. Look it up. Plus I'm psychic and you're not. Truth.

You: Okay, we have enough heroin in our pockets to kill you a hundred times over. And clean works.

MACKEREL: Duh.

He points to his temple.

MACKEREL: I'm a psychic, you remember? But don't you wish this were a loaded gun?

You: (thoughtfully) Hm.

MACKEREL: (anxiously) I don't like the sound of that.

You: Us neither. Even thirteen-year-olds get old apparently. Who'd have thought?

MACKEREL: Then give me all your heroin. G.o.d, I hate f.a.gs. We're all manipulative and s.h.i.t. You have fifteen seconds to hand it over.

He looks at his watch.

You: And we can eat you out?

MACKEREL: Yes.

You: And fist f.u.c.k you? Bondage, torture, videotape it, kill you when we're done with you?

MACKEREL: Yes, yes, yes. Jesus Christ, are you deaf?

MACKEREL TAKES ALL your heroin and works, then runs away without keeping his part of the bargain. Because you exist in the rational world, you have to watch his perfect a.s.s fade away into the background and form a disconsolate circle jerk. The sky over Arkansas picks up on your vibes and grows silvery dark like one-way gla.s.s. On the other side of it, G.o.d's jerking off. The hicks think weather abnormalities are a sign that Armaggedon has arrived and decide to rape their kids before they die. Mackerel rides his bike through streets filled with children's l.u.s.tful screams. He eventually stops at Josh's boyfriend's house and falls into your trap. You're on the phone with josh's boyfriend when Mackerel rings his front doorbell, so you let him go on one condition. Josh's boyfriend is short and ugly, but has clearly spent time in a gym, so he's hot to other gay guys.

JOSH'S BOYFRIEND: (startled) Hey, I know you. Or maybe I wish I knew you. I don't know if you're gay, but crystal meth will do that.

MACKEREL: I just turned gay a few minutes ago, so don't ask me. Gee, Josh said you were even uglier, not that I care.

JOSH'S BOYFRIEND: I get uglier during s.e.x. But thank G.o.d for what you see. Guess how old I am? Seriously, take a guess.

MACKEREL: Headwise, I'd say, oh, mid-fifties, and bodywise, oh ... late thirties tops. We gay guys have it all figured out, don't we?

JOSH'S BOYFRIEND: Being gay myself, it's impossible to say. One hears tales, though. My neighbor's super ugly, unless you like them fat and straight.

MACKEREL: I love everyone equally. Thank the s.h.i.tload of heroin somewhere in your house. If it weren't there, you'd be alone. Oh, your boyfriend's dead, by the way. I forgot. I'm the new guy.

JOSH'S BOYFRIEND: (thoughtfully) Okay, here's being gay in a nutsh.e.l.l. I should reject you out of grief, thereby proving gay love is an authentic force for good. But the fact of the matter is every gay piece of meat is just a sketch for the next piece of meat, although you're just unbelievably cute, b.i.t.c.h. Did I already say that?

MACKEREL: I'm definitely it, dude. The buck stops here. Well, more specifically, here.

He gives his a.s.s a playful slap.

MACKEREL: And, even more specifically, after heroin's in my system, if you're catching my drift.

Josh's boyfriend immediately pulls a big packet of nice-looking dope out of his pocket.

JOSH'S BOYFRIEND: Deal. I love hicks.

MACKEREL: So I heard.

Josh's boyfriend holds out the packet, then seems to have a realization of some sort, and pulls it back.

JOSH'S BOYFRIEND: Wait, did you say josh is dead? Let me guess, or did you already tell me?

MACKEREL: (impatiently) Okay, fine. You know that guy Bin Laden? I'm answering your question with a riddle. It's an old straight-person trick from my childhood.

JOSH'S BOYFRIEND: Sure, he's that famous person.

MACKEREL: Okay, then what do you think of the trendy idea that all Americans died on 9/ 11 ? You know, that all of that s.h.i.t with the planes proved we're all the same whatever in G.o.d's overall concept of whatever.

JOSH'S BOYFRIEND: I'm into anything trendy. Just look around my living room. In fact, come on in. Where are my manners?

MACKEREL: On one condition.

JOSH'S BOYFRIEND: Deal. I mean what is it? Forgive the sleazy old chicken hawk in me. He'd go to prison for however many life terms to get it on with a thirteen-year-old a.s.s, I mean your thirteenyear-old a.s.s. That's a gay compliment. Enjoy.

MACKEREL: The condition is that we travel to Pakistan together. On your credit cards, of course. There's a cute traitor guy over there I need to see. Long story. That's part one, and-this'll appeal to you-part two, I can get to Bin Laden. Check this out. So I overdose on heroin, right? I'm happy. Bin Laden rims my corpse. He's happy. You film it. Put the camera on a tripod, walk into the frame and murder him with your bare f.u.c.king hands. Then turn off the camera and eat me. Everyone's happy, and gay guys rule the world. It's a no-brainer.

JOSH'S BOYFRIEND: Are you psychic? I make snuff films for a living. Duh, right? That's how I paid for this gay upper-middle-cla.s.s lifestyle you see before you. Wait, Josh told you I made snuff. Of course. You're not a psychic at all. I'm confused.

MACKEREL: Hunh. If I'd been gay a little longer, I'd say the real gay dilemma is that no amount of working out daily in a gym can make a guy your age interesting to someone my age. The mind goes. It's just a sad fact. I'm so not in the mood anymore. But yeah, I'm psychic.

JOSH'S BOYFRIEND: Then Pakistan it is. On one condition.

MACKEREL: It'd better involve dope.

JOSH'S BOYFRIEND: I'll pack my things, and-oh, it is-you strip and strike a nice doggie pose on my bed. I maybe gay, but I'm not stupid. Well, not that stupid.

MACKEREL: Blahdiblahdiblah. I mean deal.

AN HOUR LATER, a very sore-a.s.sed Mackerel cracks the psychic's door and clears his throat. Josh's buff, elderly boyfriend is right behind him carrying their suitcases.

MACKEREL: Are you decent? I guess that's a relative term in your case.

PSYCHIC: (anxiously) Who's there?

MACKEREL: G.o.d and a gay guy. Why, who's there?

PSYCHIC: Me, Allah's prying eyes, and some half-eaten teen wh.o.r.e. Wait, did you say G.o.d?

MACKEREL: And a gay guy, yeah. Coming in.

They enter the storefront. The psychic is sitting on the floor in front of Josh's dead body. He's holding a large, b.l.o.o.d.y knife, and Josh's once-so-perfect a.s.s is no more, thanks no thanks to the psychic-turned-cannibal's terrorist attacks. Josh's boyfriend leans over, looking around in the mini-ground zero.

JOSH'S BOYFRIEND: Josh? Is that your truth?

MACKEREL: (to the psychic) That's a cue to do your thing.

The psychic shuts his eyes and appears to go into a mystical trance.

PSYCHIC: (in a sixteen year-old's voice) What do you want, babe?

I'm kind of busy. Being eaten is like getting fist-f.u.c.ked by the Colossus of Rhodes, only better.

JOSH'S BOYFRIEND: I told you.

He sets the suitcases down and reaches into the gore, then rips a chunk loose. He studies it carefully.

PSYCHIC: (in a sixteen year-old's voice) What do you want to know? I know everything there is to know now.

JOSH'S BOYFRIEND: How do you taste?

PSYCHIC: (in a sixteen year-old's voice) Like blood. That's too easy. You want to know how the world ends? You don't, trust me. It's so not s.e.xy. It's so not gay.

JOSH'S BOYFRIEND: Does it have something to do with the gravitational pull of the dying sun?

He pops the chunk into his mouth and starts chewing.

PSYCHIC: (in a sixteen year-old's voice) Exactly. Boring.

JOSH'S BOYFRIEND: No offense, baby, but we saw that together on the Discovery Channel. By the way, yum.

MACKEREL: I have a question. Where's Bin Laden?

PSYCHIC: (in a sixteen year-old's voice) You! Hold on a second. First of all, seeing isn't knowing, babe. There's a huge metaphysical difference, it turns out. Now you, you little boyfriend-stealing white-trash b.i.t.c.h. You're supposed to be dead. I've been hanging out waiting for you. Cross your a.s.s over here.

MACKEREL: Make me. No, seriously, where's Bin Laden? Don't make me unconjure you.

PSYCHIC: (in a sixteen year-old's voice) Kandahar. Satisfied?

MACKEREL: No.

PSYCHIC: (in a sixteen-year-old's voice) Okay, ask my temporary form where Rakhid's Video is? Bin Laden's in the bas.e.m.e.nt. Hey, you want to know how you die?