FUCK: A Linguistic Lovesong
The shape and sound of words are often lost in their meaning, especially when it comes to my all time favorite word: FUCK. I know, FUCK can be hit or miss for people. It’s a word that won’t get a second thought beyond acceptability, but FUCK is so much more! It is a very efficient word that holds endless meaning and is rarely ever confused. No matter what language you speak (including ASL), there’s no mistaking FUCK. Therefore, I feel FUCK is the perfect example to illustrate my preference for both the sound and shape of words.
Let’s start with a comparison: Paraskavedekatriaphobia is my fun word, but it only offers auditory enjoyment. Visually, it is an absolute train wreck, but it’s a blast to say and exciting to hear. I love to say it quickly, like a party trick in social settings, because it rolls right off the tongue (believe it or not). But when it comes to FUCK, oh no… FUCK is said slowly. Even if it is said in a burst of fear, or when it’s popped off in quick succession whilst unloading a clip of anger, FUCK is said with seductive patience (no matter the context). With FUCK, you’ll never be left tongue tied.
Hence, in my opinion, it’s the sound of words that first make them so grand to us. I feel this is especially so for us women (who tend to fall in love with our ears), compared to our male counterparts (who tend to fall in love with their eyes). Men are wooed by the physical attractiveness of a sexual partner, and a woman is ultimately wooed by the things her love interest says to her. By design, FUCK has something for everyone.
The sound of a word can stir up a slew of emotions (just see what happens when you shout the word “moist” in a crowd). But FUCK is literally therapeutic to say, even just in your mind when you can’t express yourself freely. That hhhhhard F followed by the conviction of the -UCK makes it feel like a punch to the face you actually want. Or, and I know this is a bit on the nose, it’s like that moment your man walks in the door from a long haul away from home, rams it in hhhhhard and fast, holds it there, grabs a fistful of your hair, and then kisses you… all while looking straight into your begging eyes. He uses that rush of adrenaline to make the most passionate love to you whilst every nerve in your body is set ablaze. Communicating only with his most primitive anatomy, he somehow transports you to the cosmos, right there on your kitchen counter. Like any drug, nothing compares to that first taste, so you better make it count (and FUCK never disappoints). Your brain and body light the FUCK up, every damn time like it’s the first time, because FUCK is a physical expression in itself to say.
However, like many words, the appearance of FUCK is easily overshadowed by its sound. The sharp F and K on the ends tightly embrace the rounded U and C, like a strong father and tough-as-nails mother, protecting their fragile children and holding the family together. FUCK is like the family portrait hung above the fireplace. Look at that beautiful FUCK! So nice and cozy, too! Ironically, if a child writes or says the word FUCK, it makes everyone laugh, and once again, a rush of feel-good ensues. Aww, so precious! FUCK can be enjoyed by the whole family!
For me, personally, FUCK has been my favorite word since I was a kid (thanks to that brilliant FUCK, Quentin Tarantino, and my general obsession with films). FUCK is just part of my everyday vocabulary. Not because I am overtly crass (comedic necessity aside), nor am I nasty to people. I know when to put on my mandated dress and high heels to please, and I truly care about others (so I’m never trying to offend you). It is simply because FUCK efficiently invokes the passion I desire. Despite its negative uses and bad rap, FUCK holds so much beauty. There’s no need to clutch your pearls at this sweet little word—well, unless it’s a pearl necklace created in glorious FUCK itself. In which case, enjoy that warm hug and clutch away.
Lastly, to support my love for all things FUCK, and to convince you that there’s nothing to fear, I’d like to mention a cute little runner-up. The word “butthole” is endlessly funny to me. It’s like a punchline to a joke, no matter how you say it or when it’s used. Butthole is a full yet tight looking word. It has shapely, round letters, garnished with 2 proper gentleman in bowties shoved right in between. But most importantly, it can usually slip right through all the censorship we are forced to endure. Censorship is something I’m adamantly against because it takes away my choice to experience the real world. But, a friendly butthole can really soften the blow, and give us all a break from the back and forth of typical norms. Relax, butthole is here now.
However, if someone does tell you to censor “butthole,” I offer the words of the lyrical and vocal genius, Maynard James Keenan:
“If you figure out how to not have a butthole, then I’ll change it.”
Similarly, if you feel my favorite word should be censored, then show me human existence without FUCK, and I’ll buttholeheartedly fall on this sword. I digress…
I proffer the auditory and visual aspects of all words can help us embrace their beauty, far beyond meaning alone. Like anything, it merely comes down to individual preference. Between shape and sound, there will always be times when one feels better than the other… ButtFUCK, I sure do love a healthy dose of both.
They Should Have Sent A Poet
Nebular night dawns,
womb full of wonder.
Prodigal star burns,
more powerful than the Sun,
drunk on Milky Way.
iron-heart stellar giant,
weapon of chaos.
a celestial sacrifice,
Halo slips into the black…
belly of the beast.
Original artwork by the one and only Alex Grey. Please enjoy his creations at alexgrey.com
For my friends
ATTENTION: You are receiving a story from a slave—ahem—from an inmate inside the Bad People Department of Corrections. We are adding to our multi B-B-Billion dollar purse just by letting you communicate with our property. Please remain in the “grab your ankles, bitch” position as we continue to fuck society in the ass.
Thank you for your continued ignorance—hah, whoops…
Thank you for your cooperation :)
Holy shit. Prison is nothing like County. Intake was just as violating, but this place is actually clean… ish. It smells like stale air and generic Windex rather than the lingering aroma of sewage pipes and boob sweat.
Walking through the unit, I see that there’s more than just 5 showers per 100 women, and every line has less than 10 zombies shuffling along in it. I must’ve won the lottery of prisons because County was nothing but endless wall-sliding and single-file, consuming your whole day just to eat, bathe, and call home.
The biggest mind fuck is my cell. I have a door that I can not only close, but I have keys to lock it. Even more shocking, my bunkie is apparently in the infirmary (so I’ll have privacy for once). All a far cry from the cramped pole barn at the jail where personal space is nonexistent. It’s like I just moved to a different planet. I’m hesitant to feel comfortable, but the slightly muffled noise from outside my closed cell is a bunch of sweet nothing compared to the echo chamber of hysteria I’ve lived in for the last 13 months.
I finish organizing my bunk and change into my standard-issued prison blues to try to make use of the day I have left. I lock up my cell and head towards the rec area to get in line for the mail kiosks. I’m feeling good because blue is so my color (and my husband’s favorite). He says it brings out my eyes. Oh, my heart! I can’t wait for our first visit next month! I just know he’s going to tell me how good I look in this dark indigo instead of that gross bright orange I’ve been wearing. We never had kids so he calls me his pride and joy, and I’m finally feeling like it again in this pretty color. I’ve learned to really appreciate the small things in life.
I hop in line for the kiosks so I can write a letter to my baby. I need to let him know I’ve made the transport safely. I don’t have a tablet yet, so I’ll have to type something quick on the big screen. The girl ahead of me is much younger, but she looks familiar with the place.
“Hey girl, what’s the time limit on the screens?” I ask in that high-pitched tone us females use when we want to appear harmless.
“Fifteen.” She replies over her shoulder.
Wow! We only got ten at County! Five whole extra minutes when you don’t have a tablet is a godsend. It’s a pain in the ass to type on the big screens that barely register your touch to begin with.
When my turn arrives, I see a new message from my husband… from today? Whoa! Mail actually comes on time here? It took up to 5 days to receive digital letters at the jail (even for short messages), and weeks for snail mail. I’m starting to feel like I’m in the twilight zone. Like this is all too good to be true. Let’s see what my dearest has sent me:
FROM: Ian Flores
TO: Jasmine Flores 11130013
I hope the bus ride went smoothly this morning. Must’ve been a sauna in there without AC. The high is supposed to be 99 today. Please let me know when you’ve arrived. About to jump in the car with Pop. He’s ready to go to the airport now. Your sister wants to come for the drive. Pop’s flight was delayed to 12:13. He sends his love. Stay safe.
Aww! My baby just cares for me. I don’t know what I’d do without him. My husband is the only thing that keeps me sane as a prisoner. I’m actually excited about the future for the first time in over a year because I get to have family visits here. Well, with the family I have left, that is. My sister barely talks to me anymore, and the trial was hard on Pop’s heart. My father-in-law is the only parent I’ve ever known, and I’m the daughter he’s always wanted, but he doesn’t fly down as much now with his failing health. This whole situation has been tough on everyone.
The screen is slow to load, but the timer says I have just over 13 minutes left. I have a million things to tell my husband about this new world in Bad Girl Prison:
BPDOC INMATE ACCOUNT
11130013 Jasmine Flores
TO: Approved Contact:
Thank you so much for your well wishes. I made it in one piece. The travel time you looked up for me proved useless. I’m sure it will only take you about 1 hour to drive to the BGP, but for us, it took FOUR HOURS in that oven on wheels. They insisted on taking the back roads and confusing routes to make sure us “dangers to society” couldn’t ehscayp into populated areas. It took all day just to get to my new lockup.
I miss home so much, but I’m trying to stay focused on the positives. This new facility is MUCH nicer than expected. Prison is soooo different, babe. Well, this one is, at least. They try to make it look homey in the common areas, and there’s even decorations! They’re really pretty, actually. And guess what else? I heard the jobs here pay $1 per hour! ONE WHOLE DOLLAR, BABE!!! If I’m lucky enough to snag one, I could pay for my own medical visits! Yay! And get this: WE GET TO HAVE A 3 SECOND HUG AT THE BEGINNING AND END OF VISITS HERE!!! Oh, baby! I’m getting you know what just thinking about it! Will you wear that Tom Ford I bought for your bday for me? Mmm, I can’t wait!
I miss Pop already. Let me know how his next doctor appointment goes? I hope he’s feeling better. Tell him I’m so hungry that I could eat my chanclas. LOL! It’ll make him laugh. All we had was a sack lunch of slimy bologna and stale bread for the ride over. They should be calling last chow soon. I’ll let you know when I get my tablet and commissary. The money hasn’t gone through yet, but everything seems to run faster here so I’m sure I’ll get it tomorrow. Thank you for always keeping money on my books. You’re the light leading me home.
Hope you had a lovely day!
I love you!
PS: I tried calling right when I got to the unit but it says there’s no money on the phone. Perhaps you need to reset automatic payments for this new location? I’ll try to find out how that works. Thanks, babe.
I learned that I can’t write stuff like “escape” because the system will instantly deny my mail before the COs even read it (because I’ve typed a no-no word), and they don’t give refunds either. And I definitely can’t tell my husband I’m getting wet in anticipation of touching him for the first time in a year. A chick from County taught me to use bad spelling to have some freedom of speech in our letters.
I once got reprimanded for telling my own husband that I miss making love to him through the partition at the jail (shut it down folks, we’ve got a psychopath on our hands!). All the while, I had to watch certain male officers fuck us with their eyes every damn day. And since they don’t give a shit about those of us disabilities, they had no clue I could read their lips as they fucked us with their words, too.
The worst COs would sexually harass us right to our faces (both male and female). But, they can do that because they’re allowed to break the rules (and they get paid and praised for it). However, when the rest of us make mistakes, we don’t deserve to be human anymore. Scratch that—when you’ve been caught making mistakes. Until then, you get to walk around with a golden stick up your ass, shaking your finger at everyone else.
The screen confirms that my email has been sent 09/13/2023 at 16:13 PM. My account has been charged 1 stamp and—look at that! A whole 6 minutes to spare! Not too shabby! I’ll let the chick behind me step on early…
Wait! I’ve got a new message from Ian! Screw it, I’ll make a good impression another time. I’m taking this:
FROM: Ian Flores
TO: Jasmine Flores 11130013
We just got home. I want a divorce.
What the FUCK?! No. No, no, no! I read it over and over:
A divorce?! WHY?! How is this possible?! We’ve never so much as uttered the word “breakup,” let alone “DIVORCE!” Ian and Jazz are that couple who grow old together! And what does he mean by “we” just got home?! That’s our home! My fucking home! The house I bought for us! Is he talking about him and my sister?! Is he fucking my fucking sister?!? Has he just been using me this whole time to secure a way out? Is that why my sister stopped talking to me?! Or wait—did he fly home with his father?! What does he mean?! If he’s with my sister, I’m gonna fucking kill him. Everything was fine! Oh fuck, I’m gonna throw up…
I rush to the giant rubber trash can secured to the wall next to the kiosk and quickly puke my guts out. I hear a couple women in the line laughing at me as I leap to grab my last 5 minutes, but the chick who was behind me has already taken my place.
“Hey, sorry, I had 5 minutes left. Can I go back? Please? It’s urgent.” I plead to her in a guttural, low-pitched tone.
“You snooze you loose. Well, more like ‘you puke you lose.’ Yuck. Go to the back of the line. Your breath stinks.” She doesn’t even look up from the screen as she shoos me away.
I race to the back of the line. There’s 6 people ahead of me. With 3 machines, that’s up to 30 minutes of waiting just to send a “WTF” to my husband. My husband! The love of my life! I feel like I’m about to shit my pants. My whole world is spinning. What the fuck is happening?! I shift from one foot to the other, holding my stomach as I wait.
Just as I’m about to take my turn on the next available screen, they blow an emergency count. The siren is deafening and my head is already pounding.
“No! Please! I just need one minute!” I beg the officer headed our way to wrangle us back to our cells.
“Sorry. No can do. You’ve got 3 minutes to be in your bunk. Go on, get!” He, too, shoos me away like a dog.
I speed walk in the direction of my cell, ducking under the stairs to save a few seconds, as if that will help count go faster. I’m already calculating the time it will take to tally every single woman in the prison. My stomach turns even more.
They sound the alarm again, signaling the end of a successful count. I immediately race back to the mail kiosks. A woman gets on the loud speaker to call our unit for chow, but there’s no way I can eat now. Maybe I can grab a phone when everyone is at dinner. I hope the money went through. Shit, now I’m unsure if Ian put money on my accounts at all.
I have no way of accessing what’s left of my funds without Ian. How will I buy my necessities? I don’t even have tampons yet and my period is supposed to start this week. The pads the DOC gave me in my indigent kit couldn’t absorb a ball of spit, let alone my endometriosis horrorshow. The last few e-stamps on my account are my only hope. I need to find out what the fuck is going on. I hope Ian hasn’t blocked me by now. No. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t leave me all alone in here. Would he?
The same douchebag officer stops me just before reaching the kiosks.
“Phones and screens just went down. You’ll have to try back after dinner.” He scoffs while holding his duty belt, creating a firm barricade between me and my only link to the outside world.
“Sir, please! It’s urg—"
The CO stops me by putting his hand in front of my face.
“Go to the chow hall or back to your cell! NOW!” He commands, pointing his finger over my shoulder, waiting for me to turn around and leave.
I huff away, knowing full well he can give me a ticket for “poor attitude,” but I couldn’t care less right now.
I storm into my cell, lock the door behind me, and climb up to my bunk. I plop down onto the 3 inch mat and shove my face into the flat pillow so I can scream. My anger is boiling.
We’ve been married for eighteen fucking years. Together for twenty. It’s always been just the two of us. Ian and Jazz against the world because we are the perfect couple—minus my convictions. But my side hustle paid off our mortgage! We would’ve been homeless without it! All because my darling husband ruined our legitimate business. When we went under, I found a way to keep our heads above water. Me! I’m the one who paid off all our debt. How could he leave me like this? And without explanation? Now I’m here, paying our debt to society for the both of us! Like always! Am I really this easy to throw away? After all I’ve done?!
My thoughts spin out of control, and before I know it, the stress of today knocks me out cold.
I wake up startled by the horn, not realizing where I even am. Oh—it’s final count. I wave at the flashlight shining into my dark cell through the window to prove I am where I’m supposed to be. I see the silhouette of someone walking in front of the light. A woman unlocks my door and enters the cell. She reaches for the lamp below me and flicks it on. It’s my bunkie, back from the infirmary. She’s very young and frail looking. She waits for the second horn and closes the door, locking us in for the night.
“Hey.” She says quietly, looking up at me as I stare down at her.
“Hey.” I reply softly.
We both instantly recognize deep sadness in each other.
“I’m Sandra. You just get here?” She asks, trying to be polite despite her obvious melancholy.
“Yeah, earlier today. I’m Jasmine, but everyone calls me Jazz. How long you been here?” I ask, trying to match conversation.
“I got transferred here 3 weeks ago, but this is my second time down… and last…” Her voice dwindles.
“You come from County, too?” I ask.
“No, the Max. Way out in the woods. I just made Level 2 after seven months there. I worked hard to complete my treatment plan in time for… whatever. Now I’m here.” She looks away, hiding her pain.
I heard a couple of female guards gossiping about my bunkie when they assigned my cell. She apparently took a murder plea for stabbing her husband to death after he beat her for years. If that’s true, I say he had it comin’ and he ran his damn self into her knife. Ugh, I shouldn’t think like that. How horribly sad for her and her family. But, it must’ve been a good deal to not fight a murder case like that—any murder case. I want to find out more, but I’ve learned not to ask about people’s cases. She’ll tell me eventually if she wants me to know. I just hope she has a chance to get out someday, as young as she is.
Sandra finishes organizing her things and slowly sits down on her bunk, wincing loudly in pain.
“Hey, you okay?” I hop down from the top bunk to see if she needs help. “You were in the infirmary, right?”
“Down the road at Saint Mary’s, actually. Or ‘Hell Mary’s’ more like it.” She holds her hips in pain and lowers the elastic waistband of her bottoms to find comfort. That’s the first time I notice her big belly.
“Oh! Did you just have a baby?!” I ask in excitement, but immediately realize my mistake and apologize with my expression.
She stares up at me in despair as tears rush into her eyes, trying to muster a response.
“Yeah.” Her voice cracks.
The pain on Sandra’s face is haunting. That’s not just the “baby blues,” that’s someone who’s been through torture. Oh my God… I can see the marks on her wrists from being shackled while giving birth.
“I’m gonna get some sleep. Nice meeting you.” She whispers.
Sandra turns to her side and kicks her slides off the bed. She’s clearly in too much agony to even change into her casuals. I see her inmate number splayed across the back of her blues. Oh, no. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Her number is my wedding date: 10132005. Well, I guess October 13th used to be my anniversary. I’ve always had shit luck, Pop even says that I must’ve been born under a bad sign, but this feels like a cruel joke from God. And what happened to Sandra is just fucking cruel.
“Goodnight.” My voice trails, failing to offer her any comfort because I’m a sad sack of shit.
I climb back up to my bunk. Sandra waits for me to get settled to turn off her lamp. Her kindness makes my heart ache even more.
This is insane! I woke up this morning the same Jazz I’ve been for the last 18 years. I’d never felt special until I became Mrs. Jasmine Flores. Ian always called me his spring flower when we were newlyweds. I hate my maiden name. Am I plain old Jasmine Withers again? Oh, God… old. What will a middle-aged woman with no family and a record do on the outside? I’ll be forty-fucking-six and ten years gone when I’m released. Who’s gonna give a shit about me now? Nobody knows you when you’re down and out. Shit, I don’t even know me. The only identity I’m absolutely sure of right now is 11130013.
The shapes of the room fade to black, but my mind refuses settle. I toss over in frustration, making both bunks squeak and clank. As soon as the clatter stops, I hear Sandra start to cry.
Holy fuck. This poor girl. She just gave birth and can’t even hold her child—hell, can’t even see her child—when all mom and baby need are each other right now. Captivity breeds madness, but being forced apart from all that you know and love… that’s the real punishment.
I can already imagine ignorant ass people talking their shit about someone like Sandra. They would say she’s not a “real” mother, or that she doesn’t deserve her child. But I can feel her maternal desperation in my bones with every uncontrollable wail coming from her soul. It’s the most agonizing sound I’ve ever heard.
I begin to cry along with Sandra, trying to hide my own sorrows in her sobs. I feel pathetic for drowning in self pity when she is going through something much worse, but my pain hurts, too. It really hurts! And it’s all my fault. What have I done to my marriage? To my life? I did this! Me!
In our own way, no matter how much time we get, we are all serving (and giving) life sentences. We will always be paying for our mistakes, and no amount of pain in here can fix the pain out there. It just creates more pain for innocent people who don’t deserve to be motherless, daughterless… wifeless. I don’t know how to fix any of this, but hurting more people can’t be the answer… can it?
The sounds of Sandra’s loud, painful bellowing causes women from other cells to start shouting all over the unit.
Woman 1: “I’m trying to sleep!”
Woman 2: “Stop being a little bitch, Sandra! I had to do it, too! Shut the fuck up!”
Woman 3: “YOU shut the fuck up, Dee! Put your headphones on, you heartless bitch!”
Woman 4: “JUST SHUT UP!!!”
Woman 5: “Y’all bitches are crazy! Haha! Craaazaaay weeoo weeoo!”
The douchebag guard from earlier comes to our door and bangs on the window, scaring Sandra and I so bad that we both jump.
“Hey, Flores! How do you like it here? Hah! Welcome to the machine!” He taunts me loudly, making sure I know I’m on his shit list. I can hear the other guards laughing, joining in his schadenfreude.
Ah, yes. There it is. This is more like the punishment I deserve. Nonstop chaos. The optimism I had when I arrived was but a momentary lapse of reason. Prison isn’t this cozy, decorated home they’re trying to fool us with. It’s fucking prison: a torture chamber designed to destroy human beings… and it is succeeding.
The personal laments of 100 women continue to fill the thick, nobody gives a shit atmosphere. I cover my head to shut out the madness, but it’s just no use. There will be little sleep as this symphony of destruction plays in the BGP tonight.
This has been the worst day of my life…
And it’s just day one.
A “Those Damn Enigmas” Production
This is a work of fiction. However, it was written with real men and women at heart, because their stories matter. They, matter.
Everyone loses their virginity at some point, right? Luckily, there’s no one at King’s Bluff tonight. Blankets and such in the trunk. Some wine to set the mood. Your tummy dances, anticipating the magical moment.
“Gimme your keys and wallet! Now, idiot!”
What a sucker. Of course this “innocent angel” didn’t want you. Nonetheless, never bring a knife to a gunfight.
Mmm. Her lips taste deceptively pure. The sting of betrayal fades as her body goes limp in your arms. It’s magical, the moment the eyes go blank.
She was almost what you wanted—and you were exactly what she deserved.
Wake fading under
Six feet of suffocation
Roaring flesh a tomb
"Remember You Must Die"
I’m Thinking About Ending You
My first memory was at 8 months old. I know that sounds unbelievable, but the details I can recall are undeniable. After a while, no one debated it.
My dad, grandpa, uncle, and two of my adult half-siblings (from my much older father’s first marriage) were in the car that morning. The six of us loaded into our minivan and drove out on a day trip. Suddenly, an 18 wheeler ran a red light and plowed right into us. I was the only one who didn’t get seriously hurt. In fact, I didn’t have so much as a single scratch on my delicate infant skin. Things like that aren’t supposed to happen.
I don’t remember the accident itself because, apparently, I slept right through it. I woke up as the first responders began contorting my tiny body in order to pull me from a narrow, sliding back window. They then placed me into the backseat of a police car. I was left alone for a long time while everyone else was being cared for. I never cried, I just watched. I watched everything.
I held myself up to look out of the open back window of the police car. It was absolute chaos. I’ll never forget the strange taste of the blood-filled air as my dad’s legs bled profusely; hearing my half-brother cry out as glass was pulled from his eyes; seeing how my uncle struggled to breathe from his ribs being crushed; smelling the hot asphalt as my half-sister lied on the ground with a brain injury; and feeling the cruiser shake every time the cop reached in to use his radio to insist that my unconscious grandfather wouldn’t survive if the ambulance didn’t get there soon.
Just a few days later, I have vague memories of taking my first steps. My mom said I was determined to chase after my brother (my only full-sibling). They were both safe at home and sleeping that morning because my brother was sick and wanted to stay in bed with my mom after her night shift at the hospital.
My brother is 3 years older than me and I just wanted to do everything he was already doing. So, by 1 year I was running and swimming. My mom would tell anyone who’d listen how I jumped into the deep end of the pool and just started swimming all on my own. “Like a fish returning to water,” she’d say.
Most people don’t have any consistent memories until about 4 or 5 years of age. Anything before that is maybe a couple of memory flashes (like how I remember taking those first steps). I have several of these memory flashes after the car accident, but my active consciousness didn’t wake up until I was 3 years old.
It was a cloudy day on our beach vacation in California. My mom and babysitter took me swimming in the ocean while everyone else was at the hotel. We made it a girls day out. Being the astonishingly great swimmer I was, I was easy to lose track of. According to another mother on the beach, I set my sights on the horizon and got trapped by an undertow that swept me much further out to sea. My babysitter ended up rescuing my limp body from the water and carried me to shore. Thankfully, my nurse mother was able to resuscitate me, and from that moment on, my brain went live with a photographic memory.
From the second I woke up (after vomiting salt water), I started blabbering about “the man.” Frustrated that my mom didn’t know who I was talking about, I then went on and on about the car accident 2 years prior. I tried to tell them about what I’d experienced—what I saw as I watched from the back of the police car, and what I’d just seen in the ocean when I died. My dad didn’t go to California with us because he was very ill, so as soon as I got home, I ran and told him everything (thinking he would understand since he was in the accident with me). At first, no one took me seriously. Over the years, however, my family could no longer deny it.
Everyone was clear on the fact that I slept through the accident itself—but what no one knew was that I was dreaming about a giant truck running us over when it happened. The memory of this dream was lost until I was sucked into the cold, dark void of the Pacific Ocean.
To this day, no one has ever found the truck driver that almost murdered my family. Well, “almost” is debatable. With the exception of myself, everyone inside our minivan died within 6 years of that accident.
My grandpa (9 months later): went into a coma and never woke up due to a rare illness no one knew he had. He died weeks later.
My half-sister (4 years later): died of a massive seizure in her sleep after developing epilepsy from her TBI. Before she went to bed that night, she complained of smelling road asphalt.
My uncle (4 years later): suffocated to death after being crushed for hours in a machine at his job.
My half-brother (5 years later): was thrown face first through a 12 story window and fell to his death. It was ruled a suicide but we’ve never believed that. They found glass shards all over his body, including in his eyes.
My dad (6 years later): bled to death and was found in a pool of blood around his legs.
My dad’s death affected me the most. I was 7 years old and a total daddy’s girl. By the time they found him, he was supposed to be on a plane flying back home to us. I didn’t sleep at all that night in anticipation of my father coming back to me.
The last time I saw him was about a week after his kidney transplant. My mom flew my brother and I to the Denver hospital where he’d gotten his surgery. I was so excited to show him the special drawing I made for him. I was in second grade and my teacher had recently given us an audio/visual assignment. She put on beautiful instrumental music and told us to draw what the music made us feel. I was thinking of my father nonstop, so of course he was the focus of my artwork. But, to this day, I’ll never know why he smiled when I gave it to him. I ripped it to pieces when I got it back a month later.
My mom, an RN, had flown into the Denver airport on a cold winter morning so she could care for my father on the plane ride back home. When he never showed up at the airport where they’d agreed to meet, my mom took a taxi to the hotel where he’d stayed the night after being discharged.
Something went wrong with his kidneys and by the time he woke up, he’d been bleeding internally in his sleep for some time. He was too weak to get help and fell to the floor where he died. The blood filled his lower quadrants, then seeped out of his body and pooled around his legs.
When my mom found him, there was a child’s drawing on the nightstand next to his bed. It was the special picture I gave to him in the hospital after his surgery. That was the first time she’d ever seen it, and all she could do was scream.
With my favorite crayons, I drew a winter mountain scene. At the base of the mountain was a grave with “PAPA” written vertically down the cross. The sun was peeking through the clouds and a yellow ray of sunshine illuminated his cross. At the bottom of his headstone were blood-red roses growing from the snow covered ground.
One of the most vivid memories from the scene of the crash when I was 8 months old was when I looked over at the massive truck which hit our car. The driver side door had been ripped off by the firefighters and there was no one inside. I stared endlessly at that empty cabin, wishing someone would magically appear. The cops kept asking my family and the witnesses if they saw the truck driver. They all said the same thing:
“We never saw anyone behind the wheel.”
The road where we were T-Boned by the semi truck is right in front of the military cemetery. All 5 of my family members from the crash are buried there because they all served in the US Armed Forces.
When I drowned in the ocean at 3 years old, I didn’t just remember the premonition dream of the semi truck all on my own—someone down in the darkness showed it to me. He’s been with me my whole life, and he still visits me in my dreams. The only name I have for him is, “The Shadow Man.” He’s shown me so many things that I don’t have answers for. All I have are my memories, but the one thing I am absolutely sure of is this:
He’s thinking about ending you.
I’m Thinking About Ending You
Based on true events
A “Those Damn Enigmas” Production
An untitled, handwritten, and psychotic poem I have no recollection of writing at 10 years old after a sleep paralysis episode.
Dated September 6, 1996 in my journal.
By the smell of black in the morning
I just want a hug
In this glass breaking symphony
It doesn’t taste like Cherry Kool-Aid
When light lets the darkness fade
The Kentucky Dirty
WARNING: raunchy and ridiculous comedy.
Wha—what the hell happened? Oww, my head. Hey! Wake up, Enigma! Oh God, what have you done now? And why do you smell so bad?!
“The fuck? I didn’t do anything! Owwwww… my body hurts like a bitch. Hey! Where am I? Hey?!”
No one answers. I can barely raise my voice because my mouth is so dry. I’m all alone. Well, almost. With my eyes starting to focus, I begin to look around…
“Umm, there is a giant asshole staring right at me… literally.”
Why are we in a barn?! And whose horse is that?!
“How the fuck could I know if YOU don’t?”
The horse’s reigns are tied to metal post in the center of a large, open animal stall—and for some unknown reason, I'm in here with him, laying on the floor. His tail swishes side to side and he begins to shift his ass even closer to me.
“Whoa there, Seabiscuit!”
I try to lift my body up but I can’t move. My wrists are tied behind my back to my ankles.
“What the hell… They hog-tied my ass?!”
Who are “they,” exactly?
“Again, if YOU don’t know… *sigh*. I’m just saying the general ‘they,’ okay?! The only thing I DO know is that me and Seabiscuit over here are both tied up.”
Great. Typical Enigma shenanigans.
“You’re one to judge!”
I can hear the noises of other horses around me. Ugh, the smell in here is worse than my headache. I look up and see a sign that says “Sick Bay 1”.
“What the fuck?! What did we do to end up being tied down in the Sick Bay? THIS IS HORSESHIT!”
Spoken like a true prophet…
“Oh… no… no, no, NO!”
I can’t scoot away in time to escape the shit-splash of the massive diarrhea-dump pouring out of the horse’s asshole, mere feet from my head. I feel the spray hit the back of my arm as I lean away.
“DUDE!!! Whyyyy?! You could shit literally ANYWHERE ELSE!”
Hey, he’s sick—be nice. Maybe you are, too? Well, I mean, you’re DEFINITELY a sick bastard, but maybe there’s a reasonable explanation for all this. Whatever the case, just stop yelling at the poor thing.
“YOU stop yelling!”
First of all, I am you, dumbass. Second, no else can hear me. Third, whatever you’ve done to get us in this mess, yelling at an innocent animal won’t help us get out of it. You’re gonna spook that horse if you don’t calm your ass down. Do I need to remind you of that girl who got kicked in the face by the horse? BAM! Take that memory from your childhood!
“Holy FUCK! Yeah, I remember that. You’re right.”
Of course I’m right. Now, what’s the plan?
Suddenly I’m distracted by Seabiscuit’s baby-arm-of-a-penis as it stares right at me with its evil-eye.
“Dear God…it’s so… big… and angry. Ugh! They should call you American Phallus (hah). That’s GOTTA be some kind of size record. Oh, the horror. The horror!”
Focus, Enigma! C’mon now, THINK. How did you end up in a horse stall?
“I MUST be trapped in a lucid nightmare and this HAS TO be one of my Sleep Paralysis episodes ‘Gone Wild’… literally. That’s why I can’t move. Yes! That’s it! This is all just a Sleep Paralysis nightmare!”
STOP IT. You can’t avoid your problems this time. This is REAL. You are REALLY tied up in a horse barn!
“FUCK! Fuckity fuck fuck FUCK! Okay. You’re right. FOCUS!”
I keep talking to myself out loud to stay alert. As I scan my foggy memory, I look down to see that I’m wearing my little black dress. I hear faint sounds of music in the distance. I can feel the spikes of my stilettos pressing into my sore ass chee—
“HOLD THE FUCK UP! Why is my ASS sore?! Wait! My dress! The music! The wedding! The FUCKING wedding!”
Yes! Mama’s wedding!
My mom had just married that no-good-son-of-bitch… Fucking Richard. We were having the reception at a fancy ranch owned by some millionaire cowboy. We were drinking and dancing, running through all the Shuffles ’n’ Slides. I brought it down, down, down with the Cupid Shuffle (which cued my flirtation with that SUPER HOT six-foot-five Mister I’d been eying all night). Then, I was killin’ the Cha-Cha Slide ’cause I Cha-Cha real smooth y’all. Fucking Richard was to my left when we all sliiide to the right—
“That’s it! It was Fucking Richard! He poked my ass with a needle!”
“NO! Like, ACTUALLY literally! When I was looking the other way, he injected me with something!”
Oh. But still, gross.
“Yes, dude. Fuck this shit. I’m getting out of here. Whatever that sick fuck is up to, he won’t be for long. He’s always been such a prick… literally.”
Damnit! This is no time for puns! Concentrate!
“Ugh, but he’s such a motherfucker… literally.”
GROSS! Will you stop it with the fucking puns?!
“Just the fucking puns? Eh? Ehh?”
“Sorry! He’s just… a huge asshole!”
“Oh no… no, no, NO! Not again!”
Another steaming pile of runny-shit from Seabiscuit’s giant ass plops next to me.
“I gotta get the FUCK out of here.”
No shit, Sherlock. C’mon, Enigma! Summon all those decades of ballet, MMA, and your BDSM shenanigans and un-fucking-pretzel yourself! Stop fuckin’ around!
“Fuuuuuuck! I’m trying! Argh-ugh!”
I wriggle my fingers around to feel the knot securing my ankles to my wrists.
“Wow, did this moron use a bowline knot? Clearly he thinks I’m some frail damsel in distress who can’t fend for herself. What does my mom even see in this douchebag?”
I use my spiked heel to hook the knot, and like a two-dollar-whore, I’m able to fist myself (hah) free from my ankles. I roll to my back, sit up, and shimmy my arms under my butt to bring my hands to the front of my body. I use my teeth to loosen the binds around my wrists enough to squeeze one hand free. I hurry to untie the rope around my ankles and kick it away.
“Yes! I did it! I knew all my shenanigans would come in handy someday! Just gotta get this rope off my other wrist.”
Do that later, moron. You’re still next to—
“Oh, no… not this time, Seebuttscat!”
I hurl myself away from the horse and take cover outside the wall of the stall.
Really? You’re gonna torture Seabiscuit with puns now? See-ButtScat?
“What?! That was clever.”
Maybe, a little. But this isn’t the time or place. Get the FUCK outta here! Look, the barn doors are wide open. GO!
I start walking toward the exit—
“Shit! Someone’s coming!”
I quickly hide behind the lip of the next stall over, hoping they haven’t heard me talking to myself in here over the loud music outside. Lucky for me, I’m once again trapped with another shit-squiring sick horse inside “Sick Bay 2”. Must’ve been a bad batch of hay. I watch Fucking Richard and some guy walking into those open doors at the opposite end of barn. He’s younger than the Dick, 40s maybe. They’re cackling like the cock-heads they are, but they won’t be laughing for long. I keep listening to try and make out their conversation…
“…and she really thinks I’m in love with her—hah! What an idiot! Let’s hurry up and handle the daughter. Everything is in place now that I’m the lawfully wedded husband, and that ‘Little’ Enigma is the only thing left standing in the way of our payday. ‘Little’ my ass, the big bitch was heavy!”
Doc? That’s certainly not OUR doc. Who the fuck is this guy?
“Yeah, and it’s ‘Lil’ damnit, not ‘Little’. I can’t help it if I’m a bloodline Viking! As if tall and muscular is SO bad—he’s just jealous ’cause he’s short and fat! *pout*. Hasn’t he ever heard of a nickname before?! *growl*.”
Really? THAT’S what you’re worried about? *brain sigh* Yes, you’re a gorgeous Viking Princess… who also glows in the dark. You’re like a fucking neon sign that says, “I’m right here, guys!” Now SHUT UP and STAY LOW before they catch your big ass!
“Did you bring all the tools, Doc?”
“Yup, everything’s in the bag. This isn’t my first rodeo, Richard.”
Doc is carrying a large black duffel bag, and I can hear the clinking of metal inside.
“These bastards are gonna KILL my ass!”
Shh! You CAN talk to me with your inside-head-voice, ya’know!
“Right! You’re so smart!”
Duh. I’m a brain. You’d be dead by now without me. YES, LITERALLY. Pay attention!
“How much does a set of Type-O kidneys go for on the Black Market these days, Doc?”
Just then, I notice the already prepared electric lift off to the side, covered in a plastic sheet. Along the wall I see massive gloves, rolled up plastic tarps, and funnel-shaped containers.
“This cock-hole is gonna kill me for my organs… in a breeding barn?! What in the Dexter is this shit? How did he even know I’m a universal donor?! And was he planning on using an ANIMAL DOCTOR on me?! What the actual FUCK is going on?!”
“Look Richard, I already told you what your cut of the deal is for every viable organ. No more haggling.”
“I always knew he was a no-good-son-of-a-bitch!”
“Hah! Me? Haggling? Nah… Just making conversation, Doc! And don’t you worry, I already convinced the wife to get that MILLION DOLLAR Life Insurance Policy for us BOTH to keep the cops off my ass. I’ll be selling that old bat’s house and land the second she’s dead, too. As the grieving husband, ‘I just can’t bring myself to live where my beloved wife died.’ Haha! A little accidental overdose on her meds will do the trick. So uh… just let your boss know I’ll pay off my debt, in full, real soon… o-okay?”
“Oh HELL no! NO ONE hurts Mama. The Enigmas ain’t nuthing ta fuck wit! I’m gonna open a can of Wu-Tang whoopass on these cocksuckers!”
Be serious! They are two strong MEN! We are running out of time! What are you gonna do?
“You are right brain… time for some creativity… don’t you think? Eh? Ehh?”
I swear, I will checkout and leave you comatose RIGHT NOW, Enigma!
“Okay! Sorry! Jeez, no need to go all bat-shit crazy on my ass—wait! That’s it!”
*brain gasp* Brilliant.
“It’s time to get this shit together…”
For the love of God!
I kick off my stilettos, undo the rest of the rope from my wrist and wrap it tightly around both palms, leaving a few inches of loose rope between my fists. I gather up a huge, disgusting pile of goopy horseshit in my hands (a nasty number two, courtesy of Seabiscuit No. 2). I slip back into the lip of the stall and wait silently for these limp-dicks to pass right by me. Doc is the younger and taller of the two, clearly he’ll be strong, so I need to take him out first. And Fucking Richard doesn’t deserve a quick death. He’s gonna get the Enigma Special tonight.
“C’mon, Richard, I’ve got other appointments—enough with the chit-chat. Let’s get this bitch taken care of already.”
“Who does he think he’s calling bitch?”
Fucking Richard takes off his tuxedo jacket and unbuttons his shirt, while Doc bends down to place the heavy duffel bag on the floor and begins rummaging through the tools.
“Yeah, I left her right over here-uh… wait… OH NO! DOC! BEHIND Y—“
I sprint toward them at full speed and Haduken! the heap of shit right into Fucking Richard’s dumb face, sending him blindly scurrying and choking on dung. In the same motion, I jump onto Doc’s back and hoop my shit-covered fists over his head and around his throat. I lock my forearms tightly into the base of his neck to take him down in a Flying Rear Naked Choke. With my feet locked around his waist and my rope-reinforced grip around his neck, there is absolutely nothing he can do.
“Hey Dr. Doom! Here comes the BOOM! You’re MY bitch, now! And if you really are a doctor, then you know I’ve got ALL your jugular and carotid vessels on-lock. You’ve got about 3 more seconds. Night night! Keep your butthole tight!”
The threat on his delicate little bootyhole gives the doc one last burst of energy. He flails and tries to punch me as his knees hit the ground, falling unconscious before face-planting onto the hay covered floor. I quickly unravel the rope from my hands and use it to tightly tie his neck off. With the remaining length, I securely tie him to the stall post to finish the job (shenanigans FTW). His brain won’t receive another drop of blood again, and unfortunately, a peaceful death will have to due for the doc.
“Guess you lucked out on the butt-stuff, Doc. Wish I could stay and party, but now I’ve got a huge Dick to handle.”
Ew! Just go get that jerk before he recovers! Hurry!
“Fucking Richard. You old dirty bastard! How did I know you were a worthless piece of shit all along? Sorry, what’s that? Can’t hear you, ass-goblin! Sounds like you’ve got some shit caught in your throat… literally!
You don’t have to say it when it’s that obvious.
“May I continue here? It’s not like we’ve been waiting my whole life for this opportunity or anything.”
“I mean, marrying my mom to take all her hard-earned assets was to be expected, and you WILL pay for breaking the heart of a true angel… but to kill me for my very valuable organs?! Even I have to hand it to you there... THAT was creative—as if it was my own sick idea! But, I’m not here to break walls (*winks at the camera* ;) I’m here to break your life. You fucked with the WRONG family!”
“Not anymore he’s not.”
“Little Enigma, please. *cough* Have mercy! You always say that we’re all just human! I have a *cough* I have a sickness! A disease! I can’t help my gambling addiction!”
Is he really pulling the sympathy card? Fucking—
“Richard, you’re right. You DO have a sickness…”
I put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.
“…But any horse doctor can tell you—well, maybe not the dead one over there—but any OTHER horse doctor can tell you, that when one horse has an incurable disease, the whole herd suffers. The only thing you can do… IS PUT IT DOWN!”
As he’s hunched over, still choking on shit, I pull his shirt over his head like a hockey player about to get his ass kicked. Once in my grip, I summon my inner Chun-Li and swiftly and relentlessly kick him in the dick, over and over, utilizing the most vicious Lightning Kick known to man—the Hyakuretsukyaku (the Hundred Rending Legs). Then, just as he’s about to fall forward from dick-death, I use my knee to Shoryuken! uppercut him in the face, which sends him flying back onto the tarp-covered animal lift.
As he squirms, I rush to grab my Stilettos and the rest of the rope he used to tie me up with. I tie both of Fucking Richard’s wrists to the horizontal bar over his head. He just lays there on his back, sprawled out on the surface of the lift, writhing in pain and crying like a defeated toddler who’s thrown himself on the floor. I look around for more rope to secure his legs…
“Oh-ho-ho… horse hobbles… BINGO.”
“Oh, but I would.”
I look down the line at two horses in particular at the front end of the barn.
“And they DEFINITELY wood.”
“Hey, don’t act like you’re some innocent bystander. You’re the one behind all this madness. You’re MY fucking brain!”
“That’s the FUCK I’m talkin’ about… LITERALLY!”
Yeah! Fuck him! You don’t hurt the innocent! And poor Mama, she’s so pure of heart. *brain cry*
“Shit! Mama! What am I gonna tell her?”
She can’t know any of this. It’ll destroy her. He has to die in some freak accident so she never knows the truth. It’s better to lose love than to be betrayed. Check the doctor’s bag!
I find rib crackers, scalpels, horse tranquilizers (probably what they used to knock me out). Thank God for shenanigans and a high tolerance. I keep looking to find plastic bags, surgical scissors, and…
Heroin? And will you STOP saying bingo, already? We don’t need anymore repetitive one-liners. So, this asshole was a drug dealer, too? I’m glad you killed that fucker.
“Same. Okay, I’ve got the murder weapon in the bag for Fucking Richard’s accidental suicide. Finding out your husband was a struggling heroin addict won’t seem all that bad once she’s got a MILLION DOLLARS from his failed Life Insurance scheme. All that cash will help the wife and ‘grieving stepdaughter’ move on somewhere far away from this cowboy country shit-hole. Best Uno Reverse Card in history. Let’s do this.”
I grab one of my Stilettos and put the spike into Fucking Richard’s dick.
“If you move, I will hop onto this table and use these sharp heels to stomp your dick RIGHT OFF! Understand me?!”
Fucking Richard cries out in compliance as I quickly undo his pants with shenanigan-expertise. I yank his slacks completely off and get a huge whiff of his nasty old man cologne. Instant stank-face!
Eww! Does he spray it down his pants?! Yuck. Who does that?
“Gross dudes with cheese-dicks do that.”
“Wha-what are you doing? Oh, please! Please don’t hurt my dick anymore! OH GOD! Not my dick! PLEASE!!! Not my d-i-i-i-ck!!!”
Men. It’s always about the dick. I swear, they must love dick more than women by how much they always talk about it.
“Fucking Richard! Calm your tits, man! If you comply, I’m not gonna hurt your chia-chode anymore. You’ll be doing ME the favor. Just shut up and do as you’re told. But, uh... by the looks of that little baby-dick, all the swelling is doing you some good! Hah!”
I secure his ankles into the horse hobbles and use the rope to connect them to the horizontal bar above the back of the lift. And with an easy tug of the simple pulley, Fucking Richard’s feet are forced over his head up to his tied wrists.
“Touch your toes, bitch.”
Save your screams for later, buddy.
“Come one, come all! The Pink Starfish is open for business, boys! Half price on all Pink Lady Cocktails tonight!”
We are going to hell.
“WHAT?! You sick bitch! You sick fucking bitch! You wouldn’t dare! Untie me, you cunt! Just you wait until I get out of here! I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU!!!”
Pffft… he’s making this too easy. Like, who didn’t figure this out already? Oh boy, should we tell ’em?
“FUCKING *clap* RICHARD *clap*!”
Ohp, here she goes.
“Don’t you get it?! Not only will you be pinned for the doc’s murder, YOU won’t be fucking OR fucking over another woman EVER *clap* AGAIN *clap*! In fact, once I slide these heels back on (that you ruined by the way), and sashay my sexy ass out of here to rejoin the party… YOU WILL BE THE ONLY BITCH LEFT IN HERE! And uh, if you haven’t noticed… those two studs going ape-shit all the way down at the front of the barn… they’re primed and ready to mate. Wanna know how I know that? Because those two have been losing their raging, hormone-fueled FUCKING MINDS ;) over your stinky ass cologne ever since you walked in here! They think YOU are their mare… their BITCH. You’ll fucking kill me?! Oh no, no, no waffle-dick…”
I lean down right next to his face and start off with a whisper…
“Cock O’ War and Butt Admiral over there are gonna FUCKING KILL YOU... LITERALLY!”
He flinches from my war-cry right into his ear. I stand up straight and start tracing my finger from his ankle all the way down to his exposed rump.
“If you fuck with The Enigmas, WE FUCK BACK!”
I slap his ass cheek so hard that it leaves a perfect, pink handprint. Too fitting as he cries out like a bad little girl.
Jesus, Enigma. Are you SURE this is how it’s gonna end?
“You know what…”
What? What?! Stop with the dramatics!
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“YOU HAVE?! Oh thank GOD! Thank YOU, Little Enigma! Thank youuuu-oo-oo-oooo!”
I reach over Fucking Richard’s head…
….and push the “UP” button on the animal lift.
“Don’t want the horses to get a back ache from having to bend over too far. I hear standing and thrusting your hips is SUCH hard work *rolls eyes*. There we go, that should do it. Oh… and it’s ‘Lil’ Enigma, ass-cheese ;) .”
Fucking Richard continues to berate me, but it all just fades to background noise. I hear the music off in the distance and I’m reminded of my poor Mama. She’s gonna be devastated for a while. But, for tonight, I’m gonna show her the time of her life. I use a bucket to scoop some water from a horse trough to wash myself off and casually wipe my hands clean on his white undershirt. I slip on my heels, dust off my little black dress, and grab the heroin out of the duffel bag for safe keeping in my bra. Wouldn’t want an innocent animal accidentally hurting itself on this nasty shit. I also find a fresh pack of cigarettes and a chrome Zippo.
“Ah, menthols. Nice job, Doc!”
I give the dead doc a nod as I pack the cigarettes on the wall above his head. I flip the Zippo and spark the flame in one, swift motion (as badasses do), and light my well deserved cigarette. I notice the single red rose that fell out of Fucking Richard’s tuxedo jacket. I pick it up from the floor and stick it behind my ear.
“Perfect. I’ll be back to clean up after I enjoy the rest of your wedding reception, sweet-cheeks.”
Damn right. Fucking Richard interrupted our Cha-Cha Slide. Hopefully that sexy six-foot-five Mister is still there. We deserve a prize for this shit.
“Oh, you can count on it. I’m gonna ride him for the Triple Crown ;) .”
I’ll give you that one. Let’s go.
“Night night! Keep your butthole ti—“
You already used that one.
“Shit. Fuck it. Enjoy your ruptured colon, bitch!”
Well, that wasn’t funny.
“Can’t win ’em all, I guess.”
I begin my promised strut down the catwalk—cigarette in hand, winning rose in hair, Cha-Cha-ing real smooth back to the party. I lift the locks on the last two horse stalls as I exit the barn. I swear, I can almost hear Fucking Richard’s asshole pucker as they kick open the doors behind me.
“And they’re OFF!”
Go horsies, go!
“AHH! HELP ME YOU BITCH! NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NOOOOOOOOOO!!!”
THE KENTUCKY DIRTY
A “Those Damn Enigmas” Production
Special Thanks to the following legendary racehorses: Seabiscuit, American Pharaoh, Man O’ War, and War Admiral. Your talent was no joke.
Honorable Mentions: Dexter, Street Fighter, Mortal Kombat, and Wu-Tang Clan. Your badassery is unmatched.
Songs Quoted: “Cupid Shuffle”, “Casper Cha-Cha Slide”, and “Wu-Tang Clan Ain’t Nuthing ta Fuck Wit”
No animals (or men) were harmed writing this story.
All rights reserved blah blah blah.
“Hah! Just kidding. Just my finger gun. You’re the daughter, right? Where’d you go? Been looking for you all night. I, uh… I thought we had a connection on the dance floor earlier…”
I look up at the biggest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. The hot six-foot-five Mister is even bigger and more gorgeous up close. But my racing heart stops as I look down to see his real gun and badge on his belt.
“Oh. You really are a cop? So you’re a badass on top of being the hottest guy here *bites lip*.”
Run! *brain panic*
“Shut up, brain! He’s a total nerd. And hot as fuck. I got this.”
No, YOU shut up! You’re gonna get caught! Ughhh I’m spiraling! This isn’t happening!
“Ahem… Detective, actually. But I’m off duty now. So, what are you up to out here? Man this is some ranch, huh? Oh cool, looks like there’s a barn over there.”
Do I need to remind you about what’s in your bra?! Or maybe the assASSination happening in the barn as we speak?! Oh, God. What are you doing to me, Enigma?! Now I’M speaking in puns!
“Ohhh you know… just the everyday, normal shenanigans *giggle*. Hey—”
“Is for horses! Hah! Sorry, I’m full of dad jokes.”
God hates me. This is my hell.
“Well, God clearly still loves ME ’cause he’s PERFECT and I'm in heaven!”
“So, you were saying? About the dance floor? *bites lip again*.”
I make the first move by grabbing his giant hand to lead him back inside to the reception.
“Maybe we could pick up where we left off? The party’s still hoppin’, you’re looking all kinds of fun, and there’s this song I want to request from the DJ. Something about ‘save a horse, ride a cowboy’…”
Is your head getting smaller? Why is it so tight in here?! Is this what brain death feels like?
“Well, I don’t have any mushrooms on me, but I’m known to be a real fungi! I’m surprised a pretty little lady such as yourself would enjoy a dirty song like that.”
Yup! This is FOR SURE the end. Goodbye cruel world!
“Well, I’ve been known to get a little ‘Kentucky Dirty’ every now and then… (*winks at the camera*;).”
TO BE CONTINUED…
Human Head Flower
When someone puts a loaded gun in their mouth and pulls the trigger, the human head opens up like a flower. This flower formation can happen from GSWs to knee-caps and even the groin area, but nothing compares to the head. It’s utterly horrifying to see, but maybe by the time you’re done reading this, you’ll see just how beautifully poetic it can be.
The only reason I know all of this is because I am so privileged to once have had an almost promising career in the medical field, and I was going to eventually specialize in Forensic Pathology after becoming a general surgeon. Fourteen years of schooling sounded like a fucking dream to the nerd I’ve always been. I was the youngest-ever candidate chosen for an exclusive summer program at University Medical when I saw my first and only self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. And just like myself, this person applied and was approved for Full Body Donation—so I was free to do hands-on study of his remains (thank you for your service, Sir).
The first requirements you need for that line of work is a strong stomach and an eager love for the science. However, to keep you there requires a genuine desire to help others. I am an advocate at heart, and the crux of what a pathologist does is give a voice to the voiceless. I’ve always been determined to leave this world in better shape than it was given to me, and this was my way of helping people. Studying those precious former lives under the most phenomenal doctors was by far the best professional experience of my life.
So, of the dozens of autopsies I have taken part in (both in person and through video/photo lecture), one of them, sadly, was this suicide I mentioned. He was a middle-aged male and the cause of death was a self-inflicted gunshot into the mouth. It’s not the only suicide I worked on, but definitely the most visually memorable. The pressure a gunshot creates inside this air-tight, fluid-filled compression chamber we carry on our necks forces a human head to open up like the fully-bloomed petals of a lily. Any remaining teeth become forged with pieces of skull and brain because the force and heat of the explosion literally turns any hard matter into the shrapnel of a pressure cooker bomb. Ever observant as I was, they allowed me to remove a tooth I identified that was lodged into one of the petals of the human head flower.
Unfortunately, I never even made it to medical school because life threw too many punches at me at that time [*ba-dum-tee* formerly-abused humor anyone? Eh? Ehh?]. Just joking! I’ve always said, “If I couldn’t laugh at my life, I would’ve fucking killed myself a long ass time ago.” But aside from comedy saving my soul countless times, that suicide case is seared into my amygdala—from the sorrow and duty I felt toward this man and his family, down to the smell of his chewing tobacco still stuck to portions of his gums. Clearly enough to give anyone reservations about that second of bravery it takes to just fucking do it.
This was the case which also piqued my interest in the funeral business. Any Funeral Director/Embalming Specialist who can put that train wreck back together to resemble anything of the man his family and friends love so dearly, oof... to me, that is art of the highest caliber. Only the most skilled specialists in the world can pull that off well. Most families will opt for a closed casket in these cases, and you don’t get a “body funeral” if you’re signed up for Full Body Donation—but I wanted to be the one-of-a-kind talent who not only performed autopsies to the utmost perfection, but could give families their beloved back, looking beautiful, one last time.
Death wasn’t just my calling to help the world… Death was my life’s passion. I might still have a chance at the funeral business someday—that is, if it’s not me who ends up on that cold, stainless steel examination table first. Death has reappeared in my life, in a bad way, and that fucker is lurking ever closer, each day.
The majority of my physical and emotional scars belong to a single bad man who I will soon introduce y’all to in my darkest tale of woe. This man is solely responsible for the loss of my ability to continue my education and accomplish these dreams I once had. I had to plan nonstop for my escape because he was so cunning. And one day, the plan finally fell perfectly into place because he’d given himself a little too much heroin. He was completely zonked out and nodding off so heavily that I simply walked right out the front door. I told him I was off to send a gift to his mom, which he easily took me up on since he’d forgotten her birthday. He let go of my shirt and I slipped away. I escaped nearly 20 years ago, and to this day, he still finds ways to contact me online.
As long as this bad man stays away, I wish him no harm. But the videos he’s been sending me lately are what struck my desire to start writing again. Not only do I need to finally heal this pain once and for all, but I need to document what he did to me (just in case):
1) My beautiful body, gone.
2) My beautiful mind, gone.
3) My beautiful career, gone.
4) My beautiful life, FUCKING GONE.
This bad man has delusions that I will always be his property. I truly feel sorry for him, but I can never forget what he stole from me. How could I? His torture is all over my naked body every time I look in the mirror. The stalking and obsession seems to be growing, and because he was so smart, I can never call the cops on him again (long story).
So, my only choice was to finally agree to have a gun in our home full-time (specifically, when Mister is gone). Thanks to the Traumatic Brain Injury from this bad man, I’ve been a nervous, stuttering klutz ever since—so not only did it kill my once surgeon-steady hands and ballerina grace, naturally, I was always scared to be responsible for my own gun. However, I have too many lives depending on me now. She’s no Colt .45 with a pearl grip, but she’s definitely a stealthy bitch that’s more than willing to do the job. Her name is “Kiddo,” named after Uma Thurman from the Kill Bill films. Pretty fitting, don’t you think? Well, I’m proud of it—proud of my Kiddo ;)
If he ever finds me again, the play-by-play of what would happen is now also seared into my amygdala—from the fear I feel just imagining seeing him again, down to the smell of his black leather combat boots and body odor. I’ll know he’s here, and the memories will all come flooding back:
It took almost 1 decade to escape him for good. It took 2 decades to have the courage just to write about him. It took 3 decades to meet the first kind gentleman in my entire life. It took almost 4 decades from the day I was born to find self-love. He is NOT taking a single thing away from me again.
But this massive man with his roaring voice will surely be black-eyed and screaming at me. I need to remember what matters. I can’t get distracted or crumble into pieces. I need to remember what Mister taught me:
1) Just breathe and focus on your target, not the gun.
2) Keep your arms strong and grip tightly.
3) Squeeze the trigger, don’t pull it.
4) Keep your eyes open, and never shoot to injure (only you can finish it).
If he tries to attack me or step foot into my home, it’s either him… or him. Turns out, I can still contribute to the morgue of my dreams, because Kiddo and I have unfinished business…
1) Heart: for stealing my life’s passion.
2) Lungs: for every time I couldn’t breathe.
3) Dick: for every time he forced me to my knees, screaming.
And just like the first time I escaped his captivity, the last words he ever heard from my beautiful voice, that I still have:
“Shhh it’s okay… go back to sleep…
I’m just going to send your mom some flowers…”
4) MOUTH: for my condolences.
Human Head Flower
A “Those Damn Enigmas” Production
Based on true events, but no one was harmed writing this story.
Don’t crap on people, or they just might put that shit-eating grin to good use.
Sending All My Love
May 14, 2023 at 4:20 PM
Y’all are probably wondering why I’ve disappeared. I no longer have a reason to stay in the city now that Mama is gone. So, in the years I’ve spent taking care of her, I learned a lot about myself and life in general—especially what it means to put another’s needs above my own. I will never know a more precious soul than our mother’s, and now I want to try and live up to her example. Mama made everyday a joy and a privilege to take care of her, and I want to be the type of person who will be adored the way she was. I would gladly spend the rest of my life lifting her paralyzed body, brushing her teeth, changing her diapers, and everything else that came with her care. I would give anything just to have more time with her—you can be sure of that!
Please do not worry about me as I am in the best hands with Mister. My solitude is his solitude, and we can finally be together full-time now that he’s retiring. You know my big guy will protect me from any wild animals or soulless monsters that can lurk deep in the woods. As scary as that sounds, it’s just time for me to find out what I’m really made of. If I don’t do this, it will continue to burn a hole in my heart and I’ll never find my peace. Let’s just hope this novel won’t be complete shit! Mama’s disability already put us through financial Hell! Eating expired garbage from the food pantry destroyed my body—not that you guys would know anything about that! Haha! Anyway, I gotta run. Take care, my dearest siblings!
PS: Mama’s ashes are with me, where they belong. If my novel wins any awards, she will be placed right next to them. Oh, and please make sure you don’t lose my email address (for emergencies) because there is no cell service where I’m going. I’ll check my email once, maybe twice a week in town. And you need to stop being so stingy with those pictures of the kids! I want to know those adorable little bastards! It’s too late for them to know their grandma, but maybe they can get to know their aunt (now that I have freedom like you guys)! Oh yea, can you believe I found Mama’s cookbook?! It was literally under my nose the whole time! I found all her secret recipes that we always gobbled down as kids! I heard you enjoyed my confectionery gift (I even added a creamy twist)! OMG I went ape shit baking during the pandemic to treat myself after losing my job, so that’s probably the best I’ve ever made her chocolate pie! Cool, huh?! You guys deserve to treat yourselves, too. Write me back when you get this, and let me know how it turned out, fuckers! LOL! Sending all my love!
You only have one mother in this world—cherish her. Even if she isn’t/wasn’t perfect, forgive her and set a better example for future generations. If she’s still with us, she won’t be around forever. The time to love her is now. And remember…
Karma is a patient, maniacal bitch.
Happy Mother’s Day <3