Not 4 $ale

By M.R. Biggs

An unknown drifter possesses persistent blackouts. Suffering from amnesia, he finds himself on stand for murder. Prosecution demands information in reference to the series of events that has transpired leading up to the homicide of one of the top nubile psychiatrists in the nation. The plot delves into the lives of these deranged patients who have now become suspects, clashing into a multitude of dire personality disorders; conveying darkly disassociated delusions. Which one of her patients did it? Even the State couldn't tell you for it's a case of mistaken identity. The story is told through the eyes of the 'The Narrator' with bits of cross-referencing in search of a minor piece of history, ultimately connecting one colossal enigma. Characters find themselves traveling aimlessly through revolving doors of cause and effect. Strange plot twists begin to snowball out of control, unraveling the true murderer and his/her motives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: May 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781645366294

M.R. Biggs

M. R. BIGGS is an educator / American novelist based in New York, who traveled the world in search of deep meaning, ultimately finding himself humbled by the countless psychological disorders he had come to encounter. One 'Intro to Philosophy' course manifested a paradigm shift, leading him to acknowledge thirst and inherent talent for the written word. M. R. BIGGS is currently working on a new novel GOD 4 PRE$IDENT - a grippingly dark comedy, one paranormal twist more shattering than the next.

Book preview

Operation

About the Author

M. R. BIGGS is an educator / American novelist based in New York, who traveled the world in search of deep meaning, ultimately finding himself humbled by the countless psychological disorders he had come to encounter. One ‘Intro to Philosophy’ course manifested a paradigm shift, leading him to acknowledge thirst and inherent talent for the written word. M. R. BIGGS is currently working on a new novel GOD 4 PRE$IDENT – a grippingly dark comedy, one paranormal twist more shattering than the next.

About the Book

An unknown drifter possesses persistent blackouts. Suffering from amnesia, he finds himself on stand for murder. Prosecution demands information in reference to the series of events that has transpired leading up to the homicide of one of the top nubile psychiatrists in the nation. The plot delves into the lives of these deranged patients who have now become suspects, clashing into a multitude of dire personality disorders; conveying darkly disassociated delusions. Which one of her patients did it? Even the State couldn’t tell you for it’s a case of mistaken identity. The story is told through the eyes of the ‘The Narrator’ with bits of cross-referencing in search of a minor piece of history, ultimately connecting one colossal enigma. Characters find themselves traveling aimlessly through revolving doors of cause and effect. Strange plot twists begin to snowball out of control, unraveling the true murderer and his/her motives.

Dedication

To you, Mother, I didn’t ask to be born… yup, that’s about it.

~ WITH LOVE, ALWAYS.

Copyright Information

Copyright © M. R. BIGGS (2019)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Ordering Information:

Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

BIGGS, M. R.

Not 4 $ale

ISBN 9781641828819 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781641828826 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781645366294 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019939412

The main category of the book — Fiction / Thriller / Suspense

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published (2019)

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 28th Floor

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

Acknowledgement

I am greatly indebted to the following individuals for their assistance and inspiration:

Professor Kincaid­ – You taught me to never use people as a means to an end but rather as ends in themselves. Thank you for all your words of wisdom.

Dani Levy – Your talent as an artist far exceeds the cover of this novel. Don’t ever stop doing what you love, even if it kills you.

Abby Brooks – Thank you for your friendship, support, and putting up with the countless hours listening to me rant about this narrative. Thank you for being you.

Moni Brzostowska – This story was filtered through your eyes and for that I cannot express my gratitude enough.

Shana Butiku – You were the one who told me to always follow my gut and never stop writing, telepathically anyway.

To you – New York, you are one fickle mistress. You have taught me somewhere in the midst of all that wretched breach of peace that it was the battle I thrived off the most, not the conquest. It was never ‘to live is to win’, it was about discovering the unknown tenacity buried under that torpid state of motivation.

CAUTION!

THE CONTENT IN WHICH YOU ARE ABOUT TO DELVE INTO

CAN POSSIBLY BE CONSTRUED AS MODERATELY TO WILDLY OVER-EXAGGERATED.

Chapter 1

Tabula Rasa

CHA$E

Chase Ashby was infatuated with benzos.

The ones that numbed you enough to forget, whether or not you were alive or just living. The only unparalleled comparison was Daphne’s love for speed and angel dust. She had her fair share of distinctions. She wasn’t your typical, mundane adrenaline junkie; familiar with the nuances of susceptible habit-forming ‘non-issues’. Daphne thrived off her overly ardent addiction to indefinite quantities of drugs, ultimately concocting a cocktail of substances. By definition, what constitutes being forward meant leaning over and taking in a 12-inch foot long for the team. Yes, to answer your question, she did cut corners. More importantly, she could cut lines in a hurricane, that woman. The inevitability of them being in the same realm, independent of human existence meant one thing: they had similar intrigues. No, contrary to their subconscious beliefs, they did not do drugs, they merely explored other dimensions at their own leisure. The idea that possessed them ensued not a conscious state of disbelief or the unwarranted notion that love, religion, and gossip were the opiates of the people. Rather a contrived attempt to bring meaning to our trivial and utterly meaningless existences.

Chase’s philosophy revolved around knowing his worth and not forgetting to double the tax. The past had him, the future wanted him, and the present seemed to have nothing to do with him. A self-loathing, self-destructive, juvenile non-conformist, defined by an unruly past. Chase’s nature being exceedingly unpredictable, was every type of dark genius, mixed in with equal parts sheer stupidity. Thought-provoking, humbly reeking of vanity, and sporadically sweating confidence, let’s just say Chase had some big kahunas. He was truly the epitome of all things reckless. It was his impulse that made him so quick to act on anything remotely appealing. You combine being overly informed, awake, add a dash of will, and the rules no longer apply.

The paths he took baffled not only the people who knew him, even he questioned his motives most of the time. Innate spontaneity favored the likes of Chase in more ways than one. Blatantly vague, mysterious, and unfailingly speaking in riddles. The things he would get away with were far out of anyone’s jurisdiction. Chase was a good person, he just liked all things tainted and taboo. Chase’s source believed that deviation and non-conformity were only beneficial if one was completely submerged, without ever coming up for air. Intimidating enough to fit the profile and essentially fit to commit murder. In his defense, he had been left unsupervised, and the pharmacies don’t seem to sell patience over the counter.

The object of this game we call life. Live every moment as if it were a bank robbery, and you can’t get caught. Don’t waste time that’s borrowed to begin with, get with the program, get in and get out. ‘Small world we live in’, a phrase Chase believed was vastly overrated. He’d always say otherwise. It’s not a small world, it’s a big world, just run well. Being utterly conscious of the fact that shortcuts were for short time. Yet, seemingly, always choosing the road less traveled. Whichever path he led, trouble always seemed to follow. Chase had never realized the truth of the matter that the only one standing in the way of Chase was the man in the mirror. He reserved the right to tell himself it was a bad idea and did whatever the fuck he pleased immediately thereafter. Voices in the deepest recesses feeding him ample doses of reassurance, ‘the only certainty was uncertainty’. Constantly questioning his existence.

Subconscious reflections lacking in conviction were presently overwhelmed with dissociation. Chase endured to come to terms with self-inflicting misery, which in turn was another term for sobriety.

Chase was not a people person but boy did he have a way with people. His aura was as penetrating as a shark’s smile. He was not your average extremist; there was a right way, a wrong way and the way he did things. Some, actually many, questioned his insanely half-baked methods. Thoroughgoing lunacy, a nonchalant attitude, and several, let’s call them ‘inconsistencies’, didn’t make him the most ideal candidate to partner up with. Chase was guilty of underestimating the potential ramifications of making some very questionable decisions. Then again, we had to remind ourselves, he managed to get this far and still be on top. Chase made moves, his motions boundless. Through his eyes, anything and everything came across as tangible, as far as the length of his reach. Immortal and otherworldly; anything he thought up, the universe dispensed to land right on his lap. He chose to choose all things against the grain, excluding all things occupying the run of the mill featureless and unstimulating. Finding himself going from one extreme to another, and unpredictably so. One moment seeming overly involved, to having contrary feelings the next, and persistently so. Invariably, even order embodies chaos.

For Chase, one thing was for certain, he was not lacking in continuity when it came to his approach to alcohol, anything that anesthetized his anxieties. Mostly whiskey, scotch, expressively dark enough to reassure the unforeseen circumstances. From evil eyes to naughty girls and dirty money. Justifying the fact that not only did he break every rule in the book, he uttered the very thoughts that ended him: the incessant rants and disarray of complexity that fed his intuitive nature. The voices dawdling the seconds away, dwelling in contemplation. Darkly raging echoes, bombarding:

"Feed me, caps filled with white powdery crystals, to feel nothing once again; that subtle poison breathes sensual gratification.

FEED MY INSATIABLE DESIRE, the endless sea that is my inner depths of evil inclination.

Feed me, your pretty lies.

Feed me, the ugly truth.

Feed me, love, ecstasy, and everything in between.

Feed me, gossip.

Feed me, repetitive, factual, useless information.

Feed me, the inner depths of Mother Nature.

Feed me, bullshit because that’s what you’re good at.

Feed me, bitter irony with an endless form of social control.

Feed me, occasional humanistic morals where lies no humanity.

Feed me, depression, and stress-induced anxiety.

Flash…

The People of the State of New York V.

Are you there? Are you there, are you there? The prosecutor’s accent was South-African British. Muffling voices fading in the background.

Can you state your name for the record?

Bringing the microphone closer, responding in monotonous tonality, I do not recall my name.

Do you consider your memory loss a form of amnesia? Mr. Bennett grunted in disbelief.

Can you state your birthdate for the record?

I have no recollection. Nodding in ambiguity.

Do you know where you are? Mr. Bennett inquired with exasperation, as if he routinely asked the very same question moments ago.

Rhetorical questions, now you’re talking… looks like a courtroom to me. Arms stretched outright, palms faced up, wearing a deliberate grin.

That is a nice tie you have on and is that suit Bulgari? inquiring enthusiastically.

The prosecutor smiled nervously, fixed his tie, subsequently clearing his throat.

That reminds me, I’m parched. You got a glass, hell you got a whole pitcher on your table, shouting out indifferently.

What is the last thing you remember?

I have many memories, most of which are lost, however.

You do realize you asked for water a few minutes ago?

Wait a sec, what is this all about? Why am I here, anyhow?

Seen a dead body recently?

That depends on your definition of what constitutes living.

Do the names Chase Ashby and Daphne Bass mean anything to you?

Yes, they are my… acquaintances. They are good to me.

When was the last occurrence of you bumping into either of them?

That depends, what day is it?

Let’s say it’s Wednesday.

Alright, in that case, let’s say… um… I saw them this past weekend. Responding unsure of the answer.

Allow me to advise you, it is in your best interest to cooperate with the people of the state of New York. You are currently one of the prime suspects in the premeditated homicide of a now deceased, Doctor Katherine Howitzer. The defendant utilized both index and middle fingers, depicting a gun, imitating gunshots as he parroted simulated sound effects, ‘pew-pew! Pew-pew!’ Addressing the entire courtroom, expressing in the most sarcastic of tones.

M-hmm… so I take it that as a no on the H2O? He paused to wait for a reaction. Glancing at the Jury, scanning his way clockwise, locking eyes with the not-so-honorable, Judge Anna Moody. Tough crowd, the suspect responded, indicating no form of deception. The Jury was baffled by such collective responses, from such a collective asshole. Or so they collectively thought.

Your Honor, this is not what I signed up for.

There has yet to be a case such as this one. Mr. Bennet, I urge you not to be discouraged. Not for the sake of your career anyway. Take it with a grain of salt and let’s make history here. Please proceed. The judge averted her attention to the accused and explained, Another outburst and you’ll be leaving here in handcuffs, deliberately making eye contact with the foreman security. He nodded his head, crossed his arms, and clenched his fists, sweating authority.

Are you ready to cooperate? Mr. Bennett inquired, exhibiting a rather uncontrollable twitch in his left eye.

It would be redundant to complain, wouldn’t change a thing, would it, Mr. Twitch? Now, about that glass of water. A hint of contempt, noticeably pouring out the side of the defendant’s lip, which was tightly raised.

‘The Narrator’

Please call me ‘The Narrator’, there are infinite variables into explaining how this tale transitions into a narrative that simply cannot be written. Seriously, you can’t write this shit. I can’t tell you where this story begins or where it ends for that matter. What I can divulge is this. If there was ever an introduction to every type of crazy, perhaps only then, people would realize that ‘crazy’ is no man who breathes the same air as you and I. ‘Crazy’ is not some folk tale. ‘Crazy’ is not an incurable mental illness. ‘Crazy’ is beyond a reasonable doubt; ‘mad as a hatter’, allow me to elaborate. Imagine an allegory of monsters and men and one uninhabitable soul, anticipating being liberated from a prison. A permanent sanctuary his mind had built to repress the memories of a truth he was once conscious of. Unable to distinguish between the agonizing certainty of reality and the euphoric cluelessness that bears some semblance of illusion. Wonderland had conceivably become Chase’s playground; traveling mindfully yet aimlessly straying between worlds, forgetting how strangely peripatetic the rabbit hole can be in its intrinsic nature. The minute your inner senses enter, the moment you bought the farm.

Can we please focus on your end of the story, and please try your best not to go off on tangents, Mr. Bennett responded with agitation.

"A thousand apologies, you will have to bear with me, my memories are slowly beginning to dawn on me, unfortunately conveyed in quite erratic order, scrambled in clusters. I will do my best to provide the story in whatever bits and pieces. You will have to assemble this enigma yourselves. During my time off between the gap, where I had to figure out what I was going to do for the rest of my miserable existence. I decided to take the road off the beaten path, deep into the hole, chasing the dragon, quote unquote, for the rest of eternity. What I had wretchedly failed to realize was what collided thereafter. Contrary to popular belief, two heads are not always better than one. One too many variables to mentally process, and then there is of course the question of chemistry. There’s no telling you’ll see for yourselves, if the latter evidently unfolds, that is. I had obtained my contacts through the one they call, ‘Mr. Wizard’.

"The wizard was the one Chase reported to, he was the brains of the operation. I have yet to meet the wizard face to face. I had met Chase when he was nothing short of tall, and nothing less of ‘not invented here syndrome’, which had stemmed from whatever vipers and serpents he nourished in another life. Chase was known for his pathological and compulsive storytelling. He could go into character on cue if need be and was instilled with a gift to read people like books. Read their thoughts even, or so he claimed. If you call being able to look into the future, while assessing every possible outcome and ‘reading thoughts’, then yes, he was fully capable of self-deceptive, negative foreshadowing. I followed in Chase’s footsteps, oversupplied with limitless demands. Demands that only grew with time. He was always one move ahead, while I was several. Difference was he knew his move was the only correct move to make.

"Chase was a socially acceptable unregulated extremist/addict. The term ‘moderation’ was merely a hedonistic suggestion. He possessed an unbroken fanatical hobby to instinctively take on other single-minded hobbies. Which made matters rather fickle when it came to mixing domestic substances on top of illicit substances. He would do this on every occasion that randomly presented itself, however, resorting to justifying, having procured them through one of the most reputable psychiatrists across the nation. He delved into each of these ‘leisure pursuits’ religiously, exhibiting keen interest, and a rather unexplained enthusiasm. Nonetheless, the reality of his temporary pastimes was limited and often short-lived. Bleeding the honeymoon phase dry and casually disposing of said concepts, relinquishing them into thin air. Perhaps, this was the basis that offset what he felt exposed to as a child. Perhaps, he was unable to commit to anything or anyone worth committing to. Did he bore easy?

"Absofuckinglutely. Chase’s credo of ‘pro tempore’, meaning for the time being, was on par with the notion that one should never fear death; instead, fear a life unlived.

"Silly Chase, constantly looking to blame himself or everybody else. Possessing an instability to adequately assess his own sense of self-image. Always on edge, unless he was never on edge. His brain’s constant need for sedation, stability, was a disabling disease. One that most of society was blissfully unaware of. He had never been truly content, the most he ever felt was ‘mildly’ excessive suffering. Intrusive thoughts, the unbidden voices appearing in a maddeningly recurring manner. Katherine had diagnosed Chase with borderline personality disorder. Being mentally ill, unstable, and irrationally impulsive came with its own rap sheet of mishaps. Chase avoided specific situations, ideally because he premeditated most things before they even happened. Disabling panic attacks were not on his ‘to-do’ list, contemplating suicide on the other hand was at the very top.

No comparison, however, to the likes of Daphne’s intuitive nature. One can only begin to fathom the motive to murder someone whose sole purpose is attempting to heal them. In any event…

Chapter 2

Project Recovery

The epitome of an existentialist sociopath, the only rotten apple everyone wanted a bite out of, the ‘one’ with many names, Daphne Bass. Daphne’s ideology: psychopath is better than no path and time waits for no one. A foundation built on menacing and unpredictable principles. Rule #1: ‘Divulge nothing, confide in no one, NO EXCEPTIONS!’ Strict protocol was heartily implemented in every corridor. Elaborate precautions so to speak. Rule #2: ‘If you must assume, assume the opposite of what you initially assumed to presumably be true.’ If in any case you should arrive at a conclusion, inquiring about Daphne’s ostensible limits, ask yourself this, when she arrives at that crossroad, where she is faced to push limits… is she mindful of the undeniable fact that limits push back?’ Many things intrigued her, however, nothing really satisfied her entirely. She had long lost her old soul and exchanged it for a life that she believed she once knew, a life of sin.

Daphne lived a double life, entwined, yet by the same token, divorced, from servicing herself and others as an escort, part time nonetheless. Her fugitive nature was programmed to elude the very thing that eluded her, justice. The intoxicating aroma of cigars, bourbon, and exotic dancers, deep-rooted husbands and strippers with daddy issues, one in the same.

‘Countless singles’ did not, in any shape or form, adhere to the men with their wedding rings hidden away in their suit pockets, no. They only applied to the dollar bills, tucked away between the gap where the G-string meets bare skin. Nose deep in wet-soaked pussy, stationed at an underground whorehouse… this is where Daphne made ends meet.

One of many gigs, of course. Daphne was a mistress of copious talents, and what’s worse than wasted potential you ask? Missed opportunities, it’s pretty self-explanatory, we’re talking raw aspiration being sucked dry off the bone. Daphne was not the marrying kind, although she did not choose to work as a hooker for money. On the contrary, she did it because she was afflicted with an uncontrollable urge to fuck for countless hours on end. Believe me you, she didn’t mind it either. She embraced her sexual desires one colorful vibrator at a time, if only those shady rubber penises could talk. The horsepower on those things made the Energizer bunny look like a haphazard.

Daphne was a grounded flier, to make the short story long, she joined the mile-high club in more ways than just one. Eleven bottles of Jameson from the minibar already consumed, and they hadn’t even been airborne more than an hour. A handful of Xanax and a light dusting later… how did she manage to get it onto the plane? Choose a hole. She had been discovered smoking, harboring over narcotics in the aircraft lavatory, off of what appeared to be a slab of singed foil, the contents of which are unknown to this day. Daphne without hesitation flushed the covert substance down the vacuum suction toilet bowl and whoosh, conformity cried mediocrity that day, well… to some extent anyway. Daphne, owed to the effects of the drug, grumbled and quibbled about, displaying a rather mutter of distaste, You don’t owwwnnnn me! she mumbled in a monotonous, drug-induced tone. That lasted as long as it did and then she asked for another drink. Daphne truly lived in a land for misfit toys, much too shattered and nerve racking for all girls and boys.

Daphne had trust issues, she had coped with the reality of things, little did she know of the connections she led astray back in the Machiavellian New York. It was unbeknown to her that this would very well be her final destination.

Daphne protested all things ‘institution of marriage’ like. Dreadful poor bastards attempting to psychoanalyze their way directly into Daphne’s diabolical wrath. She set traps, death traps. Not in the sense of resulting in any physical distress, no. Rather possessing an uncanny ability to provoke and instill a feeling of extreme discomfort. Her rugged charm and sarcastic blasphemy made her feel better about herself. Not an ounce of doubt, flooding with acrimonious remarks and backhanded swag. Truth is, you can’t keep dancing with the devil and question why you’re still in hell. It becomes you; it consumes your very existence. You make a deal with the devil and see how you pan out.

Meanwhile, a few miles east at a church in downtown Brooklyn. The title of a not-so-anonymously-labeled group therapy session was none of Daphne’s concern. She was hoping to find solace in a crowd more hopeless than she. Simpletons who still believed they had something to lose when they have long lost themselves. Chase, the candy man, was visiting. Only difference, his visits were mandatory due to the whole mystery land fiasco. They sat there in a row, very much compatible with the likes of their existences; hollow, unoccupied, and led nowhere but an aisle into another empty row. Chase didn’t do much talking. Chase was not one to commit to anything but his addictive nature. No committing to anyone, not even himself. He sat there fixated on his next fix, subdued by his own physical impulses. Abuse benzos and you give up a high for a low.

How likely were we talking about virtues, like patience, in regard to Daphne’s ostensible limits? She waited till it was her turn to speak; that was a first. Only after everyone poured their blemished, poor souls out to the crowd of hypocrites with hidden stashes on each of their bodies. Daphne approached the mahogany wheeled podium with an interior, adjustable shelf built in. She planned to start off her night venting, the same way she began every first encounter. She said the first thing that came to her mind without having to think twice.

To be aware is to be alive. To be too aware; an insufferable pain only death can free one from.

Ma’am, would you please introduce yourself? A peculiar tone of voice, pitched low, covered in almost soul-destroying monotony. Sounded as if she got a bad case of strep or incessant ‘palsy tongue’ from too much tonguing. A tonguing nun, who wore a bona fide wardrobe, and what a display of the most passive, almost utterly docile-looking penguin in the room full of birds.

Sister Dina, the Hispanic nun was no ordinary nun. She was a Jehovah’s Witness. She did what we all attempt to do day in and day out, survive. Even Dina, possessing the immense faith that she did, knew there was no miracle alive to banish, enough fatal illnesses in existence, to have her own hospital bed reserved. Maybe not a hospital bed, but there was a cemetery conveniently located across the parkway. A grave reminder for just how close we all really are to death. Headstones, grave markers, caskets, and enough mortuary supplies with ‘killer prices’. Collective puns, very much intended. Parts and accessories never included in the standard pricing. Everybody dies owing something. Even when you’re six feet under, Sought after rummaging through bills in an afterlife, said the voices. Best part is she’s got a comfy wee loft in heaven that beats a tempur-pedic coffin any day of the week.

Dina’s fix? Exercising the one thing they couldn’t strip her of, her beliefs. You know the usual run of errands: Divine Salvation, the kingdom of the almighty creator, and the only son of God that single-handedly, inadvertently, sparked the flame for a new-old testament, the baby Jesus himself. Of course, being a Jehovah’s Witness meant not venerating in such images that potentially depict a symbolic form of worship. She didn’t wear a cross, and let’s just say she was baptized… twice. She preached and preached divine intervention. So much so that her beliefs would be the death of her, consequently having a direct impact on the life of her fetus. It proved to be a clinical case where a major ethical dilemma presented itself.

Dina had undergone a predicament, which in turn tested her sense of extolling theological beliefs. She was a 22-year-old Hispanic female, bearing an eight-month-old fetus. When she awoke the following Monday, she was very much aware that there was in fact a God. Until that same God sent a speeding Prius, involving Dina into a head-on collision after crashing into a galvanized U-post pole. Internal bleeding, utter shock, and a possible miscarriage were not problems she would find answers to in some book she kept by her bedside. A blood transfusion was vital. It was also the one thing forbidden by her religion. The medical team was persistent, insisting alternative blood byproducts. What the doctors didn’t know, or at the very least, what they didn’t get taught in medical school was the fact that her accepting any form of blood transfusion would ultimately condemn her to eternity in hell.

Two hours later, she had gone into labor, subsequently giving birth to a stillborn baby. Dina would go on to eventually die of cardiac arrest. One can only contemplate; does one choose something because it is ethical? Or is it ethical because enough people choose it?

Chapter 3

High off Jesus

Daphne, Daphne, are you there? Daphne parachuted back from whatever obscure daydream, from whatever planet, she was visiting.

Right! Hi there, you all may address me as Madame MisTris.

Daphne, we try to use our real maiden names in order to emphasize the oneness we each possess with ourselves, Sister Dina expressed in the most vexatious tone.

Dina… Dina… Dina… Daphne murmuring half to oneself. The Sunday schoolgirl nun, the vintage black and white angels who forever find solace in the gray area of a book based on a completely different type of idealism. She had a special gift, and I didn’t mean the patience she somehow managed to purchase under the counter, if you know what I mean. Dina, the nun, had a surplus of substances she did not take. She kept them on body, if and when she absolutely hankered one. She would break a piece off and swallow it whole. She needed something to numb the pain. The pain of pregnancy. The pain of life growing inside her womb, only to have it snatched away.

Daphne sighed the most hammering of all sighs. She appeared to be taking in deep breaths exhaustingly, pouting her lips, forcing to utter the same bloody tune the lot of them did before she, the tune that the lot of them will utter after she. And the lot of them singing along the very same tune on repeat without two weeks’ notice. Inhale peace. Exhale toolness… Daphne thought a third to oneself.

Daphne, perhaps we can start over. Another unheeding facade to put on, Daphne was very much obliged to take initiative.

Hi, my name is Daphne and I am. I’m a ton of things, actually. So where do I begin? For starters, I’m a sex addict. Boys, don’t get any ideas unless you fancy yourselves a bloody tampon. I smoke meth on a regular basis, and in my spare time, I like to spit in my face, fu-uckk that twat!!!!! Aarrgghh!!! So sorry. I have this strange thing where I fall into this slew of uncontrollable sporadic outbursts. The crowd was discombobulated to say the least. Then again, these were all ‘recovering’ addicts.

You mean Tourette’s syndrome? Dina asked endearingly.

"No, I mean, I’m a fucking human syndrome and my filter is as empty as your vagina. What’s up your arse? Or what’s not up your arse? F-Y-I, I do not normally subject myself to wasting time with complete and utter imbeciles. However, for you, I will make this one time exception, especially in the light of present circumstances." Daphne addressed the crowd, leaning her head forward, her backhand situated vertically in order to deliberately piss off the after-hours nun that played drug counselor on Monday evenings. Why Mondays you ask? Suicide Mondays, it’s the day that slaps us all silly come sunrise, inauspiciously as vast as the overrated hangover.

Let’s start off again as to why you are all here. Now, Daphne, what’s the first step in battling addiction?

Admitting you have a problem, the crowd expressed in the most toneless of tones. No match to Dina’s uninflected flatliner of an all-time lowness of vein tonalities. No contest. Just comments in reference to commenting on all things she had commented on already. Then she commented some more. Daphne trolled between coffee breaks, while everyone else went out for their one hundred percent legal cigarette breaks to chat about drugs and alcohol. Intermission meant sneaking into the back and adding a heaping dose of meth into her pipe. Everyone needs a breather every now and again.

Feed me Uppers, inhale euphoric toxicity, said the voice in her head. A long overdue, blissfully crafted, mental recess if you will.

After Chase showed face and signed off, he was nowhere to