Disapora

By Lauren Wantz

Frank Raveillac is an aging male schizophrenic with a terrible past, who having recently given up his affluent career as a scholar and historian, is now a drug addicted madman of considerable moral turpitude. "Disapora," tells the story of his deranged lunacy, sordid love life with fallen women, and the crude adventures of the narcotic underground he partakes in with his friend and drug dealer, "The Pharaoh." Frank keeps calling himself Disapora, because he thinks he's sent on a divine mission to end the world, or will he find something in it worth saving?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479750504

Lauren Wantz

Lauren Wantz was born on an Air Force base in Kussel, Germany where she lived for a year before her family came to the states. Then she lived in Colorado, then Florida, and finally resides now in Miamisburg, Ohio,in a humble apartment with her girlfriend Abbie and their adorable cat Kevin. She also owns two fishes named Charles VII, and Joan of Aqua. Lauren never completed college and is entirely self educated. This is her first novel and she is working on a second one.

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Copyright © 2012 by Lauren Wantz.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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CONTENTS

PART 1:     Disapora

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

PART 2:     Frank

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Epilogue

Epilogue Pt. 2

PART 1

Disapora

"A hellish, ironic beacon,

Torch of satanical blessings,

Sole glory and only solace

—The consciousness of doing evil."

Chapter 1

Adelphi

Electric fire in the carrion scented form of human bodies in the parking lot of the hipster café today. The kids in the lightning mob are getting fresh everyday for a world of unwashed impulses ready to suck dry their nascent bloodstream for all it’s worth. Young blood sells for a lot more on the WOW network than crustaceous old man blood, but that’s to be expected. Who wants to buy Viagra for their veins when they can shove a young horny dick inside them?

The lightening mob crowded around the town square, begging to be let into any doorway, be it a brothel or a well adjusted family home. Their hot virile mouths served as an adjuvant for my slowly creeping nausea, as I stood there, listening and waiting for the cops to pull off their soiled little boys and girls underwear and expose them to parental guidance; the sandpaper hand of self righteousness can lead you to the most momentous and atavistic climax, so you can keep working for days on end and never feel your own fathers dick brooding in your asshole, wondering why it married your mother, and wondering why it let you yourself be born into this Cabaret Guignol type of grotesque spinning world. I want to save all the adolescent cum for a more beautiful day, a day without the forces of reason, which don’t allow much room for youth anyway. They call it Armageddon, this day. Miggito was probably a small suburban community like this one, and all its youth strutting, maniacally in love with the times they lived in, despite the Earth and God not wanting them there.

I want them, though. I want them to look into the slumgullion of my Earth bound junky eyeballs and see a much kindlier gentleman than God, or his loyal tribe of cynics. I am a God loyal to no one but myself and others who know the twisted isolation of a narcissistic grin. I want them to peer into the hollowed depths of my nostalgia and see it in carrion like movements they mistake for their own. I want them to grow old quickly and love no one, and no one loving them, worthless long before any scholar can label their dreams archaic. Under my gentle guiding hand of treason, they will know that love is just a perjury that should be committed in the dark.

Young girl speaks achingly to the cock ears of young boy. She hates her mother, she hates her freedom, and she wants to get away. Boy smiles with animal grace that is dripping rabid cum from the sides.

‘Well I can do that for you ma’am. I’ve got a spare key in my vans deferens that can open up all the doors of the future as well as the kingdom of Miggito. I can write a climax that burns down the vain works of every succeeding century. I’ve got it babe, I’ve got it right here for you to incubate.’ Her eyes get wide with the Anima like spirit of Eve, step one in the ancient meanderings of opportunistic curiosity. She wants what I want, and by Jesus’ unwashed pubic lice, she’ll get it because she’s got a chest like Blanche Dubois’ famous trunk of miracles. The boy talks just like a politician but his nose bleeds like an artist. The dicks can smell their longing like something that is nearly dead in the air. The lumineferous ether is being inhaled through a newborn mucus membrane ready to reel the harpooning of light into the apple seed cornea of germinating youth. The dick smells this and he shoves vitriolic fluid of the phallus into the asshole of the boy while screwing his marble lens retina down the throat of the girl. The harmony of their screams leaves a hot sensation rolling around in my gut like the opening of a fresh void. How wonderful a feeling it is to watch something being taken away from you that you knew would have been anyway. This is the feeling of an out of body experience for someone getting open heart surgery. You look down on yourself, your corpulent, purple flesh and realize you are such a wasting asshole that you deserve to die anyway, as the doctor snips the last remaining thread of mortality.

And so I leave this scene of premature sexual despair with a vaunting grimace on my mouth. I do not smile for fear that my domino will crack and I’ll never leave my outhouse again. It would be all blood running down the eyes and feet breaking open the pavement. I would let that whore Batsheva pull me back into her fetid womb before I ever let that happen again.

The kingdom of Megitto shall not be mine. I know for time has already shouted rancorously the harsh verdict of my years into manifold pubic hairs that soaked in her message. She left such virulent obstructions in my mind long before deluded madness was so fashionable.

God forbid that I should ever get older, because that means the dead would turn wise, and that’s bad for business. You see, progress depends upon a certain degradation of the senses. You let your ego know too much and it turns to a fetal hunchback dragging its amniotic ooze all over the carpet. I’ve seen my ego do that, and I’ve heard the shared intelligence of humanity cry with ululating distress the same plea that is the plea of wounded dogs. When I see the world quake like this, I condescend it to an almost inhuman level. This I call writing.

Psychedelic meeting with the shrink at 1:00. Doc’s a good guy. Socially conscious, gray matter metabolism, and a fleeting desire for art that is latent and almost inanimate. Black and white oil pastels of the Arc de Triomphe bought from the local Ikea hang stolidly on the walls. They seem to know neither how to smile or frown, but just blankly muddle eternity while the patients like unknown soldiers, burn beneath its muddy abstractedness. Each man twitches in a unique state of altered discomfiture. They all have the same meandering crow stoop, implying a mortal restlessness that cannot be put into words but still aches for human conversation. Unable to achieve this they twitch with a contemporary style of under appreciated autistic dancing that is born of its own conscience and can be freed by no music but the convulsions of the numbed viscera. In their slobbering faces I can see the half suspended animation of an unwritten tragedy burning on human history, which holds so much but washes much more away.

Each piece of flotsam in his turn gets a thick piece of paper that is really just educated language for anti psychosis. The most subtle and princely form of the consolation prize ever thought up. We are all just waiting to go drag our irritated bowels home to an ever present darkness which is more than just anything, it’s nothing. If the Greeks were right about everything like the scholars keep reputing, than sickness is just a skin that needs to be shed. By this logic I feel like the nag swallows his azoth only through the stomach of death. Each moment a wound, each illusory second of the present another cholera; I have many ails, I shall have to die more than once. Moriendo rescansor.

At last my nebbish drug lord calls out my name: Disapora? He groans from a mouth that looks like an abandoned work.

In the office we talk politics, the MMA fighters, how my day went so far, while I try to hide the look in my eyes which signifies that I’ve watched a death today that was not my own, and still got pleasure from it.

Still makin’ Adam’s Apples down at the old Garden of Eden?

Yes, I tell him, and I never intend to stop. The Adam’s Apple proved to be so evolutionary advantageous that it makes women and dogs cum alike with equal force of acceleration. And what’s good for evolution goddammit, is good for my wallet.

Doc laughs with the obvious discomfort that catches from the scent of my mortal being. I am wondering if Caesar really had been cut stillborn from the womb if the world would be a better place, or still the same humdrum typewriter that needs a neutered man behind it to keep it going. I laugh though as if I am thinking of nothing, as if I have always thought of nothing, and it’s true; for I have contemplated the hideous depths of the universe with the same religious zeal as Xenophon and with the same results, which are suicide of the moral character.

In fact I am too busy thinking of nothing to catch on immediately to the doctor as he makes an educated quip against my profession, which in all strokes of nemein, regrettably deserves it. Oh well, I never claimed to be Diogenes’ honest man. More at the fleas in his bathtub.

Well, the galley must row on. Indeed he’s right. So I piss on the Arc de Triomphe on the way out.

Meeting with the Pharaoh at 1 45. The pharaoh is an unloved, unholy child of Satan. His mother was a hustler and his father a priest’s catamite. Peur delicates, pure as struck oil. Out of this union of the illegal sex act was born a cold, marmoreal structure of a blistering young man. A man whose longings could only be measured in the Planck Time of celestial orgasm, apogee to the orbit of the morals of modern man. He was fierce beyond the measurement of mere human ambition. He was a repulsive chimera with high laced confidence that made women secede from their own souls willingly. Then they were to be led to the most rancorous corners of abject despair, where they lived festering in an unwashed viral wound of sinister midnight encounters. This they baptized themselves in and called it freedom. Only the eyes of Erebus could see them washing in the dead pool.

Five years ago he won an award for world’s best looking cadger in Bums I Wanna Fuck magazine. He told me he killed a woman once and it gave him the first erection he ever had.

All the crotch rotten men of the alleyway wrote dithyrambs in their own shit on the subway walls in his honor:

"Little girl watch your ass,

Cause the Pharaoh is lookn’ for another wife.

Little girl you better wash your cunt,

Cause the king of the dead means to end a young life."

Golden poetry. Something for the neo—beatnik era to really consider. So the pharaoh was this real smooth pendulum shaped, epicene kind of a monstrosity that had the cold head of a general, and the bloody eyes of a sleepless Endymion. He’d mastered the art of supplication to the false idols of vulgar rapport. He was relatable on so many levels that no one noticed he was the creature that slept under little girl and boy beds.

His hot, boyishly truculent smile made me laugh and cum at the same time. What kind of adult horrors would he leak into the world for educated men who have forgotten how to masturbate to write about? He was a regular Ramses, a true bred religious fanatic for generations of P.B. Shelley imposter poets to ruin.

Today I guess we’re going to the university to unnerve some real intellectual, well off girl hounds who want to pay off sadness so it may never get its hands on them too. I hope it works out for them, cuz the pharaoh and I aren’t sticking around for a better tomorrow. We hope to furnish all the rococo death scenes on the stage of Miggito.

We stand outside the doors of the community college, that beautiful lyceum of misread learning, and beg for the scraps of success that hang from their robes. Lazarus gets the kingdom of heaven and the girl gets the kingdom of bearing witness to false brotherly love.

Hey, says the Pharaoh, sidling up to a young brunette of fulsome content (probably just packed full of footnotes), Please help me. I don’t know how I’m going to pay for the next bus, and my kids are at home starving their stupid little heads off, you see I’m a single mother—oh, father I mean, boy am I out of it today! He laughs with a good and simple nature, the way regular people do at their minor misfortunes, and this is what makes him such a tragically good beggar.

But I’ve got money for the groceries! I just need a five to get me home. Uhm, well, that is if you don’t mind, ma’am. God he is a master of his craft. He doesn’t oversell his need, and speaks like a real gentleman, nothing like the boys her age. Oh, and the way he calls her ma’am.

Instantly her little girl pride gives into the insane measures of her wide, child bearing hips. She knows she is about to become a woman, and his gentle observation makes her bolster with good natured charity mixed with coital tingling. Hell, she may become a mendicant herself if it means she gets to spend more time with him!

A fresh young college girl loves the bumbling of a seemingly demure older man, but never the ingenuous praises of the sincere loser. Such misdirected lust haunts old age, turning girls into housewives and children into hungry alley cats. Yet still she gives into his amicable criminal element hijinks without faltering. A sotto voce premonition has laid siege over her powers of reason, and all that is animal in her whispers like the eddying flow of a bloodline how his cunning may be enabling to the species. I curse myself for making him his Adam’s Apple, which has proved so evolutionarily advantageous it can make women and dogs cum alike with equal force of acceleration. I curse myself for being an honest man! An honest mans bloodline always freezes, until 500 years later his truth is excavated. That is, if it’s still applicable.

Of course I can give you five dollars!

Oh jeez, really miss, you’d do that for me?

Yea, definitely! I guess I’m actually kinda glad you asked me, because I was about to go buy a pack of cigarettes with it, and I’ve been trying to quit.

Oh I know just how you feel ma’am. I smoked for about 5 years before I quit for my kids. It’s really a vile habit y’know. And you being such a nice young girl with a bright future ahead of you. You’ll be so much happier when you quit.

It’s important to know that the pharaoh has actually been smoking for fifteen years and is thirty eight, but so well preserved in his own narcotic scent that no one notices.

He looks just like what I’ve always imagined Hepahestion looked like, back when I was still an intellectual. And me being his Alexander without the sagacious genius of stratagem or homoerotic tendencies. I don’t even really like the man, but admire how slick he is. In fact, I don’t really like any man, but respect them for still being able to call themselves men amidst what is obviously the final fit of dementia in mankind. Progress requires a certain degeneration of the intellect to keep it going. Ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny, and humans get by armed with the delusional fits of regressive behavior. Through our shared hebephrenic desires we’ve created such glorious things! Radio, television, the coliseum, war. Endless sources of entertainment to keep our minds free of the imminent rasping of death that lingers in the back brain.

So we’ve got the five bucks, enough for consent to a blow job and maybe a half a bottle of that viscid motel room shampoo hookers keep in their purses. The pharaoh shakes the hand of the newly formed girl Samaritan with the mock veneration of a new employee. ‘You won’t regret this sir,’ he says with a smile that speaks the word ‘ma’am.’

‘I’m gonna get real high off this investment you’ve made into me. I’m not gonna let you down!’

To me the girl is more like a Sarmatian, the plague of my stoic sovereignty. That sweetheart face hiding the mephitic contractions of a reproductive organ carrying out its divine will makes me sick. Neither of them seem to be aware of the vile exchange they’ve just made, only the longing that allows its continuation.

With the five dollars we buy some more money from the Institutional Financial Fiduciary for Fucking. They know I make Adam’s Apples at the Old Garden of Eden so they happily give us the loan without question. They assume it must be for the good of human evolution that pays my wages and makes me want to commit a pogrom.

I am named Disapora for a good reason. You see, I am a double agent, seeking aims with life while working for the wanton aspirations of death. I have been sent here to perform a mass exodus of the species and its plague rat infested consciousness. I am to set fire to the mortal clay and lay the bitumen for a new generation of specious argument. It’s neither good or bad, it just is. The galley must keep on rowing, and I am merely carrying out my duty of divine thaumaturgy. Who are you to say if it’s right or wrong? Are you in communication with the irrevocable will of Atropos? I am, and this is what she tells me friend.

She tells me there is no right or wrong, only man’s perceptions which can be neither, nor can they be infinite like she is. We are hanging like shadows before the inevitable dawn of the Kali Mahayuga. The universal conflagration is ready to swallow us into her furnace and out of the trenches of earthbound human history. I know this and only I, for I am Disapora. The pharaoh’s of this world may scam the youth as much as they like, the dicks can crush their libidos, and they themselves can try to continue the contract of animal profligacy, but I know it’s all null and void.

For I am Disapora, and all else is merely sound and light.

The Pharaoh and I have headed to Livvy’s bedroom, which the good reader should know is one of the few bedrooms I’ve given up the powers of reason to succumb to the foul twitching of naked animal fate. She was a girl with veins full of trash and a heart full of treasure. The first person I’d ever met who truly possessed ethereal grace.

When I met her she had just become a junky. I told her that she and I weren’t so different. Her veins were clogged with diacetylmorphine and mine were clogged with the blood of history, which was also caustic. I was trying to anesthetize myself form the horrors of the present just like she was. Laudator temporis acti. I used to shoot up with a Roman caltrop instead of a needle.

We were never in love, but lived together for necessity, the ego wishing to live on even if it required compromising its master’s character. We formed a bond of lust cut from the ties of loneliness. Loneliness is the origin of productivity. Loneliness is the origin of creation, ex nihil lo nihil fit.

. . . Two people like Livvy and myself are doomed to each other, both being too destructive to seek out the companionship of complete souls, for one must leave beauty unperturbed. We just nursed our imperfections and sought refuge in inadequacy.

Not love, but understanding, the knowledge that someone else is just as vile as you are; the chance to share your own wretchedness with a comrade in moral ambiguity. That is what Livvy and I shared. This and the man made horrors that lived in our veins.

Imagine yourself in her skin for a moment: fettered by a desire with no reward that keeps coming back even during the manifestation of its own needs. Imagine speaking when there is a parasite in your stomach, sucking out the substance of your humanity. I know these rolling stygian insides, this void with bloody teeth that creates invisibility where there was once a landscape. The sweating frenzy of avoidance as you beg for one more day to keep wasting yourself and everyone near you.

Junky love was the only love for me, because it is the only love that makes dissolution its solitary aim. I am given to love only as an afterbirth of scorn. You see, I’ve always hated happy people. Their sterilized grins and worship to the false idol palaver, their Sunday walks with the children, ice cream parlor visits, new cars always glistening but you never see them go to the car wash. They live such a soft bastardization of reality and call it success. Me, I think they’re just lazy.

They want to feel like good people without the pains of studying morality, so they play out a borrowed ambition that leaves any other lifestyle degraded and damn near impossible to live. They feel like good people only by ignoring the cries of a bad world. These modern day philistines have called David a vagrant and turned God into an insurance salesman. True devotion? More like covering your own fat ass. Like Saul I run my stomach onto my blade when I see them come around. Why live in a world that is populated with such fools?

Besides, happiness is such a superfluous feeling. It can only last a quarter of the minute we spend on this Earth, and turns the remaining seconds into painful nostalgia, suicidal toska. Happy men do not change the rotations of the Earth. Happy men do not send it into disapora.

I had a dream once that I was a successful writer, a well revered intellectual who would be seen on the classics shelf in the next thirty odd years. In this dream I was such a foul grinning pedant, I wondered how it was I’d ever managed to write anything worthwhile in the first place. Then the dream died, and since then my life has been spent in sleepless rolling hours chasing the shadow of an aspiration.

Livvy let us into her apartment with lingering helplessness. She’s the Pharaoh’s woman now. I can’t say I’m disappointed; looking at her face today I see a pallid skeleton with eyes that decayed before the rest of the body. She’s so junked up that her brain is that of a fish who has been drowning in midair for years, while also possessing a fish’s memory so everyday of her lengthy death seems just like the first. What a simple solution!

Come in boys.

She takes our coats and throws them into the furnace.

Sorry boys. Electric bill still hasn’t been paid.

Fair enough, (Hot stoic apathy.)

The apartment is bare except for a makeshift bed made out of the few remaining books Livvy hasn’t sold for junk. In the antechamber in front of the mullioned windows is a stage made from her floor boards and door frames, her only blanket being its curtain. Walking around is like walking in a floor less attic or the bombing of Dresden. Pre stages of the kingdom of Miggito.

The Pharaoh takes his seat on a bone crusty palanquin in the center of the other guests who must sit on the floor. Livvy and I stand to hold him up. A young boy and a young girl are standing on the stage wearing nothing but a pair of cothurnus. Today is a day just like any other day, we are pre determined to witness a tragedy.

Both of the players are sobbing like prisoners, embracing each other the way brothers embrace before they are to be executed. On their genitals you can see the inscription caveat emptor, carved with a rusty gimlet. The Pharaoh claps his hands enthusiastically. Play on!

Livvy flips a record, it’s the Danse Macarbe. From behind the proscenium two more players emerge, also denuded.

Mother! yells the girl. Oh no. This is real Draconian shit they’re pulling today.

Each of the children tries running to their parents but a fifth player dressed like Sigmund Freud stands between them.

Boy and girl. Consider yourselves lucky, you are about to be in the most important psychological experiment of modern times, to prove my theories of the Electra and Oedipus complexes!

The Pharaoh laughs with gelid mirth, a more cruel and isolating version of Hugo’s Clopin Troullifeu. Livvy is quietly stroking his dick through the palanquin while I watch without feeling, mari complaisant, the disinterested cuckold face of Cato the Younger.

Imposter Freud sets up the players so they are facing each other in what appears to be the positions of homoerotic coupling, the mother facing the daughter and the father facing the son. He then waves a flag of surrender in front of the weeping faces. Begin!

The players start to fuck with agony at their own sick enjoyments. This is the way most tragedies begin. Around the audience circles a group of flagellants, whipping themselves with the sperm like tails of bacterium while solemnly reciting their geisslerlieder:

"Pie Jesu,

Save us from today’s worthless young.

Pie Jesu,

May they weep until their time has come."

On the stage a wretched metamorphosis is taking place. The young boy and girl are going through a sex change of excruciating speed. The girl’s breast suddenly involutes while her clitoris turns to all encompassing ectoplasm and expands. The boy screams at the sight of koro taking place in between his taut legs. His testicles start to form a nautilus around the nascent formations of the female sex organ. They then spin like whirling dervishes before rolling down the thighs and into the hollow opening of his new vagina. The audience wails in delight. Soon he will ovulate.

Meanwhile Freud writes on a notepad soiled from his bleeding nose.

Simply fascinating! They are switching sexual identities!

Livvy is still slowly stroking the Pharaoh to orgasm. I am wondering about how every person in this room is accelerating toward their unique rapid decay. All human beings have their own specific time, and absolute time is just a bad joke that keeps you going to work every day. The only real time is the quick ticking of the death watch.

History is a hodge podge paper maiche of singular perception which I see can be neither accurate nor inaccurate, but almost always dissimilar. All the agglomerated consciousness in the world wishes to become one but is unable to do this through living. Thus their actions become a lusting for death; cigarettes, alcohol, drugs, sports, and war.

There is no reality; the world is but a projection of the mind. The mind is all that exists and anything else is just the shadows that surround it. I never have to read a book again.

As I am thinking all this, our histrionic Freud is singing it with the chorus following his lead. The newly formed boy child has gouged his eyes out with rusty aids needles after stabbing his father in the heart. Our Electra has done the same thing to her mother and stands with a full faced grin in front of the audience. The Pharaoh cums at the sight of death.

Livvy then bends her knee to him in all the graceful supplication of a high priced hetaera.

What’ya say Alastor?

The Pharaoh flippantly throws an empirical ‘thumbs down’ to the players, causing the audience to moan gratefully. Their lust for entertainment has not yet been satiated; devolution must run