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[ ]WARATAH BLOSSOMS
Title:Breakfast of Champions
Posted On:2009-01-31 12:49:57
Posted By:» soberVISIONS
I woke up half-drunk,
bra-less in a twelve-gauge magnum of a nightmare
seven-o-clock in the annoyingly bright morning.
The atleast six-foot, broad-shouldered, lightning-eyed,
trendy ski-masked stranger woke me singing no lullabies but assuring me,
the soon-to-be whore, if I screamed he would blow me into a million little pieces.
Like the novel? Without the golden-junk, but with guns?
I thought to myself, wondering if loaded-crooks read?
The masked-man nudged my spacey-body toward the fragile creaking steps,
pushing me (literally) out of my book-wonderings
down the piss stained-carpet stairwell where I landed belly-flop.
Cursing and squealing, but not screaming (savouring my million pieces.)
He pulled out a black box, (with two silver cat-ears,)
and pushed an invisible side-button,
which sparked a blue-light cracking magically and violently.
The man told me to behave,
as he hot-headedly introduced the electric-blue to my pale beer-gut.
Then, I suddenly realized the difference between electrotherapy and a street-tazor.
(Not much, except for the awkward faces of the ward.)
Completely-sobered, barrel targeted, I teeter-tottered to my peanut-filled basement
where my half-naked brother Jile huddled childishly and hairy.
He was tied up at both hands and feet with nylon cable-ties
by the leather-shoe of another unexpected visitor.
My entrepreneur handed me a heavy-dreamers pillowcase, white with drool
and cocaine drippings, probably the one my other-brother (Dag) slept on.
Dag was tied to all pegged-fours of the king-size-bed in Jile’s room,
like a comatose madman in a forgotten asylum.
I put the stinking-case over my head as I was generously directed
through the army of peanut-shells to the foot of Jile’s bed.
I squatted knees up, covering my erected-nipples from any further humiliation.
The men talked with coded names like: Oreo, and Fudge, (real tough cookies.)
They were yelling and confirming that they were Hell’s Angels,
and that they have tattoos to prove it.
(Like I could see with a pillow-case over my head?)
I heard footsteps rumble like baby-elephants,
more of them arrived, fashionably late.
One stomped-purposely toward me, statue solid,
skinning my white-supremacist hood,
gun-cocked and crotch-locked.
So, I sat and listened to the block-nosed-voice threaten my brother ‘Heavy-D’
(who was really Dag, but Jile was sleeping in Dag’s room filled with paraphernalia:
cocaine-dusted scales, little baggies coloured with animated nothings,
and names & numbers of addicts & how much they owe, owed, & home addresses.)
I was laughing (silently) at the mix-up.
Jile was tough as Buddha, mute and convulsing from the blue-wave,
taking Dag’s heat, who was piss-pants-quiet,
(probably) pretending to be dead on the bed.
So it seemed, these guys came for barely nothing, no weed, no cocaine, no guns,
some money, some cheap-gangster-golden-rings,
and a waste of a good breakfast table at Chez-Cora.
Jile was clammed shut, so was Dag, torture with tazers: not so bad.
Who was going to die? I philosophized, because there really weren’t any drugs.
(I remember being half\lunatic half\square for a few days, the neighbourhood was dry.)
The answer was contemplated between the gang with a few approaches.
One being: cut ‘Heavy-Ds’ ear off.
Two being: or shoot ‘Heavy-D’ (Jile, really)
in the nut-sac and wait for my brother (Dag) and I to cry the truth,
(which had been done up-to-that boiling point of worthless and hysterical.)
And the third, casually suggested, being: rape me, without the pillowcase,
no-protection, real-farmhouse-fucking, all wet and giggles, clean and easy.
I, with my elementary-math skills figured out how many baby-elephants there were.
Six African-animals, hot-to-trot, Pinocchio-long, endless balls, black and heavy.
Not Hell’s-Angels.
Crunching minute’s tick-tock’ed infinitely on the unwelcoming merry-go-round.
Both my mouth & vagina were itch-dry & bloody from a continuous & vicious pounding.
I stumped, disgraced & embarrassed, legs cranked knees to ears.
Skin pulled like bread-batter, crotch gushing like jarless-jelly.
I wasn’t afraid of abuse, torture, death, witnessing death, or repetitive rape,
(anymore,) only the puke-taste of the twelve-inch. (I preferred the twelve-gauge.)
All six-men panted like sick-puppies and
squirted their tainted microscopic sins over my morning-ugly expense.
Satisfied, and drained of energy, they left lazily, forgetting the money and rings.
No words of drug dealing, cocaine and or guns.
Just penguin-waddles, winks, snake-tongues,
and puddles of spit out the shattered-glass door.
I slackly-stepped the stairs, got a big dull kitchen-knife and stabbed through
the nylon-cables slavering my brothers. I told Dag he was a bitch, soft as a noodle,
and that he owed me a lifetime supply of cocaine.
My brothers quarrelled pointlessly, I cried uncontrollably,
they realized, and then declared non-verbal peace with one another.
It was harmoniously silent; I heard the peanuts-crunch under Jile’s bare and
still shock-shook feet from inside my room,
(which was double-locked shut and stormed-in thundering thoughts.)
I didn’t know what to do, I couldn’t call my friends, they would gossip glamorously,
fake like Hollywood and idolize the movie-scene-sympathy.
I couldn’t call my mom; she’d bitterly question me without any emotional-censorship,
just ramble with who did what? What did how? What did who? How did you?
I couldn’t call my psychoanalysis, he would nod and raise his eyebrows on the other end, and scribble in my file that I were a pathological liar and
a delusional schizophrenic having visions of rape,
because I was sex-deprived and according to the almighty Sigmund Freud,
no sex= madness, so I must be mad,
(and locked up right away!)
So I decided to write this story.
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