SEBASTIAN

Part 3 of The Daizy Trilogy

3 short stories by Walter Cessna

Photographs of Brandon & Lindsey by Walt Cessna NYC 07

There were very few things that actually intrigued me anymore. Made the hair on the back of my neck stand up and send goose pimples racing down my spine. Sometimes I still got a kick out of the fact that I never went to school, although at this point in my checkered youth it hardly mattered anymore. Shoplifting actually had a grip on me for a bit, but the things I wanted to steal could hardly be concealed in my jacket. There were moments when all I could do was fantasize about living in a reality that had nothing to do with the fucked up one I was already trying to escape. I had developed a steely reserve for counterfeit alarm and intrigue, blending in with my own disillusionment until even I couldn’t see the real me. I used to be a nice guy. A regular Joe, but that was before he came along.


I mean, how easy is it to understand what it’s like for a fifteen year old kid whose sister just stabbed her new boyfriend and shot her ex boyfriend, both to death, right in front of you? And it was mostly your fault. In fact, it was all your fault. You set the whole thing up. To add a little more excitement to the mix, you discover that you’re in love with your sister and from the way she just kissed you, she seems to be on the same wave length, but you are starting to realize that it is a sexless love you share, almost a pseudo incestuous charade, a mind fuck, pure and simple.


That was a few months ago. Daizy and I had left New York the night of the killing, hopping a plane to San Francisco using the extremely unsuspicious sounding monikers of Lourdes and Rocko Ciccone. I may have been on the lam, but I still had a sense of humor. We had withdrawn as much money from our mothers bank and our own as we could. Twelve hundred bucks wasn’t going to last long. Daisy had charged the plane tickets using an old boyfriends credit card number that she had held onto for emergencies, the sneaky little thing. The plane ride seemed short since both of us fell into fitful sleeps until Daizy woke up and realized she hadn’t quite washed all the blood off her hands. In our rush to leave the apartment in case the gunshots had attracted the police, we only got to pack a bag each. For a girl as obsessed with clothes as my sister, this was not a happy situation. She bitched the entire time she was in the shower washing away the blood of Jude, the bug dude and good ol’ Scratchy, our weed dealer and her disgruntled ex.


Daizy blew her sharp black bangs straight and then slipped into a short Anna Sui sage corduroy jacket and skinny calf length trousers. She pulled on a pair of worn in black suede boots and tied a black cashmere kerchief around her head. Day-glow pink sunglasses and fingerless suede motorcycle gloves complimented her black polar fleece turtleneck and matching shoulder satchel into which she threw her make-up, Palm V, cell phone, trip book and assorted markers and colored pencils. After a brief moment of hesitation, she walked into her closet and blindly pulled the first two outfits she could reach out and into her bag. A few pairs of hastily chosen bra’s and panties were a last thought, a luxury that Daizy knew she would not be able to live with out.


I decided to travel equally as light. I stuffed my well-worn Yak-Pak with some t-shirts, a few pairs of socks and underpants (tighty whities). My lap top would weigh me down a bit, but it was worth it I reasoned as I shoved it between my clothes and then covered it with a pair of super old but really comfortable Caffeine cargo pants. My bag already contained a toothbrush with paste, condoms, a tin of Oribe silver tinted pomade and my major necessity; Kheil’s lip balm #1. I looked at Daizy and signaled her to follow me. As we walked over the two dead bodies, my mind simply blocked out the evenings previous events and I grabbed Daizy’s hand as we walked out the door. We never even looked back. It was as if New York had simply ceased to exist. So what were a few dead bodies when it comes down to the bigger picture of our getting the fuck outta there?


I open my eyes and step back into the reality of the plane ride. Daizy gets up to wash her hands for the millionth time as I stare silently out the window, desperately trying to picture what San Francisco might hold for us, if anything at all. Daizy returns from the rest room and sits back into her chair. She leans against me and rests her head on my shoulder. I can tell by her moist cheeks seeping into my shirt that she has been crying. I draw her closer to me and stroke her beautiful, shiny, liquid hair until the familiar sound of her sleepy breathing washes over me, providing a strange comfort, one part soothing, another part annoying and distracting like a fly in my soup.


2


My sister Daizy had warned me about going out with the first available fag that happened my way, but did I ever listen to her? No fuckin’ way. We had been in San Francisco for about a week and were staying in a residential hotel on Ninth and Market called The Chase. It was a pretty low key, easy to remain anonymous type place, even if it made both of us visibly cringe as we opened the door to our room and realized it resembled a broom closet without ambience. Daizy and I seemed to blend right in with all the other assorted characters that milled about, probably because we were hiding under the same dark cloak of acid soaked ambiguousness as the rest of them.


Now you’re probably wondering where the sudden fag situation came from. Well, it turns out that Daizy and I tried to have sex the first night we stayed at the hotel. We were both exhausted but pent up with the excitement of a new city and a future that could only be lived day to day. After struggling with our pent up desires and finding no way to reciprocate anything other than feigned horniness, we gave up, lit a cigarette and got down to the business of finally telling each other exactly what we wanted. She wanted to fuck everything in sight and so did I. But I still wanted her to be mine and this would pose to be a problem later on.


I confessed to being pre-occupied to the point of manic masturbation when it came to her long and steady stream of boyfriends. I was especially enamored for some sick, fucked up reason with Jude, which was most likely why I had gone to all the trouble of setting up a confrontation with Scratch to fuck things up between him and Daizy. This seemed to amuse Daizy, which made me curious as to whether she actually had any feelings for the bug dude in the first place. There were much more pressing matters at hand though. We had to change our identity.



Daizy had been reading books about famous San Francisco strippers and decided to name herself after a late 1800’s saloon gal named Dandy Outlaw who had a penchant for loose men, blazing six shooters and an appetite for Scotch that would soon only rival Daizy’s own. I myself liked to keep things simpler. I chose my nickname Bas for my first and simply spelled our last name, Tomas backwards. Bas Samot. Not bad and only vaguely tacky sounding. I hooked us up with a couple of phony Social Security cards, even a fake drivers license for the non-driving Daizy, or Dandy as she now preferred to be called (gotta keep in character after all). My connection turned out to be a funny little fellow, name of Shamus McGlinty O’Guire, a courtly fellow prone to coughing fits and small bouts of breathlessness, followed by an inordinate amount of gasping for air, any air still available to his selfish, hog like lungs.


He hung out at a bar called the Wooden Horse, down on lower Polk St. I had discovered it upon one of my initial “walk-about’s” when we first got here. I would literally spend entire days just walking around San Francisco, not knowing where the fuck I was or how to get anywhere specific. Just feeling it the entire way, like a blind man with an exceptionally large amount of trust in his guide, only mine didn’t even exist. I may have only been fifteen, but I knew how to work my way with a conversation and the very over the top gay bars of Polk St. were just like an open air theater in the fucking round for me. It was during one of my slightly drunken performances at my new favorite dive, the Wooden Horse, that Shamus introduced himself, praising my bravado and looking none too distressed when I offered to refresh his cocktail (a lethal yet simple potion of bottom shelf gin mixed with a dash of even cheaper vodka and some vermouth).


We took a booth way in the back and I listened in rapt, awed attention as the geezer proceeded to tell me his life story starting from the womb to two minutes ago that very day. He kept feeling me up, but I managed to keep shooing him on with his stories and out of my pants, until we were both exhausted with his tale and in need of more cocktail companionship. After a few more chance afternoons like this one, I finally invited him over to the hotel where Daizy, uh Dandy greeted us with all the warmth and sincerity of a battered wife faking it for the ten millionth time. That soon changed when Shamus let it be known that he had the correct phony I.D. hook up and would take care of our shit like that (snap of my fingers extremely fiercely!).


Trouble with Shamus though, he was hard to shake once he had done his deed. Kind of like plankton on the bottom of a boat, except he wasn’t hidden underwater and his expectations for social entertainment (getting totally fucked out of his gord) far exceeded those of some crusty barnacles. On top of that, he was sort of threatening to expose us if we didn’t keep him happy. One day, he stopped by, unannounced as usual and expected Dandy to get him something to drink, even if it meant going down to the corner for a cold forty. This brought the Daizy up in Dandy and Shamus was soon laid bare, sprawled across one of our cheap hotel beds like fresh game after a kill. Dandy just couldn’t stand listening to him bitch anymore, so when he bugged her to service his lazy ass she snapped and simply walked up to him and plunged a pair of scissors into the side of his head, which kept talkin’ like nothing had gone down and everything was normal. Yeah, sure. Let’s talk normal when you have half of your brains oozing onto your shoulders in mid conversation and hopefully nobody has fuckin’ noticed.


Ever try disposing of a still bleeding body in a rather crowded and always busy residential hotel? Let me tell you, it’s not exactly easy. First you gotta find something big enough to put it in that doesn’t leak. Then you gotta shlep it outta the building at some god awful hour in the middle of the night when hopefully the only person on duty will be asleep and not notice that were dragging the remains of a dead drunken Irishman.


Anyway, after the demise of dear old Shamus, Dandy and I realized that after two months of workless living, we were almost broke. Our mother had cut off both our bank accounts (something I’m sure the bitch had no trouble doing) and we had gone through the $1200 we stole from her within the first month. Dandy had maxed out the ex-pieces credit card and we had each hocked the expensive Cartier watches that our Grandma had given us as kids. To put it bluntly, we was broke as fuckin’ hell and with my new-found drinking habit, cash became our main priority.


I still had my lap top, but that was the only portal back into my soul I had left. It was where I had obsessively kept all my hidden desires and fantasies stored for the past few years, most of them centering around Daizy. If I sold my lap-top, where would I exercise the knowledge of my forbidden lust and demented longing for a sister that no longer appeared innocent. Not even in my naïve, affection starved eyes. If I couldn’t find a place to store my memories and hopes for her then I might as well be dead, since it was obvious I would never share the same reciprocation with her personally that I did by myself.


Now you gotta understand that neither Dandy nor I were exactly used to roughing it. We may have been raised by bourgeoisie, bohemian wannabe parents, but the most we ever had to struggle for was more volume on the TV. Being in a strange city, with no money, suspicious friends and a lackluster social life was more than two spoiled brats like us could actually tolerate. It seemed like things were about to get desperate and neither of us had any inclination how twisted, fucked up and blown out of proportion our very existence was about to become.


3



Sometimes you find yourself having to do things you never even imagined in your worst dreams. The kinds of things you’re ashamed to tell your parents about even though they’ve seen it all before. That’s where I found myself on a shit ass rainy day, stuck down at the corner of Sixth & Mission waiting for Daizy to show her late as usual self. Just as I was about to give up hope and succumb to the wafting advances of a smoldering Wendy’s burger, she shows up, actually giving me attitude even though I was on time. Fuckin’ girls.


Fuckin’ me, was more like it. I was more of a mess than Daizy, who was strangely kind of keeping it all together. I had been drinking like a fish, swimming through my own murky ocean of memories both imaginary and real. I was quietly losing my mind. Reliving the murder in slow moe, fast moe, medium moe, all the time moe, eenie meenie miney moe. Daizy had been spending her time chasing boys as usual, only now they were men. And they weren’t as cute as they used to be. And I certainly wasn’t attracted to any of them so I spent a lot less time with Daizy, which meant that most of the time I felt cold, alone and miserable. I was still in love with her, fucked up as it may seem and even I couldn’t fuckin’ understand it.


Daizy looked freshly fucked and smelled spunky clean. It was more than I could take so I bit my lip and got to the business of hand. Daizy and I were about to turn our first brother and sister five hundred dollar trick. I had hooked up with the john by placing a rather coy ad in The Bay Are Reporter, or B.A.R. as it was popularly called. It was a local fag paper that disguised it’s hustler classifieds with some camp reviews and grassroots politics. All I knew was a lot of horny old fuckin’ men read it and liked to call up the boys for hire in the back pages. And some of them were pretty kinky, which was ok with me cause that meant that they paid more. And we needed more. Lots more. Daizy wasn’t exactly hauling the cash in, if you know what I mean and what her “dates” showered on her was more likely golden than green.


Yeah, Daizy had developed a taste for rough trade in the most cliché of forms. Total losers. Guys so down on their luck that sometimes I could smell the desperateness on them like some stank cologne. Her latest turned out to have a taste for boys as well and I coincidentally hooked up with him one afternoon when I answered a mysterious phone call beckoning me to the W hotel. Room 222. Knock 3 times. I did and to my surprise he answered the door. After a bit of uncomfortable quietness and quirky stares, he recognized me as Daizy’s brother and we both proceeded to laugh our asses off.


Then he fucked me. For along time, till the thought of walking straight again temporarily alluded me. That’s when he first told me his idea for a threesome. With his favorite brother and sister. Funny, I never remember him acting interested when I walked in on him taking a shit in our bathroom after he had just fucked Daizy, who was still naked on the couch and playing with her twat, the horny little bitch and ignoring me. So I went to take a leak and bumped into him. That was then. This, weirdly, but I guess not so weirdly considering the course my life had taken recently, was now. Surprises were a thing of the past. Expected displeasure seemed to be the course of the day.


Daizy grabbed my hand and we walked the three blocks down Market to Third, hooked a right and stomped our way through the crowded sidewalk and into the W hotel. Room 454 this time. Five knocks. And a cough. Either this guy was wack or an ex secret service freak. Daizy looked fierce, but the wear and tear of our new underground existence was starting to take a toll on her once porcelain beauty and fearless resolve. She was changing. So was I, but Daizy’s was more external, whereas I was completely internalizing my confusion and pain. She was starting to look like shit, but I still had my cute looks and wily demeanor. She had recently dyed the tips of her now shoulder length black hair blueberry and had taken to wearing retro Norma Kamali sweatshirt tops with those weird 80’s padded shoulders and little cheerleader striped mini skirts. She had given up on heels and scuffed about the street in Wallgreens slippers like the rest of the fashionable walking dead that congregated at the Civic Center all day and made their deteriorating presence known. She wasn’t that far gone, but for some reason, I kept imagining it in her future.


The guy answers the door and to my fucking non-amazement he’s already naked and wacking off his big fat, curved cock. Daizy said the curve made him fuck her better. Maybe that’s why she was walking so funny all the time? All I knew was that it choked the back of my throat the fuck up when he would pump my face so I had begged Daizy to do most of the work. He was her piece after all. I just ran into him due to the strange and mysterious irony of life. The next three hours blazed before us as we each quickly downed large, soda glasses full of warm, bitter rum. I drank mine quick and then downed two more as I watched him grab Daizy from behind and rub his cock up against her thin jersey mini skirt until he was practically fucking her ass.


I don’t recall much after I blacked out, but if I recall, things were going pretty smoothly. Daizy was sitting on his face while I was giving him a rather good blow-job. It was my specialty after all. But then things got a little weird and he kept running into the bathroom and coming back into the room all hyped up and shit. Speed freak. The only explanation that made sense. It would also explain his now flaccid dick and growing frustration with me and Daizy’s attempts to re-arouse him. The next thing I knew I’m in pain and my face is stinging as if I had just gotten slapped with a phone book. I blacked out soon after and when I finally came back to reality I was lying in bed with his dead body, a telephone receiver permanently embedded into his face.


Daizy was smoking a joint and sitting on the toilet quietly talking to herself as she puffed away. I yelled for her, but the bitch ignored me. As usual. I get up and walk into the bathroom, pull the joint out of Daizy’s fingers and take a good long deep toke. She shoots me a whatever look and pulls a few pieces of TP off the roll, wipes herself and flushes the john. As she gets up and brushes past me, I grab hold of her arm and stop her mid track.


I look at her and ask for an explanation through my stare, unable to form words and hoping not to express too much fear with my eyes. But the point is I was scared shitless. Daizy was developing a frightening knack for knocking people off in a flick of a well mascaraed lash of the eye and didn’t seem too bothered with her new killer bitch status. I however was not featuring it. I got up and walked into the other room, unable to contain my anger, nor wanting to suppress it. So I decided to go back to our room, pack my things up and leave the next morning without telling Daizy. I mean Dandy. I mean, do I even know what I mean anymore. My life had become a sequel to a remake of a mini series based on something even more far out than Beyond The Valley Of The Dolls. Funny, I always imagined super vixens when I day dreamed. I never thought Dandy would turn into a demented version of one.


I got dressed silently and Dandy did the same. We just left the guy there dead in the bed, blood soaked sheets and all. Yeah, it had come to this, sloppy slayings that we practically trailed behind us like footprints dipped in fresh wrung blood. Dandy was still talking to herself and it occurred to me that she might have slipped a little further off the edge than any of had ever planned. She had changed and it certainly didn’t appear for the better. Her clothes were hanging off of her like a sale gone bad and I didn’t exactly give the appearance of a sophisticated gentleman, but we managed to straggle past the front desk without anyone paying us too much notice. That was until Dandy caught the eye of a desk clerk giving her an odd look and she screamed a stream of unintelligible epithets at him.


I grabbed her hand and we ran out of the hotel, not stopping for red lights and hopping over cars that suddenly got in our way. People must have thought we were crazy, but I imagined we were extras in a movie, escaping some harm about to destroy us. The cars were dragons, the buildings were giants and the other humans that got in our way were the trolls of the universe, dispersed randomly for our annoyance and pleasure. Little did I know in that in the next twenty-four hours she would betray me in the most vile of ways possible. Dandy. The love of my life.


4


So I didn’t exactly leave. I was planning to, but by the time we got back to our room, smoked another joint and got over the paranoid suspicion that a gaggle of cops were on our tail, we had fallen asleep and it was morning before either of us opened our eyes. Dandy got up first and by the time I actually crawled out of our cramped single bed, she was already out and about, oblivious to yesterdays murder and most likely on the scent of her next kill. I mean thrill. It was almost an hour before I realized my beloved lap top was missing and with it a million memories and thoughts that were for my eyes only.


I had no idea what to do, where to begin, how to start. I was frozen. She must be completely fucked up and not care a stitch about me any longer to take my lap-top. So I waited, hoping, praying, cursing that she showed the fuck up as instantly as possible. Minutes turned to hours and I passed the time watching a cockroach crawl across the floor and then onto the wall and then finally behind a mirror. Amazing how lackadaisical roaches truly are. Just like us humans, only more resilient. I wish I could be so fucking resilient, but my layers of strength were slowly peeling away, exposing my true self. A weak, scared little mouse. Nothing more than a would be milquetoast and not even a good one at that.


After midnight came and went without Dandy showing up, I decided to spring myself from my self-imposed fortress and search for her myself. I headed in the only direction I knew and before I could say crack whore, there I was. On the border of 6th and Mission, unsure of whether or not to proceed or do what my brain says and run the hell away. My heart still loved her and there was no way I was going to let it end without at least a final confrontation. I wasn’t searching for closure. I was offering it. And if Dandy knew what was good for her she would take whatever I had to give. I hoped.


5


Bas was never exactly the brother I had hoped for, much less expected. Yet I was his sister, blood and even I couldn’t deny the deep bond we shared or the kinky yet appealing incestuous love affair we had been indulging in. I never expected to fuck my brother and although it was basically masturbatory manipulation, we both seemed to need it. I don’t know if we ever really wanted it though. At least I didn’t. I had never come with Bas. Not even close. Where as it seemed he was experiencing the most ecstatic of experiences simply by touching me. Frankly, it had started to creep me out. That’s why I was attracted to all these other guys. Older guys. Scary guys. Edgy, dangerous, obviously fucked up and might have nowhere to go but straight to hell guys.


So that’s where I found myself. Sitting in the lobby of a very fucked up building over on 6th and Mission waiting for one of my admirers to show his ass up and help me hock my brothers most valuable possession and get me some much needed cash. See, Bas wasn’t the only one who had developed a drinking problem. So did I, but my true love was crystal. Speed. Crystalina Tina. It had taken over my life and I was out of it and that was not a good thing. I wanted more and this asshole I had met a few days ago, just by chance of course, was going to provide me with a connection, some correct shit and maybe even a place to crash and hide for a bit while Bas cooled his jets.


And there he was. All four foot three of him. He was short, but he wasn’t a midget. At least not to me. I was willing to overlook his deficiencies in height if he could and would provide me with a much-needed change of scenery. He greeted me with a big hug around my thigh and a rough, bearded scratch of a kiss on my belly button. He said that was his favorite part of me. His treasure. Who was I to deny him? This was actually going to be easier than I thought and as he pulled off my clothes and made a kind of awkward, retarded love to me, I imagined what Bas must be up to right now and just how freaked out I had gotten him. He’d have to deal for once. It was my time in the sun and now that I had made the decision to get the fuck away from his monopolizing ass, I wasn’t about to start feeling sorry for him and allowing myself to get all pathetic and guilty and shit. I was not going out like that. No fucking way.


His name was Massimiliano and he was an illegal alien from Italy. We had met at the change booth in the Powell Bart station and he had offered me a crisp dollar bill when my rumpled to the point of destruction one had ceased to work in the machine. I had just had a fight with Bas about turning that fateful trick at the W before we realized it’s fatal finale. I had gone for a walk, but one of those suddenly out of nowhere rain storms swept through the Frisco sky’s and I found myself escaping a quick soak by going underground. After a brief exchange he asked if I would like to have some coffee. I said I’d rather do a bump. He said that could be arranged. Like I said, it was love at first sight.


So here I was, fucking this wiry little Italian stallion and contemplating my future. I was about to be twenty-one. Bas and I had been on the run for a year now and it was obvious that nobody was coming to get us. It was as if we had disappeared off the face of the earth whether we liked it or not. So now it was time to do things on my one, without his shadow hovering over me. I deserved a break and thanks to Massamiliano it was all about to come true.


After we fucked a few more times, I managed to shift the focus away from his constantly erect cock and to the fact that we needed to score some crystal, which meant we had to get rid of the lap top. If we were lucky, it might score us a few grams of speed and a little cash left over to party with. One thing was bugging me though, like a nagging itch in a hard to reach place. It was him. I was starting to think about getting rid of him, when I caught myself, reversed my train of thought and got to the business of hand.


Have you ever sold stolen merchandise in the middle of the day? Smack in the middle of the Civic Center, with a perfect view of the gold domed capital building and a million lost and cracked out souls congregating in its shadow? There is some seriously shady shit going down today, so me and Massamiliano have to be extra careful that we don’t approach the wrong freak or we might end up not only not getting what the fucking thing is worth, but possibly get ripped off altogether. It took the two of our tweaked asses a good hour before we even got out the door and were immediately assaulted by the twisted street symphony taking place before our feet.


Massamiliano claimed to know this guy named Gerald who always hung by the fountain. I knew nothing of this guy called Gerald, he could have been some guy named Sam with the head of a clam for all I knew (props to MC Lyte), but if he was willing to take a hot lap top off our hands, for at least $200 worth of tweak, then I would be one very happy camper, yes in-deedy. We brushed past the frozen zombies stuck in the sidewalk like pieces of discarded chewing gum and stopped once we reached the fountain. It was one of those post-modern cubist type of things that spouted water in a few far-flung places. Through a stream of liquid deflection, Massimiliano saw this guy named Gerald and called out to him. Mother-fucker walked right through the water and across the fountain, only stopping when he was about a foot away from us.


“Taking a quick bath?” Massamiliano asked him, a look of mockery in his gaze.


“You know me,” answered this guy named Gerald. “I can’t be held responsible for my seemingly insane actions as I am a product of not only a broken home, but suffer from a severe sense of self denial as well.”


“In other words you’re fucked,” I chuckled, swallowing my last laugh with a mouthful of air when this guy named Gerald shot me a dirty look. Instead of smacking me, he simply answered;


“You could say that.”


Then he stepped out of the fountain, reached for the lap-top under Massimiliano’s arm and checked it out with an air of authority worthy of the most trusted Microsoft employee. He turned it on, ran his corroded fingertips slowly over the keys and smiled as he sat down and rested it on his lap. After almost two straight minutes of non-stop fiddling, he looked up at us and nodded his head, quickly shut the computer and then pulled a small plastic sandwich bag, tightly twisted and filled with two gleaming grams of beautiful, gorgeous, supa dupa tweak. I could feel my body twitch as he handed it over to Massamiliano, hopped up on his feet, spun around and blew a sweet kiss first to us and then up to some angel of his in the sky.


Then this guy named Gerald disappeared as quickly as he appeared, but we couldn’t have cared less or even noticed. We were already enmeshed in the game of getting high, giggling like kids as we raced back to the tiny room which we would end up cracked out in for the next week. A week of blissful high’s, evil come-downs and all out psycho babble battles. I never thought of Bas, not even once. My mind had become zapped and there was no way I could find out. In fact, it was almost as if I was looking to get even more lost. Gone. Without a trace. Massimiliano provided that for me, an easy out. And if I had to break my brothers fucked up heart then so fucking be it. Who knew that I was about to meet someone who would alter my life forever and one day rescue me from a once child like sibling that had grown into a bitter and extremely spiteful man, intent on taking me back into his life as his one true love. Yeah, sure.


6


I gave up looking for Daizy, I mean Dandy after about three months. I realized she was gone, but knew it wasn’t forever. I might not find her for years, or I could stumble upon her tomorrow. It was up to chance, fate and karma, even if my severely voided brain wouldn’t allow me to even contemplate that scenario. I left San Francisco after a few more months of quiet soul searching and demented realizations that I might be responsible for pushing Dandy so close to the edge. I initiated everything. I set the ball rolling. Yet in the end I wasn’t prepared for the consequences spurred by my hasty and selfish actions.


I met a guy named Malcolm who invited me to move back to New York and live with him in this newly fashionable section of Brooklyn Heights. I wasn’t afraid to go back. I knew nothing bad would come my way. The worst was over and the rest of my life, without Dandy, had begun. Still, I loved her, even though she had fucked me over and kicked my feelings straight down my throat. You can’t stop that kind of passion, that kind of love. Yes, it was twisted love, but it was the only love I ever knew. One day, it would be mine again and this time, Dandy would never get the chance to runaway. I’d make very sure of that. I loved her after-all, just like a brother should.

"Yeah. Sure."

Part 2 of The DAIZY Trilogy

3 short stories by Walter Cessna

Photographs of Brandon & Lindsey by Walt Cessna NYC 07

I wiped my nose with a dirty dollar bill that I found after I poked my hand into my pocket only to encounter a hole, a couple of roaches, a Bic that had ceased functioning a few years ago and not a single fuckin’ Kleenex.


The day wasn’t especially a great one, or a sunny one. Not even a gloomy one. It was just one of those days that float aimlessly with no purpose and isn’t that the best thing about a day like that anyway? Yeah, sure.


I didn’t exactly need to wipe my honker, but it was bleeding and the blood was getting on my new white shirt, so I rubbed the odorific George W. across my red smeared nose and tried not to drip any red drops on my once crisp Banana republic shirt that now resembled something from it’s bastard step brother The Gap after a dramatic discount.


It seemed to be happening all the time lately. I started the day looking so fresh and so clean…clean. I’m sorry Miss Jackson (hello, Outkast), but this is for real. I ended up a fucked up piece of blood stained roadkill. Yet somehow I always survived. How fuckin’ lucky for me. Yeah, sure.


The dollar barely soaked up anything, so I resigned myself to looking like a buzz saw victim and attempted to hail a cab during the lovely and extremely annoying early a.m. rush hour of NYC. Sixth Avenue and Fourteenth St. to be exact.


It seemed as if I had been standing on that goddamn corner for almost an hour when some poor fuck cabbie took pity on me and didn’t even seem to notice the fact blood was streaming out of my nose like molten lava.


Where could I go? My place was out of the question because Roger would be home and there’s not enough room in this story to even begin to explain that situation (although I can in one word. Tired. Tacky. Ok, two words. Bite me).


I had worn out my welcome at every single persons house that I used to call a friend and even the ones that used to admit being related to me. Even my own mother wouldn’t unlock the door of her condo for me, her only son. I used to be her favorite (pain in the ass, that is). Yeah, sure.


It looked like I had one choice. In order to get at least a good days sleep and get my shit cleaned the fuck up, I was going to have to lose a bit of whatever pride I had left and eat some pussy. Not just any pussy, mind you. This was prime East Village babe material that even a big fag like me could appreciate for her Russ Meyer proportions, attitude and un-adjustment.


Her name was Dandy Outlaw and she was at least forty-six years old, give a decade or two (or three, the way she looked). She claimed to be a very sassy thirty-five, but the coke whore wrinkles permanently etched stone like into her facial crevices was a dead give away to her true age. Add that to the fact that she liked to dress up as her favorite teen pop star Christina Aguilera, even though she had neither the bearings or the belly button to do it justice and you had the makings of a tasty yet tacky treat. Yeah, sure.


Back in my daze of San Francisco, we have a lovely little area called 6th and Mission, which translates loosely into “fifth gateway to Hell”. Dandy once called the entire block home and often made her presence felt, although no one was ever exactly touched by it, dear. She lived in a residential hotel, which was a polite way of saying “crack whore central”. I’m starting to notice a theme of double meaning without the excitement of an entendre developing here so I’m gonna quit while I’m ahead. Bite me. Hard. Harder! Thank you.


That was where we first met and if I could get my ecstasy stained brain to co-operate, I recall it was almost twenty years ago when I was still a ravishing yet terminally decadent twenty-five. I had a taste for badly lit bars in poorly determined neighborhoods, preferring to linger with those who had stopped mingling with the normal world a long time ago. Down here, at 6th and Mission, time stopped yet no one could stand still. Tweaking like fire flies without light and giving off a murky glow tainted by their own impending self-destruction. It’s inhabitants found it to be a happy kinda’ place, if ya know what I mean. A place that they called home, even if to others it was hell.


Dandy was a real bute, but no one else thought so but me. Funny, that’s how everything seemed to go in my life. Nobody else saw what I did. To me, the grotesque was intriguing. Mystifying. Unique. I loved that she had already ravished herself before the age of twenty-one and had every intention of doing even more amazing damage to herself. She was addicted to her own living demise, viewing the world through scum stained tears, hidden behind lead lined hoods masquerading as eyes. Yeah, sure.


Pretty grim picture huh? Not to get all Marilyn Manson on you or anything, but she was a poignant kinda’ chick, ya know?


There was an instant intensity between us even though we literally met by chance. I was visiting San Francisco after getting out of my fourth re-hab in NYC and was living with a couple of dope fucks on the lower Haight who sold wack mariujana to support their heroin habit. I hated needles but never saw a white line I didn’t want to suck, so suck I did. Frequently. Until I had become just as big a fucked up cheeba whore as they were and they had kicked my ass out of the house because I nodded off during a weed deal and the dude fucked my mans shit up big time so I had to take it on the chinny chin chin. Heh. Yeah, sure.


So I was fucking homeless for the first time in my fuckin’ life. Things had been bad before, but this was taking suck to a new low life level. So like every other down on their luck piece of shit, I wound up at 6th & Mission and as I crossed the street towards the one semi decent lookin’ roach hotel I ran smack into a retarded blossom of a girl, all spindly legs and long black hair with the ends dipped in blueberry syrup dye.


She’s adamant that it’s all my fault and I ain’t buyin’ none of her crap, even though it’s some pretty attractive looking crap. Next thing I know where spinning like tops, right in the middle of the mother fuckin’ street. My cigarette drops outta my mouth but I don’t give a shit and I look up at the sky and smile cause for the first time in ages I’m feelin’ spontaneous. Free. Fuckin’ fabulous and I ain’t even high. But that’s what always happened right before I was about to go on really bad benders. Lost weekend type of ordeals.


We stumble off the street and into a bar that would normally repel even a dedicated alcoholic like myself. She knows everyone and I begin to recognize a story I’ve seen a hundred times before. The former it girl. The one that got the cutest guy. The one who could handle her drugs and kept doing more and more of them. The one who lets it all fall apart in front of everyone and gets dirt thrown all over her pretty face. The one whose parents tell her to go back to her boyfriend, only now he’s living with her younger sister. The one who gets kicked out on the street and calls Wendy’s value meals dinner and sleeps in a closet sized room that rents by the quarter hour.


I was about to have blood on my shirt that day to, only I didn’t know it. Yeah, sure. I knew it. I always did, because trouble was something I courted more than the fiercest lover. The drinks pour down us like rain on a parched desert floor, hungry and desperate for more. We drank until the neon lights looked like the morning sun and we laughed until our bellies hurt so bad we thought for sure we’d puke. Yeah, sure. It was love at first sight and when she mentioned going back to her room and getting high, I was hooked. Line. Fucking sinker.


So back to the blood. Everything was going so nicely. I was loving life and it was loving me right the fuck back. We stumbled past the non-committal stare of the hotels desk clerk on our way up to Dandy’s room and the last thing I remembered before I blacked out (normal for a booze whore like me) was a strange painting on the staircase. Hung a bit ajar and streaked with an avalanche of dust, it was upon closer inspection a near perfect copy of Richard Avedon’s legendary photograph, Dovima & The Elephants. A painting of a photo that literally defined the state of style when it first appeared. I love the way she was standing, so regal, yet so correct, almost dancer like. Girls like that seemed like the perfect fit for me. Yeah, sure.


When I came out of my blackout, I was confronted by the sight of three naked bodies strewn about my own on a bed that normally holds one. I tried as gingerly possible to remove myself from the sexual jungle gym of the previous evenings distractions. No one seemed to notice that I was awake, so it didn’t even dawn upon me until I heard the croak of girlish distress emanating from a dark corner. Was that a love call beckoning me or was I still under the self-delusional grandeur of the previous days mutual soaking up of cheap, bottom shelf vodka?


A mixture of both it would turn out as my booze riddled mind tried to re-scramble the facts into a somewhat function-able re-enactment of my previously blacked out events. No, that was a true living human soul wailing to me from a distance. Suddenly my brain flooded with a million memories stemming from the past twenty-four hours. The endless bottles of Vodka, the sub street quality of the crack we smoked and the heroin we snorted to try and come down from the obviously crystal tainted cocaine that our fucked up selves had decided was important.


Dandy broke my train of thought with her increasingly panic stricken shrieks. It sounded as if she was burning in hell, so I dragged my bone white naked ass up, tip toeing as if on a crazed mushroom trip and trying hard not to dent the pretty flowers. Yeah, sure.


Sitting in the corner “kitchenette” sink, sorta half standing, half sitting actually, was Dandy, a look of sheer delight riddled with insanity spread like margarine across her white bread face. She was wearing my shirt and sure enough, it was caked in blood. Whose, we’ll never know, but that was enough for me. I headed back towards the other room, in search of my pants, or at least someone else’s when I felt something go ka-boing against my head. I spun around to see Dandy, who was hurling plates, forks, Tupperware…whatever the fuck she could get her hands on.


I laughed out loud simply for my own amusement. It certainly wasn’t entertaining Dandy. She was screaming at me now about how I had gotten totally fucked up last night and disappeared on her. When I showed up, the naked crew, still miraculously sleeping through Dandy’s outburst by the way, was with me. Two very cute boys and one short extremely spun out sixteen-year-old girl that had the words FUCK WITH ME & I’LL LIKE IT! written into the expression spread across her severely wide forehead. This girl had one big old fuckin’ head.


Dandy’s yelling again, but I’ve found my pants and a very nice black sweater that I’ll have to thank one of the sleeping brutes for later. Like, never. As I lace up my sneakers I spy a mini pile of semen splattered condoms, some speckled with the shit of a thousand angry fucks laying next to the bed on the floor. The night suddenly spilled back into my memory and the image of me snorting lines of dope off one of the boy’s ass as a very frustrated Dandy looked on. The short, scary girl tried to bring her into the picture, but Dandy was getting final cut. If I wasn’t going to fuck her, then nobody was. Especially this squirrelly lookin’ teenager.


In my drunken and drug fueled enthusiasm I had neglected to give everyone but my happy and horny little hostess a proverbial piece of my well-worn ass. The trio of supposed terror crashed after a few more lines and I proceeded to literally fuck the shit out of not just the two boys, but the girl as well. According to Dandy, that is. But I suspected it might be true. I had been accused of piggish ness before, but frankly, I was more amazed I had actually gotten it up for the chick. The wonders of booze and drugs never cease to amaze and disgust me. I walked toward Dandy and gave her a long, warm, hard hug that seemed to shrink both of us to the size of children eager and giddy with the impending day. Yeah, sure.


I ended up moving in with her that very day and for the next two years lived an existence that to this day I have trouble recalling. At least completely. I remembered the endless drama, the constant need for more drugs and her growing impatience with my faggot ways. She had gotten too ugly to get anybody to fuck her unless they were jacked up and desperate, which meant their dick was good for shit and the only way she was gonna get off was if she found someone that actually liked her. That’s me.


As it became increasingly apparent that things were about to get uncomfortable (Dandy had moved her new boyfriend/pimp/freakazoid into the hotel room and he wasn’t exactly what you would call the friendly type), I packed up my shit and hopped a Greyhound for the East Coast and hopefully a reprieve, even if temporary, from the past twenty-four months of dope deluded satisfaction.


Somehow, Dandy and I had kept in touch over the years and when I finally convinced her to move to NYC, she actually took me up on the offer and proceeded to move into my apartment (which I was sharing with Roger, but remember, that’s another story) for the next five months. That was almost ten years ago. Since then, she had blossomed into a self-imposed role of sex goddess to the East Village minions who worshiped her, although not all for Saintly reasons.


She had an apartment; a typical Manhattan roach pit disguised (badly) as a “functional yet funky studio for modern gals on the go” and even managed to remember to feed the four stray cats she adopted when she first got here “cause they looked depressed” (although they mysteriously disappeared about two years later). The only place Dandy was going to was straight to the bar. Although she “said” she had given up her drug addled ways, she more than made up with her alcohol consumption, which at this point, was legendary amongst even the old timer alco’s who got to the East Village bars exactly when they opened at 8am.


So here I am, sitting in the back of a cab with blood still streaming out of my nose, but I ignore it and get off on the sensation of the warm ooze dragging itself slowly over my skin and seeping into my mouth, mixing with the little saliva that I could actually muster in my increasingly dehydrated and deranged state. I sure wasn’t a pretty sight, but when I stumbled out of the cab in front of Dandy’s apartment building, I caught my reflection in a mirror and somehow convinced myself that I had it all together. Yeah, sure.


I must have blacked out while I was ringing the buzzer, because when I woke up, I found myself shivering my fuckin’ ass off on a jail cell floor with a pool of fresh vomit to my right and an extremely bizarre looking Indian wearing a turban wrapped like a cobra around his head to my right. He was chewing furiously on a pencil that actually looked like it might taste good. Shit, I was hungry. Where the fuck was I and how the hell did I get here? I couldn’t remember a thing except that every part of my body ached and I was also wearing a completely different set of clothes that I had never seen before in my fuckin’ life. Dan-dee, Dandy! Once again, I had fallen into her pot of black tar honey, only this time, I wasn’t even left with a sticky sweet impression.


The turban dude was looking at me all crazy like and I had a feeling it was time to sit up and act as if I was capable of taking notice of my surroundings. Unfortunately, my body didn’t react as fast as my brain and I slipped back on my own puke, which from it’s glistening on the cement sheen appeared to be a daring mixture of dark alcohol and chunks of citrus fruit. Pineapple, perhaps. What the hell had I been up to anyway? Hawaiian Scotch on the rocks? Who knows at this point. All I can think about is my one phone call and who might actually answer it if they knew it was me. Since that was an extremely short list, I decided to scream my bloody ass off for the guard. As usual, my Drano like wail of mis-contempt did the trick. A huge black whale of a man in a constricting uniform soon stood before me.


I tried to look as innocent as possible, even though I had just mistakenly slicked back my hair with some upchuck Hawaiian Scotch and had eyes that were more crossed than a dissed lover. Without even speaking, he unlocked the gate and motioned for me to make my exit. Feeling very Gloria Swanson, I made a Sunset Boulevard type exit, praying that I hadn’t shot somebody and let them drown in a pool (although, it was a fabulous moment in the movie). I was lead down a long hall and let through a series of electronically locked gates until I was standing in a room where my belongings were handed to me and I was told I could go.


Go? Where? I didn’t even know how I had gotten there. I looked into the plastic bag they had handed me and pulled out a thick, silver Rolex watch and a pair of very fierce Gucci sunglasses that were colored the shade of a lime atomic explosion. There was a set of keys and a business card. I held the business card close to my desperately needing glasses eyes and read the name aloud. Bas Samot. 5 Tudor City Place NYC Penthouse. 212-456-9872. Whoever the fuck this dude was, I must have ripped him off or something even weirder, which I really didn’t feel like contemplating so I Etch-a-Sketched my mind to a blank and signed the series of papers suddenly put before me.


I looked quickly at my charge and shook my head in disbelief. Drunken conduct and sleeping in a public space. But where did they find me? I tried to look again but the sheet was ripped from my hands before I could finish. The cop quickly shuffled me out the door and before I knew it found myself scratching my head and desperate for a smoke outside of the Fifth Precinct on Fifth St. in the East Village. Well, at least I was walking distance from Dandy’s pad. Time to get my groove on and just look what happens to be in the inside pocket of my brand new pants? A crisp one hundred dollar bill, which I immediately walked over to the liquor store across the street. I love convenience shopping. Yeah, sure.


New clothes, only partially marred with puke, money in my pocket, a fifth of Sky Vodka in my hand, already splashing against the back of my throat and some seriously trendy sunglasses to wear even though it would soon be night. Only the God’s knew for sure, but I had a feelin’ a sleazy lil’ devil named Dandy had a few ideas as to my newfound enrichment. I turned the corner of 11th St. and 2nd Ave. and walked two blocks down to Ave. A, where I found myself for the second time in twenty-four hours ringing the bitch’s buzzer. Only this time I didn’t black out and I heard the familiar croak of a voice scarred by cigarettes and fruitless semen. It was Dandy.


Her building was one of those typical about to crumble down on all it’s inhabitants affairs and the semi fresh layer of paint already peeling off the hallway walls looked to be the color of picked dandelions that had never seen a vase of water. The color underneath was even more baroquely garden-esque, a pastiche of weed like shades decayed over the years until each layer of paint had faded seamlessly into the other. I climbed the steps until I had reached the fifth floor landing and the entrance to the roof top apartment. The door swung open as I was about to reach for the knob and standing before me was Dandy in all her tainted, radio activated looking post nuclear glory.


She was wearing a long, yellow, ruffled flamenco dress whose polka dots had probably jumped off in fright when she had slipped it on. It was torn at it’s hem and dipped scarily off to one side of her shoulder, exposing a collarbone that was as ragged looking as the dress trying to shield it. Her barefoot toes were like gnarled little worms; each ones head sticking in a different direction and colored an unfashionable shade of bubblegum pink that was chipped to near imperfection. They were studded with cheap, dime-store rhinestones that were dull with dirt and had lost their sparkle along time ago.


Her face looked as if it had been painted into a permanent mask, air brushed like a bad Patrick Nagel painting that had been hanging in the sun for decades and hadn’t seen a dust rag since then. A joint dangled from her lips, although it’s ember had faded and the last remains of a cough drop martini (Kettle One Vodka mixed with a smidge of Jaggermeister and a dash of pancake syrup for good measure) dangled precariously from her long, extension cord like fingers that hadn’t dropped a glass of booze in years. Her hair, dyed tangerine (in good light), was fumbling its way around her face like it had never seen a good brush out.


She smiled broadly at me, not a single trace of irony evident on her face. Dandy knew I would be full of questions and she also knew that I hated to be fucked with, but as she produced another cough drop martini from behind her back, I sucked down the remains of my own bottle, grabbed the glass from her hands and saluted her as sincerely as I could. No use in wasting good hooch and no use in prolonging the inevitable escapade our soon to be drunken shenanigans would find us embroiled in. The martini flowed like a long winding river down my throat, coating my insides with a false protection and an inner hope to escape the hostility that would later accompany it. It always did. Yeah, sure.


The rooftop apartment was hardly what I thought it would be. Not as small as she had said and a lot groovier than Dandy was capable of. It was a single room with a make shift kitchenette in one corner and a closet sized toilet and shower in the other that was partially hidden behind one of those tacky, Japanese looking screens that you bought down on Canal St. before it actually turned into Chinatown. The only two pieces of furniture were a huge, expensive looking and most likely hand carved Mahogany bed that was shaped like a broken heart and randomly covered by a half dozen or so thread bare comforters that would have seemed more at home in some old hippie chicks house.


An antique rocking chair permanently shifted back and forth in the drafty room, secluded in the only other free corner, it’s feet littered with dozens of magazines and puzzle books. Funny, I had never thought of Dandy as an earth mother type, nor a sentimental granny, rockin’ in her retirement chair, but I guess even demented souls like her deserved a break, even if their usual one came from Mickey D’s. Yeah, sure.


It was the day that the whole world went away (thank you Mr. Reznor) and I stopped so time could catch up with me. The room seemed still and Dandy finally opened up her mouth after what seemed an eternity. She said that it was about time I had shown up. She had gotten herself all dolled up, just for me mind you and she wanted to take me out to dinner and then to the Holiday cocktail lounge on Saint Marks for a drink or ten.


I put my hand to her mouth and walked her over to the bed where I sat the two of us down and pointed out my new clothes, the watch and my Gucci goo’s. I pulled the remains of the hundred out of my pockets and the business card as well. I looked her as squarely in the eye as my confused mind could muster and asked her what the fuck had happened to me and who the fuck this Bas Samot dude was?


To which she casually replied, wiping a stain of Jaegger-syrup from the corners of her now upturned and mischievously smiling lips.


“He’s my brother.”


“Your brother? I never knew you had a family and shit. Why’dja keep it such a big secret?”


“Everybody has secrets. Mine happen to be my family.”


“Well are you going to tell me how I ended up looking like a reject from a Details fashion shoot or not?”


“Not.”


“What…”


“Not. It rhymes with twat, which if I recall, you’re probably still not featuring.”


“Yeah, sure. Let’s not get on that subject again. It’s tired and so am I.”


I got up and walked over to the rocking chair, laughing softly to myself at the absurdity of the situation and it’s strange appeal suddenly taking hold of me. I wanted to know more, but I also wanted to sit down in that goddamn rocking chair and numb my brain out with the roach I had just spied sitting on it’s arm rest. So I did and royally pissed off Dandy in the process. If it hadn’t been for the cell phone ringing on the chair under my just sat ass, things might have gotten ugly. I pulled the phone out and flipped up the receiver.


“Daizy?” It was a man’s voice, but his request had me puzzled. Daizy? Who the fuck was Daizy?


“Who is it…”Dandy asked.


“It’s someone asking for Daizy,” I replied, feeling more and more skeptical the longer I stared into Dandy’s widely expanding eyes.



“Then give me it,” she barked as she grabbed the cell from my hands. “It’s for me.”


“For you?” I asked, rocking forward in the chair and leaping to my feet as Dandy sulked away and mumbled something into her cell. I spun her around and knocked the phone out of her grip. “Who are you?”


“I’m Daizy,” she said, scurrying for the phone on her knees and throwing it down in annoyance when she realized the caller had hung up.


“That was my brother Bas. You’re wearing his clothes. That’s his watch and sunglasses.” She was upset, yet I couldn’t figure out why. Maybe it was because I was just as in the dark as she seemed to be.


“Why am I wearing your brothers clothes and why is he calling you Daizy?”


“Because that’s my real name and after the shit we got into last night, you’re lucky to be wearing clothes at all!”


“What shit are you talking about?”


“Listen,” Dandy or Daizy, or whatever the fuck her name was said as she was started to gather some things into her bag. “I have been on the run from my sick ass brother for almost two weeks now. The only reason I had his clothes was because they got jumbled in with mine last time I was with him.”


“Why are you running away from your brother?” I asked, more curious than I had ever been about anything in my entire life, including whether or not Brittany Spears tits were real or not.


“Because he’s wants to kill me…”


“Kill you? What the fuck for.”


Dandy stopped what she was doing and slowly faced me. She was crying, green emerald streaks of mascara Ozing down her cheeks.


“Because…he’s in love with me.”


“Why is your brother in love with you?”


“Because twenty years ago, I was in love with him…” Dandy started to sob and threw her-self down on the bed. She reached under the pillows and pulled out an orange suede satchel that she stuck deep into her bag. She got up and took my hand, leading us slowly towards the front door and hopefully an answer to this weirdness that had once again invaded our lives. Yeah, sure. This was fucked up and I was not featuring the idea of someone’s mysterious past suddenly catching up with them and dragging me down into the sewer along with it.


We raced down the stairs and hopped into the first cab we could catch, unsure of where we were going, but suddenly happy of our friendship and the false safety we sometimes find in others. Yeah. Fucking sure. This was the beginning of a new adventure and both of us were charged with the excitement of where the next day might take us. We looked behind as a sleek black Lexus pulled up to Dandy’s apartment building and a frustrated man dashed out and burst his way through the front door.


“Driver?” I asked as we turned the corner and narrowly avoided a fate I knew not how horrible might be. “Can you stop at the first liquor store you pass once we’re about one hundred blocks uptown and on the West side from here?”


“No problem,” a black spectacled grandpa in a tartan vest with cherry cheeks and an apple blossom smile replied.


“I know what it feels like when ya need a drink,” he offered.


Dandy and I both looked at each other and laughed.


“Yeah. Sure,” we giggled and then fell back into the seat and got on with the business of the rest of our life, which knowing us, would probably be colorful, fun and profane, glazed like a ham with a succulent nuance for counterfeit astonishment and un-meaningful innuendos spiked with pitiful revenge. We loved ourselves for hating ourselves and everybody else in return and deserved to outlive every bad fortune that was spun our way.


Yeah.


Sure.


The.


End.

DAIZY

Part 1 of The DAIZY Trilogy

3 short stories by Walter Cessna

Lindsey & Brandon photographed by Walt Cessna NYC 07

4/ 99 - 12/2000


Daizy was in one of her usual impatient with the entire world moods. These were dangerous and if you found yourself even remotely in their wake, debauchery could pretty much be assumed. I was often the last standing thing lying in the aftermath of her catastrophic outbursts. You see, I had learned how to survive what no mere mortal ever could. I had learned the trick to dealing with Daizy. Ignore the bitch. Pure and simple. Pay her starving for attention ass absolutely no heed and get on with whatever the fuck it is you're doing. Countless boyfriends had failed to learn this easy lesson and were therefore laid bare and bleeding, a love sucked image of carnage brutality. And there was Daizy, laughing out loud to no one but her own amusement. But I never wanted her. I just wanted to be with her. Not sexually. Not even as a friend. More of a keeper. A watcher. A protector, albeit silent, but a protector nonetheless. And Daizy loved me for it. She became my best friend. A sister. My confidante. Almost a wife. And then one day he came into our lives and I knew instantly that nothing would ever be the same.


Strangely, it happened at a time when everything between us had become strained and my ability to see things clearly at an all time low. It was as if I had finally come to some sort of conclusion about Daizy and I, but its meaning was still out of my grasp. I had almost been expecting him, recalling fragments of my fucked up dreams and slowly coming to the realization that a change was due. Whether I liked it or not. Daizy seemed restless as well and our usual, playful banter had been reduced to cutting comments geared towards slaying put downs and sadistic sarcasm. Yet, I still loved her and she me. No matter how tense we became, or how much we got on each others nerves, in the end, all we had was each other. Or at least that's what I thought.


By this point you're probably thinking that Daizy and I have some sort of bizarre, psycho freako relationship. Nothing could be further than the truth. You see, Daizy, really was my sister. She was barely twenty-one and I had been fifteen going on forty for most of my teen life. My name is Sebastian Taylor Tomas, Bas for short and my sister Daizy and I were lucky enough to grow up on the lower east side of Manhattan before there was a Gap on St. Marks, yuppies were not yet an en-powered species and Starbucks was just a sick dream fostering in the brains of demented coffee addicts.


Our mother was the editor of a slick, yet desperately trendy downtown magazine called STOP! and our father was a former skateboarding champion who now lived in the Chelsea Hotel on the residual checks from his endorsements. They weren't married any more, but they weren't divorced either. At least not legally. One day my sister and I had arrived home from school, I think it was third grade and we were greeted by the sight of my mother straddling my dad and plunging what looked like a pair of scissors repeatedly into his chest. They were tripping, fucking tacky old hippies we thought, but miraculously my father lived and never returned home. My mom scared him shitless.


Now, let's get to him. The dude who would try to come between Daizy and me. He was the kind of person that turned all his toys into weapons when he was a kid. Everything shared one purpose. Destruction. Kill. Destroy. Bury alive. He was a brutal child that grew up way too early into a fiercely fucked up young man. And the only thing that he had ever wanted in his entire life was Daizy. Not so hard to understand when faced with her impossible beauty. Daizy had never had an ugly moment in her life.


They had gone to grade school together, but never particularly gotten along. He constantly tried to get her to open up to him. He would stare at her in class until she grew noticeably uncomfortable. He walked a block behind her as she came and went from school each day. He hid notes and flowers inside her lunch box. When she still failed to respond, the sight of dead bugs mixed with her sandwich greeted Daizy. Once he even went so far as to dump a handful of slugs into her gym bag.


By this point, you're probably wondering how he managed a second chance in Daizy's already confusing life. After all, serving up a bug sandwich is not exactly an act of endearment. Then again, compared to the dull complexities of everyday life, at least it was a colorful intrusion. He popped up one day as strangely as he had disappeared almost ten years earlier. Not to the day, however. That would be too strange a coincidence and Daizy was immune to coincidence. Her life had been mapped out before she was even born, but destiny wasn't to blame. She was just one of those people who never have to decide which way to go in life. She just went where it led, no questions asked.


It was Daizy's 20th birthday. Mom was typically busy at work, Dad hadn't showed his face in months and I was the only one who seemed to give a flying fuck. As usual, this was a major birthday for Daizy. She kept saying she was now just one year away from the first day of the rest of her life. That seemed pretty stupid to me, considering Daizy had pretty much been doing whatever the hell she pleased since she was able to walk. The most guidance our parents had ever instilled in her was to please close the zip-lock bag that they kept their pot in and at least learn to properly forge their signature on school notes if she was going to make a career out of cutting school.


I myself had cut school for Daizy's birthday and had organized a fabulous schedule of celebratory type things for us to indulge in. After all the tension we had been going through, I saw her birthday as a chance to re-establish our highly correct connection and close whatever open gaps we had. First we were going to have breakfast at our favorite diner, The Cooper Square on 5th St. and 2nd Ave. After our usual, grilled Swiss on wheat with tomato and mustard, burnt French fries and chocolate milk with a shot of Jack, we would thrift shop until the prices disgusted us (I'm sorry, but I'm not paying fifty bucks for somebody's old pants, even if they are from Screaming Mimi's), then pay a visit to our best friend and local dope dealer, Scratch. Afterwards, once we were correctly inebriated, it was as many movies as we could sneak into at the multiplex on Union Square.


He had never even made it into my plans, yet there he was, an unwelcome addition to our day. After waiting for eternity until Daizy got dressed, we were finally on our way. We closed the apartment door and there he stood, leaning against a car across the street. We proceeded to approach him as he stood almost menacingly in our way. I half expected Daizy to turn around and run back into the apartment, but instead she took hold of my hand and pulled my hesitant self towards her potential suitor. I had no idea this was the pre-teen terror of her past, yet Daizy knew immediately. Like I said before, there is no room for coincidence in her life, this was planned by the gods.


He was a little over six feet and had thick, unruly red hair that tried to stay in place. Not hard enough though, because it kept spring up in places like a battered box spring that had seen better days. Green eyes pierced from his face and a smattering of rather large freckles flew haphazardly across his cheeks. A sturdy yet lean frame was clothed in a snug pair of cords and a battered but not threadbare sweater that was so faded, it was impossible to tell whether or not it had once been green or blue. Being a stickler for detail, I then looked down at the biggest feet I had ever seen on a man who didn't play professional basketball. They were at least a size fifteen and he had them encased in a brand new pair of sky blue and silver New Balance trainers.


When we were about a foot away from him, Daizy released my hand and extended it towards our new friend.


"I'm sorry, but I can't recall your name," Daizy said as he took hold of her long slim fingers for what seemed to me the longest five seconds in history.


"Jude. I used to be in grade school with you, do you remember?"


"The bug sandwich guy. How could I forget."? Daizy looked at me and realized how uncomfortable I had become. "This is my brother Sebastian. We call him Bas."


Jude let go of Daizy's hand, but didn't exactly offer his to me. Instead he made a half- hearted attempt at a wave and then shifted his focus back to Daizy.


"I hope you don't mind my stopping by like this. I remembered where you live and when I got back in town I thought I'd see if you were still here."


"You used to follow me home. I thought you were a weirdo," Daizy said, almost sarcastically. "Then one day you were gone and I kind of missed my escort."


"My family moved outta the city, to Jersey. I never got a chance to say goodbye. I'm sorry." It seemed genuine, but I couldn't get past how he was staring at Daizy. He seemed not to blink, his gaze was so intense. I looked at my sister and tried to see what he saw. When you look at someone for fifteen years, it can be hard to understand what other people are looking at. In Daizy's case, however, it was fairly obvious. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Anyone had ever seen for that matter. I was smitten with her in the most unsexual yet completely in love manner. It sounds corny but I would have died for her.


Her skin was almost olive colored, a striking contrast to her jet-black hair, which was cut into an exaggerated bob with the front slightly longer than the back. Her bangs were constantly falling in front of her face, which supplied her with the almost annoying habit of chewing on one end with her teeth. Her eyes were a very ordinary shade of brown, but huge and round, almost cartoon like. Like a Keane character. Her lips were bow shaped and naturally stained cherry red as if she was forever sucking on an Italian ice. Her body was slim and showed no hint of a woman's figure. She was as lean and straight as a board, with long, thin fingers and narrow, tiny feet. She barely stood over five feet tall.


You may be wondering why anyone would be attracted to a twenty-year-old child woman. It wasn't just her looks that made Daizy so special. It was just her. Her way of being. The way she stood half askance and the way she sighed when she opened up the fridge and discovered there was no milk for her Honey Nut Cheerio's. The look she got in her eye, transfixed yet doe like, whenever she saw a boy that tickled her fancy, or the way she laughed at the movies; loud, hard, like a sailor, totally oblivious to how annoying it was to the other people in the theater. It was as if she were this famous, glamorous star living right in our own house, only nobody knew it but Daizy and I.


Jude broke what had seemed like a ten-minute silence and forced me out of my self-created exile.


"What are you up to today," he asked.


"It's my birthday and Bas…"


"I'm taking my sister out for the day," I cut in, grabbing Daizy's arm and trying to budge her immobile body from his presence. "I'm sorry, but we've got to get going."


"I'm sorry Jude," Daizy said as she struggled with me. "But my brother is a bit persistent this morning."


"That's alright, but…can I see you later tonight? Maybe around 8pm?"


Before I could successfully drag her away from the monster's clutch (I've always been a bit dramatic), Daizy broke free of my grip and stepped right up to Jude. Without even a blink of her well mascara'd lashes, Daizy gave Jude a sweet, perfectly innocent peck on the cheek and whispered her phone number in his ear, thinking I wouldn't hear. I did.


"That would be lovely," she said, then turned to join a visibly annoyed and on the verge of scowling me. As we got a few blocks away, she took her hand and placed it on my shoulder, stopping me. She took her other hand and sifted it gently through my hair, a half smile, half look of scorn spreading across her lips.


"I know you love me in whatever sick, weird way your imagination has convinced you, but I am not going to sit on a shelf like some fuckin' china doll and gather dust. Don't fuck with me Bas. I'm your sister, not your goddamn wife for fuck's sake!"


Now I felt fucked over, stupid and annoying, as well as embarrassed by my own presence. I was definitely not touched by his presence, dear. I shifted about nervously and contemplated suicide. For Daizy to be mad at me was tantamount to the extinction of mankind, as we know it. I had shown too much emotion, made myself way to vulnerable and thus sunk myself so deep into a hole my only chance of escape was a quick and blunt reply, absolving me instantly of all guilt, conspiracy or fraud.


"Nobody has ever had a sister like you Daizy, you're beyonder. I love you so much that sometimes…I get jealous. I want to always be there for you, but sometimes it feels as if you don't want me to even be your brother!"


"You're over reacting a bit, don't you think?" Daizy replied as she took hold of my hand and completely shifted the tone but not the subject. "I know you love me. But one day I'm going to leave here and that means I'm going to have to leave you. At least for awhile."


"What do you mean your going to leave here?" I asked, my voice belying a soon to be steady stream of tears and fitful guffaws.


"I mean, I'm not getting any younger Bas. Today I'm twenty years old and you know what? I'm sick of my life. I'm sick of our fucked up parents and I can't stand living in this roach hotel city a minute longer. I want to see what's out there for me and the only way I'm gonna find out is by…"


"Going out with him," I said, finishing her sentence.


Daizy actually looked puzzled, a face that was often beneath her more self assured demeanor. "Who's him?"


"The bug sandwich guy. Your precious Jude. The stranger that you almost allowed to interrupt our birthday celebration," I seethed, suddenly unable to control my rage. Daizy took a step back, but then quickly reversed herself and reached out to hug me. I fell into her arms like melted butter on popcorn; only I smelled a whole lot better than golden flavor. A haze of contentment swept over us, until I could almost feel nothing but our two hearts beating together as one. Then it hit me. She was going to leave me. She had finally admitted it, my biggest fear. I was going to be left all alone. It was at that moment I reached my ultimate conclusion. Jude the bug must be squashed.


She broke away from me and I wondered if somehow she sensed that I had become full of fear and overflowing rage. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was in love with her. She was the only one who had ever loved me. At least that's how it seemed. The last time my mother did anything remotely maternal for me, I was either still in diapers or too shell shocked from my fathers abuse to actually remember it. Daizy on the other hand filled my head to the point of bursting with all the good things she had done for me. If she were going to be out of my life, my own would cease to exist.


"Bas?"


"What?"


"Are you going to be alright? You're shaking like a leaf," Daizy said and brushed a loose lock of hair out of my tear stained face.


"Are you going to see him tonight?" I asked, looking briefly away.


"I don't know for sure and even if I did I'm not going to tell you. This is something I want to do on my own and for once, you're just going to have to deal with it." Daizy had never spoken so firmly to me before and it freaked me the fuck out.


"Then do me the favor of at least having him pick you up at home so I can apologize for my rude behavior", I lied, and rather well, might I add. "If you're so intent on seeing him, I might as well get used to the idea."


Daizy looked at me and for a second I thought she was staring right through my devious soul. Had I gone too far? Was she buying my counterfeit sincerity? Her answer was like a kiss behind my ear.


"Alright, but I'm warning you Bas, if you pull anything I will kick the living shit out of you."


"Don't worry sis, I'll be the best you've ever seen."


The next four hours flashed by me in a haze of self-inflicted anxiety. I had no idea what I was going to do but something told me it was going to be a doozy. A brilliantly blind spotted debacle that would melt any doubts that Daizy might be harboring regarding my ability to freak out even the fiercest opponent. I had to go for the jugular mentally and perhaps draw blood physically.


We decided to continue Daizy's birthday plans and headed off to our now late breakfast at Cooper Square. After stuffing our faces, neither of us felt like a movie anymore, but the thought of a thick spliff at Scratch's still appealed to me. The only thing that seemed to get Daizy going was shopping, and she wanted to go shopping on Eighth St. to get some new make-up for her date with Jude. We kissed each other goodbye, but it just wasn't enough. I went to hug her, but it turned more into a grope. As her body seemed to collapse against mine, I let my head linger a bit too long in her chest, making her increasingly uncomfortable.


Daizy broke from my grip, smiled faintly and walked away. About half a block away I was still staring at her, watching her figure diminish into the crowded NYC street and blending unfocused into the fold of a million other people. She looked back at me, but her smile was gone, replaced with something that looked like a mix between a scowl and a frown. It was then that I saw her for what she really was to me. My obsession. No longer just my sibling, no longer something I could lie to myself about. I had fallen in love with my sister even though I had been in complete denial forever.


Scratch lived over on Ave. B and 11th St., above a funky old bodega that served as one of the last drug fronts in Guilliani's newly sanitized and supposedly crime free NYC. Next to that was a trendy, poser bar for patrons who liked Gap leather and vintage concert t's, but still got up and paid homage to their boho yuppie experience by getting to work fresh, early and disgustingly perky. I hated what the East Village had become. What once was edgy was now dull. Polished, but lifeless. Glistening with new money, yet fading fast from reality. Scratch was sitting in his window on the second floor, surveying the whole scene like a token watcher whose one mission in life was to observe the modern decline of all that used to be cool, but now wallowed in it's own pretentious and tacky shit.


I rang the bell even though Scratch had seen me coming from a block away and ran up the steps three at a time once he buzzed me in. His apartment was the only one that hadn't been refurbished by the condo crazy landlord. Scratch had the oldest lease in the building and had so far eluded every legal attempt to force his pot-smoking ass out. Daizy and I had met Scratch quite by accident. We had come to there expecting to meet our friend Troll. She was this extremely spastic candy raver we knew from hanging out at this floating club Concrete Jungle. She had met this "really cool guy" Scratch at Dojo's one day and they had spent the afternoon drinking mint tea and debating Hillary vs. Rudy.


Within a week they were living together, even though Scratch was about two hours from thirty and Troll hadn't even had her sweet sixteen. They were both addicted to Tootsie blow-pops, VHI-Behind The Music marathons, spaghetti dinners on Bleeker St. and drugs. All kinds, forms and effects. As long as they fucked you up enough, that's all that really mattered. Troll had always been me and Daizy's hook-up, but we hadn't seen much of her since she moved in with good old Scratchy. Daizy got her cell phone number from the cashier at this trendy raver boutique Liquid Sky where Troll used to work and still hung out occasionally. She convinced her to have lunch and Troll invited us to pick her up at the apartment she was sharing with Scratch. It was the beginning of the end for Troll and she didn't even know it.


We were early for the first time in either of our lives, which should have been some sort of sign. Troll answered the door, giggling and sporting pupils as wide as saucers and as crossed as an ex-lover. She led us down the skinny hallway of the railroad flat until we were in the living room and graced with Scratch's presence. Daizy and him took one look at each other and came to the same conclusion. They wanted each other and now wasn't a moment too soon. For Troll it was all instantly too late and extremely over. She left in a fit just as Scratch was licking the back of Daizy's neck while I pretended too look shocked, but couldn't resist a stifled guffaw or two.


Scratch romanced Daizy as best he could, but the trouble was Daizy was never big on heads and Scratch smoked nearly a pound a day. This meant he wasn't paying enough attention to her. In fact, none would be a better word. One day they were walking out a club together and Daizy jumped into a cab and slammed the door leaving Scratch itching his chin in bewilderment. No wonder she didn't feel like coming with me today. She hasn't seen Scratch in a year, doesn't even mention his name. Scratch never stops whispering hers though. He had never forgiven her for dumping him, which is probably why he stayed friends with me. I was his last connection and all he was to me was another dealer. Someone who could get me high. Period.


As Scratch opened his door to let me in, that's all I could think of. Getting high, forgetting Daizy and all these weird new feelings for her and figuring out what I was going to do to get rid of this new annoyance, Jude. I felt like driving into the thick of the night, my car radio stroking me like the tender fingers of a long lost lover as I cut into the road, swerving on the black tar until I become one with the long, winding path that lay before me. All the while, singing the last refrain of some insane song blaring from my radio. Scratch grabs me and socks me back into reality. "So you wanna go get high, " Scratch whispers, breaking me from my self imposed morbid spell.


"Of course I do, dumb ass."


"Then get the fuck over here and smoke this."


I grabbed the joint out of his fingers and took a long, deep drag that slowly fills my lungs and quickly numbs my frantic brain until Daizy ceases to exist and all I can think of is my next toke. The next one is even deeper. I could feel the resin soak my lungs and the cloud of smoke get stuck in my increasingly itchy throat. I finally let it out, staring dumbfounded at the thick cloud and stonily imagining a rough yet seemingly real image of Daisy transpiring through the smoke. Just when I seem to forget her, she always comes right back at me. Scratch quickly broke my spell.


"That's some good old write home to fuckin' mama cheeba, right?"


"It doesn't exactly suck," I offer, then take another hit before Scratch grabs the joint out of my fingers and down his own hungry throat.


"Why do you always eat the roach?"


"It gets me more fucked up. Whatever…. anyway, waste not want not, right?"


"Yeah, whatever. If you wanna act like a human ashtray, that's you're fuckin' business. So how's about fixin' me up with an eighth, ok?"


Scratch walked over to his closet, pulled out a grubby old laundry bag and dumps a huge sack of gorgeous green leaf onto the floor mixed with a dozen pairs of crusty underpants. That's Scratch for ya. He'll sell you some of the best pot in the city, smelling like his ass. He weighed out a bag for me, but stopped short just as he was about to hand it to me. I already had three twenties in my hand, but instead of taking them he looked me directly in the eye and smiled.


"What's up with you? Usually you like to hang here for hours. I bet that flaky sister of yours is driving you bug fuck gain." Scratch laughed, ripped the bills from my fingers and handed me the bag, which I furiously pocketed.


"No, Daizy is not driving me bug fuck," I seethed, attempting to get up and leave. Scratch's strong arms held me down.


"What's the matter man, older sister got you down. Again." Scratch was smirking, on the brink of hysterical laughter. Until I cut in.


"Listen, asswipe, I'm not the one she dumped who can't seem to get over it. That's your lucky role in life."


It worked. Scratch shut up and sulked across the room.


"Did you ever think of getting back at her?" I prodded, a sick idea forming in the back of my mind.


"For what?" Scratch seemed to whisper.


"For fucking you over and never looking back, that's what."


"I don't exactly remember it that way."


"I do. You were the loser. Big fuckin' time."


"What about you, you little fuck. You let her walk all over your shit. At least I don't gotta live with her anymore."


"But you want to. You still love her and you'll never get over her."


My ploy had worked. Scratch was freaked the fuck out. I was in my glory, but did my best to hide it. Then I went in for the kill.


"So Scratch, how long has it been?"

"Since what," he asked, simmering like an overheated crock-pot.


"Since you actually dipped that dick of yours into something other than your own well lubed fist?"


Scratch lunged at me, knocking me down on his cracked linoleum kitchen floor. I got up and tried to run across the room, but he grabbed the back of my shirt, ripping it off my shoulders and tossing me face first into the kitchen table. It wasn't a pretty scene. Before it was over, it became downright ugly. Scratch fucked my shit up and I was soon to be the proud owner of two very black, blue, yellow and purple eyes. But my newly hatched plan had worked. Scratch was still in love with Daizy and he was going to be my way of getting rid of Jude. Of course he was completely unaware of this. Or so I thought at the time. The image of a smiling child like girl holding a huge butcher knife behind her back invades my mind until I can recant…


"Daizy really pisses you off, doesn't she," I ask Scratch as I rub my stinging pupils and struggle to get off of the now collapsed kitchen table.


"I'm sorry Bas," Scratch says, "I guess I over-reacted."


"I guess," I muttered back, then gaining my composure, reach back and swing a fierce punch into Scratch's right jaw.


"Guess what?"


"What?" Scratch hisses as he falls back into the refrigerator.


"I just figured out how you could ruin Daizy's day, give yourself a big heaping handful of satisfaction and get me out of a bind at the same time."


"How?" Scratch was obviously curious and I realized I had him hook, line and stinker. I was a little stinker I thought to myself, not realizing I was grinning like Cheshire cat.


"It's all quite easy. It seems Daizy is about to lay the soul of another brother bare."


"She got herself a new boyfriend, huh?"


"About to be boyfriend. First date. First kiss. First taste of his fresh flesh till she tires of it and casts it aside. "


"What's his name?"


"The bug guy. Jude the dude. And he's picking her up at our apartment at eight."


"Tonight?"


"Tonight. Why don't you stop by around the same time? It might just make something rain on Daizy's parade. And you know how much she hates getting wet."


"All bitches do," Scratch muttered as he got up and pulled some ice out of the freezer.


"Put this on your eyes, Bas. They look really fucked up and you wanna look your best tonight for the family reunion." Scratch was laughing and for a second it made me uneasy. But the thought of ruining Daizy's date made me incredibly happy in a kind of Grinch who stole Christmas way. If I was a cartoon character at that moment I would be poison green and shaped like a sorry sow with snarling lips and sad cast eyes exuding twisted feelings of revenge mixed with remorse.


I got up and headed towards the door. Scratch stopped me and for a moment I thought he was going to deck me again. Instead, he gave me a long hug that almost hurt as bad as a beating.


"I'll be there at eight," Scratch said as he let go of me and I headed out the door.


"Don't be late," I shot over my shoulder as I bound for home, almost leaping across Thompkins Square park and onto Ave. A. Past poser bars and millionaire yuppies dressed as down as they could, pretending to savor the burritos at Bennies and desperately trying to look cool as they walked their poor dogs and talked ceaselessly into cell phones behind dark glasses. New York dreary.


Daizy was already putting the polishing touches on her perfectly flawless makeup. She was wearing a lime satin thrift store suit that had been taken in from it's former boxy self to a sexy, nipped and tucked cocktail number that showed off the few feminine curves her boyish body allowed. She had borrowed a pair of Manolo's from our mothers vast collection that had tiny seashells at the tip of each gold muled toe and she had an "emerald" tiara perched atop her black bangs, slightly askance, that I had given her for her birthday last year. Most people would look garish, a bit fucked up, but Daizy made it all work effortlessly, looking fairly chic for a twenty year old with an aversion to clothes bought from department stores.


She pries herself slowly away from the mirror and acknowledges my new bruised presence. After staring at me in mock horror for a few seconds, Daizy brushes past me and heads for the kitchen where she heads straight for the peach Haggen Daz which she eats out of the carton with her long, pink nailed fingers.


"Ever consider using a spoon?" I grabbed the ice cream out of her hands and placed it up against my still sore eyes.


"What the fuck happened to you?"


"I ran into an old friend…"


"It looks like he ran into you. So, how do I look? I'm not too dressed up am I?"


This was weird. Daizy was never nervous, especially about a new outfit. Could she actually already be into this guy? Like in love?


"You look major. You're a real babe."

"I detect a note of sarcasm. Please try to keep it to a minimum when Jude gets here."


"Did he call? Is he coming over?"


"Yes and he will be here any second, so please try not to freak out on him. I could use a little support."


How about a little sabotage, I thought to myself as I smiled at Daizy and retired to my room to change. After a brief bout of style resistance, I quickly threw an old hoodie over my t-shirt and joined her in the living room. It was at times like these that I wish I were the fifth member of The Fantastic Four. Gigantofreakodude, capable of all other four members superpowers, plus my own unending capacity for counterfeit astonishment-thank you Roger Ebert and Russ Meyer- and my own amazing ability to bullshit or hustle anyone out of their last fucking dime. A hero for my own imagination, incapable of ever getting fucked up, over or out.


Alas, I was not a superhero, nor was I the brave, devious soul I imagined. Without thinking, I suddenly blurted out everything I should have kept secret.


"I have a guest coming over as well. An old friend of the family."


How old?" Daizy asked suspiciously.


"Oh, about twenty past boyfriends."


"Past boyfriends. Are you gay and forgot to tell me?"


This made Daizy laugh and me cringe. She was always calling me a fag, or hinting that I was into her boyfriends, which is why I hated them. It was just the opposite only she was too self-absorbed to ever really figure it out.


"Not my wicked past. Yours." Daizy looked concerned. Annoyed. Royally fucking pissed off.


"What the fuck are you up to Bas? Are you about to pull one of your infamous stunts, cause if you are then I…"


"I'm entitled to my own method of social intrigue, just like you." I stood defiant as Daizy raced up to me and grabbed me by the front of my shirt.


"Your idea of intrigue often crosses the borderline of insanity," Daizy hissed at me just as the doorbell rang. We both stopped instantly and turned towards the door wondering which mystery guest had arrived. Daizy broke free of her grip on me and raced towards the buzzer.


"Who is it," Daizy whispered into the intercom, almost wearily.


I was almost relieved when I heard the bug dudes voice croak through.


"It's me, Jude. Can I come up Daizy?" The sweetness in his voice distracted me. It was almost soothing. I found myself almost wanting to hear him say more, when it dawned on me how annoyed I was becoming. Just as Daizy had headed towards the front door, the buzzer rang again and my eyes lit up like Christmas lights, only brighter and tackier. I raced for the intercom before Daizy could spin on her Blahnik heels.


"Who is it," I croaked, breaking into a coughing fit as I tried desperately to hear who it was. Scratch's creepy voice was like music to my ears.


"Yo Bas, It's me. Let me fuckin' up already." I buzzed him in just as Daizy threw open the door and Jude sauntered into the apartment. Daizy shot me the most evil stare ever, but I ignored it and watched in disbelief as Scratch came bounding through the door, stopping about an inch short of Jude's heels. Daizy took a step back when she realized which ex boyfriend of hers had actually turned up. Luckily for me, it was her extreme least favorite.


"Why are you here Scratch? I dumped your ass over a year ago!" Daizy grabbed Jude's hand and tried to pull him into her room, but the carrot-topped pest was having none of it.


"You got two dates goin' down tonight?" Jude was suddenly seething, his hair flaming and cartoon like as eyes darted suspiciously from my own to Scratch's.


"Are you her new boyfriend," asked Scratch, taking a step back as Jude spun around to face him solely.


"I was about to be…"


"Bas, what the fuck is the meaning of this and why is Scratch fucking here?" Daizy cut in.


"Because I still love you baby and I thought it was time we had a little bit of a reunion."


"The only reunion we're going to have is with my fist you dumb ass stupid son of a bitch!" Daizy was seriously pissed. Her cursing extent usually only encompassed a few words, never whole phrases. Frankly, I was impressed. Jude however was not. He was already heading for good ol' Scratchy and I was not anticipating a subtle scene.


"I think you need to move your ass on up and outta here," Jude seethed as Daizy tried to pull him away from Scratch. But it was too late. Scratch had lunged at Jude and the bug dude simply held out his arms and welcomed his toked out opponent. It wasn't pretty. The three of them crashed backwards into out mothers antique china cabinet, sending a fortune of porcelain shattering across the tiled floor. Daizy had rolled herself backward into the kitchen while Jude and Scratch socked it out amidst the broken plates and teacups and saucers that our mother had annually collected since she was a teen-ager. I stared in glee, loving every minute of my family history suffering carnage and marveled at the sheer spectacle and chaos I had knowingly created. Daizy had other thoughts.


She leapt to her feet and raced over to the kitchen drawer and pulled out a huge butcher knife that we had once had to pry out of our acid saturated mothers hands before she could murder our father. Daizy looked at me and locked my gaze solely with her own. I didn't even notice as she flung the tiara from her head and shook off her jacket. Next to go were the Manolo's and without a word she raced towards me and brushed me to the side as she stood over the battling lothario's and made her presence known.


"Stop it. STOP IT!" she bellowed, cow like and unconvincing, almost getting knocked on her ass as Scratch stumbles to his feet and lands a slow, but correct sucker punch to Jude's cheek that tosses him doll like to the floor and momentarily immobile. Scratch looks at Daizy and laughs, pointing at the knife in her hands and cackling like a crow as he reaches into his own back pocket and pulls out a small silver pistol that catches the light from the chandelier like a warning beacon that only I seem to notice. Daizy seems stunned, unable to grasp what is about to happen, but it has all become too clear. Scratch had no intention of simply beating up Jude and he had no intention of trying to steal Daizy away into the deep dark night. No, he was going to kill her. And me. All of us it seemed and I wasn't going down like that. Too common.


Daizy started to spin around and Scratch had already taken aim when out of nowhere Jude had gotten back up and jumped on Scratch's back as he grabbed Daizy's arm with one hand, letting off two rounds with the pistol in the other. The bullets lodged into the ceiling and for a second everything seemed to slop, but the knife in Daizy's hand was already up and before I knew it she had plunged it into Jude without realizing, aiming for Scratch but killing her new love instead. Jude fell back and Scratch knocked him even further aside. He spun Daizy around but she was too quick and knocked the pistol from her hand with the knife before she let it slide across his smirking face, leaving a deli like slice of facial bologna in it's wake.


What the fuck was going on? Had we suddenly been transported into some demented Tarantino-ish other dementia? Was this a sick joke, had somebody spiked my Cinnamon Apple Cheerio's again? No this was real. Daizy slipped on the now blood soaked floor, rolling over Scratch who was desperately grabbing at his now faceless head. Jude, the bug dude, lay squashed a few feet away, flat on his face, his hands strangely tucked underneath him as if he were playing with himself. I looked for the pistol, but couldn't spy it at first because it was hidden far in a corner. I leapt across Daizy and the still wiggling mass of Scratch until I had reached the weapon, grabbed it and slowly took aim. The bullet shot in a fractured explosion from the gun that broke the room free of its eerie stagnation and newly blood soaked presence. Daizy looked at me in mock horror as Scratch's body just spassed out and shook in endless convulsions. Frankly, I found it boring and overly dramatic. Even in death, Scratch had to be a fucking ham.


"What the fuck do we do now?" Daizy muttered as she stepped over Scratch's now still body and grabbed the pistol from my trembling hands. I pushed Daizy aside and walked over to the CD player and put on my favorite record. The Sleep, by Psychotica. It was a simple piano and violin composition that perfectly conveyed the dead stillness that seemed to fill the room and simultaneously tarnish our now seemingly non-existent future. Or did it. I finally had what I wanted. Daizy had no one but me. There was nowhere for her to go unless I took her. And that is exactly what I did.


"Where the fuck are we going?" Daizy asked me as I took her hand and we headed for the door.


"Anywhere. Any fucking where we want. Only thing is, we have to go together…. can you deal?"


"You finally got exactly what you wanted and I ended up giving it to you." Daizy didn't seem pissed. In fact, relief would be a better word. Maybe she had known all along. Could it be that not only was I in love with her, but she was in love with me to?


My question was answered as she took my head in her bloodstained hands and stroked her fingers gingerly across my red hot and flaming face. Her lips descended upon mine and we briefly kissed, lingering only to taste the few drops of saliva that spread across them. Daizy tasted as beautiful as I had always imagined. It didn't even matter at this point if we had sex. She was mine. Completely. So we left. Moved to California. San Francisco to be exact, where Daizy and I live together as boyfriend and girlfriend. I know, it doesn't make sense. Whatever. Life doesn't fucking make sense and the sooner you figure that out the happier you'll be. That's what Daizy taught me and for that…I'll always love her.