Rube slung pie behind the glass cage of Rosarita's. Through the neon open sign he caught sight of that stained schizoid Morris, shuffling out of San Loco with a fat bag of tacos. Rube eyed the hefty oaf as he crossed Ludlow towards Axlerod’s tenement. He pondered how a freak like that filled up a Thursday night. In hunter-gatherer days, dude like that would’ve found himself tossed out of the village. Hand him a burning stick, if he was lucky, before dropping a heel in that ass to fend on the fringes with the wolves. Rube figured modern days, that mental case probably squeezed some kind of companionship with the nastiest of internet porn sites--trannies and Japanese eel competition shit. Pitiful. Watching that sorry sack waddle in through the tenement doorway, Rube pondered if he ought to put him out his lonesome misery with a sick bag of piff. Maybe even some coke. Next couple days he'd be in for his usual triple chicken parm slice gorge fest--Rube decided he'd give cheebs a little sample bag. Why not? Who knows, maybe psycho-boy'd become a VIP customer.
Remembering the pie twirling on his finger, Rube grabbed up a pepperoni disc out of the troth and flipped it in his mouth. He got it nice and gummed with aural nasties, stuck it right in the center of the uncooked pie, launching it into the sizzle drawer.
“Bon appétit bitches.”
With Demetrakas Funeral Home closed and nothing to fill the void but the increasingly persistent voices, Morris was relieved to be back in the comparatively safety of home. The TV on and his fifth meal of the day resting on the counter, trying to be a good boy, Morris was ready to wash down what he knew should be his final meal of the night with a healthy protein supplement. He pressed down on his milkshake mixer, then removed the plastic party mug, twisting a blue comfort lip ring onto the top--careful not to spill like he had last time. Satisfied the comfort ring was on tight enough, he took a big satisfying sip.
He then moved back to what was left of the tacos, wolfing them down, but paused mid-bite. His ceiling splintered like the creaking hull of a ship, followed by the loud thumping beat of what could only be Dorian's stereo. He looked up in anguish.
Morris climbed out onto the fire escape, salsa dribbling his fingers. His face tightened as he peered up the side of the building at Dorian's, the music thumping.
Trudging the fire escape, Morris reached the 6th floor. He peeked in through Dorian's window.
Dorian swayed naked by the blaring stereo with a huge black eye. Taking a toke off a joint, he moved towards one of Nadja’s young gallery assistants, standing nude in his living room. Reaching out for her, they commenced a torpid dance. His eyes closed, Dorian moved his naked body against hers. As they spun, the girl's jaw dropped and she let out a deafening scream.
"What the fuck?" Dorian said in a panic. "What?"
The gallery assistant pointed to the window, now empty.
"There was a guy out there," she said wearily. "Eating a taco."
Dorian laughed, with a smirk. He grabbed the joint back.
"No more of this for you."
"I'm serious Dorian."
"I wanna show you something I'm working on."
"I'm not making this up," she said, crouching to minimize her body, the fear taking hold.
"I know. I know."
Dorian crossed the floor to a large hanging white sheet. She followed close, not wanting to be anywhere near the window solo.
“Easy baby. I’m here. You’re safe.”
She took his hand. He pulled back the sheet, revealing a large canvas painting of Rube.
"Oh, wow. That's really…" she said, regaining some measure of self-control. "It's way different from your abstract stuff."
A little weed, a little dancing…
"But do you like it?”
“Oh, man. Yeah. It’s creepy and vibrant.”
...hook line and sink-her.
“Think Nadja would show it?"
The mailroom theory: get the lowest on the totem on board, eventually your ambitions will make their way up to the CEO.
"For sure."
Dorian let his fingers trail slowly down her spine, lingering above her ass.
"Would you be willing to mention it?"
She looked up with her colossal blue eyes, her streaky blonde hair, perfect pink lips, crooked front teeth.
"Totally."
He knew she'd cinch it. These little sluts ran the entire industry. Nadja and her ilk of aging gallerists, wholly depended on these assistant's taste, their social talents for lubrication, their smooth rosy skin closing a hesitant sale.
"But tell her it's part of something bigger."
"Okay. Cool."
Dorian reached past her, cranking the stereo and guiding towards the bedroom.
As they began to get comfortable, a few feet below, Morris slammed the ceiling with the full force of his broom.
A Radiohead album that hit the charts the same year the gallery assistant graduated first grade blared from Dorian's giant stereo speakers.
“How long you think before Nadja gets shipped to the glue factory and you take over?”
“She’s already losing her phone every couple of days.”
Dorian massaged her shoulders with oil, then flipped her onto her front.
"I can't concentrate with all that banging."
"Just relax, baby."
"Dorian."
He knew he'd better do something about The Ogre before she got any whinier. Dorian leaned over her, reaching down inside his loft bed and produces a ten-pound barbell.
"What's that for?"
Dorian held the free-weight off the edge of the loft, then let loose. The barbell dropped 8 feet and slammed the hardwood. The banging instantly stopped. The gallery assistant licked her lips then moved them from Dorian’s self-satisfied grin down to his stiffening prick.
A muffled yell emitted from the floorboards.
Swallowing the last of his tiny swimmers, the gallery assistant tried to nuzzle a post-coital embrace out of Dorian, who sat on the mattress edge lighting a roach. He'd already started to plan his opening. Who he’d invite. Who he’d conveniently omit. Wouldn't be long now till he could find a new studio. Maybe even finally ditch this roach infested shithole. A house in the Slope? Settle down with a nice girl. Maybe even Althea. He tried to remember how old she was. Was it her thirty-third he'd just been to, or her thirty-fifth? No trouble, he was sure her trust fund would cover in-vitro. How crazy would that be, walking Park Slope with a bundle… or two? Sid and Nancy. He could picture carving his little neonate's noggin into a mohawk.
"I think you're a super talent," the assistant was saying now. "I really mean that."
Dorian ignored her. She finally lifted her body and leaned sweetly to his ear.
"Do you want me to stay?"
"Will you go down and get me a slice of pizza?"
"Oh my god, that's such a dick thing to say."
"Is it? I take those stairs all the time, for you it’s a novelty. Besides there’s a guy at the pizza joint I’m kind of trying to--"
"You’re serious?”
"Well, I don’t know, I mean, I am hankering for a slice."
She sprung from the loft bed, and started gathering her clothes below.
"Where are my damn panties?"
"Being a little sensitive, aren’t you?"
Giving up, she slipped her jeans on comando and opened the front door. Dorian's smile disintegrated as he realized she was serious.
"Hey look, wait. I was gonna buy you a slice too Babe. Hey, yo, don't forget to mention to Nadja what I'm working on--"
But the door was already slamming on her way out.
Dorian woke in the middle of the night wondering just exactly what he'd said to metamorphosize the little biscuit in his bed from an adoring fan into an apoplectic succubus. He hadn't remembered smoking more than a joint's worth, but Mioko's stuff was strong as hell, and for the life of him he couldn’t recall much of anything that transpired between his cumming and her slamming the door. He’d wanted a slice. It was something to do with pizza, but what exactly?
He would have made a decision then and there to cut back on the smoke, but he knew he'd never get a solo show's worth of material together without turning off his innate proclivities for organized thought. But had he just gone and soured his best shot? He didn't like to think of having to buy the little she-devil a bouquet of groveling, so instead he switched the mental dial to Althea and reached for his cock to alleviate some stress. But no sooner had he conjured a picture of his girl writhing on top, he flashed on an image of detective goddamn "Razor" Rozicki underneath. He flicked his dick away and switched on a lamp.
And then it hit him. The Razor. The Ride along. Sal. What the hell did happen to old Sal? Despite what half the women in the L.E.S. thought, Dorian wasn't a heartless bastard. He'd even go so far as to say he missed Sal. Not in any tangible way, but in the abstract. Like a childhood friends's family pet, Brewster the brown beagle who lived next door with the Madison's. Who was probably long dead now. Dorian hoped Sal wasn't, but he couldn't shake the possibility. As he squinted at the flickering lights of the financial district, the first rays of sunlight moving up over distant Brooklyn, he decided that he may not be able to get a gallery show, but he was going to get an answer to what happened to the old fart.
BEHIND THE KEYBOARD
I spent a year volunteering in a mental health center when I was 22. I did a few hours of training, then I was on the ward. After my first day of muddling through an unplanned art workshop, my assigned partner, the lovely Dina D, said in the elevator remarked how it was cool we both got exactly what we’d requested. I’d asked to lead an art class and she’d requested to be on a forensic ward. What’s a forensic ward I’d asked, not putting the pieces together that she was a college student studying criminal science, but she explained it pretty well. “Everyone we’re teaching art to on that ward is there because they committed some horrible crime,” and the next week I found out just how horrible. The crimes ranged from drowning children to slicing up best friend’s faces with beer bottles. Really deeply dark stuff.
At first I didn’t want to return. I was scared and I wasn’t sure what I could add to the situation. I forced myself to give it one more shot and the next week was bad. I couldn’t stop associating each patient with what they had done to get locked in there.
But I kept coming. And over time the murderous actions receded and the personalities and distinct qualities of each patient shone through. Sure I was still scared sometimes, when half the plastic forks we distributed for snacks were missing or when the staff gave this particularly hostile patient a huge knife to cut his own birthday cake. But generally I had a transformative time and it informs who I am and what kind of art I make till this day.
Yours In The Chain,
Doug Karr
SPECIAL THANKS to my wife @zenmommas for years of support during the writing process, @ericvancewalton for his trailblazing, inspired collaboration and incredible guidance, @andrarchy for his mind blowing insight and friendship, @bakerchristopher for being an inspiration as a human artist and bro, @complexring for his brilliance and enthusiasm, Masie Cochran, Taylor Rankin and @elenamoore for their skillful help in editing the manuscript, and to @opheliafu for the fantastic illustrations she created exclusively for the novel's launch on Steemit and to Elena Megalos for her wonderful character illustrations. I’d also like to thank Eddie Boyce, Jamie Proctor, Katie Mustard, Alan Cumming, Danai Gurira, Stephan Nowecki, Ron Simons, Dave Scott, Alden Karr, Missy Chimovitz, my dad Andy Karr and late mother Wendy, and everyone else who helped lead me to this moment.
I am a Brooklyn based writer, film & commercial director, and crypto-enthusiast, my projects include @HardFork-series an upcoming narrative crypto-noir and my novel Dwelling will soon be premiering exclusively on Steemit, and you can check out more of my work at dougkarr.com, piefacepictures.com, and www.imdb.com/name/nm1512347
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