Jhonen Vasquez owns these characters. Hurray for Jhonen! Except for Dem, whom Kathy owns. Hurray for Kathy! And Iggy Pop wrote a song called "Butt Town." Hurray for Iggums! And Trent Reznor owns the lyrics for 'Closer,' and Motley Crue owns the lyrics for 'Looks that Kill.' Hurray for Motley Crue! Hip, Hip, Hurray! Hip, Hip, Hurray! And an orgasm for Trent Reznor!
Dem's Daddy, the Mayor of Butt Town!
Dem and Gaz pulled up to a place straight from Ghost Theft Edom: The Haunting of Mice City—neon lights showed dancing girls and flickering martini glasses. Searchlights of lavender and scarlet arced back and forth over the sky, their ends lost to the cosmos—except for one that constantly bumped into a gray cloud mass that hung with the weight and solemnity of Golem. Floodlights of spearmint and lime engulfed the squat brick building like a neon amoeba. A sign was staked on top of the building like an explorer's flag atop Mt. Everest, proclaiming in racing stripe letters that the name of this wondrous place was BUTT TOWN.
Dem pulled around to the back of the building, put the car in park, and turned the ignition off. Gaz heard a throbbing hum, punctuated by bass groans. Dem turned and smiled, reaching over to ruffle her hair. But anxiety brightened his eyes with a moist sheen, and Gaz saw that the crescent of raspberry colored wetness on the inside of his bottom lip had dried up into a grayish pink. Gaz could see his taste buds when he licked his lips.
"You ready, baby doll?" His voice was higher than usual, and his hand went over and over and over her hair.
"Yeah. What's in there?"
Dem's eyes shifted over to the building, his smile frozen on his face. His hand slowed to a stop, gripping a section of her hair. He looked ghastly, and Gaz felt alarm widening her eyes. She didn't know what scared her more—his face, or the feeling it roused in her.
He brought his eyes back to her face, the lids falling slightly. He sighed loudly.
He's just annoyed, Gaz thought in relief. I know that feeling.
Dem opened his door so quickly and with such force Gaz jumped, but he was already out and coming toward her side, thumbs hooked in his pockets. Opening her door, he reached behind her seat and pulled out a thick, coarse yellow blanket. Tucking it under his arm, he unfastened her belt and pulled her to his chest, lifting her out of her seat. He paused a moment, pressing Gaz tighter and tighter to him, and she heard his breathing quicken, just for a moment, and then he breathed deeply, as if inhaling something. From the way his chest caved in slightly Gaz could tell his head was dropped. He rolled the blanket around her tightly, like a straitjacket, and then pulled the slack over her head like a hood. Gaz felt like ET.
Striding around the concrete building, Dem cleared his throat.
"Gaz," he whispered, " I need you to be really quiet for me. Don't make a peep. Pretend that this is Rabbit Reconnaissance, we're doing a double-player, and we're sneaking into Don Badger's stronghold."
"Past the Aardvark goons," Gaz gasped.
"Yeah. So keep it zipped."
The neon bled onto them and the walls throbbed. Gaz looked up at the night sky, stabbed by a broken, jutting gutter, and held her breath, waiting for the building's walls to turn to flesh, and that flesh to break into full, red lips, and a steamy tongue, the color of frozen steak, to flip out and coil around her and Dem. She was afraid of this building, but she also desperately wanted to see what made the walls pulse.
Maybe Dem is a vampire, she thought, and he's going to drain me once we get inside. She imagined being eight years old forever, dressed in a long purple gown, in a little black coffin with purple trim. The thought thrilled her, and her head fell back in a swoon. The yellow hood tilted off her face.
At that moment Gaz heard a door open, and looked up. They were at the foot of a concrete slope that led to a doorway. A woman was standing in the doorway, a cigarette dangling from her tar-black lower lip. Her hair was white and fell over her chest, barely covering her naked tits. Gaz jerked her gaze away and was greeted by more bare flesh, the belly a sheet of paper blackened by her bellybutton, and far, far below the bellybutton was a triangle of black lace. Gaz saw the sweat shining on the woman's neck, in the hollow between her breasts, and the inside of her thighs bordered in blue by the neon, and felt dizzy. She clutched at Dem, who put his hand on her cheek, turning her face into his shoulder.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Annette!"
"Hey there, Junior, didn't mean to startle ya!" The lady's voice was bright and loud, fuzzy and sweet like a peach. Gaz could hear her high heels clicking on the concrete as the woman walked toward them and pressed her face harder into Dem's shirt, breathing in his smell, hoping that it would cloak her.
"Whatcha got there, Colt?" Fingertips that smelled like apple cider and harsh smoke skittered through Gaz's hair, pulling back the rest of the blanket. Gaz opened her eyes and turned with her hardest glare into the woman's black painted mouth and wide brown eyes. The woman started back. Good, Gaz thought, now she'll leave us alone.
The woman stared at Gaz for a few seconds, then grinned widely. Her breasts threatened to push through the screen of her hair.
"Oh…my…God…she…is…ADORABLE!" The woman grabbed Gaz's chin and tilted it up, threatening to suffocate her with the smell of cider and smoke. Gaz thought of Christmas, and the thought was quickly shaken away as the woman jerked her chin right and left. "Look at this cute widdle face! Is this your baby, Coltie? She looks so wise! Like a little Eskimo Shaman!" The woman put the tip of her nose on Gaz's and rubbed it back and forth before Dem stepped back. The woman smiled blankly at Dem and Gaz, and Gaz saw how large her pupils were. She also saw that she had a cold, because there was a white crust underneath her nose. But the crust didn't look right. It was too white, and too dry, and too powdery to be boogers.
I guess women really do powder their noses, Gaz thought.
"Well, I guess the Colt's now a Stallion too, huh? Just like his Daddy? Guess there's gonna be a cockfight. At least let the Filly meet her Grandpappy. Who's the Baby Mama?"
Dem's voice was soft and annoyed. "Annette, she's not my daughter."
"Then whose is she?"
"She's a friend's. I'm babysitting her for a friend."
Annette looked from Dem to Gaz to Dem again, and her eyes narrowed. She slowly lifted one arm, and then brought her index finger down smack on Dem's chest.
"Listen to me, you little fuck," she said through clenched teeth, her finger jabbing Dem in the chest again, making Gaz's eyes smart in sympathy, "If I see one bruise on this child, if I see her walk funny, if I see anything, ANYTHING, on her that makes me even suspect—"
"Stop it," Gaz said. "Leave him the fuck alone. He's my best friend, and if you touch him again I swear I will destroy you."
Dem stiffened, and his arms tightened around Gaz. Annette stared at Gaz's mouth, her eyes round and glistening like fried eggs and her mouth the size and shape of a Cheerio. Gaz thought that breakfast time was twelve hours away, and felt a little bit of hunger slowly seeping into her stomach.
Annette smiled.
"You," Annette said, "You, little girl, are a mean-assed little bitch!" Her long, black fingernail poked Gaz in the stomach through the blanket. "That's what you are, a ball-breaking, tit-biting, dirty little BITCH!" She was tickling Gaz now, her fingers doing a tattoo on her belly, and Gaz was laughing. The words Annette called her were swelling to the top of her head and bursting, like bubbles in a water cooler. They were shocking words, and it shocked Gaz that she wasn't angry. She had never been touched like this, never been talked to this much before, and felt very naked, but also a little proud. Out of Annette's mouth, these weren't insults, but the greatest compliments.
Dem jerked Gaz away from Annette's poking fingers. "The money for this little girl's therapist is coming directly out of your fucking paycheck, Annette," he said.
"But I made her smile!" Annette said. She cocked her hip and twirled a strand of her cobweb hair. Her ends were beginning to split. "Speaking of therapy, what the fuck are you doing bringing her here? She a new recruit?"
"No," Dem said. "I need to talk to Dad."
"Well, why didn't you just leave her in the car?"
"Because I don't know how long I'm going to be and there's perverts prowling all over the place. Besides, it's roasting hot. So," he shrugged, "no matter what I do it's child abuse."
Gaz had wriggled out of Dem's arms and had slid down his body to the ground. She gazed past Annette's underpants clad, soap-carved form and could see a pulsing light a few shades lighter than her hair, a premature eggplant color. She could see silhouettes in that light, fleshy and full, sometimes just a brief cutout of a person walking, sometimes an arm flung outward from a fleshy profile. And the music had words now:
Now listen up
She's a razor sharp
Annette put a hand on Gaz's shoulder. The hand flitted away and was replaced by the gentle heaviness of Dem's.
Move like a cat
If she don't get her wayWell you might not make it back!
"I'll make sure she doesn't see anything," Gaz heard Annette say over the music, a soft birdsong in a heavy wind.
She got the looks that kill!
That kiiillll!
She got the look!
Yes, Gaz thought, I certainly do, and, putting on her fiercest face, she strode through the doorway, one boot in front of the other, the brittle skeleton hand of Annette again on her shoulder, guiding her through.
The bass-throb of the music and the pools of neon light made the yellowing, stucco walls seem to undulate like a serpent's body, the wavy roughness like scales. Annette had her hand on Gaz's head now, and now was aiming her to the left, through a doorway. The doorway opened into a dressing room. There were two girls, one seated in a folding chair in front of the light bulb framed mirror, and the other in a fuzzy blue recliner that sat up against the wall, its smoky color looking out of place next to the orange of the walls and the yellow of the light bulbs.
The girl in the recliner had a large, extremely pouf-y pink and blue feather boa draped around her shoulders and a tiara perched crookedly on top of her head. Her hair was the color of cherry lip-gloss and just as shiny. Her skin was copper-y. She glanced up from her Secretly For Men Magazine and stared disinterestedly at Gaz and Annette with large, heavy lidded hazel eyes. Her gum cracked and popped between her teeth and its grape aroma was strong enough to be smelled through the cigarette haze that clung to the ceiling.
The girl in front of the mirrors tapped out the last of her cigarette, took a swig of soda, and reapplied lipstick the color of pomegranate Poop Cola, all in three seconds. Her hair was the softest chocolate Gaz had ever seen, and her chest was flatter than both Annette's and the gum-chewing girl's. She had on the same skirt and blouse the Catholic school kids wore, only much tighter and shorter.
"God I hate this fucking outfit," she hissed. "It's so cliché, it makes me just want to fucking puke and OH MY GOD, WHAT, WHAT THE, WHAT IS SHE DOING HERE!"
The girl at the mirrors had spun around and was grasping at the counter behind her, like she was flattened up against the side of a ten-story building. She stared at Gaz with wide lavender eyes. Then she gave her head a quick shake, gave a fleeting, terrified smile to Gaz, and then glared at Annette.
"Annette, you stupid bitch—I'm sorry honey—what the—why don't you cover your ears, sweetie, this is gonna get ugly, or better yet, go outside!"
"Oh, calm down, Tammi. She told me to get my fucking hands off of Colt in the parking lot."
"She did?" Tammi looked at Gaz. "Well, shit. Is she your daughter?"
"Nah, I think she's his, quite frankly. He's just trying to dodge child support."
"Oh, he wouldn't do that," said the lady from the recliner.
Tammi cut her eyes toward her. "And how would you know, Jazzy? Personal experience?"
"Fuck you. He's a nice guy. A little weird with that gothic shit and the video games, but he's so sweet I'd eat him with a spoon." She smiled at Gaz. "What's your name, honey?"
"Gaz."
"Hmmm. Odd name. Is it short for something?"
Gaz crossed her arms. "I ain't telling."
"That's okay. Jazzy isn't my real name either." And, with that, Jazzy went back to her magazine.
The music stopped, and Gaz heard men's voices begin to murmur. Then a low, booming voice came on over an intercom.
"Okay boys, next up in five minutes is Jazzy—"
"Fuck," Jazzy rolled her eyes. "I wanna finish this article."
"But let's take that five minute break to get fresh, jizz-free dollar bills. And keep our juices flowing and our dicks hard with that Budweasle, the sudsy hot-tub for our pickled brains. Jazzy will be right on."
"No I won't," Jazzy sing-songed, leisurely reading her article. Gaz wondered what jizz was, and what it meant to have a hard dick. What did it all mean?
Gaz heard a thumping of boots and the jangling of a chain coming down the hallway. A tall, broad bulk of a man with a dirty-blonde goatee and stringy, shoulder length hair clumped into the room.
"Goddammit Jazzy, you have five seconds to put that shit covered rag down and get ready." It was the man on the loudspeaker. "I'm starting the countdown now. Tammi, don't wear those shoes. They ain't high enough."
"But I was going for a patent leather look—"
"Wear the spiky ones. This ain't a runway. You aren't showing off the new fall line. Annette, what's the theme for your next dance? Jazzy, get your ass up!"
"I'm thinking maybe girl scout."
"Not right after Catholic school girl. Jazzy, get up and get ready! Jesus!"
He lowered his eyes to Gaz then. He didn't seem surprised to see her there. As they stared at each other, Gaz saw he had the same lips as Dem, and the same high cheekbones. This was Dem's dad, she just knew it.
Dem's dad turned back to Annette. "How about the Devil Wench? We haven't seen that in a while." He tilted his head toward the recliner. "Jazzy, I swear to God…"
But Jazzy was gone. She had set her crown, tossed on some makeup, and left, her heels clicking down the hallway in that strange way heels do when they're worn by somebody who thrusts out their butt and swings their legs when they walk, placing one foot directly in front of the other, toes touching down first. There was a loud cheering and hooting. Jazzy was on the stage now, doing whatever it was these naked women did. Gaz wanted to find out. She tried to remember what Dib did when he wanted to find something out, but decided that all of it was just too much effort. So she was leaning out the door, peering around the corner, when she felt two big hands clasp her around the shoulders and pull her into the room. The big hands lifted her high off the ground, dizzyingly high, and then the hands gave her a little push toward the ceiling and she lost contact with them briefly before falling back into the little cradle the hands made. Then it happened again, and again, and each time she got closer to the ceiling, until she could stick out her tongue and touch it. Then the hand on the right gave her more of a shove than the left and she rolled lazily in the air, landing stomach down on the waiting bowl of the big hands.
Now she was face to face with Dem's Daddy. He brought each of her cheeks to his smiling mouth and kissed them, and his lips felt like the belly of a porcupine, a warm softness surrounded by the harsh quills of his moustache and goatee. He held her at arm's length. His eyes were knife blades being drawn slowly over everything they looked at.
"So," he said softly, "you're my boy's new little girlfriend. Well, I got just the thing for you." He turned and sat Gaz on the makeup corner. Then he reached into the pocket of his jean jacket and pulled out a can of Poop. Gaz felt the dryness of her tongue and licked her lips. Dem's daddy's eyes brightened as he stared at her mouth.
"Dillon's got some chores to do for me," the man said, popping open the can, and his hand dipped into his pocket briefly. He pulled his hand out and placed the palm over the opening of the can. "So maybe you can hang out here for a while, watch a little T.V." He turned to a cupboard and opened the doors, revealing a television. He flicked it on, turning its black, smudgy mirror into a moving picture. He moved Gaz from the counter to the recliner. He sat on the arm of the chair. The T.V. was turned to a crime show, and a man who looked vaguely like the ice-cream man was being interrogated by a cop who looked extraordinarily like Gaz's teacher. Dem's Daddy stroked Gaz's hair.
"Such a beautiful little girl," he said, softly. "I wish I had a little girl. I wish I was your daddy."
"You are lucky," Gaz said. "You have Dem."
"And now he has you," Dem's dad said. "We'll all have fun together." And with that, he got up and walked out.
The T.V. didn't hold much interest for Gaz, so she looked for some paper to draw on. For some reason, her eyes were getting heavy, and the rest of her body felt very light, like her muscles and bones had been replaced with feathers and the bouncy gel balls the kids at school played hacky-sack with. Annette finally gave her some paper and a pen, and Gaz set to work drawing a picture of Dem. The lights seem to swirl and deepen, and she felt her face pull back into a smile so tight it was impossible to retract. The feeling of smiling was less uncomfortable than she thought it would be.
You let me violate you
You let me desecrate you
You let me penetrate you
You let me complicate youGaz wanted nothing more than to lie down and look at the lights grow softer, until she could touch them.
Help me I broke apart my insides
Help me I got no soul to tell
Gaz slid down to the ground, her muscles and bones gliding into place and loosening. Her jaw opened slightly, and her hands raised the picture she drew of Dem's face so it hovered over her, looking into her eyes.
Help me the only thing that works for me
Gaz gave a tiny belch and giggled. That one giggle was soon a whole torrent, a torrent she was unable to stop. Whenever she closed her mouth they burst through the dam of her teeth.
Help me get away from myself"Oh shit," she heard Tammi say. "That son of a bitch slipped her something."
"She's so cute," said Annette.
"That's not the point, you dumb crack whore."
I want to fuck you like an animal
That voice singing that he wanted to fuck her over the ticking and whirring and humming of sound made Gaz's hips involuntarily thrust. Her panties were now extremely conspicuous, and she was aware of how her shirt lay across her chest, the weight of it, how it rubbed against her bare skin. She stared at Dem's face, fighting to keep her eyes open.
I want to feel you from the inside
Gaz breath hitched and she squirmed, her body boneless and liquid. The eyes she drew for Dem stared back at her, and she realized that she could never draw him in such a way that would do him justice. She lowered the picture, willing his face to be there where the drawing was.
I want to fuck you like an animal
Gaz's eyelids fought a losing battle. They finally slid slowly down over her eyeballs, no matter how her brain screamed at them to stay open.
My whole existence is flawed
Gaz's brain was turning to the same gel and feather mixture as her muscles. All she could hear was the voice, getting so close it was whispering in her ear, then further and further away while she grasped after it. Her arms went limp, the picture falling onto her chest.
You get me closer to God
And that is how Dem found her an hour later, flat on her back on the dressing room floor, a cushion under her head, her arms crossed over the portrait of the person she loved most, hugging it close to her heart.