WHORED (The Sick F*ck Chronicles) Read online

  Why is my mind working like this? I think. Fucking sick. The time in that hell house has fucked me up worse than I ever could have imagined.

  “Yeah, he seems like a nice guy,” I tell her. “Smart, helpful.”

  With a wife that likes to flash her vag at patients while he looks on.

  “Oh. That’s wonderful. He comes very highly recommended,” mom says, proud of herself for finding him.

  “I can see why.”

  As we near our house, I start to fidget in my seat. I don’t want to go home and sit in that house with mom and dad, picturing the two of them licking each other’s asses. My mind is attacking itself and I know that I need to get out and do something. Take my focus off of my shitty life.

  “Hey, could you drop me off at Mass General?” I say as we near the Turnpike.

  “Mass General. Why do you want to go there?”

  “AIDS test.”

  She looks at me. “Why would you need an AIDS test?”

  “You can’t seriously be asking me that question.”

  She sighs. “What is wrong with you?”

  “Just drop me off, okay?”

  So she drops me off at the Emergency entrance and then leaves, telling me to find my own way home.

  But I’m not really going for an AIDS test. When it comes to sexually transmitted diseases, my attitude has always been ignorance is bliss. If a girl asks me about whether I’ve been tested, I make sure to act all indignant like she’s accused me of raping a goat.

  I’m at Mass General because I want to visit Unsteady Eddie, my old friend that double‐crossed me. He’s the reason I got captured and held and tortured for three months in Katrina’s dungeon. But Eddie got his payback all right.

  Karma.

  I inquire about his room and floor number at the information desk and they send me to the head trauma unit on the tenth floor. When I get there, I sign in using my teeth to hold the pen and make a squiggly line on the paper. The nurses don’t even bat an eyelash. Why would they, with the shit they probably see in the head trauma unit.

  When I arrive at Eddie’s room, my heart is beating a little fast. It’s weird.

  I don’t know exactly what happened to Eddie after the day he double‐crossed me. When Katrina released me from her prison (for the second time), I tried to put all of it out of my mind—not very successfully of course. Still, I did my best to forget about Timmy, Katrina, and Eddie. But one day while reading the paper, my mom gasped. “Don’t you know this young man?” she said, showing me the article in the Boston Post.

  Revere Man Fights for Life After Cleaver Incident A local man from Revere, Eddie Mercanto, was found in the woods of Concord by a jogger this Saturday morning. Mister Mercanto was found with a large meat cleaver protruding from his skull and was rushed to Acton Hospital. He was later moved to Mass General and emergency brain surgery was performed. The police are looking into the assault but have no leads at this time. The attending physician called Mercanto’s prognosis grim due to the severe degree of brain damage, trauma and bleeding.

  The picture next to the article was clearly Eddie. He was smiling in that retarded way he had. Unsteady Eddie. It still amazed me to think about how long the guy spent pretending to be a complete buffoon. You had to admire his dedication.

  And here he is, months later—at Mass General—supposedly a vegetable.

  His room is kind of dark and he’s all tubed up and his head is misshapen. I guess getting a cleaver through your skull will do that.

  A nurse is taking his vitals. She’s kind of cute, actually. Short, dirty blond hair that she wears in a ponytail. She’s dressed in those blue hospital scrubs or whatever they’re called, which makes it hard to tell what kind of figure she’s got. She smiles at me. “Eddie’s having a good day today.”

  “Oh yeah?” I flash a grin. “That’s amazing.” No point in telling her I’ve considered smothering him with a pillow.

  “Are you a friend or family?”

  “Ah…definitely a friend.”

  “He doesn’t get many visitors.”

  “Yeah. He was a quiet person, not too many knew him well.”

  And how many knew that he pretended to be retarded so he could have an easy job being a maintenance man? Scum. Scum of the fucking earth.

  “Well, my name is Kara. Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

  “Sure. Thanks, Kara.”

  She gives me a smile as she leaves the room.

  I walk over to Eddie. He opens his eyes and stares right at me, which almost makes me yell. I thought he was like a fucking vegetable. Here he is, looking right at me—and—I could swear he knows exactly who I am. Funny, I’d heard he was totally brain‐dead but I guess not.

  “Hey, Eddie, remember me?” I say softly.

  He licks his lips. His eyes follow me as I move up to his bedside and look down at him. He seems small and thin under the white sheet. His head is like a watermelon on a toothpick.

  “Eddie?” I say again.

  He doesn’t respond at all, just looks at me.

  Hmmm…maybe he is vegged out. I guess the eye contact thing is just some sort of primitive reflex.

  “Sandwich,” he says, smiling.

  My mouth actually drops open. He sounds just like how he used to when he was pretending to be a full‐blown retard at Deretek.

  “Eddie, you’re pulling this act again?”

  “Sandwich, Allen!”

  He’s grinning now, with his giant Unsteady Eddie choppers positively gleaming at me. Strands of spit stretch across from his teeth to his lips. The smell of his breath is like ape shit on a muggy July afternoon.

  “Why are you trying this line on me, bro? I already know you’re a faker.”

  He’s laughing now. He holds his hands out to me. “Hi, Allen. Hi.”

  He’s getting loud and it’s making me nervous. “Quiet down, man. Just shut up.”

  It occurs to me that maybe he’s figured out how to milk the system for even more cash now. Acting even more brain damaged since the cleaver incident will only help his cause.

  But what about karma? If Eddie gets away with this shit, then he’s gaming the system yet again. Not just the government, now he’s scamming the whole fucking universe. Getting people to wash him, feed him, and he doesn’t have to lift a damn finger.

  Meanwhile, I’m a miserable wreck thanks to him.

  He turned on me, betrayed me. I raise my stump to club his stupid face in, but he just grins wider.

  I let my arm down. I can’t hit him somehow, even though he more than deserves it.

  “You fucking prick,” I say.

  “Ham and cheese, Allen?”

  “No, you motherfucker. No ham and fucking cheese. You turned on me, man.

  Because of you I spent months getting my ass mangled by a ten‐inch dildo. How’d you like it if I return the favor you grinning little skunk? Maybe I’ll do it, come back tonight…”

  “I brought you two some jell‐o!” Kara says, startling me as she walks into the room carrying a plastic meal tray.

  I turn and smile guiltily, wondering if she heard me threatening him.

  But she doesn’t act like she heard anything strange.

  She puts the tray down right in front of me. It has two bowls of red, shimmering jell‐o squares and two spoons. Napkins. Eddie looks at it and points.

  “NO! NO! HAM AND CHEESE!”

  She shrugs. “All he ever wants is ham and cheese.”

  I nod. “Yeah, he really loves that stuff.” Watching Eddie scream for his sandwich and knowing it’s all an act is making me crazy. I can barely restrain myself from smashing his face. Maybe I’ll smother him with a pillow when she leaves the room.

  “Did you know him well?” she says, after adjusting the tray stand.

  “Yeah. Sort of. We worked together.”

  “Really? But…I thought he was…you know. Special.”

  Yeah. Real special, I think. He was a special fraud. And he’s still doing it
, pretending to be retarded so he can get free jell‐o.

  I fold my arms.

  She starts spooning the red blobs into Eddie’s mouth but he complains. “Ham and cheese. Ham and cheese.”

  “Are you one hundred percent sure he’s got brain damage?” I say.

  Kara freezes with the spoon in midair. “What do you mean, are we sure he’s got brain damage? He came in with a meat cleaver lodged in his brain.”

  I nod. “Listen, I happen to know something that you might find unbelievable.

  But before he got the cleaver in his brain, Eddie used to fake being mentally handicapped in order to work an easy job at my company.”

  “He faked being slow.”

  “Yeah. Not sure ‘slow’ is the proper terminology…”

  “Well if he was faking before, he’s definitely not faking now. I’ve seen the x-rays and MRI’s. Your friend has an incredible amount of brain damage. He was in major surgery to stem the brain bleeding, it lasted eight hours.”

  “Damn. So it’s real this time.”

  “Very real, I’m afraid.”

  I grin at her.

  “CHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESE!” Eddie shouts.

  I can’t help it if I look like a complete asshole. My whole being is suddenly filled with an intense feeling of joy. It’s as if the universe is speaking directly to me.

  KARMA. It’s real. This motherfucker spent years pretending to be a retard and then double‐crossed me and was responsible for my torture. And now look at him. Full-blown retard, mouth‐breathing drooler. He’s actually just like how he was when he was doing his Unsteady Eddie act back in the day.

  “Maybe you should leave,” she says.

  “Yeah, guess you’re right. But before you hate me for being so uncaring, let me tell you something. Eddie was a good friend of mine and I miss him.”

  She wipes a strand of hair from her face. “Laughing and smiling at someone else’s misfortune doesn’t seem like the act of a good friend.”

  “It’s not quite that simple but whatever.”

  Regardless, she’s right. I should go. I turn and start to walk away and then I hear Eddie yelling frantically.

  “No! No!”

  At first I figure he’s just upset about the whole jell‐o instead of ham‐and-cheese thing. But when I get into the hallway I hear him calling my name.

  “Allen! Allen!”

  I stop and listen. A big part of me wants to go back. I do really miss old Eddie. He was a good friend of mine, even if it was all just a lie for him—it wasn’t a lie for me. I think of all the fun times we had together talking and joking in the maintenance closet at Deretek. Eddie massaging my stumps in the office.

  There are footsteps behind me. “Allen?”

  I turn around. Kara’s standing there.

  Eddie’s still yelling my name from his bed.

  “What?” I say. My eyes feel wet but I will myself not to cry.

  “He’s asking for you. Maybe you shouldn’t go just yet.”

  “I’m not his friend anymore.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “I’m sure Eddie was never my friend in the first place.”

  “Allen! Allen!” He calls from the hospital room.

  She doesn’t say anything, but she can tell that it’s pulling at my heartstrings.

  What am I, some kind of fucking pussy? The guy pulled a gun on me and helped Katrina kidnap me a second time. Fuck him. Remembering that day helps me regain my anger. “He got what he deserved. I’m glad he’s fucking brain damaged.”

  And then I walk off. But actually I can still hear him calling for me. And when I’m finally able to hail a cab, I get inside sobbing.

  The cab driver, a Middle Eastern looking guy who keeps talking into his Bluetooth, asks me if I’m okay.

  I show him my stumps.

  He raises his eyebrows. “You’re definitely not okay my friend.”

  “No shit.”

  “Fuck man. How do you jerk off?”

  I shake my head and wait to get home. “My mom will pay you when you drop me off,” I tell him.

  The cab ride comes to forty‐three dollars.

  Mom pays the cabbie and then turns to me. “You’ve got a week to find a place to live and then I’m kicking you out on the street.”

  “Fine.” I laugh a little bit as I walk inside the house.

  I can probably make decent change panhandling as a homeless man with my stumps on display.

  When the day for my next therapy session with Dr. Morgan comes around, mom doesn’t even want to take me. “Why should I waste my money?” she says.

  “I need help.”

  “You’ve needed help your whole life,” she replies.

  “What’s your problem?”

  “My problem?” She stares at me with hatred. Actual hatred. Like the way I probably looked at Eddie the other day. “Maybe it’s the credit card bill for three thousand dollars you ran up on phone sex lines and strip clubs and whatever else you do.”

  I don’t bother denying it.

  She shakes her head at me. “How do you even masturbate?”

  I don’t answer her. The truth is, it’s hard work. I find ways. I can use my stumps or rub my dick against a pillow or something.

  I’ve gotten pretty creative.

  “Just take me to therapy.”

  “Have you even looked for your own apartment?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Have you?”

  “I’m planning on experimenting with homelessness for a little while. See how I like it.”

  “I’m not driving you to therapy, Allen.”

  “Fine. Fuck it.” I walk outside and hail a cab. When we get to Dr. Morgan’s office, I ask the cabbie to wait while I go inside. I knock on the door to his office with my stump.

  He answers the door dressed in a sweater and brown corduroy pants. His aftershave is just as pungent as last time. “Hi, Allen, great to see you again.”

  “Sorry to do this to you, Dr. Morgan, but I have a favor to ask.”

  “Yes?”

  I nod towards the cab that’s idling in the street behind me. “My mom wouldn’t drive me today so I used a cab, but I don’t have any money to pay for it.”

  “That’s highly unusual…”

  “I know, and it won’t happen again.”

  He smiles. “Not a problem. In fact, we can work something out for payment options in a moment.” He walks past me and pays the driver.

  Then we go inside his office together.

  We sit across from one another.

  “How are things since we last saw each other?”

  “Bad. I went and saw a retarded guy who was faking being retarded and then backstabbed me. He’s in the hospital with brain damage.”

  “How confusing…and sad, of course.”

  “My mother hates me. She’s kicking me out of my house.”

  “Where will you go?”

  I shrug. “I was thinking I’d try being homeless for a bit. See how I like it.”

  “Living homeless is a fairly brutal existence.” Dr. Morgan crosses his legs.

  “Maybe there are other solutions to your problem.”

  “Like what?”

  He strokes his chin. “I’d like to go back to what happened at the end of last week’s session.”

  “Oh?”

  “When my wife came to the door in her robe.”

  “I remember.”

  “I’m sure you do remember. Would you like to tell me about that?”

  “There’s not much to say. She came to the door and asked for money. You gave it to her and she left.”

  Dr. Morgan grins. “Come on Allen. You know there’s more to it then that.”

  “All right. I didn’t want to be rude, but her robe opened up and she was naked underneath. I saw it all.”

  “All meaning…”

  Jesus, the dude really wants me to spell it out for him.

  “I saw her vagina.”
>
  “Yes. And you liked it?”

  “I guess. A little hairy but not a problem.”

  He frowns. “She grooms herself quite well, actually.”

  “Not saying she doesn’t.”

  “You’d probably like to fuck my wife, wouldn’t you?”

  “I guess I would, in a pinch.”

  “In a pinch? You’re saying you wouldn’t jump at the chance?” He shakes his head and laughs. “For god’s sake, Allen. You’d probably crawl across broken glass for a chance to touch her bare skin.”

  I grin. This is kind of fun. Dr. Morgan’s pretty irked about me not drooling all over his wife. “Eh. She’s okay, no offense. Not sure if she’d be any good in the sack, though. She’s got that ice queen vibe—“

  “Ice queen? Oh come on. Come on now.” He snorts. Steaming a little bit. He keeps rolling his eyes and snorting as if arguing with me in his mind. Finally his eyes clear and he focuses on me. “You know what, Allen? You owe me some money now and I think you need to pay that debt. Immediately.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Elena and I have been looking into some sexually adventurous activities. We have some interests that we feel would be healthy to explore‐‐with the right partner, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Anyway, it seems rather serendipitous that you came into my office at this time in our lives. I asked her about you after last week’s session and she said she’d be interested in trying it out with you.”

  “Isn’t there some kind of conflict of interest, me being your patient and all?”

  He shrugs. “Yes, yes. But I don’t feel that this would be damaging to you at all. In fact, I think this could be very therapeutic for all of us.”

  “So what would we be doing? Because I’m not into dudes.”

  He laughs. “I’m not either. I’m into watching. I’m what’s known as a voyeur and a cuckold. I like imagining my wife being screwed by another man.”

  “Huh, sounds pretty gay to me.”

  He scowls. “Well it’s not gay. That’s a common misinterpretation of this sort of fetish. Same with men who dress up in drag. Most of them are completely straight, heterosexual. I’m probably straighter than you, you fucking faggot.”

  I don’t say anything. I’m enjoying his anger. This could be a lot of fun. He’s obviously nuts. Leave it to mom to find me the craziest therapist on the Eastern seaboard.