"The one who laughs the last, just didn't get the joke." Jester of Sodomia
In the city of skyscrapers, my house stood out as a dwarf - a 3 storey, expansive apartment, with a sloping roof and an overgrown garden. Overlooking the garden were house's large gable windows. On its backside, the house was eclipsed by a high rise. Luckily, the house faced east, so I got enough sunshine during day. The evenings, however, started sooner for me than most people. I lived on the third floor, while the other two floors stayed empty.
"For a not so successful writer, you've got quite a fancy place." It was easy to figure out what SS was thinking, even if he hadn't asked it out loud. The question was hanging over his head like a comic balloon, ever since I pointed towards my house at cul-de-sac.
"It has a story," I said, and before he could express his interest or disinterest, like a trained cassette player, I started rolling.
It's an old house, no one's really sure how old, but its record was as old as municipal office itself. Like a battered tin can, it has been passed around a lot. Its last owner was a wealthy Parsi. He spent a fortune to make the house look the way it is now. But when he relocated here, he couldn't manage to live here for a month. The house was haunted, he said. There had been stories floating around about it - some about suicide, some about murder-suicide, and others rape-murder-suicide. Anyway, none of the tenants who stayed in the house since the Parsi left, stayed for long, and the price kept falling. Then I came to find this house.
The broker, saw me from head to toe, and quoted a price, that matched what I had in my pocket. The pig showed me the house and snatched the deposit before I could even get it out of my pockets. Then he ran down the stairs with a speed uncharacteristic for his girth, leaving large footprints on the dusty staircase.
"No refunds," I heard him yell, as he started his car and sped away.
For a moment I thought he had duped me, running with my money, but I had seen his office, and the house keys were dangling in the lock. So if it'd been a joke, it wasn't on me. I walked back to the door, and removed the keys, carefully latching the door behind me. As I turned around, I understood why the pig was in such a hurry to leave. There was a woman hanging from the hook where my fan used to be. Dressed in ragged old maid dress, her skirt was knee length and fraying on edges. Her apron had come undone from around her neck and hung like another pleat about her skirt. Her head was cocked to her right, with neck definitely broken. Had her face not been blue, it would have looked beautiful in afternoon light. I gaped at the corpse in wonder and the cigarette fell out of my mouth.
"Just where the fuck is my fan?" I asked loudly, expecting her to answer. But she just kept looking into oblivion lifelessly.
Shaking my head in disbelief, I trudged to the switch-panel and twisted the regulator knob to 5, as if it would cause the corpse to spin with its arms flailing. Predictably, she stayed still.
I went where she was hanging and tried to unhook her. The corpse was heavy as a tomb and it stank like piss. I sniffed my hands which were wrapped around her hips. Wet and reeking. Hem of her skirt dripping to form a puddle on the floor. I looked at her with a disgust you usually reserve for retarded children. Spit running down her skewed mouth was wetting the thin fibre of her shirt. Her nipple poked out defiantly. Piqued, I twisted her nipple. As if being electrocuted, her body shook in violent spasms. I backed off in surprise, embarrassed that her reaction scared the crap out of me.
"A leaky bitch and a fan thief." I muttered weakly, trying to put a faux brave face.
I found some old newspapers in a cabinet, and used them to cover her piss. Then I splayed her legs and tied a bucket between them. Once leaky bitch was taken care of, I called up the pig.
"No refunds," he squealed even before I could say hello.
"I'll fuck you a new asshole if you don't get me a table fan, a new bucket." I yelled back.
"And I'm not paying this bitch's rent." I added in the same breath.
There was a pause, the pig was trying to absorb what I had thrown at him.
"I'll send you a table fan and a bucket, but the bitch is added furnishing. Keep her or throw her, the rent stays the same."
"O.k." I agreed readily. I sucked at bargaining, so I tended to clinch whatever little victories came my way.
I tried to get rid of her initially, but she kept coming back. Basically I tried to fuck her, and she would fuck me back twice as hard.
"Fuck her?" SS asked me, interrupting my monologue for the first time.
"Not literally of course. I may not look like much, but I too have some standards. A rotting woman is not one of them"
I would try to pester her out of home. A few days after shifting to my new home, I came back drunk one night, chafed for not clinching a book deal. Either my mind imagined it, or the bitch's grin had gotten wider. It seemed that she was sneering at me.
That was the last straw for me. I emptied her piss bucket and tied it in between her legs. Filled it with old newspapers and rags, doused them with lighter fluid and lit the concoction. The corpse burnt, just as you expect the regular human flesh to. No fireworks there. Her ragged clothes fried off, her pubes turned to bristly ashes and fell off, the skin charred to a cooked blotchy grey. I pulled myself a chair and got me another beer to enjoy the show. From a distance though. I was worried that she would swing hard and throw that burning mess on my face.
When the show ended, i pissed a long piss in her bucket and left for sleep.
I slept a contentedly that night, curled up sideways in a foetal position, with a pillow to lean on to. In the morning I woke up with a heavy feeling on my ribs, and wetness in my armpits. Straining my eyes sideways, I saw the corpse sitting astride on my side ribs. Her ever leaking bladder was wetting my T-shirt
"Go away," I said peevishly, but without much authority. In situations like these, the ostrich in me usually takes over. I closed my eyes, thinking that she'll go away if I ignored her. But her weight seemed to be piling up, making it harder for me to breathe.
I open my eyes slowly.
Her impassive expression seemed to suggest that it wasn't her but me who was intruding her space.
"What do you want?" I tried to say these words, but only my lips moved. There was no air in my lungs to lend voice to them.
An ear to ear smile spouted on her face. Her lower jaw gave away, and her lizard tail tongue popped out, tingling my earlobes.
"Don't you have to swing from your noose today," I ask, brushing her dangling tongue away.
"Oooh.... not when the funny man's got a hard-on," she spoke in a maniacal voice that bordered yelling.
"What hard-on?" I asked, shamefully aware that I hadn't gotten a morning wood for the last two years.
"Oh yeah, I forgot that you need to have a cock to get a hard on," she said and yanked my cock so hard that I felt I would puke and shit at the same time.
"Great way to start your day," I coughed out this ill formed sentence.
"What?" she yanked my cock again.
I tried to push her off me, but I might as well have been pushing a wall.
"Go away," I pleaded meekly.
"Does funny man like his toy?" She asked.
I manage a feeble nod.
"Good. Then funny man won't like anything to happen to his favourite toy."
Her grip closes around my junk again. I close my eyes and I hold my breath for another forceful tug. But the next moment, pressure eases and she leaves me, dragging herself to her resting place.
After that, the only interaction we had was me changing her piss bucket or scattering some newspapers on floor when it overflowed. She remained dead for most time. Occasionally she would leave the house too. There was no fixed pattern. Nothing like cycle of the werewolf, or menstrual cycle. Most probably refilling her ghostly groceries. These trips usually lasted about 3 days. These were the days when I could bring hookers to my home. Awe them with my big house, insinuate a generous tip and get them to do things they won't agree to normally, and then kick them out without either tip or auto fare. This remained the only high point in my otherwise pointless life.
"So brace yourself to meet your would be flat-mate." I tell SS, as we step up the stairs leading to my home.
SS shrugs his shoulders and tries to wrap his arms around himself, looking like a sculpture of agony.
"Nothing in this world can let me brace myself pal." he chuckles.
"Well I can't say you didn't try." I say, kicking the door to my home open.
In the city of skyscrapers, my house stood out as a dwarf - a 3 storey, expansive apartment, with a sloping roof and an overgrown garden. Overlooking the garden were house's large gable windows. On its backside, the house was eclipsed by a high rise. Luckily, the house faced east, so I got enough sunshine during day. The evenings, however, started sooner for me than most people. I lived on the third floor, while the other two floors stayed empty.
"For a not so successful writer, you've got quite a fancy place." It was easy to figure out what SS was thinking, even if he hadn't asked it out loud. The question was hanging over his head like a comic balloon, ever since I pointed towards my house at cul-de-sac.
"It has a story," I said, and before he could express his interest or disinterest, like a trained cassette player, I started rolling.
It's an old house, no one's really sure how old, but its record was as old as municipal office itself. Like a battered tin can, it has been passed around a lot. Its last owner was a wealthy Parsi. He spent a fortune to make the house look the way it is now. But when he relocated here, he couldn't manage to live here for a month. The house was haunted, he said. There had been stories floating around about it - some about suicide, some about murder-suicide, and others rape-murder-suicide. Anyway, none of the tenants who stayed in the house since the Parsi left, stayed for long, and the price kept falling. Then I came to find this house.
The broker, saw me from head to toe, and quoted a price, that matched what I had in my pocket. The pig showed me the house and snatched the deposit before I could even get it out of my pockets. Then he ran down the stairs with a speed uncharacteristic for his girth, leaving large footprints on the dusty staircase.
"No refunds," I heard him yell, as he started his car and sped away.
For a moment I thought he had duped me, running with my money, but I had seen his office, and the house keys were dangling in the lock. So if it'd been a joke, it wasn't on me. I walked back to the door, and removed the keys, carefully latching the door behind me. As I turned around, I understood why the pig was in such a hurry to leave. There was a woman hanging from the hook where my fan used to be. Dressed in ragged old maid dress, her skirt was knee length and fraying on edges. Her apron had come undone from around her neck and hung like another pleat about her skirt. Her head was cocked to her right, with neck definitely broken. Had her face not been blue, it would have looked beautiful in afternoon light. I gaped at the corpse in wonder and the cigarette fell out of my mouth.
"Just where the fuck is my fan?" I asked loudly, expecting her to answer. But she just kept looking into oblivion lifelessly.
Shaking my head in disbelief, I trudged to the switch-panel and twisted the regulator knob to 5, as if it would cause the corpse to spin with its arms flailing. Predictably, she stayed still.
I went where she was hanging and tried to unhook her. The corpse was heavy as a tomb and it stank like piss. I sniffed my hands which were wrapped around her hips. Wet and reeking. Hem of her skirt dripping to form a puddle on the floor. I looked at her with a disgust you usually reserve for retarded children. Spit running down her skewed mouth was wetting the thin fibre of her shirt. Her nipple poked out defiantly. Piqued, I twisted her nipple. As if being electrocuted, her body shook in violent spasms. I backed off in surprise, embarrassed that her reaction scared the crap out of me.
"A leaky bitch and a fan thief." I muttered weakly, trying to put a faux brave face.
I found some old newspapers in a cabinet, and used them to cover her piss. Then I splayed her legs and tied a bucket between them. Once leaky bitch was taken care of, I called up the pig.
"No refunds," he squealed even before I could say hello.
"I'll fuck you a new asshole if you don't get me a table fan, a new bucket." I yelled back.
"And I'm not paying this bitch's rent." I added in the same breath.
There was a pause, the pig was trying to absorb what I had thrown at him.
"I'll send you a table fan and a bucket, but the bitch is added furnishing. Keep her or throw her, the rent stays the same."
"O.k." I agreed readily. I sucked at bargaining, so I tended to clinch whatever little victories came my way.
I tried to get rid of her initially, but she kept coming back. Basically I tried to fuck her, and she would fuck me back twice as hard.
"Fuck her?" SS asked me, interrupting my monologue for the first time.
"Not literally of course. I may not look like much, but I too have some standards. A rotting woman is not one of them"
I would try to pester her out of home. A few days after shifting to my new home, I came back drunk one night, chafed for not clinching a book deal. Either my mind imagined it, or the bitch's grin had gotten wider. It seemed that she was sneering at me.
That was the last straw for me. I emptied her piss bucket and tied it in between her legs. Filled it with old newspapers and rags, doused them with lighter fluid and lit the concoction. The corpse burnt, just as you expect the regular human flesh to. No fireworks there. Her ragged clothes fried off, her pubes turned to bristly ashes and fell off, the skin charred to a cooked blotchy grey. I pulled myself a chair and got me another beer to enjoy the show. From a distance though. I was worried that she would swing hard and throw that burning mess on my face.
When the show ended, i pissed a long piss in her bucket and left for sleep.
I slept a contentedly that night, curled up sideways in a foetal position, with a pillow to lean on to. In the morning I woke up with a heavy feeling on my ribs, and wetness in my armpits. Straining my eyes sideways, I saw the corpse sitting astride on my side ribs. Her ever leaking bladder was wetting my T-shirt
"Go away," I said peevishly, but without much authority. In situations like these, the ostrich in me usually takes over. I closed my eyes, thinking that she'll go away if I ignored her. But her weight seemed to be piling up, making it harder for me to breathe.
I open my eyes slowly.
Her impassive expression seemed to suggest that it wasn't her but me who was intruding her space.
"What do you want?" I tried to say these words, but only my lips moved. There was no air in my lungs to lend voice to them.
An ear to ear smile spouted on her face. Her lower jaw gave away, and her lizard tail tongue popped out, tingling my earlobes.
"Don't you have to swing from your noose today," I ask, brushing her dangling tongue away.
"Oooh.... not when the funny man's got a hard-on," she spoke in a maniacal voice that bordered yelling.
"What hard-on?" I asked, shamefully aware that I hadn't gotten a morning wood for the last two years.
"Oh yeah, I forgot that you need to have a cock to get a hard on," she said and yanked my cock so hard that I felt I would puke and shit at the same time.
"Great way to start your day," I coughed out this ill formed sentence.
"What?" she yanked my cock again.
I tried to push her off me, but I might as well have been pushing a wall.
"Go away," I pleaded meekly.
"Does funny man like his toy?" She asked.
I manage a feeble nod.
"Good. Then funny man won't like anything to happen to his favourite toy."
Her grip closes around my junk again. I close my eyes and I hold my breath for another forceful tug. But the next moment, pressure eases and she leaves me, dragging herself to her resting place.
After that, the only interaction we had was me changing her piss bucket or scattering some newspapers on floor when it overflowed. She remained dead for most time. Occasionally she would leave the house too. There was no fixed pattern. Nothing like cycle of the werewolf, or menstrual cycle. Most probably refilling her ghostly groceries. These trips usually lasted about 3 days. These were the days when I could bring hookers to my home. Awe them with my big house, insinuate a generous tip and get them to do things they won't agree to normally, and then kick them out without either tip or auto fare. This remained the only high point in my otherwise pointless life.
"So brace yourself to meet your would be flat-mate." I tell SS, as we step up the stairs leading to my home.
SS shrugs his shoulders and tries to wrap his arms around himself, looking like a sculpture of agony.
"Nothing in this world can let me brace myself pal." he chuckles.
"Well I can't say you didn't try." I say, kicking the door to my home open.
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