9/1/2020 0 Comments
Vanessa. What about Vanessa did Basil have to bring up? Austin couldn’t help but feel his life was cyclical. He married Vanessa, decided to settle down, and found that she was nothing but a perfect facsimile of his sexual desire created by his nefarious brother Dr. Evil. And Foxxy, while she stuck around a while, ended up being the same. No- not the same- but the loss made it feel that way. As if his wife of 19-50 years depending on how you count it was just another failure. The wife he loved, the wife he took care of every day for fifteen years, a blip on the map.
Austin was booked with a gruff man in a wifebeater. He was bald and had a split lip. The cell was small, with only one cot and one toilet, which was filled with disgusting, chunky brown shit. There was no sink either, and so Austin had a terrible time imagining which poor soul still might have shit residue on their hands. They were packed-in tight.
Outside of the cell was a dark, murky hallway which looked to extend forever into darkness. The only light in the basement was coming from upstairs, through a crack in the door. There was a familiar cold to every surface, and the air carried it from floor to ceiling, metal bars to shitty cot.
“What are you in for?” Austin asked, trying to fit in, but he was a bit too disheartened to do his usual overeager thing.
“Shoplifting,” he said in an English accent.
“Well you’re English, baby, aren’t you?”
“That’s right, mate, and that’s why I’m in this shithole. I was stealing some toothpaste.” He smiled and exposed rotten, horrid teeth, yellowed with many lines of plaque. “I tell you, I’m never comin’ back here once Brexit goes through.”
“Aye. I say France for the French, England for the English, yeah?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Austin said. He held his finger up to his face: “Wait a tick... Isn’t that... right-wing, baby?”
“Aye,” the thief said. “I’m with the English National Front.”
“No, that’s not groovy,” Austin said. “You can’t just have a thrombo at anyone you please!” He laughed nervously.
“Aye. I’m glad you agree. We’re being absolutely overrun.”
“No, no baby, that’s not what I’m saying at all—”
“Erm, a monsieur named, I.M. Adulf?” A guard said, coming in with a clipboard and a key.
“That’s me, then,” the man said. He stood and the jailer opened the door to let him out. “You should join us next time you’re in London, mate. Love to have you.” The guard took him away.
“No, no, baby,” the criminal already up and away a set of stairs, “I’m the International Man of Mystery!”
The guard came back, holding the clipboard and the key. “Austin Danger?”
“No, no,” Austin said. “Danger is my middle name.”
“Oh,” the guard said. “So where is Austin Danger? I must find him.”
“No, that is me,” Austin said with a sigh.
“I see. I am glad I found you.” The guard opened the cell door and came in, punching Austin in the face and kicking him in the stomach.
“That’s not very shagadelic!” Austin yelled. He stood up to defend himself. The guard kicked him in the dick and balls. Austin crossed his eyes, holding his crotch and slowly sinking onto his knees. The guard grabbed him by the eyes and attempted to gouge them out, and Austin let out a pained shriek. He got his hands on the guard’s wrist and wrenched the man’s hands away from his face.
Austin punched the guard in the crotch, who in a similar fashion to Austin grabbed his crotch, went cross-eyed, and sunk to the ground. Austin punched the guard in the face a few times before the guard managed to again punch Austin in the crotch. Austin fell to the ground, eyes crossed, hands on crotch, and the man started pirouetting, hitting Austin in the face with his keys every rotation. Austin punched the guard in the crotch again and he sunk to the ground, hands on crotch, eyes crossed, and they went on in this fashion, gradually escalating and de-escalating the ridiculousness of their follow-up attacks over the course of several minutes, until finally Austin slammed the entire toilet over this man’s head, sending shit showering down his neck, cascading onto his body and covering him in sticky, brown diarrhea.
“Who sent you?” Austin asked aggressively.
“I’ll never tell,” the guard said, getting shit in his mouth as he said it. “Never! I’ll never tell.”
“Who sent you!” Austin shouted.
“Alright, alright, I’ll tell you...” the guard said. “Ricardo... de la Cojones...”
Austin looked around, expecting some kind of poison dart or silenced gunshot, but this murky basement jail seemed as if it would not be assailed. “Well, I have no idea who that is,” Austin said, dissatisfied.
“I am alive only because,” the guard said, getting more shit in his mouth, “I will soon be dead anyways. He will kill me—"
Austin punched him in the face once more to dispatch him, and then simply walked out of the jail. In the reception area of the police station above, a strange looking detective told him his court date: September 20th.
His signature ruffled, pirate-like suit was stained by blood and feces. When he got to the street, the heat made him smell much, much worse.
The sound of distant trombones filled the air as Austin walked down Downtown Paris, sauntering around with a strange kind of creeping posture, pointing to women on his left and right. A full brass section blared, and he jumped in the air, doing soy-face for a frozen moment.
He danced down the street before stopping at the Arc de Triumph to do the twist, one of his favorite dances. Some people were filming him on their smartphones. It was TikTok. He did a dance where he pointed in both directions back and forth quickly and then walked out of the plaza towards the Eiffel Tower.
Arriving at the Eiffel Tower, Austin started talking to a homeless man, the music turning down slightly. “Hey, man, can I photograph you?”
“You smell like shit,” the man said. “Get out of my sight.”
“Oh, behave,” Austin said. He started to dance as the music came back at full volume. He flossed. He did the Backpack Kid flossing dance for like twenty full seconds. When the music started building to a crescendo, he was leading a small protest with a kind of parade-like vibe. Large banners behind him read “MORT AUX IMMIGRANTS”. He did a full pirouette as the music reached its end.
Austin stood frozen, breathing heavily in a flamboyant pose. “Wait a tick...” He turned to see the people behind him. There was a group of maybe thirty skinheads, some bearing swastika tattoos, all marching down the street. Anger in their eyes, shouting hate and spitting up pure bacterium. “Oh, no baby!”
Austin ducked into an alleyway and hoped no one thought he was involved with the skinheads. He felt so tired. He hadn’t slept in a few days, since his wife died, and the events of these days were scaring him.
He headed back to the flat he and Foxxy had lived in for many years after they sold his club in London. Something was wrong right when he opened the door. All of the prints of his head in neon had been torn off the walls, and Foxxy’s prints were disfigured, the eyes cut out and red paint dripping from her neck. The floor was covered in turds, human, dog, and rabbit alike.
Austin laid down face first on the bed and cried himself to sleep.