Kellerman, Jonathan - The Theatre

Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, thought the Grinning Man, masturbating. Then thinking: I sound like Lawrence fucking

Welk, and starting to giggle.

But it was wonderful. Sand-niggers and kikes chewing each other up. Ripping and squeaking like the little hook-nosed rodents they were.

And he, the trainer.

Project Untermensch.

He flashed a mind picture of opposing rat hordes, charging at each other on little rat feet. Pouring out of sewer pipes, up out of putrid storm drains, bubbling to the surface of sinkholes.

Little brown sand-nigger rats with little rag heads and black whiskers. Little pink-and-gray kike rats with yarmulkes and chin-beards. Yammering and shrieking and snapping, biting off snouts and lips and leaving gaping holes like the pictures in Dieter Schwann's big green book.

Chomp. There goes a tail.

Chomp. There goes an ear.

Chewing each other up until there was nothing left but little bone piles and little moist rat stains that you could clean up really good.

And blessed silence-space for a white man to walk.

No more bad-machine noises.

Plenty of elbow room.

Chomp.

What a terrific feeling, to set something into motion and watch it work out just the way you planned.

Real power.

Real science.

Power. The thought of it made him come sooner than he'd planned. He was lost in the orgasm for a few brain-shattering moments, rocking back and forth on the bed, stroking and squeezing himself with one hand, caressing the half-healed swastika wounds on his thighs with the other.

Mind control.

The kind he'd wielded over Doctor, though the fucker had been only one rat and now he had lots of them scampering on command.

But an important rat, a mind-fucker par excellence.

The Michelangelo of mind pictures.

No. Dali. There was a mind-fucker - limpo clocks, quails cooked in their own shit. And they said he was a kike. Lies!

Power over Doctor. He'd been careful not to overdo the extortion thing - dear old dad was a greedy pig, didn't give a shit about him. Push him too far and no telling what he'd do.

The important thing was to keep a good sense of balance. Hit the fucker for favors that were really important. Squeeze him hard and fast, no mercy, then disappear. The rest of the time, let him go about his life deluding himself that he was a free man.

The squeeze: cash. Lots of it-more than anyone else his age had, but nothing that would break Doctor-fucker kept cracking chests and raking it in, all those apartment buildings he owned, blue-chip stocks and certificates of deposit.

Money junkie, like all of them.

How do you teach a Jewish baby to swiml

Throw a penny in the pool. The rest takes care of itself.

The little bit he squeezed added up surprisingly quickly. Some of it went into a savings account, some in a safe deposit box, along with the bonds.

Tax-free municipals and high-yield corporates-he clipped coupons every month, saved the principal, pocketed the interest. Doctor told his attorney the time had come to pass some of his holdings along to his beloved son in order to get around the inheritance tax.

Estate planning. Gee, what a neat dad.

Cash and bonds and growth stocks that he could sell whenever he wanted. Doctor introduced him to his broker, told the slimy button-down asshole he wanted his beloved son to learn the financial ropes at a young age, be able to make his own decisions.

Superdad.

And the cars-the Jag totally cool but always in the shop. Perfect once in a great while for cruising in high style, feeling like King Shit, the Emperor of Real Science. The Plymouth ugly but dependable, plenty of trunk space for toys and whatever.

Doctor gave him three gas credit cards. The maintenance bills and insurance premiums were always paid right on time.

He had the house to himself-Doctor had moved out, lived in a condo near the hospital. She was grokked-out all the time now, sleeping and pissing in her bed, brain circuits totally fried.

Doctor, terrific husband that he was, hired private-duty nurses to take care of her. Different ones each week, fat nigger broads and swishy faggots-they just sat there doing crossword puzzles and smoking, changed the sheets, stole jewelry and food.

The maids were gone; in their place, a retardo nigger who came in once a week to dust and clear away the dishes.

The house had started to smell old and stale. Like death. Only his room was clean. And the library.

He cleaned those himself.

Cleanliness next to godliness.

Nice quiet house-he was Lord of the Manor.

He made a stab at junior college, taking Mickey Mouse courses and attending just often enough to pass. Kept his job at the hospital for fun, working three afternoons a week delivering mail-richest fucking mailboy in the city.

He read journals and books in the hospital library, learned a lot. Snuck into the pathology lab, opened body drawers and fondled the cadavers, rubbed himself against cold flesh, ogled welcome holes and jars of organs. Coded new mind pictures.

Nighttime was the right time.

Cruising Nasty Boulevard, ogling the geeks, freaks, junkies, slime-os, and whores. Using the Jag for show, the Plymouth for serious business. He craved new identities, sought out the theatrical supply shops on Nasty and bought disguises: hats, glasses and sunglasses, false mustaches, beards and wigs, to make himself look different. Be different. Prac-ticed talking voices, using different mannerisms.

He could be anyone!

In the beginning he just cruised and ogled. Passed the motel where he'd caught Doctor and the candy-striper, saw only soft cars, a different slant at the desk.

He stopped, closed his eyes, and wondered what was going on inside. How many whores were fucking how many geeks, the things they were doing, a treasure trove of mind pictures. Whores, the ultimate females.

He decided to relate to them, cruised by them for weeks, catching smiles, but not ready to make contact, then finally doing it, heart pounding the same way it had when he sat on the stairs.

He picked one at random, from a hot-pants her leaning against a lmppost. Spoke his lines.

didn't even bother to notice what she looked like until she'd gotten in and he'd driven a couple of blocks.

Total downer: fat nigger bitch, Ubangi lips and white eye shadow. Sagging tits, stretch marks-she had to be forty.

They pulled off on a side street in the Plymouth, agreed to a blow-job in the front seat.

He finished fast; the bitch coughed and spat him out into a handkerchief as if he were garbage. Wholly unsatisfactory, but a start.

The next few times were the same, but still he liked it, collecting pictures for the memory file. Lying in bed hours later, imagining himself later opening up the whores, exploring their welcome holes, cleaning them and feeling totally cool and in charge.

Then he met Nightwing.

She worked by herself, on a quiet corner several blocks east of the hot-pants hens. Good bone structure despite the red-black lipstick, chalk-white Vampira makeup, and mile-long false eyelashes. Meaty thighs bulging out of a black silk microskirt. All in black.

A little older than he, early twenties probably. Short and stacked, long dark hair, big dark eyes, a terrific face.

A Sarah face!

That was the main thing! The resemblance totally freaked him out-so much that the first time he saw her he sped up and drove by without doing a thing. Drove for a mile until he'd gotten hold of himself, then circled back on the boulevard, hanging a U and cruising slowly toward her street corner.

In the Jag, top down, tweed jacket, deerstalker cap, bristly mustache. Identity: British sophisticate.

She was talking to this fat spic, haggling. The spic shook his head and walked away. She flipped him the bird.

He slowed down, took a good look at her, at the Sarah face.

She saw the car first, shiny bumpers, sloping headlights, hard-on front end. Smelled money, looked up at him and licked her lips. totaly sharp little white teeth. Cat teeth.

Cutie, wanna party? nurses accent. Wop? Spic?

Still freaked, he passed her by again, looked in the rear-view mirror and saw her flip him off.

Next night he was in the Plymouth, different hat, no fake hair. No recognition.

Hey, cutie.

He leaned over and pushed the door open: Hop right in, babe. Saying it movie-stud cool, but so nervous a tickle would have made him pee his pants.

She came to the curb, leaned in, tits hanging out of a black vinyl halter.

Well, hello there. Looking him over.

Hi, babe.

More once-over, the false lashes opening and closing like moth wings. Then backing off, the you're-not-no-cop-are-you game.

Charming smile: Do I look like a cop, babe?

No one looks like a cop, cutie.

Hold the smile, flash the cash: If I wanted to talk all night, I'd have joined a rap group.

She hesitated, looked around, scratched a fishnet knee.

He edged the Plymouth forward an inch.

Hold on, cutie.

Now she's smiling, all cat teeth, evil-Sarah. Watching her, he got totally turned on. His hard-on like a ton of galvanized pipe.

She got in, closed the door, and stretched. Catlike. Named a price.

Fine, babe. So casual.

She studied him again. Stretched.

Go three blocks and hang a right, cutie.

What's there?

A nice comfy spot for partying.

Two minutes later, the old front-seat head-in-lap cliche, but different: He'd expected to shoot off right away, but the Sarah-resemblance created mind pictures that kept him going for a while. He made her work, pushed down on her head, wrapped her hair around his fingers, then gave it to her.

All right!

And this one didn't spit: Yum. With a smile.

Lying through her teeth, but he loved it nonetheless.

Loved her.

Because it was true love, he paid her more than they'd agreed on, looked for her the next night and the next, not knowing her name, not knowing who to ask for-Sarah who swallows? Went home hungry, cruised, stole a stray dog and feasted on science and the memories until the third night, when he spotted her on a different corner, even farther east.

Still in black, still beautiful.

No recognition, until she got close.

Well, hello, cutie.

Weird accent, but definitely not spic.

After she did him, he asked what her name was.

Nightwing.

What kind of name is that?

My street name, cutie.

What's your real name?

The street is real, cutie. You ask too many questions. Talk's a waste of time. Cat smile. Well, well, would you loo-ook at that… Hey, Youngblood-how about seconds? You're so cute, I'll give you a discount.

I'll pay you regular.

Well, aren't you sweet-ooh, so impatient. Go ahead, push my head, pull my hair-a little harder, even, if it gets my cutie off.

They dated regularly, at least once a week, sometimes twice. Driving farther and farther away from Nasty, up into the hills that overlooked the boulevard. Parking on cul-de-sacs and tree-blackened side streets, always blow-jobs-neither of them wanted anything messy.

Casual dates, no holding-hands-in-the-movie-theater bullshit. He liked the honesty, the fact that neither of them felt a need for conversation and other lies.

But learning a little about her anyway-she liked to talk when she reapplied her lipstick.

She was from out of town, had worked Nasty for six months, first with a pimp but going it alone now. The pimp, some evil nigger named BoJo, had accused her of holding out cash and cut her up. She showed him the scar under one tit, bumpy pink zipper. He licked it.

Being an independent meant she had to cover her ass at all times, stay away from the pimp-slaves, restrict herself to quiet corners. Which was getting tougher to do-the pimps were spreading out, pushing her east, away from the Nasty Strip hot spots. But the hills were okay. Everything was okay:

I got no problems, cutie. I got no problem making ends meet-if you dig what I'm saying, cutie pie.

She'd volunteer a little info, but wouldn't answer questions, not even about the accent, which he still couldn't | place-gypsy?

The secrecy didn't bother him. In fact, he liked it.

None of that peace-love-confiding-and-relating scam.

He paid; she sucked. He started keeping an ice chest in the trunk of the Plymouth, brought beer, Pepsi, and orange soda along. She washed her mouth out afterward, licked his

| nipples through his shirt with a cold tongue. Most of the time it got him going for seconds.

He was becoming an expert, could go longer and longer now, volunteered to pay her for her time instead of by the act. She squealed with delight, told him he was a total sweetie. Went down on him with fake enthusiasm so real it made his head spin, gagging and whispering that she'd do anything for him, just name it.

Just do what you're doing, babe.

He gave himself a street name, too: Dr. Terrific.