By contributing writer J.M. Lucci
Writer’s Note: This is part two of three in the serial. It was delayed so it would correspond better with the thrilling conclusion. Be sure to read Part I first if you haven’t yet. Part III is on its way. Enjoy.
I am not crazy. What I did and saw that fateful night was not an illusion. That hack of a medical examiner found no traces of any body, nor of the flaky, reeking clothes of Marianne that I swear were strewn about the rest stop’s grounds naught an hour earlier. The police conducted a superficial search, as prior mentioned, which heralded no evidence in the whereabouts of my dear friend Gregory Eliot. I could care less about the others, preferring they return to the hell from whence they came. Police interrogators wanted me to admit that the drugs and alcohol coursing so fervently through my veins at the time they discovered me were the perpetrators of the “illusions” I saw. But I swear to you, they were as real as my pen striking this paper.
Official transcripts will have you believe that I, alone and under the influence, swerved onto a shoulder of the highway and passed out (but not before removing all my clothes save my boxers), dreaming of all the events whilst in an (enjoyable) high. They won’t admit Gregory Eliot or the others even existed. They even tried, vainly, to convince me such a rest stop never existed. But when I was found, I was trying to jumpstart the confounded wagon, and get away from that cursed rest stop. Why else would I be in such a state of terror otherwise? I fear no man.
Gregory, in his near-miss swerving of the rickety wagon to catch the rest stop’s off-ramp, had forced a spillage of beer onto myself and Marianne, the closer of the siblings to me in the car. I mocked her plight in comedic fashion; she laughed and brushed my shoulder seductively. Something was amiss. What kind of woman laughs off the ruination of an A& F shirt/skirt combo?
The rest stop was scenically as any other I’ve experienced in my travels, and my apprehensions—based upon the old attendant’s twisted, grinning manner in exposing the site—faded when we finally parked. A cluster of shingled brick domains housed suspect vending machines. Inside the largest venue, I could barely make out the silhouettes of brochure stands that loomed over a tiled dominion of vacancy where no soul had trodden over, in my estimations, years. A sylvan haunt encompassed the rest stop, thick bushes of brier prohibiting illicit fornication on the outskirts of these demented grounds. Just my luck.
As soon as Gregory parked, Marianne and Alba swiftly scurried from the wagon in that queer sort of walk/skip/run that women do when they have to pee real bad; Marcus had passed out long ago. I was saddened to see his sister possessed more fortitude with liquor than he of Men. Thus, I called him a pussy and slapped his lifeless body around for good measure, then drew phallic runes over his face, because, well, that’s what I’ve been taught to do in these situations.
After my, admittedly, gleeful artistry of Marcus’s face, I limped to the men’s room, holding out my pants and shirt in an effort to ward off beer from my skin, a futile practice borne of habit. I cursed Gregory’s driving and Mormon heritage as I stomped into the men’s room.
The men’s room, or should I say, closet, was just the sort of place date rapists bring their prey for ill-mannered rituals of revulsion. Two stalls, one sans door, and two urinals. Décor reminiscent of a quiet hill I once read about. I shucked off my shirt and tossed it into a sink, letting the faucet water run over it without denial. Enter the succubus, Marianne.
Apparently Marianne was either illiterate or blind, as she was obviously in the wrong restroom, but did not seem to mind. Nor did I. In fact, the almost sinister grin that followed her entrance spoke of precognitive planning. Before I could resist (did I really want to?), the dark and lovely temptress grabbed my pants and quickly shucked them down to my ankles.
It was the greatest feeling a man could endure, sans actual intercourse. Marianne certainly knew her craft. Loud moans, sloppy sucking, no teeth—faint screams? At the time, I believed they were coming from her, but now I know the truth of the origin of the screaming. Outside.
I don’t know how long she sucked and cleaned my person, but when it was over I certainly felt a sensation of immortality. To this day, no other word could describe that sensation as best as I have prior written. Immortal? No, timeless. Time had frozen in those glorious two minutes.
She cleaned up quicker than I, and hurriedly departed from the restroom. In the bliss of orgasm, I almost missed her checking her Burger King® wristwatch as she ran out the door; was she late for something?
The involuntary twitch piqued my curiosity, but my bladder interrupted further thought into the peculiar matter. I lingered, letting my shirt soak in the frothy mess of a sink while I took a piss in the stall with a door. This piss turned into a number two, and I haphazardly constructed a nest of toilet paper to accommodate the shift.
Now, I must at this juncture in the story repeat my claims and also reinforce the fact that even though I was high and drunk, did I at no point perceive any of my relevant testimony to be surreal beyond normal, human perception. My sight never failed me. The authorities’ patience waned prominently during my explanation of the forthcoming events, but what do they know of college and reality? Fucking pigs.
Mid-stream, the stall and the bathroom dimmed considerably. No one had played with the lights, nor was there anyone who could have. An indoor twilight, without shadows. I blamed the power company, shifted on the toilet, and squirmed hard to pinch one out—I had not shat in over two days by this point in our journey. I blamed my boundless energy surpassing my diet; Gregory had blamed the diet of solely booze and greasy soups. Mormons.
The task was harder than I thought. I squeezed my cheeks resiliently, trying in vain to control my colon into agreeing with my mindset. Time and space are a distant memory when taking a dump whilst riding a speed and booze wave of surrealism; it felt like eons passed as I grunted and pulsated my butt-flaps in pitiful coercion of fecal matter.
The drugs were finally taking their full toll on my system. The tiny floor tiles rose to Cyclopean size, as did the walls of my stall, towering over my suddenly miniature porcelain seat and person. I feared that my feet were dangling off the edge of the seat, unable to reach the floor. The tiles melted into an ichors-laced sea of fluids and stains that the drugs revealed to me in stark clarity. I withheld vomiting, but barely.
I heard echoed footsteps, distant as if coming from the nearby forest. Closer, further, closer, further. My ears rang with the horrendous and inexplicable silence tearing at my soul between these steps. My Lord, I had thought, what if someone comes into the restroom and looks under the stall for an occupancy check and does not see my tiny, dangling legs? Did I fasten the bolt—no, it was broken. My tiny arms cannot reach to brace the door! Oh woe! The sounds are real! Noisome footsteps rose in crescendo from the blackness outside. Suddenly, my body clenched up and convulsed, and my eyes and face bulged in pain.