Counting Down the Storm

A red flashing light bounced off the walls of his dark bedroom, the answering machine indicating four messages. He didn't hear the phone ring, but after two bottles of whiskey, he probably couldn't have heard a freight train rumbling over his head.

"Damien," the first message started, "It's Jeff. Where are ya buddy? I thought we were going to meet at nine to go over the specs for the proposal for this afternoon? Call me and let me know when you want to meet. Bye"

"Damien, it's me again." Next message. "Where the hell are you? It's ten to one, the meeting starts in ten minutes. You better be here."

"Damien, what the fuck man? I was really counting on you. Are you all right? You never do this. Please call me." He sounded agitated. Damien figured he'd get over it. Jeff had done most of the work anyway.

"Damien, it's Amy." Her soft sweet voice filled his heart, last night now forgotten. "Jeff called looking for you. He said you didn't show up for work today. Are you okay? Look I'm really sorry about last night..." Everything came back to him in a flash of anger. He took the machine and yanked it out of the wall. It crashed into the dresser and pieces scattered across the floor.

"FUCK YOU!!!" He screamed, looking at the tape, its guts strung out on the floor. Then he cried. The tears flooded down his face. He couldn't stem the flow. He slunk down to the floor and let it all out.

He needed a drink. He needed a drink more than he'd ever needed anything in his life. "What do you need a drink for?" the voice of reason asked him. He ignored it and haphazardly got dressed then walked to the kitchen, taking one last look at the tangled mess of tape ribbon and plastic.

He fumbled around the cupboard and found the prize: an unopened bottle of Crown Royal. He shook with anticipation. He quickly unscrewed the cap and poured the hot liquid into his mouth. His anxiety floated away as the liquor burned it's way down his throat and into his belly. The steady onrush of emotion and pain ceased, then faded away.

*****

He was drunk again. He didn't need the half empty bottle of Jack Daniels between his legs to tell him, or the empty Crown Royal on the floorboards beside him. Not even the signpost laying bent on the crumpled hood of his steaming Jaguar told him he was drunk as much the haze that surrounded his thoughts.

The "everything's gonna be all right" voice had left him. He wasn't sure when. It hadn't been a strong voice anyway. He pulled the handle on the door and pushed it open with his shoulder. Drops of rain sizzled on the exposed engine as the crumpled wreck sat dying.

"Are you all right?" A man came running over.

He abruptly stopped as Damien looked up at him, at small trickle of blood dripping down his forehead. He held the bottle up, took a long pull from it and told the man to, "fuck off." Then he stumbled off into the night, the sound of approaching sirens sending him on his way.

He didn't know how long he'd been wandering. The streets were a maze of shops, gas stations and liquor stores. The rain had stopped for a while, but now had started again. It soaked through his leather jacket and seeped into the toes of his shoes. He wasn't cold though. He was nothing. The steady beat of music moving his feet as his brain kept going over the words,

"then it fell apart, it fell apart."

The entire song kept looping in his head, becoming a theme. It drove him deeper and deeper away from the edge of sanity. Reason was a distant memory, despair a hard reality.

He found himself back in the same derelict back alley he had parked in the night before. There was a little shelter from the rain but that wasn't why he had come. He knew why he came to this place: to see her. Was he punishing himself? Was this really punishment? What could fucking a whore prove? Maybe sticking his cock in someone else would ease the emptiness he felt inside. Or maybe he just wanted to be low, to be part of the lowest levels of society, to be cast down with the hookers and the junkies, then he could justify his depression, his dark thoughts. Then he saw her.

"Hey!" he called out, getting her attention. She slowly walked over to him, swinging her hips, her oversized, under stuffed breasts jiggling out of the top of her too-tight bustier. He thought at first she might mistake him for one of them. The crack heads or bums that wondered the streets after dark. He looked at himself, his Italian leather jacket and matching shoes. He knew he didn't belong there.

"Hi honey." she said seductively, not recognizing him from the night before. He passed the bottle of Jack to her and offered her a place on his step. She took it from him, had two gulps then handed it back. "Thanks," she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "What are you doing down here? Shouldn't you be uptown?"

"I was looking for you," he said, drinking more of the Devil's juice.

"And what do you want from me?" she asked, faking innocence, then took the bottle once again.

"Well, what do you do?" he asked coyly.

"I do everything baby." She emphasized the "everything" by bending over him and letting him see the dark shadow of cleavage between her large tits.

Suddenly he knew what he wanted. He wanted to kill her. He wanted to kill every living soul with a cunt, but he couldn't bring himself to do it, he knew that. "Can we go somewhere? My place?"

"Well I don't usually..." he pulled out his wallet and flashed a wad of twenties in her face. "...argue with a big stack of cash," she finished.

He slid his sodden jacket over her bare shoulders, trying to mask the uniform of her profession from the passing taxis. He hailed one down, but heard the doors lock as the driver looked at them. He pushed two twenties against the window and heard the doors unlock again.

They climbed into the back seat and he gave the cabbie his address. The driver responded with, "money first," and opened the sliding Plexiglas separating them.

*****

All the lights were still on in his house when they arrived. He opened the unlocked front door and followed her in, her ass cheeks sagging from the bottom of her black latex skirt.

He leaned back against the wall as she knelt down in front of him, rubbing her cold hands together to warm them up before popping the button on his jeans. She slid the zipper down and pulled out his lifeless pecker. She expertly stroked it and the blood began to reluctantly flow as it slowly stiffened in her hand.

She reached between her breasts and pulled out a small purple square package, then opened it with her teeth and pulled the condom out. She placed her lips around it and then went to his cock. The tip of the rubber disk hit the head of his partial erection. She held it there with her tongue then slowly rolled out the condom, moving up and down until it was securely in place.

One hand cupped his balls while the other stroked the shaft in unison with her mouth. He bent over and easily released one of her large sloppy breast from its home. It was cold in his hand, a sharp contrast to the warm grip on his cock. He squeezed it hard, causing the whore to gasp slightly in pain. She didn't complain, she just kept sucking his cock and fondling his sack, kneeling submissively before him, doing what she had done a million times before.

His cock was fully hard now. It slapped against his belly as she released it from her mouth. She stood up and slipped her top over her head. Her pale tits falling to the top of her belly as the shirt released them. She unzipped the back of her skirt and pushed it down to the floor, exposing a garter-belt holding up her black tattered stockings.

He stared at her naked body. It looked old and used. Years of neglect had softened her belly into small folds hanging slightly over her waist. Her breasts, plump and full, hung like cantaloupes in shopping bags from her chest. Her hips were dimpled and jutted out wider than her skinny legs looked like they could handle. Her arms were thin and shapeless. Red scabs from needle marks pocked her forearms. She wore too much make-up, but not enough to mask the paleness of her drawn face; her eyes were puffy with heavy black lines punctuating the bags under them. Her hair hung limp, thin and broken from too many years of cheap dye and poor hygiene.

Why was he going to fuck this poor creature? He still didn't know, but as he led her into his bedroom he knew he was going to, just the same.

She laid down on top of the bed and spread her legs for him. Razor burn from constant shaving reddened the outside edges of her cunt. No drop of excitement glistened her vagina, as no reddening of excitement flushed her cheeks.

He knelt on the bed between her legs and stroked his cock; some of the hardness had gone out of it since they had left the hallway. He closed his eyes and pictured Amy. He imagined her tight body spread out before him. It stiffened in his hand and he pulled the whore close into him.

The lubrication on the condom helped glide him into her. He could feel her dryness from the resistance to his deep penetrations. She just lay there. Letting him fuck her without a sound. What was he expecting out of her? An explosive orgasm like he used to give Amy? Her job was just to be the next step up from a hand, a hole to plug a penis into on a lonely night.

He leaned over her resting on his arms while his ass jackhammered up and down, his cock sliding in and out of her dry hole. He couldn't look at her. He focused on her giant breasts bouncing in rhythm with his pounding. He fucked harder as he felt constriction in his balls from his upcoming orgasm. He wanted to get it over with.

He came.

He rolled off from on top of her and stared up at the ceiling, breathing heavily from the exertion. He looked over at her; her gaze had varied little from when he first penetrated her until now. He lit a cigarette and offered her one. She took it and then they both sat up quietly smoking.

After a few moments she broke the silence. "Mind if I cook up?" He wasn't quite sure what she meant and nodded.

She left the bed and grabbed his housecoat from behind the door, then went out into the living room. He nodded off, the effects of the booze and sex kicking in.

Her could barely make out a phone conversation she was having in the other room, a mild argument with someone named Randy, then something about a rock and, "I'm good for it."

"Can I have my money now?" She asked poking her head in the door. He got out of bed and walked out. He found his jeans and pulled out his wallet. He handed her three hundred dollars, probably five times as much as she normally received, but she didn't argue.

"Are you leaving?" he asked, sliding his jeans back on.

"Do you want me to?" She stood counting the money, before slipping it into her bra.

"I don't care," he replied, retrieving his housecoat from the floor where she had dropped it.

The doorbell rang and she opened it. A big black man in a long leather coat and fedora stood under the porch light. "Come in," she said, and he ducked through the doorway.

"Yo bitch, ya better not be playin' me. Draggin' me out in the rain at three o'clock in the fuckin' mornin', I outta beat your white ass." He shivered, then pulled his hand out of his pocked and raised it at her mockingly. She pulled the cash out of her bra and handed it to him.

"All right then. Half's for me," then he pulled out a plastic pill bottle, "and here's your half. Now lets party doll."

Damien stood stunned. He had never been in this situation before. Was this her pimp? Her dealer? Both? He was scared, but oddly excited too. Then the big man looked over at him. "You wanna party too?"

Sirens went off in his head, bells chimed and little voices yelled out "no" at the top of their lungs, but from his mouth came calmly, "why the fuck not."

"Well I'm Randy," he held his hand out, "and I believe you already met my hoe, Nancy, and you my man are?"

"Damien." He took the man's giant hand and shook it.

They all sat down together on the couch. Nancy dumped the brown rock out of the pill bottle then took a knife Randy had handed her and cut off the end, spilling some of the white powder onto a spoon she had taken from Damien's drawer. The flame licking the bottom of the spoon, and the melting crystals mesmerized him as they bubbled into a liquid.

Randy pulled out a leather case from his coat pocket and opened it. A stainless steel syringe, silver spoon and Zippo filled each neat compartment.

He pulled out the needle and sucked in the liquid from the spoon, then looked at Damien. "Ever got high man?" he asked.

Damien shook his head and Randy laughed at him, then looked over at Nancy. "We got us-selves a virgin, baby." Nancy stood up on the couch and stepped over Damien, sliding down behind him. She pushed his arm out while Randy wrapped a rubber band just below his bicep.

Nancy held it tight while Randy found a vein and pushed the needle in. He could barely feel the prick on his skin, or the warm liquid mingling with his blood. Nancy loosened the restraint and the blood began to flow again.

His fingers tingled as the rush of blood refuelled them, then his heart began to beat rapidly, the strange new toxin filling his system. His head was floating and all feeling left his extremities. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as wave after wave of orgasm filled his muscles. It wasn't sexual. It was more intense. More intense then his climax with Nancy, and even more intense than any orgasm he had had with Amy.

He could hear the far off laughter of the pimp and his whore. They watched him fall into oblivion. He fell hard and fast, still aware of his surroundings, but not caring. Nothing could come between him and this overwhelming feeling of rightness, of ecstasy. His head was empty, the turmoil that had been flourishing there died, a calm void replaced it, nothing but Moby's song echoing in the vacancy of his mind.

He focused on it, reliving every word, every note, every beat. It took him over completely. The song was his life now,

"Extreme ways that that help me,

help me out late at night.

Extreme places I had gone,

but never seen any light.

Dirty basements, dirty noise

dirty places coming through,

extreme worlds alone

did you ever like it planned?"

It was all he could hold onto.

He watched lazily as Randy performed the ritual on Nancy, then himself. Their voices were low drawls in slow motion as they fell into the abyss of heroin. His eyes remained open, but his body completely still. Time passed so slowly, every tick of the clock an hour apart, every heartbeat an eternity.

He was still in this state when he noticed Randy and Nancy emerge from theirs. He could hear them talk as they looked at him, laughing at the extent of his high.

"We could do anything to him." Nancy laughed, then unzipped his pants and playfully pulled out his flaccid cock. "Well almost anything." She played with it for a while, but it was beyond arousal. Impotence, brought on by the potency of the drug.

She took off his pants, leaving him naked laying on the couch, his breath slow and relaxed, eyes blinking lazily. He didn't even flinch when Nancy took her finger and gently slid it into his anus. He could still feel everything, every touch to his body sending an intense shiver down his spine, but he could not move, could not react to any contact from the outside world.

He heard the big black man say, "let me have a go at him." Damien's mind panicked as Randy dropped his pants and a giant half erect cock jutted out in front of him. He could do nothing though. He was paralysed. The man stood over him, stroking his black manhood to life. Damien was mortified. He wanted to jump out of his skin and run, but he couldn't move. He was locked into a body that he desperately wanted to break free from.

Randy positioned himself behind Damien and lifted his legs up, exposing his ass. He felt a shattering pain as the enormous dick stretched his anus past the breaking point. It was more than he could bear. He was being raped. "I'm being raped!" He screamed out, but none of it graced his lips. All he could do was blink.

The deep base of his heartbeat, "du-thump," worked in unison with his eyes, darkness then light: a slide show. A horrible slide show, each one punctuated with his heavy heartbeat. Slides of this monster on top of him. A slide of the hooker laughing hysterically. A slide of them kissing, another of her sucking on his limp cock. Each slide more horrifying than the last until finally he blacked out.

*****

He awoke in a daze. The room was cloudy, his mind was numb, his body cold. For a moment he didn't know when or why his pants were off, but as his vision cleared he spotted the half naked man passed out on the chair, his flaccid cock half hidden under a T-shirt. Damien moved slightly and a stabbing pain from his anus sent cold quivers through his body. The partially healing wound broke open and a trickle of blood ran down his cheek.

He looked over at the man again. Imagining a pair of scissors cutting his cock in two, blood spattering the walls and Damien laughing at him, laughing and dancing through the torrent of blood spewing from the end of that penis.

The thought was a joyous one, but there was another joyous thought too. He looked down at the equipment and drugs laid out across the coffee table. He remembered the feeling he had gotten from them the night before, the orgasm of nothingness that filled his mind soul and spirit.

He looked over at Nancy and Randy, both sound asleep, and then dumped the rest of the white crystals onto the spoon. He heated them up until they became a brown soup, then carefully set it down, propping the handle up so as not to spill any. He filled the needle with the liquid.

His teeth held the rubber band taunt as he pushed the syringe into his skin then let it go. A wave of euphoria passed through him. His body fell relaxed. As darkness began to fill his periphery, creeping in slowly, he embraced it. He floated in darkness for a while, then could see again. He saw himself below, needle still embedded in his arm. He turned away and swam through the air then out of the window, a dark cloud on a dark night.

His body was still there. It was there when the flashing blue lights approached. It was there as the police pounded on the door. He couldn't hear them yelling to come out, or that he was wanted for a hit and run. It was there as gunshots exploded through the window from Randy's gun. It was there when the door was busted down, and there as paramedics hauled Randy's lifeless body away. It was there as they pounded on his chest, trying to bring him to life.

He found himself once again on the balcony of Amy's apartment, overlooking the sleeping city. He floated to the edge and peered over, a swirling pit of blackness below and voices swimming up to him. "Come to me, just jump and it will all be better," they said. A flash of lighting filled the sky and the railing evaporated in front of him.

"One-one thousand, two-one thousand," then he stepped.

* * * * *

Moby-Extreme Ways (Moby) Published by Little Idiot Music/Warner Tamerlane.^(P) 2002 Mute Records Ltd. From the album "18".

Thank you jacuzzigal for helping me out with my punctuation and grammar. Your kind words were a tremendous help as well!