=29=

“The worst part is that this isn't even the worst part, that the worst part is still to come. The blows, you see, are excruciating in themselves, but invariably, (barring a lucky strike--lucky, that is, for me--which, unluckily--for me--is never struck), they are for the greater part wildly inaccurate, more painful, perhaps, for their wildness and their inaccuracy, thunking as they do across my shins, glancing off my kneecaps, clipping my ankles. They cause pain, in other words, but they do not lead to the quick and efficient end of my life (=suffering).

“The game doesn't engage everyone's interest, nor hold it, at least not initially—two or three take it up, abandon it, then two or three more, another and another, joined by four or five, losing a few here and there who drift off to the bar or bathroom or whatnot. Sometimes, for a time, at least, the game is neglected altogether; inevitably, though, someone weaves drunkenly up to where I’m crucified, takes up the bat, and without even bothering with the blindfold that supposedly provides the challenge, rears back and takes a wild hack.

"Ouch!

“The party goes on, advances, contracts, takes on a life of its own, as parties do, amoeba-like, dividing and reuniting again. There's my ex, oh Christ, it's true, there she is, I can't believe Cyn invited her, but here she comes, blindfolded, grinning, the aluminum baseball bat in an awkward two-fisted grip. Her chopping blow catches me in the groin, the backswing lands square on the nail driven through my right instep--I go icy cold with pain, blinded by a brick wall of white light. Her lover comes up behind her, wraps his arms around her waist, guiding her through a swing or two.

“The blows that follow land without a great deal more accuracy, but they provoke a good deal more amusement—and pain. At last, oh thank god at last, the coup de grace is delivered; it's her new lover who takes the bat, removes his sports coat, and takes what is recognizable to anyone, even those unfamiliar with the sport, as an ‘expert stance.’ A crowd materializes out of thin air, like ants around a fallen chunk of cherry popsicle (it’s easy to forget that even Aristotle believed in spontaneous generation).

“Tall and athletic, still broad-shouldered and muscular despite growing a potbelly, an ex-ballplayer who years ago played in the minor leagues of one professional team or other (the St. Louis Cardinals? the Cleveland Indians?), he won't be cheated, so he cheats, determined to play the hero for his honey. I catch his eye from beneath the blindfold he's managed to partially slip to the side as he strides purposely and unerringly forward, takes up that expert stance I’ve already mentioned, first from the right side and then from the left –he’s a switch-hitter! The years haven’t eroded the beauty of his fluid and level swing; age and a few extra inches around the middle haven’t thrown off his timing. He measures me up just right and catches me on the sweet-spot (an inch above each knee), a pair of homeruns for sure, going, going…see ya! He wins the big game, my ex throws herself ecstatically into his arms ("my hero! she cries"), and the crowd, as they say, goes wild.

“Meanwhile, I sag down, pitifully, fatally, on broken legs, never to rise again for breath (or anything else); my head drops dumbly to my chest and through fluttering false eyelashes I see my pink bikini-style panties rapidly darken as my bladder empties and I wonder, am I actually pissing blood?

“Standing on hand, monitoring my progress (Progress? Can you really call it that? Sure! Why not? Fine...progress then) is the surgeon with his stethoscope and scalpel, his cooler of dry ice. Nothing here will go to waste; after all, a human body is a treasure chest of invaluables--an iconic senator dying of nephritis, the aging rock star with the pickled liver, the clogged and rotted heart of the cutthroat venture capitalist-turned-philanthropist at the eleventh hour, but, alas, too late. Who said money can't buy everything? It can buy whatever you can afford. It can buy you a second life; it can buy you a cure for death.

“Already, unable to wait, and because it makes for better theater than carving up a corpse, the surgeon has worked the urine-soaked panties over my hips and down my smooth thighs. He performs a makeshift orchiectomy, that's castration to you laymen out there, slitting my scrotum open down the middle (my what?! My scrotum!? How did that get there?!), reaching inside and prying out my testicles (my what? My testicles?! Hey, what gives? Surely you jest!), cutting the cords and nerves and whatnot, his latex fingers slick with blood and unexpressed semen. There's some impotent Russian bazillionaire somewhere in the Urals who's convinced that a ground and dried concoction including such illicit ingredients harvested fresh from the source makes Viagra seem like taking baby aspirin for a brain tumor.

“Corneas, hair, teeth, not to mention lungs, the pancreas, and adrenal glands, the skull cracked open, that jellied meat a delicacy, the pituitary rare as a four-leaf clover, bones have uses too, damn it's all good, and when the body is empty so long as there are recognizable orifices and a certain quantity of meat remains a necrophiliac can be found somewhere who'll pay to fuck it, a cannibal to eat it, and when that's gone there are master tattooists around the world who’d kill for a skin as pale and smooth as mine to stretch and ink with secret grimoires; rich collectors are paying fortunes even as we speak (so to speak) to secure such precious canvases for the unimaginable collections of the darkest galleries in the most secret of private museums. 

“Cyn will make a bundle on my carcass alone, not to mention from the proceeds of the film she's paid a photographer to shoot of my torture and butchering. She’ll net enough to never have to work again, even if her film career doesn't pan out the way she plans, and knowing her, with that short attention span, addictive personality, and alarming tendency to self-destructive dissolution, it surely won't. Well, at least she'll be able to have that child she always wanted and that's not cheap without a womb and all, but what can science not do if it has a mind to do--and a full enough pocketbook...in a word, nothing!

“They'll implant the brat in her tummy, or thereabouts, like a virgin birth, a child of no man (and, in this case) no woman born, a propitious and unprecedented pseudo-event. It's always been a dream of hers, motherhood, that is, the ultimate fantasy, to be a big-bellied, big-titted, transsexual earth mother with a Munchausen fetish--it's nice to be able to help a dream come true, although I have to admit I wish it hadn't cost me quite so much. Speaking of which, why haven't I lost consciousness by now, haven't I suffered enough, why does this horrible moment seem frozen, like it's going on forever? If only I could wake up, if I could just wake up for five seconds, maybe, just maybe, I could die once and for all at long last and be done with this nightmare (=life), is that too fucking much to ask?