The same trains I used to tag on,
I dream about jumping in front of
The same trains I used to tag on,
I dream about jumping in front of
This is continued character building for Eevee McHale. I think the narrator is going to be the character in the story I’m working on about a failed liberal painter who jumps on the alt right train because it’s profitable, and how he gradually becomes ashamed about selling his soul for fame and money. Eevee might be a character he created, and this might be part of the novel he’s writing. He’ll probably have a redemption arc.
Ehh fuck that.
Redemption arcs are boring.
Eevee’s childhood was perfect, and she hated it. Her parents were rich, even by SF standards. They were happily married, an anomaly in our society of skyrocketing divorce rates and marital dissatisfaction, not even giving her the common whining point her fellow well-off peers told everyone to appear oppressed. She was an only child and spoiled the fuck out of. The only nonprivate school she went to was UC Berkeley, where she graduated with an Associates in Liberal Arts.
On her sixteenth birthday, her parents bought her a new Lexus. On her eighteenth birthday, her parents rented SF City Hall for a sixties themed party. And on her twenty-first birthday, her parents paid for her to “backpack” across Europe via first class trains and trendy hotels, ironically called hostels despite costing more than the average SF hotel.
It was in Paris, of course, where she got her first taste of radical politics via the salty cum of an “anarchist”. When he wasn’t sodomizing her in the loft his parents paid for, he regurgitated all the things her professors taught her in college: the evils of the rich and bourgeoisie and anybody who profited from anything; the damage colonialization inflicts to-this-day on former colonies who now have infrastructure and two story buildings; how forcing Muslim women to wear burqas and hijabs isn’t anti-feminist; how killing animals for food is bad and abortion is good; and a slew of other things that aren’t retarded.
Unbeknownst to Eevee’s parents, her backpacking stopped in Paris. She opted to skip Rome, because it was a symbol of imperialism, and spent her remaining three thousand Euros on anarchist leaflets and made in China balaclavas for her boyfriend’s Antifa chapter.
She decided that she didn’t want to return home to the Great Satan her Iranian anarchist friends told her about. Paris would be her new home, and from there, she, her boyfriend and his three dozen followers would start the next socialist revolution.
They took advantage of every legitimate protest by destroying stores—even mom and pop shops because they’re the petty bourgeoisie and backbone of the corrupt capitalist system—flipping cars, and beating the fuck out of evil centrists.
She finally felt like she belonged; like she was a part of something bigger than her. She felt alive and important and a bunch of other platitudes. But then her boyfriend got arrested for tossing a Molotov cocktail into a Starbucks that didn’t allow homeless people, who didn’t smell like fermented belly button juice, to take up the seats paying customers didn’t deserve.
France’s terrorism laws guaranteed that her boyfriend wouldn’t get out in years. His parents stopped paying for the loft. She was thrown out on the streets with no money, and soon learned that none of her boyfriends anarchist friends actually liked her. They tolerated her because she was their leader’s girlfriend, but behind her back, they referred to her as The American Bitch—an allusion to Marie Antoinette’s epithet: The Austrian Bitch.
Eevee lasted two nights in the Parisian streets before calling her parents to apologize for being a dumb cunt, and ask them to buy her a first class plain ticket home.
Oh, and feel free to critique and/or continue the story in your voice. Tara did a lovely job last time.
Do you want to know how fucked in the head I am?
I just had the most amazing sex of my life.
The type of sex that would make the devil and god mutually masturbate to…That amazing.
My new lover is a freak–even by SF standards. She has four and a half hard no’s, while I have a solid five, so I’m the prude of the relationship.
Her lip’s bleeding, and she’s walking with a limp; my frenulum is sprained, and my back looks like a Vietnamese Catwoman gave me a massage.
I have to go to the hardware store tomorrow to buy spackle and paint because the back of her head put a dent in two of the walls in her apartment—serves her right for saying I couldn’t be too rough.
Shit, she’s knocking on the door the door to see if I’m alright—I can only pretend like I’m taking a shit for so long.
Alright…so me being fucked in the head.
Her apartment is on the eleventh floor of a tenement surrounded by homeless people using shopping carts for barbeques, and gutterpunks shooting up. I think she said it’s two grand a month for her one bedroom “box”. Fucking crazy. SF, man—it’s nuts out here. “At least you have a living moat of homeless drug addicts to keep the hipsters at bay,” I told her. She laughed.
Fuck, she’s knocking again. “One moment, the chile rellenos fucked my stomach up,” I said. She laughed.
Fuck, where was I..Um…um..rambling…rambling…….OH, so she’s a freak. She likes pain and pleasure and hate and love and cuddling and scratching and biting and fear; she likes a lot of things most girls would consider nightmarish. She knows that I like to write; that I have an overactive imagination; that I’m a doll-hair away from being as freaky as she is, so she always asks me to create new dark scenes for us to reenact. I said that I’d break into a cemetery with her, find a grave of a person with an interesting name–maybe Malachi–and fuck her on top of it while she screamed their name.
She thinks it’s pretty, though.
“For real, B?” she just said.
Fuck, I need to backpedal to finish: me being fucked in the head.
After covering every square-micron of her room in our sex sweat, she pointed towards her open window, grabbed my dick like it was the handle of a little red wagon and pulled me across the room. “Fuck, it’s cold outside,” she said as her nipples rested on the windowsill of her eleventh story apartment.
“Fuck me, B,” she said then…and just said now through the door of her bathroom.
She said faster, so I did; she said harder, so I did—her moans blanketed the streets of SF in a coat of ethereal pleasure.
“Come inside me, B!” she screamed.
As I was about to cum, I looked out of the window, down at the sea of unfortunate souls living in this sad paradise, and Imagined jumping out of the window. I imagined my lover reaching out to me as my nude body falls to heaven. I imagine cumming at the exact moment I splat against the cold concrete of the city I used to love.
That’s how fucked in the head I am.