Expedition Four: She bounced on the bed and I watched her black hair flop and wave with the mute surprise of gravity. She beckoned me with black gloves, pouched out her eyeballs with foggy, noncommittal intent. “Y’wanna fuck me, Horse?” she said. There was no promise in the question. There wasn’t even a question in the question. It was one big Grade-A ape between us - a gorilla where my libido used to be. A catatonic come-on. Where her legs united oozed a tumorous wall of cancer-hardened cervix. Penetration impossible for the moment. But her hands- thin, smooth, graceful, casting dancing shadows on the ceiling as she bounced. God her hands were as lovely as a war-torn ballet. Too lovely to look at. Men went mad at the sight of her nude cuticles. She positioned her hands for maximum effect. She acted out Custer’s Last Stand with lithe, gliding shadow puppets. The bed stretched away like an earthquake under a field and she kicked off her wooden shoes and they landed like an obituary on the bottomless floor. “Hey! Y’wanna horse me, Fuck?” And then she waggled out her obscene pink tongue; it stretched out so far I could see the roots. I thought of the panicked spasms of a gasping, land-stranded fish. That’s what her tongue looked like. She threw back her head in mock orgasmic revelry. Rain patted the glass with stained fingertips. Let me in.
“Let me out!”
Luke is trapped in a suicide cell with the Captain. They stand at the mirror, both staring at the other’s unfamiliar reflection. None of the reflections look like each other - individuality lost in the fractal mix - they didn’t blink until the Captain opened his mouth and black viscous liquid oozed from between his swollen lips.
“What the fuck, mate...”
“Gblo ahead. Shbloot,” he sputtered through a mouthful of black bile.