Zombie Bowl
the bi-polar ramblings of a Chemognostic Hermetic Biochemical Reductionist
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CONFESSIONS OF AN OXYGEN-ADDICT
fashion consultant to the dead
I'm a badass mortician
I've got your flesh inherited
people say I'm a freak
because I do what I do
but if you want a casket
you'll be paying me too
I do respect all that come here
and may you never forget
that my work is a science
I went to school for this shit
Mistress Morticia Speaks
Mistress Morticia
Probably the first question you want to ask me is, “What do I do?” Well, I’m a dominatrix mortician. I get paid to beat up dead men. Oh, stop it! They’re dead. And they love me. I get paid before the reading of the will. Sure, you might have been their favorite when they were alive, but now they belong to me. It’s fun. I can beat them and beat them and they never utter the safe-word. Never! That’s because they love what I can do for them. I can take them apart and put them together. If you think I’m sick you better not forget that I went to school for this shit. Besides, death is sexy. What’s that old adage? “A hard man is good to find.” Well, what man is harder than when he’s stiff with rigor-mortis? Ah yes, just thinking about death makes me want a cigarette.
You probably wonder how I got into this line of work. My first client…my first post-mortem client, I mean, was a guy who was dying of cancer. He couldn’t bear the thought of me pinching his nipples with clothespins and paperclips and jamming a riding crop up his ass, so he paid me extra to wait until he was dead before I beat him up. After the session was over, I decided I liked my new line of work. I like it because a dead guy doesn’t give me any shit and the hours are good. Well, most of the time the hours are good. I can’t sit on my butt for eternity like my clients. If I wait too long the smell starts to get to me. But anyway, things have gotten to the point that every time I read the obituaries my lips get wet. Not those lips, you sick perverts! I’m a dominatrix, not a prostitute.
Don’t think for a second my job is easy. It ain’t. Dead men make lousy submissives. When they get rigor-mortis it's hard to make them assume certain positions. And then when I make the pigs wear a ball-gag they never give it back. They think just because they’re dead that they should have some dignity. Screw that crap! That’s what religion is for. Religion is for the living anyway. Any preacher will tell you that. But preachers are some of my worst clients. They want me to humiliate them when they’re alive. No can do. A preacher has got to croak first before my very special laying on of hands. I only service the dead.
Hello? You want to make an appointment? Well how long have you been dead? Unless you are speaking through a medium at a séance you better be DOA with a toe tag, pal! What? What’s that you say? Screw me? Screw that. Screw you! Find someone else to put a stiletto in your ball-bag, you prick!
What a sicko! He’s probably a preacher in the throes of oxygen-addiction. The only cure for oxygen-addiction is death, you know. I hate the living. The living can suck my three-speed motorized strap-on! Most alive guys just want sex. If they can’t get what they want at home then they want it from a prostitute. Guess who ends up dead most of the time when that happens? The prostitutes! Well, I am no prostitute. The only things I suck are a filtered-cigarette or a bottle of bourbon!
All this talk about death is turning me on. Alive people often say that they’re in a rut. But if a deer is in a rut it’s just fucking horny. And it’s been three days for me without a stiff one. Oh, shut the hell up! Get your mind out of the gutter, pigs! Do you think it’s easy being me? I provide an invaluable service to all of mankind. Think about it. Most people are dead a lot longer than they are alive. Love is temporary and inspires bad poetry and song lyrics; death is forever. Besides, you can’t take love to the grave. But you can take your corpse. (she throws the cigarette on the ground and snuffs it out with her foot) Why am I smoking so much? Oh yeah, this death talk is getting to me. I never wanted to be alive. I didn’t choose to be born. You didn’t choose to be born. Whoever invented life needs to get run over by my pet hearse, Caligula. Don’t believe me? Let’s see who’s laughing when I’m heating up a sandwich with your bubbling fat and ashes at the crematorium. People see me chowing down in the same room as a corpse and they get all grossed out. They stare at me like I’m some kind of jackal stripping sinew from left-over bones. How dare they judge me? These are the same idiots who start salivating when someone puts a steamy slab of butchered cow on their plate. I’m a vegetarian. Far be it from me to take advantage of a helpless creature, carve it up, and sell it to children in a Happy Meal. People who do that are a turd short of a full diaper. They’re a hair short of a comb-over. These are the kind of people who need to see a psychiatrist taxidermist who will stuff them full of pills and mount them on his wall of normalcy. You don’t think I’m serious? Oh, I’m serious. I’m serious as a hammerhead shark that just ate my grandpa’s prosthetic leg. Oh, my poor grandpa! I had to beat an opium den full of gangsters at high-stakes poker to get my grandpa’s leg back. That’s right. I really loved my grandpa before he got cancer and became my first client. Oh, shut up! At least with him I knew he wouldn’t pull any kinky shit on me. The dead, for all their silence, take orders very well. I never have to tell them to shut up, unlike you people. They never leave me for another mistress. I never have to wake up in the morning and wonder where they are. And besides, it's very satisfying to cremate my clients after kicking their ass. It gives a good sense of closure.
Hello? Oh, you again. How dare you waste my… What’s that? You say you’re dead now? How dead? Yeah, that’s what I thought. I don’t care if you just swallowed a handful of Oxycontin and washed it down with a bottle of sacramental wine just to get to see me. You’re still alive! But this does show me you are sincere about wanting a session. What’s that you say? You want me to call you an ambulance? Why the hell would you want me to do that? If the medics save your sweet ass then I can’t take you on as a client. Say what? You’re having trouble getting air? You’re getting a vision of the pearly gates and a funeral ship with bones on the mast? Sure, I’ll help you. I know just what you should do. Hold your breath. Of course, I’m serious! I know more about these things than you will ever know. I tell you what. I can make things really easy for you. Do you have any sleeping pills or Valium? You do? You are just a fucking pharmacy with a blank script, aren’t you? Well, take them. Yes, I’ll wait.
Great. You’re back. I was waiting here so long I started to get rigor-mortis myself. You did what? Speak the hell up because you’re slurring your words. E-NUN-CI-ATE. Huh? What the hell does that mean? What you just said doesn’t make any sense. What do you mean you just hook a tandful of Vambien and Alium and drowned the wash with sore suckramental mines? Oh…I get it now. How clever of you! That’s right, I can translate Druginese and Drunkinese. Not only am I trilingual, I used to tend bar and sling spacecakes while working as a scribe in an Amsterdam hash bar, you know. What you meant is that you just took a handful of Valium and Ambien and washed it down with more sacramental wine, right? I’ll take that gurgle as a yes. Aha! I knew it. Well, aren’t you special? You’re just finger-fucking fabulous. Hey, what’s that rasping sound? Why are you breathing all weird and labored on me? I don’t do phone sex, pal. You couldn’t even pay me to give that kind of oral. Not anymore. Have you ever tried giving phone sex to a dead man? They keep dropping the phone. They drop it like a crucifix in a death hand. Hmm… Are you masturbating with a noose? Dumb move, Sir Sicko Sexy. It’s hard to choke the chicken when your floppy and jowly turkey neck is choked-out first. You sound like a rattle fading-out. I can’t tell if you’re coming or going. You are going to owe me big for services rendered while alive. I have a reputation to uphold. Hello? HELL-OOO? Oh Senor Sicko Sexy, this is Mistress Morticia from ground-control. Can you hear me? HELL-OOO? Hey! You can’t play me like that, you bug-fucker! I have a time-limit, mister man. Good-bye, scumbag!
I hate it when a guy calls you and then has nothing to say. It’s so rancorously rude. Well anyway, now that I know I can still give good phone, all of you should see that I’m not such a bad person for doing what I do. It’s not like I KILL my clients! Nope. Mistress Morticia doesn’t play that tune, folks. Death is not for amateurs. Life is the professional hangman when it comes to harvesting yet another soul to join Christ’s kingdom come of worms. Life kills more people than anything else. Life gets the job done. Life hangs angels by their own haloes. Life hangs the skeletons in your closet. Life just hangs…on a little too long. Period. But when the expiration date on your birth-certificate is up, feel free to give me a call.