Thursday, July 12, 2012

A Twist Of Noir 697 - Ian Ayris

I am in love with Tina the Dwarf Prostitute. She is not here. The circus is in town. Her public awaits.
'Oy! Fuckface! Where's my bleedin cuppa?'
I tear my gaze away from the kitchen window. Away from the world. Tony. Flatmate. Arsehole. Rich city boy arsehole. Whilst I am 'between jobs', and Tina's income is, so to speak, 'sporadic', we rely on Tony to keep us. And he does. But as I have alluded, the man is an utter moron. He has been off work for two weeks now, lazing about.
So, with Tina 'otherwise engaged' today, it is just him and I. Lovely.
'Come on, cunt! Hurry up!'
I stir Tony's tea, trying not to think of Tina and the Strongman. Tina and the Fire Eater. Tina and the Clown. We are not an item, Tina and I, merely friends. Yet, of late, I have begun to think of her in different ways. Ways that shame me.
I retreat to the lounge to break my train of thought, and give Tony his tea. His eyes are glued to the television screen. He holds out his hand to take the tea without even so much as a 'Thank you'. I glance at what it is he is so engrossed in, and quickly look away.
Daytime television. Voyeuristic mediocrity in a box presented by parasitic slimeballs in shiny suits, preying on the scum of this earth. For Tony here, something to aspire to. To learn from. To laugh at.
'Look at these fuckers,' he says, sipping his tea. 'She's been shaggin his uncle, and the old man's been havin it off with her mum. Fantastic!'
I'm thinking of my Tina.
The adverts come on.
'We got any biscuits?' Tony says, as if I'm the only one in this God forsaken place that knows.
I shake my head, and I can't help sighing. Not for the lack of biscuits.
'What's up with you?' Tony says. 'Cos that midget's gone out?'
Muscles tighten all over my body.
'What you see in her anyway? Is it her little teeny hands, is it? Them little feet? The way she waddles like a fuckin duck?'
The ice comes in my veins.
'Quack quack,' Tony says, waddling around the lounge on his knees, speaking in a squeaky voice. 'Quack, quack. My name's Tina, and I'm a dwarf fucker.'
I close my eyes, let the darkness fill me.
'Tell you what, though,' Tony says, getting to his feet, 'in all seriousness. She's just the right height, ain't she. I mean, you know, eh? Eh?' He's winking now. Winking at me. Casting aspersions.
And that does it.
I've had two weeks of this. Every day. Every minute of every day. When you're in love, it's written all over your face. There is no need to feel shame. And it's time I stopped.
I jump out of the armchair and brush past Tony, into the kitchen. I can hear him laughing. Laughin at me. At me and my Tina. Wailing like the buffoon he is. 
I grab the bread knife from the cutlery drawer and I'm back in the lounge flailing it in his face.
Tony is screaming. Blood is spurting. The adverts have finished.
There is a knock at the door. I ignore it and continue cutting Tony to shreds on the beige patterned carpet to the accompanying inanity of daytime television.
Knock knock.
It's too early for Tina. She still has the matinee show to contend with. Queues of freaks and oddities craving her specialist services.
Knock knock.
This won't do. I'll have to get it. After all, it is rude to leave someone waiting. I open the door, aware I am soaked in Tony's blood, the bread knife dripping in my hand.
And there stands a clown, rubber nose and painted smile. Everything inside me breaks.
All that remains are visions of Tina and the Strongman. Tina and the Fire Eater. Tina and this Clown.
I focus on the painted smile. The painted smile that never moves. Fake. Plastic. Unjust. Shameful.
'You think this is fucking funny?' I scream.  'Do you?'
And I lunge at him hard, blinded by my own tears.

BIO: Ian Ayris is the author of Abide With Me, which you can check out here.


Paul D Brazill said...

That's brilliant. A perfect bland of the mundane and the bizarre.

Al Tucher said...

Always room for a hooker story, especially one with a twist like this.

Anonymous said...

There is a space in the continum that most of us only get a glimpse or two of in a lifetime. A quiet place. A vast stillness that contains only logic and necessity. A place where all solutions are simple, clear and usually blood soaked and filled with screams. A place most of us run away from as fast as we can. Ian Ayris lives there. And writes about it. Cool.