The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death by Charlie Huston Page A
Authors: Charlie Huston
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it's gonna make people give you more money or something.I'm ignoring you not because I don't like homeless people, but because I don't like you, personally.
I bumped into something, smacking my head hard into whatever it was.
The homeless couple's eyes bugged.
I turned around and got shoved to the ground by a big motherfucker in a ski mask.
He kicked me in the ribs.
—Don't fuck with the guild, asshole.
I curled around the pain.
—What?
He got down on one knee and grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled my head from the ground and slapped my face back and forth.
—Don't! Fuck! With! The! Guild!
Snot and blood ran from my nose as I started to cry.
—OK! OK! OK! No guild fucking!
He took me by the throat and shook me.
—I'm fucking serious!
I choked.
—I know! I know! I know! I can tell by the way you're strangling me!
Two more guys in ski masks appeared behind him.
—Come on, man, let's go, people are watching.
The big one took his hand from my neck and looked at the gaping homeless couple.
—They're just fucking crackheads.
I rubbed my throat.
—Hey just because they're homeless doesn't mean they're crackheads. They could be junkies, asshole.
He grabbed a wad of hair.
—Still so funny, still making me forget to laugh.
I coughed up some bloody phlegm.
—Dingbang?
He made a fist.
—Bang, motherfucker!
The fist came at me.
—Just Bang!
BANG!
I remember a sideways view of Bang and his two buddies getting into avan with bright yellow paint splotched over a smoothly primered front and side. I remember the van hauling ass down the alley. And I remember the homeless couple coming over and squatting next to me, the girl pouring some water from a bottle onto a rag and wiping at the blood on my face.
—See, that's what being a dick gets you.
And I remember thinking she just could be right.
Then I took a little nap.
—I can stitch it up.
—No fucking way.
—Dude, seriously, I can totally stitch it up.
I slapped Chev's gloved hand from my face, knocking the needle and thread from his fingers.
He shook his head.
—Gonna have to re-sterilize that before I stitch you up.
I covered the gash in my forehead, left when Bang bounced my noggin off the asphalt.
—You are not stitching me up. You aren't even sewing buttons back on my shirt. You are coming nowhere near me or my skin with that needle, man.
He started stripping the black rubber gloves from his hands.
—Whatever. I don't know why you're being such a puss about it. I use needles on people all the time.
I threw my arms out.
—Asshole, you use them to punch holes in people's genitalia! You wield needles for the purpose of inflicting voluntary bodily mutilations! You don't close holes, man, you make them!
He stuffed the gloves in the waste box on the wall.
—Look at it however you want, man. Way I see it, skin is my métier, flesh my milieu. Modifying the body is my art.
I looked out the open service window at the customers sitting in the waiting room listening to us fight. I looked at him. I closed the shutters over the window.
—Are you high?
He giggled.
—Really high, man.
I put my head in my hands.
—You're high and you were going to stitch my wound?
He took an American Spirit from the pack on the desk and lit it.
—Why not? I tattoo high all the time.
—Not the same, man. Not the same.
He blew smoke rings.
—Says you.
I lifted my head and stared at him. I opened my mouth, observed just how red his eyes were, and gave it up.
—Sure. Says me.
I stood up and made the room go sideways and Chev grabbed my arm and eased me back down.
—Whoa there, Hoss. Easy there.
—I'm cool, I'm cool.
I stood again, slower this time, and went over to the mirror on the wall and looked at my face.
—Crap.
There was a knock on the door. Chev opened it and his apprentice Dina stuck her pierced face in.
—Hey I'm doing this.
She held out a stencil of a little pitchfork-wielding devil.
—What should I
I bumped into something, smacking my head hard into whatever it was.
The homeless couple's eyes bugged.
I turned around and got shoved to the ground by a big motherfucker in a ski mask.
He kicked me in the ribs.
—Don't fuck with the guild, asshole.
I curled around the pain.
—What?
He got down on one knee and grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled my head from the ground and slapped my face back and forth.
—Don't! Fuck! With! The! Guild!
Snot and blood ran from my nose as I started to cry.
—OK! OK! OK! No guild fucking!
He took me by the throat and shook me.
—I'm fucking serious!
I choked.
—I know! I know! I know! I can tell by the way you're strangling me!
Two more guys in ski masks appeared behind him.
—Come on, man, let's go, people are watching.
The big one took his hand from my neck and looked at the gaping homeless couple.
—They're just fucking crackheads.
I rubbed my throat.
—Hey just because they're homeless doesn't mean they're crackheads. They could be junkies, asshole.
He grabbed a wad of hair.
—Still so funny, still making me forget to laugh.
I coughed up some bloody phlegm.
—Dingbang?
He made a fist.
—Bang, motherfucker!
The fist came at me.
—Just Bang!
BANG!
I remember a sideways view of Bang and his two buddies getting into avan with bright yellow paint splotched over a smoothly primered front and side. I remember the van hauling ass down the alley. And I remember the homeless couple coming over and squatting next to me, the girl pouring some water from a bottle onto a rag and wiping at the blood on my face.
—See, that's what being a dick gets you.
And I remember thinking she just could be right.
Then I took a little nap.
—I can stitch it up.
—No fucking way.
—Dude, seriously, I can totally stitch it up.
I slapped Chev's gloved hand from my face, knocking the needle and thread from his fingers.
He shook his head.
—Gonna have to re-sterilize that before I stitch you up.
I covered the gash in my forehead, left when Bang bounced my noggin off the asphalt.
—You are not stitching me up. You aren't even sewing buttons back on my shirt. You are coming nowhere near me or my skin with that needle, man.
He started stripping the black rubber gloves from his hands.
—Whatever. I don't know why you're being such a puss about it. I use needles on people all the time.
I threw my arms out.
—Asshole, you use them to punch holes in people's genitalia! You wield needles for the purpose of inflicting voluntary bodily mutilations! You don't close holes, man, you make them!
He stuffed the gloves in the waste box on the wall.
—Look at it however you want, man. Way I see it, skin is my métier, flesh my milieu. Modifying the body is my art.
I looked out the open service window at the customers sitting in the waiting room listening to us fight. I looked at him. I closed the shutters over the window.
—Are you high?
He giggled.
—Really high, man.
I put my head in my hands.
—You're high and you were going to stitch my wound?
He took an American Spirit from the pack on the desk and lit it.
—Why not? I tattoo high all the time.
—Not the same, man. Not the same.
He blew smoke rings.
—Says you.
I lifted my head and stared at him. I opened my mouth, observed just how red his eyes were, and gave it up.
—Sure. Says me.
I stood up and made the room go sideways and Chev grabbed my arm and eased me back down.
—Whoa there, Hoss. Easy there.
—I'm cool, I'm cool.
I stood again, slower this time, and went over to the mirror on the wall and looked at my face.
—Crap.
There was a knock on the door. Chev opened it and his apprentice Dina stuck her pierced face in.
—Hey I'm doing this.
She held out a stencil of a little pitchfork-wielding devil.
—What should I
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