Mabel, family, friends and God speak
by Ronald J Stone
[ fiction - september 09 ]
If you gaze into the bris, the bris gazes also into you.
MABEL:
Alice was in the next room; she was shouting out, "Come on in, Mabel Honey, it looks like a good one."
Law and Order on TIVO; Nip and Tuck from Netflix.
I love Law and Order, and I love Chris Noth most of all; the Big Fella is law, is order. And Nip and Tuck: that JoeLee slut daughter of the ComSymp limey mom - her comeuppance is coming. I think we got it on the TIVO: the comeuppance, I mean. It's on the Netflix for sure (This is not to say nothing about the sister, poor, dear, dead child, is now with HIM. If I didn't love Chris Noth so much, I'd want Sis's Big Fella for myself.)
Anyhoo...
Naturally, I got to pulling myself up, ready to go and TV Watch. "Bye Bye, Box," say I, and start to crawl out.
The phone rang. It was my landline. Not all that many folk have the number. (It's "International Unlisted" and "Do Not Call" both.) I picked up the phone. "Mabel speaking," I said. "To whom am I speaking to?"
I heard this kind of huge whooshing sound, an X Files type thing. Most likely (I was thinking) the circuits were bouncing off some zigzagging satellite, then, on the way back, getting stuck in the ionosphere before tumbling to the phone, my fibro-optical landline. And then there's my Right On Oregome Box, whilst I was still half into it, still pulling myself out, and which, needless to say, is always on: its energy, on top of everything.
The voice now boomed out of the phone. "Mabel Baby, this is God."
"Who?" I asked.
"God, Mabel, God. This is God."
I said to myself, "Oh, boy, this is a good one." Even so, I wanted to hear what else He'd say. But the line was dead. "Thinks He's cute," said I to me - only to realize He was cute. Heavy breathing, porno language: that stuff is banal bullshit. "God" is original. What kind of kid would say He's God? Maybe He thinks I'm some kind of Whacko Fringe Born Again. No smarty He, just a smarty-ass punk.
On the other hand, maybe He is God.
When I got this phone, I had my choice of numbers, and I picked "666-6666. Who'd want the Devil's number?" I'd asked myself. "So easy to remember," I'd told myself. So I'd a chance to get it. And I did get it.
And now here we were, some kid on the phone calling me by name and Himself "God." Maybe he believes He is God. Maybe He is God. It's a stretch - God making the phone call to start with - but it is what it is, and God is God. The Devil's number figures maybe better than most, maybe even best. God can call anyone. God called me. (You'd think He'd just appear: from Thin Air and into it. Let's face it: that's been modus oprahrandi up to now. Then again, who am I to tell God how to manifest His own Self? God can tap into any phone line He wants to. God is God.)
And I am Mabel. He's just called me. I gotta tell Alice. Now!
ALICE:
She was in that Right-On Origami Box. (Orgone? Oregon? Orgazmo? Foolishness!) Says I to myself, "Here we go again!" And I think to myself, "Past ain't even past is present and is with us always. She's at it again." I do my visualizations. I prepare for what's to come: her out of the Box and into this room, TV and me.
The Blob's returned from Outer Space. Mabel! (thinks I to I).
Last time she'd staggered out. "It's time," she was saying. "Call the ambulance. Help with the birthing."
But then was then, and now is now.
And then she's still 7 Months Pregnant big, and she's bleeding all over the place. I grab the nearest booze bottle. I go to the kitchen sink. I run the hot water. I bathe my hands in the sterilizing vodka. I rinse them in the hot water. I begin the midwifery for this particular infant. Back then, that is.
But she's not birthing. She's miscarriaging. Except she's not. There's no baby at all. A historical pregnancy to start with, and now is plain blood all over the place. I can handle a birth. I can't handle a mass historical hemorrhaging, blood and fat and nothing else: pus on pus on pus. (I seen it on House, MD - now there's a cute guy, nasty but cute - you need a House, MD for stuff like this.) Thank God, the medics come; they handle it.
And that's the way it went: the last time.
One month later and Mabel's out of the hospital; she's home. Her idiot on-again, off-again dolt of a husband has got the place a little fixed up, and he's got the "solution. The 'box,'" Garth says. "It's an invention of the Reich, kept secret from everyone but initiates, and I am initiate. Get in it, Mabel. Initiate!"
It surely is one big, big box. You could live in it. The dolt wants Mabel to do just that. She enters the box like some well-trained bitch.
A plain box, big - would be perfect for some homeless hobo on the street excepting it is Plexiglas; it gleams. It's in the home itself. Mabel starts out with two hours a day. Now you got to get all her programs TIVO set to go in 192-inch HDTV (press a button; they play). She's otherwise all the time in the box, eats in it, sleeps in it, pisses and shits in it.
Me and Mabel, we're the best friends each or the other will ever have. But a chore is just that, and she is a chore to the point of tribulation. She's got the SSI Disability and the Private, too; the pension and the trust fund. True: she's authorized the automatic payments to my account. Even so: you can't do what I do for money alone. I do it for her and for the sake of our Lord. She is my best friend, and I am hers, when you come to think of it (I'm thinking of it now) her only friend (I do not doubt).
That drooling idiot of a husband of hers finally shows up, and I am leaving.
I say, "Mabel, be good. Goodbye, Garth. The next sound you hear: I've slammed the door on my way out." I slam the door.
I have left.
GARTH:
Think Joey Heatherton in Trial and Error; Ann Margret in Kitten with a Whip; add firm, proportional heft, lovely to look at, delightful to touch. You're thinking my gal Mabel, High School Junior year.
The first night I danced with her I creamed my pants. The second night we went to my car; I fucked the Be Jesus out of her. Again and again and again. Then other times, time and again. Until came the pregnancy. We got married. She miscarried, fetus lost and 250 pounds gained. I mercy-fucked my blob Mabel. Once. (The stomach stands only so much.) It was another pregnancy: this time hysteriacal. My blob Mabel dropped blood, guts and no fetus on the pavement, and afterward, always, even so continued to grow, leveling now at 400 pounds... and is home now; I've just come home.
I hear the Blob.
It's departed the Reich's (Numero 3) Orgone Ionizer Box I spent One Whole Year of work to earn the money to get for her. It's staggering along, half leaning on, half propelled by the Miracle Walker I spent One Half year of work to earn the money to get for her. She's here is My Blob Mabel.
"You fat bitch," I'm saying. "Get away from me."
"And fuck you, too, Mr Puny Prick. I been talking to God. God's been talking to me. He's gonna fix your ass soon's I give the Go Ahead, Mr Shit Faced No Dick."
"Fuck you double your 400 pounds. Fuck you!"
She ain't human. I sit there at night dreaming of the Mabel I first fucked. I jack off to the image. I'm jacking; she's sleeping. I don't hear her. I get that Photo Still image of Ann Margret comes outta The Graduate, and I prop it up, deluxe laser light deluxe beaming right on to it. I jack off again, this time to it - the Mabel what was. I sleep; I Jack; I'm off: she makes no sound. I hear her heaving flesh.
The house is hers. The SSI and the SSID, the savings and the pensions: she does got the big bucks. And what with the Nigger pricks and their Bobo Bama taking my job and the Kikes firing me, what with my herniated back they say I am faking and which I ain't got no disability from 'cause the Illegals rule this country, red, white, blue and Greaser: what the fuck I do? Bitch lived off me and I fed her, made her the Blob, and now the Blob's got it all and I got nothing but the piss ants she drops on me. And she a cheap bitch can barely get out the Box which I got her, One Whole Year's work and the Walker One Half year's (when I had the work and weren't no Bobo Bama taking it from me and giving it away to his darker hued brethren.) "And, besides," she says, "the only one who really cares, who gives me care is Alice and I got her to take care of, too."
Fuck you. Fuck the bitch. Fuck her fat friend (just short of Blob herself) Alice.
Mabel talks to God? Bullshit! The flames of Hell will soon enough get her (the other fuck, Alice, too); I'll live again the Free American life I was birthed to live.
She says, "What you mumbling about back there, Puny Prick?"
"You'll be seeing soon enough."
Then she sees, indeed, and I do, too, and "Thank you, my Lord God."
[REDACTED], Visiting Nurse Service:
I could say - it's been said - that all the graduate courses through and to the PhD and all the years since, grunt work the whole of it, Nurse Practitioner in the end, have been to help humanity - or else to make MD-like big bucks or else [you name it]. I could say a lot of things, but the one thing I got to say in fact is I am sick of heavy lifting.
I am moving Mabel, 400 pounds of Blob.
I come and I lift, and it's moved a bit and I lift more, then more. Finally, her respiratory system such as is returns to a barely operable state, and Mabel the Blob to "life." As for me, I'll ache for days. I fantasized her death for all the rest of the day. Then I left her, continuing to dream as I walked along. I paid no attention to where I was going. I bumped the one old lady, then bounced off her and hit another. "Take these," said the latter. She shoved a bunch of pamphlets my way. They were "Born Agains," the two of them, come to save me.
"Have God give me a phone call. We'll chat."
"You're a nobody," said the other.
"An asshole, too," her cohort said. "God don't just phone you up."
"Why not? He's God!"
"Stupid!"
"Asshole!"
"Okay," I said. "So much for Omnipotence..." I left them and hurried home.
The TV was on. I did not remember leaving it that way, but what the Hell - I had forgotten to turn it off before. A Michelin Wolfgangbanger 3-Star Mac and Cheese awaited me in my microwave, set to go. But the TV was on. I turned on the microwave, then went to turn off the TV. (I hadn't turned it on - I don't think.) Whatever: George Burns was facing me through the screen, live and in HD. He said, "Hey, schmuck, tell me this: God wants to speak to you, what's He need do? He phones you up is what. You pick up."
I told the TV, "You should be Morgan Freeman. 'Good Night, Gracie,' you fucking phony." I shut off the TV, but it stayed on even so.
George Burns remained on screen. He was frowning. "Leave Grace out of it. God's as much me as He is the Negro. I'm George Burns am God am as real and true as a heart attack."
Again, I moved to turn off the TV, but, of course, it was already off. I pulled the plug on it, accomplishing nothing. George Burns's frown was now unbearable to see. Said [H]e, "This is God, schmuck."
There was a sledgehammer in the garage. (Why it was there - I recalled neither then nor now.) I smashed the TV screen to smithereens. George Burns remained on it. He said, "You asked for it." A roar followed. On "screen" was the image of the actual Big Bang true-to-life. I went blind. The TV voice was no longer George Burns's. "You wanted the real thing," It said; "You got It. Now you see why I show up as George Burns. - Excepting you can't see, refuse to, asshole that you are."
"What now, my Lord, what now."
"Drop dead, you schmuck of an asshole."
And I did.
GOD:
"Where," you ask, "is the Caritas?"
Boo Hoo - fuck that. I'm God. I don't like someone, I don't let it simmer; I smite the mite. Else why be God? He's dead.
As for the Blob Mabel who started it all: Sayonara Baby!
She's as dumb ass a broad as ever I done made, but I take the meek, the weak: so why not the stupid?
You're God, and You can do what you want. I did what I want; I do. I called Mabel; I got her on the telephone (her landline), and I spoke to her. She's doing that automatic writing thing, but I am I and God is speaking to Mabel, and I am saying, "Mabel Baby, this is God; I'm okay; you're okay." We're off to the races. I take her to Me. I am speaking as I'm doing, as I'm taking Mabel from Here to Eternity.
"Let's go, Mabel."
"Yes, Garth, I am coming; we're young."
"Garth's your asshole nothing of a husband. I'm God. You're coming with Me. Let's go."
"Garth, oh Garth, I been waiting for this. We're young again, and we're young lovers again, and I'm the underage piece-of-ass whom you loved, and you, just turned 18, the hunk I loved, you touchdowner you, and we are happy. Garth! Oh, Garth."
"Mabel, baby, you are one dumb broad. (We got free will running rampant wild. You got to be God way beyond a mere saint to put up with a blob this stupid.) Mabel, baby, this is God; let's roll."
And I smite the bitch. And smite Garth. And - What the Heck - I take out that asshole, Alice, too.
I'm God.
Why?
Why not?
"ON TELEVISION:"
Long troubled by its inability to program shows that people actually watch, the "Live Long" network, at last, seems to have come up with a winning formula. Fittingly, they are both "Jerry Springer Productions." Always first to play (although not always on the same network; check your local listings for time and channel) is "The Jerry Springer Show" itself.
The 450 pounds dark skinned Black woman is beating up on the 350 light skinned Black woman. Despite the disparity in poundage, the lighter combatant more than holds her own, for she is the more nimble of the two. Some time fairly recently, it seems, the 450 pounder caught the 350 pounder in sexual congress with her "man," and the 350 pounder, far from denying the charge, has replied, "He may be your man, but he comes to see me some times." Sandwiched between the two is the 120 pound skinny white man, who is the object of the combat; clearly he is enjoying himself.
Regularly, the cameras cut to Jerry himself, flashing his usual beatific, all forgiving smile.
On schedule, "Security" appears, the usual seven bulky males. They separate the two women and the man; they keep them separate. Jerry, still smiling, now intones his divine spiel, "Ladies and gentlemen, however much and well we may love, let us eternally remember that we may nonetheless be unloved in return. Ladies and gentlemen, I beg of you: do not linger in your states of unrequited love. Face this truth of life that despite all desires otherwise, we may not be loved. And move on; move on. This is Jerry Springer, wishing you requited love for now and for always."
"The Steve Wilkos Show" comes on next. Imagine the musician Eddie "Cleanhead" Vinson as a White Man, and this is Steve Wilkos himself, imposing to see and to hear. Steve speaks truth; he's incapable of lying. This time (as it is more often than not), a big, fat older woman, Caucasian, is on stage with him. Steve confronts her with her own history: seventeen children, twelve of them girls, all of them beaten and forced to eat mush and even feces, canine and human. Mama admits to being a strict disciplinarian. "Spare the rod and spoil the child. I ain't spoiled my childs. The rest is lies, all lies. Can I sit down? This is hard on me, this standing. I'm a large woman."
"Large? You're a tub of lard," Steve shouts out, "This is my stage. You haven't earned a seat on my stage." He takes the two (and only chairs) stage front and heaves them away. One goes 50 feet and comes down upright on all four legs. Mama hurries (as best she's able) to it; Steve beats her. He throws the chair off stage completely, behind the backdrop curtain.
Mama returns to stage front. So, too, does Steve. Placing official court papers in front of her face, he confronts the mommy behemoth. "And what about these papers? Toilet paper? Hell, no, they're court orders taking your three eldest children [girls] from you."
Says Mama, "Lies, all lies. The Welfare is liars."
Now the young, very fat girl now comes on stage. She is the eldest daughter. She confirms the facts of deprivation, then proclaims she wants not repentance, "only that you love us now." Mama neither apologizes nor offers love beyond "you done always had that." Another daughter, younger, fat but not so fat as her sister, comes on stage. She confirms the charges. She, too, wants only love, and she, too, gets the same refrain. At last, the third, teenage sister, comes on stage. She is fat, but least fat of the three. She asks the same of Mama as have the others, and she receives the same nada-rien-zip as her siblings.
Mama continues to deny. At last, Steve has had it. He says to Mama, "Get off my stage. You're not worthy enough to be on my stage. Slut sluiced into slime: that's you." (Steve is always eloquent when throwing miscreants off his stage.) The camera shows him leading Mama away; she is gesticulating protest and denials. He is firm and strong, unwavering. Steve returns to the stage and the three sisters. He tells them, "You have yourselves and the love among yourselves. She has nothing. Go live your lives, and if you live them well for good, you will have your best revenge; you'll eat it cold. God bless you and all Americans. This is Steve Wilkos signing off in the name of love, forgiveness, justice and America."
With the two Jerry Springer Productions following, one after the other, the Live Long Network, in offering what amounts to the Universal Allegory of Life, Love and (not least) Lust, seems, finally, for well or ill, to have found a winning formula.
HIS eye is on...
