“If it was me everyone would still be listening to Rob Bass and C+C Music Factory.” That’s Agent #1.
Agent #2 says, “Well tonight..you can make your dream a reality.”
Agent #1 and Agent #2 walk down a long hallway, doors every twenty feet, raised flooring — the kind used to conceal computer wires — and they come to a door labeled with a series of squares and triangles — like the tangram (they all are).
They stand before the door.
Our camera position is behind them. We see Agent #1 on the left. Then in the middle the cryptic door labeling. Then on the right, Agent #2.
“Is this the one?”
Agent #2 fumbles with a napkin which contains a cryptic drawing like the one on the door.
“This is it.”
Agent #1 pokes a magnetized straw into a hole in the door.
My best friend Ashley’s roommate Purity had a sister named Clarity. They all lived in Phoenix. Purity was coming to LA to audition for the role of Wonder Woman at Six Flags. Ashley and Clarity were coming with her. But Ashley wanted to see improv shows at Improv Olympic all day. Which left Clarity taking her sister Purity to Six Flags alone, and Purity was going to be in fittings and taking photographs all day. Clarity could have gone with Ashley to Improv Olympic, but improv wasn’t her thing. That left Clarity wandering around Six Flags by herself for an entire day. That’s where I came in.
My job was first to give all three girls a place to stay (the small apartment I shared with my friend Mike) and second, to accompany Clarity, who I had scarcely met, around Six Flags all day while Purity tried out to be Wonder Woman. Believe it or not I was not excited about this proposition. I had only met Clarity once. She had a boyfriend, a kid (though a very cute kid) and the idea of hanging around Six Flags with a stuck-up Phoenix bitch who I wasn’t allowed to flirt with was not my idea of how to spend a Saturday.
Plus it was a little complicated for me, see. I was renting cars from the airport at that time. Even though I had a good job, I didn’t have good credit, so I couldn’t buy a car. Every three weeks I went to the Burbank airport and exchanged vehicles. It was way more expensive than actually buying a car, but like I said, I had the money to buy a car, just not the credit. We do things very strange in America.
Purity and Clarity weren’t rich, but they weren’t going to be happy with some economy Citroën that was good enough for me but not two Arizona girls who had high-class taste and I didn’t want to hear about the car all the way to Six Flags so the first thing I had to do was rent something a little more upscale to impress these women. Not a frigging Mustang, just something where they’d look at it and go: Matthew must be doing well and say, “This is nice,” and get in and I wouldn’t hear another word about it.
So there was that: there was the car.
Then, additionally, I had another problem, which is that I had been at my drug dealer’s house for about seven days snorting crystal meth, and when you’re in a run like that it’s sometimes hard to bring the outer world into focus, if you know what I mean. Realities like your three friends are coming to be houseguests for two days are hard to connect with, as events that are actually going to happen that involve you participating in ways other than being high on crystal. Like you’re going to have to get off your ass and drive. And you’re going to have to carry on conversations with people who are not high on crystal meth. People who are high on crystal meth can talk to each other like family. Ditto people who are not high on crystal meth. But mix the two and you might have problems. I mean I was in a different fucking world.
Then I had to walk around Six Flags with a woman I hardly knew, on no sleep, while I was coming down. Coming down from crystal is hard enough without being thrown into a difficult social situation. And since Clarity is Purity’s sister and Purity is Ashley’s roommate and Ashley is my best friend, it’s kind of important that I’m nice to Clarity and show her a good time. I’m basically responsible for making sure Clarity has a good day while her sister auditions for Wonder Woman and if there’s anything you know about crystal meth it’s that crystal meth and responsibility do not go in the same sentence.
So this is the problem I’m faced with, people. My meth run is being interrupted by a bunch of high-class primrose bitches who somehow are going to stay at me and Mike’s two-bedroom apartment, while Ashley goes off to watch improv comedy all day and Purity — who I barely knew — and Clarity — who I knew even less — did Six Flags for up to one entire day..as long as it took Purity to audition. When I say primrose bitches I’m being a little harsh. I just mean girls who put on makeup every single day, who do their hair and carry purses and freshen up their lipstick at regular intervals and wear chains and multi-finger faux-platinum plates that say Clarity and Purity.
Like, my drug dealer is my friend, ok? She doesn’t wash her hair, I’ve never seen her take a shower, she sleeps with her dog — and me — and her skin is all fucked up from doing at least one line of meth every day (by which I mean ten lines like continuously throughout every day). She doesn’t paint her fucking fingernails. She doesn’t go to the spa. She doesn’t get her cuticles done or her eyebrows plucked and this is the type of girl I’m used to hanging out with.
Clarity and Purity didn’t have a pristine upbringing or anything, but they come across like they did. You have to go digging with them to find the dirt. I’m used to girls whose dirt is on the surface.
My defenses were up, I admit. I was skeptical. I wasn’t looking forward to this. I mean Clarity is a beautiful chick — so is Purity. They maintain themselves. The way I met Purity? Ashley took me in when I was homeless. These aren’t the type of girls who would ever be homeless. They’re up here — I’m down here. Me and Clarity being thrown together — just the two of us — for an entire day at Six Flags, was an artificial situation to say the least.
Cutting. Carving. Have you ever seen what it looks like to cut the cheek off a man’s face with a fishing scythe? It looks like a flap of skin, that’s what. I was in the skin-flapping business. I had a double-scythe setup, duct taped to the wrists. I would hide on rooftops three times too high to jump from and I would wait. And wait. And wait. Then the next contestant would creep along downstairs, like he couldn’t see anybody — but I could see him. And I would jump. And sometimes I would break my leg but I would slice that motherfucker across the face and the blood loss would be phenomenal. That’s a wrap. That’s a wrap, people. Medics would come in and carry me off to the rapid clinic. Medics would carry him off to the morgue. And you want to ask me how I feel? When you’re put on television — taken from school — and put on television for The Cutting Show, you don’t really have time to feel. I felt like a killer, that’s what I felt like — which is to say I felt like nothing. I felt like a man with one way out. So I took the one way out. Is that what you wanted to hear? Sometimes I’d slice ’em up the side of the ribs, and man that’ll take a guy to his knees. The first week, you know how I won my fame? I cut a guy’s head off — straight off — with a double-scythe move, straight from Gladiator. Fuck the crowds. But they loved it. This country has a fetish for kids who kill. It’s like worse than our babydoll sex fetish. Kids who kill each other, kids who kill their parents. Kids who blow up their entire motherfucking school — CAN WE GET MORE OF THOSE PLEASE?? Fuck. Do you want to know what it feels like to see a man’s head roll off his neck and hit the ground, then for a half second his hands try to catch his balance, then the body falls. Drone cams in your face, spiraling around you standing over a dead body in two parts. Then you hear in your earpiece the show credits running, next on is Chopped! (the cooking show). And who came up with The Cutting Show? Some twelve-year-old kid named Andrew. Want to know how many Twitter followers Andrew has? 2,146,768. Two-million followers for being the producer of a show where American teens cut each other, cut themselves, maybe a little at first, but all to the point of death. They wanted meek little kids, so they chose kids with high test scores. But I can tell you now that they should have chose kids with slightly lower scores — I had perfect scores — and once they let me on the show, that first episode — it was on. They expected us to mow each other down gradually — the civilized way — but when I jumped off that roof breaking my leg and Gladiator-ing that motherfucker, ratings went through the roof, and Andrew the twelve-year-old had his new motherfucking hero. They had a psychologist interview me after the show to determine if I was a danger to myself or any of the show’s staff. We spoke for three hours and he determined that I completely understood the rules of The Show, and that I was only playing the game while on the show. There was no danger of me harming the show’s staff or myself while not on the show. While the show was on, all bets were off. The psychologist couldn’t determine that I wouldn’t hurt PAs — even though production assistants weren’t supposed to be in the cage — or myself, in order to gain some sort of a perception of a win by pure ill. That is, he could not rule out the event of a gruesome suicide by me that was designed to win the respect of the audience. Andrew the billionaire said he was ok with that. Sticks. Marker. End of episode one. But you might imagine I spent most of my time thinking. I watched people to see how to cut them in the way they would find most humiliating. A girl: cut off her boobs or cut off the whore’s stinking clit? If I could get her in the bathroom — the set was an old school — and I could get inside the stall before she could get out, she would already have her pants down, and all I had to do was swipe right up the middle, cut the top of that bitch’s vagina, split her pee hole in two, and come all the way up and do a swiggly motion with the scythe to try to do as much damage to that bitch’s clitoris as possible. Then get out of the stall before she could cut me — go in through the top, come out through the bottom. Then for the rest of the show that girl could hardly walk and she’d be thinking, Even if I get off this show, I’m not sure I can ever cum again, so what’s the point? Got her suicidal. Despondent. In touch with her emotional centers. And if I get in and out without a cut to myself, then she thinks I’m some type of hero (which of course I’m not) and she stays the fuck away from me because she knows if she gets too close I’m coming for her nipples next. That’s what I mean when I say that’s the type of stuff I would think about on the show. I would sit up on a rooftop or stand behind an auditorium curtain and be aware of everything that was happening on all sides of me, and I would think.
When I was twenty-one. You were twenty-one when I was twenty-one and you had your birthday party in my bathroom. I was spinning my dick in a record player set on 33 + 45 RPMs and there was a levitating cow for horniness. They had us in a plate glass window, ravishing in turns for the quickness of a naught and I was sideways, fucking you sideways with a please. Then the lights went on and it was a strangler, strangler-office and work lights, they had a toolset, trained on the baffler and this baffler worked in shifts, he had no time off and worked constant, stopping short of a flush ate out with the whiskers of a bear. He had his face in your pussy, this was the bear, and he was eating you like trout. With new sentences fresh from the market. I had it on remix. Went through with the discount. And offered a triptogram to everyone who wanted one. Then the triptograms got together and they sang a little song. And the song went like this: “triptogram / triptogram / I had a castle in a waffle and Bernice loved you more than I / triptogram / triptogram” etcetera. The strangler had bad intentions, as stranglers do. His intention was to strangle the bear. And to strangle you. He would strangle first the bear with your legs, that was his mission there, then he had a slight little plan for your neck. It was something I wouldn’t like to mention, naturally, and speaking about it in text makes me even nervouser. We had a backlight pocket on twitter with a maximal follow of one. The bear was only listed. His idea of twitter was something of a fieldmouse. Even the perception of a fieldmouse was greater than his. So Exeter played the triptogram in Ruffalo but eighties drank monkey-nut in bloodsore twanging.
We had this game we played together when we were young. All the kids would get together and we would suck each other’s dicks. We’d take the girl dicks and the guy dicks and we’d put them together. This is in the dark. We’d have a blindfold. This is what we did at parties. You’d blindfold the victim and lay them down, and then we’d suck off the dick of the person with the blindfold, so no one would know who sucked their dick. This is the safe way to do it. You’d have this secret clan, this secret clique, who knew what happened, and then you’d have the person who it happened to, and they wouldn’t know a thing except that it happened to them. Start in the dark. You’ve got a blindfold on top of you. You don’t know what’s happening. There’s a party full of people. You’re the victim. You lie back. We’ve got you on the table. Then they take your pants off and they start sucking it if it’s not floppy. If it’s floppy they flop it around a little until it decides it’s safe to come play. That’s the start of the game. Then someone sucks you off. You can play this as an adult game or as a kid game. In the adult version you’re fucking. In the kids version you’re sucking dicks. We played it as kids so we were sucking dicks. Then you get off. That’s basically the game. But you never know who got you off. And you can get someone off without them ever knowing it was you. You have a secret that you keep with the other ones who weren’t blindfolded. Then you take turns. You get close but you keep your distance. That’s the most important part: keep your distance.