The Amity Between Acromegaly and Crocodiles: An Excerpt from Vampire Drive

by: Kirk Marshall

It became a regular thing. Attending bacchanals and hopping jazz nights at The Green Tree Lounge bathed in luxurious purple light, administering a shoehorn to his thermally-ensocked heels to slip into his most elegant supple-leathered Florsheim suedes, resolving to maneuver through densely-populated fraternities of jug-headed political reformists and product-pedigreed criminals with names as hallowed as the highest fruit to the birds intent on navigating the least accessible bowers, and the nights would yield a monastic attitude of vigil and self-abasement because Electric Gazelle would float toward Siouxie Violet Kong and feel an ontological regret that he experienced such impressions of wonder so infrequently when he wasn’t gazing at Siouxie’s depth-charged quality of human excellence, an epistemological competition in his brain that transmitted ideas of inadequacy to the absolute extremity of his spruced and gleaming body parts because when he was alone he felt half as good as when he shadowed her in her stately orbit.

He couldn’t possess enough of the human space she had vacated only seconds, ions, prisms of light later. Siouxie Violet Kong was anathema to inactivity, for Electric Gazelle always yearned to dance after her, and she was unflagging in the pursuit for new vantages and fresh territory. For a while there it wasn’t exactly abnormal or fractured or behaviorally defunct for Electric Gazelle to stalk the woman he admired with such complicated and latently-uncomfortable expressions of consolation and desire, so it manifested itself as a diversion of most lazy and rigorless days, suffused in the high-wattage heritage of summer’s evening light, to ghost in her footprints the way a dragonfly might chase a hummingbird to locate a greener scene. He became enamoured by the sport, as though fixating over the conceptual and elliptical intimacies of wanting to fuck that which you must not fuck (for you would desecrate the property you perceived as external to grubby human possession) was conducive to getting through the day, and he probably spent too many hours coveting the opportunities to introduce himself to her than is necessarily or psychologically recommended.

There are particular entities in our tabula rasa of reality, our machine of experience, that convolute the sensible actions of temperate and coolblooded men. These aren’t always or exclusively or systematically entities of a female persuasion, and rarely the same woman for a socialised microcosm of horny, sentimentally-contained, passion-afflicted young men, but Siouxie Violet Kong represented the exception to the loftiest law established to dismantle cliché, inasmuch that she reaped and neglected the hearts of masculine appeal the country over.

This is to make plain that Siouxie was anything but plain: she was the most striking occupant of any populated space, and Electric Gazelle would patronize The Green Tree Lounge, despite reservations catalyzed by the goombah spectres of Breakneck and Chainsaw, and he would lay claim to a booth not far from the long-lashed bartender in his smock-and-collar, sufficiently proximal to order a thin torch of burning liquor, something schnappsy with balls, a throat of fire, and from such a watchful paradise he would angle his profile to the strobe-disrobed stage and rest the back of his head against the leather gables of the carrel to wait for her entrance.

She would always defer emerging until the least promising moment. This is the mark of a seasoned entertainer, or an absentminded lush, or a manipulative bitch or a proponent of collective human psychology. Therefore the perfect attribute to identify when investigating the human motives of a swell sophisticate such as Siouxie Violet Kong: she was all these things, but more than the gestalt sum of each free-floating facet.

Electric Gazelle amused himself with elaborate and contrived visions of gnawing her haunches while she romped above him arrayed in sweat-cloyed hotel linen, reciting the many scorn-flung allegations against his fidelity/manhood/sincerity/value as a confidant and provider that she was apt to identify, while he luxuriated in the musk of her sex as she gyrated with such pretty haste. He dithered in dreams of domestic entanglement. He foresaw opportunities to charm and transfix her, but these were always implausible and often involved flying carpets or replacement teeth. It did him no favor angsting over Siouxie Violet Kong’s appearance. She was always petulantly late. When she finally did grace the stage she banished all intervening or disconcerting notions to the furthest vertices of the map.

This is because she was a hypnagogic emissary of bliss and hypnosis, a creature without halitosis or human waste or corporeal imprecation or sartorial imperfection; Siouxie was about as self-proven and fundamental in her physical purlieu as a caribou in the fullness of his winter tyranny, and Electric Gazelle could feel his dick bend back on itself in the servitude of his desire. What a way to cosset his testicles, from afar with neither intent nor intensity, less a woman than a flag for female luxury, someone for whom men were always abstruse to her needs, for she possessed an intellect so fierce that it brooded in stealthy rage beneath her rumbustious architecture, belied her severe cleavage in secret for a moment in which she might denounce all lust and wist. She was over the episcopal scrabbling of dirty boys with strobing cocks. And yet Electric Gazelle was astride this vernissage, hands tucked beneath pits, because he was sure such a freak of incendiary sex would have to intercept eyes with a lothario planted at her sweet womanly feet.

She would have to notice him sooner or later: he was existing just for such an acknowledgment, his blood racing to catch her, his immensity atremble to achieve autonomy at her merest of glances, like a particle waveform on the brink of collapse between rupture and chemical reaction. All he would ask is for her hips to glide within the clap of his palms. He could endure the torment of obscurity for such wattle and fire. But none of this happened, for Siouxie didn’t surface from her aquarium of doo-wop accoutrements to sear the socks of her patrons’ time-tapping hooves.

No: she didn’t front at all.

She didn’t front because she was being affronted in the culvert behind the tavern by one of Edamame Mint’s dim-cerellebum’d brawn-calibrated swaggerchamps—this time not from friendly sentinel sentimentality but because the raven-faced aberration was adamant that a black-spleened vaunt of sport-fucking was on the cards for him and the boss’s leggy Chinese distraction among the trash organs and dumpster scrum of this shiny strident night, and Electric Gazelle blundered through the stage-exit door onto the fire escape to find the rape-summoned wraith palming his hand over Siouxie’s burning mouth.

The creep was known to the sordid and tortured folk at The Green Tree Lounge as Brick Picnic, and he really did sport the face of a raven, or at least some corvid-spawned flâneur of evil siring, for his entire countenance comprised of prismatic angles. He looked as though an artisan specializing in stonecutting had fashioned Brick Picnic a visage by whittling schist when it was still just liquid. What had formed was a kite-like bone structure, simulating comparisons to scavenger birds and Klaus Nomi. Electric Gazelle had never witnessed anything like it, for it prevailed in its own caste of mutant elegance, and he wanted desperately to rid the world of its involuntary scandal by sundering it with the sharpest plane of an artfully-wielded sword. Surely some tryst or bargain of Faustian glut was at work in the world. Brick Picnic was seraphic in his dark and scurrilous cant, a freak of horripilative quivers. This wasn’t Gotham, but Electric Gazelle sallied into action. He mustered forth like a fox-conscious ridgeback loping into the scene, his snout all aflare, and there was business in his red throat yet, for he gambled on his resolve to defuse the most incendiary sins he might calculate, but no-one had said a lick about Brick Picnic so the whole status of unfamiliarity unsettled his bones. What if he was assuming authority of a situation soon to prove far beyond his liturgy of song and condemn, what then if Electric Gazelle was to be bested and defiled by this trapezoidal-skulled hybrid with the Punch & Judy proboscis, and right within eyeshot of the woman he’d intended to salvage?

Fortunately Electric Gazelle’s entrance heralded a rank of intimidation, and Brick Picnic recoiled from squeezing the cheek-sockets of Siouxie’s mournfully sublime and rasping face, enough to confront his opponent and entreaty this panther-soft interloper with an aquiline leer. Brick Picnic furied from beneath the cuttlefish protein of his scorn-struck kisser. It was like being accused by a plastinated body or a wax simulacrum, and was dislocated from the naturalized context of fear all the more for it. Electric Gazelle waited for his vague inheritance of disgust to subside before he intervened with a punch to Brick Picnic’s ear, as blessed as a whip on Christ’s flanks.

This sent Edamame’s man crazy; Electric Gazelle had never seen so much vitriol in a hornet. The wounded varlet cupped his fingertips around his offending lobe as if Electric Gazelle’s colliding fist had compromised the integrity of Brick Picnic’s porcelain ligatures. That is to say, Brick Picnic retreated in wild umbrage, coveting his pain like a hyena. Siouxie Violet Kong was still too silenced by trauma and dishonor and even a little resentment that her gallant interventionist had arrived to find her so writhing and powerless, so Electric Gazelle felt it all mandated a human voice, such damaged orientation, thus addressing his opponent: ‘You pallid jewel-headed creep, get the fuck away or I’ll fly-kick you in the neck.’

This should have been the heroic or provocateur postulate to send agents of torquemadic weirds back into their sewers and cupboards, but instead Brick Picnic stood his ground, or at least hunched with scorn and hands clutched to his tormented brain. ‘I said begone, you dumb sumbitch, what are you lame or mentally inadequate? Don’t you understand that I’m priming to whup yo strayin’ ass?’

This ignited Brick Picnic into a font of convulsing spite. ‘I will strip the meat from your clumsy paws, you chaingang-mulatto child, if you so much as contemplate raising your nigger hamhocks in my radius again,’ Brick Picnic barked with a crocodile smile, his whole body seething. ‘I suggest you go fellate a blind janitor before I pluck the tongue that disdains me so without further thought for its use.’

This was beyond reconciliation, such loathing; Electric Gazelle felt as though he was being threatened by a voodoo moon. He felt tears bloom through his lashes. ‘That’s the final straw, you unholy creep, I ain’t lettin’ your slurring beak holler taunts no more. First it’s this wonderful lady, then it’s the gall to pretend at some capacity for retribution. You ain’t nothing but a misbegotten weakling who deserves no trace of favour.’

Electric Gazelle unbuckled his belt and torqued it around his knuckles, advancing in a threat of seconds. He was chthonic in his anger, vorpal, an instant disinherited of clarity, devoured by the pœsis of collision, a shoulder leaning into the leverage of the punch with an accuracy to dismantle your stopwatch.

Let’s just agree to assume that Electric Gazel e could make all the cheetahs cry. His face was contorted with a ventricular gush, mottled with crimson circuitry and muscles like nomadic knuckles beneath the skin. It was disgusting; like a giant eel exhuming its meals through the fissures in its flesh. There was a dance to his lightly-flaunted calves as he rallied fury from some sunken resolve. When his fist landed square on its target, Brick Picnic’s butter of muscle—all the brashly-distributed flab encountered at the ear of the Muppet-snouted shrew with his Nomi-faceted frown—Electric Gazelle felt a lift of spirits. A glister of warm sufficiency. He was kicking Brick Picnic’s butt.

Sometimes it enculturates more refined, learned and less volatile men into an empire of turbid choreography, does the provocation to fight, and it’s unreasonable to expect that pariahs who’ve occupied their entire inferior manhoods avoiding confrontation because of its uncunning and uncivil properties won’t seize the chance to engage when they discover that a duel actually demands a capacity for rigour and science. Because to trade blows with an opponent is to examine the total interior force of their intellect, to interpolate the full measure of dispassion and contempt they harbour for your entitlement to walk this green earth. A fray, a spat, a combat kiss, a snipe, a skirmish, a display of fists—nothing assigns a greater respect to the imperfections of one’s foe than the strategic courtship of pugilists at play.

So Electric Gazelle was livid, monstrous, ecstatic in his thrall of war. He was in his domain, at the echelons of his power. Then Brick Picnic retrieved a tiny, womanly Derringer pistol from his waistband and swung it in a lazy, desperate arc at Electric Gazelle’s chest while contorting his corvid gape into a tiny, woolly threat. No one had any time to dispute each others’ motives. Siouxie Violet Kong lunged onto Brick Picnic’s back, sinking her enviable mouth and its complement of choppers into the freak’s sclerotic haunch. Brick Picnic screamed like the jerky circuitry in an awakened pinball machine. He deployed the hardest component of his right elbow—a combination of bone, cartilage, scabies-crazed exoskeleton, flesh and protuberant horn—to Siouxie’s forehead and dismantled her purchase from his reedy spine. She suffered dermabrasions to the cheek and eye, and lacerations to her nasal column, which meant that she fell to the steel fixtures of the staircase with blood aflood from her alarmed nostrils. What a pretty little study in dishevelled glamor.

Electric Gazelle arced up, as the colloquialism professes it, spastic with rancour and the thrill of mortality. He sucker-punched Brick Picnic direct in the Adam’s apple, otherwise canonised as the laryngeal prominence and known by its informal attribution as a linguistic throwback to the creationist annals of Genesis 3:1:6, for “when the woman saw that the tree was good for food… she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat, and gave also unto her husband with her; and he did eat,” for there is much to compare the thyroid cartilage with that of an apple, albeit an etrog might convey more accuracy in its glottal physicality, but of course that’s implicitly resorting to Rabbinical Judaism in its apocryphal origins, when the point is that Brick Picnic, who wasn’t especially religious in his temperament or intellectual demeanour, having been home-schooled by his father, a taciturn mid-level biker with a vocal loathing for book-learnin’ which he conflated theology with, and had suffered some developmental stunting, at least on an emotive register, from having to endure the basically warped and chauvinistic tutelage of said patriarch, and whom had never even seen a citron before, but might imagine it to be abundant with the swollen sweetness of a yellow winter apricot, clutched his neck with wild disbelief, disbanding the handgun down four flights of steps while Electric Gazelle expressed his immense resentment and tackled the now-choking adversary to the ground, which soon gave way to much conjoined rolling down aforementioned stairwell.

What therefore came to eventuate was this: Brick Picnic and Electric Gazelle went entangled and slaloming into the night. Siouxie lay slumped, her heart thrashing in her breast, waiting for someone to reappear while she mustered her most fastidious skills at injury-attention to staunch the flow of her streaming blue-ichorous nose, and when no one came pussyfooted up the stairwell she unclamped her little compact mirror from amidst the contents of her purse and gazed searchingly at the assaulted reflection hunched in the scalloped glass between her fingers. A bruise of merled extravagance was gradually cataracting her hairline; she was sure it would work out to be a blood-rumpled doozy. Her eyes flashed a sapphire resign. After about five minutes she groaned her way to her feet, straightening her bronze tube of a swingdress, and while tracing the curvature of her tongue around the crowded trauma of her teeth, committed herself to the risk and went limping with the élan of a crippled swan down the dark inert slope of the fire-escape. She had no clue why she should care for men at all. They only competed for the swindle to fuck you up, all 3,360,742,758 of them.