Free Lust Demented by Michael D. Subrizi Page A

that I heard what she said: The grunt of a caveman that spent his life painting on walls while society was off on their hunt.
    “Asshole what’s your name?” An officer was already on the megaphone.
    “People usually call me Farrow.”
    “The sociopath? The writer?”
    “Yeah?” Nobody clapped. I kept waiting, just in case.
    “Everybody move away from the area.” The police got organized, pushing people off to the side, but there was nowhere to go. They just all stood around circling the fountain: Staring up at the crackpot writer, drinking their cocoaccinos, yapping on their plastic phones. Cars honking. Sirens whirling. Lips smacking.
    “I’m coming down.” My grip was slipping. The drop was enough to maim me, but probably wouldn’t do me in. Lars had to be paying detailed attention from the other realm. Most likely he wrote this scene sipping on milk from a goddess’s breast while scarfing down tarts filled with ambrosia.
    “Sir, don’t move. Stay right where you are.”
    “Help me.” Not even the three steel boats could stop the slide. I hit each one with an ascending grunt missing NYPD’s finest trampoline by a couple feet. Concrete I knew better than dirt. Somewhere along the line I learned the right way to take a fall.

{XXVIII}
     
     
    “K EEP THE ICE ON YOUR head.” A woman was leaning over me with an ice pack. Her voice was a honey sweet purr that could reveal the most sadistic crimes against humanity as nothing more than nature’s empty-headiness. Her voluptuousness threatened to escape the trappings of her white blouse and formal skirt.
    “What happened?”
    “You fell off the Columbus monument.” She steadied herself in brown boots with matching big brown eyes kept growing until she swallowed me with her smile.
    “From the top?”
    “No from the bottom, but you didn’t land right.”
    “Everybody died.”
    “Nobody died.”
    “Not even me?”
    “No. Not yet.”
    “…hmmm…” My mind was always deserting me. I was always falling. It couldn’t be healthy, but I wasn’t the only one. People were dropping all over. Their markets were crashing. Their parachutes weren’t opening. They were listening to mp3s instead of the cab blowing the red light. They were reading the pill bottles upside down and forgetting how to wake up. They were telling the guy jabbing their spine with the pistol to “Fuck off.” Giving up minutes before the grim reaper realized she couldn’t hold it in any longer and had to piss on everything in sight.
    “Are you Michele Giacomo Aurelio Faro?” A smooth diversion. It sounded too official. A funny way for a girl with such heaving boobs to talk. She pronounced the Italian name with a Medellin accent, but it felt nice to have another identity. So close, yet so far from my penname.
    “Yeah by birth, but I go by Mikey or Farrow, that’s what most people seem to call me.”
    “I’ve been seeking you out. I’m Adelora Rosario, Mr. Wildman’s lawyer and the executor of his estate. Mr. Wildman wanted me to contact you immediately.” Adelora stayed a whispers distance from me. I suspected the good news only lingered to soften me up for the creeping horrors.
    “You’re a lawyer?”
    “Yes. I’m here as a provision of his will. Lars inherited Featherton publishing from his father and in turn left it to you. He told me that he could forsee his own demise.”
    “Ahh… yes… demise.” I gargled, spitting up the East River. Veins overflowed ink. Ears whirled in an empirical pool of psychosis. Heart gushed ocular. The city emptied, snorting the entire stash of sewer steam until it was frozen wasteland falling back into its own echo.

{XXIX}
     
     
    A DRAPE OF SILENCE DESCENDED upon us. There was more she wanted to divulge. Adelora stopped traffic leading me across Central Park South into the lobby of a time portal to a classier era.
    “Miss Rosario you have a package.” The porter couldn’t help, but be pleased to see her.
    “Oh I do