Free Strange Flesh by Michael Olson Page A

incongruous part of her outfit: a pastel pink polo shirt she’s wearing along with plaid vinyl pants. I apologize and offer her the napkin meant for Olya.
    She says, “Ha. Forget it, dude. That won’t be the worst thing I’ll have—well, anyway, don’t worry about it.”
    Then she’s distracted by one of her friends hollering at her. I check out the mess I’ve made. Curiously, her soiled shirt bears a crocodile logo over her left breast. But this one isn’t the usual preppy embroidery. It looks more like it’s been embossed into the fabric. I guess she notices me staring at her chest. When I glance up, she smiles and flicks the crocodile with a black fingernail, making a soft click.
    “See anything you like?” she asks.
    I realize that the logo is actually a metal pendant affixed to her nipple. Having recently seen its twin dangling from Billy’s pecker, I know I have to overcome my mortification to ask her about it. But she’s already wheeled away from me back into the crowd.
    I push forward to follow her but can’t see where she’s gone. As I scope the nearby guests, however, I discover that several of them are also wearing gold croc insignia through a wide variety of piercings.
    In the bar line I find a bored-looking man with the pendant hanging from a bull ring through his nose. “I’ve seen a bunch of people wearing that crocodile tonight. What does it mean?”
    “Just swag, man. This stupid guerilla marketing thing. We thought we might win something.”
    “Can I see it?”
    He takes it out, and I examine it, feeling like he’s handed me the key to a treasure vault.
    “Where’d you get it?”
    “It came in the mail a couple days ago. I’ve been wearing it this whole time, but nothing’s happened. Which is bullshit if you ask me.”
    “Did it say who sent it?”
    “No. No return address or anything. It was clipped to a card with this fucking poem. I brought it in case we needed it to get our prize.”
    He pulls out a small ivory square of heavy-gauge card stock. Printed in a medieval script are the words:
     
For reward look to me,
Your divine Louis Markey,
And so yoke your breath
To the Narration Of Death.
Let my word be your bond,
Et voilà: my beau monde.
     
    Underneath the last line are the two holes from the pendant’s pin.
    The guy sees my quizzical expression and says, “People here think it’s from a new game someone’s starting. But I bet it’s just some corporate hipster anti-fashion irony thing.”
    New York is rife with dernier cri marketing agencies that promote brands through in-crowd secrets rather than the traditional media blare. Some of these PR judo techniques were actually developed as launch strategies for various bleeding-edge games like The Beast and I Love Bees . The “inscrutable mailed item” being a favorite device.
    The guy refuses my offer to buy the pendant, saying I can just keep it.
    I go outside for a cigarette and contemplate my good fortune.
     
    My fortune gets even better a few minutes later when Olya emerges from GAME heading toward me. She glides smoothly down the steps despite her rapier heels. The giant martini glass she’s carrying contains enough alcohol to sicken a hippo.
    “Ah, my new friend. Maybe you have a cigarette for a poor babushka?”
    I offer her one, and she demonstrates her contempt for my choice of Camel Lights by removing the filter with a flick of her thumbnail. She deftly tends the ragged end with her tongue and leans into me for a light. Then a long French inhale.
    “Xan tells me you are making a film about Billy. I very much wonder why you want to glorify this person with documentary.”
    “I take it you’re not a fan? Do you mind telling me why?”
    Olya makes a staccato teeth-sucking sound. “I don’t think so. I know him for long while now. From graduate school. And he is not a good topic for conversation, I think.” She finishes her drink and tosses the glass into a nearby tree planter. With a sleepy smile, she