Holy Water (Part 3) // Paul Fey

V. Subway Spectre

It takes three hours for Rachel Weisz to coax Daniel Craig to unlock the bathroom. The psychological barrier will take even longer. He opened the door for her with a towel around his head like a veil. He drops to his knees like she’s the Virgin Mary. “Oh, that I knew where I might find him! How is this going look on Jimmy Fallon?”

“We don’t belong to ourselves, Daniel. What a strenuous career you have chosen.” She runs her hand up and down the muscles of his back.

“I will love you no matter what.”

“It’s hideous,” he cries, “I’ve looked into the heart of man and found advertisements.”

“Wait here.”

She takes out her contacts, one by one. Her eyes are bright red without pupils. Two near perfect red circles. “Look.”

Craig pulls the towel from the top of his head until its edge rests over his nose. “My God. How long have you been like that?”

“The eyes? I’ve had the eyes since Agora. So 2009?”

“You have more?”

“I’ve had the teeth since Brother’s Bloom.”

“The teeth are the worst.”

“Then you don’t have it so bad,” Weisz sighs. She turns on the faucet, wets a bar of soap and scrubs her left cheek. The bar stains with make-up. “I’ve had this since ’98.”

She turns to him. He drops his towel in shock and opens his deformed mouth. On her cheek, a sloppily drawn penis tattoo is directed downward, and two lines shoot out towards her mouth.

“My God.”

VI. Members Only

As the clock strikes 3 am, which might as well be the Cinderella midnight for NYC, Blac Kat is poised with his sharpie to the face of Kevin Hart in an otherwise empty subway stop. The 4 or 5 flies through the middle tracks and the tip of his sharpie makes contact.

What to write, what would be funny? Almost unconsciously, he starts the circular mushroom head of a penis. Before he rounds his way up to the shaft though, Blac Kat hears the staticky sound of an old school hip hop beat, growing louder step by descending step.

Blac Kat sees a figure in tighty-whiteys carrying the burden of a boombox on his shoulder. He turns his head and looks at the stranger straight on. The man has an olive complexion, holds a can of spraypaint and nods his head in acknowledgement to Blac Kat and to the beat of “You Got What I Need.” He has a full beard, and long hair pinned to his ears with a crown of thorns. “Oh baby youuu, you got what I nee-eed...”

Halfway between the two exits, Jesus puts down his boombox. He flips his arm around in a circular motion, part art-preparation, part dance move. He spraypaints a line into the tiled subway floor. He skips back and forth along the line. Kat is totally transfixed; he’s dropped his sharpie by his side.

“Who among you who is blameless! May draw the first penis!” he yells. He hops back and forth across the line, with his hands on his hips. “Who among you have not already drawn a dick on a wall, much less a face?”

He spraypaints the floor in beautiful strokes, committing names into the college-ruled lines of the tiles. After each name, he dabs. He writes ‘Blac Kat’ and the sharpie falls out of Kat’s hand.

VII. The Mark, pt. 2

In the daylight, there is a man who stands at the base of the Brooklyn Bridge. His hands are on his hips, and neck craned, peering at Blac Kat’s mark. His white tee shirt ripples.

An overwhelming rush of anxiety passes through Kat’s entire body. It has a numbing effect. The man begins free-climbing the column of the bridge. With every upward step, the rushing weight over Kat’s body grows and a churn of white noise builds in his ears.

And sharpens into the ring of a steam whistle. The man is a action figure in the distance of light blue all-American summer sky now. He holds himself at Kat’s mark simply by gripping the edge in one hand. With the other, he sprays in long and continuous strokes. This mesmerizing back-and-forth motion manipulates the passage of time. It is the most beautiful thing Kat has ever seen. Only then, does he realize he’s under the surface of the water. He thrashes and feels his body sink further and further, wondering when he fell in the first place, even as the pattern-repeating flows through his eyes.

The game is Kat trying to see it.

VIII. Condemned

Daniel Craig stands, towel clumped in a pile on the tile floor, in front of Rachel Weisz at the mirror sink combination. He reaches inside her mouth and removes without pain or difficulty her veneers. She is missing all her front teeth but a lone triangular canine. They kiss gently, slowly running their tongue’s over each other’s pointed teeth. Daniel Craig pricks the thick fleshy meat of his tongue against her only tooth. He bleeds, and she stares wildly, in near-fear and total bewilderment at the strength of this emotion. They make slow love for hours on end.

The sky is overcast when Kat finds himself by the Brooklyn Bridge in the first time in months, having purposefully avoided it since his last, impressing nightmare. His mark is covered by a few of the highly-serifed type, pointy and jagged tags. A bubble lettered one too. At the edge of the stone, there is a yellow figure with cartoony proportions and small eyes and a playful smile, grinning at anyone who will pay him any attention. Os Gemeos, he nods. Covering his foot, there’s a claw of the psychedelic variety made purple and silver static-wave-like lines.

Who did he, Blac Kat, think he was? He laughed. Up close, running his hand along the stone he’d seen the subtle discoloration of a paint job. He had known the spot must have been hit at some point in the past, and that it will be painted over, and that it will be hit again. Now, he could just make out the edge of their light blue paint, its remnant floating as a circular end, quickly siphoning to a sharp point. Blossoms blossoming.

After a long night’s sleep, Ice Cube returns per his usual morning ritual to the bathroom mirror. “AH HELL NO!”

Ride Along 3




Paul Fey is a creative writer from Bridgeport, CT. He writes and reviews fiction on his website. His fiction has been published in Fluland Mag and he regularly contributes to Monologue Blogger's culture and film section.


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