TSJ 14

Fuck man, I haven't stepped foot inside a club in decades. But I do still watch Blake's 7, and always feel sorry for the mutoids.

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ThEraPeutIc SKIn JobS 

Number Fourteen

Nothing Special 

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    That was now, the past was prologue, and the everlasting moment stretched a little further than necessary, the catastrophic backlash a matter of dreadful inevitability. 

    He can’t hold on to the moment as his body protests with a vicious stabbing pain in his lower back, and he’s forced to use an Oxford comma, and retire from the dance floor.

    “Where the fuck are you going?” screams Kristine in his ear, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him back. “Song's not finished yet!”

    Dr. Skin smiles weakly and gestures back towards the bar. “Thirsty,” he cries, desperate to be heard above the band, who launch into an ear-splitting crescendo, rock gods on the rampage, the crowd caught in their trap. The floor vibrates with the beat as he pulls free and makes for the bar.

    It’s too crowded as a disturbing number of young people cover every available surface, desperate to get drinks in. They’re having the best night of their lives, and their youthful optimism is too much for Skin as he veers left and staggers into the toilet.

    Surprisingly deserted, the bathroom offers Skin a chance to get his shit together. He splashes cold water on his face and washes away the sweat, the liquid refreshing as hell. He rubs his eye and glances at his watch. They only arrived at the club an hour ago, but it feels far longer than that.

    Resisting the urge to rub his eyes raw, Skin lowers his hand and stares at the reflection in the mirror above the basin. Streaked with an unidentifiable white liquid, he can still make out the features of his latest face. He isn’t completely satisfied with his new look, the eyes a little too far apart for his liking, but it is still a good, strong face.

    Staring into his own eyes, the one feature he never changed, Skin tries to focus. He doesn’t know why he feels so weak and indistinct, but felt it might have had something to do with the bullet he’d recently put in his brain. He’d shot himself in the head over a dozen times so far - it's just a thing you did in his line of business - and he’d recovered from each with consummate ease. Until now. 

    Now, he felt drained, listless. He’d danced the night away more times than he’d care to remember, but he hadn’t been able to keep up the pace tonight. Now, staring into the mirror, Skin sees an old man’s eyes staring back. “Fuck this,” he spits, turning away from the mirror and storming back out onto the main floor of the club. Self-pity is for morons, and Skin refuses to play that game anymore.

    Unfortunately, despite the very best of intentions, his body continues to conspire against him. He goes weak at the knees and has to take a seat in one of the comfortable armchairs management have thoughtfully provided.

    His head leaning back against the cushion, Skin’s eyes are drawn to the entertainment offered. A MagikMirror has been installed directly above the dance floor, offering mere mortals a glimpse into a higher dimension.

    In that strange place on the other side of the mirror, events beyond the grasp of human minds occur on a remarkably predictable basis. To normal eyes, the actions appear in the form of magnificent fireworks, an infinite amount bursting and flaring in a black void. The complete lives and histories of the inhabitants of the Big Brother dimension are measured in nanoseconds, their entire existence appearing as a crimson starburst, appearing for a moment before fading away. As it fades, the history is lost forever, a fact that has little effect on the dancers below. They just don’t give a shit.

    Dr. Skin cares so much it hurts, but he still finds it hard to feel sympathy for sentient light, and he turns away from the sight, looking around the other people filling the room. They’re all celebrating, positive vibes and love filling the air. It’s enough to make a cynic sick, but Skin feeds from it. From his seat he homes in on a conversation happening over the other side of the room. Ignoring the music and the noise of the club, he picks up on the two young people talking about pop-culture inanities.

    “Dude, I’m telling you. That bit in the credits where his face comes up like a wanted sign, only to disappear into space as the music builds. Man, it was like they would NEVER catch him, you know?”

    “Don’t ask me, man. I only watched it for the mutoids.”

    Skins pulls away from the conversation, strangely saddened by its triviality. He turns back to the dance floor, where Kristine has found a new dancing partner, a tall, wide man in dark clothing, subtly mirroring her every move. She doesn’t appear to take much notice, but jealousy still flares deep in the heart of Skin. He knows he should know better, but the savage pride of the emotion is still an integral part of his personality.

    Spurned on by this envy and driven by spite, Skin makes his way back on the floor, and pushes the dark man away. “Forget it, pal”, he says with good humor. “She’s out of your league.”

    “Who are you talking to?” asks Kristine as the dark man fades into smoke with a yellow tinge, which drifts lazily across the room before finally breaking apart.

    “I don’t know,” mumbles Skin, turning back to her and holding her hands tightly. The band bring the song to a sudden, abrupt halt, and there's a few seconds pause as they ready for the next audio blast. Skin takes the opportunity to talk at a decent volume. “I think I’m seeing things. And I think time is fucked.”

    “I don’t know,” mumbles Skin, turning back to her and holding her hands tightly. The band bring the song to a sudden, abrupt halt, and there's a few seconds pause as they ready for the next audio blast. Skin takes the opportunity to talk at a decent volume. “I think I’m seeing things. And I think time is still fucked.”

    “Well, what did you expect?” says Kristine with a smile as the first note of the next number rips through the audience, anticipation peaking at the crucial moment. “I told you not to have those mushrooms for breakfast. They’re notorious for it.”

    She’s right, of course, and Skin deserves everything he gets. But he perseveres, and overrules his body’s objections, putting the cause of commemoration above his own health. As the night moves on time…

gets/got

    …weird and before he knew it, Skin and Kristine were alone on the dance floor. The band have long since disappeared backstage, and the club’s sound system wound the evening down with Nick Drake. Dead man regret and pre-dawn blues reared their ugly head, but safe in his lover’s arms, Skin felt nothing.

    Holding her tightly, Skin savored her scent: Hot summer sex and boysenberry ice-cream. A faint, musky smell that drove him crazy. The song drew to a close and Kristine broke out of his grip, stepping back and yawning softly.

    “Home?” he asked, reaching for her hand.

    “Hang on,” she replied, walking away toward the toilet. “I just need to powder my nose, then we’ll go.”

    Skin nods and walked back to the bar. The bartender has vanished, so Skin leant over and helped himself to a beer, tasting the sharp bite of the liquid with relish. Looking back around the club, light of the first dawn seeping into the air, Skin noticed that he wasn’t alone with Kristine. The mutoid lover and his friend were still sitting at their table, still talking, still babbling, still having fun.

    Despite the inherent rudeness of his action, Skin eavesdropped on their conversation. They’d missed the point of the celebration with the talking and from the sounds of things, the quality of the discourse had yet to improve.

    “You’re fucking kiddin’, right?”

    “No, I’m serious. It’s just like that shit prison comic you showed me. I’m the star of the six o’clock news!”

    “That was a comic book, fool. This is real life.”

    “Wake up, pal. Reality is getting’ more and more like a comic book everyday.”

    Skin wanted to listen further, but noted that Kristine was returning. It was a pity, he mused. The conversation appeared meaningless at first, but their was a definite subtext, and Skin was convinced he had to only listen for a moment longer and he might have discovered the true point of the dialogue. 

    But who gives a fuck? Kristine smiled at him in the way that never failed to melt his soul, and he followed her out of the club without another word.

    “Christ!’ hissed Skin as they stepped out onto the street. The sun had risen on the new year, and sent a distasteful amount of light directly into Skin’s eyes, scarring his retina. If he had looked closer, Skin might have noticed that the scarring was a direct mirror image of one of the more impressive living fireworks he’d seen earlier in the evening. But he didn’t look closer, and he didn’t notice.

    “Where’d we park the car?” asked Kristine, looking up and down the deserted street. Skin shrugged as he retrieved his sunglasses from an inside pocket and settled them on his face.

    “I wouldn’t worry about it,” he answered soothingly. “We’ll find it. We always find it. Sooner or later.”

    Taking her hand, Skin lead her away down the street. Sleep deprivation began to hit both of them simultaneously, crushing them beneath heavy eyelids and fogged minds. Kristine leaned her head on his shoulder and whispered wearily into his ear. “Another year, huh? Lets hope its better than the rest.”

    “One can only hope.”

    The street began to come to life around them. The new day dawned just like it always did, and offered the same amount of hope and frustration it always proposed. Anything was possible. The past might have been prologue, but the future was now.

The End

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This has been a Mad Wish Production. Happy fucking New Year!